[Illustration: "Listen. Go with the love in your heart--for me. "FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 329. _]

THE EYE OF DREAD

By PAYNE ERSKINE

Author of "The Mountain Girl, " "Joyful Heatherby, " Etc. 

With Frontispiece by

GEORGE GIBBS

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

114-120 East Twenty-third Street--New York

Published by Arrangement With Little, Brown & Company

Copyright, 1913, By Little, Brown, and Company. 

All rights reserved

Published, October, 1913

Reprinted, October, 1913

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

 I. BETTY 1 II. WATCHING THE BEES 9 III. A MOTHER'S STRUGGLE 23 IV. LEAVE-TAKING 34 V. THE PASSING OF TIME 49 VI. THE END OF THE WAR 59 VII. A NEW ERA BEGINS 69 VIII. MARY BALLARD'S DISCOVERY 87 IX. THE BANKER'S POINT OF VIEW 97 X. THE NUTTING PARTY 110 XI. BETTY BALLARD'S AWAKENING 125 XII. MYSTERIOUS FINDINGS 139 XIII. CONFESSION 157

BOOK TWO

 XIV. OUT OF THE DESERT 168 XV. THE BIG MAN'S RETURN 183 XVI. A PECULIAR POSITION 198 XVII. ADOPTING A FAMILY 208 XVIII. LARRY KILDENE'S STORY 219 XIX. THE MINE--AND THE DEPARTURE 237 XX. ALONE ON THE MOUNTAIN 252 XXI. THE VIOLIN 267 XXII. THE BEAST ON THE TRAIL 282 XXIII. A DISCOURSE ON LYING 295 XXIV. AMALIA'S FÊTE 305 XXV. HARRY KING LEAVES THE MOUNTAIN 318

BOOK THREE

 XXVI. THE LITTLE SCHOOL-TEACHER 331 XXVII. THE SWEDE'S TELEGRAM 342 XXVIII. "A RESEMBLANCE SOMEWHERE" 354 XXIX. THE ARREST 365 XXX. THE ARGUMENT 376 XXXI. ROBERT KATER'S SUCCESS 387 XXXII. THE PRISONER 408 XXXIII. HESTER CRAIGMILE RECEIVES HER LETTER 422 XXXIV. JEAN CRAIGMILE'S RETURN 433 XXXV. THE TRIAL 445 XXXVI. NELS NELSON'S TESTIMONY 453 XXXVII. THE STRANGER'S ARRIVAL 463 XXXVIII. BETTY BALLARD'S TESTIMONY 475 XXXIX. RECONCILIATION 487 XL. THE SAME BOY 499

THE EYE OF DREAD

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

BETTY

Two whip-poor-wills were uttering their insistent note, hiddensomewhere among the thick foliage of the maple and basswood trees thattowered above the spring down behind the house where the Ballardslived. The sky in the west still glowed with amber light, and thecrescent moon floated like a golden boat above the horizon's edge. Theday had been unusually warm, and the family were all gathered on thefront porch in the dusk. The lamps within were unlighted, and theevening wind blew the white muslin curtains out and in through theopened windows. The porch was low, --only a step from the ground, --andthe grass of the dooryard felt soft and cool to the bare feet of thechildren. 

In front and all around lay the garden--flowers and fruit quaintlyintermingled. Down the long path to the gate, where three roads met, great bunches of peonies lifted white blossoms--luminously white inthe moonlight; and on either side rows of currant bushes cast low, dark shadows, and here and there dwarf crab-apple trees tossed pale, scented flowers above them. In the dusky evening light the irisflowers showed frail and iridescent against the dark shadows under thebushes. 

The children chattered quietly at their play, as if they felt amystery around them, and small Betty was sure she saw fairies dancingon the iris flowers when the light breeze stirred them; but of thisshe said nothing, lest her practical older sister should drop ascornful word of unbelief, a thing Betty shrank from and instinctivelyavoided. Why should she be told there were no such things as fairiesand goblins and pigwidgeons, when one might be at that very momentdancing at her elbow and hear it all?

So Betty wagged her curly golden head, wise with the wisdom ofchildhood, and went her own ways and thought her own thoughts. As forthe strange creatures of wondrous power that peopled the earth, andthe sky, and the streams, she knew they were there. She could almostsee them, could almost feel them and hear them, even though they werehidden from mortal sight. 

Did she not often go when the sun was setting and climb the fencebehind the barn under the great locust and silver-leaf poplar trees, where none could see her, and watch the fiery griffins in the west?Could she not see them flame and flash, their wings spreading far outacross the sky in fantastic flight, or drawn close and folded aboutthem in hues of purple and crimson and gold? Could she not see theflying mist-women flinging their floating robes of softest pink andpalest green around their slender limbs, and trailing them delicatelyacross the deepening sky?

Had she not heard the giants--nay, seen them--driving their terriblesteeds over the tumbled clouds, and rolling them smooth with noise ofthunder, under huge rolling machines a thousand times bigger thanthat Farmer Hopkins used to crush the clods in his wheat field in thespring? Had she not seen the flashes of fire dart through the heavens, struck by the hoofs of the giants' huge beasts? Ah! She knew! IfMartha would only listen to her, she could show her some of these truethings and stop her scoffing. 

Lured by these mysteries, Betty made short excursions into the gardenaway from the others, peering among the shadows, and gazing wide-eyedinto the clusters of iris flowers above which night moths flutteredsoftly and silently. Maybe there were fairies there. Three could rideat once on the back of a devil's riding horse, she knew, and in thedaytime they rode the dragon flies, two at a time; they were so lightit was nothing for the great green and gold, big-eyed dragon flies tocarry two. 

Betty knew a place below the spring where the maidenhair fern grewthick and spread out wide, perfect fronds on slender brown stems, shading fairy bowers; and where taller ferns grew high and leaned overlike a delicate fairy forest; and where the wild violets grew so thickyou could not see the ground beneath them, and the grass was lush andlong like fine green hair, and crept up the hillside and over theroots of the maple and basswood trees. Here lived the elves; she knewthem well, and often lay with her head among the violets, listeningfor the thin sound of their elfin fiddles. Often she had drowsed thesummer noon in the coolness, unheeding the dinner call, until busyMartha roused her with the sisterly scolding she knew she deserved andtook in good part. 

Now as Betty crept cautiously about, peering and hoping with ahalf-fearing expectation, a sweet, threadlike wail trembled out towardher across the moonlit and shadowed space. Her father was tuning hisviolin. Her mother sat at his side, hushing Bobby in her arms. Bettycould hear the sound of her rockers on the porch floor. Now theplaintive call of the violin came stronger, and she hastened back tocurl up at her father's feet and listen. She closed her vision-seeingeyes and leaned against her father's knee. He felt the gentle pressureof his little daughter's head and liked it. 

All the long summer day Betty's small feet had carried her onnumberless errands for young and old, and as the season advanced shewould be busier still. This Betty well knew, for she was old enough toremember other summers, several of them, each bringing an advancingcrescendo of work. But oh, the happy days! For Betty lived in a worldall her own, wherein her play was as real as her work, and labor wasturned by her imaginative little mind into new forms of play, andalthough night often found her weary--too tired to lie quietly in herbed sometimes--the line between the two was never in her thoughtsdistinctly drawn. 

To-night Betty's conscience was troubling her a little, for she haddone two naughty things, and the pathetic quality of her father'smusic made her wish with all the intensity of her sensitive soul thatshe might confess to some one what she had done, but it was all toopeaceful and sweet now to tell her mother of naughty things, and, anyway, she could not confess before the whole family, so she tried torepent very hard and tell God all about it. Somehow it was alwayseasier to tell God about things; for she reasoned, if God waseverywhere and knew everything, then he knew she had been bad, and hadseen her all the time, and all she need do was to own up to it, without explaining everything in words, as she would have to do to hermother. 

Brother Bobby's bare feet swung close to her cheek as they dangledfrom her mother's knee, and she turned and kissed them, first one andthen the other, with eager kisses. He stirred and kicked out at herfretfully. 

"Don't wake him, dear, " said her mother. 

Then Betty drew up her knees and clasped them about with her arms, andhid her face on them while she repented very hard. Mother had saidthat very day that she never felt troubled about the baby when Bettyhad care of him, and that very day she had recklessly taken him upinto the barn loft, climbing behind him and guiding his little feetfrom one rung of the perpendicular ladder to another, teaching him tocling with clenched hands to the rounds until she had landed him inthe loft. There she had persuaded him he was a swallow in his nest, while she had taken her fill of the delight of leaping from the loftdown into the bay, where she had first tossed enough hay to make asoft lighting place for the twelve-foot leap. 

Oh, the joy of it--flying through the air! If she could only fly upinstead of down! Every time she climbed back into the loft she wouldstop and cuddle the little brother and toss hay over him and tell himhe was a baby bird, and she was the mother bird, and must fly away andbring him nice worms. She bade him look up to the rafters above andsee the mother birds flying out and in, while the little birds justsat still in their nests and opened their mouths. So Bobby sat still, and when she returned, obediently opened his mouth; but alas! hewearied of his rôle in the play, and at last crept to the very edge ofthe loft at a place where there was no hay spread beneath to break hisfall; and when Betty looked up and saw his sweet baby face peeringdown at her over the edge, her heart stopped beating. How wildly shecalled for him to wait for her to come to him! She promised him allthe dearest of her treasures if he would wait until "sister" gotthere. 

Now, as she sat clasping her knees, her little body grew all tremblingand weak again as she lived over the terrible moment when she hadreached him just in time to drag him back from the edge, and to cuddleand caress him, until he lifted up his voice and wept, not because hewas in the least troubled or hurt, but because it seemed to be theright thing to do. 

Then she gave him the pretty round comb that held back her hair, andhe promptly straightened it and broke it; and when she reluctantlybrought him back to dinner--how she had succeeded in getting him downfrom the loft would make a chapter of diplomacy--her mother reprovedher for allowing him to take it, and lapped the two pieces and woundthem about with thread, and told her she must wear the broken combafter this. She was glad--glad it was broken--and she had treasured itso--and glad that her mother had scolded her; she wished she hadscolded harder instead of speaking words of praise that cut her to theheart. Oh, oh, oh! If he had fallen over, he would be dead now, andshe would have killed him! Thus she tortured herself, and repentedvery hard. 

The other sin she had that day committed she felt to be a double sin, because she knew all the time it was wrong and did it deliberately. When she went out with the corn meal to feed the little chicks andfetch in the new-laid eggs, she carried, concealed under her skirt, asmall, squat book of Robert Burns' poems. These poems she loved; notthat she understood them, but that the rhythm pleased her, and the oddwords and half-comprehended phrases stirred her imagination. 

So, after feeding the chicks and gathering the eggs, she did notreturn to the house, but climbed instead up into the top of thesilver-leaf poplar behind the barn, and sat there long, swaying withthe swaying tree top and reading the lines that most fascinated herand stirred her soul, until she forgot she must help Martha with thebreakfast dishes--forgot she must carry milk to the neighbor's--forgotshe must mind the baby and peel the potatoes for dinner. It was sodelightful to sway and swing and chant the rythmic lines over and overthat almost she forgot she was being bad, and Martha had done thethings she ought to have done, and the baby cried himself to sleepwithout her, and lay with the pathetic tear marks still on his cheeks, but her tired mother had only looked reproachfully at her and had notsaid one word. Oh, dear! If she could only be a good girl! If only shemight pass one day being good all day long with nothing to regret!

Now with the wailing of the violin her soul grew hungry and sad, and astrange, unchildish fear crept over her, a fear of the years tocome--so long and endless they would be, always coming, coming, oneafter another; and here she was, never to stop living, and every daydoing something that she ought not and every evening repentingit--and her father might stop loving her, and her sister might stoploving her, and her little brother might stop loving her, and Bobbymight die--and even her mother might die or stop loving her, and shemight grow up and marry a man who forgot after a while to loveher--and she might be very poor--even poorer than they were now, andhave to wash dishes every day and no one to help her--until at lastshe could bear the sadness no longer, and could not repent as hard asshe ought, there where she could not go down on her knees and just cryand cry. So she slipped away and crept in the darkness to her ownroom, where her mother found her half an hour later on her kneesbeside the bed fast asleep. She lovingly undressed the limp, wearylittle girl, lifted her tenderly and laid her curly head on thepillow, and kissed her cheek with a repentant sigh of her own, regretting that she must lay so many tasks on so small a child. 

CHAPTER II

WATCHING THE BEES

Father Ballard walked slowly up the path from the garden, wiping hisbrow, for the heat was oppressive. "Mary, my dear, I see signs ofswarming. The bees are hanging out on that hive under the TolmanSweet. Where's Betty?"

"She's down cellar churning, but she can leave. Bobby's gettingfretful, anyway, and she can take him under the trees and watch thebees and amuse him. Betty!" Mary Ballard went to the short flight ofsteps leading to the paved basement, dark and cool: "Betty, fatherwants you to watch the bees, dear. Find Bobby. He's so still I'mafraid he's out at the currant bushes again, and he'll make himselfsick. Keep an eye on the hive under the Tolman Sweet particularly, dear. "

Gladly Betty bounded up the steps and darted away to find the baby whowas still called the baby by reason of his being the last arrival, although he was nearly three, and an active little tyrant at that. Watching the bees was Betty's delight. Minding the baby, lolling underthe trees reading her books, gazing up into the great branches, andall the time keeping an eye on the hives scattered about in thegarden, --nothing could be pleasanter. 

Naturally Betty could not understand all she read in the books shecarried out from the library, for purely children's books were veryfew in those days. The children of the present day would be dismayedwere they asked to read what Betty pondered over with avidity andloved. Her father's library was his one extravagance, even though thepurchase of books was always a serious matter, each volume beingdiscussed and debated about, and only obtained after due preparationby sundry small economies. 

As for worldly possessions, the Ballards had started out with nothingat all but their own two hands, and, as assets, well-equipped brains, their love for each other, a fair amount of thrift, and a large shareof what Mary Ballard's old Grannie Sherman used to designate as"gumption. " Exactly what she intended should be understood by the wordit would be hard to say, unless it might be the faculty with which, when one thing proved to be no longer feasible as a shift towardprogress and the making of a living for an increasing family, theywere enabled to discover other means and work them out to a productiveconclusion. 

Thus, when times grew hard under the stress of the Civil War, and theworks of art representing many hours of Bertrand Ballard's keenesteffort lay in his studio unpurchased, and even carefully createdportraits, ordered and painstakingly painted, were left on his hands, unclaimed and unpaid for, he quietly turned his attention to hisgarden, saying, "People can live without pictures, but they musteat. "

So he obtained a few of the choicest of the quickly produced smallfruits and vegetables and flowers, and soon had rare and beautifulthings to sell. His clever hands, which before had made his ownstretchers for his canvases, and had fashioned and gilded with goldleaf the frames for his own paintings, now made trellises for hisvines and boxes for his fruits, and when the price of sugar climbed tothe very top of the gamut, he created beehives on new models, andbought a book on bee culture; ere long he had combs of delicious honeyto tempt the lovers of sweets. 

But how came Bertrand Ballard away out in Wisconsin in a country home, painting pictures for people who knew little or nothing of art, andcared not to know more, raising fruits and keeping bees for the meansto live? Ah, that is another story, and to tell it would make anotherbook; suffice it to say that for love of a beautiful woman, strong andwise and sweet, he had followed her farmer father out into the newerwest from old New York State. 

There, frail in health and delicate and choice in his tastes, butbrave in spirit, he took up the battle of the weak with life, andfought it like a strong man, valiantly and well. And where got he hisstrength? How are the weak ever made strong? Through strength oflove--the inward fire that makes great the soul, while consuming thedross of false values and foolish estimates--from the merry heart thatcould laugh through any failure, and most of all from the beautifulhand, supple and workful, and gentle and forceful, that lay in his. 

But this is not the story of Bertrand Ballard, except incidentally ashe and his family play their part in the drama that centers in thelives of two lads, one of whom--Peter Craigmile, Junior--comes nowswinging up the path from the front gate, where three roads meet, brave in his new uniform of blue, with lifted head, and eyes grave andshining with a kind of solemn elation. 

"Bertrand, here comes Peter Junior in a new uniform, " Mary Ballardcalled to her husband, who was working at a box in which he meant tofit glass sides for an aquarium for the edification of the littleones. He came quickly out from his workroom, and Mary rose from herseat and pushed her mending basket one side, and together they walkeddown the path to meet the youth. 

"Peter Junior, have you done it? Oh, I'm sorry!"

"Why, Mary! why, Mary! I'm astonished! Not sorry?" Bertrand took theboy's hand in both his own and looked up in his eyes, for the lad wastall, much taller than his friend. "I would go myself if I only hadthe strength and were not near-sighted. "

"Thank the Lord!" said his wife, fervently. 

"Why, Mary--Mary--I'm astonished!" he said again. "Our country--"

"Yes, 'Our Country' is being bled to death, " she said, taking theboy's hand in hers for a moment; and, turning, they walked back to thehouse with the young volunteer between them. "No, I'm not reconciledto having our young men go down there and die by the thousands fromdisease and bullets and in prisons. It's wrong! I say war isiniquitous, and the issues, North or South, are not worth it. Peter, Ihad hoped you were too young. Why did you?"

"I couldn't help it, Mrs. Ballard. The call for fifty thousand morecame, and father gave his consent; and, anyway, they are taking ayounger set now than at first. "

"Yes, and soon they'll take an older set, and then they'll take thesmall and frail and near-sighted ones, and then--" She stoppedsuddenly, with a contrite glance at her husband's face. He hated to besmall and frail and near-sighted. She stepped round to his side andput her hand in his. "I'm thankful you are, Bertrand, " she saidquietly. "You'll stay to tea with us, won't you, Peter? We'll have itout of doors. "

"Yes, I'll stay--thank you. It may be the last time, and mother--Icame to see if you'd go up home and see mother, Mrs. Ballard. I kindof thought you'd think as father and Mr. Ballard do about it, and Ithought you might be able to help mother to see it that way, too. Yousee, mother--she--I always thought you were kind of strong and wouldsee things sort of--well--big, you know, more--as we men do. " He heldhis head high and looked off as he spoke. 

She exchanged a half-smiling glance with her husband, and their handsclasped tighter. "Maybe, though--if you feel this way--you can't helpmother--but what shall I do?" The big boy looked wistfully down ather. 

"I may not be able to help her to see things you want, Peter Junior. Maybe she would be happier in seeing things her own way; but I cansympathize with her. Perhaps I can help her to hope for the best, andanyway--we can--just talk it over. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Ballard, thank you. I don't care how she sees it, if--if--she'll only be happier--and--give her consent. I can't bear togo away without that; but if she won't give it, I must go anyway, --youknow. "

"Yes, " she said, smiling, "I suppose we women have to be forcedsometimes, or we never would allow some things to be done. Youenlisted first and then went to her for her consent? Yes, you are aman, Peter Junior. But I tell you, if you were my son, I would nevergive my consent--nor have it forced from me--still--I would love youbetter for doing this. "

"My love, your inconsistency is my joy, " said her husband, as shepassed into the house and left them together. 

The sun still shone hotly down, but the shadows were growing longer, and Betty left baby asleep under the Harvest apple tree where she hadbeen staying patiently during the long, warm hours, and sat at herfather's feet on the edge of the porch, where apparently she waswholly occupied in tracing patterns with her bare toes in the sand ofthe path. Now and then she ran out to the Harvest apple tree and back, her golden head darting among the green shrubbery like a sunbeam. Shewished to do her full duty by the bees and the baby, and at the sametime hear all the talk of the older ones, and watch the fascinatingyoung soldier in his new uniform. 

As bright as the sunbeam, and as silent, she watched and listened. Herheart beat fast with excitement, as it often did these days, when sheheard them talk of the war and the men who went away, perhaps never toreturn, or to return with great glory. Now here was Peter Juniorgoing. He already had his beautiful new uniform, and he would marchand drill and carry a gun, and halt and present arms, along with theolder men she had seen in the great camp out on the high bluffs whichoverlooked the wide, sweeping, rushing, willful Wisconsin River. 

Oh, if she were only a man and as old as Peter Junior, she would gowith him; but it was very grand to know him even. Why was she a girl?If God had only asked her which she would rather be when he had madeher out of dust, she would have told him to make her a man, so shemight be a soldier. It was not fair. There was Bobby; he would be aman some day, and he could ride on a large black horse like theknights of old, and go to wars, and rescue people, and do deeds ofarms. What deeds of arms were, she little knew, but it was somethingvery strong and wonderful that only knights and soldiers did. 

Betty heaved a deep sigh, and put out her hand and softly touchedPeter Junior's trousers. He thought it was the kitten purring about. No, God had not treated her fairly. Now she must grow up and be only awoman, and wash dishes, and sweep and dust, and get very tired, andwear dresses--and oh, dear! But then perhaps God had to do that way, for if he had given everybody a choice, everybody would choose to bemen, and there would be no women to mind the home and take care of thelittle children, and it would be a very sad kind of world, as she hadoften heard her father say. Perhaps God had to do with them as PeterJunior had done with his mother when he enlisted first and asked herconsent afterwards; just make them girls, and then try to convincethem afterwards that it was a fine thing to be a girl. She wished shewere Bobby instead of Betty--but then--Bobby might not have likedthat. 

She glanced wistfully at the sleeping child and saw him toss his armsabout, and knew she ought to be there to sway a green branch over himto keep the little gnats and flies from bothering him and waking him;and the bees might swarm and no one see them. 

"Father, is it three o'clock yet?"

"Yes, deary, why?"

"Goody! The bees won't swarm now, will they? Will you bring Bobby in, father?"

"He is very well there; we won't disturb him. "

Peter Junior looked down on the little girl, so full of vitality andlife and inspiration, so vibrant with enthusiasm, and saw her vaguelyas a slightly disturbing element, but otherwise of little moment inthe world's economy. His thoughts were on greater things. 

Betty accepted her father's decision without protest, as she acceptedmost things, --a finality to be endured and made the best of, --so shecontinued to run back and forth between the sleeping child and theporch, thereby losing much interesting dialogue, --all about camps andfighting and scout duty, --until at last her mother returned and with aglance at her small daughter's face said:--

"Father, will you bring baby in now and put him in his cradle? Bettyhas had him nearly all day. " And father went. Oh, beautiful mother!How did she know!

Then Betty settled herself at Peter Junior's feet and looked up in hiseyes gravely. "What will you be, now you are a soldier?" she asked. 

"Why, a soldier. "

"No, I mean, will you be a general--or a flag carrier--or will youdrum? I'd be a general if I were you--or else a drummer. I think youwould be very handsome for a general. "

Peter Junior threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time hehad laughed that day, and yet he was both proud and happy. "Would youlike to be a soldier?"

"Yes. "

"But you might be killed, or have your leg shot off--or--"

"I know. So might you--but you would go, anyway--wouldn't you?"

"Certainly. "

"Well, then you understand how I feel. I'd like to be a man, and go towar, and 'Have a part to tear a cat in, ' too. "

"What's that? What's that? Mary, do you hear that?" said her father, resuming his seat at Peter's side, and hearing her remark. 

"Why, father, wouldn't you? You know you'd like to go to war. I heardwhat you said to mother, and, anyway--I'd just like to be a man and'Have a part to tear a cat in, ' the way men have. "

Bertrand Ballard looked down and patted his little daughter's head, then caught her up and placed her on his knee. He realized suddenlythat his child was an entity unfathomed, separate from himself, working out her own individuality almost without guidance, except suchas he and his Mary were unconsciously giving to her by their dailyacts and words. 

"What books are those you have there? Don't you know you mustn't takefather's Shakespeare out and leave it on the grass?"

Betty laughed. "How did you know I had Shakespeare?"

"Didn't you say you 'Would like a part to tear a cat in'?"

"Oh, have you read 'Midsummer Night's Dream'?" She lifted her headfrom his bosom and eyed him gravely a moment, then snuggledcomfortably down again. "But then, I suppose you have read everything. "Her father and Peter both laughed. 

"Were you reading 'Midsummer Night's Dream' out there?"

"No, I've read that lots of times--long ago. I'm reading 'The MerryWives of Windsor' now. "

"Mary, Mary, do you hear this? I think it's time our Betty had alittle supervision in her reading. "

Mary Ballard came to the door from the tea table where she had beenarranging her little set of delicate china, her one rare treasure andinheritance. "Yes, I knew she was reading--whatever she fancied, but Ithought I wouldn't interfere--not yet. I have so little time, for onething, and, anyway, I thought she might browse a bit. She's like acalf in rare pastures, and I don't think she understands enough to doher harm--or much good, either. Those things slide off from her likewater off a duck's back. "

Betty looked anxiously up at her mother. What things was she missing?She must read them all over again. 

"What else have you out there, Betty?" asked her father. 

Betty dropped her head shamefacedly. She never knew when she was inthe right and when wrong. Sometimes the very things which seemed mostright to her were most wrong. "That's 'Paradise Lost. ' It was an oldbook, father. There was a tear in the back when I took it down. I liketo read about Satan. I like to read about the mighty hosts and theangels and the burning lake. Is that hell? I was pretending if thebees swarmed that they would be the mighty host of bad angels fallingout of heaven. "

Again Peter flung back his head and laughed. He looked at the childwith new interest, but Betty did not smile back at him. She did notlike being laughed at. 

"It's true, " she said; "they did fall out of heaven in a swarm, and itwas like over at High Knob on the river bank, only a million timeshigher, because they were so long falling. 'From morn till noon theyfell, from noon till dewy eve. '" Betty looked off into space withhalf-closed eyes. She was seeing them fall. "It was a long time to bein suspense, wasn't it, father?" Then every one laughed. Even motherjoined in. She was putting the last touches to the tea table. 

"Mary, my dear, I think we'd better take a little supervision of thechild's reading--I do, really. "

The gate at the end of the long path to the house clicked, and anotherlad came swinging up the walk, slightly taller than Peter Junior, butotherwise enough like him in appearance to be his own brother. He wasnot as grave as Peter, but smiled as he hailed them, waving his capabove his head. He also wore the blue uniform, and it was new. 

"Hallo, Peter! You here?"

"Of course I'm here. I thought you were never coming. "

"You did?"

Betty sprang from her father's lap and ran to meet him. She slippedher hand in his and hopped along at his side. "Oh, Rich! Are yougoing, too? I wish I were you. "

He lifted the child to a level with his face and kissed her, then sether on her feet again. "Never wish that, Betty. It would spoil a nicelittle girl. "

"I'm not such a nice little girl. I--I--love Satan--and they're goingto--to--supervise my reading. " She clung to his hand and nodded herhead with finality. He swung her along, making her take long leaps asthey walked. 

"You love Satan? I thought you loved me!"

"It's the same thing, Rich, " said Peter Junior, with a grin. 

Bertrand had gone to the kitchen door. "Mary, my love, here's RichardKildene. " She entered the living room, carrying a plate of light, hotbiscuit, and hurried out to Richard, greeting him warmly--evenlovingly. 

"Bertrand, won't you and the boys carry the table out to the garden?"she suggested. "Open both doors and take it carefully. It will bepleasanter here in the shade. "

The young men sprang to do her bidding, and the small table was borneout under the trees, the lads enumerating with joy the articles ofMary Ballard's simple menu. 

"Hot biscuits and honey! My golly! Won't we wish for this in about twomonths from now?" said Richard. 

"Cream and caraway cookies!" shouted Peter Junior, turning back to theporch to help Bertrand carry the chairs. "Of course we'll be wishingfor this before long, but that's part of soldiering. "

"We're not looking forward to a well-fed, easy time of it, so we'lljust make the best of this to-night, and eat everything in sight, "said Richard. 

Bertrand preferred to change the subject. "This is some of our newwhite clover honey, " he said. "I took it from that hive over therelast evening, and they've been working all day as if they had had newlife given them. All bees want is a lot of empty space for storinghoney. "

Richard followed Mrs. Ballard into the kitchen for the tea. "Where arethe other children?" he asked. 

"Martha and Jamie are spending a week with my mother and father. Theylove to go there, and mother--and father, also, seem never to haveenough of them. Baby is still asleep, and I must waken him, too, orhe won't sleep to-night. I hung a pail of milk over the spring to keepit cool, and the butter is there also--and the Dutch cheese in a tinbox. Can you--wait, I'd better go with you. We'll leave the tea tosteep a minute. "

They passed through the house and down toward the spring house underthe maple and basswood trees at the back, walking between rows ofcurrant bushes where the fruit hung red. 

"I hate to leave all this--maybe forever, " said the boy. The cornersof his mouth drooped a little, and he looked down at Mary Ballard witha tender glint in his deep blue eyes. His eyes were as blue as thelake on a summer's evening, and they were shaded by heavy dark brownlashes, almost black. His brows and hair were the same deep brown. Peter Junior's were a shade lighter, and his hair more curling. It wasoften a matter of discussion in the village as to which of the boyswas the handsomer. That they were both fine-looking lads was alwaysconceded. 

Mary Ballard turned toward him impulsively. "Why did you do this, Richard? Why? I can't feel that this fever for war is right. It isterrible. We are losing the best blood in the land in a wicked war. "She took his two hands in hers, and her eyes filled. "When we firstcame here, your mother was my dearest friend. You never knew her, butI loved her--and her loss was much to me. Richard, why didn't youconsult us?"

"I hadn't any one but you and your husband to care. Oh, Aunt Hesterloves me, of course, and is awfully good to me--but the Elder--Ialways feel somehow as if he expects me to go to the bad. He never hadany use for my father, I guess. Was my father--was--he no good? Don'tmind telling me the truth: I ought to know. "

"Your father was not so well known here, but he was, in Bertrand'sestimation, a royal Irish gentleman. We both liked him; no one couldhelp it. Never think hardly of him. "

"Why has he never cared for me? Why have I never known him?"

"There was a quarrel--or--some unpleasantness between your uncle andhim; it's an old thing. "

Richard's lip quivered an instant, then he drew himself up and smiledon her, then he stooped and kissed her. "Some of us must go; we can'tlet this nation be broken up. Some men must give their lives for it;and I'm one of those who ought to go, for I have no one to mourn forme. Half the class has enlisted. "

"I venture to say you suggested it, too?"

"Well--yes. "

"And Peter Junior was the first to follow you?"

"Well, yes! I'm sorry--because of Aunt Hester--but we always do pulltogether, you know. See here, let's not think of it in this way. Thereare other ways. Perhaps I'll come back with straps on my shoulders andmarry Betty some day. "

"God grant you may; that is, if you come back as you left us. Youunderstand me? The same boy?"

"I do and I will, " he said gravely. 

That was a happy hour they spent at the evening meal, and many anevening afterwards, when hardship and weariness had made the lads seemmore rugged and years older, they spoke of it and lived it over. 

CHAPTER III

A MOTHER'S STRUGGLE

"Come, Lady, come. You're slow this morning. " Mary Ballard drove asteady, well-bred, chestnut mare with whom she was on most friendlyterms. Usually her carryall was filled with children, for she kept nohelp, and when she went abroad, she must perforce take the childrenwith her or spend an unquiet hour or two while leaving them behind. This morning she had left the children at home, and carried in theirstead a basket of fruit and flowers on the seat beside her. "Come, Lady, come; just hurry a little. " She touched the mare with the whip, a delicate reminder to haste, which Lady assumed to be a fly andtreated as such with a switch of her tail. 

The way seemed long to Mary Ballard this morning, and the sun beatingdown on the parched fields made the air quiver with heat. The unpavedroad was heavy with dust, and the mare seemed to drag her feet throughit unnecessarily as she jogged along. Mary was anxious and dreaded thevisit she must make. She would be glad when it was over. What couldshe say to the stricken woman who spent her time behind closed blinds?Presently she left the dust behind and drove along under the mapletrees that lined the village street, over cool roads that were keptwell sprinkled. 

The Craigmiles lived on the main street of the town in the mostdignified of the well-built homes of cream-colored brick, with a widefront stoop and white columns at the entrance. Mary was shown into theparlor by a neat serving maid, who stepped softly as if she wereafraid of waking some one. The room was dark and cool, but the airseemed heavy with a lingering musky odor. The dark furniture was setstiffly back against the walls, the floor was covered with a velvetcarpet of rich, dark colors, and oil portraits were hung about inheavy gold frames. 

Mary looked up at two of these portraits with pride, and rebelled thatthe light was so shut out that they must always be seen in theobscurity, for Bertrand had painted them, and she considered them herhusband's best work. In the painting of them and the long sittingsrequired the intimacy between the two families had begun. Really ithad begun before that, for there were other paintings in thathome--portraits, old and fine, which Elder Craigmile's father hadbrought over from Scotland when he came to the new world to establisha new home. These paintings were the pride of Elder Craigmile's heart, and the delight of Bertrand Ballard's artist soul. 

To Bertrand they were a discovery--an oasis in a desert. One day thebanker had called him in to look at a canvas that was falling topieces with age, in the hope that the artist might have the skill torestore it. From that day the intimacy began, and a warm friendshipsprang up between the two families, founded on Bertrand's love for theold works of art, wherein the ancestors of Peter Craigmile, Senior, looked out from their frames with a dignity and warmth and gracerarely to be met with in this new western land. 

Bertrand's heart leaped with joy as he gazed on one of them, the onehe had been called on to save if possible. "This must be a genuineReynolds. Ah! They could paint, those old fellows!" he cried. 

"Genuine Reynolds? Why, man, it is! it is! You are a true artist. Youknew it in a moment. " Peter Senior's heart was immediately filled withadmiration for the younger man. "Yes, they were a good family--theCraigmiles of Aberdeen. My father brought all the old portraits comingto him to this country to keep the family traditions alive. It's agood thing--a good thing!"

"She was a beautiful woman, the original of that portrait. "

"She was a great beauty, indeed. Her husband took her to London tohave it done by the great painter. Ah, the Scotch lasses were fine!Look at that color! You don't see that here, no?"

"Our American women are too pale, for the most part; but then again, your men are too red. "

"Ah! Beef and red wine! Beef and red wine! With us in Scotland it wasgood oatcakes and home-brew--and the air. The air of the Scotch hillsand the sea. You don't have such air here, I've often heard my fathersay. I've spent the greater part of my life here, so it's mostly thetraditions I have--they and the portraits. "

Thus it came about that owing to his desire to keep up the line offamily portraits, Peter Craigmile engaged the artist to paint thepicture of his gentle, sweet-faced wife. She was painted seated, alittle son on either side of her; and now in the dimness she lookedout from the heavy gold frame, a half smile playing about her lips, onher lap an open book, and about the low-cut crimson velvet bodicerare old lace pinned at the bosom with a large brooch of wrought gold, framing a delicately cut cameo. 

As Mary Ballard sat in the parlor waiting, she looked up in the duskylight at this picture. Ah, yes! Her Bertrand also was a great painter. If only he could be where he might become known and appreciated! Shesighed for another reason, also, as she regarded it: because the twolittle sons clasped by the mother's arms were both gone. Sunny-hairedScotch laddies they were, with fair, wide brows, each in kilt andplaid, with bare knees and ruddy cheeks. What delight her husband hadtaken in painting it! And now the mother mourned unceasingly the lossof those little sons, and of one other whom Mary had never seen, andof whom they had no likeness. It was indeed hard that the one son leftthem, --their firstborn, --their hope and pride, should now be goingaway to leave them, going perhaps to his death. 

The door opened and a shadow swept slowly across the room. Always paleand in black--wrapped in her mourning the shadow of sorrow never leftthis mother; and now it seemed to envelop even Mary Ballard, brightand warm of nature as she was. 

Hester Craigmile barely smiled as she held out her slender, blue-veined hand. 

"It is very good of you to come to me, Mary Ballard, but you can'tmake me think I should be reconciled to this. No! It is hard enough tobe reconciled to the blows God has dealt me, without accepting what myhusband and son see fit to give me in this. " Her hand was cold andpassive, and her voice was restrained and low. 

Mary Ballard's hands were warm, and her tones were rich and full. Shetook the proffered hand in both her own and drew the shadow down tosit at her side. 

"No, no. I'm not going to try to make you reconciled, or anything. I've just come to tell you that I understand, and that I think you arejustified in withholding your consent to Peter Junior's going off inthis way. "

"If he were killed, I should feel as if I had consented to hisdeath. "

"Of course you would. I should feel just the same. Naturally you can'tforbid his going, --now, --for it's too late, and he would have to gowith the feeling of disobedience in his heart, and that would be cruelto him, and worse for you. "

"I know. His father has consented; they think I am wrong. My sonthinks I am wrong. But I can't! I can't!" In her suppressed tonessounded the ancient wail of women--mothers crying for their sonssacrificed in war. For a few moments neither of them spoke. It washard for Mary to break the silence. Her friend sat at her sidewithdrawn and still; then she lifted her eyes to the picture ofherself and the children and spoke again, only breathing the words:"Peter Junior--my beautiful oldest boy--he is the last--the others areall gone--three of them. "

"Peter Junior is splendid. I thought so last evening as I saw himcoming up the path. I took it home to myself--what I should feel, andwhat I would think if he were my son. Somehow we women are soinconsistent and foolish. I knew if he were my son, I never could givemy consent to his going, never in the world, --but there! I would be soproud of him for doing just what your boy has done; I would look upto him in admiration, and be so glad that he was just that kind of aman!"

Hester Craigmile turned and looked steadily in her friend's eyes, butdid not open her lips, and after a moment Mary continued:--

"To have one's sons taken like these--is--is different. We know theyare safe with the One who loved little children; we know they are safeand waiting for us. But to have a boy grow into a young man like PeterJunior--so straight and fine and beautiful--and then to have him comeand say: 'I'm going to help save our country and will die for it if Imust!' Why, my heart would grow big with thanksgiving that I hadbrought such an one into the world and reared him. I--What would I do!I couldn't tell him he might go, --no, --but I'd just take him in myarms and bless him and love him a thousand times more for it, so hecould go away with that warm feeling all about his heart; andthen--I'd just pray and hope the war might end soon and that he mightcome back to me rewarded, and--and--still good. "

"That's it. If he would, --I don't distrust my son, --but there arealways things to tempt, and if--if he were changed in that way, or ifhe never came back, --I would die. "

"I know. We can't help thinking about ourselves and how we areleft--or how we feel--" Mary hesitated and was loath to go on withthat train of thought, but her friend caught her meaning and rose insilence and paced the room a moment, then returned. 

"It is easy to talk in that way when one has not lost, " she said. 

"I know it seems so, but it is not easy, Hester Craigmile. It ishard--so hard that I came near staying at home this morning. It seemedas if I could not--could not--"

"Yes, what I said was bitter, and it wasn't honest. You were good tocome to me--and what you have said is true. It has helped me; I thinkit will help me. "

"Then good-by. I'll go now, but I'll come again soon. " She left theshadow sitting there with the basket of fruit and flowers at her sideunnoticed and forgotten, and stepped quietly out of the darkened roominto the sunlight and fresh air. 

"I do wish I could induce her to go out a little--or open up herhouse. I wish--" Mary Ballard said no more, but shut her lips tightlyon her thoughts, untied the mare, and drove slowly away. 

Hester Craigmile stood for a moment gazing on the picture of herlittle sons, then for an hour or more wandered up and down over herspacious home, going from room to room, mechanically arranging andrearranging the chairs and small articles on the mantels and tables. Nothing was out of place. No dust or disorder anywhere, and there wasthe pity of it. If only a boy's cap could be found lying about, orbooks left carelessly where they ought not to be! One closed door shepassed again and again. Once she laid her hand on the knob, but passedon, leaving it still unopened. At last she turned, and, walkingswiftly down the long hall, entered the room. 

There the blinds were closed and the curtains drawn, and everythingset in as perfect order as in the parlor below. She sat down in achair placed back against the wall and folded her hands in her lap. No, it was not so hard for Mary Ballard. It would not be, even if shehad a son old enough to go. Mary had work to do. 

On the wall above Hester's head was one of the portraits which helpedto establish the family dignity of the Craigmiles. If the blinds hadbeen open, one could have seen it in sharp contrast to the pale mothof a woman who sat beneath it. The painting, warm and rich in tone, was of a dame in a long-bodiced dress. She held a fan in her hand andwore feathers in her powdered hair. Her eyes gazed straight across theroom into those of a red-coated soldier who wore a sword at his sideand gold on his shoulders. Yes, there had been soldiers in the familybefore Peter Junior's time. 

This was Peter Junior's room, but the boy was there no longer. He hadcome home from college one day and had entered it a boy, and then hecame out of it and down to his mother, dressed in his new uniform--aman. Now he entered it no more, for he stayed at the camp over on thehigh bluff of the Wisconsin River. He was wholly taken up with his newduties there, and his room had been set in order and closed as if hewere dead. 

Sitting there, Hester heard the church clock peal out the hour oftwelve, and started. Soon she would hear the front door open and shut, and a heavy tread along the lower hall, and she would go down and sitsilently at the table opposite her husband, they two alone. Therewould be silence, because there would be nothing to say. He loved herand was tender of her, but his word was law, and in all matters he wasdictator, lawmaker, and judge, and from his decisions there was noappeal. It never occurred to him that there ever need be. So HesterCraigmile, reserved and intense, closed her lips on her own thoughts, which it seemed to her to be useless to utter, and let them eat herheart out in silence. 

At the moment expected she heard the step on the floor of thevestibule, and the door opened, but it was not her husband's stepalone that she heard. Surely it was Peter Junior's and his cousin's. Were they coming to dinner? But no word had been sent. Hester steppedout of the room and stood at the head of the stairs waiting. She didnot wish to go down and meet her son before the others, and if he didnot find her below, he would know where to look for her. 

Peter Senior was an Elder in the Presbyterian Church, and he wasalways addressed as Elder, even by his wife and son. On the street hewas always Elder Craigmile. She heard the men enter the dining roomand the door close after them, but still she waited. The maid wouldhave to be told to put two more places at the table, but Hester didnot move. The Elder might attend to that. Presently she heard quicksteps returning and knew her son was coming. She went to meet him andwas clasped in his arms, close and hard. 

"You were waiting for me here? Come, mother, come. " He stroked hersmooth, dark hair, and put his cheek to hers. It was what she needed, what her heart was breaking for. She could even let him go easierafter this. Sometimes her husband kissed her, but only when he went ajourney or when he returned, a grave kiss of farewell or greeting; butin her son's clasp there was something of her own soul's pent-uplonging. 

"You'll come down, mother? Rich came home with me. "

"Yes, I heard his voice. I am glad he came. "

"See here, mother! I know what you are doing. This won't do. Every onewho goes to war doesn't get killed or go to the bad. Look at that oldredcoat up in my room. He wasn't killed, or where would I be now? I'mcoming back, just as he did. We are born to fight, we Craigmiles, andfather feels it or he never would have given his consent. "

Slowly they went down the long winding flight of stairs--a flight witha smooth banister down which it had once been Peter Junior's delightto slide when there was no one nigh to reprove. Now he went down withhis arm around his slender mother's waist, and now and then he kissedher cheek like a lover. 

The Elder looked up as they entered, with a slight wince ofdisapproval, the only demonstration of reproof he ever gave his wife, which changed instantly to as slight a smile, as he noticed the faintcolor in her cheek, and a brighter light in her eyes than there was atbreakfast. He and Richard were both seated as they entered, but theyrose instantly, and the Elder placed her chair with all the manner ofhis forefathers, a courtesy he never neglected. 

Hester Craigmile forced herself to converse, and tried to smile as ifthere were no impending gloom. It was here Mary Ballard's influencewas felt by them all. She had helped her friend more than she knew. 

"I'm glad to see you, Richard; I was afraid I might not. "

"Oh, no, Aunt Hester. I'd never leave without seeing you. I went intothe bank and the Elder asked me to dinner and I jumped at thechance. "

"This is your home always, you know. "

"And it's good to think of, too, Aunt Hester. "

She looked at her son and then her nephew. "You are so like in youruniforms I would not know you apart on the street in the dark, " shesaid. Richard shot a merry glance in his uncle's eyes, then onlysmiled decorously with him and Peter Junior. 

"I wish you'd visit the camp and see us drill. We go like clockwork, Peter and I. They call us the twins. "

"There is a very good reason for that, for your mother and I weretwins, and you resemble her, while Peter Junior resembles me, " saidthe Elder. 

"Yes, " said Hester, "Peter Junior looks like his father;" but as sheglanced at her son she knew his soul was hers. 

Thus the meal passed in quiet, decorous talk, touching on nothingvital, but holding a smoldering fire underneath. The young men saidnothing about the fact that the regiment had been called to duty, andsoon the camp on the bluff would be breaking up. They dared not touchon the past, and they as little dared touch on the future--indeedthere might be no future. So they talked of indifferent things, andHester parted with her nephew as if they were to meet again soon, except that she called him back when he was halfway down the steps andkissed him again. As for her son, she took him up to his room andthere they stayed for an hour, and then he came out and she was leftin the house alone. 

CHAPTER IV

LEAVE-TAKING

Early in the morning, while the earth was still a mass of gray shadowand mist, and the sky had only begun to show faint signs of the flushof dawn, Betty, awake and alert, crept softly out of bed, not toawaken Martha, who slept the sleep of utter weariness at her side. Martha had returned only the day before from her visit to hergrandfather's, a long carriage ride away from Leauvite. 

Betty bathed hurriedly, giving a perfunctory brushing to the tangledmass of curls, and getting into her clothing swiftly and silently. Shehad been cautioned the night before by her mother not to awaken hersister by getting up at too early an hour, for she would be called inplenty of time to drive over with the rest to see the soldiers off. But what if her mother should forget! So she put on her new whitedress and gathered a few small parcels which she had carefully tied upthe night before, and her hat and little white linen cape, and takingher shoes in her hand, softly descended the stairs. 

"Betty, Betty, " her mother spoke in a sleepy voice from her own roomas the child crept past her door; "why, my dear, it isn't time to getup yet. We shan't start for hours. "

"I heard Peter Junior say they were going to strike camp at daybreak, and I want to see them strike it. You don't need to get up. I can goover there alone. "

"Why, no, child! Mother couldn't let you do that. They don't wantlittle girls there. Go back to bed, dear. Did you wake Martha?"

"Oh, mother. Can't I go downstairs? I don't want to go to bed again. I'll be very still. "

"Will you lie on the lounge and try to go to sleep again?"

"Yes, mother. "

Mary Ballard turned with a sigh and presently fell asleep, and Bettysoftly continued her way and obediently lay down in the darkened roombelow; but sleep she could not. At last, having satisfied herconscience by lying quietly for a while, she stole to the open door, for in that peaceful spot the Ballards slept with doors and windowswide open all through the warm nights. Oh, but the world was cool andmysterious, and the air was sweet! Little rustling noises made herfeel as if strange beings were stirring; above her head were softchirpings, and somewhere a bird was calling an undulating, long-drawnnote, low and sweet, like a tone drawn from her father's violin. 

Betty sat on the edge of the porch and put on her shoes, and thenwalked down the path to the gate. The white peonies and the irisflowers were long since gone, and on the Harvest apple trees and theSweet Boughs the fruit hung ripening. All Betty's life long she neverforgot this wonderful moment of the breaking of day. She listened forsounds to come to her from the camp far away on the river bluff, butnone were heard, only the restless moving of her grandfather's teamtaking their early feed in the small pasture lot near by. 

How fresh everything smelled! And the sky! Surely it must be likethis in heaven! It must be heaven showing through, while the worldslept. She was glad she had awakened early so she might see it, --sheand God and the angels, and all the wild things of earth. 

Slowly everything around her grew plainer, and long rays of color, faintly pink, streamed up into the sky from the eastern horizon; thensuddenly some pale gray, floating clouds above her head blossomed intoa wonderful rose laid upon a sea of gold, then gradually turnedshell-pink, then faded through changing shades to daytime clouds ofwhite. She wondered if the soldiers saw it, too. They were breakingcamp now, surely, for it was day. Still she swung on the gate anddreamed, until a voice roused her. 

"So Betty sleeps all night on the gate like a chicken on the fence. " Apair of long arms seized her and lifted her high in the air to a pairof strong shoulders. Then she was tossed about and her cheeks rubbedred against grandfather Clide's stubby beard, until she laughed aloud. "What are you doing here on the gate?"

"I was watching the sky. I think God looked through and smiled, forall at once it blossomed. Now the colors are gone. "

Grandfather Clide set her gently on her feet and stood looking gravelydown on her for a moment. "So?" he said. 

"The soldiers are striking camp over there, and then they are going tomarch to the square, and then every one is to see them form andsalute--and then they are to march to the station, and--and--then--andthen I don't know what will be--I think glory. "

Her grandfather shook his head, his thoughtful face half smiling andhalf grave. He took her hand. "Come, we'll see what Jack and Jill areup to. " He led her to the pasture lot and the horses came and thrusttheir heads over the fence and whinnied. "See? They want their oats. "Then Betty was lifted to old Jack's bare back and grandfather led himby the forelock to the barn, while Jill followed after. 

"Did Jack ever 'fall down and break his crown, ' grandfather?"

"No, but he ran away once on a time. "

"Oh, did Jill come running after?"

"That she did. "

The sun had but just cast his first glance at High Knob, where thecamp was, and Mary Ballard was hastily whipping up batter forpancakes, the simplest thing she could get for breakfast, as they wereto go early enough to see the "boys" at the camp before they formedfor their march to the town square. The children were to ride over inthe great carriage with grandfather and grandmother Clide, whilefather and mother would take Bobby with them in the carryall. It wasan arrangement liked equally by the three small children and thewell-content grandparents. 

Betty came to the house, clinging to her grandfather's hand. He drewthe large rocking-chair from the kitchen--where winter and summer itoccupied a place by the window, that Bertrand in his moments of restand leisure might sit and read the war news aloud to his wife as sheworked--out to a cool grass plot by the door, so that he might stillbe near enough to chat with his daughter, while enjoying the morningair. 

Betty found tidy little Martha, fresh and clean as a rosebud, stepping busily about, setting the table with extra places and puttingthe chairs around. Filled with self-condemnation at the sight of hersister's helpfulness, she dashed upstairs to do her part in gettingall neat for the day. First she coaxed naughty little Jamie, who, inhis nightshirt, was out on the porch roof fishing, dangling his shoeover the edge by its strings tied to his father's cane, to return andbe hustled into his trousers--funny little garments that came almostto his shoe tops--and to stand still while "sister" washed his faceand brushed his curly red hair into a state of semi-orderliness. 

Then there was Bobby to be kissed and coaxed, and washed and dressed, and told marvelous tales to beguile him into listening submission. "Mother, mayn't I put Bobby's Sunday dress on him?" called Betty, fromthe head of the stairs. 

"Yes, dear, anything you like, but hurry. Breakfast is almost ready;"then to Martha, "Leave the sweeping, deary, and run down to the springfor the cream. " To her father, Mary explained: "The little girls are agreat help. Betty manages to do for the boys without irritating them. Now we'll eat while the cakes are hot. Come, Bertrand. "

It was a grave mission and a sorrowful one, that early morning ride tosay good-by to those youthful volunteers. The breakfast conversationturned on the subject with subdued intensity. Mary Ballard did notexplain herself, --she was too busy serving, --but denounced the war inbroad terms as "unnecessary and iniquitous, " thus eliciting from herhusband his usual exclamation, when an aphorism of more than ordinarydaring burst from her lips: "Mary! why, Mary! I'm astonished!"

"Every one regards it from a different point of view, " said his wife, "and this is my point. " It was conclusive. 

Grandfather Clide turned sideways, leaned one elbow on the table in ameditative way he had, and spoke slowly. Betty gazed up at him inwide-eyed attention, while Mary poured the coffee and Martha helpedher mother by passing the cakes. Bobby sat close to his comfortablegrandmother, who seemed to be giving him all her attention, but whoheard everything, and was ready to drop a quiet word of significancewhen applicable. 

"If we bring the question down to its primal cause, " said grandfather, "if we bring it down to its primal cause, Mary is right; for the causebeing iniquitous, of course, the war is the same. "

"What is 'primal cause, ' grandfather?" asked Betty. 

"The thing that began it all, " said grandfather, regarding herquizzically. 

"I don't agree with your conclusion, " said Bertrand, pausing to putsirup on Jamie's cakes, after repeated demands therefor. "If the causebe evil, it follows that to annihilate the cause--wipe it out ofexistence--must be righteous. "

"In God's good time, " said grandmother Clide, quietly. 

"God's good time, in my opinion, seems to be when we are forced to athing. " Grandfather lifted one shaggy eyebrow in her direction. 

"At any rate, and whatever happens, " said Bertrand, "the Union must bepreserved, a nation, whole and undivided. My father left England forlove of its magnificent ideals of government by the people. Here is tobe the vast open ground where all nations may come and realize theirhighest possibilities, and consequently this nation must be heldtogether and developed as a whole in all its resources, and not cut upinto small, ineffective, quarrelsome factions. To allow that wouldmean the ruin of a colossal scheme for universal progress. "

Mary brought her husband's coffee and put it beside his plate, as hewas too absorbed to take it, and as she did so placed her hand on hisshoulder with gentle pressure and their eyes met for an instant. Thengrandfather Clide took up the thread. 

"Speaking of your father makes me think of my father, your oldgrandfather Clide, Mary. He fought with his father in the RevolutionaryWar when he was a lad no more than Peter Junior's age--or less. He livedthrough it and came to be a judge of the supreme court of New York, andhelped to frame the constitution of that State, too. I used to hearhim say, when I was a mere boy, --and he would bring his fist down onthe table with an emphasis that made the dishes rattle, for all heaverred that he never used gesticulation to aid his oratory, --he used tosay, --I remember his words, as if it were but yesterday, --'Slavery is acrime which we, the whole nation, are accountable for, and for which wewill be held accountable. If we as a nation will not do away with it bylegislation or mutual compact justly, then the Lord will take it intohis own hands and wipe it out with blood. He may be patient for a longwhile, and give us a good chance, but if we wait too long, --it maynot be in my day--it may not be in yours, --he will wipe it out withblood!' and here was where he used to make the dishes rattle. "

"Maybe, then, this is the Lord's good time, " said grandmother. 

"I believe in preserving the Union at any cost, slavery or noslavery, " said Bertrand. 

"The bigger and grander the nation, the more rottenness, if it'srotten at heart. I believe it better--even at the cost of war--to wipeout a national crime, --or let those who want slavery take themselvesout of it. "

Betty began to quiver through all her little system of high-strungnerves and sympathies. The talk was growing heated, and she hated tolisten to excited arguments; yet she gazed and listened withfascinated attention. 

Bertrand looked up at his father-in-law. "Why, father! why, father!I'm astonished! I fail to see how permitting one tremendous evil canpossibly further any good purpose. To my mind the most tremendous evilthat could be perpetrated on this globe--the thing that would do moreto set all progress back for hundreds of years, maybe--would be tobreak up this Union. Here in this country now we are advancing at apace that covers the centuries of the past in leaps of a hundred yearsin one. Now cut this land up into little, caviling factions, and whereare we? Why, the very motto of the republic would be done awaywith--'In Union there is strength. ' I tell you slavery is a sort ofDelilah, and the nation--if it is divided--will be like Sampson withhis locks shorn. "

"Well, war is here, " said Mary, "and we must send off our young men tothe shambles, and later on fill up our country with the refuse ofEurope in their stead. It will be a terrible blood-letting for bothNorth and South, and it will be the best blood on both sides. I'm assorry for the mothers down there as I am for ourselves. Did you getthe apples, Bertrand? We'd better start, to be there at eight. "

"I put them in the carryall, my dear, Sweet Boughs and Harvest apples. The boys will have one more taste before they leave. "

"Father, we want to carry some. Put some in the carriage too, " saidMartha. 

"Yes, father. We want to eat some while we are on the way. "

"Why, Jamie, they are for the soldiers; they're not for us, " criedBetty, in horror. To eat even one, it seemed to her, would be greedand robbery. 

In spite of the gravity of the hour to the older ones, the occasiontook on an air of festivity to the children. In grandfather'sdignified old family carriage Martha sat with demure elation on theback seat at her grandmother's side, wearing her white linen cape, anda wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat of Neapolitan straw, with a blueribbon around the crown, and a narrow one attached to the front, theend of which she held in her hand to pull the brim down to shade hereyes as was the fashion for little girls of the day. She felt wellpleased with the hat, and held the ribbon daintily in her shapelylittle hand. 

At her feet was the basket of apples, and with her other hand sheguarded three small packages. Grandmother wore a gray, changeablesilk. The round waist fitted her plump figure smoothly, and the skirtwas full and flowing. Her bonnet was made of the same silk shirred onrattan, and was not perched on the top of her head, but covered itwell and framed her sweet face with a full, white tulle ruching setclose under the brim. 

Grandfather, up in front, drove Jack and Jill, who, he said, were"feeling their oats. " Betty did not wonder, for oats are sharp andmust prick their stomachs. She sat with grandfather, --he had promisedshe should the night before, --and Jamie was tucked in between them. Heought to have been in behind with grandmother, but his scream ofrebellion as he was lifted in brought instant yielding from Betty, when grandfather interfered and took them both. But when Jamieinsisted on holding the reins, grandfather grew firm, and when screamsagain began, his young majesty was lifted down and placed in the roadto remain until instant obedience was promised, after which he wasrestored to the coveted place and away they went. 

Betty's white linen cape blew out behind and her ribbons flew likeblue butterflies all about her hat. She forgot to hold down the brim, as polite little girls did who knew how to wear their Sunday clothes. She, too, held three small packages in her lap. For days, ever sincePeter Junior and Richard Kildene had taken tea with them in their newuniforms, the little girls had patiently sewed to make the articleswhich filled these packages. 

Mary Ballard had planned them. In each was a needle-book filled withneedles large enough to be used by clumsy fingers, a pin ball, agood-sized iron thimble, and a case of thread and yarn for mending, buttons of various sizes, and a bit of beeswax, molded in MaryBallard's thimble, to wax their linen thread. All were neatly packedin a case of bronzed leather bound about with firm braid, and tuckedunder the strap of the leather on the inside was a small pair ofscissors. It was all very compact and tied about with the braid. Mother had done some of the hardest of the sewing, but for the mostpart the stitches had been painstakingly put in by the children's ownfingers. 

The morning was cool, and the dust had been laid by a heavy shower inthe night. The horses held up their heads and went swiftly, in spiteof their long journey the day before. Soon they heard in the distancethe sound of the drum, and the merry note of a fife. Again a pang shotthrough Betty's heart that she had not been a boy of Peter Junior'sage that she might go to war. She heaved a deep sigh and looked up inher grandfather's face. It was a grizzled face, with blue eyes thatshot a kindly glance sideways at her as if he understood. 

When they drew near, the horses danced to the merry tune, as if theywould like to go, too. All the camp seemed alive. How splendid thesoldiers looked in their blue uniforms, their guns flashing in thesun! Betty watched how their legs with the stripes on them seemed totwinkle as they moved all together, marching in companies. Back andforth, back and forth, they went, and the orders came to the childrenshort and abrupt, as the men went through their maneuvers. They sawthe sentinel pacing up and down, and wondered why he did it instead ofmarching with the other men. All these questions were saved up to askof grandfather when they got home. They were too interested to doanything but watch now. 

At last, very suddenly it seemed, the soldiers broke ranks andscattered over the greensward, running hither and thither like ants. Betty again drew a long breath. Now they were coming, the soldiers inwhom they were particularly interested. 

"Can they do what they please now?" she asked her grandfather. 

"Yes, for a while. "

All along the sentry line carriages were drawn up, for this hour fromeight till nine was given to the "boys" to see their friends for thelast time in many months, maybe years, maybe forever. As they had comefrom all over the State, some had no friends to meet them, but guestswere there in crowds, and every man might receive a handshake whetherhe was known or not. All were friends to these young volunteers. 

Bertrand Ballard was known and loved by all the youths. Some from thevillage, and others from the country around, had been in the way ofcoming to the Ballard home simply because the place was made anenjoyable center for them. Some came to practice the violin and othersto sing. Some came to try their hand at sketching and painting andsome just to hear Bertrand talk. All was done for them quitegratuitously on his part, and no laugh was merrier than his. Even thechore boy came in for a share of the Ballards' kindly help, sitting atMary Ballard's side in the long winter evenings, and conning lessonsto patch up an education snatched haphazard and hardly come by. 

Here comes one of them now, head up, smiling, and happy-go-lucky. "Bertrand, here comes Johnnie. Give him the apples and let himdistribute them. Poor boy! I'm sorry he's going; he's too easily led, "said Mary. 

"Oh! Johnnie, Johnnie Cooper! I've got something for you. We madethem. Mother helped us, " cried Martha. Now the children were out ofthe carriage and running about among their friends. 

Johnnie Cooper snatched Jamie from the ground and threw him up overhis head, then set him down again and took the parcel. Then he caughtMartha up and set her on his shoulder while he peeped into thepackage. 

"Stop, Johnnie. Set me down. I'm too big now for you to toss me up. "Her arms were clasped tightly under his chin as he held her by thefeet. Slowly he let her slide to the ground and thrust the little casein his pocket, and stooping, kissed the child. 

"I'll think of you and your mother when I use this, " he said. 

"And you'll write to us, won't you, Johnnie?" said Mary. "If youdon't, I shall think something is gone wrong with you. " He knew whatshe meant, and she knew he knew. "There are worse things than bullets, Johnnie. "

"Never you worry for me, Mrs. Ballard. We're going down for business, and you won't see me again until we've licked the 'rebs. '" He held herhand awkwardly for a minute, then relieved the tension by carrying offthe two baskets of apples. "I know the trees these came from, " hesaid, and soon a hundred boys in blue were eating Bertrand's choicestapples. 

"Here come the twins!" said some one, as Peter Junior and RichardKildene came toward them across the sward. Betty ran to meet them andcaught Richard by the hand. She loved to have him swing her in longleaps from the ground as he walked. 

"See, Richard, I made this for you all myself--almost. I put C in thecorner so it wouldn't get mixed with the others, because this I madeespecially for you. "

"Did you? Why didn't you put R in the corner if you meant it for me? Ithink you meant this for Charley Crabbe. "

"No, I didunt. " Betty spoke most emphatically. "Martha has one forhim. I put C because--you'll see when you open it. Everything's boundall round with my very best cherry-colored hair ribbon, to make itvery special, and that is what C is for. All the rest are brown, andthis is prettier, and it won't get mixed with Peter Junior's. "

"Ah, yes. C is for cherry--Betty's hair ribbon; and the gold-brownleather is for Betty's hair. Is that it?"

"Yep. "

"Haven't I one, too?" asked Peter Junior. 

"Yep. We made them just alike, and you can sew on buttons andeverything. "

Thus the children made the leave-taking less somber, to the relief ofevery one. 

Grandfather and grandmother Clide had friends of their own whom theyhad come all the forty miles to see, --neighbor boys from many of thefarms around their home, and their daughter-in-law's own brother, whowas like a son to them. There he stood, lithe and strong and genial, and, alas! too easy-going to be safe among the temptations of thecamp. 

Quickly the hour passed and the call came to form ranks for the marchto the town square, where speeches were to be made and prayers were tobe read before the march to the station. 

Our little party waited until the last company had left the campground and the excited children had seen them all and heard the soundof the fife and drum to their last note and beat as the "boys in blue"filed past them and off down the winding country road among the trees. Nothing was said by the older ones of what might be in the future forthose gallant youths--yes, and for the few men of greater years withthem--as they wound out of sight. It was better so. Bobby fell asleepin Mary Ballard's arms as they drove back, and a bright tear fell fromher wide-open, far-seeing eyes down on his baby cheek. 

It was no lack of love for his son that kept Elder Craigmile away atthe departure of the boys from their camp on the bluff. He hadvirtually said his say and parted from his son when he gave hisconsent to his going in the first place. To him war meant sacrifice, and the parting with sons, at no matter what cost. The dominant ideawith him was ever the preservation of the Union. At nine o'clock asusual that morning he had entered the bank, and a few minutes later, when the troops formed on the square, he came out and took hisappointed place on the platform, as one of the speakers, and offered aclosing prayer for the confounding of the enemy after the manner ofDavid of old--then he descended and took his son's hand, as he stoodin the ranks, with his arm across the boy's shoulder, looked a momentin his eyes; then, without a word, he turned and reëntered the bank. 

CHAPTER V

THE PASSING OF TIME

It was winter. The snow was blowing past the windows in blindingdrifts, and the road in front of the Ballards' home was fast fillingto the tops of the fences. A bright wood-fire was burning in the greatcookstove, which had been brought into the living room for warmth andto economize steps, as all the work of the household devolved on Maryand little Betty, since Martha spent the week days at the Deans in thevillage in order to attend the high school. 

Mary gazed anxiously now and then through the fast-frosting windowpanes on the opaque whiteness of the storm without, where the treestossed their bare branches weirdly, like threatening gray phantoms, grotesque and dimly seen through the driving snow. It was Fridayafternoon and still early, and brave, busy little Martha always camehome on Fridays after school to help her mother on Saturdays. 

"Oh, I hope Martha hasn't started, " said Mary. "Look out, Bertrand. This is the wildest storm we have had this year. "

"Mrs. Dean would never allow her to set out in this storm, I'm sure, "said Bertrand. "I cautioned her yesterday when I was there never tostart when the weather seemed like a blizzard. "

Bertrand had painted in his studio above as long as the lightremained, and now he was washing his brushes, carefully swishing thewater out of them and drawing each one between his lips to shape itproperly before laying it down. Mary laid the babe in her arms in itscrib, and rocked it a moment while she and Bertrand chatted. 

A long winter and summer had passed since the troops marched away fromLeauvite, and now another winter was passing. For a year and a bitmore, little Janey, the babe now being hushed to sleep, had been amember of the family circle. Thus it was that Mary Ballard seldom wentto the village, and Betty learned her lessons at home as best shecould, and tended the baby and helped her mother. But Bertrand and hiswife had plenty to talk about; for he went out and saw their friendsin the village, led the choir on Sundays, taught the Bible class, heard all the news, and talked it over with Mary. 

Thus, in one way or another, all the new books found their way intothe Ballards' home, were read and commented on, even though books werenot written so much for commercial purposes then as now, and theirwriters were looked up to with more respect than criticism. The_Atlantic Monthly_ and _Littell's Living Age_, _Harper's Magazine_, and the _New York Tribune_ also brought up a variety of subjects fordiscussion. Now and then a new poem by Whittier, or Bryant, or someother of the small galaxy of poets who justly were becoming thenation's pride, would appear and be read aloud to Mary as she preparedtheir meals, or washed the dishes or ironed small garments, whileBetty listened with intent eyes and ears, as she helped her mother ortended the baby. 

That afternoon, while the storm soughed without, the cow and horsewere comfortably quartered in their small stable, which was bankedwith straw to keep out the cold. Indoors, Jamie was whittling behindthe warm cookstove over a newspaper spread to catch the chips, whileBobby played quietly in a corner with two gray kittens and a worstedball. Janey was asleep in the crib which Betty jogged now and thenwhile she knit on a sock for the soldiers, --Mary and the two littlegirls were always knitting socks for the soldiers these days in theirspare moments and during the long winter evenings, --Mary was kneadingwhite loaves of bread with floury hands, and Bertrand sat close besidethe window to catch the last rays of daylight by which to read the warnews. 

Bertrand always read the war news first, --news of battles and lists ofwounded and slain and imprisoned, and saddest of all, lists of themissing, --following closely the movements of their own company of"boys" from Leauvite. Mary listened always with a thought of theshadow in the banker's home, and the mother there, watching andwaiting for the return of her boy. Although their own home was safe, the sorrow of other homes, devastated and mourning, weighed heavilyupon Mary Ballard, and she needed to listen to the stirring editorialsof the _Tribune_, which Bertrand read with dramatic intensity, tobolster up her faith in the rightness of this war between men whoought to be brothers in their hopes and ambitions for the nationallife of their great country. 

"I suppose it is too great a thing to ask--that such a tremendous andmixed nation as ours should be knit together for the good of all menin a spirit of brotherly love--but what a thing to ask for! What athing to try for! If I were a man, I would pray that I might gaininfluence over my fellows just for that--just--for that, " said Mary. 

"Ah, " replied her husband, with fond optimism, "you need not say 'If Iwere a man, ' for that. It is the women who have the influence; don'tyou know that, Mary?"

Mary looked down at her work, an incredulous smile playing about herlips. 

"Well, my dear?" Bertrand loved a response. 

"Well, Bertrand? Men do like to talk about our 'sweet influence, 'don't they?" Then she laughed outright. 

"But, Mary--but, Mary, it is true. Women do more with their influencethan men can do with their guns, " and Bertrand really meant what hesaid. Dusky shadows filled the room, but if the light had beenstronger, he would have seen that little ironical smile still playingabout his wife's lips. 

"Did you see Judge Logan again about those Waupaca lots?"

Bertrand wondered what the lots had to do with the subject, butsuffered the digression patiently, for the feminine mind was notsupposed to be coherent. "Yes, my love; I saw him yesterday. "

"What did you do about them? I hope you refused. "

"No, my dear. I thought best not. He showed me very conclusively thatin time they will be worth more--much more--than the debt. "

"Then why did he offer them to you for the debt? The portrait youpainted for him will be worth more, too, in time, than the debt. Youremember when you asked me what I thought, I said we needed the moneymore now. "

"Yes, I remember; but this plan is a looking toward the future. Ididn't think it wise to refuse. "

Mary said nothing, but went out, returning presently with two lightedcandles. Bertrand was replenishing the fire. Had he been looking ather face with the light of the candles on it as she carried them, hewould have noticed that little smile about her lips. 

"I'm very glad we brought the bees in yesterday, " he said. "This stormwould have made it impossible to do it to-day, and we should have lostthem. "

"How about those lectures, dear? The 'boys' are all gone now, and youwon't have them to take up your time evenings, so you can easilyprepare them. They will take you into the city now and then, and thatwill keep you in touch with the world outside this village. " Bertrandhad been requested to give a series of lectures on art in one of thecolleges in the city. He had been well pleased and had accepted, butlater had refused because of certain dictatorship exercised by theBoard, which he felt infringed on his province of a suitable selectionof subjects. He was silent for a moment. Again Mary had irrelevantlyand abruptly changed the subject of conversation. Where was theconnection between bees and lectures? "I really wish you would, dear, "urged Mary. 

"You still wish it after the affront the Board has given me?"

"I know, but what do they know about art? I would give the lectures ifit was only to be able--incidentally--to teach them something. Be alittle conciliatory, dear. "

"I will make no concessions. If I give the lectures, I must be allowedto select my courses. It is my province. "

"Did you see Elder Craigmile about it?"

"I did. "

"And what did he say?"

"He seemed to think the Board was right. "

"I knew he would. You remember I asked you not to go to him about it, and that was why. "

"Why did you think so? He assumes to be my friend. "

"Because people who don't know anything about art always are satisfiedwith their own opinions. They don't know anything to upset them. Heknows more than some of them, but how much is that? Enough to knowthat he owns some fine paintings; but you taught him their value, now, didn't you?" Bertrand smiled, but said nothing, and his wifecontinued. "Prepare the lectures, dear, for my sake. I love to knowthat you are doing such work. "

"I can't. The action of the Board is an insult to my intelligence. What are you smiling about?"

"About you, dear. "

"Mary, why, Mary! I--"

But Mary only smiled the more. "You love my irrelevance andinconsistency, you say, --"

"I love any weakness that is yours, Mary. What are you keeping backfrom me?"

"The weakness that is mine, dear. " Again Mary laughed outright. "Itwould be useless to tell you--or to try to explain. I love you, isn'tthat enough?"

Bertrand thought it ought to be, but was not sure, and said so. ThenMary laughed again, and he kissed her, shaking his head dubiously, andtook up his violin for solace. Thus an hour passed; then Betty set thetable for supper, and the long evening followed like many anotherevening, filled with the companionship only comfortably marriedpeople know, while Bertrand read from the poets. 

Since, with a man's helplessness in such matters, he could not dothe family mending, or knit for the soldiers, or remodel old garmentsinto new, it behooved him to render such tasks pleasant for the busyhand and brain that must devise and create and make much out of littlefor economy's sake; and this Bertrand did to Mary's completesatisfaction. 

Evenings like these were Betty's school, and they seemed all theschooling she was likely to get, for the family funds were barelysufficient to cover the expenses of one child at a time. But, as Marysaid, "It's not so bad for Betty to be kept at home, for she will readand study, anyway, because she likes it, and it won't hurt her tolearn to be practical as well;" and no doubt Mary was right. 

Bertrand was himself a poet in his appreciation and fineness ofchoice, and he read for Mary with all the effectiveness and warmth ofcolor that he would put into a recitation for a large audience, carried on solely by his one sympathetic listener and his love forwhat he read; while Betty, in her corner close to the lamp behind herfather's chair, listened unnoticed, with eager soul, rapt anduplifted. 

As Bertrand read he commented. "These men who are writing like thisare doing for this country what the Lake Poets did for England. Theyare making true literature for the nation, and saving it frombanality. They are going to live. They will be classed some day withWordsworth and all the rest of the best. Hear this from James RussellLowell. It's about a violin, and is called 'In the Twilight. ' It'sworthy of Shelley. " And Bertrand read the poem through, while Marylet her knitting fall in her lap and listened. He loved to see herlisten in that way. 

"Read again the verse that begins: 'O my life. ' I seem to like itbest. " And he read it over:--

 "O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, Live and rejoice? That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years? Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses? Have I heard, have I seen All I feel, all I know? Doth my heart overween? Or could it have been Long ago?"

"And the next, Bertrand. I love to hear them over again. " And heread:--

 "Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!"

"And the last verse, father. I like the last best, " cried Betty, suddenly. 

"Why, my deary. I thought you were gone to bed. "

"No, mother lets me sit up a little while longer when you're reading. I like to hear you. " And he read for her the last verse:--

 "And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak it and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should once more have a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!"

Then, wishing to know more of the secret springs of his littledaughter's life, he asked: "Why do you love that stanza best, Betty, my dear?"

Betty blushed crimson to the roots of her hair, for what she carriedin her heart was too precious to tell, but she meant to be a poet. Even then, in the pocket of her calico dress lay a little book and astubbed lead pencil, and in the book was already the beginning of hergreat epic. Her father had said the epic was a thing of the past, thatin the future none would be written, for that it was a form ofexpressions that belonged to the world's youth, and that age broughtphilosophy and introspection, but not epics. 

She meant to surprise her father some day with this poem. The greatworld was so full of mystery--of seductive beauty and terror and ofstrange, enticing charm! She saw and felt it always. Even now, in thedriving, whirling storm without, in the darkness of her chamber, orwhen she looked through the frosted panes into the starry skies atmidnight, always it was there all about her, --a something unexpressed, unseen, but close--close to her, --the mystery which throbbed throughall her small being, and which she was one day to find out andunderstand and put into her great epic. 

She thought over her father's question, hardly knowing why she likedthat last stanza best. She slowly wound up her ball of yarn and thrustthe needles through it, and dropped it into her mother's workbasketbefore she replied; then, taking up her candle, she looked shyly inher father's eyes. 

"Because I like where it says: 'This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so. '" Then she was gone, hurrying away lestthey should question her further and learn about the little book inher pocket. 

Thus time passed with the Ballards, many days swiftly flying, ladenwith a fair share of sweetness and pleasure, and much of harassmentand toil, but in the main bringing happiness. 

CHAPTER VI

THE END OF THE WAR

It was three years after the troops marched away from High Knobencampment before either Peter Junior or Richard Kildene were again inLeauvite, and then only Peter returned, because he was wounded, andnot that he was unwilling to enlist again, as did Richard and many ofthe boys, when their first term of service was ended. He returned withthe brevet of a captain, for gallant conduct in the encounter in whichhe received his wound, but only a shadow of the healthy, earnest boywho had stood in the ranks on the town square of Leauvite three yearsbefore; yet this very fact brought life and hope to his waitingmother, now that she had the blessed privilege of nursing him back tostrength. 

It seemed as though her long period of mourning ended when PeterJunior, pallid in his blue uniform, his hair darkened and matted withthe dampness caused by weakness and pain, was borne in between thewhite columns of his father's house. When the news reached him thathis son was lying wounded in a southern hospital, the Elder had, forthe first time in many, many years, followed an impulse withoutpausing to consider his act beforehand. He left the bank on theinstant and started for the scene of battles, only hurrying home tobreak the news first to his wife. Yielding to a rare tenderness, hetouched her hair as he kissed her, and enjoined on her to rememberthat their son was not slain, but by a merciful Providence was onlywounded and might be spared to them. She must thank the Lord and beready to nurse him back to life. 

Why Providence should be thus merciful to their son rather than tomany another son, the good Elder did not pause to consider. Possiblyhe thought it no more than just that the prayers of the righteousshould be answered by a supernatural intervention between their sonsand the bullets of the enemy. His ideas on this point were no doubtvague at the best, but certain it is that he returned from his longand difficult journey to the seat of strife after his boy, with aclearer notion of what war really was, and a more human sympathy forthose who go and suffer, and, as might be anticipated with those ofhis temperament, an added bitterness against those whom he felt wereto blame for the conflict. 

When Peter Junior left his home, his father had enjoined on him to go, not in the spirit of bitterness and enmity, but as an act of duty, toteach a needed lesson; for surely the Lord was on the side of theright, and was using the men of the North to teach this needed lessonto those laboring in error. Ah! it is a very different point of viewwe take when we suffer, instead of merely moralizing on the sufferingof others; especially we who feel that we know what is right, and lackin great part the imagination to comprehend the other man's viewpoint. To us of that cast of mind there is only one viewpoint and that is ourown, and only a bodily departure to the other man's hilltop or valley, as the case may be, will open the eyes and enlarge the understandingto the extent of even allowing our fellows to see things in anotherlight from our own. 

In this instance, while the Elder's understanding had been decidedlyenlarged, it had been in but one direction, and the effect had notbeen to his spiritual benefit, for he had seen only the suffering ofhis own side, and, being deficient in power to imagine what might be, he had taken no charitable thought for the other side. Instead, afeeling of hatred had been stirred within him, --a feeling he felthimself justified in and therefore indulged and named: "RighteousIndignation. "

The Elder's face was stern and hard as he directed the men who borehis boy on the litter where to turn, and how to lift it above thebanister in going up the stair so as not to jar the young man, who wastoo weak after the long journey to do more than turn his eyes on hismother's face. 

But that mother's face! It seemed to him he had never seen it soradiant and charming, for all that her hair had grown silvery white inthe three years since he had last kissed her. He could not take hiseyes from it, and besought her not to leave his side, even when theElder bade her go and not excite him, but allow him to rest. 

No sooner was her son laid on his own bed in his old room than shebegan a series of gentle ministrations most sweet to the boy and toherself. But the Elder had been told that all he needed now was restand absolute quiet, and the surgeon's orders must be carried outregardless of all else. Hester Craigmile yielded, as always, to theElder's will, and remained without, seated close beside her son'sdoor, her hands, that ached to serve, lying idle in her lap, while theElder brought him his warm milk and held it to his lips, lifting hishead to drink it, and then left him with the command to sleep. 

"Don't go in for an hour at least, " he enjoined on his wife as hepassed her and took his way to the bank, for it was too early forclosing, and there would still be time for him to look into hisaffairs a bit. Thus for the banker the usual routine began. 

Not so for Hester Craigmile. Joy and life had begun for her. She hadher boy again--quite to herself when the Elder was away, and the tearsfor very happiness came to her eyes and dropped on her handsunchecked. Had the Elder been there he would have enjoined upon her tobe controlled and she would have obeyed, but now there was no need, and she wept deliciously for joy while she still sat outside the doorand listened. Intense--eager--it seemed almost as if she could hearhim breathe. 

"Mother!" Hark! Did he speak? "Mother!" It was merely a breath, butshe heard and went swiftly to him. Kneeling, she clasped him, and hertears wet his cheek, but at the same time they soothed him, and heslept. It was thus the Elder found them when he returned from thebank, both sweetly sleeping. He did not take his wife away for fear ofwaking his son, nevertheless he was displeased with her, and when theymet at table that evening, she knew it. 

