T

HE warm sun of a Southern California winter shone over the little cabin on the Sweetwater. The morning air was cool, but there was little hint of frost in it, although the month was January. The intensely blue sky might have arched over the fertile slopes of the Italian hills, and here, as there, as if to further the illusion or perhaps delusion, might be seen the soft, gray-green of the olive and the more vivid yellow shades of the orange and lemon trees.

But the eye that would have expected long reaches of verdure came here to an abrupt change.

The trees were young and few, and a blight seemed to rest on their youth; the ground about their feet, although it bore the marks of recent cultivation, looked dry and strange, and a sickly blue tint shadowed its brown. A rude but closely built fence protected the little cultivated. patch as a fort might shut in a garrison from a beseiging army, and already pressing close at the

very

gates might be seen that opposing force. Their garb, almost of the same soft tint as the olive, as if to play the spy and slip past the guards, and once in, armed with a thousand sharp lances, the cactus. would fall on the little company and once more possess the barren soil that seemed instinctively to side with the enemy, and grudge even bare sustenance to the struggling trees. A little to one side was a sandy bottomed depression bordered by a few stunted willows, and

called by courtesy the Sweetwater River, from which, also, the valley took its name.

Early in the season, a bride, sick in that desert land for the green mountains and rushing streams of the Eastern States, had driven over from the adjoining town for a sight of a real river. As it was now, so had it been then, and Hamilton had pitied her as she stood bitter and silent, unappreciative of the local joke over which her companions were laughing good-naturedly that "rivers in this country have the bottom on top."

He had felt the same sense of dread and loneliness. The awful barrenness and dryness, the strange instinctive enemies towards every effort at cultivation, mere unknowing plants and animals that they were, gave a sick feeling of helplessness to one whose eyes had known the green hedge rows and comfortable farms of old England.

It was a losing fight. He and Jim. had planted and tended the trees with such care; they had laboriously brought water in barrels on a rude sledge from the cistern of an adjoining and deserted place. But the dreaded scale, following close behind them as they worked, had passed its black finger over the tender green of the young leaves, and left them smudged and marred; as a child might leave prints of sooty. hands on fair, white walls. And they had followed to wash away the marks as a mother might, and they had sprayed until the air was heavy

and defiled with whale oil soap and other odorous mixtures. And what was the result of their toil? The leaves were curled and falling, and what the spray had spared, the alkali soil attacking the roots, was fast destroying. And still no rain nor prospect of any! What would be the result? But stop-why should he think of that now? He had quite He had quite forgotten for the moment that it no longer mattered to him.

The outdoor chores of the morning were done, and he returned to the cabin to prepare for the drive into town. It was a rough structure of two rooms, guiltless of paint and plaster or even cloth and paper, but it was neat and clean and redeemed from utter bareness by its store of books, which, those few who had seen them averred, were no common or ill-selected lot.

But those who spoke from knowledge were few indeed. Hamilton lived very much to himself. He had come unknown among them, from whence he never said; that he was an Englishman was apparent, and no less that he was a gentleman, and it was remarkable in a region that naturally made for freedom and the leveling of all barriers, that to the roughest and most familiar he remained "Mr." Hamilton; Jim alone omitted the title. None knew then or ever if that was indeed his name, either wholly or in part.

He was never known to receive or mail a letter; he never mentioned family or home. He was Jim's partner, and even Jim knew no more than that.

On this particular morning Hamilton carefully cleaned the rooms before his departure; in fact he seemed to be setting all in special order, as for some coming guest or approaching event.

It was still early, however, when all was finished indoors, and by ten o'clock he drove away from the cabin and took the road toward

"town"-no one ever thought of dignifying it by name.

In spite of the desolate country it was a pleasant drive; a turn in the road brought one in sight of the bay, sparkling and blue in the morning sunshine, and off to the left Corpus Christi rose from the water, looking in the clear atmosphere only a few miles distant; down toward the Mexican line the weird form of Table Mountain stood out against the blue sky, clear-cut as a cameo.

But the man in the wagon took little note of ocean or mountains today; his mind dwelt persistently on his errand, and-on his return.

First for his clothes: underwear, socks, a flannel shirt, overalls. He paused-overalls! Well somehow they seemed incongruous, but why? Such clothes he wore and had worn, why should he make any change? As it had been, so it should be to the end. True, if any one had told him a few years ago-would he have laughed in scorn-or knocked the prophet down?

