The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 29, 1898, Page 24

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, MAY 29, 1898 DART. Sunday.) ART IL . that night, after her father had y Jane by the open window gone of t rent attitude of lang . rt and intent of e and ear. It was a fine moonlight night. Two néar the door—solitary pickets of the serried ranks of distant - fores t lomg shadows like o the cottage, and sighed their spiced breath in the For there was no frivolity of vine or flower ane's bower. s too recent, the life too practical for va But the moon added a vague elusive- e everything, softened the rigid outlines of the s, gave sha dless windows, and touched with merci T the hideous debris of .refuse gravel and the ga of burnt vegetation before en Salomy Jane was affected by it, and 1 something between a sigh and a yawn with the breath of the pines. Then she suddenly sat upright. H sick ear had caught a faint “click, click” in the of the wood; her qui inct and rustic enabled her to deter s the ring ‘s shoe on flinty her knowledge of the d her an o it came from the spot where the trail scarcely a quarter of a the clearing. It was shod with iron; it night, and boded no good mile from wh *stoc wl over her head more for :d_out of the door. A > her father’s shotgun from feared any She made dow of the pines halted; whoever iching the house. uspense of ‘all nature, the movnbeams -ap- a rustle as d then a di It was the She ros sguise t dden impulse n s made h ght. - THINKING HE WAS HUNTING ME, AND FORGETTING # N P A g™ %,,4&..___ C e & I WAS DISGUISED.” horse-thief—the man she had Kissed! For a wild moment a strange fancy seized her usually sane intellect and stirred her temperate blood. The news they had told her was not true—he had been hanged, and this was his ghost! He looked as white and spirititke in the moonlight, dressed in the same clothes, as when she saw him last. He had evidently seen her approaching, nd moved quickly to meet her. But mn his haste he stumbled slightly—she reflected suddenly that ghosts did not umble—and a feeling of relief came over her. And it was no assassin of her father that had been prowling around—only this unhappy fugitive. A momentary color came into her cheek; her coolness and hardthood returned; it was with a tinge of sauciness in her volce that she sald: “I reckoned you were a ghost.” “I must have been,” he said, looking at her fixedly; “but I reckon I'd have come back here all the same.” “It's a little riskier comin’ back alive,” she sald with a levity that died on her lips, for a singular nervousness, half fear and half expectation, was beginning to take the place of her relief of a moment ago. ‘“Then it was s I came straight here when I got awa She felt his eyes were burning her, but did not dare to raise her own. ‘‘Why—" she began—hesitated, and ended vaguely. “How did you get here?” “You helped me.” “Yes. That kiss you gave me put life into me—gave me strength to get away. I swore to myself I'a come back alive or dead.” he said she could have anticipated, so i emed to her now. And every word e said she knew was the truth. Yet her cool common sense struggled against it. “What's the use of your escaping, er you're comin’ back here to be ketched again?’ she said pertly. He drew a little nearer to her, but seemed to her the more awkward as she resumed her self-possession. His voice, too, was broken as if by exhaustion as he said, catching his breath at intervals: “I'll tell you. You did more for me than you think. You made another man o’ me. I never had a man, woman or child do to me what vou did. I never had a’ friend— on pal like Red Pete. who picked me up ‘on the shares.’ I want to quit this yer—what I'm doin’. 1 want to begin by doin’ the square thing to you.” he stopped, breathed hard and then said brokenly: My hoss is over thar, staked out. 1 want to give him to you. Judge Boompointer will give you $1000 for him. I ain’t lyin’— T saw it on a handbill agin a tree. Take him, and I'll get away afoot. Take him. It's the only thing I can do for you, and I know it don’t half pay for what you did. Take it—your father can get a reward for you—if you can't.” , Such _were the ethics of this strange locality that neither the man who made the offer nor the girl to whom it was made were struck by anything that seemed illog- ical or indelicate or at all inconsistent with justice or the horse-thief’s real conversion. lomy Jane, nevertheless, dissented, from another and weaker reason. “T don't want your hoss—though I reckon dad might —but you're just starvin’. I'll get suthin’.” She turned toward the house, you'll take the hoss first,”” he sald, grasping her At the touch she felt herself coloring and strug- But he dropped her hand. She turned again with a saucy gesture, sald: ‘ol on: I'll come right back” and slipped away—the mere shadow of a coy and flying nymph In tne moonlight— until she reached the house. Here she not only procured food end whisky, but added a long dust coat and hat of her father's to\ her burden. They would serve as a disguise for him and hide that herolc) figure, which she thought everybody must now know as she did. Then she rejoined him, breath- lessly. But he put the food and whisky aside. Listen,” he said; “I've turned the hoss into your corral. Youll find him there in the morning, and no ons will know but that he got lost and joined the other hosses. Then she burst out. “But you—you—what will become u? You'll be catched!” Tl manage to got away,” he said in a low voice, ot it's God truth hand. gled, expecting perhaps another kiss. Bt what?' she said tremblingly. i “Ef you'll put the heart in me again—as you did!"” he gasped. She tried to laugh—to move away. She could do neither. Suddenly he caught her in his arms and with a lon%_ kiss, which she returned again and again. hen they stood embraced as they had embraced two days before, but no longer the same. For the cool, lazy Salomy Jane had been transformed into another woman— a passionate, clinging savage. Perhaps something of her father's blood had surged within her at that supreme moment. The man stood erect and determined. ‘Wot's your name?” she whispered quickly. woman's quickest way of defining her feelings. It was a art. Yer first name?"” “Jack.” “Let me go now, Jack. Lie low in the woods till to- morrow sun-up. I'll' come agin.” He released her. Yet she lingered a moment. ‘“‘Put on those things,” she said with a sudden happy flash of eyes and teeth, “and lie close till I come.” And then she sped away But midway up the distance she felt mer feet going slower and something at her heartstrings seemed to be pulling_her back. She stopped, turned, and glanced to where he had been standing. Had she seen him then, she might have returned. But he had d gave her first slgh, and then ran quickly again. e nearly 10 o'clo Tt was not very long to morning! She was within a few steps of her own door when the sleeping woods and silent air appeared to suddenly awake with a sharp ‘‘crack.’ She stopped paralyzed. Another ‘“crack!” followed that echoed over to thie far corral. She recalled herself instantly and dashed off wildly to the woods again. As she ran she thought of one thing only. He had been “dogged” by one of his old pursuers and attacked. But there were two shots and he was unarmed. Suddenly she remembered that she had left her father’s gun Stand- ing against the tree where they were talking. Thank God! she may Again have saved him. She ran to the tree; the gun gone. She ran thither and thither, dreading at every step to fall upon his lifeless body. A new thought struck her; she ran to the corral. The horse was not t He must have been able 1o regain it and escaped— had been fired. She drew a long breath of r it was caught up in an apprehension her, awakened from his sleep by the approaching he; Salomy Jane?’ he demanded, ex- girl with an effort. ‘“Nothin’, at She was usually truthful because 1ck In her throat—but she was no king of him. “I wasn't abed, so I ran least, that T can fearless, and a 1 longer fearless, th out as soon as I heard the shots fired,” she answered in return to his curious gaze. > 5 n somewhere where it can't be “And you've hid my found,” he said reproachfully. “Ef it was that sneak Larrabee, and he fired them shots to lure me out, he might have potted me, without a show, a dozen times in the last five minutes.” " She hadn’t thought since of her father's ememy! It might indeed have been he who had attacked Jack. But she made a quick point of the suggestion. > “Run in, dad, run in and find the gun—you've got no show out here without it.”” _She selzed bhim by the shoulders from behind, shielding him from the woods, and hurried bim, halt expostulating, half struggling, to the ouse. But there no gun was to be found. It was strange—it must have been mislaid in some corner! Was he sure he had not left it in the barn? But no matter now. The dan- ger was over—the Larrabee trick had failed—he must go to bed now, and in the morning they would make a search together. At the same time she had inwardly resolved to rise before him and make another search of the wood, and perhaps—teartul foy as she recalled her promise!—find im alive and well awaiting her! Salomy Jane slept little that night—nor did her father. But towurd morning he fell into a tired man's slumber until the sun was well up in the horizon. Far different was it with his daughter; she lay with her face to the window, her head half lifted to catch every sound—from the creaking of the sun-warped shingles above her head to the far off moan of the rising wind in the pine trees. Sometimes she fell into a breathless, half ecstatic trance— living over every moment of the stolen interview—feeling the fugitive's arm still around her, his kisses on her lips, hearing his_ whispered voice in her ears—the birth of her new life! This was followed again by a period of agon- izing dread—that he might ever then be 1ying, ebbing his life away, in the woods with her name on his lips, and she resting here inactive—until she half started from her bed to go to his succor. And this went on until a pale, opal glow came into the sky, followed by a still paler pink on the summit of the white Sierras, when she arose and hurriedly began to dress. Still so sanguine was her hope of meeting him that she lingered yet a moment to select the brown holland skirt and vellow sun-bonnet she had worn when she first saw him. "And she had only Seen him twice! Only twice! It would be cruel, too cruel—not to see him again. She crept softly down the stairs, listening to the long drawn breathing of her father in his bedroom, and then, by the light of a guttering candle, scrawled a note to him, begging him not to trust himself out of the house until she returned from her search, and, leaving the note open on the table, swiftly ran out into the growing day. Three hours afterward Mr. Madison Clay awoke to the sound of loud knocking. At first this forced itself upon his consciousness as his daughter’s regular morning sum- mons, and was responded to by a grunt of recognition and a nestling closer in the blankets. Then he awoke with a start and a muttered oath, remembering the events of last night, and his intention’ to get up early—and rolled out of bed. Becoming aware by this time that the knocking was at the outer door, and hearing the shout of a famillar volce, he hastily pulled on his boots, his jean trousers, and, fast- ening a single suspender over his shoulder as He clattered down stairs, stood in the lower room. The door was open, and waiting upon the threshold was his kinsman—an old ally in many a blood feud—Breckenridge Clay! “You are a cool one, Mad,” said the latter in half ad- miring indignation. What's up?” said the bewlildered Madison. “You ought to be, and scootin’ out o' this,” sald Breck- enridge grimly. “It's all very well to ‘know nothin',’ but here’s Phil Larrabee’s friends hev just picked him up, drilled through with slugs and deader nor a crow, and now they're lettin’ loose Larrabee’s two half brothers on vou. And you must go like a d—d fool and leave these yer things behind you in the bresh,” he went on queru- ly, lifting Madison Clay’s dust coat, hat, and shotgun from' his horse, which stood saddled at the door. “Luckily T picked them up in the woods comin’ here. Ye ain't got more than time to get over the State line and among your folks thar afore they'll be down on you. Hustle, oid man! What are you gawkin’ and starin’ at?"" Madison Clay had stared amazed and bewlildered—hor- ror-stricken. The incidents of the past night for the first time flashed upon him clearly—hopelessly! The shot, his finding Salomy Jane alone in the woods, her confusion and anxiety to rid herself of him, the disappearance of the shotgun, and now this new discovery of the taking of his hat and coat for a disguise! She had killea Paul Larra- bee in that disguise, after provoking his first harmless shot! She, his own child, Salomy Jane, had disgraced If by a man's crime—had disgraced him by usurping right, and taking a mean advantage, by decelt, of a e! “Gimme that gun.” he said hoarsely. Breckenridge handed him the gun in wonder and slowly gathering suspicion. Madison examined nipple and muzzle; one barrel had been discharged; it was true. The gun dropped from his hand “Look here, old man,” said Breckenridge, with a dark- ening face, “there's bin no foul play here. ‘Thar’s bin no hiring of men, no deputy to do this job. You did it fair and_square—yourself.” “Yes. ‘God!” _burst out Madison Clay in a hoarse voice. 'Who says T didn’t?"" Reassured, vet belleving that Madison Clay had nerved himself for the act by an overdraft of whisky, which bad affected his memory, Breckenridge said- curtl Then wake up and lite out, ef ye want me to stand by you. “Go to the corral and pick me out a hoss,” said Madi- son slowly, yet not without a certain éignity of manner. “I've suthin’ to say to Salomy Jane afore I g0.” He was holding her scribbled note, which he had just discovered, in his shaking hand. szrucfikbyghls kinsman's manner, and knowing the de- pendent relations of father and daughter, Breckenridge nodded and hurried awawy. Left to himself, Madison Clay ran his fingers through his hair and straightened out ‘the paper on which Salomy Jane had scrawled her note, turned it over and wrote on the back: You might have told me you did it, and not leave your ole father to find it out how you dis- graced yourself and him, too, by a low-down, underhanded woman’s trick! I've said I done it, and took the blame myself, and all the sneakiness of it that folks suspect. If I get away alive—and 1 don’t much care which—you needn’t foller. The house and stock are y(:i\;rs; butdyrnuni\in t any longer the daughter of your disgraced father, 3 g i BT MADISON CLAY. He had scarcely finished the note when, with a clatter of hoofs and a led horse, Breckenridge reappeared at ths door elate and triumphant. ‘You're in nigger luck, Mad T found that stole hoss of Judge Boompointer's had g away and strayed among your stock in the corral. Take him and you're safe—he can’t be outrun this side of State line.” “I ain’t no hoss thief,” sald Madison grimly. “Nobody sez ye are, but you'd be wuss—a fool—et ve didn’t take him. ['m_testimony that you found him among your hosses; I'll tell Judge Boompointer youve ot him, and ye kin send him back when you're safe. The §hdge will be mighty glad to get him back, and call it quits. So—ef you've writ to Salomy Jane—come. Madison Clay no‘longer hesitated. Salomy Jane might return at any moment—it .would be part of her “‘foo1 wom anishness’—and he was in no mood to see her before a third party. He laid the note on the table. gave a hurried glance around the house, which he grimly believed he was feaving forever, and, striding to_ the door, leaped on the stolen horse, and swept away with his kinsman. But that note lay for a week undisturbed on the table in full view of the open door. The house was invaded by leaves, pine cones, birds and squirrels du the hos silent, empty days, and_at pight by shy, stealthy cr tures, but never again, day or night, by any of the family. Tt was known in the district that Clay had flown across the State line, his daughter was beiieved to have oined him the next day, and the house was supposed to e locked up. Tt lay off the main road, and few passed that way. The starving cattle in the corral at last broke bounds and spread over the woods. And one night a stronger blast than usual swept through the house, car- ried. the note from the table to the floor, where, whirled into a crack in the flooring. it slowly rotted. But though the sting of her father's reproach was spared her, Salomy Jane had no need of tne letter to know what had happened. . For, as she entered the woods in the dim light of that morning, she saw the figure of Dart gliding from the shadow of a pine toward her. The unaffected cry of joy that rose from her lips died there as she caught sight of his face in the open light. “You are hurt,” she said, clutching his arm passion- ately. No,” he said. “But I wouldn’t mind that if—" “You're thinkin’ T was afeard to come back last night, when I heard the shootin’, but I did come.” she went on, feverishly. “I ran back here when.I Heard the two shots, but vou were gone. I went to the corral, but your hoss wasn’t there, and 1 thought you'd got awa: “T did_get away,’ said Dart, gloomily. killed the man, thinkin' he was huntin’ me, and forgettin’ I was dis- guised.. He thought I was your father.” “Yes,” sald the girl, joyfully, “he was after dad, and you—you killed him.” She again caught his hand admir- ingly. E'84t he did not respond. Possibly there were points of honor which this horsethief felt vaguely with her father. “Listen,” he said_grimly. ‘“‘Others think it was_your father Killed him. When I did it—for he fired at me first— T ran to the corral again and took my hoss, thinkin’ I might be follered. I made a clear circuit of the house, and when I fired he was the only one, and no one was follerin'—I come back here and took off my disguise.” “Then I heard his friends find Him in the wood, and T know they suspected your father. And then another man came through the woods while I was hidin’, and found the clothes, and took them away.” He stopped and stared at her_gloomily. But all this was unixitelligible to the girl. “Dad would have got the better of him ef you hadn’t,” she said eagerly, “‘so what's the difference?” ‘All the same,” he said gloomily, “I must take his lace.” Pl2&ke @id not understand, but turned her head to her master. “Then vou'll go back with me and tell him all?” she said obediently. “Yes,” he sald. She put her hand in his, and they together. She foresaw a thousand difficulties, but, chiefest of all, that he did not love her as she did. She would not have taken these risks against their happiness. But alas! for ethics and heroism. As they were iss ing from the wood they heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and had barely time to hide themselves before Madison Clay, on the stolen horse of Judge Boompointer, swept past them with his kinsman. Salomy Jane turned to her lover. ssiie e crept out of the wood And here I might, as a moral romancer, pause, leaving the guilty, passionate girl eloped with her disreputable lover, destined to lifelong shame and misery, misander- stood to the last by a criminal, fastidious parent. But I am confronted with certain facts on which this romance is based. A month later a handbill was posted on one of the > sentinel pines announcing that the property would be sold § by auction to the highest bidder by Mrs. John Darf, daughter of Madison Clay Esq., and it was sold accord- ingly. 5 gSNH later—by ten years—the chronicler of these pages visited a certain ‘“stock.” or “breeding farm" in the Blue Grass country, famous for the popular racers it had pro- duced. He was told that the owner was the best judge of horseflesh in the country. “Small wonder,” added bis informant, “for they say a young man out in California he was a horse-thief, only saved himself by eloping with some rich farmer’s daughter. But he's ‘a straight-out and respectable man > whose word about horses can’t be bought; and as for his wife, she’s a beauty! To see her at the ‘Springs,’ rigged out in the latest fashion, you'd never think she had ever lived out of New York or wasn’t the wife of ons of its millionaires.” (Copyrighted, 1898, by Bret Harte) Lo OO OO S O o N 005 O 0 00808 00 08 06 08 106 08 308 106 308 108 08 308 308 300-30K 308 Y08 30 308 308 308 308 308 308 SO 300 0K 0H ATk THE MAJOR'S CONVERSION bed b= : 5 A Decoration Day Story p b= f=goRug=g= g1 DQDD?JQUQU.CIQHC{CiQi:iQfififififififififlfififlfififififififififififififlfifififlfiflfi‘ AJOR BEVERLY MORTIMER was a Tennessean and proud of it. He took part In the battle of 3ull Run and was with Sherman when he cap- tured Joe Johnston, and in all the intervening years there w ardly a day in which there had not occurred some stirring incident which it was his delight to recall and his pride to describe in the later days of peace. After the war he returned to Tennessee and resumed the practice of the law ‘in the little town of Bradford. When that noble - order, the Grand Army of the Republic, was founded, he issued the call for the first meeting of the old soldiers of the vicinity, and upon the organizationi of General Baker Post he was chosen commander, a position he held for many years. He .prospered in his profession, but as time wore on his heart appeared to become more and more adamantine toward his late opponents and their survivors. He was an eloquent and impassioned stump-s . and as he bad waved the bloody flag through many a harg-fought battle, 80 now he energetically waved the “bloody shirt” through many a valorous campaign. Tennessee being a border State, there were many Confederates in and about Bradford, and Major Mortimer referred to them as ‘“the enemy’” enties and eighties just as ne had in the sixties. ages many griefs-and softens many asperities, but time could do nothing with the major. It was somewhere along in the latter: seventies when Colonel Hordce Templeton located in Bradford. " A Southerger of the old school, the perfection of courtly politeness, he made his way rapidly into the good Fraces of the community—that is to say, that portion of the community whose Gomiciles lay outside the protecting hedges ‘and_gates of the Mortimer homestead. In the first place, hé was a lawyer, and after he had tried his initfatory case in Bradford it was felt, and indeed occa- sionally whispered, that the major had at last met his Jegal match. . But as if this were not enough to fill the latter's cup Of bitterness, it must needs.soon be noised about that the colonel had served in the Confederate army.- There-was no_open warfare between the two mili- tary gentlemen, for they never met except in the forensic field, and the divinity which doth hedge a court as well as a king served to keep them within legal bounds, but many were the argumentative allusions on the part of the major, on such occasions, to “traitors,” “slave drivers” and the “iniquitous doctrine of States' Tights,” whether such remarks were relevant to the-issue or not. Then came the organization of Stonewail Jackson Camp of Confederate Veterans in Bradford, with- Colonel Templeton at the head of the associatian. The Bradford Bugle of the following week contained a fiery article under the caption ‘“Treason Stalks in Our Midst,” the author- ship ‘of which was generally ascribed to Major Mortimer, but thé colonel made no response beyond informing a knot of friends one day that “the camp was organized for much the same purpose as was General Baker Yost, namely, to do horor to the memory of its illustrious dead. The Con- federate veteran who sleeps beneath the sod to-day is a hero. As the world sees them, his conclusions, perhaps, n defense of were wrong, but he gave his all—his_life: what he thought was right.” More than this can no man do to gain the approbation of his God and the respect of his posterity.” Months rolled into years, and at each recurring cycle General Baker Post would strew flowers over its-increas- ing graves, while Stonewall Jackson Camp would perform a similar service of love-for the Confederate dead. Else- where in the world the whirligig of time was Drlng‘ln% about’ its changes. Henry W. Grady of Georgia—no, o he United .States—had made his famous speech on the New South” to the business men of New York, and ac- counts began. to appear in the papers herc and there of the joining of E'nion and Confederate soldiers on Memo- rial day to decorate the graves of heroes who had fallen on both sides of-the fratricidal conflict. It was at a meeting of Baker Post held to make ar- rangements for one of these annual ceremonies that a bomb was thrown which for a time bade fair to destroy the organization. Captain Bogard, one of the progressive members of the post and a gallant soldier as well, intro- duced a resolution requesting Stonewall’ Jackson C.Img to join with the post in obsetving the approaching holiday. For a moment there was utter silence and all eves turned instinctively toward Major Mortimer. That worthy was, for an instant, dumb with astonishment, then temporarily resigning the chair, he stepped to the floor and for a quarter of an hour such a stream of satire, sarcasm, argument and invective poured-from his lips as had never been heard in Bradford before. Trembling with anger he daclared that he was overcome with sorrow at the tho that he had not been stricken down on the fleld of battle by a rebel bullet, for in that event he wouid have been spared the pain, nay the agony, in this latter day of hearing a treasonable proposal to extend the hand of fellowship to men who had endeavored to wreck the proud ship of state. Captain Bogard bravely essayed to stem the torrent of the major's eloquence, but such was the prestige of the doughty commander of the post that the resolution was voted down by a large majority and the TUnion and Confederate veterans went their separate ways as before. Among the institutions which gave the Ittle Tennessee town a fancied feeling of security at home and more or less renown abroad was the organization known as. the Bradford Rifles. Duly armed, uniformed and mustered into the National Guard of the State, the militia com- pany’s claims to social supremacy were only contested by the Bradford Volunteer Fire Brigade. Every young man in the town who was anybody belonged vo one of both of these organizations. The Rifles had their annual parades, encampments and (arfel practices, and it was always thought that they would make their presence felt should grim-visaged war ever again rear his horrid front as war is reputed to do. It was along about the year— still, the year cuts no figure in the case—when the Rifles began to arrange for their annual three days’ encamp- ment. It was felt-that the company must do something out of the ordinary this time, and it was agreed after much debate to close the proceedings with a grand mimic battle. Here was where Fairfax Templeton’s genius came into play, : Young Templeton resembled his father, tne colonel, in that he was tall, military and black-eyed. The colonel’s mustache was white -and bristly, while the younger man’'s was black and glossy, but otherwise Fairfax was a chip of the old block in personal appearance. He was not a resident of Bradford. After his graduation from a semi- military college he had taken a course at Columbia Law School ‘and -then settled down to practice in a Tennessee county town not far from his father's chosen abode. He was meeting with falr success, but his time was not so thoroughly occupied but that he could occasionally devote a few days to a filial visit to Bradford. Being of a genial disposition and an approachable nature, he made warm friends easily, and the Rifles soon learned that owing to his education and a natural bent for military science, he knew more about tactics and maneuvers than they could perhaps ever hope to learn. He had rendered them valuable assistance on more than one occasion, and as one of his periodical visits was made during the time of preparation for the mimic battle, he was naturally called upon to assist In the ar- rangements of the maneuvers.. He mapped out the plans of the engagement, throwing himself heart and soul into the work, and was soon in charge of all the details. He sécured a number of recruits to swell the ranks for the occasion, borrowed arms from a number of neighboring towns and personally drilled each soldier in the work he was_expected to perform. The preparations were kept as secret as possible, tha drilling was done in retired spots, and when the eventful day came Bradford :dnd the surrounding country was astir with excitement. The battle was to be rought on the common, & grassy tract of some four or five acres lying on the edge of the town and sloping gently to a little creek that skirted it on the south. Rough seats had been erected on the side nearest town, and here was gathered almost the entire population of Bradford, reinforced by crowds from the country and neighboring villages. Even the major was there, occupying a front seat, and by his side sat a radiant bit of femininity who has not hitherto been called to the attention of the reader simply because the time for that pleasing task has only just arrived. Suffice: it to say that Dorothy Mortimer was about the only being on the face of the earth to whom her father, the major, bowed in obeisance. If she was the belle of Bradford, it was because she worthily filled the position, and that 'is saying enough. g Along the top of the little slope a line or low breast- works had been thrown up, and the major was just telling Dorothy_ that the scene, although on a small scale, re- minded him of a battle field he had performed some ser- vice on during the memorable seven days in/the Wilder- ness, when a half-dozen blue-coats jumped from the trenches and planted on the works a staf bearing the stars and stripes. could be seen emerging from a little clump of trees near the creek on the further side of the field. A chorus of half-suppressed ““Ahs” came from the lips of ‘the spec- tators as it was discovered that the new-comers wore the Confederate uniform. Fairfax Templeton's dramatic instinct had been allowed full Elny. and the battle was to be a reminiscence of the mighty struggle in which had been engaged many of the spectators on one side or the other. Bray~coats marched s up the slope uatl] At the same instant a body of .soldiers within fifty yards of the trenches, when suddenly there leaped from the works a murderous line of fire.” When the smoke had cleared away it was seen that many of the attacking party had fallen,butthe line had been re-formed and was now charging on the enemy at a double-quick. Once more the hidden guns belched forth their deadly message. This time the execution was more dire, and the gray line waver Major Mortimer gave a mighty shout of joy, but it was short-liv The first attack was only a femt to draw the Union forces from the trenches, for when the victorious blue-coats were well down the slope the main body of Confederates, led by Fairfax Templeton in person, sud- denly emerged from the willows that fringed the little stream, and with. the famous ‘rebel yell” charged directly up the hill. ' The carnage now was awful. Guns were pop- ng, men were falling and officers were excitedly shout- ng commands all over the field. The Union troops were slowly being pressed back to the trenches, and it seemed as if victory was about to crown the Confederate forces, when a faint bugle call was heard, and away in the dis- tance could be scen blue-coated reinforcements coming on the run. In the face of the impending danger the Con- federates faltered, then slowly withdrew to a safe dis- tance across the siream, and the reinforced but exhausted Union forces again occupled the works and quiet, broken only by the groans of the wounded, pervaded the scene. Then came a dramatic exhibition of a bit of sentiment. Fairfax Templeton hal fallen in the deadly charge and lay well down the slope a short distance from the specta- tors, while near him Jay a Union officer who was moan- ing in great pain. Soon there was heard issuing from the parched 1ips of the Northern soldler the feeble cry: “Water, water.” As his delirious fever increased his cries became'louder, and presently Templeton painfully raised himself on his elbow and looked in the direction of the pitiful sound. Then he slowly and laborfously half crawled and half rolled down the little slope. A number of shots were fired at him from the works, and once he fell, but recovering himself he went bravely on until he reached ‘the creek, where he filled his oilskin cap with water and turning, slowly crawled back up the hill to his wounded enemy. After pouring a few drops of the life- giving fluid down the Union captain's throat he bathed is face, and then drawing a handkerchief from his pocket bound up the wounded man's shoulder, falling back in a dead faint just as his generous task was completed. The women among the spectators were in tears, and even the sterner males felt lumps in their throats. After a moment a gentle hand-clapping was heard, which soon broke into thunders of uproarious applause, but loud as was the tumult it was speedily silenced by the ‘“‘rebel yell” which was heard once more from beyond the creek. The Confederates had rallied, re-formed their iines, and discovering the loss of their commander were returning for his body. They leaped the creek, burst wnrough the bushes and in the face of a withering fire once more charged up the slope. Reaching the spot where their beloved captain lay, although their numbers were sadiy decimated, they tenderly gathered the limp form in their arms and ‘once more retreated across the water, the rear guard covering the retreat and fighting every inch.of the way. The battle was over, the soldiers came forth from the trenches and bushes and fraternized on the common, the band burst into a medley in which were mingled strains from “Yankee Doodle” and ‘“Dixie,” and tne people cheered and cheered and cheered again. Only the m was silent. From the first his eves had been fixed on the gallant form of Fairfax Templeton, but until now he had not spokern. “Who is the Confederate captain, Dorothy?” he now sked. 5 “Fairfax Templeton, the colonel’s son,” she responded, blushing a little as she spoke. ‘“Wasn’t he splendid?” But the major appeared to be deep in thought, and for & moment vouchsafed no reply. “The maneuvers were very well conceived,” sald the major. “Yes, Fairfax had full charge and arranged every- thing,” responded the girl, as if that were sufficient rea- son for the excellence of the exhibition. :‘Qo you know him?” asked her father. ‘Ye-es, I have met him,” hesitatingly answered Dorothy, and somehow she blushed again. It is remark- able how girls can blush about nothing. “I am going home now,’ said the major. “I wish you would remain long enough to ask him’ to call and see me this evening.” If the skies had fallen Dorothy would not have been more surprised. Mfig‘or Beverly Mortimer actually askin, a Templeton into his house. But she was a dutifu daughter, generaily, and had no intention of disobeying her father, although a casual observer might have thought there was a lack of alacrity in her present move- ments, for she sat perfectly still after the major left. It is possible that there .was method in her action, or lt'g.:‘hgrsé:ck Ofdl;.i huwivfer. for Kel’); !?O‘I"l‘i Fairfax Temple- g mself from a knot of admirers and direcsy 'ilnfixeer" b i = “'Oh, Fairfax,” ‘she cried, extending her pretty hand, ‘“you were perfectly grand.” H i f I was.” he tenderly responded, “I could hardly ‘be otherwise with the Inspiration of—such an audience.” ‘Well, never mind that now,” said Dorothy. “I have some wonderful news for you. Papa wants you to come to see him to-night.” = ¥ ‘Wants me. to come to see him,” echoed Fairfax, in amazement. Then be made 80 apparently irrelsvant finally remark. “Does he know?” “Of course he doesn’t know, you goose, responded Dorothy. ‘If he did, I think he would be sorry you were not actually killed in that horrid fight. But do not ask any more questions, for I do not know any more about it than you do. All I know is that you are to call at our house' this evening, and do not forget to come, for I am as anxious as you are to know what it is all about.” “As if I would forget,” he began, but what he con- cluded with is really not pertinent to the case. After he and thée major were introduced to_each other that evening by the fair Dorothy, the major did not lose much time in opening the conversation. “I have been told, Mr. Templeton,” he said, “that you arranged the details of the mimic battle that we wit- nessed this afternoon.” “Well, yes sir,” said Falrfax. sisted on my taking charge of the affair. pleased with our efforts.” “The ideas were well worked out and, I should say, faithfully executed,” said the major. *“Allow me to con- gratulate you on the military knowledge and dramatic talent which you undoubtedly possess. f presume you read somewhere of the little incident which you deftly wove into the close of the battle.’” “Well, no,”” answered young Templeton. ‘It was the representation of an incident which really nappened dur- ing one of the battles in the Wilderness.” My father told me of it.” ““And your father—" “Was the Confederate officer who succored the Union soldier. He never took much credit to himseif for the act, but I remembered the story and thought the scene would bear repetition.” The major was silent for a moment, then he excused himself and left the room. The young foiks were still unenlightened as to the cause of the invitation to call, but_they apparently had a great many things to_say to each other, for it was really quite late when Fairfax departed. The next afternoon the major walked into the music room where Dorothy was caroling as blithely as though such a thing as war had never been heard of. “Dorothy,” he said, ‘‘order the carria around and get yourself ready to make a cal “Where are we going?"” arose from the piano. “To Colonel Templeton’s,” he said, and walked out of the_room. Would wonders never cease? First he had invited Fairfax to the house, though for what reason she could not imagine, and now he was actually going to beard the colonel in his den.. But there was no good 1n speculations on the subject, and she was soon ready for the incom- prehensible visit. A little later they were in the colonel's parlor, and presently Colonel Templeton himself stood before them, as tall and commanding as ever, but with a smile of wel- come on his face. Fairfax had entered the room. with him and quietly advanced to Dorothy's side, where he stood a trifie closer to her than was really necessary. “‘Colonel Templeton,” said the major, “I have come to restore to you a’ little article which .Y nave recently learned is your personal property. .You loaned it to me over twenty-five years ago in the State of Virginia, and during the whole quarter of a century I have never lost :ge ‘}’,mpg tk;athsfll’é\e day 1 might blekasleh to return it to e hand of the brave man who riske best‘r‘nf(;‘d |}tl e md?-"h is life when he Vith these words he held out his hand, and In outstretched palm lay a.linen handkerchief from wh‘lgfi time had not been able to efface a number of curious pink stains. The colonel took a step forward and grasped the major's hand with his own, the blood-stamed hand- kerchief being crushed in the forgiving clasp. “Furthermore.” continued the major, ‘“on_beh General Baker Post, Grand Army g\l the Repufilltc of cordially invite Stonewall Jackson Camp of- Confederats Veterans to participate with us on Memorial day in hon- oring the heroic dead who, however divided their lives, are sleeping their last long sleep together.” 2 A few weeks later Major Mortimer and Colonel Tem- pleton marched arm-in-arm at the head of a little pro- cession todn:g cemetery and there under the weeping willow an e sighing cypress reverently bared heads as the choir softly chanted: < Ahett *Under the sod and the dew, Waltlng the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray."” FRANK CORWIN RADCLIFFE. TWO GUBANS , ' IN A PARIS CLUB T WAS in 1888 or 1889, while I was rejoicing in the proud privileges of an ‘“etudiant en philosophie” at the Sorbonne in Paris, that I, in common with many of my fellow students, was a member of the “Cercle de la belle' lune.” The club met in a brasserie in the boulevard St. Michel, and as signifi its name, held its meetings exclusivel é@&"&}x‘?x‘z’ffid By It was not a merely social club; its functions were of ““The boys rather in- 1 hope you were brough with me.” she asked sweetly as she a more serfous nature. It fulfilled the purposes of instruc- tion and amusement simultaneously, and served to foster all the arts. Oratory, poetry. music and the drama were repre- sented in the club afid the votaries of each found a sym- pathetic, though critical, audience. Musical. talents received the warmest welcome of all, and relying on this circumstance, Armand Vielleville, one of our most popular members, presented himself one night in company with two of the blackest looking negroes it has ever been my fortune to encounter. Armand intro- duced them with much ceremony as Don Carlos and Don Hernando Jimenez, pere et fils, two Cuban gentlemen, ‘whose friend he had the felicitous honor of being. The first thing to impress itself on the mind of an American, on first beholding these negroes, was the differ- ence in physiognomy between them and the types gen- erally seen in the Southern States. Intelligence fairly gleamed in the eyes of the Cuban Dressed in correct evening attire, their deportment a very model of elegant courtesy, they gained, rather than lost, m the contrast with the noisy students by whom they were surrounded. Brilliant conversationalists they both were. albeit the elder Jimenez spoke French less filuently than his sonm, who had received his education in New Orieans. When the fact was made known that they were pro- fessional violinists, they found it impossible to resist our somewhat boisterous invitations to play, and instruments were quickly provided. That night will never fade. from my memory. Since then I have heard.the violin played by men of many nations, by trained masters and by nature’s born geniuses, but never as those Cuban refugees played it. The reper- toire on which they drew contained nothing but the melo- dies of their native isle, but with those they swayed us as they would. We could hear cries of murdered men, the shouts of the Spanish oppressor and the dying shrieks of the Cuban slave. . Throughout: that evening we sat and listened en- tranced to the history of Cuba, told in music by masters. And when we finally allowed our guests to rest from their labor of love they complemented in burning prose their passionate song of patriotism. ‘What a tale they told! There was no room for doubt in our minds, for truth lay in every inflection of their softly modulated voices. ' They spoke dispassionately, almost coolly, as though they were speaking of things that were, because they had to be. The Jimenez themselves had-been compelled to flee the island. They had returned home from a performance one night, to find the wife and mother dead, the two daugh- ters and sisters mutilated, one unconscious, the GKEer dying. The house had been plundered of all worth taking. After procuring succor for the weunded and burial for .the dead father and son sought vengeance. With the help of some desperate fellow sufferers they inflicted sévere losses on the small detachments and stragglers of the Spanish military that infested the neighborhood. But ultimately the attention of the Government was attracted to the frequency and severity of these reprisals, and the annihilation of an entire detachment of foragers was attended with fatal consequences for most of the avengers. A large force was sent against the latter, and they swere lured into an ambush and surrounded. The rebels made a desperate resistance, but were at last overpowered by weight of numbers. Two only managed to cut their way through, and owing to the fleetness of their horses they made good their escape. . These two were the Jimenez, father and son. For a week they were closely ursued, but at last they reached the coast. Fortuna Fa\'ured them here, for they found an American steamer about to sail. and on her they were granted a safe asylum. But exiles they wouid henceforth remain, if not until Cuba was free, at least until another effort should be }nndfi to liberate the unhappy island from the Spanish ncubus. F e I read in a Havana dispatch the other day that Her- mando Jimenez, well known as a-violinist, had been eap- tured in a skirmish by the Spanish cavairy and had been shot as a rebel. I think it more than probable that his murdered family was well avenged before he' yielded up his life to the assassins of his nearest and dearest. The dispatch announcing his execution mentioned that as the bullets pierced him he shouted ‘“Viva Cuba Libre.” GIANTS OF PATAGONIA. The tribes to the east of the Cordilleras, in southern Patagonia, belong to Araucanian stock, and are a superior race. The Tehuelches—as they call themselves—of south- ern and eastern Patagonia are the people whose unusual stature gave rise to-the fables of the early days to the effect that the natives of this region were glants, averag- ing nine or ten feet in height. It is a fact that they are the tallest human beings in the world, the men averaging but slightly less than six feet, while individuals of four to six inches above that mark are not uncommon. They are in reality by no means savages, but somewhat civilized barbarians. The; S8 are almost unacquainted with the u: of firearms, notwithstanding some contact with the 'il but they have Rlenty of horses and dogs, S ~