The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 7, 1902, Page 13

THE SUNDAY CALL /3 _— e nst one another? They must disap- ar and they only burn our hearts. arms around of a person who will as- them. But the closer our rubs us the more Ernestine in- Eists upon class differences. T uld be a colossal mother go- t the world to turn men over her 1d give them the slipper. They pine Am I helping forward the general good, or am 1 only suffering Nature's punish nen 1 can fasten the bonds of habit giving him food from her _Strengthening his care for rely putting herself before him he makes him think of her. e has an exiled woman e fearful odds of dafly life? mes I think I can wait a In sun and snow, In a woman waits. If she hand and said “Come,” espise her so much as she e herself? _Cruel as a man? Hour after ter day, year after year, he m spike of silence in. let me suffer such anguish! se I kissed you? That was *t of my life! I groped down K of the Tulleries blinded i Why are the natural things called wrong and the unnatural ones just? becavse I said I would come to some time? This is what I meant: t it 1d give me no jealous pang rother woman's head on your there is a_ wedlock which a S cannot touch. No, I never would—I never would seek you; though sometimes the horror of do- ing without you turns into reproach. What is he doing? He may need me— &nd I am letting his life slip away. Am I cheating us bbth of what could have harmed no one? It is not that usage is broken off. Yet if you were to come I would punish ¥ou for coming! Fine herofc days I tell myself we are marching to meet each other. If the day had been particularly hard, I say, ‘‘Per- heps I have carried his load, too, and he marches lighter.” You have faults, no doubt, but the only one 1 could not pardon would be your seying, “I repent.” he instinct to conceal defeat and pain is so strong in me that I would have m- Bieart cut out rather than own it ached. Yet many women carry all before them }‘:}ol: little judicious whining and rebel- 1 never believe in your unfaith. If you brought & wife and showed her to me I should be sorry for her, and still not be- lieve in your unfaith. Louis, ‘I have been falling down flat &rd cmwllng the ground. Now I am up ain. xI‘t didn’t hurt L 18 the old German fairy story, Every day gold must be spun out of straw. How big the pile of straw looks every morning, how little the handful of gold every night! Fris Jreirie in the Indiana Territory eaded s a black gulf is a grassy day valley. 1 love the garden, and I love to hoe the Indian corn. It springs so clean from the sod, and is & miracle of growth. After the staiks are around my knees, they are soon around my shoulders. [The broad leaves ha fragrance and’the silk is ts. clothes in the river. e corn, dig in a garden >s earn the wholesome brought the first bluebells put them in water for me. s and when they blossomed “God has blessed thesb e to nurse the sick. The of the g pioneer women is unfailing. great and kind friendship of They help me take Father's feelings. I don't s greedy and made a r keep to- r 21l that love each other.” en he is & man 1 am going to tell d say: “But I have built my house, it. T have been yours, not me such storles as this: there was su And they his stomach wall. He ‘Once h a loving angel ran_ a string and hung hi th ever whined a bl A in this country, which is ,_are nearly all bound. Those ack money as we do cannot g0 they please, or live as they wouid Is that freedom? On 2 cool autumn night, when the fire es, the ten children of the settle- fighting or agreeing, come running like hens. We sit on the floor in front of the hearth, and I uffer the often-repeated martyrdom of Fire Pig. This tale, invented once as I could talk, I have been to repeat until I dread the shades enine. he children bunch their heads to- ir lips part, as soon as I begin m from their houses th u see that glowing spot in the the coals? That is the house of Fire Pig. One day the Fire Pig found no more corn, and he was very So he jumped out of his house the road till he came to a heart of the er's fleld. Good morning, Mr. Farmer,” sald the pig. “Have you any corn for me , who are you?” sald the farmer. 2 little Fire Plg.” 0, I haven't any corn for a Fire Fig.” The pig ran on till he came to another 1 er's field. 3004 morning, Mr. Farmer, have you &ny corn for me to-day?” “Who are you?” said the farmer. “Ok, I'm the little Fire Pig.” “I don’t know,” eald the farmer. * d glve you a great bagful if you kill the snake which comes every and steals my cattle.” The pig thought, “How can I kill that enake?’ but he was 80 hungry he knew he ehould starve without corn, so he sa'd he would try. The farmer told him to go @down in the field, where the snake came gliding at night with its head reaned high in air. The pig went down in the meadow end the first creature he saw was a sheep, *“Baa!” sald the sheep. That was its way of saying “How do you do? are you?” “I'm the little Fire Plg." “What are you doing here?” “I've come to kill the great snake that eats the farmer's cattle.” “I'm very glad,” said the sheep, “for it takes my lambs. How are you going to kil 1t? “I don’t know,” sald the pig; *‘can’t you belp me?” “T'll give you gome of my wool The pig thanked the sheep, and went a little farther and met a horse. “He-ce- ee!” sald the horse. That was his way of saying “How do you do?” *“Who are you?” “] am the little Fire Pig.” “What are you doing here?” “I've come to kill the great snake that eats the farmer’s cattle.” “I'm glad of that, the horse; “‘for it steals my colts. How are you going to do §t7” “1 don't know,” sald the plg. “Can’t you help me?” “I'll give you some of the long hairs from my tail,” said the horse. The plg took them and thanked the horse. And when he went a little farther he met a cow. *““Who “Moo!" id the cow. That was her way of saying “How do you do?” “Who are you?” ‘m the little Fire Pig.” “What are you doing here?” “I've come to kill the great snake that eats the farmer’s cattle.” “T am glad of that, for it steals my ealves. How are you golng to do 1t?" “T don't know. Can’t you help me?” “I'll give you one of my sharp horns,” said the cow. y 80 the pig took it and thanked her. Then he spun and he twisted, and he spun and he twisted, and made a strong woolen eord of the sheep’s wool. And he wove and he braided. and he wove and he braided, and made a cunning snare of the horse's tail. And he whetted and sharp- ened, and he whetted ;‘md shar;')ened. and ade a keen dart of the cow’s horn. — Now when the little plz has all his materials ready, and sees the great snake come gliding, gliding—T turn the situation over to the children. That