the exquisite Pomo baskets now admired and valued by white people even more than by their artistic makers. Bracelets are woven of ka yah edge to edge held by entwined threads, whilst the necklace is a gem of savage art. To a loop around the neck is attached in front and dangling to the knees, ten pendants composed of strung ka yah, interspersed with small brilliant pieces of póh and hot sy dáh, while the tips are larger coins edged with crimson woodpecker scalps. The effect is strikingly becoming to the majélla's complexion, especially when flushed with excitement during the "acorn dance."

This ceremony occurs in October, when nature's harvest is ready for the gatherer, and at its conclusion the women disport themselves in all their bravery. It is a rare opportunity to see the varied ornamental capabilities of wampum. From a feather and minkskin headband down to her glistening anklets, including a belt weighing sev

eral pounds, each majélla is bespangled with native coins, and wo to her if a kinsman or sweetheart is unlucky in the gambling house, for his stakes must be replenished from her jewels, and she who goes in a belle may come out a beggar.

Despite the ancient coiner's continued activity, the supply is steadily and rapidly decreasing. The explanation is the lavish devotion bestowed by the Indian upon his dead. The corpse is laid out on the ground and decked not only with all the valuables in the family, but each sorrowing friend contributes his quota. First the mouth and hands are filled, the breast covered, and in proportion to the deceased's popularity the body is more or less hidden from view. Each funeral pyre impoverishes a clan and destroys the product of infinite labor.

The race of the primitive Pomo is nearly extinct, each year decimates his ranks, and a single decade will in all probability end the very last of wampum makers.

HE great difficulty of telling a true story is in giving it a sufficient appearance of realism. How many artists have stood before a sunset, saying longingly to themselves that such -colors on canvas would never be believed, and when it is nothing so grand as a sunset, only a little flower dropped by the wayside, of dull colors, but so natural in appearance that passers by think it a paper flower, well, perhaps after all it is not worth while picking up.

Dorothy was a very "nice" girl. That, even more than her prettiness, made her charming, for no one denied that she was both charming and nice. Although Dorothy was born and brought up in a Western town her mother had clung closely to New England traditions of "bringing up," and by taking her "East" frequently, endeavored to keep up her Massachusetts connection, for Mrs. Dalton did not like the West. If it had not been for her husband's ill health she never would have come out at all, as she always explained, and failing to find a single advantage or delight in a Southern California home, sighed for symphony concerts, big churches, and conservatism, and abided fiercely by the idea that Dorothy should grow up as near as possible such a girl as she would have been "at home." This had caused Dorothy some discomfort, but had also given her something of a prestige. Dorothy had never been allowed to have school girl flirtations as her friends had. Dorothy never went to a party until she was eighteen, she never went driving with young men, she wore her hair straight back from her forehead. However, when the style came in of parting the hair, Dorothy was quite prepared for it, having always been bangless, and the way her brown locks rippled down each side her forehead was quite sufficient recompense. When Dorothy did it, she was just twenty. A tall, slim girl, strongly made, with a face full of serenity and sweetness.

Her eyes

were big and brown and she seldom talked. Doubtful mothers always watched what Dorothy Dalton did, and then allowed their daughters to do likewise. The community was certain that whatever Dorothy did was sure to be proper, if not particularly colored by originality, but whether she was beloved or not is another question. She knew very few people intimately and she had a nasty little way of looking over people's heads, whom she did not wish to see.

That summer when she was twenty, Dorothy went with her aunt to San Francisco and stayed with her at the Palace. She visited school friends while in Oakland and had a very good time. People liked her very much, though none of them became well acquainted with her, and always after she had gone, wished they had known her better. Some of her friends told her there in Oakland that at least two of the young men had fallen in love with her; she wrote this news decorously to her mother, and was as careful as before, not to go out alone with them. They both sent her a great many flowers when she went away, and gave out mysterious hints of coming down to see her in the winter, which she received with impartial smiles.

Now, she was starting down the coast on the steamer, and alone. Her aunt had been obliged to go on East, and though Mrs. Dalton's letters were full of startled admonitions, had left her twenty-year-old niece to go home by herself.

