Jackson had been astonished. He would have scarcely recognized in this willful beauty the red-haired girl whom he had boyishly hated, and with whom he had often quarreled. But there was a recollection—and with that recollection came an instinct of habit. He looked her squarely in the face, and, to the horror of his partners, said, “Say please!”

They had expected to see him fall, smitten with the hairpin! But she only stopped, and then in bitter irony said, “Please, Mr. Jackson Wells.”

“I haven’t dug them up yet—and it would serve you just right if I made you get them for yourself. But perhaps my friends here might help you—if you were civil.”

The three partners seized spades and hoes and rushed forward eagerly. “Only show us what you want,” they said in one voice. The young girl stared at them, and at Jackson. Then with swift determination she turned her back scornfully upon him, and with a dazzling smile which reduced the three men to absolute idiocy, said to the others, “I’ll show YOU,” and marched away to the cabin.

“Ye mustn’t mind Jacksey,” said Rice, sycophantically edging to her side, “he’s so cut up with losin’ your father that he loved like a son, he isn’t himself, and don’t seem to know whether to ante up or pass out. And as for yourself, Miss—why—What was it he was sayin’ only just as the young lady came?” he added, turning abruptly to Wyngate.

“Everything that cousin Josey planted with her own hands must be took up carefully and sent back—even though it’s killin’ me to part with it,” quoted Wyngate unblushingly, as he slouched along on the other side.

Miss Wells’s eyes glared at them, though her mouth still smiled ravishingly. “I’m sure I’m troubling you.”

In a few moments the plants were dug up and carefully laid together; indeed, the servile Briggs had added a few that she had not indicated.

“Would you mind bringing them as far as the buggy that’s coming down the hill?” she said, pointing to a buggy driven by a small boy which was slowly approaching the gate. The men tenderly lifted the uprooted plants, and proceeded solemnly, Miss Wells bringing up the rear, towards the gate, where Jackson Wells was still surlily lounging.

They passed out first. Miss Wells lingered for an instant, and then advancing her beautiful but audacious face within an inch of Jackson’s, hissed out, “Make-believe! and hypocrite!”

“Cross-patch and sauce-box!” returned Jackson readily, still under the malign influence of his boyish past, as she flounced away.

Presently he heard the buggy rattle away with his persecutor. But his partners still lingered on the road in earnest conversation, and when they did return it was with a singular awkwardness and embarrassment, which he naturally put down to a guilty consciousness of their foolish weakness in succumbing to the girl’s demands.

But he was a little surprised when Dexter Rice approached him gloomily. “Of course,” he began, “it ain’t no call of ours to interfere in family affairs, and you’ve a right to keep ‘em to yourself, but if you’d been fair and square and above board in what you got off on us about this per—”

“What do you mean?” demanded the astonished Wells.

“Well—callin’ her a ‘red-haired gal.’”

“Well—she is a red-haired girl!” said Wells impatiently.

“A man,” continued Rice pityingly, “that is so prejudiced as to apply such language to a beautiful orphan—torn with grief at the loss of a beloved but d–d misconstruing parent—merely because she begs a few vegetables out of his potato patch, ain’t to be reasoned with. But when you come to look at this thing by and large, and as a fa’r-minded man, sonny, you’ll agree with us that the sooner you make terms with her the better. Considerin’ your interest, Jacksey,—let alone the claims of humanity,—we’ve concluded to withdraw from here until this thing is settled. She’s sort o’ mixed us up with your feelings agin her, and naturally supposed we object to the color of her hair! and bein’ a penniless orphan, rejected by her relations”—

“What stuff are you talking?” burst in Jackson. “Why, YOU saw she treated you better than she did me.”

“Steady! There you go with that temper of yours that frightened the girl! Of course she could see that WE were fa’r-minded men, accustomed to the ways of society, and not upset by the visit of a lady, or the givin’ up of a few green sticks! But let that slide! We’re goin’ back home to-night, sonny, and when you’ve thought this thing over and are straightened up and get your right bearin’s, we’ll stand by you as before. We’ll put a man on to do your work on the Ledge, so ye needn’t worry about that.”

They were quite firm in this decision,—however absurd or obscure their conclusions,—and Jackson, after his first flash of indignation, felt a certain relief in their departure. But strangely enough, while he had hesitated about keeping the property when they were violently in favor of it, he now felt he was right in retaining it against their advice to compromise. The sentimental idea had vanished with his recognition of his hateful cousin in the role of the injured orphan. And for the same odd reason her prettiness only increased his resentment. He was not deceived,—it was the same capricious, willful, red-haired girl.

