Front matter (continued 3)

"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 cinquième, 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; while the nose seemed a trifle over-large through the extreme thinness of the face. The features in repose were almost stern in their look of concentrated thought; but when he laughed it was with the sudden merriment of a child, the mouth parting over the small white teeth, and the large, dark, hollow eyes flashing cheerily. Barely over thirty, he might have passed for some years older, an unflagging attention to his arduous profession having told somewhat upon his strength. Among the lawyers on the Pacific coast, Galbraith was considered a rising man, his late appointment to a district attorneyship proving the confidence which he enjoyed. Millicent thought him decidedly the most attractive of their hosts; but her quick intuition had already told her that Graham felt little cordiality towards him, and she spoke chiefly to Hartley, the rather insignificant "beauty man" of the camp. From him she learned that for several years the trio of friends had passed the summer months in camping out at some spot not far distant from the railroad, which carried them every morning to San Francisco, and which brought them back as early in the afternoon as might be. Their one henchman (of course a Chinaman) was left in charge of the camp during the day, and performed the household work necessary to so primitive a ménage. Not far distant from the camp, the stream whose course they had followed spread out into a wide, deep pool, affording an opportunity for a refreshing plunge, with which the three friends were wont to begin the proceedings of the day. A breakfast eaten at the tent door was followed by a walk to the station, half a mile distant, when they bade good-by to their sylvan home. Four o'clock, or at latest five, saw them on their way from the city; and an hour or two of angling in the cool stream, wherein swam delicious trout, or a tramp through the woods with a gun, brought them to the dinner hour. Just at this point in Hartley's chronicle of their daily life, Ah Lam, who had been brought to assist the one servant of the camp in his preparations, announced that dinner was served. Millicent never learned how the evenings were passed in camp, for there was a general move towards the dining-room, another triumph of sylvan architecture. A few paces distant from the green parlor, but hidden from it by the thick intervening bushes, was a great fig-tree with wide-spreading branches laden with delicious purple fruit. At the foot of the tree stood a table laid with plates, knives and forks, and other appurtenances of civilized life. Millicent gave a little cry of delight at the prettily decorated board, which was wreathed with a garland of green leaves and covered with bright flowers. Barbara, who had been reading Dumas with that intense delight to which the first acquaintance with French romance gives rise, said that the banquet surpassed the one spread by Joseph Bassano for the Dauphine of France in the old Chateau. Millicent found herself at the table between Graham and the good-natured Irishman, O'Neil. Her lover seemed to her handsomer to-day among this band of his contemporaries than ever before; and she looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes, forgetting all in the world beside or beyond him. O'Neil, who was the wit of the camp, told funny stories at which every one laughed; but when Graham spoke, the men all listened, like soldiers waiting the words of their superior. Before they had come to the table, the artist had twined a girdle for Millicent's slender waist of some feathery green creeper, a spray of which she had wreathed about her head. When the red wine was poured, Graham spilled from his glass, as if by accident, a few drops upon the earth, then, touching his goblet to hers, he said in an undertone,--

"We will drink the old toast, my nymph, to Pan, evoë, evoë!"

Galbraith devoted himself to Barbara; and after dinner, when all justice had been done to the woodland fare, and the great warm figs had been eaten with the sunshine in them, the party broke up into groups. Graham, who had brought his colors, made a sketch of the view from the hilltops, Millicent sitting silently beside him, handing him the brushes as he required them, then squeezing the little tubes of paint with a childish delight. Barbara and Galbraith made their way to the pool, where Miss Deering angled successfully, landing four good-sized trout within the hour. Hal Deering and O'Neil employed the time in firing at an ace of hearts pinned to a tree; while Hartley and Mrs. Deering sat in the green parlor, where the thoughtful, motherly woman put a very necessary patch on one of Galbraith's coats, in which her quick glance had descried a rent, as it hung on a peg in his tent.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened, and his sketch drew near its completion, Graham found time occasionally to speak to his companion sitting so quietly and contentedly at his side. The absolute ignoring of self possible to this intelligent girl, with her strong mind and latent talents, was incomprehensible to him. She was perfectly happy to forget her individual existence in a sympathetic interest in his work. He felt sure that should it please him she would give up her music, her studies, every other interest in life and be content to sit always as now, watching his work, giving a word of intelligent criticism when asked to do so, stifling every thought which should cloud the mirror of her mind in which he might see himself ever reflected. To the sensitive man, who had passed most of his life in solitude, this absolute, unreasoning devotion had something intensely painful about it. If he had known how to frame his thought he would have begged her to care less for him. He felt himself an ingrate, so poor a return could he make for this wealth of love poured out at his feet. Her presence was a pleasure to him; he loved to watch her graceful motions as she walked, and the beautiful poses which she all unconsciously took in sitting, standing, or moving. Her appreciation of his work, her understanding of himself, were truer than ever man or woman had shown before; and yet he sometimes was annoyed by the irksome feeling that what he had to give her was but a bankrupt's portion of love. Times there were when this feeling did not intrude itself upon him; and the day which was now drawing to its close was one of those precious ones wherein had been no slightest misunderstanding betwixt them. When Hal came to tell them that it was time to return, Graham put up his work with a sigh that it must be so soon finished, and the two lovers lingered for a moment, taking a last look over the little camp.

After bidding their hosts farewell the guests turned their horses toward home, the larger wagon with Mrs. Deering and Barbara leading the way. Sphinx, whose best days were over, was tired; and Millicent soon lost sight of the swift mule team. Graham rode a little in advance of the carriage, leaving the place at Millicent's side to Mr. Galbraith, who had volunteered to accompany them for a part of the journey. She found him a most attractive person, and was much interested in his conversation. He told her anecdotes of the primitive justice which prevailed in certain remote districts of the State, and gave some personal reminiscences of his earliest cases, in which he had been called upon to defend or accuse criminals of the most desperate class. Galbraith talked with that sort of brilliancy which requires sympathetic attention from his hearers, and for the first three miles of the road he was able to win this from Miss Almsford. When, however, the girl's eyes wandered from his intelligent face to the man on horseback half a dozen rods in advance, and she mentally compared the strong, elastic figure of the distant horseman to the man at her side, Galbraith found that it was time to return to the camp and "leave them to their own fate." Millicent's parting words were doubly gracious to the young lawyer, from the fact that she thought his departure would bring her lover to her. In this hope she was however disappointed, for Graham was in one of those moods when silence was more attractive to him than Hal's amusing companionship. He would have liked to have Millicent all to himself on that pleasant homeward ride; but Millicent with the inevitable addition of Deering could not win him to her side. Suddenly the two in the carriage saw Graham's horse give a wild rear and plunge, after which he shied at some unseen object by the roadside with a force which would have unseated any ordinary horseman. The animal now stood for an instant trembling in every limb, and then seemed to fling himself and his rider in a perfect agony of terror down the high-road, his four feet beating out the startling measure of a break-neck gallop to Millicent's horrified ears. From the cloud of dust, and through the cadence of the mustang's hoofs, these words were shouted back to them,--

"Look out for rattlesnakes!"

They had by this time reached the spot where Graham's horse had taken fright; and old Sphinx shivered violently, tossing his head and snorting loudly. In a few moments, it seemed to Millicent an eternity, Graham rejoined them, having regained control over his fiery horse.

