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diff --git a/old/67357-0.txt b/old/67357-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ca9cfc2..0000000 --- a/old/67357-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5844 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Missionary Sheriff, by Octave -Thanet - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Missionary Sheriff - Being incidents in the life of a plain man who tried to do his - duty - -Author: Octave Thanet - -Illustrators: A. B. Frost - Clifford Carleton - -Release Date: February 7, 2022 [eBook #67357] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Carlos Colon, the University of California and the Online - Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This - file was produced from images generously made available by - The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF *** - - - - - - -[Illustration: “PICKED UP SOME OF THE SHREDS” [P. 150] - - - - - THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF - BEING - _INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A PLAIN MAN - WHO TRIED TO DO HIS DUTY_ - - BY - OCTAVE THANET - - ILLUSTRATED BY - A. B. FROST AND CLIFFORD CARLETON - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS - 1897 - - Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF 1 - - THE CABINET ORGAN 51 - - HIS DUTY 97 - - THE HYPNOTIST 131 - - THE NEXT ROOM 167 - - THE DEFEAT OF AMOS WICKLIFF 217 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - “PICKED UP SOME OF THE SHREDS” _Frontispiece_ - - “TORE THE LETTER INTO PIECES” _Facing p._ 20 - - THE THANKSGIVING BOX ” 30 - - “SHE PAUSED BEFORE MRS. SMITH’S SECTION” ” 46 - - “SHE LEANED HER SHABBY ELBOWS ON THE GATE” ” 56 - - “‘SOMEBODY THREW THESE THINGS AT OUR WINDOW’” ” 70 - - “‘NOW, BOYS, LET’S COME AND PLAY ON THE ORGAN’” ” 74 - - “‘THEY HAVE ENGAGED _ME_’” ” 94 - - “HARNED HID HIS FACE” ” 116 - - “‘IT WON’T BE SUCH A BIG ONE IF THE DOOR HOLDS’” ” 126 - - “‘SHE MUST LOOK AT IT’” ” 146 - - “‘HE’S SCARED NOW, THE COWARD’” ” 158 - - “‘I’LL ACT AS HIS VALET’” ” 162 - - “‘_I’LL_ GIVE THE KITTY SOMETHING TO EAT’” ” 180 - - THE FAREWELL ” 232 - - - - -THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF - - - - -THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF - - -Sheriff Wickliff leaned out of his office window, the better to watch the -boy soldiers march down the street. The huge pile of stone that is the -presumed home of Justice for the county stands in the same yard with the -old yellow stone jail. The court-house is ornate and imposing, although a -hundred active chimneys daub its eaves and carvings, but the jail is as -plain as a sledge-hammer. Yet during Sheriff Wickliff’s administration, -while Joe Raker kept jail and Mrs. Raker was matron, window-gardens -brightened the grim walls all summer, and chrysanthemums and roses -blazoned the black bars in winter. - -Above the jail the street is a pretty street, with trim cottages and -lawns and gardens; below, the sky-lines dwindle ignobly into shabby one -and two story wooden shops devoted to the humbler handicrafts. It is -not a street favored by processions; only the little soldiers of the -Orphans’ Home Company would choose to tramp over its unkempt macadam. -Good reason they had, too, since thus they passed the sheriff’s office, -and it was the sheriff who had given most of the money for their -uniforms, and their drums and fifes outright. - -A voice at the sheriff’s elbow caused him to turn. - -“Well, Amos,” said his deputy, with Western familiarity, “getting the -interest on your money?” - -Wickliff smiled as he unbent his great frame; he was six feet two inches -in height, with bones and thews to match his stature. A stiff black -mustache, curving about his mouth and lifting as he smiled, made his -white teeth look the whiter. One of the upper teeth was crooked. That -angle had come in an ugly fight (when he was a special officer and -detective) in the Chicago stock-yards, he having to hold a mob at bay, -single-handed, to save the life of a wounded policeman. The scar seaming -his jaw and neck belonged to the time that he captured a notorious gang -of train-robbers. He brought the robbers in—that is, he brought their -bodies; and “That scar was worth three thousand dollars to me,” he was -wont to say. In point of fact it was worth more, because he had invested -the money so advantageously that, thanks to it and the savings which -he had been able to add, in spite of his free hand he was now become a -man of property. The sheriff’s high cheek-bones, straight hair (black -as a dead coal), and narrow black eyes were the arguments for a general -belief that an Indian ancestor lurked somewhere in the foliage of his -genealogical tree. All that people really knew about him was that his -mother died when he was a baby, and his father, about the same time, was -killed in battle, leaving their only child to drift from one reluctant -protector to another, until he brought up in the Soldiers’ Orphans’ Home -of the State. If the sheriff’s eyes were Indian, Indians may have very -gentle eyes. He turned them now on the deputy with a smile. - -“Well, Joe, what’s up?” said he. - -“The lightning-rod feller wants to see you, as soon as you come back to -the jail, he says. And here’s something he dropped as he was going to his -room. Don’t look much like it could be _his_ mother. Must have prigged -it.” - -The sheriff examined the photograph, an ordinary cabinet card. The -portrait was that of a woman, pictured with the relentless frankness -of a rural photographer’s camera. Every sad line in the plain elderly -face, every wrinkle in the ill-fitting silk gown, showed with a brutal -distinctness, and somehow made the picture more pathetic. The woman’s -hair was gray and thin; her eyes, which were dark, looked straight -forward, and seemed to meet the sheriff’s gaze. They had no especial -beauty of form, but they, as well as the mouth, had an expression of -wistful kindliness that fixed his eyes on them for a full minute. He -sighed as he dropped his hand. Then he observed that there was writing on -the reverse side of the carte, and lifted it again to read. - -In a neat cramped hand was written: - - “To Eddy, from Mother. _Feb. 21, 1889._ - - “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face to - shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up - His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.” - -Wickliff put the carte in his pocket. - -“That’s just the kind of mother I’d like to have,” said he; “awful nice -and good, and not so fine she should be ashamed of me. And to think of -_him_!” - -“He’s an awful slick one,” assented the deputy, cordially. “Two years -we’ve been ayfter him. New games all the time; but the lightning-rods -ain’t in it with this last scheme—working hisself off as a Methodist -parson on the road to a job, and stopping all night, and then the runaway -couple happening in, and that poor farmer and his wife so excited and -interested, and of course they’d witness and sign the certificate; wisht -I’d seen them when they found out!” - -“They gave ’em cake and some currant wine, too.” - -“That’s just like women. Say, I didn’t think the girl was much to brag on -for looks—” - -“Got a kinder way with her, though,” Wickliff struck in. “Depend on it, -Joseph, the most dangerous of them all are the homely girls with a way -to them. A man’s off his guard with them; he’s sorry for them not being -pretty, and being so nice and humble; and before he knows it they’re -winding him ’round their finger.” - -“I didn’t know you was so much of a philosopher, Amos,” said the deputy, -admiring him. - -“It ain’t me, Joe; it’s the business. Being a philosopher, I take it, -ain’t much more than seeing things with the paint off; and there’s -nothing like being a detective to get the paint off. It’s a great -business for keeping a man straight, too, seeing the consequences of -wickedness so constantly, especially fool wickedness that gets found -out. Well, Joe, if this lady”—touching his breast pocket—“is that guy’s -mother, I’m awful sorry for her, for I know she tried to train him right. -I’ll go over and find out, I guess.” - -So saying, and quite unconscious of the approving looks of his -subordinate (for he was a simple-minded, modest man, who only spoke out -of the fulness of his heart), the sheriff walked over to the jail. - -The corridor into which the cells of the unconvicted prisoners opened was -rather full to-day. As the sheriff entered, every one greeted him, even -the sullen-browed man talking with a sobbing woman through the bars, and -every one smiled. He nodded to all, but only spoke to the visitor. He -said, “I guess he didn’t do it this time, Lizzie; he won’t be in long.” - -“That’s what I bin tellin’ her,” growled the man, “and she won’t believe -me; I told her I promised you—” - -“And God A’mighty bless you, sheriff, for what you done!” the woman -wailed. The sheriff had some ado to escape from her benedictions -politely; but he got away, and knocked at the door of the last cell on -the tier. The inmate opened the door himself. - -He was a small man, who still was wearing the clerical habit of his -last criminal masquerade; and his face carried out the suggestion of -his costume, being an actor’s face, not only in the clean-shaven cheeks -and lips, but in the flexibility of the features and the unconscious -alertness of gaze. He was fair of skin, and his light-brown hair was -worn off his head at the temples. His eyes were fine, well shaped, of a -beautiful violet color, and an extremely pleasant expression. He looked -like a mere boy across the room in the shadow, but as he advanced, -certain deep lines about his mouth displayed themselves and raised his -age. The sunlight showed that he was thin; he was haggard the instant he -ceased to smile. With a very good manner he greeted the sheriff, to whom -he proffered the sole chair of the apartment. - -“Guess the bed will hold me,” said the sheriff, testing his words by -sitting down on the white-covered iron bedstead. “Well, I hear you wanted -to see me.” - -“Yes, sir. I want to get my money that you took away from me.” - -“Well, I guess you can’t have it.” The sheriff spoke with a smile, but -his black eyes narrowed a little. “I guess the court will have to decide -first if that ain’t old man Goodrich’s money that you got from the note -he supposed was a marriage certificate. I guess you better not put any -hopes on that money, Mr. Paisley. Wasn’t that the name you gave me?” - -“Paisley’ll do,” said the other man, indifferently. “What became of my -friend?” - -“The sheriff of Hardin County wanted the man, and the lady—well, the lady -is here boarding with me.” - -“Going to squeal?” - -“Going to tell all she knows.” - -Paisley’s hand went up to his mouth; he changed color. “It’s like her,” -he muttered—“oh, it’s just like her!” And he added a villanous epithet. - -“None of that talk,” said Wickliff. - -The man had jumped up and was pacing his narrow space, fighting against a -climbing rage. “You see,” he cried, unable to contain himself—“you see, -what makes me so mad is now I’ve got to get my mother to help me—and I’d -rather take a licking!” - -“I should think you would,” said Wickliff, dryly. “Say, this your -mother?” He handed him the photograph, the written side upward. - -“It came in a Bible,” explained Paisley, with an embarrassed air. - -“Your mother rich?” - -“She can raise the money.” - -“Meaning, I expect, that she can mortgage her house and lot. Look here, -Smith, this ain’t the first time your ma has sent you money, but if I was -you I’d have the last time _stay_ the last. She don’t look equal to much -more hard work.” - -“My name’s Paisley, if you please,” returned the prisoner, stolidly, “and -I can take care of my own mother. If she’s lent me money I have paid it -back. This is only for bail, to deposit—” - -“There is the chance,” interrupted Wickliff, “of your skipping. Now, I -tell you, I like the looks of your mother, and I don’t mean she shall run -any risks. So, if you do get money from her, I shall personally look out -you don’t forfeit your bail. Besides, court is in session now, so the -chances are you wouldn’t more than get the money before it would be your -turn. See?” - -“Anyhow I’ve got to have a lawyer.” - -“Can’t see why, young feller. I’ll give you a straight tip. There ain’t -enough law in Iowa to get you out of this scrape. We’ve got the cinch on -you, and there ain’t any possible squirming out.” - -“So you say;” the sneer was a little forced; “I’ve heard of your game -before. Nice, kind officers, ready to advise a man and pump him dry, -and witness against him afterwards. I ain’t that kind of a sucker, Mr. -Sheriff.” - -“Nor I ain’t that kind of an officer, Mr. Smith. You’d ought to know -about my reputation by this time.” - -“They say you’re square,” the prisoner admitted; “but you ain’t so stuck -on me as to care a damn whether I go over the road; expect you’d want -to send me for the trouble I’ve given you,” and he grinned. “Well, what -_are_ you after?” - -“Helping your mother, young feller. I had a mother myself.” - -“It ain’t uncommon.” - -“Maybe a mother like mine—and yours—is, though.” - -The prisoner’s eyes travelled down to the face on the carte. “That’s -right,” he said, with another ring in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind half so -much if I could keep my going to the pen from her. She’s never found out -about me.” - -“How much family you got?” said Wickliff, thoughtfully. - -“Just a mother. I ain’t married. There was a girl, my sister—good sort -too, ’nuff better’n me. She used to be a clerk in the store, type-writer, -bookkeeper, general utility, you know. My position in the first place; -and when I—well, resigned, they gave it to her. She helped mother buy the -place. Two years ago she died. You may believe me or not, but I would -have gone back home then and run straight if it hadn’t been for Mame. -I would, by ⸺! I had five hundred dollars then, and I was going back to -give every damned cent of it to ma, tell her to put it into the bakery—” - -“That how she makes a living?” - -“Yes—little two-by-four bakery—oh, I’m giving you straight goods—makes -pies and cakes and bread—good, too, you bet—makes it herself. Ruth -Graves, who lives round the corner, comes in and helps—keeps the books, -and tends shop busy times; tends the oven too, I guess. She was a great -friend of Ellie’s—and mine. She’s a real good girl. Well, I didn’t get -mother’s letters till it was too late, and I felt bad; I had a mind to go -right down to Fairport and go in with ma. That—_she_ stopped it. Got me -off on a tear somehow, and by the time I was sober again the money was -’most all gone. I sent what was left off to ma, and I went on the road -again myself. But she’s the devil.” - -“That the time you hit her?” - -The prisoner nodded. “Oughtn’t to, of course. Wasn’t brought up that way. -My father was a Methodist preacher, and a good one. But I tell you the -coons that say you never must hit a woman don’t know anything about that -sort of women; there ain’t nothing on earth so infernally exasperating -as a woman. They can mad you worse than forty men.” - -It was the sheriff’s turn to nod, which he did gravely, with even a -glimmer of sympathy in his mien. - -“Well, she never forgave you,” said he; “she’s had it in for you since.” - -“And she knows I won’t squeal, ’cause I’d have to give poor Ben away,” -said the prisoner; “but I tell you, sheriff, she was at the bottom of the -deviltry every time, and she managed to bag the best part of the swag, -too.” - -“I dare say. Well, to come back to business, the question with you is how -to keep these here misfortunes of yours from your mother, ain’t it?” - -“Of course.” - -“Well, the best plan for you is to plead guilty, showing you don’t mean -to give the court any more trouble. Tell the judge you are sick of your -life, and going to quit. You are, ain’t you?” the sheriff concluded, -simply; and the swindler, after an instant’s hesitation, answered: - -“Damned if I won’t, if I can get a job!” - -“Well, that admitted”—the sheriff smoothed his big knees gently as -he talked, his mild attentive eyes fixed on the prisoner’s nervous -presence—“that admitted, best plan is for you to plead guilty, and maybe -we can fix it so’s you will be sentenced to jail instead of the pen. -Then we can keep it from your mother easy. Write her you’ve got a job -here in this town, and have your letters sent to my care. I’ll get you -something to do. She’ll never suspect that you are the notorious Ned -Paisley. And it ain’t likely you go home often enough to make not going -awkward.” - -“I haven’t been home in four years. But see here: how long am I likely to -get?” - -The sheriff looked at him, at the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes and -narrow chest—all so cruelly declared in the sunshine; and unconsciously -he modulated his voice when he spoke. - -“I wouldn’t worry about that, if I was you. You need a rest. You are -run down pretty low. You ain’t rugged enough for the life you’ve been -leading.” - -The prisoner’s eyes strayed past the grating to the green hills and the -pleasant gardens, where some children were playing. The sheriff did not -move. There was as little sensibility in his impassive mask as in a -wooden Indian’s; but behind the trained apathy was a real compassion. He -was thinking. “The boy don’t look like he had a year’s life in him. I bet -he knows it himself. And when he stares that way out of the window he’s -thinking he ain’t never going to be foot-loose in the sun again. Kinder -tough, I call it.” - -The young man’s eyes suddenly met his. “Well, it’s no great matter, I -guess,” said he. “I’ll do it. But I can’t for the life of me make out why -you are taking so much trouble.” - -He was surprised at Wickliff’s reply. It was, “Come on down stairs with -me, and I’ll show you.” - -“You mean it?” - -“Yes; go ahead.” - -“You want my parole not to cut and run?” - -“Just as you like about that. Better not try any fooling.” - -The prisoner uttered a short laugh, glancing from his own puny limbs to -the magnificent muscles of the officer. - -“Straight ahead, after you’re out of the corridor, down-stairs, and turn -to the right,” said Wickliff. - -Silently the prisoner followed his directions, and when they had -descended the stairs and turned to the right, the sheriff’s hand pushed -beneath his elbow and opened the door before them. “My rooms,” said -Wickliff. “Being a single man, it’s handier for me living in the jail.” -The rooms were furnished with the unchastened gorgeousness of a Pullman -sleeper, the brilliant hues of a Brussels carpet on the floor, blue -plush at the windows and on the chairs. The walls were hung with the -most expensive gilt paper that the town could furnish (after all, it -was a modest price per roll), and against the gold, photographs of the -district judges assumed a sinister dignity. There was also a photograph -of the court-house, and one of the jail, and a model in bas-relief of -the Capitol at Des Moines; but more prominent than any of these were two -portraits opposite the windows. They were oil-paintings, elaborately -framed, and they had cost so much that the sheriff rested happily content -that they must be well painted. Certainly the artist had not recorded -impressions; rather he seemed to have worked with a microscope, not -slighting an eyelash. One of the portraits was that of a stiff and stern -young man in a soldier’s uniform. He was dark, and had eyes and features -like the sheriff. The other was the portrait of a young girl. In the -original daguerreotype from which the artist worked the face was comely, -if not pretty, and the innocence in the eyes and the timid smile made it -winning. The artist had enlarged the eyes and made the mouth smaller, -and bestowed (with the most amiable intentions) a complexion of hectic -brilliancy; but there still remained, in spite of paint, a flicker of -the old touching expression. Between the two canvases hung a framed -letter. It was labelled in bold Roman script, “Letter of Capt. R. T. -Manley,” and a glance showed the reader that it was the description of a -battle to a friend. One sentence was underlined. “We also lost Private A. -T. Wickliff, killed in the charge—a good man who could always be depended -on to do his duty.” - -The sheriff guided his bewildered visitor opposite these portraits and -lifted his hand above the other’s shoulder. “You see them?” said he. -“They’re _my_ father and mother. You see that letter? It was wrote by -my father’s old captain and sent to me. What he says about my father is -everything that I know. But it’s enough. He was ‘a good man who could -always be depended on to do his duty.’ You can’t say no more of the -President of the United States. I’ve had a pretty tough time of it in my -own life, as a man’s got to have who takes up my line; but I’ve tried -to live so my father needn’t be ashamed of me. That other picture is my -mother. I don’t know nothing about her, nothing at all; and I don’t need -to—except those eyes of hers. There’s a look someway about your mother’s -eyes like mine. Maybe it’s only the look one good woman has like another; -but whatever it is, your mother made me think of mine. She’s the kind of -mother I’d like to have; and if I can help it, she sha’n’t know her son’s -in the penitentiary. Now come on back.” - -As silently as he had gone, the prisoner followed the sheriff back to his -cell. “Good-bye, Paisley,” said the sheriff, at the door. - -“Good-bye, sir; I’m much obliged,” said the prisoner. Not another word -was said. - -That evening, however, good Mrs. Raker told the sheriff that, to her -mind, if ever a man was struck with death, that new young fellow was; and -he had been crying, too; his eyes were all red. - -“He needs to cry,” was all the comfort that the kind soul received from -the sheriff, the cold remark being accompanied by what his familiars -called his Indian scowl. - -Nevertheless, he did his utmost for the prisoner as a quiet intercessor, -and his merciful prophecy was accomplished—Edgar S. Paisley was permitted -to serve out his sentence in the jail instead of the State prison. His -state of health had something to do with the judge’s clemency, and the -sheriff could not but suspect that, in his own phrase, “Paisley played -his cough and his hollow cheeks for all they were worth.” - -“But that’s natural,” he observed to Raker, “and he’s doing it partially -for the old lady. Well, I’ll try to give her a quiet spell.” - -“Yes,” Raker responds, dubiously, “but he’ll be at his old games the -minute he gits out.” - -“You don’t suppose”—the sheriff speaks with a certain embarrassment—“you -don’t suppose there’d be any chance of really reforming him, so as he’d -stick?—he ain’t likely to live long.” - -“Nah,” says the unbelieving deputy; “he’s a deal too slick to be -reformed.” - -The sheriff’s pucker of his black brows and his slow nod might have meant -anything. Really he was saying to himself (Amos was a dogged fellow): -“Don’t care; I’m going to try. I am sure ma would want me to. I ain’t a -very hefty missionary, but if there is such a thing as clubbing a man -half-way decent, and I think there is, I’ll get him that way. Poor old -lady, she looked so unhappy!” - -During the trial, Paisley was too excited and dejected to write to his -mother. But the day after he received his sentence the sheriff found him -finishing a large sheet of foolscap. - -It contained a detailed and vivid description of the reasons why he had -left a mythical grocery firm, and described with considerable humor the -mythical boarding-house where he was waiting for something to turn up. -It was very well done, and he expected a smile from the sheriff. The red -mottled his pale cheeks when Wickliff, with his blackest frown, tore the -letter into pieces, which he stuffed into his pocket. - -[Illustration: “TORE THE LETTER INTO PIECES”] - -“You take a damned ungentlemanly advantage of your position,” fumed -Paisley. - -“I shall take more advantage of it if you give me any sass,” returned -Wickliff, calmly. “Now set down and listen.” Paisley, after one helpless -glare, did sit down. “I believe you fairly revel in lying. I don’t. -That’s where we differ. I think lies are always liable to come home to -roost, and I like to have the flock as small as possible. Now you write -that you are here, and you’re helping _me_. You ain’t getting much -wages, but they will be enough to keep you—these hard times any job is -better than none. And you can add that you don’t want any money from -her. Your other letter sorter squints like you did. You can say you are -boarding with a very nice lady—that’s Mrs. Raker—everything very clean, -and the table plain but abundant. Address you in care of Sheriff Amos T. -Wickliff. How’s that?” - -Paisley’s anger had ebbed away. Either from policy or some other motive -he was laughing now. “It’s not nearly so interesting in a literary point -of view, you know,” said he, “but I guess it will be easier not to have -so many things to remember. And you’re right; I didn’t mean to hint for -money, but it did look like it.” - -“He did mean to hint,” thought the sheriff, “but he’s got some sense.” -The letter finally submitted was a masterpiece in its way. This time the -sheriff smiled, though grimly. He also gave Paisley a cigar. - -Regularly the letters to Mrs. Smith were submitted to Wickliff. Raker -never thought of reading them. The replies came with a pathetic -promptness. “That’s from your ma,” said Wickliff, when the first letter -came—Paisley was at the jail ledgers in the sheriff’s room, as it -happened, directly beneath the portraits—“you better read it first.” - -Paisley read it twice; then he turned and handed it to the sheriff, with -a half apology. “My mother talks a good deal better than she writes. -Women are naturally interested in petty things, you know. Besides, I used -to be fond of the old dog; that’s why she writes so much about him.” - -“I have a dog myself,” growled the sheriff. “Your mother writes a -beautiful letter.” His eyes were already travelling down the cheap thin -note-paper, folded at the top. “I know,” Mrs. Smith wrote, in her stiff, -careful hand—“I know you will feel bad, Eddy, to hear that dear old -Rowdy is gone. Your letter came the night before he died. Ruth was over, -and I read it out loud to her; and when I came to that part where you -sent your love to him, it seemed like he understood, he wagged his tail -so knowing. You know how fond of you he always was. All that evening he -played round—more than usual—and I’m so glad we both petted him, for in -the morning we found him stiff and cold on the landing of the stairs, in -his favorite place. I don’t think he could have suffered any, he looked -so peaceful. Ruth and I made a grave for him in the garden, under the -white rose tree. Ruth digged the grave, and she painted a Kennedy’s -cracker-box, and we wrapped him up in white cotton cloth. I cried, and -Ruth cried too, when we laid him away. Somehow it made me long so much -more to see you. If I sent you the money, don’t you think you could come -home for Christmas? Wouldn’t your employer let you if he knew your mother -had not seen you for four years, and you are all the child she has got? -But I don’t want you to neglect your business.” - -The few words of affection that followed were not written so firmly as -the rest. The sheriff would not read them; he handed the letter back to -Paisley, and turned his Indian scowl on the back of the latter’s shapely -head. - -Paisley was staring at the columns of the page before him. “Rowdy was -my dog when I was courting Ruth,” he said. “I was engaged to her once. -I suppose mother thinks of that. Poor Rowdy! the night I ran away he -followed me, and I had to whip him back.” - -“Oh, you ran away?” - -“Oh yes; the old story. Trusted clerk. Meant to return the money. It -wasn’t very much. But it about cleaned mother out. Then she started the -bakery.” - -“You pay your ma back?” - -“Yes, I did.” - -“That’s a lie.” - -“What do you ask a man such questions for, then? Do you think it’s -pleasant admitting what a dirty dog you’ve been? Oh, damn you!” - -“You do see it, then,” said the sheriff, in a very pleasant, gentle tone; -“that’s one good thing. For you have _got_ to reform, Ned; I’m going to -give your mother a decent boy. Well, what happened then? Girl throw you -over?” - -“Why, I ran straight for a while,” said Paisley, furtively wiping first -one eye and then the other with a finger; “there wasn’t any scandal. -Ruth stuck by me, and a married sister of hers (who didn’t know) got -her husband to give me a place. I was doing all right, and—and sending -home money to ma, and I would have been all right now, if—if—I hadn’t -met Mame, and she made a crazy fool of me. Then Ruth shook me. Oh, I -ain’t blaming her! It was hearing about Mame. But after that I just went -a-flying to the devil. Now you know why I wanted to see Mame.” - -“You wanted to kill her,” said the sheriff, “or you think you did. But -you couldn’t; she’d have talked you over. Still, I thought I wouldn’t -risk it. You know she’s gone now?” - -“I supposed she’d be, now the trial’s over.” In a minute he added: “I’m -glad I didn’t touch her; mother would have had to know that. Look here; -how am I going to get over that invitation?” - -“I’ll trust you for that lie,” said Wickliff, sauntering off. - -Paisley wrote that he would not take his mother’s money. When he could -come home on his own money he would gladly. He wrote a long affectionate -letter, which the sheriff read, and handed back with the dry comment, -“That will do, I guess.” - -But he gave Paisley a brier-wood pipe and a pound of Yale Mixture that -afternoon. - -The correspondence threw some side-lights on Paisley’s past. - -“You’ve got to write your ma every week,” announced Wickliff, when the -day came round. - -“Why, I haven’t written once a month.” - -“Probably not, but you have got to write once a week now. Your mother’ll -get used to it. I should think you’d be glad to do the only thing you can -for the mother that’s worked her fingers off for you.” - -“I _am_ glad,” said Paisley, sullenly. - -He never made any further demur. He wrote very good letters; and more -and more, as the time passed, he grew interested in the correspondence. -Meanwhile he began to acquire (quite unsuspected by the sheriff) a queer -respect for that personage. The sheriff was popular among the prisoners; -perhaps the general sentiment was voiced by one of them, who exclaimed, -one day, after his visit, “Well, I never did see a man as had killed so -many men put on so little airs!” - -Paisley began his acquaintance with a contempt for the slow-moving -intellect that he attributed to his sluggish-looking captor. He felt -the superiority of his own better education. It was grateful to his -vanity to sneer in secret at Wickliff’s slips in grammar or information. -And presently he had opportunity to indulge his humor in this respect, -for Wickliff began lending him books. The jail library, as a rule, -was managed by Mrs. Raker. She was, she used to say, “a great reader,” -and dearly loved “a nice story that made you cry all the way through -and ended right.” Her taste was catholic in fiction (she never read -anything else), and her favorites were Mrs. Southworth, Charles Dickens, -and Walter Scott. The sheriff’s own reading seldom strayed beyond the -daily papers, but with the aid of a legal friend he had selected some -standard biographies and histories to add to the singular conglomeration -of fiction and religion sent to the jail by a charitable public. On -Paisley’s request for reading, the sheriff went to Mrs. Raker. She -promptly pulled _Ishmael Worth, or Out of the Depths_, from the shelf. -“It’s beautiful,” says she, “and when he gits through with that he can -have the _Pickwick Papers_ to cheer him up. Only I kinder hate to lend -that book to the prisoners; there’s so much about good eatin’ in it, it -makes ’em dissatisfied with the table.” - -“He’s got to have something improving, too,” says the sheriff. “I guess -the history of the United States will do; you’ve read the others, and -know they’re all right. I’ll run through this.” - -He told Paisley the next morning that he had sat up almost all night -reading, he was so afraid that enough of the thirteen States wouldn’t -ratify the Constitution. This was only one of the artless comments that -tickled Paisley. Yet he soon began to notice the sheriff’s keenness of -observation, and a kind of work-a-day sense that served him well. He fell -to wondering, during those long nights when his cough kept him awake, -whether his own brilliant and subtle ingenuity had done as much for him. -He could hardly tell the moment of its beginning, but he began to value -the approval of this big, ignorant, clumsy, strong man. - -Insensibly he grew to thinking of conduct more in the sheriff’s fashion; -and his letters not only reflected the change in his moral point of -view, they began to have more and more to say of the sheriff. Very soon -the mother began to be pathetically thankful to this good friend of her -boy, whose habits were so correct, whose influence so admirable. In her -grateful happiness over the frequent letters and their affection were -revealed the unexpressed fears that had tortured her for years. She asked -for Wickliff’s picture. Paisley did not know that the sheriff had a -photograph taken on purpose. Mrs. Smith pronounced him “a handsome man.” -To be sure, the unscarred side of his face was taken. “He looks firm, -too,” wrote the poor mother, whose own boy had never known how to be -firm; “I think he must be a Daniel.” - -“A which?” exclaimed the puzzled Daniel. - -“Didn’t you ever go to Sunday-school? Don’t you know the verses, - - “‘Dare to be a Daniel; - Dare to make a stand’?” - -The sheriff’s reply was enigmatical. It was: “Well, to think of you -having such a mother as that!” - -“I don’t deserve her, that’s a fact,” said Paisley, with his flippant -air. “And yet, would you believe it, I used to be the model boy of the -Sunday-school. Won all the prizes. Ma’s got them in a drawer.” - -“Dare say. They thought you were a awful good boy, because you always -kept your face clean and brushed your hair without being told to, and -learned your lessons quick, and always said ‘Yes, ’m,’ and ‘No, ’m,’ and -when you got into a scrape lied out of it, and picked up bad habits as -easy and quiet as a long-haired dog catches fleas. Oh, I know your sort -of model boy! We had ’em at the Orphans’ Home; I’ve taken their lickings, -too.” - -Paisley’s thin face was scarlet before the speech was finished. “Some of -that is true,” said he; “but at least I never hit a fellow when he was -down.” - -The sheriff narrowed his eyes in a way that he had when thinking; he put -both hands in his pockets and contemplated Paisley’s irritation. “Well, -young feller, you have some reason to talk that way to me,” said he. “The -fact is, I was mad at you, thinking about your mother. I—I respect that -lady very highly.” - -Paisley forced a feeble smile over his “So do I.” - -But after this episode the sheriff’s manner visibly softened to the young -man. He told Raker that there were good spots in Paisley. - -“Yes, he’s mighty