from the open windows an enchanting stream of melody flowed forth. She listened, quivering with delight, intoxicated with the liquid sweetness of the notes. Her hero was singing the lovelilt, "Come into the garden, Maud," and accompanying himself upon the piano. Antonia could sing after a crude fashion, but not like this. Manuel Valencia, the vaquero, possessed a tenor voice of surpassing volume and compass, but it lacked quality. He brayed as loudly as any wild ass of the desert to his own infinite delight and the dismay of others, but this man, this fairy prince, sang softly, as if he loved

cadence and were

loth to let it go. Antonia clasped her hands upon her bosom and awaited the end. Then she stole forward on tip-toe and peered within. To her intense disappointment the room was empty. She remarked a luxurious interior. A hanging lamp, with crimson silken shade, cast a mellow light upon books, pictures, books, pictures, engravings, a rug of many colors, and upholstered chairs.

She waited patiently behind the trunk of a mighty white oak. Presently she reflected the owner of these pretty things would return. The night was young; she could afford to linger a few minutes. Close to her hand was the window of another room. The sash was up, but the inside blinds were drawn. Two men were talking and she caught her father's name.

"A churl," said one, in mellow tones. "We may expect no courtesy at his hands. He regards us as interlopers.'

"But a man of education," urged the other, "with a name, too, that is familiar to me. What is he doing in the wilder

ness?"

"He must wonder what we are doing," retorted the speaker.

They both laughed, not loudly, as cowboys laugh, but discreetly, and fell to

discussion of the silver question. Antonia, with reluctant feet, moved homeward.

She reached the ranch-house in safety, disappointed but not discouraged, and determined, should conditions be propitious, to try again on the morrow. She had heard the voice of love calling her in impassioned accents, a voice that might woo an angel from the sky, a voice that must be obeyed. But mixed with the delightful memory of the love-lilt were other thoughts of a less agreeable nature. Her father's name had been mentioned, and dispraise of him upon the lips of a stranger assumed new significance. Why, she asked herself, was he so different from other men? What strange perversity of temper had driven him from the society of his peers? He had lived. once in New York, had belonged to famous clubs, had traveled in foreign. lands. Why had he condemned himself and his child to live forever on the Cuyama plains?

She awoke the next morning unrefreshed. Her peace of mind, like the shadow of Peter Schlemihl, was gone. In its place a fever of unrest consumed her, and at breakfast her father commented upon her languid looks and appetite. To avoid him she sought the seclusion of the pool, and sitting idly in the shade, fell asleep. When she awoke a man was regarding her intently. Physically frail, with rounded shoulders, hollow chest, and thin, attenuated features, he arrested attention by virtue of a pair of brilliant hazel eyes, and a broad, commanding brow.

"A thousand pardons, he said suavely, removing his hat, "I came here to quench my thirst."

She glanced immediately at his feet. This man, she decided, was not the Knight of the Footprint. No. He wore clumsy shooting boots and his bodily

"It's the coldest spring in the county,' she replied, sitting up and arranging with deft fingers some escaping tendrils of hair. "We have plenty of water for irrigating but we use this for drinking. It's my duty to keep the pitcher filled. I come here each day with my bucket. " "Alone?" he murmured. "Yes, alone."

"You are Miss Fawcett. My name is Arthur Little,- Little Arthur, my big cousin calls me."

"Your cousin," she repeated softly, faintly blushing. "I've never seen him."

"He's never seen you! Which is most to be pitied ?"

"I'm told he's very tall and strong." "A son of Anak." "And handsome." "As Apollo." "He sings?"

"He does indeed. Would you like to meet him, Miss Fawcett?"

She hesitated. Antonia had never wilfully disobeyed her father. He had commanded her not to speak to this comely squatter.

"I should like to meet him," she answered truthfully, "but I dare not. My father is furious with your cousin. He has taken up our land. It's not really ours, you understand, but we've had the use of it from time immemorial. We generally buy the squatters out, or drive them away. That is our policy."

"You are very frank, but you can't buy us out or drive us away."

"I'm glad of that. But, Mr. Little, I can talk to you. There is no harm in that, is there? And it's so pleasant meeting what papa calls a white man. You might come here occasionally, and -er-quench your thirst," she concluded, smiling.

Arthur stroked his chin. The girl's unconventionality amused him. She took so much for granted and her Greuze-like face was certainly bewitching. He hastened to reply, but a fit of coughing overtook him, so violent and so uncontrollable that he was constrained to sit down and recover his breath. As he removed his handkerchief from his lips Antonia remarked with dismay some fresh blood stains. She immediately filled a dipper with water, and wetting her slim fingers, touched lightly his pallid brow. This service, so unexpected and so agreeable to the exhausted man, touched him profoundly, and his brilliant eyes, dilated by pain, expressed mutely his sense of obligation. Antonia watched him anxiously. With a woman's intuitive

The

The remark was superfluous. glorious vitality of the nymph asserted itself in every sensuous curve of her body. Little and she were treading the same path, pilgrims from the finite to the infinite, but their mode of travel how cruelly contrasted! The victim of phthisis sighed. Hitherto he had accepted philosophically his affliction, but today, face to face with this blooming specimen of his race, he cursed his pitiful anatomy, and coveted greedily the thews and sinews of his cousin. His cousin! This Hebe was interested in his cousin. She craved naturally enough-free interchange of sentiments with another strong and sprightly as herself, and this intercourse by the crass whim of a tyrant was denied her.

He questioned her discreetly about her life on the Cuyama; and she answered at length, complaining frankly of the monotony, the stupidity, the sterility, of the past and present.

"No," he said. "Not sterile. You've had the education of the ancient Persians. You've learned to ride, shoot, and tell the truth. I cannot pity you."

When he had gone, promising to return the next day, Antonia sat down and speculated soberly upon the outcome of this connection. The cousin, the Sungod, seemed destined to remain in the background. It pleased her to think how accurately she had described him, but for the moment her mind was occupied by the less pleasing shape of Arthur Little. His distinguished manners, his

and affecting thoughts, but how keenly accentuated are these in the case of a dear friend about to embark for the silent land. Arthur Little was not a dear friend, but he carried with him, an open sesame to all hearts, an entirely modest and engaging disposition, and Antonia, dwelling pensively upon his unhappy fate, forgot the arid pastures of La Cuyama and thanked God fervently for that inestimable blessing, a sound constitution.

II.

"I'VE HAD an adventure, Jack," said Little at luncheon. "I've met a remarkable woman, I should say girl, or to be still more correct, a child. She has a woman's form, a girl's efflorescence, and a child's candor."

"Fawcett's daughter, eh?" "Yes, Fawcett's daughter. You've seen her?"

"No. Describe her, old man. Your swans are generally geese, but fire away."

"My dear Jack, she outstrips all praise, and makes it halt behind her.' You must form your own opinion."

"'Pon my soul," said his cousin, helping himself to some foie gras," you excite my curiosity. I must cultivate this Miranda. A brisk flirtation would act as a tonic."

Little frowned and bit his lip. He resented the use of the word flirtation in connection with Antonia. He remembered, too, with a qualm of conscience, that Jack's reputation was not immacu

late. As a breaker of hearts he was held in ill odor by many very respectable per

sons.

"By the bye," he said coldly. "I told you that the name Valerian Fawcett was familiar to me, and talking with his daughter this morning, my treacherous memory unburthened itself. He was before my time but his story is still green in New York. He ran away with a lovely woman, the wife of a Russian secretary of legation. The husband called him out, and Fawcett ran him through. There was an awful row about it and this man was ruined completely, socially and financially. Charles Balfour gave him the management of this property and he has remained here, I imagine, ever since, soured and bitter man."

"Poor devil," said Jack lightly. "Do you know, Arthur, this Californian sauterne is really a capital wine, delicious bouquet. Eh? Fawcett, ah, yes, tough on him pinking the husband. Society always pelts a man who does that. should have let the Russian stick him: in a safe place, of course. Fawcett paid a steep price for his fun."

He

"Strange," said Little, half to himself, "that the innocent suffer equally with the guilty."

"I don't bother myself with morbid speculation," replied the cousin, holding his wineglass to the light. "Life is too short."

If the truth must be told, Mr. Jack Remmington bothered himself but little with what was morbid or disagreeable, outside - be it understood of his own personal affairs. His life, hitherto, had been a pleasant promenade through sweet-smelling gardens. Coming occasionally upon a muck heap, he would hasten by, holding his handkerchief to his handsome nose; and thus, by avoiding the unsavory odors of existence, he had acquired correct and fastidious tastes

which he and his friends very properly regarded as the sole credentials of a gentleman! His selfishness, of course, was not on the surface. Hence his popularity. No man could render a petty service more gracefully than he. Indeed as a bachelor of the arts that please he had graduated in early youth, summa laude. The reader will ask impatiently what the deuce this Arbiter Elegantiarum is doing upon a hundred and sixty acres of chaparral and bunch grass. The question is easily answered. Jack Remmington, a poor man, was in attendance upon his next of kin, a millionaire.

When a great specialist told the latter that one of his lungs was gone and the other going, and that nothing could prolong his life but climate, a dry warm climate, such as may be found in Southern California, Jack, most unselfishly as every one agreed, proposed to accompany his cousin. The doctor had been emphatic upon one point.

"My dear sir," he said, "I condemn you, you understand, to the wilds. Nature may take pity on you, but Nature must not be hampered by Mrs. Grundy. Late hours and late dinners would finish you in three months."

A plethoric bank account, at such times, works wonders. At least a dozen impecunious friends offered their services to Arthur Little, but he chose Jack Remmington. For Jack he always had a sneaking fondness. Jack was so cheery and so strong, such a capital shot, such an excellent judge of a horse. And Jack certainly proved himself the right man in the right place. 'T was he who, with the assistance of a San Lorenzo doctor, selected a government claim upon the edge of the Cuyama grant. 'T was he who superintended the building and furnishing of the house upon the knoll. 'T was he who selected with infinite judgment cigars, wines, and comestibles,

and the Chinese chef at fifty dollars per mensem, and the Chinese boy who waited at table and washed clothes. Little did nothing but sit still and sign checks.

"I'm going to write to Charles Balfour," said Jack, as he lit his cigar. "I don't propose being snubbed by his majordomo. He's been damnably uncivil and I shall enjoy taking him down a peg or two."

"That will be unnecessary," rejoined Little. "I shall make a point of seeing Fawcett tomorrow. There has been a ridiculous misunderstanding which a few words from me will rectify. I had a bad fit of coughing, Jack, this morning."

Mr. Remmington's features expressed the gravest concern.

"In justice to you," pursued Little, "I ought to say, Jack, that in the event of my death I have left you the

"Arthur," murmured the other.
"The bulk of my fortune!"

66

'My dearest old man, pray let us talk of something else."

"All right. I thought I'd mention it. If I live,

"If you live! Of course you'll live," replied the other. "You are getting fat already. A year of this," he waved his cigar dramatically, "will set you up entirely."

As he spoke, the odious thought suggested itself that a year on the Cuyama would contain twelve tedious months, and each of these some thirty tedious days. How profitably the same year might be spent, say abroad, in Paris and Hamburg and Monte Carlo, provided, bien entendu, - that the bulk of his cousin's fortune were his!

"Why, Jack," cried Little, "how red you are! The California sun has touched you up with a vengeance."

"The fact is," stammered Remmingstammered Remmington, "the mere notion of losing you, old man, has made me feel quite queer!" VOL. xxvi.-8.

III.

BECAUSE Valerian Fawcett had chosen to banish himself from the haunts of civilized man it must not be rashly inferred that he had lost either the instincts or intuitions of gentlefolk. Certain sensibilities, indeed, had been whetted rather than dulled by enforced companionship with semi-savages. Among these may be instanced the faculty of observation. But his knowledge of Antonia's character was absurdly inadequate to the opportunities he had had of studying the same. Under certain conditions he apprehended its limitations, but these conditions since the advent of a handsome stranger had been curiously modified. He noticed immediately a change in her face, a new play of feature, an elasticity of expression, which he interpreted aright. At dinner they dined at noon-upon the day she met Little he was amazed at the girl's beauty and charm. He decided instantly that she had disobeyed him and would probably lie to him if he questioned her. Hence he held his tongue, and to put her off her guard, was more amiable than usual. At supper he was quite friendly, and at breakfast the next morning mentioned casually that a change of air might do her good.

"You look peaky, child," he said, regarding her closely, "the Lord knows why!"

"I don't care about leaving home," she replied, blushing.

Her telltale face verified his worst suspicions. Furiously angry but outwardly calm, he left the table and spent the morning, cogitating, in the parlor where Arthur Little found him.

The young man stated his errand in half a dozen courteous phrases. As he spoke he made a mental inventory of the contents of the room; a long, low room with a big fireplace at one end and three