makes no difference ?'

'It makes this difference-that I will not wait for you more than a month. I am not going to let you stay in this gloomy place, with ghosts and mad people, a day longer than I can help.'

Ah, mon Dieu! It was my aunt; you have seen her! When was it? What did she say to you ?

She was very much agitated. Frank soothed her as well as he could, and told her by degrees the story of his visit from Madame de Maupas. Marguérite cried a little, and could hardly believe that he was uninfluenced by all the horrors he had heard. Frank had to soothe and reassure her all over again. By and by she looked up at him, her eyes smiling, the wild weary look in them gone for ever.

'I am happy now,' she said. 'I feel the sunshine; there is no more cold wind;' and she broke into a little joyful laugh. After all, this is a very good world,' she said.

V.

FRANK afterwards described his interview with Madame de Maupas in a much more unvarnished way to her nephew Albert, who

told him that all her story was true. He added that the poor lady, always peculiar, had been a little touched in her wits since the war and the death of her sons. She had become superstitious and revengeful, throwing all the blame of their deaths on the ill-luck of Marguerite. Her late husband's brother, the present Comte de Maupas, was a thorough Parisian, and had no use for such a middle-age abode as the Château de Maupas. He was glad that the Saint-Flors should make their home there, and take charge of the old lady; and having no children of his own, he meant to leave the place to Albert, with the small quantity of land that remained to it.

:

It seemed only right that Frank should know all the family history, the chain of circumstances which had led to his meeting with Marguérite. It was a rough way by which he had reached her, certainly of battlefields and dying men, accidents and terrors, the derangement of one person, the cowardice and superstition of another. Trains running into snowdrifts, a struggle with the elements, a ghostly old castle blocked in with snow. Through all these difficulties the fair sorrowful Frenchwoman and the sturdy Englishman had advanced to meet each other, and now Frank was resolved that Marguérite should forget the past dimness of her life in its present beauty and brightness.

He took a fine house at Bordeaux and furnished it splendidly for his bride. He brought her there in the spring, dressed all in lovely rose-pink, which made her complexion look like driven snow, and her eyes of a deeper and more wonderful blue than ever. Albert, when he visited them, hardly knew his sister; she looked so pretty and happy and young.

Madame Morley, née de Saint

Flor, gives the most charming parties, and is already known as the most agreeable hostess in that part of France. With Frank's help she has introduced something in imitation of an English gardenparty, which was very popular this summer. There a few of the more advanced young married ladies might be seen playing at lawntennis, a game in which Marguérite herself, much as she liked to watch her husband playing it, could never be persuaded to join. Still people said she was entirely English. What could be more English than her marriage! It was evident that she and Frank Morley adored each other; and there was even a floating rumour that they had arranged it all between themselves, before M. de Saint

Flor heard a word about it. That, however, was pronounced incredible. There is no limit to the extravagances of gossip.

The last night that Frank spent at Château Maupas, he found on his table a case of diamond ornaments, with a note addressed to himself, written in so thin and shaky a hand that he could hardly decipher it.

'I give these to you, that you may give them to your Marguérite. I will not see her; but I congratulate her on her marriage with a brave man who loves her, and will teach her how to live.

'COMTESSE DRE. DE MAUPAS.'

Frank thought there was some method in the old lady's madness, after all.

'Ir air strange, it air,' he was saying as I opened the door of the room where our social little semiliterary society met; but I could tell you queerer things than that 'ere almighty queer things. You can't learn everything out of books, sirs, nohow. You see it ain't the men as can string English together and as has had good eddications as finds themselves in the queer places I've been in. They're mostly rough men, sirs, as can scarce speak aright, far less tell with pen and ink the things they've seen; but if they could they'd make some of your European's har riz with astonishment. They would, sirs, you bet!'

His name was Jefferson Adams, I believe; I know his initials were J. A., for you may see them yet deeply whittled on the right-hand upper panel of our smoking-room door. He left us this legacy, and also some artistic patterns done in tobacco juice upon our Turkey carpet; but beyond these reminis

our American storyteller has vanished from our ken. He gleamed across our ordinary quiet conviviality like some brilliant meteor, and then was lost in the outer darkness. That night, how ever, our Nevada friend was in full swing; and I quietly lit my pipe and dropped into the nearest chair, anxious not to interrupt his story.

