was painted and all hands were busily at work. On the 19th, they landed near the mouth of the river and formally named it, after the ship, the COLUMBIA, raising the American flag and planting coins under a lårge pine tree, thus taking possession in the name of the United States. The conspicuous headland was named Cape Hancock and the low sandspit opposite, Point Adams.

The writer is well aware that the word discovery may be taken in different senses. When it is claimed that Captain Gray discovered this river, the meaning is that he was the first white man to cross its bar and sail up its broad expanse and give it a name. Undoubtedly, Carver to whom the word Oregon is traced may have heard of the river in 1767 from the Indians in the Rocky Mountains; and Heceta, in 1775, was near enough to its mouth to believe in its existence; and Meares, in 1788, named

credited with finding a great river as far back as 1603, but, according to his latitude, it was not this river; and even, if it was, there is no evidence that he entered it.

The honor of discovery must practically rest with Gray. His was the first ship to cleave its waters; his, the first chart ever made of its shores; his, the first landing ever effected there by a civilized man; and the name he gave it has been universally accepted. The flag which he there threw to the breeze was the first ensign of any nation that ever waved over those unexplored banks. And the ceremony of occupation, under such circumstances, was something more than a holiday pastime. It was a serious act, performed in sober earnest, and reported to the world as soon as possible.

And when we remember that as a result of this came the Lewis and Clarke Expedition of 1804-5, and the settle

ment at Astoria in 1811 to say nothing of our diplomatic acquisition of the old Spanish rights- then we may safely say that the title of the United States to the Columbia River and its tributaries becomes incontestible. Such was the outcome of the "Oregon Question" in 1846.

On leaving the river, May 20, the Columbia sailed up to Naspatee where she was obliged to use her guns to check a hostile demonstration of the savages. And soon after, in going up Pintard's Sound, she was again formidably attacked by war canoes, and obliged to open fire upon them with serious results.

In a cruise soon after, the ship struck on a rock and was so badly injured that she returned to Naspatee and underwent some repairs and then sailed for Nootka, and on July 23 reported her condition to the governor, Don Quadra, who generously offered every assistance, allowed them his storehouses for their cargo, gave up the second-best house in the settlement for the use of Captain Gray and his clerk, and insisted upon having their company at his own sumptuous table at every meal. Such politeness was, of course, very agreeable to the weary voyagers, and was held in such grateful remembrance in subsequent years, that Captain Gray named his first-born child, Robert Don Quadra Gray, for the governor as well as himself. It was during this visit that Gray and Ingraham wrote their joint letter to the governor, which was often quoted in the course of the Anglo-Spanish negotiations. In September, Gray sold the little sloop Adventure to Quadra for seventy-five sea-otter skins of the best quality, and transferred her officers and crew to the Columbia.

As he sailed away, he saluted the Spanish flag with thirteen guns, and shaped his course for China. As the season was late and the winds unfavorable, he abandoned the project of visiting Japan, which the owners had recommended. Great was the joy of the crew when they found themselves homeward bound. They had an easy run to the Sandwich Islands where they took in a supply of provisions and fruits, sailing again November 3, and reaching Macao Roads December 7, in a somewhat leaky condi

tion. The skins were sent up to Canton and the ship was repaired near Whampoa, and duly freighted with tea, sugar, chinaware, and curios.

On the 3d of February, the Columbia set sail for Boston. While at anchor, near Bocca Tigris, her cable was cut by the Chinese, and she drifted slowly ashore, almost unobserved by the officer of the watch. This proved to be the last of her tribulations, as it was also one of the least. In the Straits of Sunda they met a British fleet, escorting Lord Macartney, the Ambassador, to Pekin, for whom Captain Gray took despatches as far as St. Helena.

At last, after all her wanderings, the good ship reached Boston, July 29, 1793, and received another hearty welcome. Although the expectations of the owners were not realized, one of them wrote "she has made a saving voyage and some profit." But in the popular mind the discovery of the great river was sufficient "profit" for any vessel, and this alone will immortalize the owners as well as the ship and her captain, far more, indeed, than furs or teas or gold could have done.

It remains only to add that in a few years the ship was worn out and taken to

sandalwood, he was accidentally killed at the Hawaiian Islands, and the Lady Washington was soon after lost in the Straits of Malacca. His Nootka lands never brought anything to the captain or his descendants, or to the owners of the ship. In fact, the title was never confirmed. Gray commanded several vessels after this, but died, in 1806, at Charleston, S. C. Ingraham became an officer in our navy, but went down with the ill-fated brig Pickering in 1800. The same year Davidson was lost on the

Their names, however, will always be associated with the ship they served so well; and as long as the broad "river of the West" flows on in its course, so long will the Columbia be gratefully remembered by the people of America. This is the year of Oregon's first Centennial, and the enthusiasm it has awakened clearly shows that the highest honor on that coast will hereafter be given to the heroic discoverers who prepared the way for the pioneers and settlers, and thus added a fine group of States to our federal Union.

HE millionnaire walked home from the dinnerparty. In pleasant weather he walked; when it rained he took a cab. His coachman was a person who required consideration. He disliked to keep the horses - and himself - out nights, and his master respected his feelings.

Burton opened his front door with a latch keythe servants never waited up for him and entered his house with an awakened interest. He threw his overcoat upon a settle and looked about the hall. It was dark and imposing. The owner looked slight and fair in comparison. He turned and went into the drawing-room. His manner was of a diffident man entering a strange house. He let on a blaze of light; then he stood in the doorway and gravely looked about him.

