Genevra Tompkins stood at the door of the log-cabin, looking after the retreating Overland Mail stage which conveyed her father to Virginia City.

"He may never return again," sighed the young girl as she glanced at the frightfully rolling vehicle and wildly careering horses,--"at least, with unbroken bones.

Should he meet with an accident! I mind me now a fearful legend, familiar to my childhood.
Can it be that the drivers on this line are privately instructed to despatch all passengers maimed by accident, to prevent tedious litigation?
No, no.

But why this weight upon my heart ?" She seated herself at the piano and lightly passed her hand over the keys.

Then, in a clear mezzo-soprano voice, she sang the first verse of one of the most popular Irish ballads:-- "O Arrah, ma dheelish, the distant dudheen Lies soft in the moonlight, ma bouchal vourneen: The springing gossoons on the heather are still, And the caubeens and colleens are heard on the hills." But as the ravishing notes of her sweet voice died upon the air, her hands sank listlessly to her side.