the morning of the funeral, he noticed among the flowers laid upon his
bier by loving hands a wreath of white violets. Touched and disturbed
by a memory long since forgotten, he was further embarrassed, as the
cortege dispersed in the Mission graveyard, by the apparition of the
tall figure of Mr. James Bowers from behind a monumental column. The
editor turned to him quickly.

"I am glad to see you here," he said, awkwardly, and he knew not
why; then, after a pause, "I trust you can give me some news of Mrs.
Delatour. I wrote to her nearly two years ago, but had no response."

"Thar's bin no Mrs. Delatour for two years," said Mr. Bowers,
contemplatively stroking his beard; "and mebbe that's why. She's bin for
two years Mrs. Bowers."

"I congratulate you," said the editor; "but I hope there still remains
a White Violet, and that, for the sake of literature, she has not given
up"--

"Mrs. Bowers," interrupted Mr. Bowers, with singular deliberation,
"found that makin' po'try and tendin' to the cares of a growin'-up
famerly was irritatin' to the narves. They didn't jibe, so to speak.
What Mrs. Bowers wanted--and what, po'try or no po'try, I've bin tryin'
to give her--was Rest! She's bin havin' it comfor'bly up at my ranch
at Mendocino, with her children and me. Yes, sir"--his eye wandered
accidentally to the new-made grave--"you'll excuse my sayin' it to a man
in your profession, but it's what most folks will find is a heap better
than readin' or writin' or actin' po'try--and that's Rest!"