Overland Tales

by Josephine Clifford

  _THE GENTLEMAN FROM SISKIYOU._

  In Gilroy, when the sun lies hot and yellow on the roofs of theframe-built houses and the wide meadows, waving with grain or croppedshort by herds of grazing cattle, the eye turns instinctively to themountains, where the dreamy mid-day atmosphere seems to gather coolnessfrom the dark woods that crown its summit.

  "Over that way lie the Hot Springs," says one or the other, pointing outthe direction to the stranger who comes for the first time to SantaClara Valley.

  If he wait till the early train of the Southern Pacific Railroad comesin from San Francisco, he will see any number of passengers alighting atthe depot, whose dress and belongings speak of a residence in a placesomewhat larger and wealthier than the pretty little town of Gilroy.After a comfortable dinner at either of the two hotels, carriages,stages, and buggies are in readiness to convey those in search of eitherhealth or pleasure on to the Springs.

  It is too early in the season yet to feel much inconvenience from thedust; and the drive through the precincts of what is called Old Gilroyis a charming trip. The modest but cheerful houses are just within sightof each other, separated by orchards, grainfields, vineyards; a grove ofwhite oaks here and there, a single live oak, and clumps of willow andsycamore, make the landscape as pleasing as any in the country. Nearerthe first rise of the mountain, the view of grainfields, fenced in bythe same dry board fence, would become monotonous were it not for theever-fresh, ever-beautiful white oak that stands, sentinel-like,scattered through the golden fields, its lower branches sometimes hiddenin the full-bearing garbs.

  First we hardly notice that the road ascends; but soon, as thefoot-hills leave an open space, we can see a vast plain lying beneathus, and then the climb begins in good earnest. "Round and round" thehill it seems to go--a narrow road cut out of the long-resistingrock--the wounds which the pick and shovel have made overgrown bytender, pitying vines, that seek to hide the scars on the face of theirfostering mother. Trees high above us shake their leafy heads, and thewild doves who have their nests in the green undergrowth, croon sadlyover the invasion of their quiet mountain home. Vain complainings oftree and bird! When the eyes of man have once lighted on nature in herwild, fresh beauty, they are never withdrawn, and they spare not thebird on her nest, nor the tree in its pride.

  Here opens a mountain valley before us, and, nestled in the shadow ofsycamore and alder, a cosy, home-like cot. The peach and grape-vinecluster by the door; and where a rude tumble-down fence encloses thefields, the Rose of Castile, the native child of California, creepspicturesquely over the crumbling rails, and fills the air with its ownmatchless fragrance. Bees are drawing honey from geranium andgilli-pink, and the humming-bird, darting through space like a flash onemoment, hangs the next, with a quivering, rapturous kiss, in the petalsof the sweet-breathed honeysuckle.

  Then the road winds higher, and the hills and rocks above grow steeper,bearing aloft the laurel tree and manzanite bush, the madrone tree andthe poison ivy. There is not an inch of ground between the wheels of thestage and the steep declivity; and once in a while a nervous passengerof the male gender turns away with a shudder, while the female hides hereyes in her veil or handkerchief, never heeding the sight of the bare,bald crags, and the pine-covered heights far above and in the dreamydistance.

  As we enter the heart of the _canyon_, the rocky, vine-clad walls oneither side seem to reassure the nervous passenger and the half-faintinglady; and the grade being very easy for quite a while, there is no morelamentation heard till the horses dash full-speed through a laughing,glittering mountain stream, the head-waters of the Cayote, throwing itsspray merrily in at the open window. Again and again the brook iscrossed, as it makes its quick, flashing way through blackberry clumpsand wild grape-vines, glancing up at sycamore and buckeye tree as ithastens along. Suddenly the driver strikes one of the shining whiterocks on which the water breaks into foam, and then a general commotionensues in the stage, and before the passengers have settled back intheir original places, a soft, sad music seems to float toward us on theair--the rustling of the gray-green pines that overhang the last rise inthe road, and shade so romantically the white cottages clinging to themountain-side, and built on the plateau that is crowned by the hotel andgardens of the Gilroy Hot Springs.