The next day he set himself to work with that dogged steadiness that belonged to his simple nature, and which had endeared him to his partners. He set half a dozen Chinamen to work, and followed, although apparently directing, their methods. The great difficulty was to restrain and control the excessive vegetation, and he matched the small economies of the Chinese against the opulence of the Californian soil. The “garden patch” prospered; the neighbors spoke well of it and of him. But Jackson knew that this fierce harvest of early spring was to be followed by the sterility of the dry season, and that irrigation could alone make his work profitable in the end. He brought a pump to force the water from the little stream at the foot of the slope to the top, and allowed it to flow back through parallel trenches. Again Buckeye applauded! Only the gloomy barkeeper shook his head. “The moment you get that thing to pay, Mr. Wells, you’ll find the hand of Brown, somewhere, getting ready to squeeze it dry!”

But Jackson Wells did not trouble himself about Brown, whom he scarcely knew. Once indeed, while trenching the slope, he was conscious that he was watched by two men from the opposite bank; but they were apparently satisfied by their scrutiny, and turned away. Still less did he concern himself with the movements of his cousin, who once or twice passed him superciliously in her buggy on the road. Again, she met him as one of a cavalcade of riders, mounted on a handsome but ill-tempered mustang, which she was managing with an ill-temper and grace equal to the brute’s, to the alternate delight and terror of her cavalier. He could see that she had been petted and spoiled by her new guardian and his friends far beyond his conception. But why she should grudge him the little garden and the pastoral life for which she was so unsuited, puzzled him greatly.

One afternoon he was working near the road, when he was startled by an outcry from his Chinese laborers, their rapid dispersal from the strawberry beds where they were working, the splintering crash of his fence rails, and a commotion among the buckeyes. Furious at what seemed to him one of the usual wanton attacks upon coolie labor, he seized his pick and ran to their assistance. But he was surprised to find Jocelinda’s mustang caught by the saddle and struggling between two trees, and its unfortunate mistress lying upon the strawberry bed. Shocked but cool-headed, Jackson released the horse first, who was lashing out and destroying everything within his reach, and then turned to his cousin. But she had already lifted herself to her elbow, and with a trickle of blood and mud on one fair cheek was surveying him scornfully under her tumbled hair and hanging hat.

“You don’t suppose I was trespassing on your wretched patch again, do you?” she said in a voice she was trying to keep from breaking. “It was that brute—who bolted.”

“I don’t suppose you were bullying ME this time,” he said, “but you were YOUR HORSE—or it wouldn’t have happened. Are you hurt?”

She tried to move; he offered her his hand, but she shied from it and struggled to her feet. She took a step forward—but limped.

“If you don’t want my arm, let me call a Chinaman,” he suggested.

She glared at him. “If you do I’ll scream!” she said in a low voice, and he knew she would. But at the same moment her face whitened, at which he slipped his arm under hers in a dexterous, business-like way, so as to support her weight. Then her hat got askew, and down came a long braid over his shoulder. He remembered it of old, only it was darker than then and two or three feet longer.

“If you could manage to limp as far as the gate and sit down on the bank, I’d get your horse for you,” he said. “I hitched it to a sapling.”

“I saw you did—before you even offered to help me,” she said scornfully.

“The horse would have got away—YOU couldn’t.”

“If you only knew how I hated you,” she said, with a white face, but a trembling lip.

“I don’t see how that would make things any better,” he said. “Better wipe your face; it’s scratched and muddy, and you’ve been rubbing your nose in my strawberry bed.”

She snatched his proffered handkerchief suddenly, applied it to her face, and said: “I suppose it looks dreadful.”

“Like a pig’s,” he returned cheerfully.

She walked a little more firmly after this, until they reached the gate. He seated her on the bank, and went back for the mustang. That beautiful brute, astounded and sore from its contact with the top rail and brambles, was cowed and subdued as he led it back.

She had finished wiping her face, and was hurriedly disentangling two stinging tears from her long lashes, before she threw back his handkerchief. Her sprained ankle obliged him to lift her into the saddle and adjust her little shoe in the stirrup. He remembered when it was still smaller. “You used to ride astride,” he said, a flood of recollection coming over him, “and it’s much safer with your temper and that brute.”

“And you,” she said in a lower voice, “used to be”—But the rest of her sentence was lost in the switch of the whip and the jump of her horse, but he thought the word was “kinder.”

