ringly from the fiery canyon
below, the domain of Burnt Ridge stretched away before him, until,
lifted in successive terraces hearsed and plumed with pines, it was at
last lost in the ghostly snow-peaks. But the practical Josephine seized
the opportunity to try once more to awaken the slumbering memory of her
pupil. Following his gaze with signs and questions, she sought to draw
from him some indication of familiar recollection of certain points of
the map thus unrolled behind him. But in vain. She even pointed out the
fateful shadow of the overhanging ledge on the road where she had picked
him up--there was no response in his abstracted eyes. She bit her lips;
she was becoming irritated again. Then it occurred to her that, instead
of appealing to his hopeless memory, she had better trust to some
unreflective automatic instinct independent of it, and she put the
question a little forward: "When you leave us, where will you go from
here?" He stirred slightly, and turned towards her. She repeated her
query slowly and patiently, with signs and gestures recognized between
them. A faint glow of intelligence struggled into his eyes: he lifted
his arm slowly, and pointed.

"Ah! those white peaks--the Sierras?" she asked, eagerly. No reply.
"Beyond them?"

"Yes."

"The States?" No reply. "Further still?"

He remained so patiently quiet and still pointing that she leaned
forward, and, following with her eyes the direction of his hand, saw
that he was pointing to the sky!

Then a great quiet fell upon them. The whole mountain-side seemed to her
to be hushed, as if to allow her to grasp and realize for the first time
the pathos of the ruined life at her side, which IT had known so long,
but which she had never felt till now. The tears came to her eyes; in
her swift revulsion of feeling she caught the thin uplifted hand between
her own. It seemed to her that he was about to raise them to his lips,
but she withdrew them hastily, and moved away. She had a strange fear
that if he had kissed them, it might seem as if some dumb animal had
touched them--or--IT MIGHT NOT. The next day she felt a consciousness
of this in his presence, and a wish that he was well-cured and away. She
determined to consult Dr. Duchesne on the subject when he next called.

But the doctor, secure in the welfare of his patient, had not visited
him lately, and she found herself presently absorbed in the business of
the ranch, which at this season was parti