  The stage halts, and after shaking hands with the dozen friends one issure to find, and partaking of the dinner, which is consumed withravenous appetite after the drive of two or three hours, it is stillearly enough for a walk to the Springs before the balmy moonlit nightsets in. The terrace-like walk, partly cut out, partly filled in on thesteep mountain-side, is overhung by hills rising again on hills; tinycottages peering out here, there, and everywhere, from out manzanite,laurel and pine trees. Beneath, the mountain falls off into a deep,narrow valley, clothed in luxuriant green, a towering mountain rising onthe other side.

  There are thousands of silver trout in the streams in the valley; thereis an abundance of game in the wild, rugged, but beautiful mountainsback of and above the Springs. As in some cases, however, a horrid,vicious-looking lamprey-eel has been found on the rod, instead of aspeckled-back trout, so in other cases have brave hunters returned fromthe chase with blanched faces and reports of startling sights of hugebears and California lions, instead of the tamer game they had expectedto bag.

  "But it is delightful here for all that!" is the almost involuntaryexclamation of those who, on some bright June morning make their wayslowly, slowly--drinking their fill of nature, sunshine, and mountainair--to the bubbling, hissing, seething Springs.

  We hear this same remark just now from the midst of the group of ladieswho are making their way around the gentle curves of the terrace-walk tothe Springs; and as the words come from the lips of one who is to figureas the heroine of our short but veracious story, we must take a closerlook at her, as she sweeps by, moving along with the rest, yet always alittle apart from them. She is carelessly swinging her hat by thestrings, and the sun, now and again, as they round some curve in theroad, kisses the auburn of her curls into ripples of golden bronze. The_nonchalance_ expressed in air and carriage was affected, it was said,and that she always knew what was going on around her, without everasking any questions.

  "That gentleman has been devouring you with his eyes this last halfhour. I noticed him up at the house as we were getting ready tostart--and now he is here before us;" and fat, motherly Mrs. Bradshawlaughed as only such large-framed, large-hearted people can laugh.

  "I hope he finds me more palatable than the beefsteak we had thismorning--it was horribly tough."

  "Are you speaking of the gentleman from Siskiyou?" asked the tall ladywith glasses, who was Miss Kingsley, and popularly supposed to begetting up a book on "The Resources of California."

  "No, of the beefsteak," quickly replied she of the auburn curls. Mrs.Bradshaw nudged her very perceptibly, to which admonition she madeanswer, _sotto voce_, "I hate old maids and blue-stockings."

  Miss Kingsley had drawn herself up to her stateliest height: "I hadmeant to inquire whether Mrs. Bradshaw was alluding to the gentlemanfrom Siskiyou?"

  "Yes, dear; didn't you see how he kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Clayton,before he turned away when he saw us laughing?"

  "I did not observe. My opinion, however, if I may venture to express it,is that Mrs. Clayton, with all her talent for subjugating mankind, willhardly succeed in bringing that gentleman to her feet. This piece ofrock, I think, could be inspired with the tender passion just as soon."

  "Oh! did he refuse that valuable information in regard to the resourcesof California?" asked Mrs. Clayton, with mingled indignation andconcern.

  Mrs. Bradshaw was bubbling over with laughter, while the rest of theladies shared her mirth more or less openly, according to the degree offriendship entertained for Miss Kingsley.

  When the party rounded the last bend near the spring, a tall, spare man,conspicuous in a generous expanse of white shirt-bosom, and low,stiff-brimmed hat, hastily laid down the drinking-cup, and moved out ofsi
ght, making the circuit of the bath-houses in his anxiety to avoid theadvancing column of fair ones. Uncle George was on hand, as usual,smilingly filling glasses and dippers with the boiling waters, tryingbetween whiles to answer the numerous questions propounded, mostly inregard to the retreating form disappearing among the manzanite on thehillside.

