city, penned by a stranger, telling that my brother had met with an untoward deathhad been shot at a brawl in a saloon. Soon after Henry's departure my stepmother died without issue, and my father soon followed her, after the receipt of the news respecting Henry, and I thought I was left alone in the world without kith or kin, as my aunt was then dead too. some lady, I thought, for whose favours my brother and the Doctor were rivals—hence · the eagerness to have a pick at him? But stay! might not my brother and the Doctor be one and the same individual? If so, he must have been addressing himself in the third person. Still the inference had good grounds. I thought this, however, too good to be true. To have made a mistake would have been terrible. All doubt upon the point, was, however, soon swept away by what followed-every word I shall remember all my life, for they are carved on my memory with letters of fire. They were the last my brother had spoken to me before he left England. Turning again, slightly and painfully, the injured man clearly and distinctly articulated the following words: "Reginald, never grieve for me when I am gone, for I shall do better away from home, but do not forget me." These words had been ringing in my ears for ten years, mournfully enough. Great Heaven! this must be Henry himself The So minutely and truthfully did the Doctor revelation bewildered me-Henry alive and When I had recovered from the bewilderment sufficiently to realize what had happened, I cared to hearken to nothing farther. I was filled with one exultant idea aloneHenry was alive and near me, and my heart went out to him, as hearts only can when they welcome back near friends, as from that far off and unknown shore laved by the dark river of death. I lay upon the granite bed beside him, and enfolding him in my arms, breathed a prayer of thankfulness to God for what Ḥe had restored. Soon after, poor Henry grew quieter, and did not move or speak for a long time. During this interval, I lay thinking over the disclosure, and planning in a feverish sort of way many schemes to scale the cañon's walls, all of which I doubt not would have proved futile upon trial. I could not conceal from myself the painful fact that there was little chance of any other alternative than to die together; yet hope was strong, and I eagerly awaited the dawn to make some desperate attempt for Henry's sake. Our evil star, however, was still in the ascendant, and the almost hopelessness of our position was to be still further increased. Several times during the preceding twentyfour hours I had been admonished by certain signs, of approaching illness, but trusting it would pass by I had paid little heed. Towards morning, however, I grew rapidly worse, and before the sun rose over the outer world, fever had seized me in its burning folds, and I writhed upon my hard bed in agony. After bearing this excruciating torment until I could bear it no longer, nature happily relieved me, and to the throbbing temple, fierce thirst, and racking pains, there succeeded an interval of quiet, in which the gurgle of the river and gloom of the cañon were intermingled with the sunshine and pleasant voices of home. At length these too faded away, and I knew no more. W V. WHEN I came back to consciousness, it was a long time ere I could muster sufficient energy to think. The world and all its sorrows and cares seemed to be an infinite distance away, buried in the forgotten past, and from which I was forever alienated. In a dreamy, half-stupid languor, begotten of extreme weakness, I lay for hours revelling with fancies ethereally light, which came and departed without an effort of volition. I existed, and I was conscious of the fact, but it was a mere passive existence, expressive of neither pain nor pleasure. Sometimes dim forms hovered over or near me, but I possessed no interest in them-I did not desire a nearer acquaintance; I was all in all to myself-I only wanted to lie quiet. Óften, in severe struggles for the mastery with disease, the physical powers are left so inert and exhausted, that the patient lies midway between life and death, so that the mere weight of a feather almost, of advantage, will turn the scale either one way or the other. I was left by the fever in just that condition. For the time being it was a drawn battle, neither side having won the victory. Gradually, however, my naturally sound con stitution prevailed, and I drifted slowly back once more to the world. Towards evening of the day of my convalescence, I opened my eyes, and became for the first time during a fortnight, cognizant of things mundane. The first object that met my view was a mild, benignant-looking, elderly lady clad in dark garments, who stood close by my couch, watching me. As she saw I was conscious, she said gently, with a slight Spanish accent: "You feel better, Señor. I am very glad;" and signing me not to answer, she turned and silently left the apartment. I did not recollect then the circumstances which had happened in the cañon, nor had I the remotest idea as to where I was, or how I had been succoured. My eyes, with weary lassitude, wandered from object to object which the room contained, but as everything was strange and unfamiliar, I was fain to close them again. I knew nothing of those heavy, black, queerly carved pieces of furniture placed about the room, nor of that effigy of the dead Christ with the crucifix beneath it, nor of the dark, rich hangings at the end of the apartment no, these were not old acquaintances, but were part of a long dream that would close by and by, and leave me where it began. Everything the room contained was old and sombre, and had evidently seen better days. The apartment itself was low, void of ornament, and lighted from one window, which opened to the west and let in the last melancholy glory of sunset. The hangings parted after a short space, and the ladya gain appeared. She said, in her broken English and gentle manner, I was not to talk or disturb myself, and I would soon be better. I had been very ill, she went on, and for two days she had despaired of my life; but the fever took a turn then, and henceforth I began to mend. After saying this, she continued silent until she again departed. I was attended all through my illness by this lady-the widow of a Spanish gentleman as I afterward learned-and had I been her brother, rather than a forlorn, helpless stranger, she could not have been more kind, or more attentive to