was trying to revenge herself. Mud was brought into the saloons
and barrooms and express offices, on boots, on clothes, on baggage,
and sometimes appeared mysteriously in splashes of red color on the
walls, without visible conveyance. The dust of six months, closely
packed in cornice and carving, yielded under the steady rain a thin
yellow paint, that dropped on wayfarers or unexpectedly oozed out
of ceilings and walls on the wretched inhabitants within. The
outskirts of Rough-and-Ready and the dried hills round Los Gatos
did not appear to fare much better; the new vegetation had not yet
made much headway against the dead grasses of the summer; the pines
in the hollow wept lugubriously into a small rivulet that had
sprung suddenly into life near the old trail; everywhere was the
sound of dropping, splashing, gurgling, or rushing waters.

More hideous than ever, the new Mulrady house lifted itself against
the leaden sky, and stared with all its large-framed, shutterless
windows blankly on the prospect, until they seemed to the wayfarer
to become mere mirrors set in the walls, reflecting only the watery
landscape, and unable to give the least indication of light or heat
within. Nevertheless, there was a fire in Mulrady's private office
that December afternoon, of a smoky, intermittent variety, that
sufficed more to record the defects of hasty architecture than to
comfort the millionaire and his private secretary, who had lingered
after the early withdrawal of the clerks. For the next day was
Christmas, and, out of deference to the near approach of this
festivity, a half-holiday had been given to the employees.
"They'll want, some of them, to spend their money before to-morrow;
and others would like to be able to rise up comfortably drunk
Christmas morning," the superintendent had suggested. Mr. Mulrady
had just signed a number of checks indicating his largess to those