The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 9, 1902, Page 6

THE SUNDAY CALL. — ettt e e e e —————————————— e ———————————————— ination, harassed and goaded beyond the normal round, suddenly flipping from the circumference, spinning off at a tangent, he void, where all things seemed le, hurtling through the dark there, grop! for the supernatural, clamoring for the miracle. And it was also the u natural protest against the in- the irrevocable; the spasm .of revolt under the sting of death, the re- bellion .of the soul at the victory of the grave. “He can give her back to me if He only wili,” Vanamee cried. ‘@urria, you must help me. I tell you—I warn you,-sir, I can’t last much longer under it. My head is &1l wrong with it—I've no mors hold on my mind. Something must happen or I sh lose my senses. I am breaking down under it all, my body and my mind alike. Ering her to me; make God show her to me. If all tales are true, it would not be the first time. If I cannot have ber, at least let me see her as she was, real, earthly, not her spirit, her ghost. I want her real self, undefiled, again. If this is dementia, then let me be demented. But help me, and vour God; create the delusion, do the miracle. “Stop!” cried the priest again, shaking “Stop. Be a; but I shall E Think of what you are saying. Brink her back to you! Is that the way of God! I thought you were a man; this is the talk of a weak- minded not let in his place, boking about . *“I hard- 1 am saying at times. But n my whole mind 1y know wh there are moments whi and soul seem to rise up in rebellion against what happened; when it seems to me that I am stronger than death, and that if 1 only knew how to use the strength of my will, concentrate my power of thought—volition—that I could —I don't know—not call her back—but —somet. b “A diseased and distorted mind is cap- able of hallucinations, if that is what you mean.” observed Sarria. “Perbaps that is what I mean. Per- haps I want only the delusion, after all.” Sarria did not reply, and there was a long silence. In the damp south corners #f the walls a frog began to croak at ex- mct intervals. The little fountain rippled monotonously, and a2 magnolia flower dropped from one of the trees, falling straight as a plummet through the mo- tionless air, and settling upon the grav- eled walk with a faint rustling sound. e the stillness was profound. A littie later the priest's cigar, long since out, slipped from his fingers to the ground. He began to nod gently. Vana- mee touched his arm. “Asleep, sir?” The other started, rubbing his eyes. “Upon my word, I believe I was.” “Better go to bed, sir. I am not tired. I think I shall sit out here a little longer.” “Well, perhaps I would be better off in bed. Your bed is always ready for you whenever you want to use it.” “No—1 shall go back to Quien Sabe— later. Good-night, sir.” “Good-night, my boy. Vanamee was left alone. For a long time he sat motionless in his place, his elbows on his knees, his chin propped on his hands. The minutes passed—then the hours. The moon climbed steadily higher emong the stars. Vanamee rolied and smoked cigarette after cigarette, the blue baze of smoke hanging motionless above his head, or drifting in slowly weaving filamdhts across the open spaces of the garden. But the influence of the old enclosure, this corner of romance and mystery, this isolated garden of dreams, savoring of the past, with its legends, its graves, its crumbling sun dial, its fountain with its e‘:sged. Now e same ex- it that had seized upon Vanamee earlier in the evening, by de- grees grew big again in his mind and imagination. His sorrow assaulted him like the flagellations of 2 fine whiplash, and his love for Angele rose again in his heart, it seemed to him never so deep, €0 tender, so infinitely strong. No doubt, it was his familiarity with the Mission gar- den, his clear-cut remembrance of it, as it was in the days when he had met An- gele there tallying now so exactly with the reality there under his eyes, that brought her to his imagination so vividly. As yet he dared not trust himself near her grave, but, for the moment, he rose and, his hands clasped behind him, walked slowly from point to point amid the tiny graveled walks, recallig the incidents of eighteen years ago. On the bench he had quitted he and Angele had often sat. Here by the crumbling sun-dial, he re- called the night when he had kis: her for the first time. Here, again, By the rim of the fountain, with its fringe of green, she once had paused, and, baring her arm to the shoulder, had thrust it deep into the water, and then withdraw- ing it, had given it to him to kiss, all wet end cool; and here, at last, under the shadow of the pear trees they had sat, evening after evening, looking off over the little valley below them, watching the night build itself, dome-like, from horizon to genith. Brusquely Vanamee turned away from the prospect. The Seed ranch was dark &t this time of the year, and flowerless. Far off toward its center he had caught & brief glimpse of the house where Angele had lived, and & faint light burning in its window. But he turned from it sharply. The deep-seated travail of his grief sbruptly reached the paroxysm. With long strides he crosed the garden and re- entered the Mission church itself, plung- ing Jnto the coolness of its atmosphere as into & bath. What he searched for hes €@id not know, or, rather, did not deflne. He knew only that he wes suffering, that o longing for Angele, for some object around which his great love could enfold itself, was tearing at his heart with iron teeth. He was ready to be deluded; craved the hallucination; begged pitifully for the {llusion; anything rather than the empty, tenantless night, the voiceless silence, the vast loneliness of the over- spanning arc of the heavens. Before the chancel rail of the altar, un- @er the sanctuary lamp, Vanamee sank upon his knees, his arms folded upon the rail, his head bowed down upon them. He prayed, with what words he could not say, for what he did not understand—for help, merely, for relief, for an Answer to his ery. It wes upon that, at length, that his @isordered mind concentrated itself, an Answer—he demanded, he implored an answer. Not a vague visitation of Grace, not a formless sense of Peace; but an An- swer, something real, even if the reality were fancied—a voice out of the night, responding to his, & hand in the dark clasping his groping fingers, a breath, human, warm, fragrant, familiar, like a soft, sweet caress on his shrunken cheeks. Alone there in the dim half-light of the decaying Mission, with its crumbling plas- ter, its paive crudity of ornament and pic- ture, he wrestled fiercely with his desires —words, fragments of sentenees, inarticu- late, incoherent, wrenched from his tight- shut teeth. But the Answer was not in the church. F him, over the high altar, the Vir- & glory, with downcast eyes and hands, grew vague and indistinct in shadow, the colors fading, tarnishéd centuries of incense smoke. The Christ in agony on the Cross was but a lamenta-~ ble vision of tortured anatomy, gray flesh, with crimson. The St. John, the Ban Juan Bau patron saint of the Mission, the gaunt figure ip skins, two in the gesture of bene- diction, gazed stolidly out into the haif- gloom under the ceiling, ignoring the hu- man distress that beat itself in