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Title: The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales

Author: Bret Harte

Release Date: August, 2004  [EBook #6373]
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[This file was first posted on December 2, 2002]

Edition: 10

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THE WRITINGS OF BRET HARTE




THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP AND OTHER TALES

WITH CONDENSED NOVELS, SPANISH AND AMERICAN LEGENDS, AND EARLIER
PAPERS

By BRET HARTE

_WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR_




PUBLISHERS' NOTE



In 1882, it was felt to be desirable that Mr. Harte's scattered work
should be brought together in convenient form, and the result was a
compact edition of five volumes. After that date, as before, he
continued to produce poems, tales, sketches, and romances in steady
succession, and in 1897 his publishers undertook a uniform and orderly
presentation of the results of more than thirty years of his literary
activity. The fourteen volumes that embodied those results were
enriched by Introductions and a Glossary prepared by Mr. Harte
himself.

The present Riverside Edition is based on the collection made in 1897,
but is enlarged by the inclusion of later work.

Boston, 4 Park Street, Autumn, 1902.




CONTENTS



GENERAL INTRODUCTION

THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP AND OTHER SKETCHES. The Luck Of Roaring Camp
The Outcasts Of Poker Flat Miggles Tennessee's Partner The Idyl Of Red
Gulch Brown Of Calaveras

CONDENSED NOVELS.  Muck-A-Muck: A Modern Indian Novel Selina Sedilia
The Ninety-Nine Guardsmen Miss Mix Mr. Midshipman Breezy: A Naval
Officer Guy Heavystone; Or, "Entire:" A Muscular Novel John Jenkins;
Or, The Smoker Reformed Fantine. After The French Of Victor Hugo "La
Femme." After The French Of M. Michelet The Dweller Of The Threshold
N. N.: Being A Novel In The French Paragraphic Style No Title Handsome
Is As Handsome Does Lothaw; Or, The Adventures Of A Young Gentleman In
Search Of A Religion The Haunted Man: A Christmas Story Terence
Denville Mary Mcgillup The Hoodlum Band; Or, The Boy Chief, The Infant
Politician, And The Pirate Prodigy

EARLIER SKETCHES.  M'liss: An Idyl Of Red Mountain. I. Smith's Pocket
II. Which Contains A Dream Of The Just Aristides III. Under The
Greenwood Tree IV. Which Has A Good Moral Tendency V. "Open Sesame"
VI. The Trials Of Mrs. Morpher VII. The People vs. John Doe Waters
VIII. The Author To The Reader--Explanatory IX. Cleaning Up X. The Red
Rock High-Water Mark A Lonely Ride The Man Of No Account Notes By
Flood And Field Waiting For The Ship: A Fort Point Idyl A Night At
Wingdam

SPANISH AND AMERICAN LEGENDS.  The Legend Of Monte Del Diablo The
Right Eye Of The Commander The Legend Of Devil's Point The Adventure
Of Padre Vicentio: A Legend Of San Francisco The Devil And The Broker:
A Medieval Legend The Ogress Of Silver Land; Or, The Diverting History
Of Prince Badfellah And Prince Bulleboye The Christmas Gift That Came
To Rupert: A Story For Little Soldiers




GENERAL INTRODUCTION



The opportunity here offered [Footnote: By the appearance in England
several  years ago of an edition of the author's writings as then
collected.] to give some  account of the genesis of these Californian
sketches, and the conditions under which they were conceived, is
peculiarly tempting to an author who has been obliged to retain a
decent professional reticence under a cloud of ingenious surmise,
theory, and misinterpretation. He very gladly seizes this opportunity
to establish the chronology of the sketches, and incidentally to show
that what are considered the "happy accidents" of literature are very
apt to be the results of quite logical and often prosaic processes.

The author's _first_ volume was published in 1865 in a thin book
of verse, containing, besides the titular poem, "The Lost Galleon,"
various patriotic contributions to the lyrics of the Civil War, then
raging, and certain better known humorous pieces, which have been
hitherto interspersed with his later poems in separate volumes, but
are now restored to their former companionship. This was followed in
1867 by "The Condensed Novels," originally contributed to the "San
Francisco Californian," a journal then edited by the author, and a
number of local sketches entitled "Bohemian Papers," making a single
not very plethoric volume, the author's first book of prose. But he
deems it worthy of consideration that during this period, i.e. from
1862 to 1866, he produced "The Society upon the Stanislaus" and "The
Story of M'liss,"--the first a dialectical poem, the second a
Californian romance,--his first efforts toward indicating a peculiarly
characteristic Western American literature. He would like to offer
these facts as evidence of his very early, half-boyish but very
enthusiastic belief in such a possibility,--a belief which never
deserted him, and which, a few years later, from the better-known
pages of "The Overland Monthly," he was able to demonstrate to a
larger and more cosmopolitan audience in the story of "The Luck of
Roaring Camp" and the poem of the "Heathen Chinee." But it was one of
the anomalies of the very condition of life that he worked amidst, and
endeavored to portray, that these first efforts were rewarded by very
little success; and, as he will presently show, even "The Luck of
Roaring Camp" depended for its recognition  in California upon its
success elsewhere. Hence the critical reader will observe that the
bulk of these earlier efforts, as shown in the first two volumes, were
marked by very little flavor of the soil, but were addressed to an
audience half foreign in their sympathies, and still imbued with
Eastern or New England habits and literary traditions. "Home" was
still potent with these voluntary exiles in their moments of
relaxation. Eastern magazines and current Eastern literature formed
their literary recreation, and the sale of the better class of
periodicals was singularly great. Nor was the taste confined to
American literature. The illustrated and satirical English journals
were as frequently seen in California as in Massachusetts; and the
author records that he has experienced more difficulty in procuring a
copy of "Punch" in an English provincial town than was his fortune at
"Red Dog" or "One-Horse Gulch." An audience thus liberally equipped
and familiar with the best modern writers was naturally critical and
exacting, and no one appreciates more than he does the salutary
effects of this severe discipline upon his earlier efforts.

When the first number of "The Overland Monthly" appeared, the author,
then its editor, called the publisher's attention to the lack of any
distinctive Californian romance in its pages, and averred that, should
no other contribution come in, he himself would supply the omission in
the next number. No other contribution was offered, and the author,
having the plot and general idea already in his mind, in a few days
sent the manuscript of "The Luck of Roaring Camp" to the printer. He
had not yet received the proof-sheets when he was suddenly summoned to
the office of the publisher, whom he found standing the picture of
dismay and anxiety with the proof before him. The indignation and
stupefaction of the author can be well understood when he was told
that the printer, instead of returning the proofs to him, submitted
them to the publisher, with the emphatic declaration that the matter
thereof was so indecent, irreligious, and improper that his proof-
reader--a young lady--had with difficulty been induced to continue its
perusal, and that he, as a friend of the publisher and a well-wisher
of the magazine, was impelled to present to him personally this
shameless evidence of the manner in which the editor was imperilling
the future of that enterprise. It should be premised that the critic
was a man of character and standing, the head of a large printing
establishment, a church member, and, the author thinks, a deacon. In
which circumstances the publisher frankly admitted to the author that,
while he could not agree with all of the printer's criticisms, he
thought the story open to grave objection, and its publication of
doubtful expediency.

Believing only that he was the victim of some extraordinary
typographical blunder, the author at once sat down and read the proof.
In its new dress, with the metamorphosis of type,--that metamorphosis
which every writer so well knows changes his relations to it and makes
it no longer seem a part of himself,--he was able to read it with
something of the freshness of an untold tale. As he read on he found
himself affected, even as he had been affected in the conception and
writing of it--a feeling so incompatible with the charges against it,
that he could only lay it down and declare emphatically, albeit
hopelessly, that he could really see nothing objectionable in it.
Other opinions were sought and given. To the author's surprise, he
found himself in the minority. Finally, the story was submitted to
three gentlemen of culture and experience, friends of publisher and
author,--who were unable, however, to come to any clear decision. It
was, however, suggested to the author that, assuming the natural
hypothesis that his editorial reasoning might be warped by his
literary predilections in a consideration of one of his own
productions, a personal sacrifice would at this juncture be in the
last degree heroic. This last suggestion had the effect of ending all
further discussion, for he at once informed the publisher that the
question of the propriety of the story was no longer at issue: the
only question was of his capacity to exercise the proper editorial
judgment; and that unless he was permitted to test that capacity by
the publication of the story, and abide squarely by the result, he
must resign his editorial position. The publisher, possibly struck
with the author's confidence, possibly from kindliness of disposition
to a younger man, yielded, and "The Luck of Roaring Camp" was
published in the current number of the magazine for which it was
written, as it was written, without emendation, omission, alteration,
or apology. A not inconsiderable part of the grotesqueness of the
situation was the feeling, which the author retained throughout the
whole affair, of the perfect sincerity, good faith, and seriousness of
his friend's--the printer's--objection, and for many days thereafter
he was haunted by a consideration of the sufferings of this
conscientious man, obliged to assist materially in disseminating the
dangerous and subversive doctrines contained in this baleful fiction.
What solemn protests must have been laid with the ink on the rollers
and impressed upon those wicked sheets! what pious warnings must have
been secretly folded and stitched in that number of "The Overland
Monthly"! Across the chasm of years and distance the author stretches
forth the hand of sympathy and forgiveness, not forgetting the gentle
proof-reader, that chaste and unknown nymph, whose mantling cheeks and
downcast eyes gave the first indications of warning.

But the troubles of the "Luck" were far from ended. It had secured an
entrance into the world, but, like its own hero, it was born with an
evil reputation, and to a community that had yet to learn to love it.
The secular press, with one or two exceptions, received it coolly, and
referred to its "singularity;" the religious press frantically
excommunicated it, and anathematized it as the offspring of evil; the
high promise of "The Overland Monthly" was said to have been ruined by
its birth; Christians were cautioned against pollution by its contact;
practical business men were gravely urged to condemn and frown upon
this picture of Californian society that was not conducive to Eastern
immigration; its hapless author was held up to obloquy as a man who
had abused a sacred trust. If its life and reputation had depended on
its reception in California, this edition and explanation would alike
have been needless. But, fortunately, the young "Overland Monthly" had
in its first number secured a hearing and position throughout the
American Union, and the author waited the larger verdict. The
publisher, albeit his worst fears were confirmed, was not a man to
weakly regret a position he had once taken, and waited also. The
return mail from the East brought a letter addressed to the "Editor of
the 'Overland Monthly,'" enclosing a letter from Fields, Osgood & Co.,
the publishers of "The Atlantic Monthly," addressed to the--to them--
unknown "Author of 'The Luck of Roaring Camp.'" This the author
opened, and found to be a request, upon the most flattering terms, for
a story for the "Atlantic" similar to the "Luck." The same mail
brought newspapers and reviews welcoming the little foundling of
Californian literature with an enthusiasm that half frightened its
author; but with the placing of that letter in the hands of the
publisher, who chanced to be standing by his side, and who during
those dark days had, without the author's faith, sustained the
author's position, he felt that his compensation was full and
complete.

Thus encouraged, "The Luck of Roaring Camp" was followed by "The
Outcasts of Poker Flat," "Miggles," "Tennessee's Partner," and those
various other characters who had impressed the author when, a mere
truant schoolboy, he had lived among them. It is hardly necessary to
say to any observer of human nature that at this time he was advised
by kind and well-meaning friends to content himself with the success
of the "Luck," and not tempt criticism again; or that from that moment
ever after he was in receipt of that equally sincere contemporaneous
criticism which assured him gravely that each successive story was a
falling off from the last. Howbeit, by reinvigorated confidence in
himself and some conscientious industry, he managed to get together in
a year six or eight of these sketches, which, in a volume called "The
Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches," gave him that encouragement
in America and England that has since seemed to justify him in
swelling these records of a picturesque passing civilization into the
compass of the present edition.

A few words regarding the peculiar conditions of life and society that
are here rudely sketched, and often but barely outlined. The author is
aware that, partly from  a habit of thought and expression, partly
from the exigencies of brevity in his narratives, and partly from the
habit of addressing an audience familar with the local scenery, he
often assumes, as premises already granted by the reader, the
existence of a peculiar and romantic state of civilization, the like
of which few English readers are inclined to accept without
corroborative facts and figures. These he could only give by referring
to the ephemeral records of Californian journals of that date, and the
testimony of  far-scattered witnesses, survivors of the exodus of
1849. He must beg the reader to bear in mind that this emigration was
either across a continent almost unexplored, or by the way of a long
and dangerous voyage around Cape Horn, and that the promised land
itself presented the singular spectacle of a patriarchal Latin race
who had been left to themselves, forgotten by the world, for nearly
three hundred years. The faith, courage, vigor, youth, and capacity
for adventure necessary to this emigration produced a body of men as
strongly distinctive as the companions of Jason. Unlike most pioneers,
the majority were men of profession and education; all were young, and
all had staked their future in the enterprise. Critics who have taken
large and exhaustive views of mankind and society from club windows in
Pall Mall or the Fifth Avenue can only accept for granted the
turbulent chivalry that thronged the streets of San Francisco in the
gala days of her youth, and must read the blazon of their deeds like
the doubtful quarterings of the shield of Amadis de Gaul. The author
has been frequently asked if such and such incidents were real,--if he
had ever met such and such characters. To this he must return the one
answer, that in only a single instance was he conscious of drawing
purely from his imagination and fancy for a character and a logical
succession of incidents drawn therefrom. A few weeks after his story
was published, he received a letter, authentically signed, _correcting
some of the  minor details of his facts_ (!), and enclosing as
corroborative evidence a slip from an old newspaper, wherein the main
incident of his supposed fanciful creation was recorded with a
largeness of statement that far transcended his powers of imagination.

He has been repeatedly cautioned, kindly and unkindly, intelligently
and unintelligently, against his alleged tendency to confuse
recognized standards of morality by extenuating lives of recklessness,
and often criminality, with a single solitary virtue. He might easily
show that he has never written a sermon, that he has never moralized
or commented upon the actions of his heroes, that he has never voiced
a creed or obtrusively demonstrated an ethical opinion. He might
easily allege that this merciful effect of his art arose from the
reader's weak human sympathies, and hold  himself irresponsible. But
he would be conscious of a more miserable weakness in thus divorcing
himself from his fellow-men who in the domain of art must ever walk
hand in hand with him. So he prefers to say that, of all the various
forms in which Cant presents itself to suffering humanity, he knows of
none so outrageous, so illogical, so undemonstrable, so marvelously
absurd, as the Cant of "Too Much Mercy." When it shall be proven to
him that communities are degraded and brought to guilt and crime,
suffering or destitution, from a predominance of this quality; when he
shall see pardoned ticket-of-leave men elbowing men of austere lives
out of situation and position, and the repentant Magdalen supplanting
the blameless virgin in society,--then he will lay aside his pen and
extend his hand to the new Draconian discipline in fiction. But until
then he will, without claiming to be a religious man or a moralist,
but simply as an artist, reverently and humbly conform to the rules
laid down by a Great Poet who created the parable of the "Prodigal
Son" and the "Good Samaritan," whose works  have lasted eighteen
hundred years, and will remain when the present writer and his
generation are forgotten. And he is conscious of uttering no original
doctrine in this, but of only voicing the beliefs of a few of his
literary brethren happily living, and one gloriously dead, who never
made proclamation of this "from the housetops."


       *       *       *       *       *


       THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, AND

       OTHER STORIES AND SKETCHES


       *       *       *       *       *




THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP


There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight,
for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the
entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but
"Tuttle's grocery" had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be
remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and
Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room.
The whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of
the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name
of a woman was frequently repeated. It was  a name familiar enough in
the camp,--"Cherokee Sal."

Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse and, it is
to be feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only
woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when
she most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned,
and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to
bear even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now terrible in
her loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original
isolation which must have made the punishment of the first
transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of
her sin  that, at a moment when she most lacked her sex's intuitive
tenderness and care, she met only the half-contemptuous faces of her
masculine associates. Yet a few of the spectators were, I think,
touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton thought it was "rough on Sal,"
and, in the contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose superior
to the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in his sleeve.

It will be seen also that the situation was novel. Deaths were by no
means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People
had been dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and with no
possibility of return; but this was the first time that anybody had
been introduced _ab initio_. Hence the excitement.

"You go in there, Stumpy," said a prominent citizen known as
"Kentuck," addressing one of the loungers. "Go in there, and see what
you kin do. You've had experience in them things."

Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes,
had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to
some legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp--a city
of refuge--was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice,
and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on
the extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside,
smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue.

The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these were
actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were
reckless. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives
and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion
of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and
intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous
man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an
embarrassed, timid manner. The  term "roughs" applied to them was a
distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of
fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but these
slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. The
strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot
had but one eye.

Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed around the
cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hills and a
river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill
that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The
suffering woman might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she
lay,--seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the
stars above.

A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability to the gathering. By
degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely
offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that "Sal would
get through with it;" even that the child would survive; side bets as
to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an
excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door,
and the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the
pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire rose
a sharp, querulous cry,--a cry unlike anything heard before in the
camp. The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the
fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.

The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a
barrel of gunpowder; but in consideration of the situation of the
mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were
discharged; for whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some
other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had
climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so
passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever. I do not think
that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation as to
the fate of the child. "Can he live now?" was asked of Stumpy. The
answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's sex and
maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was some
conjecture as  to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less
problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and
apparently as successful.

When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, the
door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed
themselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk
or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below
the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was placed, and
within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at
Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was soon
indicated. "Gentlemen," said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of
authority and _ex officio_ complacency,--"gentlemen will please
pass in at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door.
Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a
hat handy." The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered,
however, as he looked about him, and so unconsciously set an example
to the next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As
the procession filed in comments were audible,--criticisms addressed
perhaps rather to Stumpy in the character of showman: "Is that him?"
"Mighty small specimen;" "Hasn't more'n  got the color;" "Ain't bigger
nor a derringer." The contributions were as characteristic: A silver
tobacco box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold
specimen; a very beautifully embroidered lady's handkerchief (from
Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond  ring (suggested
by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he "saw that pin and
went two diamonds better"); a slung-shot; a Bible (contributor not
detected); a golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to
say, were not the giver's); a pair of surgeon's shears; a lancet; a
Bank of England note for L5; and about $200 in loose gold and silver
coin. During these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as
impassive as the dead on his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of
the newly born on his right. Only one incident occurred to break the
monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-
box half curiously, the child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught
at his groping finger, and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked
foolish and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself
in his weather-beaten cheek. "The d--d little cuss!" he said, as he
extricated his finger, with perhaps more tenderness and care than he
might have been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a
little apart from its fellows as he went out, and examined it
curiously. The examination provoked the same original remark in regard
to the child. In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. "He rastled
with my finger," he remarked to Tipton, holding up the member, "the
d--d little cuss!"

It was four o'clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in
the cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that
night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great
gusto his experience, invariably ending with his characteristic
condemnation of the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust
implication of sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler
sex. When everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river
and whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin,
still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree
he  paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway
down to the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and
knocked at the door. It was opened by Stumpy. "How goes it?" said
Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. "All serene!"
replied Stumpy. "Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause--an
embarrassing one--Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had
recourse to his finger, which he held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with
it,--the d--d little cuss," he said, and retired.

The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp
afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there was
a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with her
infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But
an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of
providing for its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the
argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which
discussions were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed
that they should send the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty
miles,--where female attention could be procured. But the unlucky
suggestion met with fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident
that no plan which entailed parting from their new acquisition would
for a moment be entertained. "Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them fellows
at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us." A
disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp, as
in other places.

The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with
objection. It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to
accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that "they
didn't want any more of the other kind." This unkind allusion to the
defunct mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of
propriety,--the first symptom of the camp's regeneration. Stumpy
advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering
with the selection of a possible successor in office. But when
questioned, he averred stoutly that he and "Jinny"--the mammal before
alluded to--could manage to rear the child. There was something
original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the
camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to
Sacramento. "Mind," said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-
dust into the expressman's hand, "the best that can be got,--lace, you
know, and filigree-work and frills,--d--n the cost!" Strange to say,
the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate of the mountain
camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Nature took the
foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra
foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial
at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found food and
nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass's milk to lime
and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter
and good nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been father
and mother to him! Don't you," he would add, apostrophizing the
helpless bundle before him, "never go back on us."

By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name
became apparent. He had generally been known as "The Kid," "Stumpy's
Boy," "The Coyote" (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by
Kentuck's endearing diminutive of "The d--d little cuss." But these
were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed
under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally
superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought
"the luck" to Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been
successful. "Luck" was the name  agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy
for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the
father was unknown. "It's better," said the philosophical Oakhurst,
"to take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair." A
day was accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by
this ceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some
idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of
ceremonies was one "Boston," a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to
promise the greatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent
two days in preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed
local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was
to stand godfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove
with music and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock
altar, Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. "It ain't my style
to spoil fun, boys," said the little man, stoutly eying the faces
around him, "but it strikes me that this thing ain't exactly on the
squar. It's playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun
on him that he ain't goin' to understand. And ef there's goin' to be
any godfathers round, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than
me." A silence followed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all
humorists be it said that the first man to acknowledge its justice was
the satirist thus stopped of his fun. "But," said Stumpy, quickly
following up his advantage, "we're here for a christening, and we'll
have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the
United States and the State of California, so help me God." It was the
first time that the name of the Deity had been otherwise uttered than
profanely in the camp. The form of christening was perhaps even more
ludicrous than the satirist had conceived; but strangely enough,
nobody saw it and nobody laughed. "Tommy" was christened as seriously
as he would have  been under a Christian roof, and cried and was
comforted in as orthodox fashion.

And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost
imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to
"Tommy Luck"--or "The Luck," as he was more frequently called--first
showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and
whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rosewood,
cradle, packed eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy's way of putting
it, "sorter killed the rest of the furniture." So the rehabilitation
of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of
lounging in at Stumpy's to see "how 'The Luck' got on" seemed to
appreciate the change, and in self-defense the rival establishment of
"Tuttle's grocery" bestirred itself and imported a carpet and mirrors.
The reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended
to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy
imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor and
privilege of holding The Luck. It was a cruel mortification to
Kentuck--who, in the carelessness of a large nature and the habits of
frontier life, had begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle,
which, like a snake's, only sloughed off through decay--to be debarred
this privilege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the
subtle influence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly
every afternoon in a clean shirt and face still shining from his
ablutions. Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. "Tommy,"
who was supposed to spend his whole existence in a persistent attempt
to repose, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling,
which had gained the camp its infelicitous title, were not permitted
within hearing distance of Stumpy's. The men conversed in whispers or
smoked with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these
sacred precincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of expletive,
known as "D--n the luck!" and "Curse the luck!" was abandoned, as
having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, being
supposed to have a soothing, tranquilizing quality; and one song, sung
by "Man-o'-War Jack," an English sailor from her Majesty's Australian
colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital
of the exploits of "the Arethusa, Seventy-four," in a muffled minor,
ending with a prolonged dying fall at the burden of each verse," On b-
oo-o-ard of the Arethusa." It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The
Luck, rocking from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and
crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar rocking
of Jack or the length of his song,--it contained ninety stanzas, and
was continued with conscientious deliberation to the bitter end,--the
lullaby generally had the desired effect. At such times the men would
lie at full length under the trees in the soft summer twilight,
smoking their pipes and drinking in the melodious utterances. An
indistinct idea that this was pastoral happiness pervaded the camp.
"This 'ere kind o' think," said the Cockney Simmons, meditatively
reclining on his elbow, "is 'evingly." It reminded him of Greenwich.

On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch from
whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket
spread over pine boughs, he would lie while the men were working in
the ditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to decorate this
bower with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one
would bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles,  azaleas, or the
painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to
the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles,
which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake
of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright  pebble
from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and
strengthened, and were invariably put aside for The Luck. It was
wonderful how many treasures the woods and hillsides yielded that
"would do for Tommy." Surrounded by playthings such as never child out
of fairyland had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy was content. He
appeared to be serenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity
about him, a contemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes
worried Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded
that once, having crept beyond his "corral,"--a hedge of tessellated
pine boughs, which surrounded his bed,--he dropped over the bank on his
head in the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air
in that position for at least five minutes with unflinching gravity.
He was extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many
other instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon the
statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a
tinge of superstition. "I crep' up the bank just now," said Kentuck
one day, in a breathless state of excitement, "and dern my skin if he
wasn't a-talking to a jaybird as was a-sittin' on his lap. There they
was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a-jawin' at
each other just like two cherrybums." Howbeit, whether creeping over
the pine boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves
above him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the
flowers bloomed. Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she
would let slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell
just within his grasp; she would send wandering breezes to visit him
with the balm of bay and resinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded
familiarly and sleepily, the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a
slumberous accompaniment.

Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They  were "flush times,"
and the luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The
camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on
strangers. No encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make
their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain
wall that surrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a
reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the
reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman--their only
connecting link with the surrounding world--sometimes told wonderful
stories of the camp. He would say, "They've a street up there in
'Roaring' that would lay over any street in Red Dog. They've got vines
and flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day.
But they're mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin
baby."

With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement.
It was  proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to
invite one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The
Luck, who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice
that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely
skeptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be
accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But
the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the
minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to
prevent it. And it did.

The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow
lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and
every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a
tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down
giant trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red
Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned.
"Water put the gold into them gulches,"  said Stumpy. "It's been here
once and will be here again!" And that night the North Fork suddenly
leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring
Camp.

In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling
timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot
out the fair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered
camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-
bank, was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky
owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had
disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the
bank recalled them.

It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they
said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below.
Did anybody know them, and did they belong here?

It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly
crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his
arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the
child was cold and pulseless. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened
his eyes. "Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are dying
too." A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying!" he
repeated; "he's a-taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck
with me now;" and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a
drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the
shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown sea.




THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT


As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker
Flat on the morning of the 23d of November, 1850, he was conscious of
a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or
three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, and
exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air,
which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.

Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these
indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was
another question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected;
"likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with
which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his
neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.

In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately
suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses,
and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous
reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that
had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of
all improper persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men
who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and
temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable
characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is but
due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety was
professional, and it was only in such easily established standards of
evil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.

Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this
category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible
example and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets
of the sums he had won from them. "It's agin justice," said Jim
Wheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire
stranger--carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equity
residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win
from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.

Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the
less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was
too much of a gambler not to accept fate. With him life was at best an
uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the
dealer.

A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat
to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was
known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the
armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young
woman familiarly known as "The Duchess;" another who had won the title
of "Mother Shipton;" and "Uncle Billy," a suspected, sluice-robber and
confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the
spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when the
gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the
leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to
return at the peril of their lives.

As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a few
hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother
Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The
philosophic Oakhurst  alone remained silent. He listened calmly to
Mother Shipton's desire to cut somebody's heart out, to the repeated
statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the
alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode
forward. With the easy good humor  characteristic of his class, he
insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, "Five-Spot," for the
sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the
party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her
somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton
eyed the possessor of "Five-Spot" with malevolence, and Uncle Billy
included the whole party in one sweeping anathema.

The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced the
regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer
some invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. It
was distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season the party
soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foothills into
the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and
difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the
ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party
halted.

The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre,
surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite,
sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked
the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp,
had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half
the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were not
equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his
companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of
"throwing up their hand before the game was played out." But they were
furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of
food,  fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it
was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle
Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the
Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone
remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.

Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which
required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his
own language, he "couldn't afford it." As he gazed at his recumbent
fellow exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah trade, his habits
of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him.
He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands
and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits,
and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his
weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet
he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which, singularly
enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he was
notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet
sheer above the circling pines around him, at the sky ominously
clouded, at the valley below, already deepening into shadow; and,
doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.

A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the
newcomer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as "The
Innocent," of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over a
"little game," and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire
fortune--amounting to some forty dollars--of that guileless youth.
After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator
behind the door and thus addressed him: "Tommy, you're a good little
man, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again." He
then handed him his money hack, pushed him gently from the room, and
so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.

There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic
greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat
to seek his fortune. "Alone?" No, not exactly alone; in fact (a
giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst
remember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance
House? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had
objected, and so they had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be
married, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it
was they had found a place to camp, and company. All this the Innocent
delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen,
emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she had been blushing unseen,
and rode to the side of her lover.

Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with
propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not
fortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to
kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was
sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst's kick a superior power that
would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson
from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that
there was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily,
the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was
provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the
discovery of a rude attempt at a log house near the trail. "Piney can
stay with Mrs. Oakhurst," said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess,
"and I can shift for myself."

Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst's admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from
bursting into a roar of laughter. As it  was, he felt compelled to
retire up the canon until he could recover his gravity. There he
confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg,
contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned
to the party, he found them seated by a fire--for the air had grown
strangely chill and the sky overcast--in apparently amicable
conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive girlish
fashion  to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and
animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding
forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother
Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. "Is this yer a d--
d picnic?" said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the
sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the
foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that
disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he
felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.

As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked
the tops of the pine-trees and moaned through their long and gloomy
aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was
set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly
exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard
above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother
Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of
simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was
replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes
were asleep.

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and
cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing
strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave
it,--snow!

He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers,
for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had
been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain, and a
curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been
tethered--they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly
disappearing in the snow.

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with
his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered
peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the
virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though
attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket
over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It
came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused
the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically
changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up the present and
future in two words, "Snowed in!"

A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the
party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious
fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence
they might last ten days longer. "That is," said Mr. Oakhurst _sotto
voce_ to the Innocent, "if you're willing to board us. If you
ain't--and perhaps you'd better not--you can wait till Uncle Billy
gets back with provisions." For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could
not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy's rascality, and so offered
the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally
stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother
Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's defection.
"They'll find out the truth about us _all_ when they find out
anything," he added significantly, "and there's no good frightening
them now."

Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the  disposal of Mr.
Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced
seclusion. "We'll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow'll
melt, and we'll all go back together." The cheerful gayety of the
young man and Mr. Oakhurst's calm infected the others. The Innocent,
with the aid of pine boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless
cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the
interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that
provincial maiden to their fullest extent. "I reckon now you're used to
fine things at Poker Flat," said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply
to conceal something that reddened her cheeks through their
professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to "chatter."
But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail, he
heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped in
some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whiskey,
which he had prudently cached. "And yet it don't somehow sound like
whiskey," said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the
blazing fire through the still blinding storm, and the group around
it, that he settled to the conviction that it was "square fun."

Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whiskey as
something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. It
was certain that, in Mother Shipton's words, he "didn't say 'cards'
once" during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an
accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his
pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of
this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant
melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair
of bone castanets. But the crowning festivity of the evening was
reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands,
sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a  certain
defiant tone and Covenanter's swing to its chorus, rather than any
devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at
last joined in the refrain:--

  "I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die
  in His army."

The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable
group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token
of the vow.

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars
glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose
professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible
amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson somehow managed
to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself
to the Innocent by saying that he had "often been a week without
sleep." "Doing what?" asked Tom. "Poker!" replied Oakhurst
sententiously. "When a man gets a streak of luck,--nigger-luck,--he
don't get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck," continued the gambler
reflectively, "is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for
certain is that it's bound to change. And it's finding out when it's
going to change that makes you. We've had a streak of bad luck since
we left Poker Flat,--you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If
you can hold your cards right along you're all right. For," added the
gambler, with cheerful irrelevance--

  "'I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die
  in His army.'"

The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained
valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of
provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of
that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the
wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it
revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut,--a
hopeless, uncharted,  trackless sea of white lying below the rocky
shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the marvelously
clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles
away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky
fastness hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last
vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a
certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed
the Duchess. "Just you go out there and cuss, and see." She then set
herself to the task of amusing "the child," as she and the Duchess
were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a
soothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact
that she didn't swear and wasn't improper.

When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the
accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the
flickering campfire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void
left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney,
--story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring
to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed too,
but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray
copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the Iliad. He now proposed
to narrate the principal incidents of that poem--having thoroughly
mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words--in the current
vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric
demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled
in the winds, and the great pines in the canon seemed to bow to the
wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet
satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the fate of "Ash-
heels," as the Innocent persisted in denominating the "swift-footed
Achilles."

So, with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed
over the  heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again
from leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day
closer around them drew the  snowy circle, until at last they looked
from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered
twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to
replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now
half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers
turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other's eyes, and
were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game
before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the
care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton--once the strongest of the party--
seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called
Oakhurst to her side. "I'm going," she said, in a voice of querulous
weakness, "but don't say anything about it. Don't waken the kids. Take
the bundle from under my head, and open it." Mr. Oakhurst did so. It
contained Mother Shipton's rations for the last week, untouched. "Give
'em to the child," she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. "You've
starved yourself," said the gambler. "That's what they call it," said
the woman querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face to
the wall, passed quietly away.

The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was
forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the
snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of
snow-shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle.

"There's one chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing
to Piney; "but it's there," he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. "If
you can reach there in two days she's safe." "And you?" asked Tom
Simson. "I'll stay here," was the curt reply.    The lovers parted
with a long embrace. "You are not going, too?" said the Duchess, as
she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him. "As far as
the canon," he replied. He turned suddenly and kissed the Duchess,
leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling limbs rigid with
amazement.

Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the
whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some one
had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days
longer. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.

The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other's
faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke, but Piney, accepting the
position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the
Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That
night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the
protecting vines, invaded the very hut.

Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which
gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept
closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: "Piney, can you
pray?" "No, dear," said Piney simply. The Duchess, without knowing
exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's
shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer
pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they
fell asleep.

The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of
snow, shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white winged birds,
and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted
clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain,
all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle
mercifully flung from above.

They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken  when voices
and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers
brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told
from the equal peace that dwelt upon them which was she that had
sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away,
leaving them still locked in each other's arms.

But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, they
found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife. It
bore the following, written in pencil in a firm hand:--

  BENEATH THIS TREE LIES THE BODY OF JOHN OAKHURST, WHO STRUCK A
  STREAK OF BAD LUCK ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER 1850. AND HANDED IN HIS
  CHECKS ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850.

And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in
his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who
was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker
Flat.




MIGGLES


We were eight including the driver. We had not spoken during the
passage of the last six miles, since the jolting of the heavy vehicle
over the roughening road had spoiled the Judge's last poetical
quotation. The tall man beside the Judge was asleep, his arm passed
through the swaying strap and his head resting upon it,--altogether a
limp, helpless looking object, as if he had hanged himself and been cut
down too late. The French lady on the back seat was asleep too, yet in
a half-conscious propriety of attitude, shown even in the disposition
of the handkerchief which she held to her forehead and which partially
veiled her face. The lady from Virginia City, traveling with her
husband, had long since lost all individuality in a wild confusion of
ribbons, veils, furs, and shawls. There was no sound but the rattling
of wheels and the dash of rain upon the roof. Suddenly the stage
stopped and we became dimly aware of voices. The driver was evidently
in the midst of an exciting colloquy with some one in the road,--a
colloquy of which such fragments as "bridge gone," "twenty feet of
water," "can't pass," were occasionally distinguishable above the
storm. Then came a lull, and a mysterious voice from the road shouted
the parting adjuration--

"Try Miggles's."

We caught a glimpse of our leaders as the vehicle slowly turned, of a
horseman vanishing through the rain, and we were evidently on our way
to Miggles's.

Who and where was Miggles? The Judge, our authority, did not remember
the name,  and he knew the country thoroughly. The Washoe traveler
thought Miggles must keep a hotel. We only knew that we were stopped
by high water in front and rear, and that Miggles was our rock of
refuge. A ten minutes' splashing through a tangled byroad, scarcely
wide enough for the stage, and we drew up before a barred and boarded
gate in a wide stone wall or fence about eight feet high. Evidently
Miggles's, and evidently Miggles did not keep a hotel.

The driver got down and tried the gate. It was securely locked.

"Miggles! O Miggles!"

No answer.

"Migg-ells! You Miggles!" continued the driver, with rising wrath.

"Migglesy!" joined in the expressman persuasively. "O Miggy! Mig!"

But no reply came from the apparently insensate Miggles. The Judge,
who had finally got the window down, put his head out and propounded a
series of questions, which if answered categorically would have
undoubtedly elucidated the whole mystery, but which the driver evaded
by replying that "if we didn't want to sit in the coach all night we
had better rise up and sing out for Miggles."

So we rose up and called on Miggles in chorus, then separately. And
when we had finished, a Hibernian fellow passenger from the roof
called for "Maygells!" whereat we all laughed. While we were laughing
the driver cried, "Shoo!"

We listened. To our infinite amazement the chorus of "Miggles" was
repeated from the other side of the wall, even to the final and
supplemental "Maygells."

"Extraordinary echo!" said the Judge.

"Extraordinary d--d skunk!" roared the driver  contemptuously. "Come
out of that, Miggles, and show yourself! Be a man, Miggles! Don't hide
in the dark; I wouldn't if I were you, Miggles," continued Yuba Bill,
now dancing about in an excess of fury.

"Miggles!" continued the voice, "O Miggles!"

"My good man! Mr. Myghail!" said the Judge, softening the asperities
of the name as much as possible. "Consider the inhospitality of
refusing shelter from the inclemency of the weather to helpless
females. Really, my dear sir"--But a succession of "Miggles," ending
in a burst of laughter, drowned his voice.

Yuba Bill hesitated no longer. Taking a heavy stone from the road, he
battered down the gate, and with the expressman entered the inclosure.
We followed. Nobody was to be seen. In the gathering darkness all that
we could distinguish was that we were in a garden--from the rose
bushes that scattered over us a minute spray from  their dripping
leaves--and before a long, rambling wooden building.

"Do you know this Miggles?" asked the Judge of Yuba  Bill.

"No, nor don't want to," said Bill shortly, who felt the Pioneer Stage
Company insulted in his person by the  contumacious Miggles.

"But, my dear sir," expostulated the Judge, as he thought of the
barred gate.

"Lookee here," said Yuba Bill, with fine irony, "hadn't you better go
back and sit in the coach till yer introduced? I'm going in," and he
pushed open the door of the building.

A long room, lighted only by the embers of a fire that  was dying on
the large hearth at its farther extremity; the walls curiously
papered, and the flickering firelight bringing out its grotesque
pattern; someone sitting in a large armchair by the fireplace. All
this we saw as we crowded together into the room after the driver and
expressman.   "Hello! be you Miggles?" said Yuba Bill to the solitary
occupant.

The figure neither spoke nor stirred. Yuba Bill walked wrathfully
toward it and turned the eye of his coach-lantern upon its face. It
was a man's face, prematurely old and wrinkled, with very large eyes,
in which there was that expression of perfectly gratuitous solemnity
which I had sometimes seen in an owl's. The large eyes wandered from
Bill's face to the lantern, and finally fixed their gaze on that
luminous object without further recognition.

Bill restrained himself with an effort.

"Miggles! be you deaf? You ain't dumb anyhow, you know," and Yuba Bill
shook the insensate figure by the shoulder.

To our great dismay, as Bill removed his hand, the venerable stranger
apparently collapsed, sinking into half his size and an
undistinguishable heap of clothing.

"Well, dern my skin," said Bill, looking appealingly at us, and
hopelessly retiring from the contest.

The Judge now stepped forward, and we lifted the mysterious
invertebrate back into his original position. Bill was dismissed with
the lantern to reconnoitre outside, for it was evident that, from the
helplessness of this solitary man? there must be attendants near at
hand, and we all drew around the fire. The Judge, who had regained his
authority, and had never lost his conversational amiability,--standing
before us with his back to the hearth,--charged us, as an imaginary
jury, as follows:--

"It is evident that either our distinguished friend here has reached
that condition described by Shakespeare as 'the sere and yellow leaf,'
or has suffered some premature abatement of his mental and physical
faculties. Whether he is really the Miggles"--

Here he was interrupted by "Miggles! O Miggles! Migglesy! Mig!" and,
in fact, the whole chorus of Miggles in very much the same  key as it
had once before been delivered unto us.

We gazed at each other for a moment in some alarm. The Judge, in
particular, vacated his position quickly, as the voice seemed to come
directly over his shoulder. The cause, however, was soon discovered in
a large magpie who was perched upon a shelf over the fireplace, and
who immediately relapsed into a sepulchral silence, which contrasted
singularly with his previous volubility. It was, undoubtedly, his
voice which we had heard in the road, and our friend in the chair was
not responsible for the discourtesy. Yuba Bill, who reentered the room
after an unsuccessful search, was both to accept the explanation, and
still eyed the helpless sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed in
which he had put up his horses, but he came back dripping and
skeptical. "Thar ain't nobody but him within ten mile of the shanty,
and that ar d--d old skeesicks knows it."

But the faith of the majority proved to be securely based. Bill had
scarcely ceased growling before we heard a quick step upon the porch,
the trailing of a wet skirt, the door was flung open, and with a flash
of white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and an utter absence of
ceremony or diffidence, a young woman entered, shut the door, and,
panting, leaned back against it.

"Oh, if you please, I'm Miggles!"

And this was Miggles! this bright-eyed, full-throated young woman,
whose wet gown of coarse blue stuff could not hide the beauty of the
feminine curves to which it clung; from the chestnut crown of whose
head, topped by a man's oil-skin sou'wester, to the little feet and
ankles, hidden somewhere in the recesses of her boy's brogans, all was
grace,--this was Miggles, laughing at us, too, in the most airy,
frank, off-hand manner imaginable.

"You see, boys," said she, quite out of breath, and holding one little
hand against her side, quite unheeding  the speechless discomfiture of
our party or the complete demoralization of Yuba Bill, whose features
had relaxed into an expression of gratuitous and imbecile
cheerfulness,--"you see, boys, I was mor'n two miles away when you
passed down the road. I thought you might pull up here, and so I ran
the whole way, knowing nobody was home but Jim,--and--and--I'm out of
breath--and--that lets me out." And here Miggles caught her dripping
oilskin hat from her head, with a mischievous swirl that scattered a
shower of raindrops over us; attempted to put back her hair; dropped
two hairpins in the attempt; laughed, and sat down beside Yuba Bill,
with her hands crossed lightly on her lap.

The Judge recovered himself first and essayed an extravagant
compliment.

"I'll trouble you for that ha'rpin," said Miggles gravely. Half a
dozen hands were eagerly stretched forward; the missing hairpin was
restored to its fair owner; and Miggles, crossing the room, looked
keenly in the face of the invalid. The solemn eyes looked back at hers
with an expression we had never seen before. Life and intelligence
seemed to struggle back into the rugged face. Miggles laughed again,--
it was a singularly eloquent laugh,--and turned her black eyes and
white teeth once more towards us.

"This afflicted person is"--hesitated the Judge.

"Jim!" said Miggles.

"Your father?"

"No!"

"Brother?"

"No?"

"Husband?"

Miggles darted a quick, half-defiant glance at the two lady
passengers, who I had noticed did not participate in the general
masculine admiration of Miggles, and said gravely, "No; it's Jim!"
There was an awkward pause. The lady passengers moved closer to each
other; the Washoe husband looked abstractedly at the fire, and the
tall man apparently turned his eyes inward for self-support at this
emergency. But Miggles's laugh, which was very infectious, broke the
silence.

"Come," she said briskly, "you must be hungry. Who'll bear a hand to
help me get tea?"

She had no lack of volunteers. In a few moments Yuba Bill was engaged
like Caliban in bearing logs for this Miranda;  the expressman was
grinding coffee on the veranda; to myself the arduous duty of slicing
bacon was assigned; and the Judge lent each man his good-humored and
voluble counsel. And when Miggles, assisted by the Judge and our
Hibernian "deck-passenger," set the table with all the available
crockery, we had become quite joyous, in spite of the rain that beat
against the windows, the wind that whirled down the chimney, the two
ladies who whispered together in the corner, or the magpie, who
uttered a satirical and croaking commentary on their conversation from
his perch above. In the now bright, blazing fire we could see that the
walls were papered with illustrated journals, arranged with feminine
taste and discrimination. The furniture was extemporized and adapted
from candle-boxes and packing-cases, and covered with gay calico or
the skin of some animal. The armchair of the helpless Jim was an
ingenious variation of a flour-barrel. There was neatness, and even a
taste for the picturesque, to be seen in the few details of the long,
low room.

The meal was a culinary success. But more, it was a social triumph,--
chiefly, I think, owing to the rare tact of Miggles in guiding the
conversation, asking all the questions herself, yet bearing throughout
a frankness that rejected the idea of any concealment on her own part,
so that we talked of ourselves, of our prospects, of the journey, of
the weather, of each other,--of everything but our host and hostess.
It must be confessed that Miggles's conversation was never elegant,
rarely grammatical, and that at times she employed expletives the use
of which had generally been yielded to our sex. But they were
delivered with such a lighting up of teeth and eyes, and  were usually
followed by a laugh--a laugh peculiar to Miggles--so frank and honest
that it seemed to clear the moral atmosphere.

Once during the meal we heard a noise like the rubbing of a heavy body
against the outer walls of the house. This was shortly followed by a
scratching and sniffling at the door. "That's Joaquin," said Miggles,
in reply to our questioning glances; "would you like to see him?"
Before we could answer she had opened the door, and disclosed a half-
grown grizzly, who instantly raised himself on his haunches, with his
fore paws hanging down in the popular attitude of mendicancy, and
looked admiringly at Miggles, with a very singular resemblance in his
manner to Yuba Bill. "That's my watch-dog," said Miggles, in
explanation. "Oh, he don't bite," she added, as the two lady
passengers fluttered into a corner. "Does he, old Toppy?" (the latter
remark being addressed directly to the sagacious Joaquin). "I tell you
what, boys," continued Miggles, after she had fed and closed the door
on Ursa Minor, "you were in big luck that Joaquin wasn't hanging round
when you dropped in to-night."

"Where was he?" asked the Judge.

"With me," said Miggles. "Lord love you! he trots round with me nights
like as if he was a man."

We were silent for a few moments, and listened to the wind. Perhaps we
all had the same picture before us,--of Miggles walking through the
rainy woods with her savage guardian at her side. The Judge, I
remember, said something about Una and her lion; but Miggles received
it, as she did other compliments, with quiet gravity. Whether she was
altogether unconscious of the admiration  she excited,--she could
hardly have been oblivious of Yuba Bill's adoration,--I know not; but
her very frankness suggested a perfect sexual equality that was
cruelly humiliating to the younger members of our party.

The incident of the bear did not add anything in Miggles's favor to
the opinions of those of her own sex who were present. In fact, the
repast over, a chillness radiated from the two lady passengers that no
pine boughs brought in by Yuba Bill and cast as a sacrifice upon the
hearth could wholly overcome. Miggles felt it; and suddenly declaring
that it was time to "turn in," offered to show the ladies to their bed
in an adjoining room. "You, boys, will have to camp out here by the
fire as well as you can," she added, "for thar ain't but the one
room."

Our sex--by which, my dear sir, I allude of course to the stronger
portion of humanity--has been generally relieved from the imputation
of curiosity or a fondness for gossip. Yet I am constrained to say,
that hardly had the door closed on Miggles than we crowded together,
whispering, snickering, smiling, and exchanging suspicions, surmises,
and a thousand speculations in regard to our pretty hostess and her
singular companion. I fear that we even hustled that imbecile
paralytic, who sat like a voiceless Memnon in our midst, gazing with
the serene indifference of the Past in his passionless eyes upon our
wordy counsels. In the midst of an exciting discussion the door opened
again and Miggles reentered.

But not, apparently, the same Miggles who a few hours before had
flashed upon us. Her eyes were downcast, and as she hesitated for a
moment on the threshold, with a blanket on her arm, she seemed to have
left behind her the frank fearlessness which had charmed us a moment
before. Coming into the room, she drew a low stool beside the
paralytic's chair, sat down, drew the blanket over her shoulders, and
saying, "If it's all the same to you, boys,  as we're rather crowded,
I'll stop here to-night, "took the invalid's withered hand in her
own, and turned her eyes upon the dying fire. An instinctive feeling
that this was only premonitory to more confidential relations, and
perhaps some shame at our previous curiosity, kept us silent. The rain
still heat upon the roof, wandering gusts of wind stirred the embers
into momentary brightness, until, in a lull of the elements, Miggles
suddenly lifted up her head, and, throwing her hair over her shoulder,
turned her face upon the group and asked,--

"Is there any of you that knows me?"

There was no reply.

"Think again! I lived at Marysville in '53. Everybody knew me there,
and everybody had the right to know me. I kept the Polka Saloon until
I came to live with Jim. That's six years ago. Perhaps I've changed
some."

The absence of recognition may have disconcerted her. She turned her
head to the fire again, and it was some seconds before she again
spoke, and then more rapidly--

"Well, you see I thought some of you must have known me. There's no
great harm done anyway. What I was going to say was this: Jim here"--
she took his hand in both of hers as she spoke--"used to know me, if
you didn't, and spent a heap of money upon me. I reckon he spent all
he had. And one day--it's six years ago this winter--Jim came into my
back room, sat down on my sofy, like as you see him in that chair, and
never moved again without help. He was struck all of a heap, and never
seemed to know what ailed him. The doctors came and said as how it was
caused all along of his way of life,--for Jim was mighty free and
wild-like,--and that he would never get better, and couldn't last long
anyway. They advised me to send him to Frisco to the hospital, for he
was no good to any one and would be a baby all his  life. Perhaps it
was something in Jim's eye, perhaps it was that I never had a baby,
but I said 'No.' I was rich then, for I was popular with everybody,--
gentlemen like yourself, sir, came to see me,--and I sold out my
business and bought this yer place, because it was sort of out of the
way of travel, you see, and I brought my baby here."

With a woman's intuitive tact and poetry, she had, as she spoke,
slowly shifted her position so as to bring the mute figure of the
ruined man between her and her audience, hiding in the shadow behind
it, as if she offered it as a tacit apology for her actions. Silent
and expressionless, it yet spoke for her; helpless, crushed, and
smitten with the Divine thunderbolt, it still stretched an invisible
arm around her.

Hidden in the darkness, but still holding his hand, she went on:--

"It was a long time before I could get the hang of things about yer,
for I was used to company and excitement. I couldn't get any woman to
help me, and a man I dursn't trust; but what with the Indians
hereabout, who'd do odd jobs for me, and having everything sent from
the North Fork, Jim and I managed to worry through. The Doctor would
run up from Sacramento once in a while. He'd ask to see 'Miggles's
baby' as he called Jim, and when he'd go away, he'd say, 'Miggles,
you're a trump,--God bless you,' and it didn't seem so lonely after
that. But the last time he was here he said, as he opened the door to
go, 'Do you know, Miggles, your baby will grow up to be a man yet and
an honor to his mother; but not here, Miggles, not here!' And I
thought he went away sad,--and--and"--and here Miggles's voice and
head were somehow both lost completely in the shadow.

"The folks about here are very kind," said Miggles, after a pause,
coming a little into the light again. "The men from the Fork used to
hang around here, until they found  they wasn't wanted, and the women
are kind, and don't call. I was pretty lonely until I picked up
Joaquin in the woods yonder one day, when he wasn't so high, and
taught him to beg for his dinner; and then thar's Polly--that's the
magpie--she knows no end of tricks, and makes it quite sociable of
evenings with her talk, and so I don't feel like as I was the only
living being about the ranch. And Jim here," said Miggles, with her
old laugh again, and coming out quite into the firelight,--"Jim--Why,
boys, you would admire to see how much he knows for a man like him.
Sometimes I bring him flowers, and he looks at 'em just as natural as
if he knew 'em; and times, when we're sitting alone, I read him those
things on the wall. Why, Lord!" said Miggles, with her frank laugh,
"I've read him that whole side of the house this winter. There never
was such a man for reading as Jim."

