lly like Chester Mansfield's, except in expression, had a
certain vacant honesty--for which, I presume, an accustomed
story-teller could find a better expression--that I was obliged to
believe genuine. As soon as he found that I was curious about the
flora and fauna of the locality, he took great pains in bringing me
specimens, and on two occasions took me out for a walk to see
something that could not be brought. In this closer acquaintance I
found so much that was kind and pleasant, and so many peculiar little
resemblances to my dead friend--a backward toss of the head when he
laughed, a frown when listening, an odd little gesture with the left
hand in explaining anything--that he puzzled me more and more. Among
the few books that I could find to read in the town was the "Woman in
White," which I read with compunction, not having been addicted to
works of fiction, and the curious resemblance between the two women
made a deep impression upon me, and seemed to have a strange
significance just at this time. Although I had as yet not succeeded in
drawing any confidence from Charlie--who, indeed, seldom spoke of
himself, and never related any past experience--a very suspicious
trait I thought, I felt sure that time would unravel the dark mystery
that enveloped him.

Just as I was feeling that I had now Charlie's friendship, the man
Crouch seemed to become jealous of my influence, and became so
attentive to him that my acquaintance with him was virtually suspended
for a time. One day, a bright, hot day in March, a Mexican wagon train
arrived in town, laden with beans, hides, and "Chili Colorade," and a
crowd of rancheros from another direction swarmed into the plaza. The
town was full of excitement and whiskey; the tinkle of the dance
saloons came up from all quarters; the rancheros, with their red
shirts and broad hats, galloped their tough mustangs madly through the
streets, firing at random, and lassoing the unlucky curs and pigs that
happened to be in the way. While there were street brawls at every
corner, I hardly dared to leave my room, and I could not venture to
sit by my window. It was a great relief that Howard came in very
early. All through the evening I listened to the confused sounds that
came up through the resonant air, and could distinguish the soft voice
of the pretty Mexican girl in the saloon opposite my window,
accompanied by her castanet. It was another of those still, white
nights, when the town seem