UNDER THE REDWOODS By Bret Harte CONTENTS JIMMY'S BIG BROTHER FROM CALIFORNIA THE YOUNGEST MISS PIPER A WIDOW OF THE SANTA ANA VALLEY THE MERMAID OF LIGHTHOUSE POINT UNDER THE EAVES HOW REUBEN ALLEN "SAW LIFE" IN SAN FRANCISCO THREE VAGABONDS OF TRINIDAD A VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN A ROMANCE OF THE LINE BOHEMIAN DAYS IN SAN FRANCISCO UNDER THE REDWOODS JIMMY'S BIG BROTHER FROM CALIFORNIA As night crept up from the valley that stormy afternoon, Sawyer'sLedge was at first quite blotted out by wind and rain, but presentlyreappeared in little nebulous star-like points along the mountain side, as the straggling cabins of the settlement were one by one lit up bythe miners returning from tunnel and claim. These stars were of varyingbrilliancy that evening, two notably so--one that eventually resolveditself into a many-candled illumination of a cabin of evident festivity;the other into a glimmering taper in the window of a silent one. They might have represented the extreme mutations of fortune in thesettlement that night: the celebration of a strike by Robert Falloner, alucky miner; and the sick-bed of Dick Lasham, an unlucky one. The latter was, however, not quite alone. He was ministered to by DaddyFolsom, a weak but emotional and aggressively hopeful neighbor, who wassitting beside the wooden bunk whereon the invalid lay. Yet therewas something perfunctory in his attitude: his eyes were continuallystraying to the window, whence the illuminated Falloner festivitiescould be seen between the trees, and his ears were more intent on thesongs and laughter that came faintly from the distance than on thefeverish breathing and unintelligible moans of the sufferer. Nevertheless he looked troubled equally by the condition of his chargeand by his own enforced absence from the revels. A more impatient moanfrom the sick man, however, brought a change to his abstracted face, andhe turned to him with an exaggerated expression of sympathy. "In course! Lordy! I know jest what those pains are: kinder ez ef youwas havin' a tooth pulled that had roots branchin' all over ye! My! I'vejest had 'em so bad I couldn't keep from yellin'! That's hot rheumatics!Yes, sir, I oughter know! And" (confidentially) "the sing'ler thingabout 'em is that they get worse jest as they're going off--sorterwringin' yer hand and punchin' ye in the back to say 'Good-by. ' There!"he continued, as the man sank exhaustedly back on his rude pillow offlour-sacks. "There! didn't I tell ye? Ye'll be all right in a minit, and ez chipper ez a jay bird in the mornin'. Oh, don't tell me aboutrheumatics--I've bin thar! On'y mine was the cold kind--that hangs onlongest--yours is the hot, that burns itself up in no time!" If the flushed face and bright eyes of Lasham were not enough tocorroborate this symptom of high fever, the quick, wandering laugh hegave would have indicated the point of delirium. But the too optimisticDaddy Folsom referred this act to improvement, and went on cheerfully:"Yes, sir, you're better now, and"--here he assumed an air of cautiousdeliberation, extravagant, as all his assumptions were--"I ain't sayin'that--ef--you--was--to--rise--up" (very slowly) "and heave a blanket ortwo over your shoulders--jest by way o' caution, you know--and leanin'on me, kinder meander over to Bob Falloner's cabin and the boys, itwouldn't do you a heap o' good. Changes o' this kind is often prescribedby the faculty. " Another moan from the sufferer, however, hereapparently corrected Daddy's too favorable prognosis. "Oh, all right!Well, perhaps ye know best; and I'll jest run over to Bob's and say howas ye ain't comin', and will be back in a jiffy!" "The letter, " said the sick man hurriedly, "the letter, the letter!" Daddy leaned suddenly over the bed. It was impossible for even hishopefulness to avoid the fact that Lasham was delirious. It was a strongfactor in the case--one that would certainly justify his going overto Falloner's with the news. For the present moment, however, thisaberration was to be accepted cheerfully and humored after Daddy's ownfashion. "Of course--the letter, the letter, " he said convincingly;"that's what the boys hev bin singin' jest now-- 'Good-by, Charley; when you are away, Write me a letter, love; send me a letter, love!' "That's what you heard, and a mighty purty song it is too, and kinderclings to you. It's wonderful how these things gets in your head. " "The letter--write--send money--money--money, and the photograph--thephotograph--photograph--money, " continued the sick man, in the rapidreiteration of delirium. "In course you will--to-morrow--when the mail goes, " returned Daddysoothingly; "plenty of them. Jest now you try to get a snooze, will ye?Hol' on!--take some o' this. " There was an anodyne mixture on the rude shelf, which the doctor hadleft on his morning visit. Daddy had a comfortable belief that whatwould relieve pain would also check delirium, and he accordinglymeasured out a dose with a liberal margin to allow of waste by thepatient in swallowing in his semi-conscious state. As he lay more quiet, muttering still, but now unintelligibly, Daddy, waiting for a morecomplete unconsciousness and the opportunity to slip away to Falloner's, cast his eyes around the cabin. He noticed now for the first time sincehis entrance that a crumpled envelope bearing a Western post-mark waslying at the foot of the bed. Daddy knew that the tri-weekly post hadarrived an hour before he came, and that Lasham had evidently received aletter. Sure enough the letter itself was lying against the wall besidehim. It was open. Daddy felt justified in reading it. It was curt and businesslike, stating that unless Lasham at once senta remittance for the support of his brother and sister--two children incharge of the writer--they must find a home elsewhere. That the arrearswere long standing, and the repeated promises of Lasham to send moneyhad been unfulfilled. That the writer could stand it no longer. Thiswould be his last communication unless the money were sent forthwith. It was by no means a novel or, under the circumstances, a shockingdisclosure to Daddy. He had seen similar missives from daughters, andeven wives, consequent on the varying fortunes of his neighbors; no oneknew better than he the uncertainties of a miner's prospects, andyet the inevitable hopefulness that buoyed him up. He tossed it asideimpatiently, when his eye caught a strip of paper he had overlookedlying upon the blanket near the envelope. It contained a few lines inan unformed boyish hand addressed to "my brother, " and evidently slippedinto the letter after it was written. By the uncertain candlelight Daddyread as follows:-- Dear Brother, Rite to me and Cissy rite off. Why aint you done it? It'sso long since you rote any. Mister Recketts ses you dont care any more. Wen you rite send your fotograff. Folks here ses I aint got no bigbruther any way, as I disremember his looks, and cant say wots like him. Cissy's kryin' all along of it. I've got a hedake. William Walker makeit ake by a blo. So no more at present from your loving little brutherJim. The quick, hysteric laugh with which Daddy read this was quiteconsistent with his responsive, emotional nature; so, too, were theready tears that sprang to his eyes. He put the candle down unsteadily, with a casual glance at the sick man. It was notable, however, thatthis look contained less sympathy for the ailing "big brother" than hisemotion might have suggested. For Daddy was carried quite away by hisown mental picture of the helpless children, and eager only to relatehis impressions of the incident. He cast another glance at the invalid, thrust the papers into his pocket, and clapping on his hat slipped fromthe cabin and ran to the house of festivity. Yet it was characteristicof the man, and so engrossed was he by his one idea, that to the usualinquiries regarding his patient he answered, "he's all right, " andplunged at once into the incident of the dunning letter, reserving--withthe instinct of an emotional artist--the child's missive until the last. As he expected, the money demand was received with indignant criticismsof the writer. "That's just like 'em in the States, " said Captain Fletcher; "darned ifthey don't believe we've only got to bore a hole in the ground and snakeout a hundred dollars. Why, there's my wife--with a heap of hoss sensein everything else--is allus wonderin' why I can't rake in a cool fiftybetwixt one steamer day and another. " "That's nothin' to my old dad, " interrupted Gus Houston, the "infant"of the camp, a bright-eyed young fellow of twenty; "why, he wrote to meyesterday that if I'd only pick up a single piece of gold every day andjust put it aside, sayin' 'That's for popper and mommer, ' and not foolit away--it would be all they'd ask of me. " "That's so, " added another; "these ignorant relations is just the ruino' the mining industry. Bob Falloner hez bin lucky in his strike to-day, but he's a darned sight luckier in being without kith or kin that heknows of. " Daddy waited until the momentary irritation had subsided, and then drewthe other letter from his pocket. "That ain't all, boys, " he began in afaltering voice, but gradually working himself up to a pitch of pathos;"just as I was thinking all them very things, I kinder noticed this yerpoor little bit o' paper lyin' thar lonesome like and forgotten, and I--read it--and well--gentlemen--it just choked me right up!" Hestopped, and his voice faltered. "Go slow, Daddy, go slow!" said an auditor smilingly. It was evidentthat Daddy's sympathetic weakness was well known. Daddy read the child's letter. But, unfortunately, what with his realemotion and the intoxication of an audience, he read it extravagantly, and interpolated a child's lisp (on no authority whatever), and asimulated infantile delivery, which, I fear, at first provoked thesmiles rather than the tears of his audience. Nevertheless, at itsconclusion the little note was handed round the party, and then therewas a moment of thoughtful silence. "Tell you what it is, boys, " said Fletcher, looking around the table, "we ought to be doin' suthin' for them kids right off! Did you, " turningto Daddy, "say anythin' about this to Dick?" "Nary--why, he's clean off his head with fever--don't understand aword--and just babbles, " returned Daddy, forgetful of his roseatediagnosis a moment ago, "and hasn't got a cent. " "We must make up what we can amongst us afore the mail goes to-night, "said the "infant, " feeling hurriedly in his pockets. "Come, ante up, gentlemen, " he added, laying the contents of his buckskin purse upon thetable. "Hold on, boys, " said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who hadjust risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. "You've got enough todo, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I've none! Let this be myaffair. I've got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about mypassage home, and I'll just get a draft for a hundred dollars forthat old skeesicks--what's his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts"--he made amemorandum from the letter--"and I'll send it by express. Meantime, youfellows sit down there and write something--you know what--saying thatDick's hurt his hand and can't write--you know; but asked you to senda draft, which you're doing. Sabe? That's all! I'll skip over to theexpress now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hourlater. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to thewhiskey while I'm gone. " He clapped his hat on his head and disappeared. "There goes a white man, you bet!" said Fletcher admiringly, as the doorclosed behind their host. "Now, boys, " he added, drawing a chair to thetable, "let's get this yer letter off, and then go back to our game. " Pens and ink were produced, and an animated discussion ensued as tothe matter to be conveyed. Daddy's plea for an extended explanatory andsympathetic communication was overruled, and the letter was written toRicketts on the simple lines suggested by Falloner. "But what about poor little Jim's letter? That ought to be answered, "said Daddy pathetically. "If Dick hurt his hand so he can't write to Ricketts, how in thunder ishe goin' to write to Jim?" was the reply. "But suthin' oughter be said to the poor kid, " urged Daddy piteously. "Well, write it yourself--you and Gus Houston make up somethin'together. I'm going to win some money, " retorted Fletcher, returningto the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy andHouston. "Ye can't write it in Dick's name, because that little brother knowsDick's handwriting, even if he don't remember his face. See?" suggestedHouston. "That's so, " said Daddy dubiously; "but, " he added, with elasticcheerfulness, "we can write that Dick 'says. ' See?" "Your head's level, old man! Just you wade in on that. " Daddy seized the pen and "waded in. " Into somewhat deep and difficultwater, I fancy, for some of it splashed into his eyes, and he sniffledonce or twice as he wrote. "Suthin' like this, " he said, after apause:-- DEAR LITTLE JIMMIE, --Your big brother havin' hurt his hand, wants me totell you that otherways he is all hunky and A1. He says he don't forgetyou and little Cissy, you bet! and he's sendin' money to old Rickettsstraight off. He says don't you and Cissy mind whether school keepsor not as long as big Brother Dick holds the lines. He says he'd havewritten before, but he's bin follerin' up a lead mighty close, andexpects to strike it rich in a few days. "You ain't got no sabe about kids, " said Daddy imperturbably; "they'vegot to be humored like sick folks. And they want everythin' big--theydon't take no stock in things ez they are--even ef they hev 'em worsethan they are. 'So, '" continued Daddy, reading to prevent furtherinterruption, "'he says you're just to keep your eyes skinned lookin'out for him comin' home any time--day or night. All you've got to do isto sit up and wait. He might come and even snake you out of your beds!He might come with four white horses and a nigger driver, or he mightcome disguised as an ornary tramp. Only you've got to be keen onwatchin'. ' (Ye see, " interrupted Daddy explanatorily, "that'll jest keepthem kids lively. ) 'He says Cissy's to stop cryin' right off, and ifWillie Walker hits yer on the right cheek you just slug out with yourleft fist, 'cordin' to Scripter. ' Gosh, " ejaculated Daddy, stoppingsuddenly and gazing anxiously at Houston, "there's that blamedphotograph--I clean forgot that. " "And Dick hasn't got one in the shop, and never had, " returned Houstonemphatically. "Golly! that stumps us! Unless, " he added, with diabolicalthoughtfulness, "we take Bob's? The kids don't remember Dick's face, andBob's about the same age. And it's a regular star picture--you bet! Bobhad it taken in Sacramento--in all his war paint. See!" He indicated aphotograph pinned against the wall--a really striking likeness which didfull justice to Bob's long silken mustache and large, brown determinedeyes. "I'll snake it off while they ain't lookin', and you jam it inthe letter. Bob won't miss it, and we can fix it up with Dick after he'swell, and send another. " Daddy silently grasped the "infant's" hand, who presently secured thephotograph without attracting attention from the card-players. It waspromptly inclosed in the letter, addressed to Master James Lasham. The"infant" started with it to the post-office, and Daddy Folsom returnedto Lasham's cabin to relieve the watcher that had been detached fromFalloner's to take his place beside the sick man. Meanwhile the rain fell steadily and the shadows crept higher and higherup the mountain. Towards midnight the star points faded out one by oneover Sawyer's Ledge even as they had come, with the difference that theillumination of Falloner's cabin was extinguished first, while the dimlight of Lasham's increased in number. Later, two stars seemed to shootfrom the centre of the ledge, trailing along the descent, until theywere lost in the obscurity of the slope--the lights of the stage-coachto Sacramento carrying the mail and Robert Falloner. They met and passedtwo fainter lights toiling up the road--the buggy lights of the doctor, hastily summoned from Carterville to the bedside of the dying DickLasham. The slowing up of his train caused Bob Falloner to start from a halfdoze in a Western Pullman car. As he glanced from his window he couldsee that the blinding snowstorm which had followed him for the past sixhours had at last hopelessly blocked the line. There was no prospectbeyond the interminable snowy level, the whirling flakes, and themonotonous palisades of leafless trees seen through it to the distantbanks of the Missouri. It was a prospect that the mountain-bred Fallonerwas beginning to loathe, and although it was scarcely six weeks sincehe left California, he was already looking back regretfully to the deepslopes and the free song of the serried ranks of pines. The intense cold had chilled his temperate blood, even as the rigors andconventions of Eastern life had checked his sincerity and spontaneousflow of animal spirits begotten in the frank intercourse and brotherhoodof camps. He had just fled from the artificialities of the greatAtlantic cities to seek out some Western farming lands in which hemight put his capital and energies. The unlooked-for interruption of hisprogress by a long-forgotten climate only deepened his discontent. Andnow--that train was actually backing! It appeared they must return tothe last station to wait for a snow-plough to clear the line. It was, explained the conductor, barely a mile from Shepherdstown, where therewas a good hotel and a chance of breaking the journey for the night. Shepherdstown! The name touched some dim chord in Bob Falloner's memoryand conscience--yet one that was vague. Then he suddenly remembered thatbefore leaving New York he had received a letter from Houston informinghim of Lasham's death, reminding him of his previous bounty, and begginghim--if he went West--to break the news to the Lasham family. There wasalso some allusion to a joke about his (Bob's) photograph, which he haddismissed as unimportant, and even now could not remember clearly. For afew moments his conscience pricked him that he should have forgotten itall, but now he could make amends by this providential delay. It was nota task to his liking; in any other circumstances he would have written, but he would not shirk it now. Shepherdstown was on the main line of the Kansas Pacific Road, and as healighted at its station, the big through trains from San Franciscoswept out of the stormy distance and stopped also. He remembered, as hemingled with the passengers, hearing a childish voice ask if this wasthe Californian train. He remembered hearing the amused and patientreply of the station-master: "Yes, sonny--here she is again, and here'sher passengers, " as he got into the omnibus and drove to the hotel. Herehe resolved to perform his disagreeable duty as quickly as possible, and on his way to his room stopped for a moment at the office to ask forRicketts' address. The clerk, after a quick glance of curiosity at hisnew guest, gave it to him readily, with a somewhat familiar smile. Itstruck Falloner also as being odd that he had not been asked to writehis name on the hotel register, but this was a saving of time he was notdisposed to question, as he had already determined to make his visit toRicketts at once, before dinner. It was still early evening. He was washing his hands in his bedroom when there came a light tap athis sitting-room door. Falloner quickly resumed his coat and entered thesitting-room as the porter ushered in a young lady holding a small boyby the hand. But, to Falloner's utter consternation, no sooner had thedoor closed on the servant than the boy, with a half-apologetic glanceat the young lady, uttered a childish cry, broke from her, and calling, "Dick! Dick!" ran forward and leaped into Falloner's arms. The mere shock of the onset and his own amazement left Bob withoutbreath for words. The boy, with arms convulsively clasping his body, wasimprinting kisses on Bob's waistcoat in default of reaching his face. At last Falloner managed gently but firmly to free himself, and turneda half-appealing, half-embarrassed look upon the young lady, whose ownface, however, suddenly flushed pink. To add to the confusion, the boy, in some reaction of instinct, suddenly ran back to her, franticallyclutched at her skirts, and tried to bury his head in their folds. "He don't love me, " he sobbed. "He don't care for me any more. " The face of the young girl changed. It was a pretty face in itsflushing; in the paleness and thoughtfulness that overcast it it was astriking face, and Bob's attention was for a moment distracted fromthe grotesqueness of the situation. Leaning over the boy she said in acaressing yet authoritative voice, "Run away for a moment, dear, untilI call you, " opening the door for him in a maternal way so inconsistentwith the youthfulness of her figure that it struck him even in hisconfusion. There was something also in her dress and carriage thatequally affected him: her garments were somewhat old-fashioned in style, yet of good material, with an odd incongruity to the climate and season. Under her rough outer cloak she wore a polka jacket and the thinnest ofsummer blouses; and her hat, though dark, was of rough straw, plainlytrimmed. Nevertheless, these peculiarities were carried off with an airof breeding and self-possession that was unmistakable. It was possiblethat her cool self-possession might have been due to some instinctiveantagonism, for as she came a step forward with coldly andclearly-opened gray eyes, he was vaguely conscious that she didn't likehim. Nevertheless, her manner was formally polite, even, as he fancied, to the point of irony, as she began, in a voice that occasionallydropped into the lazy Southern intonation, and a speech that easilyslipped at times into Southern dialect:-- "I sent the child out of the room, as I could see that his advanceswere annoying to you, and a good deal, I reckon, because I knew yourreception of them was still more painful to him. It is quite natural, Idare say, you should feel as you do, and I reckon consistent with yourattitude towards him. But you must make some allowance for the depth ofhis feelings, and how he has looked forward to this meeting. When Itell you that ever since he received your last letter, he and hissister--until her illness kept her home--have gone every day when thePacific train was due to the station to meet you; that they have takenliterally as Gospel truth every word of your letter"-- "My letter?" interrupted Falloner. The young girl's scarlet lip curled slightly. "I beg your pardon--Ishould have said the letter you dictated. Of course it wasn't in yourhandwriting--you had hurt your hand, you know, " she added ironically. "At all events, they believed it all--that you were coming at anymoment; they lived in that belief, and the poor things went to thestation with your photograph in their hands so that they might be thefirst to recognize and greet you. " "With my photograph?" interrupted Falloner again. The young girl's clear eyes darkened ominously. "I reckon, " she saiddeliberately, as she slowly drew from her pocket the photograph DaddyFolsom had sent, "that that is your photograph. It certainly seems anexcellent likeness, " she added, regarding him with a slight suggestionof contemptuous triumph. In an instant the revelation of the whole mystery flashed upon him! Theforgotten passage in Houston's letter about the stolen photograph stoodclearly before him; the coincidence of his appearance in Shepherdstown, and the natural mistake of the children and their fair protector, weremade perfectly plain. But with this relief and the certainty that hecould confound her with an explanation came a certain mischievous desireto prolong the situation and increase his triumph. She certainly had notshown him any favor. "Have you got the letter also?" he asked quietly. She whisked it impatiently from her pocket and handed it to him. As heread Daddy's characteristic extravagance and recognized the familiaridiosyncrasies of his old companions, he was unable to restrain a smile. He raised his eyes, to meet with surprise the fair stranger's leveledeyebrows and brightly indignant eyes, in which, however, the rain wasfast gathering with the lightning. "It may be amusing to you, and I reckon likely it was all a Californiajoke, " she said with slightly trembling lips; "I don't know No'therngentlemen and their ways, and you seem to have forgotten our ways as youhave your kindred. Perhaps all this may seem so funny to them: it maynot seem funny to that boy who is now crying his heart out in the hall;it may not be very amusing to that poor Cissy in her sick-bed longingto see her brother. It may be so far from amusing to her, that I shouldhesitate to bring you there in her excited condition and subject herto the pain that you have caused him. But I have promised her; she isalready expecting us, and the disappointment may be dangerous, and Ican only implore you--for a few moments at least--to show a little moreaffection than you feel. " As he made an impulsive, deprecating gesture, yet without changing his look of restrained amusement, she stopped himhopelessly. "Oh, of course, yes, yes, I know it is years since you haveseen them; they have no right to expect more; only--only--feeling as youdo, " she burst impulsively, "why--oh, why did you come?" Here was Bob's chance. He turned to her politely; began gravely, "Isimply came to"--when suddenly his face changed; he stopped as if struckby a blow. His cheek flushed, and then paled! Good God! What had hecome for? To tell them that this brother they were longing for--livingfor--perhaps even dying for--was dead! In his crass stupidity, hiswounded vanity over the scorn of the young girl, his anticipation oftriumph, he had forgotten--totally forgotten--what that triumph meant!Perhaps if he had felt more keenly the death of Lasham the thought of itwould have been uppermost in his mind; but Lasham was not his partner orassociate, only a brother miner, and his single act of generosity wasin the ordinary routine of camp life. If she could think him cold andheartless before, what would she think of him now? The absurdity of hermistake had vanished in the grim tragedy he had seemed to have cruellyprepared for her. The thought struck him so keenly that he stammered, faltered, and sank helplessly into a chair. The shock that he had received was so plain to her that her ownindignation went out in the breath of it. Her lip quivered. "Don't youmind, " she said hurriedly, dropping into her Southern speech; "I didn'tgo to hurt you, but I was just that mad with the thought of thosepickaninnies, and the easy way you took it, that I clean forgot I'd nocall to catechise you! And you don't know me from the Queen of Sheba. Well, " she went on, still more rapidly, and in odd distinction to herprevious formal slow Southern delivery, "I'm the daughter of ColonelBoutelle, of Bayou Sara, Louisiana; and his paw, and his paw before him, had a plantation there since the time of Adam, but he lost it and sixhundred niggers during the Wah! We were pooh as pohverty--paw and mawand we four girls--and no more idea of work than a baby. But I hadan education at the convent at New Orleans, and could play, and speakFrench, and I got a place as school-teacher here; I reckon the firstSouthern woman that has taught school in the No'th! Ricketts, who usedto be our steward at Bayou Sara, told me about the pickaninnies, and howhelpless they were, with only a brother who occasionally sent them moneyfrom California. I suppose I cottoned to the pooh little things at firstbecause I knew what it was to be alone amongst strangers, Mr. Lasham; Iused to teach them at odd times, and look after them, and go with themto the train to look for you. Perhaps Ricketts made me think you didn'tcare for them; perhaps I was wrong in thinking it was true, from the wayyou met Jimmy just now. But I've spoken my mind and you know why. " Sheceased and walked to the window. Falloner rose. The storm that had swept through him was over. The quickdetermination, resolute purpose, and infinite patience which had madehim what he was were all there, and with it a conscientiousness whichhis selfish independence had hitherto kept dormant. He accepted thesituation, not passively--it was not in his nature--but threw himselfinto it with all his energy. "You were quite right, " he said, halting a moment beside her; "I don'tblame you, and let me hope that later you may think me less to blamethan you do now. Now, what's to be done? Clearly, I've first to make itright with Tommy--I mean Jimmy--and then we must make a straight dashover to the girl! Whoop!" Before she could understand from his face thestrange change in his voice, he had dashed out of the room. In a momenthe reappeared with the boy struggling in his arms. "Think of the littlescamp not knowing his own brother!" he laughed, giving the boy a reallyaffectionate, if slightly exaggerated hug, "and expecting me to open myarms to the first little boy who jumps into them! I've a great mind notto give him the present I fetched all the way from California. Waita moment. " He dashed into the bedroom, opened his valise--where heprovidentially remembered he had kept, with a miner's superstition, thefirst little nugget of gold he had ever found--seized the tiny bit ofquartz of gold, and dashed out again to display it before Jimmy's eagereyes. If the heartiness, sympathy, and charming kindness of the man's wholemanner and face convinced, even while it slightly startled, the younggirl, it was still more effective with the boy. Children are quickto detect the false ring of affected emotion, and Bob's was sogenuine--whatever its cause--that it might have easily passed for afraternal expression with harder critics. The child trustfully nestledagainst him and would have grasped the gold, but the young manwhisked it into his pocket. "Not until we've shown it to our littlesister--where we're going now! I'm off to order a sleigh. " He dashedout again to the office as if he found some relief in action, or, asit seemed to Miss Boutelle, to avoid embarrassing conversation. When hecame back again he was carrying an immense bearskin from his luggage. Hecast a critical look at the girl's unseasonable attire. "I shall wrap you and Jimmy in this--you know it's snowing frightfully. " Miss Boutelle flushed a little. "I'm warm enough when walking, " shesaid coldly. Bob glanced at her smart little French shoes, andthought otherwise. He said nothing, but hastily bundled his two guestsdownstairs and into the street. The whirlwind dance of the snow made thesleigh an indistinct bulk in the glittering darkness, and as the younggirl for an instant stood dazedly still, Bob incontinently lifted herfrom her feet, deposited her in the vehicle, dropped Jimmy in her lap, and wrapped them both tightly in the bearskin. Her weight, whichwas scarcely more than a child's, struck him in that moment as beingtantalizingly incongruous to the matronly severity of her manner and itsstrange effect upon him. He then jumped in himself, taking the directionfrom his companion, and drove off through the storm. The wind and darkness were not favorable to conversation, and onlyonce did he break the silence. "Is there any one who would be likely toremember--me--where we are going?" he asked, in a lull of the storm. Miss Boutelle uncovered enough of her face to glance at him curiously. "Hardly! You know the children came here from the No'th after yourmother's death, while you were in California. " "Of course, " returned Bob hurriedly; "I was only thinking--you knowthat some of my old friends might have called, " and then collapsed intosilence. After a pause a voice came icily, although under the furs: "Perhapsyou'd prefer that your arrival be kept secret from the public? But theyseem to have already recognized you at the hotel from your inquiry aboutRicketts, and the photograph Jimmy had already shown them two weeksago. " Bob remembered the clerk's familiar manner and the omission to askhim to register. "But it need go no further, if you like, " she added, with a slight return of her previous scorn. "I've no reason for keeping it secret, " said Bob stoutly. No other words were exchanged until the sleigh drew up before a plainwooden house in the suburbs of the town. Bob could see at a glance thatit represented the income of some careful artisan or small shopkeeper, and that it promised little for an invalid's luxurious comfort. Theywere ushered into a chilly sitting-room and Miss Boutelle ran upstairswith Jimmy to prepare the invalid for Bob's appearance. He noticed thata word dropped by the woman who opened the door made the young girl'sface grave again, and paled the color that the storm had buffeted toher cheek. He noticed also that these plain surroundings seemed onlyto enhance her own superiority, and that the woman treated her with adeference in odd contrast to the ill-concealed disfavor with which sheregarded him. Strangely enough, this latter fact was a relief to hisconscience. It would have been terrible to have received their kindnessunder false pretenses; to take their just blame of the man he personatedseemed to mitigate the deceit. The young girl rejoined him presently with troubled eyes. Cissy wasworse, and only intermittently conscious, but had asked to see him. Itwas a short flight of stairs to the bedroom, but before he reached itBob's heart beat faster than it had in any mountain climb. In one cornerof the plainly furnished room stood a small truckle bed, and in it laythe invalid. It needed but a single glance at her flushed face in itsaureole of yellow hair to recognize the likeness to Jimmy, although, added to that strange refinement produced by suffering, there was aspiritual exaltation in the child's look--possibly from delirium--thatawed and frightened him; an awful feeling that he could not lie to thishopeless creature took possession of him, and his step faltered. Butshe lifted her small arms pathetically towards him as if she divined histrouble, and he sank on his knees beside her. With a tiny finger curledaround his long mustache, she lay there silent. Her face was full oftrustfulness, happiness, and consciousness--but she spoke no word. There was a pause, and Falloner, slightly lifting his head withoutdisturbing that faintly clasping finger, beckoned Miss Boutelle to hisside. "Can you drive?" he said, in a low voice. "Yes. " "Take my sleigh and get the best doctor in town to come here at once. Bring him with you if you can; if he can't come at once, drive homeyourself. I will stay here. " "But"--hesitated Miss Boutelle. "I will stay here, " he repeated. The door closed on the young girl, and Falloner, still bending over thechild, presently heard the sleigh-bells pass away in the storm. He stillsat with his bent head, held by the tiny clasp of those thin fingers. But the child's eyes were fixed so intently upon him that Mrs. Rickettsleaned over the strangely-assorted pair and said-- "It's your brother Dick, dearie. Don't you know him?" The child's lips moved faintly. "Dick's dead, " she whispered. "She's wandering, " said Mrs. Ricketts. "Speak to her. " But Bob, withhis eyes on the child's, lifted a protesting hand. The little sufferer'slips moved again. "It isn't Dick--it's the angel God sent to tell me. " She spoke no more. And when Miss Boutelle returned with the doctor shewas beyond the reach of finite voices. Falloner would have remained allnight with them, but he could see that his presence in the contractedhousehold was not desired. Even his offer to take Jimmy with him to thehotel was declined, and at midnight he returned alone. What his thoughts were that night may be easily imagined. Cissy's deathhad removed the only cause he had for concealing his real identity. There was nothing more to prevent his revealing all to Miss Boutelle andto offer to adopt the boy. But he reflected this could not be done untilafter the funeral, for it was only due to Cissy's memory that he shouldstill keep up the role of Dick Lasham as chief mourner. If it seemsstrange that Bob did not at this crucial moment take Miss Boutelle intohis confidence, I fear it was because he dreaded the personal effectof the deceit he had practiced upon her more than any ethicalconsideration; she had softened considerably in her attitude towards himthat night; he was human, after all, and while he felt his conduct hadbeen unselfish in the main, he dared not confess to himself how much heropinion had influenced him. He resolved that after the funeral he wouldcontinue his journey, and write to her, en route, a full explanation ofhis conduct, inclosing Daddy's letter as corroborative evidence. But onsearching his letter-case he found that he had lost even that evidence, and he must trust solely at present to her faith in his improbablestory. It seemed as if his greatest sacrifice was demanded at the funeral! Forit could not be disguised that the neighbors were strongly prejudicedagainst him. Even the preacher improved the occasion to warn thecongregation against the dangers of putting off duty until too late. Andwhen Robert Falloner, pale, but self-restrained, left the church withMiss Boutelle, equally pale and reserved, on his arm, he could withdifficulty restrain his fury at the passing of a significant smileacross the faces of a few curious bystanders. "It was Amy Boutelle, thatwas the 'penitence' that fetched him, you bet!" he overheard, a barelyconcealed whisper; and the reply, "And it's a good thing she's made outof it too, for he's mighty rich!" At the church door he took her cold hand into his. "I am leavingto-morrow morning with Jimmy, " he said, with a white face. "Good-by. " "You are quite right; good-by, " she replied as briefly, but with thefaintest color. He wondered if she had heard it too. Whether she had heard it or not, she went home with Mrs. Rickettsin some righteous indignation, which found--after the young lady'shabit--free expression. Whatever were Mr. Lasham's faults of omission itwas most un-Christian to allude to them there, and an insult to the poorlittle dear's memory who had forgiven them. Were she in his shoes shewould shake the dust of the town off her feet; and she hoped he would. She was a little softened on arriving to find Jimmy in tears. He hadlost Dick's photograph--or Dick had forgotten to give it back atthe hotel, for this was all he had in his pocket. And he produced aletter--the missing letter of Daddy, which by mistake Fallonerhad handed back instead of the photograph. Miss Boutelle saw thesuperscription and Californian postmark with a vague curiosity. "Did you look inside, dear? Perhaps it slipped in. " Jimmy had not. Miss Boutelle did--and I grieve to say, ended by readingthe whole letter. Bob Falloner had finished packing his things the next morning, and waswaiting for Mr. Ricketts and Jimmy. But when a tap came at the door, heopened it to find Miss Boutelle standing there. "I have sent Jimmy intothe bedroom, " she said with a faint smile, "to look for the photographwhich you gave him in mistake for this. I think for the present heprefers his brother's picture to this letter, which I have not explainedto him or any one. " She stopped, and raising her eyes to his, saidgently: "I think it would have only been a part of your goodness to havetrusted me, Mr. Falloner. " "Then you will forgive me?" he said eagerly. She looked at him frankly, yet with a faint trace of coquetry that theangels might have pardoned. "Do you want me to say to you what Mrs. Ricketts says were the last words of poor Cissy?" A year later, when the darkness and rain were creeping up Sawyer'sLedge, and Houston and Daddy Folsom were sitting before their brushwoodfire in the old Lasham cabin, the latter delivered himself oracularly. "It's a mighty queer thing, that news about Bob! It's not that he'smarried, for that might happen to any one; but this yer account in thepaper of his wedding being attended by his 'little brother. ' That getsme! To think all the while he was here he was lettin' on to us that hehadn't kith or kin! Well, sir, that accounts to me for one thing, --thesing'ler way he tumbled to that letter of poor Dick Lasham's littlebrother and sent him that draft! Don't ye see? It was a feller feelin'!Knew how it was himself! I reckon ye all thought I was kinder softreading that letter o' Dick Lasham's little brother to him, but ye seewhat it did. " THE YOUNGEST MISS PIPER I do not think that any of us who enjoyed the acquaintance of the Pipergirls or the hospitality of Judge Piper, their father, ever cared forthe youngest sister. Not on account of her extreme youth, for the eldestMiss Piper confessed to twenty-six--and the youth of the youngest sisterwas established solely, I think, by one big braid down her back. Neitherwas it because she was the plainest, for the beauty of the Piper girlswas a recognized general distinction, and the youngest Miss Piper wasnot entirely devoid of the family charms. Nor was it from any lack ofintelligence, nor from any defective social quality; for her precocitywas astounding, and her good-humored frankness alarming. Neither do Ithink it could be said that a slight deafness, which might impart anembarrassing publicity to any statement--the reverse of our generalfeeling--that might be confided by any one to her private ear, was asufficient reason; for it was pointed out that she always understoodeverything that Tom Sparrell told her in his ordinary tone of voice. Briefly, it was very possible that Delaware--the youngest MissPiper--did not like us. Yet it was fondly believed by us that the othersisters failed to show that indifference to our existence shown by MissDelaware, although the heartburnings, misunderstandings, jealousies, hopes and fears, and finally the chivalrous resignation with which weat last accepted the long foregone conclusion that they were not forus, and far beyond our reach, is not a part of this veracious chronicle. Enough that none of the flirtations of her elder sisters affected orwere shared by the youngest Miss Piper. She moved in this heart-breakingatmosphere with sublime indifference, treating her sisters' affairs withwhat we considered rank simplicity or appalling frankness. Their fewadmirers who were weak enough to attempt to gain her mediation orconfidence had reason to regret it. "It's no kind o' use givin' me goodies, " she said to a helpless suitorof Louisiana Piper's who had offered to bring her some sweets, "for Iain't got no influence with Lu, and if I don't give 'em up to her whenshe hears of it, she'll nag me and hate you like pizen. Unless, " sheadded thoughtfully, "it was wintergreen lozenges; Lu can't stand them, or anybody who eats them within a mile. " It is needless to add thatthe miserable man, thus put upon his gallantry, was obliged in honor toprovide Del with the wintergreen lozenges that kept him in disfavorand at a distance. Unfortunately, too, any predilection or pity for anyparticular suitor of her sister's was attended by even more disastrousconsequences. It was reported that while acting as "gooseberry"--a roleusually assigned to her--between Virginia Piper and an exceptionallytimid young surveyor, during a ramble she conceived a rare sentiment ofhumanity towards the unhappy man. After once or twice lingering behindin the ostentatious picking of a wayside flower, or "running on ahead"to look at a mountain view, without any apparent effect on the shy andspeechless youth, she decoyed him aside while her elder sister rambledindifferently and somewhat scornfully on. The youngest Miss Piper leapedupon the rail of a fence, and with the stalk of a thimbleberry in hermouth swung her small feet to and fro and surveyed him dispassionately. "Ye don't seem to be ketchin' on?" she said tentatively. The young man smiled feebly and interrogatively. "Don't seem to be either follering suit nor trumpin', " continued Delbluntly. "I suppose so--that is, I fear that Miss Virginia"--he stammered. "Speak up! I'm a little deaf. Say it again!" said Del, screwing up hereyes and eyebrows. The young man was obliged to admit in stentorian tones that his progresshad been scarcely satisfactory. "You're goin' on too slow--that's it, " said Del critically. "Why, whenCaptain Savage meandered along here with Jinny" (Virginia) "lastweek, afore we got as far as this he'd reeled off a heap of Byron