  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover THE SAN ROSARIO RANCH BY BOSTON Copyright, 1884, University Press: TO SAN ROSARIO RANCH. CHAPTER I.
The house was a large square building, simple and hospitable in appearance. A wide veranda ran about the four sides, heavily draped by climbing roses and clematis. There were indisputable evidences that visitors were expected. Old Tip, the dog, knew it as well as everybody else about the house. He had been routed out from his favorite spot on the sunny side of the piazza, by Ah Lam, who had given him a shower-bath of water and soap-suds, because he did not move away to make room for the scrubbing-brush which the white-clad Celestial plied vigorously. From earliest morning the inhabitants of the simple house had been busied in making it ready. The very kittens which played about the steps of the piazza had licked an extra gloss upon their shining coats in honor of the expected guest. Only Tip, the old hunting-dog, the spoiled child of the household, showed no interest in what was going on, and with a cynical growl trotted off to the woods behind the house, where he might sleep safe from all fear of interruption. From the wide doorway, which stood hospitably open, stepped a lady. At the first sight of Barbara Deering, strangers were always strongly impressed with the indisputable fact that she was above and before all else a lady. A second look,--and people were sure to take one,--and it appeared that she was a young lady and a beautiful one. She was tall, above the height of ordinary women, and her carriage was remarkably erect and commanding. She walked with a quick, light step to the edge of the piazza, and raising one hand to shade her eyes from the rays of the setting sun, stood looking out across the wide garden. Her figure was like that of a Greek Diana, muscular and graceful, indicating great strength and endurance. The limbs were rounded but not languidly, as one saw by the arm, from which the sleeve had slipped back: it was white, firm, and hard. Her hands were large and shapely, the tips of the fingers red, and the texture of the skin showed that they were used to other work than that of the broidery-frame. Her head, with its crown of pretty, curling flaxen hair, was habitually held rather high, and her face wore an expression in which a certain natural hauteur and imperiousness seemed at war with a gentleness which was more the result of education than a natural trait. The forehead was wide and unlined, the eyes brown and clear, the nose straight, and the mouth small and rosy. The soft, white woollen gown, with its breast-knot of red roses, suited the young woman perfectly; and as she stood in the sunset light, a spray of climbing rose hanging overhead from the roof of the piazza, she made an unconscious picture of grace and loveliness. At the sound of a wagon on the driveway a warm flush mantled her cheek and throat, and stepping to the door of the house she called out in a sweet, high voice, "Mamma, mamma! they are coming!" A moment later and a large open vehicle came into sight, drawn by two swift mules, which were urged forward by the driver, a young man in whose face the traits of the girl on the piazza were reproduced, but somewhat roughly. On the seat behind the driver was seen a female figure closely enveloped in heavy travelling wraps, her features concealed by a thick veil. As the mules stopped before the entrance, the young woman on the piazza came forward with both hands outstretched, saying cordially but half shyly,-- "Dear Millicent, welcome to San Rosario! Are you very, very tired? Let me help you out." So saying, Barbara Deering almost lifted the new arrival from the wagon, and with her strong arm supported her to a chair. "Thank you so much!" said the new-comer, speaking with a slightly foreign accent, and lifting her veil; "and you are Barbara? I know you from your picture, only you are much prettier." "Poor child, you must be terribly tired; you shall come and speak to mamma, and then you must go directly to your room and lie down. Hal, you will go down for Millicent's luggage?" The young man nodded an assent, touched up his steeds, and the wagon disappeared down the red dusty road. The two young girls entered the house, Barbara leading the stranger to a large room on the upper story. In a low chair sat a small woman, with a face which must have once been beautiful, and which now shone with an expression of simple sincerity and kindliness. She held out her hand to Millicent, kissed her on both cheeks, and warmly bade her welcome to San Rosario. Millicent Almsford acknowledged the greeting with a courteous grace, and immediately after accepted Barbara's offer to show her to her room. When the door was shut upon her, and she was for the first time in many days alone, she seated herself at the window, and leaning her head upon her hand, remained wrapped in thought. She had travelled from the coast of the Adriatic Sea to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, with no companion save her maid and her own painful thoughts. And now the long journeying was at an end, and she found herself in the far West, in California, amidst her kindred, all strangers to her save by tradition and some slight correspondence. She looked about the strange room. It was exquisitely neat and fresh, with its clean whitewashed walls and new blue Kidderminster carpet, its black-walnut "bedroom set," and comfortable lounge, which had been newly covered in her