nd so impertinent to build a
little structure of stone and wood in which to worship God!"

You see what he was like? He was frivolous, yet one could never tell
when he would become eloquently earnest.

Brainard went off suddenly Westward one day. I suspected that Jessica
was at the bottom of it, but I asked no questions; and I did not hear
from him for months. Then I got a letter from Colorado.

"I have married a mountain woman," he wrote. "None of your puny breed
of modern femininity, but a remnant left over from the heroic ages,--a
primitive woman, grand and vast of spirit, capable of true and steadfast
wifehood. No sophistry about her; no knowledge even that there is
sophistry. Heavens! man, do you remember the rondeaux and triolets I
used to write to those pretty creatures back East? It would take a Saga
man of the old Norseland to write for my mountain woman. If I were an
artist, I would paint her with the north star in her locks and her feet
on purple cloud. I suppose you are at the Pier. I know you usually are
at this season. At any rate, I shall direct this letter thither, and
will follow close after it. I want my wife to see something of life. And
I want her to meet your sister."

"Dear me!" cried Jessica, when I read the letter to her; "I don't know
that I care to meet anything quite so gigantic as that mountain woman.
I'm one of the puny breed of modern femininity, you know. I don't think
my nerves can stand the encounter."

"Why, Jessica!" I protested. She blushed a little.

"Don't think bad of me, Victor. But, you see, I've a little scrap-book
of those triolets upstairs." Then she burst into a peal of irresistible
laughter. "I'm not laughing because I am piqued," she said frankly.
"Though any one will admit that it is rather irritating to have a man
who left you in a blasted condition recover with such extraordinary
promptness. As a philanthropist, one of course rejoices, but as a woman,
Victor, it must be admitted that one has a right to feel annoyed. But,
honestly, I am not ungenerous, and I am going to do him a favor. I shall
write, and urge him not to bring his wife here. A primitive woman, with
the north star in her hair, would look well down there in the Casino
eating a pineapple ice, wouldn't she? It's all very well to have a soul,
you know; but it won't keep you from looking like a guy among women who
have good dressmakers. I shudder at the thought of what the poor thing
will suffer if he brin