A4id he do_with the Tope, the snare gnd the horn? They work it out each in his own way. There is ; mighty wrang- ling all around the hearth. Ore day is never really like another, though 1t seems s0. Perhaps being used to the sight of the Troguols at Lake rge makes it impo: sible for me to imagine what the settlers dread. and that is an attack. We are shut around by forests. In primitive 1ife £0 much time and strength go to the getting of food that we can think of little glse. It is as bad to slave at work as to slave at pleasure. But God may forgive what people cannot help. There is a very old woman among the settlers whom they call Granny. We often sit together. She cannot get a gourd edge betwixt her nose and chin when she drinks, and has forgotten she ever had teeth. She does not expect much; but there is one right she contends for, and that is the right of ironing her cap by stretching it over her knee. When I have lived in this settlement long enough my nose and chin may come together and I shall forget my teeth. But this much I will exact of fate. My cap shall be ironed. I will not—I will not fron it by stretching it over my knee! Count du Chaumont would be angry if he saw me learning to weave, for in- stance. You would not be angry. That makes a difference between you as men which 1 feel but cannot explain. We speak English with our neighbors. Paul, who is to be an American, must learn his language well. 1 have taught him to read and write. I have taught him the history of his family and of his father's country. His head i{s as high as my breast. When will my head be as high as his breast? Skenedonk loves you as a young supe- rior brother. I have often wondered what he thought about when he went quietly around at your heels. You told me he had killed and scalped, and in spite of education was as ready to kill and scalp again as any white man is for war. 1 dread him like a toad, and wish him to keep on_ his side of the waik. He is always with you, and no doubt silently urges, “Come back to the wigwams that neurished you! Am I mistaken? Are we moving farther and farther apart instead of approachin each other? Oh, Louis, does this roa lead to nothing? I am glad I gave you that key. It was given thoughtlessly, when I was in a bub- ble of jo; But if you have kept fit, it speaks to you every day. Sophie Saint Michel told me man some- times piles all his tokens in a retrospec- tive heap and says, “Who the deuce gave me this or that Sophie’s father used to be so enraged at his wife and daughter because he could not restore their lost comforts. But this is really a better disposition than a mean subservience to misfortune. The children love to have me dance gavottes for them. Some of their moth- ers consider it levity. Still, they feel the need of a little levity themselves. We had & great festival when the wild roses were fully in bloom. The prairie is called a mile square, and wherever a plow has not struck acres of wild roses grow. They hedge us from the woods dike a parapet edging a court. These vol- unteers are very thorny, bearing tender claws to protect themselves with. But I am nimble with my scissors. We took the Jordan oxen, a meek palr that have broken sod for the colony, and twined them with garlands of wild roses. Around and around their horns, and eround and around their bodles the long ropes were wound, their master standing by with his goad. That we wound also, and covered his hat with roses. The huge oxen swayed aside, looking ashamed of themselves. And when their tails were ornamented with a bunch at the tip they switched these pathetically. Still even an ox loves festivity, whether he owns to it or not. We made a procession, child be- hind child, each bearing on his head all the roses he could carry, the two oxen walking tandem, led by their master in front. Everybody came out and laughed. It was a beautiful sight and cheered us, thcugh we gave it no name except the procession of roses. Often when I open my eyes at dawn I hear music far off that makes my heart swell. It is the waking dream of a King marching with drums and bugles. While I am dressing I hum, “Oh, Richard, O my King Louis! Louis! Louis! 1 cannot—I cannot keep it down! How can I hold still that righteousness may be done through me, when I love—love—love —when I clench my fists and walk on my knees— I am a wicked woman! sweet pretense of duty! It covers the hypocrite that loves—that starves—that cries, My King!—my King! Strike me!—drive me within bounds! This long repression—years, years of waiting—for what?—for more waiting!— it is driving me ma You have the key. 1 have nothing! What is all this IX. My God! What had she seen in me to love? I sat up and held the book against my bosom. Its cry out of her past filled the world from horizon to horizon. The ox that she had wreathed in roses would have heard it through her silence. But the brutal, slow Bourbon had gone his way, turning his stupid head from side to_side, leaving her to perish. Punctuated by years, bursting from eternities of suppression, it brought an accumulated force that swept the soul out of my body. All that had not been written in the book was as easily read as what was set down. I saw the monotony of her life, and her gllding of its rudeness, the pas- times she thought out for children; I saw her nursing the helplessness which leaned upon her, and turning aside the contempt of ploneer women who passionately ad- mired strong men. I saw her eyes walt- ing on the distant laggard who stupidly pursued his own affairs until it was too late to protect her. I read the entries over and over. When day broke it seemed to me the morning after my own death, such knowing and experiencing had passed through me. I could not see helxi again until 1 had command of my- self. So I dressed and went silently down- stairs. The Pawnees were stirring in the kitchen. I got some bread and meat from them, and also some grain for the horse; then mounted and rode to the river. The ferryman lived near the old stock- ade. Some time always passed aftet he heard the signals before the deliberate Frenchman responded. I led my horse upon the unwieldy craft propelled by two huge oars, which the ferryman managed, running from one to another according to the swing of the current. It was broad day when we reached the other shore— one of those days gray overhead, when molsture breaks upward through the ground, instead of descending. Many light ciouds fiitted under the grayness. The grass showed with a kind of green blush through its old brown fleece. 