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fiying hour that could not come again was laid on his soul, and he felt the tears start from his heart on their journey to his eyes. He knew that he should al- ways remember that moment. She knew it, too. She put her hand to her cheek and turned away from him a little tremu- Both were silent. had been together since carly morning. Plattville was proud of him. Many a friendly glance from the folk who jostled about them favored his suit and wished both of them well, and many lips, opening to speak to Harkless In passing, closed when thelr owners (more tactful than Mr. Bardlock) looked a sec- ond time. Old Tom Martin, still perched alone on his high seat, saw them standing by the tent pole and watched them from under his rusty hat brim. “I reckon it's be'n three or four thousand years since 1 was young,” he sighed to himself; then, pnush- ing his hat still further down over his eyes, “I don't belleve I'd ort to rightly look on at that.” He sighed again as he rose, and gently spoke the mame of his dead wife; “Marjle, it's be'n lonesome scmetimes. I reckon you're mighty tired waitin® for me ever since '64—yet maybe not. Ulysses 8. Grant's over on your side now, and perhaps you've got acquainted with him; you always thought a good deal more of him than you did of me.” “Do you see that tall old man up there?” said Helen, nodding her head to- ward Martin. “I think I should like to know him. I'm sure I like him.” That is old Tom Marti ‘I know.” “I was sorry and ashamed about all that conepicucusness and shouting. It must have been very unpleasant for vou— it must have been so for a stranger. Please try to forgive me for letting you in for it.” “But I it. It ‘'was ‘all in the fami and It was so jolly and good-natured, and that dear old man was so bright. Do you know,” she said softly, “I don't think I'm such a stranger—I—I think I love all these people a great deal—in spite of having known them only two days.” At that & wild exhilaration possessed him. He wanted to shake hands with everybody in the tent, to tell them all that he loved them with his whole heart, but, what was vastly more important, she loved them a great deal—in spite of hav- ing known them only two days! He made the horses prance on the liked had read a good many of columns in the Herald, he » them into & fence. After this it oc- curred to him that they were nearing their destination and had come at a perversely sharp galt; o he held the roans down to pace (if it be true that a snail's natural gait is not a trot) for the rest of the way, while they talked of Tom Mere- dith and books and music, and discovered that they differed widely about Ibsen. The editor of the Herald was late to his supper that evening. It was dusk when he reached the hotel, and, for the first time in history, a gentleman sat down to meat in that house of entertainment in svening dress. There was no one in the dining-room when he went in; the other boarders had finished, and it was Cyn- thia's “evening out,” but the landlord came and attended to his guest's wants himself, and cnatted with him while he ate “There's a picture of Henry Clay,” re- marked Landls, in obvious revelancy to his companion’s attire, “‘there’s a picture of Henry Clay somewheres about the house iy a swallow-tail eoat. Governor Ray spoke here in one in early times, Bodeffer says, except it was higher built up 'n yourn about the collar, and had brass buttons, 1 think. Ole man Wimby was here to-night,” the landlord continued, changing the subject. “He waited around fer ye a good while. He’s be'n mighty wrought up sence the trouble this morn- ing an’ wanted to see ye bad. I don't know 'f you seen it, but that feller “t knocked your hat off was mighty near tore to pieces in the crowd before he got away. 'Seems some of the boys re-cog- nized him as one of the Cross-Roads Skilletts and sicked the dogs on him, and he had a pretty mean time of it. Wimby says the Cross-Roads folks 'Il be worse 'n ever, and, says he, ‘Teil him to stick close to town,’ says he. ‘They’ll do ar thing to git him now,” says he, ‘and resk enything.” I told him you wouldn’t take no stock in it, but, see here, don’t you put nothin’ too mean fer them folks. I teil you, Mr. Harkless, plenty of us are scared fer ye.” The good fellow was so earnest that when the editor's meal was finished and he would have dgparted, Landis detained him almost by force until the arrival of Mr. Willetts, who, the landlord knew. was his allotted escort for the evening. When Lige came (wearing a new tie, a pink one he had bastened to buy as soon as his engagements had allowed him the op- portunity), Mr. Landis hissed a savage word of reproach for his tardiness in his ear and whisperingly bade him not let the other out of reach that night, to which Willetts replied with & nod imply- ing his trustworthiness; and the young men set off in the darkness. CHAPTER IX. NIGHT: IT IS BAD LUCK TO SING BEFORE BREAKFAST. There was a lace of faint mists along the creek and