The rags, unfolded, developed themselves into a resemblance to clothes, and a man rose, blinking in the light, with bloodshot eyes, and waited until Liz shouldered the pick, shovel, and pan; then lazily joined her. She whispered to Dick:

"Go. Dad can't 'bide you. He gets in such tempers sometimes he might hurt you."

"There's a bit of meat for you."

"That's well. Your pore dad's sick, Liz; you wouldn't take it from him, would you?” "No," she replied, pushing the morsel toward him.

"I'm going down town; mind you keep close to the shanty. Got any dust 'bout you?" She took the little she had found from her

"Got anything to-day, Lazybones?" he growlingly asked.

"Not much, Dad," Liz answered, gently; for her voice always changed when she spoke to him, because she thought he was infirm, and she willfully closed her eyes on his imperfections. They walked together up the lonely path | to their board shanty, which stood across the ravine opposite the town, in a grove of madroño trees; and no miner ever possessed such a rickety, desolate old cabin as "Drunken Harry," and, like its owner, it looked as if it was intoxicated and on its last legs. The planks were nailed on the frame unevenly, at a tipsy looking angle; the nails were half out, as if bound for a spree, and the shingle roof was patched in uneven heaps with cloth, boughs of trees, odd bits of lumber, and pieces of tin, until it appeared as if it were suffering from a mild form of delirium tremens. Handsome Liz looked as much out of her sphere in this hovel as a queen in a stable-yard, or a yellow primrose growing out of the barren rock-cliffs by the sea.

"Dad," she said, leading him in, "don't take any more of your medicine to-night—it makes you so cross."

"Shut up, girl; 'tend to your pertatoes. This is the stuff puts life into a fellow. When I feels sick or down sperited I jest takes a sip from this bottle," patting it affectionately; "then I feels straight, and says to myself, 'Harry, you're a gentleman."

Liz went into the house while he continued talking to himself in a maudlin way. She suspected the quality of the medicine, but would not say anything, because he was her father, and was the only person in the world near to her, the only one who had ever spoken kindly to her during the lonesome eighteen years she had lived in the world. The women in the town were unkind to her, and avoided her as they would a crotalus on the mountain rocks, so she lived a strange life, alone with nature and a drunken father. She had learned the lesson of silence, and however hard she worked, how heavy soever her burdens, she never complained.

"Dad, supper is ready," she called.

her hand on his arm.

"Do you think, Dad," she said, looking up into his face, "that you need more medicine," slightly emphasizing the word. "This is all I have for bread, and we have no more in the house."

He pushed her roughly from him, and whined:

"You'd let your pore old dad die, and you'd never keer."

She handed him the pieces silently, and went out of the room, while he slunk down the trail quickly, toward the town, for his throat was dry and parched, burning for liquor to moisten and relieve it.

Tears gathered in her eyes as she watched his shambling figure disappear down the slope, but she brushed them away impatiently, and returned to the house to straighten up a bit, which did not take her long, for Liz had not been taught that great principle "which is akin to godliness."

She went out and sat down on a stump of a pine tree which stood near the door. The air was sweet and balmy, redolent with pine fragrance and odor of plumy buckeye blossoms. The feverish heat was gone. Nature's pulse beat faster, and a pleasing cool reigned over | valley and mountain. Venus peeped over the tops of the pines, and peered down upon the girl sitting all alone in the forest. The new moon, bent like Diana's bow, shone in the skies, while all around clustered myriads of bright stars, like golden-winged bees round a wondrous tropical bloom. The lights twinkled down in the town like glow-worms' lanterns, and the breeze wafted up to the hights faint echoes of laughter and merry life. Liz gazed at the stars, and wondered "if beings who lived up there ever were poor and lonely as she was." Hugo had told her "they were other worlds," and she conjured up many fantastic fancies in her mind in regard to their inhabitants. "They were so bright, people must be happy there," she sighed. "There is so much misery here, I know the world can not shine like that."

