They were hard and heavy, but the men, assisted by the steaming coffee, finished them with heroic politeness. “And now, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Pottinger, leaning back in her chair and calmly surveying the party, “you have my permission to light your pipes while you partake of some whiskey and water.”

The guests looked up—gratified but astonished. “Are ye sure, ma’am, you don’t mind it?” said Joe politely.

“Not at all,” responded Mrs. Pottinger briefly. “In fact, as my physician advises the inhalation of tobacco smoke for my asthmatic difficulties, I will join you.” After a moment’s fumbling in a beaded bag that hung from her waist, she produced a small black clay pipe, filled it from the same receptacle, and lit it.

A thrill of surprise went round the company, and it was noticed that Prosper seemed equally confounded. Nevertheless, this awkwardness was quickly overcome by the privilege and example given them, and with, a glass of whiskey and water before them, the men were speedily at their ease. Nor did Mrs. Pottinger disdain to mingle in their desultory talk. Sitting there with her black pipe in her mouth, but still precise and superior, she told a thrilling whaling adventure of Prosper’s father (drawn evidently from the experience of the lamented Pottinger), which not only deeply interested her hearers, but momentarily exalted Prosper in their minds as the son of that hero. “Now you speak o’ that, ma’am,” said the ingenuous Wynbrook, “there’s a good deal o’ Prossy in that yarn o’ his father’s; same kind o’ keerless grit! You remember, boys, that day the dam broke and he stood thar, the water up to his neck, heavin’ logs in the break till he stopped it.” Briefly, the evening, in spite of its initial culinary failure and its surprises, was a decided social success, and even the bewildered and doubting Prosper went to bed relieved. It was followed by many and more informal gatherings at the house, and Mrs Pottinger so far unbent—if that term could be used of one who never altered her primness of manner—as to join in a game of poker—and even permitted herself to win.

But by the end of six weeks another change in their feelings towards Prosper seemed to creep insidiously over the camp. He had been received into his former fellowship, and even the presence of his mother had become familiar, but he began to be an object of secret commiseration. They still frequented the house, but among themselves afterwards they talked in whispers. There was no doubt to them that Prosper’s old mother drank not only what her son had provided, but what she surreptitiously obtained from the saloon. There was the testimony of the barkeeper, himself concerned equally with the camp in the integrity of the Riggs household. And there was an even darker suspicion. But this must be given in Joe Wynbrook’s own words:—

“I didn’t mind the old woman winnin’ and winnin’ reg’lar—for poker’s an unsartin game;—it ain’t the money that we’re losin’—for it’s all in the camp. But when she’s developing a habit o’ holdin’ FOUR aces when somebody else hez TWO, who don’t like to let on because it’s Prosper’s old mother—it’s gettin’ rough! And dangerous too, gentlemen, if there happened to be an outsider in, or one of the boys should kick. Why, I saw Bilson grind his teeth—he holdin’ a sequence flush—ace high—when the dear old critter laid down her reg’lar four aces and raked in the pile. We had to nearly kick his legs off under the table afore he’d understand—not havin’ an old mother himself.”

“Some un will hev to tackle her without Prossy knowin’ it. For it would jest break his heart, arter all he’s gone through to get her here!” said Brewster significantly.

“Onless he DID know it and it was that what made him so sorrowful when they first came. B’gosh! I never thought o’ that,” said Wynbrook, with one of his characteristic sudden illuminations.

“Well, gentlemen, whether he did or not,” said the barkeeper stoutly, “he must never know that WE know it. No, not if the old gal cleans out my bar and takes the last scad in the camp.”

And to this noble sentiment they responded as one man.

How far they would have been able to carry out that heroic resolve was never known, for an event occurred which eclipsed its importance. One morning at breakfast Mrs. Pottinger fixed a clouded eye upon Prosper.

“Prosper,” she said, with fell deliberation “you ought to know you have a sister.”

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Prosper, with that meekness with which he usually received these family disclosures.

