and even--if such a term could be applied to any moral quality in Mr.
Oakhurst--to fear him.

For during this time Mr. Oakhurst had begun to show symptoms of a change
in his usual habits. He was seldom, if ever, seen in his old haunts,
in a bar-room, or with his old associates. Pink and white notes, in
distracted handwriting, accumulated on the dressing-table in his rooms
at Sacramento. It was given out in San Francisco that he had some
organic disease of the heart, for which his physician had prescribed
perfect rest. He read more; he took long walks; he sold his fast horses;
he went to church.

I have a very vivid recollection of his first appearance there. He did
not accompany the Deckers, nor did he go into their pew, but came in as
the service commenced, and took a seat quietly in one of the back-pews.
By some mysterious instinct, his presence became presently known to the
congregation, some of whom so far forgot themselves, in their curiosity,
as to face around, and apparently address their responses to him. Before
the service was over, it was pretty well understood that "miserable
sinners" meant Mr. Oakhurst. Nor did this mysterious influence fail
to affect the officiating clergyman, who introduced an allusion to
Mr. Oakhurst's calling and habits in a sermon on the architecture of
Solomon's temple, and in a manner so pointed, and yet labored, as to
cause the youngest of us to flame with indignation. Happily, however,
it was lost upon Jack: I do not think he even heard it. His handsome,
colorless face, albeit a trifle worn and thoughtful, was inscrutable.
Only once, during the singing of a hymn, at a certain note in the
contralto's voice, there crept into his dark eyes a look of wistful
tenderness, so yearning and yet so hopeless, that those who were
watching him felt their own glisten. Yet I retain a very vivid