civilization, and they even saw something humorous in his impassiveness.
Those who preferred to remonstrate with him emerged from the discussion
with the general feeling of having been played with by a large-hearted
and paternally disposed bear. Tall and long-limbed, with much strength
in his lazy muscles, there was also a prevailing impression that this
feeling might be intensified if the discussion were ever carried to
physical contention. Of his personal history it was known only that he
had emigrated from Wisconsin in 1852, that he had calmly unyoked his ox
teams at Big Flume, then a trackless wilderness, and on the opening of a
wagon road to the new mines had built a wayside station which eventually
developed into the present hotel. He had been divorced in a Western
State by his wife "Rosalie," locally known as "The Prairie Flower of
Elkham Creek," for incompatibility of temper! Her temper was not stated.
Such was Abner Langworthy, the proprietor, as he moved leisurely down
towards the lady guest, who was nearest, and who was sitting with her
back to the passage between the tables. Stopping, occasionally, to
professionally adjust the tablecloths and glasses, he at last reached
her side.
"Ef there's anythin' more ye want that ye ain't seein', ma'am," he
began--and stopped suddenly. For the lady had looked up at the sound of
his voice. It was his divorced wife, whom he had not seen since their
separation. The recognition was instantaneous, mutual, and characterized
by perfect equanimity on both sides.
"Well! I wanter know!" said the lady, although the exclamation point was
purely conventional. "Abner Langworthy! though perhaps I've no call to
say 'Abner.'"
"Same to you, Rosalie--though I say it too," returned the landlord. "But
hol' on just a minit." He moved forward to the other guest, put the same
perfunctory question regarding his needs, received a negative answer,
and then returned to the lady and dropped into a chair opposite to her.
"You're looking peart and--fleshy," he said resignedly, as if he were
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