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ACK VIBBERT, literary

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and diluter of science for the masses, had staked his all upon a Romance and failed! Against the Old World setting neither well drawn characters nor striking situations could avail, for America for Americans was, he found, the modern literary cry. Nothing daunted, his thoughts turned to a recent legacy a rancho in California: his tenants, Janks & Jatta, had urged him to inspect the property; make arrangements for a fresh lease. Of facile enthusiasms, he caught at the ideasaw himself a limner of Millet-like groups outlined against a vivid Californian sky, and felt that there awaited him the setting for a Romance native to the soil.

So he journeyed Westward, feeling that Fate had destined him to exploit the Golden State; to find in its romantic past, its shifting present, its boundless future, undiscovered mines of material. A November day found him at Vaquero Water, where no warmth or sunshine greeted him, the yellow stubble and barren pastures were lying dull under a lowering sky. Bushes of grey, ghost-like milk weed. dotted dark patches of "summer-fallow," and gave a last touch of desolation to the scene, while the artistic red-tiled adobe of his visions was replaced by a rough shanty-the typical squalid, shadeless shanty of the tenant farmer.

Confined to this dreary abode by a sprained ankle, he soon realized

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that the tenants did not recall Millet in any mood: in no sense were they picturesque, and the commonplace talk of crops, the endless speculations on the possibility of rain, annoyed, repelled him. To discern the emotions, perhaps the tragedies, hidden neath this sordid crust, sympathy, imagination, were required, and these he lacked. Happily, the monotony of this life was broken by the advent of Phillip Bosworth, owner of a neighboring rancho. An anomaly, he seemed to Vibbert: bent shoulders, mis-shapen hands proclaimed him a laborer; manner and voice as clearly revealed the gentleman. He announced his intention of carrying Vibbert a captive to the Smoky Jack-no use protesting, he added with a jolly laugh. His wife was a capable nurse, who enjoyed lording it over helpless man-the horses would not stand-his guest must make haste! In short, Vibbert, nothing loth, was whirled away to the Smoky Jack, where Mrs. Bosworth awaited him on the veranda.

She ushered him into the parlor, and with deft fingers undid the clumsy bandages, while he, struck by the curious lack of harmony in his surroundings, leaned back in unaccustomed luxury, and surveyed the room at his leisure. On a painted shelf stood a jar of costly Worcester; cheaply bound novels jostled rare editions of the classics; Daghestan rugs were upon the bare pine floor, and laid against the flimsy wall paper was a magnificent specimen of the Bokhara loom.

Suspended from a heavy brass rod, glowing with subdued color, it struck in the long, low room a brilliant, unexpected note.

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"Incongruous, is it not?" Mrs. Bosworth had interpreted his glance aright. "That same incongruity you will find is the keynote of life in this part of the world!" She gave a final touch to the bandage, and glided from the room, while, left to himself, Vibbert reviewed the situation: of the Janks & Jatta type clearly nothing could be made; the side of California life presented by the Bosworths was equally characteristic, finitely more interesting! Mrs. Bosworth in particular appealed to him; standing on the veranda, her creamy skin had showed up well against the dusky adobe background, and then, her voice piqued his curiosity-its absolute lack of expression when speaking of the keynote of her life, accorded ill with the flash of her glorious darkgrey eyes. Did the Fates permit, he might cause them to flash again, might infuse animation into the lifeless voice, glean material in plenty for the California Romance-Bosworth disturbed these musings, in his breezy autocratic fashion ordering Vibbert to his bed. He breakfasted in his room, seeing nothing of his hostess until late in the afternoon.

She was a busy woman, she declared as he laughingly accused her of neglect.

"So said your young son; but," he added, "some day she will die, and then she will have such a good rest! And now-do tell me how you whiled away the time ?”

"Rest assured that cooking, dishwashing, housework, teaching, have most effectually whiled away the day."

"I fear that my presence is an additional tax upon you, so I shall return to my charming country house."

