The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 3, 1903, Page 4

NS . him down, Todd!" she said the back of your test?” tgm put_his hand behind, lim agd; enc a paper pinned td the danglnk -sirep :ef his waistcoat. unpinped . T took* 3 -light shope throughs the -operi “door. woman her hand BUSHES The street f onted tormed square and rau own, where a quarter of 1o the west agal this second tura se on the most we the salwart e ise 5 geraniums ard. ki€ riimbe wanderiug creek,-a 1k airust seat was placed, beneat . sypamor Frem the first Send of -theiread, it left the town becamé. (alter: sqme indecision) highway—calléd the the moon dows o woodlands arvel wotony of eet o imes befpre “one. . To- o lie s0; fa the pathas passive: uBd Stilf e messsge, sad, i But -{here* had come adrift on the &ir. . Thioigh dows 1t floated.-Indoors: some of silver chords, ‘like a harp touched bv a lover, litied. John Harkless lparied pesture bars listened ; -‘with head und parted lips. stretched out seemed hamber window love Fag.léd s feet 2 Lord seni manna o -ihe- children Israel in the wilderness. “Harkless had tve years in Plattville, and a wom- singing Schubert's seremade last as he sioud by. ihe pasture bars of Jones' fieid and-listened and rested his dazzied on the. big, white face of the moon How long had it been since he had heard 2 soug or any discourse of music other han turnished by tue Plattvile: baud that he had no taste for a brass band! But music that he loved always gave him an ache of delight and the twinge of reminiscences of oid, gay,days gone forever. To-night his memory leaped to the last day of a June gope seven years; to a morning when the little estu- ry waves twinkled in the bright sun alout the boat in_which he sat, the trim launch that brdtght 2 cheery party ashore from their schooner to the Casino landing at Winter Harbor. far up on th Maine coast It was the happlest of those lasi ir:e sponsible days before he struck inin his work in the world and became a fadure To-night he saw the picture as plainly as if it were yesterday; no reminiscence had risen so keenly before his eyes for years. pretty Mrs. Van Skuyt sitting beside hun —pretty Mrs. Van Skuyt and her roses! Whnat had become of her? He saw the crowd of friends waliting on the pier for their arrival, and the dozen or so emblaz- oned classmates (it was in the time of brilliant flannels) who suddenly sent up a volley of college cheers in his honor— how plainly the dear old youns faces rose up before him to-night, the men from whose lives he had slipped! Dearcst and jolliest of the faces was that of Tom Meredith, clubmate, classmate, his closest friend, the thin, red-headed third base- man; he could see Tom’s mouth opened at least a yard, it seemed, such was his frantic vociferousness. Again and again the cheers rang out, “Harkless! Hark- less!” on the end of them. In those days everybody (particularly his classmates) thought he would be Minister to England in a few yea and the orchestra on the Casino porch was playing ~The Conquer- ing Hero,” In his honor, and at the behest of Tom Meredith, he knew. There were other pretty ladies besides Mre. Van Skuyt in the launch load from the yacht, but, as they touched the pier, pretty girls, or preity women, or jovial gentlemen, all were overlooked in the wild scramble the college men made for their hero. They haled him forth, set kim on high, bore him on their shouldors, shouting “Skal to the Vikin; and car- ried him up the wooded bluff to the Casino. He heard Mrs. Van Skuyt say, “Oh, we're used to it; we've put in at several other places where he had friends!”. He struggled manfully to be set down, but his triumphal procession swept on. He heard bystanders teliing cach other, “It's that young Harkless, ‘the Great Harkless' they're all so mad about”, and while it pleased hirg a little to hear such things, they always maac him laugh a great deal. He had nevar undersivod his popularity; he had bezn chief eoitor of the university daily, and he had done a little in athletics, and *he rest of his distinction lay in college offices his mates had heaped upon him withou: lix being wiic to comprehend way they ¢id it. And yet. somehow, and in spiie of himseif, they had convinced him tha. the world was his oyster; that it would open for him at a touch. He could not help seeing how the freshmen looked at hi-a, how the sophomores jumped off the na.