"You have noticed his anxiety about the letters. Well--I shall explain it. By every mail, he expects news of the death of his wife; and it is his impatience to hear _that_ which makes him so uneasy about the arrival of the post. If he should get a letter to-night containing the news of her death, he would be the happiest man in California; and I dare say would start for home, within an hour after receiving it." I expressed some surprise, that one man should intrust another with such a disgraceful secret; and plainly proclaimed my disapprobation of Foster's conduct. "You are wrong, my friend," rejoined his partner. "For my part, I admire his frank and manly spirit. What is the use of one's pretending that he wishes his wife to live, if he really desires her to die? I hate a hypocrite, or a person who will, in any way, deceive another. I don't suppose that Foster can help disliking his wife--any more than he can keep from sleeping. The feeling may be resisted for a while; but it will conquer in the end. Foster is a man, in whom I cannot be deceived; and I respect him for the plain straightforward manner, in which he avows his sentiments." "This indecent impatience to hear of the death of his wife," said I, "cannot wholly arise from hatred. There is probably some other woman with whom he is anxious to be united?" "That is very, very likely," answered Farrell, "and the second letter he always receives along with the one from his wife may serve as an affirmative answer to your conjecture. Well! he is one of the most open-hearted honourable fellows I ever met; and I don't care how soon his hopes are realised. Because a man has been foolish a little in his youth, is no reason why he should always be punished for it." Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Foster himself--who appeared in a high state of pleasant excitement. "Come on, Farrell!" cried he, "let us go to the tent, and settle up. It is all over with the old lady; and I start for home by daybreak to-morrow morning." Farrell bade me good-night and Foster, who did not expect to see me again, shook hands at parting--bidding me a final goodbye. There was much in the expression of Foster's countenance that I did not admire; and, notwithstanding, the apparent openness of his speech, I could not help thinking him a fellow not only without good feeling, but hypocritical, and treacherous. Farrell purchased his mule, and also his share of the mining tools; and by break of day the next morning, Foster was on his way to San Francisco. The post-master of Sonora was annoyed by him no more; and Farrell was left to regret the loss of his plain-speaking partner. Volume One, Chapter XXV. A BULL AND BEAR FIGHT. One Sunday afternoon, seeking for amusement, I walked into Sonora; and, following a crowd, I reached the "Plaza de Toros." The proprietor of this place had gone to a great expense, to get up a grand entertainment for that day.