The San Rosario Ranch Maud Howe Elliott 26557 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The San Rosario Ranch

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The San Rosario Ranch

Creator: Maud Howe Elliott

Release date: March 9, 2013 [eBook #42283]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42283

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAN
ROSARIO RANCH ***

Cover

THE
SAN ROSARIO RANCH

BY
MAUD HOWE

BOSTON
ROBERTS BROTHERS
1884

Copyright, 1884,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.

University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.

TO
My Beloved Sister,
LAURA E. RICHARDS.

SAN ROSARIO RANCH.

CHAPTER I.

"Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet,
Scatter the blossoms under her feet!"

The house was a large square building, simple and hospitable in
appearance. A wide veranda ran about the four sides, heavily draped by
climbing roses and clematis. There were indisputable evidences that visitors
were expected. Old Tip, the dog, knew it as well as everybody else about

the house. He had been routed out from his favorite spot on the sunny side
of the piazza, by Ah Lam, who had given him a shower-bath of water and
soap-suds, because he did not move away to make room for the scrubbing-
brush which the white-clad Celestial plied vigorously. From earliest
morning the inhabitants of the simple house had been busied in making it
ready. The very kittens which played about the steps of the piazza had
licked an extra gloss upon their shining coats in honor of the expected
guest. Only Tip, the old hunting-dog, the spoiled child of the household,
showed no interest in what was going on, and with a cynical growl trotted
off to the woods behind the house, where he might sleep safe from all fear
of interruption.
From the wide doorway, which stood hospitably open, stepped a lady.
At the first sight of Barbara Deering, strangers were always strongly
impressed with the indisputable fact that she was above and before all else a
lady. A second look,--and people were sure to take one,--and it appeared
that she was a young lady and a beautiful one. She was tall, above the
height of ordinary women, and her carriage was remarkably erect and
commanding. She walked with a quick, light step to the edge of the piazza,
and raising one hand to shade her eyes from the rays of the setting sun,
stood looking out across the wide garden. Her figure was like that of a
Greek Diana, muscular and graceful, indicating great strength and
endurance. The limbs were rounded but not languidly, as one saw by the
arm, from which the sleeve had slipped back: it was white, firm, and hard.
Her hands were large and shapely, the tips of the fingers red, and the texture
of the skin showed that they were used to other work than that of the
broidery-frame. Her head, with its crown of pretty, curling flaxen hair, was
habitually held rather high, and her face wore an expression in which a
certain natural hauteur and imperiousness seemed at war with a gentleness

which was more the result of education than a natural trait. The forehead
was wide and unlined, the eyes brown and clear, the nose straight, and the
mouth small and rosy. The soft, white woollen gown, with its breast-knot of
red roses, suited the young woman perfectly; and as she stood in the sunset
light, a spray of climbing rose hanging overhead from the roof of the
piazza, she made an unconscious picture of grace and loveliness.
At the sound of a wagon on the driveway a warm flush mantled her
cheek and throat, and stepping to the door of the house she called out in a
sweet, high voice, "Mamma, mamma! they are coming!"
A moment later and a large open vehicle came into sight, drawn by two
swift mules, which were urged forward by the driver, a young man in whose
face the traits of the girl on the piazza were reproduced, but somewhat
roughly. On the seat behind the driver was seen a female figure closely
enveloped in heavy travelling wraps, her features concealed by a thick veil.
As the mules stopped before the entrance, the young woman on the piazza
came forward with both hands outstretched, saying cordially but half shyly,-
-
"Dear Millicent, welcome to San Rosario! Are you very, very tired?
Let me help you out."
So saying, Barbara Deering almost lifted the new arrival from the
wagon, and with her strong arm supported her to a chair.
"Thank you so much!" said the new-comer, speaking with a slightly
foreign accent, and lifting her veil; "and you are Barbara? I know you from
your picture, only you are much prettier."
"Poor child, you must be terribly tired; you shall come and speak to
mamma, and then you must go directly to your room and lie down. Hal, you
will go down for Millicent's luggage?"

The young man nodded an assent, touched up his steeds, and the
wagon disappeared down the red dusty road. The two young girls entered
the house, Barbara leading the stranger to a large room on the upper story.
In a low chair sat a small woman, with a face which must have once been
beautiful, and which now shone with an expression of simple sincerity and
kindliness. She held out her hand to Millicent, kissed her on both cheeks,
and warmly bade her welcome to San Rosario. Millicent Almsford
acknowledged the greeting with a courteous grace, and immediately after
accepted Barbara's offer to show her to her room.
When the door was shut upon her, and she was for the first time in
many days alone, she seated herself at the window, and leaning her head
upon her hand, remained wrapped in thought. She had travelled from the
coast of the Adriatic Sea to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, with no
companion save her maid and her own painful thoughts. And now the long
journeying was at an end, and she found herself in the far West, in
California, amidst her kindred, all strangers to her save by tradition and
some slight correspondence. She looked about the strange room. It was
exquisitely neat and fresh, with its clean whitewashed walls and new blue
Kidderminster carpet, its black-walnut "bedroom set," and comfortable
lounge, which had been newly covered in her honor. On the bureau were
blue and white mats and cushions, a toilet-set which Barbara's busy fingers
had stolen time to make.
She marked all these little details, not one of which escaped her eyes,
even to the embroidered towel-rack with her initials, and the worked motto,
"Welcome home." Again she looked out from the window over a wide
pleasant orchard, filled with heavily fruited peach and plum trees; over a
garden gay with bright-hued flowers, and beyond to the everlasting hills
which close about the happy valley wherein stands the house of the San

Rosario Ranch. Numbers of oxen and cows were straying over the hills,
with here and there groups of sheep cropping the sun-dried grass of the
hills.
The landscape was a perfect symphony in brown. The round shiny hills
were golden in color; the warm-hued earth in the ploughed fields and the
meadows, whose crop of grass had long since been mowed, was of a deeper
tint. The house stood in an oasis of green. A great hedge of rose-trees
blushing with red blossoms marked the boundary of the flower-garden,
irrigated with great care through the long summer months. The sun, low-
hanging over the hilltops, suddenly dropped from sight; and as the room
grew dim, Millicent shivered slightly, and turning from the window threw
herself on the couch and lay there quite still, too tired even to weep out the
pain and homesickness in her heart. A tap on the door was followed by the
entrance of one of her trunks, brought in by two strong Chinamen, at whose
coppery faces Millicent stared curiously. Six large boxes were placed in a
row and unstrapped by the younger Chinaman, who, when he had
completed his task, approached the stranger land said in a sympathetic
voice, "Me solly you sick; Ah Lam bring tea-cup?" The white Celestial
smiled benignantly and vanished, quickly reappearing with the promised
cup of tea, which proved most grateful to the girl's tired nerves. The
creature's sympathy and attention brought tears to her eyes; and when
Barbara came in a few minutes later, to help her in unpacking, she found the
traces of these tears on Millicent's cheeks.
"Do not try to dress for tea, dear; you are too tired. Where shall I find
your dressing-case? You must let me take the place of your maid, now that
she has left you so cruelly."
So talking pleasantly, Barbara unpacked the guest's dressing-bag,
looked admiringly at the silver-topped bottles with "M. A." engraven upon

them, the ivory brushes, and all the dainty et ceteras which were necessities
to the foreign girl, with the long white hands and finger-nails which shone
like pale pink conch-pearls.
"Thank you, if you would help me a little to-night, I shall quickly learn
to do for myself. If you will look in that largest trunk, you may give me
whatever gown lies at the top."
Barbara unfolded as she was bid a sea-green cashmere dress, in which
the stranger quickly clad her slender figure. Manifold strings of tiny seed-
pearls she wound about her white throat and wrists, performing all the
details of her dressing with a careful precision which seemed part of her
nature. The pink nails received an extra polish, though the tea-bell had
twice summoned the inmates of the house to the evening repast. With a
peculiarly graceful motion, like the undulation of a swift but quiet stream,
she moved about the room and finally down the stairway to the dining-room
below.
"Millicent, will you sit here, on my right? Hal shall have the pleasure
of occupying the place beside you."
The speaker was the lady whose gentle, firm hand swayed the small
realm of the San Rosario Ranch during the long absence of its master, Mr.
Ralph Almsford.
Mr. Almsford had been a widower for the past ten years. On the death
of his beloved wife, her mother Mrs. Deering had continued at his earnest
request to make his house her home. Her two younger children, Barbara and
Henry Deering, remembered no other home, and it seemed but natural to
them that they should continue to live with their brother-in-law. The family
life was a particularly happy one, and the tie between Ralph Almsford and
the Deerings was closer than that which exists between many blood
relations.

The advent of the young heiress Millicent Almsford, the half-sister of
Ralph, was an event of great importance in the household, and had been
eagerly anticipated by Mrs. Deering and her daughter for several weeks.
Henry Deering--or as he was always called Hal--displayed an absolute
indifference concerning the "strange girl" who was coming to make her
home among them for a year. What Ralph Almsford felt about his guest no
one of the household could divine. He was a quiet, reticent man, entirely
absorbed in his business, which of late had often taken him from home for
months at a time. He had written to his half-sister, urging her to visit the
ranch; and his letter, the first one of the kind she had ever received, had so
moved the girl that she had telegraphed her departure, and forthwith started
on her long journey.
Her brother met her in San Francisco, where they passed one day
together,--a business engagement calling him away on the morrow, as he
hoped for a few days only.
Millicent took the place assigned her by Mrs. Deering, and supper was
enlivened by conversation about the journey she had just achieved, which
she described as the most terrible ordeal that it was possible for a human
being to undergo. The guest was entirely at her ease, though her position
might have been to many people an embarrassing one. Arriving alone in a
household of near connections, who were as yet absolute strangers to her,
and with whom it had been decided that the next year of her life should be
passed, most girls in her place would have experienced some sensation of
awkwardness; but Millicent was entirely mistress of the situation. She
spoke principally to Hal Deering, a jolly-looking fellow of twenty-five, who
puzzled her with the bits of dialect, perfectly unintelligible to her, which he
introduced into his conversation.

After supper Mrs. Deering led the way into the drawing-room, saying
to her guest,--
"Will you join us at prayers in the library, Millicent? Or would you
prefer waiting here for us?"
"I see that you already know that I am an unorthodox person, Mrs.
Deering. Frankly, I would prefer not coming, if you will allow me. Being an
agnostic, I should hardly be in sympathy with your service. If you will
kindly excuse me, I will await you here."
Millicent's refusal to join the family at their devotions was
accompanied with a smile so exquisite and winning that the offence was
forgiven, although forgiveness had not been asked. Hal, the great six-foot
giant, more than forgave the graceful girl her ungraciousness, and would
have a thousand times preferred remaining with her to joining his mother
and sister.
On being left to herself, Millicent moved to the piano which stood
open near the window, and seating herself let her white fingers stray gently
over the keys. Strange hands were Millicent's, of a whiteness that made her
pale cheek look brown by comparison. The fingers were long and taper, at
the tip of each a drop as of water ready to fall from the pink digits. The
wrists were round and very slender. On the fifth finger of the left hand she
wore a strange, small old ring of an Etruscan pattern, which had been
stripped from the fleshless hand of a princess, whose sanctuary had been
rifled by some nineteenth-century robber of graves. The setting enclosed a
small green intaglio exquisitely carved, representing a Psyche with new-
found wings.
She had a strange, white luminous face whose beauty shone from
within and lit the dark gray eyes with a rare and tender loveliness. The large
mouth was more exquisitely refined than the mere rosebud tininess of

Barbara Deering's. The teeth were very white and perfect, and the veil of
soft, golden bronze hair, in which she could have clothed herself like Mary
in the desert, was deftly massed into a great dusky knot at the nape of her
white neck. Her arms and bosom, veiled by half transparent draperies, were
white as marble from Carrara, and as finely yet generously chiselled as
those of a goddess of Phidias. She was very tall, though her grace of
movement concealed her height; her small feet in their velvet sandals were
not disproportionate to her size. Her features were beautiful, and her hair
and eyes the delight of every artist who looked upon her. And yet that which
made her so remarkable among women had nothing to do with delicate
contours or harmonious tints. Her body seemed like a screen through which
shone a flame, at times white and gentle, again rosy and passionate. She
was like the twin opals which clasped her girdle, and was as sensitive as
they to every passing influence.
As the words of the ritual, grown to be meaningless to him by their
frequent repetition, fell upon the ears of Henry Deering he heeded them not,
and failed to make the proper responses: other sounds had struck his ear,
and soft, solemn strains of music made an under prayer to the evening
service. To these strange chords his heart made answer, and his thoughts
were raised by them far higher than was usual at that hour, when it was their
wont to run riot over the business in hand for the next day.
As the family re-entered the drawing-room, Millicent remained seated
at the piano, now striking louder chords, and finally ending the long
rhapsody with a brilliant waltz of Chopin.
"Thank you, dear," said Barbara, as Millicent left the piano; "I am so
glad that you are musical. I find very little sympathy for my music in the
family; we will have great pleasure in practising together. I have some very
good four-hand music."

Soon after, the newly arrived guest bade good-night to the family, and
went to her room accompanied by Barbara.
"She is a little like Ralph," said Mrs. Deering, "only infinitely
handsomer. How did she please you, my son?"
"Is she handsome? I hardly noticed. It was her voice that struck me; it
has the sound of laughing waters. And can't she play, though! I never heard
such music in my life."
"I am very glad for Barbara's sake that she is musical," answered his
mother.
"Yes; I hope that Barbara and Miss Almsford will get on together. But I
have my doubts," said Hal, dubiously pulling his straw-colored mustache.

This is San Rosario to-day. Shall we go back a hundred years? It has a
history worth a word or two. To one who is familiar with the beautiful
country which lies about the old Mission of San Rosario, it is not a little
strange that the place has as yet no prominence either in history or
literature. Santa Barbara and the Mission Dolores have been celebrated in
prose and verse. San Miguel and San Fernando Rey are not forgotten; while
San Rafael and San Francisco, now grown to be important cities, will be
remembered as long as Plymouth or Manhattan.
The venerable President of the missions of Upper California, Father
Junipero Serra, founded the San Rosario Mission in 1784, the last year of
his life. It is possible that the judgment of the enthusiastic priest was
already failing when he chose this site, for the Mission was never
prosperous, and was abandoned early in the present century. While standing
among the ruins of the old church, it is not difficult to see in fancy a
picturesque scene enacted on the spot a century ago, on the morning of the
consecration of the Mission.

The little band of priests and soldiers have come to the end of their
journey; the pleasant valley set in sheltering green hills has been chosen for
the site of the new Mission. The tall thin figure of Father Junipero first
strikes the eye. In spite of his great age, and the mortal disease with which
he is afflicted, it is his hand that tugs lustily at the rope which swings the
great bronze bell, hung in the arms of a gigantic redwood. It is he who
shouts aloud the summons, "Hear, hear! all ye Gentiles! come to the holy
Church!" Close to the President stand two priests,--one, a middle-aged man
with a head which indicates great power and a dogged persistence; the
other, a delicate looking youth with the face of an enthusiast, beautiful and
dreamy. The handful of soldiers who serve the Fathers as an escort are
making fast the slight church tent which they have just set up. From the
neighboring thicket the cries of the startled birds mingle with the earnest
tones of Father Junipero and the deep notes of the bronze bell. Hardly less
timorous than the wood creatures are the Indians, who peer cautiously from
behind the great trees at the strange spectacle before them. They are invited
to draw near, and the bolder ones come close to the black-robed figures, and
stare curiously at the simple ceremonials with which the ground is
consecrated to the service of the heavenly kingdom.
Through the indefatigable energy of the President and the two priests,
the few buildings of the Mission were completed within a year. The adobe
church was unusually large and well built, as one can see to-day. The tower,
the base of which is strongly fortified, is still standing, though the roof of
the church has long since fallen to the earthen floor. Little trace now
remains of the less important buildings, for the Mission was abandoned
thirty years after its establishment, and the property passed into the hands of
its present owner, Mr. Ralph Almsford, some fifteen years before the
opening of our story.

A century has elapsed since that day when the Fathers planted the
cross amidst the stately aisles of madrone trees; the Mission is now almost
forgotten, but the San Rosario Ranch is well known for its famous breed of
cattle, and for its fine dairy, which supplies the San Francisco market with
choice butter and cream.
The two priests--he of the hard-favored countenance, and he of the
gentle eyes--lie side by side at the foot of the crumbling altar. The Indians
who were reclaimed by them from barbarism have gone to their happy
hunting-grounds, and the brilliant future prophesied by Father Junipero is
proven to be a dream and nothing more.

CHAPTER II.

"Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!
No city airs or arts pass current here.
Your rank is all reversed: let men of cloth
Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls."

Millicent Almsford awoke early on the morning after her arrival. "What is
the matter?" she asked.
No one answering her question, she put another.
"Why do we not go on, what are we stopping for?" this still in a semi-
somnolent voice. On opening her eyes and finding that she was not in the
berth of the palace car, where she had for a week past always found herself,
she laughed outright and then gave a deep sigh.

Her long journey, from the Palazzo Fortunio in Venice to the San
Rosario Ranch in California, was at an end; and here she was, to use her
own phrase, "planted in the wilderness for a year to come."
"Heavens! how can I bear it?" she cried, tossing restlessly to the other
side of her wide bed; "it is all so new, so raw, so crude, so terrible,--just like
this cotton sheet, which has chafed my chin so badly that I would rather
have slept without one."
Soon a loud bell broke the silence of the morning. Millicent did not
heed it, but looked about the room to find a means of summoning
assistance. Happily she found the bell quite near her, and, after twice
ringing, a tap at her door was heard. In answer to her "Come in," Ah Lam
opened the door cautiously.
"Missie call Ah Lam?"
"I want my breakfast now," said Millicent, somewhat dismayed at the
attendant she had summoned.
Soon Barbara came, carrying the breakfast tray in her strong arms.
"I am so sorry you don't feel well this morning, Millicent. What can I
do for you?"
"But I feel perfectly well. Do I look so badly?"
"No, dear; but we were afraid, not seeing you--"
"Dear Barbara, you must excuse my strange foreign habits. You know I
have been only a week in your country. I did not realize that you all came
downstairs to breakfast. What time is it?"
"After seven."
"And you have been up since--?"
"Since six o'clock only. Hal is the early riser. Half-past four sees him
overlooking the milking."
Millicent shuddered; she had indeed come to a strange land.

"I will try to learn the customs of your country," she said rather
piteously, taking up her cup of coffee.
"Only learn those that please you, dear. As for our early breakfast,
which I see shocks you, think no more about it. I will gladly bring it up to
you every day."
"I shall unpack some of my boxes this morning, Barbara; and later we
will try some of your duets, if you like."
The unpacking of her Penates gave Millicent a certain satisfaction,
which was, however, tempered by the sad recollections they brought to her
mind, of her own apartment with its three pretty rooms in the corner of the
great Palazzo Fortunio.
Millicent Almsford was the daughter of an American gentleman who
had lived in Venice since before the birth of his daughter. Here the greater
portion of her life had been spent, with the interruption only of one long
visit made to a relative in England.
A month previous to the opening of our story her father, widowed at
her birth, had married for the third time, his wife being a young and
uninteresting Italian woman of the middle class. The marriage, to which
Millicent was strongly opposed, had led her to accept the invitation of her
half-brother to make him an extended visit in his California home.
From the great cases she lifted, with the help of Ah Lam, the
household treasures which she had been unwilling to leave behind, in the
home which knew her as its mistress no longer. A motley collection of
articles had the great trunks enclosed: pictures, books, a large Eastern
carpet, a parchment missal of the fifteenth century with beautiful
illuminations, a guitar, a little majolica shrine with a figure of San Antonio
very much the worse for the journey, a set of delicately wrought silken
window and bed hangings of pale sea color, a pair of heavy silver

candelabra, with a ponderous packet of wax tapers, and innumerable other
knick-knacks.
With the willing and ingenious assistance of Ah Lam, this roba, to
borrow the untranslatable Italian phrase, was disposed about the large room.
The neat Nottingham lace curtains, at which Millicent had looked askance,
were now hidden beneath the blue-green draperies, embroidered by the
hands of the mother whose face she had never seen. The pictures were hung
upon the walls, and a deep-hued Egyptian scarf disguised the pasteboard
motto, with its friendly welcome. A book-case was improvised by the
Chinaman from some old boxes, and covered by Millicent, who
unhesitatingly cut to pieces a heavy woollen gown whose color struck her
as appropriate to that end. Beside the bed she hung the little shrine of San
Antonio, with much grief that the long journey had damaged his saintly toes
and fingers. On a table were ranged the candlesticks and the missal, and an
old copy of Dante with a mouse-gnawed cover, and Lear's "Nonsense
Book,"--this last because it was an old friend from childhood, which she,
being a creature of habit, had forgotten to discard.
The complete metamorphosis of the apartment was a work of several
days; and only when it was entirely accomplished were Mrs. Deering and
her daughter admitted to see the change. Poor Barbara! All the pains and
trouble she had taken, all the careful stitches she had set, were unavailing.
The new carpet she had bought with her own pocket money was entirely
covered by old rugs, some of which were very faded and worn; none of
them were as bright and clean as the Kidderminster.
The warm knitted afghan had disappeared from the bed, which was
covered by a white quilt embroidered in strange floral designs. The very
toilet set had been replaced, and the pretty painted candles had been
banished.

"I have made it a little like Venice," cried Millicent excitedly, "only the
walls in my bedroom there are hung in silk and all painted in water-color,
and the rooms are so high,--you remember the green room in the Palazzo
Fortunio, Mrs. Deering, with the nymphs, the sea gods, and the green
hobgoblins painted all over it?"
"Yes, indeed, Millicent. What a change you have wrought in the spare
bedroom. Ralph would hardly recognize it. I see now what was contained in
the boxes which so aroused Hal's curiosity. I am afraid you have made your
room too attractive, dear, and that we shall find difficulty in coaxing you
out of it into our more prosaic apartments."
"Oh, I always live the greater part of my life between my own four
walls: I am not a sociable person, I am afraid. At least so Barbara thinks."
Barbara said nothing; she was hurt and disappointed. The room, with
its strange furnishing, was unnatural to her. She felt, as she looked at
Millicent with this new setting which suited her so perfectly, that neither in
the room nor in the life of Millicent Almsford was there a place for her. She
had eagerly anticipated the advent of this unknown girl, sisterless like
herself, who should grow to be so much to her, and in whom she should
find the sympathetic friend of whom she had greatly felt the need; and now
that she had come, Barbara was bitterly disappointed. Millicent was
gracious, winning, full of attractive qualities, intellectually sympathetic to a
degree which she had never before known. And yet the tall daughter of the
Ranch was cruelly disturbed.
"I can be nothing to her; she is complete without me," she had said to
her mother; and herein lay the reason for all her disappointment. Living
among people to whom her beauty, her talent, and her warmth of heart had
been the most poetic features of their lives, Barbara Deering had grown to
value men and women according to the amount of good or pleasure she

could impart to them. Her life had been one wherein the tears and sighs had
been stifled, or hidden in the darkness of her chamber; the laughter and
smiles, the bright cheery face, the helping hand always meeting those about
her. Children loved her, and old people blessed her for her sympathy and
kindness. To her mother and brother she was sun, moon, and stars; and to
them every hour of her life was consecrated. Naturally endowed with
certain tastes which would have somewhat interfered with the quiet plan of
life laid out for her, she had systematically neglected these gifts, sacrificing
herself to an imaginary duty which was always before her eyes. She had
avoided such pursuits as might have led her aside from the common life of
the family; and happiness for her was found in the happiness she could
afford to others. Enjoyment to her, unless her dear ones were included in it,
was something like a sin; and the pleasure she took in her music gave her
pangs of conscience.
One morning, about a week after her arrival, Millicent was awakened
by the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs clattering down the stony road which
led to the orchard from the hill behind the house. She sprang up, and
throwing wide the shutters, looked out to see whence the sound came. It
was still very early. The sun had not yet clambered over the tops of the high
hills; but the sky was bright, and the shadows lay like a misty garment over
the happy valley, locked in its circle of hills. The great bull Jupiter, the
terror of the Ranch, stood near the house, sniffing the cool morning air, and
giving thunderous snorts of pleasure. The bars had been left down, and he
had gained access to the green orchard, forbidden ground to him. The hedge
of roses was hung with a wondrous garlanding of dewdrops, and the dark-
red lilies were just awakening to the draught which the night winds had
distilled in their chalices. From every blade of grass and leaf of clover

sparkled a diamond. The fair valley had arrayed itself in jewels and
fragance for another day of light and love.
The sound of the horse's hoofs grew nearer; and as Millicent looked
expectantly along the bridle-path that descends from the mountain, there
came into sight, parting the wet boughs of the fruit trees, a horseman
mounted on a gray mustang. The rider was a strong man, who sat his steed
with the air of one to the manner born. He was dressed in corduroy
breeches, high top-boots, and flannel shirt. He had no hat. In his belt shone
a long hunting knife, and over his shoulder was slung a rifle. Before him on
the saddle lay a stag whose heavy antlers hardly cleared the ground.
The first rays of the sun, just peeping over the hill-tops, touched his
thick brown hair, giving it a glint of bronze, shone on the wide white
forehead, flashed into the eyes, and showed her for an instant a stern
profile, exceedingly beautiful. Then she lost his face as he turned the corner
of the piazza. Here he dismounted, and lifting the deer from the horse laid it
on the grass. Perhaps the beauty of the dead creature struck a chord of
remorse in the breast of the hunter, for he gave a sigh and turned it so that a
gaping wound in the neck was not visible. Then drawing a pencil and a bit
of paper from his pocket, he wrote something, and fastening the billet to the
horns of the deer, he mounted his horse, and giving him the rein returned
slowly by the same road. As he drew near again Millicent saw that the
mustache which hid the upper lip was golden-brown, that the throat was
white and shapely, that the mouth smiled not untenderly, while the eyes
smiled not at all. These details were noted with an artist's love of beauty:
and as she watched him out of sight, she wondered with all a woman's
curiosity who he might be.
Since Millicent's arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch. All
the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance had

either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had signified
their intention of shortly doing so.
Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty
miles. The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a
call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease
beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are
exchanged.
In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or
manifested the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a
cordiality of manner only. Not one man or woman among the circle of
friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire for
further acquaintance. But this one who had called at six o'clock in the
morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a stag, piqued
the curiosity of the indifferent young lady. Wrapping herself in a soft gray
woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the liveliest manner.
It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in
"Donald." Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately
head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the
antlers of a rival. Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature tenderly
between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes. At that moment she
heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her.
"Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and
dressed"--he hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly
too; I like that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine
piece of venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too.
Don't believe you would do as much for me."
The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the
note, took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:--

HONORED MISTRESS DEERING,--I lay myself at your feet, and with
myself a pretty bit of game I have just killed, thinking that the fair Venetian
might fancy a venison steak for her breakfast. I kiss your hand, dear my
lady, and am your most unworthy but loyal servitor,
JOHN GRAHAM.

"Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature. Wonder why he did not
stop and take breakfast with us. He is an unaccountable fellow."
"What did you call him?"
"Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham. Just like a hero's in
a novel. But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy."
"Shall you cut off his skin?"
"Whose? Graham's?"
"How foolish, Mr. Deering. I mean the deer's fur."
"Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide
or feathers. In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton;
but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the super-
civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--"
"Mr. Deering, that is stupid. I want his skin and horns; please arrange
them for me."
"Yes, Princess; your most humble servant will obey your mandate."
He seized the creature by its slender legs, hoisted it deftly to his
shoulders, and disappeared through the side door. Millicent picked up the
bit of a note, smoothed it, and laid it at Mrs. Deering's plate on the breakfast
table.
Millicent asked Barbara later on in the day who and what John
Graham might be. She was told that the man with the bronze hair and

strange eyes was a near neighbor, and that she would without doubt soon
make his acquaintance.
With this answer Millicent was fain to be content. She thought about
him all that day and dreamed of him that night; the next morning his face
was not so distinctly in her mind, but her thoughts were constantly busy
with weaving romances in which John Graham played a conspicuous part.
The girl was indeed a creature "of the stuff which dreams are made of;" the
web of her daily life, no matter how common-place its actual experience
might be, was rich with her own vivid imaginings, like the gold thread that
a weaver twists through a sad-colored fabric.
"Mr. Deering, take me to the dairy. I have not yet seen it," said
Millicent one afternoon, as they all sat together on the wide piazza, after the
early dinner. The young man rose slowly, his great length unfolding itself as
he left his chair; and for answer put down his pipe and reached up for
Millicent's hat, which he had hung on a peg high above her reach. The two
young people passed down the gravel walk between the broad flower beds
fragrant with the wonderful roses which grow only upon the shores of the
Pacific. A geranium tree twelve feet high, with its great scarlet bunches, and
the vine of Maréchal roses which climbed up the piazza and tapped with its
heavy blossoms at her casement, aroused Millicent's enthusiasm.
The dairy, Hal told her, was fully thirty years old. But her own palace
had frowned grim and black upon the Grand Canal before the passengers on
the good ship "Mayflower" had landed in Plymouth. The dairy was a plain,
neat frame-building painted white, looking out upon a great farm-yard.
Here the pretty cows all stood crowded together, waiting their turn to offer
up their evening tribute. Two black-browed Mexicans were milking, and a
tall Yankee was overseeing the straining of the milk. He stood by a large
trough and received the brimming buckets from the milkers, pouring their

contents through a strainer into the great receptacle. In the midst of the herd
lay Jupiter, the splendid bull, lazily chewing his cud and switching away the
sand flies with his thick black tail.
In a cool inner room were long shelves ranged about the brick walls,
whereon stood a shining array of pans filled with milk in different stages.
Millicent was one of those people who are always stimulated with a desire
to accomplish whatever other people are engaged in doing. She now
announced her intention of learning to milk. This suggestion was promptly
vetoed by Hal, who, to divert her attention, called to one of the men to bring
him the skimming utensils. He placed a large stone jar beneath the shelf,
and taking one of the milk pans which was covered with a rich coating of
yellow cream, proceeded to skim it. His only tool was a little wooden wand,
resembling a sculptor's modelling stick. With this he separated the yellow
disk of cream from the sides of the pan, tipping it slightly so that the whole
mass of cream slipped off unbroken, leaving the pale-blue skimmed milk in
the vessel. Millicent was delighted with the operation which Hal
accomplished with such skill, and after many unsuccessful attempts finally
performed the feat in a manner very creditable to a beginner.
"If you will find your way back to the house, Princess, I will help the
men to finish the milking," said young Deering, when Millicent had
announced her intention of returning.
She nodded her assent, and walking a few steps stopped and leaned
over the gate of the farm-yard. Presently Deering came out from the dairy,
having donned his rough overalls and jersey, and, placing himself on a
three-legged stool, proceeded to milk a tall white cow. Millicent looked at
him musingly for a few minutes, and then took her way down the path
which led to the house. It was but a short distance, and lay within sight of
both farm and dwelling-house, and yet she was somewhat astonished at the

young man's allowing her to return alone. To see him milking, too, at work
with the common laborers, had greatly perplexed her. She cast a glance over
her shoulder to reassure herself that it was really Hal's hatless head which
was bending forward, almost touching the side of the white cow. "And yet
he is a gentleman," she said aloud; and, remembering the white hands of her
papa and the gentlemen whom she had known in the Old World, was
reminded of the truth, which when it is spoken seems a truism, and yet
which is often lost sight of, that the proof of gentlehood lies neither in the
skin of the body, nor its raiment.

Neither goodly clothes nor skin
Show the gentleman within.

CHAPTER III.

"And to watch you sink by the fireside now
Back again, as you mutely sit
Musing by fire-light, that great brow
And the spirit-small hand propping it."

John Douglass Graham, by birth American, by descent Scottish, by
profession painter, sat looking out from his tower window. It was too dark
to paint, and not yet late enough for him to light his study lamp and begin
his evening work; so he sat idle, a rare thing for him. Before his window

there stretched a fair landscape; and a man, a painter above other men,
might well be forgiven an hour's idleness in such a place. The sun's last rays
made the little copse look more golden and dreamy than did the stronger
morning light. The still pool with its warm reflection of sky and trees, the
mysterious dark wood beyond, all shadowy and full of dreams, made a
picture which his hand never wearied of reproducing. On his easel stood a
canvas which bore a reflection of the scene on which he was looking,
painted in a strong, masterly manner, but not yet completed. "Ah, Heavens!
no wonder that men love to paint in cities, with nothing of nature's beauty
before them to shame their work. If I dwelt face to face with a brick wall
and saw no motion save that of horse-cars and over-laden dray horses I
might be more satisfied with what I accomplish. This picture might then
seem beautiful to me. It is a different thing to look into the face of the great
model and then at one's work. Only the strongest of us can do that, only our
Duprés and Rousseaus. Shall I ever feel that I can even dimly picture this
one view? Can I ever send my testimony of beauty to the world? Can I say
the one word of truth which was given me to speak?"
Graham spoke to the four walls to which most of his conversation was
addressed. The only sympathy he ever received in his bursts of enthusiasm
or despair was from a portrait which hung where the first rays of light fell
upon it in the morning. It was the portrait of a woman neither young nor
beautiful with the beauty of youth. A tender, sad face, with those heavy
lines at the mouth and nose which tell of grief and long weeping. The gray
hair was smoothly brushed from the forehead, and the whole mien and
costume showed that dignity of age so rarely seen in these days when
grandmothers dress in rainbow-hued garments fit for their grandchildren,
curl and frizzle their locks after the mode worn by the reigning beauty of
the time, and in every possible way simulate a youth whose charm they

have not, thus losing the real grace which belongs to their age. Before his
mother's portrait the artist always kept fresh flowers, and to that dear and
noble face his eyes were turned in a mute appeal for sympathy many times
during the long solitary day.
The fires in the western sky burned low and finally faded out before
Graham rose from his seat near the window and touched his lamp into
flame. The searching light of the large astral revealed clearly the interior of
the apartment in which the artist lived and worked. It was a square, high
room, not very large, with a miscellaneous furnishing. One corner, half
hidden by a large canvas, was devoted to his narrow wooden bed and
dressing-table. Near a large casement stood his easel with palette and
brushes. On the walls hung a pair of foils and masks and some boxing
gloves. These, and a pair of Indian clubs in the corner, proved that the
occupant of the tower was not careless of developing the splendid muscles
with which he was endowed. Near the doorway hung a string of curious
Japanese netshukés,--masks, monkeys, bears, men, women, and fruit,
carefully carved in wood or ivory by the greatest artificers the world knows
to-day. The walls were covered with pictures and sketches; the large table
littered with books and tubes of paint. A group of deer antlers served as
clothes-pegs, and the floor was strewn with the skins of these and many
other animals. A quaint apartment, in which no attempts at the picturesque
had been made, which the careless grouping together of many objects had
nevertheless attained.
John Graham had reclaimed the old tower from utter desolation two
years before, when he took up his residence in the ruins of the Spanish
Mission. The adobe building had fallen to decay, a thick cloak of ivy and
flowering vines mercifully hiding from the light of day the desolate ruin of
what had been the religious centre of the country of San Rosario. The

church walls had fallen to the ground; but the reredos and deserted altar
stood swept by the winds of heaven, and decked with climbing roses and
clinging ferns. The tower, which had been built very substantially, and with
a view to defence in case of danger, still stood stanch, gray and weather-
beaten. A flight of steep wooden stairs leading from what had been the
vestibule of the church gave access to the room.
The tower stood within the limits of the San Rosario Ranch, the
property of Mr. Ralph Almsford, which included twenty square miles of
wooded country and arable land.
When Graham had asked permission to establish himself in the old
tower, Mr. Almsford had readily granted the request, thinking, however, that
he would weary of the solitary life in a few weeks. Two years had now
passed, and the artist still inhabited his little eyrie, whose possession he
disputed with the night owls which had been wont to sit blinking in the
tower through the long hours of daylight. The place was five miles distant
from the Deering house, and Graham's only neighbor was an old wood-
cutter who lived in a cabin hard by, and who went by the name of French
John. He prepared the artist's meals and took charge of his room. French
John was a strange, silent old creature, whose life had been a varied one. He
had served in the French army first as a soldier, then as an officer's servant.
His reminiscences, when he could be induced to tell them, were full of
interest. He had been in Paris in '48; his hands had helped to tear up the
pavement to make the blockades and barriers. He had served in Algiers,
whence he had come to America, and gone as a private to the war of the
Southern Rebellion. He had finally drifted out to the San Rosario Ranch,
where he would in all probability pass the remainder of his days. For some
reason he had received no pension from either of the governments for the
support of which he had shed his blood. In his old age this stranded bit of

humanity was forced to support himself by the hard labor of a wood-cutter.
His little cabin was built behind the altar, where the Lady Chapel had once
stood, sheltered from the winds by the high screen of the reredos.
It was to the humble dwelling of French John that Graham proceeded
after having made a toilet with unusual care. The door of the little log hut
was ajar; and as he approached, the interior was entirely visible, revealed by
the uncertain light of the wood-fire. The old man was stooping over the
blaze with a saucepan in his hand, the contents of which he was vigorously
stirring. Three cats of preternaturally grave aspect sat nearby, intently
watching the culinary preparations. A mangy old hunting dog lay snoring in
the corner, gray and scarred as his master. A battered fowling-piece and a
greasy game-bag were flung on the wooden bench which served as table
and chair to the occupant of the humble dwelling. The young man paused a
moment on the threshold and sighed. The unkempt little cot with its lonely
owner only differed in degree from his own tower, from himself. He had not
even the companionship of the dumb beasts. When he should grow as old
and battered as the wrinkled wood-cutter, would he be dependent for
sympathy on a purring cat, or an old dog? Presently he spoke, but it was in
a loud, cheery voice which in nowise indicated the sombre thought which
had just suggested itself to his mind.
"Good-evening, John. What luck did you have to-day?"
"Four quail and two rabbits," replied the old man laconically, without
returning the greeting of his visitor.
"And what have you in that old iron pot of yours? Something very
good, I warrant."
"Stewed quail with bacon."
"Well, you must eat it yourself, for I do not want any supper to-night; I
am going up to the house to pass the evening. Here is a package of tobacco

for you. I shall be ready at the usual time for my breakfast."
The old man nodded his thanks for the present; and Graham left the
hut, and proceeded to the spot where his horse was tethered. He saddled and
mounted the mustang, and rode swiftly down the narrow path. Old John
watched from his doorway the movements of the young man, and when he
had disappeared, sat down to his solitary meal. The brief glimpses of
Graham and his many kindly acts were the only human influences which
touched the life of poor old French John. His dealings with Hal Deering
were rare; once in a month the young man visited his cot, overlooked the
work he had been engaged upon, and paid him his wages. For the
occasional gifts of tobacco and wine, the chance newspaper from Paris,
which were the only events of importance in the dull routine of his life, he
was indebted to Graham. He gave no expression to his gratitude, and would
have been sorely puzzled to do so. But the artist was none the less aware of
it; and some portion of the packages which occasionally came to the tower
from San Francisco never failed to find their way to the hut of the wood-
cutter.
As Graham rode up the gravel path which led to the house, he caught a
glimpse of a tall, slender figure swaying out from the gloom of the piazza.
A white, bare arm was stretched upward to pluck a bunch of roses from a
vine twisted about the porch. Thus much he saw and nothing more, as he
fastened his horse and mounted to the piazza, which had suddenly become
tenantless. The house door stood hospitably open, and the young man
entered the hall and passed into the library. The soft candle-light showed
him the room and its one occupant, the woman whom he had seen dimly
amid the climbing roses an instant before. Evidently she had not known that
the hoof-beats on the road were bringing a guest; for she was kneeling upon
the hearth, her graceful shoulders bent, her strong white arms steadily

working a pair of bellows. The total depravity of inanimate things is never
more clearly seen than in the case of a wood-fire that refuses to burn. The
girl, after several unavailing efforts to rouse a flame from the smouldering
mass of embers, deliberately took the fire to pieces and rebuilt it after
another fashion, putting a handful of pine cones atop of the logs, and setting
them alight with a roll of paper. At last she succeeded in starting the blaze,
and, stretching her graceful length upon the deerskin rug, she rested her
elbows on the low bench before the fender, and lay quite silent, her face
supported by her hands, her dark eyes looking into the fire.
John Graham, who had watched from the doorway every movement of
the unconscious young woman with the pleasure of an artist in all things
which are graceful and beautiful, still stood silent, giving no sign of his
presence. The warm, pleasant interior, with its comfortable easy chairs and
sofas, its open piano, near which stood a work-basket, its shelves of books
and vases of flowers, bore all the infallible indications which mark the
inmost shrine of domestic life. This was a room where the members of the
household lived. Here was a home, the centre of affection and hospitality.
The shadow of the lonely old man and his desolate dwelling rose for a
moment before his eyes, and at that thought he stepped forward as if
irresistibly drawn toward the cheerful hearth and the graceful woman whose
eyes were lighted by the dancing flames. There was a tender look about his
mouth, usually so stern in expression, as he came forward into the firelight
with an expectant countenance, as if he were about to meet an old friend.
Hearing the footsteps, the girl without turning her head said,--
"Well, Barbara, here you see me, making myself comfortable on
Graham's deerskin. It has just come home; is it not a beauty?"
Receiving no answer, Miss Millicent Almsford turned her face so that
her eyes fell upon John Graham standing near her, with a smile on his lips,

a flush on his cheek. Was it the sudden leaping of the fire from the heart of
the great apple log, John Graham asked himself, or was it the shining of a
flame from within that lighted Millicent's face with a strange radiance at the
instant when her eyes met his own? For an instant, a space of time too short
to be counted by seconds, for something less than one quickened heartbeat,
they looked at each other, these two, the woman with his name still on her
lips, the man drawn toward the warm fireside by an uncontrollable desire to
take his place in the picture, to remain no longer an outsider, a looker-on.
One instant, and then habit, ceremony, the second nature of both, asserted
itself, and each shrank back from that too intimate glance; the girl rising
slowly to her feet, the man making a ceremonious bow.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Miss Almsford; but I found the
door open, and I am allowed the privilege of making myself at home at San
Rosario. As there is no one here to introduce me, will you allow me to name
myself as your most humble servitor, John Graham? I am vain enough to
hope that my name is not quite unknown to you. Hal has perhaps spoken of
me."
"Indeed, yes, they have all mentioned you frequently. Mrs. Deering
and Barbara have not yet returned from the station. When you came in I
thought they had returned. I think the train must be late; they drove down to
meet a friend. Will you not be seated, Mr. Graham?"
Millicent had by this time quite recovered her equanimity, somewhat
shaken by the sudden appearance of the man who had lived so persistently
in her thoughts for the past fortnight. She seated herself near the fire,
motioning Graham to a chair on the other side.
"I suppose that this fire quite shocks you? Mr. Deering cannot bear to
sit in the same room with it; but I have suffered so much from the change of
climate that I am allowed to have this little blaze every evening. Do you see

this pretty rug? It only came home to-day. Mr. Deering had it dressed for
me. It is from the deer which you brought here one morning,--a beautiful,
soft piece of fur."
"Yes, it is well arranged too. Did I understand you, Miss Almsford, to
say that Miss Deering had gone to meet some visitors?"
"Yes, but you need not mind,"--her quick ear had caught the shade of
annoyance in his voice,--"it is only poor Ferrara."
"Poor Ferrara? Ah, I see you have already guessed his secret."
"Who could help it when it was so very evident? Do you think Barbara
will ever say yes?"
"I cannot tell. I sometimes hope so, but she is over-fastidious."
"Fastidious? Is that the term to use? Surely you would not have her
marry him unless she loved him? To a woman like Barbara such a fate
would be intolerable."
"I do not quite agree with you. You know that self-sacrifice is Miss
Deering's greatest idea of happiness."
"I cannot comprehend it; truly I think I do not understand Barbara,
though I do appreciate her and admire her. They have been expecting a visit
from you for some time. Mr. Deering said he should ride over to your tower
and look you up to-morrow."
"I have been very much occupied of late, or I should have paid my
respects to you before this time. If you have heard anything about me, you
must have heard that I am an undependable person, and never do the things
which people expect of me. Besides, I am a hard-working creature, and not
of the butterfly genus of man like our good Ferrara. Tell me a little how this
new country strikes you. What a change it must be, this sudden
transplantation from Venice to California!"

"I have suffered terribly. Ah! Mr. Graham, you who have known my
Venice can feel for me. None of them here can understand it. I feel like a
plant which has been torn suddenly from a garden beautiful with flowers
and sunshine, gentle showers and happy birds, and placed with its roots all
torn and bleeding on a barren mountain-side, with no flowers near it, only
sturdy, useful herbs, which neither shrivel in the terrible sun, nor wither in
the keen mountain winds. But I fade and die. There is no room for me in
this great New World, where all are so busy and have so much work to do.
The few beauties which they have, their blue skies and grand hills, they
neither understand nor love. They have no time to look back into the
glorious past with its memories; they know not how to seize the present
with its actualities; they live and toil ever for the future, which they will not
live to see. I have nought in common with them. I belong to the land of my
birth, where the present is beautiful with the splendors of the past. What are
my books, my studies, to these people? Nothing. They tolerate my
eccentricity; they listen patronizingly to the tales of what has been; but they
bemoan my wasted time, and would fain teach me to throw away my
embroidery needle and learn to use their horrible sewing-machines. My
music is my saving grace, but they approve of it more than they enjoy it."
Millicent spoke rapidly and with shining eyes. She had at last found a
soul which, if not kindred to her own, was at least capable of an intelligent
sympathy.
"It is not strange that you should feel as you do; and, believe me, I can
sympathize with you; and yet, do not be hurt if I tell you that this very
transplanting is the thing which you needed. Do you know how the finest
peaches are produced? To borrow another simile from nature, it is by taking
a slip from an old tree and grafting it to the sturdy trunk of a young fruit
tree, that the most perfect fruit is obtained. Be not afraid; the wound will

heal; and the strong, vigorous sap of the young tree will make the blossom,
which now droops, bloom as a rare fruit."
"I do not want it. I do not belong here. I have no part, no sympathy
with it," she said rebelliously. "I hate it, this land, where you all strive for
money, not for art, and where fame is measured out with ingots for
weights."
"When I was in Venice," said Graham, "there was with me a fellow
artist, a student like myself. We took our first trip through the Grand Canal
together. I remember his first criticism. Shall I tell it to you? It was this:
'How terrible to see cabbage leaves floating on the Grand Canal!' It was the
feature which first struck him. For years after he lived in the wonderful city,
loving it better, painting it more truly, day by day. He has long since
forgotten the cabbage leaves which at first annoyed his nice English taste.
Believe me, you will find, above and beneath the things which now jar and
shock your nerves, much that is grand in this country which you will one
day be proud to call your own."
"Never, never!" she cried impetuously.
At this moment voices sounded in the hall, and several persons entered
the library. These were Barbara and her mother, Hal Deering, and a short
gentleman with a very large round head, on which the coarse black hair,
closely cropped, stood straight in air, like the hobbed mane of a Mexican
pony. His piercing black eyes were set too close to the well-shaped aquiline
nose; and the black mustache curled fiercely from the upper lip, revealing a
good mouth set with strong white teeth. His forehead was deeply seared
with lines which betokened frequent frowns, but the wrinkles about the
mouth looked as if it might be in the habit of laughing constantly. A good
olive complexion made the face not ill-looking, while the small, well-
modelled hands and feet redeemed the rather unwieldy little body from

absolute ugliness. On seeing Graham, the new-comer frowned fiercely and
twisted his mustache upward in an irritated manner. When the artist stepped
forward so that the light from the lamp fell on his face, the irate expression
died from the countenance of the little gentleman; and, with a fat, good-
natured laugh, he shook him warmly by the hand, turning his mustachios
downward so that they resembled drooping commas. This act altered the
expression of his countenance to an extraordinary degree, half its ferocity
having disappeared with the tight upward twist of the mustache.
By some coincidence or providence this had been a red-letter day in
the lives of several in the party. The morning mail had brought young
Deering the welcome news that his favorite pair of oxen had taken a prize at
a cattle-show the day before. The gentle mother had received a letter by the
same mail from her wandering son-in-law, Ralph Almsford, full of affection
and promising a speedy return to the Ranch. Ferrara was greatly elated by
Barbara's having driven down to the station to meet him; and Millicent
seemed, for the first time since her arrival at the Ranch, to be thoroughly
alive and awake. Her pale cheek was softly flushed, the color shining
through the luminous skin like the fire of an opal seen beneath its milky
veil. Her eyes, usually deep and earnest, but without great animation, were
lit by a flame which was not reflected from the firelight. Barbara was happy
because those about her were so. Her musical little laugh was not
mechanical to-night; she was really in good spirits and in no need of
feigning them. Graham's rather frozen existence seemed to be melted by the
genial company; and the evening passed by with that lightning rapidity
unknown in social gatherings, no matter how magnificently they be
appointed, where the spirit of cordiality and good-fellowship is lacking.
Music was not wanting to complete the jollity. Ferrara sang some delightful
Spanish songs with more animation than voice; and, to the astonishment of

the company, Millicent, who until that moment had not sung a note, at
Graham's request seated herself at the piano, and sang, with a voice of rare
beauty and power, ballads tender and war-songs gay, old Italian music of
masters long forgotten.
"Sweet Mistress Deering, will you not give us some music?" asked
Graham, as Millicent left the piano.
"After such singing as Millicent's and Mr. Ferrara's, my little thread of
a voice could hardly be heard, Graham."
"Play for us then, my lady. Miss Barbara, are you not in the mood for a
dance?"
"Of course she is," said Hal, "and so is Ferrara. Come, Princess, I will
give you your first lesson in the American waltz."
The young men rolled back the huge rugs, leaving the hard-wood floor
exposed. Mrs. Deering placed herself at the piano and struck up a little old-
fashioned waltz which she had learned in her youth, and Millicent was
whirled off her feet by her energetic partner. Not till she had danced twice
with Deering and Ferrara, did Graham claim her hand for a waltz; and not
till Mrs. Deering struck the last chords of the music did he loose her waist
from his circling arm. Then a stroll on the piazza was proposed, and it was
not till the last stroke of twelve warned them that the new day had begun
that the party broke up. Barbara and Millicent stood together watching for
Hal, who had gone to fetch Graham's horse, when the artist joined them on
the piazza and bade them good-night. Millicent, with her foreign breeding,
never had conformed to the American habit of hand-shaking, but when
Graham wished her good-night she instinctively and unconsciously gave
him her hand. He held it possibly a half second longer than was necessary,
and then sprang on his horse. As he rode down the dark path, he turned in
his saddle and took a last look at the house. Barbara had gone indoors; one

figure alone stood beneath the rose-vine with bare white arms, the figure he
had seen on his arrival earlier in the evening.
"Good-night to you," he cried. The deep, musical tones were answered
by a farewell greeting from the girl who stood there alone in the night
watching his retreating form.

