The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 9, 1902, Page 5

\ THE SUNDAY CALL. E—— — — ——— — —— — —— — ;] can be made witkout bribery, I am with ¥ou 1o the last jola of my ability.” “Well, you can't get what you want without' paying for i,” contradicted An- er. derson was about 1o speak when Osterman kicked his foot under the table. He, himself, held his peace. He was quick to see that if he could involve Magnus and Annixter in an argument, for the mere love of conten- would oppose the governor, and , would commit him- Osterman’s—scheme. s precisely what happened 2 few moment &t top voice his readiness to mortgage the crop of Quien Sabe, if necessary, for the sake of “busting S. Behrman.’ He could See no great obstacle in the way of con- trolling the nominating convention so fer as securing the naming of two Rail- road Commissioners was concerned. Two was all they needed. Probably it would money. You didn’t get something hing. It would cost them all a al more if they sat like lumps on & log and played tiddledy-winks while Bhelgrim sold out from under them. there w too: the P. and S. just then. The shortage te’s wheat crop for the last two afiecied them, too. They were renditures all along the line. Hac just cut wages in all departments? There was this affair of Dyke’s to prove it. The railroad didn't alw: a unit, either. There was alw: a party in it that opposed spend- ing too much money. He would bet that party was strong just now. He was kind ©f sick himself of being kicked by S. Behrman. Hadn't that pip turned up on his ranch that very day to bully him sbout his own line fence. Next he would be zelling him what kind of clothes he ought to wear. Harran had the right idea. Somebody had got to be busiéd mighty soon mow and he didn’t propose that it should be he. ow you are talking something like sense,” observed Osterman. *I thought you would see it like thal when you got my idea.” ~Your idea, your ides,” *“Why, three kel cried Annixter. I've bad this idea myself for over years.” at about Disbrow?” asked Har- ran, hastening to interrupt. “Why do we want to see Disbrow?” Disbrow is the political man for the Denver, Pueblo and Mojave,” answered Osterman, “and you see it's like this: The Mojave road don't run up into the valley at all. Their terminus is way to the south of us, and they don't care any- thing about grain rates through the San don’t care how anti-rail- mission is, because the com- mission’s rulings can’t affect them. But they divide traffic with the P. and §. W. in the southern part of the State and they have a good deal of influence with that road. I want to get the Mojave road, through Disbrow, to recommend a com- sicner of our choosing to the P. and and have the P. and 8. W. adopt as their own.” Who, for instance?” that Los Angeles man—re- Darrell is no particular friend of Disbrow,” said Annixter. “Why should Disbrow take him up?” “Pree-cisely,” cried Osterman. “We make it worth Disbrow’s while to do it. ‘We go to him and say, ‘Mr. Disbrow, you manage the politics for the Mojave rail- road, and what you say goes with your board of directors. We want you to adopt our candidate for Railroad Com- missioner for the Third District. How much do you want for doing t? I know we can buy Disbrow. That gives We need not more. In the make any move at all. We let the political managers of the P. and S. W. nominate whoever the like. Then we concentrate all our _ei forts to putting in our man in the Se ond District. There is where the big fight will come.” “l see perfectly well what you mean, Mr. Osterman,” observed Magnus, “‘but make no mistake, sir, as to my attitude in this busine: You may count me as uppose we win,” put in Annixter . already acknowledging him- self as involved in the proposed undertak- ing; ppose we win and get low rates for bauling grain. How about you, then? You count yourself in then, don’t you? You the benefit of lower rates without g any of the risks we take to securs No, nor any of the expense, either. , you won't dirty your fingers with ping us put this deal through, but you t be so cursed particular ‘when it comes to sharing the profits, will you?” Magnus rose abruptly to full ‘height, the nestrils of his thin, hawk-like nose vi- brating, his smooth-shaven face paler ver. op right where you are, sir,” he ex- 5 You forget yourself, Mr. Please understand that I tolerate such words as you have permitted your- seif to make use of from no man, not even » from my guest. I shall ask you to apolo- gize. In an instant he dominated the entire group, imposing a respect that was as much fear as admiration. No one made response or the moment he was the master again. the leader. Like so many @delinquent schoolboys, the others cowered before him, ashamed, put to confusion, unable to find their tongues. In that brief instant of silence following upon Magnus’ outburst, and wi he held them subdued and overmastered, the fabric of their scheme of corruption and dishonesty trembled to its base. It was the last pro- test of the old school, rising up there in denunciation of the new order of things. the statesman opposed to the politician; honesty, rectitude, uncompromising in- tegrity, prevailing for the last time against the devious maneuvering, the evil communications, the rotten expediency of & corrupted institution. For a few seconds no one answered. Then, Annixter, moving abruptly and un- easily in his place, muttered: “I spoke upon provocation. If you like, we'll consider it unsaid. I don’t know what's going to become of us—go out of business, 1 presume.” “I understand Magnus all right,” put in Osterman. “He don’t have to go inte this thing, if it's against his consclence. That's all right. Magnus can stay out if he wants to, but that won't prevent us go- ing ahead and seing what we can do. Only there's this about it.” He turned again to Magnus, speaking with every degree cf esrnestness, every appearance of convic- . “1.4did not deny, governor, from the rery start that this would mean briber; ut you don’t suppose that I like the idea ther. If there was one legitimate hope at was $et left untried, no matter how orlorn it was, I would try it. But there's mot. It is literally and soberly true that every means of help—every honest means ~—has been attempted. Shelgrim is going to cinch us. Grain rates are increasing, while, on the other hand, the price of wheat is sagging lower and lower all the time. If we don’t do something we are ruined.” Osterman paused for & moment, allow- ing rrec!sel v the right number of seconds to elapse, then sitering and lowering h wvoice, added: “I respect the governor’s principles. I sdmire them. Thev do him every degree of credit.” Then, turning directly to )i:‘- nus, he concluded with, “But I only want to ask gonmlf, sir, if, at such a crisis, one ought to think of oneself, to consider purely personal motives in such a desper- &te situation as this? Now, we want you with us, governor; perhaps not ox;enly. it you don’t wish it,’ but tacitly, at cast. I ,» but ‘won't ask you for an answer to-ni what I do ask of you is to consider this :nuer seriously and think over the whole usiness. Will you do it?” Osterman ceased definitely to speak, leaning forward across the table, his eyes fixed on Magnus' face. There was a si- lence. Outside the rain fell continually with an_even, monotonous murmur. In the group of men around the table no one stirred or spoke. They looked steadily @t Magnus, who, for the moment, kept his ce fixed thoughtfully upon the table fore him. In another moment he raised his head and looked from face to face around the group. After all, these were fiis neighbors, his friends. men with whom e had been upon the closest terms of as- soclation. In a way they represented whet now had come to be his world. His eingle swift glance took in the men, one efter