"Deering, stand by Sphinx's head and hold my horse, will you?"

As he spoke John Graham dismounted, pulled his high boots over his knees, and seizing the heavy whip from the carriage, advanced cautiously to the edge of the road, while Hal soothed the startled horses. Millicent, left alone in the wagon, gave a low cry of terror. Graham was at her side in an instant.

"Dear one, you must help me with your courage; do not be afraid, there is really no danger," he murmured. She was silent, and tried to smile an answer.

Graham now walked slowly along the road, looking intently into the grass which lined the highway. Suddenly the dread sound of the rattle was heard, awful alike to man and beast. Sphinx started again, but was soon quieted, while Tasso reared and gave a shriek of terror. Graham, raising his heavy whip, brought the thong with a tremendous force across the snake's body. The creature reared itself with blazing eyes and sprang towards its pursuer, who dealt it another blow; and before it could coil itself for a second spring, Graham ran forward, and with his iron boot-heel crushed the reptile's head into the dust. He soon despatched the writhing creature, and was stooping to cut the rattles from its lifeless body, when a warning cry from Millicent told him that the battle was not over. The mate of the dead snake was close beside him, ready to spring upon his stooping body. He straightened himself, and ran backwards, firing his revolver as he went. The shot missed the snake, whose rattle rang out a very death-knell. It leaped savagely towards him. Graham had dropped his whip, most efficient of weapons with which to meet these dangerous animals, and hastily tearing off his coat he threw it over the snake. He sprang upon the garment and stamped in every direction; finally pinning the creature low down in the body, the bristled head, with its awful tongue, reared itself from beneath the folds of the coat, wounded but furious to avenge its mate. The horrible hiss chilled Millicent's blood. She saw the forked tongue dart out and strike Graham's leg. Mercifully it struck below the knee, the fang failing to penetrate the thick leather of the boot. The creature wreathed another coil of its length from beneath the iron heel, and again made ready to strike. Graham cocked his revolver, and while the angry red throat, with its death-dealing jaws, yawned before him, he poured a volley of hot lead into the writhing body. One, two, three shots Millicent counted; and then after a pause Graham's voice rang out brisk and clear: "All right, my girl, if there are no more of the beasts." The still quivering bodies of the snakes lay in the dust of the road, and Graham, recovering his whip, carefully examined the locality from which they had emerged, to see if by chance a nest of eggs or young ones was to be found. His search was unsuccessful; and after securing the second rattle, which was a long one, proving how powerful the reptile had been, he measured the bodies of the dead snakes, and rejoined Millicent. She held out her hand to him; and Deering, who had had as much as he could do in controlling the two horses, congratulated him on his success, and was about to resume his seat in the carriage. Millicent had been perfectly quiet and composed during the time of danger; her firm hand and voice had controlled the frightened horse; her watchfulness had warned Graham of the approach of his second enemy. But now the snakes were both dead, her lover was safe, and there was no further need of her strength or composure. As Hal approached the carriage, she dropped the reins, buried her face in her hands, and burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. Hal, who had lifted one foot to the step of the vehicle, dropped it to the ground, and retreated a few paces with a frightened countenance. He would not have been afraid to encounter a nest of rattlesnakes, but a weeping girl completely unnerved him. He retreated behind the wagon, and, after a hurried conversation with Graham, without more ado, mounted that gentleman's horse and rode off as fast as the animal would carry him; while Graham quietly stepped into the vehicle, and touching Millicent lightly on the shoulder, said, "Millicent, it is I."

The passionate weeping grew more quiet; the sobs became less violent; a slight tremor ran through her frame at the touch; at the words the tears rolled back to their source; and presently a pale face was lifted from the supporting hands, and the mouth quivered into a smile. And so they rode home together, hand in hand, through the deepening shadows; and one more day of the sweet summer-tide of love had passed, and each was richer for that day, how often recalled by both of them when the shadows of life had deepened into night.

CHAPTER X.

"Thereon comes what awakening! One grave sheet

Of cold implacable white about me drawn"--

John Graham was one of those men in whose nature there seems no trace of feminality. Man and woman supplement each other, each bringing certain qualities to the completion of humanity; and yet it is rare to find a man whose character is not modified by some mother trait. Graham's qualities and his faults were equally masculine; he was more strongly attracted by women through this intense virility than are men who, having some trace of the feminine in their nature, understand and sympathize more perfectly with the opposite sex. The attraction was one against which he rebelled, deeming it to belong to the weaker side of his nature; and he had so ordered his life that it might not fall within the influence of maid or matron. This antagonism to woman made itself felt in his work; his successful pictures were of men, their high exploits and successes. A noble painting of Saint Paul, which now hung over the altar of a Roman Catholic church in San Francisco, had won him his first reputation in Paris; he could understand and sympathize with that great man as if he had known him. It was only the highest type of man that attracted him,--the lovers of men, and not their conquerors. He had never tried to paint Alexander, but had labored long and lovingly over a picture of Socrates. The female subjects which he had treated were not less powerful than these, but the force which they showed was scornful and untender. A marvellous painting of Circe hung in his studio; it was one of his most masterly works, and yet, though critics had praised and connoisseurs had approved it, the picture was still unsold. With black brows bound by red-gold serpents, the enchantress lay upon a luxurious couch; her beautiful body was but half veiled, the arms and bosom immodestly displayed; about her jewelled feet fawned the creatures whose brute natures had conspired with the enchantress to smother whatever was human in their beings; self-despair and scorn for their abasement deformed her regular features to that moral ugliness never so hideous as when seen in a youthful and beautiful face. A terrible picture, full of wrath, but untempered by mercy. His Cressida, purchased by a great European Academy, was another wonderful picture; a picture which made men smile a little bitterly, and had brought an angry flush to the cheek of more than one sensitive woman.

Over a man of this nature woman holds a more important influence than with any other class; it may be a good influence or it may be a harmful one, but it is the most potent one which touches his life. Had John Graham loved happily at twenty-five, instead of most miserably, he would have been a very different man at thirty from the hermit artist of San Rosario. It would have been better for him if he could have learned the lesson which all wise men learn if they live long enough,--that women are neither angels who stand immeasurably above men, nor inferior beings whose place is at their feet, but human like themselves, full of good and faulty instincts, and, with all their imperfections, the God-given helpmates of man. So justly should they be judged; and if a little mercy be claimed for them, generosity should not deny it, so few are their chances in life compared with those of their brothers. A woman has but one possibility of happiness in this world. The stakes are high on which she risks her whole fortune, which she may lose by one unredeemable throw.

If Graham could have known all this, as, being what he was, he could not, he would have gained that one element which his genius lacked to make it superlative. Man and child he was by turns, but never for an instant had he been able to look at life from the standpoint of a woman. He had once loved the whole gentler sex with that chivalrous spirit which made him unfit to live in the nineteenth century. No discourteous or cruel word toward any woman had he to reproach himself with; he had looked upon them as creatures so far removed from his sphere, that his mind must be cleared of every base thought before it might dwell upon them; they were mysterious angels which it was his happiness to worship. Then came a change, and the love which had turned to grief darkened his soul. As his heart had been filled with a love so great that it embraced all the sisters of his idol, his contempt went out towards them, as his love had done before. His revenge had been terrible: he had struck at womankind; he had pictured it in its debasement for all the world to see.

