"Well, what does he say?" asked her son impatiently. "He says that the Bible is a collection of myths, only interesting from a literary point of view; that it is not inspired at all, except as you may call Shakspere inspired; that the story of the resurrection. is a fable. I can't remember all he says. You have read his articles, have n't you?" Yes, I've read them," said the young man curtly. He was standing, British fashion, in front of the fire; his hands in his pockets, a frown contracting his smooth forehead and his lips firmly compressed. "They are very clever. you think so?" "No, I do'nt," he replied. She shook her head sadly. "I have tried, Dick, and failed." Her son could say nothing. He had not given the question consideration,— what young man does? He had taken his religion as he found it, cut and dried. He had been baptized as a baby, and in due season confirmed. At Oxford he had naturally conformed to the traditions of the place. His thoughts had run in other channels. He could have written a thesis on the use of the "digamma;" and in his portmanteau, upstairs, lay a half-finished metrical translation of the great trilogy of Eschylus. Professor Jowett had cast an eye over the manu Do'nt you script, and sealed both meter and scholarship with august approval. But of what use was acquaintance with Greek literature in such a crisis as this? A wave of pity, curiously blended with resentment, swept over him. "O yes, my dear, they are very clever. You must admit that. He writes nearly as forcibly as Colonel Blatant." Dick gave a contemptuous snort, and his mother continued in her quiet, gentle tones. "We went to hear the Colonel when we were East last year. Your father has a great admiration for him as a thinker and also as a good citizen." "Blasphemous beast," murmured Dick. "He is such an excellent father, my dear." "Excellent father is he? I daresay a rattlesnake is an excellent father! I think it's a shame, a beastly shame, that your faith should have been torn from you. What has my father given you in return? Do you find any comfort in Colonel Blatant's books? He sneers at the Bible, the best source of inspiration we have. Why, mother, the Bible is the backbone of our civilization. We owe everything, I say everything, to the Bible." His mother smiled faintly. "My poor, poor mother," he exclaimed sorrowfully. The vibrant sympathy in his voice brought the tears to her eyes. "I've found some comfort in theosophy," she said presently. "Your father ridicules me, but I think, I hope, there is something in it. Have you given it any attention, my dear?" The thought of this benighted soul blindly groping its way through the tortuous maze of esoteric Buddhism moved her son strangely. "I know nothing of theosophy," he replied, but I should have thought it a poor substitute for Christianity. However, if it gives you comfort I'm glad to hear it. Half a loaf is better than no bread. Tell me about your theosophy." He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. Very patiently he listened to her simple talk, but his heart-strings ached as he realized how hopelessly she had drifted upon the waters of unbelief. Ere long the conversation wandered round in a circle to his Aunt. "I've not asked after Phyllis Murray," said the young man. "I suppose she is grown out of all knowledge." Phyllis Murray was the niece by marriage of Mrs. Murray, the Aunt Mary already spoken of. "She has grown into a lovely girl," answered Mrs. Barrington. "She was a charming child.” "I wish I could see more of her, but your father won't have her here. You know how prejudiced he is." "I shall go and see them tomorrow, mother. They live in the same old house at Menlo I suppose. The one father gave them." "Yes, they live there still. I shall be glad to have you go and see them. Your Aunt is very fond of you, Dick, and perhaps who knows-you may draw us together again. She will probably be very bitter against me, but never mind what she says. Her bark is worse than her bite. Hark! I hear the carriage. Yes. I don't feel up to more talking so I'll slip off to bed. Don't say anything to Nellie or Henry about about the theosophy, you know. Goodnight." Her son accompanied her to the door of her room and kissed her tenderly. As he descended the shallow stairs he saw his brother and sister taking off their wraps in the hall. They hailed him cheerily. "Come and smoke a cigarette, old man," cried Henry. "Yes," said his sister. "We have a "You did n't find that man man stupid who sat by you at dinner. At least I should judge not from the way you flirted with him. What was his name? Desmond Ah, yes, an Irish name." "He is from Los Angeles. His father, he told me, was from the sod." "The old gentleman is now under it," said Henry. "He was about as smart as they make 'em." "The son thinks himself smart," observed Helen. "I thought him a very good fellow," put in Henry, "He is quite the Brummel of Los Angeles." "I do n't like him," said Helen. 'Why not?" "Because I do n't.” "Come now, Helen, for a young woman who thinks herself up to date that is rather a bread and butter reason. Desmond likes you, I can tell you that. He quite bored me singing your praises." "He drank a great deal of cham pagne." "You are too hard to please." "Yes," she cried gayly, "I am hard to please." She was looking particularly brilliant. Her dress, of some soft, shimmering material-called, I believe, rainbow tullehad come from Japan, via Paris, in the care of Doucet. She wore no jewelry and needed none: the sparkle in her eyes and the gleam of her teeth were better than all the diamonds of Golconda. "My curiosity is excited," said Dick. "What did this poor fellow do or say to budget of gossip, a chronique scandaleuse your highness?" to unfold." She blushed and laughed. Her laugh So the three went into the inner hall had the silvery quality which distinand sat down by the fire. guishes the laugh of Madame Bernhardt. "He made furious love to me, Dick, if you will have the brutal truth, and he tried to be funny." "He is not stupid at any rate," said Henry. "I can tolerate stupidity, at a pinch, but I hate a funny man." "He is coming to call tomorrow," said Henry. "I'm glad you mentioned it. I shall be out! Henry did you notice the cut glass? Was n't it gorgeous; and the iridescent hues went delightfully with my dress. I'm so glad it 's coming into. fashion again." "Let us talk of the animate, Queenie. I'm not interested in cut glass. Tell me how