coming was an accident.'

'It was very opportune at any rate. Well;--what have you to say to me?
Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all that
is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the
matter out with your--friend, Mr Carbury.'

'What has to be said, I believe I can say myself.'

'Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it that the words stick in your
throat?'

'There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that
which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had I
been fairly careful.'

Then he paused. 'Don't spare me,' she said. 'I know what it all is as
well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which they
have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in Oregon--
I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead at my
feet.' Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him.
'Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to
tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that dying
wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken
screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap
just below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus alone
that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must afterwards
have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not try me for
his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems
of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of
such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it be from lies.'

'It was not that only,' he whispered.

'No; they told you other things,' she continued, still standing over
him. 'They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, and
who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of my
former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a
scoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you can
hardly know what my life has been.'

'They told me that--you fought him.'

'Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you
to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and
treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for
fighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a
duel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him,
and told him that he should only enter it over my