Had Johnson's "old woman" from some dark post of observation taken a dislike to my appearance, or was this churlish withdrawal a peculiarity of Sierran hospitality?
Or was Mrs.Johnson young and pretty, and hidden under the restricting ban of Johnson's jealousy, or was she a deformed cripple, or even a bedridden crone?
From the extension at times came a murmur of voices, but never the accents of adult womanhood.

The gathering darkness, relieved only by a dull glow from the smouldering logs in the adobe chimney, added to my loneliness.

In the circumstances I knew I ought to have put aside the repast and given myself up to gloomy and pessimistic reflection; but Nature is often inconsistent, and in that keen mountain air, I grieve to say, my physical and moral condition was not in that perfect accord always indicated by romancers.

I had an appetite and I gratified it; dyspepsia and ethical reflections might come later.

I ate the saleratus biscuit cheerfully, and was meditatively finishing my coffee when a gurgling sound from the rafters above attracted my attention.