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“Thee’ll find the hotel a little further up the street,” said Enoch; “there may be no one about; I think I saw Isaac and Esther Penthorn driving toward Maravilla this afternoon. But they’ll be back before dark. Thee can make thyself at home.”

“You’re right I can,” assented the newcomer with emphasis; “I see you’ve caught on to my disposition. Isaac and Esther will find me as domestic as a lame cat. Be it ever so homely there’s no place like hum. By-by, uncle; see you later.”

He went up the street, walking as jauntily as his burden would permit, and Enoch looked after with a lean, whimsical smile.

“Thee seems to have a good deal of cheek,” he reflected, as he emptied the mail-bag, “but thee’s certainly cheerful.”

II.

Within a week every resident of Muscatel had heard the sound of Jerry Sullivan’s voice. It arose above the ring of his hammer as he worked at the pine skeleton of his shanty, and the sage-laden breeze from the mountains seemed a strange enough vehicle for the questionable sentiments of his song. New and startling variations of street songs, and other unfamiliar melodies came to Enoch’s ears as he distributed the mail, or held the quart measure under the molasses barrel, and occasionally the singer himself dropped in to make a purchase and chat a few moments with the postmaster concerning the progress of his house.

“The architect has rather slopped over on the plans,” he said, when the frame was up, “so I’m putting up a Queen Anne wood-shed for the present, while he knocks a few bay windows out of the conservatory. ‘A penny saved ‘s a penny earned,’ you know. That’s the way I came to be a millionaire–stopped drinking in my infancy and learned to chew, saved a rattleful of nickels before I could walk–got any eighteen-carat nails, uncle? I want to do a little finishing-work in the bath-room.”

Enoch met his new friend’s trifling, always with the same gentle gravity; but something, perhaps that lurking liberality about the corners of his mouth, seemed to inspire the young fellow with implicit confidence in the old man’s sympathy.

After the frame of Jerry’s domicile was inclosed, a prodigious sawing and hammering went on inside the redwood walls, and the bursts of music were spasmodic, indicating a closer attention on the part of the workman to nicety of detail in his work. He called to Enoch as he was passing one day, and drew him inside the door mysteriously.

“Take a divan, uncle,” he said airily, pushing a three-legged stool toward his guest. “I’ve got something to show you,–something that’s been handed up to me from posterity. How does that strike you for a starter in the domestic business?”

He drew forward an empty soap-box, fashioned into an old-time cradle, and fitted with rude rockers at the ends.

“Happy thought–eh?” he rattled on, gleefully pointing to the stenciled end, where everything but “Pride of the Family” had been carefully erased. “How’s this for a proud prospective paternal?”

He balanced himself on one foot and rocked the little craft, with all its cargo of pathetic emptiness, gently to and fro.

Enoch’s face quivered as if he had been stabbed.

The young fellow stepped back and surveyed his handiwork with jaunty satisfaction.

“I made that thing just as a bird builds its nest–by paternal instinct. It’s a little previous, and I’d just as soon you wouldn’t mention it; but I had to show it to somebody. Got any children?” he turned upon Enoch suddenly.

“No. Not any–living.”

The old man’s voice wavered, and caught itself on the last word.

Jerry thrust the cradle aside hastily.

“Neither have I, uncle, neither have I,” he said; “not chick nor child. If you ain’t too tired, let me show you over the house. I’m sorry the elevator isn’t running, so you could go up to the cupolo. This room’s a sort of e pluribus unum, many in one; kind of a boodwar and kitchen combined. The other rooms ain’t inclosed yet, but they’re safe enough outside. That’s the advantage of this climate, you don’t have to put everything under cover. Ground-plan suit you pretty well?”