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 AS GOD>^ 
 MADE HER 
 
 
 
 BY SARAH 
 
 mURRAY 
 
 THRASHER 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 A Story 
 of a Fair 
 Californian 
 
 
 COOPER * CO. 
 764 Market St. 
 San Francisco 
 
 
 
 
 PRICi: FIFTY CUNTS 
 
As God Made Her 
 
 A Story of a Fair Californian 
 
 By SARAH MURRA Y THRASHER 
 
 1902 
 COOPER & CO 
 
 7ti4 Market Street 
 San Francisco 
 
Copyrighted 1902 
 Bv Dr. Marion Thrasher 
 
 The IIick3-Judd Company Print, 21-23 First St., S. F. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF 'SlY FATHER 
 
 JAMES MURRAY 
 
 THE DR. HARDING OF THIS STORY, WHOSE BROAD 
 
 HUMANITARIAN IDEAS ARE HEREIN 
 
 INCORPORATED 
 
 tbis Book i$ Affectionately Dedicated 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 102531 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/asgodmadeherstorOOthrarich 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I . Oaklavvn and the Santa Clara Valley 1 
 
 II. Dorcas, and an Early Romance 8 
 
 III. Beauty on a Wheel 11 
 
 IV. Aunt Rhoda's Surprise 17 
 
 V. Uncle John Infatuated 23 
 
 VI. Doyt's Training 28 
 
 VII. Tim, the Newsboy 32 
 
 VIII. Evolution of an Egg 37 
 
 IX. Doubt Dispelled 42 
 
 X. "Blue Juniata" 45 
 
 XI. God Everywhere 49 
 
 XII. Asphyxiating Church Air 57 
 
 XIII. Dr. Harding's Patients 60 
 
 XIV. Vacation at the Beach 63 
 
 XV. A Graceful Equestrienne 64 
 
 XVI. A Perfect Animal 67 
 
 XVII. "As God Made Her" 71 
 
 XVIII. Pescadero 79 
 
 XIX. An Ocean Soliloquy 81 
 
 XX. On the Sea Shore 85 
 
 XXI . The Two Handsome Cousins 93 
 
 XXII. Lowell Rescues a Drowning Child 98 
 
 XXIII. George's Infatuation 102 
 
 XXIV. The Meeting of the Bicycles 106 
 
 XXV. The Theater Train 112 
 
 XXVI. Stanford University 115 
 
 XXVII. A Happy Surprise 120 
 
 XXVIII. A Son's Ingratitude 124 
 
 XXIX. Lowell at Oaklawn 129 
 
 XXX. Love Among the Redwoods 137 
 
 XXXI. A Proposal 149 
 
 XXXII. Father and Daughter 156 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTKR 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 XL IX. 
 
 L. 
 
 LI. 
 
 LI I. 
 LIII. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 LV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Vacation Again 159 
 
 A Summer Outing 163 
 
 Over the Mountains 172 
 
 The Wayside House 178 
 
 The Giant Redwood Forests 180 
 
 A Ramble Along the Pescadero and What 
 
 Became of It 183 
 
 Dr. Harding Makes a Diagnosis That Was Not 
 
 a Medical One 190 
 
 Uncle John's and Aunt Rhoda's Departure 196 
 
 He Passed His College Examination and Now 
 
 Writes His Name Lowell Livingstone, M. D. 200 
 A California Tropical Home in Which a Wed- 
 ding is Consummated 203 
 
 Happy Days at Oaklawn 208 
 
 The Young Surgeon 213 
 
 A Baby—" A Dresden Without a Flaw." 216 
 
 Dr. Harding Discussing the Question of the 
 
 Ages, " Shall We Live Again ? " 219 
 
 Outing at the Beach — Drowning of Dr. Hard- 
 ing and Lowell — Suspicion of Foul Play 227 
 
 Sad Journey Homeward — Funeral — Deacon 
 
 Johnson 233 
 
 George again a Suitor— The Stolen Child 239 
 
 Child Found — Great Rejoicing 240 
 
 George Bids Oaklawn Farewell Forever — 
 Lowell's Brother Lawrence from Berlin 
 
 Arrives 250 
 
 Child Dying — Marvelous Recovery under Dr. 
 
 Lawrence Livingstone 258 
 
 Doyt's Wondrous Beauty Captivates Him— 
 For Ethical Reasons He Objects to Marry- 
 ing His Brother's Wife and Prepares to 
 
 Return to Europe 267 
 
 Aunt Dorcas Uses Logic and with the Assis- 
 tance of Doyt Prevents His Departure— Dr. 
 Lawrence Livingstone Yields to the Inevi- 
 table 278 
 
 The Marriage 288 
 
OPENING. 
 
 God touched the earth in kindness 
 
 And lo! it dimpled where 
 It felt His mighty finger 
 
 And a Talley nestled there. 
 And he told His Angel artist 
 
 To paint a sky more blue 
 Than ever dainty violet 
 
 Or any blue-bell knew. 
 And to stretch it o'er that valley 
 
 As a promise from its God, 
 That peace and plenty there should spring 
 
 Like flowers from its sod. 
 And He set the mighty mountains 
 
 To guard that happy vale, 
 Where the Autumns kiss the Springtime 
 
 And the Summers never fail. 
 Then all the birds came singing 
 
 To where the valley smiled, 
 And all the suns came shining 
 
 By all its peace beguiled. 
 And from its hidden canyons 
 
 The brooklets sparkled down, 
 To cheer the future exiles 
 
 From the city or the town. 
 And the gray earth loved its flowers. 
 
 And the flowers loved the sun. 
 And the glory of the daytime 
 
 Into evening glory run. 
 And the live-oak wore its banners green 
 
 Thro' all the year unfurled. 
 And so was Santa Clara vale 
 
 First given to the world. 
 
 —A. J. WATERHOUSE. 
 
AS G0D MADE HER 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 It was a California home; a place where nature was 
 sweet, where the sun came down with warming glow; 
 where growth was not a struggle and a failure, but an 
 ardent exultant rush toward perfection. A restful 
 peace hung over the place that came from warm cli- 
 mate and even temperature and from prosperous, con- 
 tented ownership. Far back from the wood, quietly 
 nestled among the fresh foliage, stood the house, a 
 building of some pretense, attractively homelike in ap- 
 pearance and modern in build. The slender pillars 
 which upheld the broad veranda of the dwelling were 
 overhung with roses, and the turf on either side was of 
 radiant greenness. Broad walks ran through the 
 grounds bordered by beds of flowers, luxurious, gor- 
 geous, superb; the unchecked growth of the winterless 
 year. At the back of the house there were hedge lines 
 with arched gateways, and at each side of the drive that 
 led from the road there were rows of trees, and the 
 green sward was dotted with them. The place was 
 gladdened and beautified by the pinnate leaves of the 
 palm, and the broad massive foliage of the banana; 
 these grew side by side with the maple and the elm, 
 the orange and the lemon, the umbrella tree, the_ 
 eucalyptus and the pomegranate, the wide spreading 
 fig and the gray olive. The dark green tops of the 
 Irish yew swaying gracefully, mingled with the delicate 
 leaves of the pepper tree, and the rich foliage of the 
 masrnolia, while the dracaena pushed up its frail green 
 1 (1) 
 
2 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 shoots in the shadow of the camphor tree and the 
 cedar, the chestnut and the linden, the California lilac 
 and the lanrel. At the side of the house and at some 
 distance from it two grand oaks, hoary and old, spread 
 their gnarled limhs in weird grandeur and lay outlined 
 on the grass in huge, grim shadows. To the eastward, 
 hovering close, rose the rugged sides of Mt. Hamilton; 
 at its summit far skyward in imposing white silence 
 sat sun-gilded buildings of the Lick Observatory. Be- 
 yond the oaks were thrifty little ranches and at the 
 other side lay the town with its tall spires, its electric 
 towers, its white houses and long lines of trees. The 
 place itself was bowered in orchards and outside were 
 fresh gardens and green fields and stretches of vine- 
 yards, while the still dimpled hills lay beyond backed 
 by the blue mountains of the Coast Eange. 
 
 It was a day in mid-December; the rain which had 
 fallen through the night had given an unwonted trans- 
 parency to the atmosphere, a freshness to the verdure 
 and an intensity to the color of the flowers. 
 
 Through the open door and out on the flower-hung 
 veranda Dr. Harding led the way. He was a tall, well 
 built, energetic man with deep expressive eyes; his 
 features were even and the earnest face full of the 
 scholar's thought, was framed in abundant locks which, 
 here and there, were touched with gray. He was the 
 son of a farmer back in New England mountains; but 
 his classic features, his walk, his every motion gave 
 proof of native nobility. The peaceful nook we have 
 described was his home. He had bought the fertile 
 acres here in the lovely Santa Clara Valley years be- 
 fore. Then only the two oak trees stood upon it and 
 he had expended his taste in the improvements, and 
 had superintended not only the planting but the cul- 
 ture of every tree and shrub. In the practice of his 
 profession here life had gone smoothly on unmarked 
 by any event save his marriage, the birth of his daugh- 
 ter, and the death of his wife, when the child was at 
 the age of five years. 
 
A STORT OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 3 
 
 The two persons who followed him were his brother 
 and wife; and the conversation which ensued unfolded 
 the fact that they had arrived but an hour before from 
 their New Hampshire home. The brother of the doc- 
 tor was not so tall as himself but of sturdier build; the 
 face was more deeply furrowed, and among his thin 
 locks was more of gray. The essential character of 
 the two brothers was perhaps much the same; but if 
 there had been any physical resemblance between 
 them, in earlier years, the difference in their lives 
 since, had made it difficult to trace. The wife was a 
 thin, sallow Avoman, with hair drawn smoothly back 
 from her sharp face ; and a wisp of it pinned tightly at 
 the back. When the couple had left their ^ew Eng- 
 land home, the cold, keen winds ot winter had smitten 
 the flowers, and felled the com leaves, and stripped 
 the trees and enclosed the streams. They had awak- 
 ened each morning of their long days of travel to a 
 landscape frost locked, and they themselves had been 
 held snow-bound for two days on the summit of the 
 Sierras. The change Avas mystical. Above their heads 
 the clouds, soft and fleecy, floated away to the east- 
 ward through the livid blue. Here the breezes were 
 mild and the air soft and balmy and loaded with per- 
 fume; and here the sunshine warm and rich poured out 
 on the hill tops and streamed through the woodlands 
 and flooded the valleys. Here were flowers all about 
 them of every form, shade, hue, tint and color; the 
 scarlet, the orange and the blue and the purple, the 
 A^ermillion, the amber and the gold. Here the stately 
 lily bloomed and by its side the salvia lifted its red 
 plumes in scarlet so intense that it fairly blazed. Here 
 the trees stood smothered in leafy masses and the 
 waving grass flashed with greenness. On the air about 
 them was the cricket's chirp, the soft movement of 
 bird wings, the comforting song of contented hens, and 
 "the twitter and trill of gay-colored songsters. For the 
 first time since birth, these married two had cut them- 
 selves loose from the simple, monotonous New England 
 
4 AS. GOD MADE HER. 
 
 ]ite, out of which people seldom traveled. Baxter was 
 a common little town^ picturesque from its situation 
 among the mountains, like others similarly situated, 
 unknown and unhistorical. Habit had made it a home 
 and outside of it the world seemed lonely. Here, sur- 
 rounded by the richness, the beneficent summer 
 warmth, the gorgeous landscape, the tropical luxury, 
 the, plain, hard-worked, world-worn couple, looked 
 strangely out of keeping with the surroundings. 
 
 "Here, Rhoda,'^ Dr. Harding said as he rolled a 
 luxurious armchair out on the veranda and placed it 
 for his guest, ''You've made a great sacrifice to give 
 up your accustomed habits and to come so far,'' he 
 said, feelingly. ''I want you folks to sit down now to 
 comfortable enjoyment of life. You'll find this a capi- 
 tal place for rest," he added with the air of one who 
 had brought about a desired condition of things, and 
 one which it had taken great trouble to effect. The 
 woman ,had grown so used to austerities that she never 
 tliought of looking for the cushioned places in life; 
 from her hard religion she had never gained the idea 
 that the Lord wdio made us ever designed any sort of 
 pleasure, for us here. After standing with folded 
 hands at some little distance, and looking the chair 
 over, she walked across and seated herself with military 
 stiffness on its tip edge. After the doctor arranged 
 the settees for his brother John and himself, he sat 
 down opposite to him, and where he could observe him 
 at his leisure. He studied his face with irresistible im- 
 pulse, and with the earnestness of one seeking treas- 
 ures. He longed to pry into his brother's life, though 
 it were only to learn the pathos of it. Presently he 
 said, as he followed his brother's wondering eyes: "I 
 know everything is new to you here; I wish you would 
 impart to me some of your impressions." Then he 
 went on with impulsive hospitality, 'T only hope that 
 it possibly gives you the pleasure to be here, it does 
 me to welcome you." "Well, Jmi," his brother good- 
 naturedly replied, rallying liii;nsel:^,."my main impres- 
 
A STORY OF'CALIFORXIA LIFE. 5 
 
 sion^ jiist now is that California's an awixi] long ways 
 from Xew Hampshire. Traveling, 3'ou see, Jim, has 
 not been much in my line." The feeling that he was 
 not appearing to advaiitage came over him and he 
 added apologetically: "I've heard nothing but the con- 
 founded rolling of wheels so long, that I believe they've 
 really got into my head/ he said, running his hand 
 through his sparse hair. "I can't say," he went on 
 smiling happily, "as there's any way to take perfect 
 measurement of my feelings. The country out here 
 has always been interesting to me because it is so dif- 
 ferent, and," he added in lower tones, "most, Jim, be- 
 cause you were here. 1 could never' forget about you; 
 Jim; you know that. I'm glad I'm here, yes." 
 Then wishing not to appear inconsistent, he added: 
 "Confound it, Jim, surely any intelligent greenhorn 
 ought to enjoy doing the thing that he's been wanting 
 to do all his life." Still John's mind, owing perhaps 
 to the principle of inertia, reverted to the old place 
 and he continued sedately: "I know my boy Henry will 
 tend to things all right; I know he will feed the cattle, 
 and bring in the sheep when it storms ; that he will 
 b€ld ddw^n old Bess. 1 know my presence is not espe- 
 ^Ml^ re^tiired^ but yet -eiteri since I left home," he 
 edntihued Tuminatively, "'i*£ seems somehow as though 
 I was forsaking duty because'i am not there to do these 
 tilings, that I've become" so" used to doing." The doc- 
 tor answered laughingly: "l''te no doubt, John, that 
 you are popular with the animals; 1 am i^eady to give 
 proper recognition to the fact." Leaning toward his 
 brother he continued meditatively: "I remember how 
 'The Sorrel' used to jump over the watering-trough to 
 follow you, and how for you Tige was always ready to 
 engage in close warfare.' He' knew by instinct when 
 any big gawk of a fellow attempted an infringement 
 "on your rights. But then," he went on with a show 
 of indignation, "how did Old Bess come to such au- 
 thority? I'd like to know what right the prosaic crea- 
 ture has to make a monopoly of herself. It's high 
 
6 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 time, John, you divided your attention among your 
 other admirers.'' 
 
 In the quiet peace of the radiant morning, the 
 brothers sat sometime after this, and they talked to- 
 gether about the struggles of their early years, in 
 which each had borne a part. The doctor, the younger 
 but the stronger of the two in character and more self- 
 reliant, had left the New England farm and had come 
 to California when quite a young man; and his brother 
 and wife had been left at the old home place; and for 
 ten years now John had lived in the same old house 
 in which they had all been reared. There was a little 
 stor}' connected with Dr. Harding's early manhood. 
 There did not appear to be much of sacrifice in the 
 deed as he looked back at it now, but it had amounted 
 to more at the time. When he had left the old home 
 there had been a debt upon it, and struggle as they 
 might to drive it away, over that household stood the 
 ogre of the mortgage which grew larger and cast a 
 deeper shadow year by year. The young fellow had 
 given up his own ambitions, sure and heroic as they 
 were. Three times he had sat in obscurity in the au- 
 dience, and seen the medical class with which he had 
 studied receive their diplomas of graduation. While 
 forced to neglect study he had bent his talents and his 
 strength to supply the need of money at the parental 
 home, which grew more urgent as the time went on. 
 At last the strain was over; the shadow was lifted and 
 the old people spent their last days peacefully and died 
 sheltered by the homstead roof. John had idolized his 
 brother wiien a boy, and the eighteen intervening years 
 of manly effort and struggle and sacrifice had not 
 passed from his recollection. Sitting there now in his 
 presence again among the new and strangely beautiful 
 surroundings, there came over him a sort of intoxica- 
 tion of the senses. He tried to preserve an outward 
 steadfastness but felt confused. It was hard for him 
 to tell where the real ended and the ideal began. To 
 be near his brother; to find that, changed, matured, 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFF. 7 
 
 successful though he was, the same true heart still l)cat 
 within his bosom; to take him by the hand again 
 after all these years was to him sweet as food after 
 painful lack. After he had watched his brother's face 
 as time and again he took in the soft sweet picture 
 about him, his host, with an attempt at calmness, said: 
 "Well, John, does it come up to what you expected? 
 You haven't told me yet." John would rather not 
 have spoken, but if forced to speak he must say just 
 what was in his heart to say. He must be quite him- 
 self. His eyes rested for a moment on his brother's 
 with a cordial light, then they wandered restlessly up 
 into the blue of the summer sky, around again on the 
 grass and the trees, on the roses hanging from the trel- 
 lis, and on the splendid brilliancy of the flowers about 
 him, and he said simply in reply: "Goes beyond." He 
 rubbed his rough, calloused hand across his dimmed 
 eyes; he had to make an effort to control the muscles 
 of his face; then looking up with a smile of utter help- 
 lessness, he said: "You see I can't get used to the glory 
 just yet at once." And then, confidmgly, "Do you 
 know, Jim, it really seems as though after all these 
 years of separation, we somehow had met beyond the 
 vale?'^ 
 
AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The housekeeper of Oaklawn, a woman of intelligent 
 mind and gentle temperament, was a short person, 
 rather stoutly built, with deep, gray eyes and round, 
 cheery face. Heavy masses of soft, brown hair lay 
 about her broad, calm forehead. At the time of Dr. 
 Harding's loss, in the perplexity of his sorrowing soul, 
 what to do with his orphaned child was the question 
 that must be met. Old Dorcas, his sister, then a girl 
 of twenty-five, had been the heaven-sent solution of 
 the difficulty. To her the gentle request came as a pas- 
 sionate, pathetic appeal of human need. For her 
 brother's sake and the little one's, she had never mar- 
 ried. The work that had been given her to do had 
 taken entire possession of her. For the child she had 
 a motherly love, mingled with a generous admiration of 
 unselfish pride. She had found health in the sweet, 
 moist air; happiness and strength for her task in her 
 brother's counsel and companionship; and now at mid- 
 dle life, a placid, sweet content beamed from her can- 
 did face. 
 
 Dorcas had been busied in overseeing the coming 
 meal, and now in soft drab gown and white apron that 
 came to its hem she took a seat with the others. Her 
 lips parted with a smile, showing splendid white teeth, 
 as she said in a tone of lingering fondness: "Now, tell 
 me about the old home-place." 
 
 Nothing is so settled as a New England village. 
 Cities are rebuilt and lose their landmarks; govern- 
 ments are overthrown; rivers change their courses; the 
 solid mountains may crumble, but quietly nestled away 
 among the hills, the town remains. 
 
 The travelers talked freely about the old place and 
 Dorcas and her brother listened, and when the infor- 
 mation which they had received about it was summed 
 up it amounted to this: the old barn which had been 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 9 
 
 the scene of their childhood sports was covered now by 
 a slate roof; the orchard had a new fence; the big 
 cherry tree at the corner of the garden had been cut 
 down; the lofty pulpit in the old weather-browned 
 meeting-house had been lowered; the preacher had 
 come down more nearly to a level with his people; 
 there were many more graves in the churchyard — the 
 rest was the same. 1 
 
 The talk about the once familiar scenes awakened 
 the doctor's sleeping memories. The soil of the old 
 home spot had been chalky and sterile; the home was 
 plain and low; but it came to him now as a beautiful 
 vision. He was back to the old home again. He saw 
 tJie small space of serene sky about it; with its soft 
 blue and the white clouds moving through it. He saw 
 the old house with the maple trees before it and the 
 orchard beyond. He saw the old armchair on the low 
 porch and the father sitting in it and the mother 
 standing in the door behind him. He saw them look- 
 ing out into the west, and he knew now how they must 
 have missed the boy, who went away never to return. 
 
 Suddenly all eyes were turned toward the avenue with 
 a flush of expectation. Away down at the end where 
 it branched off from the wood appeared a drove of 
 greyhounds barking and yelping and advancing toward 
 the house at a wondrous speed. The moving mass at 
 first appeared to be composed entirely of lank canine 
 appendages; but after a little coming out from the 
 shade of the trees the misty generality began to take 
 form, and the people looking on became aware that 
 there was a human being in the midst. 
 
 It was the girl for whom they were waiting ; and she 
 was mounted on a wheel. She rode superbly but it 
 seemed at a tremendous risk; for the long, loose legs 
 of the dogs at times interlaced; and there seemed to be 
 an odd sort of contention among them, to see which 
 could come the nearest to getting a foot caught in the 
 wire spokes of the wheel; and then, by some sort of 
 scientific accuracy of movement, avert the disaster. 
 
 There was a wild sort of excitement in the chase; 
 
IC AS (WD MADE HER. 
 
 sometimes the dogs tumbled precipitately over each 
 other, and sometimes the hound which had been left 
 behind would make a wild leap and land ahead of them 
 all. On they came, now up the sunny road, and then 
 again through the tree shadows, and presently the girl, 
 with the whole yelping, yelling accompaniment, made 
 a brilliant halt at the steps of the house. She glanced 
 toward the group on the porch in fluttering expecta- 
 tion. "I'm always about, father, when important 
 things happen,'^ she called blithely as, without embar- 
 rassment or self-consciousness, she stepped from her 
 wheel and attempted to balance it against a tree. She 
 stood expectantly a moment, holding the dogs from 
 wandering through the grounds, her dimpled hand 
 patting first one and then another of their long, 
 smooth heads. 
 
 Here promptly and conveniently a dark-eyed sprite 
 of a boy on a pair of very thin legs came cantering 
 around the corner of the house. Suddenly in his swift 
 forward motion the boy, Tim, becoming aware that 
 there were strangers present, modified his rate of mov- 
 ing; holding his head low and his cap in hand he re- 
 spectfully side-stepped till he had passed the point 
 where they sat. ''All right," he called, "I'm ready 
 now," as he dashed to the young cyclist's side, grabbed 
 hold of the wheel, called the hounds, and disappeared 
 with them in the direction of the stables. 
 
 The young girl sprang up the steps, her big blue eyes 
 sparkling with the fun of the chase; her rounded 
 cheeks ruddy with health and exercise; her face, 
 framed in ripples of golden hair, radiant with smiles. 
 The suit she wore was a handsome gray. It consisted 
 of a dainty cap and well-fitted jacket. It fell from the 
 waist in graceful folds and ended at the knee; and the 
 feet and symmetrical lower limbs were encased in high 
 shoes of the same soft shade. The suit was pretty, 
 ])ecoming and graceful, and gave perfect freedom to 
 her flexible form. For a moment she stood at the top 
 of the steps, the very incarnation of happy, joyous, 
 shadowless youth. 
 
.4 STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. H 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 There was a grave look on Dr. Harding's face at the 
 time, yet perhaps never in his life had there been a 
 moment of so much pride, for the opportunity had 
 come, when he was permitted to present to his people 
 for the first time, his loved child. Various emotions 
 were struggling within him, and though he spoke in an 
 undertone, there was a sort of transport in his voice 
 as he said: "John' — Ehoda — this is the daughter Mary 
 left me." The girl went up the steps and stood be- 
 tween the two. With a simple earnestness she gave a 
 pretty, dimpled hand to each and glancing from one to 
 the other of their guests she said with warm hospital- 
 ity: "We've been looking for you a long time; it would 
 be hard to make you understand how glad we are that 
 you are here." The words fell musically from her ripe 
 lips. As she spoke there was in her such subtle 
 warmth of life, such freshness of soul, and such exu- 
 berant vitality. She seemed so sunnily content, a crea- 
 ture all health, and life, and joy; all curves and rosi- 
 ness; a complete and perfect thing, a fit representation 
 of what the Creative Hand, unhindered, was capable. 
 A moment later, taking her cap from her head, she had 
 gone over and seated herself on the edge of the veran- 
 da, near her father's side, and the unaffected joy at 
 seeing him happy glowed in her fair face and in her 
 bright eyes. 
 
 Before his arrival John Harding had tried to form 
 some sort of an estimate of her, this precious, only 
 child of his brother. He had come prepared to look 
 upon her with affectionate partiality. Now that she 
 was thete before him in rounded, healthy flesh, he 
 could only feel how inadequate had been his estimate. 
 There was something strange to him in the attraction 
 
X2 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 of the bright, sunny face. A rare measure of the sun- 
 light seemed mingled with her soft, abundant hair. 
 There was a singularly ripe sweetness in the rich, full 
 mouth, with the dimples playing around it; a delicacy 
 in the tinting of the cheek, a smoothness in its contour, 
 and a new and peculiar grace and strength in the sup- 
 ple, rounded form. John Harding was not given to 
 analyzing his thoughts, while the attempt to put his 
 impression of the girl before him into words would 
 have appalled the most eloquent. 
 
 Weeks afterward they were sitting, he and his broth- 
 er, in the same place at the sunset time, and they were 
 talking of her as she was coming across the grounds 
 toward them. He dropped his head a moment as if 
 to collect himself, rubbed his rough hand on the arm 
 of the chair, then lifting his eyes to his brother's face 
 he said with a good-natured shake of the head: "Be- 
 yond me, Jim; in fit keeping with the looks of the 
 things that surround her here. A true Californian 
 product. Lord bless me,'' he continued, "if she isn't 
 the finest of them all." The father answered, "So you 
 choose to place her among my botanical specimens? I 
 realize that she has grown up different from the ma- 
 jority," he said, looking after her. A beautiful light 
 shown in his face as he continued almost as though 
 thinking aloud. "Realizing that my most cherished 
 plant was a creature of God, I have left her, like my 
 other plants, almost wholly to nature. I have taken 
 care that the joyous, abundant, life within her should 
 not be chiecked. She has lived from mere love of life. 
 She has not been cut off, as far as I am able to deter- 
 mine, from anything which her Creator designed her 
 to have. She has grown up in just the way she was 
 intended to grow. Just like some of the others out 
 there," and he stretched his hands out over the beau- 
 tiful grounds. "She has opened up in the sunlight in 
 her own fair fashion. She has never been strained or 
 pinched or frozen. "You're right, John." A mo- 
 ment later he added sadly, and with an air of disquie- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 13 
 
 tilde: ^'1 only hope, John, that when I am gone, and 
 am not here to provide for her what her nature de- 
 mands, she may still be permitted to live in the same 
 genial atmosphere. 
 
 Filled with intense curiosity, the girl looked on pon- 
 dering and wondering. She held within her a realized 
 sense of disappointment. She knew in a vague way 
 something of the mercilessness of the Eastern winter. 
 Eeared as she had been, the severity of New Hampshire 
 climate had been an unintelligible thing to her, but 
 now as she studied these people she seemed for the first 
 time to catch a glimpse of that life so unlike her own. 
 She noted the thin and cavernous cheeks and her 
 aunt's rigid frame. She found Uncle John ever so lit- 
 tle like her father. A momentary seriousness came 
 over her, and with a shiver she decided it must be a 
 dreadful country, and bleak and cruel, to make people 
 who live in it look as these folks looked. It was x\unt 
 Ehoda who spoke next, and the discordant tone of her 
 voice sent a thrill through the girl. She said: "Doyt! 
 is that what you call her? You must have named her, 
 and then I don't see how you ever got her mother's 
 consent. Why, it's not a girl's name and it's not a 
 boy's name. It's not like anybody's name that I ever 
 heard of."' The Doctor made pleasant reply: "And 
 why must it be like anybody's name, Rhoda? Aren't 
 we never to be permitted to do anything new? Just 
 because we are late in the scheme of creation, it does 
 not follow that we must kill out the inventive part of 
 our mental mechanism, and just copy the whims of 
 those who have gofle before us. Our modem babies 
 must have an opportunity to assert their individuality. 
 They are an entirely different creation from the Abra- 
 hams and the Isaacs, and the Amoses and the Jacobs." 
 x^unt Ehoda did not stop to argue further in regard to 
 the name. She had something else on her mind which 
 seemed of infinitely more importance. Doyt, being 
 bent on kind courtesy toward their guests, to her own 
 surprise, presently found herself in a pleasant sort of 
 
14 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 companionghip and almost at ease with these strange 
 people. She knew that this had been her father's 
 dream for years; to get his brother out of his hard 
 life, out of his narrow limits, away from lack and hard- 
 ships and to replace it all by rest and continued sun- 
 shine. The conversation between the brothers gener- 
 ally drifted back again to the region of their boyhood, 
 and as Doyt listened, one dimpled hand clutched the 
 pillar behind her, her head leaning against the rounded 
 column, she realized for the first time that her father, 
 her great splendid father, was once a child. Her love 
 for him made every hour of his existence a matter 
 of keenest interest to her. She listened, open-eared, 
 to the marvelous stories; with eager curiosity she heard 
 them tell of the freaks of her father's boyhood, of what 
 seemed to her the very beginning of civilization; about 
 the log-rollings, and the barn-raisings, and the quilt- 
 ings, and the corn-huskings, and the sleigh-riding, and 
 about the school days. Uncle John recalled the lame 
 New England school-master, an individual of common 
 and impressive memory who, whenever thrown into a 
 state of agitation by the dullness of a, boy, used to 
 whack him over the head with his crutch, a method of 
 brain development peculiarly his own invention. Dor- 
 cas entered into the conversation with hearty interest, 
 and Aunt Rhoda put in a sentence now and then in a 
 grim fashion. The doctor gradually drew his brother 
 to tell about the present condition of the farm, and 
 the work required to coax the growth of crops out of 
 the ungenial soil, and as he talked, earnestly studied 
 his furrowed face. "John," the doctor said, as walk- 
 ing to his side he laid his hand upon his brother's 
 shoulder, "I see, in spite of yourself, I should have 
 forced you to come away sooner. I think you have 
 earned a few days' rest, old boy. I want you and 
 Ehoda both to make the most of your time here. 
 Don't waste an instant of this valuable occasion with 
 any sort of worry. Just dream away the sunny weeks. 
 Don't mind my frankness, John; but time is telling on 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 15 
 
 you, boy; the north wind has had its effect; you look 
 horribly cut up and care-worn. Xo, don't deny it/' 
 he said as his brother attempted to speak. He went 
 on feelingly, "That look you wear is a reproach to me. 
 I had forgotten how hard life was with you. I have 
 been living here comfortably and quietly, escaping all 
 the storms and hardships and enjoying so much of the 
 fullness of life and you so little." His brother heard 
 him through; then with a somewhat embarrassed man- 
 ner, he got up out of his chair, and looking aside he 
 smoothed down his withered face, then turning again 
 he said, with a show of impatience: "Good gracious, 
 Jim, if I had known that you expected me to be hand- 
 some, I shouldn't have come"; then added apologeti- 
 cally: "It's a long time since you came away, you know, 
 and Ehoda and I are growing old." The brother re- 
 sponded: "I did not mean to intimate that you are not 
 good looking; I mean only to say that you do not look 
 as though you were getting the good out of life. Yes, 
 I know, and it's all right for you to grow old ; but you 
 see you are not growing old after the right fashion. 
 You're not holding together properly. I see I ought 
 to have brought you out sooner. I've let this thing go 
 on too long, old fellow," he continued, solicitously. 
 "Now, just forget all about your corn-gathering and 
 your tree-felling and your wood-sawing, and sit still 
 here and let this sunshine saturate you through and 
 through. Sunshine is the best medicine; the only 
 trouble is that people get so little leisure to take the 
 proper doses. As a rejuvenator, John, it can't be sur- 
 passed. A little while here and you'll be all right, and 
 as handsome as you'd care to be." "I'll try and take 
 your advice." A new idea entering his head, he said 
 humbly: "But look here, Jim, seriously, your way of 
 looking at things is entirely new to me; you're talking 
 as though it was but for people to take life easy. 
 Now, I've always thought that folks didn't amount to 
 much without they had something to fight — storms, 
 weevil, drought, hard winds, frost, debts, enemies. 
 
1(3 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 I've always thought that it was just these kind of 
 things that has been the making of a fellow, but then 
 you see we've been living a long ways apart and we've 
 a different way of looking at it from the other side." 
 "Just another mistaken idea, John, like that, that 
 some of you eastern people hold, that you've got to 
 freeze the marrow in your spine every winter in order 
 that you may have good health the ensuing summer. 
 The plant may be crushed by footsteps and wilted by 
 frost and twisted by storms, but I never could see that 
 it was in any way aided in its growth by any of them. 
 You've fought, John, you know, because you have had 
 to, not as you would try to make me believe, with an eye 
 to your ultimate good development. At any rate, I in- 
 tend for you to do without hardships for a while. You'll 
 have to forego the pleasure of a northeaster, for in- 
 stance, for some time now. You've come round to the 
 sunny side of the earth and I want you to drink in the 
 warmth and comfort of it. If there is anything in 
 your theory, you've had enough already to develop the 
 best that is in you." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORyiA LIFE. 17 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AMien Dorcas went in to prepare the table for lunch- 
 eon, Doyt was recalled to herseli. Bowing, she made 
 excuse for leaving and said in a practical way: '^I have 
 something to do. Save some of your stories till I get 
 back, Uncle John,'^ she called out as she passed down 
 the walk. 
 
 They looked after her as she moved away among the 
 flowers. The light breeze lifted the loose masses of 
 her hair, unfolding to their gaze its golden tinge. 
 Outdoor life, and freedom and fresh, clean air, had 
 given rosin ess to her cheeks, soft curves to her form, 
 and grace to her limbs. The joy of living w^as in her. 
 As they watched her, in her walk there was such 
 smoothness, as to make the motion appear magical. 
 They noted the delicate poise of the head, the evenly 
 balanced frame, the ease of action, the springy step, 
 the graceful stretch of the limbs from the hip-joint, 
 the seemingly small expenditure of energy. She had 
 not been trained; she had no need of a teacher to ac- 
 quire the art of moving with ease, any more than does 
 the graceful, agile mouutain fawn. The skilled Hand 
 that made her had taken the same or greater care in 
 the shaping, adapting and adjustment of bone, muscle, 
 tendon, and nerve; and, like the chamois or the ante- 
 lope, she simply brought into use her nntrammeled 
 abilities. It is no wonder that human eyes look upon 
 such movement bewildered, for the privilege of activ- 
 ity, the ease, beauty, and grace of woman^s walk, the 
 means for which have been so elaborately provided, 
 have been lost to the civilized world. For untold gen- 
 erations the limbs have been hampered, the swell of 
 the muscles checked, the well-contrived springiness 
 crushed out, the long, quick stroke hindered, the full 
 
18 A'S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 stride, obstructed, the many jointed, live, pliant, flexi- 
 ble foot crushed into leather casings, as though it were 
 formed of one solid bone. All the intricate design, all 
 the exquisite work, all the delicate molding, all the 
 marvelous mechauism, all the creative skill, wasted and 
 lost. 
 
 As the party on the veranda looked after her, Doyt 
 left the walk, went the width of the lawn, and stooped 
 to gather some Adolets which grew there. There was 
 a heavy frown on Aunt Ehoda's spare brow, as though 
 the repression could be endured no longer; hitching 
 her thin figure further back into her chair she said: 
 "That shows what comes from a girl growing up with- 
 out a mother. I'd sorter hoped, though, that Dorcas 
 would take a hand in the raising of her.'' The doctor 
 looked across the yard to where his daughter stood 
 bunching together the flowers she had culled, and re- 
 sponded eagerly and v^ith some display of proprietary 
 pride (he received her words as congratulatory), "A^es, 
 I've raised her. Dorcas has been good; she hasn't in- 
 terfered much. Her's is the only life that I have had 
 control of from the beginning, and," he went on in his 
 philosophical way, "I've just tried, you see, to let her 
 grow up as it seems to me she was designed to grow." 
 Aunt Ehoda fidgeted about somewhat; notwithstand- 
 ing the pleading look that her liusband gave her; from 
 her construction she could not let the opportunity pass 
 for a thrust, so with something of an over-assumption 
 of her privileges as a relative and a guest of the house- 
 hold she said sharply: "Yes, anybody can see that her 
 father's raised her." There was a movement of sur- 
 prise. "Men will undertake so many things for which 
 they have not the slightest qualifications," she added 
 with the air of one acquitting herself of a duty. "If a 
 woman had had any hand in the discipline, James, she 
 wouldn't be likely to go moving about the country like 
 a cyclone, and coming in like she did a while ago." 
 The doctor began to see that he had misunderstood. 
 The indignant aunt continued in a tone of shocking 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 19 
 
 propriety: '^My sakes alive! does she often tear around 
 in that frantic fashion? \\Qiy man, it was a Provi- 
 dence that brought her in alive/' John sat helplessly 
 opposite to her, and the crushed look in his furrowed 
 face had the effect of concentrating her attention upon 
 him. Shrugging up her spare shoulders she said 
 acridly: "What's got into you, eJohn? For pity's sake, 
 I hope you are not going to try to conduct yourself as 
 if you were used to such ways of doing/' She added 
 in lower tone and leaning toward him, "Don't go to 
 wavering about now, John, and to acting delirious, 
 just because you're in California." Then she straight- 
 ened herself up again, and smiling grimly with an air 
 that said: "You're foolish if you expect me to appear 
 as if I were either blind or dumb, just because I'm 
 away from home." iSTobody spoke, and accordingly 
 with full faith in her own infallibility she continued 
 the attack: "The girl ought to have been reared by 
 somebody who would have encouraged her finer senti- 
 ments. Men can't understand." She pitched her 
 voice in a higher key and what followed came with a 
 sort of desperation. "What I want to know is," she 
 said, "how you can expect anything from a girl 
 dressed in that heathenish style"? She half arose 
 from her chair and stretched out her long, bony arin 
 to its full length; pointing across the yard she added 
 with emphasis: "The girl's got on bloomers!" 
 
 The doctor was disconcerted for a moment; through 
 his pride in his young daughter he had, it is true, an- 
 ticipated the impression she would make upon his 
 eastern visitors, but he had dwelt only on the effect of 
 her active mind, her character, her sunny nature, her 
 perfection of health, and her activity; but most of all 
 upon her unartificiality. It was a shock of surprise to 
 him that his sister-in-law had overlooked these things 
 of moment, and had seemingly taken notice only of the 
 minor details of dress. Tie was a man of discernment 
 and discrimination: he had acted conscientiously, and 
 he was ready to defend the system used in the rearing 
 
20 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 of his only child; yet he hesitated a moment for he 
 hardly knew how to make his position understood. 
 
 At the extreme limits of our country, vegetable 
 growths from the same seed even are so metamor- 
 phosed that the kinship is hardly recognized; so people 
 of the same birth and lineage under the widely 
 changed conditions grow to such different habits of 
 thought as hardly to be intelligible to each other. 
 This was the present condition of things. The doctor 
 was courteous by nature. There lingered only a slight 
 expression of disappointment in his face; as, smiling 
 at her irritation, he spoke in a soothing, conciliatory 
 tone: "Its kind of you, I am sure, to be interested; but, 
 Ehoda, it^s an infinite source of pleasure to me that 
 she is able to move about briskly. I want her to have 
 full use of her splendid faculties; I am glad to let her 
 do what she is capable of doing. If I had hampered 
 her I should, have killed out all the best th?,t was in 
 her." Suddenly he added, "If she w^ere a boy, now, 
 you would not object. I have studied the human form, 
 and I know by her anatomy that she is just as accur- 
 ately constructed and just as lavishly fitted for action 
 as if she had been a boy. She has just as much enjoy- 
 ment in air and light and sunshine and freedom, and 
 just as much need of them." He continued defensive- 
 ly: "You don't expect me to make an insignificant 
 weakling out of my child — my best possession — while 
 I rear my cattle and horses with care?" He grew in- 
 tensely earnest now: "She's too wonderful a piece of 
 mechanism to go to waste or to develop only into a 
 shadow of what she was made to be. You don't like 
 the way we are rearing her"? He repeated the words 
 as if their purport were difficult to comprehend. 
 "There's not a discord anywhere in her whole organ- 
 ism. Why, woman," he went on proudly, "her digestion 
 and her assimilation are simply perfect; her lungs are 
 sound, her heart beats like a trip-hammer; every or- 
 gan is in perfect working order; and then she's strong, 
 she's good, she's clever, she's happy. As long as I am 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 21 
 
 certain that slie has attained to these desirable condi- 
 tions, 1 don't see why I have any occasion to worry 
 about the methods." 
 
 Looking at the matter in the light of science, it dis- 
 turbed the man so naturally mild, to think that any 
 woman was so stupid in regard to her natural faculties 
 as, for any reason, to suffer herself to be trammeled 
 until she grew infirm and debilitated. It had been a 
 long time since he had met with one who had the ef- 
 frontery in his presence, though it had been a custom 
 once, to complacently attempt to make out of woman's 
 inability to move, a Christian grace. He controlled 
 himself, however, and talked on tranquilly: ^'You will 
 agree with me, Ehoda, that it is the welfare of the girl, 
 that is of the highest moment. What she wears is at 
 best only secondary. At any rate, no dress is proper, 
 except it is suited to the life and pursuits of the in- 
 dividual. The dress she has on is, I am sure, a simple, 
 serviceable garb.'' The words came from his lips with 
 pure, scholarly accent but he spoke them more as 
 though he were making to himself a statement of the 
 condition of things than as of si>eaking to her." He 
 continued: "1 have felt that it was an entirely rational 
 proceding for her to wear it. I have felt only that it 
 was suitable. I have never stopped to study whether 
 there was any deficiency in it, in an artistic sense or 
 not. But candidly," he said, looking up suddenly, "I 
 never could see that the skirt, whose place it takes, 
 had much to recommend it, except that the custom of 
 wearing it has become fixed." He spoke now from his 
 large experience as a physician. He said:^Tf it were 
 desirable to render woman helpless and slow-footed and 
 weak-backed, the skirt is the proper invention. When 
 left to choose, the alternative seems to be — the semi- 
 invalid in petticoats or the free, grand woman in 
 bloomers." He stood on the edge of the porch and his 
 brother caught the twinkle in his eye as he spoke again: 
 "As for those indecorous garments, why, really, there 
 are but few things for which I have such reverence. 
 
22 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 All humankind should be grateful for the better con- 
 dition of things they have brought. To me, you see, 
 they stand as an emblem of freedom — woman's free- 
 dom. I should be sorry for you to attack them, 
 Khoda, for in that case 1 should be called upon to de- 
 fend them with my life. There is but one other fabric 
 I so highly honor. In my regard, you see, they stand 
 next to the flag of my country.'' 
 
 Those who heard him talk now had no way of know- 
 ing that, years before, the great, tall man, at the time 
 all tortured and shaken by the tragedy of birth, while 
 he chafed the frail, new-born thing from whose closed 
 lips no cry had yet come, had said affectingly, though 
 the words were not spoken aloud: "jSTot going to try to 
 live? After all the trouble to get here, not going to 
 try to stay ?" When there seemed no hope — ''Perhaps 
 you're right, perhaps you had better give up. You're 
 only a woman, child, and there's a hard road ahead." 
 That he strove with a restless, nervous energy to re- 
 store the spark of life and presently, with changed 
 voice, spoke again: "You will live, eh, little one"? 
 \¥hile great tears of joy and thankfulness rained from 
 his eyes, he wrapped her warmly and clutched her little 
 form closely to his bosom and said: "Woman-like, you 
 are going to make the sacrifice and live for my sake." 
 They had no way of knowing that then and there his 
 heart welling up in gratitude for the gift of a child, he 
 had voAved that by the aid of best medical science, and 
 with the use of all the powers of his l)rain, and with 
 all the energy of his life, she should, in defiance of rule 
 and custom, have the right to live, as she was designed 
 to live, and be saved from the suffering common to 
 womankind. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 23 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by the ap- 
 pearance of the girl; she and Dorcas coming ont 
 through the front door to call them in to luncheon. 
 
 When the Aunt had arisen and folded up her hand- 
 kerchief, the girl came toward her holding in her 
 hand a bunch of violets, whose faint, sweet fragrance 
 filled the air about them. Her manner was still grace- 
 ful and free, and she had lost none of her childish 
 bloom; yet she appeared almost womanly in height 
 now, and looked dazzingly pretty and smiling. As a 
 preliminary measure perhaps, toward infusing some- 
 thing of the summer warmth into her, she pinned the 
 flowers to the sparse bosom of her aunt's black dress; 
 and afterward, bending her pretty head to survey the 
 effect, she laid her soft hand against the withered 
 check in pity. 
 
 Aunt Rhoda was one of those people who take every 
 favor as her due, showed no gratitude and never ac- 
 knowledged an obligation. She scrutinized her closely; 
 she did not thank her for the violets; she did not en- 
 courage the air of friendliness; took no notice of the 
 silent caress, but as she was about to turn away to fol- 
 low Dorcas into the house, surveying the girl from 
 head to foot, she remarked with some severity: "My 
 dear, I am glad to see you clothed again and in your 
 right mind.^^ 
 
 It was owing as much to the love that had always 
 surrounded her as to the tender atmosphere about her, 
 that the girl throve and grew beautiful, but her father, 
 while always kind, had trained her to the wholesome 
 theory that people are spared much pain who lose the 
 edge of their sensitiveness. 
 
24 ^^'S' GOD MADS HER. 
 
 Doyt looked into her aunt's face a moment, her eyes 
 wide open with wonder. She could not see any reason 
 why their guest should be hostile toward herself, and 
 though she could hardly understand her attitude, she 
 concluded her intentions must be good, and resolved 
 that at any rate she wasn't going to be foolish enough 
 to make herself miserable over an uncertainty. 
 
 Uncle John, fully conscious of the lack of courtesy, 
 made a timorous effort at atonement. There was an 
 awkward fumbling of the hands as he said, clumsily, 
 looking toward the violets which seemed already to 
 shrink from the chilliness of their locality: ^'Why, 
 Doyt, I never saw such a fine lot of 'Johnny-jump-ups' 
 before," looking compassionately into the pretty child 
 face, "and blooming here at Christmas time,'^ he went 
 on. "They don't grow very big in our country; they 
 are kind of chary, you know, about sticking up their 
 heads at all, not knowing at what moment they may 
 get nipped." 
 
 The party walked through the wide hall, and toward 
 the dining-room, Uncle John behind, with Doyt in 
 royal spirits walking close to his elbow. The uncle 
 listened with profound attention while she kept chat- 
 tering away. "It's funny to think," she said, peeping 
 up into his face, "that all these years you've been my 
 uncle and I've never seen you once." John answered 
 her, looking her over, "And you've grown to all this 
 height and I've never seen you." What he felt was — 
 "Having seen you, I don't feel as though I ever wanted 
 to take my eyes off you again." Presently, "This is 
 our jubilee time, you see, Uncle John," she said cheer- 
 ily. "We've always been waiting to hold it, when you 
 folks from the East came." She stopped suddenly, then 
 resumed, "I've had a craving for this." "What?" he 
 said. "Why, the privilege," she went on in an explan- 
 atory tone, "'of looking at you, and the privilege of 
 hearing you talk, and," she hesitated a little, then com- 
 pleted the sentence, "the privilege of showing you 
 California. Father, do you know, has always been 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 25 
 
 afraid that I doirt appreciate California. He thinks I 
 can't, because I have always been here, and have never 
 known anything about other places that are not so 
 nice. I do though; I love it/' she added confidingly. 
 As they neared the dining-room, she said again: "We 
 have been afraid, seeing you have come so far, that 
 maybe you folks would be homesick, you know," He 
 replied. "After being so courteously received by you 
 all here, that certainly would be a very unappreciative 
 thing for a man to do; don't you think so"? He felt 
 so strongly the effect of her sunny personality, that he 
 added with great honesty of heart: "As long as you al- 
 low me the pleasure of your company, I don't feel. that 
 I shall have to make any desperate resolutions to keep 
 myself from it." She had already discovered her 
 Uncle's warm heart. "I always knew I should like 
 you. Uncle John, because — " she paused a moment 
 then said, "because you are my father's brother"; and 
 as they passed through the door together she added 
 frankly, feeling themselves already established on pret- 
 ty good terms of fellowship, "But T didn't think you 
 would like me so soon." 
 
 Accustomed as their guests were to the stiff simplic- 
 ity of their Kew England home, the room into which 
 they were ushered appeared a magic creation. The sun 
 came in at the broad windows in soft waves of warmth 
 and lit up the apartment in rich color and glow and 
 splendor. It flung diamonds on the well-spread table 
 and sparkled among the glasses and danced in clusters 
 of golden spots on the tinted wall. 
 
 Doyt, during the half hour after she had left the 
 veranda, had been busy. She had placed flowers every- 
 where. There were roses, fresh culled, on the mantle, 
 collections of cheery-faced pansies, huge vases of feath- 
 ery chrysanthemums, great sheaves of pure white lilies, 
 creamy masses of sweet peas, clusters of carnations and 
 bunches of golden poppies placed here and there, till, 
 although it was mid-December, the glad summer time 
 seemed to have entered the room and filled it. On the 
 
26 A*Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 sideboard were baskets of rich tropical fruits and nuts, 
 and through the open window came tlie merry calls 
 and trills of birds. 
 
 Ehoda looked all about the room. She surveyed the 
 bright carpet, the wall decorations, the dainty cur- 
 tains; she looked the table over with a house-keep- 
 er's scrutinizing eye and the result of the exam- 
 ination seemed satisfactory. Her keen vision fell upon 
 the assemblage of lilies. With alert step she walked 
 across and leaning over the big vase which held them 
 she gazed curiously at the waxen blossoms bunched to- 
 gether there. . A deeper shadow came over the sunken 
 face. She straightened up with promptitude and turn- 
 ing toward the others, while eager solicitude, amaze- 
 ment, and indignation Av-ere blended in her voice as 
 she called out, "You don't mean to tell me that you 
 pick calla lilies here!' 
 
 The little tim.id things she had been used to in her 
 Green Mountain home had only been kept alive with 
 much nursing and the encouraging aid of a base- 
 burner stove. From their very fragility they had been 
 held sacred. Such a struggle d-eserved respect any- 
 where. 
 
 Dorcas remembered very well in. what estimation 
 they were held in Baxter. She recalled the fact now; 
 she remembered well how the formation of a bud was 
 a topic of conversation among the neighbors, how the 
 bursting of a bnd into full bloom flew about the town 
 as a piece of news and was an item for the newspapers. 
 She recalled all now — how the spindling thing was 
 propped and wrapped and carried to the church for 
 public display as well as pulpit decoration, and how for 
 same time thereafter the owner of the plant enjoyed 
 distinction araong the townspeople. Dorcas, recalling 
 all this, could readily see what a grievous sin they had 
 been guilty of in the eyes of their guest. She said 
 soothingly, in an explanatory way, standing at her 
 side, "If we had only one, Rhoda, and it cost us so 
 much care as yours at home costs you, we should hes- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 27 
 
 itate to cut off the struggling thing in the midst of its 
 pathetic effort at growth, but you see we have an 
 abundance here. You can't form any conception of 
 the way these lilies grow here till you. have seen them. 
 After dinner we will take you out and show you the 
 long array.'' The doctor added with gallantry, ^'Yes, 
 lihoda, after dinner you look into this thing and de- 
 cide what you want us to do, and hereafter it shall be 
 iust as you say. ^Ye shall gather the lilies by the bushel 
 at your order or they shall remain out there where 
 they grow in all their stately loveliness, unmolested. 
 If we make mistakes and show unholy familiarity with 
 sacred things you must set us right. Come," he said, 
 "we've kept you waiting dinner too long. Sit down; 
 eat now and we will ^consider the lilies' afterwards"; 
 and they all sat down, the brothers and sister Dorcas, 
 who had been accustomed in the fa^-away home to 
 gather about the same table, sat down to break bread 
 together for the first time in more than a score of 
 vears. 
 
28 ''i-8 (JOI) MADE HEIi. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 '''I wouldn't for apy thing in the world interfere 
 with his plans in regard to his daughter. I really do 
 not see any reason for doing so. His methods with 
 her are always so quiet and gentle, and her reverence 
 for him is perfect. I couldn't find fault with my 
 hrother, Ehoda; he is always so good and his judgment 
 ,so true.'" This was what Dorcas said to her sister-in- 
 law as they were going from room to room over the 
 house, the latter individual continuing on the same 
 theme that had occupied her mind in the morning. 
 Inspired by an almost motherly affection, the benign 
 Dorcas continued: "As for the way she dresses when 
 riding; pardon my prejudice, Ehoda, but I thought she 
 looked remarkably pretty when she came in to-day." 
 Ehoda rejoined almost involuntarily, "Looked pretty! 
 As if that was all that was required. She'd look 
 pretty no matter what outlandish rig you'd put on 
 her." She had been exasperated by her brother-in- 
 law's total inappreciation of his own deficiency in the 
 matter of training children, but she found it more 
 tantalizing still for his sister to defend him. She 
 added sourly, "I've always heard that men lose their 
 minds that study bones and make a business of blood 
 shedding and such things. I don't suppose I ought 
 to be surprised at James' way of doing, but I didn't 
 look for you to agree with his wild notions." She 
 turned squarely toward her hostess, and looking into 
 her face with fixed gaze for a moment, said: "Dorcas 
 Harding, how you have changed since you came West!" 
 As she finished the sentence they entered the draw- 
 ing-room of the house, a beautiful apartment which 
 stretched across the building. The windows on two 
 sides looked out on the lawn; those of a third opened 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 29 
 
 into a conservatorv, where under a roof and sides of 
 glass were massed together thrifty growths of pahns 
 and ferns, and bathed in sun rays, plants of rich, glossy 
 foliage and orchids daintily colored. On one side 
 were masses of begonia and purple cineraria, while the 
 drowsy air was ladened with their rare fragrance. In 
 the room inself were musical instruments and low 
 shelves filled with books, and an ebony cabinet and 
 paintings and a few odd bits of statuary. Over the 
 mantle was hung a painting of the young mother, 
 under which the daughter often stood, peering into 
 the tender eyes, studying the smiling red lips, and 
 trying to recall the tone of her mothers voice, and to 
 picture how her own life would have been had that 
 mother lived. 
 
 Though simple in its arrangement, about the house 
 everywhere there hung a singular, nameless charm. 
 Here were evidence of plans for health, schemes for 
 comfort, palpable device for cheer, elegance of taste 
 and harmony of color. The wide sleeping-rooms on 
 the second floor were attractively fresh and sunny. 
 The great square hall below with its stained glass 
 windows and carpet in rich red color and its broad 
 stairs at one side had a hospitable look. The dining- 
 room wore always an air of genial good fellowship; 
 the red roses climbed even into the kitchen windows; 
 and under Dorcas' direction the pot boiled joyously, 
 the shining pans and tins reflected the light, and order 
 and cleanliness completed the peculiar attraction. 
 
 Off the long room below was the library, smaller in 
 dimensions than the other, its low windows opening 
 out on the veranda. Besides the many cases of books 
 and a long table strewn with magazines, papers, manu- 
 script and writing material; there was near the 
 window a broad couch with pillows, and the great 
 leathern chairs with which the place was furnished 
 seemed to invite vou to rest in their cosy depths. 
 
 After dinner, in the evening, it was in this room that 
 the doctor and his daus^hter and often Dorcas retired, 
 
30 ' AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 sometimes for reading, but oftener for rest. When the 
 house had guests for the evening the -long room was 
 made use of, and of all the house to this room alone 
 visitors, from custom, had been interdicted. It had 
 become a sort of sanctum which few invaded. 
 
 Here it was that the father, seated in one of the 
 wide chairs, the girl had been accustomed to recline on 
 a stool at his feet, her fair head often resting on his 
 knee as they talked together. Here, even in her early 
 childhood, she had gained an insight into his great, 
 grand nature, and here her own character had been 
 developed and her mental growth largely attained. 
 Here, day after day, she had learned broad lessons and 
 caught inspirations for good deeds, till she had come 
 to a respect and love and trust in him, that was pure, 
 absolute, and nndoubting; till she knew no law save 
 that he indorsed, and she had no wish or thought 
 save for him. 
 
 A strange, sweet, almost holy spell came over her 
 during these evening hours; a sweet sense of content- 
 ment and happiness. She sat there in his presence 
 and listened to his soothing voice, looked np into his 
 calm face, and though she rarely ever attempted to 
 express her devotion, his very hand grew sacred to her, 
 and she knelt before it as at a shrine. 
 
 As the women came out from the study, Doyt 
 crossed the broad hall and came toward them. She 
 had her hat on, and in her hand carried a bundle. 
 Since they had left the table she had sat stooped over 
 the sewing-machine making thin cotton pads and a 
 cover for a feather cushion. They were intended for 
 Williams, one of the doctor's patients, who had been 
 bedfast for some weeks. He and his eighty-year-old 
 mother lived in a cottage down the road beyond the 
 green trees. They had been quite wealthy at one 
 time, but Williains in his time of health had invested 
 his own money in stocks and lost; then had slowly 
 gained possession of his mother's, and the greater 
 portion of her small wealth had also mysteriously dis- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 3] 
 
 appeared. Naturally active, he had not accepted the 
 lot of lying in bed with folded hands with any sort of 
 resigijation. He had been so ill-natured and exacting 
 since his sickness that he had alienated everybody from 
 him; that is, everybody except his patient old mother. 
 
 Xow, it had appealed strongly to Doyt's sympathy 
 that Williams should be dying and no one to care. 
 She did not stop to reason whether he or someone else 
 was to blame for his present bereft condition, whether 
 he were right or wrong, worthy or unworthy; it was 
 sufficient that he was sick and in need. 
 
 When Dorcas had packed a basket with delicacies 
 and Doyt had gathered a bunch of half-open rosebuds, 
 the carriage and horses were at the side veranda, and 
 she and her father and Uncle John were soon whirl- 
 ing away. 
 
AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 A few months before this, and when scarce seven 
 years old; the doctor had picked up Tim, the boy of 
 the place, on the streets of San Francisco. While 
 waiting for the transfer line at the corner of Market 
 and Powell streets he had noticed him with others sell- 
 ing papers there. Tim, then, was a strange little 
 creature, dark and thin; his whole costume was unique; 
 it consisted of a torn brown coat and a pair of baggy 
 knee trousers and rough shoes of over-size. The strap 
 that had held to place one of his stockings was broken, 
 and the loose top of it fell over, leaving a bare, 
 weather-beaten knee exposed to view. Under his 
 short left arm he held a loose bunch of morning papers. 
 He was just a mite of humanity, afloat among the 
 larger crafts; but there was an air of independence in 
 his manner of moving, and a tendency, too, to make 
 the most of a hard voyage which attracted the man's 
 attention toward him.' The doctor, after completing 
 the commercial transaction of buying a paper from 
 him, fell to talking with the small salesman. Learn- 
 ing his name, and, among other parts of Tim's pathetic 
 historv, that the bov was fatherless and motherless, he 
 thought to test him' by asking: ''Well, Tim, how would 
 vou like to go home Vith me to the country, when I 
 come back this evening?" The boy pushed back the 
 lopped brim of his hat, and lifting his great, dark 
 eves, he looked steadily into the face that bent over 
 him. That face was full of thought, power, honesty, 
 a face that was easilv read and when the boy had 
 studied it but a moment, his thin lips became twisted 
 into a queer sort of a smile; tucking his papers closely 
 under his short arm and suddenly thrusting his hands 
 far down into his pockets, he said timidly: "Mister, 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 33 
 
 3^011 may bet Fd like to go." As his new friend was 
 about to step npon the car he held out to Tim a piece 
 of money. "You will need something before you 
 leave," he said, "something to square up accounts with, 
 you know." "Xo, I can't take it/"' Tim answered de- 
 cidedly, "I don't need it." He was depending upon 
 the three dimes which he had put away in his shoe, 
 and his eyes instinctively ran along down his ragged 
 tronser leg toward their hiding place. Then, as 
 though he realized that he had in his enthusiasm acted 
 indiscretely, he glanced furtively at the boys who had 
 gathered around. The car moved off and the man 
 called cheerily, "Be ready, I'll be back at five, be 
 ready!" All the boys gathered around for councfl and 
 Tim Avas for a time the center of attraction. A lanky, 
 loose-limbed newsboy, pushing up to the front said 
 tauntingly: "0, go on! Ye don't think you're goin' 
 anywliere, do yer? The man wuz only Joshin' yer, 
 Yuh'll never see him again. Greeny. "V^Hiat'd he want 
 yuh for, anyway?" Another looking down at Tim 
 from his perch on the curbstone, said in a twangy 
 voice: "Yer limb, ye, why didn't yuh take the money?" 
 Then, as though suddenly struck by the remembrance, 
 "You've got a bank in your shoe, have yuh ?" Step- 
 ping down menacingly, he said, "Come on, boys, let's 
 rob it." A small street urchin with a crutch went 
 close to Tim's side and laying hold of the bundle of 
 papers under his arm, said: "Here, give up your 
 papers if yer goin' to leave the old stand." Tim held 
 firmly to his pack. He walked away a few steps and 
 called out indifferently: "Here's yer mornin' papers — 
 ^Call,' ^Chronicle,' ^Examiner' "; and all the morning 
 went on with his work just as if no gentleman had 
 stopped to talk with him, and as if no boy in the 
 vicinity had made any comment on it; as if no thought 
 of any change in his fortune had ever been proposed. 
 Through the morning, as far as he could, he kept clear 
 of the other newsboys, and his active mind was given 
 to much thinking. When all his papers were gone he 
 3 
 
34 ^S (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 stopped and tip-toed to get a look at himself in the 
 mirror at the cigar-stand near the corner. He saw re- 
 flected there the thin, soiled face with its big black 
 eyes, the small, poorly nourished body, the old lopped- 
 brimmed hat, and odd misfit suit, and the run-down, 
 ragged shoes. He instinctively tried to clear up his 
 face with his coat sleeve, then he reached down and 
 made an effort to smooth the wrinkles out of his pants, 
 and to bring about a union between them and his torn 
 hose tops. With all his efforts at improvement the pic- 
 ture in the glass remained much the same. "The 
 fellers are right," straightening up to get the full 
 effect. ''Just open your eyes and look at yourself, 
 Tim," he said reprovingly, ''an' ye think yerself of 
 such importance that he's goin' to come back after ye 
 sometime this evenin.' " Looking full into the eyes in 
 the glass, he said contemptuously: "Yer a goose; go 
 and build yerself up on it and go round here all the 
 forenoon thinkin' that he's comin' when yer kno's well 
 as yer know anything that such a fine man as he's got 
 no use fer the likes of ye." He held himself aloof 
 from the other boys, and at noontime he took some 
 cakes that he had bought for a lunch and crawled into 
 a secluded doorway to eat them. After he had seated 
 himself he reached down into the side of his shoe and 
 fingering about a while pulled out a dime. • He held 
 it on his thumb nail and braced his forefinger against 
 it. "Heads, I go, tails, I stay," and after a minute's 
 pause, "I'll bet it'll be tails ; it'll be my luck," he said, 
 solemnly. 
 
