CHAPTER IX.

"And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,

Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.

Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air

That circled freshly in their forest dress

Made them to boys again."

The life of John Graham had been one wherein the sorrowful days far

outnumbered the joyous ones. His youth had been saddened by the

reverses and griefs which had pursued his parents with a relentless

persistence. His home life had not been a happy one. In the large

family of brothers and sisters there had been a meeting and clashing of

strong, positive characters and opposing wills. An intense family pride

was the one bond which united them. This sentiment, almost amounting to

a passion, made the members cling closely to one another when there was

little of sympathy to make a sweeter bond. Graham's parents had moved to

California, from the Eastern town where they were both born, while he

was still an infant. The first sixteen years of his life had been spent

on the Pacific coast. At this age he was sent eastward to pursue his

studies. The youth had already determined on devoting himself to art.

The years passed at the famous New England college were very busy ones.

The painful economies by which his beloved mother defrayed his college

expenses were well known to the young man, and he held himself

responsible to that dear and honored parent for every hour of his time.

His active mind eagerly grasped such fruits of knowledge as were offered

by that garden of learning, and his career in the university fully

repaid the sacrifices which it had entailed. During all this time he

never for an instant relinquished his fixed determination to become a

painter. In the leisure hours when his companions were amusing

themselves according to their several tastes, Graham was always found at

his easel. Some wiseacre once suggested to the young man that Greek and

Latin were expensive acquirements, likely to prove useless to a painter.

"And if I were to be a shoemaker, I should make better shoes for having

studied the classics," was his reply to this admonition.

He had not been among the popular men of his class, being very poor in

leisure time, the currency which buys that most expensive commodity,

popularity. He made few friends and no enemies. His strong, earnest

nature commanded the respect of his fellows; and his studious example

endeared him to a few of the most serious among them. At the age of

twenty Graham went to Europe, where he passed the next eight years of

his life in study and hard work. The sketches which he sent home

brought him money enough to live on in that quarter of Paris where the

young art students congregate. Poor enough the living had sometimes

been; hunger and cold were well known to the youth by actual experience.

When he lived at the rate of five francs a day he thought himself rich,

and gave suppers in his studio, _au cinquieme, Rue d' Enfer_. Times

there had been, while he was at work upon his great _Salon_ picture of

St. Paul, when a loaf of bread and five sous' worth of the rough red

wine of the people, had sufficed for his day's provender. Those days of

earnest work among the gay companions, whose lives much resembled his

own, were, perhaps, the happiest time in the life of the young artist.

Success had not been wanting to crown his efforts. The picture on which

he toiled for weary days and months received "honorable mention" from

the judges of the _Salon_; and to the passing fame which this success

brought him, he owed his introduction to the woman who had so spoiled

the happiness of his youth. She was his compatriot, the daughter of a

rich Parisian American, who desired to make the acquaintance of the

artist hero of the hour. The young woman was beautiful, heartless, and

slightly emotional. While in the society of the handsome, spiritual

painter, she yielded to the charm his strong spirit exercised over her;

and it was not long before their names were linked together by the small

world which knew them both. But Graham's happiness was short-lived; and

a few months served to show him the cold, shallow nature of the woman

who had aroused his first passion. After he had been jilted and

disillusioned, he turned his back upon the city where he had learned and

suffered so much, and became a wanderer on the face of Europe. One year

found him painting the beauties of Southern Spain; the next saw him

sketching the wonderful scenery which lies about Stockholm.

About two years before the opening of our story he had returned to San

Francisco, with a portfolio of sketches, a few hundred dollars, and a

prodigious store of canvases, paints, and brushes. He was welcomed by

the many friends who had followed his career with interest, and soon

received more orders for portraits than he could well fill. His taste

led him to prefer another branch of painting; and it was for the purpose

of studying the very beautiful scenery in the neighborhood of San

Rosario that he had established himself in the tower of the old Spanish

Mission. He was also partly induced to take this step, because he found

that home life, always irksome to him, had become, after his long

emancipation from domestic rules and regulations, wellnigh intolerable.