Poor child, she had not learned that the deepest sorrow is oft concealed 'neath the most

She looked down at the town, and rebellious thoughts stirred in her breast as she thought of Dick Beech and his pretty speeches. Put- | ting a shawl over her head, she concluded that she would go down and see the wedding, where she could see him also. She walked down the hill, crossed the narrow flume that spanned the ravine, and went to the house where the merrymaking was. It was a regular miner's wedding, The fiddler was sitting on a chair, placed on an old dry-goods box, busily spinning off reels, Tom Tuckers, various medleys, and calling out, "Alaman right, alaman left." Some miners, who had slept in the day-time, were dancing in their very best style, cutting innumerable pigeon-wings, as they swung their partners. The windows were open, and Liz crowded close to the wall, watching Dick Beech eagerly, as he danced gracefully with the rural belles. Her eyes burned with jealousy as she watched him look at Nancy Brown with the same tenderness he had bestowed on her in the afternoon, and she felt as if she could gladly plunge a knife into Nancy's heart. "Indian blood flowed in Liz's veins," they said, and surely she possessed a haughty, deep, passionate nature that might well have descended to her from an Indian princess. She watched them as they played games and drank wine. The noise grew louder, the men more hilarious, and when the fiddler called out, "Salute your partners," they availed themselves of a liberal interpretation, and imprinted a rousing kiss on each buxom maid's lips. She did not know how long she watched, but the company showed signs of dispersing; so she stole away home. When she reached the bottom of the hill she noticed a light burning in the cabin, and her heart almost stood still, for she knew her father's moods were not pleasant after he had been indulging too freely in "medicine." As she came near she saw him walking back and forth, looking very savage, but Liz did not know what terror was; so she went boldly in.

"Where hev you bin this time o' night?" he growled, showing his teeth like a wild animal. "A pretty time fur an honest gal to be prowlin' round the country."

He came near to her, raising his arm as if he would strike her, but she looked him steadily and defiantly in the eyes. "It's no matter; I am used to looking out for myself."

"A fine care you'd take. They are talkin' 'bout you an' that curly-headed, smooth-tongued chap down town; and I tell you, Liz Byrnes, ef I ketch him round here, I'll crack his head quicker than you ken say 'Jack Robinson.'"

She did not answer, only bit her lips to keep down the angry words.

|

"You defy me, do you. I'll show you." Then, in a sudden fit of rage, he picked up a gnarled manzanita stick and struck her. Its aim was sure. It hit her on the shoulder, and the blood oozed through her thin calico gown. He looked at her as if half afraid. She started to speak. Her face turned deadly pale, while the red blood, slowly dropping, stained her dress. A look of hatred flashed in her eyes; then she turned away silently, wiped off the blood, while he went into the next room, as if afraid to meet her gaze. It was the first time he had struck her. He had cursed her, but the sound was familiar to her ears. And that one cut entered into her soul, and she felt she could never forgive him.

The next morning she went to her work as usual, but he sneaked off down town before she was up. The July sun had gathered a renewed force, but she worked sullenly on, only stopping once in a while to pour some water on her throbbing head. The heat was so intense a steam arose from her damp hair. She worked savagely, trying to stifle the bitter feelings in her heart, which hurt far more than the burning pain in her shoulder.

"Harry's Liz has struck a good streak today," the miners said, as she found an unusual quantity of dust, but she never heeded nor answered them.

Dick Beech sauntered down about the usual time in the afternoon.

"Don't be so hard on a fellow. It's so confoundedly hot, I wanted sight of you to refresh me."

She lifted her eyes for the first time, and looked at him with a peculiar searching expression, and answered:

"I should think you could find refreshment nearer home. Nancy Brown is good enough for some folks to look at."

"O jealousy, thy name is woman!" he laughed. "Why, Liz, your little finger is worth her whole body. But you know," he continued, stroking his mustache, "a fellow has got to have some fun. He can't sit in a corner. Some day, when I get rich, it will be different. What makes you look so fierce. I believe you would be equal to the Moor of Venice, if I loved any one else, and smother me like he did poor Desdemona."

