The morning hours lagged dreadfully. Both warriors smoked innumerable cigars, but only to find fault with the flavor thereof.

The lieutenant tried to keep his heart up by relating two or three stories, at the points of each of which the major forced a boisterous laugh, but the mirth upon both sides was visibly hollow. Dinner was set at noon, the usual military dinner-hour, but little was consumed, except a bottle of claret, which the major, who seldom drank, seemed to consider it advisable to produce.

The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o'clock; newspapers by the noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an attempted game of cribbage speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual consent.

Suddenly the garden gate creaked. The lieutenant sprang to his feet, looked out of the window, and exclaimed:

"It's her darkey--he's got an answer--oh, major!"

"Steady, boy, steady!" said the major, arising hastily and laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, as that excited person was hastening to the door. "'Officer and gentleman,' you know. Let Sam open the door."

The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two servants, and Mrs. Wittleday's coachman appeared in the dining-room, holding the letter. The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable carrier grinned politely, said:

"It's for de major, sar--wuz told to give it right into his han's, and nobody else," fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.

"Hurry up, major--do, please," whispered the lieutenant. But the veteran seemed an interminably long time in opening the dainty envelope in his hand. Official communications he opened with a dexterity suggesting sleight-of-hand, but now he took a penknife from his pocket, opened its smallest, brightest blade, and carefully cut Mrs. Wittleday's envelope.

As he opened the letter his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide. He read the letter through, and re-read it, his countenance indicating considerable satisfaction, which presently was lost in an expression of puzzled wonder.

"Fred," said he to the miserable lieutenant, who started to his feet as a prisoner expecting a severe sentence might do, "what in creation did you write Mrs. Wittleday?"

"Just what you gave me to write," replied the young man, evidently astonished.

"Let me see my draft of it," said the major.

The lieutenant opened a drawer in the major's desk, took out a sheet of paper, looked at it, and cried:

"I sent her your draft! _This_ is my letter!"

"And she imagined _I_ wrote it, and has accepted _me_!" gasped the major.

The wretched Frederick turned pale, and tottered toward a chair. The major went over to him and spoke to him sympathizingly, but despite his genial sorrow for the poor boy, the major's heart was so full that he did not dare to show his face for a moment; so he stood behind the lieutenant, and looked across his own shoulder out of the window.

"Oh, major," exclaimed Fred, "isn't it possible that you're mistaken?"

"Here's her letter, my boy," said the major; "judge for yourself."

The young man took the letter in a mechanical sort of way, and read as follows:

"_July_ 23d, 185--.

"DEAR MAJOR--I duly received your note of this morning, and you may thank womanly curiosity for my knowing from whom the missive (which you omitted to sign) came. I was accidentally looking out of my window, and recognized the messenger.

"I have made it an inflexible rule to laugh at declarations of 'love at first sight,' but when I remembered how long ago it was when first we met, the steadfastness of your regard, proved to me by a new fancy (which I pray you not to crush) that your astonishing fondness for East Patten was partly on my account, forbade my indulging in any lighter sentiment than that of honest gratitude.

"You may call this evening for your answer, which I suppose you, with the ready conceit of your sex and profession, will have already anticipated.

"Yours, very truly, HELEN WITTLEDAY."

The lieutenant groaned.

"It's all up, major! you'll _have_ to marry her. 'Twould be awfully ungentlemanly to let her know there was any mistake."

"Do you think so, Fred?" asked the major, with a perceptible twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"Certainly, I do," replied the sorrowful lover; "and I'm sure you can learn to love her; she is simply an angel--a goddess. Confound it! you can't help loving her."

"You really believe so, do you, my boy?" asked the major, with fatherly gravity. "But how would _you_ feel about it?"

"As if no one else on earth was good enough for her--as if she was the luckiest woman alive," quickly answered the young man, with a great deal of his natural spirit. "'Twould heal _my_ wound entirely."

"Very well, my boy," said the major; "I'll put you out of your misery as soon as possible."

Never had the major known an evening whose twilight was of such interminable duration. When, however, the darkness was sufficient to conceal his face, he walked quickly across the street, and to the door of the Wittleday mansion.

That his answer was what he supposed it would be is evinced by the fact that, a few months later, his resignation was accepted by the Department, and Mrs. Wittleday became Mrs. Martt.

In so strategic a manner that she never suspected the truth, the major told his _fiancee_ the story of the lieutenant's unfortunate love, and so great was the fair widow's sympathy, that she set herself the task of seeing the young man happily engaged. This done, she offered him the position of engineer of some mining work on her husband's estate, and the major promised him Rose Cottage for a permanent residence as soon as he would find a mistress for it.

Naturally, the young man succombed to the influences exerted against him, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Doyson were fairly settled, the major told his own wife, to her intense amusement, the history of the letter which induced her to change her name.

BUFFLE.

How he came by his name, no one could tell. In the early days of the gold fever there came to California a great many men who did not volunteer their names, and as those about them had been equally reticent on their own advent, they asked few questions of newcomers.

The hotels of the mining regions never kept registers for the accommodation of guests--they were considered well-appointed hotels if they kept water-tight roofs and well-stocked bars.

Newcomers were usually designated at first by some peculiarity of physiognomy or dress, and were known by such names as "Broken Nose,"

"Pink Shirt," "Cross Bars," "Gone Ears," etc.; if, afterward, any man developed some peculiarity of character, an observing and original miner would coin and apply a new name, which would afterward be accepted as irrevocably as a name conferred by the holy rite of baptism.

No one wondered that Buffle never divulged his real name, or talked of his past life; for in the mines he had such an unhappy faculty of winning at cards, getting new horses without visible bills of sale, taking drinks beyond ordinary power of computation, stabbing and shooting, that it was only reasonable to suppose that he had acquired these abilities at the sacrifice of the peace of some other community.

He was not vicious--even a strict theologian could hardly have accused him of malice; yet, wherever he went, he was promptly acknowledged chief of that peculiar class which renders law and sheriffs necessary evils.

He was not exactly a beauty--miners seldom were--yet a connoisseur in manliness could have justly wished there were a dash of the Buffle blood in the well-regulated veins of many irreproachable characters in quieter neighborhoods than Fat Pocket Gulch, where the scene of this story was located.

He was tall, active, prompt and generous, and only those who have these qualities superadded to their own virtues are worthy to throw stones at his memory.

He was brave, too. His bravery had been frequently recorded in lead in the mining regions, and such records were transmitted from place to place with an alacrity which put official zeal to the deepest blush.

At the fashionable hour of two o'clock at night, Mr. Buffle was entertaining some friends at his residence; or, to use the language of the mines, "there was a game up to Buffle's." In a shanty of the composite order of architecture--it having a foundation of stone, succeeded by logs, a gable of coffin misfits and cracker-boxes, and a roof of bark and canvas--Buffle and three other miners were playing "old sledge."

The table was an empty pork-barrel; the seats were respectively, a block of wood, a stone, and a raisin-box, with a well-stuffed knapsack for the tallest man.