“No! made him follow! I HAVE handled him, but it was after I’d first made him strike his pizen out upon a stick. Ye know, after he strikes four times he ain’t got any pizen left. Then ye kin do anythin’ with him, and he knows it. He knows me, you bet! I’ve bin three months trainin’ him. Look! Don’t be frightened,” he said, as Mrs. Burroughs drew hurriedly back; “see him mind me. Now scoot home, William Henry.”

He accompanied the command with a slow, dominant movement of the hickory rod he was carrying. The snake dropped its head, and slid noiselessly out of the cleft across the trail and down the hill.

“Thinks my rod is witch-hazel, which rattlers can’t abide,” continued Leonidas, dropping into a boy’s breathless abbreviated speech. “Lives down your way—just back of your farm. Show ye some day. Suns himself on a flat stone every day—always cold—never can get warm. Eh?”

She had not spoken, but was gazing into space with a breathless rigidity of attitude and a fixed look in her eye, not unlike the motionless orbs of the reptile that had glided away.

“Does anybody else know you keep him?” she asked.

“Nary one. I never showed him to anybody but you,” replied the boy.

“Don’t! You must show me where he hides to-morrow,” she said, in her old laughing way. “And now, Leon, I must go back to the house.”

“May I write to him—to Jim Belcher, Mrs. Burroughs?” said the boy timidly.

“Certainly. And come to me to-morrow with your letter—I will have mine ready. Good-by.” She stopped and glanced at the trail. “And you say that if that man had kept on, the snake would have bitten him?”

“Sure pop!—if he’d trod on him—as he was sure to. The snake wouldn’t have known he didn’t mean it. It’s only natural,” continued Leonidas, with glowing partisanship for the gentle and absent William Henry. “YOU wouldn’t like to be trodden upon, Mrs. Burroughs!”

“No! I’d strike out!” she said quickly. She made a rapid motion forward with her low forehead and level head, leaving it rigid the next moment, so that it reminded him of the snake, and he laughed. At which she laughed too, and tripped away.

Leonidas went back and caught his trout. But even this triumph did not remove a vague sense of disappointment which had come over him. He had often pictured to himself a Heaven-sent meeting with her in the woods, a walk with her, alone, where he could pick her the rarest flowers and herbs and show her his woodland friends; and it had only ended in this, and an exhibition of William Henry! He ought to have saved HER from something, and not her husband. Yet he had no ill-feeling for Burroughs, only a desire to circumvent him, on behalf of the unprotected, as he would have baffled a hawk or a wildcat. He went home in dismal spirits, but later that evening constructed a boyish letter of thanks to the apocryphal Belcher and told him all about—the trout!

He brought her his letter the next day, and received hers to inclose. She was pleasant, her own charming self again, but she seemed more interested in other things than himself, as, for instance, the docile William Henry, whose hiding-place he showed, and whose few tricks she made him exhibit to her, and which the gratified Leonidas accepted as a delicate form of flattery to himself. But his yearning, innocent spirit detected a something lacking, which he was too proud to admit even to himself. It was his own fault; he ought to have waited for her, and not gone for the trout!

So a fortnight passed with an interchange of the vicarious letters, and brief, hopeful, and disappointing meetings to Leonidas. To add to his unhappiness, he was obliged to listen to sneering disparagement of his goddess from his family, and criticisms which, happily, his innocence did not comprehend. It was his own mother who accused her of shamefully “making up” to the good-looking expressman at church last Sunday, and declared that Burroughs ought to “look after that wife of his,”—two statements which the simple Leonidas could not reconcile. He had seen the incident, and only thought her more lovely than ever. Why should not the expressman think so too? And yet the boy was not happy; something intruded upon his sports, upon his books, making them dull and vapid, and yet that something was she! He grew pale and preoccupied. If he had only some one in whom to confide—some one who could explain his hopes and fears. That one was nearer than he thought!

It was quite three weeks since the rattlesnake incident, and he was wandering moodily over Casket Ridge. He was near the Casket, that abrupt upheaval of quartz and gneiss, shaped like a coffer, from which the mountain took its name. It was a favorite haunt of Leonidas, one of whose boyish superstitions was that it contained a treasure of gold, and one of whose brightest dreams had been that he should yet discover it. This he did not do to-day, but looking up from the rocks that he was listlessly examining, he made the almost as thrilling discovery that near him on the trail was a distinguished-looking stranger.

He was bestriding a shapely mustang, which well became his handsome face and slight, elegant figure, and he was looking at Leonidas with an amused curiosity and a certain easy assurance that were difficult to withstand. It was with the same fascinating self-confidence of smile, voice, and manner that he rode up to the boy, and leaning lightly over his saddle, said with exaggerated politeness: “I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Leonidas Boone?”