"Why," asked the Judge, "do you not marry this man to whom you have
devoted your youthful life?"

"Well, you see," said Miggles, "it would be playing it rather low down
on Jim to take advantage of his being so helpless. And then, too, if
we were man and wife, now, we'd both know that I was _bound_ to do what
I do now of my own accord."

"But you are young yet and attractive"--

"It's getting late," said Miggles gravely, "and you'd better all turn
in. Good-night, boys;" and throwing the blanket over her head,
Miggles laid herself down beside Jim's chair, her head pillowed on the
low stool that held his feet, and spoke no more. The fire slowly faded
from the hearth; we each sought our blankets in silence; and presently
there was no sound in the long room but the  pattering of the rain
upon the roof and the heavy breathing of the sleepers.

It was nearly morning when I awoke from a troubled dream. The storm
had passed, the stars were shining, and through the shutterless window
the full moon, lifting itself over the solemn pines without, looked
into the room. It touched the lonely figure in the chair with an
infinite  compassion, and seemed to baptize with a shining flood the
lowly head of the woman whose hair, as in the sweet old story, bathed
the feet of him she loved. It even lent a kindly poetry to the rugged
outline of Yuba Bill, half reclining on his elbow between them and his
passengers, with savagely patient eyes keeping watch and ward. And
then I fell asleep and only woke at broad day, with Yuba Bill standing
over me, and "All aboard" ringing in my ears.

Coffee was waiting for us on the table, but Miggles was gone. We
wandered about the house and lingered long after the horses were
harnessed, but she did not return. It was evident that she wished to
avoid a formal leave-taking, and had so left us to depart as we had
come. After we had helped the ladies into the coach, we returned to
the house and solemnly shook hands with the paralytic Jim, as solemnly
setting him back into position after each  handshake. Then we looked
for the last time around the long low room, at the stool where Miggles
had sat, and slowly took our seats in the waiting coach. The whip
cracked, and we were off!

But as we reached the highroad, Bill's dexterous hand laid the six
horses back on their haunches, and the stage stopped with a jerk. For
there, on a little eminence beside the road, stood Miggles, her hair
flying, her eyes sparkling, her white handkerchief waving, and her
white teeth flashing a last "good-by." We waved our hats in return.
And then Yuba Bill, as if fearful of further fascination, madly lashed
his horses forward, and we sank back in our seats.

We exchanged not a word until we reached the North Fork and the stage
drew up at the Independence House. Then,  the Judge leading, we walked
into the bar-room and took our places gravely at the bar.

"Are your glasses charged, gentlemen?" said the Judge, solemnly taking
off his  white hat.

They were.

"Well, then, here's to _Miggles_--GOD BLESS HER!"

Perhaps He had. Who knows?




TENNESSEE'S PARTNER


I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it
certainly never gave us any social  inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in
1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were
derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of
"Dungaree Jack;" or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in
"Saleratus Bill," so called from an undue proportion of that chemical
in his daily bread; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The
Iron Pirate," a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title
by his unfortunate  mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites."
Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am
constrained to think that it was because a man's real name in that day
rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. "Call yourself
Clifford, do you?" said Boston, addressing a timid newcomer with
infinite scorn; "hell is full of such Cliffords!" He then introduced
the unfortunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, as
"Jaybird Charley,"--an unhallowed inspiration of the moment that clung
to him ever after.

But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew by any other
than this relative title. That he had ever existed as a separate and
distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he
left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife.
He never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted
by a young person who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took
his meals. One morning he said  something to her which caused her to
smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast
over his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the
kitchen. He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered
with more toast and victory. That day week they were married by a
justice of the peace, and returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that
something more might be made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it
as it was current at Sandy Bar,--in the gulches and bar-rooms,--where
all sentiment was modified by a strong sense of humor.

Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for the reason
that Tennessee, then living with his partner, one day took occasion to
say something to the bride on his own account, at which, it is said,
she smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated,--this time as far as
Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to
housekeeping without the aid of a justice of the peace. Tennessee's
Partner took the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was his
fashion. But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee one day returned
from Marysville, without his partner's wife,--she having smiled and
retreated with somebody else,--Tennessee's Partner was the first man
to shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who had
gathered in the canon to see the shooting were naturally indignant.
Their indignation might have found vent in sarcasm but for a certain
look in Tennessee's Partner's eye that indicated a lack of humorous
appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application
to practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty.

Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown up on the Bar.
He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In these
suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally compromised; his continued
intimacy with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be
accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership  of crime. At last
Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he overtook a stranger on
his way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that Tennessee
beguiled the time with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but
illogically concluded the interview in the following words: "And now,
young man, I'll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and your
money. You see your weppings might get you into trouble at Red Dog,
and your money's a temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said
your address was San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call." It may be
stated here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business
preoccupation could wholly subdue.

This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar made common cause
against the highwayman. Tennessee was hunted in very much the same
fashion as his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed around him,
he made a desperate dash through the Bar, emptying his revolver at the
crowd before the Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Canon; but at its
farther extremity he was stopped by a small man on a gray horse. The
men looked at each other a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both
self-possessed and independent, and both types of a civilization that
in the seventeenth century would have been called heroic, but in the
nineteenth simply "reckless."

"What have you got there?--I call," said Tennessee quietly.

"Two bowers and an ace," said the stranger as quietly, showing two
revolvers and a bowie-knife.

"That takes me," returned Tennessee; and, with this gambler's epigram,
he threw away his useless pistol and rode back with his captor.

It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually sprang up with the
going down of the sun behind the chaparral-crested mountain was that
evening withheld from    Sandy Bar. The little canon was stifling with
heated resinous odors, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar sent
forth faint sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day and its
fierce passions still filled the camp. Lights moved restlessly along
the bank of the river, striking no answering reflection from its tawny
current. Against the blackness of the pines the windows of the old
loft above the express-office stood out staringly bright; and through
their curtainless panes the loungers below could see the forms of
those who were even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. And above all
this, etched on the dark firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and
passionless, crowned with remoter passionless stars.

The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was consistent with
a judge and jury who felt themselves to some extent obliged to
justify, in their verdict, the previous irregularities of arrest and
indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was implacable, but not vengeful. The
excitement and personal feeling of the chase were over; with Tennessee
safe in their hands, they were ready to listen patiently to any
defense, which they were already satisfied was insufficient. There
being no doubt in their own minds, they were willing to give the
prisoner the benefit of any that might exist. Secure in the hypothesis
that he ought to be hanged on general principles, they indulged him
with more latitude of defense than his reckless hardihood seemed to
ask. The Judge appeared to be more anxious than the prisoner, who,
otherwise unconcerned, evidently took a grim pleasure in the
responsibility he had created. "I don't take any hand in this yer
game," had been his invariable but good-humored reply to all
questions. The Judge--who was also his captor--for a moment vaguely
regretted that he had not shot him "on sight" that morning, but
presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy of the judicial
mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at  the door, and it was said
that Tennessee's Partner was there on behalf of the prisoner, he was
admitted at once without question. Perhaps the younger members of the
jury, to whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely thoughtful,
hailed him as a relief.

For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and stout, with a
square face, sunburned into a preternatural redness, clad in a loose
duck "jumper" and trousers streaked and splashed with red soil, his
aspect under any circumstances would have been quaint, and was now
even ridiculous. As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy
carpetbag he was carrying, it became obvious, from partially developed
legends and inscriptions, that the material with which his trousers
had been patched had been originally intended for a less ambitious
covering. Yet he advanced with great gravity, and after shaking the
hand of each person in the room with labored cordiality, he wiped his
serious perplexed face on a red bandana handkerchief, a shade lighter
than his complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table to steady
himself, and thus addressed the Judge:--

"I was passin' by," he began, by way of apology, "and I thought I'd
just step in and see how things was gittin' on with Tennessee thar,--
my pardner. It's a hot night. I disremember any sich weather before on
the Bar."

He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other meteorological
recollection, he again had recourse to his pocket-handkerchief, and
for some moments mopped his face diligently.

"Have you anything to say on behalf of the prisoner?" said the Judge
finally.

"Thet's it," said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of relief. "I come
yar as Tennessee's pardner,--knowing him nigh on four year, off and
on, wet and dry, in luck and out o' luck. His ways ain't aller my
ways, but thar ain't any p'ints in that young man, thar ain't any
liveliness as he's  been up to, as I don't know. And you sez to me,
sez you,--confidential-like, and between man and man,--sez you, 'Do
you know anything in his behalf?' and I sez to you, sez I,--
confidential-like, as between man and man,--'What should a man know of
his pardner?'"

"Is this all you have to say?" asked the Judge impatiently, feeling,
perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of humor was beginning to humanize
the court.

"Thet's so," continued Tennessee's Partner." It ain't for me to say
anything agin' him. And now, what's the case? Here's Tennessee wants
money, wants it bad, and doesn't like to ask it of his old pardner.
Well, what does Tennessee do? He lays for a stranger, and he fetches
that stranger; and you lays for _him_, and you fetches _him_; and the
honors is easy. And I put it to you, bein' a fa'r-minded man, and to
you, gentlemen all, as fa'r-minded men, ef this isn't so."

"Prisoner," said the Judge, interrupting, "have you any questions to
ask this man?"

"No! no!" continued Tennessee's Partner hastily. "I play this yer hand
alone. To come down to the bed-rock, it's just this: Tennessee, thar,
has played it pretty rough and expensive-like on a stranger, and on
this yer camp. And now, what's the fair thing? Some would say more,
some would say less. Here's seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold
and a watch,--it's about all my pile,--and call it square!" And before
a hand could be raised to prevent him, he had emptied the contents of
the carpetbag upon the table.

For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men sprang to their
feet, several hands groped for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to
"throw him from the window"  was only overridden by a gesture from the
Judge. Tennessee laughed. And apparently oblivious of the excitement,
Tennessee's Partner improved the opportunity to mop his face again
with his handkerchief.   When order was restored, and the man was made
to understand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, that
Tennessee's offense could not be condoned by money, his face took a
more serious and sanguinary hue, and those who were nearest to him
noticed that his rough hand trembled slightly on the table. He
hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the gold to the carpetbag, as
if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated sense of justice which
swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the belief that he had not
offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, and saying, "This yer is
a lone hand, played alone, and without my pardner," he bowed to the
jury and was about to withdraw, when the Judge called him back:--

"If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better say it now."

For the first time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and his
strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed his white teeth, and
saying, "Euchred, old man!" held out his hand. Tennessee's Partner
took it in his own, and saying, "I just dropped in as I was passin' to
see how things was gettin' on," let the hand passively fall, and
adding that "it was a warm night," again mopped his face with his
handkerchief, and without another word withdrew.

The two men never again met each other alive. For the unparalleled
insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch--who, whether bigoted, weak,
or narrow, was at least incorruptible--firmly fixed in the mind of
that mythical personage any wavering determination of Tennessee's
fate; and at the break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to meet
it at the top of Marley's Hill.

How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say anything, how
perfect were the arrangements of the committee, were all duly
reported, with the addition of a warning moral and example to all
future evil-doers, in the "Red Dog Clarion," by its editor, who was
present, and to whose vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader.
But the  beauty of that midsummer morning, the blessed amity of earth
and air and sky, the awakened life of the free woods and hills, the
joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and above all, the infinite
serenity that thrilled through each, was not reported, as not being a
part of the social lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was
done, and a life, with its possibilities and responsibilities, had
passed out of the misshapen thing that dangled between earth and sky,
the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as
before; and possibly the "Red Dog Clarion" was right.

Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that surrounded the ominous
tree. But as they turned to disperse, attention was drawn to the
singular appearance of a motionless donkey-cart halted at the side of
the road. As they approached, they at once recognized the venerable
"Jenny" and the two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee's
Partner, used by him in carrying dirt from his claim; and a few paces
distant the owner of the equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye-
tree, wiping the perspiration from his glowing face. In answer to an
inquiry, he said he had come for the body of the "diseased," "if it
was all the same to the committee." He didn't wish to "hurry
anything;"  he could "wait." He was not working that day; and when the
gentlemen were done with the "diseased," he would take him. "Ef thar
is any present," he added, in his simple, serious way, "as would care
to jine in the fun'l, they kin come." Perhaps it was from a sense of
humor, which I have already intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar,--
perhaps it was from something even better than that, but two thirds of
the loungers accepted the invitation at once.

It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered into the hands of
his partner. As the cart drew up to the fatal tree, we noticed that it
contained a rough oblong box,--apparently made from a section of
sluicing,--and half filled with bark and the tassels of pine. The cart
was further decorated with slips of willow and made fragrant with
buckeye-blossoms. When the body was deposited in the box, Tennessee's
Partner drew over it a piece of tarred canvas, and gravely mounting
the narrow seat in front, with his feet upon the shafts, urged the
little donkey forward. The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous
pace which was habitual with Jenny even under less solemn
circumstances. The men--half curiously, half jestingly, but all good-
humoredly--strolled along beside the cart, some in advance, some a
little in the rear of the homely catafalque. But whether from the
narrowing of the road or some present sense of decorum, as the cart
passed on, the company fell to the rear in couples, keeping step, and
otherwise assuming the external show of a formal procession. Jack
Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral march in dumb show
upon an imaginary trombone, desisted from a lack of sympathy and
appreciation,--not having, perhaps, your true humorist's capacity to
be content with the enjoyment of his own fun.

The way led through Grizzly Canon, by this time clothed in funereal
drapery and shadows. The redwoods, burying their moccasined feet in
the red soil, stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an
uncouth benediction from their bending boughs upon the passing bier. A
hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating in
the ferns by the roadside as the cortege went by. Squirrels hastened
to gain a secure outlook from higher boughs; and the blue-jays,
spreading their wings, fluttered before them like outriders, until the
outskirts of Sandy Bar were reached, and the solitary cabin of
Tennessee's Partner.

Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it would not have been a
cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, the rude and unlovely
outlines, the unsavory details, which  distinguish the nest-building
of the California miner, were all here with the dreariness of decay
superadded. A few paces from the cabin there was a rough inclosure,
which, in the brief days of Tennessee's Partner's matrimonial
felicity, had been used as a garden, but was now overgrown with fern.
As we approached it, we were surprised to find that what we had taken
for a recent attempt at cultivation was the broken soil about an open
grave.

The cart was halted before the inclosure, and rejecting the offers of
assistance with the same air of simple self-reliance he had displayed
throughout, Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough coffin on his back,
and deposited it unaided within the shallow grave. He then nailed down
the board which served as a lid, and mounting the little mound of
earth beside it, took off his hat and slowly mopped his face with his
handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech, and
they disposed themselves variously on stumps and boulders, and sat
expectant.

"When a man," began Tennessee's Partner slowly," has been running free
all day, what's the natural thing for him to do? Why, to come home.
And if he ain't in a condition to go home, what can his best friend
do? Why, bring him home. And here's Tennessee has been running free,
and we brings him home from his wandering. "He paused and picked up a
fragment of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and went on:
"It ain't the first time that I've packed him on my back, as you see'd
me now. It ain't the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin
when he couldn't help himself; it ain't the first time that I and
Jinny have waited for him on yon hill, and picked him up and so
fetched him home, when he couldn't speak and didn't know me. And now
that it's the last time, why"--he paused and rubbed the quartz gently
on his sleeve--"you see it's sort of rough on his pardner. And  now,
gentlemen" he added abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, "the
fun'l's over; and my thanks, and Tennessee's thanks, to you for your
trouble."

Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave,
turning his back upon the crowd, that after a few moments' hesitation
gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy
Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee's
Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his
knees, and his face buried in his red bandana handkerchief. But it was
argued by others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief
at that distance, and this point remained undecided.

In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day,
Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had
cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a
suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on
him, and proffering various uncouth but well-meant kindnesses. But
from that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to
decline; and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-
blades were beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's
grave, he took to his bed.

One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in the storm
and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the roar and
rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's Partner lifted
his head from the pillow, saying, "It is time to go for Tennessee; I
must put Jinny in the cart;" and would have risen from his bed but for
the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his
singular fancy: "There, now, steady, Jinny,--steady, old girl. How
dark it is! Look out for the ruts,--and look out for him, too, old
gal. Sometimes, you know, when he's blind drunk, he drops down right
in the trail. Keep on  straight up to the pine on the top of the hill.
Thar! I told you so!--thar he is,--coming this way, too,--all by
himself, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!"

And so they met.




THE IDYL OF BED GULCH


Sandy was very drunk. He was lying under an azalea-bush, in pretty
much the same attitude in which he had fallen some hours before. How
long he had been lying there he could not tell, and didn't care; how
long he should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and
unconsidered. A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition,
suffused and saturated his moral being.

The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken man in particular,
was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient novelty in Red Gulch to
attract attention. Earlier in the day some local satirist had erected
a temporary tombstone at Sandy's head, bearing the inscription,
"Effects of McCorkle's whiskey--kills at forty rods," with a hand
pointing to McCorkle's saloon. But this, I imagine, was, like most
local satire, personal; and was a reflection upon the unfairness of
the process rather than a commentary upon the impropriety of the
result. With this facetious exception, Sandy had been undisturbed. A
wandering mule, released from his pack, had cropped the scant herbage
beside him, and sniffed curiously at the prostrate man; a vagabond
dog, with that deep sympathy which the species have for drunken men,
had licked his dusty boots and curled himself up at his feet, and lay
there, blinking one eye in the sunlight, with a simulation of
dissipation that was ingenious and dog-like in its implied flattery of
the unconscious man beside him.

Meanwhile the shadows of the pine-trees had slowly swung around until
they crossed the road, and their trunks  barred the open meadow with
gigantic parallels of black and yellow. Little puffs of red dust,
lifted by the plunging hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy
shower upon the recumbent man. The sun sank lower and lower, and still
Sandy stirred not. And then the repose of this philosopher was
disturbed, as other philosophers have been, by the intrusion of an
unphilosophical sex.

"Miss Mary," as she was known to the little flock that she had just
dismissed from the log schoolhouse beyond the pines, was taking her
afternoon walk. Observing an unusually fine cluster of blossoms on the
azalea-bush opposite, she crossed the road to pluck it, picking her
way through the red dust, not without certain fierce little shivers of
disgust and some feline circumlocution. And then she came suddenly
upon Sandy!

Of course she uttered the little staccato cry of her sex. But when she
had paid that tribute to her physical weakness she became overbold and
halted for a moment,--at least six feet from this prostrate monster,
--with her white skirts gathered in her hand, ready for flight. But
neither sound nor motion came from the bush. With one little foot she
then overturned the satirical headboard, and muttered "Beasts!"--an
epithet which probably, at that moment, conveniently classified in her
mind the entire male population of Red Gulch. For Miss Mary, being
possessed of certain rigid notions of her own, had not, perhaps,
properly appreciated the demonstrative gallantry for which the
Californian has been so justly celebrated by his brother Californians,
and had, as a newcomer, perhaps fairly earned the reputation of being
"stuck up."

As she stood there she noticed, also, that the slant sunbeams were
heating Sandy's head to what she judged to be an unhealthy
temperature, and that his hat was lying uselessly at his side. To pick
it up and to place it over his face was a work requiring some courage,
particularly as  his eyes were open. Yet she did it and made good her
retreat. But she was somewhat concerned, on looking back, to see that
the hat was removed, and that Sandy was sitting up and saying
something.

The truth was, that in the calm depths of Sandy's mind he was
satisfied that the rays of the sun were beneficial and healthful; that
from childhood he had objected to lying down in a hat; that no people
but condemned fools, past redemption, ever wore hats; and that his
right to dispense, with them when he pleased was inalienable. This was
the statement of his inner consciousness. Unfortunately, its outward
expression was vague, being limited to a repetition of the following
formula: "Su'shine all ri'! Wasser maar, eh? Wass up, su'shine?"

Miss Mary stopped, and, taking fresh courage from her vantage of
distance, asked him if there was anything that he wanted.

"Wass up? Wasser maar?" continued Sandy, in a very high key.

"Get up, you horrid man!" said Miss Mary, now thoroughly incensed;
"get up and go home."

Sandy staggered to his feet. He was six feet high, and Miss Mary
trembled. He started forward a few paces and then stopped.

"Wass I go home for?" he suddenly asked, with great gravity.

"Go and take a bath," replied Miss Mary, eying his grimy person with
great disfavor.

To her infinite dismay, Sandy suddenly pulled off his coat and vest,
threw them on the ground, kicked off his boots, and, plunging wildly
forward, darted headlong over the hill in the direction of the river.

"Goodness heavens! the man will be drowned!" said Miss Mary; and then,
with feminine inconsistency, she ran back to the schoolhouse and
locked herself in.    That night, while seated at supper with her
hostess, the blacksmith's wife, it came to Miss Mary to ask, demurely,
if her husband ever got drunk. "Abner," responded Mrs. Stidger
reflectively,--"let's see! Abner hasn't been tight since last
'lection." Miss Mary would have liked to ask if he preferred lying in
the sun on these occasions, and if a cold bath would have hurt him;
but this would have involved an explanation, which she did not then
care to give. So she contented herself with opening her gray eyes
widely at the red-cheeked Mrs. Stidger,--a fine specimen of
Southwestern efflorescence,--and then dismissed the subject
altogether. The next day she wrote to her dearest friend in Boston: "I
think I find the intoxicated portion of this community the least
objectionable, I refer, my dear, to the men, of course. I do not know
anything that could make the women tolerable."

In less than a week Miss Mary had forgotten this episode, except that
her afternoon walks took thereafter, almost  unconsciously, another
direction. She noticed, however, that every morning a fresh cluster of
azalea blossoms appeared among the flowers on her desk. This was not
strange, as her little flock were aware of her fondness for flowers,
and invariably kept her desk bright with anemones, syringas, and
lupines; but, on questioning them, they one and all professed
ignorance of the azaleas. A few days later, Master Johnny Stidger,
whose desk was nearest to the window, was suddenly taken with spasms
of apparently gratuitous laughter, that threatened the discipline of
the school. All that Miss Mary could get from him was, that some one
had been "looking in the winder." Irate and indignant, she sallied
from her hive to do battle with the intruder. As she turned the corner
of the schoolhouse she came plump upon the quondam drunkard, now
perfectly sober, and inexpressibly sheepish and guilty-looking.

These facts Miss Mary was not slow to take a feminine  advantage of,
in her present humor. But it was somewhat confusing to observe, also,
that the beast, despite some faint signs of past dissipation, was
amiable-looking,--in fact, a kind of blond Samson, whose corn-colored
silken beard apparently had never yet known the touch of barber's
razor or Delilah's shears. So that the cutting speech which quivered
on her ready tongue died upon her lips, and she contented herself with
receiving his stammering apology with supercilious eyelids and the
gathered skirts of uncontamination. When she reentered the schoolroom,
her eyes fell upon the azaleas with a new sense of revelation; and
then she laughed, and the little people all laughed, and they were all
unconsciously very happy.

It was a hot day, and not long after this, that two short-legged boys
came to grief on the threshold of the school with a pail of water,
which they had laboriously brought from the spring, and that Miss Mary
compassionately seized the pail and started for the spring herself. At
the foot of the hill a shadow crossed her path, and a blue-shirted arm
dexterously but gently relieved her of her burden. Miss Mary was both
embarrassed and angry. "If you carried more of that for yourself," she
said spitefully to the blue arm, without deigning to raise her lashes
to its owner, "you'd do better." In the submissive silence that
followed she regretted the speech, and thanked him so sweetly at the
door that he stumbled. Which caused the children to laugh again,--a
laugh in which Miss Mary joined, until the color came faintly into her
pale cheek. The next day a barrel was mysteriously placed beside the
door, and as mysteriously filled with fresh spring-water every
morning.

Nor was this superior young person without other quiet attentions.
"Profane Bill," driver of the Slumgullion Stage, widely known in the
newspapers for his "gallantry"  in invariably offering the box-seat to
the fair sex, had  excepted Miss Mary from this attention, on the
ground that he had a habit of "cussin' on up grades," and gave her
half the coach to herself. Jack Hamlin, a gambler, having once
silently ridden with her in the same coach, afterward threw a decanter
at the head of a confederate for mentioning her name in a bar-room.
The over-dressed mother of a pupil whose paternity was doubtful had
often lingered near this astute Vestal's temple, never daring to enter
its sacred precincts, but content to worship the priestess from afar.

With such unconscious intervals the monotonous procession of blue
skies, glittering sunshine, brief twilights, and starlit nights passed
over Red Gulch. Miss Mary grew fond of walking in the sedate and
proper woods. Perhaps she believed, with Mrs. Stidger, that the
balsamic odors of the firs "did her chest good," for certainly her
slight cough was less frequent and her step was firmer; perhaps she
had learned the unending lesson which the patient pines are never
weary of repeating to heedful or listless ears. And so one day she
planned a picnic on Buckeye Hill, and took the children with her. Away
from the dusty road, the straggling shanties, the yellow ditches, the
clamor of restless engines, the cheap finery of shop-windows, the
deeper glitter of paint and colored glass, and the thin veneering
which barbarism takes upon itself in such localities, what infinite
relief was theirs! The last heap of ragged rock and clay passed, the
last unsightly chasm crossed,--how the waiting woods opened their long
files to receive them! How the children--perhaps because they had not
yet grown quite away from the breast of the bounteous Mother--threw
themselves face downward on her brown bosom with uncouth caresses,
filling the air with their laughter; and how Miss Mary herself--
felinely fastidious and intrenched as she was in the purity of
spotless skirts, collar, and cuffs--forgot all, and ran like a crested
quail at the  head of her brood, until, romping, laughing, and
panting, with a loosened braid of brown hair, a hat hanging by a
knotted ribbon from her throat, she came suddenly and violently, in
the heart of the forest, upon the luckless Sandy!

The explanations, apologies, and not overwise conversation that ensued
need not be indicated here. It would seem, however, that Miss Mary had
already established some acquaintance with this ex-drunkard. Enough
that he was soon accepted as one of the party; that the children, with
that quick intelligence which Providence gives the helpless,
recognized a friend, and played with his blond beard and long silken
mustache, and took other liberties,--as the helpless are apt to do.
And when he had built a fire against a tree, and had shown them other
mysteries of woodcraft, their admiration knew no bounds. At the close
of two such foolish, idle, happy hours he found himself lying at the
feet of the schoolmistress, gazing dreamily in her face as she sat
upon the sloping hillside weaving wreaths of laurel and syringa, in
very much the same attitude as he had lain when first they met. Nor
was the  similitude greatly forced. The weakness of an easy, sensuous
nature, that had found a dreamy exaltation in liquor, it is to be
feared was now finding an equal intoxication in love.

I think that Sandy was dimly conscious of this himself. I know that he
longed to be doing something,--slaying a grizzly, scalping a savage,
or sacrificing himself in some way for the sake of this sallow-faced,
gray-eyed schoolmistress. As I should like to present him in an heroic
attitude, I stay my hand with great difficulty at this moment, being
only withheld from introducing such an episode by a strong conviction
that it does not usually occur at such times. And I trust that my
fairest reader,  who remembers that, in a real crisis, it is always
some uninteresting stranger or  unromantic policeman, and not
Adolphus, who rescues, will forgive the omission.

So they sat there undisturbed,--the woodpeckers chattering overhead
and the voices of the children coming pleasantly from the hollow
below. What they said matters little. What they thought--which might
have been interesting--did not transpire. The woodpeckers only learned
how Miss Mary was an orphan; how she left her uncle's house to come to
California for the sake of health and independence; how Sandy was an
orphan too; how he came to California for excitement; how he had lived
a wild life, and how he was trying to reform; and other details,
which, from a woodpecker's view-point, undoubtedly must have seemed
stupid and a waste of time. But even in such trifles was the afternoon
spent; and when the children were again gathered, and Sandy, with a
delicacy which the schoolmistress well understood, took leave of them
quietly at the outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest
day of her weary life.

As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, the school term of Red
Gulch--to use a local euphuism--"dried up" also. In another day Miss
Mary would be free, and for a season, at least, Red Gulch would know
her no more. She was seated alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek
resting on her hand, her eyes half closed in one of those daydreams in
which Miss Mary, I fear, to the danger of school discipline, was
lately in the habit of indulging. Her lap was full of mosses, ferns,
and other woodland memories. She was so preoccupied with these and her
own thoughts that a gentle tapping at the door passed unheard, or
translated itself into the remembrance of far-off woodpeckers. When at
last it asserted itself more distinctly, she started up with a flushed
cheek and opened the door. On the threshold stood a woman, the self-
assertion and audacity of whose dress were in singular contrast to her
timid, irresolute bearing.    Miss Mary recognized at a glance the
dubious mother of her anonymous pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed,
perhaps she was only fastidious; but as she coldly invited her to
enter, she half unconsciously settled her white cuffs and collar, and
gathered closer her own chaste skirts. It was, perhaps, for this
reason that the embarrassed stranger, after a moment's hesitation,
left her gorgeous parasol open and sticking in the dust beside the
door, and then sat down at the farther end of a long bench. Her voice
was husky as she began,--

"I heerd tell that you were goin' down to the Bay tomorrow, and I
couldn't let you go until I came to thank you for your kindness to my
Tommy." Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy, and deserved more than
the poor attention she could give him.

"Thank you, miss; thank ye!" cried the stranger, brightening even
through the color which Red Gulch knew facetiously as her "war paint,"
and striving, in her embarrassment, to drag the long bench nearer the
schoolmistress. "I thank you, miss, for that; and if I am his mother,
there ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. And if I
ain't much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, angeler teacher
lives than he's got."

Miss Mary, sitting primly behind her desk, with a ruler over her
shoulder, opened her gray eyes widely at this, but said nothing.

"It ain't for you to be complimented by the like of me, I know," she
went on hurriedly. "It ain't for me to be comin' here, in broad day,
to do it, either; but I come to ask a favor,--not for me, miss,--not
for me, but for the darling boy."

Encouraged by a look in the young schoolmistress's eye, and putting
her lilac-gloved hands together, the fingers downward, between her
knees, she went on, in a low voice:--

"You see, miss, there's no one the boy has any claim on but me, and I
ain't the proper person to bring him up. I thought some, last year, of
sending him away to Frisco to school, but when they talked of bringing
a schoolma'am here, I waited till I saw you, and then I knew it was
all right, and I could keep my boy a little longer. And, oh! miss, he
loves you so much; and if you could hear him talk about you in his
pretty way, and if he could ask you what I ask you now, you couldn't
refuse him.

"It is natural," she went on rapidly, in a voice that trembled
strangely between pride and humility,--"it's natural that he should
take to you, miss, for his father, when I first knew him, was a
gentleman,--and the boy must forget me, sooner or later,--and so I
ain't a-goin' to cry about that. For I come to ask you to take my
Tommy,--God bless him for the bestest, sweetest boy that lives,--to--
to--take him with you."

She had risen and caught the young girl's hand in her own, and had
fallen on her knees beside her.

"I've money plenty, and it's all yours and his. Put him in some good
school, where you can go and see him, and help him to--to--to forget
his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will be
kindness to what he will learn with me. Only take him out of this
wicked life, this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You
will! I know you will,--won't you? You will,--you must not, you cannot
say no! You will make him as pure, as gentle as yourself; and when he
has grown-up, you will tell him his father's name,--the name that
hasn't passed my lips for years,--the name of Alexander Morton, whom
they call here Sandy! Miss Mary!--do not take your hand away! Miss
Mary, speak to me! You will take my boy? Do not put your face from me.
I know it ought not to look on such as me. Miss Mary!--my God, be
merciful!--she is leaving me!"   Miss Mary had risen, and, in the
gathering twilight, had felt her way to the open window. She stood
there, leaning against the casement, her eyes fixed on the last rosy
tints that were fading from the western sky. There was still some of
its light on her pure young forehead, on her white collar, on her
clasped white hands, but all fading slowly away. The suppliant had
dragged herself, still on her knees, beside her.

"I know it takes time to consider. I will wait here all night; but I
cannot go until you speak. Do not deny me now. You will!--I see it in
your sweet face,--such a face as I have seen in my dreams. I see it in
your eyes, Miss Mary!--you will take my boy!"

The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary's eyes with
something of its glory, flickered, and faded, and went out. The sun
had set on Red Gulch. In the twilight and silence Miss Mary's voice
sounded pleasantly.

"I will take the boy. Send him to me to-night."

The happy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary's skirts to her lips. She
would have buried her hot face in its virgin folds, but she dared not.
She rose to her feet.

"Does--this man--know of your intention?" asked Miss Mary suddenly.

"No, nor cares. He has never even seen the child to know it."

"Go to him at once--to-night--now! Tell him what you have done. Tell
him I have taken his child, and tell him--he must never see--see--the
child again. Wherever it may be, he must not come; wherever I may take
it, he must not follow! There, go now, please,--I'm weary, and--have
much yet to do!"

They walked together to the door. On the threshold the woman turned.

"Good-night!"

She would have fallen at Miss Mary's feet. But at the  same moment the
young girl reached out her arms, caught the sinful woman to her own
pure breast for one brief moment, and then closed and locked the door.

It was with a sudden sense of great responsibility that Profane Bill
took the reins of the Slumgullion stage the next morning, for the
schoolmistress was one of his passengers. As he entered the highroad,
in obedience to a pleasant voice from the "inside," he suddenly reined
up his horses and respectfully waited, as Tommy hopped out at the
command of Miss Mary.

"Not that bush, Tommy,--the next."

Tommy whipped out his new pocket-knife, and cutting a branch from a
tall azalea-bush, returned with it to Miss Mary. "All right now?"

"All right!"

And the stage-door closed on the Idyl of Red Gulch.




BROWN OF CALAVERAS


A subdued tone of conversation, and the absence of cigar-smoke and
boot-heels at the windows of the Wingdam stagecoach, made it evident
that one of the inside passengers was a woman. A disposition on the
part of loungers at the stations to congregate before the window, and
some concern in regard to the appearance of coats, hats, and collars,
further indicated that she was lovely. All of which Mr. Jack Hamlin,
on the box-seat, noted with the smile of cynical philosophy. Not that
he depreciated the sex, but that he recognized therein a deceitful
element, the pursuit of which sometimes drew mankind away from the
equally uncertain blandishments of poker,--of which it may be remarked
that Mr. Hamlin was a professional exponent.

So that, when he placed his narrow boot on the wheel and leaped down,
he did not even glance at the window from which a green veil was
fluttering, but lounged up and down with that listless and grave
indifference of his class, which was, perhaps, the next thing to good-
breeding. With his closely buttoned figure and self-contained air he
was a marked contrast to the other passengers, with their feverish
restlessness and boisterous emotion; and even Bill Masters, a graduate
of Harvard, with his slovenly dress, his over-flowing vitality, his
intense appreciation of lawlessness and barbarism, and his mouth
filled with crackers and cheese, I fear cut but an unromantic figure
beside this lonely  calculator of chances, with his pale Greek face
and Homeric gravity.

The driver called "All aboard!" and Mr. Hamlin  returned to the coach.
His foot was upon the wheel, and his face raised to the level of the
open window, when, at the same moment, what appeared to him to be the
finest eyes in the world suddenly met his. He quietly dropped down
again, addressed a few words to one of the inside passengers, effected
an exchange of seats, and as quietly took his place inside. Mr. Hamlin
never allowed his philosophy to interfere with decisive and prompt
action.

I fear that this irruption of Jack cast some restraint upon the other
passengers, particularly those who were making themselves most
agreeable to the lady. One of them leaned forward, and apparently
conveyed to her information regarding Mr. Hamlin's profession in a
single epithet. Whether Mr. Hamlin heard it, or whether he recognized
in the informant a distinguished jurist, from whom, but a few evenings
before, he had won several thousand dollars, I cannot say. His
colorless face betrayed no sign; his black eyes, quietly observant,
glanced indifferently past the legal gentleman, and rested on the much
more pleasing features of his neighbor. An Indian stoicism--said to be
an inheritance from his maternal ancestor--stood him in good service,
until the rolling wheels rattled upon the river gravel at Scott's
Ferry, and the stage drew up at the International Hotel for dinner.
The legal gentleman and a member of Congress leaped out, and stood
ready to assist the descending goddess, while Colonel Starbottle of
Siskiyou took charge of her parasol and shawl. In this multiplicity of
attention there was a momentary confusion and delay. Jack Hamlin
quietly opened the _opposite_ door of the coach, took the lady's
hand, with that decision and positiveness which a hesitating and
undecided sex know how to admire, and in an instant had dexterously
and gracefully swung her to the ground and again lifted her to the
platform. An audible chuckle on the box, I fear, came from that other
cynic, Yuba Bill, the driver. "Look keerfully  arter that baggage,
Kernel," said the expressman, with affected concern, as he looked
after Colonel Starbottle, gloomily bringing up the rear of the
triumphant procession to the waiting-room.

Mr. Hamlin did not stay for dinner. His horse was already saddled and
awaiting him. He dashed over the ford, up the gravelly hill, and out
into the dusty perspective of the Wingdam road, like one leaving an
unpleasant fancy behind him. The inmates uf dusty cabins by the
roadside shaded their eyes with their hands and looked after him,
recognizing the man by his horse, and speculating what "was up with
Comanche Jack." Yet much of this interest centred in the horse, in a
community where the time made by "French Pete's" mare, in his run from
the Sheriff of Calaveras, eclipsed all concern in the ultimate fate of
that worthy.

The sweating flanks of his gray at length recalled him to himself. He
checked his speed, and turning into a byroad, sometimes used as a cut-
off, trotted leisurely along, the reins hanging listlessly from his
fingers. As he rode on, the character of the landscape changed and
became more pastoral. Openings in groves of pine and sycamore
disclosed some rude attempts at cultivation,--a flowering vine trailed
over the porch of one cabin, and a woman rocked her cradled babe under
the roses of another. A little farther on, Mr. Hamlin came upon some
bare-legged children wading in the willowy creek, and so wrought upon
them with a badinage peculiar to himself, that they were emboldened to
climb up his horse's legs and over his saddle, until he was fain to
develop an exaggerated ferocity of demeanor, and to escape, leaving
behind some kisses and coin. And then, advancing deeper into the
woods, where all signs of habitation failed, he began to sing,
uplifting a tenor so singularly sweet, and shaded by a pathos so
subdued and tender, that I wot the robins and linnets stopped to
listen. Mr. Hamlin's voice was not  cultivated; the subject of his
song was some sentimental lunacy, borrowed from the negro minstrels;
but there thrilled through all some occult quality of tone and
expression that was unspeakably touching. Indeed, it was a wonderful
sight to see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of cards in his
pocket and a revolver at his back, sending his voice before him
through the dim woods with a plaint about his "Nelly's grave," in a
way that overflowed the eyes of the listener. A sparrow-hawk, fresh
from his sixth victim, possibly recognizing in Mr. Hamlin a kindred
spirit, stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the
superiority of man. With a superior predatory capacity _he_ couldn't
sing.

But Mr. Hamlin presently found himself again on the highroad and at
his former pace. Ditches and banks of gravel, denuded hillsides,
stumps, and decayed trunks of trees, took the place of woodland and
ravine, and indicated his approach to civilization. Then a church-
steeple came in sight, and he knew that he had reached home. In a few
moments he was clattering down the single narrow street that lost
itself in a chaotic ruin of races, ditches, and tailings at the foot
of the hill, and dismounted before the gilded windows of the Magnolia
saloon. Passing through the long bar-room, he pushed open a green-
baize door, entered a dark passage, opened another door with a
passkey, and found himself in a dimly lighted room, whose furniture,
though elegant and costly for the locality, showed signs of abuse. The
inlaid centre-table was overlaid with stained disks that were not
contemplated in the original design, the embroidered armchairs were
discolored, and the green velvet lounge, on which Mr. Hamlin threw
himself, was soiled at the foot with the red soil of Wingdam.

Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, looking at a highly
colored painting above him, representing a young creature of opulent
charms. It occurred to him  then, for the first time, that he had
never seen exactly that kind of a woman, and that, if he should, he
would not, probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he was thinking of
another style of beauty. But just then some one knocked at the door.
Without rising, he pulled a cord that apparently shot back a bolt, for
the door swung open, and a man entered.

The new-comer was broad-shouldered and robust,--a vigor not borne out
in the face, which, though handsome, was singularly weak and
disfigured by dissipation. He appeared to be, also, under the
influence of liquor, for he started on seeing Mr. Hamlin, and said, "I
thought Kate was here;" stammered, and seemed confused and
embarrassed.

Mr. Hamlin smiled the smile which he had before worn on the Wingdam
coach, and sat up, quite refreshed and ready for business.

"You didn't come up on the stage," continued the newcomer, "did you?"

"No," replied Hamlin; "I left it at Scott's Ferry. It isn't due for
half an hour yet. But how's luck, Brown?"

"D--d bad," said Brown, his face suddenly assuming an expression of
weak despair. "I'm cleaned out again, Jack," he continued, in a
whining tone, that formed a pitiable contrast to his bulky figure;
"can't you help me with a hundred till to-morrow's clean-up? You see
I've got to send money home to the old woman, and--you've won twenty
times that amount from me."

The conclusion was, perhaps, not entirely logical, but Jack overlooked
it, and handed the sum to his visitor. "The old-woman business is
about played out, Brown," he added, by way of commentary; "why don't
you say you want to buck ag'in' faro? You know you ain't married!"

"Fact, sir," said Brown, with a sudden gravity, as if the mere contact
of the gold with the palm of the hand had  imparted some dignity to
his frame. "I've got a wife--a d--d good one, too, if I do say it--in
the States. It's three years since I've seen her, and a year since
I've writ to her. When things is about straight, and we get down to
the lead, I'm going to send for her."

"And Kate?" queried Mr. Hamlin, with his previous smile.

Mr. Brown of Calaveras essayed an archness of glance to cover his
confusion, which his weak face and whiskey-muddled intellect but
poorly carried out, and said,--

"D--n it, Jack, a man must have a little liberty, you know. But come,
what do you say to a little game? Give us a show to double this
hundred."

Jack Hamlin looked curiously at his fatuous friend. Perhaps he knew
that the man was predestined to lose the money, and preferred that it
should flow back into his own coffers rather than any other. He nodded
his head, and drew his chair toward the table. At the same moment
there came a rap upon the door.

"It's Kate," said Mr. Brown.

Mr. Hamlin shot back the bolt and the door opened. But, for the first
time in his life, he staggered to his feet utterly unnerved and
abashed, and for the first time in his life the hot blood crimsoned
his colorless cheeks to his forehead. For before him stood the lady he
had lifted from the Wingdam coach, whom Brown, dropping his cards with
a hysterical laugh, greeted as,--

"My old woman, by thunder!"

They say that Mrs. Brown burst into tears and reproaches of her
husband. I saw her in 1857 at Marysville, and disbelieve the story.
And the "Wingdam Chronicle" of the next week, under the head of
"Touching Reunion," said: "One of those beautiful and touching
incidents, peculiar to California life, occurred last week in our
city. The wife of one of Wingdam's eminent pioneers, tired of  the
effete civilization of the East and its inhospitable climate, resolved
to join her noble husband upon these golden shores. Without informing
him of her intention, she undertook the long journey, and arrived last
week. The joy of the husband may be easier imagined than described.
The meeting is said to have been indescribably affecting. We trust her
example may be followed."

       *       *       *       *       *

Whether owing to Mrs. Brown's influence, or to some more successful
speculations, Mr. Brown's financial fortune from that day steadily
improved. He bought out his partners in the "Nip and Tuck" lead, with
money which was said to have been won at poker a week or two after his
wife's arrival, but which rumor, adopting Mrs. Brown's theory that
Brown had forsworn the gaming-table, declared to have been furnished
by Mr. Jack Hamlin. He built and furnished the Wingdam House, which
pretty Mrs. Brown's great popularity kept overflowing with guests. He
was elected to the Assembly, and gave largess to churches. A street in
Wingdam was named in his honor.

Yet it was noted that in proportion as he waxed wealthy and fortunate,
he grew pale, thin, and anxious. As his wife's popularity increased,
he became fretful and impatient. The most uxorious of husbands, he was
absurdly jealous. If he did not interfere with his wife's social
liberty, it was because it was maliciously whispered that his first
and only attempt was met by an outburst from Mrs. Brown that terrified
him into silence. Much of this kind of gossip came from those of her
own sex whom she had supplanted in the chivalrous attentions of
Wingdam, which, like most popular chivalry, was devoted to an
admiration of power, whether of masculine force or feminine beauty. It
should be remembered, too, in her extenuation, that, since her
arrival, she had been the unconscious priestess of a mythological
worship, perhaps not more ennobling to her womanhood  than that which
distinguished an older Greek democracy. I think that Brown was dimly
conscious of this. But his only confidant was Jack Hamlin, whose
infelix reputation naturally precluded any open intimacy with the
family, and whose visits were infrequent.

It was midsummer and a moonlit night, and Mrs. Brown, very rosy,
large-eyed, and pretty, sat upon the piazza, enjoying the fresh
incense of the mountain breeze, and, it is to be feared, another
incense which was not so fresh nor quite as innocent. Beside her sat
Colonel Starbottle and Judge Boompointer, and a later addition to her
court in the shape of a foreign tourist. She was in good spirits.

"What do you see down the road?" inquired the gallant Colonel, who had
been conscious, for the last few minutes, that Mrs. Brown's attention
was diverted.

"Dust," said Mrs. Brown, with a sigh. "Only Sister Anne's 'flock of
sheep.'"

The Colonel, whose literary recollections did not extend farther back
than last week's paper, took a more practical view. "It ain't sheep,"
he continued; "it's a horseman. Judge, ain't that Jack Hamlin's gray?"

But the Judge didn't know; and, as Mrs. Brown suggested the air was
growing too cold for further investigations, they retired to the
parlor.

Mr. Brown was in the stable, where he generally retired after dinner.
Perhaps it was to show his contempt for his wife's companions;
perhaps, like other weak natures, he found pleasure in the exercise of
absolute power over inferior animals. He had a certain gratification
in the training of a chestnut mare, whom he could beat or caress as
pleased him, which he couldn't do with Mrs. Brown. It was here that he
recognized a certain gray horse which had just come in, and, looking a
little farther on, found his rider. Brown's greeting was cordial and
hearty; Mr. Hamlin's somewhat restrained. But, at Brown's urgent
request, he followed  him up the back stairs to a narrow corridor, and
thence to a small room looking out upon the stable-yard. It was
plainly furnished with a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a rack for
guns and whips.

"This yer's my home, Jack," said Brown with a sigh, as he threw
himself upon the bed and motioned his companion to a chair. "Her
room's t' other end of the hall. It's more'n six months since we've
lived together, or met, except at meals. It's mighty rough papers on
the head of the house, ain't it?" he said with a forced laugh. "But
I'm glad to see you, Jack, d--d glad," and he reached from the bed,
and again shook the unresponsive hand of Jack Hamlin.

"I brought ye up here, for I didn't want to talk in the stable;
though, for the matter of that, it's all round town. Don't strike a
light. We can talk here in the moonshine. Put up your feet on that
winder and sit here beside me. Thar's whiskey in that jug."

Mr. Hamlin did not avail himself of the information. Brown of
Calaveras turned his face to the wall, and continued,--

"If I didn't love the woman, Jack, I wouldn't mind. But it's loving
her, and seeing her day arter day goin' on at this rate, and no one to
put down the brake; that's what gits me! But I'm glad to see ye, Jack,
d--d glad."

In the darkness he groped about until he had found and wrung his
companion's hand again. He would have detained it, but Jack slipped it
into the buttoned breast of his coat, and asked listlessly, "How long
has this been going on?"

"Ever since she came here; ever since the day she walked into the
Magnolia. I was a fool then; Jack, I'm a fool now; but I didn't know
how much I loved her till then. And she hasn't been the same woman
since.

"But that ain't all, Jack; and it's what I wanted to see you about,
and I'm glad you've come. It ain't that she  doesn't love me any more;
it ain't that she fools with every chap that comes along; for perhaps
I staked her love and lost it, as I did everything else at the
Magnolia; and perhaps foolin' is nateral to some women, and thar ain't
no great harm done, 'cept to the fools. But, Jack, I think,--I think
she loves somebody else. Don't move, Jack! don't move; if your pistol
hurts ye, take it off.

"It's been more'n six months now that she's seemed unhappy and
lonesome, and kinder nervous and scared-like. And sometimes I've
ketched her lookin' at me sort of timid and pitying. And she writes to
somebody. And for the last week she's been gathering her own things,--
trinkets, and furbelows, and jew'lry,--and, Jack, I think she's goin'
off. I could stand all but that. To have her steal away like a thief!"
He put his face downward to the pillow, and for a few moments there
was no sound but the ticking of a clock on the mantel. Mr. Hamlin lit
a cigar, and moved to the open window. The moon no longer shone into
the room, and the bed and its occupant were in shadow. "What shall I
do, Jack?" said the voice from the darkness.

The answer came promptly and clearly from the window-side, "Spot the
man, and kill him on sight."

"But, Jack"--

"He's took the risk!"

"But will that bring her back?"

Jack did not reply, but moved from the window towards the door.

"Don't go yet, Jack; light the candle and sit by the table. It's a
comfort to see ye, if nothin' else."

Jack hesitated and then complied. He drew a pack of cards from his
pocket and shuffled them, glancing at the bed. But Brown's face was
turned to the wall. When Mr. Hamlin had shuffled the cards, he cut
them, and dealt one card on the opposite side of the table towards the
bed,  and another on his side of the table for himself. The first was
a deuce; his own card a king. He then shuffled and cut again. This
time "dummy" had a queen and himself a four-spot. Jack brightened up
for the third deal. It brought his adversary a deuce and himself a
king again. "Two out of three," said Jack audibly.

"What's that, Jack?" said Brown.

"Nothing."

Then Jack tried his hand with dice; but he always threw sixes and his
imaginary opponent aces. The force of habit is sometimes confusing.

Meanwhile some magnetic influence in Mr. Hamlin's presence, or the
anodyne of liquor, or both, brought surcease of sorrow, and Brown
slept. Mr. Hamlin moved his chair to the window and looked out on the
town of Wingdam, now sleeping peacefully, its harsh outlines softened
and subdued, its glaring colors mellowed and sobered in the moonlight
that flowed over all. In the hush he could hear the gurgling of water
in the ditches and the sighing of the pines beyond the hill. Then he
looked up at the firmament, and as he did so a star shot across the
twinkling field. Presently another, and then another. The phenomenon
suggested to Mr. Hamlin a fresh augury. If in another fifteen minutes
another star should fall--He sat there, watch in hand, for twice that
time, but the phenomenon was not repeated.

The clock struck two, and Brown still slept. Mr. Hamlin approached the
table and took from his pocket a letter, which he read by the
flickering candlelight. It contained only a single line, written in
pencil, in a woman's hand,--

"Be at the corral with the buggy at three."

The sleeper moved uneasily and then awoke. "Are you there, Jack?"

"Yes."

"Don't go yet. I dreamed just now, Jack,--dreamed  of old times. I
thought that Sue and me was being married agin, and that the parson,
Jack, was--who do you think?--you!"

The gambler laughed, and seated himself on the bed, the paper still in
his hand.

"It's a good sign, ain't it?" queried Brown.

"I reckon! Say, old man, hadn't you better get up?"

The "old man," thus affectionately appealed to, rose, with the
assistance of Hamlin's outstretched hand.

