Mr. Jack Hamlin’s Mediation by Bret Harte (page 3)

The rose that blossomed on her cheek faded in his. There was a moment of silence. Then he said frankly, “I owe you some apology. Forgive my folly and impertinence a moment ago. How could I have known this?”

“You took no more than you deserved, or that Tom would have objected to,” she said, with a little laugh. “You’ve been mighty kind and handy.”

She held out her hand; their fingers closed together in a frank pressure. Then his mind went back to his work, which he had forgotten,–to his first impressions of the camp and of her. They both stood silent, watching the canoe, now quite visible, and the man that was paddling it, with an intensity that both felt was insincere.

“I’m afraid,” he said, with a forced laugh, “that I was a little too hasty in disposing of your goods and possessions. We could have kept afloat a little longer.”

“It’s all the same,” she said, with a slight laugh; “it’s jest as well we didn’t look too comf’ble–to HIM.”

He did not reply; he did not dare to look at her. Yes! It was the same coquette he had seen last night. His first impressions were correct.

The canoe came on rapidly now, propelled by a powerful arm. In a few moments it was alongside, and its owner leaped on the platform. It was the gentleman with his trousers tucked in his boots, the second voice in the gloomy discussion in the general store last evening. He nodded simply to the girl, and shook Hemmingway’s hand warmly.

Then he made a hurried apology for his delay: it was so difficult to find “the lay” of the drifted cabin. He had struck out first for the most dangerous spot,–the “old clearing,” on the right bank, with its stumps and new growths,–and it seemed he was right. And all the rest were safe, and “nobody was hurt.”

“All the same, Tom,” she said, when they were seated and paddling off again, “you don’t know HOW NEAR YOU CAME TO LOSING ME.” Then she raised her beautiful eyes and looked significantly, not at HIM, but at Hemmingway.

When the water was down at “Jules'” the next day, they found certain curious changes and some gold, and the secretary was able to make a favorable report. But he made none whatever of his impressions “when the water was up at ‘Jules’,'” though he often wondered if they were strictly trustworthy.

THE BOOM IN THE “CALAVERAS CLARION”

The editorial sanctum of the “Calaveras Clarion” opened upon the “composing-room” of that paper on the one side, and gave apparently upon the rest of Calaveras County upon the other. For, situated on the very outskirts of the settlement and the summit of a very steep hill, the pines sloped away from the editorial windows to the long valley of the South Fork and–infinity. The little wooden building had invaded Nature without subduing it. It was filled night and day with the murmur of pines and their fragrance. Squirrels scampered over its roof when it was not preoccupied by woodpeckers, and a printer’s devil had once seen a nest-building blue jay enter the composing window, flutter before one of the slanting type-cases with an air of deliberate selection, and then fly off with a vowel in its bill.

Amidst these sylvan surroundings the temporary editor of the “Clarion” sat at his sanctum, reading the proofs of an editorial. As he was occupying that position during a six weeks’ absence of the bona fide editor and proprietor, he was consequently reading the proof with some anxiety and responsibility. It had been suggested to him by certain citizens that the “Clarion” needed a firmer and more aggressive policy towards the Bill before the Legislature for the wagon road to the South Fork. Several Assembly men had been “got at” by the rival settlement of Liberty Hill, and a scathing exposure and denunciation of such methods was necessary. The interests of their own township were also to be “whooped up.” All this had been vigorously explained to him, and he had grasped the spirit, if not always the facts, of his informants. It is to be feared, therefore, that he was perusing his article more with reference to its vigor than his own convictions. And yet he was not so greatly absorbed as to be unmindful of the murmur of the pines without, his half-savage environment, and the lazy talk of his sole companions,–the foreman and printer in the adjoining room.

“Bet your life! I’ve always said that a man INSIDE a newspaper office could hold his own agin any outsider that wanted to play rough or tried to raid the office! Thar’s the press, and thar’s the printin’ ink and roller! Folks talk a heap o’ the power o’ the Press!–I tell ye, ye don’t half know it. Why, when old Kernel Fish was editin’ the ‘Sierra Banner,’ one o’ them bullies that he’d lampooned in the ‘Banner’ fought his way past the Kernel in the office, into the composin’-room, to wreck everythin’ and ‘pye’ all the types. Spoffrel–ye don’t remember Spoffrel?–little red- haired man?–was foreman. Spoffrel fended him off with the roller and got one good dab inter his eyes that blinded him, and then Spoffrel sorter skirmished him over to the press,–a plain lever just like ours,–whar the locked-up form of the inside was still a-lyin’! Then, quick as lightnin’, Spoffrel tilts him over agin it, and HE throws out his hand and ketches hold o’ the form to steady himself, when Spoffrel just runs the form and the hand under the press and down with the lever! And that held the feller fast as grim death! And when at last he begs off, and Spoff lets him loose, the hull o’ that ‘ere lampooning article he objected to was printed right onto the skin o’ his hand! Fact, and it wouldn’t come off, either.”

“Gosh, but I’d like to hev seen it,” said the printer. “There ain’t any chance, I reckon, o’ such a sight here. The boss don’t take no risks lampoonin’, and he” (the editor knew he was being indicated by some unseen gesture of the unseen workman) “ain’t that style.”

“Ye never kin tell,” said the foreman didactically, “what might happen! I’ve known editors to get into a fight jest for a little innercent bedevilin’ o’ the opposite party. Sometimes for a misprint. Old man Pritchard of the ‘Argus’ oncet had a hole blown through his arm because his proofreader had called Colonel Starbottle’s speech an ‘ignominious’ defense, when the old man hed written ‘ingenuous’ defense.”

The editor paused in his proof-reading. He had just come upon the sentence: “We cannot congratulate Liberty Hill–in its superior elevation–upon the ignominious silence of the representative of all Calaveras when this infamous Bill was introduced.” He referred to his copy. Yes! He had certainly written “ignominious,”–that was what his informants had suggested. But was he sure they were right? He had a vague recollection, also, that the representative alluded to–Senator Bradley–had fought two duels, and was a “good” though somewhat impulsive shot! He might alter the word to “ingenuous” or “ingenious,” either would be finely sarcastic, but then–there was his foreman, who would detect it! He would wait until he had finished the entire article. In that occupation he became oblivious of the next room, of a silence, a whispered conversation, which ended with a rapping at the door and the appearance of the foreman in the doorway.

“There’s a man in the office who wants to see the editor,” he said.

“Show him in,” replied the editor briefly. He was, however, conscious that there was a singular significance in his foreman’s manner, and an eager apparition of the other printer over the foreman’s shoulder.

“He’s carryin’ a shot-gun, and is a man twice as big as you be,” said the foreman gravely.

The editor quickly recalled his own brief and as yet blameless record in the “Clarion.” “Perhaps,” he said tentatively, with a gentle smile, “he’s looking for Captain Brush” (the absent editor).

“I told him all that,” said the foreman grimly, “and he said he wanted to see the man in charge.”

In proportion as the editor’s heart sank his outward crest arose. “Show him in,” he said loftily.

“We KIN keep him out,” suggested the foreman, lingering a moment; “me and him,” indicating the expectant printer behind him, “is enough for that.”

“Show him up,” repeated the editor firmly.

The foreman withdrew; the editor seated himself and again took up his proof. The doubtful word “ignominious” seemed to stand out of the paragraph before him; it certainly WAS a strong expression! He was about to run his pencil through it when he heard the heavy step of his visitor approaching. A sudden instinct of belligerency took possession of him, and he wrathfully threw the pencil down.

The burly form of the stranger blocked the doorway. He was dressed like a miner, but his build and general physiognomy were quite distinct from the local variety. His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven, still showing the blue-black roots of the beard which covered the rest of his face and depended in a thick fleece under his throat. He carried a small bundle tied up in a silk handkerchief in one hand, and a “shot-gun” in the other, perilously at half-cock. Entering the sanctum, he put down his bundle and quietly closed the door behind him. He then drew an empty chair towards him and dropped heavily into it with his gun on his knees. The editor’s heart dropped almost as heavily, although he quite composedly held out his hand.

“Shall I relieve you of your gun?”

“Thank ye, lad–noa. It’s moor coomfortable wi’ me, and it’s main dangersome to handle on the half-cock. That’s why I didn’t leave ‘im on the horse outside!”

At the sound of his voice and occasional accent a flash of intelligence relieved the editor’s mind. He remembered that twenty miles away, in the illimitable vista from his windows, lay a settlement of English north-country miners, who, while faithfully adopting the methods, customs, and even slang of the Californians, retained many of their native peculiarities. The gun he carried on his knee, however, was evidently part of the Californian imitation.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the editor blandly.

“Ay! I’ve coom here to bill ma woife.”

“I–don’t think I understand,” hesitated the editor, with a smile.

“I’ve coom here to get ye to put into your paaper a warnin’, a notiss, that onless she returns to my house in four weeks, I’ll have nowt to do wi’ her again.”

“Oh!” said the editor, now perfectly reassured, “you want an advertisement? That’s the business of the foreman; I’ll call him.” He was rising from his seat when the stranger laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and gently forced him down again.

“Noa, lad! I don’t want noa foreman nor understrappers to take this job. I want to talk it over wi’ you. Sabe? My woife she bin up and awaa these six months. We had a bit of difference, that ain’t here nor there, but she skedaddled outer my house. I want to give her fair warning, and let her know I ain’t payin’ any debts o’ hers arter this notiss, and I ain’t takin’ her back arter four weeks from date.”

“I see,” said the editor glibly. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Eliza Jane Dimmidge.”

“Good,” continued the editor, scribbling on the paper before him; “something like this will do: ‘Whereas my wife, Eliza Jane Dimmidge, having left my bed and board without just cause or provocation, this is to give notice that I shall not be responsible for any debts of her contracting on or after this date.'”

“Ye must be a lawyer,” said Mr. Dimmidge admiringly.

It was an old enough form of advertisement, and the remark showed incontestably that Mr. Dimmidge was not a native; but the editor smiled patronizingly and went on: “‘And I further give notice that if she does not return within the period of four weeks from this date, I shall take such proceedings for relief as the law affords.'”

“Coom, lad, I didn’t say THAT.”

“But you said you wouldn’t take her back.”

“Ay.”

“And you can’t prevent her without legal proceedings. She’s your wife. But you needn’t take proceedings, you know. It’s only a warning.”

Mr. Dimmidge nodded approvingly. “That’s so.”

“You’ll want it published for four weeks, until date?” asked the editor.