The whole order of the house was changed because of Peter Junior'sreturn. Blinds, windows, and doors were thrown open at the directionof the physician, that he might be given all the air and sunlight itwas possible to admit; else he would never gain strength, for so longhad he lived in the open air, in rain and sun, that he had need now ofevery help nature could give. 

A bullet had struck him in the hip and glanced off at a peculiarangle, rendering his recovery precarious and long delayed, and causingthe old doctor to shake his head with the fear that he must pass therest of his life a cripple. Still, normal youth is buoyant andvigorous and mocks at physicians' fears, and after a time, what withheart at rest, with loving and unceasing care on his mother's part, and rigorous supervision on his father's, Peter Junior did at lengthrecover sufficiently to be taken out to drive, and began to get backthe good red blood in his veins. 

During this long period of convalescence, Peter Junior's one anxietywas for his cousin Richard. Rumors had reached him that his comradehad been wounded and taken prisoner, yet nothing definite had beenheard, until at last, after much writing, he learned Richard'swhereabouts, and later that he had been exchanged. Then, too ill andprison-worn to go back to his regiment, he appeared one day, slowlywalking up the village street toward the banker's house. 

There he was welcomed and made much of, and the two young men spent awhile together happily, the best of friends and comrades, still filledwith enthusiasm, but with a wider knowledge of life and the meaning ofwar. These weeks were few and short, and soon Richard was back in thearmy. Peter Junior, envying him, still lay convalescing and only ablewith much difficulty to crawl to the carriage for his daily drive. 

His mother always accompanied him on these drives, and the very firstof them was to the home of the Ballards. It was early spring, the airwas biting and cool, and Peter was unable to alight, but Mary and herhusband came to them where they waited at the gate and stood long, talking happily. Jamie and Bobby followed at their heels and peered upcuriously at the wounded soldier, but Betty was seized with a raremoment of shyness that held her back. 

Dear little Betty! She had grown taller since Peter Junior had takenthat last tea at the Ballards. No longer care free, the oldest butone, she had taken many of her mother's burdens upon her youngshoulders, albeit not knowing that they were burdens, since they werewholly acts of love and joyously done. She was fully conscious of heradvancing years, and took them very seriously, regarding her acts witha grave and serene sense of their importance. She had put back thewild hair that used to fly about her face until her father called her"An owl in an ivy bush" and her mother admonished her that her "headwas like a mop. " Now, being in her teens, she wore her dresses longerand never ran about barefooted, paddling in the brook below thespring, although she would like to do so; still she was child enoughto run when she should walk, and to laugh when some would sigh. 

Her thoughts had been romantically active regarding Peter Junior, howhe would look, and how splendid and great he was to have been a realsoldier and come home wounded--to have suffered and bled for hiscountry. And Richard, too, was brave and splendid. He must have beenin the very front of the battle to have been taken prisoner. Shewondered a little if he remembered her, but not much, for how couldmen with great work to do, like fighting and dying for their country, stop to think of a little girl who was still in short dresses whenthey had seen her last?

Then, when the war was ended at last, there was Richard returned andstopping at his uncle's. In the few short visits he made at theBallards' he greeted Betty as of old, as he would greet a littlesister of whom he was fond, and she accepted his frank, old-timebrotherliness in the same spirit, gayly and happily, revealing butlittle of herself, and holding a slight reserve in her manner whichseemed to him quite delightful and maidenly. Then, all too suddenly, he was gone again, but in his heart he carried a memory of her thatmade a continual undercurrent in his thoughts. 

And now Betty's father and mother were actually talking with PeterJunior at their very gate. Impulse would have sent her flying to meethim, but that new, self-conscious shyness stayed her feet, for he wasone to be approached with reverence. He was afflicted with no romanticshyness with regard to her, however. He quite forgot her, indeed, although he did ask in a general way after the children and evenmentioned Martha in particular, as, being the eldest, she was bestremembered. So Betty did not see Peter Junior this time, but she stoodwhere she could see the top of the carriage from her bedroom window, whither she had fled, and she could see the blue sleeve of his coat ashe put out his arm to take her mother's hand at parting. That wassomething, and she listened with beating heart for the sound of hisvoice. Ah, little he dreamed what a tumult he had raised in the heartof that young being whose imagination had been so stirred by all thatshe had read and heard of war, and the part taken in it by their ownyoung men of Leauvite. That Peter Junior had come home brevetted acaptain for his bravery crowned him with glory. All that day Bettywent about with dreams in her head, and coursing through them was thevoice of the wounded young soldier. 

At last, with the slow march of time, came the proclamation of peace, and the nation so long held prostrate--a giant struggling againstfetters of its own forging, blinded and strangling in its ownblood--reared its head and cried out for the return of Hope, gropingon all sides to gather the divine youth to its arms, when, as a lastblow, dealt by a wanton hand, came the death of Lincoln. 

Then it was that the nation recoiled and bowed itself for a time, beaten and crushed--both North and South--and vultures gathered at theseat of conflict and tore at its vitals and wrangled over the spoils. Then it was that they who had sowed discord stooped to reap theDevil's own harvest, --a woeful, bitter, desperate time, when moreenmity and deep rancor was bred and treasured up for future sorrowthan during all the years of the honest and active strife of the war. 

In the very beginning that first news of the firing on Fort Sumterflew through the North like a tragic cry, and men felt a sense of doomhanging over the nation. Bertrand Ballard heard it and walkedsorrowfully home to his wife, and sat long with bowed head, broodingand silent. Neighbor Wilcox heard it, and, leaving his business, entered his home and called his household together with the servantsand held family worship--a service which it was his custom to holdonly on the Sabbath--and earnestly prayed for the salvation of thecountry, and that wisdom might be granted its rulers, after which hesent his oldest son to fight for the cause. Elder Craigmile heard it, and consented that his last and only son should enter the ranks andgive his life, if need be, for the saving of the nation. Still, tempering all this sorrow and anxiety was the chance for action, andthe hope of victory. 

But now, in this later time, when the strength of the nation had beenwasted, when victory itself was dark with mourning for sons slain, theloss of the one wise leader to whom all turned with uplifted heartsseemed the signal for annihilation; and then, indeed, it appeared thatthe prophecy of Mary Ballard's old grandfather had been fulfilled andthe curse of slavery had not only been wiped out with blood, but thatthe greater curse of anarchy and misrule had taken its place to stillfurther scourge the nation. 

Mary Ballard's mother, while scarcely past her prime, was taken illwith fever and died, and immediately upon this blow to the dear oldfather who was not yet old enough by many years to be beyond hisusefulness to those who loved and depended on him, came the tragicdeath of Lincoln, whom he revered and in whom all his hopes for theright adjustment of the nation's affairs rested. Under the weight ofthe double calamity he gave up hope, and left the world where alllooked so dark to him, almost before the touch of his wife's hand hadgrown cold in his. 

"Father died of a broken heart, " said Mary, and turned to her husbandand children with even more intensity of devotion. "For, " she said, "after all, the only thing in life of which we can be perfectly sureis our love for each other. A grave may open at our feet anywhere atany time, and only love oversteps it. "

With such an animating spirit as this, no family can be wholly sad, and though poverty pinched them at times, and sorrow had bitterlyvisited them, with years and thrift things changed. Bertrand paintedmore pictures and sold them; the children were gay and vigorous andbrought life and good times to the home, and the girls grew up to bewomanly, winsome lasses, light-hearted and good to look upon. 

Enough of the war and the evils thereof has been said and written andsung. Animosity is dead, and brotherhood and mutual service betweenthe two opposing factions of one great family have taken the place ofstrife. Useless now to say what might have been, or how otherwise thatterrible time of devastation and sorrow could have been avoided. Enough to know that at last as a nation, whole and undivided, we maypull together in the tremendous force of our united strength, and thatnow we may take up the "White Man's Burden" and bear it to itsmagnificent conclusion to the service of all mankind and the glory ofGod. 

CHAPTER VII

A NEW ERA BEGINS

Bertrand Ballard's studio was at the top of his house, with a highnorth window and roughly plastered walls of uncolored sand, left asBertrand himself had put the plaster on, with his trowel marks overthe surface as they happened to come, and the angles and projectionsthereof draped with cobwebs. 

When Peter Junior was able to leave his home and get about a little onhis crutches, he loved to come there and rest and spend his idlehours, and Bertrand found pleasure in his companionship. They readtogether, and sang together, and laughed together, and no sound wasmore pleasant to Mary Ballard's ears than this same happy laughter. Peter had sorely missed the companionship of his cousin, for, at theclose of the war, no longer a boy and unwilling to be dependent anddrifting, Richard had sought out a place for himself in the work ofthe world. 

First he had gone to Scotland to visit his mother's aunts. There hefound the two dear old ladies, sweetly observant of him, willing totell him much of his mother, who had been scarcely younger than theyoungest of them, but discreetly reticent about his father. From thishe gathered that for some reason his father was under a cloud. Yet hedid not shrink from trying to learn from them all they knew about him, and for what reason they spoke as if to even mention his name was anindiscretion. It was really little they knew, only that he had gravelydispleased their nephew, Peter Craigmile, who had brought Richard up, and who was his mother's twin brother. 

"But why did Uncle Peter have to bring me up? You say he quarreledwith my father?"

"Weel, ye see, ye'r mither was dead. " It was Aunt Ellen, the elder bytwenty years, who told him most about it, she who spoke with thebroadest Scotch. 

"Was my father a bad man, that Uncle 'Elder' disliked him so?"

"Weel now, I'd no say that; he was far from that to be right fair tothem both--for ye see--ye'r mither would never have loved him if he'dbeen that--but he--he was an Irishman, and ye'r Uncle Peter couldnever thole an Irishman, and he--he--fair stole ye'r mither from usa'--an--" she hesitated to continue, then blurted out the real horror. "Your Uncle Peter kenned he had ance been in the theayter, a sort o'an actor body an' he couldna thole that. "

But little was to be gained with all his questioning, and what hecould learn seemed no more than that his father had done what any manmight be expected to do if some one stood between him and the girl heloved; so Richard felt that there must be something unknown to any onebut his uncle that had turned them all against his father. Why had hisfather never appeared to claim his son? Why had he left his boy to bereared by a man who hated the boy's father? It was a strange thing todo, and it must be that his father was dead. 

At this time Richard was filled with ambitions, --fired by his earlycompanionship with Bertrand Ballard, --and thought he would go toFrance and become an artist;--to France, the Mecca of Bertrand'sdreams--he desired of all things to go there for study. But of allthis he said nothing to any one, for where was the money? He wouldnever ask his uncle for it, and now that he had learned that he hadbeen all his young life really a dependent on the bounty of his UnclePeter, he could no longer accept his help. He would hereafter make hisown way, asking no favors. 

The old aunts guessed at his predicament, and offered to give him forhis mother's sake enough to carry him through the first year, but hewould not allow them to take from their income to pay his bills. No, he would take his way back to America, and find a place for himself inthe new world; seek some active, stirring work, and save money, andsometime--sometime he would do the things his heart loved. He oftenthought of Betty, the little Betty who used to run to meet him and saysuch quaint things; some day he would go to her and take her with him. He would work first and do something worthy of so choice a littlemortal. 

Thus dreaming, after the manner of youth, he went to Ireland, to hisfather's boyhood home. He found only distant relatives there, andlearned that his father had disposed of all he ever owned of Irishsoil to an Englishman. A cousin much older than himself owned andstill lived on the estate that had been his grandfather Kildene's, andRichard was welcomed and treated with openhearted hospitality. Butthere, also, little was known of his father, only that the peasants onthe estate remembered him lovingly as a free-hearted gentleman. 

Even that little was a relief to Richard's sore heart. Yes, his fathermust be dead. He was sorry. He was a lonely man, and to have arelative who was his very own, as near as a father, would be a greatdeal. His cousin, Peter Junior, was good as a friend, but from now onthey must take paths that diverged, and that old intimacy mustnaturally change. His sweet Aunt Hester he loved, and she would fillthe mother's place if she could, but it was not to be. It would meanhelp from his Uncle Peter, and that would mean taking a place in hisuncle's bank, which had already been offered him, but which he did notwant, which he would not accept if he did want it. 

So, after a long and happy visit at his cousin Kildene's, inIreland, he at last left for America again, and plunged into a new, interesting, and vigorous life, one that suited well his energeticnature. He found work on the great railway that was being built acrossthe plains to the Pacific Coast. He started as an engineer'sassistant, but soon his talent for managing men caused his employersto put him in charge of gangs of workmen who were often difficult andlawless. He did not object; indeed he liked the new job better thanthat he began with. He was more interested in men than materials. 

The life was hard and rough, but he came to love it. He loved thewide, sweeping prairies, and, later on, the desert. He liked to lieout under the stars, --often when the men slept under tents, --his gunat his side and his thoughts back on the river bluffs at Leauvite. Hedid a lot of dreaming and thinking, and he never forgot Betty. Hethought of her as still a child, although he was expecting her to growup and be ready for him when he should return to her. He had a vaguesort of feeling that all was understood between them, and that she wasquietly becoming womanly, and waiting for him. 

Peter Junior might have found other friends in Leauvite had he soughtthem out, but he did not care for them. His nature called for what hefound in Bertrand's studio, and he followed the desire of his heartregardless of anything else, spending all the time he could reasonablyfilch from his home. And what wonder! Richard would have done the sameand was even then envying Peter the opportunity, as Peter well knewfrom his cousin's letters. There was no place in the village sofascinating and delightful as this little country home on itsoutskirts, no conversation more hopeful and helpful than Bertrand's, and no welcome sweeter or kinder than Mary Ballard's. 

One day, after Richard had gone out on the plains with the engineersof the projected road, Peter lay stretched on a long divan in thestudio, his head supported by his hand as he half reclined on hiselbow, and his one crutch--he had long since discarded the other--withinreach of his arm. His violin also lay within reach, for he had beenplaying there by himself, as Bertrand had gone on one of his rarevisits to the city a hundred miles away. 

Betty Ballard had heard the wail of his violin from the garden, whereshe had been gathering pears. That was how she knew where to find himwhen she quickly appeared before him, rosy and flushed from her run tothe house and up the long flight of stairs. 

As Peter lay there, he was gazing at the half-finished copy he hadbeen making of the head of an old man, for Peter had decided, since inall probability he would be good for no active work such as Richardhad taken up, that he too would become an artist, like BertrandBallard. To have followed his cousin would have delighted his heart, for he had all the Scotchman's love of adventure, but, since that wasimpossible, nothing was more alluring than the thought of fame andsuccess as an artist. He would not tie himself to Leauvite to get it. He would go to Paris, and there he would do the things Bertrand hadbeen prevented from doing. Poor Bertrand! How he would have loved thechance Peter Junior was planning for himself as he lay there dreamingand studying the half-finished copy. 

Suddenly he beheld Betty, standing directly in front of the work, extending to him a folded bit of paper. "Here's a note from yourfather, " she cried. 

Looking upon her thus, with eyes that had been filled with the aged, rugged face on the canvas, Betty appealed to Peter as a lovely vision. He had never noticed before, in just this way, her curious charm, butthese months of companionship and study with Bertrand had taught himto see beauty understandingly, and now, as she stood panting a little, with breath coming through parted lips and hair flying almost in thewild way of her childhood, Peter saw, as if it were a revelation, thatshe was lovely. He raised himself slowly and reached for the notewithout taking his eyes from her face. 

He did not open the letter, but continued to look in her eyes, atwhich she turned about half shyly. "I heard your violin; that's how Iknew you were up here. Oh! Have you been painting on it again?"

"On my violin? No, I've been playing on it. "

"No! Painting on the picture of your old man. I think you have it toodrawn out and thin. He's too hollow there under the cheek bone. "

"Is he, Miss Critic? Well, thank your stars you're not. "

"I know. I'm too fat. " She rubbed her cheek until it was redder thanever. 

"What are you painting your cheeks for? There's color enough on themas they are. "

She made a little mouth at him. "I could paint your old man as well asthat, I know. "

"I know you could. You could paint him far better than that. "

She laughed, quickly repentant. "I didn't say that to be horrid. Ionly said it for fun. I couldn't. "

"And I know you could. " He rose and stood without his crutch, lookingdown on her. "And you're not 'too long drawn out, ' are you? See? Youonly come up to--about--here on me. " He measured with his hand alittle below his chin. 

"I don't care. You're not so awfully tall. "

"Very well, have it so. That only makes you the shorter. "

"I tell you I don't care. You'd better stop staring at me, if I'm solittle, and read your letter. The man's waiting for it. That's why Iran all the way up here. " By this it may be seen that Betty had lostall her awe of the young soldier. Maybe it left her when he doffed hisuniform. "Here's your crutch. Doesn't it hurt you to stand alone?" Shereached him the despised prop. 

"Hurt me to stand alone? No! I'm not a baby. Do you think I'm likelyto grow up bow-legged?" he thundered, taking it from her hand withouta thank you, and glaring down on her humorously. "You're a bit cruelto remind me of it. I'm going to walk with a cane hereafter, and nextthing you know you'll see me stalking around without either. "

"Why, Peter Junior! I'd be so proud of that crutch I wouldn't leave itoff for anything! I'd always limp a little, even if I didn't use it. Cruel? I was complimenting you. "

"Complimenting me? How?"

"By reminding you that you had been brave--and had been a soldier--andhad been wounded for your country--and had been promoted--and--"

But Peter drowned her voice with uproarious laughter, and suddenlysurprised himself as well as her by slipping his arm around her waistand stopping her lips with a kiss. 

Betty was surprised but not shocked. She knew of no reason why Petershould not kiss her even though it was not his custom to treat herthus. In Betty's home, demonstrative expressions of affection were asnatural as sunlight, and why should not Peter like her? Therefore itwas Peter who was shocked, and embarrassed her with his suddenapology. 

"I don't care if you did kiss me. You're just like my big brother--thesame as Richard is--and he often used to kiss me. " She was trying toset Peter at his ease. "And, anyway, I like you. Why, I supposed ofcourse you liked me--only naturally not as much as I liked you. "

"Oh, more! Much more!" he stammered tremblingly. He knew in his heartthat there was a subtle difference, and that what he felt was not whatshe meant when she said, "I like you. " "I'm sure it is I who like youthe most. "

"Oh, no, it isn't! Why, you never even used to see me. And I--I usedto gaze on you--and be so romantic! It was Richard who always saw meand played with me. He used to toss me up, and I would run away downthe road to meet him. I wonder when he's coming back! I wish he'dcome. Why don't you read your father's letter? The man's waiting, youknow. "

"Ah, yes. And I suppose Dad's waiting, too. I wonder why he wrote mewhen he can see me every day!"

"Well, read it. Don't stand there looking at it and staring at me. Doyou know how you look? You look as if it were a message from the king, saying: 'You are remanded to the tower, and are to have your headstruck off at sundown. ' That's the way they did things in the oldendays. " She turned to go. 

"Stay here until I see if you are right. " He dropped on the divan andmade room for her at his side. 

"All right! That's what I wanted to do, but I thought it wouldn't bepolite to be curious. "

"But you wouldn't be polite anyway, you know, so you might as wellstay. M-m-m. I'm remanded to the tower, sure enough. Father wants meto meet him in the director's room as soon as banking hours are over. Fine old Dad! He wouldn't think of infringing on banking hours for anyprivate reasons unless the sky were falling, and even then he wouldsave the bank papers first. See here--Betty--er--never mind. I'll tellyou another time. "

"Please tell me now! What is it? Something dreadful, Peter Junior?"

"I wasn't thinking about this; it--it's something else--"

"About what?"

"About you. "

"Oh, then it is no consequence. I want to hear what's in the letter. Why did you tell me to stay if you weren't going to tell me what's init?"

"Nothing. We have had a little difference of opinion, my father and I, and he evidently wants to settle it out of hand his way, by summoningme in this official manner to appear before him at the bank. "

"I know. He thinks you are idling away your time here trying to paintpictures, and he wishes to make a respectable banker of you. " Shereached over and began picking the strings of his violin. 

"You musn't finger the strings of a violin that way. "

"Why not? I want to see if I can pick out 'The Star Spangled Banner'on it. I can on the flute, father's old one; he lets me. "

"Because you'll get them oily. "

She spread out her two firm little hands. "My fingers aren't greasy!"she cried indignantly; "that's pear juice on them. "

Peter Junior's gravity turned to laughter. "Well, I don't want pearjuice on my strings. Wait, you rogue, I'm going to kiss you again. "

"No, you're not, you old hobble-de-hoy. You can't catch me. " When shewas halfway down the stairs, she called back, "The man's waiting. "

"Coward! Coward!" he called after her, "to run away from a poor oldcripple and then call him names. " He thrust the letter into hispocket, and seizing his crutch began deliberately and carefully todescend the stairs, with grave, set face, not unlike his father's. 

"Catch, Peter Junior, " called Betty from the top of the pear tree ashe passed down the garden path, and tossed him a pear which he caught, then another and another. "There! No, don't eat them now. Put them inyour desk, and next month they'll be just as sweet!"

"Will they? Just like you? I'll be even with you yet--when I catchyou. "

"You'll get pear juice on your strings. There are lots of nice girlsin the village for you to kiss. They'll do just as well as me. "

"Good girl. Good grammar. Good-by. " He waved his hand toward Betty, and turned to the waiting servant. "You go on and tell the Elder I'mcoming right along, " he said, and hopped off down the road. It wasonly lately he had begun to take long walks or hops like this, withbut one crutch, but he was growing frantic to be fairly on his twofeet again. The doctor had told him he never would be, but he set hissquare chin, and decided that the doctor was wrong. More than everto-day, with the new touch of little pear-stained fingers on hisheart, he wanted to walk off like other men. 

Now he tried to use his lame leg as much as possible. If only he mightthrow away the crutch and walk with a cane, it would be somethinggained. With one hand in his pocket he crushed his father's letterinto a small wad, then tossed it in the air and caught it awhile, thenput it back in his pocket and hobbled on. 

The atmosphere had the smoky appearance of the fall, and the sweethaze of Indian summer lay over the landscape, the horizon only faintlyoutlined through it. Peter Junior sniffed the air. He wondered if theforests in the north were afire. Golden maple leaves danced along onthe path before him, whirled hither and thither by the light breeze, and the wild asters and goldenrod powdered his dark trousers withpollen as he brushed them in passing. All the world was lovely, and heappreciated it as he had never been able to do before. Bertrand'sinfluence had permeated his thoughts and widened thus his reach ofhappiness. 

He entered the bank just at the closing hour, and the staid, faithfulold clerks nodded to him as he passed through to the inner room, wherehe found his father awaiting him. He dropped wearily into a swivelchair before the great table and placed his crutch at his feet; wipingthe perspiration from his forehead, he leaned forward, and rested hiselbows on the table. 

The young man's wan look, for the walk had taxed his strength, reminded his father of the day he had brought the boy home wounded, and his face relaxed. 

"You are tired, my son. "

"Oh, no. Not very. I have been more so. " Peter Junior smiled adisarming smile as he looked in his father's face. "I've tramped manya mile on two sound feet when they were so numb from sheer wearinessthat I could not feel them or know what they were doing. What did youwant to say to me, father?"

"Well, my son, we have different opinions, as you know, regarding yourfuture. "

"I know, indeed. "

"And a father's counsel is not to be lightly disposed of. "

"I have no intention of doing so, father. "

"No, no. But wait. You have been loitering the day at Mr. Ballard's?Yes. "

"I have nothing else to do, father, --and--" Peter Junior's smileagain came to the rescue. "It isn't as though I were in doubtfulcompany--I--there are worse places here in the village where Imight--where idle men waste their time. "

"Ah, yes. But they are not for you--not for you, my son. " The Eldersmiled in his turn, and lifted his brows, then drew them down andlooked keenly at his son. The afternoon sunlight streamed through thehigh western window and fell on the older man's face, bringing it intostrong relief against the dark oak paneling behind him, and as PeterJunior looked on his father he received his second revelation thatday. He had not known before what a strong, fine old face his father'swas, and for the second time he surprised himself, when he criedout:--

"I tell you, father, you have a magnificent head! I'm going to make aportrait of you just as you are--some day. "

The Elder rose with an indignant, despairing downward motion of thehands and began pacing the floor, while Peter Junior threw offrestraint and laughed aloud. The laughter freed his soul, but it sadlyirritated the Elder. He did not like unusual or unprecedented things, and Peter Junior was certainly not like himself, and was acting in anunprecedented manner. 

"You have now regained a fair amount of strength and have reached anage when you should think seriously of what you are to do in life. Asyou know, it has always been my intention that you should take a placehere and fit yourself for the responsibilities that are now mine, butwhich will some day devolve on you. "

Peter Junior raised his hand in protest, then dropped it. "I mean tobe an artist, father. "

"Faugh! An artist? Look at your friend, Bertrand Ballard. What has heto live on? What will he have laid by for his old age? How has hemanaged to live all these years--he and his wife? Miserablehand-to-mouth existence! I'll see my son trying to emulate him! You'llbe an artist? And how will you support a wife if you ever have one?You mean to marry some day?"

"I mean to marry Betty Ballard, " said Peter Junior, with a rugged setof his jaw. 

Again the Elder made that despairing downward thrust with his openhands. "Take a wife who has nothing, and a career which brings innothing, and live on what your father has amassed for you, and leaveyour sons nothing--a pretty way for you to carry on the work I havebegun for you--to--establish an honorable family--"

"Father, father, I mean to do all I can to please you. I'll be alwaysdutiful--and honorable--but you must leave me my manhood. You mustallow me to choose my own path in life. "

The Elder paced the floor a few moments longer, then resumed his chairopposite his son, and, leaning back, looked across the table at hisboy, meditatively, with half-closed eyes. At last he said, "We'll takethis matter to the Lord, and leave it in his hands. "

Then Peter Junior cried out upon him: "No, no, father; spare me that. It only means that you'll state to the Lord what is your own way, andpray to have it, and then be more than ever convinced that it is theLord's way. "

"My son, my son!"

"It's so, father. I'm willing to ask for guidance of the Lord, but I'mnot willing to have you dictate to the Lord what--what I must do, andso whip me in line with the scourge of prayer. " Peter Junior paused, as he looked in his father's face and saw the shocked and sorrowfulexpression there instead of the passionate retort he expected. "I amwrong to talk so, father; forgive me; but--have patience a little. Godgave to man the power of choice, didn't he?"

"Certainly. Through it all manner of evil came into the world. "

"And all manner of good, too. I--a man ought not to be merely anautomaton, letting some one else always exercise that right for him. Surely the right of choice would never have been given us if it werenot intended that each man should exercise it for himself. One whodoes not is good for nothing. "

"There is the command you forget; that of obedience to parents. "

"But how long--how long, father? Am I not man enough to choose formyself? Let me choose. "

Then the Elder leaned forward and faced his son as his son was facinghim, both resting their elbows on the table and gazing straight intoeach other's eyes; and the old man spoke first. 

"My father founded this bank before I was born. He came from Scotlandwhen he was but a lad, with his parents, and went to school andprofited by his opportunities. He was of good family, as you know. When he was still a very young man, he entered a bank in the city asclerk, and received only ten dollars a week for his services, but hewas a steady, good lad, and ambitious, and soon he moved higher--andhigher. His father had taken up farming, and at his death, being anonly son, he converted the farm, all but the homestead, which we stillown, and which will be yours, into capital, and came to town andstarted this bank. When I was younger than you, my son, I went intothe bank and stood at my father's right hand, as I wish you--for yourown sake--to do by me. We are a set race--a determined race, but weare not an insubordinate race, my son. "

Peter Junior was silent for a while; he felt himself being beaten. Then he made one more plea. "It is not that I am insubordinate father, but, as I see it, into each generation something enters, differentfrom the preceding one. New elements are combined. In me there is thatwhich my mother gave me. "

"Your mother has always been a sweet woman, yielding to the judgmentof her husband, as is the duty of a good wife. "

"I know she was brought up and trained to think that her duty, but Idoubt if you really know her heart. Did you ever try to know it? Idon't believe you understood what I meant by the scourge of prayer. She would have known. She has lived all these years under that lash, even though it has been wielded by the hand of one she loves--by onewho loves her. " He paused a second time, arrested by his father'sexpression. At first it was that of one who is stunned, then itslowly changed to one of rage. For once the boy had broken throughthat wall of self-control in which the Elder encased himself. Slowlythe Elder rose and leaned towering over his son across the table. 

"I tell you that is a lie!" he shouted. "Your mother has neverrebelled. She has been an obedient, docile woman. It is a lie!"

Peter Junior made no reply. He also rose, and taking up his crutch, turned toward the door. There he paused and looked back, with flashingeyes. His lip quivered, but he held himself quiet. 

"Come back!" shouted his father. 

"I have told you the truth, father. " He still stood with his hand onthe door. 

"Has--has--your mother ever said anything to you to give you reason toinsult me this way?"

"No, never. We can't talk reasonably now. Let me go, and I'll try toexplain some other time. "

"Explain now. There is no other time. "

"Mother is sacred to me, father. I ought not to have dragged her intothis discussion. "

The Elder's lips trembled. He turned and walked to the window andstood a moment, silently looking out. At last he said in a low voice:"She is sacred to me also, my son. "

Peter Junior went back to his seat, and waited a while, with his headin his hands; then he lifted his eyes to his father's face. "I can'thelp it. Now I've begun, I might as well tell the truth. I meant whatI said when I spoke of the different element in me, and that it isfrom my mother. You gave me that mother. I know you love her, and youknow that your will is her law, as you feel that it ought to be. Butwhen I am with her, I feel something of a nature in her that is notyours. And why not? Why not, father? There is that of her in me thatmakes me know this, and that of you in me that makes me understandyou. Even now, though you are not willing to give me my own way, itmakes me understand that you are insisting on your way because youthink it is for my good. But nothing can alter the fact that I haveinherited from my mother tastes that are not yours, and that entitleme to my manhood's right of choice. "

"Well, what is your choice, now that you know my wish?"

"I can't tell you yet, father. I must have more time. I only know whatI think I would like to do. "

"You wish to talk it over with your mother?"

"Yes. "

"She will agree with me. "

"Yes, no doubt; but it's only fair to tell her and ask her advice, especially if I decide to leave home. "

The Elder caught his breath inwardly, but said no more. He recognizedin the boy enough of himself to know that he had met in him a power ofresistance equal to his own. He also knew what Peter Junior did notknow, that his grandfather's removal to this country was an act ofrebellion against the wishes of his father. It was a matter of familyhistory he had thought best not to divulge. 

CHAPTER VIII

MARY BALLARD'S DISCOVERY

Peter Junior's mind was quite made up to go his own way and leave hometo study abroad, but first he would try to convert his father to hisway of thinking. Then there was another thing to be done. Not tomarry, of course; that, under present conditions, would never do; butto make sure of Betty, lest some one come and steal into her heartbefore his return. 

After his talk with his father in the bank he lay long into the night, gazing at the shadowed tracery on his wall cast by the full harvestmoon shining through the maple branches outside his window. The leaveshad not all fallen, and in the light breeze they danced and quivered, and the branches swayed, and the shadows also swayed and danceddelicately over the soft gray wall paper and the red-coated oldsoldier standing stiffly in his gold frame. Often in his waking dreamsin after life he saw the moving shadows silently swaying and dancingover gray and red and gold, and often he tried to call them out fromthe past to banish things he would forget. 

Long this night he lay planning and thinking. Should he speak to Bettyand tell her he loved her? Should he only teach her to think of him, not with the frank liking of her girlhood, so well expressed to himthat very day, but with the warm feeling which would cause her cheeksto redden when he spoke? Could he be sure of himself--to do thisdiscreetly, or would he overstep the mark? He would wait and see whatthe next day would bring forth. 

In the morning he discarded his crutch, as he had threatened, andwalked out to the studio, using only a stout old blackthorn stick hehad found one day when rummaging among a collection of odds and endsin the attic. He thought the stick was his father's and wondered whyso interesting a walking stick--or staff; it could hardly be called acane, he thought, because it was so large and oddly shaped--should behidden away there. Had his father seen it he would have recognized itinstantly as one that had belonged to his brother-in-law, LarryKildene, and it would have been cut up and used for lighting fires. But it had been many years since the Elder had laid eyes on thatknobbed and sturdy stick, which Larry had treasured as a rare thing inthe new world, and a fine antique specimen of a genuine blackthorn. Ithad belonged to his great-grandfather in Ireland, and no doubt haddone its part in cracking crowns. 

Betty, kneading bread at a table before the kitchen window, spiedPeter Junior limping wearily up the walk without his crutch, and ranto him, dusting the flour from her hands as she came. 

"Lean on me. I won't get flour on your coat. What did you go withoutyour crutch for? It's very silly of you. "

He essayed a laugh, but it was a self-conscious one. "I'm not going touse a crutch all my lifetime; don't you think it. I'm very well offwithout, and almost myself again. I don't need to lean on you--but Iwill--just for fun. " He put his arm about her and drew her to him. 

"Stop, Peter Junior. Don't you see you're getting flour all over yourclothes?"

"I like flour on my clothes. It will do for stiffening. " He raised herhand and kissed her wrist where there was no flour. 

"You're not leaning on me. You're just acting silly, and you canhardly walk, you're so tired! Coming all this way without your crutch. I think you're foolish. "

"If you say anything more about that crutch, I'll throw away my canetoo. " He dropped down on the piazza and drew her to the step besidehim. 

"I must finish kneading the bread; I can't sit here. You rest in therocker awhile before you go up to the studio. Father's up there. Hecame home late last night after we were all in bed. " She returned toher work, and after a moment called to him through the open window. "There's going to be a nutting party to-morrow, and we want you to go. We're going out to Carter's grove; we've got permission. Every one'sgoing. "

Peter Junior rubbed the moisture from his hair and shook his head. Hemust get nearer her, but it was always the same thing; just a happygame, with no touch of sentiment--no more, he thought gloomily, thanif she were his sister. 

"What are you all going there for?"

"Why, nuts, goosey; didn't I say we were going nutting?"

"I don't happen to want nuts. " No, he wanted her to urge and coax himto go for her sake, but what could he say?

He left his seat, took the side path around to the kitchen door, anddrew up a chair to the end of the table where she deftly manipulatedthe sweet-smelling dough, patting it, and pulling it, and turning itabout until she was ready to put the shapely balls in the pans, holding them in her two firm little hands with a slight rolling motionas she slipped each loaf in its place. It had never occurred to PeterJunior that bread making was such an interesting process. 

"Why do you fuss with it so? Why don't you just dump it in the pan anyold way? That's the way I'd do. " But he loved to watch her pink-tippedfingers carefully shaping the loaves, nevertheless. 

"Oh--because. "

"Good reason. "

"Well--the more you work it the better it is, just like everythingelse; and then--if you don't make good-looking loaves, you'll neverhave a handsome husband. Mother says so. " She tossed a stray lock fromher eyes, and opening the oven door thrust in her arm. "My, but it'shot! Why do you sit here in the heat? It's a lot nicer on the porch inthe rocker. Mother's gone to town--and--"

"I'd rather sit here with you--thank you. " He spoke stiffly andwaited. What could he say; what could he do next? She left him amoment and quickly returned with a cup of butter. 

"You know--I'd stop and go out in the cool with you, Peter, but I mustwork this dough I have left into raised biscuit; and then I have tomake a cake for to-morrow--and cookies--there's something to do inthis house, I tell you! How about to-morrow?"

"I don't believe I'd better go. All the rest of the world will bethere, and--"

"Only our little crowd. When I said everybody, you didn't think Imeant everybody in the whole world, did you? You know us all. "

"Do you want me to go? There'll be enough others--"

She tossed her head and gave him a sidelong glance. "I always askpeople to go when I don't want them to. "

He rose at that and stood close to her side, and, stooping, looked inher eyes; and for the first time the color flamed up in her facebecause of him. "I say--do you want me to go?"

"No, I don't. "

But the red he had brought into her cheeks intoxicated him withdelight. Now he knew a thing to do. He seized her wrists and turnedher away from the table and continued to look into her eyes. Shetwisted about, looking away from him, but the burning blush made eventhe little ear she turned toward him pink, and he loved it. Hisdiscretion was all gone. He loved her, and he would tell her now--now!She must hear it, and slipping his arm around her, he drew her awayand out to the seat under the old silver-leaf poplar tree. 

"You're acting silly, Peter Junior, --and my bread will all spoil andget too light, --and my hands are all covered with flour, and--"

"And you'll sit right here while I talk to you a bit, if the breadspoils and gets too light and everything burns to a cinder. " Shestarted to run away from him, and his peremptory tone changed topleading. "Please, Betty, dear! just hear me this far. I'm going away, Betty, and I love you. No, sit close and be my sweetheart. Dear, itisn't the old thing. It's love, and it's what I want you to feel forme. I woke up yesterday, and found I loved you. " He held her closerand lifted her face to his. "You must wake up, too, Betty; we can'tplay always. Say you'll love me and be my wife--some day--won't you, Betty?"

She drooped in his arms, hanging her head and looking down on herfloury hands. 

"Say it, Betty dear, won't you?"

Her lip quivered. "I don't want to be anybody's wife--and, anyway--Iliked you better the other way. "

"Why, Betty? Tell me why. "

"Because--lots of reasons. I must help mother--and I'm only seventeen, and--"

"Most eighteen, I know, because--"

"Well, anyway, mother says no girl of hers shall marry before she's ofage, and she says that means twenty-one, and--"

"That's all right. I can wait. Kiss me, Betty. " But she was silent, with face turned from him. Again he lifted her face to his. "I say, kiss me, Betty. Just one? That was a stingy little kiss. You know I'mgoing away, and that is why I spoke to you now. I didn't dare gowithout telling you this first. You're so sweet, Betty, some one mightfind you out and love you--just as I have--only not so deeply in lovewith you--no one could--but some one might come and win you away fromme, and so I must make sure that you will marry me when you are of ageand I come back for you. Promise me. "

"Where?--why--Peter Junior! Where are you going?" Betty removed hisarm from around her waist and slipped to her own end of the seat. There, with hands folded decorously in her lap, with heightened colorand serious eyes, she looked shyly up at him. He had never seen hershy before. Always she had been merry and teasing, and his heart wasproud that he had wrought such a miracle in her. 

"I am going to Paris. I mean to be an artist. " He leaned toward herand would have taken her in his arms again, but she put his handsaway. 

"Will your father let you do that?" Her eyes widened with surprise, and the surprise nettled him. 

"I don't know. He's thinking about it. Anyway, a man must decide forhimself what his career will be, and if he won't let me, I'll earn themoney and go without his letting me. "

"Wouldn't that be the best way, anyway?"

"What do you mean? To go without his consent?"

"Of course not--goosey. " She laughed and was herself again, but heliked her better the other way. "To earn the money and then go. It--it--would be more--more as if you were in earnest. "

"My soul! Do you think I'm not in earnest? Do you think I'm not inlove with you?"

Instantly she was serious and shy again. His heart leaped. He loved tofeel his power over her thus. Still she tantalized him. "I'm notmeaning about loving me. That's not the question. I mean it would lookmore as if you were in earnest about becoming an artist. "

"No. The real question is, Do you love me? Will you marry me when Icome back?" She was silent and he came nearer. "Say it. Say it. I musthear you say it before I leave. " Her lips trembled as if she weretrying to form the words, and their eyes met. 

"Yes--if--if--"

Then he caught her to him, and stopped her mouth with kisses. He didnot know himself. He was a man he had never met the like of, and hegloried in himself. It seemed as if he heard bells ringing out in joy. Then he looked up and saw Mary Ballard's eyes fixed on him. 

"Peter Junior--what are you doing?" Her voice shook. 

"I--I'm kissing Betty. "

"I see that. "

"We are to be married some day--and--"

"You are precipitate, Peter Junior. "

Then Betty did what every woman does when her lover is blamed, nomatter how earnestly she may have resisted him before. She wentcompletely over to his side and took his part. 

"He's going away, mother. He's going away to be gone--perhaps foryears; and I've--I've told him yes, mother, --so it isn't his fault. "Then she turned and fled to her own room, and hid her flaming face inthe pillow and wept. 

"Sit here with me awhile, Peter Junior, and we'll talk it all over, "said Mary. 

He obeyed her, and looking squarely in her eyes, manfully told her hisplans, and tried to make her feel as he felt, that no love like hishad ever filled a man's heart before. At last she sent him up to thestudio to tell her husband, and she went in and finished Betty's task, putting the bread--alas! too light by this time--in the oven, andshaping the raised biscuit which Betty had left half-finished. 

Then she paused a moment to look out of the window down the pathwhere the boys and little Janey would soon come tumbling home fromschool, hot and hungry. A tear slowly coursed down her cheek, and, following the curves, trembled on the tip of her chin. She brushed itaway impatiently. Of course it had to come--that was what life mustbring--but ah! not so soon--not so soon. Then she set aboutpreparations for dinner without Betty's help. That, too, was what itwould mean--sometime--to go on doing things without Betty. She gave alittle sigh, and at the instant an arm was slipped about her waist, and she turned to look in Bertrand's eyes. 

"Is it all right, Mary?"

"Why--yes--that is--if they'll always love each other as we have. Ithink it ought not to be too definite an engagement, though, until hisplans are more settled. What do you think?"

"You are right, no doubt. I'll speak to him about that. " Then hekissed her warm, flushed cheek. "I declare, it makes me feel as PeterJunior feels again, to have this happen. "

"Ah, Bertrand! You never grew up--thank the Lord!" Then Mary laughed. After all, they had been happy, and why not Betty and Peter? Surelythe young had their rights. 

Bertrand climbed back to the studio where Peter Junior was pacingrestlessly back and forth, and again they talked it all over, untilthe call came for dinner, when Peter was urged to stay, but would not. No, he would not see Betty again until he could have her quite tohimself. So he limped away, feeling as if he were walking on air inspite of his halting gait, and Betty from her window watched him passdown the path and off along the grassy roadside. Then she went down todinner, flushed and grave, but with shining eyes. Her father kissedher, but nothing was said, and the children thought nothing of it, forit was quite natural in the family to kiss Betty. 

CHAPTER IX

THE BANKER'S POINT OF VIEW

There was no picnic and nutting party the next day, owing to adownpour of rain. Betty had time to think quietly over what hadhappened the day before and her mind misgave her. What was it that sofilled her heart and mind? That so stirred her imagination? Was itromance or love? She wished she knew how other girls felt who hadlovers. Was it easy or hard for them to say yes? Should a girl let herlover kiss her the way Peter Junior had done? Some of the questionswhich perplexed her she would have liked to ask her mother, but inspite of their charming intimacy she could not bring herself to speakof them. She wished she had a friend with a lover, and could talk itall over with her, but although she had girl friends, none of them hadlovers, and to have one herself made her feel much older than any ofthem. 

So Betty thought matters out for herself. Of course she liked PeterJunior--she had always liked him--and he was masterful--and she hadalways known she would marry a soldier--and one who had been woundedand been brave--that was the kind of a soldier to love. But she wasmore subdued than usual and sewed steadily on gingham aprons forJaney, making the buttonholes and binding them about the neck withcontrasting stuff. 

"Anyway, I'm glad there is no picnic to-day. The boys may eat up thecookies, and I didn't get the cake made after all, " she said to hermother, as she lingered a moment in the kitchen and looked out of thewindow at the pouring rain. But she did not see the rain; she sawagain a gray-clad youth limping down the path between the lilacs andaway along the grassy roadside. 

Well, what if she had said yes? It was all as it should be, accordingto her dreams, only--only--he had not allowed her to say what she hadmeant to say. She wished her mother had not happened to come just thenbefore she could explain to Peter Junior; that it was "yes" only ifwhen he came back he still wanted her and still loved her, and wassure he had not made a mistake about it. It was often so in books. Menwent away, and when they returned, they found they no longer lovedtheir sweethearts. If such a terrible thing should happen to her! Oh, dear! Or maybe he would be too honorable to say he no longer lovedher, and would marry her in spite of it; and she would find outafterward, when it was too late, that he loved some one else; thatwould be very terrible, and they would be miserable all their lives. 

"I don't think I would let the boys eat up the cookies, dear; it mayclear off by sundown, and be fine to-morrow, and they'll be all asglad as to go to-day. You make your cake. "

"But Martha's coming home to-morrow night, and I'd rather wait nowuntil Saturday; that will be only one day longer, and it will be morefun with her along. " Betty spoke brightly and tried to make herselffeel that no momentous thing had happened. She hated the constraint ofit. "By that time Peter Junior will think that he can go, too. He'sso funny!" She laughed self-consciously, and carried the ginghamaprons back to her room. 

"Bless her dear little heart. " Mary Ballard understood. 

Peter Junior also profited by the rainy morning. He had a long houralone with his mother to tell her of his wish to go to Paris; and herway of receiving his news was a surprise to him. He had thought itwould be a struggle and that he would have to argue with her, settingforth his hopes and plans, bringing her slowly to think withquiescence of their long separation: but no. She rose and began topace the floor, and her eyes grew bright with eagerness. 

"Oh, Peter, Peter!" She came and placed her two hands on his shouldersand gazed into his eyes. "Peter Junior, you are a boy after my ownheart. You are going to be something worth while. I always knew youwould. It is Bertrand Ballard who has waked you up, who has taught youto see that there is much outside of Leauvite for a man to do. I'm notobjecting to those who live here and have found their work here; it isonly that you are different. Go! Go!--It is--has your father--have youasked his consent?"

"Oh, yes. "

"Has he given it?"

"I think he is considering it seriously. "

"Peter Junior, I hope you won't go without it--as you went once, without mine. " Never before had she mentioned it to him, or recalledto his mind that terrible parting. 

"Why not, mother? It would be as fair to him now as it was then toyou. It would be fairer; for this is a question of progress, and thenit was a matter of life and death. "

"Ah, that was different, I admit. But I never could retaliate, or seemto, even in the smallest thing. I don't want him to suffer as Isuffered. "

It was almost a cry for pity, and Peter Junior wondered in his heartat the depth of anguish she must have endured in those days, when hehad thrust the thought of her opposition to one side as merely anobstacle overcome, and had felt the triumph of winning out in thecontest, as one step toward independent manhood. Now, indeed, theirviewpoints had changed. He felt almost a sense of pique that she hadyielded so joyously and so suddenly, although confronted with theprospect of a long separation from him. Did she love him less than inthe past? Had his former disregard of her wishes lessened even atrifle her mother love for him?

"I'm glad you can take the thought of my going as you do, mother. " Hespoke coldly, as an only son may, but he was to be excused. He wasless spoiled than most only sons. 

"In what way, my son?"

"Why--in being glad to have me go--instead of feeling as you didthen. "

"Glad? Glad to have you go? It isn't that, dear. Understand me. I'msorry I spoke of that old time. It was only to spare your father. Yousee we look at things differently. He loves to have us follow out hisplans. It is almost--death to him to have to give up; and with me--itwas not then as it is now. I don't like to think or speak of thattime. "

"Don't, mother, don't!" cried Peter, contritely. 

"But I must to make you see this as you should. It was love for youthen that made me cling to you, and want to hold you back from going;just the same it is love for you now that makes me want you to go outand find your right place in the world. I was letting you go then tobe shot at--to suffer fatigue, and cold, and imprisonment, who couldknow, perhaps to be cruelly killed--and I did not believe in war. Isuppose your father was the nobler in his way of thinking, but I couldnot see it his way. Angels from heaven couldn't have made me believeit right; but it's over. Now I know your life will be made broader bygoing, and you'll have scope, at least, to know what you really wishto do with yourself and what you are worth, as you would not have, tosit down in your father's bank, although you would be safer there, nodoubt. But you went through all the temptations of the army safely, and I have no fear for you now, dear, no fear. "

Peter Junior's heart melted. He took his mother in his arms andstroked her beautiful white hair. "I love you, mother, dear, " was allhe could say. Should he tell her of Betty now? The question died inhis heart. It was too much. He would be all hers for a little, norintrude the new love that she might think divided his heart. Hereturned to the question of his father's consent. "Mother, what shallI do if he will not give it?"

"Wait. Try to be patient and do what he wishes. It may help him toyield in the end. "

"Never! I know Dad better than that. He will only think all the morethat he is in the right, and that I have come to my senses. He nevertakes any viewpoint but his own. " His mother was silent. Never wouldshe open her lips against her husband. "I say, mother, naturally Iwould rather go with his consent, but if he won't give it--How longmust a man be obedient just for the sake of obedience? Does suchbondage never end? Am I not of age?"

"I will speak to him. Wait and see. Talk it over with him again to-dayafter banking hours. "

"I--I--have something I must--must do to-day. " He was thinking hewould go out to the Ballards' in spite of the rain. 

The dinner hour passed without constraint. In these days Peter Juniorwould not allow the long silences to occur that used often to cast agloom over the meals in his boyhood. He knew that in this way hismother would sadly miss him. It was the Elder's way to keep histhoughts for the most part to himself, and especially when there wasan issue of importance before him. It was supposed that his wife couldnot take an interest in matters of business, or in things of interestto men, so silence was the rule when they were alone. 

This time Peter Junior mentioned the topic of the wonderful newrailroad that was being pushed across the plains and through theunexplored desert to the Pacific. 

"The mere thought of it is inspiring, " said Hester. 

"How so?" queried the Elder, with a lift of his brows. He deprecatedany thought connecting sentiment with achievement. Sentiment was ofthe heart and only hindered achievement, which was purely of thebrain. 

"It's just the wonder of it. Think of the two great oceans beingbrought so near together! Only two weeks apart! Don't they estimatethat the time to cross will be only two weeks?"

"Yes, mother, and we have those splendid old pioneers who made thefirst trail across the desert to thank for its being possible. Itisn't the capitalists who have done this. It's the ones who had faithin themselves and dared the dangers and the hardships. They are theones I honor. "

"They never went for love of humanity. It was mere love of wanderingand migratory instinct, " said his father, grimly. 

Peter Junior laughed merrily. "What did old grandfather Craigmile pullup and come over to this country for? They had to cross in sailingvessels then and take weeks for the journey. "

"Progress, my son, progress. Your grandfather had the idea ofestablishing his family in honorable business over here, and he didit. "

"Well, I say these people who have been crossing the plains andcrawling over the desert behind ox teams in 'prairie schooners' forthe last twenty or thirty years, braving all the dangers of theunknown, have really paved the way for progress and civilization. Therailroad is being laid along the trail they made. Do you knowRichard's out there at the end of the line--nearly?"

"He would be likely to be. Roving boy! What's he doing there?"

"Poor boy! He almost died in that terrible southern prison. He was themere shadow of himself when he came home, " said Hester. 

"The young men of the present day have little use for beaten paths andsafe ways. I offered him a position in the bank, but no--he must go toScotland first to make the acquaintance of our aunts. If he had beensatisfied with that! But no, again, he must go to Ireland on a fool'serrand to learn something of his father. " The Elder paused and bit hislip, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "He's never seen fit towrite me of late. "

"Of course such a big scheme as this road across the plains wouldappeal to a man like Richard. He's doing very well, father. I wouldn'tbe disturbed about him. "

"Humph! I might as well be disturbed about the course of the WisconsinRiver. I might as well worry over the rush of a cataract. The lad hasno stability. "

"He never fails to write to me, and I must say that he was consideredthe most dependable man in the regiment. "

"What is he doing? I should like to see the boy again. " Hester lookedacross at her son with a warm, loving light in her eyes. 

"I don't know exactly, but it's something worth while, and calls forlots of energy. He says they are striking out into the dust and alkalinow--right into the desert. "

"And doesn't he say a word about when he is coming back?"

"Not a word, mother. He really has no home, you know. He says Scotlandhas no opening for him, and he has no one to depend on but himself. "

"He has relatives who are fairly well to do in Ireland. "

The Elder frowned. "So I've heard, and my aunts in Scotland talked ofmaking him their heir, when I was last there. "

"He knows that, father, but he says he's not one to stand roundwaiting for two old women to die. He says they're fine, decorous oldladies, too, who made a lot of him. I warrant they'd hold up theirhands in horror if they knew what a rough life he's leading now. "

"How rough, my son? I wish he'd make up his mind to come home. "

"There! I told him this is his home; just as much as it is mine. I'llwrite him you said that, mother. "

"Indeed, yes. Bless the boy!"

The Elder looked at his wife and lifted his brows, a sign that it wastime the meal should close, and she rose instantly. It was her habitnever to rise until the Elder gave the sign. Peter Junior walked downthe length of the hall at his father's side. 

"What Richard really wished to do was what I mentioned to youyesterday for myself. He wanted to go to Paris and study, but aftervisiting his great-aunts he saw that it would be too much. He wouldnot allow them to take from their small income to help him through, sohe gave it up for the time being; but if he keeps on as he is, it ismy opinion he may go yet. He's making good money. Then we could bethere together. "

The Elder made no reply, but stooped and drew on his india-rubberovershoes, --stamping into them, --and then got himself into hisraincoat with sundry liftings and hunchings of his shoulders. PeterJunior stood by waiting, if haply some sort of sign might be giventhat his remark had been heeded, but his father only carefullyadjusted his hat and walked away in the rain, setting his feet downstubbornly at each step, and holding his umbrella as if it were abanner of righteousness. The younger man's face flushed, and he turnedfrom the door angrily; then he looked to see his mother's eyes fixedon him sadly. 

"At least he might treat me with common decency. He need not be rude, even if I am his son. " He thought he detected accusation of himselfin his mother's gaze and resented it. 

"Be patient, dear. "

"Oh, mother! Patient, patient! What have you got by being patient allthese years?"

"Peace of mind, my son. "

"Mother--"

"Try to take your father's view of this matter. Have you any idea howhard he has worked all his life, and always with the thought of youand your advancement, and welfare? Why, Peter Junior, he is bound upin you. He expected you would one day stand at his side, his mainstayand help and comfort in his business. "

"Then it wasn't for me; it was for himself that he has worked andbuilt up the bank. It's his bank, and his wife, and his son, and his'Tower of Babel that he has builded, ' and now he wants me to burymyself in it and worship at his idolatry. "

"Hush, Peter. I don't like to rebuke you, but I must. You can twistfacts about and see them in a wrong light, but the truth remains thathe has loved you tenderly--always. I know his heart better thanyou--better than he. It is only that he thinks the line he has taken alifetime to lay out for you is the best. He is as sure of it as thatthe days follow each other. He sees only futility in the way you wouldgo. I have no doubt his heart is sore over it at this moment, and thathe is grieving in a way that would shock you, could you comprehendit. "

"Enough said, mother, enough said. I'll try to be fair. "

He went to his room and stood looking out at the rain-washed earth andthe falling leaves. The sky was heavy and drab. He thought of Bettyand her picnic and of how gay and sweet she was, and how altogetherdesirable, and the thought wrought a change in his spirit. He wentdownstairs and kissed his mother; then he, too, put on his rubberovershoes and shook himself into his raincoat and carefully adjustedhis hat and his umbrella. Then with the assistance of the oldblackthorn stick he walked away in the rain, limping, it is true, butnevertheless a younger, sturdier edition of the man who had passed outbefore him. 

He found Betty alone as he had hoped, for Mary Ballard had gone todrive her husband to the station. Bertrand was thinking of opening astudio in the city, at his wife's earnest solicitation, for shethought him buried there in their village. As for the children--theywere still in school. 

Thus it came about that Peter Junior spent the rest of that day withBetty in her father's studio. He told Betty all his plans. He madelove to her and cajoled her, and was happy indeed. He had a winsomeway, and he made her say she loved him--more than once or twice--andhis heart was satisfied. 

"We'll be married just as soon as I return from Paris, and you'll notmiss me so much until then?"

"Oh, no. "

"Ah--but--but I hope you will--you know. "

"Of course I shall! What would you suppose?"

"But you said no. "

"Naturally! Didn't you wish me to say that?"

"I wanted you to tell the truth. "

"Well, I did. "

"There it is again! I'm afraid you don't really love me. "

She tilted her head on one side and looked at him a moment. "Would youlike me to say I don't want you to go to Paris?"

"Not that, exactly; but all the time I'm gone I shall be longing foryou. "

"I should hope so! It would be pretty bad if you didn't. "

"Now you see what I mean about you. I want you to be longing for meall the time, until I return. "

"All right. I'll cry my eyes out, and I'll keep writing for you tocome home. "

"Oh, come now! Tell me what you will do all the time. "

"Oh, lots of things. I'll paint pictures, too, and--I'll write--andhelp mother just as I do now; and I'll study art without going toParis. "

"Will you, you rogue! I'd marry you first and take you with me if itwere possible, and you should study in Paris, too--that is, if youwished to. "

"Wouldn't it be wonderful! But I don't know--I believe I'd ratherwrite than paint. "

"I believe I'd rather have you. They say there are no really greatwomen artists. It isn't in the woman's nature. They haven't thestrength. Oh, they have the delicacy and all that; it's something elsethey lack. "

"Humph! It's rather nice to have us lacking in one thing and another, isn't it? It gives you men something to do to discover and fill in thelacks. "

"I know one little lady who lacks in nothing but years. "

Betty looked out of the window and down into the yard. "There ismother driving in. Let's go down and have cookies and milk. I'm sureyou need cookies and milk. "

"I'll need anything you say. "

"Very well, then, you'll need patience if ever you marry me. "

"I know that well enough. Stop a moment. Kiss me before we go down. "He caught her in his arms, but she slipped away. 

"No, I won't. You've had enough kisses. I'll always give you one whenyou come, hereafter, and one when you go away, but no more. "

"Then I shall come very often. " He laughed and leaned upon her insteadof using his stick, as they slowly descended. 

Mary Ballard was chilled after her long drive in the rain, and Bettymade her tea. Then, after a pleasant hour of chat and encouragementfrom the two sweet women, Peter Junior left them, promising to go tothe picnic and nutting party on Saturday. It would surely be pleasant, for the sky was already clearing. Yes, truly a glad heart bringspleasant prognostications. 

CHAPTER X

THE NUTTING PARTY

Peter Junior made no attempt the next day to speak further to hisfather about his plans. It seemed to him better that he should waituntil his wise mother had talked the matter over with the Elder. Although he put in most of the day at the studio, painting, he sawvery little of Betty and thought she was avoiding him out of girlishcoquetry, but she was only very busy. Martha was coming home andeverything must be as clean as wax. Martha was such a tidy housekeeperthat she would see the least lack and set to work to remedy it, andthat Betty could not abide. In these days Martha's coming marked asemimonthly event in the home, for since completing her course at thehigh school she had been teaching in the city. Bertrand would returnwith her, and then all would have to be talked over, --just what he haddecided to do, and why. 

In the evening a surprise awaited the whole household, for Marthacame, accompanied not only by her father, but also by a youngprofessor in the same school where she taught. Mary Ballard greetedhim most kindly, but she felt things were happening too rapidly in herfamily. Jamie and Bobby watched the young man covertly yet eagerly, taking note of his every movement and intonation. Was he one to beemulated or avoided? Only little Janey was quite unabashed by him, andthis lightened his embarrassment greatly and helped him to the easeof manner he strove to establish. 

She led him out to the sweet-apple tree, and introduced him to thecalf and the bantams, and invited him to go with them nutting the nextday. "We're all going in a great, big picnic wagon. Everybody's goingand we'll have just lots of fun. " And he accepted, provided she wouldsit beside him all the way. 

Bobby decided at this point that he also would befriend the young man. "If you're going to sit beside her all the way, you'll have to belively. She never sits in one place more than two minutes. You'll haveto sit on papa's other knee for a while, and then you'll have to siton Peter Junior's. "

"That will be interesting, anyway. Who's Peter Junior?"

"Oh, he's a man. He comes to see us a lot. "

"He's the son of Elder Craigmile, " explained Martha. 

"Is he going, too, Betty?"

"Yes. The whole crowd are going. It will be fun. I'm glad now itrained Thursday, for the Deans didn't want to postpone it tillto-morrow, and then, when it rained, Mrs. Dean said it would be toowet to try to have it yesterday; and now we have you. I wanted all thetime to wait until you came home. "

That night, when Martha went to their room, Betty followed her, andafter closing the door tightly she threw her arms around her sister'sneck. 

"Oh, Martha, Martha, dear! Tell me all about him. Why didn't you letus know? I came near having on my old blue gingham. What if I had?He's awfully nice looking. Is he in love with you? Tell me all aboutit. Does he make love to you? Oh, Martha! It's so romantic for you tohave a lover!"

"Hush, Betty, some one will hear you. Of course he doesn't make loveto me!"

"Why?"

"I wouldn't let him. "

"Martha! Why not? Do you think it's bad to let a young man make loveto you?"

"Betty! You mustn't talk so loud. Everything sounds so through thishouse. It would mortify me to death. "

"What would mortify you to death: to have him make love to you or tohave someone hear me?"

"Betty, dear!"

"Well, tell me all about him--please! Why did he come out with you?"

"You shouldn't always be thinking about love-making--and--such things, Betty, dear. He just came out in the most natural way, just becausehe--he loves the country, and he was talking to me about it one dayand said he'd like to come out some Friday with me--just about askedme to invite him. So when father called at the school yesterday forme, I introduced them, and he said the same thing to father, and ofcourse father invited him over again, and--and--so he's here. That'sall there is to it. "

"I bet it isn't. How long have you known him?"

"Why, ever since I've been in the school, naturally. "

"What does he teach?"

"He has higher Latin and beginners' Greek, and then he has charge ofthe main room when the principal goes out. "

Betty pondered a little, sitting on the floor in front of her sister. "You have such a lovely way of doing your hair. Is that the way to dohair nowadays--with two long curls hanging down from one side of thecoil? You wind one side around the back knot, and then you pin theother up and let the ends hang down in two long curls, don't you? I'mgoing to try mine that way; may I?"

"Of course, darling! I'll help you. "

"What's his name, Martha? I couldn't quite catch it, and I did notwant to let him know I thought it queer, so wouldn't ask over. "

"His name is Lucien Thurbyfil. It's not so queer, Betty. "

"Oh, you pronounce it T'urbyfil, just as if there were no 'h' in it. You know I thought father said Mr. Tubfull--or something like that, when he introduced him to mother, and that was why mother looked athim in such an odd way. "

The two girls laughed merrily. "Betty, what if you hadn't been a dear, and had called him that! And he's so very correct!"

"Oh, is he? Then I'll try it to-morrow and we'll see what he'll do. "

"Don't you dare! I'd be so ashamed I'd sink right through the floor. He'd think we'd been making fun of him. "

"Then I'll wait until we are out in the woods, for I'd hate to haveyou make a hole in the floor by sinking through it. "

"Betty! You'll be good to-morrow, won't you, dear?"

"Good? Am I not always good? Didn't I scrub and bake and put flowersall over the ugly what-not in the corner of the parlor, and get thegrease spot out of the dining room rug that Jamie stepped butterinto--and all for you--without any thought of any Mr. Tubfull or anyone but you? All day long I've been doing it. "

"Of course you did, and it was perfectly sweet; and the flowers andmother looked so dear--and Janey's hands were clean--I looked to see. You know usually they are so dirty. I knew you'd been busy; but Betty, dear, you won't be mischievous to-morrow, will you? He's our guest, you know, and you never were bashful, not as much as you really oughtto be, and we can't treat strangers just as we do--well--people wehave always known, like Peter Junior. They wouldn't understand it. "

But the admonition seemed to be lost, for Betty's thoughts werewandering from the point. "Hasn't he ever--ever--made love to you?"Martha was washing her face and neck at the washstand in the corner, and now she turned a face very rosy, possibly with scrubbing, andthrew water over her naughty little sister. "Well, hasn't he ever puthis arm around you or--or anything?"

"I wouldn't let a man do that. "

"Not if you were engaged?"

"Of course not! That wouldn't be a nice way to do. "

"Shouldn't you let a man kiss you or--or--put his arm around you--oranything--even when he's trying to get engaged to you?"

"Of course not, Betty, dear. You're asking very silly questions. I'mgoing to bed. "

"Well, but they do in books. He did in 'Jane Eyre, ' don't youremember? And she was proud of it--and pretended not to be--and verymuch touched, and treasured his every look in her heart. And in thebooks they always kiss their lovers. How can Mr. Thurbyfil ever beyour lover, if you never let him even put his arm around you?"

"Betty, Betty, come to bed. He isn't my lover and he doesn't want tobe and we aren't in books, and you are getting too old to be sosilly. "

Then Betty slowly disrobed and bathed her sweet limbs and at lastcrept in beside her sister. Surely she had not done right. She had letPeter Junior put his arm around her and kiss her, and that even beforethey were engaged; and all yesterday afternoon he had held her handwhenever she came near, and he had followed her about and had kissedher a great many times. Her cheeks burned with shame in the darkness, not that she had allowed this, but that she had not been as bashful asshe ought. But how could she be bashful without pretending?

"Martha, " she said at last, "you are so sweet and pretty, if I wereMr. Thurbyfil, I'd put my arm around you anyway, and make love toyou. "

Then Martha drew Betty close and gave her a sleepy kiss. "No youwouldn't, dear, " she murmured, and soon the two were peacefullysleeping, Betty's troubles quite forgotten. Still, when morning came, she did not confide to her sister anything about Peter Junior, and sheeven whispered to her mother not to mention a word of the affair toany one. 

At breakfast Jamie and Bobby were turbulent with delight. All outingswere a joy to them, no matter how often they came. Martha was neat androsy and gay. Lucien Thurbyfil wanted to help her by wiping thedishes, but she sent him out to the sweet-apple tree with a basket, enjoining him to bring only the mellow ones. "Be sure to get enough. We're all going, father and mother and all. "

"It's very nice of your people to make room for me on the wagon. "

"And it's nice of you to go. "

"I see Peter Junior. He's coming, " shouted Bobby, from the top of thesweet-apple tree. 

"Who does he go with?" asked Martha. 

"With us. He always does, " said Betty. "I wonder why his mother andthe Elder never go out for any fun, the way you and father do!"

"The Elder always has to be at the bank, I suppose, " said MaryBallard, "and she wouldn't go without him. Did you put in the salt andpepper for the eggs, dear?"

"Yes, mother. I'm glad father isn't a banker. "

"It takes a man of more ability than I to be a banker, " said Bertrand, laughing, albeit with concealed pride. 

"We don't care if it does, Dad, " said Jamie, patronizingly. "When Iget through the high school, I'm going to hire out to the bank. " Heseized the lunch basket and marched manfully out to the wagon. 

"I thought Peter Junior always went with Clara Dean. He did when Ileft, " said Martha, in a low voice to Betty, as they filled bottleswith raspberry shrub, and with cream for the coffee. "Did you tiestrings on the spoons, dear? They'll get mixed with the Walters' ifyou don't. You remember theirs are just like ours. "

"Oh, I forgot. Why, he likes Clara a lot, of course, but I guess theyjust naturally expected him to go with us. They and the Walters havea wagon together, anyway, and they wouldn't have room. We have one allto ourselves. Hello, Peter Junior! Mr. Thurbyfil, this is Mr. Junior. "

"Happy to meet you, Mr. Junior, " said the correct Mr. Thurbyfil. Theboys laughed uproariously, and the rest all smiled, except Betty, whowas grave and really seemed somewhat embarrassed. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"Mr. Thurbyfil, this is Mr. Craigmile, " said Martha. "You introducedhim as Mr. Junior, Betty. "

"I didn't! Well, that's because I'm bashful. Come on, everybody, mother's in. " So they all climbed into the wagon and began to findtheir places. 

"Oh, father, have you the matches? The bottles are on the kitchentable, " exclaimed Martha. 

"Don't get down, Mr. Ballard, " said Lucien. "I'll get them. It wouldnever do to forget the bottles. Now, where's the little girl who wasto ride beside me?" and Janey crawled across the hay and settledherself at her new friend's side. "Now I think we are beautifullyarranged, " for Martha was on his other side. 

"Very well, we're off, " and Bertrand gathered up the reins and theystarted. 

"There they are. There's the other wagon, " shouted Bobby. "We ought tohave a flag to wave. "

Then Lucien, the correct, startled the party by putting his twofingers in his mouth and whistling shrilly. 

"They have such a load I wish Clara could ride with us, " said Betty. "Peter Junior, won't you get out and fetch her?"

So they all stopped and there were greetings and introductions andmuch laughing and joking, and Peter Junior obediently helped ClaraDean down and into the Ballards' wagon. 

"Clara, Mr. Thurbyfil can whistle as loud as a train, through hisfingers, he can. Do it, Mr. Thurbyfil, " said Bobby. 

"Oh, I can do that, " said Peter Junior, not to be outdone by thestranger, and they all tried it. Bertrand and his wife, settledcomfortably on the high seat in front, had their own pleasure togetherand paid no heed to the noisy crew behind them. 

What a day! Autumn leaves and hazy distances, soft breezes andsunlight, and miles of level road skirting woods and open fields wherethe pumpkins lay yellow among the shocks of corn, and where the fencecorners were filled with flaming sumac, with goldenrod and purpleasters adding their softer coloring. 

It was a good eight miles to Carter's woods, but they bordered theriver where the bluffs were not so high, and it would be possible tobuild a fire on the river bank with perfect safety. Bertrand hadbrought roasting ears from his patch of sweet corn, and as soon asthey arrived at their chosen grove, he and Mary leisurely turned theirattention to the preparing of the lunch with Mrs. Dean and Mrs. Walters, leaving to the young people the gathering of the nuts. 

Mrs. Dean, a slight, wiry woman, who acted and talked easily andunceasingly, spread out a fresh linen cloth and laid a stone on eachcorner to hold it down, and then looked into each lunch basket inturn, to acquaint herself with its contents. 

"I see you brought cake and cookies and jam, Mrs. Ballard, besides allthe corn and cream--you always do too much, and all your own work tolook after, too. Well, I brought a lot of ham sandwiches and thatbrown bread your husband likes so much. I always feel so proud whenMr. Ballard praises anything I do; he's so clever it makes me feel asif I were really able to do something. And you're so clever too. Idon't know how it is some folks seem to have all the brains, and thenthere's others--good enough--but there! As I tell Mr. Dean, you can'ttell why it is. Now where are the spoons? Every one brings their own, of course; yes, here are yours, Mrs. Walters. It's good of you tothink of that sweet corn, Mr. Ballard. --Oh, he's gone away; well, anyway, we're having a lot more than we can eat, and all so good andtempting. I hope Mr. Dean won't overeat himself; he's just a boy at apicnic, I always have to remind him--How?"

"Did you bring the cups for the coffee?" It was Mrs. Walters whointerrupted the flow of Mrs. Dean's eloquence. She was portly andinclined to brevity, which made her a good companion for Mrs. Dean. 

"I had such a time with my jell this summer, and now this fall mygrape jell's just as bad. This is all running over the glasses. There, I'll set it on this paper. I do hate to see a clean cloth all spottedwith jell, even if it is a picnic when people think it doesn't makeany difference. I see Martha has a friend. Well, that's nice. I wishClara cared more for company; but, there, as I tell Mr. Dean--Oh, yes!the cups. Clara, where are the cups? Oh, she's gone. Well, I'm surethey're in that willow basket. I told Clara to pack towels around themgood. I do hate to see cups all nicked up; yes, here they are. It'sgood of you to always tend the coffee, Mrs. Walters; you know just howto make it. I tell Mr. Dean nobody ever makes coffee like you can at apicnic. Now, if it's ready, I think everything else is; well, it soonwill be with such a fire, and the corn's not done, anyway. Do youthink the sun'll get round so as to shine on the table? I see it'screeping this way pretty fast, and they're all so scattered over thewoods there's no telling when we will get every one here to eat. I seeanother tablecloth in your basket, Mrs. Ballard. If you'll be goodenough to just hold that corner, we can cover everything up good, so, and then I'll walk about a bit and call them all together. " And thekindly lady stepped briskly off through the woods, still talking, while Mrs. Ballard and Mrs. Walters sat themselves down in the shadeand quietly watched the coffee and chatted. 

It was past the noon hour, and the air was drowsy and still. Thevoices and laughter of the nut gatherers came back to them from thedeeper woods in the distance, and the crackling of the fire whereBertrand attended to the roasting of the corn near by, and the gentlesound of the lapping water on the river bank came to them out of thestillness. 

"I wonder if Mr. Walters tied the horses good!" said his wife. "Seemsas if one's got loose. Don't you hear a horse galloping?"

"They're all there eating, " said Mary, rising and looking about. "Someone's coming, away off there over the bluff; see?"

"I wonder, now! My, but he rides well. He must be coming here. I hopethere's nothing the matter. It looks like--it might be Peter Junior, only he's here already. "

"It's--it's--no, it can't be--it is! It's--Bertrand, Bertrand! Why, it's Richard!" cried Mary Ballard, as the horseman came toward them, loping smoothly along under the trees, now in the sunlight and now inthe shadow. He leaped from the saddle, and, throwing the rein over aknotted limb, walked rapidly toward them, holding out a hand to each, as Bertrand and Mary hurried forward. 

"I couldn't let you good folks have one of these fine old timeswithout me. "

"Why, when did you come? Oh, Richard! It's good to see you again, "said Mary. 

"I came this morning. I went up to my uncle's and then to your houseand found you all away, and learned that you were here and my twinwith you, so here I am. How are the children? All grown up?"

"Almost. Come and sit down and give an account of yourself to Mary, while I try to get hold of the rest, " said Bertrand. 

"Mrs. Dean has gone for them, father. Mrs. Walters, the coffee's allright; come and sit down here and let's visit until the others come. You remember Richard Kildene, Mrs. Walters?"

"Since he was a baby, but it's been so long since I've seen you, Richard. I don't believe I'd have known you unless for your likenessto Peter Junior. You look stronger than he now. Redder and browner. "

"I ought to. I've been in the open air and sun for weeks. I'm onlyhere now by chance. "

"A happy chance for us, Richard. Where have you been of late?" askedBertrand. 

"Out on the plains--riding and keeping a gang of men under control, for the most part, and pushing the work as rapidly as possible. " Hetossed back his hair with the old movement Mary remembered so well. "Tell me about the children, Martha and Betty; both grown up? Or stillready to play with a comrade?"

"They're all here to-day. Martha's teaching in the city, but Betty'sat home helping me, as always. The boys are getting such big fellows, and little Janey's as sweet as all the rest. "

"There! That's Betty's laugh, I know. I'd recognize it if I heard itout on the plains. I have, sometimes--when a homesick fit gets hold ofme out under the stars, when the noise of the camp has subsided. Agood deal of that work is done by the very refuse of humanity, youknow, a mighty tough lot. "

"And you like that sort of thing, Richard?" asked Mary. "I thoughtwhen you went to your people in Scotland, you might be leading a verydifferent kind of life by now. "

"I thought so, too, then; but I guess for some reasons this is best. Still, I couldn't resist stealing a couple of days to run up here andsee you all. I got off a carload of supplies yesterday from Chicago, and then I wired back to the end of the line that I'd be two dayslater myself. No wonder I followed you out here. I couldn't afford towaste the precious hours. I say! That's Betty again! I'll find themand say you're hungry, shall I?"

"Oh, they're coming now. I see Martha's pink dress, and there's Bettyin green over there. "

But Richard was gone, striding over the fallen leaves toward the spotof green which was Betty's gingham dress. And Betty, spying him, forgot she was grown up. She ran toward him with outstretched arms, as of old--only--just as he reached her, she drew back and a wave ofred suffused her face. She gave him one hand instead of both, andcalled to Peter Junior to hurry. 

"Well, Betty Ballard! I can't jump you along now over stocks andstones as I used to. And here's everybody! Why, Jamie, what a greatman you are! I'll have to take you back with me to help build the newroad. And here's Bobby; and this little girl--I wonder if sheremembers me well enough to give me a kiss? I have nobody to kiss menow, when I come back. That's right. That's what Betty used to do. Why, hello! here's Clara Dean, and who's this? John Walters? So you'rea man, too! Mr. Dean, how are you? And Mrs. Dean! You don't grow anyolder anyway, so I'll walk with you. Wait until I've pounded this oldchap a minute. Why didn't I write I was coming? Man, I didn't know itmyself. I'm under orders nowadays. To get here at all I had to stealtime. So you're graduated from a crutch to a cane? Good!"

Every one exclaimed at once, while Richard talked right on, until theyreached the riverside where the lunch was spread; and then the babblewas complete. 

That night, as they all drove home in the moonlight, Richard tied hishorse to the rear of the Ballards' wagon and rode home seated on thehay with the rest. He placed himself where Betty sat on his right, andthe two boys crowded as close to him as possible on his left. LittleJaney, cuddled at Betty's side, was soon fast asleep with her head inher sister's lap, while Lucien Thurbyfil was well pleased to haveMartha in the corner to himself. Peter Junior sat near Betty andlistened with interest to his cousin, who entertained them all withtales of the plains and the Indians, and the game that supplied themwith many a fine meal in camp. 

"Say, did you ever see a real herd of wild buffalo just tearing overthe ground and kicking up a great dust and stampeding and everything?"said Jamie. 

"Oh, yes. And if you are out there all alone on your pony, you'dbetter keep away from in front of them, too, or you'd be trampled todeath in a jiffy. "

"What's stampeding?" said Bobby. 

So Richard explained it, and much more that elicited long breaths ofinterest. He told them of the miles and miles of land without a singletree or hill, and only a sea of grass as far as the eye could reach, as level as Lake Michigan, and far vaster. And how the great railwaywas now approaching the desert, and how he had seen the bones of menand cattle and horses bleaching white, lying beside their broken-downwagons half buried in the drifting sand. He told them how the trailthat such people had made with so much difficulty stretched far, faraway into the desert along the very route, for the most part, that therailroad was taking, and answered their questions so interestinglythat the boys were sorry when they reached home at last and they hadto bid good-night to Peter Junior's fascinating cousin, Richard. 

CHAPTER XI

BETTY BALLARD'S AWAKENING

Mary and Bertrand always went early to church, for Bertrand led thechoir, and it was often necessary for him to gather the singerstogether and try over the anthem before the service. Sometimes therector would change the hymns, and then the choir must have one littlerehearsal of them. Martha and Mr. Thurbyfil accompanied them thismorning, and Betty and the boys were to walk, for four grown-ups withlittle Janey sandwiched in between more than filled the carryall. 

In these days Betty no longer had to wash and dress her brothers, butthere were numerous attentions required of her, such as only growingboys can originate, and "sister" was as kind and gay in helping themover their difficulties as of old. So, now, as she stepped out of herroom all dressed for church in her white muslin with green rose sprigsover it, with her green parasol, and her prayer book in her hand, Bobby called her. 

"Oh, Sis! I've broken my shoe string and it's time to start. "

"I have a new one in my everyday shoes, Bobby, dear; run upstairs andtake it out. They're just inside the closet door. Wait a minute, Jamie; that lock stands straight up on the back of your head. Can'tyou make it lie down? Bring me the brush. You look splendid in yournew trousers. Now, you hurry on ahead and leave this at the Deans'. It's Clara's sash bow. I found it in the wagon after they left lastnight. Run, she may want to wear it to church. --Yes, Bobby, dear, Isent him on, but you can catch up. Have you a handkerchief? Yes, I'llfollow in a minute. "

And the boys rushed off, looking very clean in their Sunday clothing, and very old and mannish in their long trousers and stiff hats. Bettylooked after them with pride, then she bethought her that the cat hadnot had her saucer of milk, and ran down to the spring to get it, leaving the doors wide open behind her. The day was quite warm enoughfor her to wear the summer gown, and she was very winsome and prettyin her starched muslin, with the delicate green buds sprayed over it. She wore a green belt, too, and the parasol she was very proud of, forshe had bought it with her own chicken money. It was her heart'sdelight. Betty's skirt reached nearly to the ground, for she was quitein long dresses, and two little ruffles rippled about her feet as sheran down the path to the spring. But, alas! As she turned away aftercarefully fastening the spring-house door, the cat darted under herfeet; and Betty stumbled and the milk streamed down the front of herdress and spattered her shoes--and if there was anything Betty liked, it was to have her shoes very neat. 

"Oh, Kitty! I hate your running under my feet that way all the time. "Betty was almost in tears. She set the saucer down and tried to wipeoff the milk, while the cat crouched before the dish and begandrinking eagerly and unthankfully, after the manner of cats. 

