The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 28, 1906, Page 3

%0 I was having a pretty lonely time out there on the piazza.” His eyes roamed over her face, their eagerness of inspection curiously at vari- ance with his careless words. Her, sur- prise vanished instantly: she turned her- self a little that she might more directly face him. She was evidently delighted to have any companion. Looking at him, she smiled with pleased relief and sald in a,singularly sweet volce, “Oh, I'm so glad you came! I've been sitting here just this way for ever so long. 1 haven't danced for three dances. Joe Mosely asked me and then mnobod has since. I thought I'd go home, it was S0 lonesome.” At the sound of her voice, marked not only Ly a natural sweetness of tone, but by a refinement of pronunciation very \ rare among the inhabitants of the coun- -, try districts, the colonel was again thrown / 7 into numbed, staring silence. He felt that he should have liked to rise and walk back and forth for a moment aad shake himself, in order to awake from the strange and polgrant memories this 8irl’s face and voice brought up. He was recalled to himself by seelng the smile slowly freezing on her lips, and the confi- dence of her eyes becoming clouded with ¢ || alarm. / “The child will think I'm mad," he thought, and said aloud: “You've startled me and I guess I've done the same to o | e But you look very lke—extraor- B g ily like—some one, some one, I once ‘ E : She was immediately at her easg again. = ' “y iook like my mother,” she said. “Where is your mother?” he asked ab- 7| sently, surveying her with a reaewed, ,’ / wary intentness. ’ ““Here,” she answered. “Here?” he queried, looking round the room—"‘where?” “Oh, not here to-night”—she looked awzy from him and gave a quick, short sigh—"“home, I mean. Mother'’s quite sick. Sometimes I think she’s very sick.” Her face, which was one of the most flexible mobility, lost all its brightness. Her cyes looked mournfully at hint, ading fof a contradiction * he said with the rush of he felt for all small feeble things, especially feminine feeble things, “she’s not as sick as you think. . When u Itve with a person who Is sick you're > think them worse than outsiders pity t “Well, perhaps so,” she acquiesced, im- iately showing symptoms of bright- “It probably seems queer to you should be here to-night when s sick. But she and father and Rosamund insisted on my coming. The ; wanted me to go to a party for once any {way, and have a good time. But I haven't had a good time at all. Just be- fore you came I thought I'd go home, I felt so miserable sitting here alonc. Only have asked me to dance.” t been in Foleys very long?” | suggested, in order to account k of gallantry on the untry swains. ars; nearly four now,” she at him with raised » 1 se, I don’t know as man Mitiy Bruce docs. And then some of the men round here never liked us to kx The:! evidently considering that eal reasbns ed against cer- But her spirit n not mak- oved a lMttle on the bench and said in a of them occasionall t drunk!” smally agreed colonel. know so very many. But I'd know enough to have part- ou mever tell. And then makes me lcok such a fright. have hid more partners if it had small hand, which he no- gh and red, over her cropped iffiing the short lccks on her how did it come to be s0?" he looking at it with admiration i sity. 1 was very sick last and =0 in April when tting better they cut it all off. d a bad winter up here, it was so wet. 1 never =aw anything our house leaked ail dver. was a wet winter,” he ented. ard it was a good deal worse than it was down below.” was dreadful. The rains were so even in March that a big piece of ar where we live slid down. it used to be just a siope it's now like a precipice. And with mother sick and all the troubic to keep thing r I got the me come to-night—just to have mother said, because winter. And we he touched the skirt hand that betrayed a consclous ¢ satisfaction in her apparel—"it's some stuff mother had had, very good stuff. We couldn’t have afforded to buy anything like it, and 1 don’t think you could here at Foleys. But we did spend something. These flower she indi- cated two bunches of artificlal red roses at her neck ard belt—*"we bought them. They were a dollar; fifty cents each bunch. She touched the bunch at her waist with a light, arranging hand, gaw some- thing which miade her brow contract and her fingers scize on the lowers and drag them hurricdly away from their resting place. Where they had been a red stain—dye from the cheap leaves— disfigured her dress. She stared at it for 2 moment, and then looked up at the colonel in blank, Heart- stricken dismay “Why, look faltered. Che colonel for a moment was non- plused. He had no consolation for such a catastrophe. The girl seized her handkerchief and rubbed the mark with dainty energy. The red dye was im- parted 1o the hangkerchief, but the stain was only enlarged. what they've done,” she she moaned, rubbing dgistractedly. ““Why, she kept it for years in the trunk, waiting for some such time as this to come. And now look at it!” She raised tragic eyes to the colonel's face. He would have delighted in offering ber another dress—anything she bad cho- sen to buy. But she was a lady and this he could not do. So he sat looking sym- pathetically at her, inwardly swearing at the social conventions which made it im- possible for him to repair the damage. 