“Have you got a spare copy of that reg'lar bulletin that the Stage Kempany issoos every ten minutes to each passenger to tell 'em where we are, how far it is to the next place, and wots the state o' the weather gin'rally?” “No!” said the Expressman grimly, as he climbed to the box, “there's not one left. Why?” “Cos the Emperor of Chiny's inside wantin' one! Hoop! Keep your seats down there! G'lang!” the whip cracked, there was a desperate splashing, a backward and forward jolting of the coach, the glistening wet flanks and tossing heads of the leaders seen for a moment opposite the windows, a sickening swirl of the whole body of the vehicle as if parting from its axles, a long straight dragging pull, and--presently the welcome sound of hoofs once more beating the firmer ground. “Hi! Hold up--driver!” It was the editor's quiet friend who was leaning from the window. “Isn't Wilkes's ranch just off here?” “Yes, half a mile along the ridge, I reckon,” returned the driver shortly. “Well, if you're not going on to-night, I'd get off and stop there.” “I reckon your head's level, stranger,” said Bill approvingly; “for they're about chock full at the Springs' House.” To descend, the passenger was obliged to pass out by the middle seat and before the young editor. As he did so he cast a shy look on him and, leaning over, said hesitatingly, in a lower voice: “I don't think you will be able to get in at the Springs Hotel. If--if--you care to come with me to--to--the ranch, I can take care of you.” The young editor--a man of action--paused for an instant only. Then seizing his bag, he said promptly: “Thank you,” and followed his newly-found friend to the ground. The whip cracked, the coach rolled away. “You know Wilkes?” he said. “Ye-ee-s. He's my father.” “Ah,” said the editor cheerfully, “then you're going home?” “Yes.” It was quite light in the open, and the stranger, after a moment's survey of the prospect,--a survey that, however, seemed to be characterized by his previous hesitation,--said: “This way,” crossed the road, and began to follow a quite plain but long disused wagon track along the slope. His manner was still so embarrassed that the young editor, after gayly repeating his thanks for his companion's thoughtful courtesy, followed him in silence. At the end of ten minutes they had reached some cultivated fields and orchards; the stranger brightened, although still with a preoccupied air, quickened his pace, and then suddenly stopped. When the editor reached his side he was gazing with apparently still greater perplexity upon the level, half obliterated, and blackened foundations of what had been a large farmhouse. “Why, it's been burnt down!” he said thoughtfully.