T

III

HE man named Hunt returned to his letter, and knit his brows, meanwhile stroking the long, white beard that flowed over his chest.

"He writes that he expects to proceed to a large stock farm a few miles from the land we want to acquire, and take board there for a few months. He has heard of this place, and as it is only about fifteen miles from the land we have in view, he thinks it will do, although it is quite far from any postal centre." "Give the boy his head," said the other, "and wait—that is my advice." The owner of the patriarchal beard shook his head.

"There is too much at stake," he said. "It involves both money and souls. Since this doubt has arisen in my mind, I am not satisfied. There should be some one on the scene to watch him and report him."

is heart and soul with the cause and will do anything to serve us and to see Beard, even though her identity is not known to him. Day after to-morrow a party from here is going by rail to and thence by wagon down through the Santa Clara and across Arizona to California. Jane can go with them as far as this farm of Adam Young's, well disguised as an elderly woman. She can ask for work and say she has changed her mind and does not want to emigrate to California. On these frontier farms they always want willing workers of cither sex, and will probably jump at getting help. Once there, she can keep you informed of all that goes on."

"Gordon," said the other, "there is no doubt you are a genius."

The little grey man smiled.
"Sometimes you don't think so," he

said.

Hunt waved the remark aside, too full of the proposed plan to waste time on

"But I did My idea is

"The proposition is admirable," he said. "It has only one weak point. Sending Jane will keep us informed of Beard's movements, but it will not strengthen Beard in the cause if, as I think, he is on the verge of backsliding."

"Other forces may combine to bring about his rehabilitation," said Gordon. "Don't borrow trouble, Hunt. At present we will devote our time and energy to acquainting Jane with our plans and getting her ready. Her make-up and disguise require much care to deceive. any one as sharp as Beard. Fortunately, she can act a part well, and has courage and nerve, though I say it, who am her father."

"And what about Aurelia Bond?" said the other.

The little grey man waved his hand. "Don't worry. We will manage," he said.

He arose as he spoke, and after a few more words bowed, not without a certain deference, and withdrew. As the door closed on his retreating figure the man named Hunt sat down in his chair, and dipping his pen in an ink bottle, held it suspended a moment in deep. thought.

"A genius," he said. "A genius; and the brain and sinew of our cause." Then the pen came down on the paper, and he began to write.

IV.

Beard, all unconscious of the forces. that had been at work in his behalf, was enjoying his first meal in the wide, clean kitchen that was Mary Young's special pride. Early training, joined to innate. refinement, had made her keep up ways and customs that, as a rule, were foreign to the frontier soil. The table was spread with a white cloth and nicely set. An old-fashioned tea kettle, filled with hot water, stood in front of her plate, and a large silver teapot, that must have descended through two or three generations, stood at her right hand. The scene was indescribably homelike and full of peace, while it was clear that the inmates of the house were united by an uncommon devotion. Especially was it plain that the affection of father and mother were centered in the young girl, their only child. In a long, low shed that did duty as an outer kitchen, the dozen Indians who worked on the farm had their supper apart. A handsome Indian woman, the wife of one of the men, presided at the stove, and saw that all were served before taking her own meal. In the large kitchen, where Adam Young and his family had their table, the young daughter of the house. sat beside her father. Next to her was the little farm girl of whom Beard had

caught a glimpse on going to his room, too overawed by the men on the opposite side of the table to raise her eyes from her plate.

Coming into the kitchen from their rooms, the travelers had been introduced to Adam Young; then the mother turned to some one who stepped out from behind Adam's tall figure.

"My daughter, Honor," she said.

The girl bowed and smiled. Catching sight of the laughter, hardly veiled, in Beard's brown eyes, she laughed outright.

"I must confess to having seen you both before," she said. "First in the canyon, then on the road. I owe you an apology, Professor Logy. When I heard your friend speak, I was so startled that I think I nearly sent some stones rolling on your head."

The Professor's grey eyes returned the frank gaze of the blue ones opposite.

"That was wholly immaterial, Miss Honor. Not being Henry Penny, I was not alarmed."

"It is as well," she said. "You might have thought I was trying to fling Ossa upon Olympus, and that our canyon was Pelion's leafy wood."

The Professor's eyes were round. "You read Homer, Miss Honor?"

"Oh," she smiled, "I read and love. him. I don't think any other poet makes my mountains and the river so real to me. I read him over and over."