2 ¥ felt u man's pity for the meanness of the disaster that had such a power to darken and blight one poor little girl's horizon. “Don’t rub any more,” was all he could say, “I'm afrald it's only making it worse. Maybe your mother will know of some way of cleaning it.”" The girl made no reply for the moment. He could see that the mishap had com- pletely dashed her spirits. She unpinned the other bunch, which had left an even uglier mark at her throat, and laid them down beside her on the bench. “What an unlucky evening!” she ex- claimed, looking down at them with an air of utter dejection. *“Only two people s, ask me to dance, and the flowers we paid 2 dollar for spoil my dress, my first party dress. And they all wanted me to gome because I was going to have such a time!” She looked from her flowers to her stained dress, shaking her head slowly as though words were inadequate to express the direness of the catastrophe. The colo- nel was afraid she was going to cry, but she showed no symptom of tears. She seemed a stray member of the class which Is taught to control its lachrymal ®lands In public and keep its violent emo- tions out of sight. But her face showed a distress that was to him extremely piti- ful. “‘Cheer up,” he sald. “As far as the dancing goes the evening's only half over. And partners—you don't want to dance with these country bumpkins.” He lowered his volee at the words, which were indeed rank heresy in the do- mestic purlieus of the Foleys, and made a surreptitious gesture which swept the room. ““Who else is there?" said the girl, who did not show any tendency to combat his . low optnion of Foleys' jeunesse doree. “And when you come to a party you ex- pect to dance.’” “T'll get you something better than that,” said the colonel, rising. “Wait here for a minute or two. I won't be gone long and I'll bring you back some- body worth having for a partner.” 3 She smfiled faintly at him, and he turn- ed, passed through the circling whirl of dancers, and,stepped out on the balcony again. By an adiacent window he saw two masculine figures and smelt the pungent odor of the superior tobacco with which they were beguiling the passing hour. Rion Gracey's face, gilded by the light of the window, was toward him. The well- shaped back which the other presented to his gaze he recognized as that of Jerry Barclay. He bore down upon them, clap- ping one hand upon Barelay’'s shoulder, with, the words, “Look here, you fellow: ners for a girl in ther Gracey frowned and sald demurringly, “Now, Jim, what's the use of coming down on me? Don’t you know I'm no dancing man? The other answered: “Let's see the girl first. Where is she?” —looking in through the window—*‘the onec over there in pink? Oh, we don’t deserve that. What's the matter with your being the good Samarian and dancing with her yourself?” “It's not the one in pink, and you've got to come. The poor little thing hasn't had but two partners this evening and it’s most broken her heart. Here, come along! T'm going to see that she has some fun before this metropolitan orgy ends.” Gracey threw away his cigar with a suppressed groan of acquiescence. The other man, shaking his coat into shape, 1 want part- d on. Beauty in distress always s to me. Having rounded us up you may as well lose no time in taking us to the sacrifice.” The colonel with his prizes at his heels re-entered the room. The two men looked very different in the light of the kerosene lambs. Gracey having resolved to do what he had been asked, hid his unwill- ingness under a demeanor of stiff gravity. Barclay was evidenly amused and not werse to following out the adventure. His look of a different world was more marked than cver by contrast with the clumsy countrymen about him, but his ity to Adjust himself to-all environ- ments made him cross the room with an easy srace, when his companion was ob- vieusly out of his element. The colonel, flanked by his reinforce- ments, came to a stand before the young girl. She looked up, smiling, ner eye lighting on one man and then on the other. She was surprised, delizhted, a trific embarrassed, as the men could see a sudden access of color in her cheeks. “Here,” =aid the colonel, “are two gen- tlemen who have been outside watghing. and dying to come In and have u Will you take pity on them. Miss he paused. suddenly realizing id not