Paul Ralston
Date: 2025-02-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American fiction -- 19th century

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Title: Paul Ralston

A novel

Author: Mary Jane Holmes

Release date: February 7, 2025 [eBook #75309]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: G. W. Dillingham, 1896

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAUL RALSTON ***

Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

PAUL RALSTON.
A Novel.

BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF

“’Lena Rivers,” “Gretchen,” “Marian Grey,” “Meadow Brook,” “Tempest and Sunshine,” Etc., Etc.

NEW YORK:

G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers.

MDCCCXCVII.

Copyright, 1896 and 1897,

By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.

[All rights reserved.]

Paul Ralston.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | Miss Phebe Hansford | 7
II. | Paul Ralston | 18
III. | Paul’s News | 33
IV. | The Percys | 39
V. | Clarice | 47
VI. | Elithe’s Photograph | 51
VII. | In Samona | 64
VIII. | The Stranger at Deep Gulch | 69
IX. | At “The Samona” | 82
X. | Miss Hansford’s Letter | 89
XI. | Getting Ready for Oak City | 96
XII. | On the Road | 101
XIII. | On the Boat | 107
XIV. | In Oak City | 118
XV. | Miss Hansford and Elithe | 122
XVI. | The Days which Followed | 129
XVII. | Getting Acquainted | 139
XVIII. | Elithe and Clarice | 146
XIX. | Miss Hansford in Boston | 156
XX. | At the Tennis Court | 164
XXI. | News from Jack | 169
XXII. | The Waltz | 176
XXIII. | Preparations | 183
XXIV. | The Shadow Begin to Fall | 186
XXV. | The Shadow Deepens | 193
XXVI. | The Tragedy | 202
XXVII. | Elithe and Jack Percy | 210
XXVIII. | Poor Jack | 218
XXIX. | Elithe’s Interview with Clarice | 228
XXX. | The Funeral | 237
XXXI. | The Arrest | 242
XXXII. | In Prison | 258
XXXIII. | Outside the Prison | 270
XXXIV. | Ready for the Trial | 281
XXXV. | The First Day of the Trial | 291
XXXVI. | The Second Day of the Trial | 303
XXXVII. | Free | 325
XXXVIII. | Excitement | 332
XXXIX. | Where He Was | 341
XL. | Farewell | 352
XLI. | Tom, You Did It! | 356
XLII. | The Second Trial | 363
XLIII. | After Eighteen Months | 375
XLIV. | Last Glimpse of Oak City | 387

PAUL RALSTON.

CHAPTER I.
MISS PHEBE HANSFORD.

She was standing in the doorway of her cottage, in Oak City, one morning in May, watching the early boat as it came slowly up to the wharf and counting the passengers who landed from it. There were twenty in all,—some with their bags and umbrellas, walking briskly away in different directions, as if they knew where they were going and were in a hurry to get there,—while a few, who evidently did not know where they were going, stopped to parley with two or three hackmen on the stand in front of a hotel. These were undoubtedly strangers seeking information with regard to accommodations, and Miss Hansford decided that the season was likely to be a good one when people began to arrive so early. By a good season she meant her rooms full of lodgers, with plenty of money coming to her weekly, and not as was the case the previous summer,—barely enough to pay her taxes and insurance. As yet most of the cottages were closed and looked gloomy and somber, with their barred doors and boarded windows and no stir of life around them. But there were signs of the coming summer in the warm spring air which blew up from the sea. Crocuses and daffodils were blossoming in the borders and hyacinths in the beds in the parks, where the grass was fresh and green, and in a short time the place would shake off its winter lethargy and be alive and gay once more. Like many other people, Miss Hansford’s bones were her barometer. Whatever they indicated, whether physically or of matters outside her own personality, was pretty sure to come to pass, and as she counted the people crossing the pier she was conscious of a sudden exhilaration of spirits which boded well for the future. From living alone more than half the time she had acquired a habit of talking to herself, and frequently indulged in long conversations of questions and answers, in which she sometimes differed as sharply from her imaginary interlocutor or respondent as she would have done had they been real flesh and blood.

Seating herself upon the piazza, which extended on three sides of her cottage, and still watching the boat now moving out to sea, she said aloud: “Yes, I begin to feel it in my bones that it’s going to be an uncommon summer. Something out of the usual run. I don’t know, though, why I need be so anxious. I’ve enough to carry me through, and more, too, and I don’t want ’em to fight over the little there will be left when I’m gone. There ain’t many to fight, either. The nearest of kin is Roger, and I vowed I wouldn’t give him a thing when he married Lucy Potter.”

Here Miss Hansford paused in her soliloquy and changed her position a little, moving her left knee across her right and rolling her calico apron around her hands, which worked nervously as she recalled her old home in Ridgefield, a pretty inland town among the New England hills. In the cemetery there a host of Hansfords were lying,—her grandparents, her father and mother, her brothers and sisters,—sixteen in all,—and she had followed them one by one to their graves until there was only left her nephew, the recreant Roger, who had married Lucy Potter. For a few minutes Miss Hansford’s face was shadowed with memories of the farm-house, whose windows looked across the meadow and the river to the graves in the cemetery; then, brightening up with the thought that there was “no use in crying for spilt milk,” she returned to her talk of the coming season, which her bones told her was to be a profitable one.

“If the Methodists have as big a camp-meeting as they had last year, and the Baptists do anything at all, and the teachers come to the Institute, and the hotels are full, things’ll be lively for a spell,” she said, “and I wouldn’t wonder if I rented all my rooms, even to the back chamber, where a tall body can’t stand straight except in the centre. Folks mostly don’t take to it, because there’s no view from the windows, except the oak woods. Can’t see the water at all; seems as if inlanders were daft on the sea. If they had lived as long as I have, year in and year out, in sound of its fretting and moaning, from morning till night and night till morning; and if they could see it in winter when a storm is raging over it and the waves break on the shore with a noise like thunder, they’d sing another song than ‘The sea, the sea, the beautiful sea.’ It’s pretty, though, when it’s calm and still and there’s fifty or a hundred sails in sight, as I have counted when the yachts were anchored near here. Oak City ain’t as fashionable as Newport or Narragansett Pier, but it’s a mighty good place to rest in, and there isn’t a prettier spot on the whole coast from Maine to Florida, especially on a morning like this.”

Miss Hansford was waxing eloquent on the subject of Oak City, and quite forgot her rolls burning in the oven and her tea-kettle boiling dry on the stove, as she sat enjoying the view. She had seen it hundreds of times, but it never struck her as quite as fair as it did now, when earth and sky seemed laughing in the brightness and warmth of early May. The ocean was smooth as glass, with white sails dotting its surface in the distance and looking like great wings, as they moved slowly out of sight, or in. To her left a long, hazy line showed where the mainland lay, and between that and the island a thin wreath of smoke told where the boat was disappearing. In front of her, between Oceanside and the Heights, as the two divisions of the town were called, Lake Wenona and Lake Eau Claire sparkled in the sunshine,—the two connected by a narrow strip of land called the Causeway, and neither of them larger than a good-sized mill pond. She had seen them lashed into fury when a wild storm was sweeping the Atlantic coast, and seen them again, covered with boats filled with gay young people when the season was at its height and the place full of visitors. There was a small skiff now on Lake Eau Claire, rowed by a young man whose form seemed familiar to her.

“Who in the world can that be?” she thought, regretting that she had not on her far-seeing spectacles, which brought objects at a long distance distinctly within her range of vision. “Land o’ Goshen!” she exclaimed, as the boat came nearer. “I believe my soul it’s Paul Ralston. When did he get home, I’d like to know? I was up to the Ralston house last week, and Mrs. Drake wasn’t expectin’ the folks for some time. She was just beginning to air and clean that queer place in the basement cellar,—the Smuggler’s room. She said Paul was going to fit it up as a kind of billiard and smoking room this summer, because ’twas cool and quiet. They’ve got one room for billiards now upstairs, and I don’t see what they want of another. I call it wicked to waste so much money on a place to knock balls and smoke and play cards in, for it’ll come to that with all the young bucks who go there. Oh, my land, how times has changed since I was young, and such things as cards and billiard balls belonged to the evil one! Now they belong to everybody,—professors and all.”

In her lament over the degeneracy of the age, the good woman rocked back and forth, but kept her eyes upon the boat, which was heading for the shore. Miss Hansford was always spoken of as a character and was better known than any permanent resident in Oak City. Indeed, she was a part of the city, and had seen it grow from a few tents clustered around the camp grounds to its present proportions and modern usages, to which she did not take kindly. When a girl she had come from her home in Ridgefield with a party of young people as gay and thoughtless as herself to attend the annual camp-meeting, which was beginning to attract a good deal of attention. The site for the camp-meeting had been chosen by the Methodists, partly for its delightful situation, and partly for its entire seclusion from anything worldly which would disturb the mind and hinder the good work. The only house then upon the Heights was known as the Ralston House, which had been built for many years, and, with its huge chimney and square look-out on the roof, was a landmark for the surrounding country. Many strange stories were told of it and its first owner, old Captain Ralston, whose ship, the Vulture, had sailed to all parts of the world, and finally gone down in a wild storm off the Banks of Newfoundland. The house itself was said to have been a rendezvous for smugglers and a hiding place for their goods. But with the sinking of the Vulture and the death of the captain, who went down with it, the stories ceased, and when the first camp-meeting was held the great house was occupied by the elders and those who could afford to pay for the rooms. On the Oceanside a few straggling dwellings were springing up near the grounds and the shore, but for the most part the accommodations were of the crudest kind. People brought their own provisions and beds, and camped upon the ground and under trees and felt that they were worshiping God far more acceptably than if the blue sky above them had been the dome of some expensive church and the hard benches upon which they sat in its luxuriously cushioned pews.

At first the whole thing struck Phebe as grotesque, but youth is not apt to be very critical, especially if having a good time, and as she usually had a good time she enjoyed everything immensely after the first surprise wore off, and slept in a tent with the rain sometimes dripping on her face, and ate coarse fare from board tables, and watched the proceedings with feelings of curiosity and amusement and half contempt for what seemed to her emotional and senseless. The church in which she had been brought up did not worship that way, and, with something of a Pharisaical feeling, she was one night listening to an elder noted for piety and eloquence, who was exhorting some people near her to a better life. Considering herself as a spectator and no part of the congregation, she did not expect to be addressed. Anxious seats and extemporaneous prayers were not for one reared as she had been, and when the elder, who for some time had had her in his mind, turned suddenly towards her and asked if she were a Christian, she colored with confusion and alarm and answered, hurriedly: “No, so; no, sir; I am an Episcopalian.”

Something like a smile flitted across the elder’s face, as he said: “More’s the pity for you and your church,” and then passed on, leaving the girl, who was not a Christian because she was an Episcopalian, to the tender mercies of her companions. Young people are apt to be relentless where ridicule is concerned, and Phebe was jeered at and chaffed until in desperation she declared her intention to go forward for prayers the next time an invitation was given. New and strange feelings were beginning to influence her, and when at last she knelt with others to be prayed for it was more in sober earnest than in fun. There was something in this religion after all, and as she never did anything by halves, she tested it until she proved its reality, and went back to her home in Ridgefield an avowed Methodist. To the father and mother, equally as conscientious as herself, it seemed almost sacrilege that their daughter, born and brought up in the tenets of the church, should embrace another faith, or at least another form of worship. But Phebe was firm. Episcopacy, with its ritual and ceremonious dignity, would never appeal to her again. She liked better the stir and life of the Methodists. It was something real,—something to take hold of, and she liked their style of dress as more consistent with a Christian life. She could pray better in a plain gown than in a silk one, and she stopped curling her hair and laid aside her jewelry and her ribbons, and went every year to Oak City, where she was one of the most zealous workers, and was known as Sister Phebe. As long as her parents lived she stayed with them in Ridgefield, going with them occasionally to St. John’s, which, she thanked her stars, was low, as she understood the term, but going oftener to the plain wooden building on the shore of Podunk Pond, where for many years the Methodists held their services. When her father and mother were both dead and there was nothing to keep her in Ridgefield, she moved to Oak City, and, building herself a cottage on the Heights, lived mostly alone, except for the lodgers who came to her when the camp-meeting was in progress. The religious atmosphere of the place suited her, and, could she have had her way, nothing more exciting than the annual camp-meeting would have found entrance there. But the town was destined to grow, and as it increased in size, and hotels and handsome cottages were built on the Heights and Oceanside, and the streets were full of fashionably dressed people and stylish turnouts, she shook her head disapprovingly. She had renounced the world, the flesh and the devil twice, she said. Once by proxy when baptized in infancy in the Episcopal church, and again when, not holding her first baptism valid, she had been immersed in Podunk Pond, when the thermometer was nearly at zero and the wind was blowing a gale. It was a satisfaction to remember this. It seemed to make her a kind of martyr for endurance, and to freeze out any microbes of temptation which might assail her afterwards.

In the sanctity of Oak City she lived a long time before the world, the flesh and the devil came to confront her with a persistence she could not resist. Fashion and folly, as she called every innovation upon her ideas of right, crowded thick and fast into the pretty town, until the camp-meeting was a secondary matter, and ignored by two-thirds of the guests, who, if they attended the services at all, did so from curiosity, or because it was pleasant to while away an hour or so in the huge open tabernacle built upon the spot where the first tent had been set up many years before for the worship of God. Miss Hansford, as one of the oldest residents, was a power in the community, and her opinion carried great weight in her own church, but she found herself stranded and helpless in the society which knew not Joseph, or, knowing, did not care. It was in vain that she lifted up her voice against the dances at the hotels, the roller-skating at the rink, the play-acting at the Casino, the ocean bathers in suits which she said made even her blush to look at, and, worst of all, the band, which on Sunday afternoons gave what was called a sacred concert in the open air,—concerts which crowds attended, but which Miss Hansford bitterly denounced. A device of Satan, she called them, and resolutely stopped her ears with cotton to shut out the profane sounds which floated across Lake Wenona to where she sat reading her Bible and deploring the sins of the times. But neither her prayers nor her disapproval availed to stem the tide so fast setting in towards Oak City. The dancing went on in the hotels, the skating in the rink, the play-acting in the Casino, the flirting in the streets, while the bathing suits of the ladies grew shorter and lower each year, until they reminded her of a picture of a ballet girl which a mischievous boy had once sent her as a valentine, and which she had promptly burned.

Owing to the influence of a few New Yorkers and Bostonians, who came to Oak City every summer, spending their money freely and introducing many innovations in the old-established customs, the place was booming. A little church, holding the faith in which she was reared, was built under the shadow of one of the largest hotels. “Fashion’s Bazaar,” Miss Hansford called it, but she watched its growth with a strange interest, and a feeling as if something she had loved and lost were being restored to her. Unsolicited, she gave a hundred dollars towards its erection for the sake of her dead father and mother, and she never heard the sound of the bell calling the people to service without a wave of memory taking her back to the days of her childhood, and the broken bit of wall in the apple orchard, where she used sometimes to sit and listen to the chimes of St. John’s echoing across the river and the meadowland. Laid carefully away in her bureau drawer was the Prayer Book her mother had used, and, pressed between the leaves, was a rose taken from her mother’s hand as she lay in her coffin. Miss Hansford had not seen the book for a long time, but on the day of the consecration she took it from its hiding place, removed the folds of tissue paper and the handkerchief in which it was wrapped, and sat down to follow the morning service. She had once known it by heart, and she found herself repeating it now instead of reading it, while a feeling she had not experienced in years came over her as her lips pronounced the familiar words. There were passages in the book marked by her mother’s hand, and on the margin, at the commencement of the baptismal service for infants, was written: “June ——, 18——. Little Phebe was christened to-day. God keep her safe in His fold.”

On this and the marked passages and the faded rose Miss Hansford’s tears fell like rain, and with them much of her intolerance of other people’s opinions was washed away. When a girl she had sung in the choir, and now, as she glanced a second time at the grand old Te Deum, she began unconsciously to sing the opening sentence: “We praise Thee, O God; we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord!”

Whether she would have gone on to the end will never be known, for suddenly there came an interruption to her devotions. She had shut the door against any possible intruder, but the window was open, and through it came a mocking laugh and the words, “If I’se you, I’d join the Salvation Army, only your voice is a little cracked.”

It was the same boy who had sent her the valentine the previous winter,—Jack Percy, from Washington, and her special aversion. Her first impulse was to throw her Prayer Book at him, but he was beyond her reach and running rapidly towards the avenue, his laugh coming back to her as he ran, and making her shake with rage.

“May the Lord punish that boy as he deserves,” she said, as she wrapped her book in its folds of paper and replaced it in her bureau drawer. “He’s riled me all up, just as I was beginning to feel as if I had been to meetin’, or church, I s’pose I ought to call it,” she continued, as she opened her doors and went about her accustomed work.

Whether it was the service in the Prayer Book which did it, or the sight of her mother’s handwriting, or the faded flower, Miss Hansford gradually grew softer, and while religiously striving to live up to her principles, she became more tolerant of the world as she saw it around her. She still drew the line on dancing and play-acting and cards as emanating directly from the bottomless pit, but the sacred concerts were less obnoxious, and, instead of stopping her ears with cotton when the band played on Sunday, she sometimes found herself listening to it and nodding her head to the strains if they chanced to be familiar. With all her peculiarities, she was so thoroughly kind-hearted and loyal to her friends, that she was generally popular with those who knew her best. A few ridiculed her and resented her inordinate curiosity with regard to their affairs, of which she often seemed to know more than they did themselves. She had a wonderful faculty for remembering everybody’s age. She knew how much they were worth; how they made their money; who they were, and what they sprang from, and, by means of her far-seeing spectacles, with which she attended to her neighbor’s business, and her near-seeing ones, with which she attended to her own, she managed to keep a pretty firm hold on the affairs and conduct of the people around her.

On the morning when she is first introduced to the reader she had satisfied herself with regard to the number of passengers who came on the boat; had decided who most of them were, and then centered her interest on Paul Ralston, whose unexpected appearance surprised her a little. She prided herself on her intimacy with the Ralstons, and usually knew where they were, and what they were doing. Paul, she supposed, was in Europe, or possibly on the ocean; yet, here he was, fastening his boat and coming up the pathway across the park towards her cottage.

“For the land’s sake, I believe he’s coming here, and I looking like a fright, with this old apron on, and my sleeves rolled up,” she exclaimed, and, hastily entering the house, she put down her sleeves, exchanged her calico apron for a clean white one, took her tea-kettle off the stove, and was in the wide doorway ready to greet the young man, who came bounding up the steps two at a time and grasped her hand warmly with his cheery, “Hello, Aunt Phebe! How are you?”

CHAPTER II.
PAUL RALSTON.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered, fine-looking young man of twenty-three or twenty-four, with a frank, open countenance and a magnetism of voice and smile and manner which made every one his friend with whom he came in contact. City born and proud of being a Bostonian, he was still very fond of the country, and especially of Oak City, where he was just as polite and kind to the poorest fisherman on the beach as to the Governor’s son when he was there. Everybody knew him, and everybody liked him, especially Miss Hansford, with whom he was a great favorite. As a rule she didn’t think much of boys, and sometimes wondered why the Lord ever made them, or having made them, why He did not keep them shut up until they were men before turning them loose upon the community. Naturally boys didn’t like her, and many were the pranks played upon her by the mischief-loving lads, with Jack Percy at their head as ringleader. Him Miss Hansford detested as much as she liked Paul Ralston. She had known the latter since he wore wide collars and knickerbockers and stole her one watermelon from her bit of garden at the rear of her house. This garden was her pride, and she nursed her few flowers and vegetables and fruits with the utmost care, contriving various snares and traps as pitfalls for the marauding boys, who thought her garden and its contents lawful prey, and plundered it accordingly. Only one melon had rewarded her care, and this she watched vigilantly as it ripened in the August sun. Jack Percy was late in coming that summer, and to his absence she felt she owed the preservation of her cherished melon. Jack came at last on the afternoon boat, a guest of the Ralstons, whose acquaintance she had not then made. The next morning her melon was gone, and in the soft, sandy soil around the bed were the marks of two pairs of feet, and Miss Hansford had no hesitancy in fixing upon Jack Percy as one of the culprits. She knew of his arrival, and that he was visiting the Ralstons. Unquestionably Paul was the other delinquent.

“Birds of a feather flock together, and I’ve no doubt one is as bad as t’other. I wish I had ’em by the nape of the neck,” she was thinking, when a shadow fell upon the floor, and, turning from her breakfast table, which she was clearing, she saw a boy standing in the doorway with an immense watermelon in his arms and a frightened look in his blue eyes, which, nevertheless, confronted her steadily, as he said: “I am Paul Ralston, from Boston, and I live in the Ralston House.”

“Yes, I know you are Paul Ralston, and that you live in the Ralston House, but I don’t know as that makes you any better than if you lived in a hovel,” was Miss Hansford’s ungracious reply, at which the boy colored a little, and then went on: “I don’t s’pose it does. I didn’t tell you where I lived to make you think better of me. I only wanted you to know who I was, for I stole your watermelon last night after you were asleep.”

“How d’ye know I was asleep?” Miss Hansford asked. Paul did not dare tell her of the whispered comment of his companion: “Hear the old she-dragon go it. A cannonade can’t wake her,” but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he replied: “We—or I heard you snore.”

No one likes to be told they snore, and Miss Hansford was not an exception. With a toss of her head she replied: “A likely story. You must have good ears. How did you get over the piece of barbed wire I put in the grass to keep just such tramps as you out of my melon patch?”

“I fell over it and tore my trousers; that’s the way mother found out what I’d done. Father whaled me good,” the boy said, still holding the melon, which Miss Hansford had not offered to take.

“Served you right, and I s’pose he made you buy the melon and bring it to me,” was Miss Hansford’s comment, while something in the face of the boy appealed to her in his favor.

“He didn’t know a thing about it,” Paul said. “I bought it with my own money,—saved to buy me a fishing rod. I thought it out last night when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Your conscience troubled you, I hope,” Miss Hansford said, taking the melon from him at last, and thinking as she did so what a fine, large one it was.

She was beginning to soften, and Paul knew it, and was not half as much afraid of her as when he first came in, his knees knocking together with fear of what might befall him. Jack Percy, his coadjutor in the theft, had ridiculed the idea of making restitution and confession.

“The old woman is awful,” he said, “and will thrash you worse than your father did. I know her. She threw hot water on me once when I was tying a piece of paper to her cat’s tail. They say she keeps red pepper and fire crackers for dogs and boys.”

Paul was not to be persuaded from his purpose.

“I’ll risk her any way,” he said, while Jack rejoined: “Don’t bring me into the scrape. She’ll never forget it, for she hates me like pizen now.”

Paul promised not to implicate his friend, and as soon as he thought the fresh melons were in market he bought the finest one he could find and took it to Miss Hansford, feeling glad now that he had done so. She had thrown neither hot water, nor red pepper, nor fire crackers at him. Her face was not half as vinegary as it had been at first, and when she spoke of his conscience there was a roguish smile around his mouth as he replied: “I s’pose it ought to have troubled me, and it did some, but what kept me awake was the awful stomach-ache, which nearly bent me up double. I ate too much melon, and it wasn’t very good,—wasn’t ripe, nor half so sweet as this one I’ve brought you. I told ’em I wanted the very best, and made ’em plug it to be sure. It’s first rate. Cut it, and see.”

Miss Hansford was not one to capitulate at once, and she answered, rather stiffly: “You ought to have had stomach-ache. ’Twill teach you a lesson, maybe. Do you go to Sunday-school?”

“Yes’m,” Paul replied, and Miss Hansford continued: “’Piscopal, I s’pose?”

“Yes’m.”

“What do you learn?”

“Oh! my duty to my neighbor, and things,” Paul said, wondering if he was to be put through his catechism, and how he would come out of the ordeal.

He believed he would rather take his chance with fire crackers. Miss Hansford’s next remark reassured him.

“Umph! I know all about that catechism. A deal of good your duty to your neighbor has done you. What’s the eighth commandment?”

Paul repeated the seventh; then, seeing the look of disgust in Miss Hansford’s face, and realizing his mistake, he involuntarily began the response: “Lord have mercy upon us!” but got no farther, for the ludicrousness of the whole affair overcame every other feeling, and he burst into a peal of laughter, so merry and so boyish that Miss Hansford laughed with him in spite of herself.

“Better go home and learn which is which of the commandments,” she said, “but tell me first who was with you, and why he isn’t here too. I saw his tracks,—bigger than yours. I b’lieve ’twas Jack Percy, and that he put you up to it. Was it Jack?”

Instantly the expression of Paul’s face changed, and was more like that of a man of twenty than a boy of ten.

“I can’t tell you who was with me,” he said. “I promised I wouldn’t, and I’ve never told a lie. He didn’t put me up to it, either. He didn’t know the melon was here till I told him. He was sick, too,—sicker than I. I’m sorry I did it. I’m not half a bad sort of feller, and I hope you’ll forgive me. Will you?”

Miss Hansford had cut the melon in two, and, putting a big slice of the red, juicy fruit on a plate, she offered it to Paul and said: “I’ll think about it. Sit down and eat a piece.”

“No, thanks. No more melon for me,” he replied, and, feeling sure he was forgiven, he bade her good morning and went whistling off in the direction of the woods, where Jack Percy was lying under a clump of oaks, waiting to hear the result of the interview.

“Well, what did she say? I see you have escaped alive,” he said, as Paul joined him. “Rich, wasn’t it?” he continued, rolling in the sand and kicking as Paul related his experience. “I don’t wonder the old lady looked daggers at the commandment business. I wish I could have seen her, and I did. I say, Paul,” and Jack stopped rolling, and, creeping up under the shade of the bushes, went on, very soberly for him: “I went to sleep while waiting for you, and had the queerest dream. I thought Miss Hansford killed you or me,—seemed more as if it was me, although I could see it all; could see the one who lay here dead, just where I am lying, and could hear the talking ’round him, and see Miss Hansford, the most scared of them all, trying to lift me up and saying he isn’t dead,—he mustn’t be dead. It was me then, and I woke up with a kind of cramp in my stomach,—some of that confounded melon is there yet. Guess I had a kind of nightmare, but it seemed awful real. I shouldn’t wonder if she did kill me some time, she hates me so.”

“No, she won’t; her bark is a heap worse than her bite. Why, we got to be right chummy, and she offered me some of the melon. I really like the old lady,” Paul said, while Jack made a grimace, and then lay perfectly still, with his hands folded under his head, thinking of the dream which had so impressed him.

Meanwhile Miss Hansford, who had watched Paul until he disappeared from sight, was talking to herself about him as she went about her morning work.

“That’s a fine boy,” she said, “if he did steal my watermelon, and I’d trust him any where, if he don’t know the eighth commandment. I b’lieve t’other one was Jack Percy,—the worst limb I ever knew. Calls the camp-meetin’ a circus and me the clown! I’d like to——”

She jammed a griddle down hard on the stove in token of what she’d like to do to the reprobate Jack, who had dreamed that she killed him under the scrub oaks. Then she turned her thoughts to the Ralstons. It was only that summer that they had taken possession of the big house on the knoll overlooking the sea. Carpenters had been there at work early in May, removing walls inside to throw the rooms together, cutting the windows down to the floor, building piazzas and porches and bay windows here and there, until the house was so changed that there was little left of the original except the look-out on the roof and the immense chimney, which Mrs. Ralston clung to for the sake of the fireplaces, and because there was nothing like it on the Island. Once she thought to tear down the inclosure to the smugglers’ room in the cellar, entrance to which was through a concealed door under a closet stairs, but Paul, who was with her, begged her to leave it for his play-room. He knew all the stories of his ancestor, who was said to have filled the place from time to time with smuggled goods, which were sold at a high price and made the old sea captain rich. This, however, was so many years before that the smuggler taint had died out, except as some ill-natured people revived the story, with a sneer at the Ralston wealth, the foundation of which was laid in the cellar of the Ralston House. Paul, boy-like, was rather pleased with the idea of so renowned an ancestor, and, during his stay in Oak City, while the repairs were going on, used to spend half his time on the roof, pretending that he was watching for the Vulture returning from its long voyage and tacking about here and there until a white flag from the look-out told that the coast was clear. The other half of his time he spent in the Smugglers’ room, playing at hiding from the police, while Tom Drake, a boy about his own age, and son of the man who had charge of the place, acted the part of policeman and thundered for admittance against the door of the basement. Was there an influence in the atmosphere surrounding the two boys which prompted them to play at what in many of its details became a reality in after years. I think so, for I believe there comes to many of us at times a glimpse of what seems familiar, because we have been unconscious actors in something like it before. To Paul, however, only the present was tangible, and he enjoyed it thoroughly and played at smugglers and pirates and robbers and prisoners, in the queer room built around the big chimney.

For a little time the Ralstons returned to Boston, while the finishing touches were given to the house. Then they came back for the summer and there were signs of life everywhere around the handsome place. Occasionally Miss Hansford met the Ralston carriage with the Judge and his wife, a dainty little lady with a sweet, gentle face showing under her hat, which Miss Hansford decided was too youthful for a woman of her age to wear. As a rule, Miss Hansford did not take kindly to people who owned houses or cottages in Oak City, and only spent a few weeks in the summer there, bringing with them an assumption of superiority over their neighbors in the shape of horses and carriages and servants and city ways, which she did not like. They were pretty sure to be “stuck-ups” or nobodies.

Of the two she preferred the former. There had never been much money in the Hansford line, but there was plenty of blood of the bluest sort. Miss Hansford had the family tree at her fingers’ ends, and not a twig would she lop off, much less the branches reaching back to Oliver Cromwell and Miles Standish and a feudal lord in Scotland who held his castle days and weeks against a besieging party. At the Ralstons she first looked doubtfully. The old smuggler, whose bones were whitening off the Banks of Newfoundland, was not a desirable appendage, but to offset him was an ancestor who had heard the Indian war cry and helped to empty the chests of tea into the ocean on the night of the Boston Tea Party, while another had died at the battle of Bunker Hill, and these two atoned for shiploads of contraband goods and made the Ralstons somebody. Paul Miss Hansford had scarcely seen, except as he galloped down the avenue on his pony, until he came to ask forgiveness and make restitution. Then she was surprised to find how her heart went out to the boy, and after he was gone she began to consider the propriety of calling upon his mother.

“I don’t s’pose she cares whether I call or not,” she thought, “but I am about the oldest settler on the Island, and then if Miss Ralston returns it, it’ll be something to tell Mrs. Atwater, who has so much to say about her friends in Hartford.”

With all her war against the flesh, Miss Hansford had her weaknesses and ambitions, and one of the latter was to know and be known by Mrs. Ralston. This was an easy matter, for there was not a kinder-hearted or more genial woman in the world, and when she heard from her maid that Miss Phebe Hansford was in the drawing-room she went at once to meet her, and by her graciousness of manner put her at her ease and disarmed her of all prejudice there might have been against her. Miss Hansford was taken over the house to see the improvements and given a cup of tea and treated, as she told Mrs. Atwater when describing her call, “as if she and Miss Ralston were hand and glove.” The watermelon was not mentioned until just before Miss Hansford left, when Paul came in, accompanied by Jack Percy, who at sight of the woman sitting up so prim in a high-backed chair, with her far-seeing spectacles on, slunk out of sight. Paul, on the contrary, came forward, and, doffing his cap, offered her his hand.

“You have seen my son before?” Mrs. Ralston said, in some surprise, when Paul left the room.

“Why, yes. Didn’t he tell you about the melon he brought in place of the one——,” she was going to add “——he stole,” but something in Mrs. Ralston’s manner checked the harsh word before it was uttered.

Mrs. Ralston, however, understood, and her face flushed slightly as she replied: “I knew he took your melon, but not that he carried you another. I am very glad. Paul means to be a good boy. I hope you forgave him?”

“I did,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, “and I like him, too. I’m cross-grained, I know, but I’ve a soft spot somewhere, and your boy’s touched it and brought me here to see his mother. I hope we’ll be friends. I am a homely old woman with homely ways, and I hain’t anything like this,” glancing around the elegantly furnished drawing-room, “but I’ll be glad to see you any time.”

“I will surely come,” Mrs. Ralston said, offering her white hand covered with rings such as Miss Hansford considered it wicked to wear.

They did not look quite so sinful on Mrs. Ralston, who ever after was a queen among women as Paul was a king among boys. When Jack Percy’s mother came to the seashore and took him home Paul and Miss Hansford became fast friends. He called her “Aunt Phebe” and ate her ginger cookies and fried cakes and apple turnovers and huckleberry pies, and raced through her yard, and sometimes through her house, with his dog, Sherry, at his heels, upsetting things generally and seldom stopping to put in its place the stone tied in one corner of the netting which was tacked over the door to keep the flies out. This was a fashion followed by many of the cottagers whose doors were too wide to admit of screens. But Paul in his haste did not often think of it, and after a few attempts to make him remember the stone Miss Hansford gave it up and only held her breath when he came in like a whirlwind and out again as rapidly.

“Bless the boy, he goes so fast that the flies are blown away before they have a chance to get in,” she would say after one of his raids, as she put the netting back and picked up the books and papers, and sometimes things of more value which Sherry’s bushy tail had brushed from the table in his rapid transit through her rooms. Neither Paul nor Sherry could do wrong, and she waited anxiously for his coming to Oak City in the summer, and said good-bye to him with a lump in her throat when he went away.

Once by special invitation she spent a week with the Ralstons in Boston. “The tiredest week she ever knew,” she said to Mrs. Atwater after her return. “Kept me on the go all the time,—to Bunker Hill Monument, up which I clum every step,—then to Mt. Auburn and Harvard, where Paul is to go to college; then to the Old South Church, and the Picture Gallery, and if you’ll b’lieve it,” she added in a whisper, “they wanted me to go to a play at the Boston Museum Theatre, where they said everybody went, church members and all.”

“I hope you resisted,” Mrs. Atwater said in an awful tone of voice.

“No, I didn’t. I went,” Miss Hansford replied. “’Twas ‘Uncle Tom’ they played, and I was that silly that I cried when little Eva died, and I wanted to kill Legree. ’Twas wrong, I know, and I mean to confess it next class meetin’.”

“You or’to,” Mrs. Atwater said, with a great deal of dignity as she left the house.

Miss Hansford did confess it in a speech so long and so descriptive of the play that the people sitting in judgment upon her forgot their censure in the interest with which they listened to her.

“I’ve made a clean breast of it, and you can do what you like,” she said, as she finished and sat down.

They did nothing except to express disapproval of such things in general and to hope the offense would not be repeated, as it was a bad example for the young when a woman of her high religious principles went to a theatre. Paul, who happened to be in Oak City, was sitting by her, his face a study as he listened to what was a revelation to him. In a way they were censuring Miss Hansford, and just before the close of the meeting he startled them all by rising to his feet and saying: “You needn’t blame her. I teased her to go, and it isn’t wicked either to see ‘Uncle Tom.’ Everybody goes,—father and mother and everybody,—and they are good and pray every day.”

No one could repress a smile at the fearlessness of the boy in defending Miss Hansford, whose eyes were moist as she laid her hand on his head and whispered: “Hush, Paul; you musn’t speak in meeting.”

“Why not?” he answered aloud. “The rest do, and I’m going to stand up for you through thick and thin.”

He was only a boy, but he represented the Ralstons. To attend a theatre under their auspices was not so very bad, and the good people absolved their sister from wrongdoing and shook hands heartily with her champion when the services were over. After that Miss Hansford’s devotion to Paul was unbounded, and she watched him lovingly and proudly as he grew to manhood and passed unscathed through college, leaving a record blackened with only a few larks such as any young man of spirit might have, she said, when comparing him with Jack Percy, who was with him in Harvard for a while, and then quietly sent home. Paul’s vacations were mostly spent in Oak City, until he was graduated. He then went abroad with his father and mother for a year, and the house on the Island was closed, except as the rear of it was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Drake, who looked after the premises in the absence of the family. Miss Hansford, who missed him sadly, was anticipating his coming again much as a mother anticipates the return of her son. She did not, however, expect him so soon, as no news had been received of his arrival in New York, and she was surprised and delighted when he came upon her so early and so suddenly,—taking her breath away, she told him, as she led him into the house, looking at him to see if foreign travel had changed him any.

CHAPTER III.
PAUL’S NEWS.

He had grown broader and handsomer and looked a trifle older, with that brown beard on his chin, she thought, but otherwise he was the same Paul as of old, with his sunny smile, his friendly manner and his unmistakable joy at seeing her again. She made him sit down in the best rocking chair,—took his hat, and smoothed his hair caressingly, and forgot that she had not breakfasted and that her rolls were still blackening in the oven.

“How did you get here?” she asked. “Nobody knew you had landed or was on the way even.’

“I should suppose your bones would have warned you of our arrival. I hope they haven’t ceased to do duty,” Paul answered, and then explained that they had changed their plans and sailed from Havre a week earlier than they had intended. Some of their friends were coming on the Ville de Paris and among them Mrs. Percy and Clarice.

The name of Jack Percy was to Miss Hansford much like a red flag to a bull, while that of any member of his family was nearly as bad. Now, however, she only straightened her back a little with an ominous “Ugh,” which Paul did not notice, so absorbed was he in the great good news he had come to tell her. But first he must answer her numberless questions as to what he had seen and where he had been.

“Been everywhere and seen everything, from Queen Victoria to the Khedive of Egypt. Been on the top of Cheops, and inside of him, too,—and up the Nile to Assouan and Philae and Luxor, and seen old Rameses,—frightful looking old cove, too, with his tuft of hair and his one tooth showing,” he said, rattling on about places and people of whom Miss Hansford knew nothing.

Luxor and Assouan and Cheops were not familiar to her, but when he said, “I tell you what, the very prettiest place in all Europe is Monte Carlo,” she was on the alert in a moment. She looked upon Monte Carlo as a pool of iniquity, and she said to the young man, “Paul, you didn’t gamble there!”

Paul answered laughingly, “They don’t call it gambling; they call it play.”

“Well, play, then. You didn’t play? I know you didn’t, for when I heard you was there I wrestled in prayer three times a day that God would keep you unspotted, and he did, didn’t he?”

She had her hand on his shoulder and was looking into his face with such faith and trust in her kind old eyes that it was hard to tell her the truth. But the boy who had never told a lie when he stole the melon had not told one since, and would not do so now, even if he lost some of the good woman’s opinion.

“I’m afraid you didn’t wrestle enough,” he said, “for I did play.”

“Oh, Paul,” and Miss Hansford drew a long breath, which hurt the young man some, but he went on unfalteringly, “I didn’t mean to, but when I saw how easy it was to put down a piece of money and double it I tried and made quite a lot at first; then I began to lose and quit.”

“Thank God!” came with great fervor from Miss Hansford, while Paul continued, “It beats all what a fascination there is about it, and what luck some people have. There was Clarice, won straight along till she made two or three hundred dollars.”

“Clarice! oh, she was there, was she?” Miss Hansford asked, her tone indicating that she knew now perfectly well why Paul played and in a measure exonerated him.

Had Paul been less in love than he was, or less blinded with his great happiness, he would have interpreted her manner aright. But he was blind, and he was in love, and he replied, “Why, yes; didn’t you know that Mrs. Percy and Clarice were with us in Italy and Switzerland and in Paris, and on the same ship with us? That’s why we came a week earlier. We wanted to be with them.”

“I see, but I didn’t know as Miss Percy was able to go scurripin’ all over the world,” was Miss Hansford’s comment, to which Paul did not reply.

He was thinking how he should tell her what he had come to tell and what seemed very easy when he was by himself. If Miss Hansford had not been sitting up quite so straight and prim and looking at him so sharply through her spectacles, which he knew were her near-seers, and which nothing could escape, he would have been less nervous.

“You see,” he began at last, “we were together in Switzerland last summer,—met quite by accident at Chamonix,—and then at Geneva and Lucerne, and we walked up the Rigi together and got lost in a fog and stumbled around half the night. It was great fun and she was awfully plucky.”

Here Paul stopped to recall the fun it was to be lost in a fog with a pretty girl, who clung so closely to him for protection that he sometimes had to hold her hand in his when she was very nervous and timid, and sometimes had his arm around her waist to keep her from falling when the way was rough and steep. Miss Hansford was still looking at him, and when she thought he had waited long enough she brought him back from his blissful reminiscence by asking, “Who walked up the Rigi with you, and got lost in the fog, and stumbled round half the night, and was awfully plucky? Your mother?”

“Mother!” Paul repeated. “Mother walk up the Rigi! Great Scott! She was at the hotel, wild because we didn’t come. They had sent out two or three guides to look for us, and Mrs. Percy was in high hysterics when we finally reached the hotel. It was Clarice who was with me.”

“Oh!” and Miss Hansford’s mouth was puckered into the perfect shape of the letter O, and kept its position as Paul went on: “Clarice took a severe cold and was ill for a week at the Schweitzerhoff, in Lucerne. We left them there, but they were with us again in Monte Carlo and Florence and Rome—and—”

He hesitated, wishing Miss Hansford would say something to help him along. But she sat as rigid as a stone, while he floundered on until the climax was reached in Paris, where he asked Clarice to be his wife.

“I always thought she was a nice girl when I used to see her here,” he said, “but I didn’t know half how bright and pretty she was till—er—”

“Till you got lost with her in a fog on the Rigi,” Miss Hansford suggested grimly.

It was something to have her speak at all, and Paul answered briskly, “I guess that’s about the truth. I couldn’t forget her after that, you know, and so we are engaged. I wanted to tell you and came this way from New York last night on purpose to see you. I hope you are glad.”

Miss Hansford was not glad. She had never thought of Paul’s marrying for a long time,—certainly not that he would marry Clarice Percy, whom she disliked almost as much as she did her half brother, Jack. As Paul talked he had left the rocking chair and seated himself on the door step, with the netting thrown back, letting in a whole army of flies. But Miss Hansford did not notice them. She was trying to swallow the lumps in her throat and wondering what she could say. She could not tell him that she was sorry, and with a gasp and a mental prayer to be forgiven for the deception, she said, “Of course, I’m glad for anything which makes you happy. I never thought of you and Clarice. I s’posed she was after that snipper-snapper of an Englishman who was once here.”

She could not resist this little sting, which made Paul wince and fan himself with his hat.

“Oh! you mean Fenner, who has a title in his family. There’s nothing in that. Why, he hasn’t a dollar to his name.”

“And you have a good many dollars,” Miss Hansford rejoined; then added, as she saw a flush on Paul’s face and knew her shaft had hit, “You seem too young to get married.”

“Why, Aunt Phebe,” Paul exclaimed, “I am twenty-three, and Clarice is twenty-one. I look like a boy, I know, but this will age me some,” and he stroked the soft brown mustache, of which he was rather proud. “This was Clarice’s idea. I believe she thinks I look younger than she does, but I don’t. We are neither of us children. Some fellows are married when they are twenty. I shall be twenty-four, for we do not intend to be married until the middle of October. I mean to have you come to the wedding with mother. You have never been in Washington and you’ll like it. I shall have you stop at Willard’s. Mrs. Percy does not live far from there. You’ve heard of Willard’s?”

“I’d smile if I hadn’t,” Miss Hansford said, while Paul began to open a paper box which he had brought with him.

“You see,” he continued, as he untied the cords, “I wanted to bring you something from Europe. I found a creamy kind of shawl in Cairo,—the real thing, and no sham,—and after I was engaged I felt so happy that I wanted to give you something more to wear to my wedding, so I thought of a silk dress. Clarice picked it out for me at the Louvre in Paris. Here it is,” and he unrolled a pattern of grey silk, whose texture and quality Miss Hansford appreciated, although not much accustomed to fabrics like this. “Clarice said the color would be becoming to you and was just the thing. She knows what’s what,” he continued, gathering up the silk material in folds, just as the salesman had done at the Louvre.

He did not explain that when he spoke of inviting Miss Hansford to his wedding Clarice had at first objected and only been won over when she saw how much he wished it. It was not necessary to tell this, and he kept quoting Clarice, as if she had been prime mover in the matter. No woman is proof against a silk such as Paul was displaying, and Miss Hansford was not an exception.

“Oh, Paul,” she said, laying her hand upon the heavy folds which would almost stand alone, “what made you do this for an old woman like me, who never had but two silk gowns in her life, and both of ’em didn’t cost half as much as this, I know. It was kind in you and Clarice, too, I’m sure. Tell her I thank her, and I hope you will be happy.”

Her manner certainly had changed, mollified by the dress and the part Clarice had in it, and when Paul, emboldened by the change, ventured to say, “Clarice thinks you should have some little lace thingembob for your head such as mother wears,” she didn’t resent it, but replied, “I can find that in Boston. Neither you nor Clarice shall be ashamed of me if I go.”

“Of course, you’ll go,” Paul said, dropping the silk and throwing around her shoulders the shawl which had been his choice in Cairo. “Look in the glass and see if it isn’t a beauty.”

Miss Hansford admitted that it was a beauty, but on a very homely old stick, and Paul knew by her voice that the chords which had been a little out of tune were in harmony again. Suddenly it occurred to her that as she had not breakfasted, probably Paul had not either, and she urged him to stay, but he declined. He was to leave on the next boat, and there were some things he must attend to at the house. He should come to Oak City again in a few days, he said, and then bade her good-bye, while she folded up the shawl and dress, admiring the latter greatly, wondering if it were quite right for one who professed what she did to wear so expensive a silk, and if she were not backsliding a little. She did a good many things now which she would not have done when she first became a resident of the place. The world and the flesh were crowding her to the wall, and the devil, too, she sometimes feared, but she would keep her silk gown in spite of them all, and as she put it away in her bureau drawer she thought that as none of her immediate friends had anything like it they might disapprove.

“I don’t care much if they do. They haven’t chances to see things as I have,” she said, with a degree of complacency which would have amused one who knew that her superior chances “to see things” were comprised in the week she had spent in Boston years ago, and her frequent visits to the Ralston House, where, on Paul’s account, she was always a welcome guest.

And now the good days were drawing to a close, for Paul was going to be married. This in itself was bad enough, for with a wife he could never be the same to her, but worse than that, he was to marry Clarice Percy. This tarnished the lustre of the grey silk from Paris and marred the day she had thought so bright in the early morning.

“I’ve lost my boy,” she said, sadly, as she watched the boat which was taking Paul away, and on the upper deck of which he stood waving his umbrella towards her.

She didn’t wave back, but raised her hands in a kind of benediction and looked after him with an indefinable yearning until he was hidden from view. Her bones were in full swing this morning, and as she resumed her work she soliloquized, “I don’t know what ails me, but I feel that something bad will come of this marriage. How can it be otherwise? I know it is mean, and may be wicked, but I can’t abide the Percys.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE PERCYS.

They were a very old Virginian family whose line of ancestry stretched backward quite as far as that of Miss Hansford, and touched the days of Cromwell, when white people were sent to Virginia and sold as slaves for a longer or shorter period of years. Among them came Samuel Percy, a Royalist, transported for some offense against the government and condemned to servitude for five years. Just what he did during the five years was not certainly known. Some said he was a blacksmith, some a tailor, and others a common field laborer, or at best an overseer of the negroes. That he was a bondman was sure and he worked out his time and then, unbroken in spirit, resolved to make for himself a name and a fortune and a family. With the latter he succeeded admirably, for the descendants of his five sons were scattered all over the South, each generation forgetting more and more that the root of the family tree in America had been a slave, and growing more and more proud of its English ancestry.

When the civil war broke out old Roger Percy owned a few negroes, a worn-out plantation and a big, rambling house in Virginia, just across the border of Maryland. Proud, morose and contrary, he seldom agreed with the people with whom he came in contact. His opinion was always the better one. With the Confederates he was a Federal,—with the Federals a Confederate, hurling anathemas at the heads of each and ordering them from his premises. As he was near the frontier he was visited at intervals by detachments from both armies, who, as he said, squeezed him dry, and at the close of the war he found himself alone, with his wife dead, his negroes gone, his house a ruin, or nearly so, and his land good for nothing. Too proud and indolent to work, he might have starved but for his only son, James, who, scoffing at a pride which would neither feed nor clothe him, found a position in the Treasury Department in Washington and offered his father a home. Grumblingly the old man accepted it, cursing the government and his small quarters and his dinners and black Sally, who waited upon him, and who, of all his negroes, had come back to him when peace was restored. Sometimes he cursed his son for being willing to take a subordinate position and work like a dog under somebody. This was what galled the worst,—working under somebody, and doing it willingly.

“I believe you have some of your great-great-grandfather’s blood in you,” he would say. “He hadn’t pluck enough to cut his master’s throat and run away. By the lord, I’d have done it.”

“I’m proud of old Sam Percy’s grit,” James would reply, “and if I knew just where he was buried I’d raise him a monument. I’m not ashamed to work, or to have some one over me.”

“I’m ashamed for you, and you a Percy,” his father would growl, forgetting that without the work he so despised he would be homeless and almost a beggar.

The climax came when James brought home a wife,—a clerk like himself in the Treasury Department. This was the straw too many and the bridal was soon followed by a funeral, the old man saying he was glad to go where the Percys could not be disgraced. Had he lived a few months longer he would have seen his son’s wife an heiress in a small way. A maiden aunt, for whom she was named and who all her life had hoarded her money earned in the cotton mills of Lowell, died and left her niece ten thousand dollars. This was a fortune to the young couple, who left their cramped quarters for a larger house, where, with the father-in-law gone and a sturdy baby boy in the cradle, they were perfectly happy for a time. Then, with scarcely an hour’s warning, the wife was taken away, stricken with cholera, and James was alone with Sally and his boy, the notorious John, or Jack, the terror of Oak City and of every neighborhood he frequented.

Jack was bright and handsome, but proud and rebellious, and learned very soon that the woman his father married within two years of his wife’s death was not his own mother. She was pretty and indolent and easy-going, and could no more cope with her step-son’s will than she could stem Niagara. She disliked him and he disliked her for no reason except that she was his stepmother, and when Clarice was born the breach widened between them, although the boy showed affection for his little sister.

When she was five years old and Jack was ten their father died, leaving to his widow the house in which they lived and a few thousand dollars, besides the small fortune she had brought him as the result of her father’s speculations. To Jack was left his mother’s ten thousand dollars intact. Had Jack chosen he could have won his mother then when her heart was sore and aching for some one to comfort her, if it were only a boy. But he didn’t choose; he was wayward and headstrong, and always an anxiety and trouble to her. With many good qualities, Mrs. Percy was a weak woman and talked a great deal of her husband’s family and the old Virginia homestead and the ancestral hall in England. On this point she was a little shaky in her own mind, as the ancestral hall was only a tradition; but it was a fine thing to talk about and no one could dispute it. The Virginia homestead stood not many miles from what is known as Cabin John. It had been partly repaired by her husband, and some of the rooms made habitable for the time his family spent there. Beechwood it was called, and to those who never saw it Mrs. Percy talked of it as her country house, to which she went every summer for quiet and rest from the fatigue of society, and because it was so lovely. In reality she went there to economize, and not because she cared for the great bare rooms, the leaky roof and decaying timbers, which let one end of the broad piazza drop half a foot lower than the other. Economy was a necessity if she made any show in Washington, where she struggled hard to be recognized among the first and the best. A friend of hers, who knew her circumstances, incidentally spoke to her of Oak City as a change from Beechwood. It was, she said, one of the pleasantest and cheapest watering places on the New England coast.

“Are there any nice people there? Anything but a camp-meeting?” Mrs. Percy asked, and was assured that while the camp-meeting was a feature of the place and an attraction, too, there were many nice people there from the adjacent cities.

Satisfied on this point, Mrs. Percy concluded to try it, and took with her Jack and Clarice and black Sally, who clung to this remnant of her former master’s family with a pertinacity peculiar to the negro race. Sally was both waiting maid and nurse, and from this Miss Hansford at once decided that Mrs. Percy was airy, wondering why an able-bodied woman like her should need a waiting maid, or a child as old as Clarice a nurse. Still, as the lady was boarding near her, she made up her mind to call, and, to her horror, found Mrs. Percy playing whist!

“I hadn’t seen a pack of cards before in years, and the sight of them nearly knocked me down,” she said to her friend and confidante, Mrs. Atwater, when recounting her experience. “Cards in broad daylight, for it wasn’t four o’clock. She kept ’em in her hands all the time I was there as if she wished I’d go, and, if you’ll believe it, she asked me if I’d like to play a game! I didn’t stay long after that. Clarice was playing with her. Fine way to bring up a child!”

Miss Hansford’s call was not returned, and through some channel it reached her that Mrs. Percy did not care to make mixed acquaintances which she could not recognize at home. After this there was war in Miss Hansford’s heart against the Percys, and the feeling increased as time went on. Mrs. Percy’s affairs were more freely discussed than would have pleased her had she known it. Black Sally, who was loquacious, familiar and communicative, went frequently to Miss Hansford’s cottage for water, which was said to be the best on the Heights. Naturally, Miss Hansford talked with her, and, although she would have repudiated with scorn a charge that she was prying into her neighbor’s business, she managed to learn a good deal about Mrs. Percy, and to know how she lived at home, where Sally was cook, laundress, and maid of all work, as they kept no other servant.

“My land!” ejaculated Miss Hansford, “I s’posed you kept a retinue.”

“No, Missus, we never had nobody by that name,” Sally said, seating herself upon the doorstep, while Miss Hansford stood on the other side of the netting, wiping her dishes. “We ain’t rich folks, and Miss Percy has to save every way she can so’s to come here.”

“Why, how you talk,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, putting down the plate she had polished a full two minutes in absorbed interest. “I s’posed she was in society.”

“To be sho’ she is,” Sally rejoined. “Eberybody is in some kind of society in Wassinton if they wants to be. A heap of receptions is free. Dar’s de Presidents, and de Cabinet’s wives, and right smart more o’ de big bugs, whar any body can go, and dar’s ways of getting noticed in de papers and havin’ you close described ef you wants to. Wassinton is a great place!”

“I should say so,” Miss Hansford rejoined, more convinced than ever that Mrs. Percy was airy.

The next time Sally came for water she said that Mas’r James had been clerk in the Treasury when he married Jack’s mother, who was also a clerk in the same department.

“Well, if I ain’t beat. I s’posed Mr. Percy was the Great Mogul of the city from the airs his widder puts on,” Miss Hansford thought. “I dare say she was a clerk, too.”

Finally she put the question to Sally.

“I’se do’ know, but s’pecs not. She was bawn in Wassinton. T’other one was from de Noff,—a mighty nice woman, too, but she had a hard time wid ole Mar’s Roger, cussin’ at de house, and de dinners, and me, and de President, and all hands, and twittin’ Mar’s James for being like de fust Percy, who was a slave like de balance of us.”

“What are you talking about?” Miss Hansford almost screamed. “Was he a black man?”

“No, bless you; white as you is,” Sally answered, and Miss Hansford continued, “But there never was any white slaves.”

“Yes, thar was, way back, most to de flood, I reckon. I heard Mas’r James splainin’ to Miss’s onct after de ole Mas’r had been cussin’ bout him. It’s true’s you bawn, but mebby I didn’t orter speak of it,” and, picking up her pail of water, Sally hurried away, thinking that she had told too much and beginning to wish she had said nothing.

After that she was very reticent with regard to the family. But Miss Hansford had heard enough. Ordinarily, she would not have cared for the clerkship. She respected a man and woman who earned their own living if circumstances required it, but there had come to her rumors of Mrs. Percy’s remarks about the F. F. V.’s, and English ancestors, and now all this had resolved itself into Treasury clerks and white slaves. She did not believe the latter, but she never rested until she learned that white people had been sold into slavery in Virginia under Cromwell and the Stuarts, and then she did not doubt that the original stock of the Percys had been among these bondmen. She was honorable enough to keep her knowledge to herself, and only shut her lips a little closer when she came in contact with the lady who had not returned her call because she did not care for mixed acquaintances whom she could not recognize in Washington.

This was Mrs. Percy’s first season in Oak City, and before the Ralstons came there. The following winter the two families met in Florida and in Washington and became quite friendly, for Mrs. Percy was very pleasant to those whom she considered her equals. She was ambitious and managing, and knew how to get desirable acquaintances and invitations. She did not intend to go to Oak City very early that summer, and as Jack wanted to go, and she wanted to be rid of him, she contrived to have him invited to spend a short time with the Ralstons when they were fairly settled. And this was how he chanced to be at the Ralston House with Paul when the watermelon was stolen. That summer Mrs. Percy rented a cottage on the Oceanside and Miss Hansford saw little or nothing of her. Jack, however, was a constant source of annoyance and seldom let an opportunity pass to worry her. She had not forgotten his jeer at her singing, and advice to join the Salvation Army the previous summer, nor the valentine sent to her in February, but the crowning insult was given the only time she ever went bathing at the fashionable hour.

“She didn’t believe in spoiling her clothes with salt water, nor in showing her arms and legs to Tom, Dick and Harry,” she said, and, habited in white knit stockings, a faded calico skirt, woolen sacque, and a dilapidated hat, left with her by a former lodger, she presented a startling appearance as she went into the water, treading very gingerly over the stones and trying in vain to keep her dress from floating around her like a balloon.

Paul, who had urged her coming, could not repress a smile, but when a big wave came rolling in and nearly knocked her down, he went to her at once and said, “Let me help you. The sea is rough this morning. Come out where it is deeper and away from the stones. I won’t let you fall.”

He led her out to where the water came nearly to her waist, and then, holding both her hands in his, danced her up and down, she protesting that he was beating the breath out of her body, while the dog, Sherry, who always took his bath with his master, swam around them in circles, barking furiously and making occasional dashes at Miss Hansford’s dress, which still floated in spite of Paul’s efforts to keep it down. Everybody stood still to watch the proceeding and everybody laughed. Jack Percy, who was near her on a raft, ready to dive, called out, “Go it, old gal. You waltz first rate. Where did you get your hat and what’ll you take for it?”

Then, with a whoop, he made the plunge and sent great splashes of water into the face of the indignant woman, who hurried to the shore and, divesting herself of her wet clothes, went home so enraged with Jack that she never forgave him until years after, when she wiped the death sweat from his face and felt that she would almost give her own life to save his.

CHAPTER V.
CLARICE.

The next summer Mrs. Percy bought a pretty little cottage on Oceanside, which she occupied season after season, while Jack grew to manhood and Clarice to a brilliant, beautiful girl. Mrs. Percy was a delicate woman, and, aside from the cheapness of the place compared with more fashionable resorts, the quiet and rest suited her, and she found her pleasant, airy cottage a delightful change from her rather stuffy house in Washington, with negro huts crowded close to it in the rear. Clarice, on the contrary, detested it and the people, and took no pains to conceal her dislike. She was a haughty girl, with all the pride of the Percys, from the bondman down to old Roger, her grandfather, who, up to the last, wore his dress suit to dinner when there was nothing better than bacon and eggs. She gloried in such pride as that, she said, and respected him far more than if he had sat down to his bacon and eggs in his shirt sleeves. She knew her father had been a Treasury clerk, but he was a Percy and a gentleman, and she had no fault to find with him except that he did not leave more money. She wanted to be rich and live in the style of rich people. She would like to have had a large establishment, with housekeeper and butler and maids and horses and carriages, and she meant to have all this some time, no matter at what sacrifice. Given her choice between a man she loved who was poor, and a man she didn’t love who was rich and not obnoxious to her, she would unhesitatingly have taken the latter and overlooked any little escapades of which he might be guilty, provided he gave her all the money she wanted. In marrying Paul Ralston she was getting everything she desired,—family, position, love and money. She had had Paul in her mind for some time as a most desirable parti, provided one more desirable was not forthcoming. In Washington, where her beauty attracted a great deal of attention, she was much sought after by men who, while pleasing her in many respects, lacked the one thing needful.

In Oak City, to which she always went unwillingly, she frequently met men of her style,—class she called it,—and in this class Paul stood pre-eminent. With Ralph Fenner, whom Miss Hansford had designated as a snipper-snapper, she had flirted outrageously, but with no serious intent. He was too poor, and, although there was a title in his family, there were three lives between it and himself. To marry him would not pay, and over and above any other reasons which might influence her, she had a genuine liking for Paul, and when he asked her to be his wife she unhesitatingly answered yes.

After the betrothal there was no happier man in Paris than Paul Ralston. He went everywhere Clarice wished to go, from the Grand Opera House to the Champs d’Elysees, where Jenny Mills delighted a not very select audience with her dancing. He accompanied her and her mother on their shopping expeditions for the bridal trousseau, most of which was to be made in Paris. It was on one of these occasions that he thought of Miss Hansford and suggested getting her a dress to wear to his wedding.

“Do you propose to invite her?” Clarice asked, in some surprise, and he replied, “Certainly. She is one of my best friends. I wouldn’t slight her for the world.”

“An announcing card will answer every purpose,” was Clarice’s next remark.

Paul did not think it would. He wanted Miss Hansford to see him married. It would please her, and she had always been so kind to him. Clarice made a little grimace and said, “Let’s get her a dress, then, by all means. I want her to look decent if she comes,” and she selected the grey silk at his request, and made some additions to it in the way of laces and gloves, which last he forgot to take with him when he carried the dress to Miss Hansford.

Clarice could scarcely have given any good reason for her antipathy to Miss Hansford except on general principles. She did not like Oak City and would never have come there from choice. It was not gay enough, nor fashionable enough to suit her. She called Miss Hansford a dowdy and a crank and included her in the category of second-class people who were no society for her. All this was repeated to Miss Hansford by her colored factotum, Martha Ann, who had taken Sally’s place at the Percys, and, after a few weeks, had left because she was not allowed to entertain her young men on the steps of the dining room, and had been told she talked and laughed too loud for a servant. Her next place was with Miss Hansford, to whom she retailed all she had heard and seen at Mrs. Percy’s, with many additions. Miss Hansford knew it was not good form to listen to the gossip, but when she became mixed with it curiosity overcame her sense of propriety, and she not only listened but questioned, while her wrath waxed hotter and hotter with what she heard.

“Said you’s a second-class and a crank, and she didn’t see why Miss Ralston could make so much of you,” was Martha Ann’s last item, and then Miss Hansford, who had never forgotten Mrs. Percy’s slight in not returning her call, lost her temper entirely.

She had heard herself called a crank before, and, looking in the dictionary, had found so many definitions to the word that she felt a little uncertain as to which applied to herself.

“I s’pose I am queer and different from folks like the Percys, and I thank the Lord I am,” she thought, but to the “second-class” she objected.

She, whose lineage went back to Oliver Cromwell and Miles Standish and a Scotch lord, she to be called second-class by Clarice Percy was too much. Who were the Percys? she’d like to know. “Nobodies! Sprung from a white slave! Talk to me of F. F. V.’s, as if I didn’t know all about ’em. Second-class, indeed! It makes me so mad!” and Miss Hansford banged the door so hard that Martha Ann, who had evoked the storm and was washing dishes in the sink, dropped a china saucer in her fright and broke it.

After this, Miss Hansford’s antipathy to the Percys increased, and not even the grey silk Clarice had selected mollified her completely. Still, it did a good deal towards it, and she gradually became more reconciled to the thought of the engagement.

“I s’pose Paul must marry sometime,” she said, “and if it was anybody but Clarice, I’d try to be glad, but try as I will I can’t abide the Percys.”

CHAPTER VI.
ELITHE’S PHOTOGRAPH.

The May days were growing longer and warmer. Many of the cottages were open and there was a feeling of summer everywhere, when suddenly the weather changed. The sea looked green and angry, the wind blew cold across it from the east, bringing a drenching rain which, beginning in the early morning, lasted through the day with a persistency which precluded anything like intercourse with the outside world unless it were necessary. Miss Hansford had been alone all day, with no one to speak to but her cat, Jim. To him and to herself she had talked a good deal of the past, the present and the future. The present was dreary enough, with the thick fog on the water and the steady fall of rain, which increased rather than diminished as the night came on. It was some little diversion to carry pans and pails to places where the roof leaked, and to crowd bits of sacking against the doors, under which pools of water were finding their way. When this was done and darkness had settled down and her lamp was lighted, she began to wonder what she should do next to pass the time.

“I ain’t hungry, but it’ll take my mind if I get myself and Jim some supper. I b’lieve I’ll make griddle cakes. Paul used to be so fond of ’em when he was a boy. I wish he was here to-night,” she said, as she replenished her fire in her small kitchen and busied herself with her preparations for her evening meal. “I shall sit here by the stove where I can lift the cakes from the griddle to my plate and save steps,” she thought, and, bringing a small round table or stand from the dining room, she covered it with a towel, placed upon it a plate, a cup and a saucer and a dish of milk for Jim, who was badly spoiled, and was to take his supper with her.

The cakes were ready to bake and still she sat in her rocking chair, with her feet on the stove hearth and her head thrown back, listening to the rain beating dismally against the windows and wondering why she was so much more lonesome than common.

“I don’t know what’s come over me,” she said. “I actually feel as homesick as I did the first night I staid away from mother when I was a little girl. Maybe it’s Roger’s letter taking me back to when his father and I were young and lived on the farm at home. That’s fifty years ago, and John is dead. Everybody is dead but Roger and me, and he might almost as well be dead as to be buried alive in that heathenish country among miners and the dear knows what. Poor as Job’s turkey, five children, six hundred a year, with now and then a missionary box full of half-worn truck, catechisms, and old Churchmans I’ll warrant, though Roger didn’t say so. Queer that he would be a minister after all I said to him about going into business, offering to set him up and all that. But no; he must be a ’Piscopal minister and go out as a missionary to the West and marry Lucy Potter. I told him she was shiftless, and she was. I told him she’d be weakly, and she is. He said he didn’t care how shiftless or weakly she was, he should marry her. I wonder what he thinks now; five children, six hundred a year, and she not very strong, that’s the way he put it. I was glad to hear from him again, and to get Elithe’s picture.”

Taking from her pocket a letter received the previous day from her nephew, who was bravely doing his Master’s work among the mountains and mines of Montana, she read for a second time:

“Samona, May ——, 18——.