"My husband will be sorry to lose you," responded Mrs. Bosworth coolly, her quick ear detecting the note of insincerity in voice and words.

"And you," he cried, with a child's spoilt vanity, "will not!!"

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She had seen so little of him, she murmured; even now the dinner claimed her attention-here was Phillip "he," with a provoking smile, "would take her place."

"One moment, Mrs. Bosworth, may I not dine with you to-night?”

"Of course," heartily interposed her husband, "you have been alone all day -we have neglected you shamefully!" When Vibbert entered the redwood panelled dining room, Mrs. Bosworth was seated at the table, her snowy neck and arms set off by a shabby black lace gown-an evident relic of better days. Phillip remarked on the dainty viands, declaring that only Vibbert's timely appearance had saved him from starvation. The larder had been beastly bare of late!

"We follow the ranch law," said his wife, hastily. "Reserve the best for the stranger within your gates, and for him kill the fatted calf."

"Turkey, rather. I plucked this fellow for you myself, Vibbert, but a merry chase he first led me. Oh, so, like our Austrian neighbor, Wachtel, you have an eye for these contrasts. 'One arrives,' he used to say, and figure in battered overalls appears, a hoarse voice cries, 'go in: I'll put up the horse,' and half an hour later, one's host appears in faultless evening dress! Frankly, Mr. Bosworth, a transformation scene from a pantomime!"

"So all the ranch's a stage," said Vibbert.

"Yes," rejoined his hostess, "and every player takes a double part. It is hard for us; we are so hampered by instincts, traditions unknown to the others. Life for our neighbors is a simpler, happier thing." Rising as she spoke, Mrs. Bosworth led the way into the parlor, where, cares and cooking left behind, she seemed transformed: eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing, she talked brilliantly on every theme; the dull, even voice, Vibbert found, but lent an added piquancy to lively speech. He followed her lead, regarding, with a feeling bordering on contempt, the comfortable figure of

Bosworth pulling on his long churchwarden. With a trace of the same feeling he afterward thought over the conversation.

"Sickening marriage!! A woman of the twentieth century, immensely clever, alive to the very finger tips, and tied to an Anachronism! How her eyes flashed as he wished himself living a hundred years ago! I doubt," with a fatuous smile, "if she often enjoys such an evening.

But when, on the following morning, he encountered her on the veranda, she looked wan and spoke with evident effort. Her husband had just returned from Vaquero Water, bearing several letters which Janks had forwarded to the Smoky Jack. As it was ironing day, she would be in the kitchen for the next few hours. Could she do anything for him first?

"Mrs. Bosworth," he cried, impulsively, "pardon the question, but I really take the most tremendous interest in you-do you like this life of drudgery?"

"Distinctly-no!"

"How could you! Sickening for any woman of culture, but for youyou, with your unusual powers, your brilliant mind, to be buried alive Mrs. Bosworth, it is criminal! Is there no way out-a servant?"

"Impossible-as you know."

"Yes, yes-pardon my thoughtlessness. Still-it is wrong, it is cheating the world to waste in the heavy toil, the heart-breaking cares of a life like this, the superior-may I say, the truly remarkable ?-intellect, which I believe you possess." Even his deep, and truly sincere, admiration for the woman could not keep out the tone of patronage which was habitual with him. "Mrs. Bosworth, why have you never thought of writing?"

"I have thought of it. The work?" Her voice had a touch of sarcasm.

"Let the work go-or give up something else. Your studies-the German, for instance; you have set aside certain moments of the day for that. Why not drop it for a while at least -devote the same time to a book-a

novel, for your insight into human life is keen. With a few moments snatched from each day, you will find your task not so difficult as you imagine."

"You are kind!" She spoke with a certain hesitation. "I will think over your advice." She handed him the letters, and passed into the kitchen.

Comfortably ensconced on the veranda, Vibbert read Fanny Loughborough's letters. Poor, pretty Fanny! The most unhappy girl in the world, she wrote. As he knew, Granny had denounced their engagement in no measured terms, and packed her off to England, where she was encouraging a son of the Duke of Suffolk. "But a coronet does not tempt me," she concluded, fondly, "and I shall always be true to my darling Jack!"