andJamieson" (Tennyson), "and sich; and only yesterday Jinny and DoctorBeveridge was blowin' thistletops to know which was a flirt all alongthe trail past the crossroads. Why, ye ain't picked ez much as a singleberry for Jinny, let alone Lad's Love or Johnny Jumpups and Kissme's, and ye keep talkin' across me, you two, till I'm tired. Now look here, "she burst out with sudden decision, "Jinny's gone on ahead in a kind o'huff; but I reckon she's done that afore too, and you'll find her, jestas Spinner did, on the rise of the hill, sittin' on a pine stump andlookin' like this. " (Here the youngest Miss Piper locked herfingers over her left knee, and drew it slightly up, --with a sublimeindifference to the exposure of considerable small-ankled redstocking, --and with a far-off, plaintive stare, achieved a colorableimitation of her elder sister's probable attitude. ) "Then you jest go upsoftly, like as you was a bear, and clap your hands on her eyes, andsay in a disguised voice like this" (here Del turned on a high falsettobeyond any masculine compass), "'Who's who?' jest like in forfeits. " "But she'll be sure to know me, " said the surveyor timidly. "She won't, " said Del in scornful skepticism. "I hardly think"--stammered the young man, with an awkward smile, "thatI--in fact--she'll discover me--before I can get beside her. " "Not if you go softly, for she'll be sittin' back to the road, so--gazing away, so"--the youngest Miss Piper again stared dreamily inthe distance, "and you'll creep up just behind, like this. " "But won't she be angry? I haven't known her long--that is--don't yousee?" He stopped embarrassedly. "Can't hear a word you say, " said Del, shaking her head decisively. "You've got my deaf ear. Speak louder, or come closer. " But here the instruction suddenly ended, once and for all time! Forwhether the young man was seriously anxious to perfect himself; whetherhe was truly grateful to the young girl and tried to show it; whether hewas emboldened by the childish appeal of the long brown distinguishingbraid down her back, or whether he suddenly found something peculiarlyprovocative in the reddish brown eyes between their thickset hedge oflashes, and with the trim figure and piquant pose, and was seized withthat hysteric desperation which sometimes attacks timidity itself, Icannot say! Enough that he suddenly put his arm around her waist andhis lips to her soft satin cheek, peppered and salted as it was bysun-freckles and mountain air, and received a sound box on the ear forhis pains. The incident was closed. He did not repeat the experiment oneither sister. The disclosure of his rebuff seemed, however, to give asingular satisfaction to Red Gulch. While it may be gathered from this that the youngest Miss Piper wasimpervious to general masculine advances, it was not until later thatRed Gulch was thrown into skeptical astonishment by the rumors that allthis time she really had a lover! Allusion has been made to the chargethat her deafness did not prevent her from perfectly understanding theordinary tone of voice of a certain Mr. Thomas Sparrell. No undue significance was attached to this fact through the veryinsignificance and "impossibility" of that individual;--a lanky, red-haired youth, incapacitated for manual labor through lameness, --aclerk in a general store at the Cross Roads! He had never been therecipient of Judge Piper's hospitality; he had never visited the houseeven with parcels; apparently his only interviews with her or any ofthe family had been over the counter. To do him justice he certainly hadnever seemed to seek any nearer acquaintance; he was not at the churchdoor when her sisters, beautiful in their Sunday gowns, filed into theaisle, with little Delaware bringing up the rear; he was not at theDemocratic barbecue, that we attended without reference to our personalpolitics, and solely for the sake of Judge Piper and the girls; nordid he go to the Agricultural Fair Ball--open to all. His abstention webelieved to be owing to his lameness; to a wholesome consciousnessof his own social defects; or an inordinate passion for reading cheapscientific textbooks, which did not, however, add fluency nor convictionto his speech. Neither had he the abstraction of a student, for hisaccounts were kept with an accuracy which struck us, who dealt at thestore, as ignobly practical, and even malignant. Possibly we might haveexpressed this opinion more strongly but for a certain rude vigor ofrepartee which he possessed, and a suggestion that he might have atemper on occasion. "Them red-haired chaps is like to be tetchy andto kinder see blood through their eyelashes, " had been suggested by anobserving customer. In short, little as we knew of the youngest Miss Piper, he was the lastman we should have suspected her to select as an admirer. What we didknow of their public relations, purely commercial ones, implied thereverse of any cordial understanding. The provisioning of the Piperhousehold was entrusted to Del, with other practical odds and ends ofhousekeeping, not ornamental, and the following is said to be a truthfulrecord of one of their overheard interviews at the store:-- The youngest Miss Piper, entering, displacing a quantity of goods in thecentre to make a sideways seat for herself, and looking around loftilyas she took a memorandum-book and pencil from her pocket. "Ahem! If I ain't taking you away from your studies, Mr. Sparrell, maybe you'll be good enough to look here a minit;--but" (in affectedpoliteness) "if I'm disturbing you I can come another time. " Sparrell, placing the book he had been reading carefully under thecounter, and advancing to Miss Delaware with a complete ignoring of herirony: "What can we do for you to-day, Miss Piper?" Miss Delaware, with great suavity of manner, examining hermemorandum-book: "I suppose it wouldn't be shocking your delicatefeelings too much to inform you that the canned lobster and oysters yousent us yesterday wasn't fit for hogs?" Sparrell (blandly): "They weren't intended for them, Miss Piper. Ifwe had known you were having company over from Red Gulch to dinner, wemight have provided something more suitable for them. We have a fairquality of oil-cake and corn-cobs in stock, at reduced figures. But thecanned provisions were for your own family. " Miss Delaware (secretly pleased at this sarcastic allusion to hersister's friends, but concealing her delight): "I admire to hear youtalk that way, Mr. Sparrell; it's better than minstrels or a circus. Isuppose you get it outer that book, " indicating the concealed volume. "What do you call it?" Sparrell (politely): "The First Principles of Geology. " Miss Delaware, leaning sideways and curling her little fingers aroundher pink ear: "Did you say the first principles of 'geology' or'politeness'? You know I am so deaf; but, of course, it couldn't bethat. " Sparrell (easily): "Oh no, you seem to have that in your hand"--pointingto Miss Delaware's memorandum-book--"you were quoting from it when youcame in. " Miss Delaware, after an affected silence of deep resignation: "Well!it's too bad folks can't just spend their lives listenin' to suchelegant talk; I'd admire to do nothing else! But there's my family up atCottonwood--and they must eat. They're that low that they expect meto waste my time getting food for 'em here, instead of drinking in theFirst Principles of the Grocery. " "Geology, " suggested Sparrell blandly. "The history of rock formation. " "Geology, " accepted Miss Delaware apologetically; "the history of rocks, which is so necessary for knowing just how much sand you can put in thesugar. So I reckon I'll leave my list here, and you can have the thingstoted to Cottonwood when you've got through with your First Principles. " She tore out a list of her commissions from a page of hermemorandum-book, leaped lightly from the counter, threw her brown braidfrom her left shoulder to its proper place down her back, shook outher skirts deliberately, and saying, "Thank you for a most improvin'afternoon, Mr. Sparrell, " sailed demurely out of the store. A few auditors of this narrative thought it inconsistent that a daughterof Judge Piper and a sister of the angelic host should put up with amere clerk's familiarity, but it was pointed out that "she gave him asgood as he sent, " and the story was generally credited. But certainlyno one ever dreamed that it pointed to any more precious confidencesbetween them. I think the secret burst upon the family, with other things, at the bigpicnic at Reservoir Canyon. This festivity had been arranged for weekspreviously, and was undertaken chiefly by the "Red Gulch Contingent, "as we were called, as a slight return to the Piper family for theirfrequent hospitality. The Piper sisters were expected to bring nothingbut their own personal graces and attend to the ministration of suchviands and delicacies as the boys had profusely supplied. The site selected was Reservoir Canyon, a beautiful, triangular valleywith very steep sides, one of which was crowned by the immense reservoirof the Pioneer Ditch Company. The sheer flanks of the canyon descendedin furrowed lines of vines and clinging bushes, like folds of fallingskirts, until they broke again into flounces of spangled shrubbery overa broad level carpet of monkshood, mariposas, lupines, poppies, anddaisies. Tempered and secluded from the sun's rays by its lofty shadows, the delicious obscurity of the canyon was in sharp contrast to thefiery mountain trail that in the full glare of the noonday sky madeits tortuous way down the hillside, like a stream of lava, to plungesuddenly into the valley and extinguish itself in its coolness as in alake. The heavy odors of wild honeysuckle, syringa, and ceanothus thathung over it were lightened and freshened by the sharp spicing of pineand bay. The mountain breeze which sometimes shook the serrated tops ofthe large redwoods above with a chill from the remote snow peaks even inthe heart of summer, never reached the little valley. It seemed an ideal place for a picnic. Everybody was thereforeastonished to hear that an objection was suddenly raised to this perfectsite. They were still more astonished to know that the objector was theyoungest Miss Piper! Pressed to give her reasons, she had replied thatthe locality was dangerous; that the reservoir placed upon the mountain, notoriously old and worn out, had been rendered more unsafe byfalse economy in unskillful and hasty repairs to satisfy speculatingstockbrokers, and that it had lately shown signs of leakage and sappingof its outer walls; that, in the event of an outbreak, the littletriangular valley, from which there was no outlet, would be instantlyflooded. Asked still more pressingly to give her authority for thesedetails, she at first hesitated, and then gave the name of Tom Sparrell. The derision with which this statement was received by us all, as theopinion of a sedentary clerk, was quite natural and obvious, but notthe anger which it excited in the breast of Judge Piper; for it was notgenerally known that the judge was the holder of a considerable numberof shares in the Pioneer Ditch Company, and that large dividends hadbeen lately kept up by a false economy of expenditure, to expedite a"sharp deal" in the stock, by which the judge and others could sell outof a failing company. Rather, it was believed, that the judge's angerwas due only to the discovery of Sparrell's influence over his daughterand his interference with the social affairs of Cottonwood. It was saidthat there was a sharp scene between the youngest Miss Piper and thecombined forces of the judge and the elder sisters, which ended in theformer's resolute refusal to attend the picnic at all if that site wasselected. As Delaware was known to be fearless even to the point of recklessness, and fond of gayety, her refusal only intensified the belief that she wasmerely "stickin' up for Sparrell's judgment" without any reference toher own personal safety or that of her sisters. The warning was laughedaway; the opinion of Sparrell treated with ridicule as the dyspeptic andenvious expression of an impractical man. It was pointed out that thereservoir had lasted a long time even in its alleged ruinous state; thatonly a miracle of coincidence could make it break down that particularafternoon of the picnic; that even if it did happen, there was no directproof that it would seriously flood the valley, or at best add more thana spice of excitement to the affair. The "Red Gulch Contingent, " whoWOULD be there, was quite as capable of taking care of the ladies, incase of any accident, as any lame crank who wouldn't, but could onlycroak a warning to them from a distance. A few even wished somethingmight happen that they might have an opportunity of showing theirsuperior devotion; indeed, the prospect of carrying the half-submergedsisters, in a condition of helpless loveliness, in their arms to a placeof safety was a fascinating possibility. The warning was conspicuouslyineffective; everybody looked eagerly forward to the day and theunchanged locality; to the greatest hopefulness and anticipation wasadded the stirring of defiance, and when at last the appointed hourhad arrived, the picnic party passed down the twisting mountain trailthrough the heat and glare in a fever of enthusiasm. It was a pretty sight to view this sparkling procession--the girls cooland radiant in their white, blue, and yellow muslins and flying ribbons, the "Contingent" in its cleanest ducks, and blue and red flannel shirts, the judge white-waistcoated and panama-hatted, with a new dignityborrowed from the previous circumstances, and three or four impressiveChinamen bringing up the rear with hampers--as it at last debouched intoReservoir Canyon. Here they dispersed themselves over the limited area, scarcely half anacre, with the freedom of escaped school children. They were secure intheir woodland privacy. They were overlooked by no high road andits passing teams; they were safe from accidental intrusion from thesettlement; indeed they went so far as to effect the exclusiveness of"clique. " At first they amused themselves by casting humorously defianteyes at the long low Ditch Reservoir, which peeped over the green wallof the ridge, six hundred feet above them; at times they even simulatedan exaggerated terror of it, and one recognized humorist declaimed agrotesque appeal to its forbearance, with delightful local allusions. Others pretended to discover near a woodman's hut, among the belt ofpines at the top of the descending trail, the peeping figure of theridiculous and envious Sparrell. But all this was presently forgottenin the actual festivity. Small as was the range of the valley, itstill allowed retreats during the dances for waiting couples among theconvenient laurel and manzanita bushes which flounced the mountain side. After the dancing, old-fashioned children's games were revived withgreat laughter and half-hearted and coy protests from the ladies;notably one pastime known as "I'm a-pinin', " in which ingeniousperformance the victim was obliged to stand in the centre of a circleand publicly "pine" for a member of the opposite sex. Some hilarity wasoccasioned by the mischievous Miss "Georgy" Piper declaring, when itcame to her turn, that she was "pinin'" for a look at the face of TomSparrell just now! In this local trifling two hours passed, until the party sat down to thelong-looked for repast. It was here that the health of Judge Piper wasneatly proposed by the editor of the "Argus. " The judge responded withgreat dignity and some emotion. He reminded them that it had been hishumble endeavor to promote harmony--that harmony so characteristicof American principles--in social as he had in political circles, and particularly among the strangely constituted yet purely Americanelements of frontier life. He accepted the present festivity withits overflowing hospitalities, not in recognition of himself--("yes!yes!")--nor of his family--(enthusiastic protests)--but of that Americanprinciple! If at one time it seemed probable that these festivitiesmight be marred by the machinations of envy--(groans)--or thatharmony interrupted by the importation of low-toned materialinterests--(groans)--he could say that, looking around him, he had neverbefore felt--er--that--Here the judge stopped short, reeled slightlyforward, caught at a camp-stool, recovered himself with an apologeticsmile, and turned inquiringly to his neighbor. A light laugh--instantly suppressed--at what was at first supposed tobe the effect of the "overflowing hospitality" upon the speaker himself, went around the male circle until it suddenly appeared that half a dozenothers had started to their feet at the same time, with white faces, andthat one of the ladies had screamed. "What is it?" everybody was asking with interrogatory smiles. It was Judge Piper who replied:-- "A little shock of earthquake, " he said blandly; "a mere thrill! Ithink, " he added with a faint smile, "we may say that Nature herself hasapplauded our efforts in good old Californian fashion, and signified herassent. What are you saying, Fludder?" "I was thinking, sir, " said Fludder deferentially, in a lower voice, "that if anything was wrong in the reservoir, this shock, you know, might"-- He was interrupted by a faint crashing and crackling sound, and lookingup, beheld a good-sized boulder, evidently detached from some greaterheight, strike the upland plateau at the left of the trail and boundinto the fringe of forest beside it. A slight cloud of dust marked itscourse, and then lazily floated away in mid air. But it had been watchedagitatedly, and it was evident that that singular loss of nervousbalance which is apt to affect all those who go through the slightestearthquake experience was felt by all. But some sense of humor, however, remained. "Looks as if the water risks we took ain't goin' to cover earthquakes, "drawled Dick Frisney; "still that wasn't a bad shot, if we only knewwhat they were aiming at. " "Do be quiet, " said Virginia Piper, her cheeks pink with excitement. "Listen, can't you? What's that funny murmuring you hear now and then upthere?" "It's only the snow-wind playin' with the pines on the summit. You girlswon't allow anybody any fun but yourselves. " But here a scream from "Georgy, " who, assisted by Captain Fairfax, hadmounted a camp-stool at the mouth of the valley, attracted everybody'sattention. She was standing upright, with dilated eyes, staring atthe top of the trail. "Look!" she said excitedly, "if the trail isn'tmoving!" Everybody faced in that direction. At the first glance it seemed indeedas if the trail was actually moving; wriggling and undulating itstortuous way down the mountain like a huge snake, only swollen to twiceits usual size. But the second glance showed it to be no longer a trailbut a channel of water, whose stream, lifted in a bore-like wall four orfive feet high, was plunging down into the devoted valley. For an instant they were unable to comprehend even the nature of thecatastrophe. The reservoir was directly over their heads; the burstingof its wall they had imagined would naturally bring down the water in adozen trickling streams or falls over the cliff above them and along theflanks of the mountain. But that its suddenly liberated volume shouldoverflow the upland beyond and then descend in a pent-up flood by theirown trail and their only avenue of escape, had been beyond their wildestfancy. They met this smiting truth with that characteristic short laughwith which the American usually receives the blow of Fate or theunexpected--as if he recognized only the absurdity of the situation. Then they ran to the women, collected them together, and dragged themto vantages of fancied security among the bushes which flounced the longskirts of the mountain walls. But I leave this part of the descriptionto the characteristic language of one of the party:-- "When the flood struck us, it did not seem to take any stock of us inparticular, but laid itself out to 'go for' that picnic for all itwas worth! It wiped it off the face of the earth in about twenty-fiveseconds! It first made a clean break from stem to stern, carryingeverything along with it. The first thing I saw was old Judge Piper, puttin' on his best licks to get away from a big can of strawberry icecream that was trundling after him and trying to empty itself on hiscollar, whenever a bigger wave lifted it. He was followed by what wasleft of the brass band; the big drum just humpin' itself to keepabreast o' the ice cream, mixed up with camp-stools, music-stands, a fewChinamen, and then what they call in them big San Francisco processions'citizens generally. ' The hull thing swept up the canyon inside o'thirty seconds. Then, what Captain Fairfax called 'the reflex action inthe laws o' motion' happened, and darned if the hull blamed processiondidn't sweep back again--this time all the heavy artillery, such ascamp-kettles, lager beer kegs, bottles, glasses, and crockery that wasleft behind takin' the lead now, and Judge Piper and that ice cream canbringin' up the rear. As the jedge passed us the second time, we noticedthat that ice cream can--hevin' swallowed water--was kinder losing itswind, and we encouraged the old man by shoutin' out, 'Five to one onhim!' And then, you wouldn't believe what followed. Why, darn my skin, when that 'reflex' met the current at the other end, it just swirledaround again in what Captain Fairfax called the 'centrifugal curve, ' andjust went round and round the canyon like ez when yer washin' the dirtout o' a prospectin' pan--every now and then washin' some one of theboys that was in it, like scum, up ag'in the banks. "We managed in this way to snake out the judge, jest ez he was sailin'round on the home stretch, passin' the quarter post two lengths aheado' the can. A good deal o' the ice cream had washed away, but it tookus ten minutes to shake the cracked ice and powdered salt out o' theold man's clothes, and warm him up again in the laurel bush where hewas clinging. This sort o' 'Here we go round the mulberry bush' kep'on until most o' the humans was got out, and only the furniture o'the picnic was left in the race. Then it got kinder mixed up, and wentsloshin' round here and there, ez the water kep' comin' down by thetrail. Then Lulu Piper, what I was holdin' up all the time in a laurelbush, gets an idea, for all she was wet and draggled; and ez the thingswent bobbin' round, she calls out the figures o' a cotillon to 'em. 'Two camp-stools forward. ' 'Sashay and back to your places. ' 'Changepartners. ' 'Hands all round. ' "She was clear grit, you bet! And the joke caught on and the othergirls jined in, and it kinder cheered 'em, for they was wantin' it. ThenFludder allowed to pacify 'em by sayin' he just figured up the size o'the reservoir and the size o' the canyon, and he kalkilated that thecube was about ekal, and the canyon couldn't flood any more. And thenLulu--who was peart as a jay and couldn't be fooled--speaks up and says, 'What's the matter with the ditch, Dick?' "Lord! then we knew that she knew the worst; for of course all the waterin the ditch itself--fifty miles of it!--was drainin' now into thatreservoir and was bound to come down to the canyon. " It was at this point that the situation became really desperate, forthey had now crawled up the steep sides as far as the bushes affordedfoothold, and the water was still rising. The chatter of the girlsceased, there were long silences, in which the men discussed the wildestplans, and proposed to tear their shirts into strips to make ropes tosupport the girls by sticks driven into the mountain side. It was inone of those intervals that the distinct strokes of a woodman's axe wereheard high on the upland at the point where the trail descended to thecanyon. Every ear was alert, but only those on one side of the canyoncould get a fair view of the spot. This was the good fortune of CaptainFairfax and Georgy Piper, who had climbed to the highest bush on thatside, and were now standing up, gazing excitedly in that direction. "Some one is cutting down a tree at the head of the trail, " shoutedFairfax. The response and joyful explanation, "for a dam across thetrail, " was on everybody's lips at the same time. But the strokes of the axe were slow and painfully intermittent. Impatience burst out. "Yell to him to hurry up! Why haven't they brought two men?" "It's only one man, " shouted the captain, "and he seems to be a cripple. By Jiminy!--it is--yes!--it's Tom Sparrell!" There was a dead silence. Then, I grieve to say, shame and its twinbrother rage took possession of their weak humanity. Oh, yes! It was allof a piece! Why in the name of Folly hadn't he sent for an able-bodiedman. Were they to be drowned through his cranky obstinacy? The blows still went on slowly. Presently, however, they seemed toalternate with other blows--but alas! they were slower, and if possiblefeebler! "Have they got another cripple to work?" roared the Contingent in onefurious voice. "No--it's a woman--a little one--yes! a girl. Hello! Why, sure as youlive, it's Delaware!" A spontaneous cheer burst from the Contingent, partly as a rebuke toSparrell, I think, partly from some shame over their previous rage. Hecould take it as he liked. Still the blows went on distressingly slow. The girls were hoistedon the men's shoulders; the men were half submerged. Then there was apainful pause; then a crumbling crash. Another cheer went up from thecanyon. "It's down! straight across the trail, " shouted Fairfax, "and a part ofthe bank on the top of it. " There was another moment of suspense. Would it hold or be carried awayby the momentum of the flood? It held! In a few moments Fairfax againgave voice to the cheering news that the flow had stopped and thesubmerged trail was reappearing. In twenty minutes it was clear--a muddyriver bed, but possible of ascent! Of course there was no diminution ofthe water in the canyon, which had no outlet, yet it now was possiblefor the party to swing from bush to bush along the mountain side untilthe foot of the trail--no longer an opposing one--was reached. Therewere some missteps and mishaps, --flounderings in the water, and somedangerous rescues, --but in half an hour the whole concourse stoodupon the trail and commenced the ascent. It was a slow, difficult, andlugubrious procession--I fear not the best-tempered one, now that thestimulus of danger and chivalry was past. When they reached the dam madeby the fallen tree, although they were obliged to make a long detour toavoid its steep sides, they could see how successfully it had divertedthe current to a declivity on the other side. But strangely enough they were greeted by nothing else! Sparrell andthe youngest Miss Piper were gone; and when they at last reached thehighroad, they were astounded to hear from a passing teamster that noone in the settlement knew anything of the disaster! This was the last drop in their cup of bitterness! They who had expectedthat the settlement was waiting breathlessly for their rescue, whoanticipated that they would be welcomed as heroes, were obliged tomeet the ill-concealed amusement of passengers and friends at theirdishevelled and bedraggled appearance, which suggested only theblundering mishaps of an ordinary summer outing! "Boatin' in thereservoir, and fell in?" "Playing at canal-boat in the Ditch?" were someof the cheerful hypotheses. The fleeting sense of gratitude they hadfelt for their deliverers was dissipated by the time they had reachedtheir homes, and their rancor increased by the information that when theearthquake occurred Mr. Tom Sparrell and Miss Delaware were enjoyinga "pasear" in the forest--he having a half-holiday by virtue ofthe festival--and that the earthquake had revived his fears of acatastrophe. The two had procured axes in the woodman's hut and did whatthey thought was necessary to relieve the situation of the picnickers. But the very modesty of this account of their own performance had theeffect of belittling the catastrophe itself, and the picnickers' reportof their exceeding peril was received with incredulous laughter. For the first time in the history of Red Gulch there was a seriousdivision between the Piper family, supported by the Contingent, and therest of the settlement. Tom Sparrell's warning was remembered bythe latter, and the ingratitude of the picnickers to their rescuerscommented upon; the actual calamity to the reservoir was more or lessattributed to the imprudent and reckless contiguity of the revelers onthat day, and there were not wanting those who referred the accidentitself to the machinations of the scheming Ditch Director Piper! It was said that there was a stormy scene in the Piper household thatevening. The judge had demanded that Delaware should break off heracquaintance with Sparrell, and she had refused; the judge had demandedof Sparrell's employer that he should discharge him, and had been metwith the astounding information that Sparrell was already a silentpartner in the concern. At this revelation Judge Piper was alarmed;while he might object to a clerk who could not support a wife, as aconsistent democrat he could not oppose a fairly prosperous tradesman. A final appeal was made to Delaware; she was implored to consider thesituation of her sisters, who had all made more ambitious marriagesor were about to make them. Why should she now degrade the family bymarrying a country storekeeper? It is said that here the youngest Miss Piper made a memorable reply, anda revelation the truth of which was never gainsaid:-- "You all wanter know why I'm going to marry Tom Sparrell?" she queried, standing up and facing the whole family circle. "Yes. " "Why I prefer him to the hull caboodle that you girls have married orare going to marry?" she continued, meditatively biting the end of herbraid. "Yes. " "Well, he's the only man of the whole lot that hasn't proposed to mefirst. " It is presumed that Sparrell made good the omission, or that the familywere glad to get rid of her, for they were married that autumn. Andreally a later comparison of the family records shows that while CaptainFairfax remained "Captain Fairfax, " and the other sons-in-law did notadvance proportionately in standing or riches, the lame storekeeper ofRed Gulch became the Hon. Senator Tom Sparrell. A WIDOW OF THE SANTA ANA VALLEY The Widow Wade was standing at her bedroom window staring out, in thatvague instinct which compels humanity in moments of doubt and perplexityto seek this change of observation or superior illumination. Not thatMrs. Wade's disturbance was of a serious character. She had passed theacute stage of widowhood by at least two years, and the slight rednessof her soft eyelids as well as the droop of her pretty mouth weremerely the recognized outward and visible signs of the grievously mindedreligious community in which she lived. The mourning she still worewas also partly in conformity with the sad-colored garments ofher neighbors, and the necessities of the rainy season. She was incomfortable circumstances, the mistress of a large ranch in the valley, which had lately become more valuable by the extension of a wagon roadthrough its centre. She was simply worrying whether she should go toa "sociable" ending with "a dance"--a daring innovation of somestrangers--at the new hotel, or continue to eschew such follies, thatwere, according to local belief, unsuited to "a vale of tears. " Indeed at this moment the prospect she gazed abstractedly upon seemedto justify that lugubrious description. The Santa Ana Valley--a longmonotonous level--was dimly visible through moving curtains of rain orveils of mist, to the black mourning edge of the horizon, and had lookedlike that for months. The valley--in some remote epoch an arm of the SanFrancisco Bay--every rainy season seemed to be trying to revert to itsoriginal condition, and, long after the early spring had laid on itsliberal color in strips, bands, and patches of blue and yellow, theblossoms of mustard and lupine glistened like wet paint. Nevertheless onthat rich alluvial soil Nature's tears seemed only to fatten thewidow's acres and increase her crops. Her neighbors, too, were equallyprosperous. Yet for six months of the year the recognized expressionof Santa Ana was one of sadness, and for the other six months--ofresignation. Mrs. Wade had yielded early to this influence, as she hadto others, in the weakness of her gentle nature, and partly as it wasmore becoming the singular tragedy that had made her a widow. The late Mr. Wade had been found dead with a bullet through his head ina secluded part of the road over Heavy Tree Hill in Sonora County. Nearhim lay two other bodies, one afterwards identified as John Stubbs, aresident of the Hill, and probably a traveling companion of Wade's, and the other a noted desperado and highwayman, still masked, as at themoment of the attack. Wade and his companion had probably sold theirlives dearly, and against odds, for another mask was found on theground, indicating that the attack was not single-handed, and asWade's body had not yet been rifled, it was evident that the remaininghighwayman had fled in haste. The hue and cry had been given byapparently the only one of the travelers who escaped, but as he washastening to take the overland coach to the East at the time, histestimony could not be submitted to the coroner's deliberation. Thefacts, however, were sufficiently plain for a verdict of willful murderagainst the highwayman, although it was believed that the absent witnesshad basely deserted his companion and left him to his fate, or, as wassuggested by others, that he might even have been an accomplice. Itwas this circumstance which protracted comment on the incident, andthe sufferings of the widow, far beyond that rapid obliteration whichusually overtook such affairs in the feverish haste of the early days. It caused her to remove to Santa Ana, where her old father had feeblyranched a "quarter section" in the valley. He survived her husbandonly a few months, leaving her the property, and once more in mourning. Perhaps this continuity of woe endeared her to a neighborhood wheredistinctive ravages of diphtheria or scarlet fever gave a kind of socialpreeminence to any household, and she was so sympathetically assisted byher neighbors in the management of the ranch that, from an unkemptand wasteful wilderness, it became paying property. The slim, willowyfigure, soft red-lidded eyes, and deep crape of "Sister Wade" at churchor prayer-meeting was grateful to the soul of these gloomy worshipers, and in time she herself found that the arm of these dyspeptics of mindand body was nevertheless strong and sustaining. Small wonder that sheshould hesitate to-night about plunging into inconsistent, even thoughtrifling, frivolities. But apart from this superficial reason, there was another instinctiveone deep down in the recesses of Mrs. Wade's timid heart which she hadkept to herself, and indeed would have tearfully resented had it beenoffered by another. The late Mr. Wade had been, in fact, a singularexample of this kind of frivolous existence carried to a man-likeexcess. Besides being a patron of amusements, Mr. Wade gambled, raced, and drank. He was often home late, and sometimes not at all. Not thatthis conduct was exceptional in the "roaring days" of Heavy Tree Hill, but it had given Mrs. Wade perhaps an undue preference for a lesscertain, even if a more serious life. His tragic death was, of course, a kind of martyrdom, which exalted him in the feminine mind to a saintlymemory; yet Mrs. Wade was not without a certain relief in that. Itwas voiced, perhaps crudely, by the widow of Abner Drake in a visit ofcondolence to the tearful Mrs. Wade a few days after Wade's death. "It'sa vale o' sorrow, Mrs. Wade, " said the sympathizer, "but it has its upsand downs, and I recken ye'll be feelin' soon pretty much as I did aboutAbner when HE was took. It was mighty soothin' and comfortin' to feelthat whatever might happen now, I always knew just whar Abner waspassin' his nights. " Poor slim Mrs. Wade had no disquieting sense ofhumor to interfere with her reception of this large truth, and sheaccepted it with a burst of reminiscent tears. A long volleying shower had just passed down the level landscape, andwas followed by a rolling mist from the warm saturated soil like thesmoke of the discharge. Through it she could see a faint lighteningof the hidden sun, again darkening through a sudden onset of rain, andchanging as with her conflicting doubts and resolutions. Thus gazing, she was vaguely conscious of an addition to the landscape in the shapeof a man who was passing down the road with a pack on his back likethe tramping "prospectors" she had often seen at Heavy Tree Hill. Thatmemory apparently settled her vacillating mind; she determined shewould NOT go to the dance. But as she was turning away from the windowa second figure, a horseman, appeared in another direction by across-road, a shorter cut through her domain. This she had no difficultyin recognizing as one of the strangers who were getting up the dance. She had noticed him at church on the previous Sunday. As he passed thehouse he appeared to be gazing at it so earnestly that she drew backfrom the window lest she should be seen. And then, for no reasonwhatever, she changed her mind once more, and resolved to go to thedance. Gravely announcing this fact to the wife of her superintendentwho kept house with her in her loneliness, she thought nothing moreabout it. She should go in her mourning, with perhaps the addition of awhite collar and frill. It was evident, however, that Santa Ana thought a good deal more thanshe did of this new idea, which seemed a part of the innovation alreadybegun by the building up of the new hotel. It was argued by some thatas the new church and new schoolhouse had been opened by prayer, it wasonly natural that a lighter festivity should inaugurate the opening ofthe hotel. "I reckon that dancin' is about the next thing to travelin'for gettin' up an appetite for refreshments, and that's what thelandlord is kalkilatin' to sarve, " was the remark of a gloomy butpractical citizen on the veranda of "The Valley Emporium. " "That's so, "rejoined a bystander; "and I notice on that last box o' pills I got forchills the directions say that a little 'agreeable exercise'--not tooviolent--is a great assistance to the working o' the pills. " "I reckon that that Mr. Brooks who's down here lookin' arter millproperty, got up the dance. He's bin round town canvassin' all the womenfolks and drummin' up likely gals for it. They say he actooally sent aninvite to the Widder Wade, " remarked another lounger. "Gosh! he's gotcheek!" "Well, gentlemen, " said the proprietor judicially, "while we don'tintend to hev any minin' camp fandangos or 'Frisco falals round SantaAny--(Santa Ana was proud of its simple agricultural virtues)--I ain'tso hard-shelled as not to give new things a fair trial. And, after all, it's the women folk that has the say about it. Why, there's old MissFord sez she hasn't kicked a fut sence she left Mizoori, but wouldn'tmind trying it agin. Ez to Brooks takin' that trouble--well, I supposeit's along o' his bein' HEALTHY!" He heaved a deep dyspeptic sigh, whichwas faintly echoed by the others. "Why, look at him now, ridin' roundon that black hoss o' his, in the wet since daylight and not carin' forblind chills or rhumatiz!" He was looking at a serape-draped horseman, the one the widow had seenon the previous night, who was now cantering slowly up the street. Seeing the group on the veranda, he rode up, threw himself lightly fromhis saddle, and joined them. He was an alert, determined, good-lookingfellow of about thirty-five, whose smooth, smiling face hardly commendeditself to Santa Ana, though his eyes were distinctly sympathetic. Heglanced at the depressed group around him and became ominously serious. "When did it happen?" he asked gravely. "What happen?" said the nearest bystander. "The Funeral, Flood, Fight, or Fire. Which of the four F's was it?" "What are ye talkin' about?" said the proprietor stiffly, scenting somedangerous humor. "YOU, " said Brooks promptly. "You're all standing here, croaking likecrows, this fine morning. I passed YOUR farm, Johnson, not an hour ago;the wheat just climbing out of the black adobe mud as thick as rows ofpins on paper--what have YOU to grumble at? I saw YOUR stock, Briggs, over on Two-Mile Bottom, waddling along, fat as the adobe they weresticking in, their coats shining like fresh paint--what's the matterwith YOU? And, " turning to the proprietor, "there's YOUR shed, Saunders, over on the creek, just bursting with last year's grain that you knowhas gone up two hundred per cent. Since you bought it at a bargain--whatare YOU growling at? It's enough to provoke a fire or a famine to hearyou groaning--and take care it don't, some day, as a lesson to you. " All this was so perfectly true of the prosperous burghers that theycould not for a moment reply. But Briggs had recourse to what hebelieved to be a retaliatory taunt. "I heard you've been askin' Widow Wade to come to your dance, " he said, with a wink at the others. "Of course she said 'Yes. '" "Of course she did, " returned Brooks coolly. "I've just got her note. " "What?" ejaculated the three men together. "Mrs. Wade comin'?" "Certainly! Why shouldn't she? And it would do YOU good to come too, and shake the limp dampness out o' you, " returned Brooks, as he quietlyremounted his horse and cantered away. "Darned ef I don't think he's got his eye on the widder, " said Johnsonfaintly. "Or the quarter section, " added Briggs gloomily. For all that, the eventful evening came, with many lights in thestaring, undraped windows of the hotel, coldly bright bunting on thestill damp walls of the long dining-room, and a gentle downpour from thehidden skies above. A close carryall was especially selected to bringMrs. Wade and her housekeeper. The widow arrived, looking a littleslimmer than usual in her closely buttoned black dress, white collar andcuffs, very glistening in eye and in hair, --whose glossy black ringletswere perhaps more elaborately arranged than was her custom, --and witha faint coming and going of color, due perhaps to her agitation at thistentative reentering into worldly life, which was nevertheless quitevirginal in effect. A vague solemnity pervaded the introductoryproceedings, and a singular want of sociability was visible in the"sociable" part of the entertainment. People talked in whispers or withthat grave precision which indicates good manners in rural communities;conversed painfully with other people whom they did not want to talk torather than appear to be alone, or rushed aimlessly together like waterdrops, and then floated in broken, adherent masses over the floor. Thewidow became a helpless, religious centre of deacons and Sunday-schoolteachers, which Brooks, untiring, yet fruitless, in his attempt toproduce gayety, tried in vain to break. To this gloom the untrieddangers of the impending dance, duly prefigured by a lonely cottagepiano and two violins in a desert of expanse, added a nervouschill. When at last the music struck up--somewhat hesitatingly andprotestingly, from the circumstance that the player was the churchorganist, and fumbled mechanically for his stops, the attempt to makeup a cotillon set was left to the heroic Brooks. Yet he barely escapeddisaster when, in posing the couples, he incautiously begged them tolook a little less as if they were waiting for the coffin to be bornedown the aisle between them, and was rewarded by a burst of tears fromMrs. Johnson, who had lost a child two years before, and who had tobe led away, while her place in the set was taken by another. Yet thecotillon passed off; a Spanish dance succeeded; "Moneymusk, " with theVirginia Reel, put a slight intoxicating vibration into the air, andhealthy youth at last asserted itself in a score of freckled but buxomgirls in white muslin, with romping figures and laughter, at the lowerend of the room. Still a rigid decorum reigned among the elder dancers, and the figures were called out in grave formality, as if, to Brooks'sfancy, they were hymns given from the pulpit, until at the close ofthe set, in half-real, half-mock despair, he turned desperately to Mrs. Wade, his partner:-- "Do you waltz?" Mrs. Wade hesitated. She HAD, before marriage, and was a good waltzer. "I do, " she said timidly, "but do you think they"-- But before the poor widow could formulate her fears as to the receptionof "round dances, " Brooks had