CHAPTER IV.

"Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode through the coverts of the deer
With blissful treble ringing clear;
She seemed a part of joyous Spring."

Though the greater part of his time was spent in the old tower, John Graham
was well known in San Francisco. His studio, at the top of a tall apartment-
house in one of the unfrequented thoroughfares of the city, was familiar to
most of its aspirants to artistic fame. In this large bare room, with its strong
north light, there assembled every morning a dozen young men who were
busily engaged in cast drawing and model painting. To the instruction of
these youths two days of the week were devoted by the artist, whose only
recompense was in the gratitude of his scholars. One morning not long after
his meeting with Miss Almsford, John Graham might have been seen
carefully examining his pupils' work, giving a word of advice here, a
criticism there, and a hearty encouragement to all. On his return from Paris

he had opened his studio to all those who were desirous of studying art. The
first year he had had but three students; at the end of the second year the
number had quadrupled. On the morning in question Graham had arrived
with a new model,--a rough-looking fellow whom he had met in the street,
and induced to accompany him to the studio. On a platform at the end of the
room stood the stalwart model; while the artist, standing beside him, gave
an off-hand lecture on anatomy, the students sketched the man or took notes
of what their master was saying. It was not Graham's habit to do any work
at the studio; but this morning, after he had finished his discourse, he placed
himself at a vacant easel, and with a strong, bold hand made a free drawing
of the superbly modelled figure. As he worked he forgot his class, his
lecture, everything but the canvas before him and the subject he was
studying. As the sketch grew beneath his hand the scholars one by one
forsook their work, and stood watching him silently. The perfect confidence
with which he worked--never hesitating, never altering what was already
done--was fascinating to the younger men; and even the sculptor, Arthur
Northcote, who inhabited the adjoining studio, stopped on his way upstairs
and joined the group behind his chair. When the model declared himself
unable longer to maintain the pose in which he had been placed, Graham
threw down his brush with a sigh, saying,--
"Well, Horton, you may go now if you must, but do not fail to come
to-morrow. I have your name correctly,--Daniel Horton? Where do you
live?"
The stranger declined to give his address, and promised to come the
next day at the appointed hour. After he had left the room the artist had
something to say about expression, characterizing the face of the model as
one indicative of brutal cunning and impudent daring.

As Graham quitted the studio the young sculptor joined him, and they
walked together toward the station. Northcote was a slender, delicately built
man some years Graham's junior. His face was instinct with the poetry of
art, but was lacking in force. By the side of Graham's strong, resolute
countenance his delicate features appeared weak and effeminate. The
younger man took his friend's arm, as if relying on him for physical as well
as moral support, and said as they walked along,--
"Graham, where did you pick up that model this morning?"
"I found him lounging about the station. Why do you ask?"
"He has such a bad face. You should be more careful about the men
you engage to pose for you."
"And why, Arthur?"
"Because you lead such an unprotected life in that terrible old ruin."
"What a fanciful creature you are, Northcote. As if there was anything
to be gained in molesting a beggarly artist in an inaccessible fortress. You
have never seen my tower, or you would not think that it would be an
attractive spot to thieves."
"Did you not hear," continued Northcote, "of that case of abduction in
Cathgate County last week? A man was carried off by a pair of brigands,
and kept for a week until a large sum of money was paid for his ransom."
"What manner of man was he?"
"The president of the county bank."
"Well, my dear Arthur, when I become a bank president, or even a
railroad treasurer, I will take better care of my worthless self. At present I
am not a promising prize to the most sanguine kidnapper. I can fancy your
feelings on receiving a notice that, unless five thousand dollars be left in the
hollow of a blasted pine-tree on the high-road at San Rosario, a slice of my

right ear would be forwarded by way of a reminder! When are you coming
out to pass the night with me?"
"When I have sold my Diana, or when Patrick Shallop gives me an
order for a life-size statue of himself."
"Come with me to-day. It will do you good to pass an afternoon in the
woods."
"Do not ask me. I will take nothing more from you, Graham,--I
cannot,--not even a piece of bread, until--"
"Well, if you are so obstinate, farewell to you. I must hurry or I shall
miss my train."
The two men shook hands the sculptor turning into a dingy restaurant,
the artist walking rapidly in the direction of the railroad station. Arthur
Northcote made a light repast,--for he was poorer than usual that day,--and
soon returned to his studio, whose rental was defrayed by his friend's
slender purse.
Graham caught his train, and reached San Rosario at about three
o'clock. He found his horse at the station, and rode toward the house. At a
distant point he caught a glimpse of two figures on the piazza, which he
recognized as those of Miss Almsford and Hal Deering, who were talking
together, quite unconscious of his approach.
"So you like Graham?" Henry Deering was the speaker.
"Of course I like him. I told you I should, from the moment you
described his queer tower and his solitary life to me. I always like people
who have something to characterize them and set them apart from the mere
dead-level rank and file of mediocrity," answered Millicent.
"But may not a hermit like Graham be mediocre like everybody else?"
"No, the fact of his living alone does not make him interesting; but he
would not live alone if he were like everybody else. Ordinary people all

herd together."
"You must find all of us very ordinary people, I should think, after the
people you have lived among,--romantic Italians and that sort?"
"But Italians are by no means all interesting. The great charm about
them is that they are usually a happy people, and that it does not take so
much to make them contented as it does you more complex Americans."
"You Americans? How soon are you going to call yourself an
American? But you do not answer my question. How can you manage to
get on as well as you do with commonplace people like ourselves?"
"You are not commonplace. A man who knows how to milk cows and
digs potatoes, who rubs down his own horse and feeds his stock, and can
withal dance like a city beau, and keep a table full of people laughing from
the soup to the coffee, cannot be called commonplace."
"Thank you, Princess, most heartily for the compliment. I see you will
not be pinned down by my rather personal question. Let me pay you with
some of your own coin. I think it quite remarkable that you have so quickly
fitted into the life here, and have accepted so quietly things which must be
very strange to you. The difference of the way of living, the surroundings,
the very strangeness of being waited on by these Chinamen, must be very
uncomfortable, I fear?"
"Do not suggest a word against Ah Lam; he is the most delightful
servant I have ever seen. Our Italian domestics are like great children, who
have to be humored and managed with the extreme of tact and care. Ah
Lam is like nothing but one of the automata described by Bulwer in 'The
Coming Race,' which stand motionless against the wall until roused to
action by the vrill wand, when they promptly perform the duty in hand. Ah
Lam is only mechanical as far as regularity goes, for he has feelings and
deep sentiments beneath his calm exterior. Do you know that he brings me

fresh roses every morning, and that when he returned from San Francisco
yesterday he brought me a present?"
"They all do that; they are the most generous creatures in the world.
What did Lam bring you?"
"The prettiest little China silk handkerchief, which he presented with
these words: 'I solly got no more, I so poor.' Was it not touching?"
"How do your lessons get on?"
"Very well. Lam learns ten or twelve new words every day. I give him
the English word for an article, and he gives me the Chinese; and the
following day we catechise each other; but I have never remembered a
Chinese name, and Lam has never forgotten an English one. Then I set him
copies, which he writes out beautifully with his queer little camel's-hair
brush dipped in India-ink. I fear the sentiments will not greatly benefit him,
but I try to explain them to him."
"Give me an example of your copy-book maxims; I am sure they are
something new, quite unlike those I was brought up on."
"I take my verses all from Mr. Lear's 'Nonsense Book;' they will help
him geographically, if not otherwise."
"You have given him the 'Old Man of Moldavia'?"
"Assuredly."
"Truly, Princess, you are the most inexplicable person I have ever seen.
I find you in the morning with a volume of Spinoza in your hand, trying to
explain his particular dogma of philosophy to poor Barbara; and in the
afternoon you are talking about this absurd child's book as if it were
something serious. You snubbed that poor professor last night, because he
presumed to give an opinion concerning Dante, never having read him in
the original; and to-day I heard you ask my mother if Washington was in the

State of New York. You are remarkably erudite and positively ignorant at
the same time."
"Eh bene, cosa volete? I--"
"Now what is the use of talking Italian to me? You know I can't
understand a word of it, and--"
A third voice interrupted Deering. It was that of a man who had joined
the pair unnoticed by either of them, the sound of his footsteps being
muffled by the deep grass.
"If Miss Almsford knew how pretty her manner of speaking English
was, she would never have resort to the weaker language of her birthplace
to express her thoughts."
"What, Graham, with a gallant speech upon his lips! Wonder of
wonders! Princess, he has the sharpest tongue and the keenest wit I have
ever known. Beware of him! When did you come?"
"Just now; I rode over to see if Miss Almsford was in the mood for a
ride, and to offer my services as cavalier, knowing that your afternoons, my
dear Deering, are too much occupied for you to play esquire to this fair
dame."
"It is the thing of all others I should enjoy," said Millicent; "I will be
ready in ten minutes."
Deering strolled off, rather disconsolately, in the direction of the dairy,
Graham accompanying him as far as the stable, where he proceeded to put
Barbara's saddle on the back of a sturdy cob, which from his immovable
character had been named Sphinx.
The artist had visited the house several times since his first meeting
with Millicent, and had promised to be her guide to the high hill-top,
whence a view of the Sierra Nevadas was to be obtained. Up the narrow
bridle path toiled the two horses, Graham's leading the way. The road was a

difficult one, underbrush and rolling stones making it dangerous for any
horse which was not sure-footed. Old Sphinx set his feet firmly on the solid
ground, avoiding all pit-falls in a wary fashion. The air was sweet with the
spicy breath of the madrone tree, whose dark red bark and brilliant glossy
leaves gleamed out here and there through the darker foliage of the great
redwoods. The young man turned his head over his shoulder, letting his
mustang find out the path, and talked to his companion, who was not yet at
home in the saddle. One of the new delights which the western country held
for Millicent was that of riding. Most of her life had been spent in Venice;
and she had had little opportunity for indulging in that most exhilarating
exercise. Graham assured her that she would soon make a good rider, as she
quickly learned to assume the graceful but uncomfortable position
compelled by the side-saddle. She was without fear, having that sort of
bravery which is found in some children, and which comes from an
ignorance of danger.
From a point in the road whence a view of the happy valley was to be
obtained, Graham reined in his horse. The wide, pleasant valley lay below
them, the house, its central point of interest, standing surrounded by the
orchard and garden. A brook wound like a silver ribbon through the wide
fields and wooded groves, under rustic bridges, here and there breaking into
foam over a mass of stone, or a sudden shelving of the land.
When they again started Graham dismounted, and, passing his arm
through the bridle of his horse, took Sphinx by the rein and led him over the
rough bit of country. Whether from an exaggerated idea of courtesy, or
because the head covering was irksome, Graham doffed his hat and walked
bareheaded, the little shafts of sunshine touching his dark hair with points
of light. The tall girl noted the sun and shadow which made this and all else
lovely on this fair afternoon. As the ascent became steeper, the trees were

less dense and the path grew wider. Graham still walked beside her horse,
though there was no longer need for him to do so. As they emerged upon a
broad plateau Millicent drew her breath and touched Graham lightly with
her whip, laying her finger on her lip and pointing to a little hillside spring,
which ran dancing from the rich dark earth. Close to the spring stood a
magnificent buck and a graceful doe. The stag had bent his head and was
drinking from the basin which the water had worn for itself, and which was
surrounded by a ring of green turf, jewelled with star blue and pale rose
blossoms. Of this tender herbage, so different from the dried grass of the
hillside and meadow, the dainty doe was nibbling little morsels. For a
moment neither of the animals perceived the approach of the riders, and
stood quite still in their unconscious beauty. Graham's hand instinctively
sought the revolver in his pocket. As he was taking aim Millicent's velvet
fingers closed about the steel barrel, and she cried aloud, "You could not be
so cruel!"
At the sound of her voice the stag threw up his great head with a
mighty shiver, tossing the crystal water drops from his nose. Before the last
word was spoken the slender, dappled doe had flashed across the path and
was out of sight, her mate with outstretched head following close upon her
track. For an instant the flowing lines of the swift motion were seen on the
sky background, and then the trembling leaves of the thicket into which
they had penetrated were all that told of their flight.
"You are more tender-hearted than Miss Barbara."
"No, but I could not bear that those two glorious creatures should be
put out of the warm sunlight which they love so well."
"Miss Barbara is an excellent shot; she could have killed the stag from
this point."

"And yet Barbara is really much better-hearted than I, and feels other
people's troubles as if they were her own. Everything is in habit and
education; she has looked upon deer in the light of venison, as I have
always considered oxen in the light of future beef. And yet, though Barbara
is so kind and good, I do not find her simpatica--how shall I say?"
"You might say sympathetic or congenial, Miss Almsford, if you could
content yourself with the English language."
"But it is not the same thing,--sympathetic and simpatica; indeed it is
an untranslatable word. I cannot always express my thoughts in English."
"Would you allow me to suggest that it may not be entirely the fault of
the language, which did not fail to express the thoughts of Chaucer and
Shakspeare, that you find it difficult to make yourself understood?"
"Do I speak it so badly then? You are not complimentary."
"It is not that you speak it badly, but that your vocabulary is limited,
and that your mind far outruns its limits. I fancy you have never read or
thought much in a serious vein in the simplest and the strongest of tongues."
"No, I have read very little English, but I challenge your last statement.
I do not find English the greatest language. It is coarse by the side of
French; it is prosaic compared to Italian. Think of the fine distinctions, the
delicate shades of meaning, of the Gallic tongue. Your English can only
express the extremes."
"And yet to-day it is more a lender than a borrower of words. You
cannot take up a German or a French newspaper without finding an
Anglicism in every column."
"What does that prove? Merely that the Anglo-Saxon race is more
restless than all others. They are the Goths of the nineteenth century, and
invade every corner of Europe, Asia, and Africa, carrying with them their
barbarous language. I have heard it intermingled with Arabic in the Syrian

desert. It is small wonder they feel the need of travel; there is little enough
to interest them at home."
"And yet I, who have lived half my life in Europe, elect to pass the
remainder of it in this country of my own free choice. How do you account
for that?"
"I cannot account for it save as an aberration of the brain. It is strange,
too, for you Americans are not a patriotic people."
"You think not?"
"It does not strike me so."
"You are mistaken, Miss Almsford; but your mistake is a natural one.
These ideas, believe me, are not worthy of you, and have been derived by
you from some perverted mind. Your own is too clear to have formed such
opinions. They have been engrafted or inherited. How should you really
have any idea but the most chimerical one, of America or Americans? You
have passed your life among a race of people most unlike them, and you
have been taught to ignore the country and the race to which you belong.
You consider the matter of your birth as a misfortune, and you have learned
to look down on your country, from below. I have had some experience of
life in the various American colonies in Europe, and I think it a great
misfortune to be one of those expatriated Americans. They are people
without a country. They feel no responsibility toward any larger society
than their own small household circle. Unless he is called by the exigencies
of his profession to Europe, the American European is very apt to
deteriorate greatly. He is in antagonism with the country which he has
abandoned, and his foothold in foreign society is too much on tolerance to
be fortunate in its effects on his character."
By this time the strong horses had reached the summit of the foot-hill,
and stood breathing heavily. The riders dropped their conversation, which

was drawing near to a discussion, and Millicent looked with wide eyes out
over the grand scene. Far off stretched the line of the Sierras, the mountain
barrier which severs the land of gold from the surrounding country. The sky
was faintly flushed with a forewarning of the sunset, and a soft breeze
rustled the tree tops, and blew into their faces.
"Are you rewarded for the long ascent, maiden from afar?"
"Yes," answered Millicent softly.
As they made the steep descent together Graham talked, in his strong,
sweet voice, of his life in the old tower, of his work, of the pictures he had
painted, and those which he dreamed of making some day. The self-
dependent and contained young man was much attracted by the girl with the
strange ideas and exquisite manners. On the night when they had first met,
he had been drawn towards her by an attraction which seemed irresistible. It
was not her beauty nor her intelligence which so much affected him, as a
nameless charm like the warmth of a bright fire on a cool day, which
seemed to wrap him about with a sense of comfort. When he left her this
glow was still about him, but as hours passed it seemed to fade away and
leave him strangely cold. He felt for the first time how desolate was his life;
and he remembered her in his lonely tower as a traveller in the African
desert recalls the green oasis where his last draught of water has been
drained. Yet sometimes, when they talked together, came a strange
antagonism between them like an impalpable mist, chilling the warmth
which at meeting always kindled in her eyes and in his own bosom. That
the discordance came from himself he often felt, and yet he was helpless in
the face of it. The conversation of that afternoon was a type of their
interviews, which were often marred by discussions not far removed from
disputes. Whose fault was it? Wherein lay the incompatibility? Did it arise
from either of their characters, or from the circumstances and surroundings

in which they met? He asked himself the question a score of times and left
it always unanswered. Graham had not been without experience of women.
In his early youth he had had the misfortune to fall deeply in love with a
frivolous and heartless girl. His nature was of a complex character,
passionate to an unusual degree, yet guided by an intelligence stronger than
passion. He had been deceived and outraged in every feeling by the
heartless coquette, whose worst characteristic was her entire incapacity for
affection. After breaking her faith with him, she had tried to win him back
again, and had sued for the love which she had so lightly won and refused.
But though he still loved her with the full force of his being, he had
repulsed the woman whom he could no longer respect. Then came the long
death-agony of deceived love, leaving its unmistakable traces on heart and
brain and body. It was graven on the white brow; it was painted in the deep
eyes, with their unfathomable look of doubt; it strengthened the fibres of the
strong brain with the greater power which great suffering brings to
intelligence of a high order; and alas! saddest of all, it chilled the hot heart-
blood and left it cooler and more sluggish in its flow. Sorrowful was the
man for the sorrow in the world, but pity for the grief of those about him
was not so strong in him as it had been before. The bitterness which follows
the spoiling of the rose-sweetness of love was happily modified by the
broad humanitarian character of the man. It failed to make him bitter
towards the world for its treatment of himself. He accepted manfully the
knockdown blow which fate had dealt him; and if he mourned it was in
secret,--he burdened no other soul with his misery. But as it was a woman
who had darkened his life and drawn the veil of grief about his young soul,
the whole rage of grief and bitterness which wore his heart went out toward
her sex. As he had loved all women for her sweet sake, so now did he
distrust them all because she had proved false. Evil to him appeared

abstractly as a feminine element in the world; and the great qualities of
nobility, abnegation, and heroism in his eyes were masculine attributes only.
Too chivalrous by nature to think of himself as in opposition to the gentler
sex, his position was in point of fact antagonistic to them. He was courteous
in their company, but he always avoided it. In deed, as in word, he treated
them with reverence, speaking no lightlier of them behind their backs than
to their faces. The bitterness never broke the barriers of his vexed heart in
noxious word or jest, but it lay there always embittering his life. He had
finally ceased to remember his crushed hopes and spoiled youth; and then
had succeeded a long time wherein he seemed to feel not at all. There was
left him always his pious devotion to his mother, touching in its pathetic
constancy, as to the one creature given him to love. For the gentle Mrs.
Deering, whose face recalled that of his only living parent, he felt a real
sentiment of friendship. Barbara, with her sweet, wholesome nature, he
esteemed more highly than other young women; but since his intimacy with
the family he had always emphasized his regard for the son and mother of
the house; and Barbara had felt the difference in his voice when he
addressed her. It grew colder, and his manner became formal, if by chance
they were thrown together alone.
The charm by which Millicent swayed him, he said to himself, was not
love. He looked back into the black and stormy past, and compared his
feelings for this girl with those which had once torn his breast. She charmed
him, but he surely did not love her. He felt a sense of cold discomfort on
leaving her, but it was very different from the passionate grief which he
once had suffered. This was what he thought when he contemplated the
subject at all, which was not very often. For the most part he let himself
drift down the pleasant summer tide. Skies were blue and roses sweet. If
Millicent made the sky seem bluer, if the roses took on a more perfect hue

when she wore them in her bosom, it was because she was like the skies
and roses, tender and full of warmth and color. Did not the buds blush into
flowers for all the world as well as for him? Did not the white clouds dip
and dance across the sky for other men's pleasure as well as his own? Was
not the whole small world of the San Rosario Ranch made more blithe and
happily alive by the advent of Millicent Almsford, the maiden from afar?
Barbara had been stimulated by the new atmosphere to do more thinking,
and had found less time for fancy-work and more leisure for reading. Mrs.
Deering, gentlest of women, found a companionship in the stranger which
she had at first thought impossible; and Hal, poor Hal, was vainly fighting
against the witching spell which was fast making him the slave of the girl,
who he had prophesied was too cold to interest him.
Had Graham known the change which his companionship had wrought
upon Millicent, he would have felt that if there was no danger for him in
those swift fleeting hours passed together, there might be for her. The
boredom which she had experienced at first was now dissipated, and every
phase of the novel life at the Ranch had a charm for her.
The loud summons of the supper-bell struck the ears of the young
people as they drew near the house; and the family stood waiting on the
piazza as they reined in their horses before the door.
"Are you tired, Millicent?" was the anxious question of Mrs. Deering.
"Did you get a clear view of the mountains?" asked Barbara.
"How did Sphinx go?" said Hal.
"I cannot answer you all at once," cried Millicent, breathless from the
rapid gallop which had brought them to the house; "but it was perfectly
delightful. Sphinx behaved beautifully, and Mr. Graham almost as well. The
view is wonderful, and I think the country of California very fine. There is a
compliment for you all; do not pretend I never say anything nice about it."

"My dear, we have an invitation to go down to San Real to visit the
Shallops. Mamma thinks we had better start to-morrow. Mr. Graham, here
is a note for you which came enclosed in my letter. I fancy it carries the
same invitation to you. It will be so nice at the seashore. You will like it,
Millicent, won't you?"
"I like it here," Millicent answered, as she walked slowly up the steps;
"but if you all want to go, I am willing. Who are the Shallops? Where is San
Real?"
Graham had torn open his letter, which he quickly perused. Millicent
looked inquiringly at him, and he answered her unspoken query:
"Yes, Mrs. Shallop asks me to join your party for a week at her
pleasant house. Very kind of her, I am sure; but I never do that sort of thing.
I--"
"Now, Graham," interrupted Mrs. Deering, "say nothing about it till I
have talked it over with you. I have a particular reason for advising you to
go. We will telegraph the answer in the morning, and can make up our
minds in the course of the evening."
"I am yours to command in this and all things, Madame," said Graham,
offering his arm to his hostess; "and there stands Ah Lam ready to weep
because the muffins are growing cold; and I am famously hungry after our
ride."
Tea being ended, Mrs. Deering and Graham paced the gravel path
around the house for half an hour. It was evident to the group on the piazza
that a discussion was going on between them. They spoke in low, earnest
voices, whose tones did not escape Millicent's sensitive hearing, though she
failed to catch the import of the words.
"For my sake," she finally heard Mrs. Deering say in a pleading voice.
"Dear my lady, is it just to put it on that ground?"

"But if you will hear to it on no other," she argued.
"Think what it is you ask of me. To leave my tower and my man
Friday for a luxurious household with plethoric master and servants; to
stagnate for a week among those ridiculous people who fill San Real in the
summer; and all this not because it will do me or any one else any good, but
to the end that I may begin the portraits I have already refused to paint. You
know that I am not suited to that sort of hack work. How can I make a
picture of that over-fed Shallop or his pinched, good little wife?"
"But our work cannot all be that which is best suited to us--"
"It should be--"
"Remember, Graham, that in three weeks the payment for the studio is
due--"
"Ah, kindest one! you never forget me; bless you for your sweetness
and thoughtfulness. Yes, I will go and do my best to make Shallop look like
something other than an ex-blacksmith, but it is indeed bitter."
"You will find that there will be compensations," said Mrs. Deering,
her eyes resting on the pretty group on the piazza: Barbara sitting at
Millicent's feet, and Hal reaching up to pluck a spray of honeysuckles for
her hair.

CHAPTER V.

Where have we lived and loved before this, sweet?
My will ere now hath led thy wayward feet;
I knew thy beauties--limbs, lips, brows, and hair--
Before these eyes beheld and found thee fair.

Mrs. Deering's arguments carried the day, and Graham decided to
accompany the young ladies to San Real. Ferrara was to be of the party. It
was a bright morning which saw the departure of the three travellers from
the Ranch. Hal drove them to the station in a very disconsolate frame of
mind. During Ralph Almsford's long absences, it was impossible for him to
leave the Ranch, in which his interests were all vested; and it seemed rather
hard that Graham should enjoy the pleasure which he had been obliged to
decline. Henry Deering was a susceptible young man, and he was already
enthralled by the soft voice and deep eyes of the girl on whom he had
bestowed the title of Princess. His friendship for John Graham was one of
the strongest feelings he had ever known. He admired him more than any
person he knew. He respected the sterling character of the man, on whose
honor he would have staked his life; and yet it was hard that Graham should
devote himself to the Princess, for he said to himself there could be no
chance for him against such a rival.
The country through which the railroad from San Rosario to San Real
passes is most picturesque. Round the high hills winds the yellow line of
the track, making horseshoe loops, so that the engine, Millicent said,
sometimes turned round and looked the passengers in the face. Long, high
bridges carry the shining steel threads of travel over deep canyons, with
fierce rocky sides and stony bottoms. The scenery is very wild and
beautiful, and the moderate pace at which the shaky little engine tugged
along the rickety cars gave the travellers every opportunity for seeing and
admiring the view.
A great mountain, lying among the low foothills, remained in view
through the greater part of the route; it was conical and sharp-pointed, like
the typical mountain of the atlas. A great fire had lately raged for days

among the spreading trees and thick undergrowth; and now that the smoke
had cleared away, the path which the flame had taken was distinctly visible
from certain points. A great cross lay stamped on the mountain-side, for all
men to see. The baptism of fire had left the symbol which was sanctified
eighteen hundred years ago. Graham attracted Millicent's attention to this,
which, she said, would have been considered a miracle in Italy.
"Are they not happy, those dear simple-minded Italians? A large
portion of them do really believe in miracles to this day." Millicent was the
speaker.
"Yes, far happier than those of us who have lost all belief in anything
beyond our own bodies, and the facts which that body's senses reveal to us."
"And you believe--"
"Ask me not, maiden, what I believe. I can only hope. But this I know,
that there is need to you and to me, to all of us of this generation, to whom
the old fallacious dogmas of dead creeds are meaningless, of faith. This is
not the age of belief. The things which have been considered necessary
draperies to religion are stripped off; but because truth is naked, it is none
the less truth. Faith in that part of ourselves which is not of earth, we must
hold fast to, when all else is rent from our feeble natures."
"You should be a preacher. I think that you have got the right end of
the truth, perhaps--"
Barbara, who had sat a silent listener to this conversation between the
two young people, now spoke for the first time.
"I know little of the modern scientific theories, which Mr. Graham
thinks have stripped religion of much that used to belong to it; but to me the
denial of a Creator is the most illogical and ignorant act of which the human
mind is capable. Look at that house we are just passing. If I should tell you
that it never was built, that no architect or workman ever planned and

executed its design, you would say that my talk was too idle to require
contradiction. And yet you will tell me that the pleasant earth on which the
house stands, the very trees which furnished its wood, the metals and stone
which are wrought into it, exist, and yet knew no Maker."
"Barbara, do not let us talk any more about it; it is impossible for you
and me to speak understandingly to each other on these subjects. Mr.
Graham stands midway between your conventional faith and my unbelief;
he can understand us both. Now let us talk about love and roses."
"Apropos of love and roses, here comes Ferrara, laden with both of
those fragile commodities, which he will straightway lay at Miss Barbara's
feet. If you like, Miss Almsford, we will make the next stage of our journey
on the engine. I spoke to the engineer, at the last station, of your desire to
see the mechanism of his locomotive. You will find the man quite clean and
intelligent."
Ferrara joined the party at this moment, having come up to meet the
train at this station. He carried a handful of great yellow roses, which he
presented to Barbara with a low bow. The girl looked beseechingly at
Millicent, who laughed rather heartlessly, and, escorted by Graham,
proceeded to the engine. She was pleasantly received by its presiding
genius, a hatchet-faced, sharp-voiced Yankee, who made a place for her on
his little cushioned seat at one side of the locomotive. As soon as she was
comfortably ensconced here, Graham sitting at her feet, the engineer rang
the bell and allowed Millicent to pull the lever, which set the panting
creature of iron and wood a-screaming. With a guttural shriek the engine
pulled itself together and started off down the track at a good speed. Once
in motion, the breeze, blowing through the windows, cooled the intense
heat. Millicent looked straight down the narrowing steel rails with that keen
sense of pleasure which every novel experience gave her. Presently she

asked the small Yankee to explain the use of the steam gauge and of the
various appliances crowded into the small space where she sat. The
fireman, a hideous giant, black and grimy, occasionally opened a door and
fed the furious fire with great lumps of coal. When it was well filled he
varied his occupation by watering the wooden parts of the engine with a
long rubber hose, lest they should ignite from the great heat. On a little
shelf above her seat Millicent espied a book, toward which she instinctively
stretched her hand. Books always acted on Millicent like magnets. The
volume proved to be a Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, lately published in a
cheap edition. She asked the sharp-faced engineer if he found the matter
interesting, and was somewhat astonished by his astute remarks on the work
and the personage of whom it treated. She looked at Graham in some
astonishment, but he seemed in no-wise surprised at the phenomenon of a
working-man in a blue blouse who could intelligently read and understand
the seriously written biography of the great conqueror. The steam gauge
rose higher and higher, while the engine tore along at a quicker speed in
order to please the delicate visitor, who was now allowed to move the lever,
and to pull the bell when they passed the signals requiring them to do so.
The engineer was an interesting person, Millicent thought; he told her many
humorous stories of his experiences, and some tragical ones. His wife had
on one occasion accompanied him on a trip, sitting on the very place where
Millicent now reposed. An accident had occurred, a broken rail throwing
the cars down a high embankment, while the weight of the engine had
saved them both from the terrible fate of many of the passengers. From that
day his wife had refused ever to travel in any part of the train save in the
small cabin where her husband sat. In a collision, Millicent learned, the
dread fate of the engineer could only be avoided by desertion of his post;
and the speaker bore witness to the steadfast bravery of more than one of

his mates who had preferred death to such an act. As he talked he kept his
eyes fixed on the two shining rails stretching before them. Sometimes,
when interested in his own story, or their remarks, the engineer would look
for a moment into Millicent's face; and she, with a terrified consciousness
that her eyes were the only ones which could see any obstruction before the
train thundering along at a great speed, would strain her vision to the utmost
down the narrowing line of track. What an awful responsibility lay upon the
shoulders of this cheerful little man, with his twinkling gimlet blue eyes,
and how lightly he seemed to carry his burden. She grew quite white and
silent at the thought; and when her hand, guided by the engineer, brought
the panting locomotive to a standstill at the next station, she gladly stepped
down upon the narrow platform, steadied by Graham's arm. They parted
from the engineer with many expressions of pleasure for the ride they had
enjoyed, and joined Barbara and Ferrara in the car.
San Real is one of the pleasantest sea-side towns to be found on the
coast of California. It has become quite lately a fashionable summer resort,
and boasts two large hotels, a colony of boarding-houses, and half a dozen
private residences. All of these are of modest dimensions, with the single
exception of the pretentious mansion of Mr. Patrick Shallop, which stands
at the distance of a mile from the little village composed of one long street
of shops and saloons.
At the station the party found a handsome carriage awaiting them,
drawn by two prancing gray horses and decorated with sprawling coats-of-
arms. The groom and driver were dressed according to the latest English
fashion, and the tidy cart for the luggage was driven by a liveried menial.
Millicent noted these details with surprise as she sank back on the satin
cushions of the landau, and Graham laughingly commented upon her
evident astonishment at the smart equipage.

"It appears, O fair Venetian, that you are surprised at this grandeur. Did
not Miss Barbara prepare you for it?"
"No," answered the young woman quietly; she did not like to be
laughed at. As the carriage rolled along the village street, Millicent gave a
little cry of joy: "I smell the sea!" she cried.
Soon after they emerged from the shadow of the houses and struck the
road which led to the brow of the cliffs. There, for the first time since she
had left New York, Millicent looked out over the salt waves. The cool sea
breeze twisted the curls which clustered about her forehead into tighter
rings, and fanned a color into her marble cheek. She kissed her hand toward
the great gray ocean as if gladly greeting the Pacific. Below the cliffs
stretched the white beach, with its rows of bathing-houses, and booths hung
with gay-colored wares. They had but time to glance at the view when the
carriage turned from the road and entered a long avenue bordered with
good-sized trees. Marble statues gleamed through the dark green of the
luxuriant gardens, and odorous flowers made the air heavy with sweetness.
Before the door of an enormous house the horses were drawn up, and
Barbara and Millicent, followed by Graham and Ferrara, entered the wide
hall. The exterior of the house was far from attractive. The material used
was exclusively wood, which in California is almost universally employed
in private dwellings. The fear of earthquakes always lurks in the mind of the
Californian, and houses of brick or stone are very rare. The model adopted
by the architect was a novel one, and seemed a combination of the Ionic,
Corinthian, and Queen Anne styles. Stucco and lath represented decorations
and columns which would have been appropriate in marble or granite. The
massive style and the flimsy material gave an incongruous appearance to
the great building. The wide terrace which surrounded the house, with its
bright parterres of flowers, and the pleasant piazza, with roof and pillars

like a Norman cloister, were, however, wonderfully attractive. Beyond the
close-clipped emerald lawn was seen the ocean, whose white curling waves
danced merrily in the unbroken sunshine.
The guests found Mrs. Shallop awaiting them in a long dim drawing-
room. She was a skimpy pattern of feminality, with a pitiful, pinched face,
great sad-looking eyes, colorless, sandy hair, and a thin, angular body.
Though it was early in the afternoon, the elegance of her dress would have
been suitable to a ball room. The heavy folds of rich blue brocade stood out
from the poor little figure whose emaciated lines its rich fabric refused to
indicate. She advanced toward her guests with something of an effort, as if
the burden of dress which was laid upon her were greater than she could
bear. Her welcome was, however, very cordial; and her bony little hands,
with their weight of jewels, clasped Barbara's strong fingers affectionately.
"I am real glad you have all come, Miss Deering. I was awful fidgety
about the train's being late. Miss Almsford, I am real pleased to see you.
Mister Graham, happy to see you, sir. I hope your health is better, Mister
Ferrara?"
Each of the guests acknowledged the kindly greeting, and some
general conversation ensued. Millicent looked about the great drawing-
room, noting the various beautiful articles of furniture, the Venetian glasses,
the pictures and rich embroideries, the thousand-and-one bits of bric-à-brac
which decorated the walls and cabinets of the lofty apartment. It was in
truth a rarely beautiful room, the prevailing color a deep, soft crimson, the
wood-work all painted white and delicately carved. Below the ceiling ran a
frieze, the work of John Graham. The subject treated was the history of
Cupid and Psyche. The scenes were divided into panels by twining sprays
of rose-vines charmingly treated. The first represented the meeting of the
two lovers, their marriage being the next in order. In the third compartment

the doubting Psyche looks for the first time on the radiant beauty of the
sleeping God. Next the artist had portrayed the forsaken, love-lorn bride
sitting alone, crushed with grief, repenting the fatal curiosity which
prompted her to peer too closely into the nature of love,--that greatest of
boons, which should be accepted joyously and with thanksgiving, and to
which doubt means death. The hard services required by Cytherea from the
desolate Psyche were exquisitely rendered; and the final scene of the
reunion of the two lovers was the masterpiece of the whole work. Psyche,
radiant with new-found love and joy, her face touched with a more than
mortal beauty by the grief she has endured, stands looking reverently into
the face of the strongest of gods. Her rainbow wings can lift her now, to
soar beside her lover, even to Olympus.
Millicent admired the beautiful frieze, which the hostess confessed
troubled her sorely because of the scanty raiment which she said seemed to
have been the fashion of the time it represented.
"Mister Graham," she explained, had induced her to keep it in the
place for which it had been designed. Mrs. Shallop added that the artist had
refused to follow her suggestion of adding clothing to the half nude bodies;
and had, moreover, extracted a promise from her husband that he would
never allow any other painter to be intrusted with thus supplementing the
airy rainbow draperies of the figures.
Miss Almsford was much astonished at the very beautiful interior of
the great Shallop house, and soon learned that its furnishing and decoration
had been intrusted to Graham, who was gifted with that rarest and most
valuable of aesthetic qualities, a perfect and original taste.
"It is the only house Mr. Graham has ever arranged, and he says he
will never do another. He was in Europe while it was being built, and

mamma persuaded the Shallops to give him carte blanche to buy all the
beautiful things he could lay hands upon," Barbara explained.
The guests were shown to their rooms by the hostess, and Millicent
gave an exclamation of delight on entering the apartment allotted to her. It
was indeed a unique room. The walls were panelled in ebony to a third of
their height, a bright light pattern in flowers running to the ceiling, and
relieving what might otherwise have been sombre. The glossy black wood
was carved into a wide, high fireplace, where two brass andirons, curiously
wrought with twisted dragons, supported a fire whose bright blaze was most
welcome to Millicent. She found the season very cold compared to the still,
hot Italian summers. Below the mantel the fire shone out in welcome, but
above the ebony shelf, set in the wall, was a picture which seemed fuller of
light and color than the leaping flames. A Venetian scene with a terrace
whereon sat men and maidens in the warm glow of the sunset, looking out
over a stretch of many-toned water, in which were mirrored sky and clouds,
trees, draperies, and graceful human figures. A black gondola, partly shown
in the foreground, might have held the painter while he sketched the
brilliant scene.
"It is my Venice!" cried Millicent, "it is my home!" Her eyes were full
of tears. She caught Barbara by the arm and rapidly described to her the
point from which the picture had been painted.
"Mr. Graham will be very much pleased that you recognized the spot."
"Is it his picture? Yes, I ought to have known it."
"Why, are you clairvoyant?"
"Yes, Barbara, sometimes."
Millicent seemed somewhat disconcerted at what she had said; and,
without noticing anything more in the pretty room, ascended the dainty
little ebon staircase with its fanciful rail, and, pushing back a panel which

slid into the wall, entered her bedroom. Later, when both of the girls had
exchanged their travelling dresses, Barbara knocked at Millicent's boudoir.
"Entraté," was the response, in obedience to which she opened the
door, and found Millicent lying on the low, crescent-shaped sofa, her fair
head resting on a pile of cushions. Her graceful figure was clad in a gown
soft amber in color, her only ornaments wonderful strings of amber beads
falling over the white neck, which the fashion of the frock disclosed, and
encircling the smooth bare arms, with their delicate tracery of blue veins
like the lines in purest marble. Her hands were hidden, clasped behind her
head, and the expression of her face was almost vacant in its look of
absorbing reverie. Beside her on the floor lay a small parchment book,
ivory-clasped,--"The Sonnets of Petrarch." Her eyes were fixed on the panel
over the mantel shelf, but they saw more than the artist had pictured with
brush and color: a waking day dream of her home as she had last seen it,
and ah! how much sweeter an imagining of how she might next see it,--with
what surroundings, with what companionship! O blessed dream-castles of
women, in which all the cares and privations of life are forgotten; in which
there is never a weariness or a pain; where lonely watching is succeeded by
joyous reunion; where those who have lived and know too surely that they
must die without that greatest happiness which life can hold, drink the cup
of joy innocently, purely, fearing no bitter after-taste, finding no foul dregs!
At Barbara's entrance Millicent slowly drew herself back from
dreamland into the actual present. Her eyes, which had been staring widely
with a blank look, now seemed to change color with returning
consciousness. It was a long journey, and she gave a deep sigh when it was
accomplished, and she realized that plump, pretty Barbara, with her best
frock and ribbons, stood by her side looking curiously in her face.

"I was reading, and I fancy I had fallen asleep, Bab, what can I do for
you?"
"Mrs. Shallop suggested our all having tea here, if you liked. They do
not dine till eight to-night. Mr. Shallop has been detained in San Francisco."
"Very well, dear, just as you say. You did not mean to send for the
gentlemen?"
"Oh, yes, this room is always used for a tea room, unless you object, of
course. If you prefer to 'sport your oak,' you have a perfect right to do so,
and we will go downstairs."
"No, no, let us have it here by all means, if it is the custom."
Barbara rang the bell, which was answered by a ponderous butler with
a condescending manner, white neckcloth, bandy legs, and an apoplectic
countenance. The individual had been imported by the Shallops along with
the footman and driver, his two younger brothers, who, in common with all
the other members of the household, from Mr. Shallop down to the boots,
stood in awe of him. To this worthy Barbara somewhat timidly gave orders
that tea should be brought, and the gentlemen warned that it awaited them.
"Very good, miss," answered the functionary in the driest possible
tone, his features curled into an expression of scorn toward the whole
human race. His bow was so terrific in its icy grandeur that Barbara
shivered as he left the room.
"I hate that man, and he knows it. He always spoils my appetite by
glaring at me all through dinner; and I think he takes an evil delight in
handing all the most impossible dishes to me first, which I have to refuse,
because I don't dare to attack them."
The man shortly after returned and laid a low round table in the bow-
window for tea. Barbara placed herself behind the old-fashioned silver urn
and busied herself with tea-making, while Millicent drew up the blinds and

let the sunset into the room. Soon Graham came in, begging for a cup of
tea, a sure bait to him, he said, especially when Miss Deering poured out the
delicious beverage. This last speech he made with an exaggeratedly deep
bow, which grotesqued the compliment and made the girl's cheek redden.
Shortly after, Ferrara joined the party, and a pleasant tea-drinking ensued,
though the last comer refused to be tempted by the pretty cups of smoking
Souchong.
"Neither will I reproach my luncheon, nor insult the excellent dinner
which I am sure Mrs. Shallop will give us, by the uncivilized fashion of
drinking tea at this hour."
"Miss Almsford thinks we are too civilized here, Ferrara. She almost
fainted when she learned that I was the possessor of a dress-coat. She hoped
to find us in eternal suits of corduroy and flannel, with top-boots and bowie
knives."
"You have exactly described the costume in which I first saw you, Mr.
Graham; so you surely should not blame me for believing that, in wearing
it, you followed the prevailing fashion of your country."
"That alters the case; but are you not mistaken? I remember having
taken particular care to don a black coat on that evening--do you
remember?--when I surprised you by the fire."
"But I had seen you before that, though you had never seen me."
"When, fair lady? May I hope that our first encounter was in your
white dreams?"
The girl shook her head and laughed.
"Was it perhaps in another existence? Did we dance together, you and
I, in the old happy days when Pan reigned? Now I think of it, were you not
the wood-nymph who vanished from me into the arms of a great tree? Did

you not tread one measure with me in the merry wood-dance, and then
leave me desolate with a tryst appointed but never kept?"
"Did you not soon find another partner?"
"I waited long alone."
"And if I could not come sooner?"
"Well, you have come at last to keep the tryst. Will you finish that
dance which was begun so many eons ago?"
"Ay me! and can we now dance the same measure, you and I? Would
not our feet tread inharmonious steps?"
"Which of us can say? Shall we try?"
"If you say my word was given, I know not how to break it."
The room had grown dim, and Barbara and Ferrara in the recess of the
window were speaking together, while Millicent sat gazing dreamily into
the glowing heart of the low-burning fire, conscious that Graham was
looking intently on her face. She dared not lift her eyes to his, and veiled
them with the downcast lids. Not what she might read daunted her, but what
might be revealed to the man who sat leaning forward in the quaintly-
carven oak chair.
"It is understood then that you admit my claim to your hand,--for one
dance at least? You acknowledge the promise made so many dim years
back? You have come across wide, tossing seas and over broad, sun-
parched fields to keep the tryst you made with me, a smile upon your face, a
shadow in your eyes?"
For answer the girl bowed her head.
"Nay, I must hear it from your very own lips. Is it for this that you
have come?"
"Yes." The word came soft as twilight shadows, sweet as Nature's
harmony. A long pause preceded the low-breathed monosyllable, the word

which fond women love best to speak and which listening lovers thrill, half
cold, half hot, at hearing. And when it was spoken and heard came a second
silence, even longer than the first; and yet what they had said was begun in
badinage, and was finished without serious thought by either man or
woman. Dangerous words! dangerous silence! happy time, how oft
remembered in later days!
"Did I hear you asking Miss Almsford for a dance, Graham? What ball
are you contemplating? I have heard of none unless you mean to invite us
all to your tower for a frolic. Be sure you do not leave me out; I have long
wished to visit your hermitage."
"If the ladies would so highly honor a lonely dweller in the woods as
to allow him the felicity of being their host, be sure, my dear Ferrara, that
you shall escort them to my humble abode."
"Really, are you in earnest? I have always wished to see your tower.
When shall we come?"
"That is for you to say, Miss Deering. Any day which will suit your
convenience will be agreeable to me."
"We will settle it after we return to the Ranch."
Soon after this Mrs. Shallop joined the group, and they all went out
and walked on the wide terrace till dinner was served. Here Millicent met
Mr. Shallop for the first time. He was a heavy-featured Irishman, with light-
blue eyes, overhanging brows, and thick, coarse brown hair. His badly
modelled nose had a decided upward tendency, and the broad mouth
disclosed sharp, long teeth, like those of an inferior animal. When he smiled
he showed the whole set, which gave him a rather ferocious aspect. His face
was clean shaven, save for a fringe of whisker stretching from the lobe of
the ear to the lower jaw. With a pipe and a shillelah he would have been an
excellent specimen of a patron of Donnybrook Fair. On this occasion he

wore irreproachable evening dress. His linen was finer than Graham's, and
the cut of his collar and pattern of his studs were of a later fashion than
those worn by Ferrara. A valet's care had smoothed the rough hair and cared
for the ugly hands. One of his peculiarities was to address all ladies as
"Marm." His conversation was not unintelligent, and betrayed a keen, sharp
mind, which clearly understood those things which came in close contact
with it, but whose mental vision was bounded by the physical one. Those
things which he had learned by experience he knew absolutely, and he
never questioned or theorized on subjects which did not directly touch
himself or his own interests. California had been to him a place which held
a gold mine, nothing more or less. His history, which he made no effort to
conceal, was not an uncommon one. He had come out in '49, among the
fevered crowd of gold-seekers drawn from every country, from every
station in life, by the loadstone which had been discovered on the banks, of
the American River, by James Marshall. He had come to San Francisco in
those early days when law and order were not, save when the conscience of
the public, stronger and purer in its united power than in the individuals
which compose it, was awakened, and hastened to punish a crime by a rude
and swift justice. Shallop had built a cabin in which he lived, and in which
he sold, when he was networking in the gulches, any articles of food which
he was able to procure. When there were no potatoes or bread, he closed the
door of his shanty and started off with pick and washing-pan for the
gulches. When these staple edibles were to be had, he made a brisk trade in
catering to the half-starved miners. It had been said that though Shallop's
bread was heavy, it cost nearly its weight in gold. In those days he had
wooed and married the widow of a brother miner, one of the few women
whose sad lot brought them to the land of disorder and bloodshed. A few
weeks only elapsed, before the widowed woman gladly changed her state

for the protection of the strong arm of Patrick Shallop, to whom she became
deeply attached, with a pathetic love resembling that of a dog for a kind
master. The bread grew lighter then, and sometimes the potatoes fed pitiful
pale youths who brought no store of gold-dust to pay for them. Patrick
Shallop, living in the most magnificent dwelling in the whole length and
breadth of California, was sometimes moved to tell of the little cabin where
he had brought home his bride on a wet night, borrowing an umbrella to
place over the bed to keep the rain from wetting her to the skin. There had
been times when things had gone badly with the inmates of the little cabin,
and days had passed when the mother's ears were torn with the cries of
children hungry for bread. It was at this time that Barbara's father had
known the Shallops. Mr. Deering was a delicately bred, handsome young
man, who had come with the eager crowd of men all pushing ruthlessly
forward to the golden goal, sometimes trampling to death the weaker
brothers who fell by the wayside. Sick of a fever, faint and dying, he was
plundered of his hard-earned store of gold-dust, and would have been
murdered by his robber but for the interposition of Shallop, who stood by to
see fair play, and carried the sick man home to his shanty, where the tender
nursing of the busy wife saved his life a second time. Adversity makes
strange companionships between men; and the friendship between the
saloon-keeper and the delicately nurtured youth with the blood of a Puritan
ancestry in his veins, was one which lasted through both their lives. By
some mining exploits which would hardly bear the light of day, but which
were, alas! not more uncommon at that time than at the present day, the
Irishman had made a colossal fortune which placed him among the richest
men in the world. There could be little sympathy between the two men
whom the chances of that wild time had thrown together for the moment,
but a cordiality was always felt; and after Mr. Deering's death frequent

visits were exchanged between the dwellers of the San Rosario Ranch and
the inmates of the most celebrated house on the borders of the Pacific
Ocean.
The dinner was a long one, served with all the tedious formalities
which the fierce butler chose to inflict. It was not until the servants had
withdrawn that the host and hostess, who stood in mortal dread of their
chief functionary, their oracle on all matters of etiquette, seemed to feel
themselves at home at their own table. The removal of this restraint, and the
excellent wine, served to make the last quarter of an hour spent over the
dessert the pleasantest part of the repast. Millicent, sitting at the right hand
of her host, at last succeeded in making him tell some anecdotes of his early
Californian experiences, to which she listened with breathless interest. Her
feelings were undergoing a radical change; and if the country which she at
first detested had not yet become dear to her, she certainly felt the greatest
interest and curiosity to learn more of it. In the old dreamy life of Venice,
her days had been spent in golden visions of a vanished grandeur. She was
now awaking to the stirring reality of the present, and felt dimly that to be
an heir to the glories of the past was but a part of living,--an inheritance
which affects us less than the actual doing and striving of our own times.
The party sat together in the library, with its comfortable chairs and
rows of undisturbed books sleeping between their gilded covers, until late
in the evening. The conversation was general, and the quick mind of the
stranger guest learned from it much that roused her attention. "If I only had
four ears instead of two!" she cried at last, after a vain endeavor to follow at
the same time a discussion between Ferrara and Mr. Shallop on the best
method of vine culture, and a conversation between Graham and Mrs.
Shallop on the subject of the public schools. Soon after this, the ladies left
the room; and Millicent, her pulses all a-tremble with the various new

experiences of the day, was slow in falling asleep. That night her lips forgot
to give their wonted homesick sigh for Italy, for Venice.

