her; "but it's
just as well he shouldn't be needlessly encouraged. I rather think that
Sheriff Dunn is a little jealous of him. By the way, the sheriff is
much better. I called to cheer him up to-day" (Mr. Wynn had in fact
tumultuously accelerated the sick man's pulse), "and he talked of you,
as usual. In fact, he said he had only two things to get well for. One
was to catch and hang that woman Teresa, who shot him; the other--can't
you guess the other?" he added archly, with a faint suggestion of his
other manner.

Miss Nellie coldly could not.

The Rev. Mr. Wynn's archness vanished. "Don't be a fool," he said
dryly. "He wants to marry you, and you know it."

"Most of the men here do," responded Miss Nellie, without the least
trace of coquetry. "Is the wedding or the hanging to take place first,
or together, so he can officiate at both?"

"His share in the Union Ditch is worth a hundred thousand dollars,"
continued her father; "and if he isn't nominated for district judge
this fall, he's bound to go to the legislature, any way. I don't think
a girl with your advantages and education can afford to throw away the
chance of shining in Sacramento, San Francisco, or, in good time,
perhaps even Washington."

Miss Nellie's eyes did not reflect entire disapproval of this
suggestion, although she replied with something of her father's
practical quality.

"Mr. Dunn is not out of his bed yet, and they say Teresa's got away to
Arizona, so there isn't any particular hurry."

"Perhaps not; but see here, Nellie, I've some important news for you.
You know your young friend of the Carquinez Woods--Dorman, the
botanist, eh? Well, Brace knows all about him. And what do you think he
is?"

Miss Nellie took upon herself a few extra degrees of cold, and didn't
know.

"An Injin! Yes, an out-and-out Cherokee. You see he calls himself
Dorman--Low Dorman. That's only French for 'Sleeping Water,' his Injin
name--'Low Dorman.'"

"You mean 'L'Eau Dormante,'" said Nellie.

"That's what I said. The chief called him 'Sleeping Water' when he was
a boy, and one of them French Canadian trappers translated it into
French when he brought him to California to school. But he's an Injin,
sure. No wonder he prefers to live in the woods."

"Well?" said Nellie.

"Well," echoed her father impatiently, "he's an Injin, I tell you, and
you can't of course have anything to do with him. He mustn't come here
again."

"But you forget," said Nellie i