NAT WOLFE;

OR,

THE GOLD HUNTERS.

A ROMANCE OF PIKE'S PEAK AND NEW YORK.

BY MRS. M.V. VICTOR.

NEW YORK:

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

BEADLE AND ADAMS,

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

(P.N. No. 5.)

NAT WOLFE;

OR,

THE GOLD HUNTERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE RESCUE.

"Their black hair, thick and lowering,
Above their wild eyes hung,
And about their frowning foreheads
Like wreaths of night-shade clung.
'The bisons! ho, the bisons!'
They cried and answered back.
The frightened creatures stood aghast
To see them on their track."

With rifle on shoulder and knife in belt, Nat Wolfe rode along carelessly, for it was midday, and the country was open. That caution which ten years of uncivilized life had taught him never entirely slumbered, and he gave a sharp glance ahead, when, upon turning a low bluff rising out of the plain just here, he descried travelers in advance of him. A moment assured him that they were a family of emigrants making their toilsome way to Pike's Peak. He had seen hundreds of such during the season; had sometimes aided them in cases of sickness and famine; and had cursed in his heart the folly of those men who had brought with them their women and children to share in the hardships of the journey.

The party he now observed was only one of multitudes presenting the same general features. There was a stout wagon, drawn by three pairs of lean oxen at a slow and lumbering pace—probably the last wagon of a train, as it was seldom that a family ventured upon crossing the plains alone. If so, the train was out of sight along the track, which here becomes less monotonous, winding among the bluffs and along the shallow bed of a river, in which, at present, no water was visible. The driver had attempted to lessen the difficult task of his team while ascending a long swell of ground, the heavy wheels of the wagon cutting deep in the sand, by dislodging the two women and three children from their seats in the conveyance. The sun was hot, the air languid, and there were no cool shadows of trees to break the heat and glare of the way. The two elder children, who were boys, ran on with spirit, but a four-year-old girl lagged behind and cried, while the women toiled on with listless, dragging steps. As Nat watched them, one of them stooped and took the poor little child on her back.

"It's too bad!" muttered he, spurring his horse forward.

The whole family looked back anxiously when they heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, the driver involuntarily reaching for his rifle, as the route was one of frequent danger and dread.

"Halloo, madam, let me carry your cub for you," called Nat riding up and lifting the child from the bent back to the neck of his strong animal.

There was a kindness in his voice which dispelled fear, even that of the shy little creature in his arm.

"Thank you, sir."

He looked down at the speaker curiously, for her tone and manner were unexpected. She was a girl, of not more than seventeen, slender, and with a face too quickly hidden again by the drooping and uncomely sun-bonnet, for him to realize fully its peculiar and melancholy beauty.

Nat Wolfe was a hater of Indians and hunter of bison, not a lady's man; so he rode in advance of the slouched sun-bonnet to the side of the wagon.

"Another fool!" was his curt, sarcastic greeting.

"I begin to think so myself," answered the emigrant, whose hollow cheeks and emaciated frame gave force to his disconsolate words. It was evident he had been sick on the way.

"Pike's Peak, I s'pose?"

"Yes."

"You're late in the season."

"Was down with the fever back to Pipe's Creek; kept us two weeks."

"Where's your company?"

"Just ahead. They're to stop at that little strip of cottonwoods we're coming to, for dinner. I hope they've found water for the cattle."

"Not a drop. You'll have to press on smartly if you reach water this evening. The nearest, on this trail, is fifteen miles beyond. I was over the route yesterday."

"Sho! the teams'll have a tough pull through this sand; they'd be glad of a drink now."

"What possessed you to bring this little thing along with you, stranger? It's bad enough for men, let alone wives and babies."

"That's so. But fact is, Meranda's got tol'able used to follering me about. When I fust went out to Indiana I left her to home in York, and she won't never be left behind sence. She's emigrated to Missouri with me, and two years ago to eastern Kansas, and now we're a-marching for the mines."

"Marching for the poor-house," growled Nat. "I'm a 'rolling stone' myself, but then I ain't a family man, and have a right to do as I please."

"Well, the fact is, things hain't prospered with us as they seem to with some people. We've had bad luck."

"And always will, I reckon," again muttered Nat, taking in at a shrewd glance the whole air of the man.

They had now reached the summit of the bluff, and at its foot, on the other side, along the edge of the stunted strip of wood which there freshened the eye, was drawn up the emigrant-train for a brief rest. The cattle were not unyoked, nor were there any fires kindled. The men were eating their cold bacon and hard bread, some lounging on the ground and some in their wagons. Only one woman was visible among the party of thirty or forty men, besides the two now trudging along by the last wagon. Nat did not resign the little girl until they came to the halting-place, when her father came and lifted her down.

"Won't you take a bite with us?" he asked, in return for Nat's civility.

"Obliged to you, stranger; but I've got a bit of dried buffalo in my pocket, and a biscuit."

Before dismounting and tying his horse to the low branches of a cottonwood, the hunter rode along the line of wagons to see if he knew any of the party. He had lived so long in that region that he was widely known, having a fame of his own which just suited his peculiar ambition, and which he would not have exchanged for that of General or Senator. So, although he was acquainted with none of the faces here, he was recognized by several, who greeted him heartily, and passed his name from lip to lip. The emigrants could not but feel braver and in better spirits when they heard that Nat Wolfe was among them.

As he lounged under a tree, against which he had carefully rested his rifle, cutting off bits of dried meat with the knife from his belt, he was surrounded by eager inquiries, asking after the route—with which they knew him to be familiar—about the water, the feed, the Indians, the streams, the storms, etc. While he talked, his eyes were constantly wandering to the little spot of shadow where the young girl was sitting, patiently feeding the little one, but seeming to eat nothing herself. She had thrown aside her bonnet to catch a breath of the light breeze springing up on the plains; her eyes were fixed afar off, on the heads of bison dotting the vast, monotonous desert, or the horizon, which ringed it in—except for the care of the child, she hardly took an interest in the scene more immediately about her. Whether it was the beauty of her face or its sad patience which touched him, Nat did not inquire of himself; he only wondered who she was and what she was doing in such a place. He could trace no resemblance between her and the thin, sun-burned, care-worn-looking woman by her side, the mother of the children, but evidently not of the young girl. They surely could not be sisters, for they were too unlike.

Neither the fierce sun, nor the fiercer wind of the prairies had spoiled the rich, dark hue of her skin, a clear olive on brow and temples, melting into a glow on either cheek. The melancholy eyes were large and dark, and floating in liquid fire—a fire that, however slumbering and repressed, seemed made to flash forth laughter and love. Her hair, instead of being neglected, as her present mode of life would have excused, or "done up," frontier-fashion, in a rude knot, was woven in glossy braids, wound tastefully about her head. The faded calico dress, awkwardly fitted as it was, could not conceal the rounded outlines of her form, any more than the coarse shoes and the wearisome journey could deprive her movements of their natural grace.

"See if he won't take a drink of this cold coffee, Elizabeth; it'll fresh him up more than whisky," spoke the older woman, pouring out a draught into a tin-cup, and giving it to the girl, who rose and approached Nat with the simple offering which testified their gratitude for the trifling kindness he had done them.

Too young and innocent to feel the full awkwardness of her position, in the midst of so many rough men, yet with a demeanor of shrinking modesty, she passed through the crowd surrounding the hunter, and gave him the cup.

"Thank you, child. It's just what I wanted to top off this salt meat," and drinking the beverage, Nat returned the cup to her hand with a smile which brought the flush to her cheeks.

"Pretty girl that," remarked one, as she retreated quickly.

"Yes," replied Nat, gravely, "and I wish she were where she ought to be, instead of in such company as this."

"So do we all," said another, warmly. "There's none of us would harm a hair of her head—and if we did, that uncle of hers would teach us better manners. He sets more store by her than by his own children, I do believe."

"Bosh! he hain't got spirit enough to take care of his own women-folks," added a third.

"So she's his niece?" queried Nat.