darted to the piano, and the next momentshe heard with a "fearful joy" the opening bars of a waltz. It was anold Julien waltz, fresh still in the fifties, daring, provocativeto foot, swamping to intellect, arresting to judgment, irresistible, supreme! Before Mrs. Wade could protest, Brooks's arm had gathered upher slim figure, and with one quick backward sweep and swirl they wereoff! The floor was cleared for them in a sudden bewilderment of alarm--asuspense of burning curiosity. The widow's little feet tripped quickly, her long black skirt swung out; as she turned the corner there wasnot only a sudden revelation of her pretty ankles, but, what was morestartling, a dazzling flash of frilled and laced petticoat, whichat once convinced every woman in the room that the act had beenpremeditated for days! Yet even that criticism was presently forgottenin the pervading intoxication of the music and the movement. The youngerpeople fell into it with wild rompings, whirlings, and clasping of handsand waists. And stranger than all, a corybantic enthusiasm seized uponthe emotionally religious, and those priests and priestesses of Cybelewho were famous for their frenzy and passion in camp-meeting devotionsseemed to find an equal expression that night in the waltz. And when, flushed and panting, Mrs. Wade at last halted on the arm of her partner, they were nearly knocked over by the revolving Johnson and Mrs. Stubbsin a whirl of gloomy exultation! Deacons and Sunday-school teacherswaltzed together until the long room shook, and the very bunting onthe walls waved and fluttered with the gyrations of those religiousdervishes. Nobody knew--nobody cared how long this frenzy lasted--itceased only with the collapse of the musicians. Then, with much vaguebewilderment, inward trepidation, awkward and incoherent partings, everybody went dazedly home; there was no other dancing after that--thewaltz was the one event of the festival and of the history of Santa Ana. And later that night, when the timid Mrs. Wade, in the seclusion of herown room and the disrobing of her slim figure, glanced at her spotlessfrilled and laced petticoat lying on a chair, a faint smile--the firstof her widowhood--curved the corners of her pretty mouth. A week of ominous silence regarding the festival succeeded in SantaAna. The local paper gave the fullest particulars of the opening of thehotel, but contented itself with saying: "The entertainment concludedwith a dance. " Mr. Brooks, who felt himself compelled to call upon hislate charming partner twice during the week, characteristically soothedher anxieties as to the result. "The fact of it is, Mrs. Wade, there'sreally nobody in particular to blame--and that's what gets them. They'reall mixed up in it, deacons and Sunday-school teachers; and whenold Johnson tried to be nasty the other evening and hoped you hadn'tsuffered from your exertions that night, I told him you hadn't quiterecovered yet from the physical shock of having been run into by him andMrs. Stubbs, but that, you being a lady, you didn't tell just how youfelt at the exhibition he and she made of themselves. That shut him up. " "But you shouldn't have said that, " said Mrs. Wade with a frightenedlittle smile. "No matter, " returned Brooks cheerfully. "I'll take the blame of it withthe others. You see they'll have to have a scapegoat--and I'm just theman, for I got up the dance! And as I'm going away, I suppose I shallbear off the sin with me into the wilderness. " "You're going away?" repeated Mrs. Wade in more genuine concern. "Not for long, " returned Brooks laughingly. "I came here to look up amill site, and I've found it. Meantime I think I've opened their eyes. " "You have opened mine, " said the widow with timid frankness. They were soft pretty eyes when opened, in spite of their heavy redlids, and Mr. Brooks thought that Santa Ana would be no worse if theyremained open. Possibly he looked it, for Mrs. Wade said hurriedly, "Imean--that is--I've been thinking that life needn't ALWAYS be as gloomyas we make it here. And even HERE, you know, Mr. Brooks, we have sixmonths' sunshine--though we always forget it in the rainy season. " "That's so, " said Brooks cheerfully. "I once lost a heap of moneythrough my own foolishness, and I've managed to forget it, and I evenreckon to get it back again out of Santa Ana if my mill speculationholds good. So good-by, Mrs. Wade--but not for long. " He shook herhand frankly and departed, leaving the widow conscious of a certainsympathetic confidence and a little grateful for--she knew not what. This feeling remained with her most of the afternoon, and even imparteda certain gayety to her spirits, to the extent of causing her to humsoftly to herself; the air being oddly enough the Julien Waltz. Andwhen, later in the day, the shadows were closing in with the rain, word was brought to her that a stranger wished to see her in thesitting-room, she carried a less mournful mind to this function of herexistence. For Mrs. Wade was accustomed to give audience to travelingagents, tradesmen, working-hands and servants, as chatelaine of herranch, and the occasion was not novel. Yet on entering the room, whichshe used partly as an office, she found some difficulty in classifyingthe stranger, who at first glance reminded her of the tramping minershe had seen that night from her window. He was rather incongruouslydressed, some articles of his apparel being finer than others; he worea diamond pin in a scarf folded over a rough "hickory" shirt; his lighttrousers were tucked in common mining boots that bore stains of traveland a suggestion that he had slept in his clothes. What she could seeof his unshaven face in that uncertain light expressed a kind of doggedconcentration, overlaid by an assumption of ease. He got up as she camein, and with a slight "How do, ma'am, " shut the door behind her andglanced furtively around the room. "What I've got to say to ye, Mrs. Wade, --as I reckon you be, --isstrictly private and confidential! Why, ye'll see afore I get through. But I thought I might just as well caution ye agin our being disturbed. " Overcoming a slight instinct of repulsion, Mrs. Wade returned, "You canspeak to me here; no one will interrupt you--unless I call them, " sheadded with a little feminine caution. "And I reckon ye won't do that, " he said with a grim smile. "You are thewidow o' Pulaski Wade, late o' Heavy Tree Hill, I reckon?" "I am, " said Mrs. Wade. "And your husband's buried up thar in the graveyard, with a monumentover him setting forth his virtues ez a Christian and a square man and ahigh-minded citizen? And that he was foully murdered by highwaymen?" "Yes, " said Mrs. Wade, "that is the inscription. " "Well, ma'am, a bigger pack o' lies never was cut on stone!" Mrs. Wade rose, half in indignation, half in terror. "Keep your sittin', " said the stranger, with a warning wave of hishand. "Wait till I'm through, and then you call in the hull State o'Californy, ef ye want. " The stranger's manner was so doggedly confident that Mrs. Wade sankback tremblingly in her chair. The man put his slouch hat on his knee, twirled it round once or twice, and then said with the same stubborndeliberation:-- "The highwayman in that business was your husband--Pulaski Wade--and hisgang, and he was killed by one o' the men he was robbin'. Ye see, ma'am, it used to be your husband's little game to rope in three or fourstrangers in a poker deal at Spanish Jim's saloon--I see you've heard o'the place, " he interpolated as Mrs. Wade drew back suddenly--"and whenhe couldn't clean 'em out in that way, or they showed a little moremoney than they played, he'd lay for 'em with his gang in a lone part ofthe trail, and go through them like any road agent. That's what he didthat night--and that's how he got killed. " "How do you know this?" said Mrs. Wade, with quivering lips. "I was one o' the men he went through before he was killed. And I'd hevgot my money back, but the rest o' the gang came up, and I got away jestin time to save my life and nothin' else. Ye might remember thar was oneman got away and giv' the alarm, but he was goin' on to the States bythe overland coach that night and couldn't stay to be a witness. I wasthat man. I had paid my passage through, and I couldn't lose THAT toowith my other money, so I went. " Mrs. Wade sat stunned. She remembered the missing witness, and how shehad longed to see the man who was last with her husband; sheremembered Spanish Jim's saloon--his well-known haunt; his frequent andunaccountable absences, the sudden influx of money which he always saidhe had won at cards; the diamond ring he had given her as the result of"a bet;" the forgotten recurrence of other robberies by a secret maskedgang; a hundred other things that had worried her, instinctively, vaguely. She knew now, too, the meaning of the unrest that had drivenher from Heavy Tree Hill--the strange unformulated fears that hadhaunted her even here. Yet with all this she felt, too, her presentweakness--knew that this man had taken her at a disadvantage, that sheought to indignantly assert herself, deny everything, demand proof, andbrand him a slanderer! "How did--you--know it was my husband?" she stammered. "His mask fell off in the fight; you know another mask was found--itwas HIS. I saw him as plainly as I see him there!" he pointed to adaguerreotype of her husband which stood upon her desk. Mrs. Wade could only stare vacantly, hopelessly. After a pause the mancontinued in a less aggressive manner and more confidential tone, which, however, only increased her terror. "I ain't sayin' that YOU knowedanything about this, ma'am, and whatever other folks might say when THEYknow of it, I'll allers say that you didn't. " "What, then, did you come here for?" said the widow desperately. "What do I come here for?" repeated the man grimly, looking around theroom; "what did I come to this yer comfortable home--this yer big ranchand to a rich woman like yourself for? Well, Mrs. Wade, I come to getthe six hundred dollars your husband robbed me of, that's all! I ain'taskin' more! I ain't askin' interest! I ain't askin' compensation forhavin' to run for my life--and, " again looking grimly round the walls, "I ain't askin' more than you will give--or is my rights. " "But this house never was his; it was my father's, " gasped Mrs. Wade;"you have no right"-- "Mebbe 'yes' and mebbe 'no, ' Mrs. Wade, " interrupted the man, witha wave of his hat; "but how about them two checks to bearer for twohundred dollars each found among your husband's effects, and collectedby your lawyer for you--MY CHECKS, Mrs. Wade?" A wave of dreadful recollection overwhelmed her. She remembered thechecks found upon her husband's body, known only to her and her lawyer, believed to be gambling gains, and collected at once under his legaladvice. Yet she made one more desperate effort in spite of the instinctthat told her he was speaking the truth. "But you shall have to prove it--before witnesses. " "Do you WANT me to prove it before witnesses?" said the man, comingnearer her. "Do you want to take my word and keep it between ourselves, or do you want to call in your superintendent and his men, and allSanty Any, to hear me prove your husband was a highwayman, thief, andmurderer? Do you want to knock over that monument on Heavy Tree Hill, and upset your standing here among the deacons and elders? Do you wantto do all this and be forced, even by your neighbors, to pay me in theend, as you will? Ef you do, call in your witnesses now and let's haveit over. Mebbe it would look better ef I got the money out of YOURFRIENDS than ye--a woman! P'raps you're right!" He made a step towards the door, but she stopped him. "No! no! wait! It's a large sum--I haven't it with me, " she stammered, thoroughly beaten. "Ye kin get it. " "Give me time!" she implored. "Look! I'll give you a hundred downnow, --all I have here, --the rest another time!" She nervously opened adrawer of her desk and taking out a buckskin bag of gold thrust it inhis hand. "There! go away now!" She lifted her thin hands despairinglyto her head. "Go! do!" The man seemed struck by her manner. "I don't want to be hard ona woman, " he said slowly. "I'll go now and come back again at nineto-night. You can git the money, or what's as good, a check to bearer, by then. And ef ye'll take my advice, you won't ask no advice fromothers, ef you want to keep your secret. Just now it's safe with me; I'ma square man, ef I seem to be a hard one. " He made a gesture as if totake her hand, but as she drew shrinkingly away, he changed it to anawkward bow, and the next moment was gone. She started to her feet, but the unwonted strain upon her nerves andfrail body had been greater than she knew. She made a step forward, feltthe room whirl round her and then seem to collapse beneath her feet, and, clutching at her chair, sank back into it, fainting. How long she lay there she never knew. She was at last conscious of someone bending over her, and a voice--the voice of Mr. Brooks--in her ear, saying, "I beg your pardon; you seem ill. Shall I call some one?" "No!" she gasped, quickly recovering herself with an effort, and staringround her. "Where is--when did you come in?" "Only this moment. I was leaving tonight, sooner than I expected, andthought I'd say good-by. They told me that you had been engaged with astranger, but he had just gone. I beg your pardon--I see you are ill. Iwon't detain you any longer. " "No! no! don't go! I am better--better, " she said feverishly. As sheglanced at his strong and sympathetic face a wild idea seized her. Hewas a stranger here, an alien to these people, like herself. The advicethat she dare not seek from others, from her half-estranged religiousfriends, from even her superintendent and his wife, dare she ask fromhim? Perhaps he saw this frightened doubt, this imploring appeal, in hereyes, for he said gently, "Is it anything I can do for you?" "Yes, " she said, with the sudden desperation of weakness; "I want you tokeep a secret. " "Yours?--yes!" he said promptly. Whereat poor Mrs. Wade instantly burst into tears. Then, amidst hersobs, she told him of the stranger's visit, of his terrible accusations, of his demands, his expected return, and her own utter helplessness. Toher terror, as she went on she saw a singular change in his kind face;he was following her with hard, eager intensity. She had half hoped, even through her fateful instincts, that he might have laughed, manlike, at her fears, or pooh-poohed the whole thing. But he did not. "You sayhe positively recognized your husband?" he repeated quickly. "Yes, yes!" sobbed the widow, "and knew that daguerreotype!" she pointedto the desk. Brooks turned quickly in that direction. Luckily his back was towardsher, and she could not see his face, and the quick, startled look thatcame into his eyes. But when they again met hers, it was gone, and eventheir eager intensity had changed to a gentle commiseration. "You haveonly his word for it, Mrs. Wade, " he said gently, "and in telling yoursecret to another, you have shorn the rascal of half his power over you. And he knew it. Now, dismiss the matter from your mind and leave it allto me. I will be here a few minutes before nine--AND ALONE IN THIS ROOM. Let your visitor be shown in here, and don't let us be disturbed. Don'tbe alarmed, " he added with a faint twinkle in his eye, "there will be nofuss and no exposure!" It lacked a few minutes of nine when Mr. Brooks was ushered into thesitting-room. As soon as he was alone he quietly examined the door andthe windows, and having satisfied himself, took his seat in a chaircasually placed behind the door. Presently he heard the sound of voicesand a heavy footstep in the passage. He lightly felt his waistcoatpocket--it contained a pretty little weapon of power and precision, witha barrel scarcely two inches long. The door opened, and the person outside entered the room. In an instantBrooks had shut the door and locked it behind him. The man turnedfiercely, but was faced by Brooks quietly, with one finger calmly hookedin his waistcoat pocket. The man slightly recoiled from him--not as muchfrom fear as from some vague stupefaction. "What's that for? What's yourlittle game?" he said half contemptuously. "No game at all, " returned Brooks coolly. "You came here to sell asecret. I don't propose to have it given away first to any listener. " "YOU don't--who are YOU?" "That's a queer question to ask of the man you are trying topersonate--but I don't wonder! You're doing it d----d badly. " "Personate--YOU?" said the stranger, with staring eyes. "Yes, ME, " said Brooks quietly. "I am the only man who escaped from therobbery that night at Heavy Tree Hill and who went home by the OverlandCoach. " The stranger stared, but recovered himself with a coarse laugh. "Oh, well! we're on the same lay, it appears! Both after the widow--afore weshow up her husband. " "Not exactly, " said Brooks, with his eyes fixed intently on thestranger. "You are here to denounce a highwayman who is DEAD and escapedjustice. I am here to denounce one who is LIVING!--Stop! drop your hand;it's no use. You thought you had to deal only with a woman to-night, andyour revolver isn't quite handy enough. There! down!--down! So! That'lldo. " "You can't prove it, " said the man hoarsely. "Fool! In your story to that woman you have given yourself away. Therewere but two travelers attacked by the highwaymen. One was killed--I amthe other. Where do YOU come in? What witness can you be--except asthe highwayman that you are? Who is left to identify Wade but--hisaccomplice!" The man's suddenly whitened face made his unshaven beard seem to bristleover his face like some wild animal's. "Well, ef you kalkilate to blowme, you've got to blow Wade and his widder too. Jest you remember that, "he said whiningly. "I've thought of that, " said Brooks coolly, "and I calculate that toprevent it is worth about that hundred dollars you got from thatpoor woman--and no more! Now, sit down at that table, and write as Idictate. " The man looked at him in wonder, but obeyed. "Write, " said Brooks, "'I hereby certify that my accusations against thelate Pulaski Wade of Heavy Tree Hill are erroneous and groundless, andthe result of mistaken identity, especially in regard to any complicityof his in the robbery of John Stubbs, deceased, and Henry Brooks, atHeavy Tree Hill, on the night of the 13th August, 1854. '" The man looked up with a repulsive smile. "Who's the fool now, Cap'n?What's become of your hold on the widder, now?" "Write!" said Brooks fiercely. The sound of a pen hurriedly scratching paper followed this firstoutburst of the quiet Brooks. "Sign it, " said Brooks. The man signed it. "Now go, " said Brooks, unlocking the door, "but remember, if you shouldever be inclined to revisit Santa Ana, you will find ME living herealso. " The man slunk out of the door and into the passage like a wild animalreturning to the night and darkness. Brooks took up the paper, rejoinedMrs. Wade in the parlor, and laid it before her. "But, " said the widow, trembling even in her joy, "do you--do you thinkhe was REALLY mistaken?" "Positive, " said Brooks coolly. "It's true, it's a mistake that has costyou a hundred dollars, but there are some mistakes that are worth thatto be kept quiet. " ***** They were married a year later; but there is no record that in afteryears of conjugal relations with a weak, charming, but sometimes tryingwoman, Henry Brooks was ever tempted to tell her the whole truth of therobbery of Heavy Tree Hill. THE MERMAID OF LIGHTHOUSE POINT Some forty years ago, on the northern coast of California, near theGolden Gate, stood a lighthouse. Of a primitive class, since supersededby a building more in keeping with the growing magnitude of the adjacentport, it attracted little attention from the desolate shore, and, it wasalleged, still less from the desolate sea beyond. A gray structure oftimber, stone, and glass, it was buffeted and harried by the constanttrade winds, baked by the unclouded six months' sun, lost for a fewhours in the afternoon sea-fog, and laughed over by circling guillemotsfrom the Farallones. It was kept by a recluse--a preoccupied man ofscientific tastes, who, in shameless contrast to his fellow immigrants, had applied to the government for this scarcely lucrative position as ameans of securing the seclusion he valued more than gold. Some believedthat he was the victim of an early disappointment in love--a viewcharitably taken by those who also believed that the government wouldnot have appointed "a crank" to a position of responsibility. Howbeit, he fulfilled his duties, and, with the assistance of an Indian, evencultivated a small patch of ground beside the lighthouse. His isolationwas complete! There was little to attract wanderers here: the nearestmines were fifty miles away; the virgin forest on the mountains inlandwere penetrated only by sawmills and woodmen from the Bay settlements, equally remote. Although by the shore-line the lights of the great portwere sometimes plainly visible, yet the solitude around him waspeopled only by Indians, --a branch of the great northern tribe of"root-diggers, "--peaceful and simple in their habits, as yetundisturbed by the white man, nor stirred into antagonism by aggression. Civilization only touched him at stated intervals, and then by the moreexpeditious sea from the government boat that brought him supplies. Butfor his contiguity to the perpetual turmoil of wind and sea, he mighthave passed a restful Arcadian life in his surroundings; for even hissolitude was sometimes haunted by this faint reminder of the great porthard by that pulsated with an equal unrest. Nevertheless, the sandsbefore his door and the rocks behind him seemed to have been untroddenby any other white man's foot since their upheaval from the ocean. Itwas true that the little bay beside him was marked on the map as "SirFrancis Drake's Bay, " tradition having located it as the spot wherethat ingenious pirate and empire-maker had once landed his vessels andscraped the barnacles from his adventurous keels. But of this EdgarPomfrey--or "Captain Pomfrey, " as he was called by virtue of hishalf-nautical office--had thought little. For the first six months he had thoroughly enjoyed his seclusion. Inthe company of his books, of which he had brought such a fair storethat their shelves lined his snug corners to the exclusion of morecomfortable furniture, he found his principal recreation. Even hisunwonted manual labor, the trimming of his lamp and cleaning of hisreflectors, and his personal housekeeping, in which his Indian help attimes assisted, he found a novel and interesting occupation. For outdoorexercise, a ramble on the sands, a climb to the rocky upland, or a pullin the lighthouse boat, amply sufficed him. "Crank" as he was supposedto be, he was sane enough to guard against any of those early lapsesinto barbarism which marked the lives of some solitary gold-miners. His own taste, as well as the duty of his office, kept his person andhabitation sweet and clean, and his habits regular. Even the littlecultivated patch of ground on the lee side of the tower was symmetricaland well ordered. Thus the outward light of Captain Pomfrey shone forthover the wilderness of shore and wave, even like his beacon, whateverhis inward illumination may have been. It was a bright summer morning, remarkable even in the monotonousexcellence of the season, with a slight touch of warmth which theinvincible Northwest Trades had not yet chilled. There was still a fainthaze off the coast, as if last night's fog had been caught in the quicksunshine, and the shining sands were hot, but without the usual dazzlingglare. A faint perfume from a quaint lilac-colored beach-flower, whoseclustering heads dotted the sand like bits of blown spume, took theplace of that smell of the sea which the odorless Pacific lacked. A fewrocks, half a mile away, lifted themselves above the ebb tide at varyingheights as they lay on the trough of the swell, were crested with foamby a striking surge, or cleanly erased in the full sweep of the sea. Beside, and partly upon one of the higher rocks, a singular object wasmoving. Pomfrey was interested but not startled. He had once or twice seen sealsdisporting on these rocks, and on one occasion a sea-lion, --an estrayfrom the familiar rocks on the other side of the Golden Gate. But heceased work in his garden patch, and coming to his house, exchangedhis hoe for a telescope. When he got the mystery in focus he suddenlystopped and rubbed the object-glass with his handkerchief. But even whenhe applied the glass to his eye for a second time, he could scarcelybelieve his eyesight. For the object seemed to be a WOMAN, the lowerpart of her figure submerged in the sea, her long hair depending overher shoulders and waist. There was nothing in her attitude to suggestterror or that she was the victim of some accident. She moved slowlyand complacently with the sea, and even--a more staggeringsuggestion--appeared to be combing out the strands of her long hair withher fingers. With her body half concealed she might have been a mermaid! He swept the foreshore and horizon with his glass; there was neitherboat nor ship--nor anything that moved, except the long swell of thePacific. She could have come only from the sea; for to reach the rocksby land she would have had to pass before the lighthouse, while thenarrow strip of shore which curved northward beyond his range of view heknew was inhabited only by Indians. But the woman was unhesitatinglyand appallingly WHITE, and her hair light even to a golden gleam in thesunshine. Pomfrey was a gentleman, and as such was amazed, dismayed, and cruellyembarrassed. If she was a simple bather from some vicinity hithertounknown and unsuspected by him, it was clearly his business to shut uphis glass and go back to his garden patch--although the propinquity ofhimself and the lighthouse must have been as plainly visible to her asshe was to him. On the other hand, if she was the survivor of some wreckand in distress--or, as he even fancied from her reckless manner, bereftof her senses, his duty to rescue her was equally clear. In his dilemmahe determined upon a compromise and ran to his boat. He would pull outto sea, pass between the rocks and the curving sand-spit, and examinethe sands and sea more closely for signs of wreckage, or some overlookedwaiting boat near the shore. He would be within hail if she needed him, or she could escape to her boat if she had one. In another moment his boat was lifting on the swell towards the rocks. He pulled quickly, occasionally turning to note that the strange figure, whose movements were quite discernible to the naked eye, was stillthere, but gazing more earnestly towards the nearest shore for any signof life or occupation. In ten minutes he had reached the curve where thetrend opened northward, and the long line of shore stretched before him. He swept it eagerly with a single searching glance. Sea and shore wereempty. He turned quickly to the rock, scarcely a hundred yards on hisbeam. It was empty too! Forgetting his previous scruples, he pulleddirectly for it until his keel grated on its submerged base. There wasnothing there but the rock, slippery with the yellow-green slime ofseaweed and kelp--neither trace nor sign of the figure that hadoccupied it a moment ago. He pulled around it; there was no cleft orhiding-place. For an instant his heart leaped at the sight of somethingwhite, caught in a jagged tooth of the outlying reef, but it was onlythe bleached fragment of a bamboo orange-crate, cast from the deck ofsome South Sea trader, such as often strewed the beach. He lay off therock, keeping way in the swell, and scrutinizing the glittering sea. Atlast he pulled back to the lighthouse, perplexed and discomfited. Was it simply a sporting seal, transformed by some trick of his vision?But he had seen it through his glass, and now remembered such detailsas the face and features framed in their contour of golden hair, andbelieved he could even have identified them. He examined the rock againwith his glass, and was surprised to see how clearly it was outlined nowin its barren loneliness. Yet he must have been mistaken. His scientificand accurate mind allowed of no errant fancy, and he had always sneeredat the marvelous as the result of hasty or superficial observation. Hewas a little worried at this lapse of his healthy accuracy, --fearingthat it might be the result of his seclusion and loneliness, --akin tothe visions of the recluse and solitary. It was strange, too, that itshould take the shape of a woman; for Edgar Pomfrey had a story--theusual old and foolish one. Then his thoughts took a lighter phase, and he turned to the memory ofhis books, and finally to the books themselves. From a shelf he pickedout a volume of old voyages, and turned to a remembered passage: "Inother seas doe abound marvells soche as Sea Spyders of the bigness of apinnace, the wich they have been known to attack and destroy; Sea Vyperswhich reach to the top of a goodly maste, whereby they are able to drawmarinners from the rigging by the suction of their breathes; andDevill Fyshe, which vomit fire by night which makyth the sea to shineprodigiously, and mermaydes. They are half fyshe and half mayde of grateBeauty, and have been seen of divers godly and creditable witnessesswymming beside rocks, hidden to their waist in the sea, combing oftheir hayres, to the help of whych they carry a small mirrore of thebigness of their fingers. " Pomfrey laid the book aside with a faintsmile. To even this credulity he might come! Nevertheless, he used the telescope again that day. But there was norepetition of the incident, and he was forced to believe that he hadbeen the victim of some extraordinary illusion. The next morning, however, with his calmer judgment doubts began to visit him. There wasno one of whom he could make inquiries but his Indian helper, and theirconversation had usually been restricted to the language of signs or theuse of a few words he had picked up. He contrived, however, to ask ifthere was a "waugee" (white) woman in the neighborhood. The Indianshook his head in surprise. There was no "waugee" nearer than the remotemountain-ridge to which he pointed. Pomfrey was obliged to be contentwith this. Even had his vocabulary been larger, he would as soon havethought of revealing the embarrassing secret of this woman, whom hebelieved to be of his own race, to a mere barbarian as he would ofasking him to verify his own impressions by allowing him to look at herthat morning. The next day, however, something happened which forced himto resume his inquiries. He was rowing around the curving spot when hesaw a number of black objects on the northern sands moving in and outof the surf, which he presently made out as Indians. A nearer approachsatisfied him that they were wading squaws and children gatheringseaweed and shells. He would have pushed his acquaintance still nearer, but as his boat rounded the point, with one accord they all scuttledaway like frightened sandpipers. Pomfrey, on his return, asked hisIndian retainer if they could swim. "Oh, yes!" "As far as the rock?""Yes. " Yet Pomfrey was not satisfied. The color of his strangeapparition remained unaccounted for, and it was not that of an Indianwoman. Trifling events linger long in a monotonous existence, and it was nearlya week before Pomfrey gave up his daily telescopic inspection of therock. Then he fell back upon his books again, and, oddly enough, uponanother volume of voyages, and so chanced upon the account of SirFrancis Drake's occupation of the bay before him. He had always thoughtit strange that the great adventurer had left no trace or sign ofhis sojourn there; still stranger that he should have overlooked thepresence of gold, known even to the Indians themselves, and have losta discovery far beyond his wildest dreams and a treasure to which thecargoes of those Philippine galleons he had more or less successfullyintercepted were trifles. Had the restless explorer been content to pacethose dreary sands during three weeks of inactivity, with no thought ofpenetrating the inland forests behind the range, or of even entering thenobler bay beyond? Or was the location of the spot a mere tradition aswild and unsupported as the "marvells" of the other volume? Pomfrey hadthe skepticism of the scientific, inquiring mind. Two weeks had passed and he was returning from a long climb inland, whenhe stopped to rest in his descent to the sea. The panorama of theshore was before him, from its uttermost limit to the lighthouse on thenorthern point. The sun was still one hour high, it would take himabout that time to reach home. But from this coign of vantage he couldsee--what he had not before observed--that what he had always believedwas a little cove on the northern shore was really the estuary of asmall stream which rose near him and eventually descended into the oceanat that point. He could also see that beside it was a long low erectionof some kind, covered with thatched brush, which looked like a "barrow, "yet showed signs of habitation in the slight smoke that rose from it anddrifted inland. It was not far out of his way, and he resolved to returnin that direction. On his way down he once or twice heard the barkingof an Indian dog, and knew that he must be in the vicinity of anencampment. A camp-fire, with the ashes yet warm, proved that he was onthe trail of one of the nomadic tribes, but the declining sun warnedhim to hasten home to his duty. When he at last reached the estuary, hefound that the building beside it was little else than a long hut, whosethatched and mud-plastered mound-like roof gave it the appearance of acave. Its single opening and entrance abutted on the water's edge, andthe smoke he had noticed rolled through this entrance from a smoulderingfire within. Pomfrey had little difficulty in recognizing the purpose ofthis strange structure from the accounts he had heard from "loggers" ofthe Indian customs. The cave was a "sweat-house"--a calorific chamberin which the Indians closely shut themselves, naked, with a "smudge" orsmouldering fire of leaves, until, perspiring and half suffocated, theyrushed from the entrance and threw themselves into the water before it. The still smouldering fire told him that the house had been used thatmorning, and he made no doubt that the Indians were encamped near by. Hewould have liked to pursue his researches further, but he found hehad already trespassed upon his remaining time, and he turned somewhatabruptly away--so abruptly, in fact, that a figure, which had evidentlybeen cautiously following him at a distance, had not time to get away. His heart leaped with astonishment. It was the woman he had seen on therock. Although her native dress now only disclosed her head and hands, therewas no doubt about her color, and it was distinctly white, save for thetanning of exposure and a slight red ochre marking on her low forehead. And her hair, long and unkempt as it was, showed that he had not erredin his first impression of it. It was a tawny flaxen, with fainterbleachings where the sun had touched it most. Her eyes were of a clearNorthern blue. Her dress, which was quite distinctive in that it wasneither the cast off finery of civilization nor the cheap "government"flannels and calicoes usually worn by the Californian tribes, was purelynative, and of fringed deerskin, and consisted of a long, loose shirtand leggings worked with bright feathers and colored shells. A necklace, also of shells and fancy pebbles, hung round her neck. She seemed tobe a fully developed woman, in spite of the girlishness of her flowinghair, and notwithstanding the shapeless length of her gaberdine-likegarment, taller than the ordinary squaw. Pomfrey saw all this in a single flash of perception, for the nextinstant she was gone, disappearing behind the sweat-house. He ran afterher, catching sight of her again, half doubled up, in the characteristicIndian trot, dodging around rocks and low bushes as she fled along thebanks of the stream. But for her distinguishing hair, she looked in herflight like an ordinary frightened squaw. This, which gave a sense ofunmanliness and ridicule to his own pursuit of her, with the factthat his hour of duty was drawing near and he was still far from thelighthouse, checked him in full career, and he turned regretfully away. He had called after her at first, and she had not heeded him. What hewould have said to her he did not know. He hastened home discomfited, even embarrassed--yet excited to a degree he had not deemed possible inhimself. During the morning his thoughts were full of her. Theory after theoryfor her strange existence there he examined and dismissed. His firstthought, that she was a white woman--some settler's wife--masqueradingin Indian garb, he abandoned when he saw her moving; no white womancould imitate that Indian trot, nor would remember to attempt it ifshe were frightened. The idea that she was a captive white, held bythe Indians, became ridiculous when he thought of the nearness ofcivilization and the peaceful, timid character of the "digger" tribes. That she was some unfortunate demented creature who had escaped from herkeeper and wandered into the wilderness, a glance at her clear, frank, intelligent, curious eyes had contradicted. There was but one theoryleft--the most sensible and practical one--that she was the offspringof some white man and Indian squaw. Yet this he found, oddly enough, theleast palatable to his fancy. And the few half-breeds he had seen werenot at all like her. The next morning he had recourse to his Indian retainer, "Jim. " Withinfinite difficulty, protraction, and not a little embarrassment, hefinally made him understand that he had seen a "white squaw" near the"sweat-house, " and that he wanted to know more about her. With equaldifficulty Jim finally recognized the fact of the existence of sucha person, but immediately afterwards shook his head in an emphaticnegation. With greater difficulty and greater mortification Pomfreypresently ascertained that Jim's negative referred to a supposedabduction of the woman which he understood that his employer seriouslycontemplated. But he also learned that she was a real Indian, and thatthere were three or four others like her, male and female, in thatvicinity; that from a "skeena mowitch" (little baby) they were all likethat, and that their parents were of the same color, but never a whiteor "waugee" man or woman among them; that they were looked upon as adistinct and superior caste of Indians, and enjoyed certain privilegeswith the tribe; that they superstitiously avoided white men, of whomthey had the greatest fear, and that they were protected in this bythe other Indians; that it was marvelous and almost beyond belief thatPomfrey had been able to see one, for no other white man had, or waseven aware of their existence. How much of this he actually understood, how much of it was lying anddue to Jim's belief that he wished to abduct the fair stranger, Pomfreywas unable to determine. There was enough, however, to excite hiscuriosity strongly and occupy his mind to the exclusion of hisbooks--save one. Among his smaller volumes he had found a travel book ofthe "Chinook Jargon, " with a lexicon of many of the words commonlyused by the Northern Pacific tribes. An hour or two's trial with theastonished Jim gave him an increased vocabulary and a new occupation. Each day the incongruous pair took a lesson from the lexicon. In a weekPomfrey felt he would be able to accost the mysterious stranger. Buthe did not again surprise her in any of his rambles, or even in a latervisit to the sweat-house. He had learned from Jim that the house wasonly used by the "bucks, " or males, and that her appearance there hadbeen accidental. He recalled that he had had the impression that she hadbeen stealthily following him, and the recollection gave him a pleasurehe could not account for. But an incident presently occurred which gavehim a new idea of her relations towards him. The difficulty of making Jim understand had hitherto prevented Pomfreyfrom intrusting him with the care of the lantern; but with the aid ofthe lexicon he had been able to make him comprehend its working, andunder Pomfrey's personal guidance the Indian had once or twice lit thelamp and set its machinery in motion. It remained for him only totest Jim's unaided capacity, in case of his own absence or illness. Ithappened to be a warm, beautiful sunset, when the afternoon fog had foronce delayed its invasion of the shore-line, that he left the lighthouseto Jim's undivided care, and reclining on a sand-dune still warm fromthe sun, lazily watched the result of Jim's first essay. As the twilightdeepened, and the first flash of the lantern strove with the dyingglories of the sun, Pomfrey presently became aware that he was not theonly watcher. A little gray figure creeping on all fours suddenly glidedout of the shadow of another sand-dune and then halted, falling back onits knees, gazing fixedly at the growing light. It was the woman he hadseen. She was not a dozen yards away, and in her eagerness and utterabsorption in the light had evidently overlooked him. He could seeher face distinctly, her lips parted half in wonder, half with thebreathless absorption of a devotee. A faint sense of disappointment cameover him. It was not HIM she was watching, but the light! As it swelledout over the darkening gray sand she turned as if to watch its effectaround her, and caught sight of Pomfrey. With a little startled cry--thefirst she had uttered--she darted away. He did not follow. A momentbefore, when he first saw her, an Indian salutation which he hadlearned from Jim had risen to his lips, but in the odd feeling which herfascination of the light had caused him he had not spoken. He watchedher bent figure scuttling away like some frightened animal, with acritical consciousness that she was really scarce human, and went backto the lighthouse. He would not run after her again! Yet that evening hecontinued to think of her, and recalled her voice, which struck him nowas having been at once melodious and childlike, and wished he had atleast spoken, and perhaps elicited a reply. He did not, however, haunt the sweat-house near the river again. Yet hestill continued his lessons with Jim, and in this way, perhaps, althoughquite unpremeditatedly, enlisted a humble ally. A week passed in whichhe had not alluded to her, when one morning, as he was returning from arow, Jim met him mysteriously on the beach. "S'pose him come slow, slow, " said Jim gravely, airing his newlyacquired English; "make no noise--plenty catchee Indian maiden. " Thelast epithet was the polite lexicon equivalent of squaw. Pomfrey, not entirely satisfied in his mind, nevertheless softlyfollowed the noiselessly gliding Jim to the lighthouse. Here Jimcautiously opened the door, motioning Pomfrey to enter. The base of the tower was composed of two living rooms, a storeroom andoil-tank. As Pomfrey entered, Jim closed the door softly behind him. The abrupt transition from the glare of the sands and sun to thesemi-darkness of the storeroom at first prevented him from seeinganything, but he was instantly distracted by a scurrying flutter andwild beating of the walls, as of a caged bird. In another momenthe could make out the fair stranger, quivering with excitement, passionately dashing at the barred window, the walls, the locked door, and circling around the room in her desperate attempt to find an egress, like a captured seagull. Amazed, mystified, indignant with Jim, himself, and even his unfortunate captive, Pomfrey called to her in Chinook tostop, and going to the door, flung it wide open. She darted by him, raising her soft blue eyes for an instant in a swift, sidelong glance ofhalf appeal, half-frightened admiration, and rushed out into the open. But here, to his surprise, she did not run away. On the contrary, shedrew herself up with a dignity that seemed to increase her height, andwalked majestically towards Jim, who at her unexpected exit had suddenlythrown himself upon the sand, in utterly abject terror and supplication. She approached him slowly, with one small hand uplifted in a menacinggesture. The man writhed and squirmed before her. Then she turned, caught sight of Pomfrey standing in the doorway, and walked quietlyaway. Amazed, yet gratified with this new assertion of herself, Pomfreyrespectfully, but alas! incautiously, called after her. In an instant, at the