1 saw the first sailing vessel of spring coming to anchor from the straits of the great lakes. Once I would have hail- ed that vessel as possible bearer of news. Now it could bring me nothing of any importance. The trail along the Fox River led over rolling land, dipping into coves and ris- ing over hills. The Fox, steel blue in the shade, becomes tawny as its name- sake when its fur of rough waves is combed to redness in the sunlight. Un- der grayness, with a soft wind blowing, the Fox showed his blue coat. The prospect was so large, with a ridge running along in.the distance, and open country spreading away on the other side, that I often turned In my saddle and look- ed back over the half-wooded trall. thought I saw a figure walking a long way behind me, and, being alone, tried to discern what it was. But under that gray sky nothing was sharply defined. I rode on, thinking of the book in the breast of my coat. it was certain I was not to marry, And being without breakfast and unstimu- lated oy the sky, I began to think, also, what unstable material I had taken in hand when I undertook to work with In- dtans. Instinctively I knew then what a young Southern statesman, Jefferson Da- vis, whom I first met as a commandant of the fort at Green Bay, afterward told me in Washington—"No commonwealth in a republic will stand with interests apart from the federated whole.” White men who have exclaimed from the inning against the injustice done the red man, and who keep on pitying and exterminat- ing him, made a federated whole with interests apart from his. Again when I looked back I saw the figure, but it was afoot, and I soon lost a cove. . “)‘I’;' house h.d been left undisturbed by hunters and Indians through the winter. T tieu the horse to a gallery post and unfastened the door. =« pile of refuse timbers offered wood for a fire, and I car- Tied in several loads of it and lighted the virgin chimney. Then I brought water from the spring and ate breakfast, sitting before the fire and thinking a little wear- {ly and bitterly of my prospect in life. Having fed my horse, I covered the fire, Jeaving a good store of fuel by the hearth, and rode away toward the Winnebago lands. day was a hard one, ad when I e e Toward nightfall T was glad to stop with the officers of the stockade e their mess. ":"dYslz:al;ook agged,” sald one of them. «The horse paths are heavy,” I an- swered, “and 1 have been as far as the and, I N een o5 far as that remote time Eagle was not a cloud-mother. To :r:;:: v.h‘: river and see her smiling in meaningless happiness seemed more than T could do. Yet she might notice my absence. We had been housed together ever since she had discovered me. Our walks and rides, our fireside talks and evening diversions were never separate. At Plerre Grig- non’s the tamxly flocked in companies. When the padiocked book sent me out of the house I forgot that she was used to my presence and might be disturbed by an absence no one could explain. “The first salling vessel is in from the straits,” sald the lieutenant. “Yes, I saw her come to anchor as I rode out this morning.” :'She brought a passenger.” s‘Anybody ‘of importance?” y“A_,t first blush, no. At second blush, 'Why ‘no’ at first blush?"” “Because he is only a priest.” Only a grlcst, haughty officer! Are gle\éltl!;a'm and churchmen dirt under army e lieutenant grinned. “When you see a misslonary priest landing to confess a lot of Canadians he doesn’'t seem guite s> {mportant, as a prelate from Ghent, for instance.” Is this passenger a prelatp from Ghent?" ‘““That is where the second blush comes He 1s.” in, “How do you know?’ I saw him and talked to him.” i What is he doing in Graen Bay?” “Locking at the country., He was in- quiring for you.” +For me!” es. ‘“What could a prelats from Ghent ‘want with me?". “Says he wants to make about the native tribes.” “Oh! Did you recommend me as an ex- pert in native tribes?” “Natura'ly. But not until he asked if you were here.” +He mentioned my name?” Yes. He wanted to sce you. You'll not have to step out of your way to gratify him.” “From that I infer there is a new face at Pierre Grignon's. “Your Inference is correct. The Grig- and a nons always lodge the priests, great man like this e will be certalnly “What is he like?"” smooth and easy gentleman.” ‘In a cassock?’ ‘““Tell a poor post lieutenant what a cas- sock 1s.” “The long-skirted o )\eelg." kirted black coat reaching “‘Our_missionary priests don’t wear it here. He has the bands and broad hat and general appearance of a priest, but his coat isn’t very long.” Then he has laid aside the cassock while traveling through this country.” The prelate from Ghent, no doubt a o mon prieal, that the lieutenant under. o _dignify, ook to,dienity, slipped directly out of Madame Ursule was walting for me on the gallery with fluted pillars at the front of the house. “M's'’t Willlams, where is Madeleine?"” ne}lcr anxiety vibrated through the dark- inquiries n’'t she here, madame?” She bas not béen seen to-day. n silence, then speak together. i o 3ut, madame—"" I's'r Willlams— went away early—" Den I heard from the Pawnees that {}?ru;gs igLD“e of{)‘on horse!bnck so early I possible you m! v her with _\‘,ou. : Shtharegdaien ::Mndamo, how could I do that?” Of course, you wouldn't have done that. But we can't find her. We've In- quired all over La Baye. She left the house when no one saw her. She was never out after nightfall before.” .But, madame, she must be here!" ‘Oh, m's'r, my hope was that you knew where she was—she has followed you &bout so! The poor child may be at the bottom of the river!” ‘'She can’'t be at the bottom of the riv- er!” T retorted. The girls ran out. They were dressed for a dance, and drew gauzy scarfs around their anxious faces. The house had been searched from ground to attic more than once. They were sure she must be hiding from them. I remembered the figure that appeared to me on the trail. v heart stopped. I could not humiliate my cloud-mother by placing her before them in the act of tracking me like a dog. I could not tell sg;’kone about it, but asked for Skene- The Indian had been out on the river in a canoce. He came silently and stood near me. The book was between us. I had it in the breast of my coat, and he had it el’}‘]l;l!ls conscience. B ring out your horse fresh one,” T s};ld. sy ity \:Where shall I find one?” Plerre will give you one of ours,” sald Madame Ursule. “But you must eat.” I had my supper with the officers of the fort, madame. I would have made a briefer stay if I had known what had ha“;ipetned gntthis lnide of the river.” orgot to tell you, M's'r Williams there is an abbe here from . He asked for you.” s I cannot see him to-night.” 5 Skeneldonk“drew near m!; %0 Was Impatient of any delay. We wen into the house, and MadameyUrsllle l!.