slick,” said Raker. - -Thanksgiving-time, a box from his mother came to the prisoner, and among -the pies and cakes was an especial pie for Mr. Wickliff, “From his -affectionate old friend, Rebecca Smith.” - -[Illustration: THE THANKSGIVING BOX] - -The sheriff spent fully two hours communing with a large new _Manual of -Etiquette and Correspondence_; then he submitted a letter to Paisley. -Paisley read: - - “DEAR MADAM,—Your favor (of the pie) of the 24th inst. is - received and I beg you to accept my sincere and warm thanks. - Ned is an efficient clerk and his habits are very correct. We - are reading history, in our leisure hours. We have read Fisk’s - Constitutional History of the United States and two volumes of - Macaulay’s History of England. Both very interesting books. - I think that Judge Jeffreys was the meanest and worst judge - I ever heard of. My early education was not as extensive as - I could wish, and I am very glad of the valuable assistance - which I receive from your son. He is doing well and sends his - love. Hoping, my dear Madam, to be able to see you and thank - you personally for your very kind and welcome gift, I am, with - respect, - - “Very Truly Yours, - - “AMOS T. WICKLIFF.” - -Paisley read the letter soberly. In fact, another feeling destroyed any -inclination to smile over the unusual pomp of Wickliff’s style. “That’s -out of sight!” he declared. “It will please the old lady to the ground. -Say, I take it very kindly of you, Mr. Wickliff, to write about me that -way.” - -“I had a book to help me,” confessed the flattered sheriff. “And—say, -Paisley, when you are writing about me to your ma, you better say -Wickliff, or Amos. Mr. Wickliff sounds kinder stiff. I’ll understand.” - -The letter that the sheriff received in return he did not show to -Paisley. He read it with a knitted brow, and more than once he brushed -his hand across his eyes. When he finished it he drew a long sigh, and -walked up to his mother’s portrait. “She says she prays for me every -night, ma”—he spoke under his breath, and reverently. “Ma, I simply have -_got_ to save that boy for her, haven’t I?” - -That evening Paisley rather timidly approached a subject which he had -tried twice before to broach, but his courage had failed him. “You said -something, Mr. Wickliff, of paying me a little extra for what I do, -keeping the books, etc. Would you mind telling me what it will be? I—I’d -like to send a Christmas present to my mother.” - -“That’s right,” said the sheriff, heartily. “I was thinking what would -suit her. How’s a nice black dress, and a bill pinned to it to pay for -making it up?” - -“But I never—” - -“You can pay me when you get out.” - -“Do you think I’ll ever get out?” Paisley’s fine eyes were fixed on -Wickliff as he spoke, with a sudden wistful eagerness. He had never -alluded to his health before, yet it had steadily failed. Now he would -not let Amos answer; he may have flinched from any confirmation of his -own fears; he took the word hastily. “Anyhow, you’ll risk my turning out -a bad investment. But you’ll do a damned kind action to my mother; and -if I’m a rip, she’s a saint.” - -“_Sure_,” said the sheriff. “Say, do you think she’d mind my sending her -a hymn-book and a few flowers?” - -Thus it came to pass that the tiny bakery window, one Christmas-day, -showed such a crimson glory of roses as the village had never seen; and -the widow Smith, bowing her shabby black bonnet on the pew rail, gave -thanks and tears for a happy Christmas, and prayed for her son’s friend. -She prayed for her son also, that he might “be kept good.” She felt that -her prayer would be answered. God knows, perhaps it was. - -That night before she went to bed she wrote to Edgar and to Amos. “I am -writing to both my boys,” she said to Amos, “for I feel like _you_ were -my dear son too.” - -When Amos answered this letter he did not consult the Manual. It was -one day in January, early in the month, that he received the first bit -of encouragement for his missionary work palpable enough to display -to the scoffer Raker. Yet it was not a great thing either; only this: -Paisley (already half an hour at work in the sheriff’s room) stopped, -fished from his sleeve a piece of note-paper folded into the measure of a -knife-blade, and offered it to the sheriff. - -“See what Mame sent me,” said he; “just read it.” - -There was a page of it, the purport being that the writer had done what -she had through jealousy, which she knew now was unfounded; she was -suffering indescribable agonies from remorse; and, to prove she meant -what she said, if her darling Ned would forgive her she would get him out -before a week was over. If he agreed he was to be at his window at six -o’clock Wednesday night. The day was Thursday. - -“How did you get this?” asked Amos. “Do you mind telling?” - -“Not the least. It came in a coat. From Barber & Glasson’s. The one Mrs. -Raker picked out for me, and it was sent up from the store. She got at it -somehow, I suppose.” - -“But how did you get word where to look?” - -Paisley grinned. “Mame was here, visiting that fellow who was taken up -for smashing a window, and pretended he was so hungry he had to have a -meal in jail. Mame put him up to it, so she could come. She gave me the -tip where to look then.” - -“I see. I got on to some of those signals once. Well, did you show -yourself Wednesday?” - -“Not much!” He hesitated, and did not look at the sheriff, scrawling -initials on the blotting-pad with his pen. “Did you really think, Mr. -Wickliff, after all you’ve done for me—and my mother—I would go back on -you and get you into trouble for that—” - -“’S-sh! Don’t call names!” Wickliff looked apprehensively at the picture -of his mother. “Why didn’t you give me this before?” - -“Because you weren’t here till this morning. I wasn’t going to give it to -Raker.” - -“What do you suppose she’s after?” - -“Oh, she’s got some big scheme on foot, and she needs me to work it. I’m -sick of her. I’m sick of the whole thing. I want to run straight. I want -to be the man my poor mother thinks I am.” - -“And I want to help you, Ned,” cried the sheriff. For the first time he -caught the other’s hand and wrung it. - -“I guess the Lord wants to help me too,” said Paisley, in a queer dry -tone. - -“Why—yes—of course he wants to help all of us,” said the sheriff, -embarrassed. Then he frowned, and his voice roughened as he asked, “What -do you mean by that?” - -“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Paisley, smiling; “you’ve always known -it. It’s been getting worse lately. I guess I caught cold. Some mornings -I have to stop two or three times when I dress myself, I have such fits -of coughing.” - -“Why didn’t you tell, and go to the hospital?” - -“I wanted to come down here. It’s so pleasant down here.” - -“Good—” The sheriff reined his tongue in time, and only said, “Look here, -you’ve got to see a doctor!” - -Therefore the encouragement to the missionary work was embittered by -divers conflicting feelings. Even Raker was disturbed when the doctor -announced that Paisley had pneumonia. - -“Double pneumonia and a slim chance, of course,” gloomed Raker. “Always -so. Can’t have a man git useful and be a little decent, but he’s got to -die! Why couldn’t it ’a’ been that tramp tried to set the jail afire?” - -“What I’m a-thinking of is his poor ma, who used to write him such -beautiful letters,” said Mrs. Raker, wiping her kind eyes. “They was so -attached. Never a week he didn’t write her.” - -“It’s his mother I’m thinking of, too,” said the sheriff, with a groan; -“she’ll be wanting to come and see him, and how in—” He swallowed an -agitated oath, and paced the floor, his hands clasped behind him, his lip -under his teeth, and his blackest Indian scowl on his brow—plain signs -to all who knew him that he was fighting his way through some mental -thicket. - -But he had never looked gentler than he looked an hour later, as he -stepped softly into Paisley’s cell. Mrs. Raker was holding a foaming -glass to the sick man’s lips. “There; take another sup of the good nog,” -she said, coaxingly, as one talks to a child. - -“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Paisley. “Queer how I’ve thought so often -how I’d like the taste of whiskey again on my tongue, and now I can have -all I want, I don’t care a hooter!” - -His voice was rasped in the chords, and he caught his breath between his -sentences. Forty-eight hours had made an ugly alteration in his face; the -eyes were glassy, the features had shrunken in an indescribable, ghastly -way, and the fair skin was of a yellowish pallor, with livid circles -about the eyes and the open mouth. - -Wickliff greeted him, assuming his ordinary manner. They shook hands. - -“There’s one thing, Mr. Wickliff,” said Paisley: “you’ll keep this from -my mother. She’d worry like blazes, and want to come here.” - -There was a photograph on the table, propped up by books; the sheriff’s -hand was on it, and he moved it, unconsciously: “‘To Eddy, from Mother. -The Lord bless and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, -and be gracious unto thee—’” Wickliff cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t -know, Ned,” he said, cheerfully; “maybe that would be a good thing—kind -of brace you up and make you get well quicker.” - -Mrs. Raker noticed nothing in his voice; but Paisley rolled his eyes -on the impassive face in a strange, quivering, searching look; then he -closed them and feebly turned his head. - -“Don’t you want me to telegraph? Don’t you want to see her?” - -Some throb of excitement gave Paisley the strength to lift himself up -on the pillows. “What do you want to rile me all up for?” His voice -was almost a scream. “Want to see her? It’s the only thing in this -damned fool world I do want! But I can’t have her know; it would kill -her to know. You must make up some lie about it’s being diphtheria and -awful sudden, and no time for her to come, and have me all out of the -way before she gets here. You’ve been awful good to me, and you can do -anything you like; it’s the last I’ll bother you—don’t let her find out!” - -“For the land’s sake!” sniffed Mrs. Raker, in tears—“don’t she know?” - -“No, ma’am, she don’t; and she never will, either,” said the sheriff. -“There, Ned, boy, you lay right down. I’ll fix it. And you shall see her, -too. I’ll fix it.” - -“Yes, he’ll fix it. Amos will fix it. Don’t you worry,” sobbed Mrs. -Raker, who had not the least idea how the sheriff could arrange matters, -but was just as confident that he would as if the future were unrolled -before her gaze. - -The prisoner breathed a long deep sigh of relief, and patted the strong -hand at his shoulder. And Amos gently laid him back on the pillows. - -Before nightfall Paisley was lying in Amos Wickliff’s own bed, while -Amos, at his side, was critically surveying both chamber and parlor under -half-closed eyelids. He was trying to see them with the eyes of the -elderly widow of a Methodist minister. - -“Hum—yes!” The result of the survey was, on the whole, satisfactory. “All -nice, high-toned, first-class pictures. Nothing to shock a lady. Liquors -all put away, ’cept what’s needed for him. Pops all put away, so she -won’t be finding one and be killing herself, thinking it’s not loaded. My -bed moved in here comfortable for him, because he thought it was such a -pleasant room, poor boy. Another bed in my room for her. Bath-room next -door, hot and cold water. Little gas stove. Trained nurse who doesn’t -know anything, and so can’t tell. Thinks it’s my friend Smith. _Is_ there -anything else?” - -At this moment the white counterpane on the bed stirred. - -“Well, Ned?” said Wickliff. - -“It’s—nice!” said Paisley. - -“That’s right. Now you get a firm grip on what I’m going to say—such a -grip you won’t lose it, even if you get out of your head a little.” - -“I won’t,” said Paisley. - -“All right. You’re not Paisley any more. You’re Ned Smith. I’ve had you -moved here into my rooms because your boarding-place wasn’t so good. -Everybody here understands, and has got their story ready. The nurse -thinks you’re my friend Smith. You are, too, and you are to call me Amos. -The telegram’s gone. ’S-sh!—what a way to do!”—for Paisley was crying. -“Ain’t I her boy too?” - -One weak place remained in the fortress that Amos had builded against -prying eyes and chattering tongues. He had searched in vain for “Mame.” -There was no especial reason, except pure hatred and malice, to dread her -going to Paisley’s mother, but the sheriff had enough knowledge of Mame’s -kind to take these qualities into account. - -From the time that Wickliff promised him that he should have his -mother, Paisley seemed to be freed from every misgiving. He was too -ill to talk much, and much of the time he was miserably occupied with -his own suffering; yet often during the night and day before she came -he would lift his still beautiful eyes to Mrs. Raker’s and say, “It’s -to-morrow night ma comes, isn’t it?” To which the soft-hearted woman -would sometimes answer, “Yes, son,” and sometimes only work her chin and -put her handkerchief to her eyes. Once she so far forgot the presence -of the gifted professional nurse that she sniffed aloud, whereupon that -personage administered a scorching tonic, in the guise of a glance, and -poor Mrs. Raker went out of the room and cried. - -He must have kept some reckoning of the time, for the next day he varied -his question. He said, “It’s to-day she’s coming, isn’t it?” As the day -wore on, the customary change of his disease came: he was relieved of -his worst pain; he thought that he was better. So thought Mrs. Raker -and the sheriff. The doctor and the nurse maintained their inscrutable -professional calm. At ten o’clock the sheriff (who had been gone for a -half-hour) softly opened the door. The sick man instantly roused. He half -sat up. “I know,” he exclaimed; “it’s ma. Ma’s come!” - -The nurse rose, ready to protect her patient. - -There entered a little, black-robed, gray-haired woman, who glided swift -as a thought to the bedside, and gathered the worn young head to her -breast. “My boy, my dear, good boy!” she said, under her breath, so low -the nurse did not hear her; she only heard her say, “Now you must get -well.” - -“Oh, I _am_ glad, ma!” said the sick man. - -After that the nurse was well content with them all. They obeyed her -implicitly. It was she rather than Mrs. Raker who observed that Mr. -Smith’s mother was not alone, but accompanied by a slim, fair, brown-eyed -young woman, who lingered in the background, and would fain have not -spoken to the invalid at all had she not been gently pushed forward by -the mother, with the words, “And Ruth came too, Eddy!” - -“Thank you, Ruth; I knew that you wouldn’t let ma come alone,” said Ned, -feebly. - -The young woman had opened her lips. Now they closed. She looked at him -compassionately. “Surely not, Ned,” she said. - -But why, wondered the nurse, who was observant—it was her trade to -observe—why did she look at him so intently, and with such a shocked pity? - -Ned did not express much—the sick, especially the very sick, cannot; but -whenever he waked in the night and saw his mother bending over him he -smiled happily, and she would answer his thought. “Yes, my boy; my dear, -good boy,” she would say. - -And the sheriff in his dim corner thought sadly that the ruined life -would always be saved for her now, and her son would be her good boy -forever. Yet he muttered to himself, “I suppose the Lord is helping me -out, and I ought to feel obliged, but I’m hanged if I wouldn’t rather -take the chances and have the boy get well!” - -But he knew all the time that there was no hope for Ned’s life. He -lived three days after his mother came. The day before his death he was -alone for a short time with the sheriff, and asked him to be good to -his mother. “Ruth will be good to her too,” he said; “but last night I -dreamed Mame was chasing mother, and it scared me. You won’t let her get -at mother, will you?” - -“Of course I won’t,” said the sheriff; “we’re watching your mother every -minnit; and if that woman comes here, Raker has orders to clap her in -jail. And I will always look out for your ma, Ned, and she never shall -know.” - -“That’s good,” said Ned, in his feeble voice. “I’ll tell you something: -I always wanted to be good, but I was always bad; but I believe I would -have been decent if I’d lived, because I’d have kept close to you. You’ll -be good to ma—and to Ruth?” - -The sheriff thought that he had drifted away and did not hear the answer, -but in a few moments he opened his eyes and said, brightly, “Thank you, -Amos.” It was the first time that he had used the other man’s Christian -name. - -“Yes, Ned,” said the sheriff. - -Next morning at daybreak he died. His mother was with him. Just before he -went to sleep his mind wandered a little. He fancied that he was a little -boy, and that he was sick, and wanted to say his prayers to his mother. -“But I’m so sick I can’t get out of bed,” said he. “God won’t mind my -saying them in bed, will He?” Then he folded his hands, and reverently -repeated the childish rhyme, and so fell into a peaceful sleep, which -deepened into peace. In this wise, perhaps, were answered many prayers. - -Amos made all the arrangements the next day. He said that they were going -home from Fairport on the day following, but he managed to conclude -all the necessary legal formalities in time to take the evening train. -Once on the train, and his companions in their sections, he drew a long -breath. - -“It may not have been Mame that I saw,” he said, taking out his -cigar-case on the way to the smoking-room; “it was merely a glimpse—she -in a buggy, me on foot; and it may be she wouldn’t do a thing or think -the game worth blackmail; but I don’t propose to run any chances in this -deal. Hullo—excuse me, miss!” - -The last words were uttered aloud to Ruth Graves, who had touched him on -the arm. He had a distinct admiration for this young woman, founded on -the grounds that she cried very quietly, that she never was underfoot, -and that she was so unobtrusively kind to Mrs. Smith. - -“Anything I can do?” he began, with genuine willingness. - -She motioned him to take a seat. “Mrs. Smith is safe in her section,” she -said; “it isn’t that. I wanted to speak to you. Mr. Wickliff, Ned told me -how it was. He said he couldn’t die lying to everybody, and he wanted me -to know how good you were. I am perfectly safe, Mr. Wickliff,” as a look -of annoyance puckered the sheriff’s brow. “He told me there was a woman -who might some time try to make money out of his mother if she could find -her, and I was to watch. Mr. Wickliff, was she rather tall and slim, with -a fine figure?” - -“Yes—dark-complected rather, and has a thin face and a largish nose.” - -“And one of her eyes is a little droopy, and she has a gold filling in -her front tooth? Mr. Wickliff, that woman got on this train.” - -“She did, did she?” said the sheriff, showing no surprise. “Well, my dear -young lady, I’m very much obliged to you. I will attend to the matter. -Mrs. Smith sha’n’t be disturbed.” - -“Thank you,” said the young woman; “that’s all. Good-night!” - -“You might know that girl had had a business education,” the sheriff -mused—“says what she’s got to say, and moves on. Poor Ned! poor Ned!” - -Ruth went to her section, but she did not undress. She sat behind the -curtains, peering through the opening at Mrs. Smith’s section opposite, -or at the lower berth next hers, which was occupied by the sheriff. The -curtains were drawn there also, and presently she saw him disappear by -sections into their shelter. Then his shoes were pushed partially into -the aisle. Empty shoes. She waited; it could not be that he was really -going to sleep. But the minutes crept by; a half-hour passed; no sign of -life behind his curtains. An hour passed. At the farther end of the car -curtains parted, and a young woman slipped out of her berth. She was -dark and not handsome, but an elegant shape and a modish gown made her -attractive-looking. One of her eyelids drooped a little. - -[Illustration: “SHE PAUSED BEFORE MRS. SMITH’S SECTION”] - -She walked down the aisle and paused before Mrs. Smith’s section, Ruth -holding her breath. She looked at the big shoes on the floor, her lip -curling. Then she took the curtains of Mrs. Smith’s section in both hands -and put her head in. - -“I must stop her!” thought Ruth. But she did not spring out. The sheriff, -fully dressed, was beside the woman, and an arm of iron deliberately -turned her round. - -“The game’s up, Mamie,” said Wickliff. - -She made no noise, only looked at him. - -“What are you going to do?” said she, with perfect composure. - -“Arrest you if you make a racket, talk to you if you don’t. Go into that -seat.” He indicated a seat in the rear, and she took it without a word. -He sat near the aisle; she was by the window. - -“I suppose you mean to sit here all night,” she remarked, scornfully. - -“Not at all,” said he; “just to the next place. Then you’ll get out.” - -“Oh, will I?” - -“You will. Either you will get out and go about your business, or you -will get out and be taken to jail.” - -“We’re smart. What for?” - -“For inciting prisoners to escape.” - -“Ned’s dead,” with a sneer. - -“Yes, he’s dead, and”—he watched her narrowly, although he seemed -absorbed in buttoning his coat—“they say he haunts his old cell, as if -he’d lost something. Maybe it’s the letter you folded up small enough to -go in the seam of a coat. I’ve got that.” He saw that she was watching -him in turn, and that she was nervous. “Ned’s dead, poor fellow, true -enough; but—the girl at Barber & Glasson’s ain’t dead.” - -She began to fumble with her gloves, peeling them off and rolling them -into balls. He thought to himself that the chances were that she was -superstitious. - -“Look here,” he said, sharply, “have an end of this nonsense; you get off -at the next place, and never bother that old lady again, or—I will have -you arrested, and you can try for yourself whether Ned’s cell is haunted.” - -For a brief space they eyed each other, she in an access of impotent -rage, he stolid as the carving of the seat. The car shivered; the great -wheels moved more slowly. “Decide,” said he; not imperatively—dryly, -without emotion of any sort. He kept his mild eyes on her. - -“It wasn’t his mother I meant to tell; it was that girl—that _nice_ girl -he wanted to marry—” - -“You make me tired,” said the sheriff. “Are you going, or am I to make a -scene and take you? I don’t care much.” - -She slipped her hand behind her into her pocket. - -The sheriff laughed, and grasped one wrist. - -“_I_ don’t want to talk to the country fools,” she snapped. - -“This way,” said the sheriff, guiding her. The train had stopped. She -laughed as he politely handed her off the platform; the next moment the -wheels were turning again and she was gone. He never saw her again. - -The porter came out to stand by his side in the vestibule, watching the -lights of the station race away and the darkling winter fields fly past. -The sheriff was well known to him; he nodded an eager acquiescence to the -officer’s request: “If those ladies in 8 and 9 ask you any questions, -just tell them it was a crazy woman getting the wrong section, and I took -care of her.” - -Within the car a desolate mother wept the long night through, yet thanked -God amid her tears for her son’s last good days, and did not dream of the -blacker sorrow that had menaced her and had been hurled aside. - - - - -THE CABINET ORGAN - - - - -THE CABINET ORGAN - - -It was a June day. Not one of those perfervid June days that simulate -the heat of July, and try to show the corn what June can do, but one of -Shakespeare’s lovely and temperate days, just warm enough to unfurl the -rose petals of the Armstrong rose-trees and ripen the grass flowers in -the Beaumonts’ unmowed yard. - -The Beaumonts lived in the north end of town, at the terminus of the -street-car line. They did not live in the suburbs because they liked -space and country air, nor in order to have flowers and a kitchen-garden -of their own, like the Armstrongs opposite, but because the rent was -lower. The Beaumonts were very poor and very proud. The Armstrongs were -neither poor nor proud. Joel Armstrong, the head of the family, owned the -comfortable house, with its piazzas and bay-windows, the small stable -and the big yard. There was a yard enclosed in poultry-netting, and a -pasture for the cow, and the elderly family horse that had picked up so -amazingly under the influence of good living and kindness that no one -would suspect how cheaply the car company had sold him. - -Armstrong was the foreman of a machine-shop. Every morning at half-past -six Pauline Beaumont, who rose early, used to see him board the -street-car in his foreman’s clothes, which differs from working-men’s -clothes, though only in a way visible to the practised observer. He -always was smoking a short pipe, and he usually was smiling. Mrs. -Armstrong was a comely woman, who had a great reputation in the -neighborhood as a cook and a nurse. In the family were three boys—if one -can call the oldest a boy, who was a young carpenter, just this very day -setting up for master-builder. The second boy was fifteen, and in the -high-school, and the youngest was ten. There were no daughters; but for -helper Mrs. Armstrong had a stout young Swede, who was occasionally seen -by the Beaumonts hiding broken pieces of glass or china in a convenient -ravine. The Beaumont house was much smaller than the Armstrongs’, nor was -it in such admirable repair and paint; but then, as Henriette Beaumont -was used to say, “_They_ had not a carpenter in the family.” - -It will be seen that the Beaumonts held themselves very high above the -Armstrongs. They could not forget that twenty-five years ago their father -had been Lieutenant-Governor, and they had been accounted rich people in -the little Western city. Father and fortune had been lost long since. -They were poor, obscure, working hard for a livelihood; but they still -kept their pride, which only increased as their visible consequence -diminished. Nevertheless, Pauline often looked wistfully across at the -Armstrongs’ little feasts and fun, and always walked home on their side -of the street. Pauline was the youngest and least proud of the Beaumonts. - -To-day, as usual, she came down the street, past the neat low fence of -the Armstrongs; but instead of passing, merely glancing in at the lawn -and the house, she stopped; she leaned her shabby elbows on the gate, -where she could easily see the dining-room and sniff the savory odors -floating from the kitchen. “Oh, doesn’t it smell good?” she murmured. -“Chickens fried, and new potatoes, and a strawberry shortcake. They have -such a nice garden.” She caught her breath in a mirthless laugh. “How -absurd I am! I feel like staying here and smelling the whole supper! -Yesterday they had waffles, and the day before beefsteak—such lovely, -hearty things!” - -She was a tall girl, too thin for her height, with a pretty carriage and -a delicate irregular face, too colorless and tired for beauty, but not -for charm. Her skin was fine and clear, and her brown hair very soft. -Her gray eyes were alight with interest as she watched the finishing -touches given the table, which was spread with a glossy white cloth, and -had a bowl of June roses in the centre. Mrs. Armstrong, in a new dimity -gown and white apron, was placing a great platter of golden sponge-cake -on the board. She looked up and saw Pauline. The girl could invent no -better excuse for her scrutiny (which had such an air of prying) than to -drop her head as if in faintness—an excuse, indeed, suggested by her own -feelings. In a minute Mrs. Armstrong had stepped through the bay-window -and was on the other side of the fence, listening with vivid sympathy to -Pauline’s shamefaced murmur: “Excuse me, but I feel so ill!” - -“It’s a rush of blood to the head,” cried Mrs. Armstrong, all the -instincts of a nurse aroused. “Come right in; you mustn’t think of going -home. Land! you’ll like as not faint before I can get over to you. Hold -on to the fence if you feel things swimming!” - -[Illustration: “SHE LEANED HER SHABBY ELBOWS ON THE GATE”] - -Pauline, in her confusion, grew red and redder, while, despite -inarticulate protestations, she was propelled into the house and on to a -large lounge. - -“Lay your head back,” commanded the nurse, appearing with an -ammonia-bottle in one hand and a fan in the other. - -“It’s nothing—nothing at all,” gasped Pauline, between shame and the -fumes of ammonia. “The day was a little warm, and I walked home, and I -was so busy I ate no lunch”—as if that were a change from her habits—“and -all at once I felt faint. But I’m all right now.” - -“Well, I don’t _wonder_ you’re faint,” cried Mrs. Armstrong; “you -oughtn’t to do that way. Now you just got to lie still—— Oh, that’s only -Ikey. Ikey, you get a glass of wine for this lady; it’s Miss Beaumont.” - -The tall young man in the gray suit and the blue flannel shirt blushed a -little under his sunburn as he bowed. “Pleased to meet you, miss,” said -he, promptly, before he disappeared. - -“This is a great day for us,” continued the mother, releasing the -ammonia from duty, and beginning to fan vigorously. “Ike has set up as -master-builder—only two men, and he does most of the work; but he’s got -a house all to himself, and the chance of some bigger ones. We’re having -a little celebration. You must excuse the paper on the lounge; I put it -down when we unpacked the organ.” - -“Oh, did the organ come?” said the son. - -“It surely did, and we’ve played on it already.” - -“Why, did you get the music? Was it in the box, too?” - -“Oh, we ’ain’t played _tunes_; we just have been trying it—like to see -how it goes. It’s got an awful sweet sound.” - -“And you ought to hear me play a tune on it, ma.” - -“You! For the land’s sake!” - -“Yes, me—that never did play a tune in my life. Anybody can play on -that organ.” He turned politely to Pauline, as to include her in the -conversation. “You see, Miss Beaumont, we’re a musical family that can’t -sing. We can’t, as they say, carry a tune to save our immortal souls. -The trouble isn’t with the voice; it’s with our ears. We can hear well -enough, too, but we haven’t an ear for music. I took lessons once, trying -to learn to sing, but the teacher finally braced up to tell me that he -hadn’t the conscience to take my money. ‘What’s the matter?’ says I. -‘You’ve lots of voice,’ says he, ‘but you haven’t a mite of ear.’ ‘Can’t -anybody teach me to sing?’ says I. ‘Not unless they hypnotize you, like -Trilby,’ says he. So I gave it up. But next I thought I would learn to -play; for if there’s one thing ma and the boys and I all love, it’s -music. And just then, as luck would have it, this teacher wanted to sell -his cabinet organ, which is in perfect shape and a fine instrument. And I -was craving to buy it, but I knew it was ridiculous, when none of us can -play. But I kept thinking. Finally it came to me. I had seen those zither -things with numbers on them; why couldn’t he paint numbers on the keys of -the organ just that way, and make music to correspond? And that’s just -the way we’ve done. You’re very musical. I—I’ve often listened to your -playing. What do you think of it?” He looked at her wistfully. - -“I think it very ingenious—very,” said Pauline. She had risen now, and -she thanked Mrs. Armstrong, and said she must go home. In truth, she was -in a panic at the thought of what she had done. Henriette never would -understand. Her heart beat guiltily all the way home. - -There were three Beaumonts—Henriette, Mysilla, and Pauline. Henriette -and Mysilla were twins, who had dressed alike from childhood’s hour, -although Mysilla was very plain, a colorless blonde, of small stature -and painfully thin, while Henriette was tall, with a stately figure and -a handsome dark face that would have looked well on a Roman coin. Yet -Henriette was a woman of good taste, and she spent many a night trying -to decide on a gown which would suit equally well Mysie’s fair head and -her glossy black one. Both the black and the brown head were gray now, -but they still wore frocks and hats alike. Henriette held that it was the -hall-mark of a good family to clothe twins alike, and Henriette did not -have her Roman features for nothing. Mysilla had always adored and obeyed -Henriette. She gloried in Henriette’s haughty beauty and grace, and she -was as proud of both now that Henriette was a shabby elderly woman, who -had to wear dyed gowns and darned gloves, as in the days when she was -the belle of the Iowa capital, and poor Jim Perley fought a duel with -Captain Sayre over a misplaced dance on her ball-card. Henriette promised -to marry Jim after the duel, but Jim died of pneumonia that very week. -For Jim’s sake, John Perley, his brother, was good to the girls. Pauline -was a baby when her father died. She never remembered the days of pomp, -only the lean days of adversity. John Perley obtained a clerkship for -her in a music-store. Henriette gave music lessons. She was a brilliant -musician, but she criticised her pupils precisely as she would have done -any other equally stupid performers, and her pupils’ parents did not -always love the truth. Mysilla took in plain sewing, as the phrase goes. -She sometimes (since John Perley had given them a sewing-machine) made as -much as four dollars a week. They invariably paid their rent in advance, -and when they had not money to buy enough to eat they went hungry. They -never cared to know their neighbors, and Pauline cringed as she imaged -Henriette’s sarcasms had she seen her sister drinking the Armstrongs’ -California port. Henriette had stood in the hall corner and waved Pauline -fiercely and silently away while the unconscious Mrs. Armstrong thumped -at the broken bell outside, and at last departed, remarking, “Well, they -must be gone, or _dead_!” - -Therefore rather timidly Pauline opened the door of the little room -that was both parlor and dining-room. Any one could see that the room -belonged to people who loved music. The old-fashioned grand-piano was -under protection of busts of Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner; and Mysie’s -violin stood in the corner, near a bookcase full of musical biographies. -An air of exquisite neatness was like an aroma of lavender in the room, -and with it was fused a prim good taste, such as might properly belong -to gentlewomen who had learned the household arts when the rule of three -was sacred, and every large ornament must be attended by a smaller one -on either side. And an observer of a gentle mind, furthermore, might -have found a kind of pathos in the shabbiness of it all; for everything -fine was worn and faded, and everything new was coarse. The portrait of -the Lieutenant-Governor faced the door. For company it had on either -side small engravings of Webster and Clay. Beneath it was placed the -tea-table, ready spread. The cloth was of good quality, but thin with -long service. On the table a large plate of bread held the place of -importance, with two small plates on either corner, the one containing a -tiny slice of suspiciously yellow butter, and the other a cone of solid -jelly. Such jelly they sell at the groceries out of firkins. A glass -jug of tea stood by a plated ice-water jug of a pattern highly esteemed -before the war. Henriette was stirring a small lump of ice about the -sides of the tea-jug. She greeted Pauline pleasantly. - -“Iced tea?” said Pauline. “I thought we were to have hot tea and sausages -and toast. I gave Mysie twenty-five cents for them this morning.” She -did not say that it was the money for more than one day’s luncheon. - -“Yes, Mysie said something about it,” said Henriette, “but it didn’t seem -worth while to burn up so much wood merely to heat the water for tea; and -toast uses up so much butter.” - -“But I gave Mysie a dollar to buy a little oil-stove that we could use -in summer; and there was the sausage; I don’t mean to find fault, sister -Etty, but I’m ravenously hungry.” - -“Of course, child,” Henriette agreed, benignly; “you are _always_ hungry. -But I think you’ll agree I was lucky not to have bought that stove and -those sausages this morning. Who do you think is coming to this town next -week? Theodore Thomas, with his own orchestra! And just as I was going -into that store to buy your stove—though I didn’t feel at all sure it -wouldn’t explode and burn the house down—John Perley came up and gave -me a ticket, an orchestra seat; and I said at once, ‘The girls must go -too’; but I hadn’t but twenty-five cents, and no more coming in for a -week. Then it occurred to me like a flash, there was this money you had -given me; and, Paula, I made such a bargain! The man at Farrell’s, where -they are selling the tickets, will get us three seats, not very far -back in the gallery, for my orchestra seat and the money, and we shall -have enough money left to take us home in the street cars. Now do you -understand?” concluded Henriette, triumphantly. - -“Yes, sister Etty; it will be splendid,” responded Pauline, but with less -enthusiasm than Henriette had expected. - -“Aren’t you glad?” she demanded. - -“Oh yes, I’m glad; but I’m so dead tired I can hardly talk,” said -Pauline, as she left the room. She felt every stair as she climbed it; -but her face cleared at the sight of Mysie coming through the hall. - -“It’s a lovely surprise, Mysie, isn’t it?” she cried, cheerfully. She -always called Mysie by her Christian name, without prefix. Henriette, -although of the same age, was so much more important a person that she -would have felt the unadorned name a liberty. But nobody was afraid of -Mysie. Pauline wound one of her long arms about her waist and kissed her. - -Mysie gave a little gasp of mingled pleasure and relief, and the burden -of her thoughts slipped off in the words, “I knew you ’lotted on that -oil-stove, Paula, but Etty said you would want me to go—” - -“I wouldn’t go without you,” Pauline burst in, vehemently, “and I’d live -on bread and jelly for a week to give you that pleasure.” - -“There was the sausage, too; I did feel bad about that; you ought to have -good hot meals after working all day.” - -“No more than you, Mysie.” - -“I’m not on my feet all day. And I did think of taking some of that -seventy-five cents we have saved for the curtains, but I didn’t like to -spend any without consulting you.” - -“It’s your own money, Mysie; but anyhow I suppose we need the curtains. -Go on down; Henriette’s calling. I’ll be down directly.” But after she -heard her sister’s uncertain footstep on the stair she stood frowning out -of the window at the Armstrong house. “It’s hideous to think it,” she -murmured, “but I don’t care—we have so much music and so little sausage! -I wish I had the money for my ticket to the concert to spend on meat!” - -Then, remorsefully, she went down-stairs, and after supper she played all -the evening on the piano; but the airs that she chose were in a simple -strain—minstrel songs of a generation ago, like “Nelly was a lady” and -“Hard times come again no more,” from a battered old book of her mother’s. - -“Wouldn’t you like to try a few Moody and Sankeys?” Henriette jeered -after a while. “Foster seems to me only one degree less maudlin and -commonplace. He makes me think of tuberoses!” Pauline laughed and went to -the window. The white porcupine of electric light at the corner threw out -long spikes of radiance athwart the narrow sidewalk, and a man’s shadow -dipped into the lighted space. The man was leaning his arms on the fence. -“Foolish fellow!” Pauline laughed softly to herself. That night, shortly -after she had dropped asleep, she was awakened out of a dream of staying -to supper with the Armstrongs, and beholding the board loaded with -broiled chickens and plum-pudding, by a clutch on her shoulder. “It was -_quite_ accidental,” she pleaded; “it really was, sister Etty!” For her -dream seemed to project itself into real life, and there was Henriette, a -stern figure in flowing white, bending over her. - -“Wake up!” she cried. “Listen! There’s something awful happening at the -Armstrongs’.” - -Pauline sat up in bed as suddenly as a jack-in-the-box. Then she gave -a little gasp of laughter. “They are all right,” said she; “they are -playing on their organ. That’s the way they play.” - -The organ ceased to moan, and Henriette returned to her couch. In ten -minutes she was back again, shaking Pauline. “Wake up!” she cried. “How -can you sleep in such a racket? He has been murdering popular tunes by -inches, and now what he is doing I don’t know, but it is _awful_. You -know them best. Get up and call to them that we can’t sleep for the noise -they make.” - -“I suppose they have a right to play on their own organ.” - -“They haven’t a right to make such a pandemonium anywhere. If you won’t -do something, I’m going to pretend I think it’s cats, and call ‘Scat!’ -and throw something at them.” - -“You wouldn’t hit anything,” Pauline returned, in that sleepy tone which -always rouses a wakeful sufferer’s wrath. “Better shut your window. You -can’t hear nearly so well then.” - -“Yes, sister, I’ll shut the window,” Mysie called from the chamber, as -usual eager for peace. - -“You let that window alone,” commanded Henriette, sternly. A long -pause—Henriette seated in rigid agony at the foot of the bed; the -Armstrongs experimenting with the Vox Humana stop. “Pauline, do you mean -to say that you can sleep? Pauline! _Pauline!_” - -“What’s the matter now?” asked Pauline. - -“I am going to take my brush—no, I shall take _your_ brush, Pauline -Beaumont—and hurl it at them!” - -“Oh, sister, please don’t,” begged Mysie from within, like the voices on -a stage. - -Henriette spoke not again; she strode out of the room, and did even as -she had threatened. She flung Pauline’s brush straight at the organist -sitting before the window. Whether she really meant to injure young -Armstrong’s candid brow is an open question; and, judging from the -result, I infer that she did not mean to do more than scare her sister; -therefore she aimed afar. By consequence the missile sped straight into -the centre of the window. But not through it; the window was raised, and -a wire screen rattled the brush back with a shivering jar. - -“What’s that? A bat?” said Armstrong, happily playing on. His father and -mother were beaming upon him in deep content—his father a trifle sleepy, -but resolved, the morrow being Sunday, to enjoy this musical hour to the -full, his mother seated beside him and reading the numbers aloud. - -“You see, Ikey,” she had explained, “that’s what makes you slow. While -you’re reading the numbers, you lose ’em on the organ; and while you’re -finding the numbers on the keys, you loose ’em on the paper. I’ll read -them awful low, so no one would suspect, and you keep your whole mind on -those keys. Now begin again; I’ve got a pin to prick them—2-4-3, 1-3—no, -1-8, 1-8—it’s only one 1-8; guess we better begin again.” - -So Mrs. Armstrong droned forth the numbers and Ikey hammered them on -the organ, pumping with his feet, whenever he did not forget. The two -boys slept peacefully through the weird clamor. The neighbors, with one -exception, were apparently undisturbed. That exception, named Henriette -Beaumont, heard with swelling wrath. - -“I’ve thrown the brush,” said she. No response from the pillow. “Now I’m -going to throw the broken-handled mug,” continued Henriette, in a tone of -deadly resolve; “it’s heavy, and it may kill some one, but I can’t help -it!” Still a dead silence. _Crash! smash!_ The mug with the broken handle -had sped against the weather-boarding. - -“Now what was _that_?” cried Ike, jumping up. Before he was on his feet a -broken soap-dish had followed the mug. Up flew the sash, and Ike was out -of the window. “What are you doing that for? What do you mean by that?” -he yelled, to which the dark and silent house opposite naturally made no -reply. Ike was out in the road now, and both his parents were after him. -The elder Armstrong had been so suddenly wakened from a doze that he was -under the impression of a fire somewhere, and let out a noble shout to -that effect. Mrs. Armstrong, convinced that a dynamite bomb had missed -fire, gathered her skirts tightly around her ankles—as if bombs could run -under them like mice—and helped by screaming alternately “Police!” and -“Murder!” - -Henriette gloated silently over the confusion. It did her soul good to -see Ike Armstrong running along the sidewalk after supposititious boys. - -The Armstrongs did not return to the organ. Henriette heard their -footsteps on the gravel, she heard the muffled sound of voices; but -not again did the tortured instrument excite her nerves, and she sank -into a troubled slumber. As they sat at breakfast the next morning, and -Henriette was calculating the share due each cup from the half-pint of -boiled milk, the broken bell-wire jangled. Pauline said she would go. - -“It can’t be any one to call so early in the morning,” said Henriette; -“you may go.” - -[Illustration: “‘SOMEBODY THREW THESE THINGS AT OUR WINDOW’”] - -It was young Armstrong, in his Sunday clothes. Pauline’s only picture of -him had been in his work-a-day garb; it was curious how differently he -impressed her, fresh from the bath and the razor, trigly buttoned up in a -perfectly fitting suit of blue and brown, with a dazzling rim of white -against his shapely tanned throat, and a crimson rose in his button-hole. -“How handsome he is!” thought Pauline. She had never been satisfied with -her own nose, and she looked at the straight bridge of his and admired -it. She was too innocent and ignorant herself to notice how innocently -clear were his eyes; but she thought that they looked true and kind, and -she did notice the bold lines of his chin and jaw, and the firm mouth -under his black mustache. Unaccountably she grew embarrassed; he was -looking at her so gravely, almost sternly, his new straw hat in one hand, -and the other slightly extended to her and holding a neat bundle. - -He bowed ceremoniously, as he had seen actors bow on the stage. “Somebody -threw these things at our window last night,” said he; “I think they -belong to you. I couldn’t find all the pieces of the china.” - -“They weren’t all there,” stammered Pauline, foolishly; and then a wave -of mingled confusion and irritation at her false position—there was her -monogram on the ivory brush!—and a queer kind of amusement, swept over -her, and dyed her delicate cheek as red as Armstrong’s rose. And suddenly -he too, flushed, and his eyes flashed. - -“I’m sorry I disturbed your sister,” said he, “but I hope she will not -throw any more things at us. We will try not to practise so late another -night. Good-morning.” - -“I _am_ sorry,” said Pauline; “tell your mother I’m sorry, please. She -was so kind to me.” - -“Thank you,” Armstrong said, heartily; “I will.” And somehow before he -went they shook hands. - -Pauline gave the message, but she felt so guilty because of this last -courtesy that she gave it without reproach, even though her only good -brush disclosed a pitiful crack. - -“Well, you know why I did it,” said Henriette, coolly; “and does the man -suppose his playing isn’t obnoxious any hour of the day as well as night? -But let us hope they will be quiet awhile. Paula, have you any money? We -ought to go over those numbers for the concert beforehand, and we must -get Verdi’s Requiem. Mysie has some, but she wants it to buy curtains.” - -“I’m sorry, sister Etty, but I haven’t a cent.” - -“Then the curtains will have to wait, Mysie,” said Henriette, cheerfully, -“for we must have the music to-morrow.” - -Mysie threw a deprecating glance at Pauline. “There was a bargain in -chintzes,” she began, feebly, “but of course, sister, if Paula doesn’t -mind—” - -“I don’t mind, Mysie,” said Pauline. - -Why should she make Mysie unhappy and Henriette cross for a pair of -cheap curtains? The day was beautiful, and she attended church. She was -surprised, looking round at the choir, to discover young Armstrong in -the seat behind her. She did not know that he attended that church. But -surely there was no harm in a neighbor’s walking home with Mysie and her. -How well and modestly he talked, and how gentle and deferential he was to -Mysie! Mysie sighed when he parted from them, a little way from the house. - -“That young man is very superior to his station,” she declared, solemnly; -“he must be of good though decayed family.” - -“His grandfather was a Vermont farmer, and ours was a Massachusetts -farmer,” retorted Pauline; “I dare say if we go back far enough we shall -find the Armstrongs as good as we—” - -“Oh, pray don’t talk that way before Etty, dear,” interrupted Mysie, -hurriedly: “she thinks it so like the anarchists; and if you get into -that way of speech, you _might_ slip out something before her. Poor Etty, -I wish she felt as if she could go to church. I hope she had a peaceful -morning.” - -Ah, hope unfounded! Never had Miss Henriette Beaumont passed a season -more rasping to her nerves. Looking out of the window, she saw both the -younger Armstrongs and their mother. The boys had been picking vegetables. - -“Now, boys,” called Mrs. Armstrong, gayly, “let’s come and play on the -organ.” - -Henriette’s soul was in arms. Unfortunately she was still in the robes -of rest (attempting to slumber after her tumultuous night), and dignity -forbade her shouting out of the window. - -The two boys passed a happy morning experimenting on the different stops, -and improvising melodies of their own. “Say, mummy, isn’t that kinder -like a _tune_?” one or the other would exclaim. Mrs. Armstrong listened -with pride. The awful combination of discords fell sweetly on her ear, -which was “no ear for music.” - -“It’s just lovely to have an organ,” she thought. - -When Miss Beaumont could bear no more she attired herself and descended -the stairs. Then the boys stopped. In the afternoon several friends of -the Armstrongs called. They sang Moody and Sankey hymns, until Henriette -was pale with misery. - -“I think I prefer the untutored Armstrong savages themselves, with their -war-cries,” she remarked. - -“Perhaps they will get tired of it,” Mysie proffered for consolation. -But they did not tire. They never played later than nine o’clock at -night again, but until that hour the music-loving and unmusical family -played and sang to their hearts’ content. And the Beaumonts saw them at -the Thomas concert, Ike and his mother and Jim, applauding everything. -Henriette said the sight made her ill. - -[Illustration: “‘NOW, BOYS, LET’S COME AND PLAY ON THE ORGAN’”] - -Time did not soften her rancor. She caught cold at the concert, and for -two weeks was confined to her chamber with what Mrs. Armstrong called -rheumatism, but Henriette called gout. During the time she assured Mysie -that what she suffered from the Armstrong organ exceeded anything that -gout could inflict. - -“Do let me speak to Mrs. Armstrong,” begged Mysie. - -“I spoke to that boy, the one with the freckles, myself yesterday,” -replied Henriette, “out of the window. I told him if they didn’t stop I -would have them indicted.” - -“Why, how did you see him?” Mysie was aghast, but she dared not criticise -Henriette. - -“He came here with a bucket of water. Said his mother saw us taking -water out of the well, and it was dangerous. The impertinent woman, she -actually offered to send us water from their cistern every day.” - -“But I think that was—was rather kind, sister, and it would be dreadful -to have typhoid fever.” - -“I would rather _die_ of typhoid fever than have that woman bragging to -her vulgar friends that she gives the Beaumonts, Governor Beaumont’s -daughters, _water_! I know what her _kindness_ means.” Thus Henriette -crushed Mysie. But when the organ began, and it was evident that Tim -Armstrong intended to learn “Two Little Girls in Blue,” if it took him -all the afternoon, Mysie rose. - -“Mysie,” called Henriette, “don’t you go one step to the Armstrongs’.” - -Mysie sat down, but in a little while she tried again. - -“I wish you’d let Paula, then; she is going by there every day, and she -has had no dispute with them. She often stops to talk.” - -“Talk to whom?” said Henriette, icily. - -“Oh, to any of them—Tim or Pete or Mrs. Armstrong.” - -“Does she talk to them long?” - -“Oh no, not very long—just as she goes by. I think you’re mistaken, -sister. They don’t think such mean things. Truly they are—nice; they seem -very fond of each other, and they almost always give Paula flowers.” - -“What does she do with the flowers?” - -“She puts them in the vases, and wears them.” - -“Do they give her anything else?” Henriette’s tone was so awful that -Mysie dropped her work. - -“Do they?” persisted Henriette. - -“They sent over the magazines a few times, but that was just borrowing, -and once they—they—sent over some shortcake and some—bread.” - -Henriette sat bolt-upright in bed, reckless of the pain every movement -gave her. - -“Mysilla Beaumont, do you see where your sister is drifting? Are you both -crazy? But I shall put a stop to this nonsense this very day. I am going -to write a note to John Perley, and you will have to take it. Bring me -the paper. If there isn’t any in my desk, take some out of Pauline’s.” - -“Oh, Henriette,” whimpered Mysie, “_what_ are you going to do?” - -“You will soon see, and you will have to help me. After they have been -disgraced and laughed at, we’ll see whether she will care to lean over -their fence and talk to them.” - -It was true that Pauline did talk to the Armstrongs; she did lean over -the Armstrong fence. It had come to pass by degrees. She knew perfectly -well it was wrong. Henriette never allowed her to have any acquaintances. -But Henriette could not see her from the bed, and Mysie did not mind; and -so she fell into the habit of stopping at the Armstrong gate to inquire -for Mrs. Armstrong’s turkeys, or to ask advice about the forlorn little -geraniums which fought for life in the Beaumont yard, or to lend her -own nimble fingers to the adorning of Mrs. Armstrong’s bonnets. She saw -Ike often. Once she actually ventured to enter “those mechanics’” doors -and play on the detested organ. Her musical gifts could not be compared -to her sister’s. A sweet, true voice, op no great compass, a touch that -had only sympathy and a moderate facility—these the highly cultivated -Beaumonts rated at their very low artistic value; but the ignorant -Armstrongs listened to Pauline’s hymns in rapture. The tears filled Mrs. -Armstrong’s eyes: impulsively she kissed the girl. “Oh, you dear child!” -she cried. Ike said nothing. Not a word. He was standing near enough to -Pauline to touch the folds of her dress. His fingers almost reverently -stroked the faded pink muslin. He swallowed something that was choking -him. Joel Armstrong nodded and smiled. Then his eyes sought his wife’s. -He put out his hand and held hers. When the music was done and the young -people were gone, he puffed hard on his dead pipe, saying, “It’s the best -thing that can happen to a young man, mother, to fall in love with a real -good girl, ain’t it?” - -“Yes, I guess it is.” - -“And I guess you’d have the training of this one, mother; and there’s -plenty of room in the lot opposite that’s for sale to build a nice little -house. They’d start a sight better off than we did.” - -“But we were very happy, Joe, weren’t we?” - -“That we were, and that we are, Sally,” said Armstrong. “Come on out in -the garden with your beau; we ain’t going to let the young folks do all -the courting.” - -Mysie and Henriette saw the couple walking in the garden, the husband’s -arm around his wife’s waist, and the soft-hearted sister sighed. - -“Oh, sister, don’t you kinder wish you _hadn’t done it_?” she whispered. -“They didn’t mean any harm.” - -“Harm? No. I dare say that young carpenter would be willing to marry -Pauline Beaumont!” cried Henriette, bitterly. - -Mysie shook her gray head, her loose mouth working, while she winked away -a tear. “I don’t care, I don’t care”—thus did she inwardly moan out a -spasm of dire resolution—“I’m just going to tell Pauline!” - -Perhaps what she told set the cloud on the girl’s pretty face; and -perhaps that was why she looked eagerly over the Armstrong fence every -night; and the cloud lifted at the sound of Mrs. Armstrong’s mellow voice -hailing her from any part of the house or yard. - -But one night, instead of the usual cheerful stir about the house, she -found the Swede girl alone in the kitchen, weeping over the potatoes. -To Pauline’s inquiries she returned a burst of woe. “They all tooken to -chail—all!” she wailed. “I don’t know what to do if I get supper. The -mans come, the police mans, and tooken them all away. _I hela verlden!_ -who ever know such a country? Such nice peoples sent to chail for play on -the organ—their own organ! They say they not play right, but I think to -send to chail for not play right on the organ that sha’n’t be right!” - -Pauline could make nothing more out of her; but the man on the corner -looked in at one particularly dolorous burst of sobs over poor Tim -and poor Petey and tendered his version: “They’ve gone, sure enough, -miss. Your sisters have had them arrested for keeping and committing -a nuisance. Now, I ain’t stuck on their organ-playing, as a general -rule, myself, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a nuisance. But the -Fullers ain’t on the best of terms; old Fuller is a crank, and there’s -politics between him and Armstrong and the Delaneys, who have just moved -into the neighborhood, mother and daughter—very musical folks, they say, -and nervous; they have joined in with your sister—” - -“Where have they gone?” asked Pauline, who was very pale. - -“To the police court. They were mighty cunning, if you’ll excuse me, -miss. They picked out that old German crank, Von Reibnitz, who plays in -the Schubert Quartet, and loves music better than beer.” - -The man was right. Henriette had chosen her lawgiver shrewdly. At this -very moment she was sitting in one of the dingy chairs of the police -court, with the mien of Marie Antoinette on her way to execution. Mysie -sat beside her in misery not to be described; for was she not joined -with Henriette in the prosecution of the unfortunate Armstrongs? and had -she not surreptitiously partaken of hot rolls and strawberry jam that -very day, handed over the fence to her by Mrs. Armstrong? She could not -sustain the occasional glare of the magistrate’s glasses; and, unable to -look in the direction of the betrayed Armstrongs, for the most part she -peered desolately at the clerk. The accused sat opposite. Mr. Armstrong -and Ike were in their working-clothes. Hastily summoned, they had not -the meagre comfort of a toilet. The father looked about the court, a -perplexed frown replacing at intervals a perplexed grin. When he was not -studying the court-room, he was polishing the bald spot on his head with -a large red handkerchief, or rubbing the grimy palms of his hands on -the sides of his trousers. He had insisted upon an immediate trial, but -his wits had not yet pulled themselves out of the shock of his arrest. -The boys varied the indignant solemnity of bearing which their mother -had impressed on them with the unquenchable interest of their age. Mrs. -Armstrong had assumed her best bonnet and her second-best gown. She was -a handsome woman, with her fair skin, her wavy brown hair, and brilliant -blue eyes; and the reporter looked at her often, adding to the shame -and fright that were clawing her under her Spartan composure. But she -held her head in the air bravely. Not so her son, who sat with his hands -loosely clasped before him and his head sunk on his breast through the -entire arraignment. - -Behind the desk the portly form of the magistrate filled an arm-chair -to overflowing, so that the reporter wondered whether he could rise -from the chair, should it be necessary, or whether chair and he must -perforce cling together. His body and arms were long, but his legs were -short, so he always used a cricket, which somehow detracted from the -dignity of his appearance. He had been a soldier, and kept a martial gray -mustache; but he wore a wig of lustrous brown locks, which he would push -from side to side in the excitement of a case, and then clap frankly -back into place with both hands. There was no deceit about Fritz Von -Reibnitz. He was a man of fiery prejudices, but of good heart and sound -sense, and he often was shrewder than the lawyers who tried to lead him -through his weaknesses. But he had a leaning towards a kind of free-hand, -Arabian justice, and rather followed the spirit of the law than servilely -questioned what might be the letter. Twirling his mustachios, he leaned -back in his chair and studied the faces of the Armstrong family, while -the clerk read the information slowly—for the benefit of his friend the -reporter, who felt this to be one of the occasions that enliven a dusty -road of life. - -“State of Iowa, Winfield County. The City of Fairport _vs._ Jos. L. -Armstrong, Mrs. J. L. Armstrong, Isaac J. Armstrong, Peter Armstrong, -and Timothy Armstrong. The defendants” (the names were repeated, and at -each name the mother of the Armstrongs winced) “are accused of the crime -of violating Section 2 of Chapter 41 of the ordinances of said city. -For that the defendants, on the 3d, the 10th, the 15th, and 23d day of -July, 18—, in the city of Fairport, in said county, did conspire and -confederate together to disturb the public quiet of the neighborhood, and -in pursuance of said conspiracy, and aiding and abetting each other, did -make, then and there, loud and unusual noises by playing on a cabinet -organ in an unusual and improper manner, and by singing boisterously -and out of tune; and did thereby disturb the public quiet of the -neighborhood, contrary to the ordinances in such case provided.” - -“You vill read also the ordinance, Mr. Clerk,” called the magistrate, -with much majesty of manner, frowning at the same time on the younger -lawyers, who were unable to repress their feelings, while the reporter -appeared to be taken with cramps. - -The clerk read: - -“Every person who shall unlawfully disturb the public quiet of any -street, alley, avenue, public square, wharf, or any religious or other -public assembly, or building public or private, or any neighborhood, -private family, or person within the city, by giving false alarms of -fire” (Mrs. Armstrong audibly whispered to her husband, “We _never_ did -that!”), “by loud or unusual noises” (Mrs. Armstrong sank back in her -corner, and Joseph Armstrong very nearly groaned aloud), “by ringing -bells, blowing horns or other instruments, etc., etc., shall be deemed -guilty of a misdemeanor, and punished accordingly.” - -Then up rose the attorney for the prosecution to state his case. He -narrated how the Armstrong family had bought an organ, and had played -upon it almost continually since the purchase, thereby greatly annoying -and disturbing the entire neighborhood. He said that no member of the -Armstrong family knew more than two changes on the organ, and that -several of them, in addition to playing, were accustomed to sing in a -loud and disagreeable voice (the Armstrong family were visibly affected), -and that so great was the noise and disturbance made by the said organ -that the prosecuting witness, Miss Beaumont, who was sick at the time, -had been agitated and disturbed by it, to her great bodily and mental -damage and danger. That although requested to desist, they had not -desisted (Tim and Pete exchanged glances of undissembled enjoyment), and -therefore she was compelled in self-defence to invoke the aid of the law. - -Ike listened dully. There was no humor in the situation for him. He -felt himself and his whole family disgraced, dragged before the police -magistrate just like a common drunk and disorderly loafer, and accused -of being a nuisance to their neighborhood; the shame of it tingled to -his finger-tips. He would not look up; it seemed to him that he could -never hold up his head again. No doubt it would all be in the paper next -morning, and the Armstrongs, who were so proud of their honest name, -would be the laughing-stock of the town. Somebody was saying something -about a lawyer. Ike scowled at the faces of the young attorneys lolling -and joking outside the railing. “I won’t fool away any money on those -chumps,” he growled; “I want to get through and pay my fine and be done.” - -Somebody laughed; then he saw that it was the sheriff of the county, a -good friend of his. He looked appealingly up at the strong, dark face; he -grasped the big hand extended. - -“I’m in a hole, Mr. Wickliff,” he whispered. - -“Naw, you’re not,” replied Wickliff; “you’ve a friend in the family. She -got onto this plot and came to me a good while ago. We’re all ready. -I’ve known her since she was a little girl. Know ’em all, poor things! -Say, let _me_ act as your attorney. Don’t have to be a member of the bar -to practise in _this_ court. Y’Honor! If it please y’Honor, I’d like to -be excused to telephone to some witnesses for the defence.” - -Ike caught his breath. “A friend in the family!” He did not dare to -think what that meant. And Wickliff had gone. They were examining the -prosecuting witnesses. Miss Mysilla Beaumont took the oath, plainly -frightened. She spoke almost in a whisper. Her evident desire to deal -gently with the Armstrongs was used skilfully by the young attorney -whom John Perley (his uncle) had employed. Behold (he made poor Mysie’s -evidence seem to say) what ear-rending and nerve-shattering sounds these -barbarous organists must have produced to make this amiable lady protest -at law! Mysie fluttered out of the witness-box in a tremor, nor dared to -look where Mrs. Armstrong sat bridling and fanning herself. Next three -Fullers deposed to more or less disturbance from the musical taste of the -Armstrongs, and the Delaney daughter swore, in a clarion voice, that the -playing of the Armstrongs was the worst ever known. - -“It ain’t any worse than her scales!” cried Mrs. Armstrong, goaded into -speech. The magistrate darted a warning glance at her. - -Miss Henriette Beaumont was called last. Her mourning garments, to -masculine eyes, did not show their age; and her grand manner and -handsome face, with its gray hair and its flashing eyes, caused even -the magistrate’s manner to change. Henriette had a rich voice and a -beautiful articulation. Every softly spoken word reached Mrs. Armstrong, -who writhed in her seat. She recited how she had spent hours of “absolute -torment” under the Armstrong instrumentation, and she described in the -language of the musician the unspeakable iniquities of the Armstrong -technique. Her own lawyer could not understand her, but the magistrate -nodded in sympathy. She said she was unable to sleep nights because of -the “horrible discords played on the organ—” - -“I declare we never played it but two nights, and they weren’t discords; -they were nice tunes,” sobbed Mrs. Armstrong. - -The justice rapped and frowned. “Silence in der court!” he thundered. -Then he glared on poor Mrs. Armstrong. “Anybody vot calls hisself a laty -ought to behave itself like sooch!” he said, with strong emphasis. The -attorneys present choked and coughed. In fact, the remark passed into -a saying in police-court circles. Miss Henriette stepped with stately -graciousness to her seat. - -“Und now der defence,” said the justice—“der Armstrong family. Vot has -you got to say?” - -“Let me put some witnesses on first, Judge,” called Wickliff, “to show -the Armstrongs’ character.” He was opening the door, and the hall behind -seemed filled. - -“Oh, good land, Ikey, do look!” quavered Mrs. Armstrong; “there’s pa’s -boss, and the Martins that used to live in the same block with us, and -Mrs. O’Toole, and all the neighbors most up to the East End, and—oh, -Ikey! there’s Miss Pauline herself! Our friends ’ain’t deserted us; I -knew perfectly well they _wouldn’t_!” - -Ike did look up then—he stood up. His eyes met the eyes of his -sweetheart, and he sat down with his cheeks afire and his head in the air. - -“In the first place,” said Wickliff, assuming an easy attitude, with -one hand in a pocket and the other free for oratorical display, “I’ll -call Miss Beaumont, Miss Henriette Beaumont, for the defence.” Miss -Beaumont responded to the call, and turned a defiant stare on the amateur -attorney. - -“You say you were disturbed by the Armstrongs’ organ?” - -“I was painfully disturbed.” - -“Naturally you informed your neighbors, and asked them to desist playing -the organ?” - -“I did.” - -“How many times?” - -“Once.” - -“To whom did you speak?” - -“I told the boys to tell their mother.” - -“Are you passionately fond of music?” - -“I am.” - -“Are you sensitive to bad music—acutely sensitive?” - -“I suppose I am; a lover of music is, of necessity.” - -The magistrate nodded and sighed. - -“Are you of a particularly patient and forbearing disposition?” Henriette -directed a withering glance at the tall figure of the questioner. - -“I am forbearing enough,” she answered. “Do I need to answer questions -that are plainly put to insult me?” - -“No, madam,” said the magistrate. “Mr. Wickliff, I rules dot question -out.” - -Nothing daunted, Wickliff continued: “When you gave the boys warning, -where were they?” - -“In my house.” - -“How came they there?” - -“They had brought over a bucket of water.” - -“Why?” - -“Because we had only well-water, they said.” - -“That was rather kind on the part of Mrs. Armstrong, don’t you think? In -every respect, besides playing the organ, she was a kind neighbor, wasn’t -she?” - -“I don’t complain of her.” - -“Wasn’t she rather noted in the neighborhood as a lady of great kindness? -Didn’t she often send in little delicacies—flowers, fruit, and such -things—gifts that often pass between neighbors to different people?” - -“She may have. I am not acquainted with her.” - -“Hasn’t she sent in things at different times to _you_?” - -Henriette’s throat began to form the word no; then she remembered the -shortcake, she remembered the roses, she remembered her oath, and she -choked. “I don’t know much about it; perhaps she may have,” said she. - -“That will do,” said Wickliff. “Call Miss Mysilla Beaumont.” Wickliff’s -respectful bearing reassured the agitated spinster. He wouldn’t detain -her a moment. He only wanted to know had neighborly courtesies passed -between the two houses. Yes? Had Mrs. Armstrong been a kind and -unobtrusive neighbor? - -“Oh yes, sir; yes, indeed,” cried poor Mysie. - -“Were you yourself much disturbed by the organ?” - -“No, sir,” gasped Mysie, with one tragic glance at her sister’s stony -features. She knew now what Jeanie Deans must have suffered. - -“That will do,” said Wickliff. - -Then a procession of witnesses filed into the narrow space before the -railing. First the employer of the elder Armstrong gave his high praise -of his foreman as a man and a citizen; then came the neighbors, declaring -the Armstrong virtues—from Mrs. Martin, who deposed with tears that Mrs. -Armstrong’s courage and good nursing had saved her little Willy’s life -when he was burned, to Mrs. O’Toole, an aged little Irish woman, who -recited how the brave young Peter had rescued her dog from a band of -young torturers. “And they had a tin can filled with fire-crackers, yer -Honor (an’ they was lighted), tied to the poor stoompy tail of him; but -Petey he pulled it aff, and he throwed it ferninst them, and he made them -sorry that day, he did, for it bursted. He’s a foine bye, and belongs to -a foine family!” - -“Aren’t you a little prejudiced in favor of the Armstrongs, Mrs. -O’Toole?” asked the prosecuting attorney, as Wickliff smilingly bade him -“take the witness.” - -“Yes, sor, I am,” cried Mrs. O’Toole, huddling her shawl closer about her -wiry little frame. “I am that, sor, praise God! They paid the rint for me -whin me bye was in throuble, and they got him wur-rk, and he’s doin’ well -this day, and been for three year. And there’s many a hot bite passed -betwane us whin we was neighbors. Prejudeeced! I’d not be wuth the crow’s -pickin’s if I wasn’t; and the back of me hand and the sowl of me fut to -thim that’s persecuting of thim this day!” - -“Call Miss Pauline Beaumont,” said Wickliff. “That will do, grandma.” - -Pauline’s evidence was very concise, but to the point. She did not -consider the Armstrong organ a nuisance. She believed the Armstrongs, if -instructed, would learn to play the organ. If the window were shut the -noise could not disturb any one. She had the highest respect and regard -for the Armstrongs. - -“There’s my case, your Honor,” said Wickliff, “and I’ve confidence -enough in it and in this court to leave it in your hands. Say the -same, Johnny?”