III.

The California winter had blossomed and faded. The blaze of the poppies

on the mesa had given place to the soft, smoky tint of the sage, and

almost insensibly the cloudless summer had come on.

Work had commenced in Sawpit Canon. Unwillingly, and after much

wrangling, the old woman had yielded to the evident fairness of

Forrester's offer. Even in yielding, however, she had permitted herself

the luxury of defiance, and had refused to appear before a notary in the

valley to sign the deed. If it afforded her any satisfaction when that

official was driven to the door by Colonel Forrester, and entered her

kitchen, carrying his seal, and followed by an admiring and awestricken

group of children, she did not display it by the faintest tremor of her

grim countenance. She had held the end of the penholder gingerly while

she made her "mark," and it was when old Withrow had been banished from

the room, and the notary, in a bland, perfunctory way, had made her

acquainted with the contents of the document, and inquired whether she

signed the same freely and voluntarily, that she deigned to speak.

"Did Nate Forrester tell you to ask me that?" she demanded, darting a

quick glance through the open door at the Colonel, who sat in his

road-wagon under the trailing pepper-tree, flicking the flies from his

roadster's back. "Ef he did, you tell 'im fer me that the man don't live

that kin make me do what I don't want to. An' ef he thinks the two or

three kaigs of wine he's poured into that poor, miser'ble, sozzlin' old

man o' mine has had anything to do with me signin' this deed, he's a

bigger fool than I took 'im to be, an' that's sayin' a good deal."

And with this ample though somewhat novel declaration of freedom from

marital compulsion the notary was quite willing to consider the majesty

of the law satisfied, and proceeded to affix his seal on its imposing

star of gilded paper, a process which drew the children about him in a

rapidly narrowing circle from which he was glad to escape.

"Damn it," he said, as he climbed into the road-wagon and tucked the

robe about his legs,--"damn it, Colonel, I thought you were popular

with the gentler sex; but there certainly seems to be a coolness between

you and the old lady," and the two men drove off, laughing as they went.

The document they had left behind them, which made Mrs. Withrow the

owner of Flutterwheel Spring, "being the most southerly spring on the

west side of Sawpit Canon," had lain untouched upon the table until

Lysander had taken it in charge, and it was this lofty indifference on

the part of his mother-in-law that had justified her in the frequent

boast that, "whatever she'd done, she hadn't stirred out of her tracks,

nohow."

So at last the stillness of Sawpit Canon was invaded. Poindexter had

come from San Gabriel Mission, and with him a young engineer from Los

Angeles,--a straight, well-made young fellow, whose blue flannel shirt

was not close enough at the collar to hide the line of white that

betokened his recent escape from civilization. There were half a dozen

workmen besides, and the muffled boom of blasting was heard all day

among the boulders. At night, the touch of a banjo and the sound of

men's voices singing floated down from the camp among the sycamores.

This camp was a bewildering revelation to Melissa, who carried milk to

the occupants every evening. The Chinese cook, who came to meet her and

emptied her pail, trotting hither and thither, and swearing all the time

with a cheerful confidence in the purity of his pigeon English, was not

to her half so much a foreigner and an alien as was either of the two

men who occupied the engineer's tent. They raised their hats when she

appeared among the mottled trunks of the sycamores. One of them--the

younger, no doubt--sprang to help her when her foot slipped in crossing

the shallow stream, and the generous concern he manifested for her

safety, and which was to him the merest commonplace of politeness, was

to Melissa a glimpse into Paradise.

"By Jove, she's pretty, Poindexter," he had said, as he came back and

picked up his banjo; "she has eyes like a rabbit."

And Poindexter had added up two columns of figures and contemplated the

result some time before he asked, "Who?"

"The milkmaid,--she of the bare feet and blue calico. I have explored

the dim recesses of her sunbonnet, and am prepared to report upon the

contents. The lass is comely."

But Poindexter had relapsed into mathematics, and grunted an

unintelligible reply.

Melissa heard none of this. All that she heard was the faint, distant

strum of a banjo, and a gay young voice announcing to the rocks and

fastnesses of the canon that his love was like a red, red rose. His

love! Melissa walked along the path beside the flume in vague

bewilderment. It was his love, then, whose picture she had seen pinned

to the canvas of the tent. The lady was scantily attired, and Melissa

had a confused idea that her heightened color might arise from this

fact. She felt her own cheeks redden at the thought.

Lysander was at work in the canon some distance below the new tunnel,

"ditching" the water of Flutterwheel Spring to Mrs. Withrow's land.

"That long-legged tenderfoot thinks you're purty, M'lissy," he

announced, as he smoked his pipe on the doorstep one evening. "He come

down to the ditch this afternoon to see if I could sharpen a pick fer

'em, and he asked if you was my little dotter. I told 'im no, I was your

great-grandpap," and Lysander laughed teasingly.

Melissa was sitting on a low chair behind him, holding her newly arrived

niece in her arms. She bent over the little puckered face, her own

glowing with girlish delight. The baby stirred, and tightened its

wrinkles threateningly, and Melissa stooped to kiss the little moist

silken head.

"I--I don't even know his name," she faltered.

"Nor me, neither," said Lysander. "Poindexter calls him 'Sterling,' but

I don' know if it's his first name or his last. Anyway, he seems to be a

powerful singer."

The baby broke into a faint but rapidly strengthening wail.

"Come, now, Pareppy Rosy," said Lysander soothingly, "don't you be

jealous; your old pappy ain't a-goin' back on you as a musicianer. Give

'er to me, M'lissy."