- row campus walks to let him pass: he could not help knowing that he was the great man of his time, so that “The Great Harkless” came to be one of the traditions of the university. He remembered the wild progress they made for him up the siope that morning at Winter Harbor, how the people looked on and laughed and clapped their hands. But at the ver- anda edge he had noticed a little form disappesring around a corner of the build- ing; a young girl running away as fast as she could. “See there roving. an’s voice came to him at that —not he said, as the tribe set ou have frightened the pop- ulace.” And Tom Meredith stopped shouting long enough to answer, “It's my little cousin, overcome with emotion. €he's been counting the hours till you came—been hearing of you from me ard _ mentalist; he had almost given up trying comes a feeling that: the ‘whole’ and a womin's. and hagr's heen® Wiything ' lse: “hilsidrrived w ihie] yellow . was i TerReon. e : - mogn -thoughis 3 % the vwner of e voice Walfus apd ‘the: Ca teaf's ‘with.laughter, vis‘endéd.. he % leéaned upon-a sharp biow with-hi and: “There swept dver-him a feel- hid stood pre eh sach’ a-night, a ‘thousand aga, had heard that voice and-that d listened and peen moved by the and the 'night, just as he 'was now. d: 1ong known' himself for a senti- te himself.. And he -knew: himseif - for a Born lover; he had.always been in love:with some’ ané.- In his earlier youth % ‘affections had Lieen So.constantly in- * constant “that - he al came to settie With ‘his seli-respect . by recognizing in himself a -fipe’ constaricy -that worshiped pne woman always—it was only the shift- ingimage of her that changed! Some- Wwhere the dreamed whimsically indulgent af “the: fancy, yet mocking’ himself ‘for it) there was. a girl -whom he had never ‘seen; who ‘waited ‘till - he should come. . She ‘was Eyerything. . Until' he. found her he: tould - not -help: ador others who . possessed little pieces and suggestions of —her brilllancy, her courage. her short “upper lip; “‘Hke a curled roseleaf,” or her deas. volce. ot her. pure profile. . He-had -mo. recollzetion. of any lady who had quite ‘Ete..had never passed. a lovely stranger on-thestreét, in the cld days; without a thrill of delight and warmth. - If he never saw her -again and. the- vision only ‘lasted Ahé. time 1t takes a Jady to cross the side- walk ' from a shop door to a carriage, he --* was always a little‘in love with her, bé cause. she-bore. about- her somewhere, as did”evéry. pretty girl he. éver saw, a sug- gestion 9 One doe: strangers in the sffedts le:".. Miss Briscoe. wa pretty, at:all-in the -way that Harkless - dreamed. . For. fivé. years' the lover in him that had loved so often had been .starved "of-all but dreams, Only at twilight and dusk in the summer, when, strolling; he Caught sight of-a woman's , far up-the -village .stréet—half-out- lined: in the darkness under the cathedral arch-of meeting ‘brariches=this romancer of petticoats could sfgh.a true lover’'s sigh and if he kept enough-distance between, fiy a yearning fancy that his lady wan- dered there. 3 . 3 Ever since his university days the image of her had been growing more and more distinct.. He had .completely’ settled his mind as to her appearance and fer vojce. She was tall, aimost too tall, he was 'sure of that, and out of his consciousness there had grown a sweet and vivacious 'young face that he knew was. hers. . Her hair was light brown with gold lusters (he: reveled in the gold Tusters, on the proper theory that when your fancy is painting a picture you may as well go in for the whole thing and make it s her eyes were gray. The) earnest, and yet they sparkled and laughed to him companionably, and some- times he had smiled back upon her. The Undine danced before him through the lonely years, on falr nights in_ his walks, and came to sit by his fire on winter evenings when he stared alone at tlie embers, And to-night, here in . Plattville, he heard a voice he had waited for long, one that his fickle memory told him he had never heard before. But, listening,- he knew better—he had heard it long ago, though when and how, he did not know, as rich and true and ineffably tender as now. He threw a sop to his common sense. ‘‘Miss Sherwood