another. Annixter, rugged, crude, nnflng awkwardly and uncomfortably in his ¢l ,_his unhandsome face, with its outthrust lower lip and deeply cleft mas- culine chin, flushed and eager, his yellow hair disordered, the one tuft on the crown standing stiffiy forth like the feather in an Indian’s scalp lock; Broderson, vaguely combing at his long beard with & persist- ent maniacal gesture, distressed, troubled and uneasy; Osterman, with his face, the face of a music-hall singer, his head bald and set off by his great ears, leaning back in his place, softly cracking the knuckle of a forefinger, an of all and close to s support, his confidant and companion, Harran, so like himself, with his own erect, fine carriage, his thin, beak-like nose and his blond hair, with its tendency to curl in a forward direction in front of the ears, young, strong, courageous, full of the promise of the future years. His blue eyes looked straight into his father's with what Magnus could fancy a glance *father, of appeal. Magnus could see that expres- sion in the faces of the others very plain- Iy. They looked to him as their natural leader, their chief who was to bring them out from this abominable trouble which was closing in upon them, and in them all he saw many types. They—these men around his table on that night of the first rain of a coming season—seemed to stand in his imagination for many others —all the farmers, ranchers and wheat growers of the great San Joaquin. Their Wwords were the words of a whole com- munity; their distress, the distress of an entire State, harried beyond the bounds of endurance, driven to the wall, coerced, exploited, harassed to the limits of exas- eration. p“x will think of it’" he said, then has- tened to add, “but I can tell you before hand that you may expect only a refusal.” After Magnus had spoken, there was a prolonged silence. The conférence seemed of itself to have come to an end for that evening. Presley lighted another cigar- ette from the butt of the one he had been smoking, and the cat, Princess Na- thalfe, disturbed by his movement and by a whiff of drifting smoke, jumped from his knee to the floor and picking her way across the room to Annixter, rubbed gen- tly agahnt his legs, her tail in the air, her back delicately arched. No doubt she ' thought it time to settle herself for the night, and as Annixter gave no indication of vacating his chair, she chose this way of cajoling him into ceding his place to her. But Annixter was irritated at the princess’ attentions, misunderstanding their motive. “Get out!” he exclaimed, lifting his feet to the rung of the chai “Lord love me, but I sure do hate a cat.” “By the way,” observed Osterman, “I passed Genslinger by the gate as I came in to-night. Had he been here?” .Yes, he was here,” said Harran, “and =" but Annixter took the words out of his mouth. “‘He says there's some talk of the rail- road selling us their sections this winter.” “‘Oh, he did, did he?” exclaimed Oster- man, interested at once. ‘“Where did he hear that?” “Where does a rallroad paper get its news? From the general office, sup- pose.” “I_hope he didn’t g@t headquarters that tl graded at twenty dol mured Broderson. “What's that?’ demanded Osterman. Twerty dollars! Here, put me on, some body. What's all up? What did Gen- slinger say?” “Oh, needn’t get scared,” said An- nixter. “Genslinger don’t know, that's all. He thinks there was no understand- ing that the price of the land should not be advanced when the P. and 8. W. came to sell to us.” “Oh,” murmured Osterman, relleved. Magnus, who had gone out into the office on the other side of the class-roofed hall- way, returned with a long, yellow en- velope in his hand, stuffed with news- paper clippings and thin, closely printed it straight from land to be mur- pamphlets. “Here is the circular,” he remarked, rawing out one of the pamphlets. “The conditions of settlement to which the rallroad obligated itself are very ex- licit.” e vhn omr the iaiiew of e Siivaiass then read aloud: “‘The company invites settlers to go upon its lands before patents are issued or the road is completed, and intends in such cases to sell to them in preference to any other applicants and at a price based upon the valye of the land with- out improvements,” and on the other page here,” he remarked, “‘they refer to this again. ‘In ascertaining the value of the lands, any improvements that a settler or any other person may have on ‘the lands will not be taken into considera- tion, neither will the price be Increased i~ consequence thereof. * * Settlers gre thus insured that in addition to being accorded the full privilege of purchase, at the graded price, they will also be pro- tected in their improvements.’ And here,” he commented, “in section IX it reads, “The lands are not uniform in price, but are offered at various figures from $250 upward per acre. Usually land covered with tall timber js held at $ per acre, and that with pine at §10. Most is for sale at $250 and $5.” “When you come to read that careful- " hazarded old Broderson, “it-it's not S0 very reassuring. ‘Most is for sale at two-fifty per acre,’ it says. That don't mean ‘all,’ that only means some. I wish now that I had secured a more iron-clad agreement from the P. and S. W. when I took up its sections on my ranch, and— and Genslinger is in a position to know the intentions of the raliroad. At least, he—he—he is in touch with them. All newspaper men are. Those, I mean, who are subsidized by the general office. But perhaps, Genslinger isn't subsidized. I don't know, I—1 am not sure. Maybe— perhaps—"" ““Oh, you don’t know and you do know, and maybe and perhaps, and you're not so sure,” vociferated ~ Annixter. ‘“How about ignoring the value of our improve- ments? Nothing hazy about that settle- ment, I guess. It is in so many words that any improvements we make will not be considered when the land is appraised and that's the same thing, isn’t it? ‘The unimproved land 1s worth two-fifty an acre; only timberdand is worth more and there's none too much timber about here.” - ““Well, one thing at a time,” said Har- ran. “The thing for us now is to get into this primary election and the conventiom and see if we can push our men for Rall- road Commissioners."” “Right,” declared Annixter. He rose, stretching his arms above his head. “I've about talked all the wind out of me,” he “Think I'll be moving along. It's pretty near midnight.” But when Magnus' guests turned their attention to the matter of returning to uelr different ranches, they abruptly realized that the downpour had doubled and trebled in its volume since earlier in the evening. The fields and roads were veritable seas of viscid mud, the night absolutely black-dark; assuredly not a night in which to venture out. Magnus insisted that the three ranchers should put up at Los Muertos. Osterman ac- cepted at once, Annixter, after an in- terminable discussion, allowed himself to be pursuaded, In the end accepting as though granting a favor. Broderson pro- tested that his wife, who was not well, would expect him to return that night and would, no doubt, fret if he would not appear. Furthermore, he lived close by, at the junction of the County and Lower Road. He put a sack over his head and shoulders, persistently declining Magnus’ offered umbrella and rubber coat, and hurried away, remarking that he had no foreman on his ranch and had to be up and about at five the next morning to put his men to work. “Fool!"” muttered Annixter when the old man had gone. “Imagine farming a ranch the size of his without & foreman.” Harran showed Osterman and Annixter where they were to sleep, in adjoinin, rooms. Magnus soon afterward retired. Osterman found an excuse for going to bed, but Annixter and Harran remained in the latter’s room, in & haze of blue smoke, talking, talking. But