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The San Rosario Ranch

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Title: The San Rosario Ranch

Creator: Maud Howe Elliott


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

Language: English

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

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


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




Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




                                  THE

                           SAN ROSARIO RANCH


                                   BY
                               MAUD HOWE



                                 BOSTON
                            ROBERTS BROTHERS
                                  1884




                           _Copyright, 1884_,
                          BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.



                           University Press:
                    JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.




                                   TO
                           My Beloved Sister,
                           LAURA E. RICHARDS.




                           SAN ROSARIO RANCH.



                               CHAPTER I.

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


The house was a large square building, simple and hospitable in
appearance.  A wide veranda ran about the four sides, heavily draped by
climbing roses and clematis.  There were indisputable evidences that
visitors were expected. Old Tip, the dog, knew it as well as everybody
else about the house.  He had been routed out from his favorite spot on
the sunny side of the piazza, by Ah Lam, who had given him a shower-bath
of water and soap-suds, because he did not move away to make room for
the scrubbing-brush which the white-clad Celestial plied vigorously.
From earliest morning the inhabitants of the simple house had been
busied in making it ready.  The very kittens which played about the
steps of the piazza had licked an extra gloss upon their shining coats
in honor of the expected guest.  Only Tip, the old hunting-dog, the
spoiled child of the household, showed no interest in what was going on,
and with a cynical growl trotted off to the woods behind the house,
where he might sleep safe from all fear of interruption.

From the wide doorway, which stood hospitably open, stepped a lady.  At
the first sight of Barbara Deering, strangers were always strongly
impressed with the indisputable fact that she was above and before all
else a lady.  A second look,--and people were sure to take one,--and it
appeared that she was a young lady and a beautiful one.  She was tall,
above the height of ordinary women, and her carriage was remarkably
erect and commanding.  She walked with a quick, light step to the edge
of the piazza, and raising one hand to shade her eyes from the rays of
the setting sun, stood looking out across the wide garden.  Her figure
was like that of a Greek Diana, muscular and graceful, indicating great
strength and endurance.  The limbs were rounded but not languidly, as
one saw by the arm, from which the sleeve had slipped back: it was
white, firm, and hard.  Her hands were large and shapely, the tips of
the fingers red, and the texture of the skin showed that they were used
to other work than that of the broidery-frame.  Her head, with its crown
of pretty, curling flaxen hair, was habitually held rather high, and her
face wore an expression in which a certain natural hauteur and
imperiousness seemed at war with a gentleness which was more the result
of education than a natural trait.  The forehead was wide and unlined,
the eyes brown and clear, the nose straight, and the mouth small and
rosy.  The soft, white woollen gown, with its breast-knot of red roses,
suited the young woman perfectly; and as she stood in the sunset light,
a spray of climbing rose hanging overhead from the roof of the piazza,
she made an unconscious picture of grace and loveliness.

At the sound of a wagon on the driveway a warm flush mantled her cheek
and throat, and stepping to the door of the house she called out in a
sweet, high voice, "Mamma, mamma! they are coming!"

A moment later and a large open vehicle came into sight, drawn by two
swift mules, which were urged forward by the driver, a young man in
whose face the traits of the girl on the piazza were reproduced, but
somewhat roughly.  On the seat behind the driver was seen a female
figure closely enveloped in heavy travelling wraps, her features
concealed by a thick veil. As the mules stopped before the entrance, the
young woman on the piazza came forward with both hands outstretched,
saying cordially but half shyly,--

"Dear Millicent, welcome to San Rosario! Are you very, very tired?  Let
me help you out."

So saying, Barbara Deering almost lifted the new arrival from the wagon,
and with her strong arm supported her to a chair.

"Thank you so much!" said the new-comer, speaking with a slightly
foreign accent, and lifting her veil; "and you are Barbara?  I know you
from your picture, only you are much prettier."

"Poor child, you must be terribly tired; you shall come and speak to
mamma, and then you must go directly to your room and lie down. Hal, you
will go down for Millicent's luggage?"

The young man nodded an assent, touched up his steeds, and the wagon
disappeared down the red dusty road.  The two young girls entered the
house, Barbara leading the stranger to a large room on the upper story.
In a low chair sat a small woman, with a face which must have once been
beautiful, and which now shone with an expression of simple sincerity
and kindliness. She held out her hand to Millicent, kissed her on both
cheeks, and warmly bade her welcome to San Rosario.  Millicent Almsford
acknowledged the greeting with a courteous grace, and immediately after
accepted Barbara's offer to show her to her room.

When the door was shut upon her, and she was for the first time in many
days alone, she seated herself at the window, and leaning her head upon
her hand, remained wrapped in thought.  She had travelled from the coast
of the Adriatic Sea to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, with no
companion save her maid and her own painful thoughts.  And now the long
journeying was at an end, and she found herself in the far West, in
California, amidst her kindred, all strangers to her save by tradition
and some slight correspondence.  She looked about the strange room.  It
was exquisitely neat and fresh, with its clean whitewashed walls and new
blue Kidderminster carpet, its black-walnut "bedroom set," and
comfortable lounge, which had been newly covered in her honor.  On the
bureau were blue and white mats and cushions, a toilet-set which
Barbara's busy fingers had stolen time to make.

She marked all these little details, not one of which escaped her eyes,
even to the embroidered towel-rack with her initials, and the worked
motto, "Welcome home."  Again she looked out from the window over a wide
pleasant orchard, filled with heavily fruited peach and plum trees; over
a garden gay with bright-hued flowers, and beyond to the everlasting
hills which close about the happy valley wherein stands the house of the
San Rosario Ranch.  Numbers of oxen and cows were straying over the
hills, with here and there groups of sheep cropping the sun-dried grass
of the hills.

The landscape was a perfect symphony in brown.  The round shiny hills
were golden in color; the warm-hued earth in the ploughed fields and the
meadows, whose crop of grass had long since been mowed, was of a deeper
tint.  The house stood in an oasis of green.  A great hedge of
rose-trees blushing with red blossoms marked the boundary of the
flower-garden, irrigated with great care through the long summer months.
The sun, low-hanging over the hilltops, suddenly dropped from sight; and
as the room grew dim, Millicent shivered slightly, and turning from the
window threw herself on the couch and lay there quite still, too tired
even to weep out the pain and homesickness in her heart. A tap on the
door was followed by the entrance of one of her trunks, brought in by
two strong Chinamen, at whose coppery faces Millicent stared curiously.
Six large boxes were placed in a row and unstrapped by the younger
Chinaman, who, when he had completed his task, approached the stranger
land said in a sympathetic voice, "Me solly you sick; Ah Lam bring
tea-cup?"  The white Celestial smiled benignantly and vanished, quickly
reappearing with the promised cup of tea, which proved most grateful to
the girl's tired nerves.  The creature's sympathy and attention brought
tears to her eyes; and when Barbara came in a few minutes later, to help
her in unpacking, she found the traces of these tears on Millicent's
cheeks.

"Do not try to dress for tea, dear; you are too tired.  Where shall I
find your dressing-case? You must let me take the place of your maid,
now that she has left you so cruelly."

So talking pleasantly, Barbara unpacked the guest's dressing-bag, looked
admiringly at the silver-topped bottles with "M. A." engraven upon them,
the ivory brushes, and all the dainty _et ceteras_ which were
necessities to the foreign girl, with the long white hands and
finger-nails which shone like pale pink conch-pearls.

"Thank you, if you would help me a little to-night, I shall quickly
learn to do for myself.  If you will look in that largest trunk, you may
give me whatever gown lies at the top."

Barbara unfolded as she was bid a sea-green cashmere dress, in which the
stranger quickly clad her slender figure.  Manifold strings of tiny
seed-pearls she wound about her white throat and wrists, performing all
the details of her dressing with a careful precision which seemed part
of her nature.  The pink nails received an extra polish, though the
tea-bell had twice summoned the inmates of the house to the evening
repast. With a peculiarly graceful motion, like the undulation of a
swift but quiet stream, she moved about the room and finally down the
stairway to the dining-room below.

"Millicent, will you sit here, on my right?  Hal shall have the pleasure
of occupying the place beside you."

The speaker was the lady whose gentle, firm hand swayed the small realm
of the San Rosario Ranch during the long absence of its master, Mr.
Ralph Almsford.

Mr. Almsford had been a widower for the past ten years.  On the death of
his beloved wife, her mother Mrs. Deering had continued at his earnest
request to make his house her home. Her two younger children, Barbara
and Henry Deering, remembered no other home, and it seemed but natural
to them that they should continue to live with their brother-in-law.
The family life was a particularly happy one, and the tie between Ralph
Almsford and the Deerings was closer than that which exists between many
blood relations.

The advent of the young heiress Millicent Almsford, the half-sister of
Ralph, was an event of great importance in the household, and had been
eagerly anticipated by Mrs. Deering and her daughter for several weeks.
Henry Deering--or as he was always called Hal--displayed an absolute
indifference concerning the "strange girl" who was coming to make her
home among them for a year.  What Ralph Almsford felt about his guest no
one of the household could divine.  He was a quiet, reticent man,
entirely absorbed in his business, which of late had often taken him
from home for months at a time.  He had written to his half-sister,
urging her to visit the ranch; and his letter, the first one of the kind
she had ever received, had so moved the girl that she had telegraphed
her departure, and forthwith started on her long journey.

Her brother met her in San Francisco, where they passed one day
together,--a business engagement calling him away on the morrow, as he
hoped for a few days only.

Millicent took the place assigned her by Mrs. Deering, and supper was
enlivened by conversation about the journey she had just achieved, which
she described as the most terrible ordeal that it was possible for a
human being to undergo.  The guest was entirely at her ease, though her
position might have been to many people an embarrassing one.  Arriving
alone in a household of near connections, who were as yet absolute
strangers to her, and with whom it had been decided that the next year
of her life should be passed, most girls in her place would have
experienced some sensation of awkwardness; but Millicent was entirely
mistress of the situation.  She spoke principally to Hal Deering, a
jolly-looking fellow of twenty-five, who puzzled her with the bits of
dialect, perfectly unintelligible to her, which he introduced into his
conversation.

After supper Mrs. Deering led the way into the drawing-room, saying to
her guest,--

"Will you join us at prayers in the library, Millicent?  Or would you
prefer waiting here for us?"

"I see that you already know that I am an unorthodox person, Mrs.
Deering.  Frankly, I would prefer not coming, if you will allow me.
Being an agnostic, I should hardly be in sympathy with your service.  If
you will kindly excuse me, I will await you here."

Millicent's refusal to join the family at their devotions was
accompanied with a smile so exquisite and winning that the offence was
forgiven, although forgiveness had not been asked. Hal, the great
six-foot giant, more than forgave the graceful girl her ungraciousness,
and would have a thousand times preferred remaining with her to joining
his mother and sister.

On being left to herself, Millicent moved to the piano which stood open
near the window, and seating herself let her white fingers stray gently
over the keys.  Strange hands were Millicent's, of a whiteness that made
her pale cheek look brown by comparison.  The fingers were long and
taper, at the tip of each a drop as of water ready to fall from the pink
digits.  The wrists were round and very slender.  On the fifth finger of
the left hand she wore a strange, small old ring of an Etruscan pattern,
which had been stripped from the fleshless hand of a princess, whose
sanctuary had been rifled by some nineteenth-century robber of graves.
The setting enclosed a small green intaglio exquisitely carved,
representing a Psyche with new-found wings.

She had a strange, white luminous face whose beauty shone from within
and lit the dark gray eyes with a rare and tender loveliness.  The large
mouth was more exquisitely refined than the mere rosebud tininess of
Barbara Deering's. The teeth were very white and perfect, and the veil
of soft, golden bronze hair, in which she could have clothed herself
like Mary in the desert, was deftly massed into a great dusky knot at
the nape of her white neck.  Her arms and bosom, veiled by half
transparent draperies, were white as marble from Carrara, and as finely
yet generously chiselled as those of a goddess of Phidias.  She was very
tall, though her grace of movement concealed her height; her small feet
in their velvet sandals were not disproportionate to her size.  Her
features were beautiful, and her hair and eyes the delight of every
artist who looked upon her.  And yet that which made her so remarkable
among women had nothing to do with delicate contours or harmonious
tints. Her body seemed like a screen through which shone a flame, at
times white and gentle, again rosy and passionate.  She was like the
twin opals which clasped her girdle, and was as sensitive as they to
every passing influence.

As the words of the ritual, grown to be meaningless to him by their
frequent repetition, fell upon the ears of Henry Deering he heeded them
not, and failed to make the proper responses: other sounds had struck
his ear, and soft, solemn strains of music made an under prayer to the
evening service.  To these strange chords his heart made answer, and his
thoughts were raised by them far higher than was usual at that hour,
when it was their wont to run riot over the business in hand for the
next day.

As the family re-entered the drawing-room, Millicent remained seated at
the piano, now striking louder chords, and finally ending the long
rhapsody with a brilliant waltz of Chopin.

"Thank you, dear," said Barbara, as Millicent left the piano; "I am so
glad that you are musical.  I find very little sympathy for my music in
the family; we will have great pleasure in practising together.  I have
some very good four-hand music."

Soon after, the newly arrived guest bade good-night to the family, and
went to her room accompanied by Barbara.

"She is a little like Ralph," said Mrs. Deering, "only infinitely
handsomer.  How did she please you, my son?"

"Is she handsome?  I hardly noticed.  It was her voice that struck me;
it has the sound of laughing waters.  And can't she play, though!  I
never heard such music in my life."

"I am very glad for Barbara's sake that she is musical," answered his
mother.

"Yes; I hope that Barbara and Miss Almsford _will_ get on together.  But
I have my doubts," said Hal, dubiously pulling his straw-colored
mustache.


This is San Rosario to-day.  Shall we go back a hundred years?  It has a
history worth a word or two.  To one who is familiar with the beautiful
country which lies about the old Mission of San Rosario, it is not a
little strange that the place has as yet no prominence either in history
or literature.  Santa Barbara and the Mission Dolores have been
celebrated in prose and verse. San Miguel and San Fernando Rey are not
forgotten; while San Rafael and San Francisco, now grown to be important
cities, will be remembered as long as Plymouth or Manhattan.

The venerable President of the missions of Upper California, Father
Junipero Serra, founded the San Rosario Mission in 1784, the last year
of his life.  It is possible that the judgment of the enthusiastic
priest was already failing when he chose this site, for the Mission was
never prosperous, and was abandoned early in the present century.  While
standing among the ruins of the old church, it is not difficult to see
in fancy a picturesque scene enacted on the spot a century ago, on the
morning of the consecration of the Mission.

The little band of priests and soldiers have come to the end of their
journey; the pleasant valley set in sheltering green hills has been
chosen for the site of the new Mission.  The tall thin figure of Father
Junipero first strikes the eye.  In spite of his great age, and the
mortal disease with which he is afflicted, it is his hand that tugs
lustily at the rope which swings the great bronze bell, hung in the arms
of a gigantic redwood.  It is he who shouts aloud the summons, "Hear,
hear! all ye Gentiles! come to the holy Church!"  Close to the President
stand two priests,--one, a middle-aged man with a head which indicates
great power and a dogged persistence; the other, a delicate looking
youth with the face of an enthusiast, beautiful and dreamy.  The handful
of soldiers who serve the Fathers as an escort are making fast the
slight church tent which they have just set up.  From the neighboring
thicket the cries of the startled birds mingle with the earnest tones of
Father Junipero and the deep notes of the bronze bell.  Hardly less
timorous than the wood creatures are the Indians, who peer cautiously
from behind the great trees at the strange spectacle before them.  They
are invited to draw near, and the bolder ones come close to the
black-robed figures, and stare curiously at the simple ceremonials with
which the ground is consecrated to the service of the heavenly kingdom.

Through the indefatigable energy of the President and the two priests,
the few buildings of the Mission were completed within a year.  The
adobe church was unusually large and well built, as one can see to-day.
The tower, the base of which is strongly fortified, is still standing,
though the roof of the church has long since fallen to the earthen
floor.  Little trace now remains of the less important buildings, for
the Mission was abandoned thirty years after its establishment, and the
property passed into the hands of its present owner, Mr. Ralph Almsford,
some fifteen years before the opening of our story.

A century has elapsed since that day when the Fathers planted the cross
amidst the stately aisles of madrone trees; the Mission is now almost
forgotten, but the San Rosario Ranch is well known for its famous breed
of cattle, and for its fine dairy, which supplies the San Francisco
market with choice butter and cream.

The two priests--he of the hard-favored countenance, and he of the
gentle eyes--lie side by side at the foot of the crumbling altar.  The
Indians who were reclaimed by them from barbarism have gone to their
happy hunting-grounds, and the brilliant future prophesied by Father
Junipero is proven to be a dream and nothing more.




                              CHAPTER II.

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


Millicent Almsford awoke early on the morning after her arrival.  "What
is the matter?" she asked.

No one answering her question, she put another.

"Why do we not go on, what are we stopping for?" this still in a
semi-somnolent voice.  On opening her eyes and finding that she was not
in the berth of the palace car, where she had for a week past always
found herself, she laughed outright and then gave a deep sigh.

Her long journey, from the Palazzo Fortunio in Venice to the San Rosario
Ranch in California, was at an end; and here she was, to use her own
phrase, "planted in the wilderness for a year to come."

"Heavens! how can I bear it?" she cried, tossing restlessly to the other
side of her wide bed; "it is all so new, so raw, so crude, so
terrible,--just like this cotton sheet, which has chafed my chin so
badly that I would rather have slept without one."

Soon a loud bell broke the silence of the morning.  Millicent did not
heed it, but looked about the room to find a means of summoning
assistance. Happily she found the bell quite near her, and, after twice
ringing, a tap at her door was heard.  In answer to her "Come in," Ah
Lam opened the door cautiously.

"Missie call Ah Lam?"

"I want my breakfast now," said Millicent, somewhat dismayed at the
attendant she had summoned.

Soon Barbara came, carrying the breakfast tray in her strong arms.

"I am so sorry you don't feel well this morning, Millicent.  What can I
do for you?"

"But I feel perfectly well.  Do I look so badly?"

"No, dear; but we were afraid, not seeing you--"

"Dear Barbara, you must excuse my strange foreign habits.  You know I
have been only a week in your country.  I did not realize that you all
came downstairs to breakfast.  What time is it?"

"After seven."

"And you have been up since--?"

"Since six o'clock only.  Hal is the early riser. Half-past four sees
him overlooking the milking."

Millicent shuddered; she had indeed come to a strange land.

"I will try to learn the customs of your country," she said rather
piteously, taking up her cup of coffee.

"Only learn those that please you, dear.  As for our early breakfast,
which I see shocks you, think no more about it.  I will gladly bring it
up to you every day."

"I shall unpack some of my boxes this morning, Barbara; and later we
will try some of your duets, if you like."

The unpacking of her Penates gave Millicent a certain satisfaction,
which was, however, tempered by the sad recollections they brought to
her mind, of her own apartment with its three pretty rooms in the corner
of the great Palazzo Fortunio.