my wants. When I was sufficiently recovered to bear the recital, she informed me that I was then at a ranche on the banks of one of the tribu taries of the San Joaquin River, and that I had been carried thither by a party of rough miners, who entreated that I should be cared for and have medical attendance, or the fever would soon carry me off, offering to pay any price if consent would only be given. She promised them she would do all she could for me, stating at the same time, that the only medical attendant I could have was herself, for the only doctor in the neighbourhood had gone to the diggings. This kindness on her part seemed to give them vast relief, and one man as he was leaving, in his gratitude, threw down a heavy bag of golddust, saying it was for my expenses. She could tell me, however, little about them; they had not told her where they belonged, or when they would return-they only mentioned that they had come a long way down the mountains. Although eager to be gone, to revisit the cañon, and ascertain, if possible, what had become of Henry, I bade farewell to my kind hostess with regret. She had fulfilled her promise well. I went first to Grizzly Bear Mines, where Henry and I had worked for nearly a year, unsuspecting our close relationship, and then started alone over the same tract of country we had traversed in company two months previously, until I arrived at the cañon into which we had fallen. Retracing our track along the margin, I soon came to the spot where we had commenced our descent, and looking over the brink, I saw no signs of the miners, or indeed anything living. There were the same gloomy depths-the same quiet gurgle of the stream below, as if the dark abyss had never been disturbed since the creation. Knowing that there must of necessity be an easy path somewhere, leading down to its bottom, or I could never have been carried from thence, I proceeded farther up the slope towards the mountains, for some distance, until I reached a lateral cañon, which entered the one I had been following, at right angles. The mystery was solved. Turning to the left, and following the new one for about half a mile up, I came to a spot where it was practicable to get down. The lateral cañon, although just as deep and abrupt at the point of confluence with the other, was here not more than two hundred feet in depth, with gently sloping sides. Going eagerly to the bottom, I found evi dences enough that a party of miners had been at work there, and had turned over the bottom of a dry river-bed for nearly two hundred yards. It was very probable that some of these miners, when prospecting, had wandered down the lateral cañon to the main one, and entering that, and following its windings some distance, had lighted upon Henry and myself at a most critical moment. But where were these miners now, and where was Henry? I searched the neighbourhood in every direction, but could obtain no tidings of them--they had all departed. After leaving this spot, unsuccessful in my search, I visited every mining camp, I believe, in California, in succession, without hearing aught of Henry or those who had so opportunely come to our assistance. They had disappeared as utterly as if the earth had swallowed them up. * * When I saw that farther search was useless, I started once more to digging, and being very successful, lighting upon several very rich placers, I felt myself, in a comparatively short time, to be in a position to return home. While on my way-as you know I returned via Panama and New YorkI searched Sacramento and San Francisco, very loth to leave the country without learning something of Henry. But it was all futile, and I gave up the quest, and went on board the steamer which was to carry me away. In due time I learned what God had in store for me, and, with almost a broken heart, I proceeded to fulfil the duty which I had deemed urgent enough to cause me in the beginning to start for the land of gold; and then I purchased this property on the banks of the river, far away from the bustle and noise and tumult of the busy town, and taking you, my child, we have lived a peaceful and quiet life since. Nothing farther was heard of my brother Henry as the years rolled on, and I was almost beginning to believe the episode of the cañon to have been a mere chimera, when you directed my attention to a Dr. Henry Harland's advertisement in a St. Louis paper, which your husband had received. I felt at once that Henry was found. The answer which came to my letter of inquiry corroborated this, and my long-lost brother will be here, thank God, to-night or to-morrow. The old man ceased, and remained for some time without speaking. Doubtless, the resuscitation of by-gone scenes gave him pain. His two companions were silent likewise. This lull within the room made the fury of the storm outside more apparent. The wind howled, the trees groaned louder, the snow fell in blinding drifts. In a few moments, over the noise of the tempest, came startlingly clear, the sound of sleigh bells. Nearer and nearer they came, jingling gaily, until the sounds were nearly opposite the dwelling, when they suddenly stopped. "There's Joseph," exclaimed Mrs. Kirby, running to open the street door, to be the first to welcome her long lost uncle. A few moments after, the bells ring out again, as the sleigh is driven around by the serving-man to the stables, and two muffled, white figures hurry up the garden walk, shake the snow from their garments on the steps, and briskly enter the house. Henry Harland and his wife find a cordial reception awaiting them, and that night, while the storm raves and moans itself to rest in the darkness, lights could be seen gleaming brightly from the windows of the house upon the hill until a very late hour. We shall anticipate what the doctor related to his brother the following day after his arrival, and give the substance in as few words as may be. life, now thoroughly sobered, could do nothing (as the villians had decamped) but have the wounded man conveyed to his own home, and being himself a young medical practitioner, he sedulously attended upon him until he recovered. In the meantime the lodging-house keeper with whom Henry had been staying, hearing a much exaggerated account of the fracas, and seeing no more of his boarder, concluded that Henry was defunct; and as there happened to be a small balance for lodging in his favour, he took charge of the deceased's effects in lieu thereof, quieting his