The rising color in Leonidas’s face was apparently a sufficient answer to the stranger, for he continued smilingly, “Then permit me to introduce myself as Mr. James Belcher. As you perceive, I have grown considerably since you last saw me. In fact, I’ve done nothing else. It’s surprising what a fellow can do when he sets his mind on one thing. And then, you know, they’re always telling you that San Francisco is a ‘growing place.’ That accounts for it!”

Leonidas, dazed, dazzled, but delighted, showed all his white teeth in a shy laugh. At which the enchanting stranger leaped from his horse like a very boy, drew his arm through the rein, and going up to Leonidas, lifted the boy’s straw hat from his head and ran his fingers through his curls. There was nothing original in that—everybody did that to him as a preliminary to conversation. But when this ingenuous fine gentleman put his own Panama hat on Leonidas’s head, and clapped Leonidas’s torn straw on his own, and, passing his arm through the boy’s, began to walk on with him, Leonidas’s simple heart went out to him at once.

“And now, Leon,” said the delightful stranger, “let’s you and me have a talk. There’s a nice cool spot under these laurels; I’ll stake out Pepita, and we’ll just lie off there and gab, and not care if school keeps or not.”

“But you know you ain’t really Jim Belcher,” said the boy shyly.

“I’m as good a man as he is any day, whoever I am,” said the stranger, with humorous defiance, “and can lick him out of his boots, whoever HE is. That ought to satisfy you. But if you want my certificate, here’s your own letter, old man,” he said, producing Leonidas’s last scrawl from his pocket.

“And HERS?” said the boy cautiously.

The stranger’s face changed a little. “And HERS,” he repeated gravely, showing a little pink note which Leonidas recognized as one of Mrs. Burroughs’s inclosures. The boy was silent until they reached the laurels, where the stranger tethered his horse and then threw himself in an easy attitude beneath the tree, with the back of his head upon his clasped hands. Leonidas could see his curved brown mustaches and silky lashes that were almost as long, and thought him the handsomest man he had ever beheld.

“Well, Leon,” said the stranger, stretching himself out comfortably and pulling the boy down beside him, “how are things going on the Casket? All serene, eh?”

The inquiry so dismally recalled Leonidas’s late feelings that his face clouded, and he involuntarily sighed. The stranger instantly shifted his head and gazed curiously at him. Then he took the boy’s sunburnt hand in his own, and held it a moment. “Well, go on,” he said.

“Well, Mr.—Mr.—I can’t go on—I won’t!” said Leonidas, with a sudden fit of obstinacy. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“Call me ‘Jack’—‘Jack Hamlin’ when you’re not in a hurry. Ever heard of me before?” he added, suddenly turning his head towards Leonidas.

The boy shook his head. “No.”

Mr. Jack Hamlin lifted his lashes in affected expostulation to the skies. “And this is Fame!” he murmured audibly.

But this Leonidas did not comprehend. Nor could he understand why the stranger, who clearly must have come to see HER, should not ask about her, should not rush to seek her, but should lie back there all the while so contentedly on the grass. HE wouldn’t. He half resented it, and then it occurred to him that this fine gentleman was like himself—shy. Who could help being so before such an angel? HE would help him on.

And so, shyly at first, but bit by bit emboldened by a word or two from Jack, he began to talk of her—of her beauty—of her kindness—of his own unworthiness—of what she had said and done—until, finding in this gracious stranger the vent his pent-up feelings so long had sought, he sang then and there the little idyl of his boyish life. He told of his decline in her affections after his unpardonable sin in keeping her waiting while he went for the trout, and added the miserable mistake of the rattlesnake episode. “For it was a mistake, Mr. Hamlin. I oughtn’t to have let a lady like that know anything about snakes—just because I happen to know them.”

“It WAS an awful slump, Lee,” said Hamlin gravely. “Get a woman and a snake together—and where are you? Think of Adam and Eve and the serpent, you know.”

“But it wasn’t that way,” said the boy earnestly. “And I want to tell you something else that’s just makin’ me sick, Mr. Hamlin. You know I told you William Henry lives down at the bottom of Burroughs’s garden, and how I showed Mrs. Burroughs his tricks! Well, only two days ago I was down there looking for him, and couldn’t find him anywhere. There’s a sort of narrow trail from the garden to the hill, a short cut up to the Ridge, instead o’ going by their gate. It’s just the trail any one would take in a hurry, or if they didn’t want to be seen from the road. Well! I was looking this way and that for William Henry, and whistlin’ for him, when I slipped on to the trail. There, in the middle of it, was an old bucket turned upside down—just the thing a man would kick away or a woman lift up. Well, Mr. Hamlin, I kicked it away, and”—the boy stopped, with rounded eyes and bated breath, and added—“I just had time to give one jump and save myself! For under that pail, cramped down so he couldn’t get out, and just bilin’ over with rage, and chockful of pizen, was William Henry! If it had been anybody else less spry, they’d have got bitten,—and that’s just what the sneak who put it there knew.”