Some one stood silently watching her from the kitchen steps as shewalked slowly up the path, gazing down on the ruin of the prettystarched ruffles. 

"Why, Richard!" was all she said, for something came up in her throatand choked her. She waited where she stood, and in his eyes, heraspect seemed that of despair. Was it all for the spilled milk?

"Why, Betty dear!" He caught her and kissed her and laughed at her andcomforted her all at once. "Not tears, dear? Tears to greet me? Youdidn't half greet me last evening, and I came only to see you. Now youwill, where there's no one to see and no one to hear? Yes. Never mindthe spilled milk, you know better than that. " But Betty lay in hisarms, a little crumpled wisp of sorrow, white and still. 

"Away off there in Cheyenne I got to thinking of you, and I went toheadquarters and asked to be sent on this commission just to get thechance to run up here and tell you I have been waiting all these yearsfor you to grow up. You have haunted me ever since I left Leauvite. You darling, your laughing face was always with me, on the march--inprison--and wherever I've been since. I've been trying to keep myselfright--for you--so I might dare some day to take you in my arms likethis and tell you--so I need not be ashamed before your--"

"Oh, Richard, wait!" wailed Betty, but he would not wait. 

"I've waited long enough. I see you are grown up before I even dreamedyou could be. Thank heaven I came now! You are so sweet some one wouldsurely have won you away from me--but no one can now--no one. "

"Richard, why didn't you tell me this when you first came home fromthe war--before you went to Scotland? I would--"

"Not then, sweetheart; I couldn't. I didn't even know then I wouldever be worth the love of any woman; and--you were such a childthen--I couldn't intrude my weariness--my worn-out self on you. I wassick at heart when I got out of that terrible prison; but now it isall changed. I am my own man now, dependent on no one, and able tomarry you out of hand, Betty, dear. After you've told me something, I'll do whatever you say, wait as long as you say. No, no! Listen!Don't break away from me. You don't hate me as you do the cat. Ihaven't been running under your feet all the time, have I, dear?Listen. See here, my arms are strong now. They can hold you forever, just like this. I've been thinking of you and dreaming of you andloving you through these years. You have never been out of my mind norout of my heart. I've kept the little housewife you made me and boundwith your cherry-colored hair ribbon until it is in rags, but I loveit still. I love it. They took everything I had about me at theprison; but this--they gave back to me. It was the only thing I beggedthem to leave me. "

Poor little Betty! She tried to speak and tried again, but she couldnot utter a word. Her mouth grew dry and her knees would not supporther. Richard was so big and strong he did not feel her weight, andonly delighted in the thought that she resigned herself to him. "Darling little Betty! Darling little Betty! You do understand, don'tyou? Won't you tell me you do?"

But she only closed her eyes and lay quite still. She longed to lifther arms and put them about his neck, and the effort not to do soonly crushed her spirit the more. Now she knew she was bad, andunworthy such a great love as this. She had let Peter Junior kiss her, and she had told him she loved him--and it was nothing to this. Shewas not good; she was unworthy, and all the angels in heaven couldnever bring her comfort any more. She was so still he put his cheek tohers, and it seemed as if she moaned, and that without a sound. 

"Have I hurt you, Betty, dear?"

"Oh, no, Richard, no. "

"Do you love me, sweet?"

"Yes, Richard, yes. I love you so I could die of loving you, and Ican't help it. Oh, Richard, I can't help it. "

"It's asking too much that you should love me so, and yet that's whatmy selfish, hungry heart wants and came here for. "

"Take your face away, Richard; stop. I must talk if it kills me. Ihave been so bad and wicked. Oh, Richard, I can't tell you how wicked. Let me stand by myself now. I can. " She fought back the tears andturned her face away from him, but when he let go of her, in herweakness she swayed, and he caught her to him again, with manyrepeated words of tenderness. 

"If you will take me to the steps, Richard, and bring me a glass ofwater, I think I can talk to you then. You remember where things arein this house?"

Did he remember? Was there anything he had forgotten about thisbeloved place? He brought her the water and she made him sit besideher, but not near, only that she need not look in his eyes. 

"Richard, I thought something was love--that was not--I didn't know. It was only liking--and--and now I--I've been so wrong--and I want todie--Oh, I want to die! No, don't. Do you want to make me sin again?Oh, Richard, Richard! If you had only come before! Now it is toolate. " She began sobbing bitterly, and her small frame shook with hergrief. 

He seized her wrists and his hand trembled. She tried to cover herface with her hands, but he took them down and held them. 

"Betty, what have you done? Tell me--tell me quick. "

Then she turned her face toward him, wet with tears. "Have pity on me, Richard. Have pity on me, Richard, for my heart is broken, and thething that hurts me most is that it will hurt you. "

"But it wasn't yesterday when I came to you out there in the woods. Iheard you laughing, and you ran to meet me as happy as ever--"

"You did not hear me laugh once again after you came and looked in myeyes there in the grove. It was in that instant that my heart began tobreak, and now I know why. Go back to Cheyenne. Go far away and neverthink of me any more. I am not worthy of you, anyway. I have let youhold me in your arms and kiss me when I ought not. Oh, I have been sobad--so bad! Let me hide my face. I can't look in your eyes anymore. "

But he was cruel. He made her look in his eyes and tell him all thesorrowful truth. Then at last he grew pitiful again and tried brokenlyto comfort her, to make her feel that something would intervene tohelp them, but in his heart he knew that his cause was lost, and hishopes burned within him, a heap of smoldering coals dying in their ownashes. 

He had always loved Peter Junior too well to blame him especially asPeter could not have known what havoc he was making of his cousin'shopes. It had all been a terrible mischance, and now they must makethe best of it and be brave. Yet a feeling of resentment would creepinto his heart in spite of his manful resolve to be fair to hiscousin, and let nothing interfere with their lifelong friendship. Invain he told himself that Peter had the same right as he to seekBetty's love. Why not? Why should he think himself the only one to beconsidered? But there was Betty! And when he thought of her, his soulseemed to go out of him. Too late! Too late! And so he rose and walkedsorrowfully away. 

When Mary Ballard came home from church, she found her little daughterup in her room on her knees beside her bed, her arms stretched outover the white counterpane, asleep. She had suffered until nature hadtaken her into her own soothing arms and put her to sleep throughsheer weakness. Her cheeks were still burning and her eyelids red fromweeping. Mary thought her in a fever, and gently helped her to removethe pretty muslin dress and got her to bed. 

Betty drew a long sigh as her head sank back into the pillow. "My headaches; don't worry, mother, dear. " She thought her heart was closedforever on her terrible secret. 

"Mother'll bring you something for it, dear. You must have eatensomething at the picnic that didn't agree with you. " She kissedBetty's cheek, and at the door paused to look back on her, and astrange misgiving smote her. 

"I can't think what ails her, " she said to Martha. "She seems to bein a high fever. Did she sleep well last night?"

"Perfectly, but we talked a good while before we went to sleep. Perhaps she got too tired yesterday. I thought she seemed excited, too. Mrs. Walters always makes her coffee so strong. "

Peter Junior came in to dinner, buoyant and happy. He was disappointednot to see Betty, and frankly avowed it. He followed Mary into thekitchen and begged to be allowed to go up and speak to Betty for onlya minute, but Mary thought sleep would be the best remedy and he wouldbetter leave her alone. He had been to church with his father, and allthrough the morning service as he sat at his father's side he hadmeditated how he could persuade the Elder to look on his plans withsome degree of favor--enough at least to warrant him in going on withthem and trust to his father's coming around in time. 

Neither he nor Richard were at the Elder's at dinner, and the mealpassed in silence, except for a word now and then in regard to thesermon. Hester thought continually of her son and his hopes, but asshe glanced from time to time in her husband's face she realized thatsilence on her part was still best. Whenever the Elder cleared histhroat and looked off out of the window, as was his wont when about tospeak of any matter of importance, her heart leaped and her eyes gazedintently at her plate, to hide the emotion she could not restrain. Herhands grew cold and her lips tremulous, but still she waited. 

It was the Elder's custom to sleep after the Sunday's dinner, whichwas always a hearty one, lying down on the sofa in the large parlor, where the closed blinds made a pleasant somberness. Hester passed thedoor and looked in on him, as he lay apparently asleep, his long, bonyframe stretched out and the muscles of his strong face relaxing to asoftness they sometimes assumed when sleeping. Her heart went out tohim. Oh, if he only knew! If she only dared! His boy ought to lovehim, and understand him. If they would only understand!

Then she went up into Peter Junior's room and sat there where shehad sat seven years before--where she had often sat since--gazingacross at the red-coated old ancestor, her hands in her lap, herthoughts busy with her son's future even as then. If all the othershad lived, would the quandary and the struggle between opposingwills have been as great for each one as for this sole survivor?Where were those little ones now? Playing in happy fields andwaiting for her and the stern old man who also suffered, but knew nothow to reveal his heart? Again and again the words repeatedthemselves in her heart mechanically: "Wait on the Lord--Wait on theLord, " and then, again, "Oh, Lord, how long?"

Peter Junior returned early from the Ballards', since he could not seeBetty, leaving the field open for Martha and her guest, much to theguest's satisfaction. He went straight to the room occupied by Richardwhenever he was with them, but no Richard was there. His valise wasall packed ready for his start on the morrow, but there was no linepinned to the frame of the mirror telling Peter Junior where to findhim, as was Richard's way in the past. With a fleeting glance aroundto see if any bit of paper had been blown away, he went to his ownroom and there he found his mother, waiting. In an instant that longago morning came to his mind, and as then he went swiftly to her, and, kneeling, clasped her in his arms. 

"Are you worried, mother mine? It's all right. I will be careful andrestrained. Don't be troubled. "

Hester clasped her boy's head to her bosom and rested her face againsthis soft hair. For a while the silence was deep and the moments burnedthemselves into the young man's soul with a purifying fire never to beforgotten. Presently she began speaking to him in low, murmuringtones: "Your father is getting to be an old man, Peter, dear, and I--Iam no longer young. Our boy is dear to us--the dearest. In ourdifferent ways we long only for what is best for you. If only it mightbe revealed to you and us alike! Many paths are good paths to walk in, and the way may be happy in any one of them, for happiness is of thespirit. It is in you--not made for you by circumstances. We have beenso happy here, since you came home wounded, and to be wounded is not ahappy thing, as you well know; but it seemed to bring you and mehappiness, nevertheless. Did it not, dear?"

"Indeed yes, mother. Yes. It gave me a chance to have you to myself alot, and that ought to make any man happy, with a mother like you. Andnow--a new happiness came to me, the other day, that I meant to speakof yesterday and couldn't after getting so angry with father. Itseemed like sacrilege to speak of it then, and, besides, there wasanother feeling that made me hesitate. "

"So you are in love with some one, Peter?"

"Yes, mother. How did you guess it?"

"Because only love is a feeling that would make you say you could notspeak of it when your heart is full of anger. Is it Betty, dear?"

"Yes, mother. You are uncanny to read me so. "

She laughed softly and held him closer. "I love Betty, too, Peter. Youwill always be gentle and kind? You will never be hard and stern withher?"

"Mother! Have I ever been so? Can't you tell by the way I have alwaysacted toward you that I would be tender and kind? She will bemyself--my very own. How could I be otherwise?"

Again Hester smiled her slow, wise smile. "You have always beentender, Peter, but you have always gone right along and done your ownway, absolutely. The only reason there has not been more frictionbetween you and your father has been that you have been tactful; alsoyou have never seemed to desire unworthy things. You have been a goodson, dear: I am not complaining. And the only reason why I havenever--or seldom--felt hurt by your taking your own way has been thatmy likings have usually responded to yours, and the thing I mostdesired was that you should be allowed to take your own way. It isgood for a man to be decided and to have a way of his own: I haveliked it in you. But the matter still stands that it has always beenyour way and never any one's else that you have taken. I can see youbeing stern even with a wife you thought you wholly loved if her willonce crossed yours. "

Peter Junior was silent and a little hurt. He rose and paced the room. "I can't think I could ever cross Betty, or be unkind. It seemspreposterous, " he said at last. 

"Perhaps it might never seem to you necessary. Peter, boy, listen. Yousay: 'She will be myself--my very own. ' Now what does that mean? Doesit mean that when you are married, her personality will be merged inyours, and so you two will be one? If so, you will not be completedand rounded out, and she will be lost in you. A man does not reach hisfull manhood to completion until he has loved greatly and truly, andhas found the one who is to complete him. At best, by ourselves, weare never wholly man or wholly woman until this great soul completionhas taken place in us. Then children come to us, and our very soulsare knit in one, and still the mystery goes on and on; never are wecompleted by being lost--either one--in the will or nature of theother; but to make the whole and perfect creature, each must retainthe individuality belonging to himself or herself, each to each theperfect and equal other half. "

Peter Junior paused in his walk and stood for a moment lookingdown on his mother, awed by what she revealed to him of her innernature. "I believe you have done this, mother. You have kept yourown individuality complete, and father doesn't know it. "

"Not yet, but my hand will always be in his, and some day he willknow. You are very like him, and yet you understand me as he neverhas, so you see how our oneness is wrought out in you. That which youhave in you of your father is good and strong: never lose it. The daymay come when you will be glad to have had such a father. Out in theworld men need such traits; but you must not forget that sometimes ittakes more strength to yield than to hold your own way. Yes, it takesstrength and courage sometimes to give up--and tremendous faith inGod. There! I hear him walking about. Go down and have your talk withhim. Remember what I say, dear, and don't get angry with your father. He loves you, too. "

"Have you said anything to him yet about--me--mother?"

"No. I have decided that it will be better for you to deal with himyourself--courageously. You'll remember?"

Peter Junior took her again in his arms as she rose and stood besidehim, and kissed her tenderly. "Yes, mother. Dear, good, wise mother!I'll try to remember all. It would have been easier for you, maybe, ifever father's mother had said to him the things you have just said tome. "

"Life teaches us these things. If we keep an open mind, so God fillsit. "

She stood still in the middle of the room, listening to his rapidsteps in the direction of the parlor. Then Hester did a thing veryunusual for her to do of a Sunday. She put on her shawl and bonnet andwalked out to see Mary Ballard. 

No one ever knew what passed between Peter Junior and his father inthat parlor. The Elder did not open his lips about it either at homeor at the bank. 

That Sunday evening some one saw Peter Junior and his cousin walkingtogether up the bluff where the old camp had stood, toward the sunset. The path had many windings, and the bluff was dark and brown, and thetwo figures stood out clear and strong against the sky of gold. Thatwas the last seen of either of the young men in the village. The onewho saw them told later that he knew they were "the twins" because oneof them walked with a stick and limped a little, and that the otherwas talking as if he were very much in earnest about something, for hewas moving his arm up and down and gesticulating. 

CHAPTER XII

MYSTERIOUS FINDINGS

Monday morning Elder Craigmile walked to the bank with the stubbornstraightening of the knees at each step that always betokenedirritation with him. Neither of the young men had appeared atbreakfast, a matter peculiarly annoying to him. Peter Junior he hadnot expected to see, as, owing to his long period of recovery, he hadnaturally been excused from rigorous rules, but his nephew surelymight have done that much out of courtesy, where he had always beentreated as a son, to promote the orderliness of the household. It wasunpardonable in the young man to lie abed in the morning thus when aguest in that home. It was a mistake of his wife to allow Peter Juniora night key. It induced late hours. He would take it from him. And asfor Richard--there was no telling what habits he had fallen intoduring these years of wandering. What if he had come home to them witha clear skin and laughing eye! Was not the "heart of man deceitfulabove all things and desperately wicked"? And was not Satan abroad inthe world laying snares for the feet of wandering youths?

It was still early enough for many of the workmen to be on their wayto their day of labor with their tin dinner pails, and among them Mr. Walters passed him, swinging his pail with the rest, although he wasmaster of his own foundry and employed fifty men. He had always goneearly to work, and carried his tin pail when he was one of theworkmen, and he still did it from choice. He, too, was a Scotchman ofa slightly different class from the Elder, it is true, but he was atrustee of the church, and a man well respected in the community. 

He touched his hat to the Elder, and the Elder nodded in return, butneither spoke a word. Mr. Walters smiled after he was well past. "Theman has a touch of the indigestion, " he said. 

When the Elder entered his front door at noon, his first glance was atthe rack in the corner of the hall, where, on the left-hand hook, Peter Junior's coat and hat had hung when he was at home, ever sincehe was a boy. They were not there. The Elder lifted his bushy browsone higher than the other, then drew them down to their usual straightline, and walked on into the dining room. His wife was not there, butin a moment she entered, looking white and perturbed. 

"Peter!" she said, going up to her husband instead of taking her placeopposite him, "Peter!" She laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Ihaven't seen the boys this morning. Their beds have not been sleptin. "

"Quiet yourself, lass, quiet yourself. Sit and eat in peace. 'Evilcommunications corrupt good manners, ' but when doom strikes him, he'llmaybe experience a change of heart. " The Elder spoke in a tone notunkindly. He seated himself heavily. 

Then his wife silently took her place at the table and he bowed hishead and repeated the grace to which she had listened three times aday for nearly thirty years, only that this time he added the requestthat the Lord would, in his "merciful kindness, strike terror to thehearts of all evildoers and turn them from their way. "

When the silent meal was ended, Hester followed her husband to thedoor and laid a detaining hand on his arm. He stood and looked down onthat slender white hand as if it were something that too sudden amovement would joggle off, and she did not know that it was as if shehad laid her hand on his very heart. "Peter, tell me what happenedyesterday afternoon. You should tell me, Peter. "

Then the Elder did an unwonted thing. He placed his hand over hers andpressed it harder on his arm, and after an instant's pause he stoopedand kissed her on the forehead. 

"I spoke the lad fair, Hester, and made him an offer, but he wouldnone of it. He thinks he is his own master, but I have put him in theLord's hands. "

"Has he gone, Peter?"

"Maybe, but the offer I made him was a good one. Comfort your heart, lass. If he's gone, he will return. When the Devil holds the whip, hemakes a hard bargain, and drives fast. When the boy is hard pressed, he will be glad to return to his father's house. "

"Richard's valise is gone. The maid says he came late yesterday afterI was gone, and took it away with him. "

"They are likely gone together. "

"But Peter's things are all here. No, they would never go like thatand not bid me good-by. "

The Elder threw out his hands with his characteristic downward gestureof impatience. "I have no way of knowing, more than you. It is nodoubt that Richard has become a ne'er-do-weel. He felt shame to tellus he was going a journey on the Sabbath day. "

"Oh, Peter, I think not. Peter, be just. You know your son was neverone to let the Devil drive; he is like yourself, Peter. And as forRichard, Peter Junior would never think so much of him if he were ane'er-do-weel. "

"Women are foolish and fond. It is their nature, and perhaps that ishow we love them most, but the men should rule, for their own good. Aman should be master in his own house. When the lad returns, the dooris open to him. That is enough. "

With a sorrowful heart he left her, and truth to tell, the sorrow wasmore for his wife's hurt than for his own. The one great tenderness ofhis life was his feeling for her, and this she felt rather than knew;but he believed himself absolutely right and that the hurt wasinevitable, and for her was intensified by her weakness and fondness. 

As for Hester, she turned away from the door and went quietly abouther well-ordered house, directing the maidservant and lookingcarefully over her husband's wardrobe. Then she did the same for PeterJunior's, and at last, taking her basket of mending, she sat in thelarge, lace-curtained window looking out toward the west--thedirection from which Peter Junior would be likely to come. For howlong she would sit there during the days to come--waiting--she littleknew. 

She was comforted by the thought of the talk she had had with him theday before. She knew he was upright, and she felt that thisquarrel--if it had been a quarrel--with his father would surely behealed; and then, there was Betty to call him back. The love of a girlwas a good thing for a man. It would be stronger to draw him and holdhim than love of home or of mother; it was the divine way forhumanity, and it was a good way, and she must be patient and wait. 

She was glad she had gone without delay to Mary Ballard. The two womenwere fond of each other, and the visit had been most satisfactory. Betty she had not seen, for the maiden was still sleeping the long, heavy sleep which saves a normal healthy body from wreck after severeemotion. Betty was so young--it might be best that matters should waitawhile as they were. 

If Peter Junior went to Paris now, he would have to earn his own way, of course, and possibly he had gone west with Richard where he couldearn faster than at home. Maybe that had been the grounds of thequarrel. Surely she would hear from him soon. Perhaps he had takentheir talk on Sunday afternoon as a good-by to her; or he might yetcome to her and tell her his plans. So she comforted herself in themost wholesome and natural way. 

Richard's action in taking his valise away during her absence andleaving no word of farewell for her was more of a surprise to her. Butthen--he might have resented the Elder's attitude and sided with hiscousin. Or, he might have feared he would say things he wouldafterwards regret, if he appeared, and so have taken himself quietlyaway. Still, these reasons did not wholly appeal to her, and she wasfilled with misgivings for him even more than for her son. 

Peter Junior she trusted absolutely and Richard she loved as a son;but there was much of his father in him, and the Irish nature waserratic and wild, as the Elder said. Where was that father now? Noone knew. It was one of the causes for anxiety she had for the boythat his father had been lost to them all ever since Richard's birthand his wife's death. He had gone out of their lives as completely asa candle in a gale of wind. She had mothered the boy, and the Elderhad always been kind to him for his own dead sister's sake, but of thefather they never spoke. 

It was while Hester Craigmile sat in her western window, thinking herthoughts, that two lads came hurrying down the bluff from the old campground, breathless and awed. One carried a straw hat, and the other astout stick--a stick with an irregular knob at the end. It was LarryKildene's old blackthorn that Peter Junior had been carrying. TheBallards' home was on the way between the bluff and the village, andMary Ballard was standing at their gate watching for the children fromschool. She wished Jamie to go on an errand for her. 

Mary noticed the agitation of the boys. They were John Walters andCharlie Dean--two chums who were always first to be around when therewas anything unusual going on, or to be found. It was they whodiscovered the fire in the foundry in time to have it put out. It wasthey who knew where the tramps were hiding who had been stealing fromthe village stores, and now Mary wondered what they had discovered. She left the gate swinging open and walked down to meet them. 

"What is it, boys?"

"We--we--found these--and--there's something happened, " panted theboys, both speaking at once. 

She took the hat of white straw from John's hand. "Why! This is PeterJunior's hat! Where did you find it?" She turned it about and sawdark red stains, as if it had been grasped by a bloody hand--fingermarks of blood plainly imprinted on the rim. 

"And this, Mrs. Ballard, " said Charlie, putting Peter Junior's stickin her hand, and pointing to the same red stains sunken into the knob. "We think there's been a fight and some one's been hit with this. "

She took it and looked at it in a dazed way. "Yes. He was carryingthis in the place of his crutch, " she said, as if to herself. 

"We think somebody's been pushed over the bluff into the river, Mrs. Ballard, for they's a hunk been tore out as big as a man, from theedge, and it's gone clean over, and down into the river. We can seewhere it is gone. And it's an awful swift place. "

She handed the articles back to the boys. 

"Sit down in the shade here, and I'll bring you some sweet apples, andif any one comes by, don't say anything about it until I have time toconsult with Mr. Ballard. "

She hurried back and passed quickly around the house, and on to herhusband, who was repairing the garden fence. 

"Bertrand, come with me quickly. Something serious has happened. Idon't want Betty to hear of it until we know what it is. "

They hastened to the waiting boys, and together they slowly climbedthe long path leading to the old camping place. Bertrand carried thestick and the hat carefully, for they were matters of great moment. 

"This looks grave, " he said, when the boys had told him their story. 

"Perhaps we ought to have brought some one with us--if anything--"said Mary. 

"No, no; better wait and see, before making a stir. "

It was a good half hour's walk up the hill, and every moment of thetime seemed heavily freighted with foreboding. They said no more untilthey reached the spot where the boys had found the edge of the blufftorn away. There, for a space of about two feet only, back from thebrink, the sparse grass was trampled, and the earth showed marks ofheels and in places the sod was freshly torn up. 

"There's been something happened here, you see, " said Charlie Dean. 

"Here is where a foot has been braced to keep from being pushed over;see, Mary? And here again. "

"I see indeed. " Mary looked, and stooping, picked something from theground that glinted through the loosened earth. She held it on heropen palm toward Bertrand, and the two boys looked intently at it. Herhusband did not touch it, but glanced quickly into her eyes and thenat the boys. Then her fingers closed over it, and taking herhandkerchief she tied it in one corner securely. 

"Did you ever see anything like it, boys?" she asked. 

"No, ma'am. It's a watch charm, isn't it? Or what?"

"I suppose it must be. "

"I guess the fellah that was being pushed over must 'a' grabbed forthe other fellah's watch. Maybe he was trying to rob him. "

"Let's see whether we can find anything else, " said John Walters, peering over the bluff. 

"Don't, John, don't. You may fall over. It might have been a fall, andone of them might have been trying to save the other, you know. Hemight have caught at him and pulled this off. There's no reason why weshould surmise the worst. "

"They might ha' been playing--you know--wrestling--and it might 'a'happened so, " said Charlie. 

"Naw! They'd been big fools to wrestle so near the edge of the bluffas this, " said the practical John. "I see something white way downthere, Mrs. Ballard. I can get it, I guess. "

"But take care, John. Go further round by the path. "

Both boys ran along the bluff until they came to a path that led downto the river. "Do be careful, boys!" called Mary. 

"Now, let me see that again, my dear, " and Mary untied the handkerchief. "Yes, it is what I thought. That belonged to Larry Kildene. He got itin India, although he said it was Chinese. He was a year in theBritish service in India. I've often examined it. I should have knownit anywhere. He must have left it with Hester for the boy. "

"Poor Larry! And it has come to this. I remember it on Richard's chainwhen he came out there to meet us in the grove. Bertrand, what shallwe do? They must have been here--and have quarreled--and what hashappened! I'm going back to ask Betty. "

"Ask Betty! My dear! What can Betty know about it?"

"Something upset her terribly yesterday morning. She was ill and withno cause that I could see, and I believe she had had a nervousshock. "

"But she seemed all right this morning, --a little pale, but otherwisequite herself. " Bertrand turned the little charm over in his hand. "He thought it was Chinese because it is jade, but this carving isEgyptian. I don't think it is jade, and I don't think it is Chinese. "

"But whatever it is, it was on Richard's chain Saturday, " said Mary, sadly. "And now, what can we do? On second thought I'll say nothing toBetty. If a tragedy has come upon the Craigmiles, it will also fall onher now, and we must spare her all of it we can, until we know. "

A call came to them from below, and Bertrand hastily handed the charmback to his wife, and she tied it again in her handkerchief. 

"Oh, Bertrand, don't go near that terrible brink. It might give way. I'm sure this has been an accident. "

"But the stick, Mary, and the marks of blood on Peter Junior's hat. I'm afraid--afraid. "

"But they were always fond of each other. They have been likebrothers. "

"And quarrels between brothers are often the bitterest. "

"But we have never heard of their quarreling, and they were so glad tosee each other Saturday. And you know Peter Junior was alwayspossessed to do whatever Richard planned. They were that way aboutenlisting, you remember, and everything else. What cause could Richardhave against Peter Junior?"

"We can't say it was Richard against Peter. You see the stick wasbloody, and it was Peter's. We must offer no opinion, no matter whatwe think, for the world may turn against the wrong one, and only timewill tell. "

They both were silent as the boys came panting up the bank. "Here's ahandkerchief. It was what I saw. It was caught on a thorn bush, andhere--here's Peter Junior's little notebook, with his name--"

"This is Peter's handkerchief. P. C. J. Hester Craigmile embroideredthose letters. " Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Bertrand, we must goto her. She may hear in some terrible way. "

"And the book, where was that, John?"

"It was lying on that flat rock. John had to crawl along the ledge onhis belly to get it; and here, I found this lead pencil, " criedCharlie, excited and important. 

"'Faber No. 2. ' Yes, this was also Peter's. " Bertrand shut it in thenotebook. "Mary, this looks sinister. We'd better go down. There'snothing more to learn here. "

"Maybe we'll find the young men both safely at home. "

"Richard was to leave early this morning. "

"I remember. "

Sadly they returned, and the two boys walked with them, gravely andearnestly propounding one explanation after another. 

"You'd better go back to the house, Mary, and I'll go on to thevillage with the boys. We'll consult with your father, John; he's athoughtful man, and--"

"And he's a coroner, too--" said John. 

"Yes, but if there's nobody found, who's he goin' to sit on?"

"They don't sit on the body, they sit on the jury, " said John, withcontempt. 

"Don't I know that? But they've got to find the body, haven't they, before they can sit on anything? Guess I know that much. "

"Now, boys, " said Bertrand, "this may turn out to be a very gravematter, and you must keep silent about it. It won't do to get the townall stirred up about it and all manner of rumors afloat. It must belooked into quietly first, by responsible people, and you must keepall your opinions and surmises to yourselves until the truth can belearned. "

"Don't walk, Bertrand; take the carryall, and these can be put underthe seat. Boys, if you'll go back there in the garden, you'll findsome more apples, and I'll fetch you out some cookies to go withthem. " The boys briskly departed. "I don't want Betty to see them, andwe'll be silent until we know what to tell her, " Mary added, as theywalked slowly up the front path. 

Bertrand turned off to the stable, carrying the sad trophies with him, and Mary entered the house. She looked first for Betty, but no Bettywas to be found, and the children were at home clamoring for somethingto eat. They always came home from school ravenously hungry. Maryhastily packed them a basket of fruit and cookies and sent them toplay picnic down by the brook. Still no Betty appeared. 

"Where is she?" asked Bertrand, as he entered the kitchen afterbringing up the carryall. 

"I don't know. She may have gone over to Clara Dean's. She spoke ofgoing there to-day. I'm glad--rather. "

"Yes, yes. "

A little later in the day, almost closing time at the bank, JamesWalters and Bertrand Ballard entered and asked to see the Elder. Theywere shown into the director's room, and found him seated alone at thegreat table in the center. He pushed his papers one side and rose, greeting them with his grave courtesy, as usual. 

Mr. Walters, a shy man of few words, looked silently at Mr. Ballardto speak, while the Elder urged them to be seated. "A warm day for theseason, and very pleasant to have it so. We'll hope the winter maycome late this year. "

"Yes, yes. We wish to inquire after your son, Elder Craigmile. Is heat home to-day?"

"Ah, yes. He was not at home--not when I left this noon. " The Eldercleared his throat and looked keenly at his friend. "Is it--ahem--amatter of business, Mr. Ballard?"

"Unfortunately, no. We have come to inquire if he--when he was last athome--or if his cousin--has been with you?"

"Not Richard, no. He came unexpectedly and has gone with as littleceremony, but my son was here on the Sabbath--ahem--He dined that daywith you, Mr. Ballard?"

"He did--but--Elder, will you come with us? A matter with regard tohim and his cousin should be looked into. "

"It is not necessary for me to interfere in matters regarding my sonany longer. He has taken the ordering of his life in his own handshereafter. As for Richard, he has long been his own master. "

"Elder, I beg you to come with us. We fear foul play of some sort. Itis not a question now of family differences of opinion. "

The Elder's face remained immovable, and Bertrand reluctantly added, "We fear either your son or his cousin, possibly both of them, havemet with disaster--maybe murder. "

A pallor crept over the Elder's face, and without a word further hetook his hat from a hook in the corner of the room, paused, and thencarefully arranged the papers he had pushed aside at their entranceand placing them in his desk, turned the key, still without a word. Atthe door he waited a moment with his hand on the knob, and with thecharacteristic lift of his brows, asked: "Has anything been said to mywife?"

"No, no. We thought best to do nothing until under your direction. "

"Thank you. That's well. Whatever comes, I would spare her all Ican. "

The three then drove slowly back to the top of the bluff, and on theway Bertrand explained to the Elder all that had transpired. "Itseemed best to Mary and me that you should look the ground overyourself, before any action be taken. We hoped appearances might bedeceptive, and that you would have information that would set ourfears at rest before news of a mystery should reach the town. "

"Where are the boys who found these things?"

Mr. Walters spoke, "My son was one of them, and he is now at home. They are forbidden to speak to any one until we know more about it. "

Arrived at the top of the bluff the three men went carefully over theground, even descending the steep path to the margin of the river. 

"There, " said Bertrand, "the notebook was picked up on that flat rockwhich juts out from that narrow ledge. John Walters crawled along theledge to get it. The handkerchief was caught on that thorn shrub, halfway up, see? And the pencil was picked up down here, somewhere. "

The Elder looked up to the top of the bluff and down at the rushingriver beneath, and as he looked he seemed visibly to shrink and becomein the instant an old man--older by twenty years. As they climbed backagain, his shoulders drooped and his breath came hard. As they nearedthe top, Bertrand turned and gave him his aid to gain a firm footingabove. 

"Don't forget that we can't always trust to appearances, " he urged. 

"Some heavy body--heavier than a clod of earth, has gone down there, "said the Elder, and his voice sounded weak and thin. 

"Yes, yes. But even so, a stone may have been dislodged. You can't besure. "

"Ay, the lads might have been wrestling in play--or the like--and senta rock over; it's like lads, that, " hazarded Mr. Walters. 

"Wrestling on the Sabbath evening! They are men, not lads. "

Mr. Walters looked down in embarrassment, and the old man continued. "Would a stone leave a handkerchief clinging to a thorn? Would itleave a notebook thrown down on yonder rock?" The Elder lifted hishead and looked to the sky: holding one hand above his head he shookit toward heaven. "Would a stone leave a hat marked with a bloodyhand--my son's hat? There has been foul play here. May the curse ofGod fall on him who has robbed me of my son, be he stranger or my ownkin. "

His voice broke and he reeled backward and would have fallen over thebrink but for Bertrand's quickness. Then, trembling and bowed, his twofriends led him back to the carryall and no further word was spokenuntil they reached the village, when the Elder said:--

"Will you kindly drive me to the bank, Mr. Ballard?"

They did so. No one was there, and the Elder quietly unlocked the doorand carried the articles found on the bluff into the room beyond andlocked them away. Bertrand followed him, loath to leave him thus, andanxious to make a suggestion. The Elder opened the door of a cupboardrecessed into the wall and laid the hat on a high shelf. Then he tookthe stick and looked at it with a sudden awakening in his eyes as ifhe saw it for the first time. 

"This stick--this blackthorn stick--accursed! How came it here? Ithought it had been burned. It was left years ago in my front hallby--Richard's father. I condemned it to be burned. "

"Peter Junior was using that in place of his crutch, no doubt becauseof its strength. He had it at my house, and I recognize it now as oneLarry brought over with him--"

"Peter was using it! My God! My God! The blow was struck with this. Itis my son who is the murderer, and I have called down the curse of Godon him? It falls--it falls on me!" He sank in his chair--the same inwhich he had sat when he talked with Peter Junior--and bowed his headin his arms. "It is enough, Mr. Ballard. Will you leave me?"

"I can't leave you, sir: there is more to be said. We must not behasty in forming conclusions. If any one was thrown over the bluff, itmust have been your son, for he was lame and could not have savedhimself. If he struck any one, he could not have killed him; forevidently he got away, unless he also went over the brink. If he gotaway, he must be found. There is something for you to do, ElderCraigmile. "

The old man lifted his head and looked in Bertrand's face, pitifullyseeking there for help. "You are a good man, Mr. Ballard. I need yourcounsel and help. "

"First, we will go below the rapids and search; the sooner the better, for in the strong current there is no telling how far--"

"Yes, we will search. " The Elder lifted himself to his full height, inspired by the thought of action. "We'll go now. " He looked down onhis shorter friend, and Bertrand looked up to him, his genial facesaddened with sympathy, yet glowing with kindliness. 

"Wait a little, Elder; let us consider further. Mr. Walters--sit down, Elder Craigmile, for a moment--Mr. Walters is capable, and he canorganize the search; for if you keep this from your wife, you must bediscreet. Here is something I haven't shown you before. It is thecharm from Richard's watch. It was almost covered with earth wherethey had been struggling, and Mary found it. You see there is amystery--and let us hope whatever happened was an accident. Theevidences are so--so--mingled, that no one may know whom to blame. "

The Elder looked down on the charm without touching it, as it lay onBertrand's palm. "That belonged--" his lips twitched--"that belongedto the man who took from me my twin sister. The shadow--forever theshadow of Larry Kildene hangs over me. " He was silent for somemoments, then he said: "Mr. Ballard, if, after the search, my son isfound to be murdered, I will put a detective on the trail of the manwho did the deed, and be he whom he may, he shall hang. "

"Hush, Elder Craigmile; in Wisconsin men are not hanged. "

"I tell you--be he whom he may--he shall suffer what is worse than tobe hanged, he shall enter the living grave of a life imprisonment. "

CHAPTER XIII

CONFESSION

By Monday evening there were only two people in all the small town ofLeauvite who had not heard of the tragedy, and these were HesterCraigmile and Betty Ballard. Mary doubted if it was wise to keepHester thus in ignorance, but it was the Elder's wish, and at hisrequest she went to spend the evening and if necessary the night withhis wife, to fend off any officious neighbor, while he personallydirected the search. 

It was the Elder's firm belief that his son had been murdered, yet hethought if no traces should be found of Peter Junior, he might be ableto spare Hester the agony of that belief. He preferred her to thinkher son had gone off in anger and would sometime return. He felthimself justified in this concealment, fearing that if she knew thetruth, she might grieve herself into her grave, and his request toMary to help him had been made so pitifully and humbly that her heartmelted at the sight of the old man's sorrow, and she went to spendthose weary hours with his wife. 

As the Elder sometimes had meetings of importance to take him away ofan evening, Hester did not feel surprise at his absence, and sheaccepted Mary's visit as one of sweet friendliness and courtesybecause of Peter's engagement to Betty. Nor did she wonder that thevisit was made without Bertrand, as Mary said he and the Elder hadbusiness together, and she thought she would spend the time with herfriend until their return. 

That was all quite as it should be and very pleasant, and Hesterfilled the moments with cheerful chat, showing Mary certain pieces ofcloth from which she proposed to make dainty garments for Betty, tohelp Mary with the girl's wedding outfit. To Mary it all seemed like adream as she locked the sad secret in her heart and listened. Herfriend's sorrow over Peter Junior's disagreement with his father andhis sudden departure from the home was tempered by the glad hope thatafter all the years of anxiety, she was some time to have a daughterto love, and that her boy and his wife would live near them, and herhome might again know the sound of happy children's voices. The sweetthoughts brought her gladness and peace of mind, and Mary's visit madethe dream more sure of ultimate fulfillment. 

Mary felt the Elder's wish lie upon her with the imperative force of alaw, and she did not dare disregard his request that on no account wasHester to be told the truth. So she gathered all her fortitude andcourage to carry her through this ordeal. She examined the fine linenthat had been brought to Hester years ago from Scotland by Richard'smother, and while she praised it she listened for steps without; theheavy tread of men bringing a sorrowful and terrible burden. But theminutes wore on, and no such sounds came, and the hour grew late. 

"They may have gone out of town. Bertrand said something about it, andtold me to stay until he called for me, if I stayed all night. " Marytried to laugh over it, and Hester seized the thought gayly. 

"We'll go to bed, anyway, and your husband may just go home withoutyou when he comes. "

And after a little longer wait they went to bed, and Hester slept, butMary lay wakeful and fearing, until in the early morning, while it wasyet dark, she heard the Elder slowly climb the stairs and go to hisroom. Then she also slept, hoping against hope, that they had foundnothing. 

Betty's pride and shame had caused her to keep her trouble to herself. She knew Richard had gone forever, and she dreaded Peter Junior's nextvisit. What should she do! Oh, what should she do! Should she tellPeter she did not love him, and that all had been a mistake? She musthumble herself before him, and what excuse had she to make for all thehours she had given him, and the caresses she had accepted? Ah! Ifonly she could make the last week as if it had never been! She wasshamed before her mother, who had seen him kiss her. She was ashamedeven in her own room in the darkness to think of all Peter Junior hadsaid to her, and the love he had lavished on her. Ought she to breakher word to him and beg him to forget? Ah! Neither he nor she couldever forget. 

Her brothers had been forbidden to tell her a word of the reports thatwere already abroad in the town, and now they were both in bed andasleep, and little Janey was cuddled in Betty's bed, also indreamland. At last, when neither her father nor her mother returnedand she could bear her own thoughts no longer, she brought drawingmaterials down from the studio and spread them out on the dining roomtable. 

She had decided she would never marry any one--never. How could she!But she would study in earnest and be an illustrator. If women couldnever become great artists, as Peter Junior said, at least they mightillustrate books; and sometime--maybe--when her heart was not so sad, she might write books, and she could illustrate them herself. Ah, thatwould almost make up for what she must go without all her life. 

For a while she worked painstakingly, but all the time it seemed asthough she could hear Richard's voice, and the words he had said toher Sunday morning kept repeating themselves over and over in hermind. Then the tears fell one by one and blurred her work, until atlast she put her head down on her arms and wept. Then the door openedvery softly and Richard entered. Swiftly he came to her and knelt ather side. He put his head on her knee, and his whole body shook withtearless sobs he could not restrain. He was faint and weak. She couldnot know the whole cause of his grief, and thought he suffered becauseof her. She must comfort him--but alas! What could she say? How couldshe comfort him?

She put her trembling hand on his head and found the hair matted andstiff. Then she saw a wound above his temple, and knew he was hurt, and cried out: "You are hurt--you are hurt! Oh, Richard! Let me dosomething for you. "

He clasped her in his arms, but still did not look up at her, andBetty forgot all her shame, and her lessons in propriety. She liftedhis head to her bosom and laid her cheek upon his and said all thecomforting things that came into her heart. She begged him to let herwash his wound and to tell her how he came by it. She forgoteverything, except that she loved him and told him over and over thesweet confession. 

At last he found strength to speak to her brokenly. "Never love me anymore, Betty. I've committed a terrible crime--Oh, my God! And you willhear of it Give me a little milk. I've eaten nothing since yesterdaymorning, when I saw you. Then I'll try to tell you what you mustknow--what all the world will tell you soon. "

He rose and staggered to a chair and she brought him milk and breadand meat, but she would not let him talk to her until he had allowedher to wash the wound on his head and bind it up. As she worked thetouch of her hands seemed to bring him sane thoughts in spite of thehorror of himself that possessed him, and he was enabled to speak morecoherently. 

"If I had not been crazed when I looked through the window and saw youcrying, Betty, I would never have let you see me or touch me again. It's only adding one crime to another to come near you. I meant justto look in and see if I could catch one glimpse of you, and then wasgoing to lose myself to all the world, or else give myself up to behung. " Then he was silent, and she began to question him. 

"Don't! Richard. Hung? What have you done? What do you mean? When wasit?"

"Sunday night. "

"But you had to start for Cheyenne early this morning. Where have youbeen all day? I thought you were gone forever, dear. "

"I hid myself down by the river. I lay there all day, and heard themtalking, but I couldn't see them nor they me. It was a hiding place weknew of when our camp was there--Peter Junior and I. He's gone. I didit--I did it with murder in my heart--Oh, my God!"

"Don't, Richard. You must tell me nothing except as I ask you. It isnot as if we did not love each other. What you have done I must helpyou bear--as--as wives help their husbands--for I will never marry;but all my life my heart will be married to yours. " He reached for herhands and covered them with kisses and moaned. "No, Richard, don't. Eat the bread and meat I have brought you. You've eaten nothing fortwo days, and everything may seem worse to you than it is. "

"No, no!"

"Richard, I'll go away from you and leave you here alone if you don'teat. "

"Yes, I must eat--not only now--but all the rest of my life, I musteat to live and repent. He was my dearest friend. I taunted him andsaid bitter things. I goaded him. I was insane with rage and at lastso was he. He struck me--and--and I--I was trying to push him over thebluff--"

Slowly it dawned on Betty what Richard's talk really meant. 

"Not Peter? Oh, Richard--not Peter!" She shrank from him, wide-eyed interror. 

"He would have killed me--for I know what was in his heart as well asI knew what was in my own--and we were both seeing red. I've felt itsometimes in battle, and the feeling makes a man drunken. A man willdo anything then. We'd been always friends--and yet we were drunkenwith hate; and now--he--he is better off than I. I must live. Unlessfor the disgrace to my relatives, I would give myself up to behanged. It would be better to take the punishment than to live in suchtorture as this. "

The tears coursed fast down Betty's cheeks. Slowly she drew nearerhim, and bent down to him as he sat, until she could look into hiseyes. "What were you quarreling about, Richard?"

"Don't ask me, darling Betty. "

"What was it, Richard?"

"All my life you will be the sweet help to me--the help that may keepme from death in life. To carry in my soul the remembrance of lastnight will need all the help God will let me have. If I had gone awayquietly, you and Peter Junior would have been married and have beenhappy--but--"

"No, no. Oh, Richard, no. I knew in a moment when you came--"

"Yes, Betty, dear, Peter Junior was good and faithful; and he mighthave been able to undo all the harm I had done. He could have taughtyou to love him. I have done the devil's work--and then I killedhim--Oh, my God! My God!"

"How do you know you pushed him over? He may have fallen over. Youdon't know it. He may have--"

"Hush, dearest. I did it. When I came to myself, it was in the night;and it must have been late, for the moon was set. I could only seefaintly that something white lay near me. I felt of it, and it wasPeter Junior's hat. Then I felt all about for him--and he was gone andI crawled to the edge of the bluff--but although I knew he was goneover there and washed by the terrible current far down the river bythat time, I couldn't follow him, whether from cowardice or weakness. I tried to get on my feet and could not. Then I must have faintedagain, for all the world faded away, and I thought maybe the blow haddone for me and I might not have to leap over there, after all. Icould feel myself slipping away. 

"When I awoke, the sun was shining and a bird was singing just as ifnothing had happened, and I thought I had been dreaming an awfuldream--but there was the wound on my head and I was alive. Then I wentfarther down the river and came back to the hiding place and crept inthere to wait and think. Then, after a long while, the boys came, andI was terrified for fear they were searching for me. That is theshameful truth, Betty. I feared. I never knew what fear was before. Betty, fear is shameful. There I have been all day--waiting--for what, I do not know; but it seemed that if I could only have one littleglimpse of you I could go bravely and give myself up. I will now--"

"No, Richard; it would do no good for you to die such a death. Itwould undo nothing, and change nothing. Peter was angry, too, and hestruck you, and if he could have his way he would not want you to die. I say maybe he is living now. He may not have gone over. "

"It's no use, Betty. He went down. I pushed him into that terribleriver. I did it. I--I--I!" Richard only moaned the words in a whisperof despair, and the horror of it all began to deepen and crush downupon Betty. She retreated, step by step, until she backed against thedoor leading to her chamber, and there she stood gazing at him withher hand pressed over her lips to keep herself from crying out. Thenshe saw him rise and turn toward the door without looking at heragain, his head bowed in grief, and the sight roused her. As the doorclosed between them she ran and threw it open and followed him outinto the darkness. 

"I can't, Richard. I can't let you go like this!" She clung to him, sobbing her heart out on his bosom, and he clasped her and held herwarm little body close. 

"I'm like a drowning man pulling you under with me. Your tears drownme. I would not have entered the house if I had not seen you crying. Never cry again for me, Betty, never. "

"I will cry. I tell you I will cry. I will. I don't believe you are amurderer. "

"You must believe it. I am. "

"I loved Peter Junior and you loved him. You did not mean to do it. "

"I did it. "

"If you did it, it is as if I did it, too. We both killed him--and Iam a murderer, too. It was because of me you did it, and if you giveyourself up to be hung, I will give myself up. Poor Peter--Oh, Richard--I don't believe he fell over. " For a long moment she sobbedthus. "Where are you going, Richard?" she asked, lifting her head. 

"I don't know, Betty. I may be taken and can go nowhere. "

"Yes, you must go--quick--quick--now. Some one may come and find youhere. "

"No one will find me. Cain was a wanderer over the face of theearth. "

"Will you let me know where you are, after you are gone?"

"No, Betty. You must never think of me, nor let me darken your life. "

"Then must I live all the rest of the years without even knowing whereyou are?"

"Yes, love. Put me out of your life from now on, and it will be enoughfor me that you loved me once. "

"I will help you atone, Richard. I will try to be brave--and helpPeter's mother to bear it. I will love her for Peter and for you. "

"God's blessing on you forever, Betty. " He was gone, striding away inthe darkness, and Betty, with trembling steps, entered the house. 

Carefully she removed every sign of his having been there. The bowl ofwater, and the cloth from which she had torn strips to bind his headshe carried away, and the glass from which he had taken his milk, shewashed, and even the crumbs of bread which had fallen to the floor shepicked up one by one, so that not a trace remained. Then she took herdrawing materials back to the studio, and after kneeling long at herbedside, and only saying: "God, help Richard, help him, " over andover, she crept in beside her little sister, and still weeping andpraying chokingly clasped the sleeping child in her arms. 

From that time, it seemed to Bertrand and Mary that a strange andsubtle change had taken place in their beloved little daughter; forwhich they tried to account as the result of the mysteriousdisappearance of Peter Junior. He was not found, and Richard also wasgone, and the matter after being for a long time the wonder of thevillage, became a thing of the past. Only the Elder cherished thethought that his son had been murdered, and quietly set a detectiveat work to find the guilty man--whom he would bring back tovengeance. 

Her parents were forced to acquaint Betty with the suspicious natureof Peter's disappearance, knowing she might hear of it soon and bemore shocked than if told by themselves. Mary wondered not a little ather dry-eyed and silent reception of it, but that was a part of thechange in Betty. 

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER XIV

OUT OF THE DESERT

"Good horse. Good horse. Good boy. Goldbug--go it! I know you'redying, but so am I. Keep it up a little while longer--Good boy. "

The young man encouraged his horse, while half asleep from utterweariness and faint with hunger and thirst. The poor beast scrambledover the rocks up a steep trail that seemed to have been long unused, or indeed it might be no trail at all, but only a channel worn byfierce, narrow torrents during the rainy season, now sun-baked anddry. 

The fall rains were late this year, and the yellow plains belowfurnished neither food nor drink for either man or beast. The herds ofbuffalo had long since wandered to fresher spaces nearer the riverbeds. The young man's flask was empty, and it was twenty-seven hourssince either he or his horse had tasted anything. Now they had reachedthe mountains he hoped to find water and game if he could only holdout a little longer. Up and still up the lean horse scrambled withnose to earth and quivering flanks, and the young man, leaning forwardand clinging to his seat as he reeled like one drunken, still murmuredwords of encouragement. "Good boy--Goldbug, go it. Good horse, keep itup. "

All at once the way opened out on a jutting crest and made a sharpturn to the right, and the horse paused on the verge so suddenly thathis rider lost his hold and fell headlong over into a scrub oak thatcaught him and held him suspended in its tough and twisted branchesabove a chasm so deep that the buzzards sailed on widespread wingsround and round in the blue air beneath him. 

He lay there still and white as death, mercifully unconscious, while an eagle with a wild scream circled about and perched on alightning-blasted tree far above and looked down on him. 

For a moment the yellow horse swayed weakly on the brink, then feelinghimself relieved of his burden, he stiffened himself to a last greateffort and held on along the path which turned abruptly away from theedge of the cliff and broadened out among low bushes and stuntedtrees. Here again the horse paused and stretched his neck and bit offthe tips of the dry twigs near him, then turned his head and whinniedto call his master, and pricked his ears to listen; but he only heardthe scream of the eagle overhead, and again he walked on, guided by aninstinct as mysterious and unerring as the call of conscience to ahuman soul. 

Good old beast! He had not much farther to go. Soon there was a soundof water in the air--a continuous roar, muffled and deep. The pathwound upward, then descended gradually until it led him to an open, grassy space, bordered by green trees. Again he turned his head andgave his intelligent call. Why did not his master respond? Why did helinger behind when here was grass and water--surely water, for thesmell of it was fresh and sweet. But it was well he called, for hisfriendly nicker fell on human ears. 

A man of stalwart frame, well built and spare, hairy and grizzled, butruddy with health, sat in a cabin hidden among the trees not fortypaces away, and prepared his meal of roasting quail suspended over thefire in his chimney and potatoes baking in the ashes. 

He lifted his head with a jerk, and swung the quail away from theheat, leaving it still suspended, and taking his rifle from its pegsstood for a moment in his door listening. For months he had not heardthe sound of a human voice, nor the nicker of any horse other than hisown. He called a word of greeting, "Hello, stranger!" but receiving noresponse he ventured farther from his door. 

Goldbug was eagerly grazing--too eagerly for his own good. The manrecognized the signs of starvation and led him to a tree, where hebrought him a little water in his own great tin dipper. Then herelieved him of saddle and bridle and left him tied while he hastilystowed a few hard-tack and a flask of whisky in his pocket, and takinga lasso over his arm, started up the trail on his own horse. 

"Some poor guy has lost his way and gone over the cliff, " hemuttered. 

The young man still lay as he had fallen, but now his eyes were openand staring at the sky. Had he not been too weak to move he would havegone down; as it was, he waited, not knowing if he were dead or in adream, seeing only the blue above him, and hearing only the scream ofthe eagle. 

"Lie still. Don't ye move. Don't ye stir a hair. I'll get ye. Stillnow--still. "

The big man's voice came to him as out of a great chasm, scarcelyheard for the roaring in his head, although he was quite near. Hisarms hung down and one leg swung free, but his body rested easilybalanced in the branches. Presently he felt something fall lightlyacross his chest, slip down to his hand, and then crawl slowly up hisarm to the shoulder, where it tightened and gripped. A vague hopeawoke in him. 

"Now, wait. I'll get ye; don't move. I'll have a noose around ye'r legnext, --so. " The voice had grown clearer, and seemed nearer, but theyoung man could make no response with his parched throat. 

"Now if I hurt ye a bit, try to stand it. " The man carried the longloop of his lasso around the cliff and wound it securely aroundanother scrub oak, and then began slowly and steadily to pull, untilthe young man moaned with pain, --to cry out was impossible. 

"I'll have ye in a minute--I'll have ye--there! Catch at my hand. Poorboy, poor boy, ye can't. Hold on--just a little more--there!" Strongarms reached for him. Strong hands gripped his clothing and lifted himfrom the terrible chasm's edge. 

"He's more dead than alive, " said the big man, as he strove to pour alittle whisky between the stranger's set teeth. "Well, I'll pack himhome and do for him there. "

He lifted his weight easily, and placing him on his horse, led theanimal to the cabin where he laid him in his own bunk. There, withcool water, and whisky carefully administered, the big man restoredhim enough to know that he was conscious. 

"There now, you'll come out of this all right. You've got a good bodyand a good head, young man, --lie by a little and I'll give ye somebroth. "

The man took a small stone jar from a shelf and putting in a littlewater, took the half-cooked quail from the fire, and putting it in thejar set it on the coals among the ashes, and covered it. From time totime he lifted the cover and stirred it about, sprinkling in a littlecorn meal, and when the steam began to rise with savory odor, he didnot wait for it to be wholly done, but taking a very little of thebroth in a tin cup, he cooled it and fed it to his patient drop bydrop until the young man's eyes looked gratefully into his. 

Then, while the young man dozed, he returned to his own uneaten meal, and dined on dried venison and roasted potatoes and salt. The big manwas a good housekeeper. He washed his few utensils and swept thehearth with a broom worn almost to the handle. Then he removed the jarcontaining the quail and broth from the embers, and set it aside inreserve for his guest. Whenever the young man stirred he fed him againwith the broth, until at last he seemed to sleep naturally. 

Seeing his patient quietly sleeping, the big man went out to thestarving horse and gave him another taste of water, and allowed him tograze a few minutes, then tied him again, and returned to the cabin. He stood for a while looking down at the pallid face of the sleepingstranger, then he lighted his pipe and busied himself about the cabin, returning from time to time to study the young man's countenance. Hispipe went out. He lighted it again and then sat down with his back tothe stranger and smoked and gazed in the embers. 

The expression of his face was peculiarly gentle as he gazed. Perhapsthe thought of having rescued a human being worked on his spiritkindly, or what not, but something brought him a vision of a paleface with soft, dark hair waving back from the temples, and large grayeyes looking up into his. It came and was gone, and came again, evenas he summoned it, and he smoked on. One watching him might havethought that it was his custom to smoke and gaze and dream thus. 

At last he became aware that the stranger was trying to speak to himin husky whispers. He turned quickly. 

"Feeling more fit, are you? Well, take another sup of broth. Can't letyou eat anything solid for a bit, but you can have all of the brothnow if you want it. "

As he stooped over him the young man's fingers caught at his shirtsleeve and pulled him down to listen to his whispered words. 

"Pull me out of this--quickly--quickly--there's a--party--downthe--mountain--dying of thirst. Is this Higgins' Camp? I--I--tried toget there for--for help. " He panted and could say no more. 

The big man whistled softly. "Thought you'd get to Higgins' Camp?You're sixty miles out of the way--or more, --twice that, way you'vecome. You took the wrong trail and you've gone forty miles one waywhen you should have gone as far on the other. I did it myself once, and never undid it. "

The patient looked hungrily at the tin cup from which he had beentaking the broth. "Can you give me a little more?"

"Yes, drink it all. It won't hurt ye. "

"I've got to get up. They'll die. " He struggled and succeeded inlifting himself to his elbow and with the effort he spoke morestrongly. "May I have another taste of the whisky? I'm comingstronger now. I left them yesterday with all the food--only abit--and a little water--not enough to keep them alive much longer. Yesterday--God help them--was it yesterday--or days ago?"

The older man had a slow, meditative manner of speech as if he hadlong been in the way of speaking only to himself, unhurried, and atpeace. "It's no use your trying to think that out, young man, and Ican't tell you. Nor you won't be able to go for them in a while. No. "

"I must. I must if I die. I don't care if I die--but they--I must go. "He tried again to raise himself, but fell back. Great drops stood outon his forehead and into his eyes crept a look of horror. "It'sthere!" he said, and pointed with his finger. 

"What's there, man?"

"The eye. See! It's gone. Never mind, it's gone. " He relaxed, and hisface turned gray and his eyes closed for a moment, then he said again, "I must go to them. "

"You can't go. You're delirious, man. "

Then the stranger's lips twitched and he almost smiled. "Because I sawit? I saw it watching me. It often is, and it's not delirium. I cango. I am quite myself. "

That half smile on the young man's face was reassuring and appealing. The big man could not resist it. 

"See here, are you enough yourself to take care of yourself, if Ileave you and go after them--whoever they are?"

"Yes, oh, yes. "

"Will you be prudent--stay right here, eat very sparingly? Are theyback on the plain? If so, there is a long ride ahead of me, but myhorse is fresh. If they are not off the trail by which you came, I canreach them. "

"I did not once leave the trail after--there was no other way I couldtake. "

"Would they likely stay right where you left them?"

"They couldn't move if they tried. Oh, my God--if I were only myselfagain!"

"Never waste words wishing, young man. I'll get them. But you mustgive me your promise to wait here. Will you be prudent and wait?"

"Yes, yes. "

"You'll be stronger before you know it, and then you'll want to leave, you know, and go for them yourself. Don't do that. I'll give yourhorse a bit more to eat and drink, and tie him again, then there'll beno need for you to leave this bunk until to-morrow. I'm to follow thetrail you came up by, and not leave it until I come to--whoever it is?Right. Do you give me your word, no matter how long gone I may be, notto leave my place here until I return, or send?"

"Oh, yes, yes. "

"Good. I'll trust you. There's a better reason than I care to give youfor this promise, young man. It's not a bad one. "

The big man then made his preparations rapidly, pausing now and thento give the stranger instructions as to where to find provisions andhow to manage there by himself, and inquiring carefully as to theparty he was to find. He packed saddlebags with supplies, and waterflasks, and, as he moved about, continued to question and admonish. 

"By the time I get back you'll be as well as ever you were. Acouple of days--and you'll be fuming round instead of waiting inpatience--that's what I tell you. I'll fetch them--do you hear?I'll do it. Now what's your name? Harry King? Harry King--verywell, I have it. And the party? Father and mother and daughter. Familyparty. I see. Big fools, no doubt. No description needed, I guess. Bird? Name Bird? No. McBride, --very good. Any name with a Mac to itgoes on this mountain--that means me. I'm the mountain. Any one Idon't want here I pack off down the trail, and _vice versa_. "

Harry King lay still and heard the big man ride away. He heard his ownhorse stamping and nickering, and heaving a great sigh of relief hismuscles relaxed, and he slept soundly on his hard bed. For hours hehad fought off this terrible languor with a desperation born of terrorfor those he had left behind him, who looked to him as their onlyhope. Now he resigned their fate to the big man whose eyes had lookedso kindly into his, with a childlike feeling of rest and content. Helay thus until the sun rose high in the heavens the next morning, whenhe was awakened by the insistent neighing of his horse which had risenalmost to a cry of fear. 

"Poor beast. Poor beast, " he muttered. His vocal chords seemed to havestiffened and dried, and his attempt to call out to reassure theanimal resulted only in a hoarse croak. He devoured the meat of thelittle quail left in the jar and drank the few remaining drops ofbroth, then crawled out to look after the needs of his horse beforemaking further search for food for himself. He gathered all his littlestrength to hold the frantic creature, maddened with hunger, andtethered him where he could graze for half an hour, then fetched himwater as the big man had done, a little at a time in the greatdipper. 

After these efforts he rested, sitting in the doorway in the sun, andthen searched out a meal for himself. The big man's larder was wellstocked, and although Harry King did not appear to be a western man, he was a good camper, and could bake a corn dodger or toss a flapjackwith a fair amount of skill. As he worked, everything seemed like adream to him. The murmuring of the trees far up the mountain side, thedistant roar of falling water that made him feel as if a little wayoff he might find the sea, filled his senses with an impression ofunseen forces at work all about him, and the peculiar clearness andlightness of the atmosphere made him feel as if he were swaying overthe ground and barely touching his feet to the earth, instead ofwalking. He might indeed be in an enchanted land, were it not for hishunger and the reality of his still hungry horse. 

After eating, he again stretched himself on the earth and again sleptuntil his horse awakened him. It was well. The sun was setting in thegolden notch of the hills, and once more he set himself to the sametask of laboriously giving his horse water and tethering him where thegrass was lush and green, then preparing food for himself, thensitting in the doorway and letting the peace of the place sink intohis soul. 

The horror of his situation when the big man found him had made noimpression, for he had mercifully been unconscious and too stupefiedwith weariness to realize it. He had even no idea of how he had cometo the cabin, or from which direction. Inertly he thought over it. Atrail seemed to lead away to the southwest. He supposed he must havecome by it, but he had not. It was only the path made by his rescuerin going to and fro between his garden patch and his cabin. 

In the loneliness and peace of the dusk he looked up and saw the domeabove filled with stars, and all things were so vast and inexplicablethat he was minded to pray. The longing and the necessity of prayerwas upon him, and he stood with arms uplifted and eyes fixed on thestars, --then his head sank on his breast and he turned slowly into thecabin and lay down on the bunk with his hands pressed over his eyes, and moaned. Far into the night he lay thus, unsleeping, now and againuttering that low moan. Toward morning he again slept until far intothe day, and thus passed the first two days of his stay. 

Strength came to him rapidly as the big man had said, and soon he wasrestlessly searching the short paths all about for a way by which hemight find the plain below. He did not forget the promise which hadbeen exacted from him to remain, no matter how long, until the bigman's return, but he wished to discover whence he might arrive, andperhaps journey to meet him on the way. 

The first trail he followed led him to the fall that ever roared inhis ears. He stood amazed at its height and volume, and its wonderfulbeauty. It lured him and drew him again and again to the spot fromwhich he first viewed it. Midway of its height he stood where everynow and then a little stronger breeze carried the fine mist of thefall in his face. Behind him lay the garden, ever watered thus by thewind-blown spray. Smoothly the water fell over a notch worn by itsnever ceasing motion in what seemed the very crest of the mountain farabove him. Smoothly it fell into the rainbow mists that lost its basein a wonderful iridescence of shadows and quivering, never restinglights as far below him. 

He caught his breath, and remembered the big man's words. "You missedthe trail to Higgins' Camp a long way back. It's easily done. I did itmyself once, and never undid it. " He could not choose but return overand over to that spot. A wonderful ending to a lost trail for a lostsoul. 

The next path he followed took him to a living spring, where the bigman was wont to lead his own horse to water, and from whence he ledthe water to his cabin in a small flume to always drip and tricklepast his door. It was at the end of this flume that Harry King hadfilled the large dipper for his horse. Now he went back and washedthat utensil carefully, and hung it beside the door. 

The next trail he followed led by a bare and more forbidding route tothe place where the big man had rescued him, and he knew it must bethe one by which he had come. A sense of what had happened came overhim terrifyingly, and he shrank from the abyss, his body quivering andhis head reeling. He would not look down into the blue depth, knowingthat if he did so, by that way his sanity would leave him, but hecrawled cautiously around the projecting cliff and wandered down thestony trail. Now and again he called, "Whoopee! Whoopee!" but only hisown voice came back to him many times repeated. 

Again and again he called and listened, "Whoopee! Whoopee!" and wasregretful at the thought that he did not even know the name of the manwho had saved him. Could he also save the others? The wild trail drewhim and fascinated him. Each day he followed a little farther, andmorning and evening he called his lonely cry, "Whoopee! Whoopee!" andstill was answered by the echo in diminuendo of his own voice. Hetried to resist the lure of that narrow, sun-baked, and stony descent, which he felt led to the nethermost hell of hunger and burning thirst, but always it seemed to him as if a cry came up for help, and if itwere not that he knew himself bound by a promise, he would have takenhis horse and returned to the horror below. 

Each evening he reasoned with himself, and repeated the big man'swords for reassurance: "I'll fetch them, do you hear? I'll fetchthem, " and again: "I'm the mountain. Any one I don't want here I packoff down the trail. " Perhaps he had taken them off to Higgins' Campinstead of bringing them back with him--what then? Harry King bowedhis head at the thought. Then he understood the lure of the trail. What then? Why, then--he would follow--follow--follow--until he foundagain the woman for whom he had dared the unknown and to whom he hadgiven all but a few drops of water that were needed to keep him alivelong enough to find more for her. He would follow her back into thathell below the heights. But how long should he wait? How long shouldhe trust the man to whom he had given his promise?

He decided to wait a reasonable time, long enough to allow for the bigman's going, and slow returning--long enough indeed for them to use upall the provisions he had packed down to them, and then he would breakhis promise and go. In the meantime he tried to keep himself sane bydoing what he found to do. He gathered the ripe corn in the big man'sgarden patch and husked it and stored it in the shed which was builtagainst the cabin. Then he stored the fodder in a sort of stable builtof logs, one side of which was formed by a huge bowlder, orprojecting part of the mountain itself, not far from the spring, whereevidently it had been stored in the past, and where he supposed theman kept his horse in winter. He judged the winters must be verysevere for the care with which this shed was covered and the windholes stopped. And all the time he worked each day seemed a month ofdays, instead of a day of hours. 

At last he felt he was justified in trying to learn the cause of thedelay at least, and he baked many cakes of yellow corn meal andbrowned them well on the hearth, and roasted a side of bacon whole asit was, and packed strips of dried venison, and filled his water flaskat the spring. After a long hunt he found empty bottles which hewrapped round with husks and filled also with water. These he purposedto hang at the sides of his saddle. He had carefully washed and mendedhis clothing, and searching among the big man's effects, he found arazor, dull and long unused. He sharpened and polished and stroppedit, and removed a vigorous growth of beard from his face, before alittle framed mirror. To-morrow he would take the trail down into thehorror from which he had come. 

Now it only remained for him to look well to the good yellow horse andsleep one more night in the friendly big man's bunk, then up beforethe sun and go. 

The nights were cold, and he thought he would replenish the fire onhis hearth, for he always had the feeling that at any moment theymight come wearily climbing up the trail, famished and cold. Any nighthe might hear the "Halloo" of the big man's voice. In the shed wherehe had piled the husked corn lay wood cut in lengths for thefireplace, and taking a pine torch he stooped to collect a fewsticks, when, by the glare of the light he held, he saw what he hadnever seen in the dim daylight of the windowless place. A heavy ironring lay at his feet, and as he kicked at it he discovered that it wasattached to something covered with earth beneath. 

Impelled by curiosity he thrust the torch between the logs and removedthe earth, and found a huge bin of hewn logs carefully fitted andsmoothed on the inside. The cover was not fastened, but only held inplace by the weight of stones and earth piled above it. This bin washalf filled with finely broken ore, and as he lifted it in his handsyellow dust sifted through his fingers. 

Quivering with a strange excitement he delved deeper, lifting theprecious particles by handfuls, feeling of it, sifting it between hisfingers, and holding the torch close to the mass to catch the dullglow of it. For a long time he knelt there, wondering at it, dreamingover it, and feeling of it. Then he covered it all as he had found it, and taking the wood for which he had come, he replenished the fire andlaid himself down to sleep. 

What was gold to him? What were all the riches of the earth and of thecaves of the earth? Only one thought absorbed him, --the woman whom hehad left waiting for him on the burning plain, and a haunting memorythat would never leave him--never be stilled. 

CHAPTER XV

THE BIG MAN'S RETURN

The night was bitter cold after a day of fierce heat. Three peopleclimbed the long winding trail from the plains beneath, slowly, carefully, and silently. A huge mountaineer walked ahead, leading alean brown horse. Seated on the horse was a woman with long, paleface, and deeply sunken dark eyes that looked out from under arched, dark brows with a steady gaze that never wandered from some point justahead of her, not as if they perceived anything beyond, but more as ifthey looked backward upon some terror. 

Behind them on a sorrel horse--a horse slenderer and evidently ofbetter stock than the brown--rode another woman, also with dark eyes, now heavy lidded from weariness, and pale skin, but younger andstronger and more alert to the way they were taking. Her face wasbuilt on different lines: a smooth, delicately modeled oval, wide atthe temples and level of brow, with heavy dark hair growing low overthe sides of the forehead, leaving the center high, and the arch ofthe head perfect. Trailing along in the rear a small mule followed, bearing a pack. 

Sometimes the big man walking in front looked back and spoke a word ofencouragement, to which the younger of the two women replied in lowtones, as if the words were spoken under her breath. 

"We'll stop and rest awhile now, " he said at last, and led the horseto one side, where a level space made it possible for them to dismountand stretch themselves on the ground to give their weary limbs theneeded relaxation. 

The younger woman slipped to the ground and led her horse forward towhere the elder sat rigidly stiff, declining to move. 

"It is better we rest, mother. The kind man asks us. "

"Non, Amalia, non. We go on. It is best that we not wait. "

Then the daughter spoke rapidly in their own tongue, and the motherbowed her head and allowed herself to be lifted from the saddle. Herdaughter then unrolled her blanket and, speaking still in her owntongue, with difficulty persuaded her mother to lie down on themountain side, as they were directed, and the girl lay beside her, covering her tenderly and pillowing her mother's head on her arm. Thebig man led the animals farther on and sat down with his back againsta great rock, and waited. 

They lay thus until the mother slept the sleep of exhaustion; thenAmalia rose cautiously, not to awaken her, and went over to him. Herteeth chattered with the cold, and she drew a little shawl closeracross her chest. 

"This is a very hard way--so warm in the day and so cold in the night. It is not possible that I sleep. The cold drives me to move. "

"You ought to have put part of that blanket over yourself. It's goingto be a long pull up the mountain, and you ought to sleep a little. Walk about a bit to warm yourself and then try again to sleep. "

"Yes. I try. "

She turned docilely and walked back and forth, then very quietly creptunder the blanket beside her mother. He watched them a while, and whenhe deemed she also must be sleeping, he removed his coat and gentlylaid it over the girl. By that time darkness had settled heavily overthe mountain. The horses ceased browsing among the chaparral and laydown, and the big man stretched himself for warmth close beside hissorrel horse, on the stony ground. Thus in the stillness they allslept; at last, over the mountain top the moon rose. 

Higher and higher it crept up in the sky, and the stars waned beforeits brilliant whiteness. The big man roused himself then, and lookedat the blanket under which the two women slept, and with a mutteredword of pity began gathering weeds and brush with which to build afire. It should be a very small fire, hidden by chaparral from theplains below, and would be well stamped out and the charred placecovered with stones and brush when they left it. Soon he had steeped apot of coffee and fried some bacon, then he quickly put out his fireand woke the two women. The younger sprang up, and, finding his coatover her, took it to him and thanked him with rapid utterance. 

"Oh, you are too kind. I am sorry you have deprive yourself of yourcoat to put it over me. That is why I have been so warm. "

The mother rose and shook out her skirt and glanced furtively abouther. "It is not the morning? It is the moon. That is well we goearly. " She drank the coffee hurriedly and scarcely tasted the baconand hard biscuit. "It is no toilet we have here to make. So we go morequickly. So is good. "

"But you must eat the food, mother. You will be stronger for the long, hard ride. You have not here to hurry. No one follows us here. "

"Your father may be already by the camp, Amalia--to bring ushelp--yes. But of those men 'rouge'--if they follow and rob us--"

The two women spoke English out of deference to the big man, and onlydropped into their own language or into fluent French when necessitycompelled them, or they thought themselves alone. 

"Ah, but those red men, mother, they do not come here, so the kind mantold us, for now they are also kind. Sit here and eat the biscuit. Iwill ask him. "

She went over to where he stood by the animals, pouring a very littlewater from the cans carried by the pack mule for each one. "They'llhave to hold out on this for the day, but they may only have half ofit now, " he said. 

"What shall I do?" Amalia looked with wide, distressed eyes in hisface. "She believes it yet, that my father lives and has gone to thecamp for help. She thinks we go to him, --to the camp. How can I tellher? I cannot--I dare not. "

"Let her think what satisfies her most. We can tell her as much as isbest for her to know, a little at a time, and there will be plenty oftime to do it in. We'll be snowed up on this mountain all winter. " Theyoung woman did not reply, but stood perfectly still, gazing off intothe moonlit wilderness. "When people get locoed this way, the onlything is to humor them and give them a chance to rest satisfied insomething--no matter what, much, --only so they are not hectored. Nomind can get well when it is being hectored. "

"Hectored? That is to mean--tortured? Yes, I understand. It is that wenot suffer the mind to be tortured?"

"About that, yes. "

"Thank you. I try to comfort her. But it is to lie to her? It is not asin, when it is for the healing?"

"I'm not authority on that, Miss, but I know lying's a blessingsometimes. "

"If I could make her see the marvelous beauty of this way we go, butshe will not look. Me, I can hardly breathe for the wonder--yet--I donot forget my father is dead. "

"I'm starting you off now, because it will not be so hard on eitheryou or the horses to travel by night, as long as it is light enough tosee the way. Then when the sun comes out hot, we can lie by a bit, aswe did yesterday. "

"Then is no fear of the red men we met on the plains?"

"They're not likely to follow us up here--not at this season, and nowthe railroad's going through, they're attracted by that. "

"Do they never come to you, at your home?"

"Not often. They think I'm a sort of white 'medicine man'--kind of ahoodoo, and leave me alone. "

She looked at him with mystification in her eyes, but did not ask whathe meant, and returned to her mother. 

"I have eaten. Now we go, is not?"

"Yes, mother. The kind man says we go on, and the red men will notfollow us. "

"Good. I have afraid of the men 'rouge. ' Your father knows not fear;only I know it. "

Soon they were mounted and traveling up the trail as before, thelittle pack mule following in the rear. No breeze stirred to make thefrosty air bite more keenly, and the women rode in comparativecomfort, with their hands wrapped in their shawls to keep them warm. They did not try to converse, or only uttered a word now and then intheir own tongue. Amalia's spirit was enrapt in the beauty around andabove and below her, so that she could not have spoken more than themerest word for a reply had she tried. 

The moonlight brought all the immediate surroundings into sharprelief, and the distant hills in receding gradations seemed to becreated out of molten silver touched with palest gold. Above, thevault of the heavens was almost black, and the stars were few, butclear. Even the stones that impeded the horses' feet seemed to be madeof silver. The depths below them seemed as vast and black as the vaultabove, except for the silver bath of light that touched the tops ofthe gigantic trees at the bottom of the cañon around which they wereclimbing. 

The silence of this vastness was as fraught with mystery as the scene, and was broken only by the scrambling of the horses over the stonesand their heavy breathing. Thus throughout the rest of the night theywended steadily upward, only pausing now and then to allow the animalsto breathe, and then on. At last a thing occurred to break thestillness and strike terror to Amalia's heart. It had occurred oncethe day before when the silence was most profound. A piercing cry rentthe air, that began in a scream of terror and ended in a long-drawnwail of despair. 

Amalia slipped from her horse and stumbled over the rough ground toher mother's side and poured forth a stream of words in her owntongue, and clasped her arms about the rigid form that did not bendtoward her, but only sat staring into the white night as if her eyeperceived a sight from which she could not turn away. 

"Look at me, mother. Oh, try to make her look at me!" The big manlifted her from the horse, and she relaxed into trembling. "There, itis gone now. Walk with me, mother;" and the two walked for a while, holding hands, and Amalia talked unceasingly in low, soothing tones. 

After a little time longer the moon paled and the stars disappeared, and soon the sky became overspread with the changing coloring and thesplendor of dawn. Then the sun rose out of the glory, but still theykept on their way until the heat began to overcome them. Then theyhalted where some pines and high rocks made a shelter, but this timethe big man did not build a fire. He gave them a little coffee whichhe had saved for them from what he had steeped during the night, andthey ate and rested, and the mother fell quickly into the sleep ofexhaustion, as before. 

Thus during the middle of the day they rested, Amalia and the big mansometimes sleeping and sometimes conversing quietly. 

"I don't know why mother does this. I never knew her to untilyesterday. Father never used to let her look straight ahead of her asshe does now. She has always been very brave and strong. She has donewonderful things--but I was not there. When troubles came on myfather, I was put in a convent--I know now it was to keep me fromharm. I did not know then why I was sent away from them, for my fatherwas not of the religion of the good sisters at the convent, --but nowI know--it was to save me. "

"Why did troubles come on your father?"

"What he did I do not know, but I am very sure it was nothing wrong. In my country sometimes men have to break the law to do right; mymother has told me so. He was in prison a long time when I was livingin the convent, sheltered and cared for, --and mother--mother wasworking all alone to get him out--all alone suffering. "

"How could they keep you there if she had to work so hard?"

"My father had a friend. He was not of our country, and he was mostkind and good. I think he was of Scotland--or maybe of Ireland; I wasso little I do not know. He saved for my mother some of her money sothe government did not get it. I think my mother gave it to him, once--before the trouble came. Maybe she knew it would come, --anyway, so it was. I do not know if he was Irish, or of Scotland--but he musthave been a good man. "

"Been? Is he dead?"

"Yes. It was of a fever he died. My mother told me. He gave us hisname, and to my father his papers to leave our country, for he knew hewould die, or my father never could have got out of the country. Inever saw him but once. When I saw you, I thought of him. He was grandand good, as are you. My mother came for me at the convent in Paris, and in the night we went to my father, and in the morning we went tothe great ship. We said McBride, and all was well. If we had saidManovska when we took the ship, we would have been sent back and myfather would have been killed. In the prison we would have died. Itwas hard to get on the ship, but when we got to this country, nobodycared who got off. "

"How long ago was that?"

"It was at the time of your great war we came. My mother wore thedress of our peasant women, and I did the same. "

"And were you quite safe in this country?"

"For a long time we lived very quietly, and we thought we were. Butafter a time some one came, and father took him in, and then otherscame, and went away again, and came again--I don't know why--they didnot tell me, --but this I know. Some one had a great enmity against myfather, and at last mother took me in the night to a strange placewhere we knew no one, and then we went to another place--and to stillanother. It was very wearisome. "

"What was your father's business?"

"My father had no business. He was what you call a nobleman. He hadvery much land, but he was generous and gave it nearly all away to hispoor people. My father was very learned and studied much. He made muchmusic--very beautiful--not for money--never for that. Only after wecame to this country did he so, to live. Once he played in a greatorchestra. It was then those men found him and came so often that hehad again to go away and hide. I think they brought him papers--veryimportant--to be sacredly guarded until a right time should come toreveal them. "

"And you have no knowledge why he was followed and persecuted?"