honor. On the bureau were blue and white mats and cushions, a toilet-set which Barbara's busy fingers had stolen time to make. She marked all these little details, not one of which escaped her eyes, even to the embroidered towel-rack with her initials, and the worked motto, "Welcome home." Again she looked out from the window over a wide pleasant orchard, filled with heavily fruited peach and plum trees; over a garden gay with bright-hued flowers, and beyond to the everlasting hills which close about the happy valley wherein stands the house of the San Rosario Ranch. Numbers of oxen and cows were straying over the hills, with here and there groups of sheep cropping the sun-dried grass of the hills. The landscape was a perfect symphony in brown. The round shiny hills were golden in color; the warm-hued earth in the ploughed fields and the meadows, whose crop of grass had long since been mowed, was of a deeper tint. The house stood in an oasis of green. A great hedge of rose-trees blushing with red blossoms marked the boundary of the flower-garden, irrigated with great care through the long summer months. The sun, low-hanging over the hilltops, suddenly dropped from sight; and as the room grew dim, Millicent shivered slightly, and turning from the window threw herself on the couch and lay there quite still, too tired even to weep out the pain and homesickness in her heart. A tap on the door was followed by the entrance of one of her trunks, brought in by two strong Chinamen, at whose coppery faces Millicent stared curiously. Six large boxes were placed in a row and unstrapped by the younger Chinaman, who, when he had completed his task, approached the stranger land said in a sympathetic voice, "Me solly you sick; Ah Lam bring tea-cup?" The white Celestial smiled benignantly and vanished, quickly reappearing with the promised cup of tea, which proved most grateful to the girl's tired nerves. The creature's sympathy and attention brought tears to her eyes; and when Barbara came in a few minutes later, to help her in unpacking, she found the traces of these tears on Millicent's cheeks. "Do not try to dress for tea, dear; you are too tired. Where shall I find your dressing-case? You must let me take the place of your maid, now that she has left you so cruelly." So talking pleasantly, Barbara unpacked the guest's dressing-bag, looked admiringly at the silver-topped bottles with "M. A." engraven upon them, the ivory brushes, and all the dainty et ceteras which were necessities to the foreign girl, with the long white hands and finger-nails which shone like pale pink conch-pearls. "Thank you, if you would help me a little to-night, I shall quickly learn to do for myself. If you will look in that largest trunk, you may give me whatever gown lies at the top." Barbara unfolded as she was bid a sea-green cashmere dress, in which the stranger quickly clad her slender figure. Manifold strings of tiny seed-pearls she wound about her white throat and wrists, performing all the details of her dressing with a careful precision which seemed part of her nature. The pink nails received an extra polish, though the tea-bell had twice summoned the inmates of the house to the evening repast. With a peculiarly graceful motion, like the undulation of a swift but quiet stream, she moved about the room and finally down the stairway to the dining-room below. "Millicent, will you sit here, on my right? Hal shall have the pleasure of occupying the place beside you." The speaker was the lady whose gentle, firm hand swayed the small realm of the San Rosario Ranch during the long absence of its master, Mr. Ralph Almsford. Mr. Almsford had been a widower for the past ten years. On the death of his beloved wife, her mother Mrs. Deering had continued at his earnest request to make his house her home. Her two younger children, Barbara and Henry Deering, remembered no other home, and it seemed but natural to them that they should continue to live with their brother-in-law. The family life was a particularly happy one, and the tie between Ralph Almsford and the Deerings was closer than that which exists between many blood relations. The advent of the young heiress Millicent Almsford, the half-sister of Ralph, was an event of great importance in the household, and had been eagerly anticipated by Mrs. Deering and her daughter for several weeks. Henry Deering--or as he was always called Hal--displayed an absolute indifference concerning the "strange girl" who was coming to make her home among them for a year. What Ralph Almsford felt about his guest no one of the household could divine. He was a quiet, reticent man, entirely absorbed in his business, which of late had often taken him from home for months at a time. He had written to his half-sister, urging her to visit the ranch; and his letter, the first one of the kind she had ever received, had so moved the girl that she had telegraphed her departure, and forthwith started on her long journey. Her brother met her in San Francisco, where they passed one day together,--a business engagement calling him away on the morrow, as he hoped for a few days only. Millicent took the place assigned her by Mrs. Deering, and supper was enlivened by conversation about the journey she had just achieved, which she described as the most terrible ordeal that it was possible for a human being to undergo. The guest was entirely at her ease, though her position might have been to many people an embarrassing one. Arriving alone in a household