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is a glorious afternoon; the air clear and hot, and full of the scent of China-trees, and the glint of humming-birds darting in and out among their purple blossoms. And the little Texas town was so still that it looked like a city in some wonderful dream. The very dogs were asleep. The oxen in the waggons patiently blinked their soft eyes; the negroes drowsed in the sunniest places they could find. The wide, long street-laid out for the future myriads-was like a picturesque painting. Log houses covered with white jasmine and scarlet honeysuckle alternated with deep, windowless stores of stone, and between the shaded sidewalks the broad, sandy street lay, in the white quivering air, like a river of sunshine.

Nowhere was there any sign of human life, except in front of Haney's Hotel, a square wooden structure, with low wide piazzas shading both storeys. Here, around the door, were half a dozen men lying back in tilted chairs, their big fawncoloured Mexican hats drawn over their browsdark men, sallow, and fiercely-whiskered, carelessly dressed, and remarkable for their air of perfect independence and serene indifference.

One in the group was, however, a complete contrast to all the others-a small fair man, not

young, but with a rosy, freckled face, greyishbrown hair, and thoughtful, sad, blue eyes. He alone seemed to be consciously awake. He sat with his elbows on his knees, supporting his face upon his level palms. A commonplace face enough, and yet it had a look that was strangely attractive-kind, and good, and strong-the look of a man who had been through deep waters, and come safely out on the other side.

From two to four o'clock there was scarcely a movement; then, as if some spell had been broken, the place awoke. There was first the trampling of horses, and the men on the piazza slowly raised themselves and looked towards the river. From it came a small body of men riding steadily, silently, swiftly. They drew rein as if they were one man before the hotel door, and waited. In a few moments their leader joined them. He was a handsome young fellow, with a clear-cut, clean-shaven face, resembling very much. that of the first Napoleon. Most of the planters on the piazza spoke to him, and he answered with a recklessness that had something almost sad about it. But he made a splendid picture as he rode with his men slowly up the Avenue, the bright sunlight glinting on the steel of his arms and the silver of his saddle trimmings, and touch

ing with kaleidoscopic effects the crimson and blue and fawn and black of his picturesque ranger

costume.

"What is Captain Nap after now?" asked an old Texan, rising and looking after him; "Indians ?"

"Cattle or horses, more likely," was the answer; and the speaker lazily spit out a mass of chewed tobacco.

Then the small fair man turned squarely round, and said, distinctly,

"Snyder, if I was you, I would call a spade a spade. If you think Captain Nap is a cattle thief, tell him so."

"Not much, Christopher. I would as soon be a mouse and bell the cat. A man's thoughts are his own, I reckon."

"Certainly; but it is not always best to hang them out in public, young man." Then he lifted his rifle, and, going to his oxen, said, "Geranium, Dick, it's about time we were moving."

The two oxen looked up sleepily, but, rising at once, they began to plod steadily homeward, Christopher keeping at their head. He was evidently a privileged character; Snyder had taken his reproof with a tolerant smile, and everybody that passed him had a kindly greeting. When he had got beyond the settlement, and on to the green prairie, he began to sing softly, and

other time, Dick; you are grand company, but we have been an hour coming three miles. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but it is getting dark, and we must foot it livelier."

Perhaps the increased pace was mere imagination, for when Christopher reached his home the great white moon was high in the sky, and the mocking-birds were thrilling the silence with melody. He loosed the oxen, took off their yokes, and said "Good-night" to them, as if they had been human beings, and they rubbed their heads against him with a dumb intelligence that was almost pathetic. Then he stood a moment and looked over the lovely plain, with its undulating waves of grass and flowers, and its little islands of oak and pecan. It was a vision of our lost Paradise, and he said softly, in a kind of adoration, "This is none other but the Gate of Heaven."

His little log house stood open; in fact, the honeysuckle had clambered so over the door that it would have been impossible to close it without breaking the vine, and that Christopher could not bring himself to do. He soon kindled a few sticks, put on his coffee-pot, and took from a cupboard some corn-bread and jerked beef. His face was placid and happy as he gratefully ate his simple supper, and when it was over he moved his raw-hide chair into the moonlight, and sat down to smoke and think.

his face brightened with every verse.