“A sister,” continued the lady, “whom you haven’t seen since you were a child; a sister who for family reasons has been living with other relatives; a girl of nineteen.”

“Yea, ma’am,” said Prosper humbly. “But ef you wouldn’t mind writin’ all that down on a bit o’ paper—ye know my short memory! I would get it by heart to-day in the gulch. I’d have it all pat enough by night, ef,” he added, with a short sigh, “ye was kalkilatin’ to make any illusions to it when the boys are here.”

“Your sister Augusta,” continued Mrs. Pottinger, calmly ignoring these details, “will be here to-morrow to make me a visit.”

But here the worm Prosper not only turned, but stood up, nearly upsetting the table. “It can’t be did, ma’am it MUSTN’T be did!” he said wildly. “It’s enough for me to have played this camp with YOU—but now to run in”—

“Can’t be did!” repeated Mrs. Pottinger, rising in her turn and fixing upon the unfortunate Prosper a pair of murky piratical eyes that had once quelled the sea-roving Pottinger. “Do you, my adopted son, dare to tell me that I can’t have my own flesh and blood beneath my roof?”

“Yes! I’d rather tell the whole story—I’d rather tell the boys I fooled them—than go on again!” burst out the excited Prosper.

But Mrs. Pottinger only set her lips implacably together. “Very well, tell them then,” she said rigidly; “tell them how you lured me from my humble dependence in San Francisco with the prospect of a home with you; tell them how you compelled me to deceive their trusting hearts with your wicked falsehoods; tell them how you—a foundling—borrowed me for your mother, my poor dead husband for your father, and made me invent falsehood upon falsehood to tell them while you sat still and listened!”

Prosper gasped.

“Tell them,” she went on deliberately, “that when I wanted to bring my helpless child to her only home—THEN, only then—you determined to break your word to me, either because you meanly begrudged her that share of your house, or to keep your misdeeds from her knowledge! Tell them that, Prossy, dear, and see what they’ll say!”

Prosper sank back in his chair aghast. In his sudden instinct of revolt he had forgotten the camp! He knew, alas, too well what they would say! He knew that, added to their indignation at having been duped, their chivalry and absurd sentiment would rise in arms against the abandonment of two helpless women!

“P’r’aps ye’re right, ma’am,” he stammered. “I was only thinkin’,” he added feebly, “how SHE’D take it.”

“She’ll take it as I wish her to take it,” said Mrs. Pottinger firmly.

“Supposin’, ez the camp don’t know her, and I ain’t bin talkin’ o’ havin’ any SISTER, you ran her in here as my COUSIN? See? You bein’ her aunt?”

Mrs. Pottinger regarded him with compressed lips for some time. Then she said, slowly and half meditatively: “Yes, it might be done! She will probably be willing to sacrifice her nearer relationship to save herself from passing as your sister. It would be less galling to her pride, and she wouldn’t have to treat you so familiarly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Prosper, too relieved to notice the uncomplimentary nature of the suggestion. “And ye see I could call her ‘Miss Pottinger,’ which would come easier to me.”

In its high resolve to bear with the weaknesses of Prosper’s mother, the camp received the news of the advent of Prosper’s cousin solely with reference to its possible effect upon the aunt’s habits, and very little other curiosity. Prosper’s own reticence, they felt, was probably due to the tender age at which he had separated from his relations. But when it was known that Prosper’s mother had driven to the house with a very pretty girl of eighteen, there was a flutter of excitement in that impressionable community. Prosper, with his usual shyness, had evaded an early meeting with her, and was even loitering irresolutely on his way home from work, when, as he approached the house, to his discomfiture the door suddenly opened, the young lady appeared and advanced directly towards him.

She was slim, graceful, and prettily dressed, and at any other moment Prosper might have been impressed by her good looks. But her brows were knit, her dark eyes—in which there was an unmistakable reminiscence of Mrs. Pottinger—were glittering, and although she was apparently anticipating their meeting, it was evidently with no cousinly interest. When within a few feet of him she stopped. Prosper with a feeble smile offered his hand. She sprang back.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t come a step nearer or I’ll scream!”

