A desk covered with papers, a shelf displaying a ledger and account-books, another containing works of reference, a table with a vase of flowers and a lady's riding-whip upon it, a map of California flanked on either side by an embroidered silken workbag and an oval mirror decked with grasses, a calendar and interest-table hanging below two school-girl crayons of classic heads with the legend, "Josephine Forsyth fecit,"-- were part of its incongruous accessories.

The young girl went to her desk, but presently moved and turned towards the window thoughtfully.

The last gleam had died from the steel-blue sky; a few lights like star points began to prick out the lower valley.

The expression of monotonous restraint and endurance had not yet faded from her face.
Yet she had been accustomed to scenes like the one she had just passed though since her girlhood.

Five years ago, Alexander Forsyth, her uncle, had brought her to this spot--then a mere log cabin on the hillside--as a refuge from the impoverished and shiftless home of his elder brother Thomas and his ill-tempered wife.