of near connections, who were as yet absolute strangers to her, and with whom it had been decided that the next year of her life should be passed, most girls in her place would have experienced some sensation of awkwardness; but Millicent was entirely mistress of the situation. She spoke principally to Hal Deering, a jolly-looking fellow of twenty-five, who puzzled her with the bits of dialect, perfectly unintelligible to her, which he introduced into his conversation. After supper Mrs. Deering led the way into the drawing-room, saying to her guest,-- "Will you join us at prayers in the library, Millicent? Or would you prefer waiting here for us?" "I see that you already know that I am an unorthodox person, Mrs. Deering. Frankly, I would prefer not coming, if you will allow me. Being an agnostic, I should hardly be in sympathy with your service. If you will kindly excuse me, I will await you here." Millicent's refusal to join the family at their devotions was accompanied with a smile so exquisite and winning that the offence was forgiven, although forgiveness had not been asked. Hal, the great six-foot giant, more than forgave the graceful girl her ungraciousness, and would have a thousand times preferred remaining with her to joining his mother and sister. On being left to herself, Millicent moved to the piano which stood open near the window, and seating herself let her white fingers stray gently over the keys. Strange hands were Millicent's, of a whiteness that made her pale cheek look brown by comparison. The fingers were long and taper, at the tip of each a drop as of water ready to fall from the pink digits. The wrists were round and very slender. On the fifth finger of the left hand she wore a strange, small old ring of an Etruscan pattern, which had been stripped from the fleshless hand of a princess, whose sanctuary had been rifled by some nineteenth-century robber of graves. The setting enclosed a small green intaglio exquisitely carved, representing a Psyche with new-found wings. She had a strange, white luminous face whose beauty shone from within and lit the dark gray eyes with a rare and tender loveliness. The large mouth was more exquisitely refined than the mere rosebud tininess of Barbara Deering's. The teeth were very white and perfect, and the veil of soft, golden bronze hair, in which she could have clothed herself like Mary in the desert, was deftly massed into a great dusky knot at the nape of her white neck. Her arms and bosom, veiled by half transparent draperies, were white as marble from Carrara, and as finely yet generously chiselled as those of a goddess of Phidias. She was very tall, though her grace of movement concealed her height; her small feet in their velvet sandals were not disproportionate to her size. Her features were beautiful, and her hair and eyes the delight of every artist who looked upon her. And yet that which made her so remarkable among women had nothing to do with delicate contours or harmonious tints. Her body seemed like a screen through which shone a flame, at times white and gentle, again rosy and passionate. She was like the twin opals which clasped her girdle, and was as sensitive as they to every passing influence. As the words of the ritual, grown to be meaningless to him by their frequent repetition, fell upon the ears of Henry Deering he heeded them not, and failed to make the proper responses: other sounds had struck his ear, and soft, solemn strains of music made an under prayer to the evening service. To these strange chords his heart made answer, and his thoughts were raised by them far higher than was usual at that hour, when it was their wont to run riot over the business in hand for the next day. As the family re-entered the drawing-room, Millicent remained seated at the piano, now striking louder chords, and finally ending the long rhapsody with a brilliant waltz of Chopin. "Thank you, dear," said Barbara, as Millicent left the piano; "I am so glad that you are musical. I find very little sympathy for my music in the family; we will have great pleasure in practising together. I have some very good four-hand music." Soon after, the newly arrived guest bade good-night to the family, and went to her room accompanied by Barbara. "She is a little like Ralph," said Mrs. Deering, "only infinitely handsomer. How did she please you, my son?" "Is she handsome? I hardly noticed. It was her voice that struck me; it has the sound of laughing waters. And can't she play, though! I never heard such music in my life." "I am very glad for Barbara's sake that she is musical," answered his mother. "Yes; I hope that Barbara and Miss Almsford will get on together. But I have my doubts," said Hal, dubiously pulling his straw-colored mustache. This is San Rosario to-day. Shall we go back a hundred years? It has a history worth a word or two. To one who is familiar with the beautiful country which lies about the old Mission of San Rosario, it is not a little strange that the place has as yet no prominence either in history or literature. Santa Barbara and the Mission Dolores have been celebrated in prose and verse. San Miguel and San Fernando Rey are not forgotten; while San Rafael and San Francisco, now grown to be important cities, will be remembered as long as Plymouth or Manhattan. The venerable President of the missions of Upper California, Father Junipero Serra, founded the San Rosario Mission in 1784, the last year of his life. It is possible that the judgment of the enthusiastic