Millicent Almsford was the daughter of an American gentleman who had
lived in Venice since before the birth of his daughter.  Here the
greater portion of her life had been spent, with the interruption only
of one long visit made to a relative in England.

A month previous to the opening of our story her father, widowed at her
birth, had married for the third time, his wife being a young and
uninteresting Italian woman of the middle class. The marriage, to which
Millicent was strongly opposed, had led her to accept the invitation of
her half-brother to make him an extended visit in his California home.

From the great cases she lifted, with the help of Ah Lam, the household
treasures which she had been unwilling to leave behind, in the home
which knew her as its mistress no longer.  A motley collection of
articles had the great trunks enclosed: pictures, books, a large Eastern
carpet, a parchment missal of the fifteenth century with beautiful
illuminations, a guitar, a little majolica shrine with a figure of San
Antonio very much the worse for the journey, a set of delicately wrought
silken window and bed hangings of pale sea color, a pair of heavy silver
candelabra, with a ponderous packet of wax tapers, and innumerable other
knick-knacks.

With the willing and ingenious assistance of Ah Lam, this _roba_, to
borrow the untranslatable Italian phrase, was disposed about the large
room. The neat Nottingham lace curtains, at which Millicent had looked
askance, were now hidden beneath the blue-green draperies, embroidered
by the hands of the mother whose face she had never seen.  The pictures
were hung upon the walls, and a deep-hued Egyptian scarf disguised the
pasteboard motto, with its friendly welcome. A book-case was improvised
by the Chinaman from some old boxes, and covered by Millicent, who
unhesitatingly cut to pieces a heavy woollen gown whose color struck her
as appropriate to that end.  Beside the bed she hung the little shrine
of San Antonio, with much grief that the long journey had damaged his
saintly toes and fingers.  On a table were ranged the candlesticks and
the missal, and an old copy of Dante with a mouse-gnawed cover, and
Lear's "Nonsense Book,"--this last because it was an old friend from
childhood, which she, being a creature of habit, had forgotten to
discard.

The complete metamorphosis of the apartment was a work of several days;
and only when it was entirely accomplished were Mrs. Deering and her
daughter admitted to see the change. Poor Barbara!  All the pains and
trouble she had taken, all the careful stitches she had set, were
unavailing.  The new carpet she had bought with her own pocket money was
entirely covered by old rugs, some of which were very faded and worn;
none of them were as bright and clean as the Kidderminster.

The warm knitted afghan had disappeared from the bed, which was covered
by a white quilt embroidered in strange floral designs.  The very toilet
set had been replaced, and the pretty painted candles had been banished.

"I have made it a little like Venice," cried Millicent excitedly, "only
the walls in my bedroom there are hung in silk and all painted in
water-color, and the rooms are so high,--you remember the green room in
the Palazzo Fortunio, Mrs. Deering, with the nymphs, the sea gods, and
the green hobgoblins painted all over it?"

"Yes, indeed, Millicent.  What a change you have wrought in the spare
bedroom.  Ralph would hardly recognize it.  I see now what was contained
in the boxes which so aroused Hal's curiosity.  I am afraid you have
made your room too attractive, dear, and that we shall find difficulty
in coaxing you out of it into our more prosaic apartments."

"Oh, I always live the greater part of my life between my own four
walls: I am not a sociable person, I am afraid.  At least so Barbara
thinks."

Barbara said nothing; she was hurt and disappointed. The room, with its
strange furnishing, was unnatural to her.  She felt, as she looked at
Millicent with this new setting which suited her so perfectly, that
neither in the room nor in the life of Millicent Almsford was there a
place for her.  She had eagerly anticipated the advent of this unknown
girl, sisterless like herself, who should grow to be so much to her, and
in whom she should find the sympathetic friend of whom she had greatly
felt the need; and now that she had come, Barbara was bitterly
disappointed. Millicent was gracious, winning, full of attractive
qualities, intellectually sympathetic to a degree which she had never
before known.  And yet the tall daughter of the Ranch was cruelly
disturbed.

"I can be nothing to her; she is complete without me," she had said to
her mother; and herein lay the reason for all her disappointment. Living
among people to whom her beauty, her talent, and her warmth of heart had
been the most poetic features of their lives, Barbara Deering had grown
to value men and women according to the amount of good or pleasure she
could impart to them.  Her life had been one wherein the tears and sighs
had been stifled, or hidden in the darkness of her chamber; the laughter
and smiles, the bright cheery face, the helping hand always meeting
those about her.  Children loved her, and old people blessed her for her
sympathy and kindness.  To her mother and brother she was sun, moon, and
stars; and to them every hour of her life was consecrated.  Naturally
endowed with certain tastes which would have somewhat interfered with
the quiet plan of life laid out for her, she had systematically
neglected these gifts, sacrificing herself to an imaginary duty which
was always before her eyes.  She had avoided such pursuits as might have
led her aside from the common life of the family; and happiness for her
was found in the happiness she could afford to others.  Enjoyment to
her, unless her dear ones were included in it, was something like a sin;
and the pleasure she took in her music gave her pangs of conscience.

One morning, about a week after her arrival, Millicent was awakened by
the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs clattering down the stony road which
led to the orchard from the hill behind the house.  She sprang up, and
throwing wide the shutters, looked out to see whence the sound came.  It
was still very early.  The sun had not yet clambered over the tops of
the high hills; but the sky was bright, and the shadows lay like a misty
garment over the happy valley, locked in its circle of hills.  The great
bull Jupiter, the terror of the Ranch, stood near the house, sniffing
the cool morning air, and giving thunderous snorts of pleasure.  The
bars had been left down, and he had gained access to the green orchard,
forbidden ground to him.  The hedge of roses was hung with a wondrous
garlanding of dewdrops, and the dark-red lilies were just awakening to
the draught which the night winds had distilled in their chalices.  From
every blade of grass and leaf of clover sparkled a diamond. The fair
valley had arrayed itself in jewels and fragance for another day of
light and love.

The sound of the horse's hoofs grew nearer; and as Millicent looked
expectantly along the bridle-path that descends from the mountain, there
came into sight, parting the wet boughs of the fruit trees, a horseman
mounted on a gray mustang.  The rider was a strong man, who sat his
steed with the air of one to the manner born. He was dressed in corduroy
breeches, high top-boots, and flannel shirt.  He had no hat.  In his
belt shone a long hunting knife, and over his shoulder was slung a
rifle.  Before him on the saddle lay a stag whose heavy antlers hardly
cleared the ground.

The first rays of the sun, just peeping over the hill-tops, touched his
thick brown hair, giving it a glint of bronze, shone on the wide white
forehead, flashed into the eyes, and showed her for an instant a stern
profile, exceedingly beautiful. Then she lost his face as he turned the
corner of the piazza.  Here he dismounted, and lifting the deer from the
horse laid it on the grass. Perhaps the beauty of the dead creature
struck a chord of remorse in the breast of the hunter, for he gave a
sigh and turned it so that a gaping wound in the neck was not visible.
Then drawing a pencil and a bit of paper from his pocket, he wrote
something, and fastening the billet to the horns of the deer, he mounted
his horse, and giving him the rein returned slowly by the same road.  As
he drew near again Millicent saw that the mustache which hid the upper
lip was golden-brown, that the throat was white and shapely, that the
mouth smiled not untenderly, while the eyes smiled not at all.  These
details were noted with an artist's love of beauty: and as she watched
him out of sight, she wondered with all a woman's curiosity who he might
be.

Since Millicent's arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch.
All the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance
had either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had
signified their intention of shortly doing so.

Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty
miles.  The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a
call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease
beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are
exchanged.

In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or manifested
the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a
cordiality of manner only.  Not one man or woman among the circle of
friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire
for further acquaintance.  But this one who had called at six o'clock in
the morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a
stag, piqued the curiosity of the indifferent young lady.  Wrapping
herself in a soft gray woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the
liveliest manner.

It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in
"Donald."  Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately
head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the
antlers of a rival.  Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature
tenderly between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes.  At that
moment she heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her.

"Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and dressed"--he
hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly too; I like
that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine piece of
venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too.  Don't
believe you would do as much for me."

The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the note,
took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:--


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

JOHN GRAHAM.


"Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature.  Wonder why he did not
stop and take breakfast with us.  He is an unaccountable fellow."

"What did you call him?"

"Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham.  Just like a hero's in a
novel.  But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy."

"Shall you cut off his skin?"

"Whose?  Graham's?"

"How foolish, Mr. Deering.  I mean the deer's fur."

"Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide or
feathers.  In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton;
but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the
super-civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--"

"Mr. Deering, that is stupid.  I want his skin and horns; please arrange
them for me."

"Yes, Princess; your most humble servant will obey your mandate."

He seized the creature by its slender legs, hoisted it deftly to his
shoulders, and disappeared through the side door.  Millicent picked up
the bit of a note, smoothed it, and laid it at Mrs. Deering's plate on
the breakfast table.

Millicent asked Barbara later on in the day who and what John Graham
might be.  She was told that the man with the bronze hair and strange
eyes was a near neighbor, and that she would without doubt soon make his
acquaintance.

With this answer Millicent was fain to be content.  She thought about
him all that day and dreamed of him that night; the next morning his
face was not so distinctly in her mind, but her thoughts were constantly
busy with weaving romances in which John Graham played a conspicuous
part.  The girl was indeed a creature "of the stuff which dreams are
made of;" the web of her daily life, no matter how common-place its
actual experience might be, was rich with her own vivid imaginings, like
the gold thread that a weaver twists through a sad-colored fabric.

"Mr. Deering, take me to the dairy.  I have not yet seen it," said
Millicent one afternoon, as they all sat together on the wide piazza,
after the early dinner.  The young man rose slowly, his great length
unfolding itself as he left his chair; and for answer put down his pipe
and reached up for Millicent's hat, which he had hung on a peg high
above her reach.  The two young people passed down the gravel walk
between the broad flower beds fragrant with the wonderful roses which
grow only upon the shores of the Pacific.  A geranium tree twelve feet
high, with its great scarlet bunches, and the vine of Marechal roses
which climbed up the piazza and tapped with its heavy blossoms at her
casement, aroused Millicent's enthusiasm.

The dairy, Hal told her, was fully thirty years old.  But her own palace
had frowned grim and black upon the Grand Canal before the passengers on
the good ship "Mayflower" had landed in Plymouth.  The dairy was a
plain, neat frame-building painted white, looking out upon a great
farm-yard.  Here the pretty cows all stood crowded together, waiting
their turn to offer up their evening tribute.  Two black-browed Mexicans
were milking, and a tall Yankee was overseeing the straining of the
milk.  He stood by a large trough and received the brimming buckets from
the milkers, pouring their contents through a strainer into the great
receptacle.  In the midst of the herd lay Jupiter, the splendid bull,
lazily chewing his cud and switching away the sand flies with his thick
black tail.

In a cool inner room were long shelves ranged about the brick walls,
whereon stood a shining array of pans filled with milk in different
stages. Millicent was one of those people who are always stimulated with
a desire to accomplish whatever other people are engaged in doing.  She
now announced her intention of learning to milk. This suggestion was
promptly vetoed by Hal, who, to divert her attention, called to one of
the men to bring him the skimming utensils.  He placed a large stone jar
beneath the shelf, and taking one of the milk pans which was covered
with a rich coating of yellow cream, proceeded to skim it.  His only
tool was a little wooden wand, resembling a sculptor's modelling stick.
With this he separated the yellow disk of cream from the sides of the
pan, tipping it slightly so that the whole mass of cream slipped off
unbroken, leaving the pale-blue skimmed milk in the vessel.  Millicent
was delighted with the operation which Hal accomplished with such skill,
and after many unsuccessful attempts finally performed the feat in a
manner very creditable to a beginner.

"If you will find your way back to the house, Princess, I will help the
men to finish the milking," said young Deering, when Millicent had
announced her intention of returning.

She nodded her assent, and walking a few steps stopped and leaned over
the gate of the farm-yard.  Presently Deering came out from the dairy,
having donned his rough overalls and jersey, and, placing himself on a
three-legged stool, proceeded to milk a tall white cow. Millicent looked
at him musingly for a few minutes, and then took her way down the path
which led to the house.  It was but a short distance, and lay within
sight of both farm and dwelling-house, and yet she was somewhat
astonished at the young man's allowing her to return alone.  To see him
milking, too, at work with the common laborers, had greatly perplexed
her.  She cast a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that it
was really Hal's hatless head which was bending forward, almost touching
the side of the white cow.  "And yet he is a gentleman," she said aloud;
and, remembering the white hands of her papa and the gentlemen whom she
had known in the Old World, was reminded of the truth, which when it is
spoken seems a truism, and yet which is often lost sight of, that the
proof of gentlehood lies neither in the skin of the body, nor its
raiment.

    Neither goodly clothes nor skin
    Show the gentleman within.




                              CHAPTER III.

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


John Douglass Graham, by birth American, by descent Scottish, by
profession painter, sat looking out from his tower window.  It was too
dark to paint, and not yet late enough for him to light his study lamp
and begin his evening work; so he sat idle, a rare thing for him.
Before his window there stretched a fair landscape; and a man, a painter
above other men, might well be forgiven an hour's idleness in such a
place. The sun's last rays made the little copse look more golden and
dreamy than did the stronger morning light.  The still pool with its
warm reflection of sky and trees, the mysterious dark wood beyond, all
shadowy and full of dreams, made a picture which his hand never wearied
of reproducing.  On his easel stood a canvas which bore a reflection of
the scene on which he was looking, painted in a strong, masterly manner,
but not yet completed.  "Ah, Heavens! no wonder that men love to paint
in cities, with nothing of nature's beauty before them to shame their
work.  If I dwelt face to face with a brick wall and saw no motion save
that of horse-cars and over-laden dray horses I might be more satisfied
with what I accomplish.  This picture might then seem beautiful to me.
It is a different thing to look into the face of the great model and
then at one's work.  Only the strongest of us can do that, only our
Dupres and Rousseaus. Shall I ever feel that I can even dimly picture
this one view?  Can I ever send my testimony of beauty to the world?
Can I say the one word of truth which was given me to speak?"

Graham spoke to the four walls to which most of his conversation was
addressed.  The only sympathy he ever received in his bursts of
enthusiasm or despair was from a portrait which hung where the first
rays of light fell upon it in the morning.  It was the portrait of a
woman neither young nor beautiful with the beauty of youth.  A tender,
sad face, with those heavy lines at the mouth and nose which tell of
grief and long weeping.  The gray hair was smoothly brushed from the
forehead, and the whole mien and costume showed that dignity of age so
rarely seen in these days when grandmothers dress in rainbow-hued
garments fit for their grandchildren, curl and frizzle their locks after
the mode worn by the reigning beauty of the time, and in every possible
way simulate a youth whose charm they have not, thus losing the real
grace which belongs to their age.  Before his mother's portrait the
artist always kept fresh flowers, and to that dear and noble face his
eyes were turned in a mute appeal for sympathy many times during the
long solitary day.

The fires in the western sky burned low and finally faded out before
Graham rose from his seat near the window and touched his lamp into
flame. The searching light of the large astral revealed clearly the
interior of the apartment in which the artist lived and worked.  It was
a square, high room, not very large, with a miscellaneous furnishing.
One corner, half hidden by a large canvas, was devoted to his narrow
wooden bed and dressing-table.  Near a large casement stood his easel
with palette and brushes.  On the walls hung a pair of foils and masks
and some boxing gloves.  These, and a pair of Indian clubs in the
corner, proved that the occupant of the tower was not careless of
developing the splendid muscles with which he was endowed.  Near the
doorway hung a string of curious Japanese _netshukes_,--masks, monkeys,
bears, men, women, and fruit, carefully carved in wood or ivory by the
greatest artificers the world knows to-day.  The walls were covered with
pictures and sketches; the large table littered with books and tubes of
paint.  A group of deer antlers served as clothes-pegs, and the floor
was strewn with the skins of these and many other animals.  A quaint
apartment, in which no attempts at the picturesque had been made, which
the careless grouping together of many objects had nevertheless
attained.

John Graham had reclaimed the old tower from utter desolation two years
before, when he took up his residence in the ruins of the Spanish
Mission.  The adobe building had fallen to decay, a thick cloak of ivy
and flowering vines mercifully hiding from the light of day the desolate
ruin of what had been the religious centre of the country of San
Rosario.  The church walls had fallen to the ground; but the reredos and
deserted altar stood swept by the winds of heaven, and decked with
climbing roses and clinging ferns.  The tower, which had been built very
substantially, and with a view to defence in case of danger, still stood
stanch, gray and weather-beaten.  A flight of steep wooden stairs
leading from what had been the vestibule of the church gave access to
the room.

The tower stood within the limits of the San Rosario Ranch, the property
of Mr. Ralph Almsford, which included twenty square miles of wooded
country and arable land.

When Graham had asked permission to establish himself in the old tower,
Mr. Almsford had readily granted the request, thinking, however, that he
would weary of the solitary life in a few weeks.  Two years had now
passed, and the artist still inhabited his little eyrie, whose
possession he disputed with the night owls which had been wont to sit
blinking in the tower through the long hours of daylight.  The place was
five miles distant from the Deering house, and Graham's only neighbor
was an old wood-cutter who lived in a cabin hard by, and who went by the
name of French John.  He prepared the artist's meals and took charge of
his room. French John was a strange, silent old creature, whose life had
been a varied one.  He had served in the French army first as a soldier,
then as an officer's servant.  His reminiscences, when he could be
induced to tell them, were full of interest.  He had been in Paris in
'48; his hands had helped to tear up the pavement to make the blockades
and barriers.  He had served in Algiers, whence he had come to America,
and gone as a private to the war of the Southern Rebellion.  He had
finally drifted out to the San Rosario Ranch, where he would in all
probability pass the remainder of his days.  For some reason he had
received no pension from either of the governments for the support of
which he had shed his blood.  In his old age this stranded bit of
humanity was forced to support himself by the hard labor of a
wood-cutter. His little cabin was built behind the altar, where the Lady
Chapel had once stood, sheltered from the winds by the high screen of
the reredos.

It was to the humble dwelling of French John that Graham proceeded after
having made a toilet with unusual care.  The door of the little log hut
was ajar; and as he approached, the interior was entirely visible,
revealed by the uncertain light of the wood-fire.  The old man was
stooping over the blaze with a saucepan in his hand, the contents of
which he was vigorously stirring.  Three cats of preternaturally grave
aspect sat nearby, intently watching the culinary preparations.  A mangy
old hunting dog lay snoring in the corner, gray and scarred as his
master.  A battered fowling-piece and a greasy game-bag were flung on
the wooden bench which served as table and chair to the occupant of the
humble dwelling.  The young man paused a moment on the threshold and
sighed.  The unkempt little cot with its lonely owner only differed in
degree from his own tower, from himself. He had not even the
companionship of the dumb beasts.  When he should grow as old and
battered as the wrinkled wood-cutter, would he be dependent for sympathy
on a purring cat, or an old dog?  Presently he spoke, but it was in a
loud, cheery voice which in nowise indicated the sombre thought which
had just suggested itself to his mind.

