CIRCLE.





The rain drips drearily around Judge Hardin's spacious residence
in San Francisco. January, 1861, finds the sheltering trees higher.
The embowered shade hides to-night an unusual illumination. Winter
breezes sigh through the trees. Showers of spray fall from acacia
and vine. As the wet fog drives past, the ship-lights on the bay
are almost hidden. When darkness brings out sweeping lines of the
street-lamps, many carriages roll up to the open doors.

A circle of twenty or thirty intimates gathers in the great
dining-room. At the head of the table, Hardin welcomes the chosen
representatives of the great Southern conspiracy in the West. His
residence, rarely thrown open to the public, has grown with the
rise of his fortunes. Philip Hardin must be first in every attribute
of a leading judge and publicist. Lights burn late here since the
great election of 1860. Men who are at the helm of finance, politics,
and Federal power are visitors. Editors and trusted Southrons drop
in, by twos and threes, secretly. There is unwonted social activity.

The idle gossips are silent. These visitors are all men, unaccompanied by
their families. Woman's foot never crosses this threshold. In the
wings of the mansion, a lovely face is sometimes seen at a window.
It is a reminder of the stories of that concealed beauty who has
reigned years in the mansion on the hill.