Her darling Jack smiled complacently. He was fond of pretty Fanny, of her dollars fonder still, yet glad to be spared the task of making love to his fiancee. Just now the Bosworths absorbed his thoughts-he would make an exhaustive study of them, and dish them up afterwards in a book-Fanny could wait!

To his ill-concealed delight, Mrs. Bosworth was often at his side, beguiling him, as only a woman could, to talk of his tastes, his aspirations. Yet only where art or literature were concerned did they find themselves in harmony. On the vital points—truth, religion, honor-they were far asunder. And so Vibbert settled down, as in comfortable quarters he had knack of doing; the superficial sensibility concealed an almost pachydermatous disregard for the comfort of others: Bosworth's poverty, Mrs. Bosworth's feeble health, were as nothing compared to the one fact that the place suited him.

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The weather had changed: sullen fogs gave way to frosty mornings. The sharp air brought color to his cheeks, when walking to the field where Phillip chopped the winter's wood. The Romance was not yet begun; persuaded that the duty of the present was the imbibing of local color, he frittered away the time in idle musings.

"Congratulate me!" He swung on the veranda, beside Mrs. Bosworth. "Behold the Good Samaritan! For over an hour I have prodded the black pig delicately behind the ear! Don't frown, madam: it was not a waste of time-I meditated!"

"Meditating over a pig-sty! In this neighborhood, that is called 'lazin' 'round.'

His phrase was more euphonious, retorted Vibbert; at any rate the climate was affecting him; he could comprehend the Spaniard's manana. Oh, growing demoralized, was he? And pray, had the climate affected her?

"Yes," her voice was tranquil, "in what way? Ranch life has destroyed all sense of proportion. You want an instance? What one struggles for is unduly valued; the difficulty of keeping one's belongings spotless has elevated cleanliness far above godliness -to wash, is to pray! the children's daily baths bid fair to turn me into a Pharisee!"

"Do tell me more," he urged, with an eye to future copy.

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"We magnify the importance of trifles; speculate for months Smith's preference for beardless barley-groan over Jones' extravagance in buying a new harrow. In silver, books, rugs, we take undue pride; in brief, attach too much importance to the ordinary attributes of our proper sphere in life-by that, show how we have fallen short."

"You take it calmly," said Vibbert, astonished in spite of himself at this frank revelation.

"To the old adage, 'autre temps, autre moeurs,' one can add 'autre age, autre coeur! An older woman, I no longer kick against the pricks, and only hope for better times. In a town? Heaven forfend! Poverty on a ranch may mean hardship, privation, but a touch of the unexpected, the Bohemian redeems it; in a town it is narrow, sordid, bourgeoise!" She paused, smiling at her own vehemence, and Vibbert, seeing the color steal over her thin cheek, contrasted, as he had too often done of late, this vivid

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intelligence with the doll-like beauty of Fanny Loughborough.

"Apropos of hardships," she resumed, "we plough next week. Harder for me, naturally! Two extra men: cooking by lamplight!"

"What degradation for you to drudge like this!"

"Drudgery of that sort does not degrade me, but-to wait upon the table

play the nurse in public-that, I confess, degrades me in my own eyes. A truce to personalities, Mr. Vibbertthey, and the pig-have consumed the morning." She resumed her needlework, and Vibbert, after a pause, inquired into her unwonted freedom from kitchen cares. It was her annual pre-ploughing holiday, she explained, to be celebrated that afternoon by a walk in the Brush hills across the road. Could he go? Most certainly not! It was too rough for—his ankle!

"Strong as ever!" he retorted coolly. "You start at two? I shall be on hand."

