Felta Schoolhouse, Sonoma County, 1910
I.Nicky Dyer and the schoolmistress sat upon the slope of a hill, one of alow range overlooking an arid Californian valley. These sunburnt slopeswere traversed by many narrow footpaths, descending, ascending, windingamong the tangle of poison-oak and wild-rose bushes, leading from theminers' cabins to the shaft-houses and tunnels of the mine which gave tothe hills their only importance. Nicky was a stout Cornish lad of thirteen,with large light eyes that seemed mildly to protest against the sportiverelation which a broad, freckled, turned-up nose bore to the rest of hiscountenance; he was doing nothing in particular, and did it as if he wereused to it. The schoolmistress sat with her skirts tucked round her ankles,the heels of her stout little boots driven well into the dry, grittysoil. There was in her attitude the tension of some slight habitualstrain--perhaps of endurance--as she leaned forward, her arms stretchedstraight before her, with her delicate fingers interlocked. Whatever maybe the type of Californian young womanhood, it was not her type; you felt,looking at her cool, clear tints and slight, straight outlines, that shehad winter in her blood.She was gazing down into the valley, as one looks at a landscape who hasnot yet mastered all its changes of expression; its details were blurred inthe hot, dusty glare; the mountains opposite had faded to a flat outlineagainst the indomitable sky. A light wind blew up the slope, flickering thepale leaves of a manzanita, whose burnished, cinnamon-colored stems glowedin the sun. As the breeze strengthened, the young girl stood up, liftingher arms, to welcome its coolness on her bare wrists."Nicky, why do the trees in that hollow between the hills look so green?""There'll be water over there, miss; that's the Chilano's spring. I'mthinkin' the old cow might 'a' strayed over that way somewheres; theymostly goes for the water, wherever it is.""Is it running water, Nicky,--not water in a tank?""Why, no, miss; it cooms right out o' the rock as pretty as iver you saw!I often goes there myself for a drink, cos it tastes sort o' different,coomin' out o' the ground like. We wos used to that kind o' water at 'ome.""Let us go, Nicky," said the girl. "I should like to taste that water, too.Do we cross the hill first, or is there a shorter way?""Over the 'ill's the shortest, miss. It's a bit of a ways, but you've beenlonger ways nor they for less at th' end on't."They "tacked" down the steepest part of the hill, and waded through ashady hollow, where ferns grew rank and tall,--crisp, faded ferns, with anaromatic odor which escaped by the friction of their garments, like theperfume of warmed amber. They reached at length the green trees, a clumpof young cottonwoods at the entrance to a narrow canon, and followed thedry bed of a stream for some distance, until water began to show among thestones. The principal outlet of the spring was on a small plantation at thehead of the canon, rented of the "company" by a Chilian, or "the Chilano,"as he was called; he was not at all a pastoral-looking personage, but, withthe aid of his good water, he earned a moderately respectable living bysupplying the neighboring cabins and the miners' boarding-house with greenvegetables. After a temporary disappearance, as if to purge its memory ofthe Chilano's water-buckets, the spring again revealed itself in a thin,clear trickle down the hollowed surface of a rock which closed the narrowpassage of the canon. Young sycamores and cottonwoods shut out the sunabove; their tangled roots, interlaced with vines still green and growing,trailed over the edge of the rock, where a mass of earth had fallen; greenmoss lined the hollows of the rock, and water-plants grew in the dark poolsbelow.The strollers had left behind them the heat and glare; only the breezefollowed them into this green stillness, stirring the boughs overhead andscattering spots of sunlight over the wet stones. Nicky, after enjoyingfor a few moments the schoolmistress' surprised delight, proposed that sheshould wait for him at the spring, while he went "down along" in searchof his cow. Nicky was not without a certain awe of the schoolmistress, asa part of creation he had not fathomed in all its bearings; but when theyrambled on the hills together, he found himself less uneasily conscious ofher personality, and more comfortably aware of the fact that, after all,she was "nothin' but a woman." He was a trifle disappointed that she showedno uneasiness at being left alone, but consoled himself by the reflectionthat she was "a good un to 'old 'er tongue," and probably felt more thanshe expressed.The schoolmistress did not look in the least disconsolate after Nicky'sdeparture. She gazed about her very contentedly for a while, and thenprepared to help herself to a drink of water. She hollowed her two handsinto a cup, and waited for it to fill, stooping below the rock, her liftedskirt held against her side by one elbow, while she watched with a childisheagerness the water trickle into her pink palms. Miss Frances Newell hadnever looked prettier in her life. A pretty girl is always prettier inthe open air, with her head uncovered. Her cheeks were red; the sun justtouched the roughened braids of dark brown hair, and intensified the glowof a little ear which showed beneath. She stooped to drink; but MissFrances was destined never to taste that virgin cup of water. There was atrampling among the bushes, overhead; a little shower of dust and pebblespattered down upon her bent head, soiling the water. She let her hands fallas she looked up, with a startled "Oh!" A pair of large boots were rapidlymaking their way down the bank, and the cause of all this disturbance stoodbefore her,--a young man in a canvas jacket, with a leathern case slungacross his shoulder, and a small tin lamp fastened in front of the hatwhich he took off while he apologized to the girl for his intrusion."Miss Newell! Forgive me for dropping down on you like a thousand of brick!You've found the spring, I see."Miss Frances stood with her elbows still pressed to her sides, though herskirt had slipped down into the water, her wet palms helplessly extended."I was getting a drink," she said, searching with the tips of her fingersamong the folds of her dress for a handkerchief. "You came just in time toremind me of the slip between the cup and the lip.""I'm very sorry, but there is plenty of water left. I came for some myself.Let me help you." He took from one of the many pockets stitched into thebreast and sides of his jacket a covered flask, detached the cup, and,after carefully rinsing, filled and handed it to the girl. "I hope itdoesn't taste of 'store claret;' the water underground is just a shadeworse than that exalted vintage.""It is delicious, thank you, and it doesn't taste in the least of claret.Have you just come out of the mine?""Yes. It is measuring-up day. I've been toddling through the drifts andsliding down chiflons"--he looked ruefully at the backs of his trouserslegs--"ever since seven o'clock this morning. Haven't had time to eat anyluncheon yet, you see." He took from another pocket a small package foldedin a coarse napkin. "I came here to satisfy the pangs of hunger and enjoythe beauties of nature at the same time,--such nature as we have here. Willyou excuse me, Miss Newell? I'll promise to eat very fast.""I'll excuse you if you will not ask me to eat with you.""Oh, I've entirely too much consideration for myself to think of such athing; there isn't enough for two."He seated himself, with