ree hours later, her husband would alight on his return from
Sacramento. It would be a long wet walk for Joshua Rylands, as their
only horse had been borrowed by a neighbor.

In that fading light Mrs. Rylands's oval cheek was shining still from
the raindrops, but there was something in the expression of her worried
face that might have as readily suggested tears. She was strikingly
handsome, yet quite as incongruous an ornament to her surroundings as
she had been to her outer wrappings a moment ago. Even the clothes she
now stood in hinted an inadaptibility to the weather--the house--the
position she occupied in it. A figured silk dress, spoiled rather than
overworn, was still of a quality inconsistent with her evident habits,
and the lace-edged petticoat that peeped beneath it was draggled with
mud and unaccustomed usage. Her glossy black hair, which had been tossed
into curls in some foreign fashion, was now wind-blown into a burlesque
of it. This incongruity was still further accented by the appearance of
the room she had entered. It was coldly and severely furnished, making
the chill of the yet damp white plaster unpleasantly obvious. A black
harmonium organ stood in one corner, set out with black and white
hymn-books; a trestle-like table contained a large Bible; half a dozen
black, horsehair-cushioned chairs stood, geometrically distant, against
the walls, from which hung four engravings of "Paradise Lost" in black
mourning frames; some dried ferns and autumn leaves stood in a vase on
the mantelpiece, as if the chill of the room had prematurely blighted
them. The coldly glittering grate below was also decorated with withered
sprays, as if an attempt had been made to burn them, but was frustrated
through damp. Suddenly recalled to a sense of her wet boots and the
new carpet, she hurriedly turned away, crossed the hall into the
dining-room, and thence passed into the kitchen. The "hired girl," a
large-boned Missourian, a daughter of a neighboring woodman, was peeling
potatoes at the table. Mrs. Rylands drew a chair before the kitchen
stove, and put her wet feet on the hob.

"I'll bet a cooky, Mess Rylands, you've done forgot the vanillar," said
the girl, with a certain domestic and confidential familiarity.

Mrs. Rylands started guiltily. She made a miserable feint of looking in
her lap and on the table. "I'm afraid I did, Jane, if I didn't bring it
in HERE."

"That you didn't," returned Jane. "And I reckon ye fo