  "It's the gentleman from Siskiyou." The words were addressed to Mrs.Clayton, who was blowing little puffs of wind into the glass in herhand, and seemed to have no interest in common with the eager, laughingcrowd about. "He and his pardner are both here; they own placer-mines onYreka Flats, and came here because the gentleman's liver is affected.They're a funny couple--never speak to no ladies, and ain't sociablelike, only among themselves. His pardner--there he is now, going upafter him," pointing to a low-built, square-shouldered man, with black,bushy eyebrows--"waits on him like a woman, and no two brothers couldn'tbe more affectionate. His pardner told me his own self that when theyfirst came together, eighteen years ago, he got into a row atPlacerville--used to be Hangtown, then--and they were firing into himthick and fast after he was down, when Mr. Brodie stepped in, picked himup and carried him to their cabin, and nussed him till he was wellagain. You see he limps a little yet; but then Mr. Brodie was the onlydoctor he had, and he says it's a wonder to him he has any legs left atall, he was so riddled with shot."

  Sufficient water having been drank, the ladies wended their way back,scattering as they approached the hotel building--generally spoken of as"the house"--which contained parlor, dining and assembly rooms. Somesought their cottages, others climbed the hill-sides, while still othersvisited the little stream rushing along through the green depths thatthe stage-road overhung. Some had escorts, others went alone, or formedgroups of three or four; and all gave themselves up to the enjoyment ofthat perfect freedom which makes the stay at these Californiawatering-places a recreation and a holiday.

  As the heat of the sun became more oppressive, the stragglers returned;and the closed window-blinds of the cottages spoke of an unusually warmday for the season. This, however, did not forbid the ushering in of thenext day with an extra heavy fog, which dripped from the eaves likerain, and made more penetrating the wind that came in surly gusts andrudely swept back the end of the shawl thrown Spanish-fashion over Mrs.Clayton's shoulder. Her right hand grasped a bottle filled with waterfrom the Springs; and the left, hidden until now under the shawl, wasbound up in a white cloth. The wind had carried her hat away, too; andafter looking helplessly around, she deposited the bottle on the benchnearest her, and gave chase to the runaway. But the hat was suddenlyheld up before her, and the bottle taken from the bench. It was thegentleman from Siskiyou, who stammered something she did not understand,and to which she replied sweetly and plaintively, "Thank you, ever somuch. I am so helpless with that hand. I sprained it some weeks ago,falling from a carriage, and did not know how bad it was till thedoctors sent me here. I must have hurt it again yesterday; and now I'vegot to go about like a cripple." The voice was like a child's; and ahalf sob seemed to rise in her throat as she spoke the last words, and atell-tale moisture shone in her eyes.

  He had awkwardly set the bottle back on the bench; and when she preparedto move on, he bent over to seize the bottle and carry it for her. Inhis nervousness he did not heed that she, too, was stooping forward; andonly when their heads came in contact did he realize how near he hadstood to her. A deep scarlet overspread his sallow face, while Mrs.Clayton said, "Oh, will you carry the bottle for me? Thanks. I wanted tobathe my hand, and was afraid to go more than once through the fog andwind."

  They reached the cottage, where he deposited the bottle on thedoor-steps, and withdrew with a somewhat awkward, but perfectlychivalrous bow.

  After breakfast, when the ground was still too wet to walk out, Jenny,sitting in the low rocking-chair by the open door, was startled byfootsteps crunching under the window; and a moment later Mr. Brodieplaced a bottle at her feet.

  "I thought it might be better for your wrist to have the water hot tobathe it in; that's just from the spring, and I walked fast." In spiteof the unvarnished speech, there was something about the man that madeit plain to her why people involuntarily spoke of him as "thegentleman," when his partner was always spoken of merely as his partner.

  It was only common politeness that she should allow him to sit on thedoor-step, while she immersed the soft, white hand; and the bottle ofhot spring water was repeated, till she declared the ground dry enoughto walk down to the spring with him. Any number of necks were stretchedfrom parlor-doors and windows, when the shy, bashful gentleman fromSiskiyou was seen escorting Mrs. Clayton; but falling in with a train ofladies at the Springs, they all walked back together. Mr. Brodie,unnoticed apparently by Jenny, and uncomfortable among so many of the"contrary sex," quietly slipped away under the shadow of a clump ofyoung trees, where he was joined directly by his partner, who hadwatched him uneasily all the morning.

  It was a warm, cloudless day, a few weeks later, and Mrs. Clayton hadnot joined the picnic party--because, Ben. Brodie said to himself, witha flutter of his unsophisticated heart, _he_ had felt too unwell in themorning to go. Going down to the Springs alone, Jenny met his partner,and asked pleasantly whether Mr. Brodie had yet recovered from hisattack of last night.

