e historian wherein it was recorded that the
volatile spirit of Mr. Hamlin, slightly assisted by circumstances,
passed beyond these voices at the Ranch of the Blessed Fisherman, some
two years later. As the editor stood beside the body of his friend on
the morning of the funeral, he noticed among the flowers laid upon his
bier by loving hands a wreath of white violets. Touched and disturbed
by a memory long since forgotten, he was further embarrassed, as the
cortege dispersed in the Mission graveyard, by the apparition of the
tall figure of Mr. James Bowers from behind a monumental column. The
editor turned to him quickly.

"I am glad to see you here," he said, awkwardly, and he knew not
why; then, after a pause, "I trust you can give me some news of Mrs.
Delatour. I wrote to her nearly two years ago, but had no response."

"Thar's bin no Mrs. Delatour for two years," said Mr. Bowers,
contemplatively stroking his beard; "and mebbe that's why. She's bin for
two years Mrs. Bowers."

"I congratulate you," said the editor; "but I hope there still remains
a White Violet, and that, for the sake of literature, she has not given
up"--

"Mrs. Bowers," interrupted Mr. Bowers, with singular deliberation,
"found that makin' po'try and tendin' to the cares of a growin'-up
famerly was irritatin' to the narves. They didn't jibe, so to speak.
What Mrs. Bowers wanted--and what, po'try or no po'try, I've bin tryin'
to give her--was Rest! She's bin havin' it comfor'bly up at my ranch
at Mendocino, with her children and me. Yes, sir"--his eye wandered
accidentally to the new-made grave--"you'll excuse my sayin' it to a man
in your profession, but it's what most folks will find is a heap better
than readin' or writin' or actin' po'try--and that's Rest!"

THE CHATELAINE OF BURNT RIDGE

CHAPTER I

It had grown dark on Burnt Ridge. Seen from below, the whole serrated
crest that had glittered in the sunset as if its interstices were eaten
by consuming fires, now, closed up its ranks of blackened shafts and
became again harsh and sombre chevaux de frise against the sky. A faint
glow still lingered over the red valley road, as if it were its own
reflection, rather than any light from beyond the darkened ridge. Night
was already creeping up out of remote canyons and along the furrowed
flanks of the mountain, or settling on the nearer woods with the sound
of home-coming and innumerable wings. At a point where the road began to
en