Agnes Westbury had listened all the early part of the evening to her husband's enthusiastic plans. Good fortune expanded him in every direction. It was true that quicksilver had been discovered at Alameda, also that the new process of separating gold was a great saving. Working mines had been most extravagant and wasteful. Some of the old ones had been deserted that no doubt would pay again. He had taken options for the London Company, he had two or three for himself. Luck had surely come his way. Now they must leave as soon as possible.

Had she enjoyed herself? Had the landlady been satisfactory? Had she gone about and seen much, made any pleasant friends? San Francisco was a strange and wonderful place. It had risen up in a night, as it were. It was in the line of the Eastern trade, it would be the great mart of the world. What was Congress thinking about not to establish a through route, but depend on this miserable overland accommodation for the crowds who would come! Its very wildness and sublimity outdid Europe. Some day it would be a worldwide attraction for tourists. Such mountains, such a range of climate, such a profusion of everything, such a seacoast line.

David Westbury was pacing up and down the apartment with a light, springy step. He had been in his youth a tall and rather lanky down-easter. Now he had filled out, was fine and robust, with a good clear skin. In those days his nose had been too large, his mouth wide, with rather loose lips. Now the rest of his face had rounded out, his lips had grown firm-set, decisive, and his mustache was trimmed in the latest style. Just at the corners of his mouth his beard had begun to whiten a little, his lightish hair had turned darker. Prosperity had made a man of him. He had grown sharp, far-sighted, but he had an amiability that was more than pleasing—attractive. He had learned to use his own phrase, "not to buck against the world." Where he had been rather credulous and lax in early life, he had become wary and shrewd, and did not hesitate if he could turn the best of the deal his way.

"Yes, she had enjoyed herself very much. Mrs. Folsom and her son had been most attentive, there had been some star players at the theatres and a noted singer or two. She had met some nice people, there was a good deal of crudeness and display, but on the whole it was very fair for a new place. And some odd, quaint individuals, some really refined women from Boston, and such a charming young girl that she coveted; she wished she had her for a daughter."

"That's a queer wish; too, I thought you were not fond of children."

"Well, I am not generally. I'd like them full-grown, and attractive," laughing.

"I wouldn't mind a fine, upright, sober, honorable son that one could trust in all things, but they are scarce."

"David, what will you do with your money?"

"Well,"—he laughed a little. "Let me see—endow a hospital perhaps, or build a college. But we must have all the pleasure we desire."

She gave a little sigh.

"About this girl, now?" he queried.

"She's the dearest, sweetest, simplest body, not foolish, not sentimental, but like water in a ground glass globe, if you can understand. She's one of the old settlers, and that's laughable, came in '51, round the Horn, from Maine, I believe, with an uncle and some friends. He is a Mr. Chadsey, and keeps a big warehouse, shipping stores and what not, and is, I believe, making a fortune—to take her journeying round the world."

"Chadsey," he said thoughtfully. "Chadsey. What is the girl's name?"

"Oh, Chadsey, too."

"Ah!" nodding, yet he drew his brows a little.

"I suppose he was her mother's brother. Her mother died just before they came out here."

He made a brief calculation. "Yes, it was in '51 that she died. And Jason Chadsey was there, he took the little girl away. At Boston all trace was lost, though he had not searched very exhaustively for her. He had a feeling that she would be well cared for."

David Westbury glanced at his wife. Her elbow was on the window sill and her cheek rested on her hand. There was a touch of sadness in her face, a longing in her eyes. He loved her more now than when he had married her. She was a little exacting then. She had been very fond of pleasure, theatres, balls, fine dinners at hotels, journeys, dress, jewels. He enjoyed them, too, with the zest that generally comes to one who has been deprived of them in early life, and whose training has been to consider them reprehensible.

They had taken their fill. Now his mind was all on business; he liked to surmount difficulties, to bring success out of chaos. He had to leave her alone a good deal. She used to find entertainment in conquering the admiration of young men, but these last few years she had found herself less attractive, except as she listened to their love troubles and begged her for advice. He did not understand this at all, only he felt he had an engrossing business and she had nothing but looking on.