sound of his voice, she dropped again into her slouching Indiantrot and glided away over the sandhills. Pomfrey did not add any reproof of his own to the discomfiture of hisIndian retainer. Neither did he attempt to inquire the secret of thissavage girl's power over him. It was evident he had spoken truly when hetold his master that she was of a superior caste. Pomfrey recalled hererect and indignant figure standing over the prostrate Jim, and wasagain perplexed and disappointed at her sudden lapse into the timidsavage at the sound of his voice. Would not this well-meant butmiserable trick of Jim's have the effect of increasing her unreasoninganimal-like distrust of him? A few days later brought an unexpectedanswer to his question. It was the hottest hour of the day. He had been fishing off the reefof rocks where he had first seen her, and had taken in his line and wasleisurely pulling for the lighthouse. Suddenly a little musical cry notunlike a bird's struck his ear. He lay on his oars and listened. It wasrepeated; but this time it was unmistakably recognizable as the voice ofthe Indian girl, although he had heard it but once. He turned eagerlyto the rock, but it was empty; he pulled around it, but saw nothing. He looked towards the shore, and swung his boat in that direction, when again the cry was repeated with the faintest quaver of a laugh, apparently on the level of the sea before him. For the first time helooked down, and there on the crest of a wave not a dozen yards ahead, danced the yellow hair and laughing eyes of the girl. The frightenedgravity of her look was gone, lost in the flash of her white teeth andquivering dimples as her dripping face rose above the sea. When theireyes met she dived again, but quickly reappeared on the other bow, swimming with lazy, easy strokes, her smiling head thrown back overher white shoulder, as if luring him to a race. If her smile was arevelation to him, still more so was this first touch of femininecoquetry in her attitude. He pulled eagerly towards her; with a few longoverhand strokes she kept her distance, or, if he approached too near, she dived like a loon, coming up astern of him with the same childlike, mocking cry. In vain he pursued her, calling her to stop in her owntongue, and laughingly protested; she easily avoided his boat at everyturn. Suddenly, when they were nearly abreast of the river estuary, she rose in the water, and, waving her little hands with a gesture offarewell, turned, and curving her back like a dolphin, leaped into thesurging swell of the estuary bar and was lost in its foam. It would havebeen madness for him to have attempted to follow in his boat, and hesaw that she knew it. He waited until her yellow crest appeared in thesmoother water of the river, and then rowed back. In his excitement andpreoccupation he had quite forgotten his long exposure to the sunduring his active exercise, and that he was poorly equipped for the coldsea-fog which the heat had brought in earlier, and which now was quietlyobliterating sea and shore. This made his progress slower and moredifficult, and by the time he had reached the lighthouse he was chilledto the bone. The next morning he woke with a dull headache and great weariness, andit was with considerable difficulty that he could attend to his duties. At nightfall, feeling worse, he determined to transfer the care of thelight to Jim, but was amazed to find that he had disappeared, and whatwas more ominous, a bottle of spirits which Pomfrey had taken from hislocker the night before had disappeared too. Like all Indians, Jim'srudimentary knowledge of civilization included "fire-water;" heevidently had been tempted, had fallen, and was too ashamed or too drunkto face his master. Pomfrey, however, managed to get the light in orderand working, and then, he scarcely knew how, betook himself to bed ina state of high fever. He turned from side to side racked by pain, withburning lips and pulses. Strange fancies beset him; he had noticed whenhe lit his light that a strange sail was looming off the estuary--aplace where no sail had ever been seen or should be--and was relievedthat the lighting of the tower might show the reckless or ignorantmariner his real bearings for the "Gate. " At times he had heard voicesabove the familiar song of the surf, and tried to rise from his bed, butcould not. Sometimes these voices were strange, outlandish, dissonant, in his own language, yet only partly intelligible; but through themalways rang a single voice, musical, familiar, yet of a tongue not hisown--hers! And then, out of his delirium--for such it proved afterwardsto be--came a strange vision. He thought that he had just lit the lightwhen, from some strange and unaccountable reason, it suddenly became dimand defied all his efforts to revive it. To add to his discomfiture, he could see quite plainly through the lantern a strange-looking vesselstanding in from the sea. She was so clearly out of her course for theGate that he knew she had not seen the light, and his limbs trembledwith shame and terror as he tried in vain to rekindle the dying light. Yet to his surprise the strange ship kept steadily on, passing thedangerous reef of rocks, until she was actually in the waters of thebay. But stranger than all, swimming beneath her bows was the goldenhead and laughing face of the Indian girl, even as he had seen it theday before. A strange revulsion of feeling overtook him. Believing thatshe was luring the ship to its destruction, he ran out on the beachand strove to hail the vessel and warn it of its impending doom. But hecould not speak--no sound came from his lips. And now his attention wasabsorbed by the ship itself. High-bowed and pooped, and curved like thecrescent moon, it was the strangest craft that he had ever seen. Evenas he gazed it glided on nearer and nearer, and at last beached itselfnoiselessly on the sands before his own feet. A score of figuresas bizarre and outlandish as the ship itself now thronged its highforecastle--really a castle in shape and warlike purpose--and leapedfrom its ports. The common seamen were nearly naked to the waist; theofficers looked more like soldiers than sailors. What struck him morestrangely was that they were one and all seemingly unconscious of theexistence of the lighthouse, sauntering up and down carelessly, as if onsome uninhabited strand, and even talking--so far as he could understandtheir old bookish dialect--as if in some hitherto undiscovered land. Their ignorance of the geography of the whole coast, and even of the seafrom which they came, actually aroused his critical indignation; theircoarse and stupid allusions to the fair Indian swimmer as the "mermaid"that they had seen upon their bow made him more furious still. Yethe was helpless to express his contemptuous anger, or even make themconscious of his presence. Then an interval of incoherency and utterblankness followed. When he again took up the thread of his fancythe ship seemed to be lying on her beam ends on the sand; the strangearrangement of her upper deck and top-hamper, more like a dwelling thanany ship he had ever seen, was fully exposed to view, while the seamenseemed to be at work with the rudest contrivances, calking and scrapingher barnacled sides. He saw that phantom crew, when not working, atwassail and festivity; heard the shouts of drunken roisterers; saw theplacing of a guard around some of the most uncontrollable, and laterdetected the stealthy escape of half a dozen sailors inland, amidst thefruitless volley fired upon them from obsolete blunderbusses. Thenhis strange vision transported him inland, where he saw these seamenfollowing some Indian women. Suddenly one of them turned and ranfrenziedly towards him as if seeking succor, closely pursued by one ofthe sailors. Pomfrey strove to reach her, struggled violently with thefearful apathy that seemed to hold his limbs, and then, as she utteredat last a little musical cry, burst his bonds and--awoke! As consciousness slowly struggled back to him, he could see the barewooden-like walls of his sleeping-room, the locker, the one windowbright with sunlight, the open door of the tank-room, and the littlestaircase to the tower. There was a strange smoky and herb-like smell inthe room. He made an effort to rise, but as he did so a small sunburnthand was laid gently yet restrainingly upon his shoulder, and he heardthe same musical cry as before, but this time modulated to a girlishlaugh. He raised his head faintly. Half squatting, half kneeling by hisbed was the yellow-haired stranger. With the recollection of his vision still perplexing him, he said in aweak voice, "Who are you?" Her blue eyes met his own with quick intelligence and no trace of herformer timidity. A soft, caressing light had taken its place. Pointingwith her finger to her breast in a childlike gesture, she said, "Me--Olooya. " "Olooya!" He remembered suddenly that Jim had always used that word inspeaking of her, but until then he had always thought it was some Indianterm for her distinct class. "Olooya, " he repeated. Then, with difficulty attempting to use her owntongue, he asked, "When did you come here?" "Last night, " she answered in the same tongue. "There was no witch-firethere, " she continued, pointing to the tower; "when it came not, Olooyacame! Olooya found white chief sick and alone. White chief could not getup! Olooya lit witch-fire for him. " "You?" he repeated in astonishment. "I lit it myself. " She looked at him pityingly, as if still recognizing his delirium, and shook her head. "White chief was sick--how can know? Olooya madewitch-fire. " He cast a hurried glance at his watch hanging on the wall beside him. It had RUN DOWN, although he had wound it the last thing before going tobed. He had evidently been lying there helpless beyond the twenty-fourhours! He groaned and turned to rise, but she gently forced him down again, andgave him some herbal infusion, in which he recognized the taste of theYerba Buena vine which grew by the river. Then she made him comprehendin her own tongue that Jim had been decoyed, while drunk, aboard acertain schooner lying off the shore at a spot where she had seen somemen digging in the sands. She had not gone there, for she was afraidof the bad men, and a slight return of her former terror came into herchangeful eyes. She knew how to light the witch-light; she reminded himshe had been in the tower before. "You have saved my light, and perhaps my life, " he said weakly, takingher hand. Possibly she did not understand him, for her only answer was a vaguesmile. But the next instant she started up, listening intently, and thenwith a frightened cry drew away her hand and suddenly dashed out ofthe building. In the midst of his amazement the door was darkened by afigure--a stranger dressed like an ordinary miner. Pausing a momentto look after the flying Olooya, the man turned and glanced around theroom, and then with a coarse, familiar smile approached Pomfrey. "Hope I ain't disturbin' ye, but I allowed I'd just be neighborly anddrop in--seein' as this is gov'nment property, and me and my pardners, as American citizens and tax-payers, helps to support it. We're coastin'from Trinidad down here and prospectin' along the beach for gold in thesand. Ye seem to hev a mighty soft berth of it here--nothing to do--andlots of purty half-breeds hangin' round!" The man's effrontery was too much for Pomfrey's self-control, weakenedby illness. "It IS government property, " he answered hotly, "and youhave no more right to intrude upon it than you have to decoy away myservant, a government employee, during my illness, and jeopardize thatproperty. " The unexpectedness of this attack, and the sudden revelation of the factof Pomfrey's illness in his flushed face and hollow voice apparentlyfrightened and confused the stranger. He stammered a surly excuse, backed out of the doorway, and disappeared. An hour later Jim appeared, crestfallen, remorseful, and extravagantly penitent. Pomfrey was tooweak for reproaches or inquiry, and he was thinking only of Olooya. She did not return. His recovery in that keen air, aided, as hesometimes thought, by the herbs she had given him, was almost as rapidas his illness. The miners did not again intrude upon the lighthouse nortrouble his seclusion. When he was able to sun himself on the sands, hecould see them in the distance at work on the beach. He reflected thatshe would not come back while they were there, and was reconciled. But one morning Jim appeared, awkward and embarrassed, leading anotherIndian, whom he introduced as Olooya's brother. Pomfrey's suspicionswere aroused. Except that the stranger had something of the girl'ssuperiority of manner, there was no likeness whatever to his fair-hairedacquaintance. But a fury of indignation was added to his suspicions whenhe learned the amazing purport of their visit. It was nothing less thanan offer from the alleged brother to SELL his sister to Pomfrey forforty dollars and a jug of whiskey! Unfortunately, Pomfrey's temper oncemore got the better of his judgment. With a scathing exposition of thelaws under which the Indian and white man equally lived, and the legalpunishment of kidnaping, he swept what he believed was the impostor fromhis presence. He was scarcely alone again before he remembered that hisimprudence might affect the girl's future access to him, but it was toolate now. Still he clung to the belief that he should see her when the prospectorshad departed, and he hailed with delight the breaking up of the campnear the "sweat-house" and the disappearance of the schooner. It seemedthat their gold-seeking was unsuccessful; but Pomfrey was struck, onvisiting the locality, to find that in their excavations in the sand atthe estuary they had uncovered the decaying timbers of a ship's smallboat of some ancient and obsolete construction. This made him thinkof his strange dream, with a vague sense of warning which he could notshake off, and on his return to the lighthouse he took from his shelvesa copy of the old voyages to see how far his fancy had been affectedby his reading. In the account of Drake's visit to the coast he found afootnote which he had overlooked before, and which ran as follows: "TheAdmiral seems to have lost several of his crew by desertion, who weresupposed to have perished miserably by starvation in the inhospitableinterior or by the hands of savages. But later voyagers have suggestedthat the deserters married Indian wives, and there is a legend that ahundred years later a singular race of half-breeds, bearing unmistakableAnglo-Saxon characteristics, was found in that locality. " Pomfrey fellinto a reverie of strange hypotheses and fancies. He resolved that, when he again saw Olooya, he would question her; her terror of these menmight be simply racial or some hereditary transmission. But his intention was never fulfilled. For when days and weeks hadelapsed, and he had vainly haunted the river estuary and the rockyreef before the lighthouse without a sign of her, he overcame hispride sufficiently to question Jim. The man looked at him with dullastonishment. "Olooya gone, " he said. "Gone!--where?" The Indian made a gesture to seaward which seemed to encompass the wholePacific. "How? With whom?" repeated his angry yet half-frightened master. "With white man in ship. You say YOU no want Olooya--forty dollars toomuch. White man give fifty dollars--takee Olooya all same. " UNDER THE EAVES The assistant editor of the San Francisco "Daily Informer" was goinghome. So much of his time was spent in the office of the "Informer" thatno one ever cared to know where he passed those six hours of sleep whichpresumably suggested a domicile. His business appointments outside theoffice were generally kept at the restaurant where he breakfasted anddined, or of evenings in the lobbies of theatres or the anterooms ofpublic meetings. Yet he had a home and an interval of seclusion of whichhe was jealously mindful, and it was to this he was going to-night athis usual hour. His room was in a new building on one of the larger and busierthoroughfares. The lower floor was occupied by a bank, but as it wasclosed before he came home, and not yet opened when he left, it did notdisturb his domestic sensibilities. The same may be said of the nextfloor, which was devoted to stockbrokers' and companies offices, and wasequally tomb-like and silent when he passed; the floor above that was adesert of empty rooms, which echoed to his footsteps night and morning, with here and there an oasis in the green sign of a mining secretary'soffice, with, however, the desolating announcement that it would onlybe "open for transfers from two to four on Saturdays. " The top floorhad been frankly abandoned in an unfinished state by the builder, whoseambition had "o'erleaped itself" in that sanguine era of the city'sgrowth. There was a smell of plaster and the first coat of paint aboutit still, but the whole front of the building was occupied by a longroom with odd "bull's-eye" windows looking out through the heavyornamentations of the cornice over the adjacent roofs. It had been originally intended for a club-room, but after the illfortune which attended the letting of the floor below, and possiblybecause the earthquake-fearing San Franciscans had their doubts ofsuccessful hilarity at the top of so tall a building, it remainedunfinished, with the two smaller rooms at its side. Its incomplete andlonely grandeur had once struck the editor during a visit of inspection, and the landlord, whom he knew, had offered to make it habitable for himat a nominal rent. It had a lavatory with a marble basin and a tap ofcold water. The offer was a novel one, but he accepted it, and fitted upthe apartment with some cheap second-hand furniture, quite inconsistentwith the carved mantels and decorations, and made a fair sitting-roomand bedroom of it. Here, on a Sunday, when its stillness wasintensified, and even a passing footstep on the pavement fifty feetbelow was quite startling, he would sit and work by one of the quaintopen windows. In the rainy season, through the filmed panes he sometimescaught a glimpse of the distant, white-capped bay, but never of thestreet below him. The lights were out, but, groping his way up to the first landing, hetook from a cup-boarded niche in the wall his candlestick and matchesand continued the ascent to his room. The humble candlelight flickeredon the ostentatious gold letters displayed on the ground-glass doorsof opulent companies which he knew were famous, and rooms wheremillionaires met in secret conclave, but the contrast awakened only hissense of humor. Yet he was always relieved after he had reached his ownfloor. Possibly its incompleteness and inchoate condition made it seemless lonely than the desolation of the finished and furnished roomsbelow, and it was only this recollection of past human occupancy thatwas depressing. He opened his door, lit the solitary gas jet that only half illuminatedthe long room, and, it being already past midnight, began to undresshimself. This process presently brought him to that corner of his roomwhere his bed stood, when he suddenly stopped, and his sleepy yawnchanged to a gape of surprise. For, lying in the bed, its head uponthe pillow, and its rigid arms accurately stretched down over theturned-back sheet, was a child's doll! It was a small doll--a banged andbattered doll, that had seen service, but it had evidently been "tuckedin" with maternal tenderness, and lay there with its staring eyes turnedto the ceiling, the very genius of insomnia! His first start of surprise was followed by a natural resentment ofwhat might have been an impertinent intrusion on his privacy by somepractical-joking adult, for he knew there was no child in the house. His room was kept in order by the wife of the night watchman employedby the bank, and no one else had a right of access to it. But the womanmight have brought a child there and not noticed its disposal of itsplaything. He smiled. It might have been worse! It might have been areal baby! The idea tickled him with a promise of future "copy"--of a story withfarcical complications, or even a dramatic ending, in which the baby, adopted by him, should turn out to be somebody's stolen offspring. Helifted the little image that had suggested these fancies, carefully laidit on his table, went to bed, and presently forgot it all in slumber. In the morning his good-humor and interest in it revived to the extentof writing on a slip of paper, "Good-morning! Thank you--I've slept verywell, " putting the slip in the doll's jointed arms, and leaving it in asitting posture outside his door when he left his room. When he returnedlate at night it was gone. But it so chanced that, a few days later, owing to press of work on the"Informer, " he was obliged to forego his usual Sunday holiday out oftown, and that morning found him, while the bells were ringing forchurch, in his room with a pile of manuscript and proof before him. For these were troublous days in San Francisco; the great VigilanceCommittee of '56 was in session, and the offices of the daily paperswere thronged with eager seekers of news. Such affairs, indeed, were notin the functions of the assistant editor, nor exactly to his taste; hewas neither a partisan of the so-called Law and Order Party, nor yetan enthusiastic admirer of the citizen Revolutionists known as theVigilance Committee, both extremes being incompatible with his habits ofthought. Consequently he was not displeased at this opportunity of doinghis work away from the office and the "heady talk" of controversy. He worked on until the bells ceased and a more than Sabbath stillnessfell upon the streets. So quiet was it that once or twice theconversation of passing pedestrians floated up and into his window, asof voices at his elbow. Presently he heard the sound of a child's voice singing in subdued tone, as if fearful of being overheard. This time he laid aside his pen--itcertainly was no delusion! The sound did not come from the openwindow, but from some space on a level with his room. Yet there was nocontiguous building as high. He rose and tried to open his door softly, but it creaked, and thesinging instantly ceased. There was nothing before him but the bare, empty hall, with its lathed and plastered partitions, and the twosmaller rooms, unfinished like his own, on either side of him. Theirdoors were shut; the one at his right hand was locked, the other yieldedto his touch. For the first moment he saw only the bare walls of the apparently emptyroom. But a second glance showed him two children--a boy of seven anda girl of five--sitting on the floor, which was further littered bya mattress, pillow, and blanket. There was a cheap tray on one of thetrunks containing two soiled plates and cups and fragments of a meal. But there was neither a chair nor table nor any other article offurniture in the room. Yet he was struck by the fact that, in spite ofthis poverty of surrounding, the children were decently dressed, and thefew scattered pieces of luggage in quality bespoke a superior condition. The children met his astonished stare with an equal wonder and, hefancied, some little fright. The boy's lips trembled a little as he saidapologetically-- "I told Jinny not to sing. But she didn't make MUCH noise. " "Mamma said I could play with my dolly. But I fordot and singed, " saidthe little girl penitently. "Where's your mamma?" asked the young man. The fancy of their beingnear relatives of the night watchman had vanished at the sound of theirvoices. "Dorn out, " said the girl. "When did she go out?" "Last night. " "Were you all alone here last night?" "Yes!" Perhaps they saw the look of indignation and pity in the editor's face, for the boy said quickly-- "She don't go out EVERY night; last night she went to"-- He stopped suddenly, and both children looked at each other with a halflaugh and half cry, and then repeated in hopeless unison, "She's dornout. " "When is she coming back again?" "To-night. But we won't make any more noise. " "Who brings you your food?" continued the editor, looking at the tray. "Woberts. " Evidently Roberts, the night watchman! The editor felt relieved; herewas a clue to some explanation. He instantly sat down on the floorbetween them. "So that was the dolly that slept in my bed, " he said gayly, taking itup. God gives helplessness a wonderful intuition of its friends. Thechildren looked up at the face of their grown-up companion, giggled, andthen burst into a shrill fit of laughter. He felt that it was the firstone they had really indulged in for many days. Nevertheless he said, "Hush!" confidentially; why he scarcely knew, except to intimate to themthat he had taken in their situation thoroughly. "Make no noise, " headded softly, "and come into my big room. " They hung back, however, with frightened yet longing eyes. "Mamma saidwe mussent do out of this room, " said the girl. "Not ALONE, " responded the editor quickly, "but with ME, you know;that's different. " The logic sufficed them, poor as it was. Their hands slid quitenaturally into his. But at the door he stopped, and motioning to thelocked door of the other room, asked:-- "And is that mamma's room, too?" Their little hands slipped from his and they were silent. Presently theboy, as if acted upon by some occult influence of the girl, said in ahalf whisper, "Yes. " The editor did not question further, but led them into his room. Herethey lost the slight restraint they had shown, and began, child fashion, to become questioners themselves. In a few moments they were in possession of his name, his business, thekind of restaurant he frequented, where he went when he left his roomall day, the meaning of those funny slips of paper, and the writtenmanuscripts, and why he was so quiet. But any attempt of his toretaliate by counter questions was met by a sudden reserve sounchildlike and painful to him--as it was evidently to themselves--thathe desisted, wisely postponing his inquiries until he could meetRoberts. He was glad when they fell to playing games with each other quitenaturally, yet not entirely forgetting his propinquity, as theiroccasional furtive glances at his movements showed him. He, too, becamepresently absorbed in his work, until it was finished and it was timefor him to take it to the office of the "Informer. " The wild idea seizedhim of also taking the children afterwards for a holiday to the MissionDolores, but he prudently remembered that even this negligent mother oftheirs might have some rights over her offspring that he was bound torespect. He took leave of them gayly, suggesting that the doll be replaced in hisbed while he was away, and even assisted in "tucking it up. " But duringthe afternoon the recollection of these lonely playfellows in thedeserted house obtruded itself upon his work and the talk of hiscompanions. Sunday night was his busiest night, and he could not, therefore, hope to get away in time to assure himself of their mother'sreturn. It was nearly two in the morning when he returned to his room. He pausedfor a moment on the threshold to listen for any sound from the adjoiningroom. But all was hushed. His intention of speaking to the night watchman was, however, anticipated the next morning by that guardian himself. A tap upon hisdoor while he was dressing caused him to open it somewhat hurriedlyin the hope of finding one of the children there, but he met only theembarrassed face of Roberts. Inviting him into the room, the editorcontinued dressing. Carefully closing the door behind him, the manbegan, with evident hesitation, -- "I oughter hev told ye suthin' afore, Mr. Breeze; but I kalkilated, soto speak, that you wouldn't be bothered one way or another, and so yehadn't any call to know that there was folks here"-- "Oh, I see, " interrupted Breeze cheerfully; "you're speaking of thefamily next door--the landlord's new tenants. " "They ain't exactly THAT, " said Roberts, still with embarrassment. "Thefact is--ye see--the thing points THIS way: they ain't no right to behere, and it's as much as my place is worth if it leaks out that theyare. " Mr. Breeze suspended his collar-buttoning, and stared at Roberts. "You see, sir, they're mighty poor, and they've nowhere else to go--andI reckoned to take 'em in here for a spell and say nothing about it. " "But the landlord wouldn't object, surely? I'll speak to him myself, "said Breeze impulsively. "Oh, no; don't!" said Roberts in alarm; "he wouldn't like it. You see, Mr. Breeze, it's just this way: the mother, she's a born lady, and didmy old woman a good turn in old times when the family was rich; but nowshe's obliged--just to support herself, you know--to take up with whatshe gets, and she acts in the bally in the theatre, you see, and hezto come in late o' nights. In them cheap boarding-houses, you know, thefolks looks down upon her for that, and won't hev her, and in the cheaphotels the men are--you know--a darned sight wuss, and that's how I tookher and her kids in here, where no one knows 'em. " "I see, " nodded the editor sympathetically; "and very good it was ofyou, my man. " Roberts looked still more confused, and stammered with a forced laugh, "And--so--I'm just keeping her on here, unbeknownst, until her husbandgets"--He stopped suddenly. "So she has a husband living, then?" said Breeze in surprise. "In the mines, yes--in the mines!" repeated Roberts with a monotonousdeliberation quite distinct from his previous hesitation, "and she'sonly waitin' until he gets money enough--to--to take her away. " Hestopped and breathed hard. "But couldn't you--couldn't WE--get her some more furniture? There'snothing in that room, you know, not a chair or table; and unless theother room is better furnished"-- "Eh? Oh, yes!" said Roberts quickly, yet still with a certainembarrassment; "of course THAT'S better furnished, and she's quitesatisfied, and so are the kids, with anything. And now, Mr. Breeze, Ireckon you'll say nothin' o' this, and you'll never go back on me?" "My dear Mr. Roberts, " said the editor gravely, "from this moment I amnot only blind, but deaf to the fact that ANYBODY occupies this floorbut myself. " "I knew you was white all through, Mr. Breeze, " said the night watchman, grasping the young man's hand with a grip of iron, "and I telled my wifeso. I sez, 'Jest you let me tell him EVERYTHIN', ' but she"--He stoppedagain and became confused. "And she was quite right, I dare say, " said Breeze, with a laugh; "and Ido not want to know anything. And that poor woman must never know thatI ever knew anything, either. But you may tell your wife that whenthe mother is away she can bring the little ones in here whenever shelikes. " "Thank ye--thank ye, sir!--and I'll just run down and tell the old womannow, and won't intrude upon your dressin' any longer. " He grasped Breeze's hand again, went out and closed the door behindhim. It might have been the editor's fancy, but he thought there was acertain interval of silence outside the door before the night watchman'sheavy tread was heard along the hall again. For several evenings after this Mr. Breeze paid some attention to theballet in his usual round of the theatres. Although he had never seenhis fair neighbor, he had a vague idea that he might recognize herthrough some likeness to her children. But in vain. In the opulentcharms of certain nymphs, and in the angular austerities of others, he failed equally to discern any of those refinements which might havedistinguished the "born lady" of Roberts's story, or which he himselfhad seen in her children. These he did not meet again during the week, as his duties kept himlate at the office; but from certain signs in his room he knew that Mrs. Roberts had availed herself of his invitation to bring them in with her, and he regularly found "Jinny's" doll tucked up in his bed at night, andhe as regularly disposed of it outside his door in the morning, with afew sweets, like an offering, tucked under its rigid arms. But another circumstance touched him more delicately; his roomwas arranged with greater care than before, and with an occasionalexhibition of taste that certainly had not distinguished Mrs. Roberts'sprevious ministrations. One evening on his return he found a smallbouquet of inexpensive flowers in a glass on his writing-table. He lovedflowers too well not to detect that they were quite fresh, and couldhave been put there only an hour or two before he arrived. The next evening was Saturday, and, as he usually left the officeearlier on that day, it occurred to him, as he walked home, that it wasabout the time his fair neighbor would be leaving the theatre, and thatit was possible he might meet her. At the front door, however, he found Roberts, who returned his greetingwith a certain awkwardness which struck him as singular. When he reachedthe niche on the landing he found his candle was gone, but he proceededon, groping his way up the stairs, with an odd conviction that boththese incidents pointed to the fact that the woman had just returned orwas expected. He had also a strange feeling--which may have been owing to thedarkness--that some one was hidden on the landing or on the stairs wherehe would pass. This was further accented by a faint odor of patchouli, as, with his hand on the rail, he turned the corner of the thirdlanding, and he was convinced that if he had put out his other hand itwould have come in contact with his mysterious neighbor. But a certaininstinct of respect for her secret, which she was even now guarding inthe darkness, withheld him, and he passed on quickly to his own floor. Here it was lighter; the moon shot a beam of silver across the passagefrom an unshuttered window as he passed. He reached his room door, entered, but instead of lighting the gas and shutting the door, stoodwith it half open, listening in the darkness. His suspicions were verified; there was a slight rustling noise, anda figure which had evidently followed him appeared at the end of thepassage. It was that of a woman habited in a grayish dress and cloak ofthe same color; but as she passed across the band of moonlight he hada distinct view of her anxious, worried face. It was a face no longeryoung; it was worn with illness, but still replete with a delicacy andfaded beauty so inconsistent with her avowed profession that he felt asudden pang of pain and doubt. The next moment she had vanished in herroom, leaving the same faint perfume behind her. He closed his doorsoftly, lit the gas, and sat down in a state of perplexity. That swiftglimpse of her face and figure had made her story improbable to thepoint of absurdity, or possibly to the extreme of pathos! It seemed incredible that a woman of that quality should be forced toaccept a vocation at once so low, so distasteful, and so unremunerative. With her evident antecedents, had she no friends but this common Westernnight watchman of a bank? Had Roberts deceived him? Was his whole storya fabrication, and was there some complicity between the two? What wasit? He knit his brows. Mr. Breeze had that overpowering knowledge of the world which only comeswith the experience of twenty-five, and to this he superadded the activeimagination of a newspaper man. A plot to rob the bank? These mysteriousabsences, that luggage which he doubted not was empty and intended forspoil! But why encumber herself with the two children? Here his commonsense and instinct of the ludicrous returned and he smiled. But he could not believe in the ballet dancer! He wondered, indeed, howany manager could have accepted the grim satire of that pale, worriedface among the fairies, that sad refinement amid their vacant smiles androuged checks. And then, growing sad again, he comforted himself withthe reflection that at least the children were not alone that night, andso went to sleep. For some days he had no further meeting with his neighbors. Thedisturbed state of the city--for the Vigilance Committee were still insession--obliged the daily press to issue "extras, " and his work at theoffice increased. It was not until Sunday again that he was able to be at home. Needlessto say that his solitary little companions were duly installed there, while he sat at work with his proofs on the table before him. The stillness of the empty house was only broken by the habituallysubdued voices of the children at their play, when suddenly the harshstroke of a distant bell came through the open window. But it was noSabbath bell, and Mr. Breeze knew it. It was the tocsin of the VigilanceCommittee, summoning the members to assemble at their quarters fora capture, a trial, or an execution of some wrongdoer. To him it wasequally a summons to the office--to distasteful news and excitement. He threw his proofs aside in disgust, laid down his pen, seized his hat, and paused a moment to look round for his playmates. But they were gone!He went into the hall, looked into the open door of their room, but theywere not there. He tried the door of the second room, but it was locked. Satisfied that they had stolen downstairs in their eagerness toknow what the bell meant, he hurried down also, met Roberts in thepassage, --a singularly unusual circumstance at that hour, --called to himto look after the runaways, and hurried to his office. Here he found the staff collected, excitedly discussing the news. Oneof the Vigilance Committee prisoners, a notorious bully and ruffian, detained as a criminal and a witness, had committed suicide in hiscell. Fortunately this was all reportorial work, and the services of Mr. Breeze were not required. He hurried back, relieved, to his room. When he reached his landing, breathlessly, he heard the same quickrustle he had heard that memorable evening, and was quite satisfied thathe saw a figure glide swiftly out of the open door of his room. It wasno doubt his neighbor, who had been seeking her children, and as heheard their voices as he passed, his uneasiness and suspicions wereremoved. He sat down again to his scattered papers and proofs, finished his work, and took it to the office on his way to dinner. He returned early, inthe hope that he might meet his neighbor again, and had quite settledhis mind that he was justified in offering a civil "Good-evening" toher, in spite of his previous respectful ignoring of her presence. Shemust certainly have become aware by this time of his attention toher children and consideration for herself, and could not mistake hismotives. But he was disappointed, although he came up softly; he foundthe floor in darkness and silence on his return, and he had to becontent with lighting his gas and settling down to work again. A near church clock had struck ten when he was startled by the sound ofan unfamiliar and uncertain step in the hall, followed by a tap at hisdoor. Breeze jumped to his feet, and was astonished to find Dick, the"printer's devil, " standing on the threshold with a roll of proofs inhis hand. "How did you get here?" he asked testily. "They told me at the restaurant they reckoned you lived yere, and thenight watchman at the door headed me straight up. When he knew whar Ikem from he wanted to know what the news was, but I told him he'd betterbuy an extra and see. " "Well, what did you come for?" said the editor impatiently. "The foreman said it was important, and he wanted to know afore he wentto press ef this yer correction was YOURS?" He went to the table, unrolled the proofs, and, taking out the slip, pointed to a marked paragraph. "The foreman says the reporter whobrought the news allows he got it straight first-hand! But ef you'vecorrected it, he reckons you know best. " Breeze saw at a glance that the paragraph alluded to was not of his ownwriting, but one of several news items furnished by reporters. Thesehad been "set up" in the same "galley, " and consequently appeared in thesame proof-slip. He was about to say curtly that neither the matter northe correction was his, when something odd in the correction of the itemstruck him. It read as follows:-- "It appears that the notorious 'Jim Bodine, ' who is in hiding andbadly wanted by the Vigilance Committee, has been tempted lately intoa renewal of his old recklessness. He was seen in Sacramento Street theother night by two separate witnesses, one of whom followed him, but heescaped in some friendly doorway. " The words "in Sacramento Street" were stricken out and replaced by thecorrection "on the Saucelito shore, " and the words "friendly doorway"were changed to "friendly dinghy. " The correction was not his, nor thehandwriting, which was further disguised by being an imitation of print. A strange idea seized him. "Has any one seen these proofs since I left them at the office?" "No, only the foreman, sir. " He remembered that he had left the proofs lying openly on his tablewhen he was called to the office at the stroke of the alarm bell; heremembered the figure he saw gliding from his room on his return. Shehad been there alone with the proofs; she only could have tampered withthem. The evident object of the correction was to direct the public attentionfrom Sacramento Street to Saucelito, as the probable whereabouts of this"Jimmy Bodine. " The street below was Sacramento Street, the "friendlydoorway" might have been their own. That she had some knowledge of this Bodine was not more improbable thanthe ballet story. Her strange absences, the mystery surrounding her, allseemed to testify that she had some connection--perhaps only an innocentone--with these desperate people whom the Vigilance Committee werehunting down. Her attempt to save the man was, after all, no moreillegal than their attempt to capture him. True, she might have trustedhim, Breeze, without this tampering with his papers; yet perhaps shethought he was certain to discover it--and it was only a silent appealto his mercy. The corrections were ingenious and natural--it was the actof an intelligent, quick-witted woman. Mr. Breeze was prompt in acting upon his intuition, whether right orwrong. He took up his pen, wrote on the margin of the proof, "Print ascorrected, " said to the boy carelessly, "The corrections are all right, "and dismissed him quickly. The corrected paragraph which appeared in the "Informer" the nextmorning seemed to attract little public attention, the greaterexcitement being the suicide of the imprisoned bully and the effect itmight have upon the prosecution of other suspected parties, against whomthe dead man had been expected to bear witness. Mr. Breeze was unable to obtain any information regarding the desperadoBodine's associates and relations; his correction of the paragraph hadmade the other members of the staff believe he had secret and superiorinformation regarding the fugitive, and he thus was estopped fromasking questions. But he felt himself justified now in demanding fullerinformation from Roberts at the earliest opportunity. For this purpose he came home earlier that night, hoping to find thenight watchman still on his first beat in the lower halls. But he wasdisappointed. He was amazed, however, on reaching his own landing, tofind the passage piled with new luggage, some of that ruder type ofrolled blanket and knapsack known as a "miner's kit. " He was still moresurprised to hear men's voices and the sound of laughter proceedingfrom the room that was always locked. A sudden sense of uneasiness anddisgust, he knew not why, came over him. He passed quickly into his room, shut the door sharply, and lit the gas. But he presently heard the door of the locked room open, a man's voice, slightly elevated by liquor and opposition, saying, "I know what's duefrom one gen'leman to 'nother"--a querulous, objecting voice saying, "Hole on! not now, " and a fainter feminine protest, all of which werefollowed by a rap on his door. Breeze opened it to two strangers, one of whom lurched forwardunsteadily with outstretched hand. He had a handsome face and figure, and a certain consciousness of it even in the abandon of liquor; hehad an aggressive treacherousness of eye which his potations had notsubdued. He grasped Breeze's hand tightly, but dropped it the nextmoment perfunctorily as he glanced round the room. "I told them I was bound to come in, " he said, without looking atBreeze, "and say 'Howdy!' to the man that's bin a pal to my women folksand the kids--and acted white all through! I said to Mame, 'I reckon HEknows who I am, and that I kin be high-toned to them that's high-toned;kin return shake for shake and shot for shot!' Aye! that's me! So I wasbound to come in like a gen'leman, sir, and here I am!" He threw himself in an unproffered chair and stared at Breeze. "I'm afraid, " said Breeze dryly, "that, nevertheless, I never knew whoyou were, and that even now I am ignorant whom I am addressing. " "That's just it, " said the second man, with a querulous protest, whichdid not, however, conceal his admiring vassalage to his friend; "that'swhat I'm allus telling Jim. 