"Good-evening, John.  What luck did you have to-day?"

"Four quail and two rabbits," replied the old man laconically, without
returning the greeting of his visitor.

"And what have you in that old iron pot of yours?  Something very good,
I warrant."

"Stewed quail with bacon."

"Well, you must eat it yourself, for I do not want any supper to-night;
I am going up to the house to pass the evening.  Here is a package of
tobacco for you.  I shall be ready at the usual time for my breakfast."

The old man nodded his thanks for the present; and Graham left the hut,
and proceeded to the spot where his horse was tethered.  He saddled and
mounted the mustang, and rode swiftly down the narrow path.  Old John
watched from his doorway the movements of the young man, and when he had
disappeared, sat down to his solitary meal.  The brief glimpses of
Graham and his many kindly acts were the only human influences which
touched the life of poor old French John.  His dealings with Hal Deering
were rare; once in a month the young man visited his cot, overlooked the
work he had been engaged upon, and paid him his wages.  For the
occasional gifts of tobacco and wine, the chance newspaper from Paris,
which were the only events of importance in the dull routine of his
life, he was indebted to Graham.  He gave no expression to his
gratitude, and would have been sorely puzzled to do so. But the artist
was none the less aware of it; and some portion of the packages which
occasionally came to the tower from San Francisco never failed to find
their way to the hut of the wood-cutter.

As Graham rode up the gravel path which led to the house, he caught a
glimpse of a tall, slender figure swaying out from the gloom of the
piazza.  A white, bare arm was stretched upward to pluck a bunch of
roses from a vine twisted about the porch.  Thus much he saw and nothing
more, as he fastened his horse and mounted to the piazza, which had
suddenly become tenantless.  The house door stood hospitably open, and
the young man entered the hall and passed into the library.  The soft
candle-light showed him the room and its one occupant, the woman whom he
had seen dimly amid the climbing roses an instant before.  Evidently she
had not known that the hoof-beats on the road were bringing a guest; for
she was kneeling upon the hearth, her graceful shoulders bent, her
strong white arms steadily working a pair of bellows.  The total
depravity of inanimate things is never more clearly seen than in the
case of a wood-fire that refuses to burn.  The girl, after several
unavailing efforts to rouse a flame from the smouldering mass of embers,
deliberately took the fire to pieces and rebuilt it after another
fashion, putting a handful of pine cones atop of the logs, and setting
them alight with a roll of paper.  At last she succeeded in starting the
blaze, and, stretching her graceful length upon the deerskin rug, she
rested her elbows on the low bench before the fender, and lay quite
silent, her face supported by her hands, her dark eyes looking into the
fire.

John Graham, who had watched from the doorway every movement of the
unconscious young woman with the pleasure of an artist in all things
which are graceful and beautiful, still stood silent, giving no sign of
his presence. The warm, pleasant interior, with its comfortable easy
chairs and sofas, its open piano, near which stood a work-basket, its
shelves of books and vases of flowers, bore all the infallible
indications which mark the inmost shrine of domestic life. This was a
room where the members of the household lived.  Here was a home, the
centre of affection and hospitality.  The shadow of the lonely old man
and his desolate dwelling rose for a moment before his eyes, and at that
thought he stepped forward as if irresistibly drawn toward the cheerful
hearth and the graceful woman whose eyes were lighted by the dancing
flames.  There was a tender look about his mouth, usually so stern in
expression, as he came forward into the firelight with an expectant
countenance, as if he were about to meet an old friend.  Hearing the
footsteps, the girl without turning her head said,--

"Well, Barbara, here you see me, making myself comfortable on Graham's
deerskin.  It has just come home; is it not a beauty?"

Receiving no answer, Miss Millicent Almsford turned her face so that her
eyes fell upon John Graham standing near her, with a smile on his lips,
a flush on his cheek.  Was it the sudden leaping of the fire from the
heart of the great apple log, John Graham asked himself, or was it the
shining of a flame from within that lighted Millicent's face with a
strange radiance at the instant when her eyes met his own?  For an
instant, a space of time too short to be counted by seconds, for
something less than one quickened heartbeat, they looked at each other,
these two, the woman with his name still on her lips, the man drawn
toward the warm fireside by an uncontrollable desire to take his place
in the picture, to remain no longer an outsider, a looker-on.  One
instant, and then habit, ceremony, the second nature of both, asserted
itself, and each shrank back from that too intimate glance; the girl
rising slowly to her feet, the man making a ceremonious bow.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Miss Almsford; but I found the
door open, and I am allowed the privilege of making myself at home at
San Rosario.  As there is no one here to introduce me, will you allow me
to name myself as your most humble servitor, John Graham?  I am vain
enough to hope that my name is not quite unknown to you.  Hal has
perhaps spoken of me."

"Indeed, yes, they have all mentioned you frequently.  Mrs. Deering and
Barbara have not yet returned from the station.  When you came in I
thought they had returned.  I think the train must be late; they drove
down to meet a friend. Will you not be seated, Mr. Graham?"

Millicent had by this time quite recovered her equanimity, somewhat
shaken by the sudden appearance of the man who had lived so persistently
in her thoughts for the past fortnight. She seated herself near the
fire, motioning Graham to a chair on the other side.

"I suppose that this fire quite shocks you? Mr. Deering cannot bear to
sit in the same room with it; but I have suffered so much from the
change of climate that I am allowed to have this little blaze every
evening.  Do you see this pretty rug?  It only came home to-day.  Mr.
Deering had it dressed for me.  It is from the deer which you brought
here one morning,--a beautiful, soft piece of fur."

"Yes, it is well arranged too.  Did I understand you, Miss Almsford, to
say that Miss Deering had gone to meet some visitors?"

"Yes, but you need not mind,"--her quick ear had caught the shade of
annoyance in his voice,--"it is only poor Ferrara."

"Poor Ferrara?  Ah, I see you have already guessed his secret."

"Who could help it when it was so very evident? Do you think Barbara
will ever say yes?"

"I cannot tell.  I sometimes hope so, but she is over-fastidious."

"Fastidious?  Is that the term to use?  Surely you would not have her
marry him unless she loved him?  To a woman like Barbara such a fate
would be intolerable."

"I do not quite agree with you.  You know that self-sacrifice is Miss
Deering's greatest idea of happiness."

"I cannot comprehend it; truly I think I do not understand Barbara,
though I do appreciate her and admire her.  They have been expecting a
visit from you for some time. Mr. Deering said he should ride over to
your tower and look you up to-morrow."

"I have been very much occupied of late, or I should have paid my
respects to you before this time.  If you have heard anything about me,
you must have heard that I am an undependable person, and never do the
things which people expect of me.  Besides, I am a hard-working
creature, and not of the butterfly genus of man like our good Ferrara.
Tell me a little how this new country strikes you.  What a change it
must be, this sudden transplantation from Venice to California!"

"I have suffered terribly.  Ah!  Mr. Graham, you who have known my
Venice can feel for me. None of them here can understand it.  I feel
like a plant which has been torn suddenly from a garden beautiful with
flowers and sunshine, gentle showers and happy birds, and placed with
its roots all torn and bleeding on a barren mountain-side, with no
flowers near it, only sturdy, useful herbs, which neither shrivel in the
terrible sun, nor wither in the keen mountain winds.  But _I_ fade and
die.  There is no room for me in this great New World, where all are so
busy and have so much work to do.  The few beauties which they have,
their blue skies and grand hills, they neither understand nor love.
They have no time to look back into the glorious past with its memories;
they know not how to seize the present with its actualities; they live
and toil ever for the future, which they will not live to see.  I have
nought in common with them.  I belong to the land of my birth, where the
present is beautiful with the splendors of the past.  What are my books,
my studies, to these people?  Nothing. They tolerate my eccentricity;
they listen patronizingly to the tales of what has been; but they bemoan
my wasted time, and would fain teach me to throw away my embroidery
needle and learn to use their horrible sewing-machines. My music is my
saving grace, but they approve of it more than they enjoy it."

Millicent spoke rapidly and with shining eyes. She had at last found a
soul which, if not kindred to her own, was at least capable of an
intelligent sympathy.

"It is not strange that you should feel as you do; and, believe me, I
can sympathize with you; and yet, do not be hurt if I tell you that this
very transplanting is the thing which you needed.  Do you know how the
finest peaches are produced? To borrow another simile from nature, it is
by taking a slip from an old tree and grafting it to the sturdy trunk of
a young fruit tree, that the most perfect fruit is obtained.  Be not
afraid; the wound will heal; and the strong, vigorous sap of the young
tree will make the blossom, which now droops, bloom as a rare fruit."

"I do not want it.  I do not belong here.  I have no part, no sympathy
with it," she said rebelliously.  "I hate it, this land, where you all
strive for money, not for art, and where fame is measured out with
ingots for weights."

"When I was in Venice," said Graham, "there was with me a fellow artist,
a student like myself.  We took our first trip through the Grand Canal
together.  I remember his first criticism. Shall I tell it to you?  It
was this: 'How terrible to see cabbage leaves floating on the Grand
Canal!'  It was the feature which first struck him. For years after he
lived in the wonderful city, loving it better, painting it more truly,
day by day. He has long since forgotten the cabbage leaves which at
first annoyed his nice English taste. Believe me, you will find, above
and beneath the things which now jar and shock your nerves, much that is
grand in this country which you will one day be proud to call your own."

"Never, never!" she cried impetuously.

At this moment voices sounded in the hall, and several persons entered
the library.  These were Barbara and her mother, Hal Deering, and a
short gentleman with a very large round head, on which the coarse black
hair, closely cropped, stood straight in air, like the hobbed mane of a
Mexican pony.  His piercing black eyes were set too close to the
well-shaped aquiline nose; and the black mustache curled fiercely from
the upper lip, revealing a good mouth set with strong white teeth.  His
forehead was deeply seared with lines which betokened frequent frowns,
but the wrinkles about the mouth looked as if it might be in the habit
of laughing constantly.  A good olive complexion made the face not
ill-looking, while the small, well-modelled hands and feet redeemed the
rather unwieldy little body from absolute ugliness.  On seeing Graham,
the new-comer frowned fiercely and twisted his mustache upward in an
irritated manner.  When the artist stepped forward so that the light
from the lamp fell on his face, the irate expression died from the
countenance of the little gentleman; and, with a fat, good-natured
laugh, he shook him warmly by the hand, turning his mustachios downward
so that they resembled drooping commas.  This act altered the expression
of his countenance to an extraordinary degree, half its ferocity having
disappeared with the tight upward twist of the mustache.

By some coincidence or providence this had been a red-letter day in the
lives of several in the party.  The morning mail had brought young
Deering the welcome news that his favorite pair of oxen had taken a
prize at a cattle-show the day before.  The gentle mother had received a
letter by the same mail from her wandering son-in-law, Ralph Almsford,
full of affection and promising a speedy return to the Ranch.  Ferrara
was greatly elated by Barbara's having driven down to the station to
meet him; and Millicent seemed, for the first time since her arrival at
the Ranch, to be thoroughly alive and awake.  Her pale cheek was softly
flushed, the color shining through the luminous skin like the fire of an
opal seen beneath its milky veil.  Her eyes, usually deep and earnest,
but without great animation, were lit by a flame which was not reflected
from the firelight.  Barbara was happy because those about her were so.
Her musical little laugh was not mechanical to-night; she was really in
good spirits and in no need of feigning them.  Graham's rather frozen
existence seemed to be melted by the genial company; and the evening
passed by with that lightning rapidity unknown in social gatherings, no
matter how magnificently they be appointed, where the spirit of
cordiality and good-fellowship is lacking.  Music was not wanting to
complete the jollity.  Ferrara sang some delightful Spanish songs with
more animation than voice; and, to the astonishment of the company,
Millicent, who until that moment had not sung a note, at Graham's
request seated herself at the piano, and sang, with a voice of rare
beauty and power, ballads tender and war-songs gay, old Italian music of
masters long forgotten.

"Sweet Mistress Deering, will you not give us some music?" asked Graham,
as Millicent left the piano.

"After such singing as Millicent's and Mr. Ferrara's, my little thread
of a voice could hardly be heard, Graham."

"Play for us then, my lady.  Miss Barbara, are you not in the mood for a
dance?"

"Of course she is," said Hal, "and so is Ferrara.  Come, Princess, I
will give you your first lesson in the American waltz."

The young men rolled back the huge rugs, leaving the hard-wood floor
exposed.  Mrs. Deering placed herself at the piano and struck up a
little old-fashioned waltz which she had learned in her youth, and
Millicent was whirled off her feet by her energetic partner.  Not till
she had danced twice with Deering and Ferrara, did Graham claim her hand
for a waltz; and not till Mrs. Deering struck the last chords of the
music did he loose her waist from his circling arm. Then a stroll on the
piazza was proposed, and it was not till the last stroke of twelve
warned them that the new day had begun that the party broke up.  Barbara
and Millicent stood together watching for Hal, who had gone to fetch
Graham's horse, when the artist joined them on the piazza and bade them
good-night.  Millicent, with her foreign breeding, never had conformed
to the American habit of hand-shaking, but when Graham wished her
good-night she instinctively and unconsciously gave him her hand.  He
held it possibly a half second longer than was necessary, and then
sprang on his horse.  As he rode down the dark path, he turned in his
saddle and took a last look at the house.  Barbara had gone indoors; one
figure alone stood beneath the rose-vine with bare white arms, the
figure he had seen on his arrival earlier in the evening.

"Good-night to you," he cried.  The deep, musical tones were answered by
a farewell greeting from the girl who stood there alone in the night
watching his retreating form.




                              CHAPTER IV.

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


Though the greater part of his time was spent in the old tower, John
Graham was well known in San Francisco.  His studio, at the top of a
tall apartment-house in one of the unfrequented thoroughfares of the
city, was familiar to most of its aspirants to artistic fame.  In this
large bare room, with its strong north light, there assembled every
morning a dozen young men who were busily engaged in cast drawing and
model painting.  To the instruction of these youths two days of the week
were devoted by the artist, whose only recompense was in the gratitude
of his scholars.  One morning not long after his meeting with Miss
Almsford, John Graham might have been seen carefully examining his
pupils' work, giving a word of advice here, a criticism there, and a
hearty encouragement to all.  On his return from Paris he had opened his
studio to all those who were desirous of studying art.  The first year
he had had but three students; at the end of the second year the number
had quadrupled.  On the morning in question Graham had arrived with a
new model,--a rough-looking fellow whom he had met in the street, and
induced to accompany him to the studio.  On a platform at the end of the
room stood the stalwart model; while the artist, standing beside him,
gave an off-hand lecture on anatomy, the students sketched the man or
took notes of what their master was saying.  It was not Graham's habit
to do any work at the studio; but this morning, after he had finished
his discourse, he placed himself at a vacant easel, and with a strong,
bold hand made a free drawing of the superbly modelled figure. As he
worked he forgot his class, his lecture, everything but the canvas
before him and the subject he was studying.  As the sketch grew beneath
his hand the scholars one by one forsook their work, and stood watching
him silently. The perfect confidence with which he worked--never
hesitating, never altering what was already done--was fascinating to the
younger men; and even the sculptor, Arthur Northcote, who inhabited the
adjoining studio, stopped on his way upstairs and joined the group
behind his chair.  When the model declared himself unable longer to
maintain the pose in which he had been placed, Graham threw down his
brush with a sigh, saying,--

"Well, Horton, you may go now if you must, but do not fail to come
to-morrow.  I have your name correctly,--Daniel Horton?  Where do you
live?"

The stranger declined to give his address, and promised to come the next
day at the appointed hour.  After he had left the room the artist had
something to say about expression, characterizing the face of the model
as one indicative of brutal cunning and impudent daring.

As Graham quitted the studio the young sculptor joined him, and they
walked together toward the station.  Northcote was a slender, delicately
built man some years Graham's junior.  His face was instinct with the
poetry of art, but was lacking in force.  By the side of Graham's
strong, resolute countenance his delicate features appeared weak and
effeminate.  The younger man took his friend's arm, as if relying on him
for physical as well as moral support, and said as they walked along,--

"Graham, where did you pick up that model this morning?"

"I found him lounging about the station. Why do you ask?"

"He has such a bad face.  You should be more careful about the men you
engage to pose for you."

"And why, Arthur?"

"Because you lead such an unprotected life in that terrible old ruin."

"What a fanciful creature you are, Northcote. As if there was anything
to be gained in molesting a beggarly artist in an inaccessible fortress.
You have never seen my tower, or you would not think that it would be an
attractive spot to thieves."

"Did you not hear," continued Northcote, "of that case of abduction in
Cathgate County last week?  A man was carried off by a pair of brigands,
and kept for a week until a large sum of money was paid for his ransom."

"What manner of man was he?"

"The president of the county bank."

"Well, my dear Arthur, when I become a bank president, or even a
railroad treasurer, I will take better care of my worthless self.  At
present I am not a promising prize to the most sanguine kidnapper.  I
can fancy your feelings on receiving a notice that, unless five thousand
dollars be left in the hollow of a blasted pine-tree on the high-road at
San Rosario, a slice of my right ear would be forwarded by way of a
reminder! When are you coming out to pass the night with me?"

"When I have sold my Diana, or when Patrick Shallop gives me an order
for a life-size statue of himself."

"Come with me to-day.  It will do you good to pass an afternoon in the
woods."

"Do not ask me.  I will take nothing more from you, Graham,--I
cannot,--not even a piece of bread, until--"

"Well, if you are so obstinate, farewell to you. I must hurry or I shall
miss my train."

The two men shook hands the sculptor turning into a dingy restaurant,
the artist walking rapidly in the direction of the railroad station.
Arthur Northcote made a light repast,--for he was poorer than usual that
day,--and soon returned to his studio, whose rental was defrayed by his
friend's slender purse.

Graham caught his train, and reached San Rosario at about three o'clock.
He found his horse at the station, and rode toward the house.  At a
distant point he caught a glimpse of two figures on the piazza, which he
recognized as those of Miss Almsford and Hal Deering, who were talking
together, quite unconscious of his approach.

"So you like Graham?"  Henry Deering was the speaker.

"Of course I like him.  I told you I should, from the moment you
described his queer tower and his solitary life to me.  I always like
people who have something to characterize them and set them apart from
the mere dead-level rank and file of mediocrity," answered Millicent.

"But may not a hermit like Graham be mediocre like everybody else?"

"No, the fact of his living alone does not make him interesting; but he
would not live alone if he were like everybody else.  Ordinary people
all herd together."

"You must find all of us very ordinary people, I should think, after the
people you have lived among,--romantic Italians and that sort?"

"But Italians are by no means all interesting. The great charm about
them is that they are usually a happy people, and that it does not take
so much to make them contented as it does you more complex Americans."

