But here Fortune again favored the house of Spindler with a dramatic surprise, even greater than the advent of the children had been.  In the change that had come over Rough and Ready, “the boys” had decided, out of deference to the women and children, to omit the first part of their programme, and had approached and entered the house as soberly and quietly as ordinary guests.  But before they had shaken hands with the host and hostess, and seen the relations, the clatter of wheels was heard before the open door, and its lights flashed upon a carriage and pair,—­an actual private carriage,—­the like of which had not been seen since the governor of the State had come down to open the new ditch!  Then there was a pause, the flash of the carriage lamps upon white silk, the light tread of a satin foot on the veranda and in the hall, and the entrance of a vision of loveliness!  Middle-aged men and old dwellers of cities remembered their youth; younger men bethought themselves of Cinderella and the Prince!  There was a thrill and a hush as this last guest—­a beautiful girl, radiant with youth and adornment—­put a dainty glass to her sparkling eye and advanced familiarly, with outstretched hand, to Dick Spindler.  Mrs. Price gave a single gasp, and drew back speechless.

“Uncle Dick,” said a laughing contralto voice, which, indeed, somewhat recalled Mrs. Price’s own, in its courageous frankness, “I am so delighted to come, even if a little late, and so sorry that Mr. M’Kenna could not come on account of business.”

Everybody listened eagerly, but none more eagerly and surprisingly than the host himself.  M’Kenna!  The rich cousin who had never answered the invitation!  And Uncle Dick!  This, then, was his divorced niece!  Yet even in his astonishment he remembered that of course no one but himself and Mrs. Price knew it,—­and that lady had glanced discreetly away.

“Yes,” continued the half-niece brightly.  “I came from Sacramento with some friends to Shootersville, and from thence I drove here; and though I must return to-night, I could not forego the pleasure of coming, if it was only for an hour or two, to answer the invitation of the uncle I have not seen for years.”  She paused, and, raising her glasses, turned a politely questioning eye towards Mrs. Price.  “One of our relations?” she said smilingly to Spindler.

“No,” said Spindler, with some embarrassment, “a—­a friend!”

The half-niece extended her hand.  Mrs. Price took it.

But the fair stranger,—­what she did and said were the only things remembered in Rough and Ready on that festive occasion; no one thought of the other relations; no one recalled them nor their eccentricities; Spindler himself was forgotten.  People only recollected how Spindler’s lovely niece lavished her smiles and courtesies on every one, and brought to her feet particularly the misogynist Starbuck and the sarcastic Cooledge, oblivious of his previous speech; how she sat at the piano and