Perhaps this was why, after he watched her canter away, he went back to the garden, and from the bruised and trampled strawberry bed gathered a small basket of the finest fruit, covered them with leaves, added a paper with the highly ingenious witticism, “Picked up with you,” and sent them to her by one of the Chinamen. Her forcible entry moved Li Sing, his foreman, also chief laundryman to the settlement, to reminiscences:

“Me heap knew Missy Wells and ole man, who go dead. Ole man allee time make chin music to Missy. Allee time jaw jaw—allee time make lows—allee time cuttee up Missy! Plenty time lockee up Missy topside house; no can walkee—no can talkee—no hab got—how can get?—must washee washee allee same Chinaman. Ole man go dead—Missy all lightee now. Plenty fun. Plenty stay in Blown’s big house, top-side hill; Blown first-chop man.”

Had he inquired he might have found this pagan testimony, for once, corroborated by the Christian neighbors.

But another incident drove all this from his mind. The little stream—the life blood of his garden—ran dry! Inquiry showed that it had been diverted two miles away into Brown’s ditch! Wells’s indignant protest elicited a formal reply from Brown, stating that he owned the adjacent mining claims, and reminding him that mining rights to water took precedence of the agricultural claim, but offering, by way of compensation, to purchase the land thus made useless and sterile. Jackson suddenly recalled the prophecy of the gloomy barkeeper. The end, had come! But what could the scheming capitalist want with the land, equally useless—as his uncle had proved—for mining purposes? Could it be sheer malignity, incited by his vengeful cousin? But here he paused, rejecting the idea as quickly as it came. No! his partners were right! He was a trespasser on his cousin’s heritage—there was no luck in it—he was wrong, and this was his punishment! Instead of yielding gracefully as he might, he must back down now, and she would never know his first real feelings. Even now he would make over the property to her as a free gift. But his partners had advanced him money from their scanty means to plant and work it. He believed that an appeal to their feelings would persuade them to forego even that, but he shrank even more from confessing his defeat to THEM than to her.

He had little heart in his labors that day, and dismissed the Chinamen early. He again examined his uncle’s old mining claim on the top of the slope, but was satisfied that it had been a hopeless enterprise and wisely abandoned. It was sunset when he stood under the buckeyes, gloomily looking at the glow fade out of the west, as it had out of his boyish hopes. He had grown to like the place. It was the hour, too, when the few flowers he had cultivated gave back their pleasant odors, as if grateful for his care. And then he heard his name called.

It was his cousin, standing a few yards from him in evident hesitation. She was quite pale, and for a moment he thought she was still suffering from her fall, until he saw in her nervous, half-embarrassed manner that it had no physical cause. Her old audacity and anger seemed gone, yet there was a queer determination in her pretty brows.

“Good-evening,” he said.

She did not return his greeting, but pulling uneasily at her glove, said hesitatingly: “Uncle has asked you to sell him this land?”

“Yes.”

“Well—don’t!” she burst out abruptly.

He stared at her.

“Oh, I’m not trying to keep you here,” she went on, flashing back into her old temper; “so you needn’t stare like that. I say, ‘Don’t,’ because it ain’t right, it ain’t fair.”

“Why, he’s left me no alternative,” he said.

“That’s just it—that’s why it’s mean and low. I don’t care if he is our uncle.”

Jackson was bewildered and shocked.

“I know it’s horrid to say it,” she said, with a white face; “but it’s horrider to keep it in! Oh, Jack! when we were little, and used to fight and quarrel, I never was mean—was I? I never was underhanded—was I? I never lied—did I? And I can’t lie now. Jack,” she looked hurriedly around her, “HE wants to get hold of the land—HE thinks there’s gold in the slope and bank by the stream. He says dad was a fool to have located his claim so high up. Jack! did you ever prospect the bank?”

A dawning of intelligence came upon Jackson. “No,” he said; “but,” he added bitterly, “what’s the use? He owns the water now,—I couldn’t work it.”

“But, Jack, IF you found the color, this would be a MINING claim! You could claim the water right; and, as it’s your land, your claim would be first!”

Jackson was startled. “Yes, IF I found the color.”

“You WOULD find it.”

“WOULD?”

“Yes! I DID—on the sly! Yesterday morning on your slope by the stream, when no one was up! I washed a panful and got that.” She took a piece of tissue paper from her pocket, opened it, and shook into her little palm three tiny pin points of gold.

“And that was your own idea, Jossy?”

“Yes!”

“Your very own?”

“Honest Injin!”

“Wish you may die?”