CHAPTER VI.

"Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was
warm in May?
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow do
you say?"

The week's visit at the Shallops' slipped quickly away, each pleasant day
passing too hastily into to-morrow, Millicent thought. The ordering of each
day had something of a routine, beginning invariably with a gallop on
horseback. The way sometimes led across wet, hard beaches where the
horses' hoofs crushed, with a crisp sound, the tiny sea-shells left by the
receding waves. The tall roan which Millicent rode was a young
thoroughbred, with slender legs, a proud, arching neck, and unclipped mane
and tail. Mrs. Shallop had given the fine animal to her guest; and Millicent,
who had a magnetic influence over all animals, easily controlled the horse
by word or touch. The young people usually paired off; Millicent riding
beside Graham, Barbara and Ferrara following, while Mr. Shallop brought
up the rear on a sturdy cob whose character and strength were well
calculated to bear up the portly magnate. Sometimes they rode through the
odorous woods, where the air was heavy with spices, and melodious with
sweet bird-notes foreign to Millicent's ears. The tall and stately redwoods
standing straight and unbending in their close serried ranks, seemed to her a
noble symbol of the life of an upright man, who looks fearlessly into the

wide heavens, raised far above the briers which grow about his lesser
brethren.
On their return from their ride, glowing with the splendid exercise,
breakfast was served; sometimes in the pretty morning room, oftener in a
sheltered part of the wide veranda, from whence they might look out upon
the shadowy woods stretching behind the house. After this meal, Mr.
Shallop and Ferrara took the train for San Francisco; and the hostess and
Graham disappeared into the temporary studio which had been arranged for
the artist. The two girls were left to amuse themselves. Millicent, who had
brought her usual store of books, did not open one of them, but moused
about in the library, finding many works quite new to her and full of
interest. If her knowledge of Italian and French literature was remarkable,
her ignorance of the English classics was stupendous. Shakspeare alone was
familiar to her among the great ones. The long rows of finely bound books
were mostly uncut and showed little evidence of having been read, a copy
of a lady's fashion book, and a volume treating of the manners of polite
society, forming notable exceptions to this rule. At mid-day a beach-wagon
conveyed the young girls to the shining sea-sands, and they indulged in the
luxury of a bath. In the afternoon they took long drives, or played lawn
tennis with friends from the hotel in the town. The evenings were
sometimes spent on the long, cool veranda, oftener on Mr. Shallop's stanch
yacht, the "Golden Hind." She was a fine vessel several tons heavier than
her illustrious namesake, in which Sir Francis Drake sailed along the coast
of California more than three centuries ago, and took possession of the land
as "New Albion," in the name of good Queen Bess.
Pleasant days, full of incident and enjoyment, filled with new
impressions to Millicent, and freighted with sunlight and merriment to all
the party. No thought of the weather lent the anxious uncertainty to plans

which so often to us in the East takes half the enjoyment from anticipation.
From May to November in this favored land the blue of the sky is
unclouded, save by gossamer white drifts of vapor, massed into soft shapes
and mystic outlines. The sky smiles from spring to laughing summer, and
the land lies steeped in sunshine through the late autumn.
The wide white beach, with its row of bathing-houses and little tents,
was very attractive to Millicent. She sometimes sat in the warm sand for
hours, chatting with Barbara or making friends with the bare-legged
children, the tireless architects in sand. Finally, donning their bathing-suits,
they ran, hand in hand, over the dry sands, across the wet space which the
last wave had darkened, through the white fringe of the sea, into the cool
green billows.
The last day of their visit had come, and the morrow would see them
on their way back to San Rosario. Millicent and Barbara had prolonged
their sea dip beyond their usual wont. Never before had the water seemed
so bracing and delicious. As there were twenty or thirty bathers to keep her
company, Millicent lingered among the breakers, while Barbara regained
the shore. She swam leisurely about, displacing the clear water with her
white arms and pretty, small feet. She suddenly became aware that a
swimmer was gaining on her from behind, and her stroke instinctively
quickened. Millicent swam as only the women of Venice can swim; and the
race between her and her unseen pursuer bade fair to be hotly contested.
With head high lifted from the waves which circled caressingly about the
smooth round throat, knotting the tendril curls at the nape of the neck, the
girl kept steadily on her course without turning her head to see who might
be so audacious as to follow her. Strong as were her strokes, she slowly lost
ground; and finally the water about her rippled with the strokes of the man
who was gaining. Soon he had caught up with her, and side by side they

swam for a space. Then the victor spoke in a voice well known to her, and
the girl answered him with a laugh which rang out fresh and crisp as the
sound of the wavelets. Then she turned her head and looked full at him as
he moved by her side, strong and graceful as a young merman.
"So, my nymph, you are at home in Father Neptune's arms as well as
in the embrace of the great tree. Which is your native element, earth, air, or
water?"
"I am amphibious."
"And which of your three elemental homes do you like the best?"
"When I am dancing, the air; when I am walking, dear Mother Earth;
and when I swim, the sea."
"When I paint you, it will be as I see you now, triumphing over the
waves as our great mother, Aphrodite, triumphed over them before you."
"That compliment would go to my head were it not mixed with so
much water."
Then they both laughed, because the sky was sapphire clear, and the
sea beryl green; because the golden sun warmed them with its kind rays;
because each was fair and good to look upon; because, when they were
together, winds blew more softly, and sky and sea took on a more tender
hue where they melted at the horizon into one ineffable kiss. A pair of
white-winged gulls swept above them, shrieking their love-notes hoarsely,
while the white-armed girl and the strong-limbed man breasted the waves
together, side by side. Though lapped by the cool water, Graham felt the
warm influence which folded about him like a cloak in Millicent's presence.
When she grew tired the girl turned upon her side and floated; while
Graham swam about her in little circles, first moving like a shark on one
side, with long, far-reaching strokes, then swimming upon his back, and

finally beneath the waves, looking always at her face seen dimly through
the dark-green water.
After a space Millicent looked about to find herself alone, far from the
shore with its group of bathers. At first she fancied that her companion must
be swimming below the water as he had done before; but, as the slow-
passing seconds went by, she realized that some ill must have befallen him.
Stretching her arms above her head, she dived straight and swift through the
clear water towards the pebbled bottom of the ocean shining through the
pellucid waters. In that dim under-current she touched him, stiff and cold,
rising toward the surface, but through no effort of his own helpless limbs. In
that terrified heart-beat of time she saw his face set and white, with horror-
stricken eyes widely strained apart. Into them she looked, her own firing
with hope and courage, and giving a mute promise of rescue. She seized his
rigid arm with her strong, small hands, and they rose together to the surface.
The man was as if paralyzed; and the girl for an instant tried to support him,
but, feeling such a strain would soon out-wear her half-spent strength, she
cried,--
"Put your hand on my shoulder--so, and I will swim below you." Her
voice was hoarse and shrill as that of the screaming sea-gulls. He could not
speak, but looked toward the shore as if he would have her save herself and
abandon him to his fate.
"No, no!" she cried, "I will save you;" and, placing his hands on her
shoulders, struck out bravely toward the shore. To reach it seemed at first an
easy thing, but the struggle proved a terrible one, cruelly unequal, between
the girl's small strength, with the burden now added to her own weight, and
the waves grown hungry for human prey. Their babbling music now was
changed to Millicent's ears, and they clamored greedily for her life, for that
other life which she was striving to snatch from their cruel embrace. Again

and again the man would loosen his hold. She could not save him: why
should she die too, she was so young, so fair! This he tried to tell her in
gasping accents, but she only gripped his hand more firmly and placed it as
before. They should both live or die. Fate, which had been so cruel to her,
had cast their lots together for that day at least; and death seemed sweeter
by his side than life without him. Her brave spirit fainted not, though her
labored strokes grew slower and feebler. Then she gave one great cry for
help to those who were so near them, and yet so unconscious of their
danger. She heard their voices plainly,--the mothers talking to romping
children, whose ringing laughter mocked her agony. Was it their death
knell, this sound of sweet child-voices that drowned her frenzied cry, and
filled the ears of the strong men and women, keeping out the fainting
accents which pleaded for his life and her own? Once again, and this time
with a thrilling vibration of despair, the woman's voice rang out across the
waves. It was freighted with her last hope; it was the latest sound her
gasping lungs could utter. Could love and hope of life outshriek the murmur
of the waves, the shrill note of the sea-mews, the noisy prattle of the
infants? The man, long since despairing, groaned: it seemed murder to him
that his helpless weight should drag down the fair, brave young creature to
her grave; his death agony was made more bitter by the thought. The girl's
determination never wavered, and her little strength was not wasted in a
longer struggle; she managed to keep his face above the waves, but now
only held her own, and had ceased to make the slightest progress. She could
now no longer see the bathers. Had her cry been heard? O waves! be
merciful and still your clamor! White-winged partners, cry no more your
mocking love notes! Sweet mothers, list no longer to your children's
laughter, for there is other sound which must reach your fond ears and chill
your warm hearts with horror! For a moment there grew a great silence as

of listening, and then over the water came answering cries of women
agonized with sympathy, came the hearty voices of strong men saying,
"Keep up, keep up! for help is coming, it is close beside you." Ah, God! it is
in time, for the two white faces, lying so close in the green waters, have but
just vanished from sight; they still shine through the waves but a little space
beneath the surface. Strong helping arms raise the nerveless bodies from the
waves that murmur sullenly, bear them safely to the shore with its shining
white sands, and, last, gently loose the maiden's white hands, clinging still,
though all unconsciously, to the man whose life she has saved. Weeping
women gather about them, lying there so still and fair upon the white beach;
frightened children look curiously at the half-drowned figures of the man
and the woman. Still are they man and woman, and not yet fallen to that
terrible neuter of death, wherein age and sex are not, where serf and queen
are equals.

CHAPTER VII.

"A flame! Her clear soul's essence slips,
To steep for aye with mine, from her fast-whitening lips!"

Several days passed before these two who, hand in hand, had looked death
in the face, and felt his chill breath freezing up the current of their lives,
again saw one another. Graham, after twenty-four hours, was able to be
about, looking pale and ill. The congestive chill which had overcome him
was the result of his having plunged into the sea while very much over-

heated. The water at San Real, and indeed all along the Pacific coast, is very
much colder than at the Eastern watering places of a corresponding latitude,
where the genial influence of the Gulf Stream is felt. His vigorous
constitution quickly threw off the effects of the terrible experience; but
three long days and nights wore themselves out before Millicent's light step
sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Shallop and Barbara were sitting alone at the
luncheon table, when the latter caught the sound of the well-known footfall;
she hastily left the room, and running up the stairs passed her arm about the
feeble girl, supporting her into the room.
"Why did you not tell me that you were coming? Do you think it
prudent, dear?"
"Yes, I wanted to come, and the doctor said I should do whatever I
fancied," she answered a little fretfully; then she smiled, with that flashing
of the eyes that always won her pardon for any little sin. It was a strange
coincidence, Barbara thought, that Millicent should have come downstairs
for the first time on the morning when Graham had gone to San Francisco.
It was his first absence since the beginning of their visit. Why should she
avoid meeting the man whose life she had saved at the risk of her own?
Graham had every day begged to see her, but Millicent had not felt equal to
the interview. Barbara was genuinely puzzled; but then Barbara was often
puzzled by Millicent. During the days just past her gentle care and nursing
had brought her much nearer to Millicent than she had been before. In those
long mornings when Barbara, in a full, deep voice, read to her from her
favorite books, Millicent had time to think more about her new friend; and
the more she thought about her the better she liked the sweet, sound,
womanly nature, with its domestic instincts, and maternal care of all
creatures sick or sorry. One morning, as the invalid lay upon her couch,

while Barbara's gentle hands plaited her long hair in thick strands, she said,
somewhat abruptly,--
"Barbara, why have you not married?"
"What an odd question!"
"If you knew what a charming wife you would make, you would think
the question a most natural one. I suppose you have been in love?"
"I suppose so," jestingly.
"Bah! talk seriously for a moment with me. Why do you not marry
Ferrara? The poor fellow is perfectly pathetic in his devotion to you. You
know, Barbara, that matrimony would suit you delightfully; there is nothing
so becoming to a woman of your type as the background of a home of her
own. There you would shine like Jessica's candle in this naughty world."
"I have never thought about it in the way of a background."
"Of course you never did; but, Barbara, do you think you could fall in
love again?"
"Who knows?"
"Then I know that you have never been in love at all, ma belle--oh, I
forgot, and have broken my vow to speak English pure and simple. Well,
never mind, now we will talk about my broth, for I am very hungry. I feel
like little Rosalba in the 'Rose and the Ring,' when she went about crying,
'Dutess Tountess, my royal highness vely hungy.'"
Long confidences had followed this conversation; and Millicent
listened to Barbara's account of a childish romance with that deep interest
which women all feel in the heart experiences of their sisters. Such
sympathy is born in the feminine breast before the power of loving awakes
there, and dies not when experience has brought nothing to it but grief and
bitterness. The veriest chit of a girl of ten will read a love-story if she be
allowed, while her brothers are inventing ingenious instruments for the

torture of cats and nurses. The deafest grandam will listen with keen interest
to her favorite grand-daughter's confession of love, and will be careful not
to chill young hopes with her own sad memories. All those who have loved
truly, with that love which outlasts grief, death, and human passion, which
smiles at the cruelest neglect, which, like the love of the Most High, passeth
all understanding, have sympathy and kindly interest for those who are in
love. That "all the world loves a lover," is the truest of all sayings.
As soon as they were alone, Millicent told Barbara that she was
anxious to return to the Ranch the following day. Since her first meeting
with John Graham, her life had danced away through bright hours passed in
his company, in remembering past interviews, in looking forward to future
meetings. In the long days when she lay weak and helpless, slowly
recovering from the terrible drain on forces, nervous and muscular, she had
thought long and deeply; and now that she was well, she did not wish to
meet Graham, and avoided his presence. She realized, as she had not done
before, that she deeply and irrevocably loved this man, whose name six
months ago had been unknown to her. Whether this understanding of what
was in her own heart came upon her in one broad flash of quickened
intelligence, when she lay half swallowed up by the jaws of death, still
clasping him with feeble hands, or if, in the quiet hours of introspection
which followed that awful moment, she gradually learned the truth, it would
be hard to say, but that she now knew it, was indubitable. The fact that the
man she loved should be indebted to her for his life was a distasteful one.
Not through gratitude did she wish to attract him; the very thought of it was
galling to her. She loved him, and longed, with the deepest power in her
soul, to arouse in his breast that answering passion, which, like a deep bass
chord, mingles with the sweet treble song of woman's love, their harmony
making the one perfect note to which the keystone of the universe trembles

sympathetically. Sweet as was the thought that her strength had sufficed for
them both, she mourned the chance which had made her hand the rescuing
one. Love that springs from gratitude or from pity is earth-born and earth-
bound; she would have none of it; it was as if she had a claim upon him for
that gift, which if not freely given is valueless. So, with a shyness new to
her, she avoided meeting Graham; and the night of his return she sought her
room again and did not appear until the following morning. If Graham did
not know all, he was ready enough to understand that she avoided his
thanks.
Mrs. Shallop passed the last evening of her guests' visit sitting with
Miss Almsford, answering her many eager questions of the strange, wild
days when law and order were not in the broad golden land. It seemed
almost incredible to Millicent, and yet she felt it to be true, that the wife of
the mining king regretted the past days of poverty and simplicity. The hard-
earned crust, shared with a husband whose every thought was known to her,
had tasted sweeter than the luxuries of a table at which she often sat alone,
or with a partner absorbed in thoughts and enterprises in which she had no
part. Her children had then been entirely hers; now they were far distant,--
the boy at an English college, the girl in a French conventual school,
whence they would both return grown too clever and proud to care for her
simple-hearted companionship. What mattered it that she had toiled day and
night to buy them food and clothing, had worn out her poor body and dulled
her simple mind with anxious overstrain and grinding labor? Would they
thank her for it now? When, a year before, she had visited these adored
children, she had felt the distance between them and herself. If her son had
not been ashamed of his poor mother, it was only because his heart was not
quite weaned from hers. The girl was gentle and kind; but the pitying care
with which she brought her conversation to the level of her mother's

understanding was all too obvious to the sensitive woman, whose nervous
strength had been shattered in the hard fight which she had made all those
years ago, to keep the breath of life in their little bodies. Half her life had
been passed at the wash-tub, half in the drawing-room; the transition had
been too sudden for a person of her temperament. The soapsuds, which used
to flash the splintered rays of light from her hands, were more appropriate
to them than the diamonds with which they now glittered. Poor woman, the
extremes of fortune were both known to her.
Though their visit had been a delightful one, Millicent was anxious to
return to the Ranch; she longed for the quiet, refined atmosphere of the
place, with its simple comforts, doubly attractive after this experience of the
luxurious but inappropriate house of Mr. Patrick Shallop. There is a certain
fitness in things; and the ex-miner, living in the palace of the railroad king,
was less at home than England's monarch could have been in the cowherd's
hovel. Millicent felt the social malaise which arises from the incongruity of
persons with their surroundings. Graham, interested in his portrait, which
was coming on famously, was not easily affected by a personal atmosphere
to which he was indifferent; while Barbara and Ferrara, used to a similar
condition of things, accepted it without question.
The morning of the last day of their visit dawned bright and clear; and
Millicent, standing on the terrace, thought the wide view had never seemed
so beautiful before. She was taking farewell of that sea which had so nearly
swallowed her young life with all its hopes and fears. The waves murmured
with a gentle sound, as if quite oblivious of their late rapacity. She went out
into the thick pine woods behind the house, and stood for the last time
among the great redwoods, which to her were so wonderful, and which
everybody else accepted as a matter of course. A well-known footstep
behind her on the dry leaves caused the slight pink tinge which the morning

breeze had brought to her cheek to fade suddenly; the blood seemed rushing
from every vein back to its source, and her heart stopped its pulsations for a
moment. She did not turn her head, but stood quite silent, waiting for
Graham's first word. When he was at her side, she felt her hand suddenly
caught in a warm pressure which sent the blood rushing through the arteries
again, tingling painfully in every fibre of her body, and loosening the cold
silence of the heart, which beat out a quick answer to the words of greeting.
They were but few and very earnest, the words of a brave man glad to be
beholden to so fair a woman for his life. Was it gratitude that made his
voice tremble, that lighted his grave eyes with a smile?
She answered him sweetly and seriously, with a steady voice and calm
eyes, though the rose-flush flooded and ebbed from her cheek and brow.
The man did not trouble himself to analyze the feelings which gave rise to
the fleeting blushes; he was too full of his own enthusiasm to notice how it
affected its object. He spoke as he felt and thought of the woman standing
there so full of life and beauty,--only in the light of his relation to her. He
knew how he felt towards her, and told her so with admiring frankness; of
her feelings towards himself he never stopped to think. His was an egotistic
nature, as are those of all strong men whose personality stamps the age in
which they live. Weaker men and women receive the imprint of their time;
only the few strong ones leave their images impressed when the soft clay of
the present is transmitted into the unmalleable granite of the past.
They walked together for a time, Graham full of anxious inquiry for
her health, and Millicent happy in his anxiety. When the artist learned of the
proposed departure, he strongly opposed it, urging a longer stay. When he
found that the young ladies had decided to leave San Real, he announced
his intention of accompanying them. Mrs. Shallop shortly afterward joined
the pair and handed Millicent a newspaper, at which the girl looked quite

indifferently until her eyes caught her own name in large letters at the head
of a column. She quickly read the article, which proved to be a highly
sensational account of the rescue of Graham.

A FIGHT WITH DEATH!--Heroism of a Young Girl!--John Graham rescued from Drowning by

Beautiful Millicent Almsford!--The Personal Appearance of the Heroine!--Early History of the Lucky

Man!

These headings preceded the two-column article at which Graham laughed
contemptuously, and which drew hot tears from Millicent's eyes. She had
never before seen her own name in print, and the freedom with which the
Anglo-Saxon press deals with the affairs of ladies who have no claim on the
public interest was unknown to her. She only felt that her name was being
spoken by people who never had heard of her; that the most sacred and
awful hour of her life was revealed to the world; and that the event of which
she had hardly spoken, and of which she barely dared to think, was now
familiar to thousands of indifferent readers. The news had in fact been
telegraphed to one of the large New York papers, and in the course of a
week filtered down through the smaller organs of that city to the suburban
press, and was read and forgotten by the careless public throughout the
length and breadth of this enlightened land. To Mrs. Shallop and Barbara,
accustomed to the vagaries of American journalism, the state of mind into
which Millicent was thrown by the article in the San Francisco "Roarer,"
was entirely surprising. It was without doubt annoying, but they had both
become so accustomed to seeing their own names and those of their friends
in the columns of the daily journals, that Millicent's horror and indignation
seemed disproportionate to the cause. This utter disrespect of the privacy of
life which is the right of all men and women leading peaceable lives,

breaking no law of the civil or social statutes, is the crying sin of modern
journalism. When they are charged with this, the journals very tritely retort
that "social news" pays better than any other class of matter; that its
insertion is more often prized and sought after by the individuals mentioned
than resented by them; that much of the personal news is actually furnished
by the individuals whom it most concerns; and that they but supply the
demand of their readers. It would be well for them to remember that to
pander to the public taste is not the highest object open to journalism; to
elevate that taste were a task more deserving of commendation, and less
unworthy of good printer's ink and paper.
The next mail brought two letters for Millicent; one from a well-
known photographer asking her for an early sitting, and begging that he
might have the sole privilege of photographing her. The other
communication was a civil letter from the editor of a weekly journal, asking
for a slight autobiographical sketch from the hand of the heroine of San
Real. In the course of the morning a reporter from the California "Bugle," a
rival sheet, arrived and requested an interview with Miss Almsford and Mr.
Graham, from which to compile an article on "The Rescuer and the
Rescued." Millicent's eyes flashed angrily when the import of the small
printed visiting-card bearing the name of this nineteenth-century inquisitor
was explained to her. She was heard to murmur, beneath her breath, some
Italian words highly inimical to the smart young person who was taking the
opportunity to examine Mrs. Shallop's drawing-room with an eye to future
"notes." She was astonished when Graham quietly lighted a cigarette, and
asking that the gentleman might be shown into the smoking-room, joined
him there.
"Why does he not beat him?" she cried. "If I were a man I should
thrust him from the house."

"And be held up to the public as a brutal assassin?" laughed Barbara.
"No, no, my dear, let Mr. Graham alone; he knows best how to manage the
visitor. It never does to insult those gentlemen; they are dangerous enemies,
and have the public's ear into which to pour all their grievances. Our friend
will draw the fire on himself, I fancy, in order to spare you. News the news-
fiend must have; he will make it himself if it be not provided for him. Poor
thing! he must live, after all, as well as you or I. It is not his fault that he is
obliged to interview people; it must be a very disagreeable profession."
Thus kindly and with wide sympathy did Barbara Deering judge all
men and women; ay, and reporters too, together with babies, Chinamen, and
other unfortunate works of God. Graham returned in a quarter of an hour,
having appeased his visitor with the aid of a good cigar and a champagne
cocktail, compounded by the careful hand of the solemn-faced butler.
Millicent was still flushed and excited, all Barbara's arguments having
failed to soothe her nerves. Graham, with one sentence, banished the angry
dint from her white forehead and brought a smile back to her face. The hour
of the last good-bys had arrived; and the guests took leave of their kind
hostess, with promises to repeat their visit before long. Little Mrs. Shallop
really cried at parting with Millicent, to whom she had become greatly
attached. She sighed as the carriage disappeared from view, bearing its
freight of young people with their vivid lives and strong interests. When she
went back to her great lonely drawing-room, with its splendid furnishings,
she realized what a fitting frame it had made for the two pretty young
guests, and how unsuitable it was to her simple tastes. The house was
dreary without their joyous voices and quick footsteps.
Just after sundown the travellers reached the San Rosario station,
where Hal was awaiting them in the great red-painted wagon. The two

sturdy mules were supplemented by old Sphinx harnessed before them,
making what is known as a spiked team.
"Hail! the conquering Heroine comes! sound the trumpets, beat the
drums!" cried the irrepressible young rancher. "How is our most heroic
Princess, and will she deign to enter the triumphal car which her humble
slave has prepared for her?"
They all laughed; but, through all the lively nonsense which he reeled
off to them on the way to the house, Millicent felt that he had been really
moved by what had occurred. The grip which he gave her hand spoke a
volume of approval; and the loud clap on the shoulder with which he
greeted Graham expressed more than a dozen sentences of rhetorical
eloquence could have done. The antics of the unicorn team were extremely
diverting; and these, with the absurdities which Hal perpetrated at every
step of the road, brought the quartette to the house door "in a state of
merriment bordering on idiocy," as he expressed it. Mrs. Deering, with her
sweet motherly greeting, made their return seem a home-coming to
Millicent and Graham, as well as to Barbara, the tall daughter of the house.
Her hospitality was so genuinely of the heart that the recipient of it was
made to feel that it was simply his due, and that his presence was as great a
favor to the hostess as her kindness was to him.
Graham was warmly urged to stay over night, but he resisted the
temptation of remaining. Neither Millicent's voice nor Millicent's eyes had
supplemented the invitation.
As they paced the path together, her hand lying on his arm, Graham
told Mrs. Deering, in a low voice, of all that had happened since their
departure,--of the pleasant days with their excursions; of the new
impressions made on Millicent by all that she saw; of the friends whom he
had met, remembering all the kind messages which had been sent to the

gentle châtelaine of San Rosario; of Barbara's sweetness and Mrs. Shallop's
hospitality; of the progress he had made on the portrait of his hostess; of the
thousand-and-one little items of news so welcome to people leading a life
of quiet isolation. Then in graver tones he spoke of his great peril and
Millicent's bravery, of the strange thoughts which had crossed his mind in
that last moment of consciousness, how her face as well as his mother's had
been revealed to him as in a vision. All this was listened to with that perfect
sympathy that is always ready to receive confidences, and which forbears to
claim them when they are not spontaneously given. Blessed among women
are these rare ones to whom motherless sons can confide every hope and
disappointment, sure of a quick sympathy, and in whom the mighty instinct
of maternity is not satisfied in ministering to their own flesh and blood, but
springs forth to succor all who are suffering for the gentle mother love.
It was late when these two said good-night, and Graham went to find
the others to take farewell. Barbara and Hal were singing duets. They had
neither of them seen Millicent, and fancied that she must have gone to her
room. With a sense of cold disappointment and injury the young man left
the house. As he passed by the corner of the piazza he fancied he saw a
figure standing close in the shadow of an angle. He stopped; the figure
remained motionless; through the heavy drapery of the vines he could not
tell whether it was a person or merely a shadow.
"Who is it?" he asked in a low voice. No answer came, but through the
stillness of the night he thought he heard the sound of a quick-drawn breath.
Putting the honeysuckle aside he stepped on the piazza, and found that his
eyes had not deceived him. Millicent stood beneath the rose vines. When
she saw that she was discovered she spoke with a light laugh:
"I did not want you to see me, for I have been unsociable this evening,
and hoped you would all think I had gone to bed."

"Is it not damp for you to be sitting out-of-doors?" he asked, with a
voice grown deep and tender.
"Oh, no! I am quite used to it. What a wonderful night! I think I never
saw the stars so brilliant."
The girl seated herself on the edge of the piazza, Graham placing a
cushion under her feet and taking his place at her side. It was a perfectly
still evening, the only sound being the far-away tinkle of a sheep bell. There
was a moment of dangerous silence, which Millicent broke a little
nervously, speaking of Italy, of Mrs. Shallop and their late visit, of Hal's
irresistible wit, of any one of the subjects which danced through her brain.
She was afraid to be silent, and feared yet longed for what might be said if
she left too long a pause. The spell which kept Graham at her side when he
should have been half way to his lonely tower, began to assert itself over the
woman, always the last to yield. The man had long since abandoned himself
to that mysterious state of being in which every nerve of brain and every
pulse of heart yearns for sympathy and reaches out toward its counterpart.
At last she was silent, the last commonplace dying half spoken on her
trembling lips. Silence now in all the land; only the sound of heart-beats
which each felt must reach the other's ears. Stars more tender than those of
heaven shone close to Graham through the blue-black night; a breath
sweeter than the wind stirring the honeysuckle touched his cheek. At length
that silence, more musical than sweetest harmony, was broken by a low,
deep voice.
"May I kiss you?" said the voice.
What was the faint sound which the night wind wafted to his ear? Was
it the whirring of the humming birds whose nest hung close by? Was it the
far-off silver ripple of the brooklet, or the cadence of the distant sheep-bell?

Was it that sweeter sound than note of mating bird, of falling water, or of
faint bell-chime,--was it a loving woman's "Yes"?

CHAPTER VIII.

"Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers serments
Que deux êtres mortels échangerent sur terre
Ce fut au pied d' un arbre effeuillé par les vents,
Sur un roc en poussière."

When he awoke the next morning, John Graham gave a deep sigh. His
dreams had been so sweet that no reality could equal their happiness. As he
sat on the edge of his narrow bed disentangling what was real from what
was dream-born in his thoughts, his eye fell upon the knot of roses which he
had taken from Millicent's hair the night before, and had clasped to his lips
as he fell asleep. They were faded now, but they still gave out a strong
perfume. His cheek had been wounded by a thorn, but he kissed the wilted
posies, for all that, placed the little bouquet tenderly in an exquisite
Venetian vase, and then bounded down the stairway of his tower and across
the narrow space which led to a clear deep pool where a crystal stream fell
in a white cataract to a rocky basin. The foam-bubbles danced joyously in
the clear dark waters, and the plashing of the fall had a sound of a sweet
deep voice which had grown very dear to him. A mossy bank, shaded by
two drooping trees, sloped to the edge of this natural bath, refreshing
enough to have tempted Diana from the chase. As Graham plunged into the

cool waters he shouted out a verse of a song he had learned long ago.
Attracted by the sound of his voice, French John laid down his axe beside
the young tree he was about to fell, and came down to the pool where
Graham was vigorously tossing about the bright water. The old wood-cutter
looked at the young man as if the sight did him good. He responded to the
uproarious greeting which the artist shouted to him, by his usual silent nod
of the head. Had words been worth their weight in diamond dust, the old
soldier could not have been more chary of wasting them, but the look in his
faded blue eyes was gentle and full of admiration. He had had a son of
whom he had lost all trace since its infancy. If the boy had lived he would
have been about Graham's age, and it was the man's fancy that he would
have resembled his patron. He imagined he could trace in the splendidly
modelled arms and legs and the strong, perfectly proportioned torso of the
bather the shape into which the baby contours he remembered so well must
have developed. Graham had by this time gained the green turf and stood
shaking the water out of his thick hair, drawing quick panting breaths,
meanwhile, and springing about to warm himself, with the grace and
strength of a leopard. The old Frenchman gave a deep sigh as he looked at
him.
"Yes; Hector certainly must resemble this young man," he murmured,
as he wetted his hard hands, and, grasping the handle of his axe, smote
heavily at the stem of a young pine-tree. Graham rapidly made his toilet in
the open air. The plunge in the clear cold water had rather stimulated than
expended the electric, nervous force which ran through his veins,
quickening the life-blood in its flow. He felt ten years younger since
yesterday morning. His thirty years and the gravity they had brought to him
had shrunk to twenty. As he looked up at his tower he sang aloud a snatch
of an old song which had been often on his lips in those happy, careless

days in the Rue d' Enfer,--words which he had painted over the tiny grate in
the cramped apartment under the leads, where he had suffered from heat all
summer, and shivered all winter:

Dans un grenier qu' on est bien
A vingt ans, à vingt ans!

He would have liked to dance. Had his years in truth been but twenty, he
would have yielded to the temptation. He would gladly have thrown his
arms about the old Frenchman, for lack of another confidant, and have told
him the cause of his happiness. But, after all, this reflex of youth could not
entirely melt the reserve of manhood from him; he wore his thirty years
lightly indeed, but could not shake them off.
"Give me your axe, John; I know something of your woodman's craft;
let me show you how easily I can fell this young tree."
He took the tool from the woodcutter, and, whirling the sharp edge in
the air, laid it at the root of the tree with a ringing blow.
"It appears in truth that monsieur 'ave 'andled an axe before."
"Surely, John. I once spent a summer with some friends of mine, who
lived in a forest in Brittany; they were sabotiers."
"Monsieur is jesting?"
"Not in the least. I not only can fell a tree,--clumsily enough, be it
confessed,--but if I had the tools I could shape you a pair of sabots, as good
ones as you could buy for ten sous at Quimper; that is your town, I think?"
He talked in short, jerky sentences between the strokes, while the
white splinters flew about him like a hail-storm. After a few moments the
knack which he seemed at first to have forgotten came back to him. The

smell of the bruised bark was aromatic; the death-sigh of the young
branches was musical as they trembled for the last time together, reaching
out to touch their sister trees in solemn leave-taking. Their sigh was now
drowned in the groan of the swaying tree.
"Take care, monsieur, take care; it is about to fall," cried the
Frenchman.
His warning was a timely one. Graham, so long unused to the exercise
of the craft, had not noticed how deeply he had cut into the stem. The
straight tree seemed to hesitate, tossing its branches helplessly heavenward,
and then with a creaking sound crashed through the surrounding
underbrush, and with a dull thud measured its slender length upon the earth.
For a moment its branches shook convulsively, and then all was quiet. It
seemed as if all nature paused at the fall of so fair a thing: the birds were
silent in the thicket; the babble of the water-fall grew faint; and the wood
creatures stirred not in their burrows. A mighty breeze crept through the
forest, rustling the surrounding trees, wailing through the open gap as if in
requiem, and a light cloud floated over the face of the sun, throwing its
shadowy pall on the spot.
"That was well done, monsieur."
And, at the sound of the man's voice, the cloud floated by and the sun
shone out once more, the wood birds took up their song again, the squirrel
in the hollow of the white oak went on cracking her nut, and the brief
mourning was over.
That man must feel himself indeed beloved, who fancies that the world
will pause as long beside his grave as does the forest at the fall of one of its
children.
Not until the branches had been lopped off and the long stem cut into
lengths, did Graham cease his labor. The exercise did him good, and gave

him an appetite for the breakfast which old John served him in the open air.
He declared that the coffee was better than could be had at the Café de
Paris; and assured John that neither Paris nor Vienna could produce such
bread as that which the old man had baked in some mysterious manner in
an oven of his own construction, made of flat stone sunk in the ground.
Graham remembered that he had somewhere in the tower a bottle of rare
old wine, which he sent John to fetch.
"Bring my glass and your tin cup, John."
He needed sympathy, he who had lived for years without asking man
or woman to share his joys or sorrows; he felt a new need in himself for
human companionship; and the silent old fellow who did his bidding was
the only soul to whom he could look for it. The ice which had encased his
heart was broken; and instead of sternly demanding from his fellow-men
honor, truth, and sincerity, he embraced the whole world in a warm,
unquestioning love and sympathy. Yesterday he was a man who labored for
his kind; to-day he was content to love them. Yesterday he was a reformer;
to-day he was a philanthropist. The henchman returning with the wine,
Graham filled the crystal goblet and the humble cup to the brim, and
together these two denizens of the balmy forest drank to the new day which
had dawned on the young man's life. After the long, black night which for
months obscures the face of nature in the far northern land, the first rising
of the sun touches the hearts of men with a deeper, more profound joy than
the dwellers in a temperate zone can well understand. So was the light of
this new love more glorious a thousand-fold to the man in whose life there
had so long been darkness, than if it had arisen in a heart unacquainted with
grief. In the first flush of happiness, his whole nature rebelled against the
joyless life he had been leading; his work lost its attraction for him, and he
could not have painted a stroke that day if his whole future reputation had

depended upon it. The new impulse had swung him far out of his
accustomed orbit; that there might be a rebound, he never for an instant
fancied.
He spent an hour in ransacking his tower to find the most beautiful
thing he possessed to carry to Millicent. He wanted to go to her with
something in his hand that might in some measure express the tide of
generous feeling that flooded his whole nature. He still had a score of those
treasures, souvenirs of his European residence, of which the greater part had
found their way to the shelves and cabinets of his friends' houses. He spread
them out before him on his one table, ruthlessly pushing aside paints,
brushes, books, and drawing chalks, in a hubbub of disorder. With an
intense interest he looked them all through. He had almost decided upon a
rare Etruscan coin which he had seen roll from the palm of an exhumed
skeleton, when his eye was caught by a tiny Tanagrine figure. The exquisite
modelling of this clay toy, instinct with the beauty which pervaded every
detail of Greek life, made it a more appropriate gift. The miniature woman
was as truly proportioned as the Milo herself, and as surely constructed
according to that greatest law of art that the world has yet seen evolved, the
Greek, wherein are welded together the real and the ideal. A third article
now struck his fancy as more appropriate than either of these for his first
gift to Millicent. It was a crown of olive leaves of the purest gold, which
might have bound Helen's brow. It had lain amidst the dust of eons which
covers Troy with its pall; and now, in the nineteenth century, it was to serve
as the gift of a Californian lover to his mistress. Surely, never before had
the precious leaves encircled so fair a head as that which they were now
destined to adorn.
Among the many sins which had been laid at Graham's door by friend
or foe, the vice of foppery was missing. That minute attention to every

detail of dress, which is found as often in man as in woman, had no place in
his busy life. He was, however, always neatly dressed; and the prosaic
fashions of our time were modified as much as possible in his wardrobe,
especially while he inhabited the forest. On this occasion, instead of one
absent look in his small mirror, merely to ascertain if his hair were properly
parted and his cravat neatly tied, a full hour was given to the process of
dressing. Every suit of clothes, and each possible combination of the
garments which his wardrobe afforded, were carefully considered. When at
last the decision was made, the vest needed a button, which the artist
laboriously attached to the garment. Taking a coarse linen thread strong
enough for a halter, he made the button fast, taking several turns of the
thread about its eye, as if he were belaying a rope. His cravat occupied him
fully a quarter of an hour. He must have brushed his hair at least half a
dozen times. He caught sight of his anxious face in the mirror, just as he
was settling his cravat for the last time, and burst into a peal of laughter at
his own dandyism. At the foot of the tower his sturdy mustang Tasso stood
ready saddled. French John had given an extra polish to the sleek gray coat,
bright enough to reflect the silver-studded Mexican bridle. A pair of red
cockades, set at the ears of the beast, were made from flowers yielded by
the small garden patch behind the woodcutter's cabin, where he raised
flowers and vegetables for his patron and himself. The tall cock gave a
condescending crow of approval as Graham mounted his horse; while the
three cats sunning themselves near by hunched their backs at him, as if to
express their disapproval of his idleness. It was still early in the afternoon,
and it was not his wont to sally forth until the shadows were long. Where
could he be going? they asked one of the other, purring inquisitively
together like a group of women-folk over a cup of afternoon tea. Of all his
brute friends, Tasso alone knew whither his master was going; he snorted

scornfully at cats and cock, and, shaking his head playfully, sped over the
bridle path with flying feet, as if conscious of the eyes that were watching
for him, the ears that were strained to catch the first faint echo of his hoofs
as they flashed over the stony orchard road.
Those sweet eyes had not closed since they had last looked into
Graham's; that white form had known no rest since it had slipped from his
arms. The night, which had brought to him such peaceful dreams, was
fraught with bitter memories to Millicent. She had paced her room through
the long hours. No longer a half-yielding, shrinking maiden, but a woman,
full of tears, before whom some great sorrow, long stifled, had risen up
again. Was her nature then two-fold? While she was with other people,
Millicent seemed a strong, self-reliant woman, pure and cold, with quick
intellectual sympathies, and strong opinions and convictions. When in the
society of the man she loved, his influence unfolded the closed petals of her
heart as the sun kisses back the white leaves of the daisy, and uncovers its
great golden centre to the eyes of all men. A new warmth shone from her
eyes, and softened her silver voice. An unwonted shyness made her
shrinking and timid under his gaze. A new life was born within her, so much
stronger and more intense than any that she had ever known, that her past
existence paled before it as the luminous circle of a night-lamp fades before
the strong rays of morning. But when she was alone....
Whatever her sombre thoughts had been, they were banished before
she next met her lover. When she learned that he had come, she longed to
fly from him out into the dim reaches of the forest, where he had told her
half in jest that they had lived and loved before man's time began; when
nymphs and dryads danced together in the shade of the oak-trees; when Pan
reigned, and the earth was young. If she could have seen him in her own
sanctum, where the light was softened by the dull green hanging of the wall,

where the air was warm from the ever-flaming fire, and sweet with the
spices burning in a great sea-shell, she would not have greatly cared; but the
stereotyped drawing-room, with its blank white walls, was no place for their
greeting. She went down the stairway and stood a moment before Graham;
then, as he advanced towards her as if about to speak, she glided swiftly
from the room across the hall and out into the sunlight.
Barbara, standing near by, scattering corn to a flock of tame doves
which fluttered about her, laughed as the light figure flitted by, with bare
head, and delicate silken draperies fit only to rustle over soft carpets.
Barbara laughed pleasantly, cheerily calling over her shoulder to her
mother, who sat indoors,--
"Look at Millicent racing with her own shadow."
"'T is a substantial shadow, Bab, but otherwise the simile 's good," said
Hal, as he passed by on his way to the dairy.
And Barbara looked again, and looking sighed. Another figure had
sped by her, down the orchard road towards the wood,--the figure of a man,
pursuing the flying girl, with kindled face and fleet steps. She threw her last
handful of grain to the circling doves, went into the stiff drawing-room,
mechanically set straight the disordered chairs and drew down a shade
where the light fell too hotly upon a breadth of carpet. She paused before a
mirror and looked at her own pretty face clouded by a pain she would not
explain. More than one lover had sued for her hand, earnestly and tenderly,
but she had listened to no suit. No man had ever pursued her with fleet steps
and sparkling eyes, no man had ever brought that expression of half-shamed
happiness to her face which had made Millicent look just now like a child
racing with her own shadow.
In the forest Graham found her standing breathless beneath an oak-
tree, whose branches had caught her gown and forced her to stay her flight.

"Again under that terrible oak; but I shall not lose you this time. Say
that you will not vanish in his jealous arms."
"He opens them to me no longer; he offers me no refuge now."
"And I stand waiting for you, and hold out my hand for yours. Not for
a dance now do I ask it, but for a happy walk which shall end only with our
lives. Will you put your hand in mine?"
For answer a little warm palm creeps into his broad fingers; and the
oak-tree sighs a blessing on the betrothal of which he is the only witness.

CHAPTER IX.

"And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,
Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air
That circled freshly in their forest dress
Made them to boys again."