Graham's character was a peculiar one, full of contradictory traits; it

might be compared to a mass of white quartz, through which ran deep

veins of the purest gold. In some respects it was a hard nature, with

certain tender qualities; and nowhere was there to be found an ounce of

base metal; a pitiless nature, which knew not how to forgive either its

own faults or those of his fellow-men. If his judgments of others were

harsh, his self-despair was sometimes fanatical. His ideal of manhood

was as pure and noble as was that of the perfect King Arthur; that he

failed a hundred times a day in living up to it, had not the effect of

lowering that ideal one hair's-breadth. His highest duty was towards

his own soul and its struggle to reach the perfection he held it to be

capable of attaining. With the mind of an ascetic, he was endowed with

a warm, sensuous temperament, having a passionate delight in beauty,

light, and color, and capable of living through the senses with the keen

enjoyment of a Sybarite. A strain of music, a beautiful flower, or a

fair child moved him to a degree of pleasure that to any nature save an

artistic one was incomprehensible. Filled with pity at the sight of

distress, he would unhesitatingly give his last dollar to a needy

rascal; but if appealed to for sympathy by the same sinner, the

scorching contempt by which he would blast the shameful deeds for which,

to him, there was no palliation, would leave the wrong-doer a sadder if

not a wiser man. Because he expected so much of men, their

short-comings outraged him. To a man of this character it was easier,

if not better, to avoid the paths of his fellows; and his life had often

been that of a hermit, even when he dwelt in the busiest cities of the

world. Not willing that one shadow from the burden of his life should

fall upon the paths of those who cared for him, his voice and face were

always cheery when in their company. He wanted not the sympathy of man

or woman, and endured what griefs were given him to bear in silence and

alone. That divine mandate, "Bear ye one another's burdens," was

meaningless to him; for he had ever borne his burden unsupported and

unhelped. The struggle between the two sides of his nature, the ascetic

and the poetic, seemed sometimes like to rend soul and body apart; at

other times both contending forces seemed asleep, and the current of his

life flowed peacefully on. There were periods when the tender golden

veins seemed to overlap and hide the flinty quartz; then he felt alive,

with thrilling pulses and lips breaking into song; then he painted

rapidly, painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making

brilliant failures. At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed

to weight his brush and dim his vision, to take the color from the warm

earth and tender sky; then the life-blood pulsed slowly through his

veins, and he forgot to sing.

Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold

and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first

time in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good

or ill, with that of another human creature. Since his first meeting

with Millicent, on that memorable night when he had found her the

central figure of a picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence

had been thawed and made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded

over him. Without reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the

pleasurable charm, only amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that

there was a woman who could rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance

through his dreams at night with a wilful persistence. If he had been

obliged to characterize the influence which the girl held over him, he

would probably have said that she made his life vivid, and reminded him

that his nature was human and not mechanical. Day by day her presence

became more necessary to him; and his work was slighted, or hastily

performed, in order that he might be free the sooner to reach her side.

Without retrospection or introspection he had lived through the pleasant

days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic behavior had made him feel

doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his life, as well as the new

pleasure in that life. When the happy visit had come to an end, and he

had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had seemed as if

he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent embrace

had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed the

tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.

Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to

have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers

through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly.

Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other,

except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them

like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance.

The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony,

at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both

sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the

artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed

transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and

full of love towards all her kind. But her cheek grew less round than

it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins,

and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength. She was happy with a

joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of

weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What struggle could it be

that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white

lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room? One

word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drew near the

house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and

cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was

gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.

To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was

incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had

been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of

the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious,

irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious

with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs.

Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know

how to assume at will, saw nothing.

The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last days

of August were come. It was at this time that a long-planned excursion

took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day

with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles

from the house. Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had

heard of Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination

of circumstances had prevented her from meeting. It was to his camp

that they were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback,

as they drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove

of redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway. Millicent was driving in

the light phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following

in the large wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers.