As he threw another admiring glance toward the maiden, he met one as admiring in return. Safe beside her aunt, she was regarding him shyly, and with something of interest lighting up the apathy of her expression.

There were not many who could first see Nat Wolfe without being attracted to give him another look. He had an air of absolute self-reliance, in which there was not a shadow of bravado; it was the coolness of often-tested strength and courage; his piercing eyes read every thing at a glance. Over six feet two in height, he was so lithe and symmetrical that he did not appear as large as he really was. His unshorn hair and beard, and his hunter's dress, gave a roughness to his appearance which was at least both picturesque and appropriate. Nat Wolfe would not have been himself, without the long boots drawn over the doeskin pants, the blue shirt, the leather belt, the brace of revolvers, the knife and the rifle which formed his daily costume. Perhaps a rifle can not properly be called an article of costume; but Nat's was to him like his good right arm—eating, sleeping, on foot or in saddle, it never left his side.

The smile he had given the girl was enough to make her look back at him kindly; it was a smile which he kept for children and helpless things, and all the brighter for being rare.

"You'd better be pushing on, men; it's fifteen miles to the first drop of water; it'll be ten o'clock to-night before your teams can reach it, if you urge them to do their best."

"I'm thinkin' we had," responded the leader of the train. "Goin' to ride our way, Wolfe?"

"Well, yes, I'm bound your way, at present. I'd thought to make forty miles before midnight, but I don't know that it matters. Maybe I'll keep 'long-side for a while."

The cold provisions were returned to their boxes, the women and children climbed to their places, the drivers flourished their heavy whips and shouted and swore at the patient oxen. As usual, Timothy Wright was the last to get started; and his niece Elizabeth, as she sat under the tent-like cover of the wagon, looked out forlornly on the winding array, tired of every thing but of seeing the strange horseman riding at the head of the company, and wishing he would stay with them forever.

Yes, forever! that did not seem too long to say, for she was sure the journey was endless—there was no limit to any thing more—the earth was like the sky, the desert was illimitable; she should never get away from that dreary caravan, never see trees or mountains again; the cattle would never crawl over all that heavy sand, they would never reach the far-distant Pike's Peak—never see the gold glittering in heaps all over it—thus the sad thoughts drifted through her mind as the sand drifted before the afternoon breeze.

Several times in the course of the afternoon, she crept out of the slow-moving wagon and walked by its side. The prairie was cut up by deep gullies worn by the spring freshets, and when the great wheels went jolting down these, it was pleasanter to be out of the wagon than in it. Although the track was sandy along which they wound, there was still a scanty covering of short grass struggling up through the arid soil, and occasional fringes of stunted cottonwood along the banks of empty streams—mere brush—trees she would not call them who remembered the magnificent forests of the home of her youth.

"Blast it! I've broke an axle!" exclaimed Timothy Wright, as the wheels went down a steep rut with a dangerous jerk, and stuck there. "The whole lot's gone over safe but me. Of course if there's trouble, it'll fall to me."

"It's our luck, Tim," said his wife, despondently.

"That's so. Every thing goes against us. Hello! hello there! They don't hear me, they're so far ahead. You run on, Elizabeth, and holler as loud as you can. It couldn't be worse than to happen just now," he continued, in a complaining tone, as he went to work to unstrap the extra pair of axletrees which each wagon carried in case of just such accidents.

"It'll put us back so we won't get to camp before midnight. Blast it, it's just my luck."

In the mean time Elizabeth ran on to attract the attention of the party and obtain help in repairing the damage. She was fleeter of foot than the lumbering oxen, and the train was not more than a quarter of a mile in advance. She expected every moment when some one, chancing to look back, would comprehend the state of affairs and stop.

Suddenly she discovered that the train was thrown into confusion. At first she could perceive no reason, but a sound as of rumbling thunder drew her attention toward the south. A vast herd of bison had come into view, rushing up from a valley which had concealed them, and pouring down impetuously directly across the track of the train. They had encountered many of these herds during the last few days, had passed around and even close beside them; but this vast army had been frightened by some real or suspected danger, and the electric thrill of terror which flashed through their palpitating breasts made them blind to the obstacles in front of them. On they came by thousands, darkening the plain, shaking the earth, threatening to annihilate cattle, goods and men. To attempt to oppose their resistless numbers would have been like flinging feathers in the face of a whirlwind. Forward they swept, near and nearer, and for a few moments it seemed as if all were lost; the men did the only thing they could do to save themselves—they fired their rifles as rapidly as possible in the face of the enemy. The flash of fire-arms, and perhaps some of the shots taking effect, saved the train from destruction; the immense horde swerved slightly to one side, and swept on more madly then ever, just grazing the last one of the teams, bearing down the wagon and trampling the cattle underfoot, but only stunning the driver, who was saved by the wagon falling over him.

And now the path of the bison was toward the unprotected girl, standing motionless with fright, her eyes fixed upon the mighty sea of brutal life rushing down upon her, terrible and tumultuous. It was as well for her to remain riveted by terror as to flee, for flight could be of no avail—she could never outstrip that long wall darkening down upon her. She felt, through all the cruel pangs of anticipation, their hoofs trampling her young life into nothingness.

Then there came flying along in front of that rushing host a horse and rider. While the horseman had to sweep almost the whole line of the bison, they were galloping directly forward toward the girl, and it was a question of fearful interest to the lookers on as to which would reach her first—or whether he and his animal, as well as the hapless maiden, would not be overwhelmed.

As for her, she did not see him, or if she did, terror had so paralyzed her that she did not distinguish him from the multitude. Their hot breath already blasted her, when she felt herself caught up, and unable any longer to realize the truth, she gave a wild shriek and became lost to further consciousness of her situation.

When they saw Nat Wolfe stoop and swing the girl lightly up across the neck of his horse, the gazing emigrants in the distance gave an irrepressible shout, and again became breathless and silent, watching the further progress of events; for the herd had gained on the steed during the momentary halt, and being doubly freighted, the noble beast could not now run with his usual swiftness. A passion of terror had taken possession of him also, as he felt himself encumbered, and the bisons pressing upon him. He reared and whirled about madly, threatening to run upon destruction, instead of away from it. His owner bent and seemed to utter a word in his ear at which he sprung forward, as if carrying no weight at all straight as an arrow from the shaft, quite in advance of the bellowing monsters throwing up the sand in clouds along their way.

Suddenly horse and riders went down into a ravine and were lost to sight, and the next moment the whole excited herd poured over like a torrent, and were seen thundering down the empty river-bed and speeding over the valley. As soon as the bisons had passed, the men started to ascertain the fate of the two human beings probably crushed to death in the river-bed. As they reached the edge of the ravine and looked eagerly over, Nat Wolfe crawled out from the shelter of the shelving ledge on which they stood, shaking the dirt and pebbles from his hair and garments.

"Hello," cried he, cheerfully. "All right. Hold on, till I hand up the girl," and he lifted her, just struggling back to consciousness, up to the ready arms held out for her; then, finding a rift which afforded him a foothold, he swung himself lightly after her.

"Well, I declare for't, Lizzie, you had a narrow escape—you're as white as a sheet," cried her uncle, reaching the scene just as she attempted to stand alone. "I don't wonder you're all in a tremble. Miranda's so scart she hadn't strength to walk. We thought you was gone for certain—and we didn't know but we was too. Them brutes came nigh to giving us a brush—we just escaped by the skin of our teeth. How on earth, stranger, did you manage to get out of the way?"

"By the merest chance. You see when we went down, my horse stumbled and fell—but I was too quick for him—I come down on my feet with the girl under my arms. It occurred to me, quick as a flash, that our only hope was to press close against the shelter of the bank and let them go over us. And over us they went in a manner not the pleasantest. I was afraid the shelving earth above would give way on us, the gravel and dirt rattled down so furiously. But here we are, safe and sound, aren't we?"

The light and color sprung to Elizabeth's face, as he turned to her with a careless laugh; she essayed to say something, to thank him for saving her, at the risk of his own life, from a terrible death, but her lips trembled and the words would not come. Nat liked to do brave deeds better than he liked to be embarrassed by thanks; he turned quickly from the glowing face, and looked after the distant herd.