a little sigh, and opened the napkin on the groundbefore him. Miss Newell stood leaning against a rock on the opposite sideof the brook, regarding the young man with a shy and smiling curiosity."Meals," he continued, "are a reckless tribute to the weakness of the fleshwe all engage in three times a day at the boarding-house; a man must eat,you know, if he expects to live. Have you ever tried any of Mrs. Bondy'sfare, Miss Newell?""I'm sure Mrs. Bondy tries to have everything very nice," the young girlreplied, with some embarrassment."Of course she does; she is a very good old girl. I think a great deal ofMrs. Bondy; but when she asks me if I have enjoyed my dinner, I always makea point of telling her the truth; she respects me for it. This is her ideaof sponge cake, you see." He held up admiringly a damp slab of some compactpale-yellow substance, with crumbs of bread adhering to one side. "It is alittle mashed, but otherwise a fair specimen."Miss Frances laughed. "Mr. Arnold, I think you are too bad. How can shehelp it, with those dreadful Chinamen? But I would really advise you not toeat that cake; it doesn't look wholesome.""Oh, as to that, I've never observed any difference; one thing is aboutas wholesome as another. Did you ever eat bacon fried by China Sam? Thesandwiches were made of that. You see I still live." The sponge cake wasrapidly disappearing. "Miss Newell, you look at me as if I were making awaywith myself, instead of the cake,--will you appear at the inquest?""No, I will not testify to anything so unromantic; besides, it might beinconvenient for Mrs. Bondy's cook." She put on her hat, and stepped alongthe stones towards the entrance to the glen."You are not going to refuse me the last offices?""I am going to look for Nicky Dyer. He came with me to show me the spring,and now he has gone to hunt for his cow.""And you are going to hunt for him? I hope you won't try it, Miss Frances:a boy on the track of a cow is a very uncertain object in life. Let me callhim, if you really must have him.""Oh, don't trouble yourself. I suppose he will come after a while. I said Iwould wait for him here.""Then permit me to say that I think you had better do as you promised."Miss Frances recrossed the stones, and seated herself, with a faintdeprecatory smile."I hope you don't mind if I stay," Arnold said, moving some loose stones tomake her seat more comfortable. "You have the prior right to-day, but thisis an old haunt of mine. I feel as if I were doing the honors; and to tellyou the truth, I am rather used up. The new workings are very hot and thedrifts are low. It's a combination of steam-bath and hoeing corn."The girl's face cleared, as she looked at him. His thin cheek was paleunder the tan, and where his hat was pushed back the hair clung in damppoints to his forehead and temples."I should be very sorry to drive you away," she said. "I thought you lookedtired. If you want to go to sleep, or anything, I will promise to be veryquiet."Arnold laughed. "Oh, I'm not such an utter wreck; but I'm glad you can bevery quiet. I was afraid you might be a little uproarious at times, youknow."The girl gave a sudden shy laugh. It was really a giggle, but a very sweet,girlish giggle. It called up a look of keen pleasure to Arnold's face."Now I call this decidedly gay," he remarked, stretching out his long legsslowly, and leaning against a slanting rock, with one arm behind his head."Miss Frances, will you be good enough to tell me that my face isn'tdirty?""Truth compels me to admit that you have one little daub over your lefteyebrow.""Thank you," said Arnold, rubbing it languidly with his handkerchief. Hishat had dropped off, and he did not replace it; he did not look at thegirl, but let his eyes rest on the thread of falling water that gleamedfrom the spring. Miss Frances, regarding him with some timidity, thought:How much younger he looks without his hat! He had that sensitive fairnesswhich in itself gives a look of youth and purity; the sternness of hisface lay in the curves which showed under his mustache, and in the silent,dominant eye."You've no idea how good it sounds to a lonely fellow like me," he said,"to hear a girl's laugh.""But there are a great many women here," Miss Frances observed."Oh yes, there are women everywhere, such as they are; but it takes a nicegirl, a lady, to laugh!""I don't agree with you at all," replied Miss Frances coldly. "Some ofthose Mexican women have the sweetest voices, speaking or laughing, that Ihave ever heard; and the Cornish women, too, have very fresh, pure voices.I often listen to them in the evening when I sit alone in my room. Theirvoices sound so happy"--"Well, then it is the home accent,--or I'm prejudiced. Don't laugh again,please, Miss Frances; it breaks me all up." He moved his head a little, andlooked across at the girl to assure himself that her silence did not meandisapproval. "I admit," he went on, "that I like our Eastern girls. I knowyou are from the East, Miss Newell.""I am from what I used to think was East," she said, smiling. "Buteverything is East here; people from Indiana and Wisconsin say they arefrom the East.""Ah, but you are from our old Atlantic coast. I was sure of it when I firstsaw you. If you will pardon me, I knew it by your way of dressing."The young girl flushed with pleasure; then, with a reflective air: "Iconfess myself, since you speak of clothes, to a feeling of relief when Isaw your hat the first Sunday after I came. Western men wear such dreadfulhats.""Good!" he cried gayly. "You mean my hat that I call a hat." He reachedfor the one behind his head, and spun it lightly upward, where it settledon a projecting branch. "I respect that hat myself,--my other hat, Imean; I'm trying to live up to it. Now, let me guess your State, MissNewell: is it Massachusetts?""No,--Connecticut; but at this distance it seems like the same thing.""Oh, pardon me, there are very decided differences. I'm from Massachusettsmyself. Perhaps the points of difference show more in the women,--the oneswho stay at home, I mean, and become more local and idiomatic than the men.You are not one of the daughters of the soil, Miss Newell."She looked pained as she said, "I wish I were; but there is not room for usall, where there is so little soil."Arnold moved uneasily, extracted a stone from under the small of hisback and tossed it out of sight with some vehemence. "You think it goesrather hard with women who are uprooted, then," he said. "I suppose it issomething a roving man can hardly conceive of,--a woman's attachment toplaces, and objects, and associations; they are like cats."Miss Newell was silent.Arnold moved restlessly; then began again, with his eyes still on thetrickle of water: "Miss Newell, do you remember a poem--I think it isBryant's--called 'The Hunter of the Prairies'? It's no disgrace not toremember it, and it may not be Bryant's.""I remember seeing it, but I never read it. I always skipped those Westernthings."Arnold gave a short laugh, and said, "Well, you are punished, you see, bygoing West yourself to hear me repeat it to you. I think I can give you theidea in the Hunter's own words:--"'Here, with my rifle and my steed,And her who left the world for me'"--The sound of his own voice in the stillness of the little glen, and a lookof surprise in the young girl's quiet eyes, brought a sudden access ofcolor to Arnold's face. "Hm-m-m," he murmured to himself, "it's queer howrhymes slip away. Well, the last line ends in free. You see, it is aman's idea of happiness,--a young man's. Now, how do you suppose sheliked it,--the