s bread "in sorrow"
carelessly and mechanically, if it had been prepared for him, the
occupation of cooking his own food brought the vulgarity and
materialness of existence so near to his morbid sensitiveness that he
could not eat the meal he had himself prepared. He did not yet wish to
die, and when starvation or society seemed to be the only alternative,
he chose the latter. An Indian woman, so hideous as to scarcely
suggest humanity, at stated times performed for him these offices.
When she did not come, which was not infrequent, he did not eat.

Such was the mental and physical condition of the Man on the Beach on
the 1st of January, 1869.

It was a still, bright day, following a week of rain and wind. Low
down the horizon still lingered a few white flecks--the flying
squadrons of the storm--as vague as distant sails. Southward the
harbor bar whitened occasionally but lazily; even the turbulent Pacific
swell stretched its length wearily upon the shore. And toiling from
the settlement over the low sand dunes, a carriage at last halted half
a mile from the solitary's dwelling.

"I reckon ye'll hev to git out here," said the driver, pulling up to
breathe his panting horses. "Ye can't git any nigher."

There was a groan of execration from the interior of the vehicle, a
hysterical little shriek, and one or two shrill expressions of feminine
disapprobation, but the driver moved not. At last a masculine head
expostulated from the window: "Look here; you agreed to take us to the
house. Why, it's a mile away at least!"

"Thar, or tharabouts, I reckon," said the driver, coolly crossing his
legs on the box.

"It's no use talking; I can never walk through this sand and horrid
glare," said a female voice quickly and imperatively. Then,
apprehensively, "Well, of all the places!"

"Well, I never!"

"This DOES exceed everything."

"It's really TOO idiotic for anything."

It was noticeable that while the voices betrayed the difference of age
and sex, they bore a singular resemblance to each other, and a certain
querulousness of pitch that was dominant.

"I reckon I've gone about as fur as I allow to go with them hosses,"
continued the driver suggestively, "and as time's vallyble, ye'd better
unload."

"The wretch does not mean to leave us here alone?" said a female voice
in shrill indignation. "You'll wait for us, driver?" said a masculine
voice, confidently.

"How long?" asked the driver.

There was