ith a delicate, discontented face sat on the porch of the
Dysart claim cabin, looking out over the valley. A last gust of lukewarm
air strewed the floor with scythe-shaped eucalyptus-leaves, and Mrs.
Dysart came out with her broom to sweep them away.

She was a large woman, with a crease at her waist that buried her
apron-strings, and the little piazza creaked ominously as she walked
about. The invalid got up with a man's instinctive distrust of a broom,
and began to move away.

"Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Palmerston," she said, waving him back into
his chair with one hand, and speaking in a large, level voice, as if she
were quelling a mob,--"don't disturb yourself; I won't raise any dust.
Does the north wind choke you up much?"

"Oh, no," answered the young fellow, carelessly; "it was a rather more
rapid change of air than I bargained for, but I guess it's over now."

"Sick folks generally think the north wind makes them nervous. Some of
them say it's the electricity; but I think it's because most of 'em's
men-folks, and being away from their families, they naturally blame
things on the weather."

Mrs. Dysart turned her ample back toward her hearer, and swept a
leaf-laden cobweb from the corner of the window.

The young man's face relaxed.

"I don't think it made me nervous," he said. "But then, I'm not very
ill. I'm out here for my mother's health. She threatened to go into a
decline if I didn't come."

"Well, you've got a consumptive build," said Mrs. Dysart, striking her
broom on the edge of the porch, "and you're light-complected; that's
likely to mean scrofula. You'd ought to be careful. California's a good
deal of a hospital, but it don't do to depend too much on the climate.
It ain't right; it's got to be blessed to your use."

Palmerston smiled, and leaned his head against the redwood wall of the
cabin. Mrs. Dysart creaked virtuously to and fro behind her broom.

"Isn't that Mr. Dysart's team?" asked the young man, presently, looking
down the valley.

His companion walked to the edge of the porch and pushed back her
sunbonnet to look.

"Yes," she announced, "that's Jawn; he's early."

She piled her cushiony hands on the end of the broom-handle, and stood
still, gazing absently at the approaching team.

"I hope your mother's a Christian woman," she resumed, with a sort of
corpulent severity.

The young man's face clouded, and then cleared again whimsically.

"I really never inquired," he sa