  "Thank you, Miss, he's better; but it's my opinion as how he'd get wellmuch quicker if he left these Springs and went down to 'Frisco for aspell."

  "But, Mr. Perkins, his liver is affected; and these waters are said tobe very beneficial."

  "Yes, Miss, it _was_ his liver; but I think as how it's in the chistnow; and"--doggedly aside--"mebbee the heart, too; and he'll never behimself again while he's up here."

  "Oh, you must not see things so black. See, there comes Mr. Brodie now."

  "Yes--" something like an oath was smothered between the bearded lips,and the shaggy eyebrows were lowered portentously--"so I see. Ben,didn't I tell yer to stay in the house, and I'd fetch yer the water?"

  Whenever Si Perkins addressed Jenny as "Miss"--which was almostinvariably his custom--it made her think of a short conversation betweenMr. Brodie and herself, soon after their first acquaintance. He hadasked her, with an assumed indifference, but a nervous tremor in hisvoice, "And you are a widow, Mrs. Clayton?" upon which she had turnedsharply and said, snappishly, "Would I be away up here all alone if Ihad a husband?" It flashed through her mind again, as she saw thepartner's darkened brow and working lips when Mr. Brodie answered, "It'sall right, Si; I wanted to come;" and he laughed a short, confused laughthat stood for any number of unexpressed sentiments--particularly whenJenny was by.

  "Shall we walk up toward the garden?" he asked of Jenny.

  "I think there is shade all the way up," she replied, throwing an uneasylook on Si Perkins's scowling face. "You may light your cigar, if youfeel well enough to smoke." Mr. Brodie turned to his partner to ask fora match, and the next moment left him standing alone in the sun, asthough he had no more existence for him.

  They halted many times on their way to the garden. It was in an oppositedirection from the Springs; but here as there the road had been partlycut out on the mountain-side--partly filled in--so that it formed aterrace overhanging the dense forest-growth in the ravine below, whileon the banks and mountain-tops above grew pines and madrones, themanzanite shrub and treacherous gloss of the poison-oak making the wholelook like a carefully planted park. The "garden" was a little mountainvalley, taking its name from an enclosed patch, where nothing was grown,but where the neglected fields were kept fresh and green by the littlerivulet flowing from the cold spring at the foot of an immense sycamore.Farther on were groups of young oaks, and under these were benches; butJenny preferred sitting in the shade of the pines on the clean, sweetgrass. The birds, never molested here, hovered fearlessly about them,singing and chirping, the blue and yellow butterflies keeping time tothe music.

  For quite a while Mr. Brodie had been watching Jenny's lithe figuredarting hither and thither, trying to take the butterflies prisoner
sunder her hat; her eyes sparkled, and she shouted merrily whenever shehad secured a prize, which, after a moment's triumph, she always setfree again.

  "Come and sit down," called Mr. Brodie to her, "or you will hurt yourhand again, and all my three weeks' doctoring will be thrown away."

  "It hurts me now," said Jenny, ruefully, "for I struck it against thattree."

  She held up the offending hand, and he inspected it narrowly, looking upsuddenly into her eyes, as though to read in them an answer to somethinghe had just thought. But it was hard to read anything there, thoughJenny had the sweetest eyes in the world--laughing and sad by turns, andof warm liquid light. What their color was, it was hard to determine.They had been called black, hazel, gray; never blue. Her smile was asunfathomable as her eyes; and you could read nothing of her life, herhistory, her character, from either brow or lip. Her hand alone--it wasthe right one--as it rested on the sward beside her, might have told toone better versed in such reading than Ben Brodie, how, like TheodoreStorm's "Elizabeth," it had, "through many a sleepless night, beenresting on a sore, sick heart."

  He raised the hand tenderly, not understanding its secret, and asked,stroking it as we do a child's, "What was my partner saying to you as Icame up a while ago?"

  "He wants you to go to San Francisco, away from here. Would you go andleave me here alone, when you know how lonesome I should be withoutyou?"

