The old man rose with a frightened air, and tottered feebly to the door.  It was open.  There came to him the awakened tumult of a great city, in which the prodigal’s footsteps were lost forever.

THE ROMANCE OF MADRONO HOLLOW.

The latch on the garden gate of the Folinsbee Ranch clicked twice.  The gate itself was so much in shadow that lovely night, that “old man Folinsbee,” sitting on his porch, could distinguish nothing but a tall white hat and beside it a few fluttering ribbons, under the pines that marked the entrance.  Whether because of this fact, or that he considered a sufficient time had elapsed since the clicking of the latch for more positive disclosure, I do not know; but after a few moments’ hesitation he quietly laid aside his pipe and walked slowly down the winding path toward the gate.  At the Ceanothus hedge he stopped and listened.

There was not much to hear.  The hat was saying to the ribbons that it was a fine night, and remarking generally upon the clear outline of the Sierras against the blue-black sky.  The ribbons, it so appeared, had admired this all the way home, and asked the hat if it had ever seen anything half so lovely as the moonlight on the summit.  The hat never had; it recalled some lovely nights in the South in Alabama ("in the South in Ahlabahm” was the way the old man heard it), but then there were other things that made this night seem so pleasant.  The ribbons could not possibly conceive what the hat could be thinking about.  At this point there was a pause, of which Mr. Folinsbee availed himself to walk very grimly and craunchingly down the gravel-walk toward the gate.  Then the hat was lifted, and disappeared in the shadow, and Mr. Folinsbee confronted only the half-foolish, half-mischievous, but wholly pretty face of his daughter.

It was afterward known to Madrono Hollow that sharp words passed between “Miss Jo” and the old man, and that the latter coupled the names of one Culpepper Starbottle and his uncle, Colonel Starbottle, with certain uncomplimentary epithets, and that Miss Jo retaliated sharply.  “Her father’s blood before her father’s face boiled up and proved her truly of his race,” quoted the blacksmith, who leaned toward the noble verse of Byron.  “She saw the old man’s bluff and raised him,” was the directer comment of the college-bred Masters.

Meanwhile the subject of these animadversions proceeded slowly along the road to a point where the Folinsbee mansion came in view,—­a long, narrow, white building, unpretentious, yet superior to its neighbors, and bearing some evidences of taste and refinement in the vines that clambered over its porch, in its French windows, and the white muslin curtains that kept out the fierce California sun by day, and were now touched with silver in the gracious moonlight.  Culpepper leaned against the low fence, and gazed long and earnestly at the building.  Then the