A First Family of Tasaa | Page 8

and brought the candle to her father. The screw was
presently found and the last fastening secured. "Supper gettin' cold,
dad," she said, with a slight yawn. Her father sympathetically
responded by stretching himself from his stooping position, and the two
passed through the private door into inner domesticity, leaving the
already forgotten paper lying with other articles of barter on the
counter.

CHAPTER II.
With the closing of the little door behind them they seemed to have
shut out the turmoil and vibration of the storm. The reason became
apparent when, after a few paces, they descended half a dozen steps to
a lower landing. This disclosed the fact that the dwelling part of the
Sidon General Store was quite below the level of the shop and the road,
and on the slope of the solitary undulation of the Tasajara plain,--a little
ravine that fell away to a brawling stream below. The only arboreous
growth of Tasajara clothed its banks in the shape of willows and alders
that set compactly around the quaint, irregular dwelling which
straggled down the ravine and looked upon a slope of bracken and
foliage on either side. The transition from the black, treeless,

storm-swept plain to this sheltered declivity was striking and
suggestive. From the opposite bank one might fancy that the youthful
and original dwelling had ambitiously mounted the crest, but, appalled
at the dreary prospect beyond, had gone no further; while from the road
it seemed as if the fastidious proprietor had tried to draw a line between
the vulgar trading-post, with which he was obliged to face the coarser
civilization of the place, and the privacy of his domestic life. The real
fact, however, was that the ravine furnished wood and water; and as
Nature also provided one wall of the house,--as in the well-known
example of aboriginal cave dwellings,--its peculiar construction
commended itself to Sidon on the ground of involving little labor.
Howbeit, from the two open windows of the sitting-room which they
had entered only the faint pattering of dripping boughs and a slight
murmur from the swollen brook indicated the storm that shook the
upper plain, and the cool breath of laurel, syringa, and alder was wafted
through the neat apartment. Passing through that pleasant rural
atmosphere they entered the kitchen, a much larger room, which
appeared to serve occasionally as a dining-room, and where supper was
already laid out. A stout, comfortable-looking woman--who had,
however, a singularly permanent expression of pained sympathy upon
her face--welcomed them in tones of gentle commiseration.
"Ah, there you be, you two! Now sit ye right down, dears; DO. You
must be tired out; and you, Phemie, love, draw up by your poor father.
There--that's right. You'll be better soon."
There was certainly no visible sign of suffering or exhaustion on the
part of either father or daughter, nor the slightest apparent earthly
reason why they should be expected to exhibit any. But, as already
intimated, it was part of Mrs. Harkutt's generous idiosyncrasy to look
upon all humanity as suffering and toiling; to be petted, humored,
condoled with, and fed. It had, in the course of years, imparted a
singularly caressing sadness to her voice, and given her the habit of
ending her sentences with a melancholy cooing and an unintelligible
murmur of agreement. It was undoubtedly sincere and sympathetic, but
at times inappropriate and distressing. It had lost her the friendship of

the one humorist of Tasajara, whose best jokes she had received with
such heartfelt commiseration and such pained appreciation of the
evident labor involved as to reduce him to silence.
Accustomed as Mr. Harkutt was to his wife's peculiarity, he was not
above assuming a certain slightly fatigued attitude befitting it. "Yes,"
he said, with a vague sigh, "where's Clemmie?"
"Lyin' down since dinner; she reckoned she wouldn't get up to supper,"
she returned soothingly. "Phemie's goin' to take her up some sass and
tea. The poor dear child wants a change."
"She wants to go to 'Frisco, and so do I, pop," said Phemie, leaning her
elbow half over her father's plate. "Come, pop, say do,--just for a
week."
"Only for a week," murmured the commiserating Mrs. Harkutt.
"Perhaps," responded Harkutt, with gloomy sarcasm, "ye wouldn't
mind tellin' me how you're goin' to get there, and where the money's
comin' from to take you? There's no teamin' over Tasajara till the rain
stops, and no money comin' in till the ranchmen can move their stuff.
There ain't a hundred dollars in all Tasajara; at least there ain't been the
first red cent of it paid across my counter for a fortnit! Perhaps if you
do go you wouldn't mind takin' me and the store along with ye, and
leavin' us there."
"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Harkutt, with sympathetic