Mind you,' he continued, I hain't got no grudge against your men of science. I likes and respects a chap as can match every beast and plant, from a huckleberry to a grizzly with a jaw-breakin' name; but if you wants real interestin' facts, something a bit juicy, you go to your whalers and your frontiersmen, and your scouts

and Hudson Bay men, chaps who mostly can scarce sign their names.'

There was a pause here, as Mr. Jefferson Adams produced a long cheroot and lit it. We preserved a strict silence in the room, for we had already learned that on the slightest interruption our Yankee drew himself into his shell again. He glanced round with a self-satisfied smile as he remarked our expectant looks, and continued through a halo of smoke,

Now which of you gentlemen. has ever been in Arizona? None, I'll warrant. And of all English or Americans as can put pen to paper, how many has been in Arizona? Precious few, I calc'late. I've been there, sirs, lived there for years; and when I think of what I've seen there, why, I can scarce get myself to believe it now.

'Ah, there's a country! I was one of Walker's filibusters, as they chose to call us; and after we'd busted up, and the chief was shot, some on us made tracks and located down there. A reg'lar English and American colony, we was, with our wives and children, and all complete. I reckon there's some of the old folk there yet, and that they hain't forgotten what I'm agoing to tell you. No, I warrant they hain't, never on this side of the grave, sirs.

'I was talking about the country, though; and I guess I could astonish you considerable if I spoke of nothing else. To think of such a land being built for a few "Greasers" and half-breeds! It's a misusing of the gifts of Providence, that's what I calls it. Grass as hung over a chap's head as he rode through it, and trees so thick that you couldn't

catch a glimpse of blue sky for leagues and leagues, and orchids like umbrellas! Maybe some on you has seen a plant as they calls the "fly-catcher," in some parts of the States?'

'Dianoea muscipula,' murmured Dawson, our scientific man par excellence.

'Ah, "Die near a municipal," that's him! You'll see a fly stand on that 'ere plant, and then you'll see the two sides of a leaf snap up together and catch it between them, and grind it up and mash it to bits, for all the world like some great sea squid with its beak; and hours after, if you open the leaf, you'll see the body lying halfdigested, and in bits. Well, I've seen those flytraps in Arizona with leaves eight and ten feet long, and thorns or teeth a foot or more; why, they could- But darn it, I'm going too fast!

'It's about the death of Joe Hawkins I was going to tell you; 'bout as queer a thing, I reckon, as ever you heard tell on.

There

wasn't nobody in Montana as didn't know of Joe Hawkins"Alabama" Joe, as he was called there. A reg'lar out and outer, he was, 'bout the darndest skunk as ever man clapt eyes on.

He was

a good chap enough, mind ye, as long as you stroked him the right way; but rile him anyhow, and he were worse nor a wild-cat. I've seen him empty his six-shooter into a crowd as chanced to jostle him agoing into Simpson's bar when there was a dance on; and he bowied Tom Hooper 'cause he spilt his liquor over his weskit by mistake. No, he didn't stick at murder, Joe didn't; and he weren't a man to be trusted further nor you could see him.

Now at the time I tell on, when Joe Hawkins was swaggerin' about the town and layin' down the law with his shootin'-irons, there

was an Englishman there of the name of Scott-Tom Scott, if I rec'lects aright. This chap Scott was a thorough Britisher (beggin' the present company's pardon), and yet he didn't freeze much to the British set there, or they didn't freeze much to him. He was a quiet simple man, Scott was— rather too quiet for a rough set like that; sneakin' they called him, but he weren't that. He kept hisself mostly apart, an' didn't interfere with nobody so long as he were left alone. Some said as how he'd been kinder ill-treated at home-been a Chartist, or something of that sort, and had to up stick and run; but he never spoke of it hisself, an' never complained. Bad luck or good, that chap kept a stiff lip on him.