"You like this girl very much?"

"Yes, I can't tell just why, except that she is so honestly sweet, so ready to give of her best without expecting any return. Do you remember Lady Westmere and her two daughters? They were fine girls and devoted to her. I had not considered it much before, but I understood then what an interest and solace a young girl of the right sort would be. You know I had Gladys Wynne to stay a month with me when you were over to Paris. I had half a mind to engage her as a sort of companion, and she would have been glad enough to come. But I found she had some mean, underhand tricks, and was looking out for her own advantage while she was trying to persuade you that it was yours. And she told little fibs. So I gave up the idea. A maid, you know, is no company, though one must have her abroad. But we couldn't coax or kidnap this girl," and she sighed in the midst of a sad smile.

He still paced up and down. How long since he had thought of that old life. He had always said to himself that he had been a fool to marry Laverne Dallas, but he had taken a good deal of satisfaction then in "cutting out" Jason Chadsey. What fools young fellows were!

"Agnes," he began, "before I married you I did not tell you my whole story. I said I had lost my wife and child, that ill luck had dragged me through those early years. She had another lover, Jason Chadsey, a seafaring man, of whom she had not heard in a long time, when she married me. Some years later I was at a low ebb and away, trying to make money for them as well as myself. When I had a little success I went back. She was dead and buried. Chadsey had come back, it seems, and taken the child, since there were no near relatives to say him nay. At Boston I lost trace of them."

"Oh, David!" She sprang up and flung both arms about him. "You don't think—this Laverne—why, what if she should be yours!"

"She came here late in '51. Her mother died early in the spring before. She must have been about eight. Why, it's quite a romance for this prosaic world."

"If you are her father, you have the best right. Oh, David, I should love her and be so good to her. She should have everything, and I would be so happy. Oh, you must see to-morrow."

There was a hysterical catch in her voice, and a great throb at her heart.

"There, don't get into a fit. Why, I didn't suppose you could care so much. Yes, I know you will be good to her. Chadsey may kick about giving her up, but I doubt if he took any steps toward legal adoption. Oh, I think there will not be any real trouble unless she will not come."

"But she ought to have some regard for her father! And he isn't really her uncle or guardian. Why, it wouldn't be quite the thing for her to travel round the world with him."

They talked it over until their plans seemed most reasonable. And then they wondered at the strangeness of it. He had no real compunctions of conscience about the past, though of course he would have accepted the responsibility of his daughter if he could have found her. He had a practical business way of looking at matters. And while Agnes Westbury lay awake, and had vague visions, dropping now and then into snatches of dreams, he slept soundly and awoke with a resolve to settle the question with just the same purpose as if he had resolved to buy his wife thousands of dollars' worth of jewels.

They had begun the necessary sea wall that was to safeguard the piers and the shipping that grew more extensive every year. Here was the old Fisherman's Pier, then steamers, trading vessels, queer foreign ships, business places of all sorts, many of them quite dilapidated, fringed East Street. Here, where Clay Street ran down, almost meeting Sacramento, there were warehouses, packing houses, boxes and bales and general confusion. The one-story place with the sign "J. Chadsey" over the wide doorway, not much handsomer than that of a barn, but strengthened with iron bars and great bolts, had stretched out and out, and now they were packing in stores from the Orient, stores from the Isthmus, that were being unloaded from two vessels. Jason Chadsey had been giving orders here and there, setting men at work, and was warm and tired when word came that a gentleman wanted to see him in the office. They made distinctions in those days, even if the country was new and rough.

That was no strange summons. He pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the sweat and grime from his face, listened a moment to the wrangling, swearing, strange Chinese chatter, songs in various languages, then turned and went in, hardly able to see at first from the glitter of the sun that had drenched him. This was a place just now with two big desks and a clerk writing at one. The inner office had a window on the street side and two wooden stools, one dilapidated leathern chair before another desk.

A man rose up and faced him. A well-dressed, well-kept man, with a certain air of prosperity and authority, and if he had any scheme to exploit it would no doubt have some advantage in it. But he was a stranger.

