the other. The floor was covered with a yielding tapestry carpet,
and the walls were adorned with paintings from the pencils of Van
Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, Michael Angelo, and the productions of
the more modern Turner, Kensett, Church, and Bierstadt. Although
Judge Tompkins had chosen the frontiers of civilization as his
home, it was impossible for him to entirely forego the habits and
tastes of his former life. He was seated in a luxurious arm-chair,
writing at a mahogany ecritoire, while his daughter, a lovely young
girl of seventeen summers, plied her crochet-needle on an ottoman
beside him. A bright fire of pine logs flickered and flamed on the
ample hearth.

Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins's only child. Her
mother had long since died on the Plains. Reared in affluence, no
pains had been spared with the daughter's education. She was a
graduate of one of the principal seminaries, and spoke French with
a perfect Benicia accent. Peerlessly beautiful, she was dressed in
a white moire antique robe trimmed with tulle. That simple rosebud
with which most heroines exclusively decorate their hair, was all
she wore in her raven locks.

The Judge was the first to break the silence.

"Genevra, the logs which compose yonder fire seem to have been
incautiously chosen. The sibilation produced by the sap, which
exudes copiously therefrom, is not conducive to composition."

"True, father, but I thought it would be preferable to the constant
crepitation which is apt to attend the combustion of more seasoned
ligneous fragments."