THE ROSE OF TUOLUMNE


CHAPTER I


It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. The lights were out in
Robinson's Hall, where there had been dancing and revelry; and the moon,
riding high, painted the black windows with silver. The cavalcade, that
an hour ago had shocked the sedate pines with song and laughter, were
all dispersed. One enamoured swain had ridden east, another west,
another north, another south; and the object of their adoration, left
within her bower at Chemisal Ridge, was calmly going to bed.

I regret that I am not able to indicate the exact stage of that process.
Two chairs were already filled with delicate inwrappings and white
confusion; and the young lady herself, half-hidden in the silky threads
of her yellow hair, had at one time borne a faint resemblance to a
partly-husked ear of Indian corn. But she was now clothed in that
one long, formless garment that makes all women equal; and the round
shoulders and neat waist, that an hour ago had been so fatal to the
peace of mind of Four Forks, had utterly disappeared. The face above
it was very pretty: the foot below, albeit shapely, was not small. "The
flowers, as a general thing, don't raise their heads MUCH to look after
me," she had said with superb frankness to one of her lovers.

The expression of the "Rose" to-night was contentedly placid. She walked
slowly to the window, and, making the smallest possible peephole through
the curtain, looked out. The motionless figure of a horseman still
lingered on the road, with an excess of devotion that only a coquette,