vaguely dangerous to the feminine mind,—­position, flattery, power.  He was almost as firmly satisfied now that he had been wronged and neglected as he had been positive a few moments before that he had been remiss in his attention.  The irritation, although momentary, was enough to decide this strong man.  He telegraphed to San Francisco; and, having missed the steamer, secured an overland passage to Washington; thought better of it, and partly changed his mind an hour after the ticket was purchased; but, manlike, having once made a practical step in a wrong direction, he kept on rather than admit an inconsistency to himself.  Yet he was not entirely satisfied that his journey was a business one.  The impulsive, weak little Mistress Carmen had prudently scored one against the strong man.

Only a small part of the present great trans-continental railway at this time had been built, and was but piers at either end of a desolate and wild expanse as yet unbridged.  When the overland traveller left the rail at Reno, he left, as it were, civilization with it; and, until he reached the Nebraska frontier, the rest of his road was only the old emigrant trail traversed by the coaches of the Overland Company.  Excepting a part of “Devil’s Canyon,” the way was unpicturesque and flat; and the passage of the Rocky Mountains, far from suggesting the alleged poetry of that region, was only a reminder of those sterile distances of a level New England landscape.

The journey was a dreary monotony that was scarcely enlivened by its discomforts, never amounting to actual accident or incident, but utterly destructive to all nervous tissue.  Insanity often supervened.  “On the third day out,” said Hank Monk, driver, speaking casually but charitably of a “fare,”—­“on the third day out, after axing no end of questions and getting no answers, he took to chewing straws that he picked outer the cushion, and kussin’ to hisself.  From that very day I knew it was all over with him, and I handed him over to his friends at ‘Shy Ann,’ strapped to the back seat, and ravin’ and cussin’ at Ben Holliday, the gent’manly proprietor.”  It is presumed that the unfortunate tourist’s indignation was excited at the late Mr. Benjamin Holliday, then the proprietor of the line,—­an evidence of his insanity that no one who knew that large-hearted, fastidious, and elegantly-cultured Californian, since allied to foreign nobility, will for a moment doubt.

Mr. Royal Thatcher was too old and experienced a mountaineer to do aught but accept patiently and cynically his brother Californian’s method of increasing his profits.  As it was generally understood that any one who came from California by that route had some dark design, the victim received little sympathy.  Thatcher’s equable temperament and indomitable will stood him in good stead, and helped him cheerfully in this emergency.  He ate his scant meals, and otherwise took care of the functions of his weak human