beyond when John and iel. en reached their bench (of course tney went back there), and broken roundelays were croaking from a bayou up the stream, where rakish frogs held carnival in resentment of the lonesomeness. The air was still and close. Hundreds of fire- fiies coquetted with the darkness among the trees across the water, glinting from unexpected spots, shading their MNiue lanterns for a second to glow again from other shadows. The sky was a wonderful olive green; a lazy cloud drifted on it and lapped itself athwart the moon. “The dead painters design the skics for us each day and night, I think,” Helen said, as she dropped a Jittle scarf from her shoulders and leaned back on the bench. “It must be the only way to keep them happy and busy ‘vp there. They let them take turns, and those not on duty probably ficat around aund criticize.” “They've given a govd man Lis turn to-night,” said Joh: jome qulet colorist, & poetic, friendly soul, no T:l&ner—lhnuzh I think I've seen & Turner sfinset or two in Plattville.” “I\ was a sculptor's sunset this evening. Did you see it?—great massy clouds piled heap on heap, almost with violence. I'm sure it was Michelangelo. The Judge didn’t think it meant Michelangelo; he thought it meant rain.” “Michelangelo gets a chance rather often, doesn’t he, considering the number of art people there must be over there? I believe I've seen a good many sunsets of his, and a few dawns, too: the dawns not for a long time—I used to see them more frequently toward the close of senior year, when we sat up all night talking, knowing we'd lose one another soon, and trying to hold on as know you were living so near him, less than a hundred mil when he has al- ways liked and admired you above all the rest of mankind? I know :hat he has tried time and again to hear of you, but the other men wrote that they knew noth- ing—that it was thought you had gone abroad. I had heard of you, and so must he have seen your name In the Rouen papers—about the ‘White-Caps,” and in politics—but he would never dream of connecting the Plattville Mr. Harkless with his Mr. Harkless, though I did, just a little, and rather vaguely. I knew, of course, when you came into the lecture. But why haven't you written to my cousin?” “Rouen seems a long y from here,” he answered quietly. “I've only been there once—half a day on business. Ex- cept that I've never been further away than Amo or Gainesville, for a conven- tion or to make a speech, since I came here;” “Wicked!” she exclaimed, “to shut yourself up like this! I said it was fine to drop out of the world; but why have you cut off your old friends from you? Why haven't you had a relapse, now and, and come over to hear Ysaye play and Melba siug, or to see Mansfield or Henry [rving, when we had them? And do you' think you've been quite fair to Tom? What right had you to assume that he had for- gotten you?" “Oh, I didn’t exactly mean forgetten,” he said, pulling a biade of grass to and fro between his fingers, starting at it absently. “It's only that I bave dropped out of the world, you know. 1 kept track of every one, saw most of my friends, or corresponded, now and then, for a year or so after I left college: but people don't miss you much after a while. They rather expected me to do a lot of things, in a way, you know, and I wasn't doing them. 1 was glad to get away. 1 al- ways had an itch for newspaper work, and I went on & New York paper. Maybe it was the wrong paper; at least, I wasn't fit for it. There was something in the side 1 saw, too, not only on the paper, that made me heartsick, and then the rush and fight and scramble to be first, to beat the other man. Probably I am too squeamish. I saw classmates and col- lege friends diving into it, bound to come out ahead, dear, old, honest, frank fel- lows, who had been so happy-go-lucky and kind and gay, growing too busy to meet and be good to any man who couldn’t be good to them, asking (more delicately) the eternal question, ‘What does it get me? You might think I had met with unkindness; but it was not so, it was the other way more than I de- served. But the cruel competition, the thousands fighting for places, the multi- tude scrambling of each gingerbread bdton, tue cold faces on the strects—per- haps it's all right and good; of course, it bas to be—but I wanted to get out of it though T didn’t want to come here. That was chance. A new man bought the pa- per 1 was working for, and its poiicy changed. Many of the same men stiil wrote for it, facing cheerfully about and advocating a tricky theory, vehement champions of a set of personal schemers and waxy images.” He spoke with feeling, but now, as though a trifle ashamed of too much seri- ousness, and justifiably afraid of talking like one ot his own editorials, he took a lighter tone. “I had been taken on the paper through a friend and not through merit. Aiter a month or so I was set 10 writing short political editorials and was at it nearly two vears. When the paper changed hands the new proprietor Indi- cated that he would be willing to have me stay and write the other way. I re- fused, and it became somewhat plain to me that T was beginning to be a failure. A cousin of mine, the only relative I Kad, died in Chicago, and I went to his Juneral. 