“Mebbe longer, lad.”

The editor wrote “till forbid” in the margin of the paper and smiled.

“How big will it be?” said Mr. Dimmidge.

The editor took up a copy of the “Clarion” and indicated about an inch of space. Mr. Dimmidge’s face fell.

“I want it bigger,–in large letters, like a play-card,” he said. “That’s no good for a warning.”

“You can have half a column or a whole column if you like,” said the editor airily.

“I’ll take a whole one,” said Mr. Dimmidge simply.

The editor laughed. “Why! it would cost you a hundred dollars.”

“I’ll take it,” repeated Mr. Dimmidge.

“But,” said the editor gravely, “the same notice in a small space will serve your purpose and be quite legal.”

“Never you mind that, lad! It’s the looks of the thing I’m arter, and not the expense. I’ll take that column.”

The editor called in the foreman and showed him the copy. “Can you display that so as to fill a column?”

The foreman grasped the situation promptly. It would be big business for the paper. “Yes,” he said meditatively, “that bold- faced election type will do it.”

Mr. Dimmidge’s face brightened. The expression “bold-faced” pleased him. “That’s it! I told you. I want to bill her in a portion of the paper.”

“I might put in a cut,” said the foreman suggestively; “something like this.” He took a venerable woodcut from the case. I grieve to say it was one which, until the middle of the present century, was common enough in the newspaper offices in the Southwest. It showed the running figure of a negro woman carrying her personal property in a knotted handkerchief slung from a stick over her shoulder, and was supposed to represent “a fugitive slave.”

Mr. Dimmidge’s eyes brightened. “I’ll take that, too. It’s a little dark-complected for Mrs. P., but it will do. Now roon away, lad,” he said to the foreman, as he quietly pushed him into the outer office again and closed the door. Then, facing the surprised editor, he said, “Theer’s another notiss I want ye to put in your paper; but that’s atween US. Not a word to THEM,” he indicated the banished foreman with a jerk of his thumb. “Sabe? I want you to put this in another part o’ your paper, quite innocent-like, ye know.” He drew from his pocket a gray wallet, and taking out a slip of paper read from it gravely, “‘If this should meet the eye of R. B., look out for M. J. D. He is on your track. When this you see write a line to E. J. D., Elktown Post Office.’ I want this to go in as ‘Personal and Private’–sabe?–like them notisses in the big ‘Frisco papers.”

“I see,” said the editor, laying it aside. “It shall go in the same issue in another column.”

Apparently Mr. Dimmidge expected something more than this reply, for after a moment’s hesitation he said with an odd smile:

“Ye ain’t seein’ the meanin’ o’ that, lad?”

“No,” said the editor lightly; “but I suppose R. B. does, and it isn’t intended that any one else should.”

“Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn’t,” said Mr. Dimmidge, with a self- satisfied air. “I don’t mind saying atween us that R. B. is the man as I’ve suspicioned as havin’ something to do with my wife goin’ away; and ye see, if he writes to E. J. D.–that’s my wife’s initials–at Elktown, I’LL get that letter and so make sure.”

“But suppose your wife goes there first, or sends?”

“Then I’ll ketch her or her messenger. Ye see?”

The editor did not see fit to oppose any argument to this phenomenal simplicity, and Mr. Dimmidge, after settling his bill with the foreman, and enjoining the editor to the strictest secrecy regarding the origin of the “personal notice,” took up his gun and departed, leaving the treasury of the “Clarion” unprecedentedly enriched, and the editor to his proofs.

The paper duly appeared the next morning with the column advertisement, the personal notice, and the weighty editorial on the wagon road. There was a singular demand for the paper, the edition was speedily exhausted, and the editor was proportionately flattered, although he was surprised to receive neither praise nor criticism from his subscribers. Before evening, however, he learned to his astonishment that the excitement was caused by the column advertisement. Nobody knew Mr. Dimmidge, nor his domestic infelicities, and the editor and foreman, being equally in the dark, took refuge in a mysterious and impressive evasion of all inquiry. Never since the last San Francisco Vigilance Committee had the office been so besieged. The editor, foreman, and even the apprentice, were buttonholed and “treated” at the bar, but to no effect. All that could be learned was that it was a bona fide advertisement, for which one hundred dollars had been received! There were great discussions and conflicting theories as to whether the value of the wife, or the husband’s anxiety to get rid of her, justified the enormous expense and ostentatious display. She was supposed to be an exceedingly beautiful woman by some, by others a perfect Sycorax; in one breath Mr. Dimmidge was a weak, uxorious spouse, wasting his substance on a creature who did not care for him, and in another a maddened, distracted, henpecked man, content to purchase peace and rest at any price. Certainly, never was advertisement more effective in its publicity, or cheaper in proportion to the circulation it commanded. It was copied throughout the whole Pacific slope; mighty San Francisco papers described its size and setting under the attractive headline, “How they Advertise a Wife in the Mountains!” It reappeared in the Eastern journals, under the title of “Whimsicalities of the Western Press.” It was believed to have crossed to England as a specimen of “Transatlantic Savagery.” The real editor of the “Clarion” awoke one morning, in San Francisco, to find his paper famous. Its advertising columns were eagerly sought for; he at once advanced the rates. People bought successive issues to gaze upon this monumental record of extravagance. A singular idea, which, however, brought further fortune to the paper, was advanced by an astute critic at the Eureka Saloon. “My opinion, gentlemen, is that the whole blamed thing is a bluff! There ain’t no Mr. Dimmidge; there ain’t no Mrs. Dimmidge; there ain’t no desertion! The whole rotten thing is an ADVERTISEMENT o’ suthin’! Ye’ll find afore ye get through with it that that there wife won’t come back until that blamed husband buys Somebody’s Soap, or treats her to Somebody’s particular Starch or Patent Medicine! Ye jest watch and see!” The idea was startling, and seized upon the mercantile mind. The principal merchant of the town, and purveyor to the mining settlements beyond, appeared the next morning at the office of the “Clarion.” “Ye wouldn’t mind puttin’ this ‘ad’ in a column alongside o’ the Dimmidge one, would ye?” The young editor glanced at it, and then, with a serpent-like sagacity, veiled, however, by the suavity of the dove, pointed out that the original advertiser might think it called his bona fides into question and withdraw his advertisement. “But if we secured you by an offer of double the amount per column?” urged the merchant. “That,” responded the locum tenens, “was for the actual editor and proprietor in San Francisco to determine. He would telegraph.” He did so. The response was, “Put it in.” Whereupon in the next issue, side by side with Mr. Dimmidge’s protracted warning, appeared a column with the announcement, in large letters, “WE HAVEN’T LOST ANY WIFE, but WE are prepared to furnish the following goods at a lower rate than any other advertiser in the county,” followed by the usual price list of the merchant’s wares. There was an unprecedented demand for that issue. The reputation of the “Clarion,” both as a shrewd advertising medium and a comic paper, was established at once. For a few days the editor waited with some apprehension for a remonstrance from the absent Dimmidge, but none came. Whether Mr. Dimmidge recognized that this new advertisement gave extra publicity to his own, or that he was already on the track of the fugitive, the editor did not know. The few curious citizens who had, early in the excitement, penetrated the settlement of the English miners twenty miles away in search of information, found that Mr. Dimmidge had gone away, and that Mrs. Dimmidge had NEVER resided there with him!

Six weeks passed. The limit of Mr. Dimmidge’s advertisement had been reached, and, as it was not renewed, it had passed out of the pages of the “Clarion,” and with it the merchant’s advertisement in the next column. The excitement had subsided, although its influence was still felt in the circulation of the paper and its advertising popularity. The temporary editor was also nearing the limit of his incumbency, but had so far participated in the good fortune of the “Clarion” as to receive an offer from one of the San Francisco dailies.

It was a warm night, and he was alone in his sanctum. The rest of the building was dark and deserted, and his solitary light, flashing out through the open window, fell upon the nearer pines and was lost in the dark, indefinable slope below. He had reached the sanctum by the rear, and a door which he also left open to enjoy the freshness of the aromatic air. Nor did it in the least mar his privacy. Rather the solitude of the great woods without seemed to enter through that door and encompassed him with its protecting loneliness. There was occasionally a faint “peep” in the scant eaves, or a “pat-pat,” ending in a frightened scurry across the roof, or the slow flap of a heavy wing in the darkness below. These gentle disturbances did not, however, interrupt his work on “The True Functions of the County Newspaper,” the editorial on which he was engaged.

Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberry bushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by a light tapping against the side of the house. The editor started and turned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to the ground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper part of her figure, illuminated by the light from the door, was thrown into greater relief by the dark background of the pines. Her face was unknown to him, but it was a pleasant one, marked by a certain good-humored determination.

“May I come in?” she said confidently.

“Certainly,” said the editor. “I am working here alone because it is so quiet.” He thought he would precipitate some explanation from her by excusing himself.

“That’s the reason why I came,” she said, with a quiet smile.

She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw that she was wearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a serviceable rawhide whip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took the chair he offered her and sat down sideways on it, her whip hand now also holding up her skirt, and permitting a hem of clean white petticoat and a smart, well-shaped boot to be seen.

“I don’t remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in Calaveras before,” said the editor tentatively.

“No. I never was here before,” she said composedly, “but you’ve heard enough of me, I reckon. I’m Mrs. Dimmidge.” She threw one hand over the back of the chair, and with the other tapped her riding-whip on the floor.

The editor started. Mrs. Dimmidge! Then she was not a myth. An absurd similarity between her attitude with the whip and her husband’s entrance with his gun six weeks before forced itself upon him and made her an invincible presence.

“Then you have returned to your husband?” he said hesitatingly.

“Not much!” she returned, with a slight curl of her lip.

“But you read his advertisement?”

“I saw that column of fool nonsense he put in your paper–ef that’s what you mean,” she said with decision, “but I didn’t come here to see HIM–but YOU.”

The editor looked at her with a forced smile, but a vague misgiving. He was alone at night in a deserted part of the settlement, with a plump, self-possessed woman who had a contralto voice, a horsewhip, and–he could not help feeling–an evident grievance.

“To see me?” he repeated, with a faint attempt at gallantry. “You are paying me a great compliment, but really”–

“When I tell you I’ve come three thousand miles from Kansas straight here without stopping, ye kin reckon it’s so,” she replied firmly.

“Three thousand miles!” echoed the editor wonderingly.

