he wore long hair, mustache and imperial,
broadcloth and black slouch hat, celluloid "linen" and sham diamonds. To
these the climate added bright yellow moccasins, and a fur coat of the
hairiest, the whole costume keyed up to Sunday best. Dirty and common,
of course, yet let me in justice own that Brooke was handsome, frank,
and magnetic as of old. Even the ravages of every vice had left him
something of charm, his only asset in the place of manhood.

No, I was not frightened, but as a daughter of Eve a little curious to
know what brought him, and not quite fool enough to run the risk of
showing any temper.

When I asked him to state his business, with a large gesture he claimed
the visitor's drink. It is an old custom, which I broke.

"You think I'm a villain?"

I made no comment.

"I've come to thank you, ma'am. If you'd pressed that girl's case it
might have been well--awkward."

I told him that had I known the law, I should have done my best to get
him penal servitude for life.

"That's straight," he answered indulgently, "you always were clear grit,
and that's why I want--well, ma'am," he lowered his eyes, "I'm going to
confess. You don't mind?" he added.

My eyes betrayed my one desire, escape, but he stood in the doorway
leading to the house.

"Your presence," I said, "is distasteful. Please, will you let me pass?"

"Not till I've set things straight."

There was no bell with which to summon help, and I should have been
ashamed to make a scene.

"Go on," I said.

"I dunno how you feel, mum, about life. I've been disappointed, starting
in with ideals, and they're gone. I'm as straight as the world will let
me, without my going hungry."

Let me here quote one of Jesse's letters to his mother. "This Brooke and
I grew our beef and matured our horns on the same strong pasture, but
where a homely face kept me out of temptation, he had what you call
beauty, and I'd call vanity. Instead of trying to _be_, he aimed to act.
He'd play cow-boy, or robber, or gambler, things he could never _be_,
because he's not a man. He could wear the clothes, the manners, the
talk, and pass himself off for real. The women who petted him sank and
were left in the lurch. The men who trusted him were shot and hanged.
That made him lonesome, gave him the melancholy past, the romantic air,
the charm--all stock in trade. Long hair costs nothing, he pays no dog
tax, but life is too rich for his blood, and in the end he'll die o