‘d(; she world bring a blanket and soma food Eo‘su-au behind my saddle. The girls heiped her. 7There was a hush through- 2ut the jolly aouse. The master bustied ouvt of the family room. I saw behind him, standing as he stood at Mittau, a f:nrée?;ro‘.;ieflne 3na sweet presence, walt- rre Grignon to s of Iln(rodll.;fi!lon. PoME he mords “It is e seeing France again!” - claimed the mmater8 of the hougg.nl“Agge Lfl'gewol_-th. this is M's'tr Williams.” perbt/lol;lsleux‘.;’ aaldbll';e abbe to me with ect courtesy, ‘‘be pe ;;e B Y, leve me, I am glad ‘Monsieur,” I answered, giving hi brief notice as he had gh'egn meg Inn;df.: tau, yet without rancor—there was no room in me for that. “You have uner- ?l‘rgr]i)t'o founddtlx’lel best house in Iliinois erritory, an eav joy- et o2 it e you to the enjoy .You are leaving the house, Monsieur?" “I find I am obliged 5 ged to make a short “I have made a long one, may be best to tell you charged with a message for you.” I thought of Madame d’Angouleme. The sister who had been mine for a few minutes, and from whom this priest had cast me out, declaring that God had smitten the pretender when my eclipse lald me at his feet—remembered me in :‘telll-l lec‘%nd exile, tx:/ex'haps belleved in me L omen put wonderful I.\'D‘A()‘l;lblhgg!elve& 1 restraints e geworth and i ?afih nt?ilv%r.d I looked steadily WL hope Madame d’Angouleme is well?"" ‘She 1s well, and {s still the comforter of his Majesty's misfortune.” ‘Monsieur the abbe, a message would need to be very urgent to be listened to to-night. I will give you audience in the mg;nu;)g.l:rbwheg I return.” e bo owed again, I t Grignon into the hall for cou:;:l:. Fems In the end he rode with me, for we concluded to send Skenedonk with a party along the east shore. Though searching for the lost is an experience old as the world, its poig- nancy was new to me. I saw Eagle tan- g!ed In the wild oats of the river. I saw ber treacherously dealt with by Indians who called themselves at peace. I saw her wandering out and out, mile beyond mile, to undwelt-in places, and the ten- de‘;vmercy og :}-‘alvteu. ‘® crosse e ferry and took to the trail, Plerre Gfl%non talking cheerfullq. “Nothing has happened to her, M's't ‘Williams,” he insisted. ‘“No Indian about La Baye would hurt her, and the child is not g0 crazy as to hurt herseif.” It was a starless night, muffled over- head as the day had been, but without rain or mist. He had a lantern hanging at his saddle bow, ready to light. In the ogen lands we rode side by side, but through growths along the Fox first one speak, but monsieur. It that came ‘We found the door unfastened. I re- membered for the first time I had not locked it. Some one had been in the house. A low fire burned in the chim- ney. We stirred it and lighted the lan- tern. Footprints not our own had dried white upon the smooth dark floor. They pointed to the fireplace and out again. They had been made by a wo- man’s feet. We descended the hill to the river and tossed our light through every bush, the lantern blinking in the wind. We expiored the ravine, the light stealing over white birches that glistened like alabaster. It was no use to call her name. She might be hidden behind a rock laughing at us. ‘We had to surprise her to recover her. Skenedonk would have traced her where we lost the trail. ‘When we went back to the house, de- Jected with physical weariness. I un- strapped the blanket and the food which Madame Ursule had sent, and brought them to Plerre Grignon. He threw the blanket on the settee, laid out bread and meat on the table, and ate, both of us blaming ourselves for sending the Indian on the other side of the river. We traced the hard route which I had followed the day before, and reached Green Bay about dawn, Plerre Grignon went to bed exhausted. I had some breakfast and waited for Skenedonk. He had not returned, but had sent one man back to say there was no clew. The meal was lfke a passover eaten in haste. 1 could not wait, but set out again, with a pillion which I had carried uselessly in the night strapped again upon the horse for her seat, in case I found her; and leaving word for the Oneida to follow. I had forgotten there was such a person as Abbe Edgeworth, when he led a horse upon the ferry-boat. “You ride early as well as late. May I oln you?” : 1 ¥1de on a search which cannot inter- est_you, monsieur.” “Y}uu are mistaken. I understand what has disturbed the house, and I want to ride with you.” “It will be hard for a horseman accus- tomed to avenues.” % “It will suit me perfectly.’ It did not suit me at all, but he took my coldness with entire courtesy. “Have you breakfasted, monsieur?” “I had my usual slice of bread and cup of water, before rising,” he answered. ‘Again I led on the weary trail to my house. Abbe Edgeworth galloped well, keeping behind me where there was room, or riding behind where there was not. The air blew seft, and great shadow clouds ran in an upper current across the deepest blueness I had seen in many a day. The sun showed beyond rows of hills. 1 beothnught myself to ask the priest if he knew anything about Count ds Chaumont. He answered very simply and directly that he did; that I might remember Count d¢g Chaumont was men- tioned in Mittau. e Count, he sald, ac- cording to common report, had retired with his daughter and his son-in-iaw to Blois, where he was vigorously rebullding his ruined chateau of Chaumont. If my mind had been upon the priest 1 should have \\'(mdfi.red ‘what he came for. He did not press his message. “The court is again in exile?” I said, when we could ride abreast. ‘At Ghent.” i ‘Bellenger visited me last September. He_was without a dauphin.” ““We could supply the deficiency,” Abbe Bdgeworth pleasantly replied. "{\'llh the boy be left in Eurone?” “Oh, dear, no. With royal Dukes. You observed his Majesty could not pension a helpless idiot without encouraging dau- phins. These dauphins are thicker than blackberries. The dauphin myth has be- come so common that whenever we see a beggar approaching, we say, ‘There comes another dauphin.’ Onme of them is a fellow who_calls himself the Duke of Richemont. He has followers who be- lieve absolutely in him. Somebody, seeing him asleep, declared it was the face of the dead king!" I felt stung, remembering the Marquis’ du Plessy’'s words. “Oh, yes, ves,” sald Abbe Edgeworth. He has visions too. ~ Half memorles, when the face of his mother comes back to_him! o“Whnt about his scars?” I asked hard- 11; ¥‘Scum! yes, T am told he has the proper stigmata of the dauphin. He was taken out of the Temple prison; a dyi% bor being substituted for him ‘there. We ail know the dauphin’s physician died sud- denly; some say he was poisoned; and a new physician attended the boy who died in the Temple. Of course the priest who recefved the child’s confession should have known a dauphin when he saw one. But_that's nelther here mor, there. We lived then in surprising times.” ‘‘Madame d’Angouleme would recognize him as her brother if she saw him?” I !ugfe!led. “I think she is not so open to tokens as at one time. Women's hearts are tender. The Duchess d'Angouleme could never be convinced that her brother died. “But others, including her uncle, were convinced ?”" ““The Duke of Richemont was not. What do vou yourself think, Monsieur Wil- liams?” “I think that the man who is out is an infinite joke. He tickles the whole world. People have a right to laugh_ at a man who r“al’motflnrnve he is what he says he is. The difference between a pretender and a usurper is the difference between the top of the hill and the bottom.” ‘The morning sun showed the white mor- tar ribs of my homestead clean and fair betwixt hewed logs; and brightened the inside of the entrance or hall room. For I saw the door stood open. It had been left unfastened but not ajar. Somebody was in the house. 1 told Abbe Edgeworth we would dis- mount and tie our horses a little dis- tance away. And I asked him to wait outside and let me enter alone. He obligingly sauntered on the hill overlooking the Fox; I stepped upon the gallery and looked in. The sweep of the gray dress showed in front of the settle. Eagle was there. I stood still. She had put on more wood. Fire crack- led in the chimney. I saw, and seemed to have known all night, that she had taken pieces of unbroken bread and meat left by Plerre Grignon on my table; that her shoes were cleaned and drying in front of the fire; that she must have carried her dress above contact with the soft ground. When I asked Abbe Edgeworth not to come in, her dread of strangers influenced me less than a desire to protect her from his eyes, haggard and draggled as she probably was. The instinct which made her keep her body like a temple had not failed under the strong excitement that drove her out. Whether she slept under a bush, or not at all, or took to the house after Plerre Grignon and I left it, she was resting quietly on the settle before {lhe fireplace, without a stain of mud upon er. I could see nothing but the foot of her dress. Had. any change passed over her face? Or had the undisturbed smile of my cloud-mother followed me on the road. Perhaps the cloud had thickened. Per- haps thunders and lightnings moved with- in it. Sane people sometimes turn wild after being lost, running from their friends, and fighting against being re- strained and brought home. The gray dress in front of my hearth I could not see without a heaving of the breast. X. How a man’s life is drawn, turned, shaped by a woman! He may deny it. He may swagger and lie about it. Heredity, ambition, lust, noble asfll’allonl. weak self-induigence, power, failure, success, have their turns with him. But the wo- man he desires above all others, whose breast is his true home, makes hif, mars m. Had she cast herself on the settle ex- hausted and 11l after exposure? Should I find her muttering and helpless? Worse than all, had the night made her forget that she was a cloud-mother. I drew my breath with an audible sound and then the other led the way. in the throat. Her dress stirred. She leaned around the edge of the settle. Iagle ae Kerrier, not my cioud-mother, looked at me. Her features were pinched from exposure, but flooded themselives in- stantly with a blush. She snatched hef shoes from the hearth and drew them on. I was taken with such a trembling that I held to a gallery post. Suppose this glimpse of herself had been given to me only to be withdrawn! I was afraid to speak, and waited. She “li:t}ou up facing me. “Touts “Madame!”" “‘What is the matter, sire?” “Nalhlni‘ madame, nothing.” “Where is Paul?” I did not know what to do, and looked at her completely helpless; for if I told her Paul was dead she might relapse, and evasions must be temporary. ©'The Indian took him,” she cried. “‘But the Indian didn't kill him, Eagle.” ‘‘How do you know?” ‘Because Paul came to me.” ‘He came to you? Where?"” ‘At Fort Stephenson.” ‘Where is my child? ‘‘He s at Fort Stephenson.” “Bring him to me!” . ¢I can’t bring him, Eagle.' “Then let me go to him. I did not know what to to her. ““‘And there were Cousin hllll»{l and Ernestine lying across the step. have been thinking all night. Do you under- stand it?"”" ‘“Yes, I understand it, Eagle.” By the time I had come into the house her mind leaped forward in comprehen- slon. The blanket she had held on her shoulders fell aronnd her feet. It was a striped gay Indian blanket. +You were attacked, and the settlement You were not there, “No, I remember. I saw you the last time at the Tullerfes.” “When di dame?” “I have been sick, haven't I? But I have been sitting by this fire nearly all night, trying to understand, 1 knew I was alone, ‘because Cousin Philippe and Ernestine—I want Paul!” I looked at the floor, and must have appeared miserable. She passed her hands back over her forehead many times, as if brushing something away. “If he died, tell me.” ©I held him, Eagle.” “%‘Ihey didn’t kill him?’ “No. “Or scalp him?" “The Kni: hnevar touched him.” ut— It was in battle.” “My child died in battle? How long ha! I been 1?7 = ore than a year, Eagle.” nd he died in_battle?” ‘He had a wound in his side. He was Eroughc into the fort, and I took care of im.” She burst out weeping, and laughed and ‘wept, the tears running down her face and wetting her bosom. ““My boy! My little son! You held him! He died like a man!"” I put her on the settle, and all the cloud left her in that tempest of rain. After- wards I.wiped her face with my handker- chief and she sat erect and still. A nolse of many birds came from the ravine, and winfied bodies darted past the door tttering the cries of spring. Abbe Edgeworth sauntered by and she saw him, and was _startled. d you come to yourself, ma- ““Who is that?"” “Louis,"” took care of me?" “You have been with the Grigno you came to the Illinois territory. “Am I in the Illinois Territory? “Yes, I found you with the Grignon “They must be kind people “They are; the earth’s salt.” “But” wbo brought me to the Illinois Territory 7" * “A family named Jordan.” E “The Indians didn’t kill them?” No. “Why waen't T killed?" “The Indians regarded you with super- stitfon.” % “What have I said and done? “Nothing, madame, that need give you any unecasiness.” ‘yBut what did I say?’ she insisted. “You thought you were a cloud-moth- since e “A cloud-mother!” She was astonished and asked, “What is a cloud-mother?’ “You thought I was Paul, and you were -mother.” i TRy ich s foolish thing as th at “Don’t call it foolish, madame.” “I hope you will forget it.”” “I don't want to forget it. “But why are you in Illinois Territory, sire?” “I came to find land for the Iroquols, I intend to make a State with the tribe.” “But what of France?” “Oh, France is over supplied with men who want to make a state of her. Louis XVIII has been on the throne eleven months and was recently chased off by Napoleon. & uis XVIII on the throne? Djd true loyalists suffer that?” “Evidently."” o2 “Sire, what became of Napoleon? “He was beaten by the allies and sent to Elba. Louis XVIII was brought in with processions. But in about eleven months Napoleon made a dash across France—" “Tell me slowly. 111 more thgn a ye;r. what has happened.” “Napoleon escaped from Elba, made a dash across France, and incidentally swept the Bourbon off the throne. The last news from Europe shows him gath- ering armies to meet the allies.’ : “Oh, sire, you should have been there!"” “Abbe Edgeworth suggests that France is well supplied with dauphins also. Turn- ing off dauphins has been a pastime at court.” ““Abbe Edgeworth? You do not mean the priest you saw at Mittau?” “‘Confessor and almoner to his Majesty. The same man, “Is he here?” “You saw him pass the door.” “Why has he come to America?” “I have not inauired.” “Why is he here with you?"’ “Because it pleases him, not me.” “He brings you some message?” “So he says.” “What is 1t?” “I have not had time to ask.” She stood up. As she became more her- self and the spirit rushed forward in her face I saw how her beauty had ripened. Hoeing corn and washing in the river does not coarsen well-born women. I knew I should feel the sweetness of her resence stinging through me and follow- fng me wherever I went in the world. “Call the priest in, sire. I am afraid I have hindered the interview.” “I did not meet him with my arms open, madame.” “But you would have heard what he had to n‘, if T had not been in your house. Why am I in your house?” “You came here.” “Was I wandering about by myself?” “Yes, madame.” “I thought I must have been walking. ‘When I came to myself I was so tired, and my shoes were muddy. If you want to see the priest I will g0 into another You say I have been 1 know nothing of °No, T will bring him in and let him give message in your presence.” ‘When Abbe geworth was presented to her, he slightly raised his eyebrows, but expressed no astonishment at meet- ing her lucid eyes, Nor did I explain— 4 odhhu given her back her senses in a night.” - Thé position dn which she found herselt was tryi e made m a grave courtesy.nily house might have been the chateau in which she was born, so undis- turbed was her manner. Her night wan- dering and mind-sickness were simply v&n behind us in the past, with her having taken refuge in my house, as matters GREATEST DETECTIVE STORY OF THEM ALL. HIS week marks the publication T of the last chapter of that splen- did romance “Lazarre,” by Mary Hartwell Catherwood. This plan of publishing the best novels of the day in from two to three issues of The Sunday Call, that readers may obtain a $1.50 book of standard fiction for the trifiing expense of ten or fifteen cents, is meeting with the greatest approval and success. % In order to please the literary taste of all classes of readers and to add variety to the list of excellent novels already on the list for publica- tion in this way, an arrangement has been made to present in two issues one of the most intensely exciting detective stories ever written. The first half of this book will be pub- lished in The Sunday Call of Septem- ber 21 and the concluding half in the issue of the following Sunday, Sep- tember 28. It is called “The Mystery Box” and is from the pen of Mrs. C. N. Williamson, one of the few really talented writers of romantic adven- ture and detective stories of the pres- ent day. This story is one that, for ingenuity of plot and thrilling adven- , is without an equal. ossibly you have read some of the: “Sherlock Holmes” stories by Conan Doyle. “The Mystery Box,” for livs excitement, well worked out climaxes and mystifying plot, is the superior of any of the Holmes stories. If you like a rattling good detective story— and who does notP—here is just the book for you. Remember the dates when it appears—Sunday, September 21 and September 28. A complete book for 10 cents. : There are other good ones to fol- low, such as “Alice of Old Vincen- nes,” “When KEnighthood Was in Flower,” etc., etc. All of them the very best in the line of recent fiction, A madam least ons witness with Abbe which need not concern Abbe Edgeworth. He did not concern himself with them, but bent before her as if he had no doubt of her sanity. I asked her to resume her place on the settle. There was a stool for the abbe 2nd one for myself. We could ses the river glinting in its valley, and the wind- rows of heights beyond it. A wild bee darted into the room, droning, and out again, the sun upon its back. ‘‘Monsfeur,” I said to Abbe Edgeworth, 1 am ready now to hear the messag ‘which you mentioned to me last night. “If madame will pardon me,” he an- swered, “I will ask you to take me where ‘We can confer alone.” “It is not necessary, monsieur. Mad- ame de Ferrier knows my whole story. But the priest moved his shoulders. “‘l followed you in this remote place, monsieur, that we might talk together without interruption, unembarrassed by any witness.” Madame de Ferrier rose. I put her into her seat again with authority. “It is my wish, e, to have at Edgeworth and myself.” “I hope,” he protested, “that madame will believe that there can be no objec- tion to her presence. I am simply fol- lowing instructions. I was instructed to deliver my message in private.” “Monsieur,” Eagle answered, “I would giadly withdraw to another room.” “I forbid it, madame,” I said to her. “Very well,” yielded Abbe Edgeworth. He took a folded paper from his bosom, and spoke to me with startling sharp- ness. ‘*You think I should addressyouasmon- seigrieur, as the dauphin of France should be addressed?” “I do not press my rights. If I did, monsieyr the abbe, you would not have the right to sit in my presence.” +‘Suppose you humor your fancy. I will address you as Monseigneur. Let us even 80 a little farther and assume that you are known to be the dauphin of France by witnesses who have never lost track of you. In that case, Monseigneur, would you put your name to a paper resigning all claim upon the throne?"” “Is this your message’ “We have not yet come to the mes- sage. “Let us first come to the dauphin. When dauphins are as plentiful as blackberries in France and t! court never sees a beggar appear without exclaiming: ‘Here comes another dauphin!'