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“I knew,” said Bill, with a surliness that ill concealed his evident admiration of the calm figure before him–“I knew the partikler style of d–n fool that you was, and expected no better. Good by, then–God Almighty! who’s that?”

He was on his way to the open French window, but had started back, his face quite white and bloodless, and his eyes staring. Islington ran to the window, and looked out. A white skirt vanished around the corner of the veranda. When he returned, Bill had dropped into a chair.

“It must have been Miss Masterman, I think; but what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Bill, faintly; “have you got any whiskey handy?”

Islington brought a decanter, and, pouring out some spirits, handed the glass to Bill. Bill drained it, and then said, “Who is Miss Masterman?”

“Mr. Masterman’s daughter; that is, an adopted daughter, I believe.”

“Wot name?”

“I really don’t know,” said Islington, pettishly, more vexed than he cared to own at this questioning.

Yuba Bill rose and walked to the window, closed it, walked back again to the door, glanced at Islington, hesitated, and then returned to his chair.

“I didn’t tell you I was married–did I?” he said suddenly, looking up in Islington’s face with an unsuccessful attempt at a reckless laugh.

“No,” said Islington, more pained at the manner than the words.

“Fact,” said Yuba Bill. “Three years ago it was, Tommy,–three years ago!”

He looked so hard at Islington, that, feeling he was expected to say something, he asked vaguely, “Who did you marry?”

“Thet’s it!” said Yuba Bill; “I can’t ezactly say; partikly, though, a she devil! generally, the wife of half a dozen other men.”

Accustomed, apparently, to have his conjugal infelicities a theme of mirth among men, and seeing no trace of amusement on Islington’s grave face, his dogged, reckless manner softened, and, drawing his chair closer to Islington, he went on: “It all began outer this: we was coming down Watson’s grade one night pretty free, when the expressman turns to me and sez, ‘There’s a row inside, and you’d better pull up!’ I pulls up, and out hops, first a woman, and then two or three chaps swearing and cursin’, and tryin’ to drag some one arter them. Then it ‘pear’d, Tommy, thet it was this woman’s drunken husband they was going to put out for abusin’ her, and strikin’ her in the coach; and if it hadn’t been for me, my boy, they’d hev left that chap thar in the road. But I fixes matters up by putting her alongside o’ me on the box, and we drove on. She was very white, Tommy,–for the matter o’ that, she was always one o’ these very white women, that never got red in the face,–but she never cried a whimper. Most wimin would have cried. It was queer, but she never cried. I thought so at the time.

“She was very tall, with a lot o’ light hair meandering down the back of her head, as long as a deer-skin whip-lash, and about the color. She hed eyes thet’d bore you through at fifty yards, and pooty hands and feet. And when she kinder got out o’ that stiff, narvous state she was in, and warmed up a little, and got chipper, by G-d, sir, she was handsome,–she was that!”

A little flushed and embarrassed at his own enthusiasm, he stopped, and then said, carelessly, “They got off at Murphy’s.”

“Well,” said Islington.

“Well, I used to see her often arter thet, and when she was alone she allus took the box-seat. She kinder confided her troubles to me, how her husband got drunk and abused her; and I didn’t see much o’ him, for he was away in ‘Frisco arter thet. But it was all square, Tommy,–all square ‘twixt me and her.

“I got a going there a good deal, and then one day I sez to myself, ‘Bill, this won’t do,’ and I got changed to another route. Did you ever know Jackson Filltree, Tommy?” said Bill, breaking off suddenly.