1 happened to hear of the Car- fow Herald through an agent there, the most eloquent gentleman I ever met. I was younger, and even more thoughtiess than now, and I had a little money and I handed it over for the Herald. I wantea 15 run a papcr myself, and Lo builé up a power! And then, though I only livea here the first few years of my life, and all the rest of it had been spent in the East, 1 was born in Indiana, and, in a way, the thought of coming back to a life work in my native State appealed to me 1 always had a dim sort of feeling that the people out In these" parts knew more —had more sense and wvere less artificlal, 1 mean-—-and were kinder, and tried less to be somebody else, than almost any other people anywhere. And I believe it's so. It's dull, here in Carlow, of course— that i, it used to be. The agent explained that [ could make the paper a daily at once, with an enormous circulation in the country. 1 was very, very young. Then I came here and saw what [ had got. Possibly it is because I am sensitive that 1 never let Tom know. They expected me to amount to something; but I don’t believe his welcome would be less hearty to a failure—he is a good heart.” “Failure!” she cried, and clapped her hands and laughed. “I'm really not very tragic about it, though I must seem consumed with seif- pity,” he returned, smiling. “It is only that 1 have dropped out of the world, while Tom is still in it.” ( * “Dropped out of the world she echoed, impatiently. “Can’'t you see you've dropped into it? That you— “Last night 1 was honored by your praise of my graceful mode of quitting it “And 50 you wish me to be consistent!" she retorted scornfully. “What becomes of your gallantry when we abide by rea- son?" “True enough; equality s a denial of privilege.” “And privilege 1s a denial of equality. I don't like that at all.” She turned a serious, suddenly illuminated face upon him and spoke earnestly. “It's my hob- by, 1 should tell you, and I'm very tired of that nonsense about ‘women always sounding the personal note.’ It should be sounded as we sound it. And I think we could bear the lgss of ‘privilege’—" He laughed and raised a protesting hand. “But we couldn’t.”” 0, you couldn’t; it's the ribbon of su- pe v in your buttonhole. I know sev- eral women who manage to live without men to open doors for them, and I think I could bear to let a man pass before me now and then, or wear his hat in an oftice where 1 happened to be; and I could get my own ice at a dance, 1 think, possibiy with even less fuss and scramble than I've sometimes observed in the young men who have done it for me. But you know you would never let us do things for ourselves, no matter what legal equal- ity might be declared, even when we get representation for our taxation. You will never be able to deny yourselves giving us our ‘privilege.’ I hate being walted on. 1I'd rather do things for myself.” She was so earnest In her satire, so full of scorn and so serious in her mean- ing, and there was such a contrast be- tween what she said and her person; she looked so pre-eminently the pretty mar- quise, all silks and softness, the little ex- quisite, so essentially to be waited on and heiped, to have cloaks thrown over the dampness for her to tread upon, to be THE SUNDAY CALL. run about for—he could see half a dozen youths rushing about for her ices, for her carriage, for her chaperone, for her wrap at dances—that to save his life he could not repress a chugkle. He man- aged to make it Inaudible. however, and it was as well that he did. “1 derstand your love of newspaper she went on, less vehemently, but not less earnestly. “I have always want- ed to do it myself, wanted to immensely. 1 can’t think of any more fascinating way of earning one's living. And I know I could do it. Wiy don't you make the Herald a dally?™ B To hear her speak of ‘‘earning one’s living” was too much for him. She gave the impression of riches, not only for the fine texture and fashioning of her gar- ments, but one felt that luxuries had wrapped her from her birth. He had not had much time to wonder what she did in Plattville; it had occurred to him that it was a little odd that she could plan to spend any extent cf time there, even if she had liked Minnie Briscoe at school He felt that she must have been sheltered and petted and waited on all her life; one could not help yearning to walit on her. He answered, inarticulatel “Oh, some day.” in reply to her quesiion, and then burst into outright laughter. S “l might have known you wouldn't take me seriously.” she id with no in- dignation. only a sad wi o well used to it. T ‘hn is because I am not tall: people take big gir's with more gravity. people are nearly al- 3 tened t Listened to,” he said, and felt that he must throw himself on his knees lvo{:»re her. ou oughtn’t to mind being Ti- tania. She was listened to, you- She sprang to ‘her feet and her efes flashed. “Do you think personal com- ment is ever in good taste? she cried fiercely, and in his surprise he almost fell off the bench. “If there is one thing I cannot bear, it is to be told that I am 1”1 am not! Every one who isn't ntess isn’t ‘small.’ T hate personali- I am a great deal over five feet, & great deal more than that. “Please, please,” he said, “I didn't— “Don’t ‘say you ure sorry,’ she Inter- rupted, and in spite of his contrition he found her angry voice delicious, it was still so sweet, hot with indignation, but ringing, not harsh. *“Don’t say you didn’t mean it; because you did! You can’'t un- say It, you cannot alter it! Ah!” She drew in her breath with a sharp sigh, and covering her face with her hands, sank back upon the bench. *“I will not cry,” she said, not so firmly as she thought she did. My blessed child!” he cried, in great distress and perturbation. ‘“What have I done? I-— = “Call me ‘small’ all you like!"” she an- swered. “T don't care. It isn't that. You mustn't think me such an imbecile.” She dropped her hands from her face and shook the tears from her eyes with a mournful laugh. He saw that her hands were clenched tightly and her lip trem- bled. “I will not cry!” she said in a low volce. “Somebody ought to murder me; I ought to have thought—personalities are hideous—"' Don’t! It wasn't that.” ought to be shot “Ah; please don't say that she said, shuddering; “please don’t, not even as a joke—after last mignt.” “But 1 ought to be for hurting you, in- deed. " he laughed sadly, again. “It wasn't that. T don’t care what you call me. T am small. You'll try to forgive me for, being such a bahy?" I didn't meab an thing I =aid.” 1 haven't acted so h‘aé’? since 1 was a child.” 5 “It's my fault, all of it. T've tired you out. And I let you get into that erush at the circus——" he was going on remorse- full “That!” she interrupted. “I don't think 1 would have missed the circus.” He had a thrilling hope that she meant the tent- pole; she looked as if she meant that, but e dared not let himself believe it. *No,” he continued: *“I have been so happy in being with you that I've fairly worn out your patience. I've haunt- vou all day, and T have— that has nothing to do with it,” aid, slowly. “Just after you left, this 1 found that [ could not stay people are going abroad, to Dresden, at once, and I must go with them. That's what almost made me cry. I leave to-morrow morning.” something strike at his heart. In - 9f dearth he had no as- tonishment t she should betray such agitaiion over her departure from a place g&he had known so little, and friends who certainly were not part of her life. He rose to his feet, and, resting his arm against a sycamore, stood staring away from her at nothing. She did not move. silence, He had wakened suddenly; the skies had Leen sapphire, the sward emerald, Platt- ville a Camelot of romance; to be there, enchantment—and now, llke a meteor burned out in a breath, the necromancy fell away and he gazed into desolate years. The thought of the square, his dusty office, the bleak length of Main street, as they should appear to-morrow, gave him a faint physical sickness. To- day it had all been touched to beauty; he Lad felt fit to live and work there a thou- sand vears—a fool's dream, and the wak- inz was to emptiness. He should die now of hunger and thirst in that Saharai he hoped the Fates would let it be soon—but he knew they would not; knew that this was hysteria, that in his endurance he should plod on, plod, plod dustily on, through dingy, lonely years. There was a rumble of thunder far out on the western prairie. A cold breath stole through the hot stiliness and an arm of vapor reached out between the moon and the quiet earth. Darkness fell. The man and the girl kept silence between them. They might have been two saa guardians of the black little stream that plashed unseen at their feet. Now and then an echo of far-away lightning faint- 1y fllumined them with a green light. Thunder rolled nearer, ominously; the gods were driving their chariots over the bridge. The chill breath passed, leaving the air again to its hot inertia. *1 did not want to go,” she sald, at last, with tears just below the surface of her veice. “I wanted to stay here, but he— they wouldn't—I can’ “Wanted to stay here?” he sald, huski- not turning. “Here?” 'Yes."” “In Rouen, you mean?’ “In Plattville.” “In Plattville?” He turned now, as- tounded. “Yes; wouldn’t you have taken me on the Herald?' She rose and came toward him. *“I could have supported myself here if you would—and I've studied how rewspapers are made; I know I could have earned a wage. We could have made it a daily.” He searched in vain for a trace of raillery in her voice; there was none. 8he seemed to Intend her words to be taken literally. “I don’t understand,” he sald. “I don't know what you mean.” “I mean that I want to stay here—that There wi a long 1 T ought to stay here; that my conscience tel's me I should—but I can't and it makes me very unhappy. That was why 1 acted so badly.” “Your conscience!” he cried. h, I know what a jumble and puzzle it must seem to you.” “I only know one thing—that vou are geing away to-morrow morning and Lhat I shall never see you again.” The darkness had grown heavy. They could not see each other, but a wan glimmer ‘gave him a fleeting, misty view ot her; she stood haif-turned away from him, her hand to her cheek in the uncer- tain fashion of his great moment of the afternoon; her eyes—he saw in the flying picture that he caught—were adoravly troubled, and her hand trembled. Fhe had been irresistible in her gayety, but new that a mysterious distress assaied her, the reason for whi¢h he had no guess, she was so divinely pathetic, and seemed such a rich and lovely and sad and happy thing to have come into nis life only to go out of it; and he was so full of the prophetic sense of loss of her— it seemed so much like losing eve. y hin '— that he found too much to say to be ubie to say anything. He tried to speak, and choked a little. A big drop of rain fell on his bare h-ad. Neither of them noticed the weather cr cared for it. They stood with the re- newed blackness hanging like a thick pery between them. ‘an—can you—tell me why you think Jou ought not to go? he whispered, tinal- Iy, wiith a great effort. “No; not now. But I know you wotld think 1 am right in wanting to she cried, impulsively. “I know would if you knew about iv—hut I I can’t. 1 must go in the morning. “1 should always think you right answered in an unsteady tone. “Always! He went over to the hench. fumb.ed al-out for his hat and picked it up. ‘ome,” he said, gently, *'l am going now le stood quite motionless for full minute or longer, then without a word she moved toward the house. He went to Ler with hauds extended to find and his fingers touched her sleeve. Thei - gether and silently they found the patch and followed its dim length. In the orchard he touched her sleeve again and le¢ the way. As they came out behind the house she detained him. Stopping short, she his hand_from arm. S single breath, as if it were : ““Will you teli me why you go? Tt is not late. Why do you wish to leave me when 1 shall not see you again? “Tie Lord be good to me!” he broke out, all his long-pent passion of dreams rush- ing (o his lips, now_that the barrier fell. “Don’t you see it is because I can't bear to let you go? 1 hoped fo get away with- out saying it. I want to be alone. I want to be with myself and try to realize. I didn’t want to make a babbling idiot of myselfqbut T am! It is because I don't want another second of your sweetness to leave an added pain when you've gone. It is because I don't want to hear your voice again, to have it haunt me in the loneiiness you will leave—but it's useless, useless! I shall hear it always, just as I shall always see your face, just as I have heard your voice and seen your face these seven years—ever since I first saw you, a child at Winter Harbor. I forgot for a while; I thought it was a girl T had made up out of my own heart, but it was you—you always!. The impres- _sion 1. thought nothing of at the time, Just the merest touch on my heart, Hght' as It fifirew and gr‘ew'}xfe’fiér until it was there forever.. You've known me twenty-four hours, and 1 understand what you think of me for speaking to you like this. If.I had known you for years and had waited and had the right to speak and keep your respect, what have 1 to offer you? I couldn’t even take care of you if you went mad as 1 and listened. I've no excuse for this raving. Yes, 1 bave!" He saw her in another second of. light- ning, a sudden, bright one. Her back was turned to him; she had taken a few start- led steps from him. “Ah,” he cried, “you are glad enough now to see me go! I knew it. 1 wanted to spare myself that. I tried not to be a hysterical fool in your eyes.” He turned aside ,and his head fell on his breast. “'God help me,” he said, “what will this place be to me now?"” The breeze had risen; it gathered force; it was a chill wind, and there rose a wailing on the prairie. Drops of rain be- gan to fall, “You will not think a question implied in this,”” he sald more composedly, and with an unhappy laugh at himself. *1 believe you will not think me capable of asking you If you care—"" “No,” she answered; “I—I do not love you.” “Ah! Was it a question after all? I— you read me better than 1 do, perhaps— but if [ asked, 1 knew the answer.” She made as if to speak again, but words refused her. After a moment, “Good-b: he said, very steadily. “I thank you for the char- ity that has given this little time with you—it will always be—precious to me— 1 shall always be your servant.” His &end(ncss did not carry him ‘to the end his sentence. *Good-by.” She started toward him and stopped, without his seelng her. She answered nothing; but stretched out her hand to him and then let it fall quickly. “Good-by,” he said again. “I shall go out the orchard gate. Please tell them good-night for me. Won't you speak to me? Good-by He stood waliting while the rising wind blew their garments about them. She leaned against the wall of the house. “Won't you say good-by and tell me you can forget my—" # She did not speak. “No!" he cried, wildly. *‘Since y m't forget it! I have spolled what miglit have been a pleasant memory for you, and I know it. You were already troubled, and I have added, and you won't forget it, nor shall I—nor shall I! Don’t say good- by—I can say it for both of us. God bless you—and good-by, good-by, good-by!