"Poor Kit," said he, "I hope he has escaped as well as his master. I'd hate to lose that horse. He and I are one and inseparable. This isn't the first danger he's carried me safely out of."

"What do you think has happened to him?"

"Well, he regained his feet before the buffalo came over. I think like as not he held his own—just as the wise ones do—kept with the crowd and said nothing."

"It's a chance, then, if you ever see him again."

"Don't you believe it—if he hadn't known more than common folks, I wouldn't have named him Kit Carson. When he gets out of his difficulty, he'll make his way back here. I'll stay here all night if he don't get back before dark."

"And that puts me in mind that I'm like to be kept awhile too," said Wright. "I was just sending my niece forward for help, when that stampede of buffaloes took place. I've broke an axle."

"Let's set to work and repair damages then, if we don't want the cattle to go thirsty to-night. By the time we're ready for a start, I hope your horse will stray along, Wolfe."

"If he don't you needn't mind me. We'll overtake you soon enough if he does get back. And if he don't, I've spent many a night in worse places than this."

"P'raps part of us better go on," suggested one of the emigrants. "We can choose the camp, build the fire, and be getting things comfortable for the rest. It's like we'll kill a buffalo, and have a j'int roasted by the time you come up."

"I'd advise you not to part your forces," said Nat, quietly. "There's Indians about, and they're not particularly friendly. But don't be frightened, child," he added, as he saw Elizabeth grow pale again. "I don't think they'll venture upon any thing worse than begging. They're a set of thieves and beggars."

"If there's any thing in the world I mortally dread, it's Indians," she answered, in a low voice.

"These Indians are not the kind you read about—fierce warriors hanging to their horses' sides and hurling their poisoned arrows—they're a sneaking and dirty set of rascals who'd murder you if they dared. But they won't dare. They're afraid of Uncle Sam—and your party is too large and too well armed."

The men hastened away to see about the broken axle, while the young girl lingered a moment, looking at Nat wistfully.

"But you," said she, "will not you be afraid to stay here alone all night, waiting for your horse?"

"Afraid?"

A curious smile flashed over the hunter's face as he echoed the word; she read its meaning, blushed, and continued:

"Ah! I know you are afraid of nothing. Yet harm might happen to you; and I should not like you to suffer from an accident which comes upon you by saving my life."

"Don't think of it then. I live out-of-doors. I've slept a hundred nights on the open prairie as many miles from any white man. Good-by, little girl. I'm off after them buffaloes. I'll have the satisfaction of killing two or three of them in return for the fright they gave you; and I may find my horse quicker by following 'em up. Tell your people I've concluded to go after 'em. If I have good luck, I'll reach your camp yet to-night." So saying, Nat Wolfe swung his rifle to his shoulder, leaped down the bank, and started off with long strides across the lower plain.

An hour's hurried labor sufficed to repair the damaged wagon and replace the load; the emigrant train resumed its creeping pace, its weary company finding something new to think and talk about in the appearance of the hunter among them and the succeeding adventure. As it grew dark, they kept a sharp look-out, having examined their fire-arms and put them in order, the statement of Nat as to Indians in the vicinity giving them some uneasiness.

A new moon, sinking in the western sky, threw a melancholy light over the wide desert, enabling the drivers to keep the trail and push on for the water which they were assured was not far away. The heat of the day gave place to chilling winds, causing the wife and child of Timothy Wright to shrink down to the bottom of the wagon and wrap themselves in blankets. But Elizabeth sat by her uncle's side, hugging her shawl close about her, and looking out at the moon with a tired, home-sick face.

"I guess you wish you was back to Missoury," he said, looking around at her, and speaking as if her looks were a reproach to himself.

"I don't know, uncle. I didn't like Missouri very well, either."

"It was unlucky, our settling where the fever and ague was the thickest. I'd a' done well there, if we hadn't been sick so much. And then Kansas was a poorly country whar' we tried it—the drought just discouraged me about that. It's mighty onpleasant for a young thing like you to be jolting along away out to Pike's Peak. But if we once get there, the worst'll be over; we'll see good times. You shall have a silk frock this time next year, Lizzie."

"I hope the gold will come as easy as you think, uncle. Those people whom we met, day before yesterday, coming back from the mines, didn't tell us much to brighten up our spirits."

"Well, I will say I was rather set back by their story. 'Twon't do any good to get discouraged now, though: we haven't provisions enough to carry us back, nor money to buy 'em. We must go ahead and make the best of it. Some folks may have better luck than others. I expect we shall just pick up the biggest kind of nuggets."

"You say you're not one of the lucky kind," she answered, smiling forlornly.

"'It's a long lane that has no turn'—maybe I'm coming to the turn now. How's the young ones getting along, wife?"

"They're sound asleep, poor things, without supper."

"There's a fire ahead," spoke Elizabeth; "perhaps it's an Indian camp."

"Nothin' of the kind, Miss," answered a person who had been standing on the track, waiting for them to come up. "I run ahead and took a squint, while the teams waited; it's our campin' ground, and there's another lot of travelers in before us—a train most as large as our own. They'll be glad of our company, and we'll be glad of theirs. Hope you don't feel none the wuss from your scare to-day, Miss?"

"Oh no, not a bit the worse, thank you."

"I'd rather them blasted buffaloes had a' run down the hull train, than to have knocked the breath out of your purty body. I never felt more like a fool in my life, than I did when I saw the pickle you was in. I swore and cussed myself awfully for being such a fool as not to be able to do suthin'. You see I didn't have no hoss, and Nat Wolfe did—else he wouldn't a' got the start of me."

"I believe you, Joe," replied the young girl, laughing.

"I was so mad about it I wouldn't come forward when I hearn you were safe. I never was so put to my stumps before that I couldn't do suthin'. But ye see I'd fired both barrels of my gun and the hull load of my revolver to turn them pesky critters from the train, and when I see'd 'em making tracks for you, I was jest used up."

"It's all right now, Joe."

"Yis, but it goes agin' the grit to think it was Nat Wolfe done it instid of me. Ain't I the guide and purtector of the train? and it don't become me to be letting strangers save the women-folks from destruction. He did it in fust rate style, though; I'll say that much for him. As long as Buckskin Joe couldn't have a hand in the fight, I'd ruther it would be Nat Wolfe than anybody else."

"Do you know him?" asked Mr. Wright.

"Wal, I never sot eyes on him till to-day; but I knew him the minit he rode up alongside. All us trappers and guides knows him, leastwise by hearsay. I'd often hearn tell of that cut over his eye, and the queer color of his ha'r. The Injuns call him Golden Arrow, both bekase his hair is so yellow and bekase he's as swift and sure as a dart. They're 'so 'fraid of Golden Arrow they cl'ar out whenever they hear he's about. I knew him by his hight, too. He's sent more buffaloes and red-skins to their furren huntin'-grounds than any other ten men on the plains. He fust sends an Injun to the spirit-land, and then, for fear the dead rascal won't have nuthin' to do in the new country, he sends a score of buffaloes after him to keep him in game. Years ago, when this country wasn't quite so thickly settled as it is now and every white man that tried to lay out a trail over the mountains had to fight them devils, inch by inch, Nat Wolfe took a lastin' hate to the sarpints, and he hain't got over it yet. He's a young-looking man now—twenty year younger'n me—but he's been in sarvice as long as I. I hope that train on ahead of us has got some fresh meat to spare, for I ain't bagged a buffalo to-day, we've been in such a hurry. I promise you a nice bit of antelope for your supper to-morrow, Miss."