"It was I who taught her to love him," said Adam, proudly. "In the winter, when there is less outdoor work for me, Honor and I read together."

"But in summer the land does claim you," said Beard. And then he added, with a smile that few had ever been able to resist "I don't know Homer, Mr. Young, but I do know land, and I am anxious to look at a large tract that is for sale about fifteen miles east of here. Can you drive me there? I represent an Eastern concern that is anxious to purchase."

"I am going to drive that way to-morrow morning," answered the farmer, heartily, "and will be glad of your company. It is good news to learn this land is to be sold. It has remained uncultivated for years, and taking it up will enhance the value of my own property."

"That particular spot is a favorite one of mine." said Honor. "It is just above the river, on quite an elevation. The view of the river and mountains is beautiful. I would like to be queen of such a domain."

"Lacking that," said Mary Young, “I confess to a little curiosity, Mr. Beard, as to what the land is intended for."

"I am sorry I cannot tell you," he answered. "It is a secret as yet."

The conversation flowed on pleasantly, and, supper over, Mary Young and the little farm girl disappeared into the outer kitchen. Adam Young laid a hand on the Professor's shoulder.

This tall, sun-burned farmer, bent with work in the fields, and browned by exposure to all sorts of winds and weather, had an early training and education, joined to natural tastes and innate nobleness of character, that made him a fit companion for a man of such scientific gifts as the Professor-a fact the latter was not slow to recognize. So when his host said, "I think I know a spot that will interest you, Professor; won't you come with me and see it?" he departed with Adam, nothing loath.

And so it chanced that Beard found himself in a few seconds alone with Honor. "I am going for a walk with my dog," she said. "Would you like to come with me?"

young girl on one side, giving an occasional glance out of the corner of his eye at Beard on the other, but otherwise displaying no animosity. They talked of many things as they strolled up a hill behind the house.

"Have you always lived here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "I was born here, and have never been away but once. That was when I was seventeen, two and a half years ago, when I went with my father to Phoenix and through the Grand Canyon. It was a memorable trip, but I was not sorry to get home again." "But your education," he said "who has taught you?"

"My father and mother," she answered. "I have had no other teachers, except a Dominican Brother at the Mission, who taught me music, so that I could play for our poor Indian girls at the Mission."

"Oh," he said, in surprise, "you are a Roman Catholic?"

"Yes," she answered, "I am a Roman Catholic, as you call it, and I am proud of it."

She did not ask him what he was. To her he was a Protestant-of what type it did not matter. In her mountain fastnesses she had heard little and knew less of the diversity of non-Catholic creeds.

They walked farther on, until suddenly, around a slight elevation in the land, they came on a small inclosure, about seventeen feet square, fenced in with a barbed wire railing, at one end of which was a gate. It needed only a glance for Beard to see they had come to a There were two graves, each with a wooden cross at the head. The whole place showed loving care. The grass grew smooth and thick, and some flowers, mostly purple and white, bloomed around the inclosure, close to the fence.

"My father's mother is buried here," she said, "and my mother."

"Your mother?" Beard was astonished. "The present Mrs. Young, then, is your step-mother?"

"I am Adam and Mary Young's adopted child," was the answer. "My own mother is buried here; who my father was, I do not know."

She did not pursue the subject, and he saw that any further questions would be intrusive. The twilight had begun to deepen, so, presently, they turned homeward.

Beard narrated all he had heard to the Professor, before retiring.

"This fair maid is going to be interesting," he said. "It is a step from reading Homer to playing the organ for a lot of dirty Indian children at the Mission. But she does it all, and apparently with ease, and with her heart in all she does. I wonder, Professor, how it would be if she loved-would it not be a revelation to her lover?"

The Professor had blown out his candle, and stood unseen in the dark, within his room.

"Take care how you treat her, Beard," he said; "she is only a child still, and if I am not mistaken, her name of Honor fits her character."

Then, before Beard could reply, the Professor closed and locked the door that separated their rooms.

V.

The young girl obeyed, and was back in time to see the wagons turn in the road that led up to their door. The stout wheels creaked as the wagons drew near, and the horses looked hot and dusty, although in splendid -condition. A man and two women descended from the first vehicle, and Mary Young advanced to make them welcome.