"I was so little at the beginning I do not know. If it was that inhis religion he was different, --or if he was trying to change inthe government the laws, --for we are not of Russia, --I know that whenhe gave away his land, the other noblemen were very angry with him, and at the court--where my father was sent by his people forreasons--there was a prince, --I think it was about my mother he hatedmy father so, --but for what--that I never heard. But he had myfather imprisoned, and there in the prison they--What was thatword, --hectored? Yes. In the prison they hectored him greatly--sogreatly that never more was he straight. It was very sad. "

"I don't think we would say hectored, for that. I think we would saytortured. "

"Oh, yes. I see. To hector is of the mind, but torture is of the body. It is that I mean--for they were very terrible to him. My mother wasthere, and they made her look at it to bring him the more quickly totell for her sake what he would not for his own. I think when shelooks long before her at nothing, she is seeing again the tortures ofmy father, and so she cries out in that terrible way. I think so. "

"What were they trying to get out of him?"

Amalia looked up in his face with a puzzled expression for a moment. "Get--out--of--him?" she asked. 

"I mean, what did they want him to tell?"

"Ah, that I know not. It was never told. If they could find him, Ithink they would try again to learn of him something which he only cantell. I think if they could find my mother, they would now try tolearn from her what my father knew, but her lips are like the grave. At that time he had told her nothing, but since then--when we were farout in the wilderness--I do not know. I hope my mother will never befound. Is it a very secret place to which we go?"

"I might call it that--yes. I've lived there for twenty years and nowhite man has found me yet, until the young man, Harry King, waspitched over the edge of eternity and only saved by a--well--achance--likely. "

The young woman gazed at him wide-eyed, and drew in her breath. "Yousaved him. "

"If he obeyed me--I did. "

"And all the twenty years were you alone?"

"I always had a horse. "

"But for a companion--had you never one?"

"Never. "

"Are you, too, a good man who has done a deed against the law of yourland?"

The big man looked off a moment, then down at her with a little smileplaying about his lips. "I never did a deed against the law of anyland that I know of, but as for the good part--that's another thing. Imay be fairly good as goodness goes. "

"Goodnessgoes!" She repeated after him as if it were one word fromwhich she was trying to extract a meaning. "Was it then to flee fromthe wicked world that you lived all the twenty years thus alone?"

"Hardly that, either. To tell the truth, it may be only a habit withme. "

"Will you forgive me that I asked? It was only that to me it has beenterrible to live always in hiding and fear. I love people, and desiregreatly to have kind people near me, --but of the world where my fatherand mother lived, and at the court--and of the nobles, of all these Iam afraid. "

"Yes, yes. I fancy you were. " A grim look settled about his mouth, although his eyes twinkled kindly. He marveled to think how trustinglythey accompanied him into this wilderness--but then--poor babes! Whatelse could they do? "You'll be safe from all the courts and nobles inthe world where I'm taking you. "

"That is why my eyes do not weep for my father. He is now gone wherenone can find him but God. It is very terrible that a good man shouldalways hide--hide and live in fear--always--even from his own kinsmen. I understand some of the sorrows of the world. "

"You'll forget it all up there. "

"I will try if my mother recovers. " She drew in her breath with alittle quivering catch. 

"We'll wake her now, and start on. It won't do to waste daylight anylonger. " Secretly he was afraid that they might be followed byIndians, and was sorry he had made the fire in the night, but hereasoned that he could never have brought them on without suchrefreshment. Women are different from men. He could eat raw bacon andhard-tack and go without coffee, when necessary, but to ask women todo so was quite another thing. 

For long hours now they traveled on, even after the moon had set, inthe darkness. It was just before the dawn, where the trail wound anddoubled on itself, that the sorrel horse was startled by a smallrolling stone that had been loosened on the trail above them. Instantly the big man halted where they were. 

"Are you brave enough to wait here a bit by your mother's horse whileI go on? That stone did not loosen itself. It may be nothing but somelittle beast, --if it were a bear, the horses would have made a fuss. "

He mounted the sorrel and went forward, leaving her standing on thetrail, holding the leading strap of her mother's horse, which tossedits head and stepped about restlessly, trying to follow. She pettedand soothed the animal and talked in low tones to her mother. Thenwith beating heart she listened. Two men's voices came down toher--one, the big man's--and the other--yes, she had heard it before. 

"It is 'Arry King, mother. Surely he has come down to meet us, " shesaid joyfully. She would have hurried on, but bethought herself shewould better wait as she had been directed. Soon the big man returned, looking displeased and grim. 

"Young chap couldn't wait. He gave me his promise, but he didn't keepit. "

"It was 'Arry King?" He made no reply, and they resumed their way asbefore. "It was long to wait, and nothing to do, " she pleaded, divining his mood. 

"I had good reasons, Miss. No matter. I sent him back. No need of himhere. We'll make it before morning now, and he will have the cabinwarm and hot coffee for us, if you can stand to go on for a goodishlong pull. "

A goodish long pull it surely was, in the darkness, but the women boreup with courage, and their guide led them safely. The horse Amaliarode, being his own horse, knew the way well. 

"Don't try to guide him; he'll take you quite safely, " he called backto her. "Let the reins hang. " And in the dusk of early morning theysafely turned the curve where Harry King had fallen, never knowing thedanger. 

Harry King, standing in the doorway of the cabin, with the firelightbright behind him, saw them winding down the trail and hurriedforward. They were almost stupefied with fatigue. He lifted the motherin his arms without a word and carried her into the cabin and laid herin the bunk, which he had prepared to receive her. He greeted Amaliawith a quiet word as the big man led her in, and went out to thehorses, relieved them of their burdens, and led them away to the shedby the spring. Soon the big man joined him, and began rubbing down theanimals. 

"I will do this. You must rest, " said Harry. 

"I need none of your help, " he said, not surlily, as the words mightsound, but colorlessly. 

"I needed yours when I came here--or you saved me and brought me here, and now whatever you wish I'll do, but for to-night you must take myhelp. I'm not apologizing for what I did, because I thought it right, but--"

"Peace, man, peace. I've lived a long time with no man to gainsay me. I'll take what comes now and thank the Lord it's no worse. We'll leavethe cabin to the women, after I see that they have no fright about it, and we'll sleep in the fodder. There have been worse beds. "

"I have coffee on the hearth, hot, and corn dodgers--such as we usedto make in the army. I've made them often before. "

"Turn the beasts free; there isn't room for them all in the shed, andI'll go get a bite and join you soon. "

So Harry King did not return to the cabin that night, much as hedesired to see Amalia again, but lay down on the fodder and tried tosleep. His heart throbbed gladly at the thought of her safety. He hadnot dared to inquire after her father. Although he had seen so littleof the big man he understood his mood, and having received such greatkindness at his hands, he was truly sorry at the invasion of hispeace. Undoubtedly he did not like to have a family, gathered from theLord only knew where, suddenly quartered on him for none knew howlong. 

The cabin was only meant for a hermit of a man, and little suited towomen and their needs. A mixed household required more rooms. He triedto think the matter through and to plan, but the effort broughtdrowsiness, and before the big man returned he was asleep. 

CHAPTER XVI

A PECULIAR POSITION

"Well, young man, we find ourselves in what I call a peculiarposition. "

A smile that would have been sardonic, were it not for a few linesaround the corners of his eyes which belied any sinister suspicion, spread grimly across the big man's face as he stood looking down onHarry King in the dusk of the unlighted shed. The younger man rosequickly from the fodder where he had slept heavily after the fatiguesof the past day and night, and stood respectfully looking into the bigman's face. 

"I--I--realize the situation. I thought about it after I turned inhere--before you came down--or up--to this--ahem--bedroom. I can takemyself off, sir. And if there were any way--of relieving youof--the--whole--embarrassment, --I--I--would do so. "

"Everything's quiet down at the cabin. I've been there and lookedabout a bit. They had need of sleep. You go back to your bunk, andI'll take mine, and we'll talk the thing over before we see themagain. As for your taking yourself off, that remains to be seen. I'mnot crabbed, that's not the secret of my life alone, --though you mightthink it. I--ahem--ahem. " The big man cleared his throat and stretchedhis spare frame full length on the fodder where he had slept. With hiselbow on the bed of corn stalks he lifted his head on his hand andgazed at Harry King, not dreamily as when he first saw him, but withcovert keenness. 

"Lie down in your place--a bit--lie down. We'll talk until we'vearrived at a conclusion, and it may be a long talk, so we may as wellbe comfortable. "

Harry King went back to his own bunk and lay prone, his foreheadresting on his folded arms and his face hidden. "Very well, sir; I'lldo my best. We have to accept each other for the best there is in us, I take it. You've saved my life and the life of those two women, andwe all owe you our grat--"

"Go to, go to. It's not of that I'm wishing to speak. Let's begin atthe beginning, or, as near the beginning as we can. I've been standinghere looking at you while you were sleeping, --and last night--I meanearly this morning when I came up here, I--with a torch I studied yourface well and long. A man betrays his true nature when he is sleeping. The lines of what he has been thinking and feeling show then when hecannot disguise them by smiles or words. I'm old enough to be yourfather--yes--so it might have been--and with your permission I'll talkto you straight. "

Harry King lifted his head and looked at the other, then resumed hisformer position. "Thank you, " was all he said. 

"You've been well bred. You're in trouble. I ask you what is your truename and what you have done?"

The young man did not speak. He lay still as if he had heard nothing, but the other saw his hands clinch into knotted fists and the musclesof his arms grow rigid. His heart beat heavily and the blood roaredin his ears. At last he lifted his head and looked back at the big manand spoke monotonously. 

"I gave you my name--all the name I have. " His face was white in thedim light and the lids drew close over his gray eyes. 

"You prefer to lie to me? I ask in good faith. "

"All the name I have is the one I gave you, Harry King. "

"And you will hold to the lie?" They looked steadily into each other'seyes. The young man nodded. "And there was more I asked of you. "

Then the young man turned away from the keen eyes that had held himand sat up in the fodder and clasped his knees with his hands andlooked straight out before him, regarding nothing--nothing but his ownthoughts. A strange expression crept over his face, --was it fear--orwas it an inward terror? Suddenly he put out his hand with a franticgesture toward the darkest corner of the place, "It's there, " he criedin a voice scarcely above a whisper, then hid his eyes and moaned. Atthe sight, the big man's face softened. 

"Lad, lad, ye're in trouble. I saved your body as it hung over thecliff--and the Lord only knows how ye were saved. I took ye home andlaid ye in my own bunk, --and looked on your face--and there my heartcried on the Lord for the first time in many years. I had forsworn thecompany of men, and of all women, --and the faith of my fathers haddied in me, --but there, as I looked on your face--the lost years cameback. And now--ye're only Harry King. Only Harry King. "

"That's all. " The young man's lips set tightly and the cords of hisneck stood out. Nothing was lost to the eyes that watched him sointently. 

"I had a son--once. I held him in my arms--for an hour--and then lefthim forever. You have a face that reminds me of one--one I hated--andit minds me of one I--I--loved, --of one I loved better than I lovedlife. "

Then Harry King turned and gazed in the big man's eyes, and as hegazed, the withdrawn, inward look left his own. He still sat claspinghis knees. "I can more easily tell you what I have done than I cantell you my name. I have sworn never to utter it again. " He wasweeping, but he hid his tears for very shame of them. 

The older man shook his head. "I've known sorrow, boy, but the lessonof it, never. Men say there is a thing to be learned from sorrow, butto me it has brought only rebellion and bitterness. So I've missedthe good of it because it came upon me through arrogance andinjustice--not my own. So now I say to you--if it was at theexpense of your soul I saved your life, it were better I had letyou go down. Lad, --you've brought me a softness, --it's like what aman feels for a woman. I'm glad it's come back to me. It is good tofeel. I'd make a son of you, --but--for the truth's sake tell me a bitmore. "

"I had a friend and I killed him. I was angry and killed him. I haveleft my name in his grave. " Harry King rose and walked away and stoodshivering in the entrance of the shed. Then he came back and spokehumbly. "Do with me what you will, but call me Harry King. I havenothing on earth but the clothes on my body, and they are in rags. Ifyou have work for me to do, let me do it, in mercy. If not, let me goback to the plains and die there. "

"How long ago was this?"

"More--more than two years ago--yes, three--perhaps. "

"And where have you been?"

"Knocking about--hiding. For a while I had work on the road they arebuilding--"

"Road? What road?"

"The new railroad across the continent. "

"Where, young man, where?"

"From Chicago on. They got it as far as Cheyenne, but that was thevery place of all others where they would be apt to hunt for me. I gotnews of a detective hanging about the camp, and I was sure he had comethere to track me. I had my wages and my clothes, and when I foundthey had traced me there, I spent all I had for my horse and took mypack and struck out over the plains. " He paused and wiped the colddrops from his forehead, then lifted his head with gathered courage. "One day, --I found these people, nigh starving for both water andfood, and without strength to go where they could be provided for. They, too, were refugees, I learned, and so I cast my lot with theirs, and served them as best I could. "

"And now they have fallen to the two of us to provide for. You say, give you work? I've lived here these twenty years and found work forno man but myself. I've found plenty of that--just to keep alive, partof the time. It's bad here in the winter--if the stores give out. Tellme what you know of these women. "

"Where is the man?"

"Dead. I found him dead before I reached them. I left him lying whereI found him, and pushed on--got there just in time. He wasn't threehours away from them as a man walks. I made them as comfortable as Icould and saw that no Indians were about, nor had been, they said; soI ventured back and made a grave for him as best I could, and told thedaughter only, for the old lady seemed out of her head. I don't knowwhat we can do with her if she gets worse. I don't know. " As the bigman talked he noticed the younger one growing calmer and listeningintently. 

"Before I buried him I searched him and found a few papers--justletters in a strange language, and from the feeling of his coat Ijudged others were hid--sewed in it, so I fetched it back to her--theyoung one. You thought I was long gone, and there was where you madethe blunder. How did you suppose I came by the pack mule and the otherhorse?"

"When I saw them, I knew you must have gone to Higgins' Camp and back, but how could I know it before? You might have been in need of me, andof food. "

"We'll say no more of it. Those men at the camp are beasts. I boughtthose animals and paid gold for them. They wanted to know where I gotthe gold. I told them where they'd never get it. They asked me tenprices for those beasts, and then tried to keep me there until theycould clean me out and get hold of my knowledge. But I skipped away inthe night when they were all drunk and asleep. Then I had to make along detour to put them off the track if they should try to follow me, and all that took time. "

The big man paused to fill and light his pipe. "And what next?" askedHarry King. 

"Except for enough food and water to last us up the trail you came, Ipacked nothing back to the wagon, and so had room to bring a few oftheir things up here, and there may be some of your own amongthem--they said something about it. We hauled the wagon as far as agood place to hide it, in a wash, could be found, and we coveredit--and our tracks. But there was nothing left in it but a few oftheir utensils, unless the box they did not open contained something. It was left in the wagon. That was the best I could do with only thehelp of the young woman, and she was too weak to do much. It may liethere untouched for ten years unless a rain scoops it out, and that'snot likely. 

"I showed the young woman as we came along where her father lay, andas we came to a halt a bit farther on, she went back, while her motherslept, and knelt there praying for an hour. I doubt any good it didhim, but it comforted her heart. It's a good religion for a woman, where she does not have to think things out for herself, but takes apriest's word for it all. And now they're here, and you're here, andmy home is invaded, and my peace is gone, and may the Lord help me--Ican't. "

Harry King looked at him a moment in silence. "Nor can I--help--but totake myself off. "

"Take yourself off! And leave me alone with two women? I who haveforesworn them forever! How do you know but that they may each bepossessed by seven devils? But there! It isn't so bad. As long as theystay you'll stay. It was through you they are here, and close on towinter, --and if it was summer, it would be as bad to send them awaywhere they would have no place to stay and no way to live. Lad, theworld's hard on women. I've seen much. "

Harry King went again and stood in the open entrance of the shed andwaited. The big man saw that he had succeeded in taking the other'smind off himself, and had led him to think of others, and now hefollowed up the advantage toward confidence that he had thus gained. He also came to the entrance and laid his kindly hand on the youngerman's shoulder, and there in the pale light of that cloudy fallmorning, standing in the cool, invigorating air, with the sound offalling water in their ears, the two men made a compact, and the endwas this. 

"Harry King, if you'll be my son, I'll be your father. My boy would beabout your age--if he lives, --but if he does, he has been taught tolook down on me--on the very thought of me. " He cast a wistful glanceat the young man's face as he spoke. "From the time I held him in myarms, a day-old baby, I've never seen him, and it may be he has neverheard of me. He was in good hands and was given over for good reasons, to one who hated my name and my race--and me. For love of his mother Idid this. It was all I could do for her; I would have gone down intothe grave for her. 

"I, too, have been a wanderer over the face of the earth. At first Ilived in India--in China--anywhere to be as far on the other side ofthe earth from her grave and my boy, as I vowed I would, but I've keptthe memory of her sweet in my heart. You need not fear I'll ask againfor your name. Until you choose to give it I will respect yourwish, --and for the rest--speak of it when you must--but not before. Ihave no more to ask. You've been well bred, as I said, and that'senough for me. You're more than of age--I can see that--but it's myopinion you need a father. Will you take me?"

The young man drew in his breath sharply through quivering lips, andmade answer with averted head: "Cain! Cain and the curse of Cain! CanI allow another to share it?"

"Another shares it and you have no choice. "

"I will be more than a son. Sons hurt their fathers and accept allfrom them and give little. You lifted me out of the abyss and broughtme back to life. You took on yourself the burden laid on me, to savethose who trusted me, knowing nothing of my crime, --and now you dragmy very soul from hell. I will do more than be your son--I will giveyou the life you saved. Who are you?"

Then the big man gave his name, making no reciprocal demand. Whatmattered a name? It was the man, by whatever name, he wanted. 

"I am an Irishman by birth, and my name is Larry Kildene. If you'll goto a little county not so far from Dublin, but to the north, you'llfind my people. "

He was looking away toward the top of the mountain as he spoke, andwas seeing his grandfather's house as he had seen it when a boy, andso he did not see the countenance of the young man at his side. Had hedone so, he would not have missed knowing what the young man from thatmoment knew, and from that moment, out of the love now awakened in hisheart for the big man, carefully concealed, giving thanks that he hadnot told his name. 

For a long minute they stood thus looking away from each other, whileHarry King, by a mighty effort, gained control of his features, andhis voice. Then although white to the lips, he spoke quietly: "HarryKing--the murderer--be the son of Larry Kildene--Larry Kildene--I--toslink away in the hills--forever to hide--"

"No more of that. I'll show you a new life. Give me your hand, HarryKing. " And the young man extended both hands in a silence throughwhich no words could have been heard. 

CHAPTER XVII

ADOPTING A FAMILY

As the two men walked down toward the cabin they saw Amalia standingbeside the door in the sunlight which now streamed through a rift inthe clouds, gazing up at the towering mountain and listening to thefalling water. She spied them and came swiftly to them, extending bothhands in a sweet, gracious impulsiveness, and began speaking rapidlyeven before she reached them. 

"Ah! So beautiful is your home! It is so much that I would say to youof gratitude in my heart--it is like a river flowing swiftly to tellyou--Ah! I cannot say it all--and we come and intrude ourselves uponyou thus that you have no place where to go for your own sleeping--Isnot? Yes, I know it. So must we think quickly how we may unburden youof us--my mother and myself--only that she yet is sleeping thatstrange sleep that seems still not like sleep. Let me that I serveyou, sir?"

Larry Kildene looked on her glowing, upturned face, gathering hisslower wits for some response to her swift speech, while she turned tothe younger man, grasping his hands in the same manner and not ceasingthe flow of her utterance. 

"And you, at such severe labor and great danger, have found this nobleman, and have sent him to us--to you do we owe what never can wepay--it is thus while we live must we always thank you in our hearts. And to this place--so _won-n-der-ful_--Ah! Beautiful like heaven--Isnot? Yes, and the sweet sound always in the air--like heaven and thesound of wings--to stop here even for this night is to make thosesorrowful thoughts lie still and for a while speak nothing. "

As she turned from one to the other, addressing each in turn, warmlights flashed in her eyes through tears, like stars in a deep pool. Her dark hair rolled back from her smooth oval forehead in heavycoils, and over her head and knotted under her perfect chin, outliningits curve, was a silken peasant handkerchief with a crimson border ofthe richest hue, while about the neck of her colorless, closely fittedgown was a piece of exquisite hand-wrought lace. She stood beforethem, a vision from the old world, full of innate ladyhood, simple asa peasant, at once appealing and dominating, impulsive, yet shy. Herbeautiful enunciation, her inverted and quaintly turned English, alivewith poetry, was typical of her whole personality, a sweet and strangemixture of the high-bred aristocrat and the simple directness andstrength of the peasant. 

The two men made stumbling and embarrassed replies. That tender andbeautiful quality of chivalry toward women, belonging by nature toundefiled manhood, was awakened in them, and as one being, not two, they would have laid their all at her feet. This, indeed, theyliterally did. The small, one-room cabin, which had so long served forLarry Kildene's palace, was given over entirely to the two women, andthe men made their own abode in the shed where they had slept. 

This they accomplished by creating a new room, by extending theroof-covered space Larry had used for his stable and the storing offodder, far enough along under the great overhanging rock to allow ofcomfortable bunks, a place to walk about, and a fireplace also. Thelabor involved in the making of this room was a boon to Harry King. 

Upon the old stone boat which Larry had used for a similar purpose hehauled stones gathered from the rock ledge and built therewith achimney, and with the few tools in the big man's store he made seatsout of hewn logs, and a rude table. This work was left to him by theolder man purposely, while he occupied himself with the gathering inof the garden stuff for themselves and for the animals. A matter thattroubled his good heart not a little was that of providing for thecoming winter enough food supply for his suddenly acquired family. Ofgrain and fodder he thought he had enough for animals kept inidleness, as he still had stores gathered in previous years for hisown horse. But for these women, he must not allow them to suffer theleast privation. 

It was not the question of food alone that disturbed him. At last helaid his troubles before Harry King. 

"You know, lad, it won't be so long before the snow will be down onus, and I'm thinking what shall we do with them when the long winterdays set in. " He nodded his head toward the cabin. "It's alreadygetting too cold for them to sit out of doors as they do. I shouldhave windows in my cabin--if I could get the glass up here. They can'tlive there in the darkness, with the snow banked around them, withnothing to use their fingers on as women like to do. Now, if they hadcloth or thread--but what use had I for such things? They're notamong my stores. I did not lay out to make it a home for women. Themother will get farther and farther astray with her dreams if she hasnothing to do such as women like. "

"I think we should ask them--or ask Amalia, she is wise. Have youenough to keep them on--of food?"

"Of food, yes. Such as it is. No flour, but plenty of good wheat andcorn. I always pound it up and bake it, but it is coarse fare forwomen. There's plenty of game for the hunting, and easy got, but it'ssomething to think about we'll need, else we'll all go loony. "

"You have lived long here alone and seem sound of mind, --except for--"Harry King smiled, "except for a certain unworldliness that would passfor lunacy in the world below these heights. "

"Let alone, son. I've usually had my own way for these years and haveformed the habit, but I've had my times. At the best it's a sort oflunacy that takes a man away from his fellows, especially an Irishman. Maybe you'll discover for yourself before we part--but it's not to thepoint now. I'm asking you how we can keep the mother from brooding andthe daughter happy? She's asking to be sent away to earn money for hermother. She thinks she can take her mother with her to the nearestplace on that new railroad you tell me of, and so on to some town. Itell her, no. And if she goes, and leaves her mother here--blessyou--what would we do with her? Why, the woman would go yonder andjump over the cliff. "

"Oh, it would never do to listen to her. It would never do for her totry living in a city earning her bread--not while--" Harry King pausedand turned a white, drawn face toward the mountain. Larry watchedhim. "I can do nothing. " He threw out his hands with a sudden downwardmovement. "I, a criminal in hiding! My manhood is of no avail! MyGod!"

"Remember, lad, the women have need of you right here. I'm keeping youon this mountain at my valuation, not yours. I have need of you, andyour past is not to intrude in this place, and when you go out in theworld again, as you will, when the right time comes, you'll know howto meet--and face--your life--or death, as a man should. 

"Hold yourself with a firm hand, and do the work of the days as theycome. It's all the Lord gives us to do at any time. If I only hadbooks--now, --they would help us, --but where to get them--or how? We'lleven go and ask the women, as you advise. "

They all ate together in the little cabin, as was their habit, a mealprepared by Amalia, and carefully set out with all the dishes thecabin afforded: so few that there were not enough to serve all atonce, but eked out by wooden blocks, and small lace serviettes takenfrom Amalia's store of linen. At noon one day Larry Kildene spoke hisanxieties for their welfare, and cleverly managed to make the theme agay one. 

"Where's the use in adopting a family if you don't get society out ofthem? The question I ask is, when the winter shuts us in, what are wegoing to do for sport--work--what you will? It's indoor sport I'mmeaning, for Harry and I have the hunting and providing in thedaytime. No, never you ask me what I was doing before you came. I wasmy own master then--"

"And now you are ours? That is good, Sir Kildene. You have to saywhat to do, and me, I accept to do what you advise. Is not?"

Amalia turned to Larry and smiled, and whenever Amalia smiled, hermother would smile also, and nod her head as if to approve, althoughshe usually sat in silence. 

"Yours to command, " said Larry, bowing. 

"He's master of us all, but it's yours to direct, Lady Amalia. "

"Oh, me, Mr. 'Arry. It is better for me I make for you both sufficientto eat, so all goes well. I think I have heard men are always pleasedof much that is excellent to eat and drink. "

"Now, listen. We have only a short time before the heavy snows willcome down on us, and then there will be no chance whatever to getsupplies of any sort before spring. How far is the road completed now, Harry?"

"It should be well past Cheyenne by now. They must be working towardLaramie rapidly. If--if--you think best, I will go down and getsupplies--whatever can be found there. "

"No. I have a plan. There's enough for one man to do here finishingthe jobs I have laid out, but one of us can very well be spared, andas you have wakened me from my long sleep, and stirred my old bones tolife, and as I know best how to travel in this region, I'll take themule along, and go myself. I have a fancy for traveling by rail again. You ladies make out a list of all you need, and I'll fill the order, in so far as the stations have the articles. If I can't find the rightthings at one station, I may at another, even if I go back East forthem. "

"Ah, but, Sir Kildene, it is that we have no money. If but we couldget from the wagon the great box, there have we enough of things togive us labor for all the winter. It is the lovely lace I make. Alittle of the thread I have here, but not sufficient for long. So, too, there is my father's violin. It made me much heart pain to leaveit--for me, I play a little, --and there is also of cloth such as menwear--not of great quantity--but enough that I can make foryou--something--a little--maybe, Mr. 'Arry he like well some goodshirt of wool--as we make for our peasant--Is not?" Harry looked downon his worn gray shirt sleeves, then into her eyes, and on the instanthis own fell. She took it for simple embarrassment, and spoke on. 

"Yes. To go with us and help us so long and terrible a way, it hasmade very torn your apparel. "

"It makes that we improve him, could we obtain the box, " said themother, speaking for the first time that day. Her voice was so deepand full that it was almost masculine, but her modulations wererefined and most agreeable. 

Amalia laughed for very gladness that her mother at last showed enoughinterest in what was being said to speak. 

"Ah, mamma, to improve--it is to make better the mind--the heart--butof this has Mr. 'Arry no need. Is not, Sir Kildene? I call you alwaysSir as title to nobleness of character. We have, in our country, toinherit title, but here to make it of such character. It is well, Ithink so. "

Poor Larry Kildene had his own moment of embarrassment, but with herswift appreciation of their moods she talked rapidly on, leaving thecompliment to fall as it would, and turning their thoughts to thesubject in hand. "But the box, mamma, it is heavy, and it is far downon the terrible plain. If that you should try to obtain it, SirKildene: Ah, I cannot!--Even to think of the peril is a hurt in myheart. It must even lie there. "

"And the men 'rouge'--"

"Yes. Of the red men--those Indian--of them I have great fear. "

"The danger from them is past, now. If the road is beyond Cheyenne, itmust have reached Laramie or nearly so, and they would hang around thestations, picking up what they can, but the government has them inhand as never before. They would not dare interfere with white menanywhere near the road. I've dreamed of a railroad to connect the twooceans, but never expected to see it in my lifetime. I've taken anotion to go and see it--just to look at it, --to try to be reconciledto it. "

"Reconciled? It is to like it, you mean--Sir Kildene? Is it not_won-n-derful_--the achievement?"

"Oh, yes, the achievement, as you say. But other things will follow, and the plains will no longer keep men at bay. The money grabbers willpour in, and all the scum of creation will flock toward the settingsun. Then, too, I shall hate to see the wild animals that have theirown rights killed in unsportsmanlike manner, and annihilated, as theyare wherever men can easily reach them. Men are wasteful and bad. I'veseen things in the wild places of the earth--and in the places wheremen flock together in hoards--and where they think they are mostcivilized, and the result has been what you see here, --a man livingalone with a horse for companionship, and the voice of the winds andthe falling water to fill his soul. Go to. Go to. "

Larry Kildene rose and stood a moment in the cabin door, thensauntered out in the sun, and off toward the fall. He had need tothink a while alone. His companions knew this necessity was on him, and said nothing--only looked at each other, and took up the questionof their needs for the winter. 

"Mr. 'Arry, is it possible to reach with safety a station? I mean istime yet to go and return before the snows? Here are no deadly wolvesas in my own country--but is much else to make dangerous the way. "

"There must be time or he would not propose it. I don't know about thesnows here. "

"I have seen that Sir Kildene drinks with most pleasure the coffee, but is little left--or not enough for all--to drink it. My mother andI we drink with more pleasure the tea, and of tea we ourselves have alittle. It is possible also I make of things more palatable if I havethe sugar, but is very little here. I have searched well, the foodsplaced here. Is it that Sir Kildene has other places where are sucharticles?"

"All he has is in the bins against the wall yonder. "

"Here is the key he gave me, and I have look well, but is not enoughto last but for one through all the months of winter. Ah, poor man! Wehave come and eat his food like the wolves of the wild country athome, is not? I have make each day of the coffee for him, yes, a gooddrink, and for you not so good--forgive, --but for me and my mother, only to pretend, that it might last for him. It is right so. We havegone without more than to have no coffee, and this is not privation. To have too much is bad for the soul. "

Amalia's mother seemed to have withdrawn herself from them andsat gazing into the smoking logs, apparently not hearing theirconversation. Harry King for the second time that day looked inAmalia's eyes. It was a moment of forgetfulness. He had forbiddenhimself this privilege except when courtesy demanded. 

"You forgive--that I put--little coffee in your drink?"

"Forgive? Forgive?"

He murmured questioningly as if he hardly comprehended her meaning, asindeed he did not. His mind was going over the days since first he sawher, toiling to gather enough sagebrush to cook a drop of tea for herfather, and striving to conceal from him that she, herself, was takingnone, and barely tasting her hard biscuit that there might be enoughto keep life in her parents. As she sat before him now, in her worn, mended, dark dress with the wonderful lace at the throat, and her thinhands lying on the crimson-bordered kerchief in her lap, --her fingersplaying with the fringe, he still looked in her eyes and murmured, "Forgive?"

"Ah, Mr. 'Arry, your mind is sleeping and has gone to dream. Listen tome. If one goes to the plain, quickly he must go. I make with hastethis naming of things to eat. It is sad we must always eat--eat. Inheaven maybe is not so. " She wandered a moment about the cabin, thenlaughed for the second time. "Is no paper on which to write. "

"There is no need of paper; he'll remember. Just mention them over. Coffee, --is there any tea beside that you have?"

"No, but no need. I name it not. "

"Tea is light and easily brought. What else?"

"And paper. I ask for that but for me to write my little romance ofall this--forgive--it is for occupation in the long winter. You alsomust write of your experiences--perhaps--of your history of--of--Youlike it not? Why, Mr. 'Arry! It is to make work for the mind. The mindmust work--work--or die. The hands--well. I make lace with thehands--but for the mind is music--or the books--but here are nobooks--good--we make them. So, paper I ask, and of crayon--Alas! It isin the box! What to do?"

"Listen. We'll have that box, and bring it here on the mountain. I'llget it. "

"Ah, no! No. Will you break my heart?" She seized his arm and lookedin his eyes, her own brimming with tears. Then she flung up her armsin her dramatic way, and covered her eyes. "I can see it all soterrible. If you should go there and the Indian strike you dead--orthe snow come too soon and kill you with the cold--in the great driftlying white--all the terrible hours never to see you again--Ah, no!"

In that instant his heart leaped toward her and the blood roared inhis ears. He would have clasped her to him, but he only stood rigidlystill. "Hands off, murderer!" The words seemed shouted at him by hisown conscience. "I would rather die--than that you should not haveyour box, " was all he said, and left the cabin. He, too, had need tothink things out alone. 

CHAPTER XVIII

LARRY KILDENE'S STORY

"Man, but this is none so bad--none so bad. "

Larry Kildene sat on a bench before a roaring fire in the room addedon to the fodder shed. The chimney which Harry King had built, although not quite completed to its full height, was being tried forthe first time, as the night was too cold for comfort in the long, lowshed without fire, and the men had come down early this evening totalk over their plans before Larry should start down the mountain inthe morning. They had heaped logs on the women's fire and seen thatall was right for them, and with cheerful good-nights had left them tothemselves. 

Now, as they sat by their own fire, Harry could see Amalia by hers, seated on a low bench of stone, close to the blazing torch of pine, soplaced that its smoke would be drawn up the large chimney. It was allthe light they had for their work in the evenings, other than thefirelight. He could see her fingers moving rapidly and mechanically atsome pretty open-work pattern, and now and then grasping deftly at theball of fine white thread that seemed to be ever taking little leaps, and trying to roll into the fire, or out over the cabin floor. Sheused a fine, slender needle and seemed to be performing some delicatemagic with her fingers. Was she one of the three fates continuallydrawing out the thread of his life and weaving therewith a charmedweb? And if so--when would she cease?

"It's a good job and draws well. "

"The chimney? Yes, it seems to. " Harry roused himself and tried toclose his mind against the warm, glowing picture. "Yes--yes. It drawswell. I'm inclined to be a bit proud, although I never could have doneit if you had not given me the lessons. "

"It's art, my boy. To build a good fireplace is just that. Did youever think that the whole world--and the welfare of it--centers justaround that;--the fireplace and the hearth--or what stands for it inthese days--maybe a little hole in the wall with a smudge of coal init, as they have in the towns--but it's the hearth and the cradlebeside it--and--the mother. "

Larry's voice died almost to a whisper, and his chin dropped on hisbreast, and his eyes gazed on the burning logs; and Harry, sittingbeside him, gazed also at the same logs, but the pictures wrought inthe alchemy of their souls were very different. 

To Harry it was a sweet, oval face--a flush from the heat of the firemore on the smooth cheek that was toward it than on the other, andwarm flame flashes in the large eyes that looked up at him from timeto time, while the slender figure bent a little forward to see thebetter, as the wonderful hands kept up the never ceasing motion. Awhite linen cloth spread over her lap cast a clearer, more rosy lightunder her chin and brought out the strength of it and the delicatecurves of it, which Harry longed even to dare to look upon in therarest stolen intervals, without the clamor and outcry in his heart. It was always the same--the cry of Cain in the wilderness. Would Godit might some day cease! What to him might be the hearth fire and thecradle, and the mother, that the big man should dwell on them thus?What had they meant in Larry Kildene's life, he who had lived fortwenty years the life of a hermit, and had forsworn women forever, ashe said?

"I tell ye, lad, there's a thing I would say to you--before I leave, but it's sore to touch upon. " Harry made a deprecating gesture. "No, it's best I tell you. I--I'll come back--never fear--it's my plan tocome back, but in this life you may count on nothing for a surety. I've learned that, and to prove it, look at me. I made sure, neverwould I open my heart again to think on my fellow beings, but asaliens to my life, and I've lived it out for twenty years, and thoughtto hold out to the end. I held the Indians at bay through theirsuperstitions, and they would no more dare to cross my path withhostile intent than they would dare take their chances over that fallabove there. Where did I put my pipe? I can't seem to find things as Idid in the cabin. "

"Here it is, sir. I placed that stone further out at the end of thechimney on purpose for it, and in this side I've left a hole for yourtobacco. I thought I was very clever doing that. "

"And we'd be fine and cozy here in the winter--if it wer'n't for thewomen--a--a--now I'm blundering. I'd never turn them out if they livedthere the rest of their days. But to have a lad beside me as I mighthave had--if you'd said, 'Here it is, father, ' but now, it would havehave been music to me. You see, Harry, I forswore the women harderthan I did the men, and it's the longing for the son I held in myarms an hour and then gave up, that has lived in me all these years. The mother--gone--The son I might have had. "

"I can't say that--to you. I have a curse on me, and it will stayuntil I have paid for my crime. But I'll be more to you than sons areto their fathers. I'll be faithful to you as a dog to his master, andlove you more. I'll live for you even with the curse on me, and ifneed be, I'll die for you. "

"It's enough. I'll ask you no more. Have you no curiosity to hear whatI have to tell you?"

"I have, indeed I have. But it seems I can't ask it--unless I'm ableto return your confidence. To talk of my sorrow only deepens it. Itdrives me wild. "

"You'll have it yet to learn, that nothing helps a sorrow that can'tbe helped like bearing it. I don't mean to lie down under it like adumb beast--but just take it up and bear it. That's what you're doingnow, and sometime you'll be able to carry it, and still laugh now andagain, when it's right to laugh--and even jest, on occasion. It's beendone and done well. It's good for a man to do it. The lass down thereat the cabin is doing it--and the mother is not. She's living in thepast. Maybe she can't help it. "

"When I first came on them out there in the desert, she seemed braveand strong. He was a poor, crippled man, with enormous vitality and aleonine head. The two women adored him and lived only for him, and henever knew it. He lived for an ideal and would have died for it. Hedid not speak English as well as they. I used to wish I couldunderstand him, for he had a poet's soul, and eyes like hisdaughter's. He seemed to carry some secret with him, and no doubt wasfollowed about the world as he thought he was. Fleeing myself, I couldnot know, but from things the mother has dropped, they must have seenterrible times together, she and her husband. "

"A wonderful deal of poetry and romance always clung to the names ofPoland and Hungary for me. When I was young, our part of the worldthrilled at the name of Kosciuszko and Kossuth. I'd give a good dealto know what this man's secret was. All those old tales of mystery, like 'The Man with the Iron Mask, ' and stories of noblemen spiritedaway to Siberia, of men locked for many years in dungeons, like the'Prisoner of Chillon, ' which fired the fancy and genius of Byronand sent him to fight for the oppressed, used to fill my dreams. "Larry talked on as if to himself. It seemed as if it were a habitformed when he had only himself with whom to visit, and Harry wasinterested. 

"Now, to almost come upon a man of real ideals and a secret, --and justmiss it. I ought to have been out in the world doing some work worthwhile--with my miserable, broken life--Boy! I knew that man McBride! Iknew him for sure. We were in college together. He left Oxford to goto Russia, wild with the spirit of adventure and something more. Hewas a dreamer--with a practical turn, too. There, no doubt, he metthese people. I judge this Manovska must have been in the diplomaticservice of Poland, from what Amalia told us. Have you any idea whetherthat woman sitting there all day long rapt in her own thoughts knowsher husband's secret? Is it a thing any one now living would care toknow?"

"Indeed, yes. They lived in terror of the prince who hounded him overthe world. The mother trusted no one, but Amalia told me--enough--allshe knows herself. I don't know if the mother has the secret or not, but at least she guesses it. The poor man was trying to live until hecould impart his knowledge to the right ones to bring about anupheaval that would astonish the world. It meant revolution, whateverit was. Amalia imagines it was to place a Polish king on the throne ofRussia, but she does not know. She told me of stolen records of aPolish descendant of Catherine II of Russia. She thinks they werebrought to her father after he came to this country. "

"If he had such knowledge or even thought he had, it was enough to setthem on his track all his life; the wonder is that he was let to liveat all. "

"The mother never mentioned it, but Amalia told me. We talked morefreely out in the desert. That remarkable woman walked at herhusband's side over all the terrible miles to Siberia, and through herhe escaped, --and of the horrors of those years she never would speak, even to her daughter. It's not to be wondered at that her mind isastray. It's only a wonder that she is for the most part so calm. "

"Well, the grave holds many a mystery, and what a fascination amystery has for humanity, savage or civilized! I've kept the Indiansat bay all this time by that means. They fear--they know not what, andthe mystery holds them. Now, for ourselves, I leave you for a littlewhile in charge of--the women--and of all my possessions. " Larry, gazing into the blazing logs, smiled. "You may not think so much ofthem, but it's not so little now. Talk about lunacy--man, Iunderstand it. I've been a lunatic--for--ever since I made a find herein this mountain. "

He paused and mused a while, and Harry's thoughts dwelt for the timeon his own find in the wing of the cabin, where the firewood wasstored. The ring and the chest--he had not forgotten them, but by nomeans would he mention them. 

"You may wonder why I should tell you this, but when I'm through, you'll know. It all came about because of a woman. " Larry Kildene cast asidelong glance at Harry, and the glance was keen and saw more than theyounger man dreamed. "It's more often so than any other way--almost alwaysbecause of a woman. Her name may be anything--Mary--Elizabeth, --but, awoman. This one's name was Katherine. Not like the Katherine ofShakespeare, but the sweetest--the tenderest mother-woman the Lord evergave to man. I see her there in the fire. I've seen her there these manyyears. Well, she was twin sister to the man who hated me. He hatedme--for why, I don't know--perhaps because he never could influenceme. He would make all who cared for him bow before his will. 

"When I first saw her, she lived in his home. He was a banker ofmeans, --not wholly of his own getting, but partly so. His father was aman of thrift and saving--anyway, he came to set too much store bymoney. Sometimes I think he might have been jealous of me because Ihad the Oxford training, and wished me to feel that wealth was agreater thing to have. Scotchmen think more of education than we ofIreland. It's a good thing, of course, but I'd never have looked downon him because he went lacking it. But for some indiscretion maybe Iwould have had money, too. It was spent too lavishly on me in myyouth. But no. I had none--only the experience and the knowledge ofwhat it might bring. 

"Well, it came about that I came to America to gain the money Ilacked, and having learned a bit, in spite of Oxford and the schools, of a practical nature, I took a position in his bank. All was verywell until I met her. Now there were the rosy cheeks and the dark hairfor you! She looked more like an Irish lass than a Scotch one. Butthey're not so different, only that the Irish are for the most partcomelier. 

"Now this banker had a very sweet wife, and she was kind to the Irishlad and welcomed him to her house. I'm thinking she liked me a bit--Iliked her at all events. She welcomed me to her house until she wasforbid. It was after they forbid me the house that I took to walkingwith Katherine, when all thought she was at Sunday School or visitinga neighbor, or even--at the last--when no other time could bestolen--when they thought her in bed. We walked there by the riverthat flows by the town of Leauvite. "

Again Larry Kildene paused and shot a swift glance at the young manat his side, and noted the drawn lids and blanched face, but he kepton. "In the moonlight we walked--lad--the ground there is holy now, because she walked upon it. We used to go to a high bluff thatmade a sheer fall to the river below--and there we used to stand andtell each other--things we dreamed--of the life we should livetogether--Ah, that life! She has spent it in heaven. I--I--havespent the most of it here. " He did not look at Harry King again. Hisvoice shook, but he continued. "After a time her brother got toknow about it, and he turned me from the bank, and sent her to livewith his father's sisters in Scotland. 

"Kind old ladies, but unmarried, and too old for such a lass. Howcould they know the heart of a girl who loved a man? It was I who knewthat. What did her brother know--her own twin brother? Nothing, because he could see only his own thoughts, never hers, and thoughthis thoughts were enough for wife or girl. I tell you, lad, men errgreatly in that, and right there many of the troubles of life step in. The old man, her father, had left all his money to his son, but withthe injunction that she was to be provided for, all her days, of hisbounty. It's a mean way to treat a woman--because--see? She has noright to her thoughts, and her heart is his to dispose of where hewills--not as she wills--and then comes the trouble. 

"I ask you, lad, if you loved a girl as fine as silk and as tender asa flower you could crush in your hand with a touch ungentle, and yousaw one holding her with that sort of a touch, --even if it was meantin love, --I'll not be unjust, he loved her as few love theirsisters--but he could not grasp her thus; I ask you what would youdo?"

"If I were a true man, and had a right to my manhood, I would takeher. I'd follow her to the ends of the earth. "

"Right, my son--I did that. I took the little money I had from mylabor at the bank--all I had saved, and I went bravely to those twoold women--her aunts, and they turned me from their door. It was whatthey had been enjoined to do. They said I was after the money andwithout conscience or thrift. With the Scotch, often, the confusion isnatural between thrift and conscience. Ah, don't I know! If a man isprosperous, he may hold out his hand to a maid and say 'Come, ' and allher relatives will cry 'Go, ' and the marriage bells will ring. If heis a happy Irishman with a shrunken purse, let his heart be loving andtrue and open as the day, they will spurn him forth. For food andraiment will they sell a soul, and for household gear will they clipthe wings of the little god, and set him out in the cold. 

"But the arrow had entered Katherine's heart, and I knew and bided mytime. They saw no more of me, but I knew all her goings and comings. Ifound her one day on the moor, with her collie, and her cheeks hadlost their color, and her gray eyes looked in my face with their tearsheld back, like twin lakes under a cloud before a storm falls. I tookher in my arms, and we kissed. The collie looked on and wagged histail. It was all the approval we ever got from the family, but he wasa knowing dog. 

"Well, then we walked hand in hand to a village, and it was nearnightfall, and we went straight to a magistrate and were married. Ihad a little coin with me, and we stayed all night at an inn. Therewas a great hurrying and scurrying all night over the moors for her, but we knew naught of it, for we lay sleeping in each other's arms ascare free and happy as birds. If she wept a little, I comforted her. In the morning we went to the great house where the aunts lived in thetown, and there, with her hand in mine, I told them, and the stormbroke. It was the disgrace of having been married clandestinely by amagistrate that cut them most to the heart; and yet, what did theythink a man would do? And they cried upon her: 'We trusted you. Wetrusted you. ' And all the reply she made was: 'You thought I'd neverdare, but I love him. ' Yes, love makes a woman's heart strong. 

"Well, then, nothing would do, but they must have in the minister andsee us properly married. After that we stayed never a night in theirhouse, but I took her to Ireland to my grandfather's home. It was aterrible year in Ireland, for the poverty was great, and while mygrandfather was well-to-do, as far as that means in Ireland, it wasvery little they had that year for helping the poor. " Larry Kildeneglanced no more at Harry King, but looked only in the fire, where thelogs had fallen in a glowing heap. His pipe was out, but he still heldit in his hand. 

"It was little I could do. I had my education, and could repeat poemsand read Latin, but that would not feed hungry peasant children. Iwent out on the land and labored with the men, and gave of my littlepatrimony to keep the old folks, but it was too small for them all, soat last I yielded to Katherine's importunities, and she wrote to herbrother for help--not for her and me, mind you. 

"It was for the poor in Ireland she wrote, and she let me read it. Itwas a sweet letter, asking forgiveness for her willfulness, yet sayingshe must even do the same thing again if it were to do over again. Shepleaded only for the starving in the name of Christ. She asked only ifa little of that portion which should be hers might be sent her, andthat because he was her only brother and twin, and like part of hervery self--she turned it so lovingly--I never could tell you with whatskill--but she had the way--yes. But what did it bring?

"He was a canny, canny Scot, although brought up in America. Only forthe times when his mother would take him back to Aberdeen with myKatherine for long visits, he never saw Scotland, but what's in theblood holds fast through life. He was a canny Scot. It takes a timefor letters to go and come, and in those days longer than now, when intwo weeks one may reach the other side. The reply came as speedily asthose days would admit, and it was carefully considered. Ah, Peter wasa clever man to bring about his own way. Never a word did he say aboutforgiveness. It was as if no breach had ever been, but one thing Inoticed that she thought must be only an omission, because of the moreimportant things that crowded it out. It was that never once did hemention me any more than if I had never existed. He said he would sendher a certain sum of money--and it was a generous one, that is butjust to admit--if when she received it she would take another sum, which he would also send, and return to them. He said his home washers forever if she wished, and that he loved her, and had never hadother feeling for her than love. Upon this letter came a long time ofpleading with me--and I was ever soft--with her. She won her way. 

"'We will both go, Larry, dear, ' she said. 'I know he forgot to sayyou might come, too. If he loves me as he says, he would not break myheart by leaving you out. '

"'He sends only enough for one--for you, ' I said. 

"'Yes, but he thinks you have enough to come by yourself. He thinksyou would not accept it--and would not insult you by sending more. '

"'He insults me by sending enough for you, dear. If I have it for me, I have it for you--most of all for you, or I'm no true man. If I havenone for you--then we have none. '

"'Larry, for love of me, let me go--for the gulf between my twinbrother and me will never be passed until I go to him. ' And this wastrue enough. 'I will make them love you. Hester loves you now. Shewill help me. ' Hester was the sweet wife of her brother. So she clungto me, and her hands touched me and caressed me--lad, I feel them now. I put her on the boat, and the money he sent relieved the sufferingaround me, and I gave thanks with a sore heart. It was for them, ourown peasantry, and for her, I parted with her then, but as soon as Icould I sold my little holding near my grandfather's house to anEnglishman who had long wanted it, and when it was parted with, I tookthe money and delayed not a day to follow her. 

"I wrote to her, telling her when and where to meet me in the littletown of Leauvite, and it was on the bluff over the river. I went to ahome I knew there--where they thought well of me--I think. In theevening I walked up the long path, and there under the oak trees atthe top where we had been used to sit, I waited. She came to me, walking in the golden light. It was spring. The whip-poor-wills calledand replied to each other from the woods. A mourning dove spoke to itsmate among the thick trees, low and sad, but it is only their way. Iwas glad, and so were they. 

"I held her in my arms, and the river sang to us. She told me all overagain the love in her heart for me, as she used to tell it. Lad! Thereis only one theme in the world that is worth telling. There is onlyone song in the universe that is worth singing, and when your hearthas once sung it aright, you will never sing another. The air was softand sweet around us, and we stayed until a town clock struck twelve;then I took her back, and, as she was not strong, part of the way Icarried her in my arms. I left her at her brother's door, and she wentinto the shadows there, and I was left outside, --all but my heart. Shehad been home so short a time--her brother was not yet reconciled, butshe said she knew he would be. For me, I vowed I would make moneyenough to give her a home that would shame him for the poverty of hisown--his, which he thought the finest in the town. "

For a long time there was silence, and Larry Kildene sat with his headdrooped on his breast. At last he took up the thread where he had leftit. "Two days later I stood in the heavy parlor of that house, --Istood there with their old portraits looking down on me, and my heartwas filled with ice--ice and fire. I took what they placed in my arms, and it was--my--little son, but it might have been a stone. It weighedlike lead in my arms, that ached with its weight. Might I see her? No. Was she gone? Yes. I laid the weight on the pillow held out to me forit, and turned away. Then Hester came and laid her hand on my arm, butmy flesh was numb. I could not feel her touch. 

"'Give him to me, Larry, ' she was saying. 'I will love him like myown, and he will be a brother to my little son. ' And I gave him intoher arms, although I knew even then that he would be brought up toknow nothing of his father, as if I had never lived. I gave him intoher arms because he had no mother and his father's heart had gone outof him. I gave him into her arms, because I felt it was all I coulddo to let his mother have the comfort of knowing that he was notadrift with me--if they do know where she is. For her sake most of alland for the lad's sake I left him there. 

"Then I knocked about the world a while, and back in Ireland I couldnot stay, for the haunting thought of her. I could bide nowhere. Thenthe thought took me that I would get money and take my boy back. Alonging for him grew in my heart, and it was all the thought I had, but until I had money I would not return. I went to find a mine ofgold. Men were flying West to become rich through the finding of minesof gold, and I joined them. I tried to reach a spot that has sincebeen named Higgins' Camp, for there it was rumored that gold was to befound in plenty, and missed it. I came here, and here I stayed. "

Now the big man rose to his feet, and looked down on the younger one. He looked kindly. Then, as if seized and shaken by a torrent ofimpulses which he was trying to hold in check, he spoke tremulouslyand in suppressed tones. 

"I longed for my son, but I tell you this, because there is a strangething which grasps a man's soul when he finds gold--as I found it. Icame to love it for its own sake. I lived here and stored it up--untilI am rich--you may not find many men so rich. I could go back and buythat bank that was Peter Craigmile's pride--" His voice rose, but heagain suppressed it. "I could buy that pitiful little bank a hundredtimes over. And she--is--gone. I tried to keep her and the remembranceof her in my mind above the gold, but it was like a lunacy upon me. Atthe last--until I found you there on the verge of death--the gold wasalways first in my mind, and the triumph of having it. I came toglory in it, and I worked day after day, and often in the night bytorches, and all I gathered I hid, and when I was too weary to work, Isat and handled it and felt it fall through my fingers. 

"A woman in England--Miss Evans, by name, only she writes under thename of a man, George Eliot--has written a tale of a poor weaver whocame to love his little horde of gold as if it were alive and human. It's a strong tale, that. A good one. Well, I came to understand whatthe poor little weaver felt. Summer and winter, day and night, weekdays and Sundays--and I was brought up to keep the Sunday like aChristian should--all were the same to me, just one long period forthe getting together of gold. After a time I even forgot what I wantedthe gold for in the first place, and thought only of getting it, moreand more and more. 

"This is a confession, lad. I tremble to think what would have been onmy soul had I done what I first thought of doing when that horse ofyours called me. He was calling for you--no doubt, but the call camefrom heaven itself for me, and the temptation came. It was, to staywhere I was and know nothing. I might have done that, too, if it werenot for the selfish reasons that flashed through my mind, even as thetemptation seized it. It was that there might be those below who wereclimbing to my home--to find me out and take from me my gold. I knewthere were prospectors all over, seeking for what I had found, and howcould I dare stay in my cabin and be traced by a stray horse wanderingto my door? Three coldblooded, selfish murders would now be resting onmy soul. It's no use for a man to shut his eyes and say 'I didn'tknow. ' It's his business to know. When you speak of the 'Curse ofCain, ' think what I might be bearing now, and remember, if a manrepents of his act, there's mercy for him. So I was taught, and so Ibelieve. 

"When I looked in your face, lying there in my bunk, then I knew thatmercy had been shown me, and for this, here is the thing I mean to do. It is to show my gold and the mine from which it came to you--"

"No, no! I can't bear it. I must not know. " Harry King threw up hishands as if in fright and rose, trembling in every limb. 

"Man, what ails you?"

"Don't. Don't put temptation in my way that I may not be strong enoughto resist. "

"I say, what ails you? It's a good thing, rightly used. It may helpyou to a way out of your trouble. If I never return--I will, mindyou, --but we never know--if not, my life will surely not have beenspent for naught. You, now, are all I have on earth besides the gold. It was to have been my son's, and it is yours. It might as well havebeen left in the heart of the mountain, else. "

"Better. The longer I think on it, the more I see that there is nohope for me, no true repentance, --" Again that expression on HarryKing's face filled Larry's heart with deep pity. An inward terrorseemed to convulse his features and throw a pallor as of age and yearsof sorrow into his visage. Then he continued, after a moment ofself-mastery: "No true repentance for me but to go back and take thepunishment. For this winter I will live here in peace, and do forMadam Manovska and her daughter what I can, and anything I can do foryou, --then I must return and give myself up. The gold only holds outa worldly hope to me, and makes what I must do seem harder. I amafraid of it. "

"I'll make you a promise that if I return I'll not let you have it, but that it shall be turned to some good work. If I do not return, itwill rest on your conscience that before you make your confession, youshall see it well placed for a charity. You'll have to find thecharity, I can't say what it should be offhand now, but come with me. I must tell some man living my secret, and you're the only one. Besides--I trust you. Surely I do. "

CHAPTER XIX

THE MINE--AND THE DEPARTURE

Larry Kildene went around behind the stall where he kept his own horseand returned with a hollow tube of burnt clay about a foot long. Intothis he thrust a pine knot heavy with pitch, and, carrying a bunch ofmatches in his hand, he led the way back of the fodder. 

"I made these clay handles for my torches myself. They are myinvention, and I am quite proud of them. You can hold this burningknot until it is quite consumed, and that's a convenience. " He stoopedand crept under the fodder, and then Harry King saw why he kept morethere than his horse could eat, and never let the store run low. Itwas to conceal the opening of a long, low passage that might at firstbe taken for a natural cave under the projecting mass of rock abovethem, which formed one side and part of the roof of the shed. Quivering with excitement, although sad at heart, Harry King followedhis guide, who went rapidly forward, talking and explaining as hewent. Under his feet the way was rough and made frequent turns, andfor the most part seemed to climb upward. 

"There you see it. I discovered a vein of ore back there at the placewe entered, and assayed it and found it rich, and see how I workedit out! Here it seemed to end, and then I was still sane enough tothink I had enough gold for my life; I left the digging for awhile, and went to find my boy. I learned that he was living and hadgone into the army with his cousin, and I knew we would be of littleuse to each other then, but reasoned that the time was to come whenthe war would be over, and then he would have to find a place forhimself, and his father's gold would help. However it was--I saw Imust wait. Sit here a bit on this ledge, I want to tell you, but notin self-justification, mind you, not that. 

"I had been in India, and had had my fill of wars and fighting. Ihad no mind to it. I went off and bought stores and seed, andthought I would make more of my garden and not show myself again inLeauvite until my boy was back. It was in my thought, if the ladsurvived the army, to send for him and give him gold to hold hishead above--well--to start him in life, and let him know hisfather, --but when I returned, the great madness came on me. 

"I had built the shed and stabled my horse there, and purposelylocated my cabin below. The trail up here from the plain is a blindone, because of the wash from the hills at times, and I didn't fearmuch from white men, --still I concealed my tracks like this. Goldoften turns men into devils. "

He was silent for a time, and Harry King wondered much why he had madeno further effort to find his son before making to himself the offerhe had, but he dared not question him, and preferred to let Larry takehis own way of telling what he would. As if divining his thought Larrysaid quietly: "Something held me back from going down again to find myson. The way is long, and in the old way of traveling over the plainsit would take a year or more to make the journey and return here, andsomehow a superstition seized me that my boy would set out sometime tofind me, and I would make the way easy for him to do it. And here onthe mountain the years slip by like a long sleep. "

He began moving the torch about to show the walls of the cave in whichthey sat, and as he did so he threw the light strongly on the youngman's face, and scrutinized it sharply. He saw again that terriblelook of sadness as if his soul were dying within him. He saw greatdrops of sweat on his brow, and his eyes narrowed and fixed, and hehurried on with the narrative. He could not bear the sight. 

"Now here, look how this hole widens out? Here was where I prospectedabout to find the vein again, and there is where I took it up. Allthis overhead is full of gold. Think what it would mean if a man hadthe right apparatus for getting it out--I mean separating it! I onlytook what was free; that is, what could be easily freed from thequartz. Sometimes I found it in fine nuggets, and then I would gowild, and work until I was so weak I could hardly crawl back to theentrance. I often lay down here and slept with fatigue before I couldget back and cook my supper. "

As they went on a strange roaring seemed gradually to fill thepassage, and Harry spoke for the first time since they had entered. Hefeared the sound of his own voice, as though if he began to speak, hemight scream out, or reveal something he was determined to hide. Hethought the roaring sound might be in his own ears from the surging ofblood in his veins and the tumultuous beating of his heart. 

"What is it I hear? Is my head right?"

"The roaring? Yes, you're all right. I thought when I was workinghere and slowly burrowing farther and farther that it might be thelack of air, and tried to contrive some way of getting it from theoutside. I thought all the time that I was working farther into themountain, and that I would have to stop or die here like a rat in ahole. But you just wait. You'll be surprised in a minute. "

Then Harry laughed, and the laugh, unexpected to himself, woke himfrom the trancelike feeling that possessed him, and he walked moresteadily. "I've been being more surprised each minute. Am I inAladdin's cave--or whose is it?"

"Only mine. Just one more turn here and then--! It was not in thenight I came here, and it was not all at once, as you are coming--holdon! Let me go in front of you. The hole was made gradually, until, onemorning about ten o'clock, a great mass of rock--gold bearing, I tellyou--rich in nuggets--I was crazed to lose it--fell out into space, and there I stood on the very verge of eternity. "

They rounded the turn as he talked, and Larry Kildene stood forwardunder the stars and waved the torch over his head and held Harry backfrom the edge with his other hand. The air over their heads was sweetand pure and cold, and full of the roar of falling water. They couldsee it in a long, vast ribbon of luminous whiteness against the blackabyss--moving--and waving--coming out from nothingness far above them, and reaching down to the nethermost depths--in that weird gloom ofnight--into nothingness again. 

Harry stepped back, and back, into the hole from which they hademerged, and watched his companion stand holding the torch, which lithis features with a deep red light until he looked as if he might bethe very alchemist of gold--red gold--and turning all he looked uponinto the metal which closes around men's hearts. The red light flashedon the white ribbon of water, and this way and that, as he waved itaround, on the sides of the passage behind him, turning each point ofprojecting rock into red gold. 

"Do you know where we are? No. We're right under the fall--rightbehind it. No one can ever see this hole from the outside. It is ascompletely hidden as if the hand of the Almighty were stretched overit. The rush of this body of water always in front of it keeps the airin the passage always pure. It's wonderful--wonderful!"

He turned to look at Harry, and saw a wild man crouched in thedarkness of the passage, glaring, and preparing to leap. He seized andshook him. "What ails you, man? Hold on. Hold on. Keep your head, Isay. There! I've got you. Turn about. Now! It's over now. That'senough. It won't come again. "

Harry moaned. "Oh, let me go. Let me get away from it. "

The big man still gripped him and held him with his face toward thedarkness. "Tell me what you see, " he commanded. 

Still Harry moaned, and sank upon his knees. "Lord, forgive, forgive!"

"Tell me what you see, " Larry still commanded. He would try to breakup this vision seeing. 

"God! It is the eye. It follows me. It is gone. " He heaved a greatsigh of relief, but still remained upon his knees, quivering and weak. "Did you see it? You must have seen it. "

"I saw nothing, and you saw nothing. It's in your brain, and yourbrain is sick. You must heal it. You must stop it. Stand now, andconquer it. "

Harry stood, shivering. "I wanted to end it. It would have been soeasy, and all over so soon, " he murmured. 

"And you would die a coward, and so add one more crime to the first. You'd shirk a duty, and desert those who need you. You'd leave me inthe lurch, and those women dependent on me--wake up--"

"I'm awake. Let's go away. " Harry put his hand to his forehead andwiped away the cold drops that stood out like glistening beads ofblood in the red light of the torch. 

Larry grieved for him, in spite of the harshness of his words andtone, and taking him by the elbow, he led him kindly back into thepassage. 

"Don't trouble about me now, " Harry said at last. "You've given me athought to clutch to--if you really do need me--if I could believeit. "

"Well, you may! Didn't you say you'd do for me more than sons dofor their fathers? I ask you to do just that for me. Live for me. It'sa hard thing to ask of you, for, as you say, the other would beeasier, but it's a coward's way. Don't let it tempt you. Stand toyour guns like a man, and if the time comes and you can't see thingsdifferently, go back and make your confession and die the death--asa brave man should. Meantime, live to some purpose and do itcheerfully. " Larry paused. His words sank in, as he meant they should. He guided Harry slowly back to the place from which they had diverged, his arm across the younger man's shoulder. 

"Now I've more to show you. When I saw what I had done, I set myselfto find another vein, and see this large room? I groveled all abouthere, this way and that. A year of this, see. It took patience, and inthe meantime I went out into the world--as far as San Francisco, andwasted a year or more; then back I came. 

"I tell you there is a lure in the gold, and the mountains are powersof peace to a man. It seemed there was no other place where I couldrest in peace of mind. The longing for my son was on me, --but the warstill raged, and I had no mind for that, --yet I was glad my boy wastaking his part in the world out of which I had dropped. For one thingit seemed as if he were more my own than if he lived in Leauvite onthe banker's bounty. I would not go back there and meet the contemptof Peter Craigmile, for he never could forget that I had taken hissister out of hand, and she gone--man--it was all too sad. How did Iknow how my son had been taught to think on me? I could not go backwhen I would. 

"His name was Richard--my boy's. If he came alive from the army I donot know, --See? Here is where I found another vein, and I havefollowed it on there to the end of this other branch of the passage, and not exhausted it yet. Here's maybe another twenty years' work forsome man. Now, wasn't it a great work for one man alone, to tunnelthrough that rock to the fall? No one man needs all that wealth. I'veoften thought of Ireland and the poverty we left there. If I had myboy to hearten me, I could do something for them now. We'll go backand sleep, for it's the trail for me to-morrow, and to go and comequickly, before the snow falls. Come!"

They returned in silence to the shed. The torch had burned well downinto the clay handle, and Larry Kildene extinguished the last sparksbefore they crept through the fodder to their room in the shed. Thefire of logs was almost out, and the place growing cold. 

"You'll find the gold in a strong box made of hewn logs, buried in theground underneath the wood in the addition to the cabin. There's noneed to go to it yet, not until you need money. I'll show you how Iprepare it for use, in the morning. I do it in the room I made therenear the fall. It's the most secret place a man ever had for suchwork. "

Larry stretched himself in his bunk and was soon sleeping soundly. Notso the younger man. He could not compose himself after the excitementof the evening. He tossed and turned until morning found him weary andworn, but with his troubled mind more at rest than it had been formany months. He had fought out his battle, at least for the timebeing, and was at peace. 

Harry King rose and went out into the cold morning air and wasrefreshed. He brought in a large handful of pine cones and made aroaring fire in the chimney he had built, before Larry roused himself. Then he, too, went out and surveyed the sky with practiced eye. 

"Clear and cool--that argues well for me. If it were warm, now, I'dhardly like to start. Sometimes the snow holds off for weeks in thisweather. "

They stood in the pallid light of the early morning an hour before thesun, and the wind lifted Larry's hair and flapped his shirt sleevesabout his arms. It was a tingling, sharp breeze, and when theyreturned to the cave, where they went for Harry's lesson in smelting, the old man's cheeks were ruddy. 

The sun had barely risen when the lesson was over, and they descendedfor breakfast. Amalia had all ready for them, and greeted Larry fromthe doorway. 

"Good morning, Sir Kildene. You start soon. I have many good things toeat all prepare to put in your bag, and when you sit to your dinner onthe long way, it is that you must think of Amalia and know that shesays a prayer to the sweet Christ, that he send his good angels towatch over you all the way you go. A prayer to follow you all the wayis good, is not?" Amalia's frank and untrammeled way of referring toDivinity always precipitated a shyness on Larry, --a shyness thatshowed itself in smiles and stammering. 

"Good--good--yes. Good, maybe so. " Harry had turned back to bring downLarry's horse and pack mule. "Now, while we eat, --Harry will be downsoon, we won't wait for him, --while we eat, let me go over the thingsI'm to find for you down below. I must learn the list well by heart, or you may send me back for the things I've missed bringing. "

As they talked Amalia took from her wrist a heavy bracelet of gold, and from a small leather bag hidden in her clothing, a brooch ofemeralds, quaintly set and very precious. Her mother sat in one of hertrancelike moods, apparently seeing nothing around her, and Amaliatook Larry to one side and spoke in low tones. 

"Sir Kildene, I have thought much, and at last it seems to me right topart with these. It is little that we have--and no money, only these. What they are worth I have no knowledge. Mother may know, but to her Isay nothing. They are a memory of the days when my father was nobleand lived at the court. If you can sell them--it is that this broochshould bring much money--my father has told me. It was saved for mydowry, with a few other jewels of less worth. I have no need of dowry. It is that I never will marry. Until my mother is gone I can well carefor her with the lace I make, --and then--"

"Lass, I can't take these. I have no knowledge of their worth--or--"He knew he was saying what was not true, for he knew well the value ofwhat she laid so trustingly in his palm, and his hand quivered underthe shining jewels. He cleared his throat and began again. "I say, Ican't take jewels so valuable over the trail and run the risk oflosing them. Never! Put them by as before. "

"But how can I ask of you the things I wish? I have no money to returnfor them, and none for all you have done for my mother and me. Please, Sir Kildene, take of this, then, only enough to buy for our need. Itis little to take. Do not be hard with me. " She pleaded sweetly, placing one hand under his great one, and the other over the jewels, holding them pressed to his palm. "Will you go away and leave my heartheavy?"

"Look here, now--" Again he cleared his throat. "You put them by untilI come back, and then--"

But she would not, and tying them in her handkerchief, she thrust themin the pocket of his flannel shirt. 

"There! It is not safe in such a place. Be sure you take care, SirKildene. I have many thoughts in my mind. It is not all the money ofthese you will need now, and of the rest I may take my mother to alarge city, where are people who understand the fine lace. There I maysell enough to keep us well. But of money will I need first a littleto get us there. It is well for me, you take these--see? Is not?"

"No, it is not well. " He spoke gruffly in his effort to overcome hisemotion. "Where under heaven can I sell these?"

"You go not to the great city?" she asked sadly. "How must we then solong intrude us upon you! It is very sad. " She clasped her hands andlooked in his eyes, her own brimming with tears; then he turned away. Tears in a woman's eyes! He could not stand it. 

"See here. I'll tell you what I'll do. If that railroad is throughanywhere--so--so--I can reach San Francisco--" He thought he knew thatto be an impossibility, and that she would be satisfied. "I say--ifit's where I can reach San Francisco, I'll see what can be done. " Hecleared his throat a great many times, and stood awkwardly, hardlydaring to move with the precious jewels in his pocket. "See here. They'll joggle out of here. Can't you--"

She turned on him radiantly. "You may have my bag of leather. In thatwill they be safe. "

She removed the string from her neck and by it pulled the smallembossed case from her bosom, shook out the few rings and unset stonesleft in it, and returned the larger jewels to it, and gave it into hishand, still warm from its soft resting place. At the same moment Harryarrived, leading the animals. He lifted his head courageously and hiseyes shone as with an inspiration. 

"Will you let me accompany you a bit of the way, sir? I'd like to go. "Larry accepted gladly. He knew then what he would do with Amalia'sdowry. "Then I'll bring Goldbug. Thank you, Amalia, yes. I'll drink mycoffee now, and eat as I ride. " He ran back for his horse and soonreturned, and then drank his coffee and snatched a bite, while Amaliaand Larry slung the bags of food and the water on the mule and madeall ready for the start. As he ate, he tried to arouse and encouragethe mother, but she remained stolid until they were in the saddle, when she rose and followed them a few steps, and said in her deepvoice: "Yes, I ask a thing. You will find Paul, my 'usband. Tell himto come to me--it is best--no more, --I cannot in English. " Thenturning to her daughter she spoke volubly in her own tongue, and wavedher hand imperiously toward the men. 

"Yes, mamma. I tell all you say. " Amalia took a step away from thedoor, and her mother returned to her seat by the fire. 

"It is so sad. My mother thinks my father is returned to our owncountry and that you go there. She thinks you are our friend SirMcBride in disguise, and that you go to help my father. She fears youwill be taken and sent to Siberia, and says tell my father it isenough. He must no more try to save our fatherland: that our noblemenare full of ingratitude, and that he must return to her and livehereafter in peace. "

"Let be so. It's a saving hallucination. Tell her if I find yourfather, I will surely deliver the message. " And the two men rode awayup the trail, conversing earnestly. 

Larry Kildene explained to Harry about the jewels, and turned themover to his keeping. "I had to take them, you see. You hide them inthat chamber I showed you, along with the gold bars. Hang it aroundyour neck, man, until you get back. It has rested on her bosom, andif I were a young man like you, that fact alone would make it sacredto me. It's her dowry, she said. I'd sooner part with my right handthan take it from her. "

"So would I. " Harry took the case tenderly, and hid it as directed, and went on to ask the favor he had accompanied Larry to ask. It wasthat he might go down and bring the box from the wagon. 

"Early this morning, before I woke you, I led the brown horse youbrought the mother up the mountain on out toward the trail; we'll findhim over the ridge, all packed ready, and when I ran back for myhorse, I left a letter written in charcoal on the hearth there in theshed--Amalia will be sure to go there and find it, if I don't returnnow--telling her what I'm after and that I'll only be gone a few days. She's brave, and can get along without us. " Larry did not reply atonce, and Harry continued. 

"It will only take us a day and a half to reach it, and with yourhelp, a sling can be made of the canvas top of the wagon, and the twoanimals can 'tote it' as the darkies down South say. I can walk backup the trail, or even ride one of the horses. We'll take the tongueand the reach from the wagon and make a sort of affair to hang to thebeasts, I know how it can be done. There may not be much of value inthe box, but then--there may be. I see Amalia wishes it of all things, and that's enough for--us. "

Thus it came that the two women were alone for five days. MadamManovska did not seem to heed the absence of the two men at first, andwaited in a contentment she had not shown before. It would seem that, as Larry had said, there was saving in her hallucination, but Amaliawas troubled by it. 

"Mother is so sure they will bring my father back, " she thought. Shetried to forestall any such catastrophe as she feared by explainingthat they might not find her father or he might not return, even if hegot her message, not surely, for he had always done what he thoughthis duty before anything else, and he might think it his duty to staywhere he could find something to do. 

When Harry King did not return that night, Amalia did as he hadlaughingly suggested to her, when he left, "You'll find a letter outin the shed, " was all he said. So she went up to the shed, and thereshe lighted a torch, and kneeling on the stones of the wide hearth, she read what he had written for her. 

 "To the Lady Amalia Manovska:

 "Mr. Kildene will help me get your box. It will not be hard, for the two of us, and after it is drawn out and loaded I can get up with it myself and he can go on. I will soon be with you again, never fear. Do not be afraid of Indians. If there were any danger, I would not leave you. There is no way by which they would be likely to reach you except by the trail on which we go, and we will know if they are about before they can possibly get up the trail. I have seen you brave on the plains, and you will be as brave on the mountain top. Good-by for a few days. 

 "Yours to serve you, "Harry King. "

The tears ran fast down her cheeks as she read. "Oh, why did I speakof it--why? He may be killed. He may die of this attempt. " She threwthe torch from her into the fireplace, and clasping her hands began topray, first in English her own words, then the prayers for those inperil which she had learned in the convent. Then, lying on her face, she prayed frantically in her own tongue for Harry's safety. At last, comforted a little, she took up the torch and, flushed and tearful, walked down in the darkness to the cabin and crept into bed. 

CHAPTER XX

ALONE ON THE MOUNTAIN

For the first two days of Harry King's absence Madam Manovska relapsedinto a more profound melancholy, and the care of her mother took upAmalia's time and thoughts so completely as to give her little forindulging her own anxiety for Harry's safety. Strangely, she felt nofear for themselves, although they were thus alone on the mountaintop. She had a sense of security there which she had never felt in theyears since she had been taken from the convent to share her parents'wanderings. She made an earnest effort to divert and arouse her motherand succeeded until Madam Manovska talked much and volubly in Polish, and revealed more of the thoughts that possessed her in the long hoursof brooding than she had ever told Amalia before. It seemed that sheconfidently expected the return of the men with her husband, and thatthe message she had sent by Larry Kildene would surely bring him. Thethought excited her greatly, and Amalia found it necessary to keepcontinual watch lest she wander off down the trail in the directionthey had taken, and be lost. 

For a time Amalia tried to prevent Madam Manovska from dwelling on thepast, until she became convinced that to do so was not well, since itonly induced the fits of brooding. She then decided to encourage hermother to speak freely of her memories, rather than to keep themlocked in her own mind. It was in one of these intervals oftalkativeness that Amalia learned the cause of that strange cry thathad so pierced her heart and startled her on the trail. 

They had gone out for a walk, as the only means of inducing her motherto sleep was to let her walk in the clear air until so weary as tobring her to the point of exhaustion. This time they went farther thanAmalia really intended, and had left the paths immediately about thecabin, and climbed higher up the mountain. Here there was no trail andthe way was rough indeed, but Madam Manovska was in one of her mostwayward moods and insisted on going higher and farther. 

Her strength was remarkable, but it seemed to be strength of willrather than of body, for all at once she sank down, unable to goforward or to return. Amalia led her to the shade of a great gnarledtree, a species of fir, and made her lie down on a bed of stiff, coarse moss, and there she pillowed her mother's head on her lap. Whether it was something in the situation in which she found herselfor not, her mother began to tell her of a time about which she hadhitherto kept silent. It was of the long march through heat and cold, over the wildest ways of the earth to Siberia, at her husband's side. 

She told how she had persisted in going with him, even at the cost ofdressing in the garb of the exiles from the prisons and pretending tobe one of the condemned. Only one of the officers knew her secret, whofor reasons of humanity--or for some other feeling--kept silence. Shecarried her child in her arms, a boy, five months old, and was allowedto walk at her husband's side instead of following on with the otherwomen. She told how they carried a few things on their backs, and howone and another of the men would take the little one at intervals tohelp her, and how long the marches were when the summer was on thewane and they wished to make as much distance as possible before theywere delayed by storms and snow. 

Then she told how the storms came at last, and how her baby fell ill, and cried and cried--all the time--and how they walked in deep snow, until one and another fell by the way and never walked farther. Shetold how some of the weaker ones were finally left behind, becausethey could get on faster without them, but that the place where theywere left was a terrible one under a cruel man, and that her childwould surely have died there before the winter was over, and that whenshe persisted in keeping on with her husband, they beat her, but atlast consented on condition that she would leave her baby boy. Thenhow she appealed to the officer who knew well who she was and that shewas not one of the condemned, but had followed her husband for love, and to intercede for him when he would have been ill-treated; and thatthe man had allowed her to have her way, but later had demanded as hisreward for yielding to her, that she no longer belong to her husband, but to him. 

Looking off at the far ranges of mountains with steady gaze, she toldof the mountains they had crossed, and the rushing, terrible rivers;and how, one day, the officer who had been kind only that he might bemore cruel, had determined to force her to obedience, and how he grewvery angry--so angry that when they had come to a trail that waswell-nigh impassable, winding around the side of a mountain, where wasa fearful rushing river far below them, and her baby cried in herarms for cold and hunger, how he had snatched the child from her andhurled it over the precipice into the swift water, and how she hadshrieked and struck him and was crazed and remembered no more fordays, except to call continually on God to send down curses on thatofficer's head. She told how after that they were held at a certainstation for a long time, but that she was allowed to stay by herhusband only because the officer feared the terrible curses she hadasked of God to descend on that man, that he dared no more touch her. 

Then Amalia understood many things better than ever before, and grewif possible more tender of her mother. She thought how all during thatawful time she had been safe and sheltered in the convent, and herlife guarded; and moreover, she understood why her father had alwaystreated her mother as if she were higher than the angels and with thecourtesy and gentleness of a knight errant. He had bowed to herslightest wish, and no wonder her mother thought that when he receivedher request to return to her, and give up his hope, he would surelycome to her. 

More than ever Amalia feared the days to come if she could in no wayconvince her mother that it was not expedient for her father to returnyet. To say again that he was dead she dared not, even if she couldpersuade Madam Manovska to believe it; for it seemed to her in thatevent that her mother would give up all interest in life, and die of abroken heart. But from the first she had not accepted the thought ofher husband's death, and held stubbornly to the belief that he hadjoined Harry King to find help. He had, indeed, wandered away fromthem a few hours after the young man's departure and had been unableto find his way back, and, until Larry Kildene came to them, they hadcomforted themselves that the two men were together. 

Much more Madam Manovska told her daughter that day, before she slept;and Amalia questioned her more closely than she had ever doneconcerning her father's faith. Thereafter she sat for a long time onthe bank of coarse moss and pondered, with her mother's head pillowedon her lap. The sun reached the hour of noon, and still the motherslept and the daughter would not waken her. 