"_You_ Americans?  How soon are you going to call yourself an American?
But you do not answer my question.  How can you manage to get on as well
as you do with commonplace people like ourselves?"

"_You_ are not commonplace.  A man who knows how to milk cows and digs
potatoes, who rubs down his own horse and feeds his stock, and can
withal dance like a city beau, and keep a table full of people laughing
from the soup to the coffee, cannot be called commonplace."

"Thank you, Princess, most heartily for the compliment.  I see you will
not be pinned down by my rather personal question.  Let me pay you with
some of your own coin.  I think it quite remarkable that you have so
quickly fitted into the life here, and have accepted so quietly things
which must be very strange to you.  The difference of the way of living,
the surroundings, the very strangeness of being waited on by these
Chinamen, must be very uncomfortable, I fear?"

"Do not suggest a word against Ah Lam; he is the most delightful servant
I have ever seen. Our Italian domestics are like great children, who
have to be humored and managed with the extreme of tact and care.  Ah
Lam is like nothing but one of the automata described by Bulwer in 'The
Coming Race,' which stand motionless against the wall until roused to
action by the vrill wand, when they promptly perform the duty in hand.
Ah Lam is only mechanical as far as regularity goes, for he has feelings
and deep sentiments beneath his calm exterior.  Do you know that he
brings me fresh roses every morning, and that when he returned from San
Francisco yesterday he brought me a present?"

"They all do that; they are the most generous creatures in the world.
What did Lam bring you?"

"The prettiest little China silk handkerchief, which he presented with
these words: 'I solly got no more, I _so_ poor.'  Was it not touching?"

"How do your lessons get on?"

"Very well.  Lam learns ten or twelve new words every day.  I give him
the English word for an article, and he gives me the Chinese; and the
following day we catechise each other; but I have never remembered a
Chinese name, and Lam has never forgotten an English one.  Then I set
him copies, which he writes out beautifully with his queer little
camel's-hair brush dipped in India-ink.  I fear the sentiments will not
greatly benefit him, but I try to explain them to him."

"Give me an example of your copy-book maxims; I am sure they are
something new, quite unlike those I was brought up on."

"I take my verses all from Mr. Lear's 'Nonsense Book;' they will help
him geographically, if not otherwise."

"You have given him the 'Old Man of Moldavia'?"

"Assuredly."

"Truly, Princess, you are the most inexplicable person I have ever seen.
I find you in the morning with a volume of Spinoza in your hand, trying
to explain his particular dogma of philosophy to poor Barbara; and in
the afternoon you are talking about this absurd child's book as if it
were something serious.  You snubbed that poor professor last night,
because he presumed to give an opinion concerning Dante, never having
read him in the original; and to-day I heard you ask my mother if
Washington was in the State of New York.  You are remarkably erudite and
positively ignorant at the same time."

"_Eh bene, cosa volete_?  I--"

"Now what is the use of talking Italian to me?  You know I can't
understand a word of it, and--"

A third voice interrupted Deering.  It was that of a man who had joined
the pair unnoticed by either of them, the sound of his footsteps being
muffled by the deep grass.

"If Miss Almsford knew how pretty her manner of speaking English was,
she would never have resort to the weaker language of her birthplace to
express her thoughts."

"What, Graham, with a gallant speech upon his lips!  Wonder of wonders!
Princess, he has the sharpest tongue and the keenest wit I have ever
known.  Beware of him!  When did you come?"

"Just now; I rode over to see if Miss Almsford was in the mood for a
ride, and to offer my services as cavalier, knowing that your
afternoons, my dear Deering, are too much occupied for you to play
esquire to this fair dame."

"It is the thing of all others I should enjoy," said Millicent; "I will
be ready in ten minutes."

Deering strolled off, rather disconsolately, in the direction of the
dairy, Graham accompanying him as far as the stable, where he proceeded
to put Barbara's saddle on the back of a sturdy cob, which from his
immovable character had been named Sphinx.

The artist had visited the house several times since his first meeting
with Millicent, and had promised to be her guide to the high hill-top,
whence a view of the Sierra Nevadas was to be obtained.  Up the narrow
bridle path toiled the two horses, Graham's leading the way.  The road
was a difficult one, underbrush and rolling stones making it dangerous
for any horse which was not sure-footed.  Old Sphinx set his feet firmly
on the solid ground, avoiding all pit-falls in a wary fashion.  The air
was sweet with the spicy breath of the madrone tree, whose dark red bark
and brilliant glossy leaves gleamed out here and there through the
darker foliage of the great redwoods.  The young man turned his head
over his shoulder, letting his mustang find out the path, and talked to
his companion, who was not yet at home in the saddle.  One of the new
delights which the western country held for Millicent was that of
riding.  Most of her life had been spent in Venice; and she had had
little opportunity for indulging in that most exhilarating exercise.
Graham assured her that she would soon make a good rider, as she quickly
learned to assume the graceful but uncomfortable position compelled by
the side-saddle.  She was without fear, having that sort of bravery
which is found in some children, and which comes from an ignorance of
danger.

From a point in the road whence a view of the happy valley was to be
obtained, Graham reined in his horse.  The wide, pleasant valley lay
below them, the house, its central point of interest, standing
surrounded by the orchard and garden.  A brook wound like a silver
ribbon through the wide fields and wooded groves, under rustic bridges,
here and there breaking into foam over a mass of stone, or a sudden
shelving of the land.

When they again started Graham dismounted, and, passing his arm through
the bridle of his horse, took Sphinx by the rein and led him over the
rough bit of country.  Whether from an exaggerated idea of courtesy, or
because the head covering was irksome, Graham doffed his hat and walked
bareheaded, the little shafts of sunshine touching his dark hair with
points of light.  The tall girl noted the sun and shadow which made this
and all else lovely on this fair afternoon.  As the ascent became
steeper, the trees were less dense and the path grew wider. Graham still
walked beside her horse, though there was no longer need for him to do
so.  As they emerged upon a broad plateau Millicent drew her breath and
touched Graham lightly with her whip, laying her finger on her lip and
pointing to a little hillside spring, which ran dancing from the rich
dark earth.  Close to the spring stood a magnificent buck and a graceful
doe.  The stag had bent his head and was drinking from the basin which
the water had worn for itself, and which was surrounded by a ring of
green turf, jewelled with star blue and pale rose blossoms.  Of this
tender herbage, so different from the dried grass of the hillside and
meadow, the dainty doe was nibbling little morsels.  For a moment
neither of the animals perceived the approach of the riders, and stood
quite still in their unconscious beauty.  Graham's hand instinctively
sought the revolver in his pocket. As he was taking aim Millicent's
velvet fingers closed about the steel barrel, and she cried aloud, "You
could not be so cruel!"

At the sound of her voice the stag threw up his great head with a mighty
shiver, tossing the crystal water drops from his nose.  Before the last
word was spoken the slender, dappled doe had flashed across the path and
was out of sight, her mate with outstretched head following close upon
her track.  For an instant the flowing lines of the swift motion were
seen on the sky background, and then the trembling leaves of the thicket
into which they had penetrated were all that told of their flight.

"You are more tender-hearted than Miss Barbara."

"No, but I could not bear that those two glorious creatures should be
put out of the warm sunlight which they love so well."

"Miss Barbara is an excellent shot; she could have killed the stag from
this point."

"And yet Barbara is really much better-hearted than I, and feels other
people's troubles as if they were her own.  Everything is in habit and
education; she has looked upon deer in the light of venison, as I have
always considered oxen in the light of future beef.  And yet, though
Barbara is so kind and good, I do not find her _simpatica_--how shall I
say?"

"You might say sympathetic or congenial, Miss Almsford, if you could
content yourself with the English language."

"But it is not the same thing,--sympathetic and _simpatica_; indeed it
is an untranslatable word.  I cannot always express my thoughts in
English."

"Would you allow me to suggest that it may not be entirely the fault of
the language, which did not fail to express the thoughts of Chaucer and
Shakspeare, that you find it difficult to make yourself understood?"

"Do I speak it so badly then?  You are not complimentary."

"It is not that you speak it badly, but that your vocabulary is limited,
and that your mind far outruns its limits.  I fancy you have never read
or thought much in a serious vein in the simplest and the strongest of
tongues."

"No, I have read very little English, but I challenge your last
statement.  I do not find English the greatest language.  It is coarse
by the side of French; it is prosaic compared to Italian.  Think of the
fine distinctions, the delicate shades of meaning, of the Gallic tongue.
Your English can only express the extremes."

"And yet to-day it is more a lender than a borrower of words.  You
cannot take up a German or a French newspaper without finding an
Anglicism in every column."

"What does that prove?  Merely that the Anglo-Saxon race is more
restless than all others.  They are the Goths of the nineteenth century,
and invade every corner of Europe, Asia, and Africa, carrying with them
their barbarous language.  I have heard it intermingled with Arabic in
the Syrian desert.  It is small wonder they feel the need of travel;
there is little enough to interest them at home."

"And yet I, who have lived half my life in Europe, elect to pass the
remainder of it in this country of my own free choice.  How do you
account for that?"

"I cannot account for it save as an aberration of the brain.  It is
strange, too, for you Americans are not a patriotic people."

"You think not?"

"It does not strike me so."

"You are mistaken, Miss Almsford; but your mistake is a natural one.
These ideas, believe me, are not worthy of you, and have been derived by
you from some perverted mind.  Your own is too clear to have formed such
opinions.  They have been engrafted or inherited.  How should you really
have any idea but the most chimerical one, of America or Americans?  You
have passed your life among a race of people most unlike them, and you
have been taught to ignore the country and the race to which you belong.
You consider the matter of your birth as a misfortune, and you have
learned to look down on your country, from below.  I have had some
experience of life in the various American colonies in Europe, and I
think it a great misfortune to be one of those expatriated Americans.
They are people without a country.  They feel no responsibility toward
any larger society than their own small household circle.  Unless he is
called by the exigencies of his profession to Europe, the American
European is very apt to deteriorate greatly.  He is in antagonism with
the country which he has abandoned, and his foothold in foreign society
is too much on tolerance to be fortunate in its effects on his
character."

By this time the strong horses had reached the summit of the foot-hill,
and stood breathing heavily.  The riders dropped their conversation,
which was drawing near to a discussion, and Millicent looked with wide
eyes out over the grand scene.  Far off stretched the line of the
Sierras, the mountain barrier which severs the land of gold from the
surrounding country. The sky was faintly flushed with a forewarning of
the sunset, and a soft breeze rustled the tree tops, and blew into their
faces.

"Are you rewarded for the long ascent, maiden from afar?"

"Yes," answered Millicent softly.

As they made the steep descent together Graham talked, in his strong,
sweet voice, of his life in the old tower, of his work, of the pictures
he had painted, and those which he dreamed of making some day.  The
self-dependent and contained young man was much attracted by the girl
with the strange ideas and exquisite manners.  On the night when they
had first met, he had been drawn towards her by an attraction which
seemed irresistible.  It was not her beauty nor her intelligence which
so much affected him, as a nameless charm like the warmth of a bright
fire on a cool day, which seemed to wrap him about with a sense of
comfort.  When he left her this glow was still about him, but as hours
passed it seemed to fade away and leave him strangely cold.  He felt for
the first time how desolate was his life; and he remembered her in his
lonely tower as a traveller in the African desert recalls the green
oasis where his last draught of water has been drained.  Yet sometimes,
when they talked together, came a strange antagonism between them like
an impalpable mist, chilling the warmth which at meeting always kindled
in her eyes and in his own bosom. That the discordance came from himself
he often felt, and yet he was helpless in the face of it.  The
conversation of that afternoon was a type of their interviews, which
were often marred by discussions not far removed from disputes. Whose
fault was it?  Wherein lay the incompatibility? Did it arise from either
of their characters, or from the circumstances and surroundings in which
they met?  He asked himself the question a score of times and left it
always unanswered.  Graham had not been without experience of women.  In
his early youth he had had the misfortune to fall deeply in love with a
frivolous and heartless girl.  His nature was of a complex character,
passionate to an unusual degree, yet guided by an intelligence stronger
than passion.  He had been deceived and outraged in every feeling by the
heartless coquette, whose worst characteristic was her entire incapacity
for affection.  After breaking her faith with him, she had tried to win
him back again, and had sued for the love which she had so lightly won
and refused.  But though he still loved her with the full force of his
being, he had repulsed the woman whom he could no longer respect.  Then
came the long death-agony of deceived love, leaving its unmistakable
traces on heart and brain and body.  It was graven on the white brow; it
was painted in the deep eyes, with their unfathomable look of doubt; it
strengthened the fibres of the strong brain with the greater power which
great suffering brings to intelligence of a high order; and alas!
saddest of all, it chilled the hot heart-blood and left it cooler and
more sluggish in its flow.  Sorrowful was the man for the sorrow in the
world, but pity for the grief of those about him was not so strong in
him as it had been before.  The bitterness which follows the spoiling of
the rose-sweetness of love was happily modified by the broad
humanitarian character of the man.  It failed to make him bitter towards
the world for its treatment of himself.  He accepted manfully the
knockdown blow which fate had dealt him; and if he mourned it was in
secret,--he burdened no other soul with his misery.  But as it was a
woman who had darkened his life and drawn the veil of grief about his
young soul, the whole rage of grief and bitterness which wore his heart
went out toward her sex.  As he had loved all women for her sweet sake,
so now did he distrust them all because she had proved false.  Evil to
him appeared abstractly as a feminine element in the world; and the
great qualities of nobility, abnegation, and heroism in his eyes were
masculine attributes only.  Too chivalrous by nature to think of himself
as in opposition to the gentler sex, his position was in point of fact
antagonistic to them.  He was courteous in their company, but he always
avoided it.  In deed, as in word, he treated them with reverence,
speaking no lightlier of them behind their backs than to their faces.
The bitterness never broke the barriers of his vexed heart in noxious
word or jest, but it lay there always embittering his life.  He had
finally ceased to remember his crushed hopes and spoiled youth; and then
had succeeded a long time wherein he seemed to feel not at all. There
was left him always his pious devotion to his mother, touching in its
pathetic constancy, as to the one creature given him to love.  For the
gentle Mrs. Deering, whose face recalled that of his only living parent,
he felt a real sentiment of friendship.  Barbara, with her sweet,
wholesome nature, he esteemed more highly than other young women; but
since his intimacy with the family he had always emphasized his regard
for the son and mother of the house; and Barbara had felt the difference
in his voice when he addressed her.  It grew colder, and his manner
became formal, if by chance they were thrown together alone.

The charm by which Millicent swayed him, he said to himself, was not
love.  He looked back into the black and stormy past, and compared his
feelings for this girl with those which had once torn his breast.  She
charmed him, but he surely did not love her.  He felt a sense of cold
discomfort on leaving her, but it was very different from the passionate
grief which he once had suffered.  This was what he thought when he
contemplated the subject at all, which was not very often.  For the most
part he let himself drift down the pleasant summer tide.  Skies were
blue and roses sweet.  If Millicent made the sky seem bluer, if the
roses took on a more perfect hue when she wore them in her bosom, it was
because she was like the skies and roses, tender and full of warmth and
color.  Did not the buds blush into flowers for all the world as well as
for him?  Did not the white clouds dip and dance across the sky for
other men's pleasure as well as his own?  Was not the whole small world
of the San Rosario Ranch made more blithe and happily alive by the
advent of Millicent Almsford, the maiden from afar?  Barbara had been
stimulated by the new atmosphere to do more thinking, and had found less
time for fancy-work and more leisure for reading.  Mrs. Deering,
gentlest of women, found a companionship in the stranger which she had
at first thought impossible; and Hal, poor Hal, was vainly fighting
against the witching spell which was fast making him the slave of the
girl, who he had prophesied was too cold to interest him.

Had Graham known the change which his companionship had wrought upon
Millicent, he would have felt that if there was no danger for him in
those swift fleeting hours passed together, there might be for her.  The
boredom which she had experienced at first was now dissipated, and every
phase of the novel life at the Ranch had a charm for her.

The loud summons of the supper-bell struck the ears of the young people
as they drew near the house; and the family stood waiting on the piazza
as they reined in their horses before the door.

"Are you tired, Millicent?" was the anxious question of Mrs. Deering.

"Did you get a clear view of the mountains?" asked Barbara.

"How did Sphinx go?" said Hal.

"I cannot answer you all at once," cried Millicent, breathless from the
rapid gallop which had brought them to the house; "but it was perfectly
delightful.  Sphinx behaved beautifully, and Mr. Graham almost as well.
The view is wonderful, and I think the country of California very fine.
There is a compliment for you all; do not pretend I never say anything
nice about it."

"My dear, we have an invitation to go down to San Real to visit the
Shallops.  Mamma thinks we had better start to-morrow. Mr. Graham, here
is a note for you which came enclosed in my letter.  I fancy it carries
the same invitation to you.  It will be so nice at the seashore.  You
will like it, Millicent, won't you?"

"I like it here," Millicent answered, as she walked slowly up the steps;
"but if you all want to go, I am willing.  Who are the Shallops? Where
is San Real?"

Graham had torn open his letter, which he quickly perused.  Millicent
looked inquiringly at him, and he answered her unspoken query:

"Yes, Mrs. Shallop asks me to join your party for a week at her pleasant
house.  Very kind of her, I am sure; but I never do that sort of thing.
I--"

"Now, Graham," interrupted Mrs. Deering, "say nothing about it till I
have talked it over with you.  I have a particular reason for advising
you to go.  We will telegraph the answer in the morning, and can make up
our minds in the course of the evening."

"I am yours to command in this and all things, Madame," said Graham,
offering his arm to his hostess; "and there stands Ah Lam ready to weep
because the muffins are growing cold; and I am famously hungry after our
ride."

Tea being ended, Mrs. Deering and Graham paced the gravel path around
the house for half an hour.  It was evident to the group on the piazza
that a discussion was going on between them.  They spoke in low, earnest
voices, whose tones did not escape Millicent's sensitive hearing, though
she failed to catch the import of the words.

"For my sake," she finally heard Mrs. Deering say in a pleading voice.

"Dear my lady, is it just to put it on that ground?"

"But if you will hear to it on no other," she argued.

"Think what it is you ask of me.  To leave my tower and my man Friday
for a luxurious household with plethoric master and servants; to
stagnate for a week among those ridiculous people who fill San Real in
the summer; and all this not because it will do me or any one else any
good, but to the end that I may begin the portraits I have already
refused to paint.  You know that I am not suited to that sort of hack
work.  How can I make a picture of that over-fed Shallop or his pinched,
good little wife?"

"But our work cannot all be that which is best suited to us--"

"It should be--"

"Remember, Graham, that in three weeks the payment for the studio is
due--"

"Ah, kindest one! you never forget me; bless you for your sweetness and
thoughtfulness. Yes, I will go and do my best to make Shallop look like
something other than an ex-blacksmith, but it is indeed bitter."

"You will find that there will be compensations," said Mrs. Deering, her
eyes resting on the pretty group on the piazza: Barbara sitting at
Millicent's feet, and Hal reaching up to pluck a spray of honeysuckles
for her hair.