priest was already failing when he chose this site, for the Mission was never prosperous, and was abandoned early in the present century. While standing among the ruins of the old church, it is not difficult to see in fancy a picturesque scene enacted on the spot a century ago, on the morning of the consecration of the Mission. The little band of priests and soldiers have come to the end of their journey; the pleasant valley set in sheltering green hills has been chosen for the site of the new Mission. The tall thin figure of Father Junipero first strikes the eye. In spite of his great age, and the mortal disease with which he is afflicted, it is his hand that tugs lustily at the rope which swings the great bronze bell, hung in the arms of a gigantic redwood. It is he who shouts aloud the summons, "Hear, hear! all ye Gentiles! come to the holy Church!" Close to the President stand two priests,--one, a middle-aged man with a head which indicates great power and a dogged persistence; the other, a delicate looking youth with the face of an enthusiast, beautiful and dreamy. The handful of soldiers who serve the Fathers as an escort are making fast the slight church tent which they have just set up. From the neighboring thicket the cries of the startled birds mingle with the earnest tones of Father Junipero and the deep notes of the bronze bell. Hardly less timorous than the wood creatures are the Indians, who peer cautiously from behind the great trees at the strange spectacle before them. They are invited to draw near, and the bolder ones come close to the black-robed figures, and stare curiously at the simple ceremonials with which the ground is consecrated to the service of the heavenly kingdom. Through the indefatigable energy of the President and the two priests, the few buildings of the Mission were completed within a year. The adobe church was unusually large and well built, as one can see to-day. The tower, the base of which is strongly fortified, is still standing, though the roof of the church has long since fallen to the earthen floor. Little trace now remains of the less important buildings, for the Mission was abandoned thirty years after its establishment, and the property passed into the hands of its present owner, Mr. Ralph Almsford, some fifteen years before the opening of our story. A century has elapsed since that day when the Fathers planted the cross amidst the stately aisles of madrone trees; the Mission is now almost forgotten, but the San Rosario Ranch is well known for its famous breed of cattle, and for its fine dairy, which supplies the San Francisco market with choice butter and cream. The two priests--he of the hard-favored countenance, and he of the gentle eyes--lie side by side at the foot of the crumbling altar. The Indians who were reclaimed by them from barbarism have gone to their happy hunting-grounds, and the brilliant future prophesied by Father Junipero is proven to be a dream and nothing more. CHAPTER II.
Millicent Almsford awoke early on the morning after her arrival. "What is the matter?" she asked. No one answering her question, she put another. "Why do we not go on, what are we stopping for?" this still in a semi-somnolent voice. On opening her eyes and finding that she was not in the berth of the palace car, where she had for a week past always found herself, she laughed outright and then gave a deep sigh. Her long journey, from the Palazzo Fortunio in Venice to the San Rosario Ranch in California, was at an end; and here she was, to use her own phrase, "planted in the wilderness for a year to come." "Heavens! how can I bear it?" she cried, tossing restlessly to the other side of her wide bed; "it is all so new, so raw, so crude, so terrible,--just like this cotton sheet, which has chafed my chin so badly that I would rather have slept without one." Soon a loud bell broke the silence of the morning. Millicent did not heed it, but looked about the room to find a means of summoning assistance. Happily she found the bell quite near her, and, after twice ringing, a tap at her door was heard. In answer to her "Come in," Ah Lam opened the door cautiously. "Missie call Ah Lam?" "I want my breakfast now," said Millicent, somewhat dismayed at the attendant she had summoned. Soon Barbara came, carrying the breakfast tray in her strong arms. "I am so sorry you don't feel well this morning, Millicent. What can I do for you?" "But I feel perfectly well. Do I look so badly?" "No, dear; but we were afraid, not seeing you--" "Dear Barbara, you must excuse my strange foreign habits. You know I have been only a week in your country. I did not realize that you all came downstairs to breakfast. What time is it?" "After seven." "And you have been up since--?" "Since six o'clock only. Hal is the early riser. Half-past four sees him overlooking the milking." Millicent shuddered; she had indeed come to a strange land. "I will try to learn the customs of your country," she said rather piteously, taking up her cup of coffee. "Only learn those that please you, dear. As for our early breakfast, which I see shocks you, think no more about it. I will gladly bring it up to you every day." "I shall unpack some of my boxes this morning, Barbara; and later we will try some of your duets, if you like." The unpacking of her Penates gave Millicent a certain satisfaction, which was, however, tempered by the sad recollections they brought to her mind, of her own apartment with its three pretty rooms in the corner of the great