She took from the small velvet bag she always carried with her, acrisp cake of corn meal and ate to satisfy her sharp hunger, for thekeen air and the long climb gave her the appetite belonging to thevigorous health which was hers. They had climbed that part of themountain directly behind the cabin, and from the secluded spot wherethey sat she could look down on it and on the paths leading to it;thankful and happy that at last they were where all was so safe, nofear of intrusion entered her mind. Even her first anxiety about theIndians she had dismissed. 

Now, as her eyes wandered absently over the far distance and droppedto the nearer hills, and on down to the cabin and the patch ofcultivated ground, what was her horror to see three figures stealingwith swift, gliding tread toward the fodder shed from above, where wasno trail, only such rough and wild hillside as that by which she andher mother had climbed. The men seemed to be carrying something slungbetween them on a pole. With long, gliding steps they walked in singlefile as she had seen the Indians walk on the plains. 

She drew in her breath sharply and clasped her hands in supplication. Had those men seen them? Devoutly she prayed that they might not lookup toward the heights where she and her mother sat. As they continuedto descend she lost sight of them among the pines and the undergrowthwhich was more vigorous near the fall, and then they appeared againand went into the cabin. She thought they must have been in the foddershed when she lost sight of them, and now she waited breathlessly tosee them emerge from the cabin. For an hour she sat thus, strainingher eyes lest she miss seeing them when they came forth, and fearinglest her mother waken. Then she saw smoke issuing from the cabinchimney, and her heart stopped its beating. What! Were they preparingto stay there? How could her mother endure the cold of the mountainall night?

Then she began to consider how she might protect her mother after thesun had gone from the cold that would envelop them. Reasoning that aslong as the Indians stayed in the cabin they could not be seen bythem, she looked about for some projecting ledge under which theymight creep for the night. Gently she lifted her mother's head andplaced it on her own folded shawl, and, with an eye ever on the cabinbelow, she crept further up the side of the mountain until she found aplace where a huge rock, warmed by the sun, projected far out, andleft a hollow beneath, into which they might creep. Frantically shetore off twigs of the scrubby pines around them, and made a fragrantbed of pine needles and moss on which to rest. Then she woke hermother. 

Sane and practical on all subjects but the one, Madam Manovska rousedherself to meet this new difficulty with the old courage, and climbedwith Amalia's help to their wild resting place without a word ofcomplaint. There she sat looking out over the magnificent scenebefore her with her great brooding eyes, and ate the coarse corn cakeAmalia put in her hands. 

She talked, always in Polish or in French, of the men "rouge, " andsaid she did not wonder they came to so good a place to rest, and thatshe would give thanks to the great God that she and her daughter wereon the mountain when they arrived. She reminded Amalia that if she hadconsented to return when her daughter wished, they would now have beenin the cabin with those terrible men, and said that she had beeninspired of God to stay long on the mountain. Contentedly, then, shemunched her cake, and remarked that water would give comfort in theeating of it, but she smiled and made the best of the dry food. Thenshe prayed that her husband might be detained until the men weregone. 

Amalia gave her mother the water that was left in the bottle she hadbrought with her, and lamented that she had saved so little for her. "It was so bad, not to save more for my mamma, " she cried, giving thebottle with its lowered contents into her mother's hand. "I go towatch, mamma mine. Soon will I return. "

Amalia went back to her point of vantage, where she could see allabout the cabin and shed. Still the smoke poured from the chimney, andthere was no sign of red men without. It was a mountain sheep they hadcarried, slung between them, and now they dressed and cooked a portionof it, and were gorging themselves comfortably before the fire, withmany grunts of satisfaction at the finding of the formidable owner ofthe premises absent. They were on their way to Laramie to trade andsell game, and it was their intention to leave a portion of theirmutton with Larry Kildene; for never did they dare venture near himwithout bringing a propitiatory offering. 

The sun had set and the cold mists were blowing across from the falland closing around the cabin like a veil of amethystine dye, whenAmalia saw them moving about the cabin door as if preparing to depart. Her heart rose, and she signaled her mother, but no. They went indoorsagain, and she saw them no more. In truth they had disputed long as towhether it was best to leave before the big man's return, or to remainin their comfortable quarters and start early, before day. It was theconference that drew them out, and they had made ready to start at amoment's notice if he should return in the night. But as the darknesscrept on and Larry Kildene did not appear they stretched themselvesbefore the fire and slept, and the two women on the mountain, hungryand cold, crept under the mother's cloak and lay long into the night, shivering and listening, couched on the pine twigs Amalia had spreadunder the ledge of rock. At last, clasped in each other's arms, theyslept, in spite of fear and cold, for very weariness. 

Amalia woke next morning to the low murmuring of a voice. It was hermother, kneeling in the pine needles, praying at her side. She waiteduntil the prayer was ended, then she rose and went out from thesheltered hollow where they lay. "I will look a little, mamma. Waitfor me. "

She gazed down on the cabin, but all was still. The amethystine veilhad not lifted, and no smoke came from the chimney. She crept back toher mother's side, and they sat close for warmth, and waited. When thesun rose and the clouds melted away, all the earth smiled up at them, and their fears seemed to melt away with the clouds. Still they didnot venture out where they thought they might be spied from below, andtime passed while they watched earnestly for the sight of movingfigures, and still no smoke appeared from the cabin. 

Higher and higher the sun climbed in the sky, yet they could not bringthemselves to return. Hunger pressed them, and Amalia begged hermother to let her go a little nearer to listen, but she would not. Sothey discussed together in their own tongue and neither would allowthe other to venture below, and still no smoke issued from thechimney. 

At last Amalia started and pressed her hand to her heart. What did shesee far along on the trail toward the desert? Surely, a man with twoanimals, climbing toward the turn. Her eyes danced for gladness as sheturned a flushed face toward her mother. 

"Look, mamma! Far on, --no--there! It is--mamma mine--it is 'ArryKing!" The mere sight of him made her break out in English. "It isthat I must go to him and tell him of the Indian in the cabin beforehe arrive. If he come on them there, and they kill him! Oh, let me goquickly. " At the thought of him, and the danger he might meet, all herfears of the men "rouge" returned upon her, and she was gone, passingwith incredible swiftness over the rough way, to try to intercept himbefore he could reach the cabin. 

But she need not have feared, for the Indians were long gone. Beforedaybreak they had passed Harry where he rested in the deep dusk of themorning, without knowing he was near. With swift, silent steps theyhad passed down the trail, taking as much of Larry Kildene's corn asthey could carry, and leaving the bloody pelt of the sheep and a verymeager share of the mutton in exchange. Hungry and footsore, yet eagerand glad to have come home successfully, Harry King walked forward, leading his good yellow horse, his eyes fixed on the cabin, andwondering not a little; for he, too, saw that no smoke was issuingfrom the chimney. 

He hastened, and all Amalia's swiftness could not bring her to himbefore he reached his goal. He saw first the bloody pelt hangingbeside the door, and his heart stood still. Those two women nevercould have done that! Where were they? He dropped the leading strap, leaving the weary horses where they stood, and ran forward to enterthe cabin and see the evidence of Indians all about. There were theclean-picked bones of their feast and the dirt from their feet onAmalia's carefully kept floor. The disorder smote him, and he ran outagain in the sun. Looking this way and that, he called and listenedand called again. Why did no answer reach him? Poor Amalia! In herhaste she had turned her foot and now, fainting with pain, and withfear for him, she could not find her voice to reply. 

He thought he heard a low cry. Was it she? He ran again, and now hesaw her, high above him, a dark heap on the ground. Quickly he was byher side, and, kneeling, he gathered her in his arms. He forgot allbut that she was living and that he held her, and he kissed her whiteface and her lips, and said all the tender things in his heart. He didnot know what he was saying. He only knew that he could feel her heartbeat, and that she was opening her eyes, and that with quivering armsshe clasped his neck, and that her tears wet his cheek, and that, overand over, her lips were repeating his name. 

"'Arry--'Arry King! You are come back. Ah, 'Arry King, my heart crywith the great gladness they have not killed you. "

All in the same instant he bethought himself that he must not caressher thus. Yet filled with a gladness he could not fathom he stillclung to her and still murmured the words he meant never to speak toher. One thing he could do. One thing sweet and right to do. He couldcarry her to the cabin. How could she reach it else? His heart leapedthat he had at least that right. 

"No, 'Arry King. You have walk the long, hard way, and are veryweary. " But still he carried her. 

"Put me down, 'Arry King. " Then he obeyed her, and set her gentlydown. "I am too great a burden. See, thus? If you help me a little--itis that I may hop--It is better, is not?"

She smiled in his face, but he only stooped and lifted her again inhis arms. "You are not a burden, Amalia. Put your arms around my neck, and lean on me. "

She obeyed him, and he could say no more for the beating of his heart. Carefully and slowly he made his way, setting his feet cautiouslyamong the stones that obstructed his path. Madam Manovska from herheights above saw how her daughter was being carried, and, guessingthe trouble, snatched up the velvet bag Amalia had dropped in herhaste, flung her cloak about her, and began to thread her way down, slowly and carefully; for, as she said to herself, "We must not bothbreak the bones at one time. "

To Harry it seemed no sound was ever sweeter than Amalia's low voiceas she coaxed him brokenly to set her down and allow her to walk. 

"This is great foolishness, 'Arry King, that you carry me. Put me downthat you rest a little. "

"I can't, Amalia. "

"You have walk all the long trail--I saw you walk--and lead thosehorse, for only to bring our box. How my heart can thank you is notpossible. 'Arry King, you are so weary--put me down. "

"I can't, Amalia, " again was all he said. So he held her, comfortinghis heart that he had this right, until he drew near the cabin, andthere Amalia saw the pelt of the sheep hung upon the wall of thecabin, pitifully dangling, bloody and ragged. Strangely, at the sightquite harmless, yet gruesome, all her fortitude gave way. With a cryof terror she hid her face and clung to him. 

"No, no. I cannot go there--not near it--no!"

"Oh, you brave, sweet woman! It is only a skin. Don't look at it, then. You have been frightened. I see how you have suffered. Wait. There--no, don't put your foot to the ground. Sit on this hillockwhile I take it away. "

But she only clung to him the more, and sobbed convulsively. "I amafraid--'Arry King. Oh, if--if--they are there still! Those Indian! Donot go there. "

"But they are gone; I have been in and they are not there. I won'ttake you into that place until I have made it fit for you again. Sithere awhile. Amalia Manovska, --I can't see you weep. " So tenderly hespoke her name, with quivering lips, reverently. With all his power heheld himself and would dare no more. If only once more he might touchher lips with his--only once in his renunciation--but no. Hisconscience forbade him. Memory closed upon him like a deadening cloudand drenched his hurt soul with sorrow. He rose from stooping aboveher and looked back. 

"Your mother is coming. She will be here in a moment and then I willset that room in order for you, and--" his voice shook so that he wasobliged to pause. He stooped again to her and spoke softly: "AmaliaManovska, stop weeping. Your tears fall on my heart. "

"Ah, what have happen, to you--to Amalia--? Those terrible men'rouge'!" cried Madam Manovska, hurrying forward. 

"Oh, Madam, I am glad you have come. The Indians are gone, never fear. Amalia has hurt her foot. It is very painful. You will know what to dofor her, and I will leave her while I make things more comfortable inthere. "

He left them and ran to the cabin, and hastily taking the hideous peltfrom the wall, hid it, and then set himself to cleaning the room andburning the litter of bones and scraps left from the feast. It washorrible--yes, horrible, that they should have had such a fright, andalone there. Soon he went back, and again taking her in his arms, unresisted now, he laid her on the bunk, then knelt and removed herworn shoe. 

"Little worn shoe! It has walked many a mile, has it not? Did youthink to ask Larry Kildene to bring you new ones?"

"No, I forgot my feet. " She laughed, and the spell of tears wasbroken. The long strain of anxiety and fear and then the suddenrelease had been too much. Moreover, she was faint with hunger. Without explanation Harry King understood. He looked to the mother forhelp and saw that a change had come over her. Roused from her apathyshe was preparing food, and looking from her to Amalia, they exchangeda glance of mutual relief. 

"How it is beautiful to see her!" Amalia spoke low. "It is my hurtthat is good for her mind. I am glad of the hurt. "

He sat with the shoe in his hand. "Will you let me bind your ankle, Amalia? It will grow worse unless something is done quickly. " He spokehumbly, as one beseeching a favor. 

"Now it is already better, you have remove the shoe. " How he loved herquaint, rapid speech! "Mamma will bind it, for you have to do forthose horse and the mule. I know--I have seen--to take them to drinkand eat, and take from them the load--the burden. It is the box--forthat have you risk your life, and the gladness we feel to again haveit is--is only one greater--and that is to have you again with us. Oh, what a sorrow and terror--if you had not come--I can never make youknow. When I see those Indian come walking after each other so as theygo--my heart cease to beat--and my body become like the ice--for thefear. When fearing for myself, it is bad, but when for another it ismuch--much--more terrible. So have I found it. "

Her mother came then to attend to her hurt, interrupting Amalia's flowof speech, and Harry went out to the animals, full of care andmisgiving. What now could he do? How endure the days to come withtheir torture of repression? How shield her from himself and hislove--when she so freely gave? What middle course was possible, without making her suffer?

That afternoon all the events of his journey were told to them as theyquestioned him keenly, and he learned by little words and looksexchanged between them how great had been their anxiety for him, andof their night of terror on the mountain. But now that it was past andthey were all unhurt except for Amalia's accident, they made light ofit. He dragged in the box, and before he left them that night heprepared Larry's gun, and told Amalia to let nothing frighten her. 

"Don't leave the bunk, nor put your foot to the ground. Fire the gunat the slightest disturbance, and I will surely hear. I have anotherin the shed. Or I will roll myself in my blanket, and sleep outsideyour door. Yes, I will do that. "

Then the mother turned on him and spoke in her deep tones: "Go to yourbed, 'Arry King, and sleep well. You have need. We asked of the goodGod your safety, and our fear is gone. Good night. "

"Good-night. "

CHAPTER XXI

THE VIOLIN

While Amalia lay recovering from the sprained ankle, which proved tobe a serious hurt, Madam Manovska continued to improve. She took upthe duties which had before occupied Amalia only, and seemed to growmore cheerful. Still she remained convinced that Larry Kildene wouldreturn with her husband, and her daughter's anxiety as to what mightbe the outcome, when the big man should arrive alone, deepened. 

Harry King guardedly and tenderly watched over the two women. Everyday he carried Amalia out in the sun to a sheltered place, where shemight sit and work at the fascinating lace with which her fingersseemed to be only playing, yet which developed into webs of mostintricate design, even while her eyes were not fixed upon it, but wereglancing about at whatever interested her, or up in his face, as shetalked to him impulsively in her fluent, inverted English. 

Amalia was not guarded; she was lavish with her interest in all hesaid, and in her quick, responsive, and poetic play of fancy--ardentand glowing--glad to give out from her soul its best to this man whohad befriended her father in their utmost need and who had saved herown and her mother's life. She knew always when a cloud gathered overhis spirit, and made it her duty to dispel such mists of somepossible sad memory by turning his thoughts to whatever of beauty shefound around them, or in the inspiration of her own rich nature. 

To avoid disquieting her by the studied guardedness of his manner, Harry employed himself as much of the time as possible away from thecabin, often in providing game for the winter. Larry Kildene hadinstructed him how to cure and dry the meat and to store it and alsohow to care for the skins, but because of the effect of that sight ofthe bloody sheep's pelt on Amalia, he never showed her a poor littledead creature, or the skin of one. He brought her mother whatever theyrequired of food, carefully prepared, and that was all. 

He constructed a chair for her and threw over it furs from LarryKildene's store, making it soft and comfortable thereby. He made alsoa footstool for the hurt ankle to rest upon, and found a beautifullynx skin with which to cover her feet. The back of the chair he madehigh, and hinged it with leather to the seat, arranging it so that bymeans of pegs it might be raised or lowered. Without lumber, and withthe most simple tools, he sawed and hewed the logs, and lacking nailshe set it together with pegs, but what matter? It was comfortable, andin the making of it he eased his heart by expressing his love withoutsorrowful betrayal. 

Amalia laughed as she sat in it, one day, close to the open door, because the air was too pinching cold for her to be out. She laughedas she put her hands in the soft fur and drew her fingers through it, and looked up in Harry's face. 

"You are thinking me so foolish, yes, to have about me the skins ofpoor little killed beasts? Yet I weeped all those tears on your coatbecause to see the other--yes, --hanging beside the door. It is so weare--is not?"

"I'm glad enough you're not consistent. It would be a blot on yourcharacter. "

"But for why, Mr. 'Arry?"

"Oh, I couldn't stand it. "

Again she laughed. "How it is very peculiar--that reason you give. Notto stand it! Could you then to sit it?" But Harry only laughed andlooked away from her. She laid her face against the soft fur. "Goodlittle animals--to give me your life. But some time you woulddie--perhaps with sorrow of hunger and age, and the life be fornothing. This is better. "

"There you're right. Let me draw you back in the room and close thedoor. It will freeze to-night, I'm thinking. "

"Oh, not yet, please! I have yet to see the gloryful sky of the west. Last evening how it was beautiful! To-night it will be more lovely tolook upon for the long line of little cloud there on which the red ofthe sun will burn like fire in the heaven over the mountain. "

"You must enjoy the beauty, Amalia, and then pray that there may be nosnow. It looks like it, and we want the snow to hold off until Larrycomes back. "

"We pray, always, my mamma and I. She that he come back quickly, andme--I pray that he come back safely--but to be soon--it is such terrorto me. "

"Larry will find a way out of the difficulty. He will have an excuseall thought out for your mother. I am more anxious about the snow witha sunset sky like that, but I don't know anything about this region. "

"Mr. 'Arry, so very clever you are in making things, can you help meto one more thing? I like very much to have the sticks for lamewalking, --what you call--the crutch? Yes. I have for so long timespoken only the Polish that I forget me greatly the English. You musttalk to me much, and make me reproof of my mistakes. Do you know forwhy I like the crutch? It is that I would go each day--many times tosee the water fall down. Ah, how that is beautiful! In the sun, orearly in the morning, or in the night, always beautiful!"

"You shall have the crutches, Amalia, and until I get them made, Iwill carry you to the fall each day. Come, I will take you there now. I will wrap these furs around you, and you shall see the fall in theevening light. "

"No, 'Arry King. To-morrow I will try to ride on the horse if you willlift me up on him. I will let you do this. But you may not carry me asyou have done. I am now so strong. You may make me the crutch, yes. "Of all things he wished her to let him carry her to the fall, but herrefusal was final, and he set about making the crutches immediately. 

Through the evening he worked on them, and at nightfall the next dayhe brought them to her. As he came down from his shed, carrying thecrutches proudly, he heard sweet, quavering tones in the air waftedintermittently. The wind was still, and through the evening hush thetones strengthened as he drew nearer the cabin, until they seemed towrap him in a net of interwoven cadences and fine-spun threads ofquivering melody--a net of sound, inclosing his spirit in itsintricate mesh of sweetness. 

He paused and breathed deeply, and turned this way and that, as if hewould escape but found no way; then he walked slowly on. At the doorof the cabin he paused again. The firelight shone through fromunderneath, and a fine thread of golden light sifted through the latchof the door and fell on the hand that held Amalia's crutches. Helooked down on the spot of light dancing over his hand as if he weredazed by it. Very gently he laid the crutches across the threshold, and for a long time stood without, listening, his head bowed as if hewere praying. 

It was her father's violin, the one she had wept at leaving behindher. What was she playing? Strange, old-world melodies they seemed, tossed into the air, now laughing, now wailing like sorrowing womenvoices. Oh, the violin in her hands! Oh, the rapture of hearing it, asher soul vibrated through it and called to him--called to him!--But hewould not hear the call. He turned sorrowfully and went down again tothe shed and there he lay upon his face and clasped his hands abovehis head and whispered her name. It was as if his heart were beatingitself against prison walls and the clasped hands were stained withblood. 

He rose next morning, haggard and pale. The snow wasfalling--falling--softly and silently. It fell like lead upon hisheart, so full of anxiety was he for the good friend who might eventhen be climbing up the trail. Madam Manovska observed his drawn face, and thought he suffered only from anxiety and tried to comfort him. Amalia also attempted to cover her own anxiety by assurances that thegood St. Christopher who watches over travelers would protect LarryKildene, because he knew so well how many dangers there were, and thathe, who had carried the Christ with all his burden of sorrows couldsurely keep "Sir Kildene" even through the snows of winter. In spiteof an inherent and trained disbelief in all supposed legends, especially as tenets of faith, Harry felt himself comforted by hertalk, yet he could not forbear questioning her as to her own faith inthem. 

"Do you truly believe all that, Amalia?"

"All--that--? Of what--Mr. 'Arry?" She seemed truly mystified. 

"I mean those childish legends of the saints you often quote?"

Amalia laughed. "You think I have learn them of the good sisters in myconvent, and is no truth in them?"

"Why--I guess that's about it. Did your father believe them?"

"Maybe no. But my father was 'devoué'--very--but he had a very widethought of God and man--a thought reaching far out--to--I find it veryhard to explain. If but you understood the French, I could tellyou--but for me, I have my father's faith and it makes me glad to playin my heart with these legends--as you call them. "

He gave her a quick, appealing glance, then turned his gaze away. "Tryto explain. Your English is beautiful. "

"If you eat your breakfast, then will I try. "

"Yes, yes, I will. You say he had faith reaching far out--to where--towhat?"

"He said there would never be rest in all the universe until we findeverywhere God, --living--creating--moving forever in the--the--all. "She held out her hands and extended her arms in an encompassingmovement indescribably full of grace. 

"You mean he was a pantheist?"

"Oh, no, no. That is to you a horror, I see, but it was not that. "She laughed again, so merrily that Harry laughed, too. But still hepersisted, "Amalia--never mind what your father thought; tell me yourown faith. "

Then she grew grave, "My faith is--just--God. In the all. Seeing--feeling--knowing--with us--for us--never away--in the deepnight of sorrow--understanding. In the far wilderness--hearing. In theterror and remorse of the heart--when we weep for sin--loving. It isonly one thing in all the world to learn, and that is to learn allthings, just to reach out the mind, and touch God--to find his love inthe heart and so always live in the perfect music of God. That is thewonderful harmony--and melody--and growth--of each little soul--and ofall peoples, all worlds, --Oh, it is the universe of love God gives tous. "

For a while they were silent, and Madam Manovska began to move aboutthe cabin, setting the things in order. She did not seem to have takenany interest in their talk. Harry rose to go, but first he looked inAmalia's eyes. 

"The perfect Music of God?" He said the words slowly and questioningly. 

"You understand my meaning?"

"I can't say. Do you?"

She quickly snatched up her violin which lay within reach of her arm. "I can better show you. " She drew a long chord, then from it wanderedinto a melody, sweet and delicate; then she drew other chords, and oninto other melodies, all related; then she began to talk again. "It isonly on two strings I am playing--for hear? the others are now soulsout of the music of God--listen--" she drew her bow across thediscordant strings. "How that is terrible! So God creates great andbeautiful laws--" she went back into the harmony and perfect melody, and played on, now changing to the discordant strain, and back, as shetalked--"and gives to all people power to understand, but not throughweakness--but through longing and searching with big earnestness ofpurpose, and much desire. Who has no care and desire for the music ofGod, strikes always those wrong notes, and all suffer as our earssuffer with the bad sounds. So it is, through long desiring, andliving, always a little and a little more perceiving, reaching out thehand to touch in love our brothers and sisters on the earth, --alwayswith patience learning to find in our own souls the note that strikesin harmony with the great thought of God--and thus we understand andlive in the music of God. Ah, it is hard for me to say it--but it isas if our souls are given wings--wings--that reach--from the gold ofthe sun--even to the earth at our feet, and we float upon that greatharmony of love like upon a wonderful upbearing sea, and never can wesink, and ever all is well--for we live in the thought of God. "

"Amalia--Amalia--How about sin, and the one who--kills--and the oneswho hate--and the little children brought into the world in sin--"Harry's voice trembled, and he bowed his head in his hands. 

"Never is anything lost. They are the ones who have not yetlearned--they have not found the key to God's music. Those who findmust quickly help and give and teach the little children--the littlechildren find so easily the key--but to all the strings makinghorrible discord on the earth--we dare not shut our ears and hide--sodo the sweet, good sisters in the convent. They do their little toteach the little children, but it is always to shut their ears. Butthe Christ went out in the world, not with hands over his ears, butoutreached to his brothers and sisters on the earth. But my father--myfather! He turned away from the church, because he saw they had notfound the true key to God's music--or I mean they kept it always hid, and covered with much--how shall I say--with much drapery--and goldencoverings, that the truth--that is the key--was lost to sight. It wasfor this my father quarreled with--all that he thought not the truth. He believed to set his people free both from the world's oppressionand from their own ignorance, and give to them a truth uncovered. Oh, it set his old friends in great discord more than ever--for they couldnot make thus God's music. And so they rose up and threw him inprison, and all the terrible things came upon him--of the world. Mymother must have been very able through love to drag him free fromthem, even if they did pursue. It was the conflict of discord he feltall his life, and now he is free. "

Suddenly the mother's deep tones sounded through the cabin with afinality that made them both start. "Yes. Now he is free--and yet willhe bring them to--know. We wait for him here. No more must he go toPoland. It is not the will of God. "

Still Harry was not satisfied. "But if you think all these greatthoughts--and you do--I can't see how you can quote those legends asif you thought them true. "

"I quote them, yes, because I love them, and their poetry. Through allbeauty--all sweetness--all strength--God brings to us his thought. This I believe. I believe the saints lived and were holy and good, loving the great brotherhood. Why may not they be given the work oflove still to do? It is all in the music of God, that they live, andmake happy, and why should I believe that it is now taken from them todo good? Much that I think lies deep in my heart, and I cannot tell itin words. "

"Nor can I. But my thoughts--" For an instant Amalia, looking at him, saw in his face the same look of inward fear--or rather of despairthat had appalled Larry, but it went as quickly as it appeared, andshe wondered afterward if she had really seen it, or if it was astrange trick of the firelight in the windowless cabin. 

"And your thoughts, Mr. 'Arry?"

"They are not to be told. " Again he rose to go, and stood and lookeddown on her, smiling. "I see you have already tried the crutches. "

"Yes. I found them in the snow, before the door. How I got there? Idid hop. It was as if the good angels had come in the night. I wakeand something make me all glad--and I go to the door to look at thewhiteness, and then I am sorry, because of Sir Kildene, then I seebefore me--while that I stand on one foot, and hop--hop--hop--so, Isee the crutch lie in the snow. Oh, Mr. 'Arry, now so pale you are! Itis that you have worked in the night to make them--Is not? That issorrowful to me. But now will I do for you pleasant things, because Ican move to do them on these, where before I must always sitstill--still--Ah, how that is hard to do! One good thing comes to meof this hurt. It makes the old shoes to last longer. How is it neverto wear out shoes? Never to walk in them. "

Harry laughed. "We'll have to make you some moccasins. "

"And what is moccasins? Ah, yes, the Indian shoe. I like them well, sosoft they must be, and so pretty with the beads. I have seen once suchshoes on one little Indian child. Her mother made them. "

Then Harry made her try the crutches to be sure they were quite right, and, seeing that they were a little too long, he measured them withcare, and carried them back to the shed, and there he shortened themand polished them with sand and a piece of flint, until he succeededin making a very workmanlike job of them. 

At noon he brought them back, and stood in the doorway a moment besideher, looking out through the whiteness upon the transformed world. Inspite of what that snow might mean to Larry Kildene, and through himto them, of calamity, maybe death, a certain elation possessed Harry. His body was braced to unusual energy by the keen, pure air, and hisspirit enthralled and lifted to unconscious adoration by the vastmystery of a beauty, subtle and ethereal in its hushed eloquence. Fromthe zenith through whiteness to whiteness the flakes sifted from thesky like a filmy bride's veil thrown over the blue of the farthest andhighest peaks, and swaying soft folds of lucent whiteness upon theearth--the trees--and upon the cabin, and as they stood there, closingthem in together--the very center of mystery, their own souls. Againthe passion swept through him, to gather her in his arms, and he heldhimself sternly and stiffly against it, and would have said somethingsimple and common to break the spell, but he only faltered and lookeddown on his hands spread out before her, and what he said was: "Do yousee blood on them?"

"Ah, no. Did you hurt your hand to cause blood on them, and to makethose crutch for me?" she cried in consternation. 

"No, no. It's nothing. I have not hurt my hand. See, there's no bloodon the crutches. " He glanced at them as she leaned her weight on themthere at his side, with a feeling of relief. It seemed as if they mustshow a stain, yet why should it be blood? "Come in. It's too cold foryou to stand in the door with no shawl. I mean to put enough wood inhere to last you the rest of the day--and go--"

"Mr. 'Arry! Not to leave us? No, it is no need you go--for why?"

Her terror touched him. "No, I would not go again and leave you andyour mother alone--not to save my soul. As you say, there is noneed--as long as it is so still and the clouds are thin the snow willdo little harm. It would be the driving, fine snow and the drifts thatwould delay him. "

"Yes, snow as we have it in the terrible Russia. I know such snowwell, " said Madam Manovska. 

They went in and closed the door, and sat down to eat. The meal waslighted only by the dancing flames from the hearth, and their facesglowed in the fitful light. Always the meals were conducted with acertain stately ceremony which made the lack of dishes, other than theshaped slabs of wood sawn from the ends of logs--odd make-shiftsinvented by Harry, seem merely an accident of the moment, while thebits of lace-edged linen that Amalia provided from their little storeseemed quite in harmony with the air of grace and gentleness thatsurrounded the two women. It was as if they were using a service ofsilver and Sevres, and to have missed the graciousness of theirministrations, now that he had lived for a little while with them, would have been sorrow indeed. 

He even forgot that he was clothed in rags, and wore them as if theywere the faultless garments of a prince. It was only when he was alonethat he looked down on them and sighed. One day he had come to thecabin to ask if he might take for a little while a needle and thread, but when he got there, the conversation wandered to discussion of thewriters and the tragedies of the various nations and of their poets, and the needle and thread were forgotten. 

To-day, as the snow fell, it reminded Amalia of his need, and shebegged him to stay with them a little to see what the box he hadrescued for them contained. He yielded, and, taking up the violin, heheld it a moment to his chin as if he would play, then laid it downagain without drawing the bow across it. 

"Ah, Mr. 'Arry, it is that you play, " cried Amalia, in delight. "Iknow it. No man takes in his hand the violin thus, if he do notplay. "

"I had a friend once who played. No, I can't. " He turned away from itsadly, and she gently laid it back in its box, and caught up a pieceof heavy material. 

"Look. It is a little of this left. It is for you. My mother has muchskill to make garments. Let us sew for you the blouse. "

"Yes, I'll do that gladly. I have no other way to keep myself decentbefore you. "

"What would you have? All must serve or we die. " Madam Manovska spoke, "It is well, Sir 'Arry King, you carry your head like one prince, forI will make of you one peasant in this blouse. "

The two women laughed and measured him, and conferred volubly togetherin their own tongue, and he went out from their presence feeling thatno prince had ever been so honored. They took also from their storewarm socks of wool and gave him. Sadly he needed them, as he realizedwhen he stepped out from their door, and the soft snow closed aroundhis feet, chilling them with the cold. 

As he looked up in the sky he saw the clouds were breaking, and thesun glowed through them like a great pale gold moon, even though theflakes continued to veil thinly the distance. His heart lightened andhe went back to the cabin to tell them the good news, and to ask themto pray for clear skies to-morrow. Having been reared in a rigidlypuritanic school of thought, the time was, when first he knew them, that the freedom with which Amalia spoke of the Deity, and of theChrist, and the saints, and her prayers, fell strangely upon hisunaccustomed ears. He was reserved religiously, and seemed to thinkany mention of such topics should be made with bated breath, and theutmost solemnity. Often it had been in his mind to ask her concerningher beliefs, but his shyness on such themes had prevented. 

Now that he had asked her he still wondered. He was used to feel thatno one could be really devout, and yet speak so freely. Why--he couldnot have told. But now he began to understand, yet it was but abeginning. Could it be that she belonged to no church? Was it somesect of which he had never heard to which they belonged? If so, itmust be a true faith, or it never could have upheld them through alltheir wanderings and afflictions, and, as he pondered, he foundhimself filled with a measure of the same trustful peace. Duringtheir flight across the plains together he had come to rest in them, and when his heart was too heavy to dare address the Deity in his ownwords, it was balm to his hurt spirit to hear them at their devotionsas if thus God were drawn nearer him. 

This time, whether he might lay it to their prayers or no, his hopeswere fulfilled. The evening brought a clear sunset, and during thenext day the snow melted and soon was gone, and a breeze sprang up andthe clouds drifted away, and for several days thereafter the weathercontinued clear and dry. 

Now often he brought his horse to the door, and lifted Amalia to thesaddle and walked at her side, fearing she might rest her foot toofirmly in the stirrup and so lose control of the horse in her pain. Always their way took them to the falls. And always he listened whileAmalia talked. He allowed himself only the most meager liberty ofexpression. Distant and cold his manner often seemed to her, butintuitively she respected his moods, if moods they might be called:she suspected not. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE BEAST ON THE TRAIL

A week after the first snowfall Larry Kildene returned. He hadlingered long after he should have taken the trail and had gonefarther than he had dreamed of going when he parted from his threecompanions on the mountain top. All day long the snow had beenfalling, and for the last few miles he had found it almost impossibleto crawl upward. Fortunately there had been no wind, and the snow layas it had fallen, covering the trail so completely that only LarryKildene himself could have kept it--he and his horse--yet not impedinghis progress with drifts to be tunneled through. 

Harry King had been growing more and more uneasy during the day, andhad kept the trail from the cabin to the turn of the cliff clear ofsnow, but below that point he did not think it wise to go: he couldnot, indeed. There, however, he stationed himself to wait through thenight, and just beyond the turn he built a fire, thinking it mightsend a light into the darkness to greet Larry, should he happen to betoiling through the snow. 

He did not arouse the fears of Amalia by telling her he meant to keepwatch all night on the cliff, but he asked her for a brew of LarryKildene's coffee--of which they had been most sparing--when he leftthem after the evening meal, and it was given him without a thought, as he had been all day working in the snow, and the request seemednatural. He asked that he might have it in the great kettle in whichthey prepared it, and carried it with him to the fodder shed. 

Darkness had settled over the mountain when, after an hour's rest, hereturned to the top of the trail and mended his fire and placed hiskettle near enough to keep the contents hot. Through half the night hewaited thus, sometimes walking about and peering into the obscuritybelow, sometimes replenishing his fire, and sometimes just patientlysitting, his arms clasped about his knees, gazing into space andbrooding. 

Many times had Harry King been lonely, but never had the awesomenessof life and its mysterious leadings so impressed him as during thisnight's vigil. Moses alone on the mountain top, carried there and leftwhere he might see into the promised land--the land toward which hehad been aided miraculously to lead his people, but which he might notenter because of one sin, --one only transgression, --Elijah sittingalone in the wilderness waiting for the revealing of God--waitingheartbroken and weary, vicariously bearing in his own spirit regretsand sorrows over the waywardness of his people Israel, --and John, theforerunner--a "Voice crying in the wilderness 'Repent ye!'"--thesewere not so lonely, for their God was with them and had led them bydirect communication and miraculous power; they were not lonely asCain was lonely, stained with a brother's blood, cast out from amonghis fellows, hunted and haunted by his own guilt. 

Silence profound and indescribable reigned, while the great, softflakes continued to drift slowly down, silent--silent--as the grave, and above and beneath and on all sides the same absolute neutralityof tint, vague and soft; yet the reality of the rugged mountain evenso obscured and covered, remained; its cliffs and crags below, deadlyand ragged, and fearful to look down upon, and skirting its sides thelong, weary trail, up which at that very moment a man might betoiling, suffering, even to the limit of death--might be giving hislife for the two women and the man who had come to him so suddenly outof the unknown; strange, passing strange it all was. 

Again and again Harry rose and replenished the fire and stamped about, shaking from his shoulders the little heaps of snow that had collectedthere. The flames rose high in the still air and stained the snowaround his bonfire a rosy red. The redness of the fire-stained snowwas not more deep and vital than the red blood pulsing through hisheart. With all a strong man's virility and power he loved as only thestrong can love, and through all his brooding that undercurrent ranlike a swift and mighty river, --love, stronger than hate, --love, triumphing over death, --love, deeper than hell, --love, lifting to thezenith of heaven;--only two things seemed to him verities at thatmoment, God above, and love within, --two overwhelming truths, terriblein their power, all-consuming in their sweetness, one in their vast, incomprehensible entity of force, beneficent, to be forever sought forand chosen out of all the universe of good. 

The true meaning of Amalia's faith, as she had brokenly tried toexplain it to him, dawned on his understanding. God, --love, truth, andpower, --annihilating evil as light eats up darkness, drawing all intothe great "harmony of the music of God. "

Sitting there in the red light of the fire with the snow fallingaround him, he knew what he must do first to come into the harmony. Hemust take up his burden and declare the truth, and suffer the result, no matter what it might be. Keen were all the impressions and visionsof his mind. Even while he could see Amalia sleeping in the cabin, andcould feel her soft breath on his cheek, could feel her in hisarms, --could hear her prayers for Larry Kildene's safety as at thatmoment he might be coming to them, --he knew that the mighty river ofhis love must be held back by a masterful will--must be dammed backuntil its floods deepened into an ocean of tranquillity while he roseabove his loneliness and his fierce longing, --loving her, yet makingno avowal, --holding her in his heart, yet never disturbing her peaceof spirit by his own heart's tumult, --clinging to her night and day, yet relinquishing her. 

And out of this resolution, against which his nature cried and beatitself, he saw, serene, and more lonely than Moses or Elijah, --beautiful, and near to him as his love, the Christ taken to the high places, eventhe pinnacle of the temple--and the mountain peak, overlooking theworlds and the kingdoms thereof, and turning from them all to look downon him with a countenance of ineffable beauty--the love that dies not. 

He lifted his head. The visions were gone. Had he slept? The fire wasburning low and a long line was streaked across the eastern sky; aline of gold, while still darkness rested below him and around him. Again he built up the fire, and set the kettle closer. He stood out onthe height at the top of the trail and listened, his figure a blacksilhouette against the dancing flames. He called, he shouted with allhis power, then listened. Did he hear a call? Surely it must be. Heplunged downward and called again, and again came the faint response. In his hand he carried a long pole, and with it he prodded about inthe snow for sure footing and continued to descend, calling from timeto time, and rejoicing to hear the answering call. Yes, Larry Kildenewas below him in the obscurity, and now his voice came up to Harry, long and clear. He had not far to go ere he saw the big man slowlytoiling upward through the dusk of dawn. He had dismounted, and theweary animals were following behind. 

Thus Larry Kildene came back to his mountain. Exhausted, he still madelight of his achievement--climbing through day and night to arrivebefore the snow should embank around him. He stood in the firelightswaying with weariness and tasted the hot coffee and shook hisgrizzled head and laughed. The animals came slowly on and stood closeto him, almost resting their noses on his shoulder, while Harry Kinggazed on him with admiration. 

"Now if it weren't for the poor beasts, I'd lie down here by the fireand sleep rather than take a step farther to-night. To-night?Why--it's morning! Isn't it? I never thought we were so near the end. If I hadn't seen the fire a long way down, I would have risked anotherbivouac for the rest of the night. We might have lived through it--Idon't know, but this is better. " He rubbed the nose of his pantinghorse. "I shall drop to sleep if we don't move on. "

A thin blue smoke was rising from the chimney as they passed thecabin, but Amalia, kneeling before the hearth, did not know they werenear. Harry wondered if Larry had forgotten the mother's hallucinationabout her husband, yet forbore to mention it, thinking it best to gethim into his bunk first. But he had not forgotten. When Harry cameinto the shed after stabling the horses, he found Larry sitting beforethe chimney fire warming his knees and smoking. 

"Give me a little more of that coffee, Harry, and let's talk a bitbefore I turn in for the day. There's the mother, now; she stillthinks as she did? I'll not see them until this evening--when I mayfeel able to meet the question, and, lad, tell them what you please, but--better not let the mother know I'm here until I can see her. "

"Then, if you'll go to bed now, I'll bring your food up. I'll tellAmalia, of course. "

"I'm not hungry--only weary. Don't bother the women about food. Aftera day and night of sleep I'll be quite fit again. Man! But it's goodto be back into the peace of the hills! I've been down where the wavesof civilization roar. Yes, yes; I'll go to my bunk after a bit. Thegreat menace to our tranquillity here for the winter is the mother. "

"But she has improved. "

"Good, good. How?"

"She thinks of things around her--and--takes care of the cabin sinceAmalia's hurt. "

"Hurt? How's that?"

"She sprained her ankle--only, but enough to lay her up for a while. "

"I see. Shook her mother out of her dreams. "

"Not entirely. I think the improvement comes more from her firmconviction that you are to bring her husband with you, and Amaliaagrees with me. If you have an excuse that will satisfy her--"

"I see. She was satisfied in her mind that he was alive and would cometo her--I see. Keep her quiet until I wake up and then we'll find away out--if the truth is impossible. Now I'll sleep--for a day and anight and a day--as long as I've been on that forced march. It was togo back, or try to push through--or die--and I pushed through. "

"Don't sleep until I've brought you some hot broth. I'm sure they haveit down there. "

"I'll be glad of it, yes. "

But he could not keep awake. Before Harry could throw another log onthe fire he was asleep. Then Harry gently drew an army blanket overhim and went out to the stable. There he saddled his own horse and ledhim toward the cabin. Before he reached it he saw Amalia coming tomeet him, hobbling on her crutch. She was bareheaded and the light ofmorning was in her eyes. 

"Ah, 'Arry, 'Arry King! He has come. I see here marks of feet ofhorses in the snow--is not? Is well? Is safe? Larry Kildene so nobleand kind! Yes. My mother? No, she prepares the food, and me, I shutthe door when I run out to see is it sun to-day and the terrible snowno more falling. There I see the marks of horses, yes. " She spokeexcitedly, and looked up in Harry's face with smiles on her lips andanxious appeal in her eyes. 

"Throw down that crutch and lean on me. I'll lift you up--There! Nowwe'll go back to the cabin and lead Goldbug around a bit, so histracks will cover the others and account for them. Then afterbreakfast I'll take you to the top of the trail and tell you. "

She leaned down to him from her seat on the horse and put her hand onhis shoulder. "Is well? And you--you have not slept? No?"

Looking up in her face so wonderful and beautiful, so filled withtender solicitude for him, and her glowing eyes fixed on his, he wascovered with confusion even to scarcely comprehending what she said. He took the hand from his shoulder and kissed the tips of her fingers, then dropped it and walked on ahead, leading the horse. 

"I'm well, yes. Tired a bit, but, oh, yes! Larry Kildene? He's allright. We'll go out on the trail and consult--what is best to do aboutyour mother--and say nothing until then. "

To Amalia a kiss on the finger tips meant no more than the usualmorning greeting in her own country, and she rode on undisturbed byhis demonstration, which he felt keenly and for which he would haveknelt and begged her pardon. Ever since his first unguarded momentwhen he returned and found her fainting on the hillside, he had setsuch rigid watch over his actions that his adoration had beenexpressed only in service--for the most part silent and with avertedeyes. This aloofness she felt, and with the fineness of her naturerespected, letting her own play of imagination hover away fromintimate intrusion, merely lightening the somber relationship thatwould otherwise have existed, like a breeze that stirs only thesurface of a deep pool and sets dancing lights at play but leaves thedepths undisturbed. 

Yet, with all her intuitiveness, she found him difficult andenigmatic. An impenetrable wall seemed to be ever between them, erected by his will, not hers; therefore she would not try by theleast suggestion of manner, or even of thought, to know why, nor wouldshe admit to her own spirit the hurt of it. The walled inclosure ofhis heart was his, and she must remain without. To have attempted byany art to get within the boundaries he had set she felt to beunmaidenly. 

In spite of his strength and vigor, Harry was very weary. But lessfrom his long night's vigil than from the emotions that had torn himand left his heart heavy with the necessity of covering always thisstrong, elemental love that smoldered, waiting in abeyance until itmight leap into consuming flame. 

During the breakfast Harry sat silent, while the two women talked alittle with each other, speculating as to the weather, and rejoicingthat the morning was again clear. Then while her mother was occupied, Amalia, unnoticed, gave him the broth to carry up to the shed, andthere, as Larry still slept, he set it near the fire that it might bewarm and ready for him should he wake during their absence. At thecabin he brought wood and laid it beside the hearth, and looked aboutto see if there were anything more he could do before he spoke. 

"Madam Manovska, Amalia and I are going up the trail a little way, andwe may be gone some time, but--I'll take good care of her. " He smiledreassuringly: "We mustn't waste the sunny days. When Mr. Kildenereturns, you also must ride sometimes. "

"Ah, yes. When? When? It is long--very long. "

"But, maybe, not so long, mamma. Soon now must he come. I think it. "

They left her standing in the door as they went off up the trail, theglistening snow making the world so dazzling in the sunlight, soblinding to her eyes, used to the obscurity of the cabin, that themany tracks past the door were unnoticed by her. In silence theywalked until they had almost reached the turn, when Amalia spoke. 

"Have you look, how I use but the one crutch, 'Arry King? Soon will Iagain walk on my foot, very well. I have so many times to thank you. Now of mamma we must speak. She thinks only, every day, every hour, ofmy father. If we shall speak the truth to her--I do not know. What shewill do--we cannot tell. No. And it is well to keep her heart from toomuch sorrow. For Sir Kildene, he must not be afflicted by us--my mammaand I. We have take from him his house, and he is banish--all for us, to make pleasant, and what we can do is little, so little--and if mymamma sit always silent when we should be gay to each other and makehappy the days, is not good, and all his peace will be gone. Now talkto me a little of your thoughts, 'Arry King. "

"My thoughts must be like yours, Amalia, if I would have them wise. It's best to leave her as undisturbed as possible until spring. Themonths will go by rapidly. He will not be troubled. Then we can takeher to some place, where I will see to it that you are cared for--"

The horse suddenly stopped and settled back on his haunches and liftedhis head, looking wildly about. Harry sprang to the bridle, but he didnot try to get away, and only stood quivering and breathing loudly asif in the direst fear, and leaned close to Harry for protection. 

"What ails you? Good horse. " Harry petted and coaxed, but he refusedto move on, and showed every sign of frantic fear. "I can't think whatpossesses him. He's afraid, but of what?"

"There! There!" cried Amalia, pointing to the top of the trail at thecliff. "It's the beast. I have read of it--so terrible! Ah!"

"Surely. That's a mountain lion; Goldbug scented him before he roundedthe cliff. They're cowards; never fear. " He shouted and flung his armin the air, but did not dare let the bridle rein go for fear the horsewould bolt with her. For a moment the beast stood regarding them, thenturned and trotted off in a leisurely fashion. 

"'Arry, take my hand one minute. I am like the horse, afraid. If thatanimal had come when we were alone on the mountain in that night--itis my heart that will not stand still. "

"Don't be afraid now. He's gone. He was hunting there where I was lastnight, and no doubt he smells the horses that came up the mountainearly this morning. It is the snow that has driven him out of thecañon to hunt for food. " He let her cling to his hand and stoodquietly, petting and soothing the horse. 

"All night? 'Arry King, you were there all night? Why?" she shivered, and, bending down, looked steadily in his eyes. 

"I had a fire. There was no danger. There is more danger for me in--"he cut his words short. "Shall we go on now? Or would you rather turnback?"

She drew herself up and released his hand; still she trembled. "I willbe brave like you are brave. If you so desire, we go on. "

"You are really braver than I. Then we'll go a few steps farther. " Butthe horse would not go on. He snorted and quivered and pulled back. Harry looked up at Amalia. She sat calmly waiting, but was very pale. Then he yielded to the horse, and, turning, led him back toward thecabin. She drew a long sigh of relief then, and glanced at him, andthey both laughed. 

"You see I am the coward, to only make believe I am not afraid. I amvery afraid, and now more than always will I be afraid when that yougo to hunt. 'Arry King, go no more alone. " Her voice was low andpleading. "There is much to do. I will teach you to speak the French, like you have once said you wish to learn. Then is the book to write. Is much to do that is very pleasant. But of those wild lions on thehills, they are not for a man to fight alone. " He restrained thehorse, and walked slowly at her side, his hand on the pommel of thesaddle, but did not speak. "You promise not? All night you stay in thecold, where is danger, and how may I know you will not again do such athing? All is beautiful here, and great happiness may be if--if thatyou do no tragedy. " So sweetly did she plead he could no longer remainsilent. 

"There is only one happiness for me in life, Amalia, and that isforbidden me. I have expiation to make before I may ask happiness ofheaven. You have been most patient with my silences--always--will yoube patient still--and--understand?"

She drew in her breath sharply and turned her face away from him, andfor a moment was silent; then she spoke. Her voice was very low, andvery sweet. "What is right, that must be. Always. "

Then they spoke again of Madam Manovska, and Amalia opened her heartto him as never before. It seemed as if she would turn his thoughtsfrom whatever sorrow might be hanging over him, and impress him withthe feeling that no matter what might be the cause of his reserve, orwhat wrong he might have done, her faith in him remained unshaken. Itwas a sweet return for his stammered confession. 

CHAPTER XXIII

A DISCOURSE ON LYING

All day Larry Kildene slept, hardly waking long enough towardnightfall to drink his broth, but the next day he was refreshed andmerry. 

"Leave Madam Manovska alone, " he admonished Harry. "Take Amalia offfor another ride, and I'll go down to the cabin, and if there's a wayto set her mind at rest about her husband, I'll find it. I'd not bewilling to take an oath on what I may tell her, but it will besatisfying, never fear. "

The ride was a short one, for the air was chill, and there were moresigns of snow, but when they returned to the cabin, they found Larryseated by the fire, drinking a brew of Madam's tea and conversingwith her joyously about his trip and what he had seen of the newrailroad. It was curious how he had succeeded in bringing her to takean interest in things quite alien to her. The very atmosphere ofthe cabin seemed to be cleared by his presence, big, genial, andall-embracing. Certainly nothing of the recluse appeared in hisdemeanor. Only when they were alone in their own quarters did heshow occasionally a longing for the old condition of unmolestedtranquillity. To go to his dinner at a set hour, no matter how wellprepared it might be, annoyed him. 

"There's no reason in life why they should get a meal ready merelybecause a timepiece says twelve o'clock. Let them wait until a man'shungry, " he would grumble. Then, arrived at the cabin, he would be allcourtesy and geniality. 

When Harry rallied him on his inconsistency, he gravely replied: "AnIrish gentleman is an Irish gentleman the world over, no matter whereyou find him, in court, camp, or wilderness; it's all one to him. Whydo you think I brought that mirror you shave by all the way up themountain? Why, to have a body to look at now and again, and toblarney, just that I might not forget the trick. What was the good ofthat, do you ask? Look at yourself, man. You're a dour Scotchman, that's what you are, and you keep your humor done up in a wet blanket, and when it glints out of the corner of your eye a bit, you draw downthe corners of your mouth to belie it. What's the good of that, now?The world's a rough place to walk in for the most part, especially forwomen, and if a man carries a smile on his face and a bit of blarneyon the tip of his tongue, he smooths the way for them. Now, there'sMadam Manovska. What would you and Amalia have done to her? Driven herclean out of her head with your bungling. In a case like hers you mustbe very discreet, and lead her around, by the way she wants to go, toa place of safety. "

Harry smiled. Since his avowal to Amalia of his determination to makeexpiation for the crime that clouded his life, he had grown morecheerful and less restrained in manner. He would accept the presenthappiness, and so far as he could without wrong to her, he would fillhis hours with the joy of her companionship, and his love shoulddominate him, and his heart should revel in the thought of her, andher nearness to him; then when the spring should come and melt thesnowy barriers between him and the world below, he would go down andmake his expiation, drinking the bitter cup to the dregs. 

This happy imprisonment on the mountain top with these two refinedwomen and this kindly man with the friendly heart and splendid bodyand brain, he deemed worth a lifetime spent more sordidly. Here andnow, he felt himself able to weigh true values, and learned thatthe usual ambitions of mortals--houses and gear and places ofprecedence--could become the end of existence only to those whosedesires had become distorted by the world's estimates. Now heunderstood how a man might live for a woman's smile, or give his lifefor the touch of her hand, and how he might hunger for the pressingof children's lips to his own. The warm friendships of life grew totheir true proportions in the vast scheme of things, as he looked inthe big man's eyes and answered his kindly banter. 

"I see. It takes a genius to be a discreet and wise liar. Amalia'slacking there--for me, I might learn. Now pocket your blarney longenough to tell me why you called me a Scotchman. "

"How would I know the difference between a broncho and a mule? By theearmarks, boy. I've lived in the world long enough to know men. Ifthere be only a drop of Scotch blood in a man, he shows it. Like themule he brays at the wrong time, or he settles back and stands when heshould go forward. Oh, there's many a sign to enlighten the wise. "

He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe and thrust it in hispocket and began to look over his pack, which had not been opened. Twogood-sized sacks hung on either side of the pack mule had held mostof his purchases, all carefully tied in separate bundles. The good manhad not been sparing of his gold. Since he had so long exiled himself, having no use for what he had accumulated, he had now reveled inspending. 

"We're to live like lords and ladies, now, Harry. I've two silverplates, and they're for the ladies. For us, we'll eat off the tin asbefore. And silver mugs for their drink. See? I would have got themchina but it's too likely to break. Now, here's a luxury I've brought, and it was heavy to carry, too. Here's twenty-four panes of glass. Icarried them, twelve on each side of my horse, like that, slung so, see? That's two windows of two sash each, and six panes to a sash. Oh, they're small, but see what a luxury for the women to do their prettywork by. And there's work for you, to be making the sash. I've done myshare of that sort of thing in building the cabin for you, andthen--young man--I'll set you to digging out the gold. That's workthat'll put the worth of your body to the test, and the day will comewhen you'll need it. "

"I doubt my ever having much need of gold, but whatever you set me atI'll do to the best of my ability. "

"You may have your doubts, but I have none. Men are like bees; theymust ever be laying by something, even if they have no use for it. " AsLarry talked he continued to sort over his purchases, and Harry lookedon, astounded at their variety and number. 

While apparently oblivious of the younger man's interest, and absorbedin his occupation, whistling, and turning the bundles over in hishands as he tallied them off, he now and then shot a keen glance inhis companion's face. He had noticed the change in Harry, and wasalert to learn the cause. He found him more talkative, more eager andawake. He suspected Harry had passed through some mental crisis, butof what nature he was at a loss to determine. Certainly it had madehim a more agreeable companion than the gloom of his former manner. 

"I'll dig for the gold, indeed I will, but I'd like to go on a huntnow and then. I'd like a shot at the beast we saw sniffing over thespot where I sat all night waiting for you to appear. It will nolonger be safe for Amalia to wander about alone as she did before shehurt her ankle. "

"The creature was after sheep. He'll find his prey growing scarcer nowthat the railroad is so near. In ten years or less these mountainsheep will be extinct. That's the result of civilization, my boy. "

"I'd like to shoot this panther, though. "

"We'll have to set a bait for him--and that means a deer or a sheepmust go. We'll do it soon, too. "

"You've reconciled Madam Manovska to your coming home without herhusband! I didn't think it possible. Give me a lesson in diplomacy, will you?"

"Wait till I light my pipe. Now. First, you must know there are severalkinds of lying, and you must learn which kinds are permissible--andotherwise. " With his pipe between his teeth, Larry stood, a mockgravity about his mouth, and a humorous twinkle in his eyes, while helooked down on Harry, and told off the lies on his fingers. 

"First, there's the fool's lie--you'll know it because there's nopurpose in it, and there's the rogue's lie, --and as we're neitherfools nor rogues we'll class them both as--otherwise; then there'sthe lie of pride, and, as that goes along with the fool's lie, we'llthrow it out with the--otherwise--and the coward's lie also goes withthe otherwise. " Larry shook his fingers as if he tossed the four liesoff from their tips, and began again. "Now. Here's the friend's lie--aman risks his soul to save a friend--good--or to help him out oftrouble--very well. And then there's the lover's lie, it's what a ladtells his sweetheart--that goes along with what she tells him--andcomes by way of nature--"

"Or you might class it along with your own blarney. "

"Let be, lad. I'm teaching you the diplomacy, now. Then there's thelie of shame, and the lie of sorrow, wherein a man puts by, for hisown loved one's sake, or his self-respect, what's better covered;that, too, comes by way of nature, even as a dog crawls away to diealone, and we'll accept it. Now comes the lie of the man who wouldtell a good tale for the amusement of his friends; very well, thenature of man loves it, so we'll count it in, and along with it comesa host of little lies like the sportsman's lie and the traveler'slie--they all help to make life merry, and the world can ill dowithout them. But now comes the lie of circumspection. You must learnto lie it without lying. See? It's the lie of wisdom, and it's a verysubtle thing, and easily abused. If a man uses it for a selfish causeand merely to pervert the truth, it's a black lie, and one of the veryworst. Or he may use it in a good cause, and it's fairly white. Itmust be used with discrimination. That's the lie I used for the poorMadam down there. "

"But what did you say?"

"She says to me, 'And where is my 'usband?' I reply, 'Madam, yourhusband is in a very safe and secret place, '--and that is trueenough--'where his enemies will never find him, '--and for all we knowthat is also true. 'But I cannot understand why he did not come to me. That is not like my 'usband. ' 'No, Madam, it is not. But man must dowhat he must, and the way was too long and arduous for his strength;he could not take the long, weary climb. ' And no more could he, trueenough. 'No, Madam, you cannot go to him, nor he come to you, for thedanger of the way and the wild beasts that are abroad looking forfood. ' And what more true than that, for did not her daughter see onehunting for food?

"So she covers her face with her hand and rocks herself back andforth, and now, lad, here's where the blarney comes in. It's to tellher of the worth of her husband, and what a loss it would be to theworld if he were to die on the trail, and what he would suffer if hethought she were unhappy, and then in the ardor of my speech comes thestraight lie. I told her that he was writing the story of his life andthat it was to be a great work which would bring about a tremendousrevolution of justice and would bring confusion to his enemies, untilat last she holds up her head proudly and speaks of his wonderfulintellect and goodness. Then she says: 'He cannot come to me, verygood. He is not strong enough--no. I go to him to-morrow. ' Think ofthat, man! What I had to meet, and it was all to go over again. Iwould call it very circumspect lying and in a good cause, too, tocomfort the poor soul. I told her of the snow, and how surely shewould die by the way and make her husband very sad, he who was nowhappy in the writing of his book, and that to do so would break hisheart and cause his own death, --while to wait until spring in peacewould be wiser, because she might then descend the mountain in perfectsafety. So now she sits sewing and making things no man understandsthe use of. She showed me the blouse she has made for you. Now, thatis the best medicine for her sick brain. They're great women, thesetwo. If we must have women about, we're in luck to have women of theirquality. "

"We are, indeed. "

"I saw the women who follow the road as it creeps across the plains. They're pitiful to see. If these had been like them, we'd have beenobliged to take them in just the same, but Lord be merciful to them, I'm glad they're not on my mountain. " Larry shook his ponderous, grizzled head and turned again to his packages. "Since they love tosew, they may be making things for themselves next. Look you! Here issilk for gowns, for women love adornment, the best of them. "

Harry paused, his arms full of wood with which he was replenishing thefire, and stared in amazement, as Larry unrolled a mass of changeablesatin wherein a deep cerise and green coloring shifted and shimmeredin the firelight. He held the rich material up to his own waist andlooked gravely down on the long folds that dropped to the floor andcoiled about his feet. "I told you we're to live like lords and ladiesnow. Man! I'd like to see Amalia in a gown of this!"

Harry dropped his wood on the fire and threw back his head andlaughed. He even lay down on the floor to laugh, and rolled aboutuntil his head lay among the folds of satin. Then he sat up, andtaking the material between his fingers felt of it, while the big manlooked down on him, gravely discomfited. 

"And what did you bring for Madam Manovska?"

"Black, man, black. I'm no fool, I tell you. I know what's discreetfor an elderly lady. " Then they gravely and laboriously foldedtogether the yards of gorgeous satin. "And I'd have been glad of yourmeasure to get you the suit of clothes you're needing. Lacking it, Igot one for myself. But for me they're a bit too small. You'll maybeturn tailor and cut them still smaller for yourself. Take them, and ifthey're no fit, you'll laugh out of the other corner of your mouth. "The two men stood a moment sheepishly eying each other, while Harryheld the clothes awkwardly in his hands. 

"I--I--did need them. " He choked a bit, and then laughed again. 

"So did I need them--yours and mine, too. " Larry held up another suit, "See here. Mine are darker, to keep you from thinking them yours. Andhere are the buckskins for hunting. I used to make them for myself, but they had these for sale, and I was by way of spending money, so Ibought them. Now, with the blouses the women have made for you, we'redecent. "

All at once it dawned on Harry what a journey the big man had made, and he fairly shouted, "Larry Kildene, where have you been?"

"I rode like the very devil for three days. When once I was started, Iwas crazed to go--and see--Then I reached the end of the road from thecoast this way. Did you know they're building the road from both waysat once? I didn't, for I never went down to get news of the cities, and they might have put the whole thing through without my evenknowing of it, if you hadn't tumbled in on me and told me of it. 

"It stirred me up a bit. I left my horse in charge of one I thought Imight trust, and then took a train and rode over the new rails cleanthrough to San Francisco, and there I groveled around a day or two, taking in the ways of men. They're doing big things. Now that the twooceans are to be united by iron rails, great changes will come likethe wind, --the Lord knows when they will end! Now, the women will bewanting us to eat, I'm thinking, and I'm not ready--but eat we mustwhen the hour comes, and we've done nothing this whole morning butstand here and talk. "

Thus Larry grumbled as they tramped down to the cabin through thesnow, with the rolls of silk under his arm, and the silver plates inhis hand, while Harry carried the sack of coffee and the paper forAmalia. As they neared the cabin the big man paused. 

"Take these things in for me, Harry. I--I--left something back in theshed. Drop that coffee and I'll fetch it as I come along. "

"Now, what kind of a lie would you call that, sir, since it's yourcourage you've left?"

"Let be, let be. Can't you see I'm going back after it?"

So Harry carried in the gifts and Larry went back for his "courage"and donned his new suit of clothes to help him carry it, and then camewalking in with a jovial swagger, and accepted the mother's thanks andAmalia's embrace with a marvelous ease, especially the embrace, withwhich he seemed mightily pleased. 

CHAPTER XXIV

AMALIA'S FÊTE

The winter was a cold one, and the snows fell heavily, but a way wasalways kept open between the cabin and the fodder shed, and also bygreat labor a space was kept cleared around the cabin and a part ofthe distance toward the fall so that the women might not be walled intheir quarters by the snow. With plenty to occupy them all, the weekssped swiftly and pleasantly. Larry did a little trapping and hunting, but toward midwinter the sport became dangerous, because of the depthof the snow, and with the exception of stalking a deer now and then, for fresh food, he and Harry spent the most of their time burrowing inthe mountain for gold. 

Amalia's crutches were gradually laid aside, until she ran about aslightly as before, but even had she not been prevented by the snow shewould not have been allowed to go far away from the cabin alone. Themen baited and lay in wait for the panther, and at last shot him, butLarry knew from long experience that when the snows were deep, panthers often haunted his place, and their tracks were frequentlyseen higher up the mountain where he was wont to hunt the mountainsheep. 

Sometimes Harry King rode with Amalia where the wind had swept the waybare, toward the bend in the trail, and would bring her back glowingand happy from the exercise. Sometimes when the storms were fiercewithout, and he suspected Larry longed for his old-time seclusion, hesat in the cabin. At these times Amalia redeemed her promise to teachhim French. Few indeed were the books she had for help in giving theselessons. One little unbound book of old sonnets and songs and a smallpamphlet of more modern poems that her father had loved, were all, except his Bible, which, although it was in Polish, contained copiousannotations in her father's hand in French, and between the leaves ofwhich lay loose pages filled with concise and plainly writtenmeditations of his own. 

These Amalia loved and handled with reverence, and for Harry King theyhad such vital interest that he learned the more rapidly that he mightknow all they contained. He no longer wondered at her power andbreadth of thought. As he progressed he found in them a completesystem of ethics and religious faith. Their writer seemed to havedrawn from all sources intrinsically vital truths, and separated themfrom their encumbering theologic verbiage and dogma, and had tracedthem simply through to the great "Sermon on the Mount. " In a few pagesthis great man had comprised the deepest logic, and the sweetest andwidest theology, enough for all the world to live by, and enough toguide nations in safety, if only all men might learn it. 

It was sufficient. He knew Amalia better, and more deeply hereverenced and loved her. He no longer quivered when he heard hermention the "Virgin" or when she spoke of the "Sweet Christ. " It wasnot what his old dogmatic ancestry had fled from as "Popery. " It washer simple, direct faith in the living Christ, which gave her eyestheir clear, far-seeing vision, and her heart its quick, responsiveintuition and understanding. She might speak of the convent where shehad been protected and loved, and taught many things useful and good, other than legends and doctrines. She had learned how, through herfather's understanding and study, to gather out the good, and leavethe rest, in all things. 

And Harry learned his French. He was an apt scholar, and Larry fell inline, for he had not forgotten the scholastic Latin and French of hiscollege days. He liked, indeed, to air his French occasionally, although his accent was decidedly English, but his grammar was goodand a great help to Harry. Madam Manovska also enjoyed his efforts andsuggested that when they were all together they should converse in theFrench alone, not only that they might help Harry, but also that theymight have a common language. It was to her and Amalia like theirnative tongue, and their fluency for a time quite baffled Larry, buthe was determined not to be beaten, and when Harry faltered andrefused to go on, he pounded him on the back, and stirred him up totry again. 

Although Amalia's convent training had greatly restricted herknowledge of literature other than religious, her later years ofintimate companionship with her father, and her mother's trulyremarkable knowledge of the classics and fearless investigation of themodern thought of her day, had enlarged Amalia's horizon; while herown vivid imagination and her native geniality caused her to lightenalways her mother's more somber thought with a delicate and graciousplay of fancy that was at once fascinating and delightful. This, andHarry's determination to live to the utmost in these weeks of respite, made him at times almost gay. 

Most of all he reveled in Amalia's music. Certain melodies that shesaid her father had made he loved especially, and sometimes she wouldaccompany them with a plaintive chant, half singing and halfrecitation, of the sonnet which had inspired them, and which had beenwoven through them. It was at these times that Larry listened with hiselbows on his knees and his eyes fixed on the fire, and Harry with hiseyes on Amalia's face, while the cabin became to him glorified with alight, no longer from the flames, but with a radiance like that whichsurrounded Dante's Beatrice in Paradise. 

Amalia loved to please Larry Kildene. For this reason, knowing the joyhe would take in it, and also because she loved color and light andjoy, and the giving of joy, she took the gorgeous silk he had broughther, and made it up in a fashion of her own. Down in the cities, sheknew, women were wearing their gowns spread out over wide hoops, butshe made the dress as she knew they were worn at the time Larry hadlived among women and had seen them most. 

The bodice she fitted closely and shaped into a long point in front, and the skirt she gathered and allowed to fall in long folds to herfeet. The sleeves she fitted only to her elbows, and gathered in themdeep lace of her own making--lace to dream about, and the creation ofwhich was one of those choice things she had learned of the goodsisters at the convent. About her neck she put a bertha, kerchiefwise, and pinned it with a brooch of curiously wrought gold. Larry, "thediscreet and circumspect liar, " thought of the emerald brooch she hadbrought him to sell for her, and knowing how it would glow and blendamong the changing tints of the silk, he fetched it to her, explainingthat he could not sell it, and that the bracelet had covered all shehad asked him to purchase for her, and some to spare. 

She thanked him, and fastened it in her bodice, and handed the otherto her mother. "There, mamma, when we have make you the dress SirKildene have brought you, you must wear this, for it is beautiful withthe black. Then we will have a fête. And for the fête, Sir Kildene, you must wear the very fine new clothes you have buy, and Mr. 'Arrywill carry on him the fine new clothing, and so will we be all attiremost splendid. I will make for you all the music you like the best, and mamma will speak then the great poems she have learned by head, and Sir Kildene will tell the story he can relate so well of strangehappenings. Oh, it will be a fine, good concert we will make here--andyou, Mr. 'Arry, what will you do?"

"I'll do the refreshments. I'll roast corn and make coffee. I'll beaudience and call for more. "

"Ah, yes! Encore! Encore! The artists must always be very muchpraised--very much--so have I heard, to make them content. It is SirKildene who will be the great artist, and you must cry 'Encore, ' andhonor him greatly with such calls. Then will we have the pleasure tohear many stories from him. Ah, I like to hear them. "

It was a strange life for Harry King, this odd mixture of finestculture and high-bred delicacy of manner, with what appeared to be atotal absence of self-seeking and a simple enjoyment of everyday work. He found Amalia one morning on her knees scrubbing the cabin floor, and for the moment it shocked him. When they were out on the plainscamping and living as best they could, he felt it to be the naturalconsequence of their necessities when he saw her washing their clothesand making the best of their difficulties by doing hard things withher own hands, but now that they were living in a civilized way, hecould not bear to see her, or her mother, doing the rough work. Amaliaonly laughed at him. "See how fine we make all things. If I will notserve for making clean the house, why am I? Is not?"

"It doesn't make any difference what you do, you are alwaysbeautiful. "

"Ah, Mr. 'Arry, you must say those compliments only in the French. Itis no language, the English, for those fine eloquences. "

"No, I don't seem to be able to say anything I mean, in French. It'salways a sort of make-believe talk with me. Our whole life here seemsa sort of dream, --as if we were living in some wonderful bubble thatwill suddenly burst one day, and leave us floating alone in space, with nothing anywhere to rest on. "

"No, no, you are mistake. Here is this floor, very real, and dirt onit to be washed away, --from your boots, also very real, is not? Goaway, Mr. 'Arry, but come to-night in your fine clothing, for we haveour fête. Mamma has finish her beautiful new dress, and we will begay. Is good to be sometimes joyful, is not? We have here no care, only to make happy together, and if we cannot do that, all issomber. "

And that evening indeed, Amalia had her "fête. " Larry told his beststories, and Harry was persuaded to tell them a little of his life asa soldier, and to sing a camp song. More than this he would not do, but he brought out something he had been reserving with pride, a fewlittle nuggets of gold. During the weeks he had worked he had foundlittle, until the last few days, but happening to strike a vein ofore, richer than any Larry had ever found, the two men were greatlyelated, and had determined to interest the women by melting some of itout of the quartz in which it was bedded, and turning out for each agolden bullet in Larry's mold. 

They heaped hard wood in the fireplace and the cabin was lighted mostgloriously. While they waited for the red coals to melt the gold, Amalia took her violin and played and sang. It was nearly time for therigor of the winter to abate, but still a high wind was blowing, andthe fine snow was piling and drifting about the cabin, and evensifting through the chinks around the window and door, but the stormonly made the brightness and warmth within more delightful. 

When Larry drew his crucible from the coals and poured the tinyglowing stream into his molds, Amalia cried out with joy. "How that isbeautiful! How wonderful to dig such beauty from the dark ground downin the black earth! Ah, mamma, look!"

Then Larry pounded each one flat like a coin, and drilled through asmall hole, making thus, for each, a souvenir of the shining metal. "This is from Harry's first mining, " he said, "and it represents good, hard labor. He's picked out a lot of worthless dirt and stone to findthis. "

Amalia held the little disk in her hand and smiled upon it. "I love sothis little precious thing. Now, Mr. 'Arry, what shall I play for you?It is yours to ask--for me, to play; it is all I have. "

"That sonnet you played me yesterday. The last line is, '"Quelle estdonc cette femme?" et ne comprenda pas. '"

"The music of that is not my father's best--but you ask it, yes. " Thenshe began, first playing after her own heart little dancing airs, gayand fantastic, and at last slid into a plaintive strain, and recitedthe accompaniment of rhythmic words. 

 "Mon âme a son secret, ma vie a son mystère: Un amour eternel en un moment concu. Le mal est sans espoir, aussi j'ai du le taire Et celle qui l'a fait n'en a jamais rien su. "

One minor note came and went and came again, through the melody, untilthe last tones fell on that note and were held suspended in atremulous plaint. 

 "Elle dira, lisant ces vers tout remplis d'elle: 'Quelle est donc cette femme?' et ne comprendra pas. "

Without pause she passed into a quick staccato and then descendedto long-drawn tones, deep and full. "This is better, but I have neverplayed it for you because that it is Polish, and to make it inEnglish and so sing it is hard. You have heard of our great and goodgeneral Kosciuszko, yes? My father loved well to speak of him andalso of one very high officer under him, --I speak his name for you, Julian Niemcewicz. This high officer, I do not know how to say inEnglish his rank, but that is no matter. He was writer, and poet, and soldier--all. At last he was exiled and sorrowful, like myfather, --sorrowful most of all because he might no more serve hiscountry. It is to this poet's own words which he wrote for his gravethat my father have put in music the cry of his sorrow. In Polishis it more beautiful, but I sing it for you in English for yourcomprehending. "

 "O, ye exiles, who so long wander over the world, Where will ye find a resting place for your weary steps? The wild dove has its nest, and the worm a clod of earth, Each man a country, but the Pole a grave!"

It was indeed a cry of sorrow, the wail of a dying nation, and asAmalia played and sang she became oblivious of all else a beinginspired by lofty emotion, while the two men sat in silence, wonderingand fascinated. The mother's eyes glowed upon her out of the obscurityof her corner, and her voice alone broke the silence. 

"I have heard my Paul in the night of the desert where he made thatmusic, I have heard him so play and sing it, that it would seem thestars must fall down out of the heavens with sorrow for it. "

Amalia smiled and caught up her violin again. "We will have no more ofthis sad music this night. I will sing the wild song of the Ukraine, most beautiful of all our country, alas, ours no more--Like thatother, the music is my father's, but the poem is written by a son ofthe Ukraine--Zaliski. "

A melody clear and sweet dominated, mounting to a note of triumph. Slender and tall she stood in the middle of the room. The firelightplayed on the folds of her gown, bringing out its color in brilliantflashes. She seemed to Harry, with her rich complexion and glowingeyes, absorbed thus in her music, a type of human splendor, vigorous, vivid, adorable. Mostly in Polish, but sometimes in English, she againhalf sang, half chanted, now playing with the voice, and againdropping to accompaniment only, while they listened, the mother inthe shadows, Larry gazing in the fire, and Harry upon her. 

 "Me also has my mother, the Ukraine, Me her son Cradled on her bosom, The enchantress. "

She ceased, and with a sigh dropped at her mother's feet and restedher head on her mother's knee. 

"Tell us now, mamma, a poem. It is time we finish now our fête withone good, long poem from you. "

"You will understand me?" Madam Manovska turned to Harry. "You do wellunderstand what once you have heard--" She always spoke slowly andwith difficulty when she undertook English, and now she continuedspeaking rapidly to Amalia in her own tongue, and her daughterexplained. 

"Mamma says she will tell you a poem composed by a great poet, French, who is now, for patriotism to his country, in exile. His name isVictor Hugo. You have surely heard of him? Yes. She says she willrepeat this which she have by head, and because that it is notfamiliar to you she asks will I tell it in English--if you sodesire?"

Again Madam Manovska addressed her daughter, and Amalia said: "Shethinks this high mountain and the plain below, and that we are exilefrom our own land, makes her think of this; only that the consciencehas never for her brought terror, like for Cain, but only to those whohave so long persecuted my father with imprisonment, and drive him sofar to terrible places. She thinks they must always, with neverstopping, see the 'Eye' that regards forever. This also must VictorHugo know well, since for his country he also is driven in exile--andcan see the terrible 'Eye' go to punish his enemies. "

Then Madam Manovska began repeating in her strong, deep tones thelines:--

 "Lorsque avec ses enfants vetus de peaux de bêtes, Echevele, livide au milieu des tempètes, Cain se fut enfui de devant Jehovah, "Comme le soir tombait, l'homme sombre arriva Au bas d'une montagne en une grande plaine; Sa femme fatiguée et ses fils hors d'haleine; Lui dire: 'Couchons-nous sur la terre et dormons. '"

"Oh, mamma, that is so sad, that poem, --but continue--I will make itin English so well as I can, and for the mistakes--errors--of mytelling you will forgive?

"This is the story of the terrible man, Cain, how he go with hischildren all in the skins of animals dressed. His hairs so wild, hisface pale, --he runs in the midst of the storms to hide himself fromGod, --and, at last, in the night to the foot of a mountain on a greatplain he arrive, and his wife and sons, with no breath and very tired, say to him, let us here on the earth lie down and sleep. " Thus, asMadam Manovska recited, Amalia told the story in her own words, andHarry King listened rapt and tense to the very end, while the fireburned low and the shadows closed around them. 

"But Cain did not sleep, lying there by the mountain, for he sawalways in the far shadows the fearful Eye of the condemning powerfixed with great sorrow upon him. Then he cried, 'I am too near!' andwith trembling he awoke his children and his wife, and began to runfuriously into space. So for thirty days and thirty nights he walked, always pale and silent, trembling, and never to see behind him, without rest or sleeping, until they came to the shore of a farcountry, named Assur. 

"'Now rest we here, for we are come to the end of the world and aresafe, ' but, as he seated himself and looked, there in the same placeon the far horizon he saw, in the sorrowful heavens, the Eye. ThenCain called on the darkness to hide him, and Jabal, his son, parent ofthose who live in tents, extended about him on that side the cloth ofhis tent, and Tsilla, the little daughter of his son, asked him, 'Yousee now nothing?' and Cain replied, 'I see the Eye, encore!'

"Then Jubal, his son, father of those who live in towns and blow uponclarions and strike upon tambours, cried, 'I will make one barrier, Iwill make one wall of bronze and put Cain behind it. ' But even still, Cain said, 'The Eye regards me always!'

"Then Henoch said: 'I will make a place of towers so terrible that noone dare approach to him. Build we a city of citadels. Build we a cityand there fasten--shut--close. '

"Then Tubal Cain, father of men who make of iron, constructed onecity--enormous--superhuman; and while that he labored, his brothers inthe plain drove far away the sons of Enos and the children of Seth, and put out the eyes of all who passed that way, and the night camewhen the walls of covering of tents were not, and in their place werewalls of granite, every block immense, fastened with great nails ofiron, and the city seemed a city of iron, and the shadow of its towersmade night upon the plain, and about the city were walls more highthan mountains, and when all was done, they graved upon the door, 'Defense a Dieu d'entrer, ' and they put the old father Cain in a towerof stone in the midst of this city, and he sat there somber andhaggard. 

"'Oh, my father, the Eye has now disappeared?' asked the child, Tsilla, and Cain replied: 'No, it is always there! I will go and liveunder the earth, as in his sepulcher, a man alone. There nothing cansee me more, and I no more can see anything. '

"Then made they for him one--cavern. And Cain said, 'This is well, 'and he descended alone under this somber vault and sat upon a seat inthe shadows, and when they had shut down the door of the cave, the Eyewas there in the tombs regarding him. "

Thus, seated at her mother's feet, Amalia rendered the poem as hermother recited, while the firelight played over her face and flashedin the silken folds of her dress. When she had finished, the fire waslow and the cabin almost in darkness. No one spoke. Larry still gazedin the dying embers, and Harry still sat with his eyes fixed onAmalia's face. 

"Victor Hugo, he is a very great man, as my 'usband have say, " saidthe mother at last. 

"Ah, mamma. For Cain, --maybe, --yes, the Eye never closed, but now haveman hope or why was the Christ and the Holy Virgin? It is theforgiving of God they bring--for--for love of the poor human, --and whois sorrowful for his wrong--he is forgive with peace in his heart, isnot?"

CHAPTER XXV

HARRY KING LEAVES THE MOUNTAIN

When the two men bade Amalia and her mother good night and took theirway to the fodder shed, the snow was whirling and drifting around thecabin, and the pathway was obliterated. 