—to the young lawyer. Perley laughed; he was beginning -to suspect that not all the case appeared on the surface. Perhaps the -Beaumont family peace would fare all the better if he kept his hands off. -He said that he had no evidence to offer in rebuttal, and would leave the -case confidently to the wisdom of the court. - -“And I’ll bet you a hat on one thing, Amos,” he observed in an undertone -to the amateur attorney on the other side, “Fritz’s decision on this case -may be good sense, but it will be awful queer law.” - -“Fritz has got good sense,” said Amos. - -The magistrate announced his decision. He had deep sympathy, he said, for -the complainant, a gifted and estimable lady. He knew that the musical -temperament was sensitive as the violin—yes. But it also appeared from -the evidence that the Armstrong family were a good, a worthy family, -lacking only a knowledge of music to make them acceptable neighbors. -Therefore he decided that the Armstrong family should hire a competent -teacher, and that, until able to play without giving offence to the -neighbors, they should close the window. With that understanding he would -find the defendants not guilty; and each party must pay its own costs. - -Perley glanced at Amos, who grinned and repeated, “Fritz has got good -sense.” - -[Illustration: “‘THEY HAVE ENGAGED _ME_’”] - -“I’d have won my hat,” said Perley, “but I’m not kicking. Just look at -Miss Beaumont, though.” - -Henriette had listened in stony calm. She did not once look at Pauline, -who was standing at the other side of the room. “Come, sister,” she said -to Mysie. Mysie turned a scared face on Henriette. She drew her aside. - -“Did you hear what he said?” she whispered. “Oh, Henriette, _what_ shall -we do? We shall have to pay the costs—” - -“The Armstrongs will have to pay them too,” said Henriette, grimly. - -“Theirs won’t be so much, because none of their witnesses will take a -cent; but the Fullers and Miss Delaney want their fees, and it’s a dollar -and a half, and there’s—” - -“We shall have to borrow it from John Perley,” said Henriette. - -“But he isn’t here, and maybe they’ll put us in jail if we don’t pay. Oh, -Henriette, why did you—” - -This, Mysie’s first and last reproach of her sovereign, was cut short by -the approach of Pauline. - -At her side walked young Armstrong. And Pauline, who used to be so timid, -presented him without a tremor. - -“I wanted to tell you, Miss Beaumont,” said Ike, “that I did not -understand that we were disturbing you so much when you were sick. Not -being musical, we could not appreciate what we were making you suffer. -But I beg you to believe, ma’am, that we are all very sorry. And I didn’t -think it no more than right that I should pay all the costs of this -case—which I have done gladly. I hope you will forgive us, and that we -may all of us live as good neighbors in future. We will try not to annoy -you, and we have engaged a very fine music-teacher.” - -“They have engaged _me_,” said Pauline. And as she spoke she let the -young man very gently draw her hand into his arm. - - - - -HIS DUTY - - - - -HIS DUTY - - -Amos Wickliff little suspected himself riding, that sunny afternoon, -towards the ghastliest adventure of an adventurous life. Nevertheless, -he was ill at ease. His horse was too light for his big muscles and his -six feet two of bone. Being a merciful man to beasts, he could not ride -beyond a jog-trot, and his soul was fretted by the delay. He cast a scowl -down the dejected neck of the pony to its mournful, mismated ears, and -from thence back at his own long legs, which nearly scraped the ground. -“O Lord! ain’t I a mark on this horse!” he groaned. “We could make money -in a circus!” With a gurgle of disgust he looked about him at the glaring -blue sky, at the measureless, melancholy sweep of purple and dun prairie. - -“Well, give _me_ Iowa!” said Amos. - -For a long while he rode in silence, but his thoughts were distinct -enough for words. “What an amusing little scamp it was!”—thus they ran—“I -believe he could mimic anything on earth. He used to give a cat and puppy -fighting that I laughed myself nearly into a fit over. When I think of -that I hate this job. Now why? You never saw the fellow to speak to him -more than twice. Duty, Amos, duty. But if he is as decent as he’s got -the name of being here, it’s rough—Hullo! River? Trees?” The river might -be no more than the lightening rim of the horizon behind the foliage, -but there was no mistake about the trees; and when Wickliff turned the -field-glass, which he habitually carried, on them he could make out not -only the river and the willows, but the walls of a cabin and the lovely -undulations of a green field of corn. Half an hour’s riding brought him -to the house and a humble little garden of sweet-pease and hollyhocks. -Amos groaned. “How cursed decent it all looks! And flowers too! I have -no doubt that his wife’s a nice woman, and the baby has a clean face. -Everything certainly does combine to ball me up on this job! There she -is; and she’s nice!” - -A woman in a clean print gown, with a child pulling at her skirt, had run -to the gate. She looked young. Her freckled face was not exactly pretty, -but there was something engaging in the flash of her white teeth and her -soft, black-lashed, dark eyes. She held the gate wide open, with the -hospitality of the West. “Won’t you ’light, stranger?” she called. - -“I’m bound for here,” replied Amos, telling his prepared tale glibly. -“This is Mr. Brown’s, the photographer’s, ain’t it? I want him to come to -the settlement with me and take me standing on a deer.” - -“Yes, sir.” The woman spoke in mellow Southern accents, and she began to -look interested, as suspecting a romance under this vain-glory. “Yes, -sir. Deer you shot, I reckon. I’ll send Johnny D. for him. Oh, Johnny D.!” - -A lath of a boy of ten, with sunburnt white hair and bright eyes, vaulted -over a fence and ran to her, receiving her directions to go find uncle -after he had cared for the gentleman’s horse. - -“Your nephew, madam?” said Amos, as the lad’s bare soles twinkled in the -air. - -“Well, no, sir, not born nephew,” she said, smiling; “he’s a little -neighbor boy. His folks live three miles further down the river; but I -reckon we all think jest as much of him as if he was our born kin. Won’t -you come in, sir?” - -By this time she had passed under the luxuriant arbor of honeysuckle -that shaded the porch, and she threw wide the door. The room was large. -It was very tidy. The furniture was of the sort that can be easily -transported where railways have to be pieced out with mule trails. -But it was hardly the ordinary pioneer cabin. Not because there was a -sewing-machine in one corner, for the sewing-machine follows hard on the -heels of the plough; perhaps because of the white curtains at the two -windows (curtains darned and worn thin by washing, tied back with ribbons -faded by the same ministry of neatness), or the square of pretty though -cheap carpet on the floor, or the magazines and the bunch of sweet-pease -on the table, but most because of the multitude of photographs on -the clumsy walls. They were on cards, all of the same size (not more -than 8 by 10 inches), protected by glass, and framed in mossy twigs. -Some of the pictures were scenes of the country, many of them bits of -landscape near the house, all chosen with a marvellous elimination of -the usual grotesque freaks of the camera, and with such an unerring eye -for subject and for light and shade that the artist’s visions of the -flat, commonplace country were not only picturesque but poetic. In the -prints also were an extraordinary richness and range of tone. It did -not seem possible that mere black and white could give such an effect -of brilliancy and depth of color. An artist looking over this obscure -photographer’s workmanship might feel a thrill like that which crinkles a -flower-lover’s nerves when he sees a mass of azaleas in fresh bloom. - -Amos was not an artist, but he had a camera at home, and he gave a -gulp of admiration. “Well, he _is_ great!” he sighed. “That beats any -photographic work I ever saw.” - -The wife’s eyes were luminous. “Ain’t he!” said she. “It ’most seems -wicked for him to be farming when he can do things like that—” - -“Why does he farm?” - -“It’s his health. He caynt stand the climate East.” - -“You are from the South yourself, I take it?” - -“Yes, sir, Arkansas, though I don’t see how ever you guessed it. I met -Mist’ Brown there, down in old Lawrence. I was teaching school then, -and went to have my picture taken in his wagon. Went with my father, -and he was so pleasant and polite to paw I liked him from the start. He -nursed paw during his last sickness. Then we were married and came out -here—You’re looking at that picture of little Davy at the well? I like -that the best of all the ten; his little dress looks so cute, and he has -such a sweet smile; and it’s the only one has his hair smooth. I tell -Mist’ Brown I do believe he musses that child’s hair himself—” - -“Papa make Baby’s hair pitty for picture!” cried the child, delighted to -have understood some of the conversation. - -“He’s a very pretty boy,” said Amos. “’Fraid to come to me, young feller?” - -But the child saw too few to be shy, and happily perched himself on the -tall man’s shoulder, while he studied the pictures. The mother appeared -as often as the child. - -“He’s got her at the best every time,” mused the observer; “best side -of her face, best light on her nose. Never misses. That’s the way a man -looks at his girl; always twists his eyes a little so as to get the best -view. Plainly she’s in love with him, and looks remarkably like he was in -love with her, damn him!” Then, with great civility, he asked Mrs. Brown -what developer her husband used, and listened attentively, while she -showed him the tiny dark room leading out of the apartment, and exhibited -the meagre stock of drugs. - -“I keep them up high and locked up in that cupboard with the key on top, -for fear Baby might git at them,” she explained. She evidently thought -them a rare and creditable collection. “I ain’t a bit afraid of Johnny -D.; he’s sensible, and, besides, he minds every word Mist’ Brown tells -him. He sets the world by Mist’ Brown; always has ever since the day -Mist’ Brown saved him from drowning in the eddy.” - -“How was that?” - -“Why, you see, he was out fishing, and climbed out on a log and slipped -someway. It’s about two miles further down the river, between his -parents’ farm and ours; and by a God’s mercy we were riding by, Dave and -the baby and I—the baby wasn’t out of long-clothes then—and we heard -the scream. Dave jumped out and ran, peeling his clothes as he ran. I -only waited to throw the weight out of the wagon to hold the horses, and -ran after him. I could see him plain in the water. Oh, it surely was a -dreadful sight! I dream of it nights sometimes yet; and he’s there in the -water, with his wet hair streaming over his eyes, and his eyes sticking -out, and his lips blue, fighting the current with one hand, and drifting -off, off, inch by inch, all the time. And I wake up with the same longing -on me to cry out, ‘Let the boy go! Swim! _Swim!_’” - -“Well, _did_ you cry that?” says Amos. - -“Oh no, sir. I went in to him. I pushed a log along and climbed out on it -and held out a branch to him, and someway we all got ashore—” - -“What did you do with the baby?” - -“I was fixing to lay him down in a soft spot when I saw a man was on the -bank. He was jumping up and down and yelling: ‘I caynt swim a stroke! I -caynt swim a stroke!’ ‘Then you hold the baby,’ says I; and I dumped poor -Davy into his arms. When we got the boy up the bank he looked plumb dead; -but Dave said: ‘He ain’t dead! He caynt be dead! I won’t have him dead!’ -wild like, and began rubbing him. I ran to the man. If you please, there -that unfortunate man was, in the same place, holding Baby as far away -from him as he could get, as if he was a dynamite bomb that might go off -at any minute. ‘Give me your pipe,’ says I. ‘You will have to fish it out -of my pocket yourself,’ says he; ‘I don’t dast loose a hand from this -here baby!’ And he did look funny! But you may imagine I didn’t notice -that then. I ran back quick’s I could, and we rubbed that boy and worked -his arms and, you may say, blowed the breath of life into him. We worked -more’n a hour—that poor man holding the baby the enduring time: I reckon -_his_ arms were stiff’s ours!—and I’d have given him up: it seemed awful -to be rumpling up a corpse that way. But Dave, he only set his teeth and -cried, ‘Keep on, I _will_ save him!’” - -“And you _did_ save him?” - -“_He_ did,” flashed the wife; “he’d be in his grave but for Dave. I’d -given him up. And his mother knows it. And she said that if that child -was not named Johnny ayfter his paw, she’d name him David ayfter Mist’ -Brown; but seeing he was named, she’d do next best, give him David for -a middle. And as calling him Johnny David seemed too long, they always -call him Johnny D. But won’t you rest your hat on the bed and sit down, -Mister—” - -“Wickliff,” finished Amos; but he added no information regarding his -dwelling-place or his walk in life, and, being a Southerner, she did not -ask it. By this time she was getting supper ready for the guest. Amos -was sure she was a good cook the instant his glance lighted on her snowy -and shapely rolls. He perceived that he was to have a much daintier meal -than he had ever had before in the “Nation,” yet he frowned at the wall. -All the innocent, laborious, happy existence of the pair was clear to him -as she talked, pleased with so good a listener. The dominant impression -which her unconscious confidences made on him was her content. - -“I reckon I am a natural-born farmer,” she laughed. “I fairly crave to -make things grow, and I love the very smell of the earth and the grass. -It’s beautiful out here.” - -“But aren’t you ever lonesome?” - -“Why, we’ve lots of neighbors, and they’re all such nice folks. The Robys -are awful kind people, and only four miles, and the Atwills are only -three, on the other side. And then the Indians drop in, but though I try -to be good to them, it’s hard to like anybody so dirty. Dave says Red -Horse and his band are not fair samples, for they are all young bucks -that their fathers won’t be responsible for, and they certainly do steal. -I don’t think they ever stole anything from us, ’cept one hog and three -chickens and a jug of whiskey; but we always feed them well, and it’s a -little trying, though maybe you’ll think I’m inhospitable to say so, to -have half a dozen of them drop in and eat up a whole batch of light bread -and all the meat you’ve saved for next day and a plumb jug of molasses at -a sitting. That Red Horse is crazy for whiskey, and awful mean when he’s -drunk; but he’s always been civil to us—There’s Mist’ Brown now!” - -Wickliff’s first glance at the man in the doorway showed him the same -undersized, fair-skinned, handsome young fellow that he remembered; he -wanted to shrug his shoulders and exclaim, “The identical little tough!” -but Brown turned his head, and then Amos was aware that the recklessness -and the youth both were gone out of the face. At that moment it went to -the hue of cigar ashes. - -“Here’s the gentleman, David; my husband, Mist’ Wickliff,” said the wife. - -“Papa! papa!” joyously screamed the child, pattering across the floor. -Brown caught the little thing up and kissed it passionately; and he held -his face for a second against its tiny shoulder before he spoke (in a -good round voice), welcoming his guest. He was too busy with his boy, it -may be, to offer his hand. Neither did Amos move his arm from his side. -He repeated his errand. - -Brown moistened his blue lips; a faint glitter kindled in his haggard -eyes, which went full at the speaker. - -“_That’s_ what you want, is it?” - -“Well, if I want anything more, I’ll explain it on the way,” said Amos, -unsmilingly. - -Brown swallowed something in his throat. “All right; I guess I can go,” -said he. “To-morrow, that is. We can’t take pictures by moonlight; and -the road’s better by daylight. Won’t you come out with me while I do my -chores? We can—can talk it over.” In spite of his forced laugh there was -undisguised entreaty in his look, and relief when Amos assented. He went -first, saying under his breath, “I suppose this is how you want.” - -Amos nodded. They went out, stepping down the narrow walk between the -rows of hollyhocks to one side and sweet-pease to the other. Amos -turned his head from side to side, against his will, subdued by the -tranquil beauty of the scene. The air was very still. Only afar, on the -river-bank, the cows were calling to the calves in the yard. A bell -tinkled, thin and sweet, as one cow waded through the shallow water under -the willows. After the dismal neutral tints of the prairie, the rich -green of corn-field and grass looked enchanting, dipped as they were in -the glaze of sunset. The purple-gray of the well-sweep was painted flatly -against a sky of deepest, lustreless blue—the sapphire without its gleam. -But the river was molten silver, and the tops of the trees reflected the -flaming west, below the gold and the tumbled white clouds. Turn one way, -the homely landscape held only cool, infinitely soft blues and greens and -grays; turn the other, and there burned all the sumptuous dyes of earth -and sky. - -“It’s a pretty place,” said Brown, timidly. - -“Very pretty,” Amos agreed, without emotion. - -“I’ve worked awfully hard to pay for it. It’s all paid for now. You saw -my wife.” - -“Nice lady,” said Amos. - -“By ⸺, she is!” The other man swore with a kind of sob. “And she believes -in me. We’re happy. We’re trying to lead a good life.” - -“I’m inclined to think you’re living as decently and lawfully as any -citizens of the United States.” The tone had not changed. - -“Well, what are you going to do?” Brown burst forth, as if he could bear -the strain no longer. - -“I’m going to do my duty, Harned, and take you to Iowa.” - -“Will you listen to me first? All you know is, I killed—” - -But the officer held up his hand, saying in the same steady voice, “You -know whatever you say may be used against you. It’s my duty to warn—” - -“Oh, I know you, Mr. Wickliff. Come behind the gooseberry bushes where my -wife can’t see us—” - -“It’s no use, Harned; if you talked like Bob Ingersoll or an angel, I -have to do my duty.” Nevertheless he followed, and leaned against the -wall of the little shed that did duty for a barn. Harned walked in front -of him, too miserably restless to stand still, nervously pulling and -breaking wisps of hay between his fingers, talking rapidly, with an -earnestness that beaded his forehead and burned in his imploring eyes. -“All you know about me”—so he began, quietly enough—“all you know about -me is that I was a dissipated, worthless photographer, who could sing -a song and had a cursed silly trick of mimicry which made him amusing -company; and so I was trying to keep company with rich fellows. You -don’t know that when I came to your town I was as innocent a country lad -as you ever saw, and had a picture of my dead mother in my Bible, and -wrote to my father every week. He was a good man, my father. Lucky he -died before he found out about _me_. And you don’t know, either, that at -first, keeping a little studio on the third story, with a folding-bed in -the studio, and doing my cooking on the gas-jet, I was a happy man. But -I was. I loved my art. Maybe you don’t call a photographer an artist. -I do. Because a man works with the sun instead of a brush or a needle, -can’t he create a picture? And do you suppose a photographer can’t -hunt for the soul in a sitter as well as a portrait-painter? Can’t a -photographer bring out light and shade in as exquisite gradations as an -etcher? Artist! Any man that can discover beauty, and can express it in -any shape so other men can see it and love it and be happy on account -of it—_he’s_ an artist! And I don’t give a damn for a critic who tries -to box up art in his own little hole!” Harned was excitedly tapping the -horny palm of one hand with the hard, grimy fingers of the other. Amos -thought of the white hands that he used to take such pains to guard, and -then he looked at the faded check shirt and the patched overalls. Harned -had been a little dandy, too fond of perfumes and striking styles. - -“I was an artist,” said Harned. “I loved my art. I was happy. I had begun -to make reputation and money when the devil sent him my way. He was an -amateur photographer; that’s how we got acquainted. When he found I could -sing and mimic voices he was wild over me, flattered me, petted me, -taught me all kinds of fool habits; ruined me, body and soul, with his -friendship. Well, he’s dead; and God knows she wasn’t worth a man’s life; -but he did treat me mean about her, and when I flew at him he jeered at -me, and he took advantage of my being a little fellow and struck me and -cuffed me before them all; then I went crazy and shot him!” He stopped, -out of breath. Wickliff mused, frowning. The man at his mercy pleaded on, -gripping those slim, roughened hands of his hard together: “It ain’t -quite so bad as you thought, is it, Mr. Wickliff? For God’s sake put -yourself in my place! I went through hell after I shot him. You don’t -know what it is to live looking over your shoulder! Fear! fear! fear! -Day and night, fear! Waking up, maybe, in a cold sweat, hearing some -noise, and thinking it meant pursuit and the handcuffs. Why, my heart was -jumping out of my mouth if a man clapped me on the shoulder from behind, -or hollered across the street to me to stop. Then I met my wife. You -need not tell me I had no right to marry. I know it; I told myself so -a hundred times; but I couldn’t leave her alone with her poor old sick -father, could I? And then I found out that—that it would be hard for -her, too. And I was all wore out. Man, you don’t know what it is to be -frightened for two years? There wasn’t a nerve in me that didn’t seem to -be pulled out as far as it would go. I married her, and we hid ourselves -out here in the wilderness. You can say what you please, I have made her -happy; and she’s made me. If I was to die to-night, she’d thank God for -the happy years we’ve had together; just as she’s thanked Him every night -since we were married. The only thing that frets her is me giving up -photography. She thinks I could make a name like Wilson or Black. Maybe -I could; but I don’t dare; if I made a reputation I’d be gone. I have to -give it up, and do you suppose that ain’t a punishment? Do you suppose -it’s no punishment to sink into obscurity when you know you’ve got the -capacity to do better work than the men that are getting the money and -the praise? Do you suppose it doesn’t eat into my heart every day that I -can’t ever give my boy his grandfather’s honest name?—that I don’t even -dare to make his father’s name one he would be proud of? Yes, I took his -life, but I’ve given up all my chances in the world for it. My only hope -was to change as I grew older and be lost, and the old story would die -out—” - -“It might; but you see he had a mother,” said Wickliff; “she offers five -thousand—” - -“It was only one thousand,” interrupted Harned. - -“One thousand first year. She’s raised a thousand every year. She’s a -thrifty old party, willing to pay, but not willing to pay any more than -necessary. When it got to five thousand I took the case.” - -Harned looked wistfully about him. “I might raise four thousand—” - -“Better stop right there. I refused fifty thousand once to let a man go.” - -“Excuse me,” said Harned, humbly; “I remember. I’m so distracted I can’t -think of anything but Maggie and the baby. Ain’t there anything that will -move you? I’ve paid for that thing. I saved a boy’s life once—” - -“I know; I’ve seen the boy.” - -“Then you know I fought for his life; I fought awful hard. I said to -myself, if he lived I’d know it was the sign God had forgiven me. He did -live. I’ve paid, Mr. Wickliff, I’ve paid in the sight of God. And if it -comes to society, it seems to me I’m a good deal more use to it here than -I’d be in a State’s prison pegging shoes, and my poor wife—” - -He choked; but there was no softening of the saturnine gloom of -Wickliff’s face. - -“You ought to tell that all to the lawyer, not to me,” said Wickliff. -“I’m only a special officer, and my duty is to my employer, not to -society. What’s more, I am going to perform it. There isn’t anything that -can make it right for me to balk on my duty, no matter how sorry I feel -for you. No, Mr. Harned, if you live and I live, you go back to Iowa with -me.” - -[Illustration: “HARNED HID HIS FACE”] - -Harned in utter silence studied the impassive face, and it returned his -gaze; then he threw his arm up against the shed, and hid his own face in -the crook of his elbow. His shoulders worked as in a strong shudder, -but almost at once they were still, and when he turned his features were -blank and steady as the boards behind them. - -“I’ve just one favor to ask,” said he; “don’t tell my wife. You have got -to stay here to-night; it will be more comfortable for you, if I don’t -say anything till after you’ve gone to bed. Give me a chance to explain -and say good-bye. It will be hard enough for her—” - -“Will you give me your parole you won’t try to escape?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Nor kill yourself?” - -Harned started violently, and he laughed. “Do you think I’d kill myself -before poor Maggie? I wouldn’t be so mean. No, I promise you I won’t -either run away or kill myself or play any kind of trick on you to-night. -Does it go?” - -“It goes,” responded Amos, holding out his hand; “and I’ll give you a -good reputation in court, too, for being a good citizen now. That will -have weight with the judge. And if you care to know it, I’m mighty sorry -for you.” - -“Thank you, Mr. Wickliff,” said Harned; but he had not seemed to see the -hand; he was striding ahead. - -“That man means to kill himself,” thought Amos; “he’s too blamed -resigned. He’s got it all planned before. And God help the poor beggar! -I guess it’s the best thing he can do for himself. Lord, but it’s hard -sometimes for a man to do his duty!” - -The two men walked along, at first both mute, but no sooner did they come -well in view of the kitchen door than they began to talk. Amos hoped -there was nothing in the rumors of Indian troubles. - -“There’s only one band could make trouble,” said Harned. “Red Horse is -a mean Indian, educated in the agency schools, and then relapsed. Say, -who’s that running up the river-bank? Looks like Mrs. Roby’s sister. -She’s got the baby.” His face and voice changed sharply, he crying out, -“There’s something wrong with that woman!” and therewith he set off -running to the house at the top of his speed. Half-way, Amos, running -behind him, could hear a clamor of women’s voices, rising and breaking, -and loud cries. Mrs. Brown came to the doorway, beckoning with both -hands, screaming for them to hurry. - -When they reached the door they could see the new-comer. She was huddled -in a rocking-chair, a pitiful, trembling shape, wet to the skin, her dank -cotton skirts dripping, bareheaded, and her black hair blown about her -ghastly face; and on her breast a baby, wet as she, smiling and cooing, -but with a great crimson smouch on its tiny shoulder. Near her appeared -Johnny D.’s white head. He was pale under his freckles, but he kept -assuring her stoutly that uncle wouldn’t let the Indians get them. - -The woman was so spent with running that her words came in gasps. “Oh, -git ready! Fly! They’ve killed the Robys. They’ve killed sister and -Tom. They killed the children. Oh, my Lord! children! They was clinging -to their mother, and crying to the Indians to please not to kill them. -Oh, they pretended to be friendly—so’s to git in; and we cooked ’em up -such a good supper; but they killed every one, little Mary and little -Jim—I heard the screeches. I picked up the baby and run. I jumped into -the river and swum to the boat—I don’t know how I done it—oh, be quick! -They’ll be coming! Oh, fly!” - -Harned turned on Amos. “Flying’s no good on land, but maybe the -boat—you’ll help?” - -“Of course,” said Amos. “Here, young feller, can you scuttle up to the -roof-tree and reconnoitre with this field-glass?—you’re considerably -lighter on your feet than me. Twist the wheel round here till you can see -plain. There’s a hole, I see, up to the loft. Is there one out on the -roof? Then scuttle!” - -Mrs. Brown pushed the coffee back on the stove. “No use it burning,” said -she; and Amos admired her firm tones, though she was deadly pale. “If we -ain’t killed we’ll need it. Dave, don’t forget the camera. I’ll put up -some comforters to wrap the children in and something to eat.” She was -doing this with incredible quickness as she spoke, while Harned saw to -his gun and the loading of a pistol. - -The pistol she took out of his hands, saying, in a low, very gentle -voice, “Give that to me, honey.” - -He gave her a strange glance. - -“They sha’n’t hurt little Davy or me, Dave,” she answered, in the same -voice. - -Little Davy had gone to the woman and the baby, and was looking about -him with frightened eyes; his lip began to quiver, and he pointed to the -baby’s shoulder: “Injuns hurt Elly. Don’t let Injuns hurt Davy!” - -The wretched father groaned. - -“No, baby,” said the mother, kissing him. - -“Hullo! up there,” called Amos. “What do you see?” - -The shrill little voice rang back clearly, “They’re a-comin’, a terrible -sight of them.” - -“How many? Twenty?” - -“I guess so. Oh, uncle, the boat’s floated off!” - -“Didn’t you fasten it?” cried Harned. - -“God forgive me!” wailed the woman, “I don’t know!” - -Harned sat down in the nearest chair, and his gun slipped between his -knees. “Maggie, give us a drink of coffee,” said he, quietly. “We’ll have -time for that before they come.” - -“Can’t we barricade and fight?” said Amos, glaring about him. - -“Then they’ll get behind the barn and fire that, and the wind is this -way.” - -“We’ve _got_ to save the women and the kids!” cried Amos. At this moment -he was a striking and terrible figure. The veins of his temple swelled -with despair and impotent fury; his heavy features were transfigured in -the intensity of his effort to think—to see; his arms did not hang at his -sides; they were held tensely, with his fist clinched, while his burning -eyes roamed over every corner of the room, over every picture. In a flash -his whole condition changed, his muscles relaxed, his hands slid into his -pockets, he smiled the strangest and grimmest of smiles. “All right,” -said he. “Ah—Brown, you got any whiskey? Fetch it.” The women stared, -while Harned passively found a jug and placed it before him. - -“Now some empty bottles and tumblers.” - -“There are some empty bottles in the dark room; what do you mean to do?” - -“Mean to save you. Brace up! I’ll get them. And you, Mrs. Brown, if -you’ve got any paregoric, give those children a dose that will keep them -quiet, and up in the loft with you all. We’ll hand up the kids. Listen! -You must keep quiet, and keep the children quiet, and not stir, no matter -what infernal racket you may hear down here. You _must_! To save the -children. You must wait till you hear one of us, Brown or me, call. See? -I depend on you, and you _must_ depend on me!” - -Her eyes sought her husband’s; then, “I’m ready, sir,” she said, simply. -“I’ll answer for Johnny D., and the others I’ll make quiet.” - -“That’s the stuff,” cried Amos, exultantly. “I’ll fix the red butchers. -Only for God’s sake _hustle_!” - -He turned his back on the parting to enter the dark room, and when he -came back, with his hands full of empty bottles, Harned was alone. - -“I told her it was our only chance,” said Harned; “but I’m damned if I -know what our only chance is!” - -“Never mind that,” retorted Amos, briskly. He was entirely calm; indeed, -his face held the kind of grim elation that peril in any shape brings to -some natures. “You toss things up and throw open the doors, as if you all -had run away in a big fright, while I’ll set the table.” And, as Harned -feverishly obeyed, he carefully filled the bottles from the demijohn. The -last bottle he only filled half full, pouring the remains of the liquor -into a tumbler. - -“All ready?” he remarked; “well, here’s how,” and he passed the tumbler -to Harned, who shook his head. “Don’t need a brace? I don’t know as you -do. Then shake, pardner, and whichever one of us gets out of this all -right will look after the women. And—it’s all right?” - -“Thank you,” choked Harned; “just give the orders, and I’m there.” - -“You get into the other room, and you keep there, still; those are the -orders. Don’t you come out, whatever you hear; it’s the women’s and the -children’s lives are at stake, do you hear? And no matter what happens -to _me_, you stay _there_, you stay _still_! But the minute I twist the -button on that door, let me in, and be ready with your hatchet—that will -be handiest. Savez?” - -“Yes; God bless you, Mr. Wickliff!” cried Harned. - -“Pardner it is, now,” said Wickliff. They shook hands. Then Harned shut -himself in the closet. He did not guess Wickliff’s plan, but that did not -disturb the hope that was pumping his heart faster. He felt the magnetism -of a born leader and an intrepid fighter, and he was Wickliff’s to the -death. He strained his ears at the door. A chair scraped the boards; -Wickliff was sitting down. Immediately a voice began to sing—Wickliff’s -voice changed into a tipsy man’s maudlin pipe. He was singing a war-song: - - “‘We’ll rally round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again, - Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom!’” - -The sound did not drown the thud of horses’ hoofs outside. They sounded -nearer. Then a hail. On roared the song, all on one note. Wickliff -couldn’t carry a tune to save his soul, and no living man, probably, had -ever heard him sing. - - “‘And we’ll drive the savage crew from the land we love the best, - Shouting the battle-cry—’ - -“Hullo! Who’s comin’? Injuns—mean noble red men? Come in, gen’lemen all.” - -The floor shook. They were all crowding in. There was a din of guttural -monosyllables and sibilant phrases all fused together, threatening and -sinister to the listener; yet he could understand that some of them were -of pleasure. That meant the sight of the whiskey. - -“P-play fair, gen’lemen,” the drunken voice quavered, “thas fine whiskey, -fire-water. Got lot. Know where’s more. Queer shorter place ever did see. -Aller folks skipped. Nobody welcome stranger. Ha, ha!