at length, at the end of all argument, Annixter got “Rigiell, I'm going to turn in. It's nearly ell, two o'clock.”o He weént to his room, closing the door, and Herran, opening window to clear out the tobacco smoke, looked out for a molr;‘en( across the country toward the south. The darkness was profound, impene- trable; the rain fell with an uninterrupted roar. Near at hand one could hear the sound of dripping eaves and foliage and the eager, sucking sound of the drinkin earth, and abruptly while Harran ltoos looking out, one hand upon the upraised sash, a great puff of outside air invaded the room, odorous with the reek of the soaking earth, redolent with fertility, pungent. neavy, tepid. He closed the window again and sat for a few moments on the edge of the bed, one shoe in his hand, thoughtful and absorbed, wonder- :nlng his tathfir would lan\;‘olva thlmlell n this new scheme, wondering if, aft &ll, he wanted him to. ik But suddenly he was aware ot a com- motion, issuing from the direction of An. nixter's room, and the voice of Annixter himself uprafsed in_ expostulation and exasperation. The door of the room in which Annixter had been assigned opened with a violent wrench and an angry voice exclaimed to anybody who woufa listen: J‘Oh, yes, funny, isn't it? In a way, i:n' funny, and then, again, in a way it The door, banged t ‘w(ndo“ of the lmu:e 'r:‘au.‘l)e‘ag l;“(h?l: rames. Harran hurried out into the i room and there met Presley mamm who had been aroused by An- nixter's clamor. Osterman was there, too, his bald head gleaming like a bulb of ivory in the light of the lamp that Mag- n us carried. “What's all up?” demanded Osterman. *““Whatever i e world is the matter 'gh l’Bu:::," d terrib) came from on and te: e sounds 8 behind the door of Annixter's room. A grolonsed monologue of grievance, broken y explosions of wrath and the vague noise of some one in a furious hurry. All at once and before Harran had a chance to knock on the door, Annixter flung it . With Osterman, who was still up. open. His face was blazing with anger, his outthrust lip more prominent than ever, his wiry, yellow hair in disarray, the tuft on the crown sticking straight into the air like the upraised.hackles of an an- gry hound. Evidently he had heen dress- ln‘g himself with the most headlong ra- pidity; he had not yet put on his coat and vest, but carried them over his arm, while with his disengaged hand he kept hitching his suspenders over his shoulders with a persistent and hypnotic gesture, Without a moment’s hesitation he gave vent to his indignation in a torrent of words. ““Ah, yes, in my bed, sloop, aha! 1 know the man who put it there,” he went on, glaring at Osterman, “and that man is a pip. Sloop! Slimy, dls*unlng stuff; you heard me say 1 didn't fike it when the Chink passed it to me at dinner—and just for that reason you put it in my bed, and I stick my feet into it when 1 turn in. Funny, isn’t it? Oh, yes, too funny for any use. I'd laugh a little louder if was youw.” “Well, Buck,” protested Harran, as he noticed the hat in Annixter's hand, “you're not going home just for—' Annixter turned on him with a shout. “I'll get plumb out of here,” he trumpet- ed. “I wont stay another minute.” He swung into his walstcoat and coat, scrabbling at the buttons /in the violence of his emotions. *“And I don’t know but what it will make me sick again to go out in a night like this. No, I won't stay. stay. Some things are funny, and then, again, there are some. things that are not. Ah, yes, sloop! Well, that's all right. I can be funny, too, when you come to that. You don’t get a cent of money out of me. You can do your dirty bribery in your own dirty way. I won't come into this scheme at all. I wash my hands of the whole business. It's rotten and it's wild-eyed; it's dirt from start to finish; and you'll all land in State's prison. You can count me out.” ‘‘But, Buck, look here, you crazy fool,” cried Harran, “I don’t know who put that stuff in your bed, but I'm not going to let you go bock to Quien Sabe in a rain like this.” . “I know who put it in,” clamored the other, shaking his fists, “and don’t call me Buck and I'll do as I please. I will g0 back home. I'll get plumb out of here. Sorry I came. Sorry I ever lent myself to such a disgusting, dishonest, dirty bribery game as this all to-night. I won't put a dime into it, not a penn¥.“ He stormed to the door leading out upon the gorch, deaf to all reason. Har- ran and Presley followed him, trying to dissuade him from going home at that time of the night and in such a storm. But Annixter was not to be placated. He ‘stamped across to the barn where his horse and buggy had been stabled, splash- ing through the puddles under foot, gaeing out of his way to drench himself, refusing even to allow Presley and Harran to help him harness the horse. “What's the use of making a fool of yourself, Annixter?”’ remonstrated Pres- ley, as Annixter back the horse from the stall. “You act just like a ten-year old boy. If Osterman wants to play the goat, why should you help him out?” “He’s a pip,” vociferated Annixter. ‘You don’t understand, Presley. It runs in my family to hate anything sticky. It's —it's—it’s heredity. How_ would you like to get into bed at 2 in the morning and jam your feet down into a slimy mess like that? Oh, no. It's not so funny then. And you mark my words, Mr. Harran Derrick,” he continued, as he climbed into the buggy, shaking the whip toward Har- ran, “this business we talked over to- night—I'm out of it. It's yellow. It's too cursed dishonest.” He cut the horse across the back with the whip and drove out into the pelting rain. In a few seconds the sound of his buggy wheels was lost in the muffled roar of the downpour. Harran and Presley closed the barn and returned to the house, sheltering them- selves under a tarpaulin carriage cover. Once inside, Harran went to remonstrate Magnus The house had fallen had again retired. quiet again. As Presley crossed the .dining-room on the way to his own apartment in the sec- ond story of the house, he paused for a moment, looking about him. In the dull light of the lowered lamps, the redwood paneling of the room showed a _darl crimson as though stained with blood. On the massive slab of the dining table the half emptied glasses and bottles stood about in the confusion in which they had been left, reflecting themselves deep into the polished wood; the glass doors of the case of stuffed birds was a subdued shim- mer; the many colored Navajo blanket over the couch seemed a mere patch of brown. Around the table the chairs in which the men had sat throughout the evening still ranged themselves in a semicircle, vague- 1y suggestive of the conference of the past few hours, with all the possibilities of good and evil, its significance of a future big with portent. The room was still. Only on’the cushions of the chair that Annixter had occupied, the cat, Princess Nathalie, at last comfortably settled in her accus- tomed place, dozed complacently, her paws tucked under her breast, filling the desert- ed room with the subdued murmur of her contented purr. Iv. On the Quien Sabe ranch, in one of its western divisions, near the line fence that divided it from. the Osterman holding, Vanamee was harnessing the horses to the plow to which he had been as- signed two days before, a stable boy from the division barn helping him. Promptly discharged from the employ of the sheep raisers after the lamentable accident near the Long Trestle, Vanamee had presented himself to Harran, asking for employment. The season was begin- ning; on all the ranches work was bein; rcsumed. The rain had put the groun into admirable _condition for plowing, and Annixter, Broderson and Osterman all had their gangs at work. Thus, Vanamee was vastly surprised to find Los Muertos idle, the