woman was sitting, I laid my hand upon her arm, looked her in the face,
and said:

"Hush!"

She understood me, and not another sound did she utter. Poor woman! She
was not perhaps as heartless as they thought she was. There was at least
a little remorse in those forced exclamations, when she thought of the
dead man in the coffin; but her eyes were dry, and she stopped very
short.

Another incident recurs to me that points in a different direction. One
day the most noted gambler in San Francisco called on me with the
request that I should attend the funeral of one of his friends, who had
died the night before. A splendid-looking fellow was this knight of the
faro-table. More than six feet in height, with deep chest and perfectly
rounded limbs, jet black hair, brilliant black eyes, clear olive
complexion, and easy manners, he might have been taken for an Italian
nobleman or a Spanish Don. He had a tinge of Cherokee blood in his
veins. I have noticed that this cross of the white and Cherokee blood
often results in producing this magnificent physical development. I have
known a number of women of this lineage, who were very queens in their
beauty and carriage. But this noted gambler was illiterate. The only
book of which he knew or cared much was one that had fifty-two pages,
with twelve pictures. If he had been educated, he might have handled the
reins of government, instead of presiding over a nocturnal banking
institution.

"Parson, can you come to number--, on Kearney street, tomorrow at ten
o'clock, and give us a few words and a prayer over a friend of mine, who