Prosper, still with smiling inanity, stammered that he was only “goin’ to shake hands,” and moved sideways towards the house.

“Stop!” she said, with a stamp of her slim foot. “Stay where you are! We must have our talk out HERE. I’m not going to waste words with you in there, before HER.”

Prosper stopped.

“What did you do this for?” she said angrily. “How dared you? How could you? Are you a man, or the fool she takes you for?”

“Wot did I do WOT for?” said Prosper sullenly.

“This! Making my mother pretend you were her son! Bringing her here among these men to live a lie!”

“She was willin’,” said Prosper gloomily. “I told her what she had to do, and she seemed to like it.”

“But couldn’t you see she was old and weak, and wasn’t responsible for her actions? Or were you only thinking of yourself?”

This last taunt stung him. He looked up. He was not facing a helpless, dependent old woman as he had been the day before, but a handsome, clever girl, in every way his superior—and in the right! In his vague sense of honor it seemed more creditable for him to fight it out with HER. He burst out: “I never thought of myself! I never had an old mother; I never knew what it was to want one—but the men did! And as I couldn’t get one for them, I got one for myself—to share and share alike—I thought they’d be happier ef there was one in the camp!”

There was the unmistakable accent of truth in his voice. There came a faint twitching of the young girl’s lips and the dawning of a smile. But it only acted as a goad to the unfortunate Prosper. “Ye kin laugh, Miss Pottinger, but it’s God’s truth! But one thing I didn’t do. No! When your mother wanted to bring you in here as my sister, I kicked! I did! And you kin thank me, for all your laughin’, that you’re standing in this camp in your own name—and ain’t nothin’ but my cousin.”

“I suppose you thought your precious friends didn’t want a SISTER too?” said the girl ironically.

“It don’t make no matter wot they want now,” he said gloomily. “For,” he added, with sudden desperation, “it’s come to an end! Yes! You and your mother will stay here a spell so that the boys don’t suspicion nothin’ of either of ye. Then I’ll give it out that you’re takin’ your aunt away on a visit. Then I’ll make over to her a thousand dollars for all the trouble I’ve given her, and you’ll take her away. I’ve bin a fool, Miss Pottinger, mebbe I am one now, but what I’m doin’ is on the square, and it’s got to be done!”

He looked so simple and so good—so like an honest schoolboy confessing a fault and abiding by his punishment, for all his six feet of altitude and silky mustache—that Miss Pottinger lowered her eyes. But she recovered herself and said sharply:—

“It’s all very well to talk of her going away! But she WON’T. You have made her like you—yes! like you better than me—than any of us! She says you’re the only one who ever treated her like a mother—as a mother should be treated. She says she never knew what peace and comfort were until she came to you. There! Don’t stare like that! Don’t you understand? Don’t you see? Must I tell you again that she is strange—that—that she was ALWAYS queer and strange—and queerer on account of her unfortunate habits—surely you knew THEM, Mr. Riggs! She quarreled with us all. I went to live with my aunt, and she took herself off to San Francisco with a silly claim against my father’s shipowners. Heaven only knows how she managed to live there; but she always impressed people with her manners, and some one always helped her! At last I begged my aunt to let me seek her, and I tracked her here. There! If you’ve confessed everything to me, you have made me confess everything to you, and about my own mother, too! Now, what is to be done?”

“Whatever is agreeable to you is the same to me, Miss Pottinger,” he said formally.

“But you mustn’t call me ‘Miss Pottinger’ so loud. Somebody might hear you,” she returned mischievously.

“All right—‘cousin,’ then,” he said, with a prodigious blush. “Supposin’ we go in.”

