remembrance of his standing up to receive the benediction, with the
suggestion, in his manner and tightly-buttoned coat, of taking the fire
of his adversary at ten paces. After church, he disappeared as quietly
as he had entered, and fortunately escaped hearing the comments on his
rash act. His appearance was generally considered as an impertinence,
attributable only to some wanton fancy, or possibly a bet. One or two
thought that the sexton was exceedingly remiss in not turning him out
after discovering who he was; and a prominent pew-holder remarked,
that if he couldn't take his wife and daughters to that church, without
exposing them to such an influence, he would try to find some church
where he could. Another traced Mr. Oakhurst's presence to certain Broad
Church radical tendencies, which he regretted to say he had lately noted
in their pastor. Deacon Sawyer, whose delicately-organized, sickly wife
had already borne him eleven children, and died in an ambitious attempt
to complete the dozen, avowed that the presence of a person of Mr.
Oakhurst's various and indiscriminate gallantries was an insult to the
memory of the deceased, that, as a man, he could not brook.

It was about this time that Mr. Oakhurst, contrasting himself with a
conventional world in which he had hitherto rarely mingled, became aware
that there was something in his face, figure, and carriage quite unlike
other men,--something, that, if it did not betray his former career, at
least showed an individuality and originality that was suspicious. In
this belief, he shaved off his long, silken mustache, and religiously
brushed out his clustering curls every morning. He even went so far as
to affect a negligence of dress, and hid his small, slim, arched feet
in the largest and heaviest walking-shoes. There is a story told that
he went to his tailor in Sacramento, and asked him to make him a suit
of clothes like everybody else. The tailor, familiar with Mr. Oakhurst's
fastidiousness, did not know what he meant. "I mean," said Mr. Oakhurst