horses still in the barns, the men gathering in the shade of the bunkhouse and eating-house, smoking, dozing, or going aimlessly about, their arms dangling. The plows for which Magnus and Harran were wait- ing in a fury of impatience had not yet arrived, and since the management of Los Muertos had counted upon having these in hand long before this time, no provision had been made for keegln' the old stock in repair; many of these old plows were useless, broken and out of order; some had been sold. It could not be said defigitely when the new plows would arrivd. Harran had decided to wait one week longer, and then, in case of their non-appearance, to buy a con- signment of the old style of plows from the dealers in Bonneville. He could af- ford to lose the money better than hi could afford to lose -the season. Failing of work on Los Muertos, Vana- mee has gone to Quien Sabe. Annixter, whom he had spoken to first, had sent him across the ranch to see one of his division superintendents, and this latter, after assuring himself of Vanamee's familiarity with horses and his previous experience—even though somewhat re- mote—on Los Muertos, had taken him as a driver of one of the gang plows, then at work on his division. The evening before, when the foreman had blown his whistle at six o'clock, the long line of plows had halted upon the instant, and the drivers, unharnessing their teams, had taken then back to the division barns—leaving the plows as they were in the furrows. But an hour after daylight the next mcrning the work was resumed. After breakfast, Vanamee, riding one horse and leading the others, had returned to the line of plows to- gether with the other drivers. Now he was busy harnessing the team. At the division blacksmith _shop—temporarily put up—he had been obliged to wait while one of his lead_horses was shod, and he had thus been dellfied quite five minute: Nearly all the other teams were har- nessed, the drivers on their seats, walit- ing for the foreman's signal. “All ready here?’ _inquired ‘lfllnl.’ driving up to Vanamee's "‘Alrifidy. sir,”” answered Vanamee, buckling the’last strap. He climbed to his seat, shaking out the reing, and turning about, looked back along the line, then all around him at the landscape inundated with the brilllant glow of the early mornirg. The day was fine. Since the first rain of the season, there had been no other. Now the sky was without a cloud, pals blue, delicate, luminous, scidtiilating with morning. The great brown earth turned a hu{‘e flank to it, exhaling the moisture of the early dew. The atmosphere, washed clean of dust and mist, was translucent as tal. Far off to the east, the hills on the other side of Broder- son Creek stood out against the pallid saffron of the horizon as flat and .as sharply outlined as if pasted on the sky. The campanile of the anclent Mission of San Juan seemed as fine as frost work. All about between the hnrllolu. the car- t of the land unrolled itself to lnflnu& ut now it was no longer parched wi heat, crackled and warped sun, powdered with dust. | rain had done its work; not a clod that was not swollen with fertility, not a_fissure that did not exhale the sense of fecundity. One could not take a dozen steps upon the fore- team in a merciless * the ranches without the brusque sensa- tion that underfoot the land was alive; roused at last from its sleep. palpitating with the desire of reproduction, Deej down there in the receuses of the soil, the great heart throbbed once more, thri & with passion, vibrating with de- sire, offering itself to the caress of the low, insistent, eager, imperious. Dim- y one felt the deep-seated trouble of the earth, the uneasy agitation of its mem- bers, the hidden tumult of its womb, demanding to ‘made fruitful, to reproduce, to disengage =the eternal renascent germ of life that stirred and ctruggled in its loins. ) The plows, thirty-five in number, each drawn by its team of ten, stretched in an interminable line, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, behind and ahead of Vanamee. They were arranged, as |t were, en_echelon, not in file—not one di- rectiy behind the other, but each succeed- 1 plow its own width farther in the field than .the one in front of it. Each of these plows held five shears, so that when the entire company was in motion, one hundred and seveniy-five furrows were made at the same instant. At a distance, the plows resembled a great column of artillery. Each driver was in his place, his glance alternating between Lis horses and the foreman nearest at hand. Other foremen, in their buggies or buckboards, were at intervals along the line, like baturz lieutenants. An- nixter himself, on horseback, in boots and campaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, overlooked the scene. The division superintendent, on the op- posite side of the line, salloged past to a position at the head. For a lon moment_there was silence. "A sense o preparedness ran from tend to end of the column. All things were ready, each man in his place. The day's work was about to_begin. % Sudaenly, from a_distance at'the head of the line came the shrill thrill of a Whistle. At once the fcreman nearest Vanamee_ repeated it, at the same time turning down the line, and waving one arm. The signal was 1epeated, whistle answering whistle, till the sounds lost themselves in the distance. At once the line of plows lost’ its immobility, mov- ing forward, getting slowly under way, the horses straining in the traces. A pro- longed movement rippled from team to team, disengaging in its passage a multi- tude of sounds—the click of the buckles, the creak of straining leather, the sub- dued clash of machinery, the cracking 2{ whips, the deep breathing of nearly 'our hundred horses, the abrupt com- mands and cries of the drivers, and, last of all, the prolonged, soothing murmur of the thick brown earth turning steadily from the multitude of advancing shears. The plowing thus commenced, con- tinued. The sun rose higher. Steadily the hundred iron hands kneaded and fur- rowed and stroked the brown, Trumid earth, the hundred iron teeth bit deep into the Titan's flesh. Perched on lis seat, the moist living reins slipping and tugging in his hands, Vanamee, in the midst of this steady confusion of constantly varying sensation, sight interrupted by sound, sound mingling with sight, on their sway- ing, vibrating seat, quivering with the prolonged thrill of the earth, lapsed to a sort of pleasing numbness, In a sense, hypnotized by the weaving maze of things in which he found himself involved. To keep his team at an even, regular gait, maintaining the precise interval, to run his furrows as closely as possible to those already made by the plow in front—this for the moment was the entire sum of his duties. But while one part of his brain, alert and watchful, took cognizance of these matters, all the greater part was lulled and stupefied with the long monot- ony of the affair. The plowing, now in'full swing, envel- oped him in a vague, slow-moving whirl of things. Underneath him was the jar- ring, jolting, trembling machine; not a clod was turned, not an obstacle encoun- tered, that he did not receive the swift impression of it through all his body, the very friction of the damp soil, sliding incessantly from the shiny surface of the shears, seemed to reproduce itself in his finger tips and along the back of his head. He heard the horse hoofs by the myriads crushingdown easily, deeply, into the loam, the prolonged clinking of the trace chains, the working of the smooth brfown flanks in the harness, the clatter of wooden hames, the champing of bits, the click of iron shoes against pebbles, the brittle stubble of the surface ground crackling and snapping as the furrows turned, the sonorous, steady breaths wrenched from the