™ He crushed his hat down over his eyes and ran toward the orchard gate. For a moment lightning flashed repeatedly; she saw him go out the gate and disappear into sudden darkness. He ran through the field and came out on the road. Heaven and earth were revealed again for a duz- zling white second. From horizon to ho- rizon rolled clouds contorted like an {i- limitable field of inverted haystacks, and beneath them enormous volumes of pale vapor were tumbliing in the west, advane- ing eastward with sinister swiftness. She ran to a little knoll at the corner of the house and saw him set his face to the storm. She cried aloud to him with all her strength and would have followed, but the wigd took the words out of her mouth and drove her back cowermng to the shel- ter of the house. Out on the road the dust came lashing and stinging him like a thousand netties; it smothered him, and beat upon him so that he covered his face with his sleeve and fought into the storm shoulder fore- most, dimly glad of its rage, scarcely conscious of {it, keeping westward on his way to nowhere. West or east, south or north—it was all one to him. The few heavy drops that fell boiling into the dust ceased to come; the rain withheld while the wind kings rode on earth. On he went In spite of them. On and on, running blindly when he could run at all. At least, the wind kings wers company. He had been so long alone. He could remem- ber no home that had ever been his since he was a little child, neither father nor mother, no one who belonged to him or to whom he belonged, except one cousin, an old man who was dead. For a day his dreains had found in a girl's eyes the pre- clous thing that is called home—oh, the wild fancy. He laughed aloud. There was a startling answer: a lance of living fire hurled from the sky, riving the fields before his eves, while crash on crash of artillery numbed his ears. With that hisscommon sense awoke and he looked about him. He was almost two mi from town: the nearest house was the Briscoes’ far down the road. He kknew the rain would come now. There was a big oak near him at the roadside. He stepped under its sheligring branches and leaned against the great trunk, wip- ing the perspiration aud dust from his face. A moment of stunned quiet had suc- ceeded the peal of thunder. [t was fol- lowed by several moments of Incessant lightning that played along the road and danced in the fields. From that intolera- ble brightness he turned his head and saw, standiug against the fence, five feet away, a man, leaning over the top rail a looking at him. The same flash staggered brilllantly be- fore Helen's eyes as she crouched against the back sieps of the brick house. It scarred a picture nke a marine of big the tossing tops of the orchard >s; for in the same second the full fury of the storm was loosed, wind and rain and hail. It drove her against the kitchen door with cruel force; the latch lifted, the door blew open vioiently and she struggled to cl it in vain. .. house seemed to rock. A lamp flickered toward her from the inmer doorway and was Helen!” came Minnie's voice, 3 “Is that you? We were com- ing to look for you. Did you get we: Mr. Willetts threw his weight against the door and msnaged to close it. Then Minnie found her friend's nd and led her through the dark hall to the parlor, where the Judge sat, placidly reading by a student lamp. Lige chuckled as they left the kitchen. Zuess you didn’t try too hard to shut that door, Harkless,” he said, and then, when they came into the lighted room, “Why, where is Harkless?” he asked. “Didn’t he come with us from the kitchen?"” “No,” answered Helen faintly; “he’s gone.” She sank upon the sofa and drew her hand acress her eyes as if to shade them from too sudden light. “Gone!” The Judge dropped his book and stared across the table at the girl “Gone! When?" “Ten minutes—five—half an - hour—I don't know. Before the storm com- enced.” “Oh!" The old gentleman appeared to be reassured. *“Probably he had work to do and wanted to get in before the rain.” But Lige Willetts was turning pale. He swallowed several times with difficuty. “Which way did he go? He didn’t come around the house; we were out.there till the storm broke. “Me went by the grchard gate. When he got to the road he turned that way.” She pointed to the west. #He must have been crazy!” exclaimed the Judge. ‘“What possessed the fellow?” “I eouldn’t stop him.,I