                               CHAPTER V.

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


Mrs. Deering's arguments carried the day, and Graham decided to
accompany the young ladies to San Real.  Ferrara was to be of the party.
It was a bright morning which saw the departure of the three travellers
from the Ranch.  Hal drove them to the station in a very disconsolate
frame of mind.  During Ralph Almsford's long absences, it was impossible
for him to leave the Ranch, in which his interests were all vested; and
it seemed rather hard that Graham should enjoy the pleasure which he had
been obliged to decline.  Henry Deering was a susceptible young man, and
he was already enthralled by the soft voice and deep eyes of the girl on
whom he had bestowed the title of Princess. His friendship for John
Graham was one of the strongest feelings he had ever known.  He admired
him more than any person he knew.  He respected the sterling character
of the man, on whose honor he would have staked his life; and yet it was
hard that Graham should devote himself to the Princess, for he said to
himself there could be no chance for him against such a rival.

The country through which the railroad from San Rosario to San Real
passes is most picturesque.  Round the high hills winds the yellow line
of the track, making horseshoe loops, so that the engine, Millicent
said, sometimes turned round and looked the passengers in the face.
Long, high bridges carry the shining steel threads of travel over deep
canyons, with fierce rocky sides and stony bottoms.  The scenery is very
wild and beautiful, and the moderate pace at which the shaky little
engine tugged along the rickety cars gave the travellers every
opportunity for seeing and admiring the view.

A great mountain, lying among the low foothills, remained in view
through the greater part of the route; it was conical and sharp-pointed,
like the typical mountain of the atlas.  A great fire had lately raged
for days among the spreading trees and thick undergrowth; and now that
the smoke had cleared away, the path which the flame had taken was
distinctly visible from certain points.  A great cross lay stamped on
the mountain-side, for all men to see.  The baptism of fire had left the
symbol which was sanctified eighteen hundred years ago.  Graham
attracted Millicent's attention to this, which, she said, would have
been considered a miracle in Italy.

"Are they not happy, those dear simple-minded Italians?  A large portion
of them do really believe in miracles to this day."  Millicent was the
speaker.

"Yes, far happier than those of us who have lost all belief in anything
beyond our own bodies, and the facts which that body's senses reveal to
us."

"And you believe--"

"Ask me not, maiden, what I believe.  I can only hope.  But this I know,
that there is need to you and to me, to all of us of this generation, to
whom the old fallacious dogmas of dead creeds are meaningless, of faith.
This is not the age of belief.  The things which have been considered
necessary draperies to religion are stripped off; but because truth is
naked, it is none the less truth.  Faith in that part of ourselves which
is not of earth, we must hold fast to, when all else is rent from our
feeble natures."

"You should be a preacher.  I think that you have got the right end of
the truth, perhaps--"

Barbara, who had sat a silent listener to this conversation between the
two young people, now spoke for the first time.

"I know little of the modern scientific theories, which Mr. Graham
thinks have stripped religion of much that used to belong to it; but to
me the denial of a Creator is the most illogical and ignorant act of
which the human mind is capable.  Look at that house we are just
passing. If I should tell you that it never was built, that no architect
or workman ever planned and executed its design, you would say that my
talk was too idle to require contradiction.  And yet you will tell me
that the pleasant earth on which the house stands, the very trees which
furnished its wood, the metals and stone which are wrought into it,
exist, and yet knew no Maker."

"Barbara, do not let us talk any more about it; it is impossible for you
and me to speak understandingly to each other on these subjects. Mr.
Graham stands midway between your conventional faith and my unbelief; he
can understand us both.  Now let us talk about love and roses."

"_Apropos_ of love and roses, here comes Ferrara, laden with both of
those fragile commodities, which he will straightway lay at Miss
Barbara's feet.  If you like, Miss Almsford, we will make the next stage
of our journey on the engine.  I spoke to the engineer, at the last
station, of your desire to see the mechanism of his locomotive. You will
find the man quite clean and intelligent."

Ferrara joined the party at this moment, having come up to meet the
train at this station. He carried a handful of great yellow roses, which
he presented to Barbara with a low bow. The girl looked beseechingly at
Millicent, who laughed rather heartlessly, and, escorted by Graham,
proceeded to the engine.  She was pleasantly received by its presiding
genius, a hatchet-faced, sharp-voiced Yankee, who made a place for her
on his little cushioned seat at one side of the locomotive.  As soon as
she was comfortably ensconced here, Graham sitting at her feet, the
engineer rang the bell and allowed Millicent to pull the lever, which
set the panting creature of iron and wood a-screaming. With a guttural
shriek the engine pulled itself together and started off down the track
at a good speed.  Once in motion, the breeze, blowing through the
windows, cooled the intense heat.  Millicent looked straight down the
narrowing steel rails with that keen sense of pleasure which every novel
experience gave her. Presently she asked the small Yankee to explain the
use of the steam gauge and of the various appliances crowded into the
small space where she sat.  The fireman, a hideous giant, black and
grimy, occasionally opened a door and fed the furious fire with great
lumps of coal.  When it was well filled he varied his occupation by
watering the wooden parts of the engine with a long rubber hose, lest
they should ignite from the great heat.  On a little shelf above her
seat Millicent espied a book, toward which she instinctively stretched
her hand.  Books always acted on Millicent like magnets.  The volume
proved to be a Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, lately published in a cheap
edition.  She asked the sharp-faced engineer if he found the matter
interesting, and was somewhat astonished by his astute remarks on the
work and the personage of whom it treated.  She looked at Graham in some
astonishment, but he seemed in no-wise surprised at the phenomenon of a
working-man in a blue blouse who could intelligently read and understand
the seriously written biography of the great conqueror.  The steam gauge
rose higher and higher, while the engine tore along at a quicker speed
in order to please the delicate visitor, who was now allowed to move the
lever, and to pull the bell when they passed the signals requiring them
to do so.  The engineer was an interesting person, Millicent thought; he
told her many humorous stories of his experiences, and some tragical
ones.  His wife had on one occasion accompanied him on a trip, sitting
on the very place where Millicent now reposed.  An accident had
occurred, a broken rail throwing the cars down a high embankment, while
the weight of the engine had saved them both from the terrible fate of
many of the passengers.  From that day his wife had refused ever to
travel in any part of the train save in the small cabin where her
husband sat. In a collision, Millicent learned, the dread fate of the
engineer could only be avoided by desertion of his post; and the speaker
bore witness to the steadfast bravery of more than one of his mates who
had preferred death to such an act. As he talked he kept his eyes fixed
on the two shining rails stretching before them.  Sometimes, when
interested in his own story, or their remarks, the engineer would look
for a moment into Millicent's face; and she, with a terrified
consciousness that her eyes were the only ones which could see any
obstruction before the train thundering along at a great speed, would
strain her vision to the utmost down the narrowing line of track.  What
an awful responsibility lay upon the shoulders of this cheerful little
man, with his twinkling gimlet blue eyes, and how lightly he seemed to
carry his burden.  She grew quite white and silent at the thought; and
when her hand, guided by the engineer, brought the panting locomotive to
a standstill at the next station, she gladly stepped down upon the
narrow platform, steadied by Graham's arm. They parted from the engineer
with many expressions of pleasure for the ride they had enjoyed, and
joined Barbara and Ferrara in the car.

San Real is one of the pleasantest sea-side towns to be found on the
coast of California. It has become quite lately a fashionable summer
resort, and boasts two large hotels, a colony of boarding-houses, and
half a dozen private residences.  All of these are of modest dimensions,
with the single exception of the pretentious mansion of Mr. Patrick
Shallop, which stands at the distance of a mile from the little village
composed of one long street of shops and saloons.

At the station the party found a handsome carriage awaiting them, drawn
by two prancing gray horses and decorated with sprawling coats-of-arms.
The groom and driver were dressed according to the latest English
fashion, and the tidy cart for the luggage was driven by a liveried
menial.  Millicent noted these details with surprise as she sank back on
the satin cushions of the landau, and Graham laughingly commented upon
her evident astonishment at the smart equipage.

"It appears, O fair Venetian, that you are surprised at this grandeur.
Did not Miss Barbara prepare you for it?"

"No," answered the young woman quietly; she did not like to be laughed
at.  As the carriage rolled along the village street, Millicent gave a
little cry of joy: "I smell the sea!" she cried.

Soon after they emerged from the shadow of the houses and struck the
road which led to the brow of the cliffs.  There, for the first time
since she had left New York, Millicent looked out over the salt waves.
The cool sea breeze twisted the curls which clustered about her forehead
into tighter rings, and fanned a color into her marble cheek.  She
kissed her hand toward the great gray ocean as if gladly greeting the
Pacific. Below the cliffs stretched the white beach, with its rows of
bathing-houses, and booths hung with gay-colored wares.  They had but
time to glance at the view when the carriage turned from the road and
entered a long avenue bordered with good-sized trees.  Marble statues
gleamed through the dark green of the luxuriant gardens, and odorous
flowers made the air heavy with sweetness.  Before the door of an
enormous house the horses were drawn up, and Barbara and Millicent,
followed by Graham and Ferrara, entered the wide hall.  The exterior of
the house was far from attractive.  The material used was exclusively
wood, which in California is almost universally employed in private
dwellings.  The fear of earthquakes always lurks in the mind of the
Californian, and houses of brick or stone are very rare.  The model
adopted by the architect was a novel one, and seemed a combination of
the Ionic, Corinthian, and Queen Anne styles.  Stucco and lath
represented decorations and columns which would have been appropriate in
marble or granite.  The massive style and the flimsy material gave an
incongruous appearance to the great building.  The wide terrace which
surrounded the house, with its bright parterres of flowers, and the
pleasant piazza, with roof and pillars like a Norman cloister, were,
however, wonderfully attractive. Beyond the close-clipped emerald lawn
was seen the ocean, whose white curling waves danced merrily in the
unbroken sunshine.

The guests found Mrs. Shallop awaiting them in a long dim drawing-room.
She was a skimpy pattern of feminality, with a pitiful, pinched face,
great sad-looking eyes, colorless, sandy hair, and a thin, angular body.
Though it was early in the afternoon, the elegance of her dress would
have been suitable to a ball room.  The heavy folds of rich blue brocade
stood out from the poor little figure whose emaciated lines its rich
fabric refused to indicate.  She advanced toward her guests with
something of an effort, as if the burden of dress which was laid upon
her were greater than she could bear.  Her welcome was, however, very
cordial; and her bony little hands, with their weight of jewels, clasped
Barbara's strong fingers affectionately.

"I am real glad you have all come, Miss Deering.  I was awful fidgety
about the train's being late.  Miss Almsford, I am real pleased to see
you.  Mister Graham, happy to see you, sir.  I hope your health is
better, Mister Ferrara?"

Each of the guests acknowledged the kindly greeting, and some general
conversation ensued. Millicent looked about the great drawing-room,
noting the various beautiful articles of furniture, the Venetian
glasses, the pictures and rich embroideries, the thousand-and-one bits
of _bric-a-brac_ which decorated the walls and cabinets of the lofty
apartment.  It was in truth a rarely beautiful room, the prevailing
color a deep, soft crimson, the wood-work all painted white and
delicately carved.  Below the ceiling ran a frieze, the work of John
Graham.  The subject treated was the history of Cupid and Psyche.  The
scenes were divided into panels by twining sprays of rose-vines
charmingly treated.  The first represented the meeting of the two
lovers, their marriage being the next in order.  In the third
compartment the doubting Psyche looks for the first time on the radiant
beauty of the sleeping God.  Next the artist had portrayed the forsaken,
love-lorn bride sitting alone, crushed with grief, repenting the fatal
curiosity which prompted her to peer too closely into the nature of
love,--that greatest of boons, which should be accepted joyously and
with thanksgiving, and to which doubt means death.  The hard services
required by Cytherea from the desolate Psyche were exquisitely rendered;
and the final scene of the reunion of the two lovers was the masterpiece
of the whole work.  Psyche, radiant with new-found love and joy, her
face touched with a more than mortal beauty by the grief she has
endured, stands looking reverently into the face of the strongest of
gods.  Her rainbow wings can lift her now, to soar beside her lover,
even to Olympus.

Millicent admired the beautiful frieze, which the hostess confessed
troubled her sorely because of the scanty raiment which she said seemed
to have been the fashion of the time it represented.

"Mister Graham," she explained, had induced her to keep it in the place
for which it had been designed.  Mrs. Shallop added that the artist had
refused to follow her suggestion of adding clothing to the half nude
bodies; and had, moreover, extracted a promise from her husband that he
would never allow any other painter to be intrusted with thus
supplementing the airy rainbow draperies of the figures.

Miss Almsford was much astonished at the very beautiful interior of the
great Shallop house, and soon learned that its furnishing and decoration
had been intrusted to Graham, who was gifted with that rarest and most
valuable of aesthetic qualities, a perfect and original taste.

"It is the only house Mr. Graham has ever arranged, and he says he will
never do another. He was in Europe while it was being built, and mamma
persuaded the Shallops to give him _carte blanche_ to buy all the
beautiful things he could lay hands upon," Barbara explained.

The guests were shown to their rooms by the hostess, and Millicent gave
an exclamation of delight on entering the apartment allotted to her.  It
was indeed a unique room.  The walls were panelled in ebony to a third
of their height, a bright light pattern in flowers running to the
ceiling, and relieving what might otherwise have been sombre.  The
glossy black wood was carved into a wide, high fireplace, where two
brass andirons, curiously wrought with twisted dragons, supported a fire
whose bright blaze was most welcome to Millicent.  She found the season
very cold compared to the still, hot Italian summers.  Below the mantel
the fire shone out in welcome, but above the ebony shelf, set in the
wall, was a picture which seemed fuller of light and color than the
leaping flames.  A Venetian scene with a terrace whereon sat men and
maidens in the warm glow of the sunset, looking out over a stretch of
many-toned water, in which were mirrored sky and clouds, trees,
draperies, and graceful human figures.  A black gondola, partly shown in
the foreground, might have held the painter while he sketched the
brilliant scene.

"It is my Venice!" cried Millicent, "it is my home!"  Her eyes were full
of tears.  She caught Barbara by the arm and rapidly described to her
the point from which the picture had been painted.

"Mr. Graham will be very much pleased that you recognized the spot."

"Is it _his_ picture?  Yes, I ought to have known it."

"Why, are you clairvoyant?"

"Yes, Barbara, sometimes."

Millicent seemed somewhat disconcerted at what she had said; and,
without noticing anything more in the pretty room, ascended the dainty
little ebon staircase with its fanciful rail, and, pushing back a panel
which slid into the wall, entered her bedroom.  Later, when both of the
girls had exchanged their travelling dresses, Barbara knocked at
Millicent's boudoir.

"_Entrate_," was the response, in obedience to which she opened the
door, and found Millicent lying on the low, crescent-shaped sofa, her
fair head resting on a pile of cushions.  Her graceful figure was clad
in a gown soft amber in color, her only ornaments wonderful strings of
amber beads falling over the white neck, which the fashion of the frock
disclosed, and encircling the smooth bare arms, with their delicate
tracery of blue veins like the lines in purest marble. Her hands were
hidden, clasped behind her head, and the expression of her face was
almost vacant in its look of absorbing reverie.  Beside her on the floor
lay a small parchment book, ivory-clasped,--"The Sonnets of Petrarch."
Her eyes were fixed on the panel over the mantel shelf, but they saw
more than the artist had pictured with brush and color: a waking day
dream of her home as she had last seen it, and ah! how much sweeter an
imagining of how she might next see it,--with what surroundings, with
what companionship!  O blessed dream-castles of women, in which all the
cares and privations of life are forgotten; in which there is never a
weariness or a pain; where lonely watching is succeeded by joyous
reunion; where those who have lived and know too surely that they must
die without that greatest happiness which life can hold, drink the cup
of joy innocently, purely, fearing no bitter after-taste, finding no
foul dregs!

At Barbara's entrance Millicent slowly drew herself back from dreamland
into the actual present.  Her eyes, which had been staring widely with a
blank look, now seemed to change color with returning consciousness.  It
was a long journey, and she gave a deep sigh when it was accomplished,
and she realized that plump, pretty Barbara, with her best frock and
ribbons, stood by her side looking curiously in her face.

"I was reading, and I fancy I had fallen asleep, Bab, what can I do for
you?"

"Mrs. Shallop suggested our all having tea here, if you liked.  They do
not dine till eight to-night.  Mr. Shallop has been detained in San
Francisco."

"Very well, dear, just as you say.  You did not mean to send for the
gentlemen?"

"Oh, yes, this room is always used for a tea room, unless you object, of
course.  If you prefer to 'sport your oak,' you have a perfect right to
do so, and we will go downstairs."

"No, no, let us have it here by all means, if it is the custom."

Barbara rang the bell, which was answered by a ponderous butler with a
condescending manner, white neckcloth, bandy legs, and an apoplectic
countenance.  The individual had been imported by the Shallops along
with the footman and driver, his two younger brothers, who, in common
with all the other members of the household, from Mr. Shallop down to
the boots, stood in awe of him.  To this worthy Barbara somewhat timidly
gave orders that tea should be brought, and the gentlemen warned that it
awaited them.

"Very good, miss," answered the functionary in the driest possible tone,
his features curled into an expression of scorn toward the whole human
race.  His bow was so terrific in its icy grandeur that Barbara shivered
as he left the room.

"I hate that man, and he knows it.  He always spoils my appetite by
glaring at me all through dinner; and I think he takes an evil delight
in handing all the most impossible dishes to me first, which I have to
refuse, because I don't dare to attack them."

The man shortly after returned and laid a low round table in the
bow-window for tea.  Barbara placed herself behind the old-fashioned
silver urn and busied herself with tea-making, while Millicent drew up
the blinds and let the sunset into the room.  Soon Graham came in,
begging for a cup of tea, a sure bait to him, he said, especially when
Miss Deering poured out the delicious beverage.  This last speech he
made with an exaggeratedly deep bow, which grotesqued the compliment and
made the girl's cheek redden.  Shortly after, Ferrara joined the party,
and a pleasant tea-drinking ensued, though the last comer refused to be
tempted by the pretty cups of smoking Souchong.

"Neither will I reproach my luncheon, nor insult the excellent dinner
which I am sure Mrs. Shallop will give us, by the uncivilized fashion of
drinking tea at this hour."

"Miss Almsford thinks we are too civilized here, Ferrara.  She almost
fainted when she learned that I was the possessor of a dress-coat. She
hoped to find us in eternal suits of corduroy and flannel, with
top-boots and bowie knives."

"You have exactly described the costume in which I first saw you, Mr.
Graham; so you surely should not blame me for believing that, in wearing
it, you followed the prevailing fashion of your country."

"That alters the case; but are you not mistaken?  I remember having
taken particular care to don a black coat on that evening--do you
remember?--when I surprised you by the fire."

"But I had seen you before that, though you had never seen me."

