Short Story Classics (American) Vol. 2 (2024)

THE Colonel was the idol ofhis bragging old regiment and of the bragging brigade which for the last sixmonths he had commanded.

He was the idol, not because he was good andgracious, not because he spared his soldiers or treated them as fellow-citizens, but because he had led them to victory and made them famous. If a manwill win battles and give his brigade a right to brag loudly of its doings, hemay have its admiration and even its enthusiastic devotion, though he be aspitiless and as wicked as Lucifer.

"It's nothin' to me what the Currnellis in prrivit, so long as he shows us how to whack the rrebs," said MajorGahogan, commandant of the "Old Tenth." "Moses saw God in the burrnin' bussh,an' bowed down to it, an' worrshipt it. It wasn't the bussh he worrshipt; itwas his God that was in it. An' I worr-ship this villin of a Currnell (if he isa villin) because he's almighty and gives us the vict'ry. He's nothin' but ahuman burrnin' bussh, perhaps, but he's got the god of war in urn. AdjetantWallis, it's a ——— long time between dhrinks, as I think yewas sayin', an' with rayson. See if ye can't confiscate a canteen of whiskeesomewhere in the camp. Bedad, if I can't buy it I'll stale it. We're goin' tofight tomorry, an' it may be it's the last chance we'll have for a dhrink,unless there's more lik'r now in the other worrld than Dives got."

Thebrigade was bivouacked in some invisible region, amid the damp, misty darknessof a September night. The men lay in their ranks, each with his feet to thefront and his head rearward, each covered by his overcoat and pillowed upon hishaversack, each with his loaded rifle nestled close beside him. Asleep as theywere, or dropping placidly into slumber, they were ready to start in order totheir feet and pour out the red light and harsh roar of combat. There were twolines of battle, each of three regiments of infantry, the first some twohundred yards in advance of the second. In the space between them lay two four-gun batteries, one of them brass twelve-pounder "Napoleons," and the otherrifled Parrotts. To the rear of the infantry were the recumbent troopers andpicketed horses of a regiment of cavalry. All around, in the far, blackdistance, invisible and inaudible, paced or watched stealthily the sentinels ofthe grand guards.

There was not a fire, not a torch, nor a star-beam inthe whole bivouac to guide the feet of Adjutant Wallis in his pilgrimage afterwhiskey. The orders from brigade headquarters had been strict againstilluminations, for the Confederates were near at hand in force, and a surprisewas proposed as well as feared. A tired and sleepy youngster, almost droppingwith the heavy somnolence of wearied adolescence, he stumbled on through thetrials of an undiscernible and unfamiliar footing, lifting his heavy riding-boots sluggishly over imaginary obstacles, and fearing the while lest his toilwere labor misspent. It was a dry camp, he felt dolefully certain, or therewould have been more noise in it. He fell over a sleeping sergeant, and said tohim hastily, "Steady, man—a friend!" as the half-roused soldier clutchedhis rifle. Then he found a lieutenant, and shook him in vain; further on acaptain, and exchanged saddening murmurs with him; further still a camp-follower of African extraction, and blasphemed him.

"It's a God-forsakencamp, and there isn't a horn in it," said Adjutant Wallis to himself as hepursued his groping journey. "Bet you I don't find the first drop," hecontinued, for he was a betting boy, and frequently argued by wagers, even withhimself. "Bet you two to one I don't. Bet you three to one—ten toone."

Then he saw, an indefinite distance beyond him, burning like red-hot iron through the darkness, a little scarlet or crimson gleam, as of alighted cigar.

"That's Old Grumps, of the Bloody Fourteenth," hethought. "I've raided into his happy sleeping-grounds. I'll draw onhim."

But Old Grumps, otherwise Colonel Lafayette Gildersleeve, had norations—that is, no whiskey.

"How do you suppose an officer is tohave a drink, Lieutenant?" he grumbled. "Don't you know that our would-beBrigadier sent all the commissary to the rear day before yesterday? Acanteenful can't last two days. Mine went empty about five minutesago."

"Oh, thunder!" groaned Wallis, saddened by that saddest of allthoughts, "Too late!" "Well, least said soonest mended. I must wobble back tomy Major."

"He'll send you off to some other camp as dry as this one.Wait ten minutes, and he'll be asleep. Lie down on my blanket and light yourpipe. I want to talk to you about, official business—about our would-beBrigadier."

"Oh, your turn will come some day," mumbled Wallis,remembering Gildersleeve's jealousy of the brigade commander—a jealousywhich only gave tongue when aroused by "commissary." "If you do as well asusual to-morrow you can have your own brigade."

"I suppose you think weare all going to do well to-morrow," scoffed old Grumps, whose utterance bythis time stumbled. "I suppose you expect to whip and to have a good time. Isuppose you brag on fighting and enjoy it."

"I like it well enough whenit goes right; and it generally does go right with this brigade. I should likeit better if the rebs would fire higher and break quicker."

"Thatdepends on the way those are commanded whose business it is to break them,"growled Old Grumps. "I don't say but what we are rightly commanded," he added,remembering his duty to superiors. "I concede and acknowledge that our would-beBrigadier knows his military business. But the blessing of God, Wallis! Ibelieve in Waldron as a soldier. But as a man and a Christian,faugh!"

Gildersleeve had clearly emptied his canteen unassisted; henever talked about Christianity when perfectly sober.

"What was yourlast remark?" inquired Wallis, taking his pipe from his mouth to grin. Even asuperior officer might be chaffed a little in the darkness.

"I made nolast remark," asserted the Colonel with dignity. "I'm not a-dying yet. If Isaid anything last it was a mere exclamation of disgust—the disgust of anofficer and gentleman. I suppose you know something about our would-beBrigadier. I suppose you think you know something about him."

"Bet you Iknow all about him" affirmed Wallis. "He enlisted in the Old Tenth as acommon soldier. Before he had been a week in camp they found that he knew hisbiz, and they made him a sergeant. Before we started for the field the Governorgot his eye on him and shoved him into a lieutenancy. The first battle h'istedhim to a captain. And the second—bang! whiz! he shot up to colonel rightover the heads of everybody, line and field. Nobody in the Old Tenth grumbled.They saw that he knew his biz. I know all about him. What'll youbet?"

"I'm not a betting man, Lieutenant, except in a friendly game ofpoker," sighed Old Grumps. "You don't know anything about your Brigadier," headded in a sepulchral murmur, the echo of an empty canteen. "I have only beenin this brigade a month, and I know more than you do, far, very far more, sorryto say it. He's a reformed clergyman. He's an apostatized minister." TheColonel's voice as he said this was solemn and sad enough to do credit to anundertaker. "It's a bad sort, Wallis," he continued, after another deep sigh, avery highly perfumed one, the sigh of a barkeeper. "When a clergyman falls, hefalls for life and eternity, like a woman or an angel. I never knew abackslidden shepherd to come to good. Sooner or later he always goes to thedevil, and takes down whomsoever hangs to him."

"He'll take down the OldTenth, then," asserted Wallis. "It hangs to him. Bet you two to one he takes italong."

"You're right, Adjutant; spoken like a soldier," sworeGildersleeve. "And the Bloody Fourteenth, too. It will march into the burningpit as far as any regiment; and the whole brigade, yes, sir! But a backsliddenshepherd, my God! Have we come to that? I often say to myself, in the solemnhours of the night, as I remember my Sabbath-school days, 'Great Scott! have wecome to that?' A reformed clergyman! An apostatized minister! Think of it,Wallis, think of it! Why, sir, his very wife ran away from him. They had butjust buried their first boy," pursued Old Grumps, his hoarse voice sinking to awhimper. "They drove home from the burial-place, where lay the new-made grave.Arrived at their door, he got out and extended his hand to helpher out. Instead of accepting, instead of throwing herself into his armsand weeping there, she turned to the coachman and said, 'Driver, drive me to myfather's house.' That was the end of their wedded life, Wallis."

TheColonel actually wept at this point, and the maudlin tears were not altogetherinsincere. His own wife and children he heartily loved, and remembered them nowwith honest tenderness. At home he was not a drinker and a rough; only amid thehardships and perils of the field.

"That was the end of it, Wallis," herepeated. "And what was it while it lasted? What does a woman leave her husbandfor? Why does she separate from him over the grave of her innocent first-born?There are twenty reasons, but they must all of them be good ones. I am sorry togive it as my decided opinion, Wallis, in perfect confidence, that they mustall be whopping good ones. Well, that was the beginning; only the beginning.After that he held on for a while, breaking the bread of life to a skedaddlingflock, and then he bolted. The next known of him, three years later, heenlisted in your regiment, a smart but seedy recruit, smelling strongly ofwhiskey."

"I wish I smelt half as strong of it myself," grumbled Wallis."It might keep out the swamp fever."

"That's the true story of Col. JohnJames Waldron," continued Old Grumps, with a groan which was very somnolent, asif it were a twin to a snore. "That's the true story."

"I don't believethe first word of it—that is to say, Colonel, I think you have beenmisinformed—and I'll bet you two to one on it. If he was nothing morethan a minister, how did he know drill and tactics?"

"Oh, I forgot tosay he went through West Point—that is, nearly through. They graduatedhim in his third year by the back door, Wallis."

"Oh, that was it, wasit? He was a West Pointer, was he? Well, then, the backsliding was natural, andoughtn't to count against him. A member of Benny Havens's church has a right tobackslide anywhere, especially as the Colonel doesn't seem to be any worse thansome of the rest of us, who haven't fallen from grace the least particle, buttook our stand at the start just where we are now. A fellow that begins with ahandful of trumps has a right to play a risky game."

"I know whateuchered him, Wallis. It was the old Little Joker; and there's another of thesame on hand now."

"On hand where? What are you driving at,Colonel?"

"He looks like a boy. I mean she looks like a boy. You knowwhat I mean, Wallis; I mean the boy that makes believe to wait on him. And herbrother is in camp, got here to-night. There'll be an explanation to-morrow,and there'll be bloodshed."

"Good-night, Colonel, and sleep it off,"said Wallis, rising from the side of a man whom he believed to be sillily drunkand altogether untrustworthy. "You know we get after the rebs atdawn."

"I know it—goo-night, Adjutant—gawblessyou," mumbledOld Crumps. "We'll lick those rebs, won't we?" he chuckled. "Goo-night, olefellow, an' gawblessyou."

Whereupon Old Grumps fell asleep, veryabsurdly overcome by liquor, we extremely regret to concede, but nobly sure todo his soldierly duty as soon as he should awake.

Stumbling wearilyblanketward, Wallis found his Major and regimental commander, the genial andgallant Gahogan, slumbering in a peace like that of the just. He stretchedhimself anear, put out his hand to touch his sabre and revolver, drew his capedgreatcoat over him, moved once to free his back of a root or pebble, glancedlanguidly at a single struggling star, thought for an instant of his far-awaymother, turned his head with a sigh and slept. In the morning he was to fight,and perhaps to die; but the boyish veteran was too seasoned, and also tootired, to mind that; he could mind but one thing—nature's pleading forrest.

In the iron-gray dawn, while the troops were falling dimly andspectrally into line, and he was mounting his horse to be ready for orders, heremembered Gildersleeve's drunken tale concerning the commandant, and laughedaloud. But turning his face toward brigade headquarters (a sylvan region markedout by the branches of a great oak), he was surprised to see a strange officer,a fair young man in captain's uniform, riding slowly toward it.

"Is thatthe boy's brother?" he said to himself; and in the next instant he hadforgotten the whole subject; it was time to form and present theregiment.

Quietly and without tap of drum the small, battle-wornbattalions filed out of their bivouacs into the highway, ordered arms andwaited for the word to march. With a dull rumble the field-pieces trundledslowly after, and halted in rear of the infantry. The cavalry trotted offcircuitously through the fields, emerged upon a road in advance and likewisehalted, all but a single company, which pushed on for half a mile, spreadingout as it went into a thin line of skirmishers.

Meanwhile a strangeinterview took place near the great oak which had sheltered brigadeheadquarters. As the unknown officer, whom Wallis had noted, approached it,Col. Waldron was standing by his horse ready to mount. The commandant was a manof medium size, fairly handsome in person and features, and apparently abouttwenty-eight years of age. Perhaps it was the singular breadth of his foreheadwhich made the lower part of his face look so unusually slight and feminine.His eyes were dark hazel, as clear, brilliant, and tender as a girl's, andbrimming full of a pensiveness which seemed both loving and melancholy. Fewpersons, at all events few women, who looked upon him ever looked beyond hiseyes. They were very fascinating, and in a man's countenance very strange. Theywere the kind of eyes which reveal passionate romances, and which makethem.

By his side stood a boy, a singularly interesting and beautifulboy, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and delicate in color. When this boy saw thestranger approach he turned as pale as marble, slid away from the brigadecommander's side, and disappeared behind a group of staff officers andorderlies. The new-comer also became deathly white as he glanced after theretreating youth. Then he dismounted, touched his cap slightly and, as ifmechanically, advanced a few steps, and said hoarsely, "I believe this isColonel Waldron. I am Captain Fitz Hugh, of the —thDelaware."

Waldron put his hand to his revolver, withdrew itinstantaneously, and stood motionless.

"I am on leave of absence from myregiment, Colonel," continued Fitz Hugh, speaking now with an elaborateceremoniousness of utterance significant of a struggle to suppress violentemotion. "I suppose you can understand why I made use of it in seekingyou."

Waldron hesitated; he stood gazing at the earth with the air ofone who represses deep pain; at last, after a profound sigh, he raised his eyesand answered:

"Captain, we are on the eve of a battle. I must attend tomy public duties first. After the battle we will settle our privateaffair."

"There is but one way to settle it, Colonel."

"You shallhave your way if you will. You shall do what you will. I only ask what goodwill it do to her?"

"It will do good to me, Colonel,"whispered Fitz Hugh, suddenly turning crimson. "You forgetme."

Waldron's face also flushed, and an angry sparkle shot fromunder his lashes in reply to this utterance of hate, but it died out in aninstant.

"I have done a wrong, and I will accept the consequences," hesaid. "I pledge you my word that I will be at your disposal if I survive thebattle. Where do you propose to remain meanwhile?"

"I will take the samechance, sir. I propose to do my share in the fighting if you will useme."

"I am short of staff officers. Will you act as my aid?"

"Iwill, Colonel," bowed Fitz Hugh, with a glance which expressed surprise, andperhaps admiration, at this confidence.

Waldron turned, beckoned hisstaff officers to approach, and said, "Gentlemen, this is Captain Fitz Hugh ofthe —th Delaware. He has volunteered to join us for the day, and will actas my aid. And now, Captain, will you ride to the head of the column and orderit forward? There will be no drum-beat and no noise. When you have given yourorder and seen it executed, you will wait for me."

Fitz Hugh saluted,sprang into his saddle and galloped away. A few minutes later the whole columnwas plodding on silently toward its bloody goal. To a civilian, unaccustomed toscenes of war, the tranquillity of these men would have seemed very wonderful.Many of the soldiers were still munching the hard bread and raw pork of theirmeagre breakfasts, or drinking the cold coffee with which they had filled theircanteens the day previous. Many more were chatting in an undertone, grumblingover their sore feet and other discomfits, chaffing each other, and laughing.The general bearing, however, was grave, patient, quietly enduring, and onemight almost say stolid. You would have said, to judge by their expressions,that these sunburned fellows were merely doing hard work, and thoroughlycommonplace work, without a prospect of adventure, and much less of danger. Theexplanation of this calmness, so brutal perhaps to the eye of a sensitive soul,lies mainly in the fact that they were all veterans, the survivors of marches,privations, maladies, sieges, and battles. Not a regiment present numbered fourhundred men, and the average was not above three hundred. The whole force,including artillery and cavalry, might have been about twenty-five hundredsabres and bayonets.

At the beginning of the march Waldron fell into therear of his staff and mounted orderlies. Then the boy who had fled from FitzHugh dropped out of the tramping escort, and rode up to his side.

"Well,Charlie," said Waldron, casting a pitying glance at the yet pallid face andanxious eyes of the youth, "you have had a sad fright. I make you verymiserable."

"He has found us at last," murmured Charlie in a tremuloussoprano voice. "What did he say?"

"We are to talk to-morrow. He acts asmy aide-de-camp to-day. I ought to tell you frankly that he is notfriendly."

"Of course, I knew it," sighed Charlie, while the tearsfell.

"It is only one more trouble—one more danger, and perhaps itmay pass. So many have passed."

"Did you tell him anything toquiet him? Did you tell him that we were married?"

"But we are notmarried yet, Charlie. We shall be, I hope."

"But you ought to have toldhim that we were. It might stop him from doing something—mad. Why didn'tyou tell him so? Why didn't you think of it?"

"My dear little child, weare about to have a battle. I should like to carry some honor and truth intoit."

"Where is he?" continued Charlie, unconvinced and unappeased. "Iwant to see him. Is he at the head of the column? I want to speak to him, justone word. He won't hurt me."

She suddenly spurred her horse, wheeledinto the fields, and dashed onward. Fitz Hugh was lounging in his saddle, andsombrely surveying the passing column, when she galloped up tohim.

"Carrol!" she said, in a choked voice, reining in by his side, andleaning forward to touch his sleeve.

He threw one glance at her—aglance of aversion, if not of downright hatred, and turned his back insilence.

"He is my husband, Carrol," she went on rapidly. "I knew youdidn't understand it. I ought to have written you about it. I thought I wouldcome and tell you before you did anything absurd. We were married as soon as heheard that his wife was dead."

"What is the use of this?" he mutteredhoarsely. "She is not dead. I heard from her a week ago. She was living a weekago."

"Oh, Carrol!" stammered Charlie. "It was some mistake then. Is itpossible! And he was so sure! But he can get a divorce, you know. She abandonedhim. Or she can get one. No, he can get it—of course, whenshe abandoned him. But, Carrol, she must be dead—he was sosure."

"She is not dead, I tell you. And there can be no divorce.Insanity bars all claim to a divorce. She is in an asylum. She had to leavehim, and then she went mad."

"Oh, no, Carrol, it is all a mistake; it isnot so. Carrol," she murmured in a voice so faint that he could not helpglancing at her, half in fury and half in pity. She was slowly falling from herhorse. He sprang from his saddle, caught her in his arms, and laid her on theturf, wishing the while that it covered her grave. Just then one of Waldron'sorderlies rode up and exclaimed: "What is the matter with the—the boy?Hullo, Charlie."

Fitz Hugh stared at the man in silence, tempted to tearhim from his horse. "The boy is ill," he answered when he recovered his self-command. "Take charge of him yourself." He remounted, rode onward out of sightbeyond a thicket, and there waited for the brigade commander, now and thenfingering his revolver. As Charlie was being placed in an ambulance by theorderly and a sergeant's wife, Waldron came up, reined in his horse violently,and asked in a furious voice, "Is that boy hurt?

"Ah—fainted," headded immediately. "Thank you, Mrs. Gunner. Take good care of him—thebest of care, my dear woman, and don't let him leave you allday."

Further on, when Fitz Hugh silently fell into his escort, hemerely glanced at him in a furtive way, and then cantered on rapidly to thehead of the cavalry. There he beckoned to the tall, grave, iron-gray Chaplainof the Tenth, and rode with him for nearly an hour, apart, engaged in low andseemingly impassioned discourse. From this interview Mr. Colquhoun returned tothe escort with a strangely solemnized, tender countenance, while thecommandant, with a more cheerful air than he had yet worn that day, gavehimself to his martial duties, inspecting the landscape incessantly with hisglass, and sending frequently for news to the advance scouts. It may properlybe stated here that the Chaplain never divulged to any one the nature of theconversation which he had held with his Colonel.

Nothing further of noteoccurred until the little army, after two hours of plodding march, woundthrough a sinuous, wooded ravine, entered a broad, bare, slightly undulatingvalley, and for the second time halted. Waldron galloped to the summit of aknoll, pointed to a long eminence which faced him some two miles distant, andsaid tranquilly, "There is our battle-ground."

"Is that the enemy'sposition?" returned Captain Ives, his adjutant-general. "We shall have a toughjob if we go at it from here."

Waldron remained in deep thought for someminutes, meanwhile scanning the ridge and all its surroundings.

"What Iwant to know," he observed, at last, "is whether they have occupied the woodedknolls in front of their right and around their right flank."

Shortlyafterward the commander of the scouting squadron came riding back at a furiouspace.

"They are on the hill. Colonel," he shouted.

"Yes, ofcourse," nodded Waldron; "but have they occupied the woods which veil theirright front and flank?"

"Not a bit of it; my fellows have cantered allthrough, and up to the base of the hill."

"Ah!" exclaimed the brigadecommander, with a rush of elation. "Then it will be easy work. Go back,Captain, and scatter your men through the wood, and hold it, if possible.Adjutant, call up the regimental commanders at once. I want them to understandmy plan fully."

In a few minutes, Gahogan, of the Tenth; Gilder-sleeve,of the Fourteenth; Peck, of the First; Thomas, of the Seventh; Taylor, of theEighth, and Colburn, of the Fifth, were gathered around their commander. There,too, was Bradley, the boyish, red-cheeked chief of the artillery; and Stilton,the rough, old, bearded regular, who headed the cavalry. The staff was at hand,also, including Fitz Hugh, who sat his horse a little apart, downcast andsombre and silent, but nevertheless keenly interested. It is worthy of remark,by the way, that Waldron took no special note of him, and did not seemconscious of any disturbing presence. Evil as the man may have been, he was athoroughly good soldier, and just now he thought but of hisduties.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I want you to see your field of battle.The enemy occupy that long ridge. How shall we reach it?"

"I think, ifwe go at it straight from here, we shan't miss it," promptly judged Old Crumps,his red-oak countenance admirably cheerful and hopeful, and his jealousy alldissolved in the interest of approaching combat.

"Nor they won't miss usnuther," laughed Major Gahogan. "Betther slide our infantree into thim wuds,push up our skirmishers, play wid our guns for an hour, an' thin rowl in acouple o' col'ms."

There was a general murmur of approval. The limits ofvolunteer invention in tactics had been reached by Gahogan. The otherregimental commanders looked upon him as their superior in the art ofwar.

"That would be well, Major, if we could do nothing better," saidWaldron. "But I do not feel obliged to attack the front seriously at all. Therebels have been thoughtless enough to leave that long semicircle of woodedknolls unoccupied, even by scouts. It stretches from the front of their centreclear around their right flank. I shall use it as a veil to cover us while weget into position. I shall throw out a regiment, a battery, and five companiesof cavalry, to make a feint against their centre and left. With the remainderof the brigade I shall skirt the woods, double around the right of theposition, and close in upon it front and rear."

"Loike scissors bladesupon a snip o' paper," shouted Gahogan, in delight. Then he turned to FitzHugh, who happened to be nearest him, and added, "I tell ye he's got the God o'War in um. He's the burrnin' bussh of humanity, wid a God o' Battles insideon't."

"But how if they come down on our thin right wing?" asked acautious officer, Taylor, of the Eighth. They might smash it and seize our lineof retreat."

"Men who have taken up a strong position, a positionobviously chosen for defence, rarely quit it promptly for an attack," repliedWaldron. "There is not one chance in ten that these gentlemen will make aconsiderable forward movement early in the fight. Only the greatest geniusesjump from the defensive to the offensive. Besides, we must hold the wood. Solong as we hold the wood in front of their centre we save theroad."

Then came personal and detailed instructions. Each regimentalcommander was told whither he should march, the point where he should halt toform line, and the direction by which he should attack. The mass of the commandwas to advance in marching column toward a knoll where the highway entered andtraversed the wood. Some time before reaching it Taylor was to deploy theEighth to the right, throw out a strong skirmish line and open fire on theenemy's centre and left, supported by the battery of Parrotts, and, if pushed,by five companies of cavalry. The remaining troops would reach the knoll, fileto the left under cover of the forest, skirt it for a mile as rapidly aspossible, infold the right of the Confederate position, and then move upon itconcentrically. Counting from the left, the Tenth, the Seventh, and theFourteenth were to constitute the first line of battle, while five companies ofcavalry, then the First, and then the Fifth formed the second line. Not untilGahogan might have time to wind into the enemy's right rear should Gildersleevemove out of the wood and commence the real attack.

"You will go straightat the front of their right," said Waldron, with a gay smile, to this latterColonel. "Send up two companies as skirmishers. The moment they are clearlychecked, lead up the other eight in line. It will be rough work. But keeppushing. You won't have fifteen minutes of it before Thomas, on your left, willbe climbing the end of the ridge to take the rebels in flank. In fifteenminutes more Gahogan will be running in on their backs. Of course, they willtry to change front and meet us. But they have extended their line a long wayin order to cover the whole ridge. They will not be quick enough. We shall gethold of their right, and we shall roll them up. Then, Colonel Stilton, I shallexpect to see the troopers jumping into the gaps and makingprisoners."

"All right, Colonel," answered Stilton in that hoarse growlwhich is apt to mark the old cavalry officer. "Where shall we find you if wewant a fresh order?" "I shall be with Colburn, in rear of Gildersleeve. That isour centre. But never mind me; you know what the battle is to be, and you knowhow to fight it. The whole point with the infantry is to fold around theenemy's right, go in upon it concentrically, smash it, and roll up their line.The cavalry will watch against the infantry being flanked, and when the latterhave seized the hill, will charge for prisoners. The artillery will reply tothe enemy's guns with shell, and fire grape at any offensive demonstration. Youall know your duties, now, gentlemen. Go to your commands, andmarch!"

The colonels saluted and started off at a gallop. In a fewminutes twenty-five hundred men were in simultaneous movement. Five companiesof cavalry wheeled into column of companies, and advanced at a trot through thefields, seeking to gain the shelter of the forest. The six infantry regimentsslid up alongside of each other, and pushed on in six parallel columns ofmarch, two on the right of the road and four on the left. The artillery, whichalone left the highway, followed at a distance of two or three hundred yards.The remaining cavalry made a wide detour to the right as if to flank theenemy's left.

It was a mile and a quarter—it was a march of fullytwenty minutes—to the edge of the woodland, the proposed cover of thecolumn. Ten minutes before this point was reached a tiny puff of smoke showedon the brow of the hostile ridge; then, at an interval of several seconds,followed the sound of a distant explosion; then, almost immediately, came thescreech of a rifled shell. Every man who heard it swiftly asked himself, "Willit strike me?" But even as the words were thought out it had passed, high inair, clean to the rear, and burst harmlessly. A few faces turned upward and afew eyes glanced backward, as if to see the invisible enemy. But there was nopause in the column; it flowed onward quietly, eagerly, and with business-likeprecision; it gave forth no sound but the trampling of feet and the mutteringof the officers, "Steady, men! Forward, men!"

The Confederates, however,had got their range. A half minute later four puffs of smoke dotted the ridge,and a flight of hoarse humming shrieks tore the air. A little aureole crackedand splintered over the First, followed by loud cries of anguish and a brief,slight confusion. The voice of an officer rose sharply out of the flurry,"Close up, Company A! Forward, men!" The battalion column resumed its evenformation in an instant, and tramped unitedly onward, leaving behind it twoquivering corpses and a wounded man who tottered rearward.

Then camemore screeches, and a shell exploded over the highroad, knocking a gunnerlifeless from his carriage. The brigade commander glanced anxiously along hisbatteries, and addressed a few words to his chief of artillery. Presently thefour Napoleons set forward at a gallop for the wood, while the four Parrottswheeled to the right, deployed, and advanced across the fields, incliningtoward the left of the enemy. Next, Taylor's regiment (the Eighth) halted,fronted, faced to the right, and filed off in column of march at a double-quickuntil it had gained the rear of the Parrotts, when it fronted again, and pushedon in support. A quarter of a mile further on these guns went into batterybehind the brow of a little knoll, and opened fire. Four companies of theEighth spread out to the right as skirmishers, and commenced stealing towardthe ridge, from time to time measuring the distance with rifle-balls. Theremainder of the regiment lay down in line between the Parrotts and the forest.Far away to the right, five companies of cavalry showed themselves, manoeuvringas if they proposed to turn the left flank of the Southerners. The attack onthis side was in form and in operation.

Meantime the Confederate firehad divided. Two guns pounded away at Taylor's feint, while two shelled themain column. The latter was struck repeatedly; more than twenty men droppedsilent or groaning out of the hurrying files; but the survivors pushed onwithout faltering and without even caring for the wounded. At last a broad beltof green branches rose between the regiments and the ridge; and the rebelgunners, unable to see their foe, dropped suddenly into silence.

Here itappeared that the road divided. The highway traversed the forest, mounted theslope beyond and dissected the enemy's position, while a branch road turned tothe left and skirted the exterior of the long curve of wooded hillocks. At thefork the battery of Napoleons had halted, and there it was ordered to remainfor the present in quiet. There, too, the Fourteenth filed in among the densegreenery, threw out two companies of skirmishers toward the ridge, and pushedslowly after them into the shadows.

"Get sight of the enemy at once!"was Waldron's last word to Gildersleeve. "If they move down the slope, drivethem back. But don't commence your attack under half an hour."

Next hefiled the Fifth into the thickets, saying to Colburn, "I want you to halt ahundred yards to the left and rear of Gildersleeve. Cover his flank if he isattacked; but otherwise lie quiet. As soon as he charges, move forward to theedge of the wood, and be ready to support him. But make no assault yourselfuntil further orders."

The next two regiments—the Seventh andFirst—he placed in échelon, in like manner, a quarter of a milefurther along. Then he galloped forward to the cavalry, and a last word withStilton. "You and Gahogan must take care of yourselves. Push on four or fivehundred yards, and then face to the right. Whatever Gahogan finds let him go atit. If he can't shake it, help him. You two must reach the top of theridge. Only, look out for your left flank. Keep a squadron or two in reserve onthat side."

"Currnel, if we don't raich the top of the hill, it'll bebecause it hasn't got wan," answered Gahogan. Stilton only laughed and rodeforward.

Waldron now returned toward the fork of the road. On the way hesent a staff officer to the Seventh with renewed orders to attack as soon aspossible after Gildersleeve. Then another staff officer was hurried forward toTaylor with directions to push his feint strongly, and drive his skirmishers asfar up the slope as they could get. A third staff officer set the Parrotts inrear of Taylor to firing with all their might. By the time that the commandanthad returned to Colburn's ambushed ranks, no one was with him but his enemy,Fitz Hugh.

"You don't seem to trust me With duty, Colonel," said theyoung man.

"I shall use you only in case of extremity, Captain," repliedWaldron. "We have business to settle tomorrow."

"I ask no favors on thataccount. I hope you will offer me none."

"In case of need I shall spareno one," declared Waldron.

Then he took out his watch, looked at itimpatiently, put it to his ear, restored it to his pocket, and fell into anattitude of deep attention. Evidently his whole mind was on his battle, and hewas waiting, watching, yearning for its outburst.

"If he wins thisfight," thought Fitz Hugh, "how can I do him a harm? And yet," he added, "howcan I help it?"

Minutes passed. Fitz Hugh tried to think of his injury,and to steel himself against his chief. But the roar of battle on the right,and the suspense and imminence of battle on the left, absorbed the attention ofeven this wounded and angry spirit, as, indeed, they might have absorbed thatof any being not more or less than human. A private wrong, insupportable thoughit might be, seemed so small amid that deadly clamor and awful expectation!Moreover, the intellect which worked so calmly and vigorously by his side, andwhich alone of all things near appeared able to rule the coming crisis, beganto dominate him, in spite of his sense of injury. A thought crossed him to theeffect that the great among men are too valuable to be punished for their evildeeds. He turned to the absorbed brigade commander, now not only his ruler, buteven his protector, with a feeling that he must accord him a word of peace, aproffer in some form of possible forgiveness and friendship. But the man's facewas clouded and stern with responsibility and authority. He seemed at thatmoment too lofty to be approached with a message of pardon. Fitz Hugh gazed athim with a mixture of profound respect and smothered hate. He gazed, turnedaway, and remained silent.

Minutes more passed. Then a mounted orderlydashed up at full speed, with the words, "Colonel, Major Gahogan hasfronted."

"Has he?" answered Waldron, with a smile which thanked thetrooper and made him happy. "Ride on through the thicket here, my man, and tellColonel Gildersleeve to push up his skirmishers."

With a thud of hoofsand a rustling of parting foliage the cavalryman disappeared amid theunderwood. A minute or two later a thin, dropping rattle of musketry, fivehundred yards or so to the front, announced that the sharpshooters of theFourteenth were at work. Almost immediately there was an angry response, fullof the threatenings and execution of death. Through the lofty leafa*ge tore thescreech of a shell, bursting with a sharp crash as it passed overhead, andscattering in humming slivers. Then came another, and another, and many more,chasing each other with hoarse hissings through the trembling air, a successionof flying serpents. The enemy doubtless believed that nearly the wholeattacking force was massed in the wood around the road, and they had brought atleast four guns to bear upon that point, and were working them with the utmostpossible rapidity. Presently a large chestnut, not fifty yards from Fitz Hughwas struck by a shot. The solid trunk, nearly three feet in diameter, partedasunder as if it were the brittlest of vegetable matter. The upper portionstarted aside with a monstrous groan, dropped in a standing posture to theearth, and then toppled slowly, sublimely prostrate, its branches crashing andall its leaves wailing. Ere long, a little further to the front, another Anakof the forest went down; and, mingled with the noise of its sylvan agony, therearose sharp cries of human suffering. Then Colonel Colburn, a broad-chested andruddy man of thirty-five, with a look of indignant anxiety in his iron-grayeyes, rode up to the brigade commander.

"This is very annoying,Colonel," he said. "I am losing my men without using them. That last tree fellinto my command."

"Are they firing toward our left?" asked Waldron. "Nota shot."

"Very good," said the chief, with a sigh of contentment. "If wecan only keep them occupied in this direction! By the way, let your men liedown under the fallen tree, as far as it will go. It will protect them fromothers."

Colburn rode back to his regiment. Waldron looked impatientlyat his watch. At that moment a fierce burst of line firing arose in front,followed and almost overborne by a long-drawn yell, the scream of charging men.Waldron put up his watch, glanced excitedly at Fitz Hugh, and smiled.

"Imust forgive or forget," the latter could not help saying to himself. "All therest of life is nothing compared with this."

"Captain," said Waldron,"ride off to the left at full speed. As soon as you hear firing at the shoulderof the ridge, return instantly and let me know."

Fitz Hugh dashed away.Three minutes carried him into perfect peace, beyond the whistling of ball orthe screeching of shell. On the right was a tranquil, wide waving of foliage,and on the left a serene landscape of cultivated fields, with here and there anembowered farm-house. Only for the clamor of artillery and musketry far behindhim, he could not have believed in the near presence of battle, of blood andsuffering and triumphant death. But suddenly he heard to his right, assaultingand slaughtering the tranquillity of nature, a tumultuous outbreak of filefiring, mingled with savage yells. He wheeled, drove spurs into his horse, andflew back to Waldron. As he re-entered the wood he met wounded men streamingthrough it, a few marching alertly upright, many more crouching and groaning,some clinging to their less injured comrades, but all haggard in face andghastly.

"Are we winning?" he hastily asked of one man who held up ahand with three fingers gone and the bones projecting in sharp spikes throughmangled flesh.

"All right, sir; sailing in," was the answer.

"Isthe brigade commander all right?" he inquired of another who was winding abloody handkerchief around his arm.

"Straight ahead, sir; hurrah forWaldron!" responded the soldier, and almost in the same instant fell lifelesswith a fresh ball through his head.

"Hurrah for him!" Fitz Hugh answeredfrantically, plunging on through the underwood. He found Waldron with Colburn,the two conversing tranquilly in their saddles amid hissing bullets anddropping branches.

"Move your regiment forward now," the brigadecommander was saying; "but halt it in the edge of the wood."

"Shan't Irelieve Gildersleeve if he gets beaten?" asked the subordinate officereagerly.

"No. The regiments on the left will help him out. I want yourmen and Peck's for the fight on top of the hill. Of course the rebels will tryto retake it; then I shall call for you."

Fitz Hugh now approached andsaid, "Colonel, the Seventh has attacked in force."

"Good!" answeredWaldron, with that sweet smile of his which thanked people who brought himpleasant news. "I thought I heard his fire. Gahogan will be on their right rearin ten minutes. Then we shall get the ridge. Ride back now to Major Bradley,and tell him to bring his Napoleons through the wood, and set two of them toshelling the enemy's centre. Tell him my idea is to amuse them, and keep themfrom changing front."

Again Fitz Hugh galloped off as before on acomfortably safe errand, safer at all events than many errands of that day."This man is sparing my life," he said to himself. "Would to God I knew how tospare his!"

He found Bradley lunching on a gun caisson, and deliveredhis orders. "Something to do at last, eh?" laughed the rosy-cheeked youngster."The smallest favors thankfully received. Won't you take a bite of rebelchicken, Captain? This rebellion must be put down. No? Well, tell the Colonel Iam moving on, and John Brown's soul not far ahead."

When Fitz Hughreturned to Waldron he found him outside of the wood, at the base of the longincline which rose into the rebel position. About the slope were scatteredprostrate forms, most numerous near the bottom, some crawling slowly rearward,some quiescent. Under the brow of the ridge, decimated and broken into a mereskirmish line sheltered in knots and singly, behind rocks and knolls andbushes, lay the Fourteenth Regiment, keeping up a steady, slow fire. From theedge above, smokily dim against a pure, blue heaven, answered another rattle ofmusketry, incessant, obstinate, and spiteful. The combatants on both sides werelying down; otherwise neither party could have lasted ten minutes. From FitzHugh's point of view not a Confederate uniform could be seen. But the smoke oftheir rifles made a long gray line, which was disagreeably visible andpermanent; and the sharp whit! whit! of their bullets continually passedhim, and cheeped away in the leafa*ge behind.

"Our men can't get onanother inch," he ventured say to his commander. "Wouldn't it be well for me toride up and say a cheering word?"

"Every battle consists largely inwaiting," replied Waldron thoughtfully. "They have undoubtedly brought up areserve to face Thomas. But when Gahogan strikes the flank of the reserve, weshall win."

"I wish you would take shelter," begged Fitz Hugh."Everything depends on your life."

"My life has been both a help and ahurt to my fellow-creatures," sighed the brigade commander. "Let come what willto it."

He glanced upward with an expression of profound emotion; he wasevidently fighting two battles, an outward and an inward one.

Presentlyhe added, "I think the musketry is increasing on the left. Does it strike youso?"

He was all eagerness again, leaning forward with an air of earnestlistening, his face deeply flushed and his eye brilliant. Of a sudden thecombat above rose and swelled into higher violence. There was a clamor faraway—it seemed nearly a mile away—over the hill. Then the nearermusketry—first Thomas's on the shoulder of the ridge, next Gildersleeve'sin front—caught fire and raged with new fury.

Waldron laughedoutright. "Gahogan has reached them," he said to one of his staff who had justrejoined him. "We shall all be up there in five minutes. Tell Colburn to bringon his regiment slowly."

Then, turning to Fitz Hugh, he added, "Captain,we will ride forward."

They set off at a walk, now watching the smokingbrow of the eminence, now picking their way among dead and wounded. Suddenlythere was a shout above them and a sudden diminution of the firing; and lookingupward they saw the men of the Fourteenth running confusedly toward the summit.Without a word the brigade commander struck spurs into his horse and dashed upthe long slope at a run, closely followed by his enemy and aid. What they sawwhen they overtook the straggling, running, panting, screaming pell-mell of theFourteenth was victory!

The entire right wing of the Confederates,attacked on three sides at once, placed at enormous disadvantage, completelyoutgeneraled, had given way in confusion, was retreating, breaking, and flying.There were lines yet of dirty gray or butternut; but they were few, meagre,fluctuating, and recoiling, and there were scattered and scurrying men inhundreds. Three veteran and gallant regiments had gone all to wreck under theshock of three similar regiments far more intelligently directed. A strongposition had been lost because the heroes who held it could not perform theimpossible feat of forming successively two fresh fronts under a concentricfire of musketry. The inferior brain power had confessed the superiority of thestronger one.

On the victorious side there was wild, clamorous, fierceexultation. The hurrying, shouting, firing soldiers, who noted their commanderriding among them, swung their rifles or their tattered hats at him, andscreamed "Hurrah!" No one thought of the Confederate dead underfoot, nor of theUnion dead who dotted the slope behind. "What are you here for, Colonel?"shouted rough old Gildersleeve, one leg of his trousers dripping blood. "We cando it alone."

"It is a battle won," laughed Fitz Hugh, almost worshipingthe man whom he had come to slay.

"It is a battle won, but not used,"answered Waldron. "We haven't a gun yet, nor a flag. Where is the cavalry? Whyisn't Stilton here? He must have got afoul of the enemy's horse, and beenobliged to beat it off. Can anybody hear anything of Stilton?"

"Let himgo," roared Old Crumps. "The infantry don't want any help."

"Yourregiment has suffered, Colonel," answered Waldron, glancing at the scatteredfiles of the Fourteenth. "Halt it and reorganize it, and let it fall in withthe right of the First when Peck comes up. I shall replace you with the Fifth.Send your Adjutant back to Colburn and tell him to hurry along. Those fellowsare making a new front over there," he added, pointing to the centre of thehill. "I want the Fifth, Seventh and Tenth in échelon as quickly aspossible. And I want that cavalry. Lieutenant," turning to one of his staff,"ride off to the left and find Colonel Stilton. Tell him that I need a chargein ten minutes."

Presently cannon opened from that part of the ridgestill held by the Confederates, the shell tearing through or over thedissolving groups of their right wing, and cracking viciously above the headsof the victorious Unionists. The explosions followed each other with stunningrapidity, and the shrill whirring of the splinters was ominous. Men began tofall again in the ranks or to drop out of them wounded. Of all this Waldrontook no further note than to ride hastily to the brow of the ridge and look forhis own artillery.

"See how he attinds to iverything himself," saidMajor Gahogan, who had cantered up to the side of Fitz Hugh. "It's just amatther of plain business, an' he looks after it loike a business man. Did yesee us, though, Captin, whin we come in on their right flank? By George, wemurthered um. There's more'n a hundred lyin' in hapes back there. As for oldStilton, I just caught sight of um behind that wood to our left, an' he'smakin' for the enemy's right rair. He'll have lots o' prisoners in half anhour."

When Waldron returned to the group he was told of his cavalry'swhereabouts, and responded to the information with a smile ofsatisfaction.

"Bradley is hurrying up," he said, "and Taylor is pushingtheir left smartly. They will make one more tussle to recover their line ofretreat; but we shall smash them from end to end and take every gun."

Hegalloped now to his infantry, and gave the word "Forward!" The three regimentswhich composed the échelon were the Fifth on the right, the Seventhfifty yards to the rear and left of the Fifth, the Tenth to the rear and leftof the Seventh. It was behind the Fifth, that is the foremost battalion, thatthe brigade commander posted himself.

"Do you mean to stay here,Colonel?" asked Fitz Hugh, in surprise and anxiety.

"It is a certainvictory now," answered Waldron, with a singular glance upward. "My life is nolonger important. I prefer to do my duty to the utmost in the sight of allmen."

"I shall follow you and do mine, sir," said the Captain, muchmoved, he could scarcely say by what emotions, they were so many andconflicting.

"I want you otherwheres. Ride to Colonel Taylor at once,and hurry him up the hill. Tell him the enemy have greatly weakened their left.Tell him to push up everything, infantry, and cavalry, and artillery, and to doit in haste."

"Colonel, this is saving my life against my will,"remonstrated Fitz Hugh.

"Go!" ordered Waldron, imperiously. "Time isprecious."

Fitz Hugh dashed down the slope to the right at a gallop. Thebrigade commander turned tranquilly, and followed the march of hiséchelon. The second and decisive crisis of the little battle wasapproaching, and to understand it we must glance at the ground on which it wasto be fought. Two hostile lines were marching toward each other along thebroad, gently rounded crest of the hill and at right angles to its generalcourse. Between these lines, but much the nearest to the Union troops, aspacious road came up out of the forest in front, crossed the ridge, swept downthe smooth decline in rear, and led to a single wooden bridge over a narrow butdeep rivulet. On either hand the road was hedged in by a close board fence,four feet or so in height. It was for the possession of this highway that theapproaching lines were about to shed their blood. If the Confederates failed towin it all their artillery would be lost, and their army captured ordispersed.

The two parties came on without firing. The soldiers on bothsides were veterans, cool, obedient to orders, intelligent through longservice, and able to reserve all their resources for a short-range and finalstruggle. Moreover, the fences as yet partially hid them from each other, andwould have rendered all aim for the present vague anduncertain.

"Forward, Fifth!" shouted Waldron. "Steady. Reserve yourfire." Then, as the regiment came up to the fence, he added, "Halt; rightdress. Steady, men."

Meantime he watched the advancing array with aneager gaze. It was a noble sight, full of moral sublimity, and worthy of alladmiration. The long, lean, sunburned, weather-beaten soldiers in ragged graystepped forward, superbly, their ranks loose, but swift and firm, the menleaning forward in their haste, their tattered slouch hats pushed backward,their whole aspect business-like and virile. Their line was three battalionsstrong, far outflanking the Fifth, and at least equal to the entireéchelon. When within thirty or forty yards of the further fence theyincreased their pace to nearly a double-quick, many of them stooping low inhunter fashion, and a few firing. Then Waldron rose in his stirrups and yelled,"Battalion! ready—aim—aim low. Fire!"

There was a stunningroar of three hundred and fifty rifles, and a deadly screech of bullets. Butthe smoke rolled out, the haste to reload was intense, and none could mark whatexecution was done. Whatever the Confederates may have suffered, they bore upunder the volley, and they came on. In another minute each of those fences, notmore than twenty-five yards apart, was lined by the shattered fragment of aregiment, each firing as fast as possible into the face of the other. The Fifthbled fearfully: it had five of its ten company commanders shot dead in threeminutes; and its loss in other officers and in men fell scarcely short of thisterrible ratio. On its left the Seventh and the Tenth were up, pouring inmusketry, and receiving it in a fashion hardly less sanguinary. No one presenthad ever seen, or ever afterward saw, such another close and deadlycontest.

But the strangest thing in this whole wonderful fight was theconduct of the brigade commander. Up and down the rear of the lacerated FifthWaldron rode thrice, spurring his plunging and wounded horse close to theyelling and fighting file-closers, and shouting in a piercing voiceencouragement to his men. Stranger still, considering the character which hehad borne in the army, and considering the evil deed for which he was toaccount on the morrow, were the words which he was distinctly and repeatedlyheard to utter. "Stand steady, men—God is with us!" was the extraordinarybattle-cry of this backslidden clergyman, this sinner above many.

And itwas a prophecy of victory. Bradley ran up his Napoleons on the right in thenick of time, and, although only one of them could be brought to bear, it wasenough; the grape raked the Confederate left, broke it, and the battle wasover. In five minutes more their whole array was scattered, and the entireposition open to galloping cavalry, seizing guns, standards, andprisoners.

It was in the very moment of triumph, just as the stubbornSouthern line reeled back from the fence in isolated clusters, that themiraculous immunity of Waldron terminated, and he received his death wound. Aquarter of an hour later Fitz Hugh found a sorrowful group of officers gazingfrom a little distance upon their dying commander.

"Is the Colonel hit?"he asked, shocked and grieved, incredible as the emotion mayseem.

"Don't go near him," called Gildersleeve, who, it will beremembered, knew or guessed his errand in camp. "The chaplain and surgeon arethere. Let him alone."

"He's going to render his account," addedGahogan. "An' whativer he's done wrong, he's made it square to-day. Let um laveit to his brigade."

Adjutant Wallis, who had been blubbering aloud, whohad cursed the rebels and the luck energetically, and who had also been tryingto pray inwardly, groaned out, "This is our last victory. You see if it ain't.Bet you, two to one."

"Hush, man!" replied Gahogan. "We'll win our shareof urn, though we'll have to work harder for it. We'll have to do moreourselves, an' get less done for us in the way of tactics."

"That's so,Major," whimpered a drummer, looking up from his duty of attending to a woundedcomrade. "He knowed how to put his men in the right place, and his men knowedwhen they was in the right place. But it's goin' to be uphill through thesteepest part of hell the rest of the way."

Soldiers, some of themweeping, some of them bleeding, arrived constantly to inquire after theircommander, only to be sent quietly back to their ranks or to the rear. Aroundlay other men—dead men, and senseless, groaning men—all for thepresent unnoticed. Everything, except the distant pursuit of the cavalry,waited for Waldron to die. Fitz Hugh looked on silently with the tears ofmingled emotions in his eyes, and with hopes and hatreds expiring in his heart.The surgeon supported the expiring victor's head, while Chaplain Colquhounknelt beside him, holding his hand and praying audibly. Of a sudden thepetition ceased, both bent hastily toward the wounded man, and after whatseemed a long time exchanged whispers. Then the Chaplain rose, came slowlytoward the now advancing group of officers, his hands outspread toward heavenin an attitude of benediction, and tears running down his haggard whiteface.

"I trust, dear friends," he said, in a tremulous voice, "that allis well with our brother and commander. His last words were, 'God is withus.'"

"Oh! but, man, that isn't well," broke out Gahogan, in agroan. "What did ye pray for his soul for? Why didn't ye pray for hisloife?"

Fitz Hugh turned his horse and rode silently away. The next dayhe was seen journeying rearward by the side of an ambulance, within which laywhat seemed a strangely delicate boy, insensible, and, one would say, mortallyill.