"You are Jason Chadsey?" Westbury would have known him anywhere. Except to grow older, to be a little more wrinkled,—weatherbeaten, he had always been,—and his hair slightly grizzled at the temples, he was the same. There was honesty, truth, and goodness in the face that had not changed either.

"Yes," Chadsey replied briefly.

"And you don't remember me?"

Chadsey tried to consider the voice, but that had grown rounder, fuller, and lost all the Maine twang. There had been so many faces between youth and this time.

"Well, I am David Westbury."

Jason Chadsey dropped on a stool and stared, then mopped his face again, while a shiver passed over him that seemed to wring his very vitals, turn him stone-cold.

"It's odd how things come about." The man of the world had his rival at a disadvantage. "I'd had runs of hard luck," in an easy, almost indifferent tone, being where he could laugh at the past, "and I'd tried about everything in vain. I was too proud to come back to Laverne empty-handed. Then, when I had made something, I turned, hoping to ease up her hard life, and found she was dead and buried. You had befriended her; thank you for that. But you took my child. I traced you to Boston. After that my search was vain. I have looked over lists of vessels, thinking to strike your name as captain or mate, and finally given up search. Business brought me here, perhaps fate, too, had a hand in it. My wife has seen and known the child, and already loves her. I am grateful for your care all these years, but I would rather have had her in my keeping. I am a rich man—if I was a poor devil I would put in no claim, no matter how dear she was to me, but a father has the best right."

Jason Chadsey rose. For a moment he had murder in his heart. The man's evident prosperity and effrontery stung him so. The past came rushing over him.

"Do you know how I found her?" he began hoarsely. "I had resolved to come out here. I was getting tired of seafaring. I went to Munro to say good-by to a few old friends. I expected to find her a happy wife and mother, with little ones about her. Instead it was a virtually deserted wife, who had heard nothing of her husband in a long while, who had used up all her little store and was in debt besides, who was suffering from cold, want, heartbreak, and dying, knowing no refuge for her child except the poor farm or to be bound out to some neighbor."

"No, she would not have been," was the almost fierce interruption.

"The dying woman did not know that. She had some comfort in her last moments," and his voice softened curiously with remembered pathos. "She gave me the child. I have been father and mother to her. You cannot have her."

"I believe the law gives the parent the right to the child until she is of age. You had no consent of mine. You could not legally adopt her, at least, it would not hold in law."

Jason Chadsey turned pale under the tan of years. Why, he had not even thought of any legal protection for his claim. It rested only on love and care.

"You see," continued the confident voice, "that my right has been in no way jeopardized. I am Laverne Westbury's father, amply able to care for her in an attractive and refined manner, place her in the best society, to give her whatever education and accomplishment she needs, the protection of a mother, the standing of a father, travel—we are to go to England shortly—and it would be worse than folly to stand in her way."

"She will not go," Jason Chadsey said sturdily.

"She will if the law directs."

"She will not when she knows the struggle of the last year of her mother's life. Why, you robbed her mother, the poor, old, helpless woman, of the little she had. You persuaded her to take up money on the house—it was not worth much, but it was a home to shelter them."

"Laverne was as anxious to get out of the place as I. What could I do there? She was willing that I should try. I was unfortunate. Other men have been—you find wrecks everywhere. I struggled hard to recover, and did, even if it was too late for her. We thank Providence for our successes—doesn't the same power direct reverses? It wasn't my fault. Luck runs against a man his whole life sometimes."

"You could have written. That would have cheered her solitary hours. She would have told you she was dying, and begged you to come. When I think of what that dreary winter was to her——"

"You were there to comfort her." There was a half sneer on the face. "See here, Jason Chadsey, you were her first lover, not a very ardent one, I fancy, either. I was a fool to persuade her to marry me, though I think her grandmother had a strong hand in it. You were there those last weeks. Did she confess her mistake, and admit that you had held her heart all these years? What confidences took place?"

"None that you might not hear. Nothing but some truths that I guessed, and wrung out of her—your neglect. You would not dare to stain the mother's memory to the child. If you did I think I could kill you. Any one who knows aught about those New England women, brought up among the snowy hills like nuns, would know it was a base lie!"

