were bound for a giant fig tree far up the mountain side. As far as we could see were vast vistas of mountains and valleys. The denuded sides of Eagle Rock rose above a growth of manzanita and madroño. A hawk in gradually lessening circles glided down the gray walls of a volcanic slide and ascended in another moment with a rabbit in its talons. The sun found its way in blotches of light through the network of leaves and wild grape vines above our heads. The burros, impervious to our blows and threats, hardly moved along the narrow trail that at times wound along shifting beds of gravel, where but one mistep would have dropped the rider down hundreds of feet among the great bowlders in the bed of the creek. Ofttimes the trail was so steep that we held on with difficulty, and yet our long-eared, short-legged beasts plodded on with the same unvarying regularity that we had found fault with on the level.

The sides of the mountains above the

chaparral belt were as smooth as an English park with here and there a great oak to keep up the similarity. We were a thousand feet or more above the hotel and the air was cool and fresh.

Vast clouds of steam were issuing from the "Tea Kettle" to our right that met the sun and formed a dozen miniature fleeting rainbows. A deep stony arroyo separated us from the great man-fig. We were forced to dismount and crowd our burros into this gulch and up the opposite side. That they resented this treatment we found on our return; for one and all absolutely and positively refused to take one step downward into the arroyo. We pleaded and begged, patted and whipped, to no purpose. They simply braced their four small feet, laid back their long ears, and took it all alike in scornful silence. At last we ranged them along the edge of the arroyo. and then I took a run and a jump and threw my shoulder against the most stubborn of the lot. The move was suc

Somewhat surprised at this invitation, he accepted with alacrity. The prospect of half an hour's talk with this modern Ishmael was alluring.

"You are an Oxford man," said Chetwynd abruptly. "Tell me about so and so." He mentioned the names of a couple of dons, men of international reputation, whom he knew personally.

Dick answered his questions with reserve, but presently Chetwynd told a racy story about the Master of Balliol, which he was encouraged to cap.

"Excellent yarn that," said Chetwynd," and quite new to me."

was a capital listener, and the frank ingenuousness of young Barrington amused him.

"You find rather a strong contrast between San Francisco and Oxford, I should imagine."

Dick faced steadily the mesmeric glance of his companion.

"Well, rather."

"You must feel isolated, a stranger in a strange land."

"Is this sarcasm? asked Dick gravely. "Of course, Mr. Chetwynd, I look very English, and talk, so my father says, as an Englishman talks, but I don't like any one to question my patriotism. I feel towards California as Ovid felt toward Rome. As a loyal subject of the Queen you must know exactly what I mean."

"Don't speculate upon my loyalty," said Chetwynd, lighting a large black cigar. "And as to this sentiment you speak of, I cannot share it. I count myself a citizen of the world rather than a British subject."

the honor. But my tastes, my habits, and my opinions, conflict too much with British conventionalities. I might have made a good Crusader, but I cannot imagine myself justice of the peace. When a man accepts from a sovereign a title he practically enlists himself under that sovereign's banner. I am a free lance. Mark you, I've a great respect for English institutions. There is a solidity about them which I find nowhere else, but I claim the liberty of personally doing what I please."

"I too, have a great respect for English institutions," said Dick after a pause, " and I wish they were better understood in this country. I admire the dignified leisure of a big landed proprietor, who has the interests of his tenants at heart." "Ah, you've been behind the scenes.' "I spent most of my vacations with my cousins, the Langhams of Langley Abbey."

"Are the Langhams your cousins?" "Yes, my mother was a daughter of Colonel Langham."

VOL. xxvi.-17.

"The man who got the Victoria Cross for pitching a shell out of the trenches before Sebastopol?"

"Yes, he was my grandfather."

"I congratulate you. The Langham strain is a good one. What became of the Colonel?"

"He sold out after the Crimean War and came to the States with his two daughters. He died here, almost penniless. Fred Langham's father was his first cousin."

"Which makes you second cousin once removed to Fred."

"Do you know him, Mr. Chetwynd?" "Yes," he replied absently. "We belong to the same club, the Travellers, and I once shot tigers with him in Bengal."

"It's queer," said Dick, "but I never heard Langham mention your name."

"He is a good fellow," said John Chetwynd," and a capital shot, but the ragged edges of his insularity cut our friendship. Here is Menlo. Goodby."

7

241

Under other circumstances Dick would have enjoyed further talk with Chetwynd. He would have liked had he dared to question him concerning those idiosyncrasies, those queer ideas and tastes, which clashed with old world prejudice, but at that moment he had something better to think about than the opinions of the sun-baked explorer. Phyllis Murray - he murmured the name more than once as he trudged briskly through the village - had occupied his thoughts, to the frequent detriment of a proper use of the caesura, many times during the past four years. For her slender wrist he had selected in the Rue de la Paix the bangle which had provoked so much sisterly solicitude; to find favor in her sight he had arrayed himself in a new blue serge suit, with trousers unbagged at the knee; and to tickle her dainty senses he had bought at the florists a huge bouquet of Parma violets, and at Maskey's a five-pound box of candy!

Mrs. Murray lived in a small five-room house upon the outskirts of Menlo, and as Dick approached he noted, with dismay, that the cottage no longer presented its former trim, well-ordered appearance. A shingle or two had slipped from the roof; the lawn, once so scrupulously mown and watered, was palpably neglected; and the cypress hedge, the pride of Aunt Mary's heart, was untrimmed.

The young man eagerly pushed open the little gate that hung quivering upon a solitary hinge, and as he did so a joyous exclamation fell upon his ears, mingled with the pattering of feet upon wooden steps. Phyllis, it was she, ran lightly down the garden path, flung a pair of white arms around his neck, and pressed a pair of soft, red lips to his.

"Dick," she cried gayly, "is it really you? How perfectly lovely!"

He returned the kiss, and stepping

back, scanned delightedly her lissome figure. Perhaps the warmth of his glance proved embarrassing; perhaps the girl considered the anxiety of an aunt to see a favorite nephew; (the reader can select either hypothesis,) but she suddenly turned and sped up the path to the house.

"Aunt Mary," she cried at the top of her strong young voice. "Aunt Mary. Come out at once. Dick is here."

Mrs. Murray proceeded leisurely to obey this imperative summons. She had never acquired the habit of moving hastily, and the plain sewing upon which she was engaged had to be folded and put aside before she rose from her chair. A faint smile illuminated her face, and two patches of red gathered upon her delicate cheeks, as she welcomed her nephew. Assuredly there was no perverse complexity stamped upon her careworn features. On the contrary, the studied simplicity of her dress and the unstudied simplicity of her face and manners were calculated to impress the least observant. One knew exactly what to expect of her. What she would say. What she would do. What, moreover, she would not do. Ambiguity of speech, for instance, and in particular that form of feminine inveracity euphemistically termed white lies, were abhorrent. She exacted from those who had the honor and privilege of her friendship what she herself rendered to them, the uncompromising, unvarnished truth. A bitter experience of the seamy side of life had traced lines upon that smooth forehead, crowned with its nimbus of silvery hair, but one might safely swear that the heart was still unfurrowed by either time or sorrow. She was some three years younger than her sister, Mrs. Barrington, whom she greatly resembled in features, and had married after the war an officer in Lee's army, a well-born