'Jim, ' I says, 'how is folks to know you'rethe man that shot Kernel Baxter, and dropped three o' them MariposaVigilants? They didn't see you do it! They just look at your fancy styleand them mustaches of yours, and allow ye might be death on the girls, but they don't know ye! An' this man yere--he's a scribe in thempapers--writes what the boss editor tells him, and lives up yere on theroof, 'longside yer wife and the children--what's he knowin' about YOU?'Jim's all right enough, " he continued, in easy confidence to Breeze, "but he's too fresh 'bout himself. " Mr. James Bodine accepted this tribute and criticism of his henchmanwith a complacent laugh, which was not, however, without a certaincontempt for the speaker and the man spoken to. His bold, selfish eyeswandered round the room as if in search of some other amusement than hiscompanions offered. "I reckon this is the room which that hound of a landlord, Rakes, allowed he'd fix up for our poker club--the club that Dan Simmons andme got up, with a few other sports. It was to be a slap-up affair, rightunder the roof, where there was no chance of the police raiding us. Butthe cur weakened when the Vigilants started out to make war on any gamea gen'leman might hev that wasn't in their gummy-bag, salt pork trade. Well, it's gettin' a long time between drinks, gen'lemen, ain't it?" Helooked round him significantly. Only the thought of the woman and her children in the next room, andthe shame that he believed she was enduring, enabled Breeze to keep histemper or even a show of civility. "I'm afraid, " he said quietly, "that you'll find very little here toremind you of the club--not even the whiskey; for I use the room only asa bedroom, and as I am a workingman, and come in late and go out early, I have never found it available for hospitality, even to my intimatefriends. I am very glad, however, that the little leisure I have had init has enabled me to make the floor less lonely for your children. " Mr. Bodine got up with an affected yawn, turned an embarrassed yetdarkening eye on Breeze, and lunged unsteadily to the door. "And as Ionly happened in to do the reg'lar thing between high-toned gen'lemen, I reckon we kin say 'Quits. '" He gave a coarse laugh, said "So long, "nodded, stumbled into the passage, and thence into the other room. His companion watched him pass out with a relieved yet protecting air, and then, closing the door softly, drew nearer to Breeze, and said inhusky confidence, -- "Ye ain't seein' him at his best, mister! He's bin drinkin' too much, and this yer news has upset him. " "What news?" asked Breeze. "This yer suicide o' Irish Jack!" "Was he his friend?" "Friend?" ejaculated the man, horrified at the mere suggestion. "Notmuch! Why, Irish Jack was the only man that could hev hung Jim! Now he'sdead, in course the Vigilants ain't got no proof agin Jim. Jim wants toface it out now an' stay here, but his wife and me don't see it noways!So we are taking advantage o' the lull agin him to get him off down thecoast this very night. That's why he's been off his head drinkin'. Yesee, when a man has been for weeks hidin'--part o' the time in thatroom and part o' the time on the wharf, where them Vigilants has beenwatchin' every ship that left in order to ketch him, he's inclined tocelebrate his chance o' getting away"-- "Part of the time in that room?" interrupted Breeze quickly. "Sartin! Don't ye see? He allus kem in as you went out--sabe!--and gotaway before you kem back, his wife all the time just a-hoverin' betweenthe two places, and keeping watch for him. It was killin' to her, yousee, for she wasn't brought up to it, whiles Jim didn't keer--had tworevolvers and kalkilated to kill a dozen Vigilants afore he dropped. Butthat's over now, and when I've got him safe on that 'plunger' down atthe wharf to-night, and put him aboard the schooner that's lying off theHeads, he's all right agin. " "And Roberts knew all this and was one of his friends?" asked Breeze. "Roberts knew it, and Roberts's wife used to be a kind of servantto Jim's wife in the South, when she was a girl, but I don't know ezRoberts is his FRIEND!" "He certainly has shown himself one, " said Breeze. "Ye-e-s, " said the stranger meditatively, "ye-e-s. " He stopped, openedthe door softly, and peeped out, and then closed it again softly. "It'ssing'lar, Mr. Breeze, " he went on in a sudden yet embarrassed burstof confidence, "that Jim thar--a man thet can shoot straight, and hezfrequent; a man thet knows every skin game goin'--that THET man Jim, "very slowly, "hezn't really--got--any friends--'cept me--and his wife. " "Indeed?" said Mr. Breeze dryly. "Sure! Why, you yourself didn't cotton to him--I could see THET. " Mr. Breeze felt himself redden slightly, and looked curiously at theman. This vulgar parasite, whom he had set down as a worshiper of shamheroes, undoubtedly did not look like an associate of Bodine's, and hada certain seriousness that demanded respect. As he looked closer intohis wide, round face, seamed with small-pox, he fancied he saw even inits fatuous imbecility something of that haunting devotion he had seenon the refined features of the wife. He said more gently, -- "But one friend like you would seem to be enough. " "I ain't what I uster be, Mr. Breeze, " said the man meditatively, "and mebbe ye don't know who I am. I'm Abe Shuckster, of Shuckster'sRanch--one of the biggest in Petalumy. I was a rich man until a yearago, when Jim got inter trouble. What with mortgages and interest, payin' up Jim's friends and buying off some ez was set agin him, tharain't much left, and when I've settled that bill for the schooner lyingoff the Heads there I reckon I'm about played out. But I've allus ashanty at Petalumy, and mebbe when things is froze over and Jim getsback--you'll come and see him--for you ain't seen him at his best. " "I suppose his wife and children go with him?" said Breeze. "No! He's agin it, and wants them to come later. But that's all right, for you see she kin go back to their own house at the Mission, now thatthe Vigilants are givin' up shadderin' it. So long, Mr. Breeze! We'restartin' afore daylight. Sorry you didn't see Jim in condition. " He grasped Breeze's hand warmly and slipped out of the door softly. Foran instant Mr. Breeze felt inclined to follow him into the room and makea kinder adieu to the pair, but the reflection that he might embarrassthe wife, who, it would seem, had purposely avoided accompanying herhusband when he entered, withheld him. And for the last few minutes hehad been doubtful if he had any right to pose as her friend. Beside thedevotion of the man who had just left him, his own scant kindness to herchildren seemed ridiculous. He went to bed, but tossed uneasily until he fancied he heard stealthyfootsteps outside his door and in the passage. Even then he thought ofgetting up, dressing, and going out to bid farewell to the fugitives. But even while he was thinking of it he fell asleep and did not wakeuntil the sun was shining in at his windows. He sprang to his feet, threw on his dressing-gown, and peered into thepassage. Everything was silent. He stepped outside--the light streamedinto the hall from the open doors and windows of both rooms--the floorwas empty; not a trace of the former occupants remained. He was turningback when his eye fell upon the battered wooden doll set upright againsthis doorjamb, holding stiffly in its jointed arms a bit of paper foldedlike a note. Opening it, he found a few lines written in pencil. God bless you for your kindness to us, and try to forgive me fortouching your papers. But I thought that you would detect it, know WHY Idid it, and then help us, as you did! Good-by! MAMIE BODINE. Mr. Breeze laid down the paper with a slight accession of color, as ifits purport had been ironical. How little had he done compared to thedevotion of this delicate woman or the sacrifices of that rough friend!How deserted looked this nest under the eaves, which had so long borneits burden of guilt, innocence, shame, and suffering! For many daysafterwards he avoided it except at night, and even then he often foundhimself lying awake to listen to the lost voices of the children. But one evening, a fortnight later, he came upon Roberts in the hall. "Well, " said Breeze, with abrupt directness, "did he get away?" Roberts started, uttered an oath which it is possible the RecordingAngel passed to his credit, and said, "Yes, HE got away all right!" "Why, hasn't his wife joined him?" "No. Never, in this world, I reckon; and if anywhere in the next, Idon't want to go there!" said Roberts furiously. "Is he dead?" "Dead? That kind don't die!" "What do you mean?" Roberts's lips writhed, and then, with a strong effort, he said withdeliberate distinctness, "I mean--that the hound went off with anotherwoman--that--was--in--that schooner, and left that fool Shuckster adriftin the plunger. " "And the wife and children?" "Shuckster sold his shanty at Petaluma to pay their passage to theStates. Good-night!" HOW REUBEN ALLEN "SAW LIFE" IN SAN FRANCISCO The junior partner of the firm of Sparlow & Kane, "Druggists andApothecaries, " of San Francisco, was gazing meditatively out of thecorner of the window of their little shop in Dupont Street. He could seethe dimly lit perspective of the narrow thoroughfare fade off into thelevel sand wastes of Market Street on the one side, and plunge into thehalf-excavated bulk of Telegraph Hill on the other. He could see theglow and hear the rumble of Montgomery Street--the great central avenuefarther down the hill. Above the housetops was spread the warm blanketof sea-fog under which the city was regularly laid to sleep everysummer night to the cool lullaby of the Northwest Trades. It was alreadyhalf-past eleven; footsteps on the wooden pavement were getting rarerand more remote; the last cart had rumbled by; the shutters were upalong the street; the glare of his own red and blue jars was the onlybeacon left to guide the wayfarers. Ordinarily he would have been goinghome at this hour, when his partner, who occupied the surgery and asmall bedroom at the rear of the shop, always returned to relieve him. That night, however, a professional visit would detain the "Doctor"until half-past twelve. There was still an hour to wait. He felt drowsy;the mysterious incense of the shop, that combined essence of drugs, spice, scented soap, and orris root--which always reminded him of theArabian Nights--was affecting him. He yawned, and then, turning away, passed behind the counter, took down a jar labeled "Glycyrr. Glabra, "selected a piece of Spanish licorice, and meditatively sucked it. Not receiving from it that diversion and sustenance he apparently wasseeking, he also visited, in an equally familiar manner, a jar marked"Jujubes, " and returned ruminatingly to his previous position. If I have not in this incident sufficiently established the youthfulnessof the junior partner, I may add briefly that he was just nineteen, thathe had early joined the emigration to California, and after one or twoprevious light-hearted essays at other occupations, for which he wassingularly unfitted, he had saved enough to embark on his presentventure, still less suited to his temperament. In those adventurous daystrades and vocations were not always filled by trained workmen; it wasextremely probable that the experienced chemist was already making hissuccess as a gold-miner, with a lawyer and a physician for his partners, and Mr. Kane's inexperienced position was by no means a novel one. Aslight knowledge of Latin as a written language, an American schoolboy'sacquaintance with chemistry and natural philosophy, were deemedsufficient by his partner, a regular physician, for practicalcooperation in the vending of drugs and putting up of prescriptions. Heknew the difference between acids and alkalies and the peculiar resultswhich attended their incautious combination. But he was excessivelydeliberate, painstaking, and cautious. The legend which adorned the deskat the counter, "Physicians' prescriptions carefully prepared, " was morethan usually true as regarded the adverb. There was no danger of hispoisoning anybody through haste or carelessness, but it was possiblethat an urgent "case" might have succumbed to the disease while he wasputting up the remedy. Nor was his caution entirely passive. In thosedays the "heroic" practice of medicine was in keeping with the abnormaldevelopment of the country; there were "record" doses of calomeland quinine, and he had once or twice incurred the fury of localpractitioners by sending back their prescriptions with a modest query. The far-off clatter of carriage wheels presently arrested his attention;looking down the street, he could see the lights of a hackney carriageadvancing towards him. They had already flashed upon the open crossinga block beyond before his vague curiosity changed into an activeinstinctive presentiment that they were coming to the shop. He withdrewto a more becoming and dignified position behind the counter as thecarriage drew up with a jerk before the door. The driver rolled from his box and opened the carriage door to a womanwhom he assisted, between some hysterical exclamations on her part andsome equally incoherent explanations of his own, into the shop. Kane sawat a glance that both were under the influence of liquor, and one, thewoman, was disheveled and bleeding about the head. Yet she was elegantlydressed and evidently en fete, with one or two "tricolor" knots andribbons mingled with her finery. Her golden hair, matted and darkenedwith blood, had partly escaped from her French bonnet and hung heavilyover her shoulders. The driver, who was supporting her roughly, and witha familiarity that was part of the incongruous spectacle, was the firstto speak. "Madame le Blank! ye know! Got cut about the head down at the feteat South Park! Tried to dance upon the table, and rolled over on somechampagne bottles. See? Wants plastering up!" "Ah brute! Hog! Nozzing of ze kine! Why will you lie? I dance! Zecowards, fools, traitors zere upset ze table and I fall. I am cut! Ah, my God, how I am cut!" She stopped suddenly and lapsed heavily against the counter. At whichKane hurried around to support her into the surgery with the onefixed idea in his bewildered mind of getting her out of the shop, and, suggestively, into the domain and under the responsibility of hispartner. The hackman, apparently relieved and washing his hands of anyfurther complicity in the matter, nodded and smiled, and saying, "Ireckon I'll wait outside, pardner, " retreated incontinently to hisvehicle. To add to Kane's half-ludicrous embarrassment the fairpatient herself slightly resisted his support, accused the hackman of"abandoning her, " and demanded if Kane knew "zee reason of zees affair, "yet she presently lapsed again into the large reclining-chair whichhe had wheeled forward, with open mouth, half-shut eyes, and a strangePierrette mask of face, combined of the pallor of faintness and chalk, and the rouge of paint and blood. At which Kane's cautiousness againembarrassed him. A little brandy from the bottle labeled "Vini Galli"seemed to be indicated, but his inexperience could not determine if herrelaxation was from bloodlessness or the reacting depression of alcohol. In this dilemma he chose a medium course, with aromatic spirits ofammonia, and mixing a diluted quantity in a measuring-glass, pouredit between her white lips. A start, a struggle, a cough--a volleyof imprecatory French, and the knocking of the glass from hishand followed--but she came to! He quickly sponged her head of thehalf-coagulated blood, and removed a few fragments of glass from a longlaceration of the scalp. The shock of the cold water and the appearanceof the ensanguined basin frightened her into a momentary passivity. Butwhen Kane found it necessary to cut her hair in the region of the woundin order to apply the adhesive plaster, she again endeavored to rise andgrasp the scissors. "You'll bleed to death if you're not quiet, " said the young man withdogged gravity. Something in his manner impressed her into silence again. He cut wholelocks away ruthlessly; he was determined to draw the edges of the woundtogether with the strip of plaster and stop the bleeding--if he croppedthe whole head. His excessive caution for her physical condition didnot extend to her superficial adornment. Her yellow tresses lay on thefloor, her neck and shoulders were saturated with water from the spongewhich he continually applied, until the heated strips of plaster hadclosed the wound almost hermetically. She whimpered, tears ran down hercheeks; but so long as it was not blood the young man was satisfied. In the midst of it he heard the shop door open, and presently the soundof rapping on the counter. Another customer! Mr. Kane called out, "Wait a moment, " and continued his ministrations. After a pause the rapping recommenced. Kane was just securing the laststrip of plaster and preserved a preoccupied silence. Then the door flewopen abruptly and a figure appeared impatiently on the threshold. It wasthat of a miner recently returned from the gold diggings--so recentlythat he evidently had not had time to change his clothes at his adjacenthotel, and stood there in his high boots, duck trousers, and flannelshirt, over which his coat was slung like a hussar's jacket from hisshoulder. Kane would have uttered an indignant protest at the intrusion, had not the intruder himself as quickly recoiled with an astonishmentand contrition that was beyond the effect of any reproval. He literallygasped at the spectacle before him. A handsomely dressed woman recliningin a chair; lace and jewelry and ribbons depending from her saturatedshoulders; tresses of golden hair filling her lap and lying on thefloor; a pail of ruddy water and a sponge at her feet, and a paleyoung man bending over her head with a spirit lamp and strips of yellowplaster! "'Scuse me, pard! I was just dropping in; don't you hurry! I kin wait, "he stammered, falling back, and then the door closed abruptly behindhim. Kane gathered up the shorn locks, wiped the face and neck of his patientwith a clean towel and his own handkerchief, threw her gorgeous operacloak over her shoulders, and assisted her to rise. She did so, weaklybut obediently; she was evidently stunned and cowed in some mysteriousway by his material attitude, perhaps, or her sudden realization of herposition; at least the contrast between her aggressive entrance intothe shop and her subdued preparation for her departure was so remarkablethat it affected even Kane's preoccupation. "There, " he said, slightly relaxing his severe demeanor with anencouraging smile, "I think this will do; we've stopped the bleeding. Itwill probably smart a little as the plaster sets closer. I can send mypartner, Dr. Sparlow, to you in the morning. " She looked at him curiously and with a strange smile. "And zees DoctorSparrlow--eez he like you, M'sieu?" "He is older, and very well known, " said the young man seriously. "I cansafely recommend him. " "Ah, " she repeated, with a pensive smile which made Kane think her quitepretty. "Ah--he ez older--your Doctor Sparrlow--but YOU are strong, M'sieu. " "And, " said Kane vaguely, "he will tell you what to do. " "Ah, " she repeated again softly, with the same smile, "he will tell mewhat to do if I shall not know myself. Dat ez good. " Kane had already wrapped her shorn locks in a piece of spotless whitepaper and tied it up with narrow white ribbon in the dainty fashion dearto druggists' clerks. As he handed it to her she felt in her pocket andproduced a handful of gold. "What shall I pay for zees, M'sieu?" Kane reddened a little--solely because of his slow arithmeticalfaculties. Adhesive plaster was cheap--he would like to have chargedproportionately for the exact amount he had used; but the division wasbeyond him! And he lacked the trader's instinct. "Twenty-five cents, I think, " he hazarded briefly. She started, but smiled again. "Twenty-five cents for all zees--zemedicine, ze strips for ze head, ze hair cut"--she glanced at the paperparcel he had given her--"it is only twenty-five cents?" "That's all. " He selected from her outstretched palm, with some difficulty, theexact amount, the smallest coin it held. She again looked at himcuriously--half confusedly--and moved slowly into the shop. The miner, who was still there, retreated as before with a gaspingly apologeticgesture--even flattening himself against the window to give her sweepingsilk flounces freer passage. As she passed into the street with a"Merci, M'sieu, good a'night, " and the hackman started from the vehicleto receive her, the miner drew a long breath, and bringing his fist downupon the counter, ejaculated, -- "B'gosh! She's a stunner!" Kane, a good deal relieved at her departure and the success of hisministration, smiled benignly. The stranger again stared after the retreating carriage, looked aroundthe shop, and even into the deserted surgery, and approached thecounter confidentially. "Look yer, pardner. I kem straight from St. Jo, Mizzorri, to Gold Hill--whar I've got a claim--and I reckon this is thefirst time I ever struck San Francisker. I ain't up to towny ways nohow, and I allow that mebbe I'm rather green. So we'll let that pass! Nowlook yer!" he added, leaning over the counter with still deeper and evenmysterious confidence, "I suppose this yer kind o' thing is the regulargo here, eh? nothin' new to YOU! in course no! But to me, pard, it'sjust fetchin' me! Lifts me clear outer my boots every time! Why, when Ipopped into that thar room, and saw that lady--all gold, furbelows, and spangles--at twelve o'clock at night, sittin' in that cheer and youa-cuttin' her h'r and swabbin' her head o' blood, and kinder prospectin'for 'indications, ' so to speak, and doin' it so kam and indifferentlike, I sez to myself, 'Rube, Rube, ' sez I, 'this yer's life! city life!San Francisker life! and b'gosh, you've dropped into it! Now, pard, lookyar! don't you answer, ye know, ef it ain't square and above board forme to know; I ain't askin' you to give the show away, ye know, in thematter of high-toned ladies like that, but" (very mysteriously, andsinking his voice to the lowest confidential pitch, as he put hishand to his ear as if to catch the hushed reply), "what mout hev binhappening, pard?" Considerably amused at the man's simplicity, Kane repliedgood-humoredly: "Danced among some champagne bottles on a table at aparty, fell and got cut by glass. " The stranger nodded his head slowly and approvingly as he repeated withinfinite deliberateness: "Danced on champagne bottles, champagne! yousaid, pard? at a pahty! Yes!" (musingly and approvingly). "I reckonthat's about the gait they take. SHE'D do it. " "Is there anything I can do for you? sorry to have kept you waiting, "said Kane, glancing at the clock. "O ME! Lord! ye needn't mind me. Why, I should wait for anythin' o' thelike o' that, and be just proud to do it! And ye see, I sorter helpedmyself while you war busy. " "Helped yourself?" said Kane in astonishment. "Yes, outer that bottle. " He pointed to the ammonia bottle, which stillstood on the counter. "It seemed to be handy and popular. " "Man! you might have poisoned yourself. " The stranger paused a moment at the idea. "So I mout, I reckon, " he saidmusingly, "that's so! pizined myself jest ez you was lookin' arter thathigh-toned case, and kinder bothered you! It's like me!" "I mean it required diluting; you ought to have taken it in water, " saidKane. "I reckon! It DID sorter h'ist me over to the door for a little freshair at first! seemed rayther scaldy to the lips. But wot of it that GOTTHAR, " he put his hand gravely to his stomach, "did me pow'ful good. " "What was the matter with you?" asked Kane. "Well, ye see, pard" (confidentially again), "I reckon it's suthin'along o' my heart. Times it gets to poundin' away like a quartz stamp, and then it stops suddent like, and kinder leaves ME out too. " Kane looked at him more attentively. He was a strong, powerfully builtman with a complexion that betrayed nothing more serious thanthe effects of mining cookery. It was evidently a common case ofindigestion. "I don't say it would not have done you some good if properlyadministered, " he replied. "If you like I'll put up a diluted quantityand directions?" "That's me, every time, pardner!" said the stranger with an accent ofrelief. "And look yer, don't you stop at that! Ye just put me up somesamples like of anythin' you think mout be likely to hit. I'll go in fora fair show, and then meander in every now and then, betwixt times, tolet you know. Ye don't mind my drifting in here, do ye? It's about ezlikely a place ez I struck since I've left the Sacramento boat, and myhotel, just round the corner. Ye just sample me a bit o' everythin';don't mind the expense. I'll take YOUR word for it. The way you--ayoung fellow--jest stuck to your work in thar, cool and kam as awoodpecker--not minding how high-toned she was--nor the jewelery andspangles she had on--jest got me! I sez to myself, 'Rube, ' sez I, 'whatever's wrong o' YOUR insides, you jest stick to that feller to setye right. '" The junior partner's face reddened as he turned to his shelvesostensibly for consultation. Conscious of his inexperience, the homelypraise of even this ignorant man was not ungrateful. He felt, too, that his treatment of the Frenchwoman, though successful, might not beconsidered remunerative from a business point of view by his partner. Heaccordingly acted upon the suggestion of the stranger and put up two orthree specifics for dyspepsia. They were received with grateful alacrityand the casual display of considerable gold in the stranger's pocket inthe process of payment. He was evidently a successful miner. After bestowing the bottles carefully about his person, he againleaned confidentially towards Kane. "I reckon of course you know thishigh-toned lady, being in the way of seein' that kind o' folks. Isuppose you won't mind telling me, ez a stranger. But" (he addedhastily, with a deprecatory wave of his hand), "perhaps ye would. " Mr. Kane, in fact, had hesitated. He knew vaguely and by report thatMadame le Blanc was the proprietress of a famous restaurant, over whichshe had rooms where private gambling was carried on to a great extent. It was also alleged that she was protected by a famous gambler and asomewhat notorious bully. Mr. Kane's caution suggested that he had noright to expose the reputation of his chance customer. He was silent. The stranger's face became intensely sympathetic and apologetic. "Isee!--not another word, pard! It ain't the square thing to be givin'her away, and I oughtn't to hev asked. Well--so long! I reckon I'll jestdrift back to the hotel. I ain't been in San Francisker mor' 'n threehours, and I calkilate, pard, that I've jest seen about ez square asample of high-toned life as fellers ez haz bin here a year. Well, hastermanyanner--ez the Greasers say. I'll be droppin' in to-morrow. Myname's Reuben Allen o' Mariposa. I know yours; it's on the sign, and itain't Sparlow. " He cast another lingering glance around the shop, as if loath to leaveit, and then slowly sauntered out of the door, pausing in the street amoment, in the glare of the red light, before he faded into darkness. Without knowing exactly why, Kane had an instinct that the stranger knewno one in San Francisco, and after leaving the shop was going into uttersilence and obscurity. A few moments later Dr. Sparlow returned to relieve his wearied partner. A pushing, active man, he listened impatiently to Kane's account of hisyouthful practice with Madame le Blanc, without, however, dwelling muchon his methods. "You ought to have charged her more, " the elder saiddecisively. "She'd have paid it. She only came here because she wasashamed to go to a big shop in Montgomery Street--and she won't comeagain. " "But she wants you to see her to-morrow, " urged Kane, "and I told heryou would!" "You say it was only a superficial cut?" queried the doctor, "andyou closed it? Umph! what can she want to see ME for?" He paid moreattention, however, to the case of the stranger, Allen. "When he comeshere again, manage to let me see him. " Mr. Kane promised, yet for someindefinable reason he went home that night not quite as well satisfiedwith himself. He was much more concerned the next morning when, after relieving thedoctor for his regular morning visits, he was startled an hour laterby the abrupt return of that gentleman. His face was marked by someexcitement and anxiety, which nevertheless struggled with that senseof the ludicrous which Californians in those days imported into mostsituations of perplexity or catastrophe. Putting his hands deeply intohis trousers pockets, he confronted his youthful partner behind thecounter. "How much did you charge that French-woman?" he said gravely. "Twenty-five cents, " said Kane timidly. "Well, I'd give it back and add two hundred and fifty dollars if she hadnever entered the shop. " "What's the matter?" "Her head will be--and a mass of it, in a day, I reckon! Why, man, youput enough plaster on it to clothe and paper the dome of the Capitol!You drew her scalp together so that she couldn't shut her eyes withoutclimbing up the bed-post! You mowed her hair off so that she'll have towear a wig for the next two years--and handed it to her in a beau-ti-fulsealed package! They talk of suing me and killing you out of hand. " "She was bleeding a great deal and looked faint, " said the juniorpartner; "I thought I ought to stop that. " "And you did--by thunder! Though it might have been better businessfor the shop if I'd found her a crumbling ruin here, than lathed andplastered in this fashion, over there! However, " he added, with a laugh, seeing an angry light in his junior partner's eye, "SHE don't seem tomind it--the cursing all comes from THEM. SHE rather likes your styleand praises it--that's what gets me! Did you talk to her much, " headded, looking critically at his partner. "I only told her to sit still or she'd bleed to death, " said Kanecurtly. "Humph!--she jabbered something about your being 'strong' and knowingjust how to handle her. Well, it can't be helped now. I think I came intime for the worst of it and have drawn their fire. Don't do it again. The next time a woman with a cut head and long hair tackles you, fillup her scalp with lint and tannin, and pack her off to some of the bigshops and make THEM pick it out. " And with a good-humored nod he startedoff to finish his interrupted visits. With a vague sense of remorse, and yet a consciousness of some injusticedone him, Mr. Kane resumed his occupation with filters and funnels, andmortars and triturations. He was so gloomily preoccupied that he didnot, as usual, glance out of the window, or he would have observed themining stranger of the previous night before it. It was not until theman's bowed shoulders blocked the light of the doorway that he looked upand recognized him. Kane was in no mood to welcome his appearance. Hispresence, too, actively recalled the last night's adventure of which hewas a witness--albeit a sympathizing one. Kane shrank from the illusionswhich he felt he would be sure to make. And with his present ill luck, he was by no means sure that his ministrations even to HIM had been anymore successful than they had been to the Frenchwoman. But a glanceat his good-humored face and kindling eyes removed that suspicion. Nevertheless, he felt somewhat embarrassed and impatient, and perhapscould not entirely conceal it. He forgot that the rudest natures aresometimes the most delicately sensitive to slights, and the stranger hadnoticed his manner and began apologetically. "I allowed I'd just drop in anyway to tell ye that these thar pills yougiv' me did me a heap o' good so far--though mebbe it's only fair togive the others a show too, which I'm reckoning to do. " He paused, andthen in a submissive confidence went on: "But first I wanted to hev youexcuse me for havin' asked all them questions about that high-toned ladylast night, when it warn't none of my business. I am a darned fool. " Mr. Kane instantly saw that it was no use to keep up his attitude ofsecrecy, or impose upon the ignorant, simple man, and said hurriedly:"Oh no. The lady is very well known. She is the proprietress of arestaurant down the street--a house open to everybody. Her name isMadame le Blanc; you may have heard of her before?" To his surprise the man exhibited no diminution of interest nor changeof sentiment at this intelligence. "Then, " he said slowly, "I reckon Imight get to see her again. Ye see, Mr. Kane, I rather took a fancy toher general style and gait--arter seein' her in that fix last night. Itwas rather like them play pictures on the stage. Ye don't think she'dmake any fuss to seein' a rough old 'forty-niner' like me?" "Hardly, " said Kane, "but there might be some objection from hergentlemen friends, " he added, with a smile, --"Jack Lane, a gambler, whokeeps a faro bank in her rooms, and Jimmy O'Ryan, a prize-fighter, whois one of her 'chuckers out. '" His further relation of Madame le Blanc's entourage apparently gave theminer no concern. He looked at Kane, nodded, and repeated slowlyand appreciatively: "Yes, keeps a gamblin' and faro bank and aprize-fighter--I reckon that might be about her gait and style too. Andyou say she lives"-- He stopped, for at this moment a man entered the shop quickly, shut thedoor behind him, and turned the key in the lock. It was done so quicklythat Kane instinctively felt that the man had been loitering in thevicinity and had approached from the side street. A single glance at theintruder's face and figure showed him that it was the bully of whomhe had just spoken. He had seen that square, brutal face once before, confronting the police in a riot, and had not forgotten it. But today, with the flush of liquor on it, it had an impatient awkwardness andconfused embarrassment that he could not account for. He did notcomprehend that the genuine bully is seldom deliberate of attack, andis obliged--in common with many of the combative lower animals--to lashhimself into a previous fury of provocation. This probably saved him, asperhaps some instinctive feeling that he was in no immediate danger kepthim cool. He remained standing quietly behind the counter. Allen glancedaround carelessly, looking at the shelves. The silence of the two men apparently increased the ruffian's rage andembarrassment. Suddenly he leaped into the air with a whoop andclumsily executed a negro double shuffle on the floor, which jarred theglasses--yet was otherwise so singularly ineffective and void of purposethat he stopped in the midst of it and had to content himself withglaring at Kane. "Well, " said Kane quietly, "what does all this mean? What do you wanthere?" "What does it mean?" repeated the bully, finding his voice in a highfalsetto, designed to imitate Kane's. "It means I'm going to play merryh-ll with this shop! It means I'm goin' to clean it out and the blankhair-cuttin' blank that keeps it. What do I want here? Well--what I wantI intend to help myself to, and all h-ll can't stop me! And" (workinghimself to the striking point) "who the blank are you to ask me?" Hesprang towards the counter, but at the same moment Allen seemed toslip almost imperceptibly and noiselessly between them, and Kane foundhimself confronted only by the miner's broad back. "Hol' yer hosses, stranger, " said Allen slowly, as the ruffian suddenlycollided with his impassive figure. "I'm a sick man comin' in yer formedicine. I've got somethin' wrong with my heart, and goin's on likethis yer kinder sets it to thumpin'. " "Blank you and your blank heart!" screamed the bully, turning in a furyof amazement and contempt at this impotent interruption. "Who"--but hisvoice stopped. Allen's powerful right arm had passed over his head andshoulders like a steel hoop, and pinioned his elbows against his sides. Held rigidly upright, he attempted to kick, but Allen's right leg hereadvanced, and firmly held his lower limbs against the counter that shookto his struggles and blasphemous outcries. Allen turned quietly to Kane, and, with a gesture of his unemployed arm, said confidentially: "Would ye mind passing me down that ar Romantic Spirits of Ammonyer yegave me last night?" Kane caught the idea, and handed him the bottle. "Thar, " said Allen, taking out the stopper and holding the pungentspirit against the bully's dilated nostrils and vociferous mouth, "thar, smell that, and taste it, it will do ye good; it was powerful kammin' toME last night. " The ruffian gasped, coughed, choked, but his blaspheming voice died awayin a suffocating hiccough. "Thar, " continued Allen, as his now subdued captive relaxed hisstruggling, "ye 'r' better, and so am I. It's quieter here now, and yeain't affectin' my heart so bad. A little fresh air will make us bothall right. " He turned again to Kane in his former subdued confidentialmanner. "Would ye mind openin' that door?" Kane flew to the door, unlocked it, and held it wide open. The bullyagain began to struggle, but a second inhalation of the hartshornquelled him, and enabled his captor to drag him to the door. As theyemerged upon the sidewalk, the bully, with a final desperate struggle, freed his arm and grasped his pistol at his hip-pocket, but at the samemoment Allen deliberately caught his hand, and with a powerful sidethrow cast him on the pavement, retaining the weapon in his own hand. "I've one of my own, " he said to the prostrate man, "but I reckon I'llkeep this yer too, until you're better. " The crowd that had collected quickly, recognizing the notorious anddiscomfited bully, were not of a class to offer him any sympathy, and heslunk away followed by their jeers. Allen returned quietly to theshop. Kane was profuse in his thanks, and yet oppressed with his simplefriend's fatuous admiration for a woman who could keep such ruffians inher employ. "You know who that man was, I suppose?" he said. "I reckon it was that 'er prize-fighter belongin' to that high-tonedlady, " returned Allen simply. "But he don't know anything aboutRASTLIN', b'gosh; only that I was afraid o' bringin' on that hearttrouble, I mout hev hurt him bad. " "They think"--hesitated Kane, "that--I--was rough in my treatmentof that woman and maliciously cut off her hair. This attack wasrevenge--or"--he hesitated still more, as he remembered Dr. Sparlow'sindication of the woman's feeling--"or that bully's idea of revenge. " "I see, " nodded Allen, opening his small sympathetic eyes on Kane withan exasperating air of secrecy--"just jealousy. " Kane reddened in sheer hopelessness of explanation. "No; it was earninghis wages, as he thought. " "Never ye mind, pard, " said Allen confidentially. "I'll set 'emboth right. Ye see, this sorter gives me a show to call at that tharrestaurant and give HIM back his six-shooter, and set her on the righttrail for you. Why, Lordy! I was here when you was fixin' her--I'mtestimony o' the way you did it--and she'll remember me. I'll sorterwaltz round thar this afternoon. But I reckon I won't be keepin' YOUfrom your work any longer. And look yar!--I say, pard!