In spite of the camp’s curiosity, for the next few days they delicately withheld their usual evening visits to Prossy’s mother. “They’ll be wantin’ to talk o’ old times, and we don’t wanter be too previous,” suggested Wynbrook. But their verdict, when they at last met the new cousin, was unanimous, and their praises extravagant. To their inexperienced eyes she seemed to possess all her aunt’s gentility and precision of language, with a vivacity and playfulness all her own. In a few days the whole camp was in love with her. Yet she dispensed her favors with such tactful impartiality and with such innocent enjoyment—free from any suspicion of coquetry—that there were no heartburnings, and the unlucky man who nourished a fancied slight would have been laughed at by his fellows. She had a town-bred girl’s curiosity and interest in camp life, which she declared was like a “perpetual picnic,” and her slim, graceful figure halting beside a ditch where the men were working seemed to them as grateful as the new spring sunshine. The whole camp became tidier; a coat was considered de rigueur at “Prossy’s mother” evenings; there was less horseplay in the trails, and less shouting. “It’s all very well to talk about ‘old mothers,’” said the cynical barkeeper, “but that gal, single handed, has done more in a week to make the camp decent than old Ma’am Riggs has in a month o’ Sundays.”

Since Prosper’s brief conversation with Miss Pottinger before the house, the question “What is to be done?” had singularly lapsed, nor had it been referred to again by either. The young lady had apparently thrown herself into the diversions of the camp with the thoughtless gayety of a brief holiday maker, and it was not for him to remind her—even had he wished to—that her important question had never been answered. He had enjoyed her happiness with the relief of a secret shared by her. Three weeks had passed; the last of the winter’s rains had gone. Spring was stirring in underbrush and wildwood, in the pulse of the waters, in the sap of the great pines, in the uplifting of flowers. Small wonder if Prosper’s boyish heart had stirred a little too.

In fact, he had been possessed by another luminous idea—a wild idea that to him seemed almost as absurd as the one which had brought him all this trouble. It had come to him like that one—out of a starlit night—and he had risen one morning with a feverish intent to put it into action! It brought him later to take an unprecedented walk alone with Miss Pottinger, to linger under green leaves in unfrequented woods, and at last seemed about to desert him as he stood in a little hollow with her hand in his—their only listener an inquisitive squirrel. Yet this was all the disappointed animal heard him stammer,—

“So you see, dear, it would THEN be no lie—for—don’t you see?—she’d be really MY mother as well as YOURS.”

The marriage of Prosper Riggs and Miss Pottinger was quietly celebrated at Sacramento, but Prossy’s “old mother” did not return with the happy pair.

Of Mrs. Pottinger’s later career some idea may be gathered from a letter which Prosper received a year after his marriage. “Circumstances,” wrote Mrs. Pottinger, “which had induced me to accept the offer of a widower to take care of his motherless household, have since developed into a more enduring matrimonial position, so that I can always offer my dear Prosper a home with his mother, should he choose to visit this locality, and a second father in Hiram W. Watergates, Esq., her husband.”

THE CONVALESCENCE OF JACK HAMLIN

The habitually quiet, ascetic face of Seth Rivers was somewhat disturbed and his brows were knitted as he climbed the long ascent of Windy Hill to its summit and his own rancho. Perhaps it was the effect of the characteristic wind, which that afternoon seemed to assault him from all points at once and did not cease its battery even at his front door, but hustled him into the passage, blew him into the sitting room, and then celebrated its own exit from the long, rambling house by the banging of doors throughout the halls and the slamming of windows in the remote distance.

Mrs. Rivers looked up from her work at this abrupt onset of her husband, but without changing her own expression of slightly fatigued self-righteousness. Accustomed to these elemental eruptions, she laid her hands from force of habit upon the lifting tablecloth, and then rose submissively to brush together the scattered embers and ashes from the large hearthstone, as she had often done before.

“You’re in early, Seth,” she said.

“Yes. I stopped at the Cross Roads Post Office. Lucky I did, or you’d hev had kempany on your hands afore you knowed it—this very night! I found this letter from Dr. Duchesne,” and he produced a letter from his pocket.