The few women for whom he cared were elderly people, whose life-battles had been fought and won; who sat enthroned in the calm of that peaceful period when youth is no longer regretted nor old age feared. Such women he could paint without bitterness; and his portrait of his mother was a masterpiece of exquisite sentiment. No woman that he had ever met disliked John Graham; if he was distant and cold, he was honest and courteous, and a gentleman in the deepest sense of the word. He was too chivalrous to revenge himself on any individual; his grief was too great to stoop to anything so mean. More than one woman would gladly have loved him, but he avoided them as if they had been poison-nurtured.

Men, as a rule, respected and feared Graham; a few of his heart-friends would have given their lives for him with a smile. To those who understood and loved him, there was something more than human about the man,--a quality to which the highest part of their nature did homage. Fools laughed at him for his quixotism; the critics had worn themselves out in shrieking abuse of his work which affected him in nowise. He cared little for men's praise or blame; he would have died to help them to a new truth. He was of the stuff which made martyrs in the old time, crusaders in the dark ages, and artists in the Renaissance. His pictures were beautiful as works of art, but they were great because they embodied living truths. At twenty his friends said that he had great talent; at thirty his enemies ceased to deny his force; at forty, if he lived so long, the world would crown him with its laurel as a man of genius. If haply that bitterness which lay like a blight on all his work, on all his life, might be made sweet! What a chance was here for the woman whose love was now breaking over his frozen life with warmth, fragrance, and beauty! How grand an opportunity to sweeten by truth and faith all that had grown bitter from untruth and faithlessness! If she could only have known him as he was, have understood him and his past, before she had loved him, what could not Millicent have accomplished! Alas! poor child, she knew nothing of all this. Her own past was black with a grief and wrong greater than that which he had borne. She, too, was waking, and for the first time, from a trance of soul and sleep of heart; she was all engrossed in her own growth and development. She was like a little dungeon-born plant, which has at last climbed through the iron bars, and under the light and warmth of the glorious day runs riotous and unthinking across the wall, up, down, on every side, content to live and grow in the sun and air. But the taint of the old wrong and the lie it had entailed, were not yet left behind. He had taken her for a pure white lily; and how could she tell him that there had been a time when she lived in darkness and despair before her life flowered into its one perfect white blossom under the warmth of his love?

Life is very pleasant at the San Rosario Ranch with its bordering of peaceful hills. Here all are happy, be they of high or low degree; from the gentle-voiced châtelaine to the stranger within her gates, the potent charm extends. The fair daughter and tall son have lived peaceful, uneventful lives; and though their young eyes may sometimes turn a little wearily toward the mountain barrier, beyond which lies the great busy world, known more to them by hearsay than by actual experience, they are happy, far happier than are most of the men and women in the crowded thoroughfare of the world's cities. The Ranch does not lie in the belt of gold, nor in the silver girdle which crosses the Pacific coast. The rude mining towns are far distant from this portion of the dairy lands of California. The trains which leave the station in this neighborhood are laden indeed with a golden freight; but no armed men are found necessary to guard the boxes filled with their rolls of fragrant yellow. The product of the dairy lands is of a smaller, surer value than that for which men toil and drudge in the gulches or mines. Far away to the southward, where the orange groves are white and golden with their double burden of blossom and fruit, is a climate milder than that of San Rosario; and there Hal had set his heart upon one day establishing himself. In that vine country the air is heavy with the spicy odor of the grape, and the harvest is blood-red with its life-juices; and yet to Millicent the fairest garden in this world's garden lay between the circled hills of San Rosario.

Millicent, having learned the earliest stage of butter-making under Hal's direction, wished to be initiated into the mysteries which follow the skimming of the cream. Hal gave one of his boisterous guffaws of laughter when she one morning gravely informed him that she was going to help in that day's churning. She had donned the prettiest chintz morning gown imaginable, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a fresh white apron. Her skirt was kilted up half way to the knee, showing a scarlet petticoat, which in turn exposed the pretty, small feet, and possibly two inches more of the round ankle than is usually shown by ladies of her degree. Tying one of the great picturesque hats which they had brought home from San Real, under her chin, the energetic young woman started for the dairy. Hal, giving a knowing wink to his mother and sister standing near by, as if to say that the joke was too good to be spoiled, followed her, with Tip, the cross old dog, following him in turn.

"Millicent, did you ever do any churning?"

"No, but I can learn."

"Without doubt; but tell me, did you ever see any one else churn?"

"Oh, yes; very often."

"Who, if one may ask?"

"You will not know any better if I tell you. It was old Nina, at home."

"Ah, old Nina; and what sort of a machine did she use?"

"She did not use a machine at all; she used a churn, like anybody else."

"What did it look like?"

"I am sure I have forgotten; it was probably an old-fashioned one, but it made quite as good butter as yours does;" this in a slightly irritated voice. She objected to being catechised, and had, moreover, a dim sense that Deering was bent on quizzing her. She ran along the footpath in advance in order to avoid further questioning, and reached the dairy a few minutes before him. Finding the main door shut, she hurried round to the side, when, just as she turned the corner, her rapid progress was suddenly brought to an end. She had met an obstacle; she had, moreover, fallen into the arms of the obstacle, which proved to be a tall man with a kindly voice, for he called out merrily, "Hello, my girl, where are you going so fast?" steadying her at the same moment with his arm, as the sudden shock almost precipitated her from the path.

Millicent drew back disconcerted and breathless, and looked up into the face of the man whom she had so unexpectedly encountered. When she saw that it was a face familiar to her, she blushed and stammered a little as she replied to his astonished greeting. Mutual apologies and explanations followed; and Hal, coming up at that moment, laughed at her discomfiture till the tears rolled down his face.

"You always laugh at other people's misfortunes," cried Millicent, trying to be angry; but it was impossible to be angry with Hal. The irrepressible young rancher carried the day; and Maurice Galbraith assured Millicent that it was his awkwardness which had aroused Deering's merriment.

"We are very glad to see you, Galbraith, but we are too busy to stop and talk to you just now. You will find mother and Bab at the house. I have a new hand here who is going to take charge of the churning in future, and I am just showing her about a little. Do you catch on?"

"Slang again! Five cents more towards the amusement fund."

"Oh, we shall not want any more amusement fund if you are going to turn worker, Princess." As he spoke they entered the cool dairy. It was tenantless. At one end of the room stood a large wooden vessel, half as big as the Trojan horse, and from its hollow sides came a dull, splashing sound.

"Why, you said they would be at work already," said Millicent, in a disappointed voice; "where are they all?"

"Oh, it only takes one man to attend to this part of the butter-making, and there he is at his post."

Outside the open doorway, as wide as the entrance to a barn, sat Pedro, lazily smoking his pipe, and occasionally flicking with his whip the strong mule who was slowly revolving round the small space to which he was tethered.

"Well," said Millicent impatiently, "what does that mean?"

"Only this, my Princess, that you must turn the crank that this animal is agitating, with your own small hands, if you persist in your resolution to help with the churning."

Millicent's face fell; and Galbraith hastened to explain to her that the quantity of cream handled at one churning made it necessary, in a place where human labor is so dear, to employ horsepower. Nobody likes to be laughed at, though Millicent tried hard to smile at her own blunder; when Hal, suddenly calling out; "By your leave, Princess," without a word of warning caught up the young lady in his arms, and placed her on the back of the patient mule, remarking, as he accomplished the feat, "No one can say now that you have not helped with the churning."