know her name. he stammered for the tuird d then bent down toward her and said in a lowered voice, “My dear young lady, forgive me, but you know T don't know what your name is. “My name?”’ she said. <miling. **Wh: how funny! My name is Allen, June Allen. My father is Beauregard Allen and we on the Parrish tract.” The colone! straightened himself sud- denly, almost flinching. The two m were looking at the gzirl and the girl at them, so that none of the trio noticed his expressfon. He cleared his throat Before he snoke, “Allen,” he id, M“Mis= Allen, let me introduce Mr. Rion Gracey and Mr. Bar- clay.” Tue introductions were acknowledged and as the men sat down on either side , of the no longer lonely ng weman the colonel, with a short s00d-night,”” turned and left them. He passed quickly through the dancing? room on to the balcony, his body erec, his eyes staring straight before him. The name of Allen was loud in his ears. It had struck like a dagger thrust through the trained indifference of years and torn open an old wound. CHAFPTER IV, O Mine Enemy! In his room he lit the lamp and flung the window wide. It opened on the up: per balcony, and through the follage of the locusts he could see the lights of the town, and farthcr up, between the inter- stices of the branches, pleces of the night sky sown with stars. The scent of the drooping blissoms was heavy on the alr. From below the music came softened, and the house vibrated with the rhythmic swing of the dance. He stood for a moment staring upward and absently listening, then went back into his room and sat down by the table, his head propped on his hand. The vld wound, so suddenly torn open, was bleeding. The lonely man se¢med to feel the slow drops falling from it. Pas- sion and despair, duiled by time, were suddenly endowed with the force they had had twenty-one years ago. They had the vitality of a deathless tragedy. The time of his courtship and engage- ment to Alice Joyce had been that period when he had held happiness in his arms and thought she would stay forever. Al- jee had been a schoolteacher in Sacra- mento, 4n orphan sent out from Boston in '49 to join relatives already settled in cCalifornia. Her parents had been people of means and she had been highly educated. But her father had lost his money and then died, and Alice had been forced to earn her living. She was young, gentle-mannered and very pretty. Her daughter—that girl down stairs—-was surprisingly, appallingly like her, only Alice had been prettier. Her face in its soft youth rose before him. ~It was the face of the girl down stairs touched with a clearer bloom, the lips redder, the cheeks more deli- cately rounded. But the eyes with the stra.ght lower lid and the greenish- brown irls was the same, and so were SRS s ~F e e 0 T =< A e NS -~ 4 the pointed chin and the one dimple. _He had been a miner, doing his work with the others in the great days on the American River, when he met her on a trip to Sacramento. He was thirty-four and had cared little for women till then, but he loved her from the first without hesitation or uncer- tainty. She was his mate, the other half of him who would round out and perfect his life. That he had nothing was of no matter. There was always a living for the man who worked in those uncrowded days, and Jim Parrish was a worker, a mighty man with the pick, who could stand knee deep in the water all day, and at might sleep the sleep of the just on the dry grass under the stars. Those had been Jim Parrish's great days, “the butt and sea-mark of bis sail” Life had unrolled before him like a map, all pleasant rivers and smiling plains. At intervals lic went to Sacramcnto to see Alice. E£he had other suitors, but she was his from the first, and nestled inside the protec- tion of this strong man's love with the tender trust of her soft and de- pendent nature. Parrish had one friend and confidant, John Beauregard Allen. They had crossed the isthmus together in forty- efght, had roomed together in the sprawling town scattered about the curve of San Francisco Bay, had rush- ed to the foothills when the mile race at Sutter's Creek startled the world with its sediment. of yellow dust. Once in a gambling-house in Sonora, Parrish had struck up the revolver which threatencd his friend’s life, the bullet ripping its way across his own shoulder in a red furrow he would carry to his death, / Allen was a southerner, a South Carolinian of birth and cducation, a man of daring and adventurous char- acter, possessed of unusual good 100Ks and personal gharm. To Parrish, a simpler nature, born and reared in pov- erty in a small town in Western New York, the brilllant Soutierner was all that was generous, brave and chival- rous. The friendship between the two men was of a strength that ncither thought could ever be broken. The one subject of friction between them was slavery, already beginning