 He flopped the dime up; it came down on the boards 
 and rolled along on its edge, halted an instant in the 
 corner in an undecided way, then fell and lay still. 
 The boy jumped forward, picked up the money and 
 shouted, "Heads, bv Jimmy! That means yer goin', 
 Tim." 
 
 Before the appointed time in the evening he was 
 back on the corner again. His blonde locks were drip- 
 ping and freshly parted and his bright eyes lit up a 
 spare face newly scrubbed. 
 
A kiTORY OF VALIFOUNIA LIFE. 35 
 
 One of his comrades in trade ran up to him, 
 "George!'' he yelled out, "but I took the chap for an 
 undertaker." The signal stopped the sale of the "first 
 edition" of the evening newspapers and there was a 
 flurry among the boys. There was a roar of laughter 
 when the loose-jointed chap yelled out: "What in hell 
 would the gentleman want with ye?" His small tor- 
 mentor did not know that in spite of Tim's sanguine 
 manner and confident appearance at present, that what 
 the boys just said, was what he had been saying to him- 
 self all the afternoon. 
 
 The roar of traffic went on, the jangle of the bells, 
 the hum of the trolley and the tramp of busy feet on 
 the pavement, and while the boys were talking to- 
 gether, the doctor alighted from a car and came toward 
 them. He did not at first recognize his protege of the 
 morning, but Tim hurried quickly to him and made 
 haste to signify his readiness to go. He said exuber- 
 antly, face flushed and eyes flashing and taking on a 
 new light, "I knowed ye'd come." The little fellow had 
 been used to slreet life; from his babyhood even he had 
 been tricked and cheated, but ever since he had looked 
 into the man's eyes in the morning, impossible as such 
 happiness seemed, he had implicitly believed the words 
 he had said. During his whole life he had met with 
 very few strokes of good luck. Several times through 
 the day he had asked himself if he had not been dream- 
 ing, but when he thought of the man, he laid aside his 
 forebodings; it was enough that such a man had said 
 he would come. 
 
 Bobby Mason, a stout built little newspaper vender 
 about one inch less in stature than Tim, stood a little 
 distance away and looked on intently. His black ring- 
 lets peeped from under his limp hat and lay close to 
 his dark brow. There was an undercurrent of loyalty 
 in Bobby's nature. To him this was a momentous 
 time, and when he saw that the gentleman had re- 
 turned, saw Tim's bundle and his clean- washed face, 
 and knew that he was really going away lie felt that 
 
3€ ^'S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 a phase of his life was closing. He and Tini' — the two 
 mites — had stood the hard knocks of life together un- 
 complainingdy ; they had worked and slept and starved 
 together, and it had never till now occurred to Bobby 
 that the time would ever come when he would be left 
 to meet life's buffets, bereft of Tim's support. He 
 leaned against a hitching post and gave way to his 
 feelings, and another newsvender discovering his con- 
 dition called out: ^'Hello! Bobby here's all broke up," 
 and so Bobby was. He did not seem to heed the boy, 
 but gathering up the diminutive remains of himself, 
 he pushed nearer and looking straight into Tim's face, 
 while huge tears were dropping from his own, said 
 timidly: ^'Where's yer goin', Timmy?" Tim pondered 
 a moment. He wasn't able to answer, but he handed 
 his bundle to one of the other boys, and putting one 
 short arm close around Bobby's neck he made strong 
 gestures with the other hand and said in low, soothing 
 tones: "I guess I'm goin'; but don't you mind it, 
 Bobby, 'cause I'll come back; I'll come back sometime 
 to see you." Harrowing grief seemed to seize Bobby 
 afresh. Tim stood patting him gently, the two pair of 
 eyes about on a level, then suddenly left him and 
 rushed over to a fruit-stand a few steps away, and pay- 
 ing a nickel he hurried back with his hands full and 
 thrust his purchase under his little friend's nose, say- 
 ing in a soft tone of voice, "Here, Bobby, yer always 
 liked apples." The little mourner's grief was too 
 deep to accept the offered consolation, and Tim had to 
 force his purchase into Bobby's unwilling hands and 
 pockets. Car after car passed westward and the doctor 
 still waited looking on Tim's parting with his friend, 
 interestedly. Bobby was not so fortunate as Tim, in 
 that he had a weakly mother and a drunken father. 
 It was owing to these encumbrances that the boys were 
 separated and that he w^as left behind, a little solitary 
 soul, to combat the evils of life, instead of going where 
 his inclinations led and making one of the happy party 
 to the country that day. 
 
A STORT OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 37 
 
 CHAPTEE YIII. 
 
 After Tim had been at Oaklawii for a while, the 
 doctor said one morning to his sister: "We've got to 
 give the bo}^ some responsibility if we want him to 
 amount to anything. Dorcas/^ he said, looking at her 
 in a mischievous way, "He's too young to work about 
 the horses; suppose you abdicate and give over to Tim 
 the care of the poultry yard." The doctor spoke as 
 though he knew by instinct that Dorcas would resent 
 any such intrusion on her rights. Dorcas stood for a 
 moment gravely considering the question; then she 
 turned smiling at her brother and said, "You are not 
 really serious about it, are you?" The brother an- 
 swered, musingly, 'T am not perfectly sure. The idea 
 has come to me. I've no right to interfere with your 
 domain, but I'd like to discuss the question with you 
 if you are willing. I'd like to tr}' the boy. I'd like 
 to see what he can do." "But he's a little fellow," 
 Dorcas interrupted. "Yes, I know; there'll be more 
 than he can manage at first, but you see if you would 
 take the trouble to initiate him into the business, I am 
 sure it would please the little fellow, and though the 
 profit might not be so great as under your own man- 
 agement, the attempt would be for the boy's good and 
 that would be worth more. You can oversee and ad- 
 vise and if Tim shows good business tact, you can grad- 
 ually relinquish all claim." Whatever was in Dorcas' 
 mind she said nothing discouraging, and having 
 thought the matter over the next day she fully ac- 
 quiesced in the plan. The experiment was tried. Tim 
 took hold of the matter with infinite bustle and im- 
 portance, impatient to discharge all the duties of his 
 new position. His demure little face became lighted 
 up with a new life. The newness of the work had its 
 
38 -4*Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 attraction; tlien, too, there was a charming activity 
 and stir about it, for the poultry lot had a swarming 
 population, and the whole place was alert with life. 
 The hoy began to study Avith delight the nature of the 
 feathered tribe about him. He received Dorcas' in- 
 structions with solemnity and puckered up his brows 
 in thought when trying to comprehend the intricacies 
 of the business. At her bidding he hammered and 
 sawed and hoed and dug. During these times it is 
 safe to say that he w^as a happy morsel of humanity. 
 He had stepped so suddenly into wider opportunities. 
 He w^as pleased with the value the doctor had set upon 
 him and most of all felt the honor of being trusted. 
 Childhood does not remember its sorrows and wrongs, 
 and lacks and hardships, and now Tim's heart was just 
 as light as though he had never seen the time that 
 night after night he had crawled into a drygoods box 
 as his only shelter. 
 
 Long before this Tim had noticed tliat his language 
 was different from that used at Oaklawn, and had made 
 a gallant attempt 'to modify it, and now interwoven 
 with his street idioms some high sounding words from 
 the doctor's vocabulary became gradually mixed. 
 
 One morning as the doctor came into the yard pre- 
 paratorv' to driving away, Dorcas called him to come 
 and see Tim's method of feeding the poultry. There 
 was a gap in the hedge wdiich separated the lot from 
 the dooryard, and the opening commanded a view of 
 nearly its whole space. It was at this opening that 
 the two stationed themselves. On the opposite side 
 of the yard from where they stood was a tall white 
 fence and for the protection of the fowl there was a 
 long, low building, with jutting angles and a square 
 window and a wide, open door: and a great walnut tree 
 spread its branches above it. 
 
 The whole colony of feathered inhabitants was out in 
 the glowing sunshine. Ducks with golden bills went 
 sturdily plodding along all in a line. There were 
 Houdans in their splendid plumage, and big, bulky 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 39 
 
 Cochins moved lazily about. Clumsy gray geese car- 
 ried their heads loftily and white leghorns with combs 
 ruffled and plaited, and bantams with gorgeous tails 
 and red-necked and gaunt-legged turkeys stalking 
 about the yard. There were coops of rustic make scat- 
 tered here and there to which hens were tethered wdth 
 their broods about them. 
 
 Suddenly the lethargy of the place was broken. 
 Tim, face and eyes a-sparkle, came through the gate 
 with a great pan of feed, while the hungry multitude 
 with an impulse closed about him. With most exas- 
 perating deliberation he tiptoed and stretching his 
 arms set the pan on a high box. As the expectant 
 group watched him a premature gravity came over his 
 boyish face; he puckered up his brows and seemed to 
 gather slowly his mental forces to meet the occasion. 
 He mounted a coop, he bowed gracefully and waved his 
 hands to the audience in imitation, evidently, of some 
 city speaker. He said politely: ''Xow, gentlemen, will 
 you have the extreme kindness to step back?" It 
 was a straightforward appeal, and a few of his hearers 
 turned up their bead-like eyes and surveyed him de- 
 ferentially, but the majority pushed forward with pal- 
 pitating eagerness, and human-like scrambled for place. 
 He looked into the countenances of some half-grown 
 females who were even clambering up the rostrum 
 where the speaker stood, and said chivalrously, 
 "Ladies, it really will not do to crowd so." This 
 speech also had little effect and directly he dropped 
 his oratorical style and between shut teeth he called 
 out: "Mother of Moses! Til see whether you'ns don't 
 move or not." He came down off his platform, waded 
 resolutely through the moving mass over toward the 
 box; with an adroit movement he caught up an old 
 broom that was standing there. The two could see 
 that he had prepared for the emergency. With short 
 strings to the lower end of the broom he had attached 
 tin cans and before he was astride of the stick and 
 ready to move, the fowls,, warned by some previous ex- 
 
40 ^8 GOD MADE HER. 
 
 I^erience, began to scatter. Tim's feet and legs were 
 like a set of springs and he toolv a flying circle about 
 the yard as though struck with a sudden insane frenzy. 
 He made a reckless and lavish expenditure of muscle 
 and swept on with hot intenbity, and the light sand 
 of the yard scattered as the flying cans stiiick it. The 
 poultry, big and little, aristocratic and plebian, flew for 
 cover the tiny fledglings along with the veterans. 
 There was loud squawking from the belated ones and 
 Dorcas laid her hand heavily on her brother's arm and 
 said with breathless perturbation: ^'He'll have them all 
 killed I*' Eound and round Tim chased, rearing and 
 kicking as he tore on. Bantams in their haste re- 
 frained from strutting, Cochins forgot their clumsi- 
 ness. Some of the retreating fowl splashed through 
 the drinking dishes, and even the Poland gander 
 dropped his pomposity, and took to the shed along 
 with the rest. The old white rooster that did most of 
 the fighting, and was consequently named "The 
 Patriot," scud away at Tim's onslaught, and lay 
 crouched in the shadow of the fence. 
 
 When the boy saw that he had the place all cleared 
 he brought the pan of meal and proceeded wdth the 
 distribution of rations, measuring it out very evenly 
 and justly. The majority of the flock held to the cor- 
 ners and surveyed the proceedings deferentially. If re- 
 treating birds came forth again in any numbers Tim 
 dropped the pan and mounted the stick again and 
 made another circuit. One brown leghorn, with great 
 coolness of manner, crept out of the crevice where she 
 had been hidden and took several long and deliberate 
 steps toward the corn, and then she became frightened 
 at her own temerity, turned and blundering and 
 sprawling and squalling and squawking made her way 
 back to safety. When the bo^y had the feast arranged 
 according to his notion he rattled his knuckles fiercely 
 on the bottom of the empty pan and called, "Chook! 
 chook!" with such vehemence tJiat the whole army re- 
 turned with alacrity and with seemingly no loss of 
 appetite from the scare. 
 
.4 ,ST()RY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 41 
 
 Turning to Dorcas the doctor said in a gratified 
 way: "The scene is over and no fatalities. The poul- 
 try will know how to take care of itself after this. 
 You see the clitmsiest of the birds showed a marvelous 
 talent in getting out of the way. You're surely not 
 going to find fault with that kind of management, are 
 you? It shows that the boy's mind is fertile in expe- 
 dients. He shows aptitude for business. I think he 
 handled the hungry pushing crowd in an admirable 
 way. What he lacked in strength, you see, he made up 
 in activity and decision. He is perfectly satisfied with 
 his present assignment. Let him work Dorcas. You 
 will take away the relish for it if you interfere," he 
 said as they walked toward the house together. 
 
42 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Among the fowls that came under Tim's care was 
 a young, gray Hen. Her waving tail shading off beau- 
 tifully into an azure tint gave to her a more impressive 
 individuality than was common among hens. Tim had 
 named her "Blue Juniata." In the course of time the 
 gray hen began to ruffle herself up and to bustle about 
 in a way that looked very foolish to Tim, who, it 
 seems, had expected of her some sort of decorum. 
 Tim went to Aunt Dorcas about it. "There's some- 
 thmg the matter with Blue Juniata," he said excitedly. 
 "Yes," he said, thinking more of his subject matter 
 than of the diction, "this last day or two she's gone to 
 acting darned queer." Notwithstanding the strongest 
 child effort, his street education occasionally got con- 
 trol. "Yes," he went on in his excitement, not notic- 
 ing that he had infringed upon rhetorical rules, "her 
 feathers all stick out spiky ways, and," he extended his 
 little browned hands in way of explanation, "she's 
 snappy and bad tempered and she looks seedy. Aunt 
 Dorcas " he added confidingly, "she acts like she'd got 
 a jag on." The spirit of the thing seemed to be in the 
 air, for soon other hens became afflicted with the same 
 unbecoming manner and life appeared to hang heavily 
 on them till, under Aunt Dorcas' direction, and after 
 infinite trouble, and with great flutter and flurry, Tim 
 got each one of the fussy, bustling creatures fltted out 
 with a nice box of straw and a setting of eggs. Then 
 to Tim's great surprise the discontent was suddenly 
 over. The boy's curiosity was unlimited and it was as 
 though he had been transplanted to another planet. 
 Everything here was so deliciously new. Asking from 
 Aunt Dorcas a hundred explanations, with gravity in 
 his eyes, he looked on. He noted the happy confi- 
 
A SlTORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 43 
 
 denee with which the restless hens took to their nests. 
 He observed the buo3^ant complacency and deathless 
 zeal with which they held to them, the sincerity with 
 which they waited, overlooking the cramping pains 
 and bravely ignoring the leg-weariness. He beheld 
 the bravery with which they combated every danger. 
 He saw a breathing thing which had capacity for ac- 
 tion and when every nerve fibre was tingling with life, 
 of its own will, give up comfort, joy, freedom. He 
 watched them sit in their devotion, and thirst and 
 starve. These things were so novel to the boy that he 
 could not overlook the wonder of it. He had not yet 
 come into possession of the contonpt we hold for 
 mysteries, begotten only by our familiarity with them. 
 During all this time while Tim took note of the pro- 
 ceedings Blue Juniata sat abstractedly on her nest 
 w^inking and blinking as though she were doing the 
 thing of most vital importance in the world. Tim got 
 all the information he could gain by questioning Aunt 
 Dorcas and then studied about it and could not in any 
 way comprehend the wonder of it. That these eggs 
 w^ere going to be made alive and that a chicken could 
 come out of each egg; to l)e able to move about and 
 have eyes and feet and feathers. The more he learned 
 about it, the more the mystery grew. "When would 
 the chicken be made?'' he asked, and how did she know 
 they would be made then. Had she ever seen them 
 made, and how were they going to get out? Aunt 
 Dorcas told him, because they always were hatched in 
 twenty-one days; that the eggs when they w^ere kept 
 at an even temperature always turned to chickens in 
 three weeks. Then Tim said, "And what makes 'em 
 turn to chickens in three weeks?" Aunt Dorcas an- 
 swered him, "God does it." Then and there Tim had 
 established a theology hypothetically. "If this thing 
 happened just as Aunt Dorcas had said it would, then 
 there must be a God. Along with his conception of a 
 God he got also an idea of one of his attributes and 
 that was His accuracy, for Dorcas had said that the 
 chickens were always made in just three wrecks. 
 
44 ^4*S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 Tim went often and stood over Blue Jimiata, and 
 on his little brown fingers he counted the days and was 
 observant still till at last he knew that the endless 
 time of waiting was over. On the important day Dor- 
 cas and himself, eager with expectation, went together 
 and carefully lifted up the hen and there were three 
 live chickens, soft, cunning, creamy, yellow things all 
 complete, as Tim could see. Exploring farther, in one 
 of the remaining eggs they found a chicken's bill just 
 coming through the opening shell and Aunt Dorcas 
 picked up another egg, the covering of wiiich was yet 
 unbroken, but putting it to Tim's ear he could hear 
 the little energetic, imprisoned thing peeping inside. 
 From that moment, the child mind dismissed all uncer- 
 tainties. Here was a sure revelation. When Dorcas 
 and he had placed the eggs under tne hens and ar- 
 ranged things just as it was designed they should be 
 arranged, and while he had been on the watch, while 
 he had heeded what was doing, God had created. The 
 empty shells were there as evidence — the live chickens 
 before him. Here was a truth plain, placid, reposeful, 
 about which there could be no misinterpretation or 
 doubt upon which to build an argument. 
 
 As Tim's active intelligence drank in all these facts, 
 a faith entered his soul that could never be shaken. 
 He had emerged from the puzzling darkness and the 
 uncertain mists into the clear light of day. 
 
 There was a Ood; a skillful, wonderful, powerful 
 God. It had been proven to him by a miracle. A con- 
 sistent God, not changeable and erratic and irregular, 
 but a Being who did things with accuracy and exact- 
 ness; a God whom, in his child heart, it w^as a sweet 
 joy to know; a God on whom he could unreservedly de- 
 pend. 
 
A ^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 45 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 The incubative period being over. Bine Juniata 
 came off the nest at Last, with only nine chicks, and 
 Avhen he and Dorcas were transferring the little fluffy 
 family to the coop, which the two together had con- 
 structed, the occasion was one of the keenest enjoy- 
 ment to Tim. 
 
 The doctor took an interest in the affair too and 
 went out" with the boy to look at the brood. As he 
 turned to go back into the house, he said: "Kow, Tim, 
 this brood is going to require a good deal of attention. 
 I want you not only to feed, but to watch over and 
 protect these chickens. 1 want to see if you can't raise 
 every one." 
 
 Other hens were hatching at al)out the same time and 
 looking to the profit of the affair, as Dorcas explained 
 to Tim, she had taken the brood belonging to another 
 hen and given it to Juniata. 
 
 The next day Tim reasoning along the same line and 
 acting from example, went on and made a collection, 
 and kept giving Juniata additional care, till she had 
 nearly thirty younglings and she seemed to extend her 
 affection as well as her wings to suit the demand made 
 upon her, and tried to cover them all. 
 
 Tim sat down in the sand and watched the tiny 
 things just beginning life. He studied their beady 
 eyes and laughed to see them totter about on their 
 wobbly legs and jostle each other; he saw them, in- 
 spired with a sudden touch of hunger, pick at each 
 other's pink feet. After awhile, everything working 
 satisfactorily, he ran into the house to tell Aunt Dor- 
 cas about it. Excitedly he said, and with an air of 
 great gratification, "IVe got great news for you. Aunt 
 Dorcas. Yes, I've found a whole lot more chickens. 
 
46 AS GOD MADLJ HER. 
 
 Yes," he said exultantly, "they're all made and fin- 
 ished; all dry and fuzzy," and he brought his two hands 
 together in a curve to show her. "Yes," and the better 
 to hold her attention, he crawled up and put his knees 
 on tile wooden chair which stood at the end of the 
 table, where Aunt Dorcas was mixing dough, "Yes," 
 with great satisfaction, he went on, "and I brought 
 'em all and give ^em to Juniata." 
 
 Dorcas let the dough rest on the board and looking 
 into Tim's face, she said eagerly: "Why, Tim, and 
 you're sure she took kindly to them, are you? Why 
 child, she can't cover so many." "0, yes, she did," 
 and he stretched out his short arms to show her, 
 "Aunt Dorcas, she just spread herself out into an or- 
 phan asylum and took 'em all in. 
 
 "Tim," Dorcas said excitedly, "you should not have 
 done this. You go right back and watch her till 
 I come out." Tim went back and when he reached 
 the coop again a depressing scene met his gaze. Two 
 of the tender yellow things lay limp and dead, and 
 on his arrival the motherly Juniata was industriously 
 applying her beak to the task of scalping another. 
 Two already dead; and the doctor had told him he 
 must raise them all. Eancor was slowly kindling with- 
 in him; to leave such a wrong unresenfed was not in 
 Tim's nature. He went off a few steps and picked 
 up a brick and in an instant the missile moved toward 
 the offender at fatal speed. Tim's aim was unswerv- 
 ing and before Dorcas had reached the hen lot Blue 
 Juniata lay stretched out by the side of the dead 
 chickens. Tim's indignation did not end at once. 
 All shaking with excitement, he explained the situa- 
 tion to Dorcas. "When I got out here, Aunt Dorcas, 
 just look there, she had the little fellows killed, and 
 she was just trying to pick the head off that one that's 
 cheepin' over there now." He drew himself up. "I 
 just shied a brick at her old pate, I did," he said with 
 pride, "and I wiiz just standin' ready to tip a tin can 
 after the brick, but. Aunt Dorcas, she didn't touch the 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 47 
 
 chickens any more; she just wobbled off and then laid 
 still." Tim went on indignantly, "She didn't have a 
 sliver of trouble with the chickens, Aunt Dorcas; she 
 had good ^pickens^; I fed her all she could eat and I 
 brung her water; she didn't have a sliver of work to 
 do. What right had Juniata, Fd like to know," he 
 continued with grieving fervor and resentment, "to go 
 and skin the heads off' of 'em like that and kill 'em 
 just after God had got 'em made?" 
 
 He looked up in Dorcas' face now dumb with amaze- 
 ment, and it began to dawn on him that perhaps Dor- 
 cas did not quite endorse his action. He said slowly 
 and in a soft tone; "I just wasn't going to stand it." 
 
 By this time the whole litter of chickens was chirp- 
 ing piteously. "But, Oh, Tim, just to think," Dorcas 
 said regretfully, "you only made matters worse. Ju- 
 niata is dead," she said, as she lifted her up by one leg. 
 "Juniata dead! What will the chickens do now with 
 no mother to cover them. There were only two dead. 
 Perhaps they will all die now." It was plain to Tim 
 now that he had made a mistake. In a moment he 
 realized what he had done and knew that he had bet- 
 ter have repressed his indignation. He looked at 1:he 
 dead hen, and then at the destitute orphans, and then 
 turned his brown eyes directly to Dorcas' face. Mak- 
 ing an effort to adjust his facial muscles, "I didn't 
 think she was dead. I didn't know I'd killed her." 
 He said slowly, hanging down his head, "I've gone and 
 made a mess of it, haven't I? Aint' I a chuckle-head? 
 And he trusted me," he said penitently, "and you, too. 
 Aunt Dorcas, and I wasn't worth shucks!" He walked 
 over to Dorcas' side, crestfallen and heartsick. The 
 lifeless Juniata, the melancholy cheep of the orphaned 
 chickens, make the occasion impressive. "What'll the 
 doctor say?" The great tears filled his eyes and hid- 
 ing his face in Dorcas' ^pron, he sobbed out plaintively: 
 "To-night's the first time since I've been here that I've 
 wished I hadn't come." 
 
48 ^^ OOD MADE tlt^R. 
 
 He had tried to do his work thoroughly, and here 
 right at the threshhold of the undertaking it had all 
 gone wrong. 
 
 When Aunt Khoda heard about the affair, she said: 
 "I don^t see how you countenance such depra^dty. I"d 
 whip him/^ 
 
 When the doctor returned home in the evening he 
 had only words, of consolation to offer. He said: ^'The 
 best and the wisest make mistakes. Look here, my 
 boy, you couldn^t be expected to do everything just 
 right at the start. You couldn't know all about the 
 poultry business in the beginning. People, Tim, who 
 have devoted their lives to the investigation of hen 
 nature, haven't understood it." 
 
 The dispirited look did not at once leave the boy's 
 face, and the doctor said soothingly: "Eeal nice plan 
 that was you had Tim; all the trouble in the world was 
 it did not work out right." He patted the boy kindly 
 and said, "Don't think any more about it. She has 
 given yon a great deal of trouble, but now that Blue 
 Juniata is dead and passed off the stage of action, I'd 
 just dismiss her troublesome memory. A most unjus- 
 tifiable way of doing to lay over and die on so slight 
 a provocation; looks strangely like malicious intent on 
 her part." 
 
 In the meantime, evening having come on, the deso- 
 late chickens had crawled in amongst a brood of half- 
 grown ducks and had found a downy hiding place, the 
 ducks having perforce taken the motherless things to 
 their soft bosoms, and nntil the chicks had grown large 
 and strong enough to fly np on the roost in the hen- 
 house, they remained comfortably under duck protec- 
 tion. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 49 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 For some time Dr. Ilarding had been so occupied 
 that each morning he had left the house early. One 
 day, however, was an exception, and never had the 
 beguiling beauty, the kindly homeliness of the precious 
 peace of the place been more distinct and impressive 
 than on this pleasant Sunday morning. 
 
 Ehoda was even stiffer and primmer than was her 
 wont, as after the breakfast had been cleared away 
 she sat at one of the Ioav windows, her Bible lying in 
 her lap. She looked away from the book now and 
 then, and stooping smoothed out the folds of her black 
 silk dress. The air which came in at the open door, 
 was ladened with the odor of the climl)ing roses and 
 heliotrope, which grew in tropical abundance just out- 
 side. 
 
 Down on the road children dressed in gay colors 
 went skipping along in the soft shade of the trees. 
 On the morning stillness fell the high jingling notes 
 of the church bells near, strangely mingled with the 
 rich, musical tones of a chime of bells which came 
 dreamily to the ear, from a steeple over the blue 
 shadow of the mountain. 
 
 After a little time Rhoda laid down her Bible. It 
 was plain that she was not at ease; that the peace of 
 the beautiful morning had not entered into her soul. 
 She could see that her brother-in-law was cooly making 
 preparations to go on with his everyday work; it was 
 evident also that neither Dorcas nor her niece were go- 
 ing to make any remonstrance. She felt that it had 
 been only by calling to her aid her Christian fortitude, 
 that she had endured hearing him talk up his theories; 
 but when it came to deliberately carrying out his de- 
 structive notions, neglecting church service and going 
 
50 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 all the week through without a season of prayer, and 
 then to speak in the presence of his daughter as 
 though this heathenish way of doing was right, it was 
 more than her Puritanic principles could bear. She 
 shifted about uneasily while the doctor changed his 
 coat, and made ready for a drive. She still held the 
 Book; she felt a sort of mastery while her hand was 
 upon it, for no matter how tyrannic, how intrusive, 
 how inconsistent she was, no matter hoAV much dark- 
 ness and bitterness she threw into human lives, about 
 her, with her way of reading its passages, she always 
 found vindication for word and action there. 
 
 Presently she spoke and a heavy si^li ran before the 
 words: "James," she said, "I'd hate to follow a busi- 
 ness that would keep me away from the house of the 
 Lord on the Sabbath day. That isn't the way your 
 mother raised you, Fm sure." 
 
 The Petersen children were down with diptheria, 
 but that they needed skilled medical attention was to 
 her just now a matter of subordinate importance. 
 
 The man stood near the open door and he stopped 
 there a moment, and pushed back his heavy hair, while 
 his broad brow was gently fanned by the cooling 
 breeze, which came softly in from the sea. A show of 
 sympathy came over his own strong face, as, turning 
 about, he looked into the stern one opposite. He an- 
 swered in his natural free manner of speaking: "No, 
 that isn't the way my mother raised me, Khoda, you're 
 right. Back in Baxter I always knew where I'd find 
 myself on Sunday. I have been told that I was a regu- 
 lar attendant at church service, from the first weeks 
 of my existence. Now, I think of it, I remember that 
 prejudice was instilled into me early. In my helpless 
 childhood I was made a Presbyterian. Like you folks 
 I even brought the habit with me when I came to this 
 country. I've attended some since I've been here, but 
 I don't go now," he added frankly. "You don't mean 
 to tell me that after the way you've been raised you 
 . do not go to church at all!" she ejaculated in astonish- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 51 
 
 ment. "L must speak the truth, Ehoda, I rarely ever 
 illuminate the . sanctuary with my presence.'^- .Then 
 quickly remembering,., "I went to John> Bigelow's 
 funeral helcl in the church, a.year or so.. ago," :he said. 
 "I went with, Dorcas;, she'll remember when it .was." 
 Ehoda gave a dissatisfied,.. -shrugs and 'shrunk more 
 closely within hers.e.lf as though she feared contamina- 
 tion. /Tve always heard, Calif ornia.. was, a 1 dreadfully 
 wicked place j'"..,,>Vha^t..pjxzzl.ed the doctodwas that she 
 f^eemed to enjoy,: a sort of divijie cojisolation^in the 
 fact, that she had found proof of it. .Slie. continued, 
 turning and^ looking .out of the. window and with an odd 
 contraction, qf the thin, :spar^e lips, "Before I came out 
 here I supposed you at least took time to worship on 
 the Sabb-ath." She had ,-, f orcedv him into a position 
 where he must explain himself. He laid, his driving 
 gloves carefully on th^ corner of the mantel and with 
 an indescribable- ease and dignity, seated himself in 
 an armchair. not far. from his. brother: "John," he said 
 reflectively, "I hadn't thought so much about it before, 
 but, I've grown entirely away from the old training; I 
 see it now." Presently, renewing the conversation, 
 "Ehoda^" he said, mildly, "I really can't see why we 
 should worship any mo-re on ; the Sabbath than on other 
 days. God's ■ providential -jcare of affairs about ^me is 
 unremitting," It was. his honest, earnest, manhood 
 that spoke now. -In every day: of the week I am con- 
 fj:onted. with, the consciousiness of God's good-ness." 
 . A block of golden sunshine framed out by the open 
 door lay on the carpet at his feet; ^the light. bran<^h 
 of an.accacia tree, made flitting shadows across it as it 
 \yave.d lightly in the soft- morning breeze; He -studied 
 the beauty, of it a moment. Eaising his head again, he 
 said: f"What.is, worshipT— real, true- worship?" Then 
 finswered in ..a way. that had seemed the .-strongest' to 
 him, "Tq c];is.seet a hand an-d gain some comprehension 
 of^ what the great- ;God is capable • .Y-ou.-mi&judge.me; 
 i .am^a..worship.er. , I.-jpan speak, of dt without boasts- 
 it, argues -po good in ::me. ..Ay.he,ther I; will, or ;no .1 can- 
 
52 A8 GOD MADE HER. 
 
 not help but worship. Eyes, ears, mind, brain, heart, 
 acknowledge the Divine greatness. A thousand times 
 a day as 1 study the wonder of things around me I am 
 forced to gratitude, admiration, veneration, love; a 
 thousand times a day I soulfully say: ^Good God, great 
 God, kind God, wise God, wonderful God!' I tell you," 
 he added earnestly, ^^the idea that you absolve yourself 
 from all obligation by attending church on Sunday, 
 and the idea that you've got to go into a house to find 
 God, or that you've got to hire some man in clerical 
 garb to help you to reach Him, is all a mistake." John 
 followed his brother's words with eager inquiry. When 
 he had finished speaking, dead silence reigned in the 
 room. Rhoda was all unprepared for any such reply. 
 The newness of the thought utterly disconcerted her. 
 She sat with quietly folded hands, awed by the speak- 
 er's earnestness. She was so jostled out of herself, 
 that for the time she lost the power of speech. On re- 
 covering a little, she said: "I suppose, James, that you 
 would even say that there was no use of building 
 churches at all.'"' The doctor, feeling urged to it, pro- 
 ceeded to set forth his ideas in a bold, uncompromis- 
 ing Way. "It may be that in the present state of the 
 human mind they are needed," he said, "but," he con- 
 tinued, "I think that when men help their brothers 
 into more natural, happy, and healthful conditions; 
 that when they assist "^ in bringing health-bearing 
 breezes to starving lungs; that when they hunt out 
 preventatives and cures for disease; when they help 
 give to the children of the poor a chance to be human 
 ' — I think that when men do these things, they do 
 more for God than when they build cathedrals to His 
 glory." It was plain now that the doctor had his 
 ideas fonnulated, and that he dared to present them. 
 "But don't you think that God takes vengeance on those 
 wno do not come up to scripture rules?" Rhoda asked 
 with a show of alarm. Pondering on the narrowness 
 of their thoughts, the doctor looked upon the two with 
 pity. The memory of his own life back in the time 
 
A STORY OF CAUFORNIA LIFE. 53 
 
 when he had been held in by cramped and cruel faiths, 
 came vividly before him, "Khoda — John," he said, 
 ''Look there," and he pointed out the low window, 
 where they might catch a view of the stretch of trees 
 and flowers. "With my feeble help God has for me 
 made this place what it is. That tree there," he said 
 impulsively, "look at the height and the freshness and 
 the symmetry of it. I planted it the day my daughter 
 was born. All these years since I came here, God has 
 sent the sunshine and the dew and the rain. He has 
 made the trees to bud, and the crops to grow, and the 
 fruit to ripen." As he went on he talked with more 
 fervor. "He has kept the air about me balmy and 
 wholesome. He has made all the beauty, and the ani- 
 mation, and the brightness and the color." His fine 
 eyes grew tender and his face was full of deep expres- 
 sion, as he said: "In all that has been done for me here, 
 I can see a kindly bounty, a gentle beneficence, study 
 it as I may," he added, emphasizing his words with a 
 movement of the head, "I can read in it no hidden 
 motive of revenge. 1 do not know anything about a 
 God of vengeance," he said in tones of deepest grati- 
 tude, "I know only of a God of compassion, of tender- 
 ness and love." 
 
 "Well, James, whether you are going to acknowledge 
 that you have any need for it or not, you surely will 
 concede that piety is a great preservation to the 
 young," Ehoda interposed again. She was thinking of 
 Doyt. "If you mean a veneration and love for the 
 Divine Being, and a conscientious abiding by His laws, 
 I think that preserves people both young and old. No 
 matter what our creed, we are God's children only 
 when we conscientiously study out how He designed us 
 to live, and then, perceiving the divine wisdom of it, 
 follow it to the letter, keeping ourselves in conditions 
 to receive what He has planned for us to have. A 
 man cannot be bound to one belief. Creeds, politics, 
 or religions, hamper a man. He must be left free to 
 advance, expand, to outgrow even himself. It seems, 
 
54 ^S (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 though, that- there must he al\ra}^s something of man's 
 making, if it be nothing more than a roof, between the 
 people and- God,'' 'lie added regretfully.- Becoming 
 thoroughly interested 'now, he continued to talk: "The- 
 preacher who -fepeaks from churclr pulpits, and lays 
 down the law, no' matter what he woulil like to say, is 
 hiredHo'do -a set^ thing;' to preadi Calvinism or Camp^ 
 bellisni' or Wesleyism or Lutherism-^at aiiy rate, t6 • 
 defend 'somebody ^else*s opinion.! T- like to hear meii 
 talk whom I think have made ori^nal, ^persevering;' 
 disinterested Search after truth and who then present 
 it with eiergy -and zeal." - ' .-,»- 
 
 Preseiitly Khoda spoke again: "It certainly behootes ■ 
 people to^shape "their 'lives so as to'b^e sure of Heaven.''' 
 
 "It was never in my constitution, Rhoda; to be'good*,^"' 
 just: f'or 'the 'hope of reward. 'Goodness begotten ©f'^^- 
 f ear is hypocrisy. Besides, if you. will ; pardon me; '■ 
 streets <paved with, gold do riot attract me. The most '-^ 
 beautiful satisfying Heaven one can pict\ire is a garden^-' 
 with growing: ^^lants, shiidy walks, waving treses, fi^a-a- 
 grant flowers,' green grass,'- God has been' "g^od' enough ■ 
 to giVe that to me here." He added rumiriatively, "I" 
 do not know anything about a world beyond. What I ' 
 knowtig;-God has been, good enough to create and fiir- 
 nish-this'w<3rld'for me." He added, "M there is an- f' 
 othdr more perfect,-!: don't -know of any better way' to -^ 
 prove ,-th4t'i 'am 'pretfrnred 'for it, than to show' appre^ 
 elation 'for the beauty and comfort of this." It was ■ 
 John,- who, not fully understatiding, was yet strongly 
 impressed with what his 'brother liMd said, and anxious 
 to learn 'mdrebf his -belief now asked: ^' James; aswe;' 
 must be' governed by some ruk, is there not a' necessity ' 
 for church rule ?'"''•■ ' ^ - ' '' - ''^ 
 
 "Thei trouble is we are living 'too much under snb-" 
 lunary authority;' we are too,crampied;'-the cliurch rUle ' 
 is man^S'Tule. No m'atter to how many organizatiohs -^ 
 a human beihg may belong, he olives •healthfully, and ^ 
 worthily only when he is obeying God's law, and men's •- 
 laws are only good when they agree with God's law. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 55 
 
 Often/'' he said pondering, "men's laws clash against 
 God's. God's laws are all beneficent; men's laws are 
 cruel, hard, nnjust. For an illustration: God makes 
 the illegally born child just as bright, beautiful, active, 
 strong, interesting and winning as other children. 
 When I know," he added with some bitterness, ''the 
 mark man sets upon it and see that, faultless in itself, 
 it is made to suffer all the days of its being for a sin 
 in which it had no part, I hate the world's laws." He 
 had arisen now and was making ready to go. His 
 brother too arose to his feet and standing not far away, 
 said quietly: "Tell me, James, do you believe in pray- 
 er?" "Believe in prayer? Yes, I believe in prayer; 
 that is, in prayer which is all thankfulness and grati- 
 tude." He spoke with a sort of gentle impatience. 
 "God everywhere, ourselves working with Him, pro- 
 vides an abundance. It is ingratitude to overlook the 
 prodigality of God's beneficence, and ask for more. 
 If the greed of men keep it out of our reach, we might 
 with some show of reasonableness pray to them. Pray- 
 er to God," he said determinedly, "if made at all, ought 
 to be made in a fervor of joyous impulse. Instead of 
 that, the best men according to the church's standard, 
 prav as though this world were blank, drear}^, squalid, 
 stagnant. If this be true, man has made it so; be- 
 sides they go and tell God the same story over and 
 over every day, as though he could never understand. 
 The wise God," he resumed, "needs no dictation." A 
 moment later he added thoughtfully: "For a long time 
 now I have believed that men make a mistake, when 
 they talk to God, instead of listening." Before he 
 went out of the door, he said again: "In accordance 
 with the rules of hospitality, Khoda, I should accom- 
 pany you and John to-day, but I cannot possibly go; 
 and I find excuse for my Reprehensible conduct, in that 
 my house is to be respectably represented. Besides you 
 and John, and Doyt and Dorcas, there is Tim gone on 
 to Sunday-school, fully an hour since." Bowing, he 
 said pleasantly, "I am grateful, Khoda, at least for 
 
r,G AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 your solicitude in regard to my spiritual welfare. Per- 
 haps I am growing too rapidly and need just now the 
 restraining influence of some pious friend."' He went 
 out at the side entrance; as he stepped to the ground, 
 he stopped and culled one of the "La France" roses, that 
 grew in profusion near. He held it in his hand for a 
 moment and looked deep into the heart of the beauti- 
 ful, fragrant, soft petaled thing, and said again: "I 
 really do not see that after all, there is pressing need 
 for pulpits and sermons; that is,'' he added slowly, "as 
 long as God continues to make roses.'' 
 
 Doyt, just coming into the room, had heard the lat- 
 ter part of what her father had said, and in a moment 
 she was out of the door and walking by his side. With 
 great feeling, she protested; "You don't need her pious 
 influence; you don't need anybody's care.'' 
 
 She remained with her father until he drove away, 
 when he said to her kindly: "Don't allow any harsh 
 thing she says to w^orry you, my daughter. We must 
 make allowance for her, you know. Why," he said 
 looking around him, "the piece of blue sky that's above 
 Baxter is hardly bigger than your two hands. Every- 
 thing is so different here from what she has been ac- 
 customed to, that it is really a wonder that she has sur- 
 vived the transplanting at all." 
 
 Doyt watched her father as he drove away. She was 
 a child still and the joy of being alone with him again, 
 if only for a moment, brightened for her the remainder 
 of the dav. 
 
A STORY OF CALTFORNIA LIFE. 57 
 
 CHAPTEB XII. 
 
 When at last they set out for church, Dorcas walked 
 demurely along by the side of Rhoda, to whom she 
 pointed out places of interest along the way, while be- 
 hind them Uncle John and Doyt followed. 
 
 There was a bright red color in Doyt's cheeks, and 
 her blue eyes were sparkling, giving assurance of cheer- 
 ful feeling, and she spoke to her Uncle lightly and 
 carelessly, yet in her Aunt's presence she had been 
 made to feel for the first time in her life, that it was a 
 sin to be merry. They passed along the walks and un- 
 der the palms and pepper trees that shaded them. 
 Here a gallant team of horses whirled past, while many 
 people came and went, some dressed in the showy 
 adornment of fashion. 
 
 Farther on they passed Grandma Williams' place. 
 The sun's rays fell across the open window ledge, and 
 was reflected from the bright tin coffee pot which 
 hung opposite. Doyt left her companions and flitted 
 over to the window and called. 
 
 Grandma smiled her gladness at seeing her again, but 
 there was such pathetic, patient sorrow in the grand 
 old face, that Doyt felt an almost irresistible impulse 
 to rush to her side and spend the morning there. 
 
 Just now, however, another duty devolved upon her, 
 and bidding her gentle old friend good-bye, she walked 
 again by her Uncle's side, until they reached the church 
 steps. Dorcas led the way, and as they went inside 
 the air grew perceptibly colder, and the light paled, 
 falling dimly through the stained glass windows. 
 They found themselves in the midst of an assemblage 
 of well-dressed people, and in a pew well up to the 
 front, the four sat down together. 
 
58 Af^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 The atmosphere of the house, having been carefully 
 preserved from the week before, had a solemnizing in- 
 fluence, and the chill of the place, made Doyt shiver. 
 Her healthful lungs had not been accustomed to being 
 stinted in the way of -oxygen-, and she felt stifled and 
 oppressed. The music which followed the opening an- 
 them was to her slow and depressing, and though she 
 studied carefully the w^ords of the hymns, she could 
 not understand. She saw Aunt Ehoda bow her head 
 reverently during prayer, and sit rigidly through the 
 sermon, perceptibly shocked that her unregenerate 
 niece sat unresponsive through it all. By the time 
 the sermon was over and the services were ended Doyt 
 felt that religion was a most bewildering thing. She 
 had never been trained to associate God with gloom 
 and darkness, and stagnant air and doleful music. 
 She had never been taught the need of prayer. God 
 was her loving Father, with all the tenderness of mean- 
 ing that the word father to her implied. She saw always 
 before her the proofs of His loving kindness, in the 
 regularity of growth, in the unfolding of the bud, in 
 the painting of the flower, in the warmth of the sun- 
 shine, in the calmness of the moonbeams, iji the sweet- 
 ness of the dawn, in the glory , of the day, and in the 
 soft serenity .of the r^ight. . He gave her all things so 
 freely and voluntarily she had no need to ask. Why 
 should she presume to advise or dictate,? All her 
 duty lay in a constant acknowledgment of His good- 
 ness and in feeling safe in His hands. 
 
 When the services were over and they came out 
 through the arched doorwa}^, the delicious day was in 
 all its glory; the yellow sunlight gilding grass and 
 house and tree. 
 
 Linnet song, bubbling forth with natural gladness, 
 suffused the air with soft, sonorous cadence; the or- 
 ange and lemon trees hung golden, and the branches 
 of the palms, sun-glossed, spread out in feather 
 reaches; fresh, dewy flowers gave out, unreservedly, 
 fragrance and color, and tinsel-winged butterflies 
 
A STORY OF CATAFORNIA LIFE. 59 
 
 flitted wantonly through the balmy air. As they 
 started homeward, Doyt by chance walked near by her 
 Aunt Ehoda's side, an uncertain trouble in her round 
 face. She stretched out her arms after the manner of 
 one seeking relief, and filled her lusty lungs to the ut- 
 most with the cool, clean air, and. at the same time she 
 said ardently: "O,- Auntie, I like this God that stays 
 out -of doors yo' mtich better than I do the one they 
 keep in the dlltrphes." 
 
 •T;!. T ^•^ ^>!'~ • ■■■':■■ 
 
60 A.S QGD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 Several months had passed away. 
 One glowing eventide when they were all gathered 
 around the table for dinner, Dr. Harding, who had 
 been talking of an interesting and pathetic case which 
 he had been handling, leaned languidly back in his 
 chair. The daily sight of physical suffering has its 
 effect on even the strongest nerves. A moment after- 
 ward the doctor, full of loyalty to his people, said: "I 
 am glad that my practice admits me to close intimacy 
 with my fellow men. I do not care to disunite from 
 them; but,'' he added ardently, ^Hhey believe so in me; 
 they depend so upon my skill and resources, that firm 
 and hardy as I am, I must go away sometimes to renew 
 my strength. I must not let the miseries of the human 
 kind disable me, and when I grow weary of the har- 
 ness and chafe under it I must throw it off. Unless I 
 am strong when I go among my patients I do them lit- 
 tle good." He continued suggestively, "The weather 
 is at such a temperature as to encourage it; I don't see 
 what is to hinder our setting out for the beach some- 
 time soon." He began to enumerate: "Let me see," 
 he said, "Mrs. Lane is out of danger; Jack Ewing is con- 
 valescent; Mrs. Bibbs' baby is recovering; I have no 
 serious cases; just now there are no epidemics in the 
 community." He knew that the rest of the family had 
 arranged to go and were only awaiting his opportunity 
 to get away. 
 
 Dorcas decided that everything not already pre- 
 pared could be put in form by the following afternoon. 
 
 Tim had been promised that he should be one of the 
 party, and to hear the matter discussed even had 
 thrown him into a state of perturbation. He had 
 waited anxious and flushed for the first moment of cer- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFOKXIA LIFE. Gl 
 
 tainty and when that moment arrived he was filled in- 
 wardly with mad transport. He was in a position 
 where*^it would be ill-timed to Jnmp np and down; un- 
 suitable to yell. With a curious control of his infan- 
 tile features, he smiled blandly in Dorcas' face, and 
 asked politely to be excused; then went out of the door 
 in a most reckless fashion, took three turns about the 
 long grape arbor, before he stopped. 
 
 Rhoda happened to sit where, looking out at the 
 open window, she could see him and she informed the 
 rest: "There goes that 'rattle-pate' again," she said in 
 a distressed yoice; "he's got another tantrum." While 
 the boy was giving expression to such unrestricted 
 yolatility. the doctor, laughing, leaned far to one side 
 that he might catch a yiew of him. As Tim continued 
 his gyrations, he said sympathetically: "The boy is just 
 in the blinding blaze of his first liberty. The wee mite 
 has been so little used to happiness, that you see^his 
 brain gets into a wdiirl at the yery prospect of it." 
 
 He watched him still, and continuing the subject 
 he said: "He interests me. He seems to me to haye 
 more in him than the average boy," and he added feel- 
 ingly, "his precocity, too, seems to have been born of 
 privation, for so far as I can find out his seven years 
 have been but seven years of poverty and hardship." 
 Then turning to his sister-in-law he entreated, "Don't 
 find fault with him, Ehoda, he just has a happy tem- 
 perament and is breezy and original. I can't see that 
 it is such a very wrong thing to persist in being hap- 
 py," he added. As she was about to speak again, he 
 said: "You want me to ask him to modify his ecstasies? 
 I could not do it, Rhoda. The boy has a power of en- 
 joyment which millioniares might envy." 
 
 ""That's just like you, James, to laugh at his p-azy 
 actions and uphold him in everything he does," was 
 Rhoda's spirited reply. "If you think there's anything 
 in the boy, that is, that there's anything in him that 
 makes it worth while to trouble yourself about him, 
 why don't you punish him"? 
 
GC -I'Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "Why don't I punish him, Ehoda?" He repeated the 
 words slowly; then pushing his niuseular frame back 
 into his arm chair, he answered: "Because^ if'I sH'6H!tJd 
 strike a human being so much weaker than myself: |s 
 Tim is, I should feel that I had disgraced my streiigm. 
 I can put this right hand of mine to better u^'^^'t ' l| I 
 should beat him now and should meet him afea'ii\ when 
 the years had put power into that frail right arm Of 
 his, and he should strike me with the full force' of ^ its 
 garnered strength in retnrn, I should feel tliat'hi^^was 
 
 iustified and that I deserved the blow." "'"'^ 
 
 '' ..-. rivu^t 
 
 
 ftj 
 
 ^IT hiiii kiUyi! 
 
 ''ih 
 
 p^jiiiq^ ei'ijboi 
 
 in 
 
 ^mh ,'/od *^dr 
 
 ii.i 
 
 ?fn-.>w T^ ^-^iJi- 
 
 -i= 
 
 «lov *'kl(?b ''^■. 
 
 i*/ 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 63 
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 Save bedding, the cottage at the beach was all fur- 
 nished under Dorcas' management. The work of get- 
 ting ready was light and soon after noon the next day, 
 they were on the road. 
 
 Doyt went on horseback; the two women and the 
 doctor and his brother in the carriage; a man from the 
 place, Tim by his side, followed with a spring wagon 
 loaded with blankets and provisions. 
 
 Down the avenue they went, the doctor holding the 
 lines and there w^as a pleasant sound of the horses' 
 hoofs on the hard, smooth highway as they moved off 
 at a brisk trot. 
 
 The road for a time lay through blooming orchards, 
 solid masses of delicate pink and white, and past fresh 
 and well-kept gardens and vineyards, while everywhere, 
 the sides of the driveway and the pasture lands were 
 gemmed with golden poppies glittering in settings of 
 green. 
 
 The wholesome sea-washed air, the serene earth, the 
 incense of acres of flowers about them, the glad sun- 
 light around them, the summer blue above them; the 
 song of bird voices, the murmur of running streams, 
 the varied shades of green of the trees and grass, the 
 gorgeousness of color in the blossoms, the beauty and 
 the freshness and the harmony of it all, seemed to have 
 entered into the very souls of the little company. 
 
 To Rhoda, used to such monotony and uniformity, 
 the ride was full ot delights and surprise, and even her 
 face on this occasion wore an air of contented cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 They passed handsome mansions and cozy little 
 homes, villas surrounded by myriads of flowers and 
 mossy grass -plats, and here and there the white fronts 
 of the cottages,^ could be seen gleaming through the 
 green glossy leaves, and the golden fruit of the orange 
 and lemon trees. 
 
CA AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AVhile they drove along John, stretching out his 
 hand that it might catch the bahny air, said in a per- 
 plexed way: "Among the strange things to me in this 
 country is the way you trust the weather. In New 
 Hampshire now," he added, "the first and foremost 
 item in any undertaking is the anxiety over the kind 
 of day you are going to have for it. Here you just se- 
 lect an occasion when it seems convenient for you to 
 go, and without fooling away any time attending to 
 the condition of the atmosphere, you set out and find 
 everything just as if it had been ordered for perfect 
 comfort. I've heard how in California the warmth and 
 fragrance of the summer gets mingled with the cool 
 freshness of the Springtime. Here we have it." 
 
 Turning around a curve in the road they came to a 
 place where a rough wooden bridge crossed a narrow 
 stream, and under the hanging boughs of a walnut tree 
 at the side of the gurgling water, they stopped till Doyt 
 rode up. 
 
 In her there was not a trace of weariness visible. 
 She rode with the same agile grace as when they had 
 set out ; her blue eyes were flashing and her cheeks ting- 
 ling with fresh color. 
 
 There was almost a smile in Rhoda's steel gray eyes 
 and she greeted Doyt with an air of friendliness, which 
 quite disconcerted that unexpectant maiden, when she 
 noticed her Uncle John was chivalrously preparing 
 to crawl out over the wheel of the carriage. "Here 
 little one, take this seat here by the side of your father, 
 and let me try it on horseback for awhile," and he be- 
 gan taking in a deep breath, as if strengthening him- 
 self for the ordeal. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 55 
 
 "Santo'^ had stood munching the green, tender grass 
 that grew along the rivulet^s edge. But now Doyt 
 gathered ujd the bridle, ^'I thank you, Uncle John," 
 she said, "It's uncommonly kind of you hut don't think 
 for a moment that 1 am not comfortable here on San- 
 to's back; besides, I am accustomed to riding and pos- 
 sibly you are not!" Then as if fearing that he might 
 urge his proposition, she spoke to the horse and as 
 he went ambling across the bridge, she turned in the 
 saddle and waved her hand. 
 
 "How mu)ch farther do we go?" Rhoda asked dis- 
 turbedly. "What can you be thinking of? Why 
 didn't you stop her? You ought not to let her ride 
 on horseback so far; it's too taxing on a woman's 
 strength." 
 
 The remonstrance was addressed to the physician, 
 and in a seriously apprehensive tone. 
 
 "It may be now that we shall not catch up with her 
 again till we arrive there," he answered composedly. 
 After thinking a minute he said, and with some show 
 of irritation: "But why shouldn't she ride and any dis- 
 tance she wishes? There's a fascination in the exer- 
 cise for her; it brings her muscles into use/' and he 
 found himself driven back to his old theme again and 
 battling for women's freedom. "She has a right to 
 the exercise of her powers. She has splendid devel- 
 opment," he went on, "and I want to let her keep it. 
 I have not overestimated her; she will make the jour- 
 ney without fatigue," he announced decisively. 
 
 Then it was John who spoke. He said: "I've been 
 doubting whether you were doing the best thing for 
 the girl, but I begin to see you are right. Still, not 
 many girls could stand the strain of a twenty-mile ride 
 like that." 
 
 "'And why can't they stand it ?" the doctor returned, 
 and his love for his daughter, his pride in her, and 
 unselfish interest in her welfare, threw a sort of sub- 
 limity into his face as he talked. "Because those who 
 have charge of them, begin early, and hold them down 
 5 
 
6(5 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 rigorously; they make them sit in the house and watch 
 the boys at play; they teach them to be afraid of the 
 sunshine; they deny them the legitimate use of their 
 limbs until they drift into nervous debility. Cosmetics 
 would have no sale if girls were allowed out door exer- 
 cise, in loose clothing, as boys. Corsets constrict liver 
 and stomach, producing indigestion, the forerunner 
 always of a sallow, pimply complexion. They disci- 
 pline nature out of them, educate it out of them, 
 preach it out of them, until they get so far away from 
 the original plan, that you would hardly know that God 
 created them." 
 
.4 STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 67 
 
 CHAPTEE XYI. 
 
 Ehoda listened curiously, and when they had driven 
 farther she said: "Do you mean, James, that you do 
 not believe in sending children to school?'' 
 
 He answered radically: "I do not believe in sending 
 children to school unless at the same time they are lay- 
 ing the foundation of strong constitutions. The very 
 value of a child depends upon its activity and if it at- 
 tends school, for nearly one-half of its waking hours, 
 its muscles remain unused. Many of those who have 
 the care of children overlook their needs. They are 
 kept amid uncongenial surroundings, while horticul- 
 turists, training plants, give them their natural atmos- 
 phere; they seek out the knowledge that will help to 
 satisfy the wants of the susceptible leaves, and of the 
 delving roots; they guard shoot and leaf and bud from 
 harm; if they droop and wilt, thy study what natural 
 thing they miss and make good the lack. In the 
 schools that I visit, I always find the teachers wearing 
 themselves out, trying to do the most unnatural thing 
 in the world, that of holding children in rows just as 
 though they had been created in rows like peas in a 
 pod." He talked on earnestly: "The education is a 
 failure that does not make the arm stronger, the chest 
 broader, the eye brighter, the step lighter; the educa- 
 tion that cramps the body, hampers the muscles, strains 
 the eye or starves the lungs, lowers the vitality or de- 
 stroys the amiability or invites disease instead of ward- 
 ing it off. It is a failure because what they have 
 gained, can never equal what they have lost. Think 
 for a minute, now, of a medical graduate with diseased 
 eyes, pinched up lungs, and a sunken chest. I tell you, 
 John," he concluded decisively, "the acquiring the one 
 
Og AS fWD MADE HER. 
 
 habit of deep breathing is worth th3 whole college 
 course without it.'^ 
 ******* 
 
 For miles they drove along and breathed in the 
 resinous odor of the pines and eucalyptus trees, which 
 bordered the roadside; past handsome residences and 
 beautifully kept grounds; and again they wound around 
 the base of the hills which were covered to the summits 
 with evergreens, and the white, soft mists that came 
 in from the ocean hung daintily among their topmost 
 branches. 
 
 Xow they entered the pine forest, in the soft gloom 
 of wliich the air was sweet and fragrant, while here 
 and there across the broad, smooth road, fell wide 
 streaks of sunlight. 
 
 Xow and then a short distance ahead they caught 
 a view of Santo and his rider. It grew interesting to 
 the others to know how the doctor had reached his 
 present advanced stage of thought. In explanation of 
 this the doctor talked on, the stream of words falling 
 from his lips unbroken. 
 
