It was toward the close of a bright October day.
The last rays of the setting sun were reflected from
one of those sylvan lakes peculiar to the Sierras of
California. On the right the curling smoke of an
Indian village rose between the columns of the lofty
pines, while to the left the log cottage of Judge
Tompkins, embowered in buckeyes, completed the enchanting
picture.

Although the exterior of the cottage was humble
and unpretentious, and in keeping with the wildness
of the landscape, its interior gave evidence of the
cultivation and refinement of its inmates. An aquarium,
containing goldfishes, stood on a marble centre
table at one end of the apartment, while a
magnificent grand piano occupied the other. The

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floor was covered with a yielding tapestry carpet,
and the walls were adorned with paintings from the
pencils of Van Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, Michael
Angelo, and the productions of the more modern
Turner, Kensett, Church and Bierstadt. Although
Judge Tompkins had chosen the frontiers of civilization
as his home, it was impossible for him to
entirely forego the habits and tastes of his former
life. He was seated in a luxurious arm-chair, writing
at a mahogany écritoire, while his daughter, a
lovely young girl of seventeen summers, plied her
crochet needle on an ottoman beside him. A bright
fire of pine logs flickered and flamed on the ample
hearth.

Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins's
only child. Her mother had long since died on the
Plains. Reared in affluence, no pains had been
spared with the daughter's education. She was a
graduate of one of the principal seminaries, and
spoke French with a perfect Benicia accent. Peerlessly
beautiful, she was dressed in a white moire
antique robe trimmed with tulle. That simple rosebud,
with which most heroines exclusively decorate
their hair, was all she wore in her raven locks.

The Judge was the first to break the silence:

“Genevra, the logs which compose yonder fire
seem to have been incautiously chosen. The sibilation
produced by the sap, which exudes copiously
therefrom, is not conducive to composition.”

“True, father, but I thought it would be preferaable
to the constant crepitation which is apt to

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attend the combustion of more seasoned ligneous
fragments.

The Judge looked admiringly at the intellectual
features of the graceful girl, and half forgot the
slight annoyances of the green wood in the musical
accents of his daughter. He was smoothing her
hair tenderly, when the shadow of a tall figure,
which suddenly darkened the doorway, caused him
to look up.