"Come, come, we won't slop over into melodrama. We will leave it to the law if you agree to abide by the decision."

"The law will not force her to go."

"I think she will be convinced. You are no kin to her. Now that she is grown, it is hardly the thing for her to go on living in this fashion. You may mean to marry her. That would be monstrous!"

"Go your way, go your way, David Westbury," and he made an indignant gesture as if he would sweep him out of the place. "I have other matters on hand. I have no time to parley."

Then Chadsey turned and, being near the door, made a rush for the street, plunging the next minute into the thick of business. Westbury laughed a moment, lighted a cigar, and sauntered out at his leisure. Up in a more respectable street he glanced about, finding a lawyer's office, and though he guessed the opinion must be in his favor he wanted an assurance.

"If there had been an assignment under belief that the father was dead, he could recover, if it was proved he was the proper person to have the care of the child, and amply able to support it."

Jason Chadsey worked furiously. He would not think. It was high noon before he found a respite. Then he went in the office instead of going to lunch. He could not eat.

The shadow that would hang over him now and then, that he had always managed to drive away, had culminated at length in a storm that would sweep from its moorings the dearest thing he held on earth, that he had toiled for, that he had loved with the tenderness of a strong, true heart, that had been all his life. Without her it would only be a breathing shell of a body, inert, with no hope, no real feeling. Ah, if they had been ready to go away a few months ago! If Laverne was of age! If he had a legal adoption, they might make a fight on that. He had nothing. But she would not go, she would not go.

Ah, how could he tell her? Perhaps her father and yes, that soft-spoken, insinuating woman, was her stepmother, and Laverne had a young girl's fancy for her—perhaps they would go and lay the case before her, persuade, entreat—oh, no, they could not win, he felt sure of that. How could he ever go home! What would the home be without her! What would life be—the money—anything!

It was quite late when he climbed the ascent, growing worse and worse. There had been two landslides. Why, presently they would be swept away.

"Oh, how late you are!" cried the soft, girlish voice. "How did you get up? Isn't it dreadful! Have you had a hard day? Was there a steamer in? Do you suppose we shall ever have a letter from the Hudsons?"

Nothing had happened. Perhaps David Westbury did not dare. He almost crushed the slim figure in his arms.

"Oh, what a bear hug!" she cried, when she could get her breath. "And you are so late. We had such a splendid big fish that Pablo caught and cooked, and it was delicious. And I made a berry cake, but you like that cold, and we will have the fish heated up. Was it an awful busy day?"

"Yes, a vessel in, and another to be loaded up."

His voice shook a little.

"Oh, you dear old darling, you are tired to death. Here's a cup of nice tea. And if you were a young lover, I would sing you the daintiest little Spanish song. Isola and I made it up. You see, things don't sound quite so bare and bald in Spanish, and you can make the rhymes easier. The music is all hers. We are supposed to sing it to some one gone on a journey that we want back with us."

"Well, I'm an old lover; sing it to me!" Then she would not notice that he was not eating much supper.

The guitar had a blue ribbon, and she threw it over her shoulder and shook her golden hair about. Tinkle, tinkle, went the soft accompaniment. She had a sweet parlor voice, with some sad notes in it, wistful, longing notes. He wondered if she was thinking of any one miles and miles across the water.

"It is tender and beautiful," he said, "sing something else."

"You are not eating your cake."

"But I shall." He must choke down a little.

Afterward they strolled about the hill. There was no moon, but the stars were like great golden and silver globes, and the air was sweet with a hundred fragrances. Nothing had happened, and he wondered a little at it. Suddenly she said:

"Oh, you must go to bed after such a hard day's work. And I am cruel dragging you about."

He could not tell her. Oh, what if he should never need to tell her! How could he give her up? Was life all sacrifice?

Something odd had happened to her. She sat by the window living it over. She had gone around by Folsom House to see Mrs. Westbury, thinking how she should miss her when they went back to England. She ran up to her room. There was a thin lace drapery in the doorway to bring a breeze through and yet shield the occupant from the passer-by.