 ^"It was once when 1 was traveling through Colo- 
 rado,^^ he said, ''that I learned an enduring lesson. 
 Before that time I had taken my standard of men 
 from what I had seen around me; it was there that I 
 caught a glimpse of what humanity, possessed of its 
 Grod-given rights, might be. AYell, as we were riding 
 along, there came bounding to the brink of a low ledge 
 near to me a deer. Seeing the vehicle it stopped short 
 in wonder. Then within thirty feet of me it stood 
 outlined against the sky unhampered in its naturalness 
 and as beautiful as if just created. Never a breath of 
 untainted air had found its way into the lungs; no un- 
 suitable food had ever poisoned its blood; it had spent 
 its life with nothing but the sky for a roof and no walls 
 but the horizon. All its faculties in full vigor and 
 every organ doing perfect work. Ko disordered cir- 
 culation, no irregular heart beats. Grace, ease, 
 strength, development, completeness; a happy, beauti- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 69 
 
 fill, perfect creature at harmony with itself and its 
 Maker. In every nerve, muscle, fiber and faculty that 
 deer was just as perfect as deer could be. Through all 
 the immemorable generations of deer there had been 
 no receding from the original standard. It was God's 
 creature and had never lost its Eden. God's plans are 
 too wise for failure, yet it is only now and then among 
 the created millions tliat we find a man who is worthy 
 to stand as an example of the best of which human 
 life is capable. A \^on Humboldt with brilliant men- 
 tality, healthful joy of living and vigorous frame 
 through all the years of his life up to the age of nine- 
 ty-five. Naturalists in their mountain and woodland 
 searches after God and His wonders live the nearest 
 as their Maker designed them to live. Glad children 
 of nature are they who, with insatiable delight and with 
 an eagerness that amounts almost to passion, turn over 
 the leaves of a story book whose allurements never end. 
 "I tell you," he said, and a radiance came over his fine 
 face, "to me it is like going from the rush and greed 
 of the world into some woodland retreat to even recall 
 the names of such men as Humboldt, Cuvier, Le Conte, 
 Agassiz, Jordan, and Muir. Not in monastery and 
 cloister, are men reaching their highest capabilities. 
 It is the lives of such as these that glorify God. To 
 go back to my lesson — pondering over the perfection of 
 that pretty, "^trusting creature, I learned that man, 
 fallen as he is fronfhis original standard, may yet re- 
 cover his lost heritage. Putting himself under natural 
 conditions, giving up his greed, living in the sunlight, 
 breathing fresh, clean air, eschewing all poisons and 
 eating pure food he may come back to the Creator's 
 wholesome care, and be God's child again, just as he 
 was at the beginning." There was a manly softness 
 in his voice as he added: "\Yith these thoughts always 
 before me I have tried to rear my daughter. In the 
 feeble helplessness of her infant life, I found that the 
 tiny organs had been providently placed; that the mus- 
 cles, blood vessels and nerves had been constructed 
 
70 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 with studied care. I knew there must have been a 
 Divine purpose in this and 1 felt that a hoh* trust had 
 been given to me. She came to me anatomically per- 
 fect; I have only tried to keep her so." 
 
 John no longer sat in a dazed fashion while his 
 brother talked; he began to understand, and every sen- 
 tence his brother uttered now was visibly alfecting him 
 and conquering his prejudice. All he said at the time 
 was, "I begin to comprehend you now% but at the same 
 time, Jim, I began to feel as though I had always 
 been living half dead. It is good to see her though/' 
 he said soon afterward: ''She is so bright and healthy 
 and independent.'' Then he added in a burst of en- 
 thusiasm, "The girl is simply perfect Jim; I don't see 
 what stronger proof we could iiave that your methods 
 are right; she is as God made her." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 71 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 They were climbing the mountain now, and winding 
 around the smooth road that led from the foothills 
 and up among the evergreen trees. The horses 
 dropped their ambling gayety and l)egan to drag reso- 
 lutely at the straightened tugs. The day was radiant, 
 the air balsam-laden, a soft breeze just stirred the 
 branches of the trees, which in places bent above their 
 heads, making of the roadway low green aisles; and 
 squirrels, alert, brisk, nimble, quaint wee packages of 
 vital force, lost their weariness and frolicked glad- 
 somely about, and then sat on their haunches, affably 
 chattering, unheeding human presence. 
 
 Sometimes reaching a place where the road bent 
 suddenly, they caught a view of Doyt making the turn 
 ahead, and she would stop and call out to them in a 
 voice that, as she disappeared again from sight, came 
 floating to them on the warm air as clear as a silver 
 bell. 
 
 Hoping at each turn that they had reached the last 
 grade, on through the black shadows, they mounted 
 higher and higher, and the horses breathed harder, 
 and the doctor, after a time, ceased to guide them, and 
 left them to pick their own slow way. 
 
 Charmed by the freshness, yet wearied with tedious 
 travel, all unexpectedly emerging from the shadows, 
 they came upon sloping reaches of vines and soon a 
 vineyard, close-planted and clean-kept, lay broad 
 stretched before them. Here was a low, brown cottage 
 and dove-cotes, and pink roses nodded over the rude 
 fence. Doyt had waited for them here and while they 
 rested, the wagon and "Eags" all moist, and well- 
 winded, came up. 
 
73 ^4.S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 When they drove on again in the stiUness of the 
 afternoon, they made turn after turn, always dragging 
 upward and always the great masses of ]iills still loom- 
 ing ahead. The lines hnng loose now, and the wearied 
 steeds stopped at will, and cropped by the roadside; 
 and then later, the horses pressed to sore straits, they 
 all got out of the carriage and walked, and slowly still 
 made their arduous AYay upwards along the narrow 
 roadbed, around the roots of the great trees, and where 
 the magnificent green-clothed hills still held absolute 
 dominion. It was not until the horses had been 
 pushed to the expenditure, it seemed, of their ultimate 
 strength that the endless drag was over and they stood 
 at the seaward side of the mountain, and the cool moist 
 wind of the Pacific blew upon them.' 
 
 They had reached the "Mountain Meadow" at the 
 summit, where there were no trees but a wide smooth 
 space of gray bareness, and they began already to feel 
 rested because after weary hours of palpitating hope 
 and baffled anticipation they could at last see a down- 
 ward slope ahead. They halted awhile where a moun- 
 tain stream, bounteously fed, went rushing by, gurg- 
 ling incessantly, and they drank of it and the horses' 
 eager thirst was quenched by the sparkling water, crys- 
 tal pure. 
 
 As they went quickly doA\ai the tortuous road, 
 Rhoda spoke again, her thin lips twisted to an expres- 
 sion that suited her words. This was what she said: 
 "It's well enough, I can see, to let little girls romp and 
 run, but I think Avhen they're growing to be young 
 women it's so much more becoming for them to be 
 quiet and lady-like." 
 
 UnintentionalJy she had touched upon a point con- 
 cerning which the doctor was abnormally sensitive. 
 There came to him now an instant of sharp agony. 
 That his daughter was really approaching maturity; 
 the thought brought to him a certain bitterness, a fear 
 of loss of security, of evil perhaps in store for her, and 
 he wanted to thrust the consciousness of it away. The 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 73 
 
 man had always hoarded his own strength that he 
 might live long to care for her, and now trembling he 
 asked himself/ if it could he that with the exertion of 
 all his human power against it, that the time' must 
 come, when her step would lose its elasticity, and when 
 sorrow should cloud the brightness of her eyes. If the 
 time must come, when, with all he could do to shield 
 her, the world's weight of care must fall upon her. 
 The usually brave man was^ silent for a time. There 
 came an almost inaudible sigh as he said aloud and 
 tenderly: 
 
 "My light-hearted, happy girl! Her life has gone 
 joyously so far, but/' he added sadly, "no life goes 
 smoothly on to the end.''' 
 
 Tn reply to his sister-in-law's words, he said: "I 
 never could see why any animal that- has been made 
 capable of springing and bounding, should go creep- 
 ing around over the earth. A girl, to be considered 
 lady-like, must not lift her feet clear of the floor: she 
 must cross them; she must be confined to a dead- 
 and-alive gait. If she were younger now, you concede 
 that she might be permitted to go according to nature; 
 she might run, climb, romp herself iuto robust health. 
 That to me, is just where human folly displays itself; 
 for by what sort of physiological reasoning could 
 one come to the conclusion that a girl must let her 
 physical organism deteriorate; her muscles grow flac- 
 cid from inaction, just as she approaches the time for 
 maturity, and needs most deep-lunged endurance, 
 sturdy health and vigor, and ample nerve supply? 
 Think one moment of a fashionable season, as a prep- 
 aration for motherhood. I thiuk that it is decidedly 
 unlady-like," he continued, "to be frail and helpless 
 and artificial and spiritless and atrophied and neuralgic 
 and dyspeptic." 
 
 "But surely you must concede that women are 
 created more delicate— that is, less strong than men," 
 said Aunt Ehoda. 
 
74 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "That is scarcely true in barbarous nations, but even 
 granting it to be true, there is all the better reason 
 for nurturing the strength they have, and keeping it 
 up to the best possible standard." He spoke from the 
 physician's experience now. He said resolutely: 
 "Humanity is overlooking the vital point. The fact 
 is, every habit of girl life should be formed with the 
 one thought, to put her in command of her every 
 faculty, that she may be prepared to credibly carry 
 out God's design of bearing children." 
 
 Dorcas knew something of how her brother felt on 
 this subject, though she had never heard him talk so 
 plainly before. 
 
 Later the doctor said, contemplatively: "It is a mat- 
 ter that is not often discussed; custom does not 
 sanction the mention of it; we treat the affair with 
 indifferent laxity or with benign placidity, as though 
 the present harrowing condition of things were the 
 very best possible. 
 
 "Our government trains men for war, and it is 
 properly done. Every cadet at West Point is firm and 
 straight, no matter how bent at the start. He is 
 well developed and strong. That is a great thing to 
 do; to put men into possession of their best strength 
 for the time they live. The government, in its wisdom, 
 prepare men to be killed; it has never yet given the 
 least attention to the matter of training women for 
 mothers of healthy children. 
 
 "Ignoring suffering does not prove that it does not 
 exist. There are a few of us who are in a position 
 to realize the dreadful tragedy that ushers children 
 into the world. AMiy do I speak of it? I am per- 
 petually impelled to speak of it from the suffering I 
 look upon. Always the sight of the needless agony, 
 the thought of it even sets the sympathetic chords of 
 my being vibrating, because I know," he added with 
 sudden energy, "that the suffering is needless; be- 
 cause I know where the blame for it lies." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 75 
 
 He talked on: "I speak of it because it is a matter 
 of crucial importance; because it is culpable cowardice 
 not to speak of it." 
 
 "I am surprised at the way you talk," returned 
 Ehoda, Avho, as usual, could not at once reach the 
 height of his thought. "The good Lord arranged for 
 things to be just as they are, and you're Hying in the 
 face of Providence to object to it." 
 
 "I could have little respect, Rhoda, for a God who 
 planned the wretchedly defective anatomy of woman, 
 as we find it mostly in* these days of latest civilization, 
 because it would show not only lack of ability, but 
 wicked design." 
 
 "James, you speak irreverently!" 
 
 "You misunderstand me; I speak with the highest 
 reverence of the creative ability. It. seems to me 
 that if the human kind had been taught anything like 
 the proper respect for God, any appreciation for His 
 skill, the present state of things could never be. The 
 Supreme Power, the great and Beneficent Being we 
 call God, is capable of planning a human body pre- 
 pared for going through a natural function, like that 
 of child-bearing, without putting it to the desperate 
 extremity and risk of life that I see accompanying it. 
 That is where the trouble lies. Just as if the great 
 and wise God did not know how to make woman! 
 With a barbarous conception of beauty, they go to 
 work to improve upon His plan. 
 
 "Woman's construction is perfect. I am all the 
 time forced to contrast what I know of the exquisite 
 perfection and faultless harmony of the female form, 
 as it came fresh molded from the Divine Hand, and 
 the ample preparation for all the demands to be made 
 upon it, with the appalling condition of the organism 
 with which the doctor in his practice must deal. In- 
 stead of the well-planned harmony, he usually finds 
 endless discord. The attempt at parturition is made 
 with every organ perversely out of place, by tight 
 lacing, with spine crooked, chest dwarfed, broken 
 
76 ' '^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 down nervous system; with atrophied muscles, de- 
 formed pelvis, impoverished blood; and with the work 
 of the abdominal muscles, which are constructed for 
 unlimited pla}', palsied. The doctor attending is ex- 
 pected to assist in an impossibility, must go prepared 
 for any sort of emergency, and is himself blamed, if 
 there be any obstacle in the way of a ready delivery; 
 when he would have to possess not only perfect 
 anatomical knowledge and .surgical skill, but pure 
 creative ability, to bring affairs to a successful issue." 
 
 "And only to think of the suffering!" Dorcas inter- 
 polated. 
 
 "Suffering," he repeated, "I tell you they have suf- 
 fered until the instinct of martyrdom seems born in 
 woman." He continued earnestly, "I often wonder 
 that there is not enough dread of the event of child- 
 birth in every woman's heart to quench the instincts 
 of maternity forever." 
 
 The doctor spoke again, and the words came with 
 quick utterance. 
 
 "There is an opinion in the pu1)lic mind that woman 
 Jacks heroism. Look for a moment at the difference 
 in the conditions of each w^hen called upon for the 
 highest display of fortitude. Man goes into battle 
 buoyed up by comradeship, and with inspiring music 
 and pomp and gorgeous military display. If he offers 
 his life once as a sacrifice to the nation^s need, the 
 story of his heroism is flashed over the earth, and is 
 recorded in the imperishable nation's annals. 
 
 "Woman goes to her martyrdom in a secluded place, 
 in a manger as it were, alone, while if man requires 
 courage for what he must face, she must needs have 
 nerves of steel for what lies before her. It is not that 
 her bravery is one whit the less," he added with 
 earnestness, "that we judge wrongly between them; 
 it is only that her deed is never known. The news 
 of the battle in which she struggles to the death is 
 suppressed. Woman's victories are never sung." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFF. 77 
 
 • 
 
 "We're getting down now to the discussion of vital 
 problems/' John said, rising from his seat, and then 
 sitting down again, 
 
 '"Some girls claim that they must have stays to hold 
 them up/' Rhoda interposed, without paying any at- 
 tention to what John had said. 
 
 '']SronsenseI" Dorcas replied quickly. "AYliat would 
 you think of an animal that needed props to hold it 
 together? I have seen women, though, in just the 
 condition James describes, and cut off from all the 
 good things of life; victuals set before them and can't 
 eat, air all about them and they can't breathe." 
 Dorcas' concluding remark was: "What did the Al- 
 mighty endow men and women with brains for, if not 
 to take care of themselves? All other animals except 
 man, have sense enough to eat proper food and breathe 
 proper air, and live out their allotted lives free from 
 disease." 
 
 "I. see it all so plainly now," said his brother; "I 
 mean that I can see the things that you have brought 
 to my attention, James. What surprises me is that 
 there has never been more done to bring general atten- 
 tion to it." 
 
 "Yes, the wonder is that through all the ages, and 
 with the agonizing need, there has been so little pro- 
 test. There has never been any general effort made. 
 Once in a while, though, a single human being bringing 
 into use the sense that God has given him, makes a 
 praisew^orthy attempt to rescue humanity from its 
 pathetic condition. 
 
 •'T have heard that not very long ago a wide-awake 
 young doctor of San Francisco tried to teach good, 
 common sense by means of an object lesson; that he 
 hired a show window on Market street, and placed on 
 exhibition within it a pair of cats just reaching 
 . maturity, and also a pair of puppies well grown. The 
 male oi each was left to frisk and gainbol at its will, 
 but the female puppy, as well as the female kitten, 
 he placed in stays made to fit, and pretty snugly drawn 
 
78 ^8 GOD MADE HER. 
 
 • 
 
 up. The hampered ones, endowed with instincts for 
 self-preservation, and accustomed to free use of lungs, 
 limbs, heart and muscles, rebelled. Instinct within 
 them was strong, and they could not be reconciled to 
 forego all the pleasures of existence, and they spent 
 their time in futile effort to release themselvesV' 
 
 The speaker was interrupted by John, who laugh- 
 ingly said: "I beg pardon, but it just struck me, how 
 contemptible they must have looked, how any animal 
 would look' — a calf for instance — squeezed into the 
 hour-glass shape. Why, the kindest hearted of us all 
 would want to kill it to get the hideous thing out of 
 sight." John turned toward his brother again, and 
 said full of interest: '"'Well, and how did it end?" 
 
 "They said it drew great crowds of people; the 
 oddness and aptness of this scientific application, I 
 suppose, attracting them; as by w^alking up and down 
 the street they could, any day, see hundreds of human 
 beings in the same condition. Well, as time went on, 
 the public interest as well as the doctor^s increased, 
 but his philanthropic work for the human race was 
 interfered with. There is always somebody to inter- 
 meddle with the best things we do. The ]30or quad- 
 rupeds were freed, and I suppose allowed the animal's 
 privilege of producing their young in something like 
 the natural way." 
 
 "And the doctor who attempted the experiment, 
 what came of him?" was asked. 
 
 "'The doctor? 0, the doctor, why he was arrested 
 by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to 
 Animals." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 79 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 When they came down from the mountain they be- 
 gan to pass habitations again, but there was less and 
 less of color in the landscape as they journeyed on. 
 Presently they turned away from the level road and 
 drove quietly along a broad bluff, and now the air 
 grew cooler and great masses of white fog enveloped 
 the carriage and then floated away to eastward. The 
 horses began to sniff the salt, crispy air. 
 
 "We're nearing it now,"' John said, partly rising with 
 a flush of enthusiasm, and he put out his hand again 
 and the soft air bathed it. 
 
 When they paused for a moment, they could hear 
 the rush and roar of the waters. After a time they 
 came out from behind a ridge of stunted trees and 
 then before them, suddenly revealed, lay the broad 
 stretch of the sea. 
 
 As far as the eye could reach the placid blue, and 
 at a little distance out, a steamer with lines of smoke 
 trailing far behind it; and fishing boats nearer, and 
 the sun's radiance toward the west, and below where 
 they had stopped the carriage, the white of the 
 breakers, and the lifted spray, as the banks of water 
 rushed against the jagged rocks at the base of the 
 cliff. 
 
 Doctor Harding loved the sea. Whether he found 
 it in storm or at rest, an untroubled peace always 
 came into his soul at sight of it. As he turned toward 
 it now, Dorcas noted with pleasure the tranquil ex- 
 pression that came across his classic face. 
 
 Many a time John, though he had never seen it, had 
 sketched out to himself an imaginary sea, but the 
 immensity and grandeur and weirdness of the reality 
 had never entered into his conception. 
 
80 • AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 Klioda shaded her eyes with her gloved hand, and in 
 surprise and bewilderment, looked far out on to the 
 blue expanse, and then quietly shrunk back into her 
 corner of the carriage. For the few minutes that they 
 sat there in that new, strange, vaporous light, on the 
 very edge of the world it seemed, not a word was 
 spoken among them. 
 
 (Quietly in their ears the sound of the water below, 
 washing against the rocks that had stood the siege of 
 ages, the doctor called to the horses. He turned their 
 heads about, drove quickly down the slope to the cliff, 
 and further down to the bare, wide sands, and the 
 great golden sun was low down across the expanse of 
 water, as they rode up to the vine-covered porch of 
 the cottage. 
 
 Tim was there to meet them, with an abundance of 
 cordiality. 
 
 ''Rags" crawled up from wdiere he was lying stretched 
 at full length. He made an odd effort to appear jocu- 
 lar, but the mountain climbing had exhausted his 
 canine strength, and the expression of gayety begun in 
 the tail, had got no further than that bushy appendage, 
 when he dropped again on the sand. 
 
 Doyt had been sitting on a rude bench under a 
 dwarfed oak tree that grew at the corner of the cot- 
 tage. She had taken off her nat, and her w-aving hair 
 lay moist about her white forehead; she was bunching 
 together masses of poppies that she had gathered on 
 the way; and it seemed to those who loved her, that 
 she never looked so fair as she did here, with the crisp 
 sea air flushing her cheeks, and the crimson light of 
 the setting sun falling full upon her. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. gl 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 They all noticed that John was more quiet than 
 usual that evening. His mind had received an entirely 
 new set' of impressions. The awful grandeur, of the 
 sea, and the wonder of it, still held him, and that 
 night when the remainder of the party, breathing in 
 the strong, sweet air, had been lulled to sleep, by the 
 surging sound of the water, John got up, and throw- 
 ing on warm clothing went out into the brooding night 
 alone. 
 
 As he stepped off from the low porch, on either hand 
 was stretched the long line of coast, the stars and the 
 drifting clouds above. Before him rose the wide bil- 
 lows and surging breakers, and the broad, smooth 
 sea beyond. The soft wind that touched his cheek 
 was laden with the strange scent of the sea-weed. 
 
 Conscious only of the solemn majesty of it all, he 
 walked on till his feet touched the firm, moist sand, 
 near the edge of the water, and there he stood in 
 wierd solitude, amid the dashing of the waves. 
 
 As he gazed far out upon it in the quiet of the. 
 night, the sea seemed still and black; but nearer the 
 shore,' as he looked, he saw it mount in line, gradually 
 grow, and come nearer, a great fold of water swiftly 
 moving toward him. He saw the keen night wind 
 cut 'its glassy edge, and throw it high up in filmy 
 spray. He heard the gentle rustle of the water, then 
 the rushing and the hissing, then the roaring and the 
 booming; and as he watched it, he saw the heavy mass 
 grow higher and higher, hang poised, toppling a 
 moment, then break into a cloud of silvery whiteness, 
 and come roaring and rushing shoreward. And heavy, 
 strong, fast: rising behind it and rapid in pursuit of 
 it, comes another monstrous bank; it curls slowly, 
 6 
 
82 ^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 mounting higher and higher, and with heavier roar 
 and rush, breaks into soft mystical wiiiteness, sways, 
 and plunges, reaching shoreward;. struggles, breaks 
 again and glides on in curls of foam; gently, quietly 
 now, and with hushed murmur; slowly, caressingly, to 
 the sands at his feet, and melts away. 
 
 As he still looks on, the turmoil increases, and the 
 great ocean seems to heap upon itself; the towering 
 breakers sway and plunge, turn wildly to cross each 
 other, lose their even lines of motion, and lie at angles 
 wdth the shore; reach greater heights, and come on 
 with a wilder sweep; and when they have spent their 
 fury, creep higher and higher up on the sand. 
 
 Near his feet is the clear water and the long soft 
 lines of white foam; and he sees the night wind catch 
 up the filmy spray and spin it giddily away along the 
 level beach. 
 
 The heavens above him were studded with stars; 
 quietly they looked down on the mighty struggle going 
 on below, just as they had looked down upon it for 
 ages untold. He had stood awed at first, but now into 
 the man's soul a conception of immensity and of in- 
 finity entered. He listened again and again to the 
 wierd sound of the sea. Now, to him it seemed to 
 cry out in a pitiful way; now and then there came 
 a soft hush; then it seemed to be moaning with 
 anguish, and he gazed on it full of compassion. He 
 looked all around about him and above him. He was 
 alone in the world — ;alone with God-^but the dread 
 and the fear all died away. Even if the ocean took 
 him to its bosom, it would only be in a kindly way. 
 Though it should smother the life that was in him, he 
 would still be in the kind God's hands. 
 
 It seemed to him that the Almighty spoke, and every 
 fiber of his being was strained to listen. 
 
 "Be still and know that I am God; a God of soft 
 beneficence, of kindness and love." 
 
 "Fill out your lungs with this air," his brother had 
 said to him yesterday; "it is all untainted; it comes 
 straight from God." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 83 
 
 He breathed it in; again and again he took m the 
 great^ sweet draughts. He had been growing for 
 months, gradually growing away from prejudice and 
 out of superstition, and now in a moment he seemed 
 to comprehend. 
 
 Straight from God came the words, "Study my works 
 and know me.'' The blessed truth burst upon him. 
 He and God were one; he was God's child. 
 
 Studying tne mystery of the sea, he, for the first 
 time in his life, had seen God and recognized Him. 
 Just as the doctor long ago had found Him in search- 
 ing into the intricate marvels of the human frame, 
 and just as Tim's eager mind had found Him in the in- 
 finite wonder of the hatched ^gg. 
 
 Tears came into his eyes as he began slowly to under- 
 stand something of the faith, and of the gentle reli- 
 gion, which guided his brother's life. Since he had 
 been Avith him again, he had seen it shown in a thou- 
 sand ways. 
 
 In his love for his child — a love so pure, so true that 
 every moment since her birth, he had given to study 
 how to make her life blessed; in his devotion to the 
 people he every day went among; people who follow 
 dead men's teachings had wandered far away from 
 their glorious birthright, and were diseased and needy 
 and helpless. 
 
 He thought of how his brother went among them 
 healing, soothing, cheering; but mostly teaching, and 
 with what success, when they could only lay aside their 
 prejudices and comprehend. 
 
 He thought of his kindness to the animals about the 
 place, to the men employed by him, of his appreciation 
 for Dorcas, and of his tenderness for little Tim. He 
 thought of his pure disinterested love for science; his 
 zeal and patience in searching out the truth in his 
 tireless pursuit of methods, whose object was to amend 
 and exalt the human life. 
 
 He thought of his justice, his truth, his honor, his 
 compassion, his mercy, his integrity of action, all those 
 attributes which men admire and call God-like. 
 
S4 ^^ <^0D MADE HER. 
 
 He began to see now why the blood flowed health- 
 fully through his veins; and how just as the sunshine 
 nourished the flowers to perfect unfolding, the Divine 
 love had nurtured him into natural symmetrical 
 growth. 
 
 As he pondered, he thought further of how he had 
 seen his brother place the plants in the moist soil, 
 stopping in his work, as it were, and listening for 
 guidance, and of how the plants assimilated the soil, 
 and took hold of it and grew; grew, he began to see 
 now, because he did things in accordance with God's 
 designs. 
 
 He saw that his brother, in all that he did, simply 
 studied the Divine intention, then carefully carried it 
 out to the letter. His purpose. 
 
 It seemed to John, deliberating upon what he had 
 seen and heard, that at last he had learned how to live. 
 It was such a simple, sweet lesson; and rituals and 
 robes and creeds and spires and cathedrals had nothing 
 to do with it. It was such a plain little lesson, he 
 wondered, not only that he had not grasped it before, 
 but that all created beings had not learned it. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. ,95 
 
 CHAPTEPt XX. 
 
 One afternoon a few clays after their arrival at the 
 shore they were all out on the sand. John, at Doyt's 
 direction, had planted a Inige Japanese parasol, so that 
 should they choose to read from the books and papers 
 they had brought with them, they might be sheltered 
 from the fervid sun rays. 
 
 The place they had chosen at the sea was not recog- 
 nized as a fashionable resort. There was only a rustic 
 sort of hotel, a few white cottages and some tents in 
 red and white, scattered along the beach. 
 
 The permanent population of the place was small; 
 but just now most of the cottages were occupied, and 
 all along the beach, at intervals, were seated groups of 
 holiday people. 
 
 The great ocean lay calm and self-contained before 
 them; its whole surface a shimmering phosphores- 
 sence; the breakers gathered in majestic breadth but 
 drove forward slowly; now and then a bursting crest 
 curled imposingly over, and rushed for a time ma- 
 jestically onward; but meeting little resistance it came 
 drowsily in undivided, sweeping softly in gurgling 
 waves and ended in lines of downy foam upon the 
 beach. 
 
 Seagulls, with their feet tucked away quite out of 
 sight among their soft feathers, balanced themselves 
 on their strong white wings, sometimes floating low, 
 alighting on the beach and wading into the surf. 
 
 Behind them lav the cottages ; and for a background 
 the emerald foothills, and the curving peaks, and the 
 forest-crowned tops of the Coast Eange. 
 
 The doctor was receiving the benefaction of rest 
 gratefully. Lying in dignified languor on the warm 
 sand, breathing in briny-flavored, crispy, wholesome 
 
86 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 air. Behind him the mountains, before him the 
 boundless view of sea and sky. The sound of the 
 ocean subtly thrilled him, and he felt an exaltation in 
 its mystic motion; his blood flowed stronger again 
 through his veins, and his muscles seemed charged 
 with a new force. 
 
 Tim was digging trenches in the sand close down to 
 the tide; Eags was with him; sometimes lying at the 
 edge of the warm water, sometimes assuming an atti- 
 tude of observation; with lolling tongue he lay 
 stretched in the sand at Tim's feet; sometimes the dog 
 assisted him with wondrous expenditures of energy, and 
 the two dug by turns. At times they stopped to study 
 the sea-onion and the star-flsh and the moss and the 
 broken shells and the jelly-fish, swept in by the tide. 
 Later Tim gathered wood and built of it farther up on 
 the sand a little town, and sometimes he had to wade 
 into the surf to get the wood. With canine reckless- 
 ness, Eags made use of his superabundant energy by 
 swimming far out into the surf, struggling there with 
 a steadfastness that was sublime, till he got hold of a 
 piece of board; then floating back on the returning 
 wave, with wide dilated eyes came slowly, towing it in. 
 
 The doctor lying carelessly with his arm bent and 
 head resting upon his hand had been watching them. 
 
 A broad wave reaching higher up the beach washed 
 all the rude buildings of their board city away, and 
 after they had seen it sailing far over the main, the 
 holiday pair, spending no time in useless regret, but 
 still hilarious and exuberant, took to romping up and 
 down the sand. 
 
 The old pleasant sense of seeing the boy happy came 
 over him and he said feelingly: "This is the first child- 
 hood the little fellow ever had." The freedom and 
 out-door life was to him perfect, and presently with 
 an air of absolute content, he said: "Ehoda, in this 
 fresh, delicious air, and with nothing pressing to do, 
 here's our opportunity to grow young again." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 87 
 
 In a low chair Ehoda, who was sitting under the 
 shade of the umbrella, engaged industriously in knit- 
 ting lace, cast her eyes up and down the beach and 
 said: "Well, it may be right, but it does seem strange 
 to me to see so many grown-up people sitting around 
 idle,'- and she tossed the thread over her finger again 
 and went on with her interrupted work. Though she 
 would not think of acknowledging it, through the doc- 
 tor's ready argument, she had been almost convinced, 
 a time or two, that she was wrong. It was plain that 
 she did not speak now with the same arrogance as of 
 old. 
 
 "We sometimes look at things a little differently, 
 Ehoda," the doctor said with a smile. "Now, I've been 
 thinking that for these tired people to come out here 
 and sit down with folded hands, or stretch out on the 
 sand and do nothing but breathe and look around on 
 the sea and sky — I've been thinking that that's the 
 most sensible thing they can do." Under his half 
 careless words, there was a depth of meaning. He con- 
 tinued: "Think of your hard life and John's; steady 
 work and endless sacrifice for fifty years, until when 
 you came out here you really had got where you 
 thought to enjoy yourself was a sin. You've not been 
 fair with yourselves bv any means." 
 
 John, urged by the instinct of absolving himself, 
 said: "But you see, Jim, I had always thought that 
 you had to make a steady pull; that you had to strain 
 yourself to the utmost; "yo^^ see I didn't know there 
 was any other way." 
 
 "John, you may work yourself through a stone wall, 
 but you've lost wind in the struggle," his brother an- 
 swered tersely. "The very fact that we rebel against 
 the continued strain, and that we grow weary, proves 
 that we are not planned for endless toil. Still men 
 go on in it, until life becomes insupportable." Even 
 here breathing in the sea's freshness, out of sight of 
 all the sorrow, human need was heavy upon the man. 
 He continued: "They do the things that disorder the 
 
88 4'S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 body, dull the intellect, smother out the feeling, 
 wither the soul; they toil under ground, in gloomy 
 basements, in dark offices, in holds of ships; they work 
 in malaria, in dust, in stone filings, among disease 
 germs, and with all our boasted education they toil 
 stupidly and without a thought of the body^s needs. 
 I know it all because I spend my life helping unthink- 
 ing indiscreet people out of their predicaments, and 
 still all the time I know," he added, with the earnest- 
 ness of strong conviction, "that suffering and depriva- 
 tion are not God^s plan." Strong and well and full of 
 appreciation for the larger life that was permitted to 
 him, he said again: "Here we are far asundered from 
 all infection, amid such surroundings, and in such air 
 as this, one might easily forget that there is such a 
 thing as disease in the world,'^ but it was as though he 
 were trying to measure the Creative kindness, that 
 once while he lay there he said: "How Avholly clean 
 this air is! It is ocean-washed, wind-tossed, rain- 
 cleansed, frost-touched, dew-moistened, sun-kissed into 
 wholesomeness and purity. It rushes toward needy 
 lungs with slenderest chance; it winds along intricate 
 ways and creeps through smallest crevices, and to 
 think," he said, "that with all this lavish sufficiency 
 and opulence and opportunity for receiving it, that 
 men starves for it, until he goes into consumption ; that 
 he stifles and smothers in cities and droops by stagnant 
 water and pines in fever reeking marshes and chokes 
 amongst foul gases and suffocates amongst noxious 
 odors. I sometimes wonder that we are even satisfied 
 immured in walls; it is, at best, such a dismal substi- 
 tute for real life." 
 
 Doyt^s father was associated in her mind, not only 
 with every joy of her life, but with every stage in the 
 development of her intellectual faculties. His time 
 was pretty well occupied usually and it was seldom she 
 iieard him speak at length. She was always eager to 
 gain a clearer conception of the character of his 
 thought, and while he had talked she had lain reclin- 
 
A STORT OF CALIFORXIA LIFE. 89 
 
 mg her head upon Dorcas' knee, and listening with a 
 sort of wondering homage. 
 
 From the spiritual element in which he had always 
 lived, John had imhibed the belief that this life is bnt 
 a pilgrimage, and having once started on the journey, 
 about the first halting place was the other world. A 
 moment's silence intervened after the doctor ceased 
 speaking. There was much in John's mind, but look- 
 ing gratefully into his face, all he said in reply to his 
 brother's words was: /'I think I understand you, Jim; 
 I know myself better now; you've been helping me to 
 find myself out." 
 
 A solitary crane had flown down and was stalking 
 about on a pair of irresolute legs in the shallow water 
 not very far from, where they sat. As they watched' it 
 a team of horses and a carriage went spinning along on 
 the hard sand of the shore and frightened it, it spread 
 its wings and flew away. Later a bevy of curlew 
 alighted upon the shore. They saw them standing, 
 drop their wings tardily, then come hastilv along the 
 sand and run into the water. They saw them return 
 to the shore with each incoming wave, then daintily 
 whirling about and picking up bits of food as th. 
 went, follow it again as it receded. 
 
 Boreas alwa3^s spoke as though the highest avocation 
 in life was the encouragement of common sense. Just 
 now she felt vividly the tranquil sweetness of the after- 
 noon and the pleasure of being in her brother's com- 
 pany, without the usual fear of his being called away. 
 Her comely face wore an air of ineffable satisfaction. 
 Presently looking toward her sister-in-law she said 
 warily : 
 
 "Couldn't you be persuaded, Ehoda, to lay aside that 
 knitting work of yours a little while? I'd like to have 
 vou learn for once, what a pleasant thing it is to be 
 iazy." 
 
 Ehoda looked over her glasses in blank wonderment. 
 
 "Dorcas Harding!" she said sharply, "I'd never 
 know you, you've grown so different; I'm .sure you 
 yourself used to knit when you were back east." 
 
90 ^8 GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "Yes," laughed Dorcas, "but that was when we used 
 to have to sit around the fire in the long evenings, and 
 there was nothing to see; here it's different- — here 
 we've got something to look at." Then like one seek- 
 ing excuse for a heresy, she added: "Because we had to 
 scrape persistently in early life just to get subsistence, 
 that's no sign that we must follow up the habit until 
 we die." 
 
 Ehoda dropped her work and looked out over the sea, 
 but magnificent as the view was, it did not entertain 
 her long, and soon she resumed the wearisome routine 
 of counting stitches again. 
 
 "Your wise remark, Dorcas, shows that you've taken 
 time to think. I tell you, it is the lazily leisure people 
 who are the philosophers," was the doctor's rejoinder. 
 "I think we do well when we smooth down all our hard 
 modes of life. Indeed, I am so far from believing in 
 penance, 1 think we do the Creator the most honor pos- 
 sible when we take full-hearted pleasure in being 
 alive." And so the conversation went on, the doctor 
 once having the daring to say: "And then when people 
 do rest, they are resting from what? Watching for 
 gain: to get the advantage of some one; to slip into 
 somebody else's place; to invent something which had 
 never been invented; to build something which is torn 
 do^\Ti next year. Whv, half the things that we wear 
 out our cerebral machinery for and exert our capaci- 
 ties to accomplish, would better not be done at all"; 
 and then Dorcas replied: "People work, I have found, 
 not so much for the sake of accomplishing something, 
 as to give vent to the ant-like energy in their composi- 
 tion; and I think, too, it is a good deal the result of the 
 conceit of the individual. A man makes superhuman 
 effort, because, from his way of looking at things, it all 
 devolves upon him, like an Atlas. He loads himself 
 down with the whole weight of the world; then bo 
 thinks he's got to put out all his strength, and every 
 minute of time to keep it moving." She added dryly 
 and with a careless toss of the head: "After awhile he 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 91 
 
 dies, and then without the least assistance from him 
 who thouo-lit he carried it all, everything goes on just 
 the same." 
 
 With dignified persistence Dorcas held to her theme. 
 "It is a mistake," she said, "to think that lack of occu- 
 pation is always indolence. You've got to take time to 
 look around you and make use of the things given you. 
 I cannot believe now that God would have made all 
 these grand things — this sea and these hills, and this 
 blue sky, without He expected us to stop and look at 
 them, and then it is strange that the Creator should 
 take such pains with our bodies and provide them with 
 such surroundings and make us capable of happiness, 
 if after all we are never to be happy." 
 
 John had been idly sifting the sand through his fin- 
 gers; shaking it from his hands now and rubbing them 
 together, he said with the air of one who had studied 
 the matter: "The way it seems to me, they're all look- 
 ing to riches for happiness." 
 
 "For the best of all reasons, it is the alternative to 
 which they are forced," his brother said regretfully. 
 "Modern civilization has made the burden of keeping 
 soul and body together so heavy, that everybody is busy 
 trying to throw it over on somebody's shoulders. We 
 do not look for happiness for either ourselves or our 
 children; the most we do hope for," he continued sadly, 
 "is to modify their lot; leave them money, put them 
 in possession of a profession or a trade to make life 
 easier and give them advantage over others." 
 
 Ehoda had been quiet for a long time but now she 
 spoke: "You acknowledge that we cannot always be 
 happy, and don't you think now, James, that people 
 who are in trouble are nearer to God?" 
 
 "Nearer to Him, perhaps," he answered, "in that 
 they feel strong within them the need of Divine love. 
 I cannot feel the idea is worthy of God." 
 
 He sat upright now and seemed to be looking out at 
 a ship that was just coming into sight far away at the 
 sky line; but his brain was still busy, and presently he 
 
93 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 said as though deeply touched hv the thought: ''When 
 we set out a plant now, though we did not create it, 
 does it give us finite people more pleasure to see it 
 pine and droop and wilt, scorched by drought, or 
 storm-beaten or frozen, grow dwarfed and knotted, or 
 to see it take hold of the soil and healthfully sprout 
 and stalk and drink in the sunshine and spread out and 
 grow? We could not possibly get any sort of satisfac- 
 tion out of any plant or animal that is puny, sickly, or 
 deformed. Xo, 1 cannot believe,^^ he concluded with 
 generous zeal, "that the Divine mind, capable as it is 
 of perfect design, would find satisfaction in any other 
 than perfect development." 
 
1 HTORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 AVhile they talked, looking far out over the waves, 
 they saw a skiff Avith white sails moving smoothly over 
 the water toward the shore. Two yoimg men were in 
 the boat, and as they neared the land, they lowered the 
 sail, and two pair of brawny arms took np the oars. 
 The little vessel plunged through the breakers and 
 when at length it ran aground, the rowers leaped 
 lightly out; with seeming exultation of strength, they 
 pulled it up out of the water, and with sprightly steps 
 came toward the spot where our party was seated. 
 
 Dr. Harding, in company with his daughter and 
 brother, had met the young men, and had held a con- 
 versation with them two or three evenings before, when 
 just at the verge of the twilight down close by the sea 
 they together had been watching some fishermen cast- 
 ing their nets. 
 
 George Moulton was the taller of the two; a young 
 man with broad brow and even features, well devel- 
 oped, firm and straight, graceful, self-possessed, 
 sprightly, wiry. For some three years now he had 
 ])een engaged with his father in active business at the 
 metropolis. 
 
 The young man accompanying him, Lowell Living- 
 ston by name, was a student of the medical depart- 
 ment of the University. He was a trifle shorter and 
 somewhat stronger built. He had a handsome, intel- 
 lectual, fresh-colored, more boyish face, soft, waving 
 brown hair, a well-shaped mouth, and full, ripe lips, 
 and a manner of moving which showed every muscle 
 to be in training. 
 
 , The two were cousins. Though not of common 
 mold, they both demonstrated the fact that one can 
 live even in the city and not become enervated; for 
 each possessed a splendid physique. 
 
94 ^/Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 Dr. Harding arose as they approached and greeted 
 them with a gallant heartiness, peculiar to himself. 
 
 The young lady, with her usual refreshing lack of 
 affectation and seemingly with no more embarrassment 
 than a boy would have shown, with airy ease crept to 
 her feet and made frank acknowledgment of her ac- 
 quaintance with them. George was a fluent speaker. 
 Standing nearest to Doyt and taking a step forward, 
 he said gallantly: 
 
 "I expected to have been allowed to assist you." 
 Bowing, he added, "Permit me to express to you my 
 disappointment.'^ The soft, lustrous blue eyes sought 
 the face of the speaker. She stood confusedly for a 
 moment; then the pretty lips parted. Ignoring the in- 
 tended compliment, with gay surprise, she repeated the 
 word interrogatively: 
 
 "Disappointment, Mr. Moulton! You certainly do 
 not mean that you are disappointed that 1 am not 
 feeble or paralyzed, for so I must have been to have 
 needed your help. 
 
 Then she added naively, as she placed her foot firmly 
 on the sand, "Not needing help, I should be hypo- 
 critical to accept it." 
 
 It was the young caller's turn to show surprise. For 
 once in his life, George, skilled in the use of words as 
 he was, felt that he had said the wrong thing; and that 
 he had not made exactly the pleasant impression that 
 he had intended. He felt somewhat irritated, per- 
 haps, mostly because his companion had overheard 
 what had passed, but at the same time was conscious 
 of a freshened interest and attraction. One sentence 
 from the young girl there before him had opened up 
 his brain to a new light. He saw among other things 
 that there was something in his new acquaintance to 
 admire, perhaps even more than her wondrous beauty. 
 Eallying his wits, he said, apologetically: 
 
 "I humbly beg your pardon, Miss Harding, I see 
 I have made a mistake." He continued affably, 
 "Trained to it by the customs of society in general. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 95 
 
 I see now that 1 have been stupidly making of myself 
 a sort of Don Quixote, and imagining that, without ex- 
 ception, every young lady 1 meet is in need of aid." 
 Bowing graciously again,* he added: ''I am happy to 
 know that I have ''at last met one who is perfect in her- 
 self." 
 
 John and Dorcas being presented by her brother, 
 had spoken with the new comers, and Rhoda without 
 rising, sat looking up through her glasses from her low 
 seat. ' After surveying in a bewildered way their bright 
 faces and athletic' forms, she hastily nodded her head, 
 and then with eagerness resumed her knitting, pa- 
 tiently counting the stitches as she took them from one 
 needle to the other. 
 
 Doyt had studied the expression of the speaker's 
 face, and as it seemed at the moment to be stamped 
 with sincerity she took what he said to be no more 
 than a concurrence in the fact, that she was perfect in 
 health and strength, and able to keep herself just as 
 God intended she should be. The disturbed look left 
 her face. 
 
 The doctor's eyes had been resting upon the face of 
 the vouugster, and he said cordially: "You see we have 
 pitched our tent; will you allow me to extend to you 
 its hospitality?" 
 
 And so the two young men took seats among them 
 and became a part of the family group there in the 
 afternoon calm; in the bright golden sunshine by the 
 side of the tossing sea; the screaming seagulls sweep- 
 ing by, and the great white, fleecy clouds rising in 
 heroic outline in the west. 
 
 There is no other profession so progressive and al- 
 ways so intensely new and interesting as the profession 
 of medicine, and between Dr. Harding and the younger 
 man the conversation quickly turned to the subject 
 fascinating to both. 
 
 The doctor had said to Lowell appreciatively: "I 
 know that to yoil the unrestrained, natural life here 
 and the unbroken monotony of the days, must be 
 
96 ^»S' GOD 3IADE HER. 
 
 charming, accustomed as you are to the consolidation 
 of your forces and the devotion to study, wliich your 
 position demands/^ 
 
 At first sight the student liad been impressed with 
 the superb dignity of tlie man; and now, as he began 
 talking on a theme in which he had such interest, his 
 large j)ersonality soon made itself manifest. The doc- 
 tor was always ready for better ways, and on the alert 
 for new discoveries. All late publications, scientific 
 reports, the work of colleges, all private investigation, 
 was hailed by him with pleasure; and received closest 
 study and attention. He Avas ardent and incessant in 
 his desire to enlarge human opportunity, and to help 
 his people out of their unhappy conditions, by the most 
 effective methods. 
 
 Once Avhen his brother had asked him, "Why is it, 
 James, that you are always making investigations?" 
 he had answered the question with readiness, "I will 
 tell you honestl}', John, it is because the feeling so 
 often comes over me, that I am a fraud. No, don't ob- 
 ject, John, fraud is the word," he said, as his brother 
 attempted to utter a protest. "Look here, now,^' he 
 we at on disparagingly: "I have set myself up as a 
 healer of disease; my people trust me. Now, with all 
 my enlightenment, with making use of the best, as far 
 as 1 can learn it, that medical science offers, I grapple 
 witli some of the common diseases^— pneumonia, ty- 
 phoid, Bright's, rheumatism, sciatica, tri-facial, neu- 
 ralgia, and other maladies — with but indiff'erent suc- 
 cess. In all the materia medica there are but a few 
 specifics ; and while I make a pretense to cure, I stand 
 in ])erfeet helplessness and see one out of every five of 
 my fellow beings waste with consumption or rot with 
 cancer. I tell you, John, we medical people have got 
 to wait for the time when we begin to cure the incur- 
 ables; before we can either be satisfied with ourselves 
 or- justly take a proper pride in our profession." , 
 
 The evening was more brilliantly beautiful than 
 usual; under the slanting rays of the sun the beach 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 97 
 
 stretched long and white. Mingled with roaring, 
 frothing, tumbling waves, was the sound of voices and 
 the laugh of little children; while from one of the cot- 
 tages, quaintly, flexibly, delicate, came the tones of a 
 violin. Away out on the clear calm blue, through the 
 white mist, steamed a little tug. An ocean liner came 
 bearing do^\Ti upon it, and from its tiny pilot house the 
 captain blew two whistles. The great thing a thou- 
 sand times as large, seemed to regard the little craft as 
 worth attention and answered the salute. 
 
 As they talked together the setting sun made a long, 
 wide path in the water, which trembled -^^^ 
 and shimmered; bordered on either side by the lustrous 
 blue, and the sky that bent above it, took up the tinted 
 glory, and reflected a thousand shades of blue and gray, 
 and red and yellow. Slowly and gradually, as they 
 watched, the great ball sunk, until there appeared only 
 a hemisphere of red, then majestically went from 
 sight, and left the western sky a livid mass of fire and 
 silver and gold. In a little time a shadowy mist had 
 arisen, and almost imperceptibly, the splendid glare 
 and glory was dying out in the west. The great 
 fluffy clouds, silver tinged, disjoined, changed 
 shapes tumbled together and crumbled away. The 
 dazzling vermillion slowly melted and left broad lines 
 of soft unsullied pinkness; while on either side, weirdly 
 intermingled, were pallid strips of green and dusky 
 films of purple, and tender tints of blue; and below all, 
 broad bands of yellow and gray. At the sky line the 
 sea took up all the fluctuating wavering shades of sub- 
 dued color, and repeated them. As they watched, the 
 lines became indefinite; the colors mixed and lost their 
 tintings, and paled away into a dull grayness; and be- 
 fore the company parted, the grayness grew heavier and 
 thicker and darker, till all over the wide expanse of sea 
 and sky, tranquil, reposeful night had vanquished 
 every trace of the lavish, lustrous glory. 
 7 
 
98 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The next evening brought the two young men down 
 to the beach in front of the cottage. 
 
 They had all been out together during the day 
 strolling through the foothills and winding up the 
 course of a mountain stream, here, and there resting 
 upon the boulders, and watching the tiny fish gathered 
 m the crystal pools; loitering in the dewy coolness of 
 the waterfalls and under the arches of the fern leaves 
 that curved above their heads; the air mellow with bird 
 song and scented with balsam from the budding 
 branches of the coniferae. 
 
 A soft fog was drifting in from the sea; little vessels 
 were gliding along over the peaceful waves; fishermen's 
 boats were anchored nearer shore. 
 
 Most of the cottages and tents were vacant; the 
 people outside in the sunlight; and children tripping 
 along gay and mirthful, or tumbling about in the soft 
 warm sand. 
 
 The sea, changing always, had, where yesterday was 
 only a gradual slope, left to-day a shelf of sand some 
 three feet in height, a kind of sea-wall at the edge of 
 the water. 
 
 The progress of the conversation was suddenly 
 checked. A little three-year-old girl, fluffy-haired and 
 chubbily built, came bounding along with others in 
 chase, and, blindly venturing perilously near the edge 
 of the wall, toppled and fell over. 
 
 In an instant the retiring wave had taken the baby 
 out to where a huge breaker caught her and rolled 
 her under and out of sight; 
 
 Tim and "Eags" were not far away, and imme- 
 diately "Eags'' plunged in and took the same direction, 
 and almost in an instant I^owell had divested himself 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 99 
 
 of shoes and coat and followed. When he had passed 
 the first low breaker, just as he made a broad side 
 stroke he looked back and he saw Doyt standing there 
 near w^here he had plunged in, and looking earnestly 
 and wistfully out into the sea. He shut his teeth, he 
 steadied his nerves, and gathered his strength with the 
 purpose of saving the child; and it seemed to him that 
 if the task he had undertaken had been even a thou- 
 sand times more perilous than it was, with such an in- 
 spiration behind him, he could have accomplished it. 
 
 He was farther out now, and the time had come for 
 the lavish, unstinted expenditure of stored up force. 
 He had learned swimming as a pastime, practiced it 
 as a recreation, but contesting often the strength of 
 the waves, his firmly constructed muscles had become 
 tense and hard, and prepared him now" to grapple 
 against tremendous odds. Those who stood on the 
 shore saw him lift his arms and throw them far for- 
 ward with continuous motion; they saw him face the 
 the breaker; saw him with strong strokes cut his way 
 determinedly through and appear again struggling in 
 the midst of the white, boiling, surging mass. They 
 saw him meet the heavy swells beyond, with knotted 
 thews and everv' fiber strained to frenzied exertion; 
 and then they saw him once again, the water unpitying 
 and relentless rushing forward with terrible intensity, 
 heaping itself upon him and smothering him under. 
 Strain their eyes then to their eager limit, not a 
 glimpse was to be caught of him while they waited in 
 the agony of uncertainty; with the swimmer now, ex- 
 penditure of strength was carefully made; every move- 
 ment Avas of vital interest; every stroke had bold 
 meaning. Strong of purpose, confident of results 
 against all hindrance, all obstruction, he sturdily 
 forced his way onward; now and then he laid a hand 
 encouragingly upon the head of the dog, who, with 
 practical sagacity, kept close up or led the way. As 
 they were swept nearer the child in the strong outward 
 rush of the water, the dog caught the floating skirt 
 
100 ^S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 of the dress, and Lowell taking firm hold of the little 
 one, struck out landward. 
 
 Almost without breath those on shore waited. 
 Their eager eyes caught sight of him once again. 
 How slowly he seemed to move as though even now his 
 strength must yield; but no, the force that impelled his 
 effort was strong. The water seems to lift him up a 
 moment, and then again they saw that with the one 
 free hand he had caught the rope that had been thrown 
 to him across the foaming water. The gallant effort 
 had not been made in vain, and even before his feet 
 touched the land, Dorcas and Doyt, went up to the 
 cottage and began preparing the blankets. 
 
 As soon as Lowell was out of the water, the doctor 
 received the unconscious child, and the young man 
 stopping only a moment to catch breath and to shake 
 his dripping clothes, was by the doctor's side, and mak- 
 ing skilled effort for the restoration of the wavering 
 life. 
 
 Not until the babe was breathing again in a sweetly 
 natural way and was snuglv and safely wrapped in 
 blankets did he seem to think of himself. 
 
 Courteously refusing to accept the dry clothing that 
 was offered him, and gathering together his own scat- 
 tered belongings, he bade them all good-night, and 
 quickly turned away, his cousin accompanying him. 
 He started out with his usual firm, free step, and in 
 spite of the tremendous effort he had made did not 
 seem exhausted. 
 
 There came a call for him to stop. The soft eyes of 
 the mother of the babe were swimming with tears, 
 as with voice choked with emotion, she said brokenly, 
 yet with pathetic earnestness: 
 
 "Blest be forever your life. You have done for our 
 household this night what years of devotion could 
 never pay.'' 
 
 When the two young men had started on again, the 
 doctor walked by their side for a few hurried steps, 
 and in parting from them said to Lowell: 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. IQl 
 
 "Don't be iucliffercnt in regard to yourself. Get 
 into dry clothing as quickly as possible/' 
 
 Looking after them as they hurried away, he called 
 to both: "We shall bp glad to see you again to-mor- 
 row evening." 
 
 Accepting the invitation, Lowell for a moment 
 halted as though he intended to speak, then bidding 
 Dr. Harding good-night, he and George walked on. 
 Not much was said between them. All the way Lowell 
 was thinking: "Is it possible that I shall see her again 
 to-morrow, perhaps again the next day?" Then he 
 said quietly to himself, "I would have swam the sea 
 for such a privilege." 
 
 That night when he had gone to his room, he 
 thought not even of his struggle with the sea, but of 
 the cottage where she stayed, of the dainty rooms, of 
 the little porch with the vines climbing over it; but 
 most he thought of the lovely picture she made stand- 
 ing there amid the soft evening mists of the beach; of 
 the organism without a discord, of the youth and the 
 rich life and force that was in her veins; so sound, so 
 graceful, so free, so bright, so happy, she seemed to 
 him out of place here — a creation of some happier 
 world. 
 
;^02 ^'^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The following evening the shadows were long and 
 slanting, the great red sun low down in the sky when 
 Lowell, gay of heart, came down the steps of the hotel 
 and walked away along the beach. He had looked 
 for his cousin to go with him, and was surprised that 
 he could not readily find him. If George had not in- 
 tended accompanying him, he had expected him at 
 least to tell him so, still it seemed to hmi odd that 
 he should not have desired to go. He walked on 
 rather slowly, expecting at every step to hear George 
 coming behind and calling to him; and when he 
 had passed the line of tents and had come to the 
 first white cottage, tnough he was still some dis- 
 tance away from them, he recognized, among the others 
 on the beach, the people he had come to meet: and 
 when he observed more closely, he saw that George was 
 with them, and that he and Miss Harding were walking 
 slowly along near to the waves and chatting carelessly 
 together. 
 
 Lowell's step slackened and a pang of disappoint- 
 ment shot through him. 
 
 ^•Qh, that's his game, is it?" he said to himself. "I 
 wondered about his not being eager to accompany me. 
 I wondered last night about his not saying anything 
 about coming. I see why he was silent on the subject 
 now. I wouldn't have believed it of George, though," 
 he said after a pause. 
 
 Just at this moment ^^Rags," looking more than or- 
 dinarily jubilant and handsome, his collar decorated 
 with a bow of broad blue ribbon, which made a beau- 
 tiful contrast with the color nature gave him, came 
 hustling through the sand and with eagerness rushed 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 103 
 
 upon him. Lowell stooped and patted the brown in- 
 telligent head, and the dog lay down in the sand and 
 licked the hand extended to him. Presently ''Kags" 
 bustled away again, and barking loudly, went back to 
 the others. Lowell followed. As he came closer Dr. 
 Harding greeted him with heartiness and Doyt was the 
 next, leaving George's side, to step away from the 
 others and with swift movement to come smiling for- 
 ward, extending both her hands. 
 
 There she stood before him again in her rare loveli- 
 ness, exquisitely formed, of charming manners, fair- 
 browed and round cheeked and dimpled, her liquid 
 eyes upturned to his, and for an instant her soft slen- 
 der white hands clasping his own. 
 
 Since he first met her he had been satisfied to stand 
 afar and look upon her with reverent admiration; he 
 regarded her as something to be looked at only, beau- 
 tiful beyond expression, sweetly attractive, yet alto- 
 gether unattainable. 
 
 A queen might have descended from her throne to 
 speak to him, and he would not have felt so honored; 
 it was to him as though an angel from the Heaven 
 above had stooped to take him by the hand; and it was 
 by reason of this feeling, that he stood there, grand in 
 his youthful manliness, his wondering eyes resting upon 
 her but for the moment without speech. 
 
 It was Doyt who first spoke: "We have been uneasy 
 about you," she said, as though there had been some- 
 thing lacking in their hospitality. "We are glad to 
 see you uninjured." Even George noticed that her 
 voice was a little unsteady as she added, "I assure you 
 we were too careless; we are not going to permit you to 
 imperil your life again to-night." 
 
 He listened to her words, wondering if it could be 
 that he heard aright; that even his risking being 
 drowned was a thing of interest to her; to her from 
 whom he had considered himself so far separated, that 
 sympathy could not extend across the infinite space 
 that lay between them. 
 
104 ^^.S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 He answered lier: "I thank you with all my heart 
 for your kindly solicitude. I am in no way injured, 
 as you see; besides, I am in the surf every day. I as- 
 sure you I incurred no danger because there's nothing 
 new in it/' he continued carelessly. 
 
 ^'You demonstrated that fact — that is, that like the 
 stormy petrel you are at home even in the roughest 
 sea; that was plain by the way you moved through the 
 stout breakers. Still there is something new in your 
 action of last evening,'^ she added in a low^er voice, 
 and the blue eyes were swimming with tears now, "for 
 to-night, there's a cottage up yonder where the highest 
 earthly thankfulness and happiness holds, where but 
 for your heroic effort would have been but broken deso- 
 lation." 
 
 Dorcas, who had been surveying the young fellow 
 with rapt admiration, said: "You went away so quick- 
 ly last night we had no opportunity to congratulate 
 you, but the feeling among u,« is general. . We have all 
 longed to tell you how highly Ve regarded the valiant 
 and successful effort that you made." 
 
 At this time "Eags," as though he had participation 
 in the general feeling, came and crouched at Lowell's 
 feet again, making sentimental demonstration of re- 
 gard, and Lowell, acknowledging his devotion, said 
 concernedly: "Look here, if there be any honor in this 
 thing, ^Eags' should have the greater share in it. He 
 was the first to plunge into the sea. He was the very 
 embodiment of daring. I assure you he went ahead 
 and it was he that caught first the dress of the child." 
 
 Lowell's manner showed plainly that he would be 
 glad to escape the attention paid him. He went on as 
 though a gratifying idea had struck him: "That's what 
 they are training us for at the college, doctor," he said, 
 "to save human life. I am glad I have had an oppor- 
 tunity to begin." He continued with a laugh, "I sup- 
 pose I am fortunate in that I am credited already with 
 the saving of human life instead of the taking of it. 
 '^Eags' and I swam for a prize," he said presently, pat- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 105 
 
 ting the dog on the head, "'and we captured it.^_ We 
 are both at home in the sea, aren't we, 'Rags'?" 
 
 The young man looked out from a pair of steady, 
 beaming eyes; there was a fine curl of the lip; it was 
 altogether" such a pleasant, boyish face to look upon 
 as he talked. He drew up his excellently molded form 
 and a feeling of youth's faith in itself could be traced 
 in the gesture, as he continued: "Keally, I love to face 
 the breakers, and I find in swimming only the natural 
 use of my strength, and besides that the very keenest 
 pleasure. I never think of danger," he added confi- 
 dently, as though the only idea was a surprise. "I 
 really have never felt as though I could be drowned." 
 
 Wiiat the doctor thought was, "There's a good, gal- 
 lant heart in the boy." What he said was: "Your con- 
 fidence, I assure you, affords us all a feeling of security, 
 for while we remain at the shore, whatever happens," 
 he added smiling approvingly, "we shall know that the 
 life-boat is always near and ready to put to sea at any 
 time," 
 
106 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXIY. 
 
 It was in the warm sunshine of a mid-afternoon a 
 few weeks later, that Doyt was riding down the mag- 
 nificent roadway, past imposing dwellings and gorgeous 
 gardens, and between the long rows of majestic, an- 
 cient trees which form the Alameda. She wore a 
 jaunty suit of navy blue, simply made, and suited to 
 her picturesque figure. The cap was white and about 
 the waist was tied a white silken scarf, the broad ends 
 of which, tassel caught, hung at her side. There was 
 little change to be noted in the sweet, radiant face, in 
 its white brow, dimpled cheeks, tender lips, its child- 
 like smile, yet in the weeks that had passed since her 
 return home from the sea shore, for the first time in 
 her life, she had begun to know a vague disquietude; 
 to feel that in the world about her, unchanged as it 
 was in beauty and color, there was some sort of lack. 
 She was as active as ever, and spent much of her time 
 out of doors; to all appearances as blithely happy, but 
 still a slight inexplicable shadow seemed to have come 
 over her life, and h\ a way disturbed its peacefulness. 
 N"ow, as she rode along a single thought pursued her. 
 She was involuntarily thinking of the things the young 
 student had said: and though she was annoyed that it 
 was so, she was haunted by the echo of his voice. 
 
 Presently looking up she saw approaching a single 
 rider; and as they came nearer together she recognized 
 the gallant wheelman as George Moulton. He rode 
 nearer, doffed his hat, circled about and came up by 
 her side. 
 