COME, now, there may as well be anend of this! Every time I meet your eyes squarely, I detect the question justslipping out of them. If you had spoken it, or even boldly looked it; if youhad shown in your motions the least sign of a fussy or fidgety concern on myaccount; if this were not the evening of my birthday, and you the only friendwho remembered it; if confession were not good for the soul, though harder thansin to some people, of whom I am one—well, if all reasons were not atthis instant converged into a focus, and burning me rather violently, in thatregion where the seat of emotion is supposed to lie, I should keep my troubleto myself. Yes, I have fifty times had it on my mind to tell you the wholestory. But who can be certain that his best friend will not smile—or,what is worse, cherish a kind of charitable pity ever afterward—when theexternal forms of a very serious kind of passion seem trivial, fantastic,foolish? And the worst of all is that the heroic part which I imagined I wasplaying proves to have been almost the reverse. The only comfort which I canfind in my humiliation is that I am capable of feeling it. There isn't a bit ofa paradox in this, as you will see; but I only mention it, now, to prepare youfor, maybe, a little morbid sensitiveness of my moral nerves.

Thedocuments are all in this portfolio under my elbow. I had just read them againcompletely through when you were announced. You may examine them as you likeafterward: for the present, fill your glass, take another Cabana, and keepsilent until my "ghastly tale" has reached its most lamentableconclusion.

The beginning of it was at Wampsocket Springs, three yearsago last summer. I suppose most unmarried men who have reached, or passed, theage of thirty—and I was then thirty-three—experience a milderreturn of their adolescent warmth, a kind of fainter second spring, since thefirst has not fulfilled its promise. Of course, I wasn't clearly conscious ofthis at the time: who is? But I had had my youthful passion and my tragicdisappointment, as you know: I had looked far enough into what Thackeray usedto call the cryptic mysteries to save me from the Scylla of dissipation, andyet preserved enough of natural nature to keep me out of the Pharisaic Charyb-dis. My devotion to my legal studies had already brought me a mild distinction;the paternal legacy was a good nest-egg for the incubation of wealth—inshort, I was a fair, respectable "party," desirable to the humbler mammas, andnot to be despised by the haughty exclusives.

The fashionable hotel atthe Springs holds three hundred, and it was packed. I had meant to lounge therefor a fortnight and then finish my holidays at Long Branch; but eighty, atleast, out of the three hundred were young and moved lightly in muslin. With myyears and experience I felt so safe that to walk, talk, or dance with thembecame simply a luxury, such as I had never—at least sofreely—possessed before. My name and standing, known to some families,were agreeably exaggerated to the others, and I enjoyed that supremesatisfaction which a man always feels when he discovers, or imagines, that heis popular in society. There is a kind of premonitory apology implied in mysaying this, I am aware. You must remember that I am culprit, and culprit'scounsel, at the same time.

You have never been at Wampsocket? Well, thehills sweep around in a crescent, on the northern side, and four or fiveradiating glens, descending from them, unite just above the village. Thecentral one, leading to a waterfall (called "Minne-hehe" by the irreverentyoung people, because there is so little of it), is the fashionable drive andpromenade; but the second ravine on the left, steep, crooked, and cumbered withbowlders which have tumbled from somewhere and lodged in the most extraordinarygroupings, became my favorite walk of a morning. There was a footpath in it,well-trodden at first, but gradually fading out as it became more like a ladderthan a path, and I soon discovered that no other city feet than mine werelikely to scale a certain rough slope which seemed the end of the ravine. Withthe aid of the tough laurel-stems I climbed to the top, passed through a cleftas narrow as a doorway, and presently found myself in a little upper dell, aswild and sweet and strange as one of the pictures that haunts us on the brinkof sleep.

There was a pond—no, rather a bowl—of water in thecentre; hardly twenty yards across, yet the sky in it was so pure and far downthat the circle of rocks and summer foliage inclosing it seemed like a littleplanetary ring, floating off alone through space. I can't explain the charm ofthe spot, nor the selfishness which instantly suggested that I should keep thediscovery to myself. Ten years earlier I should have looked around for somefair spirit to be my "minister," but now—

One forenoon—Ithink it was the third or fourth time I had visited the place—I wasstartled to find the dent of a heel in the earth, half-way up the slope. Therehad been rain during the night and the earth was still moist and soft. It wasthe mark of a woman's boot, only to be distinguished from that of a walking-stick by its semicircular form. A little higher, I found the outline of a foot,not so small as to awake an ecstasy, but with a suggestion of lightness,elasticity, and grace. If hands were thrust through holes in a board-fence, andnothing of the attached bodies seen, I can easily imagine that some wouldattract and others repel us: with footprints the impression is weaker, ofcourse, but we can not escape it. I am not sure whether I wanted to find theunknown wearer of the boot within my precious personal solitude: I was afraid Ishould see her, while passing through the rocky crevice, and yet wasdisappointed when I found no one.

But on the flat, warm rock overhangingthe tarn—my special throne—lay some withering wild-flowers and abook! I looked up and down, right and left: there was not the slightest sign ofanother human life than mine. Then I lay down for a quarter of an hour, andlistened: there were only the noises of bird and squirrel, as before. At last,I took up the book, the flat breadth of which suggested only sketches. Therewere, indeed, some tolerable studies of rocks and trees on the first pages; afew not very striking caricatures, which seemed to have been commenced asportraits, but recalled no faces I knew; then a number of fragmentary notes,written in pencil. I found no name, from first to last; only, under thesketches, a monogram so complicated and laborious that the initials couldhardly be discovered unless one already knew them.

The writing was awoman's, but it had surely taken its character from certain features of herown: it was clear, firm, individual. It had nothing of that air of generaldebility which usually marks the manuscript of young ladies, yet its firmnesswas far removed from the stiff, conventional slope which all Englishwomen seemto acquire in youth and retain through life. I don't see how any man in mysituation could have helped reading a few lines—if only for the sake ofrestoring lost property. But I was drawn on, and on, and finished by readingall: thence, since no further harm could be done, I reread, pondering overcertain passages until they stayed with me. Here they are, as I set them down,that evening, on the back of a legal blank:

"It makes a great deal ofdifference whether we wear social forms as bracelets or handcuffs."

"Canwe not still be wholly our independent selves, even while doing, in the main,as others do? I know two who are so; but they are married."

"The men whoadmire these bold, dashing young girls treat them like weaker copies ofthemselves. And yet they boast of what they call 'experience'!"

"Iwonder if any one felt the exquisite beauty of the noon as I did to-day? Afaint appreciation of sunsets and storms is taught us in youth, and kept aliveby novels and flirtations; but the broad, imperial splendor of this summernoon!—and myself standing alone in it—-yes, utterlyalone!"

"The men I seek must exist: where are they? How make anacquaintance, when one obsequiously bows himself away, as I advance? The faultis surely not all on my side."

There was much more, intimate enough toinspire me with a keen interest in the writer, yet not sufficiently so to makemy perusal a painful indiscretion. I yielded to the impulse of the moment, tookout my pencil, and wrote a dozen lines on one of the blank pages. They ransomething in this wise:

"IGNOTUS IGNOTAE!—Youhave bestowed without intending it, and I have taken without your knowledge. Donot regret the accident which has enriched another. This concealed idyl of thehills was mine, as I supposed, but I acknowledge your equal right to it. Shallwe share the possession, or will you banish me?"

There was afrank advance, tempered by a proper caution, I fancied, in the words I wrote.It was evident that she was unmarried, but outside of that certainty there laya vast range of possibilities, some of them alarming enough. However, if anynearer acquaintance should arise out of the incident, the next step must betaken by her. Was I one of the men she sought? I almost imaginedso—certainly hoped so.

I laid the book on the rock, as I had foundit, bestowed another keen scrutiny on the lonely landscape, and then descendedthe ravine. That evening, I went early to the ladies' parlor, chatted more thanusual with the various damsels whom I knew, and watched with a new interestthose whom I knew not. My mind, involuntarily, had already created a picture ofthe unknown. She might be twenty-five, I thought; a reflective habit of mindwould hardly be developed before that age. Tall and stately, of course;distinctly proud in her bearing, and somewhat reserved in her manners. Why sheshould have large dark eyes, with long dark lashes, I could not tell; but so Iseemed to see her. Quite forgetting that I was (or had meant to be)Ignotus, I found myself staring rather significantly at one or the otherof the young ladies, in whom I discovered some slight general resemblance tothe imaginary character. My fancies, I must confess, played strange pranks withme. They had been kept in a coop so many years that now, when I suddenly turnedthem loose, their rickety attempts at flight quite bewildered me.

No!there was no use in expecting a sudden discovery. I went to the glen betimes,next morning: the book was gone and so were the faded flowers, but some of thelatter were scattered over the top of another rock, a few yards from mine. Ha!this means that I am not to withdraw, I said to myself: she makes room for me!But how to surprise her?—for by this time I was fully resolved to makeher acquaintance, even though she might turn out to be forty, scraggy, andsandy-haired.

I knew no other way so likely as that of visiting the glenat all times of the day. I even went so far as to write a line of greeting,with a regret that our visits had not yet coincided, and laid it under a stoneon the top of her rock. The note disappeared, but there was no answer inits place. Then I suddenly remembered her fondness for the noon hours, at whichtime she was "utterly alone." The hotel table d'hôte Avas at oneo'clock: her family, doubtless, dined later, in their own rooms. Why, this gaveme, at least, her place in society! The question of age, to be sure, remainedunsettled; but all else was safe.

The next day I took a late and largebreakfast, and sacrificed my dinner. Before noon the guests had all straggledback to the hotel from glen and grove and lane, so bright and hot was thesunshine. Indeed, I could hardly have supported the reverberation of heat fromthe sides of the ravine, but for a fixed belief that I should be successful.While crossing the narrow meadow upon which it opened, I caught a glimpse ofsomething white among the thickets higher up. A moment later it had vanished,and I quickened my pace, feeling the beginning of an absurd nervous excitementin my limbs. At the next turn, there it was again! but only for another moment.I paused, exulting, and wiped my drenched forehead. "She can not escape me!" Imurmured between the deep draughts of cooler air I inhaled in the shadow of arock.

A few hundred steps more brought me to the foot of the steepascent, where I had counted on overtaking her. I was too late for that, but thedry, baked soil had surely been crumbled and dislodged, here and there, by arapid foot. I followed, in reckless haste, snatching at the laurel branchesright and left, and paying little heed to my footing. About one-third of theway up I slipped, fell, caught a bush which snapped at the root, slid, whirledover, and before I fairly knew what had happened, I was lying doubled up at thebottom of the slope.

I rose, made two steps forward, and then sat downwith a groan of pain; my left ankle was badly sprained, in addition to variousminor scratches and bruises. There was a revulsion of feeling, ofcourse—instant, complete, and hideous. I fairly hated the Unknown. "Foolthat I was!" I exclaimed, in the theatrical manner, dashing the palm of my handsoftly against my brow: "lured to this by the fair traitress! But,no!—not fair: she shows the artfulness of faded, desperate spinsterhood;she is all compact of enamel, 'liquid bloom of youth' and hairdye!"

There was a fierce comfort in this thought, but it couldn't helpme out of the scrape. I dared not sit still, lest a sunstroke should be added,and there was no resource but to hop or crawl down the rugged path, in the hopeof finding a forked sapling from which I could extemporize a crutch. Withendless pain and trouble I reached a thicket, and was feebly working on abranch with my pen-knife, when the sound of a heavy footstep surprisedme.

A brown harvest-hand, in straw hat and shirtsleeves, presentlyappeared. He grinned when he saw me, and the thick snub of his nose would haveseemed like a sneer at any other time.

"Are you the gentleman that gothurt?" he asked. "Is it pretty tolerable bad?"

"Who said I was hurt?" Icried, in astonishment.

"One of your town-women from the hotel—Ireckon she was. I was binding oats, in the field over the ridge; but I haven'tlost no time in comin' here."

While I was stupidly staring at thisannouncement, he whipped out a big clasp-knife, and in a few minutes fashionedme a practicable crutch. Then, taking me by the other arm, he set me in motiontoward the village.

Grateful as I was for the man's help, he aggravatedme by his ignorance. When I asked if he knew the lady, he answered: "It'smore'n likely you know her better." But where did she come from? Downfrom the hill, he guessed, but it might ha' been up the road. How did she look?was she old or young? what was the color of her eyes? of her hair? There, now,I was too much for him. When a woman kept one o' them speckled veils over herface, turned her head away, and held her parasol between, how were you to knowher from Adam? I declare to you, I couldn't arrive at one positive particular.Even when he affirmed that she was tall, he added, the next instant: "Now Icome to think on it, she stepped mighty quick; so I guess she must ha' beenshort."

By the time we reached the hotel, I was in a state of fever;opiates and lotions had their will of me for the rest of the day. I was glad toescape the worry of questions, and the conventional sympathy expressed ininflections of the voice which are meant to soothe, and only exasperate. Thenext morning, as I lay upon my sofa, restful, patient, and properly cheerful,the waiter entered with a bouquet of wild flowers.

"Who sent them?" Iasked.

"I found them outside your door, sir. Maybe there's a card; yes,here's a bit o' paper."

I opened the twisted slip he handed me, andread: "From your dell—and mine." I took the flowers; among them were twoor three rare and beautiful varieties which I had only found in that one spot.Fool, again! I noiselessly kissed, while pretending to smell them, had themplaced on a stand within reach, and fell into a state of quiet and agreeablecontemplation.

Tell me, yourself, whether any male human being is evertoo old for sentiment, provided that it strikes him at the right time and inthe right way! What did that bunch of wild flowers betoken? Knowledge, first;then, sympathy; and finally, encouragement, at least. Of course she had seen myaccident, from above; of course she had sent the harvest laborer to aid mehome. It was quite natural she should imagine some special, romantic interestin the lonely dell, on my part, and the gift took additional value from herconjecture.

Four days afterward, there was a hop in the large dining-room of the hotel. Early in the morning, a fresh bouquet had been left at mydoor. I was tired of my enforced idleness, eager to discover the fair unknown(she was again fair, to my fancy!), and I determined to go down, believing thata cane and a crimson velvet slipper on the left foot would provoke a glance ofsympathy from certain eyes, and thus enable me to detect them.

The factwas, the sympathy was much too general and effusive. Everybody, it seemed, cameto me with kindly greetings; seats were vacated at my approach, even fat Mrs.Huxter insisting on my taking her warm place, at the head of the room. But BobLeroy—you know him—as gallant a gentleman as ever lived, put medown at the right point, and kept me there. He only meant to divert me, yetgave me the only place where I could quietly inspect all the younger ladies, asdance or supper brought them near.

One of the dances was an old-fashioned cotillon, and one of the figures, the "coquette," brought every one,in turn, before me. I received a pleasant word or two from those whom I knew,and a long, kind, silent glance from Miss May Danvers. Where had been my eyes?She was tall, stately, twenty-five, had large dark eyes, and long dark lashes!Again the changes of the dance brought her near me; I threw (or strove tothrow) unutterable meanings into my eyes, and cast them upon hers. She seemedstartled, looked suddenly away, looked back to me, and—blushed. I knewher for what is called "a nice girl"—that is, tolerably frank, gentlyfeminine, and not dangerously intelligent. Was it possible that I hadoverlooked so much character and intellect?

As the cotillon closed, shewas again in my neighborhood, and her partner led her in my direction. I wasrising painfully from my chair, when Bob Leroy pushed me down again, whiskedanother seat from somewhere, planted it at my side, and there shewas!

She knew who was her neighbor, I plainly saw; but instead ofturning toward me, she began to fan herself in a nervous way and to fidget withthe buttons of her gloves. I grew impatient.

"Miss Danvers!" I said, atlast.

"Oh!" was all her answer, as she looked at me for amoment.

"Where are your thoughts?" I asked.

Then she turned, withwide, astonished eyes, coloring softly up to the roots of her hair. My heartgave a sudden leap.

"How can you tell, if I can not?" sheasked.

"May I guess?"

She made a slight inclination of the head,saying nothing. I was then quite sure.

"The second ravine to the left ofthe main drive?"

This time she actually started; her color becamedeeper, and a leaf of the ivory fan snapped between her fingers.

"Letthere be no more a secret!" I exclaimed. "Your flowers have brought me yourmessages; I knew I should find you—"

Full of certainty, I wasspeaking in a low, impassioned voice. She cut me short by rising from her seat;I felt that she was both angry and alarmed. Fisher, of Philadelphia, jostlingright and left in his haste, made his way toward her. She fairly snatched hisarm, clung to it with a warmth I had never seen expressed in a ballroom, andbegan to whisper in his ear. It was not five minutes before he came to me,alone, with a very stern face, bent down, and said:

"If you havediscovered our secret, you will keep silent. You are certainly agentleman."

I bowed, coldly and savagely. There was a draught from theopen window; my ankle became suddenly weary and painful, and I went to bed. Canyou believe that I didn't guess, immediately, what it all meant? In a vagueway, I fancied that I had been premature in my attempt to drop our mutualincognito, and that Fisher, a rival lover, was jealous of me. This was ratherflattering than otherwise; but when I limped down to the ladies' parlor, thenext day, no Miss Danvers was to be seen. I did not venture to ask for her; itmight seem importunate, and a woman of so much hidden capacity was evidentlynot to be wooed in the ordinary way.

So another night passed by; andthen, with the morning, came a letter which made me feel, at the same instant,like a fool and a hero. It had been dropped in the Wampsocket post-office, waslegibly addressed to me and delivered with some other letters which had arrivedby the night mail. Here it is; listen!

"NOTOIGNOTA!—Haste is not a gift of the gods, and you have been impatient,with the usual result. I was almost prepared for this, and thus am not whollydisappointed. In a day or two more you will discover your mistake, which, sofar as I can learn, has done no particular harm. If you wish to find me, thereis only one way to seek me; should I tell you what it is, I should run the riskof losing you—that is, I should preclude the manifestation of a certainquality which I hope to find in the man who may—or, rather, must—bemy friend. This sounds enigmatical, yet you have read enough of my nature, aswritten in those random notes in my sketch-book, to guess, at least, how much Irequire. Only this let me add: mere guessing is useless.

"Being unknown,I can write freely. If you find me, I shall be justified; if not, I shallhardly need to blush, even to myself, over a futile experiment.

"It ispossible for me to learn enough of your life, henceforth, to direct my relationtoward you. This may be the end; if so, I shall know it soon. I shall also knowwhether you continue to seek me. Trusting in your honor as a man, I must askyou to trust in mine, as a woman."

I did discover mymistake, as the Unknown promised. There had been a secret betrothal betweenFisher and Miss Danvers, and, singularly enough, the momentous question andanswer had been given in the very ravine leading to my upper dell! The twomeant to keep the matter to themselves; but therein, it seems, I thwarted them;there was a little opposition on the part of their respective families, but allwas amicably settled before I left Wampsocket.

The letter made a verydeep impression upon me. What was the one way to find her? What could it be butthe triumph that follows ambitious toil—the manifestation of all my bestqualities as a man? Be she old or young, plain or beautiful, I reflected, hersis surely a nature worth knowing, and its candid intelligence conceals nohazards for me. I have sought her rashly, blundered, betrayed that I set herlower, in my thoughts, than her actual self: let me now adopt the oppositecourse, seek her openly no longer, go back to my tasks, and, following my ownaims vigorously and cheerfully, restore that respect which she seemed to be onthe point of losing. For, consciously or not, she had communicated to me adoubt, implied in the very expression of her own strength and pride. She hadmeant to address me as an equal, yet, despite herself, took a stand a littleabove that which she accorded to me.

I came back to New York earlierthan usual, worked steadily at my profession and with increasing success, andbegan to accept opportunities (which I had previously declined) of makingmyself personally known to the great, impressible, fickle, tyrannical public.One or two of my speeches in the hall of the Cooper Institute, on variousoccasions—as you may perhaps remember—gave me a good headway withthe party, and were the chief cause of my nomination for the State office whichI still hold. (There, on the table, lies a resignation, written to-day, but notyet signed. We'll talk of it afterward.) Several months passed by, and nofurther letter reached me. I gave up much of my time to society, movedfamiliarly in more than one province of the kingdom here, and vastly extendedmy acquaintance, especially among the women; but not one of them betrayed themysterious something or other—really I can't explain precisely what itwas!—which I was looking for. In fact, the more I endeavored quietly tostudy the sex, the more confused I became.

At last, I was subjected tothe usual onslaught from the strong-minded. A small but formidable committeeentered my office one morning and demanded a categorical declaration of myprinciples. What my views on the subject were, I knew very well; they wereclear and decided; and yet, I hesitated to declare them! It wasn't a temptationof Saint Anthony—that is, turned the other way—and the belligerentattitude of the dames did not alarm me in the least; but she! What washer position? How could I best please her? It flashed upon my mind,while Mrs. ——— was making her formal speech, that I had takenno step for months without a vague, secret reference to her. So I stroveto be courteous, friendly, and agreeably noncommittal; begged for furtherdocuments, and promised to reply by letter in a few days.

I was hardlysurprised to find the well-known hand on the envelope of a letter shortlyafterward. I held it for a minute in my palm, with an absurd hope that I mightsympathetically feel its character before breaking the seal. Then I read itwith a great sense of relief.

"I have never assumed toguide a man, except toward the full exercise of his powers. It is not opinionin action, but opinion in a state of idleness or indifference, which repels me.I am deeply glad that you have gained so much since you left the country. If,in shaping your course, you have thought of me, I will frankly say that, tothat extent, you have drawn nearer. Am I mistaken in conjecturing that youwish to know my relation to the movement concerning which you were recentlyinterrogated? In this, as in other instances which may come, I must beg you toconsider me only as a spectator. The more my own views may seem likely to swayyour action, the less I shall be inclined to declare them. If you find thiscold or unwomanly, remember that it is not easy!"

Yes! I feltthat I had certainly drawn much nearer to her. And from this time on, herimaginary face and form became other than they were. She was twenty-eight—three years older; a very little above the middle height, but nottall; serene, rather than stately, in her movements; with a calm, almost graveface, relieved by the sweetness of the full, firm lips; and finally eyes ofpure, limpid gray, such as we fancy belonged to the Venus of Milo. I found herthus much more attractive than with the dark eyes and lashes—but she didnot make her appearance in the circles which I frequented.

Another yearslipped away. As an official personage, my importance increased, but I wascareful not to exaggerate it to myself. Many have wondered (perhaps you amongthe rest) at my success, seeing that I possess no remarkable abilities. If Ihave any secret, it is simply this—doing faithfully, with all my might,whatever I undertake. Nine-tenths of our politicians become inflated andcareless, after the first few years, and are easily forgotten when they oncelose place.

I am a little surprised now that I had so much patience withthe Unknown. I was too important, at least, to be played with; too mature to besubjected to a longer test; too earnest, as I had proved, to be doubted, orthrown aside without a further explanation.

Growing tired, at last, ofsilent waiting, I bethought me of advertising. A carefully written "Personal,"in which Ignotus informed Ignota of the necessity of hiscommunicating with her, appeared simultaneously in the "Tribune," "Herald,""World," and "Times." I renewed the advertisem*nt as the time expired withoutan answer, and I think it was about the end of the third week before one came,through the post, as before.

Ah, yes! I had forgotten. See! myadvertisem*nt is pasted on the note, as a heading or motto for the manuscriptlines. I don't know why the printed slip should give me a particular feeling ofhumiliation as I look at it, but such is the fact. What she wrote is all I needread to you:

"I could not, at first, be certain thatthis was meant for me. If I were to explain to you why I have not written forso long a time, I might give you one of the few clews which I insist on keepingin my own hands. In your public capacity, you have been (so far as a woman mayjudge) upright, independent, wholly manly: in your relations with other men Ilearn nothing of you that is not honorable: toward women you are kind,chivalrous, no doubt, overflowing with the usual social refinements,but—Here, again, I run hard upon the absolute necessity of silence. Theway to me, if you care to traverse it, is so simple, so very simple! Yet, afterwhat I have written, I can not even wave my hand in the direction of it,without certain self-contempt. When I feel free to tell you, we shall drawapart and remain unknown forever.

"You desire to write? I do notprohibit it. I have heretofore made no arrangement for hearing from you, inturn, because I could not discover that any advantage would accrue from it. Butit seems only fair, I confess, and you dare not think me capricious. So, threedays hence, at six o'clock in the evening, a trusty messenger of mine will callat your door. If you have anything to give her for me, the act of giving itmust be the sign of a compact on your part that you will allow her to leaveimmediately, unquestioned and unfollowed."

You look puzzled, Isee: you don't catch the real drift of her words? Well, that's a melancholyencouragement. Neither did I, at the time: it was plain that I had disappointedher in some way, and my intercourse with or manner toward women had somethingto do with it. In vain I ran over as much of my later social life as I couldrecall. There had been no special attention, nothing to mislead a susceptibleheart; on the other side, certainly no rudeness, no want of "chivalrous" (sheused the word!) respect and attention. What, in the name of all the gods, wasthe matter?

In spite of all my efforts to grow clearer, I was obliged towrite my letter in a rather muddled state of mind. I had so much to say!sixteen folio pages, I was sure, would only suffice for an introduction to thecase; yet, when the creamy vellum lay before me and the moist pen drew myfingers toward it, I sat stock dumb for half an hour. I wrote, finally, in ahalf-desperate mood, without regard to coherency or logic. Here's a rough draftof a part of the letter, and a single passage from it will beenough:

"I can conceive of no simpler way to you thanthe knowledge of your name and address. I have drawn airy images of you, butthey do not become incarnate, and I am not sure that I should recognize you inthe brief moment of passing. Your nature is not of those which are instantlylegible. As an abstract power, it has wrought in my life and it continuallymoves my heart with desires which are unsatisfactory because so vague andignorant. Let me offer you personally, my gratitude, my earnest friendship,you would laugh if I were to now offer more."

Stay!here is another fragment, more reckless in tone:

"Iwant to find the woman whom I can love—who can love me. But this is amasquerade where the features are hidden, the voice disguised, even the handsgrotesquely gloved. Come! I will venture more than I ever thought was possibleto me. You shall know my deepest nature as I myself seem to know it. Then, giveme the commonest chance of learning yours, through an intercourse which shallleave both free, should we not feel the closing of the inevitablebond!"

After I had written that, the pages filled rapidly. Whenthe appointed hour arrived, a bulky epistle, in a strong linen envelope, sealedwith five wax seals, was waiting on my table. Precisely at six there was anannouncement: the door opened, and a little outside, in the shadow, I saw anold woman, in a threadbare dress of rusty black.

"Come in!" Isaid.

"The letter!" answered a husky voice. She stretched out a bonyhand, without moving a step.

"It is for a lady—very importantbusiness," said I, taking up the letter; "are you sure that there is nomistake?"

She drew her hand under the shawl, turned without a word, andmoved toward the hall door.

"Stop!" I cried: "I beg a thousand pardons!Take it—take it! You are the right messenger!"

She clutched it,and was instantly gone.

Several days passed, and I gradually became sonervous and uneasy that I was on the point of inserting another "Personal" inthe daily papers, when the answer arrived. It was brief and mysterious; youshall hear the whole of it:

"I thank you. Your letteris a sacred confidence which I pray you never to regret. Your nature is soundand good. You ask no more than is reasonable, and I have no real right torefuse. In the one respect which I have hinted, I may have beenunskilful or too narrowly cautious: I must have the certainty of this.Therefore, as a generous favor, give me six months more! At the end of thattime I will write to you again. Have patience with these brief lines: anotherword might be a word too much."

You notice the change in hertone? The letter gave me the strongest impression of a new, warm, almostanxious interest on her part. My fancies, as first at Wampsocket, began to playall sorts of singular pranks: sometimes she was rich and of an old family,sometimes moderately poor and obscure, but always the same calm, reposeful faceand clear gray eyes. I ceased looking for her in society, quite sure that Ishould not find her, and nursed a wild expectation of suddenly meeting her,face to face, in the most unlikely places and under startling circ*mstances.However, the end of it all was patience—patience for sixmonths.

There's not much more to tell; but this last letter is hard forme to read. It came punctually, to a day. I knew it would, and at the last Ibegan to dread the time, as if a heavy note were falling due, and I had nofunds to meet it. My head was in a whirl when I broke the seal. The fact in itstared at me blankly, at once, but it was a long time before the words andsentences became intelligible.

"The stipulated time hascome, and our hidden romance is at an end. Had I taken this resolution a yearago, it would have saved me many vain hopes, and you, perhaps, a littleuncertainty. Forgive me, first, if you can, and then hear theexplanation:

"You wished for a personal interview: you have had, notone, but many. We have met, in society, talked face to face, discussed theweather, the opera, toilettes, Queechy, Aurora Floyd, Long Branch and Newport,and exchanged a weary amount of fashionable gossip; and you never guessed thatI was governed by any deeper interest! I have purposely uttered ridiculousplatitudes, and you were as smilingly courteous as if you enjoyed them: I havelet fall remarks whose hollowness and selfishness could not have escaped you,and have waited in vain for a word of sharp, honest, manly reproof. Your mannerto me was unexceptionable, as it was to all other women: but there lies thesource of my disappointment, of—yes—of my sorrow!

"Youappreciate, I can not doubt, the qualities in woman which men value in oneanother—culture, independence of thought, a high and earnest apprehensionof life; but you know not how to seek them. It is not true that a mature andunperverted woman is flattered by receiving only the general obsequiousnesswhich most men give to the whole sex. In the man who contradicts and striveswith her, she discovers a truer interest, a nobler respect. The empty-headed,spindle-shanked youths who dance admirably, understand something of billiards,much less of horses, and still less of navigation, soon grow inexpressiblywearisome to us; but the men who adopt their social courtesy, never seeking toarouse, uplift, instruct us, are a bitter disappointment.

"What wouldhave been the end, had you really found me? Certainly a sincere, satisfyingfriendship. No mysterious magnetic force has drawn you to me or held you nearme, nor has my experiment inspired me with an interest which can not be givenup without a personal pang. I am grieved, for the sake of all men and allwomen. Yet, understand me! I mean no slightest reproach. I esteem and honor youfor what you are. Farewell!"

There! Nothing could be kinder intone, nothing more humiliating in substance. I was sore and offended for a fewdays; but I soon began to see, and ever more and more clearly, that she waswholly right. I was sure, also, that any further attempt to correspond with herwould be vain. It all comes of taking society just as we find it, and supposingthat conventional courtesy is the only safe ground on which men and women canmeet.

The fact is—there's no use in hiding it from myself (and Isee, by your face, that the letter cuts deep into you own conscience)—sheis a free, courageous, independent character, and—I am not.

Butwho was she?

WE are accustomed to speak witha certain light irony of the tendency which women have to gossip, as if the sinitself, if it is a sin, were of the gentler sex, and could by no chance be amasculine peccadillo. So far as my observation goes, men are as much given tosmall talk as women, and it is undeniable that we have produced the highesttype of gossiper extant. Where will you find, in or out of literature, suchanother droll, delightful, chatty busybody as Samuel Pepys, Esq., Secretary tothe Admiralty in the reigns of those fortunate gentlemen Charles II and JamesII of England? He is the king of tattlers, as Shakespeare is the king ofpoets.

If it came to a matter of pure gossip, I would back Our Clubagainst the Sorosis or any women's club in existence. Whenever you see in yourdrawing-room four or five young fellows lounging in easy chairs, cigar in hand,and now and then bringing their heads together over the small round Japanesetable which is always the pivot of these social circles, you may be sure thatthey are discussing Tom's engagement, or Dick's extravagance, or Harry'shopeless passion for the younger Miss Fleurdelys. It is here old Tippleton getsexecrated for that everlasting bon mot of his which was quite a successat dinner-parties forty years ago; it is here the belle of the season passesunder the scalpels of merciless young surgeons; it is here B's financialcondition is handled in a way that would make B's hair stand on end; it ishere, in short, that everything is canvassed—everything that happens inour set, I mean—much that never happens, and a great deal that could notpossibly happen. It was at Our Club that I learned the particulars of the VanTwiller affair.

It was great entertainment to Our Club, the Van Twilleraffair, though it was rather a joyless thing, I fancy, for Van Twiller. Tounderstand the case fully, it should be understood that Ralph Van Twiller isone of the proudest and most sensitive men living. He is a lineal descendant ofWouter Van Twiller, the famous old Dutch governor of New York—NieuwAmsterdam, as it was then; his ancestors have always been burgomasters oradmirals or generals, and his mother is the Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt VanTwiller whose magnificent place will be pointed out to you on the right bank ofthe Hudson as you pass up the historic river toward Idlewild. Ralph is abouttwenty-five years old. Birth made him a gentleman, and the rise of realestate—some of it in the family since the old governor's time—madehim a millionaire. It was a kindly fairy that stepped in and made him a goodfellow also. Fortune, I take it, was in her most jocund mood when she heapedher gifts in this fashion on Van Twiller, who was, and will be again, when thiscloud blows over, the flower of Our Club.

About a year ago there came awhisper—if the word "whisper" is not too harsh a term to apply to whatseemed a mere breath floating gently through the atmosphere of the billiard-room—imparting the intelligence that Van Twiller was in some kind oftrouble. Just as everybody suddenly takes to wearing square-toed boots, or todrawing his neckscarf through a ring, so it became all at once the fashion,without any preconcerted agreement, for everybody to speak of Van Twiller as aman in some way under a cloud. But what the cloud was, and how he got under it,and why he did not get away from it, were points that lifted themselves intothe realm of pure conjecture. There was no man in the club with strong enoughwing to his imagination to soar to the supposition that Van Twiller wasembarrassed in money matters. Was he in love? That appeared nearly asimprobable; for if he had been in love all the world—that is, perhaps ahundred first families—would have known all about itinstantly.

"He has the symptoms," said Delaney, laughing. "I rememberonce when Jack Fleming—"

"Ned!" cried Flemming, "I protest againstany allusion to that business."

This was one night when Van Twiller hadwandered into the club, turned over the magazines absently in the reading-room,and wandered out again without speaking ten words. The most careless eye wouldhave remarked the great change that had come over Van Twiller. Now and then hewould play a game of billiards with De Peyster or Haseltine, or stop to chat amoment in the vestibule with old Duane; but he was an altered man. When at theclub, he was usually to be found in the small smoking-room upstairs, seated ona fauteuil fast asleep, with the last number of "The Nation" in his hand. Once,if you went to two or three places of an evening, you were certain to meet VanTwiller at them all. You seldom met him in society now.

By and by camewhisper number two—a whisper more emphatic than number one, but stilluntraceable to any tangible mouthpiece. This time the whisper said that VanTwiller was in love. But with whom? The list of possible Mrs. VanTwillers was carefully examined by experienced hands, and a check placedagainst a fine old Knickerbocker name here and there, but nothing satisfactoryarrived at. Then that same still small voice of rumor but now with an easilydetected staccato sharpness to it, said that Van Twiller was in love—withan actress! Van Twiller, whom it had taken all these years and all this wasteof raw material in the way of ancestors to bring to perfection—Ralph VanTwiller, the net result and flower of his race, the descendant of Wouter, theson of Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt Van Twiller—in love with an actress!That was too ridiculous to be believed—and so everybody believedit.

Six or seven members of the club abruptly discovered in themselvesan unsuspected latent passion for the histrionic art. In squads of two or threethey stormed successively all the theatres in town—Booth's, Wallack's,Daly's Fifth Avenue (not burned down then), and the Grand Opera House. Even theshabby homes of the drama over in the Bowery, where the Germanic Thespis hasnot taken out his naturalization papers, underwent rigid exploration. But noclew was found to Van Twiller's mysterious attachment. The opéra bouffe,which promised the widest field for investigation, produced absolutely nothing,not even a crop of suspicions. One night, after several weeks of this, Delaneyand I fancied that we caught sight of Van Twiller in the private box of anuptown theatre, where some thrilling trapeze performance was going on, which wedid not care to sit through; but we concluded afterward that it was onlysomebody who looked like him. Delaney, by the way, was unusually active in thissearch. I dare say he never quite forgave Van Twiller for calling him MuslinDelaney. Ned is fond of ladies' society, and that's a fact.

TheCimmerian darkness which surrounded Van Twiller's inamorata left us free toindulge in the wildest conjectures. Whether she was black-tressed Melpomene,with bowl and dagger, or Thalia, with the fair hair and the laughing face, wasonly to be guessed at. It was popularly conceded, however, that Van Twiller wason the point of forming a dreadful mésalliance.

Up to this periodhe had visited the club regularly. Suddenly he ceased to appear. He was not tobe seen on Fifth Avenue, or in the Central Park, or at the houses he generallyfrequented. His chambers—and mighty comfortable chambers theywere—on Thirty-fourth Street were deserted. He had dropped out of theworld, shot like a bright particular star from his orbit in the heaven of thebest society.

The following conversation took place one night in thesmoking-room:

"Where's Van Twiller?"

"Who's seen VanTwiller?

"What has become of Van Twiller?"

Delaney picked up the"Evening Post," and read—with a solemnity that betrayed young Firkinsinto exclaiming, "By Jove, now!—"

"Married, on the 10th instant,by the Rev. Friar Laurence, at the residence of the bride's uncle, MontagueCapulet, Esq., Miss Adrienne Le Couvreur to Mr. Ralph Van Twiller, both of thiscity. No cards."

"Free List suspended," murmured De Peyster.

"Itstrikes me," said Frank Livingstone, who had been ruffling the leaves of amagazine at the other end of the table, "that you fellows are in a great feverabout Van Twiller."

"So we are."

"Well, he has simply gone out oftown."

"Where?"

"Up to the old homestead on theHudson."

"It's an odd time of year for a fellow to go into thecountry."

"He has gone to visit his mother," saidLivingstone.

"In February?"

"I didn't know, Delaney, that therewas any statute in force prohibiting a man from visiting his mother in Februaryif he wants to."

Delaney made some light remark about the pleasure ofcommuning with Nature with a cold in her head, and the topic wasdropped.

Livingstone was hand in glove with Van Twiller, and if any manshared his confidence it was Living-stone. He was aware of the gossip andspeculation that had been rife in the club, but he either was not at liberty ordid not think it worth while to relieve our curiosity. In the course of a weekor two it was reported that Van Twiller was going to Europe; and go he did. Adozen of us went down to the "Scythia" to see him off. It was refreshing tohave something as positive as the fact that Van Twiller had sailed.

Shortly after Van Twiller's departure the whole thingcame out. Whether Livingstone found the secret too heavy a burden, or whetherit transpired through some indiscretion on the part of Mrs. VanrensselaerVanzandt Van Twiller, I can not say; but one evening the entire story was inthe possession of the club.

Van Twiller had actually been very deeplyinterested—not in an actress, for the legitimate drama was not her humblewalk in life,
but—in Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski, whose reallyperilous feats on the trapeze had astonished New York the year before, thoughthey had failed to attract Delaney and me the night we wandered into the up-town theatre on the trail of Van Twiller's mystery.

That a man like VanTwiller should he fascinated even for an instant by a common circus-girl seemsincredible; but it is always the incredible thing that happens. Besides,Mademoiselle Olympe was not a common circus-girl; she was a most daring andstartling gymnaste, with a beauty and a grace of movement that gave to heraudacious performance almost an air of prudery. Watching her wondrous dexterityand pliant strength, both exercised without apparent effort, it seemed the mostnatural proceeding in the world that she should do those unpardonable things.She had a way of melting from one graceful posture into another like thedissolving figures thrown from a stereopticon. She was a lithe, radiant shapeout of the Grecian mythology, now poised up there above the gaslights, and nowgleaming through the air like a slender gilt arrow.

I am describing MademoiselleOlympe as she appeared to Van Twiller on the first occasion when he strolledinto the theatre where she was performing. To me she was a girl of eighteen ortwenty years of age (maybe she was much older, for pearl powder and distancekeep these people perpetually young), slightly but exquisitely built, withsinews of silver wire; rather pretty, perhaps, after a manner, but showingplainly the effects of the exhaustive draughts she was making on her physicalvitality. Now, Van Twiller was an enthusiast on the subject of calisthenics."If I had a daughter," Van Twiller used to say, "I wouldn't send her to aboarding school, or a nunnery; I'd send her to a gymnasium for the first fiveyears. Our American women have no physique. They are lilies, pallid,pretty—and perishable. You marry an American woman, and what do youmarry? A headache. Look at English girls. They are at least roses, and last theseason through."

Walking home from the theatre that first night, itflitted through Van Twiller's mind that if he could give this girl's set ofnerves and muscles to any one of the two hundred high-bred women he knew, hewould marry her on the spot and worship her forever.

The followingevening he went to see Mademoiselle Olympe again. "Olympe Zabriski," hesoliloquized as he sauntered through the lobby—"what a queer name! Olympeis French and Zabriski is Polish. It is her nom de guerre, of course;her real name is probably Sarah Jones. What kind of creature can she be inprivate life, I wonder? I wonder if she wears that costume all the time, and ifshe springs to her meals from a horizontal bar. Of course she rocks the baby tosleep on the trapeze." And Van Twiller went on making comical domestic tableauxof Mademoiselle Zabriski, like the clever, satirical dog he was, until thecurtain rose.

This was on a Friday. There was a matinee the next day,and he attended that, though he had secured a seat for the usual eveningentertainment. Then it became a habit of Van Twiller's to drop into the theatrefor half an hour or so every night, to assist at the interlude, in which sheappeared. He cared only for her part of the programme, and timed his visitsaccordingly. It was a surprise to himself when he reflected, one morning, thathe had not missed a single performance of Mademoiselle Olympe for nearly twoweeks.

"This will never do," said Van Twiller. "Olympe"—he calledher Olympe, as if she were an old acquaintance, and so she might have beenconsidered by that time—"is a wonderful creature; but this will never do.Van, my boy, you must reform this altogether."

But half-past nine thatnight saw him in his accustomed orchestra chair, and so on for another week. Ahabit leads a man so gently in the beginning that he does not perceive he isled—with what silken threads and down what pleasant avenues it leads him!By and by the soft silk threads become iron chains, and the pleasant avenuesAvernus!

Quite a new element had lately entered into Van Twiller'senjoyment of Mademoiselle Olympe's ingenious feats—a vaguely bornapprehension that she might slip from that swinging bar; that one of the thincords supporting it might snap, and let her go headlong from the dizzy height.Now and then, for a terrible instant, he would imagine her lying a glittering,palpitating heap at the foot-lights, with no color in her lips! Sometimes itseemed as if the girl were tempting this kind of fate. It was a hard, bitterlife, and nothing but poverty and sordid misery at home could have driven herto it. What if she should end it all some night, by just unclasping that littlehand? It looked so small and white from where Van Twiller sat!

Thisfrightful idea fascinated while it chilled him, and helped to make it nearlyimpossible for him to keep away from the theatre. In the beginning hisattendance had not interfered with his social duties or pleasures; but now hecame to find it distasteful after dinner to do anything but read, or walk thestreets aimlessly, until it was time to go to the play. When that was over, hewas in no mood to go anywhere but to his rooms. So he dropped away byinsensible degrees from his habitual haunts, was missed, and began to be talkedabout at the club. Catching some intimation of this, he ventured no more in theorchestra stalls, but shrouded himself behind the draperies of the private boxin which Delaney and I thought we saw him on one occasion.

Now, I findit very perplexing to explain what Van Twiller was wholly unable to explain tohimself. He was not in love with Mademoiselle Olympe. He had no wish to speakto her, or to hear her speak. Nothing could have been easier, and nothingfurther from his desire, than to know her personally. A Van Twiller personallyacquainted with a strolling female acrobat! Good heavens! That was somethingpossible only with the discovery of perpetual motion. Taken from her theatricalsetting, from her lofty perch, so to say, on the trapeze-bar, Olympe Zabriskiwould have shocked every aristocratic fibre in Van Twiller's body. He wassimply fascinated by her marvelous grace and élan, and the magneticrecklessness of the girl. It was very young in him and very weak, and no memberof the Sorosis, or all the Sorosisters together, could have been more severe onVan Twiller than he was on himself. To be weak, and to know it, is something ofa punishment for a proud man. Van Twiller took his punishment, and went to thetheatre, regularly.

"When her engagement comes to an end," he meditated,"that will finish the business."

Mademoiselle Olympe's engagementfinally did come to an end and she departed. But her engagement had been highlybeneficial to the treasury-chest of the uptown theatre, and before Van Twillercould get over missing her she had returned from a short Western tour, and herimmediate reappearance was underlined on the play-bills.

On a dead wallopposite the windows of Van Twiller's sleeping-room there appeared, as if bynecromancy, an aggressive poster with MADEMOISELLEOLYMPE ZABRISKI on it inletters at least a foot high. This thing stared him in the face when he woke upone morning. It gave him a sensation as if she had called on him overnight andleft her card.

From time to time through the day he regarded that posterwith a sardonic eye. He had pitilessly resolved not to repeat the folly of theprevious month. To say that this moral victory cost him nothing would be todeprive it of merit. It cost him many internal struggles. It is a fine thing tosee a man seizing his temptation by the throat, and wrestling with it, andtrampling it underfoot like St. Anthony. This was the spectacle Van Twiller wasexhibiting to the angels.

The evening Mademoiselle Olympe was to makeher reappearance, Van Twiller, having dined at the club, and feeling more likehimself than he had felt for weeks, returned to his chamber, and, putting ondressing-gown and slippers, piled up the greater portion of his library abouthim, and fell to reading assiduously. There is nothing like a quiet evening athome with some slight intellectual occupation, after one's feathers have beenstroked the wrong way.

When the lively French clock on themantelpiece—a base of malachite surmounted by a flying bronze Mercurywith its arms spread gracefully in the air, and not remotely suggestive ofMademoiselle Olympe in the act of executing her grand flight from thetrapeze—when the clock, I repeat, struck nine, Van Twiller paid noattention to it. That was certainly a triumph. I am anxious to render VanTwiller all the justice I can, at this point of the narrative, inasmuch as whenthe half hour sounded musically, like a crystal ball dropping into a silverbowl, he rose from the chair automatically, thrust his feet into his walking-shoes, threw his overcoat across his arm, and strode out of the room.

Tobe weak and to scorn your weakness, and not to be able to conquer it, is, ashas been said, a hard thing; and I suspect it was not with unalloyedsatisfaction that Van Twiller found himself taking his seat in the back part ofthe private box night after night during the second engagement of MademoiselleOlympe. It was so easy not to stay away!

In this second edition of VanTwiller's fatuity, his case was even worse than before. He not only thought ofOlympe quite a number of times between breakfast and dinner, he not onlyattended the interlude regularly, but he began, in spite of himself, to occupyhis leisure hours at night by dreaming of her. This was too much of a goodthing, and Van Twiller regarded it so. Besides, the dream was always thesame—a harrowing dream, a dream singularly adapted to shattering thenerves of a man like Van Twiller. He would imagine himself seated at thetheatre (with all the members of Our Club in the parquette), watchingMademoiselle Olympe as usual, when suddenly that young lady would launchherself desperately from the trapeze, and come flying through the air like afirebrand hurled at his private box. Then the unfortunate man would wake upwith cold drops standing on his forehead.

There is one redeeming featurein this infatuation of Van Twiller's which the sober moralist will love to lookupon—the serene unconsciousness of the person who caused it. She wentthrough her rôle with admirable aplomb, drew her salary, it may beassumed, punctually, and appears from first to last to have been ignorant thatthere was a miserable slave wearing her chains nightly in the left-handproscenium box.

That Van Twiller, haunting the theatre with thepersistency of an ex-actor, conducted himself so discreetly as not to draw thefire of Mademoiselle Olympe's blue eyes shows that Van Twiller, however deeplyunder a spell, was not in love. I say this, though I think if Van Twiller hadnot been Van Twiller, if he had been a man of no family and no position and nomoney, if New York had been Paris and Thirty-fourth Street a street in theLatin Quarter—but it is useless to speculate on what might have happened.What did happen is sufficient.

It happened, then, in the second week ofQueen Olympe's second unconscious reign, that an appalling Whisper floated upthe Hudson, effected a landing at a point between Spuyten Duyvil Creek and ColdSpring, and sought out a stately mansion of Dutch architecture standing on thebank of the river. The Whisper straightway informed the lady dwelling in thismansion that all was not well with the last of the Van Twillers; that he wasgradually estranging himself from his peers, and wasting his nights in aplayhouse watching a misguided young woman turning unmaidenly somersaults on apiece of wood attached to two ropes.

Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt VanTwiller came down to town by the next train to look into this littlematter.

She found the flower of the family taking an early breakfastat
11 A. M., in his cosey apartments on Thirty-fourth Street. With the leastpossible circumlocution she confronted him with what rumor had reported of hispursuits, and was pleased, but not too much pleased, when he gave her an exactaccount of his relations with Mademoiselle Zabriski, neither concealing norqualifying anything. As a confession, it was unique, and might have been agreat deal less entertaining. Two or three times in the course of thenarrative, the matron had some difficulty in preserving the gravity of hercountenance. After meditating a few minutes, she tapped Van Twiller softly onthe arm with the tip of her parasol, and invited him to return with her thenext day up the Hudson and make a brief visit at the home of his ancestors. Heaccepted the invitation with outward alacrity and inward disgust.

Whenthis was settled, and the worthy lady had withdrawn, Van Twiller went directlyto the establishment of Messrs. Ball, Black, and Company, and selected, withunerring taste, the finest diamond bracelet procurable. For his mother? Dearme, no! She had the family jewels.

I would not like to state theenormous sum Van Twiller paid for this bracelet. It was such a clasp ofdiamonds as would have hastened the pulsation of a patrician wrist. It was sucha bracelet as Prince Camaralzaman might have sent to the Princess Badoura, andthe Princess Badoura—might have been very glad to get.