“Yes. Three thousand miles from my own folks’ home in Kansas, where six years ago I married Mr. Dimmidge,–a British furriner as could scarcely make himself understood in any Christian language! Well, he got round me and dad, allowin’ he was a reg’lar out-and- out profeshnal miner,–had lived in mines ever since he was a boy; and so, not knowin’ what kind o’ mines, and dad just bilin’ over with the gold fever, we were married and kem across the plains to Californy. He was a good enough man to look at, but it warn’t three months before I discovered that he allowed a wife was no better nor a nigger slave, and he the master. That made me open my eyes; but then, as he didn’t drink, and didn’t gamble, and didn’t swear, and was a good provider and laid by money, why I shifted along with him as best I could. We drifted down the first year to Sonora, at Red Dog, where there wasn’t another woman. Well, I did the nigger slave business,–never stirring out o’ the settlement, never seein’ a town or a crowd o’ decent people,–and he did the lord and master! We played that game for two years, and I got tired. But when at last he allowed he’d go up to Elktown Hill, where there was a passel o’ his countrymen at work, with never a sign o’ any other folks, and leave me alone at Red Dog until he fixed up a place for me at Elktown Hill,–I kicked! I gave him fair warning! I did as other nigger slaves did,–I ran away!”

A recollection of the wretched woodcut which Mr. Dimmidge had selected to personify his wife flashed upon the editor with a new meaning. Yet perhaps she had not seen it, and had only read a copy of the advertisement. What could she want? The “Calaveras Clarion,” although a “Palladium” and a “Sentinel upon the Heights of Freedom” in reference to wagon roads, was not a redresser of domestic wrongs,–except through its advertising columns! Her next words intensified that suggestion.

“I’ve come here to put an advertisement in your paper.”

The editor heaved a sigh of relief, as once before. “Certainly,” he said briskly. “But that’s another department of the paper, and the printers have gone home. Come to-morrow morning early.”

“To-morrow morning I shall be miles away,” she said decisively, “and what I want done has got to be done NOW! I don’t want to see no printers; I don’t want ANYBODY to know I’ve been here but you. That’s why I kem here at night, and rode all the way from Sawyer’s Station, and wouldn’t take the stage-coach. And when we’ve settled about the advertisement, I’m going to mount my horse, out thar in the bushes, and scoot outer the settlement.”

“Very good,” said the editor resignedly. “Of course I can deliver your instructions to the foreman. And now–let me see–I suppose you wish to intimate in a personal notice to your husband that you’ve returned.”

“Nothin’ o’ the kind!” said Mrs. Dimmidge coolly. “I want to placard him as he did me. I’ve got it all written out here. Sabe?”

She took from her pocket a folded paper, and spreading it out on the editor’s desk, with a certain pride of authorship read as follows:–

“Whereas my husband, Micah J. Dimmidge, having given out that I have left his bed and board,–the same being a bunk in a log cabin and pork and molasses three times a day,–and having advertised that he’d pay no debts of MY contractin’,–which, as thar ain’t any, might be easier collected than debts of his own contractin’,– this is to certify that unless he returns from Elktown Hill to his only home in Sonora in one week from date, payin’ the cost of this advertisement, I’ll know the reason why.–Eliza Jane Dimmidge.”

“Thar,” she added, drawing a long breath, “put that in a column of the ‘Clarion,’ same size as the last, and let it work, and that’s all I want of you.”

“A column?” repeated the editor. “Do you know the cost is very expensive, and I COULD put it in a single paragraph?”

“I reckon I kin pay the same as Mr. Dimmidge did for HIS,” said the lady complacently. “I didn’t see your paper myself, but the paper as copied it–one of them big New York dailies–said that it took up a whole column.”

The editor breathed more freely; she had not seen the infamous woodcut which her husband had selected. At the same moment he was struck with a sense of retribution, justice, and compensation.

“Would you,” he asked hesitatingly,–“would you like it illustrated– by a cut?”

“With which?”

“Wait a moment; I’ll show you.”

He went into the dark composing-room, lit a candle, and rummaging in a drawer sacred to weather-beaten, old-fashioned electrotyped advertising symbols of various trades, finally selected one and brought it to Mrs. Dimmidge. It represented a bare and exceedingly stalwart arm wielding a large hammer.

“Your husband being a miner,–a quartz miner,–would that do?” he asked. (It had been previously used to advertise a blacksmith, a gold-beater, and a stone-mason.)

The lady examined it critically.

“It does look a little like Micah’s arm,” she said meditatively. “Well–you kin put it in.”

The editor was so well pleased with his success that he must needs make another suggestion. “I suppose,” he said ingenuously, “that you don’t want to answer the ‘Personal’?”

‘Personal’?” she repeated quickly, “what’s that? I ain’t seen no ‘Personal.'” The editor saw his blunder. She, of course, had never seen Mr. Dimmidge’s artful “Personal;” THAT the big dailies naturally had not noticed nor copied. But it was too late to withdraw now. He brought out a file of the “Clarion,” and snipping out the paragraph with his scissors, laid it before the lady.

She stared at it with wrinkled brows and a darkening face.

“And THIS was in the same paper?–put in by Mr. Dimmidge?” she asked breathlessly.

The editor, somewhat alarmed, stammered “Yes.” But the next moment he was reassured. The wrinkles disappeared, a dozen dimples broke out where they had been, and the determined, matter-of-fact Mrs. Dimmidge burst into a fit of rosy merriment. Again and again she laughed, shaking the building, startling the sedate, melancholy woods beyond, until the editor himself laughed in sheer vacant sympathy.

“Lordy!” she said at last, gasping, and wiping the laughter from her wet eyes. “I never thought of THAT.”

“No,” explained the editor smilingly; “of course you didn’t. Don’t you see, the papers that copied the big advertisement never saw that little paragraph, or if they did, they never connected the two together.”

“Oh, it ain’t that,” said Mrs. Dimmidge, trying to regain her composure and holding her sides. “It’s that blessed DEAR old dunderhead of a Dimmidge I’m thinking of. That gets me. I see it all now. Only, sakes alive! I never thought THAT of him. Oh, it’s just too much!” and she again relapsed behind her handkerchief.

“Then I suppose you don’t want to reply to it,” said the editor.

Her laughter instantly ceased. “Don’t I?” she said, wiping her face into its previous complacent determination. “Well, young man, I reckon that’s just what I WANT to do! Now, wait a moment; let’s see what he said,” she went on, taking up and reperusing the “Personal” paragraph. “Well, then,” she went on, after a moment’s silent composition with moving lips, “you just put these lines in.”

The editor took up his pencil.

“To Mr. J. D. Dimmidge.–Hope you’re still on R. B.’s tracks. Keep there!–E. J. D.”

The editor wrote down the line, and then, remembering Mr. Dimmidge’s voluntary explanation of HIS “Personal,” waited with some confidence for a like frankness from Mrs. Dimmidge. But he was mistaken.

“You think that he–R. B.–or Mr. Dimmidge–will understand this?” he at last asked tentatively. “Is it enough?”

“Quite enough,” said Mrs. Dimmidge emphatically. She took a roll of greenbacks from her pocket, selected a hundred-dollar bill and then a five, and laid them before the editor. “Young man,” she said, with a certain demure gravity, “you’ve done me a heap o’ good. I never spent money with more satisfaction than this. I never thought much o’ the ‘power o’ the Press,’ as you call it, afore. But this has been a right comfortable visit, and I’m glad I ketched you alone. But you understand one thing: this yer visit, and WHO I am, is betwixt you and me only.”

“Of course I must say that the advertisement was AUTHORIZED,” returned the editor. “I’m only the temporary editor. The proprietor is away.”

“So much the better,” said the lady complacently. “You just say you found it on your desk with the money; but don’t you give me away.”

“I can promise you that the secret of your personal visit is safe with me,” said the young man, with a bow, as Mrs. Dimmidge rose. “Let me see you to your horse,” he added. “It’s quite dark in the woods.”

“I can see well enough alone, and it’s just as well you shouldn’t know HOW I kem or HOW I went away. Enough for you to know that I’ll be miles away before that paper comes out. So stay where you are.”

She pressed his hand frankly and firmly, gathered up her riding- skirt, slipped backwards to the door, and the next moment rustled away into the darkness.

Early the next morning the editor handed Mrs. Dimmidge’s advertisement, and the woodcut he had selected, to his foreman. He was purposely brief in his directions, so as to avoid inquiry, and retired to his sanctum. In the space of a few moments the foreman entered with a slight embarrassment of manner.

“You’ll excuse my speaking to you, sir,” he said, with a singular mixture of humility and cunning. “It’s no business of mine, I know; but I thought I ought to tell you that this yer kind o’ thing won’t pay any more,–it’s about played out!”

“I don’t think I understand you,” said the editor loftily, but with an inward misgiving. “You don’t mean to say that a regular, actual advertisement”–

“Of course, I know all that,” said the foreman, with a peculiar smile; “and I’m ready to back you up in it, and so’s the boy; but it won’t pay.”

“It HAS paid a hundred and five dollars,” said the editor, taking the notes from his pocket; “so I’d advise you to simply attend to your duty and set it up.”

A look of surprise, followed, however, by a kind of pitying smile, passed over the foreman’s face. “Of course, sir, THAT’S all right, and you know your own business; but if you think that the new advertisement will pay this time as the other one did, and whoop up another column from an advertiser, I’m afraid you’ll slip up. It’s a little ‘off color’ now,–not ‘up to date,’–if it ain’t a regular ‘back number,’ as you’ll see.”

“Meantime I’ll dispense with your advice,” said the editor curtly, “and I think you had better let our subscribers and advertisers do the same, or the ‘Clarion’ might also be obliged to dispense with your SERVICES.”

“I ain’t no blab,” said the foreman, in an aggrieved manner, “and I don’t intend to give the show away even if it don’t PAY. But I thought I’d tell you, because I know the folks round here better than you do.”

He was right. No sooner had the advertisement appeared than the editor found that everybody believed it to be a sheer invention of his own to “once more boom” the “Clarion.” If they had doubted MR. Dimmidge, they utterly rejected MRS. Dimmidge as an advertiser! It was a stale joke that nobody would follow up; and on the heels of this came a letter from the editor-in-chief.

MY DEAR BOY,–You meant well, I know, but the second Dimmidge “ad” was a mistake. Still, it was a big bluff of yours to show the money, and I send you back your hundred dollars, hoping you won’t “do it again.” Of course you’ll have to keep the advertisement in the paper for two issues, just as if it were a real thing, and it’s lucky that there’s just now no pressure in our columns. You might have told a better story than that hogwash about your finding the “ad” and a hundred dollars lying loose on your desk one morning. It was rather thin, and I don’t wonder the foreman kicked.