is a little thing’ (the image was so surely tall) “with a bumpy forehead and spectacles,” he said to himself, “‘or else a provincial young lady with big eyes to pose at you.” Then he felt the ridiculousnes of looking after his common sense on a moonlight night in June; also, he knew.that he lied. The song had ceased, but the musician lingered, and the keys were touched to plaintive harmonies new to him. He had come to Plattvilie before “Cavalleria Rus- ticana” was sung at Rome, and now, en- tranced, he heard the “Intermezzo” for the first time. Listening to this, he feared to move lest he should wake from a’ sum- mer-night’s dream. A ragged little shadow flitted down the path behind him, and from a solitary apple tree, standing like a lonely ghost In the middie of the field, came the woo of a screech owl—twice. It was answered —twice—from a clump of elder-brushes that grew In a fence corner fifty yards west of the pasture bars. Then the barrel of a squirrel rifle issued, lifted out of the white elder-blossoms, and lay along the fence. The music in the house across the way ceased, and Harkless saw two white dresses come out through the long parlor windows to the veranda. “IL will be cooler out here,” came the voice of the singer clearly through the quiet. “What a night John vaulted the bars and started to cross the road. They saw him from the veranda and Miss Briscoe called to him in weltome. As his tall figure stood out plainly in the bright light against the white dust. a streak of fire leaped from the elder-blossoms and there rang out the sharp report of a rifle. There were two screams from the veranda. One white figure ran into the house. The other, a little one with a gauzy wrap streaming behind, came fiying out into the moon- light—straight to Harkless. There was a second report: the rifle-shot was an- swered by a revolver. William Todd had risen up, apparently from nowhere, and kneeling by the pasture bars, fired at the flash of the rifle. “Jump fer the shadder, Mr. Harkless,” he shouted; “he’s in them elders,” and then: »Fer God’s sake, come back!" Empty-handed ds he was, the editor dashed for the treacherous elder-bush as fast as his long legs could carry him, but before he had taken six strides a hand clutched his sleeve, and & giri's voice qua- 7 erag bl lik 14 -curled Tog He. $¢k nida- steps:. TBath-of. ruck the ~July. daiy; Keep upl' . He wheéled about ani nfronted - & Vhsion, a. dainty little: figure Mlushed. and’ Jpvs AWilliam' Tadg the road!” +H it hagr. @ v her dawn’ of § iliem latighed o5 alwayé thought -vou > h nswereds; and theré . was afierward . a time “when e had to ‘agree: that, this iwas a‘somewhat vague rephy i CHAPTER VL. . CIUNE: % Judge ‘Briscoe smiléd grimly and ieaned @n - his shotgun iin. the moonlight by the veranda: ‘He and William Todd had -been trampling. down' the elder-bushes,, and re- turning to the Wouse, found. Mirinie alone on the ‘porch. “*Safe?”:he 'gaid:to his daughter, who-turned *an anxious.. face upon: him, . “They’'l be ‘sufe enough now, and ‘in ‘our garden.” . “Maybe T oughtn't -fo. have . let go." she returned; nervausly Pooh!. They're. all right; that’scala- wag's halfway to Six-Cross-Roadst time, [isn’t he, Willlam? e tuck up.the fence like a scared rab- bit,” Mr. Todd responded, 100king into his hat to avoid meeting the eyes of the lady. 1 didn't have no ‘call to foller, ‘and he knowéd how: to run, I reckon.. Time Mr. Harkless come out the yard again, he near out- o' sight and.we see him take cross the road to the wedgewoods, near half-a-mile up. Somebody else with him then—looked like a kid. Must'a'cut acrost the fleld-fo join him. They're fur enough toward home by this.” “Did Migs Helon shake hands with you four or five times?"" asked Briscoe, chuck- lin them ““Because Harkless did. My hand aches and I guess Willlam's dees, too; he nearly £hook .our arms off when we -told. him he’s heen a fool.-8eemed to do him good. I told him heought to hire somebody to take -a shot at him every morning before brea fast—not that it's any joking matter; the old gentleman finished, -thoughtfully. “1 should say not,” said Willlam; with & deep .frown and a_jerk of. his head toward the rear of the house. ‘‘He jokes about it enough. Wouldn't even promis to carry a gun after this:. Said -he would- n’t know how ‘to_use it. Never-shot one off since he was'a boy, on the Fourth_ of This is the. third time he's be'n shot at_this year, but he says the others was at -a—a—what'd he call it?" A merely’ complimentary range, ' Briscoe supplied. He handed Willlam a cigar and bit thé end off another himseif. “Minnie, you better ‘go in.the house and read, 1 -expect—unless you want to o -down to the creek and join those folks.'" “Me!" she responded.. 