It would be difficult to say whether Millicent or the mule felt the greater surprise; they were both taken unawares; but the quadruped was the first to recover himself, and resumed his weary task of plodding round in the monotonous circle. Millicent, clinging closely to the creature, cried loudly to be relieved from her uncomfortable position; but Hal, fearing her wrath, had disappeared into the interior of the dairy, leaving to Galbraith the pleasure of assisting the young woman in dismounting. Pedro, who had been an amused spectator of the scene, now announced that the churning was completed, and that they should soon see the washing of the butter, if it pleased them to wait. The big golden fragments were collected from the sea of buttermilk, and finally massed together on a wide table. There it was worked by Pedro, who tossed the fragrant mass from side to side, pressing out the remaining deposits of the milk with a heavy wooden wand. He moulded the butter into fantastic forms, prettiest of which was a huge bell-shaped flower like a giant trumpet blossom. It struck Millicent that here was a delightful material for modelling; and taking up a piece of butter and one of the dairy tools, she forthwith produced a bas-relief portrait of Galbraith, which would have done credit to the sculptress of the sleeping Iolanthe.

"There are two classes of hands, those which are skilful and those which are clumsy; of all other divisions of humanity this is the most important. You, Miss Almsford, are so happy as to belong to the skilful half, or rather quarter, of humanity,--for men are all clumsy. I see that you can do all things artistic as well as useful with your fingers."

"I am afraid I have never tried to do much that was useful," said the girl half ruefully. "Barbara, now, can do all sorts of things. But I am tired of comparing myself with her; I always suffer by the process;" this with a rather vicious little stroke at the butter-model, which she was now finishing into a medallion, with a pattern of scroll-work for a border.

"Let me judge between yourself and Miss Barbara. I know that she can touch the ivory keys with grace, and can also make wonderful peach preserves. On the other hand, you model in butter and--and--well, what else can those small hands accomplish of art or industry?"

"They can draw a little as well as model; they can trim bonnets, yes, really quite well; they are not unfamiliar with the key-boards of piano and organ; and, best of all,--I had really forgotten to enumerate this accomplishment,--they can move tables and chairs; they can draw pain from your head; they can put you into a trance,--they are, in fact, magnetic hands."

"It seems, then, that you are a Spiritualist."

"Far from it; by what power I do the few things which form the repertoire of my manifestations, as the mediums call them, I do not know any more than you."

"Will you give me a séance?"

"Indeed; no."

"And because--"

"Because it tires me, and I am rather afraid of my own power. Some one once compared me to a child who had got hold of an electric battery which he did not understand, and with which he unwittingly produced inexplicable phenomena, not devoid of danger to himself."

"You are really in earnest then, and believe in these manifestations?"

"Perfectly so; and I am rather cowardly about exploring them to their source, as I have seen so many strong minds unhinged by study of this subject. I certainly object to the vulgar theory, that the spirits of those who have gone before us have nothing better to do than to tip tables and dip their hands in pails of paraffine which accommodating mediums prepare for them."

"You do not believe in mediums, then?"

"I believe no manifestation to be genuine which comes from a professional medium. That they often have real power, I do not doubt; but so soon as it is a question of earning their living, they must inevitably fall back upon fraud. But we are growing quite serious about this subject which I never like to talk of for fear of being misunderstood."

"But I am really interested in what you say--"

"Never mind; here is your portrait, which is not flattered, I frankly confess; but is it a little like you?"

"If I know my face at all, it is wonderfully good. Would that you had deigned to model it in a less perishable material!"

"Oh, no! this is infinitely better, it is so much more appropriate--

"Thanks for the compliment; but why, if I may ask, should you consider butter to be particularly suitable to me?"

"Not to you personally, but to humanity. Is it not stupid to carve bronze fac-similes of that which is as perishable as the grass?"

"But had it not been for this stupidity, how should we know the features of Cæsar?"

"And would it greatly matter?"

"I think so; but a young lady who so cruelly assures me that butter is the only material in which my humble features deserve to be reproduced--"

Millicent interrupted the speaker by her pleasant laugh, with its sound of falling waters, and thanking Pedro for what he had shown her, led the way from the dairy. She refused to speak further on the subject during the day-time, but as they sat together on the piazza in the twilight, Galbraith referred to it again; and, after much persuasion, Millicent seated herself at a table, round which the company grouped themselves, placing their hands lightly on its surface. Barbara, who was seated next to Millicent, their hands touching one another, seemed strangely affected, after they had been sitting for some time in silence. She manifested unmistakable signs of sleepiness, and finally, with a long sigh, her eyes closed and her head fell upon Millicent's shoulder. With a little frightened cry, Millicent quickly lifted her, and making several passes over her head called Hal to come and support his sister. In a moment Barbara recovered herself, and showed no more symptoms of sleep. She laughed heartily, and said that a peculiar sensation in her elbows had preceded her momentary unconsciousness. Galbraith applauded the little episode, which he assured Millicent was very well acted by both participants. The girl turned her eyes, deep and burning, full upon him, half in anger, and said,--

"Very well, Mr. Galbraith, we will see if you can act a part as well as Barbara. Lay your hand in mine--so."

The young man smiled, and did as he was bid, with a courteous bow, as if deprecating the power in which he did not believe; and for a space of time they stood looking each other full in the face. Then Millicent's slight form seemed to vibrate, and from her eyes a light flashed into the man's dark orbs, her cheek flushed, and from every nerve in her body an electric flash seemed to emanate, concentrating into a broad current at the shoulder, and slipping through the round white arm to the very finger-tips. Galbraith's face paled as hers flushed; a stinging sensation half painful, half agreeable, made him wince; and when in a few moments Millicent withdrew her hand, he remained standing motionless, white to the lips, with dim, dreaming eyes, and slow-beating heart.

"Speak," said the magnetizer, "tell me what is in your mind?"

"There is nothing," answered the man, in a low, monotonous voice.

"Now speak, and tell me what you see."

"I see a man on horseback; the horse is running away. Now he gallops, and the rider loses control of him; they disappear in a cloud of dust, and I see nothing. Now they return; the horse is going quietly, and the rider looks towards a carriage in which sits a lady; it is Millicent. He enters the carriage; she is weeping, and he touches--" he paused.

Millicent's cheek had grown crimson. She said in a low tone,--

"Why do you not continue?"

"Because you will not let me."

At this moment a light step sounded on the piazza. Millicent turned her head and saw Graham approaching her. She stepped quickly towards him, forgetting Galbraith, the company, everything and everybody, save that her lover had come to her. As she turned from him, Galbraith reeled suddenly, and would have fallen had not Hal steadied him to a seat.

"I fear I am interrupting you," said the artist, in a cool voice, betraying some annoyance.

"Indeed, no," cried the girl, "we were only trying the stupid old game of willing people; I have succeeded in magnetizing Mr. Galbraith here."

By this time the young lawyer had recovered himself, though he looked strangely pale and agitated. He was somewhat overcome by what had gone before, and was not a little troubled by the power which the tall, straight girl had exercised over him. He rebelled against it, and yet the sensation of giving up his volition, and living for the time only by her will and her thought had not been unmixed with a keen pleasure. If no one had witnessed the affair, above all, if Graham had not seen it, he would not have greatly cared; but though he had no recollection of what he had seen and described in Millicent's mind, that evening's experience deepened the vague antipathy he had always felt towards the artist, into a positive dislike.