didn't know how.” She laoked at her three compan- ions, slowly and with growing terror, from one face to another. Minnie's eyes were wide and she had unconsciously grasped Lige's'arm; the young man was looking straight before lum: the Judge got up and walked nervously back and forth. Helen rose to her “eet swittly ana went toward the old man, her hands pressed to her bosom. “Ah!" sne cried out sharply. “I had forgotten that! You don't think they— you don’t think he—'"" “I know what I think,” Lige broke in; “I think I'd ought to be hanged for let- ting him out of my sight. Maybe it's all right; maybe he turned and started right back for town—and got there. But I had no business to leave him, and if I can I'lIl catch up with him yet.” He went to the tront door, and, opening it, let in a tor- nado of wind and flood of water that beat him back; sheets of rain blew In horizontally, in spite of the porch be- yond. Briscoe followed him. “Don’t be a fool, Lige,” he said. *“You hardly expect to go out in that.” Lige shook his head; it needed them both to get the door closed. The ycung man leaned against it and passed his sleeve across his wet brow. “I hadn’t ought to have left him.” “Don’t scare the girls,” whispered the other; then in a louder tone: “All I'm afraid of is that he'll get blown to pieces or catch his death of cold. That's all there is to worry about. Those scalawags wouldn't try it again so soon after last night. I'm not bothering about *ha! at all. That needn’'t worry anybody. “But this morning—""" “Pshaw! He's likely home and dry by this time—all foolishness; don’t be an old woman.” The two men re-entered the room and found Helen clinging to Min- nie’s hand on the sofa. She looked up at them quickly. “Do you think—do you—what do you—" Her voice shook so that she could not go on. z The Judge pinched her cheek and patted it. *“I think he’s’ home and dry, but I think he got wet first; that’'s what I think. Never you fear, he's a good hand at tak- ing care of himself. Sit down, Lige. You can't go for a while.” Nor could he. It was long before he could venture out; the storm raged and roared wifhout abate- ment; it was Carlow’s worst since 'fifty- one, the old gentleman said. They heard the great limbs crack and break outside, while the thunder boomed and the wind ripped at the eaves till it seemed the roof must go. Meanwhile the Judge, after some apology, lit his pipe and told along stories of the storms of early days and of odd freaks of wind. He talked on calm- ly, the picture of repose, and blew rings above his head, but Helen saw that one of his big slippers beat an unceasing tat- too on the carpet. She sat with fixed eyes, in silence, holding Minnie's hand tightly; and her face was colorless, and grew whiter as the slow hours dragged by. - )Every moment Mr. Willetts became more restless, though assuring the ladies he had no anxiety regarding Mr. Hark- less; it was only his own dereliction of duty that he regretted; the boys wouid have the laugh on him, he said. But he visibly chafed more and more under tne Judge’s stories; and constantly rose to peer out of the window into the wrack and turmoil, or uneasily shifted “his chair. Once or twice he struck his s together with muttered ejaculations. Ac last there was a lull in the fury without, and, as soon as it was perceptible, he de- clared his intention of making his way into town; he had ought to have went before, he declared, apprehensively; and then, with immediate amendment, of course he would find the editor at work in the Herald office; there wasn't the slightest doubt of that; he agreed with the Judge, but he better see about it. Ha would return early in the morning to bid Miss Sherwood good-by; hoped she'd come back, some day; hoped it wasn't her last visit to Plattville. They gave him an umbrella and he plunged out into the night, and as they stood watching him for 2 moment from the door, the old man calling after him cheery good-nights and laughing messages to Harkless, they could hear his feet slosh into the pud- dles and ses him fight with his umbrella when he got out Into the road. Helen's room was over the porch, the windows facing north, looking ocut upom the' pike and across the fi “Please don't light the lamp, Minnfe, said, when they had gone upstalrs. T don’t need a light.” Miss Briscos was flitting about the room, hunting for matches. In the darknes her friend, and lald a kind, large hand on Helen's eyes, and the hand became wet. She drew Helen's head down on her shoulder and sat beside her on the bed. “‘Sweetheart, you mustn't freét,” she soothed, in motherl hion. “Don’t you worry, dear. He's all right. It fsn't your fault, dear. They wouldn't come on a night like this.” But Helen drew away and went to the window, flattening her arm against the pane, her forehead pressed against her arm. She had let him go: she had let him go alone. 