t earthly freshness and perfume rose along the river banks. Deep
shadow still lay upon the opposite shore; but in the distance, four
miles away, Morning along the level crest of Table Mountain walked with
rosy tread.

The sleepy bar-keeper was that morning doomed to disappointment; for
scarcely had the coach passed, when steps were heard upon the veranda,
and a weary, dusty traveller threw his blanket and knapsack to the
porter, and then dropped into a vacant arm-chair, with his eyes fixed
on the distant crest of Table Mountain. He remained motionless for some
time, until the bar-keeper, who had already concocted the conventional
welcome of the Mansion House, appeared with it in a glass, put it upon
the table, glanced at the stranger, and then, thoroughly awake, cried
out,--

"Ruth Pinkney--or I'm a Chinaman!"

The stranger lifted his eyes wearily. Hollow circles were around their
orbits; haggard lines were in his checks. But it was Ruth.

He took the glass, and drained it at a single draught. "Yes," he said
absently, "Ruth Pinkney," and fixed his eyes again on the distant rosy
crest.

"On your way up home?" suggested the bar-keeper, following the direction
of Ruth's eyes.

"Perhaps."

"Been upon a pasear, hain't yer? Been havin' a little tear round
Sacramento,--seein' the sights?"

Ruth smiled bitterly. "Yes."

The bar-keeper lingered, ostentatiously wiping a glass. But Ruth again
became abstracted in the mountain, and the barkeeper turned away.

How pure and clear that summit looked to him! how restful and steadfast
with serenity and calm! how unlike his own feverish, dusty, travel-worn
self! A week had elapsed since he had last looked upon it,--a week of
disappointment, of anxious fears, of doubts, of wild imaginings, of
utter helplessness. In his hopeless quest of the missing Mornie, he
had, in fancy, seen this serene eminence haunting his remorseful,
passion-stricken soul. And now, without a clew to guide him to her
unknown hiding-place, he was back again, to face the brother whom he had
deceived, with only the confession of his own weakness. Hard as it was
to lose forever the fierce, reproachful glances of the woman he loved,
it was still harder, to a man of Ruth's temperament, to look again
upon the face of the brother he feared. A hand laid upon his shoulder
startled him. It was the bar-keeper.

"If it's a fair question, Ruth Pinkney, I'd like to ask ye how long ye
kalkilate to hang around the Fer