at door and window.  Accustomed as she was to the poverty of frontier architecture, even the crumbling walls of the old hacienda she had just left seemed picturesque to the rigid angles of the thin, blank, unpainted shell before her.  One of the loungers, who was reading a newspaper aloud as she advanced, put it aside and stared at her; there was an evident commotion in the shop as she stepped upon the platform, and when she entered, with breathless lips and beating heart, she found herself the object of a dozen curious eyes.  Her quick pride resented the scrutiny and recalled her courage, and it was with a slight coldness in her usual lazy indifference that she leaned over the counter and asked for the articles she wanted.

The request was followed by a dead silence.  Mrs. Tucker repeated it with some hauteur.

“I reckon you don’t seem to know this store is in the hands of the sheriff,” said one of the loungers.

Mrs. Tucker was not aware of it.

“Well, I don’t know any one who’s a better right to know than Spence Tucker’s wife,” said another with a coarse laugh.  The laugh was echoed by the others.  Mrs. Tucker saw the pit into which she had deliberately walked, but did not flinch.

“Is there any one to serve here?” she asked, turning her clear eyes full upon the bystanders.

“You’d better ask the sheriff.  He was the last one to SARVE here.  He sarved an attachment,” replied the inevitable humorist of all Californian assemblages.

“Is he here?” asked Mrs. Tucker, disregarding the renewed laughter which followed this subtle witticism.

The loungers at the door made way for one of their party, who was half dragged, half pushed into the shop.  “Here he is,” said half a dozen eager voices, in the fond belief that his presence might impart additional humor to the situation.  He cast a deprecating glance at Mrs. Tucker and said, “It’s so, madam!  This yer place is attached; but if there’s anything you’re wanting, why I reckon, boys,”—­he turned half appealingly to the crowd,—­“we could oblige a lady.”  There was a vague sound of angry opposition and remonstrance from the back door of the shop, but the majority, partly overcome by Mrs. Tucker’s beauty, assented.  “Only,” continued the officer explanatorily, “ez these yer goods are in the hands of the creditors, they ought to be represented by an equivalent in money.  If you’re expecting they should be charged—­”

“But I wish to pay for them,” interrupted Mrs. Tucker, with a slight flush of indignation; “I have the money.”

“Oh, I bet you have!” screamed a voice, as, overturning all opposition, the malcontent at the back door, in the shape of an infuriated woman, forced her way into the shop.  “I’ll bet you have the money!  Look at her, boys!  Look at the wife of the thief, with the stolen money in diamonds in her ears and rings on her fingers.  She’s got money if we’ve none.  She can pay for what she fancies, if we haven’t a cent to redeem the bed that’s stolen from under us.  Oh yes, buy it all, Mrs. Spencer Tucker! buy the whole shop, Mrs. Spencer Tucker, do you hear?  And if you ain’t satisfied then, buy my clothes, my wedding ring, the only things your husband hasn’t stolen.”