Later, as they walked together alone, Graham asked Millicent if she would magnetize him, to which she replied in the negative.

"Do you think that you could succeed?"

"I cannot tell; but if I could, I should not be willing to do so."

"And yet you threw a spell over that fellow Galbraith?"

"Dear, there is a difference; cannot you see?"

"No; upon my soul I can't."

"I do not want to command even your thought for an instant; you must think of me to please yourself, not because I will it."

"What a strange girl you are, Millicent! Do you really love me so very much?"

"I love you better than my own soul."

"A dangerous thing, child; do not ever say that to me again."

"Why?"

"It shocks me; I cannot tell you why."

For answer, she gave him a rose from her breast with a childish gesture, as if asking forgiveness. There was an awkwardness, born of an unwonted shyness, in the movement which was more attractive to the artist than the most graceful attitude he had ever seen her assume. He caught the hand with the rose and crushed them both in his two strong palms, as if to hurt her. She smiled, though her wrist reddened from the sudden pressure. It is more sweet to bear pain from those we love, than to receive kindness from a hand which is not dear.

As Graham was taking his leave, he asked Millicent for two books which she had promised to lend him. Barbara had joined them, and offered to fetch them for him.

"Thank you, Barbara, but I know just where they are."

"Is it not the Petrarch and your manuscript translation of Dante that Mr. Graham wants?"

"Yes."

"You left them on your table. I saw them when I went up to shut the blinds. You had better let me go, you are so tired."

"Yes, let Miss Deering get them for you; you are quite worn out with your magnetizing." He wanted to say one last good-night to her.

His lightest wish was her law; she nodded gratefully to Barbara, who disappeared, while Graham told her once more how lovely she was that night. When Miss Deering came back, Graham had already mounted his horse and Millicent was feeding the animal with sugar.

"You are sure you have the right books, Barbara?"

"Quite sure; I know them perfectly."

"Many thanks to you both, and good-night."

Millicent was in a wakeful mood that night. She went to the piano and played for an hour or two, as she only played when alone. Her hands drifted dreamily over the key-board, drawing out fantastic melodies,--themes which were composed and forgotten within the hour. In an obscure corner of the room stood a head of Beethoven. Her eyes were fixed on the face of the master while she played, and as the notes grew strong and sweet she smiled; when the harmony changed to a tender minor strain, the smile faded from her face. The music expressed the thoughts which drifted through her mind. At first she played the quick movement of a march, through which rang out the measured beat of a horse's hoofs; then the strain changed to a pensive nocturne suggestive of the forest at night. A tender slumber-song followed, in which her voice took up the melody, chanting loving words in the language of Tuscany. The light, delicate thread of harmony now broadened into a full consonance of sound, the chords following each other tumultuously, as if in translating one supreme moment of leave-taking. As she was striking the closing strains of this emotional improvisation, her powerful voice trembling with a passionate addio, the sweet symphony of sounds was interrupted by a crashing discord. She sprang from the piano startled and trembling, to find that a heavy vase of flowers had fallen on the key-board from the shelf above the piano. The metal jar was uninjured, but about her feet were scattered the petals of a bunch of white roses which Graham had plucked for her that night. So rudely was her rhapsody interrupted! She closed the piano, and, after restlessly wandering through the silent house, went to her own room, where she sat looking out of her window at the moon-lit hills. She could not sleep, she was full of unrest.

The gray morning light was filtering into Barbara Deering's room when she was awakened by a light touch on the shoulder. Millicent stood before her, gray as the twilight; she held in her hand a small parchment book.

"Barbara, what books did you give Mr. Graham?"

"The Petrarch and your Dante. What is the matter, Millicent? Have n't you been in bed?"

"No, I could not sleep. Here is the little Dante; where did you find the book you mistook for it?"

Barbara sat up and rubbed her eyes confusedly.

"Why, it was not where I had last seen it. I found it somewhere, in your jewel-box, I think. I am so sorry I made a mistake; 't was just like the Dante. Does it matter much?"

"I only wanted to know, Barbara; go to sleep again."

She spoke in a low, constrained voice, and glided quietly from the room. Barbara, only half awake, gave a sigh, and settling her flaxen head among the pillows, again fell asleep and dreamed that she had stabbed Millicent with a knife, and that Graham was trying to stanch the wound with the leaves of a little parchment book.

When Graham arrived at his lonely tower, after making his horse comfortable for the night, he looked into French John's cabin to see whether all was well with the old fellow. The door was fast, and looking through the small window, the young man saw the wood-cutter lying on his hard couch, his gun beside him, his dog curled up at his feet. The creature growled at the sound of Graham's footsteps, but catching sight of a familiar face through the window, he gave a comfortable yawp, wagged his tail, and relapsed into slumber. The artist never slept without paying this last visit to his humble friend. He stumbled up the steep tower stairs, and after fumbling with the clumsy lock, the door swung open and admitted him to his one room. After groping about in the dark for a moment he struck a light, and out of the embers on the hearth blew a little flame. He looked about the small room and laughed; this was a home, indeed, to which to bring a bride! It sufficed for him; and he asked for nothing more commodious or luxurious than this old tower in the corner of the ruined church, with its grand north light and easy chair, its open fire and pallet-bed.

If he married,--when he married, he corrected himself, for he surely intended to marry Millicent,--there would have to be great changes in his life. He would be obliged to abandon his old tower, and live in a smug new house somewhere, with fuss and worry about servants, who would not please him half so well as did the old wood-cutter John. His work, ah, how that would suffer!--no more of the pleasant conscientious labor, the slow painting and study of that one supreme moment of the day when the golden copse was made tender by the light of the setting sun. He must hie him to the city and pass his life in painting fat, over-fed matrons in lace and diamonds, or expressionless minxes with costumes indicative of youth and ignorance. He would, perhaps, relapse into a mere mechanical portrait-painter, with as much imagination as a photographer; and his pictures would be ordered as theirs are, with the simple difference that the artist produces but one copy, while the photographer, with equal trouble, makes a dozen or ten dozen, or a single picture. He sighed aloud, and for consolation lit his pipe. He caught sight of the flower which had bloomed on a fair bosom and was now fastened to his coat, somewhat crushed but still fragrant. He carefully unpinned the rose and placed it in a small vase of water, and then proceeded to examine the books which Millicent had given him. Graham liked old books, and was delighted with the yellowed parchment copy of Petrarch. An inscription on the cover showed that it had once belonged to a monastery. On the fly-leaf was a slight sketch of a young monk's head seen in profile. It was a beautiful, clear-cut face, with delicate outlines and an earnest expression; beneath it was written, "Fra Antonio, Aetat 22."

"So this was brother Antonio, and he lived and died probably in the peaceful quiet of a Roman monastery. I wonder if he painted too, or whether he wrote hymns to all the pretty female saints in the calendar. Brother Antonio must have lived and died without a helpmeet. I fancy he did none the worse work for that."