In thefragrant Levant morocco case, where these happy jewels lived when they were athome, Van Twiller thoughtfully placed his card, on the back of which he hadwritten a line begging Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski to accept the accompanyingtrifle from one who had witnessed her graceful performances with interest andpleasure. This was not done inconsiderately. "Of course, I must inclose mycard, as I would to any lady," Van Twiller had said to himself. "A Van Twillercan neither write an anonymous letter nor make an anonymous present." Bloodentails its duties as well as its privileges.

The casket despatched toits destination, Van Twiller felt easier in his mind. He was under obligationsto the girl for many an agreeable hour that might otherwise have passedheavily. He had paid the debt, and he had paid it en prince, as became aVan Twiller. He spent the rest of the day in looking at some pictures atGoupil's, and at the club, and in making a few purchases for his trip up theHudson. A consciousness that this trip up the Hudson was a disorderly retreatcame over him unpleasantly at intervals.

When he returned to his roomslate at night, he found a note lying on the writing-table. He started as hiseyes caught the words "——— Theatre" stamped in carmineletters on one corner of the envelope. Van Twiller broke the seal withtrembling fingers.

Now, this note some time afterward fell into thehands of Livingstone, who showed it to Stuyvesant, who showed it to Delaney,who showed it to me, and I copied it as a literary curiosity. The note ran asfollows:

MR VAN TWILLER DEAR SIR—i am verrygreatfull to you for that Bracelett. it come just in the nic of time for me.The Mademoiselle Zabriski dodg is about Plaid out. my beard is getting to muchfor me. i shall have to grow a mustash and take to some other line of busyness,i dont no what now, but will let you no. You wont feel bad if i sell thatBracelett. i have seen Abrahams Moss and he says he will do the square thing.Pleas accep my thanks for youre Beautifull and Unexpected present. Yourerespectfull servent,
CHARLES MONTMORENCI WALTERS.

The next day VanTwiller neither expressed nor felt any unwillingness to spend a few weeks withhis mother at the old homestead.

And then he went abroad.

I WHOtell this story am called Brother Sebastian. This name was given me more thanforty years ago, while Louis Philippe was still king. My other name has beenburied so long that I have nearly forgotten it. I think that my people aredead. At least I have heard nothing from them in many years. My reputation hasalways been that of a misanthrope—if not that, then of a dreamer. In theseminary I had no intimates. In the order, for I am a Brother of the ChristianSchools, my associates are polite—nothing more. I seem to be outsidetheir social circles, their plans, their enjoyments. True, I am an old man now.But in other years it was the same. All my life I have been insolitude.

To this there is a single exception—one star shining inthe blackness. And my career has been so bleak that, although it ended indeeper sadness than I had known before, I look back to the epsiode withgratitude. The bank of clouds which shut out this sole light of my lifequickened its brilliancy before they submerged it.

After the terriblesiege of '71, when the last German was gone, and our houses had breasted theordeal of the Commune, I was sent to the South. The Superior thought my cheekswere ominously hollow, and suspected threats of consumption in my cough. So Iwas to go to the Mediterranean, and try its milder air. I liked the change.Paris, with its gloss of noisy gayety and its substance of scepticalheartlessness, was repugnant to me. Perhaps it was because of this that BrotherSebastian had been mured up in the capital two-thirds of his life. If oursurroundings are too congenial we neglect the work set before us. But nomatter; to the coast I went.

My new home was a long-established house,spacious, venerable, and dreary. It was on the outskirts of an ancient town,which was of far more importance before our Lord was born than it has ever beensince. We had little to do. There were nine brothers, a handful of residentorphans, and some threescore pupils. Ragged, stupid, big-eyed urchins theywere, altogether different from the keen Paris boys. For that matter, everyfeature of my new home was odd. The heat of the summer was scorching in itsintensity. The peasants were much more respectful to our cloth, and, as toappearance, looked like figures from Murillo's canvases. The foliage, the wine,the language, the manners of the people—everything was changed. Thisinterested me, and my morbidness vanished. The Director was delighted with myimproved condition. Poor man! he was positive that my cheeks had puffed outperceptibly after the first two months. So the winter came—a mild, wet,muggy winter, wholly unlike my favorite sharp season in the North.

Wewere killing time in the library one afternoon, the Director and a SwissBrother sitting by the lamp reading, I standing at one of the tall, narrowwindows, drumming on the panes and dreaming. The view was not an inspiring one.There was a long horizontal line of pale yellow sky and another of flat, blackland, out of Avhich an occasional poplar raised itself solemnly. The great massbelow the stripes was brown; above, gloomy gray. Close under the window twoboys were playing in the garden of the house. I recall distinctly that theythrew armfuls of wet fallen leaves at each other with a great shouting. While Istood thus, the Brother Servitor, Abonus, came in and whispered to theDirector. He always whispered. It was not fraternal, but I did not like thisAbonus.

"Send him up here," said the Director. Then I remembered that Ihad heard the roll of a carriage and the bell ring a few moments before. Abonuscame in again. Behind him there was some one else, whose footsteps had thehesitating sound of a stranger's. Then I heard the Director'svoice:

"You are from Algiers?"—"I am, Brother."

"Yourname?"

"Edouard, Brother."

"Well, tell me more."

"I wasunder orders to be in Paris in January, Brother. As my health was poor, Ireceived permission to come back to France this autumn. At Marseilles I wasinstructed to come here. So I am here. I have these papers from the Motherhouse, and from Etienne, Director, of Algiers."

Something in the voiceseemed peculiar to me. I turned and examined the new-comer. He stood behind andto one side of the Director, who was laboriously deciphering some papersthrough his big horn spectacles. The light was not very bright, but there wasenough to see a wonderfully handsome face, framed in dazzling black curls.Perhaps it looked the more beautiful because contrasted with the shaven graypoll and surly features of grim Abonus, But to me it was a dream of St. Johnthe Evangel. The eyes of the face were lowered upon the Director, so I couldonly guess their brilliancy. The features were those of an extremeyouth—round, soft, and delicate. The expression was one of utter fatigue,almost pain. It bore out the statement of ill-health.

The Director hadfinished his reading. He lifted his head now and surveyed the stranger in turn.Finally, stretching out his fat hand, he said:

"You are welcome, BrotherEdouard. I see the letter says you have had no experience except with theyoungest children. Brother Photius does that now. We will have you rest for atime. Then we will see about it. Meanwhile I will turn you over to the care ofgood Abonus, who will give you one of the north rooms."

So the two wentout, Abonus shuffling his feet disagreeably. It was strange that he could donothing to please me.

"Brother Sebastian," said the Director, as thedoor closed, "it is curious that they should have sent me a tenth man. Why, Ilie awake now to invent pretences of work for those I have already. I will giveup all show of teaching presently, and give out that I keep a hospital—aretreat for ailing brothers. Still, this Edouard is a prettyboy."

"Very."

"Etienne's letter says he is twenty and a Savoyard.He speaks like a Parisian."

"Very likely he is seminary bred," put inthe Swiss.

"Whatever he is, I like his looks," said our Superior. Thisgood man liked every one. His was the placid, easy Alsatian nature, prone tofind goodness in all things—even crabbed Abonus. The Director, or, as hewas known, Brother Elysee, was a stout, round little man, with a fine face andimperturbable good spirits. He was adored by all his subordinates. But I fancyhe did not advance in favor at Paris very rapidly.

I liked Edouard fromthe first. The day after he came we were together much, and, when we partedafter vespers, I was conscious of a vast respect for this new-comer. He wasbright, ready spoken, and almost a man of the world. Compared with my dullcareer, his short life had been one of positive gayety. He had seen Frederic leMaitre at the Comédie Française. He had been at Court and spoken with thePrince Imperial. He was on terms of intimacy with Monsignori, and had been aprotégé of the sainted Darboy. It was a rare pleasure to hear him talk of thesethings.

Before this, the ceaseless shifting of brothers from one houseto another had been indifferent to me. For the hundreds of strangers who cameand went in the Paris house on Oudinot Street I cared absolutely nothing. I didnot suffer their entrance nor their exit to excite me. This was so much thecase that they called me a machine. But with Edouard this was different. I grewto love the boy from the first evening, when, as he left my room, I caughtmyself saying, "I shall be sorry when he goes." He seemed to be fond of me,too. For that matter most of the brothers petted him, Elysee especially. But Iwas flattered that he chose me as his particular friend. For the first time myheart had opened.

We were alone one evening after the holidays. It wascold without, but in my room it was warm and bright. The fire crackled merrily,and the candles gave out a mellow and pleasant light. The Director had gone upto Paris, and his mantle had fallen on me. Edouard sat with his feet stretchedto the fender, his curly head buried in the great curved back of my invalidchair, the red fire-light reflected on his childish features. I took pleasurein looking at him. He looked at the coals and knit his brows as if in a puzzle.I often fancied that something weightier than the usual troubles of lifeweighed upon him. At last he spoke, just as I was about to questionhim:

"Are you afraid to die, Sebastian?"

Not knowing what else tosay, I answered, "No, my child."

"I wonder if you enjoy life incommunity?"

This was still stranger. I could but reply that I had neverknown any other life; that I was fitted for nothing else.

"But still,"persisted he, "would you not like to leave it—to have a career of yourown before you die? Do you think this is what a man is created for—togive away his chance to live?"

"Edouard, you are interrogating your ownconscience," I answered. "These are questions which you must have answeredyourself, before you took your vows. When you answered them, you sealedthem."

Perhaps I spoke too harshly, for he colored and drew up his feet.Such shapely little feet they were. I felt ashamed of mycrustiness.

"But, Edouard," I added, "your vows are those of thenovitiate. You are not yet twenty-eight. You have still the right to askyourself these things. The world is very fair to men of your age. Do not dreamthat I was angry with you."

He sat gazing into the fire. His face wore astrange, far-away expression, as he reached forth his hand, in a groping way,and rested it on my knee, clutching the gown nervously. Then he spoke slowly,seeking for words, and keeping his eyes on the flames.

"You havebeen good to me, Brother Sebastian. Let me ask you: May I tell you something inconfidence—something which shall never pass your lips? I meanit."

He had turned and poured those marvelous eyes into mine withirresistible magnetism. Of course I said, "Speak!" and I said it without theslightest hesitation.

"I am not a Christian Brother. I do not belong toyour order. I have no claim upon the hospitality of this roof. I am animpostor!"

He ejected these astounding sentences with an energy almostfierce, gripping my knee meanwhile. Then, as suddenly, his grasp relaxed, andhe fell to weeping bitterly.

I stared at him solemnly, in silence. Mytongue seemed paralyzed. Confusing thoughts whirled in a maze unbidden throughmy head. I could say nothing. But a strange impulse prompted me to reach outand take his hot hand in mine. It was piteous to hear him sobbing, his headupon his raised arm, his whole frame quivering with emotion. I had never seenany one weep like that before. So I sat dumb, trying in vain to answer thisbewildering self-accusation. At last there came out of the folds of the chairthe words, faint and tear-choked:

"You have promised me secrecy, and youwill keep your word; but you will hate me."

"Why, no, no, Edouard, nothate you," I answered, scarcely knowing what I said. I did not comprehend it atall. There was nothing more for me to say. Finally, when some power of thoughtreturned, I asked:

"Of all things, my poor boy, why should you choosesuch a dreary life as this? What possible reason led you to enter thecommunity? What attractions has it for you?"

Edouard turned again fromthe fire to me. His eyes sparkled. His teeth were tight set.

"Why? Why?I will tell you why, Brother Sebastian. Can you not understand how a poorhunted beast should rejoice to find shelter in such an out-of-the-way place,among such kind men, in the grave of this cloister life? I have not told youhalf enough. Do you not know in the outside world, in Toulon, or Marseilles, orthat fine Paris of yours, there is a price on my head?—or no, not that,but enemies that are looking for me, searching everywhere, turning every littlestone for the poor privilege of making me suffer? And do you know that theseenemies wear shakos, and are called gens d'armes? Would you be pleased to learnthat it is a prison I escape by coming here? Now, will you hateme?"

The boy had risen from his chair. He spoke hurriedly, almosthysterically, his eyes snapping at mine like coals, his curls disheveled, hisfingers curved and stiffened like the talons of a hawk. I had never seen suchintense earnestness in a human face. Passions like these had never penetratedthe convent walls before.

While I sat dumb before him, Edouard left theroom. I was conscious of his exit only in a vague way. For hours I sat in mychair beside the grate thinking, or trying to think. You can see readily that Iwas more than a little perplexed. In the absence of Elysee, I was director. Themanagement of the house, its good fame, its discipline, all rested on myshoulders. And to be confronted by such an abyss as this! I could do absolutelynothing. The boy had tied my tongue by the pledge. Besides, had I been unsworn,I am sure the idea of exposure would never have come to me. It was late beforeI retired that night. And I recall with terrible distinctness the chaos ofbrain and faculty which ushered in a restless sleep almost as dawn wasbreaking.

I had fancied that Brother Edouard would find life intolerablein community after his revelation to me. He would be chary of meeting me beforethe brothers; would be constantly tortured by fear of detection. As I saw thisprospect of the poor innocent—for it was absurd to think of him asanything else—dreading exposure at each step in his false life, shrinkingfrom observation, biting his tongue at every word—I was greatly moved bypity. Judge my surprise, then, when I saw him the next morning join in theyounger brothers' regular walk around the garden, joking and laughing as I hadnever seen before. On his right was thin, sickly Victor, rest his soul! and onthe other pursy, thick-necked John, as merry a soul as Cork ever turned out.And how they laughed, even the frail consumptive! It was a pleasure to see hisblue eyes brighten with enjoyment and his warm cheeks blush. Above John'squeer, Irish chuckle, I heard Edouard's voice, with its dainty Parisian accent,retailing jokes and leading in the laughter. The tramp was stretched out longerthan usual, so pleasant did they find it. At this development I was muchamazed.

The same change was noticeable in all that Edouard did. Insteadof the apathy with which he had discharged his nominal duties, his baby pupils(for Photius had gone to Peru) now became bewitched with him. He told themdroll stories, incited their rivalry in study by instituting prizes for whichthey struggled monthly, and, in short, metamorphosed his department. The changespread to himself. His cheeks took on a ruddier hue, the sparkle of his blackeyes mellowed into a calm and steady radiance. There was no trace of feverishelation which, in solitude, recoiled to the brink of despair. He sang tohimself evenings in his dormitory, clearly and with joy. His step was aselastic as that of any schoolboy. I often thought upon this change, andmeditated how beautiful an illustration of confession's blessings it furnished.Frequently we were alone, but he never referred again to that memorableevening, even by implication. At first I dreaded to have the door close uponus, feeling that he must perforce seek to take up the thread where he hadbroken it then. But he talked of other things, and so easily and naturally thatI felt embarrassed. For weeks I could not shake off the feeling that, at ournext talk, he would broach the subject. But he never did.

Elyseereturned, bringing me kind words from the Mother house, and a half-jocular hintthat Superior General Philippe had me much in his mind. No doubt there had beena time when the idea of becoming a Director would have stirred my pulses.Surely it was gone now. I asked for nothing but to stay beside Edouard, towatch him, and to be near to lend him a helping hand when his hour of troubleshould come. From that ordeal, which I saw approaching clearly and certainly, Ishrank with all my nerves on edge. As the object of my misery grew bright-eyedand strong, I felt myself declining in health. My face grew thin, and I couldnot eat. I saw before my eyes always this wretched boy singing upon the brow ofthe abyss. Sometimes I strove not to see his fall—frightful and swift.His secret seemed to harass him no longer. To me it was heavier thanlead.

The evening the Brother Director returned, we sat together in thereading-room, the entire community. Elysee had been speaking of the Motherhouse concerning which Brother Barnabas, an odd little Lorrainer who spokebetter German than French, and who regarded Paris with the true provincial aweand veneration, exhibited much curiosity. We had a visitor, a gaunt, self-sufficient old Parisian, who had spent fourteen days in the Mazas prison duringthe Commune. I will call him Brother Albert, for his true name in religion isvery well known.

"I heard a curious story in the Vaugirard house," saidthe Brother Director, refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff, "which made themore impression upon me that I once knew intimately one of the persons in it.Martin Delette was my schoolmate at Pfalsbourg in the old days. A fine,studious lad he was, too. He took orders and went to the north, where he livedfor many years a quiet country curé. He had a niece, a charming girl who is notnow more than twenty or one-and-twenty. She was an orphan, and lived with him,going to a convent to school and returning at vacations. She was not a badgirl, but a trifle wayward and easily led. She gave the Sisters much anxiety.Last spring she barely escaped compromising the house by an escapade with ayoung miserable of the town, named Banin."

"I know your story,"said Albert, with an air which hinted that this was a sufficient reason why therest should not hear it. "Banin is in prison."

Elysee proceeded: "Thegirl was reprimanded. Next week she disappeared. To one of her companions shehad confided a great desire to see Paris. So good Father Delette was summoned,and, after a talk with the Superioress, started post-haste for the capital. Hefound no signs either of poor Renée or of Banin, who had also disappeared. TheCuré was nearly heart-broken. Each day, they told me, added a year to hisappearance. He did not cease to importune the police chiefs and to haunt thepublic places for a glimpse of his niece's face. But the summer came, and noRenée. The Curé began to cough and grow weak. But one day in August theDirector, good Prosper, called him down to the reception-room to see avisitor.

"'There is news for you,'" he whispered, pressing poor Martin'shand. In the room he found—"

"In the room he found—" brokein Albert, impertinently, but with a quiet tone of authority which cowed goodElysee, "a shabby man, looking like a poorly fed waiter. This person rose andsaid, 'I am a detective; do you know Banin—young man, tall, blond,squints, broken tooth upper jaw, hat back on his head, much talk, hails fromRheims?'

"'Ah,' said Delette, 'I have not seen him, but I know him toowell.'

"The detective pointed with his thumb over his left shoulder. 'Heis in jail. He is good for twenty years. I did it myself. My name is So-and-so.Good job. Procurator said you were interested—some woman in the case,parishioner of yours, eh?'

"'My niece,' gasped the Curé.

"'O ho!does you credit; pretty girl, curly head. good manners. Well, she's off. Goodtrick, too. She was the decoy. Banin stood in the shadow with club. She broughtgentleman into alley, friend did work. That's Banin's story. Perhaps a lie. Youhave a brother in Algiers? Thought so. Girl went out there once? So I was told.Probably there now. African officers say not; but they're a sleepy lot. If Iwas a criminal I'd go to Algiers. Good hiding. The detective went. Delettestood where he was in silence. I went to him, and helped carry him upstairs. Weput him in his bed. He died there."

Brother Albeit stopped. He had toldthe story, dialogue and all, like a machine. We did not doubt its correctness.The memory of Albert had passed into a proverb years before.

BrotherAlbert raised his eyes again, and added, as if he had not paused, "He wasashamed to hold his head up. He might well be."

A strange, excited voicerose from the other end of the room. I looked and saw that it was Edouard whospoke. He had half arisen from his chair and scowled at Albert, throwing outhis words with the tremulous haste of a young man first addressing anaudience:

"Why should he be ashamed? Was he not a good man? Was theblame of his bad niece's acts his? From the story, she was well used and had noexcuse. It is he who is to be pitied, not blamed!"

The Brother Directorsmiled benignly at the young enthusiast. "Brother Edouard is right," he said."Poor Martin was to be compassioned. None the less, my heart is touched for thegirl. In Banin's trial it appeared that he maltreated her, and forced her to dowhat she did by blows. They were really married. Her neighbors gave Renee aname for gentleness and a good heart. Poor thing!"

"And she never wasfound?" asked Abonus, eagerly. He spoke very rarely. He looked now at me as hespoke, and there was a strange, ungodly glitter in his eyes which made meshudder involuntarily.

"Never," replied the Director, "although there isa reward, 5,000 francs, offered for her recovery. Miserable child, who can tellwhat depths of suffering she may be in this moment?"

"It would beremarkable if she should be found now, after all this time," said Abonus,sharply. His wicked, squinting old eyes were still fastened upon me. This time,as by a flash of eternal knowledge, I read their meaning, and felt the groundslipping from under me.

I shall never forget the night that followed. Imade no pretence of going to bed. Edouard's little dormitory was in anotherpart of the house. I went once to see him, but dared not knock, since Abonuswas stirring about just across the hall, in his own den. I scratched on a pieceof paper "Fly!" in the dark, and pushed it under the door. Then I returned towalk my chamber, chafing like a wild beast. Ah, that night, thatnight!

With the first co*ck crow in the village below, long before thebell, I left my room. I wanted air to breathe. I passed Abonus on the broadstairway. He strode up with unwonted vigor, bearing a heavy caldron of water asif it had been straw. His gown was tumbled and dusty; his greasy rabathung awry about his neck. I had it in my head to speak with him, but could not.So the early hours, with devotions which I went through in a dream, wore on inhorrible suspense, and breakfast came.

We sat at the long table, five ona side, the Director—looking red-eyed and weary from the evening'sunaccustomed dissipation—sitting at the head. Below us stood BrotherAlbert, reading from Tertullian in a dry, monotonous chant. I recall, as Iwrite, how I found a certain comfort in those splendid, sonorous Latinsentences, though I was conscious of not comprehending a word. I dreaded themoment they should end. Edouard sat beside me. We had not exchanged a wordduring the morning. How could I speak? What should I say? I was in a nervousflutter, like unto those who watch the final pinioning of a criminal whoseguillotine is awaiting him. I could not keep my eyes from the fair face besideme, with its delicately cut profile, made all the more cameo-like by its pallidwhiteness. The lips were tightly compressed. I could see askant that the tinynostrils were quivering with excitement. All else was impassive on Edouard'sface. We two sat waiting for the axe to fall.

It is as distinct as anightmare to me. Abonus came in with his great server laden with victuals. Hestumbled as he approached. He too was excited. He drew near, and stood behindme. I seemed to feel his breath penetrate my skull; and yet I was forced toanswer a whispered question of Brother John's with a smooth face. I saw Edouardsuddenly reach for the milk glass in front of his plate, and hand it back toAbonus with the disdain of a duch*ess. He said, in a sharp, peremptorytone:

"Take it away and cleanse it. No one but a dirty monk would placesuch a glass on the table."

Albert ceased his reading. Abonus did nottouch the glass. He shuffled hastily to the sideboard and deposited his burden.Then he came back with the same eager movement. He placed his fists on hiships, like a fish-woman, and hissed, in a voice choking with concentratedrage:

"No one but a woman would complain of it!"

The brothersstared at each other and the two speakers in mute surprise. But they sawnothing in the words beyond a personal wrangle—though even that was sucha novelty as to arrest instant attention. I busied myself with my plate. TheDirector assumed his harshest tone, and asked the cause of the altercation.Abonus leaned over and whispered something in his ear. I remember next a roomfull of confusion, a babel of conflicting voices, and a whirling glimpse ofuniforms. Then I fainted.

When I revived I was in my own room, stretchedupon my pallet. I looked around in a dazed way and saw the Brother Director anda young gendarme by the closed door. Something black and irregular in theoutline of the bed at my side attracted my eyes. I saw that it was Edouard'shead buried in the drapery. As in a dream I laid my numb hand upon those crispcurls. I was an old man, she was a weak, wretched girl. She raised her face atmy touch, and burned in my brain a vision of stricken agony, of horrible soul-pain, which we liken, for want of a better simile, to the anguish in the eyesof a dying doe. Her lips moved; she said something, I know not what. Then shewent, and I was left alone with Elysee. His words—broken, stumblingwords—I remember:

"She asked to see you, Sebastian, my friend. Icould not refuse. Her papers were forged. She did come from Algiers, where heruncle is a Capuchin. I do not ask, I do not wish to know, how much you know ofthis. Before my Redeemer, I feel nothing but pity for the poor lamb. Lie still,my friend; try to sleep. We are both older men than we wereyesterday."

There is little else to tell. Only twice have reflections ofthis episode in my old life reached me in the seclusion of a missionary post atthe foot of the Andes. I learned a few weeks ago that the wretched Abonus hadbought a sailor's café on the Toulon wharves with his five thousand francs. AndI know also that the heart of the Marshal-President was touched by the sadstory of Renee, and that she left the prison La Salpetriere to lay herself inpenitence at the foot of Mother Church. This is the story of my friendship.

RALPH GRIM was born a gentleman. He had the misfortune ofcoming into the world some ten years later than might reasonably have beenexpected. Colonel Grim and his lady had celebrated twelve anniversaries oftheir wedding-day, and had given up all hopes of ever having a son and heir,when this late comer startled them by his unexpected appearance. The onlyprevious addition to the family had been a daughter, and she was then tensummers old.

Ralph was a very feeble child, and could only with greatdifficulty be persuaded to retain his hold of the slender thread which boundhim to existence. He was rubbed with whiskey, and wrapped in cotton, and givenmare's milk to drink, and God knows what not, and the Colonel swore a roundoath of paternal delight when at last the infant stopped gasping in thatdistressing way and began to breathe like other human beings. The mother, who,in spite of her anxiety for the child's life, had found time to plot for him acareer of future magnificence, now suddenly set him apart for literature,because that was the easiest road to fame, and disposed of him in marriage toone of the most distinguished families of the land. She cautiously suggestedthis to her husband when he came to take his seat at her bedside; but to herutter astonishment she found that he had been indulging a similar train ofthought, and had already destined the infant prodigy for the army. She,however, could not give up her predilection for literature, and the Colonel,who could not bear to be contradicted in his own house, as he used to say, wasgetting every minute louder and more flushed, when, happily, the doctor'sarrival interrupted the dispute.

As Ralph grew up from infancy tochildhood, he began to give decided promise of future distinction. He was fondof sitting down in a corner and sucking his thumb, which his mother interpretedas the sign of that brooding disposition peculiar to poets and men of loftygenius. At the age of five, he had become sole master in the house. He slappedhis sister Hilda in the face, or pulled her hair, when she hesitated to obeyhim, tyrannized over his nurse, and sternly refused to go to bed in spite ofhis mother's entreaties. On such occasions, the Colonel would hide his facebehind his newspaper, and chuckle with delight; it was evident that nature hadintended his son for a great military commander. As soon as Ralph himself wasold enough to have any thoughts about his future destiny, he made up his mindthat he would like to be a pirate. A few months later, having contracted animmoderate taste for candy, he contented himself with the comparatively humbleposition of a baker; but when he had read "Robinson Crusoe" he manifested astrong desire to go to sea in the hope of being wrecked on some desolateisland. The parents spent long evenings gravely discussing these indications ofuncommon genius, and each interpreted them in his or her own way.

"He isnot like any other child I ever knew," said the mother.

"To be sure,"responded the father, earnestly. "He is a most extraordinary child. I was avery remarkable child too, even if I do say it myself; but, as far as Iremember, I never aspired to being wrecked on an uninhabitedisland."

The Colonel probably spoke the truth; but he forgot to takeinto account that he had never read "Robinson Crusoe."

Of Ralph'sschool-days there is but little to report, for, to tell the truth, he did notfancy going to school, as the discipline annoyed him. The day after his havingentered the gymnasium, which was to prepare him for the Military Academy, theprincipal saw him waiting at the gate after his class had been dismissed. Heapproached him, and asked why he did not go home with the rest.

"I amwaiting for the servant to carry my books," was the boy's answer.

"Giveme your books," said the teacher.

Ralph reluctantly obeyed. That day theColonel was not a little surprised to see his son marching up the street, andevery now and then glancing behind him with a look of discomfort at theprincipal, who was following quietly in his train, carrying a parcel of school-books. Colonel Grim and his wife, divining the teacher's intention, agreed thatit was a great outrage, but they did not mention the matter to Ralph.Henceforth, however, the boy refused to be accompanied by his servant. A weeklater he was impudent to the teacher of gymnastics, who whipped him in return.The Colonel's rage knew no bounds; he rode in great haste to the gymnasium,reviled the teacher for presuming to chastise his son, and committed theboy to the care of a private tutor.

At the age of sixteen, Ralph went tothe capital with the intention of entering the Military Academy. He was a tall,handsome youth, slender of stature, and carried himself as erect as a candle.He had a light, clear complexion of almost feminine delicacy; blond, curlyhair, which he always kept carefully brushed; a low forehead, and a straight,finely modeled nose. There was an expression of extreme sensitiveness about thenostrils, and a look of indolence in the dark-blue eyes. But theensemble of his features was pleasing, his dress irreproachable, and hismanners bore no trace of the awkward self-consciousness peculiar to his age.Immediately on his arrival in the capital he hired a suite of rooms in thearistocratic part of the city, and furnished them rather expensively, but inexcellent taste. From a bosom friend, whom he met by accident in therestaurant's pavilion in the park, he learned that a pair of antlers, a stuffedeagle, or falcon, and a couple of swords, were indispensable to a well-appointed apartment. He accordingly bought these articles at a curiosity shop.During the first weeks of his residence in the city he made some feeble effortsto perfect himself in mathematics, in which he suspected he was somewhatdeficient. But when the same officious friend laughed at him, and called him"green," he determined to trust to fortune, and henceforth devoted himself themore assiduously to the French ballet, where he had already made someinteresting acquaintances.

The time for the examination came; the Frenchballet did not prove a good preparation; Ralph failed. It quite shook him forthe time, and he felt humiliated. He had not the courage to tell his father; sohe lingered on from day to day, sat vacantly gazing out of his window, andtried vainly to interest himself in the busy bustle down on the street. Itprovoked him that everybody else should be so light-hearted, when he was, or atleast fancied himself, in trouble. The parlor grew intolerable; he soughtrefuge in his bedroom. There he sat one evening (it was the third day after theexamination), and stared out upon the gray stone walls which on all sidesinclosed the narrow courtyard. The round stupid face of the moon stoodtranquilly dozing like a great Limburger cheese suspended under thesky.

Ralph, at least, could think of a no more fitting simile. But thebright-eyed young girl in the window hard by sent a longing look up to the samemoon, and thought of her distant home on the fjords, where the glaciers stoodlike hoary giants, and caught the yellow moonbeams on their glittering shieldsof snow. She had been reading "Ivanhoe" all the afternoon, until the twilighthad overtaken her quite unaware, and now she suddenly remembered that she hadforgotten to write her German exercise. She lifted her face and saw a pair ofsad, vacant eyes gazing at her from the next window in the angle of the court.She was a little startled at first, but in the next moment she thought of herGerman exercise and took heart.

"Do you know German?" she said; thenimmediately repented that she had said it.

"I do," was theanswer.

She took up her apron and began to twist it with an air ofembarrassment.

"I didn't mean anything," she whispered, at last. "I onlywanted to know."

"You are very kind."

That answer roused her; hewas evidently making sport of her.

"Well, then, if you do, you may writemy exercise for me. I have marked the place in the book."

And she flungher book over to the window, and he caught it on the edge of the sill, just asit was falling.

"You are a very strange girl," he remarked, turning overthe leaves of the book, although it was too dark to read. "How old areyou?"

"I shall be fourteen six weeks before Christmas," answered she,frankly.

"Then I excuse you."

"No, indeed," cried she,vehemently. "You needn't excuse me at all. If you don't want to write myexercise, you may send the book back again. I am very sorry I spoke to you, andI shall never do it again."

"But you will not get the book back againwithout the exercise," replied he, quietly. "Good-night."

The girl stoodlong looking after him, hoping that he would return. Then, with a great burstof repentance, she hid her face in her lap, and began to cry.

"Oh, dear,I didn't mean to be rude," she sobbed. "But it was Ivanhoe and Rebecca whoupset me."

The next morning she was up before daylight, and waited fortwo long hours in great suspense before the curtain of his window was raised.He greeted her politely; threw a hasty glance around the court to see if he wasobserved, and then tossed her book dexterously over into her hands.

"Ihave pinned the written exercise to the flyleaf," he said. "You will probablyhave time to copy it before breakfast."

"I am ever so much obliged toyou," she managed to stammer.

He looked so tall and handsome, and grown-up, and her remorse stuck in her throat, and threatened to choke her. She hadtaken him for a boy as he sat there in his window the eveningbefore.

"By the way, what is your name?" he asked, carelessly, as heturned to go.

"Bertha."

"Well, my dear Bertha, I am happy to havemade your acquaintance."

And he again made her a polite bow, and enteredhis parlor.

"How provokingly familiar he is," thought she; "but no onecan deny that he is handsome."

The bright roguish face of the young girlhaunted Ralph during the whole next week. He had been in love at least tentimes before, of course; but, like most boys, with young ladies far older thanhimself. He found himself frequently glancing over to her window in the hope ofcatching another glimpse of her face; but the curtain was always drawn down,and Bertha remained invisible. During the second week, however, she relented,and they had many a pleasant chat together. He now volunteered to write all herexercises, and she made no objections. He learned that she was the daughter ofa well-to-do peasant in the
sea-districts of Norway (and it gave him quite ashock to hear it), and that she was going to school in the city, and boardedwith an old lady who kept a pension in the house adjoining the one in which helived.

One day in the autumn Ralph was surprised by the sudden arrivalof his father, and the fact of his failure in the examination could no longerbe kept a secret. The old Colonel flared up at once when Ralph made hisconfession; the large veins upon his forehead swelled; he grew
coppery-redin his face, and stormed up and down the floor, until his son became seriouslyalarmed; but, to his great relief, he was soon made aware that his father'swrath was not turned against him personally, but against the officials of theMilitary Academy who had rejected him. The Colonel took it as insult to his owngood name and irreproachable standing as an officer; he promptly refused anyother explanation, and vainly racked his brain to remember if any youthfulfolly of his could possibly have made him enemies among the teachers of theAcademy. He at last felt satisfied that it was envy of his own greatness andrapid advancement which had induced the rascals to take vengeance on his son.Ralph reluctantly followed his father back to the country town where the latterwas stationed, and the fair-haired Bertha vanished from his horizon. Hismother's wish now prevailed, and he began, in his own easy way, to preparehimself for the University. He had little taste for Cicero, and still less forVirgil, but with the use of a "pony" he soon gained sufficient knowledge ofthese authors to be able to talk in a sort of patronizing way about them, tothe great delight of his fond parents. He took quite a fancy, however, to theode in Horace ending with the lines:

And in his thought he substituted for Lalage the fair-hairedBertha, quite regardless of the requirements of the metre.

To make along story short, three years later Ralph returned to the capital, and, afterhaving worn out several tutors, actually succeeded in entering theUniversity.

The first year of college life is a happy time to everyyoung man, and Ralph enjoyed its processions, its parliamentary gatherings, andits leisure, as well as the rest. He was certainly not the man to besentimental over the loss of a young girl whom, moreover, he had only known fora few weeks. Nevertheless, he thought of her at odd times, but not enough todisturb his pleasure. The standing of his family, his own handsome appearance,and his immaculate linen opened to him the best houses of the city, and hebecame a great favorite in society. At lectures he was seldom seen, but morefrequently in the theatres, where he used to come in during the middle of thefirst act, take his station in front of the orchestra box, and eye, through hislorgnette, by turns, the actresses and the ladies of the parquet.

Two months passed, and then came the great annual ballwhich the students give at the opening of the second semester. Ralph was a manof importance that evening; first, because he belonged to a great family;secondly, because he was the handsomest man of his year. He wore a large goldenstar on his breast (for his fellow-students had made him a Knight of the GoldenBoar) and a badge of colored ribbons in his buttonhole.

The ball was abrilliant affair, and everybody was in excellent spirits, especially theladies. Ralph danced incessantly, twirled his soft mustache, and utteredamiable platitudes. It was toward midnight, just as the company was moving outto supper, that he caught the glance of a pair of dark-blue eyes, whichsuddenly drove the blood to his cheeks and hastened the beating of his heart.But when he looked once more the dark-blue eyes were gone, and his unruly heartwent on hammering against his side. He laid his hand on his breast and glancedfurtively at his fair neighbor, but she looked happy and unconcerned, for theflavor of the ice cream was delicious. It seemed an endless meal, but, when itwas done, Ralph rose, led his partner back to the ballroom, and hastily excusedhimself. His glance wandered round the wide hall, seeking the well-rememberedeyes once more, and, at length, finding them in a remote corner, half hidbehind a moving wall of promenaders. In another moment he was at Bertha'sside.

"You must have been purposely hiding yourself, Miss Bertha," saidhe, when the usual greetings were exchanged. "I have not caught a glimpse ofyou all this evening, until a few moments ago."

"But I have seen you allthe while," answered the girl, frankly. "I knew you at once as I entered thehall."

"If I had but known that you were here," resumed Ralph, as itwere invisibly expanding with an agreeable sense of dignity, "I assure you, youwould have been the very first one I should have sought."

She raised herlarge grave eyes to his, as if questioning his sincerity; but she made noanswer.

"Good gracious!" thought Ralph. "She takes things terribly inearnest."

"You look so serious, Miss Bertha," said he, after a moment'spause. "I remember you as a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired little girl, who threwher German exercise-book to me across the yard, and whose merry laughter stillrings pleasantly in my memory. I confess I don't find it quite easy to identifythis grave young lady with my merry friend of three years ago."

"Inother words, you are disappointed at not finding me the same as I used tobe."

"No, not exactly that; but—"

Ralph paused and lookedpuzzled. There was something in the earnestness of her manner which made afacetious compliment seem grossly inappropriate, and in the moment no otherescape suggested itself.

"But what?" demanded Bertha,mercilessly.

"Have you ever lost an old friend?" asked he,abruptly.

"Yes; how so?"

"Then," answered he, while his featureslighted up with a happy inspiration—"then you will appreciate mysituation. I fondly cherished my old picture of you in my memory. Now I havelost it, and I can not help regretting the loss. I do not mean, however, toimply that this new acquaintance—this second edition of yourself, so tospeak—will prove less interesting."

She again sent him a grave,questioning look, and began to gaze intently upon the stone in herbracelet.

"I suppose you will laugh at me," began she, while a suddenblush flitted over her countenance. "But this is my first ball, and I feel asif I had rushed into a whirlpool, from which I have, since the first rashplunge was made, been vainly trying to escape. I feel so dreadfully forlorn. Ihardly know anybody here except my cousin, who invited me, and I hardly think Iknow him either."

"Well, since you are irredeemably committed," repliedRalph, as the music, after some prefatory flourishes, broke into the deliciousrhythm of a Strauss waltz, "then it is no use struggling against fate. Come,let us make the plunge together. Misery loves company."

He offered herhis arm, and she rose, somewhat hesitatingly, and followed.

"I amafraid," she whispered, as they fell into line with the procession that wasmoving down the long hall, "that you have asked me to dance merely because Isaid I felt forlorn. If that is the case, I should prefer to be led back to myseat."

"What a base imputation!" cried Ralph.

There was somethingso charmingly naïve in this self-depreciation—something soaltogether novel in his experience, and, he could not help adding, just alittle bit countrified. His spirits rose; he began to relish keenly hisposition as an experienced man of the world, and, in the agreeable glow ofpatronage and conscious superiority, chatted with hearty abandon withhis little rustic beauty.

"If your dancing is as perfect as your Germanex1-ercises were," said she, laughing, as they swung out upon the floor, "thenI promise myself a good deal of pleasure from our meeting."

"Neverfear," answered he, quickly reversing his step, and whirling with many acapricious turn away among the thronging couples.

When Ralph drove homein his carriage toward morning he briefly summed up his impressions of Berthain the following adjectives: intelligent, delightfully unsophisticated, alittle bit verdant, but devilish pretty.

Some weeks later Colonel Grimreceived an appointment at the fortress of Aggershuus, and immediately took uphis residence in the capital. He saw that his son cut a fine figure in thehighest circles of society, and expressed his gratification in the mostemphatic terms. If he had known, however, that Ralph was in the habit ofvisiting, with alarming regularity, at the house of a plebeian merchant in asomewhat obscure street, he would, no doubt, have been more chary of hispraise. But the Colonel suspected nothing, and it was well for the peace of thefamily that he did not. It may have been cowardice in Ralph that he nevermentioned Bertha's name to his family or to his aristocratic acquaintances;for, to be candid, he himself felt ashamed of the power she exerted over him,and by turns pitied and ridiculed himself for pursuing so inglorious aconquest. Nevertheless it wounded his egotism that she never showed anysurprise at seeing him, that she received him with a certain frankunceremoniousness, which, however, was very becoming to her; that sheinvariably went on with her work heedless of his presence, and in everythingtreated him as if she had been his equal. She persisted in talking with him ina half sisterly fashion about his studies and his future career, warned himwith great solicitude against some of his reprobate friends, of whose merryadventures he had told her; and if he ventured to compliment her on her beautyor her accomplishments, she would look up gravely from her sewing, or answerhim in a way which seemed to banish the idea of
love-making into the land ofthe impossible. He was constantly tormented by the suspicion that she secretlydisapproved of him, and that from a mere moral interest in his welfare she wasconscientiously laboring to make him a better man. Day after day he parted fromher feeling humiliated, faint-hearted, and secretly indignant both at himselfand her, and day after day he returned only to renew the same experience. Atlast it became too intolerable, he could endure it no longer. Let it make orbreak, certainty, at all risks, was at least preferable to this sickeningsuspense. That he loved her, he could no longer doubt; let his parents foam andfret as much as they pleased; for once he was going to stand on his own legs.And in the end, he thought, they would have to yield, for they had no son buthim.

Bertha was going to return to her home on the sea-coast in a week.Ralph stood in the little low-ceiled parlor, as she imagined, to bid her good-by. They had been speaking of her father, her brothers, and the farm, and shehad expressed the wish that if he ever should come to that part of the countryhe might pay them a visit. Her words had kindled a vague hope in his breast,but in their very frankness and friendly regard there was something which slewthe hope they had begotten. He held her hand in his, and her large confidingeyes shone with an emotion which was beautiful, but was yet notlove.

"If you were but a peasant born like myself," said she, in a voicewhich sounded almost tender, "then I should like to talk to you as I would tomy own brother; but—"

"No, not brother, Bertha," cried he, withsudden vehemence; "I love you better than I ever loved any earthly being, andif you knew how firmly this love has clutched at the roots of my heart, youwould perhaps—you would at least not look so reproachfully atme."

She dropped his hand, and stood for a moment silent.

"I amsorry that it should have come to this, Mr. Grim," said she, visibly strugglingfor calmness. "And I am perhaps more to blame than you."

"Blame,"muttered he, "why are you to blame?"

"Because I do not love you;although I sometimes feared that this might come. But then again I persuadedmyself that it could not be so."

He took a step toward the door, laidhis hand on the knob, and gazed down before him.

"Bertha," began he,slowly, raising his head, "you have always disapproved of me, you have despisedme in your heart, but you thought you would be doing a good work if yousucceeded in making a man of me."

"You use strong language," answeredshe, hesitatingly; "but there is truth in what you say."

Again there wasa long pause, in which the ticking of the old parlor clock grew louder andlouder.

"Then," he broke out at last, "tell me before we part if I cando nothing to gain—I will not say your love—but only your regard?What would you do if you were in my place?"

"My advice you will hardlyheed, and I do not even know that it would be well if you did. But if I were aman in your position, I should break with my whole past, start out into theworld where nobody knew me, and where I should be dependent only upon my ownstrength, and there I would conquer a place for myself, if it were only for thesatisfaction of knowing that I was really a man. Here cushions are sewed underyour arms, a hundred invisible threads bind you to a life of idleness andvanity, everybody is ready to carry you on his hands, the road is smoothed foryou, every stone carefully moved out of your path, and you will probably go toyour grave without having ever harbored one earnest thought, without havingdone one manly deed."

Ralph stood transfixed, gazing at her with openmouth; he felt a kind of stupid fright, as if some one had suddenly seized himby the shoulders and shaken him violently. He tried vainly to remove his eyesfrom Bertha. She held him as by a powerful spell. He saw that her face waslighted with an altogether new beauty; he noticed the deep glow upon her cheek,the brilliancy of her eye, the slight quiver of her lip. But he saw all this asone sees things in a half-trance, without attempting to account for them; thedoor between his soul and his senses was closed.

"I know that I havebeen bold in speaking to you in this way," she said at last, seating herself ina chair at the window. "But it was yourself who asked me. And I have felt allthe time that I should have to tell you this before we parted."

"And,"answered he, making a strong effort to appear calm, "if I follow your advice,will you allow me to see you once more before you go?"

"I shall remainhere another week, and shall, during that time, always be ready to receiveyou."

"Thank you. Good-by."

"Good-by."

Ralph carefullyavoided all the fashionable thoroughfares; he felt degraded before himself, andhe had an idea that every man could read his humiliation in his countenance.Now he walked on quickly, striking the sidewalk with his heels; now, again, hefell into an uneasy, reckless saunter, according as the changing moods inspireddefiance of his sentence, or a qualified surrender. And, as he walked on, thebitterness grew within him, and he piteously reviled himself for having allowedhimself to be made a fool of by "that little country goose," when he was wellaware that there were hundreds of women of the best families of the land whowould feel honored at receiving his attentions. But this sort of reasoning heknew to be both weak and contemptible, and his better self soon rose in loudrebellion.

"After all," he muttered, "in the main thing she was right. Iam a miserable good-for-nothing, a hothouse plant, a poor stick, and if I werea woman myself, I don't think I should waste my affections on a man of thatcalibre."

Then he unconsciously fell to analyzing Bertha's character,wondering vaguely that a person who moved so timidly in social life, appearingso diffident, from an ever-present fear of blundering against the establishedforms of etiquette, could judge so quickly, and with such a mercilesscertainty, whenever a moral question, a question of right and wrong, was atissue. And, pursuing the same train of thought, he contrasted her with himself,who moved in the highest spheres of society as in his native element, heedlessof moral scruples, and conscious of no loftier motive for his actions than theimmediate pleasure of the moment.

As Ralph turned the corner of astreet, he heard himself hailed from the other sidewalk by a chorus of merryvoices.

"Ah, my dear Baroness," cried a young man, springing across thestreet and grasping Ralph's hand (all his student friends called him theBaroness), "in the name of this illustrious company, allow me to salute you.But why the deuce—what is the matter with you? If you have theKatzenjammer [Footnote: Katzenjammer is the sensation a man hasthe morning after a carousal.] soda-water is the thing. Come along—it'smy treat!"

The students instantly thronged around Ralph, who stooddistractedly swinging his cane and smiling idiotically.

"I am not quitewell," said he; "leave me alone."

"No, to be sure, you don't look well,"cried a jolly youth, against whom Bertha had frequently warned him; "but aglass of sherry will soon restore you. It would be highly immoral to leave youin this condition without taking care of you."

Ralph again vainly triedto remonstrate; but the end was, that he reluctantly followed.

He hadalways been a conspicuous figure in the student world; but that night heastonished his friends by his eloquence, his reckless humor, and his capacityfor drinking. He made a speech for "Woman," which bristled with wit, cynicism,and sarcastic epigrams. One young man, named Vinter, who was engaged, undertookto protest against his sweeping condemnation, and declared that Ralph, who wasa universal favorite among the ladies, ought to be the last to revilethem.

"If," he went on, "the Baroness should propose to six well-knownladies here in this city whom I could mention, I would wager sixJohannisbergers, and an equal amount of champagne, that every one of them wouldaccept him."

The others loudly applauded this proposal, and Ralphaccepted the wager. The letters were written on the spot, and immediatelydespatched. Toward morning, the merry carousal broke up, and Ralph wasconducted in triumph to his home.

Two dayslater, Ralph again knocked on Bertha's door. He looked paler than usual, almosthaggard; his immaculate linen was a little crumpled, and he carried no cane;his lips were tightly compressed, and his face wore an air of desperateresolution.

"It is done," he said, as he seated himself opposite her. "Iam going."

"Going!" cried she, startled at his unusual appearance. "How,where?"

"To America. I sail to-night. I have followed your advice, yousee. I have cut off the last bridge behind me."

"But, Ralph," sheexclaimed, in a voice of alarm. "Something dreadful must have happened. Tell mequick; I must know it."

"No; nothing dreadful," muttered he, smilingbitterly. "I have made a little scandal, that is all. My father told me to-dayto go to the devil, if I chose, and my mother gave me five hundred dollars tohelp me along on the way. If you wish to know, here is theexplanation."

And he pulled from his pocket six perfumed and carefullyfolded notes, and threw them into her lap.

"Do you wish me to readthem?" she asked, with growing surprise.
"Certainly. Why not?"

Shehastily opened one note after the other, and read.

"But, Ralph," shecried, springing up from her seat, while her eyes flamed with indignation,"what does this mean? What have you done?"

"I didn't think it needed anyexplanation," replied he, with feigned indifference. "I proposed to them all,and, you see, they all accepted me. I received all these letters to-day. I onlywished to know whether the whole world regarded me as such a worthless scamp asyou told me I was."

She did not answer, but sat mutely staring at him,fiercely crumpling a rose-colored note in her hand. He began to feeluncomfortable under her gaze, and threw himself about uneasily in hischair.

"Well," said he, at length, rising, "I suppose there is nothingmore. Good-by."

"One moment, Mr. Grim," demanded she, sternly. "SinceI have already said so much, and you have obligingly revealed to me a new sideof your character, I claim the right to correct the opinion I expressed of youat our last meeting."

"I am all attention."

"I did think, Mr.Grim," began she, breathing hard, and steadying herself against the table atwhich she stood, "that you were a very selfish man—an embodiment ofselfishness, absolute and supreme, but I did not believe that you werewicked."

"And what convinced you that I was selfish, if I mayask?"

"What convinced me?" repeated she, in a tone of inexpressiblecontempt. "When did you ever act from any generous regard for others? What gooddid you ever do to anybody?"

"You might ask, with equal justice, whatgood I ever did to myself."

"In a certain sense, yes; because to gratifya mere momentary wish is hardly doing one's self good."

"Then I have, atall events, followed the Biblical precept, and treated my neighbor very much asI treat myself."