wvain egainst the altar rail below, and Angele remained as before—only & memory, far |4 i { issulng from the low-arched door opposite the pulpit, once more stepped out into the garden. Here, at least, was reality. The warm, still air descended upon him like a cloak. grateful, comforting, dispeliing the chill that lurked in the damp mould of plaster and crumbling adobe. But now he found his way across the garden on the other side of the fountain, where, ranged against the eastern wall. were nine graves. Here Angele was bur- fed, in the smallest grave of them all, marked by the little headstone, with its two dates, only sixteen years apart. To this spot, at last, he had returned, after the years spent in the desert, the wilder- ness—after all the wanderings of the long trail. Here, if ever, he must have a sense of her nearness. Close‘at hand, a short four feet under that mound of grass, was the form he had so often held in the em- brace of his arms; the face, the very face, he had kissed, that face with the hair of gold making three-cornered the round white forehead, the violet-blue eyes, heavy-lidded, with their strange oriental slant upward toward the temples; the sweet full lips, almost Egytian in their fullness—all that strange, -perplexing, wonderful beauty, so troublous, so en- chanting, so out of all accepted standards. He bent down, dropping upon one knee, a hand upon the headstone, and read again the inscription. Then instinctively his hand left the stone and rested upon the low mound of turf, touching it with the softness of a’caress; and then, before he was aware of it, he was stretched at full length upon the earth. beside the grave, his arms about the low mound, his lips pressed against the grass with which it was covered. The pent-up grief of nearly twenty years rose again within his heart, and overflowed, irre- sistible, violent, passionate. There was no one to see, no one to hear. Vanamee had no thought of restraint. He no longer wrestled with his pain—strove against it. There was even a sense of relief in per- mitting himself to be overcome. But the reaction from this outburst was equally violent. His revolt against the inevitable, his protest against the grave, shook himy from head to foot, goaded him beyond all bounds of reason, hounded him on and into the domain of hysteria, dementia. Vanamee was no longer master of himself —no longer knew what he was doing. At first, he had been content with merely a wild, "unreasoned cry to heaven that An- gele should be restored to him, but the vast egotism that seems to run through ail forms of disordered intelligence gave his fancy another turn. He forgot God. He no longer reckened with heaven. He arrogated their powers to himself—strug- gled to be, of his own unaided might, stronger than death, more powerful than the grave. He had demanded of Sarria that God should restore Angele to him, but now he appealed directly to Angele herself. As he lay there, his arms clasp- ed about her grave, she seemed so near to him that he fancied she must hear. ‘And suddenly, at this moment, his recol- lection of his strange’ compelling power— the same power by which he had called Presley to him half way across the Quien Sabe ranch, the same power which had brought Sarria to his side that very even- ing—recurred to him. Concentrating his mind upon the one object with which it had so long been filled, Vanamee, his eyes closed, his face buried in his arms, ex- claimed: “Come to me—Angele—don’t you hear? Come to me.” But the answer was not in the grave. Below him the voiceless earth lay silent, moveless, withholding the secret, jealous of that which it held so close in its grip, refusing to give up that which had been confided to its keeping, untouched by the human anguish that above there, on its surface, clutched with despairing hands &t a grave long made. The earth that only that morning had been so eager, so re- sponsive to the lightest summons, so vi- brant with life, now at night, holding death within its embrace, guarding invio- late the secret of the grave, was deaf to all entreaty, refused the answer, and An- gele remained as before, only a memory, far distant, intangible, lost. Vanamee lifted his head, looking about him with unseelng eyes, trembling with the exertion of his vain effort. But he could not as yet allow himself to despair. Never before had that curious power of attraction failed him. He felt himself t be so strong in this respect that he wa: persuaded if he exerted himself to the limit of his capacity, something—he could not say what—must come of it. If it was only a self-delusion, an hallucination, he tofd himself that he would be content. Almost of its own accord, his distorted mind concentrated itself again, every thought, ali the power of his will riveting themselves upon Angele. As if she were alive, he summoned her to him. His eyes, fixed upon the name cut into the head- stone, contracted, the pupils growing emall, his fists shut tight, his nerves braced rigid. For a few seconds he stood thus, breath- less, expectant, awaiting the manifesta- tion, the miracle. Then, without knowing why, hardly conscious of what was trans- piring, he found that his glance was leav- ing the headstone, was turning from the grave. Not only this, but his whole body ‘was following the direction of his eyes. Before he knew it, he was standing with his back to Angele’s grave, was facing the north, facing the line of pear trees and the little valley where the Seed ranch lay. At first he thought this was because he had allowed his will to weaken, the concentrated pdwer of his mind to grow slack. And once more turning toward the grave, he banded all his thoughts together in & consummate effort, his teeth grinding together, his hands pressed to his fore- head. He forced himself to the notion that Angele was alive, and to this creature of his imagination he addressed himself: “‘Angele!” he cried in a low voice; “An- gele, I am calling you—do you hear? Come to me now, now.” Instead of the answer he demanded, that inexplicable counter-influence cut across the current of his thought. Strive as he would against it, he must veer to the north, toward the pear trees. Obeying it, he turned, and, still wondering, took a step In that direction, then another and an- other.\ The next moment he came abrupt- ly to himself, in the black shadow of the pear trees themselves, and, opening his eyes, found himself looking off over the Seed ranch, toward the little house in the center where Angele had once lived. Perplexed, he returned to the grave, once more calling upon the resources of his will, and abruptly, so soon as these reach- ed a certain point, the same cross-current set in. He could no longer keep his eyes upon the headstone, could no longer think of the grave and what it held. He must face the north; he must be drawn toward the pear trees, and there left standing in their shadow, looking out aimlessly over the Seed ranch, bewildered. Farther than this the influence never drew him, but up to this point—the line of pear trees—it was not to be resisted. For a time the peguliarity of the affair ‘was of more interest to Vanamee than even his own distress of spirit, and once or twice he repeated the attempt, almost experimentally, and invariably with the same result; 8o soon as he seemed to hold Angele in the grip of his mind, he was moved to turn about toward the north, and hurry toward the pear trees on the crest of the hill that overlooked the little valley. 