The life of John Graham had been one wherein the sorrowful days far
outnumbered the joyous ones. His youth had been saddened by the reverses
and griefs which had pursued his parents with a relentless persistence. His
home life had not been a happy one. In the large family of brothers and
sisters there had been a meeting and clashing of strong, positive characters
and opposing wills. An intense family pride was the one bond which united
them. This sentiment, almost amounting to a passion, made the members
cling closely to one another when there was little of sympathy to make a

sweeter bond. Graham's parents had moved to California, from the Eastern
town where they were both born, while he was still an infant. The first
sixteen years of his life had been spent on the Pacific coast. At this age he
was sent eastward to pursue his studies. The youth had already determined
on devoting himself to art. The years passed at the famous New England
college were very busy ones. The painful economies by which his beloved
mother defrayed his college expenses were well known to the young man,
and he held himself responsible to that dear and honored parent for every
hour of his time. His active mind eagerly grasped such fruits of knowledge
as were offered by that garden of learning, and his career in the university
fully repaid the sacrifices which it had entailed. During all this time he
never for an instant relinquished his fixed determination to become a
painter. In the leisure hours when his companions were amusing themselves
according to their several tastes, Graham was always found at his easel.
Some wiseacre once suggested to the young man that Greek and Latin were
expensive acquirements, likely to prove useless to a painter.
"And if I were to be a shoemaker, I should make better shoes for
having studied the classics," was his reply to this admonition.
He had not been among the popular men of his class, being very poor
in leisure time, the currency which buys that most expensive commodity,
popularity. He made few friends and no enemies. His strong, earnest nature
commanded the respect of his fellows; and his studious example endeared
him to a few of the most serious among them. At the age of twenty Graham
went to Europe, where he passed the next eight years of his life in study and
hard work. The sketches which he sent home brought him money enough to
live on in that quarter of Paris where the young art students congregate.
Poor enough the living had sometimes been; hunger and cold were well
known to the youth by actual experience. When he lived at the rate of five

francs a day he thought himself rich, and gave suppers in his studio, au
cinquième, Rue d' Enfer. Times there had been, while he was at work upon
his great Salon picture of St. Paul, when a loaf of bread and five sous' worth
of the rough red wine of the people, had sufficed for his day's provender.
Those days of earnest work among the gay companions, whose lives much
resembled his own, were, perhaps, the happiest time in the life of the young
artist. Success had not been wanting to crown his efforts. The picture on
which he toiled for weary days and months received "honorable mention"
from the judges of the Salon; and to the passing fame which this success
brought him, he owed his introduction to the woman who had so spoiled the
happiness of his youth. She was his compatriot, the daughter of a rich
Parisian American, who desired to make the acquaintance of the artist hero
of the hour. The young woman was beautiful, heartless, and slightly
emotional. While in the society of the handsome, spiritual painter, she
yielded to the charm his strong spirit exercised over her; and it was not long
before their names were linked together by the small world which knew
them both. But Graham's happiness was short-lived; and a few months
served to show him the cold, shallow nature of the woman who had aroused
his first passion. After he had been jilted and disillusioned, he turned his
back upon the city where he had learned and suffered so much, and became
a wanderer on the face of Europe. One year found him painting the beauties
of Southern Spain; the next saw him sketching the wonderful scenery which
lies about Stockholm.
About two years before the opening of our story he had returned to San
Francisco, with a portfolio of sketches, a few hundred dollars, and a
prodigious store of canvases, paints, and brushes. He was welcomed by the
many friends who had followed his career with interest, and soon received
more orders for portraits than he could well fill. His taste led him to prefer

another branch of painting; and it was for the purpose of studying the very
beautiful scenery in the neighborhood of San Rosario that he had
established himself in the tower of the old Spanish Mission. He was also
partly induced to take this step, because he found that home life, always
irksome to him, had become, after his long emancipation from domestic
rules and regulations, wellnigh intolerable.
Graham's character was a peculiar one, full of contradictory traits; it
might be compared to a mass of white quartz, through which ran deep veins
of the purest gold. In some respects it was a hard nature, with certain tender
qualities; and nowhere was there to be found an ounce of base metal; a
pitiless nature, which knew not how to forgive either its own faults or those
of his fellow-men. If his judgments of others were harsh, his self-despair
was sometimes fanatical. His ideal of manhood was as pure and noble as
was that of the perfect King Arthur; that he failed a hundred times a day in
living up to it, had not the effect of lowering that ideal one hair's-breadth.
His highest duty was towards his own soul and its struggle to reach the
perfection he held it to be capable of attaining. With the mind of an ascetic,
he was endowed with a warm, sensuous temperament, having a passionate
delight in beauty, light, and color, and capable of living through the senses
with the keen enjoyment of a Sybarite. A strain of music, a beautiful flower,
or a fair child moved him to a degree of pleasure that to any nature save an
artistic one was incomprehensible. Filled with pity at the sight of distress,
he would unhesitatingly give his last dollar to a needy rascal; but if
appealed to for sympathy by the same sinner, the scorching contempt by
which he would blast the shameful deeds for which, to him, there was no
palliation, would leave the wrong-doer a sadder if not a wiser man. Because
he expected so much of men, their short-comings outraged him. To a man
of this character it was easier, if not better, to avoid the paths of his fellows;

and his life had often been that of a hermit, even when he dwelt in the
busiest cities of the world. Not willing that one shadow from the burden of
his life should fall upon the paths of those who cared for him, his voice and
face were always cheery when in their company. He wanted not the
sympathy of man or woman, and endured what griefs were given him to
bear in silence and alone. That divine mandate, "Bear ye one another's
burdens," was meaningless to him; for he had ever borne his burden
unsupported and unhelped. The struggle between the two sides of his
nature, the ascetic and the poetic, seemed sometimes like to rend soul and
body apart; at other times both contending forces seemed asleep, and the
current of his life flowed peacefully on. There were periods when the tender
golden veins seemed to overlap and hide the flinty quartz; then he felt alive,
with thrilling pulses and lips breaking into song; then he painted rapidly,
painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making brilliant failures.
At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed to weight his brush and
dim his vision, to take the color from the warm earth and tender sky; then
the life-blood pulsed slowly through his veins, and he forgot to sing.
Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold
and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first time
in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good or ill,
with that of another human creature. Since his first meeting with Millicent,
on that memorable night when he had found her the central figure of a
picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence had been thawed and
made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded over him. Without
reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the pleasurable charm, only
amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that there was a woman who could
rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance through his dreams at night
with a wilful persistence. If he had been obliged to characterize the

influence which the girl held over him, he would probably have said that
she made his life vivid, and reminded him that his nature was human and
not mechanical. Day by day her presence became more necessary to him;
and his work was slighted, or hastily performed, in order that he might be
free the sooner to reach her side. Without retrospection or introspection he
had lived through the pleasant days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic
behavior had made him feel doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his
life, as well as the new pleasure in that life. When the happy visit had come
to an end, and he had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had
seemed as if he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent
embrace had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed
the tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.
Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to
have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers
through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly. Few
words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other, except
when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them like a
cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance. The one note
which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony, at these times
made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both sprang up
between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the artist was less
shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed transformed from a
statue to a living being, with a heart tender and full of love towards all her
kind. But her cheek grew less round than it had been in the days before this
new life was poured into her veins, and long, sleepless vigils told upon her
strength. She was happy with a joy of which she had never before dreamed,
and yet weary nights of weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What
struggle could it be that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs

from her white lips when she found herself between the four walls of her
own room? One word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he
drew near the house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to
the lips and cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when
he was gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.
To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was
incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had been
transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of the
extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious, irresistible,
committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious with a tragic
sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs. Deering, with that
sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know how to assume
at will, saw nothing.
The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last
days of August were come. It was at this time that a long-planned excursion
took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day
with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles from
the house. Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had heard of
Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination of
circumstances had prevented her from meeting. It was to his camp that they
were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback, as they
drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove of
redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway. Millicent was driving in the light
phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following in the large
wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers. Crouching on the floor
of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with his spotless linen and
shining coppery countenance. He could not sit beside the "Greaser," or
Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him. His round, placid face, with

its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was not an unpleasing one. His hands
and arms were finely modelled, and his sturdy figure was of a much more
solid type than is usual with his race. From his position it was possible for
him to hold a parasol over Mrs. Deering, which he did without varying the
angle of the rather heavy umbrella one degree during the whole long
journey. He had been taught that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that
obedience and respect to the ladies of the family are even more necessary
than submission to the master. On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and
placidly ignored all orders given him by the female members of the
household as unworthy of notice. When he finally had learned the lesson
that "Melican woman boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.
The drive was a beautiful one. The road led through deep valleys, still
wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a mountain
which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the level of a swift
stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who was familiar with the
first five miles of the route, always stopped for a few moments. Sphinx had
grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to a standstill just at the brink of
the bridge which spanned the rushing forest river, grown boisterous at this
place. All about the spot stood the great hills, some green with the never-
fading redwoods and madrone trees, others, stripped by the woodman's
craft, naked and unsightly. Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road,
with its group of humble cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange,
wolfish-looking children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was
of their kin. The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden
piers, joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which
hung over the stream and skirted the mountain's base. The gray ruin of what
had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels and
empty grain-bins. There was a small islet in the stream, between which and

the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect distinctness the
trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of the overhanging bank.
Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying the familiar beauty of
the scene.
"You will paint this place one day for me, will you not? I care very
much for it." Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her side
laughed and answered,--
"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird
on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter
shall see a picture. Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be portrayed in
art."
For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that
scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal
brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong mules
following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on his fleet
mustang. It was not far from high noon when the party arrived at the place
of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low underbrush at the
foot of a hill. In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a young man emerged from
the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in greeting, hurried to help
Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon.
"How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice. "The
fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much faith in
your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you. Miss Deering, you were too quick
for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace. Well, Graham, glad to
see you; for once you are better than your word."
The young men shook hands with that punctilious politeness which
gentlemen who do not quite like each other are apt to show in the presence
of mutual lady friends. Deering presented their host to Miss Almsford, and

at that moment the other two woodmen made their appearance,--Michael
O'Neil, a jolly-looking young Irishman, and Dick Hartley, a dark-browed
Englishman. The three men were intimates at the Ranch, and Millicent
already knew O'Neil and Hartley; the latter was an old friend and travelling-
companion of Graham. Leaving Deering and O'Neil to take care of the
horses, Galbraith led the way to the camp, a sheltered spot on the south side
of the protecting hill. Three small sleeping-tents here stood close together.
Galbraith's was the central one; it was wonderfully luxurious, Millicent
thought, with its comfortable rug and little iron bedstead, two chairs, and a
writing-table. A small looking-glass had been brought from town "on
purpose for the visit of the ladies," Hartley assured them; at which
statement there was a general laugh at the young Englishman's expense, his
personal vanity being well known. But it was of the greenwood drawing-
room that the ladies expressed the highest approval. A square space of
ground had been cleared of the dense undergrowth, its smooth surface being
thickly carpeted by soft piles of fresh, sweet ferns. Close-growing shrubs
and bushes served as walls, while the thick branches of the great trees made
a roof close enough to keep out the heat of the sun. The flowers of the
manzanita and the buckeye perfumed the air of this sylvan boudoir, wherein
were ranged comfortable stools and camp-chairs. A wide hammock fitted
with a red blanket swung between two straight tree stems. Here they sat for
a while, resting from the long drive; and here it was that Millicent had time
to observe more particularly the appearance of Mr. Maurice Galbraith, of
whom she had heard so much. Galbraith was not, strictly speaking, a
handsome man, though he had a good deal of beauty. He was tall and
slender, with a finely shaped head, well set upon the shoulders. His bright,
intelligent face was too thin for beauty; while the fine, brilliant eyes, with
their heavy lashes, were hollow from over-work. His delicate chin and

mouth were exquisitely modelled; while the nose seemed a trifle over-large
through the extreme thinness of the face. The features in repose were almost
stern in their look of concentrated thought; but when he laughed it was with
the sudden merriment of a child, the mouth parting over the small white
teeth, and the large, dark, hollow eyes flashing cheerily. Barely over thirty,
he might have passed for some years older, an unflagging attention to his
arduous profession having told somewhat upon his strength. Among the
lawyers on the Pacific coast, Galbraith was considered a rising man, his late
appointment to a district attorneyship proving the confidence which he
enjoyed. Millicent thought him decidedly the most attractive of their hosts;
but her quick intuition had already told her that Graham felt little cordiality
towards him, and she spoke chiefly to Hartley, the rather insignificant
"beauty man" of the camp. From him she learned that for several years the
trio of friends had passed the summer months in camping out at some spot
not far distant from the railroad, which carried them every morning to San
Francisco, and which brought them back as early in the afternoon as might
be. Their one henchman (of course a Chinaman) was left in charge of the
camp during the day, and performed the household work necessary to so
primitive a ménage. Not far distant from the camp, the stream whose course
they had followed spread out into a wide, deep pool, affording an
opportunity for a refreshing plunge, with which the three friends were wont
to begin the proceedings of the day. A breakfast eaten at the tent door was
followed by a walk to the station, half a mile distant, when they bade good-
by to their sylvan home. Four o'clock, or at latest five, saw them on their
way from the city; and an hour or two of angling in the cool stream,
wherein swam delicious trout, or a tramp through the woods with a gun,
brought them to the dinner hour. Just at this point in Hartley's chronicle of
their daily life, Ah Lam, who had been brought to assist the one servant of

the camp in his preparations, announced that dinner was served. Millicent
never learned how the evenings were passed in camp, for there was a
general move towards the dining-room, another triumph of sylvan
architecture. A few paces distant from the green parlor, but hidden from it
by the thick intervening bushes, was a great fig-tree with wide-spreading
branches laden with delicious purple fruit. At the foot of the tree stood a
table laid with plates, knives and forks, and other appurtenances of civilized
life. Millicent gave a little cry of delight at the prettily decorated board,
which was wreathed with a garland of green leaves and covered with bright
flowers. Barbara, who had been reading Dumas with that intense delight to
which the first acquaintance with French romance gives rise, said that the
banquet surpassed the one spread by Joseph Bassano for the Dauphine of
France in the old Chateau. Millicent found herself at the table between
Graham and the good-natured Irishman, O'Neil. Her lover seemed to her
handsomer to-day among this band of his contemporaries than ever before;
and she looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes, forgetting all in the
world beside or beyond him. O'Neil, who was the wit of the camp, told
funny stories at which every one laughed; but when Graham spoke, the men
all listened, like soldiers waiting the words of their superior. Before they
had come to the table, the artist had twined a girdle for Millicent's slender
waist of some feathery green creeper, a spray of which she had wreathed
about her head. When the red wine was poured, Graham spilled from his
glass, as if by accident, a few drops upon the earth, then, touching his
goblet to hers, he said in an undertone,--
"We will drink the old toast, my nymph, to Pan, evoë, evoë!"
Galbraith devoted himself to Barbara; and after dinner, when all justice
had been done to the woodland fare, and the great warm figs had been eaten
with the sunshine in them, the party broke up into groups. Graham, who had

brought his colors, made a sketch of the view from the hilltops, Millicent
sitting silently beside him, handing him the brushes as he required them,
then squeezing the little tubes of paint with a childish delight. Barbara and
Galbraith made their way to the pool, where Miss Deering angled
successfully, landing four good-sized trout within the hour. Hal Deering and
O'Neil employed the time in firing at an ace of hearts pinned to a tree; while
Hartley and Mrs. Deering sat in the green parlor, where the thoughtful,
motherly woman put a very necessary patch on one of Galbraith's coats, in
which her quick glance had descried a rent, as it hung on a peg in his tent.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, and his sketch drew near its
completion, Graham found time occasionally to speak to his companion
sitting so quietly and contentedly at his side. The absolute ignoring of self
possible to this intelligent girl, with her strong mind and latent talents, was
incomprehensible to him. She was perfectly happy to forget her individual
existence in a sympathetic interest in his work. He felt sure that should it
please him she would give up her music, her studies, every other interest in
life and be content to sit always as now, watching his work, giving a word
of intelligent criticism when asked to do so, stifling every thought which
should cloud the mirror of her mind in which he might see himself ever
reflected. To the sensitive man, who had passed most of his life in solitude,
this absolute, unreasoning devotion had something intensely painful about
it. If he had known how to frame his thought he would have begged her to
care less for him. He felt himself an ingrate, so poor a return could he make
for this wealth of love poured out at his feet. Her presence was a pleasure to
him; he loved to watch her graceful motions as she walked, and the
beautiful poses which she all unconsciously took in sitting, standing, or
moving. Her appreciation of his work, her understanding of himself, were
truer than ever man or woman had shown before; and yet he sometimes was

annoyed by the irksome feeling that what he had to give her was but a
bankrupt's portion of love. Times there were when this feeling did not
intrude itself upon him; and the day which was now drawing to its close
was one of those precious ones wherein had been no slightest
misunderstanding betwixt them. When Hal came to tell them that it was
time to return, Graham put up his work with a sigh that it must be so soon
finished, and the two lovers lingered for a moment, taking a last look over
the little camp.
After bidding their hosts farewell the guests turned their horses toward
home, the larger wagon with Mrs. Deering and Barbara leading the way.
Sphinx, whose best days were over, was tired; and Millicent soon lost sight
of the swift mule team. Graham rode a little in advance of the carriage,
leaving the place at Millicent's side to Mr. Galbraith, who had volunteered
to accompany them for a part of the journey. She found him a most
attractive person, and was much interested in his conversation. He told her
anecdotes of the primitive justice which prevailed in certain remote districts
of the State, and gave some personal reminiscences of his earliest cases, in
which he had been called upon to defend or accuse criminals of the most
desperate class. Galbraith talked with that sort of brilliancy which requires
sympathetic attention from his hearers, and for the first three miles of the
road he was able to win this from Miss Almsford. When, however, the girl's
eyes wandered from his intelligent face to the man on horseback half a
dozen rods in advance, and she mentally compared the strong, elastic figure
of the distant horseman to the man at her side, Galbraith found that it was
time to return to the camp and "leave them to their own fate." Millicent's
parting words were doubly gracious to the young lawyer, from the fact that
she thought his departure would bring her lover to her. In this hope she was
however disappointed, for Graham was in one of those moods when silence

was more attractive to him than Hal's amusing companionship. He would
have liked to have Millicent all to himself on that pleasant homeward ride;
but Millicent with the inevitable addition of Deering could not win him to
her side. Suddenly the two in the carriage saw Graham's horse give a wild
rear and plunge, after which he shied at some unseen object by the roadside
with a force which would have unseated any ordinary horseman. The
animal now stood for an instant trembling in every limb, and then seemed
to fling himself and his rider in a perfect agony of terror down the high-
road, his four feet beating out the startling measure of a break-neck gallop
to Millicent's horrified ears. From the cloud of dust, and through the
cadence of the mustang's hoofs, these words were shouted back to them,--
"Look out for rattlesnakes!"
They had by this time reached the spot where Graham's horse had
taken fright; and old Sphinx shivered violently, tossing his head and
snorting loudly. In a few moments, it seemed to Millicent an eternity,
Graham rejoined them, having regained control over his fiery horse.
"Deering, stand by Sphinx's head and hold my horse, will you?"
As he spoke John Graham dismounted, pulled his high boots over his
knees, and seizing the heavy whip from the carriage, advanced cautiously to
the edge of the road, while Hal soothed the startled horses. Millicent, left
alone in the wagon, gave a low cry of terror. Graham was at her side in an
instant.
"Dear one, you must help me with your courage; do not be afraid,
there is really no danger," he murmured. She was silent, and tried to smile
an answer.
Graham now walked slowly along the road, looking intently into the
grass which lined the highway. Suddenly the dread sound of the rattle was
heard, awful alike to man and beast. Sphinx started again, but was soon

quieted, while Tasso reared and gave a shriek of terror. Graham, raising his
heavy whip, brought the thong with a tremendous force across the snake's
body. The creature reared itself with blazing eyes and sprang towards its
pursuer, who dealt it another blow; and before it could coil itself for a
second spring, Graham ran forward, and with his iron boot-heel crushed the
reptile's head into the dust. He soon despatched the writhing creature, and
was stooping to cut the rattles from its lifeless body, when a warning cry
from Millicent told him that the battle was not over. The mate of the dead
snake was close beside him, ready to spring upon his stooping body. He
straightened himself, and ran backwards, firing his revolver as he went. The
shot missed the snake, whose rattle rang out a very death-knell. It leaped
savagely towards him. Graham had dropped his whip, most efficient of
weapons with which to meet these dangerous animals, and hastily tearing
off his coat he threw it over the snake. He sprang upon the garment and
stamped in every direction; finally pinning the creature low down in the
body, the bristled head, with its awful tongue, reared itself from beneath the
folds of the coat, wounded but furious to avenge its mate. The horrible hiss
chilled Millicent's blood. She saw the forked tongue dart out and strike
Graham's leg. Mercifully it struck below the knee, the fang failing to
penetrate the thick leather of the boot. The creature wreathed another coil of
its length from beneath the iron heel, and again made ready to strike.
Graham cocked his revolver, and while the angry red throat, with its death-
dealing jaws, yawned before him, he poured a volley of hot lead into the
writhing body. One, two, three shots Millicent counted; and then after a
pause Graham's voice rang out brisk and clear: "All right, my girl, if there
are no more of the beasts." The still quivering bodies of the snakes lay in
the dust of the road, and Graham, recovering his whip, carefully examined
the locality from which they had emerged, to see if by chance a nest of eggs

or young ones was to be found. His search was unsuccessful; and after
securing the second rattle, which was a long one, proving how powerful the
reptile had been, he measured the bodies of the dead snakes, and rejoined
Millicent. She held out her hand to him; and Deering, who had had as much
as he could do in controlling the two horses, congratulated him on his
success, and was about to resume his seat in the carriage. Millicent had
been perfectly quiet and composed during the time of danger; her firm hand
and voice had controlled the frightened horse; her watchfulness had warned
Graham of the approach of his second enemy. But now the snakes were
both dead, her lover was safe, and there was no further need of her strength
or composure. As Hal approached the carriage, she dropped the reins,
buried her face in her hands, and burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
Hal, who had lifted one foot to the step of the vehicle, dropped it to the
ground, and retreated a few paces with a frightened countenance. He would
not have been afraid to encounter a nest of rattlesnakes, but a weeping girl
completely unnerved him. He retreated behind the wagon, and, after a
hurried conversation with Graham, without more ado, mounted that
gentleman's horse and rode off as fast as the animal would carry him; while
Graham quietly stepped into the vehicle, and touching Millicent lightly on
the shoulder, said, "Millicent, it is I."
The passionate weeping grew more quiet; the sobs became less
violent; a slight tremor ran through her frame at the touch; at the words the
tears rolled back to their source; and presently a pale face was lifted from
the supporting hands, and the mouth quivered into a smile. And so they rode
home together, hand in hand, through the deepening shadows; and one more
day of the sweet summer-tide of love had passed, and each was richer for
that day, how often recalled by both of them when the shadows of life had
deepened into night.

CHAPTER X.

"Thereon comes what awakening! One grave sheet
Of cold implacable white about me drawn"--

John Graham was one of those men in whose nature there seems no trace of
feminality. Man and woman supplement each other, each bringing certain
qualities to the completion of humanity; and yet it is rare to find a man
whose character is not modified by some mother trait. Graham's qualities
and his faults were equally masculine; he was more strongly attracted by
women through this intense virility than are men who, having some trace of
the feminine in their nature, understand and sympathize more perfectly with
the opposite sex. The attraction was one against which he rebelled, deeming
it to belong to the weaker side of his nature; and he had so ordered his life
that it might not fall within the influence of maid or matron. This
antagonism to woman made itself felt in his work; his successful pictures
were of men, their high exploits and successes. A noble painting of Saint
Paul, which now hung over the altar of a Roman Catholic church in San
Francisco, had won him his first reputation in Paris; he could understand
and sympathize with that great man as if he had known him. It was only the
highest type of man that attracted him,--the lovers of men, and not their
conquerors. He had never tried to paint Alexander, but had labored long and
lovingly over a picture of Socrates. The female subjects which he had
treated were not less powerful than these, but the force which they showed

was scornful and untender. A marvellous painting of Circe hung in his
studio; it was one of his most masterly works, and yet, though critics had
praised and connoisseurs had approved it, the picture was still unsold. With
black brows bound by red-gold serpents, the enchantress lay upon a
luxurious couch; her beautiful body was but half veiled, the arms and
bosom immodestly displayed; about her jewelled feet fawned the creatures
whose brute natures had conspired with the enchantress to smother
whatever was human in their beings; self-despair and scorn for their
abasement deformed her regular features to that moral ugliness never so
hideous as when seen in a youthful and beautiful face. A terrible picture,
full of wrath, but untempered by mercy. His Cressida, purchased by a great
European Academy, was another wonderful picture; a picture which made
men smile a little bitterly, and had brought an angry flush to the cheek of
more than one sensitive woman.
Over a man of this nature woman holds a more important influence
than with any other class; it may be a good influence or it may be a harmful
one, but it is the most potent one which touches his life. Had John Graham
loved happily at twenty-five, instead of most miserably, he would have been
a very different man at thirty from the hermit artist of San Rosario. It would
have been better for him if he could have learned the lesson which all wise
men learn if they live long enough,--that women are neither angels who
stand immeasurably above men, nor inferior beings whose place is at their
feet, but human like themselves, full of good and faulty instincts, and, with
all their imperfections, the God-given helpmates of man. So justly should
they be judged; and if a little mercy be claimed for them, generosity should
not deny it, so few are their chances in life compared with those of their
brothers. A woman has but one possibility of happiness in this world. The

stakes are high on which she risks her whole fortune, which she may lose
by one unredeemable throw.
If Graham could have known all this, as, being what he was, he could
not, he would have gained that one element which his genius lacked to
make it superlative. Man and child he was by turns, but never for an instant
had he been able to look at life from the standpoint of a woman. He had
once loved the whole gentler sex with that chivalrous spirit which made
him unfit to live in the nineteenth century. No discourteous or cruel word
toward any woman had he to reproach himself with; he had looked upon
them as creatures so far removed from his sphere, that his mind must be
cleared of every base thought before it might dwell upon them; they were
mysterious angels which it was his happiness to worship. Then came a
change, and the love which had turned to grief darkened his soul. As his
heart had been filled with a love so great that it embraced all the sisters of
his idol, his contempt went out towards them, as his love had done before.
His revenge had been terrible: he had struck at womankind; he had pictured
it in its debasement for all the world to see.
The few women for whom he cared were elderly people, whose life-
battles had been fought and won; who sat enthroned in the calm of that
peaceful period when youth is no longer regretted nor old age feared. Such
women he could paint without bitterness; and his portrait of his mother was
a masterpiece of exquisite sentiment. No woman that he had ever met
disliked John Graham; if he was distant and cold, he was honest and
courteous, and a gentleman in the deepest sense of the word. He was too
chivalrous to revenge himself on any individual; his grief was too great to
stoop to anything so mean. More than one woman would gladly have loved
him, but he avoided them as if they had been poison-nurtured.

Men, as a rule, respected and feared Graham; a few of his heart-friends
would have given their lives for him with a smile. To those who understood
and loved him, there was something more than human about the man,--a
quality to which the highest part of their nature did homage. Fools laughed
at him for his quixotism; the critics had worn themselves out in shrieking
abuse of his work which affected him in nowise. He cared little for men's
praise or blame; he would have died to help them to a new truth. He was of
the stuff which made martyrs in the old time, crusaders in the dark ages, and
artists in the Renaissance. His pictures were beautiful as works of art, but
they were great because they embodied living truths. At twenty his friends
said that he had great talent; at thirty his enemies ceased to deny his force;
at forty, if he lived so long, the world would crown him with its laurel as a
man of genius. If haply that bitterness which lay like a blight on all his
work, on all his life, might be made sweet! What a chance was here for the
woman whose love was now breaking over his frozen life with warmth,
fragrance, and beauty! How grand an opportunity to sweeten by truth and
faith all that had grown bitter from untruth and faithlessness! If she could
only have known him as he was, have understood him and his past, before
she had loved him, what could not Millicent have accomplished! Alas! poor
child, she knew nothing of all this. Her own past was black with a grief and
wrong greater than that which he had borne. She, too, was waking, and for
the first time, from a trance of soul and sleep of heart; she was all engrossed
in her own growth and development. She was like a little dungeon-born
plant, which has at last climbed through the iron bars, and under the light
and warmth of the glorious day runs riotous and unthinking across the wall,
up, down, on every side, content to live and grow in the sun and air. But the
taint of the old wrong and the lie it had entailed, were not yet left behind.
He had taken her for a pure white lily; and how could she tell him that there

had been a time when she lived in darkness and despair before her life
flowered into its one perfect white blossom under the warmth of his love?
Life is very pleasant at the San Rosario Ranch with its bordering of
peaceful hills. Here all are happy, be they of high or low degree; from the
gentle-voiced châtelaine to the stranger within her gates, the potent charm
extends. The fair daughter and tall son have lived peaceful, uneventful
lives; and though their young eyes may sometimes turn a little wearily
toward the mountain barrier, beyond which lies the great busy world,
known more to them by hearsay than by actual experience, they are happy,
far happier than are most of the men and women in the crowded
thoroughfare of the world's cities. The Ranch does not lie in the belt of
gold, nor in the silver girdle which crosses the Pacific coast. The rude
mining towns are far distant from this portion of the dairy lands of
California. The trains which leave the station in this neighborhood are laden
indeed with a golden freight; but no armed men are found necessary to
guard the boxes filled with their rolls of fragrant yellow. The product of the
dairy lands is of a smaller, surer value than that for which men toil and
drudge in the gulches or mines. Far away to the southward, where the
orange groves are white and golden with their double burden of blossom
and fruit, is a climate milder than that of San Rosario; and there Hal had set
his heart upon one day establishing himself. In that vine country the air is
heavy with the spicy odor of the grape, and the harvest is blood-red with its
life-juices; and yet to Millicent the fairest garden in this world's garden lay
between the circled hills of San Rosario.
Millicent, having learned the earliest stage of butter-making under
Hal's direction, wished to be initiated into the mysteries which follow the
skimming of the cream. Hal gave one of his boisterous guffaws of laughter
when she one morning gravely informed him that she was going to help in

that day's churning. She had donned the prettiest chintz morning gown
imaginable, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a fresh white apron.
Her skirt was kilted up half way to the knee, showing a scarlet petticoat,
which in turn exposed the pretty, small feet, and possibly two inches more
of the round ankle than is usually shown by ladies of her degree. Tying one
of the great picturesque hats which they had brought home from San Real,
under her chin, the energetic young woman started for the dairy. Hal, giving
a knowing wink to his mother and sister standing near by, as if to say that
the joke was too good to be spoiled, followed her, with Tip, the cross old
dog, following him in turn.
"Millicent, did you ever do any churning?"
"No, but I can learn."
"Without doubt; but tell me, did you ever see any one else churn?"
"Oh, yes; very often."
"Who, if one may ask?"
"You will not know any better if I tell you. It was old Nina, at home."
"Ah, old Nina; and what sort of a machine did she use?"
"She did not use a machine at all; she used a churn, like anybody else."
"What did it look like?"
"I am sure I have forgotten; it was probably an old-fashioned one, but
it made quite as good butter as yours does;" this in a slightly irritated voice.
She objected to being catechised, and had, moreover, a dim sense that
Deering was bent on quizzing her. She ran along the footpath in advance in
order to avoid further questioning, and reached the dairy a few minutes
before him. Finding the main door shut, she hurried round to the side, when,
just as she turned the corner, her rapid progress was suddenly brought to an
end. She had met an obstacle; she had, moreover, fallen into the arms of the
obstacle, which proved to be a tall man with a kindly voice, for he called

out merrily, "Hello, my girl, where are you going so fast?" steadying her at
the same moment with his arm, as the sudden shock almost precipitated her
from the path.
Millicent drew back disconcerted and breathless, and looked up into
the face of the man whom she had so unexpectedly encountered. When she
saw that it was a face familiar to her, she blushed and stammered a little as
she replied to his astonished greeting. Mutual apologies and explanations
followed; and Hal, coming up at that moment, laughed at her discomfiture
till the tears rolled down his face.
"You always laugh at other people's misfortunes," cried Millicent,
trying to be angry; but it was impossible to be angry with Hal. The
irrepressible young rancher carried the day; and Maurice Galbraith assured
Millicent that it was his awkwardness which had aroused Deering's
merriment.
"We are very glad to see you, Galbraith, but we are too busy to stop
and talk to you just now. You will find mother and Bab at the house. I have
a new hand here who is going to take charge of the churning in future, and I
am just showing her about a little. Do you catch on?"
"Slang again! Five cents more towards the amusement fund."
"Oh, we shall not want any more amusement fund if you are going to
turn worker, Princess." As he spoke they entered the cool dairy. It was
tenantless. At one end of the room stood a large wooden vessel, half as big
as the Trojan horse, and from its hollow sides came a dull, splashing sound.
"Why, you said they would be at work already," said Millicent, in a
disappointed voice; "where are they all?"
"Oh, it only takes one man to attend to this part of the butter-making,
and there he is at his post."

Outside the open doorway, as wide as the entrance to a barn, sat Pedro,
lazily smoking his pipe, and occasionally flicking with his whip the strong
mule who was slowly revolving round the small space to which he was
tethered.
"Well," said Millicent impatiently, "what does that mean?"
"Only this, my Princess, that you must turn the crank that this animal
is agitating, with your own small hands, if you persist in your resolution to
help with the churning."
Millicent's face fell; and Galbraith hastened to explain to her that the
quantity of cream handled at one churning made it necessary, in a place
where human labor is so dear, to employ horsepower. Nobody likes to be
laughed at, though Millicent tried hard to smile at her own blunder; when
Hal, suddenly calling out; "By your leave, Princess," without a word of
warning caught up the young lady in his arms, and placed her on the back
of the patient mule, remarking, as he accomplished the feat, "No one can
say now that you have not helped with the churning."
It would be difficult to say whether Millicent or the mule felt the
greater surprise; they were both taken unawares; but the quadruped was the
first to recover himself, and resumed his weary task of plodding round in
the monotonous circle. Millicent, clinging closely to the creature, cried
loudly to be relieved from her uncomfortable position; but Hal, fearing her
wrath, had disappeared into the interior of the dairy, leaving to Galbraith the
pleasure of assisting the young woman in dismounting. Pedro, who had
been an amused spectator of the scene, now announced that the churning
was completed, and that they should soon see the washing of the butter, if it
pleased them to wait. The big golden fragments were collected from the sea
of buttermilk, and finally massed together on a wide table. There it was
worked by Pedro, who tossed the fragrant mass from side to side, pressing

out the remaining deposits of the milk with a heavy wooden wand. He
moulded the butter into fantastic forms, prettiest of which was a huge bell-
shaped flower like a giant trumpet blossom. It struck Millicent that here was
a delightful material for modelling; and taking up a piece of butter and one
of the dairy tools, she forthwith produced a bas-relief portrait of Galbraith,
which would have done credit to the sculptress of the sleeping Iolanthe.
"There are two classes of hands, those which are skilful and those
which are clumsy; of all other divisions of humanity this is the most
important. You, Miss Almsford, are so happy as to belong to the skilful half,
or rather quarter, of humanity,--for men are all clumsy. I see that you can do
all things artistic as well as useful with your fingers."
"I am afraid I have never tried to do much that was useful," said the
girl half ruefully. "Barbara, now, can do all sorts of things. But I am tired of
comparing myself with her; I always suffer by the process;" this with a
rather vicious little stroke at the butter-model, which she was now finishing
into a medallion, with a pattern of scroll-work for a border.
"Let me judge between yourself and Miss Barbara. I know that she can
touch the ivory keys with grace, and can also make wonderful peach
preserves. On the other hand, you model in butter and--and--well, what else
can those small hands accomplish of art or industry?"
"They can draw a little as well as model; they can trim bonnets, yes,
really quite well; they are not unfamiliar with the key-boards of piano and
organ; and, best of all,--I had really forgotten to enumerate this
accomplishment,--they can move tables and chairs; they can draw pain from
your head; they can put you into a trance,--they are, in fact, magnetic
hands."
"It seems, then, that you are a Spiritualist."

"Far from it; by what power I do the few things which form the
repertoire of my manifestations, as the mediums call them, I do not know
any more than you."
"Will you give me a séance?"
"Indeed; no."
"And because--"
"Because it tires me, and I am rather afraid of my own power. Some
one once compared me to a child who had got hold of an electric battery
which he did not understand, and with which he unwittingly produced
inexplicable phenomena, not devoid of danger to himself."
"You are really in earnest then, and believe in these manifestations?"
"Perfectly so; and I am rather cowardly about exploring them to their
source, as I have seen so many strong minds unhinged by study of this
subject. I certainly object to the vulgar theory, that the spirits of those who
have gone before us have nothing better to do than to tip tables and dip their
hands in pails of paraffine which accommodating mediums prepare for
them."
"You do not believe in mediums, then?"
"I believe no manifestation to be genuine which comes from a
professional medium. That they often have real power, I do not doubt; but
so soon as it is a question of earning their living, they must inevitably fall
back upon fraud. But we are growing quite serious about this subject which
I never like to talk of for fear of being misunderstood."
"But I am really interested in what you say--"
"Never mind; here is your portrait, which is not flattered, I frankly
confess; but is it a little like you?"
"If I know my face at all, it is wonderfully good. Would that you had
deigned to model it in a less perishable material!"

"Oh, no! this is infinitely better, it is so much more appropriate--
"Thanks for the compliment; but why, if I may ask, should you
consider butter to be particularly suitable to me?"
"Not to you personally, but to humanity. Is it not stupid to carve bronze
fac-similes of that which is as perishable as the grass?"
"But had it not been for this stupidity, how should we know the
features of Cæsar?"
"And would it greatly matter?"
"I think so; but a young lady who so cruelly assures me that butter is
the only material in which my humble features deserve to be reproduced--"
Millicent interrupted the speaker by her pleasant laugh, with its sound
of falling waters, and thanking Pedro for what he had shown her, led the
way from the dairy. She refused to speak further on the subject during the
day-time, but as they sat together on the piazza in the twilight, Galbraith
referred to it again; and, after much persuasion, Millicent seated herself at a
table, round which the company grouped themselves, placing their hands
lightly on its surface. Barbara, who was seated next to Millicent, their hands
touching one another, seemed strangely affected, after they had been sitting
for some time in silence. She manifested unmistakable signs of sleepiness,
and finally, with a long sigh, her eyes closed and her head fell upon
Millicent's shoulder. With a little frightened cry, Millicent quickly lifted her,
and making several passes over her head called Hal to come and support his
sister. In a moment Barbara recovered herself, and showed no more
symptoms of sleep. She laughed heartily, and said that a peculiar sensation
in her elbows had preceded her momentary unconsciousness. Galbraith
applauded the little episode, which he assured Millicent was very well acted
by both participants. The girl turned her eyes, deep and burning, full upon
him, half in anger, and said,--

"Very well, Mr. Galbraith, we will see if you can act a part as well as
Barbara. Lay your hand in mine--so."
The young man smiled, and did as he was bid, with a courteous bow,
as if deprecating the power in which he did not believe; and for a space of
time they stood looking each other full in the face. Then Millicent's slight
form seemed to vibrate, and from her eyes a light flashed into the man's
dark orbs, her cheek flushed, and from every nerve in her body an electric
flash seemed to emanate, concentrating into a broad current at the shoulder,
and slipping through the round white arm to the very finger-tips. Galbraith's
face paled as hers flushed; a stinging sensation half painful, half agreeable,
made him wince; and when in a few moments Millicent withdrew her hand,
he remained standing motionless, white to the lips, with dim, dreaming
eyes, and slow-beating heart.
"Speak," said the magnetizer, "tell me what is in your mind?"
"There is nothing," answered the man, in a low, monotonous voice.
"Now speak, and tell me what you see."
"I see a man on horseback; the horse is running away. Now he gallops,
and the rider loses control of him; they disappear in a cloud of dust, and I
see nothing. Now they return; the horse is going quietly, and the rider looks
towards a carriage in which sits a lady; it is Millicent. He enters the
carriage; she is weeping, and he touches--" he paused.
Millicent's cheek had grown crimson. She said in a low tone,--
"Why do you not continue?"
"Because you will not let me."
At this moment a light step sounded on the piazza. Millicent turned her
head and saw Graham approaching her. She stepped quickly towards him,
forgetting Galbraith, the company, everything and everybody, save that her

lover had come to her. As she turned from him, Galbraith reeled suddenly,
and would have fallen had not Hal steadied him to a seat.
"I fear I am interrupting you," said the artist, in a cool voice, betraying
some annoyance.
"Indeed, no," cried the girl, "we were only trying the stupid old game
of willing people; I have succeeded in magnetizing Mr. Galbraith here."
By this time the young lawyer had recovered himself, though he
looked strangely pale and agitated. He was somewhat overcome by what
had gone before, and was not a little troubled by the power which the tall,
straight girl had exercised over him. He rebelled against it, and yet the
sensation of giving up his volition, and living for the time only by her will
and her thought had not been unmixed with a keen pleasure. If no one had
witnessed the affair, above all, if Graham had not seen it, he would not have
greatly cared; but though he had no recollection of what he had seen and
described in Millicent's mind, that evening's experience deepened the vague
antipathy he had always felt towards the artist, into a positive dislike.
Later, as they walked together alone, Graham asked Millicent if she
would magnetize him, to which she replied in the negative.
"Do you think that you could succeed?"
"I cannot tell; but if I could, I should not be willing to do so."
"And yet you threw a spell over that fellow Galbraith?"
"Dear, there is a difference; cannot you see?"
"No; upon my soul I can't."
"I do not want to command even your thought for an instant; you must
think of me to please yourself, not because I will it."
"What a strange girl you are, Millicent! Do you really love me so very
much?"
"I love you better than my own soul."

"A dangerous thing, child; do not ever say that to me again."
"Why?"
"It shocks me; I cannot tell you why."
For answer, she gave him a rose from her breast with a childish
gesture, as if asking forgiveness. There was an awkwardness, born of an
unwonted shyness, in the movement which was more attractive to the artist
than the most graceful attitude he had ever seen her assume. He caught the
hand with the rose and crushed them both in his two strong palms, as if to
hurt her. She smiled, though her wrist reddened from the sudden pressure. It
is more sweet to bear pain from those we love, than to receive kindness
from a hand which is not dear.
As Graham was taking his leave, he asked Millicent for two books
which she had promised to lend him. Barbara had joined them, and offered
to fetch them for him.
"Thank you, Barbara, but I know just where they are."
"Is it not the Petrarch and your manuscript translation of Dante that
Mr. Graham wants?"
"Yes."
"You left them on your table. I saw them when I went up to shut the
blinds. You had better let me go, you are so tired."
"Yes, let Miss Deering get them for you; you are quite worn out with
your magnetizing." He wanted to say one last good-night to her.
His lightest wish was her law; she nodded gratefully to Barbara, who
disappeared, while Graham told her once more how lovely she was that
night. When Miss Deering came back, Graham had already mounted his
horse and Millicent was feeding the animal with sugar.
"You are sure you have the right books, Barbara?"
"Quite sure; I know them perfectly."

"Many thanks to you both, and good-night."
Millicent was in a wakeful mood that night. She went to the piano and
played for an hour or two, as she only played when alone. Her hands drifted
dreamily over the key-board, drawing out fantastic melodies,--themes
which were composed and forgotten within the hour. In an obscure corner
of the room stood a head of Beethoven. Her eyes were fixed on the face of
the master while she played, and as the notes grew strong and sweet she
smiled; when the harmony changed to a tender minor strain, the smile faded
from her face. The music expressed the thoughts which drifted through her
mind. At first she played the quick movement of a march, through which
rang out the measured beat of a horse's hoofs; then the strain changed to a
pensive nocturne suggestive of the forest at night. A tender slumber-song
followed, in which her voice took up the melody, chanting loving words in
the language of Tuscany. The light, delicate thread of harmony now
broadened into a full consonance of sound, the chords following each other
tumultuously, as if in translating one supreme moment of leave-taking. As
she was striking the closing strains of this emotional improvisation, her
powerful voice trembling with a passionate addio, the sweet symphony of
sounds was interrupted by a crashing discord. She sprang from the piano
startled and trembling, to find that a heavy vase of flowers had fallen on the
key-board from the shelf above the piano. The metal jar was uninjured, but
about her feet were scattered the petals of a bunch of white roses which
Graham had plucked for her that night. So rudely was her rhapsody
interrupted! She closed the piano, and, after restlessly wandering through
the silent house, went to her own room, where she sat looking out of her
window at the moon-lit hills. She could not sleep, she was full of unrest.
The gray morning light was filtering into Barbara Deering's room
when she was awakened by a light touch on the shoulder. Millicent stood

before her, gray as the twilight; she held in her hand a small parchment
book.
"Barbara, what books did you give Mr. Graham?"
"The Petrarch and your Dante. What is the matter, Millicent? Have n't
you been in bed?"
"No, I could not sleep. Here is the little Dante; where did you find the
book you mistook for it?"
Barbara sat up and rubbed her eyes confusedly.
"Why, it was not where I had last seen it. I found it somewhere, in your
jewel-box, I think. I am so sorry I made a mistake; 't was just like the Dante.
Does it matter much?"
"I only wanted to know, Barbara; go to sleep again."
She spoke in a low, constrained voice, and glided quietly from the
room. Barbara, only half awake, gave a sigh, and settling her flaxen head
among the pillows, again fell asleep and dreamed that she had stabbed
Millicent with a knife, and that Graham was trying to stanch the wound
with the leaves of a little parchment book.
When Graham arrived at his lonely tower, after making his horse
comfortable for the night, he looked into French John's cabin to see whether
all was well with the old fellow. The door was fast, and looking through the
small window, the young man saw the wood-cutter lying on his hard couch,
his gun beside him, his dog curled up at his feet. The creature growled at
the sound of Graham's footsteps, but catching sight of a familiar face
through the window, he gave a comfortable yawp, wagged his tail, and
relapsed into slumber. The artist never slept without paying this last visit to
his humble friend. He stumbled up the steep tower stairs, and after fumbling
with the clumsy lock, the door swung open and admitted him to his one
room. After groping about in the dark for a moment he struck a light, and

out of the embers on the hearth blew a little flame. He looked about the
small room and laughed; this was a home, indeed, to which to bring a bride!
It sufficed for him; and he asked for nothing more commodious or luxurious
than this old tower in the corner of the ruined church, with its grand north
light and easy chair, its open fire and pallet-bed.
If he married,--when he married, he corrected himself, for he surely
intended to marry Millicent,--there would have to be great changes in his
life. He would be obliged to abandon his old tower, and live in a smug new
house somewhere, with fuss and worry about servants, who would not
please him half so well as did the old wood-cutter John. His work, ah, how
that would suffer!--no more of the pleasant conscientious labor, the slow
painting and study of that one supreme moment of the day when the golden
copse was made tender by the light of the setting sun. He must hie him to
the city and pass his life in painting fat, over-fed matrons in lace and
diamonds, or expressionless minxes with costumes indicative of youth and
ignorance. He would, perhaps, relapse into a mere mechanical portrait-
painter, with as much imagination as a photographer; and his pictures would
be ordered as theirs are, with the simple difference that the artist produces
but one copy, while the photographer, with equal trouble, makes a dozen or
ten dozen, or a single picture. He sighed aloud, and for consolation lit his
pipe. He caught sight of the flower which had bloomed on a fair bosom and
was now fastened to his coat, somewhat crushed but still fragrant. He
carefully unpinned the rose and placed it in a small vase of water, and then
proceeded to examine the books which Millicent had given him. Graham
liked old books, and was delighted with the yellowed parchment copy of
Petrarch. An inscription on the cover showed that it had once belonged to a
monastery. On the fly-leaf was a slight sketch of a young monk's head seen

in profile. It was a beautiful, clear-cut face, with delicate outlines and an
earnest expression; beneath it was written, "Fra Antonio, Aetat 22."
"So this was brother Antonio, and he lived and died probably in the
peaceful quiet of a Roman monastery. I wonder if he painted too, or
whether he wrote hymns to all the pretty female saints in the calendar.
Brother Antonio must have lived and died without a helpmeet. I fancy he
did none the worse work for that."
The thought struck him as ungrateful, and, as if to make amends for it,
he took up the other little volume. It was a thin book bound in white vellum,
with Millicent's name in illuminated text upon its cover. The covers of this
small tome were closed with a gold clasp, which he finally succeeded in
opening. It proved to be a diary in manuscript; he recognized the clear,
delicate handwriting of the girl he loved. Yes, he loved her tenderly; why
else should he press the senseless pages close to his lips, kissing the fair
paper over which her fairer hand had passed? He drew his lamp nearer to
him and prepared to read the record. It was written in Italian, and the first
page bore a date five years back. He was somewhat puzzled, but supposed
he had misunderstood what she had told him of the book. She could have
been but a child then; she was now only just past her majority. How pretty
she must have been at sixteen, before she had grown to the perfect
womanhood which now became her so well! He fancied her in all the
shyness and awkwardness of young maidenhood, with childhood reluctantly
slipping from her, and girlhood anxiously leading her forward. Again he
kissed the book, but reverently this time, and with a deep sigh as if it had
been a holy one. If he could have known her then, before he had grown to
feel so old, before she had learned that she was fair and young, how much
easier it would have been for both of them. As he sat with unseeing eyes
fixed on the faintly traced characters, beholding in fancy the little Millicent

of half-grown figure and cool, loveless eyes stooping over the book, putting
her white, childish thoughts into these words, it seemed to him that he heard
a faint sound,--a sound that was deeper than the wind stirring the tops of the
redwoods; a sound that made him shiver and turn the bright flame of the
lamp a little higher. It was like a noise heard dimly in a dream, an echo of a
woman's sob ringing faint and muffled through a space of years, was it, or
of distance? It had grown quite cold; and he heaped an armful of brushwood
on the dying fire, which soon shot up the little chimney with a cheery roar,
and threw its bright light to the farthest corner of the room, touching the
picture on the easel, bringing out the ugly little netshukés from their
shadowy corner, and shining on the polished steel of the gun standing near
the maulstick and fishing-rod.
It must have been the wind, that faint sound which had seemed to find
an echo in the beating of his heart. He drew aside the heavy window-
curtains. Outside in the cool moonlight he saw the arms of the great trees
swaying to and fro; below these the desolate ruins of the old church; all was
quiet and deserted. There was the dismantled altar,--it was surely a trick of
the moonlight and the trees, that shadowy semblance of a woman kneeling
out there in the night, with wild hair, and arms cast about the broken cross,
overturned this half century? Yes, it was a shadow surely; for a cloud passed
before the silver face of the half-moon, and when it had floated by, the
shadow of a female figure had vanished. He dropped the curtain and turned
with a sigh of relief from the mysterious half-light, with its revelations of
deserted chapels and uncared-for altars, its shattered cross and phantom
penitent. Inside his small domicile was warmth and light; and to drive away
the cold, nervous feeling which had crept about him like an invisible
network, he again took up the little parchment journal. Again he seated
himself, and turned the first leaf. As he read he smiled, and occasionally

turned over the sheets to see how many more pages remained to be perused.
Presently the smile faded from his face; and the flames on the hearth burnt
low and finally died, choked by the gray ashes. And still Graham turned the
pages of the little journal with cold fingers. The lamp grew dim, and the
moon paled and sank beneath the horizon; the chill morning twilight crept
betwixt the hangings, and showed him sitting cold and motionless to the
slow-coming dawn. The last page of the journal had been turned long since;
but he still held the book open, his eyes fixed on the final words.

