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of England clergyman, "it is so far a wet season all over the Continent. I do hope whilst at Oberammergau we shall have fine weather." And I remarked that the famous little Bavarian village was to be my destination. All the time the lady in the corner sat quietly, yet intently, reading. She was dressed in black and was wearing a large black hat with a black and white wing.

It occurred to me that she was large -that if she stood one would find her very tall. Nor was she young, yet her skin had a healthful glow. Now I must tell you that all Californians are, when traveling, homesick to a man, and, glad of a chance to talk of my glorious country, I remarked that the summer which followed the big fire of 1906 in San Francisco brought with it just such weather. I remember that at this point my lady from Chelsea laid aside her paper. "I have ever been interested in California and her people," she said, “and I have always wanted to hear from a San Franciscan of those days." Her voice was most musical yet firm, and I had the feeling as though some one whom I had re-met after long years of absence had spoken. Conversation then became more or less general, though she afterwards confessed to what I was feeling at that moment, that we two were alone in that traveling coach.

the

Dover reached, we gravitated naturally towards each other. A deck-hand placed our chairs together on Channel steamer bound for Calais, and we ordered tea in the quiet way generally reserved for old acquaintance and a sure comradeship. A heavy fog had succeeded the morning's rain, and a rough passage seemed ahead. But I But I was strangely happy, as one who, after much buffeting about, finds himself again at home. Suddenly she said: "I regret not meeting you whilst in London. It would have given me much pleasure to show you my home. But we will meet again, for you will be my guest in Chelsea." My heart sang a psalm of thanksgiving. I would visit this lovely English lady in Chelsea,

and perhaps she would know a literary soul in Cheyne Walk, when the voice. went on: "I want to show you my 'den' as well. I live in Cheyne Walk, but four doors from the old home of Thomas Carlyle." Could it be? But no, I again said mentally: this woman is one of means, of luxurious tastes and of leisure; she would not give time which would be demanded of a litterateur. The voice went on: "I am a very busy woman. I am contributing regularly to three London papers. I am sent to Brussels to report the Exposition." So she was here, the Literary Lady from Chelsea. This fact was realized slowly, and I know not the reason why, but I refrained from telling of my long search for her. The fog was lifting, and on leaving the steamer at Calais, we saw across the Channel the white cliffs of Dover, now glistening in the sunlight.

We left Calais at once, taking the "Boat" train through beautiful Flanders, and while gay Ostend, with its grand bandstand on the sea claimed our attention, I heard much of the life story of my attractive fellow traveler.

She was of Irish birth, had married while very young an elderly Welch barrister. And I judged from her general appearance that in her few short years of married life in her London home she must have been socially a power. At twenty-eight she found herself a widow with small means. Money a-plenty, or rather the luxuries which it purchases, had been hers. So lavish and frequent were their entertainments that the entire gamut of the social scale had been played upon. After the affairs of the estate were settled the young woman found that the expensive establishment must be given up. She spoke of friends who had offered her a home. She preferred to eat the bread of independence, and proffering her services to a few of the leading papers, at once found work to do. And something else she found, for Love had come her way.

Whilst reporting in America on the life of the Indian of the great Northwest (whither she had been sent by

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"Once Dover was reached, we naturally drifted together for the rest of the voyage."

the London "Standard"), she met an American journalist. They were at once mutually attracted. And as we sped along past quaint old Bruges and saw the Belfry of which Longfellow says:

"In the market place of Bruges stands the Belfry old and brown. Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. As the summer morn was breaking in its lofty tower stood,

And the world threw off its darkness like the weeds of widowhood."

She told me with the love-light shining in her beautiful Irish-gray eyes of the quiet wedding which would take place on the morrow in Brussels, of the short Continental honeymoon trip in prospect, and of the time which would bring them back to old Chelsea and to happy work, no longer solitary, but "a deux."