"When, fair lady?  May I hope that our first encounter was in your white
dreams?"

The girl shook her head and laughed.

"Was it perhaps in another existence?  Did we dance together, you and I,
in the old happy days when Pan reigned?  Now I think of it, were you not
the wood-nymph who vanished from me into the arms of a great tree?  Did
you not tread one measure with me in the merry wood-dance, and then
leave me desolate with a tryst appointed but never kept?"

"Did you not soon find another partner?"

"I waited long alone."

"And if I could not come sooner?"

"Well, you have come at last to keep the tryst.  Will you finish that
dance which was begun so many eons ago?"

"Ay me! and can we now dance the same measure, you and I?  Would not our
feet tread inharmonious steps?"

"Which of us can say?  Shall we try?"

"If you say my word was given, I know not how to break it."

The room had grown dim, and Barbara and Ferrara in the recess of the
window were speaking together, while Millicent sat gazing dreamily into
the glowing heart of the low-burning fire, conscious that Graham was
looking intently on her face.  She dared not lift her eyes to his, and
veiled them with the downcast lids.  Not what she might read daunted
her, but what might be revealed to the man who sat leaning forward in
the quaintly-carven oak chair.

"It is understood then that you admit my claim to your hand,--for one
dance at least? You acknowledge the promise made so many dim years back?
You have come across wide, tossing seas and over broad, sun-parched
fields to keep the tryst you made with me, a smile upon your face, a
shadow in your eyes?"

For answer the girl bowed her head.

"Nay, I must hear it from your very own lips. Is it for this that you
have come?"

"Yes."  The word came soft as twilight shadows, sweet as Nature's
harmony.  A long pause preceded the low-breathed monosyllable, the word
which fond women love best to speak and which listening lovers thrill,
half cold, half hot, at hearing.  And when it was spoken and heard came
a second silence, even longer than the first; and yet what they had said
was begun in badinage, and was finished without serious thought by
either man or woman.  Dangerous words! dangerous silence! happy time,
how oft remembered in later days!

"Did I hear you asking Miss Almsford for a dance, Graham?  What ball are
you contemplating? I have heard of none unless you mean to invite us all
to your tower for a frolic.  Be sure you do not leave me out; I have
long wished to visit your hermitage."

"If the ladies would so highly honor a lonely dweller in the woods as to
allow him the felicity of being their host, be sure, my dear Ferrara,
that you shall escort them to my humble abode."

"Really, are you in earnest?  I have always wished to see your tower.
When shall we come?"

"That is for you to say, Miss Deering.  Any day which will suit your
convenience will be agreeable to me."

"We will settle it after we return to the Ranch."

Soon after this Mrs. Shallop joined the group, and they all went out and
walked on the wide terrace till dinner was served.  Here Millicent met
Mr. Shallop for the first time.  He was a heavy-featured Irishman, with
light-blue eyes, overhanging brows, and thick, coarse brown hair. His
badly modelled nose had a decided upward tendency, and the broad mouth
disclosed sharp, long teeth, like those of an inferior animal. When he
smiled he showed the whole set, which gave him a rather ferocious
aspect.  His face was clean shaven, save for a fringe of whisker
stretching from the lobe of the ear to the lower jaw.  With a pipe and a
shillelah he would have been an excellent specimen of a patron of
Donnybrook Fair.  On this occasion he wore irreproachable evening dress.
His linen was finer than Graham's, and the cut of his collar and pattern
of his studs were of a later fashion than those worn by Ferrara.  A
valet's care had smoothed the rough hair and cared for the ugly hands.
One of his peculiarities was to address all ladies as "Marm."  His
conversation was not unintelligent, and betrayed a keen, sharp mind,
which clearly understood those things which came in close contact with
it, but whose mental vision was bounded by the physical one. Those
things which he had learned by experience he knew absolutely, and he
never questioned or theorized on subjects which did not directly touch
himself or his own interests. California had been to him a place which
held a gold mine, nothing more or less.  His history, which he made no
effort to conceal, was not an uncommon one.  He had come out in '49,
among the fevered crowd of gold-seekers drawn from every country, from
every station in life, by the loadstone which had been discovered on the
banks, of the American River, by James Marshall.  He had come to San
Francisco in those early days when law and order were not, save when the
conscience of the public, stronger and purer in its united power than in
the individuals which compose it, was awakened, and hastened to punish a
crime by a rude and swift justice. Shallop had built a cabin in which he
lived, and in which he sold, when he was networking in the gulches, any
articles of food which he was able to procure.  When there were no
potatoes or bread, he closed the door of his shanty and started off with
pick and washing-pan for the gulches. When these staple edibles were to
be had, he made a brisk trade in catering to the half-starved miners.
It had been said that though Shallop's bread was heavy, it cost nearly
its weight in gold.  In those days he had wooed and married the widow of
a brother miner, one of the few women whose sad lot brought them to the
land of disorder and bloodshed.  A few weeks only elapsed, before the
widowed woman gladly changed her state for the protection of the strong
arm of Patrick Shallop, to whom she became deeply attached, with a
pathetic love resembling that of a dog for a kind master.  The bread
grew lighter then, and sometimes the potatoes fed pitiful pale youths
who brought no store of gold-dust to pay for them.  Patrick Shallop,
living in the most magnificent dwelling in the whole length and breadth
of California, was sometimes moved to tell of the little cabin where he
had brought home his bride on a wet night, borrowing an umbrella to
place over the bed to keep the rain from wetting her to the skin.  There
had been times when things had gone badly with the inmates of the little
cabin, and days had passed when the mother's ears were torn with the
cries of children hungry for bread.  It was at this time that Barbara's
father had known the Shallops.  Mr. Deering was a delicately bred,
handsome young man, who had come with the eager crowd of men all pushing
ruthlessly forward to the golden goal, sometimes trampling to death the
weaker brothers who fell by the wayside.  Sick of a fever, faint and
dying, he was plundered of his hard-earned store of gold-dust, and would
have been murdered by his robber but for the interposition of Shallop,
who stood by to see fair play, and carried the sick man home to his
shanty, where the tender nursing of the busy wife saved his life a
second time.  Adversity makes strange companionships between men; and
the friendship between the saloon-keeper and the delicately nurtured
youth with the blood of a Puritan ancestry in his veins, was one which
lasted through both their lives.  By some mining exploits which would
hardly bear the light of day, but which were, alas! not more uncommon at
that time than at the present day, the Irishman had made a colossal
fortune which placed him among the richest men in the world.  There
could be little sympathy between the two men whom the chances of that
wild time had thrown together for the moment, but a cordiality was
always felt; and after Mr. Deering's death frequent visits were
exchanged between the dwellers of the San Rosario Ranch and the inmates
of the most celebrated house on the borders of the Pacific Ocean.

The dinner was a long one, served with all the tedious formalities which
the fierce butler chose to inflict.  It was not until the servants had
withdrawn that the host and hostess, who stood in mortal dread of their
chief functionary, their oracle on all matters of etiquette, seemed to
feel themselves at home at their own table. The removal of this
restraint, and the excellent wine, served to make the last quarter of an
hour spent over the dessert the pleasantest part of the repast.
Millicent, sitting at the right hand of her host, at last succeeded in
making him tell some anecdotes of his early Californian experiences, to
which she listened with breathless interest.  Her feelings were
undergoing a radical change; and if the country which she at first
detested had not yet become dear to her, she certainly felt the greatest
interest and curiosity to learn more of it.  In the old dreamy life of
Venice, her days had been spent in golden visions of a vanished
grandeur.  She was now awaking to the stirring reality of the present,
and felt dimly that to be an heir to the glories of the past was but a
part of living,--an inheritance which affects us less than the actual
doing and striving of our own times.

The party sat together in the library, with its comfortable chairs and
rows of undisturbed books sleeping between their gilded covers, until
late in the evening.  The conversation was general, and the quick mind
of the stranger guest learned from it much that roused her attention.
"If I only had four ears instead of two!" she cried at last, after a
vain endeavor to follow at the same time a discussion between Ferrara
and Mr. Shallop on the best method of vine culture, and a conversation
between Graham and Mrs. Shallop on the subject of the public schools.
Soon after this, the ladies left the room; and Millicent, her pulses all
a-tremble with the various new experiences of the day, was slow in
falling asleep.  That night her lips forgot to give their wonted
homesick sigh for Italy, for Venice.




                              CHAPTER VI.

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


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

On their return from their ride, glowing with the splendid exercise,
breakfast was served; sometimes in the pretty morning room, oftener in a
sheltered part of the wide veranda, from whence they might look out upon
the shadowy woods stretching behind the house.  After this meal, Mr.
Shallop and Ferrara took the train for San Francisco; and the hostess
and Graham disappeared into the temporary studio which had been arranged
for the artist.  The two girls were left to amuse themselves.
Millicent, who had brought her usual store of books, did not open one of
them, but moused about in the library, finding many works quite new to
her and full of interest.  If her knowledge of Italian and French
literature was remarkable, her ignorance of the English classics was
stupendous. Shakspeare alone was familiar to her among the great ones.
The long rows of finely bound books were mostly uncut and showed little
evidence of having been read, a copy of a lady's fashion book, and a
volume treating of the manners of polite society, forming notable
exceptions to this rule.  At mid-day a beach-wagon conveyed the young
girls to the shining sea-sands, and they indulged in the luxury of a
bath.  In the afternoon they took long drives, or played lawn tennis
with friends from the hotel in the town.  The evenings were sometimes
spent on the long, cool veranda, oftener on Mr. Shallop's stanch yacht,
the "Golden Hind."  She was a fine vessel several tons heavier than her
illustrious namesake, in which Sir Francis Drake sailed along the coast
of California more than three centuries ago, and took possession of the
land as "New Albion," in the name of good Queen Bess.

Pleasant days, full of incident and enjoyment, filled with new
impressions to Millicent, and freighted with sunlight and merriment to
all the party.  No thought of the weather lent the anxious uncertainty
to plans which so often to us in the East takes half the enjoyment from
anticipation.  From May to November in this favored land the blue of the
sky is unclouded, save by gossamer white drifts of vapor, massed into
soft shapes and mystic outlines.  The sky smiles from spring to laughing
summer, and the land lies steeped in sunshine through the late autumn.

The wide white beach, with its row of bathing-houses and little tents,
was very attractive to Millicent.  She sometimes sat in the warm sand
for hours, chatting with Barbara or making friends with the bare-legged
children, the tireless architects in sand.  Finally, donning their
bathing-suits, they ran, hand in hand, over the dry sands, across the
wet space which the last wave had darkened, through the white fringe of
the sea, into the cool green billows.

The last day of their visit had come, and the morrow would see them on
their way back to San Rosario.  Millicent and Barbara had prolonged
their sea dip beyond their usual wont. Never before had the water seemed
so bracing and delicious.  As there were twenty or thirty bathers to
keep her company, Millicent lingered among the breakers, while Barbara
regained the shore.  She swam leisurely about, displacing the clear
water with her white arms and pretty, small feet.  She suddenly became
aware that a swimmer was gaining on her from behind, and her stroke
instinctively quickened.  Millicent swam as only the women of Venice can
swim; and the race between her and her unseen pursuer bade fair to be
hotly contested.  With head high lifted from the waves which circled
caressingly about the smooth round throat, knotting the tendril curls at
the nape of the neck, the girl kept steadily on her course without
turning her head to see who might be so audacious as to follow her.
Strong as were her strokes, she slowly lost ground; and finally the
water about her rippled with the strokes of the man who was gaining.
Soon he had caught up with her, and side by side they swam for a space.
Then the victor spoke in a voice well known to her, and the girl
answered him with a laugh which rang out fresh and crisp as the sound of
the wavelets.  Then she turned her head and looked full at him as he
moved by her side, strong and graceful as a young merman.

"So, my nymph, you are at home in Father Neptune's arms as well as in
the embrace of the great tree.  Which is your native element, earth,
air, or water?"

"I am amphibious."

"And which of your three elemental homes do you like the best?"

"When I am dancing, the air; when I am walking, dear Mother Earth; and
when I swim, the sea."

"When I paint you, it will be as I see you now, triumphing over the
waves as our great mother, Aphrodite, triumphed over them before you."

"That compliment would go to my head were it not mixed with so much
water."

Then they both laughed, because the sky was sapphire clear, and the sea
beryl green; because the golden sun warmed them with its kind rays;
because each was fair and good to look upon; because, when they were
together, winds blew more softly, and sky and sea took on a more tender
hue where they melted at the horizon into one ineffable kiss.  A pair of
white-winged gulls swept above them, shrieking their love-notes
hoarsely, while the white-armed girl and the strong-limbed man breasted
the waves together, side by side.  Though lapped by the cool water,
Graham felt the warm influence which folded about him like a cloak in
Millicent's presence.  When she grew tired the girl turned upon her side
and floated; while Graham swam about her in little circles, first moving
like a shark on one side, with long, far-reaching strokes, then swimming
upon his back, and finally beneath the waves, looking always at her face
seen dimly through the dark-green water.

After a space Millicent looked about to find herself alone, far from the
shore with its group of bathers.  At first she fancied that her
companion must be swimming below the water as he had done before; but,
as the slow-passing seconds went by, she realized that some ill must
have befallen him.  Stretching her arms above her head, she dived
straight and swift through the clear water towards the pebbled bottom of
the ocean shining through the pellucid waters. In that dim under-current
she touched him, stiff and cold, rising toward the surface, but through
no effort of his own helpless limbs. In that terrified heart-beat of
time she saw his face set and white, with horror-stricken eyes widely
strained apart.  Into them she looked, her own firing with hope and
courage, and giving a mute promise of rescue.  She seized his rigid arm
with her strong, small hands, and they rose together to the surface.
The man was as if paralyzed; and the girl for an instant tried to
support him, but, feeling such a strain would soon out-wear her
half-spent strength, she cried,--

"Put your hand on my shoulder--so, and I will swim below you."  Her
voice was hoarse and shrill as that of the screaming sea-gulls. He could
not speak, but looked toward the shore as if he would have her save
herself and abandon him to his fate.

"No, no!" she cried, "I _will_ save you;" and, placing his hands on her
shoulders, struck out bravely toward the shore.  To reach it seemed at
first an easy thing, but the struggle proved a terrible one, cruelly
unequal, between the girl's small strength, with the burden now added to
her own weight, and the waves grown hungry for human prey.  Their
babbling music now was changed to Millicent's ears, and they clamored
greedily for her life, for that other life which she was striving to
snatch from their cruel embrace.  Again and again the man would loosen
his hold.  She could not save him: why should she die too, she was so
young, so fair! This he tried to tell her in gasping accents, but she
only gripped his hand more firmly and placed it as before.  They should
both live or die.  Fate, which had been so cruel to her, had cast their
lots together for that day at least; and death seemed sweeter by his
side than life without him.  Her brave spirit fainted not, though her
labored strokes grew slower and feebler. Then she gave one great cry for
help to those who were so near them, and yet so unconscious of their
danger.  She heard their voices plainly,--the mothers talking to romping
children, whose ringing laughter mocked her agony.  Was it their death
knell, this sound of sweet child-voices that drowned her frenzied cry,
and filled the ears of the strong men and women, keeping out the
fainting accents which pleaded for his life and her own?  Once again,
and this time with a thrilling vibration of despair, the woman's voice
rang out across the waves.  It was freighted with her last hope; it was
the latest sound her gasping lungs could utter.  Could love and hope of
life outshriek the murmur of the waves, the shrill note of the sea-mews,
the noisy prattle of the infants?  The man, long since despairing,
groaned: it seemed murder to him that his helpless weight should drag
down the fair, brave young creature to her grave; his death agony was
made more bitter by the thought.  The girl's determination never
wavered, and her little strength was not wasted in a longer struggle;
she managed to keep his face above the waves, but now only held her own,
and had ceased to make the slightest progress.  She could now no longer
see the bathers.  Had her cry been heard? O waves! be merciful and still
your clamor! White-winged partners, cry no more your mocking love notes!
Sweet mothers, list no longer to your children's laughter, for there is
other sound which must reach your fond ears and chill your warm hearts
with horror!  For a moment there grew a great silence as of listening,
and then over the water came answering cries of women agonized with
sympathy, came the hearty voices of strong men saying, "Keep up, keep
up! for help is coming, it is close beside you."  Ah, God! it is in
time, for the two white faces, lying so close in the green waters, have
but just vanished from sight; they still shine through the waves but a
little space beneath the surface. Strong helping arms raise the
nerveless bodies from the waves that murmur sullenly, bear them safely
to the shore with its shining white sands, and, last, gently loose the
maiden's white hands, clinging still, though all unconsciously, to the
man whose life she has saved.  Weeping women gather about them, lying
there so still and fair upon the white beach; frightened children look
curiously at the half-drowned figures of the man and the woman.  Still
are they man and woman, and not yet fallen to that terrible neuter of
death, wherein age and sex are not, where serf and queen are equals.




                              CHAPTER VII.

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


Several days passed before these two who, hand in hand, had looked death
in the face, and felt his chill breath freezing up the current of their
lives, again saw one another.  Graham, after twenty-four hours, was able
to be about, looking pale and ill.  The congestive chill which had
overcome him was the result of his having plunged into the sea while
very much over-heated.  The water at San Real, and indeed all along the
Pacific coast, is very much colder than at the Eastern watering places
of a corresponding latitude, where the genial influence of the Gulf
Stream is felt.  His vigorous constitution quickly threw off the effects
of the terrible experience; but three long days and nights wore
themselves out before Millicent's light step sounded on the stairs.
Mrs. Shallop and Barbara were sitting alone at the luncheon table, when
the latter caught the sound of the well-known footfall; she hastily left
the room, and running up the stairs passed her arm about the feeble
girl, supporting her into the room.

"Why did you not tell me that you were coming?  Do you think it prudent,
dear?"

"Yes, I wanted to come, and the doctor said I should do whatever I
fancied," she answered a little fretfully; then she smiled, with that
flashing of the eyes that always won her pardon for any little sin.  It
was a strange coincidence, Barbara thought, that Millicent should have
come downstairs for the first time on the morning when Graham had gone
to San Francisco. It was his first absence since the beginning of their
visit.  Why should she avoid meeting the man whose life she had saved at
the risk of her own?  Graham had every day begged to see her, but
Millicent had not felt equal to the interview.  Barbara was genuinely
puzzled; but then Barbara was often puzzled by Millicent. During the
days just past her gentle care and nursing had brought her much nearer
to Millicent than she had been before.  In those long mornings when
Barbara, in a full, deep voice, read to her from her favorite books,
Millicent had time to think more about her new friend; and the more she
thought about her the better she liked the sweet, sound, womanly nature,
with its domestic instincts, and maternal care of all creatures sick or
sorry.  One morning, as the invalid lay upon her couch, while Barbara's
gentle hands plaited her long hair in thick strands, she said, somewhat
abruptly,--

"Barbara, why have you not married?"

"What an odd question!"

