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Meantime, as the repaired buggy was slowly making its way towards his house, Major Randolph entered his wife’s boudoir with a letter which the San Francisco post had just brought him. A look of embarrassment on his good-humored face strengthened the hard lines of hers; she felt some momentary weakness of her natural enemy, and prepared to give battle.

“I’m afraid here’s something of a muddle, Josephine,” he began with a deprecating smile. “Mallory, who was coming down here with his daughter, you know”–

“This is the first intimation I have had that anything has been settled upon,” interrupted the lady, with appalling deliberation.

“However, my dear, you know I told you last week that he thought of bringing her here while he went South on business. You know, being a widower, he has no one to leave her with.”

“And I suppose it is the American fashion to intrust one’s daughters to any old boon companions?”

“Mallory is an old friend,” interrupted the major, impatiently. “He knows I’m married, and although he has never seen YOU, he is quite willing to leave his daughter here.”

“Thank you!”

“Come, you know what I mean. The man naturally believes that my wife will be a proper chaperone for his daughter. But that is not the present question. He intended to call here; I expected to take you over to San Jose to see her and all that, you know; but the fact of it is–that is–it seems from this letter that–he’s been called away sooner than he expected, and that–well–hang it! the girl is actually on her way here now.”

“Alone?”

“I suppose so. You know one thinks nothing of that here.”

“Or any other propriety, for that matter.”

“For heaven’s sake, Josephine, don’t be ridiculous! Of course it’s stupid her coming in this way, and Mallory ought to have brought her–but she’s coming, and we must receive her. By Jove! Here she is now!” he added, starting up after a hurried glance through the window. “But what kind of a d—-d turn-out is that, anyhow?”

It certainly was an odd-looking conveyance that had entered the gates, and was now slowly coming up the drive towards the house. A large draught horse harnessed to a dust-covered buggy, whose strained fore-axle, bent by the last mile of heavy road, had slanted the tops of the fore-wheels towards each other at an alarming angle. The light, graceful dress and elegant parasol of the young girl, who occupied half of its single seat, looked ludicrously pronounced by the side of the slouching figure and grimy duster of the driver, who occupied the other half.

Mrs. Randolph gave a gritty laugh. “I thought you said she was alone. Is that an escort she has picked up, American fashion, on the road?”

“That’s her hired driver, no doubt. Hang it! she can’t drive here by herself,” retorted the major, impatiently, hurrying to the door and down the staircase. But he was instantly followed by his wife. She had no idea of permitting a possible understanding to be exchanged in their first greeting. The late M. l’Hommadieu had been able to impart a whole plan of intrigue in a single word and glance.

Happily, Rose Mallory, already in the hall, in a few words detailed the accident that had befallen her, to the honest sympathy of the major and the coldly-polite concern of Mrs. Randolph, who, in deliberately chosen sentences, managed to convey to the young girl the conviction that accidents of any kind to young ladies were to be regarded as only a shade removed from indiscretions. Rose was impressed, and even flattered, by the fastidiousness of this foreign-appearing woman, and after the fashion of youthful natures, accorded to her the respect due to recognized authority. When to this authority, which was evident, she added a depreciation of the major, I fear that some common instinct of feminine tyranny responded in Rose’s breast, and that on the very threshold of the honest soldier’s home she tacitly agreed with the wife to look down upon him. Mrs. Randolph departed to inform her son and daughter of their guest’s arrival. As a matter of fact, however, they had already observed her approach to the house through the slits of their drawn window-blinds, and those even narrower prejudices and limited comprehensions which their education had fostered. The girl, Adele, had only grasped the fact that Rose had come to their house in fine clothes, alone with a man, in a broken-down vehicle, and was moved to easy mirth and righteous wonder. The young man, Emile, had agreed with her, with the mental reservation that the guest was pretty, and must eventually fall in love with him. They both, however, welcomed her with a trained politeness and a superficial attention that, while the indifference of her own countrymen in the wheat-field was still fresh in her recollection, struck her with grateful contrast; the major’s quiet and unobtrusive kindliness naturally made less impression, or was accepted as a matter of course.