“My Dear Aunt—

“It is a long time since I have heard from you, and for the last few days I have been thinking a great deal about you and the old times when I was a boy and you were so kind to me. It is more than twenty years since you saw me and I wonder if you would know me now. Lucy says I am growing old, but I feel as young as ever, except, perhaps, when I have had a long ride of twenty or thirty miles on horseback and am very tired. I like my work and I think I have done some good among the people here. They are not all miners, and we have in our little town several good families from the East and from England. We are all poor, and that is a bond between us. I have six hundred dollars a year, which is a pretty good salary for this vicinity. Then we frequently get a missionary box and that helps wonderfully. You should be here when we open one and hear the expressions of delight as article after article is taken out,—not all new, of course, nor the best fit, but the neighbors come in and help cut and make them over, and we feel quite in touch with the world in our finery. I have five children, four of them sturdy boys, healthy as little bears and, I am sometimes fearful, almost as savage, brought up, as they are, just on the verge of civilization. Our eldest child and only daughter, Elithe, is nineteen, and as lovely a flower as ever blossomed in the wilds of the West. Lucy is not strong, and Elithe is our right hand and left hand, and both hands in one. I send you her photograph, taken by an inferior artist compared with those you have East, but still a very good likeness. There is something in her face which reminds me of you as you looked many years ago when I was a little boy and you came to my father’s one day, wearing a white dress, and your long curls tied with a red ribbon. That’s the way I often think of you now, although I know you must have changed. I should like to see you again and the old places of my childhood, but I fear I never shall. With my family and salary there is little surplus for travelling, and then I am trying hard to save something for my boys’ education when they are older. Elithe has studied with me since leaving the only school we have here, and I think her a fair scholar. She would like so much to go East. Please God, she may sometime. I have just been sent for to go to the mines twelve miles away to see a young man who they think is very ill. Elithe is going with me, as she often does on my visits to the sick, and I verily believe the sound of her voice and the sight of her bright face does more for them than many doctors can do. The horses we are to ride are at the door, and I must say good-bye, with love from us all.

“Your affectionate nephew,

“ROGER HANSFORD.”

“P. S.—I need not tell you how glad I shall be to hear from you. Letters are like angels’ visits.”

This was Roger’s letter, and as Miss Hansford read it for the second time, the tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped into her lap. The storm raging without was forgotten; the kitchen in which she sat in her loneliness vanished, and she was living forty-five years in the past, when she wore the white gown and her hair was bound with a crimson ribbon. She remembered the day so well and the little boy who had called her his pretty Auntie and played with her long curls, making lines of them while she was the horse to be driven.

“Who would believe I ever wore a white gown and red ribbon?” she said, looking down at her plain calico dress and gingham apron, and thinking of her grey hair, combed back from her face as smoothly as she could comb it, for, in spite of her efforts, it had a trick of twining around her forehead and only needed a little coaxing to curl again as it once had done.

She thought curls a device of Satan, and when she put him behind her she cut them off and burned them. It seemed to her now that she could smell the scorched hair blackening on the hearth, while she looked on with a feeling that, in some small degree, she was a martyr and doing God service.

“Maybe I was morbid and went too far, but I want to do right in that and in everything else,” she said, and then her mind recurred again to Roger and his letter and what he had said of Elithe, who reminded him of her.

Reading between the lines, she fancied that she detected a wish that she would invite Elithe to visit her. “But, my land!” she said, “what would I do with a girl singing and whistling and, maybe, dancing around the house, tramping the streets, racing outdoors and in at all hours, never putting the stone in its place and letting in the flies. No, I couldn’t stand it in Lucy Potter’s girl, any way. I dare say she is nice, and she’s handsome, too, if she is like her picture, but as to looking like me,—oh, my!—” and she laughed at the absurdity, but was conscious of a little stir of pleasure at the thought that she was ever at all like Elithe, or any young girl with pretense to beauty.

By this time Jim had become impatient for his supper, and from giving her sundry soft pats with his paws, had jumped into her chair and from thence on to her shoulder, where he sat coaxing and purring, in imminent danger of falling into her lap. She took him down at last, gave him his milk, and was putting a cake for herself upon the griddle, when on the steps outside there was a stamping of feet, followed by a knock upon the door, and Paul Ralston came in with pools of water dripping from his umbrella.

“Isn’t this a corker for a storm?” he said. “I went to the front door first and banged away. I knew you must be home, and so came round here.”

He was shutting his umbrella as he talked and removing his wet coat, while Miss Hansford looked wonderingly at him.

“Where upon earth did you come from?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I get to the fire and that cake, which smells awfully good. Don’t you remember how I used to like them when I was a boy and happened in at supper time? Flap-jacks you called them, or something like that.”

She did remember and she hastened to fill the griddle and brought an extra plate and cup.

“Now for it,” he said, as she heaped his plate with the nicely browned cakes and covered them with maple syrup. “I’ve been to Washington,—sent for by telegram. The bottom has fallen out.”

“No, really! You haven’t broke with Clarice?” Miss Hansford asked eagerly, her countenance brightening and then falling at Paul’s answer.

“Not a bit of it. Why should I? It’s that rascally Jack. He’s gone to the bad entirely.”

“I knew he would. I always felt it in my bones. What’s he been up to now?” Miss Hansford asked, and Paul replied: “Drinks like a fish. He’s managed to get rid of most of his own money and has used some of Clarice’s that she gave him to invest and supposed he had, for he paid her the interest regularly until lately. He went West while Mrs. Percy and Clarice were in Europe, and they have heard nothing from him since February. Clarice’s interest was due the first of April, and as it didn’t come and she didn’t know where he was, she wrote to the firm in Denver, and they replied that it had been invested in his name and he had collected it and skipped. Naturally this cramps her, as they spent a lot in Europe and Clarice was depending upon a part of the Denver money to defray the expenses of her wedding in Washington. Meant to make a splurge, you know, but can’t now, and has decided to be married in Oak City the last of August. That suits me. I’d rather be married here, but I offered to pay for the wedding in Washington if Clarice would let me. She wouldn’t do it. Said she’d some pride left. She’s all broke up about Jack, for scamp as he is, she has some affection for him. She telegraphed to me to come and talk it over, and has finally settled upon almost as big a spread here as she meant to have had in Washington. We shall send out a great many invitations, and probably rent rooms in some of the cottages as well as at the hotels. I thought of you, and instead of going straight through to Boston from New York came here to ask you not to engage your rooms after the last of July. We shall have a lot of people at our house, and some of them must sleep elsewhere. I thought the boat would never reach the wharf, the waves were so high, and when it did it stormed so that I came here before going to the house, and am glad I did. These cakes are first rate.”

As he talked he was eating, and Miss Hansford was baking, wondering how many his stomach would hold, and if the batter would hold out. He was satisfied at last, and, taking Jim in his lap and stroking his soft fur with one hand, with the other he drew from his pocket a package, which he handed to Miss Hansford, saying: “I have brought you a present, Clarice’s photograph and mine, taken in Washington. Hers was so good I wanted you to have it. Isn’t she a stunner?”

He had opened the Turkish morocco case and was looking admiringly at the beautiful face of the girl who was to be his wife. Miss Hansford admitted that she was a stunner and asked how she was, and thanked Paul for the picture. Then she said: “I seem to have a run on pictures. This is the second I have had in two days.”

Going into the next room, she returned with something carefully wrapped in tissue paper.

“Maybe you didn’t know I had a nephew Roger, a ’Piscopal minister in Montana?” she said.

“Never knew you had a relation in the world,” Paul replied, and Miss Hansford continued: “Well, I have—plenty of ’em somewhere; none very near, though. Roger’s the nearest. His father was my brother John, and I quarrelled with him,—Roger I mean,—because, in spite of all I could say, he would marry Lucy Potter, a pretty little helpless thing, with no sort of get up in her. Her folks lived in Ridgefield same as we did. Respectable enough, but shiftless,—let things go to rack and ruin. The front gate hung on one hinge, the fence lopped over, the blinds swung loose, and for months there was a broken window light in the garret,—sometimes with paper pasted over it and sometimes an old shawl sticking out of it. That’s who the Potters were. Went everywhere and everybody liked ’em, but, my land, how Roger, who wouldn’t drink from a glass some one else had drank from, could marry one of ’em I don’t know. She was just a China doll, and her beauty took him. I guess he’s paid for it. I’ve no doubt her house looks like bedlam, and he so neat and particular! There was some French blood in old Miss Potter ’way back, and her sister, Lucy’s aunt, was on the stage,—an actress!”

Miss Hansford whispered the last word as if afraid the furniture in the room would hear and rise in judgment against her. Paul did not seem at all disturbed, and she continued: “Roger and Lucy went to hear her when she was in Boston, and tried to have me go. Think of it! I in such a place! I went with your folks, I know, to see ‘Uncle Tom,’ but that was different. This play the Potter woman was in was about Lady somebody, who put her husband up to kill somebody.”

“Lady Macbeth?” Paul suggested, and Miss Hansford replied: “Yes, that’s the one. A blood and thunder play. Why, I’d as soon go to Purgatory as to see it. I’ve never told a living soul before that we had an actress in the family. I’m so ashamed I hope you’ll keep it to yourself. I shouldn’t like to have Elder Atwater’s wife know it. She has never quite got over my going to see ‘Uncle Tom.’”

Paul did not share Miss Hansford’s prejudice against theatres and actresses, but he promised that neither Elder Atwater’s wife nor any other elder’s wife should ever hear from him of the disgrace attaching to Miss Hansford because her nephew’s wife’s aunt, dead years ago, had been an actress. Miss Hansford had handed him the picture, saying as she did so: “It’s Roger’s girl. He sent it in a letter. He thinks she looks like me.”

“By George, she’s a beauty, if she does; but what’s her name?” Paul said, bending close to the lamp and looking at the word “Elithe” written with very pale ink.

“I don’t wonder you ask,” Miss Hansford replied. “Such an outlandish name. I told you her great-grandmother was French, and they called the girl for her and that aunt on the stage. That’s the worst of it. Named for an actress! It’s pronounced A-l-double e-t-h.”

“Yes, I know—Aleeth. It’s a pretty name, and she is pretty, too,” Paul said, admiring the picture, whose large brown eyes looked at him as steadily and intelligently as if they were living eyes and could read his thoughts.

Some of the great-grandmother’s French blood had been transmitted to her descendant, who showed it in her features and in the pose of her head, covered with short curls, which made her look younger than she was. The nose was slightly retroussé and the mouth rather wide, but taken as a whole the face was charming. The dress was countrified and old-fashioned, and you knew at a glance that the artist was countrified, too, and not at all like the one to whom Clarice had sat. Every curve and line of her graceful figure showed to advantage, while Elithe’s position was cramped and awkward. Her hands were placed just where they looked large and stiff. Her boots, which showed under her short dress, were square-toed instead of pointed like those of Clarice, who was standing with her hands behind her in an attitude “for all the world like a play-actor,” Miss Hansford thought, mentally giving the preference to Elithe. Unconsciously Paul did the same. He did not think of Elithe’s boots or dress or hands. He saw only the lovely face, which held and mastered him with a power he could not define.

“Elithe,” he said, as if speaking to her in the flesh. “I know you are a nice girl with no nonsense in you.” Then to Miss Hansford: “Why don’t you have her come here to visit you?”

“It’s too expensive, for I should have to pay carfare both ways,” Miss Hansford replied; “and then she can’t be spared. There’s four more children, all boys,—little savages, I dare say. Lucy is weakly and the brunt of everything falls on Elithe, who works like a dog.”

“More reason why she should have an outing. Poor little Elithe! Let’s see how she’d look beside Clarice,” Paul said, and slipping his own picture from the case, he put Elithe’s in its place side by side with the proud beauty who seemed to look with disdain upon her humble neighbor.

Elithe, however, did not lose by the comparison. She only represented a different type of girlhood, and most people would have looked at her first and longest.

“They are both beauties and no mistake,” Paul said, following Miss Hansford into the sitting room, where she heard a blind banging. “Keep them here, where you can see them every day,” he continued, placing them on the mantel with Miss Hansford’s Bible and hymn book and spectacle case, a card of sea mosses, a conch shell and a plaster bust of John Wesley.

Returning to the kitchen, he sat down again by the stove and plied Miss Hansford with questions concerning Elithe, who interested him greatly. Miss Hansford could only tell him what Roger had written of her, but she had a good deal to say of Roger and Lucy Potter and the Potters generally, whose blood was not as good as that of the Hansfords. At this Paul laughed. He had suspected that one of Miss Hansford’s objections to Clarice was the thinness of the Percy blood compared with the Ralston’s. For himself he didn’t care a picayune for the color of any one’s blood, and it amused him greatly to hear this peculiar old lady vaunting the superiority of her family and his over the Percys and Potters. For a time he listened patiently, and then, as it was growing late, he returned to the real object of his visit, the refusal of her rooms for August and possibly a part of July,—he would let her know in time. The rooms were promised and then he arose to go, after one more look at the photographs.

“I don’t believe Elithe has much Potter blood in her,” he said, “and I’d send for her if I were you. I’d like to see her myself.”

The next morning Miss Hansford took down the morocco case and looked long and critically at Elithe. Paul’s admiration of her was having its influence. The French name, the actress aunt and the Potter blood did not seem quite so obnoxious to her, and she began to feel a longing to see the girl whose eyes held her as they had held Paul Ralston.

“I s’pose an outing would do her good, and I can afford it, too,” she said. “What am I saving my money for? To give to the Methodists, I suppose, and they don’t need it half as much as Roger.”

The idea of sending for Elithe was beginning to take definite shape, and the more she thought about it the more surprised she grew to find how lonesome she was and how much she wanted the girl whose eyes followed her so persistently and seemed to say, “Send for me; send for me.” From an economical standpoint it might be well to do so, for if Miss Hansford’s rooms were full of lodgers she would need help, and colored servants were out of the question. Martha Ann, the best she had ever employed, had decamped with three napkins, two silver spoons and a fruit knife. Her would-be successor had come to the front door in a silk dress and big hat, and, introducing herself as Mrs. Helena Jackson, had asked if Miss Hansford wished to hire either a wash-lady or a lady to do general housework. She was told that Miss Hansford wanted neither a wash-lady nor a nigger, and the door slammed in her face.

“No more darkies for me,” she said, and as she must have some one she began to wonder if Elithe would not do. “I don’t s’pose she’d be much more than a teacup wiper, though if what Roger says is true, she is capable of doing more than that; and then I feel it in my bones that I ought to send for her.”

For a week or more Miss Hansford kept up this style of conversation with herself, while her bones clamored more and more for Elithe. At last she made up her mind and wrote to Roger inviting Elithe to spend the summer with her, and as much longer time as she chose, if she proved the right kind of a girl, and didn’t make more trouble than her company was worth.

“One thing I may as well mention now,” she wrote, “I can’t have her gadding nights to concerts and rides on the water and clambakes and the Casino and the like. She must be in by nine, or half-past at the latest, as I keep early hours. I can’t have her slat her things round everywhere. I can’t have her sing and whistle in the house. I ain’t used to it. I like to be still and meditate. I don’t want you to think she isn’t to have any privileges, for she is. I shall use her well, and I inclose money for her fare and a little more, as she may want to buy a dress or two. Let me know when to expect her.—Phebe Hansford.”

“P. S.—Give my regards to Lucy and a dollar to each of the boys. I’ve allowed for that.”

“There, I’ve done my duty,” Miss Hansford thought, as she posted the letter, and then rather anxiously awaited the result.

CHAPTER VII.
IN SAMONA.

If Miss Hansford could have seen the Rectory in Samona she would hardly have likened it to bedlam. It was a small wooden structure without much architectural symmetry, but with its coat of white paint, its green blinds and its well-kept plot of ground around it, it looked very homelike and cozy, and was regarded as one of the finest houses in the little mountain town. The gate was not off the hinges, nor was there any unsightly object obtruding from a broken window, as had been the case in the Potter House in Ridgefield. Indoors there was perfect neatness and order, notwithstanding that four active boys were constantly running in and out, making a great deal of work, and care, too, for the delicate mother and Elithe, on the latter of whom the most of the burden fell. As Roger had written to his aunt, Elithe was the right hand and left hand and both hands of the family,—the one to whom he went for counsel and comfort, just as the boys went to her for help in every emergency, from the mending of a kite or ball to the mastering of a lesson hard to be learned. Between Elithe and her mother the natural relations seemed to be reversed. Elithe was the mother and Lucy the child. A very dainty, pretty child, whom her husband loved as devotedly as he had done when, in the face of bitter opposition, he had made her his wife. He had been told that she was not a helpmeet for a poor clergyman,—that she would be sickly and inefficient, and as the years went by and she proved the truth of all this he gave no sign that he knew it, and bore his lot uncomplainingly. Indeed, he was very happy in his Western home. The miners, to whom he preached every four weeks in Deep Gulch, and with whom he often came in contact, worshiped him. He was hail fellow well met with them at times, talking and laughing familiarly with them, eating their coarse fare and joining in whatever interested them most. Again, he was their pastor and spiritual teacher, dignified as became his office, sympathizing with them in their joys and sorrows, reproving them when they deserved it, and striving to lead them up to a higher life and nobler manhood than is common in mining districts.

If he were popular, Elithe was more so. In fine weather she often rode with her father to Deep Gulch when he officiated there. Horses in that vicinity were not very plenty, and as Mr. Hansford had but one, Elithe at first rode behind him in their excursions to the mines.

“It is a shame for our parson’s daughter to come to visit us this way. Can’t we club together and get her a pony?” Bill Stokes, one of the leading miners, said to his comrades, with the result that when, a few weeks after, Elithe rode into the camp behind her father, she found a beautiful chestnut pony, saddled and bridled, and tied to a young sapling, awaiting her.

This Bill Stokes was to present with a speech, which had cost him a great deal of thought and labor and been rehearsed many times to his comrades, each one of whom had some suggestion or criticism both as to his words, his manner of delivering them and the way he stood and held his head and used his hands. After many trials and changes, the speech, which commenced with, “To her gracious highness, our Queen of the Gulch, we, her worshipful admirers, filled with a deep sense of her kindness to us, and the frailties and shortness of life, do hereby give and bequeath,” and so on, was pronounced as perfect in composition as it well could be. A few objected to the “shortness and frailties of life” as sounding like a funeral, while others thought the “give and bequeath” too much like a will. On the whole, however, it had quite a learned sound, and could not be improved, and in their Sunday clothes, with shaven faces and clean hands and sober heads, for it was a point of honor with them not to touch a drop when the parson and Miss Elithe were in the camp, they waited for Mr. Hansford and his daughter.

“Oh, what a beauty!” Elithe cried, springing from her father’s horse and going up to the pony, who, accustomed to be petted, rubbed his head against her sleeve, and gave a little whinny of welcome. “Where did he come from, and whose is he?” she said to Bill Stokes, whose face was on a broad grin.

“Like him?” he asked, and Elithe replied. “Like him! I reckon I do. But whose is he? Is there a lady here?”

She looked around for the owner of the pony, while Bill, forgetting his speech, which he held in his hand, said to her: “He’s yours; we all chipped in and bought him of a trader from Butte, and we give him to you with—with—yours respectfully,” he added, with a gasp, remembering that this was what he was to say last. He had forgotten his speech entirely, and stood mortified and aghast at the jeers and groans of his companions. “The speech, Stokes! the speech! Don’t cheat us out of that,” they yelled, while Elithe drew near to her father in alarm, and the pony, frightened at the din, began to snort and pull at his bridle.

The speech was quite too fine a piece of composition to be lost. Too many had had a hand in it and were waiting to hear how their ideas sounded to be satisfied without it, and after the confusion had subsided and Mr. Hansford began to comprehend the meaning of the hubbub, he suggested that Bill should be given a chance to deliver it as if nothing had occurred, and, mounted on a barrel, Bill delivered it with a great many flourishes of hands and arms and in a voice which one of the miners said reminded him of a leader in the Salvation Army when he wanted to be heard half a mile away. The pony, Bill said, was called Sunshine, because the beautiful lady who was to be his mistress was the sunshine of the camp, the Aurora of the day, who brought the brightness of the morning with her when she came, and left darkness and rain when she went away.

This allusion to Aurora and darkness and rain was thought the most fetching part of the speech, and was the combined effort of the three brainiest men in the camp, one of whom had seen a picture of Aurora in the East. It was received with thunders of applause, during which Elithe began to cry, while the pony broke from the sapling and went curveting around in circles. The men had expected Elithe to cry, and when through her tears she thanked them in the sweet, gracious way natural to her, they were fully satisfied, and felt that their Sunshine was a success. He was soon caught, and, Elithe on his back, galloped several times before her delighted audience, who complimented her by saying she rode as well as a circus rider.

Nearly every four weeks after that while the fine weather lasted Elithe went with her father to Deep Gulch, where she led the singing for the service and played the melodeon which had been bought in Helena and sent to the Gulch for her use. One Sunday morning, about the middle of April, Roger was too ill to rise. He was subject to headache, and a severer one than usual made it almost impossible for him to open his eyes, much less to sit up.

“I am so sorry,” he said, “for the men at the mines will be disappointed. They were anticipating to-day, because I was to take them that music for the Magnificat. I hope they won’t get into mischief. It is three weeks since I was there.”

Elithe, who was bathing his forehead, was silent a moment, and then said: “I’ll take the music and play it for them. Rob can go with me on your horse. I shall be a poor substitute for you, but better than nothing. Shall I go?”

Mr. Hansford hesitated a moment, and then, knowing that she would be just as safe with those rough men as if each were her brother, consented.

“Aren’t you at all afraid?” her mother asked, and Elithe answered, laughingly: “Afraid? No. Why should I be? If I were in a great danger I would go to the miners sooner than to any one else, and then Mrs. Stokes and her mother are there now.”

She was soon ready, looking, as her brother Rob said, “very swell” in her gown of blue flannel and a fanciful little riding cap, trimmed with gilt cord and tassel. It had come in a missionary box the fall previous, and was so becoming to her well-shaped head and short curls that she always wore it to the mines, where the men said she looked like a daisy. It was a glorious day, for the spring was early that year, and both Elithe and Rob felt the exhilaration of the pure mountain air and the fine scenery as they made their way over wild wastes of plains and then struck into the gorge which led to the Deep Gulch, the terminus of their journey.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE STRANGER AT DEEP GULCH.

They found the miners in their Sunday clothes, some sitting on the ground, some on big boulders and piles of debris, some standing, and all smoking and waiting anxiously the arrival of Mr. Hansford. When they saw only Rob, with Elithe, their countenances fell.

“Where’s the parson? Isn’t he coming?” they asked, gathering around Elithe, who told them of her father’s illness, and said she had brought the new music and would play and sing it for them.

This was some consolation, but, evidently, there was something else on their minds, and at last Bill Stokes said, “If we hadn’t expected your father we should have sent for him. There’s a sick fellow here, crazy as a loon by spells, and we don’t know what to do. I s’pose he orto have a doctor.”

“Where is he, and who is he?” Elithe asked, and Stokes replied, “We’ve got him into my cabin, where Lizy Ann can look after him. He did lay on a buffalo skin a spell in one of the boys’ huts, cussin’ and howlin’ with tremens,—snakes, and all that.”

“Oh-h!” Elithe said, with a shudder. “It’s dreadful. Where did he come from? What is his name?”

“John Pennington, he says, though the Lord knows if that’s so. We have so many names here that don’t belong to us, but I reckon this is genuine,” Stokes replied. “His close is marked ‘J. P.’ Lizy Ann has washed his shirts and things,—all store shirts, fine as a fiddle, with gold studs in his cuffs and a diamond collar button, and a big diamond on his little finger. I’ve got the studs and collar button safe. The ring I left on him, for he wouldn’t let me take it off. He came into camp a week ago,—from New York, I reckon, and he wanted to go snucks in a mine to pay a debt of honor. That’s what he told me. Some of us let him go to digging on pay, but, my Lord, he was that shaky in his legs he could hardly stan’; was just gittin’ over a bender, for I put it to him and he owned up, and said it was his last,—he’d sworn off, and was goin’ to reform. Reform! He couldn’t do that, nor work, neither, and in less than three days he was down with the very old Harry, tearin’ and yellin’, so’s we had to hold him to keep the devils he said was after him from gettin’ him. He’s quieter now, but keeps mutterin’ and repeatin’ your father’s name.”

“My father’s name! How did he know it?” Elithe asked, and Stokes replied: “Heard us talkin’ of expectin’ him; there’s no other way. Lizy Ann is great on religion, and she told him the parson was comin’ and as’t if he’d like to see him. He swore awful then that no parson should come near him, and that’s about the size of it as it stan’s. He’s asleep now in Lizy Ann’s bunk.”

“I’d like to see him,” Elithe said. But Stokes hesitated. “I do’ know ‘bout it. He cusses some now, and mebby your father wouldn’t like to have you hear such words. Our cussin’ can’t hold a candle to his’n, which is kind of genteel like and makes you squirm.”

“Still, I’d like to see him,” Elithe persisted, and Stokes led the way into his cabin, the most comfortable one in the camp.

On a cot in a corner of the room a young man lay asleep, with marks of dissipation and suffering on his face, which, in spite of the dissipation, was a handsome one. His hands, on one of which the diamond ring was showing, were lying outside the sheet and were whiter than Elithe’s.

“Them hands never done no work,” Stokes whispered, pointing to them. “He’s a New Yorker sure.”

Elithe’s ideas of New Yorkers were not very clear, but she accepted Stokes’s theory as correct, and sitting down by the bed said to Mrs. Stokes: “You look tired. Go out into the fresh air a while. I will stay here.”

Mrs. Stokes was tired, as she had sat all night by the restless man and was glad of a little change. He would probably sleep for some time, and, accepting the offer, she went out, leaving Elithe alone with the stranger. For a time she sat very still, studying him closely, wondering who he was and feeling a great pity that one so young should have fallen so low. Her father was a gentleman and so were many of the men who lived in Samona, but Elithe felt that this stranger was a different type from them; not half so good, but more polished, perhaps,—more accustomed to polite society, of which she knew so little. Once he stirred in his sleep and muttered something of which she could only catch the word “Mignon.” Who was Mignon? Elithe wondered. His sister, or wife, or sweetheart? Probably the latter, and her interest in him was at once increased. Again he stirred and spoke to Mignon, this time more distinctly, telling her he was sorry and would pay it all in time.

“If you knew what a hole I’m working in and how I have blistered my hands, you would know I am in earnest,” he said, and then relapsed again into a heavy sleep.

The sweetheart theory did not seem quite so likely now. Mignon was some one he owed and was trying to pay, Elithe thought, remembering what he had said to Stokes about a debt of honor. Glancing at his hands, she saw the red blotches on them where the skin had peeled off, and knew that they had been blistered in his efforts to wield the heavy pick-axe.

“Poor fellow, I’m sorry for him,” she thought, just as in the next cabin she heard the jerky sound of the melodeon Rob was trying to play, while those of the miners who could read music were attempting to follow him.

The sound grated harshly on her sensitive ear, but she was not prepared for the effect it had on the sick man, who started from his pillow and said in a thick, husky voice very different from the one in which he had talked to Mignon, “Shtop that d——d discord, I shay.”

Elithe gave an exclamation of dismay, which the man heard, and turning fixed his eyes on her. They were large and dark and bright, with a watery expression, telling of dissipation and of something else which, unused as she was to any world but Samona, Elithe could not define. She liked him better with his eyes shut, and turned her own away from him, but turned them back when he said in a natural voice, “I beg your pardon; I thought you were Lizy Ann. She was here when I went to sleep. I didn’t expect to find a lady in this place.”

He was lying back upon his pillow, with his eyes fastened upon her, a kindling light in them which fascinated her in spite of herself. She had no idea what a lovely picture she made in that humble room with her fresh, young face, her soft brown eyes, her bright color and her short, curly hair with the jaunty riding cap upon it. The sick man noted it all, but seemed at first most struck with the cap.

“I say, where did you get that cap, so much like Mignon’s?” he asked.

Elithe did not think it necessary to explain that it came in a missionary box and simply answered, “It is mine, sir.”

“It looks like one I have seen Mignon wear. Who are you, any way?” he continued.

“I am Miss Hansford,” was Elithe’s reply, given with a slight elevation of her head.

“Hansford? Hansford?” the man repeated, as if trying to recall something. “Oh, yes, I know. Lizy Ann told me he was the parson and was coming here. Are you the parson’s daughter?”

“I am the Rev. Roger Hansford’s daughter,” Elithe replied with dignity and a heightened color.

The word “parson” when applied to her father always grated upon her and doubly so when spoken as this man spoke it. He must have read her thoughts, for he hastened to say: “Excuse me, Miss Hansford; I meant no disrespect. Lizy Ann called him the parson, and I did the same on the principle do as the Romans do when you are among them. Where is he?”

Elithe said that, as he was ill, she came in his stead.

“A deuced good exchange, too,” the stranger replied, “but aren’t you afraid with all these miners? There are some hard cases among them, and your face——”

Something in Elithe’s face checked him suddenly, while she rejoined vehemently: “I am not afraid. The hardest miner here would not see me harmed.”

“I believe you. The man would be a brute who could harm you, but he can’t help thinking,” the stranger replied in a tone of voice which made Elithe wish Mrs. Stokes would come.

The sound of the melodeon had ceased, and after a moment Rob pushed open the door and called to her: “Elithe, Elithe; they want you to play for them. I tried my hand and couldn’t make it go. Mrs. Stokes will sit with him.”

He nodded towards the bed, seeing now for the first time that the sick man was awake. Rob had heard of the snakes and the blue devils which had held high carnival in that room the night before, and he, too, shrank from the eyes fixed upon him. But when the stranger asked, “And who are you, coming in like a whirlwind to take my nurse away,” he answered fearlessly, “She is not your nurse. She’s my sister and I am Robert Hansford.”

“More Hansfords. I should not be surprised if the old one herself appeared pretty soon,” and the man laughed a low, chuckling laugh; then changing suddenly, and still looking at Rob, he continued: “I was once a boy like you, only not half so good, I reckon. Keep good, my lad, and never do what I have done.”

“Get drunk, you mean?” Rob asked with a bluntness which startled Elithe, whose warning hush-h came too late.

The stranger did not seem in the least offended, and answered good-humoredly: “Yes, get drunk, and other things which getting drunk leads to. I have a sister,—not exactly like yours. She would never come among the miners and sit in this place with such as I am. Still she is my sister.”

Here he closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking painful thoughts, for there was a scowl on his forehead and a set look about his lips. Just then Mrs. Stokes appeared, repeating Bob’s message and saying she had come to take Elithe’s place.

“No, no. Don’t go. They’ll come back if you do,” the stranger cried, putting out his hand to restrain Elithe, who had risen to her feet, only too glad to get away. “You are really going?” he said so piteously that Elithe involuntarily took his hot hand in hers and answered soothingly: “I must go for a while. I’ll come back again.”

“You promise?” he asked, clinging to her hands as if in them lay safety for him.

“I promise,” she replied, and releasing herself from him she went with Rob to the next cabin, where her father was accustomed to hold services and where some of the miners were waiting for her and humming the Magnificat.

Sitting down to the instrument, she began to play and sing the opening sentences, the men repeating them after her and catching the tune with a wonderful quickness and accuracy. There were many fine voices among them, and as they became accustomed to the music and the air was filled with melody, the sick man sat upright with a rapt expression on his face as the strains rose louder and higher, Elithe’s voice leading clear and sweet as a bird’s. Suddenly, as the time became broken and difficult, there was a frightful discord, and the singers were startled by a loud call from Stokes’s cabin.

“Idiots, why don’t you keep with Elithe, and not make such an infernal break as that? It’s this way,” and, taking up the words, “He hath showed strength,” the stranger sang in rich, musical tones, while Elithe and the miners listened breathlessly. “That’s the way to do it. Now try it again,” he said, authoritatively.

They began as he told them and sang on, stopping when he bade them stop, repeating when he bade them repeat, until they had a pretty accurate knowledge of half the Magnificat, and knew they had been well drilled. But the driller was exhausted, and relapsed into a state of half delirium, half consciousness, calling for Elithe, who, he insisted, should sit with him instead of “that snuff-colored woman with the big bald spot on the top of her head and that terrible nasal twang,” which he imitated when he spoke of her. This was rather rough on Lizy Ann, who had tired herself out in his behalf. She was very glad, however, to give up her post to Elithe, to whom the stranger said, as she sat down beside him, “We’ve had a first-rate singing-school, haven’t we? We might go through the country giving lessons. It would be easier than digging in the dirt, or nursing either, and I believe we’d make more at it.”

To this Elithe did not reply, but asked if she should read or sing to him.

“What will you read?” he said, and she replied, “How would the Gospel and Epistle for the day do, seeing it is Sunday?”

“Oh, go ’way with your Gospel and Epistle. I had enough of them when I was a boy. Sing something.”

“What shall I sing?” Elithe asked, and, after considering a moment, he said: “‘Anna Rooney’ is pretty good. Know it?”

Elithe was horrified, and showed it in her face.

“Oh, I see,” he continued. “Anna isn’t a Sunday girl. Well, suit yourself: only don’t make it too pious. I’m not that kind.”

Elithe was puzzled till a happy thought came to her like an inspiration, and she began the familiar words,

“Sowing the seed by the wayside fair,

Sowing the seed by the noonday glare.”

The effect was magical. Closing his eyes, the sick man lay perfectly still until she reached the words,

“Gathered in time or eternity,

Sure, oh, sure, will the harvest be.”

Then two great tears rolled down his cheeks as he whispered: “I’m ashamed to cry, but something in your voice compels it, and I’m thinking of what I have sown and what I am reaping, and wondering what the future harvest will be for me.”

Elithe felt a little afraid of him, but with this glimpse of his better side her fear vanished, and she sang whatever she thought he would like until he fell into a quiet sleep and she went out to find a storm coming down the mountains with great rapidity. It was not a shower, but a driving rain, which fell in sheets and continued with little abatement until sunset. Then it was so dark that it was not thought safe for her to start for home, as the streams she must cross were sure to be swollen, and possibly a log bridge carried away.

“Your folks will know why you stayed, for it must have rained there as hard as here. The clouds all went that way,” Mr. Stokes said to Elithe, whose chief concern was for the anxiety at home when she did not come.

She had never spent a night in the camp, and there came over her a feeling of intense loneliness, amounting almost to homesickness, as she looked out into the darkness, through which a few lights were shining here and there, while occasionally a miner passed, wrapped in his big cape, with the water dripping from his broad-brimmed hat.

“Where in the world shall I sleep?” she thought, knowing that Mr. Pennington was occupying the most comfortable room in the camp.

This difficulty was settled by Mr. Pennington himself. He had been awake for some time, and was growing very restless, with the rain beating against the cabin and the wind roaring through the valley. The demons were coming to carry him away, he said, fighting with his arms in the air and bidding them go back to the infernal regions until he was ready, when he would send them a postal. Then he began to clamor for Elithe, and grew so excited and violent that she went to him at last and asked what she could do for him.

“Sit where I can see your face and then sing,—not ‘Sowing the seed,’ I’ve sown a ton and am reaping the result. If you don’t like ‘Annie Rooney,’ sing what you please, only sing.”

She sat down where he bade her sit, and, reaching out his arm, he said: “Let me take your hand; it’s like the drop of water the rich man wanted to cool his tongue.”

She let him take it and hold it while she sang “Rest for the weary,—rest for you.” It was like a lullaby such as mothers sing to their fretful infants, and, soothed by the soft, low tones, he fell asleep, still holding Elithe’s hand, which she could not release from his grasp. If she tried to do so he stirred at once and held it closer. Thus an hour passed, when he awoke, burning with fever and delirium and calling for Elithe to bathe his head or do something to keep him from the pit. Only Elithe could quiet him, and it became evident that she must stay by him if they kept him in bed. Once he started to get up, but Elithe was equal to the emergency.

“Lie down,” she said, with a stamp of her foot, and he lay down, and, looking at her slily from under the bed clothes, said to her: “Got some of the old woman in you, haven’t you?”

She did not know what old woman he meant, nor did she care. She had conquered him, and, with Lizy Ann nodding in a chair opposite her and Rob sleeping on a pillow and blanket on the floor beside her, she sat through the longest night she had ever known. Occasionally Bill Stokes looked in to see if anything were wanted. Once when he did so Pennington lifted his head and said: “All quiet on the Potomac. Don’t you worry.” And again, when Stokes came, he waved his hand authoritatively, saying: “Go away; go away; Elithe is running the ranch and running it well. Arn’t you, Elithe?”

She did not answer, but looked toward the rain-stained window, with an inexpressible longing for some sign of day. It came at last, and almost before it was fairly light her father opened the door and walked in. He and his wife had passed an anxious and nearly sleepless night, although feeling sure that the storm which had swept over Samona was the cause of their children’s absence. That they would be safe in the camp and comparatively comfortable they knew, but with the first streak of dawn Roger was on his way to Deep Gulch. Bill Stokes was the first one he met, learning from him all the particulars of the stranger and what Elithe had done for him.

“He’d of cut loose and run yellin’ over the plains if it hadn’t been for her, I b’lieve my soul,” he said, as he led the way to his cabin and opened the door.

With a cry of joy Elithe threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing like a child, now that the strain was over and help had come. The cry awoke Mr. Pennington, to whom, after soothing Elithe, Roger gave his attention.

“This is father,” Elithe said, proudly, holding her father’s arm.

For an instant the stranger regarded him with a comical twinkle in his eyes and said: “The parson? Another Hansford? The plot thickens, don’t it?”

Then his mind seemed to recover its balance, and, putting out his hand, he said, very courteously: “I am glad to see you, Mr. Hansford. I am afraid your daughter has had a sorry night, but she has done me a world of good. I believe I should have died without her. Will you sit down? Our quarters are small and not the best ventilated in the world.”

Roger sat down, while Elithe went out into the fresh morning air, which each moment grew fresher and warmer as the sun came over the hills. All traces of the storm were gone, except where pools of water were standing in the road and rain drops were falling from the trees. Mrs. Stokes’s mother was preparing breakfast, and, attracted by the odor of coffee, Elithe walked that way.

“Drink this. It will do you good. You are white as a sheet,” the woman said, offering her a cup of strong, hot coffee.

Elithe drank it, and, sitting down upon a bench outside the door, fell asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. Here her father found her when he came from his interview with the stranger, who had seemed gentlemanly in every way and very profuse in his thanks for what Elithe had done for him.

“If she could only stay for a day or two, I believe she would exorcise all the evil spirits there are in me and make a man of me,” he said.

He emphasized the spirits, and Roger knew what he meant. But this was not the time for a temperance lecture, and he only replied that on no account could he allow his daughter to stay. It was not the place for her.

“I know,—I know,” the stranger interrupted him. “Miss Grundy would say it is very much not the place for her, but she’d be safe with these men, who adore her; and safe with me. Suppose I am a scamp of the deepest dye, I’d as soon insult my mother were she living as harm your daughter by a word, or look, or thought. Let her stay for one day, and you stay with her.”

He was very earnest, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead, but Mr. Hansford was firm.

“I’ll come to-morrow and see how you are,” he said, “and when you are able you will find a plain but good hotel in Samona, where you will be more comfortable than here. My daughter must go home.”

“I suppose you are right, but you’ll let me say good-bye to her!” Pennington said, quite cheerfully, buoyed up with the prospect of soon getting to Samona, where he would be near Elithe.

He had seen many young girls, most of whom had shunned him on close acquaintance as one whose atmosphere was not wholesome. And he did not blame them. He knew himself perfectly, and knew what feelings were stirred in him at the sight of a pretty face. But he had spoken truly when he said he would as soon think of insulting his mother as breathing a poisonous breath upon Elithe. It was as if she were hedged about with an iron fence up to which he might come and look upon the aureole of purity and innocence and girlish beauty surrounding her, but beyond which he could not pass. He was steeped to the dregs in dissipation, but had sworn to reform, and had said so to Roger, who was reminded of the couplet,

“The de’il when sick a saint would be,

But when he was well, the de’il a saint was he.”

Still, as a clergyman, it was his duty to encourage the least sign of reformation, and he spoke words of hope to the man who puzzled him greatly and to whom he brought Elithe to say good-bye. Taking her hand, Mr. Pennington said, “God bless you, Elithe, for all you have done for me.” Then, noticing the surprise in Mr. Hansford’s face at hearing her so familiarly addressed, he added: “I beg pardon for calling her Elithe. I must have done so ever since I knew her name,—the prettiest I ever heard. It does me good to say it.”

Roger bowed stiffly and took his daughter away. Half an hour later Mr. Pennington, propped on pillows and looking through the window at the foot of his bed, saw Elithe with her father and Rob disappear in the gorge which led from the camp to Samona.

CHAPTER IX.
AT “THE SAMONA.”

One morning about a week later as Elithe was sweeping the door steps she saw an ox-cart coming up the street. Beside it was Bill Stokes flourishing his whip and calling loudly to the oxen, as if to attract her attention. Half sitting, half reclining in the cart was Mr. Pennington, pale and thin and looking about him with a good deal of curiosity and interest. The moment he caught sight of Elithe his face brightened, and, taking off his hat, he bowed and kept it off, as if in the presence of royalty, until the house was passed. As the Rectory stood a little back from the street Elithe did not speak to him or Stokes, but stood watching the cart until it stopped in front of the hotel, which the miners always called the tavern, and whose sign, a big board nailed across a post, bore the ambitious name, “The Samona,” in imitation of larger places. Mr. Pennington was evidently expected, for the landlord and bartender came out to meet him, and Elithe noticed that he walked rather feebly as he entered the house. In the course of half an hour, Stokes, having disposed of his passenger and oxen and refreshed his inner man with a glass of beer, appeared at the door of the kitchen, where Elithe was washing the breakfast dishes. Sitting down on the step and wiping his face with his handkerchief, he began: “Wall, how’s all the folks? Is the parson to home?”

The parson answered for himself, as he entered the room, followed by his wife, who, as was her habit, sank into the nearest chair.

“You look kinder shiffless this morning,” Stokes said to her. “Well, I feel shiffless, too, and no wonder, routed out before light to get that New York chap over here. Seems’s ef he couldn’t wait another minit. He’s picked up wonderful in a week, but says he’s done with diggin’; tain’t his forte, and I guess ’taint; hands too white and soft. He wanted to get here the worst kind, so as to be near the Post Office and church, he said. As’t how often you had meetin’. He’s got awful pious since Miss Elithe was there.”

Here a knowing wink from Stokes swept the room, but was lost on Elithe, who kept on with her dishes while Stokes continued: “I do b’lieve he means to reform, and the way he’s put us through that Magnificat is a caution. We know it now from stem to stern, with all its whirligigs. He’s signed the pledge, too, promisin’ solemnly not to touch no more spiritual liquors.”

“Where did he get a pledge to sign?” Mr. Hansford asked, and Stokes replied: “Oh, he made one on a piece of paper. Wrote it himself and I signed as a witness, and so did Lizy Ann.”

“Where is it?” was Mr. Hansford’s next question.

“In his trouses’ pocket. I offered to keep it for him, but he said no, he’d keep it; then he’d know when he broke it. He’s had a letter sinse you was there from somewhere. Says he expects another with some money. He hain’t much now, and we fellers chipped in and made him up a little. We kind of like the cuss. He wants to sell that stun he wears on his little finger, but says this ain’t no place for that. Joe Newell, who’s great on jewelry, offered him twenty-five dollars for it, thinkin’ he was doin’ a big thing. You or’to seen Pennington’s face. ‘Twenty-five dollars!’ says ’ee. ‘Are you crazy? It cost three hundred.’ I don’t b’lieve it, do you? There’s his watch he’s goin’ to send to Helena, or Butte, when he gits a chance. Says that cost a hundred and fifty dollars. I don’t b’lieve it, do you? They’ve give him the best room up to the tavern, and he’ll pay, too. I b’lieve he’s honest for a New Yorker, but I can’t make him out. He never says a word about his folks, with all Lizy Ann’s pumpin’, and she’s good at that. She couldn’t git nothin’ from him. He talked about some gal with a queer name when he was outen his head before Miss Elithe came. Since then when he talked in his sleep it hain’t been that girl’s name, but two or three times he’s called for Elithe, Elithe, to git him outen some scrape.”

Here Stokes gave another wink, which Elithe did not see. But her father did, and stopped the garrulous Stokes by abruptly changing the conversation and asking after the work in the mine in which he had a small interest.

“Fust rate, fust rate. You’ll be a nabob some day, and I hope you will,” Stokes said, leaving Mr. Pennington and launching into the subject of the mines. “Well, good day,” he said at last. “I must be goin’ back. Keep an eye on New York; that’s what we call him, and don’t let him backslide. He never cussed but oncet comin’ here, and that was when we run over a boulder and sent him up about a foot. Good-bye.”

He started to go, then stopped and added: “I reckon New York will he spectin’ some of you to call soon. It’s kind’er lonesome changin’ from the mines to the tarvern.”

Rob was the first to call. He had thought the night at the mines a lark and was a good deal interested in Mr. Pennington, whom he first called Elithe’s patient and afterwards her convert. He found him in the “chambre de luxe” of The Samona,—a large, square room with three paper-curtained windows, a rag carpet, a high post bedstead, two hard chairs, a table in the centre with a red cotton spread, a Bible, a high washstand with a round hole in the top for the bowl and two small towels. Mr. Pennington was glad to see the boy and kept him a long time, asking him questions about the people in the town and his own family generally. Then looking from his window to the far end of the long street, where the church, soon to be consecrated, was standing, he talked about that, learning that Elithe played the instrument, as Rob called the little parlor organ, and led the singing and taught in Sunday-school and “ran things generally, and ran them well, too,” Rob said, adding with a good deal of pride: “Elithe is very religious,—not stiff, you know; not the kind that won’t let a feller have a good time. She likes fun and all that, but she’s great on the church and temperance.”

Rob remembered the snakes and blue devils, and as the son of a clergyman felt it his duty to drive a nail in the right direction when he had a chance. There was no sign of snakes or devils about Mr. Pennington now. He was clothed and in his right mind. A temperance pledge was in his pocket and he meant to keep it. He had some money, thanks to his friends the miners, whom he should pay as soon as he received what he was expecting every day. He was lodged in a clean and comfortable room, and what was better than all he was near Elithe. His “sweet wild rose of the West” he called her to himself, and he had sworn a big oath that not a petal of the rose should be tarnished by him. He was going to reform; he had reformed, and when later in the day Mr. Hansford called he, like Rob, was impressed with the gentlemanly manner with which he was received. In some respects Mr. Pennington had the advantage of Roger. He had traveled in Europe, had seen much of the world, had read many books and had been to Harvard College. He did not say he had been sent home for the very habit which had brought him so low at the mines, nor did Mr. Hansford ask him troublesome questions. Accustomed to many phases of human nature, he was shrewd enough to guess that behind this polished exterior there was a past the man would keep from sight, and he did not intend to meddle with it. If he could do him good he would and at the same time he should guard his own fold sedulously, lest some taint of poison should creep in. He invited Mr. Pennington to call at the Rectory, and the next day he came, and the next and the next, until he was quite one of the family. He seemed to know just what string to pull to make himself popular. He told Rob of his trip to Egypt, of the Pyramids and the Sphinx, and the grand old ruins of Luxor and Thebes. He played backgammon with George, checkers with Thede, and hull-gull with Artie. He treated Mrs. Hansford with the utmost deference as a lady and an invalid, anticipating her wishes and making himself so agreeable to her that she looked forward to his visits with more interest than Elithe. To her Mr. Pennington never talked much. He knew that Mr. Hansford was watching him in that direction, and nothing could be more circumspect than his demeanor towards her. But he never for a moment forgot her. He always heard her when she spoke,—heard, too, the rustle of her dress and the sound of her footsteps when she was coming, and when, as she sometimes did, she gave him her hand, as she said good-night, the touch of her slender fingers sent the blood coursing through his veins, and he would curse himself for a fool to care so much for a little Western country girl who never could care for him, and who he knew ought not to care for him if she could.

Meanwhile his reformation was progressing. He kept his pledge, was gracious to everybody, and only swore occasionally under his breath at the coarseness of his food and the way it was served. Every Sunday and every week day when there was service found him at church, more devout if possible than Elithe herself. Rob, who saw everything, said he kept his head down longer than any body else and bowed nearly to the floor in the creed.

“You are so good why don’t you get confirmed when the Bishop comes to consecrate the church?” the boy said to him one day, and Pennington replied: “By Jove, I b’lieve I will. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think she’d,—he’d, I mean,—do you think he’d take me?”

Rob understood the blunder. Like his father, he was awake to the situation, and he replied: “He might take you, but I don’t know about she.”

Mr. Pennington colored and mentally decided to abandon the confirmation business. As a whole he was very popular in Samona, where some of the people looked upon him as a suitor for the Rector’s daughter. It did not take long for this gossip to reach Mr. Hansford, who was greatly annoyed. As yet Elithe had shown no sign of consciousness, but there might come an awakening, which, if possible, he would prevent. In his extremity his thoughts turned to his aunt, Miss Phebe Hansford. It was more than twenty years since he had seen her and a long time since he had heard from her. She had opposed his marriage bitterly and opposed his going into the ministry as an Episcopal clergyman. She had very little faith in the church and less in Lucy Potter, and when he espoused both she washed her hands of him and had kept them washed and dried ever since. He could not ask her to invite Elithe to visit her, but he would write to her and send his daughter’s picture, hoping that something might come of it. It would be hard to part with Elithe, but he would do it if by so doing he could remove her from danger. There was a consultation with his wife, who at first demurred, but at last consented, and the letter on which so much was pending was sent with a prayer that it might have the desired result.

CHAPTER X.
MISS HANSFORD’S LETTER.

It was quite a gala day in Samona. The church was to be consecrated, and the place was full of people, many of them miners, who had come from Deep Gulch, to see the Bishop and to witness the ceremony. It was partly their church, they thought, as their money had helped to build it, and the window in the chancel was entirely their contribution. They would like to have had it dedicated “To the memory of the Rev. Roger Hansford by his friends, the Deep Gulch miners,” but as he was alive, this was hardly practicable, so they asked that the design be Christ blessing little children,—five of them,—the rector’s number. Besides the consecration and the Bishop and the window there was another attraction. Bill Stokes and Lizy Ann were to be confirmed, and rumor said New York, too. In the sincerity of Mr. and Mrs. Stokes the miners believed, but shook their heads over New York. He was a first-rate feller, but his conversion had been too sudden. They didn’t believe in the still, small voice,—they wanted a regular, old-fashioned knockdown, such as St. Paul had had, and such as Stokes declared he, too, had experienced. Still, if the parson and the Bishop were satisfied they were, and they’d like to see the man who not long ago was fighting the devil with shrieks and curses renounce him with solemn vows, and it was some disappointment to hear that he was not to be confirmed. He was, however, very busy everywhere. He had helped to decorate the chancel and the windows, showing remarkable deftness and taste. He was to dine with the Bishop at the Rectory. This had been Elithe’s proposition.

“I think we owe it to him; he has done so much to help,” she said to her father, who consented readily.

If Mr. Pennington was busy, Elithe was busier. First in the church to see that everything was in order; then at home seeing to the dinner; then in the small room her father called his study, brushing his coat and hat and feeling sorry they were so shabby. After service there were all the strangers and miners to speak to, and the dinner to be gotten through. This was a great success, made so partly by Elithe’s good cooking, and partly by the genial manners of Mr. Pennington, who, without seeming at all forward, drew out the best there was in every one. When all was over and the Bishop gone Elithe was very tired, and her face showed it, as she sat on the porch, with her head leaning against the back of her chair.

“You look pale and fagged out. Wouldn’t a walk do you good? I am going to the Post Office. Suppose you go with me?” some one said close to her.

It was Mr. Pennington, who had just returned with Mr. Hansford from seeing the Bishop off. She had not often walked alone with him, but she knew no reason why she should not go with him now. The fresh air would do her good, and it was the day for the Boston Herald, which her father took as the one connecting link between him and his old Eastern life. To Elithe Boston, with its surroundings, was the centre of the world, and she read religiously every word of the paper, which was doubly interesting if it had anything in it concerning Oak City, where her father’s Aunt Phebe lived. Of this aunt, Elithe knew nothing, except that she was very peculiar. Her father seldom spoke of her, and her mother never. She could not forget the bitter things which had been said of her and to her at the time of her marriage. But she would not prejudice her children against her, and, with her husband, she hoped that through this aunt they might some time see a different phase of the world from that in Samona. She had not told Elithe that her father had written to her aunt and sent her photograph, and the latter was greatly surprised when, with the Boston Herald, the postmaster handed her a letter postmarked Oak City, Mass.

“Why, this must be from Aunt Phebe. She has not written us in ages,” she said, studying the angular handwriting, which she remembered to have seen once or twice before.

Mr. Pennington was standing where he, too, could read the address and postmark on the letter, and there was a queer expression on his face as he asked, “Have you an aunt in the East?”

“Why, yes; father’s aunt in Oak City. Didn’t you know it?” Elithe replied.

In their intercourse with each other neither Mr. Hansford nor Mr. Pennington had spoken directly of their former place of residence. That Mr. Pennington was from New York Roger assumed, and that Mr. Hansford was from the vicinity of Boston Mr. Pennington knew, for the miners had told him as much. Of Aunt Phebe the miners knew nothing, and she might or might not have been a revelation to Mr. Pennington, for any surprise he expressed when told of her existence. He only said, “Were you ever in Oak City?”

“Never,” Elithe replied, “but I wish I could go there. I’d like sometime to see the great world which lies east of here and is so different from this.”

“Elithe,” Mr. Pennington said, with suppressed emotion. Then he remembered himself in time to keep back the words he had come so near speaking. “Give yourself to me and you shall see the world,” had trembled on his lips, but he did not say them.

He had no home to take her to, or friends who would receive her if she would go with him, and if he had, her innocence and purity must not mate with him till he had purged himself from more than one evil spirit still lurking in his heart.

“Did you speak to me?” Elithe asked, and he replied, “No, did I? If so, I’ve forgotten what I wished to say.”

He was unfolding his own paper, the New York Times, and glancing up and down its columns. Seeing this, Elithe said no more to him until the Rectory was reached. Then she asked him to go in and offered him the Herald to look at, while she carried her aunt’s letter to her father and heard what was in it. He took the paper and, sitting down upon the porch steps, turned at once to the column headed “Affairs in Oak City.” The place was filling rapidly and the season bade fair to be gayer and more prosperous than it had been in years. The Ralstons had returned from Europe and would soon occupy their handsome house, which had been undergoing some repairs. Mrs. Percy and daughter had also returned from Europe, but were not yet in their cottage. There were rumors in the air of a wedding in high life, to come off during the summer. The names of the parties were for a time withheld. Miss Phebe Hansford had been giving her cottage a coat of fresh paint, which had greatly improved it, and the band had arrived and played every afternoon in the park in front of the Casino.

Such items and more he read with a blur before his eyes and a humming sound in his ears like the echo of years past and gone, leaving memories he would like to blot out. While he was reading the Herald, Mr. Hansford in his study was reading his aunt’s letter aloud to his wife and Elithe. As she heard the invitation, Elithe exclaimed, “Oh, I am so glad; if I can only go.” Then followed the conditions. She must not gad to concerts and rides on the water and clambakes and the Casino. She must always be in by nine or half-past, at the latest, as her aunt kept early hours. She must not slat her things around:—her aunt liked order. She must not whistle in the house, as some rude girls did; her aunt liked to be still and meditate.

At this point Roger laughed merrily. “Aunt Phebe to a dot. I don’t believe she has changed an iota in twenty years,” he said.

Elithe was very grave, and a summer at the seashore did not look so desirable as at first. The last of the letter, however, promising a good many privileges, was more re-assuring, and she began again to wish she might go.

“But how can I? What would you do without me?” she said, looking first at her mother, who was very pale, and then at her father, who tried to seem cheerful and natural.

Here was an answer to his letter and his prayer. Providence had opened a way for Elithe to see something of the world, and to escape from an influence which might eventually prove hurtful. An acquaintance of Mr. Pennington had once said of him that with his smooth tongue he could deceive the very elect. Mr. Hansford had never put his opinion of the man into these words, but he felt the truth of them in his own experience. Mr. Pennington was magnetic and fascinating, and he wondered much that Elithe had remained so long indifferent to him. Of his many good qualities he was fully aware, but he believed there was a questionable side to his character from which he would shield his daughter. He did not trust to his bones for intuition, as his aunt did to hers, but he had a childlike faith in the signs of Providence and watched them closely. He had prayed that his aunt might answer his letter favorably. She had done so, and sent money for needed expenses. It was right that Elithe should go, and when she asked how they could do without her, he said, “It seems too good a chance to be lost, and it is only for the summer. If we have some one to help us we may be able to get along; eh, Lucy?”

He turned to his wife, whom invalidism had not made altogether selfish. There was a feeling like death in her heart as she thought of living without Elithe, but she tried to smile, and said she thought it might be managed, as she was stronger than she had been for some time.

During this discussion Mr. Pennington finished the Boston Herald, and leaving it on the steps, went to Samona, but returned to the Rectory in the evening, to see, he said, if the family was not greatly fatigued after the excitement of the day. Elithe was not fatigued at all. The dream of her life was coming to pass. She was going to Oak City and to Boston, and to see the ocean and everything, and her eyes were like stars as she welcomed him. He had become so much a part of the family at the Rectory and had identified himself so largely with their interests that it was natural for the boys to go to him with everything which interested them, and the four pounced upon him at once, all talking together and telling him the news. Their aunt, or rather their father’s aunt Phebe, had sent for Elithe to come to Oak City, and, better yet, had given each of them a dollar for their very own. This was a fortune to the boys, who had never before had more than five or ten cents at a time, and the woman who sent it to them was exalted into the position of a fairy godmother. Mr. Pennington listened to them, but did not seem greatly elated. On the contrary, the boys had never found him so uninteresting.

“Is it true that you are to leave us?” he asked Elithe during a lull in the boys’ clamor.

“Nothing is settled as yet,” she replied, and he continued, “Do you think you will like Oak City?”

Something in his voice made Elithe ask quickly, “Were you ever there?”

His face was partly turned from her as he replied, “I have heard of it as a very pretty place. My sister has been there.”

Elithe thought of Mignon, and would like to ask him if she were the sister, but did not wish to remind him of that Sunday in camp when he had been so debased before her. He had never referred to it but once since he came to Samona, and then he had said, “It shall never happen again, so help me Heaven.” He was not very enthusiastic on the subject of Elithe’s visit to Oak City, and at an earlier hour than usual said good-night and went slowly back to the hotel. In the barroom he heard the click of glasses. A few of the miners were there slaking their thirst, after a day’s abstinence. They had kept sober during the consecration of the church and the Bishop’s visit. It was night now and they were making amends with a good deal of hilarity. Pausing, with his foot on the stairs, Mr. Pennington felt for a moment tempted to join them and break his pledge. It was in his pocket where he always carried it, and he mechanically took it out and looked at it. While it was whole it was a safeguard, and he held it to the light, thinking how easily he could tear it into shreds and be rid of the restraint. And why not? Why try to be anybody? Elithe was going away, and if she were not it could do him no good, so why continue the struggle? A thousand demons were urging him to take the vile stuff the miners were drinking with so much zest. He knew just how vile it was, for he had tasted it at the mines, but he had been so long without it, and he was so thirsty.

“I’ll do it,” he thought, just as one of the revellers in the barroom called out, “Here’s health and happiness to the parson and Miss Elithe. May God bless her and keep New York straight on her account.”

“Amen!” came heartily from half a dozen throats, and the pledge slipped back into Mr. Pennington’s pocket.

“I’ll try it a while longer,” he said, going cautiously up the stairs to his room and shutting the door so that the sounds of dissipation could not reach him.

CHAPTER XI.
GETTING READY FOR OAK CITY.

It was soon known in Samona that the Rector’s aunt had invited Elithe to spend the summer with her and that she was going. One of the miners’ daughters, a strong, capable girl, was to take her place so far as the work was concerned, but no one save the mother herself knew of the pain in her heart when she thought of the days when the busy feet and hands which ministered so lovingly and willingly to them all would be gone.

“It is for her good and I’ll bear it,” she said to herself, and, putting on a brave and cheerful front, she entered heartily into the necessary preparations for the journey.

Elithe’s wardrobe was naturally the first consideration and here Mrs. Hansford felt the bitterness of the poverty which precluded much of an expenditure. Anything she had herself would be sacrificed gladly that Elithe might make a respectable appearance with her relative and friends. It was years since Mrs. Hansford had been in Oak City, which had grown rapidly and must be quite a fashionable resort, if the items in the Boston Herald were to be trusted. How much of society Elithe would see she did not know. Some, of course, and she must not be in the background. She was apt to express her views rather freely, and Mr. Pennington was not ignorant of her trouble.

“Nobody will care what she wears when they see her face,” he ventured to say, wishing that he had the means and the courage to offer a part of it with which to fill the gap.

But he had neither, and contented himself with quietly looking on and marvelling at the faculty of poor people to make a little go a great ways. Miss Tibbs, the dressmaker in Samona, who went twice a year to Helena, and was an oracle on style, was called in, and the trousseau attacked in earnest. A blue flannel gown two years old was ripped and washed and pressed and made over for a traveling suit according to Miss Tibbs’s ideas and the fashions of six months before. Elithe thought it a wonderful achievement and trimmed her last year’s hat with a bit of ribbon to match and a red wing unearthed from a missionary box. There were two of them in the attic, with some articles which had never been used. Among them was a bathing suit of blue serge trimmed with large buttons and flat braid of a peculiar pattern. It had come from Washington two years before, together with the riding cap which Mr. Pennington in his delirium had said looked like Mignon’s. The cap Elithe had worn a great deal, and was rather proud of it, but she had often wondered what Eastern people supposed she could do with a bathing suit in the mountains of Montana. Now, however, she had use for it. To see the ocean was an anticipated delight. To bathe in it was greater, and here was a suit made ready, which Providence had certainly intended for her. It had evidently been worn but little, and must have belonged to some one taller and larger than herself. This she considered an advantage, as it left less of her person exposed. Notwithstanding its size and length, it was very becoming to her. Rob said she was a stunner and wanted Mr. Pennington to see her in it.

To this Elithe objected. She guessed she should not show her arms and neck to Mr. Pennington, or any other man, and when Rob asked if she didn’t suppose any man would see them when she went bathing, she looked perplexed and troubled.

“I never thought of that,” she said. “Perhaps I can’t wear it after all, but I’ll take it.”

Mr. Pennington, who had a way of being within hearing if not in sight, had overheard the conversation and laughed as he wondered how some of the costumes at the seaside would strike Elithe’s unsophisticated eyes. After the bathing suit had been renovated and folded ready to pack, the best dress, to be worn only to church and on state occasions, was considered. Miss Phebe had sent money for a new gown which might be needed, but Samona was not the place in which to buy it, and there was not time for Miss Tibbs to go either to Helena or Butte. In this emergency Mrs. Hansford’s wedding dress, a changeable silk of orange and blue, was brought to light. It was twenty years old and had cost thirty dollars, which had seemed a large sum to Lucy Potter, and been commented on by some of her neighbors as extravagant. She had worn it but a few times. Once, when she went out a bride, with white gloves and a white feather in her hat; once to the theatre in Boston, where her aunt had played a leading part, and once to the house-warming in Samona, given by the people to their new rector and his bride, who was thought to be too much dressed for a poor missionary’s wife. After that her children had come rapidly, eight in all. Three had died between Elithe and Rob, and she had not much leisure for silk gowns. Elithe should have it, and she brought it from the drawer where she had kept it, folded between two towels, and, laying it across Miss Tibbs’s lap, asked her rather proudly what she thought of it.

In truth, Miss Tibbs thought it old-fashioned for a young girl, but she said it was an excellent piece of silk, and she would do her best with it. Her best was very good, and when the dressmaking was finished no daughter of a millionaire ever felt prouder of her wardrobe than Elithe did of hers. There was the bathing suit, the silk dress, the second best, the third best, and two ginghams for morning,—more than she should need, Elithe thought, and wondered how she could carry them all. The only available trunk was a small hair one which had been her father’s when he was a boy. Mrs. Hansford suggested a new one, but Elithe decided that the hair trunk would probably hold all her clothes, with a little crowding, and it did. As a means of extra protection, a strong cord was tied around it in the shape of a cross and securely knotted over the lock. On each end a large card was tacked with “Elithe Hansford, Oak City, Mass.,” written upon it. Mr. Pennington shuddered when he saw it and thought of the many expensive trunks against which it would rub on its journey East. Elithe would be rubbed, as well as her trunk, less on her journey than at the end of it, he knew, and he wished he could help her.

“Perhaps I can,” he thought, and began a letter, which gave him a great deal of care, it would seem, as he rewrote it two or three times, erasing here and there, making additions and reading it over very carefully. With all his pains, it did not suit him, and, with an exclamation of disgust, he tore it up. “Better let matters drift than try to arrange them. She might not listen to me,” he said, and taking a fresh sheet of paper, he dashed off a few hurried lines, took the diamond ring from his finger, put it in a small box with the folded note, and going out upon the piazza, smoked and thought until midnight.

The next morning Elithe was to leave, and after breakfast he said to his landlord, “I am going to Helena for a few days,” and, taking his hand-valise, started for the station. The Hansfords were all there, Elithe, with tears in her eyes, which she tried hard to keep back. Her father had hoped to find or hear of some one who was going at least a part of the way, and to whose care he could confide her, but had been unsuccessful. Elithe, who knew nothing, feared nothing, and declared herself perfectly competent to go alone, and, as there was no alternative, her father had consented to it, knowing there was no real danger to be incurred. His aunt had sent money sufficient to defray the expense of a sleeper, but Elithe preferred the common car, she said. She was young and strong, and would rather give the extra money to her father and mother. That she would take a sleeper after the first night Mr. Hansford was sure, and did not press the matter. The sight of Mr. Pennington at the station buying a ticket filled him with alarm, but when told that he was only going as far as Helena on business and would return in a few days, he felt relieved than otherwise that Elithe would have an escort so far. She was glad that she was not to start upon her long journey entirely alone, and put on quite a cheerful face when she at last said good-bye and left her father and mother and brothers standing upon the platform of the station, kissing their hands to her until a turn in the track hid them from view.

CHAPTER XII.
ON THE ROAD.

