O, that unquenchable Christian fire, how pure the gold of its result! It needs no practiced elegance, no social greatness, for its success; only the warm human heart, and out of it shall come a sacred calm and gentleness, such as no power, no wealth, no culture may ever hope to win. No words of mine would outline the beauty of that plain, weary old woman, the sad, sweet patience of those gray eyes, nor the spirit of overflowing goodness which cheered and enlivened the half hour we spent there. H. G. might perhaps be pardoned for showing an alacrity when the door again opened and Sarah Jane rolled--I might almost say trundled--in, and was introduced to me. Sarah Jane was an essentially Californian product, as much so as one of those vast potatoes or massive pears; she had a suggestion of State-Fair in the fullness of her physique, yet withal was pretty and modest. If I could have rid myself of a fear that her buttons might sooner or later burst off and go singing by my ear, I think I might have felt as H. G. did, that she was a "magnificent female," with her smooth, brilliant skin and ropes of soft brown hair. H. G., in presence of the ladies, lost something of his original flavor, and rose into studied elegance, greatly to the comfort of Sarah, whose glow of pride as his talk ran on came without show of restraint. The supper was delicious. But Sarah was quiet, quiet to H. G. and to me, until after tea, when the old lady said, "You young folks will have to excuse me this evening," and withdrew to her chamber. More logs were then piled on the sitting-room hearth, and we three gathered in a semi-circle. Presently H. G. took the poker and twisted it about among coals and ashes, prying up the oak sticks, as he announced, in a measured, studied way, "An artist's wife, that is," he explained, "an Academician's wife orter, well she'd orter _sabe_ the beautiful, and take her regular æsthetics; and then again," he continued in explanatory tone, "she'd orter to know how to keep a hotel, derned if she hadn't, for it's rough like furst off, 'fore a feller gets his name up. But then when he does, tho', she's got a salubrious old time of it. It's touch a little bell" (he pressed the andiron-top to show us how the thing was done), "and 'Brooks, the morning paper!' Open your regular Herald: * * * * * "'ART NOTES.--Another of H. G. Smith's tender works, entitled, "Off the Grade," so full of out-of-doors and subtle feeling of nature, is now on exhibition at Goupil's.' "Look down a little further: "'ITALIAN OPERA.--Between the acts all eyes turned to the _distingué_ Mrs. H. G. Smith, who looked,'"--then turning to me, and waving his hand at Sarah Jane, "I leave it to you if she don't." Sarah Jane assumed the pleasing color of the sugar-beet, without seeming inwardly unhappy.