deep, laboring chests, strap-bound, shining with sweat, and all along the line the voices of men talking to the horses. Everywhere there were yisions of glossy brown backs, straining, heaving, swollen with muscle; harness streaked with specks of froth, broad, cup-shaped hoofs, heavy with brown loam, men’s faces red with tan, blue overalls spotted with axle- grease; muscled hands, the knuckles whit- ened in thelr grip on the reins, and through it all the ammoniacal smell of the horses, the bitter reek of perspiration of beasts and men, the aroma of warm leath- er, the scent of dead stubble—and stronger and more penetrating than everything else, the heavy, enervating odor of the up- turned, living earth. At intervals, from the tops of one of the rare, low swells of the land, Vanamee overlooked a wider horizon. On the other divisions of Quien Sabesthe same work was in progress. Occasionally he could sge another column of plows in the adjoin- ing divislon—sometimes so close at hand that the subdued m#rmur of its move ments reached his ear; sometimes so dis- tant that it resolved itself into a long, brown streak upon the gray of the grouni Farther off to the west on the Osterman ranch other columns came and went, and, once, from the crest of the highest swell on his division, Vanamee caught a distant glimpse of the Broderson ranch. There, too, moving specks indicated that the plowing was under way. And farther away still, far off there beyond the fine line of the horizons, over the curve of the globe, the shoulder of the earth, he knew were other ranches, and beyond these others, and beyond these still others, the immensities multiplying to infinity. Everywhere throughout the great San Joaquin, unseen and unheard, a thousand plows up-stirred the land, tens of thou- sands of shears clutched deep into the warm, moist soil. It was the long stroking caress, vigor- ous, male, powerful, for which the earth seemed pamlnf. The heroic embrace of a o multitude of iron hands, ing d *into the brown, warm fesh of the lan that quivered gsesponsive and passionate under this rude advance, so robust as to be almost an, assault, so violent as to be veritably brutal. There, undergthe sun and under the speckless sheen ofthe sky, wooing of the Titan began, the vast primal passion, the two world forces, the elemental male and female, locked in colossal embrace, at grapples in the throes of an infinite desire, at once terri- ble al tvine, knowing no law, untamed, la;r 3 aatur:l s&xhllm% 'om time to time the gang in whi Vanamee worked halted on. the hlle‘]: nal from foreman or overseer. The horses came to a standstill, the va, clamor of the work lapsed away. Then the minutes passed. The whole work hung suspended. All up and down th ldemnndefl what had hlppa:end. H‘."an on su) erintendent galloped past, perplex- ed and anxio For the mom g,pem?g of the plows was out of order, :{‘bon had lli?nod,a lever refused to work, . chine had become immobilized ground, or a horse nce, éven, T 2 ma- in_ heax » horse had lamed (fhimselt. , an entire pl was taken out of the line, so out :t zeol'l" that a messengen had to be &nt to the di- vision forge to summon the machinist, Annixter had disappeared. He had rid. den farther on to the other divisions of hi ranch to watch the Work in_ progress there. At twelve o'clock, according to hig interval orders, all the division superintendents gut themselves in communication with im by means of the telephone wires that connected each of the division houses, re- porting the condition of the work, ' the nun;‘lml' of :cres c?verleg, dthe prospects of each plow traversing lail; "’A‘t“‘l’; %\H‘e,!- 2 y average of :30 Vanamee and the arivers ate their. lunch In the Heid the tin buckets having been distributed ' to them that morning after breakfast, But in the evening the routine of the Previous day was repeated, and Vanamee, unhar- nessing his team, riding one horse and “The Octopus,” by the late Frank Norris, has Justly been considered the mnearest ap- proach to the “great American novel” ever written, As a mnovel dealing with California life and scenes it 1s undoubtedly the best in print. This splendid story is now 1 EX- B WO FXTRA leading the others, returned to the divis- fon barns and bunkhouse. It was betweeén 6 and 7 o’clock. The half hundn%omen of the gang threw them- selves n the supper the Chinese cooks had out in the shed of the eating- house, as lon, a bewling alley, unpaint- ed, crude, the seats benches, the table covered with oil cloth. Overhead a half- dozen kerosene lamps flared and smoked. The table was taken as if by assault; the clatter of iren knives upon the tin plates was as the reverberation of hail up- on a metal roof. The plowmen rinsed their throats with great draughts of wine, and, tieir elbowe wide, their foreheads flushed, resumed the attack upon the beef and bread, eating as though they would never have enough. All up and down (hellans table, where the kerosene lamps reflecte themselves deep in the ofl cloth cover, one heard the incessant sounds of mastication and saw the uninterrupted movement of great jaws. At every moment one or an- other of the men demanded a fresh por- tion of beef, another pint of wine, another half-loaf of bread. For upward of an hour the gang ate. It was no longer a supper. it was a veritable barbecue, a crude and primitive feasting, barbaric, homeric. But in all this scene Vanamee saw pothing repulsive. Presley wo have abhorred {t—this feeding of the people, this gorging of the human animal, eager for its meat. Vanan ee, simple, uncompli- cated, living 8o close to nature and the rudimentary life, understood its signifi- cance. He knew very well that within a short half-hour after this meal the men would throw themselves down in their bunks to sleep without moving, inert and stupefied with fatigue, till the morning. ‘Work, food and sleep, all life reduced to its bare essentials, uncomplex, honest, healthy. They were strong, these men, with the strength of the soil they worked, in touch with the essential things, back again to the Slartlng&)oflnt of civilization, coarse, vital, real and sane. For a brief moment immediately after the meal, pipes were lit, and the air grew thick with fragrant tobacco smoke. On a corner of the dining-room table, a game of poker was begun. One of the drivers, a Swede, produced an accordeon; a group on the steps of the bunkhouse listened, with alternate gravity and shouts of laughter, to the acknowledged story-teller of the gang. But soon the men began to turn in, stretching themselves at full length on the horse blankets in the rack- like bunks. The sounds of heavy breath- ing increased steadily, lights were put out, and before the afterglow had faded from the sky the gang was asleep. Vanamee, however, remained awake. The night was fine, warm; the sky silver- gray with «starlight. By and by there ‘would be a moon. In the first watch af- ter the twilight, a faint puff of breeze came up out of the south. From all around, the heavy penetrating smell of the new-turned earth exhaled steadily into the darkness. After a while, when the moon came up, he could see Far off, distant objects came into vie The giant oak tree at Hooven's ranch house near the irrigating ditch on Los Muertos, the skeleton-like tower of the windmill on Annixter's Home ranch, the clump of willows along Broderson Creek close to the Long Trestle, and, last of all, the venerable tower of-the Mission of San Juan on the high ground beyond the creek. Thitherward, like homing pigeons, Van- amee’s thoughts turned f{rresistibly. Near to that tower, just beyond, in the little hollow, hidden now from his sight, was the Seed ranch where Angele Varfan had lived. Straining his eyes, peering across the intervening levels, Vanamee fancied he could almost see the line of venerable pear trees in whose