"Smoke?"

Brown mechanically took the proffered cigar.

"Light?"

Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held it for his
companion. He continued to hold it until it was consumed, and dropped
the fragment--a fiery star--from the open window. He watched it as it
fell, and then returned to his friend.

"Old man," he said, placing his hands upon Brown's shoulders, "in ten
minutes I'll be on the road, and gone like that spark. We won't see
each other agin; but, before I go, take a fool's advice: sell out all
you've got, take your wife with you, and quit the country. It ain't no
place for you nor her. Tell her she must go; make her go if she won't.
Don't whine because you can't be a saint and she ain't an angel. Be a
man, and treat her like a woman. Don't be a d-d fool. Good-by."

He tore himself from Brown's grasp and leaped down the stairs like a
deer. At the stable-door he collared the half-sleeping hostler, and
backed him against the wall. "Saddle my horse in two minutes, or
I'll"--The ellipsis was frightfully suggestive.

"The missis said you was to have the buggy," stammered the man.

"D--n the buggy!"    The horse was saddled as fast as the nervous
hands of the astounded hostler could manipulate buckle and strap.

"Is anything up, Mr. Hamlin?" said the man, who, like all his class,
admired the elan of his fiery patron, and was really concerned in his
welfare.

"Stand aside!"

The man fell back. With an oath, a bound, and clatter, Jack was into
the road. In another moment, to the man's half-awakened eyes, he was
but a moving cloud of dust in the distance, towards which a star just
loosed from its brethren was trailing a stream of fire.

But early that morning the dwellers by the Wingdam turnpike, miles
aways, heard a voice, pure as a sky-lark's, singing afield. They who
were asleep turned over on their rude couches to dream of youth, and
love, and olden days. Hard-faced men and anxious gold-seekers, already
at work, ceased their labors and leaned upon their picks to listen to
a romantic vagabond ambling away against the rosy sunrise.


       *       *       *       *       *


       CONDENSED NOVELS


       *       *       *       *       *




MUCK-A-MUCK

A MODERN INDIAN NOVEL

AFTER COOPER




CHAPTER I


It was toward the close of a bright October day. The last rays of the
setting sun were reflected from one of those sylvan lakes peculiar to
the Sierras of California. On the right the curling smoke of an Indian
village rose between the columns of the lofty pines, while to the left
the log cottage of Judge Tompkins, embowered in buckeyes, completed
the enchanting picture.

Although the exterior of the cottage was humble and unpretentious, and
in keeping with the wildness of the landscape, its interior gave
evidence of the cultivation and refinement of its inmates. An
aquarium, containing goldfishes, stood on a marble centre-table at one
end of the apartment, while a magnificent grand piano occupied the
other. The floor was covered with a yielding tapestry carpet, and the
walls were adorned with paintings from the pencils of Van Dyke,
Rubens, Tintoretto, Michael Angelo, and the productions of the more
modern Turner, Kensett, Church, and Bierstadt. Although Judge Tompkins
had chosen the frontiers of civilization as his home, it was
impossible for him to entirely forego the habits and tastes of his
former life. He was seated in a luxurious armchair, writing at a
mahogany escritoire, while his daughter, a lovely young girl of
seventeen summers, plied her crotchet-needle on an ottoman beside him.
A bright fire of pine logs flickered and flamed on the ample hearth.

Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins's only child. Her mother
had long since died on the Plains. Reared in affluence, no pains had
been spared with the daughter's education. She was a graduate of one
of the principal seminaries, and spoke French with a perfect Benicia
accent. Peerlessly beautiful, she was dressed in a white moire antique
robe trimmed with tulle. That simple rosebud, with which most heroines
exclusively decorate their hair, was all she wore in her raven locks.

The Judge was the first to break the silence.

"Genevra, the logs which compose yonder fire seem to have been
incautiously chosen. The sibilation produced by the sap, which exudes
copiously therefrom, is not conducive to composition."

"True, father, but I thought it would be preferable to the constant
crepitation which is apt to attend the combustion of more seasoned
ligneous fragments."

The Judge looked admiringly at the intellectual features of the
graceful girl, and half forgot the slight annoyances of the green wood
in the musical accents of his daughter. He was smoothing her hair
tenderly, when the shadow of a tall figure, which suddenly darkened
the doorway, caused him to look up.




CHAPTER II


It needed but a glance at the new-comer to detect at once the form and
features of the haughty aborigine,--the untaught and untrammeled son
of the forest. Over one  shoulder a blanket, negligently but
gracefully thrown, disclosed a bare and powerful breast, decorated
with a quantity of three-cent postage-stamps which he had despoiled
from an Overland Mail stage a few weeks previous. A cast-off beaver of
Judge Tompkins's, adorned by a simple feather, covered his erect head,
from beneath which his straight locks descended. His right hand hung
lightly by his side, while his left was engaged in holding on a pair
of pantaloons, which the lawless grace and freedom of his lower limbs
evidently could not brook.

"Why," said the Indian, in a low sweet tone,--"why
does the Pale Face still follow the track of the Red Man? Why does he
pursue him, even as O-kee chow, the wild cat, chases Ka-ka, the skunk?
Why are the feet of Sorrel-top, the white chief, among the acorns of
Muck-a-Muck, the mountain forest? Why," he repeated, quietly but
firmly abstracting a silver spoon from the table,--"why do you seek
to drive him from the wigwams of his fathers? His brothers are already
gone to the happy hunting-grounds. Will the Pale Face seek him there?"
And, averting his face from the Judge, he hastily slipped a silver
cake-basket beneath his blanket, to conceal his emotion.

"Muck-a-Muck has spoken," said Genevra softly. "Let him now listen.
Are the acorns of the mountain sweeter than the esculent and
nutritious bean of the Pale Face miner? Does my brother prize the
edible qualities of the snail above that of the crisp and oleaginous
bacon? Delicious are the grasshoppers that sport on the hillside,--are
they better than the dried apples of the Pale Faces? Pleasant is the
gurgle of the torrent, Kish-Kish, but is it better than the cluck-
cluck of old Bourbon from the old stone bottle?"

"Ugh!" said the Indian,--"ugh! good. The White Rabbit is wise. Her
words fall as the snow on Tootoonolo, and the rocky heart of Muck-a-
Muck is hidden. What says my brother the Gray Gopher of Dutch Flat?"

"She has spoken, Muck-a-Muck," said the Judge, gazing fondly on his
daughter. "It is well. Our treaty is concluded. No, thank you,--you
need _not_ dance the Dance of Snow-shoes, or the Moccasin Dance, the
Dance of Green Corn, or the Treaty Dance. I would be alone. A strange
sadness overpowers me."


"I go," said the Indian. "Tell your great chief in Washington, the
Sachem Andy, that the Red Man is retiring before the footsteps of the
adventurous pioneer. Inform him, if you please, that westward the star
of empire takes its way, that the chiefs of the Pi-Ute nation are for
Reconstruction to a man, and that Klamath will poll a heavy Republican
vote in the fall."

And folding his blanket more tightly around him, Muck-a-Muck withdrew.




CHAPTER III


Genevra Tompkins stood at the door of the log-cabin, looking after the
retreating Overland Mail stage which conveyed her father to Virginia
City. "He may never return again," sighed the young girl, as she
glanced at the frightfully rolling vehicle and wildly careering
horses,--"at least, with unbroken bones. Should he meet with an
accident! I mind me now a fearful legend, familiar to my childhood.
Can it be that the drivers on this line are privately instructed to
dispatch all passengers maimed by accident, to prevent tedious
litigation? No, no. But why this weight upon my heart?"

She seated herself at the piano and lightly passed her hand over the
keys. Then, in a clear mezzo-soprano voice, she sang the first verse
of one of the most popular Irish ballads:--

  "O _Arrah ma dheelish_, the distant _dudheen_
   Lies soft in the moonlight, _ma bouchal vourneen_:
   The springing _gossoons_ on the heather are still,
   And the _caubeens_ and _colleens_ are heard on the hill."

But as the ravishing notes of her sweet voice died upon the air, her
hands sank listlessly to her side. Music could not chase away the
mysterious shadow from her heart. Again she rose. Putting on a white
crape bonnet, and carefully drawing a pair of lemon-colored gloves
over her taper fingers, she seized her parasol and plunged into the
depths of the pine forest.




CHAPTER IV


Genevra had not proceeded many miles before a weariness seized upon
her fragile limbs, and she would fain seat herself upon the trunk of a
prostrate pine, which she  previously dusted with her handkerchief.
The sun was just sinking below the horizon, and the scene was one of
gorgeous and sylvan beauty. "How beautiful is nature!" murmured the
innocent girl, as, reclining gracefully against the root of the tree,
she gathered up her skirts and tied a handkerchief around her throat.
But a low growl interrupted her meditation. Starting to her feet, her
eyes met a sight which froze her blood with terror.

The only outlet to the forest was the narrow path, barely wide enough
for a single person, hemmed in by trees and rocks, which she had just
traversed. Down this path, in Indian file, came a monstrous grizzly,
closely followed by a California lion, a wild cat, and a buffalo, the
rear being brought up by a wild Spanish bull. The mouths of the three
first animals were distended with frightful significance, the horns of
the last were lowered as ominously. As Genevra was preparing to faint,
she heard a low voice behind her.

"Eternally dog-gone my skin ef this ain't the puttiest chance yet!"
At the same moment, a long, shining barrel dropped lightly from behind
her, and rested over her shoulder.

Genevra shuddered.

"Dern ye--don't move!"

Genevra became motionless.

The crack of a rifle rang through the woods. Three frightful yells
were heard, and two sullen roars. Five animals bounded into the air
and five lifeless bodies lay upon the plain. The well-aimed bullet had
done its work. Entering the open throat of the grizzly it had
traversed his body only to enter the throat of the California lion,
and in like manner the catamount, until it passed through into the
respective foreheads of the bull and the buffalo, and finally fell
flattened from the rocky hillside.

Genevra turned quickly. "My preserver!" she shrieked, and fell into
the arms of Natty Bumpo, the celebrated Pike Ranger of Donner Lake.




CHAPTER V


The moon rose cheerfully above Donner Lake. On its placid bosom a dug-
out canoe glided rapidly, containing Natty Bumpo and Genevra Tompkins.

Both were silent. The same thought possessed each, and perhaps there
was sweet companionship even in the unbroken quiet. Genevra bit the
handle of her parasol, and blushed. Natty Bumpo took a fresh chew of
tobacco. At length Genevra said, as if in half-spoken reverie:--

"The soft shining of the moon and the peaceful ripple of the waves
seem to say to us various things of an instructive and moral
tendency."

"You may bet yer pile on that, miss," said her companion gravely.
"It's all the preachin' and psalm-singin' I've heern since I was a
boy." "Noble being!" said Miss Tompkins to herself, glancing  at the
stately Pike as he bent over his paddle to conceal his emotion.
"Reared in this wild seclusion, yet he has become penetrated with
visible consciousness of a Great First Cause." Then, collecting
herself, she said aloud: "Methinks 't were pleasant to glide ever thus
down the stream of life, hand in hand with the one being whom the soul
claims as its affinity. But what am I saying?"--and the delicate-
minded girl hid her face in her hands.

A long silence ensued, which was at length broken by her companion.

"Ef you mean you're on the marry," he said thoughtfully, "I ain't in
no wise partikler."

"My husband!" faltered the blushing girl; and she fell into his arms.


In ten minutes more the loving couple had landed at Judge Tompkins's.




CHAPTER VI


A year has passed away. Natty Bumpo was returning from Gold Hill,
where he had been to purchase provisions. On his way to Donner Lake,
rumors of an Indian uprising met his ears. "Dern their pesky skins, ef
they dare to touch my Jenny," he muttered between his clenched teeth.

It was dark when he reached the borders of the lake. Around a
glittering fire he dimly discerned dusky figures dancing. They were in
war paint. Conspicuous among them was the renowned Muck-a-Muck. But
why did the fingers of Natty Bumpo tighten convulsively around his
rifle?

The chief held in his hand long tufts of raven hair. The heart of the
pioneer sickened as he recognized the clustering curls of Genevra. In
a moment his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a sharp "ping" Muck-
a-Muck leaped into the air a corpse. To knock out the brains of the
remaining  savages, tear the tresses from the stiffening hand of Muck-
a-Muck, and dash rapidly forward to the cottage of Judge Tompkins, was
the work of a moment.

He burst open the door. Why did he stand transfixed with open mouth
and distended eyeballs? Was the sight too horrible to be borne? On the
contrary, before him, in her peerless beauty, stood Genevra Tompkins,
leaning on her father's arm.

"Ye'r not scalped, then!" gasped her lover.

"No. I have no hesitation in saying that I am not; but why this
abruptness?" responded Genevra.

Bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced the silken tresses.
Genevra turned her face aside.

"Why, that's her waterfall!" said the Judge.

Bumpo sank fainting to the floor.

The famous Pike chieftain never recovered from the deceit, and refused
to marry Genevra, who died, twenty years afterwards, of a broken
heart. Judge Tompkins lost his fortune in Wild Cat. The stage passes
twice a week the deserted cottage at Donner Lake. Thus was the death
of Muck-a-Muck avenged.




SELINA SEDILIA

BY MISS M. E. B-DD-N AND MRS. H-N-Y W-D.


CHAPTER I


The sun was setting over Sloperton Grange, and reddened the window of
the lonely chamber in the western tower, supposed to be haunted by Sir
Edward Sedilia, the founder of the Grange. In the dreamy distance
arose the gilded mausoleum of Lady Felicia Sedilia, who haunted that
portion of Sedilia Manor known as "Stiff-uns Acre." A little to the
left of the Grange might have been seen a mouldering ruin, known as
"Guy's Keep," haunted by the spirit of Sir Guy Sedilia, who was found,
one morning, crushed by one of the fallen battlements. Yet, as the
setting sun gilded these objects, a beautiful and almost holy calm
seemed diffused about the Grange.

The Lady Selina sat by an oriel window overlooking the park. The sun
sank gently in the bosom of the German Ocean, and yet the lady did not
lift her beautiful head from the finely curved arm and diminutive hand
which supported it. When darkness finally shrouded the landscape she
started, for the sound of horse-hoofs clattered over the stones of the
avenue. She had scarcely risen, before an aristocratic young man fell
on his knees before her.

"My Selina!"

"Edgardo! You here?"

"Yes, dearest."

"And--you--you--have--seen nothing?" said the  lady in an agitated
voice and nervous manner, turning her face aside to conceal her
emotion.

"Nothing--that is, nothing of any account," said Edgardo. "I passed
the ghost of your aunt in the park, noticed the spectre of your uncle
in the ruined keep, and observed the familiar features of the spirit
of your great-grandfather at his usual post. But nothing beyond these
trifles, my Selina. Nothing more, love, absolutely nothing."

The young man turned his dark, liquid orbs fondly upon the ingenuous
face of his betrothed.

"My own Edgardo!--and you still love me? You still would marry me in
spite of this dark mystery which surrounds me? In spite of the fatal
history of my race? In spite of the ominous predictions of my aged
nurse?"

"I would, Selina;" and the young man passed his arm around her
yielding waist. The two lovers gazed at each other's faces in
unspeakable bliss. Suddenly Selina started.

"Leave me, Edgardo! leave me! A mysterious something--a fatal
misgiving--a dark ambiguity--an equivocal mistrust oppresses me. I
would be alone!"

The young man arose, and cast a loving glance on the lady. "Then we
will be married on the seventeenth."

"The seventeenth," repeated Selina, with a mysterious shudder.

They embraced and parted. As the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard
died away, the Lady Selina sank into the chair she had just quitted.

"The seventeenth," she repeated slowly, with the same fateful shudder.
"Ah!--what if he should know that I have another husband living? Dare
I reveal to him that I have two legitimate and three natural children?
Dare I repeat to him the history of my youth? Dare I confess that at
the age of seven I poisoned my sister, by putting verdigris in her
cream-tarts,--that I threw my cousin from a swing at the age of
twelve? That the lady's maid who  incurred the displeasure of my
girlhood now lies at the bottom of the horse-pond? No! no! he is too
pure,--too good,--too innocent,--to hear such improper conversation!"
and her whole body writhed as she rocked to and fro in a paroxysm of
grief.

But she was soon calm. Rising to her feet, she opened a secret panel
in the wall, and revealed a slow-match ready for lighting.

"This match," said the Lady Selina, "is connected with a mine beneath
the western tower, where my three children are confined; another
branch of it lies under the parish church, where the record of my
first marriage is kept. I have only to light this match and the whole
of my past life is swept away!" She approached the match with a
lighted candle.

But a hand was laid upon her arm, and with a shriek the Lady Selina
fell on her knees before the spectre of Sir Guy.




CHAPTER II


"Forbear, Selina," said the phantom in a hollow voice.

"Why should I forbear?" responded Selina haughtily, as she recovered
her courage. "You know the secret of our race?"

"I do. Understand me,--I do not object to the eccentricities of your
youth. I know the fearful destiny which, pursuing you, led you to
poison your sister and drown your lady's maid. I know the awful doom
which I have brought upon this house. But if you make away with these
children"--

"Well," said the Lady Selina hastily.

"They will haunt you!"

"Well, I fear them not," said Selina, drawing her superb figure to its
full height.

"Yes, but, my dear child, what place are they to haunt? The ruin is
sacred to your uncle's spirit. Your aunt monopolizes the park, and, I
must be allowed to state, not unfrequently trespasses upon the grounds
of others. The horse-pond is frequented by the spirit of your maid,
and your murdered sister walks these corridors. To be plain, there is
no room at Sloperton Grange for another ghost. I cannot have them in
my room,--for you know I don't like children. Think of this, rash
girl, and forbear! Would you, Selina," said the phantom mournfully,--
"would you force your great-grandfather's spirit to take lodgings
elsewhere?"

Lady Selina's hand trembled; the lighted candle fell from her
nerveless fingers.

"No," she cried passionately; "never!" and fell fainting to the floor.




CHAPTER III


Edgardo galloped rapidly towards Sloperton. When the outline of the
Grange had faded away in the darkness, he reined his magnificent steed
beside the ruins of Guy's Keep.

"It wants but a few minutes of the hour," he said, consulting his
watch by the light of the moon. "He dare not break his word. He will
come." He paused, and peered anxiously into the darkness. "But come
what may, she is mine," he continued, as his thoughts reverted fondly
to the fair lady he had quitted. "Yet if she knew all. If she knew
that I am a disgraced and ruined man,--a felon and an outcast. If she
knew that at the age of fourteen I murdered my Latin tutor and forged
my uncle's will. If she knew that I had three wives already, and that
the fourth victim of misplaced confidence and my unfortunate
peculiarity is expected to be at Sloperton by to-night's train with
her baby. But no; she must not know it. Constance must not arrive;
Burke the Slogger must attend to that.

"Ha! here he is! Well?"

These words were addressed to a ruffian in a slouched hat, who
suddenly appeared from Guy's Keep.

"I he's here, measter," said the villain, with a disgracefully low
accent and complete disregard of grammatical rules.

"It is well. Listen: I'm in possession of facts that will send you to
the gallows. I know of the murder of Bill Smithers, the robbery of the
tollgate-keeper, and the making away of the youngest daughter of Sir
Reginald de Walton. A word from me, and the officers of justice are on
your track."

Burke the Slogger trembled.

"Hark ye! serve my purpose, and I may yet save you. The 5.30 train
from Clapham will be due at Sloperton at 9.25. _It must not arrive!_"

The villain's eyes sparkled as he nodded at Edgardo.

"Enough,--you understand; leave me!"




CHAPTER IV


About half a mile from Sloperton Station the South Clapham and Medway
line crossed a bridge over Sloperton-on-Trent. As the shades of
evening were closing, a man in a slouched hat might have been seen,
carrying a saw and axe under his arm, hanging about the bridge. From
time to time he disappeared in the shadow of its abutments, but the
sound of a saw and axe still betrayed his vicinity. At exactly nine
o'clock he reappeared, and crossing to the Sloperton side, rested his
shoulder against the abutment and gave a shove. The bridge swayed a
moment, and then fell with a splash into the water, leaving a space of
one hundred feet between the two banks. This done, Burke the Slogger,
--for it was he,--with a fiendish chuckle  seated himself on the
divided railway track and awaited the coming of the train.

A shriek from the woods announced its approach. For an instant Burke
the Slogger saw the glaring of a red lamp. The ground trembled. The
train was going with fearful rapidity. Another second and it had
reached the bank. Burke the Slogger uttered a fiendish laugh. But the
next moment the train leaped across the chasm, striking the rails
exactly even, and dashing out the life of Burke the Slogger, sped away
to Sloperton.

The first object that greeted Edgardo, as he rode up to the station on
the arrival of the train, was the body of Burke the Slogger hanging on
the cowcatcher; the second was the face of his deserted wife looking
from the window of a second-class carriage.




CHAPTER V


A nameless terror seemed to have taken possession of Clarissa, Lady
Selina's maid, as she rushed into the presence of her mistress.

"Oh, my lady, such news!"

"Explain yourself," said her mistress, rising.

"An accident has happened on the railway, and a man has been killed."

"What--not Edgardo!" almost screamed Selina.

"No, Burke the Slogger, your ladyship!"

"My first husband!" said Lady Selina, sinking on her knees. "Just
Heaven, I thank thee!"




CHAPTER VI


The morning of the seventeenth dawned brightly over Sloperton. "A fine
day for the wedding," said the sexton to Swipes, the butler of
Sloperton Grange. The aged retainer shook his head sadly. "Alas!
there's no trusting in signs!" he continued. "Seventy-five years ago,
on a day like this, my young mistress"--but he was cut short by the
appearance of a stranger.

"I would see Sir Edgardo," said the new-comer impatiently.

The bridegroom, who, with the rest of the wedding-train, was about
stepping into the carriage to proceed to the parish church, drew the
stranger aside.

"I's done!" said the stranger, in a hoarse whisper.

"Ah! and you buried her?"

"With the others!"

"Enough. No more at present. Meet me after the ceremony, and you shall
have your reward."

The stranger shuffled away, and Edgardo returned to his bride. "A
trifling matter of business I had forgotten, my dear Selina; let us
proceed." And the young man pressed the timid hand of his blushing
bride as he handed her into the carriage. The cavalcade rode out of
the courtyard. At the same moment, the deep bell on Guy's Keep tolled
ominously.




CHAPTER VII


Scarcely had the wedding-train left the Grange, than Alice Sedilia,
youngest daughter of Lady Selina, made her escape from the western
tower, owing to a lack of watchfulness on the part of Clarissa. The
innocent child, freed from restraint, rambled through the lonely
corridors, and  finally, opening a door, found herself in her mother's
boudoir. For some time she amused herself by examining the various
ornaments and elegant trifles with which it was filled. Then, in
pursuance of a childish freak, she dressed herself in her mother's
laces and ribbons. In this occupation she chanced to touch a peg which
proved to be a spring that opened a secret panel in the wall. Alice
uttered a cry of delight as she noticed what, to her childish fancy,
appeared to be the slow-match of a firework. Taking a lucifer match in
her hand she approached the fuse. She hesitated a moment. What would
her mother and her nurse say?

Suddenly the ringing of the chimes of Sloperton parish church met her
ear. Alice knew that the sound signified that the marriage-party had
entered the church, and that she was secure from interruption. With a
childish smile upon her lips, Alice Sedilia touched off the slow-
match.




CHAPTER VIII


At exactly two o'clock on the seventeenth, Rupert Sedilia, who had
just returned from India, was thoughtfully descending the hill toward
Sloperton manor. "If I can prove that my aunt, Lady Selina, was
married before my father died, I can establish my claim to Sloperton
Grange," he uttered, half aloud. He paused, for a sudden trembling of
the earth beneath his feet, and a terrific explosion, as of a park of
artillery, arrested his progress. At the same moment he beheld a dense
cloud of smoke envelop the churchyard of Sloperton, and the western
tower of the Grange seemed to be lifted bodily from its foundation.
The air seemed filled with falling fragments, and two dark objects
struck the earth close at his feet. Rupert picked them up. One seemed
to be a heavy volume bound in brass.    A cry burst from, his lips.

"The Parish Records." He opened the volume hastily. It contained the
marriage of Lady Selina to "Burke the Slogger."

The second object proved to be a piece of parchment. He tore it open
with trembling fingers. It was the missing will of Sir James Sedilia!




CHAPTER IX


When the bells again rang on the new parish church of Sloperton it was
for the marriage of Sir Rupert Sedilia and his cousin, the only
remaining members of the family.

Five more ghosts were added to the supernatural population of
Sloperton Grange. Perhaps this was the reason why Sir Rupert sold the
property shortly afterward, and that for many years a dark shadow
seemed to hang over the ruins of Sloperton Grange.




THE NINETY-NINE GUARDSMEN

BY AL-X-D-R D-M-S


CHAPTER I

SHOWING THE QUALITY OF THE CUSTOMERS OF THE INNKEEPER OF PROVINS


Twenty years after, the gigantic innkeeper of Provins stood looking at
a cloud of dust on the highway.

This cloud of dust betokened the approach of a traveler. Travelers had
been rare that season on the highway between Paris and Provins.

The heart of the innkeeper rejoiced. Turning to Dame Perigord, his
wife, he said, stroking his white apron,--

"St. Denis! make haste and spread the cloth. Add a bottle of
Charlevoix to the table. This traveler, who rides so fast, by his pace
must be a monseigneur."

Truly the traveler, clad in the uniform of a musketeer, as he drew up
to the door of the hostelry, did not seem to have spared his horse.
Throwing his reins to the landlord, he leaped lightly to the ground.
He was a young man of four and twenty, and spoke with a slight Gascon
accent.

"I am hungry, morbleu! I wish to dine!"

The gigantic innkeeper bowed and led the way to a neat apartment,
where a table stood covered with tempting viands. The musketeer at
once set to work. Fowls, fish, and pates disappeared before him.
Perigord sighed as he witnessed the devastations. Only once the
stranger paused.

"Wine!" Perigord brought wine. The stranger drank a dozen bottles.
Finally he rose to depart. Turning to the expectant landlord, he
said,--

"Charge it."

"To whom, your highness?" said Perigord anxiously.

"To his Eminence!"

"Mazarin?" ejaculated the innkeeper.

"The same. Bring me my horse," and the musketeer, remounting his
favorite animal, rode away.

The innkeeper slowly turned back into the inn. Scarcely had he reached
the courtyard before the clatter of hoofs again called him to the
doorway. A young musketeer of a light and graceful figure rode up.

"Parbleu, my dear Perigord, I am famishing. What have you got for
dinner?"

"Venison, capons, larks, and pigeons, your excellency," replied the
obsequious landlord, bowing to the ground.

"Enough!" The young musketeer dismounted, and entered the inn. Seating
himself at the table replenished by the careful Perigord, he speedily
swept it as clean as the first comer.

"Some wine, my brave Perigord," said the graceful young musketeer, as
soon as he could find utterance.

Perigord brought three dozen of Charlevoix. The young man emptied them
almost at a draught.

"By-by, Perigord," he said lightly, waving his hand, as, preceding the
astonished landlord, he slowly withdrew.

"But, your highness,--the bill," said the astounded Perigord.

"Ah, the bill. Charge it!"

"To whom?"

"The Queen!"

"What, Madame?"

"The same. Adieu, my good Perigord." And the graceful stranger rode
away. An interval of quiet succeeded,    in which the innkeeper gazed
woefully at his wife. Suddenly he was startled by a clatter of hoofs,
and an aristocratic figure stood in the doorway.

"Ah," said the courtier good-naturedly. "What, do my eyes deceive me?
No, it is the festive and luxurious Perigord. Perigord, listen. I
famish. I languish. I would dine."

The innkeeper again covered the table with viands. Again it was swept
clean as the fields of Egypt before the miraculous swarm of locusts.
The stranger looked up.

"Bring me another fowl, my Perigord."

"Impossible, your excellency; the larder is stripped clean."

"Another flitch of bacon, then."

"Impossible, your highness; there is no more."

"Well, then, wine!"

The landlord brought one hundred and forty-four bottles. The courtier
drank them all.

"One may drink if one cannot eat," said the aristocratic stranger
good-humoredly.

The innkeeper shuddered.

The guest rose to depart. The innkeeper came slowly forward with his
bill, to which he had covertly added the losses which he had suffered
from the previous strangers.

"Ah, the bill. Charge it."

"Charge it! to whom?"

"To the King," said the guest.

"What! his Majesty?"

"Certainly. Farewell, Perigord."

The innkeeper groaned. Then he went out and took down his sign. Then
remarked to his wife,--

"I am a plain man, and don't understand politics. It seems, however,
that the country is in a troubled state. Between his Eminence the
Cardinal, his Majesty the King, and her Majesty the Queen, I am a
ruined man."

"Stay," said Dame Perigord, "I have an idea."

"And that is"--

"Become yourself a musketeer."




CHAPTER II

THE COMBAT


On leaving Provins the first musketeer proceeded to Nangis, where he
was reinforced by thirty-three followers. The second musketeer,
arriving at Nangis at the same moment, placed himself at the head of
thirty-three more. The third guest of the landlord of Provins arrived
at Nangis in time to assemble together thirty-three other musketeers.

The first stranger led the troops of his Eminence.

The second led the troops of the Queen.

The third led the troops of the King.

The fight commenced. It raged terribly for seven hours. The first
musketeer killed thirty of the Queen's troops. The second musketeer
killed thirty of the King's troops. The third musketeer killed thirty
of his Eminence's troops.

By this time it will be perceived the number of musketeers had been
narrowed down to four on each side.

Naturally the three principal warriors approached each other.

They simultaneously uttered a cry.

"Aramis!"

"Athos!"

"D'Artagnan!"

They fell into each other's arms.

"And it seems that we are fighting against each other, my children,"
said the Count de la Fere mournfully.

"How singular!" exclaimed Aramis and D'Artagnan.

"Let us stop this fratricidal warfare," said Athos.

"We will!" they exclaimed together.

"But how to disband our followers?" queried D'Artagnan.

Aramis winked. They understood each other. "Let us cut 'em down!"

They cut 'em down. Aramis killed three. D'Artagnan three. Athos three.

The friends again embraced. "How like old times!" said Aramis. "How
touching!" exclaimed the serious and philosophic Count de la Fere.

The galloping of hoofs caused them to withdraw from each other's
embraces. A gigantic figure rapidly approached.

"The innkeeper of Provins!" they cried, drawing their swords.

"Perigord! down with him!" shouted D'Artagnan.

"Stay," said Athos.

The gigantic figure was beside them. He uttered a cry.

"Athos, Aramis, D'Artagnan!"

"Porthos!" exclaimed the astonished trio.

"The same." They all fell in each other's arms.

The Count de la Fere slowly raised his hands to heaven. "Bless you!
Bless us, my children! However different our opinion may be in regard
to politics, we have but one opinion in regard to  our own merits.
Where can you find a better man than Aramis?"

"Than Porthos?" said Aramis.

"Than D'Artagnan?" said Porthos.

"Than Athos?" said D'Artagnan.




CHAPTER III

SHOWING HOW THE KING OF FRANCE WENT UP A LADDER


The King descended into the garden. Proceeding cautiously along the
terraced walk, he came to the wall immediately below the windows of
Madame. To the left were two windows, concealed by vines. They opened
into the apartments of La Valliere.

The King sighed.

"It is about nineteen feet to that window," said the King. "If I had a
ladder about nineteen feet long, it would reach to that window. This
is logic."

Suddenly the King stumbled over something. "St. Denis!" he exclaimed,
looking down. It was a ladder, just nineteen feet long.

The King placed it against the wall. In so doing, he fixed the lower
end upon the abdomen of a man who lay concealed by the wall. The man
did not utter a cry or wince. The King suspected nothing. He ascended
the ladder.

The ladder was too short. Louis the Grand was not a tall man. He was
still two feet below the window.

"Dear me!" said the King.

Suddenly the ladder was lifted two feet from below. This enabled the
King to leap in the window. At the farther end of the apartment stood
a young girl, with red hair and a lame leg. She was trembling with
emotion.

"Louise!"

"The King!"

"Ah, my God, mademoiselle."   "Ah, my God, sire."

But a low knock at the door interrupted the lovers. The King uttered a
cry of rage; Louise one of despair.    The door opened and D'Artagnan
entered.

"Good-evening, sire," said the musketeer.

The King touched a bell. Porthos appeared in the doorway.

"Good-evening, sire."

"Arrest M. D'Artagnan."

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan, and did not move.

The King almost turned purple with rage. He again touched the hell.
Athos entered. "Count, arrest Porthos and D'Artagnan."

The Count de la Fere glanced at Porthos and D'Artagnan, and smiled
sweetly.

"Sacre! Where is Aramis?" said the King violently.

"Here, sire," and Aramis entered.

"Arrest Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan."

Aramis bowed and folded his arms.

"Arrest yourself!"

Aramis did not move.

The King shuddered and turned pale. "Am I not King of France?"

"Assuredly, sire, but we are also, severally, Porthos, Aramis,
D'Artagnan, and Athos."

"Ah!" said the King.

"Yes, sire."

"What does this mean?"

"It means, your Majesty," said Aramis, stepping forward, "that your
conduct as a married man is highly improper. I am an abbe, and I
object to these improprieties. My friends here, D'Artagnan, Athos, and
Porthos, pure-minded young men, are also terribly shocked. Observe,
sire, how they blush!"

Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan blushed.

"Ah," said the King thoughtfully. "You teach me a lesson. You are
devoted and noble young gentlemen, but your only weakness is your
excessive modesty. From this    moment I make you all marshals and
dukes, with the exception of Aramis."

"And me, sire?" said Aramis.

"You shall be an archbishop!"

The four friends looked up and then rushed into each other's arms. The
King embraced Louise de la Valliere, by way of keeping them company. A
pause ensued. At last Athos spoke,--

"Swear, my children, that, next to yourselves, you will respect--the
King of France; and remember that 'Forty years after' we will meet
again."





MISS MIX

BY CH-L-TTE BR-NTE


CHAPTER I


My earliest impressions are of a huge, misshapen rock, against which
the hoarse waves beat unceasingly. On this rock three pelicans are
standing in a defiant attitude. A dark sky lowers in the background,
while two sea-gulls and a gigantic cormorant eye with extreme disfavor
the floating corpse of a drowned woman in the foreground. A few
bracelets, coral necklaces, and other articles of jewelry, scattered
around loosely, complete this remarkable picture.

It is one which, in some vague, unconscious way, symbolizes, to my
fancy, the character of a man. I have never been able to explain
exactly why. I think I must have seen the picture in some illustrated
volume when a baby, or my mother may have dreamed it before I was
born.

As a child I was not handsome. When I consulted the triangular bit of
looking-glass which I always carried with me, it showed a pale, sandy,
and freckled face, shaded by locks like the color of seaweed when the
sun strikes it in deep water. My eyes were said to be indistinctive;
they were a faint, ashen gray; but above them rose--my only beauty--a
high, massive, domelike forehead, with polished temples, like door-
knobs of the purest porcelain.

Our family was a family of governesses. My mother had been one, and my
sisters had the same occupation. Consequently, when, at the age of
thirteen, my eldest sister  handed me the advertisement of Mr.
Rawjester, clipped from that day's "Times," I accepted it as my
destiny. Nevertheless, a mysterious presentiment of an indefinite
future haunted me in my dreams that night, as I lay upon my little
snow-white bed. The next morning, with two band-boxes tied up in silk
handkerchiefs, and a hair trunk, I turned my back upon Minerva Cottage
forever.




CHAPTER II


Blunderbore Hall, the seat of James Rawjester, Esq., was encompassed
by dark pines and funereal hemlocks on all sides. The wind sang
weirdly in the turrets and moaned through the long-drawn avenues of
the park. As I approached the house I saw several mysterious figures
flit before the windows, and a yell of demoniac laughter answered my
summons at the bell. While I strove to repress my gloomy forebodings,
the housekeeper, a timid, scared-looking old woman, showed me into the
library.

I entered, overcome with conflicting emotions. I was dressed in a
narrow gown of dark serge, trimmed with black bugles. A thick green
shawl was pinned across my breast. My hands were encased with black
half-mittens worked with steel beads; on my feet were large pattens,
originally the property of my deceased grandmother. I carried a blue
cotton umbrella. As I passed before a mirror I could not help glancing
at it, nor could I disguise from myself the fact that I was not
handsome.

Drawing a chair into a recess, I sat down with folded hands, calmly
awaiting the arrival of my master. Once or twice a fearful yell rang
through the house, or the rattling of chains, and curses uttered in a
deep, manly voice, broke upon the oppressive stillness. I began to
feel my soul rising with the emergency of the moment.   "You look
alarmed, miss. You don't hear anything, my dear, do you?" asked the
housekeeper nervously.

"Nothing whatever," I remarked calmly, as a terrific scream, followed
by the dragging of chairs and tables in the room above, drowned for a
moment my reply. "It is the silence, on the contrary, which has made
me foolishly nervous."

The housekeeper looked at me approvingly, and instantly made some tea
for me.

I drank seven cups; as I was beginning the eighth, I heard a crash,
and the next moment a man leaped into the room through the broken
window.




CHAPTER III


The crash startled me from my self-control. The housekeeper bent
toward me and whispered,--

"Don't be excited. It's Mr. Rawjester,--he prefers to come in
sometimes in this way. It's his playfulness, ha! ha! ha!"

"I perceive," I said calmly. "It's the unfettered impulse of a lofty
soul breaking the tyrannizing bonds of custom." And I turned toward
him.

He had never once looked at me. He stood with his back to the fire,
which set off the herculean breadth of his shoulders. His face was
dark and expressive; his under jaw squarely formed, and remarkably
heavy. I was struck with his remarkable likeness to a gorilla.

As he absently tied the poker into hard knots with his nervous
fingers, I watched him with some interest. Suddenly he turned toward
me:--

"Do you think I'm handsome, young woman?"

"Not classically beautiful," I returned calmly; "but you have, if I
may so express myself, an abstract manliness,--a sincere and wholesome
barbarity which, involving as it does the naturalness"--But I stopped,
for he yawned at that moment,--an action which singularly developed
the immense breadth of his lower jaw,--and I saw he had forgotten me.
Presently he turned to the houskeeper,--

"Leave us."

The old woman withdrew with a curtsey.

Mr. Rawjester deliberately turned his back upon me and remained silent
for twenty minutes. I drew my shawl the more closely around my
shoulders and closed my eyes.

"You are the governess?" at length he said.

"I am, sir."

"A creature who teaches geography, arithmetic, and the use of the
globes--ha!--a wretched remnant of femininity,--a skimp pattern of
girlhood with a premature flavor of tea-leaves and morality. Ugh!"

I bowed my head silently.

"Listen to me, girl!" he said sternly; "this child you have come to
teach--my ward--is not legitimate. She is the offspring of my
mistress,--a common harlot. Ah! Miss Mix, what do you think of me
now?"

"I admire," I replied calmly, "your sincerity. A mawkish regard for
delicacy might have kept this disclosure to yourself. I only recognize
in your frankness that perfect community of thought and sentiment
which should exist between original natures."  I looked up; he had
already forgotten my presence, and was engaged in pulling off his
boots and coat. This done, he sank down in an armchair before the
fire, and ran the poker wearily through his hair. I could not help
pitying him.

The wind howled dismally without, and the rain beat furiously against
the windows. I crept toward him and seated myself on a low stool
beside his chair.

Presently he turned, without seeing me, and placed his  foot absently
in my lap. I affected not to notice it. But he started and looked
down.

"You here yet--Carrothead? Ah, I forgot. Do you speak French?"

"Oui, Monsier."

"Taisez-vous!" he said sharply, with singular purity of accent. I
complied. The wind moaned fearfully in the chimney, and the light
burned dimly. I shuddered in spite of myself. "Ah, you tremble, girl!"

"It is a fearful night."

"Fearful! Call you this fearful? Ha! ha! ha! Look! you wretched little
atom, look!" and he dashed forward, and, leaping out of the window,
stood like a statue in the pelting storm, with folded arms. He did not
stay long, but in a few minutes returned by way of the hall chimney. I
saw from the way that he wiped his feet on my dress that he had again
forgotten my presence.

"You are a governess. What can you teach?" he asked, suddenly and
fiercely thrusting his face in mine.

"Manners!" I replied calmly.

"Ha! teach _me!_"

"You mistake yourself," I said, adjusting my mittens. "Your manners
require not the artificial restraint of society. You are radically
polite; this impetuosity and ferociousness is simply the sincerity
which is the basis of a proper deportment. Your instincts are moral;
your better nature, I see, is religious. As St. Paul justly remarks--
see chap. 6, 8, 9, and 10 "--

He seized a heavy candlestick, and threw it at me. I dodged it
submissively but firmly.

"Excuse me," he remarked, as his under jaw slowly relaxed. "Excuse me,
Miss Mix--but I can't stand St. Paul! Enough--you are engaged."




CHAPTER IV


I followed the housekeeper as she led the way timidly to my room. As
we passed into a dark hall in the wing, I noticed that it was closed
by an iron gate with a grating. Three of the doors on the corridor
were likewise grated. A strange noise, as of shuffling feet and the
howling of infuriated animals, rang through the hall. Bidding the
housekeeper good-night, and taking the candle, I entered my
bedchamber.

I took off my dress, and putting on a yellow flannel nightgown, which
I could not help feeling did not agree with my complexion, I composed
myself to rest by reading Blair's "Rhetoric" and Paley's "Moral
Philosophy." I had just put out the light, when I heard voices in the
corridor. I listened attentively. I recognized Mr. Rawjester's stern
tones.

"Have you fed No. One?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said a gruff voice, apparently belonging to a domestic.

"How's No. Two?"

"She's a little off her feed, just now, but will pick up in a day or
two."

"And No. Three?"

"Perfectly furious, sir. Her tantrums are ungovernable."

"Hush!"

The voices died away, and I sank into a fitful slumber.

I dreamed that I was wandering through a tropical forest. Suddenly I
saw the figure of a gorilla approaching me. As it neared me, I
recognized the features of Mr. Rawjester. He held his hand to his side
as if in pain. I saw that he had been wounded. He recognized me and
called me by name, but at the same moment the vision changed to an
Ashantee village, where, around the fire, a group of negroes were
dancing and participating in some wild Obi festival. I awoke with the
strain still ringing in my ears.

"Hokee-pokee wokee fum!"

Good Heavens! could I be dreaming? I heard the voice distinctly on the
floor below, and smelt something burning. I arose, with an indistinct
presentiment of evil, and hastily putting some cotton in my ears and
tying a towel about my head, I wrapped myself in a shawl and rushed
downstairs. The door of Mr. Rawjester's room was open. I entered.

Mr. Rawjester lay apparently in a deep slumber, from which even the
clouds of smoke that came from the burning curtains of his bed could
not rouse him. Around the room a large and powerful negress, scantily
attired, with her head adorned with feathers, was dancing wildly,
accompanying herself with bone castanets. It looked like some terrible
fetich.

I did not lose my calmness. After firmly emptying the pitcher, basin,
and slop-jar on the burning bed, I proceeded cautiously to the garden,
and returning with the garden engine, I directed a small stream at Mr.
Rawjester.

At my entrance the gigantic negress fled. Mr. Rawjester yawned and
woke. I explained to him, as he rose dripping from the bed, the reason
of my presence. He did not seem to be excited, alarmed, or
discomposed. He gazed at me curiously.

"So you risked your life to save mine, eh? you canary-colored teacher
of infants."

I blushed modestly, and drew my shawl tightly over my yellow flannel
nightgown.

"You love me, Mary Jane,--don't deny it! This trembling shows it!" He
drew me closely toward him, and said, with his deep voice tenderly
modulated,--"How's her pooty tootens,--did she get her 'ittle tootens
wet,--b'ess her?"

I understood his allusion to my feet. I glanced down and saw that in
my hurry I had put on a pair of his old india-rubbers. My feet were
not small or pretty, and the addition did not add to their beauty.

"Let me go, sir," I remarked quietly. "This is entirely improper; it
sets a bad example for your child." And I firmly but gently extricated
myself from his grasp. I approached the door. He seemed for a moment
buried in deep thought.

"You say this was a negress?"

"Yes, sir."

"Humph, Number One, I suppose."

"Who is Number One, sir?"

"My _first_," he remarked, with a significant and sarcastic smile.
Then, relapsing into his old manner, he threw his boots at my head, and
bade me begone. I withdrew calmly.




CHAPTER V


My pupil was a bright little girl, who spoke French with a perfect
accent. Her mother had been a "French ballet-dancer, which probably
accounted for it. Although she was only six years old, it was easy to
perceive that she had been several times in love. She once said to
me,--

"Miss Mix, did you ever have the grande passion? Did you ever feel a
fluttering here?" and she placed her hand upon her small chest, and
sighed quaintly; "a kind of distaste for bonbons and caramels, when
the world seemed as tasteless and hollow as a broken cordial drop?"

"Then you have felt it, Nina?" I said quietly.

"Oh, dear, yes. There was Buttons,--that was our page, you know,--I
loved him dearly, but papa sent him away. Then there was Dick, the
groom; but he laughed at me, and I suffered misery!" and she struck a
tragic  French attitude. "There is to be company here to-morrow," she
added, rattling on with childish naivete, "and papa's sweetheart--
Blanche Marabout--is to be here. You know they say she is to be my
mamma."

What thrill was this shot through me? But I rose calmly, and
administering a slight correction to the child, left the apartment.

Blunderbore House, for the next week, was the scene of gayety and
merriment. That portion of the mansion closed with a grating was
walled up, and the midnight shrieks no longer troubled me.

But I felt more keenly the degradation of my situation. I was obliged
to help Lady Blanche at her toilet and help her to look beautiful. For
what? To captivate him? Oh--no, no,--but why this sudden thrill and
faintness? Did he really love her? I had seen him pinch and swear at
her. But I reflected that he had thrown a candlestick at my head, and
my foolish heart was reassured.

It was a night of festivity, when a sudden message obliged Mr.
Rawjester to leave his guests for a few hours. "Make yourselves merry,
idiots," he added, under his breath, as he passed me. The door closed
and he was gone.

A half-hour passed. In the midst of the dancing a shriek was heard,
and out of the swaying crowd of fainting women and excited men a wild
figure strode into the room. One glance showed it to be a highwayman,
heavily armed, holding a pistol in each hand.

"Let no one pass out of this room!" he said, in a voice of thunder.
"The house is surrounded and you cannot escape. The first one who
crosses yonder threshold will be shot like a dog. Gentlemen, I'll
trouble you to approach in single file, and hand me your purses and
watches."

Finding resistance useless, the order was ungraciously obeyed.

"Now, ladies, please to pass up your jewelry and trinkets."

This order was still more ungraciously complied with. As Blanche
handed to the bandit captain her bracelet, she endeavored to conceal a
diamond necklace, the gift of Mr. Rawjester, in her bosom. But, with a
demoniac grin, the powerful brute tore it from its concealment, and
administering a hearty box on the ear of the young girl, flung her
aside.

It was now my turn. With a beating heart I made my way to the robber
chieftain, and sank at his feet. "Oh, sir, I am nothing but a poor
governess, pray let me go."

"Oho! A governess? Give me your last month's wages, then. Give me what
you have stolen from your master!" and he laughed fiendishly.

I gazed at him quietly, and said, in a low voice: "I have stolen
nothing from you, Mr. Rawjester!"

"Ah, discovered! Hush! listen, girl!" he hissed, in a fierce whisper;
"utter a syllable to frustrate my plans, and you die; aid me, and"--
But he was gone.

In a few moments the party, with the exception of myself, were gagged
and locked in the cellar. The next moment torches were applied to the
rich hangings, and the house was in flames. I felt a strong hand seize
me, and bear me out in the open air and place me up on the hillside,
where I could overlook the burning mansion. It was Mr. Rawjester.
"Burn!" he said, as he shook his fist at the flames. Then sinking on
his knees before me, he said hurriedly,--

"Mary Jane, I love you; the obstacles to our union are or will be soon
removed. In yonder mansion were confined my three crazy wives. One of
them, as you know, attempted to kill me! Ha! this is vengeance! But
will you be mine?"

I fell, without a word, upon his neck.





MR. MIDSHIPMAN BEEEZY

A NAVAL OFFICER

BY CAPTAIN M-RRY-T, R. N.


CHAPTER I


My father was a north-country surgeon. He had retired, a widower, from
her Majesty's navy many years before, and had a small practice in his
native village. When I was seven years old he employed me to carry
medicines to his patients. Being of a lively disposition, I sometimes
amused myself, during my daily rounds, by mixing the contents of the
different phials. Although I had no reason to doubt that the general
result of this practice was beneficial, yet, as the death of a
consumptive curate followed the addition of a strong mercurial lotion
to his expectorant, my father concluded to withdraw me from the
profession and send me to school.


Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long before
my impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his authority. I
soon began to form plans of revenge. In this I was assisted by Tom
Snaffle,--a schoolfellow. One day Tom suggested,--

"Suppose we blow him up. I've got two pounds of powder!"

"No, that's too noisy," I replied.

Tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke:--

"You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills? Couldn't you
give Grubbins something--something to make him leathery sick--eh?"
A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the
village apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol, which I
poured into Grubbins's inkstand to corrode his pens and hum up his
coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them. I boldly asked
for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me
the bottle.

It was Grubbins's custom to throw his handkerchief over his head,
recline in his chair, and take a short nap during recess. Watching my
opportunity, as he dozed, I managed to slip his handkerchief from his
face and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. In a few
minutes he was insensible. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head,
beard, and eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and
burnt cork, and fled. There was a row and scandal the next day. My
father always excused me by asserting that Grubbins had got drunk,--
but somehow found it convenient to procure me an appointment in her
Majesty's navy at an early day.




CHAPTER II


An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was
expected to join H. M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth,
without delay. In a few days I presented myself to a tall, stern-
visaged man, who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-
deck. As I touched my hat he eyed me sternly:--

"So ho! Another young suckling. The service is going to the devil.
Nothing but babes in the cockpit and grannies in the board.
Boatswain's mate, pass the word for Mr. Cheek!"

Mr. Cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat.

"Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young gentlemen. Stop! Where's Mr.
Swizzle?"   "At the masthead, sir."

"Where's Mr. Lankey?"

"At the masthead, sir."


"Mr. Briggs?"

"Masthead, too, sir."

"And the rest of the young gentlemen?" roared the enraged officer.

"All masthead, sir."

"Ah!" said Captain Boltrope, as he smiled grimly, "under the
circumstances, Mr. Breezy, you had better go to the masthead too."




CHAPTER III


At the masthead I made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my
own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there three hundred
and thirty-two days out of the year.

"In rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we
never come down," added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk
nearly as long as himself, who had been introduced to me as Mr.
Briggs. "By the way, Pills," he continued, "how did you come to omit
giving the captain a naval salute?"

"Why, I touched my hat," I said innocently.

"Yes, but that isn't enough, you know. That will do very well at other
times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on board--
greeny!"

I began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain.

"Why, you see, after touching your hat, you should have touched him
lightly with your forefinger in his waistcoat, so, and asked, 'How's
his nibs?'--you see?"

"How's his nibs?" I repeated.

"Exactly. He would have drawn back a little, and  then you should have
repeated the salute, remarking, 'How's his royal nibs?' asking
cautiously after his wife and family, and requesting to be introduced
to the gunner's daughter."

"The gunner's daughter?"

"The same; you know she takes care of us young gentlemen; now don't
forget, Pillsy!"

When we were called down to the deck I thought it a good chance to
profit by this instruction. I approached Captain Boltrope and repeated
the salute without conscientiously omitting a single detail. He
remained for a moment livid and speechless. At length he gasped out,--

"Boatswain's mate!"