to burn in the thoughts and speech of men. Allea’s father was a wealthy slave- owner, and the son was in California to satisty his spirit of adventure and to conguer fortune on his own account. He was one of that large colony of Southerners, in some cases blatant and pretentious, in others brilliant and large hearted, which in ~later vears gave tone to the city, formed its man- ners, established its code of morals, and tried to direct its political life. The rude environment of the mines was distasteful to him, and he returned to San’ Francisco, where, backed by his father. he started in business. Letters passed between the friends, and zs Par courtship progressed he poured out his heart to Allen in pages that, in after vears, he remembered with impotent fury. All the hopes and aspirations of his new life, when a woman should be beside him and a woman's hand should be clasped iy his, were told to his absent friend. At length, after an engagement of some weeks, the/datz for the marriage was set. Before this tcok place Alice wished to visit her relatives, who lived in San Franeisco, and there Luy the trousseau for which she had been saying her sal- ary. Parrish reluctantly consented to her departure. While she was xonc ha would build for his bride g ¢ 8 in Hangtown, wheré his mining %ynl were then conducted.’ he 1 ha wrote a letter to Beaur: Allen gives ing Lim her address and csking him to call on her. Alicc’s visit of a month lengthened to two. Her letters, which at first had been fuil of Allen’'s name, toward the middle of the second month contained little or no mention of him. Her excuse for the pestponing of her return was that the work of dressmakers had been slower than she had expected. Also her relatives had urged upon her to prolong her stay, as they aid not know when they might see her again. A lesg biind lover might have seéen mat- ter uneasiness in the more reserved tone, the growing brevity of these letters. A suspicicus lover might have wondered why Allen had not only eeased to praise the charm and beauty of his friend’s be- trothed, but had almost entirely stopped writing, Jim Parrish was’ disturbed by neither uneasiness nor suspicion. ‘auat gweetheart and friend could combine to deal the deadly blow in store for him was beyond his power of imagination. Finally a date was set for Alice’s re- turn. Her clothes were all bought, packed and paid for. Her last letter, the tone of which for the first time scruck him as constrained and cold, told him the steamer on which she would arrive and the hour it was due. Before this Parrish had written to Allen, urging his attendance at his wedding and sugges$- ing that he act as Alice’s escort on the trip to Sacramento. To thig his friend had replied that he would do so if pos- ible, but the demands of his business were engrossing. The cottage at Hang- town was finished and furnished as well as Lhe bridegrcom’s scanty means would permit. In a dream of joy he left 'it, went down to Sacramento, bought the few clothes that went to the making of his wedding outfit, and then waited for the steamer with the high, exalted happi- ness ¢f the man who is about wo bé united to the woman he henestly loves. When the steamer arrived neither Allen nor Aliceswas on board. He was stunned al first, not having had the least antici- pation of such a catastrophe. Then a fear that she might be sick seized upon him and he sought the captain for any. information he might have. Contrary to his expectation. the captain was full of information. The lady and gentleman had boarded .i1e steamer at San Fran- cisco, holding through tickets for cramento. After they had passed Contra Costa, however, the gentleman had come to him, telling him of a sud- den change in their plans and urging him te put them ashore at the first stopping place. This he had done at Benicia. He had heard one of them suy something about going to San Jose. The lady, however, would explain- it more satisfactorily in the letter she had left, and he handed Parrish a letter addressed in Alice's handwriting. The listencr had been dazed during the first part of t.e eaptain’s recital, He could not understand what had hap- pened, only an lcy premonition of evil clutched his heart. Alice’'s letter cleared up all uncertainty. In a few blotted, incoherent lines she told him of her intention to ve the steamer with Allen, cross to San Jose, and there marry him. Her ldve far her fiance had been shriveled to ashes be- fore the flame of the Southerner’s fiery .- wooing. But she ayerred that she had in the beginning repulsed his atten- tions, fully intending .to return to Sacramento and fulfill her 'engagement with Parrish. She had not known Allen intended accompanying her on the trip to Sacramento. ‘Had she known she never would have permitted it. It was on the steamer that he had finally pre- vailed over her conscience and beaten down her scruples, till she had agreed to elope with him. # Jira Parrish never knew how he reached his hotel room that evening. He "sat’ there a long time—a day and a night he thought.