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Six weeks passed. The limit of Mr. Dimmidge’s advertisement had been reached, and, as it was not renewed, it had passed out of the pages of the “Clarion,” and with it the merchant’s advertisement in the next column. The excitement had subsided, although its influence was still felt in the circulation of the paper and its advertising popularity. The temporary editor was also nearing the limit of his incumbency, but had so far participated in the good fortune of the “Clarion” as to receive an offer from one of the San Francisco dailies.

It was a warm night, and he was alone in his sanctum. The rest of the building was dark and deserted, and his solitary light, flashing out through the open window, fell upon the nearer pines and was lost in the dark, indefinable slope below. He had reached the sanctum by the rear, and a door which he also left open to enjoy the freshness of the aromatic air. Nor did it in the least mar his privacy. Rather the solitude of the great woods without seemed to enter through that door and encompassed him with its protecting loneliness. There was occasionally a faint “peep” in the scant eaves, or a “pat-pat,” ending in a frightened scurry across the roof, or the slow flap of a heavy wing in the darkness below. These gentle disturbances did not, however, interrupt his work on “The True Functions of the County Newspaper,” the editorial on which he was engaged.

Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberry bushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by a light tapping against the side of the house. The editor started and turned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to the ground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper part of her figure, illuminated by the light from the door, was thrown into greater relief by the dark background of the pines. Her face was unknown to him, but it was a pleasant one, marked by a certain good-humored determination.

“May I come in?” she said confidently.

“Certainly,” said the editor. “I am working here alone because it is so quiet.” He thought he would precipitate some explanation from her by excusing himself.

“That’s the reason why I came,” she said, with a quiet smile.

She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw that she was wearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a serviceable rawhide whip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took the chair he offered her and sat down sideways on it, her whip hand now also holding up her skirt, and permitting a hem of clean white petticoat and a smart, well-shaped boot to be seen.

“I don’t remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in Calaveras before,” said the editor tentatively.

“No. I never was here before,” she said composedly, “but you’ve heard enough of me, I reckon. I’m Mrs. Dimmidge.” She threw one hand over the back of the chair, and with the other tapped her riding-whip on the floor.

The editor started. Mrs. Dimmidge! Then she was not a myth. An absurd similarity between her attitude with the whip and her husband’s entrance with his gun six weeks before forced itself upon him and made her an invincible presence.

“Then you have returned to your husband?” he said hesitatingly.

“Not much!” she returned, with a slight curl of her lip.

“But you read his advertisement?”

“I saw that column of fool nonsense he put in your paper–ef that’s what you mean,” she said with decision, “but I didn’t come here to see HIM–but YOU.”

The editor looked at her with a forced smile, but a vague misgiving. He was alone at night in a deserted part of the settlement, with a plump, self-possessed woman who had a contralto voice, a horsewhip, and–he could not help feeling–an evident grievance.