res of his animal spirits, he still
told his rambling, half-boastful stories of the cow country and of
College times, or laid before these home-stayers the gossip of the
town. That manner of his, always more compelling than either his
substance or his words, carried the plainest story; and he had at
least the art of brevity. One laughed when he laughed, catching from
his spirit the humorous idea, even when its expression failed on the
tongue. Voice and gesture and an inner appreciation which he could
flash instantly to his tongue contributed to these dazzling effects.
His new-made friends of the artistic set used to tell him, "If you
could only write down your stories--what humor, what action!" Mark
Heath, with the information of a room mate, the judging eye of a
half-disillusionized friend and the cynicism of a young journalist,
was first to perceive that a stenographer concealed to transcribe his
talk would get only barren words.

In his fading and declining years, Judge Tiffany leaned more and more
upon Eleanor, his business partner. Now it had come spring. The trees
were in bud along the Santa Clara. They must begin preparing for the
season. The family did not move to the ranch until apricot picking was
afoot; but from now on either Judge Tiffany or Eleanor would run down
every week to watch the trees and to oversee the Olsen preparations
for harvest time. Purchase of supplies and the business of selling
last year's stock, held over for a rise in German prices, kept Eleanor
busy.

She dragged the Judge out of his library one March afternoon, that he
might inspect with her a new set of sprayers which she was
considering. The Judge went to his office all too seldom nowadays;
Eleanor and Mrs. Tiffany used continually all kinds of diplomacies to
keep him at his business, from which he stubbornly refused to retire.
When they had driven their bargain, Eleanor guided and wheedled him to
the office. The methodical Attwood, having his man there, thumped a
pile of papers down before the Judge, representing that this demurrer
must be in on Tuesday, that case tried or continued next week. The
Judge sighed as he pulled the papers toward him.

"They've nailed me, Nell," he said. "Here, I'll appoint a substitute.
Send for Mr. Chester, Attwood--dining anywhere, Chester? Then take pot
luck with us and pay me by escorting my business conscience home. I'll
overwork myself if someone doesn't carry her away!"

*