say?
Are you willing to leave it to me?"

Brice hesitated a moment. It was not what his impulsive truthful nature
had suggested. It was not what his youthful fancy had imagined. He had
not worked upon the sympathies of the company on behalf of Snapshot
Harry as he believed he would do. He had not even impressed the manager.
His story, far from exciting a chivalrous sentiment, had been pronounced
improbable. Yet he reflected he had so far protected HER, and he
consented with a sigh.

Nevertheless, the result ought to have satisfied him. A dazzling check,
inclosed in a letter of thanks from the company the next day, and his
promotion from "the road" to the San Francisco office, would have been
quite enough for any one but Edward Brice. Yet he was grateful, albeit
a little frightened and remorseful over his luck. He could not help
thinking of the kindly tolerance of the highwayman, the miserable death
of the actual thief, which had proved his own salvation, and above all
the generous, high-spirited girl who had aided his escape. While on his
way to San Francisco, and yet in the first glow of his success, he had
written her a few lines from Marysville, inclosed in a letter to Mr.
Tarbox. He had received no reply.

Then a week passed. He wrote again, and still no reply. Then a vague
feeling of jealousy took possession of him as he remembered her warning
hint of the attentions to which she was subjected, and he became
singularly appreciative of Snapshot Harry's proficiency as a marksman.
Then, cruelest of all, for your impassioned lover is no lover at all
if not cruel in his imaginings, he remembered how she had evaded her
uncle's espionage with HIM; could she not equally with ANOTHER? Perhaps
that was why she had hurried him away,--why she had prevented
his returning to her uncle. Following this came another week of
disappointment and equally miserable cynical philosophy, in which
he persuaded himself he was perfectly satisfied with his material
advancement, that it was the only outcome of his adventure to be
recognized; and he was more miserable than ever.

A month had passed, when one morning he received a small package by
post. The address was in a handwriting unknown to him, but opening
the parcel he was surprised to find only a handkerchief neatly folded.
Examining it closely, he found it was his own,--the one he had given
her, the rent made by her uncle's bullet so ingeniously and delicately
mended as to almost si