The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 11, 1903, Page 4

table for Dalsy, when the door opened and Bessie entered. Harry uttered a cry of dismay end shrank behind his wife. “Who are you?” Daisy demanded, plac- ing & hand on Harry's arm, where he stood behind her, trembling. Beessle was thinly clad in cheap, poor stuff, which in design and color made a pitiful attempt at gay bravery; she was shivering with cold and hunger and ex- citement, and in the full stress of her Tage at first confronting the woman she #o hated she could not speak. “Who are you, and what do you want here?” Daisy repeated. “Can’t you speak? Or shall I send for the police?” *“No, no!” pleaded Harry, “not the po- lice—no trouble.” Bessie's power of speech was restored by the sound of Harry's voloe. “Who am 17" she cried hoarsely. “Ask him? He is mine. I want him!” “You fool!” Daisy screamed, and then she laughed. “You poor fool, he's husband!” “It {sn’t so! Is it, Harry? Come back to me, I've got work now. I know that she etole you away. I'll forgive yi “But, Bessie,” Harry explained, my wife—my real wife, and—"" He stopped and all but collapsed, as the captain of detectives, whom he recog- nized, foliowed the lawyer, quietly entered the room. “You lie!” Bessié cried, too angry to notice the new comers. *She is no more your wife than I am—not as much.” “Well!” demanded Daisy, head with rage at the sight of the men. ““Will some cne tell me what this means? Is this my private room or the public par- lor of the hotel? Harry, send for te ho- tel clerk and have this woman and these men ordered out. Why, Harry! Harry, darling! What is the matter? Who are you?” she demanded, turning to the cap- tain. “Blackmailers, come to help this creature get money from me?” She was In an awful rage now, but gently placed her arm around Harry, and drew him close to her side, turning her blazing eyes from Bessie to the men. “Now, Bessle,” the captain sald, in a quiet, cheerful voice, *“‘we'll excuse you for a little time. Just step outside where we can call you if you are needed, and if we don't need you here, I'll want to sce you afterward, any way.” As he spoke he smiled, but his eves were holding hers sternly, and hers drooped und<r his gage. “Yes, captain,” she answered faintly, and then lifting her eyes timidly, whis- pered beseechingly, “it's no trouble for Harry, is it, captain? He's always been straight, captain. He wasn't going to tell on the officer who struck Mr. Paxton, Were you, Harry?" There was & brief, grim smile under the captain’s mustache, then he said, “You are all right, Bessie, and Harry will be all right, If he is a sensible little mar You heard me tell you what to do. Do it “Yes, sir, captain. Thank you,” she sald, and with a look of batred at Daisy, she left the room. Daisy, who had been half supporting Harry's form, now led him to a sofa where he sat down with a weary sigh, smiling, and holding one of her hand: “Now, perhaps, I am to be told what ex- cuse there is for this intrusion,” she said, turning instinctively to Mr. Bannister, as the one must look to for considera- tion. “Mrs. Lawton,” he sald gravely, “our visit is in no way related to the visit of the young woman who has just left here. ‘We come to make some inquiries of your husband which can be conducted briefly, and without distressing you, I sincerely hope.” He glanced at the captain, who said, in a tone of friendly confidence, “Harry, all we want is that deed you for- got to deliver to Dr. Paxton two years ago last October, and which such a care- ful business man as you would not lose, or part with, except to the right party. Ah! I see that I'm right. It al- ways pleases me to start right, for then, as the fellow in the book says—or was it a play?—you can go ahead.” The captain had lengthened his