He was a small, weak looking man, dressed in an ill-fitting and somewhat tattered suit of gray. When he stood up, it was seen that one leg was twisted and shrunken, so that he walked with a limp. His features were not unpleasing, having even a delicacy of outline; the whole effect of which, however, was rather diminished by one of his eyebrows, which extended over only about half the space allotted to it, and had a tangled, fuzzy look, as though it had been singed, and had not yet grown out again. In general, his appearance was that of a man who had had rather a rough tumble with the world, and, through inherent weakness of constitution or character, or both, had too easily gone down in the struggle, and had crawled up again sore and dilapidated, and with very little strength and energy left in him with which to renew the

contest.

He had drifted into the mine, at night, it was supposed; at least he had come to it in such a quiet, unobtrusive manner that no one had chanced to notice his arrival until he had established himself. At the north side of one of the great cedar trees that seemed to mark the limit of the gold-yielding portion of the mine, was a level surface of some twenty feet in width, somewhat more attractive in appearance than any other portions of the plain, having even a suspicion of being a place where, during the proper season, grass might grow. And one morning this level spot was found to be occupied by a torn, weather-beaten tent, in front of which the small, weak-looking stranger was feebly endeavoring to kindle a fire. He had no horse; and it was understood, therefore, that he must have brought his tent and equipments with him upon his It was a very little tent, however;

back.

and his equipments must have been few. Perhaps, too, he had not come from far; for upon either side and at a distance of only three or four miles were other miners, between which and the Paso del Rey was a constantly shifting current of unlucky miners, vainly trying to better their fortunes by change of location.

Small, inefficient looking men, who had seemingly been worsted in the struggle of life, were not altogether unknown at Paso del Rey; perhaps there were as many of them as of those great strapping fellows at the other end of the human line, who, all brawn and energy, occasionally appeared, and for a little while seemed about to carry the whole world before them. And therefore the new comer might have been passed by with merely a glance, and afterwards left unnoticed, had it not been for a rather unusual companionship which he had brought with him. This consisted in a child of about five years, and its appearance caused quite a sensation; since, up to that time, as far as any one could tell, no child had ever been seen there.

Now, under ordinary circumstances, a little child is apt to attract attention only as it is sweet and engaging in aspect, and has its natural attractions supplemented with beauty and tastefulness in dress. In the East, where children are plenty, and almost roll under our feet as we pass by, they commonly remain unnoticed by strangers. But it was far different in the California mines during those early days; and whatever might be the physical qualities of a child, its mere existence in those wilds was always sufficient to attract abundant attention to it. And it must be confessed that this waif upon the mining life could show little beyond its mere presence in those unaccustomed scenes

to elicit observation. In figure, like its father, it was small and stunted. The features were plain, the expression dull and lifeless, the whole appearance commonplace. It was clad in a single coarse garment, worn, patched, and not altogether cleanly. The whole aspect of the child, in fact, was of one born and growing up in abject poverty, its natural uncomeliness intensified by neglect and hardship, and any latent spark of vivacity that might be lurking in its nature repressed, and possibly altogether extinguished, by long continued deprivation of the companionship of other children. Looking critically upon the little creature, one could see no hope for it in the future; merely the working out of a stagnant, cheerless life, that probably never could let it rise above want or drudgery, and year by year would cause the blight of ignorance and solitude to spread more widely over its already deadened nature;

Yet, such as it was, the child attracted attention, and was looked upon with interest, and even with some appearance of fondness, by many of the miners. Some of them must have left children at home; and however much these men may have regarded those absent ones with a longing memory of charms that may not really have existed, they could not now bring themselves to make critical comparisons with this poor child, now so strangely brought to their tent doors. The abstract fact of childhood was there, all the same; and with that they seemed to rest content, Others had left no ties of any description--themselves mere waifs upon the world that seemed to have no need of them; but even to these men, the coming of this child bronght food for thought. It was the beginning of a new era, perhaps. Some day this desultory state of society would pass away, and a more settled state of things replace it. Family life would creep in, and permanent occupation of the soil take place, with its attendant circumstances of schoolhouses, churches, and what

not.

Might this not be the foreshadowing, and even the beginning of the new and better order of things?

So, nearly or from a distance, as it might be, the miners kept an attentive observation upon the little old tent, with its unattractive family grouping in front; and, while going to and from their work, would often make a wide variation from their ordinary direct path, for the purpose of passing a little nearer, for a better glance. A few strolled quite close, upon various pretences, endeavoring to cultivate an acquaintance with the man, but upon the whole, met little encouragement to renew their efforts. He proved himself extremely distant and unsocial in nature, and evidently desirous of no conversation or intimacy. Perhaps it rose merely from natural timidity; perhaps he had already, in some way, suffered so much in his intercourse with other men, that he had determined to avoid them in future. Even the one man who loitered up on pretence of getting a light for his pipe, and then bluntly asked the new comer his name, made little by it.

"Little Biddeford, they call me-on the way across," was the answer. "That was where I came from-and that's enough for a name, in such a place as this."

So the miners learned to speak of him as Little Biddeford; and remaining for a while content with that, began to leave him alone, as he so much seemed to desire-not now strolling any nearer, but watching him from afar, with more distant interest, and wondering how the man could possibly manage to get along with such cares upon him, and no assistance of any kind from any one. For it would generally be a long time in the morning before he would get to work, employing hours in taking care of the little child in front of the tent, combing its hair into semi-regularity, and patching its poor clothing, and now and then reading to it from some tattered book. Then, often nearer noon-time than sunrise, he would be seen

limping off slowly towards a portion of a gulch half a mile away where he had located himself, sometimes leading the child, but more often carrying it upon his shoulder, always, however, taking it along with him, since he could not very well leave it behind. And how at his poor little claim--perhaps the most unlikely in all the mine for profit, since so much was that valuable, had already been located upon by others-could he do much work, encumbered by that helpless companion, and himself forced to be digger, sifter, and washer-out all in one? Well, he must after all be the best judge of what he could do; and as long as he would accept no assistance or advice, what business was it of anybody else?