The young editor was in despair. At first he thought of writing to Mrs. Dimmidge at the Elktown Post-Office, asking her to relieve him of his vow of secrecy; but his pride forbade. There was a humorous concern, not without a touch of pity, in the faces of his contributors as he passed; a few affected to believe in the new advertisement, and asked him vague, perfunctory questions about it. His position was trying, and he was not sorry when the term of his engagement expired the next week, and he left Calaveras to take his new position on the San Francisco paper.

He was standing in the saloon of the Sacramento boat when he felt a sudden heavy pressure on his shoulder, and looking round sharply, beheld not only the black-bearded face of Mr. Dimmidge, lit up by a smile, but beside it the beaming, buxom face of Mrs. Dimmidge, overflowing with good-humor. Still a little sore from his past experience, he was about to address them abruptly, when he was utterly vanquished by the hearty pressure of their hands and the unmistakable look of gratitude in their eyes.

“I was just saying to ‘Lizy Jane,” began Mr. Dimmidge breathlessly, “if I could only meet that young man o’ the ‘Clarion’ what brought us together again”–

“You’d be willin’ to pay four times the amount we both paid him,” interpolated the laughing Mrs. Dimmidge.

“But I didn’t bring you together,” burst out the dazed young man, “and I’d like to know, in the name of Heaven, what brought you together now?”

“Don’t you see, lad,” said the imperturbable Mr. Dimmidge, “‘Lizy Jane and myself had qua’lled, and we just unpacked our fool nonsense in your paper and let the hull world know it! And we both felt kinder skeert and shamed like, and it looked such small hogwash, and of so little account, for all the talk it made, that we kinder felt lonely as two separated fools that really ought to share their foolishness together.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Mrs. Dimmidge, with a sly glance at her spouse, “for I found out from that ‘Personal’ you showed me that this particular old fool was actooally jealous!–JEALOUS!”

“And then?” said the editor impatiently.

“And then I KNEW he loved me all the time.”

THE SECRET OF SOBRIENTE’S WELL

Even to the eye of the most inexperienced traveler there was no doubt that Buena Vista was a “played-out” mining camp. There, seamed and scarred by hydraulic engines, was the old hillside, over whose denuded surface the grass had begun to spring again in fitful patches; there were the abandoned heaps of tailings already blackened by sun and rain, and worn into mounds like ruins of masonry; there were the waterless ditches, like giant graves, and the pools of slumgullion, now dried into shining, glazed cement. There were two or three wooden “stores,” from which the windows and doors had been taken and conveyed to the newer settlement of Wynyard’s Gulch. Four or five buildings that still were inhabited– the blacksmith’s shop, the post-office, a pioneer’s cabin, and the old hotel and stage-office–only accented the general desolation. The latter building had a remoteness of prosperity far beyond the others, having been a wayside Spanish-American posada, with adobe walls of two feet in thickness, that shamed the later shells of half-inch plank, which were slowly warping and cracking like dried pods in the oven-like heat.

The proprietor of this building, Colonel Swinger, had been looked upon by the community as a person quite as remote, old-fashioned, and inconsistent with present progress as the house itself. He was an old Virginian, who had emigrated from his decaying plantation on the James River only to find the slaves, which he had brought with him, freed men when they touched Californian soil; to be driven by Northern progress and “smartness” out of the larger cities into the mountains, to fix himself at last, with the hopeless fatuity of his race, upon an already impoverished settlement; to sink his scant capital in hopeless shafts and ledges, and finally to take over the decaying hostelry of Buena Vista, with its desultory custom and few, lingering, impecunious guests. Here, too, his old Virginian ideas of hospitality were against his financial success; he could not dun nor turn from his door those unfortunate prospectors whom the ebbing fortunes of Buena Vista had left stranded by his side.

Colonel Swinger was sitting in a wicker-work rocking-chair on the veranda of his hotel–sipping a mint julep which he held in his hand, while he gazed into the dusty distance. Nothing could have convinced him that he was not performing a serious part of his duty as hotel-keeper in this attitude, even though there were no travelers expected, and the road at this hour of the day was deserted. On a bench at his side Larry Hawkins stretched his lazy length,–one foot dropped on the veranda, and one arm occasionally groping under the bench for his own tumbler of refreshment. Apart from this community of occupation, there was apparently no interchange of sentiment between the pair. The silence had continued for some moments, when the colonel put down his glass and gazed earnestly into the distance.

“Seein’ anything?” remarked the man on the bench, who had sleepily regarded him.

“No,” said the colonel, “that is–it’s only Dick Ruggles crossin’ the road.”

“Thought you looked a little startled, ez if you’d seen that ar wanderin’ stranger.”

“When I see that wandering stranger, sah,” said the colonel decisively, “I won’t be sittin’ long in this yer chyar. I’ll let him know in about ten seconds that I don’t harbor any vagrants prowlin’ about like poor whites or free niggers on my propahty, sah!”

“All the same, I kinder wish ye did see him, for you’d be settled in YOUR mind and I’d be easier in MINE, ef you found out what he was doin’ round yer, or ye had to admit that it wasn’t no LIVIN’ man.”

“What do you mean?” said the colonel, testily facing around in his chair.

His companion also altered his attitude by dropping his other foot to the floor, sitting up, and leaning lazily forward with his hands clasped.

“Look yer, colonel. When you took this place, I felt I didn’t have no call to tell ye all I know about it, nor to pizen yer mind by any darned fool yarns I mout hev heard. Ye know it was one o’ them old Spanish haciendas?”

“I know,” said the colonel loftily, “that it was held by a grant from Charles the Fifth of Spain, just as my propahty on the James River was given to my people by King James of England, sah!”

“That ez as may be,” returned his companion, in lazy indifference; “though I reckon that Charles the Fifth of Spain and King James of England ain’t got much to do with what I’m goin’ to tell ye. Ye see, I was here long afore YOUR time, or any of the boys that hev now cleared out; and at that time the hacienda belonged to a man named Juan Sobriente. He was that kind o’ fool that he took no stock in mining. When the boys were whoopin’ up the place and finding the color everywhere, and there was a hundred men working down there in the gulch, he was either ridin’ round lookin’ up the wild horses he owned, or sittin’ with two or three lazy peons and Injins that was fed and looked arter by the priests. Gosh! now I think of it, it was mighty like YOU when you first kem here with your niggers. That’s curious, too, ain’t it?”

He had stopped, gazing with an odd, superstitious wonderment at the colonel, as if overcome by this not very remarkable coincidence. The colonel, overlooking or totally oblivious to its somewhat uncomplimentary significance, simply said, “Go on. What about him?”

“Well, ez I was sayin’, he warn’t in it nohow, but kept on his reg’lar way when the boom was the biggest. Some of the boys allowed it was mighty oncivil for him to stand off like that, and others–when he refused a big pile for his hacienda and the garden, that ran right into the gold-bearing ledge–war for lynching him and driving him outer the settlement. But as he had a pretty darter or niece livin’ with him, and, except for his partickler cussedness towards mining, was kinder peaceable and perlite, they thought better of it. Things went along like this, until one day the boys noticed–particklerly the boys that had slipped up on their luck–that old man Sobriente was gettin’ rich,–had stocked a ranch over on the Divide, and had given some gold candlesticks to the mission church. That would have been only human nature and business, ef he’d had any during them flush times; but he hadn’t. This kinder puzzled them. They tackled the peons,–his niggers,– but it was all ‘No sabe.’ They tackled another man,–a kind of half-breed Kanaka, who, except the priest, was the only man who came to see him, and was supposed to be mighty sweet on the darter or niece,–but they didn’t even get the color outer HIM. Then the first thing we knowed was that old Sobriente was found dead in the well!”

“In the well, sah!” said the colonel, starting up. “The well on my propahty?”

“No,” said his companion. “The old well that was afterwards shut up. Yours was dug by the last tenant, Jack Raintree, who allowed that he didn’t want to ‘take any Sobriente in his reg’lar whiskey and water.’ Well, the half-breed Kanaka cleared out after the old man’s death, and so did that darter or niece; and the church, to whom old Sobriente had left this house, let it to Raintree for next to nothin’.”

“I don’t see what all that has got to do with that wandering tramp,” said the colonel, who was by no means pleased with this history of his property.

“I’ll tell ye. A few days after Raintree took it over, he was lookin’ round the garden, which old Sobriente had always kept shut up agin strangers, and he finds a lot of dried-up ‘slumgullion’* scattered all about the borders and beds, just as if the old man had been using it for fertilizing. Well, Raintree ain’t no fool; he allowed the old man wasn’t one, either; and he knew that slumgullion wasn’t worth no more than mud for any good it would do the garden. So he put this yer together with Sobriente’s good luck, and allowed to himself that the old coyote had been secretly gold-washin’ all the while he seemed to be standin’ off agin it! But where was the mine? Whar did he get the gold? That’s what got Raintree. He hunted all over the garden, prospected every part of it,–ye kin see the holes yet,–but he never even got the color!”

* That is, a viscid cement-like refuse of gold-washing.

He paused, and then, as the colonel made an impatient gesture, he went on.

“Well, one night just afore you took the place, and when Raintree was gettin’ just sick of it, he happened to be walkin’ in the garden. He was puzzlin’ his brain agin to know how old Sobriente made his pile, when all of a suddenst he saw suthin’ a-movin’ in the brush beside the house. He calls out, thinkin’ it was one of the boys, but got no answer. Then he goes to the bushes, and a tall figger, all in black, starts out afore him. He couldn’t see any face, for its head was covered with a hood, but he saw that it held suthin’ like a big cross clasped agin its breast. This made him think it was one them priests, until he looks agin and sees that it wasn’t no cross it was carryin,’ but a PICKAXE! He makes a jump towards it, but it vanished! He traipsed over the hull garden,–went though ev’ry bush,–but it was clean gone. Then the hull thing flashed upon him with a cold shiver. The old man bein’ found dead in the well! the goin’ away of the half-breed and the girl! the findin’ o’ that slumgullion! The old man HAD made a strike in that garden, the half-breed had discovered his secret and murdered him, throwin’ him down the well! It war no LIVIN’ man that he had seen, but the ghost of old Sobriente!”

The colonel emptied the remaining contents of his glass at a single gulp, and sat up. “It’s my opinion, sah, that Raintree had that night more than his usual allowance of corn-juice on board; and it’s only a wonder, sah, that he didn’t see a few pink alligators and sky-blue snakes at the same time. But what’s this got to do with that wanderin’ tramp?”

