“In Californy,” said our passenger, “the glorious works o’ the Lord air revealed.  There’s the Bishop:  he looks fine to-night.  Ye kin see the peak, but the sea fog’s crawlin’ in, an’ shets off the main body o’ the mountain.  That’s wher the fogs air always thickest.  An’ that’s wher I lost my way, Mr. Ajax.  Yes, sir, my feet stumbled on the dark mountain, as the prophet says, but I clumb the stony places, an’ now, on the top, its clear.”

“Gloriana,” said Ajax, after a pause, “will you allow my brother, who is a grave and learned signor, to plead your cause with Doctor Standish?  I know what lies nearest your heart.”

In this impudent fashion he laid a grievous burden on me; for I have no stomach for other folk’s pastry, yet the hope that glistened upon Gloriana’s face whetted a strange appetite.

“I’ll speak to him—­if you wish it,” said I.

“No,” she returned, her eyes giving the lie to her lips.  “It wouldn’t be right.”

But a woman’s brain is a sorry advocate against her heart.  Ajax, as I expected, put her scruples to rout.  It was agreed that I should carry, as credentials, Gloriana’s present—­the parcel she hugged to her bosom, weighty with love and linen; that the interview should take place after dinner; that the recognition of Gloriana as Miriam’s blood-relation should be not demanded but suggested with all deference due to a doctor of divinity.  The Standishes boarded at the Hotel Buena Vista, where we always stayed; Gloriana was set down at a modest two-bit house, some three-quarters of a mile distant.

As the hour of meeting the Doctor approached, my courage oozed from every pore, distilling a malignant dew of mistrust that not even the optimism of Ajax could evaporate.  As we sat at meat I noted with apprehension the stern features of Standish, who occupied an adjoining table.  He ate sparingly, as became an old man, and drank no wine.  His granddaughter, a charming girl, with eyes that reminded me of Gloriana, chattered gaily to him, but he replied in monosyllables.  Doubtless he was thinking of the parting on the morrow.

Half-an-hour later he received me in his room, and asked courteously in what way he could serve me.

I laid my credentials upon the table.  They were flanked, I remarked, by a Bible, and a well-worn book of prayer.

“This,” I began lamely, “is a present from our housekeeper, Gloriana, to your granddaughter.  She asked me to deliver it into your hands.”

“I thank you, sir,” he replied stiffly.  “You say this—­er—­woman is your housekeeper?”

“Our housekeeper—­and our friend.”

“Indeed.  Well, sir, I am obliged to you.  Good-night.”

“A present,” said I, “demands an acknowledgment.”

“An acknowledgment?  You look at me very strangely, young man.”

Upon this I spoke; explaining, in halting sentences, my mission.  He listened attentively, a frown upon his somewhat narrow forehead.