"No, Mr. McGuire."

"I ought to have told what happened. I ought to have tried to find out if Ben Cameron had any kin. I did wrong. But I've paid for it. I've never had a happy hour since I claimed that mine that didn't belong to me. I've made a lot of money but what I did has been hanging over me for years making an old man of me before my time----"

"Oh, please don't be unhappy any more----"

"Let me talk Miss--Beth. I've got to tell you. It'll make me feel a lot easier." Beth smoothed his hand rea.s.suringly and he clasped hers eagerly as though in grat.i.tude. "I never was much good when I was a lad, Beth, and I never could get along even after I got married. It wasn't in me somehow. I was pretty straight as young fellows go but nothing went right for me. I was a failure. And then----"

He paused a moment with bent head but Beth didn't speak. It was all very painful to her.

"Hawk Kennedy killed your father. But I was a crook too. I left Hawk there without water to die. It was a horrible thing to do--even after what he'd done to me. My G.o.d! Maybe I didn't suffer for that! I was glad when I learned Hawk didn't die, even though I knew from that time that he'd be hanging over me like a curse. He did for years and years. I knew he'd turn up some day, I tried to forget, but I couldn't. The sight of him was always with me."

"How terrible!" whispered Beth.

"But from that moment everything I did went well. Money came fast. I wasn't a bad business man, but even a bad business man could have put _that_ deal through. I sold out the mine. I've got the figures and I'm going to show them to you, because they're yours to see. With the money I made some good investments. That money made more money and more besides. Making money got to be my pa.s.sion. It was the only thing I cared for--except my girls--and it was the only thing that made me forget."

"Please don't think you've got to tell me any more."

"Yes, I want to. I don't know how much I'm worth to-day." And then in a confidential whisper--"I couldn't tell within half a million or so, but I guess it ain't far short of ten millions, Beth. You're the only person in the world outside the Treasury Department that knows how much I'm worth. I'm telling you. I've never told anybody--not even Peggy. And the reason I'm telling you is because, you've got to know, because I can't sleep sound yet, until I straighten this thing out with you. It didn't take much persuading for Mr. Nichols to show me what I had to do when he'd found out, because everything I've got comes from money I took from you. And I'm going to give you what belongs to you, the full amount I got for that mine with interest to date. It's not mine. It's yours and you're a rich girl, Beth----"

"I won't know what to do with all that money, Mr. McGuire," said Beth in an awed voice.

"Oh, yes, you will. I've been thinking it all out. It's a deed by gift.

We'll have to have a consideration to make it binding. We may have to put in the facts that I've been--er--only a sort of trustee of the proceeds of the 'Tarantula' mine. I've got a good lawyer. He'll know what to do--how to fix it."

"I--I'm sure I'm very grateful."

"You needn't be." He paused and laid his hand over hers again. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not have much talk about it--just what's said in the deed--to explain."

"I'll say nothin' you don't want said."

"I knew you wouldn't. Until the papers are drawn I'd rather you wouldn't speak of it."

"I won't."

"You're a good girl. I--I'd like to see you happy. If money will make you happy, I'm glad I can help."

"You've been very kind, Mr. McGuire--and generous. I can't seem to think about all that money. It's just like a fairy tale."

"And you forgive me--for what I did----? You forgive me, Beth?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. McGuire. Don't say anythin' more about it--please!"

The old man bent his head and kissed her hand and then with a great sigh of relief straightened and rose.

"Thank G.o.d!" he said quietly. And bidding her good-by he walked from the room.

CHAPTER XXIII

A VISITOR

The two minutes permitted by the doctor had come and gone. There had been much to say with too little time to say it in. For Beth, admonished that the patient must be kept quiet, and torn between joy at Peter's promised recovery and pity for his pale face, could only look at him and murmur soothing phrases, while Peter merely smiled and held her hand.

But that, it seemed, was enough, for Beth read in his eyes that what had happened had merely set an enduring seal upon the affection of both of them.

With the promise that she could see him again on the morrow, Beth went back to her room. She had wanted to return to the village, but McGuire had insisted upon her staying where she was under the care of the doctor until what they were pleased to call the shock to her system had yielded to medical treatment. Beth said nothing. She was already herself and quite able to take up her life just where she had left it, but she agreed to stay in McGuire's house. It seemed to make him happier when she acquiesced in his wishes. Besides, it was nice to be waited on and to be next to the room where the convalescent was.

But the revelation as to Peter's ident.i.ty could not be long delayed.

Brierly had brought the tale back from the lumber camp, and the village was all agog with excitement. But Beth had seen no one but Mr. McGuire and Aunt Tillie, and Peter had requested that no one should tell her but himself. And so in a day or so when Beth went into Peter's room she found him with a color in his cheeks, and wearing a quizzical smile.

"I thought you were never coming, Beth," he said.

"I came as soon as they'd let me, Peter. Do you feel stronger?"

"Every hour. Better when you're here. And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right."

He looked at her with his head on one side.

"Do you think you could stand hearing something very terrible about me, Beth?"

She glanced at him anxiously and then a smile of perfect faith responded to his. She knew that he was getting well now, because this was a touch of his old humor.

"H-m. I guess so. I don't believe it can be so _very_ terrible, Peter."

"It is--_very_ terrible, Beth."

But the pressure of his fingers was rea.s.suring.

"I'm listenin'," she said.

"Well, you know, you told me once that you'd marry me no matter what I'd been----"

"Yes. I meant that, Peter. I mean it now. It's what you are----"

Peter Nichols chuckled. It was his last chuckle as Peter Nichols.

"Well, I'm not what you thought I was. I've been acting under false colors--under false pretenses. My name isn't Peter Nichols. It's Peter Nicholaevitch----"

"Then you _are_ all Russian!" she said.

Peter shook his head.

"No. Only half of me. But I used to live in Russia--at a place called Zukovo. The thing I wanted to tell you was that they fired me out because they didn't want me there."

"You! How dared they! I'd like to give them a piece of my mind," said Beth indignantly.