"I did think," continued Bertha, without heeding theremark, "that you were, at bottom kind-hearted, but too hopelessly well-bredever to commit an act of any decided complexion, either good or bad. Now I seethat I have misjudged you, and that you are capable of outraging the mostsacred feelings of a woman's heart in mere wantonness, or for the sake ofsatisfying a base curiosity, which never could have entered the mind of anupright and generous man."

The hard, benumbed look in Ralph's facethawed in the warmth of her presence, and her words, though stern, touched asecret spring in his heart. He made two or three vain attempts to speak, thensuddenly broke down, and cried:

"Bertha, Bertha, even if you scorn me,have patience with me, and listen."

And he told her, in rapid, brokensentences, how his love for her had grown from day to day, until he could nolonger master it; and how, in an unguarded moment, when his pride rose infierce conflict against his love, he had done this reckless deed of which hewas now heartily ashamed. The fervor of his words touched her, for she feltthat they were sincere. Large mute tears trembled in her eyelashes as she satgazing tenderly at him, and in the depth of her soul the wish awoke that shemight have been able to return this great and strong love of his; for she feltthat in this love lay the germ of a new, of a stronger and better man. Shenoticed, with a half-regretful pleasure, his handsome figure, his delicatelyshaped hands, and the noble cast of his features; an overwhelming pity for himrose within her, and she began to reproach herself for having spoken soharshly, and, as she now thought, so unjustly. Perhaps he read in her eyes theunspoken wish. He seized her hand, and his words fell with a warm and alluringcadence upon her ear.

"I shall not see you for a long time to come,Bertha," said he, "but if at the end of five or six years your hand is stillfree, and I return another man—a man to whom you could safely intrustyour
happiness—would you then listen to what I may have to say to you?For I promise, by all that we both hold sacred—"

"No, no,"interrupted she, hastily. "Promise nothing. It would be unjust to yourself, andperhaps also to me; for a sacred promise is a terrible thing, Ralph. Let usboth remain free; and, if you return and still love me, then come, and I shallreceive you and listen to you. And even if you have outgrown your love, whichis, indeed, more probable, come still to visit me wherever I may be, and weshall meet as friends and rejoice in the meeting."

"You know best," hemurmured. "Let it be as you have said."

He arose, took her face betweenhis hands, gazed long and tenderly into her eyes, pressed a kiss upon herforehead, and hastened away.

That night Ralph boarded the steamer forHull, and three weeks later landed in New York.

The first three months of Ralph's sojourn in Americawere spent in vain attempts to obtain a situation. Day after day he walked downBroadway, calling at various places of business, and night after night hereturned to his cheerless room with a faint heart and declining spirits. Itwas, after all, a more serious thing than he had imagined, to cut the cablewhich binds one to the land of one's birth. There a hundred subtile influences,the existence of which no one suspects until the moment they are withdrawn,unite to keep one in the straight path of rectitude, or at least of externalrespectability; and Ralph's life had been all in society; the opinion of hisfellow-men had been the one force to which he implicitly deferred, and theconscience by which he had been wont to test his actions had been nothing butthe aggregate judgment of his friends. To such a man the isolation and theutter irresponsibility of a life among strangers was tenfold more dangerous;and Ralph found, to his horror, that his character contained innumerable latentpossibilities which the easy-going life in his home probably never would haverevealed to him. It often cut him to the quick, when, on entering an office inhis daily search for employment, he was met by hostile or suspicious glances,or when, as it occasionally happened, the door was slammed in his face, as ifhe were a vagabond or an impostor. Then the wolf was often roused within him,and he felt a momentary wild desire to become what the people here evidentlybelieved him to be. Many a night he sauntered irresolutely about the gamblingplaces in obscure streets, and the glare of light, the rude shouts and clamorsin the same moment repelled and attracted him. If he went to the devil, whowould care? His father had himself pointed out the way to him; and nobody couldblame him if he followed the advice. But then again a memory emerged from thatchamber of his soul which still he held sacred; and Bertha's deep-blue eyesgazed upon him with their earnest look of tender warning and regret. When thesummer was half gone, Ralph had gained many a hard victory over himself, andlearned many a useful lesson; and at length he swallowed his pride, divestedhimself of his fine clothes, and accepted a position as assistant gardener at avilla on the Hudson. And as he stood perspiring with a spade in his hand, and acheap broad-brimmed straw hat on his head, he often took a grim pleasure inpicturing to himself how his aristocratic friends at home would receive him ifhe should introduce himself to them in this new costume.

"After all, itwas only my position they cared for," he reflected, bitterly; "without myfather's name what would I be to them?"

Then, again, there was a certainsatisfaction in knowing that, for his present situation, humble as it was, hewas indebted to nobody but himself; and the thought that Bertha's eyes, if theycould have seen him now, would have dwelt upon him with pleasure andapprobation, went far to console him for his aching back, his sunburned face,and his swollen and blistered hands.

One day, as Ralph was raking thegravel-walks in the garden, his employer's daughter, a young lady of seventeen,came out and spoke to him. His culture and refinement of manner struck her withwonder, and she asked him to tell her his history; but then he suddenly grewvery grave, and she forbore pressing him. From that time she attached a kind ofromantic interest to him, and finally induced her father to obtain him asituation that would be more to his taste. And, before winter came, Ralph sawthe dawn of a new future glimmering before him. He had wrestled bravely withfate, and had once more gained a victory. He began the career in which successand distinction awaited him as proofreader on a newspaper in the city. He hadfortunately been familiar with the English language before he left home, and bythe strength of his will he conquered all difficulties. At the end of two yearshe became attached to the editorial staff; new ambitious hopes, hithertoforeign to his mind, awoke within him; and with joyous tumult of heart he sawlife opening its wide vistas before him, and he labored on manfully to repairthe losses of the past, and to prepare himself for greater usefulness in timesto come. He felt in himself a stronger and fuller manhood, as if the greatarteries of the vast universal world-life pulsed in his own being. The drowsy,indolent existence at home appeared like a dull remote dream from which he hadawaked, and he blessed the destiny which, by its very sternness, had mercifullysaved him; he blessed her, too, who, from the very want of love for him, had,perhaps, made him worthier of love.

The years flew rapidly. Society hadflung its doors open to him, and what was more, he had found some warm friends,in whose houses he could come and go at pleasure. He enjoyed keenly theprivilege of daily association with high-minded and refined women; their eageractivity of intellect stimulated him, their exquisite ethereal grace and theirdelicately chiseled beauty satisfied his aesthetic cravings, and the responsivevivacity of their nature prepared him ever new surprises. He felt a strangefascination in the presence of these women, and the conviction grew upon himthat their type of womanhood was superior to any he had hitherto known. And byway of refuting his own argument, he would draw from his pocketbook thephotograph of Bertha, which had a secret compartment there all to itself, and,gazing tenderly at it, would eagerly defend her against the disparagingreflections which the involuntary comparison had provoked. And still, how couldhe help seeing that her features, though well molded, lacked animation; thather eye, with its deep, trustful glance, was not brilliant, and that the calmearnestness of her face, when compared with the bright, intellectual beauty ofhis present friends, appeared pale and simple, like a violet in a bouquet ofvividly colored roses? It gave him a quick pang, when, at times, he was forcedto admit this; nevertheless, it was the truth.

After six years ofresidence in America, Ralph had gained a very high reputation as a journalistof rare culture and ability, and in 1867 he was sent to the World's Exhibitionin Paris, as correspondent of the paper on which he had during all these yearsbeen employed. What wonder, then, that he started for Europe a few weeks beforehis presence was needed in the imperial city, and that he steered his coursedirectly toward the fjord valley where Bertha had her home? It was she who hadbidden him Godspeed when he fled from the land of his birth, and she, too,should receive his first greeting on his return.

The sun had fortified itself behind a citadel of flamingclouds, and the upper forest region shone with a strange ethereal glow, whilethe lower plains were wrapped in shadow; but the shadow itself had a strongsuffusion of color. The mountain peaks rose cold and blue in thedistance.

Ralph, having inquired his way of the boatman who had landedhim at the pier, walked rapidly along the beach, with a small valise in hishand, and a light summer overcoat flung over his shoulder. Many half-thoughtsgrazed his mind, and ere the first had taken shape, the second and the thirdcame and chased it away. And still they all in some fashion had reference toBertha; for in a misty, abstract way, she filled his whole mind; but for someindefinable reason, he was afraid to give free rein to the sentiment whichlurked in the remoter corners of his soul.

Onward he hastened, while hisheart throbbed with the quickening tempo of mingled expectation and fear. Nowand then one of those chill gusts of air, which seem to be careering aboutaimlessly in the atmosphere during early summer, would strike into his face,and recall him to a keener self-consciousness.

Ralph concluded, from hisincreasing agitation, that he must be very near Bertha's home. He stopped andlooked around him. He saw a large maple at the roadside, some thirty steps fromwhere he was standing, and the girl who was sitting under it, resting her headin her hand and gazing out over the sea, he recognized in an instant to beBertha. He sprang up on the road, not crossing, however, her line of vision,and approached her noiselessly from behind.

"Bertha," hewhispered.

She gave a little joyous cry, sprang up, and made a gestureas if to throw herself in his arms; then suddenly checked herself, blushedcrimson, and moved a step backward.

"You came so suddenly," shemurmured.

"But, Bertha," cried he (and the full bass of his voice rangthrough her very soul), "have I gone into exile and waited these many years forso cold a welcome?"

"You have changed so much, Ralph," she answered,with that old grave smile which he knew so well, and stretched out both herhands toward him. "And I have thought of you so much since you went away, andblamed myself because I had judged you so harshly, and wondered that you couldlisten to me so patiently, and never bear me any malice for what Isaid."

"If you had said a word less," declared Ralph, seating himself ather side on the greensward, "or if you had varnished it over with politeness,then you would probably have failed to produce any effect and I should not havebeen burdened with that heavy debt of gratitude which I now owe you. I was apretty thick-skinned animal in those days, Bertha. You said the right word atthe right moment; you gave me a bold and a good piece of advice, which my owningenuity would never have suggested to me. I will not thank you, because, inso grave a case as this, spoken thanks sound like a mere mockery. Whatever Iam, Bertha, and whatever I may hope to be, I owe it all to thathour."

She listened with rapture to the manly assurance of his voice;her eyes dwelt with unspeakable joy upon his strong, bronzed features, his fullthick blond beard, and the vigorous proportions of his frame. Many and many atime during his absence had she wondered how he would look if he ever cameback, and with that minute conscientiousness which, as it were, pervaded herwhole character, she had held herself responsible before God for his fate,prayed for him, and trembled lest evil powers should gain the ascendency overhis soul.

On their way to the house they talked together of many things,but in a guarded, cautious fashion, and without the cheerful abandonment offormer years. They both, as it were, groped their way carefully in each other'sminds, and each vaguely felt that there was something in the other's thoughtwhich it was not well to touch unbidden. Bertha saw that all her fears for himhad been groundless, and his very appearance lifted the whole weight ofresponsibility from her breast; and still, did she rejoice at her deliverancefrom her burden? Ah, no; in this moment she knew that that which she hadfoolishly cherished as the best and noblest part of herself had been but aselfish need of her own heart. She feared that she had only taken that interestin him which one feels in a thing of one's own making, and now, when she sawthat he had risen quite above her; that he was free and strong, and could haveno more need of her, she had, instead of generous pleasure at his success, buta painful sense of emptiness, as if something very dear had been taken fromher.

Ralph, too, was loth to analyze the impression his old love madeupon him. His feelings were of so complex a nature, he was anxious to keep hismore magnanimous impulses active, and he strove hard to convince himself thatshe was still the same to him as she had been before they had ever parted. But,alas! though the heart be warm and generous, the eye is a merciless critic. Andthe man who had moved on the wide arena of the world, whose mind had housed thelarge thoughts of this century, and expanded with its invigoratingbreath—was he to blame because he had unconsciously outgrown his oldprovincial self, and could no more judge by its standards?

Bertha'sfather was a peasant, but he had, by his lumber trade, acquired what in Norwaywas called a very handsome fortune. He received his guest with dignifiedreserve, and Ralph thought he detected in his eyes a lurking look of distrust."I know your errand," that look seemed to say, "but you had better give it upat once. It will be of no use for you to try."

And after supper, asRalph and Bertha sat talking confidingly with each other at the window, he senthis daughter a quick, sharp glance, and then, without ceremony, commanded herto go to bed. Ralph's heart gave a great thump within him; not because hefeared the old man, but because his words, as well as his glances, revealed tohim the sad history of these long, patient years. He doubted no longer that thelove which he had once so ardently desired was his at last: and he made asilent vow that, come what might, he would remain faithful.

As he camedown to breakfast the next morning, he found Bertha sitting at the window,engaged in hemming what appeared to be a rough kitchen towel. She bent eagerlyover her work, and only a vivid flush upon her cheek told him that she hadnoticed his coming. He took a chair, seated himself opposite her, and bade her"good-morning." She raised her head, and showed him a sweet, troubledcountenance, which the early sunlight illumined with a high spiritual beauty.It reminded him forcibly of those pale, sweet-faced saints of Fra Angelico,with whom the frail flesh seems ever on the point of yielding to the ardentaspirations of the spirit. And still even in this moment he could not preventhis eyes from observing that one side of her forefinger was rough from sewing,and that the whiteness of her arm, which the loose sleeves displayed,contrasted strongly with the browned and sunburned complexion of herhands.

After breakfast they again walked together on the beach, andRalph, having once formed his resolution, now talked freely of the NewWorld—of his sphere of activity there; of his friends and of his plansfor the future; and she listened to him with a mild, perplexed look in hereyes, as if trying vainly to follow the flight of his thoughts. And hewondered, with secret dismay, whether she was still the same strong, brave-hearted girl whom he had once accounted almost bold; whether the life in thisnarrow valley, amid a hundred petty and depressing cares, had not cramped herspiritual growth, and narrowed the sphere of her thought. Or was she still thesame, and was it only he who had changed? At last he gave utterance to hiswonder, and she answered him in those grave, earnest tones which seemed inthemselves to be half a refutation of his doubts.

"It was easy for me togive you daring advice then, Ralph," she said. "Like most school-girls, Ithought that life was a great and glorious thing, and that happiness was afruit which hung within reach of every hand. Now I have lived for six yearstrying single-handed to relieve the want and suffering of the needy people withwhom I come in contact, and their squalor and wretchedness have sickened me,and, what is still worse, I feel that all I can do is as a drop in the ocean,and, after all, amounts to nothing. I know I am no longer the same recklessgirl who, with the very best intention, sent you wandering through the wideworld; and I thank God that it proved to be for your good, although the wholenow appears quite incredible to me. My thoughts have moved so long within thenarrow circle of these mountains that they have lost their youthful elasticity,and can no more rise above them."

Ralph detected, in the midst of herdespondency, a spark of her former fire, and grew eloquent in his endeavors topersuade her that she was unjust to herself, and that there was but a widersphere of life needed to develop all the latent powers of her richnature.

At the dinner-table, her father again sat eying his guest withthat same cold look of distrust and suspicion. And when the meal was at an end,he rose abruptly and called his daughter into another room. Presently Ralphheard his angry voice resounding through the house, interrupted now and then bya woman's sobs, and a subdued, passionate pleading. When Bertha again enteredthe room, her eyes were very red, and he saw that she had been weeping. Shethrew a shawl over her shoulders, beckoned to him with her hand, and he aroseand followed her. She led the way silently until they reached a thick copse ofbirch and alder near the strand. She dropped down upon a bench between twotrees, and he took his seat at her side.

"Ralph," began she, with avisible effort, "I hardly know what to say to you; but there is something whichI must tell you—my father wishes you to leave us at once."

"Andyou, Bertha?"

"Well—yes—I wish it too."

Shesaw the painful shock which her words gave him, and she strove hard to speak.Her lips trembled, her eyes became suffused with tears, which grew and grew,but never fell; she could not utter a word.

"Well, Bertha," answered he,with a little quiver in his voice, "if you, too, wish me to go, I shall nottarry. Good-by."

He rose quickly, and, with averted face, held out hishand to her; but as she made no motion to grasp the hand, he began distractedlyto button his coat, and moved slowly away.

"Ralph."

He turnedsharply, and, before he knew it, she lay sobbing upon hisbreast.

"Ralph," she murmured, while the tears almost choked her words,"I could not have you leave me thus. It is hard enough—it ishard
enough—"

"What is hard, beloved?"

She raised herhead abruptly, and turned upon him a gaze full of hope and doubt, and sweetperplexity.

"Ah, no, you do not love me," she whispered,sadly.

"Why should I come to seek you, after these many years, dearest,if I did not wish to make you my wife before God and men? Why shouldI—"

"Ah, yes, I know," she interrupted him with a fresh fit ofweeping, "you are too good and honest to wish to throw me away, now when youhave seen how my soul has hungered for the sight of you these many years, howeven now I cling to you with a despairing clutch. But you can not disguiseyourself, Ralph, and I saw from the first moment that you loved me nomore.

"Do not be such an unreasonable child," he remonstrated, feebly."I do not love you with the wild, irrational passion of former years; but Ihave the tenderest regard for you, and my heart warms at the sight of yoursweet face, and I shall do all in my power to make you as happy as any man canmake you who—"

"Who does not love me," she finished.

Asudden shudder seemed to shake her whole frame, and she drew herself moretightly up to him.

"Ah, no," she continued, after a while, sinking backupon her seat. "It is a hopeless thing to compel a reluctant heart. I willaccept no sacrifice from you. You owe me nothing, for you have acted toward mehonestly and uprightly, and I shall be a stronger or—at least—abetter woman for what you gave me—and—for what you could not giveme, even though you would."

"But, Bertha," exclaimed he, lookingmournfully at her, "it is not true when you say that I owe you nothing. Sixyears ago, when first I wooed you, you could not return my love, and you sentme out into the world, and even refused to accept any pledge or promise for thefuture."

"And you returned," she responded, "a man, such as my hope hadpictured you; but, while I had almost been standing still, you had outgrown me,and outgrown your old self, and, with your old self, outgrown its love for me,for your love was not of your new self, but of the old. Alas! it is a sad tale,but it is true."

She spoke gravely now, and with a steadier voice, buther eyes hung upon his face with an eager look of expectation, as if yearningto detect there some gleam of hope, some contradiction of the dismal truth. Heread that look aright and it pierced him like a sharp sword. He made a braveeffort to respond to its appeal, but his features seemed hard as stone, and hecould only cry out against his destiny, and bewail his misfortune andhers.

Toward evening, Ralph was sitting in an open boat, listening tothe measured oar-strokes of the boatmen who were rowing him out to the neareststopping-place of the steamer. The mountains lifted their great placid heads upamong the sun-bathed clouds, and the fjord opened its cool depths as if to makeroom for their vast reflections. Ralph felt as if he were floating in the midstof the blue infinite space, and, with the strength which this feeling inspired,he tried to face boldly the thought from which he had but a moment ago shrunkas from something hopelessly sad and perplexing.

And in that hour helooked fearlessly into the gulf which separates the New World from the Old. Hehad hoped to bridge it; but, alas! it can not be bridged.

SANDY was very drunk. He was lyingunder an azalea-bush, in pretty much the same attitude in which he had fallensome hours before. How long he had been lying there he could not tell, anddidn't care; how long he should lie there was a matter equally indefinite andunconsidered. A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition, suffusedand saturated his moral being.

The spectacle of a drunken man, and ofthis drunken man in particular, was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient noveltyin Red Gulch to attract attention. Earlier in the day some local satirist haderected a temporary tombstone at Sandy's head, bearing the inscription,"Effects of McCorkle's whiskey—kills at forty rods," with a hand pointingto McCorkle's saloon. But this, I imagine, was, like most local satire,personal; and was a reflection upon the unfairness of the process rather than acommentary upon the impropriety of the result. With this facetious exception,Sandy had been undisturbed. A wandering mule, released from his pack, hadcropped the scant herbage beside him, and sniffed curiously at the prostrateman; a vagabond dog, with that deep sympathy which the species have for drunkenmen, had licked his dusty boots and curled himself up at his feet, and laythere, blinking one eye in the sunlight, with a simulation of dissipation thatwas ingenious and dog-like in its implied flattery of the unconscious manbeside him.

Meanwhile the shadows of the pine-trees had slowly swungaround until they crossed the road, and their trunks barred the open meadowwith gigantic parallels of black and yellow. Little puffs of red dust, liftedby the plunging hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy shower upon therecumbent man. The sun sank lower and lower, and still Sandy stirred not. Andthen the repose of this philosopher was disturbed, as other philosophers havebeen, by the intrusion of an unphilosophical sex.

"Miss Mary," as shewas known to the little flock that she had just dismissed from the logschoolhouse beyond the pines, was taking her afternoon walk. Observing anunusually fine cluster of blossoms on the azalea-bush opposite, she crossed theroad to pluck it, picking her way through the red dust, not without certainfierce little shivers of disgust and some feline circumlocution. And then shecame suddenly upon Sandy!

Of course she uttered the little staccato cryof her sex. But when she had paid that tribute to her physical weakness shebecame overbold and halted for a moment—at least six feet from thisprostrate
monster—with her white skirts gathered in her hand, readyfor flight. But neither sound nor motion came from the bush. With one littlefoot she then overturned the satirical headboard, and muttered"Beasts!"—an epithet which probably, at that moment, convenientlyclassified in her mind the entire male population of Red Gulch. For Miss Mary,being possessed of certain rigid notions of her own, had not, perhaps, properlyappreciated the demonstrative gallantry for which the Californian has been sojustly celebrated by his brother Californians, and had, as a new-comer, perhapsfairly earned the reputation of being "stuck up."

As she stood there shenoticed, also, that the slant sunbeams were heating Sandy's head to what shejudged to be an unhealthy temperature, and that his hat was lying uselessly athis side. To pick it up and to place it over his face was a work requiring somecourage, particularly as his eyes were open. Yet she did it and made good herretreat. But she was somewhat concerned, on looking back, to see that the hatwas removed, and that Sandy was sitting up and saying something.

Thetruth was, that in the calm depths of Sandy's mind he was satisfied that therays of the sun were beneficial and healthful; that from childhood he hadobjected to lying down in a hat; that no people but condemned fools, pastredemption, ever wore hats; and that his right to dispense with them when hepleased was inalienable. This was the statement of his inner consciousness.Unfortunately, its outward expression was vague, being limited to a repetitionof the following formula: "Su'shine all ri'! Wasser maär, eh? Wass up,su'shine?"

Miss Mary stopped, and, taking fresh courage from her vantageof distance, asked him if there was anything that he wanted.

"Wass up?Wasser maär?" continued Sandy, in a very high key.

"Get up, you horridman!" said Miss Mary, now thoroughly incensed; "get up and gohome."

Sandy staggered to his feet. He was six feet high, and Miss Marytrembled. He started forward a few paces and then stopped.

"Wass I gohome for?" he suddenly asked, with great gravity.

"Go and take a bath,"replied Miss Mary, eying his grimy person with great disfavor.

To herinfinite dismay, Sandy suddenly pulled off his coat and vest, threw them on theground, kicked off his boots, and, plunging wildly forward, darted headlongover the hill in the direction of the river.

"Goodness heavens! the manwill be drowned!" said Miss Mary; and then, with feminine inconsistency, sheran back to the schoolhouse and locked herself in.

That night, whileseated at supper with her hostess, the blacksmith's wife, it came to Miss Maryto ask, demurely, if her husband ever got drunk. "Abner," responded Mrs.Stidger reflectively—"let's see! Abner hasn't been tight since last'lection." Miss Mary would have liked to ask if he preferred lying in the sunon these occasions, and if a cold bath would have hurt him; but this would haveinvolved an explanation, which she did not then care to give. So she contentedherself with opening her gray eyes widely at the red-cheeked Mrs.Stidger—a fine specimen of Southwestern efflorescence—and thendismissed the subject altogether. The next day she wrote to her dearest friendin Boston: "I think I find the intoxicated portion of this community the leastobjectionable. I refer, my dear, to the men, of course. I do not know anythingthat could make the women tolerable."

In less than a week Miss Mary hadforgotten this episode, except that her afternoon walks took thereafter, almostunconsciously, another direction. She noticed, however, that every morning afresh cluster of azalea, blossoms appeared among the flowers on her desk. Thiswas not strange, as her little flock were aware of her fondness for flowers,and invariably kept her desk bright with anemones, syringas, and lupines; but,on questioning them, they one and all professed ignorance of the azaleas. A fewdays later, Master Johnny Stidger, whose desk was nearest to the window, wassuddenly taken with spasms of apparently gratuitous laughter, that threatenedthe discipline of the school. All that Miss Mary could get from him was, thatsome one had been "looking in the winder." Irate and indignant, she salliedfrom her hive to do battle with the intruder. As she turned the corner of theschoolhouse she came plump upon the quondam drunkard, now perfectly sober, andinexpressibly sheepish and guilty-looking.

These facts Miss Mary was notslow to take a feminine advantage of, in her present humor. But it was somewhatconfusing to observe, also, that the beast, despite some faint signs of pastdissipation, was
amiable-looking—in fact, a kind of blond Samson,whose corn-colored silken beard apparently had never yet known the touch ofbarber's razor or Delilah's shears. So that the cutting speech which quiveredon her ready tongue died upon her lips, and she contented herself withreceiving his stammering apology with supercilious eyelids and the gatheredskirts of uncontamination. When she re-entered the schoolroom, her eyes fellupon the azaleas with a new sense of revelation; and then she laughed, and thelittle people all laughed, and they were all unconsciously veryhappy.

It was a hot day, and not long after this, that two short-leggedboys came to grief on the threshold of the school with a pail of water, whichthey had laboriously brought from the spring, and that Miss Marycompassionately seized the pail and started for the spring herself. At the footof the hill a shadow crossed her path, and a blue-shirted arm dexterously butgently relieved her of her burden. Miss Mary was both embarrassed and angry."If you carried more of that for yourself," she said spitefully to the bluearm, without deigning to raise her lashes to its owner, "you'd do better." Inthe submissive silence that followed she regretted the speech, and thanked himso sweetly at the door that he stumbled. Which caused the children to laughagain—a laugh in which Miss Mary joined, until the color came faintlyinto her pale cheek. The next day a barrel was mysteriously placed beside thedoor, and as mysteriously filled with fresh spring-water everymorning.

Nor was this superior young person without other quietattentions. "Profane Bill," driver of the Slumgullion Stage, widely known inthe newspapers for his "gallantry" in invariably offering the box-seat to thefair sex, had excepted Miss Mary from this attention, on the ground that he hada habit of "cussin' on up grades," and gave her half the coach to herself. JackHamlin, a gambler, having once silently ridden with her in the same coach,afterward threw a decanter at the head of a confederate for mentioning her namein a barroom. The over-dressed mother of a pupil whose paternity was doubtfulhad often lingered near this astute Vestal's temple, never daring to enter itssacred precincts, but content to worship the priestess from afar.

Withsuch unconscious intervals the monotonous procession of blue skies, glitteringsunshine, brief twilights, and starlit nights passed over Red Gulch. Miss Marygrew fond of walking in the sedate and proper woods. Perhaps she believed, withMrs. Stidger, that the balsamic odors of the firs "did her chest good," forcertainly her slight cough was less frequent and her step was firmer; perhapsshe had learned the unending lesson which the patient pines are never weary ofrepeating to heedful or listless ears. And so one day she planned a picnic onBuckeye Hill, and took the children with her. Away from the dusty road, thestraggling shanties, the yellow ditches, the clamor of restless engines, thecheap finery of shop-windows, the deeper glitter of paint and colored glass,and the thin veneering which barbarism takes upon itself in such localities,what infinite relief was theirs! The last heap of ragged rock and clay passed,the last unsightly chasm crossed—how the waiting woods opened their longfiles to receive them! How the children—perhaps because they had not yetgrown quite away from the breast of the bounteous Mother—threw themselvesface downward on her brown bosom with uncouth caresses, filling the air withtheir laughter; and how Miss Mary herself—felinely fastidious andintrenched as she was in the purity of spotless skirts, collar, andcuffs—forgot all, and ran like a crested quail at the head of her brood,until, romping, laughing, and panting, with a loosened braid of brown hair, ahat hanging by a knotted ribbon from her throat, she came suddenly andviolently, in the heart of the forest, upon the luckless Sandy!

Theexplanations, apologies, and not overwise conversation that ensued need not beindicated here. It would seem, however, that Miss Mary had already establishedsome acquaintance with this ex-drunkard. Enough that he was soon accepted asone of the party; that the children, with that quick intelligence whichProvidence gives the helpless, recognized a friend, and played with his blondbeard and long silken mustache, and took other liberties—as the helplessare apt to do. And when he had built a fire against a tree, and had shown themother mysteries of woodcraft, their admiration knew no bounds. At the close oftwo such foolish, idle, happy hours he found himself lying at the feet of theschoolmistress, gazing dreamily in her face as she sat upon the slopinghillside weaving wreaths of laurel and syringa, in very much the same attitudeas he had lain when first they met. Nor was the similitude greatly forced. Theweakness of an easy, sensuous nature, that had found a dreamy exaltation inliquor, it is to be feared was now finding ah equal intoxication inlove.

I think that Sandy was dimly conscious of this himself. I knowthat he longed to be doing something—slaying a grizzly, scalping asavage, or sacrificing himself in some way for the sake of this sallow-faced,gray-eyed schoolmistress. As I should like to present him in an heroicattitude, I stay my hand with great difficulty at this moment, being onlywithheld from introducing such an episode by a strong conviction that it doesnot usually occur at such times. And I trust that my fairest reader, whor*members that, in a real crisis, it is always some uninteresting stranger orunromantic policeman, and not Adolphus, who rescues, will forgive theomission.

So they sat there undisturbed—the woodpeckers chatteringoverhead and the voices of the children coming pleasantly from the hollowbelow. What they said matters little. What they thought—which might havebeen interesting—did not transpire. The woodpeckers only learned how MissMary was an orphan; how she left her uncle's house to come to California forthe sake of health and independence; how Sandy was an orphan too; how he cameto California for excitement; how he had lived a wild life, and how he wastrying to reform; and other details, which, from a woodpecker's viewpoint,undoubtedly must have seemed stupid and a waste of time. But even in suchtrifles was the afternoon spent; and when the children were again gathered, andSandy, with a delicacy which the schoolmistress well understood, took leave ofthem quietly at the outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest dayof her weary life.

As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, theschool term of Red Gulch—to use a local euphuism—"dried up" also.In another day Miss Mary would be free, and for a season, at least, Red Gulchwould know her no more. She was seated alone in the school-house, her cheekresting on her hand, her eyes half closed in one of those day-dreams in whichMiss Mary, I fear, to the danger of school discipline, was lately in the habitof indulging. Her lap was full of mosses, ferns, and other woodland memories.She was so preoccupied with these and her own thoughts that a gentle tapping atthe door passed unheard, or translated itself into the remembrance of far-offwoodpeckers. When at last it asserted itself more distinctly, she started upwith a flushed cheek and opened the door. On the threshold stood a woman,the
self-assertion and audacity of whose dress were in singular contrast toher timid, irresolute bearing.

Miss Mary recognized at a glance thedubious mother of her anonymous pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed, perhapsshe was only fastidious; but as she coldly invited her to enter, she halfunconsciously settled her white cuffs and collar, and gathered closer her ownchaste skirts. It was, perhaps, for this reason that the embarrassed stranger,after a moment's hesitation, left her gorgeous parasol open and sticking in thedust beside the door, and then sat down at the further end of a long bench. Hervoice was husky as she began:

"I heerd tell that you were goin' down tothe Bay to-morrow, and I couldn't let you go until I came to thank you for yourkindness to my Tommy."

Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy, anddeserved more than the poor attention she could give him.

"Thank you,miss; thank ye!" cried the stranger, brightening even through the color whichRed Gulch knew facetiously as her "war paint," and striving, in herembarrassment, to drag the long bench nearer the schoolmistress. "I thank you,miss, for that; and if I am his mother, there ain't a sweeter, dearer, betterboy lives than him. And if I ain't much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter,dearer, angeler teacher lives than he's got."

Miss Mary, sitting primlybehind her desk, with a ruler over her shoulder, opened her gray eyes widely atthis, but said nothing.

"It ain't for you to be complimented by the likeof me, I know," she went on hurriedly. "It ain't for me to be comin' here, inbroad day, to do it, either; but I come to ask a favor—not for me,miss—not for me, but for the darling boy."

Encouraged by a look inthe young schoolmistress's eye, and putting her lilac-gloved hands together,the ringers downward, between her knees, she went on, in a lowvoice:

"You see, miss, there's no one the boy has any claim on but me,and I ain't the proper person to bring him up. I thought some, last year, ofsending him away to Frisco to school, but when they talked of bringing aschoolma'am here, I waited till I saw you, and then I knew it was all right,and I could keep my boy a little longer. And, oh! miss, he loves you so much;and if you could hear him talk about you in his pretty way, and if he could askyou what I ask you now, you couldn't refuse him.

"It is natural," shewent on rapidly, in a voice that trembled strangely between pride andhumility—"it's natural that he should take to you, miss, for his father,when I first knew him, was a gentleman—and the boy must forget me, sooneror later—and so I ain't a-goin' to cry about that. For I come to ask youto take my Tommy—God bless him for the bestest, sweetest boy thatlives—to—to—take him with you."

She had risen andcaught the young girl's hand in her own, and had fallen on her knees besideher.

"I've money plenty, and it's all yours and his. Put him in somegood school, where you can go and see him, and help him to—to—toforget his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will bekindness to what he will learn with me. Only take him out of this wicked life,this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You will! I know youwill—won't you? You will—you must not, you can not say no! You willmake him as pure, as gentle as yourself; and when he has grown up, you willtell him his father's name—the name that hasn't passed my lips foryears—the name of Alexander Morton, whom they call here Sandy! MissMary!—do not take your hand away! Miss Mary, speak to me! You will takemy boy? Do not put your face from me. I know it ought not to look on such asme. Miss Mary!—my God, be merciful!—she is leaving me!"

MissMary had risen, and in the gathering twilight had felt her way to the openwindow. She stood there, leaning against the casem*nt, her eyes fixed on thelast rosy tints that were fading from the western sky. There was still some ofits light on her pure young forehead, on her white collar, on her clasped whitehands, but all fading slowly away. The suppliant had dragged herself, still onher knees, beside her.

"I know it takes time to consider. I will waithere all night; but I can not go until you speak. Do not deny me now. Youwill!—I see it in your sweet face—such a face as I have seen in mydreams. I see it in your eyes, Miss Mary!—you will take myboy!"

The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary's eyes withsomething of its glory, flickered, and faded, and went out. The sun had set onRed Gulch. In the twilight and silence Miss Mary's voice soundedpleasantly.

"I will take the boy. Send him to me to-night."

Thehappy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary's skirts to her lips. She would haveburied her hot face in its virgin folds, but she dared not. She rose to herfeet.

"Does—this man—know of your intention?" asked MissMary suddenly.

"No, nor cares. He has never seen the child to knowit."

"Go to him at once—to-night—now! Tell him what you havedone. Tell him I have taken his child, and tell him—he must neversee—see—the child again. Wherever it may be, he must not come;wherever I may take it, he must not follow! There, go now, please—I'mweary, and—have much yet to do!"

They walked together to the door.On the threshold the woman turned.

"Good-night!"

She would havefallen at Miss Mary's feet. But at the same moment the young girl reached outher arms, caught the sinful woman to her own pure breast for one brief moment,and then closed and locked the door.

It was with a sudden sense of greatresponsibility that Profane Bill took the reins of the Slumgullion stage thenext morning, for the schoolmistress was one of his passengers. As he enteredthe highroad, in obedience to a pleasant voice from the "inside," he suddenlyreined up his horses and respectfully waited, as Tommy hopped out at thecommand of Miss Mary.

"Not that bush, Tommy—thenext."

Tommy whipped out his new pocket-knife, and cutting a branch froma tall azalea-bush, returned with it to Miss Mary.

"All rightnow?"

"All right!"

And the stage-door closed on the Idyl of RedGulch.

THE Honorable Jeems Bee, of Texas, sitting in his committee-room half an hour before the convening of Congress, waiting for his negrofamiliar to compound a julep, was suddenly confronted by a small boy oncrutches.

"A letter!" exclaimed Mr. Bee, "with the frank of Reybold onit—that Yankeest of Pennsylvania Whigs! Yer's familiarity! Wants me toappoint one U—U—U, what?"

"Uriel Basil," said the small boyon crutches, with a clear, bold, but rather sensitive voice.

"UrielBasil, a page in the House of Representatives, bein' an infirm, deservin' boy,willin' to work to support his mother. Infirm boy wants to be a page, on therecommendation of a Whig, to a Dimmycratic committee. I say, gen'lemen, what doyou think of that, heigh?"

This last addressed to some other members ofthe committee, who had meantime entered.

"Infum boy will make a sprypage," said the Hon. Box Izard, of Arkansaw.

"Harder to get infum pagethan the Speaker's eye," said the orator, Pontotoc Bibb, ofGeorgia.

"Harder to get both than a 'pintment in these crowded times ona opposition recommendation when all ole Virginny is yaw to be tuk care of,"said Hon. Fitzchew Smy, of the Old Dominion.

The small boy standing upon crutches, with large hazel eyes swimming and wistful, so far from being cutdown by these criticisms, stood straighter, and only his narrow little chestshowed feeling, as it breathed quickly under his brown jacket.

"I canrun as fast as anybody," he said impetuously. "My sister says so. You tryme!"

"Who's yo' sister, bub?"

"Joyce."

"Who'sJoyce?"

"Joyce Basil—Miss Joyce Basil to you, gentlemen. Mymother keeps boarders. Mr. Reybold boards there. I think it's hard when alittle boy from the South wants to work, that the only body to help him find itis a Northern man. Don't you?"

"Good hit!" cried Jeroboam Coffee, Esq.,of Alabama. "That boy would run, if he could!"

"Gentlemen," said anothermember of the committee, the youthful abstractionist from South Carolina, whowas reputed to be a great poet on the stump, the Hon. LowndesCleburn—"gentlemen, that boy puts the thing on its igeel merits andbrings it home to us. I'll ju my juty in this issue. Abe, wha's myjulep?"

"Gentlemen," said the Chairman of the Committee, Jeems Bee, "it'pears to me that there's a social p'int right here. Reybold, bein' the onlyWhig on the Lake and Bayou Committee, ought to have something if he sees fit toask for it. That's courtesy! We, of all men, gentlemen, can't afford to forgetit."

"No, by durn!" cried Fitzchew Smy.

"You're right, Bee!"cried Box Izard. "You give it a constitutional set."

"Reybold,"continued Jeems Bee, thus encouraged, "Reybold is (to speak out) no genius! Henever will rise to the summits of usefulness. He lacks the air, the swing, thepose, as the sculptors say; he won't treat, but he'll lend a littlemoney, provided he knows where you goin' with it. If he ain't open-hearted, heain't precisely mean!"

"You're right, Bee!" (Generalexpression.)

"Further on, it may be said that the framers of thegov'ment never intended all the patronage to go to one side. Mr.Jeff'son put that on the steelyard principle: the long beam here, thebig weight of being in the minority there. Mr. Jackson only threw it considabulmore on one side, but even he, gentlemen, didn't take the whole patronage fromthe Outs; he always left 'em enough to keep up the courtesy of the thing, andwe can't go behind him. Not and be true to our traditions. Do I put itright?"

"Bee," said the youthful Lowndes Cleburn, extending his hand,"you put it with the lucidity and spirituality of Kulhoonhimself!"

"Thanks, Cleburn," said Bee; "this is a compliment not likelyto be forgotten, coming from you. Then it is agreed, as the Chayman of yo'Committee, that I accede to the request of Mr. Reybold, ofPennsylvania?"

"Aye!" from everybody.

"And now," said Mr. Bee,"as we wair all up late at the club last night, I propose we take a secondjulep, and as Reybold is coming in he will jine us."

"I won't give you afarthing!" cried Reybold at the door, speaking to some one. "Chips, indeed!What shall I give you money to gamble away for? A gambling beggar is worse thanan impostor! No, sir! Emphatically no!"

"A dollar for four chips forbrave old Beau!" said the other voice. "I've struck 'em all but you. By theState Arms! I've got rights in this distreek! Everybody pays toll to brave oldBeau! Come down!"

The Northern Congressman retreated before thispertinacious mendicant into his committee-room, and his pesterer followed himclosely, nothing abashed, even into the privileged cloisters of the committee.The Southern members enjoyed the situation.

"Chips, Right Honorable!Chips for old Beau. Nobody this ten-year has run as long as you. I've laid foryou, and now I've fell on you. Judge Bee, the fust business befo' yo' committeethis mornin' is a assessment for old Beau, who's 'way down! Rheu-matiz, bettin'on the black, failure of remittances from Fauqueeah, and other casualties bywind an' flood, have put ole Beau away down. He's a institution of his countryand must be sustained!"

The laughter was general and cordial among theSoutherners, while the intruder pressed hard upon Mr. Reybold. He was asingular object; tall, grim, half-comical, with a leer of low familiarity inhis eyes, but his waxed mustache of military proportions, his patch of goateejust above the chin, his elaborately oiled hair and flaming necktie, set offhis faded face with an odd gear of finery and impressiveness. His skin was thatof an old roué's, patched up and chalked, but the features were those ofa once handsome man of style and carriage.

He wore what appeared to be acast-off spring overcoat, out of season and color on this blustering winterday, a rich buff waistcoat of an embossed pattern, such as few persons wouldcare to assume, save, perhaps, a gambler, negro buyer, or fine "buck" barber.The assumption of a large and flashy pin stood in his frilled shirt-bosom. Hewore watch-seals without the accompanying watch, and his pantaloons, thoughfaded and threadbare, were once of fine material and cut in a style ofextravagant elegance, and they covered his long, shrunken, but aristocraticlimbs, and were strapped beneath his boots to keep them shapely. The bootsthemselves had been once of varnished kid or fine calf, but they were crackedand cut, partly by use, partly for comfort; for it was plain that their wearerhad the gout, by his aristocratic hobble upon a gold-mounted cane, which wasnot the least inconsistent garniture of mendicancy.

"Boys," saidFitzchew Smy, "I s'pose we better come down early. There's a shillin', Beau. IfI had one more such constituent as you, I should resign or diepremachorely!"

"There's a piece o' tobacker," said Jeems Bee languidly,"all I can afford, Beau, this mornin'. I went to a chicken-fight yesterday andlost all my change."

"Mine," said Box Izard, "is a regulation pen-knife,contributed by the United States, with the regret, Beau, that I can't'commodate you with a pine coffin for you to git into and git away down lowerthan you ever been."

"Yaw's a dollar," said Pontotoc Bibb; "it'll do forme an' Lowndes Cleburn, who's a poet and genius, and never has no money. Thisbuys me off, Beau, for a month."

The gorgeous old mendicant took themall grimly and leering, and then pounced upon the Northern man, assured bytheir twinkles and winks that the rest expected some sport.

"And now,Right Honorable from the banks of the Susquehanna, Colonel Reybold—yousee, I got your name; I ben a layin' for you!—come down handsome for theUncle and ornament of this capital and country. What'syore's?"

"Nothing," said Reybold in a quiet way. "I can not give a manlike you anything, even to get rid of him."

"You're mean," said thestylish beggar, winking to the rest. "You hate to put your hand down in yerpocket, mightily. I'd rather be ole Beau, and live on suppers at the farobanks, than love a dollar like you!"

"I'll make it a V for Beau," saidPontotoc Bibb, "if he gives him a rub on the raw like that another lick. Durn amean man, Cleburn!"

"Come down, Northerner," pressed the incorrigibleloafer again; "it don't become a Right Honorable to be so mean with oldBeau."

The little boy on crutches, who had been looking at this scene ina state of suspense and interest for some time, here cried hotly:

"Ifyou say Mr. Reybold is a mean man, you tell a story, you nasty beggar! He oftengives things to me and Joyce, my sister. He's just got me work, which is thebest thing to give; don't you think so, gentlemen?"

"Work," said LowndesCleburn, "is the best thing to give away, and the most onhandy thing to keep. Ilike play the best—Beau's kind o' play!"

"Yes," said JeroboamCoffee; "I think I prefer to make the chips fly out of a table more than out ofa log."

"I like to work!" cried the little boy, his hazel eyes shining,and his poor, narrow body beating with unconscious fervor, half suspended onhis crutches, as if he were of that good descent and natural spirit which couldassert itself without bashfulness in the presence of older people. "I like towork for my mother. If I was strong, like other little boys, I would make moneyfor her, so that she shouldn't keep any boarders—except Mr. Reybold. Oh!she has to work a lot; but she's proud and won't tell anybody. All the money Iget I mean to give her; but I wouldn't have it if I had to beg for it like thatman!"

"O Beau," said Colonel Jeems Bee, "you've cotched it now!Reybold's even with you. Little Crutch has cooked your goose! Crutch is righteloquent when his wind will permit."

The fine old loafer looked at theboy, whom he had not previously noticed, and it was observed that the lastshaft had hurt his pride. The boy returned his wounded look with a straight,undaunted, spirited glance, out of a child's nature. Mr. Reybold was impressedwith something in the attitude of the two, which made him forget his owninterest in the controversy.

Beau answered with a tone of nearly tenderpacification:

"Now, my little man; come, don't be hard on the oldveteran! He's down, old Beau is, sence the time he owned his blooded pacer anddined with the Corps Diplomatique; Beau's down sence then; but don'tcall the old feller hard names. We take it back, don't we?—we takethem words back?"

"There's a angel somewhere," said LowndesCleburn, "even in a Washington bummer, which responds to a little chap oncrutches with a clear voice. Whether the angel takes the side of the bummer orthe little chap, is a p'int out of our jurisdiction. Abe, give Beau a julep. Heseems to have been demoralized by little Crutch's last."

"Take them hardwords back, Bub," whined the licensed mendicant, with either real or affectedpain; "it's a p'int of honor I'm a-standin' on. Do, now, littleMajor!"

"I shan't!" cried the boy. "Go and work like me. You're big, andyou called Mr. Reybold mean. Haven't you got a wife or little girl, or nobodyto work for? You ought to work for yourself, anyhow. Oughtn't he,gentlemen?"

Reybold, who had slipped around by the little cripple andwas holding him in a caressing way from behind, looked over to Beau and waseven more impressed with that generally undaunted worthy's expression. It wasthat of acute and suffering sensibility, perhaps the effervescence of somelittle remaining pride, or it might have been a twinge of the gout. Beau lookedat the little boy, suspended there with the weak back and the narrow chest, andthat scintillant, sincere spirit beaming out with courage born in the stock hebelonged to. Admiration, conciliation, and pain were in the ruined vagrant'seyes. Reybold felt a sense of pity. He put his hand in his pocket and drewforth a dollar.

"Here, Beau," he said, "I'll make an exception. You seemto have some feeling. Don't mind the boy!"

In an instant the coin wasflying from his hand through the air. The beggar, with a livid face andclinched cane, confronted the Congressman like a maniac.

"You bilk!" hecried. "You supper customer! I'll brain you! I had rather parted with my shoesat a dolly shop and gone gadding the hoof, without a doss to sleep on—atown pauper, done on the vag—than to have been made scurvy in the sightof that child and deserve his words of shame!"

He threw his head uponthe table and burst into tears.

Mrs.Tryphonia Basil kept a boarding-house of the usual kind on Four-and-a-HalfStreet. Male clerks—there were no female clerks in the Government in1854—to the number of half a dozen, two old bureau officers, anarchitect's assistant, Reybold, and certain temporary visitors made up thetable. The landlady was the mistress; the slave was Joyce.

Joyce Basilwas a fine-looking girl, who did not know it—a fact so astounding as tobe fitly related only in fiction. She did not know it, because she had to workso hard for the boarders and her mother. Loving her mother with the whole ofher affection, she had suffered all the pains and penalties of love from thatrepository. She was to-day upbraided for her want of coquetry and neatness; to-morrow, for proposing to desert her mother and elope with a person she hadnever thought of. The mainstay of the establishment, she was not aware of herusefulness. Accepting every complaint and outbreak as if she deserved it, thepoor girl lived at the capital a beautiful scullion, an unsalaried domestic,and daily forwarded the food to the table, led in the chamber work, rose frombed unrested and retired with all her bones aching. But she was of a naturalgrace that hard work could not make awkward; work only gave her bodily power,brawn, and form. Though no more than seventeen years of age, she was a superbwoman, her chest thrown forward, her back like the torso of a Venus de Milo,her head placed on the throat of a Minerva, and the nature of a child molded inthe form of a matron. Joyce Basil had black hair and eyes—very long,excessive hair, that in the mornings she tied up with haste so imperfectly thatonce Reybold had seen it drop like a cloud around her and nearly touch herfeet. At that moment, seeing him, she blushed. He pleaded, for once, aCongressman's impudence, and without her objection wound that great crown ofwoman's glory around her head, and as he did so, the perfection of her form andskin, and the overrunning health and height of the Virginia girl, struck him sothoroughly that he said:

"Miss Joyce, I don't wonder that Virginia isthe mother of Presidents."

Between Reybold and Joyce there were alreadythe delicate relations of a girl who did not know that she was a woman and aman who knew she was beautiful and worthy. He was a man vigilant over himself,and the poverty and menial estate of Joyce Basil were already insuperableobstacles to marrying her, but still he was attracted by her insensibility thathe could ever have regarded her in the light of marriage. "Who was her father,the Judge?" he used to reflect. The Judge was a favorite topic with Mrs. Basilat the table.

