There fell a silence upon us, and, through my open door, I could see that the cabin was nearly deserted. Ela seemed wearied--sighed, and made a movement, as if to go. "What about your Guardian Angel?" my husband asked. "You have not told us about her second coming." "I always say that she didn't come; or else I say that she came, and I drove her away. That is proper; isn't it, now?" glancing at me. "But _I_ want to know if you have seen her--if you never met her anywhere in the world--since that time. I have a right to be curious--yes, or no?" I urged, laughingly. "How do you feel, now?"--with a light laugh and peculiar change of expression. "O, better; a great deal better. To be perfectly cured, I only need to hear the sequel." "I may as well tell it, I suppose. It has been running in my head all day. Wouldn't want my wife to know it. Didn't think of meeting her when I came down to 'Frisco. You see, I've been in Oregon a long while--never traveled on a railroad in my life--wanted to see something of the great outside world--and so, ran down to the great city to see the sights. The first thing I did, I went up to Colfax, on the cars; and while I was up there, the engineer invited me to take a ride on the engine--a special one. Now, I knew that he meant to astonish me, because he thought I was green; and I didn't know, really, how fast the thing ought to run. But we came down the grade with a speed that was ter-rif-ic!--more than a mile a minute, the engineer said. When we got to Lincoln, the fellow asked me, with his superior sort of smile, 'How I liked _that_ rate of travel?' I told him I liked _that_ pretty well; 'but, I suppose, when you want to make time, you can travel at a considerably _more_ accelerated rate of locomotion?'" How we laughed at the natural drollery of the man, the deliberate utterance, the unsophisticated air. While we laughed, he prepared himself to finish his story. "It was only day before yesterday," he said, "that I met her. I happened to be in the parlor of the hotel when she came in. At first, I wasn't certain of its being her; but, as I watched her, I became certain of it. And she recognized me; I felt certain of that, too. It was in the early part of the evening, and I had to wait until the people in the parlor would disperse. She saw what I was waiting for, and stayed, too; she told me with her eyes that she _remembered_. After a while she went to the piano, and played and sang 'Kate Kearney.' Then I was satisfied that she would not leave me before I had spoken to her. As soon as the opportunity came, we confessed ourselves." "Was she married? was she happy?" "She was married, yes. Happy? she told me, as she had once before, that she was 'content.' She said it with a sigh, as she did the first time; and I doubted her as I did then. But they are putting out the lights. There is always, in this world, somebody going around, putting out our lights. Good-night." "Good-night." ON THE SANDS.