--this is seein'life in 'Frisco--ain't it? Gosh! I've had more high times in this veryshop in two days, than I've had in two years of St. Jo. So long, Mr. Kane!" He waved his hand, lounged slowly out of the shop, gave a partingglance up the street, passed the window, and was gone. The next day being a half-holiday for Kane, he did not reach the shopuntil afternoon. "Your mining friend Allen has been here, " said DoctorSparlow. "I took the liberty of introducing myself, and induced him tolet me carefully examine him. He was a little shy, and I am sorry forit, as I fear he has some serious organic trouble with his heart andought to have a more thorough examination. " Seeing Kane's unaffectedconcern, he added, "You might influence him to do so. He's a good fellowand ought to take some care of himself. By the way, he told me to tellyou that he'd seen Madame le Blanc and made it all right about you. Heseems to be quite infatuated with the woman. " "I'm sorry he ever saw her, " said Kane bitterly. "Well, his seeing her seems to have saved the shop from being smashedup, and you from getting a punched head, " returned the Doctor with alaugh. "He's no fool--yet it's a freak of human nature that a simplehayseed like that--a man who's lived in the backwoods all his life, islikely to be the first to tumble before a pot of French rouge like her. " Indeed, in a couple of weeks, there was no further doubt of Mr. ReubenAllen's infatuation. He dropped into the shop frequently on his way toand from the restaurant, where he now regularly took his meals; he spenthis evenings in gambling in its private room. Yet Kane was by no meanssure that he was losing his money there unfairly, or that he was usedas a pigeon by the proprietress and her friends. The bully O'Ryan wasturned away; Sparlow grimly suggested that Allen had simply taken hisplace, but Kane ingeniously retorted that the Doctor was only piquedbecause Allen had evaded his professional treatment. Certainly thepatient had never consented to another examination, although herepeatedly and gravely bought medicines, and was a generous customer. Once or twice Kane thought it his duty to caution Allen against his newfriends and enlighten him as to Madame le Blanc's reputation, but hissuggestions were received with a good-humored submission that was eitherthe effect of unbelief or of perfect resignation to the fact, and hedesisted. One morning Dr. Sparlow said cheerfully:-- "Would you like to hear the last thing about your friend and theFrenchwoman? The boys can't account for her singling out a fellow likethat for her friend, so they say that the night that she cut herself atthe fete and dropped in here for assistance, she found nobody here butAllen--a chance customer! That it was HE who cut off her hair and boundup her wounds in that sincere fashion, and she believed he had saved herlife. " The Doctor grinned maliciously as he added: "And as that's theway history is written you see your reputation is safe. " It may have been a month later that San Francisco was thrown into aparoxysm of horror and indignation over the assassination of a prominentcitizen and official in the gambling-rooms of Madame le Blanc, at thehands of a notorious gambler. The gambler had escaped, but in oneof those rare spasms of vengeful morality which sometimes overtakescommunities who have too long winked at and suffered the existence ofevil, the fair proprietress and her whole entourage were arrested andhaled before the coroner's jury at the inquest. The greatest excitementprevailed; it was said that if the jury failed in their duty, the Vigilance Committee had arranged for the destruction of theestablishment and the deportation of its inmates. The crowd that hadcollected around the building was reinforced by Kane and Dr. Sparlow, who had closed their shop in the next block to attend. When Kane hadfought his way into the building and the temporary court, held in thesplendidly furnished gambling saloon, whose gilded mirrors reflected theeager faces of the crowd, the Chief of Police was giving his testimonyin a formal official manner, impressive only for its relentlessand impassive revelation of the character and antecedents of theproprietress. The house had been long under the espionage of the police;Madame le Blanc had a dozen aliases; she was "wanted" in New Orleans, in New York, in Havana! It was in HER house that Dyer, the bank clerk, committed suicide; it was there that Colonel Hooley was set upon by herbully, O'Ryan; it was she--Kane heard with reddening cheeks--who defiedthe police with riotous conduct at a fete two months ago. As he coollyrecited the counts of this shameful indictment, Kane looked eagerlyaround for Allen, whom he knew had been arrested as a witness. How wouldHE take this terrible disclosure? He was sitting with the others, hisarm thrown over the back of his chair, and his good-humored face turnedtowards the woman, in his old confidential attitude. SHE, gorgeouslydressed, painted, but unblushing, was cool, collected, and cynical. The Coroner next called the only witness of the actual tragedy, "ReubenAllen. " The man did not move nor change his position. The summons wasrepeated; a policeman touched him on the shoulder. There was a pause, and the officer announced: "He has fainted, your Honor!" "Is there a physician present?" asked the Coroner. Sparlow edged his way quickly to the front. "I'm a medical man, " he saidto the Coroner, as he passed quickly to the still, upright, immovablefigure and knelt beside it with his head upon his heart. There was anawed silence as, after a pause, he rose slowly to his feet. "The witness is a patient, your Honor, whom I examined some weeks agoand found suffering from valvular disease of the heart. He is dead. " THREE VAGABONDS OF TRINIDAD "Oh! it's you, is it?" said the Editor. The Chinese boy to whom the colloquialism was addressed answeredliterally, after his habit:-- "Allee same Li Tee; me no changee. Me no ollee China boy. " "That's so, " said the Editor with an air of conviction. "I don't supposethere's another imp like you in all Trinidad County. Well, next timedon't scratch outside there like a gopher, but come in. " "Lass time, " suggested Li Tee blandly, "me tap tappee. You no like taptappee. You say, alle same dam woodpeckel. " It was quite true--the highly sylvan surroundings of the Trinidad"Sentinel" office--a little clearing in a pine forest--and its attendantfauna, made these signals confusing. An accurate imitation of awoodpecker was also one of Li Tee's accomplishments. The Editor without replying finished the note he was writing; at whichLi Tee, as if struck by some coincident recollection, lifted up his longsleeve, which served him as a pocket, and carelessly shook out a letteron the table like a conjuring trick. The Editor, with a reproachfulglance at him, opened it. It was only the ordinary request of anagricultural subscriber--one Johnson--that the Editor would "notice" agiant radish grown by the subscriber and sent by the bearer. "Where's the radish, Li Tee?" said the Editor suspiciously. "No hab got. Ask Mellikan boy. " "What?" Here Li Tee condescended to explain that on passing the schoolhouse hehad been set upon by the schoolboys, and that in the struggle the bigradish--being, like most such monstrosities of the quick Californiansoil, merely a mass of organized water--was "mashed" over the head ofsome of his assailants. The Editor, painfully aware of these regularpersecutions of his errand boy, and perhaps realizing that a radishwhich could not be used as a bludgeon was not of a sustaining nature, forebore any reproof. "But I cannot notice what I haven't seen, Li Tee, "he said good-humoredly. "S'pose you lie--allee same as Johnson, " suggested Li with equalcheerfulness. "He foolee you with lotten stuff--you foolee Mellikan man, allee same. " The Editor preserved a dignified silence until he had addressed hisletter. "Take this to Mrs. Martin, " he said, handing it to the boy; "andmind you keep clear of the schoolhouse. Don't go by the Flat either ifthe men are at work, and don't, if you value your skin, pass Flanigan'sshanty, where you set off those firecrackers and nearly burnt him outthe other day. Look out for Barker's dog at the crossing, and keepoff the main road if the tunnel men are coming over the hill. " Thenremembering that he had virtually closed all the ordinary approaches toMrs. Martin's house, he added, "Better go round by the woods, where youwon't meet ANY ONE. " The boy darted off through the open door, and the Editor stood for amoment looking regretfully after him. He liked his little protege eversince that unfortunate child--a waif from a Chinese wash-house--wasimpounded by some indignant miners for bringing home a highly imperfectand insufficient washing, and kept as hostage for a more properreturn of the garments. Unfortunately, another gang of miners, equallyaggrieved, had at the same time looted the wash-house and driven off theoccupants, so that Li Tee remained unclaimed. For a few weeks hebecame a sporting appendage of the miners' camp; the stolid buttof good-humored practical jokes, the victim alternately of carelessindifference or of extravagant generosity. He received kicks andhalf-dollars intermittently, and pocketed both with stoical fortitude. But under this treatment he presently lost the docility and frugalitywhich was part of his inheritance, and began to put his small witsagainst his tormentors, until they grew tired of their own mischief andhis. But they knew not what to do with him. His pretty nankeen-yellowskin debarred him from the white "public school, " while, although asa heathen he might have reasonably claimed attention from theSabbath-school, the parents who cheerfully gave their contributions tothe heathen ABROAD, objected to him as a companion of their children inthe church at home. At this juncture the Editor offered to take himinto his printing office as a "devil. " For a while he seemed to beendeavoring, in his old literal way, to act up to that title. He inkedeverything but the press. He scratched Chinese characters of an abusiveimport on "leads, " printed them, and stuck them about the office; he put"punk" in the foreman's pipe, and had been seen to swallow small typemerely as a diabolical recreation. As a messenger he was fleet of foot, but uncertain of delivery. Some time previously the Editor had enlistedthe sympathies of Mrs. Martin, the good-natured wife of a farmer, totake him in her household on trial, but on the third day Li Tee hadrun away. Yet the Editor had not despaired, and it was to urge her to asecond attempt that he dispatched that letter. He was still gazing abstractedly into the depths of the wood when he wasconscious of a slight movement--but no sound--in a clump of hazel nearhim, and a stealthy figure glided from it. He at once recognized it as"Jim, " a well-known drunken Indian vagrant of the settlement--tiedto its civilization by the single link of "fire water, " for which heforsook equally the Reservation where it was forbidden and his own campswhere it was unknown. Unconscious of his silent observer, he droppedupon all fours, with his ear and nose alternately to the ground likesome tracking animal. Then having satisfied himself, he rose, andbending forward in a dogged trot, made a straight line for the woods. He was followed a few seconds later by his dog--a slinking, rough, wolf-like brute, whose superior instinct, however, made him detect thesilent presence of some alien humanity in the person of the Editor, andto recognize it with a yelp of habit, anticipatory of the stone that heknew was always thrown at him. "That's cute, " said a voice, "but it's just what I expected all along. " The Editor turned quickly. His foreman was standing behind him, and hadevidently noticed the whole incident. "It's what I allus said, " continued the man. "That boy and that Injinare thick as thieves. Ye can't see one without the other--and they'vegot their little tricks and signals by which they follow each other. T'other day when you was kalkilatin' Li Tee was doin' your errands Itracked him out on the marsh, just by followin' that ornery, pizenous dog o' Jim's. There was the whole caboodle of 'em--includingJim--campin' out, and eatin' raw fish that Jim had ketched, and greenstuff they had both sneaked outer Johnson's garden. Mrs. Martin may TAKEhim, but she won't keep him long while Jim's round. What makes Li follerthat blamed old Injin soaker, and what makes Jim, who, at least, is a'Merican, take up with a furrin' heathen, just gets me. " The Editor did not reply. He had heard something of this before. Yet, after all, why should not these equal outcasts of civilization clingtogether! ***** Li Tee's stay with Mrs. Martin was brief. His departure was hastened byan untoward event--apparently ushered in, as in the case of othergreat calamities, by a mysterious portent in the sky. One morning anextraordinary bird of enormous dimensions was seen approaching from thehorizon, and eventually began to hover over the devoted town. Carefulscrutiny of this ominous fowl, however, revealed the fact that it was amonstrous Chinese kite, in the shape of a flying dragon. The spectacleimparted considerable liveliness to the community, which, however, presently changed to some concern and indignation. It appeared thatthe kite was secretly constructed by Li Tee in a secluded part of Mrs. Martin's clearing, but when it was first tried by him he found thatthrough some error of design it required a tail of unusual proportions. This he hurriedly supplied by the first means he found--Mrs. Martin'sclothes-line, with part of the weekly wash depending from it. This factwas not at first noticed by the ordinary sightseer, although the tailseemed peculiar--yet, perhaps, not more peculiar than a dragon's tailought to be. But when the actual theft was discovered and reportedthrough the town, a vivacious interest was created, and spy-glasses wereused to identify the various articles of apparel still hanging on thatravished clothes-line. These garments, in the course of their slowdisengagement from the clothes-pins through the gyrations of the kite, impartially distributed themselves over the town--one of Mrs. Martin'sstockings falling upon the veranda of the Polka Saloon, and the otherbeing afterwards discovered on the belfry of the First MethodistChurch--to the scandal of the congregation. It would have been well ifthe result of Li Tee's invention had ended here. Alas! the kite-flyerand his accomplice, "Injin Jim, " were tracked by means of the kite'stell-tale cord to a lonely part of the marsh and rudely dispossessed oftheir charge by Deacon Hornblower and a constable. Unfortunately, the captors overlooked the fact that the kite-flyers had taken theprecaution of making a "half-turn" of the stout cord around a log toease the tremendous pull of the kite--whose power the captors had notreckoned upon--and the Deacon incautiously substituted his own body forthe log. A singular spectacle is said to have then presented itself tothe on-lookers. The Deacon was seen to be running wildly by leaps andbounds over the marsh after the kite, closely followed by the constablein equally wild efforts to restrain him by tugging at the end of theline. The extraordinary race continued to the town until the constablefell, losing his hold of the line. This seemed to impart a singularspecific levity to the Deacon, who, to the astonishment of everybody, incontinently sailed up into a tree! When he was succored and cut downfrom the demoniac kite, he was found to have sustained a dislocationof the shoulder, and the constable was severely shaken. By that oneinfelicitous stroke the two outcasts made an enemy of the Law and theGospel as represented in Trinidad County. It is to be feared also thatthe ordinary emotional instinct of a frontier community, to which theywere now simply abandoned, was as little to be trusted. In this dilemmathey disappeared from the town the next day--no one knew where. Apale blue smoke rising from a lonely island in the bay for some daysafterwards suggested their possible refuge. But nobody greatly cared. The sympathetic mediation of the Editor was characteristically opposedby Mr. Parkin Skinner, a prominent citizen:-- "It's all very well for you to talk sentiment about niggers, Chinamen, and Injins, and you fellers can laugh about the Deacon being snatchedup to heaven like Elijah in that blamed Chinese chariot of a kite--butI kin tell you, gentlemen, that this is a white man's country! Yes, sir, you can't get over it! The nigger of every description--yeller, brown, or black, call him 'Chinese, ' 'Injin, ' or 'Kanaka, ' or whatyou like--hez to clar off of God's footstool when the Anglo-Saxon getsstarted! It stands to reason that they can't live alongside o' printin'presses, M'Cormick's reapers, and the Bible! Yes, sir! the Bible; andDeacon Hornblower kin prove it to you. It's our manifest destiny to clarthem out--that's what we was put here for--and it's just the work we'vegot to do!" I have ventured to quote Mr. Skinner's stirring remarks to show thatprobably Jim and Li Tee ran away only in anticipation of a possiblelynching, and to prove that advanced sentiments of this high andennobling nature really obtained forty years ago in an ordinary Americanfrontier town which did not then dream of Expansion and Empire! Howbeit, Mr. Skinner did not make allowance for mere human nature. One morning Master Bob Skinner, his son, aged twelve, evaded theschoolhouse, and started in an old Indian "dug-out" to invade theisland of the miserable refugees. His purpose was not clearly definedto himself, but was to be modified by circumstances. He would eithercapture Li Tee and Jim, or join them in their lawless existence. Hehad prepared himself for either event by surreptitiously borrowinghis father's gun. He also carried victuals, having heard that Jim ategrasshoppers and Li Tee rats, and misdoubting his own capacity foreither diet. He paddled slowly, well in shore, to be secure fromobservation at home, and then struck out boldly in his leaky canoe forthe island--a tufted, tussocky shred of the marshy promontory torn offin some tidal storm. It was a lovely day, the bay being barely ruffledby the afternoon "trades;" but as he neared the island he came upon theswell from the bar and the thunders of the distant Pacific, and grew alittle frightened. The canoe, losing way, fell into the trough of theswell, shipping salt water, still more alarming to the prairie-bred boy. Forgetting his plan of a stealthy invasion, he shouted lustily as thehelpless and water-logged boat began to drift past the island; at whicha lithe figure emerged from the reeds, threw off a tattered blanket, andslipped noiselessly, like some animal, into the water. It was Jim, who, half wading, half swimming, brought the canoe and boy ashore. MasterSkinner at once gave up the idea of invasion, and concluded to join therefugees. This was easy in his defenceless state, and his manifest delight intheir rude encampment and gypsy life, although he had been one of LiTee's oppressors in the past. But that stolid pagan had a philosophicalindifference which might have passed for Christian forgiveness, andJim's native reticence seemed like assent. And, possibly, in the mindsof these two vagabonds there might have been a natural sympathy for thisother truant from civilization, and some delicate flattery in the factthat Master Skinner was not driven out, but came of his own accord. Howbeit, they fished together, gathered cranberries on the marsh, shota wild duck and two plovers, and when Master Skinner assisted in thecooking of their fish in a conical basket sunk in the ground, filledwith water, heated by rolling red-hot stones from their drift-wood fireinto the buried basket, the boy's felicity was supreme. And what anafternoon! To lie, after this feast, on their bellies in the grass, replete like animals, hidden from everything but the sunshine abovethem; so quiet that gray clouds of sandpipers settled fearlessly aroundthem, and a shining brown muskrat slipped from the ooze within a fewfeet of their faces--was to feel themselves a part of the wild life inearth and sky. Not that their own predatory instincts were hushed bythis divine peace; that intermitting black spot upon the water, declaredby the Indian to be a seal, the stealthy glide of a yellow fox in theambush of a callow brood of mallards, the momentary straying of an elkfrom the upland upon the borders of the marsh, awoke their tinglingnerves to the happy but fruitless chase. And when night came, too soon, and they pigged together around the warm ashes of their camp-fire, underthe low lodge poles of their wigwam of dried mud, reeds, and driftwood, with the combined odors of fish, wood-smoke, and the warm salt breath ofthe marsh in their nostrils, they slept contentedly. The distant lightsof the settlement went out one by one, the stars came out, very largeand very silent, to take their places. The barking of a dog on thenearest point was followed by another farther inland. But Jim's dog, curled at the feet of his master, did not reply. What had HE to do withcivilization? The morning brought some fear of consequences to Master Skinner, but noabatement of his resolve not to return. But here he was oddly combatedby Li Tee. "S'pose you go back allee same. You tellee fam'lee canoe gotopside down--you plentee swimee to bush. Allee night in bush. Houseebig way off--how can get? Sabe?" "And I'll leave the gun, and tell Dad that when the canoe upset the gungot drowned, " said the boy eagerly. Li Tee nodded. "And come again Saturday, and bring more powder and shot and a bottlefor Jim, " said Master Skinner excitedly. "Good!" grunted the Indian. Then they ferried the boy over to the peninsula, and set him on a trailacross the marshes, known only to themselves, which would bring himhome. And when the Editor the next morning chronicled among his news, "Adrift on the Bay--A Schoolboy's Miraculous Escape, " he knew as littlewhat part his missing Chinese errand boy had taken in it as the rest ofhis readers. Meantime the two outcasts returned to their island camp. It may haveoccurred to them that a little of the sunlight had gone from it withBob; for they were in a dull, stupid way fascinated by the little whitetyrant who had broken bread with them. He had been delightfully selfishand frankly brutal to them, as only a schoolboy could be, with theaddition of the consciousness of his superior race. Yet they eachlonged for his return, although he was seldom mentioned in their scantyconversation--carried on in monosyllables, each in his own language, orwith some common English word, or more often restricted solely to signs. By a delicate flattery, when they did speak of him it was in what theyconsidered to be his own language. "Boston boy, plenty like catchee HIM, " Jim would say, pointing to adistant swan. Or Li Tee, hunting a striped water snake from the reeds, would utter stolidly, "Melikan boy no likee snake. " Yet the next twodays brought some trouble and physical discomfort to them. Bobhad consumed, or wasted, all their provisions--and, still moreunfortunately, his righteous visit, his gun, and his superabundantanimal spirits had frightened away the game, which their habitual quietand taciturnity had beguiled into trustfulness. They were half starved, but they did not blame him. It would come all right when he returned. They counted the days, Jim with secret notches on the long pole, Li Teewith a string of copper "cash" he always kept with him. The eventfulday came at last, --a warm autumn day, patched with inland fog like bluesmoke and smooth, tranquil, open surfaces of wood and sea; but to theirwaiting, confident eyes the boy came not out of either. They kept astolid silence all that day until night fell, when Jim said, "MebbeBoston boy go dead. " Li Tee nodded. It did not seem possible to thesetwo heathens that anything else could prevent the Christian child fromkeeping his word. After that, by the aid of the canoe, they went much on the marsh, hunting apart, but often meeting on the trail which Bob had taken, withgrunts of mutual surprise. These suppressed feelings, never made knownby word or gesture, at last must have found vicarious outlet in thetaciturn dog, who so far forgot his usual discretion as to once or twiceseat himself on the water's edge and indulge in a fit of howling. It hadbeen a custom of Jim's on certain days to retire to some secluded place, where, folded in his blanket, with his back against a tree, he remainedmotionless for hours. In the settlement this had been usually referredto the after effects of drink, known as the "horrors, " but Jim hadexplained it by saying it was "when his heart was bad. " And now itseemed, by these gloomy abstractions, that "his heart was bad" veryoften. And then the long withheld rains came one night on the wings ofa fierce southwester, beating down their frail lodge and scatteringit abroad, quenching their camp-fire, and rolling up the bay until itinvaded their reedy island and hissed in their ears. It drove the gamefrom Jim's gun; it tore the net and scattered the bait of Li Tee, thefisherman. Cold and half starved in heart and body, but more dogged andsilent than ever, they crept out in their canoe into the storm-tossedbay, barely escaping with their miserable lives to the marshy peninsula. Here, on their enemy's ground, skulking in the rushes, or lying closebehind tussocks, they at last reached the fringe of forest below thesettlement. Here, too, sorely pressed by hunger, and doggedly recklessof consequences, they forgot their caution, and a flight of teal fell toJim's gun on the very outskirts of the settlement. It was a fatal shot, whose echoes awoke the forces of civilizationagainst them. For it was heard by a logger in his hut near themarsh, who, looking out, had seen Jim pass. A careless, good-naturedfrontiersman, he might have kept the outcasts' mere presence to himself;but there was that damning shot! An Indian with a gun! That weapon, contraband of law, with dire fines and penalties to whoso sold or gaveit to him! A thing to be looked into--some one to be punished! An Indianwith a weapon that made him the equal of the white! Who was safe?He hurried to town to lay his information before the constable, but, meeting Mr. Skinner, imparted the news to him. The latter pooh-poohedthe constable, who he alleged had not yet discovered the whereaboutsof Jim, and suggested that a few armed citizens should make the chasethemselves. The fact was that Mr. Skinner, never quite satisfied in hismind with his son's account of the loss of the gun, had put two andtwo together, and was by no means inclined to have his own gun possiblyidentified by the legal authority. Moreover, he went home and at onceattacked Master Bob with such vigor and so highly colored a descriptionof the crime he had committed, and the penalties attached to it, thatBob confessed. More than that, I grieve to say that Bob lied. The Indianhad "stoled his gun, " and threatened his life if he divulged the theft. He told how he was ruthlessly put ashore, and compelled to take a trailonly known to them to reach his home. In two hours it was reportedthroughout the settlement that the infamous Jim had added robbery withviolence to his illegal possession of the weapon. The secret of theisland and the trail over the marsh was told only to a few. Meantime it had fared hard with the fugitives. Their nearness tothe settlement prevented them from lighting a fire, which might haverevealed their hiding-place, and they crept together, shivering allnight in a clump of hazel. Scared thence by passing but unsuspectingwayfarers wandering off the trail, they lay part of the next day andnight amid some tussocks of salt grass, blown on by the cold sea-breeze;chilled, but securely hidden from sight. Indeed, thanks to somemysterious power they had of utter immobility, it was wonderful how theycould efface themselves, through quiet and the simplest environment. Thelee side of a straggling vine in the meadow, or even the thin ridgeof cast-up drift on the shore, behind which they would lie for hoursmotionless, was a sufficient barrier against prying eyes. In thisoccupation they no longer talked together, but followed each other withthe blind instinct of animals--yet always unerringly, as if consciousof each other's plans. Strangely enough, it was the REAL animalalone--their nameless dog--who now betrayed impatience and a certainhuman infirmity of temper. The concealment they were resigned to, thesufferings they mutely accepted, he alone resented! When certain scentsor sounds, imperceptible to their senses, were blown across theirpath, he would, with bristling back, snarl himself into guttural andstrangulated fury. Yet, in their apathy, even this would have passedthem unnoticed, but that on the second night he disappeared suddenly, returning after two hours' absence with bloody jaws--replete, but stillslinking and snappish. It was only in the morning that, creeping ontheir hands and knees through the stubble, they came upon the torn andmangled carcass of a sheep. The two men looked at each other withoutspeaking--they knew what this act of rapine meant to themselves. Itmeant a fresh hue and cry after them--it meant that their starvingcompanion had helped to draw the net closer round them. The Indiangrunted, Li Tee smiled vacantly; but with their knives and fingers theyfinished what the dog had begun, and became equally culpable. But thatthey were heathens, they could not have achieved a delicate ethicalresponsibility in a more Christian-like way. Yet the rice-fed Li Tee suffered most in their privations. His habitualapathy increased with a certain physical lethargy which Jim could notunderstand. When they were apart he sometimes found Li Tee stretchedon his back with an odd stare in his eyes, and once, at a distance, hethought he saw a vague thin vapor drift from where the Chinese boy waslying and vanish as he approached. When he tried to arouse him therewas a weak drawl in his voice and a drug-like odor in his breath. Jimdragged him to a more substantial shelter, a thicket of alder. It wasdangerously near the frequented road, but a vague idea had sprung up inJim's now troubled mind that, equal vagabonds though they were, Li Teehad more claims upon civilization, through those of his own race whowere permitted to live among the white men, and were not hunted to"reservations" and confined there like Jim's people. If Li Tee was "heapsick, " other Chinamen might find and nurse him. As for Li Tee, he hadlately said, in a more lucid interval: "Me go dead--allee samee Mellikanboy. You go dead too--allee samee, " and then lay down again witha glassy stare in his eyes. Far from being frightened at this, Jimattributed his condition to some enchantment that Li Tee had evoked fromone of his gods--just as he himself had seen "medicine-men" of his owntribe fall into strange trances, and was glad that the boy no longersuffered. The day advanced, and Li Tee still slept. Jim could hear thechurch bells ringing; he knew it was Sunday--the day on which he washustled from the main street by the constable; the day on which theshops were closed, and the drinking saloons open only at the back door. The day whereon no man worked--and for that reason, though he knew itnot, the day selected by the ingenious Mr. Skinner and a few friends asespecially fitting and convenient for a chase of the fugitives. The bellbrought no suggestion of this--though the dog snapped under his breathand stiffened his spine. And then he heard another sound, far off andvague, yet one that brought a flash into his murky eye, that lit up theheaviness of his Hebraic face, and even showed a slight color in hishigh cheek-bones. He lay down on the ground, and listened with suspendedbreath. He heard it now distinctly. It was the Boston boy calling, andthe word he was calling was "Jim. " Then the fire dropped out of his eyes as he turned with his usualstolidity to where Li Tee was lying. Him he shook, saying briefly:"Boston boy come back!" But there was no reply, the dead body rolledover inertly under his hand; the head fell back, and the jaw droppedunder the pinched yellow face. The Indian gazed at him slowly, and thengravely turned again in the direction of the voice. Yet his dull mindwas perplexed, for, blended with that voice were other sounds like thetread of clumsily stealthy feet. But again the voice called "Jim!" andraising his hands to his lips he gave a low whoop in reply. Thiswas followed by silence, when suddenly he heard the voice--the boy'svoice--once again, this time very near him, saying eagerly:-- "There he is!" Then the Indian knew all. His face, however, did not change as he tookup his gun, and a man stepped out of the thicket into the trail:-- "Drop that gun, you d----d Injin. " The Indian did not move. "Drop it, I say!" The Indian remained erect and motionless. A rifle shot broke from the thicket. At first it seemed to have missedthe Indian, and the man who had spoken cocked his own rifle. But thenext moment the tall figure of Jim collapsed where he stood into a mereblanketed heap. The man who had fired the shot walked towards the heap with the easy airof a conqueror. But suddenly there arose before him an awful phantom, the incarnation of savagery--a creature of blazing eyeballs, flashingtusks, and hot carnivorous breath. He had barely time to cry out "Awolf!" before its jaws met in his throat, and they rolled together onthe ground. But it was no wolf--as a second shot proved--only Jim's slinking dog;the only one of the outcasts who at that supreme moment had gone back tohis original nature. A VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN Mr. Jackson Potter halted before the little cottage, half shop, halfhostelry, opposite the great gates of Domesday Park, where tickets ofadmission to that venerable domain were sold. Here Mr. Potter revealedhis nationality as a Western American, not only in his accent, but ina certain half-humorous, half-practical questioning of theticket-seller--as that quasi-official stamped his ticket--which wasnevertheless delivered with such unfailing good-humor, and such franksuggestiveness of the perfect equality of the ticket-seller and thewell-dressed stranger that, far from producing any irritation, itattracted the pleased attention not only of the official, but his wifeand daughter and a customer. Possibly the good looks of the stranger hadsomething to do with it. Jackson Potter was a singularly handsome youngfellow, with one of those ideal faces and figures sometimes seen inWestern frontier villages, attributable to no ancestor, but evolvedpossibly from novels and books devoured by ancestresses in the longsolitary winter evenings of their lonely cabins on the frontier. Abeardless, classical head, covered by short flocculent blonde curls, poised on a shapely neck and shoulders, was more Greek in outlinethan suggestive of any ordinary American type. Finally, after havingthoroughly amused his small audience, he lifted his straw hat to the"ladies, " and lounged out across the road to the gateway. Here hepaused, consulting his guide-book, and read aloud: "St. John'sgateway. This massive structure, according to Leland, was builtin"--murmured--"never mind when; we'll pass St. John, " marked the pagewith his pencil, and tendering his ticket to the gate-keeper, heard, with some satisfaction, that, as there were no other visitors justthen, and as the cicerone only accompanied PARTIES, he would be left tohimself, and at once plunged into a by-path. It was that loveliest of rare creations--a hot summer day in England, with all the dampness of that sea-blown isle wrung out of it, exhaledin the quivering blue vault overhead, or passing as dim wraiths in thedistant wood, and all the long-matured growth of that great old gardenvivified and made resplendent by the fervid sun. The ashes of dead andgone harvests, even the dust of those who had for ages wrought in it, turned again and again through incessant cultivation, seemed to moveand live once more in that present sunshine. All color appeared to bedeepened and mellowed, until even the very shadows of the trees were asvelvety as the sward they fell upon. The prairie-bred Potter, accustomedto the youthful caprices and extravagances of his own virgin soil, couldnot help feeling the influence of the ripe restraints of this. As he glanced through the leaves across green sunlit spaces to theivy-clad ruins of Domesday Abbey, which seemed itself a growth ofthe very soil, he murmured to himself: "Things had been made mightycomfortable for folks here, you bet!" Forgotten books he had read as aboy, scraps of school histories, or rarer novels, came back to him as hewalked along, and peopled the solitude about him with their heroes. Nevertheless, it was unmistakably hot--a heat homelike in its intensity, yet of a different effect, throwing him into languid reverie rather thanfilling his veins with fire. Secure in his seclusion in the leafy chase, he took off his jacket and rambled on in his shirt sleeves. Through theopening he presently saw the abbey again, with the restored wing wherethe noble owner lived for two or three weeks in the year, but now givenover to the prevailing solitude. And then, issuing from the chase, hecame upon a broad, moss-grown terrace. Before him stretched a tangledand luxuriant wilderness of shrubs and flowers, darkened by cypress andcedars of Lebanon; its dun depths illuminated by dazzling white statues, vases, trellises, and paved paths, choked and lost in the trailinggrowths of years of abandonment and forgetfulness. He consulted hisguide-book again. It was the "old Italian garden, " constructed under thedesign of a famous Italian gardener by the third duke; but its studiedformality being displeasing to his successor, it was allowed to fallinto picturesque decay and negligent profusion, which were not, however, disturbed by later descendants, --a fact deplored by the artistic writerof the guide-book, who mournfully called attention to the rare beauty ofthe marble statues, urns, and fountains, ruined by neglect, although oneor two of the rarer objects had been removed to Deep Dene Lodge, anotherseat of the present duke. It is needless to say that Mr. Potter conceived at once a humorousopposition to the artistic enthusiasm of the critic, and, plunginginto the garden, took a mischievous delight in its wildness and thevictorious struggle of nature with the formality of art. At every stepthrough the tangled labyrinth he could see where precision and orderhad been invaded, and even the rigid masonry broken or upheaved by therebellious force. Yet here and there the two powers had combined tooffer an example of beauty neither could have effected alone. A passionvine had overrun and enclasped a vase with a perfect symmetry nosculptor could have achieved. A heavy balustrade was made ethereal witha delicate fretwork of vegetation between its balusters like lace. Here, however, the lap and gurgle of water fell gratefully upon the ear ofthe perspiring and thirsty Mr. Potter, and turned his attention to morematerial things. Following the sound, he presently came upon an enormousoblong marble basin containing three time-worn fountains with groupedfigures. The pipes were empty, silent, and choked with reeds and waterplants, but the great basin itself was filled with water from someinvisible source. A terraced walk occupied one side of the long parallelogram; atintervals and along the opposite bank, half shadowed by willows, tintedmarble figures of tritons, fauns, and dryads arose half hidden in thereeds. They were more or less mutilated by time, and here and there onlythe empty, moss-covered plinths that had once supported them could beseen. But they were so lifelike in their subdued color in the shade thathe was for a moment startled. The water looked deliciously cool. An audacious thought struck him. Hewas alone, and the place was a secluded one. He knew there were no othervisitors; the marble basin was quite hidden from the rest of the garden, and approached only from the path by which he had come, and whose entireview he commanded. He quietly and deliberately undressed himself underthe willows, and unhesitatingly plunged into the basin. The water wasfour or five feet deep, and its extreme length afforded an excellentswimming bath, despite the water-lilies and a few aquatic plants thatmottled its clear surface, or the sedge that clung to the bases of thestatues. He disported for some moments in the delicious element, andthen seated himself upon one of the half-submerged plinths, almosthidden by reeds, that had once upheld a river god. Here, lazily restinghimself upon his elbow, half his body still below the water, hisquick ear was suddenly startled by a rustling noise and the sound offootsteps. For a moment he was inclined to doubt his senses; he couldsee only the empty path before him and the deserted terrace. But thesound became more distinct, and to his great uneasiness appeared tocome from the OTHER side of the fringe of willows, where there wasundoubtedly a path to the fountain which he had overlooked. His clotheswere under those willows, but he was at least twenty yards from the bankand an equal distance from the terrace. He was about to slip beneath thewater when, to his crowning horror, before he could do so, a young girlslowly appeared from the hidden willow path full upon the terrace. Shewas walking leisurely with a parasol over her head and a book in herhand. Even in his intense consternation her whole figure--a charmingone in its white dress, sailor hat, and tan shoes--was imprinted on hismemory as she instinctively halted to look upon the fountain, evidentlyan unexpected surprise to her. A sudden idea flashed upon him. She was at least sixty yards away;he was half hidden in the reeds and well in the long shadows of thewillows. If he remained perfectly motionless she might overlook him atthat distance, or take him for one of the statues. He remembered alsothat as he was resting on his elbow, his half-submerged body lying onthe plinth below water, he was somewhat in the attitude of one of theriver gods. And there was no other escape. If he dived he might not beable to keep under water as long as she remained, and any movementhe knew would betray him. He stiffened himself and scarcely breathed. Luckily for him his attitude had been a natural one and easy to keep. It was well, too, for she was evidently in no hurry and walked slowly, stopping from time to time to admire the basin and its figures. Suddenlyhe was instinctively aware that she was looking towards him and evenchanging her position, moving her pretty head and shading her eyeswith her hand as if for a better view. He remained motionless, scarcelydaring to breathe. Yet there was something so innocently frank andundisturbed in her observation, that he knew as instinctively that shesuspected nothing, and took him for a half-submerged statue. He breathedmore freely. But presently she stopped, glanced around her, and, keepingher eyes fixed in his direction, began to walk backwards slowly untilshe reached a stone balustrade behind her. On this she leaped, and, sitting down, opened in her lap the sketch-book she was carrying, and, taking out a pencil, to his horror began to sketch! For a wild moment he recurred to his first idea of diving and swimmingat all hazards to the bank, but the conviction that now his slightestmovement must be detected held him motionless. He must save her themortification of knowing she was sketching a living man, if he diedfor it. She sketched rapidly but fixedly and absorbedly, evidentlyforgetting all else in her work. From time to time she held out hersketch before her to compare it with her subject. Yet the seconds seemedminutes and the minutes hours. Suddenly, to his great relief, a distantvoice was heard calling "Lottie. " It was a woman's voice; by its accentit also seemed to him an American one. The young girl made a slight movement of impatience, but did not lookup, and her pencil moved still more rapidly. Again the voice called, this time nearer. The young girl's pencil fairly flew over the paper, as, still without looking up, she lifted a pretty voice and answeredback, "Y-e-e-s!" It struck him that her accent was also that of a compatriot. "Where on earth are you?" continued the first voice, which now appearedto come from the other side of the willows on the path by which theyoung girl had approached. "Here, aunty, " replied the girl, closing hersketch-book with a snap and starting to her feet. A stout woman, fashionably dressed, made her appearance from the willowpath. "What have you been doing all this while?" she said querulously. "Notsketching, I hope, " she added, with a suspicious glance at the book. "You know your professor expressly forbade you to do so in yourholidays. " The young girl shrugged her shoulders. "I've been looking at thefountains, " she replied evasively. "And horrid looking pagan things they are, too, " said the elder woman, turning from them disgustedly, without vouchsafing a second glance. "Come. If we expect to do the abbey, we must hurry up, or we won't catchthe train. Your uncle is waiting for us at the top of the garden. " And, to Potter's intense relief, she grasped the young girl's arm andhurried her away, their figures the next moment vanishing in the tangledshrubbery. Potter lost no time in plunging with his cramped limbs into the waterand regaining the other side. Here he quickly half dried himself withsome sun-warmed leaves and baked mosses, hurried on his clothes, andhastened off in the opposite direction to the path taken by them, yetwith such circuitous skill and speed that he reached the great gatewaywithout encountering anybody. A brisk walk brought him to the stationin time to catch a stopping train, and in half an hour he was speedingmiles away from Domesday Park and his half-forgotten episode. ***** Meantime the two ladies continued on their way to the abbey. "I don'tsee why I mayn't sketch things I see about me, " said the young ladyimpatiently. "Of course, I understand that I must go through therudimentary drudgery of my art and study from casts, and learnperspective, and all that; but I can't see what's the difference betweenworking in a stuffy studio over a hand or arm that I know is only aSTUDY, and sketching a full or half length in the open air with thewonderful illusion of light and shade and distance--and grouping andcombining them all--that one knows and feels makes a picture. The realpicture one makes is already in one's self. " "For goodness' sake, Lottie, don't go on again with your usualabsurdities. Since you are bent on being an artist, and your Popperhas consented and put you under the most expensive master in Paris, theleast you can do is to follow the rules. And I dare say he only wantedyou to 'sink the shop' in company. It's such horrid bad form for youartistic people to be always dragging out your sketch-books. What wouldyou say if your Popper came over here, and began to examine every lady'sdress in society to see what material it was, just because he was a bigdry-goods dealer in America?" The young girl, accustomed to her aunt's extravagances, made no reply. But that night she consulted her sketch, and was so far convinced of herown instincts, and the profound impression the fountain had made uponher, that she was enabled to secretly finish her interrupted sketch frommemory. For Miss Charlotte Forrest was a born artist, and in no merecaprice had persuaded her father to let her adopt the profession, andaccepted the drudgery of a novitiate. She looked earnestly upon thisfirst real work of her hand and found it good! Still, it was but apencil sketch, and wanted the vivification of color. When she returned to Paris she began--still secretly--a larger study inoils. She worked upon it in her own room every moment she could sparefrom her studio practice, unknown to her professor. It absorbed herexistence; she grew thin and pale. When it was finished, and only then, she showed it tremblingly to her master. He stood silent, in profoundastonishment. The easel before him showed a foreground of tangledluxuriance, from which stretched a sheet of water like a darkenedmirror, while through parted reeds on its glossy surface arose thehalf-submerged figure of a river god, exquisite in contour, yet whosedelicate outlines were almost a vision by the crowning illusion oflight, shadow, and atmosphere. "It is a beautiful copy, mademoiselle, and I forgive you breaking myrules, " he said, drawing a long breath. "But I cannot now recall theoriginal picture. " "It's no copy of a picture, professor, " said the young girl timidly, andshe disclosed her secret. "It was the only perfect statue there, " sheadded diffidently; "but I think it wanted--something. " "True, " said the professor abstractedly. "Where the elbow rests thereshould be a half-inverted urn flowing with water; but the drawing ofthat shoulder is so perfect--as is YOUR study of it--that one guessesthe missing forearm one cannot see, which clasped it. Beautiful!beautiful!" Suddenly he stopped, and turned his eyes almost searchingly on hers. "You say you have never drawn from the human model, mademoiselle?" "Never, " said the young girl innocently. "True, " murmured the professor again. "These are the classic idealmeasurements. There are no limbs like those now. Yet it is wonderful!And this gem, you say, is in England?" "Yes. " "Good! I am going there in a few days. I shall make a pilgrimage to seeit. Until then, mademoiselle, I