whisper.

"To represent a name that most men of the world in New York and
San Francisco know," went on Kitty, without a blush. "It would make
recognition and introduction easier. And take an extra fur with you,
dear--not for HIM but for yourself. I suppose he's lived so much in the
open air as to laugh at our coddling."

"I don't know about that," said her father thoughtfully; "the last
telegram I have from him, en route, says he's half frozen, and wants a
close carriage sent to the station."

"Of course," said Marie impatiently, "you forget the poor creature comes
from burning canyons and hot golden sands and perpetual sunshine."

"Very well; but come along, Marie, and see how I've prepared his room,"
and as her father left the drawing-room Kitty carried off her old
schoolfellow upstairs.

The room selected for the coming Sylvester had been one of the elaborate
guest-chambers, but was now stripped of its more luxurious furniture and
arranged with picturesque yet rural extravagance. A few rare buffalo,
bear, and panther skins were disposed over the bare floor, and even
displayed gracefully over some elaborately rustic chairs. The
handsome French bedstead had been displaced for a small wrought-iron
ascetic-looking couch covered with a gorgeously striped Mexican blanket.
The fireplace had been dismantled of its steel grate, and the hearth
extended so as to allow a pile of symmetrically heaped moss-covered
hickory logs to take its place. The walls were covered with trophies
of the chase, buck-horns and deer-heads, and a number of Indian arrows