—staring at his wed- ding clothes spread on the bed. What roused him from his benumbed condi- tion was a newspaper from San Jose bearing a marked announcement of the marriage. A letter from Allen followed this. It was short but characteristically grandiloquent. In it he stated that he had broken the sacred obligations of friendship, but that his passion for the woman had overborne every other sen- timent. He was henceforward an out- | cast from honest men, a fitting punish- ment for one who had held his honor 08 his dearest possession, and who had brought a blot upon a heretofore stain- less name. . The letter roused Parrish like a hand on his neck. It was so like the writer, with its theatrical pose and its high talk of his honor and his name. A flood of futy rose in the betrayed man, and he walked the streets of the city with murder in his heart. Had he met his one-time friend he would have rushed upon him and, stamped and beaten his life out. Feelings of hatred he had never xnown, he could harbor burned in him. miles, his hands clenched as he strug- gled with these unfamiliar demons that seemed tearing the ligaments of his life apart. For Alice his love neither changed nor ceased. He belleyed her to have. been overborne by Allen, carried off her feet by the reckless impetuosity he himself had once thought so dazzling. if Allen had left her alone, if when he felt love rise in him he had withdrawn from her, Parrish knew that the girl would have remained true to him and now would be his wife, nestled in his arm: sking no better resting place. At times, in the lonely. watches of the night, he thought that, but for the false friend, she would have been. beside him, her head against his shoulder, her light breath tcuching his check as she slept. It goaded him up and out into the dark- ness. torn by tie rage that drives men to murder. Then, his first fury spent, he tried to rearrangc his life—to begin again. He gavc the cottage at Hangtown to his partrier and moved his mining operations to Sonpra. Soon after he began to meet with his first small successes. Now that he had no need for money it came to him. By the time the Civil War broke out he was a man <f means and mark. Once .or twice in these years he heard of John Beuauregard Allen and his wife. They had prespered for a time, then bad luck had fallen upon them. Alien’s father, reputed a rich man, died insolvent, leaving nothing but debts. "Allen’s own busincss in San Franecisco had failed and they had left there in the '50's.. Once, Jjust before the war, stopping for a day . or two at Downieville, Parrish had accl- dentally heard that they had been living therc and that Mrs. Allen had lost a little boy, her only son. He had left by the first stage, his heart gripped by the thought of Alice, a mother, mourning for her dead child. In '¢h he had returned to the East to fight for the Union. Flve years later he came baek as Colonel Parrish, a title earned by distinguished services to his country. Tt was said by his friends that Jim Parrish would have bean a million- airg 3f he had stayed by his mines and h's investments as other men had. But ‘Parrish had cared more for the Union fer, money. . d, after -al, what %“?‘6 e it Oden 1. the four years of "battle ands bloodshed he had wondered 1f he would ever meet Beauregard Allen face to. face in the smoke and whetiter, if he did, the thought of a woman and chiliren would hold his hand.. But ke néver did. He learnad aft- erward that Allen had, remained in Caii- fornia. After his return from the war he heard® of them only once. This was in a club in San Frangisco, where a mining super- intendent recently back from Virginia City casuaily. menticned the fact that Beauregard Allen, a prominent figure in early San Fianciseo, was holding a_small position in the assay office there. In- the sueceeding four or five years they dropped completely out of sight. It seemed to him that what had long been an open wound was now a scar. Peace, the gray peace of a heart that neither hopes nor desires, was his. And suddenly, without warning or ex- pectation, his old enemy was standing in his sath. Allen, the squatter, the man who was ‘claiming his land, the man whose children, had’ been improving it, was Jochn Beauregard Allen! It was Alice's daughter who had been sitting on the bench in her poer dréss with her coarsened hands. It was Allce who was the “mother” that was sick: He rose from his seat with a aroan, and go'ng to the window pushed aside the curtain and looked out. The lamp behind him sputtered and, sending a rank smell into the air, went out. The day was dawning. A pale gray light mounted the sky behind the lccust trecs, quiver- ing each moment into a warmed