Time was passing. We had opened our compartment window, and as we passed through charming Ghent and along a road lined for miles with Lombardy po ars and copper beeches in

which cuckoos a-plenty were calling, I thought of what this wonderful day had brought me. It seemed as though we had traveled together always, and twelve hours earlier we had not met!

At Brussels in the pretty Gothic "gare," I saw them meet, and it occurred to me that he was a splendidlooking chap and would make this winsome woman happy. My friends were awaiting me. At first I did not see them. I had eyes only for the other two. But they did not see me! So we parted!

I was due in Oberammergau within the week, whither I was going by way of Koln-Wiesbaden, Nuremberg, and of course Munich, as in Bavaria all roads lead to the latter city.

This all happened two and a half years ago. And the last letter received bids me tarry not too long from Old England. I am told that the lamp is trimmed and the hearth is all a-glisten, and that both are awaiting me. And before many months I hope to see again my new-found friend, the Literary Lady from Chelsea.

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Our story opens in the city of Chentu, one of the eighteen provincial capitals of China, located at a remote point far in the interior of that country. Forty miles to the northwest the immense Thibetan highlands spring from the plain. On clear days one can see from the city great glittering ice covered peaks, placed fifty miles behind the first ramparts which the mountains rear, but such occasions are rare in that strange land. It is a region of clouds and gloom, of mists and fog, of dampness and drizzle; a land brooded over by dull gray masses of cloud, through which perhaps for months at a time not a ray of sunshine breaks.

But the Red Basin, where Chentu is capital, is a region of teeming population, of intensive agriculture and enormous commercial possibilities. South of the Red Basin lies a sea of mountains, in the heart of which is the Yunnan plateau, seat of immense mineral wealth, lying ready to be developed as soon as modern science shall be permitted to touch it. All this territory is broadly known as Western China. The foreign merchant and investor has been casting inquiring eyes upon it for the last forty years, only held back by the remoteness of the region, the difficulties of transport, and the exclusive policy of the Chinese. For forty years public and private enterprise-British, French and Germanhas been sending commercial explorers into that territory to spy out the land. George Van Buren was such a one. The spring of the year found him in Chentu, whence he must now travel south several hundred miles overland, to the City of Yunnan Fu, capital of the province of Yunnan. The French, from their possessions in Indo China, were slowly building a railway to the north to tap that region. British capital, in the pay of which Van Buren traveled, wished to be better informed concerning that country. Let us follow him in the vicissitudes of his journey.

A branch of the Yangtze-China's great river-flows past the gates of

Chentu. It is customary for travelers, leaving that city at the time of high water, to descend the stream by boat. But the summer is the rainy season in Western China, and in April the rains had not begun. The water was very low. Consequently our travelers set out by sedan chairs. As they were traveling in style, each chair was provided with four bearers, assisted by two extra men to "spell" their comrades. Behind each chair a pony was led, in case the traveler might prefer a gallop on pony-back. Following these were coolies, carrying the bedding and provisions, which were packed in large baskets, suspended from poles, while servants scurried along in the rear. On good roads in good weather, it is customary to make thirty miles a day in this fashion, stopping for meals and sleep at the rest-houses and inns which are found along the way. For some weeks our travelers had been enjoying the comforts of Chentu, which is considered quite modernized-for China. They must now resign themselves during their journey to living under purely native conditions of the most primitive type.

The end of four days' travel found them journeying along the river bank, one hundred and twenty miles to the south. At this point an opportune freshet had aided them. A flood came booming down the stream. Embarking in a native boat, they made the next hundred miles to the Yangtze in a day, shooting a constant succession of fierce rapids. Here they rested in the city of Sui Fu, preparatory to plunging into the strenuous part of their journey. So far progress had been easy: they had been in the Red Basin, where the country is open and the roads good-for China. But now they were at the border, where the mountainous country on the south begins; where the roads are mere trails, winding over high ridges and plunging into immense chasms, while torrents of blinding rain discouraged the traveler. They followed up the Yangtze for one day's journey. Next morning they were ferried across, and com

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