1 know when to stay away, | guess. Do go and put that terrible gun up:” . “No,” said Briscoe, lighting his cigar, deliberately. “IU's all ‘safei thére's no question of that, but maybe Willlam and 1 better go out and take a smoke in the orchard as long as they stay down at the creck.” 3 3 In- the garden, shafts of white " light pierced the bordering trees and fell. where June roses lifted their heads to breathe the mild night breeze, and hére, through summer spells, the editor of the Herald and the lady who had run to him at the pasture bars strolled down a path trem- bling with shadows to where the shallow creek tinkled over the pebbles. They: waiked slowly, with an air of being well- accustomed friends and comrades, and for some reason it did not strike either of them as unnatural or extraordinary. They came to a bench on the bank and he made a great fuss dusting the seat for her with his black siouch hat. .Then he regretted the hat—it was ‘a sfiabby old hat of a Carlow County fashion 1t was a long bench, and he seated him- self rather remotely toward the end oppo- site her, suddenly realizing that he had walked very close to-her coming down thé narrow garden path. Neither knew, that neither had spoken since they leff the veranda; and it had taken them a long time to come through the little orchard and the garden. She rested her chin on her hand, leaning forward and looking steadily at the creek.. Her laughter had quite gone; her attitude seemed a littie wistful and a little ‘sad. He noted that her hair curled over lLer brow in a way he had pietired in the lady of his dreams; this was so much lovelier. He .dtd not care for tall girls; he had not cared for them for almost half an hour. 1t was so much more beautiful to be dainty and small and piquant. He had no notion that she was sighing in a way that would have put a furnace to shame, but he turned his eyes from her because he teared that If he looked longer he might blurt out some speech about her beauty. His glance rested on the bank, but 1ts diameter included the edge of her white skirt and the tip of a little, white, high-heeled slipper that peeped out be- neath it; and he had to look away from that, too, to Keep from telling her that he meant to advocate a law compelling all women to wear crisp, white gowns and white slippers on moonlight nights. She picked a long spear of grass from the turf before her, twisted it absently in her fingers, then turned to him slowly. Her lips parted as if to speak. Then she turned away again. The action was so odd, and somewhow, as she did it, so adorable, and the preserved silence was such a bond between them, that for his life he could not have helped moving half- way up the bench toward her, “What Is 1t?” he asked, and he spoke in a whisper he might have used at the bed- side of a dying friend. He would not have laughed if he had known he did so. She twisted the spear of grass into a little ball and threw it at a stone in the water before she answered. “Do you know, Mr. Harkless, you and 1 haven't ‘met,’ have we? Didn't we for- got to be presented to each other?” “1 beg your pardon, Miss Sherwood. In the perturbation of comedy I forgot." “it was melodrama, wasn't it : tomedian.. Truly,” I didn’t. pldn it. - fang. * -the most delicious low laughter in’ the cin wild spirits, - laughter ceased suddenly. “Rut. 1 had mét you Ao e Lo, , and - friend - from- - Six-Cross. Roadsmuy o 3 yol -singingand ¥ it of devising fhe ‘sé 2 t % & time gine And fough ..". You T2 -the P to my hexrt’ . But that Is the 'balladist’s nction unt; ihu-were a-lady at th e struck thé bench angrily and:I- was & heathen capth 7l Y Sty T heard:you sing .a' Christian ‘hymn- “There's 1é; kummer ‘Theater in Six- asked for baptism.” By a great.effo Crogs ‘there’s not even 'a church. managed te’ iook-us if. he did not:mi AVIiy showldn‘s they?: he asked gravely. But_ she did not,seem oves, pleased Tuiring <he