Mr. Bowers here put his hat on his head, and, after a pause, turned
round slowly once or twice, as if he had forgotten it, and was still
seeking it. Finally he succeeded in finding the editor's hand, and shook
it, albeit his own trembled slightly. Then he said:--

"I reckon you're right. There's bin a mistake. I see it now. Good-by.
If you're ever up my way, drop in and see me." He then walked to the
doorway, passed out, and seemed to melt into the afternoon shadows of
the hall.

He never again entered the office of the "Excelsior Magazine," neither
was any further contribution ever received from White Violet. To a
polite entreaty from the editor, addressed first to "White Violet"
and then to Mrs. Delatour, there was no response. The thought of Mr.
Hamlin's cynical prophecy disturbed him, but that gentleman, preoccupied
in filling some professional engagements in Sacramento, gave him no
chance to acquire further explanations as to the past or the future. The
youthful editor was at first in despair and filled with a vague remorse
of some unfulfilled duty. But, to his surprise, the readers of the
magazine seemed to survive their talented contributor, and the feverish
life that had been thrilled by her song, in two months had apparently
forgotten her. Nor was her voice lifted from any alien quarter; the
domestic and foreign press that had echoed her lays seemed to respond no
longer to her utterance.

It is possible that some readers of these pages may remember a previous
chronicle by the same historian wherein it was recorded that the
volatile spirit of Mr. Hamlin, slightly assisted by circumstances,
passed beyond these voices at the Ranch of the Blessed Fisherman, some
two years later. As the editor stood beside the body of his friend on