Elithe had kept up bravely while the necessity lasted, but when her mother faded from her sight and she could no longer see the handkerchief Artie had tied to a stick and was waving after her, she turned her face to the window and sobbed bitterly. Mr. Pennington, who sat behind her, paid no attention to her until the sound of her sobbing ceased, and he knew she was growing calm. Then he took the vacant seat beside her and began to speak of the scenery and to point out whatever he thought would please her. Elithe had never been in Helena since she was a child, consequently everything upon the road was novel, and she soon became interested in the country through which she was passing and the people in the car. These Mr. Pennington was studying closely, managing to learn how far they were going, and trying to single out some one with whom Elithe would be safe from any annoyance. An old couple, whose destination was Chicago, was his choice. They were plain, homely people, with kindness written on every lineament of their honest faces. To these he introduced himself, telling them of Elithe, who she was, where she was going, and asking if they would look after her. Instantly the woman’s heart opened to the young girl, who, she told Mr. Pennington, was much like her granddaughter, and should be her special care. They were now very near Helena, where they stopped for a few minutes, and where Mr. Pennington was to leave. Two or three times he had made up his mind to go on and changed it as often.

“What use to put my head in the lion’s mouth and lose any chance I may possibly have in the future? Better wait till I am at least half a man, if that time ever comes,” he thought. Taking Elithe’s hands in his, he said: “I was a beast the first time you saw me at the mines, and if I am anything better now, you have helped to make me so. I don’t want you to forget me, and as a means of keeping me in your mind take this little souvenir.”

He slipped the paper box into her hand, hesitated a moment, as if there were more he would say, then turned quickly and left the car just as it began to move away. It was growing dark, and Elithe could only faintly discern the outline of his figure as he stood with his hat off watching the train, which was bearing away the only human being who had any power to sway him for good. “I’ll go to the devil now, sure,” he thought, as he seated himself in the ‘bus which was to take him to the town.

The old lady, who had witnessed the parting, looked for some tears from Elithe. Seeing none, she concluded she must be feeling too badly to cry, and, with a view to comfort her, took the seat Mr. Pennington had vacated.

“I know how you feel,” she began. “When I was young and my man went away for a week I thought the sun would never shine again until he got back. That’s before I was married, and we was courtin’.”

Elithe looked at her so astonished that the woman, whose name was Baker, said: “He was your beau, wasn’t he?”

Elithe’s face was scarlet as she answered, quickly: “No; oh, no; I’m too young for that. I’m only nineteen. He is my friend,—father’s friend,—that’s all.”

“Why, how you talk!” the old lady replied. “I s’posed of course he was your beau. He acted like it. Well, it’s just as well, maybe. He looked to me as if he was dissipated, and you’d better die than marry a drunkard. My oldest girl, ’Mandy, did that, and leads a terrible life. He’s had the tremens two or three times. It’s awful!”

Elithe thought of Stokes’s cabin and the night she spent in it, while Mrs. Baker rambled on, giving a full history of ’Mandy and ’Mandy’s children, together with her son and his family.

“Will she never stop?” Elithe thought, “and let me see what is in the box.”

It was still held tightly in her hand where Mr. Pennington had put it, and she longed to know what it contained. After a while Mrs. Baker declared herself hungry, and, telling her husband to bring the big lunch basket, she invited Elithe to share with her. But Elithe could not eat. A terrible homesickness had come over her, and she declined the food, saying she had plenty of her own and her head was aching.

“Poor little girl!” Mrs. Baker said. “You are tired; that’s what’s the matter. Lucky we hain’t many passengers, so’s you can have two whole seats to-night. I’ll turn one back and fix you nice.”

She was as good as her word, and Elithe found herself in possession of two seats, with a very comfortable-looking bed improvised on one of them from her own wraps and those of Mrs. Baker, who said she did not need them. Her seat was behind Elithe, who, the moment she was alone, untied the box and by the dim light of the lamp overhead read the note which lay upon the top.

It was as follows: “Elithe.—There is so much I want to say to you, but dare not. You are too pure and good for a man like me to do more than think of you. If I had known you years ago I should not have been what I am,—a man broken in his prime from excesses of all kinds. Don’t forget me, and every time you look at the ring, have a kind thought of me. I shall never forget you,—never.—J.P.”

“The ring! What ring?” Elithe said to herself, and, lifting up the bit of jeweler’s cotton, she gave an exclamation of surprise as her eyes fell upon the costly diamond.

She had some idea of its value, as she had heard Stokes tell how much it cost, and she had a still more definite idea that it should never have been given to her, and that she ought not to keep it. There was no way of returning it now. She must wait until she reached Oak City, when she would write her father and ask him what to do. Thus deciding, she put the box in the under pocket of her skirt, where no one could get it without her knowledge. Then she began to think of the contents of the note and what Mrs. Baker had said to her. Did Mr. Pennington care for her in the way the woman had insinuated? It would seem so, and for one moment something like gratification stirred her pulse, but passed quickly. There was nothing in her nature which could ever respond to love from him. She liked him,—that was all. If he cared very much for her she was sorry, and sorry, too, that he had given her the ring.

By this time she had settled herself for the night, and her thoughts were growing confused. The whir and pounding of the wheels made her think of a tornado which had once swept the plain near Samona. Artie was waving his long stick from the platform, her mother was kissing her and leaving tears on her cheeks, and Mrs. Baker was holding up ’Mandy as a warning against girls marrying men who drank. All these thoughts and more mingled in her dreams, as the train sped on its way, and the air in the car grew closer and the lamps burned low, with a smell of bad oil, and the conductor came through now and then with his lantern and looked at the sleeping crowd. Once, as he stopped near Elithe, whose face was plainly visible, he pulled over her the shawl which had partially slipped from her shoulders, and wondered who she was and why she was alone.

“Young and pretty and innocent. I’ll keep a little watch over her and speak to Simmons about her when he comes on for duty,” he thought.

Meanwhile the father and mother in the home growing farther and farther away with every turn of the wheels, were praying silently and constantly that no harm might befall her. John Pennington, too, who hardly knew whether he really believed anything or not, said to himself, as he sat smoking in his room at “The Helena” until far into the night: “If there is a God, and I suppose there must be, I hope He will take care of Elithe.” God did take care of her, but did not keep her from being uncomfortable and tired and sickening of both her own lunch basket and that of Mrs. Baker, as the food grew stale and old, and the car grew hot and dusty, and so crowded that her two seats had to be given up, and she was finally driven to sitting with Mrs. Baker, whose fat shoulder was her pillow during the night before the train drew into Chicago.

Here she was to part with Mrs. Baker, who waited in the station till she found the conductor of the Eastern train and told him of Elithe, bidding him look after her till he reached the terminus of his route.

“Then I suppose the Lord will have to take her in charge,” she said, with so much concern that the conductor answered, laughingly: “If He don’t the next conductor will. I’ll tell him about her. Don’t you worry.”

Thus reassured, Mrs. Baker felt relieved, but stayed by Elithe until her train was ready to start, talking to her through the window, telling her not to be afraid when crossing Detroit River or Suspension Bridge, and to be sure to look at the Falls in the right place and to call on her if she was ever in Chicago. Then she shook both her plump hands as a farewell, and Elithe was left alone to accomplish the rest of her journey, which was done without accident or delay. Everybody was kind to her, from the conductor to the tall brakeman, who got her out upon the boat when crossing the river at Detroit, and took her to the best place for seeing the Falls when nearing Suspension Bridge.

Elithe saw a great deal on that journey, and felt herself quite a traveled personage, regretting that she could not at once compare notes with Rob, who had been to Salt Lake City with his father and ever after boasted of his superior knowledge of the world. She saw the Genesee and the beautiful Hudson and went out upon the platform in the moonlight to look at the mountains between Albany and Springfield,—mere hills she called them when compared with the Rockies, and scarcely worth keeping awake to look at. She was very tired by this time, and, returning to her seat, fell into a deep sleep from which she did not waken until the train stopped in Worcester depot. There was only one change more before she reached the boat which was to take her to Oak City, and she made it without mistake, and drew a long breath of relief when she finally left the car at New Bedford and her journey by rail was ended.

CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE BOAT.

The Naumkeag was standing at the wharf waiting for the passengers who had come on the Western train. There was a great crowd, all hurrying, with bags and umbrellas, towards the boat with as much speed as if their lives depended upon getting there first and securing the best seats. Elithe lingered, anxiously watching the baggage as it was taken from the car. She was hot and dusty and tired and worn with the long journey. Her straw hat, with its faded ribbons, was crushed and bent, her flannel gown was soiled and wrinkled, and her gloves were worn at the fingers tips. “A dowdy little thing,” some might have called her, as she stood waiting the appearance of her trunk, which had caused her a great deal of anxiety. Whenever the train stopped long enough and it was possible for her to do so, she had managed to assure herself that it was there with her, and she always scanned closely any trunks standing in a station they were leaving, fearing lest by some mistake hers might have been taken out with others. If it were in New Bedford it was safe, and she stood in the broiling sun faint and dizzy, but resolute, until she caught sight of it and saw a train hand put it upon a truck not far from where she was standing.

“This is the kind of trunk to have,” the man said to a companion, staggering under a huge Saratoga four times as large as Elithe’s poor little box tied with a rope, with one of the hinges to the lid wrenched nearly off and a great crack across the end where the card with her name upon it was fastened.

It was rather dilapidated, but it was there, and Elithe followed it to the boat and stayed below until she saw it placed by six immense Saratogas with “Clarice Percy, Washington, D. C.” marked upon them. Elithe had seen many handsome trunks during her journey, but the difference between them and her own had never struck her as it did now when Clarice Percy’s stared her in the face. How very insignificant hers looked beside them, she thought, wondering who Clarice Percy was, and why she had so much baggage. She had heard some one say they stopped once before landing at Oak City, and she was tempted to stay below and watch her property lest it be carried off. But it was too hot and close down there, and, going up to the crowded deck, she tried to find a seat sheltered from the sun, which was beating down upon the water with all the fervor of a sultry afternoon. Her first feeling, as the boat moved off, was one of relief. Her trunk was safe, and so was the little box which held the diamond, and which had troubled her nearly as much as her baggage. A dozen times a day her hand had gone into her pocket to see if it were there, and it did so now, as she took the seat a young man had just vacated and for which a woman made a rush. Elithe was before her, feeling, as she sat down, that she had never been so tired and faint in her life as she was now. Her head was throbbing with pain, and the lump in her throat, which always came when she thought of home, was increasing in size until she felt as if she were choking. The motion of the boat as they got further from the shore and struck the swell made her sick. There was a horrible nausea at her stomach and a blur before her eyes, while the people around her kept the air from her.

“I wonder if I am going to faint or die. I wish some one would bring me some water,” she thought, looking in the faces of those nearest to her to see if she dared speak to them.

They were strange and new, with something different in their expression from the home faces familiar to her. She could not appeal to them, and, removing her hat and leaning her head back against a post, she shut her eyes and sat as still and nearly as white as if she were dead. How long she sat thus she did not know. There was a partial blank in her consciousness. The hum of voices, the splash of the water and the thuds of the engine all mingled together in one great roar, which made her head ache harder. Then she must have slept for a few minutes, and when she woke it was to find a young man standing beside her and scanning her curiously.

“Oh-h!” she said, with a start, and reached for her hat, which had fallen from her lap.

The young man picked it up and handed it to her, saying: “Aren’t you Miss Elithe Hansford, from Samona?”

“Yes, sir,” Elithe answered, timidly.

“I thought so,” he continued, taking a seat beside her. “I’m Paul Ralston. I guess you have never heard of me.”

Elithe did not reply, and he went on: “I know your aunt, Miss Phebe Hansford,—have known her for years. We are great friends. She told me you were coming about this time. We must have been on the same train part of the way. I didn’t see you. Funny, too, as I went through all the sleepers looking for some one I thought might be there.”

“I wasn’t in a sleeper. I came in a common car, and it was so hot!” Elithe said.

“You don’t mean you came all the way from Montana in a common car!” Paul exclaimed, and Elithe replied: “Yes, I do,” in a weary kind of way, which struck Paul with an intense pity for her.

“Great Scott! What made you do that? I wonder you are alive. Why did they let you?” he said, impulsively, his voice indicating that somebody was to blame.

Elithe detected this and rejoined, quickly: “Nobody wanted me to. I did it myself, because——.”

She stopped abruptly, for she could not explain that the money saved was to buy Artie some long stockings, Thede some shoes, and her mother a summer dress. Paul could not read her thoughts, but he was shrewd enough to guess that economy was the reason why the common car was taken instead of the sleeper, and he felt an increased pity for her, as he frequently felt for people who had not all the money they wanted to spend. Thinking to change the conversation, he said: “I was down below, where the trunks are stored, and saw one with your name on it. I knew then you must be on board and hunted till I found you.”

At the mention of her trunk Elithe flushed, feeling in a moment the wide gulf between her trunk and herself and this elegant young man, so different from any one she had ever seen before, unless it were Mr. Pennington, of whom, in some respects, he reminded her. They probably belonged to the same grade of society, with, however, this difference: Paul Ralston had never fought blue demons in the mining camp of Deep Gulch, and on his face there were no signs of the fast life which always leaves its impress. That he was greatly her superior, she was sure, and as his eyes wandered over her from her shabby boots to her shabbier hat, she began to be painfully conscious of her personal appearance, and to wonder what he thought of her. Evidently he was expecting her to speak, and she said at last: “You saw my name on my trunk, but how did you know me?”

He would not tell her that there was something about her which made him think that she and the queer trunk belonged to each other, and he said what was partly true, “Your aunt has your photograph, which I have seen, and I recognized you by that, although you were so pale that I was not quite sure until you opened your eyes; then I knew. There was no mistaking your eyes.”

If he meant this for a compliment it was lost on Elithe. The motion of the boat was affecting her seriously again, and she grew so white that Paul began to feel alarmed, and to wonder what he should do in case she fainted. There were some ladies of his acquaintance on the boat, but he did not like to appeal to them, knowing how they would regard the forlorn little girl with nothing about her to mark her as belonging to their set. She was growing whiter every minute and bluer about her lips. Something must be done.

“You are awfully seasick, arn’t you?” he said, fanning her with his hat. “Let me help you below to the ladies’ cabin, where there are cushions and rocking chairs and bowls and things; but no, I’ve heard mother say it was frightfully close and smelly there. I have it. You stay here and keep your eyes shut. Don’t look at the water. The old boat does bob round like a cork. I never knew it to cut such capers before in the summer. It’s the stiff breeze, I guess.”

Elithe scarcely heard him, or knew when he left her. She was trying to keep down the nausea which was threatening to overmaster her and might have done so but for Paul’s happy thought of lemonade. It always helped him. It would help Elithe, and he brought her a glass of it, with chopped ice and a straw, and made her take it and watched as the color came back to her face, and he knew she was better.

“It was so good, and you are so kind. How much was it?” she asked, giving him back the glass and beginning to open her purse, now nearly empty.

“Nothing, nothing,” he answered, energetically, thinking of the difference between this girl, the scantiness of whose means he suspected, and the many young ladies he knew who would unhesitatingly allow him or any other man to pay whatever he chose to pay for them. “By George, there’s a vacant chair, and I mean to capture it before any one seizes it!” he exclaimed, and, darting off, he soon returned with a chair, in which Elithe was more comfortable than she had been on the hard seat on the side of the boat.

“Lean your head back and shut your eyes; that’s right,” he said, and Elithe lay back and closed her eyes.

Sitting down upon the seat she had vacated, he looked at her very closely, deciding that she was not like Clarice and the other girls of his world,—fashionable girls, delicately reared, with no wish ungratified. Her dress was poor and old-fashioned, and her hands, from which she had drawn her gloves, were brown with traces of hard work upon them; nor did she, in her present state, with her eyes shut and the haggard look in her tired face, impress him as very pretty. She was too crumpled and jaded for that, but, as if a breath from the future were wafted backward to the present, hinting vaguely of all that she was to dare and suffer for him, he felt strangely drawn towards her. For a few moments she seemed to sleep, and when the boat changed its course a little and the sun shone upon her face he stood up and shielded her from it, and brushed a fly from her head, and thought how soft and fluffy was her golden brown hair, more golden than brown in the sunlight. A sudden roll of the boat aroused her, and, starting up, she flashed upon him a look and smile so bright that he changed his mind with regard to her beauty.

“By Jove, she has handsome eyes, though, and a mouth which makes a feller’s water when she smiles,” he thought, as he asked if she were better.

They were not far from the Basin, where he told her they were to stop and take on the passengers who came by train from Boston. Then he began to talk of Oak City, which she was sure to like. “Not a great many swell people of the fast sort go there,” he said. “They have a fancy that it is too slow and religious, with two camp meetings there every year, but I don’t think so. I like the camp meetings. The residents are fine people, and its visitors are highly respectable,—some of the very best old families, like,——” He was going to say “the Ralstons,” but checked himself, and added instead, “Judges and Governors and professors. Fast people don’t go there much, such as Jack Percy and his crowd.”

Elithe had never heard of Jack Percy. Neither he nor his crowd interested her as much as the highly respectable set to which Paul evidently belonged.

“Is my aunt a swell woman?” she asked.

Paul could scarcely repress a smile, as he thought of Miss Hansford, but he answered, very gravely: “Not exactly a swell, but has oceans of blue blood in her veins, dating back to the Mayflower, and Miles Standish and Oliver Cromwell, and the Duke of Argyle, and the Lord knows who else,—fairly swims in it.”

“Oh-h!” Elithe gasped, with a feeling as if she were drowning in all this blue blood, some of which must belong to her, as she was a Hansford.

“Tell me about her. I never saw her. Do you think she will like me?” she said, and Paul replied: “Like you? Yes, of course, she will, and you will like her. I do. We are great friends.”

Then he began to speak of his own family, who spent nearly every summer at Oak City.

“We call our place the Ralston House,” he said, “and have owned it for years and years. Built it, in fact, or my great-grandfather did, when there wasn’t so much as a shanty on the island. He was a sea captain, and folks wondered he didn’t live in Nantucket with the rest of the captains, instead of pitching his tent in a lonely desert as it was then. Some old gossips say, and, by Jove, with truth, I believe, that he was a kind of smuggler, running his ship into Still Haven, a safe harbor near Oak City, and then hiding his goods in the Ralston House till he could dispose of them. Not the best kind of an ancestor to have, but that’s a great many years ago, and I don’t in the least mind telling you about the old chap whose ship went down in a storm off the Banks. He went with it, and has been eaten by the fishes by this time. The house he built is a queer old ark, or was before we fixed it over. It is large and rambling, with great, square rooms and the biggest chimney you ever saw. All round the chimney in the cellar is a room which I’d defy any one to get into if he didn’t know how. Under the stairs in the front entry is a closet, where father and mother hang their clothes. In a corner of the closet are three matched boards, which fit together perfectly, but come apart easily when you know how to manage them. Behind this partition is the chimney and some rough steps leading down to that room I told you about, and which tradition says was used for smugglers’ goods. In the partition in the cellar there are two or three more places of matched panels, which can be shoved aside to let in light and air. It’s a grand place to hide in if a fellow had done something or folks thought he had. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find you! Funny that I should dream so often of being hidden there. Innocent, you know, but hiding, just as I used to play when a boy with Tom Drake, who lives with us, and Jack Percy, who used to be here every summer from Washington. Your aunt never liked him much. He was rather mischievous, but good fun.”

This was the second time Paul had spoken of Jack Percy to Elithe, who had listened with a good deal of interest to his description of the Ralston House, and had experienced a kind of weird, uncanny feeling as she thought of the smugglers’ room where one could hide from justice. Paul never seemed to tire of talking of the house, which he said had been made over with a tower and bow windows and balconies until the old sea captain would never recognize it if he were to come sailing back some day in his ship. The big chimney was left, he told her, and built round it in the roof was a platform inclosed by a high balustrade, with seats where one could sit and look out on the water, and where the smuggler captain’s men used to watch for the first sight of the Vulture, as it came slowly into the harbor at Still Haven, with the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes floating from the masthead if their services were wanted that night, and only the Stars and Stripes if there was nothing to conceal.

“You can see the top of our house with the look-out on the roof among the trees as we get near Oak City. I’ll show it to you,” he said.

They were now moving slowly into the Basin, on the long pier of which a group of people were waiting.

“Hello! There’s Clarice! I didn’t really believe she’d be here,” Paul exclaimed. “Excuse me, please,” and he hurried away, leaving Elithe alone.

Her first impulse was to go below and see that her trunk was not carried on shore by mistake. Then, reflecting that she could watch from the boat and give the alarm in time if necessary, she kept her seat and watched the passengers as they came on board. There were several ladies and among them a tall, queenly looking girl, waving first her red parasol and then kissing her hand to some one on the boat. Everything about her dress was in perfect taste and the latest style, especially the sleeves, which were as large as the fashion would admit. At these Elithe looked admiringly, thinking with a pang of her small ones which Miss Tibbs had declared “big enough for anybody.” They were not half as big as those of the young lady in the gray dress, Eton jacket and pretty shirt waist, looking as fresh and cool as if no ray of the hot sun or particle of dust had fallen upon her since she left Boston in her new toilet. Elithe wondered who she was and if she wasn’t one of the few swells who frequented Oak City and if Paul Ralston knew her. If so she might possibly know her in time. He had been so very kind and friendly that he would surely come to see her and bring his acquaintances. A moment later she heard his voice as he came out upon the deck, and with him the swell young lady to whom he was talking, with his face lighted up and the smile upon it which she had thought so attractive.

Clarice Percy had been for some time with her mother in New York, where Paul had joined her. Leaving her mother there with friends, she had come with Paul as far as Worcester, where he stopped, as he had business. Wishing to see an old school-mate in Boston, Clarice had gone on to that city with the understanding that Paul was to look after her baggage, which was checked for Oak City by way of New Bedford, and that she was to join him at the Basin the following day. She was in the best of spirits. The arrangements for her wedding were satisfactorily completed. Her half brother Jack, who was sure to get drunk and disgrace her if he came to her bridal, was out of the way in Denver, or somewhere West, and she had nothing to dread from him. She had an elaborate trousseau in her six trunks, and was very glad to see Paul, and very much flattered with the attention she knew she was attracting as she stood talking to her handsome lover. Elithe could see her face distinctly, and thought how beautiful she was and how different from any one she had ever seen in Samona, and how different from herself in her mussy blue flannel and last year’s hat, with its crumpled ribbons and feathers. It was a very proud face, and the girl carried herself erect and haughty, and glanced occasionally at the people around her, with an expression which said they were not of her world and class. Toward the corner where Elithe sat she never glanced, nor did Paul. In his absorption with his betrothed he had evidently forgotten Elithe, who, after watching him and his companion for a while, half hoping he would speak to her again, turned her attention to the shore and the many handsome houses dotting the cliffs as the boat neared the landing at Oak City. High above the rest, on a slight elevation, she could see the top of what she was sure was the Ralston House, with its big chimney, its look-out on the roof and the tower which had been added when the place was modernized.

“That’s the Ralston House,” she thought, wondering if she would ever go there, and thinking with a kind of awe of the smuggler’s room in the cellar, which Sherlock Holmes could not find and the hidden entrance to it in the closet under the stairs.

CHAPTER XIV.
IN OAK CITY.

The boat was beginning to stop, and the passengers were hurrying from the deck, which Elithe was almost the last to leave. On the wharf crowds of people were gathered,—hundreds it seemed to her,—and by the time she was in their midst, pushed and jostled and deafened by the hackmen’s cries for the different hotels, she lost her head completely and wondered how she was ever to get through it, and if her aunt were there and how she was to know her, and what had become of her trunk. She found it at last on top of a Saratoga, with both hinges broken now and the lid kept in place by the rope, but still pushed up enough to show a bit of her second best dress through the aperture. It did look strange perched on top of the handsome Saratoga, but she did not realize how strange till she heard some one near her say very impatiently, “My gracious, how came this rubbish here! I hope you don’t think it belongs to me. Can’t you read the name, Elithe Hansford, on it? Take it away.”

Turning, she saw Clarice Percy ordering a porter to remove the obnoxious baggage, which he did with a bang. Close behind her was Paul Ralston, who, the moment he saw her, called out cheerily, “Oh, here you are. I’ve looked everywhere for you, thinking you might get dazed in this infernal jam, the biggest, I do believe, I’ve ever seen here. Everybody in town has come to meet somebody, and the rest to look on. Clarice, this is Miss Elithe Hansford from Montana. You remember, I told you she was on the boat. Miss Hansford, Miss Percy.”

If ever eyes expressed utter indifference if not contempt, those of Clarice did, as, with a swift glance, they took Elithe’s measure, from her hat and gown to her gloves and shoes. That she was a fright and a nobody she decided at once. But Paul had presented her, and she must show a semblance of civility. Taking Elithe’s hand, she held it so high that Elithe, who had not learned the fashion, wondered what it meant. She gave it a little shake and said, “Glad to meet you, I am sure.”

Nothing could be colder or haughtier than her voice and manner, and Elithe felt it keenly and was going away when Paul, with his usual kindness of heart, said to her, “I don’t see your aunt, but she must be here. I’ll look for her. Stay where you are, both of you. I’ll be back in a minute.”

While he was gone Elithe kept guard over her despised trunk, trying to adjust the hasp in its place and pushing back the fold of her dress showing so conspicuously. Clarice turned her back upon her and stood impatiently tapping her foot and humming to herself.

“She is very proud, and if all the people here are like her, I shall want to go home at once,” Elithe was thinking, when Paul came hurrying up and with him a young man so nearly resembling him in figure and height and general appearance that but for their dress one might be readily mistaken for the other when his back was turned.

“Your aunt is not here. Tom saw her on the piazza as he drove by. She probably did not expect you on this boat,” Paul said to Elithe, and added, “My man Tom will drive you home in our carriage. Here, Tom, take this trunk to an expressman and leave the young lady at Miss Hansford’s.”

Tom shouldered the trunk, while Paul continued to Clarice, whose face was clouded, “You don’t mind walking, do you? It is so short a distance.”

Clarice did mind, not so much the walk as the fact that Elithe, whom she considered far beneath her, was to be driven in the Ralston carriage while she went on foot.

“Oh, no; a little roasting, more or less, in this hot sun won’t hurt me; let’s go,” she said, with a toss of her head, and was turning away when Elithe, who had heard everything and understood it, exclaimed, “Please, Mr. Ralston, let Miss Percy ride. I would rather walk if some one will show me the way.”

“All right,” Paul answered, with some annoyance in his tone. “Tom shall take Clarice and I will go with you. Hallo, Tom! Bring the horses here.”

In an instant Clarice changed her tactics. She had no intention to let Paul take Elithe home, and she said, “How absurd! Do you think I am going to ride and let her walk, tired as she is. She looks quite worn out.”

She was beginning to be ashamed of her manner, which she knew was displeasing to Paul, and as she addressed herself to Elithe she flashed upon her a smile which made Elithe start, it seemed so familiar. The eyes, too, in their softer expression, had in them a look she had surely seen before. Tom had brought the horses up by this time, and at a sign from Clarice Paul gave his hand to Elithe and assisted her into the carriage. Clarice had played the amiable, and kept the role up as she walked with Paul the few blocks to the Percy cottage on Ocean Avenue. Then her mood changed, and without asking him in, she said, “I suppose I shall see you to-night, unless you feel it your duty to call upon that Miss,—what’s her name? Hansford isn’t it?”

“Girls are queer,” Paul reflected, as he bade her good-bye and went slowly towards home.

His road did not take him directly past Miss Hansford’s cottage, but he could see it from the avenue and knew that Elithe was there, as the carriage was driving away from it. Miss Hansford had fully intended to meet her niece, but for the first time in her life had forgotten to wind her clock, which stopped at three, and the first indication she had that it was time for the boat was when she saw it moving up to the wharf.

“For the land’s sake,” she exclaimed in alarm, glancing at the clock, “if there ain’t the boat, and I not there to meet her! What will she do?”

Then like an inspiration her bones came to her aid and told her somebody would see to her. She did not, however, expect her to be seen to in quite the way she was, and felt not a little surprised and elated when the Ralston carriage stopped before her door and Elithe alighted from it.

CHAPTER XV.
MISS HANSFORD AND ELITHE.

Miss Hansford had had many misgivings with regard to the wisdom of having sent for her niece. She had lived alone so long and her habits were so fixed that she dreaded the thought of a young person singing and whistling and banging doors and slatting her things round. She had tried to guard against some of these habits in her letter to Roger, but there was no knowing what a girl would do, and Lucy Potter’s girl, too. Still she had committed herself and must make the best of it.

“I shall use her well, of course,” she said many times, and as often as she dusted her mantel in the front room where Elithe’s picture was standing she stopped and looked at the face and talked to it until she almost felt that it was the real Elithe whose dark eyes met hers so seriously. “She’s pretty to look at and no mistake, but handsome is that handsome does, and the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” she said more than once, while she busied herself with the room Elithe was to occupy.

It was a low back room with the windows looking out upon an open space and clumps of oak and woods beyond, with no view of the sea. A room she seldom rented and which she at first hesitated about assigning to Elithe.

“I shall want all the t’others for the gentry when the wedding comes off,” she decided, and then went to work to make the back room as attractive as possible.

A light pretty matting was laid upon the floor. The old-fashioned bedstead, put together with ropes, and on which she had slept when a girl in Ridgefield, was sold to a Portuguese woman, and its place supplied by a single white bedstead with a canopy over the head. She had seen a bed like this at the Ralston House in a child’s room, and was imitating it as far as possible. That was brass, with hangings of point d’esprit, while hers was iron, with hangings of dotted muslin, but the effect was much the same. The chest of drawers which had belonged to her mother was moved into her own room and a small white pine bureau, with blue forget-me-nots painted on it, put in its place. The square stand was covered with a fine white damask towel, with a Bible and Hymn Book laid upon it. The rocker was white, the curtains at the windows were white, the toilet articles were white, everything was white. “A White Room,” Paul Ralston christened it, for he saw it on the day the last touches were put to it and just before he started to join Clarice in New York. Miss Hansford was adjusting the pillow-shams when she heard Paul below calling to her.

“Up here in Elithe’s room. Come and see it,” she said, and Paul ran up the narrow stairs two at a time and stood at the door, uncertain whether he ought to cross the threshold or not.

A young girl’s sleeping apartment was a sacred place, and he hesitated a moment until Miss Hansford bade him come in and see if it wasn’t pretty.

“I should say it was,” he replied, as he stepped into the room, bending his tall figure to keep clear of the roof where it slanted down on the sides. “It’s lovely, but a little low in some places. A great strapping six-footer like me might knock his brains out some dark night on the rafters, but Elithe is short. It will just suit her. Call it the White Room.”

He was very enthusiastic, and in his enthusiasm hit his head two or three times as he walked about, admiring everything, saying it lacked nothing but flowers, and suggesting that Miss Hansford get some pond lilies the day Elithe arrived.

“I’d do it myself,” he said, “only I’m going away and shan’t be here when she comes. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll have Tom bring over some white roses in the morning, if you will let him know when you expect her.”

Paul’s approval was sufficient for Miss Hansford, and after he was gone she dropped the shades over the windows and closed the room until the morning of the day when Elithe was expected. Tom brought the white roses, arranged by the gardener in a basket, which stood on the dressing-table, while on the stand at the head of the bed was a bowl of pond lilies which Miss Hansford had ordered, and which took her back to the river and pond in Ridgefield, where they had grown in such profusion, and where the boy Roger had gathered them for her. Roger had been gone from her twenty years and more; other boys gathered the lilies in Ridgefield. She was an old woman, and Roger’s girl was coming to her.

“I believe I’m glad, too,” she said, as she inhaled the odor of the blossoms, gave an extra pat to the bed and went down to the kitchen, wondering what she should cook for supper that would please Elithe. “Girls like cake and custard,” she said. “I’ll have both, and use the little custard cups with covers that were mother’s. There’s only four left of the dozen. ’Taint likely she’ll eat more than two to-night, and two to-morrow night. I don’t want any. Four will be enough.”

The cake was made and the custards, too, in the pretty china cups which Miss Hansford calculated were nearer a hundred years old than twenty. Never but once had she used them since she lived on the island, and that on the occasion of the Presiding Elder’s stay with her. Since then they had reposed quietly in her cupboard, with her best china. This she brought out now for Elithe, together with her best linen and napkins and silver. Had she been willing to acknowledge herself capable of such weakness, she would have known that she was guilty of a good deal of pride as she anticipated Elithe’s surprise at the grandeur which awaited her.

The morning was long after everything was in readiness, and the afternoon seemed interminable until she saw the boat at the wharf and knew her clock was an hour behind time. She had seen Tom Drake drive by in the Ralston carriage and wondered where and for whom he was going. That he would bring Elithe to her she never dreamed and when she saw him coming towards her cottage with a slip of a girl in the seat behind him, she exclaimed, “I snum if I don’t believe that’s Elithe!” and hurried out to meet her.

People who only saw Miss Hansford’s peculiar side said that if she ever had any milk of human kindness it had long since curdled. But these were mistaken. The treatment one received from her depended wholly upon whether they entered the front or back door of her heart,—the kitchen or the parlor. Fortunately for Elithe, she came to the front door and entered the parlor. She was nervous and excited, and had borne about as much as she could bear without breaking down in hysterics, and when she saw her aunt coming to meet her, she ran forward with a cry like a hurt child seeking its mother, and reaching out both hands, exclaimed, “Oh, Auntie, I am so glad to get here, and so tired!”

She put up her lips to be kissed, and in the eyes full of tears Miss Hansford saw a likeness to Roger, the boy she had liked so much and loved still in spite of Lucy Potter and his choice of a religion. This was his child, and there were tears in her own eyes as she kissed the young girl and led her into the house.

“You are all worn out,” she said, as she removed Elithe’s hat and made her sit down and asked if she were hungry.

With the exception of the lemonade Paul had brought her on the boat and a dry sandwich eaten in Springfield, Elithe had taken nothing that day; but she was not hungry. The sandwich still lay like lead in her stomach, and the lemonade was waging warfare with it. All she wanted was a drink of water, which her aunt brought her, and which she drank eagerly, then leaned her head against the cushioned back of the chair, as if all life had gone from her.

“She’s a good deal mussed and pretty dirty,” Miss Hansford thought, as she asked: “Ain’t there something I can get you besides water?—tea, or something? I can make a cup in a minute.”

“No, thanks,” Elithe replied. “Water is the best of anything. If I could have a bath; I believe I am one big dust heap.”

She laughed as she said it, and her smile made her face lovely, with all its fatigue.

“You shall have one,” Miss Hansford answered, with alacrity, thinking of the White Room, in which a dust heap was not desirable. “It’s a kind of a fixed-up affair,” she continued, speaking of her improvised bath tub in a large, low closet back of Elithe’s room, “but it answers very well. I’ll take some hot water up right away.”

Against this Elithe protested, saying she would do it herself.

“You set still, I tell you. You are tuckered out,” Miss Hansford insisted, beginning to take the water up in pails and stopping between times to talk to Elithe and ask about her journey.

“You come in the common car all the way and hain’t had your clothes off since you left home! What’d you do that for? I sent money for a sleeper,” she exclaimed, setting down her pail so suddenly that some of the water was spilled on the floor.

“I know you sent it, and father and mother wanted me to take it, but they needed it so much that I made them keep it. Artie must have some stockings and Thede some shoes and mother hasn’t had a new dress in three years,” Elithe explained.

“My land!” was all Miss Hansford replied, as she went up the stairs with her pail, but to herself she said: “Poor as Job’s turkey, I knew they were. No new dress in three years; that’s hard for Lucy Potter, who used to be so fond of jewgaws. The girl’s all right, poor thing. The dirt must be an inch thick on her. I’ll bring up another pail full and get her a whole bar of Sweet Home soap. She’ll need it.”

When her bath was ready Elithe followed her aunt up the stairs into the room designed for her.

“Oh, how lovely! It rests me just to look at it,” she said.

“I’m glad you like it. I thought you would. Paul called it the white room, and had the roses sent over from their place. He suggested the lilies, too,” Miss Hansford replied, enjoying Elithe’s appreciation of everything, as she buried her face first in the roses and then in the lilies, scarcely knowing which she liked the better.

Both were exquisite and both a little sweeter because Paul Ralston had sent one and suggested the other. There was a call from below, and Miss Hansford hurried down to find the expressman with Elithe’s trunk, which she made him put down outside while she swept it with a broom, brushed it with a brush, and dusted it with feathers. “Pretty well knocked to pieces,” the man said, but Miss Hansford did not answer. She had recognized the trunk as having been her own, which she had given to Roger when a boy, and now it had come back to her, “battered and banged and old just as I am,” she thought, as she unknotted the rope tied around it and bade the man carry it to Elithe’s room. The bath, which Elithe enjoyed so much, refreshed and invigorated her, but did not remove the drowsiness stealing over her. It was five nights since her head had touched a pillow, and the sight of the white bed was a temptation she could not resist. She had slipped on a loose, white Mother Hubbard, made from an immense linen sheet which had been sent in a missionary box and utilized first for her mother and then for herself.

“I must lie down or I shall fall asleep standing,” she said. Then as she remembered how much she had to be thankful for,—the safe journey, the kindness of everybody from good Mrs. Baker and Paul Ralston to her aunt who had received her so cordially, she went down upon her knees, and, resting her head upon the bed, tried to pray and thought she did. “Our Father,” she began from habit, and then the soft feel of the bed against her tired head and the pressure of exhaustion upon her brain overcame her and she floated off into a dreamy sense of things past and present, the pretty room, the roses and the lilies, the delicious bath, Paul Ralston, Artie and Thede and George and Rob and Mr. Pennington and Heaven, which she had finally entered, losing herself at last in a heavy sleep from which she did not waken until the clock struck six and her aunt came up to see what had happened to her.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE DAYS WHICH FOLLOWED.

Miss Hansford had sat below listening to the splashing of water overhead, hoping Elithe would not get much on the floor, as it might come through into the kitchen, and that she would not leave the soap in the tub when she was through with her bath. She heard her next in the white room moving about, and hoped she would not slat her things around, but hang them in the closet.

“I couldn’t bear to see that room all littered up, though Elithe’s litter wouldn’t be so bad as some. I begin to like the girl and feel like a mother already,” she thought, as she listened to the steps overhead until they ceased, and she waited for Elithe to come down.

As she did not appear she finally decided that she was resting and she would not disturb her until supper was ready. Never had she taken more pains with a meal than she did that afternoon. The rolls were light; the strawberries and cream were fresh, while the custards in the blue china cups were the crowning of the feast prepared for Elithe. Why didn’t she come down, Miss Hansford wondered as the time slipped by and she began herself to feel the pangs of hunger.

“Elithe!” she called at last at the foot of the stairs. “Elithe!” but Elithe was wrapped in oblivion to everything around her, and it would take more than a call to waken her. “I b’lieve she’s asleep,” Miss Hansford said, going up the stairs and glancing first into the bath closet. Everything was right there. The bar of soap was in the saucer on the wooden chair and the towels on the rack. Turning next to the white room, she stood for a moment in the door which jutted back a little into the hall or entry so that she could not at once see the bed and the young girl sleeping there. She could only see the confusion, which filled her with dismay. Elithe was as orderly, and more so, perhaps, than most girls. Slatting was not her custom, and she had meant to put everything away after finishing her toilet. But sleep had overtaken her, and the whole room was bearing frightful evidence against the Potter blood. Her trunk was open, with various articles in a huddle, as she had left them when hunting for her linen. Her best dress, her second best and her gingham were on exhibition; a part of the bathing suit hung over one side of the trunk and a white apron on the other. On the floor at intervals lay her traveling clothes, boots and stockings and skirts, which she had left where she dropped them. Miss Hansford stepped over some of them and kicked others aside as she advanced into the room with stern disapproval on her face.

“I’ll give up if she hasn’t slatted in good earnest. Her mother all over!” she thought, just as her eye fell upon the figure by the bedside.

Elithe’s head was on one side, disclosing a part of her face, which was very pale, except for a red spot on her cheek. Through the window a bar of sunshine fell across her hair like a halo bringing out its golden tints and reminding Miss Hansford of a picture she once saw of the Virgin when a girl of fifteen.

“Fell asleep saying her prayers, poor, tired child!” Miss Hansford said to herself, all her discomposure at the slatted room vanishing as she picked up the soiled articles and put them away. Then she awoke Elithe, who started to her feet suddenly, but sank back quickly upon the bed. She was not hungry, she said. She could not eat if she went down. All she wanted was to sleep, and her head fell heavily upon her breast. Miss Hansford told her of the strawberries and cream and the rolls and the custards, dwelling at length upon the latter and the cups they were baked in. Elithe could surely eat a custard if nothing else.

“No, auntie, not even a custard to-night, if it were baked in a cup five hundred years old,” Elithe said. “I can’t eat anything. I’ve had too much already. That sandwich was dreadful.”

A moment later she parted company with the stale sandwich eaten in Springfield and the lemonade taken on the boat. With her stomach thus relieved, she felt better, but begged so hard to be left alone that her aunt did not urge her further.

“Hop right into bed, and I’ll cover you up. It gets chilly here at night,” she said, turning back the sheet and shaking up the pillow.

Elithe needed no second bidding, and before her aunt left the room she was again sleeping soundly. Miss Hansford ate her supper alone, lamenting over the custards, which stood untouched in the little cups until Paul came whistling up the walk. He was on his way to see Clarice, and had called to enquire for Elithe. She had seemed so tired on the boat and on the wharf that her face had haunted him ever since, and he wished to know if she were rested.

“Hello, taking your supper alone?” he said, as he saw Miss Hansford sitting in solitary state with what he knew to be her best things.

She welcomed him warmly, thanked him for his kindness to Elithe, who, she told him, was dead beat and had fallen asleep saying her prayers. “I couldn’t get her to eat a thing,—not even a custard, and I made ’em for her. I never touch ’em. There’s four of ’em, and I’m afraid they’ll sour unless you help me out,” she said, offering him a little blue cup.

He had just finished his dinner, but he expressed himself willing to help in the emergency, and ate the two custards intended for Elithe. He was very solicitous about her, hoping she would be quite well in the morning and saying he would come round in his cart and take her for a drive. Then he shook himself down,—a habit he had,—straightened his hat and said he must go and see Clarice.

“Elithe saw her on the boat, I b’lieve. Tell her to call,” Miss Hansford said, jerking the last words out with an effort, and hating herself for caring whether Clarice called or not.

“Of course she’ll call. We’ll come together,” Paul assured her, as he ran down the steps and hurried off to make his peace with the young lady who, he felt pretty sure, was aggrieved because he had sent Elithe home in his carriage instead of herself.

Three or four times before her usual hour for retiring, Miss Hansford went up to Elithe’s room, finding her always in the same position, her head on one side, her hands crossed upon her bosom and her face very white, except for the spots on her cheeks, which increased in size until they spread down to her neck. Her hands were hot and her head was hot, but she appeared to be sleeping quietly.

“Just tired, I guess. I’m not going to worry,” Miss Hansford thought.

But she did worry, and as soon as the first streak of dawn appeared she was dressed and in Elithe’s room again. To all appearances there had not been the slightest change of position during the night. The hands were folded just the same, the head was turned on the pillow, and the bed clothes exactly as Miss Hansford had left them.

“Elithe!” she said. “Elithe, wake up!”

But Elithe made no answer except to open her eyes for an instant and close them again wearily. Her face was crimson now, and the perspiration stood under her hair, which, with the dampness, curled closely on her forehead.

Miss Hansford had never been ill herself, and did not believe much in the ailments of other people. All they had to do was to make an effort and brace up. But Elithe baffled her. She could not get her to brace up, or wake up either, although she shook her and called her loudly by name.

“I hate a doctor like pisen, but I’ve got to have one,” she decided, and the first man who passed the house was sent in quest of one.

He was a young practitioner, new in the place, and very full of his own importance as an M. D. After asking a few questions and holding Elithe’s hand longer than Miss Hansford thought there was any need of he began to diagnose the case with so many long words that she lost her temper and exclaimed: “For the land’s sake, quit the encyclopædia and talk common sense. What’s the matter with her?”

“Nervous exhaustion, amounting almost to nervous prostration, complicated with fever and some slight gastric derangement of the stomach, brought on by too long fasting and eating improper food. Nothing dangerous, I assure you. Nothing but what will yield readily to treatment,” was the doctor’s reply, as he stirred his two glasses of water and told how often to give it.

“What’s your price?” Miss Hansford asked, with her characteristic habit of having things “on the square.”

The doctor looked at her a moment before he replied: “Two dollars a visit.” Then he went away, saying he would come again in the afternoon.

Miss Hansford did not believe in homeopathy at all, and sniffed a good deal at the water in the tumblers and the price she was to pay for it. But she gave it religiously and watched Elithe very closely until the doctor came again. If the case was not dangerous it was certainly puzzling to him. For a few days Elithe lay in a kind of stupor, seldom moving so much as her hand or opening her eyes. The doctor with the big words and little pills was dismissed, and one called in his place from Still Haven, a second from the Basin, and a third from a hotel. One was an allopathist, another an eclectic, the third a Christian Scientist, and all fools, Miss Hansford said, dismissing them one after another as she had the homeopathist, and taking the case in her own hands. If nothing ailed Elithe but nervous exhaustion, she’d get over it without doctors, she said.

Those were very anxious days which followed when Miss Hansford stayed by Elithe night and day, except when her duties called her below. She washed Elithe’s clothes herself, finding in the pocket of the flannel dress the box with the diamond ring in it. Once she thought to open it, but a sense of honor forbade, and she put it carefully away in the trunk from which she removed Elithe’s dresses, recognizing Lucy Potter’s wedding gown and understanding in part the sacrifice the mother had made for the daughter.

All of Miss Hansford’s acquaintances soon knew of the girl, who had come so far and was lying unconscious and helpless, and everybody was kind, especially the Ralstons. Two or three times a day Paul came to inquire how she was, bringing fruit and flowers and asking if there was anything he could do. Prayers were offered for her in the Tabernacle and the Methodist church and the Episcopal. The last was at Paul’s request, and his Amen was so fervent and loud that Clarice, who was sitting at some distance from him, heard it distinctly above the others, and shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

“Who was the person prayed for this morning? Some of your relations?” she asked Paul, as they were leaving the church together.

“Why, Miss Hansford,” he replied, in some surprise.

“Miss Hansford!” she repeated. “She must have been taken suddenly. I saw her on the street last night.”

“I mean Elithe, her niece. Don’t you know she has been very ill ever since she reached here. I have certainly mentioned it to you,” Paul said.

Clarice did know perfectly well of Elithe’s illness, and how often Paul was at the cottage, and of the fruit and flowers sent there daily, and was exceedingly annoyed. She would scorn to acknowledge it, but she was jealous of Elithe and angry with Paul for his interest in her and his democratic ideas generally. It would be her first duty to change some of them when she was his wife, but for the present she contented herself with occasional stings, which he either did not or would not understand. He lunched with her on the Sunday when prayers were said for Elithe, and then sat with her for an hour or two on the piazza, listening to the band and talking as young people will talk when in love with each other. And Paul was very much in love. Clarice’s pride and hauteur, which he could not appreciate, he looked upon as something she would overcome in time. To him she was always gentle and sweet, and, dazzled by the glamour of her beauty, he thought himself the most fortunate of men in having won her. In Elithe he felt a great interest, and after leaving Clarice that Sunday afternoon, he went to Miss Hansford’s cottage to inquire for her.

“Better since I sent the doctors adrift. Come up and see for yourself. She won’t know you,” Miss Hansford continued, as Paul hesitated. “She lies just the same, but seems to me there’s a change.”

The room was partly in shadow, but Paul could see the face upon the pillow, thinner and whiter than when he last saw it, but exceedingly lovely, with a faint flush where the fever stains had been and the damp rings of hair about the forehead. Her hands were folded and she seemed to be sleeping quietly.

“Poor little girl! She’s had a hard time,” Paul said aloud, as he stood looking at her.

At the sound of his voice her eyes opened suddenly, and rested upon him, with a questioning look in them. “The lemonade was so good. I wish I had some more. I am very thirsty,” she said.

Evidently she thought herself on the hot boat taking the lemonade Paul had brought her. With a cry of delight, Miss Hansford exclaimed: “Thank God! It’s the first word she has spoken. She shall have the lemonade if it kills her!”

She was down the stairs in a moment, leaving Paul alone and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering if he, too, ought not to go. Elithe decided for him. Lifting up her hand and reaching it towards him she said: “You are Mr. Ralston and I am Elithe. Don’t you remember?”

She was introducing herself to him, and he took her hand and kept it while he replied: “Yes, I am Paul Ralston, and you are Elithe. I am glad you are better. You have been very ill.”

“Ill!” Elithe repeated, with a startled look in her eyes, which went rapidly around the room, taking in all its appointments and their meaning. “I didn’t know I was ill. How long is it, and where is auntie?”

“Here, child,” and Miss Hansford appeared with the lemonade, finding Paul holding Elithe’s hand in one of his and smoothing her hair with the other.

He was a natural nurse, and she looked and seemed so like a child in her helplessness that he caressed her as if she were one, and held the glass to her lips while she drank eagerly. She was decidedly better, but a good deal bewildered with regard to her illness, which she could not understand.

“Don’t try to now. We’ll talk of it by and by when you are stronger,” Paul said, as he bade her good-bye and went below, followed by Miss Hansford.

During the days and nights she had watched by Elithe the little girl had crept a long ways into her heart, melting the frost of years and awakening in her all the instincts of loving motherhood.

“I never b’lieved I could care for anybody as I do for her,” she said to Paul. “Why, only think that I, an old maid of sixty-five, who never had an offer, and only now and then a beau home from spellin’ school or singin’ school, should actually feel as if I was several mothers. I don’t see through it.”

Paul laughed merrily at her idea of several mothers, and then went to telegraph the glad news to Samona that Elithe was better. This was his third telegram, for after he knew Miss Hansford’s letter telling of Elithe’s illness must have reached there, he had sent a message every day, knowing how anxious the family would be. Miss Hansford had tried not to alarm them, and had only said Elithe was worn out with the journey and sick in bed from its effects. The telegrams, “Is about the same,” or “No worse,” frightened them more than the letter, and if the prayers in Oak City for her recovery were fervent and heartfelt, they were doubly so in Samona and at Deep Gulch.

“If I ever prayed in my life I’d do so now,” one of the toughest of the miners said, wiping his eyes with his grimy hand. “I should s’pose Stokes, who has been through the mill, would go at it. Hallo, Stokes! Ain’t there a prayer for the sick in that book of yourn you read so much?” he called to Stokes, coming slowly from his cabin.

Stokes nodded, and the rough continued: “Well, you’d better say it for Miss Elithe, and lively, too. No time to fool round now.”

“I am saying it all the time,” was Stokes’s reply, as he passed on to his work.

Every day a boy was sent to Samona for news, and when at last Paul’s telegram, “She is better,” flashed across the continent and was carried to the camp a loud huzza went up from the miners, the tough leading the yell and getting drunker that night than he had ever been before in his life by way of celebrating Elithe’s recovery. Mr. Pennington did not return from Helena for a week or more, consequently he knew nothing of Elithe’s illness until the worst was over and Paul’s telegrams came every day, signed sometimes Paul Ralston and sometimes P. R.

“He is awful good to take so much interest in Elithe, isn’t he?” Rob said to Mr. Pennington, when communicating the last telegram to him. “I wonder who he is.”

There was no reply, but Mr. Pennington’s face was dark, as he turned away with something akin to jealousy stirring in his heart and a half resolve to start at once for Oak City and assert his claim to Elithe against all the world.

CHAPTER XVII.
GETTING ACQUAINTED.

After the disease left her, if there had been any disease, Elithe’s recovery was rapid. Of her illness she remembered nothing, except a feeling that she was having a delicious rest and a dream of Mr. Pennington and the diamond ring. Where was her dress and the box, she wondered, and was about to inquire, when, as if guessing her thoughts, her aunt said to her, “I’ve washed your things, dress and all. There was a box in the pocket. I don’t know what was in it, if anything, but I put it in your trunk.”

At first Elithe thought to tell her aunt about the ring and ask her what to do with it. Her father had written that Mr. Pennington had again left Samona and it was uncertain when he would return. She could not send the ring direct to him, and she decided that her better way was to keep it until she went home, and then give it to her father, who would return it to Mr. Pennington. With her aunt she did not feel quite at ease, but the acquaintance progressed rapidly during the days of convalescence, when she sat in the large easy chair in the pleasant front room, looking out upon the sea and the passers-by. Every day Paul Ralston came in for a few moments, and Elithe found herself looking forward to his coming with a good deal of interest. Clarice had not called, nor did she intend to. Paul had given her Miss Hansford’s message, and several times had suggested going with her after Elithe was able to see people, but she always had some reason for not going, and at last said pettishly, “Don’t bother me any more, please. The fact is, I am not specially interested in Miss Hansford or her niece, and I have more acquaintances now than I can do justice to.”

After that Paul said no more on the subject, but went oftener himself to make amends for Clarice’s neglect. This was the reason he gave to himself, and at first it was partially true. But he could not see Elithe day after day and not get interested in her, she was so sweet and unaffected, and her eyes welcomed him so gladly when he came, and she was so pretty in her short hair and white negligee jackets which her aunt had bought for her. Paul carried a picture of her with him when he left her and insensibly found himself looking forward to the next day when he could see her again. In this he had no thought of disloyalty to Clarice. She was the rare rose which belonged to him, while Elithe was the simple wild flower, whose perfume he could inhale with no harm to him or any one. Every day he spent hours with Clarice. They went in bathing together; they rode on wheels together on the smooth asphalt pavement, and in the afternoon he took her to drive with his tandem team, the first in Oak City, and greatly admired in consequence. Elithe had seen him go by on his wheel with Clarice and made no comment, except to wonder if she could learn to ride and how much a wheel would cost. Her aunt did not reply and set her lips together in a way which Elithe had learned meant disapprobation. Evidently, Miss Hansford did not believe in wheels.

The next day the tandem turnout went by, with Clarice driving and Paul sitting by her side, radiant with happiness and content. Clarice was handling the reins skillfully and looking very handsome as she sat beside him. He saw Elithe in the door and touched his hat to her, but Clarice’s attention was centered on the fleet horses, which required all her strength to keep well in hand.

“Miss Percy drives a good deal with Mr. Ralston. They must be great friends,” Elithe said.

“They are engaged,” Miss Hansford answered shortly, biting off rather viciously the end of the thread she was trying to put through the point instead of the eye of her needle.

“Engaged!” Elithe repeated, with a feeling for a moment as if the day were not quite as bright as it had been an hour ago.

“Yes,” Miss Hansford replied, “more’s the pity, but if he’s suited I ought to be. They are to be married the last of August, here in Oak City, with a great spread. You’ll be invited, of course, with me. Paul brought me a new grey silk from Paris as a present to wear. It is not made yet. I must get about it pretty soon. Time enough, though. I wonder what you’ve got to wear.”

Elithe had not quite heard all her aunt was saying. Paul’s engagement was a surprise to her and not altogether a satisfaction. She did not know that she had attached any importance to his attentions to herself. She only knew that they had been very pleasing, and could never be quite the same with her knowledge of his engagement to Clarice Percy. Remembering the young lady’s manner towards her, and, contrasting it with Paul’s affability, she felt how unlike they were to each other, and was disappointed that Paul should thus have chosen. For a moment there was a little pang in her heart, making her forget that her aunt was talking of the grand wedding in August and asking what she had that was suitable to wear. As yet, she knew nothing of the elegant toilets worn at watering places. Her changeable silk, made from her mothers gown, was quite equal to any emergency, and she assured her aunt that she was quite well equipped for the wedding, should she be fortunate enough to be invited.

The next time Paul came he staid longer than usual,—complimented Elithe on her rapid improvement, and said she would soon be able to drive with him behind his tandem.

“Thanks. I saw you go by yesterday with Miss Percy. She is very beautiful, and your horses, too,” Elithe replied, conscious at once that she had made an odd speech in associating Paul’s betrothed with his horses. He did not seem to mind it, but chatted on pleasantly, talking a great deal about his horses and a little about Clarice after Miss Hansford said to him, “I told Elithe you was going to be married in August.”

“Oh, yes; certainly, certainly; expect a great time. Glad you are here,” Paul rejoined, mopping his face with his handkerchief, as the morning was very warm.

Then he began to talk of the guests he expected and when they would arrive.

“Is Jack coming?” Miss Hansford asked, and Paul replied, “Doubtful. Clarice don’t know where he is, and don’t wish to know. She is afraid of the consequences. It takes so little to upset him. He generally carries a bottle in his pocket and is very noisy and quarrelsome when over the bay.”

Miss Hansford was a strong supporter of the W. C. T. U., and had less sympathy for a man easily affected than for one who could take quarts with no bad result. So far as Jack was concerned, whether he could take much or little, did not matter. He was better out of the way, and she said so, with sundry uncomplimentary remarks concerning him, while Paul defended him. The only subject on which he and Miss Hansford ever openly differed was the luckless Jack, whom Paul declared a pretty good fellow, but for one fault, while she denounced him as wholly bad. There was no reason why Elithe should be interested in him; and yet she was, and, after Paul had gone, she asked her aunt why Clarice did not try to reform him instead of turning against him.

“There’s no reform in him,” her aunt replied. “I know Jack Percy,—a bad egg when he was a boy, and a worse one now he is a man, I dare say, though I haven’t known much of him lately. Such as he can’t reform.”

“He must be pretty bad, then,” Elithe said, thinking of Mr. Pennington as he was in the miners’ camp and as he was when she saw him last.

She spoke of him to her aunt, who asked when she had finished, “Is he anything to you?”

“To me? No; nothing but a friend. We all liked him. We couldn’t help it,” was Elithe’s answer, given with no change of voice or color.

She was untouched; but Miss Hansford was not so sure of the man. He could not be insensible to Elithe’s beauty,—no man could. It had impressed Paul, engaged though he was; it must have impressed Mr. Pennington, who might appear on the scene at any moment, and Miss Hansford’s bones began to tell her that trouble would come from Elithe’s reformed friend. She was studying Elithe carefully, and as yet could find no fault with her. She neither sang, nor whistled, nor slatted her things; she was so helpful about the house, so sunny and bright and willing that her aunt wondered how she had ever lived without her, and began to dread the time when she would be gone. There was no Potter blood in her, she decided, unless it were manifest in the flower-like beauty of her face and the supple grace of her figure. So much she conceded to the Potters. For the rest Elithe was all Hansford.

“I hain’t an atom of fault to find with her, nor her bringin’ up,” she said to a neighbor. “Nothing at all, except that she’s never read the Bible through, and she a minister’s daughter. But what can you expect of a ’Piscopal who puts the Prayer Book before everything. She knows that about by heart, same as I did once.”

Reading the Bible through was one of Miss Hansford’s tests of religious training, and she had learned with surprise that Elithe was remiss in this respect.

“Never read the Bible through! My soul! What’s your father been thinking about?” she said, when Elithe confessed her shortcoming. “Why, I’d read it through before I was a dozen years old,—five chapters every Sunday and three every week day will do it in a year.”

Then she began to question Elithe’s knowledge of the Scriptures, finding that she neither knew how old Adam was when he died, nor how old he was when Seth was born. Ages were Miss Hansford’s specialty, and she could give you the birthdays at once of most of the noted people in the Bible and the date of their death.

“I suppose you know your catechism from A to izzard,” she suggested to Elithe, who replied, “No, I don’t. I never could manage the long answer about my duty to God and my neighbor. Heathenish, I know, and if you say so I’ll learn them at once. Any way, I’ll begin the three chapters in the Bible to-day, and will soon catch up with the old fellows’ ages.”

Every morning after that Elithe spent an hour or so in her room poring over the Bible until she knew a good deal about Adam and Seth and many more of the patriarchs. If she had a longing for the flesh-pots as represented by the Rink and Casino and the dances at the hotel, she did not show it. But the fun was in her just the same, and she never heard the band in the distance that she did not keep time to it with her hands or her feet, and more than one waltz the little kitchen saw when she was alone, with no one to criticise. She had not yet joined the bathers on the beach, although urged to do so by Paul, who promised to teach her to swim and to float and to help her in every way, if he knew when she was to be there.

“I am going to-morrow,” she said to him one day when he called.

“All right. I’ll find you, if I don’t go blue fishing. Some of us fellows are talking of it,” he answered, as he bade her good afternoon and started across the fields in the direction of the Percy cottage.

When he was gone Elithe brought out her bathing suit and tried it on for her aunt’s inspection.

“That’s decent,” Miss Hansford said, “and doesn’t show your arms and legs as some of ’em do,—Clarice Percy’s, for instance. I declare to goodness it makes me blush when I see her and some of ’em like her, with nothing on but a little skirt, you may say!”

Elithe had been down to the beach and seen the little skirts and thought them and their wearers immodest. Hers, however, was right. It came some ways below her knees, and if the sleeves were rather short it did not matter so much. Her arms were very pretty and she knew it, and her aunt knew it and thought with a good deal of satisfaction that Clarice couldn’t beat them. That night Elithe dreamed she was in the surf with Paul and Mr. Pennington, both contending for her and holding her under the water till she woke to find a soft shower falling outside and the rain beating upon her face from the open window.

CHAPTER XVIII.
ELITHE AND CLARICE.

It was the fashionable hour for bathing. The band, which alternated between Oceanside and the Heights, was to play that morning, and the pavilion was full of people watching the bathers diving, swimming and jumping and filling the air with shouts of laughter. Elithe had wanted her aunt to come with her, but Miss Hansford had excused herself and consigned her to the care of a lady, who promised that she should not stay in the water too long or get beyond her depth. At first Elithe looked round for Paul. He was not to be seen, and, thinking he had probably gone fishing, she took possession of her bath room and arrayed herself in her blue suit, which was rather baggy and conspicuous from its over size. She, however, did not think so, and started gayly with her friend across the platform or bridge leading to the water. At the head of the steps Clarice Percy was standing, clad in a fanciful costume of black, trimmed with scarlet, and exposing so much of her person that Elithe felt ashamed for her, and wondered how she could look so unconcerned with so many masculine eyes upon her. Although Clarice had not called upon Elithe, she had seen her several times and knew she was at the bath house, for they had come down in the same car, she sitting in front and Elithe, who got in later, in the rear. Clarice usually bathed at the Tower on the Oceanside, as it was nearer her mother’s cottage, but this morning she was at the Heights for a purpose of her own. Paul had told her the previous night not to expect him the next day, for, if he did not go fishing, he should be at the Heights, as Elithe was to take her first bath and he had promised to see to her.

Paul had talked too much of Elithe to suit Clarice, who sometimes felt that she hated the girl because of his interest in her. She was, however, too politic to show her real feelings. Smiling very sweetly, she said: “That will suit me perfectly, as I am going there, too. I’m told it is not as stony as at the Tower.”

Thoroughly honest and open in everything he said or did, Paul did not see through the ruse, and was rather glad than otherwise to show off Clarice’s accomplishments as diver and swimmer to the people at the Heights. He could attend to Elithe first and her afterwards, and he hoped the fishing party might be given up, as it was at the last moment, and this made him late at the beach. Glancing at the bathers and seeing neither Clarice nor Elithe among them, he dressed himself leisurely, and, going out, found Clarice waiting for him. She had heard that the fishing was given up and knew Paul would be there. She had seen Elithe when she appeared at the end of the long platform, and watched her as she came across it. Something in the dress first attracted and then startled her so that her look was a stare when Elithe came close to her. For a moment their eyes met, and Elithe’s kindled a little expectantly, then fell under the haughty gaze confronting them.

“That’s Miss Percy, the proudest girl on the island,” Miss Noble said to Elithe, who did not reply.

She was too much absorbed in putting one foot in the water and taking it back again with a shiver to think of Clarice still watching her curiously.

“I can’t be mistaken,” she was saying, when she saw Paul coming from the bath house and went to meet him. “You see I am here,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “and so is your Western friend. See?”

She pointed towards Elithe, who was now standing up to her waist in the water and resisting Miss Noble’s efforts to get her farther out.

“Yes, I see. She’s afraid. They always are at first. Let’s go to her.”

Elithe saw him coming and smiled pleasantly upon him, and then gave a little cry as a wave came tumbling in and nearly knocked her down.

“Hallo!” Paul cried. “Frightened, arn’t you? That won’t do. Go under as soon as you can. Let’s have a dip.”

Still holding Clarice’s hand, he seized Elithe’s and said to her: “Take hold of Clarice’s. Now, all hands round,” he cried, jumping up and down until both girls were thoroughly splashed with water and Elithe’s fears had entirely vanished. Clarice was never more angry in her life. To be thus associated with Elithe was too much to bear quietly. Wrenching her hands away without a word, she struck out for the raft at some distance from the shore, and, climbing upon it, sat down while Paul waded farther out, with his arm around Elithe, and then tried to make her swim. She proved an apt pupil, and he complimented her highly upon her skill.

“By the way, where is Clarice?” he asked, looking round until he saw her. “Oh, there she is! Suppose we go to her. It’s not very far,” he suggested.

Something warned Elithe to keep away from the raft while Clarice was there.

“I don’t believe I’ll try it,” she said. “I guess I’ve done enough for one morning. I’m getting tired, and think I’ll go ashore if Miss Noble is ready.”

Miss Noble was quite ready, and Paul went with them to the stairs and then swam back to the raft, where Clarice was still sitting. She had learned from experience that her little spurts of temper were lost on Paul, who either did not or would not notice them, and when he said to her, “You’ll take cold sitting there so long; come into the water,” she obeyed at once, and began swimming toward the shore. As they neared it and she was walking beside him she said: “Didn’t your Western friend come from Samona, and isn’t her father the Rev. Roger Hansford?”

“Yes,” Paul replied, and Clarice continued, in a low tone: “I thought so. Funny, isn’t it? She has on my old bathing suit. I sent it to Samona in a missionary box with a lot more things.”

“That accounts for its being so becoming to her,” Paul replied, shaking the water from his hair, as he went up the steps.

Clarice gave a shrug of annoyance. Her little shaft had failed to hit the mark, and she was not in a very good humor when she left him and went towards her dressing room, meeting on the way an acquaintance, who, like herself, had just left the water.

Meanwhile Elithe was divesting herself of her wet garments, and had nearly completed her toilet when Clarice and her friend passed her door, one taking the room next her own and the other the adjoining one. They were talking together, and every word they said could be distinctly heard by Elithe.

“Do you often come here?” one asked, and the other replied: “Haven’t been here before this summer, and don’t believe I’ll come again. Not a soul I know but you and Paul.”

Elithe thought she recognized the last speaker’s voice, but was not sure until the first spoke again.

“I say, Clarice, who is the pretty girl Mr. Ralston was teaching to swim?”