"I could smother you, or kill you, Dick Beech, if you were false to me. I suppose I'm not good enough for the likes of you, but none

of them will love you any better, Dick," and her expression grew tenderer as she said the words.

"I wish you didn't have such an awful temper."

When she awoke it was dark, and the moon was shining in her face. She looked out of the door, down the long aisles of pines, but he was not there. The night was misty, so she thought she would walk down to the flume,

there. She sat there for hours, it seemed, until at last she saw his familiar form approaching. He was staggering more than usual. His gait was very unsteady. Liz rose, and called to him:

"Don't cross. Go up to the bridge."

"No," she answered, looking away from him. "I only fell down on a stone and cut myself." She despised a falsehood, but was too loyal to expose her old father, even to the man she loved.

"Liz, if it were not for your father, we would be married."

"Yes?" she said, drearily.

"But I could never stand him."

"The knights Hugo read of stood everything for the lady they loved. They killed giants, overcame dragons. They were strong to stand everything, and, Dick, they would have waited patiently, with brave hearts. Poor old Dad would not trouble you. I am proud of him. You don't know him as I do."

"In this nineteenth century, Liz, knights are not as plenty as blackberries. The Round Table is a romance, after all. Their wonderful Sir Launcelot and Galahad were not so fine, for they were human."

"But," she said, earnestly, the color creeping into her cheeks like the rosy alpen glow over summits of the mountains in the eventide, "people don't need to fight battles with their hands, old Hugo says. The beasts are in the heart we must conquer. Sometimes I feel as if a lion were caged in mine, and it's hard work to keep him quiet."

Then, as if half confused at her confession, she worked on.

"Life is long enough without so much trouble. I will see you again. I must go, for I have an engagement.”

Liz nodded "Good bye" cheerfully, and her heart felt lighter as she went home in the evening. The cabin was deserted, no signs of her father anywhere, but she lighted a fire, and tried to cook an inviting meal. She waited for an hour; still he did not come, and, being tired from her work, she laid down on her cot, and fell fast asleep.

VOL. II. 22.

But he answered her with an oath, and stepped on to the narrow inclosed flume, which was just the width of a plank. Liz started to go to

ing her to "Go back."

Through fear for his safety, she obeyed. Her heart beat fast as she watched, with strained eyes, through the darkness, and saw his form swaying from one side to the other. The moon had gone down, and it was quite dark. She saw him stumble, and regain his balance. He reached the middle. She breathed more freely. He stopped, and commenced gesticulating. Throwing his arms up, he missed his balance, and fell; and Liz heard a sickening sound as he struck the rocks below. He groaned once, and all was perfect silence—a terrible quiet. She stood on the bank alone, as one petrified. She tried to move. Her limbs seemed bound with icy chains. At last she screamed, and scrambled down the steep declivity as rapidly as possible. Her cries reached the ears of a passing miner, and he hastened to the spot, and peered down into the darkness with his lantern. Liz was sitting there, helplessly holding her father's head on her lap, and beseeching him to speak. The man went to her, and felt old Harry's pulse.

"It's all up with him. Wait till I git some help. How did you find him?”

"Lying with his face in the water. But he is not dead. It was so shallow, and he has only one cut on his head. He is not dead, not dead," she cried, wildly.

The miner shook his head, and said, roughly, but kindly:

"I've seen 'em drown in an inch, when the jim-jams was on 'em, and it's as good to die by water as whisky."

Liz wrung her hands, but she could not cry, and her eyes burned like fire. The miner obtained assistance, and they bore the lifeless body to the cabin, and proffered their rude help, but she preferred to be left alone. There was no woman's hand to soothe or comfort; not one came near to whisper words of consolation to relieve her aching heart. She hoped Dick

would come to her, but she was left entirely alone with her dead, and when the men came to bury him, they said:

"She was so white, it was hard to tell which was the corpse."