“They’re all the same thing, colonel, and in my opinion that there tramp ain’t no more alive than that figger was.”

“But YOU were the one that saw this tramp with your own eyes,” retorted the colonel quickly, “and you never before allowed it was a spirit!”

“Exactly! I saw it whar a minit afore nothin’ had been standin’, and a minit after nothin’ stood,” said Larry Hawkins, with a certain serious emphasis; “but I warn’t goin’ to say it to ANYBODY, and I warn’t goin’ to give you and the hacienda away. And ez nobody knew Raintree’s story, I jest shut up my head. But you kin bet your life that the man I saw warn’t no livin’ man!”

“We’ll see, sah!” said the colonel, rising from his chair with his fingers in the armholes of his nankeen waistcoat, “ef he ever intrudes on my property again. But look yar! don’t ye go sayin’ anything of this to Polly,–you know what women are!”

A faint color came into Larry’s face; an animation quite different to the lazy deliberation of his previous monologue shone in his eyes, as he said, with a certain rough respect he had not shown before to his companion, “That’s why I’m tellin’ ye, so that ef SHE happened to see anything and got skeert, ye’d know how to reason her out of it.”

“‘Sh!” said the colonel, with a warning gesture.

A young girl had just appeared in the doorway, and now stood leaning against the central pillar that supported it, with one hand above her head, in a lazy attitude strongly suggestive of the colonel’s Southern indolence, yet with a grace entirely her own. Indeed, it overcame the negligence of her creased and faded yellow cotton frock and unbuttoned collar, and suggested–at least to the eyes of ONE man–the curving and clinging of the jasmine vine against the outer column of the veranda. Larry Hawkins rose awkwardly to his feet.

“Now what are you two men mumblin’ and confidin’ to each other? You look for all the world like two old women gossips,” she said, with languid impertinence.

It was easy to see that a privileged and recognized autocrat spoke. No one had ever questioned Polly Swinger’s right to interrupting, interfering, and saucy criticisms. Secure in the hopeless or chivalrous admiration of the men around her, she had repaid it with a frankness that scorned any coquetry; with an indifference to the ordinary feminine effect or provocation in dress or bearing that was as natural as it was invincible. No one had ever known Polly to “fix up” for anybody, yet no one ever doubted the effect, if she had. No one had ever rebuked her charming petulance, or wished to.

Larry gave a weak, vague laugh. Colonel Swinger as ineffectively assumed a mock parental severity. “When you see two gentlemen, miss, discussin’ politics together, it ain’t behavin’ like a lady to interrupt. Better run away and tidy yourself before the stage comes.”

The young lady replied to the last innuendo by taking two spirals of soft hair, like “corn silk,” from her oval cheek, wetting them with her lips, and tucking them behind her ears. Her father’s ungentlemanly suggestion being thus disposed of, she returned to her first charge.

“It ain’t no politics; you ain’t been swearing enough for THAT! Come, now! It’s the mysterious stranger ye’ve been talking about!”

Both men stared at her with unaffected concern.

“What do YOU know about any mysterious stranger?” demanded her father.

“Do you suppose you men kin keep a secret,” scoffed Polly. “Why, Dick Ruggles told me how skeert ye all were over an entire stranger, and he advised me not to wander down the road after dark. I asked him if he thought I was a pickaninny to be frightened by bogies, and that if he hadn’t a better excuse for wantin’ ‘to see me home’ from the Injin spring, he might slide.”

Larry laughed again, albeit a little bitterly, for it seemed to him that the excuse was fully justified; but the colonel said promptly, “Dick’s a fool, and you might have told him there were worse things to be met on the road than bogies. Run away now, and see that the niggers are on hand when the stage comes.”

Two hours later the stage came with a clatter of hoofs and a cloud of red dust, which precipitated itself and a dozen thirsty travelers upon the veranda before the hotel bar-room; it brought also the usual “express” newspapers and much talk to Colonel Swinger, who always received his guests in a lofty personal fashion at the door, as he might have done in his old Virginian home; but it brought likewise–marvelous to relate–an ACTUAL GUEST, who had two trunks and asked for a room! He was evidently a stranger to the ways of Buena Vista, and particularly to those of Colonel Swinger, and at first seemed inclined to resent the social attitude of his host, and his frank and free curiosity. When he, however, found that Colonel Swinger was even better satisfied to give an account of HIS OWN affairs, his family, pedigree, and his present residence, he began to betray some interest. The colonel told him all the news, and would no doubt have even expatiated on his ghostly visitant, had he not prudently concluded that his guest might decline to remain in a haunted inn. The stranger had spoken of staying a week; he had some private mining speculations to watch at Wynyard’s Gulch,–the next settlement, but he did not care to appear openly at the “Gulch Hotel.” He was a man of thirty, with soft, pleasing features and a singular litheness of movement, which, combined with a nut-brown, gypsy complexion, at first suggested a foreigner. But his dialect, to the colonel’s ears, was distinctly that of New England, and to this was added a puritanical and sanctimonious drawl. “He looked,” said the colonel in after years, “like a blank light mulatter, but talked like a blank Yankee parson.” For all that, he was acceptable to his host, who may have felt that his reminiscences of his plantation on the James River were palling on Buena Vista ears, and was glad of his new auditor. It was an advertisement, too, of the hotel, and a promise of its future fortunes. “Gentlemen having propahty interests at the Gulch, sah, prefer to stay at Buena Vista with another man of propahty, than to trust to those new-fangled papah-collared, gingerbread booths for traders that they call ‘hotels’ there,” he had remarked to some of “the boys.” In his preoccupation with the new guest, he also became a little neglectful of his old chum and dependent, Larry Hawkins. Nor was this the only circumstance that filled the head of that shiftless loyal retainer of the colonel with bitterness and foreboding. Polly Swinger–the scornfully indifferent, the contemptuously inaccessible, the coldly capricious and petulant–was inclined to be polite to the stranger!

The fact was that Polly, after the fashion of her sex, took it into her pretty head, against all consistency and logic, suddenly to make an exception to her general attitude towards mankind in favor of one individual. The reason-seeking masculine reader will rashly conclude that this individual was the CAUSE as well as the object; but I am satisfied that every fair reader of these pages will instinctively know better. Miss Polly had simply selected the new guest, Mr. Starbuck, to show OTHERS, particularly Larry Hawkins, what she COULD do if she were inclined to be civil. For two days she “fixed up” her distracting hair at him so that its silken floss encircled her head like a nimbus; she tucked her oval chin into a white fichu instead of a buttonless collar; she appeared at dinner in a newly starched yellow frock! She talked to him with “company manners;” said she would “admire to go to San Francisco,” and asked if he knew her old friends the Fauquier girls from “Faginia.” The colonel was somewhat disturbed; he was glad that his daughter had become less negligent of her personal appearance; he could not but see, with the others, how it enhanced her graces; but he was, with the others, not entirely satisfied with her reasons. And he could not help observing–what was more or less patent to ALL–that Starbuck was far from being equally responsive to her attentions, and at times was indifferent and almost uncivil. Nobody seemed to be satisfied with Polly’s transformation but herself.

But eventually she was obliged to assert herself. The third evening after Starbuck’s arrival she was going over to the cabin of Aunt Chloe, who not only did the washing for Buena Vista, but assisted Polly in dressmaking. It was not far, and the night was moonlit. As she crossed the garden she saw Starbuck moving in the manzanita bushes beyond; a mischievous light came into her eyes; she had not EXPECTED to meet him, but she had seen him go out, and there were always POSSIBILITIES. To her surprise, however, he merely lifted his hat as she passed, and turned abruptly in another direction. This was more than the little heart-breaker of Buena Vista was accustomed to!

“Oh, Mr. Starbuck!” she called, in her laziest voice.

He turned almost impatiently.

“Since you’re so civil and pressing, I thought I’d tell you I was just runnin’ over to Aunt Chloe’s,” she said dryly.

“I should think it was hardly the proper thing for a young lady to do at this time of night,” he said superciliously. “But you know best,–you know the people here.”

Polly’s cheeks and eyes flamed. “Yes, I reckon I do,” she said crisply; “it’s only a STRANGER here would think of being rude. Good-night, Mr. Starbuck!”

She tripped away after this Parthian shot, yet feeling, even in her triumph, that the conceited fool seemed actually relieved at her departure! And for the first time she now thought that she had seen something in his face that she did not like! But her lazy independence reasserted itself soon, and half an hour later, when she had left Aunt Chloe’s cabin, she had regained her self-esteem. Yet, to avoid meeting him again, she took a longer route home, across the dried ditch and over the bluff, scarred by hydraulics, and so fell, presently, upon the old garden at the point where it adjoined the abandoned diggings. She was quite sure she had escaped a meeting with Starbuck, and was gliding along under the shadow of the pear-trees, when she suddenly stopped. An indescribable terror overcame her as she stared at a spot in the garden, perfectly illuminated by the moonlight not fifty yards from where she stood. For she saw on its surface a human head–a man’s head!–seemingly on the level of the ground, staring in her direction. A hysterical laugh sprang from her lips, and she caught at the branches above her or she would have fallen! Yet in that moment the head had vanished! The moonlight revealed the empty garden,–the ground she had gazed at,–but nothing more!

She had never been superstitious. As a child she had heard the negroes talk of “the hants,”–that is, “the HAUNTS” or spirits,– but had believed it a part of their ignorance, and unworthy a white child,–the daughter of their master! She had laughed with Dick Ruggles over the illusions of Larry, and had shared her father’s contemptuous disbelief of the wandering visitant being anything but a living man; yet she would have screamed for assistance now, only for the greater fear of making her weakness known to Mr. Starbuck, and being dependent upon him for help. And with it came the sudden conviction that HE had seen this awful vision, too. This would account for his impatience of her presence and his rudeness. She felt faint and giddy. Yet after the first shock had passed, her old independence and pride came to her relief. She would go to the spot and examine it. If it were some trick or illusion, she would show her superiority and have the laugh on Starbuck. She set her white teeth, clenched her little hands, and started out into the moonlight. But alas! for women’s weakness. The next moment she uttered a scream and almost fell into the arms of Mr. Starbuck, who had stepped out of the shadows beside her.

“So you see you HAVE been frightened,” he said, with a strange, forced laugh; “but I warned you about going out alone!”