girl, you know, who left the world, and all that? Did youever happen to see a poem or a story, written by a woman, celebrating thejoys of a solitary existence with the man of her heart?""I suppose that many a woman has tried it," Miss Newell said evasively,"but I'm sure she"--"Never lived to tell the tale?" cried Arnold."She probably had something else to do, while the hunter was riding aroundwith his gun," Miss Frances continued."Well, give her the odds of the rifle and the steed; give the man somecommonplace employment to take the swagger out of him; let him come homereasonably tired and cross at night,--do you suppose he would find the'kind' eyes and the 'smile'? I forgot to tell you that the Hunter of thePrairies is always welcomed by a smile at night.""He must have been an uncommonly fortunate man," she said."Of course he was; but the question is: Could any living man be sofortunate? Come, Miss Frances, don't prevaricate!""Well, am I speaking for the average woman?""Oh, not at all,--you are speaking for the very nicest of women; any otherkind would be intolerable on a prairie.""I should think, if she were very healthy," said Miss Newell, hesitatingbetween mischief and shyness, "and not too imaginative, and of a cheerfuldisposition; and if he, the hunter, were above the average,--supposing thatshe cared for him in the beginning,--I should think the smile might last ayear or two.""Heavens, what a cynic you are! I feel like a mere daub of sentiment besideyou. There have been moments, do you know, even in this benighted miningcamp, when I have believed in that hunter and his smile!"He got up suddenly, and stood against the rock, facing her. Although hekept his cool, bantering tone, his breathing had quickened, and his eyeslooked darker."You may consider me a representative man, if you please: I speak forhundreds of us scattered about in mining camps and on cattle ranches, inlighthouses and frontier farms and military posts, and all the Godforsakenholes you can conceive of, where men are trying to earn a living, or loseone,--we are all going to the dogs for the want of that smile! What is tobecome of us if the women whose smiles we care for cannot support life inthe places where we have to live? Come, Miss Frances, can't you make thatsmile last at least two years?" He gathered a handful of dry leaves from abroken branch above his head and crushed them in his long hands, siftingthe yellow dust upon the water below."The places you speak of are very different," the girl answered, witha shade of uneasiness in her manner. "A mining camp is anything but asolitude, and a military post may be very gay.""Oh, the principle is the same. It is the absolute giving up of everything.You know most women require a background of family and friends andcongenial surroundings; the question is whether any woman can do withoutthem."The young girl moved in a constrained way, and flushed as she said, "Itmust always be an experiment, I suppose, and its success would depend, as Isaid before, on the woman and on the man.""An 'experiment' is good!" said Arnold, rather savagely. "I see you won'tsay anything you can't swear to.""I really do not see that I am called upon to say anything on the subjectat all!" said the girl, rising and looking at him across the brook withindignant eyes and a hot glow on her cheek.He did not appear to notice her annoyance."You are, because you know something about it, and most women don't: yourtestimony is worth something. How long have you been here,--a year? Iwonder how it seems to a woman to live in a place like this a year! I hateit all, you know,--I've seen so much of it. But is there really any beautyhere? I suppose beauty, and all that sort of thing, is partly within us,isn't it?--at least, that's what the goody little poems tell us.""I think it is very beautiful here," said Miss Frances, softening, as helaid aside his strained manner, and spoke more quietly. "It is the kindof place a happy woman might be very happy in; but if she weresad--or--disappointed"--"Well?" said Arnold, pulling at his mustache, and fixing a rather gloomygaze upon her."She would die of it! I really do not think there would be any hope for herin a place like this.""But if she were happy, as you say," persisted the young man, "don'tyou think her woman's adaptability and quick imagination would help herimmensely? She wouldn't see what I, for instance, know to be ugly andcoarse; her very ignorance of the world would help her."There was a vague, pleading look in his eyes. "Arrange it to suityourself," she said. "Only, I can assure you, if anything should happen toher, it will be the--the hunter's fault.""All right," said he, rousing himself. "That hunter, if I know him, is aman who is used to taking risks! Where are you going?""I thought I heard Nicky."They were both silent, and as they listened, footsteps, with a tinklingaccompaniment, crackled among the bushes below the canon. Miss Newellturned towards the spring again. "I want one more drink before I go," shesaid.Arnold followed her. "Let us drink to our return. Let this be our fountainof Trevi.""Oh, no," said Miss Frances. "Don't you remember what your favorite Bryantsays about bringing the 'faded fancies of an elder world' into these'virgin solitudes'?""Faded fancies!" cried Arnold. "Do you call that a faded fancy? It is asfresh and graceful as youth itself, and as natural. I should have thoughtof it myself, if there had been no fountain of Trevi.""Do you think so?" smiled the girl. "Then imagination, it would seem, isnot entirely confined to homesick women.""Come, fill the cup, Miss Frances! Nicky is almost here."The girl held her hands beneath the trickle again, until they were brimmingwith the clear sweet water."Drink first," said Arnold."I'm not sure that I want to return," she replied, smiling, with her eyeson the space of sky between the treetops."Nonsense,--you must be morbid. Drink, drink!""Drink yourself; the water is all running away!"He bent his head, and took a vigorous sip of the water, holding his handsbeneath hers, inclosing the small cup in the larger one. The small cuptrembled a little. He was laughing and wiping his mustache, when Nickyappeared; and Miss Frances, suddenly brightening and recovering her freedomof movement, exclaimed, "Why, Nicky! You have been forever! We must go atonce, Mr. Arnold; so good-by! I hope"--She did not say what she hoped, and Arnold, after looking at her with aninterrogative smile a moment, caught his hat from the branch overhead, andmade her a great flourishing bow with it in his hand.He did not follow her, pushing her way through the swaying, rustling ferns,but he watched her light figure out of sight. "What an extraordinary assI've been making of myself!" He confided this remark to the stillness ofthe little canon, and then, with long strides, took his way over the hillsin an opposite direction.It was the middle of July when this little episode of the spring occurred.The summer had reached its climax. The dust did not grow perceptiblydeeper, nor the fields browner, during the long brazen weeks that followed;one only wearied of it all, more and more.So thought Miss Newell, at least. It was her second summer in California,and the phenomenon of the dry season was not so impressive on itsrepetition. She had been surprised to observe how very brief had been thecharm of strangeness, in her experience of life in a new country. She beganto wonder if a girl, born and brought up among the hills of Connecticut,could have the seeds of ennui subtly distributed through her frame, toreach a sudden