Jong and-tedious evenings it his fancy, for, the surprise fading rheefs "the ppor Cross-Roader’s so! her face, * that was the way yo srop ‘over ‘hér: ‘take .. Shot_at ‘me. “memhered!" she said. S vhiles, away: dull tate ‘fov tm, and he -“Perliaps, itiwas not that way' atost s (he; additfonal exerci$e of tunning-all: Yeti-wgn't despise e for being mawkist ¢ way home - - ° 2% + to-night ask s i 101d * chance- for se Tong. 3 4 Thé night air wrapped thém warm! the balm- of the litile breezés that red the Zofage arcund -, the me¥’ of damask roses from den. sach bad marks- The. éreek -tinkled o pebbles . af xist {h the gountys biit I thetr- oF . y . bird; hal eIt with, the fhought that theif * yiikened' by the imoon, crooned languo arg ‘unhappily -in"tle. penite in ‘the amores. -The girl:100] ol inage T £ the flashing’ water- through: do “1s it ‘because it hat ‘beauty’ 13 patheti sh e n never come back to ‘the samé way? I ain a sentimer fl. “1f you are born se, it is mever teased owt of you, is it? Beside ‘might is dll a dream. It fan't 5w. You couldn’t be mawkish Her tone-was gentle as a caress i fim tingle to ‘his finger. t: g "““he asked.ina lew you tivink I'm 7" slie said, dreamil - it was Youi song ! wanted to. be se “timental aboui. I am - ‘like one . through long days of toil'—onl dnesn't .quite apply— and nights de bui I can’y claim’ thiat one’ doésn't: iwell heére; 1t is Plattville's specialy -orie ‘whé=— . . S foH 2 til] heard in his soul the musjc Of “woriderfut melodies. . g “Thoge bléssed old .lines!” she -said. Jiige -4 thing is music or poetry, all-the Hand-organs -and “-elocutiohists .in ,the world gannot Tuin.it, cal ? Yes;'to 1fvé here, out-of the worid; giving up-the world; ‘doing goed. and .working for orking-for.a community as you-do—' from o e- the Za and it. How the. CrossiRoad: ¢ ubput 1y gefitiemen: who remain 1 et Weighborhood: while fheir relative: urn undersdfscipiine. . 1f “you thad. tie.,do- over there, you. weilld' understan: esuld: nt ‘gather fhem 4 ‘compiny. and. march th miies -withou the ran T ot pré i people, - even “amol :themsetves, .T] wotild quarrel -and -shoot eaecl: othet -t piéces: long: before: trey got- here:!": ™ ut they Worked in.a: company. once.”! Never.fot Seven milés. Kour nijles . w their radivg,’ Five would - see them ~all agad.” 5 She striuck ‘the bench agaln. - “Oh; you! ; laugh ac-me! Yoi make . a-oke ef yaur: own life. and death, and laugh at-every: thing! . Have’. five : years' = ¢f - ‘Plattviile avghit ¥our to. do’ that?” 4 ‘I laugh only-al taking the poor Cross- Roaders -tog ‘seriously.” 1" den't laugh at 28T your - running -into five fo: hetp. & fellow- . T Am--not quite shameless,” he-intér- mortal, 1ipted-smillnighy. " “T was givén a life sen- T kriew. there wasn'€ any. risk. -T'knew ~1énlee for-incempetency and I've -served had Lo ‘Stop to- load -béfore he shet “five .years of it which have beén made “much happler than my deserts,” -* ~ ° +iNo* she .persisted, “that is.your way of talking of - yourself; I'know you. would aifvays: ‘run yourself” down,’ -if ‘one paid any attention ‘to it. But to givé up the world, to drop out-of- it withiout regret, to come ‘here -and-do what: youhaye dene, and-to. live the life that ‘must -be .so.des= perately.dry ‘and dull for a man of your o Jet; and -yet . to have the kind of heart ot b;":"i' yoii at the lectuje: 1 Hiat makes wonderful melodies sing in. it- ard you introduce the Honorable. Mr. Sfohl’ shie cried, . sa ‘:Z':-r:l‘u“r:‘m Halloway."” % Pt et AL 7 ; 2 sadly, ‘wishing., before lier, to-be unmsr- hér 1 don’t understand your Wishing . i-ujij just. to; himself. “I came.here be- 1o -save me.'" p, PR She smiled’ unwillingly ‘and -turned her: cduse I-couldn’t make a'living dnywhere gray eyes upon. him with troubled-sunni- €lf€- = And the = ‘wonderful. melodies’—I ness, and, under the kindness of .her re- - Bave known ‘you- only’ one, evenlng—and gard, he set a waich upon. his Hps; though . the melodies—" -He rose to his feet and he knew it might not avail him. He had <100k a few’ stéps ‘toward the garden. driveled along respectably so ‘far, he -Come” he said. “Let me take you back. thought, but he had the sentimental long- 1.t s go before 1—'" he finished with a ings of years, starved of expression, cul- be'pless:laugl - minating in his heart. She continued to .She stood