A Sappho of Green Springs. Bret Harte

      “Jack!”

      “Fred!”

      The two men remained gazing at each other with a half-amused, half-guarded expression. Mr. Hamlin was first to begin. “I didn't think YOU'D be such a fool as to try on this kind of thing, Fred,” he said, half seriously.

      “Yes, but it was to keep you from being a much bigger one that I hunted you up,” said the editor, mischievously. “Read that. I got it an hour after you left.” And he placed a little triumphantly in Jack's hand the letter he had received from White Violet.

      Mr. Hamlin read it with an unmoved face, and then laid his two hands on the editor's shoulders. “Yes, my young friend, and you sat down and wrote her a pretty letter and sent her twenty dollars—which, permit me to say, was d——d poor pay! But that isn't your fault, I reckon: it's the meanness of your proprietors.”

      “But it isn't the question, either, just now, Jack, however you have been able to answer it. Do you mean to say seriously that you want to know anything more of a woman who could write such a letter?”

      “I don't know,” said Jack, cheerfully. “She might be a devilish sight funnier than if she hadn't written it—which is the fact.”

      “You mean to say SHE didn't write it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Who did, then?”

      “Her brother Bob.”

      After a moment's scrutiny of his friend's bewildered face, Mr. Hamlin briefly related his adventures, from the moment of his meeting Bob at the mountain-stream to the barkeeper's gossiping comment and sequel. “Therefore,” he concluded, “the author of 'Underbrush' is Miss Cynthia Delatour, one of four daughters of a widow who lives two miles from here at the crossing. I shall see her this evening and make sure; but to-morrow morning you will pay me the breakfast you owe me. She's good-looking, but I can't say I fancy the poetic style: it's a little too high-toned for me. However, I love my love with a C, because she is your Contributor; I hate her with a C, because of her Connections; I met her by Chance and treated her with Civility; her name is Cynthia, and she lives on a Cross-road.”

      “But you surely don't expect you will ever see Bob, again!” said the editor, impatiently. “You have trusted him with enough to start him for the Sandwich Islands, to say nothing of the ruinous precedent you have established in his mind of the value of poetry. I am surprised that a man of your knowledge of the world would have faith in that imp the second time.”

      “My knowledge of the world,” returned Mr. Hamlin, sententiously, “tells me that's the only way you can trust anybody. ONCE doesn't make a habit, nor show a character. I could see by his bungling that he had never tried this on before. Just now the temptation to wipe out his punishment by doing the square thing, and coming back a sort of hero, is stronger than any other. 'Tisn't everybody that gets that chance,” he added, with an odd laugh.

      Nevertheless, three hours passed without bringing Bob. The two men had gone to the billiard-room, when a waiter brought a note, which he handed to Mr. Hamlin with some apologetic hesitation. It bore no superscription, but had been brought by a boy who described Mr. Hamlin perfectly, and requested that the note should be handed to him with the remark that “Bob had come back.”

      “And is he there now?” asked Mr. Hamlin, holding the letter unopened in his hand.

      “No, sir; he run right off.”

      The editor laughed, but Mr. Hamlin, having perused the note, put away his cue. “Come into my room,” he said.

      The editor followed, and Mr. Hamlin laid the note before him on the table. “Bob's all right,” he said, “for I'll bet a thousand dollars that note is genuine.”

      It was delicately written, in a cultivated feminine hand, utterly unlike the scrawl that had first excited the editor's curiosity, and ran as follows:—

      He who brought me the bounty of your friend—for I cannot call a recompense so far above my deserts by any other name—gives me also to understand that you wished for an interview. I cannot believe that this is mere idle curiosity, or that you have any motive that is not kindly and honorable, but I feel that I must beg and pray you not to seek to remove the veil behind which I have chosen to hide myself and my poor efforts from identification. I THINK I know you—I KNOW I know myself—well enough to believe it would give neither of us any happiness. You will say to your generous friend that he has already given the Unknown more comfort and hope than could come from any personal compliment or publicity, and you will yourself believe that you have all unconsciously brightened a sad woman's fancy with a Dream and a Vision that before today had been unknown to

      WHITE VIOLET.

      “Have you read it?” asked Mr. Hamlin.

      “Yes.”

      “Then you don't want to see it any more, or even remember you ever saw it,” said Mr. Hamlin, carefully tearing the note into small pieces and letting them drift from the windows like blown blossoms.

      “But, I say, Jack! look here; I don't understand! You say you have already seen this woman, and yet”—

      “I HAVEN'T seen her,” said Jack, composedly, turning from the window.

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean that you and I, Fred, are going to drop this fooling right here and leave this place for Frisco by first stage to-morrow, and—that I owe you that dinner.”