that the better, perhaps. But he seemed to
enjoy life after a fashion of his own. And he got rich out there, or
rather, I will say, well off."

Mrs. Townsend did not pay much attention to that part of the story.
Evidently she had not finished asking questions, but she was puzzled
about her next one. At last she brought it out beautifully:

"Was his wife with him in California?"

The stranger looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"His wife, ma'am! Why, bless you, he has not got any wife."

"Oh, I thought--I mean I heard"--here the little widow remembered the
fate of Ananias and Sapphira, and stopped short before she told such a
tremendous fib.

"Whatever you heard of his marrying was all nonsense, I can assure you.
I knew him well, and he had no thoughts of the kind about him. Some of
the boys used to tease him about it, but he soon made them stop."

"How?"

"He just told them frankly that the only woman he ever loved had jilted
him years before, and married another man. After that no one ever
mentioned the subject to him, except me."

Mrs. Townsend laid her knitting aside, and looked thoughtfully into the
fire.

"He was another specimen of the class of men I was speaking of. I have
seen him face death a score of times as quietly as I face the fire. 'It
matters very little what takes me off,' he used to say; 'I've nothing to
live for, and there's no one that will shed a tear for me when I am
gone.' It's a sad thought for a man to have, isn't it?"

Mrs. Townsend sighed as she said she thought it was.

"But did he ever tell you the name of the woman who jilted him?"

"I know her _first_ name."

"What was it?"

"Maria."

The plump little widow almost started out of her chair, the name was
spoken so exactly as Sam would have said it.

"Did you know her, too?" he asked, looking keenly at her.

"Yes."

"Intimately?"

"Yes."

"Where is she now? Still happy with her husband, I suppose, and never
giving a thought to the poor fellow she drove out into the world?"

"No," said Mrs. Townsend, shading her face with her hand, and speaking
unsteadily; "no, her husband is dead."

"Ah! but still she never thinks of Sam."

There was a dead silence.

"Does she?"

"How can I tell?"

"Are you still friends?"

"Yes."

"Then you ought to know, and you do. Tell me."

"I'm sure I don't know why I should. But if I do, you must promise me,
on your honor, never to tell him, if you ever meet him again."

"Mad