Crouching on the floor of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with

his spotless linen and shining coppery countenance. He could not sit

beside the "Greaser," or Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him.

His round, placid face, with its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was

not an unpleasing one. His hands and arms were finely modelled, and his

sturdy figure was of a much more solid type than is usual with his race.

From his position it was possible for him to hold a parasol over Mrs.

Deering, which he did without varying the angle of the rather heavy

umbrella one degree during the whole long journey. He had been taught

that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that obedience and respect to

the ladies of the family are even more necessary than submission to the

master. On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and placidly ignored

all orders given him by the female members of the household as unworthy

of notice. When he finally had learned the lesson that "Melican woman

boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.

The drive was a beautiful one. The road led through deep valleys, still

wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a

mountain which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the

level of a swift stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who

was familiar with the first five miles of the route, always stopped for

a few moments. Sphinx had grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to

a standstill just at the brink of the bridge which spanned the rushing

forest river, grown boisterous at this place. All about the spot stood

the great hills, some green with the never-fading redwoods and madrone

trees, others, stripped by the woodman's craft, naked and unsightly.

Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road, with its group of humble

cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange, wolfish-looking

children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was of their

kin. The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden piers,

joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which hung

over the stream and skirted the mountain's base. The gray ruin of what

had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels

and empty grain-bins. There was a small islet in the stream, between

which and the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect

distinctness the trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of

the overhanging bank. Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying

the familiar beauty of the scene.

"You will paint this place one day for me, will you not? I care very

much for it." Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her

side laughed and answered,--

"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird

on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter

shall see a picture. Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be

portrayed in art."

For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that

scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal

brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong

mules following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on

his fleet mustang. It was not far from high noon when the party arrived

at the place of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low

underbrush at the foot of a hill. In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a

young man emerged from the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in

greeting, hurried to help Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon.

"How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice. "The

fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much

faith in your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you. Miss Deering, you were

too quick for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace. Well,

Graham, glad to see you; for once you are better than your word."

The young men shook hands with that punctilious politeness which

gentlemen who do not quite like each other are apt to show in the

presence of mutual lady friends. Deering presented their host to Miss

Almsford, and at that moment the other two woodmen made their

appearance,--Michael O'Neil, a jolly-looking young Irishman, and Dick

Hartley, a dark-browed Englishman. The three men were intimates at the

Ranch, and Millicent already knew O'Neil and Hartley; the latter was an

old friend and travelling-companion of Graham. Leaving Deering and

O'Neil to take care of the horses, Galbraith led the way to the camp, a

sheltered spot on the south side of the protecting hill. Three small

sleeping-tents here stood close together. Galbraith's was the central

one; it was wonderfully luxurious, Millicent thought, with its

comfortable rug and little iron bedstead, two chairs, and a

writing-table. A small looking-glass had been brought from town "on

purpose for the visit of the ladies," Hartley assured them; at which

statement there was a general laugh at the young Englishman's expense,

his personal vanity being well known. But it was of the greenwood

drawing-room that the ladies expressed the highest approval. A square

space of ground had been cleared of the dense undergrowth, its smooth

surface being thickly carpeted by soft piles of fresh, sweet ferns.

Close-growing shrubs and bushes served as walls, while the thick

branches of the great trees made a roof close enough to keep out the

heat of the sun. The flowers of the manzanita and the buckeye perfumed

the air of this sylvan boudoir, wherein were ranged comfortable stools

and camp-chairs. A wide hammock fitted with a red blanket swung between

two straight tree stems. Here they sat for a while, resting from the

long drive; and here it was that Millicent had time to observe more

particularly the appearance of Mr. Maurice Galbraith, of whom she had

heard so much. Galbraith was not, strictly speaking, a handsome man,

though he had a good deal of beauty. He was tall and slender, with a

finely shaped head, well set upon the shoulders. His bright,

intelligent face was too thin for beauty; while the fine, brilliant

eyes, with their heavy lashes, were hollow from over-work. His delicate

chin and mouth were exquisitely modelled; 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 _menage_. 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, _evoe, evoe_!"

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.