"Mr. Reybold," she would say, "you commercial people ofthe Nawth can't hunt, I believe. Jedge Basil is now on the mountains ofFawquear hunting the plova. His grandfather's estate is full ofplova."

If, by chance, Reybold saw a look of care on Mrs. Basil's face,he inquired for the Judge, her husband, and found he was still shooting on theOccequan.

"Does he never come to Washington, Mrs. Basil?" asked Reyboldone day, when his mind was very full of Joyce, the daughter.

"Not whileCongress is in session," said Mrs, Basil. "It's a little too much of the oipolloi for the Judge. His family, you may not know, Mr. Reybold, air oi theBasils of King George. They married into the Tayloze of Mount Snaffle. TheTayloze of Mount Snaffle have Ingin blood in their veins—the blood ofPokyhuntus. They dropped the name of Taylor, which had got to be common througha want of Ingin blood, and spelled it with a E. It used to be Taylor, but nowit's Tayloze."

On another occasion, at sight of Joyce Basil cooking overthe fire, against whose flame her molded arms took momentary roses upon theirivory, Reybold said to himself: "Surely there is something above the common inthe race of this girl." And he asked the question of Mrs.Basil:

"Madame, how was the Judge, your husband, at the lastadvices?"

"Hunting the snipe, Mr. Reybold. I suppose you do not have thesnipe in the Nawth. It is the aristocratic fowl of the Old Dominion. Its billis only shorter than its legs, and it will not brown at the fire, toperfection, unless upon a silver spit. Ah! when the Jedge and myself wereyoung, before his land troubles overtook us, we went to the springs with ourown silver and carriages, Mr. Reybold."

Looking up at Mrs. Basil,Reybold noticed a pallor and flush alternately, and she evaded hiseye.

Once Mrs. Basil borrowed a hundred dollars from Reybold in advanceof board, and the table suffered in consequence.

"The Judge," she hadexplained, "is short of taxes on his Fawquear lands. It's a desperate momentwith him." Yet in two days the Judge was shooting blue-winged teal at the mouthof the Acco-tink, and his entire indifference to his family set Reybold tothinking whether the Virginia husband and father was anything more than aforgetful savage. The boarders, however, made very merry over the absentunknown. If the beefsteak was tough, threats were made to send for "the Judge,"and let him try a tooth on it; if scant, it was suggested that the Judge mighthave paid a gunning visit to the premises and inspected the larder. Thedaughter of the house kept such an even temper, and was so obliging within thelimitations of the establishment, that many a boarder went to his departmentwithout complaint, though with an appetite only partly satisfied. The boy,Uriel, also was the guardsman of the household, old-faced as if with theresponsibility of taking care of two women. Indeed, the children of thelandlady were so well behaved and prepossessing that, compared with Mrs.Basil's shabby hauteur and garrulity, the legend of the Judge seemed torequire no other foundation than offspring of such good spirit andintonation.

Mrs. Tryphonia Basil was no respecter of persons. She keptboarders, she said, as a matter of society, and to lighten the load of theJudge. He had very little idea that she was making a mercantile matter ofhospitality, but, as she feelingly remarked, "the old families are misplaced insuch times as these yer, when the departments are filled with Dutch, Yankees,Crackers, Pore Whites, and other foreigners." Her manner was, at periods,insolent to Mr. Reynold, who seldom protested, out of regard to the daughterand the little Page; he was a man of quite ordinary appearance, saying little,never making speeches or soliciting notice, and he accepted his fare andquarters with little or no complaint.

"Crutch," he said one day to thelittle boy, "did you ever see your father?"

"No, I never saw him, Mr.Reybold, but I've had letters from him."

"Don't he ever come to see youwhen you are sick?"

"No. He wanted to come once when my back was verysick, and I laid in bed weeks and weeks, sir, dreaming, oh! such beautifulthings. I thought mamma and sister and I were all with papa in that old home weare going to some day. He carried me up and down in his arms, and I felt suchrest that I never knew anything like it, when I woke up, and my back began toache again. I wouldn't let mamma send for him, though, because she said he wasworking for us all to make our fortunes, and get doctors for me, and clothesand school for dear Joyce. So I sent him my love, and told papa to work, and heand I would bring the family out all right."

"What did your papa seemlike in that dream, my little boy?"

"Oh! sir, his forehead was bright asthe sun. Sometimes I see him now when I am tired at night after running all daythrough Congress."

Reybold's eyes were full of tears as he listened tothe boy, and, turning aside, he saw Joyce Basil weeping also.

"My deargirl," he said to her, looking up significantly, "I fear he will see his greatFather very soon."

Reybold had few acquaintances, and he encouraged thelandlady's daughter to go about with him when she could get a leisure hour orevening. Sometimes they took a seat at the theatre, more often at the oldAscension Church, and once they attended a President's reception. Joyce had thebearing of a well-bred lady, and the purity of thought of a child. She wasnoticed as if she had been a new and distinguished arrival inWashington.

"Ah! Reybold," said Pontotoc Bibb, "I understand, olefeller, what keeps you so quiet now. You've got a wife unbeknown to theRemittee! and a happy man I know you air."

It pleased Reybold to hearthis, and deepened his interest in the landlady's family. His attention to herdaughter stirred Mrs. Basil's pride and revolt together.

"My daughter,Colonel Reybold," she said, "is designed for the army. The Judge never writesto me but he says: 'Tryphonee, be careful that you impress upon my daughter theimportance of the military profession. My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother married into the army, and no girl of the Basil stock shall descendto civil life while I can keep the Fawquear estates.'"

"Madame," saidthe Congressman, "will you permit me to make the suggestion that your daughteris already a woman and needs a father's care, if she is ever to receive it. Ibeseech you to impress this subject upon the Judge. His estates can not be moreprecious to his heart, if he is a man of honor; nay, what is better than honor,his duty requires him to come to the side of these children, though he be everso constrained by business or pleasure to attend to more worldlyconcerns."

"The Judge," exclaimed Mrs. Basil, much miffed, "is a man ofhereditary ijees, Colonel Reybold. He is now in pursuit ofthe—ahem!—the Kinvas-back on his ancestral waters. If he shouldhear that you suggest a pacific life and the groveling associations of thecapital for him, he might call you out, sir!"

Reybold said no more; butone evening when Mrs. Basil was absent, called across the Potomac, as happenedfrequently, at the summons of the Judge—and on such occasions shegenerally requested a temporary loan or a slight advance of board—Reyboldfound Joyce Basil in the little parlor of the dwelling. She was alone and intears, but the little boy Uriel slept before the chimney-fire on a rug, and hispale, thin face, catching the glow of the burning wood, looked beautified asReybold addressed the young woman.

"Miss Joyce," he said, "our littlebrother works too hard. Is there never to be relief for him? His poor, witheredbody, slung on those crutches for hours and hours, racing up the aisles of theHouse with stronger pages, is wearing him out. His ambition is very interestingto see, but his breath is growing shorter and his strength is frailer everyweek. Do you know what it will lead to?"

"O my Lord!" she said, in thenegrofied phrase natural to her latitude, "I wish it was no sin to wish himdead."

"Tell me, my friend," said Reybold, "can I do nothing to assistyou both? Let me understand you. Accept my sympathy and confidence. Where isUriel's father? What is this mystery?"

She did not answer.

"It isfor no idle curiosity that I ask," he continued. "I will appeal to him for hisfamily, even at the risk of his resentment. Where is he?"

"Oh, do notask!" she exclaimed. "You want me to tell you only the truth. He isthere!"

She pointed to one of the old portraits in theroom—a picture fairly painted by some provincial artist—and itrevealed a handsome face, a little voluptuous, but aristocratic, the shouldersclad in a martial cloak, the neck in ruffles, and a diamond in the shirt bosom.Reybold studied it with all his mind.

"Then it is no fiction," he said,"that you have a living father, one answering to your mother's description.Where have I seen that face? Has some irreparable mistake, some miserablecontroversy, alienated him from his wife? Has he another family?"

Sheanswered with spirit:

"No, sir. He is my father and my brother's only.But I can tell you no more."

"Joyce," he said, taking her hand, "this isnot enough. I will not press you to betray any secret you may possess. Keep it.But of yourself I must know something more. You are almost a woman. You arebeautiful."

At this he tightened his grasp, and it brought him closer toher side. She made a little struggle to draw away, but it pleased him to seethat when the first modest opposition had been tried she sat quite happily,though trembling, with his arm around her.

"Joyce," he continued, "youhave a double duty: one to your mother and this poor invalid, whose journeytoward that Father's house not made with hands is swiftly hastening; anotherduty toward your nobler self—the future that is in you and your woman'sheart. I tell you again that you are beautiful, and the slavery to which youare condemning yourself forever is an offence against the creator of suchperfection. Do you know what it is to love?"

"I know what it is to feelkindness," she answered after a time of silence. "I ought to know no more. Yourgoodness is very dear to me. We never sleep, brother and I, but we say yourname together, and ask God to bless you."

Reybold sought in vain tosuppress a confession he had resisted. The contact of her form, her large darkeyes now fixed upon him in emotion, the birth of the conscious woman in thevirgin and her affection still in the leashes of a slavish sacrifice, temptedhim onward to the conquest.

"I am about to retire from Congress," hesaid. "It is no place for me in times so insubstantial. There is darkness andbeggary ahead for all your Southern race. There is a crisis coming which willbe followed by desolation. The generation to which your parents belong isdoomed! I open my arms to you, dear girl, and offer you a home never yetgladdened by a wife. Accept it, and leave Washington with me and with yourbrother. I love you wholly."

A happy light shone in her face a moment.She was weary to the bone with the day's work and had not the strength, if shehad the will, to prevent the Congressman drawing her to his heart. Sobbingthere, she spoke with bitter agony:

"Heaven bless you, dear Mr. Reybold,with a wife good enough to deserve you! Blessings on your generous heart. But Ican not leave Washington. I love another here!"

The Lake and Bayou Committee reaped thereward of a good action. Crutch, the page, as they all called Uriel Basil,affected the sensibility of the whole committee to the extent that profanityalmost ceased there, and vulgarity became a crime in the presence of a child.Gentle words and wishes became the rule; a glimmer of reverence and a thoughtof piety were not unknown in that little chamber.

"Dog my skin!" saidJeems Bee, "if I ever made a 'pintment that give me sech satisfaction! I feelas if I had sot a nigg*r free!"

The youthful abstractionist, LowndesCleburn, expressed it even better. "Crutch," he said, "is like a angel reducedto his bones. Them air wings or pinions, that he might have flew off with,being a pair of crutches, keeps him here to tarry awhile in our service. But,gentlemen, he's not got long to stay. His crutches is growing too heavy forthat expandin' sperit. Some day we'll look up and miss him through ourtears."

They gave him many a present; they put a silver watch in hispocket, and dressed him in a jacket with gilt buttons. He had a bouquet offlowers to take home every day to that marvelous sister of whom he spoke sooften; and there were times when the whole committee, seeing him drop off tosleep as he often did through frail and weary nature, sat silently watchinglest he might be wakened before his rest was over. But no persuasion could takehim off the floor of Congress. In that solemn old Hall of Representatives,under the semicircle of gray columns, he darted with agility from noon to dusk,keeping speed upon his crutches with the healthiest of the pages, and racinginto the document-room, and through the dark and narrow corridors of the oldCapitol loft, where the House library was lost in twilight. Visitors lookedwith interest and sympathy at the narrow back and body of this invalid child,whose eyes were full of bright, beaming spirit. He sometimes nodded on thesteps by the Speaker's chair; and these spells of dreaminess and fatigueincreased as his disease advanced upon his wasting system. Once he did notawaken at all until adjournment. The great Congress and audience passed out,and the little fellow still slept, with his head against the Clerk's desk,while all the other pages were grouped around him, and they finally bore himoff to the committee-room in their arms, where, among the sympathetic watchers,was old Beau. When Uriel opened his eyes the old mendicant was looking intothem.

"Ah! little Major," he said, "poor Beau has been waiting for youto take those bad words back. Old Beau thought it was all bob with his littlecove."

"Beau," said the boy, "I've had such a dream! I thought my dearfather, who is working so hard to bring me home to him, had carried me out onthe river in a boat. We sailed through the greenest marshes, among whitelilies, where the wild ducks were tame as they can be. All the ducks werediving and diving, and they brought up long stalks of celery from the water andgave them to us. Father ate all his. But mine turned into lilies and grew up sohigh that I felt myself going with them, and the higher I went the morebeautiful grew the birds. Oh! let me sleep and see if it will be soagain."

The outcast raised his gold-headed cane and hobbled up and downthe room with a laced handkerchief at his eyes.

"Great God!" heexclaimed, "another generation is going out, and here I stay without a stake,playing a lone hand forever and forever."

"Beau," said Reybold, "there'shope while one can feel. Don't go away until you have a good word from ourlittle passenger."

The outstretched hand of the Northern Congressman wasnot refused by the vagrant, whose eccentric sorrow yet amused the SouthernCommitteemen.

"Ole Beau's jib-boom of a mustache '11 put his eye out,"said Pontotoc Bibb, "ef he fetches another groan like that."

"Beau'svery shaky around the hams an' knees," said Box Izard; "he's been a goodfigger, but even figgers can lie ef they stand up too long."

The littleboy unclosed his eyes and looked around on all those kindly, watchingfaces.

"Did anybody fire a gun?" he said. "Oh! no. I was only dreamingthat I was hunting with father, and he shot at the beautiful pheasants thatwere making such a whirring of wings for me. It was music. When can I hunt withfather, dear gentlemen?"

They all felt the tread of the mighty hunterbefore the Lord very near at hand—the hunter whose name isDeath.

"There are little tiny birds along the beach," muttered the boy."They twitter and run into the surf and back again, and I am one of them! Imust be, for I feel the water cold, and yet I see you all, so kind to me! Don'twhistle for me now; for I don't get much play, gentlemen! Will the Speaker turnme out if I play with the beach birds just once? I'm only a little boy workingfor my mother."

"Dear Uriel," whispered Reybold, "here's Old Beau, towhom you once spoke angrily. Don't you see him?"

The little boy's eyescame back from far-land somewhere, and he saw the ruined gamester at hisfeet.

"Dear Beau," he said, "I can't get off to go home with you. TheyAvon't excuse me, and I give all my money to mother. But you go to the backgate. Ask for Joyce. She'll give you a nice warm meal every day. Go with him,Mr. Reybold! If you ask for him it will be all right; for Joyce—dearJoyce!—she loves you."

The beach birds played again along thestrand; the boy ran into the foam with his companions and felt the spray oncemore. The Mighty Hunter shot his bird—a little cripple that twittered thesweetest of them all. Nothing moved in the solemn chamber of the committee butthe voice of an old forsaken man, sobbing bitterly.

The funeral was over, and Mr. Reyboldmarveled much that the Judge had not put in an appearance. The whole committeehad attended the obsequies of Crutch and acted as pall-bearers. Reybold hadescorted the page's sister to the Congressional cemetery, and had observed evenold Beau to come with a wreath of flowers and hobble to the grave and depositthem there. But the Judge, remorseless in death as frivolous in life, nevercame near his mourning wife and daughter in their severest sorrow. Mrs.Tryphonia Basil, seeing that this singular want of behavior on the Judge's partwas making some ado, raised her voice above the general din ofmeals.

"Jedge Basil," she exclaimed, "has been on his Tennesseepurchase. These Christmas times there's no getting through the snow in theCumberland Gap. He's stopped off thaw to shoot the—ahem!—the wildtorkey—a great passion with the Jedge. His half-uncle, Gineral Johnson,of Awkinso, was a torkey-killer of high celebrity. He was a Deshay on his Maw'sside. I s'pose you haven't the torkey in the Dutch country, Mr.Reybold?"

"Madame," said Reybold, in a quieter moment, "have you writtento the Judge the fact of his son's death?"

"Oh, yes—toFawquear."

"Mrs. Basil," continued the Congressman, "I want you to beexplicit with me. Where is the Judge, your husband, at thismoment?"

"Excuse me, Colonel Reybold, this is a little of a assumption,sir. The Jedge might call you out, sir, for intruding upon his incog. He's veryfine on his incog., you air awair."

"Madame," exclaimed Reyboldstraightforwardly, "there are reasons why I should communicate with yourhusband. My term in Congress is nearly expired. I might arouse your interest,if I chose, by recalling to your mind the memorandum of about seven hundreddollars in which you are my debtor. That would be a reason for seeing yourhusband anywhere north of the Potomac, but I do not intend to mention it. Is heaware—are you?—that Joyce Basil is in love with some one in thiscity?"

Mrs. Basil drew a long breath, raised both hands, and ejacul*ted:"Well, I declaw!"

"I have it from her own lips," continued Reybold. "Shetold me as a secret, but all my suspicions, are awakened. If I can prevent it,madame, that girl shall not follow the example of hundreds of her class inWashington, and descend, through the boarding-house or the lodging quarter, tobe the wife of some common and unambitious clerk, whose penury she must someday sustain by her labor. I love her myself, but I will never take her until Iknow her heart to be free. Who is this lover of your daughter?"

Anexpression of agitation and cunning passed over Mrs. Basil'sface.

"Colonel Reybold," she whined, "I pity your blasted hopes. If Iwas a widow, they should be comfoted. Alas! my daughter is in love with one ofthe Fitz-chews of Fawqueeah. His parents is cousins of the Jedge, and attachedto the military."

The Congressman looked disappointed, but not yetsatisfied.

"Give me at once the address of your husband," he spoke. "Ifyou do not, I shall ask your daughter for it, and she can not refuseme."

The mistress of the boarding-house was not without alarm, but shedispelled it with an outbreak of anger.

"If my daughter disobeys hermother," she cried, "and betrays the Jedge's incog., she is no Basil, ColonelReybold. The Basils repudiate her, and she may jine the Dutch and otherforeigners at her pleasure."

"That is her only safety," exclaimedReybold. "I hope to break every string that holds her to yonder barren honorand exhausted soil."

He pointed toward Virginia, and hastened away tothe Capitol. All the way up the squalid and muddy avenue of that day he musedand wondered: "Who is Fitzhugh? Is there such a person any more than a JudgeBasil? And yet there is a Judge, for Joyce has told me so. She,at least, can not lie to me. At last," he thought, "the dream of my happinessis over. Invincible in her prejudice as all these Virginians, Joyce Basil hasmade her bed among the starveling First Families, and there she means to liveand die. Five years hence she will have her brood around her. In ten years shewill keep a boarding-house and borrow money. As her daughters grow up to thestature and grace of their mother, they will be proud and poor again and breedin and out, until the race will perish from the earth."

Slow to love,deeply interested, baffled but unsatisfied, Reybold made up his mind to cut hisperplexity short by leaving the city for the county of Fauquier. As he passeddown the avenue late that afternoon, he turned into E Street, near the theatre,to engage a carriage for his expedition. It was a street of livery stables,gambling dens, drinking houses, and worse; murders had been committed along itssidewalks. The more pretentious canaille of the city harbored there toprey on the hotels close at hand and aspire to the chance acquaintance ofgentlemen. As Reybold stood in an archway of this street, just as the eveningshadows deepened above the line of sunset, he saw something pass which made hisheart start to his throat and fastened him to the spot. Veiled and walkingfast, as if escaping detection or pursuit, the figure of Joyce Basil flittedover the pavement and disappeared in a door about at the middle of thisAlsatian quarter of the capital.

"What house is that?" he asked of aconstable passing by, pointing to the door she entered.

"Gambling den,"answered the officer. "It used to be old Phil Pendleton's."

Reybold knewthe reputation of the house: a resort for the scions of the old tidewaterfamilies, where hospitality thinly veiled the paramount design of plunder. Theconnection established the truth of Mrs. Basil's statement. Here, perhaps,already married to the dissipated heir of some unproductive estate, JoyceBasil's lot was cast forever. It might even be that she had been tempted hereby some wretch whose villany she knew not of. Reybold's brain took fire at thethought, and he pursued the fugitive into the doorway. A negro stewardunfastened a slide and peeped at Reybold knocking in the hall; and, seeing himof respectable appearance, bowed ceremoniously as he let down a chain andopened the door.

"Short cards in the front saloon," he said; "supper andfaro back. Chambers on the third floor. Walk up."

Reybold only tarried amoment at the gaming tables, where the silent, monotonous deal from the tinbox, the lazy stroke of the markers, and the transfer of ivory "chips" fromcard to card of the sweat-cloth, impressed him as the dullest form of vice hehad ever found. Treading softly up the stairs, he was attracted by the light ofa door partly ajar, and a deep groan, as of a dying person. He peeped throughthe crack of the door and beheld Joyce Basil leaning over an old man, whosebrow she moistened with her handkerchief. "Dear father," he heard her say, andit brought consolation to more than the sick man. Reybold threw open the doorand entered into the presence of Mrs. Basil and her daughter. The former arosewith surprise and shame, and cried:

"Jedge Basil, the Dutch have huntedyou down. He's here—the Yankee creditor."

Joyce Basil held up herhand in imploration, but Reybold did not heed the woman's remark. He felt aweight rising from his heart, and the blindness of many months lifted from hiseyes. The dying mortal upon the bed, over whose face the blue billow of deathwas rolling rapidly, and whose eyes sought in his daughter's the promise ofmercy from on high, was the mysterious parent who had never arrived—theJudge from Fauquier. In that old man's long waxed mustache, crimped hair, andthreadbare finery the Congressman recognized old Beau, the outcast gamester andmendicant, and the father of Joyce and Uriel Basil.

"Colonel Reybold,"faltered that old wreck of manly beauty and of promise long departed, "oldBeau's passing in his checks. The chant coves will be telling to-morrow whatthey know of his life in the papers, but I've dropped a cold deck on 'em thesetwenty years. Not one knows old Beau, the Bloke, to be Tom Basil, cadet at WestPoint in the last generation. I've kept nothing of my own but my children'sgood names. My little boy never knew me to be his father. I tried to keep thesecret from my daughter, but her affection broke down my disguises. Thank God!the old rounder's deal has run out at last. For his wife he'll flash her dilesno more, nor be taken on the vag."

"Basil," said Reybold, "what trust doyou leave to me in your family?"

Mrs. Basil strove to interpose, but thedying man raised his voice:

"Tryphonee can go home to Fauquier. She wasalways welcome there—without me. I was disinherited. But here, Colonel!My last drop of blood is in the girl. She loves you."

A rattle arose inthe sinner's throat. He made an effort, and transferred his daughter's hand tothe Congressman's. Not taking it away, she knelt with her future husband at thebedside and raised her voice:

"Lord, when Thou comest into Thy kingdom,remember him!"

JOHNCROMBIE had taken a room at the new apartment building, The Lorne; havingadvanced so far in his experience of New York as to be aware that if he couldonce establish himself in a house associated by name with foreign places andtitles his chance of securing "position" would be greatly increased. He didnot, however, take his meals in the expensive café of that establishment,finding it more economical to go to an outlandish little French restaurant,some distance away, which had been nicknamed among those of his acquaintancewho resorted to it "The Fried Cat." This designation, based on a supposedresemblance to the name of the proprietor, Fricat, was also believed to havevalue as a sarcasm.

It was with no pleasant sensations, therefore, thatCrombie, waking on a gray and drizzling morning of November, remembered that hemust hie him to "The Fried Cat" for an early breakfast. He was in a hurry thatday; he had a great deal to do. His room was very small and dark; he bounced upand dressed himself, in an obscure sort of way, surreptitiously opening thedoor and reaching vaguely for his shoes, which stood just outside, readyblacked. Nor did it add to his comfort to know that the shoes were verydefective as to their soles, and would admit the water freely from theaccumulated puddles of the sidewalks. In fact, he had been ashamed to exposetheir bad condition to the porter when he put them out every night, as he wasforced to do, since they were his only pair. Drawing them on hastily, in orderto conceal his mortification from even his own mind, he sallied forth; andthough at the moment of putting them on a dim sense of something unfamiliarcrossed his mind, it was not until he reached "The Fried Cat" that he becamefully aware that he had carried off some one else's shoes. He turned up thesoles, privately, underneath the low-hanging tablecloth, and by a briefexamination convinced himself that the gaiters did not belong to him. The testwas simple: his feet were unaccountably dry, and there were none of thosebreaks in the lower surface of their leather covering which he had so oftenbeen obliged to contemplate.

He saw at once that the porter of The Lornehad made a mistake, and must have deposited at another apartment his own veryinsufficient foot-gear; but there was no chance now to remedy the confusion.Crombie had barely time to reach the office where he was employed.

On anordinary occasion he would perhaps have gone back to The Lorne and effected anhonorable exchange. This particular day, however, was by no means an ordinaryoccasion. Crombie had made up his mind to take a momentous step; and it wastherefore essential that he should appear at his desk exactly ontime.

He was a clerk in an important engraving company. For severalyears he had occupied that post, without any opportunity having presenteditself for a promotion. At the best, even should he rise, what could he expect?To be cashier, perhaps, or possibly, under exceptional circ*mstances, aconfidential private secretary. This prospect did not satisfy him; he wasdetermined to strike for something higher.

It will naturally be inferredthat he was ambitious. I am not in a position to deny this; but all I can becertain of is, that he was in love—which is often about the samething.

Several times at The Lorne he had met in the hallways or in theelevator a young lady, who was in no small degree beautiful, and charmed himstill more by her generous presence, which conveyed the idea of a harmoniousand lovely character. She had light hair and blue eyes, but these outwardattributes were joined with a serenity and poise of manner that indicatedgreater stability than is attributed, as a rule, to individuals of hertype.

Once he happened to arrive at the main entrance just as thisvision of beauty emerged to take her place in a coupe which was waiting by thecurbstone. She dropped her card-case upon the sidewalk, and Crombie's heartthrobbed with delight as he picked it up, gave it to her, and received hersmiling thanks for his little service. Another time, as he was descending inthe elevator, a door opposite the shaft, on the second floor, stood open, andhe caught a glimpse of the apartment to which it gave access. The room wasfinished in soft tints, and was full of upholstery and hangings that lent it adim golden atmosphere. In the middle of it stood the young girl, clad in thepalest blue, above which her hair shone like a golden cloud on some dim eveningsky.

Slight occurrences of this sort had affected him. He learned thatshe was the daughter of Littimer, the rich, widowed banker: her name wasBlanche.

In these new, stout shoes that did notbelong to him Crombie trod with a buoyancy and assurance strongly in contrastwith the limp and half-hearted pace to which his old, shabby gaiters hadformerly inclined him. He rattled down the stairs of the elevated station withan alacrity almost bumptious; and the sharp, confident step that announced hisentrance into the company's office made the other clerks quite ashamed of theirown want of spirit.

He worked at his desk until noon; but when the bellsof Trinity rang twelve in solemn music over the busy streets, he dropped hispen, walked with a decisive air the length of the room, and, opening a door atthe other end, presented himself before Mr. Blatchford, the treasurer, who wasalso an influential director. "Crombie, eh? Well, what is it?"

"I wantto speak with you a moment, sir."

"Anything important? I'mbusy."

"Yes, sir; quite important—to me. Possibly it may be toyou."

"Fire away, then; but cut it short." Mr. Blatchford's dense, well-combed gray side-whiskers were directed toward the young man in an aggressiveway, as if they had been some sort of weapon.

Crombie nonchalantlysettled himself in a chair, at ease.

"I am tired of being a clerk," hesaid. "I'm going to be a director in this company."

"I guess you'regoing to be an inmate of a lunatic asylum," Mr. Blatchford remarked withastonished cheerfulness.

"That seems as unlikely to me as the otherthing does to you," said Crombie.

Hereupon Mr. Blatchford becamesarcastically deferential. "And just about when do you propose to become adirector?" he asked.

"In the course of a month. The election, I believe,takes place in December."

"Quite right," said his senior, whose urbanitywas meant to be crushing. "Meanwhile, you will need leisure to attend to thislittle matter. Suppose I oblige you by saying that the company has no furtherneed of your services?"

"Suppose you do. What then?"

Mr.Blatchford gave way to his anger. "What then? Why, then you would have to go;that's all. You would be thrown out of employment. You would have to live onyour principal, as long as there was any; and afterward you would be obliged tofind some other work, or beg, or borrow, or—"

"That's enough,"said Crombie, rising with dignity.

"No, it isn't," the treasurerdeclared, "for you don't seem to understand even now. I discharge you, Mr.Crombie, on the company's behalf, and you may leave this office atonce."

Crombie bowed and went out. "I'm going to be a director, all thesame," he told Mr. Blatchford before he closed the door. Then he collected thefew articles that belonged to him from his desk, and departed, a free man. Hehad his future to himself; or else he had no future worth speaking of; hewasn't sure which. Nevertheless, he felt quite happy. Such a result as this hadseemed to him, in the prospect, hardly possible; but now that it had arrived hewas not discomfited. Unbounded courage seemed to rise from the stout soles ofthe alien boots, percolating through his whole system. He was surprised athimself. He had intended to use more diplomacy with Mr. Blatchford, and it wasno joke to him to lose his place. But instead of feeling despondent, or goingat once in search of new employment, he cheerfully went about making calls onseveral gentlemen who, he thought, might be induced to aid in his ambitiousproject. His manner was that of a person sure of his powers and enjoying awell-earned leisure. It had its effect. Two or three stockholders of thecompany joined in agreeing with him that improved methods could be introducedinto its management, and that it would be a good thing to have in the board,say, two young, fresh, active men—of whom Crombie, by reason of hisexperience and training, should be one.

"I own a little stock," said thedeposed clerk, who had taken the precaution to obtain a couple of shares bygreat effort in saving. "Besides, not having any other engrossing interests atpresent, I could give my whole attention to the company'saffairs."

"Quite so," said the merchant whom he was addressing,comfortably. "We must see if we can get together a majority; no time to belost, you know."

"No, sir. I shall go right to work; and perhaps youwill speak to some of your friends, and give me some names."

"Certainly.Come in again pretty soon; will you?"

Crombie saw that he had a goodfoundation to build upon already. Blatchford was not popular, even among theother directors; and sundry stockholders, as well as people having businesswith the company, had conceived a strong dislike of him on account of hisoverbearing manners. Therefore it would not be hard to enlist sympathy for amovement obnoxious to him. But it was imperative that the self-nominatedcandidate should acquire more of the stock; and to do this capital must be had.Crombie did not see quite how it was to be got; he had no sufficient influencewith the bankers.

The afternoon was nearly spent, and he trudged uptown,thinking of the ways and means. But though the problem was far from solved, hestill continued in a state of extraordinary buoyancy. Those shoes, those shoes!He was so much impressed by their comfort and the service they had done him inmaking a good appearance that he resolved to get a new pair of his own. Hestopped and bought them; then kept on toward The Lorne, carrying his purchaseunder his arm without embarrassment. The cold drizzle had ceased, and thesunset came out clear and golden, dipping its bright darts into the shallowpools of wet on the pavement, and somehow mingling with his financial dreams adream of that fair hair that gave a glory to Miss Blanche's face.

Onregaining his modest apartment he sent for the boot-boy, and inquired thewhereabouts of his missing shoes.

"Couldn't tell you, sir," said theservant. "Pretty near all the men's boots in the house has gone out, you see,and they'll only be coming back just about now. I'll look out for 'em, sir, andnab 'em as soon as they show up."

"All right. Whose are these that I'vebeen wearing?"

The boy took them, turned them over, and examined themwith the eye of a connoisseur in every part. "Them? I should say, sir, them wasMr. Littimer's."

Crombie blushed with mortification. Of all the dwellersin The Lorne, this was the very one with whom it was the most embarrassing tohave such a complication occur; and yet, strange inconsistency! he had beenlonging for any accident, no matter how absurd or fantastic, that could bringhim some chance of an acquaintance with Blanche.

"Take these boots, drythem right away, and give 'em a shine. Then carry them up to Mr. Littimer'srooms." He gave the boy a quarter: he was becoming reckless.

Now that hehad embarked upon a new career, he perceived the impropriety of a futuredirector in the Engraving Company going to dine at "The Fried Cat," and soresolved to take his dinner in the gorgeous café of The Lorne. While he waswaiting for the proper moment to descend thither, he could not get the shoequestion out of his mind. Surely, the boot-boy could not have been so idioticas to have left that ancient, broken-down pair at Littimer's threshold! And yetit was possible. Crombie felt another flush of humility upon his cheeks. Thenhe wandered off into reverie upon the multifarious errands of all the pairs ofboots and shoes that had gone forth from the great apartment house that day.Patter, patter, patter! tramp, tramp!—he imagined he heard them allwalking, stamping, shuffling along toward different parts of the city, withmany different objects, and sending back significant echoes. Whither had hisown ruinous Congress gaiters gone?—to what destination which they wouldnever have reached had he been in them? Had they carried their temporarypossessor into any such worriment and trouble as he himself had often traveledthrough on their worn but faithful soles?

Breaking off from these idlefancies at length, he went down to the café; and there he had the pleasure ofdining at a table not far from Blanche Littimer. But, to his surprise, she wasalone. Her father did not appear during the meal.

The fact was that the awful possibility, mereconjecture of which had frightened Crombie, had occurred. Littimer had receivedthe young man's shoes in place of his own.

They happened to fit himmoderately well; so that he, likewise, did not notice the exchange until he hadstarted for his office. He believed in walking the entire distance, no matterwhat the weather; and to this practice he made rare exceptions. But he had notprogressed very far before he became annoyed by an unaccustomed intrusion ofdampness that threatened him with a cold. He looked down, carefully surveyedthe artificial casing of his extremities, and decided to hail the firstunoccupied coupé he should meet. It was some time before he found one; and whenfinally he took his seat in the luxurious little bank parlor at Broad Street,his feet were quite wet.

His surprise at this occurrence was doubledwhen, on taking off the shoes and scrutinizing them more closely, heascertained that they were the work of his usual maker. What had happened tohim? Was he dreaming? It seemed to him that he had gone back many years; thathe was a poor young man again, entering upon his first struggle for a footholdin the crowded, selfish, unhomelike metropolis. He remembered the day whenhe had worn shoes like these.

He sent out for an assortment ofnew ones, from which, with unnecessary lavishness, he chose and kept three orfour pairs. All the rest of the day, nevertheless, those sorry Congress bootsof Crombie's, which he had directed his office-boy to place beside the soft-coal fire, for drying, faced him with a sort of haunting look. However much hemight be occupied with weightier matters, he could not keep his eyes fromstraying in that direction; and whenever they rested on that battered "right"and that way-worn "left," turned up in that mute, appealing repose anduselessness at the fender, his thoughts recurred to his early years of trialand poverty. Ah! how greatly he had changed since then! On some accounts hecould almost wish that he were poor again. But when he remembered Blanche, hewas glad, for her sake, that he was rich.

But if for her sake, why notfor others? Perhaps he had been rather selfish, not only about Blanche, buttoward her. His conscience began to reproach him. Had he made for her a largelife? Since her mother's premature death, had he instilled into her sympathies,tastes, companionships that would make her existence the richer? Had he notkept her too much to himself? On the other hand, he had gratified all hermaterial wants; she could wear what she pleased, she could go where she chose,she had acquaintances of a sort becoming to the daughter of a wealthy man. Yetthere was something lacking. What did she know about old, used-up boots and allthat pertains to them? What did she know about indigence, real privation, andbrave endurance, such as a hundred thousand fellow-creatures all around herwere undergoing?

Somehow it dawned upon the old banker that if she knewabout all these things and had some share in them, albeit only through sympathyand helping, she might be happier, more truly a woman, than she wasnow.

As he sat alone, in revery, he actually heaved a deep sigh. A sighis often as happy a deliverance as a laugh, in this world of sorrows. It wasthe first that had escaped Littimer in years. Let us say that it was abreathing space, which gave him time for reflection; it marked the turning of aleaf; it was the beginning of a new chapter in his life.

Before he leftthe bank he locked the door of the private parlor, and was alone for two orthree minutes. The office boy was greatly puzzled the next morning, when hefound all the new pairs of shoes ranged intact in the adjoining cupboard. Theold ones were missing.

Littimer had gone away in them, furtively. He wasashamed of his own impulse.

This time he resolutely remained afootinstead of hiring a carriage. He despatched a messenger to Blanche, saying thatsudden business would prevent his returning to dinner, and continuedindefinitely on his way—whither? As to that he was by no means certain;he knew only that he must get out of the beaten track, out of the ruts. For anhour or two he must cease to be Littimer, the prosperous moneyed man, and musttread once more the obscure paths through which he had made his way to fortune.He could hardly have explained the prompting which he obeyed. Could it have hadanything to do with the treacherous holes in the bottoms of those oldshoes?

As it chanced, he passed by "The Fried Cat"; and, clingy thoughthe place was, lie felt an irresistible desire to enter it. Seating himself, heordered the regular dinner of the day. The light was dim; the tablecloth wasdirty; the attendance was irregular and distracted. Littimer took one sip ofthe sour wine—which had a flavor resembling vinegar and carmine ink inequal parts—and left the further contents of his bottle untasted. Thesoup, the stew, and the faded roast that were set before him, he could scarcelyswallow; but a small cup of coffee at the end of the wellnigh Barmecide repastcame in very palatably.

In default of prandial attractions, Littimertried to occupy himself by looking at the people around him. The omnifariousassembly included pale, prim-whiskered young clerks; shabby, lonely, sallowyoung women, whose sallowness and shabbiness stamped them with the mark ofintegrity; other females whose specious splendor was not nearly so reassuring;old men, broken-down men, middle-aged men of every description, except thewell-to-do.

"Some of them," Littimer reflected, "are no worse than I am.But are any of them really any better?"

He could not convince himselfthat they were; yet his sympathies, somehow, went out toward this motley crowd.It appeared to him very foolish that he should sympathize, but he could nothelp it. "And, after all," was the next thought that came to him, "are we togive pity to people, or withhold it, simply because they are better or worsethan ourselves? No; there is something more in it than that."

Leaving"The Fried Cat" abruptly, he betook himself to an acquaintance who, he knew,was very active in charities—a man who worked practically, and gave timeto the work.

"Do you visit any of your distress cases to-night?" heasked.

"Yes, I shall make a few calls," answered the man of charity."Would you like to go along?"

"Very much."

So the two started outtogether. The places they went to were of various kinds, and revealed aconsiderable diversity of misfortune. Sometimes they entered tenement houses ofthe most wretched character; but in other instances they went to small andcheap but decent lodgings over the shops on West Side avenues, or evenpenetrated into boarding-houses of such good appearance that the banker wassurprised to find his friend's mission carrying him thither. All the cases,however, had been studied, and were vouched for; and several were those ofyoung men and women having employment, but temporarily disabled, and withoutfriends who could help them.

"You do well to help these beginners, atcritical times," said the banker, with satisfaction. "I take a special interestin them."

It was almost the same as if he were receiving relief himself.Who knows? Perhaps he was; but to the outward eye it appeared merely that, withhis friend's sanction, he was dispensing money and offers of goodwill to theneedy. What a strange freak it was, though, in Littimer! He kept on with thework until quite late in the evening, regardless of the risk he ran bycontinuing out-of-doors when so ill shod.

I think he had some idea inhis mind that he was performing an act of penance.

Having waited a reasonable length of time after dinner,Crombie again left his room, resolved to make a call upon Mr. Littimer, on theplea of apologizing for having marched away with his shoes.

He would notrun the risk, by sending his card, of being denied as a stranger; so,notwithstanding much hesitation and tremor, he approached the door which he hadonce seen standing open, and knocked. A voice which he now heard for the secondtime in his life, but which was so sweet and crept so naturally into the centreof his heart that the thought of it seemed always to have been there, answered:"Come in." And he did come in.

"Is Mr. Lit—is your father athome?" It seemed to bring him a little nearer to her to say "yourfather."

Blanche had risen from the chair where she was reading, andlooked very much surprised. "Oh," she exclaimed, with girlish simplicity, "Ithought it was the waiter! N-no; he hasn't come home yet."

"I begpardon. Then perhaps I'd better call later." Crombie made a feeble movementtoward withdrawal.

"Did you want to see him on business? Who shall Itell him?"

"Mr. Crombie, please. It's nothing veryimportant."

"Oh," said Blanche, with a little blush at her owndeception, "haven't I seen you in the house before? Are you stayinghere?"

She remembered distinctly the incident of the card-case, and howvery nice she had thought him, both on that occasion and every time she hadseen him. But as for him, his heart sank at the vague impersonality with whichshe seemed to regard him.

"Yes, I'm here, and can easily come inagain."

"I expect my father almost any moment," she said. "Would youlike to wait?"

What an absurd question, to one in his frame of mind!"Well, really, it is such a very small matter," he began, examining his hatattentively. Then he glanced up at her again, and smiled: "I only wantedto—to make an apology."

"An apology!" echoed Blanche, becomingrather more distant. "Oh, dear! I'm very sorry, I'm sure. I didn't know there'dbeen any trouble." She began to look anxious, and turned her eyes upon thesmouldering fire in the grate. So this was to be the end of her pleasant,cheerful reveries about this nice young man. And the reveries had been morefrequent than she had been aware of until now.

"There has been notrouble," he assured her, eagerly. "Just a little mistake that occurred; and,in fact, I was hardly responsible for it."

Blanche's eyes began totwinkle with a new and amusing interpretation. "Ah!" she cried, "are you thegentleman who—" Then she stopped short.

Crombie was placed in anunexpected embarrassment. How could he possibly drag into his conversation withthis lovely young creature so commonplace and vulgar a subject as shoe-leather!Ignoring her unfinished question, he asked: "Do you know, Miss Littimer,whether the—a—one of the servants here has brought up anything foryour father—that is, a parcel, a—"

"A pair of shoes?"Blanche broke in, her eyes dancing, while her lips parted in asmile.

"Yes, yes; that's what I meant."

"They came up just afterdinner," Blanche returned. "Then you are the gentleman."

"I'mafraid I am," Crombie owned, and they both laughed.

Blanche quietly, andwith no apparent intention, resumed her chair; and this time Crombie took aseat without waiting to be invited again. Thus they fell to talking in thefriendliest way.

"I can't imagine what has become of papa," saidBlanche. "He sent word, in the most mysterious manner, that he had anengagement; and it is so unusual! Perhaps it's something about the new househe's building—up-town, you know. Dear me! it does make so much trouble,and I don't believe I shall like it half as well as these little, coseyrooms."

The little, cosey rooms were as the abode of giants comparedwith Crombie's contracted quarters; but he drew comfort from what she said,thinking how such sentiments might make it possible to win even so unattainablean heiress into some modest home of his own.

"You don't know till youtry it," he replied. "Just think of having a place all to yourself, belongingto you."

Blanche lifted her eyebrows, and a little sigh escaped her. Shewas reflecting, perhaps, that a place all to herself would be ratherlonely.

"You have never met my father?" she asked.

"No. I haveseen him."

"Well, I think you will like him when you knowhim."

"I don't doubt it!" Crombie exclaimed with fervor, worshiping thevery furniture that surrounded Blanche.

"I hope we may become betteracquainted."

"Only I think, Mr. Crombie, he will owe you an apologynow."

"Why?"

"For keeping your shoes out so late."

"Myshoes!" said the young man, in vehement surprise.

"Why, yes. Didn't youknow they came to him? The porter said so."

Crombie grew red with thesense of his disgrace in having his poverty-stricken boots come to theknowledge of the banker. Really, his mortification was so great that theaccident seemed to him to put an end to all his hopes of further relations withBlanche and her father.

"Oh, I assure you," he said, rising, "that makesno difference at all! I'm sorry I mentioned the matter. Pray tell Mr. Littimernot to think of it. I—I believe I'd better go now, MissLittimer."

Blanche rose too, and Crombie was on the point of bowing agood-night, when the door opened, and a weary figure presented itself on thethreshold; the figure of a short man with a spare face, and whiskers in whichgray mingled with the sandy tint. He had a pinched, half-growling expression,was draped in a light, draggled overcoat, and carried an umbrella, the ribs ofwhich hung loose around the stick.

"There's papa this moment!" criedBlanche.

Crombie perceived that escape was impossible, and, in a fewwords, the reason of his presence there was made known to the oldgentleman.

Littimer examined the visitor swiftly, from head tofoot—especially the foot. He advanced to the fire, toasted first one andthen the other of the damp gaiters he had on? and at length broke out, in atone bordering on reproach: "So you are the owner, are you? Then my sympathyhas all been wasted! Why, I supposed, from the condition of these machines thatI've been lugging around with me half the day that you must be in the greatestdistress. And, lo and behold! I find you a young fellow in prime health, spruceand trim, doing well, I should say, and perfectly happy."

"I can't helpthat, sir," retorted Crombie, nettled, but speaking with respect. "I confess Iwas very happy until a moment or two ago."

"What do you mean by that?"the other demanded, with half-yielding pugnacity. "Till I came in—is thatthe idea?"

"Oh, papa!" said Banche, softly.

"Well, honey-bee,what's the matter?" her father asked, trying to be gruff. "Can't I say what Ilike, here?" But he surrendered at once by adding: "You may be sure I don'twant to offend any one. Sit down, Mr. Crombie, and wait just a few momentswhile I go into the other room and rejuvenate my hoofs, so to speak—for Ifear I've made a donkey of myself."

He disappeared into an adjoiningroom with Blanche, who there informed him artlessly of Crombie's considerationand attentiveness in restoring the errant shoes. When they came back Littimerinsisted upon having the young man remain a little longer and drink a glass ofport with him. Before taking his departure, however, Crombie, who felt free tospeak since Blanche had retired, made a brief statement in satisfaction ofconscience.

"You hinted," he said, "that you judged me to be doing well.I don't want to leave you with a false impression. The truth is, I am not doingwell. I have no money to speak of, and to-day I lost the position on which Idepended."

"You don't tell me!" Littimer's newly roused charitableimpulses came to the fore. "Why, now you begin to be really interesting, Mr.Crombie."

"Thanks," said Crombie; "I'm not ambitious to interest peoplein that way, I told you only because I thought it fair."

"Don't betouchy, my dear sir," answered the banker. "I meant what I said. Come, let'ssee what can be done. Have you any scheme in view?"

"Yes, I have," saidCrombie, with decision.

Littimer gave a grunt. He was afraid of peoplewith schemes, and was disappointed with the young man's want of helplessness.Dependence would have been an easier thing to deal with.

"Well," saidhe, "we must talk it over. Come and see me at the bank to-morrow. You know theaddress."

The next day Crombie called at the bank; but Littimer was notthere. He was not very well, it was said; had not come down-town. Crombie didwhat he could toward organizing his fight for a directorship, and then returnedto The Lorne, where he punctually inquired after Mr. Littimer's health, andlearned that the banker's ardor in making the rounds among distressed peoplethe night before had been followed by reaction into a bad cold, with somethreat of pneumonia. Blanche was plainly anxious. The attack lasted three orfour days, and Crombie, though the affair of the directorship was pressing forattention, could not forbear to remain as near as possible to Blanche, offeringevery aid within his power, so far as he might without overstepping the linesof his very recent acquaintance. But the Littimers did not, according to hisobservation, number any very intimate companions in their circle, or at leasthad not many friends who would be assiduous in such an emergency. Perhaps theirfriends were too busy with social engagements. Consequently, he saw a good dealof Blanche, and became to her an object of reliance.

Well, it was simplyone of those things that happen only in fairy tales or in romances—or inreal life. Littimer recovered without any serious illness, and, after a briefconference with Crombie, entered heartily into the young man's campaign.Crombie showed him just what combinations could be formed, how success could beachieved, and what lucrative results might be made to ensue. He conquered byfigures and by lucid common-sense. Littimer agreed to buy a number of shares inthe Engraving Company, which he happened to know could be purchased, and toadvance Crombie a good sum with which to procure a portion of the same lot. Butbefore this agreement could be consummated, Crombie, with his usual frankness,said to the banker:

"I will conceal nothing from you, Mr. Littimer. Ifell in love with Blanche before I knew her, and if this venture of minesucceeds, I shall ask her to become my wife."

"Let us attend tobusiness," said Littimer, severely. "Sentiment can take care ofitself."

Their manoeuvre went on so vigorously that Blatchford becamealarmed, and sent an ambassador to arrange a compromise; but by this timeCrombie had determined to oust Blatchford himself and elect an entirely new setof men, to compose more than half the Board, and so controleverything.

He succeeded.

But Littimer did not forget thecharitable enthusiasm which had been awakened by a circ*mstance on the surfaceso trivial as the mistake of a boot-boy. He did not desist from his interest inaiding disabled or unfortunate people who could really be aided. Some timeafter Crombie had achieved his triumph in the Engraving Company, and had repaidLittimer's loan, he was admitted to a share in the banking business; andeventually the head of the house was able to give a great deal of attention toperfecting his benevolent plans.

When the details of their wedding wereunder discussion, Crombie said to Blanche: "Oughtn't we to have an old shoethrown after the carriage as we drive away?"

She smiled; looked him fullin the eyes with a peculiar tenderness in which there was a bright, delicioussparkle of humor. "No; old shoes are much too useful to be wasted thatway."

Somehow she had possessed herself of that particular, providentialpair; and, though I don't want anybody to laugh at my two friends, I must risksaying that I suspect Mrs. Crombie of preserving it somewhere to this day, inthe big new house up-town.