5 But Vanamee’s unhappiness was too keen this night for him to dwell long upon the vagaries of his mind. Submitting at length, and abandoning the: grave, he flung himself down in the black shade of the pear trees, his chin in his hands, and resigned himself finally and definitely to the inrush of recollection and the exqui- site grief of an infinite regret. To his fancy she came to him again. He put himself back many years. He remem- bered the warm nights of July and Au- gust, profoundly still, the sky encrusted Wwith stars, the little mission garden ex- haliox the mingled perfumes that sll through the scorching day had been dis- tilled under ‘the steady blaze of a, sum- mer’s sun. He saw himself as another person, arriving at this, their rendezvous. All day long she had been in his mind. All day long he had looked forward to this quiet hour that belonged to her. It was dark. He could see nothing, but, by and by, he heard a step, a gentle rustle of the grass on the slope of the hill pressed under an advancing foot. Then he saw the faint gleam of pallid gold of her hair, a barely visible glow in the starlight, and heard the murmur of her breath in the lapse of the over-passing breeze. And then, in the midst of the gentle perfumes of the garden, the perfumes of the mag- nolia flowers, of the mignonette borders, of the crumbling walls, there expanded a new odor, or the faint mingling of many odors, the smell of the roses that lingered in her hair, of the lilies that exhaled from her neck, of the heliotrope that disengag- ed itself from her hands and arms, and of the hyacinths with which her little feet were redolent. And_then, suddenly, it was herself—her eves, heavy-lidded, violet biue, full of the love of him; her sweet full lips speaking his name; her hands clasping his hands, his shoulders, his neck—her whole dear body giving itself into his embrace; ll:& lips against his; her hands holding head, drawing his face' down to hers. Vanamee, as he remembered all this, flung out an arm with a cry of pain, his eyes searching the gloom, all his mind in strenuous mutiny against the triumph of Death. His glance shot swiftly out across the night, unconsciously following the di- rection from which Angele used to come to him. “Come to me now,” he exclaimed under his breath, tense and rigid with the vast futile effort of his will. ‘“Come to me now, now. Don't you hear me, Angele? You must, you must come.” Suddenly WVanamee returned to himselt with the abrupiness of a blow. His eyes opened. He raised himself from the ground. (Swiftly his scattered wits read- Jjusted themseives. Never more sane, never more himself, he rose to his feet and stood looking off into the night across the Seed ranch. W "y be- What was wildered. He looked around him from side to side, as if to get in touch with reality once more. He looked at his hands, at the rough bark of the pear tree next which he stood, at the streaked and rain-eroded walls of the mission and garden. The ex- altation of his mind calmed itself; the unnatural strain under which he labored slackened. He became thoroughly master of himself again, matter of fact, practi- cal, keen. But just so sure as his hands were his own, just so sure as the bark of the pear tree was rough, the moldering adobe of the mission walls damp—just so sure had something occurred. It was vague, intangible, appealing only to some strange, nameless sixth sense, but none the less perceptible. His mind, his im- dgination, sent out from him across the night, across the little valley below him, epeeding hither and thither through the dark, lost, confused, had suddenly aused, hovering, had found something. t had not returned to him empty-handed. It had come back, but now there was a change—mysterious, illusive. There were no words for this. that had transpired. But for the moment one thing only was certain. The night ‘was no longer voice- less, the dark was no longer empty. Far off there, beyond the reach of vision, un- lccalized, strange, a ripple had formed, flashed one instant to the stars, then swiftly faded again. The night shut down once more. There was no sound—nothing stirred. For the moment Vanamee stood trans- fixed, struck rigid in his place, stupefied, Kis eyes staring, breathless with utter amazement. Then, step by step, he shrank back into the deeper shadow, treading with the infinite precaution of a prowling leopard. A quaim of some- thing veryemuch like fear seized upon him. But immediately on the heels of this B he murmured, first impression came the doubt of hi own senses. Whatever had happened had been so ephemeral, so faint, so intangible, that now he wondered if he had not de- ceived himself after all. But the reac- tion followed. Surely there had been gomething—something. And from that mo- ment began for him the most poignant uncertainty of mind. Gradually he drew back into the garden, holding his breath, listeging to every faintest sound, walking upon tiptoe. He reached the fountain, and, wetting his hands, passed them across his forehead and eyes. Once more he stood listening. The, silence was pro- ound, - Troubled, ~disturbed, . Vanames went away, passing out of the garden, de- scending the hill. He forded Broderson Creek where it intersected the road to Guadalajara, and went on across Quien Sabe, walking slowly, his head bent down, s hands clasped “pehind his back, thoughtful, perplexed. < V. At 7 o'clock, in the bedroom of his ranch house, in the white-painted {iron bed- stead with its blue-gray army blankets and red counterpane, Annixter was still asleep, his face red, his mouth open, his stiff yellow hair in wild disorder. On the woogen chair at the bed-head stood the kerosene lamp, by the light of which he had been reading the previous evening. Beside it was a paper bag of dried prunes and the limp volume of ‘“‘Copperfield,” the place marked by a slip of paper torn from the edge of the bag. Annixter slept soundly, making great work of the business, unable to take even his rest gracefully. His eyes were shut so tight that the skin at their an- gles was drawn into puckers. Under his pillow, his two hands were doubled up into fists. At intervals he gritted his teeth ferociously, while from time to time the abrupt sound of his snoring dom- inated the brisk ticking of the alarm clock that hung from the brass knob of the bedpost within six inches of his ear. But immediately after 7 this clock sprung its alarm with the abruptness of an explosion, and within the second An- nixter had hurled the bedclothes from him and flung himself up to a sitting pos- ture on the edge of the bed, panting and Enplns. blinking at the light, rubbing his ead, dazed and bewildered, stupefied at the hideous suddenness with which he had been wrenched from his sleep. His first act was to take down the alarm clock and stifle its prolonged whir- ring under the pillows and bla ts. But when this had been done he continued to sit stupidly on the edge of the bed, curl- ing his toes away from the cold of the floor; his half-shut eyes, heavy with sleep, fixed and vacant, closing and open- ing turns. For upward of three min- utes he alternately dozed and woke, his head and the whole upper half of his body sagging abruptly sideways from mo- ment to moment. But at