shadow she had been accustomed to wait for him. On many such a night as this he had crossed the ranches to find her there. His mind went back to that wonderful time of his life sixteen years before this, when Angele was alive, when they two were involved in the sweet intricacles of a love so fine, so pure, so marvelous that it seemed to them a miracle, a manifestation, a thing veritably divine, put Into the life of them and the hearts of them by God Himself. To that they had been born. For this love's sake they had come into the world, and the mingling of their lives was to be the Perfect Life, the intended, ordained union of the soul of man with the soul of woman, indissoluble, harmonious as musie, beautiful beyond all thought, a foretaste of heaven, a hostage of immor- tality. / No, he, Vanamee, could never, ‘never forget; never was the edge of his grief to lose its sharpness; never would the lapse of time blunt the tooth of his pain. Once more, as he sat there, looking off across the ranches, his eyes fixed on the anclent campanile of the Mission church, the anguish that would not die ledped at his throat, tearing at his heart, shaking him and rendering him a violence as fierce and as profound as #f it all had been but yes- terday. The ache returned to his heart, a physical keen pain; his hands gripped tight together, twisting, interlocked, his eyes filled with tears, his whole body shaken and riven from head to heel. He had lost her. God had not meant it, after all. The whole matter had been a mistake. That vast, wonderful love that had come upon them had been only the flimsiest mockery, Abruptly Vanamee rose. He knew the night that was before him. At intervals throughout the course of his prolonged wanderings, in the des- ert, on the mesa, deep in the canyon, lost and forgotten on the flanks of unnamed mountains, alone under the stars and un- der the moon’s white eye, these hours came to him, his grief recoiling upon him like the recoil of a vast and terrible en- gine. Then he must fight out the night, wrestling with his sorrow, praying some- times, incoherent, hardly conscious, ask- lng “Why" of the night and of the stars. uch_another night had come to him now. Until dawn he knew he must strug- gle with his grief, torn with memories, his imagination assaulted with visions of a vanished happiness. If this' paroxysm of sorrow was to assail him again that night there was but one place for him to be. He would go to the Mission—he would see Father Sarria; he would pass the night in the deep shadow of the aged pear trees in the Mission garden. He struck out across Quien Sabe, his face, the face of an ascetic, lean, brown, infinitely sad, set toward the Mission church. In about an hour he reached and crossed the road that led northward from Guadalajara toward the Seed ranch, and, a little farther on, forded Broderson Creek where it ran through one corner of the Mission land. He climbed the hill and halted, out of breath from his brisk walk, at the end of the colonnade of the Mis- slon itself. Until this moment Vanamee had not trusted himself to see the Mission at night. On the occaslon of his first day- time visit with Presley, he had hurried away even before the twilight had set in, not daring for the moment to face the crowding phantoms that in his imagina- tion filled the Mission garden after dark, In the daylight, the place had seemed strange to him. Nope of his associations with the old building and its surroundings were those of sunlight and brightness. Whenever, during his long sojourns in the wilderness of the Southwest, he had called up the-}ncture in the eye of his mind, it had always appeared to him in the dim mystery of maonless nights, the venerable pear trees black with shadow, the fountain a thing to be heard rather than seen. But as yet he had not entered the gar- den. That lay on the other side of the Mission. Vanamee passed the colonnade, with its uneven pavement of worn red bricks, to the last door by the belfry tower, and rang the little bell by pulling the leather thong that hung from a hole in_the door above the knob. : But the maid-servant, who, after a lo: opened the door, blinking an confused at being roused from her sleep, told Vanamee that Sarria was not in his room. Vanamee, however, was known to her as the priest’s protege and great friend, and she allowed him to enter, tell- ing him that, no doubt, he would find Sarria in the church itself. The servant led the way down the cool adobe passage to a larger room that occupied the entire ‘width 0? the bottom of the belfry tower, and when a flight of aged steps ded up- ward into the dark. At the foot of the stalrs was a door opening into the church. The servant admitted Vanamee, closing the door behind her. The interior of the Mission, a great ob- m of whitewashed adobe with a flat ng, was lighted dimly by the sanctu- ary lamp that hung from three long chains just over the chancel rail at the far end of the church, and by two or three cheap kerosene lamps in brackets of imitation bronze. All around the walls was the inevitable series of pictures rep- resenting the Stations of the Cross. The; were of a hideous crudity of design ai composition, yet were wrought out with an le,:noccn!, quuenlonm‘ Incerity that 'was not without its charm. ch pict: lure framed alike in giit, bore its suitable in- scription in s ?M,l:.l‘t’au “!gmm. e mean, ~Helps ‘arry is Cross.” * Veroni the ca Face of Jesus.” ‘Jesus-. Falls for the Fourth Time,” and so on. Half-way up the mg of church the gofn-like boxes of black oak, ing from years of friction, each with its door; while over them, and built out -ing from the wall, was the pulpit, with its tarnished gilt sounding-hoard above like the raised cover of a great hatbo: Between the pews, in thc alsle, the vi lent vermilion of a strip of ingrain carpet assauited the eye. Farther on were the steps to the aitar, the chancel rail of worm-riddled cak, the high altar, with its napery from the bargain counters of a San Francisco store, the massive candlesticks, each as much 5s one man could lift, the gift of a dead Spanish queen, and, last, the pictures of the chancel, the Virgin in a glory, a Christ in agony on the cross, and St. John the Bapust, the patron saint of the Mission, the San Juan Bautista, of the early day: a gaunt gray figure, in skins, two fingers upraised in the gesture of benediction. The air of the place wag cool and damp and heavy with the flat, sweet scent of stale inccnse smoke. It was of a vault-like stillness, and the closing of the door behind Vanamee re-echoed from corner to corner with a prolonged re- verberation of thunder. However, Father Sarria was not in the church. Vanamee took a couple of turns the length of the aisle, looking about into the chapels on either side of the chancel. But the building was deserted. The priest had been there recently, nevertheless, for the altar furniture was in disarray, as though he had been rearranging it but a moment before. On buth sides of the church and haif-way up -heir length, the walls were plerced by low archways, in which were massive wooden doors, clamped with iron bolts One of these doors, on the pulpit side of the church, stood’ ajar, ana stepping_ to it and push- it wide open, Vanamee looked diagonally across a little patch of vege- tab:es—beets, radishes‘ and lettuce—to the rear of the building that had once contained the cloisters, and through an open window saw Father Sarria diligent- Iy ?olinhlng the silver crucifix that usually stood on the high altar. Van- amee did not cail to the priest. Putting a finger to either temple, he fixed his eyes steadily upon him for a moment as he moved about at his work. In a few seconds he closed his eyes, but only part way. The dpupfls contracted; his fore- head lowered to an expression of poignant intensity. Soon