Only a happy inspirationcould have impelled Jack to apply the adjective "wild" to that ill-behaved anddisreputable river which, tipsily bearing its enormous burden of mud from thefar Northwest, totters, reels, runs its tortuous course for hundreds onhundreds of miles; and which, encountering the lordly and thus far well-behavedMississippi at Alton, and forcing its company upon this splendid river (as ifsome drunken fellow should lock arms with a dignified pedestrian), contaminatesit all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

At a certain point on the banks ofthis river, or rather—as it has the habit of abandoning and destroyingsaid banks—at a safe distance therefrom, there is a town from which arailroad takes its departure, for its long climb up the natural incline of theGreat Plains, to the base of the mountains; hence the importance to this townof the large but somewhat shabby building serving as terminal station. In itssmoky interior, late in the evening and not very long ago, a train was nearlyready to start. It was a train possessing a certain consideration. For thebenefit of a public easily gulled and enamored of grandiloquent terms, it wasadvertised as the "Denver Fast Express"; sometimes, with strange unfitness, asthe "Lightning Express"; "elegant" and "palatial" cars were declared to beincluded therein; and its departure was one of the great events of the twenty-four hours in the country round about. A local poet described it in the "live"paper of the town, cribbing from an old Eastern magazine and passing off asoriginal the lines—

The trainmen, on the otherhand, used no fine phrases. They called it simply "Number Seventeen"; and, whenit started, said it had "pulled out."

On the evening in question, thereit stood, nearly ready. Just behind the great hissing locomotive, with itsparabolic headlight and its coal-laden tender, came the baggage, mail, andexpress cars; then the passenger coaches, in which the social condition of theoccupants seemed to be in inverse ratio to their distance from the engine.First came emigrants, "honest miners," "cowboys," and laborers; Irishmen,Germans, Welshmen, Mennonites from Russia, quaint of garb and speech, andChinamen. Then came long cars full of people of better station, and last thegreat Pullman "sleepers," in which the busy black porters were making up theberths for well-to-do travelers of diverse nationalities andoccupations.

It was a curious study for a thoughtful observer, thismotley crowd of human beings sinking all differences of race, creed, and habitsin the common purpose to move westward—to the mountain fastnesses, thesage-brush deserts and the Golden Gate.

The warning bell had sounded,and the fireman leaned far out for the signal. The gong struck sharply theconductor shouted, "All aboard," and raised his hand; the tired ticket-sellershut his window, and the train moved out of the station, gathered way as itcleared the outskirts of the town, rounded a curve, entered on an absolutelystraight line, and, with one long whistle from the engine, settled down to itswork. Through the night hours it sped on, past lonely ranches and infrequentstations, by and across shallow streams fringed with cottonwood trees, over thegreenish-yellow buffalo grass near the old trail where many a poor emigrant,many a bold frontiersman, many a brave soldier, had laid his bones but a shorttime before.

Familiar as they may be, there is something strangelyimpressive about all-night journeys by rail, and those forming part of anAmerican transcontinental trip are almost weird. From the windows of a nightexpress in Europe or the older portions of the United States, one looks onhouses and lights, cultivated fields, fences, and hedges; and, hurled as he maybe through the darkness, he has a sense of companionship and semi-security. Fardifferent is it when the long train is running over those two rails which, seenbefore night set in, seem to meet on the horizon. Within all is as if betweentwo great seaboard cities; the neatly dressed people, the uniformed officials,the handsome fittings, the various appliances for comfort. Without are now longdreary levels, now deep and wild canyons, now an environment of strange andgrotesque rock-formations, castles, battlements, churches, statues. Theantelope fleetly runs, and the coyote skulks away from the track, and the graywolf howls afar off. It is for all the world, to one's fancy, as if a bit ofcivilization, a family or community, its belongings and surroundings complete,were flying through regions barbarous and inhospitable.

From the cab ofEngine No. 32, the driver of the Denver Express saw, showing faintly in theearly morning, the buildings grouped about the little station ten miles ahead,where breakfast awaited his passengers. He looked at his watch; he had justtwenty minutes in which to run the distance, as he had run it often before.Something, however, traveled faster than he. From the smoky station out ofwhich the train passed the night before, along the slender wire stretched onrough poles at the side of the track, a spark of that mysterious somethingwhich we call electricity flashed at the moment he returned the watch to hispocket; and in five minutes' time the station-master came out on the platform,a little more thoughtful than his wont, and looked eastward for the smoke ofthe train. With but three of the passengers in that train has this taleespecially to do, and they were all in the new and comfortable Pullman "City ofCheyenne." One was a tall, well-made man of about thirty—blond, blue-eyed, bearded, straight, sinewy, alert. Of all in the train he seemed the mostthoroughly at home, and the respectful greeting of the conductor, as he passedthrough the car, marked him as an officer of the road. Such was he—HenrySinclair, assistant engineer, quite famed on the line, high in favor with thedirectors, and a rising man in all ways. It was known on the road that he wasexpected in Denver, and there were rumors that he was to organize the partiesfor the survey of an important "extension." Beside him sat his pretty youngwife. She was a New Yorker—one could tell at first glance—from thefeather of her little bonnet, matching the gray traveling dress, to the tips ofher dainty boots; and one, too, at whom old Fifth Avenue promenaders would haveturned to look. She had a charming figure, brown hair, hazel eyes, and anexpression at once kind, intelligent, and spirited. She had cheerfully left aluxurious home to follow the young engineer's fortunes; and it was well knownthat those fortunes had been materially advanced by her tact andcleverness.

The third passenger in question had just been inconversation with Sinclair and the latter was telling his wife of their curiousmeeting. Entering the toilet-room at the rear of the car, he said, he had begunhis ablutions by the side of another man, and it was as they were sluicingtheir faces with water that he heard the cry:

"Why, Major, is that you?Just to think of meeting you here!"

A man of about tweny-eight years ofa*ge, slight, muscular, wiry, had seized his wet hand and was wringing it. Hehad black eyes, keen and bright, swarthy complexion, black hair and mustache. Akeen observer might have seen about him some signs of a jeunesseorageuse, but his manner was frank and pleasing. Sinclair looked him in theface, puzzled for a moment.

"Don't you remember Foster?" asked theman.

"Of course I do," replied Sinclair. "For a moment I could not placeyou. Where have you been and what have you been doing?"

"Oh," repliedFoster, laughing, "I've braced up and turned over a new leaf. I'm a respectablemember of society, have a place in the express company, and am going to Denverto take charge."

"I am very glad to hear it, and you must tell me yourstory when we have had our breakfast."

The pretty young woman was justabout to ask who Foster was, when the speed of the train slackened, and thebrakeman opened the door of the car and cried out in stentoriantones:

"Pawnee Junction; twenty minutes for refreshments!"

When the celebrated Rocky Mountain gold excitementbroke out, more than twenty years ago, and people painted "PIKE'S PEAK OR BUST"on the canvas covers of their wagons and started for the diggings, theyestablished a "trail" or "trace" leading in a southwesterly direction from theold one to California.

At a certain point on this trail a frontiersmannamed Barker built a forlorn ranch-house and corral, and offered what isconventionally called "entertainment for man and beast."

For years helived there, dividing his time between fighting the Indians and feeding thepassing emigrants and their stock. Then the first railroad to Denver was built,taking another route from the Missouri, and Barker's occupation was gone. Heretired with his gains to St. Louis and lived in comfort.

Years passedon, and the "extension" over which our train is to pass was planned. The oldpioneers were excellent natural engineers and their successors could find nobetter route than they had chosen. Thus it was that "Barker's" became, duringthe construction period, an important point, and the frontiersman's name cameto figure on time-tables. Meanwhile the place passed through a process ofevolution which would have delighted Darwin. In the party of engineers whichfirst camped there was Sinclair and it was by his advice that the contractorsselected it for division headquarters. Then came drinking "saloons" andgambling houses—alike the inevitable concomitant and the bane of Westernsettlements; then scattered houses and shops and a shabby so-called hotel, inwhich the letting of miserable rooms (divided from each other by canvaspartitions) was wholly subordinated to the business of the bar. Before long,Barker's had acquired a worse reputation than even other towns of its type, theabnormal and uncanny aggregations of squalor and vice which dotted the plainsin those days; and it was at its worst when Sinclair returned thither and tookup his quarters in the engineers' building. The passion for gambling wasraging, and to pander thereto were collected as choice a lot of desperadoes asever "stacked" cards or loaded dice. It came to be noticed that they were onexcellent terms with a man called "Jeff" Johnson, who was lessee of the hotel;and to be suspected that said Johnson, in local parlance, "stood in with" them.With this man had come to Barker's his daughter Sarah, commonly known as"Sally," a handsome girl, with a straight, lithe figure, fine features, reddishauburn hair, and dark-blue eyes. It is but fair to say that even the "toughs"of a place like Barker's show some respect for the other sex, and Miss Sally'scase was no exception to the rule. The male population admired her; they saidshe "put on heaps of style"; but none of them had seemed to make any progressin her good graces.

On a pleasant afternoon just after the track hadbeen laid some miles west of Barker's, and construction trains were runningwith some regularity to and from the end thereof, Sinclair sat on the rudeveranda of the engineers' quarters, smoking his well-colored meerschaum andlooking at the sunset. The atmosphere had been so clear during the day thatglimpses were had of Long's and Pike's peaks, and as the young engineer gazedat the gorgeous cloud display he was thinking of the miners' quaint andpathetic idea that the dead "go over the Range."

"Nice-looking, ain'tit, Major?" asked a voice at his elbow, and he turned to see one of thecontractors' officials taking a seat near him.

"More than nice-lookingto my mind, Sam," he replied. "What is the news to-day?"

"Nothin' much.There's a sight of talk about the doin's of them faro an' keno sharps. The boysis gettin' kind o' riled, fur they allow the game ain't on the square wuth acent. Some of 'em down to the tie-camp wuz a-talkin' about a vigilancecommittee, an' I wouldn't be surprised ef they meant business. Hev yer heardabout the young feller that come in a week ago from Laramie an' set up a newfaro-bank?"

"No. What about him?"

"Wa'al, yer see he's a fellerthet's got a lot of sand an' ain't afeared of nobody, an' he's allowed to hevthe deal to his place on the square every time. Accord-in' to my idee,gamblin's about the wust racket a feller kin work, but it takes all sorts ofmen to make a world, an' ef the boys is bound to hev a game, I cal-kilatethey'd like to patronize his bank. Thet's made the old crowd mighty mad an'they're a-talkin' about puttin' up a job of cheatin' on him an' then stringin'him up. Besides, I kind o' think there's some cussed jealousy on another lay ascomes in. Yer see the young feller—Cyrus Foster's his name—is sweeton thet gal of Jeff Johnson's. Jeff wuz to Laramie before he come here, an'Foster knowed Sally up thar. I allow he moved here to see her. Hello! Ef tharthey ain't a-coming now."

Down a path leading from the town past therailroad buildings, and well on the prairie, Sinclair saw the girl walking withthe "young feller." He was talking earnestly to her and her eyes were castdown. She looked pretty and, in a way, graceful; and there was in her attire anoticeable attempt at neatness, and a faint reminiscence of bygone fashions. Asmile came to Sinclair's lips as he thought of a couple walking up Fifth Avenueduring his leave of absence not many months before, and of a letter many timesread, lying at that moment in his breast-pocket.

"Papa's bark is worsethan his bite," ran one of its sentences. "Of course he does not like the ideaof my leaving him and going away to such dreadful and remote places as Denverand Omaha and I don't know what else; but he will not oppose me in the end, andwhen you come on again.—"

"By thunder!" exclaimed Sam; "ef tharain't one of them cussed sharps a-watchin' 'em."

Sure enough a rough-looking fellow, his hat pulled over his eyes, half concealed behind a pile oflumber, was casting a sinister glance toward the pair.

"The gal's wellenough," continued Sam; "but I don't take a cent's wuth of stock in thet tharfather of her'n. He's in with them sharps, sure pop, an' it don't suit his bookto hev Foster hangin' round. It's ten to one he sent that cuss to watch 'em.Wa'al, they're a queer lot, an' I'm afeared thar's plenty of trouble aheadamong 'em. Good luck to you, Major," and he pushed back his chair and walkedaway.

After breakfast next morning, when Sinclair was sitting at thetable in his office, busy with maps and plans, the door was Lhrown open, andFoster, panting for breath, ran in.

"Major Sinclair," he said, speakingwith difficulty, "I've no claim on you, but I ask you to protect me. The othergamblers are going to hang me. They are more than ten to one. They will trackme here unless you harbor me, I'm a dead man."

Sinclair rose from hischair in a second and Avalked to the window. A party of men were approachingthe building. He turned to Foster:

"I do not like your trade," said he;"but I will not see you murdered if I can help it. You are welcome here."Foster said "Thank you," stood still a moment, and then began to pace the room,rapidly clinching his hands, his whole frame quivering, his eyes flashingfire—"for all the world," Sinclair said, in telling the story afterward,"like a fierce caged tiger."

"My God!" he muttered, with concentratedintensity, "to be trapped, TRAPPED like this!"

Sinclair steppedquickly to the door of his bedroom and motioned Foster to enter. Then therecame a knock at the outer door, and he opened it and stood on the thresholderect and firm. Half a dozen "toughs" faced him.

"Major," said theirspokesman, "we want that man."

"You can not have him,boys."

"Major, we're a-goin' to take him."

"You had better nottry," said Sinclair, with perfect ease and self-possession, and in a pleasantvoice. "I have given him shelter, and you can only get him over my dead body.Of course you can kill me, but you won't do even that without one or two of yougoing down; and then you know perfectly well, boys, what will happen. Youknow that if you lay your finger on a railroad man it's all up with you.There are five hundred men in the tie-camp, not five miles away, and you don'tneed to be told that in less than one hour after they get word there won't be apiece of one of you big enough to bury."

The men made no reply. Theylooked him straight in the eyes for a moment. Had they seen a sign of flinchingthey might have risked the issue, but there was none. With muttered curses,they slunk away. Sinclair shut and bolted the door, then opened the one leadingto the bedroom.

"Foster," he said, "the train will pass here in half anhour. Have you money enough?"

"Plenty, Major."

"Very well; keepperfectly quiet and I will try to get you safely off." He went to an adjoiningroom and called Sam, the contractor's man. He took in the situation at aglance.

"Wa'al, Foster," said he, "kind o' 'close call' for yer, warn'tit? Guess yer'd better be gittin' up an' gittin' pretty lively. The train boyswill take yer through an' yer kin come back when this racket's workedout."

Sinclair glanced at his watch, then he walked to the window andlooked out. On a small mesa, or elevated plateau, commanding the path tothe railroad, he saw a number of men with rifles.

"Just as I expected,"said he. "Sam, ask one of the boys to go down to the track and, when the trainarrives, tell the conductor to come here."

In a few minutes the whistlewas heard and the conductor entered the building. Receiving his instructions,he returned, and immediately on engine, tender, and platform appeared thetrainmen, with their rifles covering the group on the bluff. Sinclairput on his hat.

"Now, Foster," said he, "we have no time to lose. TakeSam's arm and mine, and walk between us."

The trio left the building andwalked deliberately to the railroad. Not a word was spoken. Besides the men insight on the train, two behind the window-blinds of the one passenger coach,and unseen, kept their fingers on the triggers of their repeating carbines. Itseemed a long time, counted by anxious seconds, until Foster was safe in thecoach.

"All ready, conductor," said Sinclair. "Now, Foster, good-by. Iam not good at lecturing, but if I were you, I would make this the turning-point in my life."

Foster was much moved.

"I will do it, Major,"said he; "and I shall never forget what you have done for me to-day. I am surewe shall meet again."

With another shriek from the whistle the trainstarted. Sinclair and Sam saw the men quietly returning the firearms to theirplaces as it gathered way. Then they walked back to their quarters. The men onthe mesa, balked of their purpose, had withdrawn.

Sam accompaniedSinclair to his door, and then sententiously remarked: "Major, I think I'lllight out and find some of the boys. You ain't got no call to know anythingabout it, but I allow it's about time them cusses was bounced."

Threenights after this, a powerful party of Vigilantes, stern and inexorable,made a raid on all the gambling dens, broke the tables and apparatus, andconducted the men to a distance from the town, where they left them with anemphatic and concise warning as to the consequences of any attempt to return.An exception was made in Jeff Johnson's case—but only for the sake of hisdaughter—for it was found that many a "little game" had been carried onin his house.

Ere long he found it convenient to sell his business andretire to a town some miles to the eastward, where the railroad influence wasnot as strong as at Barker's. At about this time, Sinclair made hisarrangements to go to New York, with the pleasant prospect of marrying theyoung lady in Fifth Avenue. In due time he arrived at Barker's, with his youngand charming wife and remained for some days. The changes were astounding.Commonplace respectability had replaced abnormal lawlessness. A neat stationstood where had been the rough contractor's buildings. At a new "Windsor" (orwas it "Brunswick"?) the performance of the kitchen contrasted sadly (alas! howcommon is such contrast in these regions) with the promise of the menu.There was a tawdry theatre yclept "Academy of Music," and there was not much tochoose in the way of ugliness between two "meeting-houses."

"Upon myword, my dear," said Sinclair to his wife, "I ought to be ashamed to say it,but I prefer Barker's au naturel."

One evening, just before theyoung people left the town, and as Mrs. Sinclair sat alone in her room, thefrowzy waitress announced "a lady," and was requested to bid her enter. A womancame with timid mien into the room, sat down, as invited, and removed her veil.Of course the young bride had never known Sally Johnson, the whilom belle ofBarker's, but her husband would have noticed at a glance how greatly she waschanged from the girl who walked with Foster past the engineers' quarters. Itwould be hard to find a more striking contrast than was presented by the twowomen as they sat facing each other: the one in the flush of health and beauty,calm, sweet, self-possessed; the other still retaining some of the shabbyfinery of old days, but pale and haggard, with black rings under her eyes, anda pathetic air of humiliation.

"Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began,"you do not know me, nor the like of me. I've got no right to speak to you, butI couldn't help it. Oh! please believe me, I am not real downright bad. I'mSally Johnson, daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town. My motherdied when I was little, and I never had a show; and folks think becauseI live with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that Imust be in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a woman speak a kindword to me, and I've had so much trouble that I'm just drove wild, and like tokill myself; and then I was at the station when you came in, and I saw yoursweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it came in my heart that I'dspeak to you if I died for it." She leaned eagerly forward, her hands nervouslyclosing on the back of a chair. "I suppose your husband never told you of me;like enough he never knew me; but I'll never forget him as long as I live. Whenhe was here before, there was a young man"—here a faint color came in thewan cheeks—"who was fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and myfather was down on him, and the men that father was in with wanted to kill him;and Mr. Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've waited and waited forhim to come back—and perhaps I'll never see him again. But oh! dear lady,I'll never forget what your husband did. He's a good man, and he deserves thelove of a dear good woman like you, and if I dared I'd pray for you both, nightand day."

She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, pale asbefore, and as if frightened by her own emotion. Mrs. Sinclair had listenedwith sympathy and increasing interest.

"My poor girl," she said,speaking tenderly (she had a lovely, soft voice) and with slightly heightenedcolor, "I am delighted that you came to see me, and that my husband was able tohelp you. Tell me, can we not do more for you? I do not for one moment believeyou can be happy with your present surroundings. Can we not assist you to leavethem?"

The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. "I thank you for yourwords," she said. "I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'll say, Godbless you!"

She caught Mrs. Sinclair's hand, pressed it to her lips, andwas gone.

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he came home, andhe listened with much interest to her story.

"Poor girl!" said he;"Foster is the man to help her. I wonder where he is? I must inquire abouthim."

The next day they proceeded on their way to San Francisco, andmatters drifted on at Barker's much as before. Johnson had, after an absence ofsome months, come back and lived without molestation amid the shiftingpopulation. Now and then, too, some of the older residents fancied theyrecognized, under slouched sombreros, the faces of some of his former "crowd"about the "Ranchman's Home," as his gaudy saloon was called.

Late on thevery evening on which this story opens, and they had been "making up" theDenver Express in the train-house on the Missouri, "Jim" Watkins, agent andtelegrapher at Barker's, was sitting in his little office, communicating withthe station rooms by the ticket window. Jim was a cool, silent, efficient man,and not much given to talk about such episodes in his past life as the "wipingout" by Indians of the construction party to which he belonged, and his ownrescue by the scouts. He was smoking an old and favorite pipe, and talking withone of "the boys" whose head appeared at the wicket. On a seat in the stationsat a woman in a black dress and veil, apparently waiting for atrain.

"Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain't yer, Jim?"remarked the man at the window.

"Yes," replied Jim; "they're forEngineer Sinclair, to be delivered to him when he passes through here. He lefton No. 17, to-night." The inquirer did not notice the sharp start of the womannear him.

"Is that good-lookin' wife of his'n a-comin' with him?" askedhe.

"Yes, there's letters for her, too." "Well, good-night, Jim. See yerlater," and he went out. The woman suddenly rose and ran to the window. "Mr.Watkins," cried she, "can I see you for a few moments where no one caninterrupt us? It's a matter of life and death." She clutched the sill with herthin hands, and her voice trembled. Watkins recognized Sally Johnson in amoment. He unbolted a door, motioned her to enter, closed and again bolted it,and also closed the ticket window. Then he pointed to a chair, and the girl satdown and leaned eagerly forward.

"If they knew I was here," she said ina hoarse whisper, "my life wouldn't be safe five minutes. I was waiting to tellyou a terrible story, and then I heard who was on the train due here to-morrownight. Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask me how I found out, but I hopeto die if I ain't telling you the living truth! They're going to wreck thattrain—No. 17—at Dead Man's Crossing, fifteen miles east, and robthe passengers and the express car. It's the worst gang in the country,Perry's. They're going to throw the train off the track, the passengerswill be maimed and killed—and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars! Oh!my God! Mr. Watkins, send them warning!"

She stood upright, her facedeadly pale, her hands clasped. Watkins walked deliberately to the railroad mapwhich hung on the wall and scanned it. Then he resumed his seat, laid his pipedown, fixed his eyes on the girl's face, and began to question her. At the sametime his right hand, with which he had held the pipe, found its way to thetelegraph key. None but an expert could have distinguished any change in theclicking of the instrument, which had been almost incessant; but Watkinshad "called" the head office on the Missouri. In two minutes the "sounder"rattled out "All right! What is it?"

Watkins went on with hisquestions, his eyes still fixed on the poor girl's face, and all the time hisfingers, as it were, playing with the key. If he were imperturbable, so wasnot a man sitting at a receiving instrument nearly five hundred milesaway. He had "taken" but a few words when he jumped from his chair andcried:

"Shut that door, and call the superintendent and be quick!Charley, brace up—lively—and come and write this out!" With hiswonderful electric pen, the handle several hundreds of miles long, Watkins,unknown to his interlocutor, was printing in the Morse alphabet this startlingmessage:

The superintendent,responding to the hasty summons, heard the message before the clerk had time towrite it out. His lips were closely compressed as he put his own hand on thekey and sent these laconic sentences: "O. K. Keep perfectly dark. Willmanage from this end."

Watkins, at Barker's, rose from his seat,opened the door a little way, saw that the station was empty, and then said tothe girl, brusquely, but kindly:

"Sally, you've done the square thing,and saved that train. I'll take care that you don't suffer and that you getwell paid. Now come home with me, and my wife will look out foryou."

"Oh! no," cried the girl, shrinking back, "I must run away. You'remighty kind, but I daren't go with you." Detecting a shade of doubt in his eye,she added: "Don't be afeared; I'll die before they'll know I've given them awayto you!" and she disappeared in the darkness.

At the other end of thewire, the superintendent had quietly impressed secrecy on his operator andclerk, ordered his fast mare harnessed, and gone to his privateoffice.

"Read that!" said he to his secretary. "It was about time forsome trouble of this kind, and now I'm going to let Uncle Sam take care of hismails. If I don't get to the reservation before the General's turned in, Ishall have to wake him up. Wait for me, please."

The gray mare made thesix miles to the military reservation in just half an hour. The General wassmoking his last cigar, and was alert in an instant; and before thesuperintendent had finished the jorum of "hot Scotch" hospitably tendered, theorders had gone by wire to the commanding officer at Fort———, some distance east of Barker's, and been dulyacknowledged.

Returning to the station, the superintendent remarked tothe waiting secretary:

"The General's all right. Of course we can't tellthat this is not a sell; but if those Perry hounds mean business they'll getall the fight they want—and if they've got any souls—which Idoubt—may the Lord have mercy on them!"

He prepared severaldespatches, two of which were as follows:

"MR.HENRY SINCLAIR:

"On No.17, Pawnee Junction:

This telegram your authority to take charge oftrain on which you are, and demand obedience of all officials and trainmen onroad. Please do so, and act in accordance with information wired station agentat Pawnee Junction."

To the Station Agent:

"Reported Perrygang will try wreck and rob No. 17 near —xth mile-post, Denver Division,about nine Thursday night. Troops will await train at Fort———. Car ordered ready for them. Keep everything secret, andact in accordance with orders of Mr. Sinclair."

"It's worth about tenthousand dollars," sententiously remarked he, "that Sinclair's on that train.He's got both sand and brains. Good-night," and he went to bed and slept thesleep of the just.

The sun never shone morebrightly and the air was never more clear and bracing than when Sinclair helpedhis wife off the train at Pawnee Junction. The station-master's face fell as hesaw the lady, but he saluted the engineer with as easy an air as he couldassume, and watched for an opportunity to speak to him alone. Sinclair read thedespatches with an unmoved countenance, and after a few minutes' reflectionsimply said: "All right. Be sure to keep the matter perfectly quiet." Atbreakfast he was distrait—so much so that his wife asked him whatwas the matter. Taking her aside, he at once showed her thetelegrams.

"You see my duty," he said. "My only thought is about you, mydear child. Will you stay here?"

She simply replied, looking into hisface without a tremor:

"My place is with you." Then the conductor called"All aboard," and the train once more started.

Sinclair asked Foster tojoin him in the smoking compartment and tell him the promised story, which thelatter did. His rescue at Barker's, he frankly and gratefully said, hadbeen the turning point in his life. In brief, he had "sworn off" from gamblingand drinking, had found honest employment, and was doing well.

"I've twothings to do now, Major," he added; "first, I must show my gratitude to you;and next"—he hesitated a little—"I want to find that poor girl thatI left behind at Barker's. She was engaged to marry me, and when I came tothink of it, and what a life I'd have made her lead, I hadn't the heart tillnow to look for her; but, seeing I'm on the right track, I'm going to find her,and get her to come with me. Her father's an—old scoundrel; but thatain't her fault, and I ain't going to marry him."

"Foster,"quietly asked Sinclair, "do you know the Perry gang?"

The man's browdarkened.

"Know them?" said he. "I know them much too well. Perry is asungodly a cutthroat as ever killed an emigrant in cold blood, and he's got inhis gang nearly all those hounds that tried to hang me. Why do you ask,Major?"

Sinclair handed him the despatches. "You are the only man on thetrain to whom I have shown them," said he.

Foster read them slowly, hiseyes lighting up as he did so. "Looks as if it was true," said he. "Let me see!Fort ——. Yes, that's the —th infantry. Two of their boys werekilled at Sidney last summer by some of the same gang, and the regiment's swornvengeance. Major, if this story's on the square, that crowd's goose is cooked,and don't you forget it! I say, you must give me a handin."

"Foster," said Sinclair, "I am going to put responsibility on yourshoulders. I have no doubt that, if we be attacked, the soldiers will disposeof the gang; but I must take all possible precautions for the safety of thepassengers. We must not alarm them. They can be made to think that the troopsare going on a scout, and only a certain number of resolute men need be told ofwhat we expect. Can you, late this afternoon, go through the cars, and pickthem out? I will then put you in charge of the passenger cars, and you can postyour men on the platforms to act in case of need. My place will beahead."

"Major, you can depend on me," was Foster's reply. "I'll gothrough the train and have my eye on some boys of the right sort, and that'sgot their shooting-irons with them."

Through the hours of that day onrolled the train, still over the crisp buffalo grass, across the well-wornbuffalo trails, past the prairie-dog villages. The passengers chatted, dozed,played cards, read, all unconscious, with the exception of three, of the comingconflict between the good and the evil forces bearing on their fate; of thefell preparations making for their disaster; of the grim preparations making toavert such disaster; of all of which the little wires alongside of them hadbeen talking back and forth. Watkins had telegraphed that he still saw noreason to doubt the good faith of his warning, and Sinclair had reported hisreceipt of authority and his acceptance thereof. Meanwhile, also, there hadbeen set in motion a measure of that power to which appeal is so reluctantlymade in time of peace. At Fort ———, a lonely post on theplains, the orders had that morning been issued for twenty men under LieutenantHalsey to parade at 4 p. M., with overcoats, two days' rations, and ballcartridges; also for Assistant Surgeon Kesler to report for duty with theparty. Orders as to destination were communicated direct to the lieutenant fromthe post commander, and on the minute the little column moved, taking the roadto the station. The regiment from which it came had been in active serviceamong the Indians on the frontier for a long time, and the officers and menwere tried and seasoned fighters. Lieutenant Halsey had been well known at theWest Point balls as the "leader of the german." From the last of these balls hehad gone straight to the field, and three years had given him an enviablereputation for sang-froid and determined bravery. He looked every inchthe soldier as he walked along the trail, his cloak thrown back and his swordtucked under his arm. The doctor, who carried a Modoc bullet in someinaccessible part of his scarred body, growled good-naturedly at the need ofwalking, and the men, enveloped in their army-blue overcoats, marched easily byfours. Reaching the station, the lieutenant called the agent aside, and withhim inspected, on a siding, a long platform car on which benches had beenplaced and secured. Then he took his seat in the station and quietly waited,occasionally twisting his long blond mustache. The doctor took a cigar with theagent, and the men walked about or sat on the edge of the platform. One ofthem, who obtained a surreptitious glance at his silent commander, told hiscompanions that there was trouble ahead for somebody.

"That's just theway the leftenant looked, boys," said he, "when we was laying for them Apachesthat raided Jones's Ranch and killed the women and little children."

Ina short time the officer looked at his watch, formed his men, and directed themto take their places on the seats of the car. They had hardly done so when thewhistle of the approaching train was heard. When it came up, the conductor, whohad his instructions from Sinclair, had the engine detached and backed on thesiding for the soldiers' car, which thus came between it and the foremostbaggage car when the train was again made up. As arranged, it was announcedthat the troops were to be taken a certain distance to join a scouting party,and the curiosity of the passengers was but slightly excited. The soldiers satquietly in their seats, their repeating rifles held between their knees, andthe officer in front. Sinclair joined the latter, and had a few words with himas the train moved on. A little later, when the stars were shining brightlyoverhead, they passed into the express car, and sent for the conductor andother trainmen, and for Foster. In a few words Sinclair explained the positionof affairs. His statement was received with perfect coolness, and the men onlyasked what they were to do.

"I hope, boys," said Sinclair, "that we aregoing to put this gang to-night where they will make no more trouble.Lieutenant Halsey will bear the brunt of the fight, and it only remains for youto stand by the interests committed to your care. Mr. Express Agent, what helpdo you want?" The person addressed, a good-natured giant, girded with acartridge belt, smiled as he replied:

"Well, sir, I'm wearing a watchwhich the company gave me for standing off the James gang in Missouri for halfan hour, when we hadn't the ghost of a soldier about. I'll take the contract,and welcome, to hold this fort alone."

"Very well," saidSinclair. "Foster, what progress have you made?"

"Major, I've got ten orfifteen as good men as ever drew a bead, and just red-hot for afight."

"That will do very well. Conductor, give the trainmen the riflesfrom the baggage car and let them act under Mr. Foster. Now, boys, I am sureyou will do your duty. That is all."

From the next station Sinclairtelegraphed "All ready" to the superintendent, who was pacing his office inmuch suspense. Then he said a few words to his brave but anxious wife, andwalked to the rear platform. On it were several armed men, who bade him good-evening, and asked "when the fun was going to begin." Walking through thetrain, he found each platform similarly occupied, and Foster going from one tothe other. The latter whispered as he passed him:

"Major, I foundArizona Joe, the scout, in the smokin' car, and he's on the front platform.That lets me out, and although I know as well as you that there ain't anydanger about that rear sleeper where the madam is, I ain't a-going to be faroff from her." Sinclair shook him by the hand; then he looked at his watch. Itwas half-past eight. He passed through the baggage and express cars, finding inthe latter the agent sitting behind his safe, on which lay two large revolvers.On the platform car he found the soldiers and their commander sitting silentand unconcerned as before. When Sinclair reached the latter and nodded, he roseand faced the men, and his fine voice was clearly heard above the rattle of thetrain.

"Company, 'tention!" The soldiers straightened themselvesin a second.

"With ball cartridge, load!" It was done with theprecision of a machine. Then the lieutenant spoke, in the same clear, crisp,tones that the troops had heard in more than one fierce battle.

"Men,"said he, "in a few minutes the Perry gang, which you will remember, are goingto try to run this train off the track, wound and kill the passengers, and robthe cars and the United States mail. It is our business to prevent them.Sergeant Wilson" (a gray-bearded non-commissioned officer stood up andsaluted), "I am going on the engine. See that my orders are repeated. Now, men,aim low, and don't waste any shots." He and Sinclair climbed over the tenderand spoke to the engine-driver.

"How are the air-brakes working?" askedSinclair.

"First-rate."

"Then, if you slowed down now, you couldstop the train in a third of her length, couldn't you?"

"Easy, if youdon't mind being shaken up a bit."

"That is good. How is the countryabout the —xth mile-post?"

"Dead level, and smooth."

"Goodagain. Now, Lieutenant Halsey, this is a splendid head-light, and we can see along way with my night glass. I will have a—"

"—2d mile-polejust past," interrupted the engine-driver.

"Only one more to pass, then,before we ought to strike them. Now, lieutenant, I undertake to stop the trainwithin a very short distance of the gang. They will be on both sides of thetrack, no doubt; and the ground, as you hear, is quite level. You will bestknow what to do."

The officer stepped back. "Sergeant," called he, "doyou hear me plainly?" "Yes, sir."

"Have the men fix bayonets. When thetrain stops, and I wave my sword, let half jump off each side, run up quickly,and form line abreast of the engine—not ahead."

"Jack,"said Sinclair to the engine-driver, "is your hand steady?" The man held it upwith a smile. "Good. Now stand by your throttle and your air-brake. Lieutenant,better warn the men to hold on tight, and tell the sergeant to pass the word tothe boys on the platforms, or they will be knocked off by the sudden stop. Nowfor a look ahead!" and he brought the binocular to his eyes.

The greatparabolic head-light illuminated the track a long way in advance, all behind itbeing of course in darkness. Suddenly Sinclair cried out:

"The foolshave a light there, as I am a living man; and there is a little red one nearus. What can that be? All ready, Jack! By heaven! they have taken up two rails.Now hold on, all! STOP HER!!"

The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a jerk. Then, holding hard by it, hesharply turned a brass handle. There was a fearful jolt—agrating—and the train's way was checked. The lieutenant, standingsidewise, had drawn his sword. He waved it, and almost before he could get offthe engine the soldiers were up and forming, still in shadow, while the brightlight was thrown on a body of men ahead.

"Surrender, or you are deadmen!" roared the officer. Curses and several shots were the reply. Then camethe orders, quick and sharp:

"Forward! Close tip! Double-quick!Halt! FIRE!" . . . It was speedily over. Left onthe car with the men, the old sergeant had said:

"Boys, you hear. It'sthat ——— Perry gang. Now, don't forget Larry and Charley thatthey murdered last year," and there had come from the soldiers a sort offierce, subdued growl. The volley was followed by a bayonet charge, andit required all the officer's authority to save the lives even of those who"threw up their hands." Large as the gang was (outnumbering the troops), wellarmed and desperate as they were, every one was dead, wounded, or a prisonerwhen the men who guarded the train platforms ran up. The surgeon, withprofessional coolness, walked up to the robbers, his instrument case under hisarm.

"Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant," said he. "That practicefor Creedmoor is telling on the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too. Bulletsare better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give them plenty ofthat."

Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all was over. Thenhe ordered a fire lighted, and the rails relaid. The flames lit a strange sceneas the passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men to keep themback.

"Is there a telegraph station not far ahead, Sinclair?" asked he."Yes? All right." He drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a despatch tothe post commander.

"Be good enough to send that for me," said he, "andleave orders at Barker's for the night express eastward to stop for us, andbring a posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, my dearSinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on assoon as those rails are spiked. When they realize the situation, some of themwill feel precious ugly, and you know we can't have anylynching."

Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once tothe conductor and brakemen, who began vociferating, "All aboard!"' Just thenFoster appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on hisface, in the firelight.

"Major," said he, "I didn't use to take muchstock in special Providence, or things being ordered; but I'm darned if I don'tbelieve in them from this day. I was bound to stay where you put me, but I wasuneasy, and wild to be in the scrimmage; and, if I had been there, I wouldn'thave taken notice of a little red light that wasn't much behind the rearplatform when we stopped. When I saw there was no danger there I ran back, andwhat do you think I found? There was a woman in a dead faint, and justclutching a lantern that she had tied up in a red scarf, poor little thing!And, Major, it was Sally! It was the little girl that loved me out at Barker's,and has loved me and waited for me ever since! And when she came to, and knewme, she was so glad she 'most fainted away again; and she let on as it was herthat gave away the job. And I took her into the sleeper, and the madam, Godbless her!—she knew Sally before and was good to her—she took careof her and is cheering her up. And now, Major, I'm going to take her straightto Denver, and send for a parson and get her married to me, and she'll braceup, sure pop."

The whistle sounded, and the train started. From thewindow of the "sleeper" Sinclair and his wife took their last look at the weirdscene. The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped in his cloak,caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's pretty face, and returned her bow. Then, asthe car passed out of sight, he tugged at his mustache and hummed:

"Why, boys, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys,
Whosebusiness 'tis to die?"

In less than an hour, telegrams having inthe meantime been sent in both directions, the train ran alongside the platformat Barker's; and Watkins, imperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave himhis letters.

"Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major," said he. "Good thingfor the country. That's a lesson the 'toughs' in these parts won't forget for along time. Plucky girl that give 'em away, wasn't she? Hope she's allright."

"She is all right," said Sinclair with a smile.

"Glad ofthat. By the way, that father of her'n passed in his checks to-night. He'd gotone warning from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they found out he was in withthis gang, and they was a-going for him; but when the telegram come, he put apistol to his head and saved them all trouble. Good riddance to everybody, Isay. The sheriff's here now, and is going east on the next train to get themfellows. He's got a big posse together, and I wouldn't wonder if they was hardto hold in, after the 'boys in blue' is gone."

In a few minutes thetrain was off, and its living freight—the just and the unjust, thereformed and the rescued, the happy and the anxious. With many of thepassengers, the episode of the night was already a thing of the past. Sinclairsat by the side of his wife, to whose cheeks the color had all come back; andSally Johnson lay in her berth, faith still, but able to give an occasionalsmile to Foster. In the station on the Missouri the reporters were gatheredaround the happy superintendent, smoking his cigars, and filling their note-books with items. In Denver, their brethren would gladly have done the same,but Watkins failed to gratify them. He was a man of few words. When the trainhad gone through, and a friend remarked: "Hope they'll get through all right,now," he simply said: "Yes, likely. Two shots don't 'most always go in the samehole." Then he went to the telegraph instrument. In a few minutes, he couldhave told a story as wild as a Norse saga, but what he said, when Denverhad responded, was only—

"No. 17, fifty-five minuteslate."

DOWN Greenwich way—that is to say, about in the heartof the city of New York—in a room with a glaring south light that madeeven the thought of painting in it send shivers all over you, Jaune d'Antimoinelived and labored in the service of Art.

By all odds, it was the veryworst room in the whole building; and that was precisely the reason why Jauned'Antimoine had chosen it, for the rent was next to nothing: he would havepreferred a room that rented for even less. It certainly was a forlorn-lookingplace. There was no furniture in it worth speaking of; it was cheerless,desolate. A lot of studies of animals were stuck against the walls, and acouple of finished pictures—a lioness with her cubs, and a span ofstunning draught-horses—stood in one corner, frameless. There was goodwork in the studies, and the pictures really were capital—a fact thatJaune himself recognized, and that made him feel all the more dismal becausethey so persistently remained unsold. Indeed, this animal painter was having apretty hard time of it, and as he sat there day after day in the shockinglight, doing honest work and getting no return for it, he could not helpgrowing desperately blue.

But to-day Jaune d'Antimoine was not blue, forof a sudden he had come to be stayed by a lofty purpose and upheld by a highresolve: and his purpose and resolve were that within one month's time he wouldgain for himself a new suit of clothes! There were several excellent reasonswhich together served to fortify him in his exalted resolution. The mostcareless observer could not fail to perceive that the clothes which hewore—and which were incomparably superior to certain others which hepossessed, but did not wear—were sadly shabby; and Vandyke Brown hadasked him to be best man at his wedding; and further—and this was thestrongest reason of all—Jaune d'Antimoine longed, from the very depths ofhis soul, to make himself pleasing in the eyes of Rose Carthame.

How shemanaged it none but herself knew; but this charming young person, although thedaughter of a widowly exile of France who made an uncertain living by lettinglodgings in the region between south and west of Washington Square, alwaysmanaged to dress herself delightfully. It is true that feminine analysis mightreveal the fact that the materials of which her gowns were made were of thecheapest product of the loom; yet was feminine envy aroused—yea, even inthe dignified portion of Fifth Avenue that lies not south but north ofWashington Square—by the undeniable style of these same gowns, and bytheir charming accord with the stylish gait and air of the trig little body whowore them. Therefore it was that when Monsieur Jaune graciously was permittedto accompany Mademoiselle Rose in her jaunts into the grand quarter of thetown, the propriety of her garments and the impropriety of his own brought asense of desolation upon his spirit and a great heaviness upon his loyalheart.

For Jaune loved Rose absolutely to distraction. To say that hewould have laid his coat in the mud for her to walk over does not—thecondition of the coat being remembered—imply a very superior sort ofdevotion. He would have done more than this; he would have laid himself in themud, and most gladly, that he might have preserved from contamination hersingle pair of nice shoes. Even a cool and unprejudiced person, being permittedto see these shoes—and he certainly would have been, for Rose madeanything but a mystery of them—would have declared that such gallantsacrifice was well bestowed.

The ardor of Jaune's passion wasincreased—as has been common in love matters ever since the worldbegan—by the knowledge that he had a rival; and this rival was a mostdangerous rival, being none other than Madame Carthame's second-story-frontlodger, the Count Siccatif de Courtray. Simply to be the second-story-frontlodger carries with it a most notable distinction in a lodging-house; but to bethat and a count too was a combination of splendors that placed Jaune's rivalon a social pinnacle and kept him there. Not that counts are rare in the regionbetween west and south of Washington Square; on the contrary, they are ratherastonishingly plentiful. But the sort of count who is very rare indeed there isthe count who pays his way as he goes along. Now, in the matter of payments, atleast so far as Madame Carthame was concerned, the Count Siccatif de Courtraywas exemplary.

That there was something of a mystery about this noblemanwas undeniable. Among other things, he had stated that he was a relative of theSiccatifs of Harlem—the old family established here in New Amsterdam inthe early days of the Dutch Colony. Persons disposed to comment invidiouslyupon this asserted relationship, and such there were, did not fail to drawattention to the fact that the Harlem Siccatifs, without exception, were fair,while the Count Siccatif de Courtray was strikingly dark; and to the furtherfact that, if the distinguished American family really was akin to the Count,its several members were most harmoniously agreed to give him the coldshoulder. With these malicious whisperings, however, Madame Carthame did notconcern herself. She was content, more than content, to take the Count as hewas, and at his own valuation. That he was a proscribed Bonapartist, as hedeclared himself to be, seemed to her a reasonable and entirely crediblestatement; and it certainly had the effect of creating about him a halo ofromance. Though not proscribed, Madame Carthame herself was a Bonapartist, anda most ardent one; a fact, it may be observed, concerning which the Countassured himself prior to the avowal of his own political convictions. When, onthe 2Oth of April, he came home wearing a cluster of violets in his buttonhole,and bearing also a bunch of these imperial flowers for Madame Carthame, andwith the presentation confessed his own imperialistic faith and touchedgloomily upon the sorry reward that it had brought him—when this eventoccurred, Madame Carthame's kindly feelings toward her second-floor lodger wereresolved into an abiding faith and high esteem. It was upon this auspicious daythat the conviction took firm root in her mind that the Count Siccatif deCourtray was the heaven-sent husband for her daughter Rose.

That Roseapproved this ambitious matrimonial project of her mother's was a matter opento doubt; at least her conduct was such that two diametrically opposite viewswere entertained in regard to her intentions. On the one hand, Madame Carthameand the Count Siccatif de Courtray believed that she had made up her mind tolive in her mother's own second-story front and be a countess. On the otherhand, Jaune d'Antimoine, whose wish, perhaps, was father to his thought,believed that she would not do anything of the sort. Jaune gladly would havebelieved, also, that she cherished matrimonial intentions in quite a different,namely, an artistic, direction; but he was a modest young fellow, and sufferedhis hopes to be greatly diluted by his fears. And, in truth, the conduct ofRose was so perplexing, at times so atrociously exasperating, that a personmuch more deeply versed in women's ways than this young painter was, very wellmight have been puzzled hopelessly; for if ever a born flirt came out ofFrance, that flirt was Rose Carthame.

Of one thing, however, Jaune wasconvinced: that unless something of a positive nature was done, and donespeedily, for the improvement of his outward man, his chance of success wasgone forever. Already, Madame Carthame eyed his seedy garments askance;already, for Rose had admitted the truth of his suspicions in this dismaldirection, Madame Carthame had instituted most unfavorable comparisons betweenhis own chronic shabbiness and the no less chronic splendor of the CountSiccatif de Courtray. Therefore, it came to pass—out of his abstract needfor presentable habiliments, out of his desire to appear in creditable form atVandyke Brown's wedding, and, more than all else, out of his love forRose—that Jaune d'Antimoine registered a mighty oath before high heaventhat within a month's time a new suit of clothes should be his!

Yet thechances are that he would have gone down Christopher Street to the North River,and still further down, even into a watery grave—as he very frequentlythought of doing during this melancholy period of his existence—had nothis fortunes suddenly been irradiated by the birth in his mind of a happythought. It came to him in this wise: He was standing drearily in front of aready-made clothing store on Broadway, sadly contemplating a wooden figure cladin precisely the morning suit for which his soul panted, when suddenlysomething gave him a whack in the back. Turning sharply, and making use of anexclamation not to be found in the French dictionaries compiled for the use ofyoung ladies' boarding-schools, he perceived a wooden framework, from the lowerend of which protruded the legs of a man. From a cleft in the upper portion ofthe framework came the apologetic utterance, "Didn't mean ter hit yer, boss,"and then the structure moved slowly away through the throng. Over its foursides, he observed, were blazoned announcements of the excellences of thegarments manufactured by the very clothing establishment in front of which hestood.

The thought came idly into his mind that this method ofadvertising was clumsy, and not especially effective; followed by the furtherthought that a much better plan would be to set agoing upon the streets areally gentlemanly-looking man, clad in the best garments that the tailoringpeople manufactured—while a handsome sign upon the man's back, or asilken banner proudly borne aloft, should tell where the clothes were made, andhow, for two weeks only, clothes equally excellent could be bought there at atremendous sacrifice. And then came into his mind the great thought of hislife: he would disguise himself by changing his blond hair and beard to gray,and by wearing dark eye-glasses, and thus disguised he would be that man!Detection he believed to be impossible, for merely dressing himself inrespectable clothes almost would suffice to prevent his recognition by even thenearest of his friends. With that prompt decision which is the sure sign ofgenius backed by force of character, he paused no longer to consider. He acted.With a firm step he entered the clothing establishment; with dignity demanded apersonal interview with its proprietor; with eloquence presented to thatpersonage his scheme.

"You will understand, sare," he said, inconclusion, "that these clothes such as yours see themselves in the best waywhen they are carried by a man very well made, and who 'as the air comme ilfaut. I 'ave not the custom to say that I am justly that man. But now wetalk of affaires. Look at me and see!" And so speaking, he drew himselfup his full six feet, and turned slowly around. There could not be any questionabout it: a handsomer, a more distinguished-looking man was not to be found inall New York. With the added dignity of age, his look of distinction would bebut increased.

The great head of the great tailoring establishment wasvisibly affected. Original devices in advertising had been the making of him.He perceived that the device now suggested to him was superior to anything thathis own genius had struck out. "It's a pretty good plan," he said,meditatively. "What do you want for carrying it out?"

"For you to servetwo weeks, I ask but the clothes I go to wear."

For a moment the tailorpaused. In that moment the destinies of Jaune d'Antimoine, of Rose Carthame, ofthe Count Siccatif de Courtray, hung in the balance. It was life or death.Jaune felt his heart beating like a trip-hammer. There was upon him a feelingof suffocation. The silence seemed interminable; and the longer it lasted, themore did he feel that his chances of success were oozing away, that the crisisof his life was going against him. Darkness, the darkness of desolate despair,settled down upon his soul. Mechanically he felt in his waistcoat pocket for afive-cent piece that he believed to be there—for the stillness, therestful oblivion of the North River were in his mind. His fingers clutched thecoin convulsively, thankfully. At least he would not be compelled' to walk downChristopher Street to his death: he could pay his way to eternity in the one-horse car. Yet even while the blackness of shattered hope seemed to be closinghim in irrevocably, the glad light came again. As the voice of an angel soundedthe voice of the tailor; and the words which the tailor spake werethese:

"Young man, it's a bargain!"