CHAPTER XI.

"Dearer than woman's love
Is yonder sunset fading in the sky!"

After that night's vigil, Graham took his gun, and packing a blanket and a
few camping utensils in his saddle-bag, mounted his horse and rode away
toward a hunting-lodge some twenty miles distant, where he sometimes
passed the night. His way led through the woods, where the bracing air, the
light footsteps of the invisible animals, the fluttering of the birds in the
trees, served to turn his mind from the painful thoughts of the past night. He
had a part in this woodland life, and owned a kinship to the four-footed and
feathered creatures who made the forest their home. His spirit was lifted to
that close and intimate communion with Nature which is only possible to
man when unfettered by human companionship. The cool, spicy air was
sweeter than the kiss of maiden; the leafage of the restless trees more tender

than that of the gold-bronze hair he had so often praised. It seemed to him
that the only real thing in all the fair sunny earth was himself; that the
people whom he had known were but pictures seen in a dream. He lived,
and breathed the scent of the pine-trees; he lived, and heard the cry of the
blue-jays in their branches; he lived, and his eyes were filled with the
glorious beauty of his world,--all his, with nothing to come between him
and the fragrant Mother Earth. All that day he rode and walked through the
tangled paths and trackless thickets, holding communion with sky and
earth, content to live without retrospection or anticipation. Just before
sunset he shot a brace of quail for his supper; and when dark shadows had
crept through the wooded places he built a fire on the hearth of the little
cabin where he proposed spending the night. It was a rude lodge, a trifle
less comfortable than French John's house, with wooden bunks around the
walls, and trunks of trees roughly fashioned into seats. Under a certain
board in the floor, known to him, was a hiding-place wherein were stored
half a dozen tallow candles, with a bottle to serve as candle-stick, a pack of
cards, an iron pot and spoon, a rusty jack-knife with a corkscrew, and, last
of all, a flask of brandy, which it was a matter of honor always to leave half
full. The shed had been built by himself and Henry Deering, and was
occasionally used by them and their friends when on hunting expeditions.
As there were no means of securely fastening so slight a building, there was
neither lock nor bar to door or window. Over the fireplace was tacked a
notice written in Deering's bold hand, which read as follows:--
"Gentlemen are requested to put out the fire and latch the door before
leaving this shanty. Water to be found three rods beyond this spot to the
north."
Graham found the candles, which he finally succeeded in lighting; and
after making a meal of hard-tack and roasted quail, he filled his pipe and sat

down on one of the bunks, tired out by his long day's ride. The painful
thoughts which he had banished during the hours of daylight now took
possession of him; and the brow, which had been calm all day, showed the
three deep dints which trouble more than time had furrowed upon its noble
expanse. He was alone again!--no more friendly sounds and sights to divert
his mind and fill his eyes with beauty. Only his sad thoughts and the one
great problem which was set before him to solve. His changeful,
melancholy eyes were fixed vacantly on the floor. They saw nothing but the
shadowy vision of the night,--the figure of a woman amidst the broken
altars of the old Mission church. The words which he had read in the little
journal came thronging back to him in riotous haste,--those pitiful words of
passionate grief traced by the slender white fingers, which so lately had
lingered tremblingly in his own strong brown hands. Could he forgive her?
Poor child, poor child! What was he, that he had a right to withhold his
forgiveness for an instant? Let their lives be laid side by side, with every act
and every thought bared to his view, and how did his life's record compare
with hers?
Ah, if she had but told him the story, and not left it to accident to
reveal the secret! She had deceived him! And the angry blood surged from
his heart to his brow and settled there dully red. The stern lines of his face
grew harder than the mask of a stone statue, and the expression of the
chiselled mouth was terribly relentless. He would never see her again,
never, never! What he had felt for her was not that highest passion which
melts heart and soul and body in one pure flame; for, without a perfect faith,
such love is not. So he reasoned, pity and anger sweeping across his soul;
and then, forgetting both in a great pain, he cried, stretching out his arms,
"Millicent, Millicent, come to me!" At last the wearied muscles and tired
brain and heart slowly, half-consciously yielded to a warm, close-folding

influence which straightened out the lines on the brow, loosened the tight-
drawn muscles, stole the fire from the deep eyes and the anger from the
curved mouth. The grand head, with its thousand schemes and theories, fell
back upon the couch; the skilful hand, with its nervous, delicate fingers,
relaxed; a long, shivering sigh shook the body; and, with the fire-light
shining upon his stern beauty, Graham slept. The fire burned low upon the
hearth and finally flickered out, leaving a bed of glowing ashes. The quiet
of the night was broken by the long shrill wail of the coyote, but Graham
stirred not. A light footstep sounded near the cabin, and a scratching noise
might have been heard as the head of a great bear was raised to the level of
the window. The sleeper's breath never quickened; and Bruin, after a long
look and a vain attempt to push the door open, gave a growl and trotted off
through the underbrush toward his own cosey cave under the rocky hillside
near by. A young owlet, flying aimlessly through the night, flapped itself
through an opening in the roof intended to let out the smoke; and finding it
difficult to escape by the place where it had entered, settled itself
comfortably near the sleeper, standing on one foot, and meditatively
regarding the strange creature on the bed. To all these noises Graham was
deaf; but when the clatter of a horse's hoofs broke the silence, that strange
half-consciousness which gives warning of an unaccustomed sound called
his slumbering senses to awaken. In a moment he was perfectly conscious,
and, after feeling for his pistol, lay quietly down again upon the hard couch.
The rider might not pause at the shanty, and as he was in no mood for
company, he would give no sign of his presence there until it was necessary.
The hope was a vain one; he heard the rider call to his horse with an oath to
stop. After a slight pause, the door, which he had secured with a wooden
bar, was roughly shaken. The new-comer, finding the portal fast, now

showed himself at the little window and peered into the room. Seeing a
recumbent figure, he cried out,--
"Who the ---- is in this shanty?"
"John Graham; and who is outside?"
After a pause the voice answered,--
"A man as wants a night's rest bad, and has got as good a right to it as
anybody."
"Put up your shooting-irons, Horton, and I will open the door."
First striking a match and lighting his candle, Graham unfastened the
bar, and the light door swung wide. The figure out in the darkness peered
doubtfully into the room.
"Don't be afraid; I am alone," said the artist coolly, seating himself
upon his bunk, and proceeding to fill his pipe. The man came cautiously
into the cabin, looking about him once more to make sure that Graham had
spoken the truth. He was a rough-looking fellow, with a sinister expression
of countenance, in great part owing to the deep scar which seamed his face
from temple to chin.
The stranger seemed a good deal disconcerted at finding the artist
ensconced in the lodge.
"Did n't expect to find anybody--least of all you--in this shanty."
"I do not often occupy it; though I built it myself."
"Is that so? You ain't got a mouthful of bread as yer'd let a man have as
has fasted since sunrise?"
Graham's answer was to hand him a couple of rounds of hard-tack,
which he quickly devoured; and to pass his flask, filled with the rough,
strong wine from the vineyards of Los Angeles. The fellow poured half its
contents down his throat at one draught, wiping his mouth upon the sleeve
of his rough jacket. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, he handed back

the flask with a regretful sigh, and seating himself on the floor by the
fireplace, warmed his feet in the still hot ashes.
"You never came for those last sittings, Horton; my picture is not
finished yet."
"You see, I got another job more to my taste than posturin'."
"Are you working in the neighborhood?"
"No; I am on my way to the Swindawl mines. Do you live in these yer
parts?"
"Yes. You know the old church? I live in the tower."
"Rum place, that; passed it to-day."
"If you want to earn a little money to pay your travelling expenses, I
should like to finish that picture."
The man did not answer, but stretched his great limbs and yawned.
"It's blasted cold for the season."
Graham nodded assent, blowing a great cloud of tobacco-smoke from
his lips, and composing in his mind, meanwhile, a picture in which this
wild-looking fellow, with his rough hair and coarse, strong outlines, formed
the central figure. He was of a low type of humanity, with a narrow
forehead and large, heavy features; his face was tanned where the skin was
visible, the heavy beard growing high up on the cheeks, leaving little
uncovered surface. His clothes were somewhat dilapidated, but his wide
sombrero hat and high boots were strong and whole. His figure was
superbly developed, and Herculean in type. As he sat crouching on the
floor, hugging his knees, his back braced against the wall behind him, he
nodded wearily, and, after various abortive attempts at conversation, finally
fell into a sound sleep, his head resting against the wall behind him.
Graham took a charred brand from the hearth, and with this rough tool
drew, on a smooth board in the side of the cabin, a sketch of the man before

him. As he looked narrowly at his model, he perceived that his face was
disfigured by some recent scratches from which the blood was still
unwashed. They were got while riding through a thorny thicket, the artist
fancied, and thought no more about them, touching in the details of the
desolate background. The man's expression was hardly human in his sleep,
the fierce animal face was so stupid and brutish. It is wonderful how
character is expressed in a sleeping countenance. The studied or
unconscious control which we hold over our features when awake is
overthrown in slumber, and the real nature is seen with no polite restraint or
deceitful mask. A beautiful woman is beautiful no longer while sleeping, if
she have a bad heart. It is a terrible thing to look upon one who is dear to us
in sleep. Even when the countenance shadows forth holy dreams, it is awful
to watch its still composure, so like death, and to feel that impassable
distance between the unfettered soul and our own earth-bound spirit,--that
distance which, but for the briefest spaces, is never bridged over in our
whole lives, though they flow quietly side by side through peaceful days
and happy nights.
Though the man had closed his eyes in the knowledge that it was
entirely safe for him to sleep in Graham's presence, his slumber was not an
easy one. He started often and groaned more than once; while his hand
nervously made the movement of striking with a weapon at some unseen
foe. The artist watched him for some minutes.
"I should like to have another day's work on that rascal's torso," he said
at last; "I suppose if I paid him enough he would come to the tower."
As he spoke he tore a leaf from his notebook, and writing a few lines
upon it placed it in the fellow's nerveless hands, lest he should steal away
before morning. Then he threw himself back and slept again long and
heavily. When he awoke it was broad daylight in the cabin of which he

found himself the sole occupant. At first he wondered if he had dreamed
that his lodging had been shared by a rough companion; but no, there was
the sketch upon the wall of the sleeping figure crouching by the fireplace.
Besides, his visitor had left a trace of his presence. Near the spot where he
had sat lay a handkerchief. The artist carelessly picked up the square of
white linen, somewhat surprised to find that it was of the finest quality. A
red stain on one corner induced him to examine it more carefully. It was
neatly stitched with an odd pattern which was not unfamiliar to him, and in
one corner was an embroidered monogram of an intricate form. The letters
were cunningly twisted together, and it took him several minutes to
distinguish them. Two L's, an I, a T, an E, an N, and a C, all enclosed in a
large M. Nobody in the world could have so many initials, not even a
Spanish grandee. It must be a name, probably one beginning with M, as that
was the most prominent letter in the chiffre. He studied it for an instant, and
suddenly cried aloud that name which had become so dear to him,--
"Millicent!"
What could it mean? Millicent's handkerchief in the possession of that
ruffianly fellow, the dark crimson stain of blood marring its whiteness?
What could have befallen her? He dared not even think of what this
portended; and thrusting it into his breast, he ran to the door and looked all
about him. Silence everywhere; no movement in the copse before the door;
no trace of his late visitor save the broken branch of a buckeye near which
his horse had been tethered.
Graham was a brave man, with nerves at once sensitive and strong; but
the picture which rose before his eyes unmanned him for the moment
completely. He leaned against the door-post quaking with terror, too much
confused to know what next to do. He could not think; he only saw that
villanous face before him in its heavy sleep, that clinching of the hand, that

motion as of stabbing with a knife. In the breast of what victim had that
weapon been buried? At the recollection of what crime had he groaned
aloud?
The neighing of his horse in the thicket near by roused him from the
benumbing horror which had bound him like a trance. He mounted the fiery
animal, and struck him fiercely with his spur. The mustang darted forward
at a breakneck speed, and with flying hoofs carried his rider over the steep
trail which led from the cabin to the house of the San Rosario Ranch. It was
a rude road, sometimes merely indicated by signs on the trees, at other
places worn by the feet of cattle; it led through dry river-courses and down
precipitous planes, through tangled brakes and over desolate, blackened
spaces where fire had passed and blasted the trees, leaving them dead and
gray, with naked branches and bare roots. No vegetation was here; only
black, dry soil. It was a dangerous journey, none too safe at any time; but
neither rider nor steed hesitated at sharp turns or steep descents; and the
pace slackened not, though the horse foamed at the mouth and the man's
face and hands were cut to bleeding by the low-hanging branches of the
thorn-tree. Twenty-five miles, at the lowest rating, lay between the cabin
and the house. How well Graham knew the way! How often he had passed
over it with Hal and O'Neil!--a jolly trio of sportsmen. The very day before
he had loitered along the same route, taking the whole day to accomplish
the distance, walking sometimes with his horse following him, and never
travelling at a greater speed than an easy trot. How different his thoughts
had been then, when he had fancied that he had found a closer
companionship than that of a loving woman's heart. Now he saw not the
trees nor the wood creatures,--only that one villanous face, with its freshly
bleeding wounds, with its old scar red and ugly.

Five miles accomplished: here is the great oak-tree which the lightning
had struck half a century ago; but twenty miles now lie before him. Another
landmark is passed,--the iron spring, with its red mouth framed in green
ferns, where he had once journeyed to bring her a flask of the strengthening
water. On and on they fly, startling the birds in the thickets and the foxes in
their coverts, racing with the lazy breeze which puffs slowly along and is
soon left behind by the horse's speed. At the spring on the hillside, where
Millicent's hand had checked his shooting of the deer, the rider draws rein
and springs to the ground; while the gasping horse stands for a brief
breathing-space, drawing long, painful breaths. Graham cools his heated
brow in the rocky basin, and gives his horse a mouthful of the refreshing
water. Then they start away again towards the house where so many happy
hours of his life have been spent; where he first saw Millicent! It is a
terrible ride, and one that the man never will forget to his dying day. The
anguish of doubt and fear, the awful pace at which he rides, which makes
every mile he accomplishes seem like to be the last, will never be forgotten
by him in the quiet after-years. Now but ten miles separate him from the
vine-clad house; quickly are they accomplished; and in a space of time too
short to be credited by those towards whom he rides, he reaches the high
hill which looks down upon the valley. The familiar look of the
surroundings surprises him. A blue feather of smoke curls about the red
chimney; the trees in the orchard, the cattle browsing on the hills, look just
as he has seen them a thousand times before; nothing betokens any unusual
state of affairs within the quiet house. The brave horse gathers himself
together for a last gallop; and the stones of the hillside fly from his hoofs as
man and beast thunder down the rocky path which loses itself in the wide
farm-road at the edge of the orchard. From this point he commands a view

of Millicent's window. He gives a low groan as he looks up for some sign of
life,--the heavy blinds are tightly closed.

CHAPTER XII.

"Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building."

The breakfast table at the San Rosario Ranch was usually a merry one; but
on the morning after what Hal had called Millicent's "magnetic exhibition,"
the usual good spirits were missing. Millicent took her accustomed place at
Deering's side; and Galbraith marked the extraordinary change which she
had suffered since she had bade him good-night the evening before. Her
face had blanched to a whiteness which made the ebon lines of eyebrows
and lashes seem unnatural. Her mouth was pale and contracted, and her
expression of horrified anticipation reminded him of the look in the eyes of
a deer at bay. What could have come to the girl? he asked himself in
dismay; with a strange consciousness that whatever should befall her of
good or evil from that time forth would have to him an interest beyond all
else in the world. She ate her breakfast mechanically, and answered all that
was said in which she could be supposed to have an interest. She laughed
once, too, at one of Hal's jokes; but the sound was rough and strained. Mrs.
Deering and Barbara, occupied with some household complication, merely
noticed that Millicent seemed tired; and Hal put her odd look and manner
down to the score of her being in love, which in his eyes accounted for
every freak or unexplained symptom of hers.

It had been proposed that the day should be spent out-of-doors, at a
place which Millicent had long wished to visit,--the little island in the river,
below the deserted mill. Galbraith had remained to be of the party; and his
two friends had promised to ride over from the camp and join them at the
appointed place. Just before they started, old John arrived with a note to
Mrs. Deering from Graham, who wrote that he should not be able to be of
the party. Hal and Millicent drove together, as they had done on that day
when Graham, in accordance with California etiquette, had stopped to kill
the rattlesnakes. Old Sphinx was doing his best to keep up with the mule
team, when Millicent's sensitive ears detected the sound of horses' hoofs
behind them. Presently, through the thick cloud of dust, she descried two
horsemen riding at full gallop towards them. The sunlight and the veil of
dust made it impossible to see what manner of men they were until
Millicent observed that each carried over his shoulder a long object, which
glittered in the sunlight.
"Have you brought your pistols?" she asked.
"Yes, Princess, but they are in the wagon. I expected till the last
moment that Graham would turn up to take you, and that I should drive the
team. Why do you ask? There is no danger of our being molested."
"Look at those men. Are not those gun barrels I see on their
shoulders?"
"Yes; but they are probably peaceful hunters."
The young man spoke in a perfectly careless tone, to reassure his
companion; but Millicent noticed that he occasionally looked behind him as
the riders gained on them. Finally, as the men drew near, Millicent saw the
rider nearest her shift the gun from his shoulder and rest it across the
saddle-bow, as if preparing to take aim. Hal, who had seen the action,
instantly called to Millicent to catch the reins, and held up both his hands.

By this time the men were close upon them, and the one who had shifted his
weapon called out in a rough voice,--
"All right, boss; we know you ain't got no money, and we don't want
your life to-day." His companion laughed aloud, and striking spurs to their
horses, they galloped down the high-road. Hal laughed as heartily as the
supposed highwayman, saying,--
"Well, that's a greaser's idea of a joke, I suppose. Adventure number
one has befallen us with few bad consequences. I don't think you were half
as frightened as you were the other day by the snakes."
"No, I fancy I was not. I should not much mind being killed to-day."
This with a little, bitter laugh.
"And why? Let us wait till after luncheon. Barbara has put up a capital
venison pasty,--a real English one, out of the Queen's own receipt book."
"Well, we will wait for the pie, to please you."
The drive was accomplished with the usual desultory chit-chat, Hal
doing rather more than his share of the joking. As they passed the little
hovel, the wild children ran out, as they had upon the day when they had
visited the camp in the woods; and soon the gray bridge and the little island
were reached. The baskets were unpacked and the luncheon spread upon the
grass by the time the guests arrived. Among them were O'Neil, Hartley,
Ferrara, and Mrs. Shallop, who had come over by the train; with a party of
people from the village, in whom Millicent had never taken much interest.
Galbraith never left Millicent's side; sparing her the necessity of talking by
keeping up an incessant stream of conversation which she heard vaguely,
and of which she understood not one word. In after days the import of all
the young man said came back to her; and she remembered the quaint
Indian legends, the reminiscences of life on the two edges of the continent,
with which Maurice Galbraith kept the others of the party from her side.

She realized what he was doing, and knew that he only, in all the company,
understood and sympathized with her half-dazed mood; and for his efforts
he received more than one little smile, sadder than tears.
This is one of the stories which the lawyer told her:--
"In the old days, when Father Junipero and his small band of priests
and soldiers came into the wilderness of California, with the cross uplifted
in one hand, the sword grasped in the other, there lived on this island where
we now sit, a beautiful Indian maiden. Her name was a very long one, and
its meaning in our language is the Smile of the Morning. She lived with the
old chief, her father, in a wigwam, where also lived her sisters and brothers
and various of her cousins and distant relatives. The old chief had many
daughters, but the Smile of the Morning was his favorite child; and she it
was who cooked his food for him, when he did not eat it raw, and brought
him his bow and arrows when he started on a hunting party. The sisters of
the favorite daughter all found mates among the sons of the tribe, but she
lived alone with only the wild bird in the madrone tree for her lover. Her
sisters, each of whom carried a pappoose upon her back, laughed at the
Smile of the Morning, and said that she would die without a husband; but
the girl did not mind them. She was taller, by a head, than any woman of
the tribe; she could charm the wild birds, and draw the feathers from their
tails to make head-dresses for the old chief and ornaments for herself; she
could dance war-dances like one of the braves, only with more grace; and
when she told the stories which the fishes in the river whispered to her, the
old chieftain nodded his head wisely and patted the girl on the shoulder. She
should find a husband in good time; but he must be as much taller and
stronger than the other men of the tribe, as she was fairer and wiser than her
sisters.

"When the missionary priests came, with their white faces and strange
garments fashioned neither from the skin of any animal nor from the
feathers of any bird, and made friendly overtures to the old chief, the Smile
of the Morning fell upon her face in terror. The Indians would have
worshipped the men with the white faces and strange tongue; but to prove
to them that they too were men and adored a God, the priests held their
services and kneeled to the Great Spirit whom they reverenced. When the
new-comers had learned the language of the Indians, and had built
themselves a house and a greater house to their God, the daughter of the
chief grew to be no longer afraid of the black-robed figures. She eagerly
learned the simple lessons which they set for the people; and it was because
of the wonderful learning that they gave her that she studied so
industriously, and not, like her brothers and sisters, to gain the daily rations
of corn. When the early bell called the Indians to the church of the San
Rosario Mission, the Smile of the Morning was the first to answer the
summons; and when the other Indians were squabbling over their breakfast
of maize, she lingered in the sanctuary, trying to fathom the strange rites
which were so much holier than those of her people, looking into the
painted faces in the pictures over the rude altar, and feeling curiously
behind them to ascertain whether the backs also were painted.
"The soldiers who upheld the authority of the priests were encouraged
by large bounties and grants of land to marry the converted squaws; and in
the course of time several such unions were solemnized at the Mission.
Among the stern old pioneer priests was one young man dear to the Father
Junipero, whose pupil he had been, and who had followed the famous man
on his great mission of converting the heathen Indians. His name was Fra
Antonio. His voice was soft and low, and his eyes open and sad, with
shadows in them, which the Indian maiden had never seen in other eyes,--

shadows like those cast by the white clouds floating before the sun's face on
hot summer afternoons. Fra Antonio was very kind to the tall beauty of the
tribe, and with a never-failing patience strove to make the doctrines of his
religion clear to her simple understanding. Strange were the means by
which the fathers learned to expound their religion to the savages. To
express the great hope of the resurrection, they put a number of insects in a
vessel of water, leaving them there till they were apparently quite dead.
Then the creatures were placed in a bank of hot ashes, which warmed their
frozen, half-dead bodies back to life. When the gauzy wings were spread,
carrying the insects up into the sunshine again, the fathers marked the
words ejaculated by the Indians, and by that term they called the
resurrection.
"New and beautiful were the thoughts which now possessed the mind
of the Indian girl. She learned that to forgive was nobler than to avenge,--
strangest of all doctrines taught by the priests to the red men. She learned
that the stars, pale and fiery, were great worlds like the one in which she
lived, and not the hearts of the brave chiefs placed in the heavens after
death as she had always been taught. Only the simplest of the great truths
which lie like jewels in the tawdry setting of the Mother Church, did Fra
Antonio instil into her childish mind, which with an unquestioning faith
accepted all the young priest taught. Few among the tribe--perhaps, indeed,
no one of the Indians beside the Smile of the Morning--understood or
believed the new doctrines taught by the priests. These were satisfied that
the rites of baptism and of extreme unction were administered, and that the
daily services were attended, quite conscious that their most potent weapon
of conversion was the ration of atole, or prepared corn, which they served
out to the lazy braves. As soon as he became a member of the church, every
redskin was cared for, and a gentle slavery was the result, in which the

priests exacted a certain amount of labor from the Indian, in turn feeding
him and caring for his wants. The art of weaving was taught, together with
civilized agriculture; and the fruit of the vines was fermented into strong,
rough wine, this being reserved for the service of the altar and the table of
the priests. In the eyes of the zealous missionaries the Indian was the
rightful owner of the soil; and there was no thought of disputing his claim
to it. It was that he might better and more wisely enjoy the fruits of his own
land, and in the next life enter the happier home prepared for all true
followers of the Church of Rome, that the Father Junipero and his band of
soldiers and priests lived and died in the wilderness of California. How their
treatment of the original inhabitants of the soil differed from that adopted
by the enlightened race which now claims the country, you have seen
enough, or at any rate heard enough, of our Indian policy to appreciate.
Instead of improving the land for its owners, as did the brave missionary
priests, we have wrested it from them, driving the children of those who for
centuries have owned the Pacific coast away from the choicest spots to
rocky, desolate lands which have again been taken from them by the greedy
gold-hunters. But all this has happened since the time when the Smile-of the
Morning lived upon this pretty island, and decked her glossy hair with a
coronet of blue-jays' feathers, that she might be fair in the eyes of one
whom she loved. But a year had passed since the arrival of Fra Antonio,
when the old chieftain noticed that his daughter's step had grown heavy and
slow; that her great eyes danced no more; that her countenance no longer
merited the name of the morning's smile. He was a wise old man for an
Indian; and after thinking the matter over for a week, during which time he
smoked an unusual number of pipes of tobacco, he came to the conclusion
that the girl had been bewitched by one of the strange priests. Calling her to
him, he questioned her as to the cause of her altered behavior; and from her

downcast face and embarrassed replies he quickly surmised her secret. The
Smile of the Morning loved the fair young priest, and it was for his sake
that her tears flowed. The old chief at first scoffed at her infatuation, and
bade her take up with one of her dusky suitors. But the girl was obstinate;
and finally yielding to her whim, the old chief himself offered his daughter's
hand to Fra Antonio. The young priest, in holy horror, took counsel with his
superiors; and it was explained to the chieftain that though the white
soldiers were free to mate with the maidens of the tribe, the priests were
vowed to celibacy. If the pious young priest had unwittingly mingled an
unwise fervor in his exhortations to the Indian girl, he bitterly regretted his
fault. As day by day he saw her elastic figure grow more feeble, and marked
her hollow cheeks and her sad eyes fixed reproachfully on him whilst he
served the mass or taught the new converts, a tenderness for her, which her
savage health and perfections had failed to arouse, awoke in his breast.
When he saw the young braves, each with his dusky partner, and the sisters
of the Smile of the Morning with their children in their arms, he sometimes
cursed the priestly habit which proclaimed him a thing apart from all other
of God's creatures, doomed to live unmated and alone. Long vigils and
heavy penances failed to ease the grief in his heart, or to set at rest its
yearning toward the child who had been redeemed from barbarism, through
his teaching, to live a Christian life and die in the hope of his faith.
"At last the battle between the spirit and the heart grew too terrible for
him to bear; he was not strong enough; and he begged the fathers to send
him to another Mission far to the northward. When the Smile of the
Morning learned that Fra Antonio was to leave the Mission on the morrow,
she decked herself in all her jewels, hung her long shell necklaces about her
throat, wound her bead bracelets about her arms, and placed her coronet of
blue-jays' feathers upon her brow. She was not to be found that night when

the old chief lay down to rest; and when the sun rose on the day which
should see Fra Antonio far on his long journey, her sisters found the maiden
lying in the cool waters of the river which washes this island, with the little
rosary the priest had given her locked in her cold fingers, and the smile
upon her face that had been missing for so many weeks. They called the
fathers to come and look upon her; and Fra Antonio prayed long beside her,
with streaming eyes and broken voice. The kiss which his sad lips laid
reverently on her brow was felt perhaps, for all those who stood near heard
the sigh which came rustling through the trees near by. As she had wilfully
taken her own life, the poor girl could not be buried with the ceremonies of
the church to which she had been admitted; so she was interred by her
people near the spot where they had found her, on this little island where we
now sit. When the good fathers sat together of an evening and discussed
questions spiritual and temporal touching the welfare of their little flock,
Fra Antonio was often missing from their midst. Sometimes the faint sound
was heard of the church bell softly struck by a tender hand, and the priests
crossed themselves silently, knowing for whose soul it was that Fra Antonio
solemnized the mass for the dead."
A silence followed Galbraith's story, which was broken by Millicent,
who said,--
"I have a sketch in an old Italian book of a beautiful young monk, Fra
Antonio by name. Could it be the same, I wonder?"
"Who knows? Some of the priests were Italians. Would the dates
agree?"
"The portrait was dated some time in the latter part of the last century."
"It could not have been far from that time that the Smile of the
Morning met her sad fate."
"Sad,--do you call her fate sad?" queried Millicent.

"Who could think it otherwise?"
"I surely do. Was it sad to die for the man she loved?"
"It would have been happier if she could have lived for him."
"Happiness! Who spoke of happiness? Why talk about a thing so
mythical? I think her lot was an enviable one. To her simple mind the
thought that suicide is sinful could never have occurred. She might not
follow the man she loved; she believed that the soul now prisoned in her
breast might always be near him; so she opened the cage and let the bird
fly."
"You speak as seriously as if you had known the Smile of the Morning
and sympathized with her."
"It is the privilege of those who have greatly suffered, that the grief of
others can be felt and understood by them." Millicent spoke absently,
dreamily, checking her speech at the pained expression which her words
brought to Galbraith's face.
Later in the afternoon the party left the island and wandered about the
old bridge. Some of them climbed the high hill; others struck into the
woods. By some chance Millicent found herself left alone near the mill with
no one of the party near her save Ah Lam. Calling the faithful creature to
her side, she made him prepare her a comfortable seat, and leaning back
against the wall, she entered into a desultory conversation with her pupil.
Ah Lam often told her stories in his broken English, descriptive of the
power and character of the most august personages of the Chinese
mythology. To-day he found an inattentive listener in his kind friend and
teacher; but he had been bidden to speak, and so he talked on patiently,
describing rites of death and feasts of marriages, recalling the great river
fête which he had witnessed shortly before sailing from his native city. As
the Chinaman paused after this last tale, Millicent heard a step approaching

the door of the old mill. She looked up carelessly, expecting to see one of
the gentlemen. The man who stood before her was a stranger. His face was
somewhat flushed, and he looked as if he had travelled some distance.
"Second time, my lady, I've see'd yer purty face to-day."
Millicent bowed her head and turned away, looking anxiously toward
the wood, where she had seen Hal disappear a few moments before.
"Sha'n't let yer off ser aisy this time. I've took a fancy to see the color
of yer eyes."
The look of angry indignation with which the gray orbs were turned
upon the man was enough to have abashed any sensitive person, but to this
class the stranger did not belong. He was a rough-looking fellow of large
stature, with a heavy animal face, crossed by a deep scar running from the
chin to the forehead on the right side. In his belt he wore a pair of pistols, at
which the Chinaman looked uneasily.
"Say, do yer belong in these parts?"
"Yes," answered the girl in a low voice.
"Well, I am leavin' 'em for good; we're not likely to meet again. I 'm a
gentleman, and I don't want to trouble you for them rings o' yourn, but a
kiss won't cost you nothin'."
Suiting the action to the word, the man threw an arm about the girl's
slender waist, and quick as a thought began to drag her toward the spot
where a couple of horses were tethered. With a sudden wrench, she shook
herself free from his rude clasp, and sped down the path calling for help.
Help was nearer to her than she had thought, and a humble friend sprang to
her aid. As the insolent creature started in pursuit of the swift-footed girl,
Ah Lam adroitly tripped him up, bringing him to the ground with a heavy
fall. The man was somewhat bruised by his tumble, a sharp stone having
struck his arm. He arose with difficulty, pouring out a volley of oaths the

like of which had never before desecrated Millicent's ears. The Chinaman,
knowing full well the danger which his temerity had brought upon him, ran
quickly after his young mistress. The path brought them to the border of the
stream, and their flight was stopped by this obstacle. By this time, the man,
blind with rage, had caught up with the two fugitives; he seemed in doubt
which of them to molest first. Millicent stood with flashing eyes and curling
lip, her head thrown back, her arms folded across her breast, looking at him
with an expression of scorn that seemed to awe him for a moment. He drew
back, as if afraid to touch so beautiful and wrathful a creature, and in his
rage clutched the Chinaman by the throat. In the scuffle which ensued, Ah
Lam's hat was thrown off, and the long cue coiled about his head fell down.
Quick as thought, the ruffian seized the braid, and drawing a sharp knife
from his boot, cut it from the head of the Chinaman. With a shriek which
had the despair of a double death, the Chinaman turned and implanted his
finger-nails in the face of his adversary, inflicting ten long scratches on the
cheeks. The crushed worm will turn at last; and the poor soul, damned for
eternity by the cutting of his hair, had turned upon the ruffian. Quick as the
fast-drawn breath of the terrified girl, the villain lifted his long knife and,
with a horrible oath, plunged it into the side of the Chinaman. The shrieks
of the victim, the horror-stricken screams of the girl, the sight of the blood,
seemed to madden the wretch; for he tore the quivering knife from the
wound and stabbed him again and again. At last the rage for blood seemed
satiated; he threw the mutilated body, still breathing, to ebb out its life on
the soil, and turned with bloody hands and seared eyes toward Millicent,
who had sunk upon her knees, lifting the head of the dying Chinaman to her
young breast.
The closed lids fluttered open, the dimmed eyes looked gratefully for
the last time into the face of the girl who had been kinder to him than any

other creature in this strange land where he had worked so faithfully, where
he had been so cruelly oppressed in life, and so foully murdered; hope of
Heaven being closed to him before his miserable breath had been taken.
The horror of his crime must have overcome the ruffian for a moment, for
he paused and silently watched the death-agonies of his victim. To that
moment's feeling of horror or remorse, what might not Millicent owe? For
soon, to her it seemed an eternity, the men, whose answering shouts she had
not heard, appeared close at hand. The murderer saw them none too quickly
for his safety, and springing upon his horse, which stood near by, clapped
spurs to the flank and rode off at a hand gallop in the opposite direction.
Galbraith rushed to Millicent's side and lifted the dying creature from
her breast. They placed him gently upon the bank, and Hal put his flask to
his lips; but it was too late. With one last struggle Ah Lam yielded up his
miserable life; and Millicent's cry of pity sounded his death-knell. Then she
lifted her hands to Heaven and prayed for the soul of the poor creature who
had so bravely defended her. An hour ago she had smiled at Fra Antonio's
masses for the repose of the Smile of the Morning. In moments like these
the strong instincts of men and women overcome the reasons and doctrines
of education; Millicent prayed, believing that she should be heard.
When it became evident to the little group which had silently
assembled about the spot, that poor Ah Lam was beyond human help,
Maurice Galbraith and Henry Deering lifted the lifeless body and laid it in
the great wagon. Millicent followed and drew over the dead face the white
cloak which she had worn all that day. Pedro, climbing to his seat, touched
the mules into motion; and the wagon, which had carried so merry a freight
to the gray bridge that morning, returned at sunset over the same path with
its ghastly burden,--a very funeral car.

Maurice Galbraith gently placed Millicent beside Barbara and her
mother in the smaller carriage, which was driven back to the Ranch under
the escort of Ferrara, O'Neil, and Hartley. Then the young lawyer, with
Henry Deering to bear him company, started in pursuit of the murderer. He
had sworn a silent oath, as he stood by the dying man, and learned that his
life had been given to protect Millicent, that Ah Lam should be avenged. If
there were law and justice in the broad land of California, the murderer
should surfer the extreme penalty for wilful and wicked shedding of
innocent blood. In pursuit rode the two young men, with stern faces; and it
was well for the fugitive that he had a long start of them, for they rode as
men do when time must be gained at all costs. Along the narrow bridle-
path, over which the murderer had passed, they took their way, and were
soon lost to the view of the three women sitting close together in troubled
silence. Barbara's strong hands held the reins and plied the whip, while
streams of tears coursed down her cheeks. Mrs. Deering patted her
daughter's shoulder; but it was on Millicent her attention was most firmly
fixed. The girl had not moved since Galbraith had placed her in the
carriage. Her eyes were strained wide open, and the expression in their
depths was one which the gentle woman never forgot,--a look as of an
endless despair and horror. Back to the happy valley they drove silently, no
joyous young voices carolling out ballads of love, songs of battle, as was
their wont; in silence and grief they passed over the familiar road through
the gap between the guardian hills, back to the quiet house, to herald the
advent of the humble dead to those who had been his fellow-servants.
No one told Millicent that standing near the spot where the ruffian's
horse had been tethered was a second steed. A strong mustang saddled and
bridled was found there. A heavy leading-rein passed through the bit, and a

stout rope lying over the saddle, gave a sinister significance to the fact. For
whom had that horse been brought?

CHAPTER XIII.

"Abroad it rushed,
My frolic soul, for it had sight
Of something half-way, which was known
As mine at once, yet not mine own."

It was early in the morning for Millicent, usually a late sleeper, to be in the
garden among the flowers. There Graham found her, white as the gown she
wore, standing with her arms filled with dark-red roses,--standing with the
sunlight touching her pretty hair, and shining in her cool gray eyes. He
stared at her, as at one risen from the dead; he touched her hand before he
spoke to her, to make sure that it was really she, alive, with softly heaving
breast and warm, clinging fingers. Alive, and not as he had pictured her a
thousand times during that terrible ride,--cold and dead, with the stain
which had dyed her kerchief, on brow and bosom. For a long time they
stood silently looking into each other's faces; and then the man laid her
hand gently on his arm, and together they passed down the orchard road,
across a space of sunburnt meadow, to a spot they both knew,--Millicent's
boudoir, hanging over the narrow stream, walled by six tall redwoods
grown from the seeds of some giant predecessor, carpeted with thick green
moss, furnished with two rough seats. Here they rested silently for a time,--

Graham drawing long breaths of the morning air to relax his tired lungs;
Millicent resting her wearied heart with looking at him, all her soul shining
through her eyes. Graham first broke the silence with questions of all that
had happened since they had parted. She told him of her danger, and of the
murder of the Chinaman, in a low voice, full of awe. It had been her first
knowledge of death; and the chill reality, the only certain thing which men
look forward to, had first been known by her now that she was a woman
grown, and could fully understand its dreadful significance. Hitherto, death
had been a phrase only; a thing which must come to all creatures, as a
matter of course. That she should sometime die she knew, but only by
tradition; it had meant nothing to her. Now she understood it all, and the
terrible knowledge had chilled her life-blood. Could she ever again think of
anything but that dead face? One stronger than the King of Terrors was
driving it from her thoughts: love was swiftly painting out the grim picture
from her memory.
Step by step they went over the ground of their mutual experiences
since the time when they had parted: the picnic, and its tragic ending; the
night which Graham had passed in the cabin with Ah Lam's murderer,--for
there could be no doubt it was he who had dropped Millicent's handkerchief
in the hut. Of the little journal Graham spoke sadly, gently, without anger,
as if it were a thing which concerned neither of them. Then Millicent
brokenly told the story which the written words had simply indicated. She
told it with a sense of thankfulness that the weight of the secret rested no
longer on her heart alone; that its pain was shared, and that at last her lover
understood and saw her absolutely as she was. No reservation did she make,
but bared to him the inmost chambers of her heart, sure of no
misunderstanding, and upheld by a sympathy she had never before known.
Then her confidence was returned, and Graham spoke to her of many things

of which he had never spoken before; of the hopes and aspirations which
had sometimes made his life glorious; of the quicksands and hidden rocks
which had often made his way dangerous.
A wonderful confession,--solemn as those first confessions made by
men and women who at maturity join the Roman Catholic Church, and
unflinchingly reveal to the confessor every temptation to which they have
yielded in the course of their lives. To no mumbling, inattentive priest, with
store of penances and absolutions in his pocket, was the confession made;
in no stifling confessional, with throng of penitents outside, grudging every
moment of delay. Each spoke to a tender human heart, that filled out the
broken sentences, and echoed the deep sighs. The roof of their temple
swayed in the light breeze, and the wild birds chanted the hymn of praise
which consecrated it.
As Millicent at last sat silent, not knowing whether her lover still
spoke to her in words, or if that finer language of the spirit made his
thoughts clear to her, came at once a strange consciousness that she was no
longer a creature of this earth, with material senses and shape. The last
words which she had spoken she remembered as one dimly recalls what has
happened in another life. They were these:--
"Are you sorry for me?"
There had been no answer in words or in looks; for the power of sight
had been left behind with the outer case, now shaken off for the first time
since life upon the earth had begun. She was a thing apart no longer; her
existence had become merged in that of a stronger soul, to which she was
an all-important part. Folded in this spirit-embrace time was not, nor past
nor future; nothing but the perfect ecstasy of a union which eternity should
consecrate. Floating on a celestial ether, the double soul mounted ever

higher and higher. Was it toward eternal bliss that it was wafted? Was the
long waiting at an end?
Again she saw the sunlight; again she heard the ripple of the water;
again she felt the earthly tenement closing about the divine spirit. Before
her, framed in the green leaves, was a face dear indeed, the face of her
lover. With solemn eyes they looked at each other; and a broken voice
whispered to her,--
"Dear, what is it?"
She answered softly,--
"I have never been so near to you before."
Then a flood of feeling swept over her, and she would have knelt to
him, her other self; but he was already at her feet, moved by that same
instinct to do homage to the human form which held his counter soul, and
on her white feet he laid a reverent embrace.
Strengthened and uplifted by that mystic union whose memory should
never leave her, whose bonds should ever bind her, was Millicent. In every
existence comes one supreme, all-important moment, which thenceforth is
the landmark by which life is measured; the climacteric point to which the
past merely served to lead, the future availing only to enshrine its memory.
To some men and women the significance of that moment is known only
when it has long passed; to Millicent, the knowledge that her whole after
life should be controlled by that hour was not wanting. And her lover,--
would he be faithful to that unspoken vow? The thought never crossed her
mind; she was irrevocably bound to him; priest and rite could but make a
poor, earthy contract between what was mortal in them both; the spiritual
union was not for this world, and might not be broken by either.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what
Venice earned.
The soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be
discerned."

