Everybody was at Crab Orchard springs, that favorite resort in the
ante-bellum days. What though the main rooms were cramped and stuffy, or
that the straggling cottages across the grassy lawn were mere shells.
It was a place thoroughly rural, thoroughly enjoyable. Merely to ramble
along the winding saw-dust walks to the deep embowered springs, was a
sufficient augury of improved health. It was the one daily excitement to
crowd up to the long platform and see the stage come in, bringing high
and low, the rich and moderate liver. The luggage was light, Saratoga
trunks being unknown quantities, and no gowns were brought except those
of the crushable kind that did duty at ten-pins, fishing, walking,
dancing, and not least, driving, for the gravel turnpikes were fine.

Across the wide street was Bachelors' Row, where were installed hunters
and hounds from the Southland, rich cotton and sugar planters, sporting
men and their sable attendants. Here the candles burned all night, and
there were loud whispers of games in vogue not as innocent as those
listed on the tempting advertising circulars of the Springs. This sunny,
summer life was of the _dolce far niente_ sort, given up to idle
pleasure, and quite out of the way of the tragic happenings of romance.
Yet a mystery had managed to creep into this Arcadian realm, a thing not
at first tangible, but getting to be an acknowledged first-class secret
as the days went by.

Egbert Mason had been nearer the carriage than the rest of the sunset
crowd when the stage rolled up, followed by the close, luxurious-looking
vehicle so rarely seen in those parts. He declared he caught a glimpse
of a being, exquisitely beautiful among the two or three closely wrapped
and veiled women who descended from the carriage; and the young men were
on the _qui vive_ some hours later to see the new comers enter the