length, coming more to himself, he straightened up, ran his fingers through his hair, and with a prodigious yawn murmured vaguely: “Oh, Lord! Oh-h, Lord!” He stretched three 'or four times, twist- ing about in his plate, curling and un- curling his toes, muttering from time to time between two yawn: *Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! He stared about the room, collecting his thoughts, readjusting himself for the day's work. The room was barren, the walls of tongue and groove sheathing—alternate brown and yellow boards—like the walls of a stable, were adorned with two or three unframed lithographs, the Christ- mas ‘“‘souvenirs” of weekly periodicals, {astened with great wire nails; a bunch of herbs or flowers, lamentably withered and’ gray with dust, was affixed to the mirror over the black walnut washstand by the window, and a yellowed photograph of Annixter's combined harvester—himself and his men in a group before At—hung close at hand. On the floor at tire bedside and before the bureau were two oval rag- carpet rugs. In the corners of the room ‘were muddy boots, a McClellan saddle, a surveyor’s transit, an empty coal hod and a box of iron bolts and nuts. On the wall over the bed in a gilt frame was Annix- ter’s college diploma, while on the bureau amid a litter of hair brushes, dirty col- lars, driving gloves, cigars and the Iike sio?ld g broken machine for loading shells. It was essentially a man’s room, ru¥ed. uncouth, virile,.full of the odors of to- bacco, of leather, of rusty iron; the bare floor hollowed by the grind of hob-nailed boots, the walls marred by the friction . of heavy things of metal. Strangel enough. Annixter’s clothes were dispo of on the single chair with the precision of an old maid. Thus he had placed them the night before; the boots set carefully side by side, the trousers, with the over- alls still upon them, neatly folded upon the seat of the chair, the coat ha from its back. . The Quien Sabe ranch house was a six- room affair, all ‘on one floor. By no excess of charity ‘could 1t have been called a home. Annixter was a wealthy man: he could have furnished his dwelling with quite as much elegance as that of - nus Derrick. As it was, however, he con- sidered His house merely as a place to eat, to sleen, to, change his clothes in; as a shelter from the rain, an office where -nothing more. 'wake, An- business was Wh shuffl bedroom to the Teyond, and stood under a few minutes, his teeth minating oaths at the_coldness ; ‘water. I shivering, he hurried into his and, having pushed the button of the electric bell to announce that he was ready for breakfast, immediately plunged into ‘the business of the da: e he y. from Bonneville drove into the yard with was thus occupled the butcher's the day’s supply of meat. This cart aiso brought the n; and the mall of the mmé‘.}'."','.‘&h firtba bundle of correspondence that the butcher hand- ed to Annixter that morning was a tele- gram from Osterman, at that time on his second trip to Los Angeles. It read: Flotation of company in this district as- nu'eg- g:ve m‘l:‘r‘d services of deflr,lol::: party. now in position to you share stock, as per original plan. Annixter grunted despatch into strips. tered, “that part is as “Well,” . settled, then.”- He ‘made a little pile of the torn strips on the top of the unlighted stove, and burned them carefully, scowling down into the flicker of the fire, thoughtful and preoccupied. : He knew very ‘well what Osterman re- ferred to by Flotation of company,. and also who was the ‘“desirable party” spoke of. / Under protest, as he was particular to declare, and after interminable argument, Annixter had allowed himself to be recon- ciled with Osterman, and to be persuade to re-enter the proposed political “deal. A committee had been formed:to finance the affair—Osterman, old Broderson, An- nixer mmself, and, with reservation: hardly more than a looker-on, Harral Derrick. Of this committee, Osterman was considercd chairman. Magnus Der- rick had formally and_definitely refused his adherence to the scheme. He was try. ing to steer a middle course. His pos tion was difficult, anomalous. If freight rates were cut through the efforts of the members of the committee, he could not very well avoid taking advantage of the new schedule. He would be the gainer, though sharing neither the risk nor the expense. But, meanwhile, the days were passing; the primary elections were draw- ing nearer. The committee could not af- ford to wait, and by way of a beginning, Osterman had gone to Los Angeles, for- tified by a large sum of money—a purse to which Annixter, Broderson and himselt had confributed. 'He had put himself in touch with Disbrow, the political man of he Denver, Pueblo and nroj-.ve road, and ad had two interviews with him. The telegram that Annixter received that morning was to say that Disbrow had been bought over, and would adopt Dar- rell as the D, P. and M. candidate for Railroad Commissioner from the Third B District. One of the cooks brought up Annixter’s breakfast that morning, and he went through it hastily, reading his mail at the same time and glanclnaeovel‘ the pages of the ‘Mercury,” nslinger’s paper. The ‘“Mercury,” Annixter was gereuaded. received a subsidy from the acific and Southwestern Railroad, and was hardly better than the mouthpiece by which Shelgrim and the General Office spoke to ranchers about Bonneville. ?&1 editorial in that morning’s issue said: “It would not be surprising to the well- {nformed, it the long qeferred regrade of the value of the railroad sections included in the Los Muertos, Quien Sabe, Oster- man and Broderson properties was made before the first of the year. Naturally, the. tenants of these lands feel an interest in the price which the railroad will put upon its holdings, and it is rumored they expect the land will be offered to them for two dollars and fifty cents per acre. It needs no seventh daughter of a seventh daughter to foresee that these gentlemen will be disa; inted.” “Rot!"” vociferated Annixter to himself as he finished. He rolled the paper into a wad and hurled it from him. “Rot! rot! What does Genslinger know is about it? I stand on my agreement with the P. and 8. W. from two fifty to five dollars an acre—there it is in black and white. The road is obligated. And my improvements! I made the land valu- able by improving it, irrigating it, drain. "‘fi it, and cultivating it. Talk to me. I know better.” The most abiding impression that Gens- linger’s editorial made upon him was, that possibly the ‘‘Mercury” was not sub- sldized by the corporation after all. If it was, Genslinger would not have been led into making his mistake as to the value of the land. He would have known that the rallroad was under contract to sell at two dollars and a this, but that when the land was put on .the marl it was to be offered to e present Rolders first of all. Annixter called to mind the explicit terms of the sgreement between himself and the ral road, and ssed the matter from his mind. He lit a cigar, put on his hat and went out. /~ The morning was fine, the alr nimble, brisk. On the summit of the skeleto: like tower of the artesian well the wind- mill was turning steadily in a breeze from the southwest. The water in the irrigat- ing ditch w: well up. There was no cloud in the sky. Far off to the east and west, the bulwarks of the