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The rains had come at last. There was already a visible greenness on the slopes of Heavytree Hill; and the long, white track of the Wingdam road was lost in outlying pools and ponds a hundred rods from Monte Flat. The spent water-courses, whose white bones had been sinuously trailed over the flat, like the vertebrae of some forgotten saurian, were full again; the dry bones moved once more in the valley; and there was joy in the ditches, and a pardonable extravagance in the columns of “The Monte Flat Monitor.” “Never before in the history of the county has the yield been so satisfactory. Our contemporary of ‘The Hillside Beacon,’ who yesterday facetiously alluded to the fact (?) that our best citizens were leaving town in ‘dugouts,’ on account of the flood, will be glad to hear that our distinguished fellow-townsman, Mr. Henry York, now on a visit to his relatives in the East, lately took with him in his ‘dugout’ the modest sum of fifty thousand dollars, the result of one week’s clean-up. We can imagine,” continued that sprightly journal, “that no such misfortune is likely to overtake Hillside this season. And yet we believe ‘The Beacon’ man wants a railroad.” A few journals broke out into poetry. The operator at Simpson’s Crossing telegraphed to “The Sacramento Universe” “All day the low clouds have shook their garnered fulness down.” A San Francisco journal lapsed into noble verse, thinly disguised as editorial prose: “Rejoice: the gentle rain has come, the bright and pearly rain, which scatters blessings on the hills, and sifts them o’er the plain. Rejoice,” etc. Indeed, there was only one to whom the rain had not brought blessing, and that was Plunkett. In some mysterious and darksome way, it had interfered with the perfection of his new method of reducing ores, and thrown the advent of that invention back another season. It had brought him down to an habitual seat in the bar-room, where, to heedless and inattentive ears, he sat and discoursed of the East and his family.

No one disturbed him. Indeed, it was rumored that some funds had been lodged with the landlord, by a person or persons unknown, whereby his few wants were provided for. His mania–for that was the charitable construction which Monte Flat put upon his conduct–was indulged, even to the extent of Monte Flat’s accepting his invitation to dine with his family on Christmas Day,–an invitation extended frankly to every one with whom the old man drank or talked. But one day, to everybody’s astonishment, he burst into the bar-room, holding an open letter in his hand. It read as follows:–

“Be ready to meet your family at the new cottage on Heavytree Hill on Christmas Day. Invite what friends you choose.

“HENRY YORK.”

The letter was handed round in silence. The old man, with a look alternating between hope and fear, gazed in the faces of the group. The doctor looked up significantly, after a pause. “It’s a forgery evidently,” he said in a low voice. “He’s cunning enough to conceive it (they always are); but you’ll find he’ll fail in executing it. Watch his face!–Old man,” he said suddenly, in a loud peremptory tone, “this is a trick, a forgery, and you know it. Answer me squarely, and look me in the eye. Isn’t it so?”

The eyes of Plunkett stared a moment, and then dropped weakly. Then, with a feebler smile, he said, “You’re too many for me, boys. The Doc’s right. The little game’s up. You can take the old man’s hat;” and so, tottering, trembling, and chuckling, he dropped into silence and his accustomed seat. But the next day he seemed to have forgotten this episode, and talked as glibly as ever of the approaching festivity.

And so the days and weeks passed until Christmas–a bright, clear day, warmed with south winds, and joyous with the resurrection of springing grasses–broke upon Monte Flat. And then there was a sudden commotion in the hotel bar-room; and Abner Dean stood beside the old man’s chair, and shook him out of a slumber to his feet. “Rouse up, old man. York is here, with your wife and daughter, at the cottage on Heavytree. Come, old man. Here, boys, give him a lift;” and in another moment a dozen strong and willing hands had raised the old man, and bore him in triumph to the street up the steep grade of Heavytree Hill, and deposited him, struggling and confused, in the porch of a little cottage. At the same instant two women rushed forward, but were restrained by a gesture from Henry York. The old man was struggling to his feet. With an effort at last, he stood erect, trembling, his eye fixed, a gray pallor on his cheek, and a deep resonance in his voice.

“It’s all a trick, and a lie! They ain’t no flesh and blood or kin o’ mine. It ain’t my wife, nor child. My daughter’s a beautiful girl–a beautiful girl, d’ye hear? She’s in New York with her mother, and I’m going to fetch her here. I said I’d go home, and I’ve been home: d’ye hear me? I’ve been home! It’s a mean trick you’re playin’ on the old man. Let me go: d’ye hear? Keep them women off me! Let me go! I’m going–I’m going–home!”

His hands were thrown up convulsively in the air, and, half turning round, he fell sideways on the porch, and so to the ground. They picked him up hurriedly, but too late. He had gone home.