She grieved for him passionately, mourned because she could not tell him she forgave. Her pan lay idle in the corner; money was so little to her that she had no incentive to work; still, unless she roused herself she must starve. So she started out one afternoon more with the secret hope of seeing Dick than with any other object. She looked white and worn, a mere shadow of herself, walking in the sunlight, like some poor, lost soul, out of place in the world. She sat down on the bank, but a familiar whistle startled her, which brought the color into her cheeks.

"Hallo, Liz," he exclaimed; "so you have crawled out of your shell at last." His face had an uneasy expression. "I thought I wouldn't disturb you," he said, half apologetically. "I could not do any good, and I hate funerals, and such reminders. Now, Liz, what are you going to do?"

She looked at him earnestly, but he turned away, on pretense of plucking a cluster of manzanita berries that hung above his head.

"I-well-" he said, stammering; "the fact is, I'm too poor, Liz. We must wait for a while still."

A disappointed expression stole across her face for a moment; then she replied simply: "I can wait, Dick."

O woman! thy faith is infinite, thy heart long enduring, long suffering; when love enters it is blind, and sees not fault or defect in the loved one-only content to be happy, even in waiting. Liz took up her work, and said to herself:

"I shall work for Dick; now I will have another object."

August, with its heat, passed by, and the few orchards were laden with ripe, red-cheeked peaches and goldén pears, a fortune to their possessors in the early days of California, when peaches and pears sold for a dollar apiece. Gold was more plentiful than fruit. September breezes were cooler, and the young quail filled the cañons with the whir of their wings, and the dog-wood fruit clustered ripe and red as berries of coral, and the dry grass waved long and yellow in the sunlight.

One morning Liz went down town to obtain some supplies, for Dick had sent her some money as a present by a boy that day. She saw knots of men gathered in the street, discussing something very excitedly. She went into a store and asked:

"What is the matter?"

"They jest took Dick Beech up to the calaboose for stealin' Long Tom's pile last night, who lives above you, and they are going to try him right off. Better go down to the courthouse. He is a triflin' sort of chap anyhow."

Liz put down her purchase, took up the money, and walked out. She saw a miner she knew.

"Is this true I have heard?" she asked.

"Bet yer, it is. There's bin lots of thievin' done here lately. I hope they'll string him up."

She turned away and followed the stream of men, women, and children who were running toward the large, wooden court-house. Α crowd was already gathered there, the Judge seated on a platform, the prisoner on one side, the two attorneys on the other-miners who possessed a smattering of law, law suited to their prejudices, who were acting for the prosecution and defense. The Court preserved a semblance of order. The jury was impaneled, the men constituting it of course were miners, and their threatening looks toward the prisoner at the bar did not tend to reassure him. Liz stood in the back of the room, white as marble, listening breathlessly. Dick sat with his head bowed, trembling like a man with the ague. The prosecuting witness was called. Long Tom shuffled up, attired in his Sunday best, a suit of butternut, which his hair and eyes matched exactly, proclaiming his descent, unmistakably, "from Pike County, Missoury." He appeared as uneasy as a young barrister wrestling with his maiden speech.

"Waal," he began, "I jest handed over the dishes and truck, fur Topsy, my dawg, to lick, when I thought uf somethin' I wanted down town, so I left my pile in an ole sack under the bed, some lumps and pieces of silver, 'bout a handful, I reckon. I was gone jest 'bout an hour. When I come in the bag was in the middle of the floor. I tuk it up and shook it. It was empty as Job's turkey, and I'd seen Dick Beech skulkin' 'round thar a while before, and no one else was near. I'd know that silver this side uf Halifax, cause I cut an X, my mark, on the four-bit piece."

Liz started, and looked at the money in her hand. There was the mark, ill cut and jagged, but plain as day. She closed her fingers tightly over the pieces, and a faintness came over her. She staggered, caught hold of a bench near, for now she knew Dick Beech was a guilty man, a criminal, and-she loved him.