Palazzo Fortunio. Millicent Almsford was the daughter of an American gentleman who had lived in Venice since before the birth of his daughter. Here the greater portion of her life had been spent, with the interruption only of one long visit made to a relative in England. A month previous to the opening of our story her father, widowed at her birth, had married for the third time, his wife being a young and uninteresting Italian woman of the middle class. The marriage, to which Millicent was strongly opposed, had led her to accept the invitation of her half-brother to make him an extended visit in his California home. From the great cases she lifted, with the help of Ah Lam, the household treasures which she had been unwilling to leave behind, in the home which knew her as its mistress no longer. A motley collection of articles had the great trunks enclosed: pictures, books, a large Eastern carpet, a parchment missal of the fifteenth century with beautiful illuminations, a guitar, a little majolica shrine with a figure of San Antonio very much the worse for the journey, a set of delicately wrought silken window and bed hangings of pale sea color, a pair of heavy silver candelabra, with a ponderous packet of wax tapers, and innumerable other knick-knacks. With the willing and ingenious assistance of Ah Lam, this roba, to borrow the untranslatable Italian phrase, was disposed about the large room. The neat Nottingham lace curtains, at which Millicent had looked askance, were now hidden beneath the blue-green draperies, embroidered by the hands of the mother whose face she had never seen. The pictures were hung upon the walls, and a deep-hued Egyptian scarf disguised the pasteboard motto, with its friendly welcome. A book-case was improvised by the Chinaman from some old boxes, and covered by Millicent, who unhesitatingly cut to pieces a heavy woollen gown whose color struck her as appropriate to that end. Beside the bed she hung the little shrine of San Antonio, with much grief that the long journey had damaged his saintly toes and fingers. On a table were ranged the candlesticks and the missal, and an old copy of Dante with a mouse-gnawed cover, and Lear's "Nonsense Book,"--this last because it was an old friend from childhood, which she, being a creature of habit, had forgotten to discard. The complete metamorphosis of the apartment was a work of several days; and only when it was entirely accomplished were Mrs. Deering and her daughter admitted to see the change. Poor Barbara! All the pains and trouble she had taken, all the careful stitches she had set, were unavailing. The new carpet she had bought with her own pocket money was entirely covered by old rugs, some of which were very faded and worn; none of them were as bright and clean as the Kidderminster. The warm knitted afghan had disappeared from the bed, which was covered by a white quilt embroidered in strange floral designs. The very toilet set had been replaced, and the pretty painted candles had been banished. "I have made it a little like Venice," cried Millicent excitedly, "only the walls in my bedroom there are hung in silk and all painted in water-color, and the rooms are so high,--you remember the green room in the Palazzo Fortunio, Mrs. Deering, with the nymphs, the sea gods, and the green hobgoblins painted all over it?" "Yes, indeed, Millicent. What a change you have wrought in the spare bedroom. Ralph would hardly recognize it. I see now what was contained in the boxes which so aroused Hal's curiosity. I am afraid you have made your room too attractive, dear, and that we shall find difficulty in coaxing you out of it into our more prosaic apartments." "Oh, I always live the greater part of my life between my own four walls: I am not a sociable person, I am afraid. At least so Barbara thinks." Barbara said nothing; she was hurt and disappointed. The room, with its strange furnishing, was unnatural to her. She felt, as she looked at Millicent with this new setting which suited her so perfectly, that neither in the room nor in the life of Millicent Almsford was there a place for her. She had eagerly anticipated the advent of this unknown girl, sisterless like herself, who should grow to be so much to her, and in whom she should find the sympathetic friend of whom she had greatly felt the need; and now that she had come, Barbara was bitterly disappointed. Millicent was gracious, winning, full of attractive qualities, intellectually sympathetic to a degree which she had never before known. And yet the tall daughter of the Ranch was cruelly disturbed. "I can be nothing to her; she is complete without me," she had said to her mother; and herein lay the reason for all her disappointment. Living among people to whom her beauty, her talent, and her warmth of heart had been the most poetic features of their lives, Barbara Deering had grown to value men and women according to the amount of good or pleasure she could impart to them. Her life had been one wherein the tears and sighs had been stifled, or hidden in the darkness of her chamber; the laughter and smiles, the bright cheery face, the helping hand always meeting those about her. Children loved her, and old people blessed her for her sympathy and kindness. To her mother and brother she was sun, moon, and stars; and to them every hour of her life was consecrated. Naturally endowed with certain tastes which would have somewhat interfered with the quiet plan of life laid out for her, she had systematically neglected