"If you please, sir," I asked tremulously, "I should like to be
introduced to the gunner's daughter!"

"Oh, very good, sir!" screamed Captain Boltrope, rubbing his hands and
absolutely capering about the deck with rage. "Oh, d--n you! Of course
you shall! Oh, ho! the gunner's daughter! Oh, h--ll! this is too much!
Boatswain's mate!" Before I well knew where I was, I was seized, borne
to an eight-pounder, tied upon it, and flogged!




CHAPTER IV


As we sat together in the cockpit, picking the weevils out of our
biscuit, Briggs consoled me for my late mishap, adding that the "naval
salute," as a custom, seemed just then to be honored more in the
_breach_ than the observance. I joined in the hilarity occasioned
by the witticism, and in a few moments we were all friends. Presently
Swizzle turned to me:--

"We have just been planning how to confiscate a keg of claret, which
Nips, the purser, keeps under his bunk. The old nipcheese lies there
drunk half the day, and there's no getting at it."

"Let's get beneath the stateroom and bore through the deck, and so tap
it," said Lankey.

The proposition was received with a shout of applause. A long half-
inch auger and bit was procured from Chips, the carpenter's mate, and
Swizzle, after a careful examination of the timbers beneath the
wardroom, commenced operations. The auger at last disappeared, when
suddenly there was a slight disturbance on the deck above. Swizzle
withdrew the auger hurriedly; from its point a few bright red drops
trickled.

"Huzza! send her up again!" cried Lankey.

The auger was again applied. This time a shriek was heard from the
purser's cabin. Instantly the light was doused, and the party
retreated hurriedly to the cockpit. A sound of snoring was heard as
the sentry stuck his head into the door. "All right, sir," he replied
in answer to the voice of the officer of the deck.

The next morning we heard that Nips was in the surgeon's hands, with a
bad wound in the fleshy part of his leg, and that the auger had
_not_ struck claret.




CHAPTER V


"Now, Pills, you'll have a chance to smell powder," said Briggs as he
entered the cockpit and buckled around his waist an enormous cutlass.
"We have just sighted a French ship."

We went on deck. Captain Boltrope grinned as we touched our hats. He
hated the purser. "Come, young gentlemen, if you're boring for French
claret, yonder's a good quality. Mind your con, sir," he added,
turning to the quartermaster, who was grinning.

The ship was already cleared for action. The men, in their eagerness,
had started the coffee from the tubs and  filled them with shot.
Presently the Frenchman yawed, and a shot from a long thirty-two came
skipping over the water. It killed the quartermaster and took off both
of Lankey's legs. "Tell the purser our account is squared," said the
dying boy, with a feeble smile.

The fight raged fiercely for two hours. I remember killing the French
admiral, as we boarded, but on looking around for Briggs, after the
smoke had cleared away, I was intensely amused at witnessing the
following novel sight:

Briggs had pinned the French captain against the mast with his
cutlass, and was now engaged, with all the hilarity of youth, in
pulling the Captain's coat-tails between his legs, in imitation of a
dancing-jack. As the Frenchman lifted his legs and arms, at each jerk
of Briggs's, I could not help participating in the general mirth.

"You young devil, what are you doing?" said a stifled voice behind me.
I looked up and beheld Captain Boltrope, endeavoring to calm his stern
features, but the twitching around his mouth betrayed his intense
enjoyment of the scene. "Go to the masthead--up with you, sir!" he
repeated sternly to Briggs.

"Very good, sir," said the boy, coolly preparing to mount the shrouds.
"Good-by, Johnny Crapaud. Humph!" he added, in a tone intended for my
ear, "a pretty way to treat a hero. The service is going to the
devil!"

I thought so too.




CHAPTER VI


We were ordered to the West Indies. Although Captain Boltrope's manner
toward me was still severe, and even harsh, I understood that my name
had been favorably mentioned in the dispatches.

Reader, were you ever at Jamaica? If so, you remember the negresses,
the  oranges, Port Royal Tom--the yellow fever. After being two weeks
at the station, I was taken sick of the fever. In a month I was
delirious. During my paroxysms, I had a wild distempered dream of a
stern face bending anxiously over my pillow, a rough hand smoothing my
hair, and a kind voice saying:--

"B'ess his 'ittle heart! Did he have the naughty fever?" This face
seemed again changed to the well-known stern features of Captain
Boltrope.

When I was convalescent, a packet edged in black was put in my hand.
It contained the news of my father's death, and a sealed letter which
he had requested to be given to me on his decease. I opened it
tremblingly. It read thus:--

MY DEAR BOY,--I regret to inform you that in all probability you are
not my son. Your mother, I am grieved to say, was a highly improper
person. Who your father may be, I really cannot say, but perhaps the
Honorable Henry Boltrope, Captain R. N., may be able to inform you.
Circumstances over which I have no control have deferred this
important disclosure.  YOUR STRICKEN PARENT.

And so Captain Boltrope was my father. Heavens! Was it a dream? I
recalled his stern manner, his observant eye, his ill-concealed
uneasiness when in my presence. I longed to embrace him. Staggering to
my feet, I rushed in my scanty apparel to the deck, where Captain
Boltrope was just then engaged in receiving the Governor's wife and
daughter. The ladies shrieked; the youngest, a beautiful girl, blushed
deeply. Heeding them not, I sank at his feet, and, embracing them,
cried,--

"My father!"

"Chuck him overboard!" roared Captain Boltrope.

"Stay," pleaded the soft voice of Clara Maitland, the Governor's
daughter.

"Shave his head! he's a wretched lunatic!" continued Captain Boltrope,
while his voice trembled with excitement.

"No, let me nurse and take care of him," said the lovely girl,
blushing as she spoke. "Mamma, can't we take him home?"

The daughter's pleading was not without effect. In the meantime I had
fainted. When I recovered my senses I found myself in Governor
Maitland's mansion.




CHAPTER VII


The reader will guess what followed. I fell deeply in love with Clara
Maitland, to whom I confided the secret of my birth. The generous girl
asserted that she had detected the superiority of my manner at once.
We plighted our troth, and resolved to wait upon events.

Briggs called to see me a few days afterward. He said that the purser
had insulted the whole cockpit, and all the midshipmen had called him
out. But he added thoughtfully: "I don't see how we can arrange the
duel. You see there are six of us to fight him."

"Very easily," I replied. "Let your fellows all stand in a row, and
take his fire; that, you see, gives him six chances to one, and he
must be a bad shot if he can't hit one of you; while, on the other
hand, you see, he gets a volley from you six, and one of you 'll be
certain to fetch him."

"Exactly;" and away Briggs went, but soon returned to say that the
purser had declined,--"like a d--d coward," he added.

But the news of the sudden and serious illness of Captain Boltrope put
off the  duel. I hastened to his bedside, but too late,--an hour
previous he had given up the ghost.

I resolved to return to England. I made known the secret of my birth,
and exhibited my adopted father's letter to Lady Maitland, who at once
suggested my marriage with her daughter, before I returned to claim
the property. We were married, and took our departure next day.

I made no delay in posting at once, in company with my wife and my
friend Briggs, to my native village. Judge of my horror and surprise
when my late adopted father came out of his shop to welcome me.

"Then you are not dead!" I gasped.

"No, my dear boy."

"And this letter?"

My father--as I must still call him--glanced on the paper, and
pronounced it a forgery. Briggs roared with laughter. I turned to him
and demanded an explanation.

"Why, don't you see, Greeny, it's all a joke,--a midshipman's joke!"

"But"--I asked.

"Don't be a fool. You've got a good wife,--be satisfied."

I turned to Clara, and was satisfied. Although Mrs. Maitland never
forgave me, the jolly old Governor laughed heartily over the joke, and
so well used his influence that I soon became, dear reader, Admiral
Breezy, K. C. B.





GUY HEAVYSTONE; OR, "ENTIRE"

A MUSCULAR NOVEL

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SWORD AND GUN"


CHAPTER I

"NEREI REPANDIROSTRUM INCURVICERVICUM PECUS."


A Dingy, swashy, splashy afternoon in October; a school-yard filled
with a mob of riotous boys. A lot of us standing outside.

Suddenly came a dull, crashing sound from the schoolroom. At the
ominous interruption I shuddered involuntarily, and called to
Smithsye,--

"What's up, Smithums?"

"Guy's cleaning out the fourth form," he replied.

At the same moment George de Coverly passed me, holding his nose, from
whence the bright Norman blood streamed redly. To him the plebeian
Smithsye laughingly,--

"Cully! how's his nibs?"

I pushed the door of the schoolroom open. There are some spectacles
which a man never forgets. The burning of Troy probably seemed a
large-sized conflagration to the pious Aeneas, and made an impression
on him which he carried away with the feeble Anchises.

In the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a
steam-engine, stood Guy Heavystone alone.  I say alone, for the pile
of small boys on the floor in the corner could hardly be called
company.

I will try and sketch him for the reader. Guy Heavystone was then only
fifteen. His broad, deep chest, his sinewy and quivering flank, his
straight pastern, showed him to be a thoroughbred. Perhaps he was a
trifle heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head haughtily erect. His
eyes were glittering but pitiless. There was a sternness about the
lower part of his face,--the old Heavystone look,--a sternness
heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange
freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. His
dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame. A
striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few
spangles set off his figure; a neat Glengarry cap adorned his head. On
it was displayed the Heavystone crest, a cock _regardant_ on a dunghill
_or_, and the motto, "Devil a better!"

I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I
always make it a point to think of something classical at such times.

He saw me, and his sternness partly relaxed. Something like a smile
struggled through his grim lineaments. It was like looking on the
Jungfrau after having seen Mont Blanc,--a trifle, only a trifle less
sublime and awful. Resting his hand lightly on the shoulder of the
headmaster, who shuddered and collapsed under his touch, he strode
toward me.

His walk was peculiar. You could not call it a stride. It was like the
"crest-tossing Bellerophon,"--a kind of prancing gait. Guy Heavystone
pranced toward me.




CHAPTER II


  "Lord Lovel he stood at the garden gate,
  A-combing his milk-white steed."

It was the winter of 186- when I next met Guy Heavystone. He had left
the university and had entered the 79th "Heavies." "I have exchanged
the gown for the sword, you see," he said, grasping my hand, and
fracturing the bones of my little finger, as he shook it.

I gazed at him with unmixed admiration. He was squarer, sterner, and
in every way smarter and more remarkable than ever. I began to feel
toward this man as Phalaster felt towards Phyrgino, as somebody must
have felt toward Archididasculus, as Boswell felt toward Johnson.

"Come into my den," he said; and lifting me gently by the seat of my
pantaloons he carried me upstairs and deposited me, before I could
apologize, on the sofa. I looked around the room. It was a bachelor's
apartment, characteristically furnished in the taste of the
proprietor. A few claymores and battleaxes were ranged against the
wall, and a culverin, captured by Sir Ralph Heavystone, occupied the
corner, the other end of the room being taken up by a light battery.
Foils, boxing-gloves, saddles, and fishing-poles lay around
carelessly. A small pile of billets-doux lay upon a silver salver. The
man was not an anchorite, nor yet a Sir Galahad.

I never could tell what Guy thought of women. "Poor little beasts," he
would often say when the conversation turned on any of his fresh
conquests. Then, passing his hand over his marble brow, the old look
of stern fixedness of purpose and unflinching severity would
straighten the lines of his mouth, and he would mutter, half to
himself, "S'death!"

"Come with me to Heavystone Grange. The Exmoor hounds throw off to-
morrow. I'll give you a mount," he said, as he amused himself by
rolling up a silver candlestick between his fingers. "You shall have
Cleopatra. But stay," he added thoughtfully; "now I remember, I
ordered Cleopatra to be shot this morning."

"And why?" I queried.

"She threw her rider yesterday and fell on him"--

"And killed him?"

"No. That's the reason why I have ordered her to be shot. I keep no
animals that are not dangerous--I should add--_deadly!_" He hissed the
last sentence between his teeth, and a gloomy frown descended over his
calm brow.

I affected to turn over the tradesmen's bills that lay on the table,
for, like all of the Heavystone race, Guy seldom paid cash, and
said,--

"You remind me of the time when Leonidas"--

"Oh, bother Leonidas and your classical allusions. Come!"

We descended to dinner.




CHAPTER III


  "He carries weight, he rides a race,
   'Tis for a thousand pound."

"There is Flora Billingsgate, the greatest coquette and hardest rider
in the country," said my companion, Ralph Mortmain, as we stood upon
Dingleby Common before the meet.

I looked up and beheld Guy Heavystone bending haughtily over the
saddle, as he addressed a beautiful brunette. She was indeed a
splendidly groomed and high-spirited woman. We were near enough to
overhear the following  conversation, which any high-toned reader will
recognize as the common and natural expression of the higher classes.

"When Diana takes the field the chase is not wholly confined to
objects ferae nature," said Guy, darting a significant glance at his
companion. Flora did not shrink either from the glance or the meaning
implied in the sarcasm.

"If I were looking for an Endymion, now,"--she said archly, as she
playfully cantered over a few hounds and leaped a five-barred gate.

Guy whispered a few words, inaudible to the rest of the party, and
curveting slightly, cleverly cleared two of the huntsmen in a flying
leap, galloped up the front steps of the mansion, and, dashing at full
speed through the hall, leaped through the drawing-room window and
rejoined me, languidly, on the lawn.

"Be careful of Flora Billingsgate," he said to me, in low stern tones,
while his pitiless eye shot a baleful fire. "Gardez-vous!"

"Gnothi seauton," I replied calmly, not wishing to appear to be behind
him in perception or verbal felicity.

Guy started off in high spirits. He was well carried. He and the first
whip, a ten-stone man, were head and head at the last fence, while
the hounds were rolling over their fox a hundred yards farther in the
open.

But an unexpected circumstance occurred. Coming back, his chestnut
mare refused a ten-foot wall. She reared and fell backward. Again he
led her up to it lightly; again she refused, falling heavily from the
coping. Guy started to his feet. The old pitiless fire shone in his
eyes; the old stern look settled around his mouth. Seizing the mare by
the tail and mane he threw her over the wall. She landed twenty feet
on the other side, erect and trembling. Lightly leaping the same
obstacle himself, he remounted her. She did not refuse the wall the
next time.




CHAPTER IV


"He holds him by his glittering eye."

Guy was in the north of Ireland, cock-shooting. So Ralph Mortmain told
me, and also that the match between Mary Brandagee and Guy had been
broken off by Flora Billingsgate. "I don't like those Billingsgates,"
said Ralph, "they're a bad stock. Her father, Smithfield de
Billingsgate, had an unpleasant way of turning up the knave from the
bottom of the pack. But nous varrons; let us go and see Guy."

The next morning we started for Fin-ma-Coul's Crossing. When I reached
the shooting-box, where Guy was entertaining a select company of
friends, Flora Billingsgate greeted me with a saucy smile.  Guy was
even squarer and sterner than ever. His gusts of passion were more
frequent, and it was with difficulty that he could keep an able-bodied
servant in his family. His present retainers were more or less maimed
from exposure to the fury of their master. There was a strange
cynicism, a cutting sarcasm in his address, piercing through his
polished manner. I thought of Timon, etc., etc.

One evening, we were sitting over our Chambertin, after a hard day's
work, and Guy was listlessly turning over some letters, when suddenly
he uttered a cry. Did you ever hear the trumpeting of a wounded
elephant? It was like that.

I looked at him with consternation. He was glancing at a letter which
he held at arm's length, and snorting, as it were, at it as he gazed.
The lower part of his face was stern, but not as rigid as usual. He
was slowly grinding between his teeth the fragments of the glass he
had just been drinking from.

Suddenly he seized one of his servants, and forcing  the wretch upon
his knees, exclaimed, with the roar of a tiger,--

"Dog! why was this kept from me?"

"Why, please sir, Miss Flora said as how it was a reconciliation from
Miss Brandagee, and it was to be kept from you where you would not be
likely to see it,--and--and"--

"Speak, dog! and you"--

"I put it among your bills, sir!"

With a groan, like distant thunder, Guy fell swooning to the floor.

He soon recovered, for the next moment a servant came rushing into the
room with the information that a number of the ingenuous peasantry of
the neighborhood were about to indulge that evening in the national
pastime of burning a farmhouse and shooting a landlord. Guy smiled a
fearful smile, without, however, altering his stern and pitiless
expression.

"Let them come," he said calmly; "I feel like entertaining company."

We barricaded the doors and windows, and then chose our arms from the
armory. Guy's choice was a singular one: it was a landing-net with a
long handle, and a sharp cavalry sabre.

We were not destined to remain long in ignorance of its use. A howl
was heard from without, and a party of fifty or sixty armed men
precipitated themselves against the door.

Suddenly the window opened. With the rapidity of lightning, Guy
Heavystone cast the net over the head of the ringleader, ejaculated
"Habet!" and with a backstroke of his cavalry sabre severed the member
from its trunk, and drawing the net back again, cast the gory head
upon the floor, saying quietly,--

"One."

Again the net was cast, the steel flashed, the net was withdrawn, and
an ominous "Two!" accompanied the head as it rolled on the floor.

"Do you remember what Pliny says of the gladiator?" said Guy, calmly
wiping his sabre. "How graphic is that passage commencing 'Inter nos,'
etc." The sport continued until the heads of twenty desperadoes had
been gathered in. The rest seemed inclined to disperse. Guy
incautiously showed himself at the door; a ringing shot was heard, and
he staggered back, pierced through the heart. Grasping the doorpost in
the last unconscious throes of his mighty frame, the whole side of the
house yielded to that earthquake tremor, and we had barely time to
escape before the whole building fell in ruins. I thought of Samson,
the giant judge, etc., etc.; but all was over.

Guy Heavystone had died as he had lived,--_hard._




JOHN JENKINS

OR

THE SMOKER REFORMED

BY T. S. A-TH-R


CHAPTER I


"One cigar a day!" said Judge Boompointer.

"One cigar a day!" repeated John Jenkins, as with trepidation he
dropped his half-consumed cigar under his work-bench.

"One cigar a day is three cents a day," remarked Judge Boompointer
gravely; "and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents a
day, amounts to in the course of four years?"

John Jenkins, in his boyhood, had attended the village school, and
possessed considerable arithmetical ability. Taking up a shingle which
lay upon his work-bench, and producing a piece of chalk, with a
feeling of conscious pride he made an exhaustive calculation.

"Exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents," he replied, wiping the
perspiration from his heated brow, while his face flushed with honest
enthusiasm.

"Well, sir, if you saved three cents a day, instead of wasting it, you
would now be the possessor of a new suit of clothes, an illustrated
Family Bible, a pew in the church, a complete set of Patent Office
Reports, a hymnbook, and a paid subscription to 'Arthur's Home
Magazine,' which could be purchased  for exactly forty-three dollars
and eighty cents; and," added the Judge, with increasing sternness,
"if you calculate leap-year, which you seem to have strangely omitted,
you have three cents more, sir--_three cents more!_ What would that buy
you, sir?"

"A cigar," suggested John Jenkins; but, coloring again deeply, he hid
his face.

"No, sir," said the Judge, with a sweet smile of benevolence stealing
over his stern features; "properly invested, it would buy you that
which passeth all price. Dropped into the missionary-box, who can tell
what heathen, now idly and joyously wantoning in nakedness and sin,
might be brought to a sense of his miserable condition, and made,
through that three cents, to feel the torments of the wicked?"

With these words the Judge retired, leaving John Jenkins buried in
profound thought. "Three cents a day," he muttered. "In forty years I
might be worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten cents,--
and then I might marry Mary. Ah, Mary!" The young carpenter sighed,
and drawing a twenty-five cent daguerreotype from his vest-pocket,
gazed long and fervidly upon the features of a young girl in book
muslin and a coral necklace. Then, with a resolute expression, he
carefully locked the door of his work-shop, and departed.

Alas! his good resolutions were too late. We trifle with the tide of
fortune, which too often nips us in the bud and casts the dark shadow
of misfortune over the bright lexicon of youth! That night the half-
consumed fragment of John Jenkins's cigar set fire to his work-shop
and burned it up. together with all his tools and materials. There was
no insurance.




CHAPTER II

THE DOWNWARD PATH


"Then you still persist in marrying John Jenkins?" queried Judge
Boompointer, as he playfully, with paternal familiarity, lifted the
golden curls of the village belle, Mary Jones.

"I do," replied the fair young girl, in a low voice that resembled
rock candy in its saccharine firmness,--"I do. He has promised to
reform. Since he lost all his property by fire"--

"The result of his pernicious habit, though he illogically persists in
charging it to me," interrupted the Judge.

"Since then," continued the young girl, "he has endeavored to break
himself of the habit. He tells me that he has substituted the stalks
of the Indian rattan, the outer part of a leguminous plant called the
smoking-bean, and the fragmentary and unconsumed remainder of cigars,
which occur at rare and uncertain intervals along the road, which, as
he informs me, though deficient in quality and strength, are
comparatively inexpensive." And blushing at her own eloquence, the
young girl hid her curls on the Judge's arm.

"Poor thing!" muttered Judge Boompointer. "Dare I tell her all? Yet I
must."

"I shall cling to him," continued the young girl, rising with her
theme, "as the young vine clings to some hoary ruin. Nay, nay, chide
me not, Judge Boompointer. I will marry John Jenkins!"

The Judge was evidently affected. Seating himself at the table, he
wrote a few lines hurriedly upon a piece of paper, which he folded and
placed in the fingers of the destined bride of John Jenkins.

"Mary Jones," said the Judge, with impressive earnestness, "take this
trifle as a wedding gift from one who respects your fidelity and
truthfulness. At the altar let it be a reminder of me." And covering
his face hastily with a handkerchief, the stern and iron-willed man
left the room. As the door closed, Mary unfolded the paper. It was an
order on the corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a paper of
needles, four pounds of soap, one pound of starch, and two boxes of
matches!

"Noble and thoughtful man!" was all Mary Jones could exclaim, as she
hid her face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears.

The bells of Cloverdale are ringing merrily. It is a wedding. "How
beautiful they look!" is the exclamation that passes from lip to lip,
as Mary Jones, leaning timidly on the arm of John Jenkins, enters the
church. But the bride is agitated, and the bridegroom betrays a
feverish nervousness. As they stand in the vestibule, John Jenkins
fumbles earnestly in his vest-pocket. Can it be the ring he is anxious
about? No. He draws a small brown substance from his pocket, and
biting off a piece, hastily replaces the fragment and gazes furtively
around. Surely no one saw him? Alas! the eyes of two of that wedding
party saw the fatal act. Judge Boompointer shook his head sternly.
Mary Jones sighed and breathed a silent prayer. Her husband chewed!




CHAPTER III AND LAST


"What! more bread?" said John Jenkins gruffly. "You're always asking
for money for bread. D--nation! Do you want to ruin me by your
extravagance?" and as he uttered these words he drew from his pocket a
bottle of  whiskey, a pipe,  and a paper of tobacco. Emptying the
first at a draught, he threw the empty bottle at the head of his
eldest boy, a youth of twelve summers. The missile struck the child
full in the temple, and stretched him a lifeless corpse. Mrs. Jenkins,
whom the reader will hardly recognize as the once gay and beautiful
Mary Jones, raised the dead body of her son in her arms, and carefully
placing the unfortunate youth beside the pump in the back yard,
returned with saddened step to the house. At another time, and in
brighter days, she might have wept at the occurrence. She was past
tears now.

"Father, your conduct is reprehensible!" said little Harrison Jenkins,
the youngest boy. "Where do you expect to go when you die?"

"Ah!" said John Jenkins fiercely; "this comes of giving children a
liberal education; this is the result of Sabbath-schools. Down,
viper!"

A tumbler thrown from the same parental fist laid out the youthful
Harrison cold. The four other children had, in the mean time, gathered
around the table with anxious expectancy. With a chuckle, the now
changed and brutal John Jenkins produced four pipes, and filling them
with tobacco, handed one to each of his offspring and bade them smoke.
"It's better than bread!" laughed the wretch hoarsely.

Mary Jenkins, though of a patient nature, felt it her duty now to
speak. "I have borne much, John Jenkins," she said. "But I prefer that
the children should not smoke. It is an unclean habit, and soils their
clothes. I ask this as a special favor!"

John Jenkins hesitated,--the pangs of remorse began to seize him.

"Promise me this, John!" urged Mary upon her knees.

"I promise!" reluctantly answered John.

"And you will put the money in a savings-bank?"

"I will," repeated her husband; "and I'll give up smoking, too."

"'Tis well, John Jenkins!" said Judge Boompointer, appearing suddenly
from behind the door, where he had been concealed during this
interview. "Nobly said! my man. Cheer up! I will see that the children
are decently buried." The husband and wife fell into each other's
arms. And Judge Boompointer, gazing upon the affecting spectacle,
burst into tears.

From that day John Jenkins was an altered man.





FANTINE

AFTER THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO


PROLOGUE


  As long as there shall exist three paradoxes, a moral Frenchman, a
  religious   atheist, and a believing skeptic; so long, in fact, as
  booksellers shall wait--say twenty-live years--for a new gospel;
  so long as paper shall remain cheap and ink three sous a bottle, I
  have no hesitation in saying that such books as these are not
  utterly profitless. VICTOR HUGO.

To be good is to be queer. What is a good man? Bishop Myriel.

My friend, you will possibly object to this. You will say you know
what a good man is. Perhaps you will say your clergyman is a good man,
for instance.  Bah! you are mistaken; you are an Englishman, and an
Englishman is a beast.

Englishmen think they are moral when they are only serious. These
Englishmen also wear ill-shaped hats, and dress horribly!

Bah! they are canaille.

Still, Bishop Myriel was a good man,--quite as good as you. Better
than you, in fact.

One day M. Myriel was in Paris. This angel used to walk about the
streets like any other man. He was not proud, though fine-looking.
Well, three gamins de Paris called him bad names. Says one,--

"Ah, mon Dieu! there goes a priest; look out for your eggs and
chickens!"    What did this good man do? He called to them kindly.

"My children," said he, "this is clearly not your fault. I recognize
in this insult and irreverence only the fault of your immediate
progenitors. Let us pray for your immediate progenitors."

They knelt down and prayed for their immediate progenitors.

The effect was touching.

The Bishop looked calmly around.

"On reflection," said he gravely, "I was mistaken; this is clearly the
fault of Society. Let us pray for Society."

They knelt down and prayed for Society.

The effect was sublimer yet. What do you think of that? You, I mean.

Everybody remembers the story of the Bishop and Mother Nez Retrousse.
Old Mother Nez Retrousse sold asparagus. She was poor; there's a great
deal of meaning in that word, my friend. Some people say "poor but
honest." I say, Bah!

Bishop Myriel bought six bunches of asparagus. This good man had one
charming failing: he was fond of asparagus. He gave her a franc, and
received three sous change.

The sous were bad,--counterfeit. What did this good Bishop do? He
said: "I should not have taken change from a poor woman."

Then afterwards, to his housekeeper: "Never take change from a poor
woman."

Then he added to himself: "For the sous will probably be bad."




II


When a man commits a crime, Society claps him in prison. A prison is
one of the  worst hotels imaginable.

The people there are low and vulgar. The butter is bad, the coffee is
green. Ah, it is horrible!

In prison, as in a bad hotel, a man soon loses, not only his morals,
but what is much worse to a Frenchman, his sense of refinement and
delicacy.

Jean Valjean came from prison with confused notions of Society. He
forgot the modern peculiarities of hospitality. So he walked off with
the Bishop's candlesticks.

Let us consider. Candlesticks were stolen; that was evident. Society
put Jean Valjean in prison; that was evident, too. In prison, Society
took away his refinement; that is evident, likewise.

Who is Society?

You and I are Society.

My friend, you and I stole those candlesticks!




III


The Bishop thought so, too. He meditated profoundly for six days. On
the morning of the seventh he went to the Prefecture of Police.

He said: "Monsieur, have me arrested. I have stolen candlesticks."

The official was governed by the law of Society, and refused.

What did this Bishop do?

He had a charming ball and chain made, affixed to his leg, and wore it
the rest of his life. This is a fact!




IV


Love is a mystery.

A little friend of mine down in the country, at Auvergne, said to me
one day: "Victor, Love is the world,--it contains everything."

She was only sixteen, this sharp-witted little girl, and a beautiful
blonde. She thought everything of me.

Fantine was one of those women who do wrong in the most virtuous and
touching manner. This is a peculiarity of French grisettes.


You are an Englishman, and you don't understand. Learn, my friend,
learn. Come to Paris and improve your morals.

Fantine was the soul of modesty. She always wore high-neck dresses.
High-neck dresses are a sign of modesty.

Fantine loved Tholmoyes. Why? My God! What are you to do? It was the
fault of her parents, and she hadn't any. How shall you teach her? You
must teach the parent if you wish to educate the child. How would you
become virtuous?

Teach your grandmother!




V


When Tholmoyes ran away from Fantine,--which was done in a charming,
gentlemanly manner,--Fantine became convinced that a rigid sense of
propriety might look upon her conduct as immoral. She was a creature
of sensitiveness,--and her eyes were opened.

She was virtuous still, and resolved to break off the liaison at once.

So she put up her wardrobe and baby in a bundle, child as she was, she
loved them both,--then left Paris.




VI


Fantine's native place had changed.

M. Madeline--an angel, and inventor of jet-work--had been teaching the
villagers how to make spurious jet.

This is a progressive age. Those Americans--children of the West,--
they make nutmegs out of wood.

I, myself, have seen hams made of pine, in the wigwams of those
children of the forest.

But civilization has acquired deception too. Society is made up of
deception. Even the best French society.

Still there was one sincere episode.

Eh?

The French Revolution!




VII


M. Madeline was, if anything, better than Myriel.

M. Myriel was a saint. M. Madeline a good man.

M. Myriel was dead. M. Madeline was living.

That made all the difference.

M. Madeline made virtue profitable. I have seen it written,--

"Be virtuous and you will be happy."

Where did I see this written? In the modern Bible? No. In the Koran?
No. In Rousseau? No. Diderot? No. Where then?

In a copy-book.




VIII


M. Madeline was M. le Maire.

This is how it came about.

For a long time he refused the honor. One day an old woman, standing
on the steps, said,--

"Bah, a good mayor is a good thing.

"You are a good thing.

"Be a good mayor."

This woman was a rhetorician. She understood inductive ratiocination.




IX


When this good M. Madeline, who, the reader will perceive, must have
been a former convict, and a very bad man, gave himself up to justice
as the real Jean Valjean, about this same time, Fantine was turned
away from the manufactory, and met with a number of losses from
Society. Society attacked her, and this is what she lost:--

First her lover.

Then her child.

Then her place.

Then her hair.

Then her teeth.

Then her liberty.

Then her life.

What do you think of Society after that? I tell you the present social
system is a humbug.




X


This is necessarily the end of Fantine.

There are other things that will be stated in other volumes to follow.
Don't be alarmed; there are plenty of miserable people left.

Au revoir--my friend.





"LA FEMME"

AFTER THE FRENCH OF M. MICHELET


I

WOMEN AS AN INSTITUTION


"If it were not for women, few of us would at present be in
existence." This is the remark of a cautious and discreet writer. He
was also sagacious and intelligent.

Woman! Look upon her and admire her. Gaze upon her and love her. If
she wishes to embrace you, permit her. Remember she is weak and you
are strong.

But don't treat her unkindly. Don't make love to another woman before
her face, even if she be your wife. Don't do it. Always be polite,
even should she fancy somebody better than you.

If your mother, my dear Amadis, had not fancied your father better
than somebody, you might have been that somebody's son. Consider this.
Always be a philosopher, even about women.

Few men understand women. Frenchmen, perhaps, better than any one
else. I am a Frenchman.




II

THE INFANT


She is a child--a little thing--an infant.

She has a mother and father. Let us suppose, for example, they are
married. Let us be moral if we cannot be  happy and free--they are
married--perhaps--they love one another--who knows?

But she knows nothing of this; she is an infant--a small thing--a
trifle!

She is not lovely at first. It is cruel, perhaps, but she is red, and
positively ugly. She feels this keenly, and cries. She weeps. Ah, my
God, how she weeps! Her cries and lamentations now are really
distressing.

Tears stream from her in floods. She feels deeply and copiously, like
M. Alphonse de Lamartine in his "Confessions."

If you are her mother, Madame, you will fancy worms; you will examine
her linen for pins, and what not. Ah, hypocrite! you, even _you_,
misunderstand her.

Yet she has charming natural impulses. See how she tosses her dimpled
arms. She looks longingly at her mother. She has a language of her
own. She says, "goo, goo," and "ga, ga." She demands something--this
infant!

She is faint, poor thing. She famishes. She wishes to be restored.
Restore her, Mother!  _It is the first duty of a mother to restore
her child!_




III

THE DOLL


She is hardly able to walk; she already totters under the weight of a
doll.

It is a charming and elegant affair. It has pink cheeks and purple-
black hair. She prefers brunettes, for she has already, with the quick
knowledge of a French infant, perceived she is a blonde, and that her
doll cannot rival her. Mon Dieu, how touching! Happy child! She spends
hours in preparing its toilet. She begins to show her taste  in the
exquisite details of its dress. She loves it madly, devotedly. She
will prefer it to bonbons. She already anticipates the wealth of love
she will hereafter pour out on her lover, her mother, her father, and
finally, perhaps, her husband.

This is the time the anxious parent will guide these first
outpourings. She will read her extracts from Michelet's "L'Amour,"
Rousseau's "Heloise," and the "Revue des deux Mondes."




IV

THE MUD PIE


She was in tears to-day.

She had stolen away from her bonne and was with some rustic infants.
They had noses in the air, and large, coarse hands and feet.

They had seated themselves around a pool in the road, and were
fashioning fantastic shapes in the clayey soil with their hands. Her
throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with delight as, for the first
time, her soft palms touched the plastic mud. She made a graceful and
lovely pie. She stuffed it with stones for almonds and plums. She
forgot everything. It was being baked in the solar rays, when madame
came and took her away.

She weeps. It is night, and she is weeping still.




V

THE FIRST LOVE


She no longer doubts her beauty. She is loved.

She saw him secretly. He is vivacious and sprightly. He is famous. He
has already had an affair with Finfin,  the fille de chambre, and poor
Finfin is desolate. He is noble. She knows he is the son of Madame la
Baronne Couturiere. She adores him.

She affects not to notice him. Poor little thing! Hippolyte is
distracted--annihilated--inconsolable and charming.

She admires his boots, his cravat, his little gloves--his exquisite
pantaloons--his coat, and cane.

She offers to run away with him. He is transported, but magnanimous.
He is wearied, perhaps. She sees him the next day offering flowers to
the daughter of Madame la Comtesse Blanchisseuse.

She is again in tears.

She reads "Paul et Virginie." She is secretly transported. When she
reads how the exemplary young woman laid down her life rather than
appear en deshabille to her lover, she weeps again. Tasteful and
virtuous Bernardin de Saint-Pierre!--the daughters of France admire
you!

All this time her doll is headless in the cabinet. The mud pie is
broken on the road.




VI

THE WIFE


She is tired of loving, and she marries.

Her mother thinks it, on the whole, the best thing. As the day
approaches, she is found frequently in tears. Her mother will not
permit the affianced one to see her, and he makes several attempts to
commit suicide.

But something happens. Perhaps it is winter, and the water is cold.
Perhaps there are not enough people present to witness his  heroism.

In this way her future husband is spared to her. The ways of
Providence are indeed mysterious. At this time  her mother will talk
with her. She will offer philosophy. She will tell her she was married
herself.

But what is this new and ravishing light that breaks upon her? The
toilet and wedding clothes! She is in a new sphere.


She makes out her list in her own charming writing. Here it is. Let
every mother heed it. [Footnote: The  delicate reader will appreciate
the omission of certain  articles for which English synonyms are
forbidden.]

       *       *       *       *       *

She is married. On the day after, she meets her old lover, Hippolyte.
He is again transported.




VII

HER OLD AGE


A Frenchwoman never grows old.





THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD

BY SIR ED-D L-TT-N B-LW-R


BOOK I

THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL


It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham, and was
proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual
faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had
slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly
appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of
his boots. Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around, at a
little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack.
Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low
stool, he waited the application of the polisher's art. "'Tis true,"
said Sir Edward to himself, yet half aloud, "the contact of the Foul
and the Disgusting mars the general effect of the Shiny and the
Beautiful--and, yet, why am I here? I repeat it, calmly and
deliberately--why am I here? Ha! Boy!"

The Boy looked up--his dark Italian eyes glanced intelligently at the
Philosopher, and as with one hand he tossed back his glossy curls from
his marble brow, and with the other he spread the equally glossy Day &
Martin over the Baronet's boot, he answered in deep, rich tones: "The
Ideal is subjective to the Real. The exercise of apperception gives a
distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject to the limits
of ME. You are an admirer of the  Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots
blacked. The Beautiful is attainable by means of the Coin."

"Ah," said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon the almost supernal
beauty of the Child before him; "you speak well. You have read Kant."

The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of Kant from his blouse, but in
his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the
ground. The Baronet picked them up.

"Ah!" said the Philosopher, "what's this? Cicero's 'De Sonertute,'--at
your age, too! Martial's 'Epigrams,' Caesar's 'Commentaries.' What! a
classical scholar?"

"E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum. Nihil fit!" said the
Boy enthusiastically. The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange
presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over the brow of the Boy
glittered the pale nimbus of the Student.

"Ah, and Schiller's 'Robbers,' too?" queried the Philosopher.

"Das ist ausgespielt," said the Boy modestly.

"Then you have read my translation of Schiller's 'Ballads'?"
continued the Baronet, with some show of interest.

"I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original," said the Boy,
with intellectual warmth. "You have shown how in Actual life we strive
for a Goal we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable,
and there effort is victory. You have given us the Antithesis which is
a key to the Remainder, and constantly balances before us the
conditions of the Actual and the privileges of the Ideal."

"My very words," said the Baronet; "wonderful, wonderful!" and he
gazed fondly at the Italian boy, who again resumed his menial
employment. Alas! the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had
been absorbed in the Boy.

But Sir Edward's boots were blacked, and he turned to  depart. Placing
his hand upon the clustering tendrils that surrounded the classic nob
of the infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant
music,--

"Boy, you have done well. Love the Good. Protect the Innocent. Provide
for the Indigent. Respect the Philosopher.... Stay! Can you tell me
what _is_ The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent, The Virtuous?"

"They are things that commence with a capital letter," said the Boy
promptly.

"Enough! Respect everything that commences with a capital letter!
Respect ME!" and dropping a halfpenny in the hand of the boy, he
departed.

The Boy gazed fixedly at the coin. A frightful and instantaneous
change overspread his features. His noble brow was corrugated with
baser lines of calculation. His black eye, serpent-like, glittered with
suppressed passion. Dropping upon his hands and feet, he crawled to the
curbstone, and hissed after the retreating form of the Baronet the
single word--

"Bilk!"




BOOK II

IN THE WORLD


"Eleven years ago," said Sir Edward to himself, as his brougham slowly
rolled him toward the Committee Room, "just eleven years ago my
natural son disappeared mysteriously. I have no doubt in the world but
that this little bootblack is he. His mother died in Italy. He
resembles his mother very much. Perhaps I ought to provide for him.
Shall I disclose myself? No! no! Better he should taste the sweets of
Labor. Penury ennobles the mind and kindles the Love of the Beautiful.
I will act to him, not like a Father, not like a Guardian, not like a
Friend--but like a Philosopher!"    With these words, Sir Edward
entered the Committee Room. His Secretary approached him. "Sir Edward,
there are fears of a division in the House, and the Prime Minister has
sent for you."

"I will be there," said Sir Edward, as he placed his hand on his chest
and uttered a hollow cough!

No one who heard the Baronet that night, in his sarcastic and
withering speech on the Drainage and Sewerage Bill, would have
recognized the Lover of the Ideal and the Philosopher of the
Beautiful. No one who listened to his eloquence would have dreamed of
the Spartan resolution this iron man had taken in regard to the Lost
Boy--his own beloved Lionel. None!

"A fine speech from Sir Edward to-night," said Lord Billingsgate, as,
arm and arm with the Premier, he entered his carriage.

"Yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!"

"Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are entirely gone; he breathes
entirely by an effort of will, and altogether independent of pulmonary
assistance."

"How strange!" And the carriage rolled away.




BOOK III

THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD


"Adon Ai, appear! appear!"

And as the Seer spoke, the awful Presence glided out of Nothingness,
and sat, sphinx-like, at the feet of the Alchemist.

"I am come!" said the Thing.

"You should say, 'I have come,'--it's better grammar," said the Boy-
Neophyte, thoughtfully accenting the substituted expression.

"Hush, rash Boy," said the Seer sternly. "Would you  oppose your
feeble knowledge to the infinite intelligence of the Unmistakable? A
word, and you are lost forever."

The Boy breathed a silent prayer, and handing a sealed package to the
Seer, begged him to hand it to his father in case of his premature
decease.

"You have sent for me," hissed the Presence. "Behold me,
Apokatharticon,--the Unpronounceable. In me all things exist that are
not already coexistent. I am the Unattainable, the Intangible, the
Cause, and the Effect. In me observe the Brahma of Mr. Emerson; not
only Brahma himself, but also the sacred musical composition rehearsed
by the faithful Hindoo. I am the real Gyges. None others are genuine."

And the veiled Son of the Starbeam laid himself loosely about the
room, and permeated Space generally.

"Unfathomable Mystery," said the Rosicrucian in a low, sweet voice.
"Brave Child with the Vitreous Optic! Thou who pervadest all things
and rubbest against us without abrasion of the cuticle. I command
thee, speak!"

And the misty, intangible, indefinite Presence spoke.




BOOK IV

MYSELF


After the events related in the last chapter, the reader will perceive
that nothing was easier than to reconcile Sir Edward to his son Lionel,
nor to resuscitate the beautiful Italian girl, who, it appears, was
not dead, and to cause Sir Edward to marry his first and boyish love,
whom he had deserted. They were married in St. George's, Hanover
Square. As the bridal party stood before the altar, Sir Edward, with a
sweet, sad smile, said in quite his old manner,--

"The Sublime and Beautiful are the Real; the only Ideal  is the
Ridiculous and Homely. Let us always remember this. Let us through
life endeavor to personify the virtues, and always begin 'em with a
capital letter. Let us, whenever we can find an opportunity, deliver
our sentiments in the form of roundhand copies. Respect the Aged.
Eschew Vulgarity. Admire Ourselves. Regard the Novelist."





N N.

BEING A NOVEL IN THE FRENCH PARAGRAPHIC STYLE


--Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I love you.

--You who read these pages. You who turn your burning eyes upon these
words--words that I trace--ah, heaven! the thought maddens me.

--I will be calm. I will imitate the reserve of the festive
Englishman, who wears a spotted handkerchief which he calls a Belchio,
who eats biftek, and caresses a bulldog. I will subdue myself like
him.

--Ha! Poto-beer! All right--Goddam!

--Or, I will conduct myself as the free-born American--the gay Brother
Jonathan. I will whittle me a stick. I will whistle to myself "Yankee
Doodle," and forget my passion in excessive expectoration.

--Ho! ho!--wake snakes and walk chalks.

The world is divided into two great divisions,--Paris and the
provinces. There is but one Paris. There are several provinces, among
which may be numbered England, America, Russia, and Italy.

N N. was a Parisian.

But N N. did not live in Paris. Drop a Parisian in the provinces, and
you drop a part of Paris with him. Drop him in Senegambia, and in
three days he will give you an omelette soufflee, or a pate de foie
gras, served by the neatest of Senegambian filles, whom he will call
mademoiselle. In three weeks he will give you an opera.

N N. was not dropped in Senegambia, but in San Francisco,--quite as
awkward.

They find gold in San Francisco, but they don't understand gilding.

N N. existed three years in this place. He became bald on the top of
his head, as all Parisians do. Look down from your box at the Opera
Comique, mademoiselle, and count the bald crowns of the fast young men
in the pit. Ah--you tremble! They show where the arrows of love have
struck and glanced off.

N N. was almost near-sighted, as all Parisians finally become. This is
a gallant provision of nature to spare them the mortification of
observing that their lady friends grow old. After a certain age every
woman is handsome to a Parisian.

One day, N N. was walking down Washington Street. Suddenly he stopped.

He was standing before the door of a mantua-maker. Beside the counter,
at the farther extremity of the shop, stood a young and elegantly
formed woman. Her face was turned from N N. He entered. With a
plausible excuse and seeming indifference, he gracefully opened
conversation with the mantua-maker as only a Parisian can. But he had
to deal with a Parisian. His attempts to view the features of the fair
stranger by the counter were deftly combated by the shopwoman. He was
obliged to retire.

N N. went home and lost his appetite. He was haunted by the elegant
basque and graceful shoulders of the fair unknown, during the whole
night.

The next day he sauntered by the mantua-maker. Ah! Heavens! A thrill
ran through his frame, and his fingers tingled with a delicious
electricity. The fair inconnue was there! He raised his hat
gracefully. He was not certain, but he thought that a slight motion of
her faultless bonnet betrayed recognition. He would have wildly darted
into  the shop, but just then the figure of the mantua-maker appeared
in the doorway.

--Did monsieur wish anything?

--Misfortune! Desperation. N N. purchased a bottle of Prussic acid, a
sack of charcoal, and a quire of pink note-paper, and returned home.
He wrote a letter of farewell to the closely fitting basque, and
opened the bottle of Prussic acid.

Some one knocked at his door. It was a Chinaman, with his weekly
linen.

These Chinese are docile, but not intelligent. They are ingenious, but
not creative. They are cunning in expedients, but deficient in tact.
In love they are simply barbarous. They purchase their wives openly,
and not constructively by attorney. By offering small sums for their
sweethearts, they degrade the value of the sex.

Nevertheless, N N. felt he was saved. He explained all to the faithful
Mongolian, and exhibited the letter he had written. He implored him to
deliver it.

The Mongolian assented. The race are not cleanly or sweet-savored, but
N N. fell upon his neck. He embraced him with one hand, and closed his
nostrils with the other. Through him, he felt he clasped the close-
fitting basque.

The next day was one of agony and suspense. Evening came, but no
mercy. N N. lit the charcoal. But, to compose his nerves, he closed
his door and first walked mildly up and down Montgomery Street. When
he returned, he found the faithful Mongolian on the steps.

--All lity!

These Chinese are not accurate in their pronunciation. They avoid the
_r_, like the English nobleman.

N N. gasped for breath. He leaned heavily against the Chinaman.

--Then you have seen her, Ching Long?

--Yes. All lity. She cum. Top side of house.

The docile barbarian pointed up the stairs, and chuckled.

--She here--impossible! Ah, Heaven! do I dream?

--Yes. All lity,--top side of house. Good-by, John.

This is the familiar parting epithet of the Mongolian. It is
equivalent to our au revoir.

N N. gazed with a stupefied air on the departing servant.

He placed his hand on his throbbing heart. She here,--alone beneath
this roof? Oh, heavens,--what happiness!

But how? Torn from her home. Ruthlessly dragged, perhaps, from her
evening devotions, by the hands of a relentless barbarian. Could she
forgive him?

He dashed frantically up the stairs. He opened the door.

She was standing beside his couch with averted face.

A strange giddiness overtook him. He sank upon his knees at the
threshold.

--Pardon, pardon. My angel, can you forgive me?

A terrible nausea now seemed added to the fearful giddiness. His
utterance grew thick and sluggish.

--Speak, speak, enchantress. Forgiveness is all I ask. My Love, my
Life!

She did not answer. He staggered to his feet. As he rose, his eyes
fell on the pan of burning charcoal. A terrible suspicion flashed
across his mind. This giddiness--this nausea. The ignorance of the
barbarian. This silence. Oh, merciful heavens! she was dying!

He crawled toward her. He touched her. She fell forward with a
lifeless sound upon the floor. He uttered a piercing shriek, and threw
himself beside her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A file of gendarmes, accompanied by the Chef Burke, found him the next
morning lying lifeless upon the floor. They laughed brutally--these
cruel minions of the law--and disengaged his arm from the waist of the
wooden  dummy which they had come to reclaim, from the mantua-maker.

Emptying a few bucketfuls of water over his form, they finally
succeeded in robbing him, not only of his mistress, but of that Death
he had coveted without her.

Ah! we live in a strange world, messieurs.





NO TITLE

BY W-LK-E C-LL-NS


PROLOGUE


The following advertisement appeared in the "Times" of the 17th of
June, 1845:--

WANTED.--A few young men for a light, genteel employment. Address J.
W., P. 0.

In the same paper, of same date, in another column:--

TO LET.--That commodious and elegant family mansion, No. 27 Limehouse
Road, Pultneyville, will be rented low to a respectable tenant  if
applied for immediately, the family being about to remove to the
Continent.

Under the local intelligence, in another column:--

MISSING.--An unknown elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings in
the Kent Road, since which nothing has been heard of him. He left no
trace of his identity except a portmanteau containing a couple of
shirts marked "209, Ward."

To find the connection between the mysterious disappearance of the
elderly gentleman and the anonymous communication, the relevancy of
both these incidents to the letting of a commodious family mansion,
and the dead secret  involved in the three occurrences, is the task of
the writer of this history.

A slim young man with spectacles, a large hat, drab gaiters, and a
notebook, sat late that night with a copy of the "Times" before him,
and a pencil which he rattled nervously between his teeth in the
coffee-room of the Blue Dragon.




CHAPTER I

MARY JONES'S NARRATIVE


I am upper housemaid to the family that live at No. 27 Limehouse Road,
Pultneyville. I have been requested by Mr. Wilkey Collings, which I
takes the liberty of here stating is a gentleman born and bred, and
has some consideration for the feelings of servants, and is not above
rewarding them for their trouble, which is more than you can say for
some who ask questions and gets short answers enough, gracious knows,
to tell what I know about them. I have been requested to tell my story
in my own langwidge, though, being no schollard, mind cannot conceive.
I think my master is a brute. Do not know that he has ever attempted
to poison my missus,--which is too good for him, and how she ever came
to marry him, heart only can tell,--but believe him to be capable of
any such hatrosity. Have heard him swear dreadful because of not
having his shaving-water at nine o'clock precisely. Do not know
whether he ever forged a will or tried to get my missus's property,
although, not having confidence in the man, should not be surprised if
he had done so. Believe that there was always something mysterious in
his conduct. Remember distinctly how the family left home to go
abroad. Was putting up my back hair, last Saturday morning, when I
heard a ring. Says cook, "That's missus's bell, and mind you hurry or
the master 'ill know why." Says    I, "Humbly thanking you, mem, but
taking advice of them as is competent to give it, I'll take my time."
Found missus dressing herself and master growling as usual. Says
missus, quite cairn and easy-like, "Mary, we begin to pack to-day."
"What for, mem?" says I, taken aback. "What's that hussy asking?" says
master from the bedclothes quite savage-like. "For the Continent--
Italy," says missus. "Can you go, Mary?" Her voice was quite gentle
and saintlike, but I knew the struggle it cost, and says I, "With you,
mem, to India's torrid clime, if required, but with African Gorillas,"
says I, looking toward the bed, "never." "Leave the room," says
master, starting up and catching of his bootjack. "Why, Charles!" says
missus, "how you talk!" affecting surprise. "Do go, Mary," says she,
slipping a half-crown into my hand. I left the room, scorning to take
notice of the odious wretch's conduct.