Elithe held her breath for the answer, which came promptly and plain.

“That? Oh, that’s a niece of that frumpy Miss Hansford. You’ve heard of her, of course. The girl’s name is Elithe,—rather a pretty name, too. She’s from the wild and woolly West, Miners’ Camp, or something in Montana. Paul has the queerest notions about some things. He has always liked the aunt, and is polite to her niece, just as he is to every one. I believe the old maid asked him to take charge of her to-day. Do you think her pretty? I wish you could have seen her on the boat the day she came. Such a guy, and such baggage,—actually tied with a rope!”

“Not, really?”

“Yes, really. Hope to die if it wasn’t; and she has on an old bathing suit of mine which was sent in a missionary box from our church in Washington to the Rev. Roger Hansford. That’s her father. I can’t be mistaken. The buttons and braid were of a peculiar kind. I never liked it, and only wore it at Long Branch a few times. I knew it in a minute. There was a riding cap of mine in the same box. I wonder if she has that and will appear in it some day? No, I don’t think her very pretty. Perhaps she would be if her clothes were not so back-woodsy. She was at church last Sunday in a made-over changeable silk, with small sleeves, gathered just a little at the top. Not material enough to make them larger, I suppose. Probably that was in some box like my bathing suit. Her aunt sent word for me to call. Think of it!”

“Have you called?” the first speaker asked, and Clarice replied: “I guess not much! Shan’t, either; although Paul wants me to do so. He’s very democratic, you know.”

“Yes, but an awfully nice fellow, and you are to be congratulated.”

“That’s so,” Clarice assented, and, opening the door of her bath room, she walked away, followed by her friend, with no suspicion that Elithe had heard every word.

If she could have gotten out she would, but she was not quite dressed, and could only sit and listen. She did not care so much for what was said of herself as of her belongings,—the silk dress she had thought so fine and her poor old trunk. The latter had been her father’s, carried by him on many a journey in the Western wilds. The silk was her mother’s wedding gown, and every time she wore it she seemed to feel the touch of her mother’s loving hands in its soft folds. The sleeves were small, she knew, for the pattern was scant, but just how small they were she never realized until now, or just how small she was herself, with everything pertaining to her. She heard Paul calling down the passage way, “Clarice, Clarice, are you ready?” and knew he was waiting to escort his fiancée home.

“I hate her!” she said to herself. “To make fun of me and she does it to him, too, no doubt.”

This was the bitterest thought of all,—to be made light of and ridiculed to Paul Ralston, and Elithe cried harder than she ever remembered having cried before. That the bathing suit had belonged to Clarice she was sure, for on the lining of the belt were the initials, “C. P.” She could see them now on the floor where the wet garments lay, and she put her foot upon it, spurning it from her.

“I’ll never wear it again!” she said, “nor the cap, either. It was in the same box. It was hers!”

With the thought of the cap came a recollection of Mr. Pennington. He and Paul Ralston belonged to Clarice Percy’s world. They had been very kind to her. They liked her. They did not think her a guy from the “wild and woolly” West, and their opinion was worth more than that of Clarice. There was some consolation in this, and, drying her eyes, she wrung the water from the dripping garments on the floor, rolled them in a newspaper and started for home.

Her aunt had told her to ride both ways, as the walk was a long one from the bath houses to the cottage, and the car was ready to start as she came out of the building. In it were Paul and Clarice, the latter very fresh and cool looking in her thin summer muslin, a striking contrast to Elithe’s plain calico and linen collar.

“I’ll not ride with her,” Elithe thought, shaking her head at the conductor, who was ringing the bell and inviting her to get in.

It was hot and dusty, but she did not mind it as she hurried along, smarting from the indignity she had suffered and anxious to be rid of the detested bundle she carried. What she should do with it she did not know until she reached the cottage. Miss Hansford was ironing with a hotter fire than usual, and had just lifted a cover from the stove, when Elithe burst in like a whirlwind.

Her eyes were flashing, her face was crimson, with perspiration trickling down it in streams, and she looked more like a little fury than the usual mild and placid Elithe.

“What is the matter?” Miss Hansford asked, but Elithe did not reply.

She was dropping the blue suit upon the red-hot coals and watching it as it spluttered and hissed and sent up great smudges of smoke and an odor of burning wool. She did not stop to cover it up, but, darting up to her room, found the velvet riding cap which suited her so well. She detested it now, and, hurrying back to the kitchen, removed the cover her aunt had replaced and dropped the pretty velvet thing into the fire, and with the poker pushed the burning mass into the flame until it was a charred and blackened crisp.

“Are you crazy or what?” Miss Hansford asked, this time rather indignantly, for the room was full of smoke and black flecks, some of which had settled upon the table-cloth she was ironing.

“Never was more sane in my life, and never more angry,” Elithe replied.

Little by little she told her story, while Miss Hansford listened, forgetting her table-cloth drying on the ironing board and her fire dying down from contact with so much wool and salt water. Never before had Miss Hansford been so indignant. Even Paul came in for a share of her animadversion. He was a fool to care for a girl like Clarice. Everything pertaining to the Percys was brought to light. The bondman was resurrected, with old Roger and the treasury clerks, until there was scarcely a shred of respectability left to the family. And Clarice had insulted Elithe and called her a guy and made fun of her clothes and trunk.

At this point Miss Hansford stopped short, remembering how the trunk had looked when brought to her door, and that she had been glad when it was safely housed from the curious eyes of her neighbors. It was battered and rusty, and as for Elithe’s clothes.——Here she took counsel with herself again. She had thought but little of Elithe’s dress, except that it was neat and plain, as a minister’s daughter’s dress ought to be. Now, however, in the light of Clarice’s criticism she awoke to the fact that it was not exactly like that of other girls whom she saw daily in the street. What the difference was she could not have told, she paid so little attention to the fashions. She wore her gowns years; her sleeves were tight to her skin. She didn’t know what the fashions were. But she would know, and Elithe should look like other girls, if she ruined herself in doing it. She had cooled down considerably by the time this decision was reached.

“Don’t cry. It’ll make you sick again,” she said to Elithe, whose tears were falling as she recalled the sarcastic criticism which had cut so deep and seemed worse the more she thought of it.

Her head began to ache, and when that afternoon Paul came in to ask how she was feeling after her bath, he was told that she “wasn’t feeling anyhow and had gone to bed.” This information Miss Hansford gave crispily, and her crispiness continued as Paul expressed his regret and surprise, saying: “She seemed to enjoy it so much, and after the first dip took to the water like a duck. She’ll learn to swim in no time. I hope she’ll be all right to-morrow. I want her to go over to the Tower.”

“She won’t go to the Tower, and she won’t go anywhere very soon, let me tell you,” Miss Hansford said, while Paul wondered what had occurred to throw her so far off her equilibrium.

“I’m sorry. I hope nothing disagreeable happened to her,” he said.

For a minute Miss Hansford was tempted to tell him the truth. Then, changing her mind, she asked if he knew the shops in Boston well. “The stores, I mean, and places where folks go to get things up to date,—where your mother trades, for instance, and people like her.”

“Why, yes,” he replied. “There’s Jordan and Marsh, and White’s.”

“I know them places. Ain’t there others?” Miss Hansford interrupted.

“Certainly. There’s Hollander’s, on Boylston Street,—rather more expensive, I expect.”

“I don’t care for expense. I want things that nobody can make fun of,” Miss Hansford interrupted him again, and he continued: “You’ll get them there, and shoes in the same street, and hats. I believe Clarice bought one there, the prettiest she ever had.”

“You don’t remember the number, nor name?” Miss Hansford asked.

“No, I don’t. I can get it, though, of Clarice,” Paul said.

“You needn’t do that. I can inquire. I have a tongue,” Miss Hansford answered, mentally resolving that wherever Clarice had shopped she would shop and so be sure she was right.

“Are you thinking of going to Boston?” Paul asked.

“Yes. Where does Mrs. Percy put up when she’s there?”

“Usually with us, or, if at a hotel, at the Adams House. That’s a good place,” Paul said, while Miss Hansford took mental notes for future use.

Something ailed her. Paul could not guess what, and, after a few unsuccessful attempts to bring her to herself, he left, hoping Elithe would change her mind and go to the Tower on the morrow.

“I shall call for her,” he said, and the next morning he was at the cottage, which he found closed, with no sign of life about it. “She’s gone to Boston, and won’t be back for some days,” a neighbor called to him from her window, and, feeling disappointed that Elithe was not to have her second lesson in swimming, Paul hailed a passing car and joined Clarice at the Tower.

CHAPTER XIX.
MISS HANSFORD IN BOSTON.

“I want you up early to-morrow morning, for I am going to take the first boat for Boston,” Miss Hansford said to Elithe, when she came down to tea after Paul had left.

“To Boston!” Elithe repeated.

“Yes, to Boston,” Miss Hansford replied, “to get you some clothes that are clothes. Clarice Percy shan’t twit you any more with being old-fashioned. I’m going to have my gray silk made for Paul’s wedding, and you must have a gown to wear.”

“Oh, auntie, no; even if I am invited, which is doubtful, I do not want to go,” Elithe exclaimed, thinking that nothing could tempt her to see Clarice Percy married.

It was useless to oppose her aunt when her mind was made up, as it was now, and the next day they started for Boston on the early boat. Miss Hansford knew next to nothing of the city, and came near being run over at the crossings two or three times before she reached the Adams House.

“I want two rooms with a door between,—good ones, too,” she said, shaking her head fiercely at the office clerk after registering her own name and Elithe’s.

Naturally they showed her communicating rooms, with a bath, first floor front, looking on Washington Street.

“Oh, this is lovely!” Elithe cried, putting her head from the window and looking up and down the narrow street crowded with cars, vehicles and pedestrians.

It was her first experience in a big city, and she liked it. Her aunt, meanwhile, was haggling over the price of the rooms, which seemed to her exorbitant.

“And pay for what I eat besides? I’ll never do it!” she said to the attendant, who, knowing that he had what he called a case, smiled blandly and replied: “There are cheaper ones higher up and in the rear, but there’s no bath.”

“Bath!” Miss Hansford rejoined. “Who asked for a bath? I didn’t. Show me the rooms.”

They were on the fourth floor looking upon roofs and into a dreary court, and the price was less than half of the apartments they had left.

“Don’t you think these will do?” Miss Hansford asked Elithe, whose face was clouded, but who answered: “Yes, I think they will do.”

Something in her voice and the droop of her eyes betrayed her disappointment, and, after thinking a moment, Miss Hansford said, briskly: “Well, if you do, I don’t. We’ll go back where we came from, bath and all.”

It did not take long for them to get established in their suite, and while Miss Hansford rested upon the easy couch and calculated how long she could afford so expensive accommodations, with all the rest she meant to spend, Elithe was taking in the sights and sounds of the busy, narrow thoroughfare, whose noise nearly drove Miss Hansford wild, but was delightfully exhilarating to her. This was life,—this was the world,—this was Boston, of which she had thought so much and dreamed so often in her home among the Rockies, and she would willingly have sat all day watching the ever-changing panorama in front of the hotel. But her aunt had other business on hand than counting cars and carriages and people. She was there to shop, and the sooner they were at it the better. It took her the remainder of that day and a part of the next before she was fairly launched. She visited Jordan and Marsh’s, and White’s, and Hollander’s, one after the other, telling them what she wanted, getting prices and samples for comparison, and sometimes making Elithe blush for her brusque, decided ways, which amused the clerks greatly. At each establishment she called for the head man, and told him she was going to run up a big bill and pay on the spot. She wanted several outfits for her niece, all of the best kind and latest style; nothing last year’s would answer, and she should trade where she could get the best material and the best attention.

“I don’t like the manners of some of your help, whisperin’ and nudgin’ each other,” she continued, with a wave of her hands towards two or three young girls, who could not keep from smiling at “the queer woman talking so funny to their boss.”

After this the lady was treated with the utmost deference, and the clerks nearly knocked each other down to serve her. After a good many trips back and forth from one store to another, and becoming so bewildered with prices and quality and style that she scarcely knew what she was about, or what she wanted, she decided to “stick to one place, if they cheated her eye-teeth out, as she presumed they would.” The suave floor-walker rubbed his hands together,—told her how delighted he was at having her patronage,—assured her that nowhere would she be better pleased or get more for her money, and then handed her over to the Philistines.

For the next three or four days she was a conspicuous figure in the establishment, where the “queer old woman and beautiful girl” came to be well known by sight and freely commented upon. She wanted everything “up to the mark, and was going the whole figger,” she said. Everybody was eager to wait upon her, and overwhelmed her with so many suggestions and assurances of what was fashionable that she might have defeated her own purpose if Elithe had not come to the rescue. She knew what young girls wore better than her aunt, who gave the matter up to her, telling her to get what she pleased regardless of expense.

“I want you to have sailor hats, and big sleeves, and Eton jackets, and yellow shoes, and tan gloves, and shirt waists, and ties, and bathing suits, and yachting suits and evening gowns, and all that. Beat Clarice Percy, if you can,” she said.

Fortunately Elithe knew that what was proper for the future bride of Paul Ralston was not suitable for her. She had no use for a bathing suit. She had taken her first and last bath in the ocean. She had no use for a yachting dress, which had been suggested to her aunt as essential to a complete outfit. Neither had she any use for an evening dress, such as her aunt wished her to get. A pretty, white muslin, with quantities of soft lace upon it, was the most she would consent to, and she made her other selections with taste and discretion.

Relieved of care for Elithe, who evinced a wonderful aptitude to run herself, Miss Hansford gave her attention to her gray silk, striking, fortunately, a dressmaker who had worked for Mrs. Ralston, and knew all about the grand wedding in prospect. She also had in her parlors two or three dresses belonging to parties who were going to Oak City in advance of the occasion.

“Why, they are to room with me,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, when she heard their names. “They must be about my age.”

This reconciled her to certain innovations in her dress as to what was suitable for her.

“I’m sixty-five years old, and I can’t have too many curlycues,” she said, but after seeing the dresses of women as old or older than she was, with Y-shaped necks and elbow sleeves, she gave herself into the modiste’s hands and came out a surprise to herself.

“Why, auntie, you look real handsome and young,” Elithe exclaimed, with delight, when the dress was tried on in their rooms at the hotel.

“I look like an old fool trying to be young,” Miss Hansford responded, examining herself critically before the glass and declaring the demi-train too long, the skirt too wide and the sleeves too big. On the whole, however, she was satisfied, and, folding her dress carefully, laid it in one of the large packing boxes necessary to hold all her purchases. Her shopping expedition had been very successful, and she only rebelled mentally at her hotel bill for rooms. She paid it, however, and just a week from the day she left Oak City, she sailed up to the wharf in the afternoon boat, poorer by some hundred dollars, but happy in the thought that no one could find a flaw in Elithe’s costume, which was as faultless as a Boston tailor could make it. “Elithe could hold her head with the best of them,” she thought, as she walked behind her through the crowd always down to see the boat come in, and felt her heart swell with pride as she saw how many turned to look at the young girl so transformed that Paul, who was at the landing, did not at first recognize her. He had stopped at the cottage every day during the week, and had been disappointed when he found it closed each time. Something was missing which made his life at that particular period very happy. To bathe with Clarice, to drive with her, to wheel with her, to waltz with her and sit with her on the beach, looking out upon the great ocean, listening to its constant beat upon the sands and talking of the future opening so bright before them was very delightful, and kept him up to fever heat, except when he came down from the Elysian heights and spent a half hour with Elithe. She rested him, and he liked to hear her talk of a kind of life he had never known, but which, as she described it, seemed rather attractive than otherwise. She told him of the miners at Deep Gulch; of the pony they gave her and the rides on Sunday through the wild cañons to the camp where her father held service, and of her once staying there all night with a sick man, who was recovering from delirium tremens. She did not tell him who it was, nor did he ask her. She usually did the most of the talking while he watched her glowing face and her eyes brightening and widening as she talked, and then drooping modestly when she caught him looking at her admiringly, as he often did. He liked to see the color in her cheeks change from a delicate rose tint to a brilliant hue, as she laughed and chatted and grew excited or interested. Clarice seldom or never blushed; Elithe blushed all the time, and he liked it. He was interested in every pretty girl. Elithe was more than pretty and of an entirely different type from most of the young ladies whom he knew and who held rather loose views with regard to what young men should be. To be fast was nothing; to drink was nothing, if their vices were kept in the background, or covered over with gold. Not to drink,—not to be fast,—was no recommendation. Paul neither drank nor was fast in the usual acceptation of the term, but the money at his back atoned for these deficiences, and Clarice had accepted him gladly, feeling sure she could soon cure him of his Puritanical notions and bring him up to her plane of morals. To a certain extent he was already being influenced by her in the wrong direction, when Elithe came into his life, becoming so much a part of it that the days when he did not see her lacked something which had become necessary to him. During the week she was gone he went to meet every boat, hoping to find her on it, and felt disappointed when she was not there. What was her aunt doing in Boston so long, he wondered, and once half made up his mind to go to the city and find out. It was rather a strange phase of affairs for a young man soon to be married to one girl to be thinking so much of another, but Paul did not analyze his feelings, and was inexpressibly glad when he at last ran against Elithe on the wharf, thinking her a stranger at first, and saying, “I beg pardon, Miss.”

He had been looking for a blue flannel dress and hat with faded ribbons and tarnished red wing, and, not finding it, was turning away, when he backed against Elithe.

“Why, Elithe,” he said, offering her his hand and taking her new satchel from her. “Why did you stay so long? It seems an age since you went away. It does, upon my soul. Hallo, Aunt Phebe! How are you? Let me take that bag.”

It was not as fine looking as Elithe’s; it was old and glazed and black, and her umbrella was a cotton one loosely rolled up, but he took them both and looked like a hotel porter, as he walked beside the ladies, wondering why Elithe seemed different and more like the young girls he was to meet that afternoon at the tennis grounds on Oceanside. It dawned upon him just as the cottage was reached and he was waiting for Miss Hansford to unlock the door. Dropping the bags and umbrellas and laying his hand familiarly upon Elithe’s shoulder, he said: “I say, arn’t we gotten up swell since we went to Boston? That hat is awfully becoming to you, and that thing-em-er-jig,” indicating the front of her shirt waist. “Somebody has done you up brown.”

“Is she all right?” Miss Hansford asked, beaming with delight at Paul’s commendation.

“All right? I should say she was. I haven’t seen such a stunner this season,” Paul replied, warming with his subject, while Elithe blushed scarlet and tried to divert his attention from herself.

Paul was not to be diverted. He had heard Clarice criticise her dress, and, with his attention thus called to it, had himself thought it old-fashioned and plain. All this was changed, and the metamorphosis so complete that he wished to show her off to his acquaintance. Following her into the cottage, he said: “The club play at the tennis court on Oceanside this afternoon. I’ll stop for you after tea if you will go. There’s lots of fun.”

Elithe replied that she didn’t play tennis, and didn’t know the young people.

“Come and know them, then,” Paul said. “No matter if you don’t play. Plenty of them sit round and look on.”

He was very urgent and persuasive and at last, encouraged by her aunt, who was nearly as anxious for her to be seen in her new feathers as Paul, she concluded to go if she were not too tired after supper.

CHAPTER XX.
AT THE TENNIS COURT.

She was not too tired. Her aunt took care of that, and made her rest while she prepared supper.

“I want you to be fresh and to hold your own with them,” she said, happy that Elithe was at last to be introduced into society as represented by the tennis club.

It was very select. Not every one could gain admittance, as one “No” rejected the applicant, whoever he or she might be. Any member, however, could bring a friend, and no objections made. Paul was the president of the club, while Clarice was the prime mover of its exclusiveness. Paul had wished to take Elithe there before, thinking she must be lonely, knowing so few young people as she did. Clarice, to whom he proposed it, vetoed it at once.

“She wouldn’t enjoy it,” she said. “She don’t play. She knows none of the members. None of them know her, and besides that, you don’t want her feelings hurt. That old flannel she wears incessantly would be out of place among the gay dresses of the young ladies who might laugh at her.”

“Not if they were ladies,” Paul answered, quickly, wondering why clothes should make so much difference with women.

He didn’t care whether a fellow’s coat were old or new, if he liked the fellow, but he gave up the idea of taking Elithe to the club until he suggested it again on her return from Boston. Nothing could be more en regle than her attire, and Miss Hansford looked after her with pride, as she walked down the path with Paul and turned into the avenue. “Carries herself like a duchess. Nobody’d know but what she’d lived in a city all her life,” she thought, wondering how Clarice would receive her.

Clarice was not in a humor to receive any one very cordially. She had just had a letter from Jack which annoyed her exceedingly, and she was anxious to show it to Paul. He was usually early at the court, and, with Jack’s letter in her pocket, she waited for him to come, declining to play and seeming very much out of sorts. All the élite of the club were there, and two or three games were in progress when Paul at last turned the corner with Elithe.

“Where is Mr. Ralston?” a young lady said to Clarice; then, as she saw him in the distance, she added: “There he is now, and some one with him. Who can it be? Gen. Ray’s daughter, from New York, perhaps. They are expected here. She’s lovely, any way, and, look at her ripple skirt, seven yards wide, I am sure. It hangs well, too. How graceful she is, and what a pretty hat! There is something about a New York girl which marks her from a stiff Bostonian like me.”

If a face as fair as Clarice’s can turn dark hers did as she listened and looked at the slowly approaching couple. She had not seen Elithe since the meeting in the water, but she knew that Miss Hansford had gone to Boston, and that Elithe had gone with her. The little Daily News published in Oak City had it among the Personals, and she had wondered, when she read it, of what possible interest it could be to the world at large to know anything of Miss Hansford’s movements and who had notified the editor.

“Did it themselves, I dare say,” she said, as she threw the paper aside and thought no more of it.

Paul had given the Personal to the editor, thinking it would please Miss Hansford and Elithe to have their movements published with those of Gov. Tracy’s family, just arrived from Paris, and the President at Buzzard’s Bay, and Joe Jefferson, whose young kinswoman was soon to be married. Had he known where Miss Hansford was stopping in Boston he would have sent her a paper. As he didn’t know he kept a copy for her, but forgot to give it to her when he called for Elithe. He was telling the latter about it as they came up to the court, not that he sent the Personal, but that he saw it.

“I wish I had a paper to send to father. I never saw my name in print in my life,” Elithe said, pleased with the attention.

To be mentioned with the President and Joe Jefferson and Gov. Tracy was something to be proud of, and her face was beaming with pleasure at the honor and with delight at the scene the tennis court presented, with the gay dresses of the ladies and the fanciful costumes of the men.

“Isn’t she lovely?” the young lady who had first called Clarice’s attention to her, continued.

“Looks well enough, but I don’t call her lovely, and it isn’t Miss Ray, either. It’s that Hansford girl,” Clarice replied, with a toss of her head.

Who the Hansford girl was the young lady didn’t know, but she watched her as she came up with Paul, who did not at first see Clarice. When he did he went to her, apologizing for being late and saying: “I have brought Miss Hansford with me.”

Clarice bowed stiffly, but did not speak. She was taking in every detail of Elithe’s dress, and wondering at the transformation and hating her for the attention she was attracting. Paul introduced her to those who were not playing, all of whom received her cordially and wondered they had never met her before. The young men especially vied with each other in their attentions to her. At least half a dozen urged her to play, and offered to teach her. She ought to be in the club, they said, and they would propose her name at once if she wished it. Elithe possessed the talent of adaptability to a great extent, and, although this was her first introduction to Oak City’s Four Hundred, she was wholly self-possessed, and received the attention paid her as if she had been accustomed to it all her life. She was fond of society, but had seen little of it since coming to Oak City, and it was very pleasant to find herself the centre of attraction, and to hear so many express their pleasure at meeting her. Before she quite realized it, she was trying her hand at the game, proving an apt scholar and never making a move which was not graceful and lady-like. Many were the whispered inquiries as to who she was, and where she came from, and the fact that she was from the wilds of Montana did not in the least detract from the interest in her.

Only Clarice kept aloof, sitting just where she sat when Paul came up with Elithe. She had a headache, and was too tired and hot to play, she said, and was going home. But she waited and watched Elithe until the game was over, and then arose to go.

“Don’t trouble yourself to go with me. Stay with Miss Hansford by all means,” she said to Paul, who, until then, had not thought it necessary to accompany her, as the Percy cottage was not more than fifty rods away, and it was still daylight, with a full moon rising over the sea.

Now, however, he knew by the tone he was learning that it was necessary.

“I am sorry to take you away, but as Miss Percy is tired I think we will go with her,” he said to Elithe, who, flushed with exercise and pleasure, was looking very bright and beautiful, and around whom the young men were gathered as bees gather around a flower.

Two or three of them at once protested against her leaving, saying they would see her home. Elithe thanked them, but decided to go with Paul and Clarice. The latter was very silent until the cottage was reached. Then she said: “Good-night, Miss Hansford. I am sure you will excuse Mr. Ralston if he stops with me. There is something I particularly wish to tell him.”

“Certainly,” Elithe replied, and was turning away when Paul laid his hand on her shoulder and detained her.

He had not been pleased with Clarice’s manner at the court, and he was less pleased with it now.

“I brought Miss Hansford here,” he said, in a tone of annoyance, “and I shall see her home. You can go with us, if you like.”

Clarice’s face was like a thunder cloud as she saw herself thwarted, but if she could not keep Paul from a long walk alone with Elithe in one way she would in another, and after a moment she said: “Of course I’ll go, but suppose we take a car. There’s one coming now.”

Had he been alone with either of the girls, Paul would have preferred walking. As it was he did not care whether he walked or rode, and the three were soon put down on the avenue opposite Miss Hansford’s cottage. Elithe did not ask them in, but Paul unceremoniously seated himself upon the steps and began to talk of the fine view with the sunset colors on Lake Eau Claire and the moonlight on the sea beyond. Clarice remained standing, nor did Elithe ask her to sit down, knowing that she would refuse. There was a silent antagonism between the two which Paul felt and which made him uncomfortable in spite of his affected gayety. When she had stood as long as she could endure it Clarice said, persuasively: “Come, Paul, I’m very tired, and Miss Hansford does not want to be kept out here all night.”

Then he arose, shook hands with Elithe and said to Clarice: “I’m ready. Come on.”

CHAPTER XXI.
NEWS FROM JACK.

“Paul,” Clarice said, when they were down on the avenue, and she was leaning on his arm, “I’ve had a letter from Jack, and where do you think he is?”

“Have no idea. He is likely to turn up anywhere,” Paul replied, and Clarice continued: “Well, you would never guess, and I may as well tell you. He is at Samona, of all places in the world.”

“Samona? Where’s that?” Paul asked, not at once associating it with Elithe’s home in Montana.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know that Samona is where that Hansford girl lives,” Clarice rejoined, irritably.

It was very seldom that Paul showed any resentment at what she said or did. To-night, however, he was a good deal annoyed at her treatment of Elithe, and he asked her, “Why do you call her ‘that Hansford girl?’ Why not say Elithe?”

“Well, Elithe, then, if it suits you better,” Clarice replied. “Her father, you know, lives in Samona,—preaches there, and in some unaccountable way Jack has stumbled upon the place, and says he likes it very much, and the Hansfords, too. Wants me to be polite to Elithe, because they have been kind to him. He can’t have seen her, as he has only been there two weeks, I judge from his letter. But that is long enough to hear from the Hansfords that we are going to be married, and he says that he is coming.”

“Well,” Paul said, “suppose he does?”

It did not matter to him personally whether Jack came or not, and he could not quite understand Clarice’s aversion to having him present at her bridal. It would be very annoying, of course, if he were intoxicated and noisy, but he did not believe he would be. He was naturally a gentleman. He could surely keep sober for one day, and he said so to Clarice.

“You don’t know him as he is now,” she said. “It takes so little to make him perfectly wild, and I should die of mortification. I think he did enough when he gambled away the money I entrusted to him without disgracing me more. It makes mamma quite ill to think of having him here. She says she positively cannot, and I wish you’d write and tell him not to come. No, not exactly that, perhaps, but make as if we didn’t expect him, he is so far away and all that. You can do it nicely.”

Paul didn’t think he could, or would. Jack was sure to see through a ruse of that sort, and he did not want to hurt his feelings. “Let him alone and he will stay where he is,” he said. “Poke him up and he’s sure to come.”

This reasoning did not please Clarice, who had more on her mind.

“If Elithe had minded her business he would have known nothing about it,” she said.

“What has Elithe to do with it?” Paul asked in some surprise, and Clarice replied, “Wrote home about the grand wedding which she and her aunt were to attend. How did she know she would be invited?”

“She knew her aunt was to be, and naturally thought she would not be left out,” Paul answered.

“Which she will! I’ve made up my mind to that! It isn’t necessary to ask a whole family. One member is enough,” Clarice said so viciously that Paul stopped short in his walk and looked at her.

“Do you mean what you say?” he asked, and Clarice replied, “Yes, I do mean it! I don’t like the girl, with her pussy cat ways. I’ve never liked her, and you’ve made such a fuss over her ever since she came. Calling there every day, I hear, teaching her to swim, and bringing her to the tennis court. You’ll be wanting her to join next, but I’ll black-ball her,—see if I don’t.”

All Clarice’s rancor and jealousy of Elithe had come to the surface, making her forget herself entirely and say things at which Paul looked aghast. He had borne a good deal that day from her, and this attack on Elithe was too much.

“Clarice,” he said, in a voice she had never heard from him before, “you astonish me. Are you jealous of Elithe?”

“Jealous of Elithe!” Clarice repeated with the utmost scorn. “How can I be jealous of one so far my——” she did not say “inferior,” for something in Paul’s eyes checked her, and she added, “I tell you I don’t like her, and I won’t have her invited. I can surely do as I please about that. I have no master yet.”

She was very angry, and Paul was angry, too, and answered hotly that Elithe would be invited, as he should do it himself. It was their first real quarrel, and they kept it up until they reached the Percy cottage, where Clarice, alarmed at Paul’s quiet, determined manner, which meant more than fierce, noisy passion, broke down and began to cry, wishing she had died before Paul ceased to care for her,—wishing she had never seen Elithe, and ending by saying she didn’t care who was invited to the wedding, and that she had been unreasonable and foolish and was sorry. Before she reached this point Paul’s anger had melted, and the quarrel was made up in every possible way. He, however, insisted that he could not write to Jack and that it was better to let him come, and take the chance of good or bad behavior. He did not ask to see Jack’s letter, nor did Clarice offer to show it to him, but after he had gone and she was alone in her room she read it again, softening and hardening at intervals, and not knowing whether she were more angry at Elithe or Jack for the latter’s proposed visit to Oak City. The letter was as follows:

“Samona, Montana, July ——, 18——.

“Dear Sister:

“I have written you twice and had no answer, and I suppose you think me a greater scamp than when you used to tell me I was one every day of my life. Well, I own up. I was a scamp to use your money, but I really had to or be arrested. I shall pay it back, honor bright. I’m going into the mining business; am prospecting now in or near Samona, a right smart little town, as they say here at the West. I’ve been here two weeks or more, and have made the acquaintance of the Rev. Mr. Hansford, nephew of that cranky woman in Oak City who used to hold me in such high esteem. I’m quite hand in glove with the rector and his family and pass for a respectable man. His daughter is visiting his aunt, he tells me. Do you know her? I hope your infernal pride has not kept you from calling upon her. Her father is very kind to me, and I wish you’d be polite to her. Mr. Hansford is a good deal of a man, too. Ought to have a better parish than this, though what the miners would do without him I don’t know. They fairly worship him. Their daughter has written them of a wedding she expects to attend in August and to which everybody, I should think, is to be bidden except your scapegrace brother. Him you haven’t even told of your engagement. It is true you haven’t known exactly my whereabouts since I failed to pay. But a letter sent to Denver is sure to reach me some time. I got the one blowing me up for my rascality, and have heard nothing since of you until news of your approaching marriage came to me through the Rev. Mr. Hansford, or rather his son Rob, who told me that Elithe expected to attend a grand wedding. I did not tell him I had ever heard of you. Shame that I, your brother, should be so much a stranger to your plans, kept me silent. I deserve your reticence, of course, but I shall be at your wedding. There are certain reasons why I very much wish to visit Oak City, and the same reasons make me wish to be on good terms with you and mother. Can’t we let bygones be bygones, and begin again? Suppose we try. I don’t know when you may expect me, but I am coming. Very truly,

JACK.”

“If you answer, direct to Denver, as I may be there. If I am not, it will be forwarded to me here.”

This was not a bad letter, and if Jack had not said he was coming to her wedding Clarice might have been glad to have heard from him, especially as he promised payment of her money. Her objections to having him in Oak City seemed unreasonable and still were not without some cause. It took so little to affect him, and he was so violent and quarrelsome when upset, and she had been so often mortified that she dreaded a recurrence of what might, and probably would, happen if he came. No matter how stringent the laws might be, he managed to evade them and always had the poison with him.

“I have been free from this horror so long that I cannot meet it again,” Clarice thought, as she folded the letter and felt her anger kindling again against Elithe, who had written to Samona of the wedding.

She knew this was unjust, but she was irritated and jealous, and smarting from her recent quarrel with Paul, for which Elithe was to blame.

“I wish she had never come to Oak City, and, like her aunt, I feel it in my bones that she is my evil star,” she thought.

Then she began to wonder why Jack wished particularly to come to Oak City, and why for the same reason he wished to be on good terms with his family.

“Elithe can have nothing to do with that. He has never seen her. If he had I might imagine all sorts of complications,” she thought, and was still cogitating on the subject when her mother joined her and the two talked up the matter together, Mrs. Percy evincing more dislike to Jack’s coming than Clarice herself.

Between the brother and sister there was some affection; between the stepmother and stepson, none, or at most very little. Mrs. Percy had suffered so much from Jack’s habits that she shrank from putting herself in the way of them again.

“He is safe in Montana; let him stay there, and write him such a letter as will keep him there,” she said.

This, however, was not so easy a task, and Clarice sat up half the night to accomplish it. Three different copies she wrote and three times tore them up; then wrote at last that she was very glad to hear from him (which was not true) and glad that he intended to refund her money (which was true). She was to be married in August, and had she known where a letter would find him she should have written to him, of course. This was her second lie, but, being fairly under way, she did not hesitate to tell another and say that the grand affair of which he had heard was a mistake. She was to be married quietly, with a few friends present, and it was hardly worth his coming so far for so small a matter. When the invitations were out she should send him one and hoped to see him on her wedding trip, as they were going to the Pacific coast by way of Helena and should stop at Samona if he were there, as she trusted he would be. He could take her through the mines and the cañons. Paul would enjoy it so much. She made no mention of Elithe except to say she had met her two or three times. She closed with “Yours affectionately till I meet you in Samona. Will let you know when to expect us.

CLARICE PERCY.”

That trip to the Pacific by way of Helena was born in her brain as she wrote. They had talked of the Canadian route to Victoria and then by steamer to San Francisco, with no thought of Helena or Samona. But they might change their minds and call on Jack if he proved quiescent and staid where he was. She could easily persuade Paul to go wherever she wished to go. On the whole, she was rather pleased with her effort, and had not told a very big falsehood unless it were with regard to the quiet wedding with a few friends.

“And it is to be quiet compared with what I meant to have had in Washington, and of those who will attend only a few will be real friends; the rest will be here to see and be seen and criticise,” she said to herself, trying to ease her conscience as she folded and directed the letter which was to bear so bitter fruit.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE WALTZ.

When Paul parted with Clarice that night he was conscious of a feeling of disquiet unusual to him. He had been angry with Clarice and made her cry. This of itself was enough to disturb him, but added to it was another feeling, novel and bewildering. Clarice was jealous of Elithe, and not altogether without cause, although until she put it into words it had never occurred to him that possibly he was too attentive to her. He had thought of her a great deal and called upon her every day. He could not help his thoughts, but he could keep from calling, and he did for four days, three of which he spent in Boston. At the close of the fourth he could stand it no longer, and on his way to the tennis court stopped at the cottage, finding only Miss Hansford, a little grim and off color as she asked where he had kept himself. He told her, and then inquired for Elithe.

“Gone to the tennis court with Ralph Tracy, the Governor’s son,” Miss Hansford answered, with a good deal of elation in her voice.

“Gone to the tennis court with Ralph Tracy!” Paul repeated. “I didn’t know that she knew him.”

“Well, she does. He was here day before yesterday with one or two more high bucks. To-day he came with his sister to ask her to go to the court and to tell her she had been made a member.”

Here was news. Paul had not been near the tennis court since he took Elithe there and quarreled with Clarice, but he started for it rapidly now, finding Elithe there playing with Ralph Tracy. Clarice had not black-balled her. She had shut her lips together when her name was proposed, but had dropped her Yes into the box with the rest and shaken hands with her as a new member when she appeared on the grounds with Ralph Tracy. Some people are long in reaching the top of society’s ladder; others get there with a bound. Elithe was of the latter class. The fashionable young men of Oak City had taken her up, attracted by her beauty, her freshness and the absence of anything conventional and stiff. She said what she thought, she laughed when she wanted to laugh. She confessed her ignorance of many things, and with her frank Western ways was altogether charming. Others besides Paul Ralston called to see her. There were invitations to clam bakes and blue fishing, and excursions on the boat, and concerts, and the skating rink, and to a ball at the Harbor Hotel.

It was Paul who gave the last invitation. Clarice was in New York for a few days, and he didn’t want to go alone, he said to Miss Hansford, to whom he preferred his request, knowing that by so doing he was surer to have it granted. Miss Hansford had given in to a good deal which she once held heterodox, but she looked on dancing as something flavored with brimstone. For her niece and the daughter of a clergyman to dance would be a deadly sin. She presumed Roger would not object, she said, as the ’Piscopals were always kicking up their heels. She used to kick hers up till she learned the folly of it.

“I want awfully to learn the folly of it, too,” Elithe said, as she stood anxiously waiting her aunt’s decision.

“Poor foolish child. You’ll know more when you are older,” Miss Hansford said, feeling herself giving way under the entreaty in Elithe’s eyes and Paul’s persuasive tongue.

Finally a compromise was effected. Elithe could go and look on, but not dance, and was to leave at eleven sharp.

“Not one little dance with me?” Paul said, taking Miss Hansford by the arm and whirling her round until she unconsciously fell into a step once familiar to her, but buried years ago when she laid aside her white dress and red ribbons and burned her long curls.

“Stop—stop,” she cried. “There’s Miss Dunton looking at us. I shall be churched. I know I shall.”

“Hardly,” Paul answered with a laugh as he released her and again asked permission for one dance with Elithe.

Miss Hansford was firm. She had given her ultimatum, and Paul and Elithe were obliged to accept it. It was after nine when they entered the ball-room at the hotel, where Elithe was at once besieged with suitors.

“I am not going to dance. I’m here to look on,” she said to them all, and then took a seat where she had a full view of the gay scene.

It was harder to look on than she had imagined, for she was fond of dancing, and nothing could be more inspiriting than the music hired for the occasion, as it was the ball of the season. She had joined in the grand march with Paul, who, at her request, tried a waltz or two and then sat down beside her, while with her head and hands and feet she kept time to the lively strains and studied carefully the step of a waltz she had never seen before. Every few minutes she asked Paul what time it was, saying: “I mustn’t be a minute late, you know.”

At last Paul laid his open watch in her lap, telling her to keep the time herself, which she did religiously, and at exactly eleven o’clock she left the ball-room with Paul. It was a bright moonlight night, and when they were on the broad avenue at a little distance from the hotel Elithe stopped suddenly and exclaimed: “This is glorious, and I feel as if I could fly. I did not promise not to dance outdoors with nobody in sight but the moon. I can do that step. I know I can. Look!”

Striking an attitude, she began a series of pirouettes and evolutions, and turnings and twistings, now with her head on one side, now on the other, her hands sometimes thrown up and sometimes grasping her dress, while she whistled the accompaniment in notes clear and shrill as a boy’s. Paul was entranced as he watched the little whirling figure whose white skirts brushed against him and then went sweeping off in front, making in the moonlight fantastic but graceful shadows on the smooth pavement.

“Can you do it?” she said at last, stopping in front of him and looking at him with a face which would have moved any man had he been twenty times engaged, and twenty times more in love with his betrothed than Paul was.

“Yes, I can do it,” he replied, putting his arm around her, not stiffly and gingerly, but holding her so close that his face at times almost touched hers, and he felt her breath stir his hair during the mad waltz across the causeway.

“I should like to go on this way forever,” Elithe said when they stopped at last by the path which led up to her aunt’s cottage. “I have not danced before since I came, and you don’t know how I like it.”

“Shall we try it again?” Paul asked, holding out his arms, into which Elithe went with the eagerness of a child.

There was another turn across the causeway and back, and then, flushed and panting, Elithe said she was satisfied and must go in.

“I hope auntie is asleep,” she continued, “and you’d better not come up the gravel walk. Your boots will make a scrunching and waken her.”

She bade him good-night, and ran lightly on the grass to the side door of the cottage. Miss Hansford was awake, and had been since she heard the clock strike eleven. Elithe would soon be there, she thought, and, getting out of bed, she looked out to see if she were coming. On the causeway at the farther side was some white object moving rapidly, but without her far-see-ers she could not make out what it was.

“Two fools on a tandem wheel, I guess,” she thought, returning to her bed and listening until she heard the key turn in the lock and knew Elithe had come. There was the scratching of a match as Elithe glanced at the clock and then stole noiselessly up the stairs, her heart thumping wildly, when, as she passed her aunt’s door, a voice called out, “Is that you, Elithe?”

“Yes-m,” was the answer, demurely given.

“What time is it?”

“Half-past eleven.”

“Half-past eleven!” Miss Hansford repeated. “Has it taken you half an hour to come home?”

“No, ma’am,” and Elithe stepped into her aunt’s room, and, standing in the centre of a broad patch of moonlight, which fell upon the floor from an uncurtained window, she continued: “We left the hotel at exactly eleven, but——” she hesitated, and her aunt asked:

“But what? What have you been doing since?”

“Whistling and waltzing on the causeway,” Elithe said, not defiantly, but as if she meant to tell the truth if the heavens fell.

“Whistling and waltzing!” Miss Hansford exclaimed, sitting up straight in bed like a Nemesis confronting the little girl standing in the moonlight wiping her wet face and pushing the damp hair from her forehead. “Do you know how wicked it is to waltz, and what is said of whistling girls and crowing hens?”

“Yes’m:

“Girls that whistle,
And hens that crow,
Make their way
Where’er they go,”

Elithe replied.

Miss Hansford fell back upon her pillow vanquished and silent, while Elithe continued: “I didn’t dance a step at the hotel, because I told you I wouldn’t. Almost everybody asked me, and I wanted to so badly. I didn’t think it wicked to waltz outdoors. The music got into my brain and I had to!”

“More likely the Old Harry got into your brain,” Miss Hansford said, and Elithe replied: “Perhaps it was the Old Harry. Any way, I had a good time, and,—and,—I don’t care!”

Here was rebellion,—the first she had seen in her niece, and Miss Hansford knew she ought to check it, but for some reason she didn’t feel like it, and, greatly to Elithe’s astonishment, she said: “Neither do I care. Go to bed. It must be nearly midnight. You are sure you locked the door?”

Ten minutes later Elithe was asleep, dreaming of music and waltzing and two-steps and Paul Ralston’s arm around her, as they whirled on and on,—they two alone,—on into a vast sea of moonlight, where she became lost in a dreamless slumber, which lasted until breakfast was over the next morning, the work done up and her aunt sewing on the rear porch. Paul, too, had his dreams of skirts whirling in circles round him, of fairy feet dancing on their toes and coming nearer and nearer to him, and of a face so close to his that he kissed it, then with a start he awoke to find that it was Elithe he had kissed and not Clarice.

CHAPTER XXIII.
PREPARATIONS.

The day after the ball Clarice returned from New York, and the following morning several messenger boys were busy going from house to house with the little square envelopes, the meaning of which the recipients knew before they opened them, and read:

Mrs. James Percy
requests the honor of your presence
at the marriage of her daughter,
Clarice Isabel,
to
Mr. Paul Ralston,
on Thursday Evening, August ——, 18—,
at eight o’clock.
St Luke’s Church, Oak City.

Reception at Percy Cottage
from half-past eight to eleven.

There were 500 invitations gotten up in Tiffany’s best style, and the larger proportion of them were carried from the island that day in the mail to different parties. Comparatively few were invited in Oak City. Could Paul have had his way and the church been large enough nearly everybody would have been bidden to his marriage. But it was Clarice’s prerogative to rule on this occasion, and when she struck name after name from the list he gave her he acquiesced, for the most part, thinking that after his return from his bridal tour he would come to Oak City, open the Ralston House, which would hold hundreds, and invite all the residents. Against this scheme Clarice did not protest, but merely shrugged her shoulders as she fancied herself receiving the great unwashed in the elegant drawing rooms of the Ralston House. She was very loving and sweet to Paul, and he was very happy. Occasionally thoughts of the moonlight waltz with Elithe crossed his mind as something he could never have again or forget either. He did not see her now every day, for, as Clarice stayed mostly at home after her cards were out he in duty bound stayed with her. She, too, was very happy. Beautiful and costly presents were coming in daily, with letters of congratulation. No news had come from Jack, who had probably decided to stay in Samona. Her bridesmaids were from some of the best families in Washington, New York and Boston. The best man was Ralph Tracy. Paul was to give a supper to his immediate friends at the Harbor Hotel on Tuesday night, and Mrs. Percy was to serve an elegant little dinner to the bridesmaids on Wednesday night. A caterer with colored waiters was to come from Boston. He had already been and looked the ground over, deciding that a tent must be erected by the side of the cottage for the better accommodation of the guests. There was to be a canopy at the church and another at the house. There were to be tons of flowers and forests of palms and ferns. There were to be lanterns on the lawn and fireworks from a yacht stationed off the shore. There were to be two bands, one outside and one in for dancing. The Ralston House was to be illuminated from cellar to attic, with an enormous flag floating from the look-out on the roof. The church was to be elaborately trimmed, and white satin ribbons a finger wide were to divide the sheep from the goats,—the lookers-on from the invited guests. An organist from Boston was to preside at the organ, and the bridal party was to be preceded up the aisle by a surpliced choir of boys, trained and brought from Boston by the organist. This was Clarice’s idea, as were most of the novel features of the wedding. She should never be married but once, she said, and she meant to make the most of it and give the people something to talk about and remember. And they did talk, those who were bidden and those who were not,—the latter naturally making invidious remarks against the Percys, whose antecedents were thoroughly canvassed. Old Roger was dragged from his grave with the white slave, whom some of the most disaffected changed into a black man. Even the Ralstons came in for a share, and the Vulture, with its smuggling captain and crew, were fished up from the watery beds off the Banks of Newfoundland and paraded before the public. This gossip, however, was put down by the majority, who confined their remarks to the Percys.

Clarice rather enjoyed knowing that everybody was discussing her and her affairs. The favored few were in a flutter of excitement and expectancy. Those who had not been sure of an invitation and consequently were not ready with the wedding garment were greatly agitated. Trips were made to New Bedford and Boston, fashions discussed, goods priced, dressmakers interviewed and employed, last year’s finery looked over to see if it would do, and the question often asked of each other when they met “What are you going to wear?” Miss Hansford knew exactly what she and Elithe were to wear. There had been no attempt on the part of Clarice to leave the latter out, and two cards lay conspicuously on the centre-table in Miss Hansford’s best room. Folded carefully in the trunk in which they had come from Boston were the gray silk and the white muslin, Elithe’s dress and her aunt’s. Once after the invitations came they were taken out and tried on to make sure everything about them was right. Elithe told her aunt she looked like a queen, and Miss Hansford thought Elithe looked like an angel. Their dresses were ready and satisfactory. They had nothing to do but to wait for the great event, written about in the papers and anticipated by every one in Oak City.

And while the gossip went on and the interest increased, over the mountains and across the prairies of the West a train Eastward bound was speeding on its way and coming nearer and nearer to its destination and the scene of the tragedy which was to electrify the surrounding country and change the marriage bells into a funeral dirge.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SHADOW BEGINS TO FALL.

It was the Saturday before the wedding, which was to take place on Thursday of the next week. Many of the guests from a distance had arrived. The Ralston House was full, Miss Hansford’s cottage was full, as were some of the other cottages engaged for the occasion. The Harbor Hotel, as the largest and most expensive and most fashionable house in Oak City, was crowded to its utmost capacity. “Positively no more room, if you take a shelf in a closet,” the distracted clerks said to the mob of people who came as usual in the afternoon boat clamoring for accommodations. Those who had families and were expected for Sunday were easily disposed of, while the rest were turned away. There was a good deal of fault-finding and some swearing among the disappointed ones, as they left the hotel, not knowing where to go next.

One of the number stayed with his lips pressed tightly together and a look of determination in his dark eyes, as he leaned against the railing around the office. He had fought his way to that place and kept it through all the jostling and pushing around him. He had heard scores refused and sent away, and, either because his brain was muddled or because he overrated his influence and powers of persuasion, he hoped to get in somewhere, “if it is in the attic,” he said, when he at last stood alone and reached out his hand for the register in which to sign his name.

“No room in the attic; no use to register,” the worn-out clerk said, trying to take the book back.

But the stranger held it fast and wrote in a round, plain hand, “John Percy, Washington, D. C.”

“That’s who I am,” he said, pointing to his name with an assured manner, as if it would at least secure him a cot in the parlor.

The clerk glanced at it and shook his head, then called his companion’s attention to it.

“Oh, Jack Percy,” the young man said, looking at the stranger, whom he remembered to have seen three or four years before. “I am very sorry, Mr. Percy,” he said, coming forward, “but really, there is not a foot of spare room in the house. We might give you your meals if you are willing to wait for the second table. We have two now, the hotel is so full.”

“I’ll take my meals here then and sleep on the beach,” Jack answered, taking up his grip-sack.

“There is your mother’s. Why don’t you go there?” the clerk asked, regretting his question when he saw the look on Jack’s face, as he sent his stepmother to a very warm place and added: “She don’t want me.”

Nobody wanted him, and he had come so far and was so tired and faint and angry, too, as he sat down outside in a cool angle of the building, where he was shielded from observation and could think. He had received Clarice’s letter, which had been forwarded to him from Denver. Reading between the lines he understood that he was not wanted at the wedding, which she said was to be a quiet affair, not worth his coming so far to see. The Boston Herald, which Mr. Hansford took, told a different story, and so did Elithe’s letter to her mother. Rob, with whom he was very intimate, repeated to him with a good deal of pride an account of the fine doings in Oak City, of which Elithe was to be a part, in a white muslin gown, made in Boston and trimmed with ribbons and lace. Jack listened without any comment, but to himself he said: “I shall go to this wedding.”

He left Samona suddenly, with no word of explanation as to where he was going or when he should return. At Chicago he stopped for a day to rest and get a present as a peace offering for Clarice. He wanted to stand well with her, if possible, and meant to do his best. The present was bought,—a lovely silver vase with Clarice’s name upon it and the date of her marriage. All might have ended well but for his falling in at the hotel with two of his old comrades in dissipation. To resist their persuasions and keep from drinking was impossible. He forgot his pledge,—forgot Elithe and everything else but the pleasure of the moment, and when the train which he intended taking for Boston left the station, he was lying like a log in the bed to which his friends had taken him, and in his pockets were two bottles of brandy, which they had put there as souvenirs of their spree. Mortified beyond measure and weak from the effects of his debauch, Jack shook himself together and started again for the East, drinking occasionally from the brandy to steady his nerves, until the boat was reached at New Bedford. It was packed, but he managed to find a seat and sat with his back to the passengers. Behind and close to him were two or three young men bound for Oak City and talking of the wedding.

Nothing like it had ever been seen in that vicinity, they said, discussing the fireworks and the lanterns and the bands and the tent and the flowers and the twenty waiters, and wondering how Mrs. Percy could afford it, as they had never supposed her wealthy.

“Poor, but proud as Lucifer, and her daughter is prouder,” one said, adding that possibly Paul Ralston furnished some of the wherewithal.

“I don’t think so,” another replied. “Miss Percy would not allow that. More likely it’s the brother. She has one, I believe. Where is he, anyway?”

“Oh!” and the first speaker laughed, derisively. “You mean Jack.”

A shiver like ice ran through Jack’s body as he heard his name spoken in the way it was and by one whose voice he recognized as belonging to an old friend. But he sat perfectly still and listened while the talk went on.

“I used to know him some seasons ago; pretty wild chap; nothing really bad about him, if he’d let whisky alone. He is only Clarice’s half brother, and cuts no figure whatever. If he can take care of himself he does well. Used to drink like a fish and howl like a hyena when he had too much down him. He’s West somewhere, and I’ve heard that they want him to stay there; but there are so many lies told you can’t tell what’s true and what isn’t. I know Ralston don’t want him, for I heard some one ask him if he were coming and Paul said ‘It is to be hoped he will not.’”

Here the speakers moved to another part of the boat, while Jack sat as still as if he were dead, his hands clenched and his eyes red with passion, staring out upon the white foam the boat left in its track. Once he started up, half resolved to throw himself overboard into that foaming water and disappear forever. He was shaken to his very soul with what he had heard. His suspicions were more than confirmed. His stepmother did not want him, Clarice did not want him, Paul did not want him, and this hurt him more than all the rest. Paul had always been friendly; now he had turned against him.

“I wish I had stayed away,” he said to himself, growing dizzy from the motion of the boat and the strong excitement under which he was laboring.

His brain whirled like a top, and everything grew dark around him. Brandy would stop that and steady his nerves, if taken moderately. Thanks to his Chicago friends, he had it in his side pocket, and when sure no one was looking he took out the bottle and drank a swallow or two of the clear fluid, which burned as it went down and spread itself over his system in a pleasant glow which quieted him in one sense and roused him in another. He didn’t care for his stepmother, nor Clarice, nor Paul, nor the whole world, except one. He gasped when he thought of that one, then put the thought aside and was only conscious of a hard, dogged feeling, which would make him dare and do almost anything,—shame Clarice, if he felt like it,—thrash Paul Ralston, if he felt like it,—and be a devil generally, if he felt like it.

In this state of mind he reached Oak City and passed unrecognized through the crowd of people, some of whom would have known him had they stopped to look at him. They were, however, too eager to push on either to their cottages, where they were expected, or to the hotels, where many of them were not expected. When Jack left Samona he had intended going directly to his stepmother’s as the natural place for him to go. Now nothing could tempt him to go there. Once he thought to take the next boat which left for New Bedford and go back to the Rockies. Then he thought, “I’ll stay till Monday, and maybe get a glimpse of her. It will be something to take away with me.”

So he insisted upon entering his name upon the register at the Harbor Hotel. Where he would sleep was another matter. He was not hungry. He never was after a spree, and the brandy kept him up. Going down at last upon the sands he sat a long time on a bench under a willow tree, watching the fishing boats as they went by, homeward bound to Still Harbor; watching the sun as it went down in the West; watching the groups of young people sauntering on the beach to his right and left, straining his eyes to see if perchance she was there with them; then cursing himself for a fool to care whether she were there or not, and taking a drink of brandy when he felt himself growing faint and dizzy. Finally he fell asleep and dreamed he was a boy again, playing with Paul in the smuggler’s room at the Ralston House, and worrying Miss Hansford. He stole the melon a second time, and a second time lay under the clump of scrub oaks and dreamed that he was dead. When he awoke the lights in the city were out. The water in front of him was black, except where the stars were reflected in it. His clothes were wet with the heavy dew; he was cold and hungry and sober. It was not very far to a small hotel he knew, and, taking his hand-bag, he made his way to it along the shore. The drowsy clerk whom he roused from sleep was not very cheerful in his greeting, and made some profane remarks about disturbing a feller that time of night, and gave him an inferior room on the third floor back. Jack didn’t care. It was all of a piece with the rest of his reception, and he accepted it as his due. The night was hot, his room close, and, taking off his coat and vest, he sat a while by the window, trying to catch a breath of fresh air and wishing so much for a sight of the cottage pictured so distinctly in his mind. It was the opposite side of the hotel,—away from his range of vision. He could not see it, and if he left in the morning, as he now meant to do, instead of waiting till Monday, he might not see it at all; but he could write. Strange he had not thought of that; he could write, and then good-bye forever to everybody he had ever seen or heard of. He had material in his satchel, and by the dim light of his kerosene lamp he began a letter which was to be read with blinding tears, and which made his own come occasionally as he pitied himself for what he was and where he was and what had brought him there.

The dawn was breaking when his letter was ended, and he could discern the outlines of many houses on the Heights. Conspicuous among them was the Ralston House. Jack looked at it awhile,—then shook his fist and swore at it as the home of Paul Ralston, his prospective brother-in-law, who did not want him at the wedding.

“Well, I shan’t be there,” he said, folding his letter, and placing it in an envelope, but forgetting to direct it.

His mind was confused with loss of sleep and his long fast.

“I must have something to eat, or drink, or both,” he thought, fortifying himself with brandy, and then, as he heard sounds from below, going down to the dining room to order his breakfast.

No one saw him but the waiter to whom he gave his order and the clerk to whom he paid his bill.

“Queer customer; been on a high old jinks, I reckon. I wonder who he is,” the clerk thought, looking after him as he left the house and went along the beach towards the Harbor Hotel.

CHAPTER XXV.
THE SHADOW DEEPENS.

As it was Sunday morning there were not as many people as usual on the piazza of the Harbor Hotel when Jack went up the steps, and seated himself in an arm chair. As it chanced, none of the men knew him, and all glanced curiously at him, wondering who he was. He knew they were looking at him, and cursed them under his breath with a bitter sense of humiliation, remembering that he was once one with them,—their equal,—whose hand they would have grasped had they known him, and whom they would have congratulated upon his sister’s marriage. Now they passed him by with a stare, while he looked after them angrily. They were so respectable and jaunty in their fresh morning suits, telling of city tailors with whom he was once familiar. He had his wedding garments in his trunk, but the clothes he wore were travel stained and shabby with his long journey, his debauch in Chicago, and the hours he sat in the dampness upon the beach. The starch was out of his collar and cuffs; the crease was out of his trousers,—there were spots on his coat and vest and patches of sand on his shoes; seedy, those who passed him by thought him, and very seedy he looked, as the piazza began to fill with men and women who had come out for an airing before going in to their breakfast. None of the newcomers gave him more than a casual glance, although among them were some whom he had seen in Oak City before.

“Nobody knows me any more; nobody wants me,” he was thinking, when Paul Ralston came up the steps, happy and handsome and a little anxious, too, as his eyes scanned the moving crowd.

He knew Jack was in town, and had come to find him. He had spent the previous evening with Clarice, who had never been more gentle and womanly. The character of wifehood so soon to fall upon her was taking effect and making her amiably disposed towards everybody. She talked of Jack, from whom she had not heard, and said perhaps she was wrong in wishing to keep him away, and he her only brother and near male relative. She said, too, that she had neglected to send him a card and was sorry.

Paul was sorry, too. He had a feeling that Jack had not been treated quite fairly, but he could not tell Clarice so. They would make it up, he thought, when they met him West, if they did meet him. It was quite late when he said good-night to Clarice, telling her he should not see her till the next afternoon, as he had promised to sing a difficult solo in church in the morning.

“My farewell, you know, as after I am married I suppose I must sit with my wife,” he said, kissing Clarice’s blushing cheek with unwonted tenderness as he said “my wife.”

He did not tell her that Elithe had been asked to sing in the choir, that her first appearance would be on the morrow and that he would not like to miss being there to hear her. He had been greatly interested in getting her into the choir, and more interested in what she was to sing at the offertory. In the absence of the first soprano that part, at his suggestion, had been offered her, and, after a great deal of persuasion, she had accepted it. Before going to see Clarice that night he had attended the rehearsal and heard with pride Elithe’s voice rise clear and unfaltering, without a break, while the few spectators present listened wonderingly to this new bird of song.

He did not return home by way of the cottage, as he usually did, looking always for the light which, though only a light like that of many more on the ridge where Miss Hansford’s cottage stood, streamed across the green sward down towards the avenue with a softer radiance than the others, because it first shone on Elithe. If he had analyzed himself and seen what construction might have been put upon his thoughts if they were known, he would have turned from the picture with dismay, for he meant to be true as steel to Clarice, and had never loved her better than when he said good-bye to her that Saturday night and went whistling along Ocean Avenue, which took him past Harbor Hotel. A few of the guests were sitting upon the piazza, and, seeing these, Paul joined them, listened to their gay banter a few moments, and then went inside to examine the register, as he often did.

“Pretty full, arn’t you?” he said to the clerk, who replied, “Jam up. Had to turn off a lot, and among them Jack Percy. Seen him?”

“Jack Percy in town! When did he come?” Paul asked.

“On the four o’clock boat. Looked pretty hard, too,” was the clerk’s answer.

“Why didn’t he go to his mother’s?” was Paul’s next question, as he turned the leaves of the register till he found Jack’s name.

“I asked him that, and he said he wasn’t wanted, and consigned his mother to Hades,” the clerk replied, with a meaning look at Paul.

“But where did he go? Where is he now?” Paul continued.

The clerk could not tell him. “He is to take his meals here, but where he is to sleep I don’t know.”

This was all the information Paul could get, and he left the hotel half glad, half sorry that Jack had come, and determining to find him the next morning, and if his mother were willing, take him to the Ralston House until after the wedding. The house was full of guests, but Mrs. Ralston expressed her readiness to receive Jack if Paul would share his sleeping room with him.

“I’ll do it,” Paul said. “It is his getting drunk Clarice dreads so much, and I think I can keep him sober. I’ll try it, any way. He is Clarice’s brother and is soon to be mine.”

Immediately after breakfast the next morning he started for the hotel to find Jack. He did not see him at first, and inquired for him at the office.

“Haven’t seen him,” was the answer of the clerk, and Paul went out again upon the piazza to look for him.

Spying him at last, he hastened to him, and with a cheery “Good morning, Jack. I’ve hunted everywhere for you. How are you, old fellow,” held out his hand.

It was a peculiarity of Jack that when angry he kept brooding over the fancied injury and nursing his wrath, which was augmented by every trifle. The fact that no one recognized him added fuel to the fire within him. The clear brandy he had taken was doing its work, and when Paul came upon him his temper had reached the boiling point of unreasonableness and lack of sense. To Paul’s “How are you?” he answered growlingly, “Much you care how I am, and I don’t know that it’s any of your business either.”

“Why, Jack, what’s the matter? Can’t you speak civilly to me?” Paul said in much surprise.

“No, I can’t, and I don’t wish to speak to you at all,” Jack replied.

Paul saw the condition he was in and wanted to get him away.

“Come, come,” he said soothingly. “Come home with me,” and he laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Let me alone,” Jack said fiercely, shaking the hand off and launching into a tirade of abuse, taunting Paul with having pirates and smugglers for his ancestors and still feeling so big that he didn’t want him,—Jack Percy,—a Virginian gentleman, to be present at his wedding.

The crowd around them had increased to quite a ring,—some standing on tiptoe to get a glimpse of the angry man. The sight of them made Jack worse, and, after finishing Paul, he took up his stepmother and Clarice, saying things of them which no sane man would ever say of women allied to him by ties of consanguinity. Paul had listened quietly while his father and grandfather and great-grandfather and himself were called thieves and cut-throats and robbers, but when Clarice became the subject of Jack’s vituperation he could bear it no longer. Usually the mildest, most forbearing of men, he had a temper when roused, and it was roused now.

“Silence! You wretch, to speak so of your sister,” he said, raising his arm as if to strike, and taking a step forward.

In an instant Jack was upon him, and, with a heavy blow, laid him flat upon the piazza. Some men deserve knocking down and are made better for it, but Paul was not one of them, and his face was livid with rage at the indignity offered him. He had sought Jack with the kindest intentions and been grossly insulted. Springing to his feet, he raised his hand again threateningly, then dropped it, and, controlling himself with a great effort, he said, “This is not the place to settle with you, Jack Percy, but I’ll make you pay for this some time, see if I don’t.”

Just what he meant he did not know. He was too much excited and mortified to reason clearly. He had been knocked down and called a coward and a snob and a pirate. His promised wife had been called a liar and a flirt and a cheat. Many of his friends had witnessed his humiliation, and amid the Babel of voices around him he heard the words, “Fight him; thrash him; he deserves it. We’ll stand by you and help lick him if necessary.”

He knew the popular feeling was with him, but it did not help him much. He was very proud and felt keenly the insult put upon him and the injustice of it. It was a disgrace to be mixed up in such a row, and all he wanted was to be alone until his temper had cooled.

“Let me out of this before I break his head,” he said, as he pushed his way to the street.

The bell in the church near the hotel was ringing its first summons for service, but Paul did not hear it, or remember that he was to sing a solo that morning and that Elithe was to sing another at the offertory, and if he had he could not enter the House of God in his present state of mind. Leaving the hotel, he walked along the beach until he reached the seat under the willow tree where Jack had sat the night before until the stars came out and the fog was creeping inland. Here Paul sat down, trying to comprehend the situation and forget the indignity offered him. But he could not. The more he thought of it the angrier he grew, with a feeling that he must do something.

“I’d like to kill him!” he said aloud, just as a shadow fell upon the sand, and looking up he saw a half-grown boy regarding him wonderingly. “Who are you and why are you staring so at me? Be off with yourself!” he said savagely.

The boy, who did not know Paul, went off, but remembered the incident, which was to form a link in the dark chain of evidence tightening around Paul Ralston. He heard the last note of St. Luke’s bell and the answering ring of other bells floating out to sea, and knew that service was commencing in all the churches. Then he remembered his solo and Elithe. Had she heard of the fray? Had all the people heard of it, and what would they say? He knew what Miss Hansford would say, and laughed as he thought of the epithets she would heap upon Jack. The laugh did him good, and he could think of the sore spot in his side where Jack had struck him. “His fist was like a sledge hammer and would have felled an ox,” he said to himself, beginning to wonder what had happened to rouse Jack to such a pitch. He was in no hurry to go home, for, although he could not think himself in any way to blame, he shrank from meeting his people with a kind of shame that he had been in a broil.

