CHAPTER X

.

"Thereon comes what awakening! One grave sheet Of cold implacable white about me drawn"--

John Graham was one of those men in whose nature there seems no trace of feminality. Man and woman supplement each other, each bringing certain qualities to the completion of humanity; and yet it is rare to find a man whose character is not modified by some mother trait. Graham's qualities and his faults were equally masculine; he was more strongly attracted by women through this intense virility than are men who, having some trace of the feminine in their nature, understand and sympathize more perfectly with the opposite sex. The attraction was one against which he rebelled, deeming it to belong to the weaker side of his nature; and he had so ordered his life that it might not fall within the influence of maid or matron. This antagonism to woman made itself felt in his work; his successful pictures were of men, their high exploits and successes. A noble painting of Saint Paul, which now hung over the altar of a Roman Catholic church in San Francisco, had won him his first reputation in Paris; he could understand and sympathize with that great man as if he had known him. It was only the highest type of man that attracted him,--the lovers of men, and not their conquerors. He had never tried to paint Alexander, but had labored long and lovingly over a picture of Socrates. The female subjects which he had treated were not less powerful than these, but the force which they showed was scornful and untender. A marvellous painting of Circe hung in his studio; it was one of his most masterly works, and yet, though critics had praised and connoisseurs had approved it, the picture was still unsold. With black brows bound by red-gold serpents, the enchantress lay upon a luxurious couch; her beautiful body was but half veiled, the arms and bosom immodestly displayed; about her jewelled feet fawned the creatures whose brute natures had conspired with the enchantress to smother whatever was human in their beings; self-despair and scorn for their abasement deformed her regular features to that moral ugliness never so hideous as when seen in a youthful and beautiful face. A terrible picture, full of wrath, but untempered by mercy. His Cressida, purchased by a great European Academy, was another wonderful picture; a picture which made men smile a little bitterly, and had brought an angry flush to the cheek of more than one sensitive woman.

Over a man of this nature woman holds a more important influence than with any other class; it may be a good influence or it may be a harmful one, but it is the most potent one which touches his life. Had John Graham loved happily at twenty-five, instead of most miserably, he would have been a very different man at thirty from the hermit artist of San Rosario. It would have been better for him if he could have learned the lesson which all wise men learn if they live long enough,--that women are neither angels who stand immeasurably above men, nor inferior beings whose place is at their feet, but human like themselves, full of good and faulty instincts, and, with all their imperfections, the God-given helpmates of man. So justly should they be judged; and if a little mercy be claimed for them, generosity should not deny it, so few are their chances in life compared with those of their brothers. A woman has but one possibility of happiness in this world. The stakes are high on which she risks her whole fortune, which she may lose by one unredeemable throw.

If Graham could have known all this, as, being what he was, he could not, he would have gained that one element which his genius lacked to make it superlative. Man and child he was by turns, but never for an instant had he been able to look at life from the standpoint of a woman. He had once loved the whole gentler sex with that chivalrous spirit which made him unfit to live in the nineteenth century. No discourteous or cruel word toward any woman had he to reproach himself with; he had looked upon them as creatures so far removed from his sphere, that his mind must be cleared of every base thought before it might dwell upon them; they were mysterious angels which it was his happiness to worship. Then came a change, and the love which had turned to grief darkened his soul. As his heart had been filled with a love so great that it embraced all the sisters of his idol, his contempt went out towards them, as his love had done before. His revenge had been terrible: he had struck at womankind; he had pictured it in its debasement for all the world to see.

The few women for whom he cared were elderly people, whose life-battles had been fought and won; who sat enthroned in the calm of that peaceful period when youth is no longer regretted nor old age feared. Such women he could paint without bitterness; and his portrait of his mother was a masterpiece of exquisite sentiment. No woman that he had ever met disliked John Graham; if he was distant and cold, he was honest and courteous, and a gentleman in the deepest sense of the word. He was too chivalrous to revenge himself on any individual; his grief was too great to stoop to anything so mean. More than one woman would gladly have loved him, but he avoided them as if they had been poison-nurtured.

Men, as a rule, respected and feared Graham; a few of his heart-friends would have given their lives for him with a smile. To those who understood and loved him, there was something more than human about the man,--a quality to which the highest part of their nature did homage. Fools laughed at him for his quixotism; the critics had worn themselves out in shrieking abuse of his work which affected him in nowise. He cared little for men's praise or blame; he would have died to help them to a new truth. He was of the stuff which made martyrs in the old time, crusaders in the dark ages, and artists in the Renaissance. His pictures were beautiful as works of art, but they were great because they embodied living truths. At twenty his friends said that he had great talent; at thirty his enemies ceased to deny his force; at forty, if he lived so long, the world would crown him with its laurel as a man of genius. If haply that bitterness which lay like a blight on all his work, on all his life, might be made sweet! What a chance was here for the woman whose love was now breaking over his frozen life with warmth, fragrance, and beauty! How grand an opportunity to sweeten by truth and faith all that had grown bitter from untruth and faithlessness! If she could only have known him as he was, have understood him and his past, before she had loved him, what could not Millicent have accomplished! Alas! poor child, she knew nothing of all this. Her own past was black with a grief and wrong greater than that which he had borne. She, too, was waking, and for the first time, from a trance of soul and sleep of heart; she was all engrossed in her own growth and development. She was like a little dungeon-born plant, which has at last climbed through the iron bars, and under the light and warmth of the glorious day runs riotous and unthinking across the wall, up, down, on every side, content to live and grow in the sun and air. But the taint of the old wrong and the lie it had entailed, were not yet left behind. He had taken her for a pure white lily; and how could she tell him that there had been a time when she lived in darkness and despair before her life flowered into its one perfect white blossom under the warmth of his love?

Life is very pleasant at the San Rosario Ranch with its bordering of peaceful hills. Here all are happy, be they of high or low degree; from the gentle-voiced _chatelaine_ to the stranger within her gates, the potent charm extends. The fair daughter and tall son have lived peaceful, uneventful lives; and though their young eyes may sometimes turn a little wearily toward the mountain barrier, beyond which lies the great busy world, known more to them by hearsay than by actual experience, they are happy, far happier than are most of the men and women in the crowded thoroughfare of the world's cities. The Ranch does not lie in the belt of gold, nor in the silver girdle which crosses the Pacific coast. The rude mining towns are far distant from this portion of the dairy lands of California. The trains which leave the station in this neighborhood are laden indeed with a golden freight; but no armed men are found necessary to guard the boxes filled with their rolls of fragrant yellow. The product of the dairy lands is of a smaller, surer value than that for which men toil and drudge in the gulches or mines. Far away to the southward, where the orange groves are white and golden with their double burden of blossom and fruit, is a climate milder than that of San Rosario; and there Hal had set his heart upon one day establishing himself. In that vine country the air is heavy with the spicy odor of the grape, and the harvest is blood-red with its life-juices; and yet to Millicent the fairest garden in this world's garden lay between the circled hills of San Rosario.

Millicent, having learned the earliest stage of butter-making under Hal's direction, wished to be initiated into the mysteries which follow the skimming of the cream. Hal gave one of his boisterous guffaws of laughter when she one morning gravely informed him that she was going to help in that day's churning. She had donned the prettiest chintz morning gown imaginable, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a fresh white apron. Her skirt was kilted up half way to the knee, showing a scarlet petticoat, which in turn exposed the pretty, small feet, and possibly two inches more of the round ankle than is usually shown by ladies of her degree. Tying one of the great picturesque hats which they had brought home from San Real, under her chin, the energetic young woman started for the dairy. Hal, giving a knowing wink to his mother and sister standing near by, as if to say that the joke was too good to be spoiled, followed her, with Tip, the cross old dog, following him in turn.

"Millicent, did you ever do any churning?"

"No, but I can learn."

"Without doubt; but tell me, did you ever see any one else churn?"

"Oh, yes; very often."

"Who, if one may ask?"

"You will not know any better if I tell you. It was old Nina, at home."

"Ah, old Nina; and what sort of a machine did she use?"

"She did not use a machine at all; she used a churn, like anybody else."

"What did it look like?"

"I am sure I have forgotten; it was probably an old-fashioned one, but it made quite as good butter as _yours_ does;" this in a slightly irritated voice. She objected to being catechised, and had, moreover, a dim sense that Deering was bent on quizzing her. She ran along the footpath in advance in order to avoid further questioning, and reached the dairy a few minutes before him. Finding the main door shut, she hurried round to the side, when, just as she turned the corner, her rapid progress was suddenly brought to an end. She had met an obstacle; she had, moreover, fallen into the arms of the obstacle, which proved to be a tall man with a kindly voice, for he called out merrily, "Hello, my girl, where are you going so fast?" steadying her at the same moment with his arm, as the sudden shock almost precipitated her from the path.

Millicent drew back disconcerted and breathless, and looked up into the face of the man whom she had so unexpectedly encountered. When she saw that it was a face familiar to her, she blushed and stammered a little as she replied to his astonished greeting. Mutual apologies and explanations followed; and Hal, coming up at that moment, laughed at her discomfiture till the tears rolled down his face.

"You always laugh at other people's misfortunes," cried Millicent, trying to be angry; but it was impossible to be angry with Hal. The irrepressible young rancher carried the day; and Maurice Galbraith assured Millicent that it was his awkwardness which had aroused Deering's merriment.

"We are very glad to see you, Galbraith, but we are too busy to stop and talk to you just now. You will find mother and Bab at the house. I have a new hand here who is going to take charge of the churning in future, and I am just showing her about a little. Do you catch on?"

"Slang again! Five cents more towards the amusement fund."

"Oh, we shall not want any more amusement fund if you are going to turn worker, Princess." As he spoke they entered the cool dairy. It was tenantless. At one end of the room stood a large wooden vessel, half as big as the Trojan horse, and from its hollow sides came a dull, splashing sound.

"Why, you said they would be at work already," said Millicent, in a disappointed voice; "where are they all?"

"Oh, it only takes one man to attend to this part of the butter-making, and there he is at his post."

Outside the open doorway, as wide as the entrance to a barn, sat Pedro, lazily smoking his pipe, and occasionally flicking with his whip the strong mule who was slowly revolving round the small space to which he was tethered.

"Well," said Millicent impatiently, "what does that mean?"

"Only this, my Princess, that you must turn the crank that this animal is agitating, with your own small hands, if you persist in your resolution to help with the churning."

Millicent's face fell; and Galbraith hastened to explain to her that the quantity of cream handled at one churning made it necessary, in a place where human labor is so dear, to employ horsepower. Nobody likes to be laughed at, though Millicent tried hard to smile at her own blunder; when Hal, suddenly calling out; "By your leave, Princess," without a word of warning caught up the young lady in his arms, and placed her on the back of the patient mule, remarking, as he accomplished the feat, "No one can say now that you have not helped with the churning."

It would be difficult to say whether Millicent or the mule felt the greater surprise; they were both taken unawares; but the quadruped was the first to recover himself, and resumed his weary task of plodding round in the monotonous circle. Millicent, clinging closely to the creature, cried loudly to be relieved from her uncomfortable position; but Hal, fearing her wrath, had disappeared into the interior of the dairy, leaving to Galbraith the pleasure of assisting the young woman in dismounting. Pedro, who had been an amused spectator of the scene, now announced that the churning was completed, and that they should soon see the washing of the butter, if it pleased them to wait. The big golden fragments were collected from the sea of buttermilk, and finally massed together on a wide table. There it was worked by Pedro, who tossed the fragrant mass from side to side, pressing out the remaining deposits of the milk with a heavy wooden wand. He moulded the butter into fantastic forms, prettiest of which was a huge bell-shaped flower like a giant trumpet blossom. It struck Millicent that here was a delightful material for modelling; and taking up a piece of butter and one of the dairy tools, she forthwith produced a bas-relief portrait of Galbraith, which would have done credit to the sculptress of the sleeping Iolanthe.

"There are two classes of hands, those which are skilful and those which are clumsy; of all other divisions of humanity this is the most important. You, Miss Almsford, are so happy as to belong to the skilful half, or rather quarter, of humanity,--for men are all clumsy. I see that you can do all things artistic as well as useful with your fingers."

"I am afraid I have never tried to do much that was useful," said the girl half ruefully. "Barbara, now, can do all sorts of things. But I am tired of comparing myself with her; I always suffer by the process;" this with a rather vicious little stroke at the butter-model, which she was now finishing into a medallion, with a pattern of scroll-work for a border.

"Let me judge between yourself and Miss Barbara. I know that she can touch the ivory keys with grace, and can also make wonderful peach preserves. On the other hand, you model in butter and--and--well, what else can those small hands accomplish of art or industry?"

"They can draw a little as well as model; they can trim bonnets, yes, really quite well; they are not unfamiliar with the key-boards of piano and organ; and, best of all,--I had really forgotten to enumerate this accomplishment,--they can move tables and chairs; they can draw pain from your head; they can put you into a trance,--they are, in fact, magnetic hands."

"It seems, then, that you are a Spiritualist."

"Far from it; by what power I do the few things which form the _repertoire_ of my manifestations, as the mediums call them, I do not know any more than you."

"Will you give me a _seance_?"

"Indeed; no."

"And because--"

"Because it tires me, and I am rather afraid of my own power. Some one once compared me to a child who had got hold of an electric battery which he did not understand, and with which he unwittingly produced inexplicable phenomena, not devoid of danger to himself."

"You are really in earnest then, and believe in these manifestations?"

"Perfectly so; and I am rather cowardly about exploring them to their source, as I have seen so many strong minds unhinged by study of this subject. I certainly object to the vulgar theory, that the spirits of those who have gone before us have nothing better to do than to tip tables and dip their hands in pails of paraffine which accommodating mediums prepare for them."

"You do not believe in mediums, then?"

"I believe no manifestation to be genuine which comes from a professional medium. That they often have real power, I do not doubt; but so soon as it is a question of earning their living, they must inevitably fall back upon fraud. But we are growing quite serious about this subject which I never like to talk of for fear of being misunderstood."

"But I am really interested in what you say--"

"Never mind; here is your portrait, which is not flattered, I frankly confess; but is it a little like you?"

"If I know my face at all, it is wonderfully good. Would that you had deigned to model it in a less perishable material!"

"Oh, no! this is infinitely better, it is so much more appropriate--

"Thanks for the compliment; but why, if I may ask, should you consider butter to be particularly suitable to me?"

"Not to you personally, but to humanity. Is it not stupid to carve bronze fac-similes of that which is as perishable as the grass?"

"But had it not been for this stupidity, how should we know the features of Caesar?"

"And would it greatly matter?"

"I think so; but a young lady who so cruelly assures me that butter is the only material in which my humble features deserve to be reproduced--"

Millicent interrupted the speaker by her pleasant laugh, with its sound of falling waters, and thanking Pedro for what he had shown her, led the way from the dairy. She refused to speak further on the subject during the day-time, but as they sat together on the piazza in the twilight, Galbraith referred to it again; and, after much persuasion, Millicent seated herself at a table, round which the company grouped themselves, placing their hands lightly on its surface. Barbara, who was seated next to Millicent, their hands touching one another, seemed strangely affected, after they had been sitting for some time in silence. She manifested unmistakable signs of sleepiness, and finally, with a long sigh, her eyes closed and her head fell upon Millicent's shoulder. With a little frightened cry, Millicent quickly lifted her, and making several passes over her head called Hal to come and support his sister. In a moment Barbara recovered herself, and showed no more symptoms of sleep. She laughed heartily, and said that a peculiar sensation in her elbows had preceded her momentary unconsciousness. Galbraith applauded the little episode, which he assured Millicent was very well acted by both participants. The girl turned her eyes, deep and burning, full upon him, half in anger, and said,--

"Very well, Mr. Galbraith, we will see if you can act a part as well as Barbara. Lay your hand in mine--so."

The young man smiled, and did as he was bid, with a courteous bow, as if deprecating the power in which he did not believe; and for a space of time they stood looking each other full in the face. Then Millicent's slight form seemed to vibrate, and from her eyes a light flashed into the man's dark orbs, her cheek flushed, and from every nerve in her body an electric flash seemed to emanate, concentrating into a broad current at the shoulder, and slipping through the round white arm to the very finger-tips. Galbraith's face paled as hers flushed; a stinging sensation half painful, half agreeable, made him wince; and when in a few moments Millicent withdrew her hand, he remained standing motionless, white to the lips, with dim, dreaming eyes, and slow-beating heart.

"Speak," said the magnetizer, "tell me what is in your mind?"

"There is nothing," answered the man, in a low, monotonous voice.

"Now speak, and tell me what you see."

"I see a man on horseback; the horse is running away. Now he gallops, and the rider loses control of him; they disappear in a cloud of dust, and I see nothing. Now they return; the horse is going quietly, and the rider looks towards a carriage in which sits a lady; it is Millicent. He enters the carriage; she is weeping, and he touches--" he paused.

Millicent's cheek had grown crimson. She said in a low tone,--

"Why do you not continue?"

"Because you will not let me."

At this moment a light step sounded on the piazza. Millicent turned her head and saw Graham approaching her. She stepped quickly towards him, forgetting Galbraith, the company, everything and everybody, save that her lover had come to her. As she turned from him, Galbraith reeled suddenly, and would have fallen had not Hal steadied him to a seat.

"I fear I am interrupting you," said the artist, in a cool voice, betraying some annoyance.

"Indeed, no," cried the girl, "we were only trying the stupid old game of willing people; I have succeeded in magnetizing Mr. Galbraith here."

By this time the young lawyer had recovered himself, though he looked strangely pale and agitated. He was somewhat overcome by what had gone before, and was not a little troubled by the power which the tall, straight girl had exercised over him. He rebelled against it, and yet the sensation of giving up his volition, and living for the time only by her will and her thought had not been unmixed with a keen pleasure. If no one had witnessed the affair, above all, if Graham had not seen it, he would not have greatly cared; but though he had no recollection of what he had seen and described in Millicent's mind, that evening's experience deepened the vague antipathy he had always felt towards the artist, into a positive dislike.

Later, as they walked together alone, Graham asked Millicent if she would magnetize him, to which she replied in the negative.

"Do you think that you could succeed?"

"I cannot tell; but if I could, I should not be willing to do so."

"And yet you threw a spell over that fellow Galbraith?"

"Dear, there is a difference; cannot you see?"

"No; upon my soul I can't."

"I do not want to command even your thought for an instant; you must think of me to please yourself, not because I will it."

"What a strange girl you are, Millicent! Do you really love me so very much?"

"I love you better than my own soul."

"A dangerous thing, child; do not ever say that to me again."

"Why?"

"It shocks me; I cannot tell you why."

For answer, she gave him a rose from her breast with a childish gesture, as if asking forgiveness. There was an awkwardness, born of an unwonted shyness, in the movement which was more attractive to the artist than the most graceful attitude he had ever seen her assume. He caught the hand with the rose and crushed them both in his two strong palms, as if to hurt her. She smiled, though her wrist reddened from the sudden pressure. It is more sweet to bear pain from those we love, than to receive kindness from a hand which is not dear.

As Graham was taking his leave, he asked Millicent for two books which she had promised to lend him. Barbara had joined them, and offered to fetch them for him.

"Thank you, Barbara, but I know just where they are."

"Is it not the Petrarch and your manuscript translation of Dante that Mr. Graham wants?"

"Yes."

"You left them on your table. I saw them when I went up to shut the blinds. You had better let me go, you are so tired."

"Yes, let Miss Deering get them for you; you are quite worn out with your magnetizing." He wanted to say one last good-night to her.

His lightest wish was her law; she nodded gratefully to Barbara, who disappeared, while Graham told her once more how lovely she was that night. When Miss Deering came back, Graham had already mounted his horse and Millicent was feeding the animal with sugar.

"You are sure you have the right books, Barbara?"

"Quite sure; I know them perfectly."

"Many thanks to you both, and good-night."