—why, may I ask, is Abbe Edgeworth sent so far to seek one?” He smiled. ““We are supposing that Monseigneur, in whose presence I have the honor to be, is the true dauphin.” “That being the case, how are we to ac- count for the true dauphin’s reception at Mittau?"” “The gross stupidity and many blunders of agents that the court was obliged to employ need hardly be assumed.” “Poor Beilenger! He has to take abuse from both sides in order that we may be polite to each other.” ‘‘As Monseigneur suggests, we will not go_into that matter.” Eagle sat as erect as a statue and as white. I felt an instant’s anxiety. Yet she had herself entirely at command, “We have now arrived at the paper, I trust,” said the priest. “The message?” “Oh, no. The paper In which w re- sign all claim to the throne of ance, and which may give you the price of a principality in this country. 5 “I do not sign any such paper. “Not at ali?” “Not at all.” Ym; are determined to hold to your S rights? “‘}l‘ am determined not to part with my rights.” “Inducements large enough might be offered.” He paused suggestively. “The only man in France,” I said, “em- powered to treat for abdication of the throne at present, is Napoleon Bonaparte. Did you bring a message from him?" Abbe Edgeworth winced, but laughed. “Napoleon Bonaparte will not last. All Europe is against him. I see we have arrived at the message.” He rose and handed me the paper he held in his hand. I rose and received it, and read it standing. It was one brief line: “Louis: You are recalled. ‘“Marie-Therese.” The blood must have rushed over my face. 1 had a submerged feeling looking out of it at the priest, ‘““Well, Monseigneur?"” - t is like her heavenly goodness. ‘Do you see nothing but her heavenly 8o %{I\‘e!? lnh‘t'(" 2 s is the message?” hr‘ln is a message I crossed the ocean to 'With the consent of her uncle?” ‘Madame d’'Angouleme never expresses :aaylsh contrary to the wishes of his esty.” “We ‘are then to suppose that Louis XVIII offers me, through you, monsieur, the Ofpol‘tunity to sign away my rights, and, failing that, the opportunity of tak- ing them?” “‘Supposing you are Monseigneur the dauphin, we will let our supposition run as far as this.”” I saw distinctly ‘the position of Louls XVIII. Marquis du Plessy had told me he was a mass of superstition. No doubt he had behaved, as Bellenger sald, for the good of the royalist cause. But the sanction of heaven was not on his be- havior. Bonaparte was let loose on him like the dragon from the pit. And French- men, after yawning eleven months or so in the King's august face, threw up their hats for the dragen. In his second exile the inner shadow and the shadow of age had combined against him. He uad tasted royalty. It was not as good «s he had once thought. Beside him al- ways he saw the face of Marie-Therese. She never forgot the hushed mystery of her brother. er silence and obedience to the crown, her loyalty to juggling and evasion, were more powerful than re- sistance. A young man, brought suddenly before the jaded nation and proclaimed at an opportune moment, might be a success- ful toy. The sore old King would oil more than the royalist cause, and the blessing of heaven would rest on one who restored the veritable dauphin. I never have seen the most stupid man Goubt his power to ride if somehody hoists him into the saddle. “Let us go further with our supposi- tions,” I said. ‘“‘Suppose I decline?” I heard Madame de Ferrier gasp. The priest raised his eyvebrows. “In that case you will be quite will- ing to give me a signed paper declaring your reasons.” “I sign no paper.” *“Let me suggest that Monseigneur # not consistent. ~ He neither resigns h :gwosed rights, nor will he exercise = m. “I will neither resign them nor exer- cise them.” ‘This is virtually resigning them.” ‘“The abbe will pardon me for saying it is not. My rights are mine, whether I use them or not.” “Monseigneur understands that tunity is a visitor that comes but once. ‘I understand that the most extraor- dinary thing has happened_ to-day that- will ever go unrecorded in history. One Bourbon offers to give away a throne he had lost and another Bourbon re- fuses it.” ‘“You may well say it will go w nrecorded in history.” Excepting this lady”—the ab- be bowed toward Eagle—'‘there is no wit- ress.” “Wise precautions have been taken ™ 1 agreed. “This scrap of paper may menyn agytlfiin.’orh nothlng.;:t “You decline?" he repeat “I think France is done with the Bour- bons, monsieur the abbe. A fine spectacle they have made of themselves, cooling their heels all over Europe, waiting for Napoleon's shoes! Will T go sneaking and trembling to range myself am impo- tent kings and wrnngle over Hmmtry that wants none of us? No, I never willl I see where my father slipped. I see ‘where the eighteenth Louls sli; I am a man tenacious beyond belief. You cannot loose my grip when I take hold. But I never have taken hold, I never will take hold—of my native country, strug- culnx as she is to throw off hereditary fulet ‘“You are an American!” sald Abbe Edgeworth contemptuously. “If France called to me out of need, I would fight for her. A lifetime of peace- ful years I would toss away in a minute to die in one achieving battle for her. But she neither calls nor needs me. A King is not simply an appearance—a con- tinuation of hereditary rights!” ';Yn:nr position is incredible,” sald the priest. “I do not belittie the prospect you n before me. I see the practical fties but T see well the masnificence Dbeyond em.” “Then why do you hesitate?” T don't hesitate. A man 1s contsu:&t- 1 ible ‘who_stands shivering and lon; outside of what he dare not attem ‘would dare if I los But I don’t long.” “Monseigneur believes there will be complications?"” “I know my own obstinacy. A man who tried to work me with strings behind a throne would think he was struck by lightning.” ‘Sire,” Madame de Ferrier out, :ltxl:lldll the hour of your life. wm lom. P gdom. "3 Ehouia have to take it, madame, if I got it. My uncle of Provence nothing to give me. He merely oy ‘My dear dauphin, if Europe knocks Na- poleon down, will you kindly take hold of a crank which is too heavy for me, and turn it for the good of the Bour- bous? We may thus keep the royal ma- chine in the family.’ ™ “You have given no adequate reasom for declining this offer,” sald the priest. “I will give no reason. I simply de- “Is this the explanation that I shall make to Madame d'Angoluleme? Think of the tender sister who says, ‘Louls, you are recalled!’ ™ God bless her!” *“I do think of her. “Must 1 tell that Monseigneur planted his feet like one of these wild cattle, and wheeled, and fled from the contemplation of a throne?” “Will you dress it up in your own fe- nsieur?” ‘What do you wish me to say?” “That I decline. I have not pressed the embarrassing question of why I was not recalled long ago. 1 reserve to 1f the privilege of declining without ygl‘ 'h\’x"t! d;. ll'l'ldo A changse e m: 0 his- mind, monsieur!” Madame de Fer- rier exclaimed. “I am not & man that changes his mind warz time the clock strikes.” I took the book out of my breast and laid it upon the table. I look- ed at the priest, not at her. The pad- locked book seemed to have no more to do with the conversation than a hat or of gloves. saw as one sees from the side of the ye, the scarlet rush of blood and the snow-white rush of pallor which cover- ed her one after the other. The moment was too strenuous. I could not spare her. She had to bear it with me. She set her clenched hands om her knee: Sire!” I faced her. The coldest look I ever gaw in her gray eyes repelled me as she deliberately said: ~You are not such a fool!" . 1 stared back as coldly and sternly, and deliberately answered: +I am—just—such a fool!” “Consider how any person who might be to blame for your decision would de- spise you for it afterward!" +A boy In the first flush of his youth," Abbe Edgeworth said, his flne jaws equared with a grin, “might throw away & kingdom for some woman who took his fancy and whom he could not have, perhaps,” unless he did throw his king- Gom away. And after he had done it he would hate the woman. But a young man in his strength doesn’t do such thxngsjl‘c'l A ng who hasn’t spirit to be a King!” Madame de Ferrler mocked. I mercilessly faced her down. ‘What is there about me? Sum me up. 1 am robbed on every side by any one Who cares to fleece me. Whenever I am about to accomplish anything I fall Jown as if knocked on the head!” ‘S|§B l'D?at from h.lrf seat. “You let yourself be robbed because Lrmx are princely. You have plainly left ehind you every weakness of your child- hood. Look at him In his stren; lon- #ieur Abbe! has sucked in the vigor of a new country! The failing power of an old line of kings is renewed in him! You could not have nourished such a gauphin for France in your exiled court! Burying in the American sofl has de- \;{e]l::;fi? what you see for yourself—the “He is a handsome man,” werot}x;: rl;u:elt!l’y ;dmntad. LA N “Oh, let his beauty alone! Look manhood—his kln!;(,)cd!" “sshan “Of what use is his king] will not exercise {2 e e “He must!” She turned upon me flercely. :'Have you no ambition?" “Yes, madame. But there are several kinds of ambition, as there are several kinds of success. You have to knock peo- ple down with each kind, if you want it ;clmov:ledg:d. Ab.eyx !lgd you awhile ago, am tenacious ond belief, and shal succeed in what I undertake.” - 2 “What are you undertaking? “l am not undertaking to mount a throne.” “I cannot belleve it! Where is there a man who would turn from what ig offered you? Consider the life befors you in this country. Compare it with the life you are throwing away.” She joined her hands. Sire, the men of my house who fought for the kings of your, plead through me oty sves o Abes Eae ept my eyes on worth. He considered the padlocked book as an ob- Ject directly in his line of vision. Its en covers and small metal padlock attracted the secondary attention we be- stow on trifles when we are at great is- sues. I answered her: “The men of your house—and the women’of your house, ot dictate what kings of my house should do _in this day.” *“Well, as you a to know him, madame,” sald Al orth, “and loyally as you urge him, your efforts are ‘wasted.” She next accused me: “You hesitate on account of the In- dians!” “If there were no Indlans in America I should do just as I am doing. ““All men,” the abbe noted, “hold in con- tempt a man who will not grasp power wh%lhhe cm]d % “Why shoul grasp power? I have it in myself. I am using it.” E “Using it to ruin yourself” she cried. ‘Monseigneur!” The abbe rose. Wa stood eye to eye. “I was at the side of the King, your father, upon the scaf- fold. My hand held to his lips the crucifix of our Lord Jesus Christ. In his death no words of bitterness escaped him. True son of St. Louls, he supremely loved France. Upon you he laid injunction to leave to God alone the punishment of regicides and to devote your life to the welfare of all Frenchmen. Monseigneur! are you deaf to this call of sacred duty? The voice of your father from the scaf- fold, in this hour when the fortumes of your house are lowest, bids you take your rightful place and rid your people of the usurper who grinds France and Europe into the blood-stained earth!” I wheeled and walked across the floor from Abbe Edgeworth and turned again and faced him. “Monsieur, you have put a dart through me. If anything in the universe could move me from my position, what you have said would do it. But my father's blood cries through me to-day—'Shall the son of Louis XVI be forced down the un- willing throats of his countrymen by for- elgn bayonets?—Russlans—Germans—E:; lish!—Shall the dauphin of France be hoisted to place by the alien?—M; would forbid it!. -You a family love. I bear about with me every- where the pictured faces of my The father whose name you invoke is al- :‘y;g‘;lmhm my heart. mz;nu uchess, whom you are see Gafiy. mionsiour, end Tonover—is o dess and sacred to mB‘u that I think th = E-?"mza > otu' -, trigue—a chained —a slave to pol Wanderer about Europe—0 iy Godl to be ,liu%h a plre(ende -y vnll~—t’=: m‘o be a free man—a free m!" The old churchman whispered over and ver— Th give it. I would not give it. ‘We heard the lprln,l'm w the river channel-and a faint call I kmne&vl 5o w-ll—ltha triangular wild flock e upper afr, flying north. “Honk! honk?" " It was the jublleat ery O {eGame. sald Abbe Edgewortn, rest- ame, L ing his head on his hands, “I seen many stubborn Bourbons, but he is the most obstinate of them all. We do not make as much impression that little padlocked bool N Her terrified eyes darted at him—and hid_their panic. ‘“Monsieur Abbe,” she exclaimed plerc- ingly, “tell him no woman will love him for throwing away a kingdom!” The priest began ance more. :zou will not resign your rights?* No.” “You will not exercise them?" ! N “If T postpone departure from to- day until wm-" or next week, or next month, is there bility of you'ts reconsideriug this 1 “Nor “Monselgneur, must I leave you with this answer?"” A;"?-' staying cannot alter it, Monsteur “You understand this ends all overtures under: “Is there nothing that you Continued on Page Six.