afterward he saw the priest pause abruptly in the act of draw- ing the cover over the crucifix, lookin about him from side to side. He turne again to his work, and again came to a stop, perplexed, curious. With uncertain steps, and evidently wondering why he did so, he came to the door of the room and opened it, looking out into the night. ‘Vanamee, hidden in the deep shadow of the archway, did not move, but his eyes closed, and the Intense expression deep- ened -on_his face. The priest hesitated, moved forward a step, turned back, paused again, then came straight across the garden patch, brusquely colliding with Vanamee, still motionless in the recess of the archway. bSera gave a great start, catching his reath. “‘Oh—oh, it's you. Was it you I heard calling? No, I could not have heard—L remember now. What a strange power! I am not sure that it is right to do this thing, Vanamee. I—I had to come. I do not know why. It is a great force—a power—I don’t like it. Vanamee, some- times it frightens me.” Vanamee put his chin in the air. “If 1 had wanted to, sir, I could have made you come to me from back there in _the Quien Sabe ranch.” The priest shook his head. “It troubles me,”” he said, “to think that fay own will can count far so_lit- tle. Just now I could not resist. If a deep river had been between us, I must have crossed it. Suppose I had been asleep now?” “It would have been all the easier,” answered Vanamee. “I understand as little of these things 8s you. But I think if you had been asieep, your power of resistance would have been so much the more weakened.” ‘“Perhaps 1 should not have waked. Perhaps I should have come to you in my sleep.’ 3 ‘“‘Perhaps.” Sarria crossed himself. “It is occult,” he hazarded. “No; I do not like it. Dear fellow,” he put his hand on Vaname shoulder, ‘‘don’t—call me that way again: promise. See,” he held cut hiy hand, “I am all of g tremble. There, we won't speak of it further. Wait for me a moment. I have only to put the cross in its place, and a fresh altar cloth, and then I am done. To-morrow is the feast of The Holy Cross, and | am preparing against it. The night is fine. We will smoke & cigar in the cloister garden.” A few moments later the two passed out of the door on the other side of the church, opposite the pulpit, Sarria ad- justing a silk skull cap on his tonsured head. He wore his cassock now, and was far more the churchman in appear- ance than when Vanamee and Piesley had seen him on a former occasion. They were now in the cloister garden. The place was charming. Everywhere grew clumps of palms and magnolia trees. A grape vine, over a century old, occupied a trellis in _one angle of the walls- which surrounded the garden on two sides. church itself, while the fourth was open, the wall having crumbled away, its site marked only by a line of eight great pear trees, older even than the grape vine, gnarled, twisted, bearing no fruit. Di- rectly opposite the pear itrees, in the south wall of the garden, was a rouhd, arched portal, whose gate giving upon the esplanade in front of the mission was always closed. Small graveléd walks, wel: kept, ' bordered with mignonette, twisted about among the flower beds and underneath the magnolia trees. In the center was a little foun:ain in a stone basin green with moss, while just beyond, between the fountain and the palm trees, stood what was left of a sun dial, the brorze gnomon, green with the beatings of the weather, the figures on the haltf- circle of the dial worn away, illegible. But on the other side of the fountain, and directly opposite the door of the mission, ranged against the wall, were nine graves—three with headstones, the rest with slabs. Two of Siarra’s prede- cessors were buried here; three of the aves ‘were those of mission Indians. e was thought to contain a former al- calde of Guadalajara; two mose held the bodies of De La Cuesta and his young wife (taking with her to the grave the illusion of her husband’s love), and the last one, the ninth, at the end of the line, nearest the pear trees, was marked by a little headstone, the smallest of any, on which, together with the proper dates —only sixteen years apart—was cut the name ‘‘Angele Varian.” But the quiet, the repose, the isolation of the little cloister garden was Infinitely delicious. It was a tiny corner of the great valley that stretched in all direc- tions around it—shut off, discreet, roman- tic, a garden of dreams, of enchantments, of illusions. Outside there, far off, the great grim world went clashing through its irooves, but in here never an e of the grinding of its wheels entered to jar upon the subdued modulation of the fountain’s uninterrupted murmur, Sarria and Vanamee found their way to a stone bench against the side wall of the mission, near the door from which they had just issued, and sat down, Sarria lighting a cigar, Vanamee relling and smoking cigarettes in Mexican 1ashion. All about them widened the vast calm night. All the stars were out. The moon was comlng up. | There was no wind, no sound. The insistent flowing of the fountain seemed only as the symbol of the ng.time, a thing that was under- stood rather than heard, inevitable, pro- longed. At long intervals, a faint breeze, hardly more than a breath, found its “f nto the garden over the enclosing walls, and passing overhead, spreading everywhere the delicious, mingled per- fume of magnolla blossoms, of mignon- ette, of moss, of grass, and all the calm green life silently teeming within the en~ closure of the walls. rom where he sat, Vanamee, turning his head, could look out underneath the pear trees to the north. Close at hand, a_ little valley lg between the high ground on which the Mission was built, and the Hne of low hills just beyond Broderson Creek on the Quien Sabe. In here was the Seed ranch, which Angele’s people had culll'.tadfi unique and beau- titul stretch of five hindred acres, plant- ed thick with roses, violets, lilies, tulips, hel iris, carnations, tuberoses, ples, lo- trope—all manner and flmr?:fion of flofl: over 4 been the vocation of ents—raising flowers for their All over the country the Seed Now it was arid, al- most dry, but when in full flower, toward the middle of summer, the sight of these half-thousand acres :I X h color— ing ow—was a wfn‘d blew, on the of Bonneville, nearly twelve miles away, could catch the scent of this valley of flowers, this chaos of perfume. And into_this life of flowers, this world of color, this atmosphere ive and cloyed and ckened with sweet odor, Angele had been born. There she had Hved her sixteen years. There she had died. It was not that Vana- mee, with his inten: 5. ranch was known. ness to beauty, M-fi-on :;:sormu: pacity for great happiness, bad been Along the third side was the - drawn to her, had loved her so deeply. She came to him from out of the flow- ers, the smell of the roses in her hair of goid, that hung in two straight plaits on either side of her face; the reflection of the violets in the profound dark blue of her eyes, perplexing, heavy-lidded, almond-shaped, Orientai; the aroma and the imperial red of the carnations in her lips, with their almost Egyptian fullness: the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume of the lilies’ slender balancing srace n her neck. Her hands disengaged the odor of the heliotropes. The folds of her dress gave off the enervating scent of popples. Her feet were redolent of hyacinths. For a long time after sitting down upon the bench, neither the priest nor Vana- mee spoke. But after a while Sarria took his cigar from his lips, saying: ““How still it is! This is a beautiful old garden, peaceful, very quiet. Some day I shall be buried here. I like to re- member that; and you, too, Vanamee.” “Quien sabe?” “Yes, you, too. Where else? No, it 13 better here, yonder, by the side of the