Even in her fright she could not help seeing that he, too, seemed pale and agitated, at which she recovered her tongue and her self- possession.

“Anybody would be frightened by being dogged about under the trees,” she said pertly.

“But you called out before you saw me,” he said bluntly, “as if something had frightened you. That was WHY I came towards you.”

She knew it was the truth; but as she would not confess to her vision, she fibbed outrageously.

“Frightened,” she said, with pale but lofty indignation. “What was there to frighten me? I’m not a baby, to think I see a bogie in the dark!” This was said in the faint hope that HE had seen something too. If it had been Larry or her father who had met her, she would have confessed everything.

“You had better go in,” he said curtly. “I will see you safe inside the house.”

She demurred at this, but as she could not persist in her first bold intention of examining the locality of the vision without admitting its existence, she permitted him to walk with her to the house, and then at once fled to her own room. Larry and her father noticed their entrance together and their agitated manner, and were uneasy. Yet the colonel’s paternal pride and Larry’s lover’s respect kept the two men from communicating their thoughts to each other.

“The confounded pup has been tryin’ to be familiar, and Polly’s set him down,” thought Larry, with glowing satisfaction.

“He’s been trying some of his sanctimonious Yankee abolition talk on Polly, and she shocked him!” thought the colonel exultingly.

But poor Polly had other things to think of in the silence of her room. Another woman would have unburdened herself to a confidante; but Polly was too loyal to her father to shatter his beliefs, and too high-spirited to take another and a lesser person into her confidence. She was certain that Aunt Chloe would be full of sympathetic belief and speculations, but she would not trust a nigger with what she couldn’t tell her own father. For Polly really and truly believed that she had seen a ghost, no doubt the ghost of the murdered Sobriente, according to Larry’s story. WHY he should appear with only his head above ground puzzled her, although it suggested the Catholic idea of purgatory, and he was a Catholic! Perhaps he would have risen entirely but for that stupid Starbuck’s presence; perhaps he had a message for HER alone. The idea pleased Polly, albeit it was a “fearful joy” and attended with some cold shivering. Naturally, as a gentleman, he would appear to HER–the daughter of a gentleman–the successor to his house– rather than to a Yankee stranger. What was she to do? For once her calm nerves were strangely thrilled; she could not think of undressing and going to bed, and two o’clock surprised her, still meditating, and occasionally peeping from her window upon the moonlit but vacant garden. If she saw him again, would she dare to go down alone? Suddenly she started to her feet with a beating heart! There was the unmistakable sound of a stealthy footstep in the passage, coming towards her room. Was it he? In spite of her high resolves she felt that if the door opened she should scream! She held her breath–the footsteps came nearer–were before her door–and PASSED!

Then it was that the blood rushed back to her cheek with a flush of indignation. Her room was at the end of the passage; there was nothing beyond but a private staircase, long disused, except by herself, as a short cut through the old patio to the garden. No one else knew of it, and no one else had the right of access to it! This insolent human intrusion–as she was satisfied it was now– overcame her fear, and she glided to the door. Opening it softly, she could hear the stealthy footsteps descending. She darted back, threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and taking the small Derringer pistol which it had always been part of her ostentatious independence to place at her bed-head, she as stealthily followed the intruder. But the footsteps had died away before she reached the patio, and she saw only the small deserted, grass-grown courtyard, half hidden in shadows, in whose centre stood the fateful and long sealed-up well! A shudder came over her at again being brought into contact with the cause of her frightful vision, but as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw something more real and appalling! The well was no longer sealed! Fragments of bricks and boards lay around it! One end of a rope, coiled around it like a huge snake, descended its foul depths; and as she gazed with staring eyes, the head and shoulders of a man emerged slowly from it! But it was NOT the ghostly apparition of last evening, and her terror changed to scorn and indignation as she recognized the face of Starbuck!

Their eyes met; an oath broke from his lips. He made a movement to spring from the well, but as the girl started back, the pistol held in her hand was discharged aimlessly in the air, and the report echoed throughout the courtyard. With a curse Starbuck drew back, instantly disappeared in the well, and Polly fell fainting on the steps. When she came to, her father and Larry were at her side. They had been alarmed at the report, and had rushed quickly to the patio, but not in time to prevent the escape of Starbuck and his accomplice. By the time she had recovered her consciousness, they had learned the full extent of that extraordinary revelation which she had so innocently precipitated. Sobriente’s well had really concealed a rich gold ledge,–actually tunneled and galleried by him secretly in the past,–and its only other outlet was an opening in the garden hidden by a stone which turned on a swivel. Its existence had been unknown to Sobriente’s successor, but was known to the Kanaka who had worked with Sobriente, who fled with his daughter after the murder, but who no doubt was afraid to return and work the mine. He had imparted the secret to Starbuck, another half-breed, son of a Yankee missionary and Hawaiian wife, who had evidently conceived this plan of seeking Buena Vista with an accomplice, and secretly removing such gold as was still accessible. The accomplice, afterwards identified by Larry as the wandering tramp, failed to discover the secret entrance FROM the garden, and Starbuck was consequently obliged to attempt it from the hotel–for which purpose he had introduced himself as a boarder–by opening the disused well secretly at night. These facts were obtained from papers found in the otherwise valueless trunks, weighted with stones for ballast, which Starbuck had brought to the hotel to take away his stolen treasure in, but which he was obliged to leave in his hurried flight. The attempt would have doubtless succeeded but for Polly’s courageous and timely interference!

And now that they had told her ALL, they only wanted to know what had first excited HER suspicions, and driven her to seek the well as the object of Starbuck’s machinations? THEY had noticed her manner when she entered the house that night, and Starbuck’s evident annoyance. Had she taxed him with her suspicions, and so discovered a clue?

It was a terrible temptation to Polly to pose as a more perfect heroine, and one may not blame her if she did not rise entirely superior to it. Her previous belief, that the head of the accomplice at the opening of the garden was that of a GHOST, she now felt was certainly in the way, as was also her conduct to Starbuck, whom she believed to be equally frightened, and whom she never once suspected! So she said, with a certain lofty simplicity, that there were SOME THINGS which she really did not care to talk about, and Larry and her father left her that night with the firm conviction that the rascal Starbuck had tried to tempt her to fly with him and his riches, and had been crushingly foiled. Polly never denied this, and once, in later days, when admiringly taxed with it by Larry, she admitted with dove-like simplicity that she MAY have been too foolishly polite to her father’s guest for the sake of her father’s hotel.

However, all this was of small account to the thrilling news of a new discovery and working of the “old gold ledge” at Buena Vista! As the three kept their secret from the world, the discovery was accepted in the neighborhood as the result of careful examination and prospecting on the part of Colonel Swinger and his partner Larry Hawkins. And when the latter gentleman afterwards boldly proposed to Polly Swinger, she mischievously declared that she accepted him only that the secret might not go “out of the family.”

LIBERTY JONES’S DISCOVERY

It was at best merely a rocky trail winding along a shelf of the eastern slope of the Santa Cruz range, yet the only road between the sea and the inland valley. The hoof-prints of a whole century of zigzagging mules were impressed on the soil, regularly soaked by winter rains and dried by summer suns during that period; the occasional ruts of heavy, rude, wooden wheels–long obsolete–were still preserved and visible. Weather-worn boulders and ledges, lying in the unclouded glare of an August sky, radiated a quivering heat that was intolerable, even while above them the masts of gigantic pines rocked their tops in the cold southwestern trades from the unseen ocean beyond. A red, burning dust lay everywhere, as if the heat were slowly and visibly precipitating itself.

The creaking of wheels and axles, the muffled plunge of hoofs, and the cough of a horse in the dust thus stirred presently broke the profound woodland silence. Then a dirty white canvas-covered emigrant wagon slowly arose with the dust along the ascent. It was travel-stained and worn, and with its rawboned horses seemed to have reached the last stage of its journey and fitness. The only occupants, a man and a girl, appeared to be equally jaded and exhausted, with the added querulousness of discontent in their sallow and badly nourished faces. Their voices, too, were not unlike the creaking they had been pitched to overcome, and there was an absence of reserve and consciousness in their speech, which told pathetically of an equal absence of society.

“It’s no user talkin’! I tell ye, ye hain’t got no more sense than a coyote! I’m sick and tired of it, doggoned if I ain’t! Ye ain’t no more use nor a hossfly,–and jest ez hinderin’! It was along o’ you that we lost the stock at Laramie, and ef ye’d bin at all decent and takin’, we’d hev had kempany that helped, instead of laggin’ on yere alone!”

“What did ye bring me for?” retorted the girl shrilly. “I might hev stayed with Aunt Marty. I wasn’t hankerin’ to come.”

“Bring ye for?” repeated her father contemptuously; “I reckoned ye might he o’ some account here, whar wimmin folks is skeerce, in the way o’ helpin’,–and mebbe gettin’ yer married to some likely feller. Mighty much chance o’ that, with yer yaller face and skin and bones.”

“Ye can’t blame me for takin’ arter you, dad,” she said, with a shrill laugh, but no other resentment of his brutality.

“Ye want somebody to take arter you–with a club,” he retorted angrily. “Ye hear! Wot’s that ye’re doin’ now?”

She had risen and walked to the tail of the wagon. “Goin’ to get out and walk. I’m tired o’ bein’ jawed at.”

She jumped into the road. The act was neither indignant nor vengeful; the frequency of such scenes had blunted their sting. She was probably “tired” of the quarrel, and ended it rudely. Her father, however, let fly a Parthian arrow.

“Ye needn’t think I’m goin’ to wait for ye, ez I hev! Ye’ve got to keep tetch with the team, or get left. And a good riddance of bad rubbidge.”

In reply the girl dived into the underwood beside the trail, picked a wild berry or two, stripped a wand of young hazel she had broken off, and switching it at her side, skipped along on the outskirts of the wood and ambled after the wagon. Seen in the full, merciless glare of a Californian sky, she justified her father’s description; thin and bony, her lank frame outstripped the body of her ragged calico dress, which was only kept on her shoulders by straps,–possibly her father’s cast-off braces. A boy’s soft felt hat covered her head, and shadowed her only notable feature, a pair of large dark eyes, looking larger for the hollow temples which narrowed the frame in which they were set.