by-the bench; one hand resi- look at him, wistfully, searching:y, gentiy. . il.g -on it; she stood all in-the tremulant Then her eyes traveled over his big frame shidow. . She moved one step toward him, from his shoes (a patch of moonlight fell' znd a single: long sliver of light plerced on them; they were dusty; He drew them the sycainores and fell upon her head. He under the bench with a. shudder) ‘to. his broad ‘shoulders (he. shook the stoop out of them). She strétched her small hands. toward him In contrast, and -broke into. seven ain, “He did. shoot agaln.” If I ‘had known vou . before to-night—I=" “His -toie changed .and - hé: spoke gravely. 1 am at your feet in worship of your philan- thropy. It's o much. iner: ‘10 risk your lite for a’stranger: than for a friend: “That is rather ‘a man’s point of -view, FE {ou “risked yours: for a man- you_ had 'Whet was it.about the melodies?” she I don't know how to thank everiing, that' you have given T suppose yeu are leaving to-mor- No'one. ever stays here—l—'" t .about the melcdies?” He gave it up. “The moon makes peo- ple insaj he cried. “If that is true,” she returned, “then you need not be more afrald than I, be- se ‘people’ is plural. What were you world. At this sound he ‘knew thé watch on his lips was worthless. It was a ques- - tion of minutes till he should present him. self to her eyes as a sentimental and sus-. ceptible imbecile.. He -knew it. He was “Coyld you realize that. one ‘of .your dangers might be a shaking?" she cried.’ “Is your serlousness a lost - art?”’ Her . a “Ah, no. 1 understand. Thiers said the Frénch laugh always, in order not.to weep. T haven't lived here five vears.: 1 should laugh too, it I were you. 2 “Look at the moon,” he responded. ““We Plattvillains own that with the best. of metropolitans, and, for ‘my part, I.see more.of it here. You de not appreciate: us. We have large landscapes in the heart of the city,.and what other capital possesses advantages like that? Next winter the rallway station is to have a new stove for the waiting-room. Heaven itself is oné of our suburbs—it is so close that all one has to de is to dle. You in- sist upon my being French, you see, and 1 know vou are fond of nonsense. How did you happen to put ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ at the bottom of a page of Fisbee's notes?” 1 & “Was it? How were you sure-it was 12!’ “In Carlow County!” “He might have written it himself.” ‘“Fisbee has never in his lifé read any- thing lighter than cuneiform inscriptions.” ““Miss Briscoe- 5 “She doesn't read Lewis Carroll; and it was not her hand. What made you write it on Fisbee's manuscript?” “He was with us this afternoon, and I teased him a little about your heading. ‘Business and the Cradle, the Altar, and the Tomb,’ isn’t 1t? And he said it had always troubled him, but that you thought it good. So do I. He asked me if,1 could think of anything that you might like better, to put in place of 1t, and I wrote, ‘The time has come,’ be- cause it was the only thing I could think of that was as appropriate and as fetch- ing as your headlines. He was perfectly dear about it. He was so serlous; he said he feared it wouldn't be acceptable. I didn’t notice that the paper he handed me to write on was part of his notes, nor did he, I think. Afterward, he put it back in his pocket. It wasn’'t a message.” “I'm not so sure he did not notice. He is very wise. Do you know, somehow, [ have the impression that the old fellow wanted me to meet you.” “How dear and good of him! She spoke earnestly, and her face was suf- fused with a warm light. There was no doubt about her meaning what she said. “It was,” John answered, unsteadily. “He knew how great was my need of a few moments’ compaujonableness with— .