Bayonets glitter no more upon the crested Southern heights. The embers of the watchfires are cold, gray ashes now. The lonely bivouac of the dead is the last holding of the foughten fields. While the South and East is a graveyard or in mourning, strange to say, only a general relief is felt in the West. The great issue easily drops out of sight. There are here no local questions, no neighborhood hatreds, no appealing graves. Happy California! happy, but inglorious. The railway approaches completion. A great activity of scientific mining, enterprises of scope and local development, urge the Western communities to action. The bonanza of Lagunitas gives Judge Hardin even greater local prominence. He establishes his residence at the old home in the Sierras. With no trusted associates, he splits and divides the funds from the mine, placing them in varied depositories. He refrains from an undue appearance of wealth or improvement at the rancho itself. No one knows the aggregates, the net returns, save himself. Cunning old robber. To identify himself with the interior and southern part of the State, he enters the higher body of the Legislature. His great experience and unflagging hospitalities make him at once a leader. Identified with State and mining interests, he engages public attention. He ignores all contention, and drops the question of the Rebellion. A hearty welcome from one and all, proves that his commanding talents are recognized. There are no relatives, no claims, no meddlesome legatees to question the disposition of Colonel Valois' estate. His trusteeship is well known, and his own influence is pre-eminent in the obscure District Court having control of the legal formalities. Hardin is keenly watchful of all returning ex-Confederates who might have been witnesses of Maxime Valois' death. They do not appear. His possession is unchallenged. His downy couch grows softer daily. He has received the family papers left by the departing padre. They are the baptismal papers of the little heiress. The last vouchers. Hardin, unmoved by fear, untouched by sympathy, never thinks of the lowly grave before the ramparts of Atlanta. The man lies there, who appealed to his honor, to protect the orphaned child, but he is silent in death. He decides to quietly strip the rancho of its great metallic wealth. He will hold the land unimproved, to be a showing in future years should trouble come as to the settlement of the estate. With the foresight of the advocate, Hardin fears the Valois heirs of New Orleans. He must build up his defensive works in that quarter. From several returned "Colonels" and "Majors" he hears of the death of old Judge Valois. The line of the family is extinct, save the boy in Paris, who has been lost sight of. A wandering artist. A sudden impulse seizes him. He likes not the ominous silence of Natalie as to important matters.