—hic!—stranger found -the whiskey, and is shelerbrating for himself. Help yeself, gen’lemen. I -know where there’s shum—shum more—plenty.” - -Dimly it came to Harned that here was the man’s bid for his life. They -wouldn’t kill him until he should get the fresh supply of whiskey. - -“Where Black Blanket gone?” grunted Red Horse. Harned knew his voice. - -“Damfino,” returned the drunken accents, cheerfully. “L-lit out, thas all -I know. Whas you mean, hitting each orrer with bottles? Plenty more. I’ll -go get it. You s-shay where you are.” - -The blood pounded through Harned’s veins at the sound of the shambling -step on the floor. His own shoulders involuntarily hunched themselves, -quivering as if he felt the tomahawk between them. Would they wait, -or would they shy something at him and kill him the minute his back -was turned? God! what nerve the man had! He was not taking a step the -quicker—ah! Wickliff’s fingers were at the fastening. He flung the door -back. Even then he staggered, keeping to his rôle. But the instant he was -over the threshold the transformation came. He hurled the door back and -threw his weight against it, quick as a cat. His teeth were set in a grin -of hate, his eyeballs glittered, and he shook his pistol at the door. - -“Come on now, damn you!” he yelled. “We’re ready.” - -Like an echo to his defiance, there rose an awful and indescribable -uproar from the room beyond—screams, groans, yells, and simultaneously -the sound of a rush on the door. But for a minute the door held. - -The clatter of tomahawk blades shook it, but the wood was thick; it held. - -“Hatchet ready, pard?” said Wickliff. “When you feel the door give, slip -the bolt to let ’em tumble in, and then strike for the women and the -kids; strike hard. I’ll empty my pop into the heap. It won’t be such a -big one if the door holds a minute longer.” - -“What are they doing in there?” gasped Harned. - -[Illustration: “‘IT WON’T BE SUCH A BIG ONE IF THE DOOR HOLDS’”] - -“They’re _dying_ in there, that’s what,” Wickliff replied, between his -teeth, “and dying fast. _Now!_” - -The words stung Harned’s courage into a rush, like whiskey. He shot the -bolt, and three Indians tumbled on them, with more—he could not see how -many more—behind. Then the hatchet fell. It never faltered after that one -glimpse Harned had of the thing at one Indian’s belt. He heard the bark -of the pistol, twice, three times, the heap reeling; the three foremost -were on the floor. He had struck them down too; but he was borne back. He -caught the gleam of the knife lurching at him; in the same wild glance -he saw Wickliff’s pistol against a broad red breast, and Red Horse’s -tomahawk in the air. He struck—struck as Wickliff fired; struck not at -his own assailant, but at Red Horse’s arm. It dropped, and Wickliff fired -again. He did not see that; he had whirled to ward the other blow. But -the Indian knife made only a random, nerveless stroke, and the Indian -pitched forward, doubling up hideously in the narrow space, and thus -slipping down—dead. - -“That’s over!” called Wickliff. - -Now Harned perceived that they were standing erect; they two and only -they in the place. Directly in front of them lay Red Horse, the blood -streaming from his arm. He was dead; nor was there a single living -creature among the Indians. Some had fallen before they could reach the -door at which they had flung themselves in the last access of fury; some -lay about the floor, and one—the one with the knife—was stiff behind -Harned in the dark room. - -“Look at that fellow,” called Harned. “I didn’t hit him; he may be -shamming.” - -“I didn’t hit him either,” said Wickliff, “but he’s dead all the same. -So are the others. I’d been too, I guess, but for your good blow on that -feller’s arm. I saw him, but you can’t kill two at once.” - -“How did you do it?” - -“Doped the whiskey. Cyanide of potassium from your photographic drugs; -that was the quickest. Even if they had killed you and me, it would work -before they could get the women and children. The only risk was their -not taking it, and with an Indian that wasn’t so much. Now, pardner, you -better give a hail, and then we’ll hitch up and get them safe in the -settlement till we see how things are going.” - -“And then?” said Harned, growing red. - -Amos gnawed at the corners of his mustache in rather a shamefaced way. -“Then? Why, then I’ll have to leave you, and make the best story I can -honestly for the old lady. Oh yes, damn it! I know my duty; I never went -back on it before. But I never went back on a pardner either; and after -fighting together like we have, I’m not up to any Roman-soldier business; -nor I ain’t going to give you a pair of handcuffs for saving my life! So -run outside and holler to your frau.” - -Left alone, Wickliff gazed about him in deep meditation, which at last -found outlet in a few pensive sentences. “Clean against the rules of war; -but rules of war are as much wasted on Injuns as ‘please’ on a stone-deaf -man! And I simply _had_ to save the women and children. Still it’s a -pretty sorry lay-out to pay five thousand dollars for the privilege of -seeing. But it’s a good deal worse to not do my duty. I shall never -forgive myself. But I never should forgive myself for going back on -a pardner either. I guess all it comes to is, duty’s a cursed blind -trail!” - - - - -THE HYPNOTIST - - - - -THE HYPNOTIST - - -There were not so many carriages in the little Illinois city with -chop-tailed horses, silver chains, and liveried coachmen that the clerks -in the big department shop should not know the Courtlandt landau, the -Courtlandt victoria, and the Courtlandt brougham (Miss Abbie Courtlandt’s -private equipage) as well as they knew Madam Courtlandt, Mrs. Etheridge, -or Miss Abbie. Two of the shop-girls promptly absorbed themselves in -Miss Abbie, one May morning, when she alighted from the brougham. For an -instant she stood, as if undecided, looking absently at the window, which -happened to be a huge kaleidoscope of dolls. - -A tall man and two ragged little girls were staring at the dolls also. -Both the girls were miserably thin, and one of them had a bruise on her -cheek. The man was much too well clad and prosperous to belong to them. -He stroked a drooping black mustache, and said, in the voice of a man -accustomed to pet children, whether clean or dirty, “Like these dolls -better than yours, sissy?”—at the same time smiling at the girl with the -bruised cheek. - -A sharp little pipe answered, “I ’ain’t got no doll, mister.” - -“No, she ’ain’t,” added the other girl; “but _I_ got one, only it ’ain’t -got no right head. Pa stepped on its head. I let her play with it, and we -made a head outer a corn-cob. It ain’t a very good head.” - -“I guess not,” said the man, putting some silver into her hand; “there, -you take that, little sister, and you go in and buy two dolls, one for -each of you; and you tell the young lady that waits on you just what you -told me. And if there is any money left, you go on over to that bakery -and fill up with it.” - -The children gave him two rapid, bewildered glances, clutched the money, -and darted into the store without a word. The man’s smiling eyes as they -turned away encountered Miss Abbie’s, in which was a troubled interest. -She had taken a piece of silver from her own purse. He smiled, as -perceiving a kindly impulse that matched his own; and she, to her own -later surprise, smiled too. The smile changed in a flash to a startled -look; all the color drifted out of her face, and she took a step forward -so hastily that she stumbled on her skirt. Recovering herself, she -dropped her purse; and a man who had just approached went down on one -knee to pick it up. But the tall man was too quick for him; a long arm -swooped in between the other’s outstretched hand and the gleaming bit -of lizard-skin on the bricks. The new-comer barely avoided a collision. -He did not take the escape with good-humor, scowling blackly as he made -a scramble, while still on his knee, at something behind the tall man’s -back. This must have been a handkerchief, since he immediately presented -a white flutter to Miss Courtlandt, bowing and murmuring, “You dropped -this too, I guess, madam.” - -“Yes, thank you,” stammered Miss Courtlandt; “thank you very much, Mr. -Slater.” She entered the store by his side, but at the door she turned -her head for a parting nod of acknowledgment to the other. He remained -a second longer, staring at the dolls, and gnawing the ends of his -mustache, not irritated, but sharply thoughtful. - -Thus she saw him, glancing out again, once more, when inside the store. -And through all the anguish of the moment—for she was in a dire -strait—she felt a faint pang that she should have been rude to this kind -stranger. In a feeble way she wondered, as they say condemned criminals -wonder at street sights on the way to the gallows, what he was thinking -of. But had he spoken his thought aloud she had not been the wiser, since -he was simply saying softly to himself, “Well, wouldn’t it kill you dead!” - -Miss Abbie stopped at the glove-counter to buy a pair of gloves. As she -walked away she heard distinctly one shop-girl’s sigh and exclamation to -the other, “My, I wish I was her!” - -A kind of quiver stirred Miss Abbie’s faded cold face. Her dark gray eyes -recoiled sidewise; then she stiffened from head to heel and passed out of -the store. - -To a casual observer she looked annoyed; in reality she was both -miserable and humiliated. And once back in the shelter of the brougham -her inward torment showed plainly in her face. - -Abigail Courtlandt was the second daughter of the house; never so admired -as Mabel, the oldest, who died, or Margaret, the youngest, who married -Judge Etheridge, and was now a widow, living with her widowed mother. - -Abigail had neither the soft Hayward loveliness of Mabel and her mother, -nor the haughty beauty of Margaret, who was all a Courtlandt, yet she -was not uncomely. If her chin was too long, her forehead too high, her -ears a trifle too large, to offset these defects she had a skin of -exquisite texture, pale and clear, white teeth, and beautiful black brows. - -She was thin, too thin; but her dressmaker was an artist, and Abbie -would have been graceful were she not so nervous, moving so abruptly, -and forever fiddling at something with her fingers. When she sat next -any one talking, it did not help that person’s complacency to have her -always sink slightly on the elbow further from her companion, as if -averting her presence. An embarrassed little laugh used to escape her -at the wrong moment. Withal, she was cold and stiff, although some keen -people fancied that her coldness and stiffness were no more than a mask -to shield a morbid shyness. These same people said that if she would -only forget herself and become interested in other people she would be a -lovable woman, for she had the kindest heart in the world. Unfortunately -all her thoughts concentred on herself. Like many shy people, Abbie was -vain. Diffidence as often comes from vanity, which is timid, as from -self-distrust. Abbie longed passionately not only to be loved, but to be -admired. She was loved, assuredly, but she was not especially admired. -Margaret Etheridge, with her courage, her sparkle, and her beauty, -was always the more popular of the sisters. Margaret was imperious, -but she was generous too, and never oppressed her following; only the -rebels were treated to those stinging speeches of hers. Those who loved -Margaret admired her with enthusiasm. No one admired poor Abbie with -enthusiasm. She was her father’s favorite child, but he died when she was -in short dresses; and, while she was dear to all the family, she did not -especially gratify the family pride. - -Her hungry vanity sought refuge in its own creations. She busied herself -in endless fictions of reverie, wherein an imaginary husband and an -imaginary home of splendor appeased all her longings for triumph. While -she walked and talked and drove and sewed, like other people, only a -little more silent, she was really in a land of dreams. - -Did her mother complain because she had forgotten to send the Book Club -magazines or books to the next lawful reader, she solaced herself by -visions of a book club in the future which she and “he” would organize, -and a reception of distinguished elegance which “they” would give, to -which the disagreeable person who made a fuss over nothing (meaning the -reader to whom reading was due) should not be invited—thereby reducing -her to humility and tears. But even the visionary tears of her offender -affected Abbie’s soft nature, and all was always forgiven. - -Did Margaret have a swarm of young fellows disputing over her card at a -ball, while Abbie must sit out the dances, cheered by no livelier company -than that of old friends of the family, who kept up a water-logged -pretence of conversation that sank on the approach of the first new-comer -or a glimpse of their own daughters on the floor, Abbie through it all -was dreaming of the balls “they” would give, and beholding herself -beaming and gracious amid a worshipping throng. - -These mental exercises, this double life that she lived, kept her -inexperienced. At thirty she knew less of the world than a girl in her -first season; and at thirty she met Ashton Clarke. Western society is -elastic, or Clarke never would have been on the edges even; he never did -get any further, and his morals were more dubious than his position; but -he was Abbie’s first impassioned suitor, and his flattering love covered -every crack in his manners or his habits. Men had asked her to marry them -before, but never had a man made love to her. For two weeks she was a -happy woman. Then came discovery, and the storm broke. The Courtlandts -were in a rage—except gentle Madam Courtlandt, who was broken-hearted and -ashamed, which was worse for Abbie. Jack, the older brother, was summoned -from Chicago. Ralph, the younger, tore home on his own account from Yale. -It was really a testimony to the family’s affection for Abbie that she -created such a commotion, but it did not impress her in that way. In the -end she yielded, but she yielded with a sense of cruel injustice done her. - -Time proved Clarke worse than her people’s accusations; but time did not -efface what the boys had said, much less what the girls had said. They -forgot, of course; it is so much easier to forget the ugly words that we -say than those that are said to us. But she remembered that Jack felt -that Abbie never did have any sense, and that Ralph raged because she -did not even know a cad from a gentleman, and that Margaret, pacing the -floor, too angry to sit still, would not have minded so much had Abbie -made a fool of herself for a _man_; but she didn’t wait long enough to -discover what he was; she positively accepted the first thing with a -mustache on it that offered! - -Time healed her heart, but not her crushed and lacerated vanity. And it -is a question whether we do not suffer more keenly, if less deeply, from -wounds to the self-esteem than to the heart. Generally we mistake the -former for the latter, and declare ourselves to have a sensitive heart, -when what we do have is only a thin-skinned vanity! - -But there was no mistake about Abbie’s misery, however a moralist might -speculate concerning the cause. She suffered intensely. And she had no -confidant. She had not even her old fairyland of fancy, for love and -lovers were become hateful to her. At first she went to church—until an -unlucky difference with the rector’s wife at a church fair. Later it was -as much her unsatisfied vanity and unsatisfied heart as any spiritual -confusion that led her into all manner of excursions into the shadowy -border-land of the occult. She was a secret attendant on table-tippings -and séances; a reader of every kind of mystical lore that she could buy; -an habitual consulter of spiritual mediums and clairvoyants and seventh -sons and daughters and the whole tribe of charlatans. But the family had -not noticed. They were not afraid of the occult ones; they were glad to -have Abbie happy and more contented; and they concerned themselves no -further, as is the manner of families, being occupied with their own -concerns. - -And so unguarded Abbie went to her evil fate. One morning, with her maid -Lucy, she went to see “the celebrated clairvoyant and seer, Professor -Rudolph Slater, the greatest revealer of the future in this or any other -century.” - -Lucy looked askance at the shabby one-story saloons on the street, and -the dying lindens before the house. Her disapproval deepened as they went -up the wooden steps. The house was one of a tiny brick block, with wooden -cornices, and unshaded wooden steps in need not only of painting but -scrubbing. - -The door opened into an entry which was dark, but not dark enough to -conceal the rents in the oil-cloth on the floor or the blotches on the -imitation oak paper of the walls. - -Lucy sniffed; she was a faithful and affectionate attendant, and she used -considerable freedom with her mistress. “I don’t know about there being -spirits here, but there’s been lots of onions!” remarked Lucy. Nor did -her unfavorable opinion end with the approach to the sorcerer’s presence. -She maintained her wooden expression even sitting in the great man’s room -and hearing his speech. - -Abbie did not see the hole in the green rep covering of the arm-chair, -nor the large round oil-stain on the faded roses of the carpet, nor the -dust on the Parian ornaments of the table; she was too absorbed in the -man himself. - -If his surroundings were sordid, he was splendid in a black velvet jacket -and embroidered shirt-front sparkling with diamonds. He was a short man, -rather thick-set, and although his hair was gray, his face was young and -florid. The gray hair was very thick, growing low on his forehead and -curling. Abbie thought it beautiful. She thought his eyes beautiful also, -and spoke to Lucy of their wonderful blue color and soul-piercing gaze. - -“I thought they were just awful impudent,” said Lucy. “I never did see a -man stare so, Miss Abbie; I wanted to slap him!” - -“But his hair _was_ beautiful,” Abbie persisted; “and he said it used to -be straight as a poker, but the spirits curled it.” - -“Why, Miss Abbie,” cried Lucy, “I could see the little straight ends -sticking out of the curls, that come when you do your hair up on irons. -I’ve frizzed my hair too many times not to know _them_.” - -“But, Lucy,” said Abbie, in a low, shocked voice, “didn’t you feel -_something_ when he put on those handcuffs and sat before the cabinet in -the dark, and his control spoke, and we saw the hands? What do you think -of that?” - -“I think it was him all the time,” said Lucy, doggedly. - -“But, Lucy, _why_?” - -“Finger-nails were dirty just the same,” said Lucy. Nor was there any -shaking her. But Abbie, under ordinary circumstances the most fastidious -of women, had not noted the finger-nails; one witching sentence had -captured her. - -The moment he took her hand he had started violently. “Excuse me, madam,” -said he, “but are you not a medium _yourself_?” - -“No—at least, I never was supposed to be,” fluttered Abbie, blushing. - -“Then, madam, you don’t perhaps realize that you yourself possess -marvellous psychic power. I never saw any one who had so much, when it -had not been developed.” - -To-day Abbie ground her teeth and wrung her hands in an impotent agony of -rage, remembering her pleasure. He would not take any money; no, he said, -there had been too much happiness for him in meeting such a favorite of -the spiritual influences as she. - -“But you will come again,” he pleaded; “only don’t ask me to take money -for such a great privilege. _You_ caynt see the invisible guardians that -hover around you!” - -His refusal of her gold piece completed his victory over Abbie’s -imagination. She was sure he could not be a cheat, since he would not -be paid. She did come again; she came many times, always with Lucy, who -grew more and more suspicious, but could not make up her mind to expose -Abbie’s folly to her people. “Think of all the things she gives me!” -argued Lucy. “Miss Abbie’s always been a kind of stray sheep in the -family; they are all kind of hard on her. I can’t bear to be the one to -get her into trouble.” - -So Lucy’s conscience squirmed in silence until the fortune-teller -persuaded Abbie to allow him to throw her into a trance. The wretched -woman in the carriage cowered back farther into the shade, living over -that ghastly hour when Lucy at her elbow was as far away from her -helpless soul as if at the poles. How his blue eyes glowed! How the flame -in them contracted to a glittering spark, like the star-tip of the silver -wand, waving and curving and interlacing its dazzling flashes before her -until her eyeballs ached! How of a sudden the star rested, blinking at -her between his eyes, and she looked; she must look at it, though her -will, her very self, seemed to be sucked out of her into the gleaming -whirlpool of that star! - -She made a feeble rally under a woful impression of fright and misery -impending, but in vain; and, with the carelessness of a creature who is -chloroformed, she let her soul drift away. - -When she opened her eyes, Lucy was rubbing her hands, while the -clairvoyant watched the two women motionless and smiling. - -The fear still on her prompted her first words, “Let me go home now!” - -“Not now,” begged the conjurer; “you must go into a trance again. I want -you to see something that will be very interesting to you. Please, Miss -Courtlandt.” He spoke in the gentlest of tones, but there was a repressed -assurance about his manner that was infuriating to Lucy. - -“Miss Abbie’s going home,” she cried, angrily; “we ain’t going to have -any more of this nonsense. Come, Miss Abbie.” She touched her on her -arm, but trembling Abbie fixed her eyes on the conjurer, and he, in that -gentle tone, answered: - -“Certainly, if she wishes; but she _wants_ to stay. You want to stay, -Miss Courtlandt, don’t you?” - -“Yes, I want to stay,” said Abbie; and her heart was cold within her, for -the words seemed to say themselves, even while she struggled frantically -against the utterance of them. - -[Illustration: “‘SHE MUST LOOK AT IT’”] - -“Do you mean it, Miss Abbie?” the girl repeated, sorely puzzled. - -“Certainly, just once more,” said Miss Abbie. And she sat down again in -her chair. - -What she saw she never remembered. Lucy said it was all nonsense she -talked, and, anyhow, she whispered so low that nobody could catch more -than a word, except that she seemed to be promising something over and -over again. In a little while the conjurer whispered to her, and with -a few passes of his hand consciousness returned. She rose, white and -shaken, but quite herself again. He bade the two good-bye, and bowed -them out with much suavity of manner. Abbie returned not a single word. -As they drove home, the maid spoke, “Miss Abbie, Miss Abbie—you won’t go -there again, will you?” - -“Never,” cried Abbie—“_never_!” - -But the next morning, after a sleepless night, there returned the same -horrible, dragging longing to see him; and with the longing came the same -fear that had suffocated her will the day before—a fear like the fear of -dreams, formless, reasonless, more dreadful than death. - -Impelled by this frightful force that did not seem to have anything to do -with her, herself, she left the house and boarded a street-car. She felt -as if a demon were riding her soul, spurring it wherever he willed. She -went to a little park outside the city, frequented by Germans and almost -deserted of a week-day. And on her way she remembered that this was what -she had promised him to do. - -He was waiting to assist her from the car. As he helped her alight, she -noticed his hands and his nails. They were neat enough; yet she suddenly -recalled Lucy’s words; and suddenly she saw the man, in his tasteless, -expensive clothes, with his swagger and the odor of whiskey about him, -as any other gentlewoman would have seen him. Her fright had swept all -his seer’s glamour away; he was no longer the mystical ruler of the -spirit-world; he was a squalid adventurer—and her master! - -He made her realize that in five minutes. “You caynt help yourself, Miss -Courtlandt,” he said, and she believed him. - -Whether it were the influence of a strong will on a hysterical -temperament and a morbidly impressible fancy, or whether it were a black -power from the unseen, beyond his knowledge but not beyond his abuse, -matters little so far as poor Abbie Courtlandt was concerned; on either -supposition, she was powerless. - -She left him, hating him as only slavery and fear can hate; but she -left him pledged to bring him five hundred dollars in the morning and -to marry him in the afternoon; and now, having kept her word about the -money, she was driving home, clinching in her cold fingers the slip of -paper containing the address of a justice of the peace in the suburbs, -where she must meet him and be bound to this unclean vulture, who would -bear her away from home and kindred and all fair repute and peace. - -A passion of revolt shook her. She _must_ meet him? Why must she? Why not -tear his address to bits? Why not drive fast, fast home, and tell her -mother that she was going to Chicago about some gowns that night? Why -not stay there at Jack’s, and let this fiend, who harried her, wait in -vain? She twisted the paper and ground her teeth; yet she knew that she -shouldn’t tear it, just as we all know we shall not do the frantic things -that we imagine, even while we are finishing up the minutest details the -better to feign ourselves in earnest. Poor, weak Abbie knew that she -never would dare to confess her plight to her people. No, she could never -endure another family council of war. - -“There is only one way,” she muttered. Instead of tearing the paper she -read it: - -“_Be at Squire L. B. Leitner’s, 398 S. Miller Street, at 3 p.m. sharp._” - -And now she did tear the odious message, flinging the pieces furiously -out of the carriage window. - -The same tall, dark, square-shouldered man that she had seen in front of -the shop-window was passing, and immediately bent and picked up some of -the shreds. For an instant the current of her terror turned, but only for -an instant. “What could a stranger do with an address?” She sank into the -corner, and her miserable thoughts harked back to the trap that held her. - -Like one in a nightmare, she sat, watching the familiar sights of the -town drift by, to the accompaniment of her horses’ hoofs and jingling -chains. “This is the last drive I shall ever take,” she thought. - -She felt the slackening of speed, and saw (still in her nightmare) the -broad stone steps and the stately, old-fashioned mansion, where the -daintiest of care and the trimmest of lawns had turned the old ways of -architecture from decrepitude into pride. - -Lunch was on the table, and her mother nodded her pretty smile as she -passed. Abbie had a box of flowers in her hand, purchased earlier in the -morning; these she brought into the dining-room. There were violets for -her mother and American Beauties for Margaret. “They looked so sweet I -had to buy them,” she half apologized. Going through the hall, she heard -her mother say, “How nice and thoughtful Abbie has grown lately!” And -Margaret answered, “Abbie is a good deal more of a woman than I ever -expected her to be.” - -All her life she had grieved because—so she morbidly put it to -herself—her people despised her; now that it was too late, was their -approval come to her only to be flung away with the rest? She returned to -the dining-room and went through the farce of eating. She forced herself -to swallow; she talked with an unnatural ease and fluency. Several -times her sister laughed at her words. Her mother smiled on her fondly. -Margaret said, “Abbie, why can’t you go to Chicago with me to-night and -have a little lark? You have clothes to fit, too; Lucy can pack you up, -and we can take the night train.” - -“I _would_,” chimed in Mrs. Courtlandt. “You look so ill, Abbie. I think -you must be bilious; a change will be nice for you. And I’ll ask Mrs. -Curtis over for a few days while you are gone, and we will have a little -tea-party of our own and a little lark for ourselves.” - -Never before had Margaret wished Abbie to accompany her on “a little -lark.” Abbie assented like a person in a dream; only she must go down to -the bank after luncheon, she said. - -Up-stairs in her own chamber she gazed about the pretty furnishings -with blank eyes. There was the writing-desk that her mother gave her -Christmas, there glistened the new dressing-table that Margaret helped -her about finishing, and there was the new paper with the sprawly flowers -that she thought so ugly in the pattern, and took under protest, and -liked so much on the walls. How often she had been unjust to her people, -and yet it had turned out that they were right! Her thoughts rambled on -through a thousand memories, stumbling now into pit-falls of remorse over -long-forgotten petulance and ingratitude and hardenings of her heart -against kindness, again recovering and threading some narrow way of -possible release, only to sink as the wall closed again hopelessly about -her. - -For the first time she arraigned her own vanity as the cause of her long -unhappiness. Well, it was no use now. All she could do for them would be -to drift forever out of their lives. She opened the drawer, and took a -vial from a secret corner. “It is only a little faintness and numbness, -and then it is all over,” she thought, as she slipped the vial into the -chatelaine bag at her waist. In a sudden gust of courage she took it out -again; but that instinctive trusting to hope to the last, which urges -the most desperate of us on delay, held her hand. She put back the vial, -and, without a final glance, went down the stairs. It was in her heart to -have one more look at her mother, but at the drawing-room door she heard -voices, and happening to glance up at the clock, she saw how near the -time the hour was; so she hurried through the hall into the street. - -During the journey she hardly felt a distinct thought. But at intervals -she would touch the outline of the vial at her waist. - -The justice’s office was in the second story of a new brick building that -twinkled all over with white mortar. Below, men laughed, and glasses -and billiard-balls clicked behind bright new green blinds. A steep, -dark wooden stairway, apparently trodden by many men who chewed tobacco -and regarded the world as their cuspidor, led between the walls up to -a narrow hall, at the farther end of which a door showed on its glass -panels the name L. B. Leitner, J.P. - -Abbie rapped feebly on the glass, to see the door instantly opened by -Slater himself. He had donned a glossy new frock-coat and a white tie. -His face was flushed. - -“I didn’t intend you should have to enter here alone,” he exclaimed, -drawing her into the room with both hands; “I was just going outside to -wait for you. Allow me to introduce Squire Leitner. Squire, let me make -you acquainted with Miss Courtlandt, the lady who will do me the honor.” - -He laughed a little nervous laugh. He was plainly affecting the manner of -the fortunate bridegroom, and not quite at ease in his rôle. Neither of -the two other men in the room returned any answering smile. - -The justice, a bald, gray-bearded, kindly, and worried-looking man, bowed -and said, “Glad to meet you, ma’am,” in a tone as melancholy as his -wrinkled brow. - -“Squire is afraid you are not here with your own free-will and consent, -Abbie,” said Slater, airily; “but I guess you can relieve his mind.” - -At the sound of her Christian name (which he had never pronounced before) -Abbie turned white with a sort of sick disgust and shame. But she raised -her eyes and met the intense gaze of the tall, dark man that she had seen -before. He stood, his elbow on the high desk and his square, clean-shaven -chin in his hand. He was neatly dressed, with a rose in his button-hole, -and an immaculate pink-and-white silk shirt; but he hardly seemed (to -Abbie) like a man of her own class. Nevertheless, she did not resent -his keen look; on the contrary, she experienced a sudden thrill of -hope—something of the same feeling she had known years and years ago, -when she ran away from her nurse, and a big policeman found her, both her -little slippers lost in the mud of an alley, she wailing and paddling -along in her stocking feet, and carried her home in his arms. - -“Yes, Miss Courtlandt”—she winced at the voice of the justice—“it is my -duty under the—hem—unusual circumstances of this case, to ask you if you -are entering into this—hem—solemn contract of matrimony, which is a state -honorable in the sight of God and man, by the authority vested in me by -the State of Illinois—hem—to ask you if you are entering it of your own -free-will and consent—are you, miss?” - -Abbie’s sad gray eyes met the magistrate’s look of perplexed inquiry; her -lips trembled. - -“Are you, Abbie?” said the clairvoyant, in a gentle tone. - -“Yes,” answered Abbie; “of my own free-will and consent.” - -“I guess, professor, I must see the lady alone,” said the justice, dryly. - -“You caynt believe it is a case of true love laffs at the aristocrats, -can you, squire?” sneered Slater; “but jest as she pleases. Are you -willing to see him, Abbie?” - -“Whether Miss Courtlandt is willing or not,” interrupted the tall man, in -a mellow, leisurely voice, “I guess _I_ will have to trouble you for a -small ‘sceance’ in the other room, Marker.” - -“And who are you, sir?” said Slater, civilly, but with a truculent look -in his blue eyes. - -“This is Mr. Amos Wickliff, of Iowa, special officer,” the justice said, -waving one hand at the man and the other at Abbie. - -Wickliff bowed in Abbie’s direction, and saluted the fortune-teller with -a long look in his eyes, saying: - -“Wasn’t Bill Marker that I killed out in Arizona your cousin?” - -“My name ain’t Marker, and I never had a cousin killed by you or -anybody,” snapped back the fortune-teller, in a bigger and rounder voice -than he had used before. - -Wickliff merely narrowed his bright black eyes, opened a door, and -motioned within, saying, “Better.” - -The fortune-teller scowled, but he walked through the door, and Wickliff, -following, closed it behind him. - -Abbie looked dumbly at the justice. He sighed, rubbed his hands -together, and placed a chair against the wall. - -“There’s a speaking-tube hole where we used to have a tube, but I took -it out, ’cause it was too near the type-writer,” said he. “It’s just -above the chair; if you put your ear to that hole I guess it would be the -best thing. You can place every confidence in Mr. Wickliff; the chief of -police here knows him well; he’s a perfect gentleman, and you don’t need -to be afraid of hearing any rough language. No, ma’am.” - -Abbie’s head swam; she was glad to sit down. Almost mechanically she laid -her ear to the hole. - -The first words audible came from Wickliff. “Certainly I will arrest -you. And I’ll take you to Toronto to-night, and you can settle with the -Canadian authorities about things. Rosenbaum offers a big reward; and -Rosenbaum, I judge, is a good fellow, who will act liberally.” - -“I tell you I’m not Marker,” cried Slater, fiercely, “and it wouldn’t -matter a damn if I was! Canada! You caynt run a man in for Canada!” - -Wickliff chuckled. “Can’t I?” said he; “that’s where you miss it, Marker. -Now I haven’t any time to fool away; you can take your choice: go off -peacefully—I’ve a hack at the door—and we’ll catch the 5:45 train for -Toronto, and there you shall have all the law and justice you want; or -you can just make one step towards that door, or one sound, and I’ll -slug you over the head, and load you into the carriage neatly done up in -chloroform, and when you wake up you’ll be on the train with a decent -gentleman who doesn’t know anything about international law, but does -know _me_, and wouldn’t turn his head if you hollered bloody murder. See?” - -“That won’t go down. You caynt kidnap me that way! I’ll appeal to the -squire. No, no! I _won’t_! Before God, I won’t—I was jest fooling!” - -The voice of terror soothed Abbie’s raw nerves like oil on a burn. “He’s -scared now, the coward!” she rejoiced, savagely. - -“There’s where we differ, then,” retorted Wickliff; “_I_ wasn’t.” - -“That’s all right. Only one thing: will you jest let me marry my -sweetheart before I go, and I’ll go with you like a holy lamb; I will, -by—” - -“No swearing, Marker. That lady don’t want to marry you, and she ain’t -going to—” - -“_Ask_ her,” pleaded Slater, desperately. “I’ll leave it with her. If she -don’t say she loves me and wants to marry me, I’ll go all right.” - -Abbie’s pulses stood still. - -“Been trying the hypnotic dodge again, have you?” said Wickliff, -contemptuously. “Well, it won’t work this time. I’ve got too big a curl -on you.” - -[Illustration: “‘HE’S SCARED NOW, THE COWARD’”] - -There was a pause the length of a heart-beat, and then the hated tones, -shrill with fear: “I _wasn’t_ going to the window! I wasn’t going to -speak—” - -“See here,” the officer’s iron-cold accents interrupted, “let us -understand each other. Rosenbaum hates you, and good reason, too; _he’d_ -much rather have you dead than alive; and you ought to know that _I_ -wouldn’t mind killing you any more than I mind killing a rat. Give me a -good excuse—pull that pop you have in your inside pocket just a little -bit—and you’re a stiff one, sure! See?” - -Again the pause, then a sullen voice: “Yes, damn you! I see. Say, won’t -you let me say good-bye to my girl?” - -Abbie clinched her finger-nails into her hands during the pause that -followed. Wickliff’s reply was a surprise; he said, musingly, “Got any -money out of her, I wonder?” - -“I swear to God not a red cent!” cried the conjurer, vehemently. - -“Oh, you _are_ a scoundrel, and no mistake,” laughed Wickliff. “That -settles it; you _have_! Well, I’ll call her—Oh, Miss Courtlandt!”