“I had heard them—in my heart. When heard your volce to-might I knew that it- was- you who sang them there—had _been singing them for me always.” “‘So!" she cried gayly. ““All that debate about a pretty speec! Then, sinking before him In a deep courtesy, “I am be- “holden t8 -you,” she said. “Do you think that ‘no man ever made a little flattery for me before to-night?” At the edge of the orchard, where they ‘could keep an unseen watch on the gar- den and bank of the creek, Judge Briscoe and Mr. Todd were ensconced under an apple tree, the former still armed with his _shotgun. When the two young peo- ple got up from their bench the two men rose hastily and then sauntered slowly toward them. When they met Harkless shook eéach of them cordially by the hand without seeming to know it. ‘We were coming to look for you,” ex- plained the Judge. “Willlam was afraid to go home alone; thought some one might take him for Mr. Harkless and shoot him before he got into town. Can you come out with young Willetts in the morning, Harkless?' he went on, “and go with the ladies to see the parade? And Minnie wants you to stay to dinner and go to the show with them in the aft- ernoon.” Harkless seized his hand and shock it fervently, and then laughed heartily as he accepted the invitation. At the gate Miss Sherwood extended her hand to him and s: politely, with some flavor of mockery: ‘“Good night, Mr. Harkless. I do not leave to-morrow. 1 am very glad to have met you “We are going to keep her all summer if we can,” sald Minnie, weaving her arm about her. friend's waist. ““You'll come in the morning?" “Good night, Miss Sherwood,” he re- turned, hilariously. “It has been such a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for saving my life. It was very good of you indeed. Yes, in the morning. Good night—good night.” He shook hands with thém all again, including Mr. Todd, who was going with him. He laughed most of the way home, and Mr. Todd walked at his side In amaze- ment. The Herald building was a decrepit frame structure on Main street; it had once been a small warehouse and was now sadly in need of paint. Closely ad- Joining it, in a large, blavk-looking yard, stood a low brick cottage, over which the second story of the warehouse leaned in an effect of tpsy affection that had re- minded Harkless, when he first saw it, of an old Sunday-school book wood-cut of an inebriated parent under convoy of a devoted child. The title to these two buildings and the blank yard had been In- cluded in the purchase of the Herald, and the cottage was Harkless' home. There was a light burning upstalrs in the Herald office. From the street a broad, tumble-down stairway ran up on the outside of the building to the second floor, and at the stairway railing John ,"" she interrupted. “I meant dear and good to me, because I think he was thinking of me, and it was for my sake he wanted us to meet.” 1t would have been hard to convince a ‘woman, if she had overheard this speech, that Miss Sherwood's humility was not the calculated affectation of a coquette. Sometimes a man’s unsuspicion is wiser, and Harkless knew that sie was not flirt- ing with him. In addition, he was not a fatuous man: he did not extend the im- plication of her words nearly so far as she would bave bad him. he asked. .*I haven’t-had the hers, " turned and shook his companion W srmly by the hand. ; **“Good-night. Willlam.” he plucky. of you to.join in that muss i&ht. ‘1 skan't forget it .+ ™I jest happened t6 come hen, w Ain't “It ong. rker wouldn't allow il observed Willlam, with anotl which bade fair to expose t “rd know It's - closte .on eleven night. . . Jobn wept up the steps. singing ale g5t we'll ‘merry,” mer ;. tossiight "we'll* merry, merry ne stopped ‘on the- sagging platform # top.of the -stalrs and gave the moon 054-night with a wave of the hand and “friendly faughser. *- At that it sud struck him ghat ‘he ‘was 29 years of hait b laughed a great deal la how that over thin, ot in 3 ite least -h _1#kd an éxcifed schos boy making his firs mal call: tfiat he had shaken hands with Miss_Brisioe when he left her e should_never .see her again; that he Miss" Sherwood’'s hand tw that cried, “What he shook has happ his. f at CHAPTER VIL sun.of circus-day aml he awoke r a little while he la stent, sily _wondering why smiled, .ofil%;. knowing that there was something new. It was thus, as a boy, h had wakéned on:his birthday morn or ‘on Christmas, or on the Fourth z Arifting happily out of ple dreams into’ the: ¢onsclousness of awhited-deltghts that had come _‘lying.oniy”half dwake in a ch ‘derland, leaving happiness undefi The morning breéze was fluttering .window blind; a h lightly ‘on the pane. Birds wer waibling, . whistling. From the stre £ame the rumbling of wagous, merry cries greeting ~and the bparking of dogs What was:it made him feel so young and strong and light-hearted? The broiieht him-the