valley, the Coast Range and the foothills of the Sierras stood out, pale amethyst against the delicate pink and white sheen of the horizon. The sunlight was a veritable flood, crystal, limpid, sparkling, setting a fecling of gayety in the alr, stirring u, an effervescence in the blood, a tumult og exuberance in the eveins, But on his way to the barns, Annixter was obliged to pass by the open door of the dairy-house. Hilma Tree was inside, singing at her work; her voice of a vel- vety huskiness, more of the chest than of the throat, mingling with the liquid dash- ing of the milk in the vats and churns, and the clear, sonorous clinking of the cans and pans. Annixter turned into the dairy-house, pausing on the threshold, looking about him. Hilma stood bathed from head to foot {n the torrent of sun- light ghat poured in upon her from the three wide-open- windows. She was charming, delicious, radiant of youth, of health, of well-being. Into her eyes, wide open, brown, rimmed with their fine, thin line of intense black lashes, the sun set a diamond flash; the same golden light flowed all around hes thick, molst hair, lambent, beautiful, a sheen’ of almost metallic luster, and reflected itself upon her wet lips, mnvini with the words of her singing. The whiteness of her skin under the caress of this hale, vigorous morning light was dazzling, pure, of a fl:enus beyond words. , Beneath the sweet modulation of her chin, the re- flected light from the burnished copper vesscl she was carrying set.a vibration of pale Bold. Overlying the flush of rose in her cheeks, seen only when she stood against the lunfl‘hg ‘was a faint sheen of §:H;’n 5 o delicate as the a flower, or the impalpable pow- er ‘of ‘a moth's wing. She was moving to and fro about her work, alert, ous, robust; and from all the fine, ful pli- tude of her figure, from her thick white neck, sloping downward ‘to her shoulders, from the deep, feminine swell of her breast, the vigorous maturity of her hips, there was disengaged a vibrant note o fayety, of exuberant animal life, 'sane, onest, strong. She wore a skirt of plain blue calico and a shirtwalst of pink linen, clean, trim; while her sleeves turned Lack to her shoulders, showed her large, White arms, wet with milk, redolent and fragrant with milk, glowing and resplend- ent in the early morning light. th(n the threshold Annixter took off his +'Good morning, Miss Hilma.” Hilma, whe, h-,f set down the c g:}x d;:‘r; top of the vat, turned about “Oh, good morning, sir,” and, un- consciously, she made a_littl t salutation” with her hand, rlilllg:'.l;“;lgi Yay toward her head, as a man would haye done. “Well,” began Annixter ely, ou getting along down here?” To-day, there is not are ““Oh, very fine, so much to do. We drew the whey Just done hours ago, and now we are putting the curd to press. I have been Wo{ldn't they cleaning. See my pans. do for mirrors, sir? And “the co; per ve scrubbed and lcrubged. , you can look into the tini everywhere, you won't find l? 'mm:ha: the littlest speck of dirt or grease. I love- things, and this room is my own lar place. Here I can do just i : “The Octopus,” by the late M!orfl.,u:'n?:-flzhn considered the nearest ap- proach to the “great American novel” ever written. As a novel dealing with California life and scenes it is undoubtedly the *lt in print. i “how Sunda; FREE! NO X PENSE! e icy shower * b A Tl lease, and that is, to keep the ce and the vats, and the churns and the separators, and especially the cans and coppers, clean; clean; and to see that the.milk is pure, oh, 8o’ that a. “little baby could drink it; and to have lm‘_‘lq'tten. alr always sweet, and the sun—oh, and lots of sun, morning, noon and after- noon, so that everything shines. You know, I never see the sun set that it don’t make me_a little sad; yes, -.lwufi Just a little. Isn’t it funny? I shoul want it to be day all the time. An .when the day is gioomy and dark, I am Just as sad as if a very good friend of mine had left me. Would you believe'it? Just until within a few years, when I Wwas a big girl, sixteen and over, mamma y my bed every night before had to sit I could go to ‘sleep. I was afraid in the “dark. Sometimes I am now. Just imag- ine, and now I am nineteen—a Yyoung lady.” “You were, hey?’ observed Annixter, for the sake of u‘*,ms somethln_’; “Afraid in the dark? What of—ghosts “N-no; g what. 1 wanted the light; I wanted—"" She drew a flees breath, turning toward the window an spreading her pink finger-tips to the light. “On, the sun. I love the sun. See, put your hand there—here on the top of the vat—ilke that. Isn’t it warm Isn’t it fine? And don’t you love to see it coming in like that through the win- dows, floods of it; and all the little dust in it shining? Where there is lots of sun- light, I think the e?le must be very good. It's onl, lc&e people that love the dark. Andythe ‘wicked things are al- ways done and planned in the dark, I think. Perhaps, too, that’s why I hate things that are mysterious—things thal I can't see, that happen in the dark. She wrinkled her nose with a little ex- K;eulon of aversion. “I hate a mystery. aybe that's why I am afraid in_the dark—or was. I shouldn’t like to think that anything could happen around me that T couldn’t see or understand or ex- plain.” She ran on from subject to sub; positively garrulous, talking in her low- pitched ‘voice of velvety huskiness for the mere enjoyment of putting her ideas into speech, innocently assuming that they were quite as interesting to others as to herself. She was yet a great child, ignoring the fact that she had ever grown up, taking a child’s interest in her im- mediate surroundings, direct, straight- foerward, plain. While speaking, she con- tinued about her work, rinsing out the cans with a mixture of hot water and soda, scouring them bright, and piling them in the sunlight on top of the vat. Obliquely, and from between his nar- rowed lids, Annixter scrutinized her from time to time, more and more won over by her adorable freshness, her clean, fine youth. The clumsiness that he usually experienced In the presence of women was wearing off. Hilma Tree's _direct simplicity put him at his ease. He be- gan to wonder if he dared to kiss Hilma, and if he did dare, how she would e it. A spark of suspicion flickered up in his mind. Did not her manner imply, vaguely, an invitation? One neyer could tell with' females. That was why she was talking so much, no doubt, holding him there, affording the ‘opportunity. Aha! She had best look out, or he would take her at her word. “Oh, I had forgotten,” claimed Hilma, “the very thing I wanted to show you—the new press.. You reme ‘ber I asked for one last month? This is it. See, this is how it works. Here is where the curds go; look. And this cover is screwed down like this, and then you work the lever this way.” Sh frugerl the lever in both hands, throw- ng her weight upon it, her smooth, bare ‘m swelling round and firm with the effort, one slim foot, in its low shoe set off with bright steel buckle, braced against the wall. & “My, but that takes strength,” sle panted, looking up at him and smiling. “B\at isn't it a fine press? Just what we needed.” “And,” Annixter cleared his throaf “and where do you keep the cheeses an the butter?” e thought it very likely that these were in the cellar of the dairy. the answered Hilma. 