My dear child, [Mrs. Dalton had written] I am very much worried at the idea, but still I know I can trust you, and it has to be done. Be sure to stay in your stateroom, almost entirely; and it will only be three days.

As the steamer glided away from Pier No. 2, Dorothy stood in front of her stateroom door, waving her handkerchief to her friends, who soon became mere specks in the distance. She was quite content to go home and she also had a distinct feeling of satisfaction with herself and life. Her dark blue suit was of the very latest cut, her white, stiffly starched shirt-waist and

tie were spotless, and her veil was drawn very neatly over her broad-brimmed hat. She remembered a friend's parting instructions and went down to the dining room as soon as the gong sounded, before the boat crossed the bar. The tables were full, women with their veils rolled up on their hat brims, men with their traveling caps in their pockets, and all in more or less of a hurry. Dorothy had a seat at the captain's table, and took the trouble to unpin her veil and take it off. This operation completed, she ordered soup, and it was not until she had finished this that she glanced about.

Everyone was looking at her, or so it seemed at the moment. A couple opposite, stout people with heavy gold watch chains, smiled on her and passed the celery, which she refused. Her neighbor on the right, a young man reading a San Francisco paper, had turned a little away from her. Dorothy noticed, however, that he was dressed very well and had light hair. At the moment she looked at him he folded his paper up very suddenly, wheeled around in his chair, and caught her glance. She was too startled to look away at once, and saw, though she did not understand, a sudden change come over him. He straightened up to a less lounging attitude, drew his feet up under the table, and refused the wine list. He was a very handsome man indeed. Dorothy thought she had never seen so handsome a man. He was much better looking than either of those two young men in Oakland. Beside his fine proportions, he had to recommend him a clean-shaven, well shaped face, a pair of large dark eyes with black lashes, and light hair which, though cut short, still curled over his forehead. He and Dorothy ate in strict silence, with their eyes on their plates, and Dorothy did a thing she was never known to have done before, she dropped her knife.

When she went upstairs she went directly, as bidden, to her stateroom. The boat was rolling fearfully but she did not mind it in the least. If she had been ill she would have gone to bed, but she had never felt better in her life. She stood leaning in the door, looking out, with her hat off, and the wind playing great havoc with her wavy locks. Everyone had disappeared somewhere, and putting on her hat, she

I went out and stood in the stern of the steamer, looking back over the seething track. She had to brace herself by holding on to a post, but she was quite happy. She had never felt half so free and strong and jolly in her life. Getting rather cold at last, she went swaying back to her room with her hat closely held on by her two hands, and wrapping herself in a big shawl, unstrapped "Romola" from her boxes and began to read. This was the only one of George Eliot's works that she had never read, and her remissness had always been a matter of shame to her.

It was so extremely hard to read with the boat rolling this way that she got along but slowly, looking up now and then at the rail outside as it rose and fell, and at the gray, noisy water beyond. It grew calmer after a while. People began to pass the cabin door and Dorothy became quite interested in their regularity. She began to know which just one was coming next on his walk around the deck. There was a tall young man in a sombrero, and very long overcoat, who had a little woman on his arm, with very black eyes and dressed in black. Then a youth with his overcoat buttoned up tightly, his cap pulled down over his ears, and his hands in his pockets, two girls wearing too much jewelry, and worsted scarfs over their heads, who were laughing a great deal, a man with a red beard, an old woman with a red feather in her hat, who kept bumping up against the wall of the cabins. Man with sombreroyouth with overcoat-girls with jewelrythe effect was rhythmic on her conscious

ness.

Once she noticed that the youth and the two girls were walking together, but looked for other combinations in vain. She was beginning to get sleepy when the gong sounded for dinner, and she got up hurriedly with a delightful sense of change, pinned her hat on neatly, after smoothing back her hair, and went down. Her cheeks were quite red, and she had never looked prettier in her life. The young man at her right, although he was so handsome, seemed quite overcome. He hardly lifted his eyes from his plate, and broke his bread with the greatest care, but when she was ready for the bread it was there, and when she needed butter, she did not have to remind the waiter. She had to say

thank you to these attentions, although the young man seemed too diffident to respond.