Cannot say whether my master and missus were ever legally married.
What with the dreadful state of morals nowadays and them stories in
the circulating libraries, innocent girls don't know into what society
they might be obliged to take situations. Never saw missus's marriage
certificate, though I have quite accidental-like looked in her desk
when open, and would have seen it. Do not know of any lovers missus
might have had. Believe she had a liking for John Thomas, footman, for
she was always spiteful-like--poor lady--when we were together--though
there was nothing between us, as cook well knows, and dare not deny,
and missus needn't have been jealous. Have never seen arsenic or
Prussian acid in any of the private drawers--but have seen paregoric
and camphor. One of my master's friends was a Count Moscow, a Russian
papist--which I detested.




CHAPTER II

THE SLIM YOUNG MAN'S STORY


I am by profession a reporter, and writer for the press. I live at
Pultneyville. I have always had a passion for the marvelous, and have
been distinguished for my facility in tracing out mysteries, and
solving enigmatical occurrences. On the night of the 17th June, 1845,
I left my office and walked homeward. The night was bright and
starlight. I was revolving in my mind the words of a singular item I
had just read in the "Times." I had reached the darkest portion of the
road, and found myself mechanically repeating: "An elderly gentleman a
week ago left his lodgings on the Kent Road," when suddenly I heard a
step behind me.

I turned quickly, with an expression of horror in my face, and by the
light of the newly risen moon beheld an elderly gentleman, with green
cotton umbrella, approaching me. His hair, which was snow white, was
parted over a broad, open forehead. The expression of his face, which
was slightly flushed, was that of amiability verging almost upon
imbecility. There was a strange, inquiring look about the widely
opened mild blue eye,--a look that might have been intensified to
insanity or modified to idiocy. As he passed me, he paused and partly
turned his face, with a gesture of inquiry. I see him still, his white
locks blowing in the evening breeze, his hat a little on the back of
his head, and his figure painted in relief against the dark blue sky.

Suddenly he turned his mild eye full upon me. A weak smile played
about his thin lips. In a voice which had something of the
tremulousness of age and the self-satisfied  chuckle of imbecility in
it, he asked, pointing to the rising moon, "Why?--Hush!"

He had dodged behind me, and appeared to be looking anxiously down the
road. I could feel his aged frame shaking with terror as he laid his
thin hands upon my shoulders and faced me in the direction of the
supposed danger.

"Hush! did you not hear them coming?"

I listened; there was no sound but the soughing of the roadside trees
in the evening wind. I endeavored to reassure him, with such success
that in a few moments the old weak smile appeared on his benevolent
face.

"Why?"--But the look of interrogation was succeeded by a hopeless
blankness.

"Why?" I repeated with assuring accents.

"Why," he said, a gleam of intelligence flickering over his face, "is
yonder moon, as she sails in the blue empyrean, casting a flood of
light o'er hill and dale, like--Why," he repeated, with a feeble
smile, "is yonder moon, as she sails in the blue empyrean"--He
hesitated,--stammered,--and gazed at me hopelessly, with the tears
dripping from his moist and widely opened eyes.

I took his hand kindly in my own. "Casting a shadow o'er hill and
dale," I repeated quietly, leading him up to the subject, "like--Come,
now."

"Ah!" he said, pressing my hand tremulously, "you know it?"

"I do. Why is it like--the--eh--the commodious mansion on the
Limehouse Road?"

A blank stare only followed. He shook his head sadly.

"Like the young men wanted for a light, genteel employment?"

He wagged his feeble old head cunningly.

"Or, Mr. Ward," I said, with bold confidence, "like the mysterious
disappearance from the Kent Road?"    The moment was full of suspense.
He did not seem to hear me. Suddenly he turned.

"Ha!"

I darted forward. But he had vanished in the darkness.




CHAPTER III

NO. 27 LIMEHOUSE ROAD


It was a hot midsummer evening. Limehouse Road was deserted save by
dust and a few rattling butchers' carts, and the bell of the muffin
and crumpet man. A commodious mansion, which stood on the right of the
road as you enter Pultneyville, surrounded by stately poplars and a
high fence surmounted by a cheval de frise of broken glass, looked to
the passing and footsore pedestrian like the genius of seclusion and
solitude. A bill announcing in the usual terms that the house was to
let hung from the bell at the servants' entrance.

As the shades of evening closed, and the long shadows of the poplars
stretched across the road, a man carrying a small kettle stopped and
gazed, first at the bill and then at the house. When he had reached
the corner of the fence, he again stopped and looked cautiously up and
down the road. Apparently satisfied with the result of his scrutiny,
he deliberately sat himself down in the dark shadow of the fence, and
at once busied himself in some employment, so well concealed as to be
invisible to the gaze of passers-by. At the end of an hour he retired
cautiously.

But not altogether unseen. A slim young man, with spectacles and
notebook, stepped from behind a tree as the retreating figure of the
intruder was lost in the twilight, and transferred from the fence to
his notebook the freshly stenciled inscription, "S--T--1860--X."




CHAPTER IV

COUNT MOSCOW'S NARRATIVE


I am a foreigner. Observe! To be a foreigner in England is to be
mysterious, suspicious, intriguing. M. Collins has requested the
history of my complicity with certain occurrences. It is nothing, bah!
absolutely nothing.  I write with ease and fluency. Why should I not
write? Tra-la-la! I am what you English call corpulent. Ha, ha! I am a
pupil of Macchiavelli. I find it much better to disbelieve everything,
and to approach my subject and wishes circuitously than in a direct
manner. You have observed that playful animal, the cat. Call it, and
it does not come to you directly, but rubs itself against all the
furniture in the room, and reaches you finally--and scratches. Ah, ha,
scratches! I am of the feline species. People call me a villain--bah!

I know the family living No. 27 Limehouse Road. I respect the
gentleman,--a fine, burly specimen of your Englishman,--and madame,
charming, ravishing, delightful. When it became known to me that they
designed to let their delightful residence, and visit foreign shores,
I at once called upon them. I kissed the hand of madame. I embraced
the great Englishman. Madame blushed slightly. The great Englishman
shook my hand like a mastiff.

I began in that dexterous, insinuating manner of which I am truly
proud. I thought madame was ill. Ah, no. A change, then, was all that
was required. I sat down at the piano and sang. In a few minutes
madame retired. I was alone with my friend.

Seizing his hand, I began with every demonstration of courteous
sympathy. I do not repeat my words, for my  intention was conveyed
more in accent, emphasis, and manner, than speech. I hinted to him
that he had another wife living. I suggested that this was balanced--
ha!--by his wife's lover. That, possibly, he wished to fly; hence the
letting of his delightful mansion. That he regularly and
systematically beat his wife in the English manner, and that she
repeatedly deceived him. I talked of hope, of consolation, of remedy.
I carelessly produced a bottle of strychnine and a small vial of
stramonium from my pocket, and enlarged on the efficiency of drugs.
His face, which had gradually become convulsed, suddenly became fixed
with a frightful expression. He started to his feet, and roared, "You
d--d Frenchman!"

I instantly changed my tactics, and endeavored to embrace him. He
kicked me twice, violently. I begged permission to kiss madame's hand.
He replied by throwing me downstairs.

I am in bed with my head bound up, and beefsteaks upon my eyes, but
still confident and buoyant. I have not lost faith in Macchiavelli.
Tra-la-la! as they sing in the opera. I kiss everybody's hands.




CHAPTER V

DR. DIGGS'S STATEMENT


My name is David Diggs. I am a surgeon, living at No. 9 Tottenham
Court. On the 15th of June, 1854, I was called to see an elderly
gentleman lodging on the Kent Road. Found him highly excited, with
strong febrile symptoms, pulse 120, increasing. Repeated incoherently
what I judged to be the popular form of a conundrum. On closer
examination found acute hydrocephalus, and both lobes of the brain
rapidly filling with water. In consultation with an eminent
phrenologist, it was further discovered  that all the organs were more
or less obliterated, except that of Comparison. Hence the patient was
enabled to only distinguish the most common points of resemblance
between objects, without drawing upon other faculties, such as
Ideality or Language, for assistance. Later in the day found him
sinking,--being evidently unable to carry the most ordinary conundrum
to a successful issue. Exhibited Tinct. Val., Ext. Opii, and Camphor,
and prescribed quiet and emollients. On the 17th the patient was
missing.




CHAPTER LAST

STATEMENT OF THE PUBLISHER


On the 18th of June, Mr. Wilkie Collins left a roll of manuscript with
us for publication, without title or direction, since which time he
has not been heard from. In spite of the care of the proof-readers,
and valuable literary assistance, it is feared that the continuity of
the story has been destroyed by some accidental misplacing of chapters
during its progress. How and what chapters are so misplaced, the
publisher leaves to an indulgent public to discover.





HANDSOME IS AS HANDSOME DOES

BY CH-S R-DE


CHAPTER I


The Dodds were dead. For twenty years they had slept under the green
graves of Kittery churchyard. The townfolk still spoke of them kindly.
The keeper of the alehouse, where David had smoked his pipe, regretted
him regularly, and Mistress Kitty, Mrs. Dodd's maid, whose trim figure
always looked well in her mistress's gowns, was inconsolable. The
Hardins were in America. Raby was aristocratically gouty; Mrs. Raby,
religious. Briefly, then, we have disposed of--

1. Mr. and Mrs. Dodd (dead).

2. Mr. and Mrs. Hardin (translated).

3. Raby, baron et femme. (Yet I don't know about the former; he came
of a long-lived family, and the gout is an uncertain-disease.)

We have active at the present writing (place aux dames)--

1. Lady Caroline Coventry, niece of Sir Frederick.

2. Faraday Huxley Little, son of Henry and Graco Little deceased.

_Sequitur_ to the above, A HERO AND HEROINE.




CHAPTER II


On the death of his parents, Faraday Little was taken to Raby Hall. In
accepting his guardianship, Mr. Raby  struggled stoutly against two
prejudices: Faraday was plain-looking and skeptical.

"Handsome is as handsome does, sweetheart," pleaded Jael, interceding
for the orphan with arms that were still beautiful. "Dear knows, it is
not his fault if he does not look like--his father," she added with a
great gulp. Jael was a woman, and vindicated her womanhood by never
entirely forgiving a former rival.

"It's not that alone, madam," screamed Raby, "but, d--m it, the little
rascal's a scientist,--an atheist, a radical, a scoffer! Disbelieves
in the Bible, ma'am; is full of this Darwinian stuff about natural
selection and descent. Descent, forsooth! In my day, madam, gentlemen
were content to trace their ancestors back to gentlemen, and not to--
monkeys!"

"Dear heart, the boy is clever," urged Jael.

"Clever!" roared Raby; "what does a gentleman want with cleverness?"




CHAPTER III


Young Little _was_ clever. At seven he had constructed a telescope; at
nine, a flying-machine. At ten he saved a valuable life.

Norwood Park was the adjacent estate,--a lordly domain dotted with red
deer and black trunks, but scrupulously kept with graveled roads as
hard and blue as steel. There Little was strolling one summer morning,
meditating on a new top with concealed springs. At a little distance
before him he saw the flutter of lace and ribbons. A young lady, a
very young lady,--say of seven summers,--tricked out in the crying
abominations of the present fashion, stood beside a low bush. Her
nursery-maid was not present, possibly owing to the fact that John the
footman was also absent.

  Suddenly Little came towards her. "Excuse me, but do you know what
  those berries are?" He was pointing to the low bush filled with dark
  clusters of shining--suspiciously shining--fruit.

"Certainly; they are blueberries."

"Pardon me; you are mistaken. They belong to quite another family."

Miss Impudence drew herself up to her full height (exactly three feet
nine and a half inches), and, curling an eighth of an inch of scarlet
lip, said scornfully, "_Your_ family, perhaps."

Faraday Little smiled in the superiority of boyhood over girlhood.

"I allude to the classification. That plant is the belladonna, or
deadly nightshade. Its alkaloid is a narcotic poison."

Sauciness turned pale. "I--have--just--eaten--some!" And began to
whimper. "Oh dear, what shall I do?" Then did it, i. e., wrung her
small fingers, and cried.

"Pardon me one moment." Little passed his arm around her neck, and
with his thumb opened widely the patrician-veined lids of her sweet
blue eyes. "Thank Heaven, there is yet no dilation of the pupil; it is
not too late!" He cast a rapid glance around. The nozzle and about
three feet of garden hose lay near him.

"Open your mouth, quick!"

It was a pretty, kissable mouth. But young Little meant business. He
put the nozzle down her pink throat as far as it would go.

"Now, don't move."

He wrapped his handkerchief around a hoop-stick. Then he inserted both
in the other end of the stiff hose. It fitted snugly. He shoved it in
and then drew it back.

Nature abhors a vacuum. The young patrician was as amenable to this
law as the child of the lowest peasant.    She succumbed. It was all
over in a minute. Then she burst into a small fury.

"You nasty, bad--_ugly_ boy."

Young Little winced, but smiled.

"Stimulants," he whispered to the frightened nurserymaid, who
approached; "good-evening." He was gone.




CHAPTER IV


The breach between young Little and Mr. Raby was slowly widening.
Little found objectionable features in the Hall. "This black oak
ceiling and wainscoting is not as healthful as plaster; besides, it
absorbs the light. The bedroom ceiling is too low; the Elizabethan
architects knew nothing of ventilation. The color of that oak paneling
which you admire is due to an excess of carbon and the exuvia from the
pores of your skin"--

"Leave the house," bellowed Raby, "before the roof falls on your
sacrilegious head!"

As Little left the house, Lady Caroline and a handsome boy of about
Little's age entered. Lady Caroline recoiled, and then--blushed.
Little glared; he instinctively felt the presence of a rival.




CHAPTER V


Little worked hard. He studied night and day. In five years he became
a lecturer, then a professor.

He soared as high as the clouds, he dipped as low as the cellars of
the London poor. He analyzed the London fog, and found it two parts
smoke, one disease, one unmentionable abominations. He published a
pamphlet, which was violently attacked. Then he knew he had done
something.

But he had not forgotten Caroline. He was walking one day in the
Zoological Gardens, and he came upon a pretty picture,--flesh and
blood, too.

Lady Caroline feeding buns to the bears! An exquisite thrill passed
through his veins. She turned her sweet face and their eyes met. They
recollected their first meeting seven years before, but it was his
turn to be shy and timid. Wonderful power of age and sex! She met him
with perfect self-possession.

"Well meant, but indigestible, I fear" (he alluded to the buns).

"A clever person like yourself can easily correct that" (she, the
slyboots, was thinking of something else).

In a few moments they were chatting gayly. Little eagerly descanted
upon the different animals; she listened with delicious interest. An
hour glided delightfully away.

After this sunshine, clouds.

To them suddenly entered Mr. Raby and a handsome young man. The
gentlemen bowed stiffly and looked vicious--as they felt. The lady of
this quartette smiled amiably--as she did not feel.

"Looking at your ancestors, I suppose," said Mr. Raby, pointing to the
monkeys; "we will not disturb you. Come." And he led Caroline away.

Little was heart-sick. He dared not follow them. But an hour later he
saw something which filled his heart with bliss unspeakable.

Lady Caroline, with a divine smile on her face, feeding the monkeys!




CHAPTER VI


Encouraged by love, Little worked hard upon his new flying-machine.
His labors were lightened by talking of the beloved one with her
French maid Therese, whom he  had discreetly bribed. Mademoiselle
Therese was venal, like all her class, but in this instance I fear she
was not bribed by British gold. Strange as it may seem to the British
mind, it was British genius, British eloquence, British thought, that
brought her to the feet of this young savan.

"I believe," said Lady Caroline, one day, interrupting her maid in a
glowing eulogium upon the skill of "M. Leetell,"--"I believe you are
in love with this professor." A quick flush crossed the olive cheek of
Therese, which Lady Caroline afterward remembered.

The eventful day of trial came. The public were gathered, impatient
and scornful as the pig-headed public are apt to be. In the open area
a long cylindrical balloon, in shape like a Bologna sausage, swayed
above the machine, from which, like some enormous bird caught in a
net, it tried to free itself. A heavy rope held it fast to the ground.

Little was waiting for the ballast, when his eye caught Lady
Caroline's among the spectators. The glance was appealing. In a moment
he was at her side.

"I should like so much to get into the machine," said the arch-
hypocrite demurely.

"Are you engaged to marry young Raby?" said Little bluntly.

"As you please," she said with a curtsy; "do I take this as a
refusal?"

Little was a gentleman. He lifted her and her lap-dog into the car.

"How nice! it won't go off?"

"No, the rope is strong, and the ballast is not yet in."

A report like a pistol, a cry from the spectators, a thousand hands
stretched to grasp the parted rope, and the balloon darted upward.

Only one hand of that thousand caught the rope,--Little's! But in the
same instant the horror-stricken spectators saw him whirled from his
feet and borne upward, still clinging to the rope, into space.




CHAPTER VII [Footnote: The right of dramatization of this and
succeeding chapters is reserved by the writer.]


Lady Caroline fainted. The cold, watery nose of her dog on her cheek
brought her to herself. She dared not look over the edge of the car;
she dared not look up to the bellowing monster above her, bearing her
to death. She threw herself on the bottom of the car, and embraced the
only living thing spared her,--the poodle. Then she cried. Then a
clear voice came apparently out of the circumambient air,--

"May I trouble you to look at the barometer?"

She put her head over the car. Little was hanging at the end of a long
rope. She put her head back again.

In another moment he saw her perplexed, blushing face over the edge,--
blissful sight.

"Oh, please don't think of coming up! Stay there, do!"

Little stayed. Of course she could make nothing out of the barometer,
and said so. Little smiled.

"Will you kindly send it down to me?"

But she had no string or cord. Finally she said, "Wait a moment."
Little waited. This time her face did not appear. The barometer came
slowly down at the end of--a stay-lace.

The barometer showed a frightful elevation. Little looked up at the
valve and said nothing. Presently he heard a sigh. Then a sob. Then,
rather sharply,--

"Why don't you do something?"




CHAPTER VIII


Little came up the rope hand over hand. Lady Caroline crouched in the
farther side of the car. Fido, the poodle, whined.

"Poor thing," said Lady Caroline, "it's hungry."

"Do you wish to save the dog?" said Little.

"Yes."

"Give me your parasol."

She handed Little a good-sized affair of lace and silk and whalebone.
(None of your "sunshades.") Little examined its ribs carefully.

"Give me the dog."

Lady Caroline hurriedly slipped a note under the dog's collar, and
passed over her pet.

Little tied the dog to the handle of the parasol and launched them
both into space. The next moment they were slowly, but tranquilly,
sailing to the earth.

"A parasol and a parachute are distinct, but not different. Be not
alarmed, he will get his dinner at some farmhouse."

"Where are we now?"

"That opaque spot you see is London fog. Those twin clouds are North
and South America. Jerusalem and Madagascar are those specks to the
right."

Lady Caroline moved nearer; she was becoming interested. Then she
recalled herself, and said freezingly, "How are we going to descend?"

"By opening the valve."

"Why don't you open it then?"

"BECAUSE THE VALVE-STRING IS BROKEN!"




CHAPTER IX


Lady Caroline fainted. When she revived it was dark. They were
apparently cleaving their way through a solid block of black marble.
She moaned and shuddered.

"I wish we had a light."

"I have no lucifers." said Little. "I observe, however, that you wear
a necklace of amber. Amber under certain conditions becomes highly
electrical. Permit me."

He took the amber necklace and rubbed it briskly. Then he asked her to
present her knuckle to the gem. Abright spark was the  result. This
was repeated for some hours. The light was not brilliant, but it was
enough for the purposes of propriety, and satisfied the delicately
minded girl.

Suddenly there was a tearing, hissing noise and a smell of gas. Little
looked up and turned pale. The balloon, at what I shall call the
pointed end of the Bologna sausage, was evidently bursting from
increased pressure. The gas was escaping, and already they were
beginning to descend. Little was resigned but firm.

"If the silk gives way, then we are lost. Unfortunately I have no rope
nor material for binding it."

The woman's instinct had arrived at the same conclusion sooner than
the man's reason. But she was hesitating over a detail.

"Will you go down the rope for a moment?" she said, with a sweet
smile.

Little went down. Presently she called to him. She held something in
her hand,--a wonderful invention of the seventeenth century, improved
and perfected in this: a pyramid of sixteen circular hoops of light
yet strong steel, attached to each other by cloth bands.

With a cry of joy Little seized them, climbed to the  balloon, and
fitted the elastic hoops over its conical end. Then he returned to the
car.

"We are saved." Lady Caroline, blushing, gathered her slim but antique
drapery against the other end of the car.




CHAPTER X


They were slowly descending. Presently Lady Caroline distinguished the
outlines of Raby Hall.

"I think I will get out here," she said.

Little anchored the balloon, and prepared to follow her.

"Not so, my friend," she said, with an arch smile. "We must not be
seen together. People might talk. Farewell."

Little sprang again into the balloon and sped away to America. He came
down in California, oddly enough in front of Hardin's door, at Dutch
Flat. Hardin was just examining a specimen of ore.

"You are a scientist; can you tell me if that is worth anything?" he
said, handing it to Little.

Little held it to the light. "It contains ninety per cent of silver."

Hardin embraced him. "Can I do anything for you, and why are you
here?"

Little told his story. Hardin asked to see the rope. Then he examined
it carefully.

"Ah, this was cut, not broken!"

"With a knife?" asked Little.

"No. Observe both sides are equally indented. It was done with a
_scissors_!"

"Just Heaven!" gasped Little. "Therese!"




CHAPTER XI


Little returned to London. Passing through London one day he met a
dog-fancier.

"Buy a nice poodle, sir?"

Something in the animal attracted his attention.

"Fido!" he gasped.

The dog yelped.

Little bought him. On taking off his collar a piece of paper rustled
to the floor. He knew the handwriting and kissed it. It ran:--

To THE HONORABLE AUGUSTUS RABY--I cannot marry you. If I marry any one
[sly puss] it will be the man who has twice saved my life, Professor
Little.    CAROLINE COVENTRY.

And she did.





LOTHAW

OR

THE ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION

BY MR. BENJAMINS


CHAPTER I


"I remember him a little boy," said the Duchess. "His mother was a
dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids."

"And you have never seen him since, mamma?" asked the oldest married
daughter, who did not look a day older than her mother.

"Never; he was an orphan shortly after. I have often reproached
myself, but it is so difficult to see boys."

This simple yet first-class conversation existed in the morning-room
of Plusham, where the mistress of the palatial mansion sat involved in
the sacred privacy of a circle of her married daughters. One
dexterously applied golden knitting-needles to the fabrication of a
purse of floss silk of the rarest texture, which none who knew the
almost fabulous wealth of the Duke would believe was ever destined to
hold in its silken meshes a less sum than 1,000,000 pounds; another
adorned a slipper exclusively with seed pearls; a third emblazoned a
page with rare pigments and the finest quality of gold leaf. Beautiful
forms leaned over frames glowing with embroidery, and beautiful frames
leaned over forms inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Others, more remote,
occasionally burst into melody as they tried the passages of  a new
and exclusive air given to them in MS. by some titled and devoted
friend, for the private use of the aristocracy alone, and absolutely
prohibited for publication.

The Duchess, herself the superlative of beauty, wealth, and position,
was married to the highest noble in the Three Kingdoms. Those who
talked about such matters said that their progeny were exactly like
their parents,--a peculiarity of the aristocratic and wealthy. They
all looked like brothers and sisters, except their parents, who, such
was their purity of blood, the perfection of their manners, and the
opulence of their condition, might have been taken for their own
children's elder son and daughter. The daughters, with one exception,
were all married to the highest nobles in the land. That exception was
the Lady Coriander, who, there being no vacancy above a marquis and a
rental of 1,000,000 pounds, waited. Gathered around the refined and
sacred circle of their breakfast-table, with their glittering coronets,
which, in filial respect to their father's Tory instincts and their
mother's Ritualistic tastes, they always wore on their regal brows,
the effect was dazzling as it was refined. It was this peculiarity and
their strong family resemblance which led their brother-in-law, the
good-humored St. Addlegourd, to say that, "'Pon my soul, you know, the
whole precious mob looked like a ghastly pack of court cards, you
know." St. Addlegourd was a radical. Having a rent-roll of
15,000,000 pounds, and belonging to one of the oldest families in
Britain, he could afford to be.

"Mamma, I've just dropped a pearl," said the Lady Coriander, bending
over the Persian hearth-rug.

"From your lips, sweet friend?" said Lothaw, who came of age and
entered the room at the same moment.

"No, from my work. It was a very valuable pearl, mamma; papa gave
Isaacs Sons 50,000 pounds for the two."

"Ah, indeed," said the Duchess, languidly rising; "let us go to
luncheon."

"But, your Grace," interposed Lothaw, who was still quite young, and
had dropped on all fours on the carpet in search of the missing gem,
"consider the value"--

"Dear friend," interposed the Duchess with infinite tact, gently
lifting him by the tails of his dress coat, "I am waiting for your
arm."




CHAPTER II


Lothaw was immensely rich. The possessor of seventeen castles, fifteen
villas, nine shooting-boxes, and seven town houses, he had other
estates of which he had not even heard.

Everybody at Plusham played croquet, and none badly. Next to their
purity of blood and great wealth, the family were famous for this
accomplishment. Yet Lothaw soon tired of the game, and after seriously
damaging his aristocratically large foot in an attempt to "tight
croquet" the Lady Aniseed's ball, he limped away to join the Duchess.

"I'm going to the hennery," she said.


"Let me go with you; I dearly love fowls--broiled," he added
thoughtfully.

"The Duke gave Lady Montairy some large Cochins the other day,"
continued the Duchess, changing the subject with delicate tact.

  "Lady Montairy   Quite contrairy, How do your Cochins grow?"

sang Lothaw gayly.

The Duchess looked shocked. After a prolonged silence Lothaw abruptly
and gravely said:--

"If you please, ma'am, when I come into my property I should like to
build some improved dwellings for the poor, and marry Lady Coriander."

"You amaze me, dear friend; and yet both your aspirations are noble
and eminently proper," said the Duchess.

"Coriander is but a child,--and yet," she added, looking graciously
upon her companion, "for the matter of that, so  are you."




CHAPTER III


Mr. Putney Giles's was Lothaw's first grand dinner-party. Yet, by
carefully watching the others, he managed to acquit himself
creditably, and avoided drinking out of the finger-bowl by first
secretly testing its contents with a spoon. The conversation was
peculiar and singularly interesting.

"Then you think that monogamy is simply a question of the
thermometer?" said Mrs. Putney Giles to her companion.

"I certainly think that polygamy should be limited by isothermal
lines," replied Lothaw.

"I should say it was a matter of latitude," observed a loud, talkative
man opposite. He was an Oxford professor with a taste for satire, and
had made himself very obnoxious to the company, during dinner, by
speaking disparagingly of a former well-known chancellor of the
exchequer,--a great statesman and brilliant novelist,--whom he feared
and hated.

Suddenly there was a sensation in the room; among the females it
absolutely amounted to a nervous thrill. His Eminence, the Cardinal,
was announced. He entered with great suavity of manner, and after
shaking hands with everybody, asking after their relatives, and
chucking the more delicate females under the chin with a high-bred
grace peculiar to his profession, he sat down, saying, "And how do we
all find ourselves this evening, my dears?" in several different
languages, which he spoke fluently.

Lothaw's heart was touched. His deeply religious convictions were
impressed. He instantly went up to this gifted being, confessed, and
received absolution. "Tomorrow," he said to  himself, "I will partake
of the communion, and endow the Church with my vast estates. For the
present I'll let the improved cottages go."




CHAPTER IV


As Lothaw turned to leave the Cardinal, he was struck by a beautiful
face. It was that of a matron, slim but shapely as an Ionic column.
Her face was Grecian, with Corinthian temples; Hellenic eyes that
looked from jutting eyebrows, like dormer-windows in an Attic
forehead, completed her perfect Athenian outline. She wore a black
frock-coat tightly buttoned over her bloomer trousers, and a standing
collar.

"Your lordship is struck by that face?" said a social parasite.

"I am; who is she?"

"Her name is Mary Ann. She is married to an American, and has lately
invented a new religion."

"Ah!" said Lothaw eagerly, with difficulty restraining himself from
rushing toward her.

"Yes; shall I introduce you?"

Lothaw thought of Lady Coriander's High Church proclivities, of the
Cardinal, and hesitated: "No, I thank you, not now."




CHAPTER V


Lothaw was maturing. He had attended two womens' rights conventions,
three Fenian meetings, had dined at White's, and had danced _vis-a-vis_
to a prince of the blood, and eaten off gold plates at Crecy House.

His stables were near Oxford, and occupied more ground than the
University. He was driving over there one day, when he perceived some
rustics and menials endeavoring  to stop a pair of runaway horses
attached to a carriage in which a lady and gentleman were seated.
Calmly awaiting the termination of the accident, with high-bred
courtesy Lothaw forbore to interfere until the carriage was
overturned, the occupants thrown out, and the runaways secured by the
servants, when he advanced and offered the lady the exclusive use of
his Oxford stables.

Turning upon him a face whose perfect Hellenic details he remembered,
she slowly dragged a gentleman from under the wheels into the light,
and presented him with ladylike dignity as her husband, Major-General
Camperdown, an American.

"Ah," said Lothaw carelessly, "I believe I have some land there. If I
mistake  not, my agent, Mr. Putney Giles, lately purchased the State
of--Illinois--I think you call it."

"Exactly. As a former resident of the city of Chicago, let me
introduce myself as your tenant."

Lothaw bowed graciously to the gentleman, who, except that he seemed
better dressed than most Englishmen, showed no other signs of
inferiority and plebeian extraction.

"We have met before," said Lothaw to the lady as she leaned on his
arm, while they visited his stables, the University, and other places
of interest in Oxford, "Pray tell me, what is this new religion of
yours?"

"It is Woman Suffrage, Free Love, Mutual Affinity, and Communism.
Embrace it and me."

Lothaw did not know exactly what to do. She, however, soothed and
sustained his agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace his
speechless form. The General approached and coughed slightly with
gentlemanly tact.

"My husband will be too happy to talk with you further on this
subject," she said with quiet dignity, as she regained the General's
side. "Come with us to Oneida. Brook Farm is a thing of the past."




CHAPTER VI


As Lothaw drove toward his country-seat, The Mural Inclosure, he
observed a crowd, apparently of the working-class, gathered around a
singular-looking man in the picturesque garb of an Ethiopian
serenader. "What does he say?" inquired Lothaw of his driver.

The man touched his hat respectfully, and said, "My Mary Ann."

"'My Mary Ann!'" Lothaw's heart beat rapidly. Who was this mysterious
foreigner? He had heard from Lady Coriander of a certain Popish plot;
but could he connect Mr. Camperdown with it?

The spectacle of two hundred men at arms, who advanced to meet him at
the gates of The Mural Inclosure, drove all else from the still
youthful and impressible mind of Lothaw. Immediately behind them, on
the steps of the baronial halls, were ranged his retainers, led by the
chief cook and bottle-washer and head crumb-remover. On either side
were two companies of laundry-maids, preceded by the chief crimper and
fluter, supporting a long Ancestral Line, on which depended the family
linen, and under which the youthful lord of the manor passed into the
halls of his fathers. Twenty-four scullions carried the massive gold
and silver plate of the family on their shoulders, and deposited it at
the feet of their master. The spoons were then solemnly counted by the
steward, and the perfect ceremony ended.

Lothaw sighed. He sought out the gorgeously gilded "Taj," or sacred
mausoleum erected to his grandfather in the second-story front room,
and wept over the man he did not know.

He wandered alone in his magnificent park, and then, throwing himself
on a grassy bank, pondered on the Great First Cause and the necessity
of religion. "I will send Mary Ann a handsome present," said Lothaw
thoughtfully.




CHAPTER VII


"Each of these pearls, my lord, is worth fifty thousand guineas," said
Mr. Amethyst, the fashionable jeweler, as he lightly lifted a large
shovelful from a convenient bin behind his counter.

"Indeed," said Lothaw carelessly, "I should prefer to see some
expensive ones."

"Some number sixes, I suppose," said Mr. Amethyst, taking a couple
from the apex of a small pyramid that lay piled on the shelf. "These
are about the size of the Duchess of Billingsgate's, but they are in
finer condition. The fact is, her Grace permits her two children, the
Marquis of Smithfield and the Duke of St. Giles,--two sweet pretty
boys, my lord,--to use them as marbles in their games. Pearls require
some attention, and I go down there regularly twice a week to clean
them. Perhaps your lordship would like some ropes of pearls?"

"About half a cable's length," said Lothaw shortly, "and send them to
my lodgings."

Mr. Amethyst became thoughtful. "I am afraid I have not the exact
number--that is--excuse me one moment. I will run over to the Tower
and borrow a few from the crown jewels." And before Lothaw could
prevent him, he seized his hat and left Lothaw alone.

His position certainly was embarrassing. He could not move without
stepping on costly gems which had rolled from the counter; the rarest
diamonds lay scattered on the shelves; untold fortunes in priceless
emeralds lay within his grasp. Although such was the aristocratic
purity of his blood and the strength of his religious convictions that
he  probably would not have pocketed a single diamond, still he could
not help thinking that he might be accused of taking some. "You can
search me, if you like," he said when Mr. Amethyst returned; "but I
assure you, upon the honor of a gentleman, that I have taken nothing."

"Enough, my lord," said Mr. Amethyst, with a low bow; "we never search
the aristocracy."




CHAPTER VIII


As Lothaw left Mr. Amethyst's, he ran against General Camperdown. "How
is Mary Ann?" he asked hurriedly.

"I regret to state that she is dying," said the General, with a grave
voice, as he removed his cigar from his lips, and lifted his hat to
Lothaw.

"Dying!" said Lothaw incredulously.

"Alas, too true!" replied the General. "The engagements of a long
lecturing season, exposure in traveling by railway during the winter,
and the imperfect nourishment afforded by the refreshments along the
road, have told on her delicate frame. But she wants to see you before
she dies. Here is the key of my lodging. I will finish my cigar out
here."

Lothaw hardly recognized those wasted Hellenic outlines as he entered
the dimly lighted room of the dying woman. She was already a classic
ruin,--as wrecked and yet as perfect as the Parthenon. He grasped her
hand silently.

"Open-air speaking twice a week, and Saleratus bread in the rural
districts, have brought me to this," she said feebly;  "but it is
well. The cause progresses. The tyrant man succumbs."

Lothaw could only press her hand.

"Promise me one thing. Don't--whatever you do--become a Catholic."

"Why?"

"The Church does not recognize divorce. And now embrace me. I would
prefer at this supreme moment to introduce myself to the next world
through the medium of the best society in this. Good-by. When I am
dead, be good enough to inform my husband of the fact."




CHAPTER IX


Lothaw spent the next six months on an Aryan island, in an Aryan
climate, and with an Aryan race.

"This is an Aryan landscape," said his host, "and that is a Mary Ann
statue." It was, in fact, a full-length figure in marble of Mrs.
General Camperdown.

"If you please, I should like to become a Pagan," said Lothaw, one
day, after listening to an impassioned discourse on Greek art from the
lips of his host.

But that night, on consulting a well-known spiritual medium, Lothaw
received a message from the late Mrs. General Camperdown, advising him
to return to England. Two days later he presented himself at Plusham.

"The young ladies are in the garden," said the Duchess. "Don't you
want to go and pick a rose?" she added with a gracious smile, and the
nearest approach to a wink that was consistent with her patrician
bearing and aquiline nose.

Lothaw went and presently returned with the blushing Coriander upon
his arm.

"Bless you, my children," said the Duchess. Then turning to Lothaw,
she said: "You have simply fulfilled and accepted your inevitable
destiny. It was morally impossible for you to marry out of this
family. For the present, the Church of England is safe."





THE HAUNTED MAN

BY CH--R--S D--CK--N--S.

A CHRISTMAS STORY


PART I

THE FIRST PHANTOM


Don't tell me that it wasn't a knocker. I had seen it often enough,
and I ought to know. So ought the three-o'clock beer, in dirty high-
lows, swinging himself over the railing, or executing a demoniacal jig
upon the doorstep; so ought the butcher, although butchers as a
general thing are scornful of such trifles; so ought the postman, to
whom knockers of the most extravagant description were merely human
weaknesses, that were to be pitied and used. And so ought for the
matter of that, etc., etc., etc.

But then it was _such_ a knocker. A wild, extravagant, and utterly
incomprehensible knocker. A knocker so mysterious and suspicious that
policeman X 37, first coming upon it, felt inclined to take it
instantly in custody, but compromised with his professional instincts
by sharply and sternly noting it with an eye that admitted of no
nonsense, but confidently expected to detect its secret yet. An ugly
knocker; a knocker with a hard human face, that was a type of the
harder human face within. A human face that held between its teeth a
brazen rod. So hereafter, in the mysterious future should be held,
etc., etc.

But if the knocker had a fierce human aspect in the glare of day, you
should have seen it at night, when it  peered out of the gathering
shadows and suggested an ambushed figure; when the light of the street
lamps fell upon it, and wrought a play of sinister expression in its
hard outlines; when it seemed to wink meaningly at a shrouded figure
who, as the night fell darkly, crept up the steps and passed into the
mysterious house; when the swinging door disclosed a black passage
into which the figure seemed to lose itself and become a part of the
mysterious gloom; when the night grew boisterous and the fierce wind
made furious charges at the knocker, as if to wrench it off and carry
it away in triumph. Such a night as this.

It was a wild and pitiless wind. A wind that had commenced life as a
gentle country zephyr, but, wandering through manufacturing towns, had
become demoralized, and, reaching the city, had plunged into
extravagant dissipation and wild excesses. A roistering wind that
indulged in Bacchanalian shouts on the street corners, that knocked
off the hats from the heads of helpless passengers, and then fulfilled
its duties by speeding away, like all young prodigals,--to sea.

He sat alone in a gloomy library listening to the wind that roared in
the chimney. Around him novels and storybooks were strewn thickly; in
his lap he held one with its pages freshly cut, and turned the leaves
wearily until his eyes rested upon a portrait in its frontispiece. And
as the wind howled the more fiercely, and the darkness without fell
blacker, a strange and fateful likeness to that portrait appeared
above his chair and leaned upon his shoulder. The Haunted Man gazed at
the portrait and sighed. The figure gazed at the portrait and sighed
too.

"Here again?" said the Haunted Man.

"Here again," it repeated in a low voice.

"Another novel?"

"Another novel."

"The old story?"

"The old story."

"I see a child," said the Haunted Man, gazing from the pages of the
book into the fire,--"a most unnatural child, a model infant. It is
prematurely old and philosophic. It dies in poverty to slow music. It
dies surrounded by luxury to slow music. It dies with an accompaniment
of golden water and rattling carts to slow music. Previous to its
decease it makes a will; it repeats the Lord's Prayer, it kisses the
'boofer lady.' That child"--

"Is mine," said the phantom.

"I see a good woman, undersized. I see several charming women, but
they are all undersized. They are more or less imbecile and idiotic,
but always fascinating and undersized. They wear coquettish caps and
aprons. I observe that feminine virtue is invariably below the medium
height, and that it is always simple and infantine. These women"--

"Are mine."

"I see a haughty, proud, and wicked lady. She is tall and queenly. I
remark that all proud and wicked women are tall and queenly. That
woman"--

"Is mine," said the phantom, wringing his hands.

"I see several things continually impending. I observe that whenever
an accident, a murder, or death is about to happen, there is something
in the furniture, in the locality, in the atmosphere, that foreshadows
and suggests it years in advance. I cannot say that in real life I
have noticed it,--the perception of this surprising fact belongs"--

"To me!" said the phantom. The Haunted Man continued, in a despairing
tone,--

"I see the influence of this in the magazines and daily papers; I see
weak imitators rise up and enfeeble the world with senseless formula.
I am getting tired of it. It won't do, Charles! it won't do!" and the
Haunted Man buried  his head in his hands and groaned. The figure
looked down upon him sternly; the portrait in the frontispiece frowned
as he gazed.

"Wretched man," said the phantom, "and how have these things affected
you?"

"Once I laughed and cried, but then I was younger. Now, I would forget
them if I could."

"Have then your wish. And take this with you, man whom I renounce.
From this day henceforth you shall live with those whom I displace.
Without forgetting me, 'twill be your lot to walk through life as if
we had not met. But first you shall survey these scenes that
henceforth must be yours. At one to-night, prepare to meet the phantom
I have raised. Farewell!"

The sound of its voice seemed to fade away with the dying wind, and
the Haunted Man was alone. But the firelight flickered gayly, and the
light danced on the walls, making grotesque figures of the furniture.

"Ha, ha!" said the Haunted Man, rubbing his hands gleefully; "now for
a whiskey punch and a cigar."




PART II

THE SECOND PHANTOM


One! The stroke of the far-off bell had hardly died before the front
door closed with a reverberating clang. Steps were heard along the
passage; the library door swung open of itself, and the Knocker--yes,
the Knocker--slowly strode into the room. The Haunted Man rubbed his
eyes,--no! there could be no mistake about it,--it was the Knocker's
face, mounted on a misty, almost imperceptible body. The brazen rod
was transferred from its mouth to its right hand, where it was held
like a ghostly truncheon.

"It's a cold evening," said the Haunted Man.

"It is," said the Goblin, in a hard, metallic voice.

"It must be pretty cold out there," said the Haunted Man, with vague
politeness. "Do you ever--will you--take some hot water and brandy?"

"No," said the Goblin.

"Perhaps you'd like it cold, by way of change?" continued the Haunted
Man, correcting himself, as he remembered the peculiar temperature
with which the Goblin was probably familiar.

"Time flies," said the Goblin coldly. "We have no leisure for idle
talk. Come!" He moved his ghostly truncheon toward the window, and
laid his hand upon the other's arm. At his touch the body of the
Haunted Man seemed to become as thin and incorporeal as that of the
Goblin himself, and together they glided out of the window into the
black and blowy night.

In the rapidity of their flight the senses of the Haunted Man seemed
to leave him. At length they stopped suddenly.

"What do you see?" asked the Goblin.

"I see a battlemented mediaeval castle. Gallant men in mail ride over
the drawbridge, and kiss their gauntleted fingers to fair ladies, who
wave their lily hands in return. I see fight and fray and tournament.
I hear roaring heralds bawling the charms of delicate women, and
shamelessly proclaiming their lovers. Stay. I see a Jewess about to
leap from a battlement. I see knightly deeds, violence, rapine, and a
good deal of blood. I've seen pretty much the same at Astley's."

"Look again."

"I see purple moors, glens, masculine women, bare-legged men, priggish
book-worms, more violence, physical excellence, and blood. Always
blood,--and the superiority of physical attainments."   "And how do
you feel now?" said the Goblin.

The Haunted Man shrugged his shoulders. "None the better for being
carried back and asked to sympathize with a barbarous age."

The Goblin smiled and clutched his arm; they again sped rapidly away
through the black night, and again halted.

"What do you see?" said the Goblin.

"I see a barrack-room, with a mess-table, and a group of intoxicated
Celtic officers telling funny stories, and giving challenges to duel.
I see a young Irish gentleman capable of performing prodigies of
valor. I learn incidentally that the acme of all heroism is the
cornetcy of a dragoon regiment. I hear a good deal of French! No,
thank you," said the Haunted Man hurriedly, as he stayed the waving
hand of the Goblin; "I would rather _not_ go to the Peninsula, and
don't care to have a private interview with Napoleon."

Again the Goblin flew away with the unfortunate man, and from a
strange roaring below them he judged they were above the ocean. A ship
hove in sight, and the Goblin stayed its flight. "Look," he said,
squeezing his companion's arm.

The Haunted Man yawned. "Don't you think, Charles, you're rather
running this thing into the ground? Of course it's very moral and
instructive, and all that. But ain't there a little too much pantomime
about it? Come now!"

"Look!" repeated the Goblin, pinching his arm malevolently. The
Haunted Man groaned.

"Oh, of course, I see her Majesty's ship Arethusa. Of course I am
familiar with her stern First Lieutenant, her eccentric Captain, her
one fascinating and several mischievous midshipmen. Of course I know
it's a splendid thing to see all this, and not to be seasick. Oh,
there, the young gentlemen are going to play a trick on the purser. For
God's sake, let us go," and the unhappy man absolutely dragged the
Goblin away with him.

When they next halted, it was at the edge of a broad and boundless
prairie, in the middle of an oak opening.

"I see," said the Haunted Man, without waiting for his cue, but
mechanically, and as if he were repeating a lesson which the Goblin
had taught him,--"I see the Noble Savage. He is very fine to look at!
But I observe, under his war-paint, feathers, and picturesque blanket,
dirt, disease, and an unsymmetrical contour. I observe beneath his
inflated rhetoric deceit and hypocrisy; beneath his physical hardihood
cruelty, malice, and revenge. The Noble Savage is a humbug. I remarked
the same to Mr. Catlin."

"Come," said the phantom.

The Haunted Man sighed, and took out his watch. "Couldn't we do the
rest of this another time?"

"My hour is almost spent, irreverent being, but there is yet a chance
for your reformation. Come!"

Again they sped through the night, and again halted. The sound of
delicious but melancholy music fell upon their ears.

"I see," said the Haunted Man, with something of interest in his
manner,--"I see an old moss-covered manse beside a sluggish, flowing
river. I see weird shapes: witches, Puritans, clergymen, little
children, judges, mesmerized maidens, moving to the sound of melody
that thrills me with its sweetness and purity. But, although carried
along its calm and evenly flowing current, the shapes are strange and
frightful: an eating lichen gnaws at the heart of each. Not only the
clergymen, but witch, maiden, judge, and Puritan, all wear Scarlet
Letters of some kind burned upon their hearts. I am fascinated and
thrilled, but I feel a morbid sensitiveness creeping over me. I--I beg
your pardon." The Goblin was yawning frightfully." Well, perhaps we
had better go."   "One more, and the last," said the Goblin.

They were moving home. Streaks of red were beginning to appear in the
eastern sky. Along the banks of the blackly flowing river by moorland
and stagnant fens, by low houses, clustering close to the water's
edge, like strange mollusks crawled upon the beach to dry; by misty
black barges, the more misty and indistinct seen through its
mysterious veil, the river fog was slowly rising. So rolled away and
rose from the heart of the Haunted Man, etc., etc.

They stopped before a quaint mansion of red brick. The Goblin waved
his hand without speaking.

"I see," said the Haunted Man, "a gay drawing-room. I see my old
friends of the club, of the college, of society, even as they lived
and moved. I see the gallant and unselfish men whom I have loved, and
the snobs whom I have hated. I see strangely mingling with them, and
now and then blending with their forms, our old friends Dick Steele,
Addison, and Congreve. I observe, though, that these gentlemen have a
habit of getting too much in the way. The royal standard of Queen
Anne, not in itself a beautiful ornament, is rather too prominent in
the picture. The long galleries of black oak, the formal furniture,
the old portraits, are picturesque, but depressing. The house is damp.
I enjoy myself better here on the lawn, where they are getting up a
Vanity Fair. See, the bell rings, the curtain is rising, the puppets
are brought out for a new play. Let me see."

The Haunted Man was pressing forward in his eagerness, but the hand of
the Goblin stayed him, and pointing to his feet he saw, between him
and the rising curtain, a new made grave. And bending above the grave
in passionate grief, the Haunted Man beheld the phantom of the
previous night.    The Haunted Man started, and--woke. The bright
sunshine streamed into the room. The air was sparkling with frost. He
ran joyously to the window and opened it. A small boy saluted him with
"Merry Christmas." The Haunted Man instantly gave him a Bank of
England note. "How much like Tiny Tim, Tom, and Bobby that boy
looked,--bless my soul, what a genius this Dickens has!"

A knock at the door, and Boots entered.

"Consider your salary doubled instantly. Have you read 'David
Copperfield'?"

"Yezzur."

"Your salary is quadrupled. What do you think of the 'Old Curiosity
Shop'?"

The man instantly burst into a torrent of tears, and then into a roar
of laughter.

"Enough! Here are five thousand pounds. Open a porter-house, and call
it 'Our Mutual Friend.' Huzza! I feel so happy!" And the Haunted Man
danced about the room.

And so, bathed in the light of that blessed sun, and yet glowing with
the warmth of a good action, the Haunted Man, haunted no longer, save
by those shapes which make the dreams of children beautiful, reseated
himself in his chair, and finished "Our Mutual Friend."





TERENCE DENVILLE

BY CH-L-S L-V-R


CHAPTER I

MY HOME


The little village of Pilwiddle is one of the smallest and obscurest
hamlets on the western coast of Ireland. On a lofty crag, overlooking
the hoarse Atlantic, stands "Denville's Shot Tower," a corruption by
the peasantry of "D'Enville's Chateau," so called from my great-
grandfather, Phelim St. Remy d'Enville, who assumed the name and title
of a French heiress with whom he ran away. To this fact my familiar
knowledge and excellent pronunciation of the French language may be
attributed, as well as many of the events which covered my after life.

The Denvilles were always passionately fond of field sports. At the
age of four, I was already the boldest rider and the best shot in the
country. When only eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the Pilwiddle
races,--riding my favorite blood-mare Hellfire. As I approached the
stand amidst the plaudits of the assembled multitude, and cries of,
"Thrue for ye, Mashter Terence," and "oh, but it's a Dinville!" there
was a slight stir among the gentry, who surrounded the Lord Lieutenant
and other titled personages whom the race had attracted thither. "How
young he is,--a mere child, and yet how noble-looking," said a sweet
low voice, which thrilled my soul.

I looked up and met the full liquid orbs of the Hon.  Blanche Fitzroy
Sackville, youngest daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. She blushed
deeply. I turned pale and almost fainted. But the cold, sneering tones
of a masculine voice sent the blood back again into my youthful cheek.

"Very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti Irish gentry,
who has taken naturally to 'the road.' He should be at school--though
I warrant me his knowledge of Terence will not extend beyond his own
name," said Lord Henry Somerset, aid-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant.

A moment and I was perfectly calm, though cold as ice. Dismounting,
and stepping to the side of the speaker, I said in a low firm voice:--

"Had your lordship read Terence more carefully, you would have learned
that banditti are sometimes proficient in other arts beside
horsemanship," and I touched his holster significantly with my hand. I
had not read Terence myself, but with the skillful audacity of my race
I calculated that a vague allusion, coupled with a threat, would
embarrass him. It did.

"Ah--what mean you?" he said, white with rage.

"Enough, we are observed," I replied; "Father Tom will wait on you
this evening; and to-morrow morning, my lord, in the glen below
Pilwiddle, we will meet again."

"Father Tom--glen!" ejaculated the Englishman, with genuine surprise.
"What? do priests carry challenges and act as seconds in your infernal
country?"

"Yes," I answered scornfully;" why should they not? Their services are
more often necessary than those of a surgeon," I added significantly,
turning away.

The party slowly rode off, with the exception of the Hon. Blanche
Sackville, who lingered for a moment behind. In an instant I was at
her side. Bending her blushing face over the neck of her white filly,
she said hurriedly:--

"Words have passed between Lord Somerset and yourself. You are about
to fight.  Don't deny it--but hear me. You will meet him--I know your
skill of weapons. He will be at your mercy. I entreat you to spare his
life!"

I hesitated. "Never!" I cried passionately; "he has insulted a
Denville!"

"Terence," she whispered, "Terence--_for my sake?_"

The blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes sought the ground in
bashful confusion.

"You love him then?" I cried bitterly.

"No, no," she said agitatedly,--"no, you do me wrong. I--I--cannot
explain myself. My father!--the Lady Dowager Sackville--the estate of
Sackville--the borough--my uncle, Eitzroy Somerset. Ah! what am I
saying? Forgive me. Oh, Terence," she said, as her beautiful head sank
on my shoulder, "you know not what I suffer!"

I seized her hand and covered it with passionate kisses.

