“The step that you're taking, Miss Mullins, I need not tell you, is one of great gravity,” said Judge Thompson, with a certain paternal seriousness of manner, in which, however, we were glad to detect a glaring affectation; “and I trust that you and your affianced have fully weighed it. Far be it from me to interfere with or question the natural affections of two young people, but may I ask you what you know of the--er--young gentleman for whom you are sacrificing so much, and, perhaps, imperiling your whole future? For instance, have you known him long?” The slightly troubled air of trying to understand,--not unlike the vague wonderment of childhood,--with which Miss Mullins had received the beginning of this exordium, changed to a relieved smile of comprehension as she said quickly, “Oh yes, nearly a whole year.” “And,” said the Judge, smiling, “has he a vocation--is he in business?” “Oh yes,” she returned; “he's a collector.” “A collector?” “Yes; he collects bills, you know,--money,” she went on, with childish eagerness, “not for himself,--HE never has any money, poor Charley,--but for his firm. It's dreadful hard work, too; keeps him out for days and nights, over bad roads and baddest weather. Sometimes, when he's stole over to the ranch just to see me, he's been so bad he could scarcely keep his seat in the saddle, much less stand. And he's got to take mighty big risks, too. Times the folks are cross with him and won't pay; once they shot him in the arm, and he came to me, and I helped do it up for him. But he don't mind. He's real brave,--jest as brave as he's good.” There was such a wholesome ring of truth in this pretty praise that we were touched in sympathy with the speaker. “What firm does he collect for?” asked the Judge gently. “I don't know exactly--he won't tell me; but I think it's a Spanish firm. You see”--she took us all into her confidence with a sweeping smile of innocent yet half-mischievous artfulness--“I only know because I peeped over a letter he once got from his firm, telling him he must hustle up and be ready for the road the next day; but I think the name was Martinez--yes, Ramon Martinez.” In the dead silence that ensued--a silence so profound that we could hear the horses in the distant stable-yard rattling their harness--one of the younger “Excelsior” boys burst into a hysteric laugh, but the fierce eye of Yuba Bill was down upon him, and seemed to instantly stiffen him into a silent, grinning mask. The young girl, however, took no note of it. Following out, with lover-like diffusiveness, the reminiscences thus awakened, she went on:--