t the robins and linnets stopped to listen. Mr. Hamlin's voice was not
cultivated; the subject of his song was some sentimental lunacy borrowed
from the Negro minstrels; but there thrilled through all some occult
quality of tone and expression that was unspeakably touching. Indeed, it
was a wonderful sight to see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of
cards in his pocket and a revolver at his back, sending his voice before
him through the dim woods with a plaint about his "Nelly's grave" in a
way that overflowed the eyes of the listener. A sparrow hawk, fresh from
his sixth victim, possibly recognizing in Mr. Hamlin a kindred spirit,
stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the superiority of
man. With a superior predatory capacity, HE couldn't sing.

But Mr. Hamlin presently found himself again on the highroad, and at his
former pace. Ditches and banks of gravel, denuded hillsides, stumps,
and decayed trunks of trees, took the place of woodland and ravine, and
indicated his approach to civilization. Then a church steeple came in
sight, and he knew that he had reached home. In a few moments he was
clattering down the single narrow street that lost itself in a chaotic
ruin of races, ditches, and tailings at the foot of the hill, and
dismounted before the gilded windows of the "Magnolia" saloon. Passing
through the long barroom, he pushed open a green-baize door, entered a
dark passage, opened another door with a passkey, and found himself in
a dimly lighted room whose furniture, though elegant and costly for the
locality, showed signs of abuse. The inlaid center table was overlaid
with stained disks that were not contemplated in the original design.
The embroidered armchairs were discolored, and the green velvet lounge,
on which Mr. Hamlin threw himself, was soiled at the foot with the red
soil of Wingdam.

Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, looking at a highly
colored painting above him representing a young creature of opulent
charms. It occurred to him then, for the first time, that he had never
seen exactly that kind of a woman, and that if he should, he would not,
probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he was thinking of another
style of beauty. But just then someone knocked at the door. Without
rising, he pulled a cord that apparently shot back a bolt, for the door
swung open, and a man entered.

The newcomer was broad-shouldered and robust--a vigor not borne out in
the face, which,