But the tailor, upon whomHeaven had bestowed shrewdness to an extraordinary degree, perceived in theplan proposed to him higher, more artistic possibilities than had beenperceived in it by its inventor. There was a dramatic instinct, an appreciationof surprise, of climax, in this man's mind that he proceeded to apply to theexisting situation. With a wave of his hand he banished the suggested sign onthe walking advertiser's back, and the suggested silken banner. His plan atonce was simpler and more profound. Dressed in the highest style of art, Jaunewas to walk Broadway daily between the hours of 11 A. M. and 2 P. M. He was towalk slowly; he was to look searchingly in the faces of all young women ofabout the age of twenty years; he was to wear, over and above his garments ofprice, an air of confirmed melancholy. That was all.

"But of theadvertisem*nt? 'Ow ——"

"Now, never you mind about theadvertisem*nt, young man. Where that is going to come in is my business. Butyou can just bet your bottom dollar that I don't intend to lose any money onyou. All that you have to do is just what I've told you; and to be welldressed, and walk up and down Broadway for three hours every day, and look inall the girls' faces, don't strike me as being the hardest work that you mightbe set at. Now come along and be measured, and day after to-morrow you shallbegin."

As Jaune walked slowly homeward to his dismal studio, hemeditated deeply upon the adventure before him. He did not fancy it at all; butit was the means to an end, and he was braced morally to go through with itwithout flinching. For the chance of winning Rose he would have stormed abattery single-handed; and not a bit more of moral courage would have beenneeded for such desperate work than was needed for the execution of thebloodless but soul-trying project that he had in hand. For the life and spiritof him, though, he could not see how the tailor was to get any good out of thismagnificent masquerading.

In one of the evening papers, about a weeklater, there appeared a half-column romance that quite took Jaune d'Antimoine'sbreath away. It began with a reference to the distinguished elderly gentlemanwho, during the past week, had been seen daily upon Broadway about the hour ofnoon; who gazed with such intense though respectful curiosity into every 'youngwoman's face; who, in the gay crowd, was conspicuous not less by the eleganceof his dress than by his air of profound melancholy. Then briefly, butprecisely, the sorrowful story of the Marquis de ——— ("out ofconsideration for the nobleman's feelings" the name was withheld) was told:how, the son of a peer of France, he had married, while yet a minor, againstthe wishes of his stern father; how his young wife and infant daughter had beenspirited away by the stern father's orders; how on his death-bed the father hadconfessed his evil deed to his son, and had told that mother and child had beenbanished to America, where the mother speedily had died of grief, and where thechild, though in ignorance of her noble origin, had been adopted by anenormously rich American, about whom nothing more was known than the fact thathe lived in New York. The Marquis, the article stated, now was engaged insearching for his long-lost daughter, and among other means to the desired endhad hit upon this—of walking New York's chief thoroughfare in the faiththat should he see his child his paternal instinct would reveal to him heridentity.

"I calculate that this will rather whoop up public interest inour performance," said the tailor, cheerfully, the next day, as he handed thenewspaper containing the pleasing fiction to Jaune. "That's my idea, for astarter. I've got the whole story ready to come out in sections—paid aliterary feller twenty dollars to get it up for me. And you be careful to-daywhen you are interviewed" (Jaune shuddered) "to keep the story up—or"(for Jaune was beginning a remonstrance) "you can keep out of it altogether, ifyou'd rather. Say you must refuse to talk upon so delicate a subject, orsomething of that sort. Yes, that's your card. It'll make the mystery greater,you know—and I'll see that the public gets the facts, all thesame."

The tailor chuckled, and Jaune was unutterably wretched. He wason the point of throwing up his contract. He opened his mouth to speak thedecisive words—and shut it again as the thought came into his mind thathis misery must be borne, and borne gallantly, because it was all for the loveof Rose.

That day there was no affectation in his air of melancholy. Hewas profoundly miserable. Faithful to his contract, he looked searchingly uponthe many young women of twenty years whom he met; and such of them as werepossessors of tender hearts grew very sorrowful at sight of the obvious woe bywhich he was oppressed. His woe, indeed, was keen, for the newspaper articlehad had its destined effect, and he was a marked man. People turned to look athim as people had not turned before; it was evident that he was a subject ofconversation. Several times he caught broken sentences which he recognized asportions of his supposititious biography. His crowning torture was the assaultof the newspaper reporters. They were suave, they were surly, they wereinsinuatingly sympathetic, they were aggressively peremptory—but allalike were determined to wring from him to the uttermost the details of thesorrow that he never had suffered, of the life that he never had lived. It wasa confusing sort of an experience. He began to wonder, at last, whether or notit were possible that he could be somebody else without knowing it; and if itwere, in whom, precisely, his identity was vested. Being but a simple-mindedyoung fellow, with no taste whatever for metaphysics, this line of thought wasupsetting.

While involved in these perplexing doubts and the crowd atthe Fifth Avenue crossing, he was so careless as to step upon the heel of alady in front of him. And when the lady turned, half angrily, half to receivehis profuse apologies, he beheld Mademoiselle Carthame. The face of this youngperson wore an expression made up of not less than three conflicting emotions:of resentment of the assault upon the heel of her one pair of good shoes, offriendly recognition of the familiar voice, of blank surprise upon perceivingthat this voice came from the lips of a total stranger. She looked searchinglyupon the smoked glasses, obviously trying to pry into the secret of the hiddeneyes. Jaune's blood rushed up into his face, and he realized that detection wasimminent. Mercifully, at that moment the crowd opened, and with a bow that hidhis face behind his hat he made good his retreat. During the remaining halfhour of his walk, he thought no more of metaphysics. The horrid danger ofphysical discovery from which he had escaped so narrowly filled him with ashuddering alarm. Nor could he banish from his mind the harrowing thought thatperhaps, for all his gray hair and painted wrinkles and fine clothes, Rose intruth had recognized him.

That night an irresistible attraction drew himto the Carthame abode. In the little parlor he found the severe MadameCarthame, her adorable daughter, and the offensive Count Siccatif de Courtray.Greatly to his relief, his reception was in the usual form: Madame Carthameconducted herself after the fashion of a well-bred iceberg; Rose endeavored tomitigate the severity of her parent's demeanor by her own affability; theCount, as much as possible, ignored his presence. Jaune could not repress asigh of relief. She had not recognized him.

But his evening was one oftrial. With much vivacity, Rose entertained the little company with an accountof her romantic adventure with the French nobleman who had come to America inquest of his lost daughter; for she had read the newspaper story, and hadidentified its hero with the assailant of her heel. She dwelt with enthusiasmupon the distinguished appearance of the unhappy foreigner; she ventured thesuggestion, promptly and sternly checked by her mamma, that she herself mightbe the lost child; she grew plaintive, and expressed a burning desire tocomfort this stricken parent with a daughter's love, and, worst of all, she satsilent, with a far-away look in her charming eyes, and obviously suffered herthoughts to go astray after this handsome Marquis in a fashion that made eventhe Count Siccatif de Courtray fidget, and that filled the soul of Jauned'Antimoine with a consuming jealousy—not the less consuming because ofthe absurd fact that it was jealousy of himself! As he walked home that nightthrough the devious ways of Greenwich to his dismal studio, he seriouslyentertained the wish that he never had been born.

The next day all themorning papers contained elaborate "interviews" with the Marquis: for each ofthe several reporters who had been put on the case, believing that he alone hadfailed to get the facts, and being upheld by a lofty determination that noother reporter should "get a beat on him," had evolved from his own innerconsciousness the story that Jaune, for the best of reasons, had refused totell. The stories thus told, being based upon the original fiction, bore afamily resemblance to each other; and as all of them were interesting, theystimulated popular curiosity in regard to their hero to a very high pitch. Asthe result of them, Jaune found himself the most conspicuous man in New York.During the three hours of his walk he was the centre of an interested crowd.Several benevolent persons stopped to tell him of fatherless young women withwhom they were acquainted, and to urge upon him the probability that each ofthese young women was his long-lost child. The representatives of a dozendetective bureaus introduced themselves to him, and made offer of theirprofessional services; a messenger from the chief of police handed him a politenote tendering the services of the department and inviting him to a conference.It was maddening.

But worst of all were his meetings with Rose. As thesemultiplied, the conviction became irresistible that they were not the result ofchance; indeed, her manner made doubt upon this head impossible. At first shegave him only a passing glance, then a glance somewhat longer, then a look ofkindly interest, then a long look of sympathy; and at last she bestowed uponhim a gentle, almost affectionate, smile that expressed, as plainly as a smilecould express, her sorrow for his misery and her readiness to comfort him. In aword, Rose Carthame's conduct simply was outrageous!

The jealous angerwhich had inflamed Jattne's breast the night before swelled and expanded into araging passion. He longed to engage in mortal combat this stranger who wasalienating the affection that should be his. The element of absurdity in thesituation no longer was apparent to him. In truth, as he reasoned, thesituation was not absurd. To all intents and purposes he was two people and itwas the other one of him, not himself at all, who was winning Rose's interest,perhaps her love. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he wouldadjust the difficulty in his own favor by remaining this other person always.But the hard truth confronted him that every time he washed his face he wouldcease to be the elderly Marquis, with the harder truth that the fabulous wealthwith which, as the Marquis, the newspapers had endowed him was too entirelyfabulous to serve as a basis for substantial life. And being thus cut off fromhope, he fell back upon jealous hatred of himself.

That night theevening paper in which the first mention of the mysterious French nobleman hadbeen made contained an article cleverly contrived to give point to the mysteryin its commercial aspect. The fact had been observed, the article declared,that the nobleman's promenade began and ended at a prominent clothingestablishment on Broadway; and then followed, in the guise of a contributiontoward the clearing up of the mystery, an interview with the proprietor of theestablishment in question. However, the interview left the mystery just whereit found it, for all that the tailor told was that the Marquis had boughtseveral suits of clothes from him; that he had shown himself to be anexceptionally critical person in the matter of his wearing apparel; that he hadexpressed repeatedly his entire satisfaction with his purchases. In anotherportion of the paper was a glaring advertisem*nt, in which the clothing man setforth, in an animated fashion, the cheapness and desirability of "The MarquisSuit"—a suit that "might be seen to advantage on the person of theafflicted French nobleman now in our midst who had honored it with hisapproval, and in whose honor it had been named." Upon reading the newspapernarrative and its advertisem*nt pendant, Jaune groaned aloud. He was oppressedby a horror of discovery, and here, as it seemed to him in his morbidly nervouscondition, was a clew to his duplex identity sufficiently obvious to beapparent even to a detective.

The Count Siccatif de Courtray, as hasbeen intimated, went so far as to fidget while listening to MademoiselleCarthame's vivacious description of her encounter with the handsome Marquis.Being regaled during the ensuing evening with a very similar narrative—amaterially modified version of the events which had aroused in so lively amanner the passion of jealousy in the breast of Jaune d'Antimoine—theCount ceased merely to fidget and became the prey to a serious anxiety. Hedetermined that the next day, quite unobtrusively, he would observeMademoiselle Carthame in her relations with this unknown but dangerouslyfascinating nobleman; and also that he would give some attention to thenobleman himself. This secondary purpose was strengthened the next morning,while the Count was engaged with his coffee and newspaper, by his finding inthe "Courrier des Etats-Unis" a translation of the paragraph stating thecurious fact that the daily walk of the Marquis began and ended at the Broadwaytailor shop.

Having finished his breakfast, the Count leisurely betookhimself to Broadway. As he slowly strolled eastward, he observed on the otherside of the street Jaune d'Antimoine, in his desperately shabby raiment,hurriedly walking eastward also. The Count murmured a brief panegyric upon M.d'Antimoine, in which the words "cet animal" alone were distinguishable. Theywere near Broadway at this moment, and to the Count's surprise M. d'Antimoineentered the clothing establishment from which the Marquis departed upon hisdaily walk. Could it be possible, he thought, that fortune had smiled upon theyoung artist, and that he was about to purchase a new suit of clothes? TheCount entertained the charitable hope that such could not be thecase.

It was the Count's purpose, in order that he might follow also themovements of Mademoiselle Carthame, to follow the Marquis from the beginning tothe end of his promenade. He set himself, therefore, to watchingclosely—for the appearance of the grief-stricken foreigner, movingcarelessly the while from one shop-window to another that commanded a view ofthe field. At the end of half an hour, when the Count was beginning to thinkthat the object of his solicitude was a myth, out from the broad portal of theclothing establishment came the Marquis in all his glory—more glorious,in truth, than Solomon, and more melancholy than the melancholy Jaques. And yetfor an instant the Count Siccatif de Courtray was possessed by the absurd fancythat this stately personage was Jaune d'Antimoine! Truly, here was the sametall, handsome figure, the same easy, elegant carriage, the same cut of hairand beard. But the resemblance went no further, for beard and hair were grayalmost to whiteness, the face was pale and old, and the clothes, so far frombeing desperately seedy, were more resplendent even than the Count's own. No,the thought was incredible, preposterous, and yet the Count could not dischargeit from his mind. He stamped his foot savagely; this mystery was becoming moreinteresting than pleasing.

In the crowd that the Marquis drew in hiswake, as he slowly, sadly sauntered up Broadway, the Count had no difficulty infollowing him unobserved. The situation was that of the previous day, only itwas intensified, and therefore, to its hero, the more horrible. The benevolentpeople with stray fatherless young women to dispose of were out in greaterforce; the detectives were more aggressive; the newspaper people were morepersistent; the general public was more keenly interested in the wholeperformance. And Rose—most dreadful of all—was more outrageous thanever! The Count grew almost green with rage during the three hours that he wasa witness of this young woman's scandalous conduct. A dozen times she met theMarquis in the course of his walk, and each time that she met him she greetedhim with a yet more tender smile. A curious fact that at first surprised, thenpuzzled, then comforted the Count was the very obvious annoyance which theseflattering attentions caused their recipient. Evidently, he persistentlyendeavored to evade the meetings which Rose as persistently and moresuccessfully endeavored to force upon him. Within the scope of M. de Courtary'scomprehension only one reason seemed to be sufficient to explain thedetermination on the part of the Marquis to resist the advances of a singularlyattractive young woman, whose good disposition toward him was so conspicuously,though so irregularly, manifested: a fear of recognition. And this reasonadjusted itself in a striking manner to the queer notion that had come into hismind that the Marquis was an ideal creation whose reality was Jeauned'Antimoine. The thought was absurd, irrational, but it grew stronger andstronger within him—and became an assured conviction when, shortly afterthe promenade of the Marquis had ended, Jaune came forth from the clothingstore in his normal condition of shabbiness and youth. The Count was not in allrespects a praiseworthy person, but among his vices was not that of stupidity.Without any very tremendous mental effort he grasped the fact that his rivalhad sold himself into bondage as a walking advertisem*nt, and, knowing this, arighteous exultation filled his soul. Jaune's destiny, so far as MademoiselleCarthame was concerned, he felt was in his power: and he was perplexed by nonice doubts as to the purpose to which the power that he had gained should beapplied.

Untroubled by the knowledge that his secret was discovered,Jaune entered upon the last day of his martyrdom. It was the most agonizing dayof all. The benevolent persons, the reporters, the detectives, the crowdsurging about him, drove him almost to madness. He walked as one dazed. Andabove and over all he was possessed by a frenzy of jealousy that came of theoffensively friendly smiles which Rose bestowed upon him as she forced meetingsupon him again and again. It was with difficulty that he restrained himselffrom laying violent hands upon this bogus Marquis who falsely and infamouslyhad beguiled away from him the love for which he gladly would have given hislife. Only the blood of his despicable rival, he felt, would satisfy him. Helonged to find himself with a sword in his hand on a bit of smooth turf, andthe villanous Marquis over against him, ready to be run through. The thoughtwas so delightful, so animating, that involuntarily he made a lunge—andhad to apologize confusedly to an elderly gentleman whom he had poked in theback with his umbrella.

At last the three hours of torture, the last ofhis two weeks of hateful servitude, came to an end. Pale beneath his falsepaleness, haggard beyond his false haggardness of age, he entered the clothingstore and once more was himself. With a gladness unspeakable he washed off hiswrinkles and washed out the gray from his hair and beard; with a sense ofinfinite satisfaction that, a fortnight earlier, he would not have believedpossible, he resumed his shabby old clothes. Had he chosen to do so, he mighthave walked away in the new and magnificent apparel which he now fairly hadearned; but just at present his loathing for these fine garments was beyond allwords.

The tailor fain would have had the masquerade continue longer,for, as he frankly stated, "The Marquis Suit" was having a tremendous sale. ButJaune was deaf not only to the tailor's blandishments, but to his offers ofsubstantial cash. "Not for the millions would I be in this part of the Marquisfor one day yet more," he said firmly. And he added, "I trust to you in honor,sare, that not never shall my name be spoken in this affair."

"Couldn'tspeak it if I wanted to, my dear boy. It's a mystery to me how you're able tosay it yourself! Well, I'd like you to run the 'Marquis' for another week; butif you won't, you won't, I suppose, so there's an end of it. I'm sorry youhaven't enjoyed it. I have. It's been as good a thing as I ever got hold of.Now give me your address and I'll have your clothes sent to you. Don't you wantsome more? I don't mind letting you have a regular outfit if you want it. Onegood turn, you know—and you've done me a good turn, and that's afact."

But Jaune declined this liberal offer, and declined also to leavehis address, which would have involved a revelation of his name. It was acomfort to him to know that his name was safe—a great comfort. So thegarments of the forever departed Marquis were put up in a big bundle, and Jaunejourneyed homeward to his studio in Greenwich—bearing his sheaves withhim—in a Bleecker Street car.

"Well, you are a cheeky beggar,d'Antimoine," said Vandyke Brown, cheerfully, the next morning, as he came intoJaune's studio with a newspaper in his hand. "So you are the Marquis who hasbeen setting the town wild for the last week, eh? And whom did you bet with?And what started you in such a crazy performance, anyway? Tell me all about it.It's as funny—Good heavens! d'Antimoine, what's the matter? Are you ill?"For Jaune had grown deathly pale and was gasping.

"I do not know of whatit is that you talk," he answered, with a great effort.

"Oh, come now,that's too thin, you know. Why, here's a whole column about it, telling how youmade a bet with somebody that you could set all the town to talking about you,and yet do it all in such a clever disguise that nobody would know who youreally were, not even your most intimate friends. And I should say that you hadwon handsomely. Why, I've seen you on Broadway a dozen times myself this lastweek, and I never had the remotest suspicion that the Marquis was you. I mustsay, though," continued Brown, reflectively, and looking closely at Jaune,"that it was stupid of me. I did think that you had a familiar sort of look;and once, I remember, it did occur to me that you looked astonishingly likeyourself. It—it was the clothes, you see, that threw me out. Where everdid you get such a stunning rig? I don't believe that I'd have known youdressed like that, even if you hadn't been gray and wrinkled. But tell me allabout it, old man. It must have been jolly fun!"

"Fun!" groaned Jaune;"it was the despair!" And then, his heart being very full and his longing forsympathy overpowering, Jatine told Brown the whole story. "But what is this ofone bet, my dear Van," he concluded, "I do not of the leastknow."

"Well, here it all is in the paper, anyway. Calls you 'adistinguished animal-painter,' and alludes to your 'strikingly vigorous"Lioness and Cubs" and powerful "Dray Horses" at the last spring exhibition ofthe Society of American Artists.' Must be somebody who knows you, you see, andsomebody who means well by you, too. There's nothing at all about your being anadvertisem*nt; indeed, there's nothing in the story but a good joke, of whichyou are the hero. It's an eccentric sort of heroism, to be sure; but then, forsome unknown reason, people never seem to believe that artists are rationalhuman beings, so your eccentricity will do you no harm. And it's no end of anadvertisem*nt for you. Whoever wrote it meant well by you. And, by Jove! I knowwho it is! It's little Conté Crayon. He's a good-hearted little beggar, and helikes you ever so much, for I've heard him say so; but how he ever got hold ofthe story, and especially of such a jolly version of it, I don'tsee."

At this moment, by a pleasing coincidence, Conté Crayon himselfappeared with the desired explanation. "You see," he said, "that beast of aSiccatif de Courtray hunted me up yesterday and told me the yarn about you andthe slop-shop man. He wanted me to write it up and publish it, 'as a joke,' hesaid; but it was clear enough that he was in ugly earnest about it. And so, yousee, I had to rush it into print in the way I chose to tell it—whichwon't do you a bit of harm, d'Antimoine—in order to head him off. Theblackguard meant to get you into a mess, and if I'd hung fire he'd have toldsomebody else about it, and had the real story published. Of course, you know,there's nothing in the real story that you need be ashamed of; but if it hadbeen told, you certainly would have been laughed at, and nasty people wouldhave said nasty things about it. And as there wasn't any time to lose, I had toprint it first and then come here and explain matters afterward. And what I'vegot to say is this: Just you cheek it out and say that it was a bet, and thatyou won it! Brown and I will back you up in it, and so will the slop-shop man.I've been to see him this morning, and he is so pleased with the way that 'TheMarquis Suit' is selling, and with the extra free advertisem*nt that he has gotout of my article, that he's promised to adopt the bet version in hisadvertisem*nt in all the papers. He is going to advertise that The Marquis Suitis so called because everybody who wears it looks like a marquis—just asyou did. This cuts the ground right from under the Count's feet, you see; fornobody'd believe him on his oath if they could help it.

"And now I mustclear out. I've got a race at Jerome Park at two o'clock. It's all right,d'Antimoine; I assure you it's all right—but I should advise you to punchthe Count's head, all the same."

Vandyke Brown thought it was all right,too, as he talked the matter over with Jaune after little Conté Crayon hadgone. But Jaune refused to be comforted. So far as the public was concerned headmitted that Conté Crayon's story had saved him, but he was oppressed by agreat dread of what might be the effect of the truth upon Rose. For Juaned'Antimoine was too honest a gentleman even to think of deceiving his mistress.He must tell her the whole story, without reserve, and as she approved ordisapproved of what he had done must his hopes of happiness live ordie.

"Better have it out with her to-day, and be done with it,"counseled Brown.

"Ah! it is well for you to speak of a 'urry, my goodVan; but it is not you who go to execute your life. No, I 'ave not the force togo to-day. To-day I go to make a long walk. Then this night I sleep well.Tomorrow, in the morning, do I go to affront my destiny." And from thisresolution Jaune was not to be moved.

Yet it was an unfortunateresolution, for it gave the Count Siccatif de Courtray time and opportunity fora flank movement. In the Count's breast rage and astonishment contended for themastery as he contemplated the curious miscarriage of his newspaper assault. Hehad chosen this line of attack partly because his modesty counseled him to keephis own personality in the background, partly because the wider the publicityof his rival's disgrace the more complete would that disgrace be. But as hisnewspaper ally failed him, he took the campaign into his own hands; that is tosay, he hurried to tell the true story, and a good deal more than the truestory, to Rose and Madame Carthame.

Concerning its effect upon Rose, hewas in doubt; but its effect upon Madame Carthame was all that he could desire.This severe person instantly took the cue that the Count dexterously gave herby affecting to palliate Jaune's erratic conduct. He urged that, inasmuch as M.d'Antimoine was a conspicuous failure as an artist, for him to engage himselfto a tailor as a walking advertisem*nt, so far from being a disgrace to him,was greatly to his credit. And Madame Carthame promptly and vehemently assertedthat it wasn't. She refused to regard what he had done in any other light thanthat of a crime. She declared that never again should his offensive form darkenher door. Solemnly she forbade Rose from recognizing him when in the futurethey should chance to meet. And then she abated her severity to the extent ofthanking the Count with tears in her eyes for the service that he had done herin tearing off this viper's disguise. Naturally, the Count was charmed by Ma-dame Carthame's energetic indignation. He perceived that his unselfishinvestigations of the actions of Monsieur Jaune were bearing excellent fruit.Already, as he believed, the way toward his own happiness was smooth and clear.As the Count retired from this successful conference, he laughed softly tohimself: nor did he pause in his unobtrusive mirth to reflect that those laughbest who laugh last.

And thus it came to pass that when Jaune, refreshedby sound slumber and a little cheered by hope, presented himself the nextmorning at Madame Carthame's gates, fate decreed that Rose herself should openthe gates to him—in response to his ring—and in her own properperson should tell him that she was not at home. In explanation of thisobviously inexact statement she announced to him her mother's stern decree.Being but a giddy young person, however, and one somewhat lacking in fitreverence of maternal authority, she added, on her own account, that in half anhour or so she was going up Fourth Street to the Gansevoort market, and thatFourth Street was a public thoroughfare, upon which M. d'Antimoine also had aperfect right to walk.

In the course of this walk, while Jaune gallantlycarried the market-basket, the story that Rose already had heard from the CountSiccatif de Courtray was told again—but told with a very differentcoloring. For Mademoiselle Carthame clearly perceived how great the sacrificehad been that Jaune had made for her sake, and how bravely, because it was forher sake, it had been made. There was real pathos in his voice; once or twicehe nearly broke down. Possibly it was because she did not wish him to see hereyes that she manifested so marked an interest in the shop windows as theywalked along.

"And so that adorable Marquis was unreal?" queriedMademoiselle Carthame sadly, and somewhat irrelevantly, when Jaune had told herall.

"He was not adorable. He was a disgusting beast!" replied M.d'Antimoine savagely.

"I—I loved him!" answered Rose, turning uponJaune, at last, her black eyes. They did not sparkle, as was their wont, butthey were wonderfully lustrous and soft.

Jaune looked down into themarket-basket and groaned.

"And—and I love him still. I think,I—I hope, that he will live always in my heart."

The voice ofMademoiselle Carthame trembled, and her hand grasped very tightly the bag ofcarrots that they had been unable to make a place for in the basket: they werecoming back from the market now.

Jaune did not look up. For the life ofhim he could not keep back a sob. It was bitter hard, he felt, that out of hislove for Rose should come love's wreck; and harder yet that the rival who hadstolen her from him should be himself! Through the mist of his misery he seemedto hear Rose laughing softly. Could this be so? Then, indeed, was the capstoneset upon his grief!

"Jaune!"

He started, and so violently that acabbage, with half a dozen potatoes after it, sprang out of the basket androlled along the pavement at her feet. His bowed head rose with a jerk, andtheir eyes met full. In hers there was a look half mocking, that as he gazedchanged into tenderness; into his, as he saw the change and perceived itsmeaning, there came a look of glad delight.

"As though you could deceiveme! Why, of course, I knew you from the very first!"

Then theycollected the potatoes and the cabbage and walked slowly on, and greathappiness was in their hearts.

The world was a brighter world for Jauned'Antimoine when he gave into Rose's hand the market-basket on her owndoorstep, and turned reluctantly away. But there still were clouds in it. Rosehad admitted that two things were necessary before getting married could bethought of at all seriously: something must be done by which the nose of theCount Siccatif de Courtray would be disjointed; something must be done toassure Madame Carthame that M. d'Antimoine, in some fashion at least a littleremoved from semi-starvation, could maintain a wife.

It was certain thatuntil these things were accomplished Madame Carthame's lofty resolution totransform her daughter into a countess, and her stern disapprobation of Jauneas a social outcast, never would be overcome!

As events turned out, itwas the second of these requirements that was fulfilled first.

Mr.Badger Brush was a very rich sporting man, whose tastes were horsey, but whoseheart was in the right place. It was his delight to make or to backextraordinary wagers. Few New Yorkers have forgotten that very queer bet of histhat resulted in putting high hats on all the Broadway telegraph poles. WhenMr. Brush read the story of Jaune d'Antimoine's wager, therefore, he wasgreatly pleased with its originality; and when, later in the day, he fell inwith little Conté Crayon at Jerome Park, he pressed that ingenious youngnewspaper man for additional particulars. And knowing the whereabouts of Mr.Badger Brush's heart, Conté Crayon did not hesitate to tell the wholestory—winding up with the pointed suggestion that inasmuch as the hero ofthe story was an animal-painter of decided, though as yet unrecognized,ability, Mr. Brush could not do better than manifest his interest in apractical way by giving him an order. The sporting man rose to the suggestionwith a commendable promptness and warmth.

"I don't care a blank if itwasn't a bet," he said, heartily. "That young man has pluck, and he deserves tobe encouraged. I'll go down and see him to-morrow, and I'll order a portrait ofCeleripes; a life-size, thousand-dollar portrait, by Jove! Celeripes deservesit, after the pot of money he brought me at Long Branch, and your frienddeserves it too. And I have some other horses that I want painted, and somedogs—he paints dogs, I suppose? And I know a lot of other fellows whoought to have their horses painted, and I'll start them along at him. I'll givehim all the painting he can handle in the next ten years. For it was abet, you see, after all. Didn't he back his cleverness in disguise against thewits of the whole town? And didn't the slop-shop man put up the stakes? Anddidn't he just win in a canter? I should rather think he did! Of course it wasa bet, and a mighty good one at that. Gad! Crayon, it's the best thing that'sbeen done in New York for years. It's what I call first-class cheek. I couldn'thave done it better, sir, myself!"

Thus it fell out that half an hourafter Jaune got back to his studio from that memorable walk to the Gansevoortmarket, he had the breath-taking-away felicity of booking a thousand-dollarorder, and of receiving such obviously trustworthy assurances of many moreorders that his wildest hopes of success in a moment were resolved intosubstantial realities. When he was alone again he certainly would have believedthat he had been dreaming but for the fact that Mr. Badger Brush had insistedupon paying half the price of the picture down in advance; for whatever thisgood-hearted, horsey gentleman did, he did thoroughly well. The crisp notes,more than Jaune ever had seen together in all his life before—save once,when he took a dealer's check for ten dollars to a bank and looked through thewire screen while the bank man haughtily cashed it—lay on the table whereMr. Badger Brush had left them; and their blissful presence proved that hishappiness was not a dream, but real.

From the corner into which,loathingly, he had kicked it, he drew forth the bundle containing "The MarquisSuit." With a certain solemnity he resumed these garments of price in which hehad suffered so much torture, and, being clad, boldly presented himself toMadame Carthame with a formal demand for her daughter's hand. And in view ofthe sudden and prodigious change that had come over M. d'Antimoine's fortunes,almost was Madame Carthame persuaded that the matrimonial plans which she hadlaid out for her daughter might be changed. Yet did she hesitate beforeannouncing that their Median and Persian quality might be questioned: for thehope that Rose might be a countess lay very close to Madarne Carthame's heart.However, her determination was shaken, which was a great pointgained.

And presently—for Jaune's star was triumphantly in theascendant—it was completely destroyed. The instrument of its destructionwas Mr. Badger Brush's groom, Stumps.

Stumps was a talkative creature,and whenever he came down to Jaune's studio, as he very often did while theportrait of Celeripes was in progress, he had a good deal to say over and abovethe message that he brought, as to when the horse would be free for the next"sitting" in the paddock at Mr. Brush's country place, where Jaune was paintinghim. And Jaune, who was one of the best-natured of mortals, usually sufferedStumps to talk away until he was tired.

"You might knock me down with awisp of hay, you might, indeed, sir," said the groom one morning a fortnightafter the picture had been begun—the day but one, in fact, before thatset for Vandyke Brown's wedding. "Yes, sir," he continued, "with a wisp of hay,or even with a single straw! Here I've been face to face with my own father'sbrother's son, and I've put out my hand to him, and he's turned away short andpretended as he didn't know me and went off! And they tells me at his lodgin',for I follered him a-purpose to find him out, that he calls hisself aFrenchman, and says as how his name—which it is Stumps, and always hasbeen—is Count Sikativ de Cortray!"

Jaune's palette and brushesfell to the floor with a crash. "Is it posseeble that you do tell me of theComte Siccatif de Courtray? Are you then sure that you do not make one grandmeestake? Is it 'im truly that you 'ave seen?"

"Him, sir? Why, in courseit's him. Haven't I knowed him ever since he wasn't higher'n a hoss's fetlock?Don't I tell you as me and him's fust cousins? Him? In course it'shim—the gump!"

"Then, my good Stump, you will now tell me of thiswonder all."

It's not much there is to tell, sir, and wat there is isn'tto his credit. His father was my father's brother. My father was in the hossline out Saint John's Wood way—in Lunnon, you know, sir—and hisfather lived in our street and was a swell barber. Uncle'd married a Frenchyoung 'ooman as was dressmakin' and had been a lady's maid; it's along of hismother that he gets his Frenchness, you see. He was an only son, he was, andthey made a lot of him—dressin' him fine, and coddlin' him, and sendin'him to school like anythink. Uncle was doin' a big trade, you see, and makin'money fast. Then, when he was a young fellow of twenty or so, and after he'dserved at barberin' with his father for a couple of years, he took service withyoung Lord Cadmium—as had his 'cousin' livin' in a willa down our way andcame to uncle's to be barbered frequent. And wen Lord Cadmium went sudden-likeover to the Continent, wishin' to give his 'cousin' the slip, havin' got sickof her, Stumps he went along. That's a matter of ten years ago, sir, andblessed if I've laid eyes on him since until I seed him here in New York to-day. Uncle died better'n two year back, aunt havin' died fust, and he left atidy pot of money to Stumps; and I did hear that Stumps, who'd been barberin'in Paris, had giv' up work when he got the cash and had set up to be agentleman, but I didn't know as he'd set up to be a count too. The like of thisI never did see!"

"And you are then sure, you will swear, my good Stump,that this are the same man?"

"Swear, sir! I'll swear to it 'igh and lowand all day long! But I must be goin', sir. You will please to remember thatthe hoss will be ready for you at ten o'clock to-morrow mornin',sharp."

Jaune rushed down to Vandyke Brown's studio for counsel as towhether he should go at once to the Count's lodgings and charge him with fraudto his face, or should make the charge first to Madame Carthame. But Brown wasout. Nor was he in old Madder's studio, though about this time he was much morelikely to be there than in his own. Old Madder said that Brown had taken Roseover to Brooklyn, to the Philharmonic, and he believed that they were going todinner at Mr. Mangan Brown's afterward, and would not be in till late; and heseemed to be pretty grumpy about it.

Jaune fumed and fretted away whatwas left of the afternoon and a good part of the evening. At last Brown andRose came home, and Brown, with a very bad grace, suffered himself to be ledaway from old Madder's threshold. To do him justice, though, when he had heardthe story that Jaune had to tell, he was all eagerness. His advice was to makethe attack instantly; and without more words they set off together, walkingbriskly through the chill air of the late October night.

As they werepassing along Macdougal Street—midway between Bleecker and Houston, infront of the row of pretty houses with verandas all over theirfronts—Jaune suddenly gripped Brown's arm and drew him quickly within oneof the little front yards and into the shadow of the high ironsteps.

"Look!" he said.

On the other side of the street, in thelight of the gas-lamp that stands in the centre of the block, was the Counthimself. For the moment that he was beneath the gas-lamp they saw him clearly.His face was set in an expression of gloomy sternness; his rapid, resolute walkindicated a definite purpose; he carried a little bundle in hishand.

"What a villain he looks!" whispered Brown. "Upon my soul, I dobelieve that he is going to murder somebody!"

"Ah, the vile animal! Wewill pursue," answered Jaune, also in a whisper.

Giving the Count astart of a dozen house fronts, they stepped out from their retreat and followedhim cautiously. He walked quickly up Macdougal Street until he came out onWashington Square. For a moment he paused—by Sam Wah's laundry—andthen turned sharply to the left along Fourth Street. At a good pace he crossedSixth Avenue, swung around the curve that Fourth Street makes before beginningits preposterous journey northward, went on past the three little balconiedhouses whose fronts are on Washington Place, and so came out upon the openspace where Washington Place and Barrow Street and Fourth Street all run intoeach other. It was hereabout that Wouter Van Twiller had his tobacco farm atrifle less than two centuries ago.

The Count stopped, as though to gethis bearings, and while they waited for him to go on Brown nudged Jaune to lookat the delightfully picturesque frame house, set in a deep niche between twohigh brick houses, with the wooden stair elbowing up its outside to its thirdstory. It came out wonderfully well in the moonlight, but Jaune was too muchexcited even to glance at it.

At the next group of corners—whereFourth Street crosses Grove and Christopher Streets at the point where they gosidling into each other along the slanting lines of the little park—theCount halted again. Evidently, the exceeding crookedness of Greenwich Villagepuzzled him—as well it might. Presently a Christopher Street car camealong and set him straight; and thus guided, he started resolutely westward, asthough heading for the river.

"Is it posseeble that he goes 'imself todrown?" suggested d'Antimoine.

"No such good luck," Brown answeredshortly.

Coming out on what used to be called "the Strand"—WestStreet they call it now—the Count bore away from the lights of theHoboken Ferry and from the guarded docks of the White Star and Anchor lines ofsteamers, skirted the fleet of oyster boats, and so came to the quiet pier atthe foot of Perry Street, where the hay barges unload. This pier runs a longway out into the river, for it is a part of what was called Sapo-kamikke Pointin Indian times. The Count stopped and looked cautiously around him, but hispursuers promptly crouched behind a dray and became invisible.

As hewent out upon the pier, though, they were close upon his heels—walkingnoiselessly over the loose hay and keeping themselves hidden in the shadow ofthe barges and behind the piles of bales. At the very end of the pier hestopped. Jaune and Brown, hidden by a bale of hay, were within five feet ofhim. Their hearts were beating tremendously. There had been no tragical purposein their minds when they started, but it certainly did look now as though theywere in the thick of a tragedy. In the crisp October moonlight the Count's faceshone deathly pale; they could see the fingers of his right hand workingconvulsively; they could hear his labored breathing. Below him was the deep,black water, lapping and rippling as the swirl of the tide sucked it into thedark, slimy recesses among the piles. In its bosom was horrible death. TheCount stepped out upon the very edge of the pier and gazed wofully down uponthe swelling waters. His dismal purpose no longer admitted of doubt.Involuntarily the two followed him until they were close at his back. Little asthey loved him, they could not suffer him thus despairingly to leave theworld.

But instead of casting himself over the edge of the pier, theCount slowly raised the hand that held the bundle, with the obvious intentionof throwing the bundle and whatever was the evil secret that it contained intothe river's depths. Quick as thought, Brown had seized the upraised arm, andJaune had settled upon the other arm with a grip like a vise.

"No, youdon't, my boy! Let's see what it is before it goes overboard. Hold fast,d'Antimoine!"

The Count struggled furiously, buthopelessly.

"It's no use. You may as well give in, Stumps!"

AsBrown uttered this name the Count suddenly became limp. The little bundle thathe had clutched tightly through the struggle dropped from his nerveless hand,and fell open as it struck the ground. And there, gleaming in the moonlight, abrace of razors, a stubby brush, a stout pair of shears, lay loosely in thefolds of a barber's jacket!

And this was the sorry climax to thebrilliant romance of the proscribed Bonapartist, the Count Sicca-tif deCourtray!

Jaune, who was a generous-hearted young fellow, was forsetting free his crestfallen rival at once, and so having done with him. Browntook a more statesmanlike view of the situation. "We will let him go after hehas owned up to Madame Carthame what a fraud he is," he said. The Count wincedwhen this sentence was pronounced, but he uttered no remonstrance. The shock ofthe discovery had completely demoralized him.

It was after midnight whenthey reached Madame Carthame's dwelling, and Rose herself, with her hair doneup in curl papers, opened the door for them, When she recognized the threevisitors and perceived that the Count was in custody, and at the same momentremembered her curl papers, on her face the gaze of astonishment and the blushof maidenly modesty contended for the right of way.

Madame Carthamefairly was in bed—as was evident from the spirited conversation betweenherself and her vivacious daughter that was perfectly audible through thefolding doors which separated the little parlor from her bedroom. It wasevident, also, that she was indisposed to rise. However, her indisposition wasovercome and in the course of twenty minutes or so she appeared arrayed in afrigid dignity and a loose wrapper. Rose, meanwhile, had taken off her curlpapers, and Jaune regarded her tumbled hair with ecstasy.

The tribunalbeing assembled, the prisoner was placed at the bar and the trial began. It wasan eminently irregular trial, looking at it from a legal point of view, for theverbal evidence all was hearsay. But it also was extra-legal in that it wasbrief and decisive. Brown gave his testimony in the shape of a repetition ofthe story that Jaune had told him had been told by Mr. Badger Brush's groom;and when this was concluded, Jaune produced the jacket, razors, shears, andshaving brush, and stated the circ*mstances under which they had been found.Then the prosecution rested.

Being questioned by the court—that isto say, by Madame Carthame—in his own defence, the Count replied gloomilythat he hadn't any. "When I saw that horse fellow," he said, "I knew that I waslikely to get into trouble, and that was the reason why I wanted to get rid ofthese things. And now the game is up. It is all true. I was a barber. I am nota count. My real name is Stumps."

Then it was that Madame Carthame,blissfully ignorant of the fact that she had neglected to remove her nightcap,stood up in her place, with her wrapper gathered about her in a statuesquefashion, and in a tragic tone uttered the singleword:

"Sortez!"

And the Count went!

Out, out into thechill and gloom of night went the false Count, never to return; and with himwent Madame Carthame's fond hope that her daughter would be a countess, whichalso was the last barrier in the way of Jaune d'Antimoine's love. Perceivingthat the force of fate inexorably was pressing upon her, MadameCarthame—still in her night-cap—bestowed upon Rose and Jaune thematernal blessing in a manner that, even allowing for the nightcap, was bothstately and severe.

As at Vandyke Brown's wedding Jaune d'Antimoine wasradiantly magnificent in "The Marquis Suit," adding splendor to the ceremonyand rendering himself most pleasing in the eyes of Rose Carthame; so, a monthlater, he was yet more radiant when he wore the famous suit again, in thechurch of Saint Vincent de Paul, and was himself married.

Conté Crayonbrought Mr. Badger Brush down to the wedding, and the groom came too, and thetailor got wind of it and came without being asked—and had to be implorednot to work it up into an advertisem*nt, as he very much wanted to do. Mrs.Vandyke Brown, just home from her wedding journey, was the first—afterthe kiss of Madame Carthame had been sternly bestowed—to kiss the bride;and Mr. Badger Brush irreverently whispered to Conté Crayon that he wished, bygad! he had her chance!

AWE, little Ephum! awelittle E-phum! ef you don' come 'long heah, boy, an' rock dis chile, I'll bussyou haid open!" screamed the high-pitched voice of a woman, breaking thestillness of the summer evening. She had just come to the door of the littlecabin, where she was now standing, anxiously scanning the space before her,while a baby's plaintive wail rose and fell within with wearying monotony. Thelog cabin, set in a gall in the middle of an old field all grown up insassafras, was not a very inviting-looking place; a few hens loitering aboutthe new hen-house, a brood of half-grown chickens picking in the grass andwatching the door, and a runty pig tied to a "stob," were the only signs ofthrift; yet the face of the woman cleared up as she gazed about her and afaroff, where the gleam of green made a pleasant spot, where the corn grew in theriver bottom; for it was her home, and the best of all was she thought itbelonged to them.

A rumble of distant thunder caught her ear, and shestepped down and took a well-worn garment from the clothes-line, stretchedbetween two dogwood forks, and having, after a keen glance down the paththrough the bushes, satisfied herself that no one was in sight, she returned tothe house, and the baby's voice rose louder than before. The mother, as she setout her ironing table, raised a dirge-like hymn, which she chanted, partly fromhabit and partly in self-defence. She ironed carefully the ragged shirt she hadjust taken from the line, and then, after some search, finding a needle andcotton, she drew a chair to the door and proceeded to mend thegarment.

"Dis de on'ies' shut Ole 'Stracted got," she said, as if inapology to herself for being so careful.

The cloud slowly gathered overthe pines in the direction of the path; the fowls carefully tripped up thepath, and after a prudent pause at the hole, disappeared one by one within; thechickens picked in a gradually contracting circuit, and finally one or twostole furtively to the cabin door, and after a brief reconnaissance came in,and fluttered up the ladder to the loft, where they had been born, and yetroosted. Once more the baby's voice prevailed, and once more the woman went tothe door, and, looking down the path, screamed, "Awe, little Ephum! awe, littleEphum!"

"Ma'm," came the not very distant answer from thebushes.

"Why 'n't you come 'long heah, boy, an' rock dischile?"

"Yes'm, I comin'," came the answer. She waited, watching, untilthere emerged from the bushes a queer little caravan, headed by a small brat,who staggered under the weight of another apparently nearly as large and quiteas black as himself, while several more of various degrees of diminutivenessstruggled along behind.

"Ain't you heah me callin' you, boy? You bettercome when I call you. I'll tyah you all to pieces!" pursued the woman, in theangriest of keys, her countenance, however, appearing unruffled. The head ofthe caravan stooped and deposited his burden carefully on the ground; then,with a comical look of mingled alarm and penitence, he slowly approached thedoor, keeping his eye watchfully on his mother, and, picking his opportunity,slipped in past her, dodging skilfully just enough to escape a blow which sheaimed at him, and which would have "slapped him flat" had it struck him, butwhich, in truth, was intended merely to warn and keep him in wholesome fear,and was purposely aimed high enough to miss him, allowing for the certaindodge.

The culprit, having stifled the whimper with which he wasprepared, flung himself on to the foot of the rough plank cradle, and began torock it violently and noisily, using one leg as a lever, and singing anaccompaniment, of which the only words that rose above the noise of the rockerswere "By-a-by, don't you cry; go to sleep, little baby"; and sure enough thebaby stopped crying and went to sleep.

Eph watched his mammy furtivelyas she scraped away the ashes and laid the thick pone of dough on the hearth,and shoveled the hot ashes upon it. Supper would be ready directly, and it wastime to propitiate her. He bethought himself of a message.

"Mammy, Ole'Stracted say you must bring he shut; he say he marster comin' to-night."

"How he say he is?" inquired the woman, with someinterest.

"He ain' say—jes say he want he shut. He sutny iscomical—he layin' down in de baid." Then, having relieved his mind, Ephwent to sleep in the cradle.

"'Layin' down in de baid?'" quoted thewoman to herself as she moved about the room. "I 'ain' nuver hern 'bout datbefo'. Dat sutny is a comical ole man anyways. He say he used to live on displantation, an' yit he al'ays talkin' 'bout de gret house an' de fine kerridgesdee used to have, an' 'bout he marster comin' to buy him back. De 'ain' nuverbeen no gret house on dis place, not sence I know nuttin 'bout it, 'sep deoverseer house whar dat man live. I heah Ephum say Aunt Dinah tell him de olehouse whar used to be on de hill whar dat gret oak-tree is in de pines bu'ntdown de year he wuz born, an' he ole marster had to live in de overseer house,an' hit break he heart, an' dee teck all he nigg*rs, an' dat's de way hecome to blongst to we all; but dat ole man ain' know nuttin 'bout dat house,'cause hit bu'nt down. I wonder whar he did come from?" she pursued, "an' whathe sho' 'nough name? He sholy couldn' been named 'Ole 'Stracted,' jes so; datain' no name 'tall. Yit ef he ain' 'stracted, 'tain' nobody is. He ain' evenknow he own name," she continued, presently. "Say he marster'll know him whenhe come—ain' know de folks is free; say he marster gwi buy him back in desummer an' kyar him home, an' 'bout de money he gwine gi' him. Ef he got anymoney, I wonder he live down dyah in dat evil-sperit hole." And the womanglanced around with great complacency on the picture-pasted walls of her own byno means sumptuously furnished house. "Money!" she repeated aloud, as she beganto rake in the ashes, "He ain' got nuttin. I got to kyar him piece o' dis breadnow," and she went off into a dream of what they would do when the big crop ontheir land should be all in, and the last payment made on the house; of whatshe would wear, and how she would dress the children, and the appearance shewould make at meeting, not reflecting that the sum they had paid for theproperty had never, even with all their stinting, amounted in any one year tomore than a few dollars over the rent charged for the place, and that the eighthundred dollars yet due on it was more than they could make at the present ratein a lifetime.

"Ef Ephum jes had a mule, or even somebody to help him,"she thought, "but he ain' got nuttin. De chil'n ain big 'nough to do nuttin buteat; he 'ain' not no brurrs, an' he deddy took 'way an' sold down Souf de sametime my ole marster whar dead buy him; dat's what I al'ays heah 'em say, an' Iknow he's dead long befo' dis, 'cause I heah 'em say dese Virginia nigg*rs earnstan' hit long deah, hit so hot, hit frizzle 'em up, an' I reckon he die befo'he ole marster, whar I heah say die of a broked heart torectly after dee teckhe nigg*rs an' sell 'em befo' he face. I heah Aunt Dinah say dat, an' dat hemight'ly sot on he ole servants, spressaly on Ephum deddy, whar named LittleEphum, an' whar used to wait on him. Dis mus' 'a' been a gret place dem days,'cordin' to what dee say." She went on: "Dee say he sutny live strong, wuz jesrich as cream, an' weahed he blue coat an' brass buttons, an' lived in dat olehouse whar was up whar de pines is now, an' whar bu'nt down, like he owned dewull. An' now look at it; dat man own it all, an' cuttin' all de woods off it.He don't know nuttin 'bout black folks, ain' nuver been fotch up wid 'em. Whoever heah he name 'fo' he come heah an' buy de place, an' move in de overseerhouse, an' charge we all eight hundred dollars for dis land, jes 'cause it gotlittle piece o' bottom on it, an' forty-eight dollars rent besides, wid he olestingy wife whar oon' even gi' 'way buttermilk!" An expression of mingleddisgust and contempt concluded the reflection.

She took the ash-cake outof the ashes, slapped it first on one side, then on the other, with her hand,dusted it with her apron, and walked to the door and poured a gourd of waterfrom the piggin over it. Then she divided it in half; one half she set upagainst the side of the chimney, the other she broke up into smaller pieces anddistributed among the children, dragging the sleeping Eph, limp and soaked withsleep, from the cradle to receive his share. Her manner was not rough—wasperhaps even tender—but she used no caresses, as a white woman would havedone under the circ*mstances. It was only toward the baby at the breast thatshe exhibited any endearments. Her nearest approach to it with the others waswhen she told them, as she portioned out the ash-cake, "Mammy ain't got nuttinelse; but ntiver min', she gwine have plenty o' good meat next year, when deddydone pay for he land."