But the high-bred English girl, recovering something of her former
hauteur, said hastily, "Leave me, leave me, but promise!"

"I promise," I replied enthusiastically; "I _will_ spare his life!"

"Thanks, Terence,--thanks!" and disengaging her hand from my lips she
rode rapidly away.

The next morning, the Hon. Captain Henry Somerset and myself exchanged
nineteen shots in the glen, and at each fire I shot away a  button
from his uniform. As my last bullet shot off the last button from his
sleeve, I remarked quietly, "You seem now, my lord, to be almost as
ragged as the gentry you sneered at," and rode haughtily away.




CHAPTER II

THE FIGHTING FIFTY-SIXTH


When I was nineteen years old my father sold the Chateau d' Enville,
and purchased my commission in the "Fifty-sixth" with the proceeds. "I
say, Denville," said young McSpadden, a boy-faced ensign, who had just
joined, "you'll represent the estate in the Army, if you won't in the
House." Poor fellow, he paid for his meaningless joke with his life,
for I shot him through the heart the next morning. "You're a good
fellow, Denville," said the poor boy faintly, as I knelt beside him;
"good-by!" For the first time since my grandfather's death I wept. I
could not help thinking that I would have been a better man if
Blanche--But why proceed? Was she not now in Florence--the belle of
the English embassy?

But Napoleon had returned from Elba. Europe was in a blaze of
excitement. The Allies were preparing to resist the Man of Destiny. We
were ordered from Gibraltar home, and were soon again en route for
Brussels. I did not regret that I was to be placed in active service.
I was ambitious, and longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself.
My garrison life in Gibraltar had been monotonous and dull. I had
killed five men in duel, and had an affair with the colonel of my
regiment, who handsomely apologized before the matter assumed a
serious aspect. I had been twice in love. Yet these were but boyish
freaks and follies. I wished to be a man.

The time soon came,--the morning of Waterloo. But why describe that
momentous battle, on which the fate of the entire world was hanging?
Twice were the Fifty-sixth surrounded by French cuirassiers, and
twice did we mow them down by our fire. I had seven horses shot under
me, and was mounting the eighth, when an orderly rode up hastily,
touched his cap, and, handing me a dispatch, galloped rapidly away.

I opened it hurriedly and read:--

"LET PlCTON ADVANCE IMMEDIATELY ON THE RIGHT."

I saw it all at a glance. I had been mistaken for a general officer.
But what was to be done? Picton's division was two miles away, only
accessible through a heavy cross-fire of artillery and musketry. But
my mind was made up.

In an instant I was engaged with an entire squadron of cavalry, who
endeavored to surround me. Cutting my way through them, I advanced
boldly upon a battery and sabred the gunners before they could bring
their pieces to bear. Looking around, I saw that I had in fact
penetrated the French centre. Before I was well aware of the locality,
I was hailed by a sharp voice in French,--

"Come here, sir!"

I obeyed, and advanced to the side of a little man in a cocked hat.

"Has Grouchy come?"

"Not yet, sire," I replied,--for it was the Emperor.

"Ha!" he said suddenly, bending his piercing eyes on my uniform; "a
prisoner?"

"No, sire," I said proudly.

"A spy?"

I placed my hand upon my sword, but a gesture from the Emperor bade me
forbear.

"You are a brave man," he said.

I took my snuff-box from my pocket, and, taking a pinch, replied by
handing it, with a bow, to the Emperor.

His quick eye caught the cipher on the lid.

"What! a D'Enville? Ha! this accounts for the purity of your accent.
Any relation to Roderick d'Enville?"

"My father, sire."

"He was my schoolfellow at the Ecole Polytechnique. Embrace me!" And
the Emperor fell upon my neck in the presence of his entire staff.
Then, recovering himself, he gently placed in my hand his own
magnificent snuff-box, in exchange for mine, and hanging upon my
breast the cross of the Legion of Honor which he took from his own, he
bade one of his marshals conduct me back to my regiment.

I was so intoxicated with the honor of which I had been the recipient,
that on reaching our lines I uttered a shout of joy and put spurs to
my horse. The intelligent animal seemed to sympathize with my
feelings, and fairly flew over the ground. On a rising eminence a few
yards before me stood a gray-haired officer, surrounded by his staff.
I don't know what possessed me, but putting spurs to my horse, I rode
at him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. A shout
of indignation arose from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly,
with the intention of apologizing, but my mare misunderstood me, and,
again dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer,
this time unfortunately uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof.
"Seize him!" roared the entire army. I was seized. As the soldiers led
me away, I asked the name of the gray-haired officer. "That--why,
that's the DUKE OF WELLINGTON!"

I fainted.

       *       *       *       *       *

For six months I had brain fever. During my illness ten grapeshot were
extracted from my body which I had unconsciously received during the
battle. When I opened my eyes I met the sweet glance of a Sister of
Charity.

"Blanche!" I stammered feebly.

"The same," she replied.

"You here?"

"Yes, dear; but hush! It's a long story. You see,  dear Terence, your
grandfather married my great-aunt's sister, and your father again
married my grandmother's niece, who, dying without a will, was,
according to the French law "--

"But I do not comprehend," I said.

"Of course not," said Blanche, with her old sweet smile; "you've had
brain fever; so go to sleep."

I understood, however, that Blanche loved me; and I am now, dear
reader, Sir Terence Sackville, K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady
Sackville.





MARY McGILLUP

A SOUTHERN NOVEL

AFTER BELLE BOYD

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY G. A. S-LA


INTRODUCTION


"Will you write me up?"

The scene was near Temple Bar. The speaker was the famous rebel Mary
McGillup,--a young girl of fragile frame, and long, lustrous black
hair. I must confess that the question was a peculiar one, and, under
the circumstances, somewhat puzzling. It was true I had been kindly
treated by the Northerners, and, though prejudiced against them, was
to some extent under obligations to them. It was true that I knew
little or nothing of American politics, history, or geography. But
when did an English writer ever weigh such trifles? Turning to the
speaker, I inquired with some caution the amount of pecuniary
compensation offered for the work.

"Sir!" she said, drawing her fragile form to its full height," you
insult me,--you insult the South."

"But look ye here, d'ye see--the tin--the blunt--the ready--the stiff,
you know. Don't ye see, we can't do without that, you know!"

"It shall be contingent on the success of the story," she answered
haughtily. "In the mean time take this precious gem." And drawing a
diamond ring from her finger, she placed it with a roll of MSS. in my
hands, and vanished.

Although unable to procure more than 1 pound 2s. 6d. from an
intelligent pawnbroker to whom I stated the circumstances and with whom
I pledged the ring, my sympathies with the cause of a downtrodden and
chivalrous people were at once enlisted. I could not help wondering
that in rich England, the home of the oppressed and the free, a young
and lovely woman like the fair author of those pages should be obliged
to thus pawn her jewels--her marriage gift--for the means to procure
her bread! With the exception of the English aristocracy,--who much
resemble them,--I do not know of a class of people that I so much
admire as the Southern planters. May I become better acquainted with
both!

Since writing the above, the news of Mr. Lincoln's assassination has
reached me. It is enough for me to say that I am dissatisfied with the
result. I do not attempt to excuse the assassin. Yet there will be men
who will charge this act upon the chivalrous South. This leads me to
repeat a remark once before made by me in this connection, which has
become justly celebrated. It is this:--

"It is usual, in cases of murder, to look for the criminal among those
who expect to be benefited by the crime. In the death of Lincoln, his
immediate successor in office alone receives the benefit of his
dying."

If her Majesty Queen Victoria were assassinated, which Heaven forbid,
the one most benefited by her decease would, of course, be his Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales, her immediate successor. It would be
unnecessary to state that suspicion would at once point to the real
culprit, which would of course be his Royal Highness. This is logic.

But I have done. After having thus stated my opinion in favor of the
South, I would merely remark that there is One who judgeth all
things,--who weigheth the cause between brother and brother,--and
awardeth the perfect  retribution; and whose ultimate decision I, as a
British subject, have only anticipated.

G. A. S.




CHAPTER I


Every reader of Belle Boyd's narrative will remember an allusion to a
"lovely, fragile-looking girl of nineteen," who rivaled Belle Boyd in
devotion to the Southern cause, and who, like her, earned the enviable
distinction of being a "rebel spy."

I am that "fragile" young creature. Although on friendly terms with
the late Miss Boyd, now Mrs. Hardinge, candor compels me to state that
nothing but our common politics prevents me from exposing the
ungenerous spirit she has displayed in this allusion. To be dismissed
in a single paragraph after years of--But I anticipate. To put up with
this feeble and forced acknowledgment of services rendered would be a
confession of a craven spirit, which, thank God, though "fragile" and
only "nineteen," I do not possess. I may not have the "blood of a
Howard" in my veins, as some people, whom I shall not disgrace myself
by naming, claim to have, but I have yet to learn that the race of
McGillup ever yet brooked slight or insult. I shall not say that
attention in certain quarters seems to have turned _some people's_
heads; nor that it would have been more delicate if certain folks had
kept quiet on the subject of their courtship, and the rejection of
certain offers, when it is known that their forward conduct was all
that procured them a husband! Thank Heaven, the South has some
daughters who are above such base considerations! While nothing shall
tempt me to reveal the promises to share equally the fame of certain
enterprises, which were made by one who shall now be nameless, I have
deemed it only just to myself to put my own adventures upon record. If
they are not equal to those of another individual, it is because,
though "fragile," my education has taught me to have some consideration
for the truth. I am done.




CHAPTER II


I was born in Missouri. My dislike for the Northern scum was inherent.
This was shown, at an early age, in the extreme distaste I exhibited
for Webster's spelling-book,--the work of a well-known Eastern
Abolitionist. I cannot be too grateful for the consideration shown by
my chivalrous father,--a gentleman of the old school,--who resisted
to the last an attempt to introduce Mitchell's Astronomy and Geography
into the public school of our district. When I state that this same
Mitchell became afterward a hireling helot in the Yankee Army, every
intelligent reader will appreciate the prophetic discrimination of
this true son of the South.

I was eight years old when I struck the first blow for Southern
freedom against the Northern Tyrant. It is hardly necessary to state
that in this instance the oppressor was a pale, overworked New England
"schoolmarm." The principle for which I was contending, I felt,
however, to be the same. Resenting an affront put upon me, I one day
heaved a rock [Footnote: NOTE, BY G. A. S.--In the Southwest, any
stone  larger than a pea is termed "a rock."] at the head of the
Vandal schoolmistress.  I was seized and overpowered. My pen falters
as I reach the climax. English readers will not give credit to this
sickening story,--the civilized world will avert its head,--but I,
Mary McGillup, was publicly SPANKED!




CHAPTER III


But the chaotic vortex of civil war approached, and fell destruction,
often procrastinated, brooded in storm. [Footnote: I make no
pretension to fine writing, but perhaps Mrs. Hardinge can lay over
that. Oh, of course! M. McG.] As the English people may like to know
what was really the origin of the Rebellion, I have no hesitation in
giving them the true and only cause. Slavery had nothing to do with
it, although the violation of the Declaration of Independence, in the
disregard by the North of the Fugitive Slave Law, [Footnote: The
Declaration of Independence grants to each subject "the  pursuit of
life, liberty, and happiness." A fugitive slave may be said to
personify "life, liberty, and happiness." Hence his pursuit is really
legal. This is logic. G.A.S.] might have provoked a less fiery people
than the Southrons. At the inception of the struggle a large amount of
Southern indebtedness was held by the people of the North. To force
payment from the generous but insolvent debtor--to obtain liquidation
from the Southern planter--was really the soulless and mercenary
object of the craven Northerners. Let the common people of England
look to this. Let the improvident literary hack, the starved
impecunious Grub Street debtor, the newspaper frequenter of sponging-
houses, remember this in their criticisms of the vile and slavish
Yankee.




CHAPTER IV


The roasting of an Abolitionist, by a greatly infuriated community,
was my first taste of the horrors of civil war. Heavens! Why will the
North persist in this fratricidal warfare? The expulsion of several
Union refugees, which soon followed, now fairly plunged my beloved
State into the seething vortex.

I was sitting at the piano one afternoon, singing that stirring
refrain, so justly celebrated, but which a craven spirit, unworthy of
England, has excluded from some of her principal restaurants, and was
dwelling with some enthusiasm on the following line:--

  "Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!"

when a fragment of that scum, clothed in that detestable blue uniform
which is the symbol of oppression, entered the apartment.

"I have the honor of addressing the celebrated rebel spy, Miss
McGillup?" said the Vandal officer.

In a moment I was perfectly calm. With the exception of slightly
expectorating twice in the face of the minion, I did not betray my
agitation. Haughtily, yet firmly, I replied,--

"I am."

"You looked as if you might be," the brute replied, as he turned on
his heel to leave the apartment.

In an instant I threw myself before him. "You shall not leave here
thus," I shrieked, grappling him with an energy which no one, seeing
my frail figure, would have believed. "I know the reputation of your
hireling crew. I read your dreadful purpose in your eye. Tell me not
that your designs are not sinister. You came here to insult me,--to
kiss me, perhaps. You shan't,--you naughty man. Go away!"

The blush of conscious degradation rose to the cheek of the Lincoln
hireling as he turned his face away from mine.

In an instant I drew my pistol from my belt, which, in anticipation of
some such  outrage, I always carried, and shot him.




CHAPTER V


  "Thy forte was less to act than speak, Maryland! Thy politics were
  changed each week, Maryland! With Northern Vandals thou wast meek,
  With sympathizers thou wouldst shriek, I know thee--oh,'twas like
  thy cheek! Maryland! my Maryland!"

After committing the act described in the preceding chapter, which
every English reader will pardon, I went upstairs, put on a clean pair
of stockings, and, placing a rose in my lustrous black hair, proceeded
at once to the camp of Generals Price and Mosby to put them in
possession of information which would lead to the destruction of a
portion of the Federal Army. During a great part of my flight I was
exposed to a running fire from the Federal pickets of such coarse
expressions as, "Go it, Sally Reb," "Dust it, my Confederate Beauty,"
but I succeeded in reaching the glorious Southern camp uninjured.

In a week afterwards I was arrested, by a lettre de cachet of Mr.
Stanton, and placed in the Bastile. British readers of my story will
express surprise at these terms, but I assure them that not only these
articles but tumbrils, guillotines, and conciergeries were in active
use among the Federals. If substantiation be required, I refer to the
Charleston "Mercury," the only reliable organ, next to the New York
"Daily News," published in the country. At the Bastile I made the
acquaintance of the accomplished and elegant author of "Guy
Livingstone," [Footnote: The recent conduct of Mr.  Livingstone
renders him unworthy of my notice. His disgusting praise of Belle
Boyd, and complete  ignoring of my claims, show the artfulness of some
females and puppyism of some  men. M. McG.] to whom I presented a
curiously carved thigh-bone of a  Union officer, and   from whom I
received the following beautiful acknowledgment:--

DEMOISELLE:--Should I ever win hame to my ain countrie, I make mine
avow to enshrine in my reliquaire this elegant bijouterie and offering
of La belle Rebelle. Nay, methinks this fraction of man's anatomy were
some compensation for the rib lost by the "grand old gardener," Adam.




CHAPTER VI


Released at last from durance vile, and placed on board of an Erie
canal-boat, on my way to Canada, I for a moment breathed the sweets of
liberty. Perhaps the interval gave me opportunity to indulge in
certain reveries which I had hitherto sternly dismissed. Henry
Breckinridge Folair, a consistent Copperhead, captain of the canal-
boat, again and again pressed that suit I had so often rejected.

It was a lovely moonlight night. We sat on the deck of the gliding
craft. The moonbeam and the lash of the driver fell softly on the
flanks of the off horse, and only the surging of the tow-rope broke
the silence. Folair's arm clasped my waist. I suffered it to remain.
Placing in my lap a small but not ungrateful roll of checkerberry
lozenges, he took the occasion to repeat softly in my ear the words of
a motto he had just unwrapped--with its graceful covering of the
tissue paper--from a sugar almond. The heart of the wicked little
rebel, Mary McGillup, was won!


The story of Mary McGillup is done. I might have added the journal of
my husband, Henry Breckinridge Folair, but as it refers chiefly to his
freights and a schedule of his passengers, I have been obliged,
reluctantly, to suppress it.

It is due to my friends to say that I have been requested not to write
this book. Expressions have reached my ears, the reverse of
complimentary. I have been told that its publication will probably
insure my banishment for life. Be it so. If the cause for which I
labored have been subserved, I am content.





THE HOODLUM BAND

OR

THE BOY CHIEF, THE INFANT POLITICIAN, AND THE PIRATE PRODIGY


CHAPTER I


It was a quiet New England village. Nowhere in the valley of the
Connecticut the autumn sun shone upon a more peaceful, pastoral,
manufacturing community. The wooden nutmegs were slowly ripening on
the trees, and the white-pine hams for Western consumption were
gradually rounding into form under the deft manipulation of the hardy
American artisan. The honest Connecticut farmer was quietly gathering
from his threshing-floor the shoe-pegs, which, when intermixed with a
fair proportion of oats, offered a pleasing substitute for fodder to
the effete civilizations of Europe. An almost Sabbath-like stillness
prevailed. Doemville was only seven miles from Hartford, and the
surrounding landscape smiled with the conviction of being fully
insured.

Few would have thought that this peaceful village was the home of the
three young heroes whose exploits would hereafter--But we anticipate.

Doemville Academy was the principal seat of learning in the county.
Under the grave and gentle administration of the venerable Doctor
Context, it had attained just popularity. Yet the increasing
infirmities of age obliged the doctor to relinquish much of his trust
to his assistants, who,  it is needless to say, abused his confidence.
Before long their brutal tyranny and deep-laid malevolence became
apparent. Boys were absolutely forced to study their lessons. The
sickening fact will hardly be believed, but during school-hours they
were obliged to remain in their seats with the appearance, at least,
of discipline. It is stated by good authority that the rolling of
croquet-balls across the floor during recitation was objected to,
under the fiendish excuse of its interfering with their studies. The
breaking of windows by baseballs, and the beating of small scholars
with bats, was declared against. At last, bloated and arrogant with
success, the under-teachers threw aside all disguise, and revealed
themselves in their true colors. A cigar was actually taken out of a
day-scholar's mouth during prayers! A flask of whiskey was dragged
from another's desk, and then thrown out of the window. And finally,
Profanity, Hazing, Theft, and Lying were almost discouraged.

Could the youth of America, conscious of their power, and a literature
of their own, tamely submit to this tyranny? Never! We repeat it
firmly. Never! We repeat it to parents and guardians. Never! But the
fiendish tutors, chuckling in their glee, little knew what was passing
through the cold, haughty intellect of Charles Francis Adams
Golightly, aged ten; what curled the lip of Benjamin Franklin Jenkins,
aged seven; or what shone in the bold, blue eyes of Bromley
Chitterlings, aged six and a half, as they sat in the corner of the
playground at recess. Their only other companion and confidant was the
negro porter and janitor of the school, known as "Pirate Jim."

Fitly, indeed, was he named, as the secrets of his early wild career--
confessed freely to his noble young friends--plainly showed. A slaver
at the age of seventeen, the ringleader of a mutiny on the African
coast at the age of twenty, a privateersman during the last war with
England,  the commander of a fire-ship and its sole survivor at
twenty-five, with a wild, intermediate career of unmixed piracy, until
the Rebellion called him to civil service again as a blockade runner,
and peace and a desire for rural repose led him to seek the
janitorship of the Doemville Academy, where no questions were asked
and references not exchanged--he was, indeed, a fit mentor for our
daring youth. Although a man whose days had exceeded the usual space
allotted to humanity, the various episodes of his career footing his
age up to nearly one hundred and fifty-nine years, he scarcely looked
it, and was still hale and vigorous.

"Yes," continued Pirate Jim critically; "I don't think he was any
bigger nor you, Master Chitterlings, if as big, when he stood on the
fork'stle of my ship and shot the captain o' that East Injyman dead.
We used to call him little Weevils, he was so young-like. But, bless
your hearts, boys! he wa'n't anything to Little Sammy Barlow, ez once
crep' up inter the captain's stateroom on a Rooshin frigate, stabbed
him to the heart with a jack-knife, then put on the captain's uniform
and his cocked hat, took command of the ship, and fout her hisself."

"Wasn't the captain's clothes big for him?" asked B. Franklin Jenkins
anxiously.

The janitor eyed young Jenkins with pained dignity.

"Didn't I say the Rooshin captain was a small, a very small, man?
Rooshins is small, likewise Greeks."

A noble enthusiasm beamed in the faces of the youthful heroes.

"Was Barlow as large as me?" asked C. F. Adams Golightly, lifting his
curls from his Jove-like brow.

"Yes; but, then, he hed hed, so to speak, experiences. It was allowed
that he had pizened his schoolmaster afore he went to sea. But it's
dry talking, boys."

Golightly drew a flask from his jacket and handed it to the janitor.
It was his father's best brandy. The heart of the honest old seaman
was touched.

"Bless ye, my own pirate boy!" he said in a voice suffocating with
emotion.

"I've got some tobacco," said the youthful Jenkins, "but it's fine
cut; I use only that now."

"I kin buy some plug at the corner grocery," said Pirate Jim, "only I
left my portmoney at home."

"Take this watch," said young Golightly; "'tis my father's. Since he
became a tyrant and usurper, and forced me to join a corsair's band,
I've begun by dividing the property."

"This is idle trifling," said young Chitterlings wildly. "Every moment
is precious. Is this an hour to give to wine and wassail? Ha, we want
action--action! We must strike the blow for freedom to-night--ay, this
very night. The scow is already anchored in the mill-dam, freighted
with provisions for a three months' voyage. I have a black flag in my
pocket. Why, then, this cowardly delay?"

The two elder youths turned with a slight feeling of awe and shame to
gaze on the glowing cheeks and high, haughty crest of their youngest
comrade--the bright, the beautiful Bromley Chitterlings. Alas! that
very moment of forgetfulness and mutual admiration was fraught with
danger. A thin, dyspeptic, half-starved tutor approached.

"It is time to resume your studies, young gentlemen," he said, with
fiendish politeness.

They were his last words on earth.

"Down, Tyrant!" screamed Chitterlings.

"Sic him--I mean, sic semper tyrannis!" said the classical Golightly.

A heavy blow on the head from a baseball bat, and the rapid projection
of a baseball against his empty stomach, brought the tutor a limp and
lifeless mass to the ground. Golightly shuddered. Let not my young
readers blame him too rashly. It was his first homicide.   "Search his
pockets," said the practical Jenkins.

They did so, and found nothing hut a Harvard Triennial Catalogue.

"Let us fly," said Jenkins.

"Forward to the boats!" cried the enthusiastic Chitterlings.

But C. F. Adams Golightly stood gazing thoughtfully at the prostrate
tutor.

"This," he said calmly, "is the result of a too free government and
the common-school system. What the country needs is reform. I cannot
go with you, boys."

"Traitor!" screamed the others.

C. F. A. Golightly smiled sadly.

"You know me not. I shall not become a pirate--but a Congressman!"

Jenkins and Chitterlings turned pale.

"I have already organized two caucuses in a baseball club, and bribed
the delegates of another. Nay, turn not away. Let us be friends,
pursuing through various ways one common end. Farewell!" They shook
hands.

"But where is Pirate Jim? "asked Jenkins.

"He left us but for a moment to raise money on the watch to purchase
armament for the scow. Farewell!"

And so the gallant, youthful spirits parted, bright with the sunrise
of hope.

That night a conflagration raged in Doemville. The Doemville Academy,
mysteriously fired, first fell a victim to the devouring element. The
candy-shop and cigar-store, both holding heavy liabilities against
the academy, quickly followed. By the lurid gleams of the flames, a
long, low, sloop-rigged scow, with every mast gone except one, slowly
worked her way out of the mill-dam towards the Sound. The next day
three boys were missing--C. F. Adams Golightly, B. F. Jenkins, and
Bromley Chitterlings. Had they perished in the flames? Who shall say?
Enough  that never more under these names did they again appear in the
homes of their ancestors.

Happy, indeed, would it have been for Doemville had the mystery ended
here. But a darker interest and scandal rested upon the peaceful
village. During that awful night the boarding-school of Madame
Brimborion was visited stealthily, and two of the fairest heiresses of
Connecticut--daughters of the president of a savings bank and
insurance director--were the next morning found to have eloped. With
them also disappeared the entire contents of the savings bank, and on
the following day the Flamingo Fire Insurance Company failed.




CHAPTER II


Let my young readers now sail with me to warmer and more hospitable
climes. Off the coast of Patagonia a long, low, black schooner proudly
rides the seas, that break softly upon the vine-clad shores of that
luxuriant land. Who is this that, wrapped in Persian rugs, and dressed
in the most expensive manner, calmly reclines on the quarter-deck of
the schooner, toying lightly ever and anon with the luscious fruits of
the vicinity, held in baskets of solid gold by Nubian slaves? or at
intervals, with daring grace, guides an ebony velocipede over the
polished black walnut decks, and in and out the intricacies of the
rigging? Who is it? well may be asked. What name is it that blanches
with terror the cheeks of the Patagonian navy? Who but the Pirate
Prodigy--the relentless Boy Scourer of Patagonian seas? Voyagers
slowly drifting by the Silurian beach, coasters along the Devonian
shore, still shudder at the name of Bromley Chitterlings--the Boy
Avenger, late of Hartford, Connecticut.

It has been often asked by the idly curious, Why Avenger, and of what?
Let us not seek to disclose the  awful secret hidden under that
youthful jacket. Enough that there may have been that of bitterness in
his past life that they "Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving
wave," or "whose soul would heave above the sickening wave," did not
understand. Only one knew him, perhaps too well--a queen of the
Amazons taken prisoner off Terra del Fuego a week previous. She loved
the Boy Avenger. But in vain; his youthful heart seemed obdurate.

"Hear me," at last he said, when she had for the seventh time wildly
proffered her hand and her kingdom in marriage, "and know once and
forever why I must decline your flattering proposal. I love another."

With a wild, despairing cry she leaped into the sea, but was instantly
rescued by the Pirate Prodigy. Yet, even in that supreme moment, such
was his coolness, that on his way to the surface he captured a
mermaid, and placing her in charge of his steward, with directions to
give her a stateroom, with hot and cold water, calmly resumed his
place by the Amazon's side. When the cabin door closed on his faithful
servant, bringing champagne and ices to the interesting stranger,
Chitterlings resumed his narrative with a choking voice--

"When I first fled from the roof of a tyrannical parent I loved the
beautiful and accomplished Eliza J. Sniffen. Her father was president
of the Workingmen's Savings Bank, and it was perfectly understood that
in the course of time the entire deposits would be his. But, like a
vain fool, I wished to anticipate the future, and in a wild moment
persuaded Miss Sniffen to elope with me; and with the entire cash
assets of the bank, we fled together." He paused, overcome with
emotion. "But fate decreed it otherwise. In my feverish haste, I had
forgotten to place among the stores of my pirate craft that peculiar
kind of chocolate  caramel to which Eliza Jane was most partial. We
were obliged to put into New Rochelle on the second day out, to enable
Miss Sniffen to procure that delicacy at the nearest confectioner's,
and match some zephyr worsteds at the first fancy shop. Fatal mistake.
She went--she never returned!" In a moment he resumed, in a choking
voice, "After a week's weary waiting, I was obliged to put to sea
again, bearing a broken heart and the broken bank of her father. I
have never seen her since."

"And you still love her?" asked the Amazon queen excitedly.

"Ay, forever!"

"Noble youth. Here, take the reward of thy fidelity; for know, Bromley
Chitterlings, that I am Eliza Jane. Wearied with waiting, I embarked
on a Peruvian guano ship--it's a long story, dear."

"And altogether too thin," said the Boy Avenger, fiercely releasing
himself from her encircling arms. "Eliza Jane's age, a year ago, was
only thirteen, and you are forty, if a day."

"True," she returned sadly, "but I have suffered much, and time passes
rapidly, and I've grown. You would scarcely believe that this is my
own hair."

"I know not," he replied, in gloomy abstraction.

"Forgive my deceit," she returned. "If you are affianced to another,
let me at least be--a mother to you."

The Pirate Prodigy started, and tears came to his eyes. The scene was
affecting in the extreme. Several of the oldest seamen--men who had
gone through scenes of suffering with tearless eyes and unblanched
cheeks--now retired to the spirit room to conceal their emotion. A few
went into caucus in the forecastle, and returned with the request that
the Amazonian queen should hereafter be known as the "Queen of the
Pirates' Isle."

"Mother!" gasped the Pirate Prodigy.

"My son!" screamed the Amazonian queen.

They embraced. At the same moment a loud flop was heard on the
quarter-deck. It was the forgotten mermaid, who, emerging from her
stateroom, and ascending the companion-way at that moment, had fainted
at the spectacle. The Pirate Prodigy rushed to her side with a bottle
of smelling-salts.

She recovered slowly. "Permit me," she said, rising with dignity, "to
leave the ship. I am unaccustomed, to such conduct."

"Hear me--she is my mother!"

"She certainly is old enough to be," replied the mermaid. "And to
speak of that being her own hair!" she said, as she rearranged with
characteristic grace, a comb, and a small hand-mirror, her own
luxuriant tresses.

"If I couldn't afford any other clothes, I might wear a switch, too!"
hissed the Amazonian queen. "I suppose you don't dye it on account of
the salt water? But perhaps you prefer green, dear?"

"A little salt water might improve your own complexion, love."

"Fishwoman!" screamed the Amazonian queen.

"Bloomerite!" shrieked the mermaid.

In another instant they had seized each other.

"Mutiny! Overboard with them!" cried the Pirate Prodigy, rising to the
occasion, and casting aside all human affection in the peril of the
moment.

A plank was brought and the two women placed upon it.

"After you, dear," said the mermaid significantly to the Amazonian
queen; "you're the oldest."

"Thank you!" said the Amazonian queen, stepping back. "Fish is always
served first."

Stung by the insult, with a wild scream of rage the mermaid grappled
her in her arms and leaped into the sea.

As the waters closed over them forever, the Pirate Prodigy sprung to
his feet.  "Up with the black flag, and bear  away for New London," he
shouted in trumpet-like tones.

"Ha! ha! Once more the Rover is free!"

Indeed it was too true. In that fatal moment he had  again loosed
himself from the trammels of human feeling and was once more the
Boy Avenger.




CHAPTER III


Again I must ask my young readers to mount my hippogriff and hie with
me to the almost inaccessible heights of the Rocky Mountains. There,
for years, a band of wild and untamable savages, known as the Pigeon
Feet, had resisted the blankets and Bibles of civilization. For years
the trails leading to their camp were marked by the bones of teamsters
and broken wagons, and the trees were decked with the dying scalp-
locks of women and children. The boldest of military leaders hesitated
to attack them in their fortresses, and prudently left the scalping-
knives, rifles, powder, and shot provided by a paternal government for
their welfare lying on the ground a few miles from their encampment,
with the request that they were not to be used until the military had
safely retired. Hitherto, save an occasional incursion into the
territory of the Knock-knees, a rival tribe, they had limited their
depredations to the vicinity.

But lately a baleful change had come over them. Acting under some evil
influence, they now pushed their warfare into the white settlements,
carrying fire and destruction with them. Again and again had the
Government offered them a free pass to Washington and the privilege of
being photographed, but under the same evil guidance they refused.
There was a singular mystery in their mode of aggression. Schoolhouses
were always burned, the schoolmasters taken into captivity, and never
again heard from.    A palace car on the Union Pacific Railway,
containing an excursion party of teachers en route to San Francisco,
was surrounded, its inmates captured, and--their vacancies in the
school catalogue never again filled. Even a hoard of educational
examiners, proceeding to Cheyenne, were taken prisoners, and obliged
to answer questions they themselves had proposed, amidst horrible
tortures. By degrees these atrocities were traced to the malign
influence of a new chief of the tribe. As yet little was known of him
but through his baleful appellations, "Young Man who Goes for His
Teacher," and "He Lifts the Hair of the School-Marm." He was said to
be small and exceedingly youthful in appearance. Indeed, his earlier
appellative, "He Wipes His Nose on His Sleeve," was said to have been
given to him to indicate his still boy-like habits.

It was night in the encampment and among the lodges of the Pigeon
Toes. Dusky maidens flitted in and out among the campfires like brown
moths, cooking the toothsome buffalo-hump, frying the fragrant bear's-
meat, and stewing the esculent bean for the braves. For a few favored
ones sput grasshoppers were reserved as a rare delicacy, although the
proud Spartan soul of their chief scorned all such luxuries.

He was seated alone in his wigwam, attended only by the gentle
Mushymush, fairest of the Pigeon Feet maidens. Nowhere were the
characteristics of her great tribe more plainly shown than in the
little feet that lapped over each other in walking. A single glance at
the chief was sufficient to show the truth of the wild rumors
respecting his youth. He was scarcely twelve, of proud and lofty
bearing, and clad completely in wrappings of various-colored scalloped
cloths, which gave him the appearance of a somewhat extra-sized
penwiper. An enormous eagle's feather, torn from the wing of a bald
eagle who once attempted to carry him away, completed his attire. It
was also the  memento of one of his most superhuman feats of courage.
He would undoubtedly have scalped the eagle but that nature had
anticipated him.

"Why is the Great Chief sad?" said Mushymush softly. "Does his soul
still yearn for the blood of the palefaced teachers? Did not the
scalping of two professors of geology in the Yale exploring party
satisfy his warrior's heart yesterday? Has he forgotten that Gardener
and King are still to follow? Shall his own Mushymush bring him a
botanist to-morrow? Speak, for the silence of my brother lies on my
heart like the snow on the mountain, and checks the flow of my
speech."

Still the proud Boy Chief sat silent. Suddenly he said, "Hiss!" and
rose to his feet. Taking a long rifle from the ground he adjusted its
sight. Exactly seven miles away on the slope of the mountain the
figure of a man was seen walking. The Boy Chief raised the rifle to
his unerring eye and fired. The man fell.

A scout was dispatched to scalp and search the body. He presently
returned.

"Who was the paleface?" eagerly asked the chief.

"A life insurance agent."

A dark scowl settled on the face of the chief.

"I thought it was a book peddler."

"Why is my brother's heart sore against the book peddler?" asked
Mushymush.

"Because," said the Boy Chief fiercely, "I am again without my regular
dime novel--and I thought he might have one in his pack. Hear me,
Mushymush. The United States mails no longer bring me my 'Young
America' or my 'Boys' and Girls' Weekly.' I find it impossible, even
with my fastest scouts, to keep up with the rear of General Howard,
and replenish my literature from the sutler's wagon. Without a dime
novel or a 'Young America,' how am I to keep up this Injin business?"

Mushymush remained in meditation a single moment. Then she looked up
proudly.

"My brother has spoken. It is well. He shall have his dime novel. He
shall know the kind of hairpin his sister Mushymush is."

And she arose and gamboled lightly as the fawn out of his presence.

In two hours she returned. In one hand she held three small flaxen
scalps, in the other "The Boy Marauder," complete in one volume, price
ten cents.

"Three palefaced children," she gasped, "were reading it in the tail-
end of an emigrant wagon. I crept up to them softly. Their parents are
still unaware of the accident," and she sank helpless at his feet.


"Noble girl!" said the Boy Chief, gazing proudly on her prostrate
form; "and these are the people that a military despotism expects to
subdue!"




CHAPTER IV


But the capture of several wagon-loads of commissary whiskey, and the
destruction of two tons of stationery intended for the general
commanding, which interfered with his regular correspondence with the
War Department, at last awakened the United States military
authorities to active exertion. A quantity of troops were massed
before the Pigeon Feet encampment, and an attack was hourly imminent.

"Shine your boots, sir?"

It was the voice of a youth in humble attire, standing before the flap
of the commanding general's tent.

The general raised his head from his correspondence.

"Ah," he said, looking down on the humble boy, "I see; I shall write
that the appliances of civilization move steadily forward with the
army. Yes," he added, "you  may shine my military boots. You
understand, however, that to get your pay you must first"--

"Make a requisition on the commissary-general, have it certified to by
the quartermaster, countersigned by the post-adjutant, and submitted
by you to the War Department "--

"And charged as stationery" added the general gently. "You are, I see,
an intelligent and thoughtful boy. I trust you neither use whiskey,
tobacco, nor are ever profane?"

"I promised my sainted mother"--

"Enough! Go on with your blacking; I have to lead the attack on the
Pigeon Feet at eight precisely. It is now half past seven" said the
general, consulting a large kitchen clock that stood in the corner of
his tent.

The little bootblack looked up--the general was absorbed in his
correspondence. The bootblack drew a tin putty-blower from his pocket,
took unerring aim, and nailed in a single shot the minute hand to the
dial. Going on with his blacking, yet stopping ever and anon to glance
over the general's plan of campaign, spread on the table before him,
he was at last interrupted by the entrance of an officer.

"Everything is ready for the attack, general. It is now eight o'clock"

"Impossible! It is only half past seven."

"But my watch, and the watches of the staff"--

"Are regulated by my kitchen clock, that has been in my family for
years. Enough! it is only half past seven."

The officer retired; the bootblack had finished one boot. Another
officer appeared.

"Instead of attacking the enemy, general, we are attacked ourselves.
Our pickets are already driven in."

"Military pickets should not differ from other pickets" said the
bootblack modestly. "To stand firmly they should be well driven in."
"Ha! there is something in that," said the general thoughtfully. "But
who are you, who speak thus?"

Rising to his full height, the bootblack threw off his outer rags, and
revealed the figure of the Boy Chief of the Pigeon Feet.

"Treason!" shrieked the general. "Order an advance along the whole
line."

But in vain. The next moment he fell beneath the tomahawk of the Boy
Chief, and within the next quarter of an hour the United States army
was dispersed. Thus ended the battle of Bootblack Creek.




CHAPTER V


And yet the Boy Chief was not entirely happy. Indeed, at times he
seriously thought of accepting the invitation extended by the Great
Chief at Washington immediately after the massacre of his soldiers,
and once more revisiting the haunts of civilization, His soul sickened
in feverish inactivity; schoolmasters palled on his taste; he had
introduced baseball, blind hooky, marbles, and peg-top among his Indian
subjects, but only with indifferent success. The squaws persisted in
boring holes through the china alleys and wearing them as necklaces;
his warriors stuck pipes in their baseball bats, and made war-clubs of
them. He could not but feel, too, that the gentle Mushymush, although
devoted to her paleface brother, was deficient in culinary education.
Her mince-pies were abominable; her jam far inferior to that made by
his Aunt Sally of Doemville. Only an unexpected incident kept him
equally from the extreme of listless sybaritic indulgence or of morbid
cynicism. Indeed, at the age of twelve, he already had become
disgusted with existence.

He had returned to his wigwam after an exhausting buffalo hunt, in
which he had slain two hundred and seventy-five buffaloes with  his
own hand, not counting the individual buffalo on which he had leaped,
so as to join the herd, and which he afterward led into the camp a
captive and a present to the lovely Mushymush. He had scalped two
express riders, and a correspondent of the "New York Herald;" had
despoiled the Overland Mail stage of a quantity of vouchers which
enabled him to draw double rations from the Government, and was
reclining on a bearskin, smoking and thinking of the vanity of human
endeavor, when a scout entered, saying that a paleface youth had
demanded access to his person.

"Is he a commissioner? If so, say that the red man is rapidly passing
to the happy hunting-grounds of his fathers, and now desires only
peace, blankets, and ammunition; obtain the latter, and then scalp the
commissioner."

"But it is only a youth who asks an interview."

"Does he look like an insurance agent? If so, say that I have already
policies in three Hartford companies. Meanwhile prepare the stake, and
see that the squaws are ready with their implements of torture."

The youth was admitted; he was evidently only half the age of the Boy
Chief. As he entered the wigwam, and stood revealed to his host, they
both started. In another moment they were locked in each other's arms.
"Jenky, old boy!"

"Bromley, old fel!"

B. F. Jenkins, for such was the name of the Boy Chief, was the first
to recover his calmness. Turning to his warriors he said proudly,--

"Let my children retire while I speak to the agent of our Great Father
in Washington. Hereafter no latch-keys will be provided for the
wigwams of the warriors. The practice of late hours must be
discouraged."

"How!" said the warriors, and instantly retired.

"Whisper!" said Jenkins, drawing his friend aside.   "I am known here
only as the Boy Chief of the Pigeon Toes."

"And I," said Bromley Chitterlings proudly, "am known everywhere as
the Pirate Prodigy--the Boy Avenger of the Patagonian coast."

"But how came you here?"

"Listen! My pirate brig, the Lively Mermaid, now lies at Meiggs's
wharf in San Francisco, disguised as a Mendocino lumber vessel. My
pirate crew accompanied me here in a palace car from San Francisco."

"It must have been expensive," said the prudent Jenkins. "It was, hut
they defrayed it by a collection from the other passengers, you
understand. The papers will be full of it to-morrow. Do you take in
the 'New York Sun'?"

"No; I dislike their Indian policy. But why are you here?"

"Hear me, Jenk! 'T is a long and a sad story. The lovely Eliza J.
Sniffen, who fled with me from Doemville, was seized by her parents
and torn from my arms at New Rochelle. Reduced to poverty by the
breaking of the savings bank of which he was president--a failure to
which I largely contributed, and the profits of which I enjoyed--I
have since ascertained that Eliza Jane Sniffen was forced to become a
schoolmistress, departed to take charge of a seminary in Colorado, and
since then has never been heard from."

Why did the Boy Chief turn pale, and clutch at the tent-pole for
support? Why, indeed?

"Eliza Jane Sniffen," gasped Jenkins,--"aged fourteen, red-haired,
with a slight tendency to strabismus?"

"The same."

"Heaven help me! She died by my mandate!"

"Traitor!" shrieked Chitterlings, rushing at Jenkins with a drawn
poniard.

But a figure interposed. The slight girlish form of Mushymush with
outstretched hands stood between the exasperated Pirate Prodigy and
the Boy Chief.

"Forbear," she said sternly to Chitterlings; "you know not what you
do."

The two youths paused.

"Hear me," she said rapidly. "When captured in a confectioner's shop
at New  Rochelle, E. J. Sniffen was taken back to poverty. She
resolved to become a schoolmistress. Hearing of an opening in the
West, she proceeded to Colorado to take exclusive charge of the
pensionnat of Mdme. Choflie, late of Paris. On the way thither she was
captured by the emissaries of the Boy Chief"--

"In consummation of a fatal vow I made, never to spare educational
instructors," interrupted Jenkins.

"But in her captivity," continued Mushymush, "she managed to stain her
face with poke-berry juice, and mingling with the Indian maidens was
enabled to pass for one of the tribe. Once undetected, she boldly
ingratiated herself with the Boy Chief,--how honestly and devotedly
he best can tell,--for I, Mushymush, the little sister of the Boy
Chief, am Eliza Jane Sniffen."

The Pirate Prodigy clasped her in his arms. The Boy Chief, raising his
hand, ejaculated,--

"Bless you, my children!"

"There is but one thing wanting to complete this reunion," said
Chitterlings, after a pause, but the hurried entrance of a scout
stopped his utterance.

"A commissioner from the Great Father in Washington."

"Scalp him!" shrieked the Boy Chief; "this is no time for diplomatic
trifling."

"We have; but he still insists upon seeing you, and has sent in his
card."

The Boy Chief took it, and read aloud, in agonized accents,--

"Charles Francis Adams Golightly, late page in United States Senate,
and acting commissioner of United States."

In another moment, Golightly, pale, bleeding, and, as it were,
prematurely bald, but still cold and intellectual, entered the wigwam.
They fell upon his neck and begged his forgiveness.

"Don't mention it," he said quietly; "these things must and will
happen under our present system of government. My story is brief.
Obtaining political influence through caucuses, I became at last page
in the Senate. Through the exertions of political friends, I was
appointed clerk to the commissioner whose functions I now represent.
Knowing through political spies in your own camp who you were, I acted
upon the physical fears of the commissioner, who was an ex-clergyman,
and easily induced him to deputize me to consult with you. In doing
so, I have lost my scalp, but as the hirsute signs of juvenility have
worked against my political progress, I do not regret it. As a
partially bald young man I shall have more power. The terms that I
have to offer are simply this: you can do everything you want, go
anywhere you choose, if you will only leave this place. I have a
hundred-thousand-dollar draft on the United States Treasury in my
pocket at your immediate disposal."

"But what's to become of me?" asked Chitterlings.

"Your case has already been under advisement. The Secretary of State,
who is an intelligent man, has determined to recognize you as _de jure_
and _de facto_ the only loyal representative of the Patagonian
Government. You may safely proceed to Washington as its envoy
extraordinary. I dine with the secretary next week."

"And yourself, old fellow?"

"I only wish that twenty years from now you will recognize by your
influence and votes the rights of C. F. A. Golightly to the
presidency."

And here ends our story. Trusting that my dear young friends may take
whatever example or moral their respective parents and guardians may
deem fittest from these pages, I hope in future years to portray
further the career of those three young heroes I have already
introduced in the springtime of life to their charitable consideration.


       *       *       *       *       *


       EARLIER SKETCHES


       *       *       *       *       *




M'LISS

AN IDYL OF RED MOUNTAIN


[Pagenote: There are two forms of this tale. The earlier one is that
printed originally in _The Golden Era_ and afterward and until
this time included in Mr. Harte's collected writings. It is comprised
in four chapters and occupies about thirty pages. When the present
edition was under consideration, Mr. Harte called his publishers'
attention to the fact that the editor of the same paper proposed to
him some time later to continue it as a serial. In order to do this,
he found himself obliged to make some changes in the earlier
incidents. Accordingly he republished the story in its first form, but
with some interpolations and alterations, and then proceeded with
other chapters, making ten in all, "concluding it," he says, "rather
abruptly when I found it was inartistically prolonged." This was in
1863. But even thus the story was not to be let alone. Ten years
later, in 1873, another writer took the tale up at the end of the
tenth chapter, added fifty more, and issued the whole in _The Golden
Era_. When the continuation had been running some time, Mr. Harte
discovered the fraud, and inserted a card in the same paper, advising
the public that he had nothing whatever to do with this further
amplification of his story. Afterward, when the whole was published in
book form, he instituted legal proceedings and suppressed the sale.

The present form is Mr. Harte's revision and extension of his first,
and is reprinted from _The Golden Era_ with his consent.
EDITOR.]




CHAPTER I

SMITH'S POCKET


Just where the Sierra Nevada begins to subside in gentle undulations,
and the rivers grow less rapid and yellow, on the side of a great red
mountain stands Smith's Pocket. Seen from the red road at sunset, in
the red light and the red dust, its white houses look like the
outcroppings of quartz on the mountain side. The red stage, topped
with red-shirted passengers, is lost to view half a dozen times in the
tortuous descent, turning up unexpectedly in out-of-the-way places,
and vanishing altogether within a hundred yards of the town. It is
probably owing to this sudden twist in the road that the advent of a
stranger at Smith's Pocket is usually attended with a peculiar
circumstance. Dismounting from the vehicle at the stage office the
too-confident traveler is apt to walk straight out of town under the
impression that it lies in quite another direction. It is related that
one of the tunnel men, two miles from town, met one of these self-
reliant passengers with a carpetbag, umbrella, "Harper's Magazine,"
and other evidences of "civilization and refinement," plodding along
over the road he had just ridden, vainly endeavoring to find the
settlement of Smith's Pocket.

Had he been an observant traveler he might have found some
compensation for his disappointment in the weird aspect of that
vicinity. There were huge fissures on the hillside, and displacements
of the red soil, resembling more the chaos of some primary elementary
upheaval than the work of man; while, halfway down, a long flume
straddled its narrow body and disproportionate legs over the chasm,
like an enormous fossil of some forgotten antediluvian. At every step
smaller ditches crossed the road, hiding in  their shallow depths
unlovely streams that crept away to a clandestine union with the great
yellow torrent below. Here and there the ruins of some cabin, with the
chimney alone left intact and the hearthstone open to the skies, gave
such a flat contradiction to the poetic delusion of Lares and Penates
that the heart of the traveler must have collapsed as he gazed, and
even the bar-room of the National Hotel have afterward seemed festive,
and invested with preternatural comfort and domesticity.

The settlement of Smith's Pocket owed its origin to the finding of a
"pocket" on its site by a veritable Smith. Five thousand dollars were
taken out of it in one half-hour by Smith. Three thousand dollars were
expended by Smith and others in erecting a flume and in tunneling. And
then Smith's Pocket was found to be only a pocket, and subject like
other pockets to depletion. Although Smith pierced the bowels of the
great red mountain, that five thousand dollars was the first and the
last return of his labor. The mountain grew reticent of its golden
secrets, and the flume steadily ebbed away the remainder of Smith's
fortune. Then Smith went into quartz mining. Then into quartz milling.
Then into hydraulics and ditching, and then by easy degrees into
saloon keeping. Presently it was whispered that Smith was drinking a
good deal; then it was known that Smith was an habitual drunkard; and
then people began to think, as they are apt to, that he had never been
anything else. But the settlement of Smith's Pocket, like that of most
discoveries, was happily not dependent on the fortune of its pioneer,
and other parties projected tunnels and found pockets. So Smith's
Pocket became a settlement with its two fancy stores, its two hotels,
its one express office, and its two first families. Occasionally its
one long straggling street was overawed by the assumption of the
latest San Francisco fashions, imported per express, exclusively to
the first families; making outraged nature, in the  ragged outline of
her furrowed surface, look still more homely, and putting personal
insult on that greater portion of the population to whom the Sabbath,
with a change of linen, brought merely the necessity of cleanliness
without the luxury of adornment. Then there was a Methodist church,
and hard by a monte bank, and a little beyond, on the mountain side, a
graveyard; and then a little schoolhouse.

"The master," as he was known to his little flock, sat alone one night
in the schoolhouse, with some open copybooks before him, carefully
making those bold and full characters which are supposed to combine
the extremes of chirographical and moral excellence, and had got as
far as "Riches are deceitful," and was elaborating the noun with an
insincerity of flourish that was quite in the spirit of his text, when
he heard a gentle tapping. The woodpeckers had been busy about the
roof, during the day, and the noise did not disturb his work. But the
opening of the door, and the tapping continuing from the inside,
caused him to look up. He was slightly startled by the figure of a
young girl, dirty, and shabbily clad. Still her great black eyes, her
coarse uncombed lusterless black hair falling over her sunburned face,
her red arms and feet streaked with the red soil, were all familiar to
him. It was Melissa Smith--Smith's motherless child.

"What can she want here?" thought the master. Everybody knew "M'liss,"
as she was called, throughout the length and height of Red Mountain.
Everybody knew her as an incorrigible girl. Her fierce, ungovernable
disposition, her mad freaks and lawless character, were in their way
as proverbial as the story of her father's weakness, and as
philosophically accepted by the townsfolk. She wrangled with and
fought the schoolboys with keener invective and quite as powerful arm.
She followed the trails with woodman's craft, and the master had met
her before, miles away,  shoeless, stockingless, and bareheaded on the
mountain road. The miners' camps along the stream supplied her with
subsistence during these voluntary pilgrimages, in freely offered
alms. Not but that a larger protection had been previously extended to
M'liss. The Rev. Joshua McSnagley, "stated" preacher, had placed her
in the hotel as servant, by way of preliminary refinement, and had
introduced her to his scholars at Sunday-school. But she threw plates
occasionally at the landlord, and quickly retorted to the cheap
witticisms of the guests, and created in the Sabbath-school a
sensation that was so inimical to the orthodox dullness and placidity
of that institution, that, with a decent regard for the starched
frocks and unblemished morals of the two pink-and-white-faced children
of the first families, the reverend gentleman had her ignominiously
expelled. Such were the antecedents and such the character of M'liss,
as she stood before the master. It was shown in the ragged dress, the
unkempt hair and bleeding feet, and asked his pity. It flashed from
her black fearless eyes, and commanded his respect.

