There was no answer to such words; moreover, all that I might object to this undertaking would be too late. I inquired then of Lillian for nearer details touching her father. These she gave with great pleasure, and I learned that in Boston Mr. Morris had been judge of the Supreme Court, or highest tribunal of the State; that he had lost his property, and had gone to the newly discovered mines of California in the hope of acquiring a new fortune, and bringing back to his daughter, whom he loved more than life, her former social position. Meanwhile, he caught a fever in the unwholesome Sacramento valley, and judging that he should die he sent Lillian his last blessing. She sold all the property that he had left with her, and resolved to hasten to him. At first she intended to go by sea; but an acquaintance with Aunt Atkins made by chance two days before the caravan started, changed her mind. Aunt Atkins, who was from Tennessee, having had her ears filled with tales which friends of mine from the banks of the Mississippi had told her and others of my daring expeditions to the famed Arkansas, of my experience in journeys over the prairies, and the care which I gave to the weak (this I consider as a simple duty), described me in such colors before Lillian that the girl, without hesitating longer, joined the caravan going under my leadership. To those exaggerated narratives of Aunt Atkins, who did not delay to add that I was of noble birth, it is necessary to ascribe the fact that Miss Morris was occupied with my person. “You may be sure,” said I, when she had finished her story, “that no one will do you any wrong here, and that care will not fail you; as to your father, California is the healthiest country on earth, and no one dies of fever there. In every case, while I am alive, you will not be left alone; and meanwhile may God bless your sweet face!” “Thank you, captain,” answered she, with emotion, and we went on; but my heart beat with more violence. Gradually our conversation became livelier, and no one could foresee that that sky above us would become cloudy. “But all here are kind to you, Miss Morris?” asked I again, not supposing that just that question would be the cause of misunderstanding. “Oh yes, all,” said she, “and Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, and Henry Simpson too is very good.” This mention of Simpson pained me suddenly, like the bite of a snake. “Henry is a mule-driver,” answered I curtly, “and has to care for the wagons.” But Lillian, occupied with the course of her own thoughts, had not noticed the change in my voice, and spoke on as if to herself,— “He has an honest heart, and I shall be grateful to him all my life.” “Miss Morris,” interrupted I, cut to the quick, “you may even give him your hand. I wonder, however, that you choose me as a confidant of your feelings.”