Melissa laid the little warm, unhappy bundle in its father's arms, and

stood in the path in front of them, looking over the valley, until the

baby's cries were hushed.

"Was the pick much dull?" she asked, with a faint stirring of womanly

tact.

"Oh, yes," rejoined the unsuspecting Lysander; "they get 'em awful dull

up there in the rock. I had to bring it down to the forge, an' I guess

I'll git you to take it back to 'em in the morning. I've got through

with the ditch, and I want to go to makin' basins; them orange-trees

west o' the road needs irrigatin'."

"Yes, they're awful dry; they're curlin' a little," said the girl, with

waning interest. "I thought mebbe Mr. Poindexter done the singin'?" she

added, after a little silence.

Her brother-in-law hesitated, and then found his way back.

"No, I guess not; I s'pose he joins in now and then, but it's the

Easterner that leads off."

"Jee-_ee_-rusa_lem_, my happy home!"

Lysander threw his head back against the casement of the door, and broke

into the evening stillness with his heavy, unmanageable bass. Mrs.

Sproul came to the door to "take the baby in out of the night air;" the

air indoors being presumably a remnant of midday which had been

carefully preserved for the evening use of infants.

The next morning Melissa carried the pick to the workmen at the tunnel.

A fog had drifted in during the night, and was still tangled in the tops

of the sycamores. The soft, humid air was sweet with the earthy scents

of the canon, and the curled fallen leaves of the live oaks along the

flume path were golden-brown with moisture. Beads of mist fringed the

silken fluffs of the clematis, dripping with gentle, rhythmical

insistence from the trees overhead.

Melissa had set out at the head of a straggling procession, for the

children had clamored to go with her.

"You can go 'long," she said, with placid good nature, "if you'll set

down when you give out, and not go taggin' on, makin' a fuss."

In consequence of this provision various major-generals had dropped out

of the ranks, and were stationed at different points in the rear, and

only Melissa and Ulysses S. Grant were left. Even that unconquerable

hero showed signs of weakening, lagging behind to "sick" his yellow cur

into the wild-grape thickets in search of mountain lion and other

equally ambitious game.

Melissa turned in the narrow path, and waited for him to overtake her.

"I b'lieve you'd better wait here, 'Lyss," she said gravely. "You can go

up the bank there and pick some tunas. Look out you don't get a cactus

spine in your foot, though, for I hain't got anything to take it out

with exceptin' the pick,"--she smiled in the limp depths of her

sunbonnet,--"an' I won't have that when I come back."

The dog, returned from the terrors of his unequal chase at the sound of

Melissa's voice, looked and winked and wagged his approval, and the two

comrades darted up the bank with mingled and highly similar yaps of

release.

Melissa quickened her steps, following the path until she heard the

sound of voices and the ring of tools in the depths below. Then she

turned, and made her way through the underbrush down the bank.

Suddenly she heard a loud, prolonged whistle and the sound of hurrying

feet. She stood still until the footsteps had died away. Then the sharp

report of an explosion shook the ground beneath her feet, and huge

pieces of rock came crashing through the trees about her. The girl gave

a shrill, terrified scream, and fell cowering upon the ground. Almost

before the echo had ceased, Sterling sprang through the chaparral, his

face white and his lips set.

"My God, child, are you hurt?" he said, dropping on his knees beside

her.

"No, I ain't hurt," she faltered, "but I was awful scared. I didn't know

you was blastin' here; I thought it was on up at the tunnel."

"It was until this morning. We are going to put in a dam." He frowned

upon her, unable to free himself from alarm. "I did not dream of any one

being near. What brought you so far up the canon?"

"I brung you the pick."

She stooped toward it, and two or three drops of blood trickled across

her hand.

"You are hurt, see!" said Sterling anxiously.

The girl turned back her sleeve and showed a trifling wound.

"I must 'a' scratched it on the Spanish bayonet when I fell. It's no

difference. Nothin' struck me. Lysander's gettin' ready to irrigate; he

said if you wanted any more tools sharpened, I could fetch 'em down to

the forge."

The young man showed a preoccupied indifference to her message.

Producing a silk handkerchief, fabulously fine in Melissa's eyes, he

bound up the injured wrist, with evident pride in his own deftness and

skill.

"Are you quite sure you are able to walk now?" he asked kindly.

"Why, I ain't hurt a bit; not a speck," reiterated the girl, her eyes

widening.

Her companion's face relaxed into the suggestion of a smile. He helped

her up the bank, making way for her in the chaparral, and tearing away

the tangled ropes of the wild-grape vines.

"Tell your father not to send you above the camp again," he said gently,

when she was safe in the path; "one of the men will go down with the

tools."

Melissa stood beside the flume a moment, irresolute. Her sunbonnet had

fallen back a little, disclosing her rustic prettiness.

"I'm much obliged to you," she said quaintly, exhausting her knowledge

of the amenities. "I'll send the hankecher back as soon as I can git it

washed and done up."

The young man smiled graciously, bowed, raised his hat, and waited until

she turned to go; then he bounded down the bank, crashing his way

through the underbrush with the pick.

None of the men below had heard the cry, and Poindexter refused to lash

himself into any retrospective excitement.

"Confound the girl!" fumed Sterling, vexed, after the manner of men,

over the smallest waste of emotion; "why must she frighten a fellow limp

by screaming when she wasn't hurt?"

"Possibly for the same reason that the fellow became limp before he knew

she _was_ hurt," suggested Poindexter; "or she may have thought it an

eminently ladylike thing to do; she looks like a designing creature. If

the killed and wounded are properly cared for, suppose we examine the

result of the blast."