Enough! He would go and have his hair cut; he would take a bath, then the other two errands lastthat was right, they were appropriately last. Then he would go home

to the little cabin. And after that? He Time enough for that later. was on the outskirts of town-and now for business.

The general store would supply most of his wants, so first there. Hawkins, the old store-keeper, was a conversationalist undaunted by scant replies, and Hamilton's purchases were more numerous than was usual unless for a journey, a wedding, or something out of the ordinary, and the old man's curiosity was aroused.

"Looks as if ye might be gettin' married some of these days," he remarked cheerfully, peering curiously into. Hamilton's unresponsive face.

No, Mr. Hamilton had no such change in mind, he was assured,

with a brevity that might well have silenced any, but Hawkins. Nothing daunted, the old man hazarded that maybe he contemplated a trip to 'Frisco. Again he was courteously, denied,

"Wall, now, looks as if ye wuz goin' on some trip somewheres." Well, Hamilton admitted, perhaps he was thinking of a little journey soon. This was the old man's opportunity. "Waal, now, then, ye'll be wantin' some good shoes. Them boots we wear around here ain't hardly the thing for goin' on journeys, and I've got a good lot just come by the steamer this week." Hamilton winced. "No, no, Hawkins, I don't want any shoes. I—I— don't need any." He paid for his clothes, and catching up the bundle. hurriedly left the store. But the thought suggested wouldn't down; over and over it sang itself into his brain: "I'm going on a journey, but I shall need no shoes; I'm going" Heavens! What was he thinking of to let go like this! He wouldn't listen-wouldn't think..

Still fighting the persistent suggestion conveyed by the old man's chance words, he strode across to the barber shop and bath house.

He breathed more freely here. Thank heaven, it wasn't positively unknown for ranchers of the better class to occasionally employ a barber, and his frequent visits to the bath house had long ago been set down to his nationality.

The barber's flow of conversation disturbed no fearful thoughts, and Hamilton had himself well in hand by the time the next errand was reached.

This time he entered the hallway of a building which boasted two stories, and whose stairs were adorned by the signs of the few doctors, dentists and lawyers which the town possessed.

He was gone sometime, and when he emerged he carefully hid a long, narrow paper in his breast. He

stood a few minutes in the lower doorway, and looked up and down the street. He turned to go, and then paused again as if half undecided. Finally he took a deep breath, shook himself together and started out with a swinging stride.

A few steps brought him to the drug store. The clerk greeted him familiarly, anticipating his errand. "I guess it'll take some time to poison off all the gophers and jackrabbits out your way, though,” he remarked.

"Yes," Hamilton admitted. "I wouldn't wonder if it did, but I'll try another dose this time besides the old remedy." He took his usual package and a little bottle, and with a courteous word he was gone.

This finished his business, and now for home. Home! Well, that used to mean something besides a rough cabin and a patch of sterile ground.

He went over to the posts where all the county tied its horses, and stowing his purchases in the wagon, unhitched and turned towards the rancho.

The dust seemed thicker than in the morning; the clearness of the sky was somewhat overcast by a thin haze, and the islands and mountains stood out less clear than before. The first freshness of the day was gone, and with it Hamilton's vigor.

He let the horse take her own gait, and after a little, every beat of her hoofs on the dusty road, and every revolution of the wheels sang to his weary mind: "Im going on at journey-a journey-a journeyI'm going on a journey, but I shall need no shoes." He had no strength to throw it off, and it went on monotonously until in desperation he hurried the horse on as if to drive away from the pursuing voice.

It was barely mid-afternoon when he reached the cabin again, and them he did not drive into the enclosure, but alighting, tied the horse

to the fence and took his parcels into the house.

Nellie, used to care and food, whinnied after him insistently as he went in and shut the door.

Jim would be up from work about sunset and see her tied outside; he would wonder, and later he would unharness and feed her. If she were taken in now it might be sometime before he came; and she might be hungrier. Hamilton had been fond of sturdy, patient little Nellie and he wouldn't forget her

now.

Inside the cabin there was still something to be done. From beneath the bedding of his rough bunk he drew a little book, a few photographs, a written paper or two; only the trifles that meant home and friends and love to the lonely man; all now that remained of the old life which he might never know again.