It was a pitiful story which the little journal had made known to John
Graham,--the story of a woman grievously wronged, cruelly deceived.
Millicent Almsford's life had not been a happy one. Her childhood had
been lonely, and she had none of those early recollections which are so
comforting in after years to people more fortunately bred. Her father was an
invalid and a bookworm, and looked upon his only daughter as a creature to
be fed, clothed, educated, and kept quiet. Her feeding he intrusted to her
faithful nurse, who had promised her dying mother never to leave the child
till she should be grown to womanhood. Her wardrobe was ordered by a
relative who lived in Paris, and who twice a year overlooked the making
and packing of her clothes, from her first baby wrappings to the ball dress
in which she was presented at the court of St. James. Her education he left
very much to chance and her own taste, simply locking up the livres
defendus of his library, and telling her English governess to order any
necessary volumes from Mudie's. The young woman in whose charge
Millicent was placed, was more eager to learn Italian than to teach English;
to explore the literature of Dante than to familiarize her pupil with the
British authors. When Millicent was sixteen years old, the feeble protection
of this governess was taken from her; the woman returning to England to

keep a long protracted marriage engagement with her own cousin. The same
year old Nina died; and then it was that the lonely girl fell under the
influence which was to darken her destiny and turn aside the natural current
of her life. Millicent Almsford, at that age, was a very peculiar and
interesting study. Her mind had eagerly grasped much more material than it
could master. Her vivid imagination and great talent for music were, with a
love of beauty, the most strongly developed traits in her nature, whose
intellectual growth was destined to be slow and late; whose spiritual
existence had not yet begun. An exquisite native refinement and a perfect
taste were among her most interesting qualities. Singularly attractive and
strangely incomplete, she had formed few relations; and her friendship with
Edward Holworthy, the man whose influence so marred her life, was the
first strong feeling which she had known. He was her opposite in character,
and knew life only through people, while she had lived purely in ideas. Her
complex nature, unfathomable to herself, was to him a novel and engrossing
study, and it was through him that she learned to understand one side of it.
The man found a great heart which had never loved; a strong power for
working good or evil; a bold mind, that feared not to grapple with the
deepest problems of life; and a possibility of absolute devotion to a
resolution once formed, which is rarely found among young women. He
became her mental guide, and directed her readings; with a certain clever
intuition bringing her under the influence of minds as sophistical and
frivolous as his own. Sympathetic to an extreme degree, her nature quickly
took from his the color of an exaggerated cynicism, which was sometimes
strongly shaken by the inner spirit which still slept under the untouched
heart. Platonics, where the man is of the world wise, and the woman foolish
with the innocence of childhood, are dangerous things, as he knew full well,
and she did not. In pointing out the forces which mould the lives of men

and women, what theme is so often upon the lips of two life students of
opposite sexes as that of love? To the girl it seemed a strange, rather
interesting force, whose power it would not be unpleasant to test; and when
one day her mentor confessed to her that she had bound him irrevocably by
those bonds which he had taught her were but ropes of sand, she smiled half
sadly, but in her heart laughed with childish merriment. She now should see
the actual workings of that strange hallucination; she should learn
something of what love was. She was as unfeeling as a young lioness, and
learned the lesson of making him turn pale and red by turns, as quickly as
she had learned the knack of touching the chords of her mandolin. She
looked upon her quondam friend in the light of an invalid, suffering from a
dangerous but non-contagious malady. And so things went on; the man
gaining every day a firmer hold over the girl, intoxicated by the new power
in herself and a growing consciousness of her beauty and charms. During
the long mornings at the Palazzo Fortunio, the two friends read and talked
together, while the Italian governess, understanding no word of their
intercourse, sat sewing patiently beside them. In the cool afternoons, when
they were rowed by the strong-armed gondolier, Girolomo, out into the
glory of the sunset, the same stolid companion always accompanied them.
One day, Mr. Almsford, selfish old epicurean, perceived for the first time
that his daughter had grown to a tall and fair womanhood. His attention had,
perhaps, been first called to the fact by the increasing size of the half-yearly
coffer which found its way from Fashion's capital to the Fortunio Palace,
and by the proportionate lengthening of the account which accompanied it.
Yes, Millicent was certainly grown to be a young lady. They were beginning
to send her little, demure bonnets, and close-fitting, simple woollen dresses,
made with more of an idea of displaying her graceful figure than heretofore.
The girl was heiress to her mother's fortune; and it behooved him to see

about finding a suitable husband for her. Whom should he consult in this
matter, but their most intimate friend; the man who seemed at once his
contemporary and hers; the handsome, clever fellow-countryman, who had
been on the most intimate footing in his house for the last ten years?
Edward Holworthy had started unaccountably when, in the midst of one of
the solemn pauses of their game of chess, Mr. Almsford had propounded the
unexpected question to him:--
"How shall I find Millicent a husband?"
The elder gentleman, for the first time in many months, checkmated
his adversary in two moves, and won the game in an unprecedentedly short
space of time.
Holworthy's advice was given after a week's deliberation. It was in
favor of sending Miss Almsford to her father's sister, who lived in London,
in order that she might be presented at court and introduced to English
society. Mr. Almsford thought over the advice, which appeared to him wise.
He consulted Millicent, who eagerly accepted the chance to see something
of the world; and finally, after six months' exchange of letters upon the
subject, the girl was taken to London by her father, and comfortably
established, with her aunt, in a pretty Kensington villa, for which her poorly
circumstanced relative gladly forsook a small house in an unfashionable
quarter of the town. Having married a younger son of a great house, with no
portion but debts on his part and beauty on hers, Millicent's aunt, with the
matchless tact of our countrywomen, had secured herself a prominent and
agreeable position in London society. In mere worldly advantages the
young girl could have had no better chaperone than the pretty young
woman, still occupied with bets, beaux, and bon-bons. She took her niece to
all the best houses; and soon Millicent's extreme beauty, and the widely

noised, somewhat exaggerated accounts of her worldly goods, brought her
scores of invitations and admirers on her own account.
Six months after her departure, Millicent Almsford returned to the
Palazzo Fortunio, where the report of her great social success had preceded
her and tickled the ears of her parent, proud of the child for whose sake he
had never sacrificed a whim of his own. Edward Holworthy, who had
accompanied the father and daughter to London, and remained there during
the period of the latter's stay, did not return to Venice, but sailed for
Australia, from whence he never returned either to his native or to his
adopted country. The change which her half year's absence had wrought in
Millicent, her father attributed to her social experience. She had left him
half a child, with a thousand absurd, whimsical ways, which had amused
him, and endeared her to him more than any other trait in her character. Few
things diverted him; and he counted every laugh which Millicent provoked
from him as a positive good, which he set down to her credit in their joint
account. Her stay in London had given Millicent a certain poise and manner
which suited her marvellously well; but all the sparkle and freshness
seemed to have left her. She was like a fresh, white lily which has been
broken and wilted by a violent storm of wind and rain. For months she
never smiled. Her life seemed to have come to a standstill; she suffered
dumbly, hopelessly, with sad, deep eyes, made more beautiful by the trouble
in them. A sceptic and a materialist, she found nothing in this world worth
suffering for, and smiled incredulously when the old curé, her Latin teacher,
tried to help her from the slough of earthly despair by promises of a
glorious future, for whose attainment the life-battle should be bravely
fought. She was conscious of no ethereal essence which should outlive the
graceful body, whose beauty she sometimes cursed. Did it not reduce her to

the level of all hunted creatures? Was she not a thing to be pursued by men,
like a tall deer or a fleet, timid hare?
"Something had come to the Signorina," said Girolomo, the gondolier;
"and the Signor Holworthy, where was he?" And he shook his head gravely,
the wise old creature, guessing, as did no other soul, that Edward
Holworthy was in some way connected with Millicent's changed face and
listless demeanor.
Something had come to her; but she never confided to priest or friend
the trouble which robbed her young face of its childish curves, which killed
the youth in her, and made her a woman in grief, while she was still a child
in years. Only one confidant had she,--the little journal; the gold-clasped
tome which all those years after had fallen into John Graham's hands. The
story of the first passion she had ever roused, read by the only man she had
ever loved.
It was the pitiful story of a grievous wrong which had darkened more
than one life. The miserable consequences of a wicked act are infinite; its
influence spreads wider and wider every day, like the broadening rings
which circle on the surface of a still pool disturbed by a stone which a
careless hand has tossed. The black deed may be hidden from the sight of
men, but its baleful effects are felt afar off in the lives of those who have
known nought of its perpetration. Let not the sinner comfort himself in that
his soul alone is damned for his crime. It darkens innocent lives with its
evil; and in sinning against himself he sins against mankind.
In the strange country whither Millicent had gone, Holworthy was the
only link which bound her to her home, the one being who understood and
cared for her. The dominion which he had always held over her was now
strengthened into a powerful magnetic force. The little journal told how that
influence had been exerted in compelling her to a secret marriage against

her own will and judgment. She had been tricked into an elopement,--it
might better be called an abduction,--and all unwillingly became his wife.
Then all too soon, ere a week had passed, came the terrible discovery that
the marriage was no marriage. For then came to her the mother of the man
whom she was striving to love with wifely duty, an old woman, bowed with
grief and years. She had come very far, across half a continent, to break to
the girl whose name she had heard linked with that of her only son, the
news that he was not free to marry, that she must give him up. When the tall
girl with the childish, flower face fell stricken to the earth like a broken lily,
at the feet of the older woman, she had made no cry; in the hours that
followed, she said no word. When the man who had wrecked her life came
and knelt beside her, prayed her to be patient and her wrongs should be
righted, spoke of his remorse, told her of his terrible mad wife from whom
the law would set him free, and make him really hers, prayed, besought, and
worshipped at her feet, she answered him with one terrible word only. She
rose and stood before him white and cruel in her agony, relentless as Fate.
"Go!" was the one syllable which her frozen lips uttered; and with a
gesture of command, majestic and beautiful, she had banished him from her
presence. The secret was kept, even from the old woman, grown more
sorrowful at the sight of the girl's dumb agony and of her son's grief, which
she could not soothe. The secret was kept; and that very night Millicent's
face, pale and clouded, shone out amidst a group of fair women who sat
languidly chatting through the music of Faust at the opera. He kept her
secret, poor wretch, and shielded her as best he might, forcing her to speak
to him and see him before others, that no sudden breaking of their relations
might be remarked. Save in the world, she never saw him again. That one
word of command was the last syllable which he ever heard her speak to
him directly. Not without a struggle did he give her up, but she was

implacable. She yielded to him, and played her part in the little comedy
which the world thought it understood. The beautiful Miss Almsford had
found Holworthy a pleasant admirer, but her delicate American beauty and
her solid American fortune would certainly win her a higher place in the
world than that of the wife of Mr. Edward Holworthy, her countryman and
old friend.
Youth and health are great physicians; and as the years passed,
Millicent recovered something of her old spring and elasticity. She was
infinitely more interesting, if something colder and harder, than she had
been in the old days. Her unquenchable vigor of temperament came to her
help, and gave her a keen pleasure in her studies and in the work and
thought of the people about her. Always self-reliant, she grew to live
entirely without support from man or woman. She was a friend to many
people, but was herself friendless. The Palazzo Fortunio, under her reign,
grew to be the centre of a charming social circle. Musicians and painters
were made welcome by the young hostess. At once an artist and a patron of
the arts, she stood in a peculiar relation to the men who frequented her
salon. If she had been without fortune she would have made music her
profession. As it was, she studied it as faithfully as if self-support had been
her aim; and she claimed that sympathy from her artistic friends which a
mere connoisseur, be he ever so enthusiastic, can never arouse. To her small
world she was all-important. Her sympathy helped many a timid debutante,
and her counsel cheered the black days of more than one disheartened artist.
Always gracious and kind, she had drawn about her a group of people, to all
of whom she was a sort of exalted fellow-worker, who knew but the poetry
of art, and helped them to forget its prose. Her heart was quite empty, but
her mind was keenly interested and fully occupied by the men and women
among whom she lived. Happiness she had forgotten to look for, but in

enjoyment her days were not wanting. It was a terrible blow to her when
this pleasant, quiet life was suddenly broken up by her father's marriage. To
her imperious nature the presence of the inferior woman whom Mr.
Almsford had brought home to the Palazzo was intolerable. Where could
she go? For the first time in her life she felt the power which her fortune
gave her. She could establish herself wherever she liked. Her father's sister
proposed a repetition of their joint establishment in London, but at the very
mention of her returning to England Millicent's face blanched. She would
never again set foot in that country. It was while she was in a state of doubt
concerning her future movements that her half-brother wrote her a long and
affectionate letter, urging her to come and dwell for a time among his
people, to visit her mother's country before she decided the important
question of where she should establish herself for life. The idea seemed a
just one to her; and acting on a tender impulse roused by the loving words
of her unknown brother, she had telegraphed her departure, and forthwith
started on her long journey accompanied by her capable French maid. The
Abigail discharged her trust faithfully, as far as San Francisco, from which
city she turned her face on the very day of her arrival, unwilling to remain
longer in what she called "le plus triste pays du monde." If the truth could
have been known, Millicent would have signed away ten years of her life to
have gone back with the woman to the Old World, the only home she had
ever known.
Graham had not been mistaken when he predicted to Millicent that she
would grow more in sympathy with the race from which she drew her
inheritance of character and temperament than at first seemed possible.
Nature is stronger than habit, well called second nature; and as the surface
roughness became familiar to her, she began to feel the strong life and vigor
of the young Western land quickening her pulses and stimulating her whole

being. The poverty of intellectual intercourse was more than compensated
by the tremendous power of work, the electrical force which accomplishes
so rapidly in this new land what in other countries has been the slow growth
of centuries.
An answering glow of enthusiasm flushed her with hope, with a
keener, fuller, more intense life than she had ever known before. She had
clung at first to her traditions, and fought against the tide which seemed to
be sweeping this people on and on and ever on. But nature was too strong
for habit; her upright, fearless mind acknowledged kinship with these hard-
working men and women, to whom pleasure is not save in toil, whose
whole life is one long unconscious sacrifice to their country. On the eastern
margins of our land the austere simplicity and purity have become infested
with plague-spots brought--ay, imported with care and expense--from the
Old World, and fostered like exotics on the clean soil. But from the great
Western prairie comes a fresh, strong breeze which sweetens all the
foulness of the Atlantic cities, and makes the breath of Columbia still pure
and fragrant.
With this new sentiment for her new-found country came the first
passionate love to the heart of the beautiful and unhappy young woman.
She had breathed the spicy air of the Californian forests, bracing and sweet,
and her cheek had grown fuller and fairer in the perfect climate. Her empty,
hollow heart was filled by a great love and strength, all-sustaining and
soothing.
When Graham had first seen her lying in the fire-light, with cool, deep
eyes, before the light of love had dawned in her flower face, she had
seemed to him like a perfect white rose. Then the rose flushed palely, as the
love-light trembled to a flame; and he brought her flowers of the color of
the sea-shells, and she wore them in her hair. Last of all, he laid at her feet

deep-red damask rosebuds; and these she placed on her white breast, where
they bloomed and died in a single night. He had painted her by the waves,
as he had once seen her on that strange day when death had seemed so near
and life so beautiful. He had painted her standing at the sea edge with pallid
roses in her little hands, her graceful head set about with the same soft-hued
flowers, and a single crimson rose lying lightly over her heart. He had hung
the sketch against the wall where the sunlight fell upon it early in the
morning; and Millicent had bade him remember, while he slept or waked,
that she was near him.

CHAPTER XV.

"It cannot be that love so deep as mine
Could fail to stay you like ethereal wine."

When he first understood the full import of the dreadful story, John Graham
had been dazed with grief. He had sought distraction from his torturing
thoughts in action, and had spent that first day in wandering through the
forest. When he lay down to sleep that night in the lodge, his heart was
burdened with the double weight of Millicent's secret and Millicent's deceit.
He said to himself that they had put an insuperable bar between her and
himself. He could have pardoned the disgrace which had befallen her, and
was not her fault, but he could never forgive her deceit toward him. The
finding of her kerchief the next morning, and the terrible apprehension
which the blood-stain had aroused in him, swept away the anger and sorrow

from his heart, leaving nothing there but an agonizing fear. This had been,
in turn, banished by the joy of finding her alive and unharmed, waiting for
him amidst the roses. The great fear had softened the anger in his heart; the
sudden happiness exalted his soul from the hell of anguish in which it had
dwelt, into a perfect and pure peace. Pride, anger, and resentment were
swept away, and love swayed him with its mastery. He knew her now, faulty
as she was; and his higher nature forgave her, because of her great love,
because of her great wrong. But in his stormy breast the tide of feeling
flowed and ebbed; pride had reigned there so long that love could not all at
once claim undisputed sway. He could not learn in an instant that pride is
born of hell, while love is breathed from heaven. In that strange moment
when their two beings had seemed etherealized, he had forgiven her all; but
in the days that followed, pride, doubt, and prejudice came forward one by
one to do combat with victorious love. It might be that they would conquer
in the struggle; it might even be that pride, being selfish, should make him
doubt and finally even forget love, which is unselfish. But he had pardoned
her, and loved her with all her sins; he had acknowledged that bond of spirit
which made them one; he had knelt before her and kissed her feet in a
passionless embrace full of reverence. No matter what griefs should fall
upon her, no matter what deed or word of his might put them apart in this
world, she should carry through her life, and beyond it, the knowledge that
what was highest in him had leapt to meet her love, and acknowledged that
they belonged each to other for eternity.
John Graham awoke one morning to find himself possessed of a
picture. He had seen it between waking and sleeping, in the early hours of
the night, and it had haunted his dreams till sunrise. He heard the wondrous
carolling of the birds just before dawn, with a joy greater than was his wont,
for it heralded the day which should bring light for his work. French John,

coming in with his breakfast, for the first time in his life entered and left the
tower without word or look of greeting from the artist, who, with bent brow
and serious face, was sketching in the first lines of his picture with a bit of
white chalk. The half-finished portrait of Mrs. Patrick Shallop looked at
him with one reproachful eye from the easel; but Graham paid no heed to
the neglected portrait; he was deeply engrossed in pursuing his thought and
preserving it in a tangible shape. It is a rare thing, in this age of the worship
of the golden calf, for the artist even to be absorbed in the love of his
profession. Of old, it seems that the sages and the sculptors wrought and
thought for the sake of art and learning, the spur of ambition being all that
was necessary to urge them forward. To-day the goal toward which such
men strive is a golden one, and the worship of money is more in vogue than
the pursuit of glory.
When artists sell their souls, brains, and talents to dealers, engaging to
deliver so many works of art in so many months, on such and such a class
of subjects, bargaining by the wholesale for the work which they shall
produce during the coming twelve-month, what wonder that the cry of the
connoisseur is, Too much technique, too little sentiment! "What is
sentiment?" one would ask such a babbler; is it a thing to be measured off
by the yard, or sold in canvases to suit traders, who feel the pulse of the
public, and if it is feverish give more stimulant, or if it is fainting prescribe
an anodyne? To such prostitution do these men strive to degrade the arts,
but in vain. Apollo's voice is still stronger than the chink of doubloons; and
there are those whose ears are ever strained to catch his mystic music. The
art trade, the literary trade, may flourish luxuriantly, growing like weeds,
with a rank prodigality; but the flowers of art and literature, for all that,
stand serenely strong in the garden of our fair young world, growing day by

day in beauty and strength. Their blossoming may be rare in this day and
generation, but the plants are sound and full of a mighty sap.
Though John Graham was a man of the world, there was no taint of
worldliness about him; he knew the world, because he had lived somewhat
in it, but more, perhaps, because he had studied the lives of the world's
people. The painting of a picture was to him of more importance than its
sale; the conception of a work more than its accomplishment. His
enthusiasm was apt to wane as his picture neared completion. The great
glow with which the idea came to him kept him warm and interested
through all the stages of the crystallization of his thought; but when the
work was finished he ceased to prize it, and either threw himself into a new
composition, or patiently labored at uninteresting mechanical work until he
was again inspired. It was with difficulty that he could be induced to sell his
pictures; he would sometimes keep them before him for years, waiting to
alter some detail or to remedy some defect. His friends, knowing his
reluctance to part with them, were wont to wait till they knew the artist to
be in absolute need of funds, and then quietly to walk away with the
coveted picture, forcing him to accept its price. A few people only in
California understood or cared for his landscapes, or the rare works of
imagination which he produced; and it was through his portraits that he was
chiefly known. He felt in himself an unfitness for this line of work; and had
it not been for the sake of his beloved mother, partially dependent on him, it
is not likely that he would ever have followed it. The reason was not far to
seek why. Graham did not succeed in that important branch of art: the
individual had little interest for him; men and women absorbed him less
than nature. Every tree and brooklet, dead forest leaf or purpled thunder-
cloud, held for him a lesson. Men and women seen from a distance were
more likely to interest him than those with whom he was thrown in close

contact. When their lives and actions were viewed in an impersonal
perspective, he understood them better, and often theorized about them. His
thoughts were oftener occupied with people of whom he knew little than
with his friends and intimates. To seek truth first and beauty second, was his
creed; but his life was not always guided by that high rule; and the jack-o'-
lantern beauty sometimes tempted him from the pursuit of truth, leading
him on long rambles over smiling meads and into flower-hedged swamp
lands. There would he lie undone, angry and smarting from the thorns
through which beauty had led him; and then, turning his back upon her,
would trudge earnestly along the road which leads truthward. Millicent had
once whispered to him that he mistook two loving sisters for dread rivals,
and that truth and beauty, when truly seen, are found together; whereat
Graham had looked full into her eyes, long and steadily, and kissing her
hand, with a sigh, had spoken of other things.
Lying beside him on the floor, as he worked upon his newly imagined
picture, was a painting nearly finished, on which he had been working the
previous day. A wooden panel, on which was represented the ever-new
subject, fairest of themes to artist and poet,--two lovers, standing together in
the rosy dawn of love, ere the scorching sun of passion has deepened their
cool morning into a fervid midday. The man's figure was strong and
graceful, his attitude one of protection; the girl's rounded and delicate body
swayed toward her lover, whose arm enfolded her. His face was turned
away, the eyes looking far, as if into the future; while her delicate features
were turned toward him, her glance trustfully fastened on his face. The
color of the warm woodland background was mellow and rich, bringing out
the deeper tones of the figures. The resemblance of the girl to Millicent
Almsford could hardly have been unintentional, one who knew her well
would have said; and yet Graham was only half-conscious that the face and

figure recalled her chief traits. He had thought of her as he worked; and
beneath his brush her bronze hair and luminous face had been shadowed out
more distinctly every day. A rare picture, full of beauty and sentiment; but
thrown aside to-day for the new inspiration which had seized upon the
artist. The subject to be treated was the entrance of the Poet to the abode of
the Muses. He sketched the Poet, mounted on his winged horse, just
crossing the narrow, defile which led to the sacred spot. With knit brows
and earnest face, Graham worked at the sketch all day; only leaving his
tower when the daylight failed him. As he wandered through the dim forest
aisles, he thought of Millicent for the first time, remembering that he had
agreed to ride with her in the afternoon at three o'clock; it was now past six.
Without the slightest feeling of remorse at his failure to keep the
engagement, he determined to ride over to the house and see her. Millicent
received him rather coolly, having spent the afternoon crying with worry
and disappointment at his non-appearance; and he, only half noticing her
mood, failed to understand it. He was dimly aware that her society was not
as agreeable as usual, and consequently he devoted himself to Mrs. Deering
during the evening. At first Miss Almsford kept aloof from the
conversation; but later, when her lover began to talk brilliantly, she drew
near to where he sat and listened to his words with downcast eyes. Graham
was in wonderful vein that night; his every gesture spoke of a strong under-
current of excitement. His eyes shone, and his deep voice had a thrill of
enthusiasm which stirred the pulses of the calm-browed girl, sitting near by
with softly folded hands and parted, breathless lips. But it was neither for
Millicent, nor because of Millicent, that the young man talked so brilliantly.
A more stimulating influence than hers had touched him, and he was
beyond the reach of her sympathy; exalted by the wings of his genius to that
clear, cool, lonely communion with the immortals which only such as he

experience. Dismayed, and yet full of reverence for this new phase of his
nature, Millicent was filled with a great pain. She was left behind; she could
follow but not accompany the flight of his fancy; and a sense of lonely
desolation chilled the hot heart-blood with a depression the like of which
she had never before known. The ethereal quality of her being recognized
and did honor to his bold up-winging; but the personal, selfish side rebelled
at the neglect to which she was subjected. The struggle in her breast was at
that time unintelligible to herself; in after days, when the baser nature had
been overcome, she realized it all, and knew that the long death-struggle of
self began that night when Graham's eyes looked beyond her for inspiration,
up to the blue-starred empyrean over both their heads.
More from habit than because he needed her society, her lover asked
her to step for a moment upon the piazza before he left. As they stood side
by side, he absently took her firm, small hand in his and kissed the pink
fingers one by one, as if she had been a child. All at once he perceived that
she was weeping, her slender form shaken by a storm of sobs.
"Millicent, my child, what is it? Are you ill?" he asked, tenderly
stroking her hair.
"No, only unhappy. Graham, why did you not come for me to-day? I
waited for you all the afternoon."
"Did I not tell you, dear, that I was very busy? I have begun a new
picture. I quite forgot my engagement with you,--I am very sorry," he
answered, puzzled at her emotion.
"Then it is your picture that is my rival. I hate it, I hate it! I never want
to see it!
"Millicent, what do you mean?"
Her only answer was to lay her aching head upon his breast, to twine
her arms about him, and to sob out incoherent words of love and grief, all of

which puzzled and wearied him. He soothed her tenderly; and when they
parted there was a smile upon her lips, though her breast still trembled with
the slow after-waves of a grief which shook her whole being. Graham,
unnerved by the tempest which he had all unwittingly aroused, reached his
tower in an excited and irritable frame of mind. The first thing that met his
eyes was the picture of the lovers lying at the foot of the easel. He picked it
up, placed it on the table before him, and long and critically surveyed his
work.
"I painted better than I knew," he sighed. "Yes, thus it is that we stand
toward each other, man and woman, and ever shall stand,--the man looking
out beyond, above, the woman, and she finding her utmost limit of self-
projection in him. Alas and alas!" He placed the painting with its face
toward the wall, and with a moody brow turned to his new sketch.
"Bah, I can do nothing, see nothing in that picture; I have been too
rudely summoned back to earth, to the little griefs of humanity, by a
woman's tears. I was never meant for it, I cannot bear it." So ran his
thoughts impatiently. He had been living in the passionless perfection of art,
and had been suddenly recalled by a little creature, full of small human
feelings, to this narrow world. Nettled and unstrung, he threw himself upon
his hard bed, to dream of Millicent,--a happy dream, in which she knelt
before him, acknowledging her fault, pleading his forgiveness; a dream of
sweet reconciliation, wherein was memory of that hour among the
redwoods, of that mystic soul-embrace but once known to him his whole
life through. He awoke refreshed and strengthened, with a love-song on his
lips tender as that of the mourning dove. Sundown showed him again at his
easel after a long day's work; but that evening Millicent listened in vain for
the patter of Tasso's hoofs among the softly rustling autumn leaves.

In the week which followed Graham did not venture to see Millicent
again, fearing her disturbing influence on his work. He sent her every day
by his faithful henchman some little memento. One morning it was a quick
sketch of the sunset of the previous night. Another day it was a bunch of
pretty brown quails, the result of an hour's shooting. Once she found hung
upon her window-ledge a garland of dewy red roses; and easily guessed
what strong, light figure had swung itself up the piazza post, and over the
trellis-work, to lay this offering before her curtained window.
Henry Deering, passing by the piazza on the night the lovers had
parted, heard the sound of weeping. In the days that followed, he noticed
Millicent's reddened eyes and restless mood. He felt sure that some
misunderstanding had arisen between them; and as the days passed, and
Graham failed to appear, he began to believe that the breach was a serious
one. In the old days he had loved Graham as a brother; but in the last
months his affection had grown cold, and held a weak place in his heart,
from whence jealousy was fast banishing it. Now that he believed his old
friend to have grieved the woman they both loved, a feeling of antipathy
and an undefined distrust possessed him.
After the long day's work it was his custom to sit for an hour or so
upon the piazza beneath Millicent's window, watching the beam of light
which shone through her closed blinds until it was extinguished. One night,
as he sat alone, the drowsy humming of the insects soothed him into a light
sleep. When he awoke with a start, the moon, which had not before been
visible, was high in the heavens. As he was about to go in-doors he heard a
footstep on the path outside the house. He remained motionless in his chair,
resolved to see who was abroad so late. The footsteps were uncertain and
stealthy. The person first approached the house, and then retreated to the
turf, where the steps were hardly audible. Deering stepped lightly to the

edge of the piazza and peered through the honeysuckle screen. At a distance
of twenty feet from him stood a man looking up at the house, at Millicent's
window. His face was hidden by a muffler and a broad hat pulled low over
the brows. Deering drew his revolver and cocked it. The click of the lock
evidently reached the intruder's ears, for he turned and fled toward the
orchard. Deering sprang from the piazza, and shouting, "Who are you?
Stop, or I 'll fire!" ran down the path. The fugitive neither answered nor
slackened his pace. Deering fired, aiming low down; but the ball whistled
by the man and buried itself in the heart of a peach-tree. In the close
shrubbery which surrounded the orchard Deering missed his man; and three
minutes later he heard the swift tramp of a pair of horses on the path which
led to the high-road. He ran to the stable. Nothing there but the mules and
old Sphinx; his own fleet mare and Millicent's thorough-bred were grazing
in the pasture. He slipped a bridle over the old mustang's head, and sprang
on his back without waiting for a saddle. By the time he reached the
highway the riders were out of sight, and the echo of the distant hoof-beats
reached his ears. Pursuit was useless; they were well mounted; and Sphinx
had gone dead lame the day before. The young man listened to the faint
sound of the hoofs until it died in the silent night. Then he dismounted and
examined the road. There were the traces of two horses. As he looked
closely at the impressions left on the thick dust, he saw that only one of the
horses had carried a rider; the other had been led.
When he returned to the house he found the family aroused. Barbara
met him on the piazza, asking anxiously what had happened. The report of
the revolver had awakened her.
"It was a bear, Barbara," said her brother. "It is a shame to have roused
you all, and for nothing, too. I thought I had a sure shot, and that we should
have bear-steak for dinner to-morrow."

"A bear, Hal? How strange! Why, this is the first time one ever came
so near the house, is n't it?"
"No; Ralph killed two long ago, before you can remember. Go to bed
now, and get the house quiet, for heaven's sake!"
The young man kept his own counsel, and the next morning made a
careful examination of the grounds near the house. On the farther side of
the orchard there were traces of a pair of horses having been tethered.
Two more days went by, and still Graham did not come. Millicent was
distressed and puzzled at his long absence; and finally, after thoughtful
deliberation, she decided to write to him, telling him how grieved she was
at her own unreasonable behavior.
Graham found a letter early one morning folded in an embroidered
kerchief, and laid before the door of his tower. That heavy unpainted barrier
could have told a tale like that of Tennyson's talking oak, had it been given
the power of speech. Trembling lips had pressed timid kisses upon its
weather-beaten panels. Strange old door of the tower, roughly fashioned by
the Mission priests a century ago, what secrets have you not shut in; what
hopes have you not seen pass out between your time-rusted lintels!
It was the first letter Millicent had ever written him; he had but once
before seen her handwriting. The girlish, weak hand which had traced the
words in the little journal was greatly altered. It was now a graceful,
flowing chirography, full of that individuality which stamped everything
appertaining to her. Graham studied the superscription carefully before he
broke the golden seal, with its device of Psyche with new-found wings. It
ran as follows:--

BELOVED,--Forgive me! forgive me if you will, for I cannot forgive myself. I was wrong to grudge

you the time passed with your work. It was weak and selfish of me; but now that I know my fault, be

not afraid. Believe that I am strong enough to overcome it. For the red roses at my window I thank

you; and for the fair picture and the graceful couplet, for all the tender thoughts which prompted you

to send me these tokens, bless you a hundred times. But oh! my lover, come to me; and let me read in

your strange eyes, that are now bright and cold as ocean deeps, and again burning with Promethean

fire, that I am forgiven. Not rose nor picture, not poem nor sweet garland, can tell me as can they that

you love me.

MILLICENT.

Graham read the letter through twice, and folded it away, with a sigh. "Do I
love her? Does she love me?" he queried; and all that day the doubt
tormented him. While he worked, while he took his afternoon ramble
through the woods, while he sat at his solitary supper, it rankled in his
mind. He could not solve it; could she? It were best at least to ask her. It
was only right that she should know of his doubts of her and of himself. He
found her flushed with pleasure at the sight of him. She had anticipated his
coming, and was dressed in soft colors which he approved, and fair with a
hundred little efforts of coquetry to please him. Her bronze hair seemed to
the man but a mesh to snare him. He turned his eyes impatiently from the
pretty, bare arms, and the cool, snowy shoulders shining through transparent
draperies. His judgment should not be turned aside by her loveliness. He
greeted her coolly, barely touching her outstretched hand; and then stood
looking gloomily into the distance, not knowing what to say, uncertain of
the truth, doubting her. The woman, quick to see his trouble, spoke to him
tenderly, with a low, soothing voice, thanking him for coming to her, telling
him how long the time had seemed since they had met.
"And tell me all about your new picture."
"I cannot, Millicent; your letter spoiled my day's work. I have done
nothing since I read it."

"Dear, what can you mean?"
"This, Millicent,--that my work must always be first to me. I had
thought that you would help me in it, but it is not so." After a pause,
"Millicent, I think we have made a mistake, you and I. We cannot help each
other, and therefore we hinder one another. You dazzle me with your beauty,
and send me back to my work unfitted for it; while I only make you
unhappy, and fear I can never do anything else."
"Graham, you kill me." She looked indeed as if a blow had been
planted in her breast, as she reeled, all white and trembling, to a seat. Her
words seemed to deepen the nervous agitation which possessed him, for he
said impatiently,--
"What can I do? It is not my fault that you have neither the best love to
give me, nor the power to arouse it in me. I tell you, child, that we have
been mistaken, and that it is time for this thing to end."
"No, no, Graham; you are angry, you know not what you say. In mercy
speak no more." She had sunk upon her knees, her clasped hands stretched
toward him in an agony of fear.
"Do not kneel to me, but listen; for I am right. If things had been
different, it might have been; but as they are, we have been mad to think of
it. There is no help for it, my girl; we must kiss and part. You never loved
me as you should, Millicent, because you could not. A woman can love but
once, and that is the first time."
"It is not true. You, who are a man, say it. What woman ever said it? It
is a lie, a lie! You shall not say it, you must not think it. You would make us
creatures without souls indeed. Are they right, then, the Easterns? If when
we women are sold, or stolen, or entrapped, we must love, and only then,
you deny us other life than that of the earth. Of what man would you hold
this doctrine to be true? It is utterly false! it is wicked! it is unworthy of

you!" She moaned where she had fallen on the ground, and tried to speak
again; but the man continued with a pitiless stream of words, sincere,
earnest, spoken for her good as well as his own.
"We have been loitering together for a time, child, on life's way, and
have chased the golden butterfly of pleasure which men oft mistake for
love. Before we are too deeply entangled in the briers, we must turn from
the chase, we must forget each other. We can be of no good, one to the
other; and I will be no more harm to you than I have been."
He could not see her face now; it was hidden on her arm as she
crouched where his words had thrown her. The pathos of the attitude
touched him; he gently lifted one of the tightly clinched hands, and
loosened the fingers which so fiercely bit the delicate palm. He was in a
strange mood, when heart and soul seemed absent from him, and only the
clear, strong brain prompted his words. Her passionate grief hardened rather
than softened the look in his eyes. This girl, who had been as wax in his
fingers,--glad when he smiled, weeping when he sighed, swayed invariably
by the mood which possessed him,--now denied by piteous word and
gesture the words which he was speaking. Her hand, unlocked by him,
would have clasped his stronger palm; but at the caress he dropped her arm
and turned his eyes from her.
"I cannot give you up," she murmured; "you must not leave me so. Oh,
my love, you wrong me, you wrong yourself! I love you, Graham, with all
my soul; I love you as I never thought to love before! Cruel--cruel! It is not
with lips and eyes that I have loved you, for you could lose that, and yet
miss nothing from your life. Turn not from me, if you would not leave that
which is best worth having by the roadside, and press on to find that goal
towards which your ambition spurs you, empty and void without me at your
side! It is your worse nature which doubts mine. Graham, Graham! what

matters it if hand and eyes have been another's? My soul is only yours,
wakened first when your strong spirit called it from the sleep begun before
it was vested in this body, ere it was divided from your own."
The last words, faintly whispered, hardly reached his ears. To-day their
import could not have been felt by him. In other times he understood, and
sufferingly admitted the truth of those incoherent words, which died on the
air as soon as they were breathed, and yet whose memory abode with him
his life through. He had come to Millicent not knowing what he should say,
and the words seemed to have spoken themselves. He was sorry, as is the
surgeon for the pain which he inflicts; but, like the physician, he felt that
mercy lay in mercilessness. As she lay weeping at his feet, a strong tide of
emotion swept over him, leaving him pale and trembling. He lifted her with
eager hands, and on shoulder, brow, and pallid mouth he pressed cruel,
parting kisses, which carried no balm to her broken heart, and brought no
ease to his fevered spirit. Then he broke from her with a mighty effort,
passion and pride wasting him with a terrible warring, and fleeing through
the night left her there cold and nerveless, like a broken lily amidst the dews
and damps.
In the days which followed, Barbara watched with tender solicitude
Millicent's changed face and nerveless step. Only through her sympathetic
perceptions did she know of the girl's trouble; of what nature it was she
surmised, not incorrectly. Lovers' quarrels are usually looked upon with a
tolerant amusement by intimate friends and relatives; and when they are of
short duration, it is usually considered advisable to ignore them altogether.
But as weeks passed, and Barbara learned that Graham was in San
Francisco, she redoubled her little attentions, and shielded Millicent as best
she could from her mother's anxious questions.

Angry and rebellious was Millicent in these days, with that terrible
under-feeling of anguish which must outlive anger and rebellion; that
fainting of the soul, when all that has supported it seems to have sunk away,
and it is left absolutely without power to resist an all-devouring despair. Her
happiness had been so short-lived; her misery was so terrible, so unending!
Her young life, which had been balked of its natural joyousness and youth,
had suddenly been illumined with the pure and perfect light of the love
which passeth all understanding, and now she was in darkness blacker than
she had ever known. The anguish of that great love was not wanting, and
she suffered with a new sense of her capacity for pain. In her dumb grief
she knew that the agony was not undeserved; this was the bitterest drop in
the cup of tears. She had not told him her sad secret; she had deceived him!
She had meant to tell him of the blot upon her name, before their lives had
become irrevocably joined; but she had put off the dreaded moment until it
was too late: he knew all now, and not by her confession. Would she ever
have had the courage to tell him? She almost doubted herself. Was she
deceitful by nature? she asked herself a hundred times, questioning her deep
eyes in the mirror's depth. No, she knew that her frank, sincere character
had been warped and distorted by the evil influence of the man whose name
she would have cursed, had not the grave closed over him, burying his sins
and her reproaches in the cold earth. Poor child, poor women all, the
weaker creatures in this remorseless world! When they are bruised and
broken by the force of their masters, is it strange, is it unpardonable, that the
weapon of the weak tempts them? Who forged that weapon for them, who
forced them to use it? If there were no unjust oppression among men, no
brutal abuse of a superior force, would women be driven to deceit, that
refuge of the weak?

In this sophistry she wrapped herself, but was not satisfied. She had
been tried and found wanting. This it was that had lost to her the lover for
whom she had faced death. He might not know it; he had never said it; but
she recognized what had driven him from her side,--the fault was hers. Was
it unpardonable? Could he never forgive her? Must their lives be separated,
now that spirit had kissed soul? Must the long waiting last until time should
be ended for them both, and Eternity begun?
Of all cruel gifts, is not that which lingered in Pandora's box the one
through which men suffer most fiercely? O Hope! if thou hadst escaped
along with the rest of the heathen god's blessings, how many tortured souls
would now be at rest in a fixed and accepted grief which struggles not,
neither rebels at the decrees of destiny! Unquenchable art thou, robbing sad
mortals of all repose; even in death shall they not find rest; thou troublest
the dying with thy visions of a future! With resolute hands sorrowing
women seize upon thee, and would stifle thee in their breasts; but though
thou dost sometimes simulate death, when the watchful hands loosen their
hold thou springest up stronger and more cruel than before, and tormentest
the sufferer with thy struggles!
"If it would only die--if it would only die!" moaned Millicent, as she
paced her room, her hands crossed heavily upon her breast, as if to stifle
some tangible spark with their weight. A thousand times she submitted to
the rest of a despair which was all too quickly routed by the fever of a hope
which could not die.

CHAPTER XVI.

"If we should part and pass to separate ways
With stifled sigh, averted head,
Within a land where centuries are as days
Our love shall live though flesh and wrong lie dead."

And her lover, where was he? In the heart of the city, working in a garret on
his great picture, for the sake of which he had forsaken the woman he
loved. Intolerant of opposition was Graham; and when once an idea had
been accepted by him, it was next to an impossibility for him to give it up.
He had become convinced that his love for Millicent would make him
faithless to his work; that the love of woman was not compatible with the
highest devotion to art. Her fond dependence on him would drain his
strength. Without his work he could neither be satisfied nor satisfy her. The
closer she clung to him the more did he recoil from her. In the strength of
his genius, he laughed at the idea that a loving companionship was
necessary to him; and yet hours came, at the end of a long day's work, in the
quiet watches of the night when the city slept about him, in which all his
theories were overset, in a terrible longing for the girl whose sad eyes
haunted him. To see her and to touch her; to hear her low, deep voice; to
forget all the grievous striving of his life, in the restful warmth of hers! He
thought of her always as he had first seen her, lying before the fire, her
slender figure robed in white, her head supported in the hands which he had
so often caressed. Waiting for him, she seemed to have been then. Waiting
for him, he loved to fancy her always. These tender thoughts drifted through
his mind in the soft twilight, or before the dawn. In the fervid daylight he
only remembered her as she had been on that last evening, rebellious and
close-clinging, desperate, beautiful, and full of unrest.

The city tired him with its everlasting sounds of traffic. The tread of
dray horses and the rumbling of carts sounded in his ears from earliest dawn
till late night. There was no peace here amongst his fellow-men. He longed
for the solitude of his tower, for his forest neighbors, for the sound of the
woods, the wide arch of blue sky, seen now through one narrow slit
between the opposing houses.
One morning he determined to take a day of rest; and, after making a
light breakfast at a coffee-house near by, he started for the San Rosario
Ranch, with a lighter heart than he had carried in his bosom for many days.
It was a bright morning; the air was crisped with a prediction of winter
weather, genial enough in this region at its worst. As he passed through the
familiar country he traced some likeness to Millicent Almsford in every
object on which his eyes lighted. Now it was the golden-brown of her hair
seen in the shiny coat of a sleek filly frolicking in a pasture; now it was her
graceful movements traced in the trembling branches of a straight young
sapling; again, her gray eyes smiled in his face from under the brows of a
fair child playing by the roadside. The harsh voice of the wheels thundering
over the steel rails seemed to be repeating her name; and his heart kept time
with the refrain, beating out the syllables rhythmically,--Millicent,
Millicent, Millicent! He was weary of reasoning with himself. For six days
in the week his work was all-sufficing, and he needed no other
companionship; but on the seventh day he longed for rest; he needed
beauty, he needed love. He knew that it was weak in him to waver in his
resolution not to see Millicent again; he knew that it was a wrong to her,
and that he would bitterly regret it in after days. And yet he yielded to that
exquisite golden haze which seemed to have dropped about him, flooding
his life with a passionate delight, an ecstasy of expectation.

He alighted at the station, and stood watching the receding train with
strained eyes. He wished now that he had not come. He walked up and
down the narrow platform, flushed and unnerved with the tumult in his
breast. On his right lay the dusty carriage-road which led to the house; on
his left a narrow bridle-path pierced the woods, over which he must pass to
reach his tower. Which should it be,--a day passed with the creatures of the
forest, under the blue sky and murmuring trees; or an hour of the soft
delight which Millicent's voice, Millicent's eyes, Millicent's lightest finger-
touch, wrapped about him? He realized now how he had cheated himself.
He had said that it was the wood-birds whose voices wooed him from the
city! He knew now that beneath that longing for the free air of his forest
home lay the deeper desire which had tempted him to leave his picture half
finished, his palette half set.
Which road should he take? Not more unstable was the blue ring of
smoke which the breeze carried from his lips, tossing it hither and thither in
a cloudy wreath upon the white air, than was this man between the opposing
influences which divided his nature. At last he tossed his cigarette upon the
platform, carefully quenching its spark with his foot, and with a light, fleet
step ran down the wide carriage-road which led to the house--which would
bring him to Millicent. He had known all along, with that inner
consciousness which decides with lightning rapidity a question which the
intellect debates long and seriously, that his feet would follow that pleasant,
open road rather than the dark wood-trail; and yet the train had sped twenty
miles further on its journey before he turned his face toward the happy
valley. So clumsy is reason compared to instinct; so tedious are the modes
of thought to the working of the feelings; so useless is the grave gate of
wisdom to check the tumultuous torrent of feeling.

He found the wide piazza deserted, the front door fast closed, the
blinds of the library and dining-room tightly drawn. The hospitable house
was silent and deserted. His imperative summons was finally answered by a
domestic, the successor of poor Ah Lam, who in his ridiculous vernacular
informed the visitor that "Alley folk go waly." Which, being translated into
English, signified that no one was at home.
Graham felt as if a flood of cold water had been dashed into his face.
He shivered, as he turned from the door and descended the steps; and yet
before he had walked two miles in the familiar road which led to his tower,
he gave a profound sigh of relief. It was better so! The exercise had cooled
his fevered blood; the crisp forest air had brought reason back to his
passion-tossed breast. It was better that he had not seen her. Something of
the fatalist was there about this strong-brained rationalist. He half fancied
that it was not chance alone which had decreed that Millicent should be
absent from the Ranch that day. But he sang no more as he had done on his
way to the house; and his serious face lost that smile of hope which had
lighted the eyes and touched the mouth into an unaccustomed softness. If he
was silent, the wild birds were melodious, and he walked between choirs of
invisible songsters; while the whirring of a partridge, the fleet step of a wild
fox in the thicket, gave him the assurance that he was not alone in the
mysterious wood. At last the distance was accomplished; and at high noon,
when the shadows had all shrunk back into the tall trees before the ardent
heat of the sun, he reached the ruin of the old church. He leaned against the
fragment of a pillar which stood at the foot of the staircase, and looked up
at the square gray tower with its close-clinging pall of moss and yellow
lichens. From a rift in the wall burst a blaze of color,--a clump of
wallflowers stretching its flame of blossoms upward toward his window. He
noticed that the casement was open; and as he looked he saw the fluttering

of a bit of drapery over the edge of the sill. It must have been the curtain, of
course; but the sight of it gave him a strange sensation, not unlike one that
he had experienced before on that spot, when he had been tricked by the
moonlight into fancying that there was a woman straying in the aisles of the
old church. He remembered that night and what it had revealed to him; and
at the black thought the sky seemed to have darkened over his head. He had
stood dreaming at the tower foot for fifteen minutes, and in that time the
sky had become overcast, a cold wind had sprung up and now blew into his
face, carrying a host of big drops with it. The rain had come at last! After
the long spring and summer unmarred by clouded skies or rude gusts, the
first rain had come. With a rough tenderness it dashed itself against the
parched land and shook the tall trees till they murmured a delighted
welcome. The dusty ferns growing low down about the knees of the great
trees caught the happy news, and uncurled their tender fernlings that they
might feel the welcome touch of the rain-drops, as they filtered through the
greedy leaves and raced down the straight stems to reach the myriads of
thirsty mouths yearning for their balm. The rain had come; and the languid
stream, which had pined and shrunk to a pitiful thread of water, leaped
joyously down its rocky bed. It would grow strong and young and beautiful
again; its banks would bloom with flowers; its course would no longer run
painfully over heated stones, between seared brown edges,--the rain had
come!
On the narrow stairway Graham paused, near the top. Something
shining lay on the step before him. The object proved to be a small silver
arrow, tipped with a feather of brilliants. He picked up the jewelled toy,
which he had once before held in his hand,--one evening when he had
withdrawn it from the soft tresses which it caught together behind a small
white ear. His hand trembled as he remembered the soft rushing of silken

curls over his arm, the fragrance which had floated about him, the look of
loving reproach which had punished his audacity. Wondering how the arrow
had found its way to the threshold of his tower, Graham tried to open the
heavy door with his key. To his surprise it refused to yield; the bolt was
drawn on the inside. Some one was in his tower. Thinking that the
Frenchman, in whose care his room had been left, might be at work, he
lifted the heavy brass dolphin which served for a knocker, and rapped
loudly. There was no answer. The rain by this time was falling in torrents.
He was entirely without shelter; and he knocked a second time, calling out
to know who was inside the room. He heard a light step approach the door,
and a hand was laid upon the lock. The old wood-cutter could never have
walked with that musical footstep; the soft rustle of garments could not
have been made by him. Graham's heart leaped from its quiet beating into a
very tumult of pulsations, as the bolt was gradually drawn and the heavy
door swung slowly open. On the threshold of his lonely tower stood
Millicent, with downcast eyes and pale face. For a moment he was silent,
looking at her, doubting his own vision; fearing to move lest she should
vanish from before his eager eyes as she did in his dreams. Could this
beautiful, colorless creature, with marble cheeks and fallen lids, with
sombre garments and nerveless, pallid hands crossed upon the breast, be
Millicent Almsford? He stepped nearer with outstretched hands to touch
her, to feel that it was in verity the woman who had lain weeping at his feet
that night among the roses. He would have folded her to his breast, but the
white lids flashed open, the sad, tear-worn eyes looked into his own with an
expression which made him draw back; and the girl, without a word, passed
out of the doorway and stood unprotected in the driving storm.
Before her mute grief, his passionate longing was turned to a great and
holy pity. He stood beside her and said gently,--

"Millicent, you will not leave me without a word? You must not go out
into the storm; I will leave you here alone, if you wish, until the rain is over.
Do not be so cruel as to doubt me, dear one."
He stopped, for his words had made her tremble. She feared him no
longer, and with a little sigh laid her hand in his and suffered him to lead
her into the room. The artist placed his visitor in a great chair, and busied
himself in making a fire on his cold hearth.
"Now this is more cheerful, fair lady, is it not?" he cried, in a pleasant
voice. "And pray tell me what brought you to my lonely dwelling."
"I had always wanted to see your tower, Graham; and this morning
they all went to San Francisco for the day, and I thought I would ride over
and look at it from the outside. I found old John airing the room, and
accepted his invitation to rest here for half an hour before riding home. He
came up just now to tell me that it was going to rain, but as he thought it
would be only a shower he had put my horse under shelter. This is how I
came here; and now tell me what brought you so unexpectedly from town."
"I cannot tell, white one. Your will, perhaps."
"Nay, friend, that has never swayed thee one hair's-breadth from thine
appointed course."
He shook his head sadly, and looked out of the window. She did not
know--it was better for her perhaps that she never should know--how great
an influence she had wielded over his life. She did not know that for her,
faith and youth had bloomed in his heart when he had thought them dead.
Her untruth was killing them, and their death-agony had shaken and worn
him cruelly. She thought him hard and relentless. It might be easier for her
to dull the pain in her heart, with this consciousness of injury received. He
would never tell her of the irreparable wrong she had done him. If he was

not forgiving he was magnanimous. No word of reproach should pass his
lips.
Outside the rain was pouring down, but less steadily; the patter of the
drops sounded more and more lightly on the window-panes. The shower
would not long continue. Graham took note of the clearing sky, and sighed
heavily. With all her faults he loved her; the tower would be lonelier than
ever when she had flitted from it like a sprite of the rain-storm. The great
trees outside lifted up their branches with a mighty wailing, echoing his
sigh; and Millicent, as if conscious that love was pleading against pride in
that strong heart which had never learned the lesson of forgiveness, turned
her white, appealing face towards him. The man's being had been swept that
day with fiery impulses from the first moment of consciousness. Passionate
love, pity, scorn, and anger had in turn written their impress on his mobile
face. He came close to her side, and taking both her hands in his, knelt at
her side:
"O Millicent, Millicent! could he not have spared you? We could have
loved each other so truly! Poor child, poor child! What fiend was he to have
betrayed you! But now it can never be, never, never, never!" The words
rang out drearily, the death-knell of all that had made life beautiful to them
both. The pale girl sat motionless, speechless, her eyes dark with horror, her
hands nerveless in his passionate grasp. Tears fell upon those white fingers
which he had so often kissed,--cruel tears wrung from the bruised heart of
the man she loved; tears that she had no power to check, tears that had their
source in her own sin. In that hour of agony, if remorse may in aught atone
for error, Millicent must have been forgiven of the angels. The proud man
knew how to suffer, but he could not forgive. He arose and dashed the tears
from his eyes; they had cost him mortal pain.