 She rode the wheel with indescribable grace. When 
 she spoke, her voice was so adorably soft, her parted 
 lips so ripe and moist, that now in her presence he 
 felt again the same subtle, but irrepressible and over- 
 
.1 STORY OF CALTFORXTA LIFE. 107 
 
 powering, attraction tliat had held him when he first 
 saw her; the willing readiness impelled him to set 
 aside forever all other aspirations and to unwaveringly 
 serve her. 
 
 George was strong and handsome; he was a young 
 mnn who in any company was self-possessed and thor- 
 oughly at ease; his intellect always giving him domi- 
 nation. 
 
 To Doyt, after their acquaintance at the sea, it 
 seemed natural that they should be friends and soon 
 they were talking together on terms of unconstrained 
 intimacy. He paid her delicate, respectful homage, his 
 jiumners were pleasant and winning, he seemed always 
 filled with kind thoughtfulness for her. With perfect 
 honesty he said: 
 
 "I am very glad to see you again. Since we left the 
 solitude of the sea, I have often wondered how you 
 have been occupied. '' 
 
 As they rode slowly along, she raised her wistful 
 blue eyes to his. "My life has been eventless," she 
 said unassumingly. "I read, I study, I help Aunt 
 Dorcas, I work among the flowers. 1 think I like that 
 best of all I do; they are so beautiful, so wonderful," 
 she put in spontaneously, and returning to her subject; 
 "all over this country I ride with my father, and at 
 times alone.'' 
 
 All the air about them was fragrant with the flowers 
 that grew in luxuriant richness on either side of their 
 pathway; in the soft, sweet, quiet day they rode on 
 together through the leafy shadows, while the soft 
 summer clouds floated through the quiet blue, and the 
 birds flitted back and forth and made music in the 
 trees above them. 
 
 They talked of the people of the household, and oi 
 the tranqitilizing days at the seashore; of the fair- 
 haired child that was saved from the yawning, piti- 
 less sea; and as they talked they stopped their wheels 
 and alighted under the wide-spreading arms of an oak 
 tree which stood at a turn of the road. While they 
 sat together on the rustic bench George continued: 
 
208 ^'^ ^OD MADE HER. 
 
 "The sea is always attractive, and in its different 
 phases entirely new and never wearisome. I have 
 often turned to it for rest and relaxation. Lowell 
 and I have been accustomed to it since childhood; but 
 this last time that I was wont to visit its shore/' he 
 added slowly, "it was different to me. I found in it 
 fresh charm; it was more alluring and beguiling than 
 I had ever known it before, and for that I am im- 
 measurably indebted to the company which it was my 
 good fortune to meet there." 
 
 Again his companion studied the expression of his 
 handsome face, and then ignoring all personality in 
 the compliment, with complacent composure, she 
 asked: "You have seen your cousin?'' and almost in 
 the same breath, "Do you see him often?" 
 
 George waited a moment to reply, then answered 
 with seeming carelessness: ^'I have seen my noble 
 cousin, yes; I saw him yesterday. I do not see him 
 often, only occasionally — for the reason that he is a 
 student; his time is monopolized." 
 
 As she did not speak at once, he continued: "Lowell 
 gives his time to serious work, to severe study. He 
 may not have so impressed you. He throws off the 
 yoke so easily that outside, perhaps as when he was 
 down at the sea, he appears but an idler, but up at the 
 college they tell me he is one of the cleverest of his 
 class. I think people expected more from his brother 
 Lawrence, who is now completing a medical course in 
 Europe," he said adroitly. "Lowell has always been 
 so careless and merry that we never thought that as a 
 student he would excel." 
 
 Doyt was silent. Perhaps even if she had wished 
 to prolong the conversation she would not have well 
 known how to do so. 
 
 George, of his own free will, continued in an ex- 
 planatory way: "He gives all his time to study now; 
 he is under a sort of slavery. Until he is through 
 with his medical course he will hardly belong to the 
 world. He will not leave the city again probably be- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 109 
 
 fore the close of the term. Let me see," he added 
 gravely and studying a minute, "that will be some three 
 months hence/^ 
 
 "So you have always been friends/^ she said, "you 
 two?'' 
 
 He laughed carelessly, as though recalling some for- 
 gotten epoch of existence, then answered her frankly: 
 ''We have hardly been friends, always. I am forced 
 to acknowledge that though reared together, there used 
 to exist a mild sort of enmity between us in boyhood, 
 but of late years we have gradually grown to better 
 feeling." 
 
 She thought a moment; presently she asked him: 
 "And so your cousin will be satisfied if he stands at 
 the head of the list, will he?'' 
 
 From her standpoint that was a poor ambition. It 
 seemed to her a foolish thing to take such unending 
 trouble about. 
 
 She asked again doubtfully: "And is he contented 
 with that, to excel all the others, I mean?" 'then she 
 added quickly: "Who stands ahead, that makes no 
 difference; that doesn't benefit the world. In medical 
 work, it is what men do, what they think out and in- 
 vent and discover by study to help people, to keep 
 them well, or to bring them back to health, or to con- 
 quer incurable diseases, that is of importance. The 
 other is only ostentation and show. I do not believe 
 that Lowell would be satisfied with that." After a 
 little time she spoke again: "To study what you want 
 to know, that's the only way to learn. It seems to 
 me a dreadful hardship to study after you have lost 
 your hunger for it," she said in a sort of distressed 
 way. 
 
 George was weighing the significance of her man- 
 ner and words. "I never looked at it in that way," 
 he acknowledged, ^^out you are always suggesting some- 
 thing that's new to me. So one learns I never thought 
 it made much difference what is the incentive." 
 
110 AyS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 A little later he looked into the soft blue eyes: 
 "And so you pity Lowell,'' he said. 
 
 "I pity him, yes. Xot that he studies* — that is a 
 privilege; but to be forced to do it; to crowd so much 
 study into so little time and to crowd out just for 
 that/' and she looked all about her, "just for that," 
 she repeated, "to crowd out all the happy sunny life." 
 
 She had been talking with great earnestness, and 
 when they had again mounted their wheels, he accom- 
 panying her in the direction of home, she imagined 
 that George's handsome face had grown slightly pale. 
 
 In a singularly attractive way, he said: " I am ready 
 to do as you command me always, but may I ride back 
 to the house with you?'' he added entreatingly. 
 
 She looked at him curiously: "Why surely you may, 
 since you plead so humbly," she said with a merry 
 laugh. "The folks at home will certainly be glad to 
 see you." 
 
 When riding quietly along, they came in sight of Oak- 
 lawn and turned up the avenue. He looked around on 
 the trees, the velvety greenness of the sward, the 
 magnificent glory of the flowers, and came in view of 
 the house nestling amongst the evergreens, bedecked 
 with roses and bordered by blossoms and girdled by 
 orchards; he lifted his hat from his head, and holding 
 it a moment in his hand he said almost reverently: 
 "It is so beautiful here." When they reached the 
 dwelling they found that Dr. Harding had not yet ar- 
 rived. 
 
 Dorcas met them at the veranda and when she saw 
 the stranger, even to a nature as unimpressible as hers, 
 the first thought was: "How handsome he is!" When 
 she discovered that the young man was their ac- 
 quaintance of the seashore she received him with a 
 hospitality befitting her own benign face, but looking 
 around a moment she said solicitously: "Has Lowell 
 come? No? I am disappointed." Hastily she added: 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Moulton, I meant no discour- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. m 
 
 tesy to 3^ou. From impluse, I asked for him; I grew 
 so accustomed to seeing you two together." 
 
 They. sat and talked together under the shadow of 
 the climbing rose-bush while the golden evening light 
 fell upon tree and shrub and flower and sward, then 
 rising and bowing in a low, rich voice, George said: 
 
 "I am charmed that I have had the honor. May 
 I come again?" 
 
 A sweet young lady rising bowed assent, and it was 
 Dorcas who said: "Come to-morrow evening; we prom- 
 ise ourselves that my brother will be at home then." 
 
 Before George left the house a thin, soft mist had 
 come insidiously in from the sea and settled about the 
 grounds, and through the wavering dimness with 
 manly stride he wended his way down the avenue. 
 
113 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 That night when George lay back upon his pillow 
 his gratification at having been admitted to Doyt's 
 presence again was not accompanied by a feeling of 
 perfect security. 
 
 The quiet of the night was unbroken save by the 
 sough of the wind among the trees; once only the 
 whistle of the theater train from the city fell upon the 
 dead silence^ and once the midnight crowing of fowls 
 disturbed the stillness; yet sleep did not come. He was 
 haunted by the one thought: "She asked after Lowell; 
 she pities Lowell.^^ In the darkness of the night, he 
 reviewed the situation. "Lowell is young," he said to 
 himself, reassuringly; "he's just a mere chit of a boy; 
 adrift and doesn't know where he is going to land. 
 By his own unaided effort he has yet to win a footing 
 for himself, while as for myself, if I do say it, I am 
 already pretty solidly established. For all this differ- 
 ence, though, and all in my favor, this isn't the first 
 time he has mingled inopportunely with my plans," 
 he said with closed lips. "Xo more is it the first time 
 that I've had to stand aside for him," he added with 
 bitterness. 
 
 It was the present situation that overwhelmed him. 
 "I never cared before; that is, I never cared much," 
 he said to himself. "He always establishes himself in 
 people's good graces; it's all just as I might have ex- 
 pected, just as I did expect. I knew when I first met 
 the family and saw the rosebud of a girl, that there 
 would be some outbreak of heroism on Lowell's part; 
 something that would bring all his good qualities into 
 shining prominence at once. An event like that of his 
 plunging headlong into the sea without a second's de- 
 lay, and without giving anybody else a chance, an in- 
 
A IS TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 113 
 
 ciclent like that, you kno\\-/' lie repeated to himself, 
 "goes so everlastingly far toAA^ard putting people on 
 terms of familiar intimacy. Then he's always so 
 hanged lucky!" he said again. "In fact there's a kind 
 of fortune that follows the fellow that it seems he can- 
 not escape from. If I had jumped into the waves un- 
 dauntedly and with the same promptitude and agility 
 that he showed, as a reward for my foolhardiness, I 
 should prohably he at the bottom of the sea now, and 
 the unfortunate baby along with me. I would have 
 given half my income to have been brought into some 
 sort of eligible eminence with those people, but he 
 saved the child, as luck would have it, while I, in dumb 
 debility, looked on. Then he was the one who won 
 the respect and admiration of all by acting with 
 promptitude and skill afterward. He knew exactly 
 what to do after he brought the drowning child out 
 of the water, while even then I only stupidly blun- 
 dered around in the way." He went on enumerating 
 his cousin's rightful claim; then, how he attracted their 
 regard, he said, by modestly disclaiming all merit for 
 the deed, and how they heaped gratitude and glory 
 upon him while all this time I remained insignificant 
 and obscure." 
 
 Trying in vain to sleep and thinking steadily he 
 persisted in his own persecution. He said generously: 
 "Lowell converses excellently well on medical topics; 
 a talent that found cordial recognition from the doc- 
 tor. It stood me in hand," he added ruminatively, 
 "to consecrate myself to anatomy and physiology. I 
 never liked it, but I wish I had only known, I'd have 
 conquered my repugnance, and have taken to it, and 
 have held on no matter what it cost. But hang it all," 
 he said again, thinking steadily a moment, "that is 
 julst where a proof of my ill fortune looms up con- 
 spicuously again. If I had given my life to the serious 
 study of bones, then the girl's father would have been 
 sure to have been a lawyer or a preacher perhaps, and 
 I should have been, as unentertaining to him, as I was 
 8 
 
;l 14 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 the other day, when I stood in inarticulate helpless 
 ness. awed by Lowell's striking eloquence." 
 
 Struggling with himself and still making an effort 
 to be just he said again, contemplatively: "Lowell ad- 
 mires her; that's certain; he's no fool; that's Avhere 
 the trouble lies; he has sufficient discernment to put 
 upon her something like a proper estimate. More 
 than that," he added excitedly, "he thinks that God 
 never made anything else like her. But then," he con- 
 tinued seeking consolation for himself, "Lowell has 
 other subjects that occupy him. His mind is divided; he 
 has his profession, that engrosses him; he makes medi- 
 cal researches, he follows clues. I have no other mind, 
 no other thought, no other object," and he shrunk in 
 agony at the vacuity of the world as it appeared to him 
 in prospect. Here followed another reverie: "What can 
 that boy know about love? He's too young. With him 
 love is but a passing whim; besides, he is of a nature 
 that coujd rally from a disappointment; he could 
 readily turn to other interests. He and Lawrence both 
 are young men who make their way over any impedi- 
 ment, past any obstruction. Lowell's fascinated now, 
 but even though he never met her again he wouldn't 
 mind, it much, would go on with his profession and 
 live a worthy life." 
 
 Rolling and tossing on his bed he moaned helplessly: 
 "The truth must be met. I have reached the supreme 
 hour of my existence. Unless I win her, my life is a 
 wreck." He said again, and with resolution, "In spite 
 of tact, talent, fortune I may not always be over- 
 shadowed. Sometimes a resolute will forestalls even 
 good luck. 
 
I STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 115 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 In the morning George rode away from the town 
 and followed a patliway that swept around the hills 
 and was overhung with chapparal and manzanita, and 
 after winding around for a time among the soft 
 foliage and passing a camp-fire left smouldering by 
 hunters, he sought a refuge high up among the pine- 
 covered hills. Around him were thick mosses and 
 broad, feathery ferns, and near by a silvery streamlet 
 went tumbling'^over the stones and through tiny gorges, 
 and fed forever afresh, still went hastening on to 
 mingle its waters with some larger stream below. 
 Away to the eastward lay the beautiful valley; he could 
 see the golden spires of the little city and through 
 the glass he had brought, there plainly discernible was 
 the house where Doytlived, standing like a gem among 
 the green. 
 
 As he watched it the turret gave out flashes of light 
 and then later a great floating mass of vapor came in 
 from the sea and dimmed it for a mometnt with its 
 shadow. He passed the morning restfully, for from 
 where he sat the view^ was a superb one. Spread out 
 before him, silvery, shimmering in the sunlight, lay 
 stretched the water of San Francisco Bay, with the 
 white boats flitting capriciously aboitt the glass-like 
 surface. He could see the trains of cars moving across 
 the smooth landscape with the long line of curling 
 smoke trailing behind. He could see proud-stepping 
 horses and glistening carriages gliding along the 
 smooth roadways, while snugly settled in the midst of 
 the charming surroundings there, munificently spread 
 before him, lay the broad domain and the liberal array 
 of plain sqnare buildings which go to make up the chief 
 pride of the beautiful valley— Stanford University. 
 
116 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 George remained there among the trees, listening to 
 the music of the water, and the hours went on and he 
 made no reckoning. Feasting his e5^es on the lovely 
 landscape, watching the changes as the fleeting shad- 
 ows fell across it, gathering the mountain flowers, 
 hearkening to the hird-songs, the time passed, until 
 he knew by the disappearing of the great sun over the 
 mountain top that the afternoon was waning, and he 
 was glad with the thought that before the light of that 
 same sun was gone from the valley he should see her 
 again. 
 
 Doyt met him in the hallway that evening when he 
 arrived at Oaklawn. As he bent low over the white 
 hand she extended to him, he said hesitatingly and in 
 a low tone: 
 
 ^'How can I thank you!" 
 
 "You have no occasion to thank me, Mr. Moulton," 
 she said simply in reply; "my father is at home to- 
 night, and with the rest of the household will be glad 
 to meet you again." 
 
 They walked together through to the reception 
 room, and Dorcas meeting them at the moment of 
 their entrance gave George a welcome. 
 
 The windows at one side of the room were open to 
 the roses that grew outside; to a view of the fresh 
 lawn, and the shimmering branches of the delicate 
 trees, while the conservatory at the end filled with its 
 broad palms and dainty ferns and orchids, gave to the 
 apartment not only additional length cind stateliness, 
 but that confusing and enchantingly unreal effect, 
 which pertains only to scenes in fairy-land. 
 
 Gaining some insight into the sweet purity of ex- 
 istence at this Eden, George said: "What a glorious 
 life you live here! It seems in itself so perfectly com- 
 plete." 
 
 It was Dorcas who answered him. "We find great 
 enjoyment in the mere fact of living, and in each 
 other's society"; then looking, at the same time^ to 
 the substantial utility of the domestic animals in pro- 
 
A 8T0RY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 117 
 
 clucing happiness, she continued: "We have a little 
 colony of onr own here — horses, cows, dogs, birds, 
 fowls; and we are never lonely. It is very retired here 
 and quiet and we love it; still/' and she added hospit- 
 ably, "we like for people to come now and then and give 
 us glimpses of the outside world/' 
 
 Dr. Harding and John were soon added to the 
 group, and after awhile Aunt Ehoda, and each one 
 after greeting their guest naturally asked after his 
 companion at the seaside. George stood with his fine 
 shoulders thrown back and his hands behind him, 
 and as he answered and told them what he knew of the 
 student he watched Doyt's countenance, and it was 
 with a jealous gasp of pain that he thought he detected 
 there a look of keen interest. 
 
 !N'otwdthstanding his severe self-arraignment of the 
 night before, George was gifted and accomplished. His 
 present self-control might have been difficult to at- 
 tain, but as he talked, there was no trace of irritation 
 in his voice. If there were anything weak or calculat- 
 ing in his nature, he gave no sign of it; he presented 
 his thoughts on many subjects in an unassuming way; 
 he was ready in quotation, and quick in repartee; and 
 all present felt the personal fascination of their young 
 guest's manner. 
 
 He went out to dinner with the family, proud of him- 
 self that he had. been considered worthy to be ad- 
 mitted to the sweet seclusion of the household. At 
 the time he felt that he would not have exchanged his 
 privilege for a seat beside a throne. When he, in 
 company wdth Dr. Harding, returned to the drawing- 
 room, the lights were lit^ and the conservatory at the 
 end was hung with lanterns which brought into en- 
 chanting view the gorgeous plants, touched up to a^^ 
 intense depth of freshness and color, and dream-like 
 beauty. The room was charmingly attractive in its 
 soothing colors and its soft, harmonious shades, and 
 toward its farther side, in the soft light, stood Doyt, 
 dressed in a gown of clinging white. 
 
118 AS GOD MADE EER. 
 
 George had seen her first in tlie careless^ free^ out- 
 door life of the seashore; seen her since endowed with 
 the charm of the dauntless rider, impressed always with 
 the captivating individuality which seemed to cling to 
 her; always with the beautiful mystery ol* the face 
 and the form as surpassingly perfect as a sculptor's 
 model, hut never until he saw her, as he saw her now, 
 had he seemed to have reached any adequate concep- 
 tion of what the Creative Hand is capable. 
 
 As his eyes irresistible sought her young face, he 
 was trying to solve the mystery of her wonderful at- 
 traction; of her being, as it were, set apart from hu- 
 manity m a circle wholly her own. He explained to 
 himself by saying impulsively: "It is because she is so 
 deliciously, delightfully, ingenuously natural, and no 
 more conscious of her beauty than a diamond is of its 
 fire.'' 
 
 When requested by her father to sing, Doyt, from 
 impulses of love and habit, went in an entirely un- 
 embarrassed way to the piano, and in rich, melodious 
 voice sang a simple ballad pleasing to him. 
 
 As George saw and learned more of her it brought 
 to him new anxiety; she seemed to him to be intangibly 
 growing farther and farther away. In the hour that 
 he had spent under her father's roof he had had an 
 insight into the purity of their life there; he had been 
 impressed with her contented satisfaction, with her 
 home attractions; and serene indifference to the gayer 
 world outside; he had caught a glimpse of the value 
 that Dr. Harding placed upon his only child, and 
 gained some faint conception of the scrupulous de- 
 mands he Avould make upon the character of the man 
 who should ever have the temerity to ask for her hand. 
 When the song was finished and the sound of the soft 
 voice had died away, though his heart was oppressed, 
 still he seemed held as by some form of beguilment. 
 The polished man of the world seemed almost to have 
 lost control of words. A flush of color came over his 
 handsome face, and the conventional good breeding 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. HQ 
 
 which had always been manifest in his manner, seemed 
 to have for the moment deserted him. 
 
 With difficulty he regained his self-possession. Dor- 
 cas had said: "Mr. Moulton, we have been promising 
 ourselves the pleasure; play for us.^^ 
 
 ''Thank you/^ he said, bowing to Dorcas, "I am much 
 honored/^ and glad indeed to cover his confusion, he 
 seated himself at the instrument and struck a few rich 
 chords. 
 
 Piano playing was the one accomplishment in which 
 George excelled his cousin; he sang too more than or- 
 dinarily well. He had given much time to music, and 
 to-night he played with all the skill he possessed. Per- 
 haps the mood he w^as in was the source of his in- 
 spiration; for he seemed to be able through the instru- 
 ment to express the deepest passions of the human 
 heart. 
 
120 ^^^ <^0D MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVII. 
 
 Late one afternoon as Lowell was walking along a 
 crowded thoroughfare of San Francisco^ some weeks 
 after George's visit, he saw coming toward him Doctor 
 Harding and daughter. 
 
 He had not even the most vague expectancy of meet- 
 ing them; he had been wondering if he should ever 
 look upon them again, and now at last before his eyes 
 was the being who had so strangely come into his life; 
 here was the face which had been constantly before 
 him, in the midst of his studies, even at his first 
 awakening from sleep, and in the gloom of the night; 
 the face, on the fairness of which he had pondered per- 
 petually since his eyes haply had first rested upon it 
 one vacation day down by the sea. 
 
 Among the thousands of beautiful women who 
 throng daily the streets of San Francisco, Doyt Hard- 
 ing's striking beauty of face and form arrested the 
 instant attention of both sexes. 
 
 At first they did not see Lowell in the rush of the 
 crowd, and filled with a strange trepidation and 
 modestly thankful that he had even been permitted to 
 look u!pon her again, he was making his way onward 
 when the father caught his eye, and, placing his hand 
 on his daughters shoulder, he made w^ay for her 
 through the throng to where he stood, and greeted the 
 young student warmly, and a moment later Doyt put 
 her hand in his. 
 
 Lowell bowed low and said modestly: '^I am for- 
 tunate to meet you and thankful that you have not for- 
 gotten me.'' Then he added, "I hope I may be of some 
 use to you here." They found that Lowell had lost 
 none of his grace of manner. Hard study had not 
 made him look either grave or melancholy and his 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 121 
 
 sparkling brown eyes and firm erect attitude showed 
 him to be in perfect health. 
 
 The doctor answered as they stepped aside out of the 
 throng: ^'I am sure you have no need to be distrustful 
 of our friendship. Your kind thoughtfulness of our 
 enjoyment while at the seaside insured that, and your 
 deed of bravery there surely merits the faint recom- 
 pense of remembrance.'" A moment later the doctor 
 said familiarly: '^'My boy, you have no lectures at this 
 hour of day, have you?" Taking it for granted that 
 he was not pressed by any college duty, without wait- 
 ing for his reph^, he continued: "We're on our way to 
 the station and we are early. Come and go with us; 
 we can talk along the w^ay." 
 
 Lowell gradually gaining possession of himself, said 
 in reply: "I have no special work on hand, doctor, no, 
 but if I had I should be tempted to shirk it for such 
 a privilege,'' and he turned springily about and fell 
 into step with them. 
 
 As Lowell, with timid pleasure, walked along by 
 Doyt's side, she said quietly: "We have heard of you 
 but once since you left us." He imagined her low 
 voice was a little unsteady as she spoke the words. 
 
 He hesitated, but in a moment, however, curiosity 
 got the better of diffidence and, turning his face toward 
 her he said quickly: "You have heard of me, you say?" 
 
 Doyt returned his glance with a smile and replied 
 readily: "Yes, when your cousin was down to see us." 
 
 There w^as a quick flash in his eyes as he looked into 
 hers. Here was a discovery that had come without 
 any warning. "George had been down to see her." 
 
 As Lowell swung along with the others he did not 
 speak for a time; he felt that he did not dare just then 
 to trust his voice. He did not have to importune his 
 companions for an explanation. The doctor stepped 
 away from Doyt's side and came around to his. The 
 conversation continued, and it all bore upon the home 
 life, and he gathered from w^hat he heard that George 
 had been a guest at the country home and had re- 
 
122 ^^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 mained in the vicinity some two or three days. Lowell, 
 in a manly way, tried to put aside all feeling of envy; 
 to eradicate from his mind any thought of George's 
 perfidy; still, try as he would, he coud not dismiss 
 from his perception his sense of appreciation for the 
 privilege that George had enjoyed. To be permitted 
 to become familiar with the one spot of all the world 
 to him, the place to which she had gone when she left 
 the seaside; to see the house where she had first seen 
 the light; to become acquainted with her home life; to 
 be near her; to see the same landscape; to breathe the 
 same air; to look up into the same sky, would be a 
 pleasure beyond conception. 
 
 As they went along the street, wrapt as his mind was, 
 Lowell's attention was called time and time again to 
 the patrician dignity of the man at his side; even 
 amongst the multitude he wore the same look of dis- 
 tinction which in the student's mind had characterized 
 him at their first meeting. Here, too, his tall, erect 
 form, his scholarly air, his self-possessed manner his 
 appearance of healthy mentality and perfect strength, 
 attracted notice even on the crowded thoroughfare 
 of the metropolis, and set him apart from the rabble. 
 
 Along the street that they were passing, although 
 he felt oppressed by the stern cruelty of it, the alert, 
 observing man, fresh from his country place, saw much 
 that interested him. The restless, feverish, tumul- 
 tuous haste of humanity; the horses with their heavy 
 loads toiling along the rough streets; the genuine zest 
 with which men carried On their petty schemes; the 
 strength wasted on frivolities; the kind of work men 
 do without protest or scruple, tiresome, irksome tasks, 
 day after day, punctually performed and without hope 
 of deliverance from them, but most of all, perhaps, 
 the strong man wondered at the sight of men sitting 
 all day long, with unabated patience, in their dingy, 
 stuffy shops, when the way was open and free to the 
 hillsides. 
 
A STORT OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 123 
 
 It was dusk when they reached the istation and the 
 lights of the city were gleaming on every hand. A 
 crowd had gathered, and while they waited, great de- 
 tached masses of gray fog came floating leisurely in 
 from the sea and lay all about them. It seemed to 
 Lowell but a moment till father and daughter had bid- 
 deii him good-bye and had entered the train. Before 
 thev left his side the doctor had said to him: "You 
 will come to Oaklawn soon/' and Lowell, looking first 
 at him and then glancing at bis daughter standing by 
 his side, had said respectfully: "Since you will permit 
 me, yes.'' AYaiting there he saw them again as the 
 train moved of!. The dignified man bowed to him, 
 and the girl reached her gloved hand from the window 
 and slowly waved it toward him. 
 
 He stood still where they had left him and watched 
 the car as it went from sight, then the smoke from its 
 engines, till it too, disappeared in the fog, then turned 
 toward home with a light heart. 
 
 All that he dared to ask of fate had been granted 
 him. Life was happy and glad, for great as he felt 
 was the contrast between them, he was not to be sepa- 
 rated from her forever; he was to see her again. Farther 
 on, the thought came to him: "Her father will never 
 part with her. No young man need ever harbor the 
 ambition of winning her; he will never resign her to 
 anyone. No wonder her father idolizes her," he said 
 to himself. "She is sent from heaven; she bears the 
 mark." 
 
124 ^'^^ (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXA' III. 
 
 The benevolent noon sun shone down on the glorious 
 valley, where the circle of the seasons brought slight 
 change, and where the year round the land teemed 
 with harvest. It was now the vintage time. Under 
 the glov;ing sunshine, the germination, the budding, 
 the flowering, the ripening had gone on; the gathering 
 of the rich juices, the coloring, the polishing, the 
 glossing of the dainty covering; and now the dense 
 masses of grapes hung in thick richness, and the air 
 everywhere Avas ladened with the odor of perfected 
 fruit. 
 
 In some parts of the valley vineyards seemed almost 
 unlimited in extent, and in others only a small por- 
 tion of the ten-acre homes had been allotted to them. 
 
 There was a quiet hush, a sort of exultant cairn in 
 the air, as though the autumn time had come, the har- 
 vest was over and nature had done its work. 
 
 The atmosphere was a little hazy and far away over 
 the summits of the mountains huge gray and white 
 cloud masses, and now and then when the wind stirred, 
 crisped and faded leaves came fluttering down from the 
 swaying tree-tops, and still the confident, luscious 
 summer-time held full and uninterrupted sway. Eoses 
 and liilies still blossomed, and glowing carnations and 
 geraniums and pelargoniums and poppies made a 
 blaze of gold and color. On the leafy tree branches yet 
 hung peaches and plums, and in endless profusion 
 dates, and figs, and almonds, and walnuts, and quinces, 
 and lemons. The grass, wakened to abundant life 
 again by autumnal showers, was emerald green, and in 
 an assured way wild flowers were pushing up their 
 heads through the leaf-mold on the hillsides. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 125 
 
 Tho contented laborers were at work among the 
 vines, and they were beginning to gather and to cart 
 away; and all the width of the green valley teams and 
 carts could he seen, loaded with the nnrple frnit, going 
 in the direction of the drying gronnds and the wine- 
 presses. 
 
 !N'ow and then the clear voice of one of the drivers 
 conld be heard singing some quaint melody which anon 
 would he taken up hy others and go ringing, linger- 
 ingly, down the quiet valley. 
 
 TJncle John went al)out the place at Oaklawn in a 
 general state of bewilderment in regard to the time 
 of year and the seasons, and sometimes he grew almost 
 weary of the luxurious bounty and monotony, and even 
 felt a longing for the wild winds and the driving 
 storms, to which he had become so accustomed. Still 
 he took enthusiastic interest in the gathering of the 
 manifold fruits. 
 
 Now, he and Dorcas were out among the laborers and 
 Doyt was near them; her blue sparkling eyes, looking 
 out from underneath the brim* of a broad white hat. 
 She was taking the great, massive, bunches from her 
 TJncle John as he cut them from the vine, and she 
 was stopping now and then to admiringly caress one 
 of the most completely polished and beautiful of the 
 rival clusters, as she carefully laid it away in the box 
 prepared for it. 
 
 After a little they heard the roll of wheels, and look- 
 ing up from their work they saw the horses and empty 
 wagons coming up between the evergTeen hedges; and 
 presently they noticed Tim climbing out of the back 
 of one of the wagons and rushing breathlessly across 
 the orchard toward them, with "Kags" barking at his 
 heels. Pulling aside the vines and parting the fes- 
 toons overhead which hindered his way, he came up to 
 them, panting with eagerness and eyes ablaze with in- 
 terest. Climbing over the boxes he went up to Dorcas 
 and opening his small closed fist be laid a piece of 
 money in her hand. 
 
136 AS GOD MADE HEB. 
 
 "I'ts two bits, Aunt Dorcas," he cried; "yes, the man 
 gave it to me for watching his horses down there/' 
 he said, nodding toward the wine-presses. "Yes, 
 and he said he'd give me another to-morrow if I'd 
 see to his horses again." Tim's frowsled head was 
 nodding and his face was all radiant as he upturned it 
 to hers. Here he stepped np and whispered in her 
 ear that he had seen the doctor down at the press, and 
 that he had told him that sometime he might bring 
 Hobby down. Then he added in an audible voice, and 
 with an air of the utmost satisfaction: "We can do it 
 now! We can do it now!" 
 
 Dorcas' fiace lighted up, too, as she answered him 
 mysteriously, "Yes, we can do it now." 
 
 Though Doyt and her uncle were in the dark as to 
 what project was on hand, "Eags," with his habitual 
 sagacity, seemed to comprehend the plan and to enter 
 fully into the joy of the occasion, and after stretch- 
 ing out his tongue and wagging his tail vigorously for 
 a minute or two, with zealous loyalty, he took a seat 
 just where Tim's right foot rested in the soft soil. 
 
 To Tim each week at the ranch brought some fresh 
 fascination, some new amusement, and the continua- 
 tion of open-air pastimes had had its effect. Each 
 happy, careless day had added to his health, and 
 growth, and strength, and comeliness. He had never 
 stopped to ask himself whether this heavenly state 
 was going to last. With steel-like endurance he had 
 borne privation and hardships during his city life; now 
 like the true philosopher that he was, he laid hold of 
 every new variety of entertainment with keen avidity 
 and Avith all the energy of his trusting nature, never 
 once questioning its duration. 
 
 When Dr. Harding came home he made his way in 
 the direction of the vineyards, through the riotous 
 growth and the dusky, fragrant avenues made by the 
 ladened vines. 
 
 He had just returned from a surgical operation on 
 the deformed foot of a little child, and he felt, not 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 127 
 
 the regret that he must do it, but the regret that it 
 had to be done; and now as he went along among the 
 fruit-burdened boughs, from the contrast he felt the 
 more the charm of the scene and the joyous serenity 
 and peace of it. 
 
 He observed closely the burdened vines, straining on 
 their creeping tendrils, stretched to the limit of their 
 seemingly frail strength, and here and there broken 
 under the pendant weight. 
 
 He lingered on in the midst of the tropical abund- 
 ance absorbed in contemplation, pondering over the 
 majestical mystery of growth. In that position the 
 ou^tline of his splendid frame was plainly visible, as 
 well as the expression of his intellectual features. 
 Looking once, one would want to look again; there 
 was such manly nobleness in his mode of posture; so 
 much conscious strength in his attitude; such a look of 
 placid, gladsome content in the expression of his re- 
 fined face. He gazed admiringly upon the ruddy color, 
 and the purple richness of the clusters that hung about 
 him; tasted their ripe sweetness, and breathed in their 
 luscious odor: all to him eloquent of God's bounty, 
 which seemed to him to fall in one continued bene- 
 diction. 
 
 Though he saw the A^nes bear with the same prodi- 
 gality, year after year, he never ceased to wonder at 
 the extravagance of production and the magnificence of 
 the display. He was struck anew with the magic of 
 growth, with the dainty attractiveness of the form of 
 the fruit; and more with the magnificent liberality of 
 the gifts of Providence. As he thought upon it, the 
 wonder was to him that man through the ages had 
 seemingly ignored these complete, indisputable proofs 
 of Providential love and goodness, and had found it 
 necessary to go to the Book to learn about God. 
 
 When the doctor came nearer, he saw the wagon 
 partially filled, and on the ground the boxes packed 
 to the top stood ready for removal. Doyt's bright 
 form was flitting here and there; he could see Tim 
 
lOg AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 and tlie do_a", thoiigli part of the time liidden by the 
 foliage, and Dorcas and John now and then peering 
 out among the vines. "What a charming picture of 
 peaceful labor!" the doctor said, as he came up to them. 
 "It is such a scene as this that makes a man's life 
 rich.'' Presently he said, as he saw the wagon loaded 
 and ready to move away with its luscious burden, 
 "What recompense for work! We are royally served 
 if we would but remember the oblio-ation!" 
 
A 8 TORT OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 129 
 
 Or T^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 CHAPTEEXXIX. 
 
 The}' had barely returned to the vineyard after 
 luncheon when a message came for the doctor that 
 ^Yilliams was worse. As he prepared to go, Doyt 
 dropped her work, and standing before her father, 
 she looked up into his face pleadingly and said: 
 
 "T may go with you? Grandma will need me." 
 
 He knew of a truth that Grandma would need her. 
 and need, too, all the warm comfort that the girl could 
 give her, and though he would gladly have held her 
 aloof from all the hard sorrows of the world, after a 
 moment's thought he gave consent. 
 
 ^lany years ago, in the coal regions of Wales, 
 Grandma Williams had married, when still quite 
 yoniig. Her husband, though strong of frame, a hard 
 ■worker, and a fairly good provider, proved to be a man 
 given to drink; and almost with her marriage her hard- 
 ships began, and her children, from their earliest years, 
 larely heard him speak in kindness to her. She was 
 not of a temperament that could live in endless tur- 
 moil, so she had been obliged to concede to him the 
 right to talk to her as he would. Forced to it, she 
 gradually gave up her spirit of independence and suc- 
 cumbed to fate. 
 
 In the course of years her husband, during a winter 
 revival, became a member of the church, and, in a 
 measure, left off drinking; but his harshness and 
 cruelty to his wife continued. 
 
 Doyt remembered hearing Grandma tell how in the 
 old country, a region of scattered villages, she had 
 often, even on a Sunday evening, tramped to the 
 church, four long miles away, carrying, too, a sleeping 
 baby, because the sermons preached there in those days 
 helped in a degree to hold him in check during the 
 9 
 
13Q AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 week. She remembered, too, that Grandma in telling, 
 the story had said: 
 
 "Marriage with one yon love, and with one who 
 loves you, is one perpetual bliss; bnt the union of un- 
 congenial and warring souls leads only to degradation 
 and misery. In the newness of our married life, there 
 were a few sunshiny days; then arrogance and domineer- 
 ing came; then drunkenness and beating; and when he 
 was suddenly called awa}^, I really could only feel a 
 sense of relief." 
 
 When Doyt and her father reached the cottage, they 
 found the sick man very weak and breathing heavily, 
 and it was evident at a glance that now the end was 
 not far. 
 
 In the whole community where he practiced there 
 were none, perhaps, who had a finer appreciation of 
 the doctor's character than this mother and son. The 
 distinctive personality of the invalid was manifesting 
 itself to the last. He reached eagerly for the doctor's 
 hand, and studied earnestly the kindly face. Perhaps 
 there was not much of hope to be read in it, for sinking 
 back on his pillow with hard courage he said in dis- 
 jointed sentences: "I'm cut up badly — I know it; my 
 name will soon be taken off the books." If he had 
 held any fear of death through all his sickness, he had 
 concealed it jealously. He had suffered much, and 
 »there had been a deep running sore near the spine for 
 mouths. The room was very quiet, now, and there 
 were serious faces about the bed, and perhaps the sick 
 man felt it a necessity to thrust away the solemnity 
 that seemed to be gathering around, for after a spell 
 of very difficult breathing, he said: "There's but one 
 thing that haunts me and troubles me." 
 
 The doctor bent his head to catch his words, when 
 he continued with an appearance of great earnestness: 
 "The hole in my back, doctor. I'd like damned well to 
 know where it goes to." The sick man laughed along 
 with the rest, and, presently, rousing his energies, said 
 again: "'After I go I want you to make an exploration 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE, 131 
 
 of the cavity, and/' he waited for breath, and then 
 added, "and ''telephone me the result." 
 
 He had never in any emergency plead for sympathy; 
 he would not now. He had a dread of any sort of 
 hypocrisy; he would die as he had lived. 
 
 "When the doctor had gone, Doyt sat by the bed 
 fanning the flies away. Williams lay with his face a 
 little to one side. It was white and drawn, the eyes 
 glistening and bright. The bed was shining clean, 
 the pillow-cases, lace-trimmed, were blue white, and 
 freshly ironed. Doyt went about the room with such 
 quick, gentle step, and it was with such soft grace of 
 movement that she waited on him, that it seemed to 
 refresh even the dying man to watch her. She 
 arranged the pillows, and tried to soothe the nervous, 
 irritable invalid, and every touch was full of tender 
 kindness. 
 
 She gently lifted and placed his "big foot" on a pil- 
 low; she bathed his face and smoothed back his hair, 
 and then the sick man reached and took one of the rose 
 buds from the bunch she had brought, and after 
 breathing its fragrance greedily, he laid its long stem 
 across his bosom. 
 
 When Doyt had first come into the room, she had 
 laid her hand on the aged woman's spare shoulder, and 
 said: "Poor, dear Grandma, how is your rheumatism 
 to-day?" 
 
 That grand old mother! For more than eighty-four 
 years she had borne life's burdens; and who can say 
 how much good the kindly words, to which she was so 
 unaccustomed, did her? She was worn and weary and 
 ready to drop from weakness and loss of sleep. She 
 put her hand down on her withered limb. "My right 
 limb is bad," she said, in a subdued tone. Williams 
 had caught the words and they served to increase his 
 petulance, and in an instant his old arrogance had 
 returned. He raised himself on his elbow and said 
 fiercely, looking toward his bent, old mother: "God 
 in heaven! If I was only as well off as you are! I'd 
 
132 ^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 like to know wliat you've got to growl about! I'll be 
 hanged if I wouldn't like to have got off with no more 
 damage than a pair of lame legs." 
 
 Doyt, full of trouble, thought: "How could he be so 
 merciless? There was not in him the least recognition 
 of her weakness or helplessness. What cou^ld make the 
 blank indifference to her condition?" She thought: 
 "Was it a tumult of remorse? Was it that he felt 
 afresh the wrong he had done her? Was there some- 
 thing in that grand old face that made it unutterably 
 galling to realize the fact that he had used all her 
 means, and was now going to leave her in her helpless 
 old age to the mercy of strangers? Did it soothe his 
 self-respect to try to throw blame on her, and disown 
 her vast claims to his gratitude?" Doyt herself felt 
 in a way humiliated, but her main regret was that the 
 kind old soul knew that she had heard his words. 
 
 The young girl's eyes rested on that shrunken, bent, 
 frail body. She was conscious of the woman's stung 
 pride; she knew the brutal words had pierced her 
 heart. Doyt's young eyes saw all that was written in 
 that noble, withered face; all the long conflict, the 
 patience, the courage; all the disappointment and the 
 sorrow, and all the marks of patient toil; and she read 
 in it, too, all the rectitude, all the open truthfulness, 
 all the honor of her whole life. And now she, who 
 was worthy of all the honor that could be bestowed 
 on womanhood, must endure only harsh rebuke; she, 
 who was nearing the end of her exhausted life, and 
 should be cared for with all the tenderness given 
 a babe, must be driven on by that waning, but merci- 
 less power. Doyt watched the thin body that had once 
 been so strong, quivering with its suppressed anguish, 
 and for a moment the girl's sympathies were alienated 
 even from the dying; her only impulse being protection 
 at any cost for the tortured feelings of the helpless 
 mother. Though she could see no way to save her 
 from him, her young soul rose in revolt, and she 
 
A ^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 133 
 
 thought passionately: "If he would only die before he 
 kills her!" 
 
 When Grandma had tottered out into the other 
 room, Doyt waited until Williams dozed, then slipped 
 out to her side, coaxing her to lie down awhile. She 
 took the two brown, wrinkled hands within her own, 
 and tried to soften her woe. The withered lip was 
 quivering, but there came no complaint as to his 
 uncivil words. Sitting down beside her, she drew the 
 girl's head nearer, and in a gentle voice, and with her 
 pretty Welsh accent, ''Dovt, dear, my laddie — there's 
 the look of death in his face," she said. Doyt went 
 back to her post at the side of the sufferer; she looked 
 on in puzzled wonder to see the change that came over 
 him. 
 
 The yellow sunlight came into the room and fell 
 upon the white bed, and flitted merrily here and there 
 about the cover as the leaves of the trees outside moved 
 to and fro. The invalid dozed at intervals; once just 
 as he was dropping off to sleep, he raised his head an 
 instant, and said with a wear\^ smile, and as though 
 he were overlooking some duty: "I must go up in the 
 country, you know, to-morrow." At length from his 
 sleep he rose up excitedly, and his grip on the bedding 
 tightened, "I can't stand this thing," he said gasping; 
 "I've got to have something to strengthen me." He 
 looked about the room, then said peevishly: "Where 
 has she gone?" Doyt offered to get anything for him. 
 "No, wait, you can't get it," he said in a liusky whisper, 
 "she knows where it is." The feeble, ])roken mother 
 was by his side again, and with her trembling hands 
 was trying to pour brandy from a bottle. As he 
 watched her, a deeper brown came over the man's face, 
 and, trying to raise Jiimself on his elbow, he said 
 savagely: "I'd like to know what good that cursed cry- 
 ing's'goiiig to do?" As he fell back, he said helplessly: 
 "It's damned unfair to take advantage of a fellow in 
 this fix." He drained a moment later the glass she 
 had brought him, and then lying back he muttered: 
 
134 ^^ ^OD MADE HER. 
 
 "The job I've got on hand isn't cheerful business at 
 the best; to me, myself, the notion isn't fascinating." 
 
 The poor unappreciated mother through all the long 
 years of his harshness, her love for him had not died 
 out, but, in a way, increased; now all the passion of 
 her strong nature was blended into one great piteous 
 longing for tenderness; still she made successful efforts 
 for self-control. 
 
 "And," he went on contemptuously, "that sniveling's 
 the thing, though; I'd just go on with it, if I were you. 
 It helps a man to breathe, it does." 
 
 With a most pathetic effort she answered him, 
 gently, all worn out as she was with her grief, her 
 years, her work, and her wakefulness. Who could 
 measure the hunger of that poor heart ? All the desire 
 of her life seemed to be mingled into one passionate 
 longing, and that was for some expression of kindness 
 from him. 
 
 All the fond love she had had for him. in his earlier 
 years, all the ties of babyhood came back to her now. 
 In her sweet soul there was not a tinge of resentment; 
 all else was overlooked and forgotten save that her 
 only child lay dying. 
 
 The soft wind came in at the open window, and the 
 sweet fragrance of the flowers outside. The sick man's 
 breath came harder. With a strained earnestness in 
 her aged eyes, the feeble mother went on gently min- 
 istering to his wants. 
 
 When the sun had gone down low in the west some 
 neighbors came in to take their place as watchers for 
 the night, and Poyt prepared to go. 
 
 When she had bidden the pale sufferer good-bye. 
 Grandma made her way to the little side porch by her 
 side, and together they sat down on its edge. 
 
 An acacia tree with its feathery, shimmering leaves 
 stood near, and a clematis vine climbed over the brown 
 railing of the porch, and white clusters of its blossoms 
 hung about their heads. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 135 
 
 The giri put her arm gently ahoiit the bent, worn 
 frame, and laid her velvety cheek against the one all 
 bronzed by time and weather. She thought sadly: "I 
 can sympathize with her, she knows that I do, bnt then 
 I am not of her own flesh and blood/' As the two 
 remained there the slanting rays of the sun came 
 through the acacia leaves and lay in ardent warmth 
 about them, and brought out with vivid force the 
 pathos that lay in t]ie contrast. 
 
 The fair child with the broad, smooth brow, the soft- 
 tinted, glowing skin, the beaming blue eyes, the ripe, 
 parted lips, the fresh blooming cheek, the exquisitely 
 sweet mouth, untouched and unmarked by the world^s 
 hardness. 
 
 In the other face, brown and thin, was recorded years 
 of martyrdom, baffled plans, long-enduring pain, pov- 
 erty, calamity, agony, servitude; it was seamed by 
 sorrow, scarred by care, withered by cruel usage, 
 parched by neglect, and starved for lack of sympathy. 
 To the one, life was joyous and beautiful and full or 
 flavor; to the other only the gray ashes of existence 
 seemed left. 
 
 When the glow was all fading away in the west. 
 Grandma said tenderly: "I must return to him again; 
 go now, dear, they'll be missing you at home." 
 
 In the gray dawn a messenger came for the doctor; 
 he remained by the side of the dying man, doing what 
 he could to soothe his pain until the worn spirit was 
 free. 
 
 Later in the morning, when Doyt, with her Aunt 
 Dorcas, went over to the cottage, Williams lay peace- 
 fully at rest, his wasted hands were folded across his 
 bosom and on his face was the look of a saint. 
 
 N'eighbors who had not ventured across that thresh- 
 old for years dropped in one after another, for Grand- 
 ma had the goodwill of them all. 
 
136 ^^^ (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 One said: "He died cursing to the last/^ They could 
 not comprehend how the mother love had grown 
 stronger in her, through all the years of suppression. 
 They could only congratulate her that he was gone. 
 The grand old mother stood leaning against the casing 
 of the door as Doyt looked toward her. No cry of pain 
 broke from her, but the salt tears were flowing freely 
 down the thin, faded face. The girl's heart quickened 
 with a throb of indignation. She was in a position 
 where she could defend her now, and with quick awak- 
 ened loyalty she went across the room and taking her 
 place by Grandma^s bending form, and facing the 
 others, on an unweighed impulse, spoke: "Under this 
 roof remember only that a heart-broken mother 
 mourns.''^ 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 137 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Late one afternoon a young man, neat in apparel 
 and comely in person, Avith noble poise of the head, 
 athletic symmetry and a knightly stride of the limb, 
 possessing a student's face with its thoughtful eyes and 
 broad brow, was making his way up the avenue that 
 led to Dr. Harding's home. 
 
 He had been occupied with the effort to regain pos- 
 session of himself after the strain of examinations, and 
 just at this time his sense of exemption from anxiety 
 was delightful. It was Lowell, who thus freed, had 
 come to Oaklawn, and he came remembering the young 
 girl's face, like one seen in dreams, and too beautiful 
 for anything save visions. 
 
 As he went through the lovely grounds all nature 
 seemed to him to be in a state of jubilance. The air 
 was rich with bird music and riotous with gorgeous 
 blossoming; and on up the flower-bordered walks, under 
 the shadows of the exquisite trees, beneath the spread- 
 ing palms and through the long, dark shadows of the 
 oaks, his step was swift and quick, for youthful expec- 
 tation was at its height. 
 
 Although with the force of his whole being, Lowell 
 longed to see her again, still it was with some hesitancy, 
 as to the prudence of his coming, that he approached 
 the house. He instinctively knew that through all the 
 years of his life his soul might, until of late, have been 
 dormant, it had at last received the touch that had 
 awakened it. He knew, that struggle against it as he 
 might that she had already become a part of his life; 
 ho knew that the more he saw of her the stronger he 
 would be bound; and that suffer as he might, no mat- 
 ter how far separated from her, that he could never 
 again be free from her influence, and that his life 
 would be desolate without her. 
 
138 ^^ <^0D MADE HER. 
 
 When Dorcas showed him into the cheerful, friendly 
 drawing-room, the full household was present; the 
 doctor, the beautiful girl, the Eastern people and Tim.. 
 It was with difficulty that he concealed his surprise, 
 when conspicuous among them, he saw his cousin 
 George. In his complete self-absorption he had not 
 thought of the possibility of meeting him; but now 
 there was no mistaking the evidence of his eyes. 
 
 The doctor arose from his big armchair in the corner 
 and came toward him with genial hospitality; his fine 
 eyes glowing, as grasping him by the hand, he said: 
 "We are glad at last to be permitted to welcome you to 
 Oaklawn.^^ A moment later and he had taken the hand 
 and heard again the sweet, familiar voice of the girl of 
 whom he had dreamed. She was dressed simply in 
 soft, cHnging drapery of pure white with corsage bou- 
 quet of maiden-hair fern and violets. 
 
 Her beauty seemed to Mm more perfect than before, 
 and its rarety more striking; the sun-fed skin, the fresh 
 fairness of her face, the grace of her motions, the earn- 
 est softness of her voice, her beautiful smile; alike, be- 
 wildered and fascinated him. As he contemplated her 
 from time to time, he felt the wonder that even di- 
 vinity itself should have so molded the muscles of the 
 human face as to give it such expression. 
 
 On his arrival, after speaking to the others, Lowell 
 had bowed to George, who advanced and offered to 
 shake hands, an additional ceremony which seemed to 
 the former unnecessary. Further on in the evening 
 when the lights had been brought in, it was still in 
 evidence that George was inclined to be friendly. 
 
 As he seated himself, he said, considering a moment: 
 "Let me see; when are you free, Lowell?"^ Lowell 
 saw that the rest of the company awaited his reply, and 
 he answered, tranquilly: "I feel that I have been in 
 pretty active service, but I am happy to announce,'^ he 
 said, drawing a long breath, "that the campaign is 
 ended." "Are you in earnest, Lowell ? I thought you 
 looked thin and wan; and so the term's ended?'' 
 
A ."^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 139 
 
 ^•'Yes, closed yesterday." 
 
 "Aha!" said George, "and youVe passed and the time 
 has come for felicitations. Well, well, old boy," he 
 said, drawing his chair nearer, "and how do you feel 
 now that you are a senior?" 
 
 A. "Well," he answered slowly and with calm frank- 
 ness, "perhaps it is a matter of no interest to the 
 friends here, and I do not know that I conld make it 
 plain to human comprehension how I do feel. To be 
 honest," he added, looking furtively at Doyt, "I am so 
 satisfied with the achievement I have made, that I have 
 to pray all the time to be delivered from the sin of 
 arrogance." 
 
 The doctor extended his hand to Lowell and said: 
 "Let me express to you my heartfelt congratulations 
 on the event and to say to you that as far as this 
 household goes, you are allowed to make the most ex- 
 orbitant claims on its respect for what you have ac- 
 chieved. Fve been in your place, my boy; I know 
 something about that active service of which you speak; 
 the wrestling with the long, medical names for nerves 
 and bones and muscles and blood-vessels; and I know 
 something of the suspense after the 'Finals,' while you 
 await Judicial decision, and don't know whether you are 
 going to stand or fall." He went on meditatively: 
 "The pictures of my class are hanging down in my 
 office now; an artless but dispirited, thin, jaded-looking 
 set they are, but a fair representation of the fragment 
 that was left of each one of us at the close of the siege. 
 
 "I like to attend Commencements; I always feel very 
 deferential in the presence of the students, for the fact 
 may not be generally understood, but a medical class 
 at graduation are the wisest of their generation. I tell 
 you," he continued, with engaging earnestness, 'that no 
 successful practitioner, no demonstrator, no college lec- 
 turer could stand the abstruse questioning and reel off 
 the names of remote infinitesimal subdivisions of an- 
 atomy, pathology, histology, biology, and microscopy 
 that they are capable of. They're only wise for a little 
 
140 ^^ ^^D MADE HER. 
 
 while; the distention is more than human mentality 
 can endure and in less that a week, the most of what 
 they grasp with such inscrutable tenacity, has fled. It 
 is well that this is so/' he added, "for unless they had 
 some way of getting rid of the burden they would be 
 incapacitated for any other effort, save that of holding 
 to it. They would become a mere thesaurus, worth- 
 less only as reference.'^ 
 
 Then Dorcas' sympathy began to go out to Lowell, 
 and with an air of practical good sense, she said: "I 
 should think that the anatomical intricacies of the hu- 
 man body were enough without multiplying the difficul- 
 ty by the endless long names they attach to them. Med- 
 ical professors, if anybody, ought to have some consis- 
 tent sense of how much the young student can memor- 
 ize without injury; still I cannot learn that they are 
 making the least effort toward simplifying the murder- 
 ous nomenclatures with which their science is begirt. If 
 I had my way, Lowell, I should put more dietetics and 
 hygiene into the curriculum, even if there were less of 
 science, and bring about an entirely new set of condi- 
 tions. Young men starting out in the profession of 
 healing people who haven't time themselves to think 
 anything about their bodily needs, have about the hard- 
 est kind of work ahead of them that there is to be done 
 in the world. Just at the outset of that life I never 
 could see any reason in putting a strain upon their 
 vitality that is enough to wreck it." 
 
 Lowell made an effort to thank the speaker for her 
 healthful interest in medical students in general, him- 
 self included, but sometimes he found that it was diffi- 
 cult for him to talk, and he was conscious only that a 
 pair of lustrous blue eyes were resting upon him. He 
 was occupied in thinking whether she knew there had 
 been an inspiration behind all the work he had been do- 
 ing: he was wondering whether she would ever know 
 how she had already entered into his plans of life; how 
 intimately she had been connected with every hour of 
 his study. How many evenings had he walked up and 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 141 
 
 down with his book in his hand, his mind busy pictur- 
 ing her in her home here in the beautiful valley, his 
 fancy often far more absorbing than the lesson before 
 him! 
 
 "Are your vocal organs in order to-night ?" suddenly 
 the doctor asked, turning toward George. "Never 
 better, 1 believe, doctor,'' the young man answered 
 readily. "If I have the power to serve you I am ready 
 to receive orders'' he continued, as with cultured ease 
 he moved toward the piano. Turning about a moment 
 later he bowed to Doyt and added: "If Miss Harding 
 consents, we will sing the song we practiced this after- 
 noon." Lowell winced, but stepped aside as the young 
 lady gracefully assented, and while he watched her, 
 with perfect repose of manner she took her place at 
 George's side. George sang well; his voice was rich 
 and full and there was a pathos in it that thrilled the 
 heart. There was a certain touching sweetness in the 
 girl's voice and a beautiful blending of the two as they 
 sang together. Afterward George played two or three 
 classical selections, then a short interval elapsing 
 Lowell saw the pretty white-robed form standing again 
 at George's side, and at Uncle John's modest request 
 they sang in tones soft and gentle the old song these 
 people had been accustomed to hear in childhood, and 
 which yet retained the same old irresistible charm. 
 With modulated voices, yet with distinctest utterance, 
 slowly came the words: 
 
 *'We have come from the mountains of the old Gran- 
 ite State ; 
 Where the hills are so lofty, magnificent, and great.' 
 
 Uncle John sat with arms folded on the back of the 
 chair; in front of him the doctor, listening attentively 
 till the last soothing word of the old song died away. 
 Rhoda laid aside her stern habit and recalled to her 
 remembrance the last time in the far Eastern home she 
 had heard the same old words. And Lowell, while 
 Doyt sang, his eyes had remained fixed upon her. He 
 
14:2 ^^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 took note of the graceful position of the body, of the 
 setting of the head, of the swelling of the white throat. 
 He gazed with a longing to make himself sure that it 
 was not all a vivid dream — that she really did exist. 
 Other guests joined the company and later on in the 
 evening Lowell passed through the door which the 
 doctor held open for him and with him entered the 
 library. 
 
 "You see, I have not altogether left the paths, of 
 learning if I am out of college. Here are my books. 
 Come and look at them.'^ Lowell was charmed with 
 the book-lined room with its atmosphere of enjoyment 
 and comfort, its easy chairs, the long writing table, its 
 study-lamp. As they passed along Lowell noted the 
 different shelves which contained the early classics — 
 philosophy, poetry, biography' — and the doctor was sur- 
 prised to find how many of his favorite books the young 
 man had read. "Some of my books have been bought 
 under caprice, some by method; you will find here the 
 ancient authors side by side with the most modern. It 
 has been interesting to me to study men's intellects in 
 their gropings after truth; to know what men have 
 thought in the different ages; to notice how the opin- 
 ions of some minds have led the world into superstition 
 and error which, has lasted until some heathful thinker 
 has released it again.'' After a time Lowell took a 
 seat in one of the wide chairs near the table, the man 
 with the broad brow, mellow eyes and rich voice and 
 the strange depth of character opposite. 
 
 Through the low windows they could look upon the 
 soft, serene picture outside, on the rich beauty of the 
 flowers and the trees in the moonlight. His compan- 
 ion talked on: "In my practice I am thrown in among 
 such a motley collection of humanity I'd become a bar- 
 barian again, I think," and he looked around the room 
 in a respectful way, "if it were not for my books. I 
 could not give them up." Sometimes, the doctor drew 
 the younger man out on some topic, medical or other- 
 wise, while he sat content and listened, in the mean- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 143 
 
 time studying the face of the speaker. The elder man 
 nev.er knew, perhaps, the effect of his kindly interest, 
 how the show of confidence, the word of commendation 
 or appreciation he spoke to his yonng companion gave 
 to his energies new ambition and to his purposes new 
 impulse. 
 
 While Lowell sat with him there and listened to his 
 conversation the man's character gradually unfolded 
 before him, and he felt there was no man among all 
 that he had ever met wdiom he was so proud to know. 
 
 Perhaps it had begun at even their first meeting; at 
 any rate, from this conference a subtle sympathy 
 sprung up between them, which was to last till the end. 
 
 The table between them strewn with manuscript, 
 while here and there some few sheets neatly written 
 were arranged in piles. Seeing that Lowell had taken 
 notice of it, he remarked: "We do not often have com- 
 pany in this room. I suppose for Dorcas' sake I ought 
 to make apology for its disarrangement. This rub- 
 bish," he said, taking up from the table one of the 
 bunches of yellow paper which he had pinned together, 
 "is the material out of which I have hoped sometime to 
 produce a book." He spoke with a pleasing frankness, 
 yet in a sort of self -distrusting way. Lowell, who had 
 been considering the man's talent, but more than that 
 his healthy mentality, being thoroughly interested in 
 the disclosure made, said heartily: "The world is to be 
 congratulated, Doctor, that you have come to such a 
 decision." 1 
 
 "I thank you, I am sure, for your kind confidence in 
 my ability," he responded, looking smilingly into the 
 young face opposite ^^ut whether the world that you 
 mention will ever see the finished book or not is the 
 question that takes precedence. I cannot say that I 
 am writing a book; I should say only that I have under- 
 taken to write a book. Few attempts in life, I imagine, 
 are so instructive. You wonder how I ever came to 
 undertake the task? As there was some method in it 
 I will try to tell you. It was this way: In the begin- 
 
144 ^^ (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 ning I grew ambitious. As I read books, I fell often 
 to wondering at the author's ideas. You see, there 
 seemed to me to be always something lacking in the 
 conception. While the writer has the unhindered op- 
 portunity to make his hero anything he wants him to 
 Jbe, in all literature there are so few that are anything 
 like perfect characters. Well, you see, I began to 
 think that I should like to create some people; whole- 
 some, sensible people — people of the kind that ought 
 to be created. Then I planned it out that they must 
 have patriotism enough to master their native tongue; 
 no matter how well they might fill requirements in 
 every other way, I would permit no character in my 
 book who could not at least speak passable English. 
 When first my notion to write began to be a settled 
 one, I thought having something to say it would be an 
 easy matter to say it. To go on with the histor}^,.then 
 I began writing down- my thoughts, some of which 
 came to me in the middle of the night, some as I was 
 riding along in my buggy, some in the sick rooms and at 
 other extremely inconvenient times for penning them. 
 I jotted some of them down, though," he said laugh- 
 ingly and looking up and down the littered table, ^^and 
 at present, as you see, I am driven to despondency by 
 my very surfeit of material. Since I began my book 
 I have realized, too, what balky affairs words are to 
 manage, and the pertinacity with which having once 
 become acquainted with one it sticks to you and crowds 
 out even its more worthy relatives. The work of put- 
 ting my thoughts into a readable form I find is very 
 much like catching birds. I grip some of them by the 
 legs, but the best of them flit away before I get them 
 caged." 
 