So long as the wagon crawled up the ascent the girl knew she could easily keep up with it, or even distance the tired horses. She made one or two incursions into the wood, returning like an animal from quest of food, with something in her mouth, which she was tentatively chewing, and once only with some inedible mandrono berries, plucked solely for their brilliant coloring. It was very hot and singularly close; the higher current of air had subsided, and, looking up, a singular haze seemed to have taken its place between the treetops. Suddenly she heard a strange, rumbling sound; an odd giddiness overtook her, and she was obliged to clutch at a sapling to support herself; she laughed vacantly, though a little frightened, and looked vaguely towards the summit of the road; but the wagon had already disappeared. A strange feeling of nausea then overcame her; she spat out the leaves she had been chewing, disgustedly. But the sensation as quickly passed, and she once more sought the trail and began slowly to follow the tracks of the wagon. The air blew freshly, the treetops began again to rock over her head, and the incident was forgotten.

Presently she paused; she must have missed the trail, for the wagon tracks had ended abruptly before a large boulder that lay across the mountain trail. She dipped into the woods again; here there were other wagon tracks that confused her. It was like her dogged, stupid father to miss the trail; she felt a gleam of malicious satisfaction at his discomfiture. Sooner or later, he would have to retrace his steps and virtually come back for her! She took up a position where two rough wheel ruts and tracks intersected each other, one of which must be the missing trail. She noticed, too, the broader hoof-prints of cattle without the following wheel ruts, and instead of traces, the long smooth trails made by the dragging of logs, and knew by these tokens that she must be near the highway or some woodman’s hut or ranch. She began to be thirsty, and was glad, presently, when her quick, rustic ear caught the tinkling of water. Yet it was not so easy to discover, and she was getting footsore and tired again before she found it, some distance away, in a gully coming from a fissure in a dislocated piece of outcrop. It was beautifully clear, cold, and sparkling, with a slightly sweetish taste, yet unlike the brackish “alkali” of the plains. It refreshed and soothed her greatly, so much that, reclining against a tree, but where she would be quite visible from the trail, her eyes closed dreamily, and presently she slept.

When she awoke, the shafts of sunlight were striking almost level into her eyes. She must have slept two hours. Her father had not returned; she knew the passage of the wagon would have awakened her. She began to feel strange, but not yet alarmed; it was only the uncertainty that made her uneasy. Had her father really gone on by some other trail? Or had he really hurried on and left her, as he said he would? The thought brought an odd excitement to her rather than any fear. A sudden sense of freedom, as if some galling chain had dropped from her, sent a singular thrill through her frame. Yet she felt confused with her independence, not knowing what to do with it, and momentarily dazzled with the possible gift.

At this moment she heard voices, and the figures of two men appeared on the trail.

They were talking earnestly, and walking as if familiar with the spot, yet gazing around them as if at some novelty of the aspect.

“And look there,” said one; “there has been some serious disturbance of that outcrop,” pointing in the direction of the spring; “the lower part has distinctly subsided.” He spoke with a certain authority, and dominance of position, and was evidently the superior, as he was the elder of the two, although both were roughly dressed.

“Yes, it does kinder look as if it had lost its holt, like the ledge yonder.”

“And you see I am right; the movement was from east to west,” continued the elder man.

The girl could not comprehend what they said, and even thought them a little silly. But she advanced towards them; at which they stopped short, staring at her. With feminine instinct she addressed the more important one:–

“Ye ain’t passed no wagon nor team goin’ on, hev ye?”

“What sort of wagon?” said the man.

“Em’grant wagon, two yaller hosses. Old man–my dad–drivin’.” She added the latter kinship as a protecting influence against strangers, in spite of her previous independence.

The men glanced at each other.

“How long ago?”

The girl suddenly remembered that she had slept two hours.

“Sens noon,” she said hesitatingly.

“Since the earthquake?”

“Wot’s that?”

The man came impatiently towards her. “How did you come here?”

“Got outer the wagon to walk. I reckon dad missed the trail, and hez got off somewhere where I can’t find him.”

“What trail was he on,–where was he going?”

“Sank Hozay,* I reckon. He was goin’ up the grade–side o’ the hill; he must hev turned off where there’s a big rock hangin’ over.”

* San Jose.

“Did you SEE him turn off?”

“No.”

The second man, who was in hearing distance, had turned away, and was ostentatiously examining the sky and the treetops; the man who had spoken to her joined him, and they said something in a low voice. They turned again and came slowly towards her. She, from some obscure sense of imitation, stared at the treetops and the sky as the second man had done. But the first man now laid his hand kindly on her shoulder and said, “Sit down.”

Then they told her there had been an earthquake so strong that it had thrown down a part of the hillside, including the wagon trail. That a wagon team and driver, such as she had described, had been carried down with it, crushed to fragments, and buried under a hundred feet of rock in the gulch below. A party had gone down to examine, but it would be weeks perhaps before they found it, and she must be prepared for the worst. She looked at them vaguely and with tearless eyes.

“Then ye reckon dad’s dead?”

“We fear it.”

“Then wot’s a-goin’ to become o’ me?” she said simply.

They glanced again at each other. “Have you no friends in California?” said the elder man.

“Nary one.”

“What was your father going to do?”

“Dunno. I reckon HE didn’t either.”

“You may stay here for the present,” said the elder man meditatively. “Can you milk?”

The girl nodded. “And I suppose you know something about looking after stock?” he continued.

The girl remembered that her father thought she didn’t, but this was no time for criticism, and she again nodded.

“Come with me,” said the older man, rising. “I suppose,” he added, glancing at her ragged frock, “everything you have is in the wagon.”

She nodded, adding with the same cold naivete, “It ain’t much!”

They walked on, the girl following; at times straying furtively on either side, as if meditating an escape in the woods,–which indeed had once or twice been vaguely in her thoughts,–but chiefly to avoid further questioning and not to hear what the men said to each other. For they were evidently speaking of her, and she could not help hearing the younger repeat her words, “Wot’s agoin’ to become o’ me?” with considerable amusement, and the addition: “She’ll take care of herself, you bet! I call that remark o’ hers the richest thing out.”

“And I call the state of things that provoked it–monstrous!” said the elder man grimly. “You don’t know the lives of these people.”

Presently they came to an open clearing in the forest, yet so incomplete that many of the felled trees, partly lopped of their boughs, still lay where they had fallen. There was a cabin or dwelling of unplaned, unpainted boards; very simple in structure, yet made in a workmanlike fashion, quite unlike the usual log cabin she had seen. This made her think that the elder man was a “towny,” and not a frontiersman like the other.

As they approached the cabin the elder man stopped, and turning to her, said:–

“Do you know Indians?”

The girl started, and then recovering herself with a quick laugh: “G’lang!–there ain’t any Injins here!”

“Not the kind YOU mean; these are very peaceful. There’s a squaw here whom you will”–he stopped, hesitated as he looked critically at the girl, and then corrected himself–“who will help you.”

He pushed open the cabin door and showed an interior, equally simple but well joined and fitted,–a marvel of neatness and finish to the frontier girl’s eye. There were shelves and cupboards and other conveniences, yet with no ostentation of refinement to frighten her rustic sensibilities.

Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called “Waya.” A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse cotton gown, but cleaner and more presentable than the girl’s one frock, appeared in the doorway. “This is Waya, who attends to the cooking and cleaning,” he said; “and by the way, what is your name?”

“Libby Jones.”

He took a small memorandum book and a “stub” of pencil from his pocket. “Elizabeth Jones,” he said, writing it down. The girl interposed a long red hand.

“No,” she interrupted sharply, “not Elizabeth, but Libby, short for Lib’rty.”

“Liberty?”

“Yes.”

“Liberty Jones, then. Well, Waya, this is Miss Jones, who will look after the cows and calves–and the dairy.” Then glancing at her torn dress, he added: “You’ll find some clean things in there, until I can send up something from San Jose. Waya will show you.”

Without further speech he turned away with the other man. When they were some distance from the cabin, the younger remarked:–

“More like a boy than a girl, ain’t she?”

“So much the better for her work,” returned the elder grimly.

“I reckon! I was only thinkin’ she didn’t han’some much either as a boy or girl, eh, doctor?” he pursued.

“Well! as THAT won’t make much difference to the cows, calves, or the dairy, it needn’t trouble US,” returned the doctor dryly. But here a sudden outburst of laughter from the cabin made them both turn in that direction. They were in time to see Liberty Jones dancing out of the cabin door in a large cotton pinafore, evidently belonging to the squaw, who was following her with half-laughing, half-frightened expostulations. The two men stopped and gazed at the spectacle.

“Don’t seem to be takin’ the old man’s death very pow’fully,” said the younger, with a laugh.

“Quite as much as he deserved, I daresay,” said the doctor curtly. “If the accident had happened to HER, he would have whined and whimpered to us for the sake of getting something, but have been as much relieved, you may be certain. SHE’S too young and too natural to be a hypocrite yet.”

Suddenly the laughter ceased and Liberty Jones’s voice arose, shrill but masterful: “Thar, that’ll do! Quit now! You jest get back to your scrubbin’–d’ye hear? I’m boss o’ this shanty, you bet!”

The doctor turned with a grim smile to his companion. “That’s the only thing that bothered me, and I’ve been waiting for. She’s settled it. She’ll do. Come.”

They turned away briskly through the wood. At the end of half an hour’s walk they found the team that had brought them there in waiting, and drove towards San Jose. It was nearly ten miles before they passed another habitation or trace of clearing. And by this time night had fallen upon the cabin they had left, and upon the newly made orphan and her Indian companion, alone and contented in that trackless solitude.

. . . . . .

Liberty Jones had been a year at the cabin. In that time she had learned that her employer’s name was Doctor Ruysdael, that he had a lucrative practice in San Jose, but had also “taken up” a league or two of wild forest land in the Santa Cruz range, which he preserved and held after a fashion of his own, which gave him the reputation of being a “crank” among the very few neighbors his vast possessions permitted, and the equally few friends his singular tastes allowed him. It was believed that a man owning such an enormous quantity of timber land, who should refuse to set up a sawmill and absolutely forbid the felling of trees; who should decline to connect it with the highway to Santa Cruz, and close it against improvement and speculation, had given sufficient evidence of his insanity; but when to this was added the rumor that he himself was not only devoid of the human instinct of hunting the wild animals with which his domain abounded, but that he held it so sacred to their use as to forbid the firing of a gun within his limits, and that these restrictions were further preserved and “policed” by the scattered remnants of a band of aborigines,–known as “digger Injins,”–it was seriously hinted that his eccentricity had acquired a political and moral significance, and demanded legislative interference. But the doctor was a rich man, a necessity to his patients, a good marksman, and, it was rumored, did not include his fellow men among the animals he had a distaste for killing.