"Hi! who dat out dyah?" she said, suddenly. "Runto de do', son, an' see who dat comin'," and the whole tribe rushed to inspectthe new-comer.

It was, as she suspected, her husband, and as soon as heentered she saw that something was wrong. He dropped into a chair, and sat inmoody silence, the picture of fatigue, physical and mental. After waiting forsome time, she asked, indifferently. "What de matter?"

"Datman."

"What he done do now?" The query was sharp withsuspicion.

"He say he ain' gwine let me have my land."

"He's ahalf-strainer," said the woman, with sudden anger. "How he gwine help it? Ain'you got crap on it?" She felt that there must be a defence against such anoutrage.

"He say he ain' gwine wait no longer; dat I wuz to have tellChristmas to finish payin' for it, an' I ain' do it, an' now he done change hemin'."

"Tell dis Christmas comin'," said his wife, with the positivenessof one accustomed to expound contracts.

"Yes; but I tell you he say hedone change he min'." The man had evidently given up all hope; he was deadbeat.

"De crap's yourn," said she, affected by his surrender, butprepared only to compromise.

"He say he gwine teck all dat for de rent,and dat he gwine drive Ole 'Stracted 'way too."

"He ain' nuttin but po'white trash!" It expressed her supreme contempt.

"He say he'll gi' mejes one week mo' to pay him all he ax for it," continued he, forced to acorrection by her intense feeling, and the instinct of a man to defend theabsent from a woman's attack, and perhaps in the hope that she might suggestsome escape.

"He ain' nuttin sep po' white trash!" she repeated. "Howyou gwine raise eight hundred dollars at once? Dee kyarn nobody do dat. Gordmout! He ain' got good sense."

"You ain' see dat corn lately, is you?"he asked. "Hit jes as rank! You can almos' see it growin' ef you look at itgood. Dat's strong land. I know dat when I buy it."

He knew it was gonenow, but he had been in the habit of calling it his in the past three years,and it did him good to claim the ownership a little longer.

"I wonderwhar Marse Johnny is?" said the woman. He was the son of her former owner; andnow, finding her proper support failing her, she instinctively turned to him."He wouldn' let him turn we all out."

"He ain' got nuttin, an' ef he is,he kyarn get it in a week," said Ephraim.

"Kyarn you teck it in deco't?"

"Dat's whar he say he gwine have it ef I don' git out," said herhusband, despairingly.

Her last defence was gone.

"Ain' you hongry?" sheinquired.

"What you got?"

"I jes gwine kill a chicken foryou."

It was her nearest approach to tenderness, and he knew it was amark of special attention, for all the chickens and eggs had for the past threeyears gone to swell the fund which was to buy the home, and it was only onspecial occasions that one was spared for food.

The news that he was tobe turned out of his home had fallen on him like a blow, and had stunned him;he could make no resistance, he could form no plans. He went into a roughestimate as he waited.

"Le' me see: I done wuck for it three years disChristmas done gone; how much does dat meek?"

"An' fo' dollars, an' fivedollars, an' two dollars an' a half last Christmas from de chickens, an' alldem ducks I done sell he wife, an' de washin' I been doin' for 'em; how much isdat?" supplemented his wife.

"Dat's what I say!"

His wifeendeavored vainly to remember the amount she had been told it was; but theunaccounted-for washing changed the sum and destroyed her reliance on theresult. And as the chicken was now approaching perfection, and required herundivided attention, she gave up the arithmetic and applied herself to herculinary duties.

Ephraim also abandoned the attempt, and waited in areverie, in which he saw corn stand so high and rank over his land that hecould scarcely distinguish the bulk, and a stable and barn and a mule, or maybetwo—it was a possibility—and two cows which his wife would milk,and a green wagon driven by his boys, while he took it easy and gave orderslike a master, and a clover patch, and wheat, and he saw the' yellow grainwaving, and heard his sons sing the old harvest song of "Cool Water" while theyswung their cradles, and—

"You say he gwine turn Ole 'Stractedout, too?" inquired his wife, breaking the spell. The chicken was done now, andher mind reverted to the all-engrossing subject.

"Yes; say he tired o'ole 'stracted nigg*r livin' on he place an' payin' no rent."

"Good GordA'mighty! Pay rent for dat ole pile o' logs! Ain't he been mendin' he shoes an'harness for rent all dese years?"

"'Twill kill dat ole man to tu'n himout dat house," said Ephraim; "he ain 'nuver stay away from dyah a hour sincehe come heah."

"Sutny 'twill," assented his wife; then she added, inreply to the rest of the remark, "Nuver min'; den we'll see what he got indyah." To a woman, that was at least some compensation. Ephraim's thoughts hadtaken a new direction.

"He al'ays feared he marster'd come for him whilehe 'way," he said, in mere continuance of his last remark.

"He sen' mewud he marster comin' to-night, an he want he shut," said his wife, as shehanded him his supper. Ephraim's face expressed more than interest; it wastenderness which softened the rugged lines as he sat looking into the fire.Perhaps he thought of the old man's loneliness, and of his own father torn awayand sold so long ago, before he could even remember, and perhaps very dimly ofthe beauty of the sublime devotion of this poor old creature to his love andhis trust, holding steadfast beyond memory, beyond reason, after the knowledgeeven of his own identity and of his very name was lost.

The woman caughtthe contagion of his sympathy.

"De chil'n say he mighty comical, an' helayin' down in de baid," she said.

Ephraim rose from hisseat.

"Whar you gwine?"

"I mus' go to see 'bout him," he said,simply.

"Ain' you gwine finish eatin'?"

"I gwine kyar dis tohim."

"Well, I kin cook you anurr when we come back," said his wife,with ready acquiescence.

In a few minutes they were on the way, goingsingle file down the path through the sassafras, along which little Eph and hisfollowers had come an hour before, the man in the lead and his wife following,and, according to the custom of their race, carrying the bundles, one thesurrendered supper and the other the neatly folded and well-patched shirt inwhich Ole 'Stracted hoped to meet his long-expected loved ones.

As theycame in sight of the ruinous little hut which had been the old man's abodesince his sudden appearance in the neighborhood a few years after the war, theyobserved that the bench beside the door was deserted, and that the door stoodajar—two circ*mstances which neither of them remembered ever to have seenbefore; for in all the years in which he had been their neighbor Ole 'Stractedhad never admitted any one within his door, and had never been known to leaveit open. In mild weather he occupied a bench outside, where he either cobbledshoes for his neighbors, accepting without question anything they paid him, orelse sat perfectly quiet, with the air of a person waiting for some one. Heheld only the briefest communication with anybody, and was believed by some tohave intimate relations with the Evil One, and his tumble-down hut, which hewas particular to keep closely daubed, was thought by such as took this view ofthe matter to be the temple where he practiced his unholy rites. For thisreason, and because the little cabin, surrounded by dense pines and coveredwith vines which the popular belief held "pizenous," was the most desolateabode a human being could have selected, most of the dwellers in that sectiongave the place a wide berth, especially toward nightfall, and Ole 'Stractedwould probably have suffered but for the charity of Ephraim and his wife, who,although often wanting the necessaries of life themselves, had long divided itwith their strange neighbor. Yet even they had never been admitted inside hisdoor, and knew no more of him than the other people about the settlementknew.

His advent in the neighborhood had been mysterious. The first thatwas known of him was one summer morning, when he was found sitting on the benchbeside the door of this cabin, which had long been unoccupied and left todecay. He was unable to give any account of himself, except that he alwaysdeclared that he had been sold by some one other than his master from thatplantation, that his wife and boy had been sold to some other person at thesame time for twelve hundred dollars (he was particular as to the amount), andthat his master was coming in the summer to buy him back and take him home, andwould bring him his wife and child when he came. Everything since that day wasa blank to him, and as he could not tell the name of his master or wife, oreven his own name, and as no one was left old enough to remember him, theneighborhood having been entirely deserted after the war, he simply passed as aharmless old lunatic laboring under a delusion. He was devoted to children, andEphraim's small brood were his chief delight. They were not at all afraid ofhim, and whenever they got a chance they would slip off and steal down to hishouse, where they might be found any time squatting about his feet, listeningto his accounts of his expected visit from his master, and what he was going todo afterward. It was all of a great plantation, and fine carriages and horses,and a house with his wife and the boy.

This was all that was known ofhim, except that once a stranger, passing through the country, and hearing thename Ole 'Stracted, said that he heard a similar one once, long before the war,in one of the Louisiana parishes, where the man roamed at will, having beenbought of the trader by the gentleman who owned him, for a small price, onaccount of his infirmity.

"Is you gwine in dyah?" asked the woman, asthey approached the hut.

"Hi! yes; 'tain' nuttin' gwine hu't you; an'you say Ephum say he be layin' in de baid?" he replied, his mind havingevidently been busy on the subject.

"An' mighty comical," she correctedhim, with exactness born of apprehension.

"Well? I 'feared hesick."

"I ain' nuver been in dyah," she persisted.

"Ain' dechil'n been in dyah?"

"Dee say 'stracted folks oon hu'tchil'n."

"Dat ole man oon hu't nobody; he jes tame as a oletomcat."

"I wonder he ain' feared to live in dat lonesome ole house byhisself. I jes lieve stay in a graveyard at once. I ain' wonder folks say hesees sperrits in dat hanty-lookin' place." She came up by her husband's side atthe suggestion. "I wonder he don' go home."

"Whar he got any home to goto sep heaven?" said Ephraim.

"What was you mammy name,Ephum?"

"Mymy," said he, simply.

They were at the cabin now, anda brief pause of doubt ensued. It was perfectly dark inside the door, and therewas not a sound. The bench where they had heretofore held their onlycommunication with their strange neighbor was lying on its side in the weedswhich grew up to the very walls of the ruinous cabin, and a lizard suddenly ranover it, and with a little rustle disappeared under the rotting ground-sill. Tothe woman it was an ill omen. She glanced furtively behind her, and movednearer her husband's side. She noticed that the cloud above the pines wasgetting a faint yellow tinge on its lower border, while it was very black abovethem. It filled her with dread, and she was about to call her husband's noticeto it, when a voice within arrested their attention. It was very low, and theyboth listened in awed silence, watching the door meanwhile as if they expectedto see something supernatural spring from it.

"Nem min'—jeswait—'tain so long now—he'll be heah torectly," said the voice."Dat's what he say—gwine come an' buy me back—den we gwinehome."

In their endeavor to catch the words they moved nearer, and madea slight noise. Suddenly the low, earnest tone changed to one full ofeagerness.

"Who dat?" was called in sharp inquiry.

"'Tain' nobodybut me an' Polly, Ole 'Stracted," said Ephraim, pushing the door slightly wideropen and stepping in. They had an indistinct idea that the poor deludedcreature had fancied them his longed-for loved ones, yet it was a relief to seehim bodily.

"Who you say you is?" inquired the old man,feebly.

"Me an' Polly."

"I done bring you shut home," said thewoman, as if supplementing her husband's reply. "Hit all bran' clean, an' Idone patch it."

"Oh, I thought—" said the voice,sadly.

They knew what he thought. Their eyes were now accustomed to thedarkness, and they saw that the only article of furniture which the roomcontained was the wretched bed or bench on which the old man was stretched. Thelight sifting through the chinks in the roof enabled them to see his face, andthat it had changed much in the last twenty-four hours, and an instinct toldthem that he was near the end of his long waiting.

"How is you, Ole'Stracted?" asked the woman.

"Dat ain' my name," answered the old man,promptly. It was the first time he had ever disowned the name.

"Well,how is you, Ole—What I gwine to call you?" asked she, with feeblefinesse.

"I don' know—he kin tell you."

"Who?"

"Who?Marster. He know it. Ole 'Stracted ain' know it; but dat ain' nuttin. Heknow it—got it set down in de book. I jes waitin' for 'em now."

Ahush fell on the little audience—they were in full sympathy with him,and, knowing no way of expressing it, kept silence. Only the breathing of theold man was audible in the room. He was evidently nearing the end. "I mightytired of waitin'," he said, pathetically. "Look out dyah and see ef you seeanybody," he added suddenly.

Both of them obeyed, and then returned andstood silent; they could not tell him no.

Presently the woman said,"Don' you warn put you' shut on?"

"What did you say my name was?" hesaid.

"Ole 'Str—" She paused at the look of pain on his face,shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and relapsed into embarrassedsilence.

"Nem min'! dee'll know it—dee'll know me 'dout any name,oon dee?" He appealed wistfully to them both. The woman for answer unfolded theshirt. He moved feebly, as if in assent.

"I so tired waitin'," hewhispered; "done 'mos gin out, an' he oon come; but I thought I heah little Ephto-day?" There was a faint inquiry in his voice.

"Yes, he wuzheah."

"Wuz he?" The languid form became instantly alert, the tired facetook on a look of eager expectancy. "Heah, gi'm'y shut quick. I knowed it.Wait; go over dyah, son, and git me dat money. He'll be heah torectly." Theythought his mind wandered, and merely followed the direction of his eyes withtheirs. "Go over dyah quick—don't you heah me?"

And to humor himEphraim went over to the corner indicated.

"Retch up dyah, an' run you'hand in onder de second jice. It's all in dyah," he said to thewoman—"twelve hunderd dollars—dat's what dee went for. I wuckednight an' day forty year to save dat money for marster; you know dee teck allhe land an' all he nigg*rs an' tu'n him out in de old fiel'? I put 'tin dyah'ginst he come. You ain' know he comin' dis evenin', is you? Heah, help me onwid dat shut, gal—I stan'in' heah talkin' an' maybe ole marster waitin'.Push de do' open so you kin see. Forty year ago," he murmured, as Polly jammedthe door back and returned to his side—"forty year ago dee come an'leveled on me: marster sutny did cry. 'Nem min',' he said, 'I comin' right downin de summer to buy you back an' bring you home.' He's comin', too—nuvertol' me a lie in he life—comin' dis evenin.' Make 'aste." This intremulous eagerness to the woman, who had involuntarily caught the feeling, andwas now with eager and ineffectual haste trying to button his shirt.

Anexclamation from her husband caused her to turn around, as he stepped into thelight and held up an old sock filled with something.

"Heah, hoi you'apron," said the old man to Polly, who gathered up the lower corners of herapron and stood nearer the bed.

"Po' it in dyah." This to Ephraim, whomechanically obeyed. He pulled off the string, and poured into his wife's lapthe heap of glittering coin—gold and silver more than their eyes had everseen before.

"Hit's all dyah," said the old man, confidentially, as ifhe were rendering an account. "I been savin' it ever sence dee took me 'way. Iso busy savin' it I ain' had time to eat, but I ain' hongry now; have plentywhen I git home." He sank back exhausted. "Oon marster be glad to see me?" heasked presently in pathetic simplicity. "You know we grewed up to-gerr? I beenwaitin' so long I 'feared dee 'mos' done forgit me. You reckon dee is?" heasked the woman, appealingly.

"No, suh, dee ain' forgit you," she said,comfortingly.

"I know dee ain'," he said, reassured. "Dat's what he tellme—he ain' nuver gwine forgit me." The reaction had set in, and his voicewas so feeble now it was scarcely audible. He was talking rather to himselfthan to them, and finally he sank into a doze. A painful silence reigned in thelittle hut, in which the only sign was the breathing of the dying man. A singleshaft of light stole down under the edge of the slowly passing cloud andslipped up to the door. Suddenly the sleeper waked with a start, and gazedaround.

"Hit gittin' mighty dark," he whispered, faintly. "You reckondee'll git heah 'fo' dark?"

The light was dying from hiseyes.

"Ephum," said the woman, softly, to her husband.

The effectwas electrical.

"Heish! you heah dat!" exclaimed the dying man,eagerly.

"Ephum"—she repeated. The rest was drowned by Ole'Stracted's joyous exclamation.

"Gord! I knowed it!" he cried, suddenlyrising upright, and, with beaming face, stretching both arms toward the door."Dyah dee come! Now watch 'em smile. All y'all jes stand back. Heah de one youlookin' for. Marster—Mymy—heah's Little Ephum!" And with a smile onhis face he sank back into his son's arms.

The evening sun, dropping onthe instant to his setting, flooded the room with light; but as Ephraim gentlyeased him down and drew his arm from around him, it was the light of theunending morning that was on his face. His Master had at last come for him, andafter his long waiting, Ole 'Stracted had indeed gone home.

DIED.—In Baden, Germany,the 22d instant, Charles Austin Pinckney, late U. S. Consul at Carlsruhe, agedsixty years.

There: most stories of men's lives end with theepitaph, but this of Pinckney's shall begin there. If we, as haply God or Devilcan, could unroof the houses of men's souls, if their visible works were oftheir hearts rather than their brains, we should know strange things. And thisalone, of all the possible, is certain. For bethink you, how men appear totheir Creator, as He looks down into the soul, that matrix of their visiblelives we find so hard to localize and yet so sure to be. For all of us believein self, and few of us but are forced, one way or another, to grant existenceto some selves outside of us. Can you not fancy that men's souls, like theirfarms, would show here a patch of grain, and there the tares; there the weedsand here the sowing; over this place the rain has been, and that other, to onelooking down upon it from afar, seems brown and desolate, wasted by fire ormade arid by the drought? In this man's life is a poor beginning, but a betterend; in this other's we see the foundations, the staging, and the schemes ofmighty structures, now stopped, given over, or abandoned; of vessels, fashionedfor the world's seas, now rotting on the stocks. Of this one all seems readybut the launching, of that the large keelson only has been laid; but both alikehave died unborn, and the rain falls upon them, and the mosses grow: the soundof labor is far off, and the scene of work is silent. Small laws make greatchanges; slight differences of adjustment end quick in death. Small, now, theywould seem to us; but to the infinite mind all things small and great arealike; the spore of rust in the ear is very slight, but a famine in the cornwill shake the world.

Pinckney's life the world called lazy; his leisurewas not fruitful, and his sixty years of life were but a gentleman's. Someslight lesion may have caused paralysis of energy, some clot of heart's bloodpressed upon the soul: I make no doubt our doctors could diagnose it, if theyknew a little more. Tall and slender, he had a strange face, a face with ayoung man's beauty; his white hair gave a charm to the rare smile, like newsnow to the spring, and the slight stoop with which he walked was but a gracethe more. In short, Pinckney was interesting. Women raved about him; young menfell in love with him; and if he was selfish, the fault lay between him and hisMaker, not visible to other men. There are three things that make a maninteresting in his old age: the first, being heroism, we may put aside; but theother two are regret and remorse. Now, Mr. Pinckney's fragrance was not ofremorse—women and young men would have called it heroism: it may havebeen. As much heroism as could be practiced in thirty-six years ofCarlsruhe.

Why Carlsruhe? That was the keynote of inquiry; and no oneknew. Old men spoke unctuously of youthful scandals; women dreamed. I suspecteven Mrs. Pinckney wondered, about as much as the plowed field may wonder atthe silence of the autumn. But Pinckney limped gracefully about the sleepyavenues which converge at the Grand Duke's palace, like a wakeful page in thecastle of the Sleeping Beauty. Pinckney was a friend of the Grand Duke's, andperhaps it was a certain American flavor persisting in his manners which madehim seem the only man at the Baden court who met his arch-serene altitude onequal terms. For one who had done nothing and possessed little, Pinckneycertainly preserved a marvelous personal dignity. His four daughters were allmarried to scions of Teutonic nobility; and each one in turn had asked him forthe Pinckney arms, and quartered them into the appropriate check-square with asmuch grave satisfaction as he felt for the far-off patch of Hohenzollern, or ofHapsburg in sinister chief. Pinckney had laughed at it and referred them to theDeclaration of Independence, clause the first; but his wife had copied themfrom some spoon or sugar bowl. She was very fond of Pinckney, and no morequestioned him why they always lived in Carlsruhe than a Persian would the sunfor rising east. Now and then they went to Baden, and her cup wasfull.

Pinckney died of a cold, unostentatiously, and was buried like agentleman; though the Grand Duke ac tually wanted to put the court in mourningfor three days, and consulted with his chamberlain whether it would do. Mrs.Pinckney had preceded him by some six years; but she was an appendage, and herhusband's deference had always seemed in Carlsruhe a trifle strained. It wasonly in these last six years that any one had gossiped of remorse, in answer tothe sphinx-like question of his marble brow. Such questions vex the curious.Furrows trouble nobody—money matters are enough f them; but whitesmoothness in old age is a bait, and tickles curiosity. Some said at home hewas a devil and beat his wife.

But Pinckney never beat his wife. Late inthe last twilight of her life she had called him to her, and excluded even thefour daughters, with their stout and splendid barons; then, alone with him, shelooked to him and smiled. And suddenly his gentleman's heart took a jump, andthe tears fell on her still soft hands. I suppose some old road was openedagain in the gray matter of his brain. Mrs. Pinckney smiled the more stronglyand said—not quite so terribly as Mrs. Amos Barton: "Have I made youhappy, dearest Charles?" And Charles, the perfect-mannered, said she had; butsaid it stammering. "Then," said she, "I die very happily, dear." And she did;and Pinckney continued to live at Carlsruhe.

The only activities ofPinckney's mind were critical. He was a wonderful orator, but he rarely spoke.People said he could have been a great writer, but he never wrote, at leastnothing original. He was the art and continental-drama critic of severalEnglish and American reviews; in music, he was a Wagnerian, which debarred himfrom writing of it except in German; but the little Court Theatre at Carlsruhehas Wagner's portrait over the drop-curtain, and the consul's box was neverempty when the mighty heathen legends were declaimed or the holy music of theGrail was sung. In fiction of the earnest sort, and poetry, Pinckney's criticalpen showed a marvelous magic, striking the scant springs of the author'sinspiration through the most rocky ground of incident or style. He had acurious sympathy with youthful tenderness. But, after all, as every youngcompatriot who went to Baden said, what the deuce and all did he live in Badenfor? Miles Breeze had said it in 'Fifty, when he made the grand tour with hisyoung wife, and dined with him in Baden-Baden; that is, when Breeze dined withhim, for his young wife was indisposed and could not go. Miles Breeze, junior,had said it, as late as 'Seventy-six, when he went abroad, ostensibly forinstruction, after leaving college. He had letters to Mr. Pinckney, who wasvery kind to the young Baltimorean, and greatly troubled the Grand Duke hisSerenity by presenting him as a relative of the Bonapartes. Many anotherAmerican had said it, and even some leading politicians: he might have heldoffice at home: but Pinckney continued to live in Carlsruhe.

Hiscritical faculties seemed sharpened after his wife's death, as his hair grewwhiter; and if you remember how he looked before you must have noticed that thegreatest change was in the expression of his face. There was one faint downwardline at either side of his mouth, and the counterpart at the eyes; n doubtfulline which, faint as it was graven, gave a strange amount of shading to theface. And in speaking of him still earlier, you must remember to take yourindia-rubber and rub out this line from his face. This done, the face is stillserious; but it has a certain light, a certain air of confidence, ofdetermination, regretful though it be, which makes it loved by women. Women canlove a desperate, but never begin to love a beaten, cause. Women fell in lovewith Pinckney, for the lightning does strike twice in the same place; but hisrace was rather that of Lohengrin than of the Asra, and he saw it, or seemed tosee it, not. Still, in these times those downward lines had not come, and therewas a certain sober light in his face as of a sorrowful triumph. This was inthe epoch of his greatest interestingness to women.

When he first cameto Carlsruhe, he was simply the new consul, nothing more; a handsome young man,almost in his honeymoon, with a young and pretty wife. He had less presence inthose days, and seemed absorbed in his new home, or deeply sunk in something;people at first fancied he was a poet, meditating a great work, which finished,he would soon leave Carlsruhe. He never was seen to look at a woman, notovermuch at his wife, and was not yet popular in society.

But it wastrue that he was newly married. He was married in Boston, in 'Forty-three orfour, to Emily Austin, a far-off cousin of his, whom he had known (he himselfwas a Carolinian) during his four years at Cambridge. For his four years inCambridge were succeeded by two more at the Law School; then he won a greatcase against Mr. Choate, and was narrowly beaten in an election for Congress;after that it surprised no one to hear the announcement of his engagement toMiss Austin, for his family was unexceptionable and he had a brilliant future.The marriage came in the fall, rather sooner than people expected, at King'sChapel. They went abroad, as was natural; and then he surprised his friends andhers by accepting his consulship and staying there. And they wereimperceptibly, gradually, slowly, and utterly forgotten.

The engagementcame out in the spring of 'Forty-three. And in June of that year young Pinckneyhad gone to visit his fiancée at Newport. Had you seen him there, youwould have seen him in perhaps the brightest role that fate has yet permittedon this world's stage. A young man, a lover, rich, gifted, and ambitious, ofsocial position unquestioned in South Carolina and the old Bay State—allthe world loved him, as a lover; the many envied him, the upper few desiredhim. Handsome he has always remained.

And the world did look to him asbright as he to the world. He was in love, as he told himself, and Miss Austinwas a lovable girl; and the other things he was dimly conscious of; and he hada long vacation ahead of him, and was to be married late in the autumn, and hewalked up from the wharf in Newport swinging his cane and thinking on thesepleasant things.

Newport, in those days, was not the paradise ofcottages and curricles, of lawns and laces, of new New Yorkers and Nevadaminers; it was the time of big hotels and balls, of Southern planters, ofJullien's orchestras, and of hotel hops; such a barbarous time as the wanderingNew Yorker still may find, lingering on the simple shores of Maine, sunning inthe verdant valleys of the Green Mountains; in short, it was Arcadia, notBelgravia. And you must remember that Pinckney, who was dressed in the lateststyle, wore a blue broadcloth frock coat, cut very low and tight in the waist,with a coat-collar rolling back to reveal a vast expanse of shirt-bosom,surmounted by a cravat of awful splendor, bow-knotted and blue-fringed. Histrousers were of white duck, his boots lacquered, and he carried a gold-tippedcane in his hand. So he walked up the narrow old streets from the wharf, makinga sunshine in those shady places. It was the hottest hour of a midsummerafternoon; not a soul was stirring, and Pinckney was left to his own pleasantmeditations.

He got up the hill and turned into the park by the oldmill; over opposite was the great hotel, its piazzas deserted, silent even tothe hotel band. But one flutter of a white dress he saw beneath the trees, andthen it disappeared behind them, causing Pinckney to quicken his steps. Hethought he knew the shape and motion, and he followed it until he came upon itsuddenly, behind the trees, and it turned.

A young girl of wonderfulbeauty, rare, erect carriage, and eyes of a strange, violet-gray, full of muchmeaning. This was all Pinckney had time to note; it was no one he had ever seenbefore. He had gone up like a hunter, sure of his game, and too far in it toretract. The embarrassment of the situation was such that Pinckney forgot allhis cleverness of manner, and blurted out the truth like anyschoolboy.

"I beg pardon—I was looking for Miss Austin," said he;and he raised his hat.

A delightful smile of merriment curled thebeauty's lips. "My acquaintance with Miss Austin is too slight to justify myfinding her for you; but I wish you all success in your efforts," she said, andvanished, leaving the promising young lawyer to blush at his own awkwardnessand wonder who she was. As she disappeared, he only saw that her hair was alustrous coil of pale gold-brown, borne proudly.

He soon found EmilyAustin, and forgot the beauty, as he gave his betrothed a kiss and saw hercolor heighten; and in the afternoon they took a long drive. It was only attea, as he was sitting at table with the Austins in the long dining-room, thatsome one walked in like a goddess; and it was she. He asked her name; and theytold him it was a Miss Warfield, of Baltimore, and she was engaged to a Mr.Breeze.

In the evening there was a ball; and as they were dancing (forevery one danced in those days) he saw her again, sitting alone this time andunattended. She was looking eagerly across the room, through the dancers andbeyond; and in her eyes was the deepest look of sadness Pinckney had ever seenin a girl's face; a look such as he had thought no girl could feel. A momentafter, and it was gone, as some one spoke to her; and Pinckney wondered if hehad not been mistaken, so fleeting was it, and so strange. Anacquaintance—one of those men who delight to act as brokers ofacquaintances—who had noticed his gaze came up. "That is the famous MissMary Warfield," said he. "Shall I not introduce you?"

"No," saidPinckney; and he turned away rudely. To be rude when you like is perhaps one ofthe choicest prerogatives of a good social position. The acquaintance staredafter him, as he went back to Miss Austin, and then went up and spoke to MissWarfield himself. A moment after, Pinckney saw her look over at him with someinterest; and he wondered if the man had been ass enough to tell her. Pinckneywas sitting withlimily Austin; and, after another moment, he saw Miss Warfieldlook at her. Then her glance seemed to lose its interest; her eyelids drooped,and Pinckney could see, from her interlocutor's mantief^ that he was put to histrumps to keep her attention. At last he got away, awkwardly; and for manyminutes the strange girl sat like a statue, her long lashes just veiling hereyes, so that Pinckney, from a distance, could not see what was in them.Suddenly the veil was drawn and her eyes shone full upon him, her look meetinghis. Pinckney's glance fell, and his cheeks grew redder. Miss Warfield's facedid not change, but she rose and walked unattended through the centre of theballroom to the door. Pinckney's seat was nearer it than hers; she passed himas if without seeing him, moving with unconscious grace, though it would nothave been the custom at that time for a girl to cross so large a room alone.Just then some one asked Miss Austin for a dance; and Pinckney, who was growingweary of it, went out on the piazza for a cigar, and then, attracted by thebeauty of the night, strayed further than he knew, alone, along the cliffsabove the sea.

The next day he was walking with Miss Austin, and theypassed her, in her riding habit, waiting by the mounting stone; she bowed toMiss Austin alone, leaving him out, as it seemed to Pinckney, with exaggeratedcare.

"Is she not beautiful?" said Emily, ardently.

"Humph!" saidPinckney. A short time after, as they were driving on the road to the Fort, hesaw her again; she was riding alone, across country, through the rocky knollsand marshy pools that form the southern part of Rhode Island. She had no groomlagging behind, but it was not so necessary then as now; and, indeed, a groomwould have had a hard time to keep up with her, as she rattled up the graniteslopes and down over logs and bushes with her bright bay horse. The lastPinckney saw of her she disappeared over a rocky hill against the sky; herbeautiful horse flecked with foam, quivering with happy animal life, and thegirl calm as a figure carved in stone, with but the faintest touch of rose uponher face, as the pure profile was outlined one moment against the sunlitblue.

"How recklessly she rides!" whispered Miss Austin to him, andPinckney said yes, absently, and, whipping up his horse, drove on,pretending to listen to his fiancée's talk. It seemed to be about dresses, andrings, and a coming visit to the B———s, at Nahant. He hadnever seen a girl like her before; she was a puzzle to him.

"It is agreat pity she is engaged to Mr. Breeze," said Miss Austin; and Pinckney wokeup with a start, for he was thinking of Miss Warneld too.

"Why?" saidhe.

"I don't like him," said Emily. "He isn't good enough forher."

As this is a thing that women say of all wooers after they havewon, and which the winner is usually at that period the first to admit,Pinckney paid little attention to this remark. But that evening he met MilesBreeze, saw him, talked with him, and heard others talk of him. A handsome man,physically; well made, well dressed, well fed; well bred, as breeding goes indogs or horses; a good shot, a good sportsman, yachtsman, story-teller; a goodfellow, with a weak mouth; a man of good old Maryland blood, yet red andhealthy, who had come there in his yacht and had his horses sent by sea. Awell-appointed man, in short; provided amply with the conveniences offashionable life. A man of good family, good fortune, good health, good sense,good nature, whom it were hypercritical to charge with lack of soul. "The firstduty of a gentleman is to be a good animal," and Miles Breeze performed itthoroughly. Pinckney liked him, and he could have been his companion for yearsand still have liked him, except as a husband for Miss Warfield.

Hecould not but recognize his excellence as a parti. But the race of Joanof Arc does not mate with Bon-homme Richard, even when he owns the next farm.Pinckney used to watch the crease of Breeze's neck, above the collar, andcurse.

Coming upon Miss Austin one morning, she had said, "Come—Iwant to introduce you to Miss War-field." Pinckney had demurred, and offered asan excuse that he was smoking. "Nonsense, Charles," said the girl; "I have toldher you are coming." Pinckney threw away his cigar and followed, and thepresentation was made. Miss Warfield drew herself almost unusually erect aftercourtesying, as if in protest at having to bow at all. She was so tall that, asEmily stood between them, he could meet Miss War-field's iron-gray eyes aboveher head. It was the first time in Pinckney's life that he had consciously notknown what to say.

"I was so anxious to have you meet Charles before heleft," said Emily. Evidently, his fiancée had been expatiating upon him to thisnew friend, and if there is anything that puts a man in a foolish position itis to have this sort of preamble precede an acquaintance.

"An anxiety Iduly shared, Miss Warfield, I assure you," said he; which was a truth spoiledin the uttering—what the conversational Frenchman termsbanale.

"Thank you," said Miss Warfield, very simply andtremendously effectively. Pinckney, for the second time with this young lady,felt himself a schoolboy. Emily interposed some feeble commonplaces, and then,after a moment, Miss Warfield said, "I must go for my ride"; and she left, witha smile for Emily and the faintest possible glance for him. She went off withBreeze; and it gave Pinckney some relief to see that she seemed equally toignore the presence of the man who was her acknowledged lover, as he trotted ona smart cob beside her. That evening, when he went on the piazza, after tea, hefound her sitting alone, in one corner, with her hands folded: it was onepeculiarity about this woman that she was never seen with work. She made nosign of recognition as he approached; but, none the less, he took the chairthat was beside her and waited a moment for her to speak. "Have you found MissAustin?" said the beauty, with the faintest trace of malice in her coldlymodulated tones, not looking at him. "I am not looking for Miss Austin," saidhe; and she continued not looking at him, and so this strange pair sat there inthe twilight, silent.

What was said between them I do not know. But insome way or other their minds met; for long after Miss Austin and her motherhad returned from some call, long after they had all left him, Pinckneycontinued to pace up and down restlessly in the dark. Pinckney had never seen awoman like this. After all, he was very young; and he had, in his heart,supposed that the doubts and delights of his soul were peculiar to men alone.He thought all women—at all events, all young and worthywomen—regarded life and its accepted forms as an accomplished fact, notto be questioned, and, indeed, too delightful to need it. The young SouthCarolinian, in his ambitions, in his heart-longings and heart-sickenings, inhis poetry, even in his emotions, had always been lonely; so that hisloneliness had grown to seem to him as merely part of the day's work. The bestwomen, he knew, where the best housewives; they were a rest and a benefit forthe war-weary man, much as might be a pretty child, a bed of flowers, a strainof music. With Emily Austin he should find all this; and he loved her as good,pretty, amiable, perfect in her way. But now, with Miss Warfield—it hadseemed that he was not even lonely.

Pinckney did not see her again for aweek. When he met her, he avoided her; she certainly avoided him. Breeze,meantime, gave a dinner. He gave it on his yacht, and gave it to men alone.Pinckney was of the number.

The next day there was a driving party; itwas to drive out of town to Purgatory, a pretty place, where there is a brookin a deep ravine with a verdant meadow-floor; and there they were to take foodand drink, as is the way of humanity in pretty places. Now it so happened thatthe Austins, Miss Warfield, Breeze, and Pinckney were going to drive in aparty, the Austins and Miss Warfield having carriages of their own; but at thelast moment Breeze did not appear, and Emily Austin was incapacitated by aheadache. She insisted, as is the way of loving women, that "Charles should notlose it"; for to her it was one of life's pleasures, and such pleasuressatisfied her soul. (It may be that she gave more of her soul to life's dutiesthan did Charles, and life's pleasures were thus adequate to the remainder; Ido not know.) Probably Miles Breeze also had a headache; at all events, he didnot, at the last moment, appear. It was supposable that he would turn up at thepicnic; Mrs. Austin joined her daughter's entreaty; Miss Warfield was leftunattended; in fine, Pinckney went with her.

Miss Warfield had a solidlittle phaeton with two stout ponies: she drove herself. For some time theywere silent; then, insensibly, Pinckney began to talk and she to answer. Whatthey said I need not say —indeed I could not, for Pinckney was a poet, aman of rare intellect and imagination, and Miss Warfield was a woman of thisworld and the next; a woman who used conventions as another might use a fan,to' screen her from fools; whose views were based on the ultimate. But theytalked of the world, and of life in it; and when it came to an end, Pinckneynoted to himself this strange thing, that they had both talked as of anintellectual problem, no longer concerning their emotions—in short, as ifthis life were at an end, and they were two dead people discussingit.

So they arrived at the picnic, silent; and the people assembledlooked to one another and smiled, and said to one another how glum those twoengaged people looked, being together, and each wanting another. Mr. Breeze hadnot yet come; and as the people scattered while the luncheon was beingprepared, Pinckney and she wandered off like the others. They went somedistance—perhaps a mile or more—aimlessly; and then, as they seemedto have come about to the end of the valley, Pinckney sat down upon a rock, butshe did not do so, but remained standing. Hardly a word had so far been saidbetween them: and then Pinckney looked at her and said:

"Why are yougoing to marry Mr. Breeze?"

"Why not?"—listlessly.

"Youmight as well throw yourself into the sea," said Pinckney; and he looked at thesea which lay beyond them shimmering.

"That I had not thought of," saidshe; and she looked at the sea herself with more interest. Pinckney drew a longbreath.

"But why this man?" he said at length.

"Why that man?"said the woman; and her beautiful lip curled, with the humor of the mind, whileher eyes kept still the sadness of the heart, the look that he had seen in theballroom. "We are all poor," she added; then scornfully, "it is my duty tomarry."

"But Miles Breeze?" persisted Pinckney.

The lip curledalmost to a laugh. "I never met a better fellow than Miles," said she; and thethought was so like his own of the night before that Pinckney gasped forbreath. They went back, and had chicken croquettes and champagne, and a bandthat was hidden in the wood made some wild Spanish music.

Going home, acurious thing happened. They had started first and far preceded all the others.Miss Warfield was driving; and when they were again in the main road, not morethan a mile from the hotel, Pinckney saw ahead of them, coming in a lighttrotting buggy of the sort that one associates with the gentry who callthemselves "sports," two of the gentlemen whom he had met at Breeze's dinnerthe night before. Whether Miss Warfield also knew them he did not know; butthey evidently had more wine than was good for them, and were driving along ina reckless manner on the wrong side of the road. The buggy was much too narrowfor the two; and the one that was driving leaned out toward them with a tipsyleer. Pinckney shouted at him, but Miss War-field drove calmly on. He was onthe point of grasping the reins, but a look of hers withheld him, and he satstill, wondering; and in a moment their small front wheel had crashed throughboth the axles and spider-web wheels of the trotting buggy. The shock of thesecond axle whirled them round, and Pinckney fell violently against the dasher,while Miss Warfield was thrown clear of the phaeton on the outer side. But shehad kept the reins, and before Pinckney could get to her she was standing ather horses' heads, patting their necks calmly, with a slight cut in herforehead where she had fallen, and only her nostril quivering like theirs, asthe horses stood there trembling. The buggy was a wreck, and the horse haddisappeared; and the two men, sobered by the fall, came up humbly to her toapologize. She heard them silently, with a pale face like some injured queen's;and then, bowing to them their dismissal, motioned Pinckney into the phaeton,which, though much broken, was still standing, and, getting in herself, droveslowly home.

"She might have killed herself," thought Pinckney, but heheld his peace, as if it were the most natural course of action in the world.To tell the truth, under the circ*mstances he might have done the samealone.

Then it began. Pinckney could not keep this woman out of hishead. He would think of her at all times, alone and in company. Her face wouldcome to him in the loneliness of the sea, in the loneliness of crowds; thestrong spirit of the morning was hers, and the sadness of the sunset and thewakeful watches of the night. Her face was in the clouds of evening, in thesea-coal fire by night; her spirit in the dreams of summer morns, in thehopeless breakers on the stormy shores, in the useless, endless effort of thesea. Her eyes made some strange shining through his dreams; and he would wakewith a cry that she was going from him, in the deepest hours of the night, asif in the dreams he had lost her, vanishing forever in the daily crowd. Then hewould lie awake until morning, and all the laws of God and men would seem likecobwebs to his sorrow, and the power of it freezing in his heart. This was theultimate nature of his being, to follow her, as drop of water blends in drop ofwater, as frost rends rock. Let him then follow out his law, as other beings dotheirs; gravitation has no conscience; should he be weaker than a drop ofwater, because he was conscious, and a man?

So these early morningbattles would go on, and character, training, conscience, would go down beforethe simpler force, like bands of man's upon essential nature. Then, with thefirst ray of the dawn, he would think of Emily Austin, sleeping near him,perhaps dreaming of him, and his mad visions seemed to fade; and he would riseexhausted, and wander out among the fresh fields and green dewy lanes, andcalm, contentful trees, and be glad that these things were so; yet could thesenot be moved, nor their destiny be changed. And as for him, what did itmatter?

So the days went by. And Emily Austin looked upon him with eyesof limitless love and trust, and Pinckney did not dare to look upon himself;but his mind judged by day-time and his heart strove by night. Hardly at allhad he spoken to Miss Warfield since; and no reference had ever been madebetween them to the accident, or to the talk between them in the valley. OnlyPinckney knew that she was to be married very shortly; and he had urged MissAustin to hasten their own wedding.

Emily went off with her mother topay her last visit among the family, and to make her preparations; and it wasdeemed proper that at this time Pinckney should not be with her. So he stayedin Newport five long days alone; and during this time he never spoke to MissWarfield. I believe he tried not to look at her: she did not look at him. Andon the fifth night Pinckney swore that he must speak to her once more, whateverhappened.

In the morning there was talk of a sailing party; and Pinckneynoted Breeze busying himself about the arrangements. He waited; and at noonBreeze came to him and said that there was a scarcity of men: would he go? Yes.They had two sail-boats, and meant to land upon Conanicut, which was then abarren island without a house, upon the southern end, where it stretches out tosea.

Pinckney did not go in the same boat with Breeze and Miss Warfield;and, landing, he spent the afternoon with others and saw nothing of her. Butafter dinner was over, he spoke to her, inviting her to walk; and she came,silently. A strange evening promenade that was: they took a path close on thesheer brink of the cliffs, so narrow that one must go behind the other.Pinckney had thought at first she might be frightened, with the rough path, andthe steepness of the rocks, and the breakers churning at their base; but he sawthat she was walking erect and fearlessly. Finally she motioned him to let hergo ahead; and she led the way, choosing indiscriminately the straightest path,whether on the verge of the sea or leading through green meadows. A fewcolorless remarks were made by him, and then he saw the folly of it, and theywalked in silence. After nearly an hour, she stopped.

"We must begetting back," she said.

"Yes," said he, in the same tone; and theyturned; she still leading the way, while he followed silently. They werewalking toward the sunset; the sun was going down in a bank of dense graycloud, but its long, level rays came over to them, across a silent sea. Shewalked on over the rugged cliff, like some siren, some genius of the place,with a sure, proud grace of step; she never looked around, and his eyes werefixed upon the black line of her figure, as it went before him, toward the grayand blood-red sunset. It seemed to him this was the last hour of his life; andeven as he thought his ankle turned, and he stumbled and fell, walkingunwittingly into one of the chasms, where the line of the cliff turned in. Hegrasped a knuckle of rock, and held his fall, just on the brink of a ledgeabove the sea. Miss Warfield had turned quickly and seen it all; and she leaneddown over the brink, with one hand around the rock and the other extended tohelp him, the ledge on which he lay being some six feet below. Pinckney graspedher hand and kissed it.

Her color did not change at this; but, with astrange strength in her beautiful lithe figure, she drew him up steadily, hehelping partly with the other hand, until his knees rested on the path again.He stood up with some difficulty, as his ankle was badly wrenched.

"I amafraid you can not walk," said she.

"Oh, yes," he answered; and took afew steps to show her. The pain was great; but she walked on, and he followed,as best he could, limping. She looked behind now, as if to encourage him; andhe set his teeth and smiled.

"We must not be late," she said. "It isgrowing dark, and they will miss us."

But they did not miss them; forwhen they got to the landing-place, both the sail-boats had left the shorewithout them. There was nothing but the purple cloud-light left by this time;but Pinckney fancied he could see her face grow pale for the first time thatday.

"We must get home," she said, hurriedly. "Is there noboat?"

Pinckney pointed to a small dory on the beach, and then to thesea. In the east was a black bank of cloud, rifted now and then by lightning;and from it the wind came down and the white caps curled angrily towardthem.

"No matter," said she; "we must go."

Pinckney found a pairof oars under the boat, and dragged it, with much labor, over the pebbles, shehelping him. The beach was steep and gravelly, with short breakers rather thansurf; and he got the bow well into the water and held it there.

"Getin," said he.

Miss Warfield got into the stern, and Pinckney waded out,dragging the flat-bottomed boat until it was well afloat. Then he sprang inhimself, and, grasping the oars, headed the boat for the Fort point across thechannel, three miles away. She sat silently in the stern, and it was too darkfor him to see her face. He rowed savagely.

But the wind was straightahead, and the sea increasing every moment. They were not, of course, exposedto the full swell of the ocean; but the wide sea-channel was full of short,fierce waves that struck the little skiff repeated rapid blows, and dashed thespray over both of them.

"Are you not afraid?" said he, calmly. "It isgrowing rougher every minute."

"Oh, no, Mr. Pinckney," said she. "Praykeep on."

Pinckney noticed a tremor of excitement in her voice; but by aflash of lightning that came just then he saw her deep eyes fixed on his, andthe pure white outline of her face undisturbed. So he rowed the harder, and shetook a board there was and tried to steer; and now and then, as the clouds werelit, he saw her, like a fleeting vision in the night.

But the storm grewstronger; and Pinckney knew the boat that they were in was not really moving atall, though, of course, the swash of the waves went by and the drifted spray.He tried to row harder, but with the pain in his ankle and the labor he wasnearly exhausted, and his heart jumped in his chest at each recover. "Can younot make it?" said she, in the dark; and Pinckney vowed that he could, and sethis teeth for a mighty pull. The oar broke, and the boat's head fell rapidlyoff in the trough of the sea. He quickly changed about his remaining oar, andwith it kept the head to the wind. "We must go back," he said, panting. "Iknow," said she. The windstorm was fairly upon them; and, in spite of all hisefforts, an occasional wave would get upon the beam and spill its frothingcrest into the boat. Pinckney almost doubted whether it would float until itreached the shore; but Miss Warfield did not seem in the least disturbed, andspoke without a tremor in her voice. The lightning had stopped now, and hecould not see her.

He had miscalculated the force of the wind and waves,however; for in a very minutes they were driven broadside back upon the beach,almost at the same place from which they had started. Miss War-field sprang outquickly, and he after, just as a wave turned the dory bottom upward on thestones.

"They will soon send for us," he said; and stepping painfully upthe shore, he occupied himself with spreading her shawl in a sheltered spot forthem to wait in. She sat down, and he beside her. He was very wet, and she madehim put some of the shawl over himself. The quick summer storm had passed now,with only a few big drops of rain; and the moon was breaking out fitfullythrough veils of driving clouds and their storm-scud. By its light he looked ather, and their eyes met. Pinckney groaned aloud, and stood up. "Would that theywould never come; would God that we could—"

"We can not," saidshe, softly, in a voice that he had never heard from her before—a voicewith tears in it; and the man threw himself down at her feet, inarticulate,maddened. Then, with a great effort at control, not touching her, but lookingstraight into her eyes, he said, in blunt, low speech: "Miss Warfield, I loveyou—do you know it?"

Her head sank slowly down; but she answered,very low, but clearly, yes. Then their eyes met again; and, by somecommon impulse, they rose and walked apart. After a few steps, he stopped,being lame, and leaned against the cliff; but she went on until her dark figurewas blended with the shadows of the crags.

So, when the boat came back,its sail silvered by the moonlight, they saw it, and, coming down, they metagain; but only as the party were landing on the beach. Several of the partyhad come back; and Mr. Breeze, who was among them, was full of explanation howhe had missed the first boat and barely caught the second, supposing that hisfiancée was in the first. An awkward accident, but easily explained byPinckney, with the sprain in his ankle; and, indeed, the others were too fullof excuses for having forgotten them to inquire into the causes of theirabsence together.

Pinckney went to his room, and had a night ofdelirium. Toward morning, his troubled wakefulness ended, and he fell into adream. He dreamed that in the centre of the world was one green bower, beneatha blossoming tree, and he and Miss Warfield were there. And the outer world wasbeing destroyed, one sphere by fire and the other by flood, and there was onlythis bower left. But they could not stay there, or the tree would die. So theywent away, he to the one side and she to the other, and the ruins of the worldfell upon them, and they saw each other no more.

In the morning hisdelirium left him, and his will resumed its sway. He went down, and out intothe green roads, and listened to the singing of the birds; and then out to thecliff-path, and there he found Miss Warfield sitting as if she knew that hewould come. He watched her pure face while she spoke, and her gray eyes: theclear light of the morning was in them, and on the gleaming seabeyond.

"You must go," said she.

"Yes," he said, and that wasall. He took her hand for one moment, and lifted it lightly to his lips; thenhe turned and took the path across the fields. When he got to the first stile,he looked around. She was still sitting there, turned toward him. He lifted hishat, and held it for a second or two; then he turned the corner of the hedgeand went down to the town.

Thus it happened that this story, which begansadly, with an epitaph, may end with wedding bells:

MARRIED.At King's Chapel, by the Rev. Dr. A——,the 21st of September, Charles Austin Pinckney to Emily, daughter of the lateJames Austin.