—he -elevated his soft tones to a roaring bellow—“please excuse my calling -you, and step out here! Or we’ll go in there.” - -“If it’s anything private, you’ll excuse me,” interposed a mild voice at -her elbow; and when she turned her head, behold a view of the skirts of -the minister of justice as he slammed a door behind him! - -A second later, Wickliff entered, propelling Slater by the shoulder. - -“Ah! Squire stepped out a moment, has he?” said the officer, blandly. -“Well, that makes it awkward, but I may as well tell you, madam, with -deep regret, that this man here is a professional swindler, who is most -likely a bigamist as well, and he has done enough mischief for a dozen, -in his life. I’m taking him to Canada now for a particularly bad case -of hypnotic influence and swindling, etc. Has he got any money out of -you?” As he spoke he fixed his eyes on her. “Don’t be afraid if he has -hypnotized you; he won’t try those games before me. Kindly turn your back -on the lady, Johnny.” (As he spoke he wheeled the fortune-teller round -with no gentle hand.) “He has? How much?” - -It was strange that she should no longer feel afraid of the man; but -his face, as he cowered under the heavy grasp of the officer, braced -her courage. “He has five hundred dollars I gave him this morning,” she -cried; “but he may keep it if he will only let me go. I don’t want to -marry him!” - -“Of course you don’t, a lady like you! He’s done the same game with nice -ladies before. Keep your head square, Johnny, or I’ll give your neck a -twist! And as to the money, you’ll march out with me to the other room, -and you’ll fish it out, and the lady will kindly allow you fifty dollars -of it for your tobacco while you’re in jail in Canada. That’s enough, -Miss Courtlandt—more would be wasted—and if he doesn’t be quick and -civil, I’ll act as his valet.” - -The fortune-teller wheeled half round in an excess of passion, his -fingers crooked on their way to his hip pocket; then his eye ran to the -officer, who had simply doubled his fist and was looking at the other -man’s neck. Instinctively Slater ducked his head; his hand dropped. - -“No, no, please,” Miss Courtlandt pleaded; “_let_ him keep it, if he will -only go away.” - -“Beg pardon, miss,” returned the inflexible Wickliff, “you’re only -encouraging him in bad ways. Step, Johnny.” - -“If you’ll let me have that five hundred,” cried Slater, “I’ll promise -to go with you, though you know I have the legal right to stay.” - -“You’ll go with me as far as you have to, and no farther, promise or no -promise,” said Wickliff, equably. “You’re a liar from Wayback! And I’m -letting you keep that revolver a little while so you may give me a chance -to kill you. Step, now!” - -Slater ground his teeth, but he walked out of the room. - -“At least, give him a hundred dollars!” begged Miss Courtlandt as the -door closed. In a moment it opened again, and the two re-entered. -Slater’s wrists were in handcuffs; nevertheless, he had reassumed a -trifle of his old jaunty bearing, and he bowed politely to Abbie, -proffering her a roll of bills. “There are four hundred there, Miss -Courtlandt,” said he. “I am much obliged to you for your generosity, and -I assure you I will never bother you again.” He made a motion that she -knew, with his shackled hands. “You are quite free from me,” said he; -“and, after all, you will consider that it was only the money you lost -from me. I always treated you with respect, and to-day was the only day -I ever made bold to speak of you or to you by your given name. Good-bye, -Miss Courtlandt; you’re a real lady, and I’ll tell you now it was all a -fake about the spirits. I guess there are real spirits and real mediums, -but they didn’t any of ’em ever fool with _me_. Good-afternoon, ma’am.” - -[Illustration: “‘I’LL ACT AS HIS VALET’”] - -Abigail took the notes mechanically; he had turned and was at the door -before she spoke. “God forgive you!” said she. “Good-bye.” - -“That was a decent speech, Marker,” said Wickliff, “and you’ll see I’ll -treat you decent on the way. Good-morning, Miss Courtlandt. I needn’t -say, I guess, that no one will know anything of this little matter from -the squire or me, not even the squire’s wife. _I_ ’ain’t got one. I wish -you good-morning, ma’am. No, ma’am”—as she made a hurried motion of -the money towards him—“I shall get a large reward; don’t think of it, -ma’am. But if you felt like doing the civil thing to the squire, a box -of cigars is what any gentleman is proud to receive from a lady, and I -should recommend leaving the brand to the best cigar-store you know. -Good-morning, ma’am.” - -Barely were the footsteps out of the hall when the worthy justice, very -red and dusty, bounced out of the closet. “Excuse me,” gasped he, “but I -couldn’t stand it a minute longer! Sit down, Miss Courtlandt; and don’t, -please, think of fainting, miss, for I’m nearly smothered myself!” He -bustled to the water-cooler, and proffered water, dripping over a tin -cup on to Abbie’s hands and gown; and he explained, with that air of -intimate friendliness which is a part of the American’s mental furniture, -“I thought it better to let Wickliff _persuade him_ by himself. He is a -remarkable man, Amos Wickliff; I don’t suppose there’s a special officer -west of the Mississippi is his equal for arresting bad cases. And do -you know, ma’am, he never was after this Marker. Just come here on a -friendly visit to the chief of police. All he knew of Marker was from the -newspapers; he had been reading the letter of the man Marker swindled -in Canada, and his offer of a reward for him. Marker’s picture was in -it, and a description of his hair and all his looks, and Wickliff just -picked him out from that. I call that pretty smart, picking up a man -from his picture in a newspaper. Why, I”—he assumed a modest expression, -but glowed with pride—“_I_ have had my picture in the paper, and my wife -didn’t know it. Yes, ma’am, Wickliff is at the head of the profession, -and no mistake! Didn’t have a sign of a warrant. Just jumped on the job; -telegraphed for a warrant to meet him at Toronto.” - -“But will he take him safely to Canada?” stammered Miss Abigail. - -“Not a doubt of it,” said the justice. And it may be mentioned here that -his prediction came true. Wickliff sent a telegram the next day to the -chief of police, announcing his safe arrival. - -Miss Courtlandt went to Chicago by the evening train. She is a happier -woman, and her family often say, “How nice Abbie is growing!” She has -never seen the justice since; but when his daughter was married the whole -connection marvelled and admired over a trunk of silver that came to the -bride—“From one to whom her father was kind.” - -The only comment that the justice made was to his wife: “Yes, my dear, -you’re right; it _is_ a woman, a lady; but if you knew all about it, how -I never saw her but the once, and all, you wouldn’t mind Bessie’s taking -it. She was a nice lady, and I’m glad to have obliged her. But it really -ought to go to another man.” - - - - -THE NEXT ROOM - - - - -THE NEXT ROOM - - -It was as much the mystery as the horror that made the case of Margaret -Clark (commonly known as Old Twentypercent) of such burning interest to -the six daily journals of the town. I have been told that the feet of -tireless young reporters wore a separate path up the bluff to the site -of old Margaret’s abode; but this I question, because there were already -two paths made for them by the feet of old Margaret’s customers—the -winding path up the grassy slope, and the steps hewn out of the sheer -yellow bluff-side, sliced down to make a backing for the street. These -are the facts that, whichever the path taken, they were able to glean: -Miss Margaret lived on the bluff in the western part of town. The street -below crosses at right angles the street running to the river, which -is of the kind the French term an “impasse.” It is a street of varied -fortunes, beginning humbly in a wide and treeless plain, where jimson, -dock, and mustard weed have their will with the grass, passing a number -of houses, each in its own tiny yard, creeping up the hill and the social -scale at the same time, until it is bordered by velvety boulevards and -terraces and lawns that glow in the evening light, and pretty houses -often painted; then dropping again to a lonely gully, with the flaming -kilns of the brick-yard on one side, and the huge dark bulk of the -brewery on the other, reaching at last the bustle and roar of the busiest -street in town. The great arc-light swung a dazzling white porcupine -above the brewery vats every night (when the moon did not shine), and -hung level with the crest of the opposite bluff. By day or night one -could see the trim old-fashioned garden and the close-cropped lawn and -the tall bur-oaks that shaded the two-story brown cottage in which for -fifteen years Margaret Clark had lived. Here she was living at the time -of these events, with no protector except her bull-dog, the Colonel (who, -to be sure, understood his business, and I cannot deny him a personal -pronoun), and no companion except Esquire Clark, her cat. She did not -keep fowls—judging it right and necessary to slay them on occasion, but -never having the heart to kill anything for which she had cared and -which she had taught to know her. Therefore she bought her eggs and her -“frying chickens” of George Washington, a worthy colored man who lived -below the hill, and who kept Margaret’s garden in order. Although he had -worked for her (satisfactory service given for satisfactory wage) during -all these fifteen years, he knew as little about her, he declared, as the -first week he came. Nor did the wizened little Irishwoman who climbed the -clay stairway three times a week to wash and scrub know any more. But she -stoutly maintained “the old lady was a rale lady, and the saints would -be good to her.” One reporter, more curious, discovered that Margaret -several times had helped this woman over a rough pass. - -The only other person (outside of her customers) who kept so much as a -speaking acquaintance with Margaret was the sheriff, Amos Wickliff. And -what he knew of her he was able to keep even from the press. As for the -customers, her malicious nickname explains her business. Margaret was an -irregular money-lender. She loaned money for short periods on personal -security or otherwise. It should speak well for her shrewdness that she -rarely made a bad debt. Yet she was not unpopular; on the contrary, -she had the name of giving the poor a long day, and, for one of her -trade, was esteemed lenient. Shortly after her accident, also (she had -the ill-hap to fall down her cellar-way, injuring her spine), she had -remitted a number of debts to her poorest debtors. - -The accident occurred of a Wednesday morning; Wednesday afternoon -her nephew called on her, having, he said, but just discovered her -whereabouts. The reporters discovered that this nephew, Archibald Cary -Allerton by name, was not an invited and far from a welcome guest, -although he gave out that his mother and he were his aunt’s sole living -kindred. She would not speak to him when he visited her, turning her head -to the wall, moaning and muttering, so that it was but kindness to leave -her. The nurse (Mrs. Raker, the jailer’s wife, had come up from the jail) -said that he seemed distressed. He called again during the evening, after -Wickliff, who spent most of the evening with her alone, was gone, but he -had no better success; she would not or could not speak to him. Thursday -morning she saw Amos Wickliff. She seemed brighter, and gave Amos, in the -presence of the nurse, the notes and mortgages that she desired released. -Thursday evening, about eight o’clock, Amos returned to report how he -had done his commissions. He found the house flaming from roof-tree to -sills! There was no question of his saving the sick woman. Even as he -panted up the hill-side the roof fell in with a crash. Amos screamed to -the crowd: “Where is she? Did you save her?” And the Irish char-woman’s -wail answered him: “I wint in—I wint in whin it was all afire, and the -fire jumped at me, so I run; me eyebrows is gone, and I didn’t see a -sign of her!” Then Amos betook himself to Mrs. Raker, whom he found only -after much searching; nor did her story reassure him. She was violently -agitated between pity and shock, but, as usual, she kept her head on -her shoulders and her wits on duty. She was not in the house when the -catastrophe had happened. Allerton had come to see his aunt. He told the -nurse that she might go to her sister, her sister’s child being ill, and -that he would stay with his aunt. Wickliff was expected every moment. And -the patient had added her word, “Do go, Mrs. Raker; it’s only a step; and -take a jar of my plum jelly to Sammy to take his medicine in!” So Mrs. -Raker went. She saw the fire first, and that not half an hour from the -time she left the house. She saw it flickering in the lower windows. It -was she sent her brother-in-law to give the alarm, while she ran swiftly -to the house. The whole lower story was ablaze when she got up the hill. -To enter was impossible. But Mrs. O’Shea, the char-woman, and she did -find a ladder, and put it against the wall and the window of Miss Clark’s -chamber, which window was wide open, and Mrs. Baker held the ladder -while Mrs. O’Shea, who was of an agile and slimmer build, clambered up -the rounds to look through the smoke, already mixed with flame. And the -room was empty. Amos at once had the neighborhood searched, hoping that -Allerton had conveyed his aunt to a place of safety. There was no trace -of either aunt or nephew. But Amos found a boy who confessed (after some -pressure) that he had been in Miss Margaret’s yard, in the vineyard -facing her room. He had been startled by a kind of rattling noise and a -scream. Involuntarily he cowered behind the vines and peered through at -the house. The windows of Miss Clark’s room were closed, or maybe one was -open very slightly; but suddenly this window was pushed up and Allerton -leaned out. He knew it was Allerton by the square shoulders. He did not -say anything, only turned his head, looking every way. The boy thought it -time to run. He was clear of the yard and beginning to descend the bluff, -when he looked back and saw Allerton running very swiftly through the -circle of light cast by the electric lamp. All the reporters examined the -lad, but he never altered his tale. “Mr. Allerton looked frightened—he -looked awful frightened,” he said. - -Amos was on the point of sending to the police, when Allerton himself -appeared. The incredible story which he told only thickened the -suspicions beginning to gather about him. - -He said that he had found his aunt disinclined to talk. She told him to -go into the other room, for she wished to go to sleep; and although he -had matters of serious import to discuss with her, he could not force -his presence on a lady, and he obeyed her. He went into the adjoining -room, and there he sat in a chair before the door. The door was the sole -means of exit from the bedchamber. The two rooms opened into each other -by the door; and the second room, in which Allerton sat, had a door -into a small hall, from which the staircase led down-stairs. Allerton -was ready to swear to his story, which was that he had sat in the chair -before the door until he heard a singular muffled scream from the other -room. Instantly he sprang up, opened the door, and ran into the other -room. The bed was opposite the door. To his terror and amazement, the -bed was empty, the room was empty. He ran frantically round the room, -and then flung up the window, looking out; but there was nothing to -be seen. Moreover, the room was twenty feet from the ground, nor was -there so much as a vine or a lightning-rod to help a climber. It was -past believing that a decrepit old woman, who could not turn in bed -alone, should have climbed out of a window and dropped twenty feet to -the ground. Besides, there was the boy watching that side of the house -all the time. He had seen nothing. But where was Margaret Clark? The -chief of police took the responsibility of arresting Allerton. Perhaps -he was swayed to this decisive step by the boy’s testimony being in a -measure corroborated by a woman of unimpeachable character living in -the neighborhood, who had heard screams, as of something in mortal pain -or fear, at about the time mentioned by the boy. She looked up to the -house and was half minded to climb the steps; but the sounds ceased, the -peaceful lights in the house on the hill were not disturbed, and, chiding -her own ears, she passed on. - -The fire broke out a little later, hardly a quarter of an hour after -Allerton went away. This was established by the fact that the boy, who -ran at the top of his speed, had barely reached home before he heard the -alarm-bells. The flames seemed to envelop the whole structure in a flash, -which was not so much a matter of marvel as other things, since the -house was of wood, and dry as tinder from a long drought. - -It was possible that Allerton was lying, and that while he and the boy -were gone the old woman had discovered the fire and painfully crawled -down-stairs and out of the burning house; but, in that case, where was -she? How could a feeble old woman thus vanish off the face of the earth? -The next day the police explored the ruins. They half expected to find -the bones of the unfortunate creature. They did not find a shred of -anything that resembled bones. If Allerton had murdered his aunt, he -had so contrived his crime as to destroy every vestige of the body; -and granting him a motive to do such an atrocious deed, why should so -venturesome and ingenious a murderer jeopard everything by a wild fairy -tale? The reporters found themselves before a blank wall. - -“Maybe it _ain’t_ a fairy tale,” Amos Wickliff suggested one day, two -days after the mystery. He was giving “the boys” a kind word on the -court-house steps. - -“It’s to be hoped it is a true story,” said the youngest and naturally -most hardened reporter, “since then he’ll die with a better conscience!” - -“They never can convict him on the evidence,” interrupted another man. -“I don’t see how they can even hold him.” - -“That’s why folks are mad,” said the youngest reporter, with a pitying -smile. - -“There’s something in the talk, then?” said Amos, shifting his cigar to -the other side of his mouth. - -“_Are_ they going to lynch that feller?” asked another reporter. - -“Say so,” the first young man remarked, placidly; “a lot of the old -lady’s chums are howling about stringing him up. They’ve the notion that -she was burned alive, and they’re hot over it.” - -“That’s _your_ paper, old man; you had ’most two columns, and made it out -Mrs. Kerby heard squealing _after_ the boy did; and pictured the horrible -situation of the poor old helpless woman writhing in anguish, and the -fire eating nearer and nearer. Great Scott! it made _me_ crawl to read -it; and I saw a crowd down-town in the park, and if one fellow wasn’t -reading your blasted blood-curdler out loud; and one woman was crying -and telling about the old party lending her money to buy her husband’s -coffin, and then letting her off paying. That made the crowd rabid. -At every sentence they let off a howl. You needn’t be grinning like a -wild-cat; it ain’t funny to that feller in jail, I bet. Is it, Amos?” - -“You boys better call off your dogs, if you can get ’em,” was all the -sheriff deigned to answer, and he rose as he spoke. He did not look -disturbed, but his placid mask belied him. Better than most men he knew -what stormy petrels “the newspaper boys” were. And better than any man -he knew what an eggshell was his jail. “I’d almost like to have ’em -bust that fool door, though,” he grimly reflected, “just to show the -supervisors I knew what I was talking about. I’ll get a new jail out of -those old roosters, or they’ll have to get a new sheriff. But meanwhile—” -He fell into a perplexed and gloomy reverie, through which his five -years’ acquaintance with the lost woman drifted pensively, as a moving -car will pass, slowly revealing first one familiar face and then another. -“I suppose I’m what the lawyers would call her next friend—hereabouts, -anyhow,” he mused, “and yet you might say it was quite by accident we -started in to know each other, poor old lady!” The cause of the first -acquaintance was as simple as a starved cat which a jury of small boys -were preparing to hang just under the bluff. Amos cut down the cat, and -almost in the same rhythm, as the disciples of Delsarte would say, -cuffed the nearest executioner, while the others fled. Amos hated cats, -but this one, as if recognizing his good-will (and perhaps finding some -sweet drop in the bitter existence of peril and starvation that he knew, -and therefore loath to yield it), clung to Amos’s knees and essayed a -feeble purr of gratitude. “Well, pussy,” said Amos, “good-bye!” But -the cat did not stir, except to rub feebly again. It was a black cat, -very large, ghastly thin, with the rough coat of neglect, and a pair of -burning eyes that might have reminded Amos of Poe’s ghastly conceit were -he not protected against such fancies by the best of protectors. He could -not remember disagreeably that which he had never read. “Pussy, you’re -about starved,” said Amos. “I believe I’ve got to give you a stomachful -before I turn you loose.” - -“_I’ll_ give the kitty something to eat,” said a voice in the air. - -Amos stared at the clouds; then he whirled on his heel and recognized -both the voice, which had a different accent and quality of tone from -the voices that he was used to hear, and the little, shabby, gray-headed -woman who was scrambling down to him. - -[Illustration: “‘_I’LL_ GIVE THE KITTY SOMETHING TO EAT’”] - -“_Will_ you?” exclaimed Amos, in relief, for he knew her by repute, -although they had never looked each other in the face before. “Well, -that’s very nice of you, Miss Clark.” - -“I’ll keep him with pleasure, sir,” said the old woman. “I’ve had a -bereavement lately. My cat died. She was ’most at the allotted term, I -expect, but so spry and so intelligent I couldn’t realize it. I couldn’t -somehow feel myself attracted to any other cat. But this poor fugitive—— -Come here, sir!” - -To Amos’s surprise, the cat summoned all its forces and, after one futile -stagger, leaped into her arms. A strange little shape she looked to him, -as she stood, with her head too large for her emaciated little body, -which was arrayed in a coarse black serge suit, plainly flotsam and -jetsam of the bargain counter, planned for a woman of larger frame. Yet -uncouth as the woman looked, she was perfectly neat. - -“I’m obliged to you for saving the poor creature,” she said. - -“I’m obliged to you, ma’am, for taking it off my hands,” said Amos. He -bowed; she returned his bow—not at all in the manner or with the carriage -to be expected of such a plain and ill-clad presence. Amos considered the -incident concluded. But a few days later she stopped him on the street, -nervously smiling. “That cat, sir,” she began in her abrupt way—she -never seemed to open a conversation; she dived into it with a shiver, as -a timid swimmer plunges into the water—“that cat,” said she, “that cat, -sir, is a right intelligent animal, and he has pleased the Colonel. He’s -so fastidious I was afraid, though I didn’t mention it; but they are very -congenial.” - -“I’m glad they’re friendly,” says Amos; “the Colonel would make -mince-meat of an uncongenial cat. What do you call the cat?” - -“I couldn’t, on account of circumstances, you know, call him after my -last cat, Miss Margaret Clark, so I call him Esquire Clark. He knows his -name already. I thank you again, sir, for saving him. I just stopped you -so as to tell you I had a lot of ripe gooseberries I’d be glad to have -you send and pick.” - -“Why, that’s good of you,” said Amos. “I guess the boys at the jail would -like a little gooseberry sauce.” - -She nodded and turned round; the words came over her shoulder: “Say, -sir, I expect you wouldn’t give them jam? It’s a great deal better than -sauce, and—_I_ don’t mind letting you have the extra sugar.” Amos was -more bewildered than he showed, but he thanked her, and did, in fact, -come that afternoon with a buggy. The first object to greet him was the -large white head and the large black jaws of the Colonel, chained to a -post. Amos, who is the friend of all dogs, and sometimes has an uninvited -following of stray curs, gave the snarling figure-head a nod and a -careless greeting: “All right, young feller. Don’t disturb yourself. I’m -here, all proper and legal. How are you?” The redoubtable Colonel began -to wag his tail; and as Amos came up to him he actually fawned on him -with manifestations of pleasure. - -“I guess he’s safe to unloose, ma’am,” said Amos. - -Old Twentypercent was looking on with a strange expression. “He likes -you, sir; I never saw him like a stranger before.” - -“Well, most dogs like me,” said Amos. “I guess they understand I like -them.” - -“I reckon you’re a good man,” said Old Twentypercent, solemnly. From this -auspicious beginning the acquaintance slowly but steadily waxed into a -queer kind of semi-friendship. Amos always bowed to the old woman when -he met her on the street. She sent the prisoners in the jail fruit every -Sunday during the season; and Amos, not to be churlish, returned the -courtesy with a flowering plant, now and then, in winter. But he never -carried his gifts himself, esteeming that such conduct would be an -intrusion on a lady who preferred a retired life. Esquire Clark, however, -was of a social turn. He visited the jail often. The first time he came -Amos sent him back. The messenger, Mrs. Raker, was received at the door, -thanked warmly, sent away loaded with fruit and flowers, but not asked -over the threshold, which made Amos the surer that he was right in not -going himself. Nevertheless, he did go to see Miss Clark, but hardly on -his own errand. A carpenter in the town, a good sort of thriftless though -industrious creature, came to Amos to borrow some money. He explained -that he needed it to pay interest on a debt, and that his tools were -pledged for security. The interest, he mourned, was high, and the debt of -long standing. The creditor was Old Twentypercent. - -“It’s a shame I ’ain’t paid it off before, and that’s a fact,” he -concluded; “but a feller with nine children can’t pay nothing—not even -the debt of nature—for he’s ’fraid to die and leave them. And the blamed -thing’s been a-runnin’ and a-runnin’, like a ringworm, and a-eatin’ me -up. Though my wife she says we’ve more’n paid her up in interest.” Amos -had an old kindness for the man, and after a visit to his wife—he holding -the youngest two of the nine (twins) on his knees and keeping the peace -with candy—he told the pair he would ask Miss Clark to allow a third -extension, on the payment of the interest. - -“Well, but I don’t know’s he’s even got that,” said the wife, anxiously. -“We’d a lot of expenses; I don’t s’pose we’d orter had the twins’ -photographs taken this month, but they was so delicate I was ’fraid we -wouldn’t raise ’em; and Mamie really couldn’t go to school without new -shoes. Children’s a blessing, I s’pose, but it’s a blessing poor folks -had got to pay for in advance!” - -“_So!_” says Amos. “Well, we’ll have to see to that much, I guess. I’ll -go this night.” He betook himself to his errand in a frame of mind only -half distasteful. The other half was curious. His visit fell on a summer -night, a Sunday night, when the air was soft and still and sweet with -the tiny hum of insects and the smell of drying grass and the mellow -resonance of the church-bells. Amos climbed the clay stairs. The white -porcupine blazed above the bluffs. It gave light enough to see the -color of the grass and flowers; yet not a real color, only the ghost of -scarlet and green and white, and only a ghost of the violet sky, while -all about the devouring shadows sank form and color alike in their -olive blacks. The stars were out in the sky and the south wind in the -trees. Amos stepped across the lawn—he was a light walker although a -heavy-weight—and stopped before the front door, which had long windows -on either side. He had his arm outstretched to knock; but he did not -knock, he stood and watched the green holland shade that screened the -window rise gradually. He could see the room, a large room, uncarpeted, -whereby the steps of the inmate echoed on the boards. He could see -a writing-desk, a table, and four or five chairs. These chairs were -entirely different from anything else in the room; they were of pretty -shape and extremely comfortable. Immediately the curtain descended at a -run, and the old woman’s voice called, “You’re a _bad_ cat; don’t you -do that again!” The voice went on, as if to some one present: “Did you -ever see such a trying beast? Why, he’s almost human! Now, you watch; the -minute I turn away from that window, that cat will pull up the shade.” It -appeared that she was right, for the curtain instantly rolled up again. -“No, honey,” said Miss Clark, “you mustn’t encourage the kitty to be -naughty. ’Squire, if I let that curtain stay a minute, will you behave!” -A dog’s growl emphasized this gentle reproof. “You see the Colonel -disapproves. Don’t pull the dog’s tail, honey. Oh, mercy! _’Squire!_” -Amos heard a crash, and in an instant a flame shot up in a cone; and -he, with one blow dislodging the screen from the open window, plunged -into the smoke. The cat had tipped over the lamp, and the table was in a -blaze. Amos’s quick eye caught sight of the box which served Esquire for -a bed. He huddled feather pillow and rug on the floor to invert the box -over the blaze. The fire was out in a moment, and Margaret had brought -another lamp from the kitchen. Then Amos had leisure to look about him. -There was no one in the room. Yet that was not the most pungent matter -for thought. Old Margaret, whom he had considered one of the plainest -women in the world, as devoid of taste as of beauty, was standing before -him in a black silk gown. A fine black silk, he pronounced it. She had -soft lace about her withered throat, and a cap with pink ribbons on her -gray hair, which looked silvery soft. Her skin, too, seemed fairer and -finer: and there were rings that flashed and glowed on her thin fingers. -It was not Old Twentypercent; it was a stately little gentlewoman that -stood before him. “How did you happen to come, sir?”