bright- ness, ' By its searching clearness the colonel's face leoked old and worn. It was a face of a leathern brownness of skin, azainst which the white hair and gray mustache stood out in curfous contrast. The brows were bushy, the eyes they shadowed clear gray, decp st and steady. with an undez- look of wmelancholy always showing through their twinkle of humor. There wis no humor in them now. They were- old and sad, the lines round them deep as were those that marked the forehead un-/ der its rough whitc halr. Through the branches of the trees he could cee the slopes of his own land, the thick dark growth of chaparral mufiing the hiliside, and on its crest the glow of the east barred by the trunks of pines. As he remembered, the cottage was somewhere below them, on the edge of the cleared stretch which ran along the rond. They were therc—Alice and her children, beggars on'the land Beauregard Allen was trylng to steal from him. CHAPTER V. . 'The Summons. , Later cn in the morning the ¢olonel waked from a few holirs of uneasy slum- ber. He had thrown himself dressed on his bed and dropped into aesleep from which he had been Foused by the morning sounds of Foleys. The lethargy and de- pression of the night of memories, clung heavily to him, and as he dressed he de- -elded that he would leave the camp that ‘morning, sending word to Cusack, the lawyer, that he would lst the matter of the squatter rest for a few days. ‘As he left the dining-room after break- fast he was accosted by a stableman, who informed him that Kit Carson was inclined to ‘“go tender” on one of his front feet. The man did not knows when the colonel intended leaving, but if it was that day ‘he would advise to “wait over a spell” and let Kit it up. Nearly, a hundred and forty miles in thir- - ty-six hours—especially with the sun so ‘had noticed in her sister's—the inerad. hot at midday, was a pretty serious prop- osjtion even for Kit Carson. The colonel stood silent for a moment looking at the man from under frown- - ing brows. It would be possible fox him'to take ome of Forsythe's horses, ride to Milton, and there get the Stockton stage. Forsythe's boy could ride Kit back to Sacramento when his front foot ceased to be tender. But after all, what was the use of running from the situa- tion? There it was, to be thought out and . dealt with. It was fate that had lamed the never tired or disabled Kit just at this juncture. With a word to the man that he would stay over till the horse was in proper condition, he passed through the hall and along the balcony to the side ‘which flanked the dining-room. Its boarded length was deserted, with, before each window, a soclal gathering of chairs as they had been arranged by onlookers during last night's revel. A long line of locust trees, their follage motionless in the warm air, grew between the hotel fence and the road, throwing the bal- cony in a scented shade. Between their trunks the colonel could survey the malin street of Foleys, already wrapped in its morning state of somno- lence, its unstirred dust beaten upon by a relentless blaze of sun. WUnder the cov- ered sidewalk a shirt-sleeved figure now At night he walked for and then passed with loitering step, or a sunbonneted woman picked her way through the dust. The male population of the camp was, for the most part, gathered in detached groups which marked the doorways of saloons. Each member of a group occypied a wooden arm-chair, had - his heels raised high on a hitching bar. his hat well downwon his nose, while a spiral of smoke issued from beneath the brim. Now and then sorhe one spoke and the colorel could see the heads under the tilted hats slowly turning to survey the speaker. At intervals, however, a word passed of sudden, energizing im- port. 1t roused the group which rose as one man and fi'ed into the saloon. When they emerged. they seated themselves, the silence resetticd, and -all appeared to drowse. The one being who defied the soporific effec* of the hour was an un- seen player on the French horn who be- guiled the morning stiliness with varia- tions of the melody, ‘““When This Cruel War is Over.” The colonel, smoking his morning cigar. surveyed the outlook with the unseeing eyes cof cxtreme preoccupation. He did not cven notice the presence of the saddled horse which a stableman had led up to the .gate just below where he sat. Some louder admonition of the man’s to the fretting animal firally caught his ear and his fixed eyes feil on it. It was a stately creature, satiz-flanked and slender-legged, stamping and shaking its long mane in its impatience. The neat pack of the traveler was tied be- hind the saddle. ““Whose horse is that, Tom?” said the colonel, knowing its type ' strange to Foleys. “Didn’t the Gracey boys go back last night?"” The whole Buckeye Belle outfit rode back at three. This {s Jerry Bar- clay’s horse. He's goin' on this morning