The oxen

frequently turned their large, soft eyes on him; they knew their master, and seemed to time their heavy steps to the music as readily as he did.

Very soon they fell into conversation. "These are bad roads, Geranium; but beasts are not expected to be particular about roads. What do you think of that young man, Dick? One should judge for the best. I know that is your opinion. If I wanted charity I would as lief ask it of a good beast as any other fellow-mortal." And he kept up, the same kind of nominal argument until the sun went down in a pomp beyond imagination. Then Christopher changed his tone. "Hurry, Geranium! We must talk the matter over some

In a short time he heard a footstep keeping time to a clear whistle, and it made him glad. He feared no man, and he wanted some one to talk to. Perhaps when he saw Captain Nap he was a little disappointed. He had hoped it might be some stranger from "the States" who would give him the latest news, and tell him how the world was moving. But the disappointment was only momentary; the Captain had long been familiar to him by report, he had defended him that very day, and love springs readily up after kind words.

It was a coffee-pot Captain Nap wanted. He had neglected to put one in his camp utensils, and it would never do to go to the frontier without

a coffee-pot.

Christopher gave him his own. "He could go to the village next day and get a new one," and then he "wondered if there was nothing else the captain wanted."

"Nothing, Christopher, unless you have a glass of whisky round."

"There is a bottle on the shelf. I bought it five years ago in case of snakes. Rattlesnake poison is pretty rough inside a man, but whisky can beat it." And Christopher looked so sad and still in the moonlight that the captain, very much to his own amazement, felt no further inclination to open the rattlesnake antidote. But in some strange way the men attracted each other. They talked on various topics, and the young man tried to accommodate his conversation to his unusual companionship. When his customary oath escaped him Christopher mildly said "he was against hearing his Maker spoken of in that way," and the captain swore no more in his presence. As he stood up to go, Christopher asked, "Where are you going this time, captain?"

"Cross Timbers and Comanche Peak." "Indians?"

"You are a Texas gentleman, Chris; why are you asking questions like a keen Yankee-or a Scotsman? There's M'Kinney's Scotch shepherd -if you tell him it is a fine day he'll ask you a question in reply."

"Perhaps I ask questions, then, because I am a Scotsman? I come from Aberdeen, and whiles I look over the prairie and fancy I see its granite spires glittering in the sun like a city of crystal."

"I beg pardon, I thought-well, I once heard that you were college-bred, and so I reckoned you was a-Yankee. No offence, I hope."

"I am college-bred. I wore the scarlet gown of the Marischal College, Aberdeen. God for ever bless her walls, and the braw lads who gather there."

"I reckon you studied for the law," said the captain, wishing to be as flattering as possible. "No. I studied for the ministry."

"Possible? You are not a preacher now?" "No."

The conversation had come to a point from which the rough soldier could no longer pursue it. Still, though he could not understand the man before him, he felt that he had an extraordinary fascination; and after a silence which was perhaps more satisfactory than polite speech, he nodded his head in token of adieu, and went whistling softly away across the prairie. Christopher watched him until he was lost in the timber, then he fetched his blanket and pillow and laid them under a great live oak. The Gulf breeze had risen, and the melodious gurgle of that wonderful air of Western Texas was inexpressibly lulling. Christopher faced it with a prayer, and then lay down to sleep among the warm, dry grass, the whole State of Texas for his bedroom.

The acquaintance thus begun ripened slowly into a real friendship, although in all human judgment there was not a single element of sympathy between the men. Whenever Captain Nap was in camp he spent a great deal of his time with Christopher. Sometimes they smoked in silence hour

after hour, sometimes they talked the night away. Again, the young man would go on what he called "a regular tear," then Christopher hunted him up and took him away from the village; and thus in the course of three years ties were formed not easily sundered.

One night, when Captain Nap had been away much longer than usual, Christopher felt that he was coming back. It was a cold night. The deer had gone to the timber, the buffalo had gone west, and the wolves had followed their trail; but the cranes were still in flocks on the prairies, and their frequent challenging cry, "Kewrrooh! kewrrooh!" was like a pistol-shot in the rare, clear air. Perhaps it was this cry that made him guess Nap's approach, for nothing escapes these sentinels of the prairie.

