The whole country seethed with excitement, and my poor little unthought-of, insignificant self burned with impatience, which only those who have been subjected to a like suspense can properly estimate. Would the proceedings which were awaited with so much anxiety be further delayed? Would Mr. Durand remain indefinitely in durance and under such a cloud of disgrace as would kill some men and might kill him? Should I be called upon to endure still longer the suffering which this entailed upon me, when I thought I knew? But fortune was less obdurate than I feared. Next morning a telegraphic statement from Santa Fe settled one of the points of this great dispute, a statement which you will find detailed at more length in the following communication, which appeared a few days later in one of our most enterprising journals. It was from a resident correspondent in New Mexico, and was written, as the editor was careful to say, for his own eyes and not for the public. He had ventured, however, to give It in full, knowing the great interest which this whole subject had for his readers. VII. NIGHT AND A VOICE Not to be outdone by the editor, I insert the article here with all its details, the importance of which I trust I have anticipated. SANTA FE, N.M., April—. Arrived in Santa Fe, I inquired where Abner Fairbrother could be found. I was told that he was at his mine, sick. Upon inquiring as to the location of the Placide, I was informed that it was fifteen miles or so distant in the mountains, and upon my expressing an intention of going there immediately, I was given what I thought very unnecessary advice and then directed to a certain livery stable, where I was told I could get the right kind of a horse and such equipment as I stood in need of. I thought I was equipped all right as it was, but I said nothing and went on to the livery stable. Here I was shown a horse which I took to at once and was about to mount, when a pair of leggings was brought to me. “You will need these for your journey,” said the man. “Journey!” I repeated. “Fifteen miles!” The livery stable keeper—a half-breed with a peculiarly pleasant smile—cocked up his shoulders with the remark: “Three men as willing but as inexperienced as yourself have attempted the same journey during the last week and they all came back before they reached the divide. You will probably come back, too; but I shall give you as fair a start as if I knew you were going straight through.” “But a woman has done it,” said I; “a nurse from the hospital went up that very road last week.” “Oh, women! they can do anything—women who are nurses. But they don’t start off alone. You are going alone.” “Yes,” I remarked grimly. “Newspaper correspondents make their journeys singly when they can.” “Oh! you are a newspaper correspondent! Why do so many men from the papers want to see that sick old man? Because he’s so rich?” “Don’t you know?” I asked. He did not seem to.