There was an earnest meeting in the American Bar that night, at which the following motion was put and carried unanimously:  “On and after this date, any drunken man is liable to be shot at sight, unless his friends can prove that he has dug over three carats of diamonds during the day.”  And then, like other reformers, they went on to more sweeping measures:  “Only knife-fighting to take place in the camp.  All disputes with pistols, unless of a very pressing nature, to be settled out of earshot of Dan’s house.”  There were even some hints of appointing a closing-time for the saloon—­“it would make the place so much more like home.”  But the promoter eventually withdrew his suggestion, as it was justly felt that such a motion would interfere with the liberty of the subject too much.  But a storm of cheers burst forth when it was proposed to transfer the diamond-safe from Werstein’s keeping to a corner of the new goddess’s shrine.

Even Satan, the cat, joined in the general adoration, and, more favoured than the rest, enjoyed at times a chaste salute from Miss Musgrave’s ripe-red lips.

Never, in so short a space of time, had a community been more changed for the better than was that of Big Stone Hole.  Never had woman’s humanising influence made itself more clearly felt.  The azure cloud of blasphemy that hung over the workings and the rest of the camp was replaced again by the normal dust.  Each man tried to beautify the inside of his shanty to the best of his means and ideas, for there was no knowing when the only “she” would take it into her pretty, capricious head to pay a call.  In this latter line the Scholar had a decided pull.  Education had taught him taste; necessity, handiness; and by aid of the two he transformed his rude dwelling into something approaching the rooms in which he used to dawdle away the happy hours, time ago.  It was partly drawing-room, partly curiosity-shop.  Cups, saucers, and spoons appeared as if by magicians’ call, and one blazing afternoon the news flashed round the diamond-pits that Miss Musgrave was “taking afternoon tea with the Scholar.”  But when the Scholar saw the dismay his simple act had spread around him, he dissipated it with a kindly laugh and a few reassuring words.

“Don’t mind me, boys.  I was only doing the civil in a purely platonic manner.  Miss Musgrave is nothing to me, nor am I anything to her.  Heaven forbid!  I’m too hard a bargain for any girl.  If any one of you marries her I’ll act as his best man if he asks me to, and wish him every felicity without a thought of regret.”

“Bully for the Scholar!” yelled the delighted crowd; and Miss Musgrave’s smiles were more sought after than ever.

So things went on day after day, week after week, till Miss Musgrave became little short of an autocratic empress.  But still she showed no signs of taking unto herself a consort; she kept all men at a cousinly distance, and those who felt intimate enough to address her as “Miss Mary” accounted themselves uncommonly fortunate.  Thus the little machine of state worked perfectly harmoniously, and Big Stone Hole was as steady and prosperous a settlement as need be.