"Only a short rest, good mistress," said the man, "and water for our horses and ourselves; then we must push on. We are emigrants bound for California, and have no time to linger, except for water, and one other matter that my wife here will explain while I help your men carry the buckets."

The Indian boys were bringing water as he spoke, and now half a dozen other men and women, as well as several children, descended from the wagons, and presently they all followed Joseph and Simon around to the back of the house, preceded by Honor.

Mary Young and the two women were thus left alone. Both women apparently were elderly. One was tall and stout, with red hair, and with dark glasses shading her eyes; the other, who advanced to speak, was slender, and worn almost to a shadow, while her mouth had a pathetic droop.

"My friend here," she said, indicating the red-haired woman, "started with us for California, but her courage has failed her. She dislikes the idea of go

"Coming, sweet mother," answered a silvery voice, and presently the young girl appeared on the front porch, where the elder woman stood gazing at the road that wound down the hill in the distance, her hand shading her eyes as she looked.

"I see three canvas-covered traveling wagons, Honor," she said, "and they will pass here and probably stop and ask for water. Run and tell Joseph and Simon to have it ready."

here for the rest of the summer, if you can give her work, and then she will return to her home in the fall."

"We do need help," said Mary Young. "A strong, capable girl is just what I have been wishing for. If she likes to remain with us, I am willing, provided you can answer for her character."

"Oh," said the other, "I have known her all my life. Martha Clay is her name. A good girl, and honest, and a splendid worker. You won't regret taking her."

The woman, who stood at a little distance, erect and not ungraceful, clad in a dark blue calico, with a sunbonnet of the same color on her head, and holding in one hand a stout black bag that seemed well filled, moved forward.

"I will serve you well, madam, if you will let me stay," she said, in a deep voice that, somehow, suited her square shoulders, broad chest, and general appearance of strength. Her voice and manner were not unattractive, but Mary hesitated a moment longer.

"Your eyes?" she said. "You wear dark glasses. Is not your sight good?"

The woman smiled, and removed the spectacles, revealing dark brown eyes of unusual power and brilliancy.

"I can see perfectly," she said, replacing the glasses almost immediately. "I wear these because, without them, the intense light gives me a headache. With your permission, I will wear them most of the time."

"Certainly," said Mary. "But before we close the bargain, I want to be sure you will not regret it. This is a lonely place, there is little diversion, and a great deal of work. The wagons that pass here, going East or West, are few and far between. Once your friends have gone, you may have to stay with us until the fall, unless you drive to -, and go by train."

"I have thought of all that," said the woman, quietly; "but I want to stay. I am sure I shall never regret it."

There followed a few business details about wages, and the work to be done, then the woman lifted the bag she had dropped on the ground when she began to talk, and followed Mary into the house. In another hour the horses, watered and refreshed, were ready to start. There followed farewells on both sides. A few whispered words between Martha Clay and her friend took place, then slowly the ponderous wagons started up the road, headed west for the California frontier.

Martha Clay, in her little room off the outer kitchen, unpacked a few of her things, then drew out her two dresses, examined them critically, and with a shake of the head replaced them in the black bag, dropping the key in her pocket. In five minutes she emerged from her room, and went in search of her new mistress, whom she found in the pantry.

"I am ready to work now, madam," she said. she said. "Anything you can give me to do?"

"Is there any one thing you can do best?" asked Mary Young, and the girl smiled, showing badly discolored teeth, that marred the expression of her face.

"I can cook," she said, "and I like it better than washing or cleaning."

"That is just what we want," said Mary. "Our Indian cook has to go away this week. You can take full charge of the kitchen, though there are a great many to cook for; and just now we have two guests."

"I am not afraid," was the answer. "I think you will be satisfied, madam.”

The new cook was accordingly installed in the kitchen. She seemed of a retiring and serious turn of mind, answering pleasantly when spoken to, but keeping out of sight as much as possible, especially when the Professor and Beard were at home. She ate alone after every one else was through, and when she went out in the evening, invariably took a direction that would prevent her coming in contact with any

one.

"She is an excellent worker, and seems of a good character," Mary told her husband, "and her coming was most opportune, just as Sarah had to go away."

Giving entire satisfaction, Martha Clay pursued her way. Alone in her room every night, with the door securely fastened, the calico dress was unhooked, and from it emerged a surprisingly slender figure. A white wrapper, taken from