The
youthful editor was at first in despair and filled with a vague remorse
of some unfulfilled duty. But, to his surprise, the readers of the
magazine seemed to survive their talented contributor, and the feverish
life that had been thrilled by her song, in two months had apparently
forgotten her. Nor was her voice lifted from any alien quarter; the
domestic and foreign press that had echoed her lays seemed to respond no
longer to her utterance.
It is possible that some readers of these pages may remember a previous
chronicle by the same historian wherein it was recorded that the
volatile spirit of Mr. Hamlin, slightly assisted by circumstances,
passed beyond these voices at the Ranch of the Blessed Fisherman, some
two years later. As the editor stood beside the body of his friend on
the morning of the funeral, he noticed among the flowers laid upon his
bier by loving hands a wreath of white violets. Touched and disturbed
by a memory long since forgotten, he was further embarrassed, as the
cortege dispersed in the Mission graveyard, by the apparition of the
tall figure of Mr.
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