“True, O King!”

He opened his arms, and they mutually embraced. Then they separated, taking hold of each other’s hands solemnly, and falling back until they were at arm’s length. Then they slowly extended their arms sideways at full length, until this action naturally brought their faces and lips together. They did this with the utmost gravity three times, and then embraced again, rocking on pivoted feet like a metronome. Alas! it was no momentary inspiration. The most casual and indifferent observer could see that it was the result of long previous practice and shameless experience. And as such—it was a revelation and an explanation.

“I always suspected that Jackson was playin’ us about that red-haired cousin,” said Rice two weeks later; “but I can’t swallow that purp stuff about her puttin’ him up to that dodge about a new gold discovery on a fresh claim, just to knock out Brown. No, sir. He found that gold in openin’ these irrigatin’ trenches,—the usual nigger luck, findin’ what you’re not lookin’ arter.”

“Well, we can’t complain, for he’s offered to work it on shares with us,” said Briggs.

“Yes—until he’s ready to take in another partner.”

“Not—Brown?” said his horrified companions.

“No!—but Brown’s adopted daughter—that red-haired cousin!”

THE REINCARNATION OF SMITH

The extravagant supper party by which Mr. James Farendell celebrated the last day of his bachelorhood was protracted so far into the night, that the last guest who parted from him at the door of the principal Sacramento restaurant was for a moment impressed with the belief that a certain ruddy glow in the sky was already the dawn. But Mr. Farendell had kept his head clear enough to recognize it as the light of some burning building in a remote business district, a not infrequent occurrence in the dry season. When he had dismissed his guest he turned away in that direction for further information. His own counting-house was not in that immediate neighborhood, but Sacramento had been once before visited by a rapid and far-sweeping conflagration, and it behooved him to be on the alert even on this night of festivity.

Perhaps also a certain anxiety arose out of the occasion. He was to be married to-morrow to the widow of his late partner, and the marriage, besides being an attractive one, would settle many business difficulties. He had been a fortunate man, but, like many more fortunate men, was not blind to the possibilities of a change of luck. The death of his partner in a successful business had at first seemed to betoken that change, but his successful, though hasty, courtship of the inexperienced widow had restored his chances without greatly shocking the decorum of a pioneer community. Nevertheless, he was not a contented man, and hardly a determined—although an energetic one.

A walk of a few moments brought him to the levee of the river,—a favored district, where his counting-house, with many others, was conveniently situated. In these early days only a few of these buildings could be said to be permanent,—fire and flood perpetually threatened them. They were merely temporary structures of wood, or in the case of Mr. Farendell’s office, a shell of corrugated iron, sheathing a one-storied wooden frame, more or less elaborate in its interior decorations. By the time he had reached it, the distant fire had increased. On his way he had met and recognized many of his business acquaintances hurrying thither,—some to save their own property, or to assist the imperfectly equipped volunteer fire department in their unselfish labors. It was probably Mr. Farendell’s peculiar preoccupation on that particular night which had prevented his joining in their brotherly zeal.

He unlocked the iron door, and lit the hanging lamp that was used in all-night sittings on steamer days. It revealed a smartly furnished office, with a high desk for his clerks, and a smaller one for himself in one corner. In the centre of the wall stood a large safe. This he also unlocked and took out a few important books, as well as a small drawer containing gold coin and dust to the amount of about five hundred dollars, the large balance having been deposited in bank on the previous day. The act was only precautionary, as he did not exhibit any haste in removing them to a place of safety, and remained meditatively absorbed in looking over a packet of papers taken from the same drawer. The closely shuttered building, almost hermetically sealed against light, and perhaps sound, prevented his observing the steadily increasing light of the conflagration, or hearing the nearer tumult of the firemen, and the invasion of his quiet district by other equally solicitous tenants. The papers seemed also to possess some importance, for, the stillness being suddenly broken by the turning of the handle of the heavy door he had just closed, and its opening with difficulty, his first act was to hurriedly conceal them, without apparently paying a thought to the exposed gold before him. And his expression and attitude in facing round towards the door was quite as much of nervous secretiveness as of indignation at the interruption.

Yet the intruder appeared, though singular, by no means formidable. He was a man slightly past the middle age, with a thin face, hollowed at the cheeks and temples as if by illness or asceticism, and a grayish beard that encircled his throat like a soiled worsted “comforter” below his clean-shaven chin and mouth. His manner was slow and methodical, and even when he shot the bolt of the door behind him, the act did not seem aggressive. Nevertheless Mr. Farendell half rose with his hand on his pistol-pocket, but the stranger merely lifted his own hand with a gesture of indifferent warning, and, drawing a chair towards him, dropped into it deliberately.