Long Tom descended from the stand with a well satisfied air. The attorney for the defense spoke a few moments, evidently as a mat

ter of form, for his arguments were weak and lame, showing his spirit was not in his work. The jury returned, and rendered their verdict of guilty. The Judge said:

"Prisoner at the bar, the court has found, when a man is guilty of the crime of theft, he should be hanged by the neck until he is dead."

Being prompted by a man standing near, he hurriedly added, "May God have mercy on your soul." This was a first case, and the honorable Judge was not quite posted.

"Do you know any reason why the law should not take its course?"

A hush fell upon the crowded room, and they looked intently at the prisoner, who never lifted his head. The flies buzzing in the sunshine on the window-pane were the only sounds that broke the intense silence. The expression on the faces of the people was as eager as that of the spectators in old gladiatorial conflicts, for the animal was rising in their natures, and they thirsted for blood. The Judge repeated his question. Dick lifted his head, looking haggard and appealingly toward the crowd, as if seeking sympathy, but there was none for the guilty in all those upturned faces. Before he could reply, Liz pushed her way through the crowd, and stood before the Judge, who regarded her sternly. Two bright spots burned on her cheeks. She looked straight at Dick when she spoke, and the people listened breathlessly.

"If it please your honor, I am guilty," she said, proudly, looking steadfastly at Dick. A gleam of joy and relief passed over his countenance. The color died from her face; a weary look came into her eyes.

"Does the man recognize this?" she said, holding out a few dollars in her hand.

Tom came forth. "Yes," he said, joyfully; "that's my mark. I could swear to it."

Dick covered his face with his hand, and would not look at her, but her eyes never left him, looking at him as if she could read right through his cowardly soul.

"I am willing to die, Judge; only let it be soon. You shall have the rest. Only let me speak once to this innocent gentleman."

Groans of derision burst from the crowd. A boy threw a stone, which struck her, but she stood there as if she had been a carved statue, and did not utter a word.

"Bad blood," "Bad stock coming out," she heard them say, and there was not one voice in all the town lifted in pity or sympathy for her. "What you've got to say, say quickly," commanded the Judge.

quickly away, rubbing it as if his touch contaminated it.

"You will find everything in my cabin tonight," she said, quietly, to the Judge. "I have nothing more to say. I am guilty."

Dick Beech walked out of the room a free man. He was pitied and praised, while she was reviled by every tongue, and he did not even say a word in defense of her. As the officer was escorting her to jail, they passed by a door of a saloon where he was in the act of drinking. The glass was raised to his lips. She merely glanced at him, but there was a world of love, misery, disappointment, and reproach in that single look. He let the glass fall. It shivered in a thousand atoms, the brandy stained the floor, and he went home to his room. Far sweeter and calmer was her rest, on the straw in a prison- cell that night, than his.

They mitigated the sentence, because she was a woman, but many long years Liz Byrnes expiated Dick's crime in the Nevada jail. He left the town. They said he prospered well in "Frisco," while she worked hard, endured patiently, for his sake. Surely, no human love could be greater than this, for she bore disgrace, was willing to suffer death, while he lived honored in the world. She was so young, it was pitiful. After her term was served, she went back again to the old cabin on the hill, an outcast, an object of scorn, to all the people; a martyr, a saint, in the eyes of the angels above.

She waited for him, hoping that he would come back to her some day, and she would forgive.

It was winter time, and the rain descended from the heavens in solid sheets. The winds swept around the mountain peaks like mighty monsters, seeking to wrest them from their foundations. The pines mingled their voices, and chanted a solemn requiem, while a torrent roared down the ravine in mad frenzy, dashing over rocks and leaping over bowlders.

Liz sat, with hands folded, watching the storm; but she was not afraid, though the wind threatened to blow down the crazy old shanty at every gust. Through the storm some one was beating his way to her door, and, as a fiercer blast blew it open, it drove a man, with dripping clothing, into the light.

"Tom," she asked, gently, "what do you want here?"

"Liz," he said, hesitatingly, "won't you shake hands with me? I knows all. Dick Beech is dyin' down at the tavern. He's told us," he said, wiping a suspicious moisture from his “You're an angel, Liz, which wimmen