daughter has expressed a desire to remain here a few days; she has slept
well, seems to be invigorated by the air, and although we expected to
go on to the 'Summit,' Mrs. Mayfield and myself are willing to accede
to her wishes. Your house seems to be new and clean. Your table--judging
from the breakfast this morning--is quite satisfactory."

Jeff, in the first flush of delight at this news, forgot what that
breakfast had cost him--forgot all his morning's experience, and, I
fear, when he did remember it, was too full of a vague, hopeful courage
to appreciate it. Conscious of showing too much pleasure, he affected
the necessity of an immediate interview with his aunt, in the kitchen.
But his short cut round the house was arrested by a voice and figure. It
was Miss Mayfield, wrapped in a shawl and seated in a chair, basking in
the sunlight at one of the bleakest and barest angles of the house. Jeff
stopped in a delicious tremor.

As we are dealing with facts, however, it would be well to look at the
cause of this tremor with our own eyes and not Jeff's. To be plain, my
dear madam, as she basked in that remorseless, matter-of-fact California
sunshine, she looked her full age-twenty-five, if a day! There were
wrinkles in the corners of her dark eyes, contracted and frowning
in that strong, merciless light; there was a nervous pallor in her
complexion; but being one of those "fast colored" brunettes, whose dyes
are a part of their temperament, no sickness nor wear could bleach it
out. The red of her small mouth was darker than yours, I wot, and there
were certain faint lines from the corners of her delicate nostrils
indicating alternate repression and excitement under certain
experiences, which are not found in the classic ideals. Now Jeff knew
nothing of the classic ideal--did not know that a thousand years ago
certain sensual idiots had, with brush and chisel, inflicted upon the