ou know now why I spoke to you as I did to-day, and why the other
half of this precious spray is the only memory I care to carry with me
out of this crumbling ruin of all my hopes. You were right, Paul: my
taking you there WAS AN OMEN--not to you, who can never be anything but
proud, beloved, and true--but to ME of all the shame and misery. Thank
you for all you have done--for all you would do, my friend, and don't
think me ungrateful, only because I am unworthy of it. Try to forgive
me, but don't forget me, even if you must hate me. Perhaps, if you
knew all--you might still love a little the poor girl to whom you have
already given the only name she can ever take from you--YERBA BUENA!"

CHAPTER VII.

It was already autumn, and in the city of New York an early Sunday
morning breeze was sweeping up the leaves that had fallen from the
regularly planted ailantus trees before the brown-stone frontage of a
row of monotonously alike five-storied houses on one of the principal
avenues. The Pastor of the Third Presbyterian Church, that uplifted
its double towers on the corner, stopped before one of these dwellings,
ran up the dozen broad steps, and rang the bell. He was presently
admittted to the sombre richness of a hall and drawing-room with
high-backed furniture of dark carved woods, like cathedral stalls, and,
hat in hand, somewhat impatiently awaited the arrival of his hostess
and parishioner. The door opened to a tall, white-haired woman in
lustreless black silk. She was regular and resolute in features, of
fine but unbending presence, and, though somewhat past middle age,
showed no signs of either the weakness or mellowness of years.

"I am sorry to disturb your Sabbath morning meditations, Sister
Argalls, nor would I if it were not in the line of Christian duty; but
Sister Robbins is unable today to make her usual Sabbath hospital
visit, and I thought if you were excused from the Foreign Missionary
class and Bible instruction at three you might undertake her functions.
I know, my dear old friend," he continued, with bland deprecation of
her hard-set eyes, "how distasteful this promiscuous mingling with the
rough and ungodly has always been to you, and how reluctant you are to
be placed in the position of being liable to hear coarse, vulgar, or
irreverent speech. I think, too, in our long and pleasant pastoral
relations, you have always found me mindful of it. I admit I have
sometimes regretted that your