"I should not wonder if the captain is coming," he said, confidentially, to Geranium, as he gave him a few extra ears of corn. "Dick, when he comes he'll look at that sore on your neck, he's mighty clever about such troubles." And the words were scarcely uttered when the well-known cheery whistle was heard in the distance.

Christopher's plain face brightened like woman's, and, with a parting word to the oxen, he hurried away, for once not noticing that the creatures looked after him, perhaps with some painfully unintelligible feeling of jealousy. Never had the captain looked so gay and handsome. His clothing was unusually fine and picturesque, and a splendid Serape Saltillero hung from his shoulders, adding a kind of majesty to a form and face already remarkable for the true imperial look— that look which half coerces and wholly persuades.

"God bless you, Nap! I am right glad to see you!"

"I know it, Chris."

They sat over the blazing cedar logs, and for a while said very little. Nap smiled softly to himself-a smile of genuine happiness. Christopher watched him, and waited patiently for any news his companion might have to give him.

At length Nap fixed his fine eyes on his friend's placid face, moved close to him, gently touched his hand, and said, in a voice wonderfully sweet, "Christopher, I'm in love! Oh, the fairest and sweetest woman! I'm in love, Christopher!' "I am very, very sorry:"

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Oh, no, you are not sorry; why should you be?"

"It is a risk few men are fit to take. If you lose in that venture it is a loss you can never measure or repair. Who is the girl? where did you see her?"

Let me tell you, and don't be jealous of me, old Chris. We camped, three nights ago, by Dr. Hay's place on Orchard Creek. Just at sunset I went over there to tell him there were twelve of his horses among a lot we had taken from some Comanche thiefs near Alvarado. A negro boy told me the doctor was in the house, and I went straight to the open door. He was not there, but

* Serape Saltillero, a blanket in which is interwoven gold and silver threads, so fine and soft that one can be put into a coat pocket. They are made only in the city of Saltillo, Mexico.

before the blazing logs a girl sat, with her hands clasped above her head, slowly rocking herself and singing something that made my heart stand still with pleasure. I watched her ever so long, her slight figure swaying like a flower, till she heard me; then she turned and stood up. Christopher, I shall never forget her lovely face, her soft, shy eyes, her quick, bright blushes! We looked at each other a minute before I could speak, and I don't know at all what I said. Her father is a Texan, but her mother was Spanish; I have found that out. And, Chris, she is the most beautiful woman in the world! Her name is Inez, Chris-I think Inez is the loveliest name in the world!"

Christopher looked sorrowfully at the youth, who went on joyfully-"I've been into Lavenburg's for these new things. Do I look well in them? Do they fit me? Chris, you know lots of poetry, and I want you to write something about love to send her. I'm so happy! I don't believe any man was ever so happy before!" Christopher was still silent.

"Why don't you speak, Chris? Are you not glad?”

"I don't know. Is she a good girl? Does she love you? If not, go to the ends of the earth rather than marry her. I say, captain, I want some one to go to Scotland and make some inquiries for me. Go, and I will pay you well."

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"Not for millions! I could not do it, Chris. Why are you so depressing, old man? Never knew you to throw cold water on a fellow before." "I'll tell you, captain; yes, I'll tell you. Perhaps it may spare you sorrow, and why should I spare myself? Thirty years ago, just whe. he world was all bright and hopeful before me, I met Clarissa St. Clair; the most beautiful woman in the world I thought her. It was on a warm gloaming in August, and I was walking slowly home through the ripe wheat. There was only a narrow footpath, and when half way through the field I met in it a young girl, who seemed to me in the soft yellow light a creature too beautiful to be mortal. I remember that she was dressed in pink, and that her straw hat hung over her arm. There was a wreath of poppies in her bright, fair hair, and her white apron was full of ferns and wood-blossoms.

"Of all the women far or near she was the one least fitted for me, but I was infatuated with her beauty, and I would listen to no one's advice. She was vain, frivolous, and extravagant. Looking forward to the holy profession to which my life was to be consecrated, my best friends reasonably urged such a marriage was a grave injustice to it. But I would not see a fault in Clarissa. Come what might, I was determined to marry her. I had my way, Nap. I hoped all would come right. Nothing came right. In less than a year I knew that I had blasted every honourable hope of my past life for a pretty woman who made my home wretched.