conscience by writing to the missing man's friends in England informing them of the untoward event. To do this, he had doubtless found Mr. Harland's address in an old waste-book which was in Henry's trunk. Howbeit, Henry could account in no other way for the letter having been sent. After he recovered from the effects of the wound, his friend advised him not to return to his former vocation, nor to go near his former haunts at all, and in his gratitude offered to pay his expenses if he would enter college and study medicine. Henry consented, and soon after began the course. In due time he received his diploma and left the college with bright prospects before him. He soon received an appointment to accompany a scientific expedition to South America. After some months' struggling with a sickly climate, he was taken seriously ill, and was advised to return by the first steamer, as the only chance to save his life. Sadly disheartened he complied, and sailed for New York a few days after. Once on the sea, he speedily recovered, and all went well until the vessel encountered a storm in the gulf stream. The steamer became a wreck, the passengers and crew being obliged to take to the boats. Only one of these arrived safely to shore, the remainder having succumbed to the violence of the cyclone, and gone down with all on board. Among the passengers of the remaining boat was a singularly beautiful girl of seventeen, the daughter and only child of a Cuban planter, who had been separated by some fatality from her father when the first rush was made for the boats. This young maiden fascinated Henry Harland, and after they landed, learning from her own lips that now her father was dead she was left alone in the world, he brought her to New York, winning her gratiThe friend for whom he had risked his tude by his kindness and delicacy. Here, his Filled with resentment at what he considered his father's injustice, he had left his native city for the New World, by the first outward-bound steamer. Arriving in New York without means, he picked up a precarious livelihood, sometimes in one way, sometimes in another, but latterly as a billiard marker in one of the large saloons, for nearly a year, when one night, entering a rival establishment kept by a passing acquaintance, he discovered therein a friend who had given him assistance at various times, sadly intoxicated, and recklessly playing Faro. He soon perceived his friend was being fleeced by as arrant a set of black-legs as ever fingered the ace of spades, and he angrily interfered and endeavoured to get his friend away. Before he knew what had happened, there was a sudden flash in his face and a loud report, immediately succeeded by a burning pain in his shoulder from a pistol bullet; and he knew nothing further. means being low, he was obliged to place her under his friend's protection, who was then married and had forsaken his evil ways; and as the quickest way to better his own fortune he bade her good-bye, promising to return within a year and a half, and left for California. How he fell in with his brother Reginald at Independence, and accomparied him across the plains, and mined with him through the following fall and winter, leaving with him on their ill-starred prospecting tour which ended in their falling into the cañon, we already know. It remains to be told, how, after lying at the bottom of the cañon nearly twenty-four hours, a couple of redshirted miners had passed that way by chance, wandering down the cañon looking for gold, and finding them and being unable alone to give them succour, one hurried back to camp to bring help, while the other remained until his companion returned. An hour after, a numerous party of miners arrived on the scene, and carefully lifting them from the alcove where they were lying, conveyed them up the cañon, whose lofty walls grew loftier as they proceeded, until they came to a halt where a lateral cañon opened its tremendous jaws upon them. Then, fording the little stream which emptied into the main cañon, they slowly moved up the slope until the walls decreased in height and gradually fell away until a little valley opened out before them, covered with a carpet of variegated flowers, where two or three white tents could be seen, forming the miners' camp. The next day, after a consultation had been held, it was agreed that one of the two who had been discovered under such peculiar circumstances, should be taken to the nearest ranche, or he would certainly soon die. And so Reginald was carried down the mountains by three stalwart men, who had kindly volunteered for the duty, and Henry was left to take his chances in the camp. Assisted by a good constitution, he gradually got round again, but it was very long ere he recovered his usual strength. The miners were very kind to him, for these men, rough and uncouth and wild as many of them were, had hearts as tender as their brothers of civilization. As soon as Henry was able to be moved they changed their camp, going about ten miles to the eastward, where they had discovered a very rich gulch, and here they remained until Henry was well. After fully recovering he entered with zest into the absorbing work of digging like the rest, remembering his promise to be home by a certain time, which he resolved should be kept to the letter. He was very successful, and before the time was ready to return to the States. Not forgetting his companion, however, and wishing to see him ere he returned, he inquired the position of the ranche to which he had been taken. He easily found it, but learned to his regret that Reginald had started off as soon as he got better, and had never returned. Thinking it a hopeless task to attempt to find him, he left the country for good, and returned to New York, where he arrived safely with sufficient wealth to enable him to marry Marie, for whom he had so early forsaken the land of gold, and to buy a respectable practice in the city of St. Louis, where he lived comfortable and happy until his brother Reginald's letter reached him from Canada. Filled with wonder, he immediately set off, accompanied by his wife, although it was midwinter, arriving at his brother's home, as we have seen, late one night in the midst of a snow-storm. After remaining two weeks with Reginald in Canada, the Doctor was obliged to return home, but he was accompanied by his brother, who spent the remaining years of his life alternately between Brantford and St. Louis. R. W. DOUGLAS. |