"Oh, you sweet little darling! Did you dream that I was wishing for you? I've been just crazy to see you all day."

She was in a dainty white silk nÉgligÉe, with cascades of lace and some pale pink bows. She wore such pretty gowns, Laverne thought.

"Do you know that in about a week we shall go away? And I shan't know how to live without you. I love you so! Why do you suppose I should be always longing for you, thinking about you? Last night——"

She gave her a rapturous embrace and kissed lips and brow and eyelids. Sometimes Isola Savedra caressed her this way. But Isola was just a girl, musical, vehement, Spanish.

"I couldn't sleep for thinking of you, longing for you. Shall I steal you and take you away? Oh, if you loved me well enough to come, you should have everything heart could desire. I am so lonesome at times."

"I shouldn't come for the things," she returned, coloring. "And if I loved you ever so much——"

"No, don't say you wouldn't. Oh, to-morrow I shall have something strange to tell you, but now I say over and over again I want you, I want you!"

Laverne drew a long breath. She was half magnetized by the intensity, by the strange expression in the face, the eager eyes.

"I shall be sorry to have you go." She hardly knew what to say. Sorrow did not half express it.

"Don't mind me—yes, it is true, too. But I heard a story last night that suggested such a splendid possibility. I couldn't sleep. And I can't tell you just yet, but when you hear it—oh, you'll be tender and not break my heart that is so set upon it. Something you can do for me."

"I will do anything in my power."

"Remember that when I ask you."

She was fain to keep her longer, but Laverne had a curious feeling that she could not understand, a half fear or mystery. And then she had some translation to make for to-morrow. She was studying German now.

She worked steadily at her lessons. Then she had a race with Bruno, and waited out on the steps for Uncle Jason. What would happen to her to-morrow? It might be an elegant parting gift. How strange Mrs. Westbury had been. No one had influenced her in just that way before.

Then she went to bed and fell asleep with the ease of healthy youth. Jason Chadsey tossed and tumbled. What would to-morrow bring? How would Laverne take it? Must she go? Would she go? How could he endure it?

"One," the solemn old clock downstairs said. "Two." He had half a mind to get up. Hark, what was that? Or was he dreaming? Oh, again, now a clang sharp enough to arouse any one. Fire! Fire! He sprang out of bed and went to the window. Was it down there on the bay? He stood paralyzed while the clamor grew louder, and flames shot up in great spires, yellow-red against the blue sky. And now an immense sheet that seemed to blot out the middle of the bay, as if it could run across. "Clang, clang," went the bells.

"Oh, what is it, fire?" cried Miss Holmes.

"Fire down on the docks. I must go. Do not disturb Laverne."

Let her sleep now. She would know sorrow soon enough.

He dressed hurriedly and went out. The stars were still shining in the blue sky, though round the edges toward the eastward there were faint touches of grayish white. But the zenith seemed aflame. Up went the great spires grandly, a thing to be admired if it brought no loss. He went stumbling down the rough ways in the semi-darkness. Once a stone rolled and he fell. Then he hurried on. Other people were out—you could discern windows crowded with heads. Was San Francisco to have another holocaust? There were shrieks and cries. The noise of the engines, blowing of horns, whistles, boats steaming up, others being towed out in the bay, wooden buildings hastily demolished to stay the progress of the red fiend. Crowds upon crowds, as if the sight were a new one.

On the corner of Davis Street he sat down on a barrel, close by a stoop, overwhelmed by the certainty. Why go any nearer? The rigging of a vessel had caught, the flames twisted this way and that by their own force, as there was no wind, fortunately.

All the labor of years was swallowed up, her fortune, her luxuries, her pleasures. Another twelve months and it would have been secured. But, alas! she would not be here to share it. Did it matter so very much? His soul within him was numb. Since he had lost her, what need he care for a prosperity she could not share?

The hot air swept his face. Pandemonium sounded in his ears. Men ran to and fro, but he sat there in a kind of dumb despair that all his life should have gone for nought, labor, and love as well.