little girl.” “I am not able to look forward yet, sir. The things that are to be are some- how nothing to me at all. For me they amcunt to nothing.” <They amount to everything, my boy." ““Yes, to one part of me, but not to —the best part. you don’t know, he exclaimed with a sudden movement, “no one can understand. What is it to me when you tell me that some time after I shall die too, somewhere, in a vague place you call heaven, I shall see her again? Do you think that the idea of that ever made any one’s sorrow easler to bear? “Ever took the edge from any one’s grief?” “But you believe that—"" *Oh, believe, belleve!" echoed the other. “What do I believe? I don't kmow. belfeve, or I don't believe. I can remem- ber what she was, but I cannot hope what she will be. Hope, after_all, is only seen memory reversed. When I try to see her in another life—whatever you call it—in heaven—beyond the grave —this vague place of yours; when I try to see her there, she comes to my imagi- nation only as what she was, material, ezrthly, as I loved her. Imperfect, you say; but that is as I saw her, and as I saw her I loved her: and as she was, material, earthly, imperfect, she loved me. It's that, that I want,” he ex- claimed. “I don’t want her changed. I don’t want her spiritualized, exalted, glo- rifled, celestial. I want her. I think it is only this feeling that has kept me from killing myself. would rather be un- happy in the memory of what she actu- ally was than be happy in the realization of her transformed, changed, made celes- tial. I am only human. Her soul! That was beautiful, no doubt. But, again, It was_something very vague, intangible, hardly more than a phrase. But the touch of her hand was real, the sound of her voice real, the clasp of her arms about my neck was real. Oh,” he cried, shaken with a sudden wrench of passion. “give those back to me. Tell your Go to give those back to me—the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the clasp of her dear arms, real, real, and then you may talk to me of heaven.” Sarria shook his head. ‘“But when you meet her again,” he observed, “in heav- en, you, too, will be changed. You will see her spiritualized, with spiritual eyes. As she is now, she does not appeal to you. I understand that. It is because, as you say, you are only human, while she is divine. But when you come to be like her, as is now, you will know her as she really is, not as she seemed to be, because her voice was sweet, be- cause her hair was pretty, because her Land was warm in yours. Vanamee, your talk is that of a foolish child. You are like one of the Corinthians to whom Paul wrote. Do you remember? Listen now. I can recall the words, and such words, beautiful and terrible at the same time, such a majesty. They march like soldiers with trumpets. ‘But some man ill say’'—as you have just said now— ‘How are the dead raised up. And with what body do they come? Thou fool? That which thou sowest is not quickened except it die, and that which thou sow- est, thou sowest not that body thag shall be, but bare grain. 1t may chance of wheat, or of some other grain. But God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his own body. . . . . It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.’ It is because you are a natural body that you cannot under- stand her, nor wish for her as a spiritual body, but when you are both spiritual, then you shall know each other as you are—know as you never knew before. Your grain of wheat is your symbol of immortality. You bury it in the earth. It dies, and rises again a thousand times more beautiful. Vanamee, your dear sirl was only a grain of humanity that wc have buried here, and the end is not yet. But all this is so old. The world learned it a thousand years ago, and yet eacnm man that has ever stood by the open grave of any one he loved must learn it_all over again from the beginning.” Vanamee was silent for a monent, look- ing off with unseeing eyes between the trunks of the pear trees, over the little valley. “That may all be as you say,” he an- swered after a while. “T have not learned it yet, in any case. Now, I only know that I love her—oh, as if it all were yes- terday—and that I am suffering, suffering, always.” He leaned forward, his head supported on his clenched fists, the infinite sadness of his face deepening like a shadow, the tears brimming in his deep-set eyes. A question that he must ask, which inyolved the thing that was scarcely to be thought of, occurred to him at this moment. After hesitating for a long moment, he said: “I have been away a long time, and I have had no news of this place since I left. Is there anything to tell, Father? Has any discovery been made, any sus- picion developed, as to—the Other?" The priest shoow his head. It is & mystery. It always will be.” Vanamee clasped his head between his clenched fists, rocking himself to and fro. “Oh, the térror of it,”” he murmured. “The horror of it. And she—think of it, Sarria, only sixteen, a little girl; so inno- cent, that she never W ‘wrong meant, pure as a little cfilld is pure, who believed that all things were good; ma- ture only in her love. And to be struck down like that while your God looked down from heaven and would not take her part.”” All at once he seemed to lose control of himself. One of those furies of impotent grief and wrath that assailed him from time to time, blind, insensate, incoherent, suddenly took possession of him. A torrent of words {ssued his dips, lng he fl:ns oul“‘u; IH!:‘ e first clenched, in a flerce, quick gesture, v of despair, partly of deflance, mx%‘;’it supplication. “No, your God would not take her ‘Where was God’s mercy in about? Why did God give {cr it it was to be stamped out? Why God give her the power of love If it was to come listen to me. t thing? Sarria, d& ‘god o ¢ her so divinely if He permitted that abomination? = he exclaimed bitterly, “your God! Why, There is only the devil. The heaven pray to is only a joke, a wretched trick, a delusion. It is only hell that is real.” Sarria caught him by the arm. “You aré a fool and a child,” he ex- claimed, “and it is bl hemy that you ll.l’; n; dlng. , I forbid it. You understand? orl . “Then, tell your God to give her back to_me!” Sarria started away fromy him, his eyes widening in astonishment, surprised out of all composure by the other’s outburst. Vanamee's swarthy face was pale, the sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes were marked with great black shadows. The priest no longer recognized him. The face, that face of the ascetic, lean, framed in its long black hair and pointed beard, was quivering with the excitement of hallucin- ation. It was the face of the shepherds of the Hebralc legends, livin: close to nature, the younger prophets o Israel, dwellers in the wilderness, soll- tary, fmu-luuva. believing in the V\llun, having strange delusions, with strange delusions, gifted c.‘h mm. o . wers. In a brief second rria erstood. Out into the wilder- ness, the vast arid desert of the South- west, Vanamee had carried his grief. For days, for weeks, months even, he had been alone, a solitary speck lost in the immensity of the horizons; continually he was_brooding, haunted with his sorrow, thinkint, thinking, often hard put to It for f¢ The body was ill-nourished, and the mind, concentrated forever one subject, had recoiled upon itself, had preyed upon the naturally nervous tem- perament, till'the imagination had become exalted, morbidly active, 3 with, hallucinations, forever in search the festation, of the miracle. It was wonder that, bringing a fancy so di: back to the scene of a happiness, Vanamee sho be E“h thth. mc;ll v’orlfingl illusions, beset im roes of a veritable "“Tell your give her back to me.” he repeated with flerce insistence. It was the pitch of mysticism, the image