him; nor yet as a douceur to the inthralling Miss Montmorrissy, with
whom Mr. Oakhurst expected to sup that evening; but simply for himself,
and, mayhap, for the flowers' sake. Howbeit he passed on, and so out
into the open Plaza, where, finding a bench under a cottonwood-tree, he
first dusted the seat with his handkerchief, and then sat down.

It was a fine morning. The air was so still and calm, that a sigh from
the sycamores seemed like the deep-drawn breath of the just awakening
tree, and the faint rustle of its boughs as the outstretching of cramped
and reviving limbs. Far away the Sierras stood out against a sky so
remote as to be of no positive color,--so remote, that even the sun
despaired of ever reaching it, and so expended its strength recklessly
on the whole landscape, until it fairly glittered in a white and vivid
contrast. With a very rare impulse, Mr. Oakhurst took off his hat, and
half reclined on the bench, with his face to the sky. Certain birds who
had taken a critical attitude on a spray above him, apparently began an
animated discussion regarding his possible malevolent intentions. One or
two, emboldened by the silence, hopped on the ground at his feet, until
the sound of wheels on the gravel-walk frightened them away.

Looking up, he saw a man coming slowly toward him, wheeling a
nondescript vehicle, in which a woman was partly sitting, partly
reclining. Without knowing why, Mr. Oakhurst instantly conceived that
the carriage was the invention and workmanship of the man, partly from
its oddity, partly from the strong, mechanical hand that grasped it, and
partly from a certain pride and visible consciousness in the manner
in which the man handled it. Then Mr. Oakhurst saw something more: the
man's face was familiar. With that regal faculty of not forgetting
a face that had ever given him professional audience, he instantly
classified it under the following mental formula: "At 'Frisco, Polka