Mr. Farendell’s angry stare changed suddenly to one of surprised recognition. “Josh Scranton,” he said hesitatingly.

“I reckon,” responded the stranger slowly. “That’s the name I allus bore, and YOU called yourself Farendell. Well, we ain’t seen each other sens the spring o’ ‘50, when ye left me lying nigh petered out with chills and fever on the Stanislaus River, and sold the claim that me and Duffy worked under our very feet, and skedaddled for ‘Frisco!”

“I only exercised my right as principal owner, and to secure my advances,” began the late Mr. Farendell sharply.

But again the thin hand was raised, this time with a slow, scornful waiving of any explanations. “It ain’t that in partickler that I’ve kem to see ye for to-night,” said the stranger slowly, “nor it ain’t about your takin’ the name o’ ‘Farendell,’ that friend o’ yours who died on the passage here with ye, and whose papers ye borrowed! Nor it ain’t on account o’ that wife of yours ye left behind in Missouri, and whose letters you never answered. It’s them things all together—and suthin’ else!”

“What the d–l do you want, then?” said Farendell, with a desperate directness that was, however, a tacit confession of the truth of these accusations.

“Yer allowin’ that ye’ll get married tomorrow?” said Scranton slowly.

“Yes, and be d–d to you,” said Farendell fiercely.

“Yer NOT,” returned Scranton. “Not if I knows it. Yer goin’ to climb down. Yer goin’ to get up and get! Yer goin’ to step down and out! Yer goin’ to shut up your desk and your books and this hull consarn inside of an hour, and vamose the ranch. Arter an hour from now thar won’t be any Mr. Farendell, and no weddin’ to-morrow.”

“If that’s your game—perhaps you’d like to murder me at once?” said Farendell with a shifting eye, as his hand again moved towards his revolver.

But again the thin hand of the stranger was also lifted. “We ain’t in the business o’ murderin’ or bein’ murdered, or we might hev kem here together, me and Duffy. Now if anything happens to me Duffy will be left, and HE’S got the proofs.”

Farendell seemed to recognize the fact with the same directness. “That’s it, is it?” he said bluntly. “Well, how much do you want? Only, I warn you that I haven’t much to give.”

“Wotever you’ve got, if it was millions, it ain’t enough to buy us up, and ye ought to know that by this time,” responded Scranton, with a momentary flash in his eyes. But the next moment his previous passionless deliberation returned, and leaning his arm on the desk of the man before him he picked up a paperweight carelessly and turned it over as he said slowly, “The fact is, Mr. Farendell, you’ve been making us, me and Duffy, tired. We’ve bin watchin’ you and your doin’s, lyin’ low and sayin’ nothin’, till we concluded that it was about time you handed in your checks and left the board. We ain’t wanted nothin’ of ye, we ain’t begrudged ye nothin’, but we’ve allowed that this yer thing must stop.”

“And what if I refuse?” said Farendell.

“Thar’ll be some cussin’ and a big row from YOU, I kalkilate—and maybe some fightin’ all round,” said Scranton dispassionately. “But it will be all the same in the end. The hull thing will come out, and you’ll hev to slide just the same. T’otherwise, ef ye slide out NOW, it’s without a row.”

“And do you suppose a business man like me can disappear without a fuss over it?” said Farendell angrily. “Are you mad?”

“I reckon the hole YOU’LL make kin be filled up,” said Scranton dryly. “But ef ye go NOW, you won’t be bothered by the fuss, while if you stay you’ll have to face the music, and go too!”

Farendell was silent. Possibly the truth of this had long since been borne upon him. No one but himself knew the incessant strain of these years of evasion and concealment, and how he often had been near to some such desperate culmination. The sacrifice offered to him was not, therefore, so great as it might have seemed. The knowledge of this might have given him a momentary superiority over his antagonist had Scranton’s motive been a purely selfish or malignant one, but as it was not, and as he may have had some instinctive idea of Farendell’s feeling also, it made his ultimatum appear the more passionless and fateful. And it was this quality which perhaps caused Farendell to burst out with desperate abruptness,—

“What in h-ll ever put you up to this!”