 "I like your model for a book. Doctor/' Lowell said; 
 "I am sure you have a clear idea of what a book ought 
 to be." 
 
 "Yes, but I have found that the idea amounts to but 
 little — that is, that there is a wide difference beween 
 even an exalted design and its successful fulfillment," 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 145 
 
 "But, Doctor/' the young man answered, amusedly, 
 'you are too critical — you're too exacting with yourself. 
 For a man like you to once resolve to do a thing is to 
 m*e sufficient guaranty that it will be worthily done." 
 
 "I know,'' the other replied, "a man like me ought 
 to have energ}' enough and persistence enough to man- 
 age a thing he has been sufficiently daring to attempt, 
 but,'' he continued with an odd smile, "you do not 
 know, you haven't tried it, you can't imagine all the 
 difficulties that get in the way. Why, even after I got 
 my characters created and modeled just after the style 
 I most admired, even then they fall far short of my 
 expectations," he said so disconsolately that Lowell 
 laughed. "They don't seem to want to come to life; 
 they just stalk about stiffly. I can't rouse them to any 
 animation; I can't get them into their proper places; 
 I can't get them to say the things I want them to say; 
 they won't speak with any sort of lucidity," he com- 
 plained. "Why, they barely escape absolute imbecility, 
 these folks of whom I expected to be so proud. I be- 
 gin now to become entirely alarmed lest though I 
 should even \YTite the book to the end, I should alto- 
 gether miss what I meant to say." 
 
 That evening when the cousins were about to leave 
 the house their host said: 
 
 "Now that you have been good enough to come down 
 and see us you must remain a few days at least." This 
 being arranged, he said to Lowell: "In the morning 
 you can go with me on my rounds. Even if I have no 
 cases that interest you, you will enjoy the ride." Then 
 turning in their direction, he added cheerily: "Dorcas, 
 daughter, you must have something planned for the 
 afternoon." 
 
 When they all came out on the veranda they heard 
 a dog whining and barking with increasing desperation, 
 and when the barking Avas checked a little, Tim, mind- 
 ful of canine longings, went up to Dorcas, and, stand- 
 ing on tiptoe and looking up into her face and trying 
 10 
 
146 ^S (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 to be heedful of the proper words, said: "Listen, Aunt 
 Dorcas — say, ma\^ I bring ^Eags' in ?-' 
 
 Before many minutes, "Eags*^ came in, the very per- 
 sonification of pleasure and delight, and rushed up to 
 Lowell ready, it seemed, to plunge with him again into 
 any danger, the one object of his life being seemingly 
 to establish their old friendly relations. When Tim, 
 who had been left behind, came up he said blithely: "I 
 tell you when I let him loose he didn't wait any time; 
 he just came a-scootin'; he wanted to see you so,'' and 
 "Eags," true as steel in his friendship, continued to 
 bestow his attentions upon Lowell lavishly and unre- 
 mittingly until dragged away. 
 
 As the young men were about to leave the house. Dr. 
 Harding said: "Bring a wrap, daughter; it is so beau- 
 tiful out of doors we will walk a little way." When 
 they stepped to the ground the doctor was talking to 
 George and the two younger people walked on, side 
 by side. On, down, they continued among the green 
 leaves and the buds and blossoms, through the fra- 
 grance of the heliotrope and the magnolias and the soft 
 odor of the violets. The magnificent grounds softened 
 into mellow, mystic beauty by the moonlight, now and 
 then, the sleeping birds twittering among the branches, 
 and the shadows shifting and flickering as the boughs 
 of the trees were stirred to trepidation by the mild 
 south wind. 
 
 Though at last under the same roof, through all the 
 evening which he had spent there, Lowell had felt far 
 sundered from her, and it mattered not what the pain 
 and the weariness attending the separation, their paths 
 in life were to be forever apart. Xow he wondered at 
 the favorable turn of fortune that had placed her at 
 his side. 
 
 "And are you really very much exhausted after your 
 school year?" she had asked him in a low tone. 
 
 "Not at all," he had replied, "though were I ever so 
 weary, an hour here would rest me. You must be happy 
 here," he said as they dreamily wandered on. 
 
A STORY OF GALIF0R:MA LIFE, 147 
 
 When they had stopped a moment under the out- 
 stretched linibs of the oak, she answered him quietly: 
 "I am happy here/' she said. "I have never had any 
 other home. It is beautiful here, I know it; but it is 
 the presence of my father that makes it home for me. 
 Happy!" she repeated, and her reserve seemed to van- 
 ish. "Being my father's daughter I ought, no matter 
 where I was placed, to be the happiest child that ever 
 the sun shone down upon." 
 
 Lowell, who already had begun to feel the same gen- 
 tle sway that inspired her soulful appreciation of her 
 father, answered simply: "I do not wonder at your ar- 
 dor; I agree with you. The place is lovely, but after 
 all it is the character of its owner that gives to it its 
 potent attraction." 
 
 They had gone on beyond the shadows of the oak and 
 stepped outside the outlined shade of the house, and 
 now the munificent moon poured out its silver flood 
 unreservedly; it fell amongst the rich, dense foliage 
 and revealed its vivid greenness; tremulous and shift- 
 ing it glinted softly among the shubbery, brought out 
 with vividness the gold of the poppies, the rich scar- 
 let of the geraniums, the dazzling whiteness of the mar- 
 guerites and the flaunting purple splendors of the cine- 
 raria. It threw upon the broad walk white gleaming 
 sprays of light and the feathery outline of the delicate 
 palm trees lay traced upon the grass, the shimmering 
 lace-like pattern of each stem, twig and leaf marked 
 out with microscopic fidelity. 
 
 When they reached the part of the grounds where 
 they were to separate there was a wide, open space 
 where the moonbeams came unobstructed through be- 
 tween the trees, and the girl, a little apart from the 
 others, stood a moment in their full luster. 
 
 The soft light touched her hair and lingered en- 
 slaved among its golden waves, fell upon the upturned 
 face and lay gleaming among the folds of her white 
 dress. Her attitude was so pleasing and she was so 
 graceful and charming in her full, rounded beauty that 
 
148 ^8 <^0D MADE HER. 
 
 to those who looked on, the complete figure seemed 
 like the work of a sculptor, except that it had none of 
 the marble-like coldness, for even under the tinting of 
 the moonlight the skin was creamy and alive. 
 
 With Lowell, that white picture with the broad palm 
 leaves for a background remained a vivid scene to the 
 end of his life. 
 
 "We shall see you to-morrow,"' Dr. Harding had 
 called out, as he and his daughter turned to go back 
 to the house, and the young man went away intoxicated 
 with the happiness with which he had been surfeited. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 149 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXI. 
 
 The next afternoon found our party wandering along 
 the banks of the Pescadero. The little stream rose in 
 the mountains three thousand feet or more above; it 
 fell over contracted precipices, and again wended its way 
 through the canyon, dense with pine and fir; again the 
 rushing water found its way through dark woods, in 
 which were little openings, remote, secluded nooks 
 shut safely away from the bustle of the world. 
 
 In one of these dells, in the green twilight made by 
 the hanging boughs of two immense elms, hung a rustic 
 foot-bridge, some twelve feet above the water. Not 
 far from this bridge walled in by the bowlders arid in a 
 spot where the grass was perennially green, they sat 
 down to evening lunch. 
 
 "I must talk to you, stop a moment," George said 
 suddenly, placing himself before Doyt as the two in 
 wending their way down the stream had fallen behind 
 the rest. 
 
 She turned and raised her soft blue eyes to his face 
 in a questioning way. 
 
 "I have something to say to you, something of im- 
 portance — that is,'' he added slowly, "it is of import- 
 ance to me." 
 
 At different times during the day George had seen 
 her talking with Lowell; at luncheon Lowell had sat 
 nearest to her and had waited upon her, and George, 
 who had been eagerly striving to bring about this very 
 occasion, failing still had said to himself many times 
 during the afternoon: "Perhaps after all it is best for 
 me not to see her alone." 
 
 He paused a moment, as if to collect himself, then 
 burst out abruptly: "I can't go on living this way; try 
 
150 -"^^ <^0D MADE HER. 
 
 as I will I cannot school myself to submit to the wait- 
 ing and the suspense/^ 
 
 Her eyes studied his face with close scrutiny and she 
 saw that it was white as ashes. Stepping a little dis- 
 ance from him, "What has made this unaccountable 
 change in you, George ?" she asked. 
 
 "Don't seem to be afraid of me Doyt if I tell you/' 
 he said pleadingly. "1 can't remain around here tame- 
 ly and mutely and wait for what is sure to happen if 
 this thing goes on. You don't know the world," he 
 added bitterly, "i^ou can't understand. No matter 
 whether you care for people or not, you are pleasant 
 and friendly in your treatment of them just the same. 
 You never stop to think how they are going to take it. 
 
 The vehemence of George's manner as much as the 
 wildness of his words startled her, and she stood tremb- 
 ling and trying to understand; her young brain was at 
 work until she almost felt its throbs. She scanned 
 the tall, handsome fellow, almost stately in height, as 
 he stood there before her; the symmetrically rounded 
 figure; features of pleasing regularity, and she was 
 deeply impressed by the pained, yet stern and deter- 
 mined expression of the face. She said feelingly: 
 "Why do you talk so strangely this evening, George ?'' 
 There was something of reproach in her soft voice, as 
 she continued: "You've always been kind to me be- 
 fore?" 
 
 Turning his face aside, "I have meant to be, God 
 knows," he said huskily, then taking a step toward her 
 again: "Yes, and things might have gone on just th^ 
 same," he added impetuously "and we might have en- 
 joyed this outdoor life together, and we might have 
 read and studied and played and sung together if — if." 
 Something in the expression of the sweet, girlish face 
 made him hesjtate to speak the thought he had in mind. 
 
 "Heaven knows, Doyt," he went on in a more tender 
 tone, "how happy we might have been together if — if," 
 and again prudence made him falter. 
 
A kSTORY of CALIFORNIA LIFE. 15I 
 
 It seemed in his present impassioned state the words 
 would come in spite of his decision to the contrary, for 
 presently he said: "I did not ask for anything better 
 or pleasanter than the old life that Ave have known for 
 months, so quiet until," he added almost savagely, ^'he 
 came around and spoiled the comfort of it all.'' He 
 went on with rapid utterance, "It may be wrong to 
 speak to you now and I may be making the blunder of 
 my life — it may be only a proof of my lack of endur- 
 ance, evidence of my want of judgment, but I can't 
 help it," he said piteously, "I have been driven to it. 
 Look here,.Doyt," he continued with fervid voice, "I 
 love you; but for him, I should not have told you now. 
 He has forced me to this- — that is, it is his fault that 
 my hoarded secret has been dragged from me, but that 
 does not alter the truth of it. I love you as man never 
 loved woman before. Perhaps it is because, Doyt," he 
 said, the tears coming into his eyes, "perhaps it is be^ 
 cause man never had such a woman to love before — -I 
 must make you comprehend; I love you better than 
 anything else, better than all things else. Position is 
 nothing, money is nothing, standing is nothing, learn- 
 ing is nothing, only, Doyt, as it makes me perhaps more 
 worthy of you. Don't look at me in that way," he 
 added, supplicatingly. "If I thought there was no 
 hope of winning you sometime, there'd be nothing more 
 in life for me. I should end it all right here. But tell 
 me, Doyt, darling, tell me that some day, ever so far 
 away, you know, some day when your father consents 
 to part with you, that you will be mine?" 
 
 Something in the young girl's manner held him at a 
 distance. She stood quiet; she had pulled down one of 
 the small branches of the tree near and was slowly 
 picking off the leaves one by one and dropping them 
 to the ground. 
 
 He waited— she said nothing but stood, seemmgly 
 trying to gain perfect self-command. 
 
 He spoke agaiij, in a voice husky with emotion; he 
 said, and the words came more slowly now: "Doyt, if 
 
152 ^^ ^(^D MADE HER. 
 
 there is anything you want me to do' — anything you 
 want me to be — I'll — I'll strive for it/' 
 
 At last the ripe lips moved. There was trouble in 
 the sweet face but her voice was steadied and soft. 
 "No/' she said slowly and pronouncing each word 
 with accurate distinctness, "you are right as you 
 are." She stood, still culling and dropping the leaves. 
 "I do not want you to attempt any change for me. 
 From my heart, George, I appreciate the offer you 
 have made me"; she said, "I should be proud of your 
 love; any girl might feel herself honored by what you 
 offer me." 
 
 "Then you do believe me?" he exclaimed eagerly. 
 
 "I believe you, George, yes, though I never thought 
 abou*t it before. I believe you love me." 
 
 She spoke so impassionately that he interrupted her 
 again: "Don't tell me 'no,'" he cried with deep agita- 
 tion. "Look deep down into your heart first, Doyt — 
 study its feelings. Eemember this is not the whim of 
 a moment; I offer you the devotion of a lifetime. 
 Don't think I can ever change, Doyt; it is not in my 
 nature." 
 
 "I am not indifferent to you, George." She spoke 
 the words slowly, stopping as if to analyze her feeling 
 that she might be sure she spoke truthfully. "I re- 
 member gratefully how solicitous you have been for 
 my pleasure and happiness; I recall now all your deli- 
 cate consideration, all your little acts of thoughtful- 
 ness." She added in a saddened tone, "It never oc- 
 curred to me how you meant them. I think now, 
 George, that I have done wrong," she went on again, 
 "but it was pleasant to be cared for; it was pleasant to 
 be with you. I don't know how to explain. Pardon 
 me, George," she said, raising her eyes to his face, "but 
 I think I have looked upon you as a brother. I have 
 never had a brother you, know\" 
 
 She saw that he suffered and with a desire to soothe 
 his pain she talked on: "It would be pleasant for me 
 to be your sister always. I never thought of your 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 153 
 
 wasting a thought on me beyond that, that is, George, 
 I never dreamed of your intense nature." 
 
 "Doyf, I tell you/' he broke in impatiently, "I tell 
 you I have been driven to this. I would have been 
 satisfied to remain as we were if he — " 
 
 Hesitating again she took up the unfinished sen- 
 tence: 
 
 "You mean Lowell, I suppose," she said quietly, then 
 added, "I do not see how I can be wrong in treating 
 Lowell kindly." 
 
 Owing to the indulgence wdiich he imagined was 
 evident in her tone he hardly dared trust himself to 
 speak, but at last with a strong attempt at carelessness, 
 he said: "I should not presume to be your arbiter in 
 regard to your manner in the treatment of others Par- 
 don me, Doyt, if I have outstepped my privileges." 
 Then excitedly, he added: "If I am impolite, rude, mad, 
 even, Doyt, it is love for you that has made me so." 
 
 "George, I would do anything to help you — to serve 
 you- — believe me.'' 
 
 Eaising his head quickly he looked into her eyes, 
 full of hope, when she said quickly: "But not what you 
 ask of me, not that; my father would never give me 
 up," and the great tears filled the blue eyes as she con- 
 tinued with intense feeling: "I could never, never, 
 never leave him." 
 
 He advanced a step toward her. "I have made you 
 su'ffer," he responded tenderly. "I know something 
 about the devotion your father has for you, Doyt. I 
 know something about your preciousness to him," he 
 said. "I know it; he will not give you up, that is, he 
 will not part with you now. I do not expect it. But 
 let me go to him and ask him, and, Doyt, promise," he 
 went on importunately, "Oh, promise me that you will 
 be mine sometime if he consents to it." 
 
 The soft light of pity was beaming in the beautiful 
 face as she raised her eyes again to his, but she an- 
 swered him with steadiness: "George, I cannot promise. 
 
154 ^4>8 GOD MADE HER. 
 
 There they are calling me;"' she said, listening. ''They 
 are ready to go; we have stopped here a long time." 
 
 They went on down the little stream together amid 
 the silence and the solitude, the evergreens rustling on 
 either hand. Now and then a little breeze stirred the 
 leaves of madrones, here and there the golden rays of 
 the sun peeped through the thick branches and danced 
 among the ripples. A thrush in a tree near chirped 
 the first notes of its evening song; little brown wrens 
 flew hither and thither close to their path, and with all 
 the sudden sorrow that had come upon her, with all the 
 pain and agitation at her heart, the little brook sang 
 on the same, making its way over shinning pebbles and 
 through turns and curves. 
 
 To herself she said pathetically, as she watched it: 
 "It runs its merry course now. It is happy and glad. 
 How little it knows of the abvss that may lie just be- 
 fore it!" 
 
 Such a change the revelation of the last few minutes 
 had made in her life; the days of her own happiness 
 seemed now to be removed from her, ages away. 
 
 They all rode home together in the dusk of the even- 
 ing, and the two young men driving on toward the 
 town, bade the others goodnight at the branching of 
 the avenue. 
 
 At the dinner-table her father said in a tone of tjen- 
 derness: "Doyt, daughter, you do not eat; your face is 
 flushed. Let me see if you are feverish," he added 
 with some solicitude, as he took her hand. 
 
 "I am well, father; you'll find I am perfectly well." 
 
 Noticing that the attention of the others was at- 
 tracted she asserted again : "I assure you all that I never 
 was in better health," and those about the table saw the 
 cherry lips part and the loved face light up with its 
 usual winning brightness. 
 
 That night when she had gone to her own room, 
 after she had closed the door which connected it with 
 the one occupied by Dorcas, she began walking up and 
 down. All her faculties seemed aroused and she could 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 155 
 
 hardly compose herself to lie down at all. A strange 
 sensation had taken possession of her; a throb of fear 
 that ran through all her frame, a feeling that with the 
 strongest effort of her healthy nature she could not 
 throw off, a dread of evil to come; evil which no earthly 
 power could avert. She passed the night in such rest- 
 lessness, as she in her complete healthfulness had never 
 known, and though the sun was shining outside and 
 lighting up the room to ruddy brilliancy, she awoke 
 in the morning for the first time to a sense of clieer- 
 lessness of life. 
 
156 ^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXII. 
 
 Lowell went back to the city that evening and for 
 some time the family saw nothing of George. 
 
 The days that passed in the meantime were harrow- 
 ing ones to Doyt. She almost lived out of doors. She 
 took long rides, sometimes in new directions and with 
 only the honnds for compan}', trying to regain the 
 healthful tone to which she had been accustomed. She 
 was in suspense as to whether George would go to her 
 father or not. As the affair stood now, though, she 
 had not encouraged him and had promised nothing, yet 
 she ielt in a way bound until her father refused to give 
 consent. Though George did not appear she thought 
 in her feverish anxiety that every moment of delay was 
 perilous. A hundred times she had resolved to tell her 
 farhor; a score of times gathering her forces for the 
 ordeul she had gone to him, but when she had looked 
 up into that tender face the thought of the beautiful 
 smoothness of their lives and of the shock it would be 
 to him to know, her throat filled and she found herself 
 disqualified for speech. So the days wore on and of 
 the theme which gave her constant thought she never 
 spoke. Driven to extremity by what she considered 
 the unsettled condition of affairs, she was about to go 
 to J3orcas for both direction and comfort, when a note 
 came from George and that evening her father received 
 him in the library. 
 
 The young man tried to make the situation clear to 
 the doctor in a few direct words: how he had the 
 temerity to ask for his daughter's hand; how while 
 she had not promised, he held it was because she had 
 not felt at liberty to do so on account of her filial love 
 and loyalty. She had not refused, he said, and he, 
 
A STOKi OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 157 
 
 felt that in honor he should address the father before 
 seeking her again. 
 
 The doctor heard him through, and when he fully 
 comprehended what was asked of him the strong man 
 staggered as though he had received a blow. In his 
 agony he paced up and down the wide room and for 
 the moment his benignant face was almost bloodless. 
 He involuntarily pictured his melancholy home; 
 hushed and darkened, the light of it gone. When he 
 stopped in front of where the young man sat and 
 looked him over, his thought w^as, "Does he compre- 
 hend the pain he deals?'' 
 
 His first words, spoken in a husky voice, were: "My 
 God! Do you know what you ask ? You would not rob 
 me of my child," he added almost fiercely, for at the 
 time it seemed to him the transgression of all law and 
 right. "For what," he said within him, "had any 
 living being to do with her but himself? How could 
 any have a stronger claim than he?" 
 
 As he had watched her growing toward beautiful 
 maturity before his eyes he had held a premonition of 
 this; he had known that the time might come when she 
 would go from him to a separate existence, but the man 
 of healthful mind and cheerful philosophy had swept 
 aside the momentary anxiety as something too pain- 
 ful to dwell upon. In his moments of greatest dread 
 he had hoped that there might be some kindly circum- 
 stances connected with the event to help him to be 
 resigned. But now it seemed that the time had come 
 when he could no longer, for Iiis present peace, judi- 
 ciously put the matter away for further consideration, 
 neither could he, looking at it in any light, find the 
 palliating circumstances for which he had hoped. 
 There was nothing left but to face the terrible truth. 
 Time and again he had said to himself: "What is 
 there in me that I should give myself a second thought, 
 and yet what is my life worth without her?" But de- 
 liberating upon the matter all that he dreaded of 
 loneliness weighed nothing with him. He slowly re- 
 
158 ^^ ^^D MADE HER. 
 
 pressed every feeling strictly bis own, all that he con- 
 sidered was her happiness, her good. Gaining a bet- 
 ter possession of himself he tried to put a fair esti- 
 mate upon the conditions. 
 
 These were tlie thoughts that passed through his 
 mind. 
 
 He had had such experience in caring for her, he had 
 so devotedly studied her needs and sought out what 
 would satisfy them, how could any unskilled hand take 
 his place? He had been father and mother to her in 
 one, and every day through all her helpless years had 
 sanctified the tie, and growing stronger had inspired 
 him to more thorough research, deeper solicitude and 
 greater devotion. How could an alien hand exert such 
 prudence and skill? Could she ever find such safety 
 in any other guardianship ? 
 
 While he respected the young man who stood there 
 in his presence, deferentially suing for his daughter's 
 hand; while in the months past he had found him 
 pleasant company; while he admired him even — his in- 
 stincts rebelled. Once during the meeting, in answer 
 to something George had urged, he had said: "At most, 
 she can have only a child's regard for you." The con- 
 ference- was not of long duration. He spoke gravely 
 but with strange gentleness, as at parting he said: "I 
 cannot answer you now; after 1 have seen my daugh- 
 ter I will talk with you again." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 159 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 Soon after George's departure the doctor drove away 
 and that night, not long after his arrival at home, he 
 called his danghter, and together they walked through 
 the lihrary and on into the stndy beyond. 
 
 Plis voice was quiet and his manner toward her even 
 gentler than usual, but when she looked up into his 
 face she knew by its drawn look that a conflict was 
 going on within him. 
 
 He settled himself once again in the wide armchair 
 and with her old childish grace she dropped on the 
 stool at his feet and laid her folded arms upon his 
 knee. He spoke to her nov/ in his customary deli- 
 cately reserved way. As he looked upon her now he 
 realized as he never had done before that she was 
 wondrously beautiful. 
 
 All the time of their association together, all the 
 years of her sunny life came before him now in quick 
 review. She was but a child to him still. Sitting in 
 her old place at his feet, she too, recalled it all and the 
 peaceful sweetness of it. 
 
 Her girl heart was almost bursting with the realiza- 
 tion that that peaceful time was now far away. The 
 storm through which she had passed had left its marks 
 upon her. She felt tht she could never be a child 
 again. This was the first time in her life that she had 
 dreaded to meet her father; the first time that she had 
 felt uncomfortable in his presence, and she felt bitterly 
 toward George that he had so destroyed the peaceful 
 harmony of their lives. When her father spoke at last 
 there was a world of feeling in his voice: 
 
 "In the perfect happiness of possession," he said, 
 "I have been blind, my daughter. I have not been able 
 to realize but that our life here could go on forever." 
 
] (JO AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 She saw the vigorous man stop as if to gather 
 strength for what he had to do. When he spoke again 
 the very tone of his voice tore her heart. In all the 
 years of her life he had never spoken to her with such 
 earnestness hefore. He said: "George has heen to me, 
 my child; he has asked me to give into his care my 
 most precious possession." 
 
 She smiled up into his face. At the moment she for- 
 got all else. His love for her and the assurance of it 
 was more than all the world beside. 
 
 "I will not think of myself in this matter," he con- 
 tinued with strong effort. "Tell me if what George 
 has asked of me is pleasing to you," and the troubled, 
 anxious face that bent above her awaited her reply. 
 
 Her one desire having been to shield him from sor- 
 rows, out of the fullness of her young heart, she spoke: 
 "If I could only have prevented his going to you, 
 father! If he only would have listened to me! Oh, 
 how I wish he had not troubled you," she said in a 
 broken voice, her hand laid on his arm. "I tried to 
 dissuade him but he was willful and determined; he 
 would not listen." 
 
 Her father did not speak; as she looked at him he 
 sat bending forward, the whole strength of his nature 
 seeming to be concentrated into the one sense of 
 listening. 
 
 "We have always been so happy here together, 
 father, and if I had known how to prevent it, father, 
 I should never have allowed him to bring this dread- 
 ful trouble on you. Don't mind it so much father"; 
 she uttered the words anxiously, "You are taking it 
 harder even that I anticipated." 
 
 "Doyt, daughter," he asked hurriedly, and scrutiniz- 
 ing her face closely, "and don't you want to become 
 George Moulton's wife?" 
 
 He had gathered from what the young man had said 
 during their interview that she would have accepted 
 his proffered love, if first only she had possessed her 
 father's permission. He had feared that she cared 
 
A 8T0RY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 161 
 
 deeply for him and this Avas the phase of the case that 
 loomed up dark and menacing. While every impulse 
 of his nature rose in rebellion against the proposition 
 George had made, he had feared that to oppose it would 
 be going against her will. He did not have to wait for 
 an answer. 
 
 "Xo, father, no. Why did you think so? J^o," she 
 added emphaticallv. "1 do not love him, not in the 
 least." 
 
 It was then that the great tears held back so long 
 came rushing up to her eyes. 
 
 Did her father believe that she was willing to go 
 away and leave him? There was no subject on which 
 it seemed then that she could have been so exquisitely 
 sensitive. 
 
 "I will never leave you, father," she cried out im- 
 petu;Ously. 
 
 He took her hand and laid it gently against his 
 cheek and placed his own above it, and as he looked 
 down into the pretty flushed face, smilingly he said: 
 
 "^ly daughter, I am glad. My life would be dull 
 and lonely, indeed, if you were to leave me," he said 
 with infinite tenderness of voice. 
 
 "I am relieved to know that you have no strong feel- 
 ing in the matter. While I should not like to oppose 
 you, I should be forced to use my judgment. It would 
 be hard for me to give my consent. George has his 
 merits, yes, but," pressing the hand closer, "I do not 
 feel that I could trust you to his care." 
 
 For a time Doyt did not speak. She was studying 
 over what her father had unfolded to her of his inter- 
 view with George. Had treachery and falsehood en- 
 tered into it? Had George, to effect his ends, pur- 
 posely deceived her father? Had she had a sudden 
 insight into a dark nature? 
 
 Again, as on that fateful day, though now she was 
 under the protection of home, close even by her 
 father^s side, an awful fear seized her. 
 11 
 
162 ^-S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 With perfect artlessless she tried to tell her father 
 of George's sudden and vehement declaration of devo- 
 tion to her and to give him an idea of what she had 
 tried to say to him in return, 
 
 "He would not allow me to say 'no/ father, but 
 wildly insisted on encouragement, for the future at 
 least/' She drew close to her fathers knee. To take 
 him at last into her confidence was such a relief. 
 
 "While I had not the least thought of accepting him, 
 father," she said, "his whole manner was so excited 
 and so impetuous that I could not reason with him. I 
 have lost my peace of mind over it, father. I pity 
 George," she went on thoughtfully; "he seemed to 
 be so thoroughly in earnest that I felt that it was al- 
 most dangerous to refuse him." She added in a lower 
 tone: "I am sometimes afraid that he will do. himself 
 harm. Oh, father, "she concluded, laying her head 
 upon his knee, "everything is in a dreadful state." 
 
 Dr. Harding could not agree with her. In her ex- 
 planation he had found great comfort. So his daugh- 
 ter's heart was not involved, the problem seemed to 
 him easy of solution. 
 
 A day or two later he saw George, according to ap- 
 pointment. The doctor explained to him the situation 
 as he had found it, and to his surprise the young man 
 received the refusal of the hand for which he had sued 
 with perfect self-control, the father assuring him that 
 he would give his consent to her bethrothal to no one 
 until she had reached maturer years. 
 
 George plead earnestly with the doctor for some 
 sort of promise of consent when she would be older. 
 All he asked for was the hope that sometime he might 
 win her, assuring him that his love for her would go on 
 unchangingly. 
 
 When he found that he urged the matter fruitlessly, 
 as the doctor Avould neither bind himself nor his 
 daughter by any sort of pledge, he hid entirely the 
 mad clashing within him, and took his departure from 
 the house in his usual polished and affable manner. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 1^3 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Lowell groaned within him sometimes over the stern- 
 ness of school life, with its constant drain of vital 
 force; the rigidity that kept him always tied to one 
 place and steadily bound to one line of thought, that 
 held him to imperative rules. He felt that he was 
 vindictively stinted in recreation and austerely denied 
 all purely natural expansion. Sometimes, all unpre- 
 meditated, his rebelling mind took truant intermission 
 and sped away to a charmed spot where the odor of the 
 flowers and the fragrance of the trees, always grateful, 
 where the breezes were ever crispy and sea-laden, and 
 where the eternal summer reigned supreme. 
 
 Imagination is capricious and is apt to play us false; 
 it gives touches of color to dull scenes and draws lines 
 of beauty never visible to the natural eye. 
 
 When vacation time came again and Lowell ap- 
 proached Oaklawn in person, he wondered whether he 
 had altogether idealized the place, or whether he 
 should find in it the heavenly serene attraction of 
 which he had dreamed. 
 
 It was a quiet September day as the young man 
 moved along under the evergreens that beautified the 
 roadway; he took his hat in his hand. He might have 
 been easily recognized by his athletic figure, his alert 
 step, his self-dependent air, his bared brow softened 
 by the wavy brown locks, and by his gladsome glowing 
 face. 
 
 Amid the luxuriant nature about him he could find 
 no room for disappointment. It seemed more than a 
 realization of his fairy dream. The orchards on either 
 side, with their multiplied varieties of ripened fruit, 
 were teeming with plentitude. As he went up the 
 
164 ^^ ^^D MADE HER. 
 
 avenue the grass which sloped clown to the driveway 
 was glowingly green; the flexible limbs of the tropical 
 trees bent above his head; birds perched daintily on 
 their topmost branches poured forth ecstatic floods of 
 song; the gorgeous sunlight sifted through the leafy 
 tree-tops and at the openings fell aslant on the grass; 
 the afternoon breeze gently moved the clustered roses 
 and scattered their fragrance on the air. As he came 
 nearer the house^ at one side was a wall of blue grapes 
 and a perfect riot of color among the flowers. There 
 were beds, borders, belts, zones, sheets, draperies, fes- 
 toons, tangles of them with variegated tintings; the 
 snowy petals overlapping the burning red, the royal 
 purple, the ruddy gold, the flaming yellow, the in- 
 tensest blue. 
 
 A few minutes only of waiting in the long room 
 into which he had been shown and the whole sweet 
 vision of his bright mind was complete; for there in 
 a chair a little way off, opposite to him, she sat — the 
 girl of his dreams. She wore a soft dress of white; 
 there were fluffs of lace about the rounded throat; 
 there was a bunch of nodding pink rose-buds pinned 
 at the breast; the smooth, dimpled hand was lying 
 lightly on the arm of the chair; the waving hair, with 
 its gleams of golden brightness, clustered softly about 
 the white temples, and the rosy, pleasant face with 
 its curving cheeks and its bhie wells of eyes was turned 
 toward his own. 
 
 Lowell spoke only in shy, brief phrases, yet his soul 
 was full; there was enough in it to have inspired him 
 to ancient Grecian eloquence. He felt in her presence 
 again, the same subtle but overpowering attraction 
 which had possessed him when he first saw her. 
 
 Her smiling lips had parted. He heard her say, and 
 each sentence had ended in soft cadence: "And so 
 college is closed?"' 
 
 "Yes," he answered. 
 
 "And you did not come down till vacation?" 
 
 "Xo," he returned. 
 
A .STORT OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 1^5 
 
 She placed her elbow on the arm of the chair and 
 leaning, covered her chin with her hand. 
 
 "It has been a long time/^ she said naively. 
 
 He received what she said with surprise and while 
 he was trying to determine how much meaning her 
 words had, she talked on, and what she said was so 
 magically fresh, so full of youthful vigor; her atti- 
 tude was so graceful, yet so absolutely unstudied; she 
 was so charmingly entertaining; so childlike in taste, 
 yet so womanly in thought; so piquant and so original, 
 that after his experience with city life, her presence was 
 to him like a flight in the free sunshine to the caged 
 bird, or like a breath from* the sea after being shut in 
 the vitiated air of a foul prison. 
 
 Once looking out over the quiet grounds and up 
 through the trees, Lowell said: "The peace itself is so 
 inviting — it makes such an impression upon my mind 
 that it not only pleads w^ith me to come but tempts 
 me to remain." Looking into her face, he remarked 
 modestly: "I am trying to train myself to proper 
 gratitude that I have your gracious permission to 
 come into your presence at all." 
 
 Smiling, she answered: "Oh, I am glad you like it. 
 I haven't seen very much of the world and I love my 
 home. Right here I have spent all my happy life. 
 To be sure, I lost my mother, but it has been the work 
 of my father and Aunt Dorcas to keep all sorrow from 
 me, and to make up to me, in everv way possible, my 
 loss." 
 
 Looking out over the lawn, she said: "I have grown 
 up along with the trees of the place. I remember," 
 she repeated, pointing. "I remember when my father 
 set out that tree there and that tall one yonder; just 
 see how high it has grown. From where you sit," 
 she said, watching earnestly his motions, "you will 
 have to bend your head low down to see the top. And 
 just to think," she added slowly, and in a tone of 
 deepest seriousness, "I have been living all the years 
 
IQQ AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 that it has taken that tree to reach that enormous 
 height." 
 
 The contrast between the tone she used and her looks 
 at the time was inexpressibly amusing and her com- 
 panion laughed. What he was thinking of was: "It 
 is the perfect naturalness of the place that makes it 
 so refreshing. There's no nonsense or affectation 
 about an3^thing here.'' 
 
 What he said a moment later was: ''There is some- 
 thing so new to me in it all; something hard to ex- 
 plain. You seem here to have learned how to live; 
 to be in some way floating placidly down the stream, 
 skillfully avoiding all the rt)cks and shoals." 
 
 "0, Tlike to see things as other people see them," 
 she said with a pretty air of gratification, ''because then 
 1 know whether I have been thinking aright or not," 
 she explained. She had been sitting demurely far back 
 in her chair. 
 
 She was thinking of the appearance of his magnifi- 
 cent strength, of the sincerity of his manner, as he 
 talked. She was also considering what he said, for 
 when she had seen the turmoil and dissatisfaction and 
 the misery in some of the homes to which she had 
 gone with her father, she herself had felt the same 
 contrast to her own surroundings, of which he spoke.. 
 There was a knitting of the pretty white brow as she 
 remarked: 
 
 "There is a difference; I have noticed it. But what 
 is the strangest part of it, most people do not seem 
 to know that there is a calm current; they don't seem 
 to look for it. They don't expect anything else ex- 
 cept to bump against rocks and shoals." 
 
 The two had left the drawing-room and, after 
 sauntering awhile about the grounds, had sat down to- 
 gether on the bench beneath the old oak tree. 
 
 The pure sunlight in her own nature was so plainly 
 visible as once when they were talking on the enjoy- 
 ment of life, assuming a wise air, she said: 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 167 
 
 "I think the reason that people are miserable, is be- 
 cause they concentrate their minds upon just one thing 
 and are deaf and dumb and blind to everything else; 
 then, you see, if they fail to get that one thing, or pos- 
 sessing, lose it, the whole beautiful world to them is a 
 blank. It is such a foolish thing to do, don't you 
 think so ?" she said, looking into his face. "To make 
 life unhappy, I mean; to shut ourselves out from the 
 light, the beauty, the fragrance of the world; to allow 
 ourselves to be miserable when close around us is every- 
 thing we need; where there is so much joy, so much 
 music, so much grandeur, where the sun is so warm, 
 the flowers so beautiful, the breeze so clean, the fruit 
 so abundant.'' 
 
 She raised her eyes reverently, and in a soft, liquid 
 voice, added "and God is so good." 
 
 With this newly awakened mind, Lowell was so cap- 
 tivated, that he intently listened. The young, beauti- 
 ful girl, winning from her very artlessness and inno- 
 cence, sitting there near him in the green shadow of 
 the oak, was more like a dream picture than a reality. 
 Was it possible that she was able to teach him a phil- 
 osophy deeper and of more value than any that he had 
 ever learned from Kant or Kames? 
 
 Urged on by curiosity a moment later he said: "It 
 seems most unsuitable to think that you should ever 
 know sorrow; but do you expect your whole life to move 
 quietly along' — that is, just as it does now?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you," she answered hesitatingly, 
 "whether my life will always be smooth or not, but of 
 this I am sure, that it was designed to be so. I assure 
 you," she added carelessly, "I do not intend to take to 
 myself any trouble that"^ I can avoid, but," she con- 
 tinued, "if. trouble ever does come, no matter how 
 hard it is to bear, I shall know that it never came to 
 me by any plan of the God that created me, but is 
 brought about in some way by human scheme, or igno- 
 rance, or greed." 
 
168 ^^ ^^D MADE HER. 
 
 When the shadows had grown longer, Doyt, return- 
 ing to the house, brought her hat, and they walked to- 
 gether down the shaded avenue; there they loitered 
 along among the trees that skirted the roadside. 
 
 To walk by her side Lowell felt was the highest 
 honor earth could afford him, and when they stepped 
 briskly he noticed^ with manly gratification, tliat they 
 two, he and she, moved along together with perfect 
 evenness of motion. 
 
 Sometimes as they walked, she turned her head, and 
 at a corner, where they stopped a moment, lie had the 
 sweet opportunity of looking straight into the fair face 
 again. 
 
 To his surprise, since his arrival at Oaklawn, she had 
 never once mentioned George. 
 
 Much of the time his mind had been busy trying 
 to solve the problem of Avhat that strange omission 
 signified. The young man had curiosity on the sub- 
 ject for intensely personal reasons. 
 
 He had feared that, owing to the relationship be- 
 tween them, that possibly, from the sweet trustfulness 
 of her nature, she might confide to him something con- 
 cerning an understanding between herself and his cou- 
 sin. Indeed, several times, when she had shyly hesi- 
 tated before speaking, he had imagined that that was 
 the subject she had in mind, and he had, in a measure, 
 prepared himself to receive the information that would 
 throw him back to the prose of life again, where he 
 would have to live alone upon his memories. 
 
 AA^andering on, they came to the cottage where 
 Grandma AA^illiams, with a strong middle-aged woman 
 for a nurse and companion, still lived. 
 
 -Grandma, looking up from her mending, saw them 
 at a little distance, and came smiling, out to meet 
 them. She bowed, and stood looking with gentle awe 
 upon the handsome stranger, and Doyt^s cheek flushed 
 to a brighter rosiness as, presenting Lowell to her, he 
 bowed and touched respectfully the thin, wrinkled 
 hand. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 169 
 
 "It has been real thoughtful of ye to come, dears/" 
 she said, her withered face lit up with gratitude. 
 "The sight of a bonnie pair of youth like ye is a favor 
 to my auid eyes. I should be very, very pleased if ye 
 would stop awhile.'' 
 
 While you might read there a plaintive resignation, 
 there was such loneliness, such pathos in the pale, 
 wan face, that Doyt and her companion followed the 
 tottering footsteps up the narrow^ walk, bordered by 
 daisies and forget-me-nots, into the plain little room. 
 
 "Sit down," she said, and when she had seen them 
 seated she went to the press at one side and brought 
 out a fresh apron, and after giving it a shake, she 
 fastened it about her waist, and out of respect for her 
 visitors, before she took her place in her armchair, of 
 which her shrunken form filled only a pitiable fraction, 
 she pushed back the straggling hairs under her cap 
 and tied afresh its narrow black strings. 
 
 "An' ye be the student the doctor tell't me of,'' 
 she asked, "what brought the leetle un fram oot the 
 waves of the sea? I be glad to know ye; they say, 
 sure, that ye did it week The bit of the story that 
 teached me the maist was when ye walkit hame in yer 
 wet clathes; after savin' anither life for ye to be so 
 feckless wi' yer ain! An' ye be still leernin?'' she 
 asked, curiously. 
 
 There was a reckless motion of the wrinkled hands 
 as with clear musical accent she told them stories of 
 her girl life among the far-a-way coal mines; of joys 
 and hardships intermingled, and here and there, as 
 she talked, a charming light came into the sweet plain 
 face, and Lowell seated at the end of the table inter- 
 ested, bent his head and attentively listened, and 
 Doyt's face, by turns, flushed ynd grew serious in sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 During their visit the only time in which she re- 
 ferred in any way to her recent sorrows was once when 
 she said: 
 
170 A^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "After ye've been sair trachled wi' cares its gude to 
 rest." 
 
 When at length Doyt spoke of returning home, she 
 said: "Ye're certainly nae gaein' thout a cup of same- 
 thing warm." There was a generous ardor in the in- 
 vitation. 
 
 They sat down, and while drinking tea together, 
 Lowell told many amusing stories of college life in the 
 city. 
 
 They left the house, all about them the pleasant 
 warmth and the spicy fragrance, on the one side of the 
 town with its spires and towers and the wide valley 
 hemmed in by the placid bay, and on the other, the 
 vineyards and the orchards, and farther out the green 
 foothills and the mountains and the varied hues of the 
 sunset sky. 
 
 As they went along Lowell, tortured by uncertainty 
 as to the true condition of affairs, found himself watch- 
 ing her every motion and treasuring her every word as 
 though it might be the last he should hear her speak. 
 
 They had talked together with the freedom of 
 friends; slowly, almost unconsciously, all barriers be- 
 tween them seemed to have been removed, and the 
 afternoon to him had been so quiet, yet so over-brim- 
 ming with hapj)iness, that it seemed to him that all 
 he could ever ask in earth or Heaven was just that it 
 might continue forever. He knew that this could not 
 be; he knew that the hours so thrillingly happy would 
 soon be over; that he must go away out of her life, 
 perhaps out of her thoughts, back to the college halls, 
 back to work and study, back to the old pain and sus- 
 pense, and never know whether she had received him 
 in friendliness for his own sake or simply out of regard 
 for his rehitionship to another. 
 
 He summoned his courage and tried to fortify him- 
 self for the worst. 
 
 Once as they walked up the avenue, he stopped sud- 
 denly, for the moment resolved to know, and there 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 171 
 
 was something touching in the tons of his voice when 
 he spoke ngain. 
 
 She turned toward him quickly, and when she looked 
 into his troubled face, she said gently: 
 
 '•What makes you sad?" and as they went on she 
 added, "There seemed to he sorrow in your voice," 
 and he answered her solicitously: "Pardon me, if in 
 anv way I mar your happiness. I assure you it was 
 far from my intention to do so." 
 
 As they neared the house he said feelingly: "I thank 
 you for a'^few hours of the purest pleasure. I have not 
 earned such favor." 
 
 In a little time he was gone — he had held her dim- 
 pled hand a moment in parting, and the happy after- 
 noon was over. 
 
H ^2 ^'"^ ^^^^^ MADE HER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Some months had passed since the events of the last 
 chapter. The valley lay in all the glory of a California 
 May-time. The season had come when the doctor was 
 to take his accustomed outing. 
 
 A vacatio]!, to allow mind and body to rest and re- 
 cuperate, was a necessity to this hard-worked physi- 
 cian. His patients would be benefited — for he would 
 come back to them with reanimated zeal. This sum- 
 mer jaunt would be enjoyed m^ore than any of its prede- 
 cessors—for his friends from the East were to accom- 
 pany him. 
 
 In addition to his own and brother's family, Lowell 
 had been invited to join them, and make one of their 
 party. All things had been made ready and the jour- 
 ney was to begin on the morrow. 
 
 Lowell came down on the early train, and the morn- 
 ing was not yet far advanced when the two carriages, 
 well loaded, were winding their way along the hard- 
 beaten track in the direction of the foothills. 
 
 Soon the winding road began to rise and to twist 
 about under the shade of the splendid trees, at each 
 turn placing the travelers at a higher altitude. Pur- 
 buing its course, in some places, the beautiful smooth 
 i!rack was chipped out of the side of the broad range, 
 an.l parallel to it and at its every halt there, far below 
 them and separated only by a narrow line of foothills, 
 in the fervid sunshine, enfolded by the mountains and 
 like a splendid park complete in its unveiled magnifi- 
 cence, lay stretched the peaceful valley. The country 
 with its lavish riches of grass, land, and orchards and 
 vineyards and clustering farmhouses, and its fair white 
 towns, and across its green breadth the shining waters 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 173 
 
 of the bay, appeared in a silvery reach of shimmering 
 whiteness. 
 
 Here and there close by the roadside were beds of 
 verdant moss and gracefully swaying fern leaves, and 
 oaks strong and rugged and solemn of aspect, and 
 pines with their innumerable boughs thrusting aside 
 the red branches of the madrones and the laurels. On 
 the hushed quiet of that upper air fell the twittering 
 of ^\T:'ens, the soft, prolonged warblings of the wild 
 r-auaries, the liquid notes of the thrusli, the rippling 
 melody of the crimson-headed linnets, and the plaintive 
 chanting of quails, while the west wind was softly mov- 
 ing the highest branches and bringing in over their 
 slow waving tops, flimsy cloud driftings of sea vapor. 
 
 Through evergreen mazes, the air bracing and tonic, 
 they gradually scaled again the mountain-side, climb- 
 ing by zigzags and by continued strain of muscle reach- 
 ing higher elevations, only to find another ascent more 
 formidably frowning ahead. 
 
 Early in the day they noticed that "Eags'^ by sensible 
 precaution made fewer excursions into the brush than 
 on the occasion of his former experience in mountain 
 climbing, and kept closely to the beaten road, making 
 sedulous endeavor to hoard his strength. 
 
 Once on the way upward and just at the verge of a 
 bold promontory they met another equipage occupied 
 by some lover of nature, student, or professor from 
 the University below, and while the wheels of one of 
 the passing carriages grated against the ancient ma- 
 sonry on one side of the roadbed, a few inches of space 
 only remained between those of the outer vehicle and 
 the evergreen depths below. 
 
 Once again, too, before they reach the summit, there 
 is n rift in the tree branches and in the white sunlight 
 the lovely valley again appears, this time dimmer and 
 less plainly defined, like a picture in the far depths. 
 
 Climbing leisurely the quiet path, before the noon- 
 time, they reached the barren space which crowned the 
 summit of the mountain, and having moved down the 
 
174 -^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 sloping trail to where a spring, beautiful and clear, 
 came gurgling out of the hillside they stopped for 
 luncheon. 
 
 The air being cooler on the ocean side of the range, 
 the spot they had chosen was a wide, grassy space al- 
 most clear of shade. 
 
 All felt a sharp contrast between this and the me- 
 chanical regularity of the days at home, and, filled 
 with fresh, healthful, normal impulses each seemed to 
 find perfect satisfaction in the delicious warmth and 
 freedom of the day and to be keenly conscious that 
 it was to be fraught with pleasure that would linger 
 long in the memory. 
 
 The doctor, enraptured always with nature, and tak- 
 ing note of its every charm, once, out of the fullness 
 of his heart, said: 
 
 "One has to get away from the ordinary routine to 
 realize that he lives." He continued with an air of 
 serene contentment: "A day like this, now, makes a 
 mark in a man's lifetime, and is worth a hundred of 
 the ordinary days that go to make up existence. It 
 is this kind of an experience that gives the soul a 
 chance to grow." 
 
 Lowell felt ardently the irresistible allurements of 
 the occasion, but appreciative as he was of the natural 
 surroundings, his sense of happiness seemed to come 
 from the blending of Doyt's blitheness and sunniness 
 with every feature of the landscape. 
 
 After the fagged horses had been unhitched from 
 the carriages, Lowell had been out with Boyt a little 
 ways from the camp gathering sticks for a fire, and as 
 they came bringing them in, a young girl voice caroled 
 a low melody in a tone so i3ure and clear that that it 
 harmonized with and became a part of the native wood- 
 music. 
 
 Each object about him seemed to acquire a sort of 
 magnetic allurement from her presence; the charming 
 serenity of the morning seemed to be due to content 
 in her sweet face ; the grass was fresher because her feet 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. I75 
 
 had touched it; the sunshine was most brilliant when 
 it lingered among the meshes of her hair; an evergreen 
 tree held its claim to the highest measure of comeli- 
 ness when its green mass served as a background for 
 her rounded form. 
 
 Dorcas and Rhoda had unloaded the baskets and 
 spread the cloth, and when the coifee was boiled, Tim 
 v/as called from where he stood dabbling in the run- 
 ning water: the cushions were brought and soon there 
 was a gratified look on Dorcas' face to see them all 
 seated at the mountain banquet. 
 
 Ehoda complaining that she had ''got kind of tottery 
 like" over the long ride, Lowell chivalrously assisted 
 her to a seat and took the one by her side. Doyt and 
 her father sat opposite; John and Tim at one side and 
 Dorcas by herself at the other. 
 
 "I am glad, Dorcas/^ the doctor said facetiously, 
 "that it occurred to you that some of us miglnt be 
 hungry/' and as he spoke the breeze gently and lov- 
 ingly lifted his heavy locks and fanned his broad brow 
 with gracious softness, and the sunshine, tender and 
 warm, lit up the features of his classic face. 
 
 "It is well you have brought a bountiful supply,'' 
 he continued, looking over the well-spread table, "for 
 there's not an invalid among us, and there is something 
 stimulating to the appetite in such a dining-room as 
 this." 
 
 It was only a moment later that he said again in a 
 reminiscent way: "I don't know whether you have 
 noticed it or not, John, but Dorcas is addicted to doing 
 these"; he hesitated a moment as if to find the suit- 
 able expression for his thought, and then added, "these 
 pleasantly surprising things." 
 
 In Dorcas' face there was an expression of gratifi- 
 cation mixed with a shade of embarrassment. 
 
 It was a little thing that her brother had said, yet 
 even in this Christian land a most unusual thing. In 
 every household there is of necessity one immolated 
 victim, and even among kind-hearted people there is 
 
176 ^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 such .lack of appreciation for the sacrifice. "Women 
 cheerfidW make themselves martyrs, but ihey are per- 
 mitted to go so often hungry for honest recognition of 
 the sacrifice. 
 
 If only each woman who slaves and worries over the 
 kitchen fire to provide food for the tahle after the 
 mo(K^rn elaborate method, could receive one word of 
 commendation for each hundred meals even, that she 
 serves, T have an idea that the expense to the state for 
 the support of female insane aslyums would be largely 
 reduced. 
 
 Dr. Harding was a man who was accustomed to mak- 
 ing just such little speeches as this last, and after he 
 had passed the chicken around he declared magnani- 
 mously: 
 
 "If others had had the opportunity of forming any 
 proper conception of Dorcas and of what she is 
 capable, my little daughter and I, no matter how much 
 we need her, would never have been able to keep her. 
 The full understanding of Dorcas' worth, you know, 
 would inspire a man to such eloquence as would over- 
 come even her loyalty to us." 
 
 Dorcas said something about her two brothers hav- 
 ing so monopolized her affections that she never cared 
 for any other alliance, and had given very little atten- 
 tion to what they thought of her. 
 
 Presently John, setting down his coffee cup, averred: 
 "It is generally understood in our country that there 
 is at least one man who has always held full apprecia- 
 tion for Dorcas. I suppose you know that Enoch lives 
 alone there 3^et on his farm; that he lays up money 
 every year and that he carries a big insurance on his 
 life. It has been talked about pretty freely over our 
 way, that that, with his other accumulations, is in- 
 tended for our Dorcas some day." 
 
 "Don't depend upon any such delusion, John," his 
 sister answered, as she poured him a second cup of 
 coffee. "If Enoch is really making a sacrifice of his 
 youth and middle age to store up money for anybody's 
 
A I^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 177 
 
 benefit, I suppose I ought to place proper estimate on 
 the immolation, but you are altogether mistaken about 
 his designing any part of it for me." 
 
 "Why, Aunt Dorcas," her niece protested with true 
 allegiance "I don't see why he shouldn't make you his 
 heiress. I am sure in the whole world there is no one 
 to whom it would do him more credit to leave his 
 money." 
 
 And Dorcas still attending to the wants of those 
 about the table and inwardly conscious of their kind- 
 ness, responded feelingly: 
 
 ''1 am rich enough as I am. I do not know what I 
 should want with money." 
 
 The look on Rhoda's face was entirely out of keeping 
 with every earthly thing about her, and as she began 
 upon the dessert: "What does all that matter, I'd like 
 to know," she urged perversely. "How you all do spoil 
 Dorcas!" 
 
 "Eags," who with canine good manners, had always 
 held himself aloof from the house even at home, had 
 on this occasion drawn very near to the festal board. 
 Unrebuked, he had occupied a prominent position at 
 the corner, Just between Lowell and Tim, and during 
 the meal, bone after bone had been passed in his di- 
 rection. During the whole time his shaggy tail had 
 never once given over wagging; his joy at being re- 
 ceived on equal terms with the family seeming to oc- 
 cupy him to the exclusion of even the feeling of hun- 
 ger. 
 
 12 
 
178 ^^ (^^^D MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Later in the afternoon as they drove along among 
 the monntain ranges, here and there they passed a 
 great, dignitied sequoia that had escaped man's sacri- 
 ligions hand, and whose immensity called forth ex- 
 pressions of amazement from John, but it was not until 
 evening was falling that fording a beautiful, clear 
 running stream they passed around a sharp curve, and 
 was at last in the midst of the impressive grandeur of 
 the redwood forest. 
 
 The full moon had climbed high above the horizon, 
 sending through every opening broad beams of tran- 
 quil light, and just before they entered the wood, in 
 the balmy stillness several great white owls appeared, 
 and with silvery widespread wings floated dreamily 
 and noiselessly about, lighting now and then on some 
 low branch near by. 
 
 Before and around them there was an undulating 
 extent of verdure, for the young trees which had 
 sprung up at the base of the kingly specimens were of 
 shimmering greenness and the air was redolent with 
 their gummy fragrance, while column upon column 
 and cluster upon cluster of the larger coniferae, known 
 as sequoia gigantea, taking solid hold on Mother Earth 
 had towered in their upright splendid symmetry until 
 their faraway indistinct tops seemed to become a part 
 of the perfect blue. 
 
 The very grandeur to eyes unfamiliar made the place 
 seem holy. It was a piece of earth of which God 
 seemed still to hold absolute possession, for save the 
 narrow road curving around the hillside nature had 
 been left, since the dawn, uninterrupted. 
 
 All about them there was such calm and peace that 
 the men took off their hats and stood in pensive quiet 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. I79 
 
 with faces lifted upwards. Here and there shafts of 
 sunlight from the fast disappearing sun came through 
 into the beautiful world about them, and touched it up 
 to bright color. 
 
 As they drove along the road the stream left its level 
 and sank into the gorge far below while its soft 
 gurgle, and the plaintive note of the quail calling to 
 its young were the only sounds that broke the sacred 
 stillness. 
 
 The darkness had come on, and just as they entered 
 the balmy stillness of the deep wood, the full moon, 
 now high above the horizon, sent through every open- 
 ing broad beams of tranquil light. The bright orb 
 was just coming out into clear view among the tops 
 of the trees, when they drove up to the mountain 
 house, where they were to sleep for the night. 
 
 The wind that blew in from the sea grew sharply 
 colder, and, after supper, as an expression of the hos- 
 pitality of the house, a great fire was built upon the 
 wide hearth and the party, chilled and wearied, 
 gathered in its brilliant irradiation, while in congruity 
 with the wholesome comfort of the broad room from 
 an obscure corner came the soothing music of stringed 
 instruments. 
 
 Oh, the sweet deliciousness of that night, with its 
 cheer and rest and sweet congenial companionship, the 
 lavish richness of the mountain air, and the owning 
 of quiet minds, and the possession of sturdy health to 
 enjoy it all! 
 
 A contented party, late in the evening they sought 
 their pillow, Lowell reveling in the luxury of the pros- 
 pect of a succession of these happy, perfect days in 
 Doyt's presence, and in a condition of passive gratitude 
 to the kindness of fate. 
 
 Within the mountain house there was solace and 
 silence and peace, and outside the murmurng stream 
 and the moonlight and the massive trees, in their 
 square-cut strength, huddled together like stalwart 
 brothers, holding interminable guard. 
 
180 ^S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 The next day our party enjoyed many novel ex- 
 periences. 
 
 In the early morning they had been awakened by 
 a grand^ stirring chorns of native musicians, a lark 
 and thrush in the lead. 
 
 After breakfast, dressed for climbing, they explored 
 mountain trails, pushed their way through thickets 
 of laurel and blossoming lilacs, under mammoth ferns, 
 down into gulches, and, forcing their way through the 
 driftwood, they explored rock chasms, and waded the 
 pebbly streams. The longer they remained com- 
 panions of the redwoods, the more regardful they be- 
 came of their exalted grandeur. 
 
 While their green tops pierced the upper world of 
 clouds, they appeared to hold their position with such 
 unassuming dignity. They were so enduringly estab- 
 lished, and, as our people studied them, heedful of 
 their worth, they seemed so consciously noble. They 
 htid passed their youth by thousands of years. The 
 soft breezes from the Pacific gently moved their supple 
 b.ranches and awakened among them a gentle rustling. 
 Perhaps their evergreen foliage had been in the same 
 way stirred to motion when Egyptian sculptors were 
 chiseling out the mystic sphinx, when the tongue of 
 Demosthenes was being sternly trained to its masterful 
 oratory, yet they had such spirit and vigor, were so 
 erect, had shafts so evenly and gracefully tapered, were 
 so hardy and vigorous, that they still seemed joyously, 
 refreshingly young. 
 
 One afternoon, two or three days after their arrival, 
 Doyt and Lowell were alone. From the house they 
 had wandered down the path toward the stream, and 
 stood together half way down the gulch. 
 
 From where they halted they could see the trees on 
 
A 8T0RT OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 181 
 
 on the other side rising tier on tier, in their reserved, 
 mysterious stateliness. 
 
 As they looked upward along the further bank 
 through an opening between the huge clumps of trees, 
 there came into view a great cloud composed roll on 
 roll of glistening whiteness. As they watched it, the 
 glory of it grew. It moved tumultuously, spread, 
 rolled outward, and, dazzlingly radiant, loomed higher 
 in its fluffy dowmdness; brilliant, crystalline, luminous 
 in its strange unfolded incongruity. 
 
 The whole attention of each was directed toward the 
 cloud, now assuming shape, and of unu'sual beauty, till 
 it broke up into a soft mist and floated away. To get 
 a better view of it, as it was elusively disappearing, 
 they had climbed upon the trunk of one of the fallen 
 trees. 
 
 Outside of Lowell's thought of Doyt, his work at 
 college had monopolized his mind. While together 
 they had had more than one discussion on scientific 
 points. He knew that she was in sympathy with what 
 he was learning. He did not flatter himself that this 
 was because he had been giving his time to the study 
 of medical lore. If any such idea had come to him, 
 in bare abnegation, he had dismissed the happy fancy. 
 
 Through her supreme interest in her father, and the 
 broad idea that he promulgated, he was aware that 
 long before he knew her, her mind had had a bent in 
 the same direction that he was following, and he was 
 glad that it was so. It made it easy for them to talk 
 together; it made her ready of comprehension, and not 
 only a captivating talker, but a ready listener. 
 
 Still, he realized with inward bitterness only that it 
 gave her distinction and set her apart from him, while 
 every bright word she uttered, every new thought she 
 advanced, every moment he spent in her charming 
 presence, only made him the more helplessly and hope- 
 lessly in love with her. 
 
 Though he was bending every nerve to make the 
 most of the moments spent with her, in spite of the 
 
182 '^^ OOD MADE HER. 
 
 perfect felicity of the present surroundingSj the dark 
 side of the picture persisted in coming uppermost. 
 
