Rand, as I rub them out here in my--[A few words here were blurred and
indistinct, as if the moon had suddenly become dim-eyed too]. God bless
you, brother!

P.S.--You know I mean Mornie all the time. It's she I'm going to seek;
but don't you think so bad of her as you do, I am so much worse than
she. I wanted to tell you that all along, but I didn't dare. She's run
away from the Ferry half crazy; said she was going to Sacramento, and
I am going there to find her alive or dead. Forgive me, brother! Don't
throw this down right away; hold it in your hand a moment, Randy, boy,
and try hard to think it's my hand in yours. And so good-by, and God
bless you, old Randy!

From your loving brother,

RUTH.


A deep sense of relief overpowered every other feeling in Rand's breast.
It was clear that Ruth had not yet discovered the truth of Mornie's
flight: he was on his way to Sacramento, and before he could return,
Mornie could be removed. Once despatched in some other direction, with
Ruth once more returned and under his brother's guidance, the separation
could be made easy and final. There was evidently no marriage as yet;
and now, the fear of an immediate meeting over, there should be none.
For Rand had already feared this; had recalled the few infelicitous
relations, legal and illegal, which were common to the adjoining
camp,--the flagrantly miserable life of the husband of a San Francisco
anonyma who lived in style at the Ferry, the shameful carousals and more
shameful quarrels of the Frenchman and Mexican woman who "kept house"