Rounding, billowing to the granite mountain boundary of the old Vaquero Water Grant, rose the Brush hills. Here, a patch of bare red earth relieved the eye; there, a solitary pine stood-grayly transparent-against the clear horizon, yet the general theme was "brush," in all the monotony that the term implies. To reach their destination, they crossed a field redolent of the tar-weed's aromatic scent; an esthetic harmony-flowers of yellowish green, leaves of greenish yellow-the pungent, gummy clung to them as they passed. "A profitable crop?" he affected ig

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'Pon my soul, I don't see how you have kept your heads above water, with three bad years running!"

"We never went in," she retorted, thinking of the thousand petty economies those years could show; whereat they laughed, Mrs. Bosworth with a child's freshness and abandon. Vibbert had never seen her in such a mood; the heightened color, the quick, elastic step, all promised an interest

even keener than usual, and it was with a quickened pulse and flashing eyes that he entered with her upon the deserted track that led into the brush.

"Here is a recipe for these hills," she gaily cried: "Decompose warmest, reddest granite, knead together loosely, cover densely with bushes of sombre hue-only leave a few oak-dotted glades where cottontails may frisk, and cobwebs spread in the early morning their silvery, glistening sheets. Then there are the birds: canyon-finches shall hop in the chaparral; jays quarrel in the trees; the quails call 'cuidado, cuidado'take care, take care!-from hill to hill!" With a satisfied air she surveyed the scene of her hasty sketch. "We have not yet exhausted the Brush." Her voice grew dreamy. "There is a still more barren spot, where, on the hot red earth there grow, at decent intervals, odd, rounded bushes, resembling hedgehogs." He called these hills "rough enough? Wait!" She turned upon him, a mischievous smile dimpling the corners of her scarlet mouth-"that impenetrable thicket is the real thing; you may still draw back!"

Draw back! Never-with the challenge of those laughing eyes! Extending his arms, he plunged on, holding aside the leathern stalks through which she passed.

"The creek-look!" Below was a narrow canyon, where, between the brooding hills there wound a stream of gold; tall, slim cottonwoods were there willows, dwarfed and gnarledthe foliage turned to orange, lemon, yellow, and every shade between. The eye grew surfeited with this wealth of color, glaring against the sombre brush.

They gazed in silence; then

"It is beautiful-wonderful," cried Vibbert. "You like it-these hills?"

"Like!" he started at her unusual vehemence-"I love them, love it all -the pines, lonely, mournful, vaguely tender; this warm red earth; the Brush, in all its monotony-above all,

the utter uselessness! Sole spot, in this practical, hard-working life, where cares, worries, may be laid aside, the unceasing struggle for money-nay, for very existence-forgotten!"

The dull, even tone was gone, the mask of reserve through which Vibbert had tried in vain to pierce, had vanished. Her voice quivered with emotion.

"Down there-in the valley?"passionately she pointed toward the ranch-"what room is there for beauty, for ideals, for all that is best and holiest in life? The soul is crushed, stifled by the sordid truths, the hard, unlovely facts of a hard, unlovely life. The mind is dulled, not by healthy labor, but by monotonous drudgery, back-breaking toil, heavy, unceasing. Only here, amid the silence, the beauty, the-the uselessness”—she clung to the phrase "only here, where practical things are impossible, may one dare to be one's true self."

Spell-bound, Vibbert listened. At last, her voice fulfilled the promise of her eyes, low, tender, vaguely troubled, throbbing with passionate feelingfeeling which, perchance, had not been awakened solely by the Brush! Remembering their intimate intercourse of the past few weeks, he spoke deliberately, with slow emphasis:

"Nobly indeed have you schooled yourself, Mrs. Bosworth. Silent acceptance of toil and hardship, quiet endurance of an uncongenial existence, has blinded the eyes of others— to me only have you revealed yourself. Poor little soul, beating against prison bars! Ah! from the first have I divined this, and now-Katherine!" He seized her unresponsive hand.

Astonishment, indignation, had made her silent. Now she spoke quietly, with no trace of her recent emotion:

"Enough, Mr. Vibbert: you go too far! I have discussed with you my thoughts, my feelings! True! And why? As an intelligence I admire you; as a man, I am indifferent. That indifference it is which has enabled me to talk to you as I could not do to