The thought struck him as ungrateful, and, as if to make amends for it, he took up the other little volume. It was a thin book bound in white vellum, with Millicent's name in illuminated text upon its cover. The covers of this small tome were closed with a gold clasp, which he finally succeeded in opening. It proved to be a diary in manuscript; he recognized the clear, delicate handwriting of the girl he loved. Yes, he loved her tenderly; why else should he press the senseless pages close to his lips, kissing the fair paper over which her fairer hand had passed? He drew his lamp nearer to him and prepared to read the record. It was written in Italian, and the first page bore a date five years back. He was somewhat puzzled, but supposed he had misunderstood what she had told him of the book. She could have been but a child then; she was now only just past her majority. How pretty she must have been at sixteen, before she had grown to the perfect womanhood which now became her so well! He fancied her in all the shyness and awkwardness of young maidenhood, with childhood reluctantly slipping from her, and girlhood anxiously leading her forward. Again he kissed the book, but reverently this time, and with a deep sigh as if it had been a holy one. If he could have known her then, before he had grown to feel so old, before she had learned that she was fair and young, how much easier it would have been for both of them. As he sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the faintly traced characters, beholding in fancy the little Millicent of half-grown figure and cool, loveless eyes stooping over the book, putting her white, childish thoughts into these words, it seemed to him that he heard a faint sound,--a sound that was deeper than the wind stirring the tops of the redwoods; a sound that made him shiver and turn the bright flame of the lamp a little higher. It was like a noise heard dimly in a dream, an echo of a woman's sob ringing faint and muffled through a space of years, was it, or of distance? It had grown quite cold; and he heaped an armful of brushwood on the dying fire, which soon shot up the little chimney with a cheery roar, and threw its bright light to the farthest corner of the room, touching the picture on the easel, bringing out the ugly little netshukés from their shadowy corner, and shining on the polished steel of the gun standing near the maulstick and fishing-rod.

It must have been the wind, that faint sound which had seemed to find an echo in the beating of his heart. He drew aside the heavy window-curtains. Outside in the cool moonlight he saw the arms of the great trees swaying to and fro; below these the desolate ruins of the old church; all was quiet and deserted. There was the dismantled altar,--it was surely a trick of the moonlight and the trees, that shadowy semblance of a woman kneeling out there in the night, with wild hair, and arms cast about the broken cross, overturned this half century? Yes, it was a shadow surely; for a cloud passed before the silver face of the half-moon, and when it had floated by, the shadow of a female figure had vanished. He dropped the curtain and turned with a sigh of relief from the mysterious half-light, with its revelations of deserted chapels and uncared-for altars, its shattered cross and phantom penitent. Inside his small domicile was warmth and light; and to drive away the cold, nervous feeling which had crept about him like an invisible network, he again took up the little parchment journal. Again he seated himself, and turned the first leaf. As he read he smiled, and occasionally turned over the sheets to see how many more pages remained to be perused. Presently the smile faded from his face; and the flames on the hearth burnt low and finally died, choked by the gray ashes. And still Graham turned the pages of the little journal with cold fingers. The lamp grew dim, and the moon paled and sank beneath the horizon; the chill morning twilight crept betwixt the hangings, and showed him sitting cold and motionless to the slow-coming dawn. The last page of the journal had been turned long since; but he still held the book open, his eyes fixed on the final words.

CHAPTER XI.

"Dearer than woman's love

Is yonder sunset fading in the sky!"

After that night's vigil, Graham took his gun, and packing a blanket and a few camping utensils in his saddle-bag, mounted his horse and rode away toward a hunting-lodge some twenty miles distant, where he sometimes passed the night. His way led through the woods, where the bracing air, the light footsteps of the invisible animals, the fluttering of the birds in the trees, served to turn his mind from the painful thoughts of the past night. He had a part in this woodland life, and owned a kinship to the four-footed and feathered creatures who made the forest their home. His spirit was lifted to that close and intimate communion with Nature which is only possible to man when unfettered by human companionship. The cool, spicy air was sweeter than the kiss of maiden; the leafage of the restless trees more tender than that of the gold-bronze hair he had so often praised. It seemed to him that the only real thing in all the fair sunny earth was himself; that the people whom he had known were but pictures seen in a dream. He lived, and breathed the scent of the pine-trees; he lived, and heard the cry of the blue-jays in their branches; he lived, and his eyes were filled with the glorious beauty of his world,--all his, with nothing to come between him and the fragrant Mother Earth. All that day he rode and walked through the tangled paths and trackless thickets, holding communion with sky and earth, content to live without retrospection or anticipation. Just before sunset he shot a brace of quail for his supper; and when dark shadows had crept through the wooded places he built a fire on the hearth of the little cabin where he proposed spending the night. It was a rude lodge, a trifle less comfortable than French John's house, with wooden bunks around the walls, and trunks of trees roughly fashioned into seats. Under a certain board in the floor, known to him, was a hiding-place wherein were stored half a dozen tallow candles, with a bottle to serve as candle-stick, a pack of cards, an iron pot and spoon, a rusty jack-knife with a corkscrew, and, last of all, a flask of brandy, which it was a matter of honor always to leave half full. The shed had been built by himself and Henry Deering, and was occasionally used by them and their friends when on hunting expeditions. As there were no means of securely fastening so slight a building, there was neither lock nor bar to door or window. Over the fireplace was tacked a notice written in Deering's bold hand, which read as follows:--

"Gentlemen are requested to put out the fire and latch the door before leaving this shanty. Water to be found three rods beyond this spot to the north."

Graham found the candles, which he finally succeeded in lighting; and after making a meal of hard-tack and roasted quail, he filled his pipe and sat down on one of the bunks, tired out by his long day's ride. The painful thoughts which he had banished during the hours of daylight now took possession of him; and the brow, which had been calm all day, showed the three deep dints which trouble more than time had furrowed upon its noble expanse. He was alone again!--no more friendly sounds and sights to divert his mind and fill his eyes with beauty. Only his sad thoughts and the one great problem which was set before him to solve. His changeful, melancholy eyes were fixed vacantly on the floor. They saw nothing but the shadowy vision of the night,--the figure of a woman amidst the broken altars of the old Mission church. The words which he had read in the little journal came thronging back to him in riotous haste,--those pitiful words of passionate grief traced by the slender white fingers, which so lately had lingered tremblingly in his own strong brown hands. Could he forgive her? Poor child, poor child! What was he, that he had a right to withhold his forgiveness for an instant? Let their lives be laid side by side, with every act and every thought bared to his view, and how did his life's record compare with hers?