 He knew that no matter how blissfully sweet were 
 the present days^ they must soon be over. He realized 
 almost gloomily that his college days were almost past, 
 and was surprised that now he found himself almost 
 at the starting point of life, when he must measure his 
 strength and training with that of other men, that he 
 felt so little inclined to do so. It came to him with 
 a cruel thrill that no matter what exertion of strength 
 he might make, it would be a long time, even though 
 no other had any claim on her, before he should have 
 won the position which would justiiy him in the hope 
 ever of winning her. 
 
 The matter of poignant interest to him now was 
 that he must soon drop out of her life, and he thought 
 with throbbing heart, how she would never realize 
 what, through all the time that he had known her, 
 she had been to him; how every college examination 
 he had plodded through he had 'regarded as something 
 that placed him in some way nearer to her. He 
 thought pathetically how she would never appreciate 
 how, though they were soon, perchance, to separate 
 forever, the effect his year's acquaintance with her 
 would have on his whole life. To go out and away 
 from her for all time- — she could never know what that 
 meant to him. 
 
 As he deliberately dwelt upon it and the bitterness 
 of it, his pain grew till he wondered, knowing all that 
 stood in the way of ever winning her, he had had such 
 splendid disregard for his own agony as having met 
 her once and being conscious of how he was aifected 
 by her personality, he had ever again sought her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 The great tree on w4iich they had been standing 
 had fallen athwart the stream, and on its broad sur- 
 face they crossed, and, making their way through the 
 fragrant branches of the bay trees, they sat down on 
 its huge trunk close by where the crystal, pure water 
 went tumbling and foaming over the broad rocks. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. ^gS 
 
 OHAPTEK XXXVIII. 
 
 It was one of California's dreamiest days. Mingled 
 with the grand sublimity of the forest surroundings 
 there was warmth and comfort and a sense of sweet, 
 delicious peace. 
 
 The open space about them was encircled by tama- 
 racks and pines, and by fresh, young sequoias, whose 
 first branches, spreading out from their very roots, 
 formed cones of shimmering greenness. She had 
 taken a seat a little distance from Lowell, and facing 
 him, her hat lying at her side. 
 
 Ripples of sunshine played all about her and lighted 
 up her soft hair to glintings of gold. As they talked, 
 he watched the motions of her supple hands; as an 
 artist might, he studied the feminine grace of her 
 posture; the smiles that curved the rosy lips; the 
 symmetry of her pliant figure; the changing expression 
 of her winsome face; the sweet childishness of her 
 manner. She was a brilliant and fascinating conver- 
 sationalist, and the ripple of her laughter was the 
 most enchanting of music. 
 
 Once while her companion sat silent, the young girl 
 philosophized. Leaning her elbow on the tree trunk, 
 she placed her dimpled cheek in her half closed hand, 
 and said: 
 
 "Strange, isn't it, that people give up this beautiful 
 place just to the birds and the squirrels? See that 
 cute bunch of vitality now!" she called, as a gray squir- 
 rel, as though pressed for time, went trailing his tail 
 along the farther portion of the same tree on which 
 they were sitting. "There's not one of the little 
 scamperers but what is sound and strong. I don't sup- 
 pose there's a doctor squirrel among them, Lowell," 
 she added with mock seriousness. 
 
1 84 ^^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 Lowell had been engaged in throwing pebbles into 
 the stream, bnt he looked up and responded with a 
 langh: "That fellow, surely, doesnH look as though 
 he needed any care, either medical or surgical. All 
 straining after medical lore would be wasted effort if 
 everybody breathed such air as the squirrels breathe. 
 You're right, no doctor, biped or quadruped, could get 
 a living here." 
 
 She continued her subject without taking special 
 notice of his manner: "I cannot understand why 
 human beings do not avail themselves of the resources 
 of the earth. You'd think now that everybody would 
 be leaving their work and coming down here to get 
 some of this strong, sweet air. But they don't,'' she 
 averred. "There is precious few of all the people in 
 the world who ever get a sniff of it, even. I could not 
 live that way, but then I suppose it is because I have 
 always breathed the fragrance of trees." - 
 
 Lowell did not answer. He was in too serious a 
 mood. His mind was too absorbed for him to find- 
 words readily, but, as he looked into her sweet, sunny, 
 rounded face, he thought: "How plainly you show it!" 
 and perhaps, too, he thought: "How like these happy 
 wood creatures she was in her serene immunity from . 
 disease, in her captivating grace and daintiness, in her 
 fresh, glad strength of constitution, in her innocent 
 enthusiasm with life!" 
 
 Glancing upward once, Doyt found a look on her 
 companion's face that was new to her, and when he 
 spoke, she noticed that he seemed to be moved by some 
 strange emotion. 
 
 "Doyt," he said, "I shall soon be through with 
 school, now." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "That means a great change in the life of a young 
 man." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It means that he who has always depended on the 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. ' 185 
 
 support and on the advice of others has got to take 
 hold for himself/^ 
 
 "Yes/' she replied, with a show of sympathy, ''I 
 suppose that is a hard thing to do/' 
 
 "No, Doyt, no," he returned; with great earnestness; 
 "I don't think that of itself would be difficult. To 
 grapple with the woTld and strive to gain a foothold 
 among men, that is easy"; he continued, speaking very 
 slowly, "so one has an impulse behind it." 
 
 Since his first acquaintance, though the young man 
 had always been received by the family on terms of 
 pleasant companionableness, he still felt bewildered as 
 to the position he held among them. 
 
 In w^eighing the matter, it seemed to him that to 
 know the truth of the situation, no. matter how hard, 
 would be better than the suspense. 
 
 His pity for himself, and the dark uncertainty of the 
 future grew till, suddenly moved, it seemed by an 
 irresistible impulse, he turned facing her and said: 
 
 "The world that we have been talking of, Doyt, has 
 changed to me since I saw you. That's where the dif- 
 ficulty lies. No matter how much I strive, how much 
 I smother my longings, how much I crush down my 
 feelings, I can never go back to my old position in it." 
 
 She assumed an attitude of respectful attention, and 
 in a troubled way gazed into his face, disturbed more, 
 perhaps, on account of the change in his voice than 
 by what he said. For a little time neither spoke. 
 
 Lowell looked around him, up among the giant trees, 
 at the green clumps of ferns, down at the clear, rushing 
 water. He listened to the woodland music, and then 
 he said: 
 
 "I perhaps do wrong to speak of it here; this place 
 should be all peace and love; there should be no dis- 
 quiet, no discontent amid such surroundings. Your 
 life, too, so sweet and serene, I do wrong, I know, to 
 in any way disturb its pleasant peace; besides," he said, 
 and his voice faltered a little; "the fear all the time 
 
186 ' ^^*S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 haunts me that you may be so pledged that you will 
 feel that it is not proj^er for you to listen to me, yet," 
 rising, he continued impulsively, "no matter how indis- 
 creet it may be on my part, how ill-timed, I must tell 
 you Doyt, how much you are to me, and to beg of you,'^ 
 he continued in a tone of humble devotion, "that if the 
 time ever comes when you need a protector" (he was 
 just on the point of saying an avenger), "you will give 
 me the honor of serving you. 
 
 Her penetration, her lucid intelligence, had enabled 
 her to understand him; at the, same time much that 
 had seemed strange in Lowell's manner was now ex- 
 plained. She was occupied in pulling bits of bark from 
 the log on which she was sitting; there was a careless- 
 ness in her manner that was in direct contrast to the 
 pathetic earnestness in his. After musing some little 
 time she lifted her liquid eyes and looking into the 
 face opposite, she began: 
 
 "Lowell!" 
 
 "Yes,"' he answered. 
 
 There was a roguish tAvinkling in the eyes that were 
 hxed on his as she proceeded in a low tone: "I want to 
 tell you that your present companion has so far es- 
 caped that dreadful calamity you mention; that just 
 as she always has, she still lays claim to perfect liberty 
 of thought and action." 
 
 A changed expression came into the eyes that were 
 searching hers, and she continued regardfully: "She 
 thanks you for your solicitude in her regard and is 
 ready to stipulate that when she needs any protection 
 that you will be the one on whom she will depend." 
 
 The young man stood motionless. What he had 
 deemed an unconquerable difficulty had been moved 
 so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he gazed stunned 
 upon the unobstructed path. 
 
 She had so long been to him a star, an ideal, a dream, 
 a poem distant from him, but dear as life. Now he be- 
 gan to comprehend that far away as she was there was 
 no obstacle between; that the clear light from his star 
 
.4. STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 187 
 
 shone down upon him, and to feel that there was a 
 power in love that possibly might cross the space. 
 
 As she watched his face she saw the anxious thought 
 die out of it; she saw it kindle then and soften into 
 tenderness. 
 
 A gentle breeze coming down between the hills and 
 into their green Eden whispered mysteriously and 
 moved the low boughs of the trees causing them to 
 yield up fresh incense. A bird passed by them with 
 soft flight. The brook's rush and ripple was the only 
 sound beside. 
 
 Lowell had not anticipated such a reply; he had not 
 prepared himself for it. He had fortified himself only 
 for renunciation and when he spoke, standing there 
 before her in trepidation, yet with reverent manner, 
 there was no conventional arrangement of the words 
 that fell from his ]ips. From his strong soul they 
 came in full sincerity. 
 
 Taking a step forward, "Doyt," he affirmed, "I want 
 to give you something; that is," he continued, "I am 
 going to ask you to share something with me." 
 
 Taking note of the deeply serious look that had come 
 over the sweet face, with an effort at carelessness, he 
 added: 
 
 ''0, it's something that doesn't amount to much, 
 Doyt"; then his voice fell to the deepest earnestness 
 agam as he proceeded; ''The fact is, it doesn't amount 
 to anything to me any more unless you share it with 
 me." 
 
 A bird singing on the branch of a tree near by poured 
 out a flood of melody. 
 
 Lowell waited respectfully until he knew by the 
 cadence that it had finished its stanza, then he went 
 on enunciating the words slowly: "I had not intended 
 speaking of this, Doyt; that is, even though I had 
 known that you were free, I should not have spoken 
 of it for a long time at least, but I)oyt," and he went 
 a step nearer, "do you know that in spite of the dis- 
 tance and the hindrances that yet lie between myself 
 

 Ig^ AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 and even the hope of winning you, that it seems such 
 a perfectly natural and unavoidable thing for me to 
 love you/' the very tone of his voice absolved him from 
 all intention in the matter, "and to be happy when I 
 am near you that I seemed forced to tell you of it?'"' 
 
 The senteiice that followed came impulsively: "That 
 which I want you to share with me, I)oyt, is my life. 
 Worthless as 1 have acknowledged it to be," he con- 
 tinued humbly, "I don't know how I can expect you to 
 value the gift." 
 
 The girl sat with her eyes downcast, her hands folded 
 in her lap. She did not answer at once and the sing- 
 ing bird went over its murmuring notes again as in 
 echo, softly, exquisitely, accurately to the very last. 
 She listened till the song ended and died away in the 
 wood silence, then, still seated, she looked up into his 
 face smilingly, and replied: 
 
 "You ask me, Lowell, to share your life?'' and as 
 she spoke the soft, silvan melody seemed to thrill 
 through the tones of her own voice. "If I were to 
 be candidly truthful, Lowell, I think I should say that 
 is just what I have already been engaged in doing for 
 some time." 
 
 As she spoke he scarcely breathed. Every filler of 
 his being seemed strained to listen. 
 
 "0, Boyt, do you mean it?" and his brown eyes w^ere 
 beaming as he took a step nearer. She raised her hand 
 and turned toward him its pink palm. 
 
 "Wait, I will tell you what I mean," she said calmly. 
 "Its this way, Lowell," she declared, thinking steadily: 
 "When I get up in the morning I wonder if you are 
 already up and what you are doing. I wonder many 
 times a day if you are studying and whether your 
 studies are hard or if they are interesting to you." 
 With the toe of her shoe she was pushing aside the lush 
 grass. "Many other times too, I think about you," 
 and without his urging it she continued her sweet con- 
 fession. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFOR^UA TAFE. 189 
 
 "And, Lowell/' with a change of tone, she added, 
 "ever since that night 3^011 and George spent the even- 
 ing at home there with iis, and you remember you and 
 1 walked down the path among the trees together in 
 the moonlight, and father and George behind us, you 
 know," she explained, "well, Lowell, ever since that 
 night whenever I have looked up at the moon shining 
 there so calmly in the night sky, I have wondered if 
 you were looking at it too. All this time through all 
 the moons that have come, Lowell, I have been doing 
 this and you know,'' she added, looking truthfully up, 
 ''nntil we came down here you and I have never looked 
 at the moon together since that night." 
 
 As Lowell gazed dowm into the lovely, pure face up- 
 turned to his what he asked himself was: "Was ever 
 lover so blest? And whenever did woman so sweetly 
 tell her love?" 
 
 "Say it, Doyt, dear," the handsome fellow urged 
 touchingly "say that you love me." 
 
 The clear mountain air seemed to have deepened the 
 color of her eyes and touched the sweet serious face 
 to an almost unearthly beauty. 
 
 "Yes, Lowell," she said very earnestly, slightly 
 bending her head again, "I may as well tell you; I do 
 love you." 
 
 He stood there before her a moment in respectful 
 silence. Then with intensity of feeling he responded: 
 
 "Through long months of study, Doyt, I have looked 
 forward to this trip with you; when we should spend 
 the time without a thought of work or a shadow of 
 duty. I looked for this to be a happy week, but I 
 never expected such joy as this. When we came down 
 here I said to myself, as we rode along together, you 
 sitting where I could turn and see you: There is this 
 happy day and then there are six more happy days to 
 follow and they will all be like this for I shall be near 
 her. But now just to think of it," he added, with ex- 
 ultation, "all my life is to be made up of happy days! 
 Just to think, I)oyt, I may go about thinking, every- 
 
190 -"^^ ^^^D MADE HER. 
 
 thing I do^ every step I take^ whether you are with 
 ine or not, that you love me and that you are mine." 
 
 "Yes, Lowell/"' she responded, and the words fell 
 from her ripe lips measuredly, "that I love you that is 
 true — but" she continued perplexedly, "the last you 
 say, that I am yours, I don't know about that/' And 
 as she spoke her head, her voice assumed an odd seri- 
 ousness. "That's the part that can never be arranged," 
 she said sadly. "I am not yours, I am not my own, 
 Lowell, I belong to my father." Before he could speak 
 she said again: "Xo, Lowell, don't try to prevail upon 
 me to make any promise. We must wait. I love you; 
 you love me. We can go no further; that is all," and 
 her earnest face lost its color as she recalled the only 
 tragedy of her life; the time that George had asked for 
 her. 
 
 "But, Doyt, dear," Low^ell said tenderly and anx- 
 iously: "Do you think that your father will refuse to 
 give you to me — ever? That he will not give you to 
 me sometime — a long ways off; that is, if he is certain 
 that you love me?" 
 
 "Lowell, look here," she said gently, "you don't un- 
 derstand what I mean. Ko matter if out of consider- 
 ation for my happiness, he should consent," she as- 
 serted with a voice full of emotion, "I could ncYer 
 leave him. You don't know what my love for him is, 
 I/owell; its heighth, its depth, its earnestness, its in- 
 tensity could never be measured. I never want to lose 
 one hour of his companionship that can be given me 
 while he and I live, and there is no agony to me like 
 the thought that some day he may be taken from me. 
 I will do nothing without his consent. I would die to 
 save him from pain. I should only prove myself sel- 
 fish and hard if I should consent to leave him — if I 
 siiould show myself in any way willing to do so. I 
 do not love you any the less Lowell, for loving him so 
 much," she said consolingly. "I should not be worthy 
 of you if I were not true to my father. You don't un- 
 derstand, Lowell, you can't understand, for I think no 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. ig^ 
 
 Other girl ever had such a father as I have been blessed 
 with." 
 
 She arose from her seat and for a moment gave him 
 her hand, and then side by side thev walked up the 
 slope that led to the house. 
 
;l^f)-2 -^'S' GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Dr. Harding was sitting alone on the long porch of 
 the hotel that evening. 
 
 A great camp fire had been kindled in full view of 
 the house, but at some little distance from it. There 
 were seats about the fire; the guests had gathered for 
 the evening entertainment and he could hear the tun- 
 ing of the instruments. 
 
 Was there ever such brilliant cheer and was ever 
 banquet hall so grandly adorned? 
 
 Stately rows of redwoods of equal vastness formed 
 the walls and they were overladen with decoration 
 formed by the dark-fringed foliage of the pines and 
 the firs and the richly-fresh sprays of the younger 
 growths. 
 
 There was such gleaming and sparkling of lights as 
 the wide, gladsome fire flashed upwards carrying with 
 it blithesome assemblages of sparks, throwing ruddy 
 illumination even upon the domed roof, or sending 
 broad rays of light quivering among the green aisles, 
 gilding the branches or glowing among the leaves or 
 flickering upon the broad verdant masses below. The 
 whole air was so elatively, deliciously, delusively fra- 
 grant, and now as he listened, soft, delightful melody 
 thrilled through the night stillness. 
 
 As he quietly looked on he saw Doyt and Lowell 
 leave the company, saw them come slowly up the walk, 
 and then with timid manner come and stop before 
 him. From the constrained manner of each the doctor 
 knew that they had something of importance to im- 
 part to him. Looking up into the face that bent above 
 them, "Father, I love Lowell, and Lowell loves me,^' 
 the girl said simply, "and we have come to tell you." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 193 
 
 Lowell was surprised to feel that while the afternoon 
 had seemed the happiest he had ever known, this pres- 
 ent occasion seemed the solemnest. 
 
 To the surprise of each the doctor did not start or 
 turn pale, but from his seat looked smilingly down 
 upon them. With rare and peculiar gentleness, he 
 said: 
 
 "And how long, mv children, since you have found 
 this out?" 
 
 Looking toward Doyt, Lowell answered, "Only this 
 afternoon. Doctor," and Doyt repeated, "Yes, only this 
 afternoon." 
 
 The broad fire flickered behind them, but the soft 
 moonlight coming through between the branches of 
 the live-oaks that shaded the house gilded Doyt's light 
 dress and touched up her fluffy hair, outlined LowelFs 
 stalwart form and brought out into perfect clearness 
 his handsome, expressive face. 
 
 Dr. Harding arose from his chair, "And now what 
 is it you want of me?" he said affably. And then in 
 deeper tone, "If it is a father's approval and blessing, 
 you have it." 
 
 The beautiful pair stood before him with lowered 
 heads and the sweet peace of his own pure life came 
 over them and their over-strained nerves found rest. 
 
 Doyt left LowelFs side and went quickly up the 
 steps. "Sit down, father, dear," she said in a tone of 
 infinite tenderness, and laying her hand gently upon 
 his own. When he was seated she stood by his side. 
 "Father, dear," she said in a way peculiar to herself, 
 "I want you to know that there is no living being be- 
 tween us. Lowell has exacted nothing of me and T 
 have made no promise. We came together to lay the 
 ease before you and to allow you to decide. But 
 father, while what we have told you is true, that 
 Lowell and I love each other," the deep, eloquent eyes 
 filled with tears as she added in choked voice, "I 
 couldn^t go away father, no, not even with Lowell, and 
 leave you." 
 13 
 
194 ^^ ^^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 As Lowell listened, his heart gave a tremendous 
 throb and he felt keenly his own great unworthiness. 
 He stood with his foot on the lower step and looked np 
 into the face of the man before him, read its wistful 
 expression, with a mingling of love, reverence and re- 
 spect, and as he looked he tried to reach the degree of 
 contempt for himself which he thought such a father 
 must feel toward one who would rob him of the dear- 
 est thing of all he possessed. 
 
 The father took the girFs soft hand and laid it 
 gently and in the old way against his cheek. With 
 delicate discernment he saw that the young people be- 
 fore him were in a state of suspense and suffering, and 
 he kindly and judiciously sought to bring to their 
 minds relief. 
 
 He was silent only for a moment. His face was pale 
 but he spoke with cheerful voice. 
 
 "This important secret," he announced to them, 
 "which you guileless young creatures, never suspecting, 
 have dutifully divulged here to-night, though it seems 
 it was not till you came into the solitude of the 
 primeval forest that you found it out, is not new to 
 me. I have knowm about it for some time," he con- 
 tinued blandly, as he softly caressed his daughter's 
 hand, "and I have been preparing myself for just such 
 an exigency. I have thought over the subject ma- 
 turely." He continued earnestlv: "If not now, my 
 daughter, I know that the time will come when in 
 spite of our best efforts you will be lonely with no one 
 to care for you but Dorcas and me. It would not be 
 well to keep you in solitude; you must have company 
 of your own age," and as he talked she understood his 
 meaning well. She knew that he would consent to 
 anything that he thought would make her happy even 
 though it brought him misery. 
 
 "As I said," he continued, looking at Lowell, his 
 eyes kindling significantly, "I have been expecting 
 something like this, and I have already in my mind a 
 deliberately formed plan. My boy, you have only to 
 agree to one proposition and everything will be ar- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 195 
 
 ranged. That proposition is, Lowell, that you come to 
 us." 
 
 The young man looked up into the face as if doubt- 
 ful of his own hearing. 
 
 "I do not know whether I understand you, Doctor," 
 he said respectfully. 
 
 "What I mean,' Lowell, is this. When you are 
 through with your studies in the city, you take my 
 little girl here for your own, and you come and settle 
 here with me and assist me with my practice. No, 
 do not thank me," as Lowell attempted to speak. "I 
 shall need you. My proposition in full is, Lowell, that 
 you form a partnership with me at the same time you 
 enter into one with my daughter; then giving up all 
 apprehension and worry," he said wiping away the 
 tears from Doyt's eyes, "we will just prepare ourselves 
 for a happy future together." 
 
 Still, with a feeling of deep disregard for the young 
 fellow^ who Avould ask a man to give up his only daugh- 
 ter, yet with a heart full of gratitude, Lowell went up 
 the steps and took the doctor's extended hand. 
 
 "You have been more than just with me. Doctor 
 Harding, the world could hold for me no higher 
 honor," he said reverently, "than you have conferred 
 upon me." And the tone in which he spoke told of a 
 deeper devotion than would a hundred vows. 
 
 "May Heaven make me worthy of it!" 
 
 While the young suitor stood passively before him, 
 in the hand Dr. Harding held, he placed Doyt's soft, 
 yielding palm, and said brokenly: "There are few 
 whom I would so trust; but take her, Lowell; she is 
 yours." 
 
 Like the caressings of love, on the silent night air 
 fell the soft melody of the stringed instruments. 
 
 Tim had been hard at work piling loads of brush on 
 the glowing fire, and the brilliant, glaring light of it 
 gilded the pathway that led down to it from the house, 
 as a few minutes later Dr. Harding, his "children" on 
 either side of him strolled leisurely down its winding 
 way. 
 
196 ^'S' GOD MADE UER. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 A few weeks later as Lowell went aboard the ferry- 
 boat to cross from the city to Oakland, he met his 
 cousin George. 
 
 Lowell, in these days, went always carrying about 
 in his mind a cheering lovely picture; sunny hair, blue, 
 soulful eyes, a round dimpled chin, tinted cheeks, a 
 dainty symmetrical form. He carried also in his pock- 
 ets to-day several dainty bits of letters; they were 
 addressed in a fine hand to Lowell Livingston. 
 
 Hi spite of his inward satisfaction there was no trace 
 of exultation in his manner as he gave George his hand. 
 Indeed, when he noticed that his cousin was looking 
 him over with searching scrutiny he made great effort 
 at indifference and feared lest George should read his 
 happiness in his eyes. 
 
 When the cousins were seated side by side George 
 took up some time in telling how well he was prosper- 
 ing financially, told of the latest doings at the club; 
 then he talked of a recent fashionable party and of 
 those who attended. They had gone but a short dis- 
 tance on the water when there ensued an awkward 
 pause. 
 
 Lowell here had splendid opportunity to impart the 
 information of his wonderful fortune to his compan- 
 ion. But the two separated without his having spoken 
 of it. While he felt that the whole world had reason 
 to rejoice with him he could not ask it of George. 
 How George would have conducted himself toward him 
 under the same circumstances, furnished no rule for 
 his sentiment toward his cousin. He realized to the 
 full the forlorn depression he would have been laboring 
 under had George been the fortunate one; and when 
 he looked upon him, he felt a strain of pity; such as he 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 197 
 
 might feel for one who had lost his sight or his hear- 
 ing or was in some way cut off from the joys of life. 
 
 In all the world there was only one Doyt; in his 
 mind to lose her was to lose everything. 
 
 George still visited sometimes at Oaklawn. Once 
 soon after the return of the household from the red- 
 woods it was just as the young man was leaving the 
 house that the doctor, being alone with him, said: 
 "Owing to a conversation that once was held between 
 us, George, I. feel that it is proper for me now to tell 
 you, though the event has not yet been made public, 
 that my daughter has at length chosen for herself and 
 that 1 have sanctioned her choice.'' 
 
 His companion looked up with a sudden frown and 
 answered equivocally: "I am sure. Dr. Harding, it is 
 kind of you to tell me.'' 
 
 A moment later there was not a sign that it cost him 
 anything to say it, for he added with cordialty: 
 
 "Doctor, thanking you for your confidence, allow me 
 to congratulate you; your daughter must have made a 
 wise choice, since you have seen fit to ratify her selec- 
 tion." 
 
 In the months succeeding, there were few changes at 
 Oaklawn. The sun shone down upon it with the same 
 unrestrained beneficence; it gleamed through the 
 spaces made by the tree branches; poured its flood in at 
 the open windows, lay upon the balconies with caress- 
 ing warmth; gilded the dew-drops which lay upon the 
 grass tips, warmed the orchards, and tinted the roses. 
 The air about the peaceful retreat was just as crisp 
 and fragrant. Among the treetops the birds sang the 
 old, sweet strains. The grounds were as carefully 
 kept and seemed to grow in entrancing beauty. The 
 animals about the place were as sleek-skinned and con- 
 tent. 
 
 Tim found the world around him just as fasci- 
 natingly entertaining and was as friskily active as ever. 
 Doyt seemed sweeter, purer, lovelier. 
 
198 ^S (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 Dorcas, that discreet tactician and miracle of adapta- 
 tion, was still making use of her rare ability in add- 
 ing to the homelikeness of the place, and the doctor, 
 gentle, broad-minded, manly, modestly speaking his 
 thought, went about mending the bodies, smoothing 
 the fortunes, and broadening the lives of the people 
 he came among. 
 
 When the early summer months came round and 
 they deemed that there was budding and flowering 
 again even in stern New England, the Eastern people 
 had taken passage home. 
 
 On the morning of their departure the couple had 
 arisen very early. Soon after the dawn John had paid 
 a visit to the stables and had lingered at the stall of 
 each of the horses, patting the row of velvety noses 
 in farewell. He went out and looked over the or- 
 chards and w^alked through the vineyards and paused 
 awhile among the dogs that fawned affectionately upon 
 him. 
 
 The family ate their last meal together, and when 
 they left the house the doctor and Dorcas were with 
 them and accompanied them as far as the city on their 
 journey. 
 
 They had each bidden the people of the household 
 good-bye and to Tim, who stood on the edge of the 
 porch, llhoda with cold cynicism had affirmed that she 
 "hoped that somebody would yet take him in hands 
 that would keep him within bounds." 
 
 Doyt looked on and saw her aunt leaving with a 
 feeling of keen self-reproach that she had never been 
 able to love her better. 
 
 When her Uncle John was saying good-bye he 
 pressed a kiss upon her ripe lips saying: 
 
 "Doyt, when you see again that young lover of yours, 
 you explain to him that I kissed you because I knew 
 that I should never again get a chance to kiss another 
 such a pretty girl.'' Touching her dimpled chin, he 
 raised her face to his and continued: "Surely, I don't 
 think he will be so very angry then, do you?" 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 199 
 
 With great tenderness lie said: "Good-bye, little 
 one/'-' and in a moment they had entered the Pullman 
 at Oakland pier, and their eyes had rested for the last 
 time on their Eastern relatives. Their visit had been 
 prolonged many months, and on both sides much had 
 been learned, and much had come in the form of a 
 revelation. 
 
 A year and a half before the couple had left their 
 niche among the hills with only the very slightest 
 knowledge of what lay outside of it. 
 
 In the meantime John had grown toward his 
 brother's stature. Once when they were together he 
 had said to him: 
 
 "It is lovely here, but then, among the rocks is 
 home.'^ 
 
 Now, as he was leaving Oaklawn, where rest and 
 comfort and even luxury had been matters of daily 
 habit, his life there in retrospect seemed perfect; he 
 knew that he was relinquishing the beauty and the 
 freedom and the space and the color, and that he was 
 going back to narrow boundaries and to dullness and 
 hardship. 
 
 As he was riding along all he said to his brother on 
 the subject was: 
 
 "I've freshened up wonderfully since I have been 
 here." At the same time he realized how completely 
 he had changed, and knew that he would never quite 
 fit again into the old place. 
 
 They parted at the wharf; the beautiful bay sparkl-' 
 ing and rippling in the sunlight; here and there its 
 smooth surface cut by the great white boats which ply 
 constantly to and fro. 
 
 Together they stepped up to the narrow entrance 
 which led to the boat; the crowd let the travelers pass, 
 and the brothers were soon separated forever. 
 
200 ^^ ^OD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLI. 
 
 Lowell had gained at last a definite conquest; with 
 diploma in hand he left the college. The course had 
 been long, but he still clung to sufficient healthful in- 
 stinct to feel an exuberant joy at being free. 
 
 He was not certain that his mere graduation had 
 made any great enhancement of his merit or any de- 
 cided change in his manners or his aspect, nevertheless, 
 he spent a few days after the event in a strenuous 
 effect to familiarize himself with his new and digni- 
 fied position in the world. 
 
 The young man had striven arduously for what he 
 had won, and it was as though a laurel crown was laid 
 upon his brow when two letters of congratulation 
 came from Oaklawn, addressed to "Lowell Livingston, 
 M. D." 
 
 After receiving his degree he had gone as physician 
 into a private hospital in the city that he might add 
 experience to theory and feel thoroughly equipped to 
 battle against disease. 
 
 During the months that followed he threw his soul 
 into his employment. He had a natural aptitude foT 
 the work and a love for the science of it; he came to 
 a comprehension also of the humanity in it, but be- 
 sides these incentives were, the almost more potent 
 ones of the doctor's faith in his ability and Doyt's love 
 for him. 
 
 In some cases the responsibility seemed heavy, the 
 teaching not gentle, but he profited by each severe ex- 
 perience. 
 
 Eealizing the tremendous odds that human life de- 
 pended upon his judgment and skill, he made incessant 
 and intelligent effort to make himself equal to the de- 
 mands. 
 
A ST0R7 OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 201 
 
 r Put to the test, he learned to diagnose with keen 
 precision, and came to feel a thrill of pleasure at the 
 occasion which called into use all his natural ahility 
 as wtII as his rigid training. 
 
 As time passed on, though his visits were of neces- 
 sity short, he was often at Oaklawn. 
 
 Once when Doyt and her father w^ere in the city he 
 had accompanied them home; then there came the 
 evening meal with the family in the hospitable dining- 
 room, the sweet earnest face so pleasant to look into, 
 the ideal of his dreams, just opposite. 
 
 After the meal they sat and talked, and the doctor 
 placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, and to his 
 young guest the sweetness of his soul as well as the 
 depth of his intellect were plainly manifest as the 
 words fell from his lips, well-chosen and in a steady 
 flow. 
 
 In the evening, a rain having fallen, they gathered 
 about a sparkling grate fire and the precious hours flew 
 by till Lowell was warned that he must leave to catch 
 the night train for home. When he and Doyt went 
 outside the stars were bright again in the night sky 
 above them and under the branches of the oak he 
 pressed a kiss upon her lips and was gone. 
 
 Then at the end of the week, inspired by a wild long- 
 ing to see her again and tremulously joyful, he was 
 m'aking preparations to go dowm again. 
 
 How he ran on to catch the train! Then there was 
 a delay at the station — even the train appeared to move 
 slowly. Two or three times it even came to a dead 
 stop. While he was trying to make the most of the 
 minutes that he might remain at Oaklawn the longer. 
 It seemed to him that he had only had stray glimpses 
 of her when he was down before. Then he was off 
 the car and knew that in a quarter of an hour he 
 should be in her presence, knew that she was waiting 
 for him. How light were his feet! How fast he 
 could walk! How he hurried on to catch the first view 
 
202 ^^ ^'OD MADE HER. 
 
 of the gates and the tree-tops! Another block passed, 
 then another; then he came in sight of the familiar 
 grounds and the lawn and the flowers and the house. 
 At last his steps were grinding upon the gravel walk 
 and before him w^as the beaming face; he felt again the 
 sweet consciousness that he was looked for and wel- 
 comed. 
 
.4 t^'TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 203 
 
 CHAPTEE XLII. 
 
 For the wedding they had chosen a moonlight even- 
 ing in ^lay. 
 
 On the appointed 'day nature seemed to have made 
 universal festival; the air was of a peculiar mellowness, 
 and rich with spring redolence,, and the pink and 
 white blossoms of the orchards, the foliage of the trees 
 completely hidden by their luxuriance, stretched far 
 away to the hillsides, making of the whole valley a 
 dainty sea of beauty. 
 
 The shade trees about Oaklawn, freshly green under 
 their new growths, sent out spicy odors, and the 
 sunny California life about them seemed to have burst 
 into color. 
 
 In every part of the place there was luster, bril- 
 liancy, splendor, glare, glory. The innumerable 
 creations of flowering plants flaunted their unfolded 
 tintings in a mad ecstacy of display. 
 
 Eich blossoms had taken possession of open space, 
 nook, and corner; the flower plats blazed; lavish hues 
 gleamed among the borders and along the trim hedges; 
 the trellises w*^re afire with color and the house sides 
 were hidden in ostentatious decorations. 
 
 Xature everywhere had been uremittingly busy. 
 From lattice to lattice roses were stretched in huge 
 pink cables; in the bushes which bore them there were 
 odd branchings and divisions of the branches, and 
 seemingly impossible subdivisions and every limb, 
 bough, sjprig, shoot, branchlet, twig, and stem was oc- 
 cupied. From every improbable point, wuth aggressive 
 force it seemed, and in an exhilarated frenzy and 
 squandering liberality of numbers, roses pressed, 
 rushed, pushed, thronged, crowded, swarmed. 
 
204 "^^ ^^^D MADE HER. 
 
 Among the multitudes there existed strong con- 
 trasts, for in hue they ranged from the dense colorings 
 of the Jacqueminot to the faint, etherialized tintings 
 of tiie Niphetos; and each one among the millions so 
 carefully arranged were so daintily, exquisitely, soul- 
 fu'lly beautiful. 
 
 Scarce could conception of greater glory enter into 
 the human heart, for the earth seemed to have shaped 
 itself into the very loveliness of Jieaven. 
 
 And when the sunny glory of the day was done and 
 the birds' songs had ceased among the foliage, and 
 the great, quiet moon arose and sent down upon it 
 a flood of silver glory in its setting of dainty blossom- 
 ing, the home-place lav calm and dream-like as an 
 Eden. 
 
 Lights gleamed from every window of the house, 
 and by the lavish use of green and white in the decora- 
 tion of the main rooms the whole place seemed trans- 
 formed into a charming love-nest. 
 
 Carriage after carriage came winding its way through 
 the grounds, depositing its occupants at the veranda 
 steps, and in the wide hall near. Dr. Harding and Dor- 
 cas received their guests. 
 
 The betrothed pair stood together in an upper room. 
 Lowell in his splendid symmetry and his athletic 
 strength, handsome as a model, and Doyt in filmy 
 white drapery, without train or veil, a bouquet of deli- 
 cate white blossoms pinned to her corsage, her beauti- 
 ful supple arms bare to the shoulder; about the fair 
 fresh face the soft clustering golden locks. 
 
 The window of the room in which the bridal pair 
 stood was open to the evening breezes. 
 
 Outside they could hear the echo of the horses' 
 hoofs upon the driveway and the sound of voices as 
 the people stepped gaily from their equipages, and 
 from below came the chatter of assembled guests. 
 
 "Come here, Doyt, will you?" Lowell requested, 
 gently taking her by the hand and advancing toward 
 the open window. "Now, stand in the moonlight," he 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 205 
 
 said placing her and stepping backward that he might 
 survey the picture she made. "There, in the full 
 light of it, and let it shine down upon you just as it 
 did that night, you know, down there in the grounds. 
 There,^' he said, his face lighting up, "that's the way 
 you looked; Just as beautiful now as vou were that 
 night.'' 
 
 There she stood in her youthful purity and freshness, 
 smiling, moved by a sense of his sincerity, and as she 
 extended one hand toward him the glinting moon- 
 beams crept noiselessly in, and light and soft shade 
 succeeding each other and bringing out a beauty so 
 perfect, so uncommon, so divine, that it seemed it must 
 belong to the world of art. 
 
 There w^as a look of adoration on Lowell's face as 
 he took the extended hand. Caressing it softly, he 
 said: "How far away it seems, that other moonlight 
 evening, Doyt! I never expected to win you then; I 
 did not even dare to wish for it." 
 
 Pressing to his lips the fair hand he held, he con- 
 tinued, looking out on the lawn: "It is just such a 
 night, Doyt, and yet how dissimilar! You were a long 
 ways off from me then. Why, Doyt, I was thankful in 
 those days to be permitted to stand under the same 
 sky." 
 
 Dorcas came up the stairs a moment later. Doyt 
 went to her quickly, and asked with earnestness: 
 "Where is father, Aunt Dorcas?" 
 
 After studying her face a moment she laid her head 
 on Dorcas' broad shoulder and said tenderly: 
 
 "If I only knew that to-night he was smothering no 
 heartache I should be happy." 
 
 Strains of glad music came floating to their ears 
 on the soft night air, and the beautiful couple, repre- 
 sentative of the Creator's best work, sound in every 
 fiber and life glad Avithin them as it is in the singing 
 birds, went down the open stairway together. 
 
 In the long room, with the broad-leaved green 
 plants of the conservatory for a background, standing 
 
oQ(5 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 under a swinging arch of blossoms, the twain who 
 loved, plighting their vows, were one according to the 
 wise Creator's 23lan. 
 
 While Do3^t stood by her young husband receiving 
 the congratulations of friends, she recalled the fact 
 that George had been one of the invited guests, and 
 she found herself looking around in curious confusion 
 to see if he were present. After a short interval she 
 caught a view of him among the throng and soon he 
 came forward tranquilly courteous, and greeted them. 
 
 He extended to them wishes for a happy life. He 
 congratulated Lowell on the exquisite fairness of his 
 bride. 
 
 Study his manner as closely as you might, there was 
 nothing in it to prove any inward irritation; not the 
 least reminder in anything he said or did that they had 
 once been rivals; that he was still smarting under the 
 mortification of baffled plans, there was not the least 
 sign. 
 
 To Boyt it was evident that there had been nothing 
 in her rejection of him that had been permanently 
 fatal to his peace. This conviction brought her great 
 relief and she felt that it was ver^^ kind of George to 
 make honest attempt to prove to them both, that he 
 remained still their friend. 
 
 With Lowell the case was different. He had never 
 in the least censured George for loving Doyt. 
 
 Having met her and come within her sweet in- 
 fluence, that they both should be competitors for her 
 hand seemed to him the most natural thing in the 
 world. 
 
 Being present here at his marriage to Doyt, George's 
 self control was so perfect that it won his respect and 
 sympathy. The young man tried hard not to under- 
 rate his cousin, and yet be would rather George had 
 not come; there was something jarring to his nature 
 in his very presence there. He was himself in no way 
 persuaded that George's love for Doyt had abated. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. £07 
 
 I.owell. who knew him better than either Doyt or 
 her father, was clear-sighted enough to see that 
 George's control of himself was portentous — that it 
 boded evil rather than good. 
 
 After leaving their side he saw him go about 
 among the guests with easy gaiety and a ready flow of 
 wit, handsome, distinguished looking, maintaining a 
 sort of supremacy among them. As he watched his 
 manner, he said to himself: ^^George is not the sort of 
 a fellow to readily change or relinquish a project. 
 Though I have known him to postpone a purpose I have 
 never known him to entirely abandon one." 
 
 Doyt's father, who stood at a little distance, had ob- 
 served Lowell through the ordeal of George's near 
 presence; he w^as pleased that in Lowell's superb man- 
 ner there was not the least sign of vulgar triumph. 
 
208 AS GODMADtJ HEK. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 The lives of the family at Oaldawn shaped themselves 
 into a beautiful harmoB3\ The married pair found 
 nothing to regret in the vows they had taken, nothing 
 chafing in the bonds that bound them. With them 
 love found an atmosphere where it fed upon the rare 
 food that suited its nature. It expanded and grew, 
 nourished by .smiles of welcome and approval, a genial 
 show of appreciation, by kindly looks, by the quiet 
 pressure of the hand and by unselfish deeds. Each 
 deemed the other worth retaining as well as worth 
 winning and possessing. The affection that had 
 sprung up betAveen them they prized and held it as too 
 sweet a thing to be permitted to die out and be lost; 
 and so as time went on the quiet, loving, foolish days 
 continued. 
 
 Life with them was sweet and easy because it was 
 so simple. 
 
 The Creator dispensed plenty; the sun shone, the 
 dew and the rain fell, the plants grew and budded, and 
 the fruit ripened, and they loved the Hand that fed 
 them and gratefully accepted His bounty. 
 
 There was no need to worry or to make faithless 
 complaint; that was beneath the dignity of a sentient 
 being and would argue an ingratitude of which they 
 would be ashamed. When they simply complied with 
 nature's law they knew that her bounty never failed. 
 Tn the midst of unrestricted opportunities for pure en- 
 joyment they did not allow superstition to mark out 
 for them a savorless life. They believed that the verv 
 opportunities were the result of known and considered 
 forces, and it would be wrong not to take advantage of 
 them. In possession of sound nervous systems they 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 209 
 
 readily found the beautiful side of life, and furnished 
 an example, rare indeed, of people who thoroughly 
 liA^ed. Accepting the Creator's gifts understandingiy, 
 there was perfect content with their surroundings — 
 there was no repression of happy instincts — no weari- 
 ness of each other. 
 
 The first object of the young couple was to quietly 
 and unobtrusively promote the father's happiness. 
 
 How pleased they were to realize that Lowell's 
 presence seemed rather to add to the father's pleasure 
 than to detract from it! Perhaps the doctor, to whom 
 never before had been given a son, had never felt the 
 lack, but whatever had been his previous state of 
 mind on the subject when it was his privilege he not 
 only munificently opened his house but liberally un- 
 locked his heart to Lowell. They rode together, they 
 overlooked the improvement of the place together, 
 they conjointly attended to the practice, they did 
 laboratory work together. To come in contact with 
 another investigator along kindred lines was a source 
 of help as well as satisfaction. It was plain to all that 
 the doctor had found a new inspiration, that he had 
 gained an assistant, a companion, a tried and trusted 
 friend just at the time of life when he began to feel 
 the need and was in the best condition to value the 
 acquisition. Besides, the two having the same interests 
 and pursuits, their mental natures assimilated. Their 
 studies and researches all lay in the same direction, 
 their business interests were one and they grew to a 
 unity of soul. Although the elder man never exhibited 
 a symptom of declining strength, though he had the 
 same dignity of bearing that had marked his earlier 
 manhood, although his quick, alert step was unaltered, 
 yet slowly, almost unconsciously, as the time went by, 
 the father gave iip the intense self-dependence that 
 had characterized him, and began to lean, at first ever 
 so lightly, on Lowell. 
 
 Although the yiamger partner always depended upon 
 the senior's trusted judgment, much of the hardest 
 
 14 
 
210 A.5f GOD MADE HER. 
 
 practice Lowell took upon himself and after a time it 
 was Lowell's young brain that directed, and his skilled 
 hand that held the knife. In major operations the 
 elder man stood hy and commended, and in a pathetic 
 sort of way showed that he felt honored to even act 
 as the able junior surgeon's assistant. 
 
 Doyt found that her father had an honest interest 
 in Lowell for his own sake, independent of his relation- 
 ship. It was a source of supreme happiness to her to 
 see how much comfort her father seemed to find in 
 Lowell's company. It was a matter of pride to her 
 that he could converse so ably on the many subjects 
 in which her father found interest. 
 
 Sometimes they sought a wider sphere together, left 
 Oaklawn, "took a dash out of harness," as the doctor 
 described it. They sought the foothills or lingered 
 among the mountain streams or recreated at the sea- 
 shore. 
 
 The evenings they all spent together at home were 
 times of absolute contentment, and were looked for- 
 ward to with joyous anticipation. Sometimes after the 
 dinner was over they all went down through the 
 grounds, where they kept up individual acquaintance 
 with each separate tree. Sometimes they stopped 
 amid the permanent attractions of the flower beds; 
 
 Sometimes Dorcas or Doyt announced the unfolding 
 of some rare, new blossom which event they had all 
 been awaiting. Often they walked out through the 
 orchards and vineyards, or to the stables, or stopped 
 among the kennels. 
 
 They assembled on the veranda and, Doyt, in her old 
 place at her father's feet, w^atched the glory of the 
 sunset. At times the family collected in the library 
 and spent the time in reading, while the doctor con- 
 tinued work on his unfinished book. Occasionally 
 they would gather in the Long Eoom for rest, for 
 music, or for friendly interchange of thought. There 
 always seemed to be a charm in the discourse whether 
 it took a whimsical or a philosophical turn. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 211 
 
 ^'It has always been a matter of w^onder to me that 
 Shakespere's contemporaries did not recognize his 
 divinity/^ the doctor said once. ''I mean,'' he con- 
 tinued, "that he was not so marked by the special 
 honor conferred upon him in his own day, that there 
 could be no question in regard to his identity as au- 
 thor of the treasured dramas. After all, though," he 
 added a moment later, "the wonder is not so much that 
 Shakespere could write such plays as that any man 
 could write them."' 
 
 After her brother had ceased speaking, Dorcas sat 
 a moment in meditation. Looking up, she declared, 
 speaking slowly: "There being a question about the 
 authorship, I think it strange that no one has ever yet 
 adA^anced the idea that some woman might have writ- 
 ten the immortal work." There was a twinkle in the 
 gray eye as she went on. "The excellency of the prod- 
 uct is so far beyond the ordinary, that it would be 
 no more of a miracle that a woman should write it 
 than that a man should do so. At any rate," and Dor- 
 cas smiled confidently, "if no woman has ever proved 
 herself capable of such composition, neither has an\ 
 other man." 
 
 Among her listeners there was no disdainful rejec- 
 tion of the idea, but there was a laugh at the novelty 
 of it. Her brother observed, "Why, really, Dorcas, I 
 thiiik you must be the first person thni ever thought 
 of such a possibility." 
 
 "Because," Dorcas returned quickly, "ii has always 
 been taken for granted until of late that in the fe- 
 male sex there was a cerebral insufficiency. It's a 
 lucky thing for us," she went on laughingly, "that one 
 woman has lived who has compelled the world to re- 
 cognize her vigorous mentality, and who, as a conser- 
 vator of the loftiest philosophy, is acknowledged to 
 rank next to Shakespere." 
 
 The doctor replied, "I can readily understand that 
 vou inean George Miot. Dorcas." 
 
212 AS GOD 3IADE HER. 
 
 ^'Yes"; was Dorcas' reply, "and although she has 
 not quite lifted her sex to the masculine level, yet I 
 think it owes her more gratitude than to any other 
 human being, because," she added, "it is by George 
 Eliot's works only that woman has been saved from 
 being classed among imbeciles/' 
 
 A little while afterward, Doyt, who had been think- 
 ing deeply, remarked: "So far, in the world's history, 
 the production of Shakespere's plays seems to be re- 
 garded as the greatest of all human achievements. 
 And Shakespere, having been an English subject, and 
 having written in the English language, has done more 
 to give England prestige among nations than all the 
 rulers she ever had or all the battles she ever fought." 
 "I agree with you in that," said Lowell. "England 
 would not be England without her Shakespere. It is 
 strange, too, the rank it takes when you come to think 
 of it. His plays are only a work of art, and on the 
 line with the best in painting, and sculpture, and 
 music. Raphael's 'Coronation' and Thorwald son's 
 Trocession to Golgotha' are each the product of 
 some comprehensive soul; yet literature seems great- 
 est of all. While the painter and the sculptor copy the 
 beaatiful, the writer alone creates the beautiful. Of 
 all art, literature seems to be the greatest in its reach 
 and effect. While one human eye gazes upon a statue 
 or painting, the printed thought goes into all lan- 
 guages and reaches all nations." 
 
 It was thus that the days passed, and they were 
 happy in their surroundings and asking for nothing 
 better — while the conversation led by the doctor 
 varied, sprightly and \vitty, grave and gay, was like an 
 exquisite repast. 
 
A STOUy OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 213 
 
 i UN 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIV. 
 
 It was when Lowell had been with them something 
 more than a year, he and the doctor were out on the 
 rose-hung veranda, where Dorcas and Doyt joined 
 them. 
 
 The tumult of summer blossoming was around them; 
 the ground near was purple with violets, miles of green 
 verdure stretched beyond; the air they breathed, fresh- 
 washed from the sea, and the evening sky a glory of 
 red and gold and purple. 
 
 Tim having shown a predilection for music, the 
 violin the doctor had bought him afforded the little 
 fellow much amusement. But such passionate sadness 
 and misery lay underneath the tones he drew from the 
 instrument that Dorcas had relegated him to a seat be- 
 neath the old oak tree for practice. There he was now, 
 his little form curled up on the bench, with drawn face 
 zealously scraping at the strings. He was full of in- 
 spiration and perhaps producing the same unhappy 
 vibrations which, in the hands of genius, have often 
 preceded the exquisite, rippling delights of sound 
 which come from the master^s touch. 
 
 As the family sat together, it was only now and then 
 that a tuneful air came to their ears, yet under the 
 open sky they found it endurable to listen. 
 
 There was some emotion in Dorcas' voice, however, 
 as she said: "I have always been thankful that I did 
 not possess a trained ear for music." 
 
 Doyt looked up in surprise, "Why, Aunt Dorcas, I 
 think that is a most desirable thing to have.'' 
 
 Dorcas cooly completed the sentence by saying: 
 "The torture I am capable of enduring from disagree- 
 able sounds is intense enough even with my present 
 state of cultivation." 
 
214 4/Sf iWD MADE HER. 
 
 Dr. Harding and Dr. Lowell had been out on a round 
 of duties which had consumed the whole day. An 
 hour in the morning had been spent on a surgical 
 operation which had called into requisition thorough 
 anatomical knowledge, quick judgment, and steady, 
 unerring nerve. 
 
 They had been reviewing some of the work of the 
 dav. The doctor was walking up and down the gravel 
 path and as the twilight began to settle down among 
 the trees, he turned and exclaimed feelingly: "You 
 have great talent, Lowell ; you would succeed in your 
 profession anywhere.'^ And then he added gravely, 
 'Terhaps I do wrong to keep you here." 
 
 In the feeling which Lowell cherished for Dr. Hard- 
 ing was mingled a comrade's constancy, a brother's 
 fidelity, and a son's reverence. There was such ser- 
 iousness, such intentness in the tone in which he had 
 just spoken to him that it sunk into his very soul; it 
 told of appreciation as well as trust. He felt the good 
 that was in the man, and he felt the impulse to wor- 
 ship it. 
 
 As he turned his face full toward him, the touch of 
 his footsteps still sounding upon the gravel, Lowell's 
 bronzed cheek flushed, and struggling against a thick 
 utterance, he answered him: ''Dr. Harding," he said 
 humbly, "All the aspiration I ever had has been ful- 
 filled. Through your kindness I have already risen to 
 the heights which I coveted." 
 
 As he stood there, his hand lying carelessly on the 
 back of Doyt's chair, the brown hair waving about the 
 broad brow, the fine lines of the student face, the 
 grateful eyes were pleasant to look upon. The res- 
 onant tones of his voice thrilled through the little 
 assembly as he continued: 
 
 "Granting that I am solicitous of distinction in the 
 medical world, to be trusted and commended by such 
 a man as vou, should be sufficient to gratify any am- 
 bition." 
 
A .'^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 215 
 
 The tears sprang to Doyt's eyes. Lowell laid his 
 hand gently upon his young wife's shoulder and con- 
 tinued: 
 
 "Doctor, when I asked you to give Doyt into my 
 care, I did not feel that I possessed a single qualifica- 
 tion which rendered me worthy of such an honor. 
 For my reckless daring 1 had not the least excuse ex- 
 cept my love. What I could do in the world I did not 
 know myself; and when I realized what I had done, I 
 stood before you in despair at my own effrontry. I 
 thought that even though, through Doyt's love for me, 
 you might favor my suit, that you would at least ex- 
 pect me to have first established myself. In a moment 
 you solved the question and removed from my path the 
 mountain of difficulty. At the time you gave me Doyt 
 I was unable to tell you what I felt — my tongue had 
 not the power, ^ow, to answer you. Doctor,'' he con- 
 tinued, looking about him, up at the house, around on 
 the blossoms, up at the noble trees which stood with 
 leaflets gently quivering in the gathering darkness, 
 and lastly around upon the little group assembled 
 near, "I can never forget that it was by your sacri- 
 fice and generosity that I ever entered this Eden here. 
 My highest pleasure, honor, happiness, is to remain 
 here just as we are now, and if I have been so trained 
 and taught that I can be of any real help to you I 
 am only proud to have the opportunity to prove my 
 gratitude. I find in my association with you such 
 pleasure and happiness," he continued with boyish 
 energy, '^that unless I am made certain that you weary 
 of my presence and of my weak assistance, I will never, 
 never leave you." 
 
2io 4.*Sf GOD MADE BE It. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLV. 
 
 During the summer that followed the rest and 
 recreation days came even oftener. They hunted out 
 winding streams and waterfalls, there were visits to 
 foothills, mountain, and shore, brief halts at the old 
 missions, drives through the sunny afternoons and 
 rides by the beautiful, lustrous moonlight among the 
 shadows of the Alameda. Sometimes they took the 
 evening meal out under the oak tree, the soft air heavy 
 with the fragrance of the violet and the heliotrope. 
 
 Often there was a coni23any out from the town and 
 the melody of stringed instruments gave zest to the 
 evenings. In every way it seemed they gathered in the 
 richness and the comfort and the joy and the beauty 
 and the glory of the California life. 
 
 At length there came a time marked in the record 
 of events at Oaklawn. 
 
 It was a quiet placid night. The dome of the sky 
 was studied with palpitating stars. Owing to the dis- 
 quietude of the hearts within, however, the firmament 
 seemed darkened. The shadows fell across the green 
 sward and the whole place lay in an uncertain waver- 
 ing light. At times the brightness seemed entirely 
 shut away and dark clouds floated above, hovering only 
 a moment however, then passing outward through the 
 clear blue field. 
 
 But the constellations which decked the night sky 
 moved far to the westward and faded slowly from the 
 wide firmament, and never before had there seemed to 
 dawn upon the place such a radiant morning. N'ever 
 did rising sun seem to emit rays of such vivid splendor. 
 Never before had the foliage seemed so dewily fresh or 
 the flowers so resplendent. To the people there, never 
 had bird throats poured forth such glad melody, for 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 217 
 
 the day was the date of a new birth, a sweet, holy, 
 sanctified day in their history. 
 
 Upstairs they kept their treasure. In the front 
 room over the balcony, a little fresh-created thing lay 
 in sumptuous magnificence, tucked away in a dainty 
 basket. For days the people of the household moved 
 cautiously about out of pure respect for his arrival. 
 
 The beautiful girl mother, whose highest, sweetest 
 instincts had been gratified, was even more beautiful 
 than ever. The face was more sweetly soulful, the 
 waving locks more silken, the eyes more dreamily blue. 
 Filled with the holy joy of motherhood, she was soothed 
 into a solemnity from the very munificence of God's 
 gift. She was never weary of studying the tiny baby 
 with its marvelous mechanism, the flexibility of the 
 diminutive joints, the deliciously "soft little hand, the 
 minuteness of its workmanship, the exquisite turn of 
 the ear. From a human point of view it seemed such 
 a frail little bark in which to trust a living soul. 
 
 Once she had said in her gracefully sweet way and 
 a smile on her rosy lips: "Lowell, he is simply perfect,^' 
 and Low^ell had answered in an honest glow of admira- 
 tion: "Yes, a Dresden without a flaw." 
 
 Once, too, as they were standing by the little ark 
 that held him, Jjowell pressed her white hand to his 
 lips in manly tenderness. Looking up into his face 
 placidly, childishly content, she declared fervently: "I 
 never was so happy before. Life is full now. There's 
 not a single void left to be filled.-' 
 
 Whatever speculation there had been in the baby 
 mind concerning the life beyond him, during the three- 
 quarters of a year that he had remained in his narrow, 
 darkened world, and whether it was verified by fact or 
 not, showed not a sign of dissatisfaction or disap- 
 pointment. He grew^ and thrived. In his composi- 
 tion, the atmospheric effect of mountain and forest 
 and sea, could be easily traced. He seemed to be made 
 up of sunlight and oxygen. The little form rounded, 
 the skin cleared, the eyes grew liquid, and the tiny 
 
218 Af^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 rriTisoles hardened from constant motion. He devel- 
 oped a startling beauty; he crowed and smiled away 
 the hearts of all about while his physiological harmony 
 remained undisturbed. 
 
 The bits of ivory even began to appear and to ar- 
 range themselves in orderly rows in his pink gums, and 
 still in his jolly equanimity, he seemed to say to them 
 all: "I came just to enjoy life and to help the rest of 
 you to enjoy it.'^ 
 
 Sometimes he had made revolt against the method 
 of dressing that belonged to civilization. 
 
 Tim, having by this time, acquired considerable skill 
 in the handling of the bow, and ready for untiring 
 service, brought down his violin. Under its subtle 
 spell the babe lay on Doyt's lap like a delicate piece of 
 statuary, dimpled in shoulder and knee and cheek and 
 chin, his big blue eyes by turns meditative, question- 
 ing, wistful, and eager. And when grown a little 
 stronger, propped among pillows, he sat up looking in 
 grave cogitation on the objects about him. He seemed 
 to have the air of knowing so many things which they 
 knew nothing about and of which, alas, owing to the 
 limitations of infantile memory, he should never be 
 able to tell. 
 
A i^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 2\i) 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVI. 
 
 Tlie vintage time had come again. All the warm, 
 sunny day the cumbrous wagons, heavy ladened with 
 the ripe fruit, had been moving slowly down the roads 
 that led to the wine presses. 
 
 In the drowsy afternoon they took the baby out 
 under the oak tree. After they had set his wicker bed 
 underneath the crooked, gnarled branches, Doyt and 
 Dorcas sat down to await the return of the others. 
 
 Finches and larks were pouring out their melody 
 among the palm tops; bees were humming among the 
 flowers, yellow butterflies were hovering about; the 
 green leaves of the thrifty young trees were touched to 
 motion by the sea-ladened zephyrs. 
 
 Doyt's broad white hat and simple fresh gown were 
 worn with the subtle grace always natural it seemed to 
 her alone, while Dorcas held the child, daintily robed 
 in embroidery and lace. Doyt sat opposite to her ob- 
 serving the babe with keen eyes, zealously noting his 
 multitudinous graces, studying them just as she would 
 study the charms of a picture, statuary, gem, or un- 
 folding rosebuds. She gave thoughtful attention to 
 the beautiful little face as the light in it came and 
 went and the dimples deepened. In tender homage 
 she followed all his motions. She watched the great 
 dewy eyes in infantile wonder contemplate the grass 
 and the swaying leaves, the soft blue of the sky or 
 the waving tops of the yellow lillies which grew near. 
 
 AVith her elbow on the back of her seat, her head 
 thrown back and resting on her hand, her face was 
 aglow as she said: 
 
 "This is a most entrancing world! I never realized 
 how beautiful it could be, until the baby came. It 
 seems so strange, Aunt Dorcas^ that while such a little 
 
220 A^ ^<^J^ MADE HER. 
 
 time ago I had never seen him, never once had held him 
 in my arms, that now he wholly absorbs me. Why, 
 I am not myself at all when he is out of my sight/' 
 she continued with soulful reverence. 'It was God who 
 made the instinct of motherhood so strong within me, 
 and it is God who has satisfied it." She was slowly 
 rolling the pebbles under her foot, and, as she did so, 
 there was a sudden nervous contraction of the sweet 
 face as she proceeded with a soft, subdued voice: "1 
 try not to make my love for him a pain, but, Aunt 
 Dorcas, he is so fair, so sweet, so pure, there is such 
 an air of perfect unworldliness about him that, al- 
 though I know God made us for each other, sometimes 
 I tremble and feel afraid." 
 
 Here the little one, attracted, perhaps, by the change 
 in her tone of voice, turned toward her, and, catching 
 her eye, he bent his short body and pulled at his 
 toes and smiled. Then with the old, faraway look, 
 fell to' watching the tree-tops again. 
 
