His was the same eagle-like nose as his brother’s, save that it was more eagle-like, while the blue eyes were pronouncedly so.  The lines of the face were deeper, the cheek-bones higher, the hollows larger, the weather-beat darker.  It was a volcanic face.  There had been fire there, and the fire still lingered.  Around the corners of the eyes were more laughter-wrinkles and in the eyes themselves a promise of deadlier seriousness than the younger brother possessed.  Frederick was bourgeois in his carriage, but in Tom’s was a certain careless ease and distinction.  It was the same pioneer blood of Isaac Travers in both men, but it had been retorted in widely different crucibles.  Frederick represented the straight and expected line of descent.  His brother expressed a vast and intangible something that was unknown in the Travers stock.  And it was all this that the black-eyed girl saw and knew on the instant.  All that had been inexplicable in the two men and their relationship cleared up in the moment she saw them side by side.

“Wake me up,” Tom was saying.  “I can’t believe I arrived on a train.  And the population?  There were only four thousand thirty years ago.”

“Sixty thousand now,” was the other’s answer.  “And increasing by leaps and bounds.  Want to spin around for a look at the city?  There’s plenty of time.”

As they sped along the broad, well-paved streets, Tom persisted in his Rip Van Winkle pose.  The waterfront perplexed him.  Where he had once anchored his sloop in a dozen feet of water, he found solid land and railroad yards, with wharves and shipping still farther out.

“Hold on!  Stop!” he cried, a few blocks on, looking up at a solid business block.  “Where is this, Fred?”

“Fourth and Travers—­don’t you remember?”

Tom stood up and gazed around, trying to discern the anciently familiar configuration of the land under its clutter of buildings.

“I ...  I think....” he began hesitantly.  “No; by George, I’m sure of it.  We used to hunt cottontails over that ground, and shoot blackbirds in the brush.  And there, where the bank building is, was a pond.”  He turned to Polly.  “I built my first raft there, and got my first taste of the sea.”

“Heaven knows how many gallons of it,” Frederick laughed, nodding to the chauffeur.  “They rolled you on a barrel, I remember.”

“Oh!  More!” Polly cried, clapping her hands.

“There’s the park,” Frederick pointed out a little later, indicating a mass of virgin redwoods on the first dip of the bigger hills.

“Father shot three grizzlies there one afternoon,” was Tom’s remark.

“I presented forty acres of it to the city,” Frederick went on.  “Father bought the quarter section for a dollar an acre from Leroy.”

Tom nodded, and the sparkle and flash in his eyes, like that of his daughter, were unlike anything that ever appeared in his brother’s eyes.