"She was not the first person who has been ruined by injudicious indorsement."
The Californian winced. His home-coming was proving a terrible disappointment to him, and he little dreamed how much worse than disappointment was yet in store.
"Well, bad luck has pursued me. I have lost in every speculation I ever undertook. The last I tried was the evaporation of fruits. There's money in it, if I had the capital—"
"Then you did not know how badly things were going with your sister?"
"I never dreamed it. You knew her well—Salome was never a whiner. If she had even intimated the straits which she was in, I would have thrown up every chance and come back at once, to put my shoulder to the wheel in some shape. I wouldn't have permitted it."
"How happen you here just now?"
"My niece, Amy, wrote me of her mother's death. It was a brief, heart-broken little letter. I have it here. It brought me home, but I still fancied that home was this house." The gentleman took from his pocket a small envelope and read its enclosure aloud. It was, as he had stated, extremely short and gave only the facts.
"My dear Uncle Frederic: Our mother is dead. She is buried at Quaker cemetery. My father and Hallam are well. So is Cleena. I don't know how to write to you because you are really a stranger to me. The burros are both well. Your loving
"Amy Kaye."
"There, that's all. It was enough to bring me clear across the continent, however. My heart aches; I should have come sooner. Oh, for one sight of Salome's beautiful face before—" He dropped his head on his hand and a sob shook the strong frame.