  She heard his low, nervous laugh, as he moved uneasily, and held thehand tighter; but when she looked up into his face, expecting an answer,it came in his usual abrupt, or, as Jenny said, "jerky" style.

  "No, of course I wouldn't go. I'll stay as long as you want me to.I--I--like you--pretty well."

  Jenny's paling cheek blazed up crimson, and she looked fairly aghast asshe repeated mechanically, "'Like you pretty well.' Thank you. _Like_me, indeed!" She had drawn away her hand, like a pettish child, and shemuttered, a wicked smile breaking over her face, "I don't believe theman _could_ love any one if he tried. But I'll find out;" and she turnedagain to where he sat, disconsolate at the loss of her hand.

  Her quicker ear caught the crackling of dry twigs before he could speakagain, and a shrill scream burst from her lips. He was on his feet in aninstant, and flung his arms about the trembling form before his eyecould follow the direction of hers.

  "The bear!" she stammered; "the grizzly--there, there!" and the story ofthe huge grizzly having been seen in the mountains those last weeksflashed through his mind.

  "Be still!" he said, as she glided from his arms to the ground; "hecannot hurt you till he has killed me." He stooped to pick up a fallenbranch, and as he did so his eyes came on a level with a large blackcalf, rolling over and over in the tall grass. He flung the stick fromhim with a disgusted "Pshaw!" and Jenny dropped her hands from her eyeswhen his laugh fell on her ear. She joined in the laugh, though herssounded a little hysterical; and then insisted on returning immediately,and his promise to keep the tragi-comic _intermezzo_ a profound secret.

  Days passed before Jenny would venture out again; and poor Mr. Brodiewandered about like one lost, dreading to visit the cottage, because ofa sudden indescribable reserve of the fair tenant, yet held as byinvisible hands in the nearest neighborhood of the place. One day,sitting with blinds closed and a headache, ready for an excuse to allwho should come to tempt her out, Jenny missed the tall form passingshyly by the door half a dozen times per diem. The next morning she metSi Perkins--by the merest accident, of course, on her part--coming fromthe spring with a bottle of water.

  "Is Mr. Brodie sick?" she asked, quickly.

  "Yes, Miss; he was took bad night before last; but he's better," headded, anxious to prevent--he hardly knew what.

  "Very well; you may tell Mr. Brodie that I am coming to see him and readto him this afternoon." She spoke determinedly, almost savagely, asthough she anticipated finding Si Perkins at the door with drawn sword,ready to dispute the entrance.

  She was shocked to find Mr. Brodie so pale and thin as he lay on the bedthat afternoon; and Si Perkins, in a tone that seemed to accuse her ofbeing the cause, said, "I told you it was his chist, Miss; he's gettingpowerful weak up here in the mountains, and yit he won't go down."

  She was an angel while he was too sick to leave his room, sitting by himfor hours, reading to him in her soft child's voice, and speaking tohim so gently and tenderly that he felt a better, and oh! so muchhappier a man when he first walked out beside her again.

  Then there came a day when Ben Brodie stopped at the cottage of his kindnurse, and with the air of a culprit asked Jenny to come with him, "awayup into the mountains." The light that flashed in her eyes a moment wasquenched by something that looked strangely like a tear, as she turnedto reach for her hat. It was early afternoon, and most people were stillin their cottages, with blinds, and perhaps eyes too, closed. The twowalked slowly, or climbed rather, resting often and looking back towhere they could see the white cottages blinking through the trees. Thewind blew only enough to rustle the pine branches, without stirring thesobs and wails that lay dormant in those trees. Jays and woodpeckerswent with them, and many a shining flower was broken by the way. At lastJenny stopped and looked around.

  "Don't let us go farther--who knows but what we may encounter anotherbear?" she said roguishly; and he prepared a soft seat for her under thepines, by pulling handfuls of grass and heaping it up in one place.

  She smiled to herself as she watched him; his awkwardness had left him,and for the comfort of one whom he only "liked pretty well," he wastaking a great deal of pains, she thought. When she was seated, and hadmade him share the grass seat, the restraint suddenly returned, and hefell to stroking her hand again, and stammered something about her wristbeing better.

  "Yes," she affirmed, "and I mean to return to the city in a day or two."