Scranton folded his arms upon Farendell’s desk, and slowly wiping his clean jaw with one hand, repeated deliberately, “Wall—I reckon I told ye that before! You’ve been making us—me and Duffy—tired!” He paused for a moment, and then, rising abruptly, with a careless gesture towards the uncovered tray of gold, said, “Come! ye kin take enuff o’ that to get away with; the less ye take, though, the less likely you’ll be to be followed!”

He went to the door, unlocked and opened it. A strange light, as of a lurid storm interspersed by sheet-like lightning, filled the outer darkness, and the silence was now broken by dull crashes and nearer cries and shouting. A few figures were also dimly flitting around the neighboring empty offices, some of which, like Farendell’s, had been entered by their now alarmed owners.

“You’ve got a good chance now,” continued Scranton; “ye couldn’t hev a better. It’s a big fire—a scorcher—and jest the time for a man to wipe himself out and not be missed. Make tracks where the crowd is thickest and whar ye’re likely to be seen, ez ef ye were helpin’! Ther’ ‘ll be other men missed tomorrow beside you,” he added with grim significance; “but nobody’ll know that you was one who really got away.”

Where the imperturbable logic of the strange man might have failed, the noise, the tumult, the suggestion of swift-coming disaster, and the necessity for some immediate action of any kind, was convincing. Farendell hastily stuffed his pockets with gold and the papers he had found, and moved to the door. Already he fancied he felt the hot breath of the leaping conflagration beyond. “And you?” he said, turning suspiciously to Scranton.

“When you’re shut of this and clean off, I’ll fix things and leave too—but not before. I reckon,” he added grimly, with a glance at the sky, now streaming with sparks like a meteoric shower, “thar won’t be much left here in the morning.”

A few dull embers pattered on the iron roof of the low building and bounded off in ashes. Farendell cast a final glance around him, and then darted from the building. The iron door clanged behind him—he was gone.

Evidently not too soon, for the other buildings were already deserted by their would-be salvors, who had filled the streets with piles of books and valuables waiting to be carried away. Then occurred a terrible phenomenon, which had once before in such disasters paralyzed the efforts of the firemen. A large wooden warehouse in the centre of the block of offices, many hundred feet from the scene of active conflagration—which had hitherto remained intact—suddenly became enveloped in clouds of smoke, and without warning burst as suddenly from roof and upper story into vivid flame. There were eye-witnesses who declared that a stream of living fire seemed to leap upon it from the burning district, and connected the space between them with an arch of luminous heat. In another instant the whole district was involved in a whirlwind of smoke and flame, out of whose seething vortex the corrugated iron buildings occasionally showed their shriveling or glowing outlines. And then the fire swept on and away.

When the sun again arose over the panic-stricken and devastated city, all personal incident and disaster was forgotten in the larger calamity. It was two or three days before the full particulars could be gathered—even while the dominant and resistless energy of the people was erecting new buildings upon the still-smoking ruins. It was only on the third day afterwards that James Farendell, on the deck of a coasting steamer, creeping out through the fogs of the Golden Gate, read the latest news in a San Francisco paper brought by the pilot. As he hurriedly comprehended the magnitude of the loss, which was far beyond his previous conception, he experienced a certain satisfaction in finding his position no worse materially than that of many of his fellow workers. THEY were ruined like himself; THEY must begin their life afresh—but then! Ah! there was still that terrible difference. He drew his breath quickly, and read on. Suddenly he stopped, transfixed by a later paragraph. For an instant he failed to grasp its full significance. Then he read it again, the words imprinting themselves on his senses with a slow deliberation that seemed to him as passionless as Scranton’s utterances on that fateful night.

“The loss of life, it is now feared, is much greater than at first imagined. To the list that has been already published we must add the name of James Farendell, the energetic contractor so well known to our citizens, who was missing the morning after the fire. His calcined remains were found this afternoon in the warped and twisted iron shell of his counting-house, the wooden frame having been reduced to charcoal in the intense heat. The unfortunate man seems to have gone there to remove his books and papers,—as was evidenced by the iron safe being found open,—but to have been caught and imprisoned in the building through the heat causing the metal sheathing to hermetically seal the doors and windows. He was seen by some neighbors to enter the building while the fire was still distant, and his remains were identified by his keys, which were found beneath him. A poignant interest is added to his untimely fate by the circumstance that he was to have been married on the following day to the widow of his late partner, and that he had, at the call of duty, that very evening left a dinner party given to celebrate the last day of his bachelorhood—or, as it has indeed proved, of his earthly existence. Two families are thus placed in mourning, and it is a singular sequel that by this untoward calamity the well-known firm of Farendell & Cutler may be said to have ceased to exist.”