of a half year’s sun.  The pastoral slopes of the valley below were cloaked in lustre-leather:  the rare watercourses along the road had faded from the waiting eye and ear; it seemed as if the long and dry summer had even invaded the close-set ranks of pines, and had blown a simoom breath through the densest woods, leaving its charred red ashes on every leaf and spray along the tunnelled shade.  As they leaned out of the window and inhaled the half-dead spices of the evergreens, they seemed to have entered the atmosphere of some exhausted passion—­of some fierce excitement that was even now slowly burning itself out.

It was a relief at last to see the straggling houses of Devil’s Ford far below come once more into view, as they rounded the shoulder of Devil’s Spur and began the long descent.  But as they entered the town a change more ominous and startling than the desiccation of the landscape forced itself upon them.  The town was still there, but where were the inhabitants?  Four months ago they had left the straggling street thronged with busy citizens—­groups at every corner, and a chaos of merchandise and traders in the open plaza or square beside the Presbyterian church.  Now all was changed.  Only a few wayfarers lifted their heads lazily as the coach rattled by, crossing the deserted square littered with empty boxes, and gliding past empty cabins or vacant shop windows, from which not only familiar faces, but even the window sashes themselves, were gone.  The great unfinished serpent-like flume, crossing the river on gigantic trestles, had advanced as far as the town, stooping over it like some enormous reptile that had sucked its life blood and was gorged with its prey.

Whiskey Dick, who had left the stage on the summit to avail himself of a shorter foot trail to the house, that would give him half an hour’s grace to make preparations, met them at the stage office with a buggy.  A glance at the young girls, perhaps, convinced him that the graces of elegant worldly conversation were out of place with the revelation he read on their faces.  Perhaps, he, too, was a trifle indisposed.  The short journey to the house was made in profound silence.

The villa had been repainted and decorated, and it looked fresher, and even, to their preoccupied minds, appeared more attractive than ever.  Thoughtful hands had taken care of the vines and rose-bushes on the trellises; water—­that precious element in Devil’s Ford—­had not been spared in keeping green through the long drought the plants which the girls had so tenderly nurtured.  It was the one oasis in which the summer still lingered; and yet a singular sense of loss came over the girls as they once more crossed its threshold.  It seemed no longer their own.

“Ef I was you, Miss Christie, I’d keep close to the house for a day or two, until—­until—­things is settled,” said Dick; “there’s a heap o’ tramps and sich cattle trapsin’ round.  P’raps you wouldn’t feel so lonesome if you was nearer town—­for instance, ‘bout wher’ you useter live.”