The speaker was a small, wiry person, dressed in leather leggins and woolen hunting-frock, whose profession had been that of a guide for years; but the trail across the country being now so well defined and defended as to render his services rather supererogatory, he occasionally joined an emigrant train for the love of it, when not off with exploring parties. He was on his way to Pike's Peak with an idea of his own; his former experience led him to believe that he could make discoveries for himself in a certain part of the mountains as yet almost unvisited. Whatever the fond name some proud mother may have bestowed upon him in the far-off days of his babyhood, to whatever frontier family he may have belonged, and to whose patronymic he would have done honor, all other titles were obliterated in that of Buckskin Joe. Perhaps fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair, sharp, weather-beaten features, as tough as he was small, supple, quick, enduring as iron, and ready for all emergencies, he had won considerable reputation as a guide, and was a valuable acquisition to our western bound party.

He had taken a great fancy to the beautiful, modest young girl whose face lighted up the rough company like a flower in a desert; and he could not recover from the mortification of having, for once, been caught in a situation where his wit was of no avail, and obliged to see another achieve a rescue which he was powerless to attempt. As he trotted along beside the wagon, he presently broke out again:

"It's all-fired mean to think I made sich a fool of myself. I've a mind to take it up and fight it out with Wolfe; he'd no business to come meddling with my matters. It was my business to look after the women-folks."

"So you had rather I should have been killed, than to have any one else but yourself save me?" queried Elizabeth, with a burst of silver laughter that sent the blood tingling through his veins. "If you feel so badly about it, Mr. Buckskin, I'll manage to get into danger again, and so give you a chance to retrieve yourself."

"I shouldn't wonder a bit if you did, without tryin' very hard, nuther. I don't pray for it; but if it comes, Buckskin Joe'll be on hand, you may bet your life. As for Mr. Buckskin, I don't know whar' he'll be—he's too perlite a feller for these parts."

"I beg your pardon, Joe," cried the young girl, merrily, her depression of spirits quite driven away for the moment by the quaint manner of the guide, whom she had already taken a liking to.

"Wal, don't do it ag'in," he responded, more disturbed by the civility than he would have been by a hug from a grizzly bear.

CHAPTER II.

THE STOLEN RING.

And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which, at night, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.—Mrs. Browning.
How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound,
Ye take the whirlpool's fury, and its flight;
The mountains shudder as ye sweep the ground,
The valley woods lay prone beneath your might.—Bryant.

The spot on which the first emigrant train had pitched its camp was something similar to the river-bed where Nat and Elizabeth were screened from the bisons. A bank worn by the rush of spring freshets, partially sheltered them from the piercing night-wind, always high and sometimes disastrous, which rushed down over the Rocky Mountains, and rolled over the vast prairies with tremendous power. Here the stream was not yet exhausted by thirsty sands; a few straggling cottonwoods stood guard over the water, one of whose dead number furnished dry fuel for a cheerful fire, welcome both for its brilliant warmth and the facilities it afforded for hot coffee and biscuits, fried bacon and broiled buffalo-steaks.

The first comers had just finished their supper, attended to their cattle, and were about bestowing themselves for the night, when the arrival of the second train kept them up, out of curiosity to observe their fellow-travelers, and to offer them the out-door hospitality of the camp.

The cattle, who had scented water afar off, and were frantic to get to it, had first to be attended to. The corral formed by the first train was enlarged by the addition of the wagons of the second, the cattle driven within the ring thus formed; and while a portion of the party attended to this, the others were hastily preparing supper. Great as was their hunger, the appeals of sleep were almost more powerful; so that food and drink were speedily cooked and dispatched.

While Tim Wright attended to his team, his wife and niece were busy at a small fire, apart from the crowd, boiling coffee and browning bits of bacon, thrust on the points of sticks, so that the fat of the meat would drip upon the biscuits toasting underneath.

"Here's a bit of fresh meat, if you'd like it, ladies," said the voice of a stranger. "It's a piece of young antelope, and will broil in a few minutes over those coals."

They looked up to accept the gift and thank the donor. He was a man of rather over middle-age, thin, tall, with dark eyes and complexion—almost a foreign and Southern aspect—low-voiced, and so entirely different in his manners from the sturdy men with whom he was in company, as to attract the remark of both.

"'Bliged to you," said Mrs. Wright. "Perhaps we're robbing you?"

"Oh, no! Our party supped two hours ago, and we have abundance for breakfast. Allow me, Miss—this way," and in the most courtly manner, as if he were attending upon a lady whom it was an honor to serve, he took the two sharpened sticks upon which Elizabeth was endeavoring to fasten the meat, and arranging it for her, aided her in bracing it properly over the glowing coals. As they were doing this, the firelight flashed brightly over Elizabeth's hand, seeming to concentrate upon a ring which she wore, the central jewel of which burned as the living sun. As the stranger observed it, he started and muttered an exclamation under his breath, which caused the young girl to look up and meet the searching gaze of eyes so piercing that they fairly suspended her will. It was nothing new to her to have strangers notice the ring; she knew that it was a strange ornament for a girl in her station of life to be wearing. The neighbors had always admired it, and asked the worth of the "pretty stuns," and whether it was "real gold." All that she herself knew about it was, that when she had obtained her full growth, so that the ring would fit her finger, her aunt had one day taken it from a little box put carefully away in the locked upper drawer of the bureau, and given it to her, telling her it had been her mother's. She guessed it to be valuable, though she did not dream that the white and crimson stones so curiously set, and so fascinatingly bright, would buy a farm and build a house as good as her uncle aspired to. If she had known its intrinsic value, she could not have prized it more—it was the most precious of possessions, for it was the only link between her and the dead mother, of whom she knew and remembered so little, but whose memory she so passionately adored.

Again the stranger's eyes sunk from the young girl's face to the slender hand upon which the ring sparkled vividly. He had forgotten to rise from his half-kneeling posture, or to say any thing in excuse for his engrossed and absolute surprise.

Mrs. Wright's disturbance of mind consequent upon the tumbling over of the broiling steak, broke the spell which had so suddenly fell upon the other two; the stranger re-arranged the meat, and withdrew to the other side of the inclosure.

When the meal was ready, the children were aroused from their sleep in the wagon and given a share. Their pretty aunt was hardly as attentive to them as usual; her eyes kept wandering off into the darkness, as if they could pierce its mysteries.

The moon had descended beneath the horizon; the stars hung low and bright over the wind-swept plains—in the young girl's mind drifted thoughts of the handsome hunter who had that day saved her life. She wondered where he could be, solitary in the desert, with only that rising wind for company. She hoped he would find his horse, and follow on to camp; she would like so much to offer him a cup of hot coffee and a bit of fresh meat. It hardly seemed possible she should never see him again.

He did not arrive before they retired. Buckskin Joe came up to the family, as they were ready for the night's rest, to see if all was right—as head man of the train, he felt it his especial duty to watch over the females, particularly the pretty maiden.

"Been a-lookin' out for that yellow-ha'red chap, Miss? I see you, when you wur a pretendin' to eat. For my part, I'm glad he's staid behind; not that I don't like Nat Wolfe as a gineral thing, when he don't meddle with other folks' business. He mought a-known it was my business to look after the women-folks. I consider it a little uncalled for, his interferin' with them buffaloes, when I wur about."

"Haven't you got over that yet?"

"You can laugh if you like, Miss. I only hope my turn'll come next. Howsumever, I jist stepped up to say that you needn't consarn your little head 'bout Injuns. We're too strong for the cowardly thieves now; they won't ventur'. Jist you take the soundest kind of a sleep, so's to feel bright to-morrer."

"I shall sleep like a top, Joe, as long as you're on guard."

"You can jist do that very thing, Miss, as safe as a baby in a cradle. Well, good-night. The Lord bless and keep you, and presarve ye from the bite of a rattlesnake!"

This was Joe's favorite parting benediction, bestowed only on his friends—hardly an idle prayer, either, in that snake infested country.

That night in camp was one of safety and profound repose. No accident marred the deep sleep of the emigrants. Once during the night, at that approach to morning when slumber is most enthralling, Elizabeth stirred in her dreams, half starting from her sleep with a smothered cry. She was dreaming that a rattlesnake had stung her hand.

The first thing she noticed as she left the wagon in the morning, to bathe her face and hands in the stream, was that her ring was gone!