 "I shall feel more comfortable. Aunt Dorcas," Doyt 
 exclaimed again with a show of perturbation, "when 
 he has learned how to talk, for then I shall at least 
 know something of what he is thinking about." 
 
 Her manner of speaking was so at variance with her 
 usual lightness of temperament, that Dorcas looked up 
 in some surprise. 
 
 "Of course, God gave him to us," she answered, "but 
 we must not allow ourselves to become so apprehensive 
 as to miss all the other happiness he has brought us." 
 But Doyt persisted, shaking her head: "I could not 
 live away from him now, Aunt Dorcas," she said with 
 choking voice, "my soul would starve." She clasped 
 her hands over her bent knee, and her lips grew white. 
 She sat silent for awhile, then she said again: "God 
 made us for each other; I am sure," she urged, "that 
 God would never have put such strong feeling within 
 me as I bear for my child, intending it to be wrenched 
 and twisted and broken. Mary Brown's baby died, 
 and disease can wantonly, cruelly separate me from 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORXIA LIFE. gf^l 
 
 itiine, but." brightening again, "I know it would never 
 Be by God's design," she said, loyally. "There are so 
 liany diseases in the world, I can't help feeling all 
 tbe time a sense of insecurity that makes me suffer. 
 Things are not the way God planned them, at all," she 
 said, excitedly. "They say God takes children out of 
 the world by diphtheria. People think that God takes 
 pleasure iii seeing the little things suffer. They are 
 tob stupid to see that disease is only the product of 
 thfeir own ignorance and wrong living. Aunt Dorcas," 
 she went on excited!}^, "my baby 'has come into a world 
 where disease is so common and has taken on so many 
 forms that the inhabitants here have become a menace 
 to each other, and may even carry pain and death to 
 their dearest friends. Since my baby came," she mur- 
 mured, "I have been thinking over all these things, 
 and sitting here in this clear air, in this brilliant flood 
 of sunshine with all these lovely things about us, with 
 rny beautiful baby perfectly formed, with everything 
 seemingly arranged for complete comfort and happi- 
 ness, I feel that T hold my treasure even here in- 
 securely. I knoAV that in a day, even, all may be 
 changed." 
 
 A breeze moved fitfully among the branches and 
 started them to quicker motion. Doyt was standing, 
 and as she spoke again, she moved one white hand 
 nervously over the other. 
 
 "Don't think me morbid. Aunt Dorcas," she pleaded. 
 "I haven't been thinking in vain," she continued with 
 elastic hopefulness. "I believe that this intense un- 
 easiness that I have in regard to my baby is given me 
 that I may always be on the alert to save him from 
 exposure and danger." 
 
 While Doyt had been talking in the midst of the 
 warmth and the fragrance and the restful sounds and 
 the sweet moving breezes, the wondering blue eyes had 
 wearily closed, and the little one had gone to sleep, 
 cushioning his golden head on Dorcas' arm. He still 
 lay asleep in the little nest where Dorcas had laid him 
 
322 
 
 A^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 when the doctor and Lowell returned. They bent over 
 him, when suddenly the eyes, fresh and dewy, un- 
 folded and became fixed and rounded, and being de- 
 barred from speech, his loving heart spoke through 
 the smile that broke over his fair face. 
 
 It was Lowell, strong, stalwart, self-dependent 
 Lowell, who, stepping a little aside, declared: "It is 
 all a revelation to me. I would never have believed 
 that such a wee, rounded, dimpled thing could ever 
 possess such power to communicate happiness. The 
 fact of the matter is, Doyt, your father and I are 
 neglecting business in our hurry to get home to see 
 him. It's even worse than that,* he monopolizes me," 
 he said with a low bow toward the cradle, and a smile 
 that was full of mirth and tenderness. "Why, even 
 the Roentgen ray is losing its power of attraction since 
 he came." 
 
 As the doctor lifted the babe from his cradle, and 
 placed his lips against the soft bit of exposed neck, he 
 said : "His very presence is a balm." 
 
 When they went to the house. Dr. Harding was 
 carrying the little one, and Dorcas walked by his side, 
 while Lowell and ]3oyt, just behind, swung between 
 them the wicker basket, in the dainty pillow of which 
 was still left the print of the baby head. 
 
 After dinner that evening, remaining in the dining- 
 room, they held a solemn conference. The baby still 
 sat in his high chair at the table, beaming and rosy, 
 now end then banging his soft palms down upon the 
 cloth. Lowell, though he had intended ail the time 
 to leav^ the decision to Doyt, walked up and down the 
 room \^ith puzzled face. Dorcas gave in a list of names 
 and her brother went over a number. Estimating the 
 baby at his real value, it was not easy to find the name 
 that suit«^d him. Now, with knitted brow she pon- 
 dered over the different suggestions. Lowell now and 
 then stopped and took out pencil and paper. The 
 party most interested banged away at the table and 
 was reticent. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 223 
 
 Do3^t thought that the baby must be named for her 
 father. It was discovered also that she had a pre- 
 disposition of mind in favor of the name Gerald. Each 
 of the other members of the council quietly exerting 
 an influence in the proper direction, a decision was 
 soon reached. Before they separated it was decided 
 that Lowell and Doyt and the baby should on the 
 following day take the carriage, and driving to Grand- 
 ma Williams' house bring her over to the christening 
 dinner, and a short time later, James Gerald Liv- 
 ingston, cooing and crowing, was carried upstairs as 
 a preliminary measure to being put to bed. 
 
 The christening time came and went. It was filled 
 with joy and pleasure. Weeks passed in one round of 
 happiness. Then April time came, the season for 
 their annual outing. They had arranged to spend a 
 month at the seaside. The morning had arrived on 
 which they were to begin their journey. They had 
 arisen early that they might make the trip leisurely. In 
 gay spirits, through the delicious country they moved, 
 between well-trimmed hedges, through orchards redo- 
 lent with perfume, past pretty cosy homes, embowered 
 in flower gardens, the God of Peace seemed to reign. 
 They ascended the slopes of San Morena, and on the 
 summit, in the heat of the noon hour, they lunched 
 at a spot from whence was visible a sweep of the valley 
 from Mt. Hamilton to Diablo. 
 
 In the calm of the evening, after a joyous day of 
 sight seeing, they arrived again at the sea — the sea 
 they loved so well. Far out on the waters stately 
 merchantmen, with canvass spread, with trailing black 
 smoke trailing miles behind them, were on their long 
 journey to the Orient. Immense waves broke with 
 thundering sound upon the beach, and as they came 
 rushing on toward the carriage Doyt, for the first time 
 in her life, was stricken with fear, and as she clasped 
 her sleeping babe to her breast an unexplained fore- 
 boding came over her like a chill. 
 
324 ^S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 Soon the hotel came into view, and the familiar 
 cottages and tents. People dressed in gay colors were 
 wandering up and down the beach, and elegant car- 
 riages drawn by prancing horses whirled along the 
 hard, smooth sand close to the frothing shore. Dr. 
 Harding and party alighted and were soon comfort- 
 ably domiciled in their cottage. 
 
 The baby awoke and gazed about him in wonder at 
 the glowing wood fire on the hearth, at the swaying 
 curtains, at the flecking shadows upon the wall. Xoth- 
 ing was familiar to him except the faces about him. 
 He did not cry, but wrinkled up his brow and finally, 
 after puzzling his brain cells for a little time, settled 
 down in the placid conviction that all was right. 
 
 In the blaze of the ruddy firelight, radiant with 
 health, rosy from his mountain ride, fresh from sleep, 
 he made a picture almost divine in its ethereal beauty. 
 
 The evening meal was over, the chairs were arranged 
 in a semi-circle around the blazing wood fire. There 
 Dr. Harding sat and talked with those he loved. In 
 personal appearance he was tall, straight, almost 
 stately. Powerful in his reserved strength, a type of 
 manly majesty, eyes full of luster, and great masses 
 of iron gray hair shading a full, square brow. Doyt. 
 as was her custom, sat at her fathers feet, with her 
 elbows on his knee and her beautiful classic face 
 raised to his. 
 
 Through the window they watched the sun sinking 
 like a huge ball of fire in the waters of the Pacific. 
 Now, as they looked, somber masses of clouds slowly 
 arose in heroic outline. Shifting, they assumed fan- 
 tastic shapes, piling up into lofty peaks, tumbling and 
 rolling together, masses turning into golden yellow 
 glittering with bars of gold, then assuming a cardinal, 
 and fading away in the twilight till the magic scene of 
 God's sunset is lost in the swift, incoming ocean fog. 
 
 They all felt the fascination of the scene, saw all 
 the sublime glory of it, appreciated its magnificence, 
 justly estimated the coloring, the massing, the delicate 
 
A ST0R7 OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 325 
 
 tinting, and blending of soft shades, but above and 
 beyond all they recognized the Creative love and care 
 and kindness. Hemmed around by the sacred quiet- 
 ness, by the grandeur and immensity of the eternal 
 sea, here was a fitting place for the unreserved expres- 
 sion of religious feeling — more fitting than temple, 
 church or tabernacle. Here in this little cottage 
 parlor, whose windows faced the sea, without ritualism, 
 without crosses and banners, or surpliced acolytes, in 
 place of the thundering tones of a great organ, came 
 God's praise, eternally hymned by the soughing of the 
 restless waves — here was as true a worship as ever came 
 from church or convent. 
 
 As they withdrew their gaze from the ocean sunset,- 
 Dr. Harding said feelingly: "How could human 
 imagination picture anything more gorgeous for the 
 decoration of even heaven itself! In this great, glad, 
 wide world, we ought to live to enjoy life every day. 
 I have at least laid hold of happiness easily within my 
 reach. In that I think I have enjoyed living more 
 than most men." 
 
 Prompted by some inner impulse, Dorcas said: 
 "James, tell me, do you think you will live again?" 
 
 "Shall I live again?" he repeated slowly, "I do not 
 know." He continued calmly, reasoning: "If I do not 
 live again, death separates me forever from those I 
 love. I only know that the G-od who made me has 
 filled my soul with love for my dear ones and a long- 
 ing to be with them. I know that my love for even 
 those that are gone lives on, perennially green. I only 
 know that for every instinct the Creator has im- 
 planted within me "he has furnished a gratification. 
 Always, Dorcas, since Euth and I parted, I have be- 
 lieved that we should meet again." 
 
 "But after death, what?" his sister asked, eager to 
 learn his thoughts. 
 
 "I do not know what will become of me after death," 
 he answered. Hesitating a moment as he looked 
 oui; again at the coloring in the west, his fine face 
 15 
 
226 -^^ ^OD MADE HER. 
 
 lighted as he added deliberately: "From the care the 
 Creator has bestowed upon me here, I feel safe to 
 trust him for what is to come/' Changing the tenor 
 of his thoughts he said: "The rest here is infinitely 
 sweet after the day's journeying. Doyt, you look, 
 now, as you did on your mother's bosom. Life to- 
 night seems full and happ}^," he concluded, as they 
 arose to retire. , 
 
 Do3^t suddenly stopped and grasped convulsively 
 Lowell's arm; she stood for a moment speechless, al- 
 most devouring his face with her earnest eyes. 
 "Listen!" she said, as pushing nearer to him he put 
 his arm tenderly around her. "Listen, Lowell, to- 
 night the sea seems to sob and wail. Listen!" and her 
 voice fell to a whisper, "Do you not hear it moan?" 
 
 Her young heart had never yet kno^vn a sorrow. 
 Pressing about her they all chided her for her fears. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 227 
 
 CHAPTEE XL VII. 
 
 The morning was crisp, balmy and sparkling. The 
 sun was rising and gilding with fiery red the undulat- 
 ing Coast 'range. The Pacific was quiet and softly 
 blue. The breakers were stealing in quietly and 
 throwing noiselessly a stretch of white froth on the 
 sandy beach. While 3^et the air held the sweet morn- 
 ing coolness Dr. Harding and Lowell came out of their 
 cottage equipped for a boat ride. Looking up the 
 stretch they saw walking toward them an athletic 
 young fellow in whom they recognized George Moul- 
 ton. He came up and pleasantly saluted them with 
 his inimitable grace of manner and speech. He said; 
 "I met Dorcas in the city, and she informed me of 
 your proposed visit here, and life up there had grown 
 so drearily monotonous that I could not resist the 
 impulse to join you.'^ He might have added that here 
 the sweetest dream of his life had been conceived and 
 blasted. 
 
 Just then Doyt came forth as fresh as the morning. 
 George smiled at her as he took her hand, and as he 
 chatted with her and her companions, thrills of 
 laughter rang out on the salty air. She said to him, 
 "George, you must have kept yourself full of work, 
 for T have not caught a glimpse of vou these many 
 days.'' 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "Fve been busy doing things 
 I have little interest in, God knows; have been making 
 money as the world goes, but what use have I for gold? 
 It does not bring happiness." 
 
 A tear was in his eye and a choking in his voice 
 which he attempted to conceal by going to the assist- 
 ance of Dr. Harding, who was trying to disentangle 
 his fishing tackle. 
 
228 -^^ ^^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 Doj^t, endeavoring to change his thoughts, said: 
 "The social world counts you its favorite — the business 
 world envies .you; to both vou are eligible and accept- 
 able/' 
 
 When George learned the arrangement of the 
 morning, he said: "The fishing to-day will be fine; I 
 would like to join you, if you will permit me,'' ad- 
 dressing Dr. Harding and Lowell, "'and I will pull the 
 boat while you draw in the finny tribe."' 
 
 Doyt, in clinging white morning dress, stood on the 
 edge of the porch, holding Gerald in her arms. She 
 was a picture of unsurpassed purity and loveliness. 
 The baby's hair was golden, like Doyt's. When the 
 party was ready, Lowell sprang up the steps, caught 
 them in his arms, and imprinted a kiss upon the moist 
 lips of each. As he stepped into the boat he paused 
 again, and with an "au revoir" raised his hat in a gal- 
 lant good-bye. As he stood in the skiff, preparatory 
 to moving seaward, Doyt said to herself, "How strong, 
 how stalwart, how self-dependent!" 
 
 At this moment Dorcas appeared, bearing her 
 brother's great coat, with the remark, "You will be 
 chilly, as you will have no opportunity for exercise 
 with these two muscular young fellows at the oars." 
 
 The doctor at first remonstrated, but by persuasion 
 was finally induced to accept the additional coat. The 
 three were seated in the boat, and were soon scudding 
 away through the surf. As they advanced, the power- 
 ful waves struck heavily against the bow and veered 
 it from its course seaward, but by the aid of strong 
 arms it was readily righted. Doyt and Dorcas waited 
 with anxiety until they saw that the boat had reached 
 the smooth waters, and, returning 'to the porch, still 
 watched it, as it drifted gently along in the gorgeous 
 sunlight. 
 
 The morning wore away. The cottage was bright- 
 ened with a grate fire of pine cones. The table was 
 set for lunch. Do3^t had drawn up the old armchair, 
 and sat rocking her baby. Her red lips were parted, 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 229 
 
 and as she swayed back and forth, she crooned a 
 Inllaby. 
 
 A man's form shaded the light. A messenger ap- 
 peared at the threshold; his face was white and startled. 
 He spoke quickly and without warning, and his voice 
 came in nervons jerks. 
 
 "The two have gone down," he gasped. 
 
 She listened with all the strength of her being. 
 Doyt drew herself slowly up from the chair. As 
 Dorcas entered the room, he took a step toward her. 
 
 ''Oh, Miss Harding,'' he said, ''the two men have 
 gone down — one is making his way ashore.'^ 
 
 Doyt stood as though transfixed' — face white, lips 
 mute. Dorcas took the sleeping babe and laid it in on 
 the bed. The young mother knew vaguely that some- 
 thing had happened. She heard what the man had 
 said — knew the words, but could not comprehend. 
 
 The rounded, dimpled face blanched to snowy wdiite- 
 ness, as stricken with syncope. She felt the muscles 
 tighten about the chest, a pain shot through her head 
 as though it were clamped by bands of steel. Her life 
 had always been peaceful; it was an utterly impossible 
 thing that danger should come into it now. All the 
 strength of her being rose in ungovernable rebellion 
 against it. Her muscles grew hard and rigid, and hot 
 words of contradiction fell passionately from her lips. 
 Though her father, since her recollection, had never 
 been ill, yet the fear of some day losing him had always 
 been before her. Her devotion to him had always 
 been as deep and her affection as true as though she 
 knew each day would be his last. Now the stroke had 
 fallen, not wdien she had become prepared for it, but 
 with the suddenness of the lightning blast. So far, 
 her mind, with slow effort, had comprehended only that 
 her father was in danger; she never dreamed but that 
 Lowell could reach the shore in safety. 
 
 Stunned, the two women staggered to the porch, 
 and there, far out at sea, they saw, at intervals, the 
 
230 ^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 upturned boat with a single form clinging to it. Two 
 boats were making toward the wrecked skiff. Pres-^ 
 ently the boats reached the drowning man; the}' 
 cautiously rescued him and pulled for the shore. 
 
 This w^as the story the fishermen told: They had 
 seen the boat with the three men — saw them fishing for 
 an hour or more. Looking toward them, they saw one 
 of the men standing in the boat. In an instant it 
 was careened and the three w^ere in the water. 
 One of the men (George it proved to be), never lost 
 his hold on the boat, and in an instant the current 
 had carried the skiff far out of reach of the submerged 
 men. When they arose they were seen making power- 
 ful strokes, side by side, breasting the waves, but after 
 a time they suddenly sank together. Pulling toward 
 them with all their strength, they saw them come up 
 again; they once more advance, side by side; they 
 sink the second time, then rise again together. Once 
 more the strong muscles of the fishermen were strained 
 in a powerful struggle. As their boat came nearer, 
 they saw the young man beating his way, clinging to 
 the other, and striking savagely at the waves. There 
 was the clear brain, the athletic arm, the tense 
 muscle, the brave heart, but the task before them was 
 too great. If George could have brought the boat 
 around they might have won. When the fishermen 
 had come within twenty yards of the struggling 
 swimmers, they sank together and were seen no more. 
 
 The two women ran down to the shore. They saw 
 t]ie fishermen and George, and the empty boat towed 
 ])ehind. They knew that the brave sailors had done 
 their best to save them; they knew that they had 
 cruised about the spot w^here they had been last F-.ecn. 
 And oh! they knew that they had come away and given 
 up the search. 
 
 T!iey were faced by the stern, pitiless fact that those 
 men had turned their boats ashore. 
 
 There was a hurrying along the beach. Wild cries 
 rent the air and boats are made ready and pushed off 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 231 
 
 seaward. Doyt heard the splash of the oars as they 
 cut their way through the surf. Now and then her 
 girlish voice rang out in wild despair. Now and then 
 she pathetically called out their names and piteously 
 pleaded with them to come back. Seaward there were 
 only to be seen merry, dancing ripples. The ocean lay 
 as peacefully as though there were never such things 
 as wild waves and rough billows, desolated homes and 
 breaking hearts. All the afternoon men with strained 
 eyes were diligently walking up and down the beach. 
 Tim lay stretched upon the sand and sobbing hysteri- 
 cally as though his heart would break. 
 
 The hours rolled on while they waited in intolerable 
 agony, and as the sun went down the tide came rolling 
 in, and on a monster wave the bodies were thrown out 
 of the sea upon the sandy beach. The ocean had given 
 up its dead. As the two bodies were caught up and 
 caressed by the women there was weeping from many 
 a sympathetic stranger. 
 
 There was no time now to give way to overwhelming 
 grief: there were matters that must be attended to. 
 
 Forgetting for a moment her double loss, Doyt was 
 going to Lowell for council, then again she was about 
 to turn to her father. Her brain was in a whirl. She 
 now began to realize her utter desolation. After a 
 long and dreary night, suffering an indescribable agony, 
 the morning came. They started on their sad journey 
 homeward. The dreadful intensity of her loss now 
 came over her. Her father! His gTeat, true heart 
 stilled forever! Never again was she to hear his kindly 
 voice, and the frank, boyish laugh of Lowell. 
 
 The birds sang merrily in the tree-tops. They 
 wound gently down the slopes and quietly over the 
 rough places lest they might disturb the dead. And 
 all the way along Doyt was saying: "How can it be. 
 Aunt Dorcas! How can it be!'^ 
 
 Dorcas, from, a strong sense of duty to her orphaned 
 niece, strove at self-control. She knew that one of the 
 
332 ^^ ^^D MADE HER. 
 
 \ery last thoughts of her brother must have been con- 
 Mence in her loyalty to Doyt and her child. 
 
 Sometimes, the young mother sat in a stupor, gazing 
 absently around. Again leaning- her head on Dorcas' 
 shoulder, she would give way to passionate grief. 
 
 Doyt's happiness and peace infinitely dear to her, she 
 was determined to be calm and to give all her strength 
 to enable Doyt to bear the strain. 
 
 Doyt said pathetically: "Lowell and I started out to 
 go hand in hand all the way. He was to be by my side 
 till we both were old, and now just at the beginning, 
 my baby and I are left alone." 
 * « * * * * * 
 
 When they reached Oaklawn a heavy fog was float- 
 ing in and turning all its charming color to ashen gray. 
 The majestic trees were dripping with dampness; the 
 gables of the house were only dimly outlined; the 
 forms of the old oaks loomed up like specters before 
 them. On either side were the carefully tended flow- 
 ers, the roses blooming that he had planted, the trees 
 that he had nursed bending with the fruitage. 
 
 The neighbors had gathered at the entrance of the 
 avenue; they parted as the carriage came up and with 
 heads uncovered, bowed in sympathetic grief as the 
 mournful procession passed in. Doyt was deeply 
 touched at this mute expression of their fervent love 
 for her father and Lowell. 
 
 Dorcas and Doyt spent the night in adjoining rooms. 
 Excepting the rain that came fitfully spattering upon 
 the roof, everything was gloomily silent. In broken- 
 hearted sobs they watched the hours go by. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 233 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVIII. 
 
 Late the next morning Deacon Johnson called and 
 in a respectful way expressed his sympathy. 
 
 Before he left the house, he said casually: "Mrs. Liv- 
 ingston, I suppose you would like for me to request 
 Brother Ware to officiate at the funeral ceremony?'' 
 
 Doyt gazed searchingly into the well-lined face op- 
 posite her, then answered: 
 
 "Mr. Ware was never on any terms of intimacy with 
 them. Let someone speak for my father who" knew 
 him.'' 
 
 The deacon studied a moment, then responded cau- 
 tiously: 
 
 "With what minister of the Gospel has he been fa- 
 miliar, may I ask?" 
 
 ''With none, Deacon Johnson." 
 
 ''Yes, I know he has never identified himself with 
 religious people, still as long as the church is willing 
 to make concessions, I should think you would natur- 
 ally like to give him a Christian burial." 
 
 The young woman's heart beat violently. As she 
 did not speak instantly, the' deacon hazarded another 
 sentence. Shifting about in the chair he continued: 
 
 "You surely, in your great bereavement, want some- 
 body to give you some religious consolation— to offer 
 you some hope." 
 
 ^ Doyt rose quickly to her feet and, though highly in- 
 dignant, she spoke measuredly: 
 
 "Deacon Johnson," she said, "if I thought Mr. Ware 
 could pierce the Beyond"— the great tears welled up, 
 but she controlled her feelings— "if I thought he could 
 tell me anything of them, bring me any message from 
 them, I would go down on my knees and beg of him 
 
234 i**^' ^^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 to speak. I do not see how Mr. Ware has any means 
 of knowing that any more than I." 
 
 She looked sadly out of the window. 
 
 "We do not know what is to come after death. Not 
 a whisper has ever crossed the boundary that separates 
 us from our dead. What is proven, what is true — at 
 my father's grave I want that said' — no more." 
 
 "Of course it is with you to say. As youx father did 
 not live a Christian, we thought you might feel that 
 the church's prayers might be of benefit.'' 
 
 In a single moment eveiy muscle of the girl's frame 
 was tense. 
 
 "Mr. Ware thinks that the Great Spirit takes pleas- 
 ure in meeting out punishment to His own children, 
 whom in all love He has created. I am bruised, heart- 
 broken, by the cruel separation, still the kind God has 
 not withdrami His love or his Providential care over 
 me. Deacon Johnson, I think I should scream out in 
 the midst of the service if he should assert that God 
 did this. No! No!" she said, "I do not want Mr. Ware 
 to speak here." 
 
 She gazed upon the caskets, then murmured: 
 
 "The two sleep sweetly. — I would rather there would 
 be no jar here. Come outside," she said, and she led 
 the way toward the veranda. 
 
 One look of devotion toward her father's peaceful 
 face as she passed from the room, and she spoke: 
 
 "He lived honorably, upright and true, was charita- 
 ble to all, had courageous manliness, unswerving fidel- 
 ity to the sick and poor, loving God the Father; if such 
 as he be not saved, the world is lost." 
 
 Death^that beautiful life that had gone out, where 
 was it now? That strange sleep, when even his 
 daughter's woe disturbed him not. She now recalled 
 the strange things she had heard him say. How death 
 is gentle — at the last, his dying patients made little 
 or no resistance. Most of them did not seem to want 
 Heaven so much as they wanted rest. She recalled the 
 high and holy influence he had had over her. How her 
 
A .STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 935 
 
 whole life, as she looked back over it, seemed a sacred 
 pilgrimage. 
 
 ''I shall call my life happy, having once had such a 
 father/' she mused. She thought of how he had 
 taught her to find a loving God in the bursting of a 
 bud, in the beating of the heart, in the fragrance of 
 the flower, in the swelling of the wave. In her great 
 love for him, she murmured: 
 
 "I do not speak sacreligiously. I who knew his 
 great, tender heart and his masterful intellect. I 
 think God ought to be proud that he ever made such 
 a man. Once last night, Dorcas, when I could not 
 sleep, and my heart hunger was strong, father seemed 
 to come to me: I felt him hold me close, I did not move 
 in the slightest, did not breathe lest I should miss the 
 bliss of his presence — he seemed to tell me, Dorcas, 
 that we never could be separated, that love bound us 
 together still. Though there came no sound my soul 
 seemed to vibrate to the words he seemed to speak. 
 He went away but left me in peace." 
 
 The recollection of the hours of desolation succeed- 
 ing the funeral of her loved ones always remained very 
 dim in Doyt^s mind. She could only recall a few of 
 the events of that period. 
 
 For the first time the strength of her limbs gave way 
 and she lay helpless and prostrated. Dorcas stayed in 
 the room with her and took care of the baby. On the 
 fourth day her overstrained nerves became utterly ex- 
 hausted and she gave herself up to paroxsyms of grief. 
 She found herself always listening for their footsteps 
 or longing for their voices or their soothing and affec- 
 tionate caresses. When she realized the full meaning 
 of it all she sank into an utter state of dejection. This 
 melancholy condition might have continued indefinite- 
 ly had not her baby, which was now more dear to her 
 than ever, become ill. The shock to the mother in 
 her dual calamity, had told in the health of the child 
 in its defective nutrition. 
 
236 ^*^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 Doyt began to realize that heavy as the blow had 
 been she had not lost all. She thought with keen self- 
 reproach how her father and Lowell had idolized the 
 little one, and she, in her selfish sorroAv, had neglected 
 her babe's physical wants. 
 
 She must not let the gloom of her own life darken 
 his, and with her perfect physical health, she made 
 successful effort to regain her self control. 
 
 When she began to go out she was greeted every- 
 where so tenderly that her mind became calmer. She 
 did not receive the homage as personal, but rather as 
 a tribute to those who had gone, yet the sympathy of 
 her father's people was soothing and comforting. 
 
 After a few days indisposition Gerald recovered. 
 Some months pass by and we find him toddling every- 
 where. The neurasthenia of the mother had passed 
 away and vitality and health shone in every feature. 
 
 One evening George came down from the city, as 
 was his custom at frequent intervals. His general de- 
 meanor was unchanged. He seemed to wish to avoid 
 all mention of Dr. Harding and his cousin, or of their 
 manner of death. He deftly turned the conversation 
 every time mention was made, and from his lips they 
 never could obtain any detailed account of the tragedy. 
 
 While Dorcas and Doyt had given him an outward 
 welcome, they both, though they never expressed it, 
 felt that in some mysterious way, George had been the 
 direct or remote cause of the death of Lowell and Dr. 
 Harding. 
 
 Dorcas reasoned that his idolatrous love for Doyt 
 may have prompted him to find a way of securing her, 
 even though he had to accomplish his- purpose by 
 treachery and murder. 
 
 On the evening in question Doyt and Dorcas were 
 seated on the veranda some distance apart and Gerald 
 was engaged in running to and fro from one to the 
 other. His round, pink limbs, his cherub face and 
 curly hair, and large blue eyes full of gentleness and 
 intelligence made a moving picture of unequaled 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 237 
 
 beauty. Doyt's eyes followed him with a look almost 
 idolatrous, while her face wore again an expression of 
 sweet content. 
 
 George greeted them with courtly but cordial man- 
 ners, and whatever the two ladies thought of his sinis- 
 ter motives, his ever polite and courteous demeanor 
 could not but win their admiration. 
 
 In his presence they even forgot the evil they at- 
 tributed to him in his absent moments. 
 
 Dorcas soon withdrew with Gerald and left Doyt and 
 George alone. 
 
 "Doyt, you seem almost your old happy self again 
 to-night,'' George remarked. He continued with a hes- 
 itating emotion, "Doyt, you remember once I told you 
 that I loved you. I have not forgotten, I never 
 change." 
 
 Again the old fear came over her. He was so sav- 
 agely in earnest. 
 
 "The attraction of the whole outside world is as 
 nothing compared with the attraction here. It was my 
 fate to love you. I was content before that — never 
 since. It is a feeling over which I have no control. It 
 will go with me to the end of my life." 
 
 She looked up startled, "Yes," she said. 
 
 "The fact, serious as it was, seemed to be of little 
 significance to you at the time." 
 
 "I felt the earnestness of what you said, George." 
 
 "And when I was set aside," he said with bitterness, 
 "I hid my disappointment. You never knew what I 
 endured' — suffered." 
 
 "Perhaps not, still I was very sorry." 
 
 "It has not been easy for me to forget. Time has 
 not dulled nor blunted my feeling for you. I love you 
 still, Doyt, and I cannot resist seeking again my happi- 
 ness. I ask you to give me some word of hope that 
 by and by when you have recovered somewhat from 
 this great blow, when you are convinced of the sincerity 
 of my devotion, you will listen to my pleading." 
 
238 ^*^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 Then with a troubled look on her sweet face, as witb 
 an effort she answered. He was standing only a few 
 feet distant, and with piteous gesture she motioned 
 him away. She looked up to him pleadingly: 
 
 "I know you are strong and gifted and true — I know 
 it all, George. I feel how you honor me, but George, 
 I could never — I am sorry you force me to tell you— I 
 could never, never think of promising to be your wife. 
 There are many objections out of which you could 
 never reason me. Besides, I have one thing to live for, 
 and that is to conscientiously rear and educate my boy, 
 and I can allow nothing to come between us." 
 
 Seeing the futility of further pleading, he reproach- 
 fully said: 
 
 "You know, Doyt, what a life of misery lies before 
 me, yet without a moment's hesitation you relegate me 
 to my fate.'' Then for a moment forgetting himself, 
 he said with a hissing through his teeth: 'T sold my 
 soul for you; the only thing that weighed with me was 
 to possess you. When you were living with Lowell, 
 happy, content, did you think for a moment that I had 
 forgotten you? A despairing man is not accountable 
 for what he does, Doyt." 
 
 As he took her hand in adieu, he politely said: 
 
 "I cannot, I shall not, accept this as final, Doyt — I 
 shall see you again." 
 
 As George passed out into the night down the avenue 
 that led to the highway, a nervous tremor, as of an 
 ague chill, thrilled her frame, as a foreboding of some 
 impending calamity. What it was and why such 
 thoughts penetrated her mind, she could not tell. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 The front door of the house stood open, so also did 
 man}^ of the windows. 
 
 Doyt reverently covered the baby with a down cov- 
 erlet and pressing her lips against the moist cheek, 
 followed Dorcas downstairs and soon afterward into 
 the yard. 
 
 The afternoon was charming. The sun's rays were 
 gilding the topmost branches of the tall eucalyptus, 
 and in all nature there was no hint of sorrow or misery. 
 
 With undisturbed mind Doyt sat on a rustic bench 
 and talked with Dorcas. 
 
 A few minutes later, having made ready for a visit 
 previously planned, Doyt returned to the house. Ger- 
 ald had grown to be quite methodical in his habits and 
 when his siesta had lasted the required time, the 
 mother passed into his chamber with the happy antic- 
 ipation of seeing her baby's blue eyes opening with 
 their smile of welcome. 
 
 When she drew near the white cot where she had 
 left him she saw that her child was gone! She drew 
 back startled, for none of the people about the place 
 had been in the habit of taking him up from his sleep 
 except herself and Dorcas. She instantly sought Dor- 
 cas and together they hunted all through the house 
 with irrepressible anxiety. 
 
 The servants were questioned and while the fear was 
 growing within her, she was resolving, in order that 
 she might better prosecute the search, that she would 
 not be disturbed by his sudden disappearance. 
 
 The child was taken by some friend and would soon 
 be returned. Coming suddenly on Dorcas, whose dis- 
 tressed face brought to her the stern fact that her child 
 had been stolen. She grew faint, her head began to 
 
240 ^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 reel, she pressed her hand to her forehead. In a mo- 
 ment she recovered and said: 
 
 "Someone has hidden him and he will be brought 
 to me soon again." 
 
 There was no time to give way to helpless despair. 
 Something must be done, and that quickly. 
 
 The abductor, whoever he might be, friend or enemy, 
 must be outwitted. 
 
 While the home-place was being scoured, men were 
 sent off on wheels and on horseback. The station was 
 •to be watched. The telephone was used and the news 
 of the stolen child was telegraphed to the city papers. 
 A reward was offered. A messenger was sent to 
 George and an early train brought him to Oaklawn. 
 On his arrival he took hold of the case with soulful 
 interest. 
 
 His subtle brain originated a systematic plan for 
 the prosecution of the search, which to the two stricken 
 women seemed could only result in an early discovery 
 of the child. 
 
 These plans he at once pushed with great energy. 
 Nobody slept that night. Doyt of all was most active. 
 She listened with strained ears for the sound of the 
 door-bell. Every moment she expected it to announce 
 the tidings of the recovery of her lost child. Day 
 dawned and the blessed assurance Jor which she had 
 vigilantlv listened, never came. 
 
 The morning papers, with great head lines, told of 
 her loss. Already thousands aye, hundreds of thou- 
 sands were reading the startling news. 
 
 "STOLEN— STOLEN. 
 
 " ^1,000 reward will be paid for the return of Gerald, 
 infant son of Mrs. Doyt Livingston and the late Dr. 
 Livingston^ who was stolen yesterday afternoon from 
 Oaklawn^ near San Jose, hy party or parties wnknownJ^ 
 
A STORY OF CALUORXIA LIFE. ,241 
 
 Messages of sympathy po\>red in from everywhere, 
 far and wide, from j\[aine to California, from Canada 
 to Mexico. Nothing tonches the heart of a people 
 like a lost child. It makes nniversal kinship of the 
 world. 
 
 An indefatigalole search continued day after day; 
 then week followed week, then a month' — two, three, 
 fonr, five — and still no clue to the abduction of the 
 little one. What sleepless nights, what agony, what 
 muttering despair. "What horror, when Doyt began to 
 realize that if living, he had grown so she could not 
 now rec^ognize him, even though she found him. 
 There was a little face, rounded and beautiful — the 
 outline of a baby face — which was indelibly impressed 
 on her mind. It was that face which inspired her to 
 superhuman etfort. 
 
 "Asleep or awake," she said, I always see a little boy 
 with golden curls. Does he miss me? When I had 
 him I had a look into Heaven, but now the gates are 
 closed again. J\lv everv longing^ and instinct was sat- 
 isfied.'' 
 
 Whenever her eyes fell upon his little shoes or a bit 
 of his clothing or a toy, she was blinded Avith tears. 
 
 "I was so happy once with my father, Lowell and 
 little Gerald — all gone! What a starveling am I now!'' 
 
 She would sit by the hour in the silent solitary lone- 
 liness of her desolated home. Her face became pallid 
 and wan, for grief will kill as Avell as phthisis or car- 
 cinoma. She had sought her child everywhere without 
 avail. In the asylums, on the streets, at the farm 
 house, in the alleys and byways of all our cities, in the 
 parks, in the mountain cabin, but all her efforts were 
 fruitless. 
 
 "Aunt Dorcas," she would cry in her frenzy, "what 
 have I done to anyone that they should steal my baby? 
 Someone must have done it who knew of my weak- 
 ness- — who knew how I could suffer! I should have 
 him; I am the one to care for him, I am his mother — 
 God gave him to me, God never took him awav. He 
 16 
 
242 -^'Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 wants me — Oh, cruel loss! Every time the voice of a 
 child strikes on my ears I think of Gerald. What 
 overpowering, crushing sense of misery! What number- 
 less disappointments — a martyrdom without an end! 
 If my father and Lowell had been here I know they 
 would have found him and returned him to my arms." 
 
 Was it possible? Dorcas and she often thought that 
 George had taken the child. In some mysterious way 
 George had always been connected in their minds with 
 every calamity that had befallen them. On their 
 cloudless heaven he was the evil genius that brought 
 disaster. 
 
 Lowell stood in the way of the accomplishment of 
 his designs and Lowell sank into the sea. Then little 
 Gerald — and he too had disappeared. 
 
 Days, weeks, months, and even a year and more had 
 dragged slowly along since the child had been stolen, 
 when one evening George appeared at the door with a 
 little deformed child. He said he was a waif in the 
 city that he had picked up, homeless and deserted, and 
 he thought Doyt might take it in lieu of her own. 
 George had lost his old-time hauteur. He had merged 
 all his strength into one passion and failed. He 
 seemed to want to do all in his power to atone to Doyt 
 for the loss of her child. He had brought this little 
 foundling to her that her care and love for it might 
 make her misery more bearable. At first she would 
 not accept the offer. She said: 
 
 "If Gerald should come back some sad, sweet night, 
 I would not have him think he was forgotten. I can- 
 not allow him to steal into my heart. Oh, the mock- 
 ery of it all!" 
 
 The tired, sad look that came into the little boy's 
 eye as he felt that he was to be turned from the door 
 appealed to Doyt's warm heart, and she took him in. 
 
 She saw that he had hair of the same rich color, 
 curling in the same soft ringlets, and was of about the 
 same age as Gerald. She wondered what had blijjhted 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 243 
 
 tliat little life. He was huncli-baeked, yet otherwise 
 passably fair. Her sympathies, woman-like, were en- 
 listed because of his deformity. 
 
 Dorcas named him "Little Gene." After a bath, a 
 change of clothing and a hearty supper, the little new- 
 comer seemed to take more interest in the things about 
 him. His eyes had the same look of a wild animal 
 entrapped, a restless expression, equally of fear and 
 wonder. 
 
 At the time that George brought him to her she felt 
 that the little one needed care, and consented to take 
 him, with hardly a second thought. Eeally at the time 
 of little Gene's arrival her whole mentality was cen- 
 tered in the belief that she was on the track of her 
 child. 
 
 Little Gene became a member of the household. 
 He was silent, patient, and uncomplaining. He was 
 grateful for the smallest favor. He seemed to yearn 
 for Boyt's love, but would not put forth the huniblest 
 title to any show of her attention. 
 
 She would often look at him as though bound by a 
 spell. She must not love hini' — she must save her 
 heart for her own. 
 
 "A sweet little fellow," she said as she turned away 
 into the sunlight and left him alone. 
 
 One evening, after returning home wearied and dis- 
 heartened from a day of unavailable search, she came 
 slowly out on the rear porch where the little fellow, in 
 the midst of his playthings, sat. He had not been 
 disturbed by her light footfall, and she found him 
 leaning far forward in his tiny chair, one hand with its 
 little thin fiugers spread out on the floor to brace him- 
 self, he was peering underneath the branches of the 
 trees to obtain a glimpse of the lower end of the ave- 
 nue. 
 
 "I am afraid you will hurt the tired little back," 
 she.said, as stoopiug she lifted him gently back to po- 
 sition in his seat. Then looking down upon him, she 
 
244 ^^ <^^D MADE HER. 
 
 asked abstractedly, ''Just now, as I came upon you, 
 what were you doing Little Gene?" 
 
 The sweet softness that always overspread the vivid 
 little face whenever he was in Doyt's presence came 
 into it now. He drew a long breath, then looking up 
 inio the face that bent above him, confidingly he said, 
 with pretty childish intonation: 
 
 "Why, i was looking to see if I couldn't see Little 
 Pet coming." 
 
 She gave a start of surprise at the unexpected an- 
 swer, impressed not only by the words but by the earn- 
 estness of his manner. 
 
 Xot all the sympathy that had been offered her since 
 the coming of her sorrow had contained the value 
 found in this. 
 
 A sense of tender gratitude toward the afflicted 
 child, who to the exclusion of his own woes could think 
 of the coming of her lost child. A subtle feeling of 
 attraction toward him filled her soul to think that his 
 little baby heart throbbed in unison with her own. 
 She stood for a moment studying the sweet face, as 
 though bound by a spell, then the loyalty of the moth- 
 er's heart came uppermost. 
 
 She must not love him. All the intensity of her 
 affectionate heart must be reserved for her own. 
 
 "A dear little fellow," she said, and stooping again 
 she placed her arm for a moment about the little frail 
 body, then turned away in the twilight and left him 
 alone. 
 
 Little Gene listened till her last footsteps had died 
 away and he fell back into his own little world again. 
 
 His stricken life made him sensitive and shrinking. 
 
 Once Doyt said: "You little lamb, what have you 
 been through that you are so patient now?" 
 
 She caressed his wan cheek and he looked up with 
 such gratitude. When she sat by him when eating, 
 his food seemed to have a better flavor. His languirl 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 245 
 
 face brightened in her presence with an embarrassed 
 eagerness. 
 
 One day little Gene grew so ill he could not leave 
 his bed-chamber. He had become alarmingly feeble. 
 
 When Doyt entered the room, however sick, he would 
 look up and try to smile. Dorcas said: "He rallies to 
 the sound of your voice more than to any other. He's 
 your devoted little lover, Doyt, and true as steel." 
 
24G AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 ■ At length George came, on a day when the house 
 stood bathed in the warm sunshine, and all about it 
 was the odor of luscious fruits. 
 
 Doyt quickly hurried to meet him. She had met 
 with crushing disappointment many times, still she 
 reeled as from a blow when he told her that his latest 
 mission had been fruitless. 
 
 As she talked with George, in spite of her own deep 
 feelings, she noticed that a great change had come 
 over him. She had been in the habit of watching his 
 face to see if she might read hope there. His nerves 
 seemed tense and he wore the air of one who had braced 
 himself for a conflict. His face was pale and wan. 
 She leaned against the door for support, and her hun- 
 gry, desolate heart for the moment stopped its beating. 
 With all that she had endured she began to feel that 
 "now a crisis was at hand; that George had something 
 of importance to impart, but whether for good or ill 
 she was unable to decide. She went over to him and 
 laid her hand on his arm and said eagerly: 
 
 "Why are you excited, George?'^ 
 
 Then he seemed to collect himself, and said in a sur- 
 prised way: 
 
 "Why, Doyt, I was not aware of it. Do I appear to 
 you so?'^ 
 
 Then he quickly changed the subject. 
 
 "How is little Gene?" he said, and there was anxiety 
 in his voice. "Let me go with you to see.'^ 
 
 When they entered the room the child lay quietly on 
 his little white pillow with Aunt Dorcas holding watch. 
 The • patient's death-like face was upturned and he 
 looked up eagerly with his great eyes into George's 
 face. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 247 
 
 George took the little hand and bent over the baby 
 invalid and listened to his qniek breath and felt his 
 bounding pulse. 
 
 Doyt looked on and said: "You love the little fel- 
 low, donH you, George ?" 
 
 Then he left the sick chamber and walked away in 
 the direction of the Long Eooni. Before he had ad- 
 vanced many steps he turned about and there was a 
 peculiar look in his eyes as he said: 
 
 "Come with me, will you .Doyt? I have something 
 I want to say to you/' 
 
 She followed him and when they were seated in the 
 beautiful Long Eoom, he meditated a moment and 
 then abruptly said: 
 
 "Doyt, look here — to-morrow you shall have your 
 child." 
 
 She listened, she understood. The light in the room 
 was dim and she could only indistinctly see his face. 
 His voice was strange. Could he mean what he said? 
 
 Her waiting, desolate, famished heart longed, yet 
 feared to believe. His lips had spoken the words, the 
 sweetest of all words to her ear but in some way 
 George's manner did not suit the message. 
 
 He saw the intense surprise she was laboring under 
 and spoke again. With a smile, he said: 
 
 "To-morrow you shall have your boy. After having 
 faith in me so long, do not distrust me now." 
 
 Then she rushed up to him out of breath, her head 
 was dizzy with sudden joy, she said: 
 
 "George, tell me all — have you found him? Take 
 me to him." 
 
 A great fear was on her. "I must know." She 
 clutched his arm and said: 
 
 "Tell me, George, is he dead?" 
 
 "Xo," he answered slowly. He took her trembling 
 hand in his, "You shall have him, I say, to-morrow." 
 
 She clung to him, she looked up into his face, and 
 she said eagerly, excitedly: 
 
248 -4.-Sr GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "Let me go to him now — take me, only take me now! 
 I'll promise to do as you say— anything you want me 
 to do, George, only take me to him — you will, won't 
 you George? Take me!" 
 
 Her face was lit up with the sweet light of old. 
 
 "Doyt," he said, holding her at arms' length, "it is 
 hard to deny you, but you must not ask me, I cannot 
 do it. Not a power, human or Divine, it seems to me, 
 could move me like your voice, for whether you ever 
 believe it or not, Doyt, no man ever loved a woman as 
 I have loved you. You could never believe me; but 
 there is nothing I would not do for you. I would wait 
 forever, risk my hopes of Heaven, suffer the tortures 
 of hell, if afterward 1 might sit by your side; I would 
 work forever with the hope of winning you. I would 
 do anything, all things for you, but listen to me, I 
 cannot take you to him^ now. To-morrow you shall 
 have him. I shall come again at this hour to-morrow." 
 
 "I shall hold him in my arms to-morrow! I shall 
 kiss his lips, I shall hear his voice, I shall feel his 
 little arms around my neck! My own sweet, lost baby 
 boy will be here in his home again' — alive!" Her 
 beautiful eyes shone like diamonds. 
 
 "T can wait, George, I can wait till to-morrow, that 
 is," she said, "if I do not die of joy before." 
 
 Then she rushed over and stood under her father's 
 picture. She looked up into the grand, kindly face 
 and said: 
 
 "Father, did you hear? It's Doyt, your Doyt, that 
 speaks to you!" She was sobbing now — Our baby's 
 coming home again, father, to-morrow. I don't come 
 to you in sorrow this time, father. Listen, father, 
 now it's joy. Father, listen to me! He's coming back 
 here where we all loved him so, and I shall hold him 
 again, to-morrow. N'ow I must go to Aunt Dorcas," 
 but George caught her hand again. 
 
A f^TORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 049 
 
 "Wait, Do} t/' he said eagerly, "I must go now and 
 YOU must tell me good-bye/' " Solemnly, "To-night, 
 you know, we part. I go out of your life to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh," she said with a merry, hysterical laugh, "you 
 believe I shall think of nothing but my baby, but T 
 shall not forget you altogether, George." 
 
 "Look here, Doyt," he said sadly^ "I don't com- 
 plain, perhaps it will be better if you do. But before 
 we part, allow me Avhat, through all the years of my 
 devotion, has never been granted to me before." 
 
 He lifted the soft white hand to his lips, he pressed 
 it for a moment, then turned and was gone. 
 
250 ^^ <'^i^ MADE HER. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 AVhen George had left the lioiise, with beaming face 
 and agile feet, Doyt hurried to carry to Aunt Dorcas 
 the happy news. 
 
 As she came rushing noisily ont in a perfect delir- 
 ium of joy, Aunt Dorcas hastened from the sick room 
 to meet her, closing the door behind her. 
 
 Doyt threw her arms around her neck, and hugged 
 her convulsively, and cndng and laughing together, 
 she said: 
 
 ^'Aunt Dorcas, my baby is coming to me at last. 
 He's coming, do you hear? He's coming to-morrow.'^ 
 
 "Yes, dear," Dorcas held her in her arms and laid 
 her cheek to hers and said: "AVhat, George told you? 
 Did he tell you he would be here to-morrow?" 
 
 Then looking back toward the door of the sickroom, 
 she said with the utmost tenderness: 
 
 "Be careful, Doyt, don't disturb him. He is asleep 
 — Little Gene, I am afraid he is worse." 
 
 Then they walked softly farther away and Doyt re- 
 counted to her aunt's anxious ears the interview. 
 
 "I didn't understand George at all," she said, "I did 
 not understand anything he said or did, only he told 
 me I should have my babe on the morrow; that he 
 was alive; that he had seen him to-day, and oh! when 
 I begged, he would not tell me how he looked or if I 
 should know him. Only one thing, he said, and that 
 was that I should see him to-morrow. I don't know 
 how he found him, who had had him, or how he had 
 been cared for, but. Aunt Dorcas," she said with en- 
 thusiasm, "no matter," she hesitated, "what peril he's 
 been in" — her face lit up with its old time glory — "I'll 
 
A STORY OF GALIFORNIA LIFE. 251 
 
 cuddle lip my little stray lamb so warm that I'll make 
 him forget it all. Why, in a day or two you will not 
 know him. Here with the sun and the air and plenty 
 of ^loYe^ he will grow and thrive.'^ 
 
 Suddenly she stood erect, a soft light beaming from 
 her beantiful face, and placing her hands softly 
 against her heart, she said: 
 
 "It seems so strange to have the pain lifted, the pain 
 that for so long has made me quiet." 
 
 With a mind full of heavy thought. Aunt Dorcas 
 went back to the sick room and Doyt went with light 
 feet humming the good news through the household. 
 Except the sick child, there was no drawback to the 
 occasion, and with glad hands they all made prepara- 
 tion for the happiness of the morrow. Tim gave 
 eager assistance and they all worked far into the night, 
 making the house bright and cheerful again. 
 
 Doyt's room was prepared for the reception of the 
 little wanderer. His little chair, so long hid away, 
 was brought out, his tiny bed, fresh restored, stood 
 ready, as though through all the time it had rem.ained 
 waiting for him. 
 
 The toys she had, from time to time, made ready for 
 his home coming, she arranged where his hands could 
 reach them. 
 
 . Now and then Tim's boyish laughter would ring out, 
 and hope was so strong within her that Doyt's mingled 
 with it. 
 
 But now and then she stopped and placed her hand 
 to her puzzled brain, as if to stop the rush of thought 
 there. 
 
 How had it all come about so suddenly? How had 
 George found the child? How would he bring him 
 to her ? She would restrain her curiosity, and accept 
 it all by faith, and she went on with her happy work 
 while Tim brought wood for the hearths, and with care 
 made the fires ready to light. 
 
252 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 Then once in the evening she went down where the 
 sick child was, and alone Aunt Dorcas was holding her 
 vigil. She sat watching little G-ene and wondered 
 what the morrow would bring, when Doyt opened the 
 door. 
 
 As they talked together Doyt said gravely: 'Aunt 
 Dorcas, you seem so unhappy over Little Gene that you 
 do not seem to enter into the joy of baby's coming 
 back/' Then with almost furious eagerness: "Aunt 
 Dorcas, tell me, do yon think George has deceived me? 
 That he will not bring my child?'' 
 
 And Annt Dorcas held her in her arms as her mother 
 would have held her, and said soothingly — her tears 
 came thick and fast now: 
 
 "Doyt, dear, I do not know how to answer. I have 
 seen you so often tortured with disappointment that 
 I have not the heart to raise a single hope." 
 
 Doyt could not comprehend her anxiety and walk- 
 ing away, lost in thought of the morrow, said: "I want 
 now to sleep, for when my baby is here to-morrow 
 night I shall not be able to close my eyes." 
 
 The morning was bright and warm and the house- 
 hold was astir early. Doyt, who had found no sleep 
 till toward the dawn, wakened suddenly. She gazed 
 on the playthings scattered about the room and on the 
 little smooth, snowy bed, and her first feeling was a 
 full and absolute belief that her child would be re- 
 turned to her. Then there came a passionate eager- 
 ness for the tedious intervening hours to pass. The 
 next moment, as the memory of all the disappoint- 
 ments through which she had passed came to her sharp 
 and fresh, she felt forced to reject it as incredible 
 that such happiness could await her. 
 
 Before she left the room she stooped over the minia- 
 ture armchair that his plump form once so cunningly 
 filled; she stood by the little bed and when she pressed 
 her lips to the indented pillow a feeling of vivid hap- 
 piness came over her at the thought of the possible 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. £53 
 
 presence of her lost darling in the home nest again. 
 She recalled with a startling clearness the dainty, 
 delicate, exquisite little form that once lay there in 
 all its freshness and loveliness; the fair little face, 
 the rounded limhs, the dimpled elbows, the soft curve 
 of the cheek, the' sunny eyes, the divine mouth. She 
 tried to still the restless yearning that possessed her, 
 and while her every nerve thrilled with the impulse to 
 rush and meet him, all she could do was to watch the 
 clock slowly tick off the minutes and impatiently wait. 
 
 She went over and stood against the window and 
 leaned her head against the pane. 
 
 She asked herself' — How had George found him at 
 last? 
 
 She puzzled her brain about why he should have 
 been so reticent about telling her. How would George 
 bring him? And with a throb of joyous emotion she 
 thought — when her baby came, would he run to meet 
 her? 
 
 Would he remember the place? She had tried to 
 arrange his playthings just as he had left them. She 
 had placed his bed in the same corner where he used 
 to slee]:^ — that things might seem familiar. Then a 
 soft warmth came into her face as she thought — How 
 would he look? She remembered well every feature. 
 She was certain she knew. She thought again: Why 
 was George's manner so strange? Would he tell her 
 where her little one had been? Her lip quivered as 
 she thought, would she know whether he had always 
 been treated kindly? A sick horror came over her as 
 she thought: What if he had not, and what if he 
 should in some way bear the marks of the unkindness! 
 
 She moved quickly away from the window and went 
 downstairs to seek the open air. She quickly put away 
 the horror of the thought. 
 
 The glow of the summer was on everything about. 
 The breath of the morning was refreshing; the win- 
 dows were thrown open and the house was filled with 
 
254 ^^ (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 light and color, and the old-time cheer that once held 
 possession seemed to have returned. 
 
 When the morning work was done they brought 
 flowers and decorated parlor and dining-room and hall, 
 but in spite of the brightness and fragrance, a haunt- 
 ing suspense and uncertainty seemed to throw an air 
 of oppression over the rooms. 
 
 Tim, thankful for any little show of liveliness, 
 romped here and there through the house with his 
 old time abandon. 
 
 Torn by conflicting feelings, a vacillating between 
 hope and despair, the hours dragged slowly along. 
 While she waited, painfully susceptible to every sound, 
 she started at every jar or stir. She spent her time 
 wandering here and there about the house. Some- 
 times she sat and talked in a low tone with Aunt Dor- 
 cas, who sat in quiet faithfulness by the sick child. 
 ISTow and then she spoke of her plans for the future, 
 of her child, of the things she wanted to do for him^ 
 
 Time moved on in monotonous measure. At noon- 
 time the sun came in at the open window of the white 
 chamber and lit up panel and door and drapery. It 
 fell among the golden meshes of Doyt's waving hair as 
 she stood' -in a dress of mist}^' whiteness. She was 
 without ornament, save a bitnch of violets and mai- 
 den-hair. Lookihgupon her, the Doyt of long ago 
 seemed to have returned. The healthful bloom 
 seemed to have conie back to her face, and the strange 
 exquisite here seemed to have brought again the old 
 light to her beautiful eyes. 
 
 . As they watched, the leaves of the trees along the 
 splendid avenue were softly moving in the afternoon. 
 
 At the "hour appointed for his arrival, George came. 
 . At the moment he appeared in full view from be- 
 hind the palms, they saw that he was alone. He ap- 
 proached the group silently. 
 
 When a few feet away from where Doyt, in her 
 white robe, stood leaning against one of the pillars 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 355 
 
 of the veranda, he stopped and gazed with steadfast 
 intentness on the perfectly chiseled face, the lustrous 
 eyes, the sunny hair, the gracefully modeled form. 
 
 He stood puzzled, bent as under some intolerable 
 weight. Perhaps he was glad he had thus seen her, 
 a beautiful picture to live forever in his memory. 
 
 His face was ashen white and years of age seemed 
 to have suddenly come upon him. A moment later, 
 with soft voice and almost unimpeachable grace of 
 manner, he bowed before her. 
 
 A look of death came over her face as she leaned 
 there, and he seemed to realize the terrible strain and 
 was the first to break the painful silence. 
 
 To her surprise, he asked in a husky voice: 
 
 "Is Little Gene alive r 
 
 "Yes,^^ she said. 
 
 "Take me to him.^' 
 
 She studied his face and mechanically conducted 
 him, calmly and quietly, to the little sufferer. 
 
 They went through the hall. She asked not a ques- 
 tion. Like a somnambulist she walked. As they 
 neared the door of the sick chamber, she turned and 
 said in a soft tone and slowly: 
 
 "He is very low. We must enter noiselessly." 
 . Pie bowed to Dorcas as they went within. 
 
 Outside was the song of birds and not far from the 
 door the great oak loomed up formidably. The dark 
 green of the palms contrasted with the light shades 
 of the trees that were just in leaf. Flowers of vivid 
 color variegated the landscape. Through the open 
 door the slanting sunshine fell in broad lines upon the 
 floor and came in at the window through a tangled 
 net work of rose vines. 
 
 The sick child, now in almost infantile helplessness, 
 had lain quiet all the day, wistfully gazing out on the 
 moving shadows among the trees. It was as though 
 he admired and loved it all, and in the dreamy rlepths 
 of his eyes there was a sadness as if he were taking his 
 
256 
 
 Ati GOD MADE HER. 
 
 last look at this beautiful world. He seemed to pos- 
 ses? a delicacy of nature and to be strangely white and 
 pure, as thoiigh he belonged almost to some holier 
 sphere. 
 
 The two walked over and together stood by the bed- 
 side, looking down upon the little serene, serious face. 
 
 The child stirred and slowly raised his languid lids 
 with their long soft lashes, and gazed from one to the 
 other, then fixed his deep, lustrous eyes upon Doyt. 
 
 He was so near the other world that Heaven's light 
 seemed reflected in his face. A shadow of a smile 
 for her broke over it, and he slowly and timidly reached 
 toward her his thin, translucent hand. 
 
 George spoke, and though he tried to be calm, he 
 could not hide the tremulousness of his voice. If he 
 had had a speech improvised for the occasion he did 
 not use it. He said: 
 
 "TaH it, Doyt, it is the hand of your child !" 
 
 The limp little fragile hand lay within her own. 
 
 All unanticipated by her, the words fell on her ear? 
 and she raised her eyes to his. 
 
 What he said went through her being and stirred 
 her innermost soul. With all her surprise the com- 
 plete idea took possession of her almost instanta- 
 neously. With her his words needed no confirmation. 
 At that moment, she knew^ he spoke the truth. 
 
 She gently bent her face to the babe's and he laid 
 his other hand against her soft cheek. She had 
 through troublous years, schooled herself to self-con- 
 trol and save a contraction of the sweet lips there was 
 no outward CAddence of great emotion. She made no 
 sound but drew the child toward her with a soft, con- 
 vulsive pressure and, leaning over him, seemed feeding 
 upon his face. 
 
 Undoing the strings with which it had been tied, 
 and reaching across the bed, Georoe handed to Annt 
 Dorcas a package. He said quietly: 
 
•A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 257 
 
 ^•'What this contains will prove to you that what I 
 have said is true." 
 
 His face was dark with pain as he spoke, and be- 
 fore anyone could address him he turned and went 
 quickly — ^went for the last time' — over the threshold 
 of the house, with whose history he had been so long 
 and so closely connected. 
 
 While Doyt glanced toward it, Dorcas quietly laid 
 open the package. Not a word was spoken as they saw 
 there lying before them the delicate clothes, the little 
 stockings and shoes, and fastened into the dainty lace 
 of the tiny dress, the two diamond pins, seemmgly, 
 through all the intervening time, undisturbed and 
 just as they had been placed there by Doyt's own 
 hands. 
 
 Then the people of the place who had collected 
 about the door, listening breathlessly, went out, one 
 by one. They gathered in the warm sunlight and 
 talked together in low tones of the sainted child who 
 had been lost, and who had been weary and neglected 
 and beaten, and who had so gently and quietly come 
 among them for protection and shelter, and who had 
 been all the time their own, own baby. 
 
 They spoke of his illness and of the sad joy that had 
 come at last td the girl mother, and there were glis- 
 tening eyes among the men and broken voices and 
 tear-flooded faces among: the women. 
 17 
 
158 AS GOD MADt: UER. 
 
 CHAPTEE LII. 
 