Mrs. Rivers looked up with an expression of worldly interest. Dr. Duchesne had brought her two children into the world with some difficulty, and had skillfully attended her through a long illness consequent upon the inefficient maternity of soulful but fragile American women of her type. The doctor had more than a mere local reputation as a surgeon, and Mrs. Rivers looked up to him as her sole connecting link with a world of thought beyond Windy Hill.

“He’s comin’ up yer to-night, bringin’ a friend of his—a patient that he wants us to board and keep for three weeks until he’s well agin,” continued Mr. Rivers. “Ye know how the doctor used to rave about the pure air on our hill.”

Mrs. Rivers shivered slightly, and drew her shawl over her shoulders, but nodded a patient assent.

“Well, he says it’s just what that patient oughter have to cure him. He’s had lung fever and other things, and this yer air and gin’ral quiet is bound to set him up. We’re to board and keep him without any fuss or feathers, and the doctor sez he’ll pay liberal for it. This yer’s what he sez,” concluded Mr. Rivers, reading from the letter: “‘He is now fully convalescent, though weak, and really requires no other medicine than the—ozone’—yes, that’s what the doctor calls it—‘of Windy Hill, and in fact as little attendance as possible. I will not let him keep even his negro servant with him. He’ll give you no trouble, if he can be prevailed upon to stay the whole time of his cure.’”

“There’s our spare room—it hasn’t been used since Parson Greenwood was here,” said Mrs. Rivers reflectively. “Melinda could put it to rights in an hour. At what time will he come?”

“He’d come about nine. They drive over from Hightown depot. But,” he added grimly, “here ye are orderin’ rooms to be done up and ye don’t know who for.”

“You said a friend of Dr. Duchesne,” returned Mrs. Rivers simply.

“Dr. Duchesne has many friends that you and me mightn’t cotton to,” said her husband. “This man is Jack Hamlin.” As his wife’s remote and introspective black eyes returned only vacancy, he added quickly. “The noted gambler!”

“Gambler?” echoed his wife, still vaguely.

“Yes—reg’lar; it’s his business.”

“Goodness, Seth! He can’t expect to do it here.”

“No,” said Seth quickly, with that sense of fairness to his fellow man which most women find it so difficult to understand. “No—and he probably won’t mention the word ‘card’ while he’s here.”

“Well?” said Mrs. Rivers interrogatively.

“And,” continued Seth, seeing that the objection was not pressed, “he’s one of them desprit men! A reg’lar fighter! Killed two or three men in dools!”

Mrs. Rivers stared. “What could Dr. Duchesne have been thinking of? Why, we wouldn’t be safe in the house with him!”

Again Seth’s sense of equity triumphed. “I never heard of his fightin’ anybody but his own kind, and when he was bullyragged. And ez to women he’s quite t’other way in fact, and that’s why I think ye oughter know it afore you let him come. He don’t go round with decent women. In fact”—But here Mr. Rivers, in the sanctity of conjugal confidences and the fullness of Bible reading, used a few strong scriptural substantives happily unnecessary to repeat here.

“Seth!” said Mrs. Rivers suddenly, “you seem to know this man.”

The unexpectedness and irrelevancy of this for a moment startled Seth. But that chaste and God-fearing man had no secrets. “Only by hearsay, Jane,” he returned quietly; “but if ye say the word I’ll stop his comin’ now.”

“It’s too late,” said Mrs. Rivers decidedly.

“I reckon not,” returned her husband, “and that’s why I came straight here. I’ve only got to meet them at the depot and say this thing can’t be done—and that’s the end of it. They’ll go off quiet to the hotel.”

“I don’t like to disappoint the doctor, Seth,” said Mrs. Rivers. “We might,” she added, with a troubled look of inquiry at her husband, “we might take that Mr. Hamlin on trial. Like as not he won’t stay, anyway, when he sees what we’re like, Seth. What do you think? It would be only our Christian duty, too.”