A cry of grief and surprise made the loss known to her aunt, whose consternation was almost equal to her own.

"It was ruther loose for you; may be it's slipped from your finger while you was to work, Lizzie!"

"No, aunt; I am sure I had it on when I went to sleep. I shut my hand on it as I always do. Somebody stole it from me in the night. It half aroused me, but not enough to realize what it was."

"Who could it be?"

"Who could it?"

Some instinctive feeling assured the young girl that the robber could be none other than the dark and courtly stranger who had scrutinized it so curiously the previous evening.

"I believe the person that took it was the one who gave us the meat, aunt."

"Sho, child! he didn't look like a thief. I never seen a prouder or a nicer-lookin' gentleman. He wasn't one of the common emigrants, by no means."

"I know he didn't look like a thief. He looked as if he'd sooner die than do a mean thing. But I can't help feeling as if it were he who took it."

"I'd sooner suspect some of them rough fellows that have had their eyes on it for days. And, after all, I don't believe nobody took it. You've just dropped it off—like as not into the fire. Let's take a good look."

They searched so long that they came near going without their breakfast, only desisting when they could no longer delay their preparations for a start. The two trains were to proceed forward together. The stranger did not offer any more civilities to the women, but Elizabeth saw him, more than once, with his dark eyes fixed upon her in intense watchfulness. She felt the impulse to go up to him and demand her property. Yet he looked so cold, so proud, so self-absorbed, so much as if the fiery flash of his anger and disdain would strike her with lightning, that she did not dare.

In the midst of her perplexities, Buckskin Joe came up. He listened to their story of the loss with silent interest, remaining lost in thought for some moments afterward, seeming to be turning some problem over in his mind.

"It's queer," he remarked, presently. "I don't know none of our chaps that I regards as mean enough to steal a woman's finery. It mought be somebody in the other train. I'll keep my eye out. Don't ye fret, Miss. If any feller in these two companies has got that ring, you'd better believe I'll track it. 'Twon't be long 'fore I'll be on the scent."

"Have you noticed that dark gentleman who brought us the antelope last night, Joe?"

"Noticed him? Yis; I noticed he wasn't one of the digging nor trapping kind. I reckon he is a-travelin' for his health. Some of them kind goes over the mountains now and then."

"I believe he has my ring."

"Snakes and painters!" ejaculated the guide; "I shouldn't have suspected him—at least, not at fust sight. Guess a wise feller wouldn't be in a hurry to tell him so to his face. But, if I've cause to believe that he has got it, you'd better trust me to get it out of him. That was a mighty purty ring, Miss—it was most as bright as your eyes; and if I get it back for you, I s'pose you'll be ready to disremember that when you got into danger yisterday Buckskin Joe wan't up to the scratch."

The half-deprecating, half-inquiring tone with which he made this last remark was ludicrous enough, and the maiden burst into a merry laugh in spite of her tribulation.

"Wal, wal, laughin' don't hurt; but it's sot in my mind that I'll have a chance to make that up 'fore long."

"I do believe you'd be willing something terrible should happen to me for the sake of showing your bravery, Joe."

"I'd be willing suthin' should be just a-goin' to happen, jist to show you how easy I could purvent it," he retorted. "But now the fust duty in hand is to get an airly start. Be you ready to move on, Wright?"

"Nigh about ready, Joe—only one of my cattle seems about gone up. I'm afraid I'll have to kill him and leave him behind. It's just my luck."

"It's hard on critters goin' without water so, and half starved too. There's a couple more used up this mornin'."

"We must take one more good look for that ring," said Mrs. Wright. "Here, you boys, your eyes are sharp; you look too. I feel dreadful about it."

"I make no doubt that little thing was worth nigh onto ten dollars," sighed her husband. "It oughter have been Lizzie's wedding-ring. It's just our luck."

The last search proved as unavailing as the first. Two or three tears dropped from Elizabeth's eyes, as the trains finally moved on, for she felt as if the chances for recovering the lost treasure were exceedingly small.

"I've l'arned all there is to l'arn about that dark-complexioned chap," resumed Buckskin Joe, later in the forenoon, as he dropped alongside Wright's wagon. "It's just as I thought about his travelin' for his health. His name is Carollyn—Leger Carollyn, he writes it—a sort of a furrin'-lookin' name like himself. He's troubled with the liver-complaint or some other of them woman's ailin's that gentlemen take to, who are too keerful of theirselves; and now he's tryin' the nateral way o' livin' in the hopes of a cure. Boiled buffalo is excellent for dyspepsy—so's cold baked beans eaten with a chip out of an old stew-pan—and I reckon the Rocky Mountains will scare him out of his liver-complaints. I've bin noticing him considerable this mornin', and it strikes me that he's got more on his mind than he has on his stomach, though he's saller enough to show that's out o' fix. Lord, Miss, I've never seen the feller yet that could make my h'ar stand on end—but I'm blasted if I'd like to tell him he's got your ring—that is, unless I was certain he had; in which case, in course, knives and pistols couldn't purvent my throwin' it up to him. I'm goin' to keep an eye on the company ginerally, and make no doubt I shall tree the thief if he's in these woods. Don't fret, Miss—for leastwise, if we don't rekiver that ring, we're goin' where gold is plenty, and you shall have another as purty."

"But it won't be that—that was my mother's, you know, Joe."

"Was it now? Thunder and lizards! then we won't give it up nohow," responded the little guide, looking fierce, and marching along faster, for he could not bear to see the tears which sprung into the girl's eyes—he'd often swore he'd rather face a catamount than a cryin' woman.

The long day's journey was only a repetition of previous days, except that it was unusually dull and void of adventure. The plain grew more arid; there was no longer grass enough to tempt the bison; and no living thing varied the monotony of the way, except the curious villages of prairie-dogs, living in their sand-huts, and poking their queer, inquisitive noses out, to squeak and twitter at the travelers, and make Elizabeth laugh at their oddity.

"Wal, now, it does me good to hear you laugh out right smart ag'in," said Mr. Wright, "just as you did before we begun this desperate trip. You look like our Lizzie now, and not the tired little girl that's given her uncle the heart-ache for the last few days. If you knowed how much handsomer you look when you're full of fun!"

And truly if her face was a beautiful one in its resigned, almost dull melancholy, it was absolutely brilliant with light and color when it flashed out in mirth.

"I don't see the use of looking handsome here," replied she, with one of those arch sparkles of laughter beneath the long lashes which were all the more bewitching for being rare. "I don't care about aunt and yourself falling in love with me, any more than you are already, and old Joe is devoted enough to satisfy a more exacting person than I am."

"Supposing Nat Wolfe should ride up with us," said Mrs. Wright.

"Well?" queried the young girl, bending the full blaze of her eyes on her aunt. Hers was one of those reserved and queenly natures that could not endure even the well-meaning raillery of others on matters about which maidens are reticent.

"Oh, don't look at me so, and I'll never mention him again," laughed Mrs. Wright; and yet, in despite of her coolness, Elizabeth could not control the deepening crimson in her own cheeks.

Many times, that day, her eyes had searched the plain, hoping to see Golden Arrow speeding through the distance, his steed bounding lightly and his yellow hair streaming on the wind, as she had seen him yesterday.

But when the weary afternoon had rolled to the east, and the company had camped, in the burning splendor of sunset, on the yellow desert, with only a half-hidden stream and a little line of stunted trees to make that spot more desirable than another, she still sat in the wagon, and looked through the molten air with a sad and searching look, in vain—Golden Arrow did not come.

While they were at supper, a party of vagabond Indians, some on mules and some on foot, came straggling about the camp, begging for hay for their mules and corn for themselves. The very sight of them took away Elizabeth's appetite: she sat, holding her little cousin, and feeding her, but she could not partake of the meal herself. Although assured that these dirty and miserable savages were neither able or disposed to do harm, that theft was the worst to be dreaded from them, she would not meet their snaky eyes for the world; she had an innate abhorrence of the race, such as most persons feel for serpents.