Strange to say, of all those who endeavored to work into any acquaintance with him, the one who succeeded best was Hank Rollof, the gambler. Hank was not particularly liked by any of the miners, and they would have rid themselves of him weeks before, if they could have done so. He was a rough, dare-devil man, with as bad an expression as might be found throughout the whole Calaveras district; and yet all the same, looked at as a whole, he was a rather magnificent sort of a fellow. He stood six feet three in his boots, was erect as health and vigor can make a man, had bright eyes and fine teeth, and, in spite of his repellant look, could really put on a very agreeable smile, whenever he chose to do sɔ. And it was a little singular that he should have cared to throw himself in the way of Little Biddeford, who certainly had nothing out of which it could pay the gambler to cheat him. But

the springs of human nature occasionally run in very queer directions, and cross each other in mysterious ways, and possibly there really was some soft spot in the gambler's heart, brought into unlooked for tenderness by memory or association. Whatever the impulse, Hank Rollof, as others had done before, drew near the tattered tent on pretence of seeking a light, and with better

success.

Little Biddeford perhaps happened for the first time to be in a mood for sociability, or perhaps he was struck with the magnificent form and attitude of the gambler, so different in every respect from his own puny frame and bearing, and being so struck, did not notice the man's bad aspect. Or perhaps Rollof, being himself pleasantly disposed for the moment, had put on his engaging smile, and overcome the repellant look. Anyhow, for some reason or other, the occasion was favorable, and in a moment the two men were very pleasantly conversing.

"What do you call her?" the gambler asked, nodding toward the child.

Meg," was the answer.

"Meg, eh? Short for something else, I suppose.-But this is rather a hard place to bring a child to, isn't it?"

"Perhaps; but it was harder to leave her where she was. A mere workman in a small town-growing poorer every yearscarcely keeping starvation from my doorno means to educate her, and scarcely able to clothe her-things always getting worse and worse, and no hope at all for the future; is it strange that I thought there might be a better chance here?"

Hank Rollof looked doubtful, with a side glance at the other's twisted leg, but muttered something like a qualified assent.

"I'm not strong, you see," added Little Biddeford, catching the random glance and fully interpreting it; "but there is the chance, for all that. A pocket of gold might open under my pick, as well as under that of anybody else. The chance, I say. But at home there was nothing at all." "That's so. But to come so far with her alone that's what I most look at." We were not alone; there was some one else with us."

"The mother, you mean?"

The little man nodded-sadly looking down, and for a moment not speaking. Rollof, too, kept silence. He was not a

man of delicate perceptions; but in this case, he knew enough to feel that the least he said the better, and that if the other chose to offer anything further upon the subject, it should be without urging or questioning.

"I suppose I might as well tell you about it," said Little Biddeford, after a minute or two of silence. "We left Fort Independence nearly six months ago. There was quite a long train of us. Some had teams

of their own, and some horses. I had a horse for Lucy--that was all I could afford. As we traveled only five or ten miles a day, it was easy for me to walk beside her; they let Meg ride in one of the wagons. Two months out, our horse died; then they let Lucy ride. It wasn't in the agreement, and I had no money to pay for it; but it was a thing they couldn't very well refuse her, particularly as somehow she was beginning to lose strength. Sometimes I think that she may have been a little out of sorts before we started, and that I should have seen it and waited; but I don't know how that might be. Perhaps it was all intended from the first. But she grew worse instead of better; and after awhile, instead of her sitting in the wagon, they smoothed down. the goods inside to make a level, and put something like a bed for her to rest upon, and let her lie there. And as she grew worse-"

"Grew worse, you say?"

"Well-it's hardly necessary to tell the whole story, is it? Of course you must know the end of it, not seeing her here with me. She died at last, a little way off from here." And he waved his hand feebly toward the

east.

"What do you mean by a little way off from here? And how far do you intend to say?" "Only about five miles or so away. It seems as though I can see the place from here at least that I can recognize the swell of the hills, and could easily find the spot again. We didn't know then that we were so near the end of our journey as to be

close to one of the mines. If we had, I think I could have brought her in and buried her here; but all the same, it would have been a waste place and nothing like home to her, I suppose. Well, they stopped and dug a grave for her, and I buried her there and put a few stones on top-in shape of a cross, and to mark the spot, and to keep other things away from disturbing her. And then we started up again, and some of the wagons passed on, and I came in with my tent on my back, and Meg trotting along holding my hand. This was as good a mine We wanted a place

as any for me, you see. to rest in, and somehow it seemed as though I must settle down quiet somewhere to think. Well, that's all."

"A pretty hard time you have had," said the other. "Somehow you've had the luck against you pretty badly. Perhaps after a while, though, the run may be the other way."

He put his hand almost mechanically into his pocket, as though he would have offered money-his only known manner of giving consolation. But he had none to speak of; the cards had been against him of late. Besides, it was very likely that the man would resent the tender of any such aid; small and feeble as he was, there was a look of independence about him, which must be considered, before too freely making any unsolicited offers. So Hank Rollof drew out his hand again empty, and after a word or two more of attempted consolation, strolled rather awkwardly away.

The next day he was back again, and brought the child a few little delicacies in the way of food-such trifles as could be picked up in the not over-stocked stores of the mines; and the day after he appeared with a handful of candies. These had been sent on by mistake with some packages of cigars, and to the wrath of the shop-keeper, who wanted no such unsalable goods in his establishment. But now Hank Rollof captured the whole assortment, and kept it