"If you knew what a charming wife you would make, you would think the
question a most natural one.  I suppose you have been in love?"

"I suppose so," jestingly.

"Bah! talk seriously for a moment with me. Why do you not marry Ferrara?
The poor fellow is perfectly pathetic in his devotion to you. You know,
Barbara, that matrimony would suit you delightfully; there is nothing so
becoming to a woman of your type as the background of a home of her own.
There you would shine like Jessica's candle in this naughty world."

"I have never thought about it in the way of a background."

"Of course you never did; but, Barbara, do you think you could fall in
love again?"

"Who knows?"

"Then I know that you have never been in love at all, _ma belle_--oh, I
forgot, and have broken my vow to speak English pure and simple.  Well,
never mind, now we will talk about my broth, for I am very hungry.  I
feel like little Rosalba in the 'Rose and the Ring,' when she went about
crying, 'Dutess Tountess, my royal highness vely hungy.'"

Long confidences had followed this conversation; and Millicent listened
to Barbara's account of a childish romance with that deep interest which
women all feel in the heart experiences of their sisters.  Such sympathy
is born in the feminine breast before the power of loving awakes there,
and dies not when experience has brought nothing to it but grief and
bitterness. The veriest chit of a girl of ten will read a love-story if
she be allowed, while her brothers are inventing ingenious instruments
for the torture of cats and nurses.  The deafest grandam will listen
with keen interest to her favorite grand-daughter's confession of love,
and will be careful not to chill young hopes with her own sad memories.
All those who have loved truly, with that love which outlasts grief,
death, and human passion, which smiles at the cruelest neglect, which,
like the love of the Most High, passeth all understanding, have sympathy
and kindly interest for those who are in love.  That "all the world
loves a lover," is the truest of all sayings.

As soon as they were alone, Millicent told Barbara that she was anxious
to return to the Ranch the following day.  Since her first meeting with
John Graham, her life had danced away through bright hours passed in his
company, in remembering past interviews, in looking forward to future
meetings.  In the long days when she lay weak and helpless, slowly
recovering from the terrible drain on forces, nervous and muscular, she
had thought long and deeply; and now that she was well, she did not wish
to meet Graham, and avoided his presence.  She realized, as she had not
done before, that she deeply and irrevocably loved this man, whose name
six months ago had been unknown to her.  Whether this understanding of
what was in her own heart came upon her in one broad flash of quickened
intelligence, when she lay half swallowed up by the jaws of death, still
clasping him with feeble hands, or if, in the quiet hours of
introspection which followed that awful moment, she gradually learned
the truth, it would be hard to say, but that she now knew it, was
indubitable.  The fact that the man she loved should be indebted to her
for his life was a distasteful one.  Not through gratitude did she wish
to attract him; the very thought of it was galling to her.  She loved
him, and longed, with the deepest power in her soul, to arouse in his
breast that answering passion, which, like a deep bass chord, mingles
with the sweet treble song of woman's love, their harmony making the one
perfect note to which the keystone of the universe trembles
sympathetically.  Sweet as was the thought that her strength had
sufficed for them both, she mourned the chance which had made her hand
the rescuing one.  Love that springs from gratitude or from pity is
earth-born and earth-bound; she would have none of it; it was as if she
had a claim upon him for that gift, which if not freely given is
valueless.  So, with a shyness new to her, she avoided meeting Graham;
and the night of his return she sought her room again and did not appear
until the following morning.  If Graham did not know all, he was ready
enough to understand that she avoided his thanks.

Mrs. Shallop passed the last evening of her guests' visit sitting with
Miss Almsford, answering her many eager questions of the strange, wild
days when law and order were not in the broad golden land.  It seemed
almost incredible to Millicent, and yet she felt it to be true, that the
wife of the mining king regretted the past days of poverty and
simplicity.  The hard-earned crust, shared with a husband whose every
thought was known to her, had tasted sweeter than the luxuries of a
table at which she often sat alone, or with a partner absorbed in
thoughts and enterprises in which she had no part.  Her children had
then been entirely hers; now they were far distant,--the boy at an
English college, the girl in a French conventual school, whence they
would both return grown too clever and proud to care for her
simple-hearted companionship. What mattered it that she had toiled day
and night to buy them food and clothing, had worn out her poor body and
dulled her simple mind with anxious overstrain and grinding labor? Would
they thank her for it now?  When, a year before, she had visited these
adored children, she had felt the distance between them and herself.  If
her son had not been ashamed of his poor mother, it was only because his
heart was not quite weaned from hers.  The girl was gentle and kind; but
the pitying care with which she brought her conversation to the level of
her mother's understanding was all too obvious to the sensitive woman,
whose nervous strength had been shattered in the hard fight which she
had made all those years ago, to keep the breath of life in their little
bodies.  Half her life had been passed at the wash-tub, half in the
drawing-room; the transition had been too sudden for a person of her
temperament.  The soapsuds, which used to flash the splintered rays of
light from her hands, were more appropriate to them than the diamonds
with which they now glittered.  Poor woman, the extremes of fortune were
both known to her.

Though their visit had been a delightful one, Millicent was anxious to
return to the Ranch; she longed for the quiet, refined atmosphere of the
place, with its simple comforts, doubly attractive after this experience
of the luxurious but inappropriate house of Mr. Patrick Shallop.  There
is a certain fitness in things; and the ex-miner, living in the palace
of the railroad king, was less at home than England's monarch could have
been in the cowherd's hovel.  Millicent felt the social _malaise_ which
arises from the incongruity of persons with their surroundings.  Graham,
interested in his portrait, which was coming on famously, was not easily
affected by a personal atmosphere to which he was indifferent; while
Barbara and Ferrara, used to a similar condition of things, accepted it
without question.

The morning of the last day of their visit dawned bright and clear; and
Millicent, standing on the terrace, thought the wide view had never
seemed so beautiful before.  She was taking farewell of that sea which
had so nearly swallowed her young life with all its hopes and fears. The
waves murmured with a gentle sound, as if quite oblivious of their late
rapacity.  She went out into the thick pine woods behind the house, and
stood for the last time among the great redwoods, which to her were so
wonderful, and which everybody else accepted as a matter of course.  A
well-known footstep behind her on the dry leaves caused the slight pink
tinge which the morning breeze had brought to her cheek to fade
suddenly; the blood seemed rushing from every vein back to its source,
and her heart stopped its pulsations for a moment. She did not turn her
head, but stood quite silent, waiting for Graham's first word.  When he
was at her side, she felt her hand suddenly caught in a warm pressure
which sent the blood rushing through the arteries again, tingling
painfully in every fibre of her body, and loosening the cold silence of
the heart, which beat out a quick answer to the words of greeting.  They
were but few and very earnest, the words of a brave man glad to be
beholden to so fair a woman for his life.  Was it gratitude that made
his voice tremble, that lighted his grave eyes with a smile?

She answered him sweetly and seriously, with a steady voice and calm
eyes, though the rose-flush flooded and ebbed from her cheek and brow.
The man did not trouble himself to analyze the feelings which gave rise
to the fleeting blushes; he was too full of his own enthusiasm to notice
how it affected its object.  He spoke as he felt and thought of the
woman standing there so full of life and beauty,--only in the light of
his relation to her.  He knew how he felt towards her, and told her so
with admiring frankness; of her feelings towards himself he never
stopped to think.  His was an egotistic nature, as are those of all
strong men whose personality stamps the age in which they live. Weaker
men and women receive the imprint of their time; only the few strong
ones leave their images impressed when the soft clay of the present is
transmitted into the unmalleable granite of the past.

They walked together for a time, Graham full of anxious inquiry for her
health, and Millicent happy in his anxiety.  When the artist learned of
the proposed departure, he strongly opposed it, urging a longer stay.
When he found that the young ladies had decided to leave San Real, he
announced his intention of accompanying them.  Mrs. Shallop shortly
afterward joined the pair and handed Millicent a newspaper, at which the
girl looked quite indifferently until her eyes caught her own name in
large letters at the head of a column.  She quickly read the article,
which proved to be a highly sensational account of the rescue of Graham.


A FIGHT WITH DEATH!--Heroism of a Young Girl!--John Graham rescued from
Drowning by Beautiful Millicent Almsford!--The Personal Appearance of
the Heroine!--Early History of the Lucky Man!


These headings preceded the two-column article at which Graham laughed
contemptuously, and which drew hot tears from Millicent's eyes.  She had
never before seen her own name in print, and the freedom with which the
Anglo-Saxon press deals with the affairs of ladies who have no claim on
the public interest was unknown to her.  She only felt that her name was
being spoken by people who never had heard of her; that the most sacred
and awful hour of her life was revealed to the world; and that the event
of which she had hardly spoken, and of which she barely dared to think,
was now familiar to thousands of indifferent readers.  The news had in
fact been telegraphed to one of the large New York papers, and in the
course of a week filtered down through the smaller organs of that city
to the suburban press, and was read and forgotten by the careless public
throughout the length and breadth of this enlightened land.  To Mrs.
Shallop and Barbara, accustomed to the vagaries of American journalism,
the state of mind into which Millicent was thrown by the article in the
San Francisco "Roarer," was entirely surprising.  It was without doubt
annoying, but they had both become so accustomed to seeing their own
names and those of their friends in the columns of the daily journals,
that Millicent's horror and indignation seemed disproportionate to the
cause.  This utter disrespect of the privacy of life which is the right
of all men and women leading peaceable lives, breaking no law of the
civil or social statutes, is the crying sin of modern journalism. When
they are charged with this, the journals very tritely retort that
"social news" pays better than any other class of matter; that its
insertion is more often prized and sought after by the individuals
mentioned than resented by them; that much of the personal news is
actually furnished by the individuals whom it most concerns; and that
they but supply the demand of their readers.  It would be well for them
to remember that to pander to the public taste is not the highest object
open to journalism; to elevate that taste were a task more deserving of
commendation, and less unworthy of good printer's ink and paper.

The next mail brought two letters for Millicent; one from a well-known
photographer asking her for an early sitting, and begging that he might
have the sole privilege of photographing her.  The other communication
was a civil letter from the editor of a weekly journal, asking for a
slight autobiographical sketch from the hand of the heroine of San Real.
In the course of the morning a reporter from the California "Bugle," a
rival sheet, arrived and requested an interview with Miss Almsford and
Mr. Graham, from which to compile an article on "The Rescuer and the
Rescued."  Millicent's eyes flashed angrily when the import of the small
printed visiting-card bearing the name of this nineteenth-century
inquisitor was explained to her.  She was heard to murmur, beneath her
breath, some Italian words highly inimical to the smart young person who
was taking the opportunity to examine Mrs. Shallop's drawing-room with
an eye to future "notes."  She was astonished when Graham quietly
lighted a cigarette, and asking that the gentleman might be shown into
the smoking-room, joined him there.

"Why does he not beat him?" she cried. "If I were a man I should thrust
him from the house."

"And be held up to the public as a brutal assassin?" laughed Barbara.
"No, no, my dear, let Mr. Graham alone; he knows best how to manage the
visitor.  It never does to insult those gentlemen; they are dangerous
enemies, and have the public's ear into which to pour all their
grievances.  Our friend will draw the fire on himself, I fancy, in order
to spare you. News the news-fiend must have; he will make it himself if
it be not provided for him.  Poor thing! he must live, after all, as
well as you or I.  It is not his fault that he is obliged to interview
people; it must be a very disagreeable profession."

Thus kindly and with wide sympathy did Barbara Deering judge all men and
women; ay, and reporters too, together with babies, Chinamen, and other
unfortunate works of God. Graham returned in a quarter of an hour,
having appeased his visitor with the aid of a good cigar and a champagne
cocktail, compounded by the careful hand of the solemn-faced butler.

Millicent was still flushed and excited, all Barbara's arguments having
failed to soothe her nerves.  Graham, with one sentence, banished the
angry dint from her white forehead and brought a smile back to her face.
The hour of the last good-bys had arrived; and the guests took leave of
their kind hostess, with promises to repeat their visit before long.
Little Mrs. Shallop really cried at parting with Millicent, to whom she
had become greatly attached.  She sighed as the carriage disappeared
from view, bearing its freight of young people with their vivid lives
and strong interests.  When she went back to her great lonely
drawing-room, with its splendid furnishings, she realized what a fitting
frame it had made for the two pretty young guests, and how unsuitable it
was to her simple tastes.  The house was dreary without their joyous
voices and quick footsteps.

Just after sundown the travellers reached the San Rosario station, where
Hal was awaiting them in the great red-painted wagon.  The two sturdy
mules were supplemented by old Sphinx harnessed before them, making what
is known as a spiked team.

"Hail! the conquering Heroine comes! sound the trumpets, beat the
drums!" cried the irrepressible young rancher.  "How is our most heroic
Princess, and will she deign to enter the triumphal car which her humble
slave has prepared for her?"

They all laughed; but, through all the lively nonsense which he reeled
off to them on the way to the house, Millicent felt that he had been
really moved by what had occurred.  The grip which he gave her hand
spoke a volume of approval; and the loud clap on the shoulder with which
he greeted Graham expressed more than a dozen sentences of rhetorical
eloquence could have done.  The antics of the unicorn team were
extremely diverting; and these, with the absurdities which Hal
perpetrated at every step of the road, brought the quartette to the
house door "in a state of merriment bordering on idiocy," as he
expressed it.  Mrs. Deering, with her sweet motherly greeting, made
their return seem a home-coming to Millicent and Graham, as well as to
Barbara, the tall daughter of the house.  Her hospitality was so
genuinely of the heart that the recipient of it was made to feel that it
was simply his due, and that his presence was as great a favor to the
hostess as her kindness was to him.

Graham was warmly urged to stay over night, but he resisted the
temptation of remaining. Neither Millicent's voice nor Millicent's eyes
had supplemented the invitation.

As they paced the path together, her hand lying on his arm, Graham told
Mrs. Deering, in a low voice, of all that had happened since their
departure,--of the pleasant days with their excursions; of the new
impressions made on Millicent by all that she saw; of the friends whom
he had met, remembering all the kind messages which had been sent to the
gentle _chatelaine_ of San Rosario; of Barbara's sweetness and Mrs.
Shallop's hospitality; of the progress he had made on the portrait of
his hostess; of the thousand-and-one little items of news so welcome to
people leading a life of quiet isolation.  Then in graver tones he spoke
of his great peril and Millicent's bravery, of the strange thoughts
which had crossed his mind in that last moment of consciousness, how her
face as well as his mother's had been revealed to him as in a vision.
All this was listened to with that perfect sympathy that is always ready
to receive confidences, and which forbears to claim them when they are
not spontaneously given.  Blessed among women are these rare ones to
whom motherless sons can confide every hope and disappointment, sure of
a quick sympathy, and in whom the mighty instinct of maternity is not
satisfied in ministering to their own flesh and blood, but springs forth
to succor all who are suffering for the gentle mother love.

It was late when these two said good-night, and Graham went to find the
others to take farewell.  Barbara and Hal were singing duets. They had
neither of them seen Millicent, and fancied that she must have gone to
her room. With a sense of cold disappointment and injury the young man
left the house.  As he passed by the corner of the piazza he fancied he
saw a figure standing close in the shadow of an angle.  He stopped; the
figure remained motionless; through the heavy drapery of the vines he
could not tell whether it was a person or merely a shadow.

"Who is it?" he asked in a low voice.  No answer came, but through the
stillness of the night he thought he heard the sound of a quick-drawn
breath.  Putting the honeysuckle aside he stepped on the piazza, and
found that his eyes had not deceived him.  Millicent stood beneath the
rose vines.  When she saw that she was discovered she spoke with a light
laugh:

"I did not want you to see me, for I have been unsociable this evening,
and hoped you would all think I had gone to bed."

"Is it not damp for you to be sitting out-of-doors?" he asked, with a
voice grown deep and tender.

"Oh, no!  I am quite used to it.  What a wonderful night!  I think I
never saw the stars so brilliant."

The girl seated herself on the edge of the piazza, Graham placing a
cushion under her feet and taking his place at her side.  It was a
perfectly still evening, the only sound being the far-away tinkle of a
sheep bell.  There was a moment of dangerous silence, which Millicent
broke a little nervously, speaking of Italy, of Mrs. Shallop and their
late visit, of Hal's irresistible wit, of any one of the subjects which
danced through her brain.  She was afraid to be silent, and feared yet
longed for what might be said if she left too long a pause.  The spell
which kept Graham at her side when he should have been half way to his
lonely tower, began to assert itself over the woman, always the last to
yield.  The man had long since abandoned himself to that mysterious
state of being in which every nerve of brain and every pulse of heart
yearns for sympathy and reaches out toward its counterpart.  At last she
was silent, the last commonplace dying half spoken on her trembling
lips.  Silence now in all the land; only the sound of heart-beats which
each felt must reach the other's ears.  Stars more tender than those of
heaven shone close to Graham through the blue-black night; a breath
sweeter than the wind stirring the honeysuckle touched his cheek.  At
length that silence, more musical than sweetest harmony, was broken by a
low, deep voice.

"May I kiss you?" said the voice.

What was the faint sound which the night wind wafted to his ear?  Was it
the whirring of the humming birds whose nest hung close by? Was it the
far-off silver ripple of the brooklet, or the cadence of the distant
sheep-bell?  Was it that sweeter sound than note of mating bird, of
falling water, or of faint bell-chime,--was it a loving woman's "Yes"?




                             CHAPTER VIII.

    "Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers serments
    Que deux etres mortels echangerent sur terre
    Ce fut au pied d' un arbre effeuille par les vents,
    Sur un roc en poussiere."


When he awoke the next morning, John Graham gave a deep sigh.  His
dreams had been so sweet that no reality could equal their happiness.
As he sat on the edge of his narrow bed disentangling what was real from
what was dream-born in his thoughts, his eye fell upon the knot of roses
which he had taken from Millicent's hair the night before, and had
clasped to his lips as he fell asleep.  They were faded now, but they
still gave out a strong perfume.  His cheek had been wounded by a thorn,
but he kissed the wilted posies, for all that, placed the little bouquet
tenderly in an exquisite Venetian vase, and then bounded down the
stairway of his tower and across the narrow space which led to a clear
deep pool where a crystal stream fell in a white cataract to a rocky
basin.  The foam-bubbles danced joyously in the clear dark waters, and
the plashing of the fall had a sound of a sweet deep voice which had
grown very dear to him.  A mossy bank, shaded by two drooping trees,
sloped to the edge of this natural bath, refreshing enough to have
tempted Diana from the chase.  As Graham plunged into the cool waters he
shouted out a verse of a song he had learned long ago.  Attracted by the
sound of his voice, French John laid down his axe beside the young tree
he was about to fell, and came down to the pool where Graham was
vigorously tossing about the bright water.  The old wood-cutter looked
at the young man as if the sight did him good.  He responded to the
uproarious greeting which the artist shouted to him, by his usual silent
nod of the head.  Had words been worth their weight in diamond dust, the
old soldier could not have been more chary of wasting them, but the look
in his faded blue eyes was gentle and full of admiration.  He had had a
son of whom he had lost all trace since its infancy.  If the boy had
lived he would have been about Graham's age, and it was the man's fancy
that he would have resembled his patron. He imagined he could trace in
the splendidly modelled arms and legs and the strong, perfectly
proportioned torso of the bather the shape into which the baby contours
he remembered so well must have developed.  Graham had by this time
gained the green turf and stood shaking the water out of his thick hair,
drawing quick panting breaths, meanwhile, and springing about to warm
himself, with the grace and strength of a leopard.  The old Frenchman
gave a deep sigh as he looked at him.