As she sat thus, inwardly shuddering, and looking at nothing but the child and the cup of biscuit and coffee she was holding for her, little Minnie cried out and hid her face in her bosom.

Elizabeth felt the shadow of some one between herself and the light, and raising her eyes met those of an Indian fixed intently upon her. He continued to gaze upon her, without speaking or asking for any thing she might have to bestow. He was tall and straight, but otherwise one of the most repulsive of the party, filthy beyond description and ragged in the few articles of tawdry finery he had contrived to obtain for his personal adornment. A bandage of cloth, originally white, passed across his upper lip and around his head; it was designed to conceal a wound which he had once received from an enemy in battle, and which his pride would never permit the eyes of his brothers to behold. Those silent, glittering eyes burned into the brain of the girl, so that she involuntarily closed her own, and when she overcame the feeling sufficient to again look up, the Indian was gone. She saw him mixing with others of his party, gesticulating, begging, eating the food given; but she drew a long breath of relief when the whole pack slunk off in the twilight, vanishing into the wide darkness of the plains.

The emigrants were not very well pleased with their present camping-ground; it was unprotected by any bluff, or even river-ledge, from the searching winds which were certain to blow at night, and which were all the more uncomfortable because of the heat and glare of the day. When this wind was high, it mocked the protection even of the covered wagons, whistling through every cranny, making the children shiver and the men wakeful, despite of blankets.

On this night, as if aware of the confusion it would cause to the adventurous intruders upon solitudes it had long held possession of as its own, it came along more wrathfully than they had thus far experienced it. By midnight it had roused itself into a hurricane. Accustomed to the wild, unbroken sweep of these mighty plains, it rushed on, holding its sublime revel as heedless of the little encampment as of a feather in its path. Elizabeth was wide awake, sitting up in the wagon listening to the awful music, trembling with fear and cold; Mrs. Wright was wide awake, too; and her husband was leaning over the sleeping children as if he could protect them from the threatening storm.

Suddenly, with a roar as of a thousand waterfalls, the wind strengthened and whirled by, scattering the encampment almost to destruction. Wagons were tilted over and lifted bodily, their coverings rent into shreds, and their contents impartially disposed of. The accident was the more frightful because of the impenetrable darkness. The lowing of terrified cattle, and the shouts of the emigrants, mingled with the fury of the gale. There was no means of ascertaining the extent of the damage, except as the party could get together in the darkness. It was impossible to light fires; and for two hours they could not even obtain the light of a lantern. When this was done, they found one poor fellow killed outright by a blow on the temple from some flying object, and another groaning with a broken leg, unable to extricate himself from the wagon which had done the injury.

"Who in thunder's goin' to tend to this job?" muttered Buckskin Joe, as the sufferer was released from his trying position, and his limb examined by several who had gathered to his aid.

"I will," said a calm, decided voice, and looking up, he saw Mr. Carollyn, the gentleman whom he had favored with his morning's observations; he already had the injured leg in his grasp, and was handling it with the skill of a practiced surgeon. With the assistance of those whom he chose to aid him, he soon had the limb set and splintered, and the wounded man lying in comparative comfort upon a mattress of blankets spread behind the shelter of an overturned wagon. The violence of the wind had abated, so that there was nothing more to fear from it, though it still blew too wild and chilly for ease.

While they were yet in attendance upon the sufferer, Mrs. Wright made her way to Buckskin Joe, guided by the glimmer of the lantern.

"I can't find 'Lizabeth," she panted, catching his sleeve.

"Can't find her?—what's happened to her?"

"Wal, I'm sure I've no idea myself. I wish I had. You see the wind upset us; but it didn't do much harm, but to bruise us up considerable. Jem's got a bump on his forrid, and Will's nose is bleedin'—"

"But where in thunder's the gal?"

"Wal, as I was saying, we don't know. You see we all crawled out, after the wagon upset. I'm sure 'Lizabeth got out safe—she helped Minnie out 'fore I went myself; we all kept hold of hands, and stooped down behind the wagon as well as we could to keep the wind from blowin' us clear away. I guess it must have took her, for she didn't answer to our call, and she isn't nowhere very nigh—that's certain. It was awful—the wind was—and there's the children nigh about froze. I wish Timothy had staid to Missouri," and the poor woman's long-tried fortitude gave way, and she began to cry.

The stranger who had been busy about the broken limb, here turned abruptly to her, and asked:

"Have you searched with a light? Perhaps the cattle have trampled on her, or she is hurt in some way, so as not to be able to call out."

"The Lord forbid!" muttered Buckskin Joe.

"The wind took our lantern, I s'pose; we can't find it," said Mrs. Wright.

"Wal, I'm a-goin' for to find that gal," said Joe, catching up his lantern. "Let the traps go to darnation—the gal's worth more'n the hull lot. 'Sides, I've promised to be on hand next time she got into danger."

"You go in one direction, making the circuit of the camp, as near as you can guess it, and I will go the other until we meet," said the stranger. "It's impossible to make a fire just yet; but this wind will subside within an hour, so that we can then build one. If any one of the party are lost in the darkness, it will serve to light them back. Fortunately there is nothing to be feared from the desert, that I know of; and, unless she has been injured by flying missiles, the young lady is probably safe, and not very far off."

He said this with the cool decision which marked his general manner, yet the quick eye of the guide detected an uneasiness and paleness of countenance, caused either by his interest in the girl, and fear for her, or by the excitement of the scene he had just passed through.

So completely had the corral been broken and the camp scattered, that it was difficult to trace its exact position, or to tell just where it would be wisest to search for the missing girl. After an hour's wandering, assisted also by many others, the two men met, with no tidings. The wind having lulled, it was proposed to build a bright fire, in the hope that it would guide her back. This was done; the blaze streamed up vividly, enabling the emigrants to work with more certainty amid the ruins of their property. But no clue was obtained to the accident which had befallen Elizabeth.

Daylight brought to view a pitiable state of affairs. Two days of hard labor would barely enable the trains to proceed. Much property was irretrievably lost—literally scattered to the winds. There was the body of one—who yesterday was one of their number, full of health and hope—now waiting its lonely burial beneath a stunted tree of the desolate plain. There was the injured man, to whom the rest of the journey must be a lingering and painful one. And, saddest perhaps of all, was the strange and total disappearance of the pride and star of the company—the sweet young maiden whose face had been like a memory of home to the roughest.

"This is what I should call suthin' of a pickle," soliloquized Buckskin Joe, leaning on his rifle, and looking off toward the rising sun, scratching his head instinctively to assist his thoughts; "if thar' had been sand enough lyin' about loose to swaller her up, or rivers, or woods, or even a Red River alligator, I should know where to look. Blast it! if it wur only an alligator, I'd fetch her out and bring her to—blast me, if I wouldn't! But I'm free to own that I'm mighty onsartain which way to look, cause all parts of the compass is 'zactly alike, and thar' ain't a mark so much as a blade o' grass for a sharp feller to fix his attention to. Now, if it wur the thickest woods that ever growed, and she'd bin stole by the slyest Injun, I'd have more hopes. 'Cause there'd be a bended twig, or a footstep in the leaves, or a bit of caliker on a bush, or suthin'. I can't see what could a' took her, lest the wind actually carried her off, which it mought do easy enough, for she was a light little critter—so purty—and if it did, it must have sot her down hard enough to take the breath out everlastingly." Here he fell into a fit of silent abstraction.

"What are you thinking about?"

It was the dark stranger who startled the guide out of his reverie, by the abruptly-put question. The person addressed gave him a quick, keen look, before he answered:

"I was just thinkin' that some o' them pesky Injuns may have been sneaking about, stealing things last night, when the storm came up. They may have carried off the girl, under cover of the hurrycane, which they wouldn't a' done at a safer time. 'Tain't likely, but it's the only thing I can think of."

"I am afraid of it myself. Do you know what direction they would be most likely to take, in such a case?"