  He blushed like a girl. "May I go with you?" he asked; and then jumpedat once into the midst of a "declaration"--which had evidently beengotten by heart--winding up by asking again, "and now may I go with youto San Francisco, Jenny? and will you marry me?"

  Her eyes had been fixed on the lone bare crag away off across thevalley; and the color in them had changed from light gray to deep black,and had faded again to a dull heavy gray.

  "You may go to San Francisco, of course, though I shall not see youthere. And 'I like you pretty well,' too; but you must not dare to dreamthat I could ever marry you."

  A little linnet in the tree above them had hopped from branch to branch,and now sat on the lowest, almost facing them. When Jenny's voice,stone-cold and harsh, had ceased, he broke into a surprised littlechirp, and then uttered quick, sharp notes of reproof or remonstrance.Jenny understood either the language of the bird, or what the wild,startled eyes looking into hers said, for the hand that had lain in hiswas tightly clinched beside her, telling a tale she would not let herface repeat.

  When the lamp had been lighted in her cottage that night, she stoodirresolute by the window from where she could see the Brodie-Perkinshabitation. On her way to the dining-room she had come unawares on SiPerkins instructing a waiter to bring tea to their cottage; and thoughshe had asked no question, her eyes had rested wistfully on thepartner's stern face. Now she paced the room, her face flushed, herhands clasped above her aching head, then dropped again idle andnerveless by her side.

  "It is too late," she said, at last; "and it can never, never be. Thenwhy make myself wretched over it?" and with a sudden revulsion offeeling she raised the curtain and looked steadily over to the othercottage. "It is only the law of reprisals, after all, Ben Brodie! To besure _you_ did not break my heart--but--that other man--and--you are allmen." Her voice had died to a whisper; and, drawing writing materialtoward her at the table, she was in the midst of her letter before thevengeful light died out of her eyes. Once she laid her head on her armand sobbed bitterly; but she finished the letter, closed and directedit, and turned down the light so that she could not be seen going fromthe cottage. The night air was damp and chilly, and before descendingthe t
hree wooden steps that led from the little stoop to the ground, herunsteady hand sought the dress-pocket to drop her letter in; and thenshe drew the shawl and hood close about her.

  She shuddered the next morning, as she threw a last look back into theroom from which her trunk and baggage had already been taken, and shemuttered something about the dreariness of an empty room and an emptyheart. But when her numerous dear friends came to the stage to bid alast farewell, Jenny's face looked so radiant that many a one turnedwith secret envy from the woman to whom life must seem like onecontinuous holiday. Si Perkins, with eyebrows drawn deep down, wasattentively studying a newspaper by the open window of the reading-room;and when Jenny threw a look back from the stage, she fancied that atrembling hand was working at the blinds of the two partners' cottage;and the sallow, ghastly face, and wild, startled eyes of yesterday, roseup reproachfully before her.

  The day dragged slowly on; "from heat to heat" the sun had kissed thetree-tops with its drowsy warmth, hushing to sleep the countless birdsthat make the mountain-side their home. With the cool of evening camethe low breeze that shook the sleepers from repose, and sighed sadly,sadly through the pines.

  "Has the stage come in?" asked Ben Brodie slowly, as he lay with closedeyes and feverish brow on his bed in the cottage.

  "Nearly an hour ago," answered Si Perkins, in his growling voice. He hadtried hard to maintain his usual key, but his eyes rested with deepconcern on his friend's face as he spoke.

  "And was there any one in the stage whom you knew?"

  "No one."

  The sick man opened his eyes, and closed them again wearily. His lipsworked spasmodically for an instant; then he asked resolutely, but in analmost inaudible tone, "Did not _she_ come back, Si? Are you sure? Didyou see all the passengers?"

  "It's no use, Ben; she's gone, and she'll never come back."

  "But, Si"--the quivering lips could hardly frame the words--"have youbeen to her cottage? I had not asked you to look, you know; but will yougo to her room now, and see if she has not come back?"

  Without a word Si took his hat, his lips twitching almost as perceptiblyas Ben Brodie's. When he had reached the door the sick man said, "Youare not mad, Si, are you? Have patience with me; I shall be better--somuch better--soon, and then you will forgive me."

