The brief wet winter was nearly spent; the long dry season was due, although there was still the rare beauty of cloud scenery in the steel-blue sky, and the sudden return of quick but transient showers.  It was on a Sunday of weather like this that the nature-loving Randolph extended his usual holiday excursion as far as Contra Costa by the steamer after his dutiful round of the wharves and shipping.  It was with a gayety born equally of his youth and the weather that he overcame his constitutional shyness, and not only mingled without restraint among the pleasure-seekers that thronged the crowded boat, but, in the consciousness of his good looks and a new suit of clothes, even penetrated into the aristocratic seclusion of the “ladies’ cabin”—­sacred to the fair sex and their attendant swains or chaperones.

But he found every seat occupied, and was turning away, when he suddenly recognized Miss Avondale sitting beside her little escort.  She appeared, however, in a somewhat constrained attitude, sustaining with one hand the boy, who had clambered on the seat.  He was looking out of the cabin window, which she was also trying to do, with greater difficulty on account of her position.  He could see her profile presented with such marked persistency that he was satisfied she had seen him and was avoiding him.  He turned and left the cabin.

Yet, once on the deck again, he repented his haste.  Perhaps she had not actually recognized him; perhaps she wished to avoid him only because she was in plainer clothes—­a circumstance that, with his knowledge of her changed fortunes, struck him to the heart.  It seemed to him that even as a humble employee of the bank he was in some way responsible for it, and wondered if she associated him with her humiliation.  He longed to speak with her and assure her of his sympathy, and yet he was equally conscious that she would reject it.

When the boat reached the Alameda wharf she slipped away with the other passengers.  He wandered about the hotel garden and the main street in the hope of meeting her again, although he was instinctively conscious that she would not follow the lines of the usual Sunday sight-seers, but had her own destination.  He penetrated the depths of the Alameda, and lost himself among its low, trailing oaks, to no purpose.  The hope of the morning had died within him; the fire of adventure was quenched, and when the clouds gathered with a rising wind he felt that the promise of that day was gone.  He turned to go back to the ferry, but on consulting his watch he found that he had already lost so much time in his devious wanderings that he must run to catch the last boat.  The few drops that spattered through the trees presently increased to a shower; he put up his umbrella without lessening his speed, and finally dashed into the main street as the last bell was ringing.  But at the same moment a slight, graceful figure slipped out of the woods just ahead of him, with no other protection from the pelting storm than a handkerchief tied over her hat, and ran as swiftly toward the wharf.  It needed only one glance for Randolph to recognize Miss Avondale.  The moment had come, the opportunity was here, and the next instant he was panting at her side, with the umbrella over her head.