was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a sensitive one, and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance of a brute,—of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute creation, making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which never one of them possessed? “It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!” said the woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of what she said. He listened eagerly. “When will the next wagon get here?” “I don't know,” growled her husband. “There's been a slide in that cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got everything.” “But, John,” she replied, “I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything.” “You can grumble, I take notice,” he answered. “That's about all you women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!” The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment. Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she exclaimed, “Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know, if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this way!” “Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!” cried the man. He was half drunk, his