Dorothy became quite at ease. She began to feel a little sorry for this poor young man who was so afraid of her. She noticed, however, that the captain down at the other end of the table had called up a question to him, and that he had answered without the least embarrassment. At last Dorothy turned to him and with a sweet smile calculated to relieve him of his difficulties in regard to her, asked him for the salt.

Even then he did not speak, but bowed and passed the article, at which Dorothy was a little piqued. But when she left the

table he left also, and when she went upstairs and going outside, leaned on the railing looking at the sunset, he came too, and stood looking off. All at once he turned to her, took off his cap with a great deal of grace, and asked her if the sunset were not beautiful.

Here was the objectionable stranger whom Dorothy had for years been warned against speaking to her without an introduction. Did she turn haughtily on her heel, without a word and retire to her stateroom. By no means, the main idea in her mind was not of escape but of what a very handsome and nice young man he was, and she said, with the sunset glow on her face:

"Yes, indeed, how beautiful, beautiful, it is out here, I have never been out on the ocean before," in a confiding and joyous voice that the young man in Oakland had not been familiar with, whereupon this young stranger launched out into descriptions of Italian and South Sea sunsets he had seen until Dorothy was quite lost in a world of fading rosefire, tinted water, and cool breezes.

He stood leaning against the prop to the upper deck, looking down at her and talking while she looked out toward the sun. Now and then she looked at him, but not often. What did Dorothy feel? That she had never been so happy in her life.

At last, when the sun had quite disappeared, a star or two came out, and the youth and one of the bejeweled maidens began their promenade again. Dorothy remembered and went to her stateroom.

When she took off her hat before the glass, she was a little surprised to find herself smiling. "Romola' "Romola" was lying face downward on the floor. The next morning she was up very early, walking around the deck to keep warm, her gloved hands thrust down into the pockets of her jacket. The strange young man was up very early too. They walked together. Dorothy talked very fast and with a great deal of animation. This young man seemed to understand everything. He understood her liking for George Eliot, he agreed with her preference for Emerson to Carlyle, he, too, disliked the class of people on board, he, too, usually traveled by rail. They went down to breakfast together, knowing each other very well, and talked so much together and with such a good understanding between them, that it was rumored, more especially by the fat couple opposite, that they were a bridal couple who had quarreled the first day.

When they went up again the sun was out, and they were scudding along in a sparkling

the young man said, looking at her earnestly. Shall I leave you?"

66

Dorothy blushed and "Romola" closed with a snap.

"No, stay," she said, "Mr. Hastings."
Mr. Hastings stayed.

"I have traveled a great deal," he said. "More in Europe really than in America. I like nothing better than traveling; one gets a broader, larger view of life. People who stay at home get into certain grooves that they can't break out of. They do the same things over and over in the same stupid way, and bend to the same prejudices. They don't get the big things out of life. They don't understand that this world is a great place, with millions and millions of souls in it, each traveling its own road, all doing different things, all good in their way, all interesting. It makes one tolerant and not afraid."

"Yes," said Dorothy breathlessly.

"I like English girls," he went on. "They are handsome and sedate, and they make good friends, I like French girls, they are so shy, and American girls are the most beautiful and fascinating under the sun. They are all flirts though. You can't depend upon them."

Oh yes," remonstrated Dorothy.

"American girls have so many admirers," said Mr. Hastings. "You are always certain, if you are a man, of being on a list, perhaps fourthly and perhaps tenthly. You have to know them pretty young to be firstly"

Not all of them are that way," said Dorothy innocently. "It may be of course because I am not attractive, but I have never had a love affair in my life."

"It certainly is not because you are not attractive," said Mr. Hastings. "I suppose you mean men have been in love with you, but you have never cared for anyone yourself."

Dorothy thought of the young men in Oakland, and said, "Yes."

"I think I understand you already -- a little," said the young man. "Though all women are to a certain extent charming puzzles. You are not responsive, you will always know immediately whether you like a person or not, it does n't depend at all upon what he would do." He looked off, a little sadly over the water. Dorothy looked at him.