development in the heat of a Californian summer. She longedfor the rains to begin, that in their violence and the sound of the windshe might gain a sense of life in action by which to eke out her dull andexpressionless days. She was, as Nicky Dyer had said, "a good un to 'old'er tongue," and therein lay her greatest strength as well as her greatestdanger.Miss Newell boarded at Captain Dyer's. The prosperous ex-mining captainwas a good deal nearer to the primitive type than any man Miss Newell hadever sat at table with in her life before, but she had a thorough respectfor him, and she felt that the time might come when she could enjoyhim--as a reminiscence. Mrs. Dyer was kindly, and not more of a gossipthan her neighbors; and there were no children,--only one grandchild,the inoffensive Nicky. The ways of the house were somewhat uncouth, buteverything was clean and in a certain sense homelike. To Miss Newell'shomesick sensitiveness it seemed better than being stared at across theboarding-house table by Boker and Pratt, and pitied by the engineer. Shehad a little room at the Dyers', which was a reflection of herself so faras a year's occupancy and very moderate resources could make it; perhapsfor that very reason she often found her little room an intolerable prison.One night her homesickness had taken its worst form, a restlessness, whichbegan in a nervous inward throbbing and extended to her cold and tremulousfinger-tips. She went softly downstairs and out on the piazza, where themoonlight lay in a brilliant square on the unpainted boards. The moonlightincreased her restlessness, but she could not keep away from it. She darednot walk up and down the piazza, because the people in the street belowwould see her; she stood there perfectly still, holding her elbows with herhands, crouched into a little dark heap against the side of the house.Lights were twinkling, far and near, over the hills, singly, and inclusters. Black figures moved across the moonlit spaces in the street.There were sounds of talking, laughing, and singing; dogs barking;occasionally a stir and tinkle in the scrub, as a cow wandered past. Theengines throbbed from the distant shaft-houses. A miner's wife was hushingher baby in the next house, and across the street a group of Mexicans weretalking all at once in a loud, monotonous cadence.In her early days at the mines there had been a certain piquancy in hersense of the contrast between herself and her circumstances, but that hadlong passed into a dreary recognition of the fact that she had no real partin the life of the place.She recalled one afternoon when Arnold had passed the schoolhouse, andfound her sitting alone on the doorstep. He had stopped to ask if that"mongrel pack on the hill were worrying the life out of her," and had addedwith a laugh, in answer to her look of silent disapproval, "Oh, I mean thedear lambs of your flock. I saw two of them just now on the trail, fightingover a lame donkey. The clans were gathering on both sides; there will bea pitched battle in a few minutes. The donkey was enjoying it. I thinkhe was asleep!" The day had been an unusually hard one, and the patientlittle schoolmistress was just then struggling with a distracted sense ofunavailing effort. Arnold's grim banter had brought the tears, as bloodfollows a blow. He got down from his horse, looking wretched at what he haddone. "I am a brute, I believe,--worse than any of the pack. You have somuch patience with them,--please have a little with me. Trust me, I am notutterly blind to your sufferings. Indeed, Miss Newell, I see them, and theymake me savage!" With the gentlest touch he had lifted her hand, held it inhis a moment, and then had mounted his horse and ridden away.Yes, he did understand,--she felt sure of that. What an unutterable restit would be if she could go to some one with the small worries of her life!But she could not yield to such impulses. It was different with men. Shehad often thought of Arnold's words that day at the spring, all the morethat he had never, before or since, revealed so much of himself to her.Under an apparently careless frankness and extravagance of speech he was areticent man; but lightly spoken as the words had been, were they not thesparks and ashes blown from a deep and smothered core of fire? She seemedto feel its glow on her cheek as she recalled his singular persistence andthe darkening of his imperious eyes. No, she would not permit herself tothink of that day at the spring.There was a bright light in the engineer's office across the street. Shecould see Arnold through the windows (for, like a man, he did not pull hisshades down) at one of the long drawing-tables. He worked late, it seemed.He was writing; he wrote rapidly page after page, tearing each sheet fromwhat appeared to be a paper block, and tossing it on the table beside him;he covered only one side of the paper, she noticed, thinking with a smileof her own small economies. Presently he got up, swept the papers togetherin his hands, and stooped over them. He is numbering and folding them,she thought, and now he is directing the envelope,--to whom, I wonder!He turned, and as he walked towards the window she saw him put somethinginto the pocket of his coat. He lighted a cigar, and began walking, withlong strides, up and down the room, one hand in his pocket; the otherhe occasionally rubbed over his eyes and head, as if they hurt him. Sheremembered that the engineer had headaches, and wished that somebody wouldask him to try valerian. Is he ever really lonely? she thought. What canhe, what can any man, know of loneliness? He may go out and walk about onthe hills; he may go away altogether, and take the risks of life somewhereelse. A woman must take no risks. There is not a house in the camp wherehe might not enter to-night, if he chose; he might come over here andtalk to me. The East, with all its cherished memories and prejudices andassociations, seemed so hopelessly far away; they two alone, in thatstrange, uncongenial new world which had crowded out the old, seemed tospeak a common language: and yet how little she really knew of him!Suddenly the lights disappeared from the windows of the office. She hearda door unlock, and presently the young man's figure crossed the street andturned up the trail past the house.Two other figures going up halted, and the taller one said, "Will you go upon the hill, to-night, Arnold?""What for?" said Arnold, slackening his pace without stopping."Oh, nothing in particular,--to see the senoritas.""Oh, thank you, Boker, I've seen the senoritas."He walked quickly past the men, and the shorter one, who had not spoken,called after him rather huskily,--"W-what do you think of the little school-ma'am?"Arnold turned back and confronted the speaker in silence."I say! Is she thin 'nough to suit you?" the heavy-playful one persisted."Shut up, Jack!" said his comrade. "You're a little high now, you know."He dragged him on, up the trail; the voices of the two men blended with thenight chorus of the camp as they passed out of sight.Miss Newell sat perfectly still for a while; then she went to her room, andthrew herself down on the bed, listening to an endless mental repetition ofthose words that the faithless night had brought to her ear. The moonlighthad left the piazza, and crept round to the side of the house; it shonein at the window, touching the girl's cold fingers pressed to her burningcheeks and temples. She got up, drew the curtain, and groped her way backto the bed, where she lay for hours, trying to convince herself that hermisery was