d of merely doing my bounden duty. Now look at those mountains in
the south."

More disturbed than he would have believed possible at the young warmth
and magnetism of her embrace--although it was disconcertingly evident
that she would have kissed a small boy in precisely the same manner--he
composed his features to indifference and followed the motion of her
whip.

In the dim perspective of the south she indicated Tamalpais and Monte
Diablo opposite, vague dim blue masses behind San Francisco. "Monte
Diablo and St. Helena are both old volcanoes," she continued. "I never
say dead volcanoes after the history and performances of Vesuvius and
Pelee. I wish one of our volcanoes would liven up. We might have fewer
earthquakes--although, to be sure, ours are supposed to be caused by
faulting--in so far as they know anything about it."

"Do you think of nothing but earthquakes out here? You have made at
least three casual allusions since we met twenty-four hours ago, and in
southern California they are a part of every tradition."

"If you had been brought up on earthquakes they would never be far from
your own mind. There is a theory that the reason for Californians taking
everything as it comes with a happy-go-lucky philosophy, lies in the
electrical air and the eight months of sunshine; but I believe it is due
even more to the earthquakes. If we can stand those we can stand
anything. It is in tune with the old gambling spirit that still colors
the country; no doubt has kept it alive. We never know what is going to
happen next, and we don't care. _Vive la bagatelle._ We have more to be
thankful for than the rest of the world, anyhow. Well, let us go down to
the house."

The house with its out-buildings stood below them on a high knoll, three
sides surrounded by a grove of white oaks, the other open to the
mountains, although the front veranda was shaded by several spreading
trees, far apart. The large soft leaves and the pendent moss of the oaks
were gray with dust, but the shade was cool and delicious. Down in the
valley an old comrade here and there helped to tell the story of the
time when all these miles of valley and mountain were unbroken forest,
known only to the red man. And that was not a century ago.

The house was frankly ugly, like all the farm-houses of its era,
although vastly to be preferred to the "artistic" structures succeeding
them. As the couple gave up their horses to a stately Jap, who had been
en