Everet Mapleson spent the next week mostly in hunting and fishing, occupying, however, a portion of one day in looking over the Hermitage again, although without the slightest return for his labor in finding anything new. At the end of that time he began to grow very restless, and a feeling of depression and loneliness took possession of him. A few days more of the same kind of life and he declared he could stand it no longer. Still, he could not make up his mind what he really wanted to do, and was miserable and discontented. He would have been glad to go to Brooklyn, ascertain where Gladys had gone for the summer, and then follow. But he reasoned that Geoffrey would be with her this year, and knowing it would be simply maddening to see them together, he felt it was best that he should keep away. But something he must do to kill time and amuse himself; he had an unaccountable distaste for gay society, and yet longed for some excitement. “I believe I will take a Western trip,” he suddenly said, one morning, after having read in his paper an interesting account of a certain route taken by a party of travelers going to California and the Yosemite Valley. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, he packed his portmanteau, dashed off a few lines to his mother informing her of his project, and was westward bound before noon. He reached Chicago the second morning after starting, and took a room at the Palmer House, to rest for a few days while he was deciding what direction he would take from that point. The following day, after a good night’s sleep and a fine breakfast, he strolled into the smoking-room with a morning paper to idle away an hour or so and read the news. There were several people in the room, but he paid no attention to them more than to cast a sweeping glance around; then, seating himself by a window, he lighted a cigar and was soon buried in the contents of his paper. He looked through one-half of it, and then laid it aside, taking up the other, when a deep, gruff voice just behind him remarked: “I say, stranger, could you spare a part of that there paper? I’ve read yesterday’s _Inter-Ocean_ about through, and would like something a trifle fresher.” Everet turned to see who was addressing him, and found a man, every bit as rough looking as his voice had sounded, sitting near him. He was evidently a miner or ranger, but had an honest, open face which at once attracted the young Southerner. He passed him that portion of his paper which he had read, receiving his brief thanks with a courteous bow, and then resumed his interrupted reading. He sat there for perhaps an hour longer, until he grew tired of keeping still, and was contemplating going out for a stroll, when the man addressed him again: “I take it you’re a stranger in these parts,” he remarked, with a keen, comprehensive glance over the young man. “Yes, I am from the South,” Everet replied, politely. “Travelin’ for pleasure?” “Y-e-s—partly.”