“I was thinkin’ o’ that as a professin’ Christian, Jane,” said her husband. “But supposin’ that other Christians don’t look at it in that light. Thar’s Deacon Stubbs and his wife and the parson. Ye remember what he said about ‘no covenant with sin’?”

“The Stubbses have no right to dictate who I’ll have in my house,” said Mrs. Rivers quickly, with a faint flush in her rather sallow cheeks.

“It’s your say and nobody else’s,” assented her husband with grim submissiveness. “You do what you like.”

Mrs. Rivers mused. “There’s only myself and Melinda here,” she said with sublime naivete; “and the children ain’t old enough to be corrupted. I am satisfied if you are, Seth,” and she again looked at him inquiringly.

“Go ahead, then, and get ready for ‘em,” said Seth, hurrying away with unaffected relief. “If you have everything fixed by nine o’clock, that’ll do.”

Mrs. Rivers had everything “fixed” by that hour, including herself presumably, for she had put on a gray dress which she usually wore when shopping in the county town, adding a prim collar and cuffs. A pearl-encircled brooch, the wedding gift of Seth, and a solitaire ring next to her wedding ring, with a locket containing her children’s hair, accented her position as a proper wife and mother. At a quarter to nine she had finished tidying the parlor, opening the harmonium so that the light might play upon its polished keyboard, and bringing from the forgotten seclusion of her closet two beautifully bound volumes of Tupper’s “Poems” and Pollok’s “Course of Time,” to impart a literary grace to the centre table. She then drew a chair to the table and sat down before it with a religious magazine in her lap. The wind roared over the deep-throated chimney, the clock ticked monotonously, and then there came the sound of wheels and voices.

But Mrs. Rivers was not destined to see her guest that night. Dr. Duchesne, under the safe lee of the door, explained that Mr. Hamlin had been exhausted by the journey, and, assisted by a mild opiate, was asleep in the carriage; that if Mrs. Rivers did not object, they would carry him at once to his room. In the flaring and guttering of candles, the flashing of lanterns, the flapping of coats and shawls, and the bewildering rush of wind, Mrs. Rivers was only vaguely conscious of a slight figure muffled tightly in a cloak carried past her in the arms of a grizzled negro up the staircase, followed by Dr. Duchesne. With the closing of the front door on the tumultuous world without, a silence fell again on the little parlor.

When the doctor made his reappearance it was to say that his patient was being undressed and put to bed by his negro servant, who, however, would return with the doctor to-night, but that the patient would be left with everything that was necessary, and that he would require no attention from the family until the next day. Indeed, it was better that he should remain undisturbed. As the doctor confined his confidences and instructions entirely to the physical condition of their guest, Mrs. Rivers found it awkward to press other inquiries.

“Of course,” she said at last hesitatingly, but with a certain primness of expression, “Mr. Hamlin must expect to find everything here very different from what he is accustomed to—at least from what my husband says are his habits.”

“Nobody knows that better than he, Mrs. Rivers,” returned the doctor with an equally marked precision of manner, “and you could not have a guest who would be less likely to make you remind him of it.”

A little annoyed, yet not exactly knowing why, Mrs. Rivers abandoned the subject, and as the doctor shortly afterwards busied himself in the care of his patient, with whom he remained until the hour of his departure, she had no chance of renewing it. But as he finally shook hands with his host and hostess, it seemed to her that he slightly recurred to it. “I have the greatest hope of the curative effect of this wonderful locality on my patient, but even still more of the beneficial effect of the complete change of his habits, his surroundings, and their influences.” Then the door closed on the man of science and the grizzled negro servant, the noise of the carriage wheels was shut out with the song of the wind in the pine tops, and the rancho of Windy Hill possessed Mr. Jack Hamlin in peace. Indeed, the wind was now falling, as was its custom at that hour, and the moon presently arose over a hushed and sleeping landscape.