This chap Scott was a sort o' butt among the men about Montana, for he was so quiet an' simple-like. There was no party either to take up his grievances; for, as I've been saying, the Britishers hardly counted him one of them, and many a rough joke they played on him. He never cut up rough, but was polite to all hisself. I think the boys got to think he hadn't much grit in him till he showed 'em their mistake.

'It was in Simpson's bar as the row got up, an' that led to the queer thing I was going to tell you of. Alabama Joe and one or two other rowdies were dead on the Britishers in those days, and they spoke their opinions pretty free, though I warned them as there'd be an almighty muss. That partic'lar night Joe was nigh half drunk, an' he swaggered about the town with his six-shooter, lookin' out for a quarrel. Then he turned into the bar where he know'd he'd find some o' the English as ready for one as he was hisself. Sure enough, there was half a dozen lounging about, an'

Tom Scott standin' alone before the stove. Joe sat down by the table, and put his revolver and bowie down in front of him. "Them's my arguments, Jeff," he says to me, "if any white-livered Britisher dares give me the lie." I tried to stop him, sirs; but he weren't a man as you could easily turn, an' he began to speak in a way as no chap could stand. Why, even a "Greaser" would flare up if you said as much of Greaserland! There was a commotion at the bar, an' every man laid his hands on his wepin's; but afore they could draw we heard a quiet voice from the stove: "Say your prayers, Joe Hawkins; for, by Heaven, you're a dead man man!" Joe turned round, and looked like grabbin' at his iron; but it weren't no manner of use. Tom Scott was standing up, covering him with his Derringer; a smile on his white face, but the very devil shining in his eye. "It ain't that the old country has used me over-well," he says, "but no man shall speak agin it afore me, and live." For

a second or two I could see his finger tighten round the trigger, an' then he gave a laugh, an' threw the pistol on the floor. "No," he says, "I can't shoot a half-drunk man. Take your dirty life, Joe, an' use it better nor you have done. You've been nearer the grave this night than you will be agin until your time comes. You'd best make tracks now, I guess. Nay, never look black at me, man; I'm not afeard at your shootin'iron. A bully's nigh always a coward." And he swung contemptuously round, and relit his half-smoked pipe from the stove; while Alabama slunk out o' the bar, with the laughs of the Britishers ringing in his ears. I saw his face as he passed me, and on it I saw murder, sirs-murder, as plain as ever I seed anything in my life.

'I stayed in the bar after the row, and watched Tom Scott as he shook hands with the men about. It seemed kinder queer to me to see him smilin' and cheerful-like; for I knew Joe's bloodthirsty mind, and that the Englishman had small chance of ever seeing the morning. He lived in an out-of-the-way sort of place, you see, clean off the trail, and had to pass through the Flytrap Gulch to get to it. This here gulch was a marshy gloomy place, lonely enough during the day even; for it were always a creepy sort o' thing to see the great eight- and ten-foot leaves snapping up if aught touched them; but at night there were never a soul near. Some parts of the marsh, too, were soft and deep, and a body thrown in would be gone by the morning. I could see Alabama Joe crouchin' under the leaves of the great Flytrap in the darkest part of the gulch, with a scowl on his face and a revolver in his hand; I could see it, sirs, as plain as with my two eyes.

I

"'Bout midnight Simpson shuts up his bar, so out we had to go. Tom Scott started off for his threemile walk at a slashing pace. just dropped him a hint as he passed me, for I kinder liked the chap. "Keep your Derringer loose in your belt, sir," I says, "for you might chance to need it." He looked round at me with his quiet smile, and then I lost sight of him in the gloom. I never thought to see him again. He'd hardly gone afore Simpson comes up to me and says, "There'll be a nice job in the Flytrap Gulch to-night, Jeff; the boys say that Hawkins started half an hour ago to wait for Scott and shoot him on sight. I calc'late the coroner 'll be wanted to-morrow."

'What passed in the gulch that night? It were a question as were asked pretty free next morning. A half-breed was in Ferguson's