these gifts, sacrificing herself to an imaginary duty which was always before her eyes. She had avoided such pursuits as might have led her aside from the common life of the family; and happiness for her was found in the happiness she could afford to others. Enjoyment to her, unless her dear ones were included in it, was something like a sin; and the pleasure she took in her music gave her pangs of conscience. One morning, about a week after her arrival, Millicent was awakened by the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs clattering down the stony road which led to the orchard from the hill behind the house. She sprang up, and throwing wide the shutters, looked out to see whence the sound came. It was still very early. The sun had not yet clambered over the tops of the high hills; but the sky was bright, and the shadows lay like a misty garment over the happy valley, locked in its circle of hills. The great bull Jupiter, the terror of the Ranch, stood near the house, sniffing the cool morning air, and giving thunderous snorts of pleasure. The bars had been left down, and he had gained access to the green orchard, forbidden ground to him. The hedge of roses was hung with a wondrous garlanding of dewdrops, and the dark-red lilies were just awakening to the draught which the night winds had distilled in their chalices. From every blade of grass and leaf of clover sparkled a diamond. The fair valley had arrayed itself in jewels and fragance for another day of light and love. The sound of the horse's hoofs grew nearer; and as Millicent looked expectantly along the bridle-path that descends from the mountain, there came into sight, parting the wet boughs of the fruit trees, a horseman mounted on a gray mustang. The rider was a strong man, who sat his steed with the air of one to the manner born. He was dressed in corduroy breeches, high top-boots, and flannel shirt. He had no hat. In his belt shone a long hunting knife, and over his shoulder was slung a rifle. Before him on the saddle lay a stag whose heavy antlers hardly cleared the ground. The first rays of the sun, just peeping over the hill-tops, touched his thick brown hair, giving it a glint of bronze, shone on the wide white forehead, flashed into the eyes, and showed her for an instant a stern profile, exceedingly beautiful. Then she lost his face as he turned the corner of the piazza. Here he dismounted, and lifting the deer from the horse laid it on the grass. Perhaps the beauty of the dead creature struck a chord of remorse in the breast of the hunter, for he gave a sigh and turned it so that a gaping wound in the neck was not visible. Then drawing a pencil and a bit of paper from his pocket, he wrote something, and fastening the billet to the horns of the deer, he mounted his horse, and giving him the rein returned slowly by the same road. As he drew near again Millicent saw that the mustache which hid the upper lip was golden-brown, that the throat was white and shapely, that the mouth smiled not untenderly, while the eyes smiled not at all. These details were noted with an artist's love of beauty: and as she watched him out of sight, she wondered with all a woman's curiosity who he might be. Since Millicent's arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch. All the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance had either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had signified their intention of shortly doing so. Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty miles. The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are exchanged. In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or manifested the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a cordiality of manner only. Not one man or woman among the circle of friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire for further acquaintance. But this one who had called at six o'clock in the morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a stag, piqued the curiosity of the indifferent young lady. Wrapping herself in a soft gray woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the liveliest manner. It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in "Donald." Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the antlers of a rival. Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature tenderly between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes. At that moment she heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her. "Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and dressed"--he hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly too; I like that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine piece of venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too. Don't believe you would do as much for me." The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the note, took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:-- HONORED MISTRESS DEERING,--I lay myself at your feet, and with myself a pretty bit of game I have just killed, thinking that the fair Venetian might fancy a venison steak for her breakfast. I kiss your hand, dear my lady, and am your most unworthy but loyal servitor, JOHN GRAHAM. "Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature. Wonder why he did not stop and take breakfast with us. He is an unaccountable fellow." "What did you call him?" "Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham. Just like a hero's in a