"Wal—yis! I rather guess I know some o' their lurkin places, stranger. I know all the whereabouts purty much of that tribe that paid us a visit yesterday. By jingo, stranger, I'm off! I'll just put some biscuits and buffalo in my pocket, and be off. This train will have to stop here a couple o' days, sartain; and if I ain't back by that time they can proceed without me—that's all. Wish I had a hoss—but I must make a mule do."

"Not so," said the stranger. "I own two horses in my company. You shall have one, I will take the other, and we will go together."

"You?" queried Buckskin Joe, in surprise.

"Yes. I am traveling for adventure, and what more novel adventure could I expect than to go after a lost maiden in company of the best guide this side of Kit Carson? Don't think I'll be a drawback to you. I'm an excellent shot."

"The sight of danger won't make you narvous, I'll be bound," said the guide, measuring the cool air and clear eye of his companion with a favorable glance.

Barely waiting for the needed refreshment of a cup of hot coffee, the two men, thus curiously thrown together on a doubtful venture, started out over the illimitable plain, burdened only with their weapons and a light wallet of provisions, and followed by the anxious eyes and hearts of the emigrants.

CHAPTER III.

DR. CAROLLYN'S BRIDE.

Love me with thy voice, that turns
Sudden faint above me;
Love me with thy blush, that burns
When I murmur, Love me!—Mrs. Browning.
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips.—Tennyson.

Nearly seventeen years before the emigrants of 1860 started on their long journey for Pike's Peak, a young physician of New York was one winter twilight making his way up-town, after a fatiguing round of visits, the number of which was evidence of his rising reputation. His elastic step betrayed health and spirits which no ordinary weariness could depress—indeed, there was a joyous eagerness in his manner which might almost betray to the passing stranger that he was a bridegroom returning to his bride. A husband of three months, for whom the honeymoon was still shining, going home to his own elegant house to meet a beautiful and affectionate wife—it was no marvel that his foot rung on the pavement with such an electric tread.

As he turned the corner of Broadway to go up Bleecker, then one of the fashionable streets, and the one upon which his mansion stood, the lamp-light flashed full in his face, and he felt his hand heartily grasped, at the same instant he extended it, and his own "My dear Maurice! is it possible?" cut short by the enthusiastic greeting of his friend.

"Yes, it's really me, myself. I'm just in on the packet from Havre—making my way home. Mother does not expect me for a month yet, and I'm going to give her a surprise. It seems to me you're looking better than ever, Leger, and that's saying a good deal."

"That's my wife's fault."

"Your wife! You don't say you're married?"

"Didn't you receive my letter?"

"No! and mother certainly did not mention it in her last. Who is the happy lady—and how long since?"

"You remember Annie St. John? Of course you do, for it was you who did me the favor to first attract my attention toward her."

"Annie St. John!" The tone of the young man had changed suddenly—all the warmth had gone out of it—it might be cold or surprised, or doubting or chagrined—a look of pity or contempt swept plainly over his countenance, but was presently banished.

The physician felt the momentary chill, but threw it off, without reflection, for his mind acknowledged no reason for it.

"I wish you joy—much, much happiness," continued his friend, presently, recovering his natural manner. "I came near to marrying Annie once myself. I never told you of that, did I?" with a light laugh. "But I must hurry on; I am delighting myself with the idea of just stepping in and taking a seat at mother's nice tea-table. Of course I shall come and see you—probably to-morrow."

The traveler hurried on toward the home from which he had been two years absent, and the young physician went forward, but with an uncomfortable feeling for which he could hardly account, except by the levity, the actual rudeness of his friend in his manner of speaking of his bride. Leger Carollyn was not the man to permit undue familiarity toward himself, and much less toward the woman he honored as his wife.

And, although Maurice Gurnell was the dearest and most confidential of his friends among his own sex, he felt the impulse to strike him when he spoke those hateful words with such careless gayety:

"I came near to marrying Annie once myself."

A few moments later brought him in front of his own handsome mansion, and his heart gave a bound which sent every unpleasant impression to the winds as he saw the glow of light through the unclosed shutters, and thought of the one who was awaiting him within. Admitting himself with a night-key, he stole through the spacious drawing-room to the boudoir, at the opposite end, where Annie was sure to be waiting, if, indeed, she did not spring at the lightest sound of his approaching step. She did not meet him to-day, but he saw her, sitting by the little ormolu table, and paused to enjoy a stolen glimpse of her loveliness.

Unconscious of observation, she had taken one of those flower-like attitudes, half-drooping and inexpressibly graceful, peculiar to herself. She held a miniature in her hand, upon which she was gazing, the long lashes vailing her downcast eyes, her golden hair rippling around her throat. She wore a blue dress of some rich material—blue was her husband's favorite color, and it did set off the fairness of her shoulders and the rose-hue of her cheeks most daintily.

"How girlish she looks," he whispered to his heart, "and how pure! I do not see how I ever ventured to address her with the words of earthly passion, though the angels know there is more of heaven than earth in our love. My own Annie—my own wife!"

Blending with the odor of a japonica, leaning from a slender vase on the ormolu table, almost kissing the cheek of its human sister, came a refreshing breath of oriental perfume from the supper-room—the breath of the rarest Flower of Delight, steeping in its silver urn. The light, the luxury of his home diffused a sense of physical enjoyment through the physician's nerves, while the sight of his wife, in her fresh and innocent beauty, thrilled his spirit.

"How happy I am—how fortunate in every thing! Blessed Annie! In my absence she solaces herself with my picture;" and, thinking to call up the still frequent blush to her face by betraying her in this secret occupation, he stole softly and peeped over her shoulder.

It was not his own face upon which his eyes fell, smiling back at his bride from its framework of jewels—it was that of Maurice Gurnell. And he never knew before that she had such a miniature in her possession; yet now it flashed through his brain that he had seen that very locket in Maurice's own keeping a short time before he left for Europe, and that he, Maurice, had asked him if he thought the likeness good, for he had gotten it painted for his betrothed, if he should ever have one.

Just as these thoughts were printing themselves in letters of fire upon his blank mind, the breath which he caught with a gasp from his breast fluttered his wife's light tresses, and she sprung to her feet, with only a passing look of embarrassment. The next instant she laughed her girlish laugh, and threw her arms about his neck, kissing him twice or thrice without waiting to find if he kissed her in return. The locket at which she had been gazing had disappeared within the folds of her dress, slipped into her pocket, or, perhaps, into the bosom beating against his own.

Dr. Carollyn endured her embraces, but he did not return them; he stood like one in a dream—past, present and future swept over him like the storm-sand over a desert, obliterating all traces of what has been—changing the landscape so that he who had lived there a lifetime can not recognize a familiar feature. It was Annie's arms that he felt about him, and Annie's words of welcome sounding in his ears. But who was Annie? Was she the wife in whose utter absence of guile of every kind he trusted as he trusted in God and immortality? or was it Annie, suddenly revealed to him in a character so different, that he felt toward her as toward a disliked and suspected stranger? His wife—yet his lip could not frame the word—his heart revolted at it.

"What is the matter, Leger? Are you ill?"

"No; only hungry."

She laughed; she was too accustomed to his affection to take offense now at some little passing cloud of ill-temper.

"I believe you are, and weary, too. But you needn't be cross about it. Come, tea has been waiting some time, I believe."

She led him by the hand into the cheerful supper-room, seating herself at the head of the table, and pouring out his tea with that air of dignity so pretty in youthful matrons.

"You said you were hungry, Leger, and yet you eat nothing."

"I meant that I was thirsty;" and he handed back the cup which he had emptied at a draught.

As she prepared his tea he watched every graceful movement—he looked intently into the face beaming with happiness, searching for undiscovered lines about the temples and lips which might betray the guilty secrets hidden in her heart. That face still looked to him as pure as the unclouded heaven at noonday. If he could only believe it! if he could only give himself up to his past confidence again! Oh, God! if he could, he would resign at that moment every dollar of his wealth, every throb of his ambition, and stand with her, outcast from the world, on any remotest island of the sea.

"I was detained a few moments in the street," he observed, presently. "I met an old friend, just returning from abroad."