The rain was over, the gray sky had cleared; and Millicent, like a gray
shadow, slipped from the tower, leaving her lover alone, with the mocking
sunlight shining on his dark, tear-stained face.

CHAPTER XVII.

"Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his brother men
Like brutes within an iron den."

It was a long chase that brought Hal Deering and Maurice Galbraith face to
face with the ruffian, whom Hal readily identified. They found him with a
group of new-found friends in the chief liquor saloon of a small, rather
disreputable town, fifty miles from the Ranch. When the two young men
entered the place, the man they were looking for asked them to join in the
"all-round drink" he was about to "stand treat for," which invitation was
promptly declined by Hal Deering. After a whispered word, Galbraith had
left the shop; and Hal, seating himself at a table, awaited the return of his
friend, quietly enduring the insulting remarks which the offended Horton
heaped upon him. The loafers in the shop had a kindly feeling toward the
man who had treated them, and did not discourage him in his attempts to
force the new-comer into a quarrel. But Hal was imperturbable, and
answered neither with look nor word. Stimulated by the whiskey he had

imbibed, and the admiring attention of his friends, the rowdy finally called
out in a brutal voice,--
"If you think yerself too good to drink with this yere crowd, p'raps yer
would n't mind amusing 'em by showing 'em the last style of dancing down
in 'Frisco. 'T would raley please us to see you step out."
As he spoke he drew his pistol from his belt and pointed it at Deering.
The more sober ones of the party here interfered; and the burly saloon-
keeper stepped forward with the remark, that he "did n't mean to 'low
anything but fair play in his shanty; and that if the genl'm'n had a difference
between them they must settle it outside."
The man whom Deering was after seated himself astride a hogshead of
beer and cocked his pistol, advising the "boss" to keep out of the affair if he
valued his "sweet life."
"Now, then, young man, if yer don't cut a caper before I count three, I
shall be obliged to see how much of your right boot-heel I can carry away
with this bullet, without endangering them handsome feet o' yourn."
Hal, only afraid of losing his man, answered coolly,--
"You can shoot if you want to. I am a stranger in this place, and I
prefer to do my dancing at home."
The proprietor again interposed, and laying his hand on the bully's
shoulder, ordered him to put up his shooting-irons. Horton threw him off,
and things were beginning to look rather serious; when Deering saw
Galbraith crossing the street with two men, one of whom he recognized as
the county sheriff.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I have come a long distance to find this man; I
am anxious to have his company as far as the San Bernardino prison, where
he will find comfortable board provided for him. If you are law-abiding

citizens, you will not interfere with the arrest of Daniel Horton on an
indictment of murder."
As he finished speaking, the three men entered, and the sheriff laid his
hand on Horton's shoulder. Murder is an ugly word, and a silence followed
Hal's speech. The crowd instinctively drew back from the man who had
been charged with the foul crime; and a silence ensued, which was broken
by the sheriff, a high-voiced little man, who said in a loud tone,--
"I arrest you, Dan Horton, for the murder of Ah Lam, committed at
Carey's Bridge, on the afternoon of Wednesday last."
A revulsion of feeling was manifest in the faces of the crowd. The
horror for a person who has committed the unatonable crime of murder had
been felt; but when it transpired that the victim was a Chinaman, the case
appeared to be very much altered. The man, quick to see the favorable
change in public sentiment, cried,--
"Wall, boys, you see I am 'spected of having done the business for one
of these Chinese vermin. What sort of a town 's this as will see a man 'rested
for that?"
Daniel Horton's experience of life in the rough mining towns, where
the last five years of his life had been spent, gave him the hope that the men
in the saloon would help him to escape from arrest. But though sympathy
for him was evinced by the group of idlers, there was no attempt at resisting
the officers; and the sheriff, assisted by Galbraith and Deering, finally
succeeded in placing the hand-cuffs on his wrists. When he saw that there
was no help for him, he submitted to be led from the saloon, giving one
parting look of scorn at the friends whom he had won by a glass of liquor
and lost on the appearance of an officer.
"Of all the derned mean skunks as I ever met, this town numbers the
most," he muttered, as the screen door swung to behind him.

The examination of the prisoner was to be held in the court-room of
the county prison of San Bernardino. Millicent was summoned to be
present. Escorted by Deering and Galbraith, she arrived before the entrance
of the gloomy building, one bright October morning. It was a day when life
seemed a pleasant thing, if only because there were sunlight and color in the
odorous woods and pleasant highways. Just as they reached the doorway, a
line of people filed out from the narrow portal. They were the discharged
prisoners, some of whom had been in confinement for twenty-four hours
only, while others had not breathed the free air for many weary months. A
girl not older than Millicent passed them with a slow, inelastic step and
downcast eyes. Her slender figure was poorly but decently clad in a gown
of rusty black, her hair neatly arranged, her hands and face clean and of a
remarkable pallor. She alone among the little group seemed loath to leave
the prison, where at least she had been among those who could not look
down on her. At the threshold she paused and shuddered, as if the wide
street, with its row of young shade-trees and neat sidewalk, were more
forbidding than the narrow prison-yard, with its spiked rails and dismal
barred windows. Those who were behind became impatient at her delay;
and she was pushed not ungently into the street by the man next to her in
the sad procession. As she found herself alone outside the dreary stone
building, she gave a low groan, clasping her poor thin hands together over
her breast. Millicent, moved by the pathetic gesture, spoke to her gently,
asking if she could in any way help her; but the girl shook her head as if
annoyed by the question, and walked quickly down the street, taking the
first turn which led her out of sight of the prison. All those who followed
were men, most of whom wore a conscious expression, as if they were more
embarrassed at being seen leaving the prison than mortified at having
merited the punishment which they had undergone. As the last of the queue

filed out, Galbraith entered the doorway, Millicent following him, and
Deering bringing up the rear. In the wide stone hall which they entered were
groups of men talking together or leaning idly against the rails. A heavy
grated door swung open with a rusty, grinding sound, and two men
appeared, arm-in-arm. The taller of the two was a handsome young fellow,
with blond, curling hair, blue eyes, and fresh rosy cheeks. His expression
was almost infantine in its beauty; and this, with his jaunty air, contrasted
strangely with his companion's ugly, stooping figure and downcast, shamed
face. The latter was a misshapen creature, with a humped back and a large,
ugly head furnished with coarse hair and beard. As the grate clanged behind
the couple, the handsome young fellow laughed cheerily, stretched his
limbs, and drew a long breath of relief.
"Ta-ta, bully, hope I won't see you soon again," he said, nodding
impudently to the door-keeper. The smaller man was lame, as well as
deformed; and the under-warden, who had joined Galbraith, asked him
kindly how his leg was doing.
"Better, sir, thank you," croaked the unfortunate in a harsh voice; "it
came hard on me not havin' George here to help me; but it's all right now.
Good-morning to you, sir."
"Tell me about those men," said Millicent to an official whom
Galbraith had introduced to her.
"They are brothers, George and Pete Marcy. Which of them do you
think paid a twenty-dollar fine to get his brother out of prison just now?
Likely you 'll think it was the good-looking chap; but 't was Pete the dwarf.
He 's the tinker and general useful man of the town, is Pete; and George is
one of the biggest rascals in the State of California. But he covers his tracks
well; and though we know a good many things about him, we can prove
nothing more against him than an occasional assault and battery."

"And did the poor little creature pay the fine out of his earnings?"
"Bless you, yes; and pays for his clothes,--nice ones, you remarked,
mebbe? Pete gives that rascal every dollar he earns; and the only thing
George does toward supporting himself, is to rob an occasional hen-roost
when he wants to give a supper party."
The outer door now closed with a grave sound; it had let out its day's
quota of men and women who had legally expiated their crimes; it had
taken in its one breath of sun and air. From a narrow window Millicent saw
the Marcy brothers walking down the street, George with head erect and
swaggering gait, Pete shambling awkwardly along at his side, vainly trying
to keep pace with his handsome brother's long strides.
The warden now led the way to the court-room. The keeper of the gate,
a stern-looking man, with iron-gray hair and iron-rusted clothes, stopped
Millicent as she was about to pass through the grated door, saying,--
"Put up your veil, please." Three inches of transparent red tulle masked
her face from the brow to the mouth. So slight a covering was it that the
superior officer had not noticed it; but nothing escaped the lynx-eyed jailer,
who added curtly, "Must keep it up all through the prison. No woman is
allowed to enter or leave this place veiled."
Millicent looked a little puzzled as she unfastened the bit of lace; and
the grim guardian added, in a voice which was something softer than the
grating of his key in the lock,--
"You need n't be ashamed to put up your veil, with such a face as
yours."
Millicent smiled an acknowledgment of the compliment, and passed
through the gate, holding fast to the slip of yellow paper and the red ticket
which had been given to her, and which were necessary to secure an exit
from that precinct which is so easily entered and so difficult to leave.

"You have captivated that grim old fellow with one glance, Miss
Almsford. How do you do it?" queried Galbraith.
"What do you mean? I don't," answered Millicent rather inconsistently.
They had by this time reached the prison-yard; and Millicent, with a
shiver, looked up at the high, smooth stone walls, with their cruel topping of
iron spikes. In a certain angle she stopped a moment, attracted by a little
fern which had found place for its slender roots in a cranny of the masonry.
She suddenly started, and with a horrified expression ran back a few paces,
grown pale to the lips. The warden, who had looked at her with an odd
expression, said,--
"You were standing, just now, miss, on the spot where the gallows is
always erected."
"I knew it," said the girl, in a shaking voice. "I saw it."
Maurice Galbraith quietly drew her arm under his own, and said
gently, but authoritatively,--
"Come, my child, do not be nervous; you have a great deal to go
through with to-day."
He fixed his deep, serious eyes on her face for a moment; and the girl,
sensitive to his quiet influence, quickly recovered herself.
They passed up a narrow, dark stone stair-case, and along a corridor
running outside the cells. Most of the heavy wooden doors were open, the
outer grating of iron revealing the interior of the cells. In one of these a
young mulatto, the Figaro of the village, stood leaning against the bars
talking to a respectable-looking man of his own color, who proved to be the
pastor of a Methodist church. The young man was a handsome fellow,
carefully and neatly dressed. He seemed somewhat excited, and talked in a
loud voice, which he lowered at the approach of the party. Galbraith
inquired what crime he had been charged with, and learned from the officer

that he had wounded his brother mortally in a quarrel; "They both was
waitin' on the same gal," the attendant added in explanation. A man lying at
full-length upon the floor sprang to his feet as they passed his door, and
walked furiously up and down the narrow room, shaking his head from side
to side, reminding Millicent of a caged panther she had once seen. Each
dreary, cramped apartment imprisoned some unfortunate, either suffering
the penalty for, or awaiting the judgment of, his crimes. Millicent felt the
chill air of the prison damp and fetid upon her cheek, and yet she did not
hurry down the corridor, but walked slowly, apparently looking neither to
the right nor left, but with one quick, sidelong glance, taking in the details
of each of the cells and the faces of the malefactors, impressions which
never faded from her memory. Some of the men laughed impudently as the
little group passed their cells; and one fellow of wild aspect buried his face
in his hands, with a sudden movement, as if ashamed of being seen behind
the disgraceful bars. A pair of youthful criminals were engaged in playing
moro, the great Italian gambling game. One of the youths was a native of
Italy; and he had evidently taught his companion in confinement the simple
but exciting game. No cards or dice, checkers or other paraphernalia, are
needed; the game is played with the fingers only. Those of the left hand
keep the account of the game. With the right hand a quick movement is
made by both players simultaneously, showing a certain number of fingers;
while at the same moment each calls out his guess of the number which his
antagonist holds up,--"due"--"cinque"--"tutti." The familiar words fell upon
Millicent's ears, and she stopped outside the door, her cheeks dyed with a
flush of pleasure, her eyes sparkling at the sound of her native language.
She did not remember that she was in a prison; she thought of nothing but
the fact that here was a compatriot; she spoke to him in a low voice a few
words of greeting. The fellow stared at her at first; and then, seeing that hers

was a friendly face, left his seat on the corner of the narrow bed, came close
to the grate and poured out a torrent of words in the patois of the Venetians.
When he learned that the signorina was not only of his country, but from his
city, the poor fellow, whose crime had been nothing more than participation
in a street-fight, was moved to tears. Millicent forgot her companions and
the strange place of meeting, and listened with sympathizing attention to the
story of the man with the dull red-gold hair and white, delicate features,
whose face recalled more than one friend in the far-off city of her home. His
profession was that of a cobbler, his name Giovanni Brogli. He had drifted
out to this strange country through a love of wandering, and had been
drawn into a street-brawl by some chance acquaintances, who had robbed
him of all that remained of his small fortune; and when he would have
fought his betrayers, they turned him over to the police. True or false, the
story was a pitiful one. The creature could speak next to no English; and
Millicent's tender heart was troubled by the recital of his griefs. She had no
money with her, and before either of her companions was aware of her
intention, she had untwined a gold serpent of exquisite workmanship from
her throat and held it through the bars to the man inside the cell. He looked
at her with wondering eyes, and taking the white fingers in his own rough,
blackened hand, kissed them reverently, murmuring a blessing which
brought tears to her eyes.
"I say, Princess, you must n't do that sort of thing;" said Hal,
thoroughly scandalized, pulling her by the sleeve. "Come on! you can't
stand talking to these rascals and giving them your jewelry,--it is n't
sensible."
She answered impatiently, and then saying a word of farewell to the
prisoner, she submitted to be led away from the grate by Galbraith,
followed by a fervent parting blessing from Giovanni of the reddish locks.

"I wish you wouldn't be so absurdly soft-hearted. What did you want
to give that beggar your lovely necklace for?" said Hal.
"I had no money with me," half penitently.
"Well, I could have let you have some. But it's against the rule. I
should n't wonder if you got into trouble for doing such a thing," continued
the young man, who was genuinely shocked at Millicent's behavior.
"There was no harm done, was there, Mr. Galbraith? I won't be
scolded. It was my serpent; I will do what I choose with my own things, and
will not be dictated to by you." Millicent was angry at Deering's very
natural interference; and Galbraith, anxious to spare her all annoyance, gave
Hal a warning kick, and hurried her towards their destination, lest she
should feel moved to part with any more of her personal property for the
benefit of the prisoners.
They now entered a small apartment; and Millicent learned that before
the opening of the trial, she was called upon to identify the murderer of Ah
Lam. The question was asked,--
"Could you identify, on oath, the man you saw at Carey's Bridge? You
were under great excitement at the time; you could hardly be expected to
remember anything beyond the fact of the killing."
"I am positive I can identify him."
"On oath; are you sure?"
"Perfectly so."
"How could you surely recognize a man you have seen but once, under
very painful circumstances, six weeks ago?"
"I remember his face distinctly; I should know his voice among a
thousand."
"Be careful; what you say may be put to the test. What you state in the
court you must be able to prove."

"I am ready to prove it."
When the moment came for the identification of the prisoner,
Millicent's eyes were bandaged; and twelve men filed into the room, among
whom she was told was the man arrested for the crime. As she had made the
assertion that his voice alone would betray the murderer to her, she was
asked to listen to a sentence repeated in turn by each of these men. Three of
them had said the stipulated words, and the fourth was about to speak, when
those who were nearest to Millicent noticed that she shuddered violently.
"Let the next man speak."
The fellow looked at Millicent askance, and then repeated the sentence
in a low, unnatural voice. He had said but three words when she interrupted
him.
"The person who is now speaking is the man who assaulted me at
Carey's Bridge."
The judge, who had taken a keen interest in all Millicent had said, now
motioned to the men to change places. The bandage being removed, she
glanced at the row of men and said,--
"He now stands at the end of the row nearest the window."
Her expression, as she turned her eyes and looked in the face of Daniel
Horton, was cold and set as that of one of the younger Fates. Aversion and
horror were therein painted. As she spoke she pointed at the guilty wretch,
who moved uneasily under her gaze, and dropped his bold eyes before the
light in her gray orbs, as if their fire scorched him.
The preliminaries accomplished, all the participants adjourned to the
court-room, which was a bare apartment, very grimy, and sadly in need of
paint and soapsuds. At one end was a slightly raised table, behind which the
judge seated himself. He was a singular-looking man, and wore his hair
long, in greasy ringlets falling as far as the coat-collar. His stout person was

adorned with a large amount of rather flashy jewelry, and a pink cravat was
supplemented by a bunch of fuchsias worn in the button-hole. The space in
front of the bench was railed in by an iron balustrade painted green. At the
long tables sat groups of men busily engaged in writing or in conversation.
A policeman standing near the judge's desk, when the clamor in the court-
room became unusually loud, pounded on the floor with his club, whereat
the voices grew lower for a brief space, and then the hubbub began again.
Somebody seemed to be addressing the court, though Millicent thought that
no one paid much attention to him. The entrance of the prosecuting council
in the case of manslaughter soon to be called, with two of the chief
witnesses, made some stir; and Millicent was conscious, as she took her
place, that the eyes of all present were fixed upon her. She looked
wonderingly about the dismal apartment, with its dirty wooden settles and
bare floor, at the judge on the bench, and at the crowd of poorly dressed
people in the seats behind her. Galbraith now entered the little pen, and,
seating himself at the table, proceeded to look through some papers which
his clerk handed to him, while the man who was haranguing the court
continued his discourse, in which nobody seemed to take any interest.
Millicent had never been in court before. Her only experience of the abodes
of justice had been the long afternoons passed in the court-rooms of the
Doge's palace, studying the frescoes and beautiful carvings of those famous
apartments. She had always invested the precincts of justice with a vague
majesty and splendor. A judge, in her imagination, was a stately man
clothed in crimson and ermine, with grave, reverend features, majestic in
mien, deliberate in speech. When Hal pointed out Judge Croley, as one of
the most distinguished of American jurists, she was greatly astonished.
"Will he try the case in that dress?"

"Oh, yes; I heard Croley condemn a man to death in very much the
same costume as that which he wears to-day. The cravat was a little brighter
pink, I think; and I remember he wore carnations in his button-hole. He said
in a pleasant, nonchalant voice, very much the tone he would use in
ordering his farmer to kill a pair of chickens, 'You are condemned to be
taken to the San Bernardino prison, there to be hanged by the neck until you
are dead, on the third day of May at twelve o'clock; and may God have
mercy upon your soul!'"
Millicent shuddered as she heard the case called, and faltered for the
first time in her desire to see justice done to the murderer of Ah Lam. It is
such a terrible responsibility, the taking of life; can man's law make it
guiltless? The great question which all of modern thought has not yet
solved, troubled the mind of the young woman, who could accept no
judgment or creed on faith; she painfully and laboriously solved the
problems of life by the force of her own reasoning.
"There is Pierson, the counsel for the defence," whispered Hal, as a
little man strutted up the aisle between the benches full of people, and
entered the green-railed enclosure. He was perhaps the most grotesque-
looking person Millicent had ever seen. His height could not have been
above five feet; and this, with his small hands and feet, gave him an
exceedingly effeminate appearance. His small round head was like a ball,
on the surface of which little globular eyes and a beak-like nose had been
very casually placed. These features did not seem at all a necessary part of
the head, which resembled that of a parrot. Before he spoke he put his head
on one side, in a bird-like fashion; and he occasionally shook himself, very
much as a canary does when anything has ruffled its composure. Millicent
had learned from Galbraith that this man was the most prominent criminal
lawyer in California. As she looked at his high, narrow forehead and mean,

pinched smile she thought that among all the malefactors in San Bernardino
prison she had seen no face as bad as that of Pierson, the great criminal
lawyer. The prisoner was now brought into the court. After stating his name,
age, residence, and occupation, he was asked the question,--
"Are you guilty or not guilty of the wilful murder of Ah Lam at Carey's
Bridge, on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 16?"
The noisy court-room had grown perfectly still; and the prisoner's low-
spoken answer was heard in the farthest corner with perfect distinctness,--
"Not guilty."
The counsel for the defence now stated that the prisoner acknowledged
having been at Carey's Bridge on the day of the murder. He had there seen
and spoken to Miss Almsford, but had fled at the approach of some
gentlemen of the party. He admitted that he had assaulted Miss Almsford,
but pleaded that he had no intention of injuring her.
"What were you doing at the mill?"
"I come there to meet a man as I had 'gaged to."
"What man was it?"
The prisoner declined to answer this question, and finally declared that
he did not know the man's name.
"For what purpose did you meet this man?"
"To do a job as we was hired for."
"And what were you hired to do?"
"To carry off the young lady."
At this astonishing statement a moment's silence fell upon the court-
room, which was broken by Pierson's sharp voice: he asked his client to
name the person who had engaged him to kidnap the young girl.
With clasped hands and startled eyes, Millicent looked into the face of
the ruffian, waiting to hear the name of the man who had plotted against

her. John Graham, in the excitement of the moment, stood up in his place to
get a better view of Horton; while Maurice Galbraith sat with an unmoved
countenance, keenly watching the features of the prisoner at the bar. The
question was twice put to him,--"Who was the man?" but he did not speak.
A third time he was asked. Finally, he looked at his lawyer, who nodded
slightly; and then, with a defiant glance toward the artist, at whom he
pointed an unsteady finger, he said,--
"The man as hired me to do the job stands in this yer court-room. He
calls himself John Graham."
A moment of silence followed this astounding statement, succeeded by
an incredulous murmur which ran from mouth to mouth. From the confused
sounds rang out a deep, clear voice uttering these words:--
"It is a shameful lie!" Millicent it was who had spoken, rising to her
feet and stretching out her arms toward Graham with a gesture of womanly
protection, as if to shield him from the ruffian's slanderous breath.
Silence was at last enforced, and the examination of Horton proceeded.
He repeated his statement that he had not killed the Chinaman, and that the
abduction of Millicent had been attempted at the instigation of John
Graham. The artist, after the first moment of surprise, said nothing, but
remained perfectly silent, his eyes fixed intently on Daniel Horton's face.
The story told by the prisoner was one which bore some semblance of truth.
He had met his confederate on the morning of the picnic as had been
previously arranged, and had attempted to carry off Miss Almsford; but
hearing the voices of the gentlemen had fled. He had undertaken the affair
some time beforehand, and had twice visited Graham's studio, where the
artist had made a painting of him in order to explain his presence there. A
scrap of paper, soiled and tumbled, was produced, on which were traced
these words in Graham's handwriting: "Come to the place I told you of, to-

morrow at one; you shall be well paid." One o'clock had been the hour of
the picnic; and this note, it was affirmed, had been sent to Horton on the
previous day as per agreement. On being further examined, the fellow
showed a dogged persistence in his story; and Maurice Galbraith's adroit
cross-questioning failed to make him contradict his original statement in
any particular. The day waned as the storm of words raged; and at dusk the
trial was adjourned until the following day. As the crowd filed out of the
court-room, Millicent found Graham at her side. He was pale, and his dark
eyes flashed angrily. He was about to speak to her; and she turned toward
him with smiling lips and eyes, when Henry Deering stepped between them,
and, bowing coolly to the artist, drew her arm through his own, and, before
she was well aware of his intention, led her from the room. The eyes of a
dozen curious outsiders were fixed upon her, and she submitted to be placed
in the wagon, which Hal drove off at a sharp pace. The artist remained in
the court-room, where he was presently joined by Maurice Galbraith, who
in a formal voice asked him to accompany him to his apartment, in order
that they might discuss the new and unexpected feature in the case. The two
men walked together down the street, both too much excited to trust
themselves to speak. As soon as they found themselves alone in Galbraith's
chamber at the inn, Graham cried excitedly,--
"Galbraith, no one can for a moment believe that infamous lie,--you
can make the fellow eat his words to-morrow?"
The lawyer folded his arms across his breast, and looked into his
companion's face with a searching gaze, before he answered slowly and
ironically,--
"Am I to understand, Mr. Graham, that you deny all collusion in the
attempt to carry off Miss Almsford?"

"Great God! of course I do. Can you for a moment doubt me? I to
carry off Millicent? Are you mad to ask me such a question? Why, don't you
know, man, how much I have cared for that girl?"
"It is not difficult for the most indifferent observer to detect your
admiration for Miss Almsford."
"Well?"
"Well, what does that prove? It is a point against you that you are
supposed to be in love with the young lady, and gives color to Horton's
accusation."
Graham sank into a seat, and the lawyer continued,--
"Your great intimacy at the Ranch and your marked attentions to Miss
Almsford were apparently unaccountably discontinued by your removal to
San Francisco. This feature is against you. You must have seen that in the
eyes of Henry Deering, Horton's statement needed strong disproving."
"And you, Galbraith, can you for an instant suspect me of so base, so
vile an action? Is it possible that a man can be so misjudged?"
"All I have to say, Mr. Graham, is that it is my hope to prove you
innocent of the crime in which Horton has implicated you. As the friend and
counsel of Miss Almsford, I prefer to believe that she was menaced by a
vulgar ruffian and not by a man who might have aspired to the honor and
privilege of guarding her from every harm. If you will excuse me, I will see
you in the course of the evening."
With these words the lawyer left the apartment, his nervous face
suffused by a deep flush. John Graham stared after him for a moment, and
then passed down the corridor and out into the quiet night, to seek counsel
from the stars in this strange hour of doubt.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"... the passions of her mind,
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour."

"Millicent! Millicent! are you awake?"
It was the evening of the first day of the trial; and Miss Almsford,
sitting in her chamber warming her pretty feet before the fire, recognized
the voice and answered,--
"Yes, Bab, come in."
It was very late, past twelve o'clock; but Barbara brought news of a
visitor, who would keep them both from their sleep an hour longer. Mr.
Galbraith was downstairs and must speak with her. Miss Almsford gave a
little tired sigh, and, folding her white wrapper about her shoulders, caught
the thick tangle of hair together with a silver arrow, and, without glancing at
the mirror, left the room and joined the young lawyer in the library.
"I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Almsford; I know you must be
tired, but I could not get here sooner. Miss Barbara, do not be offended, but
I must ask you to let me see Miss Almsford alone for a few minutes; would
you mind waiting in the next room?"
When they were alone, the young man seemed at a loss how to open
the interview which he had sought. Millicent, tired by the events of the
exciting day, did not seem inclined to help him. After a long and rather
awkward pause, she turned wearily to her visitor and said,--
"It is about the trial, of course?"

Galbraith bowed an assent.
"About the statement made by that man--" She shuddered, as if unable
to pronounce his name. The young man silently assented again.
"Well, there is nothing to be said by me beyond what I have already
said: it is an infamous lie! It is so apparent a fabrication that I should hardly
have thought it necessary for you to give yourself the trouble to come so far,
merely to hear me repeat what I asserted this afternoon."
"It is your honest opinion, then, that Mr. Graham has been slandered?"
"My honest opinion, Mr. Galbraith? I do not know how to give any
other. Are you come to make me angry? You had better not, for we Italians
are more easily roused to anger than soothed. I am so tired, too; can you not
spare me?"
Her voice dropped from the deep, indignant tone, to a pleading note
like that of a tired child. Maurice Galbraith, leaning quietly against the
mantel-shelf, with downcast eyes and calm face, seemed strangely moved
by the words of the woman who stood before him, so white and so
beautiful. He turned toward her; and when he next spoke, a tenderness had
crept all unawares into his face, which shone with a light whose meaning
she could not fail to understand. His very voice seemed a caress addressed
to her ear, so low and gentle was it.
"My child, you do not understand me. I to make you angry, to add one
annoyance to your life, which is so sad? Ah! you little know how gladly--"
He stopped suddenly, warned, by the rising flush on her cheek, that he was
saying other words than those which he had come to speak,--"you little
know how gladly I would have spared you the question which it was
necessary for me to ask. I am now answered."
"But you do not believe me? I see that--"

"I would believe you if all the angels in heaven should deny your
truth."
She looked at him curiously; she was infinitely touched by his
emotion. He cared for her; he loved her with a passion which she could
understand. He would gladly--oh, how gladly!--have folded her life about
with a protecting care, keeping the very winds of heaven from her face if
they should blow too roughly; have taken her in his strong arms, stood
between her and all the world, given her all and been content with the
giving, asking for nought but the right to protect her. That she did not love
him he knew; that she cared for another he more than imagined; and yet he
would have been content to try and win her regard by a life's devotion.
Of all this he spoke not one word, as he stood looking into her face
with burning, tender eyes. He did not speak, and yet he knew that he was
understood. The woman gave a little weary sigh; it was in vain! To her there
was but one man in all the world. He said no word, but stepped toward her
with outstretched, pleading hands, with tender love and pity, asking
nothing, giving all without questioning, without doubt. She, who had
befriended so many, and was yet without a friend, who had been tempest-
tossed and shipwrecked before her life-journey had fairly begun, knew what
it was that lay in Maurice Galbraith's outstretched hands,--the love of a life,
a haven of peace and quiet. He was about to speak, to let the love which
was troubling his heart pour itself out in a flood of words at the portal of her
ear; but with a movement she checked him. The repellent gesture of her
hand, her averted head and downcast eyes, answered him. He understood
her as well, better perhaps than if he had spoken and she had answered. It
left him another chance, too; later, when he had shown her how faithfully he
could wait, he might speak the words which she now refused to hear. So
both were glad that they had spoken only with their eyes. She had been

spared the pain of putting into words that which it would have been hard for
him to hear; and he was glad that she had not spoken the cold truth which
he read in her face. When she spoke again, it was to ignore that silent prayer
and its denial. She took up the thread of the conversation where they had
dropped it:--
"I am glad that you are convinced of this truth; and I trust that you will
bring the others, Henry Deering most of all, to feel as you do."
The tender look of love died out from Maurice Galbraith's face. He
turned gloomily away from the fair woman whose beauty was not for him.
"I cannot tell, I do not know; what man can judge another? I said that I
believed you; did I imply that I trusted him?"
Of all cruel griefs endured by Millicent Almsford, this was the most
bitter,--that her lover, through her fault, should be misjudged; that in the
eyes of others he should suffer. She realized now in what a light he had
appeared to Galbraith, to Hal and Barbara, to all the small circle who had
seen their friendship flower into love, and that flower tossed to the earth
before it had ripened to its fruition. His sudden disappearance, her own too
obvious grief, to what could they attribute it but to his faithlessness? And
now that this base slander had been cast upon him, they believed it. He was
compromised, dishonored in their eyes; and the fault was hers. As the full
significance of all this struck her, she groaned aloud, clasping her hands
together over her grieved heart as if in mortal agony. How could she right
him in their eyes? How could she dissipate the cloud which darkened his
stainless honor?
There was but one way,--to tell them all the sad truth. Her honor
against his! How could she hesitate, loving him as she did? And yet there
was a moment of awful suspense. Her proud spirit, which had borne
unaided and alone the burden which would have crushed a feebler soul,

revolted at the thought of a new humiliation. A man's honor is writ on a
strong shield that can be easily cleansed. It may receive many a hard blow,
and show many a dint, and yet be as good as those carried by his mates. It
can be burnished bright again, and held up for all men to see, its very scars
proving through what battles it has been worn, and adding, rather than
detracting, from its present lustre. If all else be lost, let him but give his life
to expiate his sin, and the blot is washed out from the shield. But with a
woman it is not so. Her honor must be maintained by a shield of crystal, on
which the faintest breath of slander leaves its foul impress; which one blow
dealt by a man's hand shatters irrevocably. This is man's code of honor; and
as man's voice is strongest in the world, it is the world's code of honor. Only
the greatest men set it aside as unjust; only the strongest refuse to recognize
it.
All this Millicent knew. It was not wonderful that she hesitated, that
she was silent, or answered the searching questions put to her by the young
lawyer slowly and evasively. She was putting off the moment in which she
must decide between his honor and her own. She remembered the indignant
look Deering had cast upon Graham in the court-room, the cool manner in
which Barbara had spoken of him, Mrs. Deering's grieved silence
respecting the man who had been so valued a friend to her, and, worst of all,
Galbraith's openly expressed doubt of his innocence. A woman of a smaller
nature who had endured Millicent's cruel experience might, too, have
doubted Graham; but she had fathomed his nature more truly in a few
months than had his lifelong friends. She knew that in it there was no room
for one ignoble thought. His faults she recognized more clearly than if she
had loved him less. She knew him to be selfish, with the selfishness of
genius; hard of heart, with the indifference to human pain common to those
men who are capable of enduring the most terrible suffering; intolerant of

those who differed from him, with the steadfast knowledge that his thoughts
and opinions had been moulded from no contact with other minds, but
attained with pain and weariness of spirit, built up from his inner
consciousness, the result of thought and experience, not of the study of
other men's minds and actions.
As Galbraith continued to question her, she answered clearly all that he
said, while her mind, with a dual consciousness, carried on its separate train
of thought. She realized that if Maurice Galbraith were not himself
convinced of Graham's innocence, his efforts to disprove Horton's
accusation would be half-hearted, perfunctory, and without the moral
weight of honest conviction. If he were to learn the true reason of the
breach between Graham and herself, he must know it immediately,--that
very night. That her confession would clear the man she loved from every
suspicion she never doubted, and yet--she did not speak. It was so hard to
tell the story of her broken life; she was not strong enough. To any other it
would have been easier to bare her secret than to this man who reverenced
her, who had told her, with look and deed and tender thought, that he loved
her.
Barbara, weary of waiting till the long conversation should come to an
end, had taken her place at the piano in the adjoining room; and after
playing for some time she struck the chords of a song full of tender
associations to Millicent. A wild, passionate melody of Rubinstein, full of
love and hope and youth. Millicent had sung it on that night when Graham
had found her waiting for him in the firelight, with his name upon her lips,
though they were still strangers. She had sung it then with an intensity
which had brought the grave artist close to her side, full of enthusiasm for
the song, of admiration for the singer. She remembered how he had thanked
her silently with a look, while the others, whose presence she had forgotten,

had been full of warm praises. A mist of tears rose to her eyes and gathered
itself into crystal drops of pain. Moved by the flood of memories which
rushed about her with the tumultuous waves of sound, she rose, her pride
swept away, her love triumphant; and, with a brow peaceful with its victory,
she spoke. She told them all her sad story; while Barbara, summoned to her
side, wept softly at the piteous tale, and Galbraith, strong man that he was,
trembled with emotion at the words of passionate grief. Without reserve
was the revelation made; the tragedy of her young life, her meeting with
Graham, her love for him, and the deceit to which it led,--all were told. No
word of anger had she for the false friend and dead lover, and no thought of
condemnation of Graham's action. He was right; he could not have acted
otherwise; he had been frank and true and honest with her; and she had
deceived him! He had left the San Rosario Ranch to spare her the pain of
seeing him, and because it was best for them both that he should go. The
bar between them was of her forging; the breach was inevitable; it was her
fault, all her fault. His thoughts of her had been white as the snow,--"and
cold as ice," muttered Galbraith, to whom this panegyric of his rival was
anything but gratifying. At last she was silent; all her story was finished.
She had spoken standing, her expressive gestures and changeful face having
done more than half the telling. She had begun quietly and with downcast
eyes and pale cheek; now neck and brow were suffused. She was pleading
the cause of the man she loved with all the eloquence of youth and beauty.
She now stood silent, looking eagerly from Barbara's tear-stained face to
Galbraith's pale, set countenance, to read there the acquittal of the man they
had suspected of baseness and cruelty to her.
Barbara put her arm about the tall girl, and caressed her tenderly,
holding the glorious head, with its tangled crown of hair, close to her
womanly heart, weeping tears gentle as summer dew. Maurice Galbraith

reverently lifted to his lips one long tress which flowed over her shoulder;
and then, leading Millicent from the apartment, he turned to Barbara.
"You understood it all?"
"Yes."
"I ask you to think of that thing which is most sacred to you in all the
world. By that holy thought, swear to me that no word of what has been
said here to-night shall ever pass your lips; that you will not dare to think of
it even, when you are not alone, lest your face betray you."
He held out his hand to her; and with wide eyes and trembling voice,
Barbara gave the promise he asked, laying her cold palm in his hot grasp.
To guard the secret of the woman they both loved, this loyal man and
honest woman bound themselves by a most solemn oath. To each, the other
was nothing but an ally in this cause. Their own personalities were lost in
the strong affection for Millicent; they would love her and protect her
always. As they stood thus, Millicent, passing up the stairway, saw them
through the open door. She saw and understood their compact. She saw, as
they did not, into the future; and from her heart rose an unselfish prayer,
that the secret of her great misery might be the first link in a chain that
should bind these two together for life.
Millicent Almsford had pleaded that night for the man she loved; she
had cleared him in the eyes of two persons whose opinions would sway
those of all who knew anything of his relation to her. She had done more:
she had made for herself a friend of a discouraged lover, a champion who
would fight her battles to the death; and she had bound a gentle, loving
woman's heart to her own by an indissoluble tie. She had striven only to
exonerate John Graham; and she had made Maurice Galbraith glad that he
loved her, though hopelessly and passionately; she had filled Barbara

Deering with the deepest sentiment which woman can hold for sister
woman,--a compassionate love.
Though wearied by his long ride and the exciting events of the day,
Maurice Galbraith slept little that night, and the morning found him pale
and restless. He had a hard day's work before him, and perhaps the most
trying part of it was the first duty he had set himself to perform. He felt that
he owed John Graham an apology for the suspicion which he had
entertained against him, and which in that moment of excitement he had
made no effort to conceal. Had not the young lawyer been deeply in love
with Millicent, and consequently extremely jealous of Graham, it is hardly
possible that he could for an instant have believed the preposterous charge
made against the artist. But as Love is blind, and Jealousy is deaf to reason,
it is not strange that, unprepared as he was for Horton's accusation, he
should have believed that it might have some truth. Millicent's revelation,
and the calmer reflection which had followed the interview with her, proved
to him how greatly his judgment had been at fault. Fervently as he disliked
Graham, he had always respected him; and to his generous mind, the
injustice he had done his rival was abhorrent. He found the artist at the inn,
where they had parted the previous night. Graham received the lawyer with
a cold formality: the latter did not fail to observe the nervous clinching of
the artist's hands as he entered the room. The fierce natural instinct of
redressing an insult by a personal chastisement moved the refined man.
Poet-artist as he was, he would rather, a thousand times, have grappled with
Galbraith in a fierce struggle, than have been forced to receive and accept
his apology. Maurice Galbraith, had he yielded to the impulse which shook
his determination, would have spoken words which might have justified
such an action on Graham's part. The men looked angrily at each other for a
moment. Maurice Galbraith's words of apology would not utter themselves,

and seemed like to choke him. He saw that clinching of the hand, and his
brow reddened as he stepped forward as if to strike the man who had so
easily won, and who so lightly valued, the love of Millicent Almsford.
In a land where a lower code of ethics and of honor exists, the insult
each burned to cast upon the other would have been uttered; and the result
would have been a so-called "affair of honor," in which both men would
have run the risk of bringing blood-guiltiness upon their souls, and the
stigma of murder upon their honorable names. The struggle in Galbraith's
breast was short, and human intelligence triumphed over brute instinct. His
few words of apology were spoken with cold courtesy, and accepted with
quiet dignity. The men did not shake hands; each understood the position
too clearly for that. They could never be friends; but, as they were
honorable gentlemen, all enmity was at end between them, for rivalry does
not necessarily entail hatred. Then they spoke of the trial, and their
conversation lasted until the hour of the opening of the court.
Millicent, escorted by Henry Deering, arrived at the court just as
Graham and Galbraith entered the room together. She saw Graham whisper
something to the lawyer, who bowed courteously in answer. The
significance of the action was not lost upon her,--her revelation had not
been made in vain. She now heard her name called in a loud, harsh voice.
She started violently, but did not stir from her seat.
"Come," said Hal, "you must go up to that little platform and answer
all the questions they ask you."
She walked quietly to the place indicated, took the customary oath "to
speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," and answered
the preliminary questions in a low voice.
"What is your name?"
"Millicent Almsford."

"Where were you born?"
"In Venice."
"What state?"
"In Italy."
"How old are you?"
"One and twenty."
"You were present at the killing of Ah Lam, at Carey's Bridge?"
"I was."
"Tell the court all that you saw on that occasion." Galbraith was the
speaker. He knew that Millicent's natural eloquence would give the story
with more force if she were allowed to tell it in her own way without the
usual questioning.
She began speaking in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the ground
before her. As the memory of that dreadful day came back to her, she
seemed to see it all again,--the peaceful woodland scene, the quiet river, the
forest road, and at her side her humble friend and pupil. The walls of the
court-room faded from before her, and judge and jury, lawyer and audience,
were forgotten; she looked at Graham only, and spoke to him alone; his
grave eyes met hers, and the sympathy in them made the task of telling her
story an easy one. Aiding her recital with expressive gestures, she told of
the appearance of Daniel Horton on the peaceful scene; she repeated his
insolent words, unconsciously imitating the man's manner and voice; she
described the affront offered to herself with burning cheeks and flashing
eyes; her voice grew tremulous and low when she spoke of the dead
servant's efforts to save her from the insolent ruffian; when with a deep,
horrified voice she told of the murder and death of Ah Lam, it was as if she
were describing a scene still enacting itself before her eyes. A strong
impression was made by the girl's words on all her hearers. The noisy court-

room had grown perfectly still; the very recorders held their pens useless in
their hands; and the eyes of the judge with the pink cravat were riveted on
her face. As she ceased speaking, a sympathetic tremor ran through the
crowd assembled in the court-room, and a low murmur was heard.
Maurice Galbraith, usually the most quiet and reserved of men, was
evidently undergoing an unusual excitement, those who knew him thought;
and Pierson, the counsel for the defendant, seemed rather disconcerted by
the strong impression made by the witness.
When Graham came upon the stand and told his story of the night
passed in the shooting-lodge, Millicent listened breathlessly. The young
painter gave his evidence with a certain picturesqueness, describing the
arrival at the cabin of Dan Horton, his demand for food and shelter, his
troubled sleep, his wounded face, the peculiar nature of the scratches, and
finally, the finding of Millicent's handkerchief after his departure on the
following morning. An effort was made to disprove the evidence, and an
alibi was sworn to by two new-found friends of the prisoner, who claimed
to have passed that night in his company. These witnesses, carefully
prepared by Pierson, gave their evidence with few blunders; and Dan
Horton, closely following every word of the defence, gave a satisfied smile
at the new turn which the skilfully devised alibi seemed likely to give to
affairs.
Pierson's aim was to disprove Horton's identity with the man who had
killed Ah Lam and had afterwards seen Graham. He endeavored to show
that there were two men engaged in the affair,--Horton, who had spoken to
Miss Almsford, and his confederate, who, it was argued, must have
committed the crime. When Millicent had told of the wounds inflicted by
the Chinaman on the cheeks of his murderer, it was shown that Horton's
face bore no trace of these scratches. It was argued, in reply to this, that in a

man of Horton's vigorous temperament such wounds might easily be healed
in as short time as had elapsed between the murder and the trial. At this
point Galbraith had a trump card to play, the existence of which neither
prisoner nor counsel had suspected. Neither had it been learned by the
omniscient reporter, through whose instrumentality evidence is too often
prematurely made public, cases are lost, and offenders are enabled to escape
apprehension.
"I would inform your Honor that I have other proof of the identity of
the prisoner with the man who passed the night following the murder in the
shooting lodge."
A new witness, by name John Du Jardin, by profession a wood-cutter,
was called to the stand.
"Have you ever seen the prisoner before?"
"Yes, before wonce," answered the old Frenchman.
"When was that?"
"The night after murder."
"Where did you see him?"
"At the little 'unting 'ouse of M. Graham."
"What were you doing at the lodge?"
Graham looked at his henchman with a perplexed expression, and
smiled slightly at the answer.
"I were not in the cabin, I were by the window, lookin'."
"Oh, you were looking in at the window; and what did you see?"
"I see monsieur, 'e sleepin'. I see dat man," pointing to the prisoner; "'e
come, and monsieur give 'im to drink and to eat."
"What else did you see?"
"I see cet homme, dat man lay 'imself près side by the feu. Presentlee 'e
sleep, monsieur 'e mark 'im; 'e take faggot from fire, 'e make point, 'e draw

one picture of 'im."
Here Pierson asked the witness what he was doing outside the lodge in
the middle of the night.
"I was watch monsieur."
"That seems very strange. Why did you want to watch him?"
"'E 'as not slept the night; 'e 'as nothing eat the day; I fear 'im malade. I
follow him."
Galbraith continued his examination, and elicited from the witness the
admission that he had remained outside the cabin that night, concealed in
the bushes, and had only left it after Horton had taken his departure. He had
then started to return, but after he had gone a mile he retraced his steps with
the intention of cooking for his master's breakfast a brace of quail he had
shot on the way. He found the cabin empty, and on the wall the portrait
which he had seen sketched. It was where it would have been easily
effaced, and so he had loosened the board on which the drawing was made,
and carried it to his house.
Graham was now recalled and questioned.
"Mr. Graham, you have told the court that you are an artist by
profession. Is it your habit to make drawings of persons of a striking
appearance?"
"I have the habit of sketching any remarkable-looking people whom I
happen to meet."
"On the night in question, were you impressed by anything uncommon
in the appearance of the man who slept by the fire in the lodge?"
"I was."
"Did you make any notes of the impression made on you by the man?"
"I did. I sketched him as he crouched in the ashes of the fire."
"What materials did you use?"

