and Deacon Turner knows suthin about Mrs. Rivers's sister, who
kicked over the pail and jumped the fence years ago, and she's afeard a'
him. But what I wanted to tell ye was that they're all comin' up here to
take a look at ye--some on 'em to-night. You ain't afeard, are ye?" she
added, with a loud laugh.

"Well, it looks rather desperate, doesn't it?" returned Jack, with
dancing eyes.

"I'll trust ye for all that," said Melinda. "And now I reckon I'll trot
along to the rancho. Ye needn't offer ter see me home," she added,
as Jack made a movement to accompany her. "Everybody up here ain't as
fair-minded ez Silas and you, and Melinda Bird hez a character to
lose! So long!" With this she cantered away, a little heavily, perhaps,
adjusting her yellow hat with both hands as she clattered down the steep
hill.

That afternoon Mr. Hamlin drew largely on his convalescence to mount a
half-broken mustang, and in spite of the rising afternoon wind to gallop
along the highroad in quite as mischievous and breezy a fashion. He was
wont to allow his mustang's nose to hang over the hind rails of wagons
and buggies containing young couples, and to dash ahead of sober
carryalls that held elderly "members in good standing."

An accomplished rider, he picked up and brought back the flying parasol
of Mrs. Deacon Stubbs without dismounting. He finally came home a little
blown, but dangerously composed.

There was the usual Sunday evening gathering at Windy Hill
Rancho--neighbors and their wives, deacons and the pastor--but their
curiosity was not satisfied by the sight of Mr. Hamlin, who kept his own
room and his own counsel. There was some desultory conversation, chiefly
on church topics, for it was vaguely felt that a discussion of the
advisability or getting rid of the guest of their host was somewhat
difficult under this host's roof, with the guest impending at any
moment. Then a diversion was created by some of the church choir
practicing the harmonium with the singing of certain more or less
lugubrious anthems. Mrs. Rivers presently joined in, and in a somewhat
faded soprano, which, however, still retained considerable musical taste
and expression, sang, "Come, ye disconsolate." The wind moaned over the
deep-throated chimney in a weird harmony with the melancholy of that
human appeal as Mrs. Rivers sang the first verse:--

"Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish,
Come to the Mercy Seat, fervently kneel;
He