Well for Jenny that her eye never caught the meaning of the looks thrown on her as she passed through the straggling streets back to her own home; well for her that the soft-voiced _señoras_, who came to her in the dusk of the evening, could check the word of sympathy that rose from the heart to the lip. Ah, me! And in Jenny's voice there was a new tone; a new light was in her eye, and--a new greeting in her heart for Cousin Ray. If he would only come soon! Of course, he could not return for a day or two; perhaps not for a week; but when he did come-- "Petra," said Jenny, "you must play me Oray's favorite air to-night"--and she hastened to the corner where the harp of the girl, who was a pet of Mrs. Jenny's, and Ray's too, was generally kept. "No, _señora_--no; not this night," remonstrated the girl. "The wind howls so dismally--and there is no moon in the sky; and then, you know, I cannot sing." Petra was whimsical, and what she said was true: the wind passed with a low, sobbing sound through the bare, wide hall, and swept up to the door, where it shook the lock as with living fingers. Mrs. Jenny drew back the curtain and laughed. "In our country, people don't like to own that they're moon-struck; but you are right--the night is black as ink, and--why--there is quite a company coming up the hill toward us, with lights and torches. Going to the governor's house, probably; but who can they be?" "We can slip out of the back-door, directly, and look over to the house: then the men cannot say that we have undue curiosity," suggested Anita, desperately; and Mrs. Jenny dropped the curtain. Petra's blanched face drooped low, over a book she had snatched up from the table; and Anita's hands were clasped in a silent prayer to the Holy Virgin. But the train came nearer, and--"Hark! they stop here--at this door--it is Ray--Cousin Ray!" And Jenny was on the threshold--where half a dozen gloomy, earnest faces met her gaze. There was a horse there, too--stamping with a half-frightened motion, and a low, shivering neigh; and as she sprang forward with a shriek--a terrified question rising unconsciously to her lips--a dog flew at her with an angry howl, tearing at her garments, and making frantic efforts to prevent her touching the motionless form on the back of the horse. To Jenny's ear the dog's wild yells spoke terribly plain her own cruel "Never--never--never!" but among the men there was a hasty murmur that the beast had gone mad, from running so long without food and water. There was a flash and a sharp report--Tucson's career had come to a close. And Jenny lay fainting in the arms of the sobbing women. _A BIT OF "EARLY CALIFORNIA."_ That many strange and wonderful things happened in early times in California, is so trite a saying that I hardly dare repeat it. As my story, however, is neither harrowing nor sentimental, I hope I may venture to bring it before the reader.