3 She raised the flap of the cellar door at the end of the room. “Would you like to see. Come down; I'll show you.” She went down before him into the cool . obscurity underneath, redolent of new cheese and fresh butter. Annixter followed, a certain excitement beginning to gain upon him. He was almost sure now that Hilma wanted him to kiss her. At all events, onme could but try. But, ‘#s yet, he was not absolutely sure. Sup- pose he had been mistaken in her; sup- pose she should consider herself insulted and freeze him with an icy stare. An- nixter winced at the very thought of it. Better let the whole business go, and get to work. He was wasting half the morn- ing, - Yet, If she did want to give him the, opportunity of kising her, and he failed to e advantage of it,. what a suddenly ex- ninny she would think him; she would despise him for being afraid. He afraid! He, Annixter, afraid of a fool, female girl. “Why, he owed it to himself as a man to go as far as he could. He told himself that that goat Osterman would have kissed Hilma Tree weeks ago. To test his state of mind, he imagined him- gelf as having decided to kiss her, after all, and at once was surprised to experi- ence a poignant qualm of excitement, his heart beating heavily, his breath coming short. At the same time, his courage re- mained with him. He was not afraid to try. He felt a greater respect for him- self because of this. His self-assurance hardened within him, and as Hilma turn- ed to him, asking him to taste a cut from one of the ripe cheeses, he suddenly stepped close to her, throwing an arm about her shoulders, advancing his head. But at the last second, he bungled, hes- itated; Hilma shrank from him, supple as a young reed; Annixter clutched harshly at her arm, and trod his full weight upon one of her slender feet, his cheek and chin barely touching the dell- cate pink lobe of one of her ears, his lips brushing merely a fold of her shirt walist between the neck and shoulder. The thing was a failure, and at once he realized that nothing had been further from Hilma's mind than the idea of hs kissing her. She started back from him abruptly, her hands nervously clasped against her breast, drawing in her breath sharply and holding it with a little, tremulous catch of her throat that sent a quiver- eing vibration the length of her smooth, white neck. Her eyes opened wide with a childlike look, more of astonishment than anger. She was !Ilrpl'll?fl, out of all measure, _discountenanced, * taken all aback, and when she found her breath, gave voice to a great “Oh” of dismay and distress. For an instant, Annixter stood awk- ‘wardly in his place, ridiculously, clumsy, murmuring over and -over again: “Well—well—that’s all right—who's go- ln; to hurt you—that's all right.” ‘hen, suddenly, with a quick, indefinite gesture of one arm, he exclaimed: “Good-bye, I-I'm sorry.” He turned away, striding up the stairs, crossing the dairy-room, and regained the opén air, raging and furious. He turned toward the barns, clapping his hat upon his head, muttering the while under his breath: . “Oh, you goat! You beastly fool pip. Good Lord, what an ass you've made of yourself now!” Suddenly he rgsolved to put Hilma Tree out of his hts. e matter was interfering with his work. This kind of thing was sure not earning any money. He shook himself as though freeing -his shoulders of an irksome burden, and turred his entire attention to the work nearest at hand. The prolonged rattle of the shinglers’ hammers upen the roof of big barn attracted him, and, crossing over between the ranchhouse and the artesian well, he stood for some time absorbed in the con- templation of the vast building, amused and interested with the confusion of sounds—the clatter of hammers, the cadenced scrape of saws, and the rhyth- mic shuffle of planes—that issued from the gang of carpenters who were at that moment putting the finishing touches upon the roof and rows of stalls. A boy and two men were busy hanging the great sliding door at the south end, while the painters—come down from Bonneville early that morning—were en- gaged in adjusting the spray and force engine, by means of which Annixter had insisted upon painting the vast surfaces of the barn, condemning the use of brushes and pots for such work as old- fashioned and out-of-date. He called to one of the foremen, to ask ‘when the barn would be entirel, shed, and was told that at the end of the week the hay and stock could be installed. “And a precious I time you've been at it, too,” Annixter declared. on, inside of it, with room to spare. w“fr un:o. th'; barn was cisely what __Annixter had hoped of it. In his pleasure over the success of his idea, even Hilma for the moment was for- “rm ‘And, now,” murmured Annixter, “Tll filve that dance in it. I'll make 'em T Itpoceurred to him that he had better set about sending out the invitations for the affair. He was puzzled to decide just how the thing should be managed, and resolved that it might be as well to con- 8 Magnus and Mrs. Derrick. want to talk of this telegram of the goat's with Magnus, anyhow,” he said to himself reflectively, ‘‘and _there's things I got to do in Bonneville before the first of the month.” He turned about on_ his heel with a last look at the barn, and set off toward the stable. He had decided to have his horse saddled and ride over to Bonneville by way of Los Muertos. He would make a day of it, would see Magnus, Harran, old Broderson and some of the business mel of Bonneville. A few moments later he rode out of the barn and the stable-yard, a fresh cigar between his teeth, his hat slanted over his face against the rays of the sun, as yet low in the east. He crossed the irrigating ditch and gained the trail—thé short\cut over into Los Muertos, by way of Hooven's. It led south and west into the low ground overgrown by gray-green willows by Broderson Creek, at this time of the rainy season a stream of con- siderable volume, farther on dipping sharply to pass underncath the ng Trestle of the railroad. On the other side of the right of way, Annixter was obliged to open the gate in Derrick’s line fence. He manage this without dis- mounting, swearing at the horse the while, and spurring him continually. But g;lf:i(ll;mm’ the gate he cantered forward This part of Los Muertos was Hooven's holding, some five hundred acres inclosed between the irrigating ditch and Broder- son’s Creek, and half the way across, An- nixter came up with Hooven himself, busily at work replacing a broken wash- er in his seeder. Upon one”of the horses hitched to the machine, her hands gripped tightly upon the harness of the collar, Hilda, his daughter, with her small, hob-nailed boots and boy’s canvas -overalls, sat, exalted and petrified with ecstasy and excitement, her eyes wide opened, her hair in a tangle. ‘“Hello, Bismarck,” sald Annixter, érawing up beside him. 'What are you doing here? I thought the governor was going to manage with his tenants this year. “Ach- Meest'r Ennix cried the other, straightening up. *“‘Ach, dat’'s you, eh? Ach, you bedt he doand menege mit- out me. e, 1 [o(? stay. I talk der straighd talk mit der governor. I fix ’em. ~Ach, you bedt. Sieben yahr I hef bel der rench ge-stopped; yais, sir. Efery oder sohn-of-a-guhn bel der plaice ged der sach bud me. Eh? Wat you tink von dose ting?”’ “I think that’s a crazy- king monkey- wrench you've got ther: observed An- nixter, glancing "at the Instrument in Hooven’s hand. ‘Ach, dot wrainch,” returned Hooven. ok:! Wall, I tell you dose ting now yhalr I got ‘em. Say, ou see dot Tainch. Dat's not Emericen wrainch at alle. I got'em at Gravelotte der day we licked der stuffen oudt der Frainch, ach, ou bedt. . Me, I pelong to der Wurtem- erg redgimend, dot dey use to suppord ger batterie von der Brince von Hohen- lohe. Alle der daf’ we lay down bel der stomach in der feildt behindt der batterie, und der schells von der Frainch cennon hef eggsblode—ach, donnerwetter!—I tink efery schell eggsblode bel der beckside my pack. Und dat go on der whole day, noddun else, noddun_aber der Frainch schell, b-r-r, b-r-r, b-r-r, b-r-am, und der smoag, und unzer batterle, dat go off slow, steady, yoost like der glock, eins, zwel, boom! ‘eins, zwel, boom! yoost like der glock, ofer und ofer again, alle der day. Den vhen der night come dey say we hev der great victorie made. I doand know. Vhat I do see von der bet- tle? Noddun. Den we gedt oop und maerch und maerch alle night, und in der morgen we hear dose cannon eggain, hell oaf _der way, far-off, I doand know vhair. ' Budt, nef'r mindt. Bretty quick, ach, Gott—" his face flamed scarlet, “Ach, du lieber Gott! Brotty zoon, dere wass der Kaiser, glose bei, und Fritz, Unzer Fritz, Bel Gott, den I go grazy, und yell, ach, you bedt, der whole redg- imend: ‘Hoch der Kalser! Hoch der Vaterland!” Und der dears come to der eyes, I doand know because vhy, und der mens gry und shaike der hend, und der whole redgimend maerch off like . dat, fairy broudt, bei Gott, der head ocop high, und sing ‘Die Wacht am Rhein.’ Dat Wi ‘Gravelotte.” ‘And -the monkey-wrench?"” ch, I pick 'um oop vhen der batteri, Der cennoniers het forgedt und lea: um..,lca.r ‘um_ in der sack. I tink I um vhen I gedt home in der business. 1 was maker von vag- ons, in Carlsruhe, und I nefr gedt ho: agal: ‘Vhen der war hef godt over, I go beck to Ulm und gedt marriet, und den I gedt demn sick von der armie. Vhen I fedt der release, I clair oudt, you bedt. come to Emerica. First, New Yor-ruk; den Milwaukes; den Sbringfieldt- Ilinoy; den Galifornie, und heir I stay.” b:‘k""td the Fatherland? Ever want to go k2o ““Wall, I tell you dose tlni. Meest'r En- nixter. Alleways, I tink a lot oaf Shair- many, und der Kalser, und nef’r I forgedt Gravelotte. Budt, say, I tell you dose ting. Vhair der wife is, und der kinder— der leedle girl Hilda—dere is der Vater- land. Eh? erica, dat’s my gountry now, und dere,” he pointed behind him to the house under the mammoth oak tree on the Lower Road, “dat's my home. Dat’s goot enough Vaterland for me.” Annixter gathered up the reins, about to go on. “So you like America, do you, Bis- 1mor rck?” he sald. “Who do ‘you vote “‘Emerica? I doand know,” returned the other, insistently. “Dat's my home yon- der. Dat's my terland. Alle von we Shairmens yoost like dot. Shairmany, dot’s hell oaf some fine plaice, sure. Budt der Vaterland iss vhair der home und def wife und kinder iss. Eh? Yes? Voad? Ach, no. Me, I nef’r voad. I doand bod- der der haid mit dose ting. maig der wheat grow, und ged der braid fur der wife und Hilda, dot's all. Dot’s me; dot's Bisma m“G:&)d-by." commented Annixter, mov- ooven, the washer replaced, turned to his work again, ammns up the horses. The seeder advanced, whirring. “‘Ach, Hilda, leedle girl,” he cried, “hold tight bel der shdrap on. Hey mulel oop! Gedt oop, you. Annixter cantered on. In a few mo- ments he had crossed Broderson Creek and had entered upon the home ranch of Los Muertos. Aheed of him, but so far off that the greater portion of its bulk was below the horizon, he could see the Der- ricks’ home, a roof or two between the dull green of cypress and eucalyptus. Nothing else was in sight. The brown earth, smooth, unbroken, was as a lim- itless, mud-colored ocean. The silence was profound. Then, at length, Annixter’s searching eve mads out a blur on the horizon to the northward; the blur concentrated itself to a speck; the speck grew by steady de- grees to a spot, slowly moving, a note of dull color, ely darker than the land, but an Inky black silhouette as it topped a low rise of ground and stood for a mo- ment outlined against the pale blue of the sky. Annixter turned his horse from the road and rode across the ranch land to meet this new object of interest. As the spot grew larger, it resolved itself into constituents, a collection of units; its shape grew irregular, fragmentary. A dis- integrated, pebulous confusion a@ivanced toward Annixter, preceded, as he discove ered on nearer approach, by a medley of faint sounds. Now it was no longer a spot, but a column, a column that moved, accompanied by spots. As Annixter les- sened the distance, these spots resolved themselves into buggies or men on horse- back that kept pace with the advancing column. There were horsés in the column itself. At first gxa.nx: it appeared as if there was nothing elde, a riderless squad- ron tramping steadily over the upturned plow land of the ranch. But & drew nearer. The horses were in lines, six abreast, harnessed to® machines. ' The noise increased, defined itself. There was a shout or two; occasionally a horse blew through his nostrils with a prolo: vi- brating snort. The click and clink of metal work was incessant, the machines throwing off a continual rattle of wheels and cogs and clashing springs. The col- umn n?rolched nearer; was close at hand. The noises mingled to a subdued uproar, a bewildering confusion; the im- pact of iunumerable hoofs was a veritable rumble. Ma e after machine appeared; and Annixter, drawing to one gfile. re- mained for nearly ten minutes watchin: and interested, while, lik array Slasning, tntllltn:'flnlol'oabm: Spsaking. chine suc Six-norse team -] hur- ried—Magnus Derrick’s three | drills, each with its d(hmrt!’-huc, -.n'i flw& an advance of mili- the’ ranch, nancé of ‘a_whole world, the food of an A entire people:, = When the drills had passed Annixter turned and rode back to the Lower Road, over the land now thick with seed. He id not wonder that the seeding on Los Muertos seemed to be hastiiy conducted. Magnus and Harran Derrick had not yet been able to make up the time lost at the beginning of the season, when they had Waited so long for the plows to arrive. They had been behindhaud ail the time. On Annixter's ranch, the land had not only been harrowed, as well as seeded, but in some cases, eross-harrowed as well. The laber of putti ~n the vast crop was over. Now . there was nothing to do but wait, while the seed silently germin- ated; nothing to do but watch for the. wheat to come up. When Annixter reached the ranch house of l.os Muertos, under the shade of the cypress and eucalyptus trees, he found Mrs. Derrick on the porch, seated in a long wicker chair. She had been washing her hair, and the light brown locks that yet retained so much of their brightness were carefully spread in the sun over the back of her chair. Annixter could not but remark that, spite of her more than fifty years, Annie Lerric was yet rather pretty. Her eyes were stili those of a young girl, just touched with an un- certain expression of innocence and in- quiry, but as her glance fell upon him he tound that that expression changed to one of uneasiness, of distrust, almost of aversion. The night before this, after Magnus and his wife had gone to