to Thompsons Flat. Barclay rid him up from Stockton—won't take no lively horse. Has this one sent up on the boat.” As the man spoke the colonel heard a ‘quick step on the balcony be- Wind » him, - and the owner of the horse came around the corner, smiling, bandseme,. debonalr in his lovse-titting clothes, long riding boots and wide- brimmed hat. Morning, caloncl,” he said: “F sec the opical ealm of Foleyvs fs affecting you. Take. example by me—off for twenty milcs acros€ coumtry 1o Thompsons Flat.” He.ran down thé steps andsout into the read. There, standing m the dust put- ting on his gloves, he let a quick, inves- tigating eye run over his horse. “I - intended = starting at sun-up.”” he =ald, - “and then they went and forgot to wake me. Now [ have to ride twenty miles over roads a foot deep in dust and under a sun as hot as a smelting fur- pace.” houldn't have been so’ dissipatcd last ht,” said the colonel. “What time did to bed?” Tae young man, who was adjusting his stirrup, turned around. § “Oh, that was the dearest little girl last right. Where'd you find her? And how dfd a girl like that cver grow up ifi-a God-forsuken spot like Foleys He vaulted into the saddle, not waiting for an unswer. Then as his horse, cur- vetting<and backing in a last eestasy uf tmpatience, churned up a cleud of oust, he calle “I'm quite fascinated. Going to stop over on my way back. Give May or April or June or whatever -her name is, my love. Hasta manana, old man!” The horse, at length Mberated, piunged forward and dashed up the road, the soft diminishing thud of its hoofs for a me- ment filling the, silence. The stableman slouched lezily off, and the colonel was once more left to his cigar and his medi- tations. These were soon as deeply ¢ngrussing as eve: Vith his eyes looking down the sun-steeped street he was not aware of 'a biuc-clothed feminine figure which came into view along the highway upon which the balcony fronted. At lirst sne walked wulckly In a blaze of sun, then crossed the road, charily holding up her skirt, &nd appreached i the shadew of the lo- custs. . re you Colonel Parrish?” she said ina aer loud, clear. volce. He rose, throwing away his cigar, and rep:fed with an affirmative that he tricd not to make astonished. She ascended the stevs, again hesi- tateq, and then held vut a sun-burnt hand. “I'm glad I found you,” she said, as he released it. “I thought perhaps you might have gone on to the Buckeye Belle. Everybody goes there now. my name is Allen, Rosamund Allen. You met my sister June last night.” ¢ “Oh,” murmured the colonel, and then he gave a weak, “Of course. Sit down.” “J—Jd—ecnjoyed meeting your sister last night,’ he said as they found themselves seating facing each other. “She—she—" He did not know what to say. He wondered why the girl had come. Had sonie one sent her? 3 She looked at him with her. clear, calm eyes, cool and interested. She was unquestionably handsomer than her sister. A year or two younger he guessed, though much larger, a typical Califorpian in her downy bloom . of skin and fullness of contour. Her simple dress had been designed with taste and set with a grace that was imparted more by the beautiful lin of the bedy it covered than aany pa ticular skill in its fashiéning. There was the same neatness and care of de- tail jn her humble adornments that he jeable daintiness of the woman whose forebéars have lived delicately. “June had such a good time. last night,”_she said with an air of volubil ity. At first she said it was dreadf Hardly any one asked -her to dance, and she didn’t sec how she could wait for father, who was golng to call for her at twelve. And then you came and introduced those gentlemen to her. -honestly. Now the After that she had the loveliest time. She didn't want to go at all when :nbu came. She made him walt till wo'” v “I'm glad she enjoyed it. It was pretty dull for her at first. She didn't want to dance with the kind of men that were there. I was glad to intro- duce Rion Gracey to her. He's more or less of a neighbor of yours, accord- ing to foothill distances.” The colonel was fencing, watching the girl and wondering why she had come. She had the air of settling down to a leisurely, enjoyable gossip. “Yes. We never met him before It's funny. because they've been here over ® year; up at the Buckeye Belle, of course. But then, they ride in here all the time. I've often seen both the Graceys riding past our place. The road in from there goes by our land. You know where that is?