"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out. And you shall have the
'nighty,' as you call it, by the time you want it."
"You'd better not pledge yourself."
"I do. I've failed you often enough since we started! I won't fail this
time, you'll see. The thing you want must exist somewhere within a radius
of ten miles, and I'm going to lasso it."
"But you didn't engage as a lassoer of nighties. You engaged as trail
guide."
"If anything is wanted along the trail, why then it's the business of the
trail guide to get it. Don't you worry about your arrangements, Mrs. May."
"I don't. Meanwhile, I may find some kind of a garment lurking on a
forgotten shelf of the candy-drugs-grocery shop."
"If you do, it wouldn't be worthy of you. But you can try," said Nick
dubiously. And after a late luncheon, she did try, in vain. Other
necessaries were forthcoming, but nighties were things that you had to
bring into the Yosemite Valley, it would seem, or do without. Angela said
nothing of her failure. She supposed that Nick would forget her plight if
she made little of it; but she did not know him thoroughly yet. They took
a walk, and the momentous subject was not mentioned: nevertheless, it
pressed upon Nick's thoughts. As he talked, the "nighty" that was not, and
must be, weighed upon his mind as heavily as though it were a coat of mail
instead of the gossamer creation he imagined.
"Now I've got to concentrate and figure out what's trumps," he said to
himself, when Angela had gone to rest before dinner. "I've dealt myself a
mighty queer card, but there's no good bluffing in this game."
The desired garment declared itself even to the untrained masculine
intelligence as a dainty and dreamlike thing, which, to deserve its name
and be worthy of a fastidious wearer, must be delicate as the outer petals
of a white rose.
How then to obtain for this despoiled goddess such a marvel in a remote
village, lost among Yosemite forests? There was the rub; a vaguely groping
"rub" with no Aladdin's lamp to match.
Nick's thoughts ramped in the cage of his mind like a menagerie of hungry
animals awaiting food. Where was that food--in other words, an
inspiration--to be got? Then of a sudden it dropped at his feet.
He had been pacing uneasily up and down his room; but now, with all his
customary decision, he touched the electric bell. A trim chambermaid of
superior and intelligent appearance answered the call.
"Are you a Californian?" was the first question flung at the neat head, in
place of an expected demand for hot water. She had brought the water, and
was equally prepared for a want unforeseen. "Yes, sir," she said. "I'm a
Native Daughter."
"Hurrah!" said Nick. "Then I know you won't fail me."
She was too well trained a girl to stare. "Are you a Native Son?" she
ventured, seeing that a lead would be useful.
"No; but I ought to have been. My parents were Californian, and my heart
is and always will be. I have to ask help from a Californian now, for the
honour of California."
Usually, when gentlemen clamoured for help from this young person it was
to find a collar stud. But not even the most cherished collar stud could
concern the honour of the State. She waited, looking sympathetic; for
Nick's eyes would have drawn sympathy from a stone, and Jessy Jones had
not even a pebble in her composition.
"As a Californian, I'm showing California to a lady," he explained. "She's
from Europe, and I don't want her to think the old civilization can
produce anything better than ours."
"I should think not!" retorted the Native Daughter. "What is she looking
for that _we_ can't produce, I'd like to know?"
"A nightgown," confessed Nick, boldly. "You see," he hurried on, "she's
lost the bag she had it in."
"Oh, if that's all, I----"
"Have you seen the lady, over in the annex, in number twenty-three?"
"Yes," said Jessy. "One of the girls told me there was a regular beauty
there, English or something, so I made an errand that way. So _she's_ the
lady? Well, that makes it harder! 'Tisn't everything would do for _her_. I
guess she's rather special."
"I guess so, too. That was what worried me. Because it's for the honour of
California that a foreigner should be supplied, even at a moment's notice,
with something as good as she could get at home."
"If not better," Jessy corrected him.
"If not better. Of course, if an American lady lost her baggage she'd make
allowances, being at home. And if she couldn't get what she wanted, she'd
be good-natured and want what she could get. Well, this lady's
good-natured, too; but it's no compliment to the Yosemite for her to
expect little and have what she expects."
"No. We must surprise her."
"Exactly. For the honour of California. Let's mingle our brains," said
Nick.
"I guess they'll be more useful kept separate, sir; each along its own
line."
"Does yours keep a line of the right thing?"
"It begins to see its way there. We've a lady staying in the hotel, Mrs.
Everett, from San Francisco, who's got what we want. Mrs. Everett's a
Native Daughter, too. Oh, yes, she'll spare one--her prettiest. Don't you
worry, and don't you say a word to your friend. I and Mrs. Everett will do
the rest. When that lady from Europe opens her door to-night she'll see
lying on her bed something that'll keep her from knowing the difference
between the Yosemite Valley and Paris. Trust two Native Daughters."
"I will," said Nick devoutly. And he shook hands with Jessy Jones. He knew
better than to offer money at this stage of the game; for he, too, was a
Californian, and honour was concerned.
That night, her spirit illumined by the unearthly glory of a lunar
rainbow, Angela went to her room with a faint sense of anticlimax, in the
discomfort she expected. Then, making a light, she saw foaming over the
coverlet a froth of lace and film of cambric. Almost it might have been
woven from the moon-rainbow. But pinned on to a sleeve-knot of pale pink
ribbon was a slip of paper; and on the slip of paper were a few words in a
woman's handwriting: "Compliments of California to Mrs. May."