 As the stream of sunlight grew and reached farther 
 across the floor Doyt stood over her child, and in the 
 midst of his snfl'ering the little one held to her hand 
 and up into her bended face smiled his infant grati- 
 tude that he had not been repulsed. 
 
 Gently she stood and soothed him, and to one look- 
 ing on a marked quietness held every muscle and not a 
 sob escaped her till at length, seeming to feel safe and 
 secure in her love, he fell asleep. 
 
 The little face lay without a cloud. She softly 
 kissed the little spiritual mouth, then turning in gen- 
 tlest tone, said: 
 
 "Call me, Aunt Dorcas, if there is any change." 
 Then because she could trust herself no longer, she 
 tenderly gathered up the tiny clothing touching it 
 reverently piece by piece, and swiftly and silently went 
 out of the room. 
 
 There was within her soul such a mingling of bliss 
 and agony, and almost stilled by the tumultuous swell- 
 ing of the heart, she flew through the corridor and up 
 the stairs to her room, and closed the door. In the 
 last hour she seemed to have lived ages. 
 
 The memory of her babe had been to her always as 
 a lovely dream. She had caught the inspiration from 
 her father, and had always so loved the healthful and 
 the beautiful, and in her mind it seemed she had al- 
 ways carried an ineffaceable picture of her child, per- 
 fect in form, feature, and limb. She had never once 
 associated her boy with the idea of imperfection. Be- 
 sides, George had given to her the full story of the 
 parentage of the child he had brought to them, and 
 she had believed and never questioned. 
 
A STORY OF C ALIFORM A LIFE. 259 
 
 , ill agony, now, sLe crvvclt on Uie tlionght of the rude 
 treatment the little one must have received to have 
 wrought the piteous change. 
 
 The sweetness of the thought that she had hack her 
 child, that she might feast her hungry mother eyes 
 upon him and know how he was faring, was mingled 
 with the fear that it was only soon to lose him again. 
 
 Almost stronger than all was the passionate remorse 
 that during all the time that he had been safe at home 
 and within her reach, that though suffering and weak 
 and needy she had blindly ignored his claim to her love 
 and devotion. 
 
 Alone in her own room, all beautified for his recep- 
 tion, and away where he would not be disturbed, she 
 could control her agony no longer. Her brain 
 throbbed, an intense chilliness came over her and hei 
 body shook almost as though her soul would take its 
 flight. 
 
 There was a knock at the door and Dorcas opened 
 it and came in, and in her gentle sweet voice, though 
 her own eyes were suffused in tears, she sought to 
 speak w^ords of comfort. 
 
 She had thrown herself on a stool by the bedside and 
 buried her face in its cover. 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Dorcas!" she burst out wildly, "^Yhere 
 was my boasted mother instinct? I think I must have 
 been mad not to have known him." 
 
 The remorse that had taken possession of her for 
 a time dulled all other feeling in its intensity, and in 
 broken voice and disconnected words she continued to 
 reproach herself. 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Dorcas!" she sobbed, "Because ill-treat- 
 ment stole the elasticity from his baby limbs and the 
 joy from his infant soul; because foul air took away 
 the tinting from his soft skin and dwarfed the rounded 
 muscles, because a fall, blows, bruises, perhaps, had 
 twisted his back, because he was not plump and rosy 
 and radiant like the babe that I lost, I turned away 
 
2(50 AS GOD MADE HER. 
 
 from all his pleadings and refused to look upon his 
 little misshapen body. While you, you, Aunt Dorcas" 
 — here she clung to the hand that caressed her and 
 kissed il ag.iin and again — "you tended and nursed 
 and soothed my forsaken, my gentle, quiet, uncom- 
 plaining bab}' boy. When he came home again, tired 
 and wounded, I gave him scarce a word of welcome, 
 not a single kiss of love, and other hands than mine, 
 kinder hands, cared for him — my own baby boy! And 
 when he came back to me I turned a stranger's face to 
 him, and all the time those beautiful pleading eyes 
 had a spell for me, iDut I put it away from me and 
 would liaA^e none of it. Just think of it! In my in- 
 fatuation, think, how, day after day, pursuing shadows 
 I have gone away and left him to suffer! How I tried 
 to put away from me and forget the pathetic appeal- 
 ing look he gave me when I left him! How I steeled 
 my heart against the sweet, innocent, guileless face! 
 Then when I came home again after leaving him for 
 days- — long lonely days, filled with pain and suffering, 
 I had no tender greeting for his waiting, hungry baby 
 soul. Memory was busy; I did not soften I did not re- 
 lent. The silent appeals he made to me ought to have 
 melted my heart, but they did not. I was made of 
 stone. Once, you remember, Aunt Dorcas I came 
 home and though he had waited patiently for my com- 
 ing I was so selfish in my sorrow that I did not go 
 near him. Just before I went to bed I looked in and 
 there he lay asleep, his left hand under his cheek and 
 on the other, the uppermost one, rested a great 
 tear. Gone to sleep disappointed, but without a 
 murmur! Oh, Aunt Dorcas, it all comes to me now 
 with such force! The most stupid mother in all 
 the wide world ought to have comprehended. 
 Oh, when T think, I reahze that all the time he 
 knew,'' she said bitterly. "Do you remember. Aunt 
 Dorcas, how he used to creep timidly up to me, my 
 beautiful, fair boy, and how I closed my heart against 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 261 
 
 him, and put him away? Oh, I never once showed 
 him that I could be tender! Oh, Aunt Dorcas, why 
 did I do it? Had I suffered until compassion had died 
 out of my heart? All this while, when I was absorbed 
 in my search, and knew no pity, your heart was soft 
 and tender toward my little babe; you showed your 
 humanity; you felt for his suffering. The velvet 
 touch of his little hand, the pleading look in his 
 earnest eyes, his wan and wistful countenance failed 
 to move me. Before my eyes he pined and wasted. I 
 was stone, and stood unmoved by it all. That face, 
 that little soulful face — the sweetest that God ever 
 made! A cherub strayed earthward.'^ 
 
 Dorcas made an effort to defend her from herself, 
 but she would not listen. It seemed there was no 
 salve for wounds such as hers. 
 
 "No, don't,^^ she said pushing away the woman's 
 hand, "don't fondle me, Aunt Dorcas! Don't say 
 'dear'! Don't look at me pityingly! I can't bear it. 
 I don't deserve it. He was so pitiful, so good, so 
 gentle." 
 
 She gave herself up to utter abandonment of grief. 
 
 She hid her hot face in Dorcas' lap and gave way 
 to her pent-up agony. Aunt Dorcas thought best to 
 let her grief thus pass from her. Suddenly she raised 
 her flushed face, and, looking straight into Dorcas' 
 eyes, she said: 
 
 "Aunt Dorcas, I want to ask you-— tell me. Aunt 
 Dorcas, did you know it?" 
 
 Her aunt started, and as she hesitated about reply- 
 ing the girl mistook her silence. 
 
 "Don't be afraid to tell me. Don't think I can't 
 bear it." 
 
 She held her underlip a moment between her teeth. 
 
 "I have suffered almost all there is to suffer." 
 
 Dorcas was too choked to speak. With her generous 
 fealty was blended her warm sympathy for her 
 brother's child. She leaned back into the shadow to 
 
262 ^**^ ^^D MADE HER. 
 
 hide her emotion. The girl reached up and softly 
 caressed her clieek^ as she said: 
 
 "I know you would have been kind and tender to 
 him, any way, but, tell me, did you know? Did you 
 have an intuition that it was he?" 
 
 Dorcas, rallying, in an unsteady voice began: 
 
 "At first when George brought him," she said, 
 slowly, "he was so changed that I never once thought 
 of it. At that time, too, you remember, you thought 
 you were close on the track of our lost baby, and for 
 this reason our minds were so occupied, and we were 
 in such a state of excitement that Little Gene became 
 a member of the household almost unnoticed. After 
 a while, I began to recognize little familiar ways, and 
 sometimes, strange as it may seem, his quiet, gentle 
 dignity, reminded me of your father." 
 
 Doyt's breath was quick and loud, and her voice 
 was husky and faltering, as she said: 
 
 "'Aunt Dorcas!" Her arms flung out, her great, 
 blue eyes swimming with tears; such grief was in her 
 voice, she reeled as she walked, ^^dth a burst of an- 
 guish, and quivering mouth, she sobbed bitterly as 
 Dorcas continued: 
 
 "There have been times when I have been so moved 
 by the look he wore, so strange, yet so familiar, 1 
 hardly dared to entertain the hope myself, and I 
 dared not encourage you in it, lest building upon it 
 you would again be disappointed. Day after day, 
 though, when you have been gone, Doyt, I have sat 
 and studied every line of the childish face to find in 
 it some feature to prove to me, beyond all doubt, the 
 truth of what I had surmised. Once finding lodgment 
 in my brain the feeling grew. Since he got so low, 
 Doyt, dear, I have been in an agony of doubt as to 
 what I had better do. When George came in alone 
 to-day, and befo're he spoke, T knew." 
 
 "And why have you never told me? You must have 
 liad good reason." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 263 
 
 '•I dicl not tell you, because no matter how strongly 
 1 was convinced, I had no proof, and, dear, I wanted 
 to spare you all the pain I could. I did not have the 
 heart to raise false hopes/' 
 
 Doyt arose, and with tremulous step walked up and 
 down the room. All her devotion, unselfishness, all 
 her unexhausted loyalty, was forgotten; all the earnest 
 sacrifice, all the tireless search was effaced under the 
 bitter, gnawing self-reproach. 
 
 All she knew was that he had been needy and that 
 she had neglected him; that he reached toward her 
 his pleading hands and she had not heeded; that he 
 had given sweet evidence of a child's devotion to her, 
 and she had refused it. She felt now her absolute 
 helplessness, and that the sweet opportunity offered 
 her she had lost — that the wrong she had done could 
 neither be atoned for nor effaced from her memory. 
 
 Sad as had been the past months of her life, she 
 shrank still more from the desolateness of the future. 
 
 D.orcas was preparing to return to the sick-room. 
 
 A fresh agony faced Doyt. Suddenly she rallied, 
 and, turning, she threw her arms about her aunt's 
 neck, and leaning her head back, and looking straight 
 into her eyes, she said: 
 
 "Aunt Dorcas, tell me, must he die? Is there no 
 hope?" 
 
 An agonizing silence ensued. 
 
 "What did the doctor say to-day?" 
 
 The aunt's suffering was porportionate to her own. 
 
 Smoothing down the golden hair, "Doyt, dear," she 
 said in choking voice, "he is still alive. As long as 
 he is alive, we may hope." 
 
 Doyt still clung around her neck, and mth an un- 
 natural calmness awaited a full answer. Dorcas 
 turned her head away. 
 
 "He said there was barely a chance." 
 
 Her self-control did not again give way. She took 
 Dorcas' handkerchief and smoothed down the motherly 
 face. She turned the knob of the door and opened it. 
 
264 ^'^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 "Go back, now." Glancing toward the mirror, she 
 said: "I will come to him as soon as I can." 
 
 She gathered up the little clothes from the bed 
 where she had lain them. She opened the old drawer 
 and looked at the others lying there so long where she 
 had left them, then kissing the little bundle fervently, 
 she laid them beside the others. 
 
 She hurriedly bathed her face, smoothed out the 
 folds of the soft white dress, made a strong effort to 
 remove every trace of agitation, and, sweet in her girl 
 loveliness, in a few minutes she went out from that 
 chamber of suffering to do for her child everything in 
 her power. The thought that her child needed her 
 was salutary. 
 
 The babe had slept quietly during her absence. 
 When he awakened, with softest words and with in- 
 finite gentleness she lifted him to a more restful posi- 
 tion. Though his eyes had a dreamy, far-away look, 
 he knew the sweet face that smiled her love upon him. 
 
 As she tenderly hovered about him, she thought: 
 "Could she impart to his baby mind the faintest con- 
 ception of the love she bore him?" What to her, com- 
 pared to his love, would have been the homage of the 
 world ! 
 
 The hunger in her heart grew till she was famish- 
 ing for his recognition. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas sat near, and as Doyt held and caressed 
 the little wan hand, she leaned toward him. 
 
 "Darling," she said quietly — it was just as she had 
 talked to him when she had held him before — "darling 
 say 'mamma'- — ^just once, say 'mamma.' " 
 
 The grave little face suddenly flushed and lighted. 
 She would have given her young life for it. With 
 eager, repressed anxiety, with delighted anticipation, 
 the seal of silence was broken — the little parched lips 
 parted, and the glorious crown w^as laid upon her. Far 
 sweeter than music upon her longing ears fell the 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 265 
 
 To another it may have seemed a trivial thing, but 
 to her, to whom every joy had been denied, every 
 hope it seemed were blighted, whose every breath had 
 been suffering, it seemed a joy which during her utter 
 loneliness was unattainable; something to look back to 
 retrospectively, a source of peace in the years to come. 
 
 She heard that for which she had craved for the first 
 time, perhaps for the last time. It subtly thrilled her 
 being, and for the moment she was happy. It was the 
 first sweet time; an occasion which could never repeat 
 itself, and the word seemed to bind her to the child 
 by a tie which could never be broken, but was as end- 
 less as eternity itself. 
 
 As the afternoon wore away a heavy mist came in 
 from the sea, and shut out from view the beauty of the 
 landscape without. At first the hills, then the little 
 city in the distance elusively disappeared, then the 
 great palm in the door yard. 
 
 In the sick-room the dusky shadows had taken place 
 of the sunshine. 
 
 A fire kindled on the hearth threw its glare athwart 
 the room. 
 
 Just as night closed in on the somber scene, while 
 the young mother sat looking upon the little face, 
 anxiously watching its every change, the maid came in, 
 bringing to her a card. 
 
 As she left the room, Doyt, without even looking at 
 it, wholly preoccupied, laid it on the table near by. 
 
 After a short interval, the girl returned, and in low 
 tones said to Doyt: 
 
 "There^s a young man in the parlor. He's waiting 
 to see you. He begs pardon for disturbing you, but 
 very specially wishes to see you to-day." 
 
 "Rosa," she said sadly, "tell him 1 could not see 
 him; I could not see anybody to-night." She stopped 
 what the girl was ready to say to her, and with some 
 emphasis added: "No difference who, Eosa, I must be 
 alone to-night." 
 
2CjCy -^*^' ^'OD MADE HER. 
 
 A moment afterward, as she went to move some of 
 the articles that lay on the table, her eyes fell upon 
 the card the girl had brought. She read: 
 "Lawrence Livingsion, Berlin.^' 
 
 She started' — then vrent on tiptoe across the room 
 and handed the card to Dorcas, and, as the little one 
 was h'ing in a quiet doze, said: 
 
 "A moment only. Aunt Dorcas,^' and left the room. 
 
 She went down through the hall where the lights 
 were burning feebly, to the drawing-room door and 
 entered. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORXIA LIFE. 
 
 2G 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 He stood in the l)rillJaBt light of the room, and as 
 she walked nearer she saw clearly the face and form 
 of the man who Availed. 
 
 He was handsomely proportioned, with a shapely 
 head and intellectnal face, brown and rnddy, brilliant, 
 sparkling eyes, and carried with him the polish and 
 composure that travel and cultnre bring. 
 
 Everything was quiet save that through the open 
 window came the murmnr of the leaves and the drop- 
 ping of the moisture from them. 
 
 She advanced toward him to give him welcome, then 
 startled and amazed she stopped, and steadied herself 
 by resting one hand on the corner of the table, swept 
 her hands across her eyes to clear them, and, as she 
 drew near, she reached out to him. As he took her 
 hand tears welled up to her eyes. 
 
 There was the same characteristic poise of the head, 
 the alert grace, the wavy, clustering hair, which lay 
 so softly on the broad brow with which she had been 
 so familiar. He had a military erectness, and the same 
 serene restfulness of manner. 
 
 She tried hard to conceal her agitation. She reached 
 out to him her supple hand. 
 
 "Don't think me weak,'' she said, hesitatingly, "I 
 could not make you understand, perhaps. T could not 
 explain myself, and I was unprepared to meet you." 
 The sweet lips quivered as she added: "I did not ex- 
 pect you to so resemble — Lowell — I have suffered and 
 it is hard for me to control myself to-night." She 
 turned her face away: 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, with emotion, "if my visit has 
 been ill-timed. Your tears need no apology to me," 
 
268 ^S (^OD MADE HER. 
 
 he said gently, "for remember, your grief is mine, for 
 Lowell was my only brother. I see that I was wrong 
 to come; that you are overwrought." 
 
 She sat down and motioned him to a seat. 
 "Oh, no," she said with a smile on her face, "don't 
 think that. I am glad you came." 
 
 "I- arrived only this morning," he said, by way of 
 explanation. "It was hard for me to delay longer the 
 pleasure of meeting you; besides, I hoped that I might 
 in some way be of assistance to you. On my way down 
 on the train I first learned from the evening paper 
 that you had found your lost child." 
 
 "Yes, he is here." She struggled to her feet again — 
 then in a low tone, and with an effort — "But he is 
 very low." 
 
 There was a look of supreme torture in the eyes she 
 raised to his, and soul-sickness in her tone, as she 
 said: 
 
 "They tell me that I have but a few hours left in 
 which to call him my own." 
 
 Her attitude was one of despair as she spoke the 
 trying words. The red shade which covered the lamp 
 threw its reflection on her palid face. What she had 
 endured would have exhausted the vigor of most other 
 women. He had expected to find her thin and wan. 
 
 The heroic way in which she was trying to bear her 
 burden touched his heart. As she stood there before 
 him, in her snowy drapery, she seemed so young; she 
 was so freshly fair; her form so perfectly moulded; 
 the lines that defined her cheek so daintily turned; 
 her sweet face so shaded to softness, she looked more 
 angelic than human, for in spite of her agony of mind 
 she was full-pulsed still, a creature of exquisite beauty, 
 the product of clean air and sunshine and stored up 
 vitality. AYhen he reviewed the condition of her mind 
 he found that he had not thought of her in her own 
 individuality, but simply as his brother's wife, prepared 
 for devotion to her from the fact of relationship, and 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 269 
 
 now he found his soul touched by her marvelous per- 
 fection of form and feature. A sudden impulse came 
 over him; a desire to guard her from all — to shield her 
 from sutfering took possession of him. 
 
 A momentary silence ensued. 
 
 "Don^t sacrifice your wishes^^ he said eagerly. 
 "DonH remain away a moment from your sick child 
 because I am here." 
 
 As he looked into her agonized face, he would have 
 given much to have been able to speak words of hope 
 and comfort, but how^ could he know that he was jus- 
 tified in doing so? As it was he made impetuous reso- 
 lutions. 
 
 Bowing low, he said persuasively: "Will you allow 
 me to return with you?"* 
 
 The young man had such a sanguine manner; he 
 was so strong, so surcharged with life and spirit that 
 from the first she had in some way acquired a feeling 
 of security in his presence. The very tone of his voice 
 seemed to raise her spirits and and inspire her with 
 hope. 
 
 "You surely do not need to beg permission from me 
 to see your brothers child. Yes,'^ she said, "we will 
 go to the little invalid now. I am glad that you have 
 come — ^in time.'' 
 
 With quiet footsteps they went down the hallway. 
 Doyt called her Aunt outside and presented her to 
 Lawrence. Together they entered the sick room. 
 
 The sick room — that place of dim light, unruffled 
 sounds and significant silence — the place with the se- 
 cret mysterious atmosphere, where men and women 
 appalled, awe-stricken, heart-broken sit wdth a sense 
 of frenzied helplessness and await the mysterious, in- 
 explicable change. 
 
 With a feeling of apprehension he entered the room. 
 
 The fragrant night air came softly in through the 
 open window, gently swaying the white curtain which 
 hung before it. The fire lay in bright coals on the 
 
270 A.S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 hearth. Near the center of the room stood the snowy 
 bed. With keenest anxiety he went across and stood 
 beside it. He bent over his brother's child and studied 
 the delicate features of the strained, pallid face; the 
 deep, soft eyes with their long, dark lashes were raised 
 to his and with thick voice he spoke endearing words. 
 
 With a physician's instinct he saw there was need 
 of quick action, and instinctively he buried the inter- 
 est of kinship in that of the scientist. He bent his 
 head to its breast and listened to its breathing and to 
 the heart action; he felt the quick pulse, he took the 
 temperature, he examined the bottles that contained 
 the medicines, tested them; he sent Dorcas out of the 
 room and questioned into the history of the case. He 
 asked when the doctor in charge would return. 
 
 n the symptoms grew alarmingly worse he was to 
 be sent for during the night, otherwise he would not 
 return till morning. 
 
 He studied a moment on the case; the symptoms 
 were those with which he was familiar and his interest 
 grew. 
 
 A discriminating knowledge of the conditions of the 
 human system, which he had gained by long continued 
 medical study, was of use to him now. He felt proud 
 of his profession and here he was in a position to dem- 
 onstrate its resources. He had been trained to act 
 in emergencies, and here was need. He felt thankful 
 for every item of information he had gained in regard 
 to the human frame; for what scapel and probe and 
 dissecting knife and microscope and clinical observa- 
 tion had revealed; for what treatise and lecture and 
 hospital work had unfolded to him of disease; for 
 every hour of study he had given to materia medica, 
 therapeutics and pathology. He was gjateful to his 
 medical Alma Mater for having put him in possession 
 of the most modern methods of combatting disease, as 
 this knowledge might now be used in saving his broth- 
 er's child. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 271 
 
 The young mother stood a few steps away, her soft 
 hands dasped together, her fair, pathetic face study- 
 ing his, hungrily watching his every movement, scarce- 
 ly daring to hope, and bracing herself to bear the 
 worst. 
 
 As he glanced toward her now and then, it seemed 
 to him if ho had no other interest it would be worth 
 the labor of a lifetime of study to be able to bring 
 relief to this girl mother's heart. 
 
 Then urged by the need, with an almost confident 
 air, he stepped to her side and said circumspectly: 
 
 "Could you trust me to treat the case?" 
 
 She clutched his arm and with low, trembling voice, 
 said: 
 
 ''Do you think you can save him?'^ 
 
 Her fair features were white and colorless. 
 
 He looked earnestly into her pleading face and said 
 slowly: 
 
 "AYould to Heaven that I could promise you." 
 
 A strange light was shining in his eyes as he spoke. 
 He knew he had to work in the helplessness of human 
 strength against elusive antagonistic forces. With a 
 man's honest faith in his own skill, he added quietly: 
 
 "I will do what can be done." 
 
 She looked up with a smile of gratitude. 
 
 In the possession of solid nerves, unlimited courage, 
 and realizing vividly the conditions he set to work. 
 
 He wrote a prescription and Dorcas dispatched a 
 messenger with it to the town. 
 
 He took his position in the sick-room. After mid- 
 night Dorcas lay down and he and the mother, who 
 could not be persuaded to leave, remained as nurses 
 through the night. 
 
 He felt confident he had made a discovery of a path- 
 ological condition that the old doctor had overlooked. 
 Eesolved to fully utilize this information, it seemed 
 to him that the concentration of his whole career lay 
 
272 ^^'Sf GOD MADE EER. 
 
 in that one case, and if he never did anything more, 
 it would satisfy him to save this one life. 
 
 During the night, save as he directed in the care of 
 the child, they spoke seldom. 
 
 She often stood gravely and anxiously over the little 
 bed and ran her fingers through the silken hair and 
 pressed her lips softly to his fevered cheek. The 
 house was hushed; the clock ticked evenly on, and as 
 they watched, with increasing anxiety neither seemed 
 to feel fatigued. 
 
 He went often to the door and looked out on the 
 darkened landscape, while the air from outside came 
 floating into the room, ladened with the perfume of 
 flowers and fresh with the odor of the evergreens. 
 The wind moved softly the tree tops; the thick mist 
 hid the stars, while the light from the room fell upon 
 the green sward. 
 
 All the night her eyes were watching him with timid 
 questioning and yearning appeal. 
 
 There was so little that she could do. The time for 
 intense strained effort was over. She felt the bitterest 
 reproach every time the child eyes, in guileless trust, 
 were raised to hers. 
 
 He must die and all the love and sympathy she could 
 give him in the few hours left could not atone for the 
 months of neglect. 
 
 The hours moved leisurely on; she still watched the 
 clock closely. She seemed to count the minutes and as 
 each one passed it seemed to put farther away the 
 dread and to bring nearer the dawn. 
 
 At last the pallid light came in at the window — the 
 herald of the dawn. 
 
 She had waited for it with such eagerness, and now 
 she waited still till the light grew to a rosy hue and 
 the full day was at hand. 
 
 She had made such effort to prepare herself, for she 
 knew that the old doctor had felt that the child could 
 not possibly live beyond the midnight. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 273 
 
 When the glorious sunlight, fully and freely, came 
 streaming into the room, she rose from her seat by the 
 bed where the boy was resting and went over to where 
 Lawrence stood on the hearthrug. 
 
 To him, through the night, every glance that she 
 had cast at him had been full of unuttered pleading, 
 and now as she raised her eyes to his, in measured 
 voice, she said: 
 
 "The dreadful night is past. Will he live?" 
 
 He waited only for a moment: 
 
 "If I had been certain, I should before now have 
 relieved your suspense. I should have told you." 
 
 Then looking into her upturned eyes, he said: 
 
 "The case is still doubtful, but there is a hope." 
 
 After all the agony, one sweet gleam of joy! 
 
 She remained in the room. She could not be in- 
 duced to spare herself till all danger was past. 
 Tremblingly she waited, scarce daring to trust. Was 
 the storm over at last, or was this only a lull? 
 
 Doyt slowly and timidly accepted the situation. At 
 length her feverish apprehension began to change to 
 hope. As her eyes brightened she asked herself: 
 
 "Could it be possible that she was going to escape 
 the agony that she had deemed inevitable — that on the 
 very verge of destruction she had been rescued?" 
 
 Once during the early morning after Dorcas had 
 returned to the sick room, she went with Lawrence to 
 the open door and out into the sweet clear day. 
 
 The gray enveloping mist of the night had faded 
 away with the sunrise and the morning was dewy and 
 fresh. 
 
 Close by were the rich gorgeous growths of tropical 
 trees and the splendid dignity of the oaks, while over 
 their heads stretched great massive cables of roses ly- 
 ing like wreaths upon the trellis. 
 
 Outside lay the orchards, now softly unsheathing 
 their dainty buds of pink and white till looking out 
 upon the scene the whole world seemed abloom. Be- 
 18 
 
274 ^-Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 yond stretched the sun-bathed valley, flanked on either 
 side by the forest-topped liills and the majestic moun- 
 tains. 
 
 Lawrence had received only a vague impression of 
 the grounds from having walked through them the 
 night before, and he was anxious for the revelation of 
 beauty which he knew the morning would bring. 
 
 The place where his brother had lived was sacred to 
 him. Besides, he loved his native state, and his senses 
 were on the alert for its attractions, but here before 
 him lay a view that he had not dreamed of. Never 
 before had a morning seemed so deliciously glad nor 
 the earth anywhere so like an Eden. 
 
 His handsome face was all aglow^ and he spoke with 
 boyish fervor as he said: 
 
 ''It seems good to inflate the lungs again with Cali- 
 fornia air.^' 
 
 He looked all about him in delighted wonder. 
 There was a tense vibration in his voice as he contin- 
 ued: 
 
 ''All the while I was gone 1 had a feeling that I had 
 been banished from the sphere where I belonged; but 
 "wdth all my highest anticipations I hardly expected to 
 return to a place of such enchantment as this." 
 
 There w^as a deep significance in the words he added: 
 
 "If I had realized the attraction here, I could hardly 
 have schooled myself to remain away for so many 
 years." 
 
 Doyt breathed in the sweet air and looked up into 
 the soft blue sky and seemed to suddenly awaken again 
 to the beauty of the world and to the joy of living. 
 
 As she looked back on her life for the past year it 
 seemed to her as though she had been in prison or 
 dead. 
 
 What to her had been the growth of the plants or 
 the exuberant blossoming of the flowers, the glimmer- 
 ing of the stars, the tinting of the sky, the richness of 
 the foliage, the splendor of the sunset ? She had been 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 275 
 
 of Jate so out of harmony with it all; her life had been 
 tuned so long to a minor strain; she had so lost her 
 kinship with nature that she had almost ceased to be 
 God's child. Under the stress of suspense she had 
 overlooked it all, yet through all her heedlessness 
 there had been no cessation of nature's growth and 
 loveliness. Though she had forgotten to thank God 
 for them, He had not withdrawn his bountiful gifts. 
 
 The broad leaves of a fan palm near by swayed back 
 and forth in the soft breeze, the grass at her feet 
 freshened by the mists of the night, sparkled with an 
 emerald greenness. 
 
 When she raised her eyes to the handsome face of 
 the man beside her, she felt that it was to him that 
 she owed her awakening. But for him she thought 
 sadly, the world would have been empty to her now; 
 but for him the flowers might have bloomed, the birds 
 have sung, the sun have shone but she would have car- 
 ried her bitter sorrow to the end. To her, then, would 
 have been neither brightness nor music nor light nor 
 sunshine, for Gerald would have been gone. 
 
 She looked out across the whitened orchards- — she 
 raised her eyes a moment to the soft blue sky, then 
 turning to him she said contritely: 
 
 "I haven't noticed it at all of late, but I see the lov- 
 liness of the world again now." 
 
 A smile lit up her classic face as she softly added: 
 
 "I owe it all to you." 
 
 She raised up one hand to the rose strand above her 
 head and its pink petals fell and rested amidst the 
 sunny meshes of her hair. 
 
 "If you had been a day or even an hour later," she 
 added — she did not finish the sentence. • There was a 
 convulsive clasping of her hands — and trembling, she 
 stepped back as though she stood at the edge of some 
 dizzy depth. 
 
 Lawrence felt at a loss to know just what to say, 
 and with blundering hesitation, he answered: 
 
276 ^"^^ GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "It was the only assistance I was capable of render- 
 ing you." 
 
 And when he had gained better possession of him- 
 self, he added: ■ 
 
 "At any rate, do not magnify my powers nor your 
 obligation. The child is safe now; that is enough to 
 give zest to your enjoyment of the morning." 
 
 As he watched it he saw that the fair face of his com- 
 panion was slowly relaxing, that a new light was grad- 
 ually coming into her lustrous eyes. With pleasure he 
 noted that, given the opportunity, her youth would 
 promptly assert itself. Taking a step nearer to her, 
 with earnestness and courtesy he added: 
 
 "To see the smile on your face again is a reward for 
 my service." 
 
 The rest and peace born of such agony is worth the 
 suffering it costs. 
 
 Just as she had prepared herself for the renuncia- 
 tion of all joy in life. Heaven seemed open to her. On 
 the very verge of destruction it seemed she had been 
 rescued. 
 
 Half bewildered she heard his words and slowly and 
 timidly she accepted the situation. 
 
 "The boy was safe" — he had said it. Was there ever 
 such music in the human voice? Were ever words of 
 sweeter meaning spoken? 
 
 The deep feeling that possessed her choked her ut- 
 terance, but she raised her glad eyes to her companion 
 with a feeling that was almost veneration. 
 
 Why was it? From the hour of his arrival, the 
 very atmosphere of the place had changed. Was it his 
 skill, or their faith in it, or was it the divided respon- 
 sibility — or was.it that his own sanguine forceful ener- 
 getic life had infused itself into her and Dorcas? 
 
 Under his attentive care the racking pain became 
 slowly alleviated; the blood that was rushing at such 
 speed through the tiny arteries, wearing out the deli- 
 cate machinery, gradually was checked. The over- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 277 
 
 taxed organs resumed their functions, the little burn- 
 ing hands grew moist, the flickering, wavering pulse 
 became equable, the fluttering breath methodical, and 
 bef(yre noontime the little, tortured frame had found 
 respite and the babe lay in a placid sleep. 
 
278 ^S (^OD MADE HER, 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Placidly and quietly the days passed at Oaklawn. 
 
 Dr. Lawrence remained in close attendance upon the 
 child for ten days and then returned to his quarters at 
 the hotel. 
 
 Both Dorcas and the mother seemed warranted in 
 the conclusion that the only way to insure the little 
 patient^s continued safety was to have the physician 
 who had saved him remain within call. 
 
 As the services of a skillful practitioner was in de- 
 mand in that community, Dorcas proposed to him that 
 he should open an office in the adjacent town. 
 
 When the young physician gave the subject some 
 attention, he found that his inclinations seemed to lie 
 in the same direction. As he did not seem to think it 
 worth while to combat his impulses, he accepted the 
 suggestions. 
 
 Before many weeks elapsed he found himself an es- 
 tablished physician there and his time quite well oc- 
 cupied. 
 
 There was not a day, however, that he did not visit 
 Oaklawn. 
 
 When his little patient was sufficiently recovered, he 
 often took his slight form in his own strong arms and 
 walked with him about the grounds, or down along the 
 driveway among the waving palms. Sometimes he sat 
 quietly by the sweet gentle child till he fell asleep in 
 the warm sunshine. 
 
 Gradually the strength came back to the little, thin, 
 limbs. He could not yet stand quite erect, but with 
 assistance could walk slowly up and down the paths. 
 The little weary face gradually brightened and the 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 27d 
 
 eyes took on a deeper hue, and the roundness and color 
 came back to the wan cheeks. 
 
 One evening the doctor and Doyt were seated on tlie 
 cool veranda. Gerald was reclining on his little in- 
 valid chair, which had been wheeled out on the green 
 lawn. His sweet, merry laugh would ring in echoes 
 as Tim, willing to do anything suggested or ordered, 
 was outrivaling himself in inventing amusement for 
 the occasion. 
 
 The helpless child showed such admiration for 
 movement, animation, and activity that Tim raptur- 
 ously and boisterously bounded and turned somersaults 
 over the green to Gerald^s great delight. 
 
 Doyt sat looking at the children and studying the 
 picture they made together in the evening twilight. 
 
 Tim, with the use of every nerve, muscle, and ten- 
 don, with happy life tingling in every fiber of his be- 
 ing, in unhampered freedom, moving without fatigue 
 or pain. There, in notable contrast, her own little 
 boy, hindered from spinal weakness, was bereft of 
 activity. 
 
 As she watched, there was something so touching in 
 his forced inaction and in his quiescence, and equally 
 pitiful was his fortitude under privation. In spite of 
 all that was denied him there was a pleasurable light 
 in his soft eyes. When she heard his child voice ring 
 out in sunny laughter the great tears coursed down 
 her cheeks, and she turned from him and rested her 
 gaze on the forest-topped mountains that lay outlined 
 against the western sky. 
 
 Lawrence seemed to comprehend her thoughts. He 
 arose from his seat beside her and walked down 
 through the grounds as far as the large magnolia tree 
 and when he came back he carried one of its waxen 
 blossoms in his hand. He stood a moment before her 
 as she sat with her hands folded in her lap, making a 
 smiling effort to conceal her sorrow, when her eyes 
 were drawn involuntarily to his. 
 
280 ^^ G^D MADE HER. 
 
 There was a look of decision and earnestness in his 
 strong face as he spoke: 
 
 "Doyt/' he said, "has it never occurred to you that 
 Gerald need not always be helpless and enfeebled? 
 His form may be molded to strength and shape; his 
 little life may not always be pathetic and appealing." 
 There was such fervent feeling in what he said; the 
 tone he used was one of such unutterable kindness; 
 and she was the more touched in that it told so plainly 
 of the strong man^s aifection for the afflicted child. 
 
 Was there really a way for the boy out of his im- 
 prisoned helplessness? How the hope of it had 
 haunted her brain! How her heart bounded now as 
 she heard his words and realized their import! How 
 attentively she listened, as he talked on! How her 
 courage grew and her hope kindled, and what glad 
 emotions filled her soul! 
 
 With Lawrence the plan was not a new one. Day 
 by day he had been studying the case. He had made 
 frequent examinations of the child's body and had 
 come to the conclusion, after exhausting everything in 
 medical literature, bearing upon the subject, that the 
 careful application of modern medical appliances could 
 effect a complete cure. 
 
 At the thought of such a possibility for the child, 
 Doyt's face, that she lifted to greet Dorcas, when she 
 joined them, was almost a transfiguration. 
 
 They all sat there together in the sweet air of the 
 twilight till the flowers folded their petals for sleep, 
 and the distant mountain-tops were lost to view and 
 the great moon came creeping up through the tree 
 tops in all her silver splendor.. 
 
 When they arose Lawrence went down the steps and 
 stooped and lifted the child from his chair tenderly in . 
 his arms and carried him into the house. 
 
 When the girl mother closed her eyes in sleep that 
 night a tumult of happiness was surging within her. 
 Her child had been born perfect; there had been no 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 281 
 
 fault in God's handiwork. The little life was to as- 
 sume its natural course again. The impulse given it, 
 at creation, was to have its unhindered fulfillment. 
 
 The next day began the surgical treatment for the 
 spinal weakness of Gerald. With a supporting plaster 
 of paris cast for the spinal column and daily suspen- 
 sion, supplemented with tonics, the deformity in time 
 yielded, and it was only a few months before Gerald 
 was again physically perfect. 
 
 After Gerald had recovered there was no occasion 
 for Lawrence to go so often to Oaklawn. 
 
 One day, after almost a weeks' absence, he decided 
 to surprise them with a call. He knew that Dorcas 
 would welcome him and that Gerald would be glad 
 that he had come, but it was of another subject he was 
 thinking. 
 
 He drove slowly up the avenue to the house. He 
 learned that Doyt had gone walking in the grounds. 
 As he drew near the great oak, he saw her sitting un- 
 derneath and Gerald was by her side. 
 
 She wore a soft lavender gown with ribbon sash of 
 the same hue and black lace at the armholes. Never 
 could dress suit better an artist's taste nor accord more 
 perfectly with her faultless form. 
 
 As she sat in her great beauty a shaft of .sunlight 
 came through the thick leaves above and touched to 
 gold the soft waves of her hair. Her long lashes were 
 cast downward; her face was peaceful and its happy 
 expression gave an intensity to her loveliness. 
 
 The boy was standing before her, his rounded elbows 
 leaning upon her lap, gay with returning buoyant life, 
 and chattering almost unceasingly. 
 
 Since he last saw her he had resolved in his mmd 
 many thoughts of the future. 
 
 There was only one thing to do — to give up his 
 practice here, to go back to the old German world and 
 life again, where, removed from the sound of her voice, 
 the influence of her presence, he might perhaps leam 
 
082 -^-Sf GOD MADE HER. 
 
 to forget that he loved her. Kesolved though he was 
 that this must come, he deferred the agony, and now 
 hurried to enjoy the bliss of her companionship, while 
 he might, before he was parted from her forever. 
 
 To be where he could look upon her, even though 
 he was secondary in her thoughts, was such wealth of 
 enjoyment as he had never before experienced. 
 
 He stopped by the broad palm tree and its wide, 
 spreading branches partially hid him from view, and 
 the strong man' — independent of spirit, inured to en- 
 durance and to trying surgical tasks — found that his 
 nerves were unstrung and that he was really trembling. 
 For once his self-control was gone. He did not know 
 what he should say if he met her; he felt that he had 
 even lost power of speech, and would have turned back 
 but that Gerald had seen him. 
 
 "0, Uncle Lawrence," he called out, bounding to- 
 ward him. "Come on, we're waiting for you. We 
 thought you'd come." 
 
 Lawrence took the child in his arms and held him 
 closely, murmuring in his ear words of devotion. He 
 came on, he hardly knew how, but most anxious to ap- 
 pear calm and possessed. 
 
 Doyt arose from her seat there among the waving 
 shadows and gave him her hand, while Gerald, stand- 
 ing by his side, kept the other. 
 
 "Gerald holds to your hand," she said; "to be sure 
 that he is not dreaming that you have come. So busy 
 you are we thought that you had forgotten us alto- 
 gether." 
 
 He was turning over in his mind what she had said. 
 
 "Did her words imply that it signified something to 
 her whether he came or not?" What comfort he 
 found in the mere possibility! 
 
 Gerald was flitting about, moving timidly, but as 
 blithe and gay as a birdling only recently out of its 
 nest. 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 283 
 
 Doyt had resumed her seat. Lawrence remained 
 standing, catching the little one in his arms playfully 
 as now and then he darted near. 
 
 If he might only shut out the dark future and give 
 himself up completely to the beautiful, perfect peace 
 of the present, how happy would he be! He was by 
 nature sincere and it was only by great effort that he 
 could assume a part. 
 
 "I did not expect to remain when I came/' he said. 
 "Something, Doyt, that I cannot explain has prompted 
 me to come to-day.'^ 
 
 He sat down on the end of the bench farthest from 
 her. Gerald had stopped his play to listen. Lawrence 
 had not spoken in his wonted tone and there was a 
 stiffness in his manner that the child did not compre- 
 hend, accustomed as he was to his handsome uncle's 
 imperturbable cheeriness. He said not a word but 
 climbed up on the seat and nestled down close beside 
 the great, strong man. 
 
 Lawrence spoke with some abruptness. He said: 
 
 "I came to thank you, Doyt, for your kindness to 
 me here, and" he went on cautiously, ^^and to tell you 
 of my regret at leaving this place." 
 
 He held control of his voice, but to him the thought 
 was like being shut out of Heaven. 
 
 Without a word she cast a look of inquiry into his 
 face, then her head dropped quickly and she sat look- 
 ing at the white, clasped hands that lay in her lap. 
 
 When she raised her eyes the child was caressing his 
 uncle. 
 
 "You have said nothing about it," she said quietly. 
 "I did not know you were making preparations for 
 such a change." 
 
 She had hard task to control her voice, as she added: 
 
 "It is a surprise to me." 
 
 Till now she had never fully realized how much he 
 had brought to her. His presence had made the place 
 seem like home again, and now he was going away and 
 
284 ^^ ^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 she was to be left to the old desolation. The thought 
 of his going away out of her life and out of Gerald's 
 chilled her blood. 
 
 It was as though the frost and snows of New Eng- 
 land lay upon Oaklawn and the thick storm-clouds had 
 blotted out the sun. 
 
 As he sat holding Gerald's hand and caressing it, 
 she spoke again: 
 
 "I thought you were doing well here, Lawrence. My 
 father's people and Lowell's will be disappointed," and 
 she looked inquiringly into his face. 
 
 "Yes, I am doing well," he answered and he was sur- 
 prised at his own composure. "I have a rather strong- 
 hold on the people, I think, but that is because of the 
 love they have for your father and Lowell. My prac- 
 tice is growing, T am doing quite well — ^l^etter, I think 
 than I can do at any other place. That is not the 
 reason I go." 
 
 "Can you tell me the reason?" she modestly asked. 
 
 She was silently wondering if she had been in any 
 way to blame. Then the thought came that had al- 
 ways been Kaunting her; the realization that she had 
 never in any adequate way made known her obligation 
 and gratitude to him; that the poor, weak words she 
 had tried to make use of had completely failed in their 
 import. 
 
 He showed his agitation. He had risen and stood 
 beside the boy, whom he had lifted to his feet upon 
 the bench. How he was tempted, as he looked at her, 
 to speak, to pour out the torrent of words struggling 
 for utterance! His feeling was strong, but he did not 
 let it master him. 
 
 "I cannot tell," he said. "Perhaps I may never tell 
 any human being why I go. It will be better for me, 
 Doyt," he said sadly ^^etter, when I shall be far away; 
 better when the broad ocean rolls between me and this 
 place.'*' 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 285 
 
 Her amazed eyes were fixed on his face, and she 
 said humbly: 
 
 ''1 have not seen much of the outside world, bnt I 
 thought you found it pleasant here/' 
 
 "And so I have/' he said quickly; then added almost 
 despairingly, as he looked around: 
 
 "How could I help hut he happy in such a treasure 
 of a place as this?" • - 
 
 There was a crackling of the gravel on the path as 
 Dorcas came driving along the side roadway, calling to 
 Gerald to come with her for a ride. In her hand she 
 held his little cap and coat. 
 
 "Yes, go, Gerald," Doyt said as the little one hesi- 
 tated. Then he walked soberly away. The mother's 
 whole heart seemed to be in her eyes as they followed 
 hiui. 
 
 "I should not have talked in the way I have before 
 him — I have made the child unhappy. Forgive me, 
 Doyt, it was cruel and I regret it." 
 
 "Unhappy for a half hour — for an afternoon — 
 what's that Lawrence?" Her whole soul was in her 
 voice now. "He depends upon you. He needs you; if 
 you go away, he will be unhappy for a lifetime." , 
 
 "I have made a mistake, Doyt, in coming here at all. 
 1 should have remained in Germany. I cannot under- 
 stand why I wanted to come. Though I knew that my 
 father and mother were gone, that my only brother 
 had followed them — though I knew that not one rela- 
 tive that I had ever seen awaited me, my heart leaped 
 at the thought of coming home. At last I reached my 
 native shore and still three thousand miles lay between 
 me and the place of my birth. A strange joy, I re- 
 member, still inspired me and I hastened on. As we 
 came nearer, I said: Another day passed, another state 
 crossed. Doyt, all I had left here, I found in the grave- 
 yard. With an aching heart, but catching at some tie 
 to bind me to the world, I sought your child." Law- 
 rence looked after him, as waving them adieu, he dis- 
 
286 ^*^' (^^^^ MADE HER. 
 
 appeared down the avenue. "The little trusting soul/^ 
 he said, and there was strong emotion in his voice: 
 "Aye, there's the rub, Doyt, leaving him." 
 
 Then as though betraying his mind too much, he 
 continued: 
 
 "But he is getting strong and well now. He doesn't 
 need me.'' 
 
 He arose and looked away, then turning toward her 
 he broke out almost despairingly: 
 
 "I sometimes wish he did. It is such a joy to think, 
 plan, study, work, strive, save for his sake. Pardon 
 my weakness, Doyt, but I have often wished that the 
 devotion of others had not left you so well supplied; 
 that you did not own this handsome estate, so that I 
 might have an opportunity to exert my sinewy strength 
 for my brother's wife and child. Then I should have 
 an object in life; then, though I had to remain six 
 thousand miles away from you, I should have some- 
 thing to live for. Outside this place I have no kin- 
 dred. Of my own blood, among all the millions on 
 the wide earth, I have only little Gerald." 
 
 There was a touching pathos in his mellow voice as 
 he added bitterly: 
 
 "And he doesn't need me." 
 
 A fresh, fragrant breeze went floating by, the 
 shadows made by the oak leaves flickered on the grass, 
 the satin smooth leaves of the magnolia, which stood 
 near, moved to and fro; a bird perched upon a bending 
 bough poured forth a string of melody and uncon- 
 sciously to himself, by these touches of nature, his soul 
 was soothed. 
 
 "l)oyt, I don't know why I have talked to you as I 
 have this afternoon. I probably am as much surprised 
 at myself as you are, but perhaps it is best that I have 
 shown to you my weakness. I feel as though I were in 
 the hands of fate. If I were not forced to go from 
 here, I could think happier thoughts and talk of hap- 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 287 
 
 pier things. I have never before shown to you my 
 true self. You know me now.'^ 
 
 The girl felt that she had known him before; that 
 what she had just learned of his nature had only in- 
 tensified her knowledge of him. In the months that 
 she had been near him she had often caught glimpses 
 of the kind soul that he possessed. She had felt the 
 nobility of his nature in the gentle sympathy extended 
 to her in her suffering and his earnest effort to relieve 
 it. No matter how wretched and scanty his life after- 
 ward was to be, he was near her now, and there was 
 wealth in the present. 
 
 When Dorcas and Gerald returned, the child, study- 
 ing his uncle's face found its general expression re- 
 turned again. 
 
 Being stoutly urged, and feeling dissatisfied with 
 himself and strongly desirous of putting himself on a 
 better footing again, Lawrence remained and took din- 
 ner with the family. Though he was not for a mo- 
 ment oblivious to the menace the future held for him, 
 yet he had sufficient control of himself to repress any 
 manifestation of it for the remainder of the after- 
 noon. 
 
288 ^**^' ^^^D MADE HEli. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 One day Lawrence going to Oaklawn met Dorcas 
 alone. She was out in the garden. As he came up 
 she noticed that he looked pale and distracted. When 
 she took his hand^ in her hearty, cordial way, it was 
 with an indefinite dread possessing her that she said 
 to him: 
 
 "Is it true that yon are going away, Lawrence?" 
 
 The yonng man started. 
 
 '•And how did you know that I had thought of it. 
 Aunt Dorcas?" 
 
 He waited anxiously for her answer. He felt for 
 Doyt to mention it was in a way to consent to his 
 going. 
 
 Dorcas stooped and picked a La France rose from 
 its stem. She hesitated a moment, then twirling the 
 rose in her hand, she said quietly: 
 
 "It was Doyt who told me." 
 
 A pause ensued. 
 
 As Lawrence did not deny that it was his intention 
 lo go, she said again: 
 
 "It is not generally known that you think of going, 
 is it? It will be such a disappointment to the people 
 for you to leave your place here, just as you have be- 
 come so well established." 
 
 Dorcas was devoted to Lawrence, almost as in the 
 olden days she had been to his brother. During her 
 acquaintance with him she had not failed to take 
 cognizance of the young man's traits of character. 
 She had full appreciation for his strength, his alert 
 faculties, self-reliance, his open-heartedness, and irre- 
 proachable honor. She was averse to parting with 
 him; besides, the very thought of his leaving opened 
 
.4 STORY OF CALIFORXIA LIFE. 9 §9 
 
 Aunt Dorcas' mind to new anxieties in regard to the 
 home-place and the husiness connected with it. 
 Though the estate 3^iekled a satisfactory income, it 
 was cumbrous of management. She feared that if it 
 were left entirely to woman's handling it might he- 
 come unprofitable. For these reasons, as well as 
 other, Dorcas was not ready to let Lawrence leave them 
 without making an effort to detain him. 
 
 Lawrence answered her: 
 
 "So far I believe I have spoken of it to only one 
 person." 
 
 He turned his flushed face toward his companion 
 and in an agitated manner went on: 
 
 "I know you recommended me, Aunt Dorcas, and 
 you expected me to be stable and remain, and did not 
 look for me to abandon my patients just as I had well 
 secured them. I compromise you by doing so, and I 
 regret it," he said sadly. 
 
 Before she could speak, he went on: 
 
 "When I came home I had such love of my profes- 
 sion and was so full of hope and ambition, I felt 
 capable of an unlimited amount of hard work. I sup- 
 pose I might succeed professionally here to my heart's 
 content, but there's only one way left to me, Aunt 
 Dorcas; fate has willed that I leave you." 
 
 The manner with which he made the assertion car- 
 ried with it great impressiveness, and Dorcas exper- 
 ienced a feeling of deepest sympathy, though of the 
 nature of the trouble at which he had hinted, she had 
 only a very indefinite idea. 
 
 Dorcas livstened perplexedly for further informa- 
 tion, and presently Lawrence continued: 
 
 "I had determined to go away quietly, to hide every 
 trace of how I feel about going. I was even congratu- 
 lating myself that I was able to hide it when I wan- 
 dered over here the other afternoon and I came across 
 Doyt and Gerald sitting there under the old oak tree." 
 
 His eyes brightened, as he said: 
 19 
 
290 ^S GOD MADE HER. 
 
 "They make a wonderful pair now, Aunt Dorcas." 
 
 He continued his story meditatively: 
 
 "There they sat with the flickering sunshine about 
 them and the green shadows and the gorgeous wealth 
 of flowers, making the most restful picture human eyes 
 ever gazed upon, and I — churl that I was — compelled 
 by some inner force, broke in upon the sweet quietude. 
 I must have been beside myself, for I really fright- 
 ened the boy.^^ He paused a moment. 
 
 "Well, Lawrence, I am listening eagerly, anxiously; 
 you may as well tell me what you said." 
 
 "In my rebellion against fate, I hardly know what 
 I said. Let me see," he said casting his eyes down- 
 ward, "I told her Aunt Dorcas that I wished that she 
 and Gerald were poor so that I could work for them. 
 I ought not to have said these things; I did not in- 
 tend to say them. You see,'' he said with an effort at 
 a smile, "you see I am not sure of myself here, and 
 I shall have to go away." 
 
 "And may I ask what Doyt said?" 
 
 "What did she say? Why, she told me how grate- 
 ful she felt to me for coming home, and how, because 
 Gerald was attached to me and because he had no 
 father, that even though he wasn't exactly poor, that 
 he did need me. She told me" — here the strong man 
 turned and looked off across the orchard — "she told 
 me that next to Lowell, she would train Gerald to re- 
 member me and reverence my memory." 
 
 "Pardon me, Lawrence, but what 1 want to know 
 is how did she take what you said." 
 
 Lawrence looked at her as though he were still 
 studying the case. 
 
 "I don't know. Aunt Dorcas, I don't know how she 
 interpreted it. You see. Aunt Dorcas," he said sud- 
 denly and impulsivel}^, "though I did not tell her so, 
 1 may as well be frank with you, the truth is I have 
 failed in all my resolutions; for in spite of all my 
 manly determination to the contrary, I love Doyt." 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORXIA LIFE. 991 
 
 •^Forgive me, Lawrence/^ Dorcas said tenderly, "I 
 do not see anything alarming in this/^ 
 
 "And neither do I/' he returned quickly. "I should 
 hardly be human if I did not love her, knowing her as 
 I do. The trouble is, Aunt Dorcas, she doesn't care 
 about me." 
 
 "But Lawrence, in all respect to both yourself and 
 Doyt, I think I am safe in saying that she does care 
 for you," she said beguilingly. 
 
 "Well, yes, in a way," he said, raising his eyes to 
 hers, with a look of intense expectation, "but you 
 know. Aunt Dorcas, cheerful as she is, she lives only 
 in the happy past, she feels so keenly the cruelty of 
 Lowell's being robbed of his happy life, and Dorcas, 
 she thinks that Lowell lost his life in his effort to 
 save her father's 
 
 "Dorcas," he said suddenly, as he paced up and 
 down the gravel path, "there is such a sublimity of 
 devotion in her memory of Lowell, that that in itself 
 wins me to her. I respect and love her for her very 
 loyalty to my brother." 
 
 Dorcas stooped and pulled a weed out from among 
 the carnations. Presently she said, and very insist- 
 ently: 
 
 "Doyt at least loves you as a brother and very 
 dearly. Her very gratitude to you makes her tender." 
 
 He looked into her face. 
 
 "Aunt Dorcas," he said, and there was a show of 
 impatience in his manner, "there's no use discussing 
 that view of the case, I couldn't 3tay here and be a 
 brother to her, if I would," he said bitterly. "Society, 
 under its present vulgar training will not allow it. I 
 am ashamed to tell you, but I've had hints already 
 of what is being said in regard to my coming here, 
 and quite possibly I do not know all that has been 
 said. There is a shadow of a possibility that I have 
 already injured her pure name. I can't remain here 
 even as a brother and not come to see her," he said 
 
292 ^1^ ^^^1^ MADE HER. 
 
 in a tone oJ' gentle inflexion, "J 'am not strong enough 
 for that. Aunt Dorcas, I lii^e the people here among 
 whom Ym work lies. I like my work; I love ni}^ na- 
 tive state, I love its keen, inspiring air, I love its 
 even temperature, its cheer and its beauty and its 
 generous bounty. I like the peace of the place here — 
 its trees, its comfort; the inanimate things here even 
 are sacred to me, yet I must avoid it as if I were a 
 leper. I must get away from it all as far as I can. It's 
 against my creed but I shall have to practice the doc- 
 trine of endurance. It can't be true, Aunt Dorcas, 
 that there is any chance for being continually happy 
 in this world, though we do get a taste of bliss some- 
 times. My brother's life here — just think of it — must 
 have been perfect, yet he was snatched away. I don't 
 suppose after all, a man has any right to expect so 
 much happiness on earth as I have known here since 
 Gerald began to get Avell,'^ and the soft sunny light be- 
 gan to come back to those blue eyes of his again. 
 
 "Look here, Lawrence, Doyt is young and Lowell 
 was worthy all the love she gave him, but I don't 
 think she will always remain single. Till you came 
 unexpectedly into our lives, all love, light, joy, happi- 
 ness was but a memory. In spite of all her devotion 
 to her dead Lowell her heart was learning to love the 
 living Lawrence. She could not understand herself." 
 
 "It will be hard for. me to say good-bye," Lawrence 
 replied; "my heart will yearn for her as long as I live. 
 I have found such sweet rest here, but now I must 
 push out into the world again.'' 
 
 He began to see his way in a new light and to have 
 different notions of his duty to Doyt. He forgot that 
 she was his sister. He saw only how fair was her face, 
 how lustrous blue her eyes, how slender her long, 
 lovely, white fingers, how ethereal her beauty, how 
 lovely her character. There was between them a 
 soothing sense of mutual interest. 
 
 Dorcas continued: 
 
A STORY OF CALIFORXIA LIFE. 293 
 
 ''I don't think you can ever realize, Lawrence, what 
 your coming home has been to her and her child." 
 
 "I go away heart hungry, for Doyt has been such a 
 delightful companion. In justice to the wife of my 
 brother, I cannot, dare not, remain longer.'" 
 
 Dorcas replied with a significance in her manner: 
 
 "Lawrence, go see Doyt before you make up your 
 mind to go.'' 
 
 At that moment Doyt came into the garden and, 
 seeing her guest and friend, advanced and greeted 
 him Avith a cordial smile of welcome. 
 
 Dorcas, after plucking a bouquet of flowers, en- 
 tered the house. 
 
 Seating themselves on the rustic seat beneath the 
 magnolia, Doyt said: 
 
 "Lawrence, I have waited the opportunity to tell 
 you how overwhelming is my gratitude for all you 
 have done for me. It was you who saved Gerald and 
 me from a lifetime of remorse. You came to me in 
 my darkest hour, vrhen one I had trusted failed, when 
 the thought of the possibility of his perfidy wrung my 
 heart. Next to the memory of his father, I shall 
 teach my boy veneration for you. I shall train him 
 to believe that he owes his life, health, and perfection 
 of form to you. After a year of human agony, 
 through vour coming, I Avas brought out into the sun- 
 light."' 
 
 He listened with poignant intensity. 
 
 "There was no brightness for so long a time until 
 yoLi came. Till you came all my prospects were deso- 
 late, my life blighted — but for you it would have been 
 one long torture." 
 
 x\s she was talking they had arisen. They went to- 
 gether into the parlor and stood under LowelFs pic- 
 ture. Pointing to it, she continued: 
 
 "Death took hiui when he was young and honored 
 and loved. AVhen he had activity of brain and 
 strength of limb, when his pulse was strong, when the 
 
294 ^^^^ ^^OD MADE HER. 
 
 work! about him was full of joy and loveliness. With- 
 out opportunity to say good-bye, we parted. When I 
 kissed his lips for the last time, they were cold and un- 
 responsive. The house was once so happy. It is 
 sacred to me now for the joy I have known in it, but 
 after they had gone and until you came it was dark 
 and lonely." 
 
 To hear her thus talk enriched his own remembrance 
 of his brother. 
 
 "I used to wonder how it was that I was so happy 
 and others had so much misfortune. Not for the 
 world would I become alienated from the friend who 
 has done so much for me." 
 
 Words of such thrilling meaning went into Law- 
 rence's very soul — a flush overspread his face. She 
 continued, now with her great blue eyes suffused in 
 tears: 
 
 "If you should go, it would be like losing Lowell 
 again." 
 
 Slic faltered, she turned from the picture and looked 
 at Lawrence. He was so handsome, a counterpart of 
 her husbaud. She saw the same fairness of brow, the 
 same smile, the same cleverness of brain, the same 
 tenderness toward woineu, the same sympathetic heart 
 for all who suffer. 
 
 Lawrence, taking her by the hand said: 
 
 "You have forced me to speak, Doyt; I have learned 
 to love you, I cannot, try as I will, no matter where 
 I go, unlearn the lesson. Because you were once my 
 brother's wife, a barrier lies between us. For this 
 reasou 1 must go away again and live in exile. My 
 love came too late. All that is left to me of kindred 
 in all the world is one little child." 
 
 Doyt, smiling through her tears, answered: 
 
 "T did not believe that anything like this would 
 ever come to uie again" — hesitating a moment' — "till 
 vou came." 
 
-4 .STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. 295 
 
 There was untold love in the eloquence of her tell- 
 tale eyes. The lovers drew together in mutual em- 
 brace and lips became glued to lips in unpremeditated 
 ecstaey. 
 
 Lawrence's ethical objections to their union in a 
 moment were scattered to the winds. 
 
 "We three are all that is left/' she murmured, "and 
 we seem to belong to each other." 
 
 She felt now that she would by him again be shel- 
 tered by tenderest love and care, and as his wife a 
 sweet, peaceful future awaited her. 
 
 "The peace of the days since you came, Lawrence 
 bore such a resemblance to the olden time, when hap- 
 piness was triumphant, that I long to have them con- 
 tinued. You saved the life of my boy, Lawrence, and 
 you saved to me my youth, and I feel that both be- 
 long to you." 
 
 Like a tired bird, whose wings were spent from long 
 striving with a storm at sea, she laid her head upon 
 his shoulder and was at last at rest. 
 
 END. 
 
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