miles away, Morning along the level crest of Table Mountain walked with
rosy tread.

The sleepy bar-keeper was that morning doomed to disappointment; for
scarcely had the coach passed, when steps were heard upon the veranda,
and a weary, dusty traveller threw his blanket and knapsack to the
porter, and then dropped into a vacant arm-chair, with his eyes fixed
on the distant crest of Table Mountain. He remained motionless for some
time, until the bar-keeper, who had already concocted the conventional
welcome of the Mansion House, appeared with it in a glass, put it upon
the table, glanced at the stranger, and then, thoroughly awake, cried
out,--

"Ruth Pinkney--or I'm a Chinaman!"

The stranger lifted his eyes wearily. Hollow circles were around their
orbits; haggard lines were in his checks. But it was Ruth.

He took the glass, and drained it at a single draught. "Yes," he said
absently, "Ruth Pinkney," and fixed his eyes again on the distant rosy
crest.

"On your way up home?" suggested the bar-keeper, following the direction
of Ruth's eyes.

"Perhaps."

"Been upon a pasear, hain't yer? Been havin' a little tear round
Sacramento,--seein' the sights?"