Since Millicent’s arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch. All the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance had either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had signified their intention of shortly doing so. Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty miles. The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are exchanged. In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or manifested the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a cordiality of manner only. Not one man or woman among the circle of friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire for further acquaintance. But this one who had called at six o’clock in the morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a stag, piqued the curiosity of the indifferent young lady. Wrapping herself in a soft gray woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the liveliest manner. It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in "Donald." Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the antlers of a rival. Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature tenderly between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes. At that moment she heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her. "Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and dressed"--he hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly too; I like that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine piece of venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too. Don’t believe you would do as much for me." The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the note, took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:-- HONORED MISTRESS DEERING,--I lay myself at your feet, and with myself a pretty bit of game I have just killed, thinking that the fair Venetian might fancy a venison steak for her breakfast. I kiss your hand, dear my lady, and am your most unworthy but loyal servitor, JOHN GRAHAM. "Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature. Wonder why he did not stop and take breakfast with us. He is an unaccountable fellow." "What did you call him?" "Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham. Just like a hero’s in a novel. But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy." "Shall you cut off his skin?" "Whose? Graham’s?" "How foolish, Mr. Deering. I mean the deer’s fur." "Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide or feathers. In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton; but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the super-civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--"