Henry behaved himself. flirt?" Did he "Henry was very quiet. He, obviously, wished himself elsewhere. The women were not to his taste." "Indeed! What is your taste, Henry?" "I like pretty women, and quiet women, women who know how to hold their tongues,-discreet women." "Listen to him, "cried Helen scornfully. He talks about discreet women, as if butter would 'nt melt in his mouth. Don't be taken in, Dick. It's the indiscretion of his fair friends that attracts him. I remember last year at Monterey his little affairs with Flossie Fox, and that Brunton girl. Were ever women so indiscreet as they, and Henry was forever tagging after them." "What, both at once," said Dick "Henry can drive a double team," said Helen coolly, "as well as any man on the Coast." This style of chatter coming from his own sister was not to Dick's taste. It smacked so he told himself of the Never," she cried passionately; never." "What has he done to provoke you?" "A hundred things. We won't talk about Henry, at any rate not now. Dick, I'm so glad, so very, very glad that you have come home. We want your dear, clever, ugly old head here. Everything is at sixes and sevens! Papa thinks of nothing but his business; he has no time, poor man, to spend at home; and the rest of us are going straight to to the doggies, as fast as we can. could get away from here. I'm tired of this town, tired of the stupid germans, and the more stupid teas, and the hate I wish I ful gossip. It all seems so trivial and yes-degrading." She left her brother's lap, and paced restlessly up and down, stopping occasionally to emphasize some word with a wave of her fan. She had caught the trick of gesture from her father. "There is plenty for you and me to live for," said Dick slowly. He spoke with a certain halting utterance that possessed charm for the ears of his elders. It argued modesty. so they said-a becoming Dick's contemporaries ridi culed this hypothesis, and spoke of his impediment as an infirmity of speech. As a matter of fact this young man had acquired the very remarkable habit of thinking before he spoke. "I'm not a good hand at preaching, Nell, but if you find fault with the world. at your age there must be something radically wrong not with the world, but with you." "Yes," she replied humbly. "The fault, Dick, lies with me. It's very late. I think we had better go to bed." Horace Annesley Vachell. [CONTINUED IN NEXT NUMBER.] THE LEGAL LORE OF FORTY-NINE. A FEW months before the fire, I was sitting on the piazza of the Cliff House watching the seals climbing over the famous rocks, and recalling with a mingled feeling of pleasure and sadness my former visit, some twenty years before. A man came around the corner, wiping his mouth with a red silk handkerchief. He was over six feet in height, straight as a measuring rod, and apparently about sixty-five years of age. His hair was quite white and rather short, and his beard, cut to a point, reached nearly to his waist. He took a chair beside me. "Stranger in these parts, I reckon?" I accepted his invitation and while engaged in sampling some liquor which he assured me was fifty years old, he said, "How long since you were here?" "Twenty years," I answered. "Humph!" he ejaculated. "If things look changed to you, how do you expect they look to me? I remember this place in '50." I motioned to Dan to replenish the glasses. "You must have been a Forty-niner!" He lighted a cigar, carefully drew himself up to his full height, and answered proudly, "Yes, I am one of those tobaccochewing, whisky-drinking, profanityscorning patriots who in '49 said 'so long' to the States and set helm for Californy. And a grand set of oid timers we were that rounded the Horn in the good old clipper ship Peter A. Powell. grand liberty-loving band of Orgunorts, not in pursuit of the Golden Fleece like our illustrious predecessors, but filled with a determination to fleece the earth and Α and d fools, in that old band, and every one of us knew enough law to entitle us to hang out a shingle and claim a retainer. I look back with pleasure and pride to our old court, of which honorable body I had the proud distinction of being squealer, or crier, as some call it. That was a great and talented body of legal lore. The judge was elected by the people, and it was a life office- a live one also. The twelve jurors were appointed by the judge, and they held the office till death did them part. You see it was kind of perpetual motion with them and they saveyed their business. We were the bong tong set. Flood set the style respecting dress - a stove-pipe hat, a black broad cloth shirt, large black silk neck handkerchief, and black trousers worn inside long-legged calf skin boots. The trousers were supported by a belt holding pistol and knife. The court met daily at eleven o'clock and disposed of its cases with intelligence, justice, and celerity. It is no exaggeration to say that this tribunal was regarded by the Forty-niners as the keenest, brainiest, fairest body of men ever banded together. The judge and jurymen did not long remain in ignorance of the proud estimation in which they were held, and being human, this general complimentary benefit made them a trifle vain." our brother patriot of gold dust and gold nugget to the end. That is the kind of Orgunorts we were! But where is that But where is that proud band today? Some like Flood and O'Brien struck it rich and left their stack to their offspring. Some like Fair and Mackay caught a straight flush and their luck never went back on them. Some bit the dust with Walker. A few are respectable members of the church, boasting of small incomes and large families. But by far the larger part are cooking for pack trains in Arizona, serving on the bench -- of a Deadwood saloon, or knocking about like myself wondering where their tomorrow's liquor is to come from. There were philosophers, sages, wizards, poets, ministers, artificers, He paused to refresh himself. It was a pleasure to him to talk of old days, and I confess I was interested. It was a new version to me. But then there are as many histories of the "mighty men of Forty-nine" as there are of Napoleon. "About six months after the inauguration of the court I was in the Arbor with my friend Jack Austin, when the judge, who had evidently dined well, mounted a cask and said: 'Gentlemen, it is bad form for one to toot his own horn! But I confess I harbor a sneaking feeling of pride when I look back over the first |