beg you to break as many of my rules asyou like. " Three weeks later she found the professor one morning standing beforeher picture in her private studio. "You have returned from England, " shesaid joyfully. "I have, " said the professor gravely. "You have seen the original subject?" she said timidly. "I have NOT. I have not seen it, mademoiselle, " he said, gazing ather mildly through his glasses, "because it does not exist, and neverexisted. " The young girl turned pale. "Listen. I have go to England. I arrive at the Park of Domesday. Ipenetrate the beautiful, wild garden. I approach the fountain. I seethe wonderful water, the exquisite light and shade, the lilies, themysterious reeds--beautiful, yet not as beautiful as you have made it, mademoiselle, but no statue--no river god! I demand it of the concierge. He knows of it absolutely nothing. I transport myself to the nobleproprietor, Monsieur le Duc, at a distant chateau where he has collectedthe ruined marbles. It is not there. " "Yet I saw it, " said the young girl earnestly, yet with a troubled face. "O professor, " she burst out appealingly, "what do you think it was?" "I think, mademoiselle, " said the professor gravely, "that you createdit. Believe me, it is a function of genius! More, it is a proof, anecessity! You saw the beautiful lake, the ruined fountain, the softshadows, the empty plinth, curtained by reeds. You yourself say you feelthere was 'something wanting. ' Unconsciously you yourself supplied it. All that you had ever dreamt of mythology, all that you had ever seenof statuary, thronged upon you at that supreme moment, and, evolved fromyour own fancy, the river god was born. It is your own, chere enfant, asmuch the offspring of your genius as the exquisite atmosphere you havecaught, the charm of light and shadow that you have brought away. Acceptmy felicitations. You have little more to learn of me. " As he bowed himself out and descended the stairs he shrugged hisshoulders slightly. "She is an adorable genius, " he murmured. "Yet sheis also a woman. Being a woman, naturally she has a lover--this rivergod! Why not?" The extraordinary success of Miss Forrest's picture and theinstantaneous recognition of her merit as an artist, apart from hernovel subject, perhaps went further to remove her uneasiness than anyserious conviction of the professor's theory. Nevertheless, it appealedto her poetic and mystic imagination, and although other subjects fromher brush met with equally phenomenal success, and she was able in ayear to return to America with a reputation assured beyond criticism, she never entirely forgot the strange incident connected with herinitial effort. And by degrees a singular change came over her. Rich, famous, andattractive, she began to experience a sentimental and romanticinterest in that episode. Once, when reproached by her friends for herindifference to her admirers, she had half laughingly replied that shehad once found her "ideal, " but never would again. Yet the jest hadscarcely passed her lips before she became pale and silent. With thischange came also a desire to re-purchase the picture, which she hadsold in her early success to a speculative American picture-dealer. Oninquiry she found, alas! that it had been sold only a day or two beforeto a Chicago gentleman, of the name of Potter, who had taken a fancy toit. Miss Forrest curled her pretty lip, but, nothing daunted, resolvedto effect her purpose, and sought the purchaser at his hotel. She wasushered into a private drawing-room, where, on a handsome easel, stoodthe newly acquired purchase. Mr. Potter was out, "but would return in amoment. " Miss Forrest was relieved, for, alone and undisturbed, she could now lether full soul go out to her romantic creation. As she stood there, shefelt the glamour of the old English garden come back to her, the play oflight and shadow, the silent pool, the godlike face and bust, with itscast-down, meditative eyes, seen through the parted reeds. She claspedher hands silently before her. Should she never see it again as then? "Pray don't let me disturb you; but won't you take a seat?" Miss Forrest turned sharply round. Then she started, uttered afrightened little cry, and fainted away. Mr. Potter was touched, but a master of himself. As she came to, hesaid quietly: "I came upon you suddenly--as you stood entranced by thispicture--just as I did when I first saw it. That's why I bought it. Are you any relative of the Miss Forrest who painted it?" he continued, quietly looking at her card, which he held in his hand. Miss Forrest recovered herself sufficiently to reply, and stated herbusiness with some dignity. "Ah, " said Mr. Potter, "THAT is another question. You see, the picturehas a special value to me, as I once saw an old-fashioned garden likethat in England. But that chap there, --I beg your pardon, I mean thatfigure, --I fancy, is your own creation, entirely. However, I'll thinkover your proposition, and if you will allow me I'll call and see youabout it. " Mr. Potter did call--not once, but many times--and showed quite aremarkable interest in Miss Forrest's art. The question of the sale ofthe picture, however, remained in abeyance. A few weeks later, after alonger call than usual, Mr. Potter said:-- "Don't you think the best thing we can do is to make a kind ofcompromise, and let us own the picture together?" And they did. A ROMANCE OF THE LINE As the train moved slowly out of the station, the Writer of Storieslooked up wearily from the illustrated pages of the magazines andweeklies on his lap to the illustrated advertisements on the walls ofthe station sliding past his carriage windows. It was getting to bemonotonous. For a while he had been hopefully interested in the bustleof the departing trains, and looked up from his comfortable and earlyinvested position to the later comers with that sense of superioritycommon to travelers; had watched the conventional leave-takings--alwaysfeebly prolonged to the uneasiness of both parties--and contrasted itwith the impassive business promptitude of the railway officials; butit was the old experience repeated. Falling back on the illustratedadvertisements again, he wondered if their perpetual recurrence at everystation would not at last bring to the tired traveler the loathing ofsatiety; whether the passenger in railway carriages, continually offeredSomebody's oats, inks, washing blue, candles, and soap, apparently asa necessary equipment for a few hours' journey, would not there andthereafter forever ignore the use of these articles, or recoil from thatparticular quality. Or, as an unbiased observer, he wondered if, onthe other hand, impressible passengers, after passing three or fourstations, had ever leaped from the train and refused to proceed furtheruntil they were supplied with one or more of those articles. Had he everknown any one who confided to him in a moment of expansiveness that hehad dated his use of Somebody's soap to an advertisement persistentlyborne upon him through the medium of a railway carriage window?No! Would he not have connected that man with that other certifyingindividual who always appends a name and address singularly obscure andunconvincing, yet who, at some supreme moment, recommends Somebody'spills to a dying friend, --afflicted with a similar address, --whichrestore him to life and undying obscurity. Yet these pictorial andliterary appeals must have a potency independent of the wares theyadvertise, or they wouldn't be there. Perhaps he was the more sensitive to this monotony as he was just thenseeking change and novelty in order to write a new story. He was notlooking for material, --his subjects were usually the same, --he wasmerely hoping for that relaxation and diversion which should freshen andfit him for later concentration. Still, he had often heard of the oddcircumstances to which his craft were sometimes indebted for suggestion. The invasion of an eccentric-looking individual--probably an innocenttradesman into a railway carriage had given the hint for "A Night witha Lunatic;" a nervously excited and belated passenger had onceunconsciously sat for an escaped forger; the picking up of a forgottennovel in the rack, with passages marked in pencil, had afforded the plotof a love story; or the germ of a romance had been found in an obscurenews paragraph which, under less listless moments, would havepassed unread. On the other hand, he recalled these inconvenient andinconsistent moments from which the so-called "inspiration" sprang, theutter incongruity of time and place in some brilliant conception, andwondered if sheer vacuity of mind were really so favorable. Going back to his magazine again, he began to get mildly interested ina story. Turning the page, however, he was confronted by a pictorialadvertising leaflet inserted between the pages, yet so artistic incharacter that it might have been easily mistaken for an illustration ofthe story he was reading, and perhaps was not more remote or obscure inreference than many he had known. But the next moment he recognizedwith despair that it was only a smaller copy of one he had seen on thehoarding at the last station. He threw the leaflet aside, but the flavorof the story was gone. The peerless detergent of the advertisement haderased it from the tablets of his memory. He leaned back in his seatagain, and lazily watched the flying suburbs. Here were the usualpromising open spaces and patches of green, quickly succeeded again bysolid blocks of houses whose rear windows gave directly upon the line, yet seldom showed an inquisitive face--even of a wondering child. It wasa strange revelation of the depressing effects of familiarity. Expressesmight thunder by, goods trains drag their slow length along, shuntingtrains pipe all day beneath their windows, but the tenants heeded themnot. Here, too, was the junction, with its labyrinthine interlacing oftracks that dazed the tired brain; the overburdened telegraph posts, that looked as if they really could not stand another wire; the longlines of empty, homeless, and deserted trains in sidings that had seenbetter days; the idle trains, with staring vacant windows, which wereeventually seized by a pert engine hissing, "Come along, will you?"and departed with a discontented grunt from every individual carriagecoupling; the racing trains, that suddenly appeared parallel with one'scarriage windows, begot false hopes of a challenge of speed, and then, without warning, drew contemptuously and, superciliously away; the swifteclipse of everything in a tunneled bridge; the long, slithering passageof an "up" express, and then the flash of a station, incoherent andunintelligible with pictorial advertisements again. He closed his eyes to concentrate his thought, and by degrees a pleasantlanguor stole over him. The train had by this time attained that rate ofspeed which gave it a slight swing and roll on curves and switchesnot unlike the rocking of a cradle. Once or twice he opened his eyessleepily upon the waltzing trees in the double planes of distance, andagain closed them. Then, in one of these slight oscillations, hefelt himself ridiculously slipping into slumber, and awoke with someindignation. Another station was passed, in which process the pictorialadvertisements on the hoardings and the pictures in his lap seemed tohave become jumbled up, confused, and to dance before him, and thensuddenly and strangely, without warning, the train stopped short--atANOTHER station. And then he arose, and--what five minutes before henever conceived of doing--gathered his papers and slipped from thecarriage to the platform. When I say "he" I mean, of course, theWriter of Stories; yet the man who slipped out was half his age and adifferent-looking person. ***** The change from the motion of the train--for it seemed that he had beentraveling several hours--to the firmer platform for a moment bewilderedhim. The station looked strange, and he fancied it lacked a certain kindof distinctness. But that quality was also noticeable in the porters andloungers on the platform. He thought it singular, until it seemed to himthat they were not characteristic, nor in any way important or necessaryto the business he had in hand. Then, with an effort, he tried toremember himself and his purpose, and made his way through the stationto the open road beyond. A van, bearing the inscription, "Removals toTown and Country, " stood before him and blocked his way, but a dogcartwas in waiting, and a grizzled groom, who held the reins, touched hishat respectfully. Although still dazed by his journey and uncertain ofhimself, he seemed to recognize in the man that distinctive characterwhich was wanting in the others. The correctness of his surmise wasrevealed a few moments later, when, after he had taken his seat besidehim, and they were rattling out of the village street, the man turnedtowards him and said:-- "Tha'll know Sir Jarge?" "I do not, " said the young man. "Ay! but theer's many as cooms here as doan't, for all they cooms. Tha'll say it ill becooms mea as war man and boy in Sir Jarge's sarvicefor fifty year, to say owt agen him, but I'm here to do it, or theycouldn't foolfil their business. Tha wast to ax me questions about SirJarge and the Grange, and I wor to answer soa as to make tha thinkthar was suthing wrong wi' un. Howbut I may save tha time and tell theadownroight that Sir Jarge forged his uncle's will, and so gotten theGrange. That 'ee keeps his niece in mortal fear o' he. That tha'll beput in haunted chamber wi' a boggle. " "I think, " said the young man hesitatingly, "that there must be somemistake. I do not know any Sir George, and I am NOT going to theGrange. " "Eay! Then thee aren't the 'ero sent down from London by the storywriter?" "Not by THAT one, " said the young man diffidently. The old man's face changed. It was no mere figure of speech: it actuallywas ANOTHER face that looked down upon the traveler. "Then mayhap your honor will be bespoken at the Angel's Inn, " he said, with an entirely distinct and older dialect, "and a finer hostel for ayoung gentleman of your condition ye'll not find on this side of Oxford. A fair chamber, looking to the sun; sheets smelling of lavender fromDame Margery's own store, and, for the matter of that, spread by thefair hands of Maudlin, her daughter--the best favored lass that everdanced under a Maypole. Ha! have at ye there, young sir! Not to speak ofthe October ale of old Gregory, her father--ay, nor the rare Hollands, that never paid excise duties to the king. " "I'm afraid, " said the young traveler timidly, "there's over a centurybetween us. There's really some mistake. " "What?" said the groom, "ye are NOT the young spark who is to marryMistress Amy at the Hall, yet makes a pother and mess of it all by aduel with Sir Roger de Cadgerly, the wicked baronet, for his over-freediscourse with our fair Maudlin this very eve? Ye are NOT the travelerwhose post-chaise is now at the Falcon? Ye are not he that was bespokenby the story writer in London?" "I don't think I am, " said the young man apologetically. "Indeed, as Iam feeling far from well, I think I'll get out and walk. " He got down--the vehicle and driver vanished in the distance. It did notsurprise him. "I must collect my thoughts, " he said. He did so. Possiblythe collection was not large, for presently he said, with a sigh ofrelief:-- "I see it all now! My name is Paul Bunker. I am of the young branch ofan old Quaker family, rich and respected in the country, and I am on avisit to my ancestral home. But I have lived since a child in America, and am alien to the traditions and customs of the old country, and evenof the seat to which my fathers belong. I have brought with me from thefar West many peculiarities of speech and thought that may startle mykinsfolk. But I certainly shall not address my uncle as 'Hoss!' norshall I say 'guess' oftener than is necessary. " Much brightened and refreshed by his settled identity, he had time, as he walked briskly along, to notice the scenery, which was certainlyvaried and conflicting in character, and quite inconsistent with hispreconceived notions of an English landscape. On his right, a lake ofthe brightest cobalt blue stretched before a many-towered and terracedtown, which was relieved by a background of luxuriant foliage andemerald-green mountains; on his left arose a rugged mountain, which hewas surprised to see was snow-capped, albeit a tunnel was observablemidway of its height, and a train just issuing from it. Almostregretting that he had not continued on his journey, as he was fullysensible that it was in some way connected with the railway he hadquitted, presently his attention was directed to the gateway of ahandsome park, whose mansion was faintly seen in the distance. Hurryingtowards him, down the avenue of limes, was a strange figure. It was thatof a man of middle age; clad in Quaker garb, yet with an extravaganceof cut and detail which seemed antiquated even for England. He hadevidently seen the young man approaching, and his face was beaming withwelcome. If Paul had doubted that it was his uncle, the first words hespoke would have reassured him. "Welcome to Hawthorn Hall, " said the figure, grasping his hand heartily, "but thee will excuse me if I do not tarry with thee long at present, for I am hastening, even now, with some nourishing and sustaining foodfor Giles Hayward, a farm laborer. " He pointed to a package he wascarrying. "But thee will find thy cousins Jane and Dorcas Bunker takingtea in the summer-house. Go to them! Nay--positively--I may not linger, but will return to thee quickly. " And, to Paul's astonishment, hetrotted away on his sturdy, respectable legs, still beaming and carryinghis package in his hand. "Well, I'll be dog-goned! but the old man ain't going to be left, youbet!" he ejaculated, suddenly remembering his dialect. "He'll get there, whether school keeps or not!" Then, reflecting that no one heard him, headded simply, "He certainly was not over civil towards the nephew hehas never seen before. And those girls--whom I don't know! How veryawkward!" Nevertheless, he continued his way up the avenue towards the mansion. The park was beautifully kept. Remembering the native wildness andvirgin seclusion of the Western forest, he could not help contrasting itwith the conservative gardening of this pretty woodland, every roodof which had been patrolled by keepers and rangers, and preserved andfostered hundreds of years before he was born, until warmed for humanoccupancy. At times the avenue was crossed by grass drives, wherethe original woodland had been displaced, not by the exigency of a"clearing" for tillage, as in his own West, but for the leisurelypleasure of the owner. Then, a few hundred yards from the houseitself, --a quaint Jacobean mansion, --he came to an open space where thesylvan landscape had yielded to floral cultivation, and so fell upon acharming summer-house, or arbor, embowered with roses. It must havebeen the one of which his uncle had spoken, for there, to his wonderingadmiration, sat two little maids before a rustic table, drinking teademurely, yes, with all the evident delight of a childish escapade fromtheir elders. While in the picturesque quaintness of their attirethere was still a formal suggestion of the sect to which their fatherbelonged, their summer frocks--differing in color, yet each of the samesubdued tint--were alike in cut and fashion, and short enough to showtheir dainty feet in prim slippers and silken hose that matched theirfrocks. As the afternoon sun glanced through the leaves upon their pinkcheeks, tied up in quaint hats by ribbons under their chins, they made acharming picture. At least Paul thought so as he advanced towards them, hat in hand. They looked up at his approach, but again cast down theireyes with demure shyness; yet he fancied that they first exchangedglances with each other, full of mischievous intelligence. "I am your cousin Paul, " he said smilingly, "though I am afraid I amintroducing myself almost as briefly as your father just now excusedhimself to me. He told me I would find you here, but he himself washastening on a Samaritan mission. " "With a box in his hand?" said the girls simultaneously, exchangingglances with each other again. "With a box containing some restorative, I think, " responded Paul, alittle wonderingly. "Restorative! So THAT'S what he calls it now, is it?" said one of thegirls saucily. "Well, no one knows what's in the box, though he alwayscarries it with him. Thee never sees him without it"-- "And a roll of paper, " suggested the other girl. "Yes, a roll of paper--but one never knows what it is!" said thefirst speaker. "It's very strange. But no matter now, Paul. Welcome toHawthorn Hall. I am Jane Bunker, and this is Dorcas. " She stopped, and then, looking down demurely, added, "Thee may kiss us both, cousinPaul. " The young man did not wait for a second invitation, but gently touchedhis lips to their soft young cheeks. "Thee does not speak like an American, Paul. Is thee really and trulyone?" continued Jane. Paul remembered that he had forgotten his dialect, but it was too latenow. "I am really and truly one, and your own cousin, and I hope you willfind me a very dear"-- "Oh!" said Dorcas, starting up primly. "You must really allow me towithdraw. " To the young man's astonishment, she seized her parasol, and, with a youthful affectation of dignity, glided from the summer-house andwas lost among the trees. "Thy declaration to me was rather sudden, " said Jane quietly, in answerto his look of surprise, "and Dorcas is peculiarly sensitive and lesslike the 'world's people' than I am. And it was just a little cruel, considering that she has loved thee secretly all these years, followedthy fortunes in America with breathless eagerness, thrilled at thynarrow escapes, and wept at thy privations. " "But she has never seen me before!" said the astounded Paul. "And thee had never seen me before, and yet thee has dared to propose tome five minutes after thee arrived, and in her presence. " "But, my dear girl!" expostulated Paul. "Stand off!" she said, rapidly opening her parasol and interposingit between them. "Another step nearer--ay, even another word ofendearment--and I shall be compelled--nay, forced, " she added in a lowervoice, "to remove this parasol, lest it should be crushed and ruined!" "I see, " he said gloomily, "you have been reading novels; but so haveI, and the same ones! Nevertheless, I intended only to tell you that Ihoped you would always find me a kind friend. " She shut her parasol up with a snap. "And I only intended to tell theethat my heart was given to another. " "You INTENDED--and now?" "Is it the 'kind friend' who asks?" "If it were not?" "Really?" "Yes. " "Ah!" "Oh!" "But thee loves another?" she said, toying with her cup. He attempted to toy with his, but broke it. A man lacks delicacy in thiskind of persiflage. "You mean I am loved by another, " he said bluntly. "You dare to say that!" she said, flashing, in spite of her primdemeanor. "No, but YOU did just now! You said your sister loved me!" "Did I?" she said dreamily. "Dear! dear! That's the trouble of trying totalk like Mr. Blank's delightful dialogues. One gets so mixed!" "Yet you will be a sister to me?" he said. "'Tis an old American joke, but 'twill serve. " There was a long silence. "Had thee not better go to sister Dorcas? She is playing with the cows, "said Jane plaintively. "You forget, " he returned gravely, "that, on page 27 of the novel wehave both read, at this point he is supposed to kiss her. " She had forgotten, but they both remembered in time. At this moment ascream came faintly from the distance. They both started, and rose. "It is sister Dorcas, " said Jane, sitting down again and pouring outanother cup of tea. "I have always told her that one of those Swiss cowswould hook her. " Paul stared at her with a strange revulsion of feeling. "I couldsave Dorcas, " he muttered to himself, "in less time than it takes todescribe. " He paused, however, as he reflected that this would dependentirely upon the methods of the writer of this description. "I couldrescue her! I have only to take the first clothes-line that I find, and with that knowledge and skill with the lasso which I learned in thewilds of America, I could stop the charge of the most furious ruminant. I will!" and without another word he turned and rushed off in thedirection of the sound. ***** He had not gone a hundred yards before he paused, a little bewildered. To the left could still be seen the cobalt lake with the terracedbackground; to the right the rugged mountains. He chose the latter. Luckily for him a cottager's garden lay in his path, and from a linesupported by a single pole depended the homely linen of the cottager. Totear these garments from the line was the work of a moment (althoughit represented the whole week's washing), and hastily coiling the ropedexterously in his hand, he sped onward. Already panting with exertionand excitement, a few roods farther he was confronted with a spectaclethat left him breathless. A woman--young, robust, yet gracefully formed--was running ahead of him, driving before her with an open parasol an animal which he instantlyrecognized as one of that simple yet treacherous species most feared bythe sex--known as the "Moo Cow. " For a moment he was appalled by the spectacle. But it was only for amoment! Recalling his manhood and her weakness, he stopped, and bracinghis foot against a stone, with a graceful flourish of his lasso aroundhis head, threw it in the air. It uncoiled slowly, sped forward withunerring precision, and missed! With the single cry of "Saved!" the fairstranger sank fainting in his arms! He held her closely until the colorcame back to her pale face. Then he quietly disentangled the lasso fromhis legs. "Where am I?" she said faintly. "In the same place, " he replied, slowly but firmly. "But, " he added, "you have changed!" She had, indeed, even to her dress. It was now of a vivid brick red, andso much longer in the skirt that it seemed to make her taller. Only herhat remained the same. "Yes, " she said, in a low, reflective voice and a disregard of herprevious dialect, as she gazed up in his eyes with an eloquent lucidity, "I have changed, Paul! I feel myself changing at those words you utteredto Jane. There are moments in a woman's life that man knows nothingof; moments bitter and cruel, sweet and merciful, that change her wholebeing; moments in which the simple girl becomes a worldly woman; momentsin which the slow procession of her years is never noted--except byanother woman! Moments that change her outlook on the world and herrelations to it--and her husband's relations! Moments when the maidbecomes a wife, the wife a widow, the widow a re-married woman, by asimple, swift illumination of the fancy. Moments when, wrought upon bya single word--a look--an emphasis and rising inflection, all logicalsequence is cast away, processes are lost--inductions lead nowhere. Moments when the inharmonious becomes harmonious, the indiscreetdiscreet, the inefficient efficient, and the inevitable evitable. Imean, " she corrected herself hurriedly--"You know what I mean! If youhave not felt it you have read it!" "I have, " he said thoughtfully. "We have both read it in the same novel. She is a fine writer. " "Ye-e-s. " She hesitated with that slight resentment of praise of anotherwoman so delightful in her sex. "But you have forgotten the Moo Cow!"and she pointed to where the distracted animal was careering across thelawn towards the garden. "You are right, " he said, "the incident is not yet closed. Let us pursueit. " They both pursued it. Discarding the useless lasso, he had recourse to afew well-aimed epithets. The infuriated animal swerved and made directlytowards a small fountain in the centre of the garden. In attempting toclear it, it fell directly into the deep cup-like basin and remainedhelplessly fixed, with its fore-legs projecting uneasily beyond the rim. "Let us leave it there, " she said, "and forget it--and all that hasgone before. Believe me, " she added, with a faint sigh, "it is best. Ourpaths diverge from this moment. I go to the summer-house, and you go tothe Hall, where my father is expecting you. " He would have detained hera moment longer, but she glided away and was gone. Left to himself again, that slight sense of bewilderment which hadclouded his mind for the last hour began to clear away; his singularencounter with the girls strangely enough affected him less stronglythan his brief and unsatisfactory interview with his uncle. For, afterall, he was his host, and upon him depended his stay at Hawthorn Hall. The mysterious and slighting allusions of his cousins to the old man'seccentricities also piqued his curiosity. Why had they sneered at hisdescription of the contents of the package he carried--and what didit really contain? He did not reflect that it was none of hisbusiness, --people in his situation seldom do, --and he eagerly hurriedtowards the Hall. But he found in his preoccupation he had taken thewrong turning in the path, and that he was now close to the wall whichbounded and overlooked the highway. Here a singular spectacle presenteditself. A cyclist covered with dust was seated in the middle of theroad, trying to restore circulation to his bruised and injured leg bychafing it with his hands, while beside him lay his damaged bicycle. Hehad evidently met with an accident. In an instant Paul had climbed thewall and was at his side. "Can I offer you any assistance?" he asked eagerly. "Thanks--no! I've come a beastly cropper over something or other onthis road, and I'm only bruised, though the machine has suffered worse, "replied the stranger, in a fresh, cheery voice. He was a good-lookingfellow of about Paul's own age, and the young American's heart went outtowards him. "How did it happen?" asked Paul. "That's what puzzles me, " said the stranger. "I was getting out ofthe way of a queer old chap in the road, and I ran over something thatseemed only an old scroll of paper; but the shock was so great thatI was thrown, and I fancy I was for a few moments unconscious. Yet Icannot see any other obstruction in the road, and there's only that bitof paper. " He pointed to the paper, --a half-crushed roll of ordinaryfoolscap, showing the mark of the bicycle upon it. A strange idea came into Paul's mind. He picked up the paper andexamined it closely. Besides the mark already indicated, it showed twosharp creases about nine inches long, and another exactly at the pointof the impact of the bicycle. Taking a folded two-foot rule fromhis pocket, he carefully measured these parallel creases and made anexhaustive geometrical calculation with his pencil on the paper. Thestranger watched him with awed and admiring interest. Rising, he againcarefully examined the road, and was finally rewarded by the discoveryof a sharp indentation in the dust, which, on measurement and comparisonwith the creases in the paper and the calculations he had just made, proved to be identical. "There was a solid body in that paper, " said Paul quietly; "aparallelogram exactly nine inches long and three wide. " "I say! you're wonderfully clever, don't you know, " said the stranger, with unaffected wonder. "I see it all--a brick. " Paul smiled gently and shook his head. "That is the hasty inference ofan inexperienced observer. You will observe at the point of impact ofyour wheel the parallel crease is CURVED, as from the yielding of theresisting substances, and not BROKEN, as it would be by the crumbling ofa brick. " "I say, you're awfully detective, don't you know! just like thatfellow--what's his name?" said the stranger admiringly. The words recalled Paul to himself. Why was he acting like a detective?and what was he seeking to discover? Nevertheless, he felt impelledto continue. "And that queer old chap whom you met--why didn't he helpyou?" "Because I passed him before I ran into the--the parallelogram, and Isuppose he didn't know what happened behind him?" "Did he have anything in his hand?" "Can't say. " "And you say you were unconscious afterwards?" "Yes!" "Long enough for the culprit to remove the principal evidence of hiscrime?" "Come! I say, really you are--you know you are!" "Have you any secret enemy?" "No. " "And you don't know Mr. Bunker, the man who owns this vast estate?" "Not at all. I'm from Upper Tooting. " "Good afternoon, " said Paul abruptly, and turned away. It struck him afterwards that his action might have seemed uncivil, andeven inhuman, to the bruised cyclist, who could hardly walk. But it wasgetting late, and he was still far from the Hall, which, oddly enough, seemed to be no longer visible from the road. He wandered on for sometime, half convinced that he had passed the lodge gates, yet hoping tofind some other entrance to the domain. Dusk was falling; the roundedoutlines of the park trees beyond the wall were solid masses of shadow. The full moon, presently rising, restored them again to symmetry, and atlast he, to his relief, came upon the massive gateway. Two lions rampedin stone on the side pillars. He thought it strange that he had notnoticed the gateway on his previous entrance, but he remembered that hewas fully preoccupied with the advancing figure of his uncle. In a fewminutes the Hall itself appeared, and here again he was surprised thathe had overlooked before its noble proportions and picturesque outline. Its broad terraces, dazzlingly white in the moonlight; its long line ofmullioned windows, suffused with a warm red glow from within, made itlook like part of a wintry landscape--and suggested a Christmas card. The venerable ivy that hid the ravages time had made in its walls lookedlike black carving. His heart swelled with strange emotions as he gazedat his ancestral hall. How many of his blood had lived and died there;how many had gone forth from that great porch to distant lands! He triedto think of his father--a little child--peeping between the balustradesof that terrace. He tried to think of it, and perhaps would havesucceeded had it not occurred to him that it was a known fact that hisuncle had bought the estate and house of an impoverished nobleman onlythe year before. Yet--he could not tell why--he seemed to feel higherand nobler for that trial. The terrace was deserted, and so quiet that as he ascended to it hisfootsteps seemed to echo from the walls. When he reached the portals, the great oaken door swung noiselessly on its hinges--opened by someunseen but waiting servitor--and admitted him to a lofty hall, darkwith hangings and family portraits, but warmed by a red carpet the wholelength of its stone floor. For a moment he waited for the servant toshow him to the drawing-room or his uncle's study. But no one appeared. Believing this to be a part of the characteristic simplicity of theQuaker household, he boldly entered the first door, and found himself ina brilliantly lit and perfectly empty drawing-room. The same experiencemet him with the other rooms on that floor--the dining-room displayingan already set, exquisitely furnished and decorated table, with chairsfor twenty guests! He mechanically ascended the wide oaken staircasethat led to the corridor of bedrooms above a central salon. Here hefound only the same solitude. Bedroom doors yielded to his touch, onlyto show the same brilliantly lit vacancy. He presently came upon oneroom which seemed to give unmistakable signs of HIS OWN occupancy. Surely there stood his own dressing-case on the table! and his ownevening clothes carefully laid out on another, as if fresh from avalet's hands. He stepped hastily into the corridor--there was no onethere; he rang the bell--there was no response! But he noticed thatthere was a jug of hot water in his basin, and he began dressingmechanically. There was little doubt that he was in a haunted house, but this did notparticularly disturb him. Indeed, he found himself wondering if it couldbe logically called a haunted house--unless he himself was haunting it, for there seemed to be no other there. Perhaps the apparitions wouldcome later, when he was dressed. Clearly it was not his uncle'shouse--and yet, as he had never been inside his uncle's house, hereflected that he ought not to be positive. He finished dressing and sat down in an armchair with a kind ofthoughtful expectancy. But presently his curiosity became impatient ofthe silence and mystery, and he ventured once more to explore the house. Opening his bedroom door, he found himself again upon the desertedcorridor, but this time he could distinctly hear a buzz of voices fromthe drawing-room below. Assured that he was near a solution of themystery, he rapidly descended the broad staircase and made his way tothe open door of the drawing-room. But although the sound of voicesincreased as he advanced, when he entered the room, to his utterastonishment, it was as empty as before. Yet, in spite of his bewilderment and confusion, he was able tofollow one of the voices, which, in its peculiar distinctness andhalf-perfunctory tone, he concluded must belong to the host of theinvisible assembly. "Ah, " said the voice, greeting some unseen visitor, "so glad you havecome. Afraid your engagements just now would keep you away. " Then thevoice dropped to a lower and more confidential tone. "You must take downLady Dartman, but you will have Miss Morecamp--a clever girl--on theother side of you. Ah, Sir George! So good of you to come. All well atthe Priory? So glad to hear it. " (Lower and more confidentially. ) "Youknow Mrs. Monkston. You'll sit by her. A little cut up by her husbandlosing his seat. Try to amuse her. " Emboldened by desperation, Paul turned in the direction of the voice. "I am Paul Bunker, " he said hesitatingly. "I'm afraid you'll think meintrusive, but I was looking for my uncle, and"-- "Intrusive, my dear boy! The son of my near neighbor in the countryintrusive? Really, now, I like that! Grace!" (the voice turned inanother direction) "here is the American nephew of our neighbor Bunkerat Widdlestone, who thinks he is 'a stranger. '" "We all knew of your expected arrival at Widdlestone--it was so goodof you to waive ceremony and join us, " said a well-bred feminine voice, which Paul at once assumed to belong to the hostess. "But I must findsome one for your dinner partner. Mary" (here her voice was likewiseturned away), "this is Mr. Bunker, the nephew of an old friend andneighbor in Upshire;" (the voice again turned to him), "you will takeMiss Morecamp in. My dear" (once again averted), "I must find some oneelse to console poor dear Lord Billingtree with. " Here the hostess'svoice was drowned by fresh arrivals. Bewildered and confused as he was, standing in this empty desert ofa drawing-room, yet encompassed on every side by human voices, somarvelous was the power of suggestion, he seemed to almost feel theimpact of the invisible crowd. He was trying desperately to realize hissituation when a singularly fascinating voice at his elbow unexpectedlyassisted him. It was evidently his dinner partner. "I suppose you must be tired after your journey. When did you arrive?" "Only a few hours ago, " said Paul. "And I dare say you haven't slept since you arrived. One doesn't on thepassage, you know; the twenty hours pass so quickly, and the experienceis so exciting--to US at least. But I suppose as an American you areused to it. " Paul gasped. He had passively accepted the bodiless conversation, because it was at least intelligible! But NOW! Was he going mad? She evidently noticed his silence. "Never mind, " she continued, "youcan tell me all about it at dinner. Do you know I always think thatthis sort of thing--what we're doing now, --this ridiculous formalityof reception, --which I suppose is after all only a concession to ourEnglish force of habit, --is absurd! We ought to pass, as it were, directly from our houses to the dinner-table. It saves time. " "Yes--no--that is--I'm afraid I don't follow you, " stammered Paul. There was a slight pout in her voice as she replied: "No matter now--wemust follow them--for our host is moving off with Lady Billingtree, andit's our turn now. " So great was the illusion that he found himself mechanically offeringhis arm as he moved through the empty room towards the door. Then hedescended the staircase without another word, preceded, however, bythe sound of his host's voice. Following this as a blind man might, heentered the dining-room, which to his discomfiture was as empty as thesalon above. Still following the host's voice, he dropped into a chairbefore the empty table, wondering what variation of the Barmecide feastwas in store for him. Yet the hum of voices from the vacant chairsaround the board so strongly impressed him that he could almost believethat he was actually at dinner. "Are you seated?" asked the charming voice at his side. "Yes, " a little wonderingly, as his was the only seat visibly occupied. "I am so glad that this silly ceremony is over. By the way, where areyou?" Paul would have liked to answer, "Lord only knows!" but he reflectedthat it might not sound polite. "Where am I?" he feebly repeated. "Yes; where are you dining?" It seemed a cool question under the circumstances, but he answeredpromptly, -- "With you. " "Of course, " said the charming voice; "but where are you eating yourdinner?" Considering that he was not eating anything, Paul thought this coolerstill. But he answered briefly, "In Upshire. " "Oh! At your uncle's?" "No, " said Paul bluntly; "in the next house. " "Why, that's Sir William's--our host's--and he and his family are herein London. You are joking. " "Listen!" said Paul desperately. Then in a voice unconsciously loweredhe hurriedly told her where he was--how he came there--the emptyhouse--the viewless company! To his surprise the only response was amusical little laugh. But the next moment her voice rose higher with anunmistakable concern in it, apparently addressing their invisible host. "Oh, Sir William, only think how dreadful. Here's poor Mr. Bunker, alonein an empty house, which he has mistaken for his uncle's--and withoutany dinner!" "Really; dear, dear! How provoking! But how does he happen to be WITHUS? James, how is this?" "If you please, Sir William, " said a servant's respectful voice, "Widdlestone is in the circuit and is switched on with the others. Weheard that a gentleman's luggage had arrived at Widdlestone, and wetelegraphed for the rooms to be made ready, thinking we'd have herladyship's orders later. " A single gleam of intelligence flashed upon Paul. His luggage--yes, hadbeen sent from the station to the wrong house, and he had unwittinglyfollowed. But these voices! whence did they come? And where was theactual dinner at which his host was presiding? It clearly was not atthis empty table. "See that he has everything he wants at once, " said Sir William; "theremust be some one there. " Then his voice turned in the direction ofPaul again, and he said laughingly, "Possess your soul and appetite inpatience for a moment, Mr. Bunker; you will be only a course behind us. But we are lucky in having your company--even at your own discomfort. " Still more bewildered, Paul turned to his invisible partner. "May I askwhere YOU are dining?" "Certainly; at home in Curzon Street, " returned the pretty voice. "Itwas raining so, I did not go out. " "And--Lord Billington?" faltered Paul. "Oh, he's in Scotland--at his own place. " "Then, in fact, nobody is dining here at all, " said Paul desperately. There was a slight pause, and then the voice responded, with a touch ofstartled suggestion in it: "Good heavens, Mr. Bunker! Is it possible youdon't know we're dining by telephone?" "By what?" "Telephone. Yes. We're a telephonic dinner-party. We are dining in ourown houses; but, being all friends, we're switched on to each other, and converse exactly as we would at table. It saves a great trouble andexpense, for any one of us can give the party, and the poorest can equalthe most extravagant. People who are obliged to diet can partake oftheir own slops at home, and yet mingle with the gourmets withoutawkwardness or the necessity of apology. We are spared the spectacle, atleast, of those who eat and drink too much. We can switch off a bore atonce. We can retire when we are fatigued, without leaving a blank spacebefore the others. And all this without saying anything of the higherspiritual and intellectual effect--freed from material grossness ofappetite and show--which the dinner party thus attains. But you aresurely joking! You, an American, and not know