"Indeed?"

Her voice was pleasant—she showed interest, as she always did when he addressed her, but no agitation.

"Perhaps you can guess who it was?"

"I don't remember who of our friends are away, except Maurice Gurnell."

His keen look did not disconcert her; she seemed only a trifle surprised at his own manner. He exerted himself to appear natural; to force not only calmness but lightness—he did not speak nor look like a man on whose soul happiness was poising herself, ready to take flight forever.

"Perhaps you expected him?"

"Me? Not so soon—that is, not until—why, Leger, what do I know of your friend Maurice's proceedings?"

Her husband's eyes, with a strange and deadly glitter in them, were fixed upon her face. She blushed, she stammered, she admitted that she was expecting him, and then attempted to withdraw from the admission. Pushing his chair back from the table, he said:

"I'm going out, Annie, to spend the evening. Don't sit up for me," and before she could spring to give him a good-by, or to help him with his muffler and gloves, he had seized his hat and coat, and the hall-door rung behind him.

Leger Carollyn bore a reputation for an unblemished moral character which added to the luster of his professional fame, and gave grace to his great mental accomplishments. But from boyhood he had been marked by two great faults, one of which, his unbending pride, was patent to every observer; but the other of which few understood, being one which his pride would enable him to conceal, and which had but few opportunities for making even himself aware of its existence. This second defect, in his otherwise noble nature, was jealousy—a jealousy, strong and terrible, of others, who shared the right of, or who gained by favor, the love of those selected by himself for his devotion.

This peculiarity had been betrayed, when a child, in his family, and had been the subject of the wisest and gentlest treatment from his excellent mother. His only brother, two years younger than himself, had been a thorn in his side—not because he did not himself love him, nor because he was ungenerous toward him in any other respect—but because he was jealous of every token of affection bestowed on another by the parents he so passionately adored. The proud, reserved and thoughtful child could not call forth those little endearments which the more vivacious nature of his brother provoked, but he longed for them none the less.

However, the gay, handsome boy died—died in his twelfth year—and left Leger the sole idol of his parents. He mourned for his brother deeply, he reproached himself secretly with every unkind thought he had ever entertained—and yet, as the months rolled on, he was conscious that he was happier now that his path was no longer crossed by a rival in the love of his parents. So the fault lay in his nature, undeveloped but not exterminated. It was not a mean jealousy—that is, it never stooped to trouble itself about rivals in fame or position—he never did a dishonorable act toward a rival schoolmate—nor, in later days, threw obstacles in the way of, or judged selfishly, those striving for success in his own profession. It was only that when he loved, he wanted, in return for his own almost startling passion, the whole interest and devotion of its object.

A man of such character would not be apt to flutter among the young ladies of his circle of society, or to fix his choice lightly upon the woman whom he should select to become his wife. So it chanced that at twenty-five he was still unmarried. At this time Dr. Carollyn, his father, passed away, leaving his son inheritor of the family-mansion, of the wealth which a long and lucrative practice had amassed, and of that practice itself, made valuable by the prestige of the parent's name. The mother had died nearly six years before, so that Leger Carollyn stood alone, with no relations either near or dear to him.

He had one friend, Maurice Gurnell, his classmate in college and his equal in society, a member of an old New York family of French extraction, and, as might be expected, the opposite in temperament of the young physician, possessing all the grace and gayety, the fluency of speech, and the love of the world which distinguishes his progenitors. Leger admired and loved his fascinating and brilliant companion, who esteemed and admired him in return; each being best pleased with those traits in the other most contrasted with his own.

While yet weighed down with deep melancholy by the loss of his father, Leger Carollyn was called, one night, to the bedside of a dying woman. The house to which he was summoned stood in a respectable, though not the most fashionable part of the city; the name he recognized as that of a family once well known to his father and always highly regarded by him, although much reduced from former affluence, and not mingling at all with general society for the past few years.

Leger himself had never been to the house, and knew nothing in particular of its inmates. His father had been their physician, and he was now summoned to fill the place of the departed. Upon entering the chamber of the sick lady, he saw at once that she was beyond the aid of humanity; she seemed, herself, to be aware of it, for she said, as he approached her bed:

"I am sensible that you can do nothing for me, Doctor. I would not have troubled you, if my child had not insisted upon it. Annie?"

At the call of that dying voice, strangely thrilling and clear, a young girl upon the opposite side of the bed raised her head from where it had been hidden in the pillow, and looked at him with eyes which asked the question her grieving lips refused to utter. She was the only relative by the bed of death—an old nurse dozing in a chair, and the servant who had admitted him, lingering by the door, as loth to go, being her only attendants.

As he looked at the forlorn young creature and met her despairing eyes, a feeling of pity, that was absolute anguish, seized upon the heart of Dr. Carollyn. The circumstances reminded him so vividly of his own recent bereavement, when he stood sole mourner by a parent's dying bed, that his deepest sympathies were aroused. He passed around to her side, and lifting her nerveless hand pressed it in his own, as he said, in answer to her mute appeal:

"You must resign your mother, my dear child; but God will still be with you."

The dying woman detected the tremble in his tone—it seemed as if some glimpse of the future revealed itself to her in that moment; she said, in the same clear voice:

"You are like your father, Dr. Carollyn. He was always one of my best friends. I hope that you will be a friend to my child, for she has not many. I am willing to trust her to you. She has neither father or brother. She will not be dependent, except for friendship. She is so young, so unused to doing for herself—ah, it is hard to leave you alone, my Annie, but I leave you with God. Annie—Annie—be calm. I am."

The Doctor saw that the final moment would soon arrive, and felt as if he ought not to leave that fragile young thing to bear the shock alone. He remained, until, in the gray dawn, the spirit left earth, and the desolate child sunk fainting into his arms.

When he had revived her, and restored her to the nurse, and to the female servant, who seemed much attached to her, he asked if there were no friends for whom he could send.

"Ah, botheration," said the weeping servant, "there's nobody nigher'n cousins, and they're far away. But there's friends and neighbors enough, as will come if they're wanted. I'll go for 'em meself."

That morning Dr. Carollyn was aroused from the slumber into which he had dropped, after his night's unrest, by the entrance of his friend, whom the servants had orders to admit at all seasons.

"In bed yet? Were you up last night? I'm glad I'm not a physician—I like my ease too well."

"Yes, Maurice, I attended a dying lady last night. I've been dreaming about it. It was so sad. She left a daughter not more than sixteen, and without a relative in the world."

"Was it any one we knew?"

"It was Mrs. St. John—her husband was a scientific man, and wasted much of their property in experiments. So I've heard my father say, who liked him very much—their tastes were similar."

"St. John? and the daughter's name is Annie? I know the family. Paul St. John has displayed many a chemical wonder to me, in days gone by, when I was a boy and used to steal visits to his laboratory. Annie was a wee thing, then, golden-headed and blue-eyed. I've met her occasionally of late days—she's one of the sweetest flowers that e'er the sun shone on—and dark blue is her e'e, and for bonnie Annie St. John, I'd lay me down and dee. That is, I wouldn't—for I'm not given to such things—but you would, Leger, after you've known her awhile. Yes," he resumed after a pause, during which he had stood by the window in a reverie unusually long for his butterfly nature, "Annie St John is the girl for you, Leger. You are so exacting—you want the whole heart and soul of some woman, and she's just the one. She is situated like yourself—not a near relative to dispute your place in her affections. She'd worship you, I know she would—it's in her! By George, but she's beautiful; and she must be accomplished, for her mother was one of the rarest women I ever knew. Ha! ha! Leger, wouldn't it disappoint some of our brilliant belles, if you should go outside the conservatory and gather such a dainty flower?"

"Hush, Maurice, don't talk in this manner, while that poor young thing is breaking her heart beside her mother's corpse."

"It's not because I'm not sorry for her," said Maurice, more soberly. "But I saw such a pretty romance developing."

"As usual, you're building your castles out of nothing but air," responded his friend, gravely, and began talking of other subjects; and this one was never again resumed between them.