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It was scarcely two months after this painful close of her matrimonial life that one rainy February morning the servant brought a card to Mrs. Roger Catron, bearing the following inscription:–

“Richard Graeme Macleod.”

Women are more readily affected by names than we are, and there was a certain Highland respectability about this that, albeit, not knowing its possessor, impelled Mrs. Catron to send word that she “would be down in a few moments.” At the end of this femininely indefinite period,–a quarter of an hour by the French clock on the mantel-piece,–Mrs. Roger Catron made her appearance in the reception-room. It was a dull, wet day, as I have said before, but on the Contra Costa hills the greens and a few flowers were already showing a promise of rejuvenescence and an early spring. There was something of this, I think, in Mrs. Catron’s presence, shown perhaps in the coquettish bow of a ribbon, in a larger and more delicate ruche, in a tighter belting of her black cashmere gown; but still there was a suggestion of recent rain in the eyes, and threatening weather. As she entered the room, the sun came out, too, and revealed the prettiness and delicacy of her figure, and I regret to state, also, the somewhat obtrusive plainness of her visitor.

“I knew ye’d be sorter disapp’inted at first, not gettin’ the regular bearings o’ my name, but I’m ‘Captain Dick.’ Mebbe ye’ve heard your husband–that is, your husband ez waz, Roger Catron–speak o’ me?”

Mrs. Catron, feeling herself outraged and deceived in belt, ruche, and ribbon, freezingly admitted that she had heard of him before.

“In course,” said the captain; “why, Lord love ye, Mrs. Catron,–ez waz,–he used to be all the time talkin’ of ye. And allers in a free, easy, confidential way. Why, one night–don’t ye remember?–when he came home, carryin’, mebbee, more canvas than was seamanlike, and you shet him out the house, and laid for him with a broomstick, or one o’ them crokay mallets, I disremember which, and he kem over to me, ole Captain Dick, and I sez to him, sez I, ‘Why, Roger, them’s only love pats, and yer condishun is such ez to make any woman mad-like.’ Why, Lord bless ye! there ain’t enny of them mootool differences you and him hed ez I doesn’t knows on, and didn’t always stand by, and lend ye a hand, and heave in a word or two of advice when called on.”

Mrs. Catron, ice everywhere but in her pink cheeks, was glad that Mr. Catron seemed to have always a friend to whom he confided EVERYTHING, even the base falsehoods he had invented.

“Mebbe now they WAZ falsehoods,” said the captain, thoughtfully. “But don’t ye go to think,” he added conscientiously, “that he kept on that tack all the time. Why, that day he made a raise, gambling, I think, over at Dutch Flat, and give ye them bracelets,–regular solid gold,–why, it would have done your heart good to have heard him talk about you–said you had the prettiest arm in Californy. Well,” said the captain, looking around for a suitable climax, “well, you’d have thought that he was sorter proud of ye! Why, I woz with him in ‘Frisco when he bought that A1 prize bonnet for ye for $75, and not hevin’ over $50 in his pocket, borryed the other $25 outer me. Mebbe it was a little fancy for a bonnet; but I allers thought he took it a little too much to heart when you swopped it off for that Dollar Varden dress, just because that Lawyer Maxwell said the Dollar Vardens was becomin’ to ye. Ye know, I reckon, he was always sorter jealous of that thar shark–“

“May I venture to ask what your business is with me?” interrupted Mrs. Catron, sharply.

“In course,” said the captain, rising. “Ye see,” he said, apologetically, “we got to talking o’ Roger and ole times, and I got a little out o’ my course. It’s a matter of–” he began to fumble in his pockets, and finally produced a small memorandum-book, which he glanced over–“it’s a matter of $250.”