—the long strip back there—" waving her hand in the direction of the colonel's disput- ed acres—'where the tall pines are, and—" £ She had evidently suddenly realized to whom she was so glibly talking. There was no question but that she was embarrassed now. She bent her burning face down and began to’ little pleats in her dress with her sun-burnt fingers. “I_know, I know,” sald the colonel, exceedingly embarrassed himself, “right back there. Yes, of course. On the road that goes to Thompsons Flat. By the way, I hope your sister’s dress wasn't seriously damaged last night. The dye coming off the flowers, I mean.” The girl heaved a vreath of relief and tilted her head to one side regarding the pleats she had made from a different view point. For her age and environ- ment her aplomb was remarkable. “Yes, I'm afraid it's very badly marked. They were such cheap flowers. Mother thinks we can arrange something with Tosettes.” She ceased her pleating, ratseabher head fully, and looked at him. “Mother was so pleased and so aston- ished when she heard from June about meeting you. She used to know you well, she said—a long time ago, before she was married.” Her eyes looked innocently and gravely into his. There was no concealment in them She was speaking frankly and colonel knew she He braced himself for her had been sent. coming words. “Yes, 1 knew your mother,” he said, hearing his volce sound husky. “But, as you say, it was a long time ago.” “Mother got quite excited when she heard it was vou. You know she’s not well 27d the least thing upsets her. She coulas t believe it at first. Then she won- dered if vou wouldn't come up and see her and sent me down to ask you.” Alice had sent her. After twenty-one years Alice had sent this message for him! And it was all so natural and sim- ple—a moment that sometimes, in hours of melancholy brooding, he had thought of, agnd always seen fraught with tragic passion. He bent to(pick up a locust blossom that a wandering zephyr had wafted along the balcony floer. For a moment he made no answer. He could not trust his voice. The girl continued, not notjeing his silence. “She doesn’t see many people. She's sick, you know; June said she told you. And then there’s not many people round here for her to see. I suppose you'll find her changed If you haven't seen her since she was married. She’s changed a good deal lately, poor mother!” She gave a sigh and looked away from himé The colonel answered quickly: “Qf, yes, I'll come, I'l come.™ His, visitor did not seem to notice any- thing unusual in his man» r of accepting the invitation of an old friend. The trou- ble of her mother's changed condition was uppermost in her mind. “[ dare say you won't kmow it's the same person. But don’t let her see that. We want her to be bright and cheerful, and if people lock surprised when they see her it makes her think she's worse—"" She looked anxiously at him, but his face was averted. There was a slight pause and then she said in a low voice: “Mother has consumption, Colonel Par- rish.” This time he turned and stared straight at her. Her eyes, full of sad meaning. were fixed on him. The other daughter’s remarks had led him to suppose that Alice was suffering from some temporary fllness. Now he knew that she was dying. “It was Virginia City that did it,” the girl continued. “She wasn't strong for years. A long time agp in Downieville Sur brother, younger than we were, died, and father always thought she never got over that. But in Virginia there were such hard winters, and those awful winds blew so! We were there for two years Lefore we came here; and she had pneu- monia and after that she didn't get well. But we stayed on there, for father had some work in the assay office, and though everything cost a terrible price, it was better than what he got in the mines over here.” - > The colonel was half-turned from her in his chair. She could see his profile, with the- shaggy brows drawn over the eyes. “She doctored there for a long time, and everything cost so much money! Then one day one of the doctors told father she’'d never get well If she stayed in that climate. ‘Take her to California, to the foothills, where the_air's hot and dry,’ he said, ‘that's the only chance you've got.” So we sold everything and left Virginia and came over here. We tried several places, but some of them didn't seem to suit her, and in others they asked too high rents. We had hard- ly anything left. And then we just came here and settled on that—on our—on your—" She came to a stammering stop and then, ended desperately—“in that empty cottage over there.” The colonel rose and walked to the bal- cony rail. He stopd for a moment with his back toward her, then slowly wheeled and approached her. She had risen and was looking at him with a perplexed ex- pression. “Tha all right,” he said, taking her band. “T'll be up this afterncon. Will be- tween 4 and 5 do She considered a town lady might whose day was full of engagements. She was, in fact, speculating as to whether she and her sister would be free from the domestic tasks which filled their wak- ing hours. ‘Yes,” she said, nodding, “that’ll be a very good time. Mother rests and we— weare busy in the early part of the aft- having found him. “June told me what you looked like,™