it! Why, it comes fromBoston. Haven't you read that book, 'Jumping a Century'? It's by anAmerican. " A strange illumination came upon Paul. Where had he heard something likethis before? But at the same moment his thoughts were diverted by thematerial entrance of a footman, bearing a silver salver with his dinner. It was part of his singular experience that the visible entrance of thisreal, commonplace mortal--the only one he had seen--in the midst of thisvoiceless solitude was distinctly unreal, and had all the effect of anapparition. He distrusted it and the dishes before him. But his livelypartner's voice was now addressing an unseen occupant of the next chair. Had she got tired of his ignorance, or was it feminine tact to enablehim to eat something? He accepted the latter hypothesis, and tried toeat. But he felt himself following the fascinating voice in all thecharm of its youthful and spiritual inflections. Taking advantage of itsmomentary silence, he said gently, -- "I confess my ignorance, and am willing to admit all you claim for thiswonderful invention. But do you think it compensates for the loss of theindividual person? Take my own case--if you will not think me personal. I have never had the pleasure of seeing you; do you believe that Iam content with only that suggestion of your personality which thesatisfaction of hearing your voice affords me?" There was a pause, and then a very mischievous ring in the voicethat replied: "It certainly is a personal question, and it is anotherblessing of this invention that you'll never know whether I am blushingor not; but I forgive you, for I never before spoke to any one I hadnever seen--and I suppose it's confusion. But do you really think youwould know me--the REAL one--any better? It is the real person whothinks and speaks, not the outward semblance that we see, whichvery often unfairly either attracts or repels us? We can always SHOWourselves at our best, but we must, at last, reveal our true colorsthrough our thoughts and speech. Isn't it better to begin with the realthing first?" "I hope, at least, to have the privilege of judging by myself, " saidPaul gallantly. "You will not be so cruel as not to let me see youelsewhere, otherwise I shall feel as if I were in some dream, and willcertainly be opposed to your preference for realities. " "I am not certain if the dream would not be more interesting to you, "said the voice laughingly. "But I think your hostess is already saying'good-by. ' You know everybody goes at once at this kind of party; theladies don't retire first, and the gentlemen join them afterwards. Inanother moment we'll ALL be switched off; but Sir William wants me totell you that his coachman will drive you to your uncle's, unlessyou prefer to try and make yourself comfortable for the night here. Good-by!" The voices around him seemed to grow fainter, and then utterly cease. The lights suddenly leaped up, went out, and left him in completedarkness. He attempted to rise, but in doing so overset the dishesbefore him, which slid to the floor. A cold air seemed to blow acrosshis feet. The "good-by" was still ringing in his ears as he straightenedhimself to find he was in his railway carriage, whose door had just beenopened for a young lady who was entering the compartment from a waysidestation. "Good-by, " she repeated to the friend who was seeing her off. The Writer of Stories hurriedly straightened himself, gathered up themagazines and papers that had fallen from his lap, and glanced at thestation walls. The old illustrations glanced back at him! He looked athis watch; he had been asleep just ten minutes! BOHEMIAN DAYS IN SAN FRANCISCO It is but just to the respectable memory of San Francisco that in thesevagrant recollections I should deprecate at once any suggestion that thelevity of my title described its dominant tone at any period of my earlyexperiences. On the contrary, it was a singular fact that while therest of California was swayed by an easy, careless unconventionalism, orswept over by waves of emotion and sentiment, San Francisco preservedan intensely material and practical attitude, and even a certain austeremorality. I do not, of course, allude to the brief days of '49, when itwas a straggling beach of huts and stranded hulks, but to the earlierstages of its development into the metropolis of California. Its firsttottering steps in that direction were marked by a distinct gravity anddecorum. Even during the period when the revolver settled small privatedifficulties, and Vigilance Committees adjudicated larger public ones, an unmistakable seriousness and respectability was the ruling sign ofits governing class. It was not improbable that under the reign of theCommittee the lawless and vicious class were more appalled by the moralspectacle of several thousand black-coated, serious-minded business menin embattled procession than by mere force of arms, and one "suspect"--aprize-fighter--is known to have committed suicide in his cell afterconfrontation with his grave and passionless shopkeeping judges. Eventhat peculiar quality of Californian humor which was apt to mitigatethe extravagances of the revolver and the uncertainties of poker had noplace in the decorous and responsible utterance of San Francisco. Thepress was sober, materialistic, practical--when it was not severelyadmonitory of existing evil; the few smaller papers that indulged inlevity were considered libelous and improper. Fancy was displaced byheavy articles on the revenues of the State and inducements to theinvestment of capital. Local news was under an implied censorship whichsuppressed anything that might tend to discourage timid or cautiouscapital. Episodes of romantic lawlessness or pathetic incidents ofmining life were carefully edited--with the comment that these thingsbelonged to the past, and that life and property were now "as safe inSan Francisco as in New York or London. " Wonder-loving visitors in quest of scenes characteristic of thecivilization were coldly snubbed with this assurance. Fires, floods, andeven seismic convulsions were subjected to a like grimly materialisticoptimism. I have a vivid recollection of a ponderous editorial on oneof the severer earthquakes, in which it was asserted that only theUNEXPECTEDNESS of the onset prevented San Francisco from meeting it ina way that would be deterrent of all future attacks. The unconsciousnessof the humor was only equaled by the gravity with which it wasreceived by the whole business community. Strangely enough, this gravematerialism flourished side by side with--and was even sustained by--anarrow religious strictness more characteristic of the Pilgrim Fathersof a past century than the Western pioneers of the present. SanFrancisco was early a city of churches and church organizations to whichthe leading men and merchants belonged. The lax Sundays of the dyingSpanish race seemed only to provoke a revival of the rigors of thePuritan Sabbath. With the Spaniard and his Sunday afternoon bullfightscarcely an hour distant, the San Francisco pulpit thundered againstSunday picnics. One of the popular preachers, declaiming upon thepractice of Sunday dinner-giving, averred that when he saw a guest inhis best Sunday clothes standing shamelessly upon the doorstep of hishost, he felt like seizing him by the shoulder and dragging him fromthat threshold of perdition. Against the actual heathen the feeling was even stronger, and reachedits climax one Sunday when a Chinaman was stoned to death by a crowd ofchildren returning from Sunday-school. I am offering these exampleswith no ethical purpose, but merely to indicate a singular contradictorycondition which I do not think writers of early Californian history havefairly recorded. It is not my province to suggest any theory forthese appalling exceptions to the usual good-humored lawlessness andextravagance of the rest of the State. They may have been essentialagencies to the growth and evolution of the city. They were undoubtedlysincere. The impressions I propose to give of certain scenes andincidents of my early experience must, therefore, be taken as purelypersonal and Bohemian, and their selection as equally individual andvagrant. I am writing of what interested me at the time, though notperhaps of what was more generally characteristic of San Francisco. I had been there a week--an idle week, spent in listless outlook foremployment; a full week in my eager absorption of the strange lifearound me and a photographic sensitiveness to certain scenes andincidents of those days, which start out of my memory to-day as freshlyas the day they impressed me. One of these recollections is of "steamer night, " as it was called, --thenight of "steamer day, "--preceding the departure of the mail steamshipwith the mails for "home. " Indeed, at that time San Francisco may besaid to have lived from steamer day to steamer day; bills were made dueon that day, interest computed to that period, and accounts settled. The next day was the turning of a new leaf: another essay to fortune, another inspiration of energy. So recognized was the fact that evenordinary changes of condition, social and domestic, were put aside untilAFTER steamer day. "I'll see what I can do after next steamer day" wasthe common cautious or hopeful formula. It was the "Saturday night" ofmany a wage-earner--and to him a night of festivity. The thoroughfareswere animated and crowded; the saloons and theatres full. I can recallmyself at such times wandering along the City Front, as the businesspart of San Francisco was then known. Here the lights were burning allnight, the first streaks of dawn finding the merchants still at theircounting-house desks. I remember the dim lines of warehouses lining theinsecure wharves of rotten piles, half filled in--that had ceased tobe wharves, but had not yet become streets, --their treacherous yawningdepths, with the uncertain gleam of tarlike mud below, at times stillvocal with the lap and gurgle of the tide. I remember the weird storiesof disappearing men found afterward imbedded in the ooze in which theyhad fallen and gasped their life away. I remember the two or threeships, still left standing where they were beached a year or two before, built in between warehouses, their bows projecting into the roadway. There was the dignity of the sea and its boundless freedom in theirbeautiful curves, which the abutting houses could not destroy, and evensomething of the sea's loneliness in the far-spaced ports and cabinwindows lit up by the lamps of the prosaic landsmen who plied theirtrades behind them. One of these ships, transformed into a hotel, retained its name, the Niantic, and part of its characteristic interiorunchanged. I remember these ships' old tenants--the rats--who hadincreased and multiplied to such an extent that at night they fearlesslycrossed the wayfarer's path at every turn, and even invaded the gildedsaloons of Montgomery Street. In the Niantic their pit-a-pat was meton every staircase, and it was said that sometimes in an excess ofsociability they accompanied the traveler to his room. In the early"cloth-and-papered" houses--so called because the ceilings were notplastered, but simply covered by stretched and whitewashed cloth--theirscamperings were plainly indicated in zigzag movements of the saggingcloth, or they became actually visible by finally dropping through theholes they had worn in it! I remember the house whose foundations weremade of boxes of plug tobacco--part of a jettisoned cargo--used insteadof more expensive lumber; and the adjacent warehouse where the trunks ofthe early and forgotten "forty-niners" were stored, and--never claimedby their dead or missing owners--were finally sold at auction. Iremember the strong breath of the sea over all, and the constant onsetof the trade winds which helped to disinfect the deposit of dirt andgrime, decay and wreckage, which were stirred up in the later evolutionsof the city. Or I recall, with the same sense of youthful satisfaction and unabatedwonder, my wanderings through the Spanish Quarter, where three centuriesof quaint customs, speech, and dress were still preserved; where theproverbs of Sancho Panza were still spoken in the language of Cervantes, and the high-flown illusions of the La Manchian knight still a partof the Spanish Californian hidalgo's dream. I recall the more modern"Greaser, " or Mexican--his index finger steeped in cigarette stains;his velvet jacket and his crimson sash; the many-flounced skirt and lacemanta of his women, and their caressing intonations--the one musicalutterance of the whole hard-voiced city. I suppose I had a boy'sdigestion and bluntness of taste in those days, for the combined odor oftobacco, burned paper, and garlic, which marked that melodious breath, did not affect me. Perhaps from my Puritan training I experienced a more fearful joy in thegambling saloons. They were the largest and most comfortable, even asthey were the most expensively decorated rooms in San Francisco. Hereagain the gravity and decorum which I have already alluded to werepresent at that earlier period--though perhaps from concentration ofanother kind. People staked and lost their last dollar with a calmsolemnity and a resignation that was almost Christian. The oaths, exclamations, and feverish interruptions which often characterized moredignified assemblies were absent here. There was no room for the lesservices; there was little or no drunkenness; the gaudily dressed andpainted women who presided over the wheels of fortune or performed onthe harp and piano attracted no attention from those ascetic players. The man who had won ten thousand dollars and the man who had losteverything rose from the table with equal silence and imperturbability. I never witnessed any tragic sequel to those losses; I never heard ofany suicide on account of them. Neither can I recall any quarrel ormurder directly attributable to this kind of gambling. It must beremembered that these public games were chiefly rouge et noir, monte, faro, or roulette, in which the antagonist was Fate, Chance, Method, orthe impersonal "bank, " which was supposed to represent them all; therewas no individual opposition or rivalry; nobody challenged the decisionof the "croupier, " or dealer. I remember a conversation at the door of one saloon which was ascharacteristic for its brevity as it was a type of the prevailingstoicism. "Hello!" said a departing miner, as he recognized a brotherminer coming in, "when did you come down?" "This morning, " was thereply. "Made a strike on the bar?" suggested the first speaker. "Youbet!" said the other, and passed in. I chanced an hour later to be atthe same place as they met again--their relative positions changed. "Hello! Whar now?" said the incomer. "Back to the bar. " "Cleaned out?""You bet!" Not a word more explained a common situation. My first youthful experience at those tables was an accidental one. I was watching roulette one evening, intensely absorbed in the meremovement of the players. Either they were so preoccupied with the game, or I was really older looking than my actual years, but a bystander laidhis hand familiarly on my shoulder, and said, as to an ordinary habitue, "Ef you're not chippin' in yourself, pardner, s'pose you give ME ashow. " Now I honestly believe that up to that moment I had no intention, nor even a desire, to try my own fortune. But in the embarrassment ofthe sudden address I put my hand in my pocket, drew out a coin, and laidit, with an attempt at carelessness, but a vivid consciousness that Iwas blushing, upon a vacant number. To my horror I saw that I hadput down a large coin--the bulk of my possessions! I did not flinch, however; I think any boy who reads this will understand my feeling; itwas not only my coin but my manhood at stake. I gazed with a miserableshow of indifference at the players, at the chandelier--anywhere but atthe dreadful ball spinning round the wheel. There was a pause; the gamewas declared, the rake rattled up and down, but still I did not look atthe table. Indeed, in my inexperience of the game and my embarrassment, I doubt if I should have known if I had won or not. I had made up mymind that I should lose, but I must do so like a man, and, above all, without giving the least suspicion that I was a greenhorn. I evenaffected to be listening to the music. The wheel spun again; the gamewas declared, the rake was busy, but I did not move. At last the manI had displaced touched me on the arm and whispered, "Better make astraddle and divide your stake this time. " I did not understand him, butas I saw he was looking at the board, I was obliged to look, too. I drewback dazed and bewildered! Where my coin had lain a moment before was aglittering heap of gold. My stake had doubled, quadrupled, and doubled again. I did not know howmuch then---I do not know now--it may have been not more than three orfour hundred dollars--but it dazzled and frightened me. "Make yourgame, gentlemen, " said the croupier monotonously. I thought he lookedat me--indeed, everybody seemed to be looking at me--and my companionrepeated his warning. But here I must again appeal to the boyish readerin defense of my idiotic obstinacy. To have taken advice would haveshown my youth. I shook my head--I could not trust my voice. I smiled, but with a sinking heart, and let my stake remain. The ball again spedround the wheel, and stopped. There was a pause. The croupier indolentlyadvanced his rake and swept my whole pile with others into the bank!I had lost it all. Perhaps it may be difficult for me to explain why Iactually felt relieved, and even to some extent triumphant, but I seemedto have asserted my grown-up independence--possibly at the cost ofreducing the number of my meals for days; but what of that! I was a man!I wish I could say that it was a lesson to me. I am afraid it was not. It was true that I did not gamble again, but then I had no especialdesire to--and there was no temptation. I am afraid it was an incidentwithout a moral. Yet it had one touch characteristic of the period whichI like to remember. The man who had spoken to me, I think, suddenlyrealized, at the moment of my disastrous coup, the fact of my extremeyouth. He moved toward the banker, and leaning over him whispered a fewwords. The banker looked up, half impatiently, half kindly--his handstraying tentatively toward the pile of coin. I instinctively knew whathe meant, and, summoning my determination, met his eyes with all theindifference I could assume, and walked away. I had at that period a small room at the top of a house owned by adistant relation--a second or third cousin, I think. He was a man ofindependent and original character, had a Ulyssean experience of men andcities, and an old English name of which he was proud. While in Londonhe had procured from the Heralds' College his family arms, whosecrest was stamped upon a quantity of plate he had brought with him toCalifornia. The plate, together with an exceptionally good cook, whichhe had also brought, and his own epicurean tastes, he utilized in theusual practical Californian fashion by starting a rather expensivehalf-club, half-restaurant in the lower part of the building--which heruled somewhat autocratically, as became his crest. The restaurant wastoo expensive for me to patronize, but I saw many of its frequenters aswell as those who had rooms at the club. They were men of verydistinct personality; a few celebrated, and nearly all notorious. Theyrepresented a Bohemianism--if such it could be called--less innocentthan my later experiences. I remember, however, one handsome youngfellow whom I used to meet occasionally on the staircase, who capturedmy youthful fancy. I met him only at midday, as he did not rise tilllate, and this fact, with a certain scrupulous elegance and neatness inhis dress, ought to have made me suspect that he was a gambler. In myinexperience it only invested him with a certain romantic mystery. One morning as I was going out to my very early breakfast at a cheapItalian cafe on Long Wharf, I was surprised to find him also descendingthe staircase. He was scrupulously dressed even at that early hour, but I was struck by the fact that he was all in black, and his slightfigure, buttoned to the throat in a tightly fitting frock coat, gave, Ifancied, a singular melancholy to his pale Southern face. Nevertheless, he greeted me with more than his usual serene cordiality, and Iremembered that he looked up with a half-puzzled, half-amused expressionat the rosy morning sky as he walked a few steps with me down thedeserted street. I could not help saying that I was astonished tosee him up so early, and he admitted that it was a break in his usualhabits, but added with a smiling significance I afterwards rememberedthat it was "an even chance if he did it again. " As we neared the streetcorner a man in a buggy drove up impatiently. In spite of the driver'sevident haste, my handsome acquaintance got in leisurely, and, liftinghis glossy hat to me with a pleasant smile, was driven away. I havea very lasting recollection of his face and figure as the buggydisappeared down the empty street. I never saw him again. It was notuntil a week later that I knew that an hour after he left me thatmorning he was lying dead in a little hollow behind the MissionDolores--shot through the heart in a duel for which he had risen soearly. I recall another incident of that period, equally characteristic, buthappily less tragic in sequel. I was in the restaurant one morningtalking to my cousin when a man entered hastily and said something tohim in a hurried whisper. My cousin contracted his eyebrows and uttereda suppressed oath. Then with a gesture of warning to the man he crossedthe room quietly to a table where a regular habitue of the restaurantwas lazily finishing his breakfast. A large silver coffee-pot with astiff wooden handle stood on the table before him. My cousin leaned overthe guest familiarly and apparently made some hospitable inquiry asto his wants, with his hand resting lightly on the coffee-pot handle. Then--possibly because, my curiosity having been excited, I was watchinghim more intently than the others--I saw what probably no one elsesaw--that he deliberately upset the coffee-pot and its contents overthe guest's shirt and waistcoat. As the victim sprang up withan exclamation, my cousin overwhelmed him with apologies for hiscarelessness, and, with protestations of sorrow for the accident, actually insisted upon dragging the man upstairs into his own privateroom, where he furnished him with a shirt and waistcoat of his own. Theside door had scarcely closed upon them, and I was still lost in wonderat what I had seen, when a man entered from the street. He was one ofthe desperate set I have already spoken of, and thoroughly well known tothose present. He cast a glance around the room, nodded to one or two ofthe guests, and then walked to a side table and took up a newspaper. Iwas conscious at once that a singular constraint had come over the otherguests--a nervous awkwardness that at last seemed to make itself knownto the man himself, who, after an affected yawn or two, laid down thepaper and walked out. "That was a mighty close call, " said one of the guests with a sigh ofrelief. "You bet! And that coffee-pot spill was the luckiest kind of accidentfor Peters, " returned another. "For both, " added the first speaker, "for Peters was armed too, andwould have seen him come in!" A word or two explained all. Peters and the last comer had quarreleda day or two before, and had separated with the intention to "shooton sight, " that is, wherever they met, --a form of duel common to thosedays. The accidental meeting in the restaurant would have been theoccasion, with the usual sanguinary consequence, but for the wordof warning given to my cousin by a passer-by who knew that Peters'antagonist was coming to the restaurant to look at the papers. Hadmy cousin repeated the warning to Peters himself he would only haveprepared him for the conflict--which he would not have shirked--and soprecipitated the affray. The ruse of upsetting the coffee-pot, which everybody but myself thoughtan accident, was to get him out of the room before the other entered. Iwas too young then to venture to intrude upon my cousin's secrets, buttwo or three years afterwards I taxed him with the trick and he admittedit regretfully. I believe that a strict interpretation of the "code"would have condemned his act as unsportsmanlike, if not UNFAIR! I recall another incident connected with the building equallycharacteristic of the period. The United States Branch Mint stood verynear it, and its tall, factory-like chimneys overshadowed my cousin'sroof. Some scandal had arisen from an alleged leakage of gold in themanipulation of that metal during the various processes of smeltingand refining. One of the excuses offered was the volatilization of theprecious metal and its escape through the draft of the tall chimneys. All San Francisco laughed at this explanation until it learned that acorroboration of the theory had been established by an assay of the dustand grime of the roofs in the vicinity of the Mint. These had yieldeddistinct traces of gold. San Francisco stopped laughing, and thatportion of it which had roofs in the neighborhood at once beganprospecting. Claims were staked out on these airy placers, and mycousin's roof, being the very next one to the chimney, and presumably"in the lead, " was disposed of to a speculative company for aconsiderable sum. I remember my cousin telling me the story--for theoccurrence was quite recent--and taking me with him to the roof toexplain it, but I am afraid I was more attracted by the mystery of theclosely guarded building, and the strangely tinted smoke which arosefrom this temple where money was actually being "made, " than by anythingelse. Nor did I dream as I stood there--a very lanky, open-mouthedyouth--that only three or four years later I should be the secretary ofits superintendent. In my more adventurous ambition I am afraid I wouldhave accepted the suggestion half-heartedly. Merely to have helped tostamp the gold which other people had adventurously found was by nomeans a part of my youthful dreams. At the time of these earlier impressions the Chinese had not yet becomethe recognized factors in the domestic and business economy of the citywhich they had come to be when I returned from the mines three yearslater. Yet they were even then a more remarkable and picturesquecontrast to the bustling, breathless, and brand-new life of SanFrancisco than the Spaniard. The latter seldom flaunted his fadeddignity in the principal thoroughfares. "John" was to be met everywhere. It was a common thing to see a long file of sampan coolies carryingtheir baskets slung between them, on poles, jostling a modern, well-dressed crowd in Montgomery Street, or to get a whiff of theirburned punk in the side streets; while the road leading to theirtemporary burial-ground at Lone Mountain was littered with slips ofcolored paper scattered from their funerals. They brought an atmosphereof the Arabian Nights into the hard, modern civilization; theirshops--not always confined at that time to a Chinese quarter--werereplicas of the bazaars of Canton and Peking, with their quaint displayof little dishes on which tidbits of food delicacies were exposed forsale, all of the dimensions and unreality of a doll's kitchen or achild's housekeeping. They were a revelation to the Eastern immigrant, whose preconceivedideas of them were borrowed from the ballet or pantomime; they did notwear scalloped drawers and hats with jingling bells on their points, nordid I ever see them dance with their forefingers vertically extended. They were always neatly dressed, even the commonest of coolies, andtheir festive dresses were marvels. As traders they were grave andpatient; as servants they were sad and civil, and all were singularlyinfantine in their natural simplicity. The living representatives of theoldest civilization in the world, they seemed like children. Yet theykept their beliefs and sympathies to themselves, never fraternizing withthe fanqui, or foreign devil, or losing their singular racial qualities. They indulged in their own peculiar habits; of their social and innerlife, San Francisco knew but little and cared less. Even at this earlyperiod, and before I came to know them more intimately, I rememberan incident of their daring fidelity to their own customs that wasaccidentally revealed to me. I had become acquainted with a Chineseyouth of about my own age, as I imagined, --although from mere outwardappearance it was generally impossible to judge of a Chinaman's agebetween the limits of seventeen and forty years, --and he had, in a burstof confidence, taken me to see some characteristic sights in a Chinesewarehouse within a stone's throw of the Plaza. I was struck by thesingular circumstance that while the warehouse was an erection of woodin the ordinary hasty Californian style, there were certain brick andstone divisions in its interior, like small rooms or closets, evidentlyadded by the Chinamen tenants. My companion stopped before a long, verynarrow entrance, a mere longitudinal slit in the brick wall, and with awink of infantine deviltry motioned me to look inside. I did so, and sawa room, really a cell, of fair height but scarcely six feet square, and barely able to contain a rude, slanting couch of stone covered withmatting, on which lay, at a painful angle, a richly dressed Chinaman. A single glance at his dull, staring, abstracted eyes and half-openedmouth showed me he was in an opium trance. This was not in itself anovel sight, and I was moving away when I was suddenly startled by theappearance of his hands, which were stretched helplessly before him onhis body, and at first sight seemed to be in a kind of wicker cage. I then saw that his finger-nails were seven or eight inches long, andwere supported by bamboo splints. Indeed, they were no longer humannails, but twisted and distorted quills, giving him the appearanceof having gigantic claws. "Velly big Chinaman, " whispered my cheerfulfriend; "first-chop man--high classee--no can washee--no can eat--nodlinke, no catchee him own glub allee same nothee man--China boy mustcatchee glub for him, allee time! Oh, him first-chop man--you bettee!" I had heard of this singular custom of indicating caste before, andwas amazed and disgusted, but I was not prepared for what followed. Mycompanion, evidently thinking he had impressed me, grew more recklessas showman, and saying to me, "Now me showee you one funny thing--heapmakee you laugh, " led me hurriedly across a little courtyard swarmingwith chickens and rabbits, when he stopped before another inclosure. Suddenly brushing past an astonished Chinaman who seemed to be standingguard, he thrust me into the inclosure in front of a most extraordinaryobject. It was a Chinaman, wearing a huge, square, wooden frame fastenedaround his neck like a collar, and fitting so tightly and rigidly thatthe flesh rose in puffy weals around his cheeks. He was chained to apost, although it was as impossible for him to have escaped with hiswooden cage through the narrow doorway as it was for him to lie downand rest in it. Yet I am bound to say that his eyes and face expressednothing but apathy, and there was no appeal to the sympathy of thestranger. My companion said hurriedly, -- "Velly bad man; stealee heap from Chinamen, " and then, apparentlyalarmed at his own indiscreet intrusion, hustled me away as quickly aspossible amid a shrill cackling of protestation from a few of his owncountrymen who had joined the one who was keeping guard. In anothermoment we were in the street again--scarce a step from the Plaza, in thefull light of Western civilization--not a stone's throw from the courtsof justice. My companion took to his heels and left me standing there bewilderedand indignant. I could not rest until I had told my story, but withoutbetraying my companion, to an elder acquaintance, who laid thefacts before the police authorities. I had expected to be closelycross-examined--to be doubted--to be disbelieved. To my surprise, I wastold that the police had already cognizance of similar cases of illegaland barbarous punishments, but that the victims themselves refused totestify against their countrymen--and it was impossible to convict oreven to identify them. "A white man can't tell one Chinese from another, and there are always a dozen of 'em ready to swear that the man you'vegot isn't the one. " I was startled to reflect that I, too, could nothave conscientiously sworn to either jailor or the tortured prisoner--orperhaps even to my cheerful companion. The police, on some pretext, madea raid upon the premises a day or two afterwards, but without result. I wondered if they had caught sight of the high-class, first-chopindividual, with the helplessly outstretched fingers, as that story Ihad kept to myself. But these barbaric vestiges in John Chinaman's habits did not affect hisrelations with the San Franciscans. He was singularly peaceful, docile, and harmless as a servant, and, with rare exceptions, honest andtemperate. If he sometimes matched cunning with cunning, it was theflattery of imitation. He did most of the menial work of San Francisco, and did it cleanly. Except that he exhaled a peculiar druglike odor, hewas not personally offensive in domestic contact, and by virtue of beingthe recognized laundryman of the whole community his own blouses werealways freshly washed and ironed. His conversational reserve arose, notfrom his having to deal with an unfamiliar language, --for he had pickedup a picturesque and varied vocabulary with ease, --but from his naturaltemperament. He was devoid of curiosity, and utterly unimpressed byanything but the purely business concerns of those he served. Domesticsecrets were safe with him; his indifference to your thoughts, actions, and feelings had all the contempt which his three thousand years ofhistory and his innate belief in your inferiority seemed to justify. Hewas blind and deaf in your household because you didn't interest himin the least. It was said that a gentleman, who wished to test hisimpassiveness, arranged with his wife to come home one day and, in thehearing of his Chinese waiter who was more than usually intelligent--todisclose with well-simulated emotion the details of a murder he had justcommitted. He did so. The Chinaman heard it without a sign of horroror attention even to the lifting of an eyelid, but continued his dutiesunconcerned. Unfortunately, the gentleman, in order to increase thehorror of the situation, added that now there was nothing left for himbut to cut his throat. At this John quietly left the room. The gentlemanwas delighted at the success of his ruse until the door reopened andJohn reappeared with his master's razor, which he quietly slipped--asif it had been a forgotten fork--beside his master's plate, and calmlyresumed his serving. I have always considered this story to be quite asimprobable as it was inartistic, from its tacit admission of a certaininterest on the part of the Chinaman. I never knew one who would havebeen sufficiently concerned to go for the razor. His taciturnity and reticence may have been confounded with rudeness ofaddress, although he was always civil enough. "I see you have listenedto me and done exactly what I told you, " said a lady, commending someperformance of her servant after a previous lengthy lecture; "that'svery nice. " "Yes, " said John calmly, "you talkee allee time; talkeeallee too much. " "I always find Ling very polite, " said anotherlady, speaking of her cook, "but I wish he did not always say to me, 'Goodnight, John, ' in a high falsetto voice. " She had not recognized thefact that he was simply repeating her own salutation with his marvelousinstinct of relentless imitation, even as to voice. I hesitate to recordthe endless stories of his misapplication of that faculty which werethen current, from the one of the laundryman who removed the buttonsfrom the shirts that were sent to him to wash that they might agree withthe condition of the one offered him as a pattern for "doing up, " tothat of the unfortunate employer who, while showing John how to handlevaluable china carefully, had the misfortune to drop a plate himself--anaccident which was followed by the prompt breaking of another by theneophyte, with the addition of "Oh, hellee!" in humble imitation of hismaster. I have spoken of his general cleanliness; I am reminded of one or twoexceptions, which I think, however, were errors of zeal. His manner ofsprinkling clothes in preparing them for ironing was peculiar. He wouldfill his mouth with perfectly pure water from a glass beside him, andthen, by one dexterous movement of his lips in a prolonged expiration, squirt the water in an almost invisible misty shower on the articlebefore him. Shocking as this was at first to the sensibilities of manyAmerican employers, it was finally accepted, and even commended. It wassome time after this that the mistress of a household, admiring the deftway in which her cook had spread a white sauce on certain dishes, wascheerfully informed that the method was "allee same. " His recreations at that time were chiefly gambling, for the Chinesetheatre wherein the latter produced his plays (which lasted for severalmonths and comprised the events of a whole dynasty) was not yet built. But he had one or two companies of jugglers who occasionally performedalso at American theatres. I remember a singular incident which attendedthe debut of a newly arrived company. It seemed that the company hadbeen taken on their Chinese reputation solely, and there had been noprevious rehearsal before the American stage manager. The theatre wasfilled with an audience of decorous and respectable San Franciscans ofboth sexes. It was suddenly emptied in the middle of the performance;the curtain came down with an alarmed and blushing manager apologizingto deserted benches, and the show abruptly terminated. Exactly WHAThad happened never appeared in the public papers, nor in the publishedapology of the manager. It afforded a few days' mirth for wicked SanFrancisco, and it was epigrammatically summed up in the remark that "nowoman could be found in San Francisco who was at that performance, andno man who was not. " Yet it was alleged even by John's worst detractorsthat he was innocent of any intended offense. Equally innocent, butperhaps more morally instructive, was an incident that brought hiscareer as a singularly successful physician to a disastrous close. An ordinary native Chinese doctor, practicing entirely among his owncountrymen, was reputed to have made extraordinary cures with twoor three American patients. With no other advertising than this, andapparently no other inducement offered to the public than what theircuriosity suggested, he was presently besieged by hopeful and eagersufferers. Hundreds of patients were turned away from his crowded doors. Two interpreters sat, day and night, translating the ills of ailingSan Francisco to this medical oracle, and dispensing hisprescriptions--usually small powders--in exchange for current coin. Invain the regular practitioners pointed out that the Chinese possessedno superior medical knowledge, and that their religion, which proscribeddissection and autopsies, naturally limited their understanding of thebody into which they put their drugs. Finally they prevailed upon aneminent Chinese authority to give them a list of the remedies generallyused in the Chinese pharmacopoeia, and this was privately circulated. For obvious reasons I may not repeat it here. But it was summedup--again after the usual Californian epigrammatic style--by the remarkthat "whatever were the comparative merits of Chinese and Americanpractice, a simple perusal of the list would prove that the Chinese werecapable of producing the most powerful emetic known. " The craze subsidedin a single day; the interpreters and their oracle vanished; the Chinesedoctors' signs, which had multiplied, disappeared, and San Franciscoawoke cured of its madness, at the cost of some thousand dollars. My Bohemian wanderings were confined to the limits of the city, for thevery good reason that there was little elsewhere to go. San Franciscowas then bounded on one side by the monotonously restless waters of thebay, and on the other by a stretch of equally restless and monotonouslyshifting sand dunes as far as the Pacific shore. Two roads penetratedthis waste: one to Lone Mountain--the cemetery; the other to the CliffHouse--happily described as "an eight-mile drive with a cocktail atthe end of it. " Nor was the humor entirely confined to this felicitousdescription. The Cliff House itself, half restaurant, half drinkingsaloon, fronting the ocean and the Seal Rock, where disporting sealswere the chief object of interest, had its own peculiar symbol. Thedecanters, wine-glasses, and tumblers at the bar were all engravedin old English script with the legal initials "L. S. " (LocusSigilli), --"the place of the seal. " On the other hand, Lone Mountain, a dreary promontory giving upon theGolden Gate and its striking sunsets, had little to soften its weirdsuggestiveness. As the common goal of the successful and unsuccessful, the carved and lettered shaft of the man who had made a name, and thestaring blank headboard of the man who had none, climbed the sandyslopes together. I have seen the funerals of the respectable citizen whohad died peacefully in his bed, and the notorious desperado who haddied "with his boots on, " followed by an equally impressive cortege ofsorrowing friends, and often the self-same priest. But more awful thanits barren loneliness was the utter absence of peacefulness and restin this dismal promontory. By some wicked irony of its situation andclimate it was the personification of unrest and change. The incessanttrade winds carried its loose sands hither and thither, uncovering thedecaying coffins of early pioneers, to bury the wreaths and flowers, laid on a grave of to-day, under their obliterating waves. No tree toshade them from the glaring sky above could live in those winds, noturf would lie there to resist the encroaching sand below. The deadwere harried and hustled even in their graves by the persistent sun, theunremitting wind, and the unceasing sea. The departing mourner saw thecontour of the very mountain itself change with the shifting dunes ashe passed, and his last look beyond rested on the hurrying, eager wavesforever hastening to the Golden Gate. If I were asked to say what one thing impressed me as the dominant andcharacteristic note of San Francisco, I should say it was this untiringpresence of sun and wind and sea. They typified, even if they were not, as I sometimes fancied, the actual incentive to the fierce, restlesslife of the city. I could not think of San Francisco without the tradewinds; I could not imagine its strange, incongruous, multigenerousprocession marching to any other music. They were always there in myyouthful recollections; they were there in my more youthful dreams ofthe past as the mysterious vientes generales that blew the Philippinegalleons home. For six months they blew from the northwest, for six months from thesouthwest, with unvarying persistency. They were there every morning, glittering in the equally persistent sunlight, to chase the SanFranciscan from his slumber; they were there at midday, to stir hispulses with their beat; they were there again at night, to hurry himthrough the bleak and flaring gas-lit streets to bed. They left theirmark on every windward street or fence or gable, on the outlying sanddunes; they lashed the slow coasters home, and hurried them to seaagain; they whipped the bay into turbulence on their way to ContraCosta, whose level shoreland oaks they had trimmed to windward ascleanly and sharply as with a pruning-shears. Untiring themselves, theyallowed no laggards; they drove the San Franciscan from the wall againstwhich he would have leaned, from the scant shade in which at noontide hemight have rested. They turned his smallest fires into conflagrations, and kept him ever alert, watchful, and eager. In return, they scavengedhis city and held it clean and wholesome; in summer they brought him thesoft sea-fog for a few hours to soothe his abraded surfaces; in winterthey brought the rains and dashed the whole coast-line with flowers, andthe staring sky above it with soft, unwonted clouds. They were alwaysthere--strong, vigilant, relentless, material, unyielding, triumphant.