"A charred piece of wood, and a smooth board in the side of the
cabin."
"Would you recognize your work if you should see it?"
"Undoubtedly."
"By what means?"
"I should recognize it as you would your own handwriting; besides--"
"You have other means of knowing it?"
"My initials will be found in the upper right-hand corner of the
sketch."
"Is this the sketch?"
"It is."
There was a craning of necks, and a murmur of recognition from those
present who could obtain a glimpse of the strong drawing held up by
Maurice Galbraith. Graham's words in answer to the last question were
hardly necessary to prove the resemblance. Horton, sitting in his chair, his
head thrown back, his hands clasping his knees, had all-unconsciously
assumed the pose in which Graham had sketched him. The resemblance was
indubitable, and the cheeks bore the bloody testimony of Ah Lam's hands.
This was evidence which there was no breaking down; and Horton,
when the sketch was at last turned so that he could see it, gave an oath
under his breath, which was not lost upon the jury. The twelve men with
whom lay the decision of Horton's guilt or innocence were for the most part
tradesmen and mechanics, the only exception being in the person of Mr.
Patrick Shallop, the mining king, who by some strange chance had been
impanelled on this occasion. The voice of such a man would carry great
weight in the decision. The case was evidently going against the prisoner.
The evidence of the prosecution was very damaging, and Horton's friends in
the crowd were greatly discouraged.

The trial occupied several hours, and ended in the conviction of Daniel
Horton. Maurice Galbraith made a speech which has already become
famous. He had induced a Californian jury to pronounce a man who had
killed a Chinaman guilty of voluntary manslaughter. He had obtained this
almost unprecedented verdict, and a full sentence from the court of ten
years' imprisonment. The efforts of the defending counsel to turn the main
interest in the case from the chief feature, by endeavoring to implicate
Graham in the attempted abduction, were useless. Horton's real confederate
was found, and the truth of the matter arrived at. Through the newspaper
accounts of Millicent, published at the time of her rescue of Graham, these
men had learned that she was a rich heiress, and had conceived the bold
idea of carrying her off in order to extort a large sum of money for her
ransom.
The flimsy tissue of lies which Pierson had woven was quickly
unravelled by Galbraith. The fact that the jury had for a time been misled by
the false evidence, made their verdict more immediately unanimous than it
might otherwise have been; and the cloud which had for a moment
overhung John Graham was dispelled as quickly as a noxious vapor is
blown away by a brisk westerly wind. He was cleared of every suspicion.
Galbraith had surpassed himself in his management of the case, even in the
eyes of his warmest friends. Had he not been working for the woman he
loved? In exonerating his rival, he had done the only thing that in him lay to
win Millicent's gratitude. She had thanked him, and blessed him for his
eloquence with tears and smiles. He had gained her friendship; and does not
friendship soften into love more often than love crystallizes into friendship?

CHAPTER XIX.

"Je me dis seulement; à cette heure en ce lieu,
Un jour, je fus aimé, j'aimais, elle était belle.
J'enfouis ce trésor dans mon âme immortelle.
Et je l'emporte à Dieu!"

"A letter for you, Mr. Graham."
"Very well; lay it down."
The burly landlady placed the missive on the small, unpainted pine
table which stood near the artist's easel, and with a last glance at the
feminine superscription, and the device of the golden Psyche which sealed
it, left the room. It was late in the afternoon,--there would be only an hour
more of light in which he could paint. Graham did not glance at the letter. If
it had been a telegram it would have waited till the tender gray of the sky
had been laid on the canvas. At last it grew too dim for him to distinguish
the tints on his palette, and, throwing down his brushes, the young man rose
and stretched his cramped limbs. He had not moved from his stool for four
hours. As he paced up and down his narrow room, the letter caught his eye.
He had quite forgotten its existence.
It was from Millicent. He stepped close to the window, and by the
waning light perused the words traced by a hand that surely had trembled in
the writing. Twice he read it through, as if not understanding its import.
Then, with a groan, he cast the letter upon the floor, and sank upon a low

seat near by. His head supported by his hands, his elbows upon his knees,
he sat, the picture of despair. With a sudden movement he grasped the
missive and crushed it between his two hands, as if to avenge upon the
senseless paper the pain which it brought to him.
He could not bear it in the cold, dark room; the streets would be full of
people who might divert him. He soon found himself in a crowded
thoroughfare. It was six o'clock, and the city was full of hurrying men,
women, and children returning homeward after the long day's work. The
girl from the millinery establishment under his room, whose sweet, childish
face he had painted from memory the very day before, was just leaving the
shop as he stepped into the street. She was very poorly dressed, with a hat
which would have disgraced anybody but a milliner's apprentice. Her dress
fitted neatly, however, and she gave her close-cut jacket a tug to make it
smooth about the shoulders before she reached the corner. A tall, pale,
dyspeptic-looking youth joined her just outside the druggist's. Graham
recognized him as the clerk in a dry-goods shop near by. Their greeting he
could not but overhear.
"I am late, George--"
"Twenty minutes; I almost gave you up," in a surly tone.
"I am so sorry; don't be angry." The man hesitated a moment; then her
pleading voice got the better of his ill-temper, and, taking her by the arm
after the fashion of his kind, he led her across the street, and in a moment
they were lost to Graham's sight. He next stopped at the cobbler's around
the corner to call for a pair of boots which had needed repairing. The
narrow stall was brightly lighted, and he saw through the window a little
child holding up its face to be kissed. The cobbler's girl had just brought her
father his supper. As Graham entered, the man pushed the little figure
gently into the street. "Tell mother I 'll not be late," he said; and wiping his

blackened hands upon his dirty ticking apron, he greeted the artist civilly,
and proceeded to find his boots for him.
"They need re-soling, Mr. Graham, but I did not like to do the job
without orders. The patches are all right."
Graham paid the man for his work, and went out. He had thought to
find distraction in the street, but what he saw there only made him more
desolate. He was alone, while all other men had some loving soul to greet
them after their day's toil. The pair of lovers, the cobbler and his child,
made him feel his loneliness more acutely, and emphasized painfully the
news which the letter had brought to him,--Millicent was gone!
She had passed as suddenly and unexpectedly out of his life as she had
entered it. He had not seen her since that day in the court-room. And now
she was gone, back to the Old World, to Venice the mysterious, the silent, to
the old Palazzo Fortunio, with its lofty halls and marble corridors, back to
the old home, which he knew could never be home to her again. All the
color seemed to have faded out of his life; she had taken it with her. He
suffered deeply, impatiently, angry at himself for suffering, yet powerless to
forget the pain which the letter had given him. He picked it up again from
the floor when he came back to the lonely studio, and marked that though
the letter was crushed and torn, the device of the golden Psyche was still
intact.
On the following day he found some consolation in his picture. He
came back to it after his vigil with an uncherished grief, with less
enthusiasm than before; but from that hour until he had laid the last stroke
of paint on the canvas, his hand faltered not, if his imagination sometimes
flagged. He could not serve both love and art. He had chosen his mistress,
and would be faithful to his choice. He dared not think, while he painted, of
the woman whose influence had so warmed his frozen existence. To do so

seemed an infidelity to his Art,--a breach of faith which would not escape
its merited punishment. So he resolutely put her from his mind, and labored
day and night upon his great picture.
Summer and autumn were past, and the first month of winter was
drawing to its close, when Graham finished his picture. He had painted it as
he always did his best works, without interruption. From the morning on
which he had made the first rough chalk sketch, until the day when he
reluctantly drew the fine veil of varnish over his work, he had hardly looked
at any other canvas. He was not satisfied with it,--what true artist ever is
satisfied with his work?--and yet he was convinced that it was the best he
had yet accomplished. He had sometimes realized what he had sacrificed
for this picture; and as he touched in the crimson line of sunset, the fancy
came to him, that the sky was stained with heart's-blood.
His few brother artists--there was but a handful of them in the city--
and his pupils requested him to set a day for them to see the new picture,
and Graham had consented. The young sculptor, who had the next room,
threw open the door which separated the two studios, and both rooms were
in holiday trim. Northcote had been in the country all the previous day,
gathering flowers and ferns with which to deck the bare apartment. He
placed a jar of roses before the picture with a reverent face; he loved the
artist whose light purse had for the last two years kept a roof over his head
and life in his body.
Graham was greatly admired by the knot of artists who lived, or
starved, in San Francisco. They were the pioneers of art in the new Western
land; and their work, if crude and untutored, was not wanting in certain
strong qualities. Several of them were men of promise; and they were all
wise enough to feel that in Graham's genius lay the brightest hope for a new
school of art which should combine the knowledge of the Old World with

the fresh vigor and hope of the New. They looked up to him as a leader, and
he earnestly wrought and thought for their advancement. It was for this that
he had left Europe and his many agreeable associates there, and returned to
his own country, that whatever power for good there in him lay should
redound to her glory. His fellow artists all revered him, and they would
gladly have loved him; but the sensitive man shrank from that familiarity
which popularity entails. In their work he was always interested; and in
whatever touched the art they all served, he was active and ready to labor
endlessly without recompense or recognition. But in their lives and
personalities he felt no wish to mix; and so it was that he who labored most
for them as an artist was farthest removed from them as a man.
There was but one verdict rendered by the men who stood grouped
about the easel. It was a masterly picture, they all said. For an hour or more,
one or another of them discussed certain technical points with Graham, who
with kindled face listened and talked with his associates, more himself than
he had been since the night when he had first dreamed of the picture. The
young sculptor was less loud in his praise than were the others; in his eyes
the classic subject was a trifle labored and cold. After having praised, the
men felt at liberty to criticise; and if Graham had followed one half the
advice offered to him, there would have been little suggestion of the
original picture left.
Standing in a corner, with its face to the wall, was a panel which, as
the little circle was about to break up, Northcote asked Graham's permission
to show. The new picture was taken from the easel, and the neglected
canvas put in its place. Its surface was dusty, and the young man wiped it
with his silk handkerchief. There was a minute's silence, broken by the
oldest of the party, a disappointed painter whose life had been one long
series of calamities.

"My boy, this is worth a dozen of the other. It is the biggest thing you
have done yet."
The younger men all chimed in, echoing the opinion of their senior.
Graham looked incredulously from one to the other; there was no doubting
their sincerity. Like many another before him, he knew not how to
distinguish his successes from his failures. The old artist, who had all his
life been on the eve of painting his great picture, underrated the value of the
new picture, but he was not mistaken in placing The Lovers far above it.
Graham looked at it for the first time in many weeks, with that impersonal
criticism of his own work which is only possible to an artist when a certain
period has elapsed after its creation, and the mind has been occupied with
other interests.
It was late that night when the artist returned to his room, after dining
with his sculptor friend at a restaurant near by. The moonlight flooded the
studio, lighting its farthest corner. It showed him the vases of rose-bloom
and the dark-browed Circe on the wall; it showed him the blackened hearth,
where the embers still smouldered. And what was that in the fireplace? A
charred wooden frame with a heap of ashes lying 'twixt its sides. Graham
sprang forward with a cry of apprehension, and lifted the blistered frame.
His fear had not been groundless: this bit of wood and that handful of
cinders were all that remained of his great new picture! He gave a deep
groan and staggered back against the wall. Before him, on the easel,
gleaming through the pure silver light, was the picture of The Lovers.
Millicent's dreamy face, radiant with hope and love, smiled at him from the
arms of the lover who now stood, half crazed with grief, gazing at the ruin
before him.
The young sculptor stood beside him, full of a sympathy he knew not
how to express. At last he spoke:--

"Graham, look up, and do not grieve for what is past help. I tell you,
man, that your greatest picture stands before you. The Lovers has the one
quality which your work has heretofore missed. It is human, it is full of
natural sentiment. It does not appeal to an aristocracy of thought, but to all
men and all women, learned and untaught. I know not what influence
swayed you in this picture, but I know that it lifted you to a higher plane
than you had before attained. I care not for the loss of your Poet; it told me
nothing of you that I did not know before; it was a step backwards to the
time when you made that wondrous wicked Circe with her herd of swine.
Let it go, and submit to the influence which inspired this picture, for which
the world is richer to-day than for a score of such works as the other."
Graham looked at the speaker with doubting eyes. The words seemed
to rouse an echo in his soul. They told him that he had served the altar of
Art with Moloch sacrifices. Instead of the peaceful offerings of love, he had
brought the anguish of two strong hearts to desecrate her temple. A dim
perception of the truth entered his mind, and his grief for the lost picture
was for a moment forgotten in a doubt which rose before him, never to be
dismissed again until it was fully solved. A doubt of self, of his own
judgment, of his own inflexible will.

Millicent was gone! The six straight redwoods whispered the news one to
another, and shook their tall tops sadly, while the sweet south wind sighed
through their branches. Millicent was gone! and the roses that clasped and
clung about her lattice died on the night she left them, and the vine bloomed
no more, and bore for that season nothing but leaves. Millicent was gone!
She had set wide the door of the golden prison where her love-birds had
lived and sung so merrily through the long summer. But the little white
creatures, prison-born, prison-bred, were too timid to venture out into the

roomy forest, and had clung to the only home they had ever known; and so
Barbara, gentle, sweet-souled Barbara, took them into her sunny room; and
cared for them as Millicent had done. For a day they were silent, and then
they sang as merrily as before. There was still sunshine; and crispy
groundsel and clear cool water were given them by hands as gentle, if not
so fair, as those which had tended them before.
The New Year was at hand, and the châtelaine of the San Rosario
Ranch had summoned a group of friends to her hospitable home to pass the
holiday time. So Barbara was full of household cares, and Hal was busy
with shooting and riding expeditions. Ferrara was there, just back from
Alaska, with a tribute of rare furs to lay at Barbara's pretty feet. Maurice
Galbraith and John Graham were missing, and that other whose absence
was still keenly felt. Mr. and Mrs. Shallop, O'Neil, and Hartley were come,
with a half dozen other old friends, all bound together by the magnetic
influence which radiated from their hostess, in whom all their various
interests were concentrated. Each was friend to other for her sake, whom
they all loved. In the existence of every one of the group her pure and
unselfish nature was a real factor. When faith in human nature, in one's self,
is faint and wavering, then is the time when the remembrance of such a
spotless life, so pure a heart, steadies the wavering belief in truth, and
strengthens us to fight the good fight. By loving help and by high example,
Marianne Deering had succored and befriended each of the friends who on
that New Year's eve assembled about her dining table. With a face bright
with that beauty of the soul which knows not the marring of time, she
presided over the gay festivity. Three pretty cousins from San Francisco
added their bright faces to the charming scene. The apartment and the board
were garlanded with flowers. Banks of heavy ferns panelled the walls, and
bunches of white, heavy-scented magnolias were outlined against their dark

green. Through the open windows were seen the gay lanterns hung about
the veranda, illuminating the festoons of fresh creepers, and giving
glimpses of the soft velvet turf outside. The merriment was at its height as
Barbara lifted the loving-cup, filled with a sweet, strong wine, and, calling
out the toast, "To absent friends," set her rosy lips to the brim, and drank
from the cup in which each of the joyful company was to pledge some
distant dear one. It was a custom at the San Rosario Ranch which had
become time-honored. The girl smiled gayly as she passed the crystal
beaker to Juan Ferrara, who sat upon her right; but her eyes were dark with
unshed tears, and the man sighed as he drank, omitting to repeat the toast.
What were absent friends to him beside this woman who smiled in his face,
but whose tears fell for one who was far from her! Round went the cup
from hand to hand, and to every heart came a thrill of joy or sorrow at the
thought of the absent one, toward whom it turned in this loving
communion. O'Neil, sitting by his hostess, was the last to take the cup. The
warm-blooded Irishman was in high spirits. The glances of the dark-eyed
"girling" at his side, and the general good-fellowship of the occasion, had
brought out in him the irrepressible good-humor of his nation. The
ceremony of passing the loving-cup, and the invocation to absent friends,
had carried something a little serious with it, which, to the jolly Irishman,
was thoroughly antagonistic.
"Dear hostess," said he, placing the cup before him on the table, "I do
not like the sentiment of your toast; 't is ungallant. How can I, sitting
between two such lovely ladies, find time or power to salute an absent one,
howsoever fair? May I give you my toast for the loving-cup? Have I your
permission to sing a stave from one of my national songs on the subject?"
He was answered by a general acclamation of assent. Rising to his
feet, the blond, burly giant held up the cup with its low ebb of crimson

wine, and sang in a clear, strong voice the following couplet:--

"Oh! 't is sweet to think that where'er we rove
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we 're far from the lips that we love,
We 've but to make love to the lips that are near.
The heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure where'er we rove
To be sure to find something still that is dear;
And to know, when far from the lips that we love,
We have but to make love to the lips that are near."

Amidst the general laughter and applause which followed O'Neil's song,
Madame Marianne's gentle word of disapproval was lost. The song had
restored the jollity which, for a moment, seemed to have left the party.
O'Neil now drained the cup to the last drop, turning the crystal vessel
upside down to show that it was empty, and whispered a saucy compliment
to the bright-eyed girl beside him. At that moment, when the merriment was
at its height, when O'Neil stood with the empty cup in his hand, the door
opened, and, as if in answer to the toast, John Graham entered the room. He
was greeted by a dozen voices as he made his way to Mrs. Deering's side.
Taking her outstretched hand in his own, he dropped upon one knee, and
kissed it respectfully.

"Dear my lady, I have come to wish you the happiest New Year, and to
join in your loving-cup, in your toast to absent friends--"
"Always welcome, dear Graham," said the lady, laying her hand upon
his head for an instant; "there is always a place for you at our table, but
alas--"
"You are too late--too late!"
It was Barbara who spoke, interrupting her mother brusquely, her
voice full of a reproach inexplicable to all but Graham. He looked at her
fixedly for a moment, and then O'Neil clapped him on the back, and held up
the empty cup.
"Too late, old fellow, as Miss Barbara says. Never mind," in a lower
key, "I have promised Deering to brew an Irish punch, after the ladies
withdraw."
The artist stared a moment at the goblet, and shivered as he took the
place which had been made for him beside his hostess. Soon the signal was
given for the ladies to leave the room; Graham's arrival having precipitated
the breaking up of the party. The new-comer did not long remain in the
dining-room, but presently followed his hostess into the library, where he
found Barbara at the piano. Mrs. Deering signalled him to take a place at
her side.
"I fear I took too great a liberty in coming unasked. O'Neil says I
stalked into the room like a stage ghost, and cast a gloom over the party."
"You know you are always welcome here. You used to call the Ranch
your home."
"Have I still a right to do so? Things seem so changed, my lady."
"You will never find me changed while I can help you. I did not send
for you, knowing that you would come if it was best for you."
"And yet I came too late!"

"Graham, there are no such words as too late to those who know how
to wait. That phrase is only for the impatient, not for the steadfast. But now
tell me of yourself, of your work; it is so long since we have seen you."
"Of myself, no! of my work, yes. I have finished my picture; it has
gone to Paris. It will now be judged by other men." He did not tell her of his
loss, or that he had sent The Lovers in the place of the burned picture.
"May they prove kindly critics."
"No, I do not want that; I do not insist that they shall praise my work; I
only question, can they understand it?"
"But that is the least of it all, you have sometimes said."
"Ah! Madonna, I have been wrong. What use is there for me to speak
if there be no one to hear? If they do not understand, the fault must lie in
me. I must learn to speak the broad language of humanity. I cannot ask men
to puzzle themselves with my small vernacular." The man sighed deeply,
and his friend noticed that he was paler and thinner than she had last seen
him.
"You have been over-working, Graham; you lead an unnatural life
when you are in town, now that your people are away. Why not come back
to the tower again?"
"I think I will, Madonna."
He had been over-working, and for what? That the picture for which he
had sacrificed so much, should be seen one brief hour by a dozen men! He
now felt in what a strained condition his nerves had been. The picture was
gone, and with it the strong excitement which had kept him alive and alert.
The tension was relaxed, and an intense depression had followed, which
was in turn losing itself in a new feeling. A lonely longing, a craving for a
tender womanly sympathy, for the only human being who had never
misunderstood his many moods, who was always in sympathy with him in

joy or sorrow. She alone in all the world could have helped him at this time;
to her he could have confided all those delicate shades of thought which
drifted through his mind, too fragile ever to be prisoned in words. She could
have divined those half-formed ideas and crystallized them into steadfast
utterances. He was cold, bitterly cold, and suffered for that loving human
sympathy as the parched hillsides had but now longed for the refreshing
rain which had made the earth green and fair after the long summer
drought. He had chosen Art for his mistress, and she had smiled upon him
chastely and coolly; and yet he was not content.
Barbara left the piano, and Graham joined her. The over-punctilious
courtesy with which he had always treated her was forgotten. He spoke
suddenly and sharply:--
"What did you mean by what you said to me,--why am I too late?"
"I meant too late for a draught from the loving-cup."
"You meant more than that."
"If you choose to fancy--"
"I cannot but choose to know."
By this time the gay group from the dining-room had flooded the
library with their ringing voices, their merry faces. Only these two were
pale and out of harmony with the scene. Barbara, with downcast eyes, stood
by the piano, tapping her fingers nervously on the polished case.
"I have interrupted your festivity; I have been a very skeleton at the
feast; forgive me,--I could not help coming,--forgive me and answer me one
question, and I will go and leave you in peace."
"I say, Bab, we are going into the drawing-room to tell ghost stories.
O'Neil has a splendid one,--a real Irish family banshee yarn. Come on, you
and Graham."

"In a moment, Hal, don't wait for us; we will join you before you are
all settled and Mr. O'Neil has begun."
The library was again empty. The voices of the holiday folk reached
their ears across the hall.
"Tell me what you have heard from her."
There was no need of speaking her name. Her face looked at them
from its place over the mantel-shelf,--a quick, strong sketch made by
Graham. From a leafy background white shoulders, and a fair face with
deep eyes, were shadowed forth. The firelight, falling restlessly upon the
picture, touched into light now the full red mouth, now the ivory throat.
"I have not heard for some time. She was in Venice again, very ill from
the long journey, when she last wrote."
"You have not heard since?"
"No."
"Do you think she is well now, and--and at peace?"
"No."
"What reason have you to doubt her well-being?"
"I cannot tell you."
The man looked at her searchingly, as if he would read her very soul,
and then turned away with a word of leave-taking,--"Good-night."
"Stay a moment. I have something to tell you. I do not know why I am
forced to speak to you of the last interview she had in this room, but I must
do so. Before she left,--on the night when she cried out in the court-room,--
you remember?"
Did he remember? Ah, Heaven! only too well he remembered the last
words she had ever spoken to him,--valiant words, full of love and
protection.

"That night Mr. Galbraith came to see her. It was very late, and they
had a long conversation. I could only hear their voices from the next room;
and then she called me to her, and told us both all her sad story,--all that had
passed between you and her. She took all blame upon herself, and would
have made us both acknowledge that you had been right and just in acting
as you did."
"And was I not just?"
"Just, perhaps; but how ungenerous! What have you to do with justice?
You, who never painted till you painted her; you, who were so cold and
unfeeling till her smile made you human for a little time. Then your own
selfish egotism froze you again."
"Thank you for what you have told me, and good-by. I shall not see
you soon again. You were very good to her; bless you for it! Every one was
good to her,--every one but me, it seems."
"You speak as if she were dead."
He did not hear her last words. He was already out of earshot, taking
leave of his hostess.
When he was alone with the stars he could think better than in that
heated room, with that dear vine-crowned face before his eyes, with
Barbara's voice in his ears. He saw how Barbara misjudged him. He knew
that most men and women would have held him as she did; and yet he had
thought that he was right. He had fought the good fight, and he had
conquered. What mattered it if all the world saw in him a monster of
selfishness? He had chosen poverty, hard work, and loneliness, when
wealth, worldly success, and a painless love might have been his. Sybaris
had been open to him; and he had turned his back upon the perfumed island
for an attic, a crust, and a mistress who demanded all, and had yielded
nothing but hope.

But now things were altered. He felt angry and outraged at the thought
that others knew her story, that she was pitied by them because of her great
love for him. He longed to protect her, to suffer for her, to make her forget
in his love and care the cruel lot which had been hers. He yearned for her
sympathy, for her love, for that sense of peace which had come upon him as
he sat by her side. The tide of love, which not once in a million years is at
the full in two human hearts at once, rushed over him, sweeping away
pride, reason, selfishness, ambition,--all, all routed and o'erset by that
warm, delicious flood of emotion. He had fought against love so long, that
at last the overthrow of will brought him an ecstasy of delight. He ran like
one crazed through the cool, starry night, singing a love-song strange and
tender, a song of submission, of hope and passionate love. Through the
orchard he passed, startling the birds with his wonderful song. The prisoned
love-mates heard it in their little nest, and folded their snowy wings closer
together; the white roses heard it, and trembled at the sound; the six tall
redwoods listened and whispered gravely together as he came among them
and sank upon his knees at their feet, on the very spot where she had sat that
day. That day! How could he have forgotten it, and all that it had meant to
them both? What mist had risen again between them and hidden its memory
from his sight? Before, it had been her want of faith in him, her fault, her
only fault. Her atonement for that sin against her own soul, against him, had
been bitter indeed. And afterwards what veil had blinded him to the great
truth that they loved each other absolutely, that their two beings were each
incomplete without the other? His pride! It had been his pride which had
kept them so long apart! But now it was over. He would go to her, and tell
her all.
"Millicent, Millicent, I love you!" he cried aloud, his eager voice
surging from his breast as if to relieve its weight of love. His cry was

joyous, bounding, full of life and love and hope. The night wind bore back
to his ears a tender, mournful cadence,--"love you."
"Millicent, my love, I am coming; wait for me!"
"Wait for me!" sighed the echo.
And the young moon, pale and shrinking, dropped behind the high
tree-tops from his sight; while the redwoods swayed tremulously, shaken by
a sudden blast, and the echo again sighed its faint response,--
"Wait for me!"
And the tide on the Pacific was at the flood.

CHAPTER XX.

"Malheureux! cet instant oû votre âme engourdie
A secoué les fers qu' elle traine ici-bas,
Ce fugitif instant fut toute votre vie;
Ne le regrettez pas."

It was a wonderful morning which saw the birth of the new year in Venice,-
-one of those clear, bright days on which Winter lays aside all his severity
and assumes the smiles of the Spring still asleep in the bosom of the
stiffened earth. The piazza was filled with a motley crowd of holiday folk,
and the lagoons swarmed with a fleet of gondolas and sandalos.
Before a mighty marble house which stands where one of the smaller
thoroughfares sweeps its waters into the Grand Canal, a gondola has
paused. A young man, a foreigner evidently, steps from the boat and passes

under the fretted archway, with an admiring glance at the beautiful carving.
He is pressed for time, but he stops for a moment to glance into the square
cortile, with its group of almond-trees and its playing fountain. He is met at
the wide doorway by a servant, of whom he asks, in the best Italian he can
muster, for the Signorina Almsford. The black-browed menial politely
replies that it will be impossible for him to see the signorina; she is not at
home to visitors. No further answer can the stranger obtain to his eager
inquiries. A gold piece unlocks the tongue of the menial at last, and he
informs the young man, in excellent English, that the signorina has been ill
ever since her return from America, a month and more ago.
"She has been very ill; Girolomo says that she will die, and the Signor
Almsford himself fears the worst. She has not left her room once. To-day
being a festa, she has fancied to go out with Girolomo in the gondola, and I
am to help him carry her downstairs."
As he finished speaking, the man noticed that the visitor had grown
very pale, and now stood leaning against a marble pillar as if for support.
When he spoke again it was to send his card to Mr. Almsford. On being
admitted to an outer reception room he sank upon a chair, his face hidden in
his hands. Soon he was bidden to enter. The signorina had learned of his
arrival, and it was her pleasure to see him.
The young man passed through a long suite of stately rooms, scarcely
noticing the rich furnishing and decorations. Before a curtained doorway he
hesitated for a moment, but the servant, pushing aside the heavy portiére,
left him no choice but to enter. Before him, reclining in a great chair, lay a
figure which he had last seen full of health and strength. From a pile of sea-
green cushions smiled a face which he had known when it was glorious
with the freshness of youth. The color which the red rose of love had
brought to her cheek had faded now; she was like a flower no longer, but a

great white pearl shimmering through pale waters. She smiled, and held out
her hand to her countryman; and Maurice Galbraith, bowing low over the
small fingers, strove to hide his face from the great hollow eyes which
looked inquiringly into his own.
"I am so glad you have come. I do not even ask what has brought you,
it is so good to see some one from home."
It had become "home" to her now, the country which she had so long
repudiated. "Home" after a half year's residence; "home," though the
language spoken there was to her a foreign one. The meeting is not without
its tears, the pleasure not unmixed with pain. Eager questions are asked, and
faithfully answered. Millicent's visitor brings her tidings and tender
messages from far-off friends. He is rewarded for his pains by a faint smile
which glimmers over the pale features, rising in the deep eyes and losing
itself in the tender curves of the mouth. Beside the couch stands a delicate
bronze table wrought by no less cunning a hand than Benvenuto's. A vase of
flowers and a crystal bell are here placed. The musical note of the bell now
summons a domestic, who bows at the order given, softly disappears, and
soon re-enters, bearing a salver on which are a plate of fruits and a bluish
decanter, with glasses of the dainty Venetian fashion. From the delicately
tendrilled flask Millicent pours a clear golden wine whose perfume
permeates the apartment. She fills both glasses, and, touching the edge of
hers to the rim of his, bids him drink to the health of the dear ones at home.
Galbraith stops the musical ring which the contact has drawn from the
tumbler by touching the edge with his finger in a mechanical manner. It was
one of the superstitions which had waned to a habit with him.
"Why do you drown that sound of good cheer?"
"Because my grandmother told me when I was a little child that if a
glass rang itself out to silence, the sound was sure to prove a death-knell."

"Listen, you can still hear mine faintly. It is a wonderful wine,
connoisseurs say, this Lacrymæ Christi of ours. How different, is it not,
from the strong red wine of California that you gave us that day,--do you
remember?--when we feasted with you under the fig-tree."
"As different as you were to the rest of us gathered about the board
that day."
"And yet I would give all the wine that lies mellowing in the cellars of
the palace for one cup of your good Los Angelos vintage."
The wine seemed to spread through her frame like a flame. It brought a
flush to the pale cheeks and strength to the fragile body. She arose and
walked unsupported across the room to a dusky mirror. She wrapped herself
in a garment of silvery fur, and together they left the room fit for the
boudoir of a princess. At the doorway Girolomo awaited them. Waving
aside the domestic who stood ready to assist him, the strong gondolier lifted
the delicate figure and bore it unaided down the marble stairs. He laid her
light weight gently among the cushions of the gondola, and assuming his
oar with the incomparably graceful movement of his guild, rowed the
black-hooded craft down the Grand Canal. To the young American, the awe
and mystery of the place are not yet familiar; and as the boat glides between
the rows of mighty palaces, he wonders if the strange scene is the fabric of
his own dream.
But no; when he looks into the face of the woman lying amid the
cushions, he knows that it is all true, and that this shadowy figure is more
real to him than all the men and women he has ever known. Presently they
emerge into the broader waters of the lagoon, where lie the fisher craft, with
their many-colored sails spread to dry in the afternoon breeze. The smooth
green water is marked here and there with the black mooring-piles, which
throw a shadowy outline on the changeful tide. To the American, bred in a

land where Art is in its cradle, and beauty exists in its more austere aspect
alone, the glory of the spectacle, the wondrous architecture, the wealth of
color, are intoxicating. The western sky glows with the first pale tints of the
sunset, against which a score of spires are darkly outlined. The air is
musical with soft, distant chimes, and the song of the gondoliers is rhythmic
to the motion of their oars. From the shore come cheerful sounds of holiday
folk; and now and then a sandalo sweeps past them with a freight of joyous
pleasure-seekers. In one of these a group of masqueraders are singing a gay
love-ballad. Millicent hums the refrain to herself, and answers pleasantly to
the noisy greeting with which one of the party hails them. A young girl,
with the red-gold hair of her people, turns and looks long into Millicent's
face. She wears over her broad shoulders a leopard-skin for warmth; while
her head, with its glorious crown of hair, has no other protection than the
doubtful one of a garland of roses. As she looks at Millicent, she takes the
fragrant wreath from her brow, and, with a graceful salutation, tosses it into
the gondola. In a moment the strong strokes of the two rowers carry the
sandalo out of sight, and Galbraith lays the flowers in Millicent's lap.
"May the saints bless the child! 'T is the tribute of happiness and
beauty to grief and pain."
The air has grown chill with the down-dropping of the sun, and
Girolomo, unbidden, turns the gondola homeward. As they float past the
familiar places, Millicent looks long and steadily at the scenes which are so
dear to her. She shivers as the Bridge of Sighs looms dimly forth, and
smiles again at the familiar faces of the boatmen on the steps of the
piazzetta.
"I am so glad that you have seen me in the city of my birth; you can
understand me now as you could never have understood me over there.
Dear, dreamy Venice, where great vices and greater virtues have flourished

more grandly than anywhere else in the world! And now it is all past, her
glory and her pain; and knowing this, we make the best of the pleasant
things left to us. We steep ourselves in her rich beauty, content with its
perfection; we con over her mysterious legends, and forget that other
nations are living, striving, working, and making their histories, while we
are dreaming and playing our lives away. Your great Saxon virtue, 'Truth,' is
meaningless to us; we are content with Beauty."
"And you are happy--contented; you are willing to pass the rest of your
life here?"
"Yes, and no. I could never be satisfied to drop back into the old easy
life. I have drunk too deeply of the strong, new wine of Los Angelos, to be
content with the mellow vintage of the Abruzzi."
"And yet there is fermentation of a strong, new wine here, in your
wondrous Italy. All do not dream of the past; there are men and women who
foretell a new existence to the land, now that the old shackles of tyranny
and superstition are dropping from her cramped limbs."
"Yes; but it is a volcanic soil. Everything is so sudden and so shifting.
There will be changes, but it is the making over of an old garment after all.
Liberty may sponge and cleanse herself a vesture, but the old stains and
spots have eaten deep into the tri-color."
"You will return then; you will not pass your life so far away from us?"
She smiled a little wearily and said, "I think I shall never see America
again. But I am, oh, so thankful to have known my home! I, who have lived
a Venetian, shall die an American."
"And yet--?"
"And yet I am glad to--do not be shocked, kind friend, if I say that I
am glad to die in my own Venice where I was born. I have two selves. One
was born and nurtured here under the shadow of the silent palaces; the other

sprang up full-grown among the madrone trees of San Rosario. The two
have warred and struggled here; their battle-ground has been my breast, and
the new self conquered the old; but the victory will be short-lived."
Galbraith looked at her intently. She had spoken a little wildly, as if her
mind were clouded. She saw his look, and with a sigh smoothed the lines
from her brow.
"I am a little mad, you think? Yes, yes. But I am so happy to see you.
You understand me, dear friend; and you understand him, a little. You will
see him again, though perhaps I never shall. You will tell him--No, do not
look so grieved. It is very likely that I shall get well."
He lifted her pale hand and touched it to his lips, as a Catholic might
kiss the cross.
"You will be well and strong again, my child. Do not speak so."
"It may be, and yet I do not wish it. Life looks so hard and cold and
lonely. I do not wish to live,--and yet I am so afraid to die." She shivered,
and Galbraith drew the gray cloak closer about her. "If I could only fall
quietly asleep, and wake to find this poor weak body left behind--but you
remember that poor creature's death? It was so terrible--I can never forget
it."
"You must not think of it. What message was it that you wanted to
send home?"
"It was to Graham. I can speak to you about him and to no one else.
You must tell him how thankful I am that I left my old home, my old life,
and came to his country. Tell him that he has nothing to reproach himself
with; that the only thing that has made my life worth living has been my
love for him. Tell him to remember me tenderly and without regret; it
should be a sweet memory without a shadow of bitterness. Tell him--but
what am I saying? You could never repeat it all even if you would. Give

him this; it will tell him all; it is a token the trace of which he will find on
my hand when we meet again, if souls retain aught of their old vesture in
the twilight world."
She seemed wandering again. From her slim finger she slipped the
little ring which Galbraith took and kept.
"And Barbara, dear good Barbara. She is white with that spotless
purity of a passionless womanhood. Do you know, Mr. Galbraith, that dying
people sometimes have a power of seeing into the future? Shall I tell you
what face I see beside Barbara's in the bright coming years which I shall
never know? It is that of a brave and loyal man,--a man whose love would
make such a woman happy and complete. It is the face of the friend who
has brought me great peace on this New Year's Day."
The black gondola now floated at rest under the archway of the grim
old palace. From beneath the sable hood Girolomo lifted the slender frame.
The old fellow's eyes filled with tears at the gentle words which his young
mistress whispered to him as he carried her through the marble archway and
up the long steep stairs.
"Tanto ricca, tanto giovine, tanto bella, e bisogna che muore."
Galbraith understood the words muttered by the old servant as he passed
him after having laid his burden at rest in the great chair. He understood,
but he would not believe them. It could not be true.
It was late that night when the soft-footed nun who was Millicent's
nurse laid her patient on her couch, with a gentle reproof for her wilfulness
in being so wakeful.
"But it was not my fault, my sister; I could not sleep earlier. Now I am
better and shall rest." She smiled in the quiet face which bent over her
under its snow-white coif of linen. The heavy gold-bronze hair was not
plaited that night, Millicent was so tired. The sister smoothed it tenderly

over the pillow, her hard fingers thrilling at the touch of so much beauty.
Her own close-shaven head had once been covered with thick black curls,
one of which slept on the heart of the dead man for the repose of whose
soul her prayers were offered at every hour of the day.
"My sister, sit by me. I want to talk with you a little while. I know your
story, blessed one. Let me ask you a little of your life in the convent, among
the sick. Is it peaceful, is it happy? Do you feel that you are nearer to the
spirit of your dead lover than when you were in the world?"
"My child, I may not speak of these things; it would be a sin. Our
words we can control, if not our thoughts."
"But, sister, I need your help. You know that I have not your faith, and
never could have. But I have loved as you once loved, and I shall never see
the face of my lover. What shall I do with my empty life? I am so weak!"
"All the greater need have you for a stronger help than mine, for a
haven from the ills of the world. I cannot think you would find that place in
our cloister. There must be workers in the world among the living and
strong, as well as with the sick and dying. It is in that world that you, my
child, with your power, your wealth, your beauty, should find your work.
The arms of the Church are wide, and embrace the toilers in the market-
place as well as those who watch and pray in the cloister."
"There is only work, then, that will bring peace?"
"Work and prayer, my child. You must not talk of this to-night; you
should sleep now. To-morrow you shall tell me more of the needs of your
soul."
"Only work! I am so tired, I am so weak, I cannot work alone. If there
had been one to help me--" She lifted her white hand, so nerveless now, and
let it sink wearily beside her.

"Bring the great candelabrum, and set it at the foot of the bed. Light all
the candles. I want to drive out the shadows from the dark corners. Ah! hear
them singing below there in the canal."
She sat up among her pillows listening to the chorus chanted by a band
of belated merry-makers. It was the love-song that the people in the sandalo
had sung that afternoon.
"Dame un pensiero, sogna me, ed io ti sognerò." "In dreaming give a
thought of me, and I will dream of thee."
"Give me my little golden crown, sister, and then lie down upon your
couch and sleep. You do not mind the lights?"
Millicent was fanciful and wilful that night; and the nun, knowing that
it was best to humor her, brought her from its velvet case the gold fillet of
olive leaves which Graham had laid on the brow of his love in the forest of
San Rosario. The girl set it on her head, and called for a mirror.
"I am beautiful still, my sister, though so pale, am I not?"
The nun nodded her head smilingly.
"Now that is all, and I shall sleep. Good-night to you. Say a little
prayer for me, sister, and one for a strong, proud man who will be very sad
to-night with me so far away from him."
She folded her palms upon her breast, as they fold the hands of the
dead. The sister stood beside her, watching uneasily the light slumber into
which her patient had fallen. Her pulse was full and even, the breathing
regular, and the sleep peaceful as that of a child.
"A strange fancy to light those candles, and to put that wreath about
her head. Poor child, she is beautiful, indeed, as the vision of a saint,"
murmured the sister.
At last the black-robed watcher laid aside her coif, and, lying down
upon a couch near the bedside, fell asleep. She could not have told how

long she slept, when a sound awoke her. The quiet of the night was broken
by a sudden gust of wind blowing through the long apartment with a deep
sigh. It trembled among the tresses of the sleeping girl, and stirred and
lingered in the strand of hair which overhung the tiny ear. It blew the flame
of the candles straight out from the wick, and fanned the embers on the
hearthstone to a last up-flaming. It blew over the lips of the sleeper, and
bore these softly spoken words to her ear,--
"I come, I come! wait for me!"
The girl turned on her pillow, and smiled in her sleep. All was going
well. The nun replenished the dying fire with fuel, and, extinguishing the
candles, lay down to sleep again by the light of the night lamp, muttering an
Ave Maria.

And the breath of the west wind passed out of the silent sick room, and
went roystering through the long suite of stately apartments, where it met
no man. It was a strong puff of wind, which had travelled far and sturdily
across wild seas and smiling lands. It had raced with man's toy of steam and
iron, and laughed in derision at the poor engine and its boasted speed; it had
swayed dim forest-trees in a far-off land; it had ruffled a quiet ocean into
deep furrows of foam; it had breathed upon a band of icy mountain giants,
and had grown cold at their contact; it had come sighing down the Grand
Canal, and had entered the great palace unceremoniously; it had fanned the
cheek of a sleeping woman beautiful as the vision of a saint; it had
whispered in her ear its message. And now, at the doorway of that great
palace, the bold wind ceased its blustering, and died away into the still air
of the ante-chamber, getting behind the heavy arras, and imparting a
trembling motion to the faded figures of warrior and horse. A dim, gray
Presence had entered the palace, before which the merry west wind had

grown quiet. The hush of deepest night was on all the sleeping house, and
the tide of the Adriatic was at the ebb. Silently the Presence crept toward
the sick-room, and, as it crossed the threshold, the spark of the night light
flickered and went out, while the nun crossed herself as she slept.

When Maurice Galbraith called at the Palazzo Fortunio early on the
morning after he had seen Millicent, to inquire how she had passed the
night, he found the porter's room empty. He rang at the door of the
apartment, which was opened, after some delay, by a weeping woman. He
could not understand what she said to him, and made his way to the boudoir
where he had last seen Millicent, without meeting any one. He heard voices
in the next room, which he knew to be her sleeping apartment.
"It must have been quite painless," he heard a strange voice say in
English. "See! she has not moved; the clothes are quite unruffled. It is
doubtful if she woke at all. Sister Theresa says she was in this attitude when
she last saw her. If she had even breathed heavily the nun would have heard
her, she sleeps so lightly."
A chill fell upon the young man's heart. What could those strange
words mean? The door opened at last, and two men entered the room, the
younger carefully closing it behind him. He was evidently a physician. The
elder man passed him with bowed head and clasped hands. Galbraith
touched the younger man on the arm, and asked him what his words had
meant. The doctor waited till the father had left the room, and, turning to
the stranger, answered him gently and compassionately; told him the little
there was to tell beyond the great fact that Death had entered in the night
and stolen the breath of the fairest, while she slept.
"If I could but fall quietly asleep!" he remembered her words of yester
eve. Her prayer had been answered. The grim visage of Death had been

hidden by the tender veil of sleep.
The physician was very patient with the stranger who asked him so
often if it were certain, if there could be no mistake regarding the dreadful
event. At last, when he was satisfied that there was no hope, he turned to go,
stumbling over a chair as he went. The doctor made him take a glass of
wine, and bade him rest awhile before going out. Maurice Galbraith was a
strong man, and after the first faintness which the news had brought him, he
nerved himself to meet the terrible grief, and bear it as a strong man should.
"You are Mr. Galbraith, from California, of whom she spoke last
night?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you could help me in a little matter which Mr. Almsford has
asked me to attend to. This telegram came an hour ago. It was directed to
her, and is dated California. Do you know the sender, and the meaning of
the message?"
Galbraith took the slip of blue paper, and read these words:--

"I am coming to you. I start to-night.

"GRAHAM."

"You know the person?"
"Yes, very well."
"As we have not his address, would you kindly answer the despatch
and tell him?"
"Surely."
"It would be a great favor."
"It is the last but one that I can ever do for her now."

He found his way to the telegraph office, he never knew how, and with
trembling hand penned this message, which should fly swifter than west
wind or shifting water, to John Graham on the far golden shore, where the
tide was at the flood, and the earth glad and green in the promise of the
new-born year:--

"Millicent died last night."

University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

* * * * * * * *

CHOICE FICTION
FOR
SUMMER READING.

VESTIGIA. By GEORGE FLEMING, author of "Kismet," "Mirage," "The
Head of Medusa." 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.

A NEWPORT AQUARELLE. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

THE USURPER. An Episode in Japanese History. Translated from the
French of Judith Gautier by ABBY L. ALGER. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

THE SAN ROSARIO RANCH. By MAUD HOWE. 16mo. Cloth. Price,
$1.25.

SUWANEE RIVER STORIES. By SHERWOOD BONNER. With
illustrations by F. T. Merrill. 16mo. Cloth.

TREASURE ISLAND. By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. With
illustrations by F. T. Merrill. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.

MOODS. A Novel. By Louisa M. Alcott. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

BY THE TIBER. By the author of "Signor Monaldini's Niece." 16mo.
Cloth. Price, $1.50.

THE HEAD OF MEDUSA. By the author of "Kismet" and "Mirage."
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

BLESSED SAINT CERTAINTY. By the author of "His Majesty Myself."
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

DOCTOR JACOB. A Novel. By Miss M. B. EDWARDS. 12mo. Cloth.
Price, $1.00.

OFF THE SKELLIGS. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

FATED TO BE FREE. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

SARAH De BERENGER. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price,
$1.00.

DON JOHN. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

MARGARET. A Tale of the Real and the Ideal, of Blight and Bloom. By
SYLVESTER JUDD. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER. By GEORGE MACDONALD. With
illustrations. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

MY MARRIAGE. A Novel. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

TIP CAT. A Story. By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission" and "Laddy."
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.

SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS. By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

GEORGE SAND'S NOVELS. Mauprat; Antonia; Monsieur Sylvestre; The
Snow Man; The Miller of Angibault; My Sister Jeannie. 16mo. Cloth. Price,
$1.50 each.

FRANCES M. PEARD'S NOVELS. The Rose Garden; Unawares; Thorpe
Regis. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50 each.

WENDERHOLME. A Story of Lancashire and Yorkshire. By P. G.
HAMERTON. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $2.00.

THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. By HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD,
author of "The Amber Gods." 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.

THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS. A Romance. By HARRIET PRESCOTT
SPOFFORD. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

WORK. A Story of Experience. By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 16mo. Cloth.
Illustrated. Price, $1.75.

PINK AND WHITE TYRANNY. A Society Novel. By HARRIET
BEECHER STOWE. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

MOONDYNE. A Story of the Under World. By JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

FOR SUMMER AFTERNOONS. By SUSAN COOLIDGE. 16mo. Cloth.
Price, $1.25.

REALMAH. By ARTHUR HELPS. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $2.00.

CASIMIR MAREMMA. By ARTHUR HELPS, 12mo. Cloth. Price, $2.00.

PHANTASMION. A Fairy Tale. By SARA COLERIDGE. 12mo. Cloth.
Price, $2.00.

Our publications are for sale by all Booksellers, and will be mailed
postpaid, on receipt of price, by the publishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAN
ROSARIO RANCH ***

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAN
ROSARIO RANCH ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright royalties.
Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license,
apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and
trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not
be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of
the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project
Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may
use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative
works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks
may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically
ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S.
copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license,
especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or
any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing
Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic
work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept
all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If
you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg
electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this
agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom
you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people
who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See

paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the
collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the
individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the
United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in
the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free
access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works
in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project
Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with
the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format
with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it
without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no

representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which
the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase
“Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed,
viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the
United States and most other parts of the world at no
cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You
may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not
located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived
from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a
notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright
holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United
States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or
providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”
associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with

the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain
permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted
with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of
this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide
access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of

obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided
that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the
use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the
owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate
royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days
following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to
prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly
marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about
donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does
not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You
must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works
possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all
access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth
in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the
Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in
Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend
considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and
proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the
Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be
stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete,
inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES -
Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in
paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,
the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party
distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this
agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and
expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO