Dear Fitz:—Three days ago I wrote you that I had located Mr. Ketchum but failed to find the girl. Yesterday being Sunday, I went down to the hot springs at Wagon Wheel Gap to spend the day. At the hotel I met Mrs. McCleland, of Alamosa, and while we were conversing, a lady commenced to sing in the parlor. The soft notes that came from the piano mingled with a voice so full of soulful melody, that I stopped talking and listened. “Do you like music?” asked the good lady from the San Luis. “There is but one thing sweeter,” I said, “and that is poetry—the music of the soul. Take me in, won’t you?”
We entered so softly that the young woman at the piano failed to notice our coming, and sang on to the end of the piece.
“La Paloma!” How different from the strains I had heard during the past week, from the Umpah band in front of the Olympic Theater.
When she had finished, the singer turned, blushed, and rising, advanced toward my friend, holding out her hand; and I was surprised and pleased to hear Mrs. Mc. say: “Well, I want to know—are you here?”
The young lady acknowledged that she was, and went into a long explanation that she had concluded to stop at the springs until matters were in a little better shape at Creede.
“Where is Mr. ——, Mr. ——,” stammered Mrs. Mc.
“Oh, he’s in Creede,” said the young lady, as she shot a glance at me which was followed by a becoming blush. “He is so busy at the mines; they work a great many men, you know.”
All this time I had been looking over Mrs. McCleland’s shoulder into an exceedingly bright and interesting face.