of fever; then
a large roofless shed with a canvas side, which is to be an addition,
and then the bar. They accounted for the disorder by the building
operations. They asked me if I were the English lady written of in the
Denver News, and for once I was glad that my fame had preceded me, as
it seemed to secure me against being quietly "put out of the way." A
horrible meal was served--dirty, greasy, disgusting. A celebrated
hunter, Bob Craik, came in to supper with a young man in tow, whom, in
spite of his rough hunter's or miner's dress, I at once recognized as
an English gentleman. It was their camp-fire which I had seen on the
hill side. This gentleman was lording it in true caricature fashion,
with a Lord Dundreary drawl and a general execration of everything;
while I sat in the chimney corner, speculating on the reason why many
of the upper class of my countrymen--"High Toners," as they are called
out here--make themselves so ludicrously absurd. They neither know how
to hold their tongues or to carry their personal pretensions. An
American is nationally assumptive, an Englishman personally so. He
took no notice of me till something passed which showed him I was
English, when his manner at once changed into courtesy, and his drawl
was shortened by a half. He took pains to let me know that he was an
officer in the Guards, of good family, on four months' leave, which he
was spending in slaying buffalo and elk, and also that he had a
profound contempt for everything American. I cannot think why
Englishmen put on these broad, mouthing tones, and give so many
personal details. They retired to their camp, and the landlord having
passed into the sodden, sleepy stage of drunkenness, his wife asked if
I should be afraid to sleep in the large canvas-sided, unceiled,
doorless shed, as they could not move the sick miner. So, I slept
there on a shake-down, with the stars winking overhead through the
roof, and the mercury showing 30 degrees of frost.

I never told you that I once gave an unwary promise that I would not
travel alone in Colorado unarmed, and that in consequence I left Estes
Park with a Sharp's revolver loaded with ball cartridge in my pocket,
which has been the plague of my life. Its bright ominous barrel peeped
out in quiet Denver shops, children pulled it out to play with, or when
my riding dress hung up with it in the pocket, pulled the whole from
the peg to the floor; and I cannot conceive of any ci