Of all this, however, Liberty knew little and cared less. The solitude appealed to her sense of freedom; she did not “hanker” after a society she had never known. At the end of the first week, when the doctor communicated to her briefly, by letter, the convincing proofs of the death of her father and his entombment beneath the sunken cliff, she accepted the fact without comment or apparent emotion. Two months later, when her only surviving relative, “Aunt Marty,” of Missouri, acknowledged the news– communicated by Doctor Ruysdael–with Scriptural quotations and the cheerful hope that it “would be a lesson to her” and she would “profit in her new place,” she left her aunt’s letter unanswered.

She looked after the cows and calves with an interest that was almost possessory, patronized and played with the squaw,–yet made her feel her inferiority,–and moved among the peaceful aborigines with the domination of a white woman and a superior. She tolerated the half-monthly visits of “Jim Hoskins,” the young companion of the doctor, who she learned was the doctor’s factor and overseer of the property, who lived seven miles away on an agricultural clearing, and whose control of her actions was evidently limited by the doctor,–for the doctor’s sake alone. Nor was Mr. Hoskins inclined to exceed those limits. He looked upon her as something abnormal,–a “crank” as remarkable in her way as her patron was in his, neuter of sex and vague of race, and he simply restricted his supervision to the bringing and taking of messages. She remained sole queen of the domain. A rare straggler from the main road, penetrating this seclusion, might have scarcely distinguished her from Waya, in her coarse cotton gown and slouched hat, except for the free stride which contrasted with her companion’s waddle. Once, in following an estrayed calf, she had crossed the highway and been saluted by a passing teamster in the digger dialect; yet the mistake left no sting in her memory. And, like the digger, she shrank from that civilization which had only proved a hard taskmaster.

The sole touch of human interest she had in her surroundings was in the rare visits of the doctor and his brief but sincere commendation of her rude and rustic work. It is possible that the strange, middle-aged, gray-haired, intellectual man, whose very language was at times mysterious and unintelligible to her, and whose suggestion of power awed her, might have touched some untried filial chord in her being. Although she felt that, save for absolute freedom, she was little more to him than she had been to her father, yet he had never told her she had “no sense,” that she was “a hindrance,” and he had even praised her performance of her duties. Eagerly as she looked for his coming, in his actual presence she felt a singular uneasiness of which she was not entirely ashamed, and if she was relieved at his departure, it none the less left her to a delightful memory of him, a warm sense of his approval, and a fierce ambition to be worthy of it, for which she would have sacrificed herself or the other miserable retainers about her, as a matter of course. She had driven Waya and the other squaws far along the sparse tableland pasture in search of missing stock; she herself had lain out all night on the rocks beside an ailing heifer. Yet, while satisfied to earn his praise for the performance of her duty, for some feminine reason she thought more frequently of a casual remark he had made on his last visit: “You are stronger and more healthy in this air,” he had said, looking critically into her face. “We have got that abominable alkali out of your system, and wholesome food will do the rest.” She was not sure she had quite understood him, but she remembered that she had felt her face grow hot when he spoke,– perhaps because she had not understood him.

His next visit was a day or two delayed, and in her anxiety she had ventured as far as the highway to earnestly watch for his coming. From her hiding-place in the underwood she could see the team and Jim Hoskins already waiting for him. Presently she saw him drive up to the trail in a carryall with a party of ladies and gentlemen. He alighted, bade “Good-by” to the party, and the team turned to retrace its course. But in that single moment she had been struck and bewildered by what seemed to her the dazzlingly beautiful apparel of the women, and their prettiness. She felt a sudden consciousness of her own coarse, shapeless calico gown, her straggling hair, and her felt hat, and a revulsion of feeling seized her. She crept like a wounded animal out of the underwood, and then ran swiftly and almost fiercely back towards the cabin. She ran so fast that for a time she almost kept pace with the doctor and Hoskins in the wagon on the distant trail. Then she dived into the underwood again, and making a short cut through the forest, came at the end of two hours within hailing distance of the cabin,–footsore and exhausted, in spite of the strange excitement that had driven her back. Here she thought she heard voices–his voice among the rest–calling her, but the same singular revulsion of feeling hurried her vaguely on again, even while she experienced a foolish savage delight in not answering the summons. In this erratic wandering she came upon the spring she had found on her first entrance in the forest a year ago, and drank feverishly a second time at its trickling source. She could see that since her first visit it had worn a great hollow below the tree roots and now formed a shining, placid pool. As she stooped to look at it, she suddenly observed that it reflected her whole figure as in a cruel mirror,–her slouched hat and loosened hair, her coarse and shapeless gown, her hollow cheeks and dry yellow skin,–in all their hopeless, uncompromising details. She uttered a quick, angry, half-reproachful cry, and turned again to fly. But she had not gone far before she came upon the hurrying figures and anxious faces of the doctor and Hoskins. She stopped, trembling and irresolute.

“Ah,” said the doctor, in a tone of frank relief. “Here you are! I was getting worried about you. Waya said you had been gone since morning!” He stopped and looked at her attentively. “Is anything the matter?”

His evident concern sent a warm glow over her chilly frame, and yet the strange sensation remained. “No–no!” she stammered.

Doctor Ruysdael turned to Hoskins. “Go back and tell Waya I’ve found her.”

Libby felt that the doctor only wanted to get rid of his companion, and became awed again.

“Has anybody been bothering you?”

“No.”

“Have the diggers frightened you?”

“No”–with a gesture of contempt.

“Have you and Waya quarreled?”

“Nary”–with a faint, tremulous smile.

He still stared at her, and then dropped his blue eyes musingly. “Are you lonely here? Would you rather go to San Jose?”

Like a flash the figures of the two smartly dressed women started up before her again, with every detail of their fresh and wholesome finery as cruelly distinct as had been her own shapeless ugliness in the mirror of the spring. “No! NO!” she broke out vehemently and passionately. “Never!”

He smiled gently. “Look here! I’ll send you up some books. You read–don’t you?” She nodded quickly. “Some magazines and papers. Odd I never thought of it before,” he added half musingly. “Come along to the cabin. And,” he stopped again and said decisively, “the next time you want anything, don’t wait for me to come, but write.”

A few days after he left she received a package of books,–an odd collection of novels, magazines, and illustrated journals of the period. She received them eagerly as an evidence of his concern for her, but it is to be feared that her youthful nature found little satisfaction in the gratification of fancy. Many of the people she read of were strange to her; many of the incidents related seemed to her mere lies; some tales which treated of people in her own sphere she found profoundly uninteresting. In one of the cheaper magazines she chanced upon a fashion plate; she glanced eagerly through all the others for a like revelation until she got a dozen together, when she promptly relegated the remaining literature to a corner and oblivion. The text accompanying the plates was in a jargon not always clear, but her instinct supplied the rest. She dispatched by Hoskins a note to Doctor Ruysdael: “Please send me some brite kalikers and things for sewing. You told me to ask.” A few days later brought the response in a good- sized parcel.

Yet this did not keep her from her care of the stock nor her rambles in the forest; she was quick to utilize her rediscovery of the spring for watering the cattle; it was not so far afield as the half-dried creek in the canyon, and was a quiet sylvan spot. She ate her frugal midday meal there and drank of its waters, and, secure in her seclusion, bathed there and made her rude toilet when the cows were driven home. But she did not again look into its mirrored surface when it was tranquil!

And so a month passed. But when Doctor Ruysdael was again due at the cabin, a letter was brought by Hoskins, with the news that he was called away on professional business down the coast, and could not come until two weeks later. In the disappointment that overcame her, she did not at first notice that Hoskins was gazing at her with a singular expression, which was really one of undisguised admiration. Never having seen this before in the eyes of any man who looked at her, she referred it to some vague “larking” or jocularity, for which she was in no mood.

“Say, Libby! you’re gettin’ to be a right smart-lookin’ gal. Seems to agree with ye up here,” said Hoskins with an awkward laugh. “Darned ef ye ain’t lookin’ awful purty!”

“G’long! “said Liberty Jones, more than ever convinced of his badinage.

“Fact,” said Hoskins energetically. “Why, Doc would tell ye so, too. See ef he don’t!”

At this Liberty Jones felt her face grow hot. “You jess get!” she said, turning away in as much embarrassment as anger. Yet he hovered near her with awkward attentions that pleased while it still angered her. He offered to go with her to look up the cows; she flatly declined, yet with a strange satisfaction in his evident embarrassment. This may have lent some animation to her face, for he drew a long breath and said:–

“Don’t go pertendin’ ye don’t know yer purty. Say, let me and you walk a bit and have a talk together.” But Libby had another idea in her mind and curtly dismissed him. Then she ran swiftly to the spring, for the words “The Doc will tell ye so, too” were ringing in her ears. The doctor who came with the two beautifully dressed women! HE–would tell her she was pretty! She had not dared to look at herself in that crystal mirror since that dreadful day two months ago. She would now.

It was a pretty place in the cool shade of the giant trees, and the hoof-marks of cattle drinking from the run beneath the pool had not disturbed the margin of that tranquil sylvan basin. For a moment she stood tremulous and uncertain, and then going up to the shining mirror, dropped on her knees before it with her thin red hands clasped on her lap. Unconsciously she had taken the attitude of prayer; perhaps there was something like it in her mind.

And then the light glanced full on the figure that she saw there!

It fell on a full oval face and throat guileless of fleck or stain, smooth as a child’s and glowing with health; on large dark eyes, no longer sunk in their orbits, but filled with an eager, happy light; on bared arms now shapely in contour and cushioned with firm flesh; on a dazzling smile, the like of which had never been on the face of Liberty Jones before!

She rose to her feet, and yet lingered as if loath to part from this delightful vision. Then a fear overcame her that it was some trick of the water, and she sped swiftly back to the house to consult the little mirror which hung in her sleeping-room, but which she had never glanced at since the momentous day of the spring. She took it shyly into the sunshine, and found that it corroborated the reflection of the spring. That night she worked until late at the calico Doctor Ruysdael had sent her, and went to bed happy. The next day brought her Hoskins again with a feeble excuse of inquiring if she had a letter for the doctor, and she was surprised to find that he was reinforced by a stranger from Hoskins’s farm, who was equally awkward and vaguely admiring. But the appearance of the TWO men produced a singular phase in her impressions and experience. She was no longer indignant at Hoskins, but she found relief in accepting the compliments of the stranger in preference, and felt a delight in Hoskins’s discomfiture. Waya, promoted to the burlesque of a chaperone, grinned with