Ah, if she had but told him the story, and not left it to accident to reveal the secret! She had deceived him! And the angry blood surged from his heart to his brow and settled there dully red. The stern lines of his face grew harder than the mask of a stone statue, and the expression of the chiselled mouth was terribly relentless. He would never see her again, never, never! What he had felt for her was not that highest passion which melts heart and soul and body in one pure flame; for, without a perfect faith, such love is not. So he reasoned, pity and anger sweeping across his soul; and then, forgetting both in a great pain, he cried, stretching out his arms, "Millicent, Millicent, come to me!" At last the wearied muscles and tired brain and heart slowly, half-consciously yielded to a warm, close-folding influence which straightened out the lines on the brow, loosened the tight-drawn muscles, stole the fire from the deep eyes and the anger from the curved mouth. The grand head, with its thousand schemes and theories, fell back upon the couch; the skilful hand, with its nervous, delicate fingers, relaxed; a long, shivering sigh shook the body; and, with the fire-light shining upon his stern beauty, Graham slept. The fire burned low upon the hearth and finally flickered out, leaving a bed of glowing ashes. The quiet of the night was broken by the long shrill wail of the coyote, but Graham stirred not. A light footstep sounded near the cabin, and a scratching noise might have been heard as the head of a great bear was raised to the level of the window. The sleeper's breath never quickened; and Bruin, after a long look and a vain attempt to push the door open, gave a growl and trotted off through the underbrush toward his own cosey cave under the rocky hillside near by. A young owlet, flying aimlessly through the night, flapped itself through an opening in the roof intended to let out the smoke; and finding it difficult to escape by the place where it had entered, settled itself comfortably near the sleeper, standing on one foot, and meditatively regarding the strange creature on the bed. To all these noises Graham was deaf; but when the clatter of a horse's hoofs broke the silence, that strange half-consciousness which gives warning of an unaccustomed sound called his slumbering senses to awaken. In a moment he was perfectly conscious, and, after feeling for his pistol, lay quietly down again upon the hard couch. The rider might not pause at the shanty, and as he was in no mood for company, he would give no sign of his presence there until it was necessary. The hope was a vain one; he heard the rider call to his horse with an oath to stop. After a slight pause, the door, which he had secured with a wooden bar, was roughly shaken. The new-comer, finding the portal fast, now showed himself at the little window and peered into the room. Seeing a recumbent figure, he cried out,--

"Who the ---- is in this shanty?"

"John Graham; and who is outside?"

After a pause the voice answered,--

"A man as wants a night's rest bad, and has got as good a right to it as anybody."

"Put up your shooting-irons, Horton, and I will open the door."

First striking a match and lighting his candle, Graham unfastened the bar, and the light door swung wide. The figure out in the darkness peered doubtfully into the room.

"Don't be afraid; I am alone," said the artist coolly, seating himself upon his bunk, and proceeding to fill his pipe. The man came cautiously into the cabin, looking about him once more to make sure that Graham had spoken the truth. He was a rough-looking fellow, with a sinister expression of countenance, in great part owing to the deep scar which seamed his face from temple to chin.

The stranger seemed a good deal disconcerted at finding the artist ensconced in the lodge.

"Did n't expect to find anybody--least of all you--in this shanty."

"I do not often occupy it; though I built it myself."

"Is that so? You ain't got a mouthful of bread as yer'd let a man have as has fasted since sunrise?"

Graham's answer was to hand him a couple of rounds of hard-tack, which he quickly devoured; and to pass his flask, filled with the rough, strong wine from the vineyards of Los Angeles. The fellow poured half its contents down his throat at one draught, wiping his mouth upon the sleeve of his rough jacket. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, he handed back the flask with a regretful sigh, and seating himself on the floor by the fireplace, warmed his feet in the still hot ashes.

"You never came for those last sittings, Horton; my picture is not finished yet."

"You see, I got another job more to my taste than posturin'."

"Are you working in the neighborhood?"

"No; I am on my way to the Swindawl mines. Do you live in these yer parts?"

"Yes. You know the old church? I live in the tower."

"Rum place, that; passed it to-day."

"If you want to earn a little money to pay your travelling expenses, I should like to finish that picture."

The man did not answer, but stretched his great limbs and yawned.

"It's blasted cold for the season."

Graham nodded assent, blowing a great cloud of tobacco-smoke from his lips, and composing in his mind, meanwhile, a picture in which this wild-looking fellow, with his rough hair and coarse, strong outlines, formed the central figure. He was of a low type of humanity, with a narrow forehead and large, heavy features; his face was tanned where the skin was visible, the heavy beard growing high up on the cheeks, leaving little uncovered surface. His clothes were somewhat dilapidated, but his wide sombrero hat and high boots were strong and whole. His figure was superbly developed, and Herculean in type. As he sat crouching on the floor, hugging his knees, his back braced against the wall behind him, he nodded wearily, and, after various abortive attempts at conversation, finally fell into a sound sleep, his head resting against the wall behind him. Graham took a charred brand from the hearth, and with this rough tool drew, on a smooth board in the side of the cabin, a sketch of the man before him. As he looked narrowly at his model, he perceived that his face was disfigured by some recent scratches from which the blood was still unwashed. They were got while riding through a thorny thicket, the artist fancied, and thought no more about them, touching in the details of the desolate background. The man's expression was hardly human in his sleep, the fierce animal face was so stupid and brutish. It is wonderful how character is expressed in a sleeping countenance. The studied or unconscious control which we hold over our features when awake is overthrown in slumber, and the real nature is seen with no polite restraint or deceitful mask. A beautiful woman is beautiful no longer while sleeping, if she have a bad heart. It is a terrible thing to look upon one who is dear to us in sleep. Even when the countenance shadows forth holy dreams, it is awful to watch its still composure, so like death, and to feel that impassable distance between the unfettered soul and our own earth-bound spirit,--that distance which, but for the briefest spaces, is never bridged over in our whole lives, though they flow quietly side by side through peaceful days and happy nights.

Though the man had closed his eyes in the knowledge that it was entirely safe for him to sleep in Graham's presence, his slumber was not an easy one. He started often and groaned more than once; while his hand nervously made the movement of striking with a weapon at some unseen foe. The artist watched him for some minutes.

"I should like to have another day's work on that rascal's torso," he said at last; "I suppose if I paid him enough he would come to the tower."

As he spoke he tore a leaf from his notebook, and writing a few lines upon it placed it in the fellow's nerveless hands, lest he should steal away before morning. Then he threw himself back and slept again long and heavily. When he awoke it was broad daylight in the cabin of which he found himself the sole occupant. At first he wondered if he had dreamed that his lodging had been shared by a rough companion; but no, there was the sketch upon the wall of the sleeping figure crouching by the fireplace. Besides, his visitor had left a trace of his presence. Near the spot where he had sat lay a handkerchief. The artist carelessly picked up the square of white linen, somewhat surprised to find that it was of the finest quality. A red stain on one corner induced him to examine it more carefully. It was neatly stitched with an odd pattern which was not unfamiliar to him, and in one corner was an embroidered monogram of an intricate form. The letters were cunningly twisted together, and it took him several minutes to distinguish them. Two L's, an I, a T, an E, an N, and a C, all enclosed in a large M. Nobody in the world could have so many initials, not even a Spanish grandee. It must be a name, probably one beginning with M, as that was the most prominent letter in the chiffre. He studied it for an instant, and suddenly cried aloud that name which had become so dear to him,--"Millicent!"

What could it mean? Millicent's handkerchief in the possession of that ruffianly fellow, the dark crimson stain of blood marring its whiteness? What could have befallen her? He dared not even think of what this portended; and thrusting it into his breast, he ran to the door and looked all about him. Silence everywhere; no movement in the copse before the door; no trace of his late visitor save the broken branch of a buckeye near which his horse had been tethered.

Graham was a brave man, with nerves at once sensitive and strong; but the picture which rose before his eyes unmanned him for the moment completely. He leaned against the door-post quaking with terror, too much confused to know what next to do. He could not think; he only saw that villanous face before him in its heavy sleep, that clinching of the hand, that motion as of stabbing with a knife. In the breast of what victim had that weapon been buried? At the recollection of what crime had he groaned aloud?