—she spoke with -coldness. - -“I came on an errand, and I was just at the door when the curtain flew up -and the cat jumped across the table.” - -She involuntarily caught her breath, like one relieved; then she smiled. -“You mustn’t be too hard on ’Squire; he’s of a nervous temperament; I -think he sees things—things outside our ken.” - -Meanwhile Amos was unable not to see that there had been on the table a -tumbler full of some kind of shrub, four glasses, and a decanter of wine. -And there had been wine in all the glasses. But where were the drinkers? -There were four or five plates on the table, and a segment of plum-cake -was trodden underfoot on the floor. Before she did anything else, old -Margaret carefully, almost scrupulously, gathered up the crumbs and -carried them away. When she returned she carried a plate of cake and a -glass of wine. This refreshment was proffered to Amos. - -“It’s a domestic port,” she said, “but well recommended. I should be -right glad to have you sit down and have a glass of wine with me, Mr. -Sheriff.” - -“Perhaps you mayn’t be so glad when you hear my errand,” said Amos. - -She went white in a second, and her fingers curved inward like the -fingers of the dying; she was opening and shutting her mouth without -making a sound. He had seen a man hanged once, and that face had worn -the same ghastly stare of expectation. - -“If you knew I was come to beg off one of your debtors, for instance,” he -went on; “that’s my errand, if you want to know.” - -Her face changed. “It will go better after a glass of wine,” said she, -again proffering the wine by a gesture—she didn’t trust her hand to pass -the tray. - -Amos was a little undecided as to the proper formula to be used, never -having taken wine with a lady before; he felt that the usual salutations -among “the boys,” such as “Here’s how!” or “Happy days!” or “Well, better -luck next time!” savored of levity if not disrespect; so he grew a little -red, and the best he could do was to mumble, “Here’s my respects to you, -madam!” in a serious tone, with a bow. - -But old Margaret smiled. “It’s a long while,” said she, “since I have -taken wine with a—a gentleman outside my own kin.” - -“Is that so?” Amos murmured, politely. “Well, it’s the first time I have -had that pleasure with a lady.” He was conscious that he was pleasing -her, and that she was smiling about her, for all the world (he said to -himself) as if she were exchanging glances with some one. A new idea came -to him, and he looked at her compassionately while he ate his cake, -breaking off bits and eating it delicately, exactly as she ate. - -She offered him no explanation for the wineglasses or for the -conversation that he had overheard. He did not hear a sound of any other -life in the house than their own. The doors were open, and he could see -into the bedroom on one side and into the kitchen on the other. She had -lighted another lamp, enabling him to distinguish every object in the -kitchen. There was not a carpet in the house, and it seemed impossible -that any one could be concealed so quickly without making a sound. - -Amos shook his head solemnly. “Poor lady!” said he. - -But she, now her mysterious fright was passed, had rallied her spirits. -Of her own motion she introduced the subject of his errand. “You spoke of -a debtor; what’s the man’s name?” - -Amos gave her the truth of the tale, and with some humor described the -twins. - -“Well, I reckon he has more than paid it,” she said at the end. “What do -you want? Were you going to lend him the money?” - -“Well, only the interest money; he’s a good fellow, and he has nine -children.” - -“Who have to be paid for in advance?” She actually tittered a feeble, -surprised little laugh, as she rose up and stepped (on her toes, in the -prim manner once taught young gentlewomen) across the room to the desk. -She came back with a red-lined paper in her meagre, blue-veined hand. She -handed the paper to Amos. “That is a present to you.” - -“Not the whole note?” - -“Yes, sir. Because you asked me. You tell Foley that. And if he’s got a -dog or a cat or a horse, you tell him to be good to it.” - -This had been a year ago; and Amos was sure that Foley’s gratitude -would take the form of a clamor for revenge. Mrs. Foley dated their -present prosperity entirely from that day; she had superadded a personal -attachment to an impersonal gratitude; she sold Miss Clark eggs, and -little Mamie had the reversion of the usurer’s shoes. Amos sighed. “Well, -I can’t blame ’em,” he muttered. From that day had dated his own closer -acquaintance. - -He now occasionally paid a visit at the old gentlewoman’s home. Once she -asked him to tea. And Raker went about for days in a broad grin at the -image of Amos, who, indeed, made a very careful toilet with his new blue -sack-coat, white duck trousers, and tan-colored shoes. He told Raker that -he had had a delightful supper. Mrs. O’Shea, the char-woman, was without -at the kitchen stove, and little Mamie Foley brought in the hot waffles -and jam. Esquire Clark showed his gifts by vaulting over the grape-arbor, -trying to enter through the wire screen, bent on joining the company, and -the Colonel wept audibly outside, until Amos begged for their admission. -Safely on their respective seats, their behavior, in general, was beyond -criticism. Only once the Colonel, feeling that the frying chicken was -unconscionably long in coming his way, gave a low howl of irrepressible -feeling; and Esquire Clark (no doubt from sympathy) leaped after Mamie -and the dish. - -“’Squire, I’m ashamed of you!” cried Miss Clark; “Archie, _you_ know -better!” Amos paid no visible attention to the change of name; but she -must have noticed her own slip, for she said: “I never told you the -Colonel’s whole name, did I? It’s Colonel Archibald Cary. I’d like you -never to mention it, though. And ’Squire Clark is named after an uncle of -mine who raised me, for my parents died when I was a little girl. Clark -Byng was his name, and I called the cat by the first part of it.” - -Amos did not know whether interest would be considered impertinent, so he -contented himself with remarking that they were “both pretty names.” - -“Uncle was a good man,” said Miss Clark. “He was only five feet four in -height, but very fond of muscular games, and a great admirer of tall men. -Colonel Cary was six feet two. I reckon that’s about your height?” - -“Exactly, ma’am,” said Amos. - -She sighed slightly; then turned the conversation to Amos’s own affairs. - -An instinct of delicacy kept him from ever questioning her, and she -vouchsafed him no information. Once she asked him to come and see her -when he wanted anything that she could give him. “I’m at home to you -every day, except the third of the month,” said she. On reflection Amos -remembered that it was on the third that he had paid his first visit to -Miss Clark. - -“Well, ma,” he remarked, walking up and down in front of his mother’s -portrait in his office, as his habit was, “it is a queer case, ain’t it? -But I’m not employed to run the poor old lady to cover, and I sha’n’t let -any one else if I can help it.” - -Had Amos been vain, he would have remarked the change in his singular -friend since their friendship had begun. Old Margaret wore the decent -black gown and bonnet becoming an elderly gentlewoman. She carried a silk -umbrella. The neighbors began to address her as “Miss Clark.” Amos, -however, was not vain, and all he told his mother’s picture was that the -old lady was quality, and no mistake. - -By this time, on divers occasions, she had spoken to Amos of her South -Carolina home. Once she told him (in a few words, and her voice was -quiet, but her hands trembled) of the yellow-fever time on the lonely -plantation in the pine woods, and how in one week her uncle, her brother -and his wife, and her little niece had died, and she with her own hands -had helped to bury them. “It was no wonder I didn’t see things all right -after that,” she said. Another time she showed him a locket containing -the old-fashioned yellow photograph of a man in a soldier’s uniform. “He -was considered very handsome,” said she. Amos found it a handsome face. -He would have found it so under the appeal of those piteous eyes had it -been as ugly as the Colonel’s. “He was killed in the war,” she said; -“shot while he was on a visit to us to see my sister. He ran out of the -house, and the Yan—your soldiers shot him. It was the fortune of war. I -have no right to blame them. But if he hadn’t visited our fatal roof he -might be living now; for it was in the very last year of the war. I saw -it. I fell down as if shot myself—better if I had been.” - -“Well, I call that awful hard,” said Amos; “I should think you would have -gone crazy!” - -“Oh no, sir, no!” she interrupted, eagerly. “My mind was perfectly clear.” - -“But how you must have suffered!” - -“Yes, I suffered,” said she. “I never thought to speak of it.” - -A week after this conversation her nephew came. The day was September 3d. -Nevertheless, on that Wednesday night she summoned Amos. He had been out -in the country; but Mrs. Raker had heard through little Minnie Foley, -who came for some crab-apples and found Miss Clark moaning on the cellar -floor. The jail being but a few blocks away, Mrs. Raker was on the scene -almost as soon as George Washington. By the time Amos arrived the two -doctors had gone and Miss Clark was in bed, and the white bedspread or -white pillows under her head were hardly whiter than her face. - -“Mrs. Raker’s making some gruel,” said she, feebly, “and if you’ll stay -here I have something to say. It’s an odd thing, you’ll think,” she -added, wistfully, when he was in the arm-chair by her bed (it was one of -the chairs from the other room, he noticed)—“an odd thing for a miserable -old woman with no kin and no friends to be loath to leave; but I’m like -a cat, I reckon. It near tore my soul up by the roots to leave the old -place, and now it’s as bad here.” - -“Don’t you talk such nonsense as leaving, Miss Clark,” Amos tried to -console her. But she shook her head. And Amos, recalling what the doctors -said, felt his words of denial slipping back into his throat. He essayed -another tack. “Don’t you talk of having no friends here either. Why, poor -Mrs. O’Shea has blued all my shirts that she was washing, so they’re a -sight to see—all for grief; and little Mamie Foley ran crying all the way -down the street.” - -“The poor child!” - -“And why are you leaving _me_ out?” - -“I don’t want to leave you out, Mr. Sheriff—” - -“Oh, say Amos when you’re sick, Miss Clark,” he cried, impulsively; she -seemed so little, so feeble, and so alone. - -“You’re a kind man, Amos Wickliff,” said she. “Now first tell me, would -you give the Colonel and ’Squire a home as long as they need it?” - -Amos gave an inward gasp; but it may be imputed to him for righteousness -some day that there was only an imperceptible pause before he answered, -“Yes, ma’am, I will; and take good care of them, too.” - -“Here’s something for you, then; take it now.” She handed him a large -envelope, sealed. “It’s for any expenses, you know. And—I’ll send ’em -over to-morrow.” - -He took the package rather awkwardly. “Now you know you have a nephew—” -he began. - -“I know, and I know why he’s here, too. And in that paper is my will; but -don’t you open it till I’m dead a month, will you?” - -Amos promised in spite of a secret misgiving. - -“And now,” she went on, in her nervous way, “I want you to do something -right kind for me—not now—when Mrs. Raker goes; she’s a good soul, and I -hope you’ll give her the envelope I’ve marked for her. Yes, sir, I want -you to do something for me when she’s gone. Move in the four chairs from -down-stairs—the pretty ones—all the rest are plain, so you can tell; and -fetch me the tray with the wineglasses and the bottle of shrub—you’ll -find the tray in the buffet with the red curtains down-stairs in my -office. Then you go into the kitchen—I feel so sorry to have to ask a -gentleman to do such things, but I do want them—and you’ll see a round -brown box with Cake marked on it in curly gilt letters, and you’ll find -a frosted cake in there wrapped up in tissue-paper; and you take it out, -and get a knife out of the drawer, and fetch all those things up to me. -And then, Amos Wickliff, all the friend I’ve got in the world, you go -and stay outside—it ain’t cold or I wouldn’t ask it of you—you stay until -you hear my bell. Will you?” - -Amos took the thin hand, involuntarily outstretched, and patted it -soothingly between both his strong brown hands. - -“Of course I will,” he promised. And after Mrs. Raker’s departure he did -her bidding, saying often to himself, “Poor lady!” - -When the bell rang, and he came back, the wineglasses and the decanter -were empty, and the cake was half gone. He made no comment, she gave him -no explanation. Until Mrs. Raker returned she talked about releasing some -of her debtors. - -The following morning he came again. - -“I declare,” thought Amos, “when I think of that morning, and how much -brighter she looked, it makes me sick to think of her as dead. She had -been doing a lot of things on the sly, helping folks. It was her has been -sending the money for the jail dinner on Christmas, and the ice-cream on -the Fourth, and books, too. ‘It’s so terrible to be a prisoner,’ says -she. Wonder, didn’t she know? I declare I _hate_ her to be dead! Ain’t it -possible—Lord! wouldn’t that be a go?” He did not express even to himself -his sudden flash of light on the mystery. But he went his ways to the -armory of the militia company, the office of the chief of police (which -was the very next building), and to the fire department. At one of these -places he wrote out an advertisement, which the reporters read in the -evening papers, and found so exciting that they all flocked together to -discuss it. - -All this did not take an hour’s time. It was to be observed that at every -place which he visited he first stepped to the telephone and called up -the jail. “Are you all right there, Raker?” he asked. Then he told where -he was going. “If you need, you can telephone me there,” he said. - -“I guess Amos isn’t taking any chances on this,” the youngest reporter, -who encountered him on his way, remarked to the chief of police. - -The chief replied that Amos was a careful man; he wished some others -would be as careful, and as sure they were right before they went ahead; -a good deal of trouble would be avoided. - -“That’s right,” said the reporter, blithely, and went his lightsome way, -while the chief scowled. - -Amos returned to the jail. He found the street clear, but little knots -of men were gathering and then dispersing in the street facing the jail. -Amos thought that he saw Foley’s face in the crowd, but it vanished as -he tried to distinguish it. “No doubt he’s egging them on,” muttered -Amos. He was rather taken aback when Raker (to whom he offered his -suspicions) assured him, on ear evidence, that Foley was preaching peace -and obedience to the law. “He’s an Irishman, too,” muttered Amos; “that’s -awful queer.” He spent a long time in a grim reverie, out of which he -roused himself to despatch a boy for the evening papers. “And you mark -that advertisement, and take half a dozen copies to Foley”—thus ran his -directions—“tell him I sent them; and if he knows anybody would like to -read that ‘ad,’ to send a paper to _them_. Understand?” - -“Maybe it’s a prowl after a will-o’-wisp,” Amos sighed, after the boy was -gone, “but it’s worth a try. Now for our young man!” - -Allerton was sitting in his cell, in an attitude of dejection that would -have been a grateful sight to the crowd outside. He was a slim-waisted, -broad-shouldered, gentle-mannered young fellow, whose dark eyes were very -bright, and whose dark hair was curly, and longer than hair is usually -worn by Northerners not studying football at the universities. He had a -mildly Roman profile and a frank smile. His clothes seemed almost shabby -to Amos, who never grudged a dollar of his tailor’s bills; but the -little Southern village whence he came was used to admire that glossy -linen and that short-skirted black frock-coat. - -At Amos’s greeting he ran forward excitedly. - -“Are they coming?” he cried. “Say, sheriff, you’ll give me back my pistol -if they come; you’ll give me a show for my life?” - -Amos shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Your life’s all right,” said -he; “it’s how to keep from hurting the other fellows I’m after. The fire -department will turn out and sozzle ’em well, and if that won’t do they -will have to face the soldiers; but I hope to the Lord your aunt won’t -let it come to that.” - -“Do you think my aunt is living?” - -“I don’t see how she could be burned up so completely. But see here, Mr. -Allerton, wasn’t there no trap-door in the room?” - -“No, sir; there was no carpet on the floor; she hadn’t a carpet in the -house. Besides, how could she, sick as she was, get down through a -trap-door and shut it after her? And you could _see_ the boards, and -there was no opening in them.” - -“So Mrs. O’Shea says, too,” mused the sheriff; “but let’s go back. Had -your aunt any motive for trying to escape you?” - -“I’m afraid she thought she had,” said the young man, gravely. - -“Mind telling me?” - -“No, sir. I reckon you don’t know my aunt was crazy?” - -“I’ve had some such notion. She lost her mind when they all died of -yellow-fever—or was it when Colonel Cary was killed?” - -“I don’t know precisely. I imagine that she was queer after his death, -and all the family dying later, that finished the wreck. There were some -painful circumstances connected with the colonel’s death—” - -“I’ve heard them.” - -“Yes, sir. Well, sir, my mother was not to blame—not so much to blame -as you may think. She was almost a stranger to her sister, raised in -another State; and she had never seen her or Colonel Cary, her betrothed; -and when she did see him—well, sir, my mother was a beautiful, daring, -brilliant girl, and poor Aunt Margaret timid and awkward. _She_ broke the -engagement, not Cary.” - -“It was to see your mother he came to the plantation!” - -“Yes, sir. And he was killed. Poor Aunt Margaret saw it. She came back to -the house riding in a miserable dump-cart, holding his head in her lap. -She wouldn’t let my mother come near him. ‘Now he knows which loved him -best,’ she said ‘He’s _mine_!’ And it didn’t soften her when my mother -married my father. She seemed to think that proved she hadn’t cared for -Colonel Cary. Then the yellow-fever came, and they all went. Her mind -broke down completely then; she used to think that on the day Colonel -Cary was shot they all came back for a while, and she would set chairs -for them and offer them wine and cake—as if they were visiting her. And -after they left she would pour the wine in the glasses into the grate -and burn the cake. She said that they enjoyed it, and ate really, but -they left a semblance. She got hold of some queer books, I reckon, for -she had the strangest notions; and she spent no end of money on some -spiritual mediums; greedy harpies that got a heap of money out of her. -My father and mother had come to Cary Hall, then, to live, and of course -they didn’t like it. The great trouble, my mother often said to me, was -that though they were sisters, they were raised apart, and were as much -strangers as—we are. You can imagine how they felt to see the property -being squandered. Ten thousand dollars, sir, went in one year—” - -“Are you sure it did go?” said the sheriff. - -“Well, the property was sold, and we never saw anything afterwards of the -money. And the estate wasn’t a bottomless well. It isn’t so strange, -sir, that—that they had poor Aunt Margaret cared for.” - -“At an insane asylum?” - -“Yes, sir, for five years. I confess,” said the young man, jumping up and -pacing the room—“I confess I think it was a horrible place, horrible. -But they didn’t know. It was only after she recovered her senses and -was released that we began to understand what she suffered. Not so much -then, for she was shy of us all. She was so scared, poor thing! And -then—we began to suspect that she was not cured of her delusions. Maybe -there _were_ consultations and talk about her, though indeed, sir, my -mother has assured me many times that there was no intention of sending -her back. But she is very shrewd, and she would notice how doors would -be shut and the conversation would be changed when she entered a room, -and her suspicions were aroused. She managed to raise some money on a -mortgage, and she ran away, leaving not a trace behind her. My mother has -reproached herself ever since. And we’ve tried to find her. It has preyed -upon my mother’s mind that she might be living somewhere, poor and lonely -and neglected. We are not rich people,” said the young man, lifting -his head proudly, “but we have enough. I come to offer Aunt Margaret -money, not to ask it. We’ve kept up the place, and bit by bit paid off -the mortgage, though it has come hard sometimes. And it was awkward the -title being in that kind of shape, and ma wouldn’t for a long time get it -quieted.” - -“But how did you ever find out she was _here_?” - -The young Southerner smiled. “I reckon I owe being in this scrape -at all to your gentlemen of the press. One of them wrote a kind of -character-sketch about her, describing her—” - -“I know. He’s the youngest man on the list, and an awful liar, but he -does write a mighty readable story.” - -“He did this time,” said Allerton, dryly; “so readable it was copied -in the papers all over, I expect; anyhow, it was copied in our local -sheet—inside, where they have the patent insides, you know. It was -entitled ‘A Usurer, but Merciful!’ I showed it to my mother, and she was -sure it was Aunt Margaret. Even the name was right, for her whole name is -Margaret Clark Cary. She hadn’t the heart to cast the name away, and she -thought, Clark being a common name, she wouldn’t be discovered.” - -Amos, who had sat down, was nursing his ankle. “Do you suppose,” said he, -slowly—“do you suppose that taking it to be the case she wasn’t so much -hurt as the doctors supposed, that _then_ she could get out of the room?” - -“I don’t see how she could. She was in the room, in the bed, when I went -out. I sat down before the door. She couldn’t pass me. I heard a screech -after a while, a mighty queer sound, and I ran in. Sir, I give you my -word of honor, the bed was empty! the room was empty!” - -“How was the room lighted?” - -“By a large lamp with a Rochester burner, and some fancy of hers had made -her keep it turned up at full blaze. Oh, you could see every inch of the -room at a glance! And then, too, I ran all round it before I ran to the -window, pushed it up, and looked out. I would be willing to take my oath -that the room was empty.” - -“You looked under the bed?” - -“Of course. And in the closet. I tell you, sir, there was no one in the -room.” - -Amos sat for the space of five minutes, it seemed to the young man, -really perhaps for a full minute, thinking deeply. Then, “I can’t make it -out,” said he, “but I believe you are telling the truth.” He stood up; -the young man also rose. In the silence wherein the younger man tried to -formulate something of his gratitude and yet keep his lip from quivering -(for he had been sore beset by homesickness and divers ugly fears during -the last day), the roar of the crowd without beat through the bars, -swelling ominously. And now, all of an instant, the jail was penetrated -by a din of its own making. The prisoners lost their heads. They began -to scream inquiries, to shriek at each other. Two women whose drunken -disorder had gone beyond the station-house restraints, and who were -spending a week in jail, burst into deafening wails, partly from fright, -partly from pity, and largely from the general craving of their condition -to make a noise. - -“Never mind,” said Amos, laying a kindly hand on young Allerton’s -shoulder, “the Company B boys are all in the yard. But I guess you will -feel easier if you go down-stairs. Parole of honor you won’t skip off?” - -“Oh, God bless you, sir!” cried Allerton. “I couldn’t bear to die this -way; it would kill my mother! Yes, yes, of course I give my word. Only -let me have a chance to fight, and die fighting—” - -“No dying in the case,” Amos interrupted; “but what in thunder are the -cusses cheering for? Come on; this needs looking into. _Cheering!_” - -He hurried down the heavy stairs into the hall, where Raker, a little -paler, and Mrs. Raker, a little more flushed than usual, were examining -the bolts of the great door. - -Amos flung a glare of scorn at it, and he snorted under his breath: -“Locks! No need of locking _You_! I could bust you with the hose!” - -As if in answer, the cheering burst forth anew, and now it was coupled -with his name: “Wickliff! Amos! _Amos!_” - -“Let me out!” commanded Wickliff, and he slipped back the bolts. He -stepped under the light of the door-lamp outside, tall and strong, and -cool as if he had a Gatling gun beside him. - -A cheer rolled up from the crowd—yes, not only from the crowd, but from -the blue-coated ranks massed to one side, and the young faces behind the -bayonets. - -Amos stared. He looked fiercely from the mob to the guardians of the law. -Then, amid a roar of laughter, for the crowd perfectly understood his -gesture of bewilderment and anger, Foley’s voice bellowed, “All right, -sheriff; we’ve got her safe!” - - * * * * * - -They tell to this day how the iron sheriff, whose composure had been -proof against every test brought against it, and whom no man had ever -before seen to quail, actually staggered against the door. Then he gave -them a broad grin of his own, and shouted with the rest, for there in the -heart of the rush jailward, lifted up on a chair—loaned, as afterwards -appeared (when it came to the time for returning), from Hans Obermann’s -“Place”—sat enthroned old Margaret Clark; and she was looking as if she -liked it! - -They got her to the jail porch; Amos pacified the crowd with free beer at -Obermann’s, and carried her over the threshold in his arms. - -He put her down in the big arm-chair in his office, opposite the -portraits of his parents, and Esquire Clark slid into the room and purred -at her feet, while Mrs. Raker fanned her. It was rather a chilly evening, -the heat having given place to cold in the sudden fashion of the climate; -but good Mrs. Raker knew what was due to a person in a faint or likely to -faint, and she did not permit the weather to disturb her rules. Calmly -she began to fan, saying meanwhile, in a soothing tone, “There, there, -don’t _you_ worry! it’s all right!” - -Raker stood by, waiting for orders and smiling feebly. And young Allerton -simply gasped. - -“You were at Foley’s, then?” Amos was the first to speak—apart from Mrs. -Raker’s crooning, which, indeed, was so far automatic that it can hardly -be called speech; it was merely a vocal exercise intended to quiet the -mind. “You _were_ at Foley’s, then?” says Amos. - -“Yes, sir,” very calmly; but her hands were clinching the arms of the -chair. - -“And you saw my advertisement in this evening paper?” - -“Yes, sir; Foley read it out to me. You begged M. C. C. to come back and -help you because you were in great embarrassment and trouble—and you -promised me nobody should harm me.” - -“No more nobody shall!” returned Amos. - -“But maybe you can’t help it. Never mind. When I heard about how they -were talking about lynching him”—she indicated her nephew—“I felt -terrible; the sin of blood guiltiness seemed to be resting on my soul; -but I couldn’t help it. Mr. Sheriff, you don’t know I—I was once in—in an -insane asylum. I was!” - -“That’s all right,” said Amos. “I know all about that.” - -“There, there, there!” murmured Mrs. Raker, “don’t think of it!” - -“It wasn’t that they were cruel to me—they weren’t that. They never -struck or starved me; they just gave me awful drugs to keep me quiet; -and they made me sit all day, every day, week in, week out, month in, -month out, on a bench with other poor creatures, who had enough company -in their horrible dreams. If I lifted my hands there was some one to put -them down to my side and say, in a soft voice, ‘Hush, be quiet!’ That was -their theory—absolute rest! They thought I was crazy because I could see -more than they, because I had visitors from the spirit-land—” - -“I know,” interrupted Amos. “I was there one night. But I—” - -“You couldn’t see them. It was only I. They came to _me_. It was more -than a year after they all died, and I was so lonely—oh, nobody knows -how desolate and lonely I was!—and then a medium came. She taught me how -to summon them. At first, though I made all the preparations, though -I put out the whist cards for uncle and Ralph and Sadie, and the toys -for little Ro, I couldn’t seem to think they were there; but I kept on -acting as if I knew they were there, and having faith; and at last they -did come. But they wouldn’t come in the asylum, because the conditions -weren’t right. So at last I felt I couldn’t bear it any longer. I felt -like I was false to the heavenly vision; but I couldn’t stand it, and so -I pretended I didn’t see them and I never had seen them; and whatever -they said I ought to feel I pretended to feel, and I said how wonderful -it was that I should be cured; and that made them right pleased; and -they felt that I was quite a credit to them, and they wrote my sister -that I was cured. I went home, but only to be suspected again, and so I -ran away. I had put aside money before, thousands of dollars, that they -thought that I spent. They thought I gave a heap of it to that medium -and her husband; I truly only gave them five hundred dollars. So I went -forth. I hid myself here. I was happy here, where _they_ could come, -until—until I saw Archibald Allerton on the street and overheard him -inquiring for me. I was dreadfully upset. But I decided in a minute to -flee again. So I drew some money out of the bank, and I bought a blue -calico and a sun-bonnet not to look like myself; and I went home and -wrote that letter I gave you, Mr. Sheriff, with my will and the money.” - -“The parcel is unopened still,” said Amos. “I gave you my word, you know.” - -“Yes, I know. I knew you would keep your word. And it was just after -I wrote you I slipped down the cellar stairs. It came of being in a -hurry. I made sure I never _would_ get on my feet again, but very soon -I discovered that I was more scared than hurt. And I saw then there -might be a chance of keeping him off his guard if he thought I was like -to die, and that thus I might escape the readier. It was not hard to -fool the doctors. I did just the same with them I did with the asylum -folks. I said yes whenever I thought they expected it, and though I had -some contradictory symptoms, they made out a bad state of things with -the spine, and gave mighty little hope of my recovery. But what I hadn’t -counted on was that my _friends_ would take such good care of me. I -didn’t know I had friends. It pleased me so I was wanting to cry for joy; -yet it frightened me so I didn’t know which way to turn.” - -“But, great heavens! Aunt Margaret,” the young Southerner burst out, -unable to restrain himself longer, “you had no need to be so afraid of -_me_!” - -The old woman looked at him, more in suspicion than in hope, but she -went on, not answering: “The night I did escape, it was by accident. I -never would say one word to him hardly, though he tried again and again -to start a talk; but I would seem too ill; and he’s a Cary, anyhow, and -couldn’t be rude to a lady. That night he went into the other room. He -was so quiet I reckoned he was asleep, and, thinking that here might be a -chance for me, I slipped out of bed, soft as soft, and slipped over to -the crack of the door—it just wasn’t closed!