with his
stupid, formal, sham-parental talk. Because he's my official guardian
he thinks it necessary to assume this manner towards me when we meet,
and treats me as if I were something between his stepdaughter and an
almshouse orphan or a police board. It's perfectly ridiculous, for
it's only put on while he is in office, and he knows it, and I know it,
and I'm tired of making believe. Why, my dear, they change every
election; I've had seven of them, all more or less of this kind, since
I can remember."

"But I thought there were two others, dear, that were not official,"
said her companion, coaxingly.

Yerba sighed. "No; there was another, who was president of a bank, but
that was also to be official if he died. I used to like him, he seemed
to be the only gentleman among them; but it appears that he is
dreadfully improper; shoots people now and then for nothing at all, and
burst up his bank--and, of course, he's impossible, and, as there's no
more bank, when he dies there'll be no more trustee."

"And there's the third, you know--a stranger, who never appears?"
suggested the younger girl.

"And who do you suppose HE turns out to be? Do you remember that
conceited little wretch--that 'Baby Senator,' I think they called
him--who was in the parlor of the Golden Gate the other morning
surrounded by his idiotic worshipers and toadies and ballot-box
stuffers? Well, if you please, THAT'S Mr. Paul Hathaway--the Honorable
Paul Hathaway, who washed his hands of me, my dear, at the beginning!"

"But really, Yerba, I thought that he looked and acted"--

"You thought of nothing at all, Milly," returned Yerba, with authority.
"I tell you he's a mass of conceit. What else can you expect of a
Man--toadied and fawned upon to that extent? It made me sick! I could
have just shaken them!"

As if to emphasize her statement, she grasped one of the long willowy
branches of the enormous rose-bush where she stood, and shook it
lightly. The action detached a few of the maturer blossoms, and sent
down a shower of faded pink petals on her dark hair and yellow dress.
"I can't bear conceit," she added.

"Oh, Yerba, just stand as you are! I do wish the girls could see you.
You make the LOVELIEST picture!"

She certainly did look very pretty as she stood there--a few leaves
lodged in her hair, clinging to her dress, and suggesting by reflection
the color that her delicate satin skin would have resented in its own
texture. B