The fir-cones leaped instantly into flame; then the features that had entranced San Francisco audiences nightly, flashed up and passed away (as such things are apt to pass); and even the cynical smile on York's lips faded too.And then there came a supplemental and unexpected flash as the embers fell together, and by its light York saw a paper upon the floor.It was one that had fallen from the old man's pocket.As he picked it up listlessly, a photograph slipped from its folds.It was the portrait of a young girl; and on its reverse was written in a scrawling hand, "Melinda to father."It was at best a cheap picture, but, ah me! I fear even the deft graciousness of the highest art could not have softened the rigid angularities of that youthful figure, its self-complacent vulgarity, its cheap finery, its expressionless ill-favor.York did not look at it a second time.He turned to the letter for relief.
It was misspelled; it was unpunctuated; it was almost illegible; it was fretful in tone, and selfish in sentiment.It was not, I fear, even original in the story of its woes.It was the harsh recital of poverty, of suspicion, of mean makeshifts and compromises, of low pains and lower longings, of sorrows that were degrading, of a grief that was pitiable.Yet it was sincere in a certain kind of vague yearning for the presence of the degraded man to whom it was written,--an affection that was more like a confused instinct than a sentiment.
York folded it again carefully, and placed it beneath the old man's pillow.Then he returned to his seat by the fire.A smile that had been playing upon his face, deepening the curves behind his mustache, and gradually overrunning his clear gray eyes, presently faded away.It was last to go from his eyes; and it left there, oddly enough to those who did not know him, a tear.
He sat there for a long time, leaning forward, his head upon his hands.The wind that had been striving with the canvas roof all at once lifted its edges, and a moonbeam slipped suddenly in, and lay for a moment like a shining blade upon his shoulder; and, knighted by its touch, straightway plain Henry York arose, sustained, high-purposed and self-reliant.
The rains had come at last.There was already a visible greenness on the slopes of Heavytree Hill; and the long, white track of the Wingdam road was lost in outlying pools and ponds a hundred rods from Monte Flat.The spent water-courses, whose white bones had been sinuously trailed over the flat, like the vertebrae of some forgotten saurian, were full again; the dry bones moved once more in the valley; and there was joy in the ditches, and a pardonable extravagance in the columns of "The Monte Flat Monitor." "Never before in the history of the county has the yield been so satisfactory.Our contemporary of 'The Hillside Beacon,' who yesterday facetiously alluded to the fact (?) that our best citizens were leaving town in 'dugouts,' on account of the flood, will be glad to hear that our distinguished fellow-townsman, Mr.