"This'll be the last storm of the year, I'm thinking, " said Larry. Butthe younger man strode on without making a reply. He bent forward, leaning against the wind, and in silence trod a path for his friendthrough the drifted heaps. At the door of the shed he stood back tolet Larry pass. 

"I'll not go in yet. I'll tramp about in the snow a bit until--Don'tsit up for me--" He turned swiftly away into the night, but Larrycaught him by the arm and brought him back. 

"Come in with me, lad; I'm lonely. We'll smoke together, then we'llsleep well enough. "

Then Harry went in and built up the fire, throwing on logs until theshed was flooded with light and the bare rock wall seemed to leapforward in the brilliance, but he did not smoke; he paced restlesslyabout and at last crept into his bunk and lay with his face to thewall. Larry sat long before the fire. "It's the music that's got in myblood, " he said. "Katherine could sing and lilt the Scotch airs like abird. She had a touch for the instrument, too. "

But Harry could not respond to his friend's attempted confidence inthe rare mention of his wife's name. He lay staring at the rough stonewall close to his face, and it seemed to him that his future wasbounded by a barrier as implacable and terrible as that. All throughthe night he heard the deep tones of Madam Manovska's voice, and thevisions of the poem passed through his mind. He saw the strange oldman, the murderer, Cain, seated in the tomb, bowed and remorseful, andin the darkness still the Eye. But side by side with this sombervision he saw the interior of the cabin, and Amalia, glowing and warmand splendid in her rich gown, with the red firelight playing overher, leaning toward him, her wonderful eyes fixed on his with a regardat once inscrutable and sympathetic. It was as if she were lookinginto his heart, but did not wish him to know that she saw so deeply. 

Towards morning the snow clouds were swept from the sky, and a latemoon shone out clear and cold upon a world carved crisply out ofmolten silver. Unable longer to bear that waking torture, Harry Kingrose and went out into the night, leaving his friend quietly sleeping. He stood a moment listening to Larry's long, calm breathing; thenbuttoning his coat warmly across his chest, he closed the shed doorsoftly behind him and floundered off into the drifts, without heedingthe direction he was taking, until he found himself on the brink ofthe chasm where the river, sliding smoothly over the rocks high abovehis head, was forever tumbling. 

There he stood, trembling, but not with cold, nor with cowardice, norwith fatigue. Sanity had come upon him. He would do no untoward act tohurt the three people who would grieve for him. He would bear the hurtof forever loving in silence, and continue to wait for the open roadthat would lead him to prison and disgrace, or maybe a death of shame. He considered, as often before, all the arguments that continuallyfretted him and tore his spirit; and, as before, he knew the onlycourse to follow was the hard one which took him back to Amalia, untilspring and the melting of the snows released him--to live near her, tosee her and hear her voice, even touch her hand, and feel his bodygrow tense and hard, suffering restraint. If only for one moment hemight let himself go! If but once again he might touch her lips withhis! Ah, God! If he might say one word of love--only once beforeleaving her forever!

Standing there looking out upon the world beneath him and above himbathed in the immaculate whiteness of the snow, and the moonlight overall, he perceived how small an atom in the universe is one lone man, yet how overwhelmingly great in his power to love. It seemed to himthat his love overtopped the hills and swept to the very throne ofGod. He was exalted by it, and in this exaltation it was that hetrembled. Would it lift him up to triumph over remorse and death?

He turned and plodded back the inevitable way. It was stillnight--cold and silver-white. He was filled with energy born of greatrenunciation and despair, and could only calm himself by work. If hecould only work until he dropped, or fight with the elements, it wouldhelp him. He began clearing the snow from the ground around the cabinand cut the path through to the shed; then he quietly entered andfound Larry still calmly sleeping as if but a moment had passed. Finally, he secured one of the torches and made his way through thetunnel to the place where Larry and he had found the quartz which theyhad smelted in the evening. 

There he fastened the torch securely in a crevice, and began to swinghis pick and batter recklessly at the overhanging ledge. Never had heworked so furiously, and the earth and stone lay all about him andheaped at his feet. Deeper and deeper he fought and cut into the solidwall, until, grimed with sweat and dirt, he sank exhausted upon thepile of quartz he had loosened. Then he shoveled it to one side andbegan again dealing erratic blows with his spent strength, until theledge hung dangerously over him. As it was, he reeled and swayed andstruck again, and staggered back to gather strength for another blow, leaning on his pick, and this saved him from death; for, during theinstant's pause, the whole mass fell crashing in front of him, and hewent down with it, stunned and bleeding, but not crushed. 

Larry Kildene breakfasted and worked about the cabin and the shed halfthe day before he began to wonder at the young man's absence. He fellto grumbling that Harry had not fed and groomed his horse, and did thework himself. Noon came, and Amalia looked in his face anxiously as heentered and Harry not with him. 

"How is it that Mr. 'Arry have not arrive all this day?"

"Oh, he's mooning somewhere. Off on a tramp I suppose. "

"Has he then his gun? No?"

"No, but he's been about. He cleared away all the snow, and I saw hehad been over to the fall. " Amalia turned pale as the shrewd old man'seyes rested on her. "He came back early, though, for I saw footprintsboth ways. "

"I hope he comes soon, for we have the good soup to-day, of the kindMr. 'Arry so well likes. "

But he did not come soon, and it was with much misgiving that Larryset out to search for him. Finding no trails leading anywhere exceptthe twice trodden one to the fall, he naturally turned into the mineand followed along the path, torch in hand, hallooing jovially as hewent, but his voice only returned to him, reverberating hollowly. Then, remembering the ledge where they had last worked, and how he hadmeant to put in props before cutting away any more, he ran forward, certain of calamity, and found his young friend lying where he hadfallen, the blood still oozing from a cut above the temple, where ithad clotted. 

For a moment Larry stood aghast, thinking him dead, but quickly seeingthe fresh blood, he lifted the limp body and bound up the wound, andthen Harry opened his eyes and smiled in Larry's face. The big man inhis joy could do nothing but storm and scold. 

"Didn't I tell ye to do no more here until we'd the props in? I'mthinking you're a fool, and that's what you are. If I didn't tell yewe needed them here, you could have seen it for yourself--and hereyou've cut away all underneath. What did you do it for? I say!"Tenderly he gathered Harry in his arms and lifted him from the débrisand loosened rock. "Now! Are you hurt anywhere else? Don't try tostand. Bear on me. I say, bear on me. "

"Oh, put me down and let me walk. I'm not hurt. Just a cut. How longhave you been here?"

"Walk! I say! Yes, walk! Put your arm here, across my shoulder, so. You can walk as well as a week-old baby. You've lost blood enough tokill a man. " So Larry carried him in spite of himself, and laid him inhis bunk. There he stood, panting, and looking down on him. "You'reheavier by a few pounds than when I toted you down that trail lastfall. "

"This is all foolishness. I could have made it myself--on foot, " saidHarry, ungratefully, but he smiled up in the older man's face acompensating smile. 

"Oh, yes. You can lie there and grin now. And you'll continue to liethere until I let you up. It's no more lessons with Amalia and no moreviolin and poetry for you, for one while, young man. "

"Thank God. It will help me over the time until the trail is open. "Larry stood staring foolishly on the drawn face and quivering, sensitive lips. 

"You're hungry, that's what you are, " he said conclusively. 

"Guess I am. I'm wretchedly sorry to make you all this trouble, but--she mustn't come in here--you'll bring me a bite to eat--yes, I'mhungry. That's what ails me. " He drew a grimy hand across his eyes andfelt the bandage. "Why--you've done me up! I must have had quite acut. "

"I'll wash your face and get your coat off, and your boots, and makeyou fit to look at, and then--"

"I don't want to see her--or her mother--either. I'm just--I'm a bitfaint--I'll eat if--you'll fetch me a bite. "

Quickly Larry removed his outer clothing and mended the fire and thenleft him carefully wrapped in blankets and settled in his bunk. Whenhe returned, he found him light-headed and moaning and talkingincoherently. Only a few words could he understand, and these remainedin his memory. 

"When I'm dead--when I'm dead, I say. " And then, "Not yet. I can'ttell him yet. --I can't tell him the truth. It's too cruel. " And againthe refrain: "When I'm dead--when I'm dead. " But when Larry bent overhim and spoke, Harry looked sanely in his eyes and smiled again. 

"Ah, that's good, " he said, sipping the soup. "I'll be myself againto-morrow, and save you all this trouble. You know I must haveaccomplished a good deal, to break off that ledge, and the gold fairlyleaped out on me as I worked. "

"Did you see it?"

"No, but I knew it--I felt it. Shake my clothes and see if they aren'tfull of it. "

"Was that what put you in such a frenzy and made a fool of you?"

"Yes--no--no. It--it--wasn't that. "

"You know you were a fool, don't you?"

"If telling me of it makes me know it--yes. "

"Eat a little more. Here are beans and venison. You must eat to makeup the loss. Why, man, I found you in a pool of blood. "

"Oh, I'll make it up. I'll make it up all too soon. I'm not to die soeasily. "

"You'll not make it up as soon as you think, young man. You may lose aquart of blood in a minute, but it takes weeks to get it again, " andHarry King found his friend was right. 

That was the last snow of winter, as Larry had predicted, and whenHarry crawled out in the sun, the earth smelled of spring, and thewaterfall thundered in its downward plunge, augmented by the meltingsnows of the still higher mountains. The noise of it was ever in theirears, and the sound seemed fraught with a buoyant impulse andinspiration--the whirl and rush of a tremendous force, giving a senseof superhuman power. Even after he was really able to walk about andhelp himself, Harry would not allow himself to see Amalia. He forbadeLarry to tell them how much he was improved, and still taxed hisfriend to bring him up his meals, and sit by him, telling him thetales of his life. 

"I'll wait on you here no longer, boy, " said Larry, at last. "What inlife are you hiding in this shed for? The women think it strange ofyou--the mother does, anyway, --you may never quite know what herdaughter thinks unless she wishes you to know, but I'm sure she thinksstrange of you. She ought to. "

"I know. I'm perfectly well and strong. The trail's open now, and I'llgo--I'll go back--where I came from. You've been good to me--I can'tsay any more--now. "

"Smoke a pipe, lad, smoke a pipe. "

Harry took a pipe and laughed. "You're better than any pipe, but I'llsmoke it, and I'll go down, yes, I must, and bid them good-by. "

"And will you have nothing to tell me, lad, before you go?"

"Not yet. After I've made my peace with the world--with the law--I'llhave a letter sent you--telling all I know. You'll forgive me. Yousee, when I look back--I wish to see your face--as I see itnow--not--not changed towards me. "

"My face is not one to change toward you--you who have repentedwhatever you've done that's wrong. "

That evening Harry King went down to the cabin and sat with his threefriends and ate with them, and told them he was to depart on themorrow. They chatted and laughed and put restraint away from them, andall walked together to watch the sunset from a crag above the cabin. As they returned Madam Manovska walked at Harry's side, and as shebade him good night she said in her broken English:--

"You think not to return--no? But I say to you--in my soul I knowit--yet will you return--we no more to be here--perhaps--but you--yes. You will return. "

They stood a moment before the cabin, and the firelight streamedthrough the open door and fell on Amalia's face. Harry took themother's hand as he parted from them, but he looked in Amalia's eyes. 

In the morning he appeared with his kit strapped on his back equippedfor walking. The women protested that he should not go thus, but hesaid he could not take Goldbug and leave him below. "He is yours, Amalia. Don't beat him. He's a good horse--he saved my life--or triedto. "

"You know well it is my custom to beat animals. It is better you takehim, or I beat him severely. "

"I know it. But you see, I can't take him. Ride him for me, and--don'tlet him forget me. Good-by!"

He waved his hand and walked lightly away, and all stood in thedoorway watching him. At the top of a slight rise he turned again andwaved his hand, and was lost to their sight. Then Larry went back tothe shed and sat by the fire and smoked a lonely pipe, and the motherbegan busily to weave at her lace in the cabin, closing the door, forthe morning air was chilly, and Amalia--for a moment she stood at thecabin door, her hand pressed to her heart, her head bowed as if indespair. Then she entered the cabin, caught up her silken shawl, andwent out. 

Throwing the shawl over her head she ran along the trail Harry hadtaken, until she was out of breath, then she paused, and looked back, hesitating, quivering. Should she go on? Should she return?

"I will go but a little--little way. Maybe he stops a moment, if onlyto--to--think a little, " and she went on, hurrying, then moving moreslowly. She thought she might at least catch one more fleeting glimpseof him as he turned the bend in the trail, but she did not. "Ah, he isso quickly gone!" she sighed, but still walked on. 

Yes, so quickly gone, but he had stopped as she thought, to think alittle, beyond the bend, there where he had waited the long night inthe snow for Larry Kildene, there where he had sat like Elijah of old, despairing, under the juniper tree. He felt weary and old and worn. Hethought his youth had gone from him forever, but what matter? What wasyouth without hope? Youth, love, life, all were to be relinquished. Heclosed his eyes to the wonder of the hills and the beauty before him, yet he knew they were there with their marvelous appeal, and he satwith bowed head. 

"'Arry! 'Arry King!" He raised his head, and there before him were allthat he had relinquished--youth, love, life. 

He ran and caught her to him, as one who is drowning catches at life. 

"You have leave me so coldly, 'Arry King. " He pressed her cheek tohis. "You did not even speak to me a little. " He kissed her lips. "Youhave break my heart. " He held her closer to his own. "Why have youbeen so cold--like--like the ice--to leave me so hard--like--like--"

"To save you from just this, Amalia. To save you from the touch of myhand--this is the crime I have fought against. "

"No. To love is not crime. "

"To dare to love--with the curse on my head that I feel as Cain feltit--is crime. In the Eye he saw it always--as I--I--see it. To touchyou--it is like bringing the crime and curse on you, and through yourbeautiful love making you suffer for it. See, Amalia? It was all Icould do to go out of your life and say nothing. " His voice trembledand his hand quivered as it rested on her hair. "I sat here to fightit. My heart--my heart that I have not yet learned to conquer--waspulling me back to you. I was faint and old. I could walk no fartheruntil the fight was won. Oh, Amalia--Amalia! Leave me alone, with thecurse on my head! It is not yours. "

"No, and it is not yours. You have repent. I do not believe that poemmy mother is thinking so great. It is the terror of the ancient ones, but to-day, no more. Take this. It is for you I bring it. I have wearit always on my bosom, wear it now on yours. "

She quickly unclasped from her neck a threadlike chain of gold, anddrew from her bosom a small ivory crucifix, to which it was attached. Reaching up, she clasped it around his neck, and thrust the cross inhis bosom. Then, thinking he meant to protest, she seized his handsand held them, and her words came with the impetuous rush of herthoughts. 

"No charm will help, Amalia. I killed my friend. "

"Ah, no, 'Arry King! Take this of me. It is not as you think for onecharm I give it. No. It is for the love of Christ--that you rememberand think of it. For that I wear it. For that I give it to you. Ifyou have repent, and have the Christ in your heart, so are youhigh--lifted above the sin, and if they take you--if they put the ironon your hands--Ah, I know, it is there you go to give yourselfup, --if they keep you forever in the prison, still forever are youfree. If they put you to the death to be satisfied of the law, thenquickly are you alive in Paradise with Christ. Listen, it is forthe love that you give yourself up--for the sorrowfulness in yourheart that you have killed your friend? Is not? Yes. So is good. See. Look to the hills, the high mountains, all far around us?They are beautiful. They are yours. God gives you. And the sky--soclear--and the bright sun and the spring life and the singing of thebirds? All are yours--God gives. And the love in your heart--for me?God gives, yes, and for the one you have hurt? Yes. God gives it. And for the Christ who so loves you? Yes. So is the love the greatlife of God in you. It is yours. Listen. Go with the love in yourheart--for me, --it will not hurt. It will be sweet to me. I carryno curse for you, as you say. It is gone. If I see you again inthis world--as may be--is joy--great joy. If I see you no morehere, yet in Paradise I will see you, and there also it will be joy, for it is the love that is all of life, and all of eternity, andlives--lives!"

Again he held her to his heart in a long embrace, and, when at last hewalked down the trail into the desert, he still felt her tears on hischeek, her kisses on his lips, and her heart against his own. 

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LITTLE SCHOOL-TEACHER

On a warm day in May, a day which opens the crab-apple blossoms andsets the bees humming, and the children longing for a chance to pulloff shoes and stockings and go wading in the brook; on such a day thedoor of the little schoolhouse stood open and the sunlight lay in along patch across the floor toward the "teacher's desk, " and thebreeze came in and tossed a stray curl about her forehead, and thechildren turned their heads often to look at the round clock on thewall, watching for the slowly moving hands to point to the hour offour. 

It was a mixed school. Children of all ages were there, from naughtylittle Johnnie Cole of five to Mary Burt and Hilton Le Moyne ofseventeen and nineteen, who were in algebra and the sixth reader. Itwas well known by the rest of the children why Hilton Le Moynelingered in the school this year all through May and June, instead ofleaving in April, as usual, to help his uncle on the farm. It was"Teacher. " He was in love with her, and always waited after school, hoping for a chance to walk home with her. 

Poor boy! Black haired, red cheeked, and big hearted, he knew his lovewas hopeless, for he was younger than she--not so much; but there wasTom Howard who was also in love with her, and he had a span of sorrelhorses which he had raised and broken himself, and they were his own, and he could come at any time--when she would let him--and take herout riding. 

Ah, that was something to aspire to! Such a team as that, and"Teacher" to sit by his side and drive out with him, all in her prettyflat hat with a pink rose on it and green ribbons flying, and hergreen parasol over her head--sitting so easily--just leaning forward abit and turning and laughing at what he was saying, and all the townseeing her with him, and his harness shining and new, making the teamlook as splendid as the best livery in town, and his buggy all paintedso bright and new--well! The time would come when he too would havesuch an outfit. It would. And Teacher would see that Tom Howard wasnot the only one who could drive up after her in such style. 

Little Teacher was tired to-day. The children had been restless andnoisy, and her heart had been heavy with a great disappointment. Shehad been carefully saving her small salary that she might go whenschool closed and take a course at the "Art Institute" in "Technique. "For a long time she had clung to the idea that she would become anillustrator, and a great man had told her father that "with a littleinstruction in technique" his daughter had "a fortune at the tips ofher fingers. " Only technique! Yes, if she could get it!

Father could help her, of course, only father was a painter in oilsand not an illustrator--and then--he was so driven, always, and fatherand mother both thought it would be best for her to take the course ofstudy recommended by the great man. So it was decided, for there wasMartha married and settled in her home not far away from theInstitute, and Teacher could live with her and study. Ah, thelong-coveted chance almost within her reach! Then--one difficultyafter another intervened, beginning with a great fire in the fallwhich swept away Martha's home and all they had accumulated, togetherwith her husband's school, rendering it necessary for the young coupleto go back to Leauvite for the winter. 

"Never mind, Betty, dear, " Martha had encouraged her. "We'll return inthe spring and start again, and you can take the course just thesame. "

But now a general financial stringency prevailed all over the country. "It always seems, when there's a 'financial stringency, ' thatportraits and paintings are the things people economize on first ofall, " said Betty. 

"Naturally, " said Mary Ballard. "When people need food and clothing--theywant them, and not pictures. We'll just have to wait, dear. "

"Yes, we'll have to wait, Mary. " Saucy Betty had a way of calling hermother "Mary. " "Your dress is shabby, and you need a new bonnet; Inoticed it in church, --you'd never speak of that, though. You'd wearyour winter's bonnet all summer. "

Yes, Betty must see to it, even if it took every bit of the fund, thatmother and Janey were suitably dressed. "Never mind, Mary, I'll catchup some day. You needn't look sorry. I'm all right about my ownclothes, for Martha gave me a rose for my hat, and the new ribbonsmake it so pretty, --and my green parasol is as good as new for allI've had it three years, and--"

Betty stopped abruptly. Three years!--was it so long since thatparasol was new--and she was so happy--and Richard came home--? Thefamily were seated on the piazza as they were wont to be in theevening, and Betty walked quietly into the house, and up to her room. 

Bertrand Ballard sighed, and his wife reached out and took his hand inhers. "She's never been the same since, " he said. 

"Her character has deepened and she's fine and sweet--"

"Yes, yes. I have three hundred dollars owing me for the Delongportrait. If I had it, she should have her course. I'll make anothereffort to collect it. "

"I would, Bertrand. "

Julien Thurbyfil and his wife walked down the flower-bordered pathside by side to the gate and stood leaning over it in silence. Practical Martha was the first to break it. 

"There will be just as much need for preparatory schools now as therewas before the fire, Julien. "

"Yes, dear, yes. "

"And, meanwhile, we are glad of this sweet haven to come to, aren'twe? And it won't be long before things are so you can begin again. "

"Yes, dear, and then we'll make it up to Betty, won't we?"

But Julien was distraught and somber, in spite of brave words. He hadnot inherited Mary Ballard's way of looking at things, nor hisfather-in-law's buoyancy. 

All that night Betty lay wakeful and thinking--thinking as she hadmany, many a time during the last three years, trying to make planswhereby she might adjust her thoughts to a life of loneliness, asshe had decided in her romantic heart was all she would take. Howcould there be anything else for her since that terrible nightwhen Richard had come to her and confessed his guilt--his love andhis renunciation! Was she not sharing it all with him wherever hemight be, and whatever he was doing? Oh, where was he? Did he everthink of her and know she was always thinking of him? Did he knowshe prayed for him, and was the thought a comfort to him? SurelyPeter was the happier of the two, for he was not a sorrowingcriminal, wandering the earth, hiding and repenting. So all herthoughts went out to Richard, and no wonder she was a weary littlewight at the end of the school day. 

Four o'clock, and the children went hurrying away, all but Hilton LeMoyne, who lingered awhile at his desk, and then reluctantly departed, seeing Teacher did not look up from her papers except to give him anod and a fugitive little smile of absent-minded courtesy. Left thusalone, Betty lifted the lid of her desk and put away the schoolregister and the carefully marked papers to be given out the next day, and took from a small portfolio a packet of closely written sheets. These she untied and looked over, tossing them rapidly aside one afteranother until she found the one for which she searched. 

It was a short poem, hastily written with lead pencil, and muchcrumpled and worn, as if it had been carried about. Now shestraightened the torn edges and smoothed it out and began scanning thelines, counting off on her fingers the rhythmic beats; she copied theverses carefully on a fresh white sheet of paper and laid them aside;then, shoving the whole heap of written papers from her, she selectedanother fresh sheet and began anew, writing and scanning and writingagain. 

Steadily she worked while an hour slipped by. A great bumblebee flewin at one window and boomed past her head and out at the other window, and a bluebird perched for an instant on the window ledge and was offagain. She saw the bee and the bird and paused awhile, gazing withdreamy eyes through the high, uncurtained window at drifting cloudsalready taking on the tint of the declining sun; then she stretchedher arms across her wide desk, and putting her head down on them, wassoon fast asleep. Tired little Teacher!

The breeze freshened and tumbled her hair and fanned her flushedcheek, and it did more than that; for, as the drifting cloudsbetokened, the weather was changing, and now a gust of wind caught ather papers and took some of them out of the window, tossing andwhirling them hither and thither. Some were carried along the waysideand lost utterly. One fluttered high over the tree tops and out acrossthe meadow, and then suddenly ceased its flight and drifted slowlydown like a dried leaf, past the face of a young man who sat on astone, moodily gazing in the meadow brook. He reached out a long armand caught it as it fluttered by, just in time to save it fromannihilation in the water. 

For a moment he held the scrap of paper absently between his fingers, then glancing down at it he spied faintly written, half-obliteratedverses and read them; then, with awakened interest, he read themagain, smoothing the torn bit of paper out on his knee. The placewhere he sat was well screened from the road by a huge basswood tree, which spread great limbs quite across the stream, and swept both itsbanks with drooping branches and broad leaves. Now he held the scrapon his open palm and studied it closely and thoughtfully. It was theworn piece from which Betty had copied the verses. 

 "Oh, send me a thought on the winds that blow. On the wing of a bird send a thought to me; For the way is so long that I may not know, And there are no paths on the troubled sea. 

 "Out of the darkness I saw you go, -- Into the shadows where sorrows be, -- Wounded and bleeding, and sad and slow, -- Into the darkness away from me. 

 "Out of my life and into the night, But never out of my heart, my own. Into the darkness out of the light, Bleeding and wounded, and walking alone. "

Here the words were quite erased and scratched over, and the patheticbit of paper looked as if it had been tear-stained. Carefully andsmoothly he laid it in his long bill book. The book was large andplethoric with bank notes, and there beside them lay the little scrapof paper, worn and soiled, yet tear washed, and as the young mantouched it tenderly he smiled and thought that in it was a wealth ofsomething no bank note could buy. With a touch of sentimentunsuspected by himself, he felt it too sacred a thing to be touched bythem, and he smoothed it again and laid it in a compartment byitself. 

Then he rose, and sauntered across the meadow to the country road, anddown it past the schoolhouse standing on its own small rise of groundwith the door still wide open, and its shadow, cast by the rays of thenow setting sun stretched long across the playground. The young manpassed it, paused, turned back, and entered. There at her desk Bettystill slept, and as he stepped softly forward and looked down on hershe stirred slightly and drew a long breath, but slept on. 

For a moment his heart ceased to beat, then it throbbed suffocatinglyand his hand went to his breast and clutched the bill book where laythe tender little poem. There at her elbow lay the copy she had socarefully made. The air of the room was warm and drowsy, and thestillness was only broken by the low buzzing of two great bluebottleflies that struggled futilely against the high window panes. Dearlittle tired Betty! Dreaming, --of whom? The breath came through herparted lips, softly and evenly, and the last ray of the sun fell onher flushed cheek and brought out the touch of gold in her hair. 

The young man turned away and crossed the bare floor with light stepsand drew the door softly shut after him as he went out. No one mightlook upon her as she slept, with less reverent eyes. Some distanceaway, where the road began to ascend toward the river bluff, he seatedhimself on a stone overlooking the little schoolhouse and the roadbeyond. There he took up his lonely watch, until he saw Betty come outand walk hurriedly toward the village, carrying a book and swingingher hat by the long ribbon ties; then he went on climbing the windingpath to the top of the bluff overlooking the river. 

Moodily he paced up and down along the edge of the bluff, and finallyfollowed a zigzag path to the great rocks below, that at this pointseemed to have hurled themselves down there to do battle with theeager, dominating flood. For a while he stood gazing into the rushingwater, not as though he were fascinated by it, but rather as if hewere held to the spot by some inward vision. Presently he seemed towake with a start and looked back along the narrow, steep path, and upto the overhanging edge of the bluff, scanning it closely. 

"Yes, yes. There is the notch where it lay, and this may be the verystone on which I am standing. What an easy thing to fall over thereand meet death halfway!" He muttered the words under his breath andbegan slowly to climb the difficult ascent. 

The sun was gone, and down by the water a cold, damp current of airseemed to sweep around the curve of the bluff along with the rush ofthe river. As he climbed he came to a warmer wave of air, and the duskclosed softly around him, as if nature were casting a friendly curtainover the drowsing earth; and the roar of the river came up to him, nolonger angrily, but in a ceaseless, subdued complaint. 

Again he paced the top of the bluff, and at last seated himself withhis feet hanging over the edge, at the spot from which the stone hadfallen. The trees on this wind-swept place were mostly gnarled oaks, old and strong and rugged, standing like a band of weather-beaten lifeguardsmen overlooking the miles of country around. Not twenty pacesfrom where the young man sat, half reclining on his elbow, stood oneof these oaks, and close to its great trunk on its shadowed side a manbent forward intently watching him. Whenever the young man shifted hisposition restlessly, the figure made a darting movement forward as ifto snatch him from the dangerous brink, then recoiled and continued towatch. 

Soon the young man seemed to be aware of the presence and watchfuleye, and looked behind him, peering into the dusk. Then the man lefthis place and came toward him, with slow, sauntering step. 

"Hullo!" he said, with an insinuating, rising inflection and in thesoft voice of the Scandinavian. 

"Hallo!" replied the young man. 

"Seek?"

"Sick? No. " The young man laughed slightly. "What are you doinghere?"

"Oh, I yust make it leetle valk up here. "

"Same with me, and now I'll make it a little walk back to town. " Theyoung man rose and stretched himself and turned his steps slowly backalong the winding path. 

"Vell, I tank I make it leetle valk down town, too, " and the figurecame sauntering along at the young man's side. 

"Oh, you're going my way, are you? All right. "

"Yas, I tank I going yust de sam your way. "

The young man set the pace more rapidly, and for a time they walked onin silence. At last, "Live here?" he asked. 

"Yas, I lif here. "

"Been here long?"

"In America? Yes. I guess five--sax--year. Oh, I lak it goot. "

"I mean here, in this place. "

"Oh, here? Yas, two, t'ree year. I lak it goot too. "

"Know any one here?"

"Oh, yas. I know people I vork by yet. "

"Who are they?"

"Oh, I vork by many place--make garten--und vork wit' horses, und so. Meesus Craikmile, I vork by her on garten. She iss dere no more. "

The young man paused suddenly in his stride. "Gone? Where is shegone?"

"Oh, she iss by ol' country gone. Her man iss gone mit. " They walkedon. 

"What! Is the Elder gone, too?"

"Yas. You know heem, yas?"

"Oh, yes. I know everybody here. I've been away for a good while. "

"So? Yas, yust lak me. I was gone too goot wile, bot I coom back too, yust lak you. "

Here they came to a turn in the road, and the village lights began towink out through the darkness, and their ways parted. 

"I'm going this way, " said the young man. "You turn off here? Well, good night. "

"Vell, goot night. " The Swede sauntered away down a by-path, and theyoung man kept on the main road to the village and entered its onehotel where he had engaged a room a few hours before. 

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SWEDE'S TELEGRAM

As soon as the shadows hid the young man's retreating form from theSwede's watchful eye, that individual quickened his pace and presentlybroke into a run. Circling round a few blocks and regaining the mainstreet a little below the hotel, he entered the telegraph office. There his haste seemed to leave him. He stood watching the clerk a fewminutes, but the latter paid no attention to him. 

"Hullo!" he said at last. 

"Hallo, yourself!" said the boy, without looking up or taking his handfrom the steadily clicking instrument. 

"Say, I lak it you send me somet'ing by telegraph. "

"All right. Hold on a minute, " and the instrument clicked on. 

After a little the Swede grew impatient. He scratched his pale goldhead and shuffled his feet. 

"Say, I lak it you send me a little somet'ing yet. " He reached out andtouched the boy on the shoulder. 

"Keep out of here. I'll send your message when I'm through with this, "and the instrument clicked on. Then the Swede resigned himself, watching sullenly. 

"Everybody has to take his turn, " said the boy at last. "You can't cutin like that. " The boy was newly promoted and felt his importance. Hetook the soiled scrap of paper held out to him. It was written overin a clear, bold hand. "This isn't signed. Who sends this?"

"You make it yust lak it iss. I send dot. "

"Well, sign it. " He pushed a pen toward him, and the Swede took it inclumsy fingers and wrote laboriously, "Nels Nelson. "

"You didn't write this message?"

"No. I vork by de hotel, und I get a man write it. "

"It isn't dated. Been carrying it around in your pocket a good while Iguess. Better date it. "

"Date it?"

"Yes. Put down the time you send, you know. "

"Oh, dat's not'ing. He know putty goot when he get it. "

"Very well. 'To Mr. John Thomas, --State Street, Chicago. Job's ready. Come along. ' Who's job is it? Yours?"

"No. It's hees yob yet. You mak it go to-night, all right. Goot night. I pay it now, yas. Vell, goot night. "

He paid the boy and slipped out into the shadows of the street, andagain making the detour so that he came to the hotel from the rear, hepassed the stables, and before climbing to his cupboard of a room atthe top of the building, he stepped round to the side and looked in atthe dining room windows, and there he saw the young man seated atsupper. 

"All right, " he said softly. 

The omnibus sent regularly by the hotel management brought only onepassenger from the early train next day. Times had been dull of lateand travel had greatly fallen off, as the proprietor complained. Therewas nothing unusual about this passenger, --the ordinary traveling man, representing a well-known New York dry-goods house. 

Nels Nelson drove the omnibus. He had done so ever since ElderCraigmile went to Scotland with his wife. The young man he had foundon the river bluff was pacing the hotel veranda as he drove up, andNels Nelson glanced at him, and into the eyes of the traveling man, ashe handed down the latter's heavy valise. 

Standing at the desk, the newcomer chatted with the clerk as he wrotehis name under that of the last arrival the day before. 

"Harry King, " he read. "Came yesterday. Many stopping here now? Timeshard! I guess so! Nothing doing in my line. Nobody wants a thing. Guess I'll leave the road and 'go west, young man, ' as old Greeleyadvises. What line is King in? Do' know? Is that him going into thedining room? Guess I'll follow and fill up. Anything good to eathere?"

In the dining room he indicated to the waiter by a nod of his head theseat opposite Harry King, and immediately entered into a free and easyconversation, giving him a history of his disappointments in the wayof trade, and reiterating his determination to "go west, young man. "

He hardly glanced at Harry, but ate rapidly, stowing away all withinreach, until the meal was half through, then he looked up and askedabruptly, "What line are you in, may I ask?"

"Certainly you may ask, but I can't tell you. I would be glad to do soif I knew myself. "

"Ever think of going west?"

"I've just come from there--or almost there--whereever it is. "

"Stiles is my name--G. B. Stiles. Good name for a dry-goods salesman, don't you think so? I know the styles all right, for men, and womentoo. Like it out west?"

"Yes. Very well. "

"Been there long?"

"Oh, two or three years. "

"Had enough of it, likely?"

"Well, I can scarcely say that. "

"Mean to stay east now?"

"I may. I'm not settled yet. "

"Better take up my line. If I drop out, there'll be an opening with myfirm--good firm, too. Ward, Williams & Co. , New York. Been in NewYork, I suppose?"

"No, never. "

"Well, better try it. I mean to 'go west, young man. ' Know anybodyhere? Ever live here?"

"Yes, when I was a boy. "

"Come back to the boyhood home. We all do that, you know. There'spoetry in it--all do it. 'Old oaken bucket' and all that sort ofthing. I mean to do it myself yet, --back to old York state. " G. B. Stiles wiped his mouth vigorously and shoved back his chair. "Well, see you again, I hope, " he said, and walked off, picking his teethwith a quill pick which he took from his vest pocket. 

He walked slowly and meditatively through the office and out on thesidewalk. Here he paused and glanced about, and seeing his companionof the breakfast table was not in sight, he took his way around to thestables. Nels Nelson was stooping in the stable yard, washing ahorse's legs. G. B. Stiles came and stood near, looking down on him, and Nels straightened up and stood waiting, with the dripping rags inhis hand. 

"Vell, I tol' you he coomin' back sometime. I vaiting long time allready, but yust lak I tol' you, he coom. "

"I thought I told you not to sign that telegram. But it's nomatter, --didn't do any harm, I guess. "

"Dot vas a fool, dot boy dere. He ask all tam, 'Vot for? Who writedis? You not? Eh? Who sen' dis?' He make me put my name dere; den Iget out putty quvick or he ask yet vat iss it for a yob you gotsomebody, eh?"

"Oh, well, we've got him now, and he don't seem to care to keep undercover, either. " G. B. Stiles seemed to address himself. "Too smart toshow a sign. See here, Nelson, are you ready to swear that he's theman? Are you ready to swear to all you told me?"

"It is better you gif me a paper once, vit your name, dot you gif mehalf dot money. "

Nels Nelson stooped deliberately and went on washing the horse's legs. A look of irritation swept over the placid face of G. B. Stiles, andhe slipped the toothpick back in his vest pocket and walked away. 

"I say, " called the Swede after him. "You gif me dot paper. Eh?"

"I can't stand talking to you here. You'll promise to swear to all youtold me when I was here the first time. If you do that, you are sureof the money, and if you change it in the least, or show the leastsign of backing down, we neither of us get it. Understand?"

Again the Swede arose, and stood looking at him sullenly. "It iss tent'ousand tallers, und I get it half, eh?"

"Oh, you go to thunder!" The proprietor of the hotel came around thecorner of the stable, and G. B. Stiles addressed himself to him. "I'dlike the use of a horse to-day, and your man here, if I can get him. I've got to make a trip to Rigg's Corners to sell some dry goods. Gota good buggy?"

"Yes, and a horse you can drive yourself, if you like. Be gone allday?"

"No, don't want to fool with a horse--may want to stay and send thehorse back--if I find a place where the grub is better than it ishere. See?"

"You'll be back after one meal at any place within a hundred miles ofhere. " The proprietor laughed. 

"Might as well drive yourself. You won't want to send the horse back. I'm short of drivers just now. Times are bad and travel light, so Ilet one go. "

"I'll take the Swede there. "

"He's my station hand. Maybe Jake can drive you. Nels, where's Jake?"

"He's dere in the stable. Shake!" he shouted, without glancing up, andJake slouched out into the yard. 

"Jake, here's a gentleman wants you to drive him out into thecountry, --"

"I'll take the Swede. Jake can drive your station wagon for once. "

G. B. Stiles laughed good-humoredly and returned to the piazza and sattilted back with his feet on the rail not far from Harry King, who wasintently reading the _New York Tribune_. For a while he eyed the youngman covertly, then dropped his feet to the floor and turned upon himwith a question on the political situation, and deliberately engagedhim in conversation, which Harry King entered into courteously yetreluctantly. Evidently he was preoccupied with affairs of his own. 

In the stable yard a discussion was going on. "Dot horse no goot inbuggy. Better you sell heem any vay. He yoomp by de cars all tam, undhe no goot by buggy. "

"Well, you've got to take him by the buggy, if he is no good. I won'tlet Jake drive him around the trains, and he won't let Jake go withhim out to Rigg's Corners, so you'll have to take the gray and thebuggy and go. " The Swede began a sullen protest, but the proprietorshouted back to him, "You'll do this or leave, " and walked in. 

Nels went then into the stable, smiling quietly. He was well satisfiedwith the arrangement. "Shake, you put dot big horse by de buggy. No. Tak' d'oder bridle. I don't drive heem mit ol' bridle; he yoomp tooquvick yet. All tam yoomping, dot horse. "

Presently Nels drove round to the front of the hotel with the grayhorse and a high-top buggy. Harry King regarded him closely as hepassed, but Nels looked straight ahead. A boy came out carryingStiles' heavy valise. 

"Put that in behind here, " said Stiles, as he climbed in and seatedhimself at Nels Nelson's side. The gray leaped forward on the instantwith so sudden a jump that he caught at his hat and missed it. HarryKing stepped down and picked it up. 

"What ails your horse?" he asked, as he restored it to its owner. 

"Oh, not'in'. He lak yoomp a little. " And again the horse leapedforward, taking them off at a frantic pace, the high-topped buggyatilt as they turned the corner of the street into the country road. Harry King returned to his seat. Surely it was the Scandinavian whohad walked down from the bluff with him the evening before. There wasno mistaking that soft, drawling voice. 

"See here! You pull your beast down, I want to talk with you. Hi!There goes my hat again. Can't you control him better than that? Letme out. " Nels pulled the animal down with a powerful arm, and he stoodquietly enough while G. B. Stiles climbed down and walked back for hishat. "Look here! Can you manage the beast, or can't you?" he asked ashe stood beside the vehicle and wiped the dust from his soft blackfelt with his sleeve. "If you can't, I'll walk. "

"Oh, yas, I feex heem. I leek heem goot ven ve coom to place nobodysee me. "

"I guess that's what ails him now. You've done that before. "

"Yas, bot if you no lak I leek heem, ust you yoomp in und I lat heemrun goot for two, t'ree mile. Dot feex heem all right. "

"I don't know about that. Sure you can hold him?"

"Yas, I hol' heem so goot he break hee's yaw off, if he don't stop venI tol' heem. Now, quvick. Whoa! Yoomp in. "

G. B. Stiles scrambled in with unusual agility for him, and again theywere off, the gray taking them along with leaps and bounds, but theroad was smooth, and the dust laid by frequent showers was like velvetunder the horse's feet. Stiles drew himself up, clinging to the sideof the buggy and to his hat. 

"How long will he keep this up?" he asked. 

"Oh, he stop putty quvick. He lak it leetle run. T'ree, four mile herun--das all. " And the Swede was right. After a while the horsesettled down to a long, swinging trot. "Look at heem now. I make heemgo all tam lak dis. Ven I get my money I haf stable of my own und denI buy heem. I know heem. I all tam tol' Meester Decker dot horse nogoot--I buy heem sheep. You go'n gif me dot money, eh?"

"I see. You're sharp, but you're asking too much. If it were not forme, you wouldn't get a cent, or me either. See? I've spent a thousandhunting that man up, and you haven't spent a cent. All you've done isto stick here at the hotel and watch. I've been all over the country. Even went to Europe and down in Mexico--everywhere. You haven't reallyearned a cent of it. "

"Vat for you goin' all offer de vorld? Vat you got by dot? Spen'money--dot vot you got. Me, I stay here. I fin' heem; you not got heemall offer de vorld. I tol' you, of a man he keel somebody, he run vay, bot he goin' coom back where he done it. He not know it vot for he doit, bot he do it all right. "

"Look here, Nelson; it's outrageous! You can't lay claim to thatmoney. I told you if he was found and you were willing to give in yourevidence just as you gave it to me that day, I'd give you your fairshare of the reward, as you asked for it, but I never gave you anyreason to think you were to take half. I've spent all the moneyworking up this matter, and if I were to go back now and do nothing, as I'm half a mind to do, you'd never get a cent of it. There's noproof that he's the man. "

"You no need spen' dot money. "

"Can't I get reason into your head? When I set out to get hold of acriminal, do you think I sit down in one place and wait? You didn'tfind him; he came here, and it's only by an accident you have him, andhe may clear out yet, and neither of us be the better off because ofyour pig-headedness. Here, drive into that grove and tie your horse aminute and we'll come to an understanding. I can't write you out apaper while we're moving along like this. "

Then Nels turned into the grove and took the horse from the shafts andtied him some distance away, while G. B. Stiles took writing materialsfrom his valise, and, sitting in the buggy, made a show of drawing upa legal paper. 

"I'm going to draw you up a paper as you asked me to. Now how do youknow you have the man?"

"It iss ten t'ousand tallers. You make me out dot paper you gif mehalf yet. "

"Damn it! You answer my question. I can't make this out unless I knowyou're going to come up to the scratch. " He made a show of writing, and talked at the same time. "I, G. B. Stiles, detective, in theemploy of Peter Craigmile, of the town of Leauvite, for the capture ofthe murderer of his son, Peter Craigmile, Jr. , do hereby promise oneNels Nelson, Swede, --in the employ of Mr Decker, hotel proprietor, asstable man, --for services rendered in the identification of saidcriminal at such time as he should be found, ----Now, what service haveyou rendered? How much money have you spent in the search?"

"Not'ing. I got heem. "

"Nothing. That's just it. "

"I got heem. "

"No, you haven't got him, and you can't get him without me. Don't youthink it. I am the one to get him. You have no warrant and no license. I'm the one to put in the claim and get the reward for you, and you'llhave to take what I choose to give, and no more. By rights you wouldonly have your fee as witness, and that's all. That's all the stategives. Whatever else you get is by my kindness in sharing with you. Hear?"

A dangerous light gleamed in the Swede's eyes, and Stiles, by a slightdisarrangement of his coat in the search for his handkerchief, displayed a revolver in his hip pocket. Nels' eyes shifted, and helooked away. 

"You'd better quit this damned nonsense and say what you'll take andwhat you'll swear to. "

"I'll take half dot money, " said Nels, softly and stubbornly. 

"I'll take out all I've spent on this case before we divide it in anyway, shape, or manner. " Stiles figured a moment on the margin of hispaper. "Now, what are you going to swear to? You needn't shift round. You'll tell me here just what you're prepared to give in as evidencebefore I put down a single figure to your name on this paper. See?"

"I done tol' you all dot in Chicago dot time. "

"Very well. You'll give that in as evidence, every word of it, andswear to it?"

"Yas. "

"I don't more than half believe this is the man. You know it's lifeimprisonment for him if it's proved on him, and you'd better be sureyou have the right one. I'm in for justice, and you're in for themoney, that's plain. "

"Yas, I tank you lak it money, too. "

"I'll not put him in irons to-night unless you give me some betterreason for your assertion. Why is he the man?"

"I seen heem dot tam, I know. He got it mark on hees head vere de bludrun dot tam, yust de sam, all right. I know heem. He speek lak heem. He move hees arm lak heem. Yas, I know putty good. "

"You're sure you remember everything he said--all you told me?"

"Oh, yas. I write it here, " and he drew a small book from his pocket, very worn and soiled. "All iss here writed. "

"Let's see it. " With a smile the Swede put it in Stiles' hand. Heregarded it in a puzzled way. 

"What's this?" He handed the book back contemptuously. "You'll neverbe able to make that out, --all dirty and--"

"Yas, I read heem, you not, --dot's Swedish. "

"Very well. Perhaps you know what you're about, " and the discussionwent on, until at last G. B. Stiles, partly by intimidation, partly byassumption of being able to get on without his services, persuadedNels to modify his demands and accept three thousand for his evidence. Then the gray was put in the shafts again, and they drove to the townquietly, as if they had been to Rigg's Corners and back. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

"A RESEMBLANCE SOMEWHERE"

While G. B. Stiles and the big Swede were taking their drive andbargaining away Harry King's liberty, he had loitered about the town, and visited a few places familiar to him. First he went to the home ofElder Craigmile and found it locked, and the key in the care of one ofthe bank clerks who slept there during the owner's absence. Aftersitting a while on the front steps, with his elbows on his knees andhis head in his hands, he rose and strolled out along the quietcountry road on its grassy footpath, past the Ballards' home. 

Mary and Bertrand were out in the little orchard at the back of thehouse, gazing up at the apple blossoms that hung over their heads ingreat pale pink clouds. A sweet odor came from the lilacs that hungover the garden fence, and the sunlight streamed down on the peacefulhome, and on the opening spring flowers--the borders of dwarf purpleiris and big clusters of peonies, just beginning to bud, --and on thebeehives scattered about with the bees flying out and in. Ah! It wasstill the same--tempting and inviting. 

He paused at the gate, looking wistfully at the open door, but did notenter. No, he must keep his own counsel and hold to his purpose, without stirring these dear old friends to sorrowful sympathy. So hepassed on, unseen by them, feeling the old love for the place and allthe tender memories connected with it revived and deepened. On hewent, strolling toward the little schoolhouse where he had found dearBetty Ballard sleeping at the big school desk the evening before, andpassed it by--only looking in curiously at the tousled heads bent overtheir lessons, and at Betty herself, where she sat at the desk, aclass on the long recitation bench before her, and a great boystanding at the blackboard. He saw her rise and take the chalk fromthe boy's hand and make a few rapid strokes with it on the board. 

Little Betty a school-teacher! She had suffered much! How much did shecare now? Was it over and her heart healed? Had other loves come toher? All intent now on her work, she stood with her back toward him, and as he passed the open door she turned half about, and he saw herprofile sharply against the blackboard. Older? Yes, she looked older, but prettier for that, and slight and trim and neat, dressed in a softshade of green. She had worn such a dress once at a picnic. Well heremembered it--could he ever forget? Swiftly she turned again to theboard and drew the eraser across the work, and he heard her voicedistinctly, with its singing quality--how well he remembered thatalso--"Now, how many of the class can work this problem?"

Ah, little Betty! little Betty! Life is working problems for us all, and you are working yours to a sweet conclusion, helping the children, and taking up your own burdens and bearing them bravely. This wasHarry King's thought as he strolled on and seated himself again underthe basswood tree by the meadow brook, and took from his pocket theworn scrap of paper the wind had brought him and read it again. 

 "Out of my life, and into the night, But never out of my heart, my own. Into the darkness, out of the light, Bleeding and wounded and walking alone. "

Such a tender, rhythmic bit of verse--Betty must have written it. Itwas like her. 

After a time he rose and strolled back again past the littleschoolhouse, and it was recess. Long before he reached it he heard thevoices of the children shouting, "Anty, anty over, anty, anty over. "They were divided into two bands, one on either side of the smallbuilding, over which they tossed the ball and shouted as they tossedit, "Anty, anty over"; and the band on the other side, warned by thecry, caught the ball on the rebound if they could, and tore around thecorner of the building, trying to hit with it any luckless wight onthe other side, and so claim him for their own, and thus changingsides, the merry romp went on. 

Betty came to the door with the bell in her hand, and stood for amoment looking out in the sunshine. One of the smallest of the boysran to her and threw his arms around her, and, looking up in her face, screamed in wildest excitement, "I caught it twice, Teacher, I did. "

With her hand on his head she looked in his eyes and smiled andtinkled her little bell, and the children, big and little, all camecrowding through the door, hustling like a flock of chickens, andevery boy snatched off his cap as he rushed by her. 

Ah, grave, dignified little Betty! Who was that passing slowly alongthe road? Like a wild rose by the wayside she seemed to him, with herpink cheeks and in her soft green gown, framed thus by the doorway ofthe old schoolhouse. Naturally she had no recognition for this beardedman, walking by with stiff, soldierly step, yet something caused herto look again, turning as she entered, and, when he looked back, theireyes met, and hers dropped before his, and she was lost to his sightas she closed the door after her. Of course she could not recognizehim disguised thus with the beard on his face, and his dark, tannedskin. She did not recognize him, and he was glad, yet sore at heart. 

He had had all he could bear, and for the rest of the morning he wroteletters, sitting in his room at Decker's hotel. Only two letters, butone was a very long one--to Amalia Manovska. Out in the world he darednot use her own name, so he addressed the envelope to Miss McBride, inLarry Kildene's care, at the nearest station to which they had agreedletters should be sent. Before he finished the second letter the gongsounded for dinner. The noon meal was always dinner at the hotel. Hethrust his papers and the unfinished letter in his valise and lockedit--and went below. 

G. B. Stiles was already there, seated in the same place as on the daybefore, and Harry took his seat opposite him, and they began aconversation in the same facile way, but the manner of the dry-goodssalesman towards him seemed to have undergone a change. It had lostits swagger, and was more that of a man who could be a gentleman if hechose, while to the surprise of Stiles the manner of the young man wasas disarmingly quiet and unconcerned as before, and as abstracted. Hecould not believe that any man hovering on the brink of a terriblecatastrophe, and one to avert which required concealment of identity, could be so unwary. He half believed the Swede was laboring under anhallucination, and decided to be deliberate, and await developmentsfor the rest of the day. 

After dinner they wandered out to the piazza side by side, and therethey sat and smoked, and talked over the political situation asthey had the evening before, and Stiles was surprised at the youngman's ignorance of general public matters. Was it ignorance, orindifference?

"I thought all you army men would stand by Grant to the drop of thehat. "

"Yes, I suppose we would. "

"You suppose so! Don't you know? I carried a gun under Grant, and I'dswear to any policy he'd go in for, and what I say is, they haven'thad quite enough down there. What the South needs is another licking. That's what it needs. "

"Oh, no, no, no. I was sick of fighting, long before they laid me up, and I guess a lot of us were. "

G. B. Stiles brought his feet to the floor with a stamp of surpriseand turned to look full in the young man's face. For a moment he gazedon him thus, then grunted. "Ever feel one of their bullets?"

"Oh, yes. "

"That the mark, there over your temple?"

"No, it didn't do any harm to speak of. That's--where something--struckme. "

"Oh, you don't say!" Harry King rose. "Leaving?"

"No. I have a few letters to write--and--"

"Sorry to miss you. Staying in town for some time?"

"I hardly know. I may. "

"Plans unsettled? Well, times are unsettled and no money stirring. Myplans are all upset, too. "

The young man returned to his room and continued his writing. Oneshort letter to Betty, inclosing the worn scrap of paper the wind hadbrought him; he kissed it before he placed it in the envelope. Then hewrote one to her father and mother jointly, and a long one to HesterCraigmile. Sometimes he would pause in his writing and tear up a page, and begin over again, but at last all were done and inclosed in aletter to the Elder and placed in a heavy envelope and sealed. Onlythe one to Amalia he did not inclose, but carried it out and mailed ithimself. 

Passing the bank on the way to the post office, he dropped in and madequite a heavy deposit. It was just before closing time and the clerkswere all intent on getting their books straight, preparatory toleaving. How well he remembered that moment of restless turning ofledgers and the slight accession of eagerness in the younger clerks, as they followed the long columns of figures down with the forefingerof the left hand--the pen poised in the right. The whole scene smotehim poignantly as he stood at the teller's window waiting. And hemight have been doing that, he thought! A whole lifetime spent indoing just that and more like it, year in and year out!

How had his life been better? He had sinned--and failed. Ah! But hehad lived and loved--lived terribly and loved greatly. God help him, how he loved! Even for life to end here--either in prison or indeath--still he had felt the tremendous passions, and understood themeaning of their power in a human soul. This had life brought him, anda love beyond measure to crown all. 

The teller peered at him through the little window behind which he hadstood so many years peering at people in this sleepy little bank, thissure, safe, little bank, always doing its conservative business in thesame way, and heretofore always making good. He reached out a long, well-shaped hand, --a large-veined hand, slightly hairy at the wrist, to take the bank notes. How often had Harry King seen that handstretched thus through the little window, drawing bank notes towardhim! Almost with a shock he saw it now reach for his own--for thefirst time. In the old days he had had none to deposit. It was alwaysfor others it had been extended. Now it seemed as if he must seize thehand and shake it, --the only hand that had been reached out to himyet, in this town where his boyhood had been spent. 

A young man who had preceded Harry King at the teller's window pausednear by at the cashier's desk and began asking questions which Harryhimself would have been glad to ask, but could not. 

He was an alert, bright-eyed young chap with a smiling face. "Goodafternoon, Mr. Copeland. Any news for me to-day?"

Mr. Copeland was an elderly man of great dignity, and almost as muchof a figure there as the Elder himself. It was an act of greattemerity to approach him for items of news for the _Leauvite Mercury_. Of this fact the young reporter seemed to be blithely ignorant. Allthe clerks were covertly watching the outcome, and thus attention wasturned from Harry King; even the teller glanced frequently at thecashier's desk as he counted the bank notes placed in his hand. 

"News? No. No news, " said Mr. Copeland, without looking up. 

"Thank you. It's my business to ask for it, you know. We're makingmore of a feature of personal items than ever before. We're up todate, you see. 'Find out what people want and then give it to them. 'That's our motto. " The young man leaned forward over the high railingthat corralled the cashier in his pen apart from the public, smilinglyoblivious of that dignitary's objections to an interview. "Expectingthe return of Elder Craigmile soon?"

At that question, to the surprise of all, the cashier suddenly changedhis manner to the suave affability with which he greeted people ofconsequence. "We are expecting Elder Craigmile shortly. Yes. Indeed hemay arrive any day, if the voyage is favorable. "

"Thank you. Mrs. Craigmile accompanies him, I suppose?"

"It is not likely, no. Her health demands--ahem--a little longer restand change. "

"Ah! The Elder not called back by--for any particular reason? No. Business going well? Good. I'm told there's a great deal ofdepression. "

"Oh, in a way--there may be, --but we're all of the conservative sorthere in Leauvite. We're not likely to feel it if there is. Goodafternoon. "

No one paid any attention to Harry King as he walked out after the_Leauvite Mercury_ reporter, except Mr. Copeland, who glanced at himkeenly as he passed his desk. Then, looking at his watch, he came outof his corral and turned the key in the bank door. 

"We'll have no more interruptions now, " he said, as he paused at theteller's window. "You know the young man who just went out?"

"Sam Carter of the _Mercury_. Old Billings no doubt sent him in tolearn how we stand. "

"No, no, no. Sam Carter--I know him. Who's the young man who followedhim out?"

"I don't know. Here's his signature. He's just made a big deposit onlong time--only one thousand on call. Unusual these days. "

Mr. Copeland's eyes glittered an instant. "Good. That's something. Idecided to give the town people to understand that there is no needfor their anxiety. It's the best policy, and when the Elder returns, he may be induced to withdraw his insane offer of reward. Ten thousanddollars! It's ridiculous, when the young men may both be dead, for allthe world will ever know. "

"If we could do that--but I've known the Elder too long to hope forit. This deposit stands for a year, see? And the ten thousand theElder has set one side for the reward gives us twenty thousand wecould not count on yesterday. "

"In all the history of this bank we never were in so tight a place. It's extraordinary, and quite unnecessary. That's a bright boy--SamCarter. I never thought of his putting such a construction on it whenI admitted the fact that Mrs. Craigmile is to remain. Two big banksclosed in Chicago this morning, and twenty small ones all over thecountry during the last three days. One goes and hauls another down. If we had only cabled across the Atlantic two weeks ago when I sentthat letter--he must have the letter by now--and if he has, he's onthe ocean. "

"This deposit tides us over a few days, and, as I said, if we couldonly get our hands on that reserve of the Elder's, we'd be safewhatever comes. "

"He'll have to bend his will for once. He must be made to see it, andwe must get our hands on it. I think he will. He'd cut off his righthand before he'd see this bank go under. "

"It's his son's murder that's eating into his heart. He's been losingground ever since. "

The clerks gradually disappeared, quietly slipping out into thesunshine one by one as their books were balanced, and now the two menstood alone. It was a time used by them for taking account of thebank's affairs generally, and they felt the stability of thatinstitution to be quite personal to them. 

"I've seen that young man before, " said Mr. Copeland. "Now, who is he?Harry King--Harry King, --the Kings moved away from here--twelve yearsago--wasn't it? Their son would not be as old as this man. "

"Boys grow up fast. You never can tell. "

"The Kings were a short, thickset lot. "

"He may not be one of them. He said nothing about ever having beenhere before. I never talk with any one here at the window. It's quiteagainst my rules for the clerks, and has to be so for myself, ofcourse. I leave that sort of thing to you and the Elder. "

"I say--I've seen him before--the way he walks--the way he carrieshis head--there's a resemblance somewhere. "

The two men also departed, after looking to the safe, and thelast duties devolving on them, seeing that all was locked anddouble-locked. It was a solemn duty, always attended to solemnly. 

CHAPTER XXIX

THE ARREST

Sam Carter loitered down the street after leaving the bank, and whenHarry King approached, he turned with his ready smile and accostedhim. 

"Pleasant day. I see you're a stranger here, and I thought I might getan item from you. Carter's my name, and I'm doing the reporting forthe _Mercury_. Be glad to make your acquaintance. Show you round alittle. "

Harry was nonplussed for a moment. Such things did not use to occur inthis old-fashioned place as running about the streets picking up itemsfrom people and asking personal questions for the paper to exploit thereplies. He looked twice at Sam Carter before responding. 

"Thank you, I--I've been here before. I know the place pretty well. "

"Very pretty place, don't you think so? Mean to stop for some time?"

"I hardly know as yet. " Harry King mused a little, then resolved tobreak his loneliness by accepting the casual acquaintance, and toavoid personalities about himself by asking questions about the townand those he used to know, but whom he preferred not to see. It was anopportunity. "Yes, it is a pretty place. Have you been here long?"

"I've been here--let's see. About three years--maybe a little less. You must have been away from Leauvite longer than that, I judge. I'venever left the place since I came and I never saw you before. Nowonder I thought you a stranger. "

"I may call myself one--yes. A good many changes since you came?"

"Oh, yes. See the new courthouse? It's a beauty, --all solidstone, --cost fifty thousand dollars. The _Mercury_ had a great deal todo with bringing it about, --working up enthusiasm and the like, --butthere is a great deal of depression just now, and taxes running up. People think government is taking a good deal out of them for suchpublic buildings, but, Lord help us! the government is needing moneyjust now as much as the people. It's hard to be public spirited whentaxes are being raised. You have people here?"

"Not now--no. Who's mayor here now?"

"Harding--Harding of the iron works. He makes a good one, too. There's the new courthouse. The jail is underneath at the back. Seethe barred windows? No breaking out of there. Three prisoners didbreak out of the old one during the year this building was underconstruction, --each in a different way, too, --shows how badly theyneeded a new one. Quite an ornament to the square, don't you thinkso?"

"The jail?"

"No, no, --The building as a whole. Better go over it while you'rehere. "

"I may--do so--yes. "

"Staying some time, I believe you said. "

"Did I? I may have said so. "

"Staying at the hotel, I believe?"

"Yes, and here we are. " Harry King stood an instant--undecided. Certain things he wished to know, but had not the courage to ask--noton the street--but maybe seated on the veranda he could ask thisoutsider, in a casual way. "Drop in with me and have a smoke. "

"I will, thank you. I often run in, --in the way of business, --but Ihaven't tried it as a stopping place. Meals pretty good?"

"Very good. " They took seats at the end of the piazza where Harry Kingled the way. The sun was now low, but the air was still warm enoughfor comfort, and no one was there but themselves, for it lacked anhour to the return of the omnibus and the arrival of the usual loaferswho congregated at that time. 

"You've made a good many acquaintances since you came, no doubt?"

"Well--a good many--yes. "

"Know the Craigmiles?"

"The Craigmiles? There's no one there to know--now--but the Elder. Oh, his wife, of course, but she stays at home so close no one ever seesher. They're away now, if you want to see them. "

"And she never goes out--you say?"

"Never since I've been in the town. You see, there was a tragedy inthe family. Just before I came it happened, and I remember the townwas all stirred up about it. Their son was murdered. "

Harry King gave a quick start, then gathered himself up in strongcontrol and tilted his chair back against the wall. 

"Their son murdered?" he asked. "Tell me about it. All you know. "

"That's just it--nobody knows anything. They know he was murdered, because he disappeared completely. The young man was called PeterJunior, after his father, of course--and he was the one that wasmurdered. They found every evidence of it. It was there on the bluff, above the wildest part of the river, where the current is so strong noman could live a minute in it. He would be dashed to death in theflood, even if he were not killed in the fall from the brink, and thatyoung man was pushed over right there. "

"How did they know he was pushed over?"

"They knew he was. They found his hat there, and it was bloody, as ifhe had been struck first, and a club there, also bloody, --and it isbelieved he was killed first and then pushed over, for there is theplace yet, after three years, where the earth gave way with the weightof something shoved over the edge. Well, would you believe it--thatold man has kept the knowledge of it from his wife all this time. Shethinks her son quarreled with his father and went off, and that hewill surely return some day. "

"And no one in the village ever told her?"

"All the town have helped the old Elder to keep it from her. You'dthink such a thing impossible, wouldn't you? But it's the truth. Theold man bribed the _Mercury_ to keep it out, and, by jiminy, it wasdone! Here, in a town of this size where every one knows all aboutevery one else's affairs--it was done! It seems people took anespecial interest in keeping it from her, yet every one was talkingabout it, and so I heard all there was to hear. Hallo! What are youdoing here?"

This last remark was addressed to Nels Nelson, who appeared justbelow them and stood peering up at them through the veranda railing. 

"I yust vaiting for Meestair Stiles. He tol' me vait for heem here. "

"Mr. Stiles? Who's he?"

"Dere he coomin'. "

As he spoke G. B. Stiles came through the hotel door and walkedgravely up to them. Something in his manner, and in the expectant, watchful eye of the Swede, caused them both to rise. At the samemoment, Kellar, the sheriff, came up the front steps and approachedthem, and placing his hand on Harry King's shoulder, drew from hispocket a pair of handcuffs. 

"Young man, it is my duty to arrest you. Here is my badge--this isquite straight--for the murder of Peter Craigmile, Jr. "

The young man neither moved nor spoke for a moment, and as he stoodthus the sheriff took him by the arm, and roused him. "RichardKildene, you are under arrest for the murder of your cousin, PeterCraigmile, Jr. "

With a quick, frantic movement, Harry King sprang back and thrust bothmen violently from him. The red of anger mounted to his hair andthrobbed in his temples, then swept back to his heart, and left himwith a deathlike pallor. 

"Keep back. I'm not Richard Kildene. You have the wrong man. PeterCraigmile was never murdered. "

The big Swede leaped the piazza railing and stood close to him, whilethe sheriff held him pinioned, and Sam Carter drew out his notebook. 

"You know me, Mr. Kellar, --stand off, I say. I am Peter Craigmile. Look at me. Put away those handcuffs. It is I, alive, Peter Craigmile, Jr. "

"That's a very clever plea, but it's no go, " said G. B. Stiles, andproceeded to fasten the irons on his wrists. 

"Yas, I know you dot man keel heem, all right. I hear you tol' somevon you keel heem, " said the Swede, slowly, in suppressed excitement. 

"You're a very good actor, young man, --mighty clever, --but it's no go. Now you'll walk along with us if you please, " said Mr. Kellar. 

"But I tell you I don't please. It's a mistake. I am Peter Craigmile, Jr. , himself, alive. "

"Well, if you are, you'll have a chance to prove it, but evidence isagainst you. If you are he, why do you come back under an assumed nameduring your father's absence? A little hitch there you did not takeinto consideration. "

"I had my reasons--good ones--I--came back to confess tothe--un--un--witting--killing of my cousin, Richard. " He turned fromone to the other, panting as if he had been running a race, and threwout his words impetuously. "I tell you I came here for the verypurpose of giving myself up--but you have the wrong man. "

By this time a crowd had collected, and the servants were running fromtheir work all over the hotel, while the proprietor stood aloof withstaring eyes. 

"Here, Mr. Decker, you remember me--Elder Craigmile's son? Some of youmust remember me. "

But the proprietor only wagged his head. He would not be drawn intothe thing. "I have no means of knowing who you are--no more than Adam. The name you wrote in my book was Harry King. "

"I tell you I had my reasons. I meant to wait here until theElder's--my father's return and--"

"And in the meantime we'll put you in a quiet little apartment, veryprivate, where you can wait, while we look into things a bit. "

"You needn't take me through the streets with these things on; I've nointention of running away. Let me go to my room a minute. "

"Yes, and put a bullet through your head. I've no intention of runningany risks now we have you, " said the detective. 

"Now you have who? You have no idea whom you have. Take off theseshackles until I pay my bill. You have no objection to that, haveyou?"

They turned into the hotel, and the handcuffs were removed while theyoung man took out his pocketbook and paid his reckoning. Then heturned to them. 

"I must ask you to accompany me to my room while I gather my toiletnecessities together. " This they did, G. B. Stiles and the sheriffwalking one on either side, while the Swede followed at their heels. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, turning suddenly upon thestable man. 

"Oh, I yust lookin' a leetle out. "

"Mr. Stiles, what does this mean, that you have that man dogging me?"

"It's his affair, not mine. He thinks he has a certain interest inyou. "

Then he turned in exasperation to the sheriff. "Can you give me alittle information, Mr. Kellar? What has that Swede to do with me? Whyam I arrested for the murder of my own self--preposterous! I, a man asalive as you are? You can see for yourself that I am ElderCraigmile's son. You know me?"

"I know the Elder fairly well--every one in Leauvite knows him, but Ican't say as I've ever taken particular notice of his boy, and, anyway, the boy was murdered three years ago--a little over--for itwas in the fall of the year--well, that's most four years--and I mustsay it's a mighty clever dodge, as Mr. Stiles says, for you to playoff this on us. It's a matter that will bear looking into. Now you sitdown here and hold on to yourself, while I go through your things. You'll get them all, never fear. "

Then Harry King sat down and looked off through the open window, andpaid no heed to what the men were doing. They might turn his largevalise inside out and read every scrap of written paper. There wasnothing to give the slightest clew to his identity. He had left theenvelope addressed to the Elder, containing the letters he hadwritten, at the bank, to be placed in the safety vault, and not to bedelivered until ordered to do so by himself. 

As they finished their search and restored the articles to his valise, he asked again that the handcuffs be left off as he walked through thestreets. 

"I have no desire to escape. It is my wish to go with you. I only wishI might have seen the--my father first. He could not have helpedme--but he would have understood--it would have seemed less--"

He could not go on, and the sheriff slipped the handcuffs in hispocket, and they proceeded in silence to the courthouse, where helistened to the reading of the warrant and his indictment in dazedstupefaction, and then walked again in silence between his captors tothe jail in the rear. 

"No one has ever been in this cell, " said Mr. Kellar. "I'm doing thebest I can for you. "

"How long must I stay here? Who brings accusation?"

"I don't know how long: as this is a murder charge you can'tbe bailed out, and the trial will take time. The Elder bringsaccusation--naturally. "

"When is he expected home?"

"Can't say. You'll have some one to defend you, and then you can askall the questions you wish. " The sheriff closed the heavy door and thekey was turned. 

Then began weary days of waiting. If it had been possible to get thetrial over with, Harry would have been glad, but it made littledifference to him now, since the step had been taken, and a trial inhis case would only be a verdict, anyway--and confession was a simplething, and the hearing also. 

The days passed, and he wondered that no one came to him--no friend ofthe old time. Where were Bertrand Ballard and Mary? Where was littleBetty? Did they not know he was in jail? He did not know that othershad been arrested on the same charge and released, more than once. True, no one had made the claim of being the Elder's own son and themurdered man himself. As such incidents were always disturbing toBetty, when Bertrand read the notice of the arrest in the _Mercury_, the paper was laid away in his desk and his little daughter was sparedthe sight of it this time. 

But he spoke of the matter to his wife. "Here is another case ofarrest for poor Peter Junior's murder, Mary. The man claims to bePeter Junior himself, but as he registered at the hotel under anassumed name it is likely to be only another attempt to get thereward money by some detective. It was very unwise for the Elder tomake it so large a sum. "

"It can't be. Peter Junior would never be so cruel as to stay away allthis time, if he were alive, no matter how deeply he may havequarreled with his father. I believe they both went over the bluff andare both dead. "

"It stands to reason that one or the other body would have been foundin that case. One might be lost, but hardly both. The search was verythorough, even down to the mill race ten miles below. "

"The current is so swift there, they might have been carried over therace, and on, before the search began. I think so, although no oneelse seems to. "

"I wish the Elder would remove that temptation of the reward. It isonly an inducement to crime. Time alone will solve the mystery, and aslong as he continues to brood over it, he will go on failing inhealth. It's coming to an obsession with him to live to see RichardKildene hung, and some one will have to swing for it if he has hisway. Now he will return and find this man in jail, and will bend everyeffort, and give all his thought toward getting him convicted. "

"But I thought you said they do not hang in this state. "

"True--true. But imprisonment for life is--worse. I'm thinking of whatthe Elder would like could he have his way. "

"Bertrand--I believe the Elder is sure the man will be found and thatit will kill his wife, when she comes to know that Peter Junior wasmurdered, and that is why he took her to Scotland. She told me she wassure her son was there, or would go to see his great aunts there, andthat is why she consented to go--but I'm sure the Elder wished to gether out of the way. "

"Strange--strange, " said Bertrand. "After all, it is better toforgive. No one knows what transpired, and Richard is the realsufferer. "

"Do you suppose he'll leave Hester there, Bertrand?"

"I hardly think she would be left, but it is impossible to tell. Ason's loss is more than any other--to a mother. "

"Do you think so, Bertrand? It would be hardest of all to lose ahusband, and the Elder has failed so much since Peter Junior'sdeath. "

"Peter Junior seems to be the only one who has escaped suffering inthis tragedy. Remorse in Richard's case, and stubborn anger in theElder's--they are emotions that take large toll out of a man'svitality. If ever Richard is found, he will not be the young man weknew. "

"Unless he is innocent. All this may have been an accident. "

"Then why is he staying in hiding?"

"He may have felt there was no way to prove his innocence. "

"Well, there is another reason why the Elder should withdraw his offerof a reward, and when he comes back, I mean to try what can be doneonce more. Everything would have to be circumstantial. He will have ahard time to prove his nephew's guilt. "

"I can't see why he should try to prove it. It must have been anaccident--at the last. Of course it might have been begun in anger, ina moment of misunderstanding, but the nature of the boys would go toshow that it never could have been done intentionally. It isimpossible. "

CHAPTER XXX

THE ARGUMENT

"Mr. Ballard, either my son was murdered, or he was a murderer. Thecrime falls upon us, and the disgrace of it, no matter how you look atit. " The Elder sat in the back room at the bank, where his friend hadbeen arguing with him to withdraw the offer of a reward for thearrest. "It's too late, now--too late. The man's found and he claimsto be my son. You're a kindly man, Mr. Ballard, but a blind one. "

Bertrand drew his chair closer to the Elder's, as if by so doing hemight establish a friendlier thought in the man's heart. "Blind?Blind, Elder Craigmile?"

"I say blind. I see. I see it all. " The Elder rose and paced thefloor. "The boys fought, there on the bluff, and sought to kill eachother, and for the same cause that has wrought most of the evil in theworld. Over the love of a woman they fought. Peter carried ablackthorn stick that ought never to have been in my house--you know, for you brought it to me--and struck his cousin with it, and at thesame instant was pushed over the brink, as Richard intended. "

"How do you know that Richard was not pushed over? How do you knowthat he did not fall over with his cousin? How can you dare work for aman's conviction on such slight evidence?"

"How do I know? Although you would favor that--that--although--" TheElder paused and struggled for control, then sat weakly down and tookup the argument again with trembling voice. "Mr. Ballard, I wouldspare you--much of this matter which has been brought to myknowledge--but I cannot--because it must come out at the trial. It wasover your little daughter, Betty, that they fought. She has known allthese years that Richard Kildene murdered her lover. "

"Elder--Elder! Your brooding has unbalanced your mind. "

"Wait, my friend. This falls on you with but half the burden that Ihave borne. My son was no murderer. Richard Kildene is not only amurderer, but a coward. He went to your daughter while we weredragging the river for my poor boy's body, and told her he hadmurdered her lover; that he pushed him over the bluff and that heintended to do so. Now he adds to his crime--by--coming here--andpretending--to be--my son. He shall hang. He shall hang. If he doesnot, there is no justice in heaven. " The Elder looked up and shook hishand above his head as if he defied the whole heavenly host. 

Bertrand Ballard sat for a moment stunned. Such a preposterous turnwas beyond his comprehension. Strangely enough his first thought was amere contradiction, and he said: "Men are not hung in this state. Youwill not have your wish. " He leaned forward, with his elbows on thegreat table and his head in his hands; then, without looking up, hesaid: "Go on. Go on. How did you come by this astounding information?Was it from Betty?"

"Then may he be shut in the blackest dungeon for the rest of his life. No, it was not from Betty. Never. She has kept this terrible secretwell. I have not seen your daughter--not--since--since this was toldme. It has been known to the detective and to my attorney, MiltonHibbard, for two years, and to me for one year--just before I offeredthe increased reward to which you so object. I had reason. "

"Then it is as I thought. Your offer of ten thousand dollars rewardhas incited the crime of attempting to convict an innocent man. AgainI ask you, how did you come by this astounding information?"

"By the word of an eyewitness. Sit still, Mr. Ballard, until you hearthe whole; then blame me if you can. A few years ago you had a Swedeworking for you in your garden. You boarded him. He slept in a littleroom over your summer kitchen; do you remember?"

"Yes. "

"He saw Richard Kildene come to the house when we were all away--whileyou were with me--your wife with mine, --and your little daughteralone. This Swede heard all that was said, and saw all that was done. His testimony alone will--"

"Convict a man? It is greed! What is your detective working for andwhy does this Swede come forward at this late day with his testimony?Greed! Elder Craigmile, how do you know that this testimony is not allmade up between them? I will go home and ask Betty, and learn thetruth. "

"And why does the young man come here under an assumed name, and whenhe is discovered, claim to be my son? The only claim he could makethat could save him! If he knows anything, he knows that if hepretends he is my son--laboring under the belief that he has killedRichard Kildene--when he knows Richard's death can be disproved byyour daughter's statement that she saw and talked with Richard--heknows that he may be released from the charge of murder and mayestablish himself here as the man whom he himself threw over thebluff, and who, therefore, can never return to give him the lie. Isay--if this is proved on him, he shall suffer the extreme penalty ofthe law, or there is no justice in the land. "

Bertrand rose, sadly shaken. "This is a very terrible accusation, myfriend. Let us hope it may not be proved true. I will go home and askBetty. You will take her testimony before that of the Swede?"

"If you are my friend, why are you willing my son should be proven amurderer? It is a deep-laid scheme, and Richard Kildene walks close inhis father's steps. I have always seen his father in him. I tried tosave him for my sister's sake. I brought him up in the nurture andadmonition of the Lord, and did for him all that fathers do for theirsons, and now I have the fool's reward--the reward of the man whowarmed the viper in his bosom. He, to come here and sit in my son'splace--to eat bread at my table--at my wife's right hand--with hersmile in his eyes? Rather he shall--"

"We will find out the truth, and, if possible, you shall be saved fromyourself, Elder Craigmile, and your son will not be proven a murderer. Let me still be your friend. " Bertrand's voice thrilled withsuppressed emotion and the sympathy he could not utter, as he held outhis hand, which the Elder took in both his own shaking ones. Hisvoice trembled with suppressed emotion as he spoke. 

"Pray God Hester may stay where she is until this thing is over. Andpray God you may not be blinded by love of your daughter, who was nottrue to my son. She was promised to become his wife, but through allthese years she protects by her silence the murderer of her lover. Ponder on this thought, Bertrand Ballard, and pray God you may havethe strength to be just. "

Bertrand walked homeward with bowed head. It was Saturday. The day'sbaking was in progress, and Mary Ballard was just removing a pan oftemptingly browned tea cakes from the oven when he entered. She didnot see his face as he asked, "Mary, where can I find Betty?"

"Upstairs in the studio, drawing. Where would you expect to find her?"she said gayly. Something in her husband's voice touched her. Shehastily lifted the cakes from the pan and ran after him. 

"What is it, dear?"

He was halfway up the stairs and he turned and came back to her. "I'veheard something that troubles me, and must see her alone, Mary. I'lltalk with you about it later. Don't let us be disturbed until we comedown. "

"I think Janey is with her now. "

"I'll send her down to you. "

"Bertrand, it is something terrible! You are trying to spare me--don'tdo it. "

"Ask no questions. "

"Tell Janey I want her to help in the kitchen. "

Mary went back to her work in silence. If Bertrand wished to be alonewith Betty, he had a good reason; and presently Janey skipped in andwas set to paring the potatoes for dinner. 

Bertrand found Betty bending closely over a drawing for which she hadno model, but which was intended to illustrate a fairy story. She wasusing pen and ink, and trying to imitate the fine strokes of a steelengraving. He stood at her side, looking down at her work a moment, and his artist's sense for the instant crowded back other thoughts. 

"You ought to have a model, daughter, and you should work in chalk orcharcoal for your designing. "

"I know, father, but you see I am trying to make some illustrationsthat will look like what are in the magazines. I'm making fairies, father, and you know I can't find any models, so I have to make themup. "

"Put that away. I have some questions to ask you. "

"What's the matter, daddy? You look as if the sky were falling. " Hehad seated himself on the long lounge where she had once sat andchatted with Peter Junior. She recalled that day. It was when hekissed her for the first time. Her cheeks flushed hotly as they alwaysdid now when she thought of it, and her eyes were sad. She went overand established herself at her father's side. 

"What is it, daddy, dear?"

"Betty, "--he spoke sternly, as she had never heard him before, --"haveyou been concealing something from your father and mother--and fromthe world--for the last three years and a half?"

Her head drooped, the red left her cheeks, and she turned white to thelips. She drew away from her father and clasped her hands in her lap, tightly. She was praying for strength to tell the truth. Ah, couldshe do it? Could she do it! And perhaps cause Richard's condemnation?Had they found him?--that father should ask such a question now, afterso long a time?

"Why do you ask me such a question, father?"

"Tell me the truth, child. "

"Father! I--I--can't, " and her voice died away to a whisper. 