"I come here to-night," she said rapidly and boldly, keeping her hard
glance on his, "because I knew you was alone. I wouldn't come here
when them gals was here. I hate 'em and they hates me. That's why. You
keep school,--don't you? I want to be teached!"

If to the shabbiness of her apparel and uncomeliness of her tangled
hair and dirty face she had added the humility of tears the master
would have extended to her the usual moiety of pity, and nothing more.
But with the natural though illogical instincts of his species, her
boldness awakened in him something of that respect which all original
natures pay unconsciously to one another in any grade. And he gazed at
her the more fixedly as she went on still rapidly, her hand on the
door-latch and her eyes on his.

"My name is M'liss--M'liss Smith! You can bet your  life on that. My
father's Old Smith--Old Bummer Smith--that's what's the matter with
him. M'liss Smith--and I'm comin' to school!"

"Well?" said the master.

Accustomed to be thwarted and opposed, often wantonly and cruelly, for
no other purpose than to excite the violent impulses of her nature,
the master's phlegm evidently took her by surprise. She  stopped. She
began to twist a lock of her hair between her fingers; and the rigid
line of upper lip, drawn over the wicked little teeth, relaxed and
quivered slightly. Then her eyes dropped, and something like a blush
struggled up to her cheek, and tried to assert itself through the
splashes of redder soil and the sunburn of years. Suddenly she threw
herself forward, calling on God to strike her dead, and fell quite
weak and helpless, with her face on the master's desk, crying and
sobbing as if her heart would break.

The master lifted her gently, and waited for the paroxysm to pass.
When, with face still averted, she was repeating between her sobs the
mea culpa of childish penitence--that "she'd be good, she didn't mean
to," etc., it came to him to ask her why she had left Sabbath-school.

Why had she left Sabbath-school? Why? Oh, yes. What did he (McSnagley)
want to tell her she was wicked for? What did he tell her that God
hated her for? If God hated her, what did she want to go to Sabbath
school for? _She_ didn't want to be beholden to anybody who hated her.

Had she told McSnagley this?

Yes, she had.

The master laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and echoed so oddly in the
little schoolhouse, and seemed so inconsistent and discordant with the
sighing of the pines without, that he shortly corrected himself with a
sigh. The sigh was quite as sincere in its way, however, and after a
moment of serious silence he asked about her father.

Her father. What father? Whose father? What had he ever done for her?
Why did the girls hate her? Come, now! What made the folks say, "Old
Bummer Smith's M'liss" when she passed? Yes; oh, yes. She wished he
was dead--she was dead--everybody was dead; and her sobs broke forth
anew.

The master then, leaning over her, told her, as well as he could, what
you or I might have said after hearing such unnatural theories from
childish lips, only bearing in mind perhaps better than you or I the
unnatural facts of her ragged dress, her bleeding feet, and the
omnipresent shadow of her drunken father. Then raising her to her
feet, he wrapped his shawl around her, and bidding her come early in
the morning he walked with her down the road. Then he bade her "good-
night." The moon shone brightly on the narrow path before them. He
stood and watched the bent little figure as it staggered down the
road, and waited until it had passed the little graveyard and reached
the curve of the hill, where it turned and stood for a moment, a mere
atom of suffering outlined against the far-off patient stars. Then he
went back to his work. But the lines of the copybook thereafter faded
into long parallels of never-ending road, over which childish figures
seemed to pass sobbing and crying to the night. Then, the little
schoolhouse seeming lonelier than before, he shut the door and went
home.

The next morning M'liss came to school. Her face had been washed, and
her coarse black hair bore evidence of recent struggles with the comb,
in which both had evidently suffered. The old defiant look shone
occasionally in her eyes, but her manner was tamer and more subdued.
Then began a series of little trials and self-sacrifices in which
master and pupil bore an equal part, and which increased the
confidence and sympathy between them. Although obedient under the
master's eye, at times during recess, if  thwarted or stung by a
fancied slight, M'liss would rage in ungovernable fury, and many a
palpitating young savage, finding himself matched with his own weapons
of torment, would seek the master with torn jacket and scratched face,
and complaints of the dreadful M'liss. There was a serious division
among the townspeople on the subject; some threatening to withdraw
their children from such evil companionship, and others as warmly
upholding the course of the master in his work of reclamation.
Meanwhile, with a steady persistence that seemed quite astonishing to
him on looking back afterward, the Master drew M'liss gradually out of
the shadow of her past life, as though it were but her natural
progress down the narrow path on which he had set her feet the
moonlight night of their first meeting. Remembering the experience of
the evangelical McSnagley, he carefully avoided that Rock of Ages on
which that unskillful pilot had shipwrecked her young faith. But if,
in the course of her reading, she chanced to stumble upon those few
words which have lifted such as she above the level of the older, the
wiser, and the more prudent,--if she learned something of a faith that
is symbolized by suffering, and the old light softened in her eyes, it
did not take the shape of a lesson. A few of the plainer people had
made up a little sum by which the ragged M'liss was enabled to assume
the garments of respect and civilization, and often a rough shake of
the hand and words of commendation from a red-shirted and burly
figure, sent a glow to the cheek of the young master and set him to
thinking if it was altogether deserved.

Three months had passed, from the time of their first meeting, and the
master was sitting late one evening over the moral and sententious
copies, when there came a tap at the door, and again M'liss stood
before him. She was neatly clad and clean-faced, and there was
nothing perhaps but the long black hair and bright black eyes to
remind him  of his former apparition. "Are you busy?" she asked; "can
you come with me?" and on his signifying his readiness, in her old
willful way she said, "Come, then, quick!"

They passed out of the door together and into the dark road. As they
entered the town, the master asked her whither she was going. She
replied, "to see her father."

It was the first time he had heard her use that filial expression, or,
indeed, allude to him in any other way than "Old Smith" or the "Old
Man." It was the first time in many weeks that she had spoken of him
at all. He had been missed from the settlement for the past fortnight,
and the master had credited the rumors of the townsfolk that Smith had
"struck something rich" on the "North Fork," about ten miles from the
village. As they neared the settlement, the master gathered from
M'liss that the rumor was untrue, and that she had seen her father
that day. As she grew reticent to further questioning, and as the
master was satisfied from her manner that she had some definite
purpose beyond her usual willfulness, he passively resigned himself
and followed her.

Through remote groggeries, restaurants, and saloons; in gambling-hells
and dance-houses, the master, preceded by M'liss, passed and
repassed. In the reeking smoke and blasphemous outcries of noisome
dens, the child, holding the master's hand, pursued her search with a
strange familiarity, perfect self-possession, and implied protection
of himself, that even in his anxiety seemed ludicrous. Some of the
revelers, recognizing M'liss, called to her to sing and dance for
them, and would have forced liquor upon her but for the master's
interference. Others mutely made way for them. So an hour slipped by,
and as yet their search was fruitless. The master had yawned once or
twice and whistled,--two fatal signs of failing interest,--and finally
came to a full stop.

"It's half past eleven, Melissa," said he, consulting his  watch by a
broad pencil of light from an open shutter,--"half past eleven; and it
strikes me that our old friends, the woodpeckers, must have gone to
bed some hours ago, unless they are waiting up for us. I'm much
obliged to you for the evening's entertainment, but I'm afraid that
even the pretext of looking for a parent won't excuse further
dissipation. We'd better put this off till to-morrow. What do you say,
Melissa? Why! what ails the child? What's that noise? Why, a pistol!--
You're not afraid of that?"

Few children brought up in the primeval seclusion of Smith's Pocket
were unfamiliar with those quick and sharp notes which usually
rendered the evening zephyrs of that locality vocal; certainly not
M'liss, to have started when that report rang on the clear night air.
The echoes caught it as usual, and carried it round and round Red
Mountain, and set the dogs to barking all along the streams. The
lights seemed to dance and move quickly on the outskirts of the town
for a few moments afterward, the stream suddenly rippled quite audibly
behind them, a few stones loosened themselves from the hillside and
splashed into the stream, a heavy wind seemed to suage the branches of
the funereal pines, and then the silence fell again, heavier, deadlier
than ever.

When the last echo had died away, the master felt his companion's hand
relax its grasp. Taking advantage of this outward expression of
tractability, he drew her gently with him until they reached the
hotel, which--in her newer aspect of a guest whose board was secured
by responsible parties--had forgivingly opened its hospitable doors to
the vagrant child. Here the master lingered a moment to assure her
that she might count upon his assistance tomorrow; and having
satisfied his conscience by this anticipated duty, bade her good-
night. In the darkness of the road--going astray several times on his
way home, and narrowly escaping the yawning ditches in the trail--he
had  reason to commend his foresight in dissuading M'liss from a
further search that night, and in this pleasant reflection went to hed
and slept soundly.

For some hours after a darkness thick and heavy brooded over the
settlement. The sombre pines encompassing the village seemed to close
threateningly about it as if to reclaim the wilderness that had been
wrested from them. A low rustling as of dead leaves, and the damp
breath of forest odors filled the lonely street. Emboldened by the
darkness other shadows slipped by, leaving strange footprints in the
moist ditches for people to point at next day, until the moon, round
and full, was lifted above the crest of the opposite hill, and all was
magically changed.

The shadows shrank away, leaving the straggling street sleeping in a
beauty it never knew by day. All that was unlovely, harsh, and
repulsive in its jagged outlines was subdued and softened by that
uncertain light. It smoothed the rough furrows and unsightly chasms of
the mountain with an ineffable love and tenderness. It fell upon the
face of the sleeping M'liss, and left a tear glittering on her black
lashes and a smile on her lip, which would have been rare to her at
any other time; and fell also on the white upturned face of "Old
Smith," with a pistol in his hand and a bullet in his heart, lying
dead beside his empty pocket.




CHAPTER II

WHICH CONTAINS A DREAM OF THE JUST ARISTIDES


The opinion which McSnagley expressed in reference to a "change of
heart," as experienced by M'liss, was more forcibly described in the
gulches and tunnels. It was thought there that M'liss had struck a
"good lead." And when there was a new grave added to the little
inclosure, and--at the  expense of the master--a little board and
inscription put above it, the "Red Mountain Banner" came out quite
handsomely and did the correct thing for the memory of one of "our
oldest pioneers," alluding gracefully to that "bane of noble
intellects," touching slightly on the "vicissitudes of fortune," and
otherwise assisting our dear brother into genteel obscurity. "He
leaves an only child to mourn his loss," said the "Banner," "who is
now an exemplary scholar, thanks to the efforts of the Rev. J.
McSnagley." That reverend gentleman, in fact, made a strong point of
M'liss's conversion, and, indirectly attributing to her former bad
conduct the suicide of her father, made affecting allusions in Sunday-
school to the beneficial effects of the "silent tomb," and in that
cheerful contemplation froze most of the children into speechless
horror, and caused the fair-complexioned scions of the first families
to howl dismally and refuse to be comforted.

Of the homes that were offered to M'liss when her conversion became
known, the master had preferred that of Mrs. Morpher, a womanly and
kind-hearted specimen of Southwestern efflorescence, known in her
maidenhood as the "Per-ra-rie Rose." By a steady system of struggle
and self-sacrifice, she had at last subjugated her naturally careless
disposition to principles of "order," which as a pious woman she
considered, with Pope, as "Heaven's first law." But she could not
entirely govern the orbits of her satellites, however regular her own
movements, and her old nature asserted itself in her children.
Lycurgus dipped in the cupboard "between meals," and Aristides came
home from school without shoes, leaving those important articles at
the threshold, for the delights of a barefooted walk down the ditches.
Octavia and Cassandra were "keerless" of their clothes. So that with
but one exception, however the "Prairie Rose" might have trimmed,
pruned, and trained her own natural luxuriance,  the little shoots
came up defiantly wild and straggling. That one exception was
Clytemnestra Morpher, aged fifteen. She was the realization of her
mother's most extravagant dream. I stay my hand with difficulty at
this moment, for I long to describe this model of deportment; but the
progress of my story just at present supplants Clytemnestra in the
larger prominence it gives to another member of the family,--the just
Aristides.

The long dry summer had come. As each fierce day seemed to burn itself
out in little whiffs of pearl gray smoke on the mountain summits, and
as the upspringing breeze scattered what might have been its red
embers over the landscape, the green wave which, in early spring, had
upheaved above Smith's grave grew sere and dry and hard. In those
days, the master, strolling in the little churchyard of a Sabbath
afternoon, was sometimes surprised to find a few wild flowers, plucked
from the damp pine forest, scattered there, and oftener rude wreaths
hung upon the little pine cross. Most of these wreaths were formed of
a sweet-scented grass which the children loved to keep in their desks,
entwined with the pompon-like plumes of the buckeye and syringa, the
wood anemone, and here and there the master noticed the dark blue cowl
of the monk's-hood or deadly aconite. One day, during a walk, in
crossing a wooded ridge, he came upon M'liss in the heart of the
forest, perched upon a prostrate pine, on a fantastic throne, formed
by the hanging plumes of lifeless branches, her lap full of grasses
and pine burrs, and crooning to the just Aristides, who sat humbly at
her feet, one of the negro melodies of her younger life. It was
perhaps the influence of the season, or the memory of this sylvan
enjoyment, which caused Aristides, one midsummer day, to have a
singular vision.

The just Aristides had begun that morning with a serious error.
Loitering on his way to school, occasionally  stopping to inspect the
footprints of probable bears, or indulging in cheerful badinage with
the tunnel men,--to whom the apparition of a short-legged boy weighed
down by a preternaturally large satchel was an object of boisterous
solicitude,--Aristides suddenly found that he was an hour and a half
too late for school. Whether this circumstance was purely accidental
or not is a question of some uncertainty, for Aristides, on finding
himself occupying this criminal position, at once resolved to play
truant. I shall not stop to inquire by what system of logic this
result presented itself to that just youth as a consistent deduction,
or whether some indistinct apprehension of another and a better world
beyond the settlement, where there were no schools and blackberries
were plenty, had not influenced him in taking this fatal step. Enough
that he entered on his rash career by instantly eating the dinner
which he carried with him, and having propitiated that terrible god
whose seat is every small boy's stomach, with a feeling of
inexpressible guiltiness creeping over him, he turned his back upon
the schoolhouse and ran into the woods.

Away from the glare of the red road, how deliciously cool was the damp
breath and twilight dimness of the stately pines. How they seemed to
welcome him in their deepest recesses, ranging themselves silently
around him as he ran, shutting out the world and its schoolhouses, and
the pursuit of indignant parents and vindictive teachers. How in the
forest depths the blue jay called to him mockingly, and the kingbird,
spreading his tail like a crimson pennant, beckoned him onward. How
there was recognition and greeting even in the squirrel that scampered
past him, mischievously whisking his ridiculous tail within an inch of
his outstretched fingers. And how Aristides, at last flinging away
hat, shoes, and satchel, uttered a shrill whoop and dashed forward
like a youthful savage. But are not these  things written in the
dog's-eared pages of every boy's memory, even though they seemed
afterward to the just Aristides a part and parcel of his own strange
vision?

Yet even such delights had their hour of culmination, and Aristides
found himself at high noon back on the road again in a state of
feverish excitement, carrying a ravished jay's nest, two pine cones, a
dead hare, and a plume of the white syringa. Somewhat overpowered by
the weight of these trophies, which he had collected in the vague
belief that they would be of future service to him, he began to look
about for some convenient place to bestow his booty. It was nearly
time for the great Wingdam stage to go by, and when it came at last
with a sharp rattle of wheels and prancing of horses, and a red pillar
of dust hanging over it that partook of both the fiery and cloudy
attributes of the Israelitish sign, Aristides exchanged epithets with
the driver, and, although standing knee-deep in red dust, felt a
thrill of joy in the recognition which no future honor or dignity
might ever give him.

Retracing his steps, the truant presently came to a semicircular
opening in the side of Red Mountain, which inclosed, like the walls of
some vast amphitheatre, what had been the arena of the early struggles
of the gladiators of fortune. There were terrible traces of that
struggle still--in the rock blasted by fire--in the bank furrowed by
water--and in the debris of Red Mountain scattered along the gulch two
miles in extent. Their forgotten engines were lying half buried in the
ditches--the primeval structure which had served them for a banking-
house was roofless, and held the hoards of field-mice and squirrels.
The unshapely stumps of ancient pines dotted the ground, and Aristides
remembered that under the solitary redwood, which of all its brothers
remained still standing, one of those early pioneers lay buried. No
wonder that, as the gentle breeze of that summer day swept through its
branches, the just Aristides might have heard, as part of his
wonderful dream, some echo of its far off brothers of Lebanon, saying,
"Since thou art fallen, no feller has risen up against us!"

But the short legs of Aristides were aching, and he was getting
thirsty. There was a rough cavern close at hand; and as most of these
openings condensed their general dampness somewhere in quiet pools,
Aristides turned into the first one. When he had slaked his thirst, he
looked around him and recognized Smith's Pocket.

It had undergone little change in the last two years. The winter rains
had detached those portions of the wall which were not upheld by
decaying timbers. It was certainly a dirty pocket--a pocket filled
with rubbish--a shabby pocket--a worn-out and ragged pocket. It was so
unpromising in its present exterior, so graphic in its story of
misfortune, and so terrible in its recent memories, that the most
sanguine prospector would have passed it by, as though the hopeless
sentence of Dante had been written over its ragged portal.

The active mind of Aristides, however, saw in the lurking shadows of
its arches much promise as a future play-room, to which he intended to
induct hereafter his classical brother Lycurgus. In this reflection he
threw himself on the ground, and luxuriously burying his bare feet in
the cool, loose soil, gave himself up to serene meditation. But the
heat and exertion were beginning to exert a certain influence over
him, and once or twice his eyes closed. The water rippled beside him
with a sleepy sound. The sunlight on the hill without made him wink.
The long-drawn cawing of a crow on the opposite hillside, and the
buzzing of a bluebottle fly who had sought retreat in the cavern, had
a like effect, and he felt himself falling asleep. How long he slept,
or if he slept at all, he could not remember, for he started suddenly,
and, listening a moment, sprang to his feet.    The low, heavy blows
of a pick came deadened and muffled from the extremity of the cavern.

At first a terrible fear took possession of him; for an instant the
white, rigid face of Smith, as he had seen it on the day of the
inquest, when an irresistible curiosity led him to creep into the room
where the dead man was lying--for an instant only, this fearful
remembrance seemed to rise before him out of the gloom of the pit. The
terror passed away.

Ghosts were historically unknown to Aristides, and even had his
imaginative faculty been more prominent, the education of Smith's
Pocket was not of a kind to foster such weaknesses. Except a twinge of
conscience, a momentary  recollection of the evil that comes to bad
boys through the severe pages of Sunday-school books--with this
exception, Aristides was not long in recovering his self-possession.
He did not run away, for his curiosity was excited. The same instinct
which prompted an examination of bear-tracks gave a fascination to the
situation, and a nervous energy to his frame.

The regular blows of the pick still resounded through the cavern. He
crept cautiously to the deepest recesses of the pocket, and held his
breath and listened. The sound seemed to come from the bowels of the
mountain. There was no sign of opening or ingress; an impenetrable
veil of quartz was between him and the mysterious laborer. He was
creeping back, between the displaced rafters, when a light glanced
suddenly in his face, and flashed on the wet roof above him. Looking
fearfully down, Aristides beheld between the interstices of the
rafters, which formed a temporary flooring, that there was another
opening below, and in that opening a man was working. In the queer
fantasy of Aristides's dream, it took the aspect of a second pocket
and a duplicate Smith!

He had no time to utter his astonishment, for at that  moment an
ominous rattling of loose soil upon his back made him look up, and he
had barely time to spring away before a greater portion of the roof of
Smith's Pocket, loosened by the displacement of its supports in his
search, fell heavily to the ground. But in the fall a long-handled
shovel which had been hidden somewhere in the crevices of the rock
above came rattling down with it, and, seizing this as a trophy,
Aristides emerged from Smith's Pocket, at a rate of speed which seemed
singularly disproportionate with his short legs and round stomach.

When he reached the road the sun was setting. Inspecting his prize by
that poetic light, he found that the shovel was a new one, and bore
neither mark of use nor exposure. Shouldering it again, with the
intention of presenting it as a peace-offering to propitiate the just
wrath of his parents, Aristides had gone but a few rods when an
unexpected circumstance occurred which dashed his fond hope, and to
the conscientious child seemed the shadow of an inevitable Nemesis. At
the curve of the road, as the settlement of Smith's Pocket came into
view, with its straggling street, and its church spire that seemed a
tongue of flame in the setting sun, a broad-shouldered figure sprang,
apparently, from out of the bank, and stood in the path of that
infelix infant.

"Where are you going with that shovel, you young devil?"

Aristides looked up and saw that his interlocutor was a man of
powerful figure, whose face, though partially concealed by a red
handkerchief, even in that uncertain light was not prepossessing.
Children are quick physiognomists, and Aristides, feeling the presence
of evil, from the depths of his mighty little soul then and there took
issue with the giant.

"Where are you going with that shovel; d--n you, do you hear?" said he
of the red handkerchief impatiently.

"Home," said Aristides stoutly.

"Home, eh!" said the stranger sneeringly. "And where did you steal it,
you young thief?"

The Morpher stock not being of a kind to receive opprobrious epithets
meekly, Aristides slowly, and with an evident effort, lifted the
shovel in a menacing attitude.

A single step was all that separated six feet of Strength from three
feet of Valor. The stranger eyed Aristides with an expression of surly
amazement, and hesitated. The elephant quailed before the gad-fly. As
that precocious infant waved the threatening shovel, his youthful lips
slowly fashioned this tremendous sentence:--

"_You let me pass and I won't hit you!_"

And here I must pause. I would that for the sake of poetry I could
leave my hero, bathed in that heroic light, erect and menacing. But
alas, in this practical world of ours, the battle is too often to the
strong. And I hasten over the humiliating spectacle of Aristides,
spanked, cuffed, and kicked, and pick him from the ditch into which he
was at last ignominiously tossed, a defeated but still struggling
warrior, and so bring him, as the night closes charitably around him,
in contrite tears and muddy garments to his father's door.

When the master stopped at Mrs. Morpher's to inquire after his errant
pupil that night, he found Aristides in bed, smelling strongly of soap
and water, and sinking into a feverish sleep. As he muttered from time
to time some incoherent sentence, tossing restlessly in his cot, the
master turned to those about him and asked what it was he said.

It was nothing. Aristides had been dreaming, and that was his dream.

That was all. Yet a dream that foreshadowed a slow-coming but unerring
justice, that should give the little dreamer in after years some
credit to the title of Aristides the Just.



CHAPTER III

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE


It was an amiable weakness of Mrs. Morpher to imagine that, of all her
classical progeny, Clytemnestra was particularly the model for M'liss.
Following this fallacy she threw "Clytie" at the head of M'liss when
she was "bad," and set her up before the child for adoration in her
penitential moments. It was not therefore surprising to the master to
hear that Clytie was coming to school, obviously as a favor to the
master and as an example for M'liss and others. For Clytie was quite a
young lady. Inheriting her mother's physical peculiarities, and in
obedience to the climatic laws of the Red Mountain region, she was an
early bloomer. The youth of Smith's Pocket, to whom this kind of
flower was rare, sighed for her in April and languished in May.
Enamored swains haunted the schoolhouse at the hour of dismissal. A
few were jealous of the master.

Perhaps it was this latter circumstance that opened the master's eyes
to another. He could not help noticing that Clytie was romantic; that
in school she required a great deal of attention; that her pens were
uniformly bad and wanted fixing; that she usually accompanied the
request with a certain expectation in her eye that was somewhat
disproportionate to the quality of service she verbally required; that
she sometimes allowed the curves of a round plump white arm to rest on
his when he was writing her copies; that she always blushed and flung
back her blond curls when she did so. I don't remember whether I have
stated that the master was a young man--it's of little consequence,
however. He had been severely educated in the school in which Clytie
was taking her first lesson, and on the whole withstood the flexible
curves and facetious  glance like the fine young Spartan that he was.
Perhaps an insufficient quality of food may have tended to this
asceticism. He generally avoided Clytie; but one evening when she
returned to the schoolhouse after something she had forgotten,--and
did not find it until the master walked home with her,--I hear that he
endeavored to make himself particularly agreeable, partly from the
fact, I imagine, that his conduct was adding gall and bitterness to
the already overcharged hearts of Clytemnestra's admirers.

The morning after this affecting episode, M'liss did not come to
school. Noon came, but not M'liss. Questioning Clytie on the subject,
it appeared that they had left for school together, but the willful
M'liss had taken another road. The afternoon brought her not. In the
evening he called on Mrs. Morpher, whose motherly heart was really
alarmed. Mr. Morpher had spent all day in search of her, without
discovering a trace that might lead to her discovery. Aristides was
summoned as a probable accomplice, but that equitable infant
succeeding in impressing the household with his innocence, Mrs.
Morpher entertained a vivid impression that the child would yet be
found drowned in a ditch, or--what was almost as terrible--mud-dyed
and soiled beyond the redemption of soap and water. Sick at heart, the
master returned to the schoolhouse. As he lit his lamp and seated
himself at his desk, he found a note lying before him, addressed to
himself in M'liss's handwriting. It seemed to be written on a leaf
torn from some old memorandum-book, and, to prevent sacrilegious
trifling, had been sealed with six broken wafers.  Opening it almost
tenderly, the master read as follows:--

RESPECTED SIR: When you read this, I am run away. Never to come back.
Never _Never_ NEVER. You can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and
my Amerika's Pride [a, highly colored lithograph from a tobacco box]
to Sally  Flanders. But don't you give anything to Clytie Morper.
Don't you dair to. Do you know what my opinnion is of her, it is this,
she is perfekly disgustin. That is all and no more at present from
MELISSA SMITH.

The master mused for some time over this characteristic epistle. As he
was mechanically refolding it his eye caught a sentence written on the
back in pencil, in another handwriting, somewhat blurred and
indistinct from the heavy incisive strokes of M'liss's pen on the
other side. It seemed to be a memorandum belonging to the book from
which the leaf was originally torn:--

July 17th. 5 hours in drift--dipping west--took out 20 oz.; cleaned up
40 oz. Mem.--saw M. S.

"July 17th," said the master, opening his desk and taking out a file
of the "Red Mountain Banner." "July 17th," he repeated, running over
the pages till he came to a paragraph headed "DISTRESSING SUICIDE."
"July 17th--why, that's the day Smith killed himself. That's funny!"

In a strict etymological sense there was nothing so very ludicrous in
this coincidence, nor did the master's face betray any expression of
the kind. Perhaps the epithet was chosen to conceal the vague
uneasiness which it produced in his mind. We are all of us more
affected by these coincidences than we care to confess to one another.
If the most matter-of-fact reader of these pages were to find a hearse
standing in front of his door for three consecutive mornings, although
the circumstance might be satisfactorily explained,--shall I go
further and say, _because_ the circumstance might be satisfactorily
explained,--he would vaguely wish it hadn't happened. Philosophize as
we may, the simple  fact of two remote lines crossing each other always
seems to us of tremendous significance, and quite overshadows the more
important truth that the real parallels of life's journey are the lines
that never meet. It will do us good to remember these things, and look
more kindly on our brothers of Borrioboola-Gha and their fetich
superstitions, when we drop our silver in the missionary box next
Sabbath.

"I wonder where that memorandum came from," said the master, as he
rose at last and buttoned up his coat. "Who is 'M. S.'? M. S. stands
for manuscript and Melissa Smith. Why don't"--But checking an
impulsive query as to why people don't make their private memoranda
generally intelligible, the master put the letter in his pocket and
went home.

At sunrise the next morning he was picking his way through the palm-
like fern and thick underbrush of the pine forest, starting the hare
from its form, and awakening a querulous protest from a few dissipated
crows, who had evidently been making a night of it, and so came to the
wooded ridge where he had once found M'liss. There he found the
prostrate pine and tessellated branches, but the throne was vacant. As
he drew nearer, what might have been some frightened animal started
through the crackling limbs. It ran up the tossed arms of the fallen
monarch, and sheltered itself in some friendly foliage. The master,
reaching the old seat, found the nest still warm; looking up in the
intertwining branches, he met the black eyes of the errant M'liss.
They gazed at each other without speaking. She was first to break the
silence.

"What do you want?" she asked curtly.

The master had decided on a course of action. "I want some crab
apples," he said humbly.

"Shan't have 'em! go away! Why don't you get 'em of Clytemnerestera?"
It seemed to be a relief to M'liss to express her contempt in
additional syllables to that classical young woman's  already long-
drawn title. "Oh, you wicked thing!"

"I am hungry, Lissy. I have eaten nothing since dinner yesterday. I am
famished!" and the young man, in a state of remarkable exhaustion,
leaned against the tree.

Melissa's heart was touched. In the bitter days of her gypsy life she
had known the sensation he so artfully simulated. Overcome by his
heartbroken tone, but not entirely divested of suspicion, she said:--

"Dig under the tree near the roots, and you 'll find lots: but mind
you don't tell," for M'liss had _her_ hoards as well as the rats and
squirrels.

But the master of course was unable to find them, the effects of
hunger probably blinding his senses. M'liss grew uneasy. At length she
peered at him through the leaves in an elfish way, and questioned:--

"If I come down and give you some, you'll promise you won't touch me?"

The master promised.

"Hope you'll die if you do?"

The master accepted instant dissolution as a forfeit. M'liss slid down
the tree. The duties of hospitality fulfilled, she seated herself at a
little distance and eyed the master with extreme caution.

"Why didn't you eat your breakfast, you bad man?"

"Because I've run away."

"Where to?" said M'liss, her eyes twinkling.

"Anywhere--anywhere, away from here!" responded that deceitful wretch
with tragic wildness of demeanor.

"What made you?--bad boy!" said M'liss, with a sudden respect of
conventionalities, and a rare touch of tenderness in her tones. "You'd
better go back where your vittals are."

"What are victuals to a wounded spirit?" asked the young man
dramatically. He had reached the side of  M'liss during this dialogue,
and had taken her unresisting hand. He was too wise to notice his
victory, however; and drawing Melissa's note from his pocket, opened
it before her.

"Couldn't you find any paper in the schoolhouse without tearing a leaf
out of my memorandum book, Melissa?" he asked.

"It ain't out of your memorandum book," responded M'liss fiercely.

"Indeed," said the master, turning to the lines in pencil; "I thought
it was my handwriting."

M'liss, who had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly seized the
paper and snatched it out of his hand.

"It's father's writing!" she said, after a pause, in a softer tone.

"Where did you get it, M'liss?"

"Aristides gave it to me."

"Where did he get it?"

"Don't know. He had the book in his pocket when I told him I was going
to write to you, and he tore the leaf out. There now--don't bother me
any more." M'liss had turned her face away, and the black hair had hid
her downcast eyes.

Something in her gesture and expression reminded him of her father.
Something, and more that was characteristic to her at such moments,
made him fancy another resemblance, and caused him to ask impulsively,
and less cautiously than was his wont:--

"Do you remember your mother, M'liss?"

"No."

"Did you never see her?"

"No--didn't I tell you not to bother, and you're a-goin' and doin'
it," said M'liss savagely.

The master was silent a moment. "Did you ever think you would like to
have a mother, M'liss?" he asked again,

"No-o-o-o!"

The master rose; M'liss looked up.

"Does Aristides come to school to-day?"

"I don't know."

"Are you going back? You'd better," she said.

"Well!--perhaps I may. Good-by!"

He had proceeded a few steps when, as he expected, she called him
back. He turned. She was standing by the tree, with tears glistening
in her eyes. The master felt the right moment had come. Going up to
her, he took both her hands in his, and looking in her tearful eyes,
said gravely:--

"M'liss, do you remember the first evening you came to  see me?"

M'liss remembered.

"You asked me if you might come to school, and I said--"

"Come!" responded the child softly.

"If I told you I was lonely without my little scholar, and that I
wanted her to come, what would you say?"

The child hung her head in silence. The master waited patiently.
Tempted by the quiet, a hare ran close to the couple, and raising her
bright eyes and velvet fore paws, gazed at them fearlessly. A squirrel
ran halfway down the furrowed bark of the fallen tree, and there
stopped.

"_We_ are waiting, Lissy," said the master in a whisper, and the
child smiled. Stirred by a passing breeze, the treetops rocked, and a
slanting sunbeam stole through their interlaced boughs and fell on the
doubting face and irresolute little figure. But a step in the dry
branches and a rustling in the underbrush broke the spell.

A man dressed as a miner, carrying a long-handled shovel, came slowly
through the woods. A red handkerchief tied around his head under his
hat, with the loose ends hanging from beneath, did not add much favor
to his  unprepossessing face. He did not perceive the master and
M'liss until he was close upon them. When he did, he stopped suddenly
and gazed at them with an expression of lowering distrust. M'liss drew
nearer to the master.

"Good-mornin'--picknickin', eh?" he asked, with an attempt at
geniality that was more repulsive than his natural manner.

"How are you--prospecting, eh?" said the master quietly, after the
established colloquial formula of Red Mountain.

"Yes--a little in that way."

The stranger still hesitated, apparently waiting for them to go first,
a matter which M'liss decided by suddenly taking the master's hand in
her quick way. What she said was scarcely audible, but the master,
parting her hair over her forehead, kissed her, and so, hand in hand,
they passed out of the damp aisles and forest odors into the open
sunlit road. But M'liss, looking back, saw that her old seat was
occupied by the hopeful prospector, and fancied that in the shadows of
her former throne something of a gratified leer overspread his face.
"He'll have to dig deep to find the crab apples," said the child to
the master, as they came to the Red Mountain road.

When Aristides came to school that day he was confronted by M'liss.
But neither threats nor entreaties could extract from that reticent
youth the whereabout of the memorandum book nor where he got it. Two
or three days afterward, during recess, he approached M'liss, and
beckoned her one side.

"Well," said M'liss impatiently.

"Did you ever read the story of 'Ali Baba'?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe it?"

"No."

"Well," said that sage infant, wheeling around on his stout legs,
"_it's true!_"




CHAPTER IV

WHICH HAS A GOOD MORAL TENDENCY


Somewhat less spiteful in her intercourse with the other scholars,
M'liss still retained an offensive attitude toward Clytemnestra.
Perhaps the jealous element was not entirely stilled in her passionate
little breast. Perhaps it was that Clytemnestra's round curves and
plump outlines afforded an extensive pinching surface. But while these
ebullitions were under the master's control, her enmity occasionally
took a new and  irresponsible form.

In his first estimate of the child's character he could not conceive
that she had ever possessed a doll. But the master, like many other
professed readers of character, was safer in _a posteriori_ than _a
priori_ reasoning, for M'liss had a doll. But then it was a peculiar
doll,--a frightful perversion of wax and sawdust,--a doll fearfully and
wonderfully made,--a smaller edition of M'liss. Its unhappy existence
had been a secret discovered accidentally by Mrs. Morpher. It had been
the oldtime companion of M'liss's wanderings, and bore evident marks of
suffering. Its original complexion was long since washed away by the
weather, and anointed by the slime of ditches. It looked very much as
M'liss had in days past. Its one gown of faded stuff was dirty and
ragged as hers had been. M'liss had never been known to apply to it any
childish term of endearment. She never exhibited it in the presence of
other children. It was put severely to bed in a hollow tree near the
schoolhouse, and only allowed exercise during M'liss's rambles.
Fulfilling a stern duty to her doll--as she would to herself--it knew
no luxuries.

Now, Mrs. Morpher, obeying a commendable impulse, bought another doll
and gave it to M'liss. The child received it gravely and  curiously.
The master, on looking at it one day, fancied he saw a slight
resemblance in its round red cheeks and mild blue eyes to
Clytemnestra. It became evident before long that M'liss had also
noticed the same resemblance. Accordingly she hammered its waxen head
on the rocks when she was alone, and sometimes dragged it with a
string round its neck to and from school. At other times, setting it
up on her desk, she made a pincushion of its patient and inoffensive
body. Whether this was done in revenge of what she considered a second
figurative obtrusion of Clytie's excellencies upon her; or whether she
had an intuitive appreciation of the rites of certain other heathens,
and indulging in that "fetich" ceremony imagined that the original of
her wax model would pine away and finally die, is a metaphysical
question I shall not now consider.

In spite of these moral vagaries, the master could not help noticing
in her different tasks the workings of a quick, restless, and vigorous
perception. She knew neither the hesitancy nor the doubts of
childhood. Her answers in class were always slightly dashed with
audacity. Of course she was not infallible. But her courage and daring
in venturing beyond her own depth and that of the floundering little
swimmers around her, in their minds outweighed all errors of judgment.
Children are no better than grown people in this respect, I fancy; and
whenever the little red hand flashed above her desk, there was a
wondering silence, and even the master was sometimes oppressed with a
doubt of his own experience and judgment.

Nevertheless, certain attributes which at first amused and entertained
his fancy began to affect him with grave doubts. He could not but see
that M'liss was revengeful, irreverent, and willful. But there was one
better quality which pertained to her semi-savage disposition--the
faculty of physical fortitude and self-sacrifice, and  another--though
not always an attribute of the noble savage--truth. M'liss was both
fearless and sincere--perhaps  in such a character the adjectives were
synonymous.

The master had been doing some hard thinking on this subject, and had
arrived at that conclusion quite common to all who think sincerely,
that he was generally the slave of his own prejudices, when he
determined to call on the Rev. Mr. McSnagley for advice. This decision
was somewhat humiliating to his pride, as he and McSnagley were not
friends. But he thought of M'liss, and the evening of their first
meeting; and perhaps with a pardonable superstition that it was not
chance alone that had guided her willful feet to the schoolhouse, and
perhaps with a complacent consciousness of the rare magnanimity of the
act, he choked back his dislike and went to McSnagley.

The reverend gentleman was glad to see him. Moreover, he observed that
the master was looking "peartish" and hoped he had got over the
"neuralgy" and "rheumatiz." He himself had been troubled with a dumb
"ager" since last conference. But he had learned to "rastle and pray."

Pausing a moment to enable the master to write this certain method of
curing the dumb "ager" upon the book and volume of his brain, Mr.
McSnagley proceeded to inquire after Sister Morpher. "She is an
adornment to Chris_tew_anity, and has a likely, growin' young family,"
added Mr. McSnagley; "and there is that mannerly young gal--so well
behaved--Miss Clytie." In fact, Clytie's perfections seemed to
affect him to such an extent that he dwelt for several minutes upon
them. The master was doubly embarrassed. In the first place, there was
an enforced contrast with poor M'liss in all this praise of Clytie.
Secondly, there was something unpleasantly confidential in his tone of
speaking of Morpher's earliest born. So that  the master, after a few
futile efforts to say something natural, found it convenient to recall
another engagement and left without asking the information required,
but in his after reflections somewhat unjustly giving the Rev. Mr.
McSnagley the full benefit of having refused it.

But the master obtained the advice in another and unexpected
direction.

The resident physician of Smith's Pocket was a Dr. Duchesne, or as he
was better known to the locality, "Dr. Doochesny." Of a naturally
refined nature and liberal education, he had steadily resisted the
aggressions and temptations of Smith's Pocket, and represented to the
master a kind of connecting link between his present life and the
past. So that an intimacy sprang up between the two men, involving
prolonged interviews in the doctor's little back shop, often to the
exclusion of other suffering humanity and their physical ailments. It
was in one of these interviews that the master mentioned the
coincidence of the date of the memoranda on the back of M'liss's
letter and the day of Smith's suicide.

"If it were Smith's own handwriting, as the child says it is," said
the master, "it shows a queer state of mind that could contemplate
suicide and indite private memoranda within the same twenty-four
hours."

Dr. Duchesne removed his cigar from his lips and looked attentively at
his friend.

"The only hypothesis," continued the master, "is that Smith was either
drunk or crazy, and the fatal act was in a measure unpremeditated."

"Every man who commits suicide," returned the doctor gravely, "is in
my opinion insane, or, what is nearly the same thing, becomes through
suffering an irresponsible agent. In my professional experience I have
seen most of the forms of mental and physical agony, and know what
sacrifices men will make to preserve even an existence that  to me
seemed little better than death, so long as their intellect remained
unclouded. When you come to reflect on the state of mind that chooses
death as a preferable alternative, you generally find an exaltation
and enthusiasm that differs very little from the ordinary diagnosis of
delirium. Smith was not drunk," added the doctor in his usual careless
tone; "I saw his body."

The master remained buried in reflection. Presently the doctor removed
his cigar.

"Perhaps I might help you to explain the coincidence you speak of."

"How?"

"Very easily. But this is a professional secret, you understand."

"Yes, I understand," said the master hastily, with an ill-defined
uneasiness creeping over him.

"Do you know anything of the phenomena of death by gunshot wounds?"

"No!"

"Then you must take certain facts as granted. Smith, you remember, was
killed _instantly!_ The nature of his wound and the manner of his
death were such as would have caused an instantaneous and complete
relaxation of _all_ the muscles. Rigidity and contraction would
have supervened of course, but only after life was extinct and
consciousness fled. Now Smith was found with his hand tightly grasping
a pistol."

"Well?"

"Well, my dear boy, he must have grasped it after he was dead, or have
prevailed on some friend to stiffen his fingers round it."

"Do you mean that he was murdered?"

Dr. Duchesne rose and closed the door. "We have different names for
these things in Smith's Pocket. I mean to say that he didn't kill
himself--that's all."   "But, doctor," said the master earnestly; "do
you think you have done right in concealing this fact? Do you think it
just--do you think it consistent with your duty to his orphan child?"

"That's why I have said nothing about it," replied the doctor coolly,
--"because of my consideration for his orphan child."

The master breathed quickly, and stared at the doctor.

"Doctor! you don't think that M'liss"--

"Hush!--don't get excited, my young friend. Remember I am not a
lawyer--only a doctor."

"But M'liss was with me the very night he must have been killed. We
were walking together when we heard the report--that is--a report--
which must have been the one"--stammered the master.

"When was that?"

"At half past eleven. I remember looking at my watch."

"Humph!--when did you meet her first?"

"At half past eight. Come, doctor, you have made a mistake here at
least," said the young man with an assumption of ease he was far from
feeling. "Give M'liss the benefit of the doubt."

Dr. Duchesne replied by opening a drawer of his desk. After rummaging
among the powders and mysterious looking instruments with which it was
stored, he finally brought forth a longitudinal slip of folded white
paper. It was appropriately labeled "_Poison._"

"Look here," said the doctor, opening the paper. It contained two or
three black coarse hairs. "Do you know them?"

"No."

"Look again!"

"It looks something like Melissa's hair," said the master, with a
fathomless sinking of the heart.

"When I was called to look at the body," continued the  doctor with
the deliberate cautiousness of a professional diagnosis, "my
suspicions were aroused by the circumstance I told you of. I managed
to get possession of the pistol, and found these hairs twisted around
the lock as though they had been accidentally caught and violently
disentangled. I don't think that any one else saw them. I removed them
without observation, and--they are at your service."

The master sank back in his seat and pressed his hand to his forehead.
The image of M'liss rose before him with flashing eye and long black
hair, and seemed to beat down and resist defiantly the suspicion that
crept slowly over his heart.

"I forbore to tell you this, my friend," continued the doctor slowly
and gravely, "because when I learned that you had taken this strange
child under your protection I did not wish to tell you that which--
though I contend does not alter her claims to man's sympathy and
kindness--still might have prejudiced her in your eyes. Her
improvement under your care has proven my position correct. I have, as
you know, peculiar ideas of the extent to which humanity is
responsible. I find in my heart--looking back over that child's
career--no sentiment but pity. I am mistaken in you if I thought this
circumstance aroused any other feeling in yours."

Still the figure of M'liss stood before the master as he bent before
the doctor's words, in the same defiant attitude, with something of
scorn in the great dark eyes, that made the blood tingle in his
cheeks, and seemed to make the reasoning of the speaker but
meaningless and empty words. At length he rose. As he stood with his
hand on the latch he turned to Dr. Duchesne, who was watching him with
careful solicitude.

"I don't know but that you have done well to keep this from me. At all
events it has not--cannot, and should not alter my opinion toward
M'liss. You will of course keep it a secret. In the mean time you must
not blame me if I cling to my instincts in preference to your
judgment. I still believe that you are mistaken in regard to her."

"Stay, one moment," said the doctor; "promise me you will not say
anything of this, nor attempt to prosecute the matter further till you
have consulted with me."

"I promise. Good-night."

"Good-night;" and so they parted.

True to that promise and his own instinctive promptings the master
endeavored to atone for his momentary disloyalty by greater solicitude
for M'liss. But the child had noticed some change in the master's
thoughtful manner, and in one of their long post-prandial walks she
stopped suddenly, and mounting a stump, looked full in his face with
big searching eyes.

"You ain't mad?" said she, with an interrogative shake of the black
braids.

"No."

"Nor bothered?"

"No."

"Nor hungry?" (Hunger was to M'liss a sickness that might attack a
person at any moment.)

"No."

"Nor thinking of her?"

"Of whom, Lissy?"

"That white girl." (This was the latest epithet invented by M'liss,
who was a very dark brunette, to express Clytemnestra.)

"No."

"Upon your word?" (A substitute for "Hope you 'll die!" proposed by
the master.)

"Yes."

"And sacred honor?"

"Yes."

Then M'liss gave him a fierce little kiss, and hopping down, fluttered
off. For two or three days after that she condescended to appear like
other children and be, as she expressed it, "good."

When the summer was about spent, and the last harvest had been
gathered in the valleys, the master bethought him of gathering in a
few ripened shoots of the young idea, and of having his Harvest Home,
or Examination. So the savans and professionals of Smith's Pocket were
gathered to witness that time-honored custom of placing timid children
in a constrained position, and bullying them as in a witness-box. As
usual in such cases, the most audacious and self-possessed were the
lucky recipients of the honors. The reader will imagine that in the
present instance M'liss and Clytie were preeminent and divided public
attention: M'liss with her clearness of material perception and self-
reliance, and Clytie with her placid self-esteem and saintlike
correctness of deportment. The other little ones were timid and
blundering. M'liss's readiness and brilliancy, of course, captivated
the greatest number, and provoked the greatest applause, and M'liss's
antecedents had unconsciously awakened the strongest sympathies of the
miners, whose athletic forms were ranged against the walls, or whose
handsome bearded faces looked in at the window. But M'liss's
popularity was overthrown by an unexpected circumstance.

McSnagley had invited himself, and had been going through the pleasing
entertainment of frightening the more timid pupils by the vaguest and
most ambiguous questions, delivered in an impressive, funereal tone;
and M'liss had soared into astronomy, and was tracking the course of
our "spotted ball" through space, and defining the "tethered orbits"
of the planets, when McSnagley deliberately arose.

"Meelissy, ye were speaking of the revolutions of this yer yearth, and
its movements with regard to the sun, and I think you said it had been
a-doin' of it since the creation, eh?"

M'liss nodded a scornful affirmative.

"Well, was that the truth?" said McSnagley, folding his arms.

"Yes," said M'liss, shutting up her little red lips tightly.

The handsome outlines at the windows peered further into the
schoolroom, and a saintly, Raphael-like face, with blond beard and
soft blue eyes, belonging to the biggest scamp in the diggings, turned
toward the child and whispered:--

"Stick to it, M'liss! It's only a big bluff of the parson."

The reverend gentleman heaved a deep sigh, and cast a compassionate
glance at the master, then at the children, and then rested his eye on
Clytemnestra. That young woman softly elevated her round, white arm.
Its seductive curves were enhanced by a gorgeous and massive specimen
bracelet, the gift of one of her humblest worshipers, worn in honor of
the occasion. There was a momentary pause. Clytie's round cheeks were
very pink and soft. Clytie's big eyes were very bright and blue.
Clytie's low-necked white book-muslin rested softly on Clytie's
white, plump shoulders. Clytie looked at the master, and the master
nodded. Then Clytie spoke softly:

"Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, and it obeyed him."

There was a low hum of applause in the schoolroom, a triumphant
expression on McSnagley's face, a grave shadow on the master's, and a
comical look of disappointment reflected from the windows. M'liss
skimmed rapidly over her astronomy, and then shut the book with a loud
snap. A groan burst from McSnagley, an expression of astonishment from
the schoolroom, and a yell from the windows, as M'liss brought her red
fist down on the desk, with the emphatic declaration:--

"It's a d--n lie. I don't believe it!"




CHAPTER V

"OPEN SESAME"


The long wet season had drawn near its close. Signs of spring were
visible in the swelling buds and rushing torrents. The pine forests
exhaled a fresher spicery. The azaleas were already budding; the
ceanothus getting ready its lilac livery for spring. On the green
upland which climbed the Red Mountain at its southern aspect, the long
spike of the monk's-hood shot up from its broad-leaved stool and once
more shook its dark blue bells. Again the billow above Smith's grave
was soft and green, its crest just tossed with the foam of daisies and
buttercups. The little graveyard had gathered a few new dwellers in
the past year, and the mounds were placed two by two by the little
paling until they reached Smith's grave, and there, there was but one.
General superstition had shunned the enforced companionship. The plot
beside Smith was vacant.

It was the custom of the driver of the great Wingdam stage to whip up
his horses at the foot of the hill, and soenter Smith's Pocket  at
that remarkable pace which the woodcuts in the hotel bar-room
represented to credulous humanity as the usual rate of speed of that
conveyance. At least, Aristides Morpher thought so as he stood one
Sunday afternoon, uneasily conscious of his best jacket and collar,
waiting its approach. Nor could anything shake his belief that
regularly on that occasion the horses ran away with the driver, and
that that individual from motives of deep policy pretended not to
notice it until they were stopped.

"Anybody up from below, Bill?" said the landlord as the driver slowly
descended from his perch.

"Nobody for you," responded Bill shortly. "Dusenberry kem up as usual,
and got  off at the old place. You can't make a livin' off him, I
reckon."

"Have you found out what his name is yet?" continued the landlord,
implying that "Dusenberry" was simply a playful epithet of the driver.

"He says his name is Waters," returned Bill. "Jake said he saw him at
the North Fork in '50--called himself Moore then. Guess he ain't no
good, nowhow. What's he doin' round here?"

"Says he's prospectin'," replied the landlord. "He has a claim
somewhere in the woods. Gambles a little too, I reckon. He don't
travel on his beauty anyhow."

"If you had seen him makin' up to a piece of calico inside, last trip,
and she a-makin' up to him quite confidential-like, I guess you'd
think he was a lady-killer. My eye, but wasn't she a stunner! Clytie
Morpher wasn't nowhere to begin with her."

"Who was she, Bill?" asked half a dozen masculine voices.

"Don't know. We picked her up this side of 'Coyote.' Fancy? I tell
you!--pretty little hat and pink ribbings--eyes that ud bore you
through at a hundred yards--white teeth--brown gaiters, and such an
ankle! She didn't want to show it,--oh, no!" added the sarcastic Bill
with deep significance.

"Where did you leave her, Bill?" asked a gentle village swain who had
been fired by the glowing picture of the fair unknown.

"That's what's the matter. You see after we picked her up, she said
she was goin' through to Wingdam. Of course there wasn't anything in
the stage or on the road too good to offer her. Old Major Spaffler
wanted to treat her to lemonade at every station. Judge Plunkett kep'
a-pullin' down the blinds and a-h'istin' of them up to keep out the
sun and let in the air. Blest if old McSnagley didn't want  to carry
her travelin'-bag. There wasn't any attention, boys, she didn't get--
but it wasn't no use--bless you! She never so much as passed the time
of day with them."

