e or
rivulet; only the palpitating plain and the soaring peaks, and at his
feet the cluster of faithful friends, gazing, from time to time, with
rapt devotion into his face.

On these meditative evenings Stanwood found a leisurely companionship in
reminiscences of better days; reminiscences more varied and brilliant
than most men have for solace. But it was part of his philosophy never
to dwell on painful contrasts. Even in the memory of his wife, whom he
had adored and lost, even into that memory he allowed no poignant
element to enter. He thought of her strong and gay and happy, making a
joy of life. He never permitted the recollection of her illness and
death, nor of his own grief, to intrude itself. Indeed he had succeeded
in reality, as well as in retrospect, in evading his grief. There had
been a little daughter of six, who had formed part of the painful
association which his temperament rebelled against. Foregoing, in her
favor, the life-interest in her mother's estate to which he was
entitled, he had placed the child under the guardianship of an uncle
whom he equally disliked and trusted, and, having thus disposed of his
last responsibility, he had gone forth into what proved to be the very
diverting world of Europe. The havoc which some ten years' sojourn
wrought in his very considerable fortune would force one to the
conclusion that he had amused himself with gambling; but whether in
stocks, or at faro tables, or in some more subtle wise, was known only
to himself.

He had returned to his own country by way of Japan and San Francisco,
and then he had set his face to the East, with an idea that he must
repair his shattered fortunes. When once the Rocky Mountains were
crossed, however, and no longer stood as a bulwark between him and
unpleasant realities, he suddenly concluded to go no farther. It struck
him that he was hardly prepared for the hand-to-hand struggle with
fortune which he had supposed himself destined to; it would be more in
his line to take up a claim and live there as master, though it were
only master of a desert.

The little daughter, with whom he kept up a desultory correspondence,
had expressed her regret in a letter written in the stiff, carefully
worded style of "sweet sixteen," and he had never guessed the passion of
disappointment which the prim little letter concealed.

This had happened five years ago. He had taken up his claim
successfully, but there success ended. After four yea