ius, like a shooting star, flashed across the sky and then
shot into oblivion."

A few days afterwards, Alfonso on the pier with his white handkerchief
waved adieu to Leo who had resolved to wed art in sunny Italy. Sad
memories decided Alfonso to leave New York at once. For a short time he
was inclined to give up a new purpose, and return to his own family at
Harrisville, but the law of equity controlled his heart, he journeyed
back to the Pacific Coast, and again approached the Yosemite Valley.

Seated again on Inspiration Point, he gazed long and earnestly into the
gorge below. He could discern neither smoke nor moving forms. All had
changed; not the peaks, or domes, or wonderful waterfalls; all these
remained the same. But where were Red Cloud and kind-hearted Mariposa?
Alfonso's own race now occupied the valley for pleasure and for gain.

Mariposa might not be of his own race, but she had a noble heart.
Education had put her in touch with civilization, and she was as pure
as the snow of the Sierras. He wondered if she ever thought of him. He
remembered that, when he rode away, her face was turned toward the Bridal
Veil Falls. Did she thus intend to say, "I love you?"

At midnight, as the moon rose above the forest, the tall pines whispered
of Mariposa, of wild flowers she was wont to gather, of journeys made to
highest peaks, of weeks of watching and waiting, and of the burial of Red
Cloud at the foot of an ancient sequoia; then the language of the breezes
among the pines became indistinct, and Alfonso, half-asleep, half-awake,
saw approaching a white figure. Two dark eyes full of tears, gazed into
his face, at first with a startled look, and then with a gleam of joy and
trust.

Alfonso exclaimed, "Mariposa!" He sought to clasp her in his arms, but
the graceful figure vanished, and the pines seemed to whisper, "Alfonso,
I go to join the braves in the happy hunting grounds beyond the setting
sun. You will wed the fairest of your people. Adieu."

When Alfonso awoke, the ring of beaten gold was gone, where, he knew not.
The tourist-coach was rumbling down the mountain road, and he joined it.
After an inspection of his mines, he sadly left the Sierras for San
Francisco.

The prophetic words of Mariposa, whispered among the pines, proved true.
Alfonso again met Gertrude's best friend, beautiful Mrs. Eastlake, now a
young widow, and later he married her, making their home on Knob Hill,
the most fashionable quarter