autiful eyes and the pressure of her hand on my coat sleeve;
the other by the modesty of her demeanor. The timid shyness with
which she presented her poem had caught my fancy. I looked at the
piece. It was poor, not but what the sentiment was there and the
ideas were good, but they were not well put. As prose it would have
been acceptable, but as verse it was impossible and was not worth
anything.

* * * * *

The next was Christmas Day. It was my first Christmas in Victoria.
Business was suspended. All the stores were closed. At that time in
front of every business house there were wooden verandahs or sheds
that extended from the fronts of the buildings to the outer edges of
the sidewalks. One might walk along any of the down-town streets and
be under cover all the way. They were ugly, unsightly constructions
and I waged constant warfare against them until I joined the
aldermanic board and secured the passage of an ordinance that
compelled their removal. Along these verandahs on this particular
Christmas morning evergreen boughs were placed and the little town
really presented a very pretty and sylvan appearance. After church I
went to the office and from the office to the Hotel de France for
luncheon. The only other guest in the room was a tall, florid-faced
young man somewhat older than myself. He occupied a table on the
opposite side of the room. When I gave my order M. Sere remarked,
"All the regular boarders but you have gone to luncheon and dinner
with their friends. Why not you?"

"Why," I replied, with a quaver in my voice, "the only families that
I know are dining with friends of their own, whom I do not know. I
feel more homesick to-day than ever before in my life and the idea of
eating my Christmas dinner alone fills me with melancholy thoughts."

The man on the other side of the room must have overheard what I
said, for he ejaculated:

"There's two of a kind. I'm in a similar fix. I have no friends
here--at least with whom I can dine. Suppose we double up?"

"What's that?" I asked.

"Why, let us eat our Christmas dinner together and have a good time.
Here's my card and here's a letter of credit on Mr. Pendergast, Wells
Fargo's agent, to show that I am not without visible means of
support."

The card read, "Mr. George Barclay, Grass Valley."

"Why," I said, "you are from Grass Valley. How strange. I saw two
people yesterday--a lady and her 'child'--who claimed to hav