At last, when he heard the one o’clock bell, he started for home, which he reached just as the family were sitting down to lunch. He did not care to join them, and bade the maid bring him something to his room. “I’ll take a bath and get cooled off before I see Clarice,” he thought, after his lunch was over. Going to the bath room he divested himself of his light gray coat, noticing as he did so a brown stain on the sleeve, which in his fall had come in contact with a pool of tobacco juice. Paul was very fastidious with regard to his clothes; a misfit or soil of any kind ruined them for him, and Tom Drake, who was in one sense his valet and who was just his height and figure, seldom had need to buy a new garment, as all Paul’s castoffs were given to him. Paul found him on the rear piazza and said to him, “Here, Tom, is another coat I’m through with. There’s a stain on the sleeve. Maybe you can get if off.”

Tom was so accustomed to these gifts that he took them as a matter of course, and was very proud of his general resemblance to Paul, whom he admired greatly, trying to walk like him and talk like him as far as possible. He had not yet heard of the trouble with Jack, and did not know why the coat was given to him, unless it were for the stain. Thanking Paul for it, he put it on at once, with the remark that it fitted him to a T. “We do look in our backs as near alike as two peas,” he said to himself when he saw Paul leave the house, habited in another coat nearly the same style and color as the one he was wearing.

Paul was going to see Clarice, whom he found in hysterics, while her mother was in a state of collapse, with several lady friends in attendance. They had heard of Jack’s arrival and the scene at the hotel. Of this the most extravagant stories had been told them. That Jack was intoxicated went without saying. Another story was that he and Paul had fought like wild beasts, rolling together on the hotel piazza. A third, that without the slightest provocation Jack had flown at Paul, knocked him down, broken his arm and further disabled him. This seemed probable, as Paul did not come at the time he was expected, and a messenger was about to be sent to the Ralston House to inquire for him when he appeared.

At sight of him Clarice redoubled her sobs, while Paul tried to quiet her, assuring her he was not harmed and making light of the matter. When she grew calm he began to relate the particulars, and as he talked and heard the expressions of sympathy for himself and indignation against Jack, his temper began to rise again, and he said many things not very complimentary to Jack,—threatening things natural in themselves under the circumstances, but which came up afterward as proof against him. Clarice was the most excited, declaring that Jack should not come there and begging Paul to find him and keep him away. This Paul promised to do, although shrinking from another encounter with the enemy.

The summer day was drawing to a close and the sun was setting when he left the Percy cottage and started for home. As he crossed the causeway between Lake Wenona and Lake Eau Claire he saw Jack turning into a cross road on the Heights, and guessed that he had started for his mother’s cottage, though why he should go that way, which was longer, he could not guess. Dreading the result for Mrs. Percy and Clarice if Jack went to them in a state of intoxication, as he probably was, he decided to overtake him and if possible persuade him to turn back. The quickest way to reach the oaks in which he had disappeared was to cross the open space between Miss Hansford’s cottage and the woods. Seated on the steps and piazza were three or four of the lodgers, together with Miss Hansford. They had all heard of the encounter at the hotel and were discussing it when Paul came rapidly up the path from the avenue. His face was flushed and he looked excited and flurried, and seemed unwilling to be stopped.

“Hallo, Ralston,” one of the young men called out to him. “Glad to know you are alive. Come here and tell us about it. Heard first your leg was broken, then your arm. Why didn’t you smash his head for him?”

“I’d like to,” Paul said, “but I can’t stop now. I am looking for him. He is up this way somewhere, and I must find him. Have any of you seen him?”

No one had seen him, and Paul passed on hurriedly, while one of the party on the steps remarked, “I don’t believe the trouble is over yet. Ralston was pretty well wrought up for him.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE TRAGEDY.

Elithe was in her room at the rear of the cottage trying to bring up arrearages in her Bible reading. Since entering society she had fallen sadly behind with her five chapters on Sunday and three on every week day. Fishing parties and clam bakes and lawn tennis and the skating rink did not leave much leisure for other duties, and she found to her dismay that she was twenty-five chapters behind,—long chapters, too,—and she felt tired as she thought of them. Still they must be done, and she had set apart this afternoon in which to do them. Her singing in the morning had been a great success, and many had shaken hands with and congratulated her when service was over. She, with others, had wondered at Paul’s absence, which was the more singular on account of his solo. There was no one to sing it until Mr. Turner, the rector, attempted it and broke down. It was too bad of Paul to disappoint them, the people said, while Elithe felt a little aggrieved inasmuch as he had expressed himself so proud of her singing and so desirous for others to hear it. At the offertory when she stood alone she had found herself looking over the congregation in the hope that at the last he might come in. He wasn’t there, but near the door, close up in a corner, some one was sitting, whose face she could not see distinctly and who, when she was through singing, rose up as if to leave, but resumed his seat, and she thought no more about him until church was out. Then, with others she heard of the trouble at the hotel and that Jack had had the effrontery to come to church, sitting by the door and behaving in a very nervous, restless manner, the sexton said in speaking of him.

“Brought his satchel with him and acted as if he couldn’t keep still, and once he did get up to go, but I shook my head at him and he sat down again. He put a dollar in the box, any way.”

This was the sexton’s story, to which his hearers listened eagerly, and none more so than Elithe. She had heard a good deal of Jack Percy, and nothing that was very favorable, and now that he had knocked Paul down he must be a monster. She did not doubt that the man in the corner by the door whom she had seen rise from his seat was he, and was sorry that she had not a better view of him. During her dinner with her aunt she had discussed him and Paul’s absence, regretting that the latter was not there, as he would have told her truly how she sang.

“I was there. I can tell you,” Miss Hansford said so quickly that Elithe nearly fell out of her chair in her surprise.

“You there! Oh, auntie. I’m so glad,” she exclaimed, and her aunt replied, “Yes, I was there. Nobody asked me, but I wanted to see if you made a fizzle.”

“And did I?” Elithe asked.

“No, you did first rate,—only flatted a little when you struck that high G, made a dive at it as if you were afraid you would miss it,” was Miss Hansford’s response, and not all the praises she had received pleased Elithe half as much as her aunt’s commendation and the fact that she had left her own church on purpose to hear her sing.

After this they spoke of Jack Percy, Miss Hansford narrating a good many incidents of his boyhood which she had treasured against him. Elithe had heard some of them before, but now, with his presence in the town and his abuse of Paul, they assumed a new interest, and while struggling with the plagues of Egypt later in her room thoughts of Jack Percy kept recurring to her mind with great persistence, and he became frightfully mixed with Moses and Aaron and other actors in that far-off drama. If she succeeded in driving Jack from her mind other distracting thoughts crept in. Sails on the water, skating in the rink, games in the tennis court, and, worst of all, that waltz by moonlight when Paul Ralston’s arm was around her. That bothered her the most.

“It’s the evil one himself tempting me,” she thought, and said aloud with a jerk of her shoulder, “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

But he kept himself in the foreground until she had nearly waded through the plagues. Then she heard Paul speaking to the young men on the steps, and, glancing from her window, saw him as he passed under it.

“Ahem,” she said involuntarily, and, looking up, Paul saw her and touched his hat. “You weren’t in church to hear me sing. Auntie was there, and says I flatted on high G. I told you I couldn’t strike it square.”

Paul was not in a mood for joking, but he could not resist the bright face confronting him, and he answered laughingly, “I don’t believe you flatted. Your auntie is a little deaf. I’m sure you sang beautifully. Am sorry I could not hear you.”

“So am I, but more sorry for the trouble which kept you away. We are all so indignant. It was too bad about your solo. Ever so many were there to hear it. Poor old Mr. Turner took it and quavered and floundered and finally broke down. It was too funny for anything. Mr. Percy was there, too, they say. Couldn’t have liked my solo very well. Got up to go out, but the sexton frowned him back. I had just a glimpse of the wretch.”

She might have talked longer if Paul had not cut her short by saying, “He is a wretch, and I am looking for him, so excuse me if I do not stop any longer. I don’t believe you flatted on that G.”

He laughed, touched his hat again and hurried on, while Elithe resumed her reading. It was very close and warm in her room, and when she had Pharaoh and his 600 chosen chariots ready to pursue after the children of Israel she let down her window from the top and leaned far out to get a breath of fresh air. It was light enough to see objects distinctly, and at a distance of a dozen rods or more she saw Paul Ralston standing with his face turned partly from her and towards a thick clump of shrubbery which lay in the shadow. What was he doing there, and why had he come back so soon? she wondered, and was about to call and ask him if he had found Jack, when she saw him take something from his side pocket and examine it. What it was she could not tell, except that it was bright like silver. Just then there was a stir in the undergrowth of shrubbery, and a sound like some animal running. Before she had time for further thought the object in Paul’s hand was lowered to nearly a level with the ground. There was a flash, a report, and a loud cry of pain from the clump of oaks, which were violently agitated as if shaken by some one in mortal agony; then all was still. For a moment Elithe stood frozen with horror, and saw Paul throw the weapon from him and hurry into the woods.

“Oh, Auntie! Mr. Ralston has shot some one!” she cried, running down the stairs and out to where the group, which had been sitting on the steps, were now standing upon the grass and looking to see where the shot came from.

“Mr. Ralston? How do you know it was Mr. Ralston? And where is he?” Miss Hansford asked, and Elithe replied, “I saw him. He threw the revolver away and went into the woods. Come quick; I am sure somebody is hurt. I heard a groan. There, it comes again.”

She was leading the way to the clump of thick bushes, or stunted trees, where, when a boy, Jack Percy had waited while Paul carried the melon to Miss Hansford and had dreamed that he was dead. Here he was lying now, his hand grasping his valise, his face turned on one side, and the blood trickling from a bullet hole above his temple. Several of the cottagers had heard the report and were out to ascertain its cause, so that it was quite a little crowd of people which met around the spot, Miss Hansford the most excited of them all. Pushing Elithe back so violently that she nearly fell to the ground, she stooped over the prostrate man and said in a choking voice, “It’s Jack Percy; but he is not dead; he must not die. Take him to my cottage.”

As the men stood for a moment paralyzed and did not offer to touch him, she lifted his head herself and with her handkerchief tried to stanch the blood which gushed from the wound and saturated his hair.

“Somebody go for a doctor—quick,” she said. “Tell him it’s a case of life and death.”

Elithe heard and started like a deer across the field to the nearest doctor, whom she found just leaving his house for a walk.

“Quick! Quick!” she said, seizing him by the arm. “Mr. Ralston has shot Mr. Percy. He is in auntie’s cottage. Run!”

“Bless my soul! Shot Jack Percy! I didn’t think it would come to that. What won’t young blood do?” the doctor exclaimed, trying to keep up with Elithe, whom he questioned as to what she saw, and which she told him readily, with no thought of the consequences.

She was too frightened and too excited to think of anything but the dying man, whose face she had not seen as it lay in the deep shadow of the trees. They had put him upon the lounge in Miss Hansford’s front room, where he was breathing heavily and moaning occasionally as if in pain.

“Jack! Jack! Mr. Percy!” Miss Hansford kept saying, trying to rouse him to consciousness, but she might as well have talked to a block of wood.

The news had spread like wild fire, bringing a crowd of people asking who it was and how it was, but receiving no satisfactory answer. A second doctor, who chanced to be passing, had been summoned, and with the first one was examining the patient. Outside the cottage was the murmur of eager, subdued voices and inside terrible excitement as one after another tried to get a sight of the sufferer. Miss Hansford was now calm and resolute, issuing her orders like a general and ministering to Jack as tenderly as if he had not always been her detestation.

“Stand back, can’t you, and give him air, and for heaven’s sake don’t let any more in,” she was saying, when the crowd parted to let Paul Ralston pass.

“Who is it?” he asked, making his way to the couch.

Laying her hand upon his shoulder and looking steadily into his eyes, Miss Hansford said very low, “It’s Jack. Didn’t you know it?”

“Jack! Oh my God!” Paul exclaimed, throwing up his hands and staggering backward. “Who did it? Was it suicide?”

At this moment Elithe, who had been sent for another lamp, entered the room, and, seeing Paul, said to him: “Oh, Mr. Ralston! How did it happen? Didn’t you know he was there?”

Before Paul could reply Miss Hansford sent Elithe from the room again and followed her. Closing the door and drawing the girl to the farthest corner of the kitchen, she said in a whisper, “Can’t you hold your yawp? Do you want to put a halter round Paul’s neck, telling everybody what you saw?”

In her fright Elithe had never thought of implicating Paul by what she said, but now as her aunt’s meaning dawned upon her she seemed to see in a flash the terrible drama in which she was to play so prominent a part. With a cry she dropped into a chair and said faintly, “I saw him, but it was a mistake; he never meant to shoot him. Oh, what can I do?”

“Hold your tongue and stay where you are,” was Miss Hansford’s reply, as she went back to the room where the doctors were still at work, with Paul assisting them and occasionally making suggestions.

“If he would only go away,” she thought; then, as a sudden inspiration came to her, she asked if any one had told Clarice.

“No,” Paul said. “I’ll go for her myself. She ought to be here,” and to Miss Hansford’s relief he left the house.

In a short time he came back with Clarice, who threw herself upon her knees beside her brother and called upon him frantically to speak to her, or give some sign that he knew her. The sight of his white, bloodstained face had roused all the affection she ever felt for him, and made her regret the harshness with which she had treated him. She did not ask how it happened. She assumed it was suicide, and wondered why he did it.

Gradually the crowd disappeared to talk the matter over in the street and at their own houses. The lodgers, too, had gone to their rooms after offering to stay if they were needed. Miss Hansford declined their offers peremptorily. She wanted to be alone, and when all were gone except the doctors, Clarice and Paul, she went up stairs to Elithe, whom she found upon the floor, with her head upon the window sill, sobbing convulsively.

“Elithe,” she began. “You saw him throw the revolver away. Tell me just where he stood,—which way he threw it, and about how far.”

“He stood by the stump where some nasturtiums are growing,” Elithe replied. “His face was away from me,—to the west. He threw with his right hand. Oh, Auntie, he didn’t mean it. What will they do with him?”

“The Lord only knows;—hang him, perhaps! If you had held your tongue nobody would have connected him with it,” was Miss Hansford’s reply, as she left Elithe writhing on the floor in an agony of remorse and fear.

The moon had gone down and clouds, which threatened rain, were scudding across the sky, adding to the darkness of the underbrush, where a woman was moving cautiously, feeling every inch of ground, every stone and clump of grass, and whispering to herself, “I must find it,—I must.” Her hands were cut with briars,—her dress was draggled and wet, when she at last abandoned the search and returned to the house, where the doctors, with Clarice and Paul, were keeping their anxious watch.

CHAPTER XXVII.
ELITHE AND JACK PERCY.

Elithe had sat upstairs in the darkness praying that Jack Percy might live, or if he died, that no harm might come to Paul. Hearing no sound from below, and anxious to know how matters were, she ventured down at last. In the confusion she had seen only the outline of Jack’s face and this in semi-darkness. Now, as she entered the room she had a full view of it as he lay on his back, with the light of a lamp falling upon it. Clarice was sitting with her head upon a table,—Paul at the foot of the lounge, and a doctor on either side, nodding in their chairs and paying no attention either to Miss Hansford or Elithe, until startled by a loud cry from the latter.

“It’s Mr. Pennington! How came he here?” and, throwing out her arms, Elithe dropped by the side of the couch as if she had been shot. “Mr. Pennington,” she repeated, “you must not die; you shall not.”

In an instant Clarice and Paul and the doctors were on their feet, stupefied with what they heard and the sight of Elithe kneeling by Jack Percy and calling him Mr. Pennington. Very slowly Jack’s eyes opened and turned towards her with a look of ineffable tenderness which each one in the room noticed. Then they closed again, as if the effort to keep them open were too great, and, moving his hand very slowly towards her, he whispered, faintly: “Elithe.”

What did it mean, and where had she known this man whom she called Mr. Pennington, and who, at the sound of her voice, roused as nothing had been able to rouse him, Miss Hansford thought, as she watched the strange proceeding.

“Speak to him again. You may save him,” the doctor said.

With this incentive Elithe spoke again: “Mr. Pennington, do you hear me? I am Elithe. Do you know me? Try to live. You must not die.”

Unconsciously she was pleading for Paul more than for the life ebbing so fast. Nothing could save that, and the pallor of death was already spreading itself over the face, which moved a little in response to her appeal. The eyes opened again,—more filmy and dim than when they looked at her before. Around the lips there was a pitiful kind of smile as he said: “Elithe, the harvest is being reaped, and such a harvest! You tried to make it a better one. They all tried. Tell them I am sorry, and wish I had never left the Gulch. Tell Clarice——”

Here he stopped, while Clarice sprang forward on the other side of him and said: “Jack! Jack! I am here,—Clarice. Speak to me. What is it you want Elithe to tell me?”

Jack did not reply. His dulled ear had caught only the word Elithe, which he repeated again.

“Ask him who did it?” one of the doctors said, and in an instant Elithe stiffened, while her aunt stood more erect and listened.

“Can I ask him and run the risk of his answer?” Elithe thought, deciding that she would not. Lifting her tear-stained face, she shook her head and said: “I cannot.”

“Then I will,” and, bending close to Jack, the physician shrieked in his ear: “Who did it? Who shot you?”

Both Paul and Clarice thought this a useless question to ask one who shot himself, but Jack did not reply even if he understood.

“Thank God!” came from under Miss Hansford’s breath, as Jack made no sign that he had heard, or sign of any sort for several minutes, when there was the faintest possible whisper:

“Elithe, I tried my best and failed.”

They were his last words, and Elithe felt the hand she held growing colder and clammier as the minutes went by, and there was no sound in the room but the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the labored breathing, which grew more and more labored and slow until, just as the day was breaking over the sea and the white sails were coming into sight, it ceased entirely and Jack was dead.

Elithe knew it first and rose to her feet, tottering a little from the cramped position she had been in so long. Paul put out a hand to steady her, but Miss Hansford was before him. She could bear the suspense no longer, and, taking Elithe by the arm, she said: “Where did you know Jack Percy?”

“In Samona, as Mr. Pennington; never as Mr. Percy,” was Elithe’s reply, as she left the room, and, going to her chamber, threw herself upon her bed, half crazed with all she had passed through.

Clarice fainted, and when she recovered Miss Hansford said to Paul: “Take Clarice home. She is better with her mother.”

She wanted to get him away, although she knew he was going from one danger into another. There would be as many questions asked at the Percy cottage as at her own, where people were beginning to gather, coming from every direction, some up the avenue, some across the bridge and the causeway and some across the open space where she had hunted in the darkness for the revolver.

“Somebody is sure to find it,” she thought, and watched from the kitchen door all who came that way. “There! God help us!” she moaned, as she saw a man stoop down and pick up something, which he examined carefully. She knew what it was, and went to meet him, holding out her hand. “Give it to me,” she said, and he gave it to her,—a little silver-mounted revolver with “P. R.” engraved upon it.

She knew he had seen the lettering and said to him: “It is a mistake, which will be explained. Don’t say you found it.”

The man bowed and did not reply. Covering the telltale witness with her apron, Miss Hansford took it to the house, and, hiding it in a deep chest in the back chamber where she kept her bed linen, went down to meet the people who were talking of the inquest, which it was thought best to have at once before the body was removed. It was a hurried, informal affair, held by an incompetent coroner, new to the office and conducting his first case. No one of those who saw Paul go by just before the shooting and heard what Elithe said had spoken. The doctor for whom Elithe had been sent had been hurriedly called away immediately after Jack died. Suicide had been suggested by Paul and Clarice and accepted as highly probable, and a verdict to that effect was rendered with very little discussion. Miss Hansford felt that the matter was finished and Paul was safe. The next moment her spirits fell. They were inquiring for the revolver which did the deed. It must be near where Jack was found, and search must be made for it. Here was a trouble she had not foreseen, and she felt as if her heart would burst as she tried to appear natural and put aside her dread of impending evil. All her lodgers and some of the neighbors had heard Elithe. Sooner or later they were sure to talk, and then a hundred verdicts of suicide would not avail to save Paul from suspicion and possible arrest. If he would only speak out now and tell how it happened he would be believed. Evidently he had no thought of speaking out. He had gone with Clarice without doing so, and she could only pray that no inquiries might be made when the missing weapon was not found.

Now that the inquest was over and the people began to go she had time to think of Elithe. She was lying on her bed benumbed with the great horror, not the least of which was the knowledge that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy. That he had cared for her more than for a mere friend, she could not doubt, and it seemed to her that “Elithe,” spoken as with his dying breath he had spoken it, would sound in her ears forever. It never occurred to her what construction with regard to herself might be put upon that death scene. She could think of nothing except that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy, and Jack Percy was dead,—shot by Paul Ralston.

“Oh, I can’t bear it!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. Why did I ever come here?” Then she remembered the ring, and started to her feet. What should she do with it now? “I’ll give it back to him,” she said, and, putting the box in her pocket, she stole downstairs into the kitchen, keeping herself from sight, as much as possible and watching her opportunity to enter the sitting room when no one was there.

An undertaker had been sent for, and while waiting for him Miss Hansford had closed the door to keep intruders out. This was Elithe’s chance. Stealthily, as if she were guilty of a misdemeanor, she crossed the threshold, shut the door and was alone with the dead. She had no time more than to glance at the white face, handsomer in death than in life, because of the peaceful expression which had settled upon it at the last. His hands were folded one over the other upon his chest, where Miss Hansford put them. “He wore it on his right,” Elithe thought, remembering just how the ring looked when she first saw it in Stokes’s cabin. Taking the hand in hers, she pushed the ring on to the third finger, knowing it would stay there, as she had some trouble to get it over the joint. Very carefully she placed the left hand over the right, shivering from head to foot with the awful chill it gave her and recoiling once as she fancied the stiffened fingers clasped hers as the living ones had done just before Jack died. As she left the room she saw the undertaker on the walk, and with him a number of people, who were just coming to the scene of the tragedy. “I was none too soon,” she thought, as she escaped up the stairs and ran into her chamber.

Miss Hansford met the undertaker, and, conducting him to where the body lay, stayed by while the preparations were made for taking it to the Percy cottage. When all were gone except a few who lingered round the house and near the spot where Jack was found and where his blood was still staining the low shrubs and sand, she went to Elithe’s room and said, just as she had never spoken to her before: “Now tell me all you know about Jack Percy.”

At the sound of her stern voice, Elithe, who was lying down, sat up, and, shedding her hair back from her throbbing temples, said, pleadingly: “Must I tell you now, when I am so tired and my head aches so hard?”

“Yes, now; and tell it as it is,—no prevarication!”

Elithe took her hands from her head and looked at her aunt in surprise.

“Why should I prevaricate? There is nothing to conceal,” she said. “I told you something about him once, and I will tell you again,” and, beginning at the beginning, she repeated every particular of her acquaintance with Jack from the day she first saw him to the present time.

As she talked Miss Hansford felt her knees giving out and she sat down upon the bed, with a feeling that she was living in the midst of a romance as well as of a tragedy.

“And are you sure you did not care for him,—love him, I mean?” she asked, and Elithe answered, quickly: “No; oh, no, I did not! I could not; he was my friend,—father’s friend; that is all.”

“And you put the ring on his finger?” was Miss Hansford’s next question.

“Yes, I put it on his finger,” Elithe repeated, with a shudder. “Please cover me up; I am so cold.”

She was huddled in a little heap, and Miss Hansford pulled the blanket over her and said: “You are shaking as if you had an ager fit. Ginger tea will help that.”

She brought the tea and made Elithe drink it, and put another blanket over her, wondering that she should be so cold when the air was so hot and sultry, and never suspecting that it was the chill of Jack’s dead hand which Elithe felt in every nerve, and which would take more than ginger tea to remove. She stayed in bed all day, and Miss Hansford was glad to have her out of the way of the people who came at intervals during the morning to ask questions and wonder why Jack killed himself. Miss Hansford’s mouth was shut on the subject, and when they asked if they could see Elithe she answered: “No, you can’t. She’s sick,—worn out with excitement and being up all night just as I am.”

She wanted so much to be alone, and was glad that her lodgers had the good sense to spend the day at the hotel, where the affair was freely discussed. Paul was with Clarice at the cottage, from the doors of which yards of crape were streaming, while in the darkened room, where, on the following Thursday night, the bridal party was to have stood, Jack lay in his coffin, his thick hair concealing the wound from which the bullet had been extracted.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
POOR JACK.

With all his faults there was much that was good in him, and right influences could have brought it out. Neglected by his stepmother, treated with indifference by his sister, called a bad boy by nearly all who knew him, it was natural that the worst part of his nature should thrive until it bore its fruitage of vice.

“I am a sort of Ishmael, anyway,” he used to say to himself, “and may as well have a good time being so.”

And he had a good time according to his definition of the term. Drinking and gambling were his besetting sins, and during the last three years of his life, when his mother and sister saw but little of him, he sank low in the scale of respectability, although managing to preserve the semblance of a gentleman, for he was very proud, and not without his seasons of remorse and resolutions to reform. One of these was strong upon him after he had squandered the money Clarice entrusted to him to invest in Denver.

“I’ll pay back every dollar if I live,” he said to himself, and on a piece of paper he wrote: “I hereby solemnly promise to pay Clarice all I owe her with compound interest from date.—Jack Percy, Denver, Jan. ——, 18——.”

He was in the habit of writing similar good resolutions after every drunken debauch, and this last was in his pocket when he reached the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch, hoping to retrieve his fortune. He had taken the name John Pennington because he was tired of Jack Percy, who had played him false so many times, and represented so much that was bad.

“A new name is like new clothes, and makes me feel respectable,” he said to the friend in Denver to whom he confided his plans, and who was to receive his mail and forward it to Samona.

At Helena, where he stopped on his journey, he found two of his comrades, who invited him to a champagne supper, with the result that at its close the three were on the floor. Jack, who was easily affected, especially by champagne, went down first and was taken to his room in a state of stupidity, followed by delirium tremens, the first attack he ever had, and the last, he swore, when able to be up and recall the horror of the days and nights when writhing snakes, with red, beady eyes, were twisting themselves around his body and devils breathing blue flame from nostrils and mouth were beckoning to him from every corner of the room. Weak and shaky, he reached Deep Gulch and went to work with a will. Nature, however, who exacts payment for abuse, exacted it of him, and with no apparent cause he was visited a second time by his enemies, the devils and the snakes, and was put into Stokes’s cabin, where Elithe found him. He heard the miners speak of Mr. Hansford, and that he was from the vicinity of Boston. Cudgelling his brain to recall something he had forgotten, he remembered at last that Miss Phebe Hansford had a relative in the far West, who was a clergyman. This, no doubt, was he, and when Lizy Ann asked if he would like to see him he answered with an oath that he would not.

“He would undoubtedly worry me as the old woman used to do, telling me that I was the worst boy the Lord ever made. Now, if she had told me once in a while that I was a good boy, or if anybody had, I believe, my soul, I should have tried to be one,” he was thinking, when he fell into the sleep from which he woke to find Elithe sitting by him.

It was a long time since he had seen a face as sweet and fresh as the one looking at him with pitying eyes, which said they knew his infirmity, and were sorry for him. All the best of his manhood was wakened to life by the sight of her. She was so different from the girls he had known,—different from Clarice, whose pet name, Mignon, given her by him when she was a baby, had escaped him in his sleep. He had never cared particularly for any of the fashionable young ladies of his acquaintance, although he had flirted with many of them, but his heart went out to Elithe at once, and it was not long before he knew that he loved her as he could never love any one again. Then began the struggle to conceal his love until such time as he had proved himself worthy of her, should that time ever come. He knew her father was watching him and respected him for it, and knew, too, that in Elithe’s mind there was no suspicion of his real feeling for her. Two or three times he came near betraying it and his identity, and the night before she left home he wrote to Clarice, telling her of his attachment to Elithe and asking her to be kind to her for his sake. This letter he tore up, deciding to let matters drift. Then he wrote the note which, with the ring, he gave to Elithe when he reached Helena.

“That will keep me in her mind,” he thought, half expecting some acknowledgment of the gift and word to say that she remembered him.

But none came and the weeks went by and he only heard from her through the letters sent to her father and mother. Of these he had pretty full accounts from Rob, and from him and the Boston Herald he heard of Clarice’s approaching marriage and felt humiliated and angry that the news should first reach him in this way. He did not deserve much at his sister’s hands, he knew, but he had written her twice that his debt to her should be paid, sending his letters to Denver, from which place they had been forwarded to her by his friend and confidant. She had not answered them, but he knew she must have received them, and, thinking he had made sufficient atonement for the past, he resented her neglect of him.

“I’ll write her again, telling her where I am and that I have heard of her wedding and am going to it,” he thought, and he wrote the letter, which was prompted more by a desire to see Elithe than to be present at the marriage.

Very anxiously he waited for Clarice’s answer, which was directed to Denver and then forwarded to him at Samona.

“Something for you,” the P. M. said to him one morning, handing him the letter in which he recognized the handwriting of his Denver friend.

It was from Clarice, and he understood it perfectly. He was not wanted at the wedding. “But I’ll go,” he said, his desire to see Elithe conquering every other feeling. Mr. Hansford heard with surprise of his intention to leave Samona for an indefinite length of time, but had no suspicion of his destination. The boys were inconsolable, for Mr. Pennington was a great favorite. The miners were sorry, for New York was the right sort, and they prided themselves upon having had something to do with his reformation, which seemed genuine. He had his last shake in their midst, and had been straight as a string ever since, they said, and they were proud of his acquaintance and friendship. They came into town and went with the boys and Mr. Hansford to see him off, and gave three cheers and a tiger for his safe journey and ultimate return.

“Keep the pledge,” Stokes said to him at parting.

“I will. It’s in my pocket,” was Jack’s reply, and there were tears in his eyes as he heard the shouts of the miners bidding him good-bye and saw them throwing their hats in the air until the train entered a deep cut and the place he would never see again disappeared from view.

There was a stop at Denver, where an irresistible impulse took him to the place where at different times he had lost so much and won so little.

“I’ll try it once more. Maybe I’ll make enough to pay Clarice,” he thought.

He tried again and won nearly as much as he owed her. This he deposited to her credit, and with a feeling that now she would certainly be glad to see him, continued his journey to Chicago, where his evil genius met him in the shape of so-called friends, and he sank again to the level of a beast. Mortified and half tipsy, he made his way to New Bedford, hearing that of himself upon the boat which made him hot with resentment and pain. At the Harbor Hotel in Oak City there was no room for him,—no one who cared. At the hotel, where he spent the night, it was worse.

“They said on the boat that I cut no figure, and I don’t,” he thought, as he sat in his small, close room reviewing the situation and wishing himself back with the miners, who were his real friends.

“I’ll go back, too,” he decided, but first he must write to Elithe, telling her who he was,—how much he loved her,—and then bid her good-bye forever.

He wrote the letter and put it in his pocket, forgetting to direct it. In his satchel were his toilet articles and the present he had bought for Clarice. This he meant to leave for her at the Harbor Hotel, with his card and a “d—— you” under his name. But he couldn’t write it. A thought of Elithe held him back, and he laid his plain card in the box from which he took the vase and looked at it a moment. It was very pretty and he anticipated Clarice’s appreciation of it. In his weak, childish condition after a spree he cried easily, and two great tears rolled down his face and fell upon the vase.

“I don’t suppose she’ll care a rap for it, she’ll be so glad I am not here to mortify her, but she shall have it all the same,” he said, wiping the tears from it with his shirt sleeve and replacing it in the box.

At the Harbor Hotel his anger against everybody and everything increased and reached its height when Paul appeared and spoke to him. Of what followed he had but little real knowledge. He had an impression that Paul meant to strike him, but was not sure. He knew he knocked Paul down and didn’t care. He heard the execrations of the people round him and didn’t care. He didn’t care for anything but to get away from it all, and, taking up his bag, he started to go,—he didn’t know where, or care. He was disgraced forever in the eyes of Elithe, who would hear what he had done and despise him.

“I don’t believe I’ll send her the letter, and then she’ll never know that I am the Jack Percy whose name will be in everybody’s mouth in a few hours,” he thought, as he went down the steps.

In the church across the street they were singing the Te Deum. He had heard the Venite in a confused sort of way, and something had struck him as familiar in it, although the music was new. Now as the words, “All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father everlasting,” were borne out upon the summer air he stopped suddenly. Surely that was Elithe singing, as he had heard her many times in the little Samona church. She was there, not many rods away. He might see her again, himself unseen, and he started for the church, while the people on the piazza looked after him, commenting upon his appearance and wondering why in his condition he should care to go to church of all places. He knew where to sit if the place were not occupied,—close by the door, in a corner, where, unobserved, he could see most of the congregation. He had sat there more than once when a boy and eaten peanuts and scribbled in the old Prayer Books and been frowned upon by the colored sexton, Pete. It was the same man now, grown older and gray-haired and less overwhelmed with a sense of his importance. He recognized Jack, and offered to take his satchel and conduct him up the aisle. Jack shook his head, indicating that he would rather stay near the door. Crowding himself to the farthest extremity of the pew he found that he could see a part of the choir and Elithe. She was singing the closing lines of the Te Deum, and in her tailor-made gown, sailor hat and all the appurtenances of a fashionable toilet, seemed a different Elithe from the one he had known, and for a brief moment he felt that he preferred her in her Samona dress, with the air of the mines and the mountains upon it. He had heard from Rob of the trip to Boston and its result and was glad. Elithe had been very minute in her description of her wardrobe to her mother, and Jack had often fancied her in her new attire. Now he saw her, and while not quite pleased with the change thought her more beautiful than ever before. He could see her sailor hat and half of her face when she sat down and watched her intently.

Once it occurred to him to wonder if Clarice were there. But no, she would never appear in public the Sunday before her marriage, and the Percy pew was occupied by strangers, and behind it in a corner, nearly as much sheltered from observation as he was himself, was Miss Phebe Hansford. Knowing her prejudice against “Fashion’s Bazaar,” Jack could scarcely believe his eyes. Yet there she was,—joining in the service and slightly bowing in the creed;—then, as if remembering herself and her principles, giving her head an upward jerk and standing through the remainder of the creed as stiff and straight as a darning needle. Jack could not repress a smile as he watched her, dividing his attentions pretty equally between her and Elithe, until the offertory, when the latter stood up to sing alone. At first her voice shook a little, and Jack was afraid she would break down. But as she gained courage her voice rose louder and clearer,—making those who had never seen her before wonder who she was,—with notes which, if not tuned to the highest culture, were pure and sweet as a bird’s. She was achieving a great success, and Jack felt proud of her, and thought of the miners’ camp, where she sang to him of “Rest for the weary,” with the wind sweeping through the cañons and the rain beating dismally against the window. That was a long time ago, and she was here in Oak City, singing to a fashionable audience, and he was listening to her and forgetting the nightmare which had oppressed him. He had an ear as acute as Miss Hansford’s, and knew when Elithe flatted on high G, and was sorry she did it, but consoled himself with the thought that not one in fifty of the congregation would notice it. The plate was coming down to him by this time, for the song was ended and Elithe, with a look of relief, was fanning herself with her music. Now was Jack’s time to leave, he thought, and, taking his satchel, he rose to go. A shake of the old sexton’s head made him sit down and sent his hand into his pocket. He had not intended giving anything, but, changing his mind, he dropped a silver dollar in the plate and was rewarded by Pete with a nod of satisfaction. As it chanced his offering was the only silver dollar given that morning, and after the awful tragedy Pete went to the treasurer and exchanged a bill for it, keeping Jack’s dollar as a souvenir to be exhibited to many curious people, who looked at it and handled it with a feeling that it was something sacred, because the last money which the dead man’s hands had touched.

Jack was the first to leave the church, as he did not care to meet any of the people, for the remembrance of what he had done that morning was beginning to make him ashamed, and if he had seen Paul he would unquestionably have apologized to him. But Paul was not there and Jack returned to the hotel, where no one spoke to or noticed him. He had his lunch at the second table, and then went out on the seaward side of the house, and, seating himself at a distance from the few who were on that piazza, began to think whether he should take the evening boat or wait till morning.

“I’ll wait,” he said, “and maybe I can see Paul. Any way I’ll add a P. S. to my letter to Elithe and tell her what a brute I’ve been and that I heard her sing.”

Going to the reading room he added a P. S., telling what he had thought and felt and done during the day,—saying he was sorry for insulting Paul and wished she would tell him so. He would like to see Clarice and possibly he might. If not, he would leave her present at the hotel, with directions for it to be sent, and he wished Elithe to tell her that he had refunded nearly all her money, and she would find things straight in Denver, if she stopped there on her wedding trip, as she said she intended doing.

“And now, my darling,” he wrote in conclusion, “it is good-bye forever. It is not likely we shall meet again, nor will you care to see me after what I have done. But I hope you will think of me sometimes as one who, for the brief period he knew you and your family, experienced more real happiness and received more real kindness than he ever received or experienced before in his life.—JACK PERCY, alias JOHN PENNINGTON.”

Why he did not direct the letter this time no one will ever know. He didn’t direct it, but dropped it into his satchel and went again to his seat on the seaward side of the hotel, sitting there alone and sleeping most of the time until the day was waning, when he roused up and started, probably for his mother’s cottage, and taking the road past Miss Hansford’s with a hope of getting a glimpse of Elithe. When Paul saw him entering the wood he judged from his gait and general appearance that he was partially intoxicated, but this might not have been true. He was always unsteady in his walk for a few days after a debauch such as he had had in Chicago, and if he tottered it was probably more from weakness and fatigue than from drink, and this prompted him to stop by the way and rest. Why he chose the clump of oaks, where he had dreamed of lying dead, no one can tell. He did choose it, and here they found him dying, with all his sins upon his head and all his good deeds and intentions, too, of which the pitiful Father took note and met as they deserved. Poor Jack!

CHAPTER XXIX.
ELITHE’S INTERVIEW WITH CLARICE.

Nearly all that day Elithe stayed in bed, sometimes burning with fever, but oftener shivering with cold, which the ginger tea had not counteracted. She had experienced two great shocks in quick succession and was bodily and mentally unstrung. She saw Paul Ralston fire the fatal shot which had killed Jack Percy. No questioning or cross-questioning from her aunt could leave a doubt in her mind. She saw it and was filled with dread of what her having seen it might mean for her. Second to this, and nearly as great in its effect upon her, was the knowledge that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy, in whom she knew there was much that was good, notwithstanding the ill that was spoken of him in Oak City.

In the dining room below Miss Hansford sat like a sentinel keeping people from going up to see Elithe and answering the questions put to her in the most non-committal manner. They kept coming all the morning and a part of the afternoon, bringing the news from time to time of what was being done at the Percy cottage. Paul was there with Clarice, who had refused to see any one and sat in a dark room crying all the time. There were to be short services at the house early the next day, and then the body was to be taken to Washington and buried at Beechwood, the old Percy homestead, which still belonged to the family. Mrs. Percy was nearly as bad as Clarice, and had a doctor in attendance.

To all this and more Miss Hansford listened, evincing no particular interest until the last bulletin was brought her to the effect that the bullet had been extracted and that they were still hunting for the revolver which the ball fitted, but could not find it.

“Some think now that it wasn’t suicide, if the jury did so decide. There’s queer things being talked which I don’t believe,” one caller said, with a meaning look at Miss Hansford, who knew that the train was fired which would certainly overtake Paul and crush him.

She was a woman of strong nerve, but this news unmanned her and she sat motionless in her chair, making no comment, and when her informer was gone, locking the door to keep out others who might come spying upon her misery. Would the man who found the revolver keep silent? She did not think so. He would tell. The weapon would be traced to its hiding place, and with its initials, “P. R.,” bear deadly evidence against her boy. She called him that many times, wondering what she ought to do and why he did not speak. And so the day wore on, and, late in the afternoon, Elithe, who had slept for two hours or more, insisted upon dressing herself and coming down to tea with her aunt. It was taken in the kitchen, with the shades down and the door bolted. Several times there had been knocks, which were not answered, but as they were finishing their supper there came one so loud and oft repeated that the door was opened tremblingly by Miss Hansford, who half expected to be met by an officer come to demand the revolver and perhaps to arrest her for complicity in the matter. It was a boy from the Percy cottage with a note from Clarice to Elithe.

“Miss E. Hansford,” it read: “There are some things relating to my poor brother which you alone can tell me. Will you come to me this evening? We leave to-morrow for Washington, and I must see you before I go. Hastily,—

“CLARICE PERCY.”

“Oh, I can’t go! What does she want?” Elithe said as she read the note aloud.

“Wants to know all about Jack. Natural enough. I thought ’twould come. You’ll have to stand it. I’ll go with you,” Miss Hansford replied, and, going to the boy waiting upon the doorstep, she bade him tell Miss Percy that Miss Hansford would call upon her between eight and nine. “It’ll be dark then. It’s raining now, thank the Lord,” she said to Elithe, whose chill increased at the thought of meeting Clarice and talking with her of Jack.

“What shall I say to her?” she asked her aunt.

“Tell her how you found him at the mines, and what kindness did for him. It’s my opinion he would not be lying as he is now if they had treated him decent.”

She was beginning to espouse Jack’s cause, and encouraged Elithe and kept her up until the clock struck eight, when, under the cover of darkness and rain and umbrellas, they started for the Percy Cottage.

Clarice had spent a wretched day, stunned by the calamity which had overtaken her,—grieving for her brother’s tragic death,—wishing she had treated him better while living, and regretting the grand spectacle in which she was to have been the central figure and which must now be given up. The invitations and orders must be countermanded,—her bridal trousseau exchanged for crape, which she detested, and the wedding march turned into a funeral dirge. It was hard, and Paul tried in vain to console her, telling her there was still a bright future in store for them. Clarice would not be consoled, and with her head on Paul’s shoulder and his arm around her, sat blaming Providence for having dealt so harshly with her, when Elithe was announced.

“Show her in,” she said, without removing herself from Paul’s encircling arm.

She was to have been his wife the next Thursday, and was quite willing that Elithe, of whom she had been jealous, should be witness to her ownership of him.

“Shall both come in?” the maid inquired.

“Both? Whom do you mean?” Clarice asked, and the maid replied: “The elder Miss Hansford is here, and wishes to see you with her niece.”

“Yes, let her come,” Paul said, moving a little as if he would rather Clarice should sit upright in the presence of visitors.

She took the hint and sat up, but kept her place close to him, with her hand on his, and plunged at once into her motive for sending for Elithe.

“You knew my brother,” she began. “I want you to tell me all about your acquaintance with him, but first about this ring. It was not on his finger when he died. It was there when they brought him home. You must have put it there. Why? Didn’t you care for my brother?”

She was asking questions such as Elithe had not expected, and for a moment she shook like a leaf, and turned so white that Paul feared she was going to faint. Clarice had the ring upon her own finger, turning it round and round as she talked, and the indelicacy and bad taste of appropriating it to herself so soon struck Elithe forcibly and disarmed her of all fear of Clarice.

“She’s a fool,” Miss Hansford thought, but she said to her niece: “Tell her all you know, if she wants to hear it.”

“Yes, tell me,” Clarice rejoined.

Thus abjured, Elithe began: “I put the ring on his finger. It was never on mine. I did not know he had given it to me until it was too late to return it. I could never wear it. I only cared for your brother as a friend,—never could have cared for him otherwise.”

Clarice looked puzzled, and said: “That’s queer. Tell me how you came by it and where you first saw him. I know something from his letter to you which I found in his valise. Here it is.”

She held Jack’s letter towards Elithe, who took it from her, and with a voice and manner which would not have shamed her aunt, said, slowly: “You read a letter directed to me?”

Her face flushed and her eyes blazed with indignation and surprise.

“I beg your pardon,” Clarice replied, more abashed than she had ever thought it possible for herself to be before a girl like Elithe. “It was not directed. It was in his bag with his present for me, bought in Chicago, and which I did not deserve. It touched me very closely. Poor Jack.”

There were tears in her eyes as she continued: “There was no address on the letter, and, seeing my name so often I read it. My brother loved you. Did you return it?”

Before Elithe could reply her aunt interposed: “You have no right to ask such personal questions. It is none of your business whether she loved your brother or not. But I will answer for her. She did not, and never could. That he cared for her is evident. Poor fellow. I never liked him much. I think better of him now in the light of what my niece has told me and what she will tell you.”

She turned to Elithe, who began at the miners’ camp and the night spent with Jack, dwelling at some length upon what he said in his delirium of Mignon. At this point Clarice put both hands to her face and the tears trickled through her fingers, while Elithe went on with her narrative of Jack’s life in Samona, his efforts to reform and the pledge which he drew up himself and carried in his pocket.

“He spoke of that in his letter, and said he tore it up after what happened in Chicago,” Clarice said, interrupting her.

Elithe bowed and went on to tell of his intimacy in her father’s family, his interest in her, and his giving her the ring when he left the car in Helena. She did not speak of his note; that was not necessary. She only added: “I never saw him again; never knew he was not Mr. Pennington till he was dying. You think he was bad. Everybody thinks so. In some respects he was, but he was trying to do better; he was doing better. He was susceptible to good influences and kind treatment, and tried to come up to one’s standard of him. Treat him like a dog, and he was a dog; treat him like a man, and he was a man. He was respected in Samona and among the miners. There will be mourning in Deep Gulch when they hear he is dead, and in Samona, too. Why he fell the last time and came here in the condition he did I do not know. Some influence he could not withstand was brought to bear upon him.”

Elithe had not read Jack’s letter, but Clarice had. She knew what had caused Jack’s downfall, and Elithe’s words were like sharp lashes to her conscience. Paul, too, knew, but kept silent and admired Elithe for her defense of Jack. Clarice had read to him a part of Jack’s letter, and the message to him had removed all his animosity and sense of injury. Jack was the friend of his boyhood, and he would have given much to bring him to life again. Clarice was also greatly softened, partly because of her money refunded and the present bought for her. This appealed to her baser nature, while something told her she had in one sense been her brother’s keeper and failed. Elithe’s words struck home, and she sobbed aloud as she listened.

“Thank you for telling me what you have,” she said. “It makes me think better of my brother. I wish I had done differently.” Then, removing the ring from her finger and offering it to Elithe, she continued: “Take it, please. It is yours. He gave it to you. He would like you to have it.”

Paul drew a breath of suspense, and Miss Hansford straightened her shoulders as they waited for Elithe’s reply.

“No,” she said, “I never wore it; never can wear it. I only cared for him as a friend. If it is mine I give it to you.”

Miss Hansford’s shoulders dropped and Paul breathed more freely.

“Thanks. I’ll accept it for Jack’s sake,” Clarice said.

She was very gracious now, and as Elithe arose to go said to her: “Come and see Jack. He looks so peaceful and happy, as if he were asleep.”

“I can’t,” Elithe gasped, but Clarice insisted and led the way into the room where Jack lay in his coffin ready for the early boat.

On his handsome face there was a look as if death had kindly washed it clean from every mark of dissipation and left upon it the beauty and innocence of childhood. Elithe was crying,—so was Clarice, and Miss Hansford’s eyes were wet with tears. Paul alone was calm.

“Poor Jack. We were always friends until the last, when he was not responsible for what he did,” he said, laying his hand on the forehead of the dead.

“D-don’t,” Miss Hansford stammered, thinking of the old tradition as to what would happen if the slayer touched the corpse of the slain.

Paul had touched Jack, and nothing had happened. The white forehead showed just as white in the lamp light, and around the mouth there was the same smile which had settled there when the dying lips whispered, “Elithe.” The old tradition had not worked. Paul was not afraid of Jack, and he astonished Miss Hansford still more by saying: “Perhaps you know they extracted the bullet.”

She nodded, and he continued: “They have not found the revolver. Strange, too, as it must have fallen near him. I remember the one he used to have. It was very small, and expensive. Some one may have picked it up and is keeping it for its value, or it was trampled into the sand by the many feet which have visited the place from curiosity.”

Miss Hansford was horrified at his coolness and duplicity, while Elithe looked at him with eyes full of pain and surprise. “I saw him; I saw him,” she thought, while her aunt was thinking of the revolver at the bottom of her chest, with “P. R.” upon it. On the piazza, as they were saying good-night, Clarice threw her arms around Elithe’s neck and kissed her, as she said: “I shall never forget what you were to my brother, or your kindness to him. Will you come to the funeral to-morrow morning and sit with us?”

“No,—no. Don’t ask me to do that. There is no reason why I should,” Elithe cried, putting up her hands in deprecation.

Clarice was making altogether too much of her relations with Jack, and once out upon the avenue she almost ran to get away from the house and its atmosphere.

“Oh, auntie,” she said, “it is all so dreadful, and Mr. Ralston does not mean to explain. What shall we do if he is suspected?”

“Hold our tongues and trust to the Lord,” was Miss Hansford’s answer, and that night, long after Paul was asleep, she was kneeling in her room and sobbing. “My boy, my boy, will the good Father, who knows how it happened, make him speak out and clear himself?”

Elithe, too, was awake and sitting by her window, which faced the woods. On her return from the Percy Cottage she had read Jack’s letter, in which he told her who he was,—what he had been,—why he had taken another name,—and of his love for her,—when it began,—how it had grown,—and how for her sake he had tried to be a man. He told her of his mortification at the slight Clarice put upon him,—of his resolution to attend her wedding, more to see her again than to be a guest where he was not wanted. Of his downfall in Chicago, where he tore up his pledge,—his experience on the boat and what he heard of himself,—his taking the brandy which made him worse,—his determination to leave without seeing any one. This was written in the Beach House, where he spent the night. The encounter with Paul in the morning he described in the P. S., telling how it happened, saying he was sorry,—saying he was a brute, and had sunk so low that now he had no hope, no star to guide him,—nothing to remember of a journey from which he had hoped so much but her face as he saw it in church that morning and the sound of her voice, which he could never forget.

Over this letter Elithe’s tears fell so fast that the words were blurred and blotted almost past the possibility of deciphering them. Miss Hansford did not ask what was in the letter, but Elithe read her parts of it calculated to exculpate Jack from intentional wrong doing, and the two sore-hearted women wept together until the clock struck twelve. Then they separated, each going to her own room, where, in an agony of grief and fear, Miss Hansford prayed for her boy, while Elithe sat by the window from which she had talked with Paul, and asked herself again and again: “Could I be mistaken?”

The answer was always the same: “I saw him; I saw him.”

CHAPTER XXX.
THE FUNERAL.

Very early the next morning crowds of people were making their way to the Percy Cottage, which was soon filled to its utmost capacity. The yard, also, was full, and the sidewalk; those on the outer edge speaking together in low tones, as if saying what they ought not to say and afraid of being heard. Somebody had talked, and there were strange rumors afloat. A few whispered them to each other under ban of secrecy, while others discussed them more openly and stamped them a lie, or, at least, something which would be explained when Jack was buried. Miss Hansford was late at the funeral and held her head high in the air as she made her way through the crowd, which fell apart to let her pass and stared at her as if she were a stranger. Her name was mixed with the rumors and the revolver, which, it was said, she had found and secreted and those in the secret would not have been surprised to have seen Max Allen, the constable, who was present, place his hand on her shoulder as she pushed past him into the house.

Paul was one of the chief mourners, sitting with Mrs. Percy and Clarice, his face pale and tired, but wearing no look of guilt and meeting the curious eyes around him fearlessly. All his thoughts were centered on Clarice and the dead man lying in his coffin, with so many flowers heaped around him that they seemed a mockery to those who believed he had taken his own life. Mrs. Percy and Clarice were draped in crape, and the grief of the latter was not feigned as she looked her last upon the brother to whom she had never been very kind. Paul walked between the two to the carriage when the services were over and followed them into it unmolested. Had he been stopped there were those present ready to do battle for him and rescue him, for, as yet, the rumors were only rumors, which needed verifying. Judge Ralston and his wife were to accompany Mrs. Percy and Clarice to Washington. They had heard nothing. No one in the household had heard anything, except Tom Drake, who was in a white heat of anger as he drove behind the hearse and then acted as body guard to the mourners, seeing them on to the boat and keeping close to Paul until the last possible moment, as if fearing harm might come to him.

Elithe did not attend the funeral. She had scarcely been more tired when she reached the end of her journey from the Rockies than she was that morning, and, had she wished to go, her aunt would not have allowed it.

“Lock the doors and don’t let anybody in,” Miss Hansford said to her, and Elithe obeyed.

Then going to an upper window, which commanded a view of Oceanside, she saw the hearse and the carriages and a multitude of people following them to the wharf. She heard the last warning bell and watched the boat until it disappeared from view, sending after it a tearful good-bye to the dead man who had loved her, and a prayer for the living man who was more to her than Jack Percy had ever been. Miss Hansford went to the boat with the crowd, impelled by a force she could not resist. Her bones told her she must see and hear all she could, if there was anything to be heard or seen. She did see people whispering to each other and directing glances towards Paul, and while struggling with the crowd she heard the missing revolver mentioned as something which would “prove or disprove,” the man said who was talking of it. With a sinking heart she hurried home to see if it were safe at the bottom of her chest. It was there, and she took it out and looked at it in a kind of terror, as if it were Jack himself, reproving her that all her thought was for Paul and none for him, cut off in his young manhood just as he was trying to reform.

“He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t know you were there. He will explain it when he comes back. He had to go to your funeral first with Clarice,” she said, apostrophizing the pistol as if it were really Jack, and not at first hearing the voice calling to her from below.

“Miss Hansford, Miss Hansford, we want to see you.”

It was the man who had picked up the revolver, and Miss Hansford’s teeth chattered as she dropped it into the chest, heaped the clothes over it, closed the lid and sat down upon it with a determination that nothing should make her give it up.

“Well, what do you want? I’m busy,” she called back.

“Want to see you,” and Seth Walker came up the stairs with the bold familiarity of the people of his class. “They’ve got to have that revolver,” he said in a whisper. “Somebody seen me pick it up and give it to you. I never told nobody but my wife, and she told nobody but her mother and sister. It couldn’t of got out that way. They will have the pistol, they say, if they send a constable for it. Better give it up peaceable.”

The word constable had a bad sound to Miss Hansford. For one to cross her threshold would be a disgrace, no matter what his errand might be. Her resolve to fight over the murderous weapon began to give way before the dreaded law. She must give it up, and very slowly she opened the chest, lifted the articles in it one by one, took up the revolver, examined it carefully, and poor, half-crazed woman that she was, tried to rub off the “P. R.” with her apron.

“They won’t come off,” Seth said, understanding her meaning, “and they are kind-er damagin’, with the other stuff that’s told; but he ain’t guilty. None of us will ever think so. It was a mistake,—manslaughter is the wust they can make of it, if they do anything.”

He took the revolver and went down the stairs, while Miss Hansford, not knowing what she was doing, sat down in the middle of the deep chest, with the lid still open and the linen sinking under her weight, until her feet scarcely touched the floor. It was not a very comfortable position, but she did not mind it, and as she could not well rock back and forth, she rocked from side to side, repeating to herself, “At the most, manslaughter!” That meant imprisonment for Paul for a longer or shorter period. Her boy,—her Paul,—whom, until she knew Elithe, she loved better than any one in the world. She couldn’t bear it. God wouldn’t allow it; if he did, she’d——

Here she stopped, appalled at her defiance of her Maker. “Forgive me; I don’t know what I’m saying, nor how I’m to get out of this pesky place,” she moaned, as she sank deeper into the chest. Elithe solved the last difficulty by coming to the rescue and laughing in spite of herself as she saw her aunt’s doubled-up position.

“I don’t see how you can laugh,” she said, as she got upon her feet. “I don’t feel as if I should ever laugh again. Somebody has blabbed. They’ve got the pistol, with his name on it. Nothing will save him now. It’ll be manslaughter, at least, and that means hair shaved off and striped clothes and prison fare for I don’t know how long.”

Elithe made no reply, nor was she surprised, for how could a dozen people be expected to keep silent? Going to her room, she sat down to think. If anything were done to Paul, she would be subpoenaed as chief witness, and she felt she would rather die than appear against him.

“What could I say except that I saw him, for I did. God help me!” she cried, in a paroxysm of pain more acute than that of her aunt, because on her the heavier burden would fall if Paul Ralston were arrested.

Many people came to the cottage that day, asking questions concerning the events of Sunday night, but receiving no satisfaction.

“I know next to nothing, and, if I did, I should keep it to myself,” were Miss Hansford’s evasive replies.

The next day fewer people came, and those who did neither asked questions nor gave information. Something in Miss Hansford’s attitude precluded both. On Thursday no one came. This was to have been the wedding day, and, as if sorrowing for the life ended so tragically and the wrecked happiness of Paul and Clarice, the skies shed showers of tears, which kept every one indoors, with a feeling as if a great funeral were passing through the rain-swept streets. Outside, the air was heavy and damp,—inside, the moral atmosphere was charged with a feeling that something was going to happen when he came home, and while many wished he might never come, all were on the qui vive for his coming. On Sunday those who were at church told everybody they met who did not already know it that Judge Ralston and wife were in Boston and would be home on Monday and that Paul and the Percys were coming on Wednesday.

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE ARREST.

Jack Percy had been lain to rest beside his father and mother and old Roger in the family cemetery at Beechwood. The rain, which fell so heavily in Oak City, extended as far as Washington, and the Percy party were shivering with cold and drenched to the skin when they returned to the hotel. Mrs. Percy’s house was rented for the summer, and Paul had secured rooms at the Arlington,—the best the house could give him, for he knew that the luxury of handsome surroundings would do much towards comforting Clarice. It was to have been their wedding day, and the sharp contrast was bitter and hard to bear. He had suggested that they be married quietly at once and go away by themselves, but Clarice would not listen.

“I was not so kind to Jack while living that I can afford to insult his memory now,” she said. “Six months is as soon as I can possibly consider it.”

In her heavy black she did not look much like the brilliant bride Paul had hoped to have that day, and his stay at the Arlington was anything but pleasant, and he was very glad when the day came to return home. Had he known what was before him, he would have shrunk from it in fear; but he did not know, and with every moment was drawing nearer to his fate. Some of those who saw Paul pass Miss Hansford’s cottage just before the shooting, and had heard what Elithe said, had told what they heard and saw, while the revolver, with “P. R.” upon it, had been found in Miss Hansford’s linen chest, and Oak City was in a ferment of excitement. At first, the public talked in whispers behind closed doors,—then aloud in the streets, where knots of people gathered to repeat and hear the last bit of gossip and conjecture. The suicide theory had been exploded as impossible, and the coroner and jury denounced as fools for their haste and decision; but, if Jack did not do the shooting, who did? Hundreds asked that question, and at first no one answered it, but repeated the story going the rounds so fast. Jack had knocked Paul Ralston down in the morning at the hotel. In the afternoon he had started, presumably, to see his sister. He had been traced to the Baptist Tabernacle and had taken a short cut through the woods. He was probably intoxicated and had fallen or lain down behind a clump of scrub oaks and been shot, the assassin firing low, as if he knew he was there. Paul Ralston had been very indignant at being knocked down and had used some threatening language. He had passed Miss Hansford’s cottage not long before the shot was fired and was known to have been in search of Jack. Miss Hansford and others had spoken with him. Elithe had seen him fire and throw the revolver away, and then hurry off in the direction of the woods. Jack had been found a few minutes later weltering in his blood. Seth Walker had found the revolver with “P. R.” upon it and handed it to Miss Hansford, who acted like a crazy woman, while Elithe, who saw the shooting, refused to be interviewed.

This story was followed by the news that the revolver had been hidden in Miss Hansford’s chest and that the bullet extracted from Jack’s head fitted one of the chambers. After this those who had said the whole was a lie, held their peace. There could be but one conclusion as to the guilty party and his name was spoken sadly, for Paul Ralston was the most popular man in Oak City, and it seemed like sacrilege to associate him with the tragedy. That he did not intend it everybody was certain, though how he could take deliberate aim and hit the mark so sure was a question. Had he at once come forward and said, “It was an accident; I didn’t know he was there,” nearly everybody would have believed him; but he had kept quiet and never seemed conscious of the danger threatening him.

“What ought we to do?” was asked many times a day during the time Paul was in Washington, and the answer was always the same, “The law must take its course were he ten times Paul Ralston.”

A few there were, as in all communities, who, jealous of Paul’s position or money, or, fancying some slight put upon them when none was intended, were open in their denunciations.

“If he were a poor man you would have no hesitancy as to what you should do. He’d be arrested at once, but because he is a big bug you are disposed to let him go.”

Tom was furious when he heard such remarks. He was ready to swear that Paul could not have been near the place where the shooting occurred, but there was the testimony of Miss Hansford’s lodgers, who saw and spoke with him, and of Elithe, and Tom’s bare word went for nothing. He kept the rumors from the judge and Mrs. Ralston, who were expecting Paul on the 4 o’clock Wednesday boat and would have gone to meet him but for Mrs. Ralston’s indisposition. Two or three times while harnessing the horses Tom decided to tell the judge and ask him to go with him in case there should be trouble. Then he changed his mind, saying, “Maybe they won’t do anything. I’ll not trouble the judge till I see what they mean to do.”

He had not much doubt of their intentions when he saw the crowd waiting for the boat just coming to the wharf, and setting his teeth together he clenched his fists and waited. From the deck Paul had seen the swarm of human beings, greater than when he went away, and called Clarice’s attention to it, wondering why the whole town was out and if some noted personage were expected.

“They expect us,” Clarice said, feeling somewhat gratified by this attention and never guessing why it was paid to them.

Their long crape veils covered her and her mother entirely, and between the two black figures, Paul left the boat among the first and walked across the pier lined with curious spectators, to whom he bowed and smiled in his old familiar way, noticing the expression of their faces and thinking how sorry they were for him and Clarice. She did not see them, but it was impossible that the intense feeling pervading the crowd should not communicate itself to her in some small degree, and she was very nervous by the time the Ralston carriage was reached. Tom Drake was standing there, more alarmed and anxious than he had ever been in his life, as he saw the people pressing around Paul, who was coming towards him with a smile on his face as if glad to be home. Standing close to the carriage steps was Max Allen, the young constable, new to the office, which Paul had helped him get by giving him money for the campaign. He was shaking like a leaf and scarcely able to respond to Paul’s cheery “How are you, Max?”

Now was the supreme moment for which the gaping crowd were waiting and over it there fell a hush of expectancy,—a silence so profound that Paul looked round inquiringly and saw those on the outer edge of the jam elbowing their way nearer to him.

“This is attention with a vengeance,” he thought. “I dare say Clarice will feel gratified when it is over and she has time to realize it, but it must annoy her now.”

It was anything but gratifying to the young lady when she felt her black bombazine dress stepped on behind and herself pulled back with a jerk.

“This is too much. Let’s get out of it,” she said, grasping the skirt of her dress and springing into the carriage before her mother and without Paul’s help.

He was offering his hand to Mrs. Percy, when Max touched his arm and with a thickness of speech which made his words nearly unintelligible, began: “Mr. Ralston, I want to speak with you a minute. But no,—I’ll be darned if I can now. Take the ladies home first, and come back to the church. I’ll wait for you.”

“All right,” Paul said, wondering what Max had to say to him, and why he was so excited.

Entering the carriage and taking off his hat he bowed right and left to the people, feeling some like a conquering hero as he drove through their midst, knowing for a surety now that they were there to see him and Clarice.

“Careful, Tom, you’ll run over somebody,” he said, as Tom gave the horses a smart cut, which set them into a gallop.

“I wish I might kill ’em,” Tom muttered, slackening his speed when out on the avenue and away from the crowd.

He was in no hurry to get back to it again and sat very patiently while Paul accompanied the ladies into the house and said a few loving words to Clarice, who sank down in a fit of sobbing, saying she could not bear it.

“Yes you can, darling. Try and be brave,—for your mother’s sake and mine. You have me left, you know, and by and by we shall be very happy,” Paul said, himself removing her bonnet and making her lie down upon the couch.

Then, kissing her and promising to see her again after dinner, he left her and bade Tom drive to the church to see what Max Allen wanted.

“Your mother is sick. Hadn’t we better go straight home and let Max run?” Tom suggested, but Paul said, “No, it won’t take long to see what he wants;” and they started in the direction of the church, where some of the crowd still waited.

They had expected some demonstration,—handcuffs, perhaps,—and a scene, and when the carriage drove away with Paul in it the murmur of their voices was like the sound of a wind sweeping over a plain. Max was questioned as to what it meant, and replied, “No, by George, I couldn’t do it right before his gal. I’d rather be licked than do it at all, and if I’s you I’d go home. He don’t want you gapin’ at him when he’s took.”

Most of the people followed Max’s advice, and went home. A few, with less delicacy, staid to see what Paul would say and how he would look. Would he resist? Would he try to get away?

“No, sir,” some one replied. “He’ll face it like a man. He’s innocent as you be of meanin’ to do it.”

“Then why don’t he own up and say ’twas a mistake? It looks bad for him to keep mum,” was the answer, and the battle of words went on till the carriage was seen coming towards the church green, where Max was waiting, dripping with perspiration and whiter than his shirt color.

Tom saw that quite a number of people still remained, and thought of the old gladiatorial fights when men and women went to see human beings and wild beasts tear each other to pieces. There were germs of the same nature in this crowd, which he would like to have annihilated as he drove past it and stopped before the church steps.

“Now, Max, what is it? What can I do for you? Want some more money?” Paul said, going up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Set down,” Max answered stammeringly, moving along.

But Paul did not sit down. He was in a hurry to get home and see his mother, and anxious for Max to finish his business.

It must have something to do with the people still waiting there, and who he saw at a glance were largely of the lower class, reputed robbers of gardens and hen roosts. Probably some of their friends had been prowling on the Ralston premises, and Max wanted to know what to do with them.

“I shall tell him to let the poor devils go,” he was thinking, when Max began: “It’s the all-firedest, meanest thing I ever had anything to do with, and if I’d ’er known I’d have to do it, I’d never been so crazy for the office. No, sir! You must not blame me, I’d rather be thrashed. Yes, sir,—and I feel awfully sick at the pit of my stomach. Didn’t eat a thing for dinner, thinking of it, and not much for breakfast, I don’t believe a word of it, neither; none of us does. It’s a lie out of whole cloth.”

He was mopping his wet face with his soiled hands and leaving streaks of dirt on it while Paul looked at him in amazement and Tom stood looking on as if ready to strike when the time came.

“For Heaven’s sake, Max, what are you talking about. Come to the point. I’m in a hurry,” Paul said.

“Yes,” Tom growled. “Come to the point and not act like a cat playing with a mouse.”

“I wish I was a cat, or anything but the blooming fool I am,” Max gasped, and then nerving himself with a mighty effort, he said, “I’ve orders to arrest you. Oh, my Lord, my Lord.”

