a new deal. And don't you go to talkin' of thet lady as my sweetheart—it's—it's—sacrilegious—and the meanest kind of a bluff. "
As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had expressed but little interest in it, and had evidently only withheld his general disgust of Gabriel's weakness from consideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlin condescended to explain his apparent coldness.
"There's a witness coming, Olly, that'll clear your brother—more shame for him—the man ez did kill Ramirez. I'm keeping my sympathies for that chap. Don't you be alarmed. If that man don't come up to the scratch, I will. So—don't you go whining round. And ef you'll take my advice, you'll keep clear o' that court, and let them lawyers fight it out. It will be time enough for you to go when they send for me."
"But you can't move—you ain't strong enough," said Olly.
"I reckon Pete will get me there some way if he has to pack me on his back. I ain't a heavy weight now," said Jack, looking sadly at his thin white hands, "I've reckoned on that, and even if I should pass in my checks there's an affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell's hands."
Nevertheless, on the day of the trial, Olly, still doubtful of Gabriel, and still mindful of his capacity to develop "God-forsaken mulishness" was nervous and uneasy, until a messenger arrived from Maxwell, with a note to Hamlin, carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins in Court, and closing with a request for Olly's presence.
"Who's Perkins?" asked Olly, as she reached for her hat in nervous excitement.
"He's no slouch," said Jack sententiously. "Don't ask questions. It's all right with Gabriel now," he added assuringly. "He's as good as clear. Run away, Miss Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Look here, Olly, say!—Do you take any stock in that lost sister of yours that your blank fool brother is always gabbing about? You do! Well you are as big a fool as he! There! There!—Never mind now—she's turned up at last! Much good may it do you. One! two!—go!" and as Olly's pink ribbons flashed through the door-way, Mr. Hamlin lay down again with a twinkle in his eye.
He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; most of the guests, and the hostess and her assistant, were at the all-absorbing trial; even the faithful Pete, unconscious of any possible defection of his assistant, Olly, had taken the opportunity to steal away to hear the arguments of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Olly echoed along the vacant corridor he felt that he possessed the house completely.
This consciousness, to a naturally active man, bored by illness and the continuous presence of attendants however kind and devoted, was at first a relief. Mr. Hamlin experienced an instant desire to get up and dress himself, to do various things which were forbidden—but which now an over-ruling Providence had apparently placed within his reach. He rose with great difficulty, and a physical weakness that seemed altogether inconsistent with the excitement he was then feeling, and partially dressed himself. Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintness and vertigo, and staggering to the open window fell in a chair beside it. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and he tried to rise but found it impossible. Then the faintness and vertigo returned, and he seemed to be slipping away somewhere,—not altogether unpleasantly nor against his volition—somewhere where there was darkness, and stillness, and rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it seemed to him, to a room full of excited and anxious people, all extravagantly and, as he thought, ridiculously concerned about himself. He tried to assure them that he was all right, and not feeling any worse for his exertion, but was unable to make them understand him. Then followed night, replete with pain and filled with familiar voices that spoke unintelligibly, and then day, devoted to the monotonous repetition of the last word or phrase that the doctor or Pete or Olly had used, or the endless procession of Olly's pink ribbons and the tremulousness of a window curtain, or the black, sphynx-like riddle of a pattern on the bed quilt, or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that was turbulent and conscious, and wakefulness that was lethargic and dim, and then infinite weariness, and then lapses of utter vacuity—the occasional ominous impinging of the shadow of death.
But through this chaos there was always a dominant central figure—a figure partly a memory, and, as such, surrounded by consistent associations; partly a reality, and incongruous with its surroundings—the figure of Donna Dolores! But whether this figure came back to Mr. Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in a cloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or whether it bent over him, touch-