"You can and you must, Betty. "

She rose and stood trembling before him with clinched hands. "What hashappened? Tell me. It is not fair to ask me such a question unless youtell me why. " Then she dropped upon her knees and hid her face againsthis sleeve. "If you don't tell me what has happened, I will neverspeak again. I will be dumb, even if they kill me. "

He put his arm tenderly about the trembling little form, and the actbrought the tears and he thought her softened. He knew, as Mary hadoften said, that "Betty could not be driven, but might be led. "

"Tell father all about it, little daughter. " But she did not open herlips. He waited patiently, then asked again, kindly and persistently, "What have you been hiding, Betty?" but she only sobbed on. "Betty, ifyou do not tell me now and here, you will be taken into court and madeto tell all you know before all the world! You will be proven to havebeen untrue to the man you were to marry and who loved you, and tohave been shielding his murderer. "

"Then it is Richard. They have found him?" She shrank away from herfather and her sobs ceased. "It has come at last. Father--if--if--Ihad--been married to Richard--then would they make me go in court andtestify against him?"

"No. A wife is not compelled to give testimony against her husband, nor may she testify for him, either. "

Betty rose and straightened herself defiantly; with flaming cheeks andflashing eyes she looked down upon him. 

"Then I will tell one great lie--father--and do it even if--if itshould drag me down to--hell. I will say I am married to Richard--andwill swear to it. " Bertrand was silent, aghast. "Father! Where isRichard?"

"He is there in Leauvite, in jail. You must do what is right in theeye of God, my child, and tell the truth. "

"If I tell the truth, --they will do what is right in their own eyes. They don't know what is right in the eye of God. If they drag me intocourt--there before all the world I will lie to them until I dropdead. Has--has--the Elder seen him?"

"Not yet. He refused to see him until the trial. "

"He is a cruel, vindictive old man. Does he think it will bring Peterback to life again to hang Richard? Does he think it will save hiswife from sorrow, or--or bring any one nearer heaven to do it?"

"If Richard has done the thing he is accused of doing, he deserves theextremest rigor of the law. "

"Father! Don't let the Elder make you hard like himself. What is heaccused of doing?"

"He is making claim that he is Peter Junior, and that he has come backto Leauvite to give himself up for the murder of his cousin, RichardKildene. He thinks, no doubt, that you will say that you know Richardis living, and that he has not killed him, and in that way he thinksto escape punishment, by proving that Peter also is living, and ishimself. Do you see how it is? He has chosen to live here an impostorrather than to live in hiding as an outcast, and is trading on hislikeness to his cousin to bear him out. I had hoped that it was all adetective's lie, got up for the purpose of getting hold of the rewardmoney, but now I see it is true--the most astounding thing a man evertried. "

"Did he send you to me?"

"No, child. I have not seen him. "

"Father Bertrand Ballard! Have you taken some detective's word and noteven tried to see him?"

"Child, child! He is playing a desperate game, and taking an ignoblepart. He is doing a dastardly thing, and the burden is laid on you toconfess to the secret you have been hiding and tell the truth. "

Bertrand spoke very sadly, and Betty's heart smote her for his sorrow;yet she felt the thing was impossible for Richard to do, and that shemust hold the secret a little longer--all the more because even herfather seemed now to credit the terrible accusation. She threw herarms about his neck and implored him. 

"Oh, father, dear! Take me to the jail to see him, and after that Iwill try to do what is right. I can think clearer after I have seenhim. "

"I don't know if that will be allowed--but--"

"It will have to be allowed. How can I say if it is Richard until Isee him. It may not be Richard. The Elder is too blinded to even gonear him, and dear Mrs. Craigmile is not here. Some one ought to go infairness to Richard--who loves--" She choked and could say no more. 

"I will talk to your mother first. There is another thing that shouldsoften your heart to the Elder. All over the country there isfinancial trouble. Banks are going to pieces that never were introuble before, and Elder Craigmile's bank is going, he fears. It willbe a terrible crash, and we fear he may not outlive the blow. I tellyou this, even though you may not understand it, to soften your hearttoward him. He considers it in the nature of a disgrace. "

"Yes. I understand, better than you think. " Betty's voice was sad, andshe looked weary and spent. "If the bank breaks, it breaks the Elder'sheart. All the rest he could stand, but not that. The bank, the bank!He tried to sacrifice Peter Junior to that bank. He would have brokenPeter's heart for that bank, as he has his wife's; for if it had notbeen for Peter's quarrel with his father, first of all, over it, Idon't believe all the rest would have happened. Peter told me a lot. Iknow. "

"Betty, did you never love Peter Junior? Tell father. "

"I thought I did. I thought I knew I did, --but when Richard camehome--then--I--I--knew I had made a terrible mistake; but, father, Imeant to stand by Peter--and never let anybody know until--Oh, father, need I tell any more?"

"No, my dear. You would better talk with your mother. "

Bertrand Ballard left the studio more confused in his mind, and yetboth sadder and wiser then he had ever been in his life. He had seen alittle way into his small daughter's soul, and conceived of a powerof spirit beyond him, although he considered her both unreasonable andwrong. He grieved for her that she had carried such a great burden sobravely and so long. How great must have been her love, or herinfatuation! The pathetic knowledge hardened his heart toward theyoung man in the jail, and he no longer tried to defend him in histhoughts. 

He sent Mary up to talk with Betty, and that afternoon they all walkedover to the jail; for Mary could get no nearer her little daughter'sconfidence, and no deeper into the heart of the matter than Betty hadallowed her father to go. 

CHAPTER XXXI

ROBERT KATER'S SUCCESS

"Halloo! So it's here!" Robert Kater stood by a much-littered tableand looked down on a few papers and envelopes which some one had laidthere during his absence. All day long he had been wandering about thestreets of Paris, waiting--passing the time as he could in hisimpatience--hoping for the communication contained in one of thesevery envelopes. Now that it had come he felt himself struck with asingular weakness, and did not seize it and tear it open. Instead, hestood before the table, his hands in his pockets, and whistledsoftly. 

He made the tour of the studio several times, pausing now and then toturn a canvas about, apparently as if he would criticize it, lookingat it but not regarding it, only absently turning one and another asif it were a habit with him to do so; then returning to the table hestirred the envelopes apart with one finger and finally separated onefrom the rest, bearing an official seal, and with it a small packagecarefully secured and bearing the same seal, but he did not openeither. "Yes, it's here, and that's the one, " he said, but he spoke tohimself, for there was no one else in the room. 

He moved wearily away, keeping the packet in his hand, but leaving theenvelope on the table, and hung his hat upon a point of an easel andwiped his damp brow. As he did so, he lifted the dark brown hair fromhis temple, showing a jagged scar. Quickly, as if with an habitualtouch, he rearranged the thick, soft lock so that the scar wascovered, and mounting a dais, seated himself on a great thronelikechair covered with a royal tiger skin. The head of the tiger, mountedhigh, with glittering eyes and fangs showing, rested on the floorbetween his feet, and there, holding the small packet in his hand, with elbows resting on the arms of the throne, he sat with headdropped forward and shoulders lifted and eyes fixed on the tiger'shead. 

For a long time he sat thus in the darkening room. At last it grewquite dark. Only the great skylight over his head showed a definedoutline. The young man had had no dinner and no supper, for hispockets were empty and his last sou gone. If he had opened theenvelopes, he would have found money, and more than money, for hewould have learned that the doors of the Salon had opened to him andthe highest medal awarded him, and that for which he had toiled andwaited and hoped, --for which he had staked his last effort andsacrificed everything, was won. He was recognized, and all Paris wouldquickly know it, and not Paris only, but all the world. But when hewould open the envelope, his hands fell slack, and there it still layon the table concealed by the darkness. 

Down three flights of stairs in the court a strange and motley groupwere collecting, some bearing candles, all masked, some fantasticallydressed and others only concealed by dominoes. The stairs went up onthe outer wall of this inner court, past the windows of the basementoccupied by the concierge and his wife and pretty daughter, andentered the building on the first floor above. By this arrangement theconcierge could always see from his window who mounted them. 

"Look, mamma. " The pretty daughter stood peering out, her face framedin the white muslin curtains. "Look. See the students. Ah, but theyare droll!"

"Come away, ma fille. "

"But the owl and the ape, there, they seem on very good terms. Iwonder if they go to the room of Monsieur Kater! I think so; forone--the ghost in white, he is a little lame like the Englishman whogoes always to the room of Monsieur. --Ah, bah! Imbecile! Away withyou! Pig!"

The ape had suddenly approached his ugly face close to the face framedin the white muslin curtains on the other side of the window, and madeexaggerated motions of an embrace. The wife of the concierge snatchedher daughter away and drew the curtains close. 

"Foolish child! Why do you stand and watch the rude fellows? This iswhat you get by it. I have told you to keep your eyes within. "

"But I love to see them, so droll they are. "

Stealthily the fantastic creatures began to climb the stairs, one, two, three flights, traversing a long hall at the end of each flightand turning to climb again. The expense of keeping a light on eachfloor for the corridors was not allowed in this building, and theymoved along in the darkness, but for the flickering light of the fewcandles carried among them. As they neared the top they grew morestealthy and kept close together on the landing outside the studiodoor. One stooped and listened at the keyhole, then tried to lookthrough it. "Not there?" whispered another. 

"No light, " was the whispered reply. They spoke now in French, now inEnglish. 

"He has heard us and hid himself. He is a strange man, this Scotchman. He did not attend the 'Vernissage, ' nor the presentation of prizes, yet he wins the highest. " The owl stretched out an arm, bare andmuscular, from under his wing and tried the door very gently. It wasnot locked, and he thrust his head within, then reached back and tooka candle from the ghost. "This will give light enough. Put out therest of yours and make no noise. "

Thus in the darkness they crept into the studio and gathered aroundthe table. There they saw the unopened envelopes. 

"He is not here. He does not know, " said one and another. 

"Where then can he be?"

"He has taken a panic and fled. I told you so, " said the ghost. 

"Ah, here he is! Behold! The Hamlet of our ghost! Wake, Hamlet; yourfather's spirit has arrived, " cried one in English with a very Frenchaccent. 

They now gathered before the dais, shouting and cheering in bothEnglish and French. One brought the envelopes on a palette andpresented them. The young man gazed at them, stupidly at first, thenwith a feverish gleam in his eyes, but did not take them. 

"Yes, I found them when I came in--but they are--not for me. "

"They are addressed to you, Robert Kater, and the news is publishedand you leave them here unopened. "

"He does not know--I told you so. "

"You have the packet in your hand. Open it. Take it from him anddecorate him. He is in a dream. It is the great medal. We will wakehim. "

They began to cheer and cheer again, each after the manner of thecharacter he had assumed. The ass brayed, the owl hooted, the ghostgroaned. The ape leaped on the back of the throne whereon the youngman still sat, and seized him by the hair, chattering idioticallyafter the manner of apes, and began to wag his head back and forth. Inthe midst of the uproar Demosthenes stepped forward and took theenvelopes from the palette, and, tearing them open, began reading themaloud by the light of a candle held for him by Lady Macbeth, who nowand then interrupted with the remark that "her little hand was stainedwith blood, " stretching forth an enormous, hairy hand for theirinspection. But as Demosthenes read on the uproar ceased, and alllistened with courteous attention. The ape leaped down from the backof the throne, the owl ceased hooting, and all were silent until thesecond envelope had been opened and the contents made known--that hisexhibit had been purchased by the Salon. 

"Robert Kater, you are at the top. We congratulate you. To berecognized by the 'Salon des Artistes Francaises' is to be recognizedand honored by all the world. "

They all came forward with kindly and sincere words, and the young manstood to receive them, but reeling and swaying, weary with emotion, and faint with hunger. 

"Were you not going to the mask?"

"I was weary; I had not thought. "

"Then wake up and go. We come for you. "

"I have no costume. "

"Ah, that is nothing. Make one; it is easy. "

"He sits there like his own Saul, enveloped in gloom. Come, I will beyour David, " cried one, and snatched a guitar and began strumming itwildly. 

While the company scattered and searched the studio for materials withwhich to create for him a costume for the mask, the ghost came limpingup to the young man who had seated himself again wearily on thethrone, and spoke to him quietly. 

"The tide's turned, Kater; wake up to it. You're clear of thebreakers. The two pictures you were going to destroy are sold. Ibrought those Americans here while you were away and showed them. Itold you they'd take something as soon as you were admitted. Here'sthe money. "

Robert Kater raised himself, looking in the eyes of his friend, andtook the bank notes as if he were not aware what they really mightbe. 

"I say! You've enough to keep you for a year if you don't throw itaway. Count it. I doubled your price and they took them at the price Imade. Look at these. "

Then Robert Kater looked at them with glittering eyes, and his shakinghand shut upon them, crushing the bank notes in a tight grip. "We'llhalve it, share and share alike, " he whispered, staring at the ghostwithout counting it. "As for this, " his finger touched the decorationon his breast--"it is given to a--You won't take half? Then I'll throwthem away. "

"I'll take them all until you're sane enough to know what you'redoing. Give them to me. " He took them back and crept quietly, ghostlike, about the room until he found a receptacle in which heknew they would be safe; then, removing one hundred francs from theamount, he brought it back and thrust it in his friend's pocket. "There--that's enough for you to throw away on us to-night. Why areyou taking off your decoration? Leave it where it is. It's yours. "

"Yes, I suppose it is. " Robert Kater brushed his hand across his eyesand stepped down from the throne. Then lifting his head and shouldersas if he threw off a burden, he leaped from the dais, and with onelong howl, began an Indian war dance. He was the center and life ofthe hilarious crowd from that moment. The selection of materials hadbeen made. A curtain of royal purple hung behind the throne, and thisthey threw around him as a toga, then crowned him as Mark Antony. Theyfound for him also a tunic of soft wool, and with a strip of goldbraid they converted a pair of sheepskin bedroom slippers intosandals, bound on his feet over his short socks. 

"I say! Mark Antony never wore things like these, " he shouted. "Giveme a mask. I'll not wear these things without a mask. " He snatched atthe head of the owl, who ducked under his arm and escaped. "Go then. This is better. Mark, the illustrious, was an ass. " He made a dive forthe head of his braying friend and barely missed him. 

"Come. We waste time. Cleopatra awaits him at 'la Fourchette d'or';all our Cleopatras await us there. "

"Surely?"

"Surely. Madame la Charne is there and the sisters Lucie andBertha, --all are there, --and with them one very beautiful blonde whomyou have never seen. "

"She is for you--you cold Scotchman! That stone within you, which youcall heart, to-night it will melt. "

"You have everything planned then?"

"Everything is made ready. "

"Look here! Wait, my friends! I haven't expressed myself yet. " Theywere preparing to lift him above their heads. "I wish to say that youare all to share my good fortune and allow--"

"Wait for the champagne. You can say it then with more force. "

"I say! Hold on! I ask you to--"

"So we do. We hold on. Now, up--so. " He was borne in triumph down thestairs and out on the street and away to the sign of the Golden Fork, and seated at the head of the table in a small banquet room openingoff from the balcony at one side where the feast which had beenordered and prepared was awaiting them. 

A group of masked young women, gathered on the balcony, pelted themwith flowers as they passed beneath it, and when the men were allseated, they trooped out, and each slid into her appointed place, still masked. 

Then came a confusion of tongues, badinage, repartee, wit undiluted bydiscretion--and rippling laughter as one mask after another was tornoff. 

"Ah, how glad I am to be rid of it! I was suffocating, " said a softvoice at Robert Kater's side. 

He looked down quickly into a pair of clear, red-brown eyes--eyes intowhich he had never looked before. 

"Then we are both content that it is off. " He smiled as he spoke. Sheglanced up at him, then down and away. When she lifted her eyes aninstant later again to his face, he was no longer regarding her. Shewas piqued, and quickly began conversing with the man on her left, theone who had removed her mask. 

"It is no use, your smile, mademoiselle. He is impervious, that man. He has no sense or he could not turn his eyes away. "

"I like best the impervious ones. " With a light ripple of laughter sheturned again to her right. "Monsieur has forgotten?"

"Forgotten?" Robert was mystified until he realized in the instantthat she was pretending to a former acquaintance. "Could I forget, mademoiselle? Permit me. " He lifted his glass. "To your eyes--and toyour--memory, " he said, and drank it off. 

After that he became the gayest of them all, and the merriment neverflagged. He ate heartily, for he was very hungry, but he dranksparingly. His brain seemed supplied with intellectual missiles whichhe hurled right and left, but when they struck, it was only to sendout a rain of sparks like the balls of holiday fireworks that explodein a fountain of brilliance and hurt no one. 

"Monsieur is so gay!" said the soft voice of the blonde at his side. 

"Are we not here for that, to enjoy ourselves?"

"Ah, if I could but believe that you remember me!"

"Is it possible mademoiselle thinks herself one to be so easilyforgotten?"

"Monsieur, tell me the truth. " She glanced up archly. "I have one verygood reason for asking. "

"You are very beautiful. "

"But that is so banal--that remark. "

"You complain that I tell you the truth when you ask it? You have sooften heard it that the telling becomes banal? Shall I continue?"

"But it is of yourself that I would hear. "

"So? Then it is as I feared. It is you who have forgotten. "

They were interrupted at that moment, for he was called upon for astory, and he related one of his life as a soldier, --a littleincident, but everything pleased. They called upon him for another andanother. The hour grew late, and at last the banqueters rose and beganto remask and assume their various characters. 

"What are you, monsieur, with that very strange dress that you wear, aRoman or a Greek?" asked his companion. 

"I really don't know--a sort of nondescript. I did not choose mycostume; it was made up for me by my friends. They called me MarkAntony, but that was because they did not know what else to call me. But they promised me Cleopatra if I would come with them. "

"They would have done better to call you Petrarch, for I am Laura. "

"But I never could have taken that part. I could make a very decentsort of ass of myself, but not a poet. "

"What a very terrible voice your Lady Macbeth has!"

"Yes; but she was a terror, you know. Shall we follow the rest?"

They all trooped out of the café, and fiacres were called to take themto the house where the mask was held. The women were placed in theirrespective carriages, but the men walked. At the door of the house, asthey entered the ballroom, they reunited, but again were soonscattered. Robert Kater wandered about, searching here and there forhis very elusive Laura, so slim and elegant in her white and golddraperies, who seemed to be greatly in demand. He saw many whom herecognized; some by their carriage, some by their voices, but Laurabaffled him. Had he ever seen her before? He could not remember. Hewould not have forgotten her--never. No, she was amusing herself withhim. 

"Monsieur does not dance?" It was a Spanish gypsy with her lacemantilla and the inevitable red rose in her hair. He knew the voice. It was that of a little model he sometimes employed. 

"I dance, yes. But I will only take you out on the floor, my littleJulie, --ha--ha--I know you, never fear--I will take you out on thefloor, but on one condition. "

"It is granted before I know it. "

"Then tell me, who is she just passing?"

"The one whose clothing is so--so--as if she would pose for the--"

"Hush, Julie. The one in white and gold. "

"I asked if it were she. Yes, I know her very well, for I saw agentleman unmask her on the balcony above there, to kiss her. It isshe who dances so wonderfully at the Opéra Comique. You have seen her, Mademoiselle Fée. Ah, come. Let us dance. It is the most perfectwaltz. "

At the close of the waltz the owl came and took the little gypsy awayfrom Robert, and a moment later he heard the mellifluous voice of hiscompanion of the banquet. 

"I am so weary, monsieur. Take me away where we may refreshourselves. "

The red-brown eyes looked pleadingly into his, and the slender fingersrested on his arm, and together they wandered to a corner of palmswhere he seated her and brought her cool wine jelly and otherconfections. She thanked him sweetly, and, drooping, she rested herhead upon her hand and her arm on the arm of her chair. 

"So dull they are, these fêtes, and the people--bah! They are dull tothe point of despair. "

She was a dream of gold and white as she sat there--the red-gold hairand the red-brown eyes, and the soft gold and white draperies, tooclinging, as the little gypsy had indicated, but beautiful as a goldand white lily. He sat beside her and gazed on her dreamily, but in amanner too detached. She was not pleased, and she sighed. 

"Take the refreshment, mademoiselle; you will feel better. I willbring you wine. What will you have?"

"Oh, you men, who always think that to eat and drink something alonecan refresh! Have you never a sadness?"

"Very often, mademoiselle. "

"Then what do you do?"

"I eat and drink, mademoiselle. Try it. "

"Oh, you strange man from the cold north! You make me shiver. Touch myhand. See? You have made me cold. "

"Cold? You are a flame from the crown of gold on your head to yourshoes of gold. "

"Now that you are become a success, monsieur, what will you do? To youis given the heart's desire. " She toyed with the quivering jelly, merely tasting it. It too was golden in hue, and golden lights dancedin the heart of it. 

"A great success? I am dreaming. It is so new to me that I do notbelieve it. "

"You are very clever, monsieur. You never tell your thoughts. I askedif you remembered me and you answered in a riddle. I knew you didnot, for you never saw me before. "

"Did I never see you dance?"

"Ah, there you are again! To see me dance--in a great audience--one ofmany? That does not count. You but pretended. "

He leaned forward, looking steadily in her eyes. "Did I but pretendwhen I said I never could forget you? Ah, mademoiselle, you are toomodest. "

She was maddened that she could not pique him to a more ardent manner, but gave no sign by so much as the quiver of an eyelid. She onlyturned her profile toward him indifferently. He noticed the piquantline of her lips and chin and throat, and the golden tones of herdelicate skin. 

"Did I not also tell you the truth when you asked me? And you rewardedme by calling me banal. "

"And I was right. You, who are so clever, could think of somethingbetter to say. " She gave him a quick glance, and placed a quiveringmorsel of jelly between her lips. "But you are so very strange to me. Tell me, were you never in love?"

"That is a question I may not answer. " He still smiled, but it wasmerely the continuation of the smile he had worn before she shot thatlast arrow. He still looked in her eyes, but she knew he was notseeing her. Then he rallied and laughed. "Come, question for question. Were you never in love--or out of love--let us say?"

"Oh! Me!" She lifted her shoulders delicately. "Me! I am in lovenow--at this moment. You do not treat me well. You have not dancedwith me once. "

"No. You have been dancing always, and fully occupied. How could I?"

"Ah, you have not learned. To dance with me--you must take me, notstand one side and wait. "

"Are you engaged for the next?"

"But, yes. It is no matter. I will dance it with you. He will beconsoled. " She laughed, showing her beautiful, even teeth. "I make youa confession. I said to him, 'I will dance it with you unless the coldmonsieur asks me--then I will dance with him, for it will do himgood. '"

Robert Kater rose and stood a moment looking through the palms. Thesilken folds of his toga fell gracefully around him, and he held hishead high. Then he withdrew his eyes from the distance and turned themagain on her, --the gold and white being at his feet, --and she seemedto him no longer human, but a phantom from which he must flee, if buthe might do so courteously, for he knew her to be no phantom, and hecould not be other than courteous. 

"Will you accept from me my laurel crown?" He took the chaplet fromhis head and laid it at her feet. Then, lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed the tips of her pink fingers, bowing low before her. "I goto send you wine. Console your partner. It is better so, for I too amin love. " He smiled upon her as he had smiled at first, and was gone, walking out through the crowd--the weird, fantastic, bizarre company, as if he were no part of them. One and another greeted him as hepassed, but he did not seem to hear them. He called a waiter andordered wine to be taken to Mademoiselle Fée, and quickly was gone. They saw him no more. 

It was nearly morning. A drizzling rain was falling, and the air waschill after the heat of the crowded ballroom. He drew it into hislungs in deep draughts, glad to be out in the freshness, and to feelthe cool rain on his forehead. He threw off his encumbering toga andwalked in his tunic, with bare throat and bare knees, and carried thetoga over one bare arm, and swung the other bare arm free. He walkedwith head held high, for he was seeing visions, and hearing afar-distant call. Now at last he might choose his path. He had notfailed, but with that call from afar--what should he do? Should heanswer it? Was it only a call from out his own heart--a passing, futile call, luring him back?

Of one thing he was sure. There was the painting on which he hadlabored and staked his all now hanging in the Salon. He could see it, one of his visions realized, --David and Saul. The deep, richshadows, the throne, the tiger skin, the sandaled feet of theremorseful king resting on the great fanged and leering head, theeyes of the king looking hungrily out from under his forbidding brows, the cruel lips pressed tightly together, and the lithe, thin handsgrasping the carved arms of the throne in fierce restraint, --allthis in the deep shadows between the majestic carved columns, theirbases concealed by the rich carpet covering the dais and their topslost in the brooding darkness above--the lowering darkness of purplegloom that only served to reveal the sinister outlines of the somber, sorrowful, suffering king, while he indulged the one pure passionleft him--listening--gazing from the shadows out into the light, seeing nothing, only listening. 

And before him, standing in the one ray of light, clothed only in histunic of white and his sandals, a human jewel of radiant color andslender strength, a godlike conception of youth and grace, his harpbefore him, the lilies crushed under his feet that he had torn fromthe strings which his fingers touched caressingly, with sunlight inhis crown of golden, curling hair and the light of the stars in hiseyes--David, the strong, the simple, the trusting, the God-fearingyouth, as Robert Kater saw him, looking back through the ages. 

Ah, now he could live. Now he could create--work: he had beenrecognized, and rewarded--Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes! The hope ofhis life realized, the goblet raised to his lips, and the draft--bitter. The call falling upon his heart--imperative--beseeching--what did itmean?

Slowly and heavily he mounted the stairs to his studio, and therefumbled about in the darkness and the confusion left by his admiringcomrades until he found candles and made a light. He was cold, and hislight clothing clung to him wet and chilling as grave clothes. He torethem off and got himself into things that were warm and dry, andwrapping himself in an old dressing gown of flannel, sat down tothink. 

He took the money his friend had brought him and counted it over. Goodold Ben Howard! Half of it must go to him, of course. And here werefinished canvases quite as good as the ones that had sold. Ben mightturn them to as good an account as the others, --yes, --here was enoughto carry him through a year and leave him leisure to paint unhamperedby the necessity of making pot boilers for a bare living. 

"Tell me, were you never in love?" That soft, insinuating voicehaunted him against his will. In love? What did she know of love--thedivine passion? Love! Fame! Neither were possible to him. He bowed hishead upon the table, hiding his face, crushing the bank notes beneathhis arms. Deep in his soul the eye of his own conscience regardedhim, --an outcast hiding under an assumed name, covering the scar abovehis temple with a falling lock of hair seldom lifted, and deep in hissoul a memory of a love. Oh, God! Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!

He rose, and, taking his candle with him, opened a door leading fromthe studio up a short flight of steps to a little cupboard of asleeping room. Here he cast himself on the bed and closed his eyes. Hemust sleep: but no, he could not. After a time of restless tossing hegot up and drew an old portmanteau from the closet and threw thecontents out on the bed. From among them he picked up the thing hesought and sat on the edge of his bed with it in his hands, turning itover and regarding it, tieing and untieing the worn, frayed, but stillbright ribbons, which had once been the cherry-colored hair ribbons oflittle Betty Ballard. 

Suddenly he rose and lifted his head high, in his old, ratherimperious way, put out his candle, and looked through the small, dustypanes of his window. It was day--early dawn. He was jaded and weary, but he would try no longer to sleep. He must act, and shake offsentimentalism. Yes, he must act. He bathed and dressed with care, andthen in haste, as if life depended on hurry, he packed the portmanteauand stepped briskly into the studio, looking all about, notingeverything as if taking stock of it all, then sat down with pen andpaper to write. 

The letter was a long one. It took time and thought. When he wasnearly through with it, Ben Howard lagged wearily in. 

"Halloo! Why didn't you wait for me? What did you clear out for andleave me in the lurch? Fresh as a daisy, you are, old chap, and I'mdone for, dead. "

"You're not scientific in your pleasures. " Robert Kater lifted hiseyes and looked at his friend. "Are you alive enough to hear me andremember what I say? Will you do something for me? Shall I tell younow or will you breakfast first?"

"Breakfast? Faugh!" He looked disgustedly around him. 

"I'm sorry. You drink too much. Listen, Ben. I'll tell you what I meanto do and what I wish you to do for me--and--you remember all you canof it, will you? I must do it now, for you'll be asleep soon, and thiswill be the last I shall see of you--ever. I'm leaving in twohours--as soon as I've breakfasted. "

"What's that? Hold on!" Ben Howard sprang up, and darting behind ascreen where they washed their brushes, he dashed cold water over hishead and came back toweling himself. "I'm fit now. I did drink toomuch champagne, but I'll sleep it off. Now fire away, --what's up?"

"In two hours I'll be en route for the coast, and to-morrow I'll takepassage for home on the first boat. " Robert closed and sealed the longletter he had been writing and tossed it on the table. "I want thismailed one week from to-day. Put it in your pocket so you won't loseit among the rubbish here. One week from to-day it must be mailed. It's to my great aunt, Jean Craigmile, who gave me the money to setup here the first year. I've paid that up--last week--with my lastsou--and with interest. By rights she should have whatever there ishere of any value, for, if it were not for her help, there would nothave been a thing here anyway, and I've no one else to whom to leaveit--so see that this letter is mailed without fail, will you?"

The Englishman stood, now thoroughly awake, gazing at him, unable tomake common sense out of Robert's remarks. "B--b--but--what's up? Whatare you leaving things to anybody for? You're not on your deathbed. "

"I'm going home, don't you see?"

"But why don't you take the letter to her yourself--if you're goinghome?"

"Not there, man; not to Scotland. "

"Your home's there. "

"I have allowed you to think so. " Robert forced himself to talkcalmly. "In truth, I have no home, but the place I call home bycourtesy is where I was brought up--in America. "

"You--you--d--d--don't--"

"Yes--it's time you knew this. I've been leading a double life, andI'm done with it. I committed a crime, and I'm living under anassumed name. There is no such man as Robert Kater that I know of onearth, nor ever was. My name is--no matter--. I'm going back tothe place where I killed my best friend--to give myself up--toimprisonment--I do not know to what--maybe death--but it will endmy torture of mind. Now you know why I could not go to the Vernissage, to be treated--well, I could not go, that's all. Nor could I acceptthe honors given me under a name not my own. All the time I've livedin Paris I've been hiding--and this thing has been followingme--although my occupation seems to have been the best cover I couldhave had--yet my soul has known no peace. Always--always--night andday--my own conscience has been watching and accusing me, an eye ofdread steadily gazing down into my soul and seeing my sin deep, deepin my heart. I could not hide from it. And I would have given upbefore only that I wished to make good in something before I steppeddown and out. I've done it. " He put his hand heavily on Ben Howard'sshoulder. "I've had a revelation this night. The lesson of my life islearned at last. It is, that there is but one road to freedom andlife for me--and that road leads to a prison. It leads to aprison, --maybe worse, --but it leads me to freedom--from the thingthat haunts me, that watches me and drives me. I may write you fromthat place which I will call home--Were you ever in love?"

The abruptness of the question set Ben Howard stammering again. Heseized Robert's hand in both his own and held to it. "I--I--I--oldchap--I--n--n--no--were you?"

"Yes; I've heard the call of her voice in my heart--and I'm gone. Now, Ben, stop your--well, I'll not preach to you, you of all men, --but--dosomething worth while. I've need of part of the money you got forme--to get back on--and pay a bill or two--and the rest I leave toyou--there where you put it you'll find it. Will you live here andtake care of these things for me until my good aunt, Jean Craigmile, writes you? She'll tell you what to do with them--and more than likelyshe'll take you under her wing--anyway, work, man, work. The place isyours for the present--perhaps for a good while, and you'll have achance to make good. If I could live on that money for a year, as youyourself said, you can live on half of it for half a year, and in thattime you can get ahead. Work. "

He seized his portmanteau and was gone before Ben Howard could gatherhis scattered senses or make reply. 

CHAPTER XXXII

THE PRISONER

Harry King did not at once consult an attorney, for Milton Hibbard, the only one he knew or cared to call upon for his defense, was an oldfriend of the Elder's and had been retained by him to assist thedistrict attorney at the trial. The other two lawyers in Leauvite, oneof whom was the district attorney himself, were strangers to him. Twice he sent messages to the Elder after his return, begging him tocome to him, never dreaming that they could be unheeded, but to thesecond only was any reply sent, and then it was but a cursory line. "Legal steps will be taken to secure justice for you, whoever youare. "

To his friends he sent no messages. Their sympathy could only meansorrow for them if they believed in him, and hurt to his own soul ifthey distrusted him, and he suffered enough. So he lay there in theclean, bare cell, and was glad that it was clean and held no traces offormer occupants. The walls smelled of lime in their freshly plasteredsurfaces, and the floor had the pleasant odor of new pine. 

His life passed in review before him from boyhood up. It had been ahappy life until the tragedy brought into it by his own anger andviolence, but since that time it had been one long nightmare ofremorse, heightened by fear, until he had met Amalia, and after thatit had been one unremitting strife between love and duty--delight inher mind, in her touch, in her every movement, and in his own souldespair unfathomable. Now at last it was to end in public exposure, imprisonment, disgrace. A peculiar apathy of peace seemed to envelophim. There was no longer hope to entice, no further struggle to bewaged against the terror of fear, or the joy of love, or the horror ofremorse; all seemed gone from him, even to the vague interest inthings transpiring in the world. 

He had only a puzzled feeling concerning his arrest. Things had notproceeded as he had planned. If the Elder would but come to him, allwould be right. He tried to analyze his feelings, and the thought thatpossessed him most was wonder at the strange vacuity of the conditionof emotionlessness. Was it that he had so suffered that he was nolonger capable of feeling? What was feeling? What was emotion: andlife without either emotion, or feeling, or caring to feel, --whatwould it be?

Valueless. --Empty space. Nothing left but bodily hunger, bodilythirst, bodily weariness. A lifetime, for his years were not yet halfspent, --a lifetime at Waupun, and work for the body, but vacuity forthe mind--maybe--sometimes--memories. Even thinking thus he seemed tohave lost the power to feel sadness. 

Confusion reigned within him, and yet he found himself powerless tocorrelate his thoughts or suggest reasons for the strange happeningsof the last few days. It seemed to him that he was in a dream whereinreason played no part. In the indictment he was arraigned for themurder of Peter Craigmile, Jr. , --as Richard Kildene, --and yet he hadseen his cousin lying dead before him, during all the years that hadpassed since he had fled from that sight. In battle he had seen menclubbed with the butt end of a musket fall dead with wounded temples, even as he had seen his cousin--stark--inert--lifeless. He had feltthe strange, insane rage to kill that he had seen in others andmarveled at. And now, after he had felt and done it, he was arrestedas the man he had slain. 

All the morning he paced his cell and tried to force his thoughts towork out the solution, but none presented itself. Was he the victim ofsome strange form of insanity that caused him to lose his identity andbelieve himself another man? Drunken men he had seen under thedelusion that all the rest of the world were drunken and they alonesober. Oh, madness, madness! At least he was sane and knew himself, and this was a confusion brought about by those who had undertaken hisarrest. He would wait for the Elder to come, and in the meantime livein his memories, thinking of Amalia, and so awaken in himself oneliving emotion, sacred and truly sane. In the sweetness of suchthinking alone he seemed to live. 

He drew the little ivory crucifix from his bosom and looked at it. "The Christ who bore our sins and griefs"--and again Amalia's wordscame to him. "If they keep you forever in the prison, still foreverare you free. " In snatches her words repeated themselves over in hismind as he gazed. "If you have the Christ in your heart--so are youhigh--lifted above the sin. " "If I see you no more here, in Paradiseyet will I see you, and there it will be joy--great--joy; for it isthe love that is all of life, and all of eternity, and lives--lives. "

Bertrand Ballard and his wife and daughter stood in the small roomopening off from the corridor that led to the rear of the courthousewhere was the jail, waiting for the jailer to bring his keys from hisoffice, and, waiting thus, Betty turned her eyes beseechingly on herfather, and for the first time since her talk with her mother in thestudio, opened her lips to speak to him. She was very pale, but shedid not tremble, and her voice had the quality of determination. Bertrand had yielded the point and had taken her to the jail againsthis own judgment, taking Mary with him to forestall the chance ofBetty's seeing the young man alone. "Surely, " he thought, "she willnot ask to have her mother excluded from the interview. "

"I don't want any one--not even you--or--or--mother, to go in withme. "

"My child, be wise--and be guided. "

"Yes, father, --but I want to go in alone. " She slipped her hand in hermother's, but still looked in her father's eyes. "I must go in alone, father. You don't understand--but mother does. "

"This young man may be an impostor. It is almost unmaidenly for you towish to go in there alone. Mary--"

But Mary hesitated and trusted to her daughter's intuition. "Betty, explain yourself, " was all she said. 

"Suppose it was father--or you thought it might be father--and aterrible thing were hanging over him and you had not seen him for allthis time--and he were in there, and I were you--wouldn't you ask tosee him first alone? Would you stop for one moment to think aboutbeing proper? What do I care! If he is an impostor, I shall know it. In one moment I shall know it. I--I--just want to see him alone. Itis because he has suffered so long--that is why he has come likethis--if--they aren't accusing him wrongfully, and I--he will tell methe truth. If he is Richard, I would know it if I came in and stoodbeside him blindfolded. I will call you in a moment. Stand by thedoor, and let me see him alone. "

The jailer returned, alert and important, shaking the keys in hishand. "This way, please. "

In the moment's pause of unlocking, Betty again turned upon herfather, her eyes glowing in the dim light of the corridor with wide, sorrowful gaze, large and irresistibly earnest. Bertrand glanced fromher to his wife, who slightly nodded her head. Then he said to thesurprised jailer: "We will wait here. My daughter may be able torecognize him. Call us quickly, dear, if you have reason to changeyour mind. " The heavy door was closed behind her, and the key turnedin the lock. 

Harry King loomed large and tall in the small room, standing with hisback to the door and his face lifted to the small window, where hecould see a patch of the blue sky and white, scudding clouds. For themoment his spirit was not in that cell. It was free and on top of amountain, looking into the clear eyes of a woman who loved him. He wasso rapt in his vision that he did not hear the grating of the key inthe lock, and Betty stood abashed, with her back to the door, feelingthat she was gazing on a stranger. Relieved against the square oflight, his hair looked darker than she remembered Peter's ever to havebeen, --as dark as Richard's, but that rough, neglected beard, --alsodark, --and the tanned skin, did not bring either young man to hermind. 

The pause was but for a moment, when he became aware that he was notalone and turned and saw her there. 

"Betty! oh, Betty! You have come to help me. " He walked toward herslowly, hardly believing his eyes, and held out both hands. 

"If--I--can. Who are you?" She took his hands in hers and walkedaround him, turning his face to the light. Her breath came and wentquickly, and a round red spot now burned on one of her cheeks, and herface seemed to be only two great, pathetic eyes. 

"Do I need to tell you, Betty? Once we thought we loved each other. Did we, Betty?"

"I don't--don't--know--Peter! Oh, Peter! Oh, you are alive! Peter!Richard didn't kill you!" She did not cry out, but spoke the wordswith a low intensity that thrilled him, and then she threw her armsabout his neck and burst into tears. "He didn't do it! You are alive!Peter, he didn't kill you! I knew he didn't do it. They all thoughthe did, and--and--your father--he has almost broken his bankjust--just--hunting for Richard--to--to--have him hung--and oh!Peter, I have lived in horror, --for--fear he w--w--w--would, and--"

"He never could, Betty. I have come home to atone. I have come home togive myself up. I killed Richard--my cousin--my best friend. I struckhim in hate and saw him lying dead: all the time they were hunting himit was I they should have hunted. I can't understand it. Did they takehis dead body for mine--or--how was it they did not know he was struckdown and murdered? They must have taken his body for mine--or--hemust have fallen over--but he didn't, for I saw him lying dead as Ihad struck him. All these years the eye of vengeance has been upon me, and my crime has haunted me. I have seen him lying so--dead. God!God!"

Betty still clung to him and sobbed incoherently. "No, no, Peter, itwas you who were drowned--they found all your things and saw where youhad been pushed over, and--but you weren't drowned! They only thoughtit--they believed it--"

He put his hand to his head as if to brush away the confusion whichstaggered him. "Yes, Richard lay dead--and they found him, --but whydid they hunt for him? And I--I--living--why didn't they hunt me, --andhe, dead and lying there--why did they hunt him? But my father wouldbelieve the worst of him rather than to see himself disgraced in hisson. Don't cry, little Betty, don't cry. You've had too much to bear. Sit here beside me and I'll tell you all about it. That's why I cameback. "

"B--b--ut if you weren't drowned, why--why didn't you come home andsay so? Didn't you ever see the papers and how they were huntingRichard all over the world? I knew you were dead, because I knew younever would be so cruel as to leave every one in doubt and your fatherin sorrow--just because he had quarreled with you. It might havekilled your mother--if the Elder had let her know. "

"I can't tell you all my reasons, Betty; mostly they were coward'sreasons. I did my best to leave evidence that I had been pushed overthe bluff, because it seemed the only way to hide myself. I did mybest to make them think me dead, and never thought any one could beharmed by it, because I knew him to be dead; so I just thought wewould both be dead so far as the world would know, --and as for you, dear, --I learned on that fatal night that you did not love me--andthat was another coward's reason why I wished to be dead to you all. "He began pacing the room, and Betty sat on the edge of the narrow jailbedstead and watched him with tearful eyes. "It was true, Betty? Youdid not really love me?"

"Peter! Didn't you ever see the papers? Didn't you ever know all aboutthe search for you and how he disappeared, too? Oh, Peter! And it wassupposed he killed you and pushed you over the bluff and then ranaway. Oh, Peter! But it was kept out of the home paper by the Elder soyour mother should not know--and Peter--didn't you know Richardlived?"

"Lived? lived?" He lifted his clasped hands above his head, and theytrembled. "Lived? Betty, say it again!"

"Yes, Peter. I saw him and I know--"

"Oh, God, make me know it. Make me understand. " He fell on his kneesbeside her and hid his face in the scant jail bedding, and his frameshook with dry sobs. "I was a coward. I told you that. I--I thoughtmyself a murderer, and all this time my terrible thought has drivenme--Lived? I never killed him? God! Betty, say it again. "

Betty sat still for a moment, shaken at first with a feeling ofresentment that he had made them all suffer so, and Richard most ofall. Then she was overwhelmed with pity for him, and with a gladtenderness. It was all over. The sorrow had been real, but it had allbeen needless. She placed her hand on his head, then knelt beside himand put her arm about his neck and drew his head to her bosom, motherwise, for the deep mother heart in her was awakened, and thusshe told him all the story, and how Richard had come to her, brokenand repentant, and what had been said between them. When they rosefrom their knees, it was as if they had been praying and at the sametime giving thanks. 

"And you thought they would find him lying there dead and know you hadkilled him and hunt you down for a murderer?"

"Yes. "

"Poor Peter! So you pushed that great stone out of the edge of thebluff into the river to make them think you had fallen over anddrowned--and threw your things down, too, to make it seem as if youboth were dead. "

"Yes. "

"Oh, Peter! What a terrible mistake! How you must have suffered!"

"Yes, as cowards suffer. "

They stood for a moment with clasped hands, looking into each other'seyes. "Then it was true what Richard told me? You did not love me, Betty?" He had grown calmer, and he spoke very tenderly. "We must haveall the truth now and conceal nothing. "

"Not quite--true. I--I--thought I did. You were so handsome! I wasonly a child then--and I thought I loved you--or that I ought to--forany girl would--I was so romantic in those days--and you had beenwounded--and it was like a romance--"

"And then?"

"And then Richard came, and I knew in one instant that I had donewrong--and that I loved him--and oh, I felt myself so wicked. "

"No, Betty, dear. It was all--"

"It was not fair to you. I would have been true to you, Peter; youwould have never known--but after Richard came and told me he hadkilled you, --I felt as if I had killed you, too. I did like you, Peter. I did! I will do whatever is right. "

"Then it was not in vain--that we have all suffered. We have beensaved from doing each other wrong. Everything will come right now. Allthat is needed is for father to hear what you have told me, and hewill come and take me out of here--Where is Richard?"

"No one knows. "

"Not even you, Betty?"

"No; he has dropped out of the world as completely as you did. "

"Well, it will be all right, anyway. Father will withdraw his chargeand--did you say his bank was going to pieces? He must have help. Ican help him. You can help him, Betty. "

"How?"

Then Peter told Betty how he had found Richard's father in hismountain retreat and that she must write to him. "If there is anydanger of the bank's going, write for me to Larry Kildene. Fathernever would appeal to him if he lost everything in the world, so wemust do it. As soon as I am out of here we can save him. " Already hefelt himself a new man, and spoke hopefully and cheerfully. He littleknew the struggle still before him. 

"Peter, father and mother are out there in the corridor waiting. Iwas to call them. I made them let me come in alone. "

"Oh, call them, call them!"

"I don't think they will know you as I did, with that great beard onyour face. We'll see. "

When Bertrand and Mary entered, they stood for a moment aghast, seeinglittle likeness to either of the young men in the developed andbronzed specimen of manhood before them. But they greeted him warmly, eager to find him Peter, and in their manner he missed nothing oftheir old-time kindliness. 

"You are greatly changed, Peter Junior. You look more like RichardKildene than you ever did before in your life, " said Mary. 

"Yes, but when we see Richard, we may find that a change has takenplace in him also, and they will stand in their own shoes hereafter. "

"Since the burden has been lifted from my soul and I know that he lives, I could sing and shout aloud here in this cell. Imprisonment--evendeath--means nothing to me now. All will come right before we know it. "

"That is just the way Richard would act and speak. No wonder you havebeen taken for him!" said Bertrand. 

"Yes, he was always more buoyant than I. Maybe we have both changed, but I hope he has not. I loved my friend. "

As they walked home together Mary Ballard said, "Now, Peter ought tobe released right away. "

"Certainly he will be as soon as the Elder realizes the truth. "

"How he has changed, though! His face shows the mark of sorrow. Thosedrooping, sensitive lines about his mouth--they were never therebefore, and they are the lines of suffering. They touched my heart. Iwish Hester were at home. She ought to be written to. I'll do it assoon as I get home. "

"Peter is handsomer than he was, in spite of the lines, and, as yousay, he does look more like his cousin than he used to--because ofthem, I think. Richard always had a debonair way with him, but he hadthat little, sensitive droop to the lips--not so marked as Peter's isnow--but you remember, Mary--like his mother's. "

"Oh, mother, don't you think Richard could be found?" Betty's voicetrailed sorrowfully over the words. She was thinking how he hadsuffered all this time, and wishing her heart could reach out to himand call him back to her. 

"He must be, dear, if he lives. "

"Oh, yes. He'll be found. It can be published that Peter Junior hasreturned, and that will bring him after a while. Peter's physiqueseems to have changed as well as his face. Did you notice thatbackward swing of the shoulders, so like his cousin's, when he said, 'I could sing and shout here in this cell'? And the way he lifted hishead and smiled? That beard is a horrible disguise. I must send abarber to him. He must be himself again. "

"Oh, yes, do. He stands so straight and steps so easily. His lamenessseems to have quite gone, " said Mary, joyously, --but at that, Bertrandpaused in his walk and looked at her, then glancing at Betty walkingslowly on before, he laid his finger to his lips and took his wife'sarm, and they said no more until they reached home and Betty was inher room. 

"I simply can't think it, Bertrand. I see Peter in him. It is Peter. Of course he's like Richard. They were always alike, and that makeshim all the more Peter. No other man would have that likeness, and itgoes to show that he is Peter. "

"My dear, unless the Elder sees him as we see him, the thing will haveto be tried out in the courts. "

"Unless we can find Richard. Hester ought to be here. She could setthem right in a moment. Trust a mother to know her own boy. I'll writeher immediately. I'll--"

"But you have no authority, Mary. "

"No authority? She is my friend. I have a right to do my duty by her, and I can so put it that it will not be such a shock to her as itinevitably will be if matters go wrong, or Peter should be kept inprison for lack of evidence--or for too much evidence. She'll have toknow sooner or later. "

Bertrand said no more against this, for was not Mary often quiteright? "I'll see to it that he has a barber, and try to persuade theElder to see him. That may settle it without any trouble. If not, Imust see that he has a good lawyer to help in his defense. "

"If that savage old man remains stubborn, Hester must be here. "

"If the thing goes to a trial, Betty will have to appear againsthim. "

"Well, it mustn't go to a trial, that's all. "

That night two letters went out from Leauvite, one to Hester Craigmileat Aberdeen, Scotland, and one to the other end of the earth, whereLarry Kildene waited for news of Harry King, there on the mountaintop. On the first of each month Larry rode down to the nearest pointwhere letters could be sent, making a three days' trip on horseback. His first trip brought nothing, because Harry had not sent his firstletter in time to reach the station before Larry was well on his wayback up the mountain. He would not delay his return, for fear ofleaving the two women too long alone. 

After Harry's departure, Madam Manovska had grown restless, and oncehad wandered so far away as to cause them great alarm and a longsearch, when she was found, sitting close to the fall, apparently tooweak and too dazed to move. This had so awakened Amalia's fears thatshe never allowed her mother to leave the cabin alone, but always onone pretext or another accompanied her. 

The situation was a difficult one for them all. If Amalia took hermother away to some town, as she wished to do, she feared for MadamManovska's sanity when she could not find her husband. And still, whenshe tried to tell her mother of her father's death, she could notconvince her of its truth. For a while she would seem to understandand believe it, but after a night's rest she would go back to the oldweary repetition of going to her husband and his need of her. Then itwas all to go over again, day after day, until at last Amalia gave up, and allowed her mother the comfort of her belief: but all the more shehad to invent pretexts for keeping her on the mountain. So sheaccepted Larry's kindly advice and his earnestly offered hospitalityand his comforting companionship, and remained, as, perforce, therewas nothing else for her to do. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

HESTER CRAIGMILE RECEIVES HER LETTER

The letters reached their opposite destinations at about the sametime. The one to Amalia closely buttoned in Larry's pocket, and theshort one to himself which he read and reread as his horse slowlyclimbed the trail, were halfway up the mountain when the postboydelivered Hester Craigmile's at the door of the sedate brick housebelonging to the Craigmiles of Aberdeen. 

Peter Junior's mother and two elderly women--his grandaunts--wereseated in the dignified parlor, taking afternoon tea, when thehousemaid brought Hester her letter. 

"Is it from Peter, maybe?" asked the elder of the two aunts. 

"No, Aunt Ellen; I think it is from a friend. "

"It's strange now, that Peter's no written before this, " said theyounger, leaning forward eagerly. "Will ye read it, dear? We'll bewantin' to know if there's ae word about him intil't. "

"There may be, Aunt Jean. " Hester set her cup of tea down untasted, and began to open her letter. 

"But tak' yer tea first, Hester. Jean's an impatient body. That's toobad of ye, Jean; her toast's gettin' cold. "

"Oh, that's no matter at all, Aunt Ellen. I'll take it as soon as Isee if he's home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has beenhome for three days and is well. "

"That's good. Noo ye're satisfied, lay it by and tak' yer tea. " AndHester smilingly laid it by and took her tea, for Mary Ballard hadsaid nothing on the first page to startle her friend's serenity. 

Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it layon a chair at Hester's side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert, and as young as Peter Junior's father, for all she was his aunt, andnow she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: "Yemind he's mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to playtogether--Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was likea sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we're auld noo. "

Her sister looked at her fondly. "Ye're no so auld, Jean, but ye mightbe aulder. It's like I might have been the mither of her, for I mindthe time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell't me I wasto aye care for her like my ain, an' but for her I would na' be livin'noo. "

"And why for no?" asked Jean, quickly. 

"I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no' understand?"

Jean laughed merrily. "She's been callin' me child for saxty-fiveyears, " she said. 

Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean's was a littlebraver with ribbons than Ellen's. Small lavender bows were set in thefrill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were nottied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossedover her bosom. 

"I mind when Peter married ye, Hester, " said Ellen. "I was fair wildto have him bring ye here on his weddin' journey, and he should havedone so, for we'd not seen him since he was a lad, and all these yearsI've been waitin' to see ye. "

"Weel, 'twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an' go homewithout ye, " said Jean. 

"It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it. " Hester'seyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world, the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knewthe tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since thedisappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovinglywatchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old criticalrestraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for hercomfort, --studying her slightest wishes with almost appealingthoughtfulness to gratify them. 

"And why for no allow it? There's naething so good for a man aslettin' him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I'mthinkin' Peter's ain o' them that such as that is good for--Hester!What ails ye! Are oot of ye're mind? Gi'e her a drap of whuskey, Jean. Hester!"

While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietlyresumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straightbefore her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, withher eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight. 

"Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o' bad news for ye' in theletter? Here, tak' a sip o' this, dear. Tak' it, Hester; 'twillhairten ye up for whatever's intil't, " cried Jean, holding to Hester'slips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wallcupboard behind her and poured out in a glass. 

Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help, did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into thebroader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way withboth the women. "Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it's no so bad. Gieme the letter, Jean, an' I'll see what's intil't. Ring the bell forTillie an' we'll get her to the couch. "

But Hester caught Jean's gown and would not let her go to the bellcord which hung in the far corner of the room. "No, don't call her. I'll lie down a moment, and--and--we'll talk--this--over. " She clungto the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose andwalked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes. "After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I'll tell you. I must think, I mustthink. " So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider andmeet what she must, as her way was, while Jean sat beside, strokingher hand and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad Scotch. 

"There's neathin' so guid as a drap of whuskey, dear, for strengthnin'the hairt whan ye hae a bit shock. It's no yer mon, Peter? No? Weel, thank the Lord for that. Noo, tak ye anither bit sup, for ye ha'e natasted it. Wull ye no gie Ellen the letter, love? 'Twill save yetellin' her. "

Hester passively took the whisky as she was bid, and presently sat upand finished reading the letter. "Peter has been hiding--somethingfrom me for--three years--and now--"

"Yes, an' noo. It's aye the way wi' them that hides--whan the daycomes they maun reveal--it's only the mair to their shame, " exclaimedEllen. 

"Oh, but it's all mixed up--and my best friend doesn't know thetruth. Yes, take the letter, Aunt Ellen, and read it yourself. " Sheheld out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to hersister, who slowly read them in silence. 

"Ah, noo. As I tell't ye, it's no so bad, " she said at last. 

"Wha's the trouble, Ellen? Don't keep us waitin'. "

"Bide ye in patience, child. Ye're always so easily excitet. I maunread the letter again to get the gist o't, but it's like this. TheElder's been of the opeenion noo these three years that his son wasmost foully murder't, an--"

"He may ha'e been kill't, but he was no' murder't, " cried Jean, excitedly. "I tell ye 'twas purely by accident--" she paused andsuddenly clapped both hands over her mouth and rocked herself back andforth as if she had made some egregious blunder, then: "Gang on wi'yer tellin'. It's dour to bide waitin'. Gie me the letter an' lat meread it for mysel'. "

"Lat me tell't as I maun tell't. Ye maun no keep interruptin'. Jeanhas no order in her brain. She aye pits the last first an' the firstlast. This is a hopefu' letter an' a guid ain from yer friend, an' ittells ye yer son's leevin' an' no murder't--"

"Thank the Lord! I ha'e aye said it, " ejaculated Jean, fervently. 

"Ye ha'e aye said it? Child, what mean ye? Ye ha'e kenned naethin'aboot it. "

But Jean would not be set down. She leaned forward with glisteningeyes. "I ha'e aye said it. I ha'e aye said it. Gie me the letter, Ellen. "

But Ellen only turned composedly and resumed her interpretation ofthe letter to Hester, who sat looking with dazed expression from oneaunt to the other. 

"It all comes about from Peter's bein' a stubborn man, an' he'll nochange the opeenion he's held for three years wi'oot a struggle. Herecomes his boy back an' says, 'I'm Peter Junior, and yer son. ' An' hisfeyther says till him, 'Ye're no my son, for my son was murder't--an'ye're Richard Kildene wha' murder't him. ' And noo, it's for ye to gohome, Hester, an' bring Peter to his senses, and show him the truth. Amither knows her ain boy, an' if it's Peter Junior, it's Peter Junior, and Richard Kildene's died. "

"I tell ye he's no dead!" cried Jean, springing to her feet. 

"Hush, child. He maun be dead, for ain of them's dead, and this isPeter Junior. "

"Read it again, Aunt Ellen, " said Hester, wearily. "You'll see thatthe Elder brings a fearful charge against Richard. He thinks Richardis making a false claim that he is--Peter--my boy. "

Jean sat back in her chair crying silently and shrinking into herselfas if she were afraid to say more, and Ellen went on. "Listen, now, what yer frien' says. 'The Elder is wrong, for Bertrand'--that's herhusband, I'm thinkin'--?"

"Yes. "

"'Bertrand and Betty, --' Who's Betty, noo?"

"Betty is their daughter. She was to--have--married my son. "

"Good. So she would know her lover. 'Betty and I have seen him, ' shesays, 'and have talked with him, and we know he is Peter Junior, ' shesays. 'Richard Kildene has disappeared, ' she says, 'and yet we knowhe is living somewhere and he must be found. We fear the Elder willnot withdraw the charge until Richard is located'--An' that will belike Peter, too--'and meanwhile your son Peter will have to lie injail, where he is now, unless you can clear matters up here by cominghome and identifying him, and that you can surely do. '--An' that's allvera weel. There's neathin' to go distraught over in the like o' that. An' here she says, 'He's a noble, fine-looking man, and you'll beproud of him when you see him. ' Oh, 'tis a fine letter, an' it's Peterwi' his stubbornness has been makin' a boggle o' things. If I were nalame, I'd go back wi' ye an' gie Peter a piece o' my mind. "

"An' I'll locate Richard for ye!" cried Jean, rising to her feet andwiping away the fast-falling tears, laughing and weeping all in thesame moment. "Whish't, Ellen, it's ye'rsel' that kens neathin' abootit, an' I'll tell ye the truth the noo--that I've kept to mysel' thislang time till my conscience has nigh whupped me intil my grave. "

"Tak' a drap o' whuskey, Jean, ye're flyin' oot o' yer heid. It's thehystiricks she's takin'. "

"Ah, no! What is it, Aunt Jean? What is it?" cried Hester, eagerly, drawing her to the seat by her side again. 

"It's no the hystiricks, " cried Jean, rocking back and forth andpatting her hands on her knees and speaking between laughing andcrying. "It's the truth at last, that I've been lyin' aboot thesethree lang years, thank the Lord!"

"Jean, is it thankin' the Lord ye are, for lyin'?"

"Ellen, ye mind whan ye broke ye'r leg an' lay in the south chamberthat lang sax months?"

"Aye, weel do I mind it. "

"Lat be wi' ye're interruptin' while I tell't. He came here. "

"Who came here?"

"Richard--the poor lad! He tell't me all aboot it. How he had a madanger on him, an' kill't his cousin Peter Junior whan they'd been likebrithers all their lives, an' hoo he pushed him over the brink o' agre't precipice to his death, an' hoo he must forever flee fra' thelaw an' his uncle's wrath. Noo it's--"

"Oh, Aunt Jean!" cried Hester, despairingly. "Don't you see that whatyou say only goes to prove my husband right? Yet how could he claim tobe Peter--it--it's not like the boy. Richard never, never would--"

"He may ha' been oot o' his heid thinkin' he pushed him over thebrink. I ha'e na much opeenion o' the judgment o' a man ony way. Theynever know whan to be set, an' whan to gie in. Think shame to yersel', Jean, to be hidin' things fra me the like o' that an' then lyin' tome. "

"He was repentit, Ellen. Ye can na' tak the power o' the Lord in yerain han's an' gie a man up to the law whan he's repentit. If ye'd seenhim an' heard the words o' him and seen him greet, ye would ha' hidhim in yer hairt an' covered wi' the mantle o' charity, as I did. Moreover, I saved ye from dour lyin' yersel'. Ye mind whan that manthat Peter sent here to find Richard came, hoo ye said till him thatRichard had never been here? Ye never knew why for that man wantedRichard, but I knew an' I never tell't ye. An' if ye had known what Iknew, ye never could ha' tell't him what ye did so roundly an' senthim aboot his business wi' a straight face. "

"An' noo whaur is Richard?"

"He's awa' in Paris pentin' pictures. He went there to learn to be apenter. "

"An' whaur gat he the money to go wi'? There's whaur the new blacksilk dress went ye should ha' bought yersel' that year. Ye lat methink it went to the doctor. Child! Child!"

"Yes, sister; I lee'd to ye. It's been a heavy sin on my soul an' yemay well thank the Lord it's no been on yer ain. But hark ye noo. It'sall come back to me. Here's the twenty pun' I gave him. It's come backwi' interest. " Proudly Jean drew from her bosom an envelope containingforty pounds in bank notes. "Look ye, hoo he's doubl't it?" Again shelaughed through her tears. 

"And you know where he is--and can find him?"

"Yes, Hester, dear, I know. He took a new name. It was Robert Kater hecalled himsel'. So, there he's been pentin' pictures. Go, Hester, an'find yer son, an' I'll find Richard. Ellen, ye'll have to do wi'Tillie for a week an' a bit, --I'm going to Paris to find Richard. "

"Ye'll do nae sic' thing. Ye'll find him by post. "

"I'll trust to nae letter the noo, Ellen. Letters aften gang astray, but I'll no gang astray. "

"Oh, child, child! It's a sorrowful thing I'm lame an' can na' gangwi' ye. What are ye doin', Hester?"

"I'm hunting for the newspaper. Don't they put the railroadtime-tables in the paper over here, or must I go to the station toinquire about trains?"

"Ye'd better ask at the station. I'll go wi' ye. Ye might boggle it byyersel'. Ring for Tillie, Jean. She can help me oot o' my chair an'get me dressed, while ye're lookin' after yer ain packin', Jean. "

So the masterful old lady immediately began to superintend thehasty departure of both Hester and Jean. The whole procedure wasunprecedented and wholly out of the normal course of things, but ifduty called, they must go, whether she liked the thought of theirgoing or not. So she sent Tillie to call a cab, and contentedherself with bewailing the stubbornness of Peter, her nephew. 

"It was aye so, whan he was a lad playin' wi' Jean an' Katherine, whiles whan his feyther lat his mither bring Katherine and him back toScotland on a veesit. Jean and Katherine maun gie in til him if theyliket it or no. I've watched them mony's the time, when he would haudthem up in their play by the hour together, arguyin' which should behorse an' which should be driver, an' it was always Peter that won hisway wi' them. Is the cab there, Tillie? Then gie me my crutch. Hester, are you ready? Jean, I'll find oot for ye all aboot the trains forDover. Ye maun gang direc' an' no loiter by the way. Come, Hester. Idoot she ought not to be goin' aboot alone. Paris is an' awfu' likeplace for a woman body to be goin' aboot alone. But it canna' behelpit. What's an old woman like me wi' only one sound leg and a pairo' crutches, to go on sic' like a journey?"

"If I could, I'd take you home with me, Aunt Ellen; if I were onlysure of the outcome of this trouble, I would anyway--but to take youthere to a home of sorrow--"

"There, Hester, dear. Don't ye greet. It's my opeenion ye're goin' tofind yer son an' tak him in yer arms ance mair. Ye were never theright wife for Peter. I can see that. Ye're too saft an' gentle. "

"I'm thinking how Peter has borne this trouble alone, all theseyears, and suffered, trying to keep the sorrow from me. "

"Yes, dear, yes. Peter told us all aboot it whan he was here, an' hebade us not to lat ye ken a word aboot it, but to keep from ye allknowledge of it. Noo it's come to ye by way of this letter fra yerfrien', an' I'm thinkin' it's the best way; for noo, at last ye ha'eit in ye're power to go an' maybe save an innocent man, for it's nolike a son of our Katherine would be sic' like a base coward as to tryto win oot from justice by lyin' himsel' intil his victim's own home. I'll no think it. "

"Nor I, Aunt Ellen. It's unbelievable! And of Richard--no. I lovedRichard. He was like my own son to me--and Peter Junior loved him, too. They may have quarreled--and even he might--in a moment of anger, he might have killed my boy, --but surely he would never do a thinglike this. They are making some horrible mistake, or Mary Ballardwould never have written me. "

"Noo ye're talkin' sense. Keep up courage an' never tak an' afflictionupo' yersel' until it's thrust upo' ye by Providence. "

Thus good Aunt Ellen in her neat black bonnet and shawl and blackmits, seated at Hester's side in the cab holding to her crutches, comforted and admonished her niece all the way to the station andback, and the next day she bravely bade Jean and Hester both good-byand settled herself in her armchair to wait patiently for news fromthem. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

JEAN CRAIGMILE'S RETURN

When at last Jean Craigmile returned, a glance at her face was quiteenough to convince Ellen that things had not gone well. She held herpeace, however, until her sister had had time to remove her bonnet andher shawl and dress herself for the house, before she broke in uponJean's grim silence. Then she said:--

"Weel, Jean. I'm thinkin' ye'd better oot wi' it. "

"Is Tillie no goin' to bring in the tea? It's past the hour. I see shegrows slack, wantin' me to look after her. "

"Ring for it then, Jean. I'm no for leavin' my chair to ring for it. "So Jean pulled the cord and the tea was brought in due time, with hotscones and the unwonted addition of a bowl of roses to grace thetray. 

"The posies are a greetin' to ye, Jean; I ordered them mysel'. Weel?An' so ye ha'na' found him?"

"Oh, sister, my hairt's heavy an' sair. I canna' thole to tell ye. "

"But ye maun do't, an' the sooner ye tell't the sooner ye'll ha'e itover. "

"He was na' there. Oh, Ellen, Ellen! He'd gone to America! I'm afraidthe Elder is right an' Hester has gone home to get her death blow. Whywere we so precipitate in lettin' her go?"

"Jean, tell me all aboot it, an' I'll pit my mind to it and help yethink it oot. Don't ye leave oot a thing fra' the time ye left me tillthe noo. "

Slowly Jean poured her sister's tea and handed it to her. "Tak' yerscones while they're hot, Ellen. I went to the place whaur he'd beenleevin'. I had the direction all right, but whan I called, I foundanither man in possession. The man was an Englishman, so I got on veraweel for the speakin'. It's little I could do with they Frenchmen. Hewas a dirty like man, an' he was daubin' away at a picture whan Iopened the door an' walked in. I said to him, 'Whaur's Richard'--no, no, no. I said to him, calling Richard by the name he's been goin' by, I said, 'Whaur's Robert Kater?' He jumped up an' began figitin' abootthe room, settin' me a chair an' the like, an' I asked again, 'Is thisthe pentin' room o' Robert Kater?' an' he said, 'It was his room, yes. ' Then he asked me was I any kin to him, an' I told him, did hethink I would come walkin' into his place the like o' that if I was nokin to him? An' then he began tellin' me a string o' talk an' I couldna' mak' head nor tail o't, so I asked again, 'If ye're a friend o'his, wull ye tell me whaur he's gone?' an' then he said it straightoot, 'To Ameriky, ' an' it fair broke my hairt. "

For a minute Jean sat and sipped her tea, and wiped the tears from hereyes; then she took up the thread of her story again. 

"Then he seemed all at once to bethink himsel' o' something, an' heran to his coat that was hangin' behind the door on a nail, an' hedrew oot a letter fra the pocket, an' here it is. 

"'Are ye Robert's Aunt Jean?' he asked, and I tell't him, an', 'Surely, ' he said, 'an' I did na' think ye old enough to be his AuntJean. ' Then he began to excuse himsel' for forgettin' to mail thatletter. 'I promised him I would, ' he said, 'but ye see, I have na'been wearin' my best coat since he left, an' that's why. We gave him abanket, ' he says, 'an' I wore my best coat to the banket, an' he gaveme this an' told me to mail it after he was well away, ' an' he says, 'I knew I ought not to put it in this coat pocket, for I'd forgetit, '--an' so he ran on; but it was no so good a coat, for the liningwas a' torn an' it was gray wi' dust, for I took it an' brushed it an'mended it mysel' before I left Paris. "

Again Jean paused, and taking out her neatly folded handkerchief wipedaway the falling tears, and sipped a moment at her tea in silence. 

"Tak' ye a bit o' the scones, Jean. Ye'll no help matters by goin'wi'oot eatin'. If the lad's done a shamefu' like thing, ye'll no helphim by greetin'. He maun fall. Ye've done yer best I doot, althoughmistakenly to try to keep it fra me. "

"He was sae bonny, Ellen, and that like his mither 'twould melt thehairt oot o' ye to look on him. "

"Ha'e ye no mair to tell me? Surely it never took ye these ten days tofind oot what ye ha'e tell't. "

"The man was a kind sort o' a body, an' he took me oot to eat wi' himat a cafy, an' he paid it himsel', but I'm thinkin' his purse was sairempty whan he got through wi' it. I could na' help it. Men are veramasterfu' bodies. I made it up to him though, for I bided a day or twaat the hotel, an' went to the room, --the pentin' room whaur I foundhim--there was whaur he stayed, for he was keepin' things as theywere, he said, for the one who was to come into they things--RobertKater had left there--ye'll find oot aboot them whan ye read theletter--an' I made it as clean as ye'r han' before I left him. He madea dour face whan he came in an' found me at it, but I'm thinkin' hecame to like it after a', for I heard him whustlin' to himsel' as Iwent down the stair after tellin' him good-by. 

"Gin ye had seen the dirt I took oot o' that room, Ellen, ye would a'held up ye'r two han's in horror. There were crusts an' bones behindthe pictures standin' against the wa' that the rats an' mice had beengnawin' there, an' there were bottles on a shelf, old an' empty an'covered wi' cobwebs an' dust, an' the floor was so thick wi' dirt ithad to be scrapit, an' what wi' old papers an' rags I had a greatbasket full taken awa--let be a bundle o' shirts that needed mendin'. I took the shirts to the hotel, an' there I mended them until theywere guid enough to wear, an' sent them back. So there was as guid asthe price o' the denner he gave me, an' naethin said. Noo read theletter an' ye'll see why I'm greetin'. Richard's gone to Ameriky toperjure his soul. He says it was to gie himsel' up to the law, butfrom the letter to Hester it's likely his courage failed him. There'snaethin' to mak' o't but that--an' he sae bonny an' sweet, like hismither. "

Jean Craigmile threw her apron over her head and rocked herself backand forth, while Ellen set down her cup and reluctantly opened theletter--many pages, in a long business envelope. She sighed as shetook them out. 

"It's a waefu' thing how much trouble an' sorrow a man body bringsintil the world wi' him. Noo there's Richard, trailin' sorrow afterhim whaurever he goes. "

"But ye mind it came from Katherine first, marryin' wi' Larry Kildenean' rinnin' awa' wi' him, " replied Jean. 

"It was Larry huntit her oot whaur she had been brought for safety. "

They both sat in silence while Ellen read the letter to the very end. At last, with a long, indrawn sigh, she spoke. 

"It's no like a lad that could write sic a letter, to perjure hissoul. No won'er ye greet, Jean. He's gi'en ye everything he possesses, wi' one o' the twa pictures in the Salon! Think o't! An' a' he gotfra' the ones he sold, except enough to take him to America. Ye canna'tak' it. "

"No. I ha'e gi'en them to the Englishman wha' has his room. I couldna' tak them. " Jean continued to sway back and forth with her apronover her head. 

"Ye ha'e gi'en them awa'! All they pictures pented by yer ain niece'sson! An' twa' acceptit by the Salon! Child, child! I'd no think it o'ye. " Ellen leaned forward in her chair reprovingly, with the lettercrushed in her lap. 

"I told him to keep them safe, as he was doin', an' if he got no wordfra' me after sax months, --he was to bide in the room wi' them--theywere his. "

"Weel, ye're wiser than I thought ye. "

For a long time they sat in silence, until at last Ellen took up theletter to read it again, and began with the date at the head. 

"Jean, " she cried, holding it out to her sister and pointing to thedate with shaking finger. "Wull ye look at that noo! Are we both daft?It's no possible for him to ha' gotten there before that letter waswritten to Hester. Look ye, Jean! Look ye! Here 'tis the third day o'June it was written by his own hand. "

"Count it oot, Ellen, count it oot! Here's the calendar almanac. Noowe'll ha'e it. It's twa weeks since Hester an' I left an' she got theletter the day before that, an' that's fifteen days--"

"An' it takes twa weeks mair for a boat to cross the ocean, an' thatgives fourteen days mair before that letter to Hester was written, an'three days fra' Liverpool here, pits it back to seventeen days, --an'fifteen days--mak's thirty-two days, --an' here' it's nearin' the lasto' June--"

"Jean! Whan Hester's frien' was writin' that letter to Hester, Richardwas just sailin' fra France! Thank the Lord!"

"Thank the Lord!" ejaculated her sister, fervently. "Ellen, it's youfor havin' the head to think it oot, thank the Lord!" And now the dearsoul wept again for very gladness. 

Ellen folded her hands in her lap complaisantly and nodded her head. "Ye've a good head, yersel', Jean, but ye aye let yersel' get excitet. Noo, it's only for us to bide in peace an' quiet an' know that theearth is the Lord's an' the fullness thereof until we hear fra'Hester. "

"An' may the Lord pit it in her hairt to write soon!"

While the good Craigmiles of Aberdeen were composing themselves to thehopeful view that Ellen's discovery of the date had given them, LarryKildene and Amalia were seated in a car, luxurious for that day, speeding eastward over the desert across which Amalia and her fatherand mother had fled in fear and privation so short a time before. Shegazed through the plate-glass windows and watched the quivering heatwaves rising from the burning sands. Well she knew those terribleplains! She saw the bleaching bones of animals that had fallen by theway, even as their own had fallen, and her eyes filled. She rememberedhow Harry King had come to them one day, riding on his yellowhorse--riding out of the setting sun toward them, and how hiscompanionship had comforted them and his courage and help had savedthem more than once, --and how, had it not been for him, their bones, too, might be lying there now, whitening in the heat. Oh, Harry, HarryKing! She who had once crossed those very plains behind a jaded teamnow felt that the rushing train was crawling like a snail. 

Larry Kildene, seated facing her and watching her, leaned forward andtouched her hand. "We're going at an awful pace, " he said. "To thinkof ever crossing these plains with the speed of the wind!"

She smiled a wan smile. "Yes, that is so. But it still is very slowlywe go when I measure with my thoughts the swiftness. In my thoughts weshould fly--fly!"

"It will be only three days to Chicago from here, and then one nightat a hotel to rest and clean up, and the next day we are there--inLeauvite--think of it! We're an hour late by the schedule, so betterthink of something else. We'll reach an eating station soon. Getready, for there will be a rush, and we'll not have a chance for agood meal again for no one knows how long. Maybe you're not hungry, but I could eat a mule. I like this, do you know, traveling incomfort! To think of me--going home to save Peter's bank!" He chuckledto himself a moment; then resumed: "And that's equivalent to savingthe man's life. Well, it's a poor way for a man to go through life, able to see no way but his own way. It narrows his vision and shortenshis reach--for, see, let him find his way closed to him, and whoop!he's at an end. "

Again Larry sat and watched her, as he silently chuckled over hispresent situation. Again he reached out and patted her hand, and againshe smiled at him, but he knew where her thoughts were. Harry King hadbeen gone but a short time when Madam Manovska, in spite of Amalia'swatchfulness, wandered away for the last time. On this occasion shedid not go toward the fall, but went along the trail toward the plainsbelow. It was nearly evening when she eluded Amalia and left thecabin. Frantically they searched for her all night, riding through thedarkness, carrying torches and calling in all directions, as far asthey supposed her feet could have carried her, but did not find heruntil early morning, lying peacefully under a little scrub pine, fardown the trail. By her side lay her husband's worn coat, with thelining torn away, and a small heap of ashes and charred papers. Shehad been destroying the documents he had guarded so long. She wouldnot leave them to witness against him. Tenderly they took her up andcarried her back to the cabin and laid her in her bunk, but she onlybabbled of "Paul, " telling happily that she had seen him, and that hewas coming up the trail after her, and that now they would live on themountain in peace and go no more to Poland--and quickly after that shedropped to sleep again and never woke. She was with "Paul" at last. Then Amalia dressed her in the black silk Larry had brought her, andthey carried her down the trail and laid her in a grave beside that ofher husband, and there Larry read the prayers of the English churchover the two lonely graves, while Amalia knelt at his side. When theywent down the trail to take the train, after receiving Betty's letter, they marked the place with a cross which Larry had made. 

Truth to tell, as they sat in the car, facing each other, Larryhimself was sad, although he tried to keep Amalia's thoughts cheerful. At last she woke to the thought that it was only for her he maintainedthat forced light-heartedness, and the realization came to her that healso had cause for sorrow on leaving the spot where he had so longlived in peace, to go to a friend in trouble. The thought helped her, and she began to converse with Larry instead of sitting silently, wrapped in her own griefs. Because her heart was with HarryKing, --filled with anxiety for him, --she talked mostly of him, andthat pleased Larry well; for he, too, had need to speak of Harry. 

"Now there is a character for you, as fine and sweet as a woman andstrong, too! I've seen enough of men to know the best of them when Ifind them. I saw it in him the moment I got him up to my cabin andlaid him in my bunk. He--he--minded me of one that's gone. " His voicedropped to the undertone of reminiscence. "Of one that's longgone--long gone. "

"Could you tell me about it, a little--just a very little?" Amalialeaned toward him pleadingly. It was the first time she had ever askedof Larry Kildene or Harry King a question that might seem like seekingto know a thing purposely kept from her. But her intuitive nature toldher the time had now come when Larry longed to speak of himself, andthe loneliness of his soul pleaded for him. 

"It's little indeed I can tell you, for it's little he ever toldme, --but it came to me--more than once--more than once--that he mightbe my own son. "

Amalia recoiled with a shock of surprise. She drew in her breath andlooked in his eyes eloquently. "Oh! Oh! And you never asked him? No?"

"Not in so many words, no. But I--I--came near enough to give him thechance to tell the truth, if he would, but he had reasons of his own, and he would not. "

"Then--where we go now--to him--you have been to that place before?Not?"

"I have. "

"And he--he knows it? Not?"

"He knows it well. I told him it was there I left my son--my littleson--but he would say nothing. I was not even sure he knew the placeuntil these letters came to me. He has as yet written me no word, onlythe message he sent me in his letter to you--that he will some timewrite me. " Then Larry took Betty's letter from his pocket and turnedit over and over, sadly. "This letter tells me more than all else, butit sets me strangely adrift in my thoughts. It's not at all like whatI had thought it might be. "

Amalia leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, tell me more--a little, what youthought might be. "

"This letter has added more to the heartache than all else that couldbe. Either Harry King is my son--Richard Kildene--or he is the son ofthe man who hated me and brought me sorrow. There you see the reasonhe would tell me nothing. He could not. "

"But how is it that you do not know your own son? It is so strange. "

Larry's eyes filled as he looked off over the arid plains. "It's along story--that. I told it to him once to try to stir his hearttoward me, but it was of no use, and I'll not tell it now--but this. I'd never looked on my boy since I held him in my arms--a heartbrokenman--until he came to me there--that is, if he were he. But if HarryKing is my son, then he is all the more a liar and a coward--if theclaim against him is true. I can't have it so. "

"It is not so. He is no liar and no coward. " Amalia spoke withfinality. 

"I tell you if he is not my son, then he is the son of the man whohated me--but even that man will not own him as his son. The littlegirl who wrote this letter to me--she pleads with me to come on andset them all right: but even she who loved him--who has loved him, canurge no proof beyond her own consciousness, as to his identity; it isbeyond my understanding. "

"The little girl--she--she has loved your son--she has lovedHarry--Harry King? Whom has she loved?" Amalia only breathed thequestion. 

"She has not said. I only read between the lines. "

"How is it so--you read between lines? What is it you read?"

Larry saw he was making a mistake and resumed hurriedly: "I'll tellyou what little I know later, and we will go there and find out therest, but it may be more to my sorrow than my joy. Perhaps that's whyI'm taking you there--to be a help to me--I don't know. I have afriend there who will take us both in, and who will understand as noone else. "

"I go to neither my joy nor my sorrow. They are of the world. I willbe no more of the world--but I will live only in love--to the Christ. So may I find in my heart peace--as the sweet sisters who guarded mein my childhood away from danger when that my father and mother werein fear and sorrow living--they told me there only may one find peacefrom sorrow. I will go to them--perhaps--perhaps--they will takeme--again--I do not know. But I will go first with you, Sir Kildene, wherever you wish me to go. For you are my friend--now, as no oneelse. But for you, I am on earth forever alone. "

CHAPTER XXXV

THE TRIAL

After Mr. Ballard's visit to the jail, he took upon himself to do whathe could for the young man, out of sympathy and friendship toward bothparties, and in the cause of simple justice. He consulted the onlyavailable counsel left him in Leauvite, a young lawyer named NathanGoodbody, whom he knew but slightly. 