Millicent was in a wakeful mood that night. She went to the piano and played for an hour or two, as she only played when alone. Her hands drifted dreamily over the key-board, drawing out fantastic melodies,--themes which were composed and forgotten within the hour. In an obscure corner of the room stood a head of Beethoven. Her eyes were fixed on the face of the master while she played, and as the notes grew strong and sweet she smiled; when the harmony changed to a tender minor strain, the smile faded from her face. The music expressed the thoughts which drifted through her mind. At first she played the quick movement of a march, through which rang out the measured beat of a horse's hoofs; then the strain changed to a pensive nocturne suggestive of the forest at night. A tender slumber-song followed, in which her voice took up the melody, chanting loving words in the language of Tuscany. The light, delicate thread of harmony now broadened into a full consonance of sound, the chords following each other tumultuously, as if in translating one supreme moment of leave-taking. As she was striking the closing strains of this emotional improvisation, her powerful voice trembling with a passionate _addio_, the sweet symphony of sounds was interrupted by a crashing discord. She sprang from the piano startled and trembling, to find that a heavy vase of flowers had fallen on the key-board from the shelf above the piano. The metal jar was uninjured, but about her feet were scattered the petals of a bunch of white roses which Graham had plucked for her that night. So rudely was her rhapsody interrupted! She closed the piano, and, after restlessly wandering through the silent house, went to her own room, where she sat looking out of her window at the moon-lit hills. She could not sleep, she was full of unrest.

The gray morning light was filtering into Barbara Deering's room when she was awakened by a light touch on the shoulder. Millicent stood before her, gray as the twilight; she held in her hand a small parchment book.

"Barbara, what books did you give Mr. Graham?"

"The Petrarch and your Dante. What is the matter, Millicent? Have n't you been in bed?"

"No, I could not sleep. Here is the little Dante; where did you find the book you mistook for it?"

Barbara sat up and rubbed her eyes confusedly.

"Why, it was not where I had last seen it. I found it somewhere, in your jewel-box, I think. I am so sorry I made a mistake; 't was just like the Dante. Does it matter much?"

"I only wanted to know, Barbara; go to sleep again."

She spoke in a low, constrained voice, and glided quietly from the room. Barbara, only half awake, gave a sigh, and settling her flaxen head among the pillows, again fell asleep and dreamed that she had stabbed Millicent with a knife, and that Graham was trying to stanch the wound with the leaves of a little parchment book.

When Graham arrived at his lonely tower, after making his horse comfortable for the night, he looked into French John's cabin to see whether all was well with the old fellow. The door was fast, and looking through the small window, the young man saw the wood-cutter lying on his hard couch, his gun beside him, his dog curled up at his feet. The creature growled at the sound of Graham's footsteps, but catching sight of a familiar face through the window, he gave a comfortable yawp, wagged his tail, and relapsed into slumber. The artist never slept without paying this last visit to his humble friend. He stumbled up the steep tower stairs, and after fumbling with the clumsy lock, the door swung open and admitted him to his one room. After groping about in the dark for a moment he struck a light, and out of the embers on the hearth blew a little flame. He looked about the small room and laughed; this was a home, indeed, to which to bring a bride! It sufficed for him; and he asked for nothing more commodious or luxurious than this old tower in the corner of the ruined church, with its grand north light and easy chair, its open fire and pallet-bed.

If he married,--when he married, he corrected himself, for he surely intended to marry Millicent,--there would have to be great changes in his life. He would be obliged to abandon his old tower, and live in a smug new house somewhere, with fuss and worry about servants, who would not please him half so well as did the old wood-cutter John. His work, ah, how that would suffer!--no more of the pleasant conscientious labor, the slow painting and study of that one supreme moment of the day when the golden copse was made tender by the light of the setting sun. He must hie him to the city and pass his life in painting fat, over-fed matrons in lace and diamonds, or expressionless minxes with costumes indicative of youth and ignorance. He would, perhaps, relapse into a mere mechanical portrait-painter, with as much imagination as a photographer; and his pictures would be ordered as theirs are, with the simple difference that the artist produces but one copy, while the photographer, with equal trouble, makes a dozen or ten dozen, or a single picture. He sighed aloud, and for consolation lit his pipe. He caught sight of the flower which had bloomed on a fair bosom and was now fastened to his coat, somewhat crushed but still fragrant. He carefully unpinned the rose and placed it in a small vase of water, and then proceeded to examine the books which Millicent had given him. Graham liked old books, and was delighted with the yellowed parchment copy of Petrarch. An inscription on the cover showed that it had once belonged to a monastery. On the fly-leaf was a slight sketch of a young monk's head seen in profile. It was a beautiful, clear-cut face, with delicate outlines and an earnest expression; beneath it was written, "Fra Antonio, Aetat 22."

"So this was brother Antonio, and he lived and died probably in the peaceful quiet of a Roman monastery. I wonder if he painted too, or whether he wrote hymns to all the pretty female saints in the calendar. Brother Antonio must have lived and died without a helpmeet. I fancy he did none the worse work for that."

The thought struck him as ungrateful, and, as if to make amends for it, he took up the other little volume. It was a thin book bound in white vellum, with Millicent's name in illuminated text upon its cover. The covers of this small tome were closed with a gold clasp, which he finally succeeded in opening. It proved to be a diary in manuscript; he recognized the clear, delicate handwriting of the girl he loved. Yes, he loved her tenderly; why else should he press the senseless pages close to his lips, kissing the fair paper over which her fairer hand had passed? He drew his lamp nearer to him and prepared to read the record. It was written in Italian, and the first page bore a date five years back. He was somewhat puzzled, but supposed he had misunderstood what she had told him of the book. She could have been but a child then; she was now only just past her majority. How pretty she must have been at sixteen, before she had grown to the perfect womanhood which now became her so well! He fancied her in all the shyness and awkwardness of young maidenhood, with childhood reluctantly slipping from her, and girlhood anxiously leading her forward. Again he kissed the book, but reverently this time, and with a deep sigh as if it had been a holy one. If he could have known her then, before he had grown to feel so old, before she had learned that she was fair and young, how much easier it would have been for both of them. As he sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the faintly traced characters, beholding in fancy the little Millicent of half-grown figure and cool, loveless eyes stooping over the book, putting her white, childish thoughts into these words, it seemed to him that he heard a faint sound,--a sound that was deeper than the wind stirring the tops of the redwoods; a sound that made him shiver and turn the bright flame of the lamp a little higher. It was like a noise heard dimly in a dream, an echo of a woman's sob ringing faint and muffled through a space of years, was it, or of distance? It had grown quite cold; and he heaped an armful of brushwood on the dying fire, which soon shot up the little chimney with a cheery roar, and threw its bright light to the farthest corner of the room, touching the picture on the easel, bringing out the ugly little _netshukes_ from their shadowy corner, and shining on the polished steel of the gun standing near the maulstick and fishing-rod.

It must have been the wind, that faint sound which had seemed to find an echo in the beating of his heart. He drew aside the heavy window-curtains. Outside in the cool moonlight he saw the arms of the great trees swaying to and fro; below these the desolate ruins of the old church; all was quiet and deserted. There was the dismantled altar,--it was surely a trick of the moonlight and the trees, that shadowy semblance of a woman kneeling out there in the night, with wild hair, and arms cast about the broken cross, overturned this half century? Yes, it was a shadow surely; for a cloud passed before the silver face of the half-moon, and when it had floated by, the shadow of a female figure had vanished. He dropped the curtain and turned with a sigh of relief from the mysterious half-light, with its revelations of deserted chapels and uncared-for altars, its shattered cross and phantom penitent. Inside his small domicile was warmth and light; and to drive away the cold, nervous feeling which had crept about him like an invisible network, he again took up the little parchment journal. Again he seated himself, and turned the first leaf. As he read he smiled, and occasionally turned over the sheets to see how many more pages remained to be perused. Presently the smile faded from his face; and the flames on the hearth burnt low and finally died, choked by the gray ashes. And still Graham turned the pages of the little journal with cold fingers. The lamp grew dim, and the moon paled and sank beneath the horizon; the chill morning twilight crept betwixt the hangings, and showed him sitting cold and motionless to the slow-coming dawn. The last page of the journal had been turned long since; but he still held the book open, his eyes fixed on the final words.

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