Mr. Hamlin uttered an exclamation under his breath, and rose to his feet.

“What did you say?” asked the boy quickly.

“Nothing,” said Mr. Hamlin.

But it had sounded to Leonidas like an oath.

Mr. Hamlin walked a few steps, as if stretching his limbs, and then said: “And you think Burroughs would have been bitten?”

“Why, no!” said Leonidas in astonished indignation; “of course not—not BURROUGHS. It would have been poor MRS. Burroughs. For, of course, HE set that trap for her—don’t you see? Who else would do it?”

“Of course, of course! Certainly,” said Mr. Hamlin coolly. “Of course, as you say, HE set the trap—yes—you just hang on to that idea.”

But something in Mr. Hamlin’s manner, and a peculiar look in his eye, did not satisfy Leonidas. “Are you going to see her now?” he said eagerly. “I can show you the house, and then run in and tell her you’re outside in the laurels.”

“Not just yet,” said Mr. Hamlin, laying his hand on the boy’s head after having restored his own hat. “You see, I thought of giving her a surprise. A big surprise!” he added slowly. After a pause, he went on: “Did you tell her what you had seen?”

“Of course I did,” said Leonidas reproachfully. “Did you think I was going to let her get bit? It might have killed her.”

“And it might not have been an unmixed pleasure for William Henry. I mean,” said Mr. Hamlin gravely, correcting himself, “YOU would never have forgiven him. But what did she say?”

The boy’s face clouded. “She thanked me and said it was very thoughtful—and kind—though it might have been only an accident”—he stammered—“and then she said perhaps I was hanging round and coming there a little too much lately, and that as Burroughs was very watchful, I’d better quit for two or three days.” The tears were rising to his eyes, but by putting his two clenched fists into his pockets, he managed to hold them down. Perhaps Mr. Hamlin’s soft hand on his head assisted him. Mr. Hamlin took from his pocket a notebook, and tearing out a leaf, sat down again and began to write on his knee. After a pause, Leonidas said,—

“Was you ever in love, Mr. Hamlin?”

“Never,” said Mr. Hamlin, quietly continuing to write. “But, now you speak of it, it’s a long-felt want in my nature that I intend to supply some day. But not until I’ve made my pile. And don’t YOU either.” He continued writing, for it was this gentleman’s peculiarity to talk without apparently the slightest concern whether anybody else spoke, whether he was listened to, or whether his remarks were at all relevant to the case. Yet he was always listened to for that reason. When he had finished writing, he folded up the paper, put it in an envelope, and addressed it.

“Shall I take it to her?” said Leonidas eagerly.

“It’s not for HER; it’s for him—Mr. Burroughs,” said Mr. Hamlin quietly.

The boy drew back. “To get him out of the way,” added Hamlin explanatorily. “When he gets it, lightning wouldn’t keep him here. Now, how to send it,” he said thoughtfully.

“You might leave it at the post-office,” said Leonidas timidly. “He always goes there to watch his wife’s letters.”

For the first time in their interview Mr. Hamlin distinctly laughed.

“Your head is level, Leo, and I’ll do it. Now the best thing you can do is to follow Mrs. Burroughs’s advice. Quit going to the house for a day or two.” He walked towards his horse. The boy’s face sank, but he kept up bravely. “And will I see you again?” he said wistfully.

Mr. Hamlin lowered his face so near the boy’s that Leonidas could see himself in the brown depths of Mr. Hamlin’s eyes. “I hope you will,” he said gravely. He mounted, shook the boy’s hand, and rode away in the lengthening shadows. Then Leonidas walked sadly home.

There was no need for him to keep his promise; for the next morning the family were stirred by the announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs had left Casket Ridge that night by the down stage for Sacramento, and that the house was closed. There were various rumors concerning the reason of this sudden departure, but only one was persistent, and borne out by the postmaster. It was that Mr. Burroughs had received that afternoon an anonymous note that his wife was about to elope with the notorious San Francisco gambler, Jack Hamlin.

But Leonidas Boone, albeit half understanding, kept his miserable secret with a still hopeful and trustful heart. It grieved him a little that William Henry was found a few days later dead, with his head crushed. Yet it was not until years later, when he had made a successful “prospect” on Casket Ridge, that he met Mr. Hamlin in San Francisco, and knew how he had played the part of Mercury upon that “heaven-kissing hill.”