bed, they had lain awake for hours, siaflnf up into the dark, talking, talking. Magnus had not long ‘been able to keep from his wife the news of the coalition that was forming against ‘the railroad, nor the fact that this coalition was determined to galn its ends by any means at its command. He bad told her of Osterman’s scheme of a fraudulent election to seat a board of Railroad Commissioners, who should be nominees of the farming interests. Mag- nus and his wife had talked this matter over and over again; and the same dis- cussion, begun immediately after I\XPE: the evening before, had lasted till to the night. At once Annie Derrick had been seized with a sudden terror lest Magnus, after all, should allow himself to be persuaded; should yield to the pressure that was every day growing stronger. None bet- ter than she knew the iron integrity of her husband’s character. None better than she remembered how his dearest gambition, that of political preferment, Had been thwarted by his refusal to truckle, to conuive, to compromise with his ideas of right. Now, at last, there seemed to be a change. Long continued oppression, petty tyranny, Injustice and extortion had driven him to exas, D 8. Begmnn'!l ln!ul!s still ri led. He seemed nearly ready to count Osterman's schems. The very fact that he was willing to talk of it to her often and at such great l“t: was a prapf positive that it oc- cupled his mind. The pity of it the tragedy of it! He, agnus, the *“Governor,” who had been so stanch, so rigidly upright, so loyal to his convie- tions, so bitter in his denunclation of the new politics, so scathing in his attacks on bribery and corruption in high places; was it possible that now, at last, he eould be brought to withhold his condemnation of the devious intrigues of the unscrupu- lous, going on ' there under his very eyes? That Magnus should not command arran to refrain from all intercourse with the conspirators had been a matter of vast surprise to Mr8. Derrick. Time was when Magnus would have forbidden his son to so much as recognize a honorable man. this Derrick’'s wife But besides all trembled at the thought of her husband and son engaging in so desperate a grap- le with the railroad—that great monster, ron-hearted, relentless, infinitely power- ful. Always it had issued triumphant from the fight; always S. Behrman, the corporation’d champion, remained upon the field as victor, placid, unperturbed, unassailable. But now a more terrible struggle than any hitherto loomed men- acing over the rim of the future; money was to be spent like water; personal repu- tations were to be hazarded in the issue; failure meant ruin in all directions, finan- cial ruin, moral ruin, ruin of prestige, ruin of character. Success, to her mind, was almost impossible. Annie Derrick feared the railroad. At night, when every- thing else was still, the distant roar of assing trains echoed across Los Muertos rom Guadalajara, from Bonneville or from the Long Trestle, straight into her heart. At such moments she saw very p:aixlxly :{1‘: lflauu "‘l‘ terror of steam and steel, wi ts single eye, cyciopean, red, shooting from herizon to. horizon, symbol of a vast power, huge and terrible; the leviathan with tentacles of steel, to o pose which meant to be ground to in- stant destruction beneath the clashing wheels. No, it was better to submit, to resign oneself to the inevitable. She ob- literated herself, shrinking from the barshness of the world, striving, with vain hands, to draw heér husband back with her. Just before Annixter’s arrival, she had been sitting, thoughtful, in her long chair, an open volume of poems turn down upon her lap, her glance losing itself in the Immensity of Los Muertos that, from the edge of the lawn close by, unrolled itself, gigantic, toward the far, southern horizon, wrinkled and serrated after the season’s plowing. The earth, hitherto gray with dust, was now upturned and brown. As far as the eye could reach, it was empty of all life, bare, mournful, abso- lutely still: and, as she looked, there seemed to her morbid imagination—dis- eased and disturbed with long brooding, sick with the monotony of repeated sensa~ tion—to be disengaged from all this im- mensity a sense of a_vast oppression, formless, disquieting. The terror of sheer bigness grew slowly in her mind; loneli- ness beyond words gradually enveloped her. She was lost in all these limitless reaches of space. Had she been abandon- ed in midocean, in an open boat, her ter- ror could hardly have been greater. She felt vividly that certain uncongeniality which, when all is said, forever remains between humanity and the earth which supports it. She recognized the colossal Indifference of nature, not hostfls, even kindly and friendly, so long as the human ant-swarm was submissivi rking wi nature, and once it became relentless, & X gine, a vast power, huge, t o; & le- viathan with a heart of steel, knowing compunction, no forgiveness, no ulo': ance; crushing out the human atom with !cug]d]eas calm, t;:e agony of Sending never a jar, never the faintest tremor through all th prodigious me- chanism ot‘:r eels lnanoon. Such thoughts as these did mnot vague l;nnt!:an‘ :{n ‘t’han b ‘were a breath o upon her face, con- sed, troublous, an indefinite sense of nfiuhy In the air. e sound of hoofs gravel “of the drivewas Beowghi”her i herself again and, withdrawing her gase from the empty plain of Los Muertos, she saw young Annixter- stopp! his ho: by the carriage steps. But the sight of him only diverted her mind to the other trouble. She could not but regard him with aversion. -He was one of the con- spirators, was one of the leaders in battle that impended: no doubt he come to make a_ fresh attempt to win over Magnus to the unholy alliance. However, there was little trace of en- mity in her greeting. Her hair was still spread, like a broad patch of brown sea- weed, upon the white towel over the chairback, and she made that her excuse for not getting up. In answer to Annix- ter's embarrassed inquiry after Magnus. she sent the Chinese cook 4o call him from the office; and Annixter, after tying his horse to the ring driven into the trun of one of the eucalyptus trees, came up to the porch and, taking off his hat, sat down upon the steps. “Is Harran anywhere about?”’ he asked. “I'd like to see Harran, t0o.” “No,” sald Mrs. Derrick; “Harran went to_Bonneville early this morning.” She glanced toward Annixter nervous- ly, without turning her head, lest she should disturb her o hair. “What is it you want to see Mr. Der- rick about?’ she ln1urn¢ hastily. “Is it about this plan to elect a Rallroad Com- f5 n? Magnus does not approve of she fl.gl!ll;!eg ‘with energy. told me so last ‘o Annixter mgved about aw! ‘where he sat, smoothing down with his hand the one stiff lock of yellow hair that per- sistently stood up from his crown like an Indlan’s scalplock. At once his suspicions were all aroused. Ah! this female woman was trying to get a hold on him, trying to involve him in a petticoat mess, trying to cajole him. Upon the instant he be- came very crafty; an excess gf gnmdenco promptly congealed his natw pulses, In an actual spasm of caution, he scarce- Iy t himself to speak, terrified lest he should commit himself to somethins. He a:nud about apprehensively, Dfl‘: t Magnus might join them :?y‘, relieving the tension. (Continued Next Week.)