  Si turned and held the feverish hand a moment, muttering that he'd goto--a very hot place if his partner bade him, and then left the room.

  Though he knew the utter folly of such a proceeding, he went to thevacant cottage, and peered through the open blind into the vacant room.There was something so death-like and still about the place that heturned with heavy heart and eyes bent down to the three steps that ledfrom the stoop to the ground. Something white shimmered up out of thecrevice between the stoop and the first step, and he bent down, sayingto himself, "If it's only a scrap of paper, Ben is spoony enough to wantit, and kiss it mebbee, because it was hers."

  The dampness of the past night had saturated the paper, and drying againin the sun, a portion of the letter--for such it proved to be--adheredto the board as Si attempted to draw it out. The letter unfolded itself,and fluttered lightly before Si's face, who bestowed a blessing on the"cobweb" paper, and then doggedly sat down to read what was written onit. His shaggy eyebrows seemed to grow heavier as he read, and his faceturned a livid brown and then red again. When he had finished, he threwa hasty look over toward their cottage, and crushing the letter infierce but silent wrath, he dropped the wad into his pocket and slowlyretraced his steps.

  "She hasn't come?"

  If Ben had moved from his bed during Si's absence, the latter did notnotice any derangement of furniture or bed-clothes, and he now droppedheavily into a chair beside his friend's bed.

  "When you get well, old fellow, we must go."

  "Where? To San Francisco?"

  "San Francisco be ----. No; to Siskiyou."

  There was no response. The fever had gone down, and Ben lay pale andstill, like a corpse almost, except that his fingers seemed striving totouch something which evaded his grasp. The wind had grown stronger, andon it came borne the notes of the grossbeak, who strays down from themountain-tops in the evening, and makes those who hear him think ofhome, of absent friends, and of all we hold dearest, and all who havegone from us farthest in this world.

  "How mournfully the wind sings!" said Ben, softly. "It seems like hervoice calling to me. But I will never see her again--. She could notthink of me as I did of her. I would lay down my life for her; but shecould only like me a little. She was too good for me."

  "Ben, Ben! I can't bear to hear you talk so. Oh! that wicked, wickedwoman!"

  "Hush, Si; she was an angel; and when I was sick she taught me to pray."The gaunt hand that had been raised as if to ward off the harsh wordshis partner would say, fell back on his breast, where he laid it acrossthe other. "Our Father who art in heaven--" The fingers stiffened, andthe heavy lids sank over the weary eyes.

  "Ben, old pard, look at me! Speak to me!" He bent over the motionlessform, and laid his hand caressingly on the wiry black hair. "Don't youleave me alone in the world." The trembling hand glided down to hisfriend's breast and laid itself over the heart. But the heart stoodstill; and as he drew back his hand, it touched a cold, smooth objectthat fell to the floor. He stooped, and lifted a small vial to thelight, and as he did so a great scalding tear fell on the label, justwhere the word "Poison" was traced in large letters.

  When Si Perkins returned to the Placer Mines, on Yreka Flats, he broughtwith him only two articles which he seemed to consider of value. Theywere always kept under lock and key. The one was a small vial, with theword "Poison" on the label, blurred and blotted; the other a letter,carefully smoothed out, after having been, to all appearances, cruellycrushed and crumpled.

  The letter ran thus:

  HOT SPRINGS, June 28.

  "DEAR JIM: I am coming home, and may be in San Francisco even before this reaches you, unless I should be seized with a notion to remain in San Jose, or visit the Warm Springs, or the Mission. My wrist is not strong yet; and to tell you the truth, only 'the persecutions of a man' are driving me away from here. I can see you laugh, and hear you saying, 'At your old tricks, Jenny.' But though I shall recount the whole affair to you when we meet, I shall not allow you to laugh at the discomfiture of the gentleman from Siskiyou. He is so terribly in earnest; and--oh! I remember but too well the blow you struck my heart when you first told me that you could never belong to me; that I could never be your lawful wife. But I don't mean to grow sentimental. You may please issue orders to Ah Sing and Chy Lun to 'set my house in order,' and look for me any time between this and the 'glorious Fourth.'

  JENNY."