had even trespassed its bounds, and impinged upon the open road, the deserted claims, and the ruins of the past.  Stimulated by the little cultivation Quincy Wells had found time to give it, it had leaped its three acres and rioted through the Hollow.  There were scarlet runners crossing the abandoned sluices, peas climbing the court-house wall, strawberries matting the trail, while the seeds and pollen of its few homely Eastern flowers had been blown far and wide through the woods.  By a grim satire, Nature seemed to have been the only thing that still prospered in that settlement of man.

The cabin itself, built of unpainted boards, consisted of a sitting-room, dining-room, kitchen, and two bedrooms, all plainly furnished, although one of the bedrooms was better ordered, and displayed certain signs of feminine decoration, which made Jackson believe it had been his cousin’s room.  Luckily, the slight, temporary structure bore no deep traces of its previous occupancy to disturb him with its memories, and for the same reason it gained in cleanliness and freshness.  The dry, desiccating summer wind that blew through it had carried away both the odors and the sense of domesticity; even the adobe hearth had no fireside tales to tell,—­its very ashes had been scattered by the winds; and the gravestone of its dead owner on the hill was no more flavorless of his personality than was this plain house in which he had lived and died.  The excessive vegetation produced by the stirred-up soil had covered and hidden the empty tin cans, broken boxes, and fragments of clothing which usually heaped and littered the tent-pegs of the pioneer.  Nature’s own profusion had thrust them into obscurity.  Jackson Wells smiled as he recalled his sanguine partner’s idea of a treasure-trove concealed and stuffed in the crevices of this tenement, already so palpably picked clean by those wholesome scavengers of California, the dry air and burning sun.  Yet he was not displeased at this obliteration of a previous tenancy; there was the better chance for him to originate something.  He whistled hopefully as he lounged, with his hands in his pockets, towards the only fence and gate that gave upon the road.  Something stuck up on the gate-post attracted his attention.  It was a sheet of paper bearing the inscription in a large hand:  “Notice to trespassers.  Look out for the Orphan Robber!” A plain signboard in faded black letters on the gate, which had borne the legend:  “Quincy Wells, Dealer in Fruit and Vegetables,” had been rudely altered in chalk to read:  “Jackson Wells, Double Dealer in Wills and Codicils,” and the intimation “Bouquets sold here” had been changed to “Bequests stole here.”  For an instant the simple-minded Jackson failed to discover any significance of this outrage, which seemed to him to be merely the wanton mischief of a schoolboy.  But a sudden recollection of the lawyer’s caution sent the blood to his cheeks and kindled his indignation.  He tore down the paper and rubbed out the chalk interpolation—­and then laughed at his own anger.  Nevertheless, he would not have liked his belligerent partners to see it.