"Yes; Hector certainly must resemble this young man," he murmured, as he
wetted his hard hands, and, grasping the handle of his axe, smote
heavily at the stem of a young pine-tree. Graham rapidly made his toilet
in the open air. The plunge in the clear cold water had rather
stimulated than expended the electric, nervous force which ran through
his veins, quickening the life-blood in its flow.  He felt ten years
younger since yesterday morning.  His thirty years and the gravity they
had brought to him had shrunk to twenty.  As he looked up at his tower
he sang aloud a snatch of an old song which had been often on his lips
in those happy, careless days in the _Rue d' Enfer_,--words which he had
painted over the tiny grate in the cramped apartment under the leads,
where he had suffered from heat all summer, and shivered all winter:

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


He would have liked to dance.  Had his years in truth been but twenty,
he would have yielded to the temptation.  He would gladly have thrown
his arms about the old Frenchman, for lack of another confidant, and
have told him the cause of his happiness.  But, after all, this reflex
of youth could not entirely melt the reserve of manhood from him; he
wore his thirty years lightly indeed, but could not shake them off.

"Give me your axe, John; I know something of your woodman's craft; let
me show you how easily I can fell this young tree."

He took the tool from the woodcutter, and, whirling the sharp edge in
the air, laid it at the root of the tree with a ringing blow.

"It appears in truth that monsieur 'ave 'andled an axe before."

"Surely, John.  I once spent a summer with some friends of mine, who
lived in a forest in Brittany; they were _sabotiers_."

"Monsieur is jesting?"

"Not in the least.  I not only can fell a tree,--clumsily enough, be it
confessed,--but if I had the tools I could shape you a pair of _sabots_,
as good ones as you could buy for ten sous at Quimper; that is your
town, I think?"

He talked in short, jerky sentences between the strokes, while the white
splinters flew about him like a hail-storm.  After a few moments the
knack which he seemed at first to have forgotten came back to him.  The
smell of the bruised bark was aromatic; the death-sigh of the young
branches was musical as they trembled for the last time together,
reaching out to touch their sister trees in solemn leave-taking.  Their
sigh was now drowned in the groan of the swaying tree.

"Take care, monsieur, take care; it is about to fall," cried the
Frenchman.

His warning was a timely one.  Graham, so long unused to the exercise of
the craft, had not noticed how deeply he had cut into the stem. The
straight tree seemed to hesitate, tossing its branches helplessly
heavenward, and then with a creaking sound crashed through the
surrounding underbrush, and with a dull thud measured its slender length
upon the earth.  For a moment its branches shook convulsively, and then
all was quiet.  It seemed as if all nature paused at the fall of so fair
a thing: the birds were silent in the thicket; the babble of the
water-fall grew faint; and the wood creatures stirred not in their
burrows.  A mighty breeze crept through the forest, rustling the
surrounding trees, wailing through the open gap as if in requiem, and a
light cloud floated over the face of the sun, throwing its shadowy pall
on the spot.

"That was well done, monsieur."

And, at the sound of the man's voice, the cloud floated by and the sun
shone out once more, the wood birds took up their song again, the
squirrel in the hollow of the white oak went on cracking her nut, and
the brief mourning was over.

That man must feel himself indeed beloved, who fancies that the world
will pause as long beside his grave as does the forest at the fall of
one of its children.

Not until the branches had been lopped off and the long stem cut into
lengths, did Graham cease his labor.  The exercise did him good, and
gave him an appetite for the breakfast which old John served him in the
open air.  He declared that the coffee was better than could be had at
the _Cafe de Paris_; and assured John that neither Paris nor Vienna
could produce such bread as that which the old man had baked in some
mysterious manner in an oven of his own construction, made of flat stone
sunk in the ground. Graham remembered that he had somewhere in the tower
a bottle of rare old wine, which he sent John to fetch.

"Bring my glass and your tin cup, John."

He needed sympathy, he who had lived for years without asking man or
woman to share his joys or sorrows; he felt a new need in himself for
human companionship; and the silent old fellow who did his bidding was
the only soul to whom he could look for it.  The ice which had encased
his heart was broken; and instead of sternly demanding from his
fellow-men honor, truth, and sincerity, he embraced the whole world in a
warm, unquestioning love and sympathy.  Yesterday he was a man who
labored for his kind; to-day he was content to love them. Yesterday he
was a reformer; to-day he was a philanthropist.  The henchman returning
with the wine, Graham filled the crystal goblet and the humble cup to
the brim, and together these two denizens of the balmy forest drank to
the new day which had dawned on the young man's life. After the long,
black night which for months obscures the face of nature in the far
northern land, the first rising of the sun touches the hearts of men
with a deeper, more profound joy than the dwellers in a temperate zone
can well understand.  So was the light of this new love more glorious a
thousand-fold to the man in whose life there had so long been darkness,
than if it had arisen in a heart unacquainted with grief.  In the first
flush of happiness, his whole nature rebelled against the joyless life
he had been leading; his work lost its attraction for him, and he could
not have painted a stroke that day if his whole future reputation had
depended upon it.  The new impulse had swung him far out of his
accustomed orbit; that there might be a rebound, he never for an instant
fancied.

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

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

Those sweet eyes had not closed since they had last looked into
Graham's; that white form had known no rest since it had slipped from
his arms.  The night, which had brought to him such peaceful dreams, was
fraught with bitter memories to Millicent.  She had paced her room
through the long hours.  No longer a half-yielding, shrinking maiden,
but a woman, full of tears, before whom some great sorrow, long stifled,
had risen up again.  Was her nature then two-fold?  While she was with
other people, Millicent seemed a strong, self-reliant woman, pure and
cold, with quick intellectual sympathies, and strong opinions and
convictions.  When in the society of the man she loved, his influence
unfolded the closed petals of her heart as the sun kisses back the white
leaves of the daisy, and uncovers its great golden centre to the eyes of
all men.  A new warmth shone from her eyes, and softened her silver
voice.  An unwonted shyness made her shrinking and timid under his gaze.
A new life was born within her, so much stronger and more intense than
any that she had ever known, that her past existence paled before it as
the luminous circle of a night-lamp fades before the strong rays of
morning.  But when she was alone....

Whatever her sombre thoughts had been, they were banished before she
next met her lover. When she learned that he had come, she longed to fly
from him out into the dim reaches of the forest, where he had told her
half in jest that they had lived and loved before man's time began; when
nymphs and dryads danced together in the shade of the oak-trees; when
Pan reigned, and the earth was young.  If she could have seen him in her
own sanctum, where the light was softened by the dull green hanging of
the wall, where the air was warm from the ever-flaming fire, and sweet
with the spices burning in a great sea-shell, she would not have greatly
cared; but the stereotyped drawing-room, with its blank white walls, was
no place for their greeting. She went down the stairway and stood a
moment before Graham; then, as he advanced towards her as if about to
speak, she glided swiftly from the room across the hall and out into the
sunlight.

Barbara, standing near by, scattering corn to a flock of tame doves
which fluttered about her, laughed as the light figure flitted by, with
bare head, and delicate silken draperies fit only to rustle over soft
carpets.  Barbara laughed pleasantly, cheerily calling over her shoulder
to her mother, who sat indoors,--

"Look at Millicent racing with her own shadow."

"'T is a substantial shadow, Bab, but otherwise the simile 's good,"
said Hal, as he passed by on his way to the dairy.

And Barbara looked again, and looking sighed. Another figure had sped by
her, down the orchard road towards the wood,--the figure of a man,
pursuing the flying girl, with kindled face and fleet steps.  She threw
her last handful of grain to the circling doves, went into the stiff
drawing-room, mechanically set straight the disordered chairs and drew
down a shade where the light fell too hotly upon a breadth of carpet.
She paused before a mirror and looked at her own pretty face clouded by
a pain she would not explain.  More than one lover had sued for her
hand, earnestly and tenderly, but she had listened to no suit.  No man
had ever pursued her with fleet steps and sparkling eyes, no man had
ever brought that expression of half-shamed happiness to her face which
had made Millicent look just now like a child racing with her own
shadow.

In the forest Graham found her standing breathless beneath an oak-tree,
whose branches had caught her gown and forced her to stay her flight.

"Again under that terrible oak; but I shall not lose you this time.  Say
that you will not vanish in his jealous arms."

"He opens them to me no longer; he offers me no refuge now."

"And I stand waiting for you, and hold out my hand for yours.  Not for a
dance now do I ask it, but for a happy walk which shall end only with
our lives.  Will you put your hand in mine?"

For answer a little warm palm creeps into his broad fingers; and the
oak-tree sighs a blessing on the betrothal of which he is the only
witness.




                              CHAPTER IX.

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


The life of John Graham had been one wherein the sorrowful days far
outnumbered the joyous ones.  His youth had been saddened by the
reverses and griefs which had pursued his parents with a relentless
persistence.  His home life had not been a happy one.  In the large
family of brothers and sisters there had been a meeting and clashing of
strong, positive characters and opposing wills.  An intense family pride
was the one bond which united them.  This sentiment, almost amounting to
a passion, made the members cling closely to one another when there was
little of sympathy to make a sweeter bond. Graham's parents had moved to
California, from the Eastern town where they were both born, while he
was still an infant.  The first sixteen years of his life had been spent
on the Pacific coast.  At this age he was sent eastward to pursue his
studies.  The youth had already determined on devoting himself to art.
The years passed at the famous New England college were very busy ones.
The painful economies by which his beloved mother defrayed his college
expenses were well known to the young man, and he held himself
responsible to that dear and honored parent for every hour of his time.
His active mind eagerly grasped such fruits of knowledge as were offered
by that garden of learning, and his career in the university fully
repaid the sacrifices which it had entailed.  During all this time he
never for an instant relinquished his fixed determination to become a
painter.  In the leisure hours when his companions were amusing
themselves according to their several tastes, Graham was always found at
his easel.  Some wiseacre once suggested to the young man that Greek and
Latin were expensive acquirements, likely to prove useless to a painter.

"And if I were to be a shoemaker, I should make better shoes for having
studied the classics," was his reply to this admonition.

He had not been among the popular men of his class, being very poor in
leisure time, the currency which buys that most expensive commodity,
popularity.  He made few friends and no enemies.  His strong, earnest
nature commanded the respect of his fellows; and his studious example
endeared him to a few of the most serious among them.  At the age of
twenty Graham went to Europe, where he passed the next eight years of
his life in study and hard work.  The sketches which he sent home
brought him money enough to live on in that quarter of Paris where the
young art students congregate.  Poor enough the living had sometimes
been; hunger and cold were well known to the youth by actual experience.
When he lived at the rate of five francs a day he thought himself rich,
and gave suppers in his studio, _au cinquieme, Rue d' Enfer_.  Times
there had been, while he was at work upon his great _Salon_ picture of
St. Paul, when a loaf of bread and five sous' worth of the rough red
wine of the people, had sufficed for his day's provender. Those days of
earnest work among the gay companions, whose lives much resembled his
own, were, perhaps, the happiest time in the life of the young artist.
Success had not been wanting to crown his efforts.  The picture on which
he toiled for weary days and months received "honorable mention" from
the judges of the _Salon_; and to the passing fame which this success
brought him, he owed his introduction to the woman who had so spoiled
the happiness of his youth.  She was his compatriot, the daughter of a
rich Parisian American, who desired to make the acquaintance of the
artist hero of the hour.  The young woman was beautiful, heartless, and
slightly emotional.  While in the society of the handsome, spiritual
painter, she yielded to the charm his strong spirit exercised over her;
and it was not long before their names were linked together by the small
world which knew them both.  But Graham's happiness was short-lived; and
a few months served to show him the cold, shallow nature of the woman
who had aroused his first passion.  After he had been jilted and
disillusioned, he turned his back upon the city where he had learned and
suffered so much, and became a wanderer on the face of Europe.  One year
found him painting the beauties of Southern Spain; the next saw him
sketching the wonderful scenery which lies about Stockholm.

About two years before the opening of our story he had returned to San
Francisco, with a portfolio of sketches, a few hundred dollars, and a
prodigious store of canvases, paints, and brushes.  He was welcomed by
the many friends who had followed his career with interest, and soon
received more orders for portraits than he could well fill.  His taste
led him to prefer another branch of painting; and it was for the purpose
of studying the very beautiful scenery in the neighborhood of San
Rosario that he had established himself in the tower of the old Spanish
Mission.  He was also partly induced to take this step, because he found
that home life, always irksome to him, had become, after his long
emancipation from domestic rules and regulations, wellnigh intolerable.

Graham's character was a peculiar one, full of contradictory traits; it
might be compared to a mass of white quartz, through which ran deep
veins of the purest gold.  In some respects it was a hard nature, with
certain tender qualities; and nowhere was there to be found an ounce of
base metal; a pitiless nature, which knew not how to forgive either its
own faults or those of his fellow-men.  If his judgments of others were
harsh, his self-despair was sometimes fanatical. His ideal of manhood
was as pure and noble as was that of the perfect King Arthur; that he
failed a hundred times a day in living up to it, had not the effect of
lowering that ideal one hair's-breadth.  His highest duty was towards
his own soul and its struggle to reach the perfection he held it to be
capable of attaining.  With the mind of an ascetic, he was endowed with
a warm, sensuous temperament, having a passionate delight in beauty,
light, and color, and capable of living through the senses with the keen
enjoyment of a Sybarite.  A strain of music, a beautiful flower, or a
fair child moved him to a degree of pleasure that to any nature save an
artistic one was incomprehensible.  Filled with pity at the sight of
distress, he would unhesitatingly give his last dollar to a needy
rascal; but if appealed to for sympathy by the same sinner, the
scorching contempt by which he would blast the shameful deeds for which,
to him, there was no palliation, would leave the wrong-doer a sadder if
not a wiser man.  Because he expected so much of men, their
short-comings outraged him.  To a man of this character it was easier,
if not better, to avoid the paths of his fellows; and his life had often
been that of a hermit, even when he dwelt in the busiest cities of the
world. Not willing that one shadow from the burden of his life should
fall upon the paths of those who cared for him, his voice and face were
always cheery when in their company.  He wanted not the sympathy of man
or woman, and endured what griefs were given him to bear in silence and
alone.  That divine mandate, "Bear ye one another's burdens," was
meaningless to him; for he had ever borne his burden unsupported and
unhelped.  The struggle between the two sides of his nature, the ascetic
and the poetic, seemed sometimes like to rend soul and body apart; at
other times both contending forces seemed asleep, and the current of his
life flowed peacefully on.  There were periods when the tender golden
veins seemed to overlap and hide the flinty quartz; then he felt alive,
with thrilling pulses and lips breaking into song; then he painted
rapidly, painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making
brilliant failures.  At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed
to weight his brush and dim his vision, to take the color from the warm
earth and tender sky; then the life-blood pulsed slowly through his
veins, and he forgot to sing.

Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold
and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first
time in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good
or ill, with that of another human creature.  Since his first meeting
with Millicent, on that memorable night when he had found her the
central figure of a picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence
had been thawed and made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded
over him.  Without reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the
pleasurable charm, only amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that
there was a woman who could rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance
through his dreams at night with a wilful persistence.  If he had been
obliged to characterize the influence which the girl held over him, he
would probably have said that she made his life vivid, and reminded him
that his nature was human and not mechanical.  Day by day her presence
became more necessary to him; and his work was slighted, or hastily
performed, in order that he might be free the sooner to reach her side.
Without retrospection or introspection he had lived through the pleasant
days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic behavior had made him feel
doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his life, as well as the new
pleasure in that life.  When the happy visit had come to an end, and he
had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had seemed as if
he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent embrace
had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed the
tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.

Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to
have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers
through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly.
Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other,
except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them
like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance.
The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony,
at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both
sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the
artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed
transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and
full of love towards all her kind.  But her cheek grew less round than
it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins,
and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength.  She was happy with a
joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of
weeping traced dark circles about her eyes.  What struggle could it be
that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white
lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room?  One
word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drew near the
house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and
cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was
gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.

To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was
incomprehensible.  The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had
been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of
the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious,
irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious
with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping.  Mrs.
Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know
how to assume at will, saw nothing.

The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last days
of August were come.  It was at this time that a long-planned excursion
took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day
with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles
from the house.  Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had
heard of Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination
of circumstances had prevented her from meeting.  It was to his camp
that they were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback,
as they drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove
of redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway.  Millicent was driving in
the light phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following
in the large wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers.
Crouching on the floor of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with
his spotless linen and shining coppery countenance.  He could not sit
beside the "Greaser," or Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him.
His round, placid face, with its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was
not an unpleasing one.  His hands and arms were finely modelled, and his
sturdy figure was of a much more solid type than is usual with his race.
From his position it was possible for him to hold a parasol over Mrs.
Deering, which he did without varying the angle of the rather heavy
umbrella one degree during the whole long journey.  He had been taught
that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that obedience and respect to
the ladies of the family are even more necessary than submission to the
master.  On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and placidly ignored
all orders given him by the female members of the household as unworthy
of notice.  When he finally had learned the lesson that "Melican woman
boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.

The drive was a beautiful one.  The road led through deep valleys, still
wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a
mountain which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the
level of a swift stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who
was familiar with the first five miles of the route, always stopped for
a few moments.  Sphinx had grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to
a standstill just at the brink of the bridge which spanned the rushing
forest river, grown boisterous at this place.  All about the spot stood
the great hills, some green with the never-fading redwoods and madrone
trees, others, stripped by the woodman's craft, naked and unsightly.
Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road, with its group of humble
cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange, wolfish-looking
children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was of their
kin.  The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden piers,
joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which hung
over the stream and skirted the mountain's base.  The gray ruin of what
had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels
and empty grain-bins.  There was a small islet in the stream, between
which and the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect
distinctness the trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of
the overhanging bank.  Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying
the familiar beauty of the scene.

"You will paint this place one day for me, will you not?  I care very
much for it."  Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her
side laughed and answered,--

"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird
on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter
shall see a picture.  Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be
portrayed in art."

For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that
scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal
brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong
mules following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on
his fleet mustang.  It was not far from high noon when the party arrived
at the place of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low
underbrush at the foot of a hill.  In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a
young man emerged from the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in
greeting, hurried to help Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon.

"How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice.  "The
fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much
faith in your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you.  Miss Deering, you were
too quick for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace.  Well,
Graham, glad to see you; for once you are better than your word."

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

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