That night Bray slept but little.  The superstition of the lover is no less keen than that of the gambler, and Bray, while laughing at Parkhurst’s extravagant fancy, I am afraid was equally inclined to believe that their good fortune came through Eugenia’s influence.  At least he should tell her so, and her precious note became now an invitation as well as an excuse for seeking her.  The only fear that possessed him was that she might have expected some acknowledgment of her note before she left that afternoon; the only thing he could not understand was how she had managed to convey the note to the spring, for she could not have taken it herself.  But this would doubtless be explained by her in San Francisco, whither he intended to seek her.  His affairs, the purchasing of machinery for their new claim, would no doubt give him easy access to her father.

But it was one thing to imagine this while procuring a new and fashionable outfit in San Francisco, and quite another to stand before the “palatial” residence of the Neworths on Rincon Hill, with the consciousness of no other introduction than the memory of the Neworths’ discourtesy on the mountain, and, even in his fine feathers, Bray hesitated.  At this moment a carriage rolled up to the door, and Eugenia, an adorable vision of laces and silks, alighted.

Forgetting everything else, he advanced toward her with outstretched hand.  He saw her start, a faint color come into her face; he knew he was recognized; but she stiffened quickly again, the color vanished, her beautiful gray eyes rested coldly on him for a moment, and then, with the faintest inclination of her proud head, she swept by him and entered the house.

But Bray, though shocked, was not daunted, and perhaps his own pride was awakened.  He ran to his hotel, summoned a messenger, inclosed her note in an envelope, and added these lines:—­

Dear miss Neworth,—­I only wanted to thank you an hour ago, as I should like to have done before, for the kind note which I inclose, but which you have made me feel I have no right to treasure any longer, and to tell you that your most generous wish and prophecy has been more than fulfilled.

Yours, very gratefully,

Edmund Bray.

Within the hour the messenger returned with the still briefer reply:—­

“Miss Neworth has been fully aware of that preoccupation with his good fortune which prevented Mr. Bray from an earlier acknowledgment of her foolish note.”

Cold as this response was, Bray’s heart leaped.  She had lingered on the summit, and had expected a reply.  He seized his hat, and, jumping into the first cab at the hotel door, drove rapidly back to the house.  He had but one idea, to see her at any cost, but one concern, to avoid a meeting with her father first, or a denial at her very door.