—and I peeked in on him—” - -“And you were behind the door when he heard the noise?” exclaimed Amos. -“But what made the noise?” - -“Oh, I reckon just ’Squire jumping out of the window; he gave a kind of -screech.” - -“But I don’t understand,” cried Allerton. “I went into the room, and it -was empty.” - -“No, sir,” said Miss Cary, plucking up more spirit in the presence of -Wickliff—“no, sir; I was behind the door. You didn’t push it shut.” - -“But I ran all round the room.” - -“No, sir; not till you looked out of the window. While you were looking -out of the window I slipped out of the door; and I was so scared lest -you should see me that I wasn’t afraid of anything else; and I got -down-stairs while you were looking in the closet, and found my clothes -there, and so got out.” - -“But I was _sure_ I went round the room first,” cried Allerton. - -“Very likely; but you see you didn’t,” remarked Amos. - -“It was because I remembered stubbing my toe”—Allerton was painfully -ploughing up his memories—“I am _certain_ I stubbed my toe, and it must -have been going round the—no; by—I beg your pardon—I stubbed it against -the bed, going to the window. I was all wrong.” - -“Just so,” agreed Amos, cheerfully. “And then _you_ went to Foley, Miss -Cary. Trust an Irishman for hiding anybody in trouble! But how did the -house catch fire? Did you—” - -But old Margaret protested vehemently that here at least she was -sackless; and Mrs. Raker unexpectedly came to the rescue. - -“I guess I can tell that much,” said she. “’Squire came back, and he’s -got burns all over him, and he’s cut with glass bad! I guess he jumped -back into the house and upset a lamp once too often!” - -“I see it all,” said Amos. “And then you came back to rescue your nephew—” - -“No, sir,” cried Margaret Cary; “I came back because they said you were -in trouble. It’s wicked, but I couldn’t bear the thought he’d take me -back to the crazies. I’m an old woman; and when you’re old you want to -live in a house of your own, in your own way, and not be crowded. And -it’s so awful to be crowded by crazies! I couldn’t bear it. I said he -must take his chance; and I wouldn’t read the papers for fear they would -shake my resolution. It was Foley read your advertisement to me. And -then I knew if you were in danger, whatever happened to me, I would have -to go.” - -Amos wheeled round on young Allerton. “Now, young fellow,” said he, -“speak out. Tell your aunt you won’t touch a hair of her head; and she -may have her little invisible family gatherings all she likes.” - -Allerton, smiling, came forward and took his aunt’s trembling hand. “You -shall stay here or go home to your sister, who loves you, whichever you -choose; and you shall be as safe and free there as here,” said he. - -And looking into his dark eyes—the Cary eyes—she believed him. - -The youngest reporter never heard the details of the Clark mystery, but -no doubt he made quite as good a story as if he had known the truth. - - - - -THE DEFEAT OF AMOS WICKLIFF - - - - -THE DEFEAT OF AMOS WICKLIFF - - -“What’s the matter with Amos?” Mrs. Smith asked Ruth Graves; “the boy -doesn’t seem like himself at all.” Amos, at this speaking, was nearer -forty than thirty; but ever since her own son’s death he had been “her -boy” to Edgar’s mother. She looked across at Ruth with a wistful kindling -of her dim eyes. “You—you haven’t said anything to Amos to hurt his -feelings, Ruth?” - -Ruth, busy over her embroidery square, set her needle in with great -nicety, and replied, “I don’t think so, dear.” Her color did not turn nor -her features stir, and Mrs. Smith sighed. - -After a moment she rose, a little stiffly—she had aged since Edgar’s -death—walked over to Ruth, and lightly stroked the sleek brown head. -“I’ve a very great—_respect_ for Amos,” she said. Then, her eyes filling, -she went out of the room; so she did not see Ruth’s head drop lower. -Respect? But Ruth herself respected him. No one, no one so much! But -that was all. He was the best, the bravest man in the world; but that was -all. While poor, weak, faulty Ned—how she had loved him! Why couldn’t -she love a right man? Why did not admiration and respect and gratitude -combined give her one throb of that lovely feeling that Ned’s eyes used -to give her before she knew that they were false? Yet it was not Ned’s -spectral hand that chilled her and held her back. Three years had passed -since he died, and before he died she had so completely ceased to love -him that she could pity him as well as his mother. The scorching anger -was gone with the love. But somehow, in the immeasurable humiliation and -anguish of that passage, it was as if her whole soul were burned over, -and the very power of loving shrivelled up and spoiled. How else could -she keep from loving Amos, who had done everything (she told herself -bitterly) that Ned had missed doing? And she gravely feared that Amos had -grown to care for her. A hundred trifles betrayed his secret to her who -had known the glamour that imparadises the earth, and never would know it -any more. Mrs. Smith had seen it also. Ruth remembered the day, nearly -a year ago, that she had looked up (she was singing at their cabinet -organ, singing hymns of a Sunday evening) and had caught the look, not -on Amos’s face, but on the kind old face that was like her mother’s. She -understood why, the next day, Mrs. Smith moved poor Ned’s picture from -the parlor to her own chamber, where there were four photographs of him -already. - -“And now she is reconciled to what will never happen,” thought Ruth, -“and is afraid it won’t happen. Poor Mother Smith, it never will!” She -wished, half irritably, that Amos would let a comfortable situation -alone. Of late, during the month or six weeks past, he had appeared beset -by some hidden trouble. When he did not reckon that he was observed his -countenance would wear an expression of harsh melancholy; and more than -once had she caught his eyes tramping through space after her with a look -that made her recall the lines of Tennyson Ned used to quote to her in -jest—for she had never played with him: - - “Right through’ his manful breast darted the pang - That makes a man, in the sweet face of her - That he loves most, lonely and miserable.” - -Then, for a week at a time, he would not come to the village; he said he -was busy with a murder trial. He was not at their house to-day; it was -they who were awaiting his return from the court-house, in his own rooms -at the jail, after the most elaborate midday dinner Mrs. Raker could -devise. The parlor was less resplendent and far prettier than of yore. -Ruth knew that the change had come about through her own suggestions, -which the docile Amos was always asking. She knew, too, that she had not -looked so young and so dainty for years as she looked in her new brown -cloth gown, with the fur trimming near enough a white throat to enhance -its soft fairness. Yet she sighed. She wished heartily that they had not -come to town. True, they needed the things, and, much to Mother Smith’s -discomfiture, she had insisted on going to a modest hotel near the jail, -instead of to Amos’s hospitality; but it was out of the question not to -spend one day with him. Ruth began to fear it would be a memorable day. - -There were his clothes, for instance; why should he make himself so -fine for them, when his every-day suit was better than other people’s -Sunday best? Ruth took an unconscious delight in Amos’s wardrobe. There -was a finish about his care of his person and his fine linen and silk -and his freshly pressed clothes which she likened to his gentle manner -with women and the leisurely, pleasant cadence of his voice, which to -her quite mended any breaks in her admiration made by a reckless and -unprotected grammar. Although she could not bring herself to marry him, -she considered him a man that any girl might be proud to win. Quite the -same, his changing his dress put her in a panic. Which was nonsense, -since she didn’t have any reason to suppose—The cold chills were stepping -up her spine to the base of her brain; _that_ was his step in the hall! - -He opened the door. He was fresh and pressed from the tailor, he was -smooth and perfumed from the barber, and his best opal-and-diamond -scarf-pin blazed in a new satin scarf. Certainly his presence was -calculated to alarm a young woman afraid of love-making. - -Nor did his words reassure her. He said, “Ruth, I don’t know if you have -noticed that I was worried lately.” - -“I thought maybe you were bothered about some business,” lied Ruth, with -the first defensive instinct of woman. - -“Yes, that’s it; it’s about a man sentenced to death.” - -“Oh!” said Ruth. - -“Yes, for killing Johnny Bateman. He’s applied for a new trial, and the -court has just been heard from. Raker’s gone to find out. If he can’t -get the hearing, it’s the gallows; and I—” - -“Oh, Amos, no! that would be too awful! Not _you_!” - -“—I’d rather resign the office, if it wouldn’t seem like sneaking. Ah!” -A rap at the door made Amos leap to his feet. In the rap, so muffled, -so hesitating, sounded the diffidence of the bearer of bad news. “If -_that’s_ Raker,” groaned Amos, “it’s all up, for that ain’t his style of -knock!” - -Raker it was, and his face ran his tidings ahead of him. - -“They refused a new trial?” said Amos. - -“Yes, they have,” exploded Raker. “Oh, damn sech justice! And he’s only -got three days before the execution. And it’s _here_! Oh, ain’t it h—?” - -“Yes, it is,” said Amos, “but you needn’t say so here before ladies.” He -motioned to the portrait and to Ruth, who had leaned out from her chair, -listening with a pale, attentive face. - -“Please excuse me, ladies,” said Raker, absently; “I’m kinder off my -base this morning. You see, Amos, my wife she says if hanging Sol is my -duty I’ve jest got to resign, for she won’t live with no hangman. She’s -terrible upset.” - -“It ain’t your duty; it’s mine,” said Amos. - -“I guess you don’t like the job any more’n me,” stammered Raker, “and it -ain’t like Joe Raker sneakin’ off this way; but what can I do with my -woman? And maybe you, not having any wife—” - -“No,” said Amos, very slowly, “I haven’t got any wife; it’s easier for -me.” Nevertheless, the blood had ebbed from his swarthy cheeks. - -“But how did it happen?” said Ruth. - -“’Ain’t Amos told you?” said Raker, whose burden was visibly lightened—he -pitied Amos sincerely, but it is much less distressful to pity one’s -friends than to need to pity one’s self. “Well, this was the way: Sol -Joscelyn was a rougher in the steel-works across the river, and he has -a sweetheart over here, and he took her to the big Catholic fair, and -Johnny was there. Johnny was the biggest policeman on the force and the -best-natured, and he had a girl of his own, it came out, so there was no -cause for Sol to be jealous. He says now it was his fault, and she says -’twas all hers; but my notion is it was the same old story. Breastpins -in a pig’s nose ain’t in it with a pretty girl without common-sense; and -that’s Scriptur’, Mrs. Raker says. But Sol felt awful bad, and he felt so -bad he went out and took a drink. He took a good many drinks, I guess; -and not being a drinkin’ man he didn’t know how to carry it off, and he -certainly didn’t have any right to go back to the hall in the shape he -was in. It was a friendly part in Johnny to take him off and steer him -to the ferry. But there was a little bad look about it, though Sol went -peaceful at last. Sol says they had got down to Front Street, and it was -all friendly and cleared up, and he was terrible ashamed of himself the -minnit he got out in the air. He was ahead, he says, crossing the street, -when he heard Johnny’s little dog yelp like mad, and he turned round—of -course he wasn’t right nimble, and it was a little while before he found -poor Johnny, all doubled up on the sidewalk, stabbed in the jugular -vein. He never made a sign. Sol got up and ran after the murderer. The -mean part is that two men in a saloon saw Sol just as he got up and ran. -Naturally they ran after him and started the hue-and-cry, and Sol was so -dazed he didn’t explain much. Have I got it straight, Amos?” - -“Very straight, Joe. You might put in that the prosecuting attorney, -Frank Woods, is on his first term and after laurels; and that, unluckily, -there have been three murders in this locality inside the year, and by -hook or crook all three of the men got off with nothing but a few years -at Anamosa; and public sentiment, in consequence, is pretty well stirred -up, and not so particular about who it hits as hitting _somebody_; and -that poor Sol had a chump of a lawyer—and you have the state of things.” - -“But why are you so sure he wasn’t guilty?” said Ruth. The shocked look -on her face was fading. She was thinking her own thoughts, not Amos’s, -Raker decided. - -“Partly on account of the dog,” said Amos. “First thing Sol said when -they took him up was, ‘Johnny’s dog’s hurt too’; and true enough we found -him (for I was round) crawling down the street with a stab in him. Now, I -says, here’s a test right at hand; if the dog was stabbed by this young -feller he’ll tell of it when he sees him, and I fetched him right up to -Sol; but, bless my soul, the dog kinder wagged his tail! And he’s taken -to Sol from the first. Another thing, they never found the knife that did -it; said Sol might have throwed it into the river. Tommy rot!—I mean it -ain’t likely. Sol wasn’t in no condition to throw a knife a block or two!” - -“But if not he, who else?” said Ruth. - -Amos was at a loss to answer her exactly, and yet in language that he -considered suitable “to a nice young lady”; but he managed to convey to -her an idea of the villanous locality where the unfortunate policeman -met his death; and he told her that from the first, judging by the -character of the blow (“no American man—a decent man too, like Sol—would -have jabbed a man from behind that way; that’s a Dago blow, with a Dago -knife!”), he had suspected a certain Italian woman, who “boarded” in -the house beneath whose evil walls the man was slain. He suspected her -because Johnny had arrested “a great friend of hers” who turned out to be -“wanted,” and in the end was sent to the penitentiary, and the woman had -sworn revenge. “That’s all,” said Amos, “except that when I looked her -up, she had skipped. I have a good man shadowing her, though, and he has -found her.” - -“And that was what convinced you?” - -“That and the man himself. Suppose we take a look at him. Then I’ll have -to go to Des Moines. I suspected this would come, and I’m all ready.” - -So the toilet was for the Governor and not for her; Ruth took shame to -herself for a full minute while Raker was speaking. Amos’s dejection came -from a cause worthy of such a man as he. Perhaps all her fancies.... - -“That will suit,” Raker was saying. “He has been asking for you. I told -him.” - -“Thank you, Joe,” said Amos, gratefully. - -“I don’t propose to leave _all_ the dirty jobs to you,” growled Raker. -And he added under his breath to Ruth, when Amos had stopped behind to -strap a bag, “Amos is going to take it hard.” - -He led the way, through a stone-flagged hall, where the air wafted -the unrefreshing cleanliness of carbolic acid and lime, up a stone -and iron staircase worn by what hundreds of lagging feet! past grated -windows through which how many feverish eyes had been mocked by the -brilliant western sky! past narrow doors and the laughter and oaths of -rascaldom in the corridor, into an absolutely silent hall blocked by an -iron-barred door. There Raker paused to fit a key in the lock, and on -his commonplace, florid features dawned a curious solemnity. Ruth found -herself breathing more quickly. - -The door swung inward. Ruth’s first sensation was a sort of relief, the -room looked so little like a cell, with its bright chintz on the bed and -the mass of nosegays on the table. A black-and-tan terrier bounded off -the bed and gambolled joyously over Amos’s feet. - -“Here’s the sheriff and a lady to see you, Sol,” Raker announced. - -The prisoner came forward eagerly, holding out his hand. All three shook -it. He was a short, cleanly built man, who held his chin slightly -uplifted as he talked. His reddish-brown hair was strewn over a high -white forehead; its disorder did not tally with the neatness of his -Sunday suit, which, they told Ruth afterwards, he had worn ever since -his conviction, although previously he had been particular to wear -his working-clothes. Ruth’s eyes were drawn by an uncanny attraction, -stronger than her will, to the face of a man in such a tremendous -situation. His skin was fair and freckled, and had the prison pallor, -face and hands. But the feature that impressed Ruth was his eyes. They -were of a clear, grayish-blue tint, meeting the gaze directly, without -self-consciousness or bravado, and innocent as a child’s. Such eyes are -not unfrequent among working-men, but the rest of us have learned to hide -behind the glass. He did not look like a man who knew that he must die -in three days. He was smiling. Looking closer, however, Ruth saw that -his eyelids were red, and she observed that his fingers were tapping the -balls of his thumbs continually. - -“I’m real glad to see you,” he said. “Won’t you set down? Poker, you -let the lady alone”—addressing the dog. “He’s just playful; he won’t -bite. Mr. Wickliff lets me have him here; he was Johnny’s dog, and he’s -company to me. He likes it. They let him out whenever he wants, you -know.” His eyes for a second passed the faces before him and lingered on -the bare branches of the maple swaying between his window grating and -the sky. Was he thinking that he would see the trees but once, on one -terrible journey? - -Raker blew his nose violently. - -“Well, I’m off to Des Moines, Sol,” said Amos. - -“Yes, sir. And about Elly going? I don’t want her to go to all that -expense if it won’t do no good. I want to leave her all the money I can—” - -“You never mind about the money.” Amos took the words off his tongue with -friendly gruffness. “But she better wait till we see how I git along. -Maybe there’ll be no necessity.” - -“It’s a kinder long journey for a young lady,” said Joscelyn, anxiously, -“and it’s so hard getting word of those big folks, and I hate to think of -her having to hang round. Elly’s so timid like, and maybe somebody not -being polite to her—” - -“I’ll attend to all that, Joscelyn. She shall go in a Pullman, and -everything will be fixed.” - -“Can you git passes? You are doing a terrible lot of things for me, Mr. -Wickliff; and Mr. Raker too, and his good lady” (with a grateful glance -at Raker, who rocked in the rocking-chair and was lapped in gloom). “It -does seem like you folks here are awful kind to folks in trouble, and if -I ever git out—” He was not equal to the rest of the sentence, but Amos -covered his faltering with a brisk— - -“That’s all right. Say, ’ain’t you got some new flowers?” - -Joscelyn smiled. “Those are from the boys over to the mill. Ten of them -boys was over to see me Sunday, no three knowing the others were coming. -I tell you when a man gits into trouble he finds out about his friends. -I got awful good friends. The roller sent me that box of cigars. And -there’s one little feller—he works on the hot-bed, one of them kids—and -he walked all the six miles, ’cross the bridge and all, ’cause he didn’t -have money for the fare. Why he didn’t have money, he’d spent it all -in boot-jack tobacco and a rosy apple for me. He’s a real nice little -boy. If—if things was to go bad with me, would you kinder have an eye on -Hughey, Mr. Wickliff?” - -Amos rose rather hastily. “Well, I guess I got to go now, Sol.” - -[Illustration: THE FAREWELL] - -Ruth noticed that Sol got the sheriff’s big hand in both his as he said, -“I guess you know how I feel ’bout what you and Mr. Raker—” This time he -could not go on, his mouth twitched, and he brushed the back of his hand -across his eyes. Ruth saw that the palm had a great white welt on it, and -that the sinews were stiffened, preventing the fingers from opening wide. -She spoke then. She held out her own hand. - -“I know you didn’t do it,” said she, very deliberately; “and I’m sure we -shall get you free again. Don’t stop hoping! Don’t you stop one minute!” - -“I guess I can’t say anything better than that,” said Amos. In this -fashion they got away. - -Amos did not part his lips until they were back in his own parlor, where -he spoke. “Did you notice his hand?” - -Ruth had noticed it. - -“A man who saw the accident that gave him those scars told me about it. -It happened two years ago. Sol had his spell at the roll, and he was -strolling about, and happened to fetch up at the finishing shears, where -a boy was straightening the red-hot iron bars. I don’t know exactly how -it happened; some way the iron caught on a joint of the bed-plates and -jumped at him, red-hot. He didn’t get out of the way quick enough. It -went right through his leg and curved up, and down he dropped with the -iron in him. Near the femoral artery, they said, too; and it would have -burned the walls of the artery down, and he would have bled to death in -a flash. Sol Joscelyn saw him. He looked round for something to take -hold of that iron with that was smoking and charring, but there wasn’t -anything—the boy’s tongs had gone between the rails when he fell. So -he—he took his _hands_ and pulled the red-hot thing out! That’s how both -his hands are scarred.” - -“Oh, the poor fellow!” said Ruth; “and think of him _here_!” - -Amos shook his head and strode to the window. Then he came back to her, -where she was trying to swallow the pain in the roof of her mouth. He -stretched his great hands in front of him. “How could I ever look at them -again if they pulled that lever?” he sobbed—for the words were a sob; and -immediately he flung himself back to the window again. - -“Amos, I know they won’t hang him; why, they _can’t_. If the Governor -could only see him.” Ruth was standing, and her face was flushed. “Why, -Amos, _I_ thought maybe he might be guilty until I saw him! I know the -Governor won’t see him, but if we told him about the poor fellow, if we -tried to make him see him as we do?” - -Amos drearily shook his head. “The Governor is a just man, Ruth, but he -is hard as nuts. Sentiment won’t go down with him. Besides, he is a great -friend of Frank Woods, who has got his back up and isn’t going to let me -pull his prisoner out. Of course he’s given _his_ side.” - -“The girl—this Elly? If she were to see the Governor?” - -“I don’t know whether she’d do harm or not. She’s a nice little thing, -and has stood by Sol like a lady. But it’s a toss up if she wouldn’t -break down and lose her head utterly. She comes to see him as often as -she can, always bringing him some little thing or other; and she sits -and holds his hand and cries—never seems to say three words. Whenever -she runs up against me she makes a bow and says, ‘I’m very much obliged -to you, sir,’ and looks scared to death. _I_ don’t know who to get to go -with her; her mother keeps a working-man’s boarding-house; she’s a good -soul, but—” - -He dropped his head on his hand and seemed to try to think. - -It was strange to Ruth that she should long to go up to him and touch his -smooth black hair, yet such a crazy fancy did flit through her brain. -When she thought that he was suffering because of her, she had not been -moved; but now that he was so sorely straitened for a man who was -nothing to him more than a human creature, her heart ached to comfort him. - -“No,” said Amos; “we’ve got to work the other strings. I’ve got some -pull, and I’ll work that; then the newspaper boys have helped me out, and -folks are getting sorry for Sol; there wouldn’t be any clamor against it, -and we’ve got some evidence. I’m not worth shucks as a talker, but I’ll -take a talker with me. If there was only somebody to keep her straight—” - -“Would you trust me?” said Ruth. “If you will, I’ll go with her -to-morrow.” - -Amos’s eyes went from his mother’s picture to the woman with the pale -face and the lustrous eyes beneath it. He felt as stirred by love and -reverence and the longing to worship as ever mediæval knight; he wanted -to kneel and kiss the hem of her gown; what he did do was to open his -mouth, gasp once or twice, and finally say, “Ruth, you—you are as good as -they make ’em!” - - * * * * * - -Amos went, and the instant that he was gone, Ruth, attending to her own -scheme of salvation, crossed the river. She entered the office of the -steel-works, where the officers gave her full information about the -character of Sol Joscelyn. He was a good fellow and a good workman, -always ready to work an extra turn to help a fellow-workman. She went to -his landlady, who was Elly’s mother, and heard of his sober and blameless -life. “And indeed, miss, I know of a certainty he never did git drunk -but once before, and that was after his mother’s funeral; and she was -bedfast for ten years, and he kep’ her like a lady, with a hired girl, -he did; and he come home to the dark house, and he couldn’t bear it, and -went back to the boys, and they, meaning well, but foolish, like boys, -told him to forget the grief.” Ruth went back to Sol’s mill, between -heats, to seek Sol’s young friend. She found the “real nice little boy” -with a huge quid in his cheek, and his fists going before the face of -another small lad who had “told the roller lies.” He cocked a shrewd -and unchildish blue eye at Ruth, and skilfully sent his quid after the -flying tale-bearer. “Sol Joscelyn? Course I know him. He’s a friend -of mine. Give me coffee outer his pail first day I got here; lets me -take his tongs. I’m goin’ to be a rougher too, you bet; I’m a-learnin’. -He’s the daisiest rougher, he is. It’s _grand_ to see him ketch them -white-hot bars that’s jest a-drippin’, and chuck ’em under like they was -kindling-wood. He’s licked my old man, too, for haulin’ me round by the -ear. He ain’t my own father, so I didn’t interfere. Say, you goin’ to see -Sol to-night? You can give him things, can’t you? I got a mince-pie for -him.” - -Ruth consented to take the pie, and she did not know whether to laugh -or cry when, examining the crust, she discovered, cunningly stowed away -among the raisins and citron, a tiny file. - -When she told Sol, he did not seem surprised. “He’s always a-sending of -them,” said he; “most times Mr. Raker finds ’em, but once he got one -inside a cigar, and I bit my teeth on it. He thinks if he can jest git a -_file_ to me it’s all right. I s’pose he reads sech things in books.” - - * * * * * - -Amos went to Des Moines of a Monday afternoon; Tuesday night he walked -through the jail gate with his head down, as no one had ever seen the -sheriff walk before. He kept his eye on the sodden, frozen grass and the -ice-varnished bricks of the walk, which glittered under the electric -lights; it was cruelty enough to have to hear that dizzy ring of hammers; -he would not see; but all at once he recoiled and stepped _over_ the -sharp black shadow of a beam. But he had his composure ready for Raker. - -“Well!—he wouldn’t listen to you?” - -“No; he listened, but I couldn’t move him, nor Dennison couldn’t, -either. He’s honest about it; he thinks Sol is guilty, and an example is -needed. Finally I told him I would resign rather than hang an innocent -man. He said Woods had another man ready.” - -“That will be a blow to Sol. I told him you would attend to everything. -He said he’d risk another man if it would make you feel bad—” - -“_I_ won’t risk another man, then. But the Governor called my bluff. -Where’s Miss Graves?” - -“Gone to Des Moines with Elly. Went next train after your telegram.” - -“And Mrs. Smith?” - -“She’s in reading the Bible to Sol. I don’t know whether it’s doing -him any good or not; he says ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘That’s right’ to every -question she asks him; but I guess some of it’s politeness. And he seems -kinder flighty, and his mind runs from one thing to another. But he says -he’s still hoping. He’s made a list of all his things to give away; and -he’s said good-bye to the newspaper boys. I never supposed that youngest -one had any feeling, but I had to give him four fingers of whiskey after -he come out; he was white’s the wall, and he hadn’t a word to say. It’s -been a terrible day, Amos. My woman’s jest all broke up; she wanted me -to make a rope-ladder. Me! Said she and old Lady Smith would hide him. -‘Polly,’ says I, ‘I know my duty; and if I didn’t, Amos knows his.’ She -’ain’t spoke to me since, and we had a picked-up dinner. Well, _I_ can’t -eat!” - -“You best not drink much either, then, Joe,” said Amos, kindly; and he -went his ways. Dark and painful ways they were that night: but he never -flinched. And the carpenters on the ghastly machine without the gate (the -shadow of which lay, all night through, on Amos’s curtain) said to each -other, “The sheriff looks sick, but he ain’t going to take any chances!” - -The day came—Sol’s last day—and there were a hundred demands for Amos’s -decision. In the morning he made his last stroke for the prisoner. -He told Raker about it. “I found the tool at last,” he said, “in the -place you suspected. Dago dagger. I’ve expressed it to Miss Graves and -telegraphed her. It’s in _her_ hands now.” - -“Sol says he ’ain’t quit hoping,” says Raker. “Say, the blizzard flag is -out; you don’t think you could put it off for weather, being an outdoor -thing, you know?” - -“No,” says Amos, knitting his black brows; “I know my duty.” - -Towards night, in one of his many visits to the condemned man, Sol said, -“Elly’ll be sure to come back from Des Moines in—in time, if she don’t -succeed, won’t she?” - -“Oh, sure,” said Amos, cheerfully. He spoke in a louder than common voice -when he was with Sol; he fought against an inclination to walk on tiptoe, -as he saw Raker and the watch doing. He wished Sol would not keep hold of -his hand so long each time they shook hands; but he found his hands going -out whenever he entered the room. He had a feeling at his heart as if a -string were tightening about it and cutting into it: shaking hands seemed -to loosen the string. From Sol, Amos went down-stairs to the telephone -to call up the depot. The electricity snapped and roared and buzzed, and -baffled his ears, but he made out that the Des Moines train had come in -two hours late; the morning train was likely to be later, for a storm was -raging and the telegraph lines were down. Elly hadn’t come; she couldn’t -come in time! Amos changed the call to the telegraph office. - -Yes, they had a telegram for him. Just received; been ever since noon -getting there. From Des Moines. Read it? - -The sheriff gripped the receiver and flung back his shoulders like a -soldier facing the firing-squad. The words penetrated the whir like -bullets: “Des Moines, December 8, 189-. Governor refused audience. Has -left the city. My sympathy and indignation. T. L. Dennison.” - -Amos remembered to put the tube up, to ring the bell. He walked out of -the office into the parlor; he was not conscious that he walked on tiptoe -or that he moved the arm-chair softly as if to avoid making a noise. -He sank back into the great leather depths and stared dully about him. -“They’ve called my bluff!” he whispered; “there isn’t anything left I can -do.” He could not remember that he had ever been in a similar situation, -because, although he had had many a buffet and some hard falls from life, -never had he been at the end of his devices or his obstinate courage. But -now there was nothing, nothing to be done. - -“By-and-by I will go and tell Sol,” he thought, in a dull way. No; he -would let him hope a little longer; the morning would be time enough.... -He looked down at his own hands, and a shudder contracted the muscles of -his neck, and his teeth met. - -“Brace up, you coward!” he adjured himself; but the pith was gone out of -his will. That which he had thought, looking at his hands, was that _she_ -would never want to touch them again. Amos’s love was very humble. He -knew that Ruth did not love him. Why should she? Like all true lovers in -the dawn of the New Day, he was absorbed in his gratitude to her for the -power to love. There is nothing so beautiful, so exciting, so infinitely -interesting, as to love. To be loved is a pale experience beside it, -being, indeed, but the mirror to love, without which love may never find -its beauty, yet holding, of its own right, neither beauty nor charm. Amos -had accepted Ruth’s kindness, her sympathy, her goodness, as he accepted -the way her little white teeth shone in her smile, and the lovely depths -of her eyes, and the crisp melody of her voice—as windfalls of happiness, -his by kind chance or her goodness, not for any merit of his own. He was -grateful, and he did not presume; he had only come so far as to wonder -whether he ever would dare—But now he only asked to be her friend and -servant. But to have her shrink from him, to have his presence odious to -her ... he did not know how to bear it! And there was no way out. Not -only the State held him, the wish of the helpless, trusting creature -that he had failed to save was stronger than any law of man. He thought -of Mrs. Raker and her foolish schemes: that woman didn’t understand how -a man felt. But all of a sudden he found himself getting up and going -quickly to his father’s picture; and he was saying out loud to the -painted soldier: “I know my duty! I know my duty!” Without, the snow was -driving against the window-pane; that accursed Thing creaked and swayed -under the flail of the wind, but kept its stature. Within, the tumult -and combat in a human soul was so fierce that only at long intervals did -the storm beat its way to his consciousness. Once, stopping his walk, he -listened and heard sobs, and a gentle old voice that he knew in a solemn, -familiar monotony of tone; and he was aware that the women were in the -other room weeping and praying. And up-stairs Sol, who had never done a -mean trick in his life, and been content with so little, and tried to -share all he got, was waiting for the sweetheart who never could come, -turning that pitiful smile of his to the door every time the wind rattled -it, “trying to hope!” - -He had not shed a tear for his own misery, but now he leaned his arm on -the frame of his mother’s portrait and sobbed. He was standing thus when -Ruth saw him, when she flashed up to him, cold and wet and radiant. - -She was too breathless to speak; but she did not need to speak. - -“You’ve got it, Ruth!” he cried. “O God, you’ve got the reprieve!” - -“Yes, I have, Amos; here it is. I couldn’t telegraph because the wires -were down, but the Governor and the railroad superintendent fixed it -so we could come on an engine. I knew you were suffering. Elly is with -Mother Smith and Mrs. Raker, but I—but I wanted to come to you.” - -If he had thought once of himself he must have heard the new note in her -voice. But he did not think once of himself; he could only think of Sol. - -“But the Governor, didn’t he refuse to see you?” said he. - -“No; he refused to see poor Mr. Dennison.” Ruth used the slighting pity -of the successful. “_We_ didn’t try to go to him; we went to his wife.” - -Amos sat down. “Ruth,” he said, solemnly, “you haven’t got talent, you’ve -got genius!” - -“Why, of course,” said Ruth, “he might snub _us_ and not listen to us, -but he would _have_ to listen to his wife. She is such a pretty lady, -Amos, and so kind. We had a little bit of trouble seeing her at first, -because the girl (who was all dressed up, like the pictures, in a black -dress and white collar and cuffs and the nicest long apron), she said -that we couldn’t come in, the Governor’s wife was engaged, and they were -going out of town that day. But when Elly began to talk to her she -sympathized at once, and she got the Governor’s wife down. Then I told -her all about Sol and how good he was, and I cried and Elly cried and -_she_ cried—we all cried—and she said that I should see the Governor, and -gave us tea. She was as kind as possible. And when the Governor came I -told him everything about Sol—about his mother and the little boy at the -mill and the dog, and how he saved the other boy, pulling out that big -iron bar red-hot—” - -“But,” interrupted Amos, who would have been literal on his -death-bed—“but it wasn’t a very big bar. Not the bar they begin with—a -finished bar, just ready for the shears.” - -“Never mind; it was big when I told it, and I assure you it impressed the -Governor. He got up and walked the floor, and then Elly threw herself -on her knees before him; and he pulled her up, and, don’t you know, not -exactly laughed, but something like it. ‘I can’t make out,’ said he, -‘from your description much about the guilt or innocence of Solomon -Joscelyn, but one thing is plain, that he is too good a fellow to be -hanged!’” - -“And did you take the dagger I sent, and my telegram?” - -“Your telegram? Dagger? Amos, I’m so sorry, but we didn’t go back to -our lodgings at all. We had our bags with us, and came right from the -Governor’s here!” - -“Then you didn’t say anything about evidence?” - -“Evidence?” Ruth looked distressed. “Oh, Amos! I forgot all about it!” - -Amos always supposed that he must have been beside himself, for he -caught her hand and kissed it, and cried, “You darling!” Nothing more, -not a word; and he went abjectly down on his knees before her chair and -apologized, until, frightened by her silence, he looked up—and saw Ruth’s -eyes. - - * * * * * - -After all, the evidence was not at all wasted; for the Italian woman, -thanks to a cunning use of the dagger, made a full confession; and, the -public wrath having been sated on Sol, a more merciful jury sent the real -assassin to a lunatic asylum, which pleased Amos, who was not certain -whether he had not stepped from one hot box into another. Ruth told Amos, -when he asked her the inevitable question of the lover, “I don’t know -when exactly, dear, but I think I began to love you when I saw you cry; -and I was _sure_ of it when I found I could help you!” - -Honest Amos did not analyze his wife’s heart; he was content to accept -her affection as the gift of God and her, and his gratitude included Sol -and Elly; wherefore it comes to pass that a certain iron-worker, on a -certain day in December, always dines with Amos Wickliff, his wife, and -Mother Smith. Amos is no longer sheriff, but a citizen of substance and -of higher office, and they live in what Mother Smith fears is almost -sinful luxury; and on this day there will be served a dinner yielding not -to Christmas itself in state; and after dinner the rougher will rise, his -wineglass in hand. “To our wives!” he will say, solemnly. - -And Amos, as solemnly, will repeat the toast: “To our wives! 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