JULY 16.

The strangest thing!  Last evening while Auntie was attending one of the hotel hops (I hate them) Dr. Barritz called.  It was scandalously late—­I actually believe that he had talked with Auntie in the ballroom and learned from her that I was alone.  I had been all the evening contriving how to worm out of him the truth about his connection with the Thugs in Sepoy, and all of that black business, but the moment he fixed his eyes on me (for I admitted him, I’m ashamed to say) I was helpless.  I trembled, I blushed, I—­O Irene, Irene, I love the man beyond expression and you know how it is yourself.

Fancy!  I, an ugly duckling from Redhorse—­daughter (they say) of old Calamity Jim—­certainly his heiress, with no living relation but an absurd old aunt who spoils me a thousand and fifty ways—­absolutely destitute of everything but a million dollars and a hope in Paris,—­I daring to love a god like him!  My dear, if I had you here I could tear your hair out with mortification.

I am convinced that he is aware of my feeling, for he stayed but a few moments, said nothing but what another man might have said half as well, and pretending that he had an engagement went away.  I learned to-day (a little bird told me—­the bell-bird) that he went straight to bed.  How does that strike you as evidence of exemplary habits?

JULY 17.

That little wretch, Raynor, called yesterday and his babble set me almost wild.  He never runs down—­that is to say, when he exterminates a score of reputations, more or less, he does not pause between one reputation and the next. (By the way, he inquired about you, and his manifestations of interest in you had, I confess, a good deal of vraisemblance..) Mr. Raynor observes no game laws; like Death (which he would inflict if slander were fatal) he has all seasons for his own.  But I like him, for we knew each other at Redhorse when we were young.  He was known in those days as “Giggles,” and I—­O Irene, can you ever forgive me?—­I was called “Gunny.”  God knows why; perhaps in allusion to the material of my pinafores; perhaps because the name is in alliteration with “Giggles,” for Gig and I were inseparable playmates, and the miners may have thought it a delicate civility to recognize some kind of relationship between us.

Later, we took in a third—­another of Adversity’s brood, who, like Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy, had a chronic inability to adjudicate the rival claims of Frost and Famine.  Between him and misery there was seldom anything more than a single suspender and the hope of a meal which would at the same time support life and make it insupportable.  He literally picked up a precarious living for himself and an aged mother by “chloriding the dumps,” that is to say, the miners permitted him to search the heaps of waste rock for such pieces of “pay ore” as had been overlooked; and these he sacked up and sold at the Syndicate Mill.  He became