He sat quietly for a few moments

with them in his hands; at length

he slowly cut the fly leaf from the little book, and taking it, together with the pictures and all the other tokens which made up that most pathetic record of a past, he gathered them into a little heap, and touching a match to it, calmly watched it until nothing remained but ashes.

Turning away he proceeded to attire himself in the new clothing which he had brought from town. A few moments and he stood ready for his journey-all but shoes-all but shoes!

At the head of the bunk, near the window, stood a rough table; on this he laid that long paper, which a few hours ago he had so carefully

hidden in his shirt.

This done, he turned to his bunk and stretched himself upon it. A moment later he put out his hand and left beside the long paper on the table a little empty bottle. Outside the impatient and wondering horse neighed shrilly, but her one-time master lay quite still and unheed

ing on his narrow bed, his arms folded across his breast.

The afternoon wore on to its close, and still the horse stood tied to the fence. Several times Jim's wife looked from her door and wondered, and when at last sunset came, bringing Jim, from his work, his nrst word was one of inquiry.

Yes, his wife had seen the horse there since early afternoon, but no sign of Hamilton; she had wondered at it herself; perhaps Jim had better step across and see if he was there; he might be sick.

The door was unlocked, as usual, and getting no answer to his repeated knocks, Jim turned the knob. and went in.

The sun was nearly gone, and the corners of the room lay in thick dusk; it was very still, with that heavy, overpowering stillness that greets one in a deserted house; apparently no one was there; but as

Jim advanced into the middle of the room, the last bright rays of sunlight struck the window and turned to bright gold the tawny hair and beard of the man lying so still on face, the arms folded on the quiet the narrow bunk; lit up the pallid breast, the shoeless feet; and as Jim, with a smothered sound, turned away, they shone, too, on a long paper and a little empty bottle that lay on the table near the sleeping man's hand.

Sleeping? Yes, but a deeper sleep than any he had ever known was his now, and attended with a strange dignity and majesty that held Jim awe-struck and quiet for those few seconds that he stood gazing on the sleeper. From without, the horse's protest recalled him to himself, and with a groan, he groped his way to the door, and passing out, closed it softly behind him.

Later, men came, and the usual details were gone through with; those in authority gazed and searched, and drew what conclu

sions they might, simple and few enough.

The bottle, with its terse statement, "Cyanide of Potassium," the will duly drawn, signed and witnessed, giving his few possessions to Jim, told the common tale, and yet it was not common.

There was no farewell letter accusing God and man; no picture or tress of hair above the quiet heart; no writing in the various books; from one only, a little worn prayer book, had the fly leaf been lately cut.

There were no letters;

there was nothing.

As in silence and dignity he had come among us, so in silence and dignity had he gone away. And as surely as then, no man might say why or whence he had come, even more surely now might no man venture to say why or whither he had gone.

It was soon over; another day saw the end of the pitiful little tragedy; saw a closed and deserted cabin and a straggling procession winding its way up the desolate hill upon whose crest rested those who slept far from home and in a strange land.

And as they bore him on that last journey, on which, however long, he should indeed need no shoes for his weary feet, the enemy he au fought so hopelessly marched on either side of the road, up to the very brink of the grave itself— striving even there to wrest the land from the dead, as below in the val

.ey they had striven to wrest it from the living.

And so guarded we left him, and there remained only the deserted cabin and an unmarked grave.

I rode through the valley again only a short while ago. The country around it has changed since that other day. Settlements have sprung up on either hand; the enemy has been routed from the many broad acres they once possessed. But the valley itself, shut in as it is, seems about the same. Most of the cabins are gone, Jim's and Hamilton's among the rest, and Jim, too, sleeps on the hill now.

Some of the trees still remain, and the river bed is dry now as then, and here the enemy has retreated, as to a stronghold, and drawn up in battle array awaits its last fight. Its strongest companies still patrol the road up the hill.

Still they stand on either side of the gates of death with their drawn lances, just as they stood on that uay so long ago when he whose very name is well-nigh forgotten where he once lived, took his last journey.

And I wonder now as I wondered then what was written in the little prayer book; whose faces smiled out from those burned pictures; and by what name did they pray in that far-away home for him who dwelt for a little space among us, and whom we knew as Mr. HamiltonEnglishman and gentleman!