8he had forgotten the danger that always beset him. She had been so crazy she had seen nothing, thought of nothing. She had let him go into that, and Into the storm, alone. Who knew better than she how cruel they were? She had seen the fire leap from the white blossom and heard the ball whistle, the ball they had meant for his heart, that good, great heart. She had run to him the night before—why had she let him go into the unknown and the storm to-night? But how could she have stopped him? How could she have kept him, after what he had sald? She peeped into the night through distorting tears. The wind had gone down a little, but only a little, and the electrical flashes danced all around the horizon in magnifl- ccnt display, sometimes far away, some- times dazzlingly near, the darkness trebly deep between the Intervals when the long sweep of flat lands lay in dazzling clear- ness, clean-cut in the washed air to the finest detail of stricken fleld and heaving woodland. A staggering flame clove earth and sky; sheets of light came following it, and a frightful uproar shook the house and rattled the casements, but over th crash of thunder Minnie heard her friend’s loud scream and saw her spring back from the window with both hands, palm outward, pressed to her face. She leaped to her and threw her arms about her. “What is 1t “Look!” Helen dragged her to the win- dow. “At the next flash—the fence be- yond the meadow—"" “What was it? What was it ik The lightning flashed incessantly. Helen tried to point; her hand only jerked from side to side. “Look!” she eried. “1 see nothing but the lightning,” Min- nie answered, breathlessly. “Oh, the fence! The fence—and in the fleld!” “Helen! What was it If ‘““Ah-ah!”" she panted ‘white—horrible white—' “What like?”” Minnfe turned from the window and caught the other’s wrist In a fluttering clasp. “Minnie, Minnfe! Like long white gowns and cowls crossing the fence.™ Helen released her wrist, and put both bands on Minnie's cheeks, forcing her —you must look,” she cried. “They wouldn’t do it, they wouldn’t—it isn’t!” Minnie cried. “They couldn't come in the storm. They wouldn’t do it in the pouring rain!” “Yes! Such things would mind the rain!” She burst into hysterical laugh- ter, and Minnie, almost as unnerved, caught her about the waist. “They would fear a storm! Ha, ha, ha! Yes—yes! And I let him go—I let him go Pressing close togethe: shuddering, clasping each other’s walsts, the two girls peered out at the flickering landscape. “Look!"” Up from the distant fence that bor- dered Jones’ fleld a pale, peited, flapping thing reared itself, poised, and seemed, Just as the blackness came again, to drop to the ground. “Did you see?” But Minnie had thrown herself into a chair with a laugh of wild relief. “My darling girl!” she cried. “Not a line of things—just one—Mr. Jones's old scare- crow! And we saw it blown down!” “No, no, no! I saw the others; they were in the fleld beyond. I saw them! When I looked the first time they were nearly all on the fence. This time we saw the last man crossing. Ah! I let him go alone!™ Minnfe sprang up and enfolded her. “No, you dear, imagining child, you're upset and nervous—that's all the matter in the world. Don’t worry; don't, child; it's al! right. Mr. Harkless Is home and safe in bed long ago. I know that old scarecrow on the fence ltke a book; you're so unstrung you fancied the rest. He's all right; don’t you bother, dea The big, motherly girl took her compan- ion in her arms and rocked her back and forth soothingly, and petted and reas sured her, and then cried a little with her, as a good-hearted girl always will with a friend. Then she left her for the night with many a cheering word and tender caress. “‘Get to sleep, dear,” she called through the door when she had closed it behind her. “You must, if you have to go in the morning—it just breaks my heart. I don’t know sow we'll bear it without you. Father will miss you almost as much as I will. Good night. Den't bother about that old white scarecrow. That's all it was. Good night, dear, good night.” “Good night, dear,” answered a plaint- ive little voice. Helen's hot cheek pressed the pillow and tossed from side to side. By and by she turned the pillow over; it had grown wet. The wind blew about the vaves and blew fitself out; she hardly heard it. Sleep would not come. She got up and laved her burning eyes. Then she sat by the window. The storm’s strength was spent at last; the rain grew lighter and lighter, until there was but the sound of running water and the drip, drip on the tin roof of the porch. Only the thunder rumbling in the distance marked the storm’s course: the chariots of the gods rolling further and further away, till they finally ceased to be heard altogether.. The clouds parted majestically, and then, be- tween great curtains of mist, the day- star was seen shining in the east. The night was hushed, and the peace that falls before dawn = was upon the wet, flat lands. Somewhere in the sodden grass a swamped ericket chirped. From an outlying flange of the village a dog's howl rose mournfully; was answered by another, far away, and by pon “a long line of