It is no use saying that 'you will not quarrel with a woman under any provocation.' I made that promise to myself over and over again, but she could always make me break it. What a

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miserable man I was! My friends openly pitied me, and I hated their pity and shut myself up from it. And every day I cared less to fight against a sorrow I had lost all hope of turning into good. One day a friend called with a report that set me all on fire. I was angry with him, and what I said to Clarissa I do not remember. Bitter words I know they were. That night she took our child and went to her father's house. He was factor to the Earl of Glencairn, and a man of some influence in the countryside, and people generally blamed me. Things very hard to bear were said about me, and it mattered little that they were untrue in one respect-the public accepted them, and I was too proud to defend myself. I had been teaching, but my scholars left me, and when I shut my schoolhouse doors I knew that I had lost all hopes of that higher office for which I had so patiently and happily prepared myself.

"Very soon after, I left my home and country, and came here. I bought cattle and land, and cast my old life behind me. Now can you understand that a foolish love may wreck a life that has begun well and is full of its own promise?" Oh, Chris! Inez is so different."

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And who can reason a lover out of his conviction? Captain Nap was every day more in love, even though the Doctor steadily opposed his suit. "I can give my girl twenty thousand head of cattle, and land enough to graze them," he said to the handsome, eager captain, "and you have nothing but your horse and your pay."

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One morning when Nap was on the Concho Christopher took a sudden resolve. Geranium," he said, "what do you think if we go and see Captain Nap's little girl? She won't fool Dick and you very far, will she?" So he yoked his oxen, and went leisurely up Orchard Creek. The doctor was delighted to see him, and as they talked over the new "Branding Bill" then before the Legislature, and arranged a trade in horses, Christopher watched Inez in all she said and did. Her beauty was indeed remarkable, and it pleased him that her eyes were pensive, and that her sweet oval face had much the expression of a child's, shy and innocent and eager. His own wife had been bright and witty. If Inez had been coquettish and mirthful he would have feared her by instinct.

The next morning he found her standing under the mulberry-trees feeding her pigeons. "Donna Inez," he said, "I had a message from Captain Nap on Monday night. Buck Burnett had to come down after powder, and he brought it." The girl's eyes filled with terror. "He is wounded-perhaps dead," she whispered. "No, he is not. But I consider him the miserablest young man about a girl I ever knew. I came to see for myself whether he girl was worth worrying about-I think she is and whether she really loves him. I can't find that out. Tell an old man honest and square, do you love Nap as a woman ought to love the man who loves her?" Why do you ask, Christopher?"

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"Because somehow or other I love Nap better than anything else in the world. Fact, I have nothing else to love."

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Well, I reckon I can settle that."

Here the doctor joined them, and Christopher said, "Come, Doc, and walk a hundred yards with me. I have something to say to you, and it's time I was going. I don't like to hurry my cattle, and they have all they can do between now and sunset." The doctor laughed, and, fanning himself with his big hat, strolled on beside the waggon. "Doc, I want to tell you that I kind of favour a marriage between your daughter and the captain." "I don't, sir."

"Now, why, Doc?"

"He has no settled occupation; he has no money, and he is as passionate and ready to fight as a wild steer."

"Well, Doc, I don't know that my heir will need any steady occupation."

"Your heir ?"

"Yes, I've adopted him, I reckon." "That alters things considerable."

"I thought so. What will you give your girl?" "Twenty thousand head, and grazing land on the San Gabriel."

I'll give the captain ten thousand dollars and build a good house for him. I reckon that's square."

"I'm with you."

"Then good morning, Doc. Your girl loves the captain, and I'm for marrying him on that ticket. It's the safest, and a man is not apt to run on it more than once in his life."

He watched anxiously now for the captain, but it was six weeks before he returned to the settlements. As it happened, the first persons he saw were the Doc and Inez. They were taking their morning gallop, and turning round a little clump of live oaks, they met Nap and his men. doctor's greeting was frank and cordial. "Captain," he said, "I'm glad to see you; come over to dinner;" but he left Inez to tell the story of Christopher's generosity.

The

Just before dark Christopher heard the quick strong tread he knew and loved. He was smoking