It was all new to him. He had scarcely seen the room since the furnishers had left it; and now the glare of the white and gold, the long mirrors, and all the new shining furniture shocked him. He walked carefully across the polished floor and examined the window draperies. He wondered pensively over their white satin brocaded with pale pink roses and cascades of gold ribbon, but he did not admire them. The room itself seemed endlessly long and high, and, as he leaned against the mantel, he felt like a blot on the brilliant background.

Then his mind strayed to another room, smaller than this, with chairs and sofas and tables in convenient places, so that by stretching out the hand one could reach a book. In the centre of the room was a big table, with inviting magazines and papers. There were lamps, too, and one had cast its light on the face and figure of a girl. Burton sighed. No No girl could read in such a room as this. He sought out the only table that contained books. He took up Dante's "In

ferno" bound in calf, and laid it down with a feeble smile. He opened the others. The good Vicar of Wakefield could never have been comfortable in his new-fashioned raiment of white and gold, although his daughters would have gloried in their exalted position. Again Burton smiled. Then it occurred to him to push the table into the middle of the room and set some chairs about it. But the furniture did not lend itself gracefully to unconventional attitudes, and he left his oasis stranded in the desert and passed into the library.

But the library was no more cheerful than the drawing-room. There were hundreds of books, but all robbed of individuality by uniform bindings. The stained-glass windows and sombre furniture made Burton shudder. He walked through the billiard-room. No one could be bold enough to chalk a cue in that cold, silent place. He covered his immediate retreat by shutting off the light.

As he entered his own study he experienced some relief. Here it was at least warm and cheerful. There was a drowsy fire on the hearth and a big lamp burning on the desk. The luxurious lounge and the somewhat worn chairs were comforting, and he sat down to look over his mail with returning courage. Begging letters predominated. He rarely received anything else, indeed, except bills and

invitations. He read them conscientiously, thinking the while how pleasant it would be to receive a friendly letter from a small hand extended in fellowship and not for gain. As he jotted down a few notes for reference and made out some checks, he thought of the same small hand. Then a pair of eyes flashed a laughing glance at him, and a smiling mouth appeared. He saw a rounded chin and a mass of brown hair, but he could not unite the features very well. He had just seen the face in which all were blended, but now, as he tried to catch it, it eluded him. He threw down

his pen and stretched himself on the couch, the better to call up the vision. Still the eyes danced, the mouth smiled, and the hair shone, but they quickly faded at each attempt to see the whole fascinating face.

"I wish I could see her for a moment more," he thought. "To-morrow I will go again."

He picked up a volume of Emerson from the shelf beside him— he was a lover of Emerson; but the familiar pages were not interesting to-night. He returned to his desk and signed away hundreds of dollars for worthy charities. His life was principally made up of giving.

The next morning, as he was on his way out, his housekeeper spoke to him from the drawing-room.

"I wish you'd speak to the parlorgirl, sir," said she; "she keeps disturbin' the drawin'-room out of the way the furnishers fixed it. I've said so to her myself, but I reckon a word from you'd make her more careful."

Burton followed her gesture toward the table he had left in the centre of the room. "I think I was the culprit this time," he said.

Mrs. Murdock looked keenly at him. "Of course, sir, of course," she said. "It's a grand room, though. Not one of my friends that housekeeps has such an elegant drawing-room. I don't know's such a room's meant to sit in and be comfortable in; but if you like, sir, I'll see what can be done to make it more comfortable like."

"A woman generally knows what to do better than a man, "Burton said. "I can't imagine a woman living in a place like this," he added.

"There's many of 'em would be glad to live in it," rejoined the woman, nodding her head as she pulled another table from the corner. "I'll open a book and push up a chair to make it look easy," she said.

She adjusted Milton and Herrick, and stepped back to view the effect. Thea she shoved a low chair under the table, into a position from which only an acrobat could have risen. Burton nodded in conscientious kindness, and went his way, leaving her to her reforms.

"I don't believe she's the kind of woman," he thought as he walked down the street. "I wonder if I might ask Miss Williams about it- or her mother."

Then the features that had haunted him the night before began to haunt him again. He stepped into a florist's and bought a bunch of violets. Turning the corner, he saw a slender figure approaching. Yes, it was surely she! As he hastened forward, his face alight with pleasure, he felt how stupid he had been not to be able to combine the most charming features in the world into the only perfect whole.

"How do you do, Miss Rose?” he exclaimed, extending his hand. "I was just thinking of your- or trying to," he added, with his usual scrupulousness.

"It was good of you to make the attempt," answered the girl with a little laugh.

"You see it's always difficult for me to remember exactly how a person looks, especially if I try hard and wish to remember. I know just how my lawyer looks; but you — well — ”

He broke off somewhat embarrassed, but she lightly filled in the gap.

"Now you know how I look anyway, and I hope you won't forget. It's not complimentary, after you have been dining with me only last night."

"Oh, you mustn't take it that way," he interrupted earnestly. "It's really a compliment. I-I-well, I don't know as I can make you understand." He concluded not to try. "Are you going for a walk? May I join you for a little way?"

"If you like. I'm going home." So they strolled along together in the sunlight. Many people bowed to them. Some turned curiously to watch the pretty girl and the tall man who was talking eagerly to her.

"I looked into my drawing-room last night for the first time since it was re