smell ¢f June and sweet with dew, and thex why he had come smiling f dreams. ‘He would go a holiday- With that he leaped out of be shouted loudly: “Zen! Hellc In answer an.ancient, very hia Jpat his head in at the docr, his warped nd- wrinkled visage show shone to find he & of pine ashes. He suli. Yessuh. Hit's Good mawn’, subh.” A’ few moments later the colored . seated on the front steps'of the cottage heard a mighty splashing within, the rafters rang with s At the sound of this com ered in a manly voice, the listener dropped, and his mouth opened and open. “Him!" he muttered “Singin’!" dunno huccome it,” exclaimed the old man, “an’ dat ain’ hyer ner dar: bu bless Gawd! de young man’ happy! thought struck him sudde and scratched his head. ‘“Maybe he away,” he said querulously become = o' ole Zen?" The ing ceased, but not the which struck Into a noble chorus. “Oh, my Lawd.,” said ored man, “I pray you listen Tief wie das Meer soll deine L hummed the editor in the His song had taken on a tive tone as that of one who « a problem, or musically ponders wh card to play. He was kneeling before a old trunk in his bed chamber. From one compartment he took a neatly folded pair of duck trousers ‘and a light-grav tweed coat: from another, a straw hat with a ribbon of bright colors. They had lain in the trunk a long time undisturbed; an he examined them musingly. He shook the coat and brushed it; then he laid the garments upon his bed, and proceeded to shave himself careful after which he donned the white trousers, the gray coat, and, rummaging In the trunk again, found a gay pink cravat, which he fastened about his tall collar (also a resurrection from the trunk) with a pearl pin. After that he had a long, solemn time arrang- ing his hair with a pair of brushes. When at last he was suited, and his dressing completed, he sallled forth to breakfast. Xenophon stared after him as he went out of the gate whistling heartily. The old darky lifted his hands, palms oug- ward. “Lan’ .name, who dat!" he exclaimed aloud. “Who dat In dem pan-jingeries? He Jjine’ de circus His hands fell upon his knees, and he got to his feet rheu- matically, shaking his head with forebod- in, “Honey, honey, hit' baid luck, baid luck sing " Troubie 'fo said: done pump’ entoriar Baid luck, bald luck!" Along the square the passing of the edi- tor In his cool equipmert evoked some gasps of astonishment; and Mr. Tibbs and his sister rushed from the postoffice to stare after him. “He looks just beautiful, Solomon,” said Miss Tibbs. “‘But what's the name for them kind of clothes?” inquired her brother. *‘Seems to me there's a special way of callin’ "em. 'Seems if T see a picture of 'em some- wheres. Wasn't it on the cover of that there long-tennis box we bought and put in the window, and the country people thought it was a seining outfit?" “It was a game, the catalogue said,” observed Miss Selina. ‘‘\vasn't it?" “It was a mighty pore mvestment,” the postmaster answered. As Harkless approached the hotel, a de- crepit old man, in a vast straw hat and a linen duster much too large, for him, came haltingly forward to meet him. He was Widow Woman Wimby's husband. And, as did every one else, he spoke of his wife by the name of her former marital companion. “Be'n-a-lookin’ fer you, Mr. Harkless,™ he sald in a shaking spindle of a voice, as plaintive as his pale little eyes. “Moth- er Wimby, she sent some roses to ye Cynthy's fixin' ‘em on yer table. I'm well as ever I am; but her, she's too com plaining to come in fer show day. This morning, early, we see some the Cross Roads folks pass the place towards town. an’ she sent me In to tell_ye. Oh, 1 knowed ve'd laugh. Says she, ‘He's too much of a man to be skeered. says she, ‘these here tall, big men always ‘low nothin’ on earth kin hurt ‘em,’ says she, ‘but you tell him to be Keerful® says she: an’ T see Bill Skillett an' his bro..er on the square lessun a half-an-hour ago 'th my own eyes. I won't keep ye from yer breakfast. Eph Watts is in there eatin'. He's come back; but 1 guess I don't need to warn ye agin’ him. He seems peace- able enough. It's the other folks you got to look out fe: He llmped away. The editor waved his hand to him from the door, but ithe oid fellow shook his head, and made a warn- ing gesture with his arm. (Continued next -sund-y.) | g TGS e S -