He told him as much of the case as he thought proper, and then gavehim a note to the prisoner, addressing him as Harry King. Armed withthis letter the young lawyer was soon in close consultation with hisnew client. Despite Nathan Goodbody's youth Harry was favorablyimpressed. The young man was so interested, so alert, so confidentthat all would be well. He seemed to believe so completely the storyHarry told him, and took careful notes of it, saying he would preparea brief of the facts and the law, and that Harry might safely leaveeverything to him. 

"You were wounded in the hip, you say, " Nathan Goodbody questionedhim. "We must not neglect the smallest item that may help you, foryour case needs strengthening. You say you were lamed by it--but youseem to have recovered from that. Is there no scar?"

"That will not help me. My cousin was wounded also, but his was only aflesh wound from which he quickly recovered and of which he thoughtnothing. I doubt if any one here in Leauvite ever heard of it, butit's the irony of fate that he was more badly scarred by it than I. Hewas struck by a spent bullet that tore the flesh only, while the onethat hit me went cleanly to the bone, and splintered it. Mine laid meup for a year before I could even walk with crutches, while he wasback at his post in a week. "

"And both wounds were in the same place--on the same side, forinstance?"

"On the same side, yes; but his was lower down. Mine entered the hiphere, while he was struck about here. " Harry indicated the places witha touch of his finger. "I think it would be best to say nothing aboutthe scars, unless forced to do so, for I walk as well now as I everdid, and that will be against me. "

"That's a pity, now, isn't it? Suppose you try to get back a little ofthe old limp. "

Harry laughed. "No, I'll walk straight. Besides they've seen me on thestreet, and even in my father's bank. "

"Too bad, too bad. Why did you do it?"

"How could I guess there would be such an impossible development?Until I saw Miss Ballard here in this cell I thought my cousin dead. Why, my reason for coming here was to confess my crime, but they won'tgive me the chance. They arrest me first of all for killing myself. Now that I know my cousin lives I don't seem to care what happens tome, except for--others. "

"But man! You must put up a fight. Suppose your cousin is no longerliving; you don't want to spend the rest of your life in thepenitentiary because he can't be found. "

"I see. If he is living, this whole trial is a farce, and if he isnot, it's a tragedy. "

"We'll never let it become a tragedy, I'll promise you that. " Theyoung man spoke with smiling confidence, but when he reached hisoffice again and had closed the door behind him, his manner changedquickly to seriousness and doubt. 

"I don't know, " he said to himself, "I don't know if this story can bemade to satisfy a jury or not. A little shady. Too much coincidence tosuit me. " He sat drumming with his fingers on his desk for a while, and then rose and turned to his books. "I'll have a little law on thiscase, --some point upon which we can go to the Supreme Court, " and forthe rest of that day and long into the night Nathan Goodbody consultedwith his library. 

In anticipation of the unusual public interest the District Attorneydirected the summoning of twenty-five jurors in addition to thetwenty-five of the regular panel. On the day set for the trial thecourt room was packed to the doors. Inside the bar were the lawyersand the officers of the court. Elder Craigmile sat by Milton Hibbard. In the front seats just outside the bar were the fifty jurors and backof them were the ladies who had come early, or who had been given theseats of their gentlemen friends who had come early, and whosegallantry had momentarily gotten the better of their judgment. 

The stillness of the court room, like that of a church, was suddenlybroken by the entrance of the judge, a tall, spare man, with gray hairand a serious outlook upon life. As he walked toward his seat, thelawyers and officers of the court rose and stood until he was seated. The clerk of the court read from a large book the journal of the courtof the previous day and then handed the book to the judge to besigned. When this ceremony was completed, the judge took up the courtcalender and said, --

"The State _v. _ Richard Kildene, " and turning to the lawyers engagedin the case added, "Gentlemen, are you ready?"

"We are ready, " answered the District Attorney. 

"Bring in the prisoner. "

When Harry entered the court room in charge of the sheriff, he lookedneither to the right nor to the left, and saw no one before him buthis own counsel, who arose and extended a friendly hand, and led himto a seat beside himself within the bar. 

Nathan Goodbody then rose, and, addressing the court with an air ofconfident modesty, as if he were bringing forward a point so strong asto require nothing more than the simple statement to give it weight, said:--

"If the court please, the defense is ready, but I have noticed, as nodoubt the court has noticed, a distinguished member of this barsitting with the District Attorney as though it were intended that heshould take part in the trial of this case, and I am advised that heintends to do so. I am also advised that he is in the employ of thecomplaining witness who sits beside him, and that he has received, orexpects to receive, compensation from him for his services. I desireat the outset of this case to raise a question as to whether counselemployed and paid by a private person has a right to assist in theprosecution of a criminal cause. I therefore object to the appearanceof Mr. Hibbard as counsel in this case, and to his taking any part inthis trial. If the facts I have stated are questioned, I will askElder Craigmile to be sworn. "

The court replied: "I shall assume the facts to be as stated by youunless the counsel on the other side dissent from such a statement. Considering the facts to be as stated, your objection raises a novelquestion. Have you any authorities?"

"I do not know that the Supreme Court of this State has passed uponthis question. I do not think it has, but my objection finds supportin the well-established rule in this country, that a public prosecutoracts in a quasi-judicial capacity. His object, like that of the court, should be simple justice. The District Attorney represents the publicinterest which can never be promoted by the conviction of theinnocent. As the District Attorney himself could not accept a fee orreward from private parties, so, I urge, counsel employed to assisthim must be equally disinterested. "

"The court considers the question an interesting one, but the practicein the past has been against your contention. I will overrule yourobjection, and give you an exception. Mr. Clerk, call a jury!"[1]

Then came the wearisome technicalities of the empaneling of a jury, with challenges for cause and peremptory challenges, until nearly theentire panel of fifty jurors was exhausted. 

In this way two days were spent, with a result that when counsel onboth sides expressed themselves as satisfied with the jury, every onein the court room doubted it. As the sheriff confided to the clerk, itwas an even bet that the first twelve men drawn were safer for bothsides than the twelve men who finally stood with uplifted hands andwere again sworn by the clerk. Harry King, who had never witnessed atrial in his life, began to grow interested in these details quiteaside from his own part therein. He watched the clerk shaking the box, wondering why he did so, until he saw the slips of paper being drawnforth one by one from the small aperture on the top, and listenedwhile the name written on each was called aloud. Some of the nameswere familiar to him, and it seemed as if he must turn about and speakto the men who responded to their roll call, saying "here" as eachrose in his place behind him. But he resisted the impulse, neverturning his head, and only glancing curiously at each man as he tookhis seat in the jury box at the order of the judge. 

During all these proceedings the Elder sat looking straight beforehim, glancing at the prisoner only when obliged to do so, and coldlyas an outsider might do. The trial was taking more time than he hadthought possible, and he saw no reason for such lengthy technicalitiesand the delay in calling the witnesses. His air was worn and weary. 

The prisoner, sitting beside his counsel, had taken less and lessinterest in the proceedings, and the crowds, who had at first filledthe court room, had also lost interest and had drifted off about theirown affairs until the real business of the taking of testimony shouldcome on, till, at the close of the second day, the court room wasalmost empty of visitors. The prisoner was glad to see them go. Somany familiar faces, faces from whom he might reasonably expect asmile, or a handshake, were it possible, or at the very least a nod ofrecognition, all with their eyes fixed on him, in a blank gaze ofaloofness or speculation. He felt as if his soul must have been insome way separated from his body, and then returned to it to find allthe world gazing at the place where his soul should be without seeingthat it had returned and was craving their intelligent support. Thewhole situation seemed to him cruelly impossible, --a sort of insanedelusion. Only one face never failed him, that of Bertrand Ballard, who sat where he might now and then meet his eye, and who never leftthe court room while the case was on. 

When the time arrived for the introduction of the witnesses, the courtroom again filled up; but he no longer looked for faces he knew. Heheld himself sternly aloof, as if he feared his reason might leave himif he continued to strive against those baffling eyes, who knew himand did not know that they knew him, but who looked at him as iftrying to penetrate a mask when he wore no mask. Occasionally hiscounsel turned to him for brief consultation, in which his partconsisted generally of a nod or a shake of the head as the case mightbe. 

While the District Attorney was addressing the jury, Milton Hibbardmoved forward and took the District Attorney's seat. 

Then followed the testimony of the boys--now shy lads in their teens, who had found the evidences of a struggle and possible murder so longbefore on the river bluff. Under the adroit lead of counsel, they toldeach the same story, and were excused cross-examination. Both boys hadidentified the hat found on the bluff, and testified that the brownstain, which now appeared somewhat faintly, had been a bright red, andhad looked like blood. 

Then Bertrand Ballard was called, and the questions put to him weremore searching. Though the manner of the examiner was respectful andcourteous, he still contrived to leave the impression on those in thecourt room that he hoped to draw out some fact that would lead to thediscovery of matters more vital to the case than the mere details towhich the witness testified. But Bertrand Ballard's prompt andstraightforward answers, and his simple and courteous manner, were afull match for the able lawyer, and after two hours of effort hesubsided. 

Then the testimony of the other witnesses was taken, even to that ofthe little housemaid who had been in the family at the time, and whohad seen Peter Junior wear the hat. Did she know it for his? Yes. Whydid she know it? Because of the little break in the straw, on the edgeof the brim. But any man's hat might have such a break. What was thereabout this particular break to make it the hat of Peter Junior?Because she had made it herself. She had knocked it down one day whenshe was brushing up in the front hall, and when she hung it up again, she had seen the break, and knew she had done it. 

And thus, in the careful scrutiny of small things, relating to thehabits, life, and manner of dressing of the two young men, --mattersabout which nobody raised any question, and in which no one except theexaminer took any interest, --more days crept by, until, at last, themain witnesses for the State were reached. 

 [1] The question raised by the prisoner's counsel was ruled in favor of his contention in Biemel v. State. 71 Wis. 444, decided in 1888. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

NELS NELSON'S TESTIMONY

The day was very warm, and the jury sat without their coats. Theaudience, who had had time to debate and argue the question over andover, were all there ready to throng in at the opening of the doors, and sat listening, eager, anxious, and perspiring. Some were stronglyfor the young man and some were as determined for the Elder's views, and a tension of interest and friction of minds pervaded the veryatmosphere of the court room. It had been the effort of Milton Hibbardto work up the sentiment of those who had been so eagerly followingthe trial, in favor of his client's cause, before bringing on thefinal coup of the testimony of the Swede, and, last of all, that ofBetty Ballard. 

Poor little Betty, never for a moment doubting her perception in herrecognition of Peter Junior, yet fearing those doubting ones in thecourt room, sat at home, quivering with the thought that the truth shemust tell when at last her turn came might be the one straw added tothe burden of evidence piled up to convict an innocent man. Wordlesslyand continually in her heart she was praying that Richard might knowand come to them, calling him, calling him, in her thoughtsceaselessly imploring help, patience, delay, anything that might holdevents still until Richard could reach them, for deep in her heart offaith she knew he would come. Wherever in all the universe he mightbe, her cry must find him and bring him. He would feel it in his souland fly to them. 

Bertrand brought Betty and her mother news of the proceedings, fromday to day, and always as he sat in the court room watching theprisoner and the Elder, looking from one set face to the other, hetried to convince himself that Mary and Betty were right in their firmbelief that it was none other than Peter Junior who sat there withthat steadfast look and the unvarying statement that he was theElder's son, and had returned to give himself up for the murder of hiscousin Richard, in the firm belief that he had left him dead on theriver bluff. 

G. B. Stiles sat at the Elder's side, and when Nels Nelson was broughtin and sworn, he glanced across at Milton Hibbard with an expressionof satisfaction and settled himself back to watch the triumph of hiscause and the enjoyment of the assurance of the ten thousand dollars. He had coached the Swede and felt sure he would give his testimonywith unwavering clearness. 

The Elder's face worked and his hands clutched hard on the arms ofhis chair. It was then that Bertrand Ballard, watching him withsorrowful glances, lost all doubt that the prisoner was in truthwhat he claimed to be, for, under the tension of strong feeling, themilder lines of the younger man's face assumed a set power ofwill, --immovable, --implacable, --until the force within him seemed tomold the whole contour of his face into a youthful image of that ofthe man who refused even to look at him. 

Every eye in the court room was fixed on the Swede as he took hisplace before the court and was bade to look on the prisoner. Throughout his whole testimony he never varied from his firststatement. It was always the same. 

"Do you know the prisoner?"

"Yas, I know heem. Dot is heem, I seen heem two, t'ree times. "

"When did you see him first?"

"By Ballards' I seen heem first--he vas horse ridin' dot time. It vasnobody home by Ballards' dot time. Eferybody vas gone off by dotpeek-neek. "

"At that time did the prisoner speak to you?"

"Yas, he asket me where is Ballards' folks, und I tol' heem bypeek-neek, und he asket me where is it for a peek-neek is dey gone, und I tol' heem by Carter's woods by der river, und he asket me isMees Betty gone by dem yet or is she home, und I tol' heem yas she isgone mit, und he is off like der vind on hees horse already. "

"When did you see the prisoner next?"

"By Ballards' yard dot time. "

"What time?"

"It vas Sunday morning I seen heem, talkin' mit her. "

"With whom was he talking?"

"Oh, he talk mit Ballards' girl--Mees Betty. Down by der spring houseI seen heem go, und he kiss her plenty--I seen heem. "

"You are sure it was the prisoner you saw? You are sure it was notPeter Craigmile, Jr. ?"

"Sure it vas heem I saw. Craikmile's son, he vas lame, und valk by dercrutch all time. No, it vas dot man dere I saw. "

"Where were you when you saw him?"

"I vas by my room vere I sleep. It vas a wine growin' by der vindowup, so dey nefer see me, bot I seen dem all right. I seen heem kissher und I seen her tell heem go vay, und push heem off, und she cryplenty. "

"Did you hear what he said to her?"

Bertrand Ballard looked up at the examiner angrily, and counsel forthe prisoner objected to the question, but the judge allowed it topass unchallenged, on the ground that it was a question pertaining tothe motive for the deed of which the prisoner was accused. 

"Yas, I hear it a little. Dey vas come up und stand dere by de vindowunder, und I hear dem talkin'. She cry, und say she vas sorry he vaskiss her like dot, und he say he is goin' vay, und dot is vot for hedone it, und he don't come back no more, und she cry some more. "

"Did he say anything against his cousin at that time?"

"No, he don' say not'ing, only yust he say, 'dot's all right boutsheem, ' he say, 'Peter Junior goot man all right, only he goin' vay allsame. '"

"Was that the last time you saw the prisoner?"

"No, I seen heem dot day und it vas efening. "

"Where were you when you saw him next?"

"I vas goin' 'long mit der calf to eat it grass dere by Ballards'yard, und he vas goin' 'long mit hees cousin, Craikmile's son, und hevas walkin' slow for hees cousin, he don' got hees crutch dot day, hevalk mit dot stick dere, und he don' go putty quvick mit it. " Nelspointed to the heavy blackthorn stick lying on the table before thejury. 

"Were the two young men talking together?"

"No, dey don' speak much. I hear it he say, 'It iss better you valk bymy arm a little yet, Peter, ' und Craikmile's son, he say, 'You go vaymit your arm, I got no need by it, ' like he vas little mad yet. "

"You say you saw him in the morning with Miss Ballard. Where were thefamily at that time?"

"Oh, dey vas gone by der church already. "

"And in the evening where were they?"

"Oh, dey vas by der house und eat supper den. "

"Did you see the prisoner again that day?"

"No, I didn' see heem dot day no more, bot dot next day I seenheem--goot I seen heem. "

Harry King here asked his counsel to object to his allowing thewitness to continually assert that the man he saw was the prisoner. 

"He does not know that it was I. He is mistaken as are you all. " AndNathan Goodbody leaped to his feet. 

"I object on behalf of my client to the assumption throughout thiswhole examination, that the man whom the witness claims to have seenwas the prisoner. No proof to that effect has yet been broughtforward. "

The witness was then required to give his reasons for his assertionthat the prisoner was the man he saw three years before. 

"By what marks do you know him? Why is he not the man he claims to be, the son of the plaintiff?"

"Oh, I know heem all right. Meester Craikmile's son, he vos more whitein de face. Hees hair vas more--more--I don' know how you calldot--crooked on hees head yet. " Nels put his hand to his head andcaught one of his straight, pale gold locks, and twisted it about. "Itvas goin round so, --und it vas more lighter yet as dot man here, undhees face vas more lighter too, und he valked mit stick all time undhe don' go long mit hees head up, --red in hees face like dis man hereund dark in hees face too. Craikmile's son go all time limpin' so. "Nels took a step to illustrate the limp of Peter Junior when he hadseen him last. 

"Do you see any other points of difference? Were the young men thesame height?"

"Yas, dey vas yust so high like each other, but not so vide out yet. Dis man he iss vider yet as Meester Craikmile's son, he iss got morechest like von goot horse--Oh, I know by men yust de same like horsesvat iss der difference yet. "

"Now you tell the court just what you saw the next day. At what timeof the day was it?"

"It vas by der night I seen heem. "

"On Monday night?"

"Yas. "

"Late Monday night?"

"No, not so late, bot it vas dark already. "

"Tell the court exactly where you saw him, when you saw him, and withwhom you saw him, and what you heard said. "

"It vas by Ballards' I seen heem. I vas comin' home und it vas darkalready yust like I tol' you, und I seen dot man come along byBallards' house und stand by der door--long time I seen heem stan'dere, und I yust go by der little trees under, und vatching vat it isfor doin' dere, dot man? Und I seen heem it iss der young man vat isscome dot day askin' vere iss Ballards' folks, und so I yust wait undlook a little out, und I vatchin' heem. Und I seen heem stand undvaitin' minute by der door outside, und I get me low under dem littlesmall flowers bushes Ballards is got by der door under dot vindowdere, und I seen heem, he goin' in, and yust dere is Mees Bettysittin', und he go quvick down on hees knees, und dere she yump lakshe is scairt. Den she take heem hees head in her hands und she asketheem vat for is it dat blud he got it on hees head, und so he say itis by fightin' he is got it, und she say vy for is he fightin', und hesay mit hees cousin he fight, und hees cousin he hit heem so, und sheasket heem vy for is hees cousin hit heem, und vy for iss he fightin'mit hees cousin any vay, und den dey bot is cryin'. So I seen dot--undden she go by der kitchen und bring vater und vash heem hees head undtie clots round it so nice, und dere dey is talkin', und he tol' herhe done it. "

"What did he tell her he had done?"

"Oh, he say he keel heem hees cousin. Dot vat I tol' you he done it. "

"How did he say he killed him?"

The silence in the court room was painful in its intensity. The Elderleaned forward and listened with contorted face, and the prisoner heldhis breath. A pallor overspread his face and his hands were clenched. 

"Oh, he say he push heem in der rifer ofer, und he do it all right forhe liket to do it, but he say he goin' run vay for dot. "

"You mean to say that he said he intended to push him over? That hetried to do it?"

"Oh, yas, he say he liket to push heem ofer, und he liket to do dot, but he sorry any vay he done it, und he runnin' vay for dot. "

"Tell the court what happened then. "

"Den she get him somedings to eat, und dey sit dere, und dey talk, unddey cry plenty, und she is feel putty bad, und he is feel putty bad, too. Und so--he go out und shut dot door, und he valkin' down derpat', und she yust come out der door, und run to heem und asket heemvere he is goin' und if he tell her somedings vere he go, und he sayno, he tell her not'ing yet. Und den she say maybe he is not keel heemany vay, bot yust t'inkin' he keel him, und he tol' her yas, he keelheem all right, he push heem ofer und he is dead already, und so hekiss her some more, und she is cry some more, und I t'ink he is cry, too, bot dot is all. He done it all right. Und he is gone off den, undshe is gone in her house, und I don't see more no. "

As the witness ceased speaking Mr. Hibbard turned to counsel for theprisoner and said: "Cross-examine. "

Rising in his place, and advancing a few steps toward the witness, theyoung lawyer began his cross-examination. His task did not call forthe easy nonchalance of his more experienced adversary, who had theadvantage of knowing in advance just what his witness would testify. It was for him to lead a stubborn and unwilling witness through themazes of a well-prepared story, to unravel, if possible, some of itswell-planned knots and convince the jury if he could that the witnesswas not reliable and his testimony untrustworthy. 

But this required a master in the art of cross-examination, and amaster begins the study of his subject--the witness--before the trial. In subtle ways with which experience has made him familiar, he studieshis man, his life, his character, his habits, his strength, hisweakness, his foibles. He divines when he will hesitate, when he willstumble, and he is ready to pounce upon him and force his hesitationinto an attempt at concealment, his stumble into a fall. 

It is no discredit to Nathan Goodbody that he lacked the skill andcunning of an astute cross-examiner. Unlike poets, they are made, notborn, and he found the Swede to be a difficult witness to handle tohis purpose. He succeeded in doing little more than to get him toreaffirm the damaging testimony he had already given. 

Being thus baffled, he determined to bring in here a point which hehad been reserving to use later, should Milton Hibbard decide to takeup the question of Peter Junior's lameness. As this did not seem to beimminent, and the testimony of Nels Nelson had been so convincing, hewished of all things to delay the calling of the next witness until hecould gain time, and carry the jury with him. Should Betty Ballard becalled to the stand that day he felt his cause would be lost. Therefore, in the moment's pause following the close of hiscross-examination of the last witness, he turned and addressed thecourt. 

"May it please the Court. Knowing that there is but one more witnessto be called, and that the testimony of that witness can bring forwardno new light on this matter, I have excellent reason to desire at thistime to move the Court to bring in the verdict of not guilty. "

At these words the eyes of every one in the court room were turnedupon the speaker, and the silence was such that his next words, thoughuttered in a low voice, were distinctly heard by all present. 

"This motion is based upon the fact that the State has failed to provethe _corpus delicti_, upon the law, which is clear, that without suchproof there can be no conviction of the crime of murder. If thetestimony of the witness Nels Nelson can be accepted as the admissionof the man Richard Kildene, until the State can prove the _corpusdelicti_, no proof can be brought that it is the admission of theprisoner at the bar. I say that until such proof can be brought by theState, no further testimony can convict the prisoner at the bar. If itplease the Court, the authorities are clear that the fact that amurder has been committed cannot be established by proof of theadmissions, even of the prisoner himself that he has committed thecrime. There must be direct proof of death as by finding andidentification of the body of the one supposed to be murdered. I havesome authorities here which I would like to read to your honor if youwill hear them. "

The face of the judge during this statement of the prisoner's counselwas full of serious interest. He leaned forward with his elbow on thedesk before him, and with his hand held behind his ear, intent tocatch every word. As counsel closed the judge glanced at the clockhanging on the wall and said:--

"It is about time to close. You may pass up your authorities, and Iwill take occasion to examine them before the court opens in themorning. If counsel on the other side have any authorities, I will bepleased to have them also. "

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE STRANGER'S ARRIVAL

On taking his seat at the opening of court the next morning, the judgeat once announced his decision. 

"I have given such thought as I have been able to the question raisedby counsel last evening, and have examined authorities cited by him, and others, bearing upon the question, and have reached the conclusionthat his motion must be overruled. It is true that a conviction formurder cannot rest alone upon the extra-judicial admission of theaccused. And in the present case I must remind the court and the jurythat thus far the identity of the prisoner has not yet beenestablished, as it is not determined whether or not he is the man whomthe witness, Nels Nelson, heard make the admission. It is true theremust be distinct proof, sufficient to satisfy the jury, beyond areasonable doubt, that homicide has been committed by some one, beforethe admission of the accused that he did the act can be considered. But I think that fact can be established by circumstantial evidence, as well as any other fact in the case, and I shall so charge the jury. I will give you an exception. Mr Nathan Goodbody, you may go on withyour defense after the hearing of the next witness, which is now inorder. "[1]

The decision of the court was both a great surprise and a disappointmentto the defendant's young counsel. Considering the fact that the body ofthe man supposed to have been murdered had never been found, and thathis death had been assumed from his sudden disappearance, and thefinding of his personal articles scattered on the river bluff, together with the broken edge of the bluff and the traces of someobject having been thrown down the precipice at that point, and thefact that the State was relying upon the testimony of the eavesdroppingSwede to prove confession by the prisoner, he still had not beenprepared for the testimony of this witness that he had heard theaccused say that he had killed his cousin, and that it had been hisintention to kill him. He was dismayed, but he had not entirely lostconfidence in his legal defense, even now that the judge had ruledagainst him. There was still the Supreme Court. 

He quickly determined that he would shift his attack from the court, where he had been for the time repulsed, and endeavor to convince thejury that the fact that Peter Junior was really dead had not "beenproven beyond a reasonable doubt. "

Applying to the court for a short recess to give him time to consultwith his client, he used the time so given in going over with theprisoner the situation in which the failure of his legal defense hadleft them. He had hoped to arrest the trial on the point he had madeso as to eliminate entirely the hearing of further testimony, --that ofBetty Ballard, --and also to avoid the necessity of having his clientsworn, which last was inevitable if Betty's testimony was taken. 

He had never been able to rid himself of the impression left upon hismind when first he heard the story from his client's lips, that therewas in it an element of coincidence--too like dramatic fiction, orthat if taken ideally, it was above the average juryman's head. 

He admonished the prisoner that when he should be called upon for histestimony, he must make as little as possible of the fact of theireach being scarred on the hip, and scarred on the head, the twocousins dramatically marked alike, and that he must in no way alludeto his having seen Betty Ballard in the prison alone. 

"That was a horrible mistake. You must cut it out of your testimonyunless they force it. Avoid it. And you must make the jury see thatyour return was a matter of--of--well, conscience--and so forth. "

"I must tell the truth. That is all that I can do, " said the prisoner, wearily. "The judge is looking this way, --shall we--"

Nathan Goodbody rose quickly. "If the court please, we are ready toproceed. "

Then at last Betty Ballard was called to the witness stand. The hourhad come for which all the village had waited, and the fame of thetrial had spread beyond the village, and all who had known the boys intheir childhood and in their young manhood, and those who had beentheir companions in arms--men from their own regiment--were there. Thematter had been discussed among them more or less heatedly and now thecourt room could not hold the crowds that thronged its doors. 

At this time, unknown to any of the actors in the drama, threestrangers, having made their way through the crowd outside the door, were allowed to enter, and stood together in the far corner of thecourt room unnoticed by the throng, intently watching and listening. They had arrived from the opposite sides of the earth, and had met atthe village hotel. Larry had spied the younger man first, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, or why, he walked up to him, andspoke, involuntarily holding out his hand to him. 

"Tell me who you are, " he said, ere Richard could surmise what washappening. 

"My name is Kildene, " said Richard, frankly. "Have you any reason forwishing to know me?"

For the moment he thought his interlocutor might be a detective, orone who wished to verify a suspicion. Having but that moment arrived, and knowing nothing of the trial which was going on, he could thinkonly of his reason for his return to Leauvite, and was glad to make anend of incognito and sorrowful durance, and wearisome suspense, and hedid not hesitate, nor try any art of concealment. He looked directlyinto Larry's eyes, almost defiantly for an instant, then seeing inthat rugged face a kindly glint of the eye and a quiver about themouth, his heart lightened and he grasped eagerly the hand held out tohim. 

"Perhaps you will tell me whom you are? I suppose I ought to know, butI've been away from here a long time. "

Then the older man's hand fell a-trembling in his, and did not releasehim, but rather clung to him as if he had had a shock. 

"Come over here and sit beside me a moment, young man--I--I've--I'mnot feeling as strong as I look. I--I've a thing to tell you. Sitdown--sit down. We are alone? Yes. Every one's gone to the trial. I'mon here from the West myself to attend it. "

"The trial! What trial?"

"You've heard nothing of it? I was thinking maybe you were also--weredrawn here--you've but just come?"

"I've been here long enough to engage a room--which I shan't wantlong. No, I've come for no trial exactly--maybe it might come tothat--? What have you to tell me?"

But Larry Kildene sat silent for a time before replying. An eager joyhad seized him, and a strange reticence held his tongue tied, a fearof making himself known to this son whom he had never seen since hehad held him in his arms, a weak, wailing infant, thinking only of hisown loss. This dignified, stalwart young man, so pleasant to lookupon--no wonder the joy of his heart was a terrible joy, a hungering, longing joy akin to pain! How should he make himself known? In whatwords? A thousand thoughts crowded upon him. From Betty's letter heknew something of the contention now going on in the court room, andfrom the landlord last evening he had heard more, and he was impatientto get to the trial. 

Now this encounter with his own son, --the only one who could set allright, --and who yet did not know of the happenings which soimperatively required his presence in the court room, set LarryKildene's thoughts stammering and tripping over each other in such aconfusion of haste, and with it all the shyness before the great factof his unconfessed fatherhood, so overwhelmed him, that for once hisfacile Irish nature did not help him. He was at a loss for words, strangely abashed before this gentle-voiced, frank-faced, altogetherlikable son of his. So he temporized and beat about the bush, and didnot touch first on that which was nearest his heart. 

"Yes, yes. I've a thing to tell you. You came here to be ata--a--trial--did you say, or intimate it might be? If--if--you'll tellme a bit more, I maybe can help you--for I've seen a good bit of theworld. It's a strange trial going on here now--I've come to hear. "

"Tell me something about it, " said Richard, humoring the older man'sdeliberation in arriving at his point. 

"It's little I know yet. I've come to learn, for I'm interested in theyoung man they're trying to convict. He's a sort of a relative ofmine. I wish to see fair play. Why are you here? Have you doneanything--what have you done?"

The young man moved restlessly. He was confused by the suddenness ofthe question, which Larry's manner deprived of any suggestion ofrudeness. 

"Did I intimate I had done anything?" He laughed. "I'm come to make astatement to the proper ones--when I find them. I'll go over now andhear a bit of this trial, since you mention it. "

He spoke sadly and wearily, but he felt no resentment at the olderman's inquisitiveness. Larry's face expressed too much kindliness tomake resentment possible, but Richard was ill at ease to be talkingthus intimately with a stranger who had but just chanced upon him. Herose to leave. 

"Don't go. Don't go yet. Wait a bit--God, man! Wait! I've a thing totell you. " Larry leaned forward, and his face worked and tearsglistened in his eyes as he looked keenly up into his son's face. "You're a beautiful lad--a man--I'm--You're strong and fine--I'mashamed to tell it you--ashamed I've never looked on you sincethen--until now. I should have given all up and found you. Forgive me. Boy!--I'm your father--your father!" He rose and stood looking levellyin his son's eyes, holding out both shaking hands. Richard took themin his and held them--but could not speak. 

The constraint of witnesses was not upon them, for they were quitealone on the piazza, but the emotion of each of them was beyond words. Richard swallowed, and waited, and then with no word they both satdown and drew their chairs closer together. The simple act helpedthem. 

"I've been nigh on to a lifetime longing for you, lad. "

"And I for you, father. "

"That's the name I've been hungering to hear--"

"And I to speak--" Still they looked in each other's eyes. "And wehave a great deal to tell each other! I'm almost sorry--that--that--thatI've found you at last--for to do my duty will be harder now. I had noone to care--particularly before--unless--"

"Unless a lass, maybe?"

"One I've been loving and true to--but long ago given up--we won'tspeak of her. We'll have to talk a great deal, and there's so littletime! I must--must give myself up, father, to the law. "

"Couldn't you put it off a bit, lad?"

Larry could not have told why he kept silent so long in regard to thetruth of the trial. It might have been a vague liking to watch theworkings of his son's real self and a desire to test him to the full. From a hint dropped in Betty's letter he guessed shrewdly at the truthof the situation. He knew now that Richard and his young friend of themountain top were actuated by the same motives, and he understood atlast why Harry King would never accept his offer of help, nor wouldever call him father. Because he could not take the place of the son, of whom, as he thought, he had robbed the man who so freely offeredhim friendship--and more than friendship. At last Larry understood whyPeter Junior had never yielded to his advances. It was honor, and thetest had been severe. 

"Put it off a little? I might--I'm tempted--just to get acquaintedwith my father--but I might be arrested, and I would prefer not to be. I know I've been wanted for three years and over--it has taken me thatlong to learn that only the truth can make a man free, --and now Iwould rather give myself up, than to be taken--"

"I'm knowing maybe more of the matter than you think--so we'll dropit. We must have a long talk later--but tell me now in a few wordswhat you can. "

Then, drawn by the older man's gentle, magnetic sympathy, Richardunlocked his heart and told all of his life that could be crowded inthose few short minutes, --of his boyhood's longings for a father ofhis own--of his young manhood's love, of his flight, and a little ofhis later life. "We'd be great chums, now, father, --if--if it weren'tfor this--that hangs over me. "

Then Larry could stand it no longer. He sprang up and clapped Richardon the shoulder. "Come, lad, come! We'll go to this trial together. Doyou know who's being tried? No. They'll have to get this off beforethey can take another on. I'm thinking you'll find your case none sobad as it seems to you now. First there's a thing I must do. Mybrother-in-law's in trouble--but it is his own fault--still I'm a mindto help him out. He's a fine hater, that brother-in-law of mine, buthe's tried to do a father's part in the past by you--and done it well, while I've been soured. In the gladness of my heart I'll help himout--I'd made up my mind to do it before I left my mountain. Yourfather's a rich man, boy--with money in store for you--I say it inmodesty, but he who reared you has been my enemy. Now I'm going to hisbank, and there I'll make a deposit that will save it from ruin. "

He stood a moment chuckling, with both hands thrust deep in hispockets. "We'll go to that trial--it's over an affair of his, and he'sfair in the wrong. We'll go and watch his discomfiture--and we'll seehim writhe. We'll see him carry things his own way--the only way hecan ever see--and then we'll watch him--man, we'll watch him--Oh, myboy, my boy! I doubt it's wrong for me to exult over his chagrin, butthat's what I'm going for now. It was the other way before I met you, but the finding of you has given me a light heart, and I'll watch thatbrother-in-law's set-down with right good will. "

He told Richard about Amalia, and asked him to wait until he fetchedher, as he wished her to accompany them, but still he said nothing tohim about his cousin Peter. He found Amalia descending the long flightof stairs, dressed to go out, and knew she had been awaiting him forthe last half hour. Now he led her into the little parlor, whileRichard paced up and down the piazza, and there, where she could seehim as he passed the window to and fro, Larry told her what had cometo him, and even found time to moralize over it, in his gladness. 

"That's it. A man makes up his mind to do what's right regardless ofall consequences or his prejudices, or what not, --and from thatmoment all begins to grow clear, and he sees right--and things comeright. Now look at the man! He's a fine lad, no? They're both finelads--but this one's mine. Look at him I say. Things are to come rightfor him, and all through his making up his mind to come back here andstand to his guns. The same way with Harry King. I've told you thecontention--and at last you know who he is--but mind you, no word yetto my son. I'll tell him as we walk along. I'm to stop at the bankfirst, and if we tell him too soon, he'll be for going to thecourthouse straight. The landlord tells me there's danger of a run onthe bank to-morrow and the only reason it hasn't come to-day is thatthe bank's been closed all the morning for the trial. I'm thinkingthat was policy, for whoever heard of a bank's being closed in themorning for a trial--or anything short of a death or a holiday?"

"But if it is now closed, why do we wait to go there? It is to donothing we make delay, " said Amalia, anxiously. 

"I told Decker to send word to the cashier to be there, as a depositis to be made. If he can't be there for that, then it's his own faultif to-morrow finds him unprepared. " Larry stepped out to meet Richardand introduced Amalia. He had already told Richard a little of herhistory, and now he gave her her own name, Manovska. 

After a few moments' conversation she asked Larry: "I may keep now myown name, it is quite safe, is not? They are gone now--those for whomI feared. "

"Wait a little, " said Richard. "Wait until you have been down in theworld long enough to be sure. It is a hard thing to live undersuspicion, and until you have means of knowing, the other will besafer. "

"You think so? Then is better. Yes? Ah, Sir Kildene, how it isbeautiful to see your son does so very much resemble our friend. "

They arrived at the bank, and Larry entered while Richard and Amaliastrolled on together. "We had a friend, Harry King, "--she paused andwould have corrected herself, but then continued--"he was very muchlike to you--but he is here in trouble, and it is for that for whichwe have come here. Sir Kildene is so long in that bank! I would go inhaste to that place where is our friend. Shall we turn and walk againa little toward the bank? So will we the sooner encounter him on theway. "

They returned and met Larry coming out, stepping briskly. He too waseager to be at the courthouse. He took his son's arm and rapidly andearnestly told him the situation as he had just heard it from thecashier. He told him that which he had been keeping back, andimpressed on him the truth that unless he had returned when he did, the talk in the town was that the trial was likely to go against theprisoner. Richard would have broken into a run, in his excitement, butLarry held him back. 

"Hold back a little, boy. Let us keep pace with you. There's really nohurry, only that impulse that sent you home--it was as if you werecalled, from all I can learn. "

"It is my reprieve. I am free. He has suffered, too. Does he know yetthat I too live? Does he know?"

"Perhaps not--yet, but listen to me. Don't be too hasty in showingyourself. If they did not know him, they won't know you--for you areenough different for them never to suspect you, now that they have, orthink they have, the man for whom they have been searching. See here, man, hold back for my sake. That man--that brother-in-law of mine--haswalked for years over my heart, and I've done nothing. He has despisedme, and without reason--because I presumed to love your mother, lad, against his arrogant will. He--he--would--I will see him down in thedust of repentance. I will see him willfully convict his own son--hewho has been hungering to see you--my son--sent to a prison forlife--or hanged. "

Richard listened, lingering as Larry wished, appalled at thisrevelation, until they arrived at the edge of the crowd around thedoor, eagerly trying to wedge themselves in wherever the chanceoffered. 

"Oh! Sir Kildene--we are here--now what to do! How can we go inthere?" said Amalia. 

Larry moved them aside slowly, pushing Amalia between Richard andhimself, and intimating to those nearest him that they were requiredwithin, until a passage was gradually made for the three, and thusthey reached the door and so gained admittance. And that was how theycame to be there, crowded in a corner, all during the testimony ofBetty Ballard, unheeded by those around them--mere units in the throngtrying to hear the evidence and see the principals in the drama beingenacted before them. 

 [1] The ruling of the court upon this point was afterwards justified by the Supreme Court of Wisconsin in the case of Buel _v. _ State, 104 Wis. 132, decided in 1899. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

BETTY BALLARD'S TESTIMONY

Betty Ballard stood, her slight figure drawn up, poised, erect, herhead thrown back, and her eyes fixed on the Elder's face. The silenceof the great audience was so intense that the buzzing of fliescircling around and around near the ceiling could be heard, while thepeople all leaned forward as with one emotion, their eyes on theprincipals before them, straining to hear, vivid, intent. 

Richard saw only Betty, heeding no one but her, feeling her presence. For a moment he stood pale as death, then the red blood mounted fromhis heart, staining his neck and his face with its deep tide andthrobbing in his temples. The Elder felt her scrutiny and looked backat her, and his brows contracted into a frown of severity. 

"Miss Ballard, " said the lawyer, "you are called upon to identify theprisoner in the box. "

She lifted her eyes to the judge's face, then turned them upon MiltonHibbard, then fixed them again upon the Elder, but did not open herlips. She did not seem to be aware that every eye in the court roomwas fastened upon her. Pale and grave and silent she stood thus, forto her the struggle was only between herself and the Elder. 

"Miss Ballard, you are called upon to identify the prisoner in thebox. Can you do so?" asked the lawyer again, patiently. 

Again she turned her clear eyes on the judge's face, "Yes, I can. "Then, looking into the Elder's eyes, she said: "He is your son, ElderCraigmile. He is Peter. You know him. Look at him. He is PeterJunior. " Her voice rang clear and strong, and she pointed to theprisoner with steady hand. "Look at him, Elder Craigmile; he is yourson. "

"You will address the jury and the court, Miss Ballard, and give yourreasons for this assertion. How do you know he is Peter Craigmile, Jr. ?"

Then she turned toward the jury, and holding out both hands in suddenpleading action cried out earnestly: "I know him. He is Peter Junior. Can't you see he is Peter, the Elder's son?"

"But how do you know him?"

"Because it is he. I know him the way we always know people--byjust--knowing them. He is Peter Junior. "

"Have you seen the prisoner before since his return to Leauvite?"

"Yes, I went to the jail and I saw him, and I knew him. "

"But give a reason for your knowledge. How did you know him?"

"By--by the look in his eyes--by his hands--Oh! I just knew him in amoment. I knew him. "

"Miss Ballard, we have positive proof that Peter Junior was murderedand from the lips of his murderer. The witness just dismissed says heheard Richard Kildene tell you he pushed his cousin Peter Junior overthe bluff into the river. Can you deny this statement? On your sacredoath can you deny it?"

"No, but I don't have to deny it, for you can see for yourselves thatPeter Junior is alive. He is not dead. He is here. "

"Did Richard Kildene ever tell you he had pushed his cousin over thebluff into the river? A simple answer is required, yes, or no!"

She stood for a moment, her lips white and trembling. "Yes!"

"When did he tell you this?"

"When he came to me, just after he thought he had done it--but he wasmistaken--he did not--he only thought he had done it. "

"Did he tell you why he thought he had done it? Tell the court allabout it. "

Then Betty lifted her head and spoke rapidly--eagerly. "Because he wasvery angry with Peter Junior, and he wanted to kill him, and he didtry to push him over, but Peter struck him, and Richard didn't trulyknow whether he really pushed him over or not, --for he lay there along time before he even knew where he was, and when he came tohimself again, he could not find Peter there and only his hat andthings--he thought he must have done it, because that was what he wastrying to do, just as everyone else has thought it--because when Petersaw him lying there, he thought he had killed Richard, and so hepushed a great stone over to make every one think he had gone over thebluff and was dead, too, and he left his hat there and the otherthings, and now he has come back to give himself up, just as he hassaid, because he could not stand it to live any longer with thethought on his conscience that he had killed Richard when he struckhim. But you would not let him give himself up. You have kept oninsisting he is Richard. And it is all your fault, Elder Craigmile, because you won't look to see that he is your son. " She paused, panting, flushed and indignant. 

"Miss Ballard, you are here as a witness, " said the judge. "You mustrestrain yourself and answer the questions that are asked you and makeno comments. "

Here the Elder leaned forward and touched his attorney, and pointed ashaking hand at the prisoner and said a few words, whereat the lawyerturned sharply upon the witness. 

"Miss Ballard, you have visited the prisoner since he has been in thejail?"

"Yes, _I_ said so. "

"Your Honor, " said the examiner, "we all know that the son of theplaintiff was lame, but this young man is sound on both his feet. Youhave been told that Richard Kildene was struck on the head and thisyoung man bears the scar above his temple--"

Richard started forward, putting his hand to his head and lifting hishair as he did so. He tried to call out, but in his excitement hisvoice died in his throat, and Larry seized him and held him back. 

"Watch him, --watch your uncle, " he whispered in his ear. "He thinks hehas you there in the box and he wants you to get the worst the lawwill give you. Watch him! The girl understands him. See her eyes uponhim. Stand still, boy; give him a chance to have his will. He'll findit bitter when he learns the truth, and 'twill do him good. Wait, man!You'll have it all in your hands later, and they'll be none the worsefor waiting a bit longer. Hold on for my sake, son. I'll tell you whylater, and you'll not be sorry you gave heed to me. "

In these short ejaculated sentences, with his arm through Richard's, Larry managed to keep him by his side as the examiner talked on. 

"Your Honor, this young lady admits that she has visited the prisonerin the jail, and can give adequate reason for her assertion that he isthe man he claims to be. She tells us what occurred in that fight onthe bluff--things that she was not there to see, things she could onlylearn from the prisoner: is there not reason to believe that herevidence has been arranged between them?"

"Yes, he told me, --Peter Junior told me, and he came here to givehimself up, but you won't let him give himself up. "

"Miss Ballard, " said the judge again, "you will remember that you areto speak only in reply to questions put to you. Mr. Hibbard, continuethe examination. "

"Miss Ballard, you admit that you saw Richard Kildene after he foughtwith his cousin?"

"Yes. "

"Was his head wounded?"

"Yes. "

"What did you do?"

"I washed his head and bound it up. It was all bleeding. "

"Very well. Then you can say on your sacred oath that Richard Kildenewas living and not murdered?"

"Yes. "

"Did you see Peter Junior after they fought?"

"No. If I had seen him, I could have told everybody they were bothalive and there would have been no--"

"Look at the prisoner. Can you tell the jury where the cut on RichardKildene's head was?"

"Yes, I can. When I stood in front of him to bind it up, it was undermy right hand. "

From this point the examiner began to touch upon things Betty wouldgladly have concealed in her own heart, concerning her engagement toPeter Junior, and her secret understanding with his cousin, andwhether she loved the one or the other, and what characteristics inthem caused her to prefer the one over the other, and why she hadnever confided her preferences to any of her relatives or friends. Still, with head erect, Betty flung back her answers. 

Bertrand listened and writhed. The prisoner sat with bowed head. Tohim she seemed a veritable saint. He knew how she suffered in thispublic revelation of herself--of her innocent struggle between loveand loyalty, and maiden modesty, and that the desire to protect himand help him was giving her strength. He saw how valiantly she hasbeen guarding her terrible secret from all the world while he had beenfleeing and hiding. Ah, if he had only been courageous! If he had notfled, nor tried to cover his flight with proofs of his death! If hehad but stood to his guns like a soldier! He covered his face inshame. 

As for Richard, he gloried in her. He felt his heart swell in triumphas he listened. He heard Amalia Manovska murmur: "Ah, how she is verybeautiful! No wonder it is that they both loved her!"

While he was filled with admiration for her, yet his heart ached forher, and with anger and reproach against himself. He saw no one buther, and he wanted to end it all and carry her away, but still yieldedto his father's earnest plea that he should wait. He understood, andwould restrain himself until Larry was satisfied, and the trial ended. Still the examination went on. 

"Miss Ballard, you admit that Peter Junior was lame when last you sawhim, and you observe that the prisoner has no lameness, and you admitthat you bound up a wound which had been inflicted on the head ofRichard Kildene, and here you see the scar upon the prisoner; can youstill on your sacred oath declare this man to be the son of theplaintiff?"

"Yes!" She looked earnestly at the prisoner. "It is not the same headand it is not the same scar. " Again she extended her hands toward thejury pleadingly and then toward the prisoner. "It is not by people'slegs we know them, --nor by their scars--it is by themselves--by--bytheir souls. Oh! I know you, Peter! I know you!"

With the first petulance Milton Hibbard had shown during the trial henow turned to the prisoner's counsel and said: "Take the witness. "

"No cross-examination?" asked Nathan Goodbody, with a smile. 

"No. "

Then Betty flung one look back at the Elder, and fled to her motherand hid her flushed face on Mary Ballard's bosom. 

Now for the first time Richard could take an interest in the trialmerely for his own and Peter Junior's sake. He saw Nathan Goodbodylean over and say a few words hurriedly to the prisoner, then rise andslightly lift his hand as if to make a special request. 

"If the court please, the accused desires permission to tell his ownstory. May he be sworn on his own behalf?"

Permission being given, the prisoner rose and walked to the witnesschair, and having been sworn by the clerk to tell the truth, the wholetruth, and nothing but the truth, began his statement. 

Standing there watching him, and listening, Richard felt his heartthrob with the old friendship for this comrade of his childhood, hisyouth, and his young manhood, in school, in college, and, at last, tramping side by side on long marches, camping together, sleeping sideby side through many a night when the morrow might bring for themdeath or wounds, victory or imprisonment, --sharing the same emotionseven until the first great passion of their lives cut them asunder. 

Brought up without father or mother, this friendship had meant more toRichard than to most men. As he heard his cousin's plea he was onlyheld from hurrying forward with extended arms by Larry's whisperedwords. 

"It's fine, son. Let him have his say out. Don't stop him. Watch howit works on the old man yonder, " for Peter Junior was telling of hischildhood among the people of Leauvite, speaking in a low, clear voicewhich carried to all parts of the room. 

"Your Honor, and Gentlemen of the Jury, Because I have no witness toattest to the truth of my claim, I am forced to make this plea, simplythat you may believe me, that the accusation which my father throughhis lawyer brings against me could never be possible. You who knew mycousin, Richard Kildene, how honorable his life and his nature, knowhow impossible to him would be the crime of which I, in his name, amaccused. I could not make this claim were I any other than I am--theson of the man who--does not recognize his son. 

"Gentlemen of the Jury, you all knew us as boys together--how we lovedeach other and shared our pleasures like brothers--or more thanbrothers, for we quarreled less than brothers often do. During allthe deep friendship of our lives, only once were we angry with eachother--only once--and then--blinded by a great passion and sweptbeyond all knowledge of our acts, like men drunken we fought--westruggled against each other. Our friendship was turned to hatred. Wetried--I think my cousin was trying to throw me over the brink of thebluff--at least he was near doing it. I do not make the plea ofself-defense--for I was not acting in self-defense. I was lame, asyou have heard, and not so strong as he. I could not stand againsthis greater strength, --but in my arms and hands I had power, --andI struck him with my cane. With all my force I struck him, andhe--he--fell--wounded--and I--I--saw the blood gush from the wound Ihad made in his temple--with the stick I carried that day--in theplace of my crutch. 

"Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, it was my--intent to kill him. I--I--saw him lying at my feet--and thought I had done so. " Here PeterJunior bowed his head and covered his face with his hands, and abreathless silence reigned in the court room until he lifted his headand began again. "It is now three years and more--and during all thetime that has passed--I have seen him lying so--white--dead--and redwith his own blood--that I had shed. You asked me why I have at lastreturned, and I reply, because I will no longer bear that sight. Itis the curse of Cain that hangs over a murderer's soul, and followswherever he goes. I tell you the form of my dead friend went with mealways--sleeping, he lay beside me; waking, he lay at my feet. When Ilooked into the shadows, he was there, and when I worked in the mineand swung my pick against the walls of rock, it seemed that I stillstruck at my friend. 

"Well may my father refuse to own me as his son--me--a murderer--butone thing can I yet do to expiate my deed, --I can free my cousin'sname from all blame, and if I were to hang for my deed, gladly would Iwalk over coals to the gallows, rather than that such a crime shouldbe laid at his door as that he tried to return here and creep into myplace after throwing me over the bluff into those terrible waters. 

"Do with me what you will, Gentlemen of the Jury, but free his name. Iunderstand that my cousin's body was never found lying there as I hadleft it when I fled in cowardice--when I tried to make all the worldthink me also dead, and left him lying there--when I pushed the greatstone out of its place down where I had so nearly gone, and left myhat lying as it had fallen and threw the articles from my pocket overafter the stone I had sent crashing down into the river. Since thetestimony here given proves that I was mistaken in my belief that Ihad killed him, may God be thanked, I am free from the guilt of thatdeed. Until he returns or until he is found and is known to be living, do with me what you will. I came to you to surrender myself and makethis confession before you, and as I stand here in your presence andbefore my Maker, I declare to you that what I have said is thetruth. "

As he ceased speaking he looked steadily at the Elder's averted face, then sat down, regarding no one else. He felt he had failed, and hesat with head bowed in shame and sorrow. A low murmur rose and sweptthrough the court room like a sound of wind before a storm, and theold Elder leaned toward his lawyer and spoke in low tones, lifting ashaking finger, then dropped his hand and shifted slightly in hischair. 

As he did so Milton Hibbard arose and began his cross-examination. 

The simplicity of Peter Junior's story, and the ingenuous manner inwhich it had been told, called for a different cross-examination fromthat which would have been adopted if this same counsel had beencalled upon to cross-examine the Swede. He made no effort to entanglethe witness, but he led him instead to repeat that part of histestimony in which he had told of the motive which induced him toreturn and give himself up to justice. In doing so his questions, thetone of his voice, and his manner were marked with incredulity. It wasas if he were saying to the jury: "Just listen to this impossiblestory while I take him over it again. Did you ever hear anything likeit?" When he had gone in this direction as far as he thought discreet, he asked abruptly: "I understand that you admit that you intended tokill your cousin, and supposed you had killed him?"

"Yes. I admit it. "

"And that you ran away to escape the consequences?"

"Yes. "

"Is it your observation that acknowledged murderers are usuallypossessed of the lofty motives and high sense of justice which youclaim have actuated you?"

"I--"

Without waiting for the witness to reply, the lawyer turned and lookedat the jury and with a sneer, said: "That's all. "

"Your Honor, we have no other witness; the defense rests. I haveproposed some requests for your charge to the jury which I will handup. "

And the judge said: "Counsel may address the jury. "

During a slight pause which now ensued Larry Kildene tore a bit ofblank paper from a letter and wrote upon it: "Richard Kildene is inthis room and will come forward when called upon. " This he folded andsent by a boy to Nathan Goodbody. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

RECONCILIATION

Milton Hibbard arose and began his argument to the jury. It was aclear and forcible presentation of the case from his standpoint ascounsel for the State. 

After recapitulating all the testimony that had been brought outduring the course of the trial, he closed with an earnest appeal forthe State against the defendant, showing conclusively that he believedthe prisoner guilty. The changing expressions on the faces of the juryand among his audience showed that he was carrying them largely withhim. Before he began speaking, Richard again started forward, butstill Larry held him back. "Let be, son. Stand by and watch the oldman yonder. Hear what they have to say against Peter Junior. I want toknow what they have in their hearts. " The strong dramatic appeal whichthe situation held for Larry was communicated through him to Richardalso, and again he waited, and Milton Hibbard continued his oratory. 

"After all, the evidence against the prisoner still standsuncontradicted. You may see that to be able to sway you as he has, tobe able to stand here and make his most touching and dramatic pleadirectly in the face of conclusive evidence, to dare to speak thus, proves the man to be a most consummate actor. Your Honor and Gentlemenof the Jury, nothing has ever been said against the intellect orfacile ability of the prisoner. The glimpses we have been shown of hisboyhood, even, prove his skill in carrying a part and holding a powerover his comrades, and here we have the talent developed in the man. 

"He is too wise to try to deny the statements made by the witnesses ofthe State, but from the moment Miss Ballard was allowed to see himalone in the jail, he has been able to carry the young lady with him. We do not bring any accusation against the young lady. No doubt shethinks him what he claims to be. No doubt he succeeded in persuadingher he is her former fiancé, knowing well that he saw her and talkedwith her before he fled, believing that her innocent acceptance of hisstory as the true explanation of his reappearance here and now willplace him securely in the home of the man he claims is his father. That she saw Richard Kildene and knows him to be living is his reasonfor reappearing here and trying this most daring plea. 

"Is the true Peter Craigmile, Jr. , dead? Then he can never arise totake the place this young man is now daring to usurp. Can RichardKildene be proved to be living? Then is he, posing as Peter Craigmile, Jr. , free from the charge of murder even if he makes confessionthereto. He returns and makes this plea because he would live the lifeof a free man and not that of an outcast. He has himself told youwhy. 

"Now, as for the proofs that he is Richard Kildene, you have heardthem--and know them to be unanswered. He has not the marks of ElderCraigmile's son. You have seen how the man he claims is his fatherrefuses to even look upon him. Could a father be so deceived as notto know his own son? When Peter Craigmile, Jr. , disappeared he waslame and feeble. This man returns, --strong and walking as well as onewho never received a wound. Why, gentlemen, he stepped up here like asoldier--erect as a man who is sound in every limb. In that hissubtlety has failed him. He forgot to act the part. But thisforgetfulness only goes to further prove the point in hand. He was sosure of success that he forgot to act the part of the man he pretendsto be. 

"He has forgotten to tell the court how he came by that scar above histemple, --yet he makes the statement that he himself inflicted such awound on the head of Richard Kildene--the omission is remarkable in soclever an actor. Miss Ballard also admits having bound up that woundon the head of Richard Kildene, --but still she claims that this man isher former fiancé, Peter Craigmile, Jr. Gentlemen of the Jury, is itpossible that you can retire from this court room and not considercarefully this point? Is it not plainly to be seen that the prisonerthought to return and take the place of the man he has slain, andthrough the testimony of the young lady prove himself free from thething of which he accuses himself in his confession, and so livehereafter the life of a free man without stain--and at last to marrythe young girl he has loved, of whom he robbed his cousin, and forwhom he killed him, and counting on the undeniable resemblance to thatcousin, as proved in this court, to deceive not only the young ladyherself--but also this whole community--thus making capital out ofthat resemblance to his own advantage and--"

"Never! Never!" cried a voice from the far corner of the court room. Instantly there was a stir all over. The Elder jumped up and frownedtoward the place from whence the interruption came, and Milton Hibbardlifted his voice and tried to drown the uproar that rose and filledthe room, but not one word he uttered could be heard. 

Order was called, and the stillness which ensued seemed ominous. Someone was elbowing his way forward, and as he passed through the crowdthe uproar began again. Every one was on his feet, and although theprisoner stood and gazed toward the source of commotion he could notsee the man who spoke. He looked across to the place where BettyBallard had been sitting between her father and mother, and there hesaw her standing on a chair, forgetful of the throng around her and ofall the eyes that had been fixed upon her during her testimony in coldcriticism, a wonderful, transfiguring light in her great gray eyes, and her arms stretched out toward some one in the surging crowd whowas drawing nearer to the prisoner's box. Her lips were moving. Shewas repeating a name over and over. He knew the name she was repeatingsoundlessly, with quivering lips, and his heart gave a great bound andthen stopped beating, and he fell upon his knees and bowed his head onhis hands as they clung to the railing in front of him. 

Amalia, watching them all, with throbbing pulses and luminouseyes, saw and understood, and her spirit was filled with a greatthankfulness which she could not voice, but which lifted her, sereneand still, above every one there. Now she looked only at PeterJunior. Then a tremor crept over her, and, turning, she claspedLarry's arm with shaking hands. 

"Let me that I lean a little upon you or I fall down. How this isbeautiful!"

Larry put his arm about her and held her to him, supporting hergently. "It's all coming right, you see. "

"Yes. But, how it is terrible for the old man! It is as if thelightning had fallen on him. "

Larry glanced at his brother-in-law and then looked away. After allhis desire to see him humbled, he felt a sense of shame in watchingthe old man's abject humility and remorse. Thereafter he kept his eyesfixed on his son, as he struggled with the throng packed closelyaround him and shouting now his name. Suddenly, when he could nolonger progress, Richard felt himself lifted off his feet, and there, borne on the shoulders of the men, --as he had so shortly before beenborne in triumph through the streets of Paris, --he was carriedforward, this time by men who had tramped in the same column ofinfantry with him. Gladly now they held him aloft and shouted hisname, and the people roared it back to them as they made way, and hewas set down, as he directed, in the box beside the prisoner. 

Had the Judge then tried to restore order it would have been futile. He did not try. He stood smiling, with his hand on the old Elder'sshoulder. Then, while the people cheered and stamped and shouted thenames of the two young men, and while women wept and turned to eachother, clasping hands and laughing through tears, Milton Hibbardstooped and spoke in the Elder's ear. 

"I throw up the case, man, and rejoice with you and the whole town. Godown there and take back your son. "

"The Lord has visited me heavily for the wicked pride of my heart. Ihave no right to joy in my son's return. He should cast me off. " Theold man sat there, shriveled and weary--gazing straight before him, and seeing only his own foolish prejudice, like a Giant Despair, looming over him. But fortunately for him, no one saw him or noticedhim but the two at his side, for all eyes were fixed on the young men, as they stood facing each other and gazed in each other's eyes. 

It was a moment of breathless suspense throughout the court room, asif the crowd by one impulse were waiting to hear the young man speak, and the Judge seized the opportunity to again call for order. 

When order had been secured, the prisoner's counsel rose and said: "Ifyour Honor please, I ask leave to have the proofs opened, and to bepermitted to call another witness. "

The Judge replied: "I have no doubt the District Attorney will consentto this request. You may call your witness. "

"Richard Kildene!" rang out the triumphant voice of Nathan Goodbody, and Richard stepped into the witness box and was sworn. 

The natural eloquence with which he had been endowed was increasedtenfold by his intense earnestness as he stood, turning now to theJudge and now to the jury, and told his story. The great audience, watching him and listening breathlessly, perceived the differencesbetween the two men, a strong individuality in each causing suchdiversity of character that the words of Betty Ballard, which had soirritated the counsel, and which seemed so childish, now appealed tothem as the truest wisdom--the wisdom of the "Child" who "shall leadthem. "

"It is not the same head and it is not the same scar. It is not bytheir legs or their scars we know people, it is by themselves--bytheir souls. " Betty was vindicated. 

Poignantly, intently, the audience felt as he wished them to feel thetruth of his words, as he described the eternal vigilance of a man'sown soul when he has a crime to expiate, and when he concluded bysaying: "It is the Eye of Dread that sees into the hidden recesses ofthe heart, --to the uttermost end of life, --that follows the sinnereven into his grave, until he yields to the demands of righteousnessand accepts the terms of absolute truth, " he carried them all withhim, and again the tumult broke loose, and they shouted and laughedand wept and congratulated each other. The Judge himself sat stifflyin his seat, his chin quivering with an emotion he was making adesperate effort to conceal. Finally he turned and nodded to thesheriff, who rapped loudly for order. In a moment the room was silent, every one eager to hear what was to be the next step in the legaldrama. 

"Gentlemen of the Jury, " said the Judge, "Notwithstanding what hasoccurred, it becomes our duty to proceed to an orderly determinationof this case. If you believe the testimony of the last witness, then, of course, the crime charged has not been committed, the respondent isnot guilty, and he is entitled to your verdict. You may, if youchoose, consult together where you are, and if you agree upon averdict, the court will receive it. If you prefer to retire toconsider your verdict, you may do so. "

The foreman of the jury then wrote the words, "Not guilty" on a pieceof paper, and writing his name under it, passed it to the others. Eachjuror quickly signed his name under that of the foreman, and when itwas returned to him, he arose and said: "The jury finds the accusednot guilty. "

Then for the first time every one looked at the Elder. He was seatedbowed over his clasped hands, as if he were praying, as indeed he was, a fervent prayer for forgiveness. 

Very quietly the people left the court room, filled with a reverentawe by the sight of the old man's face. It was as if he had suddenlydied to the world while still sitting there before them. But at thedoor they gathered and waited. Larry Kildene waited with them until hespied Mary Ballard and Bertrand, with Betty, leaving, when he followedthem and gave Amalia into their charge. It was a swift and gladmeeting between Larry and his old friends, and a hurried explanation. 

"I'm coming to tell you the whole, soon, but meantime I've broughtthis lovely young lady for you to care for. Go with them, Amalia, andtell them all about yourself, for they will be father and mother andsister to you. I've found my son--I've a world to tell you, but now Imust hurry back and comfort my brother-in-law a bit. " He took Mary'shand in his and held it a moment, then Bertrand's, and then herelieved the situation by taking Betty's and looking into her eyes, which looked tearfully back at him. Stooping, as if irresistibly drawnto her, he touched her fingers with his lips, and then lightly herhair. It was done with the grace of an old courtier, and he was gone, disappearing in the courthouse. 

For a good while the crowd waited around the doors, neighbor visitingwith neighbor and recounting the events of the trial that had mostimpressed them, and telling one and another how they had all alongfelt that the young prisoner was no other than Peter Junior, andlaying all the blame on the Elder's reckless offer of so large areward. Nels Nelson crept sulkily back to the stable, and G. B. Stilesreturned to the hotel and packed his great valise and was taken to thestation in the omnibus by Nels Nelson. As they parted, G. B. Stilesasked for the paper he had given the Swede. 

"It's no good to you or any one now, you know. You're out nothing. I'mthe only one that's out--all I've spent--"

"Yas, bot I got heem. You not--all ofer de vorl. Dey vas bot' coomback, dot's all, " and so they parted. 

Every one was glad and rejoiced over the return of the young men, witha sense of relief that resulted in hilarity, and no one would leaveuntil he had had a chance to grasp the hands of the "boys. " The men ofthe jury lingered with the rest, all eager to convince their friendsthat they would never have found the prisoner guilty of the chargeagainst him, and at the same time chaffing each other about theirdiscussions, and the way in which one and another had been caught bythe evidence and Peter's changed appearance. 

At last the doors of the courthouse opened, and the Judge, and MiltonHibbard, Peter Junior, his father, and the lawyers, and Larry andRichard walked out in a group, when shouting and cheering began anew. Before descending the steps, the Elder, with bared head, steppedforward and stood regarding the people in silence, and the noise ofshouting and cheering stopped as suddenly as it began. The devout oldman stood erect, but his words came to them brokenly. 

"My friends and my neighbors, as you all know, I have this day beensaved--from committing, in my blindness and my stubbornness, a greatcrime, --for which the Lord be thanked. Unworthy as I am, this day myson has been restored to me, fine and strong, for which the Lord bethanked. And here, the young man brought up as a brother to him, isagain among you who have always loved him, "--he turned and tookRichard by the hand, and waited a moment; then, getting control ofhimself, once more continued--"for which again, I say, the Lord bethanked. 

"And now let me present to you one whom many of you know already, whohas returned to us after many years--one whom in the past I havegreatly wronged. Let me here and now make confession before you all, and present him to you as a man--" He turned and placed his hand onLarry's shoulder. "Let me present him to you as a man who can forgivean enemy--even so far as to allow that man who was his enemy to claimhim forevermore as--as--brother--and friend, --Larry Kildene!" Againcheers burst forth and again were held back as the Elder continued. "Neighbors--he has sent us back my son. He has saved me--more thanme--from ruin and disaster, in these days when ruin is abroad in theland. How he has done it you will soon learn, for I ask you all tocome round to my house this night and--partake of--of--a littlecollation to be prepared by Mr. Decker and sent in for this occasion. "The old man's voice grew stronger as he proceeded, "Just to welcomehome these boys of ours--our young men--and this man--generous and--"

"You've not been the only one to blame. " Larry stepped forward andseized the Elder's hand, "I take my share of the sorrow--but it ispast. We're friends--all of us--and we'll go all around to ElderCraigmile's house this night, and help him give thanks by partaking ofhis bounty--and now--will ye lift your voices and give a cheer forElder Craigmile, a man who has stood in this community for all that isexcellent, for uprightness and advancement, for honor and purity, aman respected, admired, and true--who has stood for the good of hisfellows in this town of Leauvite for fifty years. " Larry Kildenelifted his hand above his head and smiled a smile that would havedrawn cheers from the very paving stones. 

And the cheers came, heartily and strongly, as the four men, ruggedand strong, the gray-haired and the brown-haired, passed through thecrowd and across the town square and up the main street, and on to theElder's home. 

Ere an hour had passed all was quiet, and the small town of Leauvitehad taken up the even tenor of its way. After a little time, LarryKildene and Richard left the Elder and his son by themselves andstrolled away from the town on the familiar road toward the river. They talked quietly and happily of things nearest their hearts, asthey had need to do, until they came to a certain fork of the road, when Larry paused, standing a moment with his arm across his son'sshoulder. 

"I'll go on a piece by myself, Richard. I'm thinking you'll be wantingto make a little visit. "

Richard's eyes danced. "Come with me, father, come. There'll be othersthere for you to talk with--who'll be glad to have you there, and--"

"Go to, go to! I know the ways of a man's heart as well as the next. "

"I'll warrant you do, father!" and Richard bounded away, taking thepath he had so often trod in his boyhood. Larry stood and looked afterhim a moment. He was pleased to hear how readily the word, father, fell from the young man's lips. Yes, Richard was facile and ready. Hewas his own son. 

CHAPTER XL

THE SAME BOY

Mary Ballard stepped down from the open porch where Amalia and therest of the family sat behind a screen of vines, interestedly talking, and walked along the path between the rose bushes that led to thegate. She knew Richard must be coming when she saw Betty, who satwhere she could glance now and then down the road, drop her sewing andhurry away through the house and off toward the spring. As Larry knewthe heart of a man, so Mary Ballard knew the heart of a girl. She saidnothing, but quietly strolled along and waited with her hand on thegate. 

"I wanted to be the first to open the gate to you, Richard, " she said, as he approached her with extended arms. Silently he drew her to himand kissed her. She held him off a moment and gazed into his eyes. 

"Yes, I'm the same boy. I think that was what you said to me when Ientered the army--that I should come back to you the same boy? I'vealways had it in mind. I'm the same boy. "

"I believe you, Richard. They are all out on the front porch, andBertrand is with them--if you wish to see him--first--and if you wishto see Betty, take the path at the side, around the house to thespring below the garden. "

Betty stood with her back to the house under the great Bartlett peartree. She was trembling. She would not look around--Oh, no! She wouldwait until he asked for her. He might not ask for her! If he did not, she would not go in--not yet. But she did look around, for she felthim near her--she was sure--sure--he was near--close--

"Oh, Richard, Richard! Oh, Richard, did you know that I have beencalling you in my heart--so hard, calling you, calling you?"

She was in his arms and his lips were on hers. "The same little Betty!The same dear little Betty! Lovelier--sweeter--you wore a white dresswith little green sprigs on it--is this the dress?"

"Yes, no. I couldn't wear the same old one all this time. " She spokebetween laughing and crying. 

"Why is this just like it?"

"Because. "

He held her away and gazed at her a moment. "What a lovely reason!What a lovely Betty!" He drew her to him again. "I heard it all--therein the court room. I was there and heard. What a load you have bornefor me--my little Betty--all this time--what a load!"

"It was horrible, Richard. " She hid her flaming face on his breast. "There, before the whole town--to tell every one--everything. I--I--don't even know what I said. "

"I do. Every word--dear little Betty! While I have been hiding like agreat coward, you have been bravely bearing my terrible burden, bearing it for me. "

"Oh, Richard! For weeks and weeks my heart has been calling you, calling you--night and day, calling you to come home. I told them hewas Peter Junior, but they would not believe me--no one would believeme but mother. Father tried to, but only mother really did. "

"I heard you, Betty. I had a dingy little studio up three flights ofstairs in Paris, and I sat there painting one day--and I heard you. Ihad sent a picture to the Salon, and was waiting in suspense to knowthe result, and I heard your call--"

"Was--was--that what made you come home--or--or was it because youknew you ought to?" She lifted her head and looked straight into hiseyes. 

Richard laughed. "It's the same little Betty! The same Betty with thesame conscience bigger than her head--almost bigger than her heart. Ican't tell you what it was. I heard it again and again, and the lasttime I just packed my things and wound up matters there--I had made asuccess, Betty, dear--let me say that. It makes me feel just a littlebit more worth your while. I thought to make a success would be sweet, but it was all worthless--I'll tell you all about it later--but it wasno help and I just followed the call and returned, hurrying as if Iknew all about the thing that was going on, when really I knewnothing. Sometimes I thought it was you calling me, and sometimes Ithought it was my own conscience, and sometimes I thought it was onlythat I could no longer bear my own thoughts--See here, Betty, darling--don't--don't ever kill any one, for the thought that you havecommitted a murder is an awful thing to carry about with you. "

She laughed and hid her face again on his breast. "Richard, how canwe laugh--when it has all been so horrible?"

"We can't, Betty--we're crying. " She looked up at him again, andsurely his eyes were filled with tears. She put up her hand andlightly touched his lips with her fingers. 

"I know. I know you've suffered, Richard. I see the lines of sorrowhere about your mouth--even when you smile. I saw the same in PeterJunior's face, and it was so sad--I just hugged him, I was so glad itwas he--I--I--hugged him and kissed him--"

"Bless his heart! Somebody ought to. "

"Somebody will. She's beautiful--and so--fascinating! Let's go in soyou can meet her. "

"I have met her, and father has told me a great deal about her. I'vehad a fine talk with my father. How wonderful that Peter should havebeen the means of finding my father for me--and such a splendidfather! I often used to think out what kind of a father I would likeif I could choose one, but I never thought out just such a combinationof delightful qualities as I find in him. "

"It's like a story, isn't it? And we'll all live happily ever after. Shall we go in and see the rest, Richard? They'll be wanting to seeyou too. "

"Let's go over here and sit down. I don't want to see the rest quiteyet, little one. Why, Betty, do you suppose I can let go of you yet?"

"No, " said Betty, meekly, and again Richard laughed. She lifted thehair from his temple and touched the old scar. 

"Yes, it's there, Betty. I'm glad he hit me that welt. I would havepushed him over but for that. I deserved it. "

"You're not so like him--not so like as you used to be. No one wouldmistake you now. You don't look so much like yourself as you usedto--and you've a lot of white in your hair. Oh, Richard!"

"Yes. It's been pretty tough, Betty, dear, --pretty tough. Let's talkof something else. "

"And all the time I couldn't help you--even the least bit. "

"But you were a help all the time--all the time. "

"How, Richard?"

"I had a clean, sweet, perfect, innocent place always in my heartwhere you were that kept me from caring for a lot of foolishness thattempted other men. It was a good, sweet, wholesome place where you satalways. When I wanted to see you sitting there, I had only to take afunny little leather housewife, all worn, and tied with cherry-coloredhair ribbons, in my hand and look at it and remember. "

Betty sighed a long sigh of contentment and settled herself closer inhis arms. "Yes, I was there, and God heard me praying for you. Sometimes I felt myself there. "

"In the secret chamber of my heart, Betty, dear?"

"Yes. " They were silent for a while, one of the blessed silences whichmake life worth living. Then Betty lifted her head. "Tell me aboutParis, Richard, and what you did there. It was Peter who was wild togo and paint in Paris and it was you who went. That was why no onefound you. They never thought that of you--but I would have thoughtit. I knew you had it in you. "

"Oh, yes, after a fashion I had it in me. "

"But you said you met with success. Did that mean you were admitted tothe Salon?"

"Yes, dear. "

"Oh, Richard! How tremendous! I've read a lot about it. Oh, Richard!Did you like the 'Old Masters'?"

"Did I! Betty, I learned a thing about your father, looking at thework of some of those great old fellows. I learned that he is a betterpainter and a greater man than people over here know. "

"Mother knew it--all the time. "

"Ah, yes, your mother! Would you like to go there, Betty? Then I'lltake you. We'll be married right away, won't we, dear?"

"You know, Richard, I believe I would be perfectly--absolutely--terriblyhappy--if--if I could only get over being mad at your uncle. He was sostubborn, he was just wicked. I hated him--I--I hated him so, and nowit seems as if I had got used to hating him and couldn't stop. "

She had been so brave and had not once given way, but now at thethought of all the bitterness and the fight of her will against thatof the old man, she sobbed in his arms. Her whole frame shook and hegathered her close and comforted her. "He--he--he was alwayssaying--saying--"

"Never mind now what he was saying, dear. Listen. "

"I--I--I--am afraid--I can never see him--or--or look at himagain--I--I--hate him so!"

"No, no. Don't hate him. Any one would have done the same in his placewho believed as firmly as he did what he believed. "

"B--b--but he didn't need to believe it. "

"You see he had known through that Dane man--or whatever he is--fromthe detective--all I told you that night--how could he help it? Ibelieved Peter was dead--we all did--you did. He had brooded over itand slept upon it--no wonder he refused even to look at Peter. If youhad seen Uncle Elder there in the court room after the people hadgone, if you had seen him then, Betty, you would never hate himagain. "

"All the same, if--if--you hadn't come home when you did, --and thelaw of Wisconsin allowed of hanging--he would have had him, Peter Junior--he would have had his own son hanged, --and beenglad--glad--because he would have thought he was hanging you. I dohate--"

"No, no. And as he very tersely said--if all had been as it seemed, and it had been me--trying to take the place of Peter Junior--I wouldhave deserved hanging--now wouldn't I, after all the years when UncleElder had been good to me for his sister's sake?"

"That's it--for his sister's sake--n--n--not for yours, always himselfand his came first. And then it wouldn't have been so. Even if it wereso, it wouldn't have been so--I mean--I wouldn't have believedit--because it couldn't have been you and been so--"

"Darling little Irish Betty! What a fine daughter you will be to myIrish Dad! Oh, my dear! my dear!"

"But you know such a thing would have been impossible for you to do. They might have known it, too, if they'd had any sense. And that scaron Peter's head--that was a new one and yours is an old one. If theyhad had any sense, they could have seen that, too. "

"Never any man on earth had a sweeter job than I! It's worth all I'vebeen through to come home here and comfort you. Let's keep it up allour lives, see? You always stay mad at Uncle Elder, and I'll alwayscomfort you--just like this. "

Then Betty laughed through her tears, and they kissed again, and thenproceeded to settle all their future to Richard's heart's content. Then, after a long while, they crept in where the family were allseated at supper, and instantly everything in the way of decorum atmeals was demoralized. Every one jumped up, and Betty and Richard weresurrounded and tumbled about and hugged and kissed by all--until ashrill, childish voice raised a shout of laughter as little Janeysaid: "What are we all kissing Betty for? She hasn't been away; she'sbeen here all the time. "

It was Peter Junior who broke up the rout. He came in upon them, saying he had left his father asleep, exhausted after the day'semotion, and that he had come home to the Ballards to get a littlesupper. Then it was all to be done over again, and Peter was jumbledup among outstretched arms, and shaken and pounded and hugged, andhappy he was to be taken once more thus vociferously into the homethat had always meant so much to him. There they all were, --Martha andJulien--James and Bob, as the boys were called these days, --and littleJaney--and Bertrand as joyous as a boy, and Mary--she who had alwaysknown--even as Betty said, smiling on him in the old way--and there, watching all with glowing eyes, Amalia at one side, waiting, untilPeter had her, too, in his arms. 

Quickly Martha set a place for Peter between Amalia and herself. Yes, it was all as it should be--the circle now complete--only--"Where isyour father, Richard?" asked Mary. 

"He went off for a walk. Isn't he a glorious father for a man to fallheir to? We're all to meet at Uncle Elder's to-night, and he'll bethere. "

"Will he? I'm so glad. "

"Yes, Mrs. Ballard. " Richard looked gravely into her eyes and from herto Bertrand. "You left after the verdict. You weren't at thecourthouse at the last. It's all come right, and it's going to stayso. "

The meal progressed and ended amid laughter; and a little later thefamily all set out for the banker's home. 

"How I wish Hester were here!" said Mary. "I did not wish her herebefore--but now we want her. " She looked at Peter. 

"Yes, now we want her. We're ready for her at last. Father leaves forNew York to-morrow to fetch her. She's coming on the next steamship, and he'll meet her and bring her back to us all. "

"How that is beautiful!" murmured Amalia, as she walked at Peter'sside. He looked down at her and noted a weariness in her manner shestrove to conceal. 

"Come back with me a little--just a little while. I can go later to myfather's, and he will excuse you, and I'll take you to him before heleaves to-morrow. Come, I think I know where we may find LarryKildene. " So Peter led her away into the dusk, and they walkedslowly--slowly--along the road leading to the river bluff--but not tothe top. 

After a long hour Larry came down from the height where he had beencommuning with himself and found them in the sweet starlight seated bythe wayside, and passed them, although he knew they were Peter andAmalia. He walked lingeringly, feeling himself very much alone, untilhe was seized by either arm and held. 

"It is your blessing, Sir Kildene, we ask it. "

And Larry gave them the blessing they asked, and took Amalia in hisarms and kissed her. "I thought from the first that you might be myson, Peter, and it means no diminution in my love for you that I findyou are not. It's been a great day--a great day--a great day, " he saidas if to himself, and they walked on together. 

"Yes, yes! Sir Kildene, I am never to know again fear. I am to havethe new name, so strong and fine. Well can I say it. Hear me. Peter-Craigmile-Junior. A strange, fine name--it is to be mine--givento me. How all is beautiful here! It is the joy of heaven in myheart--like--like heaven, is not, Peter?"

"Now you are here--yes, Amalia. "

"So have I say to you before--to love is all of heaven--and all oflife, is not?"

Peter held in his hand the little crucifix he had worn on his bosomsince their parting. In the darkness he felt rather than saw it. Heplaced it in her hand and drew her close as they walked. "Yes, Amalia, yes. You have taught me. Hatred destroys like a blast, but love--loveis life itself. "