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“Miss Starkweather,” said the young fellow steadily, “I certainly did sell this place to your father, and if I told him anything about the vineyard I most certainly told him they were raisin-grapes; and upon my soul I thought they were. Aren’t they?”

“No,” sobbed Idy, “they ain’t; they’re wine-grapes! He was grubbin’ ’em out to-day. That’s what hurt ‘im–I’m afraid he’ll die!”

“You mustn’t be afraid of that. Dr. Patterson says he will get better. But we must see that he doesn’t do any more grubbing. When Slater gave me this for sale,” he went on, as if he were reflecting aloud, “he said there were ten acres of vineyard. I can’t swear that he told me what the vines were, or that I asked him. But it never occurred to me that any man–even an Englishman–would plant ten acres of wine-grapes when there wasn’t a winery within fifty miles of him.”

VI.

Parker Lowe borrowed one of Mose Doolittle’s mules Monday evening, and rode from Temecula to Jake Levison’s saloon at Maravilla. It was understood when he left the thresher’s camp that he would probably “make a night of it,” and Mose gave him a word of friendly warning and advice.

“You want to remember, Park, that the old man is down on the flowing bowl; an’ from what I’ve heard of the family I think it’ll pay you to keep yourself solid with the old man.”

“I’m a-goin’ up to the drug-store to get some liniment for Dave Montgomery’s lame shoulder,” returned Parker, with a knowing wink at his companion, as he flung himself into the saddle; “but I hain’t signed no pledge yet–not by a jugful,” he called back, as the mule jolted lazily down the road.

It was a warm night, and half a dozen loafers were seated on empty beer-kegs in front of Levison’s door when Parker rode up. Levison got up, and began to disengage himself from the blacksmith’s story as he saw the newcomer dismount; but the blacksmith raised his voice insistently.

“‘There don’t no dude tell me how to pare a hoof,’ says I; ‘I’ll do it my way, or I don’t do it;’ an’ I done it, an’ him kickin’ like a steer all the time”–

“Who?” asked one of the other men.

“Barden.”

“What was he doin’ down here?”

“He came down for Doc Patterson. That teetotal wreck on the west side o’ the lake took a hem’ridge–I furget his name, somethin’-weather: pretty dry weather, judgin’ from what I hear.”

“Starkweather?”

“Yes, Starkweather; I guess he’s pretty low.”

Parker started back to the post where his mule was tied. Then he turned and looked into the saloon. Levison had gone in and was wiping off the counter expectantly.

“It won’t take but a minute,” he apologized to himself.

It took a good many minutes, however, and by the time the minutes lengthened into hours Parker had ceased to apologize to himself, and insisted upon taking the by-standers into his confidence.

“I’m–I’m goin’ to sign the pledge,” he said, with an unsteady wink, “an’ then I’m goin’ to get merried,–yes, sir, boys; rattlin’ nice girl, too,–‘way up girl, temperance girl. But there’s many a cup ‘twixt the slip and the lip–ain’t there, boys? Yes, sir, ‘twixt the cup and the slip–yes, sir–yes, sir–ee.” Then his reflections driveled off into stupor, and he sat on an empty keg with the conical crown of his old felt hat pointed forward, and his hands hanging limply between his knees.

When Levison was ready to leave he stirred Parker up with his foot, and helped him to mount his mule. The patient creature turned its head homeward.

It was after daybreak when Parker rode into the Starkweather ranch, and presented himself at the kitchen door. The night air had sobered him, but it had done nothing more. Idy was standing by the stove with her back toward him. She turned when she heard his step.

“Why, Park!” she said, with a start; then she put up her hand. “Don’t make a noise. Pappy’s sick.”

He came toward her hesitatingly.

“So I heard down at Maravilla last night, Idy.”

Her face darkened.

“And you been all night gettin’ here?”

He bent over her coaxingly.

“Well, you see, Idy”–

The girl pushed him away with both hands, and darted back out of reach.

“Parker Lowe,” she said, with a gasp, “you’ve been drinkin’!”

Parker hung his head sullenly.

“No, I hain’t,” he muttered; “not to speak of. Whose horse is that out ‘n the corral?”

The girl looked at him witheringly.

“I don’t know as it’s any of your pertic’lar business, but I don’t mind tellin’ you that horse b’longs to a gentleman !”

“A gentleman,” sneered Parker.

“Yes, a gentleman ; if you don’t know what that is you’d better look in the dictionary. You won’t find out by lookin’ in the lookin’-glass, I can tell you that.”

“Oh, come now, Idy, you hadn’t ought to be so mad; I hadn’t signed the pledge yet.”

He took a step toward her. The girl put out her hands warningly, and then clasped her arms about herself with a shudder.

“Don’t you come near me, Parker Lowe,” she gasped. “What do I care about the pledge! Didn’t you tell me you’d stop drinkin’? Won’t a man that tells lies with his tongue tell ’em with his fingers? Do you suppose I’d marry a man that ‘u’d come to me smellin’ of whiskey, an’ him lyin’ sick in there? Can’t you see that he’s worth ten thousand such folks as you an’ me? I don’t want a man that can’t see that! I’m done with you, Parker Lowe,”–her voice broke into a dry sob; “I want you to go away and stay away! It ain’t the drinkin’–it’s him –can’t you understand?”

And Parker, as he climbed toward his lonesome cabin, understood.