The last words were wrung from him by the pallor on Paul’s face, as he grasped the carriage wheel for support.

“Arrest me! For what?” he asked, his voice sounding to himself a hundred miles away.

“You see,” Max continued, still husky and shaky, “it’s for shooting Mr. Percy.”

He did not use the ugly word murder and it was a singular fact that it was never used during the trying scenes which followed Paul’s arrest. It was sometimes killing, oftener shooting, but never murder. One could not associate that word with Paul, whose face was spotted with astonishment, but not with fear. How could he be afraid, knowing his own innocence? It had never occurred to him that Jack came to his death by any other hand than his own, and the intimation that he was to be arrested struck him like a thunderbolt.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Jack shot himself. The coroner’s inquest said so. I didn’t do it. I was not near there. I didn’t know it till some one told me. Who was it, Tom? Do you remember?”

His chin and lips quivered as he asked the question and he leaned more heavily against the wheel of the carriage. Tom did not reply, and Max went on: “Lord bless you, that’s so. You didn’t do it, but somebody did, and the law must be vin-di-ca-ted, they say. Somebody must be arrested, and so they took you. You see, it’s this way. That coroner didn’t know beans, nor the jury neither, hurryin’ up things before anybody had time to think, or tell what they seen and heard. When they did begin to talk, didn’t it go like chain lightnin’;—the inquest and verdict was knocked into a cocked hat,—more’s the pity; better of let it stood and not get me inter this scrape, arrestin’ you. This is what they say. Mr. Percy knocked you down, and made you mad. You was heard to say you’d like to kill him. You was lookin’ for him. The folks at Miss Hansford’s seen you go by. Miss Elithe seen you shoot and throw the pistol away and cut for the woods. Seth Walker found it with your initials on it and give it to Miss Hansford the mornin’ Mr. Percy died. She hid it in her chist with sheets and things. Seth told his wife and she told all creation and they’ve made the old lady give it up, and the bullet fits it exactly. Quite a case of circumstantial, but I don’t believe a word of it. Nobody does. Mebby you shot him, but ’twas an accident, and all you have to do is to say so and explain. Folks thought you would when you got back. Anyway I’ve got to do my duty and it makes me sweat like a butcher. Oh, Lord, Lord!”

Max had finished his speech, which covered the whole ground, and advanced a step towards Paul still clinging to the wheel into the spokes of which he had thrust his arm as he listened. At the beginning of Max’s story he had held his head high, conscious of his own innocence and that no evidence could be brought against him. But as Max went on he felt the ground slipping from under his feet and saw by inspiration the chain of circumstances which was to encircle him.

“Elithe saw me shoot, and Miss Hansford hid my revolver! Oh, Max,—Oh, Tom, what does it mean?” he said, shaking until his knees bent under him.

“Don’t blame the old lady,” Max said. “She’s madder ‘n a hen, and ready to fight everybody. Last night at prayer meetin’ she hollered so loud for the Lord to save the innocent, you could hear her all over the island. Some thought ’twas a fire alarm and was goin’ to call out the department. They say the amens was powerful. As for the little girl, what she seen slipped out before she thought, and you can’t get a word from her now. I’ll bet there’s been forty reporters there to see her. She’s cryin’ her eyes out, they say, and won’t see a soul.”

Here was a grain of comfort and Paul pulled himself up, but put out a hand to Tom. “Did you know all this?” he asked, and Tom replied, “I knew something of it, but don’t take it so hard. You shall not be harmed. Lean on me and sit down on the steps.”

He passed his arm around his master, who was weak as a baby and glad to sit where Tom put him.

“Does father know it?” Paul asked, and Tom replied, “No, I kept it from him, hoping nothing would happen. He ought to know it now. Shall I go for him?”

“Yes, yes. Go for father. Max will wait,” Paul answered eagerly, bowing his head and resting his face in his hands.

Several boys had come close up to him, wondering why Max did not produce handcuffs, as they supposed he would. These Tom dispersed with his whip and then the two black horses went tearing across the causeway towards the Ralston House, their feet striking fire on the pavement and their mouths white with foam. Mrs. Ralston was lying down in her room with something which threatened to be the Grippe, but the judge was sitting upon the side piazza waiting for Tom. The boat had been gone nearly an hour. It was surely time unless something had happened. Perhaps they didn’t come, he was thinking, when he saw the horses running at their utmost speed, the carriage rocking from side to side, and Tom evidently having some trouble to keep his seat.

“Is he drunk, or what?” the judge said, hastening out to meet him and asking with some severity: “What’s to pay, that you are driving like this? I never saw the off-horse sweat so.”

“The Old Harry’s to pay,” Tom answered. “They are arresting Mr. Paul down by the church for shooting Mr. Percy. You must go quick and stop it.”

“Arresting my son for shooting Jack Percy! Are you crazy? The thing is preposterous,—impossible!” the judge exclaimed, with the voice and manner of one who does not think any great calamity can come to him because it never has.

“It’s true, though, and the town’s alive with it. Jump in! don’t wait a minute.”

The judge had come out without his hat, which, in his excitement, he forgot entirely as he sprang into the carriage and was driven bare-headed, with his white hair blowing in the wind, to the church where Paul was sitting on the steps, with Max beside him, a picture of perplexity and despair.

“Oh, father, I am so glad you have come. You know it is not true,” Paul said, lifting his face, across which there flashed a ray of hope that with his father near no harm could befall him.

“What does this mean? I don’t understand it,” the judge asked Max, who began to tell his story with a great many apologies for being mixed up in it and saying he didn’t believe it, but had to do his duty.

Something the judge said made Paul exclaim, “Oh, father, you do not believe I did it either by mistake or otherwise!”

During the rapid ride the judge had learned all Tom knew of the matter. Max had added a good deal which Tom had not told, and just for one instant the father wavered, not with a thought that the act was premeditated, but that it was an accident which could be explained. Before he was elected judge he had been a prominent criminal lawyer, with a wide reputation for his skill in cross-questioning, and now he said to his son, “Tom tells me you were not near the spot,—that you had no firearms about you,—that you knew nothing of the shooting until some time after it happened. Is this true?”

“Yes, it is true, and true, too, that I was looking for Jack when I passed Miss Hansford’s cottage. I wanted to give him a message from Clarice. I must have passed near where he was lying, but did not see him. I made a detour in the woods thinking to find him. I went as far as the old brick kiln and turned back another way and came across Tom coming from Still Haven. We heard some one had been shot and I went at once to see who it was. That is all I know. I am as innocent as you. Max says they think it a mistake which I can explain and it will not go hard with me. There is no mistake. I cannot explain. God knows I didn’t do it, and you believe me, father.”

There was dumb entreaty in Paul’s face, and putting his arm around him the judge said, “My boy is innocent, and please God, we will prove him so.”

“Must you do this dirty work?” he added, in an aside to Max, who was again wiping the sweat from his face, this time with a handkerchief more soiled than his hands.

It was Paul who answered, “Yes, father, he must. Max isn’t to blame. He and I are good friends,—have played hide and coop together many a time,—haven’t we, Max?”

“Ye-es,” Max blubbered, “I wish I wasn’t so tarnal tender-hearted.”

“Never mind your heart. You must do your duty, so go ahead and do it in ship-shape style,—but omit the bracelets,” Paul said with a laugh. “Must I go to the lock-up?” he continued, shrinking from the dreary place, not often used, and at which when a boy he had often looked curiously, especially if there were a prisoner in it.

He was the prisoner now, and with some difficulty he rose to his feet, supported by Tom and his father, the latter of whom said to him, “Courage, my boy. Everything which can be done to save you shall be done and you will soon be free. I shall come and see you this evening. Don’t cry,—don’t,” he continued, as Paul broke down and sobbed like a little child. This was so different from anything he had expected. Over the hill to his right was his pleasant home, where his mother waited for him;—up the avenue to the left was Clarice, who would be expecting him that night,—and before him the terrible lock-up. He was in the carriage now, seated on the back seat with Max and trying to hide from the eyes of those who still lingered in the street to see the end. At these Tom swore lustily as he gathered up the reins and drove up the avenue, not rapidly as he had driven to the Ralston House, but slowly, as if going to a burial.

As he crossed the causeway he met Miss Hansford, excited and angry. She had heard all the rumors and that it was thought Paul would be arrested on his return from Washington. Stationing herself on her upper balcony she watched the boat as it came in and waited anxiously for the return of the Ralston carriage. She knew it would first take Mrs. Percy and Clarice home and she allowed ample time for that; still it did not come. She could see the church with her far-seers and the people gathering there. Beside her on the floor was Elithe, her younger eyes taking in everything her aunt’s spectacles might fail to see.

“The carriage is there,” she said at last, and in a few minutes they saw it dashing across the causeway and over the hills towards the Ralston House.

In less time than they thought it possible for it to do so, it returned with the judge in it.

“What does it mean?” Elithe asked, but her aunt did not reply until she saw it start again, and this time towards the lock-up.

“It means they’ve took him and are carrying him to that pen,” she cried hurrying down stairs. Seizing her oldest and worst-looking sun-bonnet she ran down the path and across the causeway, until she met the carriage crossing it.

“Stop,” she said, throwing up her arms at the horses.

Tom stopped, glad of an excuse.

“What are you doing ridin’ in a carriage as if you was a gentleman?” she said to Max, who cowered as if afraid of bodily harm.

“Taking me for a little change of air,” Paul answered for him, trying to laugh, but failing dismally.

“Not to the lock-up! He shall not go there,” Miss Hansford continued.

“Them’s my orders,” Max said timidly.

“D—— the orders!” Tom muttered under his breath, while Paul rejoined, “I can stand it awhile. It can’t be for long. Drive on, Tom, let’s see what the accommodations are.”

They were worse than anyone of the party anticipated. One or two men arrested for incendiarism and a few tramps were all who had occupied the place for a long time. No one had been in it for months. Consequently but little attention had been paid to it and the room was close and damp.

“Smells enough to knock you down,” Miss Hansford said, holding her nose as she put her head inside the door, which had been unlocked by an official waiting for the party.

Hundreds of spiders’ webs filled with dead flies festooned the walls and the small barred windows. The floor was littered with sticks and shavings and stained with tobacco juice.

Miss Hansford held her skirts high as he stepped into the room, and taking up the pillow from the bunk pronounced it “hen’s feathers and bad ones at that.”

“Oh, father,” Paul said, “I can’t go in there. I should die before morning with the smells and the spiders and the rats. See that big one scurrying across the floor.”

Miss Hansford’s shriek would have called attention to it if Paul had not. The long, lank creature had run across her feet, and with the agility of a young girl she had leaped into the wooden chair to get out of its way.

“Take me to the jail at once. It is better than this,” Paul continued, and “Yes, to the jail,” was repeated by those who had gathered outside and were looking on with pity for the young man who had fallen so suddenly from a palace, as it were, to a prison.

The jail stood about a mile from the town, near the shore, and at some little distance from the road. It was a large frame building, old and dilapidated, but answering every purpose for the few occasions when it was called in requisition. The jailer and his wife occupied the front rooms, and those in the rear were reserved for prisoners when any were there. As it had once been a dwelling house the so-called cells were larger and pleasanter every way than are usually found in country jails. After some necessary preliminaries and orders Paul was taken there and the best and airiest room assigned him. It was very bare of furniture, but it was scrupulously clean, and a great improvement on the lock-up. But there were iron bars across the window and a heavy padlock on the door outside. It was a prison and Paul was a prisoner. Sitting down in the hard chair, and, leaning his head against his father, he began to realize what it would be when he was alone and they were all gone.

“Keep up, my boy, keep up,” his father kept saying. “We’ll soon have you out. I’ll come again to-night and bring your mother to-morrow, if she is able.”

Max was looking on and wishing he had never been elected constable, while Tom was quietly taking note of the bars at the window and the decayed condition of the casings.

“Good-bye, Paul, for a few hours,” the judge said, stooping down and kissing his boy, a thing he had not done in years.

Max was quite unstrung and kept stroking Paul’s arm as he said: “I’ll be darned if I hadn’t rather stay here myself than leave you. Yes, I would.”

Tom was silent, but he wrung Paul’s hand with a strength as if he were testing the iron bars. Then they went out and Paul heard his father speaking to the jailer and knew he was being commended to his care.

“Be kind to him, Stevens. Give him all the privileges you can,” the judge said, slipping a bill into the man’s hand.

“No need to tell me that,” Stevens replied. “I’ll treat him as I would my brother.”

Then the carriage drove away, and before bedtime the news spread through the city that Paul was in jail,—that his mother was going from one fainting fit into another, with three doctors in attendance,—that Clarice was in convulsions with two, Elithe in hysterics with one,—that Miss Hansford was crazy and Judge Ralston was to offer $10,000 for the capture of the man who killed Jack Percy.

CHAPTER XXXII.
IN PRISON.

When Paul heard the key turned upon him and the sound of voices die away and began to realize that he could not get out if he wished to, a kind of frenzy seized him and for a time he was beside himself. What business had Max Allen to arrest him, innocent as he was of the dreadful accusation brought against him? Why had his father and Tom allowed it and left him there in jail, shut in with bars and bolts? He would get out,—he would be free. Going to the heavy door, he shook it with all his strength, but it did not yield to his blows. There was another one leading to the passage connecting with the janitor’s rooms, and he tried that next. But it was locked and bolted. He could not get out there. He stood upon the chair and shook the iron bars across the open window. If they moved he did not know it, and with a despairing look at the ocean and the white sails against the evening sky he gave that up. There was no way of escape unless it were through the wide chimney. He might get out there, and going down on the hearth on his hands and knees, he looked up the sooty flue to where a ledge of brick and mortar broke the line and impeded the way. The chimney was impracticable. He was hemmed in on every side,—a prisoner. The perspiration was rolling down his face and back and arms,—there was a buzzing in his ears and a throbbing in his head as he began to walk up and down his rather small apartment.

“Am I mad? If not, I soon shall be,” he said, and then his thoughts went back to the time when a boy in the Boston High School he had spoken the “Maniac’s Plea,”

“Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe,

She is not mad who kneels to thee.”

He had been greatly applauded and told he could not have done a maniac’s part better had he really been one.

“I can do it better now,” he thought, repeating some parts of it with fierce gestures and glassy eyes.

Outside the cool evening breeze came from the sea through his open window and blew across his face. The tide was coming in, and there was something soothing in the sound of the waves breaking on the shore a few rods away, and as he listened he grew more calm and began to put things together and recall the incidents of the last few hours. He remembered how glad he was to be coming home and how pleasant the Bluff and Heights had looked with their handsome villas and grounds sloping to the water. The roof of the Ralston House, with its cupola and look-out, he had saluted with a thought of his mother, of whom he was very proud, and who would probably be at the wharf to meet him and Clarice. He had put his arm around the latter as they drew near the landing and saw the crowd of people, who, she said, had come to meet them. With an exclamation of disgust he recalled his satisfaction and pride as he thought she was right,—that because of her misfortune and his the people were sorry and were showing it in that way. They had come out to meet them, or him, not to do him honor, but on the contrary to arrest him,—to drag him to prison for a crime he never committed. Tom’s face, which he had not noticed at the time, came back to him now, with Max Allen’s stammering words of greeting and request to speak with him, and Clarice’s angry exclamation as her dress was stepped on. The drive to the cottage, his parting with the weeping girl, who clung to him just as she had never done before when he said good-bye,—the drive back to the church, where Max and a portion of the crowd were waiting for him, were all plainly outlined before him, and then——! He could feel again the chill, followed by a sensation as if hot lead were being poured through every vein and scorching every nerve, when Max said: “I’ve got to arrest you.”

The words were sounding in his ears, as he continued his recollections of all that passed after they were spoken. He had a faint remembrance of sitting on the church steps with a lot of boys staring at him, and Max saying occasionally a word of sympathy and encouragement. Then the black horses came dashing up, flecked with white foam, and his father was beside him, pale and hatless. This struck him now as it had not at the time, and he said, aloud: “He was bare-headed, wasn’t he? Yes, he was. Where was his hat, I wonder? I don’t think he had it on at all. It must have blown off, and he didn’t stop to pick it up.”

It was some little diversion to settle the matter of the hat, and then he returned to what followed his father’s arrival,—a recapitulation of what he had heard before from Max, and which, had it been told him of any other person than himself, would have stamped that person as a criminal beyond doubt. Then came the arrest, how, or in what words, he did not know. He heard Tom swear at the boys and girls, too,—for there were girls there and women looking on, and he was sorry for them that delicacy should not have kept them away. Tom had helped him into the carriage with his father and Max, and they had driven to the causeway, where a flying figure, with arms akimbo and a most wonderful sun-bonnet, had met them and poured a torrent of abuse on Max, shriveled to half his size as he listened. That was Miss Hansford, the grand old woman he called her, who, at the door of the lock-up, with its mold and spiders, had taken his hand and held him back and said he should not go in there. He shuddered as he recalled the place. His present quarters were a great improvement upon the lock-up, and he was grateful for them.

“But nothing very elegant here,” he said, taking a survey of his surroundings.

Everything was clean and smelled of fresh lime, but was exceedingly plain. A bare floor, a single bed, with straw mattress, and a crazy, patchwork quilt spread over it. At this Paul rebelled and thought of his brass bedstead at home, with its lace canopy and silken covering and embroidered pillow cases. Then he continued his investigations. A hard chair, a square table, with nothing on it but a Bible, which Paul was sure had never been read,—a washstand, with a tin basin hanging over it, and pail and dipper beside it,—a shelf with a turkey red drapery around it, and on it a vase made of Gay Head pottery and warranted not to hold water. In it was a dried carnation, put there for somebody by somebody,—how long ago he could not guess, but the sight of it awoke a throb of sympathy for the poor wretch shut up as he was, and for the kind hand which had brought the little flower to make the solitude less cheerless. Over the mantel was a lithograph,—a picture of the crucifixion, with the Saviour’s dying eyes turned with love and forgiveness toward the penitent thief.

Paul had completed the inventory of his furniture and stood contemplating the picture.

“I s’pose it’s intended to point a lesson and tell the hardened criminal that there’s mercy at the last moment,” he said. “Well, I’m not a hardened criminal, and I do not need to be forgiven for shooting Jack.”

Then there came to his mind what Max and Miss Hansford and two or three more around him had said of its being a mistake which would be cleared up. He had told his father there was no mistake, and he said so again to himself, but if Jack didn’t do it, who did?

“I didn’t,” he continued. “I wasn’t there, was I? Who said they saw me?”

He was in a chair now trying to think. Suddenly what in the excitement attending the arrest he had forgotten came to him. “Elithe saw me, Elithe!” and he groaned aloud. “How could she say so? Oh, Elithe!” Had it been Clarice, it would have scarcely hurt him more cruelly. “If she saw me, I must have been there and I didn’t know it. I certainly am mad, or shall be soon if some one does not come to waken me from this nightmare,” he said.

His reason had reached the last barrier and might have leaped over it if Stevens, the jailer, had not come in with a lamp, which he put upon the table.

“I am sorry I left you in the dark so long,” he said.

“I didn’t know it was dark,” Paul replied, glancing at the window and surprised to see a star shining through it.

“Yes, it grows dark early now, and your supper is late, as we didn’t expect company. Sarah Jane has taken a heap of pains with it. Here it comes,” Stevens said, nodding towards the door, where his wife stood, holding a large tray filled with the most appetizing food she could think of.

Broiled chicken and coffee and peaches and cream, such as she had never taken to a prisoner before. Paul was no ordinary charge. He had always had a pleasant word for her, and once, when she was in town without an umbrella and a heavy rain was falling, he had taken her home in his covered phaeton. “Just as if I was a lady,” she said, and she never forgot the attention. Now he was there in jail, and she was more sorry for him than she had ever been for any one in her life. Like the most of the people she did not believe he intended to kill Jack Percy, and she wondered he did not say so.

“I hope you will enjoy your supper,” she said, putting the tray upon the table and pouring his coffee for him.

He was young and he was hungry, and he ate with a keener appetite than he would have thought possible half an hour ago. He was naturally very social; he never liked to be alone, and the presence of the jailer and his wife was company and made the place less dreary. His head was less hot and dizzy, and he talked calmly of the calamity which had overtaken him so suddenly.

“Nobody believes you meant to do it, and when you tell just how it was, things will be easier,” Mrs. Stevens ventured to say, as she poured him a second cup of coffee.

Paul looked at her quickly and asked: “They mean that I am to say I shot him by mistake, not knowing he was there, and get off that way?”

“Yes, that’s about it,” Mrs. Stevens replied, and Paul continued: “Then I shall never get off. I know no more of the shooting than you do. I was not there.”

Mrs. Stevens looked distressed and puzzled. If Paul persisted in this statement she did not know what could save him from State’s Prison at least, if not from a worse fate, and her face was very grave as she took up the tray and carried it from the room. Her husband had gone out before her, and Paul was again alone. He knew the door had not yet been locked, and he could get out if he chose. But he did not choose. The fit of frenzy had passed, leaving him stunned and apathetic. The lamp was burning very dimly, and he could still see the star looking at him through the window, and began to recall his knowledge of astronomy and try to think what star it was and in what constellation. It was very bright, and reminded him first of Clarice’s eyes,—then of Elithe’s,—then it was his mother looking at him, and he was nodding in his chair when the rusty old key in the padlock outside aroused him, and he awoke to find his father and Tom in the room, their arms full of bundles, which they put down one by one. Soft pillows and bed linen, towels and a rug and articles for the toilet, with his dressing gown and slippers, and a large hand mirror. This was Tom’s idea. Indeed, nearly everything was his idea. His quick eyes had noted the bareness of the room,—the absence of everything to which Paul was accustomed, and he had suggested to the judge that they take a few necessaries that night and furnish square the next day. The judge was thinking more of the safety of Paul and how to secure it than of present animal comfort, but he assented to Tom’s proposal and said: “Do what you like. I don’t seem able to think of but one thing,—how to prove my boy innocent,—and of my poor wife.”

The news, told her as carefully as it was possible to tell it, and with as much concealed as could be concealed, had sent her into a deadly faint, from which she recovered only to insist that Paul be brought to her, and then to swoon again. This lasted for an hour or more, when she grew quiet, but talked constantly of Paul, begging her husband to go for him and bring him home.

“I can’t, Fanny,” the judge said to her. “They will not let him come yet. There must be an examination, or something, and then we trust he will he free. Tom and I are going to see him by and by. What shall I tell him for you?”

“Tell him to come. His mother is sick and will die if he stays away. Who says he shot Jack Percy?”

They did not tell her the particulars then. She was too weak to hear them. She only knew Paul had been arrested and was lodged in jail and that her husband and Tom were going to get him out. She put a great deal of faith in Tom, who guaranteed Paul’s speedy release over and over again, until she began to believe it, and was comparatively quiet when he started with the judge for the jail,—the carriage as full as it would hold of articles which Tom’s thoughtfulness had suggested.

“There’s more coming to-morrow,” he said to Paul, who could not answer at once.

The sight of his father and Tom and hearing of his mother’s illness had unnerved him again, and he was lying on the cot with his face buried in the pillow he knew was from his own bed.

“Seeing you makes me want to go home so badly,—to mother. Oh, mother, mother,” he said at last.

It was like the heart-broken cry of a child, and it seemed to the judge as if he must die if it were continued.

“Don’t, my boy, don’t,” he said, passing his arm under Paul’s neck and bringing his face up to his own. “It’s not for long. I have offered ten thousand dollars for the arrest of the real man and will offer ten more if necessary. That will bring him down.”

“Then you don’t think I did it, even by accident, as Mrs. Stevens says most people do?” Paul asked, and his father replied: “No, my son. I believe you told the truth when you said you knew nothing of it.”

“I did, father; I did. If I knew it could save my life, I could not say differently. I was not there.”

“And will prove it, too,” Tom said, his voice so full of courage and hope that Paul felt stronger himself and began to look about with some interest on what had been brought and what Tom was doing.

He had spread down the handsome Persian rug on the floor in front of the cot,—had put the fine linen damask towels on the washstand, with a tilt of his nose at the tin basin and pail, and a mental note of what he would bring in their place. He laid Paul’s dressing gown on the foot of the cot with another tilt of his nose at the patchwork quilt, and with another mental memorandum. He took out Paul’s comb and brushes and soap dish,—all silver-backed and looking on the old stand as much out of harmony as the rug on the floor.

“I brought you this,” he said, holding up the hand glass. “Everybody wants to see himself, if he is in prison. To-morrow I’ll bring a bigger one, with more things. We’ll have you in good shape while you stay here.”

He was very cheerful, and both the judge and Paul felt the magnetism of his cheerfulness. Clarice’s name had not been mentioned, nor that of any one except his mother, but she was in Paul’s mind, and when he could trust himself he asked: “Does Clarice know where I am and what they charge me with?”

“Yes, she knows. Everybody knows. The whole town is up in arms. She takes it hard,” Tom said.

“Does she believe it?” was Paul’s next question.

“No. Nobody believes it,” was Tom’s reply, and Paul continued: “Yes, they do. They believe I did it accidentally. Does Clarice think so?”

“Certainly not. She knows you didn’t,” Tom said, unhesitatingly, without in the least knowing what Clarice believed or didn’t believe.

He had been told that when the news reached her she had shrieked so loud that she was heard a block away, and had then gone into convulsions. He had heard, too, that Elithe had turned as white as marble when her aunt came with the intelligence of Paul’s arrest, and had not spoken since. He did not mean to mention her name to Paul, knowing that what she saw and heard was the pivot on which public opinion hung. But Paul spoke of her and said: “Elithe says she saw me. I wish she would come here and tell me why she thought it was I.”

“They say she’s like a dead lump, and would give the world if she had held her tongue,” Tom replied, feeling more pity for poor little Elithe, white and still and dumb with pain and terror, than for Clarice in screaming hysterics. These would wear themselves out, but Elithe would grow steadily worse with the dread of the trial and the witness stand before her.

“Tell her not to feel so badly, but come and see me. Maybe I can convince her it was not I whom she saw,” Paul said.

He did not say “Tell Clarice to come.” He was as sure of her coming as he was of his mother’s. Both might be there to-morrow, and this thought buoyed him up when he at last said good-night to his father and Tom, and heard the key turn in the lock to let them out and turn again to shut him in. The few touches Tom had given to his room had made a difference in his physical comfort, while his father’s confident words, emphasized by Tom, had given him hope, and his heart was not so heavy when he knelt down by his bed and asked that he might be freed at once, —that God, who knew his innocence, would not suffer him to be brought to trial. When he thought of that he recoiled with a feeling as if pins were piercing every nerve.

“I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t. A prisoner in the dock, with the people looking at me and Elithe swearing against me. Oh, God! please save me from that!”

For a few moments he was in an agony of excitement, which shook him like a reed. Then he grew very calm. God would save him and all would yet be well. Moving his cot in front of the window he lay down upon it, tired but sleepless. The star which had shone upon him earlier in the evening was still looking at him, with another near it. The higher and brighter, flashing as it shone, he likened to Clarice; the lower and softer, shining with a pure, steady light, was Elithe, whose eyes had often looked at him steadily and quietly as this star shone upon him now, bringing a sensation of rest and indifference to what had happened or might happen in the future. Thoughts of Jack came to him in his loneliness. Poor Jack! Cut off so suddenly. How he wished he hadn’t been angry with him that morning at the hotel, and wished, too, that he had found him in the woods when looking for him. In the confusion which followed Jack’s death he had scarcely had time to think much of John Pennington, the hero of Deep Gulch, but now, with Elithe’s star looking at him, he remembered the scene in Miss Hansford’s rooms when Elithe knelt by the dying man, whose last thoughts were for her,—whose last word was her name, spoken as he, Paul, might speak Clarice’s, if he knew he were dying. Elithe had disclaimed all love for Jack, saying he had only been her friend.

“But Jack loved her, and this must influence her in her opinion of me. I wish I could see her and talk with her about it,” he thought, still watching the two stars.

That of Elithe was a little dim, with a fleecy cloud over it, but that of Clarice was bright as ever.

“Poor Clarice, who was to have been a bride last week! I am so sorry for her,” he said, forgetting Elithe at last and thinking only of Clarice until he heard a clock strike one.

He had not slept. He didn’t feel as if he could ever sleep again, but after an hour of tossing on his hard bed, which grew harder every minute, he fell into a heavy slumber, from which he did not waken until the sun was shining through the window, where the starry eyes of Clarice and Elithe had looked at him the night before.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
OUTSIDE THE PRISON.

All that night lights were burning in the Ralston House, where the judge sat by his wife, who lay with her eyes closed and tears constantly running down her cheeks until it seemed as if she could not cry any more.

“My boy, my boy! I must go to him,” she kept saying, and nothing but the assurance that she should do so could quiet her.

“It will not harm her as much to go as it will to stay,” the doctor said when he came in the morning, and not long after Paul had breakfasted she was with him, sobbing in his arms, while he tried to comfort her, mastering his own grief for her sake, telling her it would all be right, and that he was very comfortable.

“Tom brought a lot of things last night, and he says there’s a whole load coming by and by. I shall be housed too luxuriously for a prisoner,” he said, trying to laugh.

“Oh, Paul, don’t call yourself that dreadful name. I can’t bear it,” Mrs. Ralston said, clinging closer to him and covering his face with kisses.

She was lovely and gracious to every one, but she was very proud of her own family name and that of the Ralstons, too. None was better in Massachusetts, and that it should be tarnished by her son’s arrest and imprisonment was galling to her pride. But over and above this was the thought of possible conviction, which must not,—should not be. She would fight for her boy and rescue him from his traducers.

“Tell me about it,—all you know. People think it was accidental, and that you should say so at once. Tell me everything.”

She was a little woman, and she was in Paul’s lap, with her arms around his neck and her face against his cheek, while he told her all he knew,—the same story he had repeated so many times and which she believed, for he had never told her a lie. Naturally she felt indignant at Elithe, who was expected to be the main witness against him.

“I shall see her and know what she means,” she said.

“No, mother, don’t worry Elithe,” Paul rejoined. “She thinks she saw me. I have asked for her to come here and explain. Perhaps I can convince her she was mistaken. I want to see Clarice, too. If you could come to-day she surely can and will. How is she?”

Mrs. Ralston did not know. She would call there on her way home, she said, and if possible Clarice should come that afternoon. For two hours she staid in the jail talking to Paul and watching Tom arranging the cart load of things which Paul had told her were coming. An easy chair, a lounge, another rug, a vase with flowers to put in it, a small mirror and a soft blanket and white spread for the cot.

“I’m mighty glad of that,” Paul said. “The patchwork thing, made of nobody knows how many women’s dresses, would drive me crazy. I should count the pieces over and over again. I began it this morning after I was awake.”

He was quite cheerful, or tried to appear so, when at last his mother left him, promising to return the next day. Mrs. Ralston had overtaxed her strength and was feeling very weak and sick as she drove to the Percy Cottage, which was shut as closely as if Jack’s dead body were still lying there. Clarice was in bed, with Jack’s photograph on one side of her pillow and Paul’s on the other. Both were soaked with tears, and she was looking very pale and worn when Mrs. Ralston was announced. She had gone into hysterics when she heard of the arrest and had indignantly rejected the charge against Paul as monstrous and impossible. After the hysterics subsided she had sunk into a state of nervous exhaustion, crying a great deal and insisting upon seeing every one who called. There were many who came to offer sympathy and from whom she learned all that was being said and why suspicions had fastened upon Paul.

“Miss Hansford’s niece says she saw him,” was told to her, and her eyes grew larger and blacker and harder, as she listened, and had in them at last a look of doubt and horror.

Remembering Paul’s manner when he left her to find her brother, and knowing Jack’s temper, there crept into her mind a thought that possibly there was a meeting and a quarrel and a shot fired, in self-defense most likely, although that theory did not harmonize with Elithe’s story of deliberate aim and throwing the pistol away.

“She never saw all she pretends to have seen,” Clarice thought, as she tried to reason it out. “She was more in love with Jack than she admitted to me, and because of that she feels vindictive towards Paul, and would like to see him punished.”

This was her conclusion, something mean in her own nature making her think there was the same in Elithe’s. That Paul shot her brother she had little doubt when she reviewed all the evidence brought to her by those who would not have told her everything if she had not insisted upon hearing it.

“It’s my right to know. One was my brother; the other was to have been my husband,” she said, laying stress upon the was to have been, as if the condition were a thing of the past.

It was impossible for her to marry the slayer of her brother, whether it were accidental or intentional, and neither could she bear the disgrace of having a husband who had been arrested as a felon and tried for his life. All this she confided to her mother, who, more politic than her daughter, counseled silence for the present at least.

“Wait and see what the future brings,” she said. “If Paul is honorably acquitted and proved innocent, there is no reason why your relations with him should not continue; if he is proved guilty, we must stand by him to the last for the sake of what he has been to you.”

“And go and see him hung!” Clarice cried, going into a hysterical fit.

From this she had just recovered when Mrs. Ralston came in and nearly sent her into another.

“My poor, dear child; my daughter that was to be, and please God will be yet,” the little lady said, caressing her with a mother’s pity and tenderness.

Sitting beside her she told her of her visit to Paul and of his great desire to see her.

“Go to him as soon as you can,” she said, “and comfort him. He is as innocent as you are.”

“You believe it?” Clarice asked.

“Believe it!” Mrs. Ralston repeated. “Why shouldn’t I believe it?”

Clarice saw she was offended and hastened to say: “I did not mean intentional killing,—no one believes that,—but might it not have been accidental?”

“That makes him a liar,” was Mrs. Ralston’s reply, while Clarice began to speak of Elithe, who had unquestionably exaggerated what she saw, not meaningly, perhaps, but because of her relations to Jack. This was the first Mrs. Ralston had heard of Elithe’s relations to Jack, and she listened with a good deal of interest to what Clarice told her.

“I shall see the girl and talk with her,” she said, as she arose to go.

Her parting with Clarice was not as loving as her greeting had been, for Clarice would not say she believed Paul wholly guiltless,—nor when she would go to see him.

“I don’t know what I believe. I feel as if I were turned into stone with all that has come upon me so suddenly,” she said, and with rather a cool good-bye Mrs. Ralston left her.

She was scarcely able to stand, and knew she ought to go home, but she must see Elithe first, and she ordered Tom to drive to Miss Hansford’s cottage. She found Miss Hansford having a cup of tea alone in the kitchen, and as it was past her lunch hour she took a cup with her, broaching at once the object of her visit. She had seen Paul and Clarice, and now she must see Elithe. Where was she?

“In her room, where she has staid the most of the time since they took him. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor talks, nor sees any one,” Miss Hansford told her.

“She’ll see me; she must,” Mrs. Ralston said, in a tone Miss Hansford had never heard from her before. “They tell me she saw Paul shoot Mr. Percy. She is mistaken. He did not shoot him. If he is committed and there is a trial she will be the principal witness; her testimony will convict him, and it must not be.”

“Would you have her swear to a lie?” Miss Hansford asked, and Mrs. Ralston replied: “Certainly not, but I would convince her of her mistake,—persuade her not to be influenced by prejudice because she thinks he shot her lover.”

“Shot her lover! Great Heavens! What do you mean? Jack Percy was no more Elithe’s lover than he was mine,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, spilling her tea into her lap in her surprise.

Before Mrs. Ralston could reply a voice called down the stairs, “Auntie, I’m coming down; or no, let Mrs. Ralston come up; then if any one else calls I needn’t see them.”

A door from Elithe’s room opened directly at the head of the kitchen stairs, and without listening Elithe had heard all the conversation, cowering at first as from heavy blows and then growing surprised and indignant that she should be thought to be biased by a love for Jack Percy. She would clear herself of that suspicion and she asked Mrs. Ralston to come to her. Since the arrest she had refused to see any one, fearing lest something more than she had already said might be extorted from her and be used against Paul. Could she have left the island she would have gone, and she had begged her aunt to send her away, or go with her beyond the reach of lawyers and judges, and trials and subpœnas and constables, of which she had heard so much during Paul’s absence. But Miss Hansford knew better than to allow that. They must meet it, she said, and Elithe grew whiter and thinner every day with the fear of what was coming.

Mrs. Ralston found her sitting by the window from which she had talked with Paul and seen him fire the shot, and something in her heavy eyes and drooping attitude reminded her of a young girl hopelessly insane whom she had seen in the asylum at Worcester. She did not get up when Mrs. Ralston came in. She was so tired and sick and sorry that she did not want to move, and with a slight inclination of her head waited for Mrs. Ralston to speak, which she did at once, telling why she was there and saying: “It is not possible that you are right, and I want you to think it over carefully. Recall everything. Give my son the benefit of every doubt. Remember his life is involved and a few words from you might save him. Don’t let any personal feelings influence you because it was Mr. Percy who was shot.”

She did not get any further. Elithe understood her, and her face was scarlet and her heavy eyes bright as she said: “Please stop. I know what you mean, and it is not true. I am sorry Mr. Percy is dead, but that does not influence me at all. Mr. Ralston never meant to kill him, but he did, and I saw him. Thinking it over will make no difference. I saw him, and if they make me speak I must say so, but I would rather die than do it. You don’t know how I feel. There’s a tight band around my head which burns like fire. All above and below is cold and aches and throbs. I can’t tell you how dreadful it is! It’s like two engines beating on my brain from different points.”

She had slipped from her chair and was kneeling at Mrs. Ralston’s feet, repeating the story of that Sunday night rapidly and concisely and leaving no doubt on Mrs. Ralston’s mind that she fully believed all she said, and that no reconsidering could change her mind. Elithe would convict her son if nothing else did. And yet she could not feel as angry with her now as she had done, and when she left it was with a greater pity for Elithe than she had felt for Clarice.

“Did you get any satisfaction?” Miss Hansford asked, when she was in the room below.

Mrs. Ralston shook her head and said: “She persists in saying she saw it. Seems on the verge of insanity. Something should be done.”

Miss Hansford had feared it, too, and after Mrs. Ralston was gone she went to Elithe and asked if there was anything that would comfort her or help her in any way.

“Yes,—father. It would not be so hard if he were here to tell me what to do.”

“He shall come,” Miss Hansford replied, and that afternoon she wrote a long letter to Roger, telling him the whole story and urging him to come if possible. She would pay all the expenses and pay for some one to take his place in church during his absence. “That’ll fetch him,” she said to Elithe, who, buoyed up with this hope, slept that night the first quiet sleep in a week.

Tom Drake came the next day, asking if she would go to the jail.

“No, Tom. I couldn’t bear to see him there,” she said, “and it would do no good. Tell him I am so sorry,—that I’d take his place if I could. When father comes perhaps I’ll go. Maybe they’ll let him out before that time.”

Tom shook his head and went away discouraged. After that Elithe refused absolutely to see any one. She was growing stronger with the hope of her father’s coming. It was time now to expect him, or a letter. It was the latter which came. Mr. Hansford was ill in bed with a malarial fever which precluded the possibility of his leaving home for days and possibly weeks. When he was able to come he would do so, if he were still needed. The news which Miss Hansford had written had been received with consternation and sorrow both in Samona and Deep Gulch. That Mr. Pennington had another name was not a great surprise to any one, for such complications were not uncommon, but all grieved for his violent death. At the Deep Gulch the mourning was sincere and heartfelt. With regard to Elithe the miners were pretty well posted by Rob, who told them whatever he thought would interest them. They knew about the big wedding she was to attend,—what she was to wear, and of the trip to Boston. Elithe had secured a copy of the paper with the Personal concerning herself and her aunt, and forwarded it to Rob, who, after showing it to everybody in Samona, took it to Deep Gulch. To go to Boston was not of so much importance as being mentioned with the President and Joe Jefferson and Gen. Tracy, and the miners read and re-read the paragraph many times, and the paper was passed from one to another until it was worn so thin that Mrs. Stokes pasted a bit of plain paper under it to keep it together. Elithe was having a gay old time, they said, and they were very glad and proud because of it.

Mr. Pennington was often mentioned in connection with her and the opinion expressed that he would yet turn up in Oak City. He had turned up there and was dead,—shot by Paul Ralston, for whom there were scarcely words enough in their vocabulary to express their indignation, until Stokes, who had heard Miss Hansford’s letter read, made them understand that it was not a case for lynching, as they had at first imagined. That New York had backslidden did not surprise them, but he was a good sort of cuss after all, and they stopped work half a day in honor of his memory, and suggested that a set of resolutions should be drawn up and forwarded to Elithe as a testimonial of respect for New York and sympathy for her. Naturally the task fell upon Stokes, who said he could not do it. He exhausted himself when he presented Sunshine to Elithe. Sam Blye was their next choice. His father had written some verses for a paper in Maine and he was supposed to come of literary stock. It was to be a kind of obituary as well as a testimonial, they said, and, proud of the honor conferred upon him, Sam went to work with a will and wrote: “Whereas, it has pleased God to take New York from us, we, the undersigned, hereby express our disapproval of the same, and think it a shabby thing to do.”

This, when read aloud, was received with howls of disgust as something highly disrespectful to the Almighty; but Sam would not give it up, and commenced again, with: “When in the course of human events,” and went on quite glibly until told it was an obituary they wanted, and not a Declaration of Independence.

“That’s so, by Gosh!” Sam said. “I’ll have to give it up and let New York slide. But we’ll send our regrets to Miss Elithe and tell her if she wants us to come down and break the chap’s head for her, we’ll do it. Ain’t he the ‘P. R.’ who sent so many telegraphs when Miss Elithe was sick that New York looked black as thunder? I’ll bet you they both wanted her and fit over her, and that’s what’s the matter. Maybe she likes ‘P. R.’ the best. There’s no tellin’ what a woman will do.”

Taking a fresh sheet of paper, Sam wrote in a very scrawling hand: “To Miss Elithe Hansford, Greeting:—We, the undersigned, send our Regrets, and are just as sorry for you as we can be, and if you want us to come down in a body and break that ‘P. R.’s bones, we’ll do it, or if you want us to come and get him out of jail, we’ll do it. Take your choice. Yours to command,

“SAMUEL BLYE, Secretary.”

Then followed a list of the men’s names, written in every sort of calligraphy, from good to bad, some of them X marks, and the whole covering a sheet of foolscap. This was taken to Mr. Hansford, with a request that he send it in his letter to Elithe.

“Don’t do it. It’s too ridiculous,” his wife said, but Mr. Hansford did not think so.

It would divert Elithe’s mind a little from herself, he said, and it did. It made her laugh and cry both, but laugh the most, and that did her good. The last part of her father’s letter was a help and comfort to her. Her aunt had written: “She don’t know what to do when she is on the stand. She’ll tell the truth, of course, but she don’t want to give Paul away.”

To this Roger replied: “You’ll find out fast enough what to do. When once you are on the stand, if you go there, answer what is asked you, telling the exact truth, but do not volunteer information and open doors for the lawyers to enter. Keep up your courage. We are all praying for you here, and something tells me it will yet be right and Mr. Ralston freed.”

Elithe had more faith in her father’s prayers and beliefs than in her aunt’s bones. The latter were very apt to forbode evil and in Paul’s case they prognosticated the worst. Still Miss Hansford tried to keep up and to keep Elithe up with her, while the days slipped by and the whole town talked of little beside the coming trial, which attracted the attention of the entire State, for the Ralstons were well known and Paul’s friends were legion. The newspapers were full of it and several came out with the story that Jack Percy had been engaged to the girl who was to appear against Paul Ralston. This added fresh interest to the affair, and although many of the summer visitors had gone home, and among them most of the guests bidden to the wedding, the town was seldom more crowded than it was for a part of that September long to be remembered in Oak City.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
READY FOR THE TRIAL.

Every preliminary in the way of examination, indictment and committal had been gone through. Bail had been offered and refused. The $10,000 offered to any one who would capture the slayer had failed to find the slightest clue to any one but Paul, who was still in jail awaiting his trial. Fortunately he had not long to wait, as the court opened soon after his arrest and examination. But every day was an eternity, and the nights were longer still. It seemed to him they would never end. His stars, Clarice and Elithe, were some little comfort to him,—that of Clarice still glowing like fire,—that of Elithe pale and blurred as if with many tears. When he could not see them he would cover up his head and cry, he was so weak from close confinement and so hopeless as to the future.

When daylight came, he felt better, for before night shut down again there might be news of the man for whom detectives were hunting everywhere. But there was never any news, and the days went by, bringing him nearer to the dreaded ordeal from which he shrank as a martyr might shrink from the rack which was to torture him. Everything which could be done to ameliorate his condition as a prisoner was done. No room in that jail or in any other had ever been furnished as his was. Tom was always bringing something until the place was overcrowded. Letters of sympathy came to him from every city and town where he had acquaintances. Flowers, fruit, delicacies of every kind were showered upon him. His table was filled with books and magazines and papers. Every day his father and mother visited him, cheering and encouraging him to the utmost, although they had little courage themselves, the outlook was so dark. Tom alone was hopeful. He hovered around the building constantly, often going inside and telling Paul any items he thought would interest him,—who had gone,—who were going,—who had come,—how the grounds were looking,—what flowers were in blossom, and how Sherry the dog,—named for the old Sherry,—missed his master. This interested Paul, who was very fond of Sherry, a big Newfoundland,—whom he had bought when a puppy.

“He stays by your door nearly all day,” Tom said, “and we couldn’t get him away at night until I took one of your old coats and put it in his kennel. He almost talked when he smelled it and gamboled round it like a kitten. I’d bring him to see you, but your father thinks I’d better not, he’d tear round so and be here every day if he knew where you were. We tie him up when the carriage comes, and the way he howls is a caution.”

Tom was a great comfort to Paul,—the friend who never failed. At night, after every one had retired and the lights in the city were out, he was often at the prison.

“It’s I,—Tom. There’s a big stone here and I’m sitting on it to keep you company,” he would call through the window, and Paul felt glad, knowing that he was not alone.

More than once, when the nights were at their darkest and the wind and rain were sweeping over the sea with a sullen roar, Paul could hear his tread and knew Tom was out in the storm like a faithful watch-dog. If Stevens, the jailer, suspected these vigils, he made no sign. Indeed, he would scarcely have interfered if he had known Paul was trying to escape. He might not have helped him, but he would have kept silent and wished him godspeed. Popular sympathy was all with Paul. That he shot Jack Percy people believed, but shot him either by mistake, or in self-defense, and great was the surprise at his emphatic denial of any complicity in the matter. He had told a straightforward story at the first and adhered to it ever after. He was angry with Jack and looking for him,—not to do him harm,—but to give him a message from his sister. He didn’t find him, but must have passed near him as he remembered thinking there was some dark object under the clump of bushes, but did not stop to investigate. As he left the woods he could see the path and the bridge leading in the direction of Oceanside. Jack was not on either. Thinking he heard footsteps to the right, he turned that way and went as far as the brick kiln without meeting any one, until he struck into Highland Avenue, where he met Tom returning from Still Haven and walked with him towards home, hearing before he reached there of the shooting. That was all he knew. The revolver was his, but how it came where it was found he did not know. He had no theory; he suspected no one. This was his story, from which he never varied. He knew that nearly everybody believed he shot Jack except his parents and Tom. The latter, who was oftenest seen, stood firm as a rock for entire innocence, corroborating what Paul said of joining him on the Highland Avenue and walking with him till they heard somebody had been shot and carried into Miss Hansford’s cottage. He, Tom, had gone to the stable to attend to the horses, and Paul had started at once for Miss Hansford’s.

This was Tom’s story, to which he stood firm, and when asked who did it, if Paul did not, answered, “Only two know,—the one who did it and the Lord, who, if worst comes to worst, will make it plain.”

That Paul would never be convicted, he said hundreds of times, and succeeded in infusing some of his hopefulness into the minds of the wretched parents, notwithstanding the evidence against their son, both circumstantial and direct, if that of Elithe could be called so. Every day Miss Hansford sent him some message and once she went to see him, taking with her some little apple pies, such as she used to make for him every Saturday when he was a boy. At the sight of them, and her pitiful eyes looking at him so sorrowfully, Paul broke down, remembering the many times when he had eaten pies like these at her round table in the kitchen and then ran off to play with Sherry, his dog,—and Jack who was waiting in the woods and was never invited to eat a little pie. Paul thought they would choke him with the memories they brought, but to please Miss Hansford he ate one, while she told him what he already knew,—that she and Elithe had been subpoenaed by the People, that she did not want to appear against him, and should say everything in his favor that she could say, and flout the District Attorney who was to conduct the case.

Paul laughed and took a second little pie, while Miss Hansford went on to speak of Elithe, and of the miners’ testimonial, with their queerly written signatures, some mere marks, with the names written round them, but all suggestive of sympathy for Elithe and liking for Jack.

“He must have met with a change, or else he was always better than I supposed, and had now and then a good streak in him,” she said.

“He had a great many,” Paul rejoined, and then asked if Elithe had seen the paper in which she was said to have been engaged to Jack.

He had read it with a feeling of indignation and torn the article in shreds, wondering if Elithe would see it and what effect it would have upon her. She had seen it. Your best friend is very apt to bring you an uncomplimentary notice of your book or an unkind criticism on yourself, and one of her best friends had shown her this, with the result of a two days headache and darker rings around her eyes. This Miss Hansford told Paul, who, though he knew the story was false, felt so relieved by Elithe’s reception of it that he took a third little pie and ate it without seeming to know that he was doing so. There was but one left, and this he put aside as if for future use, knowing it would please Miss Hansford.

It was nearly time for her to go, and as she tied her bonnet-strings, she said, “Wouldn’t you like me to pray with you?”

She had seen a Prayer Book on a table by his bed and knew there was a good deal in it concerning the Visitation of Prisoners, but Paul’s was an exceptional case, and she was glad when he answered readily, “I wish you would, for if ever a poor wretch needed prayer, I do.”

Falling upon her knees and putting her hands on Paul’s head she prayed earnestly that if there were a God in Heaven he would make it right. She did not say “find the man who killed Jack.” She felt she had him in her grasp, but he was to clear Paul somehow, and make him free again.

Through the window came the words “You bet he will.” Tom was there and stayed there that night until the dawn was breaking and his clothes were wet with the heavy dew. As the day of the trial drew near he was oftener at the jail, speaking comfort to Paul, telling him that the best talent in the State was engaged for the defence and hinting that if that failed he knew a sure way out of it. Paul could not help feeling hopeful after Tom had been with him, and still his sky was very dark and made darker by Clarice’s continual silence and refusal to visit him.

Her first excitement was over, but she took refuge behind nervous prostration as a reason for receiving no one except Mrs. Ralston and a few of her most intimate friends. When those last tried to comfort her she would turn from them almost angrily and say, “Don’t speak to me of happiness, as if it could ever be mine again. Think of all I was anticipating; all the preparations made for nothing. Do you think I can ever forget that I was to have been a bride, and now I am in black for my brother killed, and Paul, who was to have been my husband, is in prison for killing him?”

It was very sad for the girl. The wedding, with all its attendant grandeur, given up,—her bridal trousseau, for which so much had been expended, useless,—herself in black, and worse than all, a growing belief that the shooting had not been wholly accidental; that there had been a quarrel, provoked most likely by Jack, who had paid the penalty with his life. Why Paul did not tell the truth she could not guess. It would go easier with him if he confessed, but in either case it was all over between them. Her mother had counseled silence in this respect and she was keeping silent except so far as actions were concerned. These were eloquent as words and told Mrs. Ralston the real state of her mind. She could not, however, report this to Paul, who asked every day for Clarice and if she were not yet able to come and see him.

“She is very weak and nervous, and the excitement would make her worse,” his mother told him.

“But she could write just a line,—a word,—if only ‘Dear Paul,’ it would help me some,” Paul said, and at last Clarice did write.

“Dear Paul,” she began, “I am heart broken, and can never be happy again. Neither of us can, whichever way it turns. If you are convicted, it must be over with us, of course. If you are not, we can never live down the disgrace. Oh, Paul, why not tell exactly how it happened? People say that most likely nothing would be done to you if you would. I can’t come to you. I couldn’t bear to see you in prison. It would kill me. I am nearly killed now. My head aches all the time, I can’t sleep, and everything is so dreadful and so different from what it was to have been. What have I done that this should come upon me, and why was Elithe permitted to come here? If she had staid in Samona, Jack would have staid there, too. Has it ever occurred to you that if it were some one beside Jack whom you shot Elithe’s memory would not be quite so good? She must have liked him better than she pretended. Poor Jack. It is dreadful, and I am so unhappy. So is mamma. Bills are coming in and they are awful, and we have no good of them. I am so tired and must stop. They have kindly arranged it that I need not appear at the trial, and I am glad. I should die if I had to go on the stand. I believe I shall die as it is. Good-bye. From your wretched Clarice.”

She could scarcely have written a more heartless letter if she had tried. Everything about herself and her own unhappiness and nothing of pity or comfort for Paul, who took her letter eagerly when his mother brought it to him and tearing it open read it almost at a glance. Then his head began to droop lower and lower, and his chest to heave with the emotions he could not keep back.

“What is it, Paul?” his mother asked, but he did not answer. He could not tell her that the letter had brought him more pain than pleasure. Indeed, it was all pain, and to himself he said, “She never loved me as I did her.”

This hurt him cruelly, though scarcely more than the knowledge that she believed he shot Jack, and that Elithe’s testimony would be biased because it was Jack. Still it was something to hear from Clarice at all, and he kept her letter in his hand and looked at the “Dear Paul” many times and tried to find excuses for her.

It was Saturday when he received Clarice’s letter and Monday was to be the first day of the trial. That night just before dark Tom came to him with the evening papers and a note from Elithe. As the day of the trial came nearer she grew more nervous and frightened. The band, which she said was pressing against her forehead, tightened its hold until it seemed to her it was cutting into her flesh. Her head above it grew hot, and her head below it so cold that her teeth sometimes chattered with the chill oppressing her.

“How can I face that crowd and him, and tell what I saw, and what will he think of me,” she said, as she remembered all Paul’s kindness to her and thought of the return she was to make. “I’ll write and tell him how sorry I am,” she determined at last, and without waiting to consider, wrote the note, which was as follows:

“Mr. Ralston: If I could keep from appearing against you next Monday I would. I have prayed so many times that God would take away my memory so that I could not remember what I saw and heard, but the more I pray the more distinctly I see it all before me. Not a thing is missing. I hear your voice, I see your face just as you looked at me and spoke to me when I leaned from the window. If I fall asleep I dream about it and I think of it all day with a feeling in my head which I cannot describe. It is like a band of hot iron across my forehead and I sometimes look in the glass to see if there is not a big dent there. I wish I had never come here, so much that is dreadful has happened; and oh, the awful things the papers say! I was never engaged to Mr. Percy,—never could have been,—and my testimony will not be influenced by any prepossession in that direction. My cheeks burn when I think of it. How could I be prejudiced against you,—one of the kindest friends I have ever had. I wish it were right to tell a lie, but I dare not. Forgive me, and do not hate me when you see me stand up and swear against you. You will get clear some way, I am sure. Everybody hopes it; everybody is sorry for you, and except your father and mother and Miss Percy, no one so sorry as I,—

ELITHE.”

It was too dark for Paul to read this note when it was brought to him, and for a time he sat talking with, or rather listening to Tom, who told him of the general gloom pervading the town as the trial drew near. He did not say that the shops were closed and there was crape on every door, but he did intimate that there was neither bathing, nor wheeling, nor dancing, nor sailing, nor playing on the tennis court; and this in part was true, for the social atmosphere was clouded with apprehension, and there was but little interest in anything of a festive nature. Only the children were light hearted and happy. They played on the beach and in the water and in the parks as usual, but when their voices grew very loud and hilarious they were as quickly hushed as if the sound could reach Paul in his prison and add to his cup of bitterness. All this and more Tom repeated, and Paul could not help feeling cheered as he listened.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said, when the latter rose to go. “You can never know all you have been to me these last few weeks, and I know there is nothing you would not do to save me if you could.”

“Nothing, so help me God, nothing!” Tom answered with a choking voice and holding fast to Paul’s hand as if loath to let it go.

The jailer found them standing there together when he brought in the lamp, Tom the whiter and more agitated of the two, as he released Paul’s hand and said good-bye.

“That’s a good fellow. I almost believe he’d die for you,” the jailer said, as Tom went out.

Paul did not reply. He was anxious to be alone to read Elithe’s note. It was very different from Clarice’s and the difference struck him forcibly. Elithe’s thought was all for him. What she was suffering was for him. There was no self in it, and he involuntarily pressed the note to his lips and whispered, “Poor little Elithe, I am so sorry for her.”

He had kissed Clarice’s letter many times, but not exactly as he kissed Elithe’s. The first had brought him only pain and disappointment. The last had brought him comfort in some way, he hardly knew how, and he put it with Clarice’s under his pillow, and dreamed that night of the waltz in the moonlight which Elithe had wished might go on forever. Clarice’s star and Elithe’s were out of sight, but other stars looked in upon him with a kind of benediction us as he slept more peacefully and quietly than he had done since he became a prisoner.

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL.

All of Sunday Mr. and Mrs. Ralston spent with Paul, who was calmer than either of his parents.

“I think my bones must have contracted some of Miss Hansford’s prophetic nature,” he said to his mother, “for I feel it in them that something will turn up in my favor,—the right man appear, perhaps, at the last and own up.”

His mother tried to smile, but her heart was heavy with fear of what the result might be. Her husband had employed the very best talent in Boston, while the prosecution was rather lame in experience at least. But it had an unbroken chain of evidence, beginning with the quarrel at the hotel and ending with the revolver and the story Elithe would tell. Popularity and a good name could scarcely stem that tide, and when at parting she brushed his brown hair from his forehead, she thought with a shudder of the shears which would soon cut that soft hair short and of the prison garb which would disfigure her son’s manly form, if he escaped——. There was a gurgling sound in her throat when she got so far, and the tight clasp around Paul’s neck, as she whispered “Good-bye, my boy, good-bye,” was like a mother’s farewell to her dead child. She would see him on the morrow, it was true, first for a few moments in the jail, and then in the Court House, a prisoner arraigned on trial for his life, and she would almost rather he had died a baby in her arms than see him there.

“Come, Fanny, come,” the judge said, unwinding her arms from Paul’s neck and gently pushing her towards the door.

When his parents were gone Paul threw himself upon his bed and sobbed so loud that the jailer’s wife heard him in the hall outside and cried herself for the unhappy man. Tom came before long, cheerful as usual, but for once his cheerfulness failed in its effect.

“Don’t, Tom,” Paul said, “don’t try to rouse hopes which can not be fulfilled, and don’t think me weak if I cry. I shall be braver to-morrow and face it like a man.”

They were both crying now,—Paul and Tom, who had broken down for the first time and gave way so utterly that it was Paul’s task to comfort and soothe.

“Let me cry a bit, and don’t touch me,” Tom said, shaking off Paul’s hands; then regaining his composure he continued: “We were boys together, Mr. Paul, you the master, I the servant, but you never made me feel that, and now misfortune has brought us very close together, so close that—would you mind if—if—I kissed you as your mother did? I should like to remember it when—.” Tom finished the sentence in his own mind one way, and Paul another as like two girls they kissed each other and said good-bye.

Then Paul was really alone through the longest night he had ever known and which seemed the shortest when it was over and daylight looked through the window. He did not go to bed, but sat the whole night through, thinking of what was before him, and feeling sure that he did not reach the reality or know how it would feel to confront his friends and acquaintances and strangers and the rabble, men and women,—more women than men,—who would come to see him and hear him tried for his life. He was glad Clarice was not to be there. All his tenderness for her was in full force; her selfish letter was forgotten, her faults condoned, and she was only the girl he loved and had hoped to make his wife. He would have been glad to have seen her once and heard her say she loved him still, but he felt no hardness towards her because she had kept aloof from him. She couldn’t come, he said, and then he thought of Elithe and his heart gave a sudden throb of something inexplicable to himself. She would be in the courtroom and he was sorry to have her see him humiliated and charged with murder, and sorry for her that she must testify against him. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t blame anybody, although there came into his mind the thought “Why has God allowed this when he knows I am innocent.” He knew prayers had been offered for him in all the churches, for Tom had told him so and during the dark days of his incarceration he had prayed himself as he had never done before. God had not answered and he was still a prisoner, and the day was breaking over the sea, a glorious September day such as he had seen and revelled in many a time in the old life gone forever, for if he were freed it could never be quite the same again. A man, however innocent he might be, who had been tried for his life, could not hold his head as he had held it before.

“I must stoop always,” he said. “I find myself doing it now when I walk. Tom and I used to be just of a height. Now I am the shorter. I noticed it last night when we stood together before the glass.”

It was a little change to think of this and wonder at it, but the pain came back again when he heard some one outside of the building say to another, “Fine day for the trial. The town will be full. They say there isn’t standing room now at the hotels.”

Paul stopped his ears lest he should hear more. The town was already full and would be fuller of people come to see him,—Paul Ralston,—once the head of everything, and now brought so low that when he left the jail it would be under an official escort and on his way to the prisoner’s dock accused of murder. The sun was now up and he could hear the stir of life in the street and on the water where row boats were passing, full of people, who had come from Johnstown a few miles up the coast to be on hand when the doors of the Court House were opened. He guessed their object and stopped his ears again to shut out the sound of their voices, which rang as cheerfully as if they were going to his bridal. Once he thought of Clarice. Was she thinking of him in that dread hour? Was she praying for him? He believed so, and bowing his head he prayed for her that God would give her strength to keep up under the strain of that day. Mrs. Stevens was bringing his breakfast, but he turned from it with loathing. Then as he saw the look of disappointment on her face he tried the coffee and the steak, telling her both were excellent, and adding with a smile, “They say criminals eat heartily the very morning before they are hung. I am a criminal in the eyes of the world, but I am not to be hung to-day, and I can’t eat. You are so kind; you always have been. Father will not forget it when I am gone.”

An hour later his father and mother came in, the latter so weak that she could scarcely walk. All night at intervals she had been upon her knees, praying for her boy, and when her husband bade her take some rest she answered, “If Paul were dying in my arms I could not rest, and I feel as if he were dying to us. To-morrow and next day will tell the story. We have done all we can do. Only God can help us now.”

When morning came her strength was nearly gone and she was lifted half fainting into the carriage which took her to the jail through the streets full of people hurrying to the Court House.

“Oh, see them, going to look at Paul,” she said to the judge, who was scarcely less affected than herself.

Tom, who drove them, scowled defiantly at the crowd, a few of whom were nearly knocked down by the spirited horses he did not try to check.

“Careful, Tom, careful. You’ll run over some of them,” the judge said to him.

“Ought to be run over,” was Tom’s reply, as he went dashing along, until the jail was reached.

There was not much time to wait, for the hour was near and Paul must be on hand. Tom had brought him a fresh suit of clothes the day before and he had put them on before his mother came, and except for his face and stooping figure looked a fashionably dressed young man when he stood up to meet her. She was so crushed and helpless and leaned so heavily on him that he felt at once the necessity of bracing himself if he would not have her fainting in his arms.

“Don’t, mother, don’t. It isn’t so very hard; there’ll be some way out of it, and it makes me worse to see you so bad,” he said to her, and with a great effort the little mother nerved herself to calmness.

Max Allen, the constable, was there by virtue of his office, shaking so he could hardly speak.

“I don’t want to go with you, but it’s the law which must be vin-di-cat-ed,” he said to Paul, who answered cheerfully, “All right, Max, I understand, and as long as I am not handcuffed I shan’t mind.”

“Handcuffed,” Max repeated. “I’d like to see ’em make me do that. No, sir! You are going to court like a gentleman in your father’s carriage. I wish to gracious I could walk, as I or’to, but I can’t. You are to go on the back seat with Mrs. Ralston, I in the front with the judge.”

This was the arrangement, and when all was ready the jailer unlocked the door and Paul stepped out into the brightness and freshness of the morning, but before he had time to look about him he was met and nearly knocked down by Sherry. They had forgotten to shut him up and he had followed the carriage to the jail, where, while the judge and Mrs. Ralston were inside, he sniffed under the window and scratched upon the door with low whines of eagerness and delight as if he knew his master were there. The moment Paul appeared there was a roar of joy, and Sherry’s paws were on Paul’s shoulders and his shaggy head was lain first on one side of his neck and then on the other.

“Good Sherry, are you glad to see me?” Paul said, caressing the dog and with some difficulty removing his paws from his neck. “Get down, old fellow, get down, I’ve no time for you now.”

Sherry got down, but crouched at Paul’s feet, wagging his tail with short barks and occasionally leaping up again towards his face. Paul kept his hand upon him, while he inhaled the pure salt air in long breaths and looked about him as if the place were new. To his right was the sea, dotted with sails afar in the horizon,—nearer the shore a boat was coming as fast as steam could bring it, its lower deck black with passengers, who, afraid of being late, were crowding to the front in order to be among the first to land. To the south, over the roofs of other buildings, he could see the cupola of his father’s house, and he winked hard to keep back the tears choking him as he thought he might never enter that house again. He could not see Mrs. Percy’s cottage, nor Miss Hansford’s, but he knew where they were and his eyes wandered from one locality to the other and then went on to the Court House half a mile away and on the same wide street with the jail. He could see the people hurrying there before he entered the carriage and after he was in it and out of the jail yard he could see them more distinctly lining the way and reminding him of ants when their nest is disturbed. All turned their heads to look as the carriage drove by with Sherry in attendance trotting on the side where Paul was sitting and sometimes springing up to see that his master was there. Many lifted their hats, and the piping voice of a little child grasping its mother’s dress called out, “Mam-ma, which is him!”

Paul heard it and laughed. “It’s quite an ovation, isn’t it,” he said to his mother, who could not answer. It was dreadful to her, and she was glad when they reached the Court House and were for a little time alone in the anteroom to which Paul was taken. The Court House was a large one for the size of the town and comparatively new. Mr. Ralston’s money had helped to build it. Indeed, he had given more towards its erection than any one else, and now his son was to be tried in it. Every available seat was taken before the session opened. A great many people had left the Island,—some to avoid being subœnaed, others because business called them home, but their places had been filled and the hotels and boarding houses were doing a thriving business. They were empty this morning. The guests were all at the court house, waiting the appearance of the prisoner. Judge Ralston had taken his seat near where Paul would sit. Beside him was his wife, white and corpse-like. Miss Hansford sat not far away,—with fire in her eyes as they rested on the sea of heads there to look at Paul, and Elithe, who sat beside her, with a blue veil over her hat effectually hiding her face from the eyes bent upon her. There were many rumors in circulation concerning the young girl, who was nearly as much talked of as Paul. That Jack Percy had been in love with her and known to her as Mr. Pennington, until she saw him dying, everybody knew, while many believed that she had been engaged to him, for hadn’t the papers said so? That she was to be the principal witness against Paul was generally understood and great was the anxiety to see her.

