a member of our firm—­“Gunny, Giggles, and Dumps” thenceforth—­through my favor; for I could not then, nor can I now, be indifferent to his courage and prowess in defending against Giggles the immemorial right of his sex to insult a strange and unprotected female—­myself.  After old Jim struck it in the Calamity and I began to wear shoes and go to school, and in emulation Giggles took to washing his face and became Jack Raynor, of Wells, Fargo & Co., and old Mrs. Barts was herself chlorided to her fathers, Dumps drifted over to San Juan Smith and turned stage driver, and was killed by road agents, and so forth.

Why do I tell you all this, dear?  Because it is heavy on my heart.  Because I walk the Valley of Humility.  Because I am subduing myself to permanent consciousness of my unworthiness to unloose the latchet of Dr. Barritz’s shoe.  Because, oh dear, oh dear, there’s a cousin of Dumps at this hotel!  I haven’t spoken to him.  I never had much acquaintance with him,—­but do you suppose he has recognized me?  Do, please give me in your next your candid, sure-enough opinion about it, and say you don’t think so.  Do you suppose He knows about me already, and that that is why He left me last evening when He saw that I blushed and trembled like a fool under His eyes?  You know I can’t bribe all the newspapers, and I can’t go back on anybody who was civil to Gunny at Redhorse—­not if I’m pitched out of society into the sea.  So the skeleton sometimes rattles behind the door.  I never cared much before, as you know, but now—­now it is not the same.  Jack Raynor I am sure of—­he will not tell Him.  He seems, indeed, to hold Him in such respect as hardly to dare speak to Him at all, and I’m a good deal that way myself.  Dear, dear!  I wish I had something besides a million dollars!  If Jack were three inches taller I’d marry him alive and go back to Redhorse and wear sackcloth again to the end of my miserable days.

JULY 25.

We had a perfectly splendid sunset last evening and I must tell you all about it.  I ran away from Auntie and everybody and was walking alone on the beach.  I expect you to believe, you infidel! that I had not looked out of my window on the seaward side of the hotel and seen Him walking alone on the beach.  If you are not lost to every feeling of womanly delicacy you will accept my statement without question.  I soon established myself under my sunshade and had for some time been gazing out dreamily over the sea, when he approached, walking close to the edge of the water—­it was ebb tide.  I assure you the wet sand actually brightened about his feet!  As he approached me he lifted his hat, saying, “Miss Dement, may I sit with you?—­or will you walk with me?”

The possibility that neither might be agreeable seems not to have occurred to him.  Did you ever know such assurance?  Assurance?  My dear, it was gall, downright gall! Well, I didn’t find it wormwood, and replied, with my untutored Redhorse heart in my throat, “I—­I shall be pleased to do anything.”  Could words have been more stupid?  There are depths of fatuity in me, friend o’ my soul, that are simply bottomless!