out of all proportion to the cause, and that those coarse wordscould make no real difference in her life.They did make a little difference: they loosened the slight, indefinitethreads of intercourse which a year had woven between these two exiles.Miss Newell was prepared to withdraw from any further overtures offriendship from the engineer; but he made it unnecessary for her to doso,--he made no overtures. On the night of Pratt's tipsy salutation he hadabruptly decided that a mining camp was no place for a nice girl, with noacknowledged masculine protector. In Miss Newell's circumstances a girlmust be left entirely alone, or exposed to the gossip of the camp. Heknew very well which she would choose, and so he kept away,--though atconsiderable loss to himself, he felt. It made him cross to watch herpretty figure going up the trail every morning and to reflect that so muchsweetness and refinement should not be having its ameliorating influence onhis own barren and somewhat defiant existence.II.The autumn rains set in early, and the winter was unusually severe. Arnoldhad a purpose which kept him hard at work and very happy in those days.During the long December nights he was shut up in his office, ploddingover his maps and papers, or smoking in dreamy comfort by the fire. He wasseldom interrupted, for he had earned the character of a social ingrate andhardened recluse in the camp. He had earned it quite unconsciously, andwas as little troubled by the fact as by its consequences. On the eveningof New Year's Day he crossed the street to the Dyers' and asked for MissNewell. She presently greeted him in the parlor, where she looked, Arnoldthought, more than ever out of place, among the bead baskets, and splintframes inclosing photographs of deceased members of the Dyer family, andthe pallid walls, weak-legged chairs, and crude imaginings in worsted work.Her apparent unconsciousness of these abominations was another source ofirritation. It is always irritating to a man to see a charming woman in anunhappy and false position, where he is powerless to help her. Arnold hadnot expected that it would be a very exhilarating occasion,--he rememberedthe Dyer parlor,--but it was even less pleasant than he had expected. Hesat down, carefully, in a glued chair whose joints had opened with thedry season and refused to close again; he did not know where the transferof his person might end. Captain Dyer was present, and told a great manystories in a loud, tiring voice. Miss Frances sat by with some soft whiteknitting in her hands, and her attitude of patient attention made Arnoldlong to attack her with some savage pleasantries on the subject ofChristmas in a mining camp; it seemed to him that patience was a virtuethat could be carried too far, even in woman. Then Mrs. Dyer came in, andmanoeuvred her husband out into the passage; after some loudly suggestivewhispering there, she succeeded in getting him into the kitchen, and shutthe door. Arnold got up soon after that, and said good-evening.Miss Newell remained in the parlor for some time, after he had gone, movingsoftly about. She had gathered her knitting closely into her clasped hands;the ball trailed after her, among the legs of the chairs, and when inher silent promenade she had spun a grievous tangle of wool she sat down,and dropped the work out of her hands with a helpless gesture. Her headdrooped, and tears trickled slowly between the slender white fingerswhich covered her face. Presently the fingers descended to her throat andclasped it close, as if to still an intolerable throbbing ache which herhalf-suppressed tears had left.At length she rose, picked up her work, and patiently followed the tangledclue until she had recovered her ball; then she wound it all up neatly,wrapped the knitting in a thin white handkerchief, and went to her room.With the fine March weather--fine in spite of the light rains--the engineerwas laying out a road to the new shaft; it wound along the hillside whereMiss Newell had first seen the green trees, by the spring. The engineer'sorders included the building of a flume, carrying the water down from theChilano's plantation into a tank, built on the ruins of the rock which hadguarded the sylvan spring. The discordant voices of a gang of Chinamenprofaned the stillness which had framed Miss Frances' girlish laughter;the blasting of the rock had loosened, to their fall, the clustering treesabove, and the brook below was a mass of trampled mud.The engineer's visits to the spring gave him no pleasure, in those days. Hefelt that he was the inevitable instrument of its desecration; but over thehill, just in sight from the spring, carpenters were putting a new piazzaround a cottage that stood remote from the camp, where a spur of the hillsdescended steeply towards the valley. Arnold took a great interest in thiscottage. He was frequently to be seen there in the evening, tramping up anddown the new piazza, and offering to the moon, that looked in through theboughs of a live-oak at the end of the gallery, the incense of his lonelycigar. Sometimes he would take the key of the front door from his pocket,enter the silent house, and wander from one room to another, like arestless but not unhappy ghost; the moonlight, touching his face, showed itstrangely stirred and softened. His was no melancholy madness.Arnold was leaning on the gate of this cottage, one afternoon, when theschoolmistress came down the trail from the camp. She did not appear to seehim, but turned off from the trail at a little distance from the cottage,and took her way across the hill behind it. Arnold watched her a fewminutes, and then followed, overtaking her on the hills above the new road,where she had sat with Nicky Dyer nearly a year ago."I don't like to see you wandering about here, alone," he said. "The men onthe road are a scratch gang, picked up anyhow, not like the regular miners.I hope you are not going to the spring!""Why?" said she. "Did you not drink to our return?""But you would not drink with me, so the spell did not work; and now thespring is gone,--all its beauty, I mean. The water is there, in a tank,where the Chinamen fill their buckets night and morning, and the teamsterswater their horses. We'll go over there, if you would like to see the marchof modern improvements.""No," she said; "I had rather remember it as it was; still, I don't believein being sentimental about such things. Let us sit down a while."A vague depression, which Arnold had been aware of in her manner when theymet, became suddenly manifest in her paleness and in a look of dull pain inher eyes."But you are hurt about it," he said. "I wish I hadn't told you in thatbrutal way. I'm afraid I'm not many degrees removed from the primevalsavage, after all.""Oh, you needn't mind," she said, after a moment. "That was the only placeI cared for, here, so now there will be nothing to regret when I go away.""Are you going away, then? I'm very sorry to hear it; but of course I'mnot surprised. You couldn't be expected to stand it another year; thosechildren must have been something fearful.""Oh, it wasn't the children.""Well, I'm sorry. I had hoped"--"Yes," said she, with a modest interrogation, as he hesitated, "what is ityou had hoped?""That I might indirectly be the means of making your life less lonely here.You remember that 'experiment' we talked about at the spring?""That you talked about, you mean.""I am going to try it myself. Not because you were soencouraging,--but--it's a risk anyway, you know, and I'm not sure thecircumstances make so much difference. I've known