“The poor fellow had another attack last night, and died of exhaustion about an hour ago. I was too late to save him.” “Did he say anything? Was he conscious?” asked the girl, hoarsely. “No; incoherent! Now I think of it, he harped on the same string as he did the night of the operation. What was it he said? you remember.” “'You'll have to kill me first,'” repeated Josephine, in a choking voice. “Yes; something about his dying before he'd tell. Well, he came back to it before he went off--they often do. You seem a little hoarse with your morning ride. You should take care of that voice of yours. By the way, it's a good deal like your brother's.” ***** The Chatelaine of Burnt Ridge never married. THROUGH THE SANTA CLARA WHEAT CHAPTER I It was an enormous wheat-field in the Santa Clara valley, stretching to the horizon line unbroken. The meridian sun shone upon it without glint or shadow; but at times, when a stronger gust of the trade winds passed over it, there was a quick slanting impression of the whole surface that was, however, as unlike a billow as itself was unlike a sea. Even when a lighter zephyr played down its long level, the agitation was superficial, and seemed only to momentarily lift a veil of greenish mist that hung above its immovable depths. Occasional puffs of dust alternately rose and fell along an imaginary line across the field, as if a current of air were passing through it, but were otherwise inexplicable. Suddenly a faint shout, apparently somewhere in the vicinity of the line, brought out a perfectly clear response, followed by the audible murmur of voices, which it was impossible to localize. Yet the whole field was so devoid of any suggestion of human life or motion that it seemed rather as if the vast expanse itself had become suddenly articulate and intelligible. “Wot say?” “Wheel off.” “Whare?” “In the road.” One of the voices here indicated itself in the direction of the line of dust, and said, “Comin',” and a man stepped out from the wheat into a broad and dusty avenue. With his presence three things became apparent. First, that the puffs of dust indicated the existence of the invisible avenue through the unlimited and unfenced field of grain; secondly, that the stalks of wheat on either side of it were so tall as to actually hide a passing vehicle; and thirdly, that a vehicle had just passed, had lost a wheel, and been dragged partly into the grain by its frightened horse, which a dusty man was trying to restrain and pacify. The horse, given up to equine hysterics, and evidently convinced that the ordinary buggy behind him had been changed into some dangerous and appalling creation, still plunged and kicked violently to rid himself of it. The man who had stepped out of the depths of the wheat quickly crossed the road, unhitched the traces, drew back the vehicle, and, glancing at the traveler's dusty and disordered clothes, said, with curt sympathy:-- “Spilt, too; but not hurt, eh?”