"But where did she go?" inquired another anxious auditor.

"Keep your foot off the drag, and I 'll tell you. Arter we left Ring
Tail Canon, Dusenberry, as usual, got on. Presently one of the
outsides turned round to me, and says he, 'D--d if Ugly Mug ain't got
the inside track of all of you this time!' I looked down, and dern my
skin if there wasn't Dusenberry a-sittin' up alongside of the lady,
quite comfortable, as if they had ben children together. At the next
station Dusenberry gets off. So does the lady. 'Ain't you goin' on to
Wingdam,' says I. 'No,' says she. 'Mayn't we have the pleasure of your
kempany further?' says the judge, taking off his hat. 'No, I've
changed my mind,' says she, and off she got, and off she walked arm in
arm with him as cool as you please."

"Wonder if that wa'n't the party that passed through here last July?"
asked the blacksmith, joining the loungers in front of the stage-
office. "Waters brought up a buggy to get the axle bolted. There was a
woman setting in the buggy, but the hood was drawn down, and I didn't
get to see her face." During this conversation Aristides, after a
long, lingering glance at the stage, had at last torn himself away
from its fascinations, and was now lounging down the long straggling
street in a peculiarly dissipated manner, with his hat pushed on the
back part of his head, his right hand and a greater portion of his
right arm buried in his trousers pocket. This might have been partly
owing to the shortness of his legs and the comparative amplitude of
his trousers, which to the casual observer seemed to obviate the
necessity of any other garment. But when he reached the bottom of the
street, and further enlivened his progress by  whistling shrilly
between his fingers, and finally drew a fragment of a cigar from his
pocket and placed it between his teeth, it was evident that there was
a moral as well as physical laxity in his conduct. The near fact was
that Aristides had that afternoon evaded the Sunday-school, and was
open to any kind of infant iniquity.

The main street of Smith's Pocket gradually lost its civilized
character, and after one or two futile attempts at improvement at its
lower extremity, terminated impotently in a chaos of ditches, races,
and trailings. Out of this again a narrow trail started along the
mountain side, and communicated with that vast amphitheatre which
still exhibited the pioneer efforts of the early settlers. It was this
trail that Aristides took that Sunday afternoon, and which he followed
until he reached the hillside a few rods below the yawning fissure of
Smith's Pocket. After a careful examination of the vicinity, he
cleared away the underbrush beside a fallen pine that lay near, and
sat down in the attitude of patient and deliberate expectancy.

Five minutes passed--ten, twenty--and finally a half-hour was gone.
Aristides threw away his cigar, which he had lacked determination to
light, and peeled small slips from the inner bark of the pine-tree,
and munched them gravely. Another five, ten, and twenty minutes
passed, and the sun began to drop below the opposite hillside. Another
ten minutes, and the whole of the amphitheatre above was in heavy
shadow. Ten minutes more, and the distant windows in the settlement
flamed redly. Five minutes, and the spire of the Methodist church
caught the glow--and then the underbrush crackled.

Aristides, looking up, saw the trunk of the prostrate pine slowly
lifting itself before him.

A second glance showed the fearless and self-possessed boy that the
apparent phenomenon was simply and easily explained. The tree had
fallen midway and at right angles  across the trunk of another
prostrate monarch. So accurately and evenly was it balanced that the
child was satisfied, from a liberal experience of the application of
these principles to the game of "seesaw," that a very slight impulse
to either end was sufficient to destroy the equilibrium. That impulse
proceeded from his end of the tree, as he saw when the uplifted trunk
disclosed an opening in the ground beneath it, and the head and
shoulders of a man emerging therefrom.

Aristides threw himself noiselessly on his stomach. The thick clump of
an azalea hid him from view, though it did not obstruct his survey of
the stranger, whom he at once recognized as his former enemy,--the man
with the red handkerchief,--the hopeful prospector of Red Mountain,
and the hypothetical "Dusenberry" of the stage-driver.

The stranger looked cautiously round, and Aristides shrank close
behind the friendly azalea.

Satisfied that he was unobserved, the subterranean proprietor returned
to the opening and descended, reappearing with a worn black enameled
traveling-bag which he carried with difficulty. This he again
enveloped in a blanket and strapped tightly on his back, and a long-
handled shovel, brought up from the same mysterious storehouse,
completed his outfit. As he stood for a moment leaning on the shovel,
it was the figure of the hopeful prospector in the heart of the
forest. A very slight effort was sufficient to replace the fallen tree
in its former position. Raising the shovel to his shoulder, he moved
away, brushing against the azalea bush which hid the breathless
Aristides. The sound of his footsteps retreating through the crackling
brush presently died out, and a drowsy Sabbath stillness succeeded.

Aristides rose. There was a wonderful brightness in his gray eyes, and
a flush on his sunburned cheek. Seizing a root of the fallen pine he
essayed to move it. But it defied his endeavors. Aristides looked
round.

"There's some trick about it, but I'll find it yet," said that astute
child. Breaking off the limb of a buckeye, he extemporized a lever.
The first attempt failed. The second succeeded, and the long roots of
the tree again, ascended. But as it required prolonged effort to keep
the tree up, before the impetus was lost Aristides seized the
opportunity to jump into the opening. At the same moment the tree
slowly returned to its former position,

In the sudden change from the waning light to complete darkness,
Aristides was for a moment confounded. Recovering himself, he drew a
match from his capacious pocket, and striking it against the sole of
his shoe, by the upspringing flash perceived a candle stuck in the
crevices of the rock beside him. Lighting it, he glanced curiously
around him. He was at the entrance of a long gallery at the further
extremity of which he could faintly see the glimmering of the outer
daylight. Following this gallery cautiously he presently came to an
antechamber, and by the glimmering of the light above him at once saw
that it was the same he had seen in his wonderful dream.

The antechamber was about fourteen feet square, with walls of
decomposed quartz, mingling with flaky mica that reflected here and
there the gleam of Aristides's candle with a singular brilliancy. It
did not need much observation on his part to determine the reason of
the stranger's lonely labors. On a rough rocker beside him were two
fragments of ore taken from the adjacent wall, the smallest of which
the two arms of Aristides could barely clasp. To his dazzled eyes they
seemed to be almost entirely of pure gold. The great strike of '56 at
Ring Tail Canon had brought to the wonderful vision of Smith's Pocket
no such nuggets as were here.

Aristides turned to the wall again, which had been apparently the last
scene of the stranger's labors, and from  which the two masses of ore
were taken. Even to his inexperienced eye it represented a wealth
almost incalculable. Through the loose, red soil everywhere glittering
star points of the precious metal threw back the rays of his candle.
Aristides turned pale and trembled.

Here was the realization of his most extravagant fancy. Ever since his
strange dream and encounter with the stranger, he had felt an
irresistible desire to follow up his adventure, and discover the
secrets of the second cavern. But when he had returned to Smith's
Pocket, a few days after, the wreck of the fallen roof had blocked up
that part of the opening from which he had caught sight of the hidden
workman below. During his visit he had picked up from among the
rubbish the memorandum book which had supplied M'liss with letter
paper. Still haunting the locality after school hours, he had noticed
that regularly at sunset the man with the red handkerchief appeared in
some mysterious way from the hillside below Smith's Pocket, and went
away in the direction of the settlement. By careful watching,
Aristides had fixed the location of his mysterious appearance to a
point a few rods below the opening of Smith's Pocket. Flushed by this
discovery, he had been betrayed from his usual discretion so far as to
intimate a hinting of the suspicion that possessed him in the few
mysterious words he had whispered to M'liss at school. The accident we
have described above determined the complete discovery of the secret.

Who was the stranger, and why did he keep the fact of this immense
wealth hidden from the world? Suppose he, Aristides, were to tell?
Wouldn't the schoolboys look up at him with interest as the hero and
discoverer of this wonderful cavern, and wouldn't the stage-driver
feel proud of his acquaintance and offer him rides for nothing?

Why hadn't Smith discovered it--who was poor and wanted money, whom
Aristides had liked, who was the father of  M'liss, for whom Aristides
confessed a secret passion, who belonged to the settlement and helped
to build it up--instead of the stranger? Had Smith never a suspicion
that gold was so near him, and if so, why had he killed himself? But
did Smith kill himself? And at this thought and its correlative fancy,
again the cheek of Aristides blanched, and the candle shook in his
nerveless fingers.

Apart and distinct from these passing conjectures one idea remained
firm and dominant in his mind: the man with the red handkerchief had
no right to this treasure! The mysterious instinct which directed this
judicial ruling of Aristides had settled this fact as indubitably as
though proven by the weight of the strongest testimony. For an instant
a wild thought sprang up in his heart, and he seized the nearest mass
of ore with the half-formed intention of bearing it directly to the
feet of M'liss as her just and due inheritance. But Aristides could
not lift it, and the idea passed out of his mind with the frustrated
action.

At the further end of the gallery a few blankets were lying, and with
some mining implements, a kettle of water, a few worn flannel shirts,
were the only articles which this subterranean habitation possessed.
In turning over one of the blankets Aristides picked up a woman's
comb. It was a tortoise-shell, and bright with some fanciful
ornamentation. Without a moment's hesitation Aristides pocketed it as
the natural property of M'liss. A pocketbook containing a few old
letters in the breast pocket of one of the blue shirts was transferred
to that of Aristides with the same coolness and sentiment of
instinctive justice.

Aristides wisely reflected that these unimportant articles would
excite no suspicion if found in his possession. A fragment of the
rock, which, if he had taken it as he felt impelled, would have
precipitated the discovery that Aristides had decided to put off until
he had perfected a certain plan.    The light from the opening above
had gradually faded, and Aristides knew that night had fallen. To
prevent suspicion he must return home. He reentered the gallery and
reached the opening of the egress. One of the roots of the tree
projected into the opening.

He seized it and endeavored to lift it, but in vain. Panting with
exertion, he again and again exerted the fullest power of his active
sinews, but the tree remained immovable--the opening remained sealed
as firmly as with Solomon's signet. Raising his candle towards it,
Aristides saw the reason of its resistance. In his hurried ingress he
had allowed the tree to revolve sufficiently to permit one of its
roots to project into the opening, which held it firmly down. In the
shock of the discovery the excitement which had sustained him gave
way, and with a hopeless cry the just Aristides fell senseless on the
floor of the gallery.




CHAPTER VI

THE TRIALS OF MRS. MORPHER


"Now, where on earth can that child be?" said Mrs. Morpher, shading
her eyes with her hand, as she stood at the door of the "Mountain
Ranch," looking down the Wingdam road at sunset. "With his best things
on; too. Goodness!--what _were_ boys made for?"

Mr. Morpher, without replying to this question, apparently addressed
to himself as an adult representative of the wayward species, appeared
at the door, and endeavored to pour oil on the troubled waters.

"Oh, _he's_ all right, Sue! Don't fuss about _him,_" said Mr. Morpher
with an imbecile sense of conveying comfort in the emphasized pronoun.
"He's down the gulch, or in the tunnel, or over to the claim. He'll
turn up by bedtime. Don't you worry about _him._ I'll look him up in a
minit," and Mr. Morpher, taking his hat, sauntered down the road in the
direction of the National Hotel.

Mrs. Mopher gazed doubtfully after her liege. "Looking up" Aristides,
in her domestic experience, implied a prolonged absence in the bar-
room of the hotel, the tedium whereof was beguiled by seven-up or
euchre. But she only said: "Don't be long, James," and sighed
hopelessly as she turned back into the house.

Once again within her own castle walls Mrs. Morpher dropped her look
of patient suffering and glanced defiantly around for a fresh
grievance.

The decorous little parlor offered nothing to provoke the hostility of
her peculiar instincts. Spotless were the white curtains; the bright
carpet guiltless of stain or dust. The chairs were placed
arithmetically in twos, and added up evenly on the four sides with
nothing to carry over. Two bunches of lavender and fennel breathed an
odor of sanctified cleanliness through the room. Five daguerreotypes
on the mantelpiece represented the Morpher family in the progressive
stages of petrifaction, and had the Medusa-like effect of freezing
visitors into similar attitudes in their chairs. The walls were
further enlivened with two colored engravings of scenes in the
domestic history of George Washington, in which the Father of his
Country seemed to look blandly from his own correct family circle into
Morpher's, and to breathe quite audibly from his gilt frame a
dignified blessing.

Lingering a moment in this sacred inclosure to readjust the
tablecloth, Mrs. Morpher passed into the dining-room, where the
correct Crytie presided at the supper-table, at which the rest of the
family were seated. Mrs. Morpher's quick eyes caught the spectacle of
M'liss with her chin resting on her hands, and her elbows on the
table, sardonically surveying the model of deportment opposite to her.

"M'liss!"

"Well?"

"Where's your elbows?"

"Here's one and there's the other," said M'liss quietly, indicating
their respective localities by smartly tapping them with the palm of
her hand.

"Take them off the table, instantly, you bold, forward girl--and you,
sir, quit that giggling and eat your supper, if you don't want to be
put to bed without it!" added Mrs. Morpher to Lycurgus, to whom
M'liss's answer had afforded boundless satisfaction. "You're getting
to be just as bad as her, and mercy knows you never were a seraphim!"

"What's a seraphim, mother, and what do they do?" asked Lycnrgus, with
growing interest.

"They don't ask questions when they should be eating their supper, and
thankful for it," interposed Clytie, authoritatively, as one to whom
the genteel attributes and social habits of the seraphim had been a
privileged revelation.

"But, mother"--

"Hush--and don't be a heathen--run and see who is coming in," said
Mrs. Morpher, as the sound of footsteps was heard in the passage.

The door opened and McSnagley entered.

"Why, bless my soul--how do you do?" said Mrs. Morpher, with genteel
astonishment. "Quite a stranger, I declare."

This was a polite fiction. M'liss knew the fact to be that Mrs.
Morpher was reputed to "set the best table" in Smith's Pocket, and
McSnagley always called in on Sunday evenings at supper to discuss the
current gossip, and "nag" M'liss with selected texts. The verbal
McSnagley as usual couldn't stop a moment--and just dropped in "in
passin'." The actual McSnagley deposited his hat in the corner, and
placed himself, in the flesh, on a chair by the table.

"And how's Brother James, and the fammerly?"

"They're all well--except 'Risty;' he's off again,--as if my life
weren't already pestered out with one child," and Mrs. Morpher glanced
significantly at M'liss.

"Ah, well, we all of us have our trials," said McSnagley. "I've been
ailin' again. That ager must be in my bones still. I've been rather
onsettled myself to-day."

There was the appearance of truth in this statement; Mr. McSnagley's
voice had a hollow resonant sound, and his eyes were nervous and
fidgety. He had an odd trick, too, of occasionally stopping in the
middle of a sentence, and listening as though he heard some distant
sound. These things, which Mrs. Morpher recalled afterwards, did not,
in the undercurrent of uneasiness about Aristides which she felt the
whole of that evening, so particularly attract her notice.

"I know something," said Lycurgus, during one of these pauses, from
the retirement of his corner.

"If you dare to--Kerg!" said M'liss.

"M'liss says she knows where Risty is, but she won't tell," said the
lawgiver, not heeding the warning. The words were scarcely uttered
before M'liss's red hand flashed in the air and descended with a
sounding box on the traitor's ear. Lycurgus howled, Mrs. Morpher
darted into the corner, and M'liss was dragged defiant and struggling
to the light.

"Oh, you wicked, wicked child--why don't you say where, if you know?"
said Mrs. Morpher, shaking her, as if the information were to be
dislodged from some concealed part of her clothing.

"I didn't say I knew for sure," at last responded M'liss. "I said I
thought I knew."

"Well, where do you think he is?"

But M'liss was firm. Even the gloomy picture of the future state
devised by McSnagley could not alter her  determination. Mrs. Morpher,
who had a wholesome awe for this strange child, at last had recourse
to entreaty. Finally M'liss offered a compromise.

"I'll tell the master, but I won't tell you--partikerly him," said
M'liss, indicating the parson with a bodkin-like dart of her
forefinger.

Mrs. Morpher hesitated. Her maternal anxiety at length overcame her
sense of dignity and discipline.

"Who knows where the master is, or where he is to be found to-night?"
she asked hastily.

"He's over to Dr. Duchesne's," said Clytie eagerly; "that is," she
stammered, a rich color suddenly flushing from her temples to her
round shoulders, "he's usually there in the evenings, I mean."

"Run over, there's a dear, and ask him to come here," said Mrs.
Morpher, without noticing a sudden irregularity of conduct in her
firstborn. "Run quick!"

Clytie did not wait for a second command. Without availing herself of
the proffered company of McSnagley she hastily tied the strings of her
school hat under her plump chin, and slipped out of the house. It was
not far to the doctor's office, and Clytie walked quickly, overlooking
in her haste and preoccupation the admiring glances which several of
the swains of Smith's Pocket cast after her as she passed. But on
arriving at the doctor's door, so out of breath and excited was this
usual model of deportment that, on finding herself in the presence of
the master and his friend, she only stood in embarrassed silence, and
made up for her lack of verbal expression by a succession of eloquent
blushes.

Let us look at her for a moment as she stands there. Her little straw
hat, trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons, rests on the waves of her
blonde hair. There are other gay ribbons on her light summer dress,
clasping her round waist, girdling her wrist, and fastening her collar
about her  white throat. Her large blue eyes are very dark and moist
--it may be with excitement or a tearful thought of the lost Aristides
--or the tobacco smoke, with which I regret to say the room is highly
charged. But certainly as she stands leaning against the doorway,
biting her moist scarlet lip, and trying to pull down the broad brim
of her hat over the surging waves of color that _will_ beat
rhythmically up to her cheeks and temples, she is so dangerously
pretty that I am glad for the masters sake he is the philosopher he
has just described himself to his friend the doctor, and that he
prefers to study human physiology from the inner surfaces.

When Clytie had recovered herself sufficiently to state her message,
the master offered to accompany her back. As Clytie took his arm with
some slight trepidation Dr. Duchesne, who had taken sharp notes of
these "febrile" symptoms, uttered a prolonged whistle and returned
thoughtfully to his office.

Although Clytie found the distance returning no further than the
distance going, with the exhaustion of her first journey it was
natural that her homeward steps should be slower, and that the master
should regulate his pace to accommodate her. It was natural, too, that
her voice should be quite low and indistinct, so that the master was
obliged to bring his hat nearer the cherry-colored ribbons in the
course of conversation. It was also natural that he should offer the
sensitive young girl such comfort as lay in tenderly modulated tones
and playful epithets. And if in the irregularities of the main street
it was necessary to take Clytie's hand or to put his arm around her
waist in helping her up declivities, that the master saw no
impropriety in the act was evident from the fact that he did not
remove his arm when the difficulty was surmounted. In this way
Clytie's return occupied some moments more than her going, and Mrs.
Morpher was waiting anxiously at the door when the young people
arrived.    As the master entered the rooom, M'liss called him to her.
"Bend down your head" she said, "and I'll whisper. But mind, now, I
don't say I know for truth where Risty is, I only reckon."

The master bent down his head. As usual in such cases, everybody else
felt constrained to listen, and McSnagley's curiosity was awakened to
its fullest extent. When the master had received the required
information, he said quietly:--

"I think I'll go myself to this place which M'liss wishes to make a
secret of and see if the boy is there. It will save trouble to any one
else, if she should be mistaken."

"Hadn't you better take some one with you?" said Mrs. Morpher.

"By all means. I 'll go!" said Mr. McSnagley, with feverish alacrity.

The master looked inquiringly at M'liss.

"He can go if he wants to, but he'd better not," said M'liss, looking
directly into McSnagley's eyes.

"What do you mean by that, you little savage?" said McSnagley quickly.

M'liss turned scornfully away. "Go," she said,--"go if you want to,"
and resumed her seat in the corner.

The master hesitated. But he could not withstand the appeal in the
eyes of the mother and daughter, and after a short inward struggle he
turned to McSnagley and bade him briefly "Come."

When they had left the house and stood in the road together, McSnagley
stopped.

"Where are you goin'?"

"To Smith's Pocket."

McSnagley still lingered. "Do you ever carry any weppings ?" he at
length asked.

"Weapons? No. What do you want with weapons to  go a mile on a starlit
road to a deserted claim. Nonsense, man, what are you thinking of?
We're hunting a lost child, not a runaway felon. Come along," and the
master dragged him away.

Mrs. Morpher watched them from the door until their figures were lost
in the darkness. When she returned to the dining-room, Clytie had
already retired to her room, and Mrs. Morpher, overruling M'liss's
desire to sit up until the master returned, bade her follow that
correct example. "There's Clytie, now, gone to bed like a young lady,
and do you do like her," and Mrs. Morpher, with this one drop of balm
in the midst of her trials, trimmed the light and sat down in patience
to wait for Aristides, and console herself with the reflection of
Clytie's excellence. "Poor Clytie!" mused that motherly woman; "how
excited and worried she looks about her brother. I hope she'll be able
to get to sleep."

It did not occur to Mrs. Morpher that there were seasons in the life
of young girls when younger brothers ceased to become objects of
extreme solicitude. It did not occur to her to go upstairs and see how
her wish was likely to be gratified. It was well in her anxiety that
she did not, and that the crowning trial of the day's troubles was
spared her then. For at that moment Clytie was lying on the bed where
she had flung herself without undressing, the heavy masses of her
blond hair tumbled about her neck, and her hot face buried in her
hands.

Of what was the correct Clytie thinking?

She was thinking, lying there with her burning cheeks pressed against
the pillow, that she loved the master! She was recalling step by step
every incident that had occurred in their lonely walk. She was
repeating to herself his facile sentences, wringing and twisting them
to extract one drop to assuage the strange thirst that was growing up
in her soul. She was thinking--silly Clytie!--that he had  never
appeared so kind before, and she was thinking--sillier Clytie!--that
no one had ever before felt as she did then.

How soft and white his hands were! How sweet and gentle were the tones
of his voice! How easily he spoke--so unlike her father, McSnagley, or
the young men whom she met at church or on picnics! How tall and
handsome he looked as he pressed her hand at the door! Did he press
her hand, or was it a mistake? Yes, he must have pressed her hand, for
she remembers now to have pressed his in return. And he put his arm
around her waist once, and she feels it yet, and the strange perfume
as he drew her closer to him. (Mem.--The master had been smoking. Poor
Clytie!)

When she had reached this point she raised herself and sat up, and
began the process of undressing, mechanically putting each article
away in the precise, methodical habit of her former life. But she
found herself soon sitting again on the bed, twisting her hair, which
fell over her plump white shoulders, idly between her fingers, and
patting the carpet with her small white foot. She had been sitting
thus some minutes when she heard the sound of voices without, the
trampling of many feet, and a loud rapping at the door below. She
sprang to the door and looked out in the passage. Something white
passed by her like a flash and crouched down at the head of the
stairs. It was M'liss.

Mrs. Morpher opened the door.

"Is Mr. Morpher in?" said a half dozen strange, hoarse voices.

"No!"

"Where is he?" "He's at some of the saloons. Oh, tell me, has anything
happened? Is it about Aristides? Where is he--is he safe?" said Mrs.
Morpher, wringing her hands in agony.

"He's all right," said one of the men, with Mr. Morpher's old
emphasis; "but"--

"But what?"

M'liss moved slowly down the staircase, and Clytie from the passage
above held her breath.

"There's been a row down to Smith's old Pocket--a fight--a man
killed."

"Who?" shouted M'liss from the stairs.

"McSnagley--shot dead."



CHAPTER VII

THE PEOPLE vs. JOHN DOE WATERS.  Before Chief Justice LYNCH.


The hurried statement of the messenger was corroborated in the streets
that night. It was certain that McSnagley was killed. Smith's Pocket,
excited but skeptical, had seen the body, had put its fingers in the
bullethole, and was satisfied. Smith's Pocket, albeit hoarse with
shouting and excitement, still discussed details with infinite relish
in bar-rooms and saloons, and in the main street in clamorous knots
that in front of the jail where the prisoner was confined seemed to
swell into a mob. Smith's Pocket, bearded, blue-shirted, and
belligerent, crowding about this locality, from time to time uttered
appeals to justice that swelled on the night wind, not infrequently
coupling these invocations with the name of that eminent jurist--
Lynch.

Let not the simple reader suppose that the mere taking off of a fellow
mortal had created this uproar. The tenure of life in Smith's Pocket
was vain and uncertain at the best, and as such philosophically
accepted, and the blowing out of a brief candle here and there seldom
left a permanent shadow with the survivors. In such instances, too,
the victims had received their quietus from the hands of brother
townsmen, socially, as it were, in broad day, in the open streets, and
under other mitigating circumstances. Thus, when Judge Starbottle of
Virginia and "French Pete" exchanged shots with each other across the
plaza until their revolvers were exhausted, and the luckless Pete
received a bullet through the lungs, half the town witnessed it, and
were struck with the gallant and chivalrous bearing of these
gentlemen, and to this day point with feelings of pride and admiration
to the bulletholes in the door of the National Hotel, as they explain
how narrow was the escape of the women in the parlor. But here was a
man murdered at night, in a lonely place, and by a stranger--a man
unknown to the saloons of Smith's Pocket--a wretch who could not plead
the excitement of monte or the delirium of whiskey as an excuse. No
wonder that Smith's Pocket surged with virtuous indignation beneath
the windows of his prison, and clamored for his blood.

And as the crowd thickened and swayed to and fro, the story of his
crime grew exaggerated by hurried and frequent repetition. Half a
dozen speakers volunteered to give the details with an added horror to
every sentence. How one of Morpher's children had been missing for a
week or more. How the schoolmaster and the parson were taking a walk
that evening, and coming to Smith's Pocket heard a faint voice from
its depths which they recognized as belonging to the missing child.
How they had succeeded in dragging him out and gathered from his
infant lips the story of his incarceration by the murderer, Waters,
arid his enforced labors in the mine. How they were interrupted by the
appearance of Waters, followed by a highly colored and epithet-
illustrated account of the interview and quarrel. How Waters struck
the schoolmaster, who returned the blow with a pick. How Waters
thereupon drew a derringer and fired, missing the schoolmaster, but
killing McSnagley  behind him. How it was believed that Waters was one
of Joaquin's gang, that he had killed Smith, etc., etc. At each pause
the crowd pushed and panted, stealthily creeping around the doors and
windows of the jail like some strange beast of prey, until the climax
was reached, and a hush fell, and two men were silently dispatched for
a rope, and a critical examination was made of the limbs of a pine-
tree in the vicinity.

The man to whom these incidents had the most terrible significance
might have seemed the least concerned as he sat that night but a few
feet removed from the eager crowd without, his hands lightly clasped
together between his knees, and the expression on his face of one
whose thoughts were far away. A candle stuck in a tin sconce on the
wall flickered as the night wind blew freshly through a broken pane of
the window. Its uncertain light revealed a low room whose cloth
ceiling was stained and ragged, and from whose boarded walls the torn
paper hung in strips; a lumber-room partitioned from the front office,
which was occupied by a justice of the peace. If this temporary
dungeon had an appearance of insecurity, there was some compensation
in the spectacle of an armed sentinel who sat upon a straw mattress in
the doorway, and another who patrolled the narrow hall which led to
the street. That the prisoner was not placed in one of the cells in
the floor below may have been owing to the fact that the law
recognized his detention as only temporary, and while providing the
two guards as a preventive against the egress of crime within,
discreetly removed all unnecessary and provoking obstacles to the
ingress of justice from without.

Since the prisoner's arrest he had refused to answer any
interrogatories. Since he had been placed in confinement he had not
moved from his present attitude. The guard, finding all attempts at
conversation fruitless, had fallen into a reverie, and regaled himself
with pieces of straw plucked  from the mattress. A mouse ran across
the floor. The silence contrasted strangely with the hum of voices in
the street.

The candle-light, falling across the prisoner's forehead, showed the
features which Smith's Pocket knew and recognized as Waters, the
strange prospector. Had M'liss or Aristides seen him then they would
have missed that sinister expression which was part of their fearful
remembrance. The hard, grim outlines of his mouth were relaxed, the
broad shoulders were bent and contracted, the quick, searching eyes
were fixed on vacancy. The strong man--physically strong only--was
breaking up. The fist that might have felled an ox could do nothing
more than separate its idle fingers with childishness of power and
purpose. An hour longer in this condition, and the gallows would have
claimed a figure scarcely less limp and impotent than that it was
destined to ultimately reject.

He had been trying to collect his thoughts. Would they hang him? No,
they must try him first, legally, and he could prove--he could prove--
But what could he prove? For whenever he attempted to consider the
uncertain chances of his escape, he found his thoughts straying wide
of the question. It was of no use for him to clasp his fingers or knit
his brows. Why did the recollection of a school-fellow, long since
forgotten, blot out all the fierce and feverish memories of the night
and the terrible certainty of the future? Why did the strips of paper
hanging from the wall recall to him the pattern of a kite he had flown
forty years ago. In a moment like this, when all his energies were
required and all his cunning and tact would be called into service,
could he think of nothing better than trying to match the torn paper
on the wall, or to count the cracks in the floor? And an oath rose to
his lips, but from very feebleness died away without expression.

Why had he ever come to Smith's Pocket? If he had  not been guided by
that hell-cat, this would not have happened. What if he were to tell
_all_ he knew? What if he should accuse _her_? But would they be
willing to give up the bird they had already caught? Yet he again found
himself cursing his own treachery and cowardice, and this time an
exclamation burst from his lips and attracted the attention of the
guard.

"Hello, there! easy, old fellow; thar ain't any good in that," said
the sentinel, looking up. "It's a bad fix you're in, _sure_, but
rarin' and pitchin' won't help things. 'T ain't no use cussin'--
leastways, 't ain't that kind o' swearing that gets a chap out o'
here", he added, with a conscientious reservation. "Now, ef I was in
your place, I'd kinder reflect on my sins, and make my peace with God
Almighty, for I tell you the looks o' them people outside ain't
pleasant. You're in the hands of the law, and the law will protect you
as far as it can,--as far as two men can stand agin a hundred; sabe?
That's what's the matter; and it's as well that you knowed that now as
any time."

But the prisoner had relapsed into his old attitude, and was surveying
the jailor with the same abstracted air as before. That individual
resumed his seat on the mattress, and now lent his ear to a colloquy
which seemed to be progressing at the foot of the stairs. Presently he
was bailed by his brother turnkey from below.

"Oh, Bill," said fidus Achates from the passage, with the usual
Californian prefatory ejaculation.

"Well?"

"Here's M'liss! Says she wants to come up. Shall I let her in?"

The subject of inquiry, however, settled the question of  admission by
darting past the guard below in this moment  of preoccupation, and
bounded up the stairs like a young  fawn. The guards laughed.

"Now, then, my infant phenomenon," said the one   called Bill, as
M'liss stood panting before him, "wot 's up? and nextly, wot's in that
bottle?"

M'liss whisked the bottle which she held in her hand smartly under her
apron, and said curtly, "Where's him that killed the parson?"

"Yonder," replied the man, indicating the abstracted figure with his
hand. "Wot do _you_ want with him? None o' your tricks here, now," he
added threateningly.

"I want to see him!"

"Well, look! make the most of your time, and _his_ too, for the
matter of that; but mind, now, no nonsense, M'liss, he won't stand
it!" repeated the guard with an emphasis in the caution.

M'liss crossed the room, until opposite the prisoner. "Are you the
chap that killed the parson?" she said, addressing the motionless
figure.

Something in the tone of her voice startled the prisoner from the
reverie. He raised his head and glanced quickly, and with his old
sinister expression, at the child.

"What's that to you?" he asked, with the grim lines setting about his
mouth again, and the old harshness of his voice.

"Didn't I tell you he wouldn't stand any of your nonsense, M'liss?"
said the guard testily.

M'liss only repeated her question.

"And what if I did kill him?" said the prisoner savagely; "what's that
to you, you young hell-cat? Guard!--damnation!--what do you let her
come here for? Do you hear? Guard!" he screamed, rising in a transport
of passion, "take her away! fling her downstairs! What the h--ll is
she doing here?"

"If you was the man that killed McSnagley," said M'liss, without
heeding the interruption, "I've brought you something;" and she drew
the bottle from under her apron and extended it to Waters, adding,
"It's brandy--Cognac--A1."

"Take it away, and take yourself with it," returned Waters, without
abating his angry accents. "Take it away! do you hear?"

"Well, that's what I call ongrateful, dog-gone my skin if it ain't,"
said the guard, who had been evidently struck with M'liss's
generosity. "Pass the licker this way, my beauty, and I'll keep it
till he changes his mind. He's naturally a little flustered just now,
but he'll come round after you go."

But M'liss didn't accede to this change in the disposition of the
gift, and was evidently taken aback by her reception and the refusal
of the proffered comfort.

"Come, hand the bottle here!" repeated the guard. "It's agin rules to
bring the pris'ner anything, anyway, and it's confiscated to the law.
It's agin the rules, too, to ask a pris'ner any question that'll
criminate him, and on the whole you'd better go, M'liss," added the
guard, to whom the appearance of the bottle had been the means of
provoking a spasm of discipline.

But M'liss refused to make over the coveted treasure. Bill arose half
jestingly and endeavored to get possession of the bottle. A struggle
ensued, good-naturedly on the part of the guard, but characterized on
the part of M'liss by that half-savage passion which any thwarted whim
or instinct was sure to provoke in her nature. At last with a curse
she freed herself from his grasp, and seizing the bottle by the neck
aimed it with the full strength of her little arm fairly at his head.
But he was quick enough to avert that important object, if not quick
enough to save his shoulder from receiving the strength of the blow,
which shattered the thin glass and poured the fiery contents of the
bottle over his shirt and breast, saturating his clothes, and
diffusing a sharp alcoholic odor through the room.

A forced laugh broke from his lips, as he sank back on the mattress,
not without an underlying sense of awe at  this savage girl who stood
panting before him, and from whom he had just escaped a blow which
might have been fatal. "It's a pity to waste so much good licker," he
added, with affected carelessness, narrowly watching each movement of
the young pythoness, whose rage was not yet abated.

"Come, M'liss," he said at last, "we'll say quits. You've lost your
brandy, and I've got some of the pieces of yonder bottle sticking in
my shoulder yet. I suppose brandy is good for bruises, though. Hand me
the light!"

M'liss reached the candle from the sconce and held it by the guard as
he turned back the collar of his shirt to lay bare his shoulder. "So,"
he muttered, "black and blue; no bones broken, though no fault of
yours, eh? my young cherub, if it wasn't. There--why, what are you
looking at in that way, M'liss, are you crazy?--Hell's furies, don't
hold the light so near! What are you doing; Hell--ho, there! Help!"

Too late, for in an instant he was a sheet of living flame. When or
how the candle had touched his garments, saturated with the
inflammable fluid, Waters, the only inactive spectator in the room,
could never afterward tell. He only knew that the combustion was
instantaneous and complete, and before the cry had died from his lips,
not only the guard, but the straw mattress on which he had been
sitting, and the loose strips of paper hanging from the walls, and the
torn cloth ceiling above were in flames.

"Help! Help! Fire! Fire!"

With a superhuman effort, M'liss dragged the prisoner past the blazing
mattress, through the doorway into the passage, and drew the door,
which opened outwardly, against him. The unhappy guard, still blazing
like a funeral pyre, after wildly beating the air with his arms for a
few seconds, dashed at the broken window, which gave way with his
weight, and precipitated him, still flaming, into the yard below. A
column of smoke and a licking tongue of flame leaped from the open
window at the same moment, and the cry of fire was reechoed from a
hundred voices in the street. But scarcely had M'liss closed the open
door against Waters, when the guard from the doorway mounted the
stairs in time to see a flaming figure leap from the window. The room
was filled with smoke and fire. With an instinct of genius, M'liss,
pointing to the open window, shouted hoarsely in his ear:--

"Waters has escaped!"

A cry of fury from the guard was echoed from the stairs, even now
crowded by the excited mob, who feared the devastating element might
still cheat them of their intended victim. In another moment the house
was emptied, and the front street deserted, as the people rushed to
the rear of the jail--climbing fences and stumbling over ditches in
pursuit of the imagined runaway. M'liss seized the hat and coat of the
luckless "Bill," and dragging the prisoner from his place of
concealment hurriedly equipped him, and hastened through the blinding
smoke of the staircase boldly on the heels of the retiring crowd. Once
in the friendly darkness of the street, it was easy to mingle with the
pushing throng until an alley crossing at right angles enabled them to
leave the main thoroughfare. A few moments' rapid flight, and the
outskirts of the town were reached, the tall pines opened their
abysmal aisles to the fugitives, and M'liss paused with her companion.
Until daybreak, at least, here they were safe!

From the time they had quitted the burning room to that moment, Waters
had passed into his listless, abstracted condition, so helpless and
feeble that he retained the grasp of M'liss's hand more through some
instinctive prompting rather than the dictates of reason. M'liss had
found it necessary to almost drag him from the main street and the
hurrying  crowd, which seemed to exercise a strange fascination over
his bewildered senses. And now he sat down passively beside her, and
seemed to submit to the guidance of her superior nature.

"You're safe enough now till daylight," said M'liss, when she had
recovered her breath, "but you must make the best time you can through
these woods to-night, keeping the wind to your back, until you come to
the Wingdam road. There! do you hear?" said M'liss, a little vexed at
her companion's apathy.

Waters released the hand of M'liss, and commenced mechanically to
button his coat around his chest with fumbling, purposeless fingers.
He then passed his hand across his forehead as if to clear his
confused and bewildered brain; all this, however, to no better result
than to apparently root his feet to the soil and to intensify the
stupefaction which seemed to be creeping over him.

"Be quick, now! You've no time to lose! Keep straight on through the
woods until you see the stars again before you, and you're on the
other side of the ridge. What are you waiting for?" And M'liss stamped
her little foot impatiently.

An idea which had been struggling for expression at last seemed to
dawn in his eyes. Something like a simpering blush crept over his face
as he fumbled in his pocket. At last, drawing forth a twenty-dollar
piece, he bashfully offered it to M'liss. In a twinkling the extended
arm was stricken up, and the bright coin flew high in the air, and
disappeared in the darkness.

"Keep your money! I don't want it. Don't do that again!" said M'liss,
highly excited, "or I'll--I'll--bite you!"

Her wicked little white teeth flashed ominously as she said it.

"Get off while you can. Look!" she added, pointing to  a column of
flame shooting up above the straggling mass of buildings in the
village, "the jail is burning; and if that goes, the block will go
with it. Before morning these woods will be filled with people. Save
yourself while you can!"

Waters turned and moved away in the darkness. "Keep straight on, and
don't waste  a moment," urged the child, as the man seemed still
disposed to linger. "Trot now!" and in another moment he seemed to
melt into the forest depths.

M'liss threw her apron around her head, and coiled herself up at the
root of a tree in something of her old fashion. She had prophesied
truly of the probable extent of the fire. The fresh wind, whirling the
sparks over the little settlement, had already fanned the single flame
into the broad sheet which now glowed fiercely, defining the main
street along its entire length. The breeze which fanned her cheek bore
the crash of falling timbers and the shouts of terrified and anxious
men. There were no engines in Smith's Pocket, and the contest was
unequal. Nothing but a change of wind could save the doomed
settlement.

The red glow lit up the dark cheek of M'liss and kindled a savage
light in her black eyes. Relieved by the background of the sombre
woods, she might have been a red-handed Nemesis looking over the city
of Vengeance. As the long tongues of flame licked the broad colonnade
of the National Hotel, and shot a wreathing pillar of fire and smoke
high into the air, M'liss extended her tiny fist and shook it at the
burning building with an inspiration that at the moment seemed to
transfigure her.

So the night wore away until the first red bars of morning light
gleamed beyond the hill, and seemed to emulate the dying embers of the
devastated settlement. M'liss for the first time began to think of the
home she had quitted the night before, and looked with some anxiety in
the direction of "Mountain Ranch." Its white walls and little  orchard
were untouched, and looked peacefully over the blackened and deserted
village. M'liss rose, and, stretching her cramped limbs, walked
briskly toward the town. She had proceeded but a short distance when
she heard the sound of cautious and hesitating footsteps behind her,
and, facing quickly about, encountered the figure of Waters.

"Are you drunk?" said M'liss passionately, "or what do you mean by
this nonsense?"

The man approached her with a strange smile on his face, rubbing his
hands together, and shivering as with cold. When he had reached her
side he attempted to take her hand. M'liss shrank away from him with
an expression of disgust.

"What are you doing here again?" she demanded.

"I want to go with you. It's dark in there," he said, motioning to the
wood he had just quitted, "and I don't like to be alone. You'll let me
be with you, won't you? I won't be any trouble;" and a feeble smile
flickered on his lips.

M'liss darted a quick look into his face. The grim outlines of his
mouth were relaxed, and his lips moved again impotently. But his eyes
were bright and open,--bright with a look that was new to M'liss--
that imparted a strange softness and melancholy to his features,--the
incipient gleam of insanity!




CHAPTER VIII

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER--EXPLANATORY


If I remember rightly, in one of the admirable tragedies of Tsien
Tsiang at a certain culminating point of interest an innocent person
is about to be sacrificed. The knife is raised and the victim meekly
awaits the stroke. At this moment the author of the play appears on
the stage, and,  delivering an excellent philosophical dissertation on
the merits of the "situation," shows that by the purest principles of
art the sacrifice is necessary, but at the same time offers to the
audience the privilege of changing the denouement. Such, however, is
the nice aesthetic sense of a Chinese auditory, and so universal the
desire of bloodshed in the heathen breast, that invariably at each
representation of this remarkable tragedy the cause of humanity gives
way to the principles of art.

I offer this precedent as an excuse for digressing at a moment when I
have burned down a small settlement, dispatched a fellow being, and
left my heroine alone in the company of an escaped convict who has
just developed insanity as a new social quality. My object in thus
digressing is to confer with the reader in regard to the evolution of
this story,--a familiarity not without precedent, as I might prove
from most of the old Greek comedies, whose _parabasis_ permits the poet
to mingle freely with the _dramatis personae_, to address the audience
and descant at length in regard to himself, his play, and his own
merits.

The fact is that, during the progress of this story, I have received
many suggestions from intimate friends in regard to its incidents and
construction. I have also been in the receipt of correspondence from
distant readers, one letter of which I recall signed by an "Honest
Miner," who advises me to "do the right thing by M'liss," or intimates
somewhat obscurely that he will "bust my crust for me," which, though
complimentary in its abstract expression of interest, and implying a
taste for euphonism, evinces an innate coarseness which I fear may
blunt his perceptions of delicate shades and Greek outlines.

Again, the practical nature of Californians and their familiarity with
scenes and incidents which would be novel to other people have
occasioned me great uneasiness. In the course of the last three
chapters of M'liss I have received some twenty or  thirty
communications from different parts of the State corroborating
incidents of my story, which I solemnly assure the reader is purely
fictitious. Some one has lately sent me a copy of an interior paper
containing an old obituary of Smith of Smith's Pocket. Another
correspondent writes to me that he was acquainted with the
schoolmaster in the fall of '49, and that they "grubbed together." The
editors of the serial in which this story appears assure me that they
have received an advertisement from the landlord of the "National
Hotel" contingent upon an editorial notice of its having been at one
time the abode of M'liss; while an aunt of the heroine, alluding in
excellent terms to the reformed character of her niece M'liss,
clenches her sincerity by requesting the loan of twenty dollars to buy
clothes for the desolate orphan.

Under these circumstances I have hesitated to go on. What were the
bodiless creatures of my fancy--the pale phantoms of thought, evoked
in the solitude of my chamber, and sometimes even midst the hum of
busy streets--have suddenly grown into flesh and blood, living people,
protected by the laws of society, and having their legal right to
actions for slander in any court. Worse than that, I have sometimes
thought with terror of the new responsibility which might attach to my
development of their characters. What if I were obliged to support and
protect these Frankenstein monsters? What if the original of the
principal villain of my story should feel impelled through aesthetic
principles of art to work out in real life the supposititious
denouement I have sketched for him?

I have therefore concluded to lay aside my pen for this week, leaving
the catastrophe impending, and await the suggestion of my
correspondents. I do so the more cheerfully as it enables the editors
of this weekly to publish twenty-seven more columns of Miss Braddon's
"Outcasts of Society" and the remainder of the  "Duke's Motto,"--two
works which in the quiet simplicity of their home-like pictures and
household incidents are attended with none of the difficulties which
beset my unhappy story.




CHAPTER IX

CLEANING UP


As the master, wan-eyed and unrefreshed by slumber, strayed the next
morning among the blackened ruins of the fire, he was conscious of
having undergone some strange revulsion of sentiment. What he
remembered of the last evening's events, though feverish and
indistinct as a dream, and though, like a dream, without coherency or
connected outline, had nevertheless seriously impressed him. How
frivolous and trifling his past life and its pursuits looked through
the lightning vista opened to his eyes by the flash of Waters's
pistol! "Suppose I had been killed," ruminated the master, "what then?
A paragraph in the 'Banner,' headed 'Fatal Affray,' and my name added
to the already swollen list of victims to lawless violence and crime!
Humph! A pretty scrape, truly!" And the master ground his teeth with
vexation.

Let not the reader judge him too hastily. In the best regulated mind,
thankfulness for deliverance from danger is apt to be mingled with
some doubts as to the necessity of the trial.

In this frame of mind the last person he would have cared to meet was
Clytie. That young woman's evil genius, however, led her to pass the
burnt district that morning. Perhaps she had anticipated the meeting.
At all events, he had proceeded but a few steps before he was
confronted by the identical round hat and cherry colored ribbons. But
in his present humor the cheerful color somehow reminded him of the
fire and of a ruddy stain over McSnagley's heart, and invested the
innocent Clytie with a figurative significance. Now Clytie's reveries
at that moment were pleasant, if the brightness of her eyes and the
freshened color on her cheeks were any sign, and, as she had not seen
the master since then, she naturally expected to take up the thread of
romance where it had been dropped. But it required all her feminine
tact to conceal her embarrassment at his formal greeting and
constrained manner.

"He is bashful," reasoned Clytie to herself.

"This girl is a tremendous fool," growled the master inwardly.

An awkward pause ensued. Finally, Clytie _loquitur_:--

"M'liss has been missing since the fire!"

"Missing?" echoed the master in his natural tone.

Clytie bit her lip with vexation. "Yes, she's always running away.
She'll be back again. But you look interested. Do you know," she
continued with exceeding archness, "I sometimes think, Mr. Gray, if
M'liss were a little older"--

"Well?"

"Well, putting this and that together, you know!"

"Well?"

"People will talk, you know," continued Clytie, with that excessive
fondness weak people exhibit in enveloping in mystery the commonest
affairs of life.

"People are d---d fools!" roared the master.

The correct Clytie was a little shocked. Perhaps underneath it was a
secret admiration of the transgressor. Force even of this cheap
quality goes a good way with some natures.

"That is," continued the master, with an increase of dignity in
inverse proportion to the lapse he had made, "people are apt to be
mistaken, Miss Morpher, and without  meaning it, to do infinite
injustice to their fellow mortals. But I see I am detaining you. I
will try and find Melissa. I wish you good-morning." And Don
Whiskerandos stalked solemnly away.

Clytie turned red and white by turns, and her eyes filled with tears.
This denouement to her dreams was utterly unexpected. While a girl of
stronger character and active intelligence would have employed the
time in digesting plans of future retaliation and revenge, Clytie's
dull brain and placid nature were utterly perplexed and shaken.

"Dear me!" said Clytie to herself, as she started home, "if he don't
love me, why don't he say so?"

The master, or Mr. Gray, as we may now call him as he draws near the
close of his  professional career, took the old trail through the
forest, which led to M'liss's former hiding-place. He walked on
briskly, revolving in his mind the feasibility of leaving Smith's
Pocket. The late disaster, which would affect the prosperity of the
settlement for some time to come, offered an excuse to him to give up
his situation. On searching his pockets he found his present capital
to amount to ten dollars. This increased by forty dollars, due him
from the trustees, would make fifty dollars; deduct thirty dollars for
liabilities, and he would have twenty dollars left to begin the world
anew. Youth and hope added an indefinite number of ciphers to the
right hand of these figures, and in this sanguine mood our young
Alnaschar walked on until he had reached the old pine throne in the
bank of the forest. M'liss was not there. He sat down on the trunk of
the tree, and for a few moments gave himself up to the associations it
suggested. What would become of M'liss after he was gone? But he
quickly dropped the subject as one too visionary and sentimental for
his then fiercely practical consideration, and, to prevent the
recurrence of such distracting fancies, began to retrace his steps
toward the settlement. At the edge of the woods, at a point where the
trail forked toward the old site of Smith's Pocket, he saw M'liss
coming toward him. Her ordinary pace on such occasions was a kind of
Indian trot; to his surprise she was walking slowly, with her apron
thrown over her head,--an indication of meditation with M'liss and the
usual way in which she excluded the outer world in studying her
lessons. When she was within a few feet of him he called her by name.
She started as she recognized him. There was a shade of seriousness in
her dark eyes, and the hand that took his was listless and totally
unlike her old frank, energetic grasp.

"You look worried, M'liss," said Mr. Gray soothingly, as the old
sentimental feeling crept over his heart. "What's the matter now?"

M'liss replied by seating herself on the bank beside the road, and
pointed to a place by her side. Mr. Gray took the proffered seat.
M'liss then, fixing her eyes on some distant part of the view,
remained for some moments in silence. Then, without turning her head
or moving her eyes, she asked:--

"What's that they call a girl that has money left her?"

"An heiress, M'liss?"

"Yes, an heiress."

"Well?" said Mr. Gray.

"Well," said M'liss, without moving her eyes, "I'm one,--I'm a
heiress!"

"What's that, M'liss?" said Mr. Gray laughingly.

M'liss was silent again. Suddenly turning her eyes full upon him, she
said:--

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes," said Mr. Gray, beginning to be impressed by the child's manner.
"Listen, then."

In short quick sentences, M'liss began. How Aristides had several
times hinted of the concealed riches of Smith's Pocket. How he had
last night repeated the story to her of a strange discovery he had
made. How she remembered to have heard her father often swear that
there was money "in that hole," if he only had means to work it. How,
partly impressed by this statement and partly from curiosity and pity
for the prisoner, she had visited him in confinement. An account of
her interview, the origin of the fire, her flight with Waters.
(_Questions_ by Mr. Gray: What was your object in assisting this
man to escape? _Ans_. They were going to kill him. _Ques_. Hadn't he
killed McSnagley. _Ans_. Yes, but McSnagley ought to have been killed
long ago.) How she had taken leave of him that morning. How he had come
back again "silly." How she had dragged him on toward the Wingdam road,
and how he had told her that all the hidden wealth of Smith's Pocket
had belonged to her father. How she had found out, from some questions,
that he had known her father. But how all his other answers were
"silly."

"And where is he now?" asked Mr. Gray.

"Gone," said M'liss. "I left him at the edge of the wood to go back
and get some provisions, and when I returned he was gone. If he had
any senses left, he's miles away by this time. When he was off I went
back to Smith's Pocket. I found the hidden opening and saw the gold."

Mr. Gray looked at her curiously. He had, in his more intimate
knowledge of her character, noticed the unconcern with which she spoke
of the circumstances of her father's death and the total lack of any
sentiment of filial regard. The idea that this man whom she had aided
in escaping had ever done her injury had not apparently entered her
mind, nor did Mr. Gray think it necessary to hint the deeper suspicion
he had gathered from Dr. Duchesne that Waters had murdered her father.
If the story of the concealed treasures of Smith's Pocket were
exaggerated he  could easily satisfy himself on that point. M'liss met
his suggestion to return to the Pocket with alacrity, and the two
started away in that direction.

It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Gray returned. Hi