“That’s she, with the blue veil, sitting by that cross-looking old woman,” was buzzed about, and many were the wishes expressed that she would remove her veil. She would have to do it when called to the stand, and with that reflection the crowd consoled themselves and waited for Paul, who would not be veiled.

He came at last, walking unsteadily to his seat, with that stoop in his shoulders which had come upon him in prison. He was very pale and thin, with dark rings around his eyes, which for a few minutes he kept upon the floor as if he could not meet the hundreds of eyes watching him and compelling him at last to look up. He had tried to prepare himself for it, and thought he had done so, but, at the sight of so many people,—friends, acquaintances and strangers,—some in the rear of the house, with opera glasses, as if at a play, he felt his strength leaving him, and was more dead than alive when told to stand up and asked if he were guilty. Stumbling to his feet, he answered, “Not guilty,” the words ringing through the room and seeming to come back to him from every corner and every face in front of him. He was very much alive now. The numb feeling which had come over him at first was gone, and it seemed to him his head must burst with the pressure on it. He thought of the band of which Elithe had written and fancied there was a similar one across his forehead and the back of his head,—burning, boring, blinding, and making him lift his hand to loosen it, if possible, or take it away. Just where it pressed so hard was torture. Below it everything was clear, and, without apparent effort, he knew where his father sat, with his mother beside him, her face turned toward him with ineffable love and pity. She believed him wholly innocent,—so did his father, so did Tom, these three and no more. All the rest believed it accidental shooting, and that he was telling lies. This thought hardened him for a moment, and the glance with which he swept the house had in it something like reproach and a sense of injustice. This, however, changed as he met only looks of pity and sympathy, with here and there smiles of recognition. He saw Miss Hansford and Elithe and was glad the latter was veiled, feeling instinctively that, next to himself, she was the one most looked at. He was glad Clarice was not there, but up to the last minute he had hoped she would send him some word of comfort on this day which was to try his soul. But she had not. “She does not care as I thought she would, and she was to have been my wife,” kept repeating itself over and over in his mind during the preliminaries of the trial, which were rather long and tiresome.

There was not much heart in the prosecution, and the opening of the prosecuting attorney showed it. He told what he expected to prove, but indulged in no bursts of eloquence or sarcasm such as frequently mark the openings of similar trials. The jury, drawn with great difficulty, listened rather apathetically, and the audience impatiently, and Paul scarcely at all at first. He was looking at Elithe, trying to get a glimpse of her face, thinking again of the band around her head and wondering if it were as wide and hot as the one round his, benumbing him so that, for a second time, he did not realize where he was or why he was there, until Sherry came rushing in.

Generally, he staid quietly with the horses, and he had kept near them now for a while. Then, as if scenting danger to his master, he went to the Court House, pushed his way into the room, looked around for an instant until he saw Paul. With a bound, he was at his side, uttering cries more like human sounds than those of a canine, as he again put his paws on Paul’s shoulders and looked in his face. There was a stir among the people, which Sherry evidently did not like, for he turned his head from side to side in a threatening kind of way.

“Somebody remove that dog,” the judge said, sternly,—a command more easily given than obeyed.

Sherry refused to be removed and growled savagely at the attendant who tried to get him out. He took his paws from Paul’s neck, and, stretching himself at full length upon the floor, looked as if he meant to stay there.

“Quiet, Sherry!” Paul said, in a low tone, as the dog continued to growl and show his teeth.

In an instant Sherry was quiet and dropped his head between his paws. There was a brief consultation between judge and attorney, with the result that Sherry was permitted to remain as long as he behaved. He seemed to understand the decision, and, with one loud whack of his tail and one uplifting of his eyes to Paul, lay perfectly still while the trial progressed.

The first witness was the clerk at the Harbor Hotel, who had seen Jack when he came. The second, the clerk at the Beach Hotel, where Jack had spent the night. What their testimony had to do with the matter no one could tell. Miss Hansford mentally called the attorney a fool for intruding such matters. She was anxious to get on. So were the spectators, and when the clerks were dismissed they straightened up with new courage and waited for what was to come next. Those who had witnessed the quarrel and knockdown at the hotel were called, their testimony all leaning towards Paul, who, now that his name was used so often, began to listen to what was said and to live it all over again,—hearing Jack’s insulting words, feeling the heavy blow which felled him and involuntarily putting his hand to his side, which was not well yet from the force of Jack’s fist. The boy who had seen him on the sands and heard him say, “I’d like to kill him!” told a straightforward story and identified Paul as the man. The ladies who had been at the Percy cottage when Paul came there testified very unwillingly to the state of high excitement he was in when he left them to find Jack. Miss Hansford’s lodgers, who had been brought from Boston for the trial, took the stand one by one and told of seeing him and speaking to him as he passed the steps on which they were sitting twenty minutes or half an hour before the shot was fired. He was looking for Jack and had asked if they had seen him pass that way.

Up to this point, everything that Paul heard was strictly true and just as he remembered it. He would have sworn to it himself had they asked him to do so. But when Seth Walker, the man who had found the revolver with his initials upon it, came forward, he listened with a different interest, and as Seth described his meeting with Miss Hansford and her agitation as she demanded it of him and hid it under her apron, the confusion in his head increased and there was a buzzing in his brain like the sound of machinery in motion. Here was something he could not understand. The revolver was a mystery which he could not explain.

“It’s mine; but I have no idea how it came there in the woods,” he said, when it was shown to him, and, returning it to the attorney, he sank into his seat with a feeling that it was going hard with the poor wretch being tried for his life.

He was not the wretch. The buzzing in his head had separated him from that man for whom there was scarcely a ghost of a chance, and he began to pity him and to look around to see where he was. He could not find him, but his eyes fell upon Miss Hansford, who had relaxed from her stiff, upright position, and settled down in her chair until she was not much taller than Elithe, sitting beside her. Elithe had not moved perceptibly and might have been asleep, she was so motionless, until Paul said, “It is mine, but I have no idea how it came there in the woods.” Then she clutched at her veil, as if it smothered her. There was something in his voice so sad that her heart ached with a fresh pain and she used all her self-control not to cry out. Very gently, as we touch a sick, restless child, Miss Hansford put her hand on Elithe, who grew quiet again and resumed her former attitude.

It was expected that Miss Hansford would follow Seth Walker, who found the revolver, but it was growing late, and the judge thought it best to adjourn until the day following, when Miss Hansford and Elithe would be put upon the stand and with their testimony and that of the physicians called to attend Jack the prosecution would close. There had been some sharp cross-questioning for the defense, but it had failed to shake the evidence of the witness sworn, and not much had been accomplished either way. As the black mass of human beings surged out of the house, many murmurs of disappointment were heard. They had seen Paul and seen Elithe through her blue veil, but they wanted more than that,—wanted to see her on the stand, and Miss Hansford, too. This would come to-morrow, and, with this to anticipate, they went their different ways, talking of nothing but the trial and the seeming impossibility that Paul could be cleared. He was driven back to jail in his father’s carriage, very quiet and thoughtful and a great deal mystified with all he had heard and seen. His brain was still affected by the pain in his forehead and the back of his neck, and he could not understand clearly what it was all about or why he was conducted to prison, with Max Allen in attendance, instead of that other man who had shot Jack Percy. His father noticed his peculiar state of mind and feared for his reason.

“Better so, perhaps, than something worse. They don’t hang crazy people, or send them to State’s prison, either,” he thought, and, with this grain of comfort, he bade Paul good-night.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE SECOND DAY OF THE TRIAL.

It was a kind Providence which kept Paul in his numb and dazed condition and made him eat the supper Mrs. Stevens brought him with a keen relish, and afterwards wrapped him in a sleep so profound that he did not waken until the jailer knocked at his door and told him his breakfast was waiting. He had fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, his last thought a confused one of the man they were trying and in whose fate he was interested. He was not that man when he went to sleep; he was Paul Ralston, the people’s favorite,—Clarice Percy’s affianced husband, and, if he dreamed at all, it was of the bridal festivities, commenced on so gigantic a scale. When he awoke, refreshed by his long sleep, the pain was gone from his head, leaving him only a little dizzy, but with full knowledge of what lay before him and who he was.

He was Paul Ralston still, but a prisoner charged with killing Jack Percy,—the man they had sworn against the day before, and against whom Elithe was to swear to-day. His breakfast went away untouched, and his stoop was more perceptible, his eyes more hollow, and his face whiter when he was driven again through the crowded streets and saw the people hurrying to the Court House, some with lunch-boxes and baskets, showing that they meant to sit through the recess and not run the risk of losing their seats if they were so fortunate as to get one.

Again the house was packed. Again the twelve jurors were in their places, with the judge and attorneys, those for the defense and those for the prosecution, with the prosecuting attorney bustling about, nervous and excited, and speaking once to Miss Hansford, who scowled at him with a look through her “near-see-ers,” worn on the end of her nose, not very re-assuring. She had never had a great deal of respect for him, and had less now, when he was arrayed against Paul Ralston, with a right to ask her whatever he chose. He knew this and had confessed himself a little afraid to tackle the old lady, and so had thought to conciliate her by asking her advice on some minor point. He might as well have tried to conciliate a mad dog, and he gave her up hopelessly.

Everything was now ready. Judge Ralston was there, leaning heavily on his gold-headed cane, with his wife leaning on him. Elithe was in her place, with the blue veil over her face and shaking in every limb, for now the worst was coming and there were so many looking on,—not at her then, but at Paul, who was taking his seat, followed by Sherry, who stretched himself upon the floor as he had done the previous day. With his appearance and Paul’s, the hum of voices ceased and a great hush pervaded the room until Miss Phebe Hansford was called.

“Oh, my Lord!” she was heard to ejaculate as she rose in response to the call; then, in a loud whisper, “Let go my dress,” to Elithe, who had unconsciously been holding to her skirt as a kind of safeguard and defense.

Elithe dropped the dress, while Miss Hansford went forward, bristling with defiance, her “near-see’ers” on her forehead now instead of the end of her nose. Never before had a witness like her been seen upon the stand. She cared neither for law, nor order, nor judge, nor jury, and much less for the prosecuting attorney.

“’Tain’t likely I shall tell anything but the truth. I ain’t in the habit of lying, like some folks I know,” she said, as she took the oath.

All her words were jerked out with a vim which made the spectators smile in spite of themselves. When asked if she knew the prisoner, she answered, “I’d laugh if I didn’t. Seems to me I’d ask something more sensible than that and more to the point. You know I know him, and you, too!”

Whether it was her derisive manner, or his nervousness in tackling her, or both, the next question was certainly not necessary under the circumstances, nor one he had intended asking her until it came into his mind suddenly.

“How old are you, Miss Hansford?”

If scorn could have annihilated him, the attorney would have been wiped out of existence, as Miss Hansford told him it was none of his business. “Not that I’m ashamed of my age,” she said. “Anybody can know it who cares to look in my family Bible, but it has nothing to do with this case. I’m old enough to be a legal witness. I knew you when you was a boy. If you are old enough to stand there asking me questions, I am old enough to answer correctly, and I hain’t softening of the brain, neither.”

The boys in the gallery roared, the judge pounded for order, Sherry growled threateningly, and the discomfited attorney went on with the examination, asking, next, how long she had known the prisoner.

“I’ve known Paul Ralston, if that’s who you mean by prisoner, ever since he was knee-high and wore knickerbockers. I knew Jack Percy, too. I believe he was a tolerably good man, or tryin’ to be, when he died, but he was about the worst boy the Lord ever made, and Paul was the best, and no more meant to kill Jack than you did,” was the reply.

There were more laughs from the boys and a buzzing of amusement throughout the building, while Sherry growled and the judge again called to order and instructed the witness that she was to keep to the point,—to answer questions and not volunteer any testimony. He didn’t know Miss Hansford, who paid no more attention to him than if he had been a fly. In her estimation he was as bad as the attorney, and she went on:

Beginning with the story of the watermelon, she repeated it in all its details, with many other incidents of Paul’s boyhood, dropping her spectacles once and pouring out a torrent of words which nothing could check and which started the boys again. It was in vain she was called to order, and finally threatened with punishment for contempt of court. She didn’t care for a hundred courts, she said, nor for lawyers, nor for law. There wasn’t any law when such a man as Paul Ralston could be arrested and put in jail and dragged there to be gaped at by a crowd who would much better be at home minding their business. She didn’t care if they did fine her. She could pay it. She didn’t care if they put her out of court, or in jail. She hoped they would, as then she wouldn’t have to testify against Paul. The Lord knew, she wasn’t there of her own free will, and she hoped He’d forgive her for swearing against the only man she ever cared a picayune for, outside her own family. She loved Paul Ralston and she wasn’t ashamed to say it, seein’ she might be his grandmother.

There was an immense sensation in the gallery and among the spectators, with more growls from Sherry and thumps and cries for order from the judge, with a request that she stick to the point.

“How can I stick,” she said, “with you interruptin’ me all the time? If you let me alone, I’ll tell what I know in my own way. If you don’t, I’ll never get there.”

After that they let her alone. There was no other alternative, and, in a rambling way, with many digressions, and now and then a question from the prosecuting attorney, she told her story. She was sitting on her steps,—the more’s the pity; she wished she had been in the cellar and staid there. She saw Paul Ralston and spoke to him. He asked if they had seen Jack Percy; said he was looking for him; seemed kind of mad. Why shouldn’t he, after being knocked down like an ox? She heard the shot not long after, but saw no one fire it, or run, either, and “them that did see it might better have had their heads in the window reading their Bible.”

This was a thrust at Elithe,—the only one she had given her,—and the young girl stirred a little in her chair, then resumed her attitude of perfect stillness and listened, while her aunt went on:

She was first at the clump of bushes and found Jack with a bullet hole in his head. He was carried to her cottage and died there towards morning. Paul came in, surprised and shocked to find it was Jack who had been shot, and with no more signs of guilt than she had. She hunted for the revolver and couldn’t find it, but Seth Walker did. She took it from him and wished now she had thrown it into the sea. That was all she knew, so help her Heaven, and she wished the land she didn’t know that. To question her further was useless and she was turned over to the defense for cross-examination.

The counsel to whom this duty fell knew he had a case to deal with and began warily, finding her attitude materially changed. The side which had subpoenaed her was against Paul; the defense was for him, and she would like to have taken back all she had said, if she could consistently do so. Only once did she grow peppery and threatening, and that when the lawyer tried to shake her recollection of what she saw and heard.

“Have you ever thought your memory might be a little treacherous? It is apt to become so—with age,” the lawyer said, and Miss Hansford roused at once.

If there was one thing more than another in which she prided herself, after her blood, it was her memory, and an insinuation that it was faulty made her furious.

“I wish to the Lord it was treacherous,” she said, “but it ain’t. I can remember everything I ever heard or saw, and more, too. I know what I am talking about, if I have acted like a tarnal fool and made a spectacle of myself. I’m so mad that I have to be here, but I know what I’m about if I am sixty-five years old. There, you’ve found out my age, haven’t you, and you are welcome to it.”

She turned to the attorney, who, now that he was rid of her, was enjoying her idiosyncrasies to the full. A few more questions were asked her, and then, with a parting shaft at the judge, the lawyers and the whole business, she was dismissed, with cheers from the boys, who were not to be restrained by any threats of the police officer shaking his club at them, or any calls from the judge, scarcely less amused than they were. The spectators were all laughing. Things to-day were lively and atoned for the monotony of yesterday’s proceedings.

The physicians who attended Jack were next called and testified to Paul’s appearance in the room, with no signs of guilt in his manner. He had suggested suicide, and they had accepted the theory for a time, or one of them had. The other, for whom Elithe had been sent, had been suspicious from what she told him she had seen. There was a faint sound from Elithe, whose hand grasped her aunt’s dress again as if for support or comfort. Miss Hansford was bathed in perspiration, which rolled down her face and dropped from her nose and chin. She was weak, too, and leaned back in her chair and fanned herself with her handkerchief until some one passed her a palm-leaf and a glass of water. Thus revived she sat up stiff and straight as before, while the bullet extracted from the wound was produced and fitted into the revolver, which was again passed for inspection.

“Don’t pint it this way,” she said, with a toss of her head, as it came near her.

The boys laughed, the judge frowned and proposed a recess before Elithe was called. The day was one of those close, sultry days which sometimes come in September, and are more unendurable than those of summer. Outside the huge building the white heat quivered on the sea and on the land with but little breeze to cool it. Inside the air was so stuffy one could almost have cut it, although every door and window was open. Fans and hats and newspapers were doing active service, and the water was trickling down the faces of the spectators, the most of whom kept their seats for fear of losing them should they go out for a moment. Two or three spoke to Elithe, asking if it would not be better for her to take some refreshment and exercise before being called to the stand.

“No,” she said, “if I go out, I shall not come back. I should like a glass of water,—that is all.”

Tom brought it to her, his hand shaking so that part of it was spilled on her dress. He was on the side of the defence, but no one had listened to the prosecution with more absorbed attention or with more real curiosity. He had not even smiled at Miss Hansford, and oh, how he pitied Elithe and dreaded what was before her! He wiped the water from her dress, offered to bring her more and, stooping, whispered some words of encouragement. She scarcely heard him. She had neither hope nor courage. In everything so far, it seemed to her she had been the central figure and what she said had been repeated again and again and was the pivot on which everything was turning. She was to blame for it all,—even for Jack’s death. If she had not been there he would not have come to Oak City. If he had not come he would not have been shot, nor Paul arraigned for the shooting, nor she brought forward as witness against him. Without seeming to do so she had heard all the testimony and thought her aunt peculiar and been glad when it was over. The laughter of the boys and the calls to order jarred upon her as they would have done had Paul been in his coffin instead of in the prisoner’s chair. She did not feel the heat or know how close the atmosphere of the room was with the hundreds of breaths and the scorching air which came through the windows. She was not warm. She was only thirsty and drank the water Tom brought her eagerly.

When he spoke to her and said, “It’s coming soon, but be brave. It won’t last long. They’ll be nice with you,” she shook her head as if he troubled her, and said to him, “Don’t, Tom; please don’t talk to me.”

She was thinking of her father’s advice not to volunteer information and open doors for the counsel to walk in, and praying that she needn’t do so. The house was filling again, fuller if possible than during the morning session. There was scarcely standing room, and the afternoon sun poured in at the windows until the seats seemed baked and blistered. But those on whose heads and necks it fell did not feel it, or feeling it, did not mind. The crisis was coming,—the hour had struck for which they were waiting and for which many had come from Boston and Worcester and New Bedford. Miss Elithe Hansford was to be sworn.

As she heard her name she started violently, it sounded so loud, echoing through the room, repeating itself over and over again and finally floating off until it seemed thousands of miles away, and she wondered if her father could not hear it in Samona and know her time had arrived. A thought of him and a fervent “God help me,” quieted her somewhat, and, rising to her feet, she removed her veil and hat. Why she took off the latter she did not know unless it were the least weight upon her head oppressed her. Her hair had grown rapidly since she came to Oak City and was twisted into a small flat knot in her neck, but clustered around her forehead in short curls. These were wet with the perspiration, which stood in drops on her face. Wiping them off and running her fingers through her hair, she took the place assigned her, a little figure, with hollow eyes and face as white as marble and lips which quivered as she took the oath.

Those who had never seen her before thought how small and young and pretty she was in spite of her pale cheeks and tired eyes telling of tears and sleepless nights. Paul had smiled more than once at Miss Hansford’s defiance of all law and order, but his face changed and seemed to contract and shrivel up as he looked at Elithe and leaned forward to listen. It was not resentment he felt that she was testifying against him, but an intense pity that she had to do it and a wish that he could save her from it. How sweet and modest she looked, standing there with downcast eyes and hands grasping the chair against which she leaned for support and how her voice shook when she began to speak. All this Paul noted, and for a time the feeling of yesterday came back and he forgot his own identity again. He was not the prisoner being tried for his life. That was one of the detestable men drinking in Elithe’s beauty, remarking every curve of her girlish figure, every turn of her graceful head. He, Paul, was only a spectator, watching Elithe,—wishing he could reassure her,—could tell her to speak louder so that all could hear. At last she looked at him with such anguish and entreaty in her eyes that he smiled his old-time smile she knew so well and which acted like a tonic upon her nerves and loosened the band around her forehead. He did not hate her; he did not blame her; he had no fear of what she might say. Something had come up of which she had not heard and which would be explained when she was through. He was safe no matter what she said. She had sworn to tell the truth, and she must do it. The mass of faces in front of her didn’t trouble her now. God had helped Paul and was helping her with courage and strength.

Drawing herself up from the drooping attitude she had assumed, she answered the questions put to her, telling where she was when she saw and spoke to Paul and saying she could not be mistaken in him when she saw him fire the shot and throw the revolver away. His face was partly turned from her, but she knew his figure and his coat,—a light gray,—and his hat. He fired low, and when he heard the groan, as he must have heard it, he hurried off into the woods towards the west, and a few minutes later they found Mr. Percy lying behind the clump of bushes at which Paul had aimed. This was the substance of her testimony, and while she gave it scarcely a sound was heard in the room, so intense was the interest with which the people listened. Even the fans and hats and papers were motionless, although the heat grew more intense as the sun poured in at the western windows, and not a leaf stirred on the trees outside, or scarcely a ripple on the water. She had kept her eyes on Paul, who listened, fascinated and bewildered, and still with a feeling that it was not himself she was talking about.

At the close of her testimony she addressed him personally and said: “I didn’t want to come, but they made me. I know you didn’t mean to do it. You did not know Mr. Pennington was there.”

At the mention of Mr. Pennington there was a low buzz in the room which Elithe heard and understood. Blushing scarlet, she continued: “I mean Mr. Percy. You did not know he was there. You fired low at some animal. I thought I heard a rustle in the leaves.”

“By George, she’s hit the nail on the head,” Tom Drake exclaimed, springing to his feet and nearly upsetting an old lady sitting next to him and munching caraway seed.

No one had followed Elithe more closely than Tom, whose springing up and exclamation were involuntary, and when some one behind him called out, “Sit down!” he sat down as quickly as he had risen, and no further attention was paid to him. All the interest was centred on Elithe, whose face shone with wonderful brightness and beauty as she turned from Paul to the judge and said: “He didn’t do it on purpose. He can explain, and you will let him go, won’t you?”

Never was there a fairer pleader, or one more in earnest than Elithe. She didn’t know she was infringing upon the etiquette of legal procedure and no one enlightened her. The judge blew his nose, the jurors winked very hard, while Paul covered his face with his hands to hide the tears he could not keep back and which made him Paul Ralston again,—the man for whose release Elithe was asking so innocently. The direct examination was over, and she felt relieved, thinking she was through.

“More! Must I tell more?” she asked pathetically, when given into the hands of a lawyer on the other side.

He was a kind-hearted man and he pitied the young girl who had borne so much, but he must do his duty, and their only hope of success lay in weakening her testimony and show cause why she might think she saw what she did not see. He was one of the most adroit men for cross-questioning in the profession, approaching the citadel to be attacked cautiously, boring here, undermining there, confusing and bewildering until the witness so unfortunate as to fall into his hands contradicted himself and did not really know what he saw or heard. Paul knew his reputation and wondered how Elithe would come through the ordeal. She felt intuitively what was before her and braced herself for it.

“Will some one bring me some more water?” she said, and there was a different ring in her voice.

Three or four started to get the water, but Tom was ahead of them. He didn’t spill it this time, but whispered to her: “You’ve the very Old Harry to deal with. If you want to forget, it will be pardonable now.”

Did he mean that he hoped she would waver in her testimony and take back some things she had said? Elithe wondered. If so, he would be mistaken. She knew what she saw and heard, and nothing could make her gainsay it. She did not look at Paul now, but square at the man asking innumerable questions which seemed to have no bearing on the case and then suddenly pouncing upon the real point in a fashion confusing at least. Where was her home? Where did she first see Paul Ralston? Did she know him so intimately that she could not mistake another for him? What facilities had she for knowing him so well? Did he visit her often? or, did she visit at the Ralston House? What was she doing in her room when she saw Paul from her window? and could she repeat the conversation she held with him, and so on.

These and many more questions were asked her, and she answered them all without hesitation. Her home was in Samona. She first met Paul on the boat. She had seen him many times since. She knew him well,—better than any man in Oak City. She could not be mistaken in him, and she was reading the Bible in her room when she heard his voice and spoke to him from the window. She could repeat the conversation she held with him, if necessary. Then she told again what she saw and heard, never varying her story an iota.

It was seldom the questioner had such a witness to deal with. She looked so young that he had thought it an easy matter to worry her into contradictions. But she was firm as a rock, saying always the same, no matter how he approached her, and keeping her truthful eyes upon him with a gaze so steady that he was losing his nerve and wondering how he should next attack her. He struck it at last and hated himself for the satisfaction he felt when he saw the color come into her face and the startled look in her eyes when he asked: “You knew Mr. Percy under another name, I believe? What was that name?”

“Mr. Pennington, John Pennington,” she answered, her voice not quite steady, but her eyes still fixed upon him with an expression so beseeching that it made him look away from her up at the ceiling, where a big spider was watching to capture a fly creeping slowly his way.

He likened himself to the spider and Elithe to the fly, but continued: “Do you know why he took that name?”

“I never heard. We do not ask such questions in Samona,” Elithe answered, with a manner worthy of her aunt, who was sitting with a hand holding each side of her chair, her lips apart and her head thrown forward so as not to lose a word.

“You don’t ask such questions in Samona?” the lawyer repeated, still regarding the fly coming nearer to the web. “Will you please tell where you first met him and under what circumstances?”

“I saw him first at Deep Gulch, where my father preaches once a month. He was very ill,” Elithe said, without a falter in her voice, although her heart was throbbing so she thought her interlocutor must hear it.

“Ill, was he, and you nursed him?”

Elithe did not think that a question, and did not answer until it was repeated; then she said: “If sitting by him all night, with Mrs. Stokes and my brother in the room, was nursing him, I did so. Yes.”

The red on her face was deepening, but her voice was still steady as the cross-examination proceeded:

“You sat with him all night, and after that you saw him often?”

“Yes, very often in Samona, when he came to the hotel.”

“He visited at your house on terms of intimacy?”

“Yes.”

“Was he respected in Samona?”

“Yes, highly respected, and in Deep Gulch, too. The miners worshipped him,” Elithe said, with energy.

She had forgotten Paul for the time being, and was defending Jack.

“And he was perfectly straight while he was there,—sober, I mean?”

“Perfectly,” Elithe replied, wondering why such questions should be asked her, and, glancing at her aunt, whose glasses had slipped to the end of her nose and who, under her breath, was calling the lawyer a “dum fool,” notwithstanding that he was on Paul’s side, and for his sake trying to confuse Elithe.

“If he were so sober and circumspect in Samona while you were there, why did he change, do you think?” was the next query, to which Elithe’s reply was quick and decisive:

“I supposed I was here to tell what I know, and not what I think.”

Paul’s hands struck each other in a wordless cheer; the boys in the gallery laughed, and the lawyer’s gaze came back from the spider and the fly to this slip of a girl, who had more backbone than he had given her credit for. Her eyes were still upon him,—very tired now and worried and beseeching, as if asking him to let her go and leave Jack Percy in his grave. He had no such intention. If he could prove her prepossession in Jack’s favor he would gain a point, and thus, perhaps, weaken her testimony by showing that her evidence was biased.

“True,” he said, “you are here to tell what you know. You and Mr. Percy were great friends? Isn’t that so?”

“We were good friends. Yes.”

“And you liked him very much?”

“Dum fool!” Miss Hansford said, louder than before, while her glasses dropped from her nose to the floor, where they lay unheeded.

She guessed the drift of the questioning and was hot with indignation. For a moment Elithe hesitated and her face grew spotted as she, too, began to see the snare before her.

“I liked him. Yes.”

“Very much?”

She did not answer him at once, and when she did she said, “What does it matter whether I liked him much or little?”

She was proving herself her aunt’s own niece. Her voice sounded defiant; her eyes had lost their look of entreaty and confronted the lawyer in a way which made him feel very uncomfortable. He looked up at the spider’s web. The fly had veered away from it, and the spider was in pursuit. His fly might escape him if he were not more wary and discreet. He must prove that Jack Percy, as John Pennington, had been the lover of this girl, whom he disliked to catechize as much as she disliked to have him. After a little more skirmishing on his part, and evasion on Elithe’s, he cleared his throat, gave one look at the big spider swinging down from the ceiling and said, “Miss Hansford, I believe you were engaged to marry Mr. Percy, were you not?”

The effect was wonderful. Elithe had not expected this in so bare-faced a form, and it roused her to a pitch of high excitement.

“Engaged to Mr. Percy! I? Never! It is false; all false. Why will you torture me so? Why will anybody believe it, when it is not true? I was never engaged to him; never could have been. Never! He was my friend. That was all. I shall say no more about him, or anything else.”

She emphasized the “all” and the “friend” with a stamp of her foot and a nod of her head, and, without being told to go, walked deliberately from the place where she had been standing. No effort was made to recall her. She felt that she was through and put out her hand to find her chair.

“Let’s go out! Can’t we?” she said to her aunt, whose shoulder she grasped in her blindness.

Everything swam around her. The voice of the lawyer, asking if she were not engaged to Jack Percy, kept sounding like thunder. Paul’s face was seen through a mist,—troubled, anxious and sorry; the floor came up to meet her, and, by the time she reached the door, led by her aunt, she fainted. Instantly Paul arose to go to her,—then sank back with a groan, remembering he was not free.

“Go to her, father. Don’t let everybody touch her,” he called aloud to his father, who hastened to the room where she was being shaken and fanned, and deluged with water and strangled with hartshorn and camphor, until she came back to consciousness.

“What have I done? Where have I been?” she said.

“Been through a thrashing machine and come out whole,” her aunt said, wiping the water from her hair and dress, and putting on her hat.

“Are they through? Is it over? Will they let him go?” she asked.

No one replied, except to say that she was through and could go home as soon as she liked.

“Take my carriage. It’s too far for her to walk,” Judge Ralston said, putting her and her aunt into it, and then returning to his wife.

It was Tom who drove Elithe home and said to her as he lifted her out, “He’ll get off yet.”

“Get off! What nonsense! We’ve hung him,” was Miss Hansford’s retort, as she hurried Elithe into the house.

It was very hot and close indoors and Elithe felt that she should suffocate if she staid there.

“I must go where I can breathe,” she said, and, taking her hat, she started for the Baptist Tabernacle, which was open on three sides.

Her head was aching both above and below the band still pressing her forehead, and her heart was aching harder as she thought over the events of the day and recalled all she had said and all that had been said to her. It was so much worse than she had expected, especially the cross-questioning to which she had been subjected. She knew it had been done to weaken her testimony and help Paul, but the smart was none the less and her cheeks burned so that she put up her hands to cool them. In her absorption, she did not know anyone was near her until a voice said, “Miss Hansford!”

Then she looked up with a cry of joy, for her first thought was that Paul was standing beside her.

“Oh!” she said, “it’s you, Tom. I thought it was Mr. Ralston.”

“I’ve been told before that we looked alike, especially when I have on his clothes, as I generally do,” Tom replied. Then, still standing before her, he began: “Suppose it goes hard with Mr. Paul?”

“Do you mean hanging?” Elithe asked.

“Perhaps not that,” Tom answered, “but State’s prison, with a convict’s dress and a felon’s cell, not much like the room he is now in. The evidence against him is awful strong. The defense have nothing to offer except his good character. It looks pretty black for him.”

“I couldn’t bear it. I should know I put him there. Oh, Tom, you have said all the while it wouldn’t be, and I believed you and felt there was hope when they were making me tell what I knew.”

“There is hope,” Tom answered, sitting down close to Elithe and speaking very low. “Let’s look it square in the face. If he owns to accidental shooting, which he never will, they’ll give him a few years unless we prevent it.”

“How prevent it? What can we do?” Elithe asked, looking earnestly at Tom and thinking for the first time how he had changed within the last few weeks.

He had grown very thin. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, with a haunted look in them, as if he were constantly on the alert to ward off some threatened evil.

“Listen,” he said. “I have known Mr. Paul all my life. Father and mother have charge of the Ralston House, summers and winters. I was a boy with Mr. Paul, who has always treated me more like a brother than a servant. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. Give my life, if necessary,—although it is hard to die when one is young.”

Here he stopped, and, dropping his head, seemed to be considering. Then he went on: “They’ll be through to-morrow and sentence him, unless we do something. I’ve thought it all out. The jail is a ricketty old rattletrap; the jailer sleeps far away from Mr. Paul’s room and is deaf; the window casings are rotten as dirt; the bars loose. I know, I’ve tried ’em. I haven’t been there night after night for nothing. It’s easy for him to get out and be free.”

“Oh, if he only could,” Elithe said, and Tom continued: “I can do it, but must have help. I can trust no one but you. Will you go with me to-night? You know the Ralston boat-house. Meet me there at twelve o’clock sharp. We’ll row up the coast, opposite the jail. I know a place where we can land. I’ve been there two or three times. We can fasten the boat till we get him out. What do you say?”

Elithe had scarcely breathed as Tom talked, but now she said, “What will you do with him? He can’t go on the street.”

“Leave that to me,” Tom replied. “You’ve heard of that queer room in the basement of the Ralston House, once used by smugglers, they say. Few know the entrance to it. We’ll keep him there till the search blows over. It won’t last long, or be very thorough. Then, we’ll get him off the island some way if I have to row him across to the Basin. I can do that, and he can go to Europe or Canada or somewhere. There’s not a man, woman or child that will not be glad to hear he has escaped.”

Elithe was young and ignorant and excited, and did not consider the risk in trying to escape from the island, or the obstacles to be surmounted after it and the sure penalty if he were captured. She only thought of Paul free, and that by helping to free him she would atone for her testimony against him. Just why Tom needed her she did not ask, and he scarcely knew himself, except that he wanted companionship and knew he could trust her. After thinking a moment, she said, “I’ll go with you, but I’d like to tell auntie.”

“Not for the world!” was Tom’s energetic response. “Nobody must know it but you and me. After he is safe in the basement, I shall tell his father and mother.”

Elithe was persuaded, and, with a promise not to fail, she left Tom and returned to the cottage, where supper was waiting for her. But neither she nor her aunt could eat much. Their thoughts were with the incidents of the day they had passed, and which seemed to have added years to Miss Hansford’s age and Elithe’s feelings. They didn’t talk of it. They could not, and at an early hour they said good-night to each other and went to their respective sleeping rooms. Once alone, Elithe began to waver and wish she had not promised Tom to join him. Then came thoughts of Paul and the joy it would be to see him free; aye, more, to help set him free, and she hesitated no longer. She heard the clock strike ten; then, overcome with fatigue, fell asleep in her chair, but awoke again as the clock was striking eleven. In an hour she was due at the boat-house, and, with her hat on, she sat down to wait and calculate how much time she ought to allow to reach it. It was dark, and once or twice she heard the sound of thunder in the distance and, as she leaned from the window to listen, she felt a coolness, like coming rain, upon her face. It must be time now, she thought, to start, and, with a noiseless step, she went down the back stairs and through the kitchen door. Once outside, she breathed more freely and felt her way cautiously along the piazza to the front steps, uttering a smothered cry as a hand grasped her arm.

“Hush!” came warningly from Tom, who had come to meet her.

“It’s awfully dark; there’s a storm brewing, and I thought you might be afraid,” he said, keeping hold of her and hurrying her along to the boat house.

The wind was rising, and the sea was running high with an angry sound in it, and white caps showing through the darkness.

“Oh, Tom, I’m afraid. Let’s walk,” Elithe said, drawing back from a great wave which came rolling into the boat house.

“There’s danger on the road and none on the sea. I’ve been out in much rougher weather than this,” Tom said, lifting Elithe into the boat.

He was very calm and fearless, and his calmness helped to quiet Elithe as they pushed out upon the dark water, keeping as near the shore as possible, until they landed at a point nearly opposite the jail. A few drops of rain were beginning to fall as they groped their way across the sands and the strip of meadow, or marsh land, between it and the highway. Everything about the building was still as death. The jailer was unquestionably asleep, and possibly Paul.

“But we’ll soon have him awake and with us,” Tom said, encouragingly, to Elithe. “Here’s the stone I’ve sat on many a night and planned this raid. You sit here now and keep these matches under your sacque away from the rain till I tell you to give me one. Maybe I shall want you to help a little with the bars.”

Elithe felt very much like a burglar as she obeyed Tom and sat down upon the stone, just as a flash of lightning lit up the sky showing the wide expanse of angry waters and the foaming waves rolling almost up to where she was sitting. Tom was at the window, she knew, for she could hear him as he tugged at the iron bars which offered more resistance than he had expected.

“Miss Elithe, can you help? Are you strong?” he whispered.

“As a giant,” she answered, losing all her fear, as, standing on the stone Tom rolled under the windows, she put all her strength into the task of liberating Paul.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
FREE.

After Miss Hansford and Elithe left the court room that afternoon there was but little to do. One or two unimportant witnesses were sworn and one or two recalled, when the prosecution was closed and many of the strangers hurried to the boats and cars which were to take them home. They had heard and seen what they came to see and hear,—Miss Hansford and Elithe. They had laughed at Miss Hansford, and said it was as good as a play and they had pitied Elithe, compelled to say what she did not want to say, and which proved so much against Paul that there seemed no hope for him. The trial would end on the morrow without doubt, and many were the conjectures as to what the verdict would be. Paul felt all this as he was driven back to jail after Tom had taken Miss Hansford and Elithe home. He had asked for them and smiled when he spoke of Miss Hansford’s manner in court. Of Elithe’s testimony he said nothing, but she was constantly in his mind as she looked at first when telling what she saw and heard, and as she looked at the last under the cross-examination, denying with energy the story of her engagement to Jack. That gave him some comfort, or would have done so if there had been comfort to be gained from any source.

He knew the trial would end the following day, and he would know the worst there was to know. Those twelve men, who had looked kindly but pityingly at him as they listened to Elithe, would do their duty as he should do it in their place, and must find him guilty. If they did not he was disgraced for life, and could never hold up his head again as he once had held it. There was no light in the future, and his appearance was that of an old man when he reëntered the jail. The officer who conducted him there was very kind and the jailer’s wife brought him many delicacies for his supper. But he could not eat. The last two days had been terrible to him, more terrible than any day could ever be again, he thought, unless——. He could not finish the sentence and contemplate a possible time when he would say good-bye forever to a world in which he had been so happy until within a few weeks. These weeks had seemed a horrible nightmare from which he must awaken either for better or worse. The awakening had come, and it was for the worse, and never had he felt so entirely hopeless and miserable as when he sat alone in his room reviewing the events of the day and dreading those of the morrow.

If I could only sleep and forget it, he thought, and after a while he fell asleep, so worn and exhausted that he could keep awake no longer. He had no means of knowing the hour when he awoke. It must be late, he knew, and it was very dark outside. In the distance he heard the rumbling of thunder and nearer the sound of the waves beating on the shore. He knew just how it looked down there by the sea. He had seen it many times when a storm was gathering, and, with shoes and stockings off, had waded out as far as he dared and then ran for the shore with the green waves in hot pursuit. He had thought it fun, but liked better the long, sunny beach by the tower, with the music and bathers, Clarice and himself, and Elithe and Sherry, his first dog, dead so long ago, “just as I may be when the season comes again,” he said, wondering if they would miss him and sometimes speak of him to each other.

Yes, he knew they would; his friends, who liked him, would speak of him pityingly, in low tones, as a good fellow who went astray. Others would repeat his story to those who did not know it, and point out the spot where Jack was killed, and the jail where the man who killed him was confined and from which he was taken to expiate his crime. It was horrible to think of it, and he so young, and so much to live for that he could not die, and in that way. Die and never see again the places he loved so well,—the green woods and hills of the country, the city haunts so dear to him, his home, and more than all, his friends, his father and mother and Clarice. He spoke her name aloud, “Clarice, Clarice, I loved you so much and you think I killed him,” he cried, stretching out his arms in the darkness and then letting them fall at his side in an abandonment of grief.

The thunder was louder and nearer now. The wind was rising and shook the bars of his window as they had never been shaken before; then died away towards the sea, but the shaking of the bars continued and a gleam like a lighted match flashed through them and disappeared, followed by another and another, and he could see the outline of four hands, two large and two small, tugging at the iron rods. Some one was there trying to get in and Paul felt a momentary fear as he listened to the grating sound and heard the lime and mortar give way. Again there was a flash of light. One bar was gone, and the big hands were wrenching another from its place.

“Who is there?” Paul asked.

The answer was in a whisper. “Tom,—come to set you free.”

The shock was so sudden, the joy so great, that without a thought of anything but the word free. Paul’s head fell forward upon his chest, and he knew no more until the cool night air and drops of rain were falling upon his face. Some one was holding his head, and a hand, which could not be Tom’s, was brushing back his hair, and it seemed to him, wiping away a drop of blood trickling from a place which smarted on his forehead. He knew he must he out of his cell, and had an indistinct remembrance of having been lifted and pushed and pulled in a most extraordinary way until his arms felt as if they were dislocated.

“Where am I?” he asked, rising to a sitting posture and trying to pierce the thick darkness and see who were with him.

“Whisper, or you’ll have Stevens here. I shouldn’t wonder if he was putting on his trousers now,—the racket we’ve made. You are out of prison. Free!”

“But,” Paul said, beginning to understand, “isn’t it better to stay and face it? People will certainly think me guilty if I run away. You meant it right, Tom, and I thank you, but I must go back.”

“No, you don’t,” Tom replied. “I nearly broke my neck getting you out, and I am going to keep you. Then, you see, you didn’t run away. You were abducted, against your will, and if they find you, I’ll say so. I’ll take the brunt. I’ve sworn it.

“I’m glad you fainted,” Tom continued, “or you might have resisted. I found you all huddled down in your chair, just ready to tumble on the floor. A streak of lightning showed me where you were, and I tell you I had a tussle to get you up to the window and then to get you through, your legs were so almighty long. You did scrape your forehead some on a sharp point of iron. I could never have managed you without help.”

“Help!” Paul repeated. “I remember now. Some one was holding my head when I came to my senses. Who was it?”

Reaching out his arm, he felt Elithe’s dress and drew her towards him.

“Who is it?” he asked, in an eager voice. “Is it,—is it,—Clarice?

“Clarice be ——,” Tom began; then checked himself and said: “It’s Miss Elithe, and she worked like a nailer, too, and scratched her hand on that same jagged iron which rubbed your head. She’s a brick!”

“Elithe here in the darkness and rain,—to save me!” Paul exclaimed, getting Elithe’s hand in his.

“Yes, I am here,” Elithe replied, with a drawing in of breath, Paul held her wounded hand so tight.

All his thoughts of returning to his cell had vanished with its touch.

“It’s raining. You’ll be wet through. Let me take off my coat and cover you,” he said.

Elithe declined the coat, but let him keep her hand as they went cautiously down to the landing where the boat was dancing like a cork upon the waves. It was not an easy task to enter it, and Elithe’s dress was wet to her knees when she at last took her seat and made room for Paul beside her. Tom sprang in last, and they pushed off into the seething waters. The storm had burst upon them with flashes of lightning and sheets of rain which made Elithe’s face wet with spray and white as it had been when she took the witness stand in the court room.

“Are you afraid?” Paul asked.

It was impossible that she should not be afraid in an open boat in a raging storm. And yet she was glad Paul was free, if she went to the bottom. As she did not answer him, he continued: “If I am to be hung I shall not be drowned. So you are safe.”

Just then a wave heavier than any which had preceded it struck the boat, nearly upsetting it, and with a cry of alarm Elithe clung to Paul, who put his arm around her and drew her down until her face rested in his lap.

“Courage,” he whispered. “We are more than half way there. Tom and I both can swim, and between us we will save you. For me it does not matter.”

The storm was terrible now, one moment sending the boat far out to sea, and the next taking it towards the shore. Crash after crash of thunder rolled over their heads, while forked lightning darted from the black sky and swooped down into the water so near them that Paul could see Tom as with all his strength he plied the oars and tried to keep the boat well balanced. Paul was bare-headed, for there had been no time to secure his hat when he left the jail and Tom had made him take his, saying: “A little wetting will do me no harm and may injure you in your run-down state.”

As the waves dashed over the boat more and more until it was a third full of water, Tom said: “Go to bailing with my hat, if you can. It will help some.”

Paul obeyed, bailing rapidly with one hand, while the other held fast to Elithe, who lay helpless across his lap trembling so that he could feel the beating of her heart and thought of a little frightened bird he had once caught and held a moment in his hand. She was thinking of Samona,—of her father and mother and brothers, and their grief when they heard she was drowned, as she was sure she would be. Then she wondered how any one would know what had become of them, and if their bodies would be washed ashore and found upon the beach. Paul, who was bending over her as he bailed, knew she was praying, and the arm which encircled her pressed her more closely. For himself he did not particularly care whether the sea engulfed him or not, but the girl who had risked her life for him must not die, and he prayed with her for safety from their peril.

How long they buffeted with the storm he did not know, but it seemed an eternity. They were driven beyond the boat house, then back again and out to sea, until the rain fell less heavily; the thunder muttered in the distance; the boat moved more steadily and finally shot into safety in the shelter of the boat house. Paul lifted Elithe out, and, sitting down beside her upon the bench in the little room, with his arm still supporting her, said to Tom: “Well, what next?”

“Stay here till I take Miss Hansford home and I’ll tell you,” was Tom’s answer.

He was wet to his skin; so was Paul, and so was Elithe. But neither of the three cared. They were safe, and Elithe wrung the water from her skirts and shook it from her hat, which was crushed beyond all shape or comeliness. Then she gave her hand to Paul, but neither spoke a word of parting. They had been in a great peril together; he was in peril yet, and the horror of it was over them still. There was a warm hand clasp, and then Tom and Elithe went out again into the darkness and made their way towards Miss Hansford’s cottage.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
EXCITEMENT.

By nine o’clock the next morning everyone in Oak City knew that Paul had escaped. “Broke jail, and there ain’t no court to-day,” Max Allen said, when he brought the news to Miss Hansford, who was breakfasting alone. Hearing no sound from Elithe’s room, she had looked in and, finding her asleep, had decided not to waken her.

“The child is just played out, and no wonder,” she said, closing the door carefully, and leaving the room by the opposite way from which she had entered.

It was the back way through which Elithe had come in her wet garments, stopping a moment as she fancied she heard her aunt moving. A puddle of water on the floor was the consequence, and into this Miss Hansford stepped as she went out.

“For goodness’ sake, I didn’t know it leaked here,” she said, peering overhead to find the place.

Failing in this, she wiped up the water and thought no more about it. She had heard nothing in the night except the storm, which woke her two or three times. When Max came in with his news, which seemed to excite him happily, she put her coffee cup down quickly and, with the jerk natural to her when surprised, she repeated, “Broke jail! What do you mean?”

“Mean what I say. Mr. Ralston has skipped. Three of them iron bars to the winder gone slick and clean. Must of took a giant’s strength to pull ’em out, though the old house is rotten as dirt. Fourth bar twisted all out of shape. Somebody must of got hurt on the sharp point, for there’s blood on it,—prints of the ends of fingers on the casin’ below,—not very big fingers, either, and jam up under the winder a large stone had been moved for somebody to stan’ on; somebody short, and round the stone was tracks ground down into the sand and mud, so deep that the rain didn’t wash ’em all away. Two tracks,—one a woman’s, sure. There must of been a big tussle right there under the eaves; then there ain’t no more tracks to be seen, nor nothin’ to tell which way they went.”

“Thank the Lord for that!” Miss Hansford said, and Max continued: “Who do you s’pose the woman was?”

“How should I know?” Miss Hansford replied, thinking the same thought with Max, who went on: “Between you and I, I b’lieve ’twas Miss Ralston, for who but his mother would go out such an awful night. Rained cats and dogs. I never heard bumpiner thunder, nor seen streakeder lightnin’. Struck two trees and a barn at Still Haven. Folks think she must have had a hand in it and don’t seem much sorry that he’s cut and run. That evidence yestiddy was tellin’ and sure to convict him. But the law must be vin-di-ca-ted, you know, and they’ll have to pretend to hunt for him, of course. You don’t know nothin’ about it, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Miss Hansford replied, bristling at once. “Have you come with a writ to search my house? If so, go ahead, and when you are through, I’ll take you by the scruff of your neck and pitch you down the steps.”

“Easy, easy,” Max said, good-humoredly. “I hain’t no writ. I only wanted to warn you that they was goin’ to search Miss Percy’s and your house, and the Ralston’s, as the three most likely places where he’d be hid. I didn’t want you to be took unawares, if he happened to be here.”

“He ain’t here, I tell you,” Miss Hansford said, and Max rejoined: “Of course he ain’t. He ain’t nowheres, and I hope he’ll stay there. I’d help get him off the island, I do believe. Where’s Miss Elithe?”

“Bed and asleep; all wore out,” was Miss Hansford’s reply.

“Should s’pose she would be. ’Twas awful the way they put her through yestiddy. Well, I must go over to the Ralston’s. Good day!”

He nodded and went out, and, shaking like a leaf, Miss Hansford watched him taking the path through the woods to the Ralston House. That Elithe had had anything to do with Paul’s escape she had no suspicion. It was natural that she should sleep late and look white and scared when she at last came down stairs and was told what had happened. Miss Hansford was washing her dishes and did not look closely at Elithe as she repeated what Max had said of the bars pushed out of place and the twisted one with blood upon it,—the marks of fingers on the window sill, and the footprints,—one a man’s, presumably Tom’s; the other a woman’s,—presumably Mrs. Ralston’s.

“Oh-h! Mrs. Ralston’s!” Elithe exclaimed, closing her right hand, in the inside of which was the cut she had received on the sharp point of the iron bar.

Once she thought to tell her aunt everything, then decided to await developments. She was glad suspicion had fallen upon Mrs. Ralston rather than upon herself, and wondered how that frail woman would have come through the fearful storm. She did not want to talk and kept out of her aunt’s way as much as possible, and when, towards noon, she saw three men coming up the walk and guessed their errand. She quietly slipped through the back door and left her aunt to receive her visitors alone. Very few of the islanders had expressed themselves as freely as Max, but there was a general feeling of gladness that Paul had escaped, and a hope that he would not be recaptured. Still, the law must be “vin-di-ca-ted,” and a search, or the semblance of one, made for him. There were only three places where he was at all likely to have taken refuge,—Mrs. Percy’s, Miss Hansford’s, and his own home. That he was at the latter place was probable, but it was thought best to begin with Mrs. Percy. They told her why they had come, apologizing for their errand on the plea of its advisability in order to make it easier for other places to be visited. Mrs. Percy had heard of Paul’s escape and resented the idea that he was in her cottage; but she made no objection to their going over the house and into the room where Clarice was again on the verge of hysterics at the new phase matters had assumed.

Paul was not there, and Miss Hansford was next called upon. They found her furious, but resolute.

“Come to look for Paul, have you?” she said. “Well, hunt away, and I’ll help you.”

More for form’s sake than for anything else, they followed her upstairs and downstairs, from room to room, while she opened closet doors and bureau drawers and trunks, and bade them satisfy themselves.

“This is my niece’s sleeping room, and this her clothes-press,” she said, swinging wide the door of Elithe’s closet before the men were quite in the room behind her. “Lord of Heavens!” she exclaimed under her breath, as the first objects which met her view were the muddy boots and wet garments and crushed hat which Elithe had put there until she had a chance to dry them while her aunt was gone to market or shopping. She knew now that Elithe and not Mrs. Ralston was concerned in Paul’s escape, and she felt as if she were sinking to the floor. This would not do, and, with a mighty effort, she kept herself upright and, taking down some of Elithe’s dresses, dropped them over the pile of wet clothes. Then, with a sneer, she said: “Look in, gentlemen, and see for yourselves that he is not here hanging on the hooks.”

She made them look in, and made them look under the bed and followed them downstairs, telling them to call again if they did not find him, and asking if they had nothing better to do than hunt an innocent man.

“We are no more anxious to find him than you are,” they said, as they bade her good morning and started for the Ralston House. When they were gone, Miss Hansford sat down, more worried and perplexed than she had ever been in her life, and more conscience-stricken, too.

“I’m backslidin’ every day,” she thought. “Actually got so I swear,—for ‘Lord of Heavens’ is swearin’, spoke the way I spoke it. I couldn’t help it. I was so took back with what I saw and what I know. Mrs. Ralston up at the jail, enjoyin’ such poor health as she does! I might have knew it was Elithe. Where is she, I wonder?”

She found her in the kitchen, hovering over the few coals of fire still burning in the stove. She had staid outside until she saw the men leave, and then had come in by the same door through which she went out.

“Be you cold?” her aunt said to her.

“Yes, the weather has changed a good deal since yesterday,” Elithe answered, with a shiver, wondering if her aunt would detect the odor of witch hazel in which she had bathed her hand.

She did smell it, but was too much excited to think about it or care.

“I s’pose you took cold last night at the jail! Who was with you?” she asked.

Elithe fairly jumped. Her aunt knew, and there was nothing left but to tell the truth.

“Tom was with me,” she said.

“I thought so. Where’s Paul? What did you do with him?”

“Left him in the boat-house. I don’t know where he is now,” Elithe replied, and her aunt continued: “In the boat-house! Elithe Hansford, do you mean you brought him by boat in that awful storm? They say two trees and a barn were struck near Still Haven.”

“It would not have surprised me if every house in Oak City had been struck,” Elithe answered, as she recalled the awful storm and the great peril she had been in.

At her aunt’s request, she told everything,—why she went and what she did, and showed her wounded hand, and said there was a cut on Paul’s forehead, which had scraped against the same sharp iron point. Miss Hansford’s knees shook so that she could hardly stand. Nor could she think of any fitting words with which to express her feelings except “Lord of Heavens!” which came to her the more readily because she had used it so recently.

“There, I’m swearing again, but it’s enough to make a minister swear,—the things I’m goin’ through. I wonder I’m alive. I know where they’ll put him, but he’ll be found, if they haven’t got him already, and then it’ll be worse for him.”

She didn’t reproach Elithe for what she had done, nor feel like reproaching her. On the contrary, she felt an increased admiration for the girl who had braved so many difficulties to save Paul. Elithe seemed to be more like a woman to be counseled with and considered than a girl to be advised and dictated to. And Elithe felt ten years older than she had when the great trouble came. Together she and her aunt talked the matter over and waited for news from the Ralston House. Max Allen had gone there after his interview with Miss Hansford to notify Tom, he said, although he had his own suspicions with regard to that young man. He found him grooming a horse near the stable and so busy with his work that he did not seem to see Max until he was close to him and said, “Good mornin’! Heard the news?”

“Yes. Two trees and a barn struck with lightnin’ last night, if that’s what you mean,” Tom answered, without looking up.

“Oh, git out! ’Tain’t that. You know ’tain’t,” Max rejoined. “Paul Ralston’s broke jail, and they’ll be scourin’ the country for him. You hain’t seen him, I s’pose?”

Tom meant to be truthful in the main, but, thinking this a time to lie, he did so without a scruple.

“No, I hain’t, and if I had I’d die before I’d tell. How did he get out?”

Max repeated the story, while Tom groomed the horse assiduously, asking a question now and then but not hoodwinking Max. That Tom knew something about it he was sure, and finished by saying: “Whoever did it was all-fired plucky, and I respect ’em for it. Folks suspect Miss Ralston; the finger tips on the window and the footprints under it was so small. I hope she’s well as usual this mornin’ and will have her wits about her when they come to search. You are sure he ain’t here?”

“Yes, sure,” Tom answered, giving the horse a blow which made him spring round with his heels close to Max, who began to back off and very soon left the yard with the remark, “You’d better warn ’em that they are comin’.”

Tom did not reply, but after Max was gone he said: “I must tell them now, but not where he is till after the search has been made.” Putting the horse in the stable, he started for the house. Mr. and Mrs. Ralston had passed a sleepless night, thinking only of Paul and counting the hours before they could see him again. They had no hope of an acquittal. That died out with Elithe’s testimony. Mrs. Ralston could not feel altogether kindly disposed towards the girl, although she pitied her, and knew that what she said had been wrung from her by the iron hand of the law. The result, however, would be the same and she would lose her boy,—not by death, perhaps,—but in a manner nearly as bad and hard to bear. She wished to be early at the jail that morning so as to be with him as long as possible before he went into the court room, and had told Tom to hurry with the carriage. She had her bonnet on waiting for him and wondering why he was so long in coming, when he appeared and told the news as Max had told it to him. Mrs. Ralston fainted, and during his efforts to restore her the judge had time to consider the situation, which looked to him rather grave. Still the thought that Paul was free gave him a thrill of joy, while he doubted the wisdom of the escape. But who helped him, and where is he? he asked.

Tom, who, since he began to lie, did so without compunction, insisted that all he knew was what Max had told him. The officers were coming to search the house by and by, he said, offering to attend to them himself. If the judge suspected Tom he said nothing, and with his wife waited in painful suspense until the arrival of the three men who had visited Mrs. Percy and Miss Hansford at an earlier hour. They were met by Tom and were shown at once into the room where the judge and his wife were sitting, the mother’s face full of agonized fear and the father’s stern and grave, as, in answer to the question, “Do you know where your son is?” he replied, “I do not. Go where you like. Tom will conduct you.”

The next ten minutes were minutes of torture to the two who sat listening to the tramp of feet while the party went over the house, led by Tom, who threw open presses and closets, with a strange glitter in his eyes, especially when he came to the closet under the stairs in the large square entry or hall.

“They keep their best clothes here,” Tom said, taking down a silk dress and the judge’s evening coat. “Go in, if you like.”

They didn’t go in nor into the cellar either. Only one of them, an old resident of the place, knew anything definite about the smuggler’s room, and he kept his knowledge to himself and hurried the others away. They were satisfied, they said to Tom, as they left the house with a feeling that Paul was there somewhere.

“And if he is, let him stay. We have done our duty, and don’t want to drag him back to prison,” they said to each other.

This was the prevailing sentiment of the people when the first excitement was over. There was a little disappointment on the part of the idlers and curious ones that they were not to have another day in court, but they consoled themselves by going in crowds to the jail and staring at the windows and the twisted bars and the finger marks and footprints, which last were effectually trampled out of sight before the day was over by the many feet which walked over the spot.

“We must try to find him, of course,” the people said, and a pretended watch was kept upon the outgoing boats and the little fishing smacks which crossed to the mainland, but there was no heart in it.

Nobody wanted to capture the runaway, and when a new sensation came up in the shape of a fire and the arrest of the incendiary, public interest was centred in that, and when Paul was mentioned it was only to ask, “Where do you suppose he is?”

CHAPTER XXXIX.
WHERE HE WAS.

While the men were going over the house he was lying in the smuggler’s room on the billiard table, which had been put there in the spring and scarcely used at all, as the young men preferred the one in the third story, which commanded a view of the sea. On this Tom had improvised a comfortable bed, taking his own mattress and pillows and secretly purloining sheets and blankets in his frequent tours through the house. Here he had lain Paul after a hard struggle to get him there. On his return from seeing Elithe home he had found Paul in a state of semi-unconsciousness, from which he could not at first rouse him.

“Paul, Paul,” he said, dropping the Mr. in his anxiety as he shook him by the arm, “come with me now; you are at home; safe,—free. Come.”

Paul only answered, “Yes, I know; the storm is terrible, and she is wet through. I can feel how she trembles.”

He was still in the boat with Elithe in his arms. Tom understood it, and said: “Miss Elithe is home. I took her there. Don’t you remember? And you are home. Come.”

It was of no use. Paul did not offer to move, and the night was wearing away. The storm had passed on, and there was a faint streak of daylight in the east. Something must be done. What can I do to rouse him? Tom thought. The answer came in a howl from Sherry, shut up in his kennel, where Tom had put him when he left the house. The sagacity of an intelligent dog is wonderful, and Sherry was one of the most intelligent of his race. He had been uneasy ever since the boat glided under cover, and had tried to get out. His ear was trained to catch sounds at a long distance, and his instinct told him something unusual was going on in which he must have a part. It did not seem possible that he could recognize Paul’s voice so far away, but from the moment he spoke he redoubled his efforts to be free, and finally gave the howl which decided Tom. Going to the kennel, he let the dog out, but did not have to tell him where to go. Sherry knew, and when Tom reached the boat house the dog was there, licking Paul’s face and hands and talking to him in the language of a dumb beast. Tom thought of Rip Van Winkle asking for Schneider, as he threw the light of his dark lantern upon the scene and saw the expression on Paul’s face. The dog had saved him.

“Yes, Sherry, old fellow,” he said, patting the animal, “you are glad to see me, aren’t you? But, easy, boy, easy. Don’t lick my face off with your long tongue. What is it, Tom? What am I to do? I think I’ve been in a sort of trance from which Sherry wakened me. Good Sherry, who stood by me through it all.”

“Come with me to the house,” Tom said, putting his arm around him and almost carrying him up the slope, while Sherry ran sometimes in front and sometimes behind them and jumping on Paul, whom he nearly threw down.

Paul made no comment when introduced into the smuggler’s room from the cellar. It seemed very natural to go there, and after Tom had exchanged his wet clothing for dry ones and covered him in bed, he looked up and said: “It’s the old days come back,—when we were boys and played I was hiding here a prisoner, just as I am now.”

Tom did not reply. He was thinking what to do next. Paul decided it for him.

“Put another blanket, or something, over me,” he said. “I’m very cold, some like Harry Gill. How many did he have, when his teeth they chattered still.”

There was no extra blanket there, but Tom put a big rug over him, and gave him a swallow of brandy from the small flask he had in his pocket for just such an emergency.

“I know you are temperance,” he said, “and so am I, but if there was ever a time for brandy and lies it’s now. I’ve told a pile and expect to go on telling. Confound that dog with his yelps. He’ll have the whole house up if we don’t stop him,” he continued, as Sherry kept bounding against the door with short, sharp barks for admittance.

“Let him in,” Paul said. “He does me good.”

Tom let him in, with the result of a scene similar to that at the jail when he first saw Paul.

“Come up here and keep me warm,” Paul said to him, with a snap of his fingers, which brought the dog on to the billiard table, where he lay close to Paul, who gradually grew warmer and finally fell asleep.

How Tom managed to bring him anything to eat he hardly knew, but he did manage it. Paul, however, could not eat, and only took a bit of bread to please Tom, and then again fell asleep with Sherry beside him. He had given a growl or two when he heard the tramp of strange footsteps overhead as the officers went through the house, and Tom wanted to throttle him, fearing danger. That was passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Ralston found their son and his dog asleep when they went to him after being told where he was. His mother’s tears upon his face awoke him, and he started up, but fell back again upon his pillow weak as a child, bodily and mentally. The strain upon him had been more than he could bear, and for days he lay in a kind of lethargy, sleeping a great deal and partially delirious when awake. He knew he was free, but did not fully realize the situation or understand why he was in the Smuggler’s room instead of his own, or why his father’s face wore so grave a look of concern and his mother’s eyes were full of tears when she spoke to him. He saw only these two and Tom for a few days, if we except Sherry, who staid with him constantly and only went out for exercise and to bark and growl at any suspicious people who came near the house. Sherry was developing a new side to his character, and from being the best-natured dog in the neighborhood, was getting a name for the most savage. His favorite resting place when out of doors was near the entrance to the basement, where he would sit watching everything which went on around him, and when he heard a footstep at the front of the house, hurrying to see who the intruders were, growling if he did not like their looks, wagging his tail if he did and going back to his position near Paul’s door.

It was necessary after a little that the servants in the house should know of Paul’s presence there, and they were sworn to secrecy, which was scarcely necessary, as not one of them would have betrayed their young master. After this it was easier to care for him than before. The Smuggler’s room was furnished with every appliance for comfort, and every possible attention was paid to the invalid, whose mind remained shaky and clouded, and who was always trying to remember what had happened and how he came to be in his present quarters. Tom told him two or three times, but the effort to remember tired him so that Paul always shook his head, saying: “No good. It’s all a blur, except Sherry’s licking my face. I remember how cold his tongue was. That’s all.”

“Perhaps Miss Elithe can help you,” Tom suggested, and Paul caught eagerly at it.

“Yes, I want to see Elithe. I have a dim recollection of her. Send for her.”

Mrs. Ralston, who had heard from Tom all the particulars of Paul’s escape from prison, had freely forgiven Elithe for what she had been obliged to say at the trial.

“I’ll go for her,” she said, feeling a great desire to see the girl who had risked so much for Paul.

During the week which had elapsed since Paul’s escape there had been no intercourse between the Ralston House and Miss Hansford’s cottage. Tom knew he was suspected and watched, and, fearing to implicate Elithe in the matter, he had thought best to keep aloof from her as long as possible. And both she and her aunt were glad that he did so. They had no doubt as to the place of Paul’s concealment, but did not care to know certainly, as it was better to be ignorant of his whereabouts until the talk had subsided in some degree. Still they were anxious to know something definite, and were glad when Mrs. Ralston came to them one evening just after dark. She was on foot and alone, not caring to attract attention by driving in her carriage. Taking Elithe’s face between her hands, she kissed it tenderly and said: “I want to thank you for what you did for my boy. Tom tells me you were of great assistance and very brave.”

“How is he?” Miss Hansford asked before Elithe could reply.

Mrs. Ralston told them everything which had occurred since Elithe left Paul in the boat house,—of Paul’s mental condition and the hope they had that Elithe might rouse him.

“He has a high fever, too,” she said.

“Have you had a doctor?” Miss Hansford asked.

“No, we dare not,” was Mrs. Ralston’s reply, and Miss Hansford continued: “I wouldn’t, either. None of ’em know enough to go in when it rains. I tried ’em when Elithe was sick and shipped them all. Good nursing is what he wants, with maybe some herb tea. I wish I could see him.”

“You may,” Mrs. Ralston said. “Come to lunch with Elithe to-morrow. That will not excite suspicion. I have seen very few people, although many have called. Most of the visitors have left the island, and I am glad of that.”