novel. But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy." "Shall you cut off his skin?" "Whose? Graham's?" "How foolish, Mr. Deering. I mean the deer's fur." "Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide or feathers. In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton; but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the super-civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--" "Mr. Deering, that is stupid. I want his skin and horns; please arrange them for me." "Yes, Princess; your most humble servant will obey your mandate." He seized the creature by its slender legs, hoisted it deftly to his shoulders, and disappeared through the side door. Millicent picked up the bit of a note, smoothed it, and laid it at Mrs. Deering's plate on the breakfast table. Millicent asked Barbara later on in the day who and what John Graham might be. She was told that the man with the bronze hair and strange eyes was a near neighbor, and that she would without doubt soon make his acquaintance. With this answer Millicent was fain to be content. She thought about him all that day and dreamed of him that night; the next morning his face was not so distinctly in her mind, but her thoughts were constantly busy with weaving romances in which John Graham played a conspicuous part. The girl was indeed a creature "of the stuff which dreams are made of;" the web of her daily life, no matter how common-place its actual experience might be, was rich with her own vivid imaginings, like the gold thread that a weaver twists through a sad-colored fabric. "Mr. Deering, take me to the dairy. I have not yet seen it," said Millicent one afternoon, as they all sat together on the wide piazza, after the early dinner. The young man rose slowly, his great length unfolding itself as he left his chair; and for answer put down his pipe and reached up for Millicent's hat, which he had hung on a peg high above her reach. The two young people passed down the gravel walk between the broad flower beds fragrant with the wonderful roses which grow only upon the shores of the Pacific. A geranium tree twelve feet high, with its great scarlet bunches, and the vine of MarÉchal roses which climbed up the piazza and tapped with its heavy blossoms at her casement, aroused Millicent's enthusiasm. The dairy, Hal told her, was fully thirty years old. But her own palace had frowned grim and black upon the Grand Canal before the passengers on the good ship "Mayflower" had landed in Plymouth. The dairy was a plain, neat frame-building painted white, looking out upon a great farm-yard. Here the pretty cows all stood crowded together, waiting their turn to offer up their evening tribute. Two black-browed Mexicans were milking, and a tall Yankee was overseeing the straining of the milk. He stood by a large trough and received the brimming buckets from the milkers, pouring their contents through a strainer into the great receptacle. In the midst of the herd lay Jupiter, the splendid bull, lazily chewing his cud and switching away the sand flies with his thick black tail. In a cool inner room were long shelves ranged about the brick walls, whereon stood a shining array of pans filled with milk in different stages. Millicent was one of those people who are always stimulated with a desire to accomplish whatever other people are engaged in doing. She now announced her intention of learning to milk. This suggestion was promptly vetoed by Hal, who, to divert her attention, called to one of the men to bring him the skimming utensils. He placed a large stone jar beneath the shelf, and taking one of the milk pans which was covered with a rich coating of yellow cream, proceeded to skim it. His only tool was a little wooden wand, resembling a sculptor's modelling stick. With this he separated the yellow disk of cream from the sides of the pan, tipping it slightly so that the whole mass of cream slipped off unbroken, leaving the pale-blue skimmed milk in the vessel. Millicent was delighted with the operation which Hal accomplished with such skill, and after many unsuccessful attempts finally performed the feat in a manner very creditable to a beginner. "If you will find your way back to the house, Princess, I will help the men to finish the milking," said young Deering, when Millicent had announced her intention of returning. She nodded her assent, and walking a few steps stopped and leaned over the gate of the farm-yard. Presently Deering came out from the dairy, having donned his rough overalls and jersey, and, placing himself on a three-legged stool, proceeded to milk a tall white cow. Millicent looked at him musingly for a few minutes, and then took her way down the path which led to the house. It was but a short distance, and lay within sight of both farm and dwelling-house, and yet she was somewhat astonished at the young man's allowing her to return alone. To see him milking, too, at work with the common laborers, had greatly perplexed her. She cast a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that it was really Hal's hatless head which was bending forward, almost touching the side of the white cow. "And yet he is a gentleman," she said aloud; and, remembering the white hands of her papa and the gentlemen whom she had known in the Old World, was reminded of the truth, which when it is spoken seems a truism, and yet which is often lost sight of, that the proof of gentlehood lies neither in the skin of the body, nor its raiment.
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