The neighing of his horse in the thicket near by roused him from the benumbing horror which had bound him like a trance. He mounted the fiery animal, and struck him fiercely with his spur. The mustang darted forward at a breakneck speed, and with flying hoofs carried his rider over the steep trail which led from the cabin to the house of the San Rosario Ranch. It was a rude road, sometimes merely indicated by signs on the trees, at other places worn by the feet of cattle; it led through dry river-courses and down precipitous planes, through tangled brakes and over desolate, blackened spaces where fire had passed and blasted the trees, leaving them dead and gray, with naked branches and bare roots. No vegetation was here; only black, dry soil. It was a dangerous journey, none too safe at any time; but neither rider nor steed hesitated at sharp turns or steep descents; and the pace slackened not, though the horse foamed at the mouth and the man's face and hands were cut to bleeding by the low-hanging branches of the thorn-tree. Twenty-five miles, at the lowest rating, lay between the cabin and the house. How well Graham knew the way! How often he had passed over it with Hal and O'Neil!--a jolly trio of sportsmen. The very day before he had loitered along the same route, taking the whole day to accomplish the distance, walking sometimes with his horse following him, and never travelling at a greater speed than an easy trot. How different his thoughts had been then, when he had fancied that he had found a closer companionship than that of a loving woman's heart. Now he saw not the trees nor the wood creatures,--only that one villanous face, with its freshly bleeding wounds, with its old scar red and ugly.

Five miles accomplished: here is the great oak-tree which the lightning had struck half a century ago; but twenty miles now lie before him. Another landmark is passed,--the iron spring, with its red mouth framed in green ferns, where he had once journeyed to bring her a flask of the strengthening water. On and on they fly, startling the birds in the thickets and the foxes in their coverts, racing with the lazy breeze which puffs slowly along and is soon left behind by the horse's speed. At the spring on the hillside, where Millicent's hand had checked his shooting of the deer, the rider draws rein and springs to the ground; while the gasping horse stands for a brief breathing-space, drawing long, painful breaths. Graham cools his heated brow in the rocky basin, and gives his horse a mouthful of the refreshing water. Then they start away again towards the house where so many happy hours of his life have been spent; where he first saw Millicent! It is a terrible ride, and one that the man never will forget to his dying day. The anguish of doubt and fear, the awful pace at which he rides, which makes every mile he accomplishes seem like to be the last, will never be forgotten by him in the quiet after-years. Now but ten miles separate him from the vine-clad house; quickly are they accomplished; and in a space of time too short to be credited by those towards whom he rides, he reaches the high hill which looks down upon the valley. The familiar look of the surroundings surprises him. A blue feather of smoke curls about the red chimney; the trees in the orchard, the cattle browsing on the hills, look just as he has seen them a thousand times before; nothing betokens any unusual state of affairs within the quiet house. The brave horse gathers himself together for a last gallop; and the stones of the hillside fly from his hoofs as man and beast thunder down the rocky path which loses itself in the wide farm-road at the edge of the orchard. From this point he commands a view of Millicent's window. He gives a low groan as he looks up for some sign of life,--the heavy blinds are tightly closed.

CHAPTER XII.

"Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence

The life o' the building."

The breakfast table at the San Rosario Ranch was usually a merry one; but on the morning after what Hal had called Millicent's "magnetic exhibition," the usual good spirits were missing. Millicent took her accustomed place at Deering's side; and Galbraith marked the extraordinary change which she had suffered since she had bade him good-night the evening before. Her face had blanched to a whiteness which made the ebon lines of eyebrows and lashes seem unnatural. Her mouth was pale and contracted, and her expression of horrified anticipation reminded him of the look in the eyes of a deer at bay. What could have come to the girl? he asked himself in dismay; with a strange consciousness that whatever should befall her of good or evil from that time forth would have to him an interest beyond all else in the world. She ate her breakfast mechanically, and answered all that was said in which she could be supposed to have an interest. She laughed once, too, at one of Hal's jokes; but the sound was rough and strained. Mrs. Deering and Barbara, occupied with some household complication, merely noticed that Millicent seemed tired; and Hal put her odd look and manner down to the score of her being in love, which in his eyes accounted for every freak or unexplained symptom of hers.

It had been proposed that the day should be spent out-of-doors, at a place which Millicent had long wished to visit,--the little island in the river, below the deserted mill. Galbraith had remained to be of the party; and his two friends had promised to ride over from the camp and join them at the appointed place. Just before they started, old John arrived with a note to Mrs. Deering from Graham, who wrote that he should not be able to be of the party. Hal and Millicent drove together, as they had done on that day when Graham, in accordance with California etiquette, had stopped to kill the rattlesnakes. Old Sphinx was doing his best to keep up with the mule team, when Millicent's sensitive ears detected the sound of horses' hoofs behind them. Presently, through the thick cloud of dust, she descried two horsemen riding at full gallop towards them. The sunlight and the veil of dust made it impossible to see what manner of men they were until Millicent observed that each carried over his shoulder a long object, which glittered in the sunlight.

"Have you brought your pistols?" she asked.

"Yes, Princess, but they are in the wagon. I expected till the last moment that Graham would turn up to take you, and that I should drive the team. Why do you ask? There is no danger of our being molested."

"Look at those men. Are not those gun barrels I see on their shoulders?"

"Yes; but they are probably peaceful hunters."

The young man spoke in a perfectly careless tone, to reassure his companion; but Millicent noticed that he occasionally looked behind him as the riders gained on them. Finally, as the men drew near, Millicent saw the rider nearest her shift the gun from his shoulder and rest it across the saddle-bow, as if preparing to take aim. Hal, who had seen the action, instantly called to Millicent to catch the reins, and held up both his hands. By this time the men were close upon them, and the one who had shifted his weapon called out in a rough voice,--

"All right, boss; we know you ain't got no money, and we don't want your life to-day." His companion laughed aloud, and striking spurs to their horses, they galloped down the high-road. Hal laughed as heartily as the supposed highwayman, saying,--

"Well, that's a greaser's idea of a joke, I suppose. Adventure number one has befallen us with few bad consequences. I don't think you were half as frightened as you were the other day by the snakes."

"No, I fancy I was not. I should not much mind being killed to-day." This with a little, bitter laugh.

"And why? Let us wait till after luncheon. Barbara has put up a capital venison pasty,--a real English one, out of the Queen's own receipt book."

"Well, we will wait for the pie, to please you."

The drive was accomplished with the usual desultory chit-chat, Hal doing rather more than his share of the joking. As they passed the little hovel, the wild children ran out, as they had upon the day when they had visited the camp in the woods; and soon the gray bridge and the little island were reached. The baskets were unpacked and the luncheon spread upon the grass by the time the guests arrived. Among them were O'Neil, Hartley, Ferrara, and Mrs. Shallop, who had come over by the train; with a party of people from the village, in whom Millicent had never taken much interest. Galbraith never left Millicent's side; sparing her the necessity of talking by keeping up an incessant stream of conversation which she heard vaguely, and of which she understood not one word. In after days the import of all the young man said came back to her; and she remembered the quaint Indian legends, the reminiscences of life on the two edges of the continent, with which Maurice Galbraith kept the others of the party from her side. She realized what he was doing, and knew that he only, in all the company, understood and sympathized with her half-dazed mood; and for his efforts he received more than one little smile, sadder than tears.