Her invitation was accepted, and the next day both Miss Hansford and Elithe were admitted to the Smuggler’s room. But Paul did not know either of them. His fever and delirium had increased, and he was talking continually, not of the present but of the past, when he was a boy with Jack Percy, stealing Miss Hansford’s watermelon and playing he was a prisoner in the Smuggler’s room, with an officer at the door trying to get in. This was uppermost in his mind, and he begged that the officer should be kept out, saying: “I don’t know what they think I did. I only know I didn’t do it.”

The case was serious, and grew more and more so for three or four days, during which Miss Hansford expended all her nursing powers and knowledge, which were considerable, and Elithe staid by him constantly. He was more quiet with her, although he did not know her, and frequently called her Clarice, telling her he knew she would come, and once asking her to kiss him.

“Not now. You are too sick for that. You might give her the fever,” his mother interposed, while Elithe kept from his sight as far as possible.

He missed her at once and said: “If she can’t kiss me, she can hold my hand. Where is she?”

Elithe returned to her post and held his hot hands and bathed his head and answered to the name Clarice and felt her heart throb strangely at the terms of endearment he gave her, asking her often if she loved him. Her silence troubled him greatly, and he would look reproachfully at her, repeating the question, until once, when they were alone and he was very persistent, she leaned forwards and said in a whisper, while her cheeks were scarlet: “Yes, Paul, I love you. Don’t ask me again, or talk of me so much.”

“All right. I won’t,” he answered cheerfully, and soon fell into a sleep which did him so much good that from that time onward he began to mend.

“Will he remember?” Elithe asked herself in an agony of fear and shame as his brain began to clear and to realize where he was and why he was there.

He did not remember, nor did he mention Clarice again for some time, except to ask if she had been there.

“I thought she was here once. It must have been a dream,” he said to Elithe,—adding after a moment, “I believe I knew you were here all the time,—you and Sherry,” and he stroked the head of the dog, sitting on his haunches beside him and looking at him with almost human intelligence in his eyes.

He did not talk much now, except occasionally with his father of the future, which was so dark and full of peril.

“They have stopped looking for me, you think?” he would say: “but what of that? I can’t stay here forever. If I don’t give myself up again, what am I to do?”

This question was hard to answer, and, as the days went by and Paul grew stronger and realized his real position, he grew more and more restless and unhappy,—with a desire to see Clarice and talk with her of what he ought to do. Nearly every visitor had left Oak City except the Percys, who had been kept there by the continued indisposition of Clarice. Paul had heard that she was going on the morrow and he begged so hard to see her that his father finally consented, and Elithe was asked to take a note from him and explain.

Clarice had passed from nervous prostration into a kind of stony apathy and indifference to everything around her. When she heard of Paul’s escape she was glad, and gladder still when told that people believed he had managed to reach the mainland and was probably a thousand miles away. She hoped he would not be recaptured, as the disgrace for herself would be less than if he were convicted and punished. Mrs. Percy did not quite see the distinction, but Clarice did.

“If the man I was to have married should be hung, or sent to prison, I could never hold up my head again. It’s bad enough that he should have killed Jack and been tried for his life,” she said, losing sight of Paul’s unhappy position, and thinking only of her own.

She did not know whether she believed the shooting accidental or not, but, in either case, she blamed Paul for having brought this trouble upon her,—ruined her life, she said,—feeling sometimes that she could not forgive him if the law should set him free. To lose her position as his wife was hard, but her brother’s blood was on his hands and she must not marry him. How much this decision was influenced by a letter received by her mother from Ralph Fenner, the Englishman, telling her that his uncle, the old earl, was dead, and also the little boy next in the succession, leaving only his invalid brother between him and the title, it is hard to say. She had sent him cards to her wedding, and he wrote on the assumption that she was married, and sent his congratulations to her and Paul, inviting them, if they ever came to England, to visit him at Elm Park, his late uncle’s country seat, where, with his brother, he was living. The possibility which this letter opened up did not occur to her at first, and she would not have admitted that it occurred to her at all or made her think less kindly of Paul. She was reading this letter a second time when Elithe’s card was brought to her. Something told her that Elithe was bringing her news of Paul, and she signified her willingness to see her. She could not forget that Jack had loved the girl and her manner was more cordial than haughty as she went forward to meet her.

“I have a message from Mr. Ralston,” Elithe began at once.

“Where is he?” Clarice asked, and Elithe replied by telling her particulars of the escape and of the Smuggler’s room in the basement of the Ralston House, where Paul was taken; of his delirious illness, when he talked so much of Clarice, thinking she was with him; of the days of convalescence, harder to bear than positive illness; of his despair as he counted the weary years which must be spent in hiding and his oft-repeated resolves to give himself up to justice.

“He goes around the house when no one is there,” she said, “and is often in the look-out on the roof, where he can see the boats as they go out and come in. He heard you were to leave to-morrow and wishes you to come to him this evening. Here is his note.”

She passed it to Clarice, who read: “My Darling: Can you come to me before you go and let me see your dear face again? You may never be my wife, but the knowing that you love and trust me will make life more endurable, whether spent in a foreign land or in a felon’s cell. I have so much to say to you. Come, Clarice; if you ever loved me, come.”

Clarice’s lips quivered as she read the note, and her eyes were full of tears. For a brief instant she hesitated and seemed to be thinking. Then she said, “I cannot go.”

“You cannot!” Elithe repeated, and Clarice continued: “No, I cannot. Of what use would it be when I can’t say I think him innocent.”

“You don’t think him guilty?” Elithe exclaimed, and Clarice replied, “I think he killed Jack. Your testimony proved that.”

“I know, I know,” Elithe answered her; “I had to tell what I saw. But it was an accident. He did not mean to do it.”

“Why, then, does he not say so? Why persist in a falsehood when the truth might save him?” Clarice asked in a tone of voice which roused Elithe, and no lawyer defending his client was ever more eloquent than she was in her defense of Paul and her entreaty for Clarice to see him.

“If you ever loved him, you must love him now more than ever, when he needs it so much, and if he were free or in a foreign land you would still marry him,” she said.

Clarice shook her head. “You must hold peculiar ideas,” she said, “if you think I could marry one who killed my brother. I have thought it all over,—again and again,—during these wretched days. Don’t imagine I have not suffered, for I have. Think of the crushing blow which fell when I was so happy and expected to be happier, and all through Paul. I have loved him. I suppose I love him still, but can never be his wife. I am sorry for him. I hope he will escape justice and would help him if I could. I find myself weakening now as I talk to you, and dare not trust myself to see him. You say he often sits in the look-out. Tell him to be there to-morrow when the boat goes out. There will not be many on it, and I will wave him a God bless you and good-bye.”

“Is that all?” Elithe asked, rising to go.

It seemed as if Clarice wavered a moment, her love for Paul tugging at her heart and fighting with her pride, which conquered.

“That is all,” she said, “except good-bye to you, in whom I must always be interested because Jack loved you.”

She held out her hand, which Elithe took mechanically and dropped quickly. She did not like to be reminded of Jack’s love. It hurt her almost as much as the message she was taking to Paul, who was waiting anxiously for her.

CHAPTER XL.
FAREWELL.

“What did she say? Is she coming? Did she send me a note?” Paul asked eagerly, knowing the answer before Elithe could give it.

He was in the Smuggler’s room, which, luxuriously as it had been fitted up, was a prison still. All the world was a prison and would be as long as he lived as he was living now.

“I can’t bear it much longer. I believe I’d rather die or work in the convict’s garb, with the hope of being eventually free,” he had said many a time, with a growing conviction that he should ultimately give himself up in spite of his mother’s assertions that the real culprit would in time be found, or he gotten out of the country to a foreign land, where she and his father would join him, and, perhaps, Clarice.

She always pronounced that name hesitatingly, for she doubted the girl who had shown so little sympathy for her lover. Did Paul doubt her, too? Possibly, although he made every excuse for her, while the hunger in his heart grew more and more intense to see her and hear her say she loved him and would one day be his wife if he were ever free from the taint upon his name. If he had killed Jack by accident, as so many believed, he would never have thought of offering her his love a second time; but he had not killed Jack, and there was nothing but the disgrace of his arrest and trial, and, perhaps, punishment, standing between them. Would she overlook all that, as he would have done had she been in his place? He hoped so, and waited anxiously the return of Elithe.

“Will she come?” he repeated, and, sitting down beside him, Elithe told him the particulars of her interview with Clarice, while Paul listened without a word or a sign that he heard or cared.

“Thank you, Elithe,” he said, when she finished, and, getting up, began to walk the room rapidly.

She knew he wanted to be alone, and, bidding him good-bye, went out and left him with his sorrow and disappointment.

The next morning was dark and gloomy, as November days are apt to be, and there were very few passengers on the boat, and only the express and hackmen were on the wharf when the Ralston carriage drew up with Mrs. Percy and Clarice in it. This was Paul’s suggestion. He would have every possible attention paid to Clarice and had asked that their carriage be sent for her. Tom, who drove it, was civil,—nothing more,—for he despised the selfish girl who had shown so little heart for Paul. He bought their tickets and saw their baggage checked, and then, without a word, was turning to leave, when Clarice took his hand and said, “Tom, I know where he is. Elithe told me. I couldn’t see him, believing what I do, but I am sorry,—oh, so sorry. Tell him so, and give him my love.”

Tom bowed and walked away, thinking it doubtful if he gave the message to Paul.

“I want him to forget her,” he said; “want him to see the difference between her and that other one who has stood by him so nobly. God bless her!”

As he drove from the landing he looked back and saw Mrs. Percy and Clarice standing in a part of the boat which could be seen distinctly from the top of the Ralston House, where a white flag was floating. Tying her handkerchief to her umbrella, Clarice returned the signal which Paul had fastened to the railing, and then sat down on the floor beside it, waiting for some sign that it was recognized. He had often waved a good-bye to friends when they were leaving, and he remembered that once, when he was a boy, and Clarice was going away and Jack was staying a few days longer with him, they had dragged their sheets from their beds and shaken them in the wind, while Clarice stood upon a chair and kissed her hand to them. Now Jack was dead and he was accused of killing him, and Clarice was going from him forever. He felt that this was so. Clarice was lost. Her love for him was dead or dying, and from that moment his own began to die. When the boat disappeared and he could no longer see the two black figures, the sight of which had made Jack’s death so real, he took down his white flag, and, covering his face with his hands, said sadly: “It’s over between us. The bitterness of death is passed. God pity me, and give me courage to do what I must do. I have lost Clarice. I know it now, and perhaps it is better so. She could not bear the disgrace.”

There was a step near him and a hand was laid upon his arm. It was Elithe, who had been sent by Mrs. Ralston to tell him there were callers in the drawing-room and he was to stay where he was. At sight of him she forgot her errand and tried to comfort him as she would have comforted her brother.

“Don’t feel so badly,” she said. “You will see her again and be happy.”

“Never,” he answered. “It is all over between us. I don’t know that I blame her. She believes I killed her brother. How can she forgive that?” He was silent a moment; then he continued: “I have made up my mind and nothing can change it. I shall go back to prison and take my chance. I do not believe it will be hanging. I’ve thought it all out, and I can stand prison life better than this dodging and hiding from the world, as I should have to do no matter where I might be. Neither Europe nor Canada, supposing I could get there, would free me from myself. I shall go back.”

Here he stopped, struck by something in Elithe’s face he could not mistake and which awoke an answering chord in him. During the weeks of his isolation in his father’s house he had seen Elithe nearly every day. He had watched for her coming, and missed her when she went away. She had read to him in the Smuggler’s room during his convalescence, and once or twice she had sung to him, just as she had sung to Jack Percy in the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch. He had no evil spirits to be exorcised like Jack, but she had soothed and quieted him until he felt his strength returning and knew he owed it largely to her. He had always been interested in her since he first knew her, and, with the exception of Clarice, had liked her better than any girl he had ever met. Now she stood in a different relation to him. She had been with him in all his trouble and had made it her own. She was necessary to him, and as he looked at her it came to him with a pang that to give himself up to the law was to give her up, too. There would be no more waiting for her coming,—no more readings,—no more talks,—no more anything! His heart had ached when he sent his farewell after Clarice, and it ached nearly as hard now as he thought of losing Elithe. Taking her hands, he said: “God only knows all you have been to me. No sister could have done more. Do you think I can forget that night on the sea when you risked your life for me, or what you have been to me since? One of the hardest things in going to prison will be giving you up, but whether I go for life or for a term of years I know you’ll stand by me. You’ll not forget me. You’ll write to me. You’ll come to see me some time.”

“I shall never forget you, wherever you are, whether in prison or at the ends of the earth, and if I can I’ll go to you if you need me,” Elithe answered him.

She was greatly excited, and perhaps her words implied more than she really meant, but they brought to Paul a second time a feeling, half of joy, half of pain, as he began to realize what she might have been to him had he never seen Clarice.

“Elithe,” he said, “Elithe,” in a tone of voice which sent the hot blood in waves of crimson to her face. Then, remembering Clarice and the cell and the convict’s dress, he dropped her hands and only added: “Go now and leave me. I am better alone.”

CHAPTER XLI.
TOM, YOU DID IT!

This was what Elithe said to Tom, sitting in the Baptist Tabernacle just where she sat when he came asking her to help him liberate Paul, and where he now came to tell her of Paul’s fixed determination to go back, as he termed it. No arguments or entreaties had been of any avail to deter him from his purpose. Anything was preferable to the life he was living, he said, and when the court which was to try the firebugs was in session he should give himself up, trusting Providence for the result. From the moment when this was settled Tom appeared like a new man, and his cheery whistle, which had not been heard since Paul’s arrest, sounded in the stables and yard again as he busied himself with his work. The second day after Paul’s decision he put on the coat and hat he had not worn since the Sunday when Jack was shot and started for a walk in the woods. It was late November, and the dead leaves rustled under his feet with a dreary sound which awoke a mournful feeling in his heart.

“It makes me sorry like to think I shan’t be walking here much longer, but I’m going to do it,” he said, just as he saw Elithe sitting in the Tabernacle in the distance.

She did not see him till he was close to her, and then she started as she had done before with a thought that it was Paul.

“It’s his coat and hat, or they were once,” Tom said, “and in ’em I b’lieve I look so much like him that in a fading light I might easily be mistaken for him, if he had been seen and spoken to a few minutes before. I might be shootin’ at some animal, you know,—a rabbit, or woodchuck. Do you see?”

He was looking at Elithe, in whose mind a whirlwind of emotions were contending with wild suspicions, which culminated at last in her springing up and with her finger pointed towards him saying: “Tom you did it!”

Tom answered, “I did,” and listened while she heaped upon him the most scathing scorn for his cowardice and wickedness in letting another suffer in his stead.

“And you would have seen him sent to prison, perhaps to death, and never spoken,” she said, “Oh, Tom, I have thought you so good and true, and all the time you were hiding your own sin. I’m going to town as fast as I can to tell it.”

She was hurrying away when Tom took hold of her arm and made her sit down again.

“You are not going to tell it,” he said. “I claim that privilege myself. I’ve been mean as dirt, but not so bad as you think. Let me tell you how it was.”

Very rapidly he told his story, how, arrayed in Paul’s coat, trousers and hat, he had started for a stroll in the woods as he often did on a Sunday afternoon, taking Paul’s revolver with him in hopes he might find some animal to fire at. He had no idea of Jack’s proximity to him, and when a rabbit ran in that direction he fired at it, as Elithe saw him do. The shot was followed by a groan, telling him he had wounded some one. In his fright he threw the pistol away, but did not know why he did it. His first impulse was to go to the clump of bushes and see who was there. Then he heard Elithe call out that some one was shot, and, like a coward, he skulked behind the trees, hearing the confusion of voices and some one saying, “He is dying.” Thoroughly frightened, he hurried through the woods and across the fields in the direction of Still Haven, seeing no one until he was near New York wharf. Here he met and spoke to two or three, but heard nothing of the disaster. On Highland Avenue he was joined by Paul, coming from the direction of the brick kiln. They walked together until nearly home, when they were told that some one had been shot and carried into Miss Hansford’s cottage. Paul had at once started for the cottage, and he, Tom, had gone on, hearing later that Jack had committed suicide. He had no thought that Paul would be suspected, and when he knew he was he was too much frightened to speak out and say that he did it.

“I tried a hundred times. I swan I did,” he said, as he saw the contempt in Elithe’s face, “but something always gripped my tongue and kept me still. And then I didn’t b’lieve they’d go so far with him,—he was so popular and rich, and when they put him in jail I swore on the Bible that if he was convicted I’d own up, and I meant it, too, though life and liberty is as sweet to me as to him, and because they are so sweet and I hated so to give up everything and be hung or sent to State’s Prison, I contrived a plan to liberate him and get him out of the country, where he’d be safe, and then I needn’t tell.”

“But leave him all his life with that cloud upon him. Oh, Tom, I am disappointed in you, and I thought you so good, standing by Mr. Ralston as you have,” Elithe exclaimed, feeling sorry the next moment for the man who looked so abject and crushed and on whose face drops of sweat were standing, although the day was cold and gusty.

“Infernal mean, I know,” he said, “but I’ve suffered more than he, I do believe. Look how poor I’ve grown, and how baggy my clothes set on me. It’s remorse that did it, and the knowing I must take his place if he didn’t get off. I was as tired of his hidin’ with me and Sherry keepin’ watch as he was. I knew it couldn’t last forever, and I was that glad I could have shouted when he settled it that he would go back. I am happier than I have been since the shootin’.”

“Have you told him?” Elithe asked, and Tom replied: “No, and don’t mean to either till the next trial. You see, it will look better for him and more innocent like to go back, knowing nothing, and then, Lord, won’t there be a sensation when they bring in the defence, and I am called as a witness and spring it on ’em. I can see your aunt’s face now. Wouldn’t wonder if she jumped up and hugged me. She’s great on Mr. Paul.”

He laughed and cried both and Elithe cried, too, with pity for him and joy for Paul, who was virtually free.

“I must tell auntie,” she said. “I shall burst if I have to keep it from every one. She is safe as I am, and then she will not be so excited when she has to testify as she was before.”

Tom laughed as he recalled Miss Hansford’s manner on the stand, but fully appreciated Elithe’s dislike to have it repeated.

“Well, tell the old lady if you wish to,” he said, “and maybe she’ll bring me apple pies and things when I’m in jail instead of him. You’ll come and see me some time?”

Elithe took his hand and said:

“I’ll come, yes,—and so will everybody, and I don’t believe they’ll do anything to you, either, when they know just how it happened. They’ll blame you for keeping still so long,—but giving yourself up voluntarily will wipe that out. I was very angry with you at first. I think you a hero now, so will Mr. Ralston, and he and his father will do everything to save you.”

She pressed his hand warmly, and then hurried home with the news, feeling herself grow stronger with every step and looking so bright and happy when she entered the house that her aunt noticed the change and asked what had happened.

“The man is found,—the man is found,” Elithe replied, curveting around the room and finally dropping into the two-step she had practiced with Paul on the causeway, and whistling an accompaniment.

“Be you crazy? What man is found?” Miss Hansford asked, divining the answer before it came.

“The man who shot Mr. Percy. It was not Paul. I was mistaken. It was Tom. He has told me all about it and is going to give himself up.”

Miss Hansford’s knees, which had played her false so many times of late, weakened as they had never done before, and, although she was sitting down, she straightened out in her chair until the Bible she was reading slipped from her lap to the floor, followed by her spectacles, while her hands followed them and hung beside her. There was a spasmodic movement of her lower jaw and a clicking sound of her teeth as she said: “Tell me what you mean?” Elithe told her all she had heard from Tom, whom Miss Hansford first called a scamp and a scoundrel who deserved hanging and ended by praising and pitying, saying, as Elithe had said, that the Ralstons would do everything to save him and most likely nothing would be done to punish him. The change in Miss Hansford after this was as rapid as it had been in Elithe and manifested itself in a peculiar way. Usually the most particular of housekeepers, she had, since Paul’s arrest, paid but little attention to anything beyond the necessary preparation of meals and clearing them away. Her autumnal house cleaning had been neglected. She didn’t care how much filth she wallowed in, feeling as she did, she said. Now, however, she woke as from a trance, and, declaring her house “dirty as the rot,” went to work with a will to renovate it. Before the sun was up next morning her mattresses and blankets and pillows were out in the November wind; much of her furniture was on the piazza; her carpets were on the line and grass ready to be whipped, and within an hour, with her sleeves rolled up and a towel on her head, she was making a raid on dust and spiders and flies, wondering she didn’t find more and urging on the two Portuguese men outside with the carpets, and the two Portuguese women inside with the cleaning, as they had never been urged before.

The next day was Sunday, and she went to church for almost the first time since Paul’s escape.

“Somebody is sure to ask me if I have any idea where Paul is. Of course I have, and with wrigglin’ and beatin’ round the bush I’ve told so many lies that I’m afraid I’ll never be forgiven, and I don’t want to see people,” she had said to Elithe as an excuse for staying at home.

Now she did not care and she held her head high as she entered the church, and her knees did not bend at all until she went down upon the floor with a silent prayer of fervent thanksgiving for what was coming to Paul and forgiveness for the sins she had committed in trying to shield him and keep his whereabouts a secret. She did not have to do this much longer, for the town was soon electrified by Paul’s walking boldly out before the public and surrendering himself to justice.

“This beats all. Seems as if we had stood about all we can stand,” the people said, as they talked the matter over, growing more excited, if possible, than they had been when Paul was first accused and arrested.

As is natural, many of them said they had known as well as they wanted to know that he was at the Ralston House. Others shook their heads, wondering why Tom Drake hadn’t managed to get him away, and predicting it would go hard with Paul, as giving himself up was a proof that he was guilty. Others took a different view, and thought he had done a magnanimous thing which would tell in his favor, and so the discussion went on, and Miss Hansford’s house was cleaned and her knees recovered their strength and she put a dollar in the contribution box two successive Sundays and did not appear at all disturbed about the coming trial.

CHAPTER XLII.
THE SECOND TRIAL.

The broken bars to the window of the jail had been repaired, and Paul was in his old quarters, to which a part of the furniture carried there before from the Ralston House had been returned. Tom did not show so much anxiety to fit up the room as he had done, nor was he as often there during the short time which elapsed between Paul’s surrender and his trial. His negligence, however, was in a measure made up by Sherry, who regularly every morning trotted through the town to the jail, giving first a loud bark as a greeting and then scratching on the door for admittance, and when that was refused lying down under the window from which Paul occasionally spoke to him. At noon he would go home for his dinner, play a little while with Beauty, the pug, whom Paul had bought in the early summer,—then going to Mrs. Ralston, who was now ill in bed with dread and apprehension, he would look at her with beseeching eyes, as if asking what had happened to take his master away and lick the hand with which she patted his head. This done he would trot back to the jail, bark to let Paul know he was there and stretch himself again under the window, growling if any one came near, as many did come, from curiosity to see the animal growing nearly as famous as Paul himself. At night he went home and staid there, but was back in the morning. Stevens tried two or three times to feed him and save him his long walks, but Sherry disdained the offered fare, preferring the exercise, which was not prolonged for any length of time.

The court was to be in session very soon after Paul’s return to prison, and, if the excitement was great before, it was greater now, with a desire to see again the man who had voluntarily given himself up, and to see Elithe, whose part in his escape had become known and was commented upon differently by different people. Some called her bold,—some plucky,—some that she did it to atone for her damaging testimony, and others that she was in love with Paul, and this had influenced her actions. Through whatever lens she was looked at, she was an object of great interest, and the people were eager to know if she would tell exactly the same story as before, and if Miss Hansford would treat them to a circus similar to the one at the first trial. Neither she nor Elithe shrank from meeting people, and the latter was quite ready to talk of Paul’s escape, keeping her own part in it in the background as much as possible, and dwelling upon Tom’s bravery and devotion. She was doing all she could for him by way of enlisting public opinion in his behalf. He tried to be cheerful and natural, but sometimes failed utterly, and there was a look on his face different from anything seen there before Paul’s second arrest.

“I ain’t going back on my word. I couldn’t, if I wanted to, with you and Miss Hansford both knowing it,” he said to Elithe; “but you can’t guess how homesick I am when I look round on the places I like so well and think how soon I’ll be shut away from them all.”

It was Elithe’s mission to comfort him just as he had comforted and encouraged Paul. The court would be very lenient, she said, and, possibly, take no action at all.

“I don’t know. I’ve been so cowardly mean that I ought to have a few years, any way,” Tom would say, wishing the time would come, and when it did, feeling tempted to drown himself and leave the clearing up to Miss Hansford and Elithe. “I could make my confession and leave it in my room,” he thought, as he busied himself with his usual duties before starting for the Court House.

It was a lovely November morning, warm and bright, with the Indian summer brightness, and as he looked out upon the water, smooth as glass, with white sails here and there and a big steamer passing in the distance, he changed his mind with regard to the confession and drowning.

“No, by jing!” he said; “this world’s too good to leave that way. A few years will soon pass and I know the Ralstons will take me back. I’ll face it. Hello, Sherry! you here? Why ain’t you at the jail?” he continued, as the dog came bounding towards him.

Contrary to his custom, Sherry had not started on his usual walk that morning. Possibly, his instinct told him there was something amiss with Tom, who had some difficulty in shaking him off while he harnessed the horses, which were to take the judge to the Court House. Mrs. Ralston was too ill to go.

“Tell Paul I shall pray for him every moment,” she said to her husband when he left her.

Neither of them now had any hope of an acquittal, and the judge’s face was very sad when he reached the jail, where Paul was waiting for him, dressed in the suit he had worn at the first trial.

“I want you to do me a favor,” Tom said, undoing a bundle he had brought with him. “Wear this coat to-day and vest and trousers. I have a reason for it.”

They were the same Paul had worn on the Sunday when Jack was killed, and, at first, he demurred, as he had an aversion to them. But Tom was so persistent that he yielded, noticing that Tom was wearing the coat he had given him that day and thinking, as they stood together for a moment, how much their clothes were alike in color and fit. He had no idea what Tom meant and wondered why he seemed so excited and unlike himself. He forgot it, however, when he was again in the court room, facing as dense a crowd as had been there nearly two months before. Sherry, who had come with the carriage, was with him, lying at his feet, wagging his tail as if he knew the aspect of matters was changed. Miss Hansford was in her place, straight and prim and even smiling, as she nodded to some of her acquaintances. Elithe was without her veil, with a brightness in her eyes amounting almost to gladness as she sat unmoved by the gaze of the multitude. Paul saw how unconcerned she seemed and marvelled at it just as he had at her changed manner ever since he told her of his fixed intention to give himself up. Didn’t she care, or had she become callous to the proceedings? He felt callous himself and wished it were over and he knew the worst. He would know it soon, and he stood up very readily to plead, “Not guilty!”

There was a new jury and the evidence had to be repeated as far as practicable. Some of the former witnesses could not be found, and those who were said as little as possible and were soon dismissed. Then Miss Hansford was called, and the interest began to increase, but soon flagged, as, without any flings at the prosecuting attorney, or going back to Paul’s boyhood, she told very rapidly all she knew of the matter and then sat down.

Elithe came next, her face flushed and her eyes shining like stars as she took the oath. She was first questioned about the escape, and told the story unhesitatingly, leaving herself out as much as possible and putting Tom to the front. Some thought she brought him in unnecessarily often and volunteered too much information with regard to his fidelity to Paul. They did not know she was working for Tom, who heard her with an occasional thought of the ocean not far away, and how easily it would be to bury himself in it. When Elithe began to speak of the Sunday night when the shooting occurred, there was no hesitancy in her manner and her voice was clear and distinct as she told what she thought she saw. She laid great stress on the rustling sound in the bushes and the firing low of the man she thought was Mr. Ralston.

“Aren’t you sure he was Mr. Ralston?” she was asked.

“I thought so then,” she replied.

“Do you think so now?” was the next question.

“I do not,” she answered, while a thrill of excitement ran through the room, and Paul started from his seat.

Thinking something was amiss, Sherry got up, licked Paul’s hands, shook his sides and lay down again, while the proceedings continued.

It was useless to question Elithe as to her meaning.

“You will know later,” she said, and was dismissed without cross-questioning.

Tom had said to the leading lawyer for the defense, “Don’t ask any questions of anybody. I know something which will knock all they can say into a cocked hat. The man has been found, and when I am on the stand I shall tell who he was. Get me there as quick as you can.”

This communication had circulated rapidly among the lawyers for the defense, who were as anxious for Tom to be sworn as he was himself. Matters had been hurried so fast and with so short a recess that there would be just time for Tom before the day’s session closed, and, when the prosecution was ended, he was called at once. There was a last look at the ocean, with a wonder how deep it was near the shore where the waves were tumbling in. Then he walked forward and stood before the people, a fine specimen of young manhood and as popular in a way as Paul himself. Everybody liked him, even those he had sworn at for maligning Paul, and they were wondering what he had to say. Sherry gave a little bark of welcome, and, getting upon his feet, stood watching Tom, who was very white around his mouth as he went through the preliminaries. Then, clenching his hands tightly together and drawing a long breath, he began:

“You needn’t question me. I am going to tell it right along as it is. I shot Jack Percy! though, God knows, I did not mean to do it. I did not know he was within a mile of me. I thought I was firing at a rabbit, which I saw running through the bushes. You remember Miss Elithe heard the same noise and said I fired low. I was wearing this coat I have on. It’s the one Mr. Paul wore that morning at the hotel when he was knocked down. He got a stain of tobacco juice on it,—here it is; you can see it, if you like,—and he gave it to me when he got home and put on another the same make and almost the same color. He has it on now. I wore the hat he had given me the week before. Here it is,” and he held up his hat, which he had kept in his hand.

No one stirred as he took from his pocket another hat, which he straightened into shape and held by the side of his own.

“This is the one he wore,” he said. “They are alike, and we are alike in height and figure. It is not strange that, having seen him not long before, Miss Elithe should make a mistake. I wonder none of you smart fellers ever thought of that. Look at him.”

He was pointing towards Paul, who had risen to his feet, as had every one in the house. For a few moments there was the greatest confusion and the judge tried in vain to be heard. Everybody talked at once. Tom crossed over to Paul, put the crushed hat on his head, the other on his own, and stood beside him to emphasize the resemblance. Miss Hansford gesticulated frantically, while Sherry barked to show his appreciation of what was going on. Only Elithe sat still, too happy to speak or move.

Order was at last restored. The people resumed their seats and, amid a silence so profound that the dropping of a pin might almost have been heard, Tom told his story, leaving no doubt in the mind of any one that he was telling the truth. His cowardice, which increased as matters grew more complicated, was dwelt upon at length. The particulars of Paul’s escape narrated; his vow on the Bible to give himself up if Paul were convicted; his telling Elithe what he meant to do, and his sorrow that he had not done it in the first instance.

When his story was finished Miss Hansford’s “Glory to God” was lost amid the deafening hurrahs for Tom. With an imperative gesture of both hands he stopped the din and said, “Paul Ralston is innocent. I am the man, so help me Heaven; but I had no intention to kill. I am an infernal sneak and coward and liar,—that’s all,—and enough, too. Arrest me as soon as you please. Handcuff me, if you want to. I deserve it and more.”

“Never, never! we protest,” came like a hoarse roar from a hundred throats, mingled with a savage growl from Sherry, who had gone over to Tom, by whom he stood protestingly, as if knowing he was the one now needing sympathy.

With the “Never! we protest,” a movement was made to close around Tom and screen him from harm, had any been intended. But there was none. He was as free to leave the house as Paul was himself, after a form was gone through by judge and jury, and a verdict of “Not guilty!” returned. Then for a time pandemonium reigned. Had there been a cry of fire the confusion could not have been greater, as those in the rear of the building struggled to get to the front, while those in the front kept them back. They did not trample each other down, but they crowded the aisles until it was impossible to move, and walked over the seats in their eager haste to get to Paul and Tom, whose hands were grasped and shaken until Tom put his behind him, but stood erect, with Sherry beside him. When the “Not guilty!” was pronounced Judge Ralston got up slowly, groping as if he could not see, and saying to those beside him, “Lead me to the door.”

They thought he meant to say, “Lead me to Paul,” and started that way.

“No, no; to the door,” he said. “His mother must know it at once!”

They took him to the door, where some men and boys were standing, who had not been able to get into the house.

“Somebody,—who can drive—my horses—go as fast as they can—and tell Mrs. Ralston Paul is free!” he said.

In an instant a great scramble ensued among the boys, each contending for the honor of driving the spirited blacks. Max Allen had heard the request, and so had the prosecuting attorney, and both entered the carriage together, with a feeling that they had a right to carry the good tidings to the mother, whose every breath that long day had been a prayer for her son, and for strength to bear the worst if it came. With an exclamation of delight, the housemaid, who first received the news, rushed to her mistress’ room.

“Joy, joy! He’s free! He will be home to-night!” she cried, with the result that Mrs. Ralston fainted.

Meanwhile, at the Court House, the wildest excitement still prevailed. Paul was congratulated and shaken up and whirled round until he nearly lost his senses. A few of his young friends from Boston, who, unknown to him, had come from the city that morning, fought their way till they reached him, and, taking him up, carried him into the open air, which he sadly needed.

“We mean to carry you home if you will let us,” they said, keeping their arms around him.

“No, boys, don’t. Please put me down. Kindness and happiness sometimes kill, you know. Where’s father?” Paul said.

They put him down and brought the judge to him, turning their heads away from the meeting between the father and son. Paul was the more composed of the two because the more benumbed and bewildered.

“Paul, Paul,—my little boy. I’m glad to get you back. You’ve been away so long, and your mother is ill,” the judge said, talking as if Paul were a child again just coming home after a long absence.

It was growing dark as the people surged out from the court house, judge and jury, lawyers and witnesses, leaving Tom alone with Sherry.

“What am I to do? Arn’t previously you going to arrest me?” he called after them, and some one answered back: “Not by a jug full! Come along with us.”

Not at all certain as to what might happen to him, Tom went out and joined Paul, whom many hands were helping into the carriage, which had returned. Everybody wanted to do something for him, and when there was nothing they could do they sent up a shout which made the horses rear upon their hind feet and then plunge forward down the avenue, followed by cheer after cheer, in which Sherry’s bark could be plainly heard as he dashed after the horses, jumping first at their heads, then at Tom, who was driving them, and then at the window from which Paul was leaning to catch sight of the familiar places they were passing and the landmarks which told him he was near home and his mother. No one was present when Mrs. Ralston received her boy as if he had come back to her from the dead, crying over him until too much exhausted to speak or move.

Judge Ralston would have liked to have that evening in quiet with his wife and son, but the people did not will it so. They had done great injustice to Paul, and they could not wait before trying to make some amends. All the available material for a celebration in Oak City and Still Haven was collected;—bonfires were kindled in different parts of the island. The Ralston House was ablaze with light, from the Smuggler’s room in the basement to the look-out on the roof, from which rockets and Roman candles went hissing into the sky, and were seen on the mainland and by fishing boats far out to sea. Tom had but little to do with it all.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m tuckered out, and feel as if the sand was all taken from me. Go ahead and let me rest.”

They left him to himself, sitting on a box near the stable and looking on, while Max Allen and Seth Walker superintended the fireworks and attended to things generally. Paul was with his mother holding her hand and occasionally kissing her in response to some look in her eyes. No one intruded upon them that night, but the next day hundreds came to congratulate Paul and say a kind word to Tom, assuring him that not a word had been suggested of an arrest, or anything like it.

“We’ve had enough such work to stand us a lifetime, and we don’t want any more,” they said, while Max declared he should resign his office before he would touch Tom.

That day Mrs. Ralston received a short letter from Clarice, who was in New York with her mother and expected to sail for Liverpool the following day. The family, who had occupied their house during the summer, wished to rent it for a year or more, she wrote, and she had decided to go abroad, as both her mother and herself needed an entire change after the sad and exciting scenes through which they had passed. They were to stop a short time in England as guests of Mr. Fenner,—then cross to the Continent and spend the winter in Rome or Naples.

“I have heard of Paul’s giving himself up,” she wrote in conclusion. “It was wise, perhaps, to do so, and I am sure they will be more lenient on account of it. I am so sorry for him. Please tell him so. The past seems to me like a dreadful dream from which I am not yet fully awake. With love,

CLARICE.”

Mrs. Ralston handed this letter to Paul, who read it with scarcely any emotion except to smile when she spoke of visiting Mr. Fenner. Incidentally he had heard that the old earl and young earl were dead and only Ralph’s bachelor brother stood between him and the title. He was an invalid, and who could tell what possibilities were in store for Clarice? “Lady Fenner would not sound badly, and she would fill the bill well,” Paul thought, as he passed the letter back to his mother. It was all over between him and Clarice. He had known that for some time, and could think of her now without a pang, except as the heart always responds with a quick throb to the memory of one loved and lost.

That day was a hard one for Paul, but, exhilarated with his freedom and innocence proved, he kept up bravely, seeing all who called and declaring himself perfectly well. The next day, however, the reaction came. Nature was clamoring for pay, and she took it with interest, reducing Paul so low that for weeks he never left his room, and when he began to recover, his physician recommended that he be taken away from a place where he had suffered so much. Boston was not to be thought of. He must go farther than that, and about the middle of January the Ralston House was closed, and the family started for Southern California. Tom went with them as Paul’s attendant, and as he stepped on board the boat he looked anxiously round, thinking to himself, “If I am to be arrested it will be now when they know I am leaving.”

But he was not arrested then or ever. People had said they supposed something ought to be done, but no one was willing to do it. They were tired out with the excitement they had gone through, and were not disposed to have another, which could only end in Tom’s acquittal. It was an accident anyway, and no blame could attach to Tom, except allowing the guilt to fall upon Paul. If the Ralstons could forgive him, they could. The Ralstons had forgiven him, and thought more of him than ever, so they let the matter drop.

“Hanging by the ears,” Tom said, feeling always a little uncertain as to what might befall him yet.

But when the boat moved from the shore and no effort was made to detain him he gave his fears to the winds and felt that he was safe.

CHAPTER XLIII.
AFTER EIGHTEEN MONTHS.

Mr. and Mrs. Paul Ralston, maid and valet, were staying at the Grand Hotel in Paris and making occasional trips to Versailles, St. Germain, Vincennes and Fontainebleau. They had just returned from the latter place, where they had spent a few days. Mrs. Paul was in her room dressing for dinner, while her husband went to Munroe’s for any letters which might have come from home during his absence.

“I think I will wear my new dress to-night,” the lady said to her maid, and by her voice we recognize Elithe, whom we saw last in the crowded court room in Oak City testifying against Paul.

She was his wife now, and had been for two months of perfect happiness. The marriage had followed in the natural sequence of events. Paul had gained strength and vitality rapidly in California, but there was something lacking to a perfect cure. He missed the girl who had stood by him so bravely when his sky was blackest, and who, he knew now, had always been more to him than he supposed. He had loved Clarice devotedly, but that love was dead, and another and better had taken its place. Every incident connected with his acquaintance with Elithe he lived over and over again, seeing her as she was on the boat, forlorn and crumpled and homesick,—seeing her in the little white room when she came back to life and spoke to him,—seeing her in the water where she went but once,—and in the tennis court and on the causeway, and on the wild sea, when the lightning showed him her face and she lay in his arms like a frightened child,—seeing her in the court house in an agony of remorse because she had to swear against him,—but seeing her oftener in the Smuggler’s room, where her presence was like sunshine and her voice the sweetest he had ever heard.

Clarice was only a sad memory now, his love for her blotted out by the black shadows which had come between them. He did not know where she was, nor particularly care. Her movements were nothing to him. He wanted to see Elithe, and when in the spring his parents spoke of returning home he suggested that they go up the coast to Portland and Tacoma and across the country by way of Spokane and Helena, stopping at Samona, where Elithe now was. Miss Hansford, who wrote occasionally to his mother, had said her niece was going home in April and she was going with her. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ralston understood Paul’s wish to stop at Samona, and as they would have gone to the ends of the earth to please him, they readily assented to his suggestion, and a letter was forwarded to Miss Hansford asking what accommodations could be found for them. The whole of the second floor at The Samona, where Jack had once been a guest, was engaged, and Miss Hansford took it upon herself to see that it was in perfect order, insisting upon so much new furniture that the landlord came to an open battle with her, telling her he should be ruined with all he was paying out and the small price he charged for board.

“Charge more then. They are able to pay. You never had real quality before,” Miss Hansford said to him.

“I had Mr. Pennington,” the landlord replied, and with a snort Miss Hansford rejoined: “Mr. Pennington! I hope you don’t class him with the Ralstons. He can’t hold a candle to ’em. I know the Percy blood.”

Here she stopped, remembering that Jack was in his grave, and that his memory was held sacred in Samona and among the miners, whose camp she had visited several times with Elithe and Rob. But she carried her point with regard to refurnishing. The room Jack had occupied was to be turned into a salon, where the family were to have their meals served. Hair mattresses were to be bought for the beds. There was to be drapery at the windows in place of the paper curtains,—rugs for the floor, and four towels a day each for Mr. and Mrs. Ralston, and Paul, Tom and the maid could get along with two each. The landlord looked aghast. One towel a day was as much as he ever furnished, except to Mr. Pennington, who insisted upon two, and he thought the Ralstons must be a dirty lot. Twelve towels for three people, and two apiece for their help, making sixteen in all.

“There ain’t enough in the tavern to hold out. I’ll have to get more,” he said.

“Get ’em, then,” Miss Hansford replied, and he got them.

The saloon, as he called it, was an innovation of which he had never dreamed, and unmistakable airs for which the Ralstons would have to pay “right smart.”

“They’ll do it,” Miss Hansford assured him, suggesting a price which staggered the landlord more than the saloon had done. “Good land,” Miss Hansford said, “that’s nothing for folks who are used to paying four, five and six dollars a day apiece, besides extra for a parlor. Don’t you worry, but do your best.”

He did his best, and it was so very good that when the Ralstons arrived they were more than delighted with their quarters and made no objection to the price, which the landlord gave them with many misgivings, fortifying himself by saying, “That Massachusetts woman told me you’d pay it, and I’ve been to a great deal of expense and trouble.”

“Certainly, we’ll pay it, and more, if you say so,” Mr. Ralston replied, complimenting everything and in a few days quite superceding Jack in the estimation of his host and hostess.

Both Paul and Tom were objects of intense interest,—one because he killed Jack, the other because he didn’t. The miners, came in a body to see them, taking the most to Tom, who assimilated with them at once and spent half his time in the camp. Paul did not need him. He was perfectly well, and while enjoying the wild scenery and the life so different from that he had known was never long away from Elithe. On her pony which the miners had given her she rode with him through the woods and gorges and over the hills, until one day, when they had explored the cañon farther than usual and sat down to rest under the shadow of a huge boulder, while their horses browsed near them, Paul asked her to be his wife. He drew no comparison between his love for her and that he had felt for Clarice. He said: “I love you, Elithe. I think my interest in you began the first time I saw you on the boat. Of all that has happened since I cannot speak. I have buried it, and do not wish to open the grave lest the ghost of what I buried should haunt me again. I do not mean Clarice. I am willing to talk of her. I loved her, but she is only a memory of what might have been, and what I am very glad was not allowed to be. I want you. Will you take me?”

There was no coquetry in Elithe’s nature, and when she lifted her face to Paul and he looked into her eyes he knew his answer and hurried back to town to present her to his parents as their future daughter. He wanted to take her with him when they left Samona, as they thought of doing soon, but this could not be. The mother, whom Miss Hansford had denounced as weak and shiftless, was weaklier than ever and Elithe would not leave her.

“If you stay I shall stay, too,” Paul said. “I am in no hurry to go back where I suffered so much.”

His wish was a law to his father and mother. There was nothing to call them East. The mountain air suited Mrs. Ralston, who was growing robust every day and to whom the scenery and the people were constant sources of enjoyment. An Englishman, who was going home for a year, offered his house, the newest and best in Samona, to Mr. Ralston, who took it at once.

“If you all stay, I shall,” Miss Hansford said, and it was a very merry party the Ralstons and Hansfords made that summer, their only drawback Mrs. Hansford’s failing health.

It was of no use for Miss Phebe to tell her to put on the mind cure and brace up.

“I can’t brace up, and I haven’t much mind to put on,” she answered with a smile.

“That’s so,” Miss Hansford thought. “The Potters never had any mind to spare.”

But she was very kind to the invalid, and as she grew thinner and paler and finally kept her bed altogether the Potter blood was forgotten, and it was Roger’s wife whom she nursed so tenderly and to whom she gave her promise to care for Roger and the boys. All through the summer and autumn Lucy lingered, but when the winter’s snows were piled upon the ground and the cold wind swept down the deep gorges she died, and they buried her on a knoll behind the church where the light from the chancel window erected for her husband could fall upon her grave. Then Miss Hansford took matters into her own hand. The whole family should go East with her in the spring. There was a vacancy in St. Luke’s parish. She would apply for the place for Roger and give something herself towards his salary. He could stay with her a while. She wasn’t overfond of boys, but she could stand Roger’s a spell. She called them little bears to herself, but had a genuine liking for them, especially for Rob, who knew how to manage her. He was to go to college and be a minister,—Methodist, she hoped. Thede, who was always drawing pictures and had made a very fair one of her with her far-see-ers on the end of her nose, and her shoulders squared as they usually were when she was giving him what he called “Hail Columbia,” was to be an artist. George was to be a lawyer, though she didn’t think much of that craft after her experience with them, while Artie,—well, she didn’t know what he’d be. He only cared for horses. Maybe he’d keep a livery stable, or be a circus rider. Artie decided for the latter, which Miss Hansford took as an indication that the Potter blood, as represented by the actress, predominated in Artie’s veins. Elithe’s marriage must take place in Oak City, and if they wanted a splurge such as Clarice was to have had, they should have it, and a bigger one, too. She could afford it better than Mrs. Percy, and it would give her a chance to wear her gray silk, the making of which had cost so much and which was lying useless in her bureau drawer.

“Not for the world will we be married in Oak City,” both Paul and Elithe said, when the proposition was made to them.

They would be married quietly in Samona, among Elithe’s people and the miners, the latter of whom had lamented loudly when they heard they were to lose their rector, who had shared their joys and sorrows and been to them like a brother.

“But if we must, we must, and we won’t whimper like children, but give him a good send-off,” they said.

They kept their word, and came to the wedding, a hundred or more, with a lump of gold valued at $200, for the bride, and another of equal value for Roger. At the station they screamed themselves hoarse with their good-byes, and when the train was gone, sat down upon the platform and wondered what they should do without the parson and what he would do without them, and if that Massachusetts Temperance Society, as they called Miss Hansford, who had several times lectured them for drinking, wouldn’t make it lively for Roger and the kids.

This was in April, and early in May Paul and Elithe sailed for Europe, going directly to Paris, where they staid week after week until it was now the last of June, and they were still occupying their handsome suite of rooms at the Grand Hotel, with Tom and a French maid in attendance. Elithe was delighted with everything in Paris, and it seemed to Paul that she grew lovelier every day. Possibly dress had something to do with this. Her mother had made a request that she should not wear black, and Elithe had respected the request, but avoided whatever was gay and conspicuous. Paul would like to have heaped upon her everything he saw in the show windows, but her good sense kept him in check, while her good taste, aided by the best modistes in Paris, made her one of the most becomingly dressed ladies at the table d’hôte, where so much fashion was displayed. Doucet’s last effort, though plain, was a great success, and never had Elithe been more beautiful than when she was waiting for Paul’s return from Munroe’s and wondering if he would bring any letters. He had found several, one of which made him for a time forget all the rest.

It was from Clarice, mailed at Rome and directed to Boston, and covered with postmarks, having crossed the ocean twice in quest of him and finding him at last in Paris with his bride, of whose existence Clarice had no knowledge. If she had ever thought to secure Ralph Fenner she had failed. After supposing her married to Paul, he had heard with surprise that the marriage was given up and why, and that Mrs. Percy and Clarice were coming to London. Wishing to return some of their attentions to him when he was in America, he had invited them to Elm Park, his brother’s residence and for the time being his home. Everything which could be done to make their stay agreeable was done. Clarice was so much pleased with life, as she saw it in a first-class English home, and the people she met there, that she would most likely have accepted Ralph had he offered himself to her and taken the chance of his brother’s keeping them at Elm Park. But Ralph was too wise to do that. He admired Clarice, and was very attentive to her, but could not afford to marry her, and she left England a disappointed woman. As she had but few correspondents and was constantly moving from place to place, she did not hear of Paul’s acquittal until she reached Florence, some time in February. There she found a letter from a friend in Washington and a paper containing full particulars of the second trial and acquittal and the attention heaped upon Paul by way of atonement for the injustice done him. He was in Southern California with his father and mother, the paper said, adding that the family talked of going to Japan and from there home through Europe the following summer. Now that she knew Paul was innocent of killing her brother, the disgrace of his having been tried for it did not seem an insurmountable obstacle to an alliance with him, and as time went on she found herself longing for a reestablishment of their old relations and wishing he would write to her. That he would do so eventually she had no doubt. Men like him never love but once, she reasoned, and he had loved her, and by and by he would write to her, or she would meet him somewhere in Europe on his way from Japan. But he did not write, nor did she meet him, nor see his name in the American Register, or on the books of any hotel where she stopped, and she began to long more and more for some news of him and to think she had never loved him as much as she did now, when he might be lost to her. Their stay abroad was prolonged into the second year, and she heard nothing of him except that he was still in California, and that the Ralston House in Oak City and the Boston house on Commonwealth Avenue were closed. At last, when she could bear it no longer, she wrote him a letter, which, had he loved her still, would have thrilled him with ecstasy. But between the past and present there was a gulf in which he had buried all she ever had been to him so deep that it could not be resurrected had there been no Elithe.

“Poor Clarice. I hope she will never know I received this,” he said, tearing the letter in strips and burning them with a lighted match over the cuspidor.

Then he went back to Elithe and thought how glad he was that she was there with him instead of Clarice. The salle-a-manger was nearly full when he entered it, and, taking his usual seat at the table near the centre of the room, noticed that two chairs opposite him were vacant. Remembering that the parties who had been sitting there when he went to Fontainebleau had told him they were to leave that day, he thought no more about it, and paid no attention when the waiter seated two ladies there until an exclamation from Elithe made him look up to meet the eyes of Mrs. Percy and Clarice. They had come that afternoon on the same train with Paul and Elithe, but in their second-class compartment had known nothing of the first-class passengers. They had spent a great deal of money and their funds were growing so alarmingly small that economy had become a necessity. Mrs. Percy had suggested going at once to a pension, but Clarice objected. They would be registered at the Grand and then go where they liked, if necessary. Paul would certainly write soon. There might be a letter from him now at Munroe’s, where she had told him to direct, or possibly he was on his way to her, and then farewell to second-class cars, cheap pensions and the poky little rooms au cinquiene, in one of which she found herself at the Grand Hotel. She was hot and tired and decided not to change her dress for table d’hôte.

“I don’t suppose there’s a soul here we know,” she said, as she bathed her face and brushed her hair and then started for the dining salon.

At first she paid no attention to those around her and was studying the menu when Elithe’s exclamation made her look up.

“Paul!” she exclaimed, half rising from her chair, “Paul, I am so glad.”

The sight of Elithe closed her lips and sent the blood to her face until it was scarlet with surprise and pain. It did not need Paul’s words, “My wife,—Mrs. Ralston,” to tell her the truth, and the smile with which she greeted Mrs. Ralston was pitiful in the extreme. Elithe, whom she had thought infinitely beneath her, was Paul’s wife and looking so beautiful, while she sat there dowdy and soiled and so wretched that to shriek aloud would have been a relief. But the proprieties must be maintained, and she tried to seem natural, talking a great deal and laughing a great deal, but never deceiving Paul. He knew her well, and was sorry for her. When dinner was over he asked her and her mother to go with him to their salon, but Clarice declined. She was very tired, she said, and her head was aching badly. Throwing herself upon her bed when she reached her room, she wished herself dead and wondered what chance had sent her there and how Paul could have turned from her to Elithe.

“If I had written earlier and he had received my letter in time he would have come to me,” she thought.

There was some comfort in that and in the belief that she still had power to move him. She had reason to change her mind within a few days. Yielding to Paul’s and Elithe’s solicitations, she and her mother went with them to the opera, the Bois, the Luxembourg,—to Bignon’s and St. Germain,—Paul always insisting upon paying the bills and saying: “You know you are my guests.”

Once, as they were standing alone on the Terrace at St. Germain Clarice said to him, “Paul, I must tell you how sorry I am for the course I took in your trouble. I ought to have known you were innocent. At first, I did think so, but the testimony was so strong that I could not help believing it was an accident and I wondered you did not say so. Still, I might have done differently,—might have shown you what I really felt. I was not as heartless as I seemed and I was so glad when I heard of your acquittal, and how the people lionized you. We were in Florence when the news reached us, and I was foolish enough to hope you would write to me, although I didn’t deserve it. At last I wrote to you. I suppose you never received my letter. I hope you never will, for I said some foolish things in it. If you do get it, I am sure you will tear it up unread.”

He could not tell her he had received the letter. That would have been too cruel, and he said, “I think you can trust me, Clarice. I shall always be your friend. I have no hard feelings against you. How can I have when I am so very, very happy?”

He was looking in the direction of Elithe, with an expression which told Clarice that she no longer held a place in his affection, and the pallor on her face deepened as she realized all she had lost. A few days later the Ralstons left for Switzerland and the Percys crossed the channel to England, where they were to spend a week and then sail for America. Clarice was very tired of foreign travel and her mother was glad to go home. Their house in Washington had been re-rented for a second year and the question arose as to where they should live in the interim.

“There’s our cottage in Oak City. We can go there if you think you can endure it,” Mrs. Percy suggested.

For a moment Clarice made no reply. The loss of Paul had hurt her cruelly, but she was too proud to let any one know that she cared. She would go there and show them she did not need their pity, she said, and, towards the last of August, the Percy cottage was again opened and made ready for Clarice and her mother.

CHAPTER XLIV.
LAST GLIMPSE OF OAK CITY.

There was much surprise when it was known that Mrs. Percy and Clarice were again in their cottage, and many remarks were made as to the probable state of Clarice’s feelings, and much wonder expressed at her changed demeanor. She had studied her role and decided to make herself popular. She was affable to every one. She went at once to call upon Mrs. Ralston to tell her about Paul, appearing as natural when she talked of him as if he had never been more than an ordinary acquaintance. From the Ralston House she went to see Miss Hansford to tell her of Elithe, and how much she was admired in the American colony, and was so gracious and sweet that Miss Hansford concluded she must have met with a change and thought she would find out. Referring to the camp-meeting, which had been unusually interesting, she spoke of some young people whom Clarice knew and who, she said, had come forward and were enjoying religion.

“I wish you were of the number. Maybe you are,” she added.

Clarice laughed and replied, “I hope I always enjoyed it in a measure.”

“Pretty small measure, if I am any judge,” was Miss Hansford’s mental comment.

She was, however, very sociable, and gave Clarice a glass of root beer and introduced her to Roger when he came in from a long walk across the fields, where he had been to visit a sick family. Clarice had not expected much of a poor missionary from Samona, and was surprised to find him so courteous and gentlemanly. He was very glad to meet her, for she could tell him of his daughter, and, for a full half hour, she sat answering his questions and asking some of her own concerning Jack, to whom he had been so kind. Evidently, the two were much pleased with each other, and before Clarice had left she had promised to attend a sewing society to be held in the church parlors for the purpose of working on cassocks for the surpliced choir the rector was training.

Up to this point Miss Hansford had joined in the conversation, but, at the mention of cassocks, she left the room hurriedly, banging the door hard, and did not return to say good-bye to Clarice. She was very proud of Roger and he was very popular, as a new rector, earnest in his work, good-looking, fairly young and unmarried, is apt to be. He had entered heart and soul into his work and in an atmosphere more congenial than that of Samona was expanding and developing in more ways than one. All this pleased Miss Hansford, who gave liberally for the maintenance of the church, and went occasionally to hear him preach, until he began to intone the services, when she quit, saying she couldn’t stand that whang-tang, and she didn’t believe the Lord could, either. At the cassocks, which she at first called hassocks she rebelled more hotly than at the whang-tang, and gave Roger many a sharp lecture, but never made the slightest impression upon him. He laughed at her good-humoredly and told her she was behind the times, and conducted his services in his own way. Once she thought of suggesting to him to find another boarding place, not on account of his ritualistic proclivities, but on account of his four boys, who nearly drove her wild.

They had very early made the acquaintance of Sherry, who had been left at the Ralston House, and who spent the greater part of every day at the cottage. They picked up two stray cats and brought them home, to the infinite disgust of Jim, growing old and fat, and jealous of intruders. They had a wheel and a kite and stilts. They played ball and croquet on her grounds; they chewed gum, and left little balls of it everywhere. They raced through the house, with Sherry after them. They brought all the boys in the neighborhood to play with them and the place resounded with the merry shouts from morning till night. With all this, they were lovable boys, with bright, handsome faces and pleasing manners, and Miss Hansford doted upon them and, knowing she would be very lonely without them, decided finally to keep them and “stand the racket.” It was something to have so good a man as Roger under her roof and she was very happy until Clarice came as a disturbing element.

From his first introduction to her Roger became interested. He knew her history and, because he knew it, he was very kind to her. He could read the human heart better than his aunt, and he felt sure that in Clarice’s there was a pain she was trying to hide, and he was sorry for her. He did not know how much the interest she began at once to manifest in church matters was feigned, nor how much real. Nor did he care. If she were willing to help, he was very willing to have her, and, knowing it would divert her mind, he put upon her a good deal of work, which she accepted cheerfully. This threw them together a good deal, and before winter was half over people began to gossip. When this reached Miss Hansford she gave Roger a rather unpleasant half hour, and the next day wrote a long letter to Elithe, telling her to come home and see to her father, who was making a fool of himself in more ways than one.

“He’s got a vested choir of girls and boys,—thirty of ’em,” she wrote, “gathered from all over town. Seems as if folks were crazy. They want the training for their children, they say. Training! I should say it was general training; the way they march down one aisle and up another. Your brother Rob leads the van with a big cross. They call him something which sounds like an aconite. ’Tain’t that, of course, but I’m so disgusted I won’t ask any questions. Artie is in it, and you know he can’t sing a note. But he is small and pretty and makes his mouth go, and that pleases the people. They have candles on the altar in broad daylight. Symbols Roger calls them, and tries to convince me it is all right. Maybe it is, but it looks to me like a show. Give me a good, plain meeting, I say, with now and then an Amen that is an Amen, without a broad a in it. Candles and cottas and cassocks ain’t all. I could stand them if I wan’t afraid your father had a notion after——. You’ll never guess who in the world, so I may as well tell you and done with it. Clarice! Did you ever! You know they are staying here all winter, and as there ain’t any carousin’ or dancing going on, she’s turned religious, and really does seem different. The way she teeters round Roger makes me sick. She plays the organ,—helps him train the children,—and he goes home with her from rehearsal. She teaches in Sunday school, too. No more fit to teach than a cat. Artie is in her class and says she tells them stories mostly, which he likes, of course. I’ve given Roger my opinion, and he laughed me in my face, told me I needn’t worry and asked if I s’posed he could ever forget Lucy. Lucy, indeed! I don’t think she stands much chance with Clarice Percy purrin’ round. I b’lieve she thinks Roger is to be my heir, but she’s mistaken. I’ve made my will and left everything to the boys. Bless their hearts! I never thought much of boys, but I could not live without these four, and can hardly live with them. Such a noise as they make, with balls and kites and dogs and cats. There’s two here now, besides Jim, and I expect they’ll bring a litter of kittens they have found somewhere in the woods. They have wonderful stomachs and are always wanting something to eat, and a pie is nothing to them. I make one every day,—sometimes two. Everybody likes Roger, and he seems to be more like a son than nephew, if he is cracked on ritualism, but I’ll never take in Clarice,—never!”

When Elithe, who was in Rome, read this letter she cried out loud and Paul laughed louder than she cried.

“Clarice, your stepmother! My stepmother-in-law! that would be rich,” he said.

Then, when he saw how really distressed Elithe was, he tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted.

“Oh, Paul,” she sobbed, “we must go home and stop it!”

“Stop what?” he asked. “The vested choir?”

“No-o,” Elithe replied.

“Do you want to blow out the candles?”

“No. I don’t care if they have a hundred!”

“Well, do you want to stop Rob from being an aconite?”

“No-o. You know better. It’s,—oh, Paul! I don’t want father to marry Clarice! It would be so ridiculous!”

“That’s it, is it?” Paul said, beginning to laugh again. “Don’t be alarmed,” he continued, “Clarice must amuse herself some way, and just now it suits her to help your father run the church. But she will never marry him. Don’t let that trouble you. We hav’n’t half done Europe yet. Next summer will be time enough to go home, and I doubt if we find Clarice there.”

Paul was right in his conclusions. One winter, with nothing more exciting than helping run a church was enough for Clarice, and as early in the spring as they could get their house she and her mother returned to Washington and a more congenial atmosphere. When last heard from, a millionaire, old enough to be her father, was in constant attendance upon her, and rumor said, with more truth than it frequently does, that she was soon to be mistress of his handsome home on Massachusetts Avenue.

For more than a year Paul and Elithe staid in Europe, accompanied by Tom, whose devotion to them knew no bounds. He did not, however, take kindly to foreign customs and foreign languages, and was glad when at last, on a bright day in July, the boat which had taken him from Oak City drew up to the wharf, where as great a crowd was assembled to meet the returning party as had been there when Paul came home with Clarice. Elithe was with him now, radiant with happiness, as she stepped ashore and was surrounded by her father and brothers and aunt and Mr. and Mrs. Ralston, all talking at once to her and then to Paul and then to Tom, who had never been so happy in his life. Max Allen was there, not in the capacity of constable. He had resigned that office, and during Tom’s absence had been Mr. Ralston’s coachman.

“Hello, Tom,” he said, with a hearty hand grasp. “Here’s the hosses and the kerridge. I’ve been mighty proud to drive ’em, but I give ’em up to you, or would you rather walk this once?”

Tom preferred to walk, and followed the carriage to the house, where the more intimate friends of the family were waiting to receive them. That was a very happy summer for all the parties concerned. The Ralston House was filled with guests. The Smuggler’s room was thrown open to the air and the light of heaven. From the look-out on the roof a flag was always floating as a welcome to the coming guests and a farewell to the parting. Paul was more popular than ever and an object of so much attention from his friends and curiosity to the strangers in the place that he was glad when the season was over, and they returned to their home in Boston, where they were to pass the winter.

The story of the tragedy is still told in Oak City, the place pointed out where Jack was shot and Tom pointed out as the man who shot him. The window from which Paul escaped and the cell where he was confined is visited by the curious ones, fond of the marvelous. Miss Hansford pursues the even tenor of her way, scolding and petting and spoiling the boys, glad that she has nothing to fear from Clarice and watching vigilantly every marriageable woman who is polite to Roger. If not reconciled to his candles and cassocks and cottas and intoning, she holds her peace, satisfied that he is a good man. Her bones still do their duty, and she has had a chance to wear her gray silk gown to a reception at the Ralston House, where she helped receive the guests and was reported in the papers. Paul and Elithe are very happy, although the memory of the terrible days which he passed in prison and in hiding sometimes casts a shadow over Paul and makes him very sad. But when he looks at Elithe he says: “Only for that she would not have been my wife, and so I thank God for it!”

THE END.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page | Changed from | Changed to
142 | The next time Paul came he staid longed than usual,—complimented | The next time Paul came he staid longer than usual,—complimented
246 | Paul’s cherry “How are you, Max?” | Paul’s cheery “How are you, Max?”
263 | not belief he intended to kill Jack Percy, and she wondered | not believe he intended to kill Jack Percy, and she wondered
342 | here there. Don’t you remember? And you are home. | her there. Don’t you remember? And you are home.

- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

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Table of Contents

- PAUL RALSTON. A Novel.

- CONTENTS.

- CHAPTER I. MISS PHEBE HANSFORD.

- CHAPTER II. PAUL RALSTON.

- CHAPTER III. PAUL’S NEWS.

- CHAPTER IV. THE PERCYS.

- CHAPTER V. CLARICE.

- CHAPTER VI. ELITHE’S PHOTOGRAPH.

- CHAPTER VII. IN SAMONA.

- CHAPTER VIII. THE STRANGER AT DEEP GULCH.

- CHAPTER IX. AT “THE SAMONA.”

- CHAPTER X. MISS HANSFORD’S LETTER.

- CHAPTER XI. GETTING READY FOR OAK CITY.

- CHAPTER XII. ON THE ROAD.

- CHAPTER XIII. ON THE BOAT.

- CHAPTER XIV. IN OAK CITY.

- CHAPTER XV. MISS HANSFORD AND ELITHE.

- CHAPTER XVI. THE DAYS WHICH FOLLOWED.

- CHAPTER XVII. GETTING ACQUAINTED.

- CHAPTER XVIII. ELITHE AND CLARICE.

- CHAPTER XIX. MISS HANSFORD IN BOSTON.

- CHAPTER XX. AT THE TENNIS COURT.

- CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FROM JACK.

- CHAPTER XXII. THE WALTZ.

- CHAPTER XXIII. PREPARATIONS.

- CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHADOW BEGINS TO FALL.

- CHAPTER XXV. THE SHADOW DEEPENS.

- CHAPTER XXVI. THE TRAGEDY.

- CHAPTER XXVII. ELITHE AND JACK PERCY.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. POOR JACK.

- CHAPTER XXIX. ELITHE’S INTERVIEW WITH CLARICE.

- CHAPTER XXX. THE FUNERAL.

- CHAPTER XXXI. THE ARREST.

- CHAPTER XXXII. IN PRISON.

- CHAPTER XXXIII. OUTSIDE THE PRISON.

- CHAPTER XXXIV. READY FOR THE TRIAL.

- CHAPTER XXXV. THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL.

- CHAPTER XXXVI. THE SECOND DAY OF THE TRIAL.

- CHAPTER XXXVII. FREE.

- CHAPTER XXXVIII. EXCITEMENT.

- CHAPTER XXXIX. WHERE HE WAS.

- CHAPTER XL. FAREWELL.

- CHAPTER XLI. TOM, YOU DID IT!

- CHAPTER XLII. THE SECOND TRIAL.

- CHAPTER XLIII. AFTER EIGHTEEN MONTHS.

- CHAPTER XLIV. LAST GLIMPSE OF OAK CITY.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE