The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 17, 1902, Page 5

THE EUNDAY CALL. long, I know mnot how @ found it light in the old now reflected on the ceil- T p, larger than be- t me I asked for a bit came to my lips at once. heard talking quietly and i 1 caught the word er thinking then perhaps thero going out of this fro- asking if "twas so, th e unemotional way, —some of us will he group slipped w0t see, till 1 caught iforms and saw an of- t the lay knew d wait- he would straw a k me up gently enough, for sed down d into a £ T on and o re they laid me d my face to t,recognized e couch being soft not much care, but long sigh and—went CHAPTER XXIL NING. moment when I opened my that came the on there in the Koking at me. So listened. No 1 knew in the d acquired of late that right light there, and that rm and so comfortable as I 1 these two months. But I could not move! My side ard—so stiff that I d my arm and the sofa, but straw. came a sickening conscious- I was back in the prison-house. p a bit of straw, but it felt soft d would not yleld to my pulling, and king down 1 had liked to have cried t when I saw in my hand a white and ss counterpane. - iay, t that it ad 1 saw a y_mind work- ained me sorely. roof, and then quic fast came the knowledge that I lay on & great bed with four posts sup- porting & roof hung with silken cur- tains. I tried to move, and found, though 1 d no pain, that the wound was too E llow me to turn, and, putting my h il it tight cloth ban- a ound me from groin to ar up over either shoul- a i my neck. 3 with eyes shut and thought ought. What could it be? Was I it be—could I be losing my mind, uld I begin to ask if some one cut my daughter's throat? s myself be quiet and held my e to see—to think—to realize the But it would not do, ar it, and cried out: Where am 17" > That instant the curtain was pulled back and I saw a face looking at me, Then on the moment ‘twas gone. And I fancied I heard the soft rustle of a gown @s the figure flew out through the room. Was it Atherton? I strained my weak head to think, to decide. I could not tell. It st be, and yet—and yet it did not to be so, and the face that it re- my mind wes gone stark the face it could never be! ning a bit to one side that e door as it stood open into e sunlight playing across d dancing upon the polished Gradually I was straining my- ut of a mist of thoughts when there the curtains drew aside v eyes, and smiled straight face of the Baromess m I7” I asked weakly. her finger to her mouth and ed her eyebrows you know me?” she asked. “Don’t Just nod.” vself real- I could not m seem & hall with floor 2 moved away, and I cried out and asked her where I was. “¥Yo st_not talk or move till I get r. You are in our house in New ng—" I could not finish, but sture toward the bed. ix weeks ago you were brought she was gone, still with her ner 1iz wonder, and though weak, though 1ll, I felt well. I row it was, but I settled all s of my body down upon the and took as long a breath as my ndages would allow. So I lay I know g s end the door opened quickly i in_came the sharp face ed by the Baroness. Si- came on. Stlently he drew up r and sat, taking my hand, while tood behind him looking over his young man,” g rour ng at his watch. “So! open I did. “Stick out your not o bad! Now drink cown went something, I all »oking at him in wonder. y the Baroness misunderstood v_look, for she said hastily, but softly: fear the doctor! He will no He is only here to cure yo Low. sitting thus with his back 4 looking at me, closed one eye without the changing of another of his face and as slowly opened t and I could have laughed aloud, but I asked: ““Who was it left the room when I first spoke?” 1 do not know what I thought. I could not let myself belleve or hope anything, but I must ask, and know eaid Low, cheerily. a b 8o! " At that “AND THE BARONESS COMING IN THEN, SHE RAN TO HER?”? and gefl. it over with. The Baroness smiled at me, and Low sald in a tone that meant nothing: ““Oh, she's an old hag we hired to nurse you.” “I think you lie, doctor,” said I weak- ly, and looked at the Baroness. She nodded brightly, and I made an involun- tary movement. v “Here! here!” cried Low. *“Perhaps I do lfe, but do you lie still and go promptly to sleep.” “I cannot.” “Yes, you can! Why, man, one foot and three-quarters of the other in the grave still. Off we go!” And he got up and took the Baroness by the arm and walked out of the room, closing the door. Sleep! How could I sleep? Who was she? Might it be? Six weeks. What was the matter with me? And so I lay and thought and thought, and then—the door slowly opened. I looked and saw a head, a face and a bit of white gown. It was she! And I stretched out my sickly hand to her and made some silly gurgling sound and—she was gone in- stantly and the door again shut. And then and there, I, Merton Balfort, lay over on my back and looked up at the canopy of the bed above me—and thanked God at some length. And so I slept long, and waked again stronger and fresher by much than before, and as 1 moved in my bed there came the setting aside of the curtains again, the rustle of a dress, and there she stood looking at me, for an instant. But as I moved she wak gone, and I began to lose my tem- per and ask myself what was the matter and, as a sick man will, complained of my fate. Then I took counsel with myself, and turning to one side, so that I could see the door, I thrust one arm under the pil- low, put my head down so that I covered one eve but left the other free, and then, with some labor, be it acknowledged, placed the other arm over my face, with but a small opening left for the one eye to watch the door. Then I lay quiet, as if again asleep. ‘Twas a long time, and I began to lose my small stock of nerve, when the door again slid open a bit and-her head ap- peared cautiously. Seeing me thus asleep, she came slowly on tiptoe with a look in her face that lives with me always, and the quiet rustle of her gown. And so coming near, she knelt down by the bed, the proud white neck bent forward" ou've got and her brown nhead restung m ner fanas on the counterpane close to me. And there she lay quietly for a long while, till suddenly the curls began to quiver and the shoulders to shake, and to my wonder I heard a soft sob, then another, then another. I could bear it no longer and quietly raising my arm I put my hand on her head. “Deborah!" She was half across the room in an instant, looking at me in terror, with her hands clasped at her breast and tears in her eyes. ‘“‘Are you awake?” she asked in a whis- er. “Yes, Deborah,” sald I, “and I am very tired. Will you not come and fix my pil- low for me?” She was by me in an instant, rearrang- ing something that was alre: murmuring again and agaln a 80, “My dear, my dear, my dea: as she pushed back the hair from my forehead, stralghtened the counterpane and brought me something to drink—etill murmuring “My dear, my dear,” in feverish haste, silently, for all the world llke a quiet worried angel. “Deborah! “You must not talk, you must not say a word!” she cried out under her breath, putting her hard gently over my mouth. And suddenly she knelt again by the bed- side and laid her head close to mine, her face buried in the pillow, and I could hear her still murmuring: “My dear, my dear! I'm so sOrry, so sorry, so sorry.’ A sudden fear seized me, and I pushed myself instinctively away from her and tried to speak. Some sound made her look up and she cried out in a frightened tone: “What is 1t?"" “What is the matter with me? Is it—? “No, no, ‘twas the brain fever. r. Low says 'twas a miracle you had not the smallpox. Aye, dear,” she went on, seeing my face, “let us both thank God.” And a cool hand was laid on my forehead. 1 kept still a moment, my eyes closed for very weakness and then, with some strug- gle, I got my arms up to my head and took her hand and put it to my lips. She was on her feet again all changed in a moment, and stood by me looking away and saying not a word. She might have drawn her hand away, for I had not the strength to hold it, but there it lay, trem- bling like herself, mpeh as a little tame bird might lle an InStant in your hand, half for comfort staying, half for fear ready to fiy. So I stroked it, and laid it 1o my bot cheek, and K.ssed it again, and looked up.at her standing over ine. “Dear, will you forgive me?” For answer she starced a uttle, the color flyir.g over her face; and then she stooped and lightiy kissed me and filew out of tne roym. The thought of losing her was too much for me and 1 yelled out a savage cry that brought her back in terror, saying that I would die if 1 lay notastill. “Then stay here!” I said hoarsely. *If ou go away I—I will get out of bed!” hough God knows I could not have sat up to save my life. ‘““Come close to me— and—and talk.” Something in my face must have drawn her, for she came and lay upon the counterpane, and lifting my head put it upon her arm. And so she talked, her fair head close to mine, whis- pered ‘quietly such words as I would no more put to paper, even if I could, than I would tell the thoughts of my inmost soul to any one but God. No one can be held to speak of this one hour of his life. It is his for all time and only his, his to think on in after vears, in times of stress and trouble, to dream on year by ear! And it shall go out to no other, for t is true and sacred and belongs to him alone. So thus I lay, closing my eyes from weakness and comfort, yet must I quickly open them again, because I could look at her close by me and feared she would again be gone. And by and by somethin; in her words set my head a-going, and looking at her T asked, scarcely by means of words, how I came there, “T did not know, dear! We thought you gone. I dared not ask. No one gave me a hint, till one day came a messenger to me from my brother in his camp, asking if you were dead and saying where an how they left you.” And for a space she could not go on: till, looking again, I saw a far-off light in the depths of her eyes, different from anything I had yet read there. I have sald it a dozen times heve, yet must I say it again: Never have 1 looked into such eyes, so different with every fiying mood, so much a tell-tale of her thoughts. “And.then I caught one evening at din- ner a hint that finally led to my hearing from his own lips of Captain Atherton's— oi your—your—dear! My dear!—of that morning at Corlear’s Hook.” Again she lay still. Again I opened my eyves and she went on: “He had such a strong, manly resp~ct, such a chivalrous remembrance of you that I came to like him and trust him, and told him of Rabert’s letter, and begged him to learn something of you. And that day he began going through every prisun smp, every prace wnere men were confined, on the plea of selecting those who had smallpox. And each night he would come to me with a sorrowful shake of his head, but hopeful words and never a fear or complaint of the danger he ran. “No record could be found of your name. You seemed to have sunk into the earth. Then he trled to tell me gently that he belleved you dead. I could not hear him and begged, besought him to go agzin through the prisons. I asked Sir Henry to let me go and nurse the sick, that I might look for you. But he would not hear of it, and only laughed at me for a quixotic miss.” 1 stroked the hand that lay in mine gently, and she went on. “S80 one day I was sitting here in this house—indeed, the good Baroness brought me here and kept me with her constantly —when Captain Atherton came to us rum- ning up the street and cried that he had féund you, and how, and ‘that you were very ill, and Dr. Low was already gone to see if you—your life—might be saved! Dear, can you think what that hour of walting was to me? I sat there by the window, while, as I learned afterward, this best of friends told the captain to have you brought to her own house— even when she did not know if you might not have the dreadful plague—and told the captain all your story, for I had told er. . “And he, finding that the doctor said you had nothing contagious, so far as he could see, though you weré nearly dead from fever and lack of foor—he brought you here In a cart covered wilh straw and vegetables to conceal you. And that was over six weeks gone now! And God, the good God be thanked for to-day, when you opened your eyes and I saw reason there for the first time!’ The brown head came close to mine and lay quietly except for the shake of a sob now and then, which she tried in vain to suppress. And I, what of me? Will not a man yet complain of heaven? There I y cursing my illness, for that I was 00 weak to take her in my arms, and could do naught but turn my useless head to one side and put my lips to the white sleeve that supported me. Soon I pressed her hand and she looked at me. I wanted to ask much and knew not how, but only said: “Curtis?"” “My brother?” sald she. “You would know how he I nodded. “Safe and sound in his camp at Ver- planck He got away in a boat across the river.” ““Acton?"” “Yes, he too, Rob says, is well and safe.” Then I looked at her steadily and said not a word. And she sat up and got upon the floor, with sorrow in her face and something like dread written there, too. “I cannot tell you;’ she whispered, standing over me. ‘‘Some one else must do it. I'cannot! I cannot!" “‘Oh,” said a gruff voice behind her, “oh, go right cn! Don't mind me! Kill him, kill him! Egad, ma'am, why don’t you take him fer a walk and give him trufies and champagne? Aye, don't look at me and plead and tell me this and that! Just bang him on the head. He's good and strong, and should be thrown out on the snow! 'Twas Low, going on in sarcastic wrath, and she had run to him with consterna- tion in her eyes. ‘“Ah, doctor, doctor, have I done wrong? He said he would get up and follow me if I left him.” “Get up!” snorted Low. “And how the devil, ma’am, think you, he is going to get up? Look now! Why, you young repro- bate of a nurse, have I taught ye these two menths so poorly as this?” 'Oh, doctor!” cried she in real alarm. “Tut! not a word! But run and get him some of the milk and wine and a bit of rennet—"" and she was gone in a flash. “Well, lad,” said he at that. “Ye'll fight again, eh? How do you find your- self?”” And he brought a bottle of some nasty liquid and poured part of it into a ed none of your bad tasting stuff,” trying to laugh. *"said he. “No nasty stuff! I youve been having that that ell, suppose tastes better than good iron, eh? well, lad,” and his voice changed the best medicine God could send ye. remember you've no more backbone in you than a bit af cake, and go not too far. Here,” he added. “Look at that!™ and he held a little mirror before my eyes. And if truth be told, "twas a wretched- looking man that gazed out at me, with a great black growth of beard covering my crooked features, with hollow eyes gaz- Ing cut of a sunken, sallow-skinned visage that gave me a start to think on. “A nice -pirate,” sald he again, ‘“‘eh? to be going on talking and fandangling with pretty girls. Ah! Mistress Debby! Bring it here and go and lock yourself up in the garret, young woman.” But I would G B rants and villains, you see.” *You are more than kind friends,” I sald seriously. “‘You and the captain are risking your lives to help an enemy.” She laughed again. ¥ _*’Twas but to save a young chit's life,” said she. ‘““Of course we cared naught for you.” *“You are good and kind, dear lady, be- yond comprehension,” I answered, and she gave me her hand frankly. ‘“We could do naught with Debby. y by day she sat here by and watched and ‘listened fo dreadful ravings, and heard crying out at her cousin, and ing on her name, telling her in ant voice’—and she smiled, though she seemed still startled at the remem- brance of it—“the particular place she held in your affections, which men ally whisper, 1 hear, in the silence solitude.” i * 1 asked. For twenty-four hours in the day, week after week, and I have seen her sitting here looking at you as if her heart would break, wringing her hands ang begging Dr. Low to make you hear her%and understand.” “What can I ever do for her to repay half, or for you either? I wonder that she kept her health?” “Once we tried to get her away,” she continued. “And by Dr. Low's orders she went to her room. But in the night your cries nearly drove her mad, and, though the doctor sald 'twould under- mine her health, I went to her, and she begged me on her knees to let her go m to you, and—and—" smiling brightly, “and she asked me how would I feel if the Baron were ill and I shut in another room away from him! That was a shrewd little argument.” The tears stood in her eves and in mine, too. What had the girl not done for me, with never a word of explanation from me to set her mind at rest? ““Where is she?” I asked, a little husk- ily. “Why does she not come to me?™” With a laugh the Baroness got up, and saying that we were apparently a nalr, went in search of her. PBut she did not come and the day waned. The bright af- ternoon faded to sundown. and still sbe did not come. Some one brought In lamps and at last the Baroness appeared your of WA e D e A w‘@d’(&é\‘ %74;}],3\\‘\4‘ \ 7\l 4 not have it and swore I would not eat tim she gave it to me herself. And so, grumb- ling as he did with a_twinkle in his eye, she sat down on the bedside and fed me with a spoon and sald not a word: but then what mattered it since I could look at her and she at me? When I had done she went away again and I asked Low the question I could not put to her. His face clouded at once. ‘“Dead, lad. Dead before they got him to Paulus Hook. Bob Philipse wrote . to_ her and. told her. il a good riddance, for there never was a fonder friend nor foe than Frank Pen- dleton.” My head sank back upon the pillow, and the sweat came out on my face as I ran over the night n. “Let it not worry thee, 1ad,” went on the doctor gently. “I know the whole tale from another source than Philipse's letter. You drowned a rat, that's all Now get ye to sleep, and when you wake up again, you'll be a hundred per centum the stronger.” So he left me alone, and I lay watching the door for some one else, but before she came I had done his bidding. CHAPTER XXIIL A CASE OF “NONB BUT THE BRAVE" *Tis wonderful what a day of sleep will do to a man. When I awoke and found Low—'twas high noon next day—ready to take off my bandages and dress my wound, would for a while sit up, and did so. After he had strapped me up again tle Baroness came in with my breakfdst, and, noting something in my face, apologized for herself as a nurse, seying that my real nurse was out for an airing with Captain Atherton—which, to tell good truth, but irritated me—and that shortly she would return. I told her of my gratitude for her kindness—more thau kindness—to me, and she would have it that ’twas not for me at all, but only on behalf of Mistress Debby that I “was there. “The dear girl began to grow ill after the right you disappeared,” she said. “Something, I knew not what, was gnaw- ing at her heart. And when her brother's letter came she was nearly frantic with grief, and came then and told me much that I.had guessed before. Then came Captain Atherton to her aid—and you owe him much. We are not all,” she added, smiling sadly, ‘“‘we are not all ty- " sald Poor girl, she’s tired and worried.” ‘What is it?"" I asked again. *“Isthere something wong?” Bhe smiled again, “I think she’s a little afrald,” sald the Baroness. “T—" “Afraid?_ Afrald of what?” I asked. “Well, I " scarcely know,” she an- swered again. “I—’ and th len.nh‘{ over to me, “Shall I tell you a dreadfu secret about women?” I looked at her in amazement “I think—I am afral ** Then she stopped, and a pretty flush went over her face. “I'm afrald women like—a—little masterful treatment.” And, as I am a sinner, off she went like any young girl with the fires on her cheeks. I lay back in my bed an instant, and then called her back. “Dear Baroness,” I said, “will you en- ter a little conspiracy with me?” She nodded brightly. “I shall be very ill again” sald L “And shall shriek some more. Will you chance to pass by with—" " “Do you happen to have any ide: young man, where she has been these three hours' I had not the least, unless out walking with Captain Atherton. “She is sitting just outside that door by the window in the hall.’ 1 simply signed to her to begin the con- spiracy, and she passed out, leaving the door ajar. I waited a moment and then began to talk, and rambled on, getting louder and louder, till finally I yelled out a lot of idiotic nonsense, putting in her name. Then I paused and heard through the doorway much whispering, and howl- ed again, hearing in_a moment: *Oh, what Is 1t? Can it be true? Again?’ That volce hit my conscience hard, but I yelled out again. Whereupon the door opened and in she came, runnlng to me and speaking my name softly and taking my hand. In a moment I had her fast by the arm. “Where have you been all day, ma- > She stood back, looking at me In won- der, but she could not escape. “Sit down, dear heart,” sald I; “sit down, sit down. 'Twas all a conspiracy to get you in here.” Then I thought she would be angry, but with a flush she said: ) be offended, but look at me.” never moved. is it necessary for me, sit- “Deborah, ting here done up in five miles of rags, too absurdly weak to stand up—is it nec- essary for me to make love to you?" Up came the eyes straight at me with some of the old fearless fire in them. “Do you want me to ask you to marry me?” There was an Instant's silence and then she sudderly gave way to a burst of merry laughter. “It seems to me, sir,” with a toss of her head, “that you put your question a bit late in the day, since we have been married now some six months.” That sobered me, for I remembered that I knew something still unknown to her, and sitting there by the light of the lamp I told her of the comrade who had helped me in the Sugar House, and what he knew of Marvin. For a moment she sat quietly looking away from me, her hands lying in her lap. Then, turning to me with a depth in her beautiful eyes that seemed so new and re- cent, she gently laid her hand in mine and sat there looking at me without a word for minute after minute; till I leaned forward and took her fair, serious face in my two hands and drew it toward me and kissed it once, twice, and asked: “Are you happy, Deborah?” “Yes, dear,” sald she slmPl)'. ‘“Well, what the devil do I care, madam? I've got to dress the man’s wound. Egad, they can’t bill and coo twenty-four hours In the day. Let me in!” This from the other side of the door. A whispered pleading was his answer. “Not_at all! He can’t get up till he's well. So in I go.” And in he came, puff- ing, fuming, and unwound and wound me up again. It was as he was rewinding the ban- dages after dressing the wound that the door opened and Atherton came In. Up he sirode to me, with something of a shame- faced look and shook hands. “How are ye, old man?’ said he, as if he had seen me and talked but yesterday. “Right and fit, friend,” sald I and then we fell to silence. 'Tis ever a _strange thing to me, and yet something I cannot fail to_like, to see, as I did now, two Anglo-Saxons trying to hide all the good feelings in them. Even Low laughed out as he worked on and said: ‘“What's the price of beer?” ad! I'd like some now, eh Balfort?" cried Atherton, and, owing easier, he sat down and watched the skillful hands of the doctor. I stretched out and took his hand. “Captain,” sald I, for me than any—"" “Tut, tut, man,” cried he, wringing my poor weak hand till it ached. “Not a word! 'Twas nothing. Let it pass. Doc- tor, for God's sake, give us a drink! Is there naught of alcohol In this house?” “Drink, you big fool!” cried Low. “Do you want to kill him?" “‘Oh, he's fit to fight again, and show me what a man can do besides fight.”” “Look ye here, Atherton,” said I seri- ously. “I'm Yo!'l_l_' prisoner. What will “Let’s talk of some- thing pleasanter. “That I will not, man,” I answered. “I must get away and you cannot let me go.” He looked at me an instant, and I knew the same umuiht had been in his mind since he heard I could recover. “Balfort,” he said in a moment, “will you give me your parole till the end of the war? I knew it long before he said it, and leaning back on my pillow, I told him I could not. ‘“‘Give ye his parole, you raving idiot,” cried Low—never was such an actor lived as that same cl rurgeon. ‘““Why, look. man! look!” and with that he unwound the bandages he had be?un to replace and 144 bare the wound. I looked down at it and my gorge rose at the sight. 'Twas a elit, a ragged cut from my right hip up along he ribs near to my shoulder, a good twelve inches. Onmly by the grace of chance was it that Hazeltine's point had not caught on a rib and gone through me. And the edges stood even now far apart and ugly and irregular. “Parole?” went on the doctor. “Why, man, he cannot hold a sword for a year! Atherton looked at it and took my hand ain, Friend,” said he, “will ye give me your arole for six months? To tell ye the ath, your army cannot hold out that lcng, and I am safe.” By chance 1 caught the doctor’s eye, and knew in some way that he bade me accept it, so, lying back again, I told Atherton I would. “Then I get you out of here when you can move."” Again I gave him mg hand and thank- ed him till he swore he’d hear no more and went off with Low. And so the days passed on, quickly enough for a matter of three weeks. And then, beginning to feel stronger, I com- menced to fret and worry and wonder when I would get away and what was happening at West Point, and where were my companions in Putnam’s divis- lon, and what of Curtis—or Philipse, as I should call him—and Acton. I was up now and walking over the house, but not ellowed to go out. I talked with Low when we were alone about the best way of going, and he had a plan all arranged. But I had another that was worth ten of his, for that it had another purpese, which I could only talk over with ona other person, and that one the Baroness. Her husband had been away all the time in the South with his Germans, and so I saw much of her—much of every one, in fact, except Mistress Debby, who would talk with me less and less. So one day I bsoached my plan to the fcad lady. At first she sald 'twould be mpoesible, andthen, her eyes shining, she said I should 2? it, if she could bring it about. And we/ began to scheme by her telling my proud mistress that I was shortly going away. When next I got a word with her, we had but just finished tea and were walk- ing in the great drawing-room, she and I 1 saw how silent she was, and with some misgivings began: “Deborah.” “Yes?” “you've done more “Deborah, soon I must get back to my camp,” said I, gently. “You cannot go! You would not go, would you?" cried she. “You are not well enough. Will you leave me?" “l am quite well now,” I answered, as quietly as I could. “You are not! you are no she mur- mured, taking hold of my arm and look- ing at me. “You could not stand the Greadful camp life.” h“l must, dear. I cannot waste my life ere.” “Waste?" sald she, slowly. “You know well what I mean.” She sat down then, and I by her, and naught was said for a while. "I cannot let you gol” said she pres- ently. “There’s one way out of it,” sald I Up came her troubled face and looked at me. “Will you come with me?” The fair face set and the eyes looked straight into mine. “l would go anywhere In the world with you, But what could you do with me in'a camp?’ “What did the Baroness Riedessel in her castle in Germany when her husband left her for a camp three thousand miles across the sea?” ‘And_ brought her children with her, she murmured. Then, looking up, she added hastily, “T do not fear to go, belleve me, dear.” “l never once thought you did.” And the Baroness coming in then, she ran to her and threw her arms around her neck and kissed her. I stood by a moment and then the little lady turned toward me, laid her two hands in mine and, looking at me and at the Baroness, she sald: “T'll go gladly. Wilt take me?" “‘Aye, that I will, Debby dear, and God bless your brave heart. 'Twill be a dif- ferent life from this, and you do not like the cause.” and shall be mine. And 'tis ** "Tis yours BOve havera Nt Baros “We hav ttle pl " sald the n- ess to her, “Merton l:;:h . You shall be married here in thls house and Captain Atherton will get you out.” “Oh!” cried the brazen minx. “T think == hat!" cried the Baroness, 'm married enough now,” quoth the lady with a twinkle in her eye. ““You naughty girl!” sald the scandal- ized matron again. *'Tis but a form,” saild Deborah, “and I'm satisfled now. “Lieber Herr Je,” cried the horrifled Baroness, raising her hands and looking at the girl in amazement. I could stand it no longer, but must spoil all by laughing. ‘““What have you two in your heads?"” asked the mystified lady. “Naught but this, ma'am,” sald Mis- tress Deborah, and with a sweeping cour- tesy she took from her bodice a paper and handed it to the astonished matron. Continued on Page Six.