people to be wretchedwith all the modern conveniences. I am going East for her in about twoweeks. How sorry she will be to find you gone! I wrote to her about you.You might have helped each other; couldn't you stand it, Miss Newell, don'tyou think, if you had another girl?""I'm afraid not," she said very gently. "I must go home. You may be sureshe will not need me; you must see to it that she doesn't need--any one."They were walking back and forth on the hill."I was just looking for the cottonwood-trees; are they gone too?" sheasked."Oh yes; there isn't a tree left in the canon. Don't you envy me my work?""I suppose everything we do seems like desecration to somebody. Here am Imaking history very rapidly for this colony of ants." She looked down witha rueful smile as she spoke."I wish you had the history of the entire species under your foot, andcould finish it at once.""I'm not sure that I would; I'm not so fond of extermination as you pretendto be.""Well, keep the ants if you like them, but I am firm on the subject ofthe camp children. There are blessings that brighten as they take theirflight. I pay my monthly assessment for the doctor with the greatestcheerfulness; if it wasn't for him, in this climate, they would crowd usoff the hill.""Please don't!" she said wearily. "Even I don't like to hear you talklike that; I am sure she will not."He laughed softly. "You have often reminded me of her in little ways: thatwas what upset me at the spring. I was very near telling you all about herthat day.""I wish that you had!" she said. They were walking towards home now. "Isuppose you know it is talked of in the camp," she said, after a pause."Mr. Dyer told me, and showed me the house, a week ago. And now I must tellyou about my violets. I had them in a box in my room all winter. I shouldlike to leave them as a little welcome to her. Last night Nicky Dyer andI planted them on the bank by the piazza under the climbing-rose; it wasa secret between Nicky and me, and Nicky promised to water them until shecame; but of course I meant to tell you. Will you look at them to-night,please, and see if Nicky has been faithful?""I will, indeed," said Arnold. "That is just the kind of thing shewill delight in. If you are going East, Miss Newell, shall we not befellow-travelers? I should be so glad to be of any service.""No, thank you. I am to spend a month in Santa Barbara, and escort aninvalid friend home. I shall have to say good-by, now. Don't go any fartherwith me, please."That night Arnold mused late, leaning over the railing of the new piazzain the moonlight. He fancied that a faint perfume of violets came from thedamp earth below; but it could have been only fancy, for when he searchedthe bank for them they were not there. The new sod was trampled, and a fewleaves and slight, uptorn roots lay scattered about, with some broken twigsfrom the climbing-rose. He had found the gate open when he came, and theDyer cow had passed him, meandering peacefully up the trail.* * * * *The crescent moon had waxed and waned since the night when it lighted theengineer's musings through the wind-parted live-oak boughs, and anotherslender bow gleamed in the pale, tinted haze of twilight. The month hadgone, like a feverish dream, to the young schoolmistress, as she lay in hersmall, upper chamber, unconscious of all save alternate light and darkness,and rest following pain. When, at last, she crept down the short staircaseto breathe the evening coolness, clinging to the stair-rail and holding hersoft white draperies close around her, she saw the pink light lingeringon the mountains, and heard the chorus to the "Sweet By and By" from theminers' chapel on the hill. It was Sunday evening, and the house waspiously "emptied of its folk." She took her old seat by the parlor window,and looked across to the engineer's office; its windows and doors wereshut, and the dogs of the camp were chasing each other over the looseboards of the piazza floor. She laughed a weak, convulsive laugh, thinkingof the engineer's sallies of old upon that band of Ishmaelites, and of thescrambling, yelping rush that followed. He must have gone East, else thedogs had not been so bold. She looked down the valley where the mountainsparted seaward, the only break in the continuous barrier of land that cutoff her retreat and closed in about the atom of her own identity. Thethought of that immensity of distance made her faint.There were steps on the porch,--not Captain Dyer's, for he and his goodwife were lending their voices to swell the stentorian chorus that wasshaking the church on the hill; the footsteps paused at the door, andArnold himself opened it. He had not, evidently, expected to see her."I was looking for some one to ask about you," he said. "Are you sure youare able to be down?""Oh yes. I've been sitting up for several days. I wanted to see themountains again."He was looking at her intently, while she flushed with weakness, and drewthe fringes of her shawl over her tremulous hands."How ill you have been! I have wished myself a woman, that I might dosomething for you! I suppose Mrs. Dyer nursed you like a horse.""Oh no; she was very good; but I don't remember much about the worst of it.I thought you had gone home.""Home! Where do you mean? I didn't know that I had ever boasted of anyreserved rights of that kind. I have no mortgage, in fact or sentiment, onany part of the earth's surface, that I'm acquainted with!"He spoke with a hard carelessness in his manner which make her shrink."I mean the East. I am homeless, too, but all the East seems like home tome.""You had better get rid of those sentimental, backward fancies as soon aspossible. The East concerns itself very little about us, I can tell you! Itcan spare us."She thrilled with pain at his words. "I should think you would be the lastone to say so,--you, who have so much treasure there.""Will you please to understand," he said, turning upon her a face of bittercalmness, "that I claim no treasure anywhere,--not even in heaven!"She sat perfectly still, conscious that by some fatality of helplessincomprehension every word that she said goaded him, and she feared tospeak again."Now I have hurt you," he said in his gentlest voice. "I am always hurtingyou. I oughtn't to come near you with my rough edges! I'll go away now, ifyou will tell me that you forgive me!"She smiled at him without speaking, while her fair throat trembled with apulse of pain."Will you let me take your hand a moment? It is so long since I havetouched a woman's hand! God! how lonely I am! Don't look at me in that way;don't pity me, or I shall lose what little manhood I have left!""What is it?" she said, leaning towards him. "There is something strange inyour face. If you are in trouble, tell me; it will help me to hear it. I amnot so very happy myself.""Why should I add my load to yours? I seem always to impose myself uponyou, first my hopes, and now my--no, it isn't despair; it is only a kindof brutal numbness. You must have the fatal gift of sympathy, or you wouldnever have seen my little hurt."Miss Frances was not strong enough to bear the look in his eyes as heturned them upon her, with a dreary smile. She covered her face with onehand, while she whispered,--"Is it--you have not lost her?""Yes! Or, rather, I never had her. I've been dreaming like a boy all theseyears,--'In sleep a king, but waking, no such matter.'""It is not death, then?""No, she is not dead. She is not even false; that is, not very false. Howcan I tell you how little it is, and yet how much! She is only a trifleselfish. Why shouldn't she be? Why should we men claim the exclusive rightto choose the best for ourselves? It was selfish of me to ask her to sharesuch a life as mine; and she has gently and reasonably reminded me thatI'm not worth the sacrifice. It's quite true. I always knew I wasn't. Sheput it very delicately and sweetly;--she's the sweetest girl you ever saw.She'd marry me to-morrow if I could add myself, such as I am,--she doesn'toverrate me,--to what she has already; but an exchange she wasn't preparedfor. In all my life I never was so clearly estimated, body and soul. Idon't blame her, you understand. When I left her, three years ago, I saw myway easily enough to a reputation, and an income, and a home in the East;she never thought of anything else; I never taught her to look for anythingelse. I dare say she rather enjoyed having a lover working for her in theunknown West; she enjoyed the pretty letters she wrote me; but when it cameto the bare bones of existence in a mining camp, with a husband not veryrich or very distinguished, she had nothing to clothe them with. You saidonce that to be happy here a woman must not have too much imagination; shehadn't quite enough. I had to be dead honest with her when I asked her tocome. I told her there was nothing here but the mountains and the sunsets,and a few items of picturesqueness which count with some people. Of courseI had to tell her I was but little better off than when I left. A man'sexperience is something he cannot set forth at its value to himself; shepassed it over as a word of no practical meaning. There her imaginationfailed her again. She took me frankly at my own estimate; and in justice toher I must say I put myself at the lowest figures. I made a very poor showon paper.""You wrote to her!" exclaimed Miss Frances. "You did not go on? Oh, youhave made a great mistake! Do go: it cannot be too late. Letters are themost untrusty things!""Wait," he said. "There is something else. She has a head for business;she proposed that I should come East, and accept a superintendentship froma cousin of hers, the owner of a gun-factory in one of those shady NewEngland towns women are so fond of. She intimated that he was in politics,this cousin, and of course would expect his employees to become part ofhis constituency. It's a very pretty little bribe, you see; when you addthe--the girl, it's enough to shake a man--who wants that girl. I'm notworth much to myself, or to anybody else, apparently, but by Heaven I'llnot sell out as cheap as that!"It all amounts to nothing except one more illusion gone. If there is awoman on this earth that can love a man without knowing for what, and takethe chances of life with him without counting the cost, I have never knownher. I asked you once if a woman could do that. You hadn't the courageto tell me the truth. I wouldn't have been satisfied if you had; but I'msatisfied now.""I believed she would be happy; I believe she would be, now, if only youwould go to her and persuade her to try.""I persuade her! I would never try to persuade a woman to be my wife were Idying for love of her! I don't think myself invented by nature to promotethe happiness of woman, in the aggregate or singly. I know there are menwho do: let them urge their claims. I thought that she loved me; that wasanother illusion. She will probably marry the cousin, and become the mostloyal of his constituents. He is welcome to her; but there's a ghostlyblank somewhere. How I have tired you! You'll be in bed another week forthis selfishness of mine." He stopped, while a sudden thought brought achange to his face. "But when are you going home?""I cannot go," she said. Her weakness came over her like a cloud, darkeningthe room and pressing upon her heavily. "Will you give me your arm?"At the stairs she stopped, and leaning against the wall looked at him withwide, hopeless eyes."We are cut off from everything. My friend does not need me now; she hasgone home,--alone. She is dead!"Arnold took a long walk upon the hills that night, and smoked a greatmany cigars in gloomy meditation. He was thinking of two girls, as youngmen who smoke a great many cigars without counting them often are; he wasalso thinking of Arizona. He had fully made up his mind to resign, anddepart for that problematic region as soon as his place was filled; but analternative had presented itself to him with a pensive attractiveness,--analternative unmistakably associated with the fact that the schoolmistresswas to remain in her present isolated circumstances. It even had occurredto him that there might be some question of duty involved in his "standingby her," as he phrased it to himself, "till she got her color back." Therewas an unconscious appeal in the last words he had heard her speak whichconstrained him to do so. He was not in the habit of pitying himself, buthad there been another soul to follow this mental readjustment of himselfto his mutilated life, it would surely have pitied the eagerness with whichhe clung to this one shadow of a duty to a fellow-creature. It was themeasure of his loneliness.It was late in November. The rains had begun again with sound and fury;with ranks of clouds forming along the mountain sides, and driven beforethe sea-winds upward through the gulches; with days of breeze and sunshine,when the fog veil was lightly lifted and blown apart, showing the valleyalways greener; with days of lowering stillness, when the veil descendedand left the mountains alone, like islands of shadow rising from a sea ofmisty whiteness.On such a lowering day, Miss Frances stood at the junction of three trails,in front of the door of the blacksmith's shop. She was wrapped in a darkblue cloak, with the hood drawn over her head; the cool dampness had givento her cheeks a clear, pure glow, and her brown eyes looked out with acheerful light. She was watching the parting of the mist in the valleybelow; for a wind had sprung up, and now the rift widened, as the windowsof heaven might have opened, giving a glimpse of the world to the "BlessedDamozel." All was dark above and around her; only a single shaft ofsunlight pierced the fog, and startled into life a hundred tints ofbrightness in the valley. She caught the sparkle on the roofs and windowsof the town ten miles away; the fields of sunburnt stubble glowed a deepIndian red; the young crops were tenderest emerald; and the line of thedistant bay, a steel-blue thread against the horizon.Arnold was plodding up the lower trail on his gray mare, fetlock deep inmud. He dismounted at the door of the shop, and called to him a smallMexican lad with a cheek of the tint of ripe corn."Here, Pedro Segundo! Take this mare up to the camp! Can you catch?" Hetossed him a coin. "Bueno!""Mucho bueno!" said Pedro the First, looking on approvingly from the doorof his shop.Arnold turned to the schoolmistress, who was smiling from her perch on apile of wet logs."I'm perfectly happy!" she said. "This east wind takes me home. I hear thebluebirds, and smell the salt-marshes and the wood-mosses. I'm not sure butthat when the fog lifts we shall see white caps in the valley.""I dare say there are some very good people down there," said Arnold, withdeliberation, "but all the same I should welcome an inundation. Thinkwhat a climate this would be, if we could have the sea below us, knockingagainst the rocks on still nights, and thundering at us in a storm!""Don't speak of it! It makes me long for a miracle, or a judgment, orsomething that's not likely to happen.""Meantime, I want you to come down the trail, and pass judgment on mybachelor quarters. I can't stand the boarding-house any longer! By Jove,I'm like the British footman in 'Punch,'--'what with them legs o' muttonand legs o' pork, I'm a'most wore out! I want a new hanimal inwented!' I'vefound an old girl down in the valley who consents to look after me and varythe monotony of my dinners at the highest market price. She isn't here yet,but the cabin is about ready. I want you to come down and look it over. I'ma perfect barbarian about color! You can't put it on too thick and strongto suit me. I dare say I need toning down."They were slipping and sliding down the muddy trail, brushing the raindropsfrom the live-oak scrub as they passed. A subtle underlying content hadlulled them both, of late, into an easier companionship than they had everfound possible before, and they were gay with that enjoyment of wet weatherwhich is like an intoxication after seven months of drought."Now I suppose you like soft, harmonious tints and neutral effects. You'rea bit of a conservative in everything, I fear.""I think I should like plenty of color here, or else positive white; themonotony of the landscape and its own deep, low tones demand it. A neutralhouse would fade into an ash heap under this sun.""Good! Then you'll like my dark little den, with its barbaric reds andblues."They were at the gate of the little cottage, overlooking the valley. Thegleam of sunlight had faded and the fog curtain rolled back. The housedid indeed seem very dark as they entered. It was only a little after fouro'clock, but the cloudy twilight of a short November day was suddenlydescending upon them. The schoolmistress looked shyly around, while Arnoldtramped about the rooms and sprung the shades up as high as they would go.They were in a small, irregular parlor, wainscoted and floored in redwood,and lightly furnished with bamboo. This room communicated by a low archwith the dining-room beyond."I have some flags and spurs and old trophies to hang up there," he said,pointing to the arch; "and perhaps I can get you to sew the rings on thecurtain that's to hang underneath. I don't want too much of the society ofmy angel from the valley, you know; besides, I want to shield her from thevulgar gaze, as they do the picture of the Madonna.""It will serve you right if she never comes at all!""Oh, she's pining to come. She's dying to sacrifice herself for twenty-fivedollars a month. Did I tell you, by the way, that I've had a rise in mysalary? There is a rise in the work, too, which rather overbalances theincrease of pay, but that's understood; for a good many years it will bemore work than wage, but at the other end I hope it will be more wage thanwork. You don't seem to be very much interested in my affairs; if you knewhow seldom I speak of them to any one but yourself, you might perhaps deignto listen.""I am listening; but I'm thinking, too, that it's getting very late.""See, here is my curtain!" he said, dragging out a breadth of heavy stuff.He took it to the window, and threw it over a Chinese lounge that stoodbeneath. "It's an old serape I picked up at Guadalajara five years ago:the beauty of having a house is that all the old rubbish you have boredyourself with for years immediately becomes respectable and useful. Iexpect to become so myself. You don't say that you like my curtain!""I think it is very pagan looking, and rather--dirty.""Well, I shan't make a point of the dirt. I dare say the thing would lookjust as well if it was clean. Won't you try my lounge?" he said, as shelooked restlessly towards the door. "It was invented by a race that canloaf more naturally than we do: it takes an American back some time torelax enough to appreciate it."Miss Frances half reluctantly drew her cloak about her, and yielded herNorthern slenderness to the long Oriental undulations of the couch. Herhead was thrown back, showing her fair throat and the sweet upward curvesof her lips and brows.Arnold gazed at her with too evident delight."Why won't you sit still? You cannot deny that you have never been socomfortable in your life before.""It's a very good place to 'loaf and invite one's soul,'" she said, risingto a sitting position; "but that isn't my occupation at present. I must gohome. It is almost dark.""There is no hurry. I'm going with you. I want you to see how the littleroom lights up. I've never seen it by firelight, and I'll have myhouse-warming to-night!""Oh no, indeed! I must go back. There's the five o'clock whistle, now!""Well, we've an hour yet. You must get warm before you go."He went out, and quickly returned with an armful of wood and shavings,which he crammed into the cold fireplace."What a litter you have made! Do you think your mature angel from thevalley will stand that sort of thing?"As she spoke, the rain descended in violence, sweeping across the piazza,and obliterating the fast-fading landscape. They could scarcely see eachother in the darkness, and the trampling on the roof overhead made speecha useless effort. Almost as suddenly as it had opened upon them the tumultceased, and in the silence that followed they listened to the heavyraindrops spattering from the eaves.Arnold crossed to the window, where Miss Frances stood shivering andsilent, with her hands clasped before her."I want you to light my fire," he said, with a certain concentration in hisvoice."Why do you not light it yourself?" She drew away from his outstretchedhand. "It seems to me you are a bit of a tyrant in your own house."He drew a match across his knee and held it towards her: by its gleam shesaw his pale, unsmiling face, and again that darkening of the eyes whichshe remembered."Do you refuse me such a little thing,--my first guest? I ask it as a mostespecial grace!"She took the match, and knelt with it in her hands; but it only flickered amoment, and went out. "It will not go for me. You must light it yourself."He knelt beside her and struck another match. "We will try together," hesaid, placing it in her fingers and closing his hand about them. He heldthe trembling fingers and the little spark they guarded steadily againstthe shaving. It kindled; the flame breathed and brightened and curledupward among the crooked manzanita stumps, illuminating the two entrancedyoung faces bending before it. Miss Frances rose to her feet, and Arnold,rising too, looked at her with a growing dread and longing in his eyes."You said to-day that you were happy, because in fancy you were at home. Isthat the only happiness possible to you here?""I am quite contented here," she said. "I am getting acclimated.""Oh, don't be content: I am not; I am horribly otherwise. I wantsomething--so much that I dare not ask for it. You know what itis,--Frances!""You said once that I reminded you--of her: is that the reason you--Am Iconsoling you?""Good God! I don't want consolation! That thing never existed; but hereis the reality; I cannot part with it. I wish you had as little as I have,outside of this room where we two stand together!""I don't know that I have anything," she said under her breath."Then," said he, taking her in his arms, "I don't see but that we are readyto enter the kingdom of heaven. It seems very near to me."They are still in exile: they have joined the band of lotus-eaters whoinhabit that region of the West which is pervaded by a subtle breath fromthe Orient, blowing across the seas between. Mrs. Arnold has not yet madethat first visit East which is said by her Californian friends to be sodisillusioning, and the old home still hovers, like a beautiful mirage, onthe receding horizon.
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