For the rest of the evening the silent presence in the room above affected the household; the half-curious servants and ranch hands spoke in whispers in the passages, and at evening prayers, in the dining room, Seth Rivers, kneeling before and bowed over a rush-bottomed chair whose legs were clutched by his strong hands, included “the stranger within our gates” in his regular supplications. When the hour for retiring came, Seth, with a candle in his hand, preceded his wife up the staircase, but stopped before the door of their guest’s room. “I reckon,” he said interrogatively to Mrs. Rivers, “I oughter see ef he’s wantin’ anythin’?”

“You heard what the doctor said,” returned Mrs. Rivers cautiously. At the same time she did not speak decidedly, and the frontiersman’s instinct of hospitality prevailed. He knocked lightly; there was no response. He turned the door handle softly. The door opened. A faint clean perfume—an odor of some general personality rather than any particular thing—stole out upon them. The light of Seth’s candle struck a few glints from some cut-glass and silver, the contents of the guest’s dressing case, which had been carefully laid out upon a small table by his negro servant. There was also a refined neatness in the disposition of his clothes and effects which struck the feminine eye of even the tidy Mrs. Rivers as something new to her experience. Seth drew nearer the bed with his shaded candle, and then, turning, beckoned his wife to approach. Mrs. Rivers hesitated—but for the necessity of silence she would have openly protested—but that protest was shut up in her compressed lips as she came forward.

For an instant that awe with which absolute helplessness invests the sleeping and dead was felt by both husband and wife. Only the upper part of the sleeper’s face was visible above the bedclothes, held in position by a thin white nervous hand that was encircled at the wrist by a ruffle. Seth stared. Short brown curls were tumbled over a forehead damp with the dews of sleep and exhaustion. But what appeared more singular, the closed eyes of this vessel of wrath and recklessness were fringed with lashes as long and silky as a woman’s. Then Mrs. Rivers gently pulled her husband’s sleeve, and they both crept back with a greater sense of intrusion and even more cautiously than they had entered. Nor did they speak until the door was closed softly and they were alone on the landing. Seth looked grimly at his wife.

“Don’t look much ez ef he could hurt anybody.”

“He looks like a sick man,” returned Mrs. Rivers calmly.

The unconscious object of this criticism and attention slept until late; slept through the stir of awakened life within and without, through the challenge of early cocks in the lean-to shed, through the creaking of departing ox teams and the lazy, long-drawn commands of teamsters, through the regular strokes of the morning pump and the splash of water on stones, through the far-off barking of dogs and the half-intelligible shouts of ranchmen; slept through the sunlight on his ceiling, through its slow descent of his wall, and awoke with it in his eyes! He woke, too, with a delicious sense of freedom from pain, and of even drawing a long breath without difficulty—two facts so marvelous and dreamlike that he naturally closed his eyes again lest he should waken to a world of suffering and dyspnoea. Satisfied at last that this relief was real, he again opened his eyes, but upon surroundings so strange, so wildly absurd and improbable, that he again doubted their reality. He was lying in a moderately large room, primly and severely furnished, but his attention was for the moment riveted to a gilt frame upon the wall beside him bearing the text, “God Bless Our Home,” and then on another frame on the opposite wall which admonished him to “Watch and Pray.” Beside them hung an engraving of the “Raising of Lazarus,” and a Hogarthian lithograph of “The Drunkard’s Progress.” Mr. Hamlin closed his eyes; he was dreaming certainly—not one of those wild, fantastic visions that had so miserably filled the past long nights of pain and suffering, but still a dream! At last, opening one eye stealthily, he caught the flash of the sunlight upon the crystal and silver articles of his dressing case, and that flash at once illuminated his memory. He remembered his long weeks of illness and the devotion of Dr. Duchesne. He remembered how, when the crisis was past, the doctor had urged a complete change and absolute rest, and had told him of a secluded rancho in some remote locality kept by an honest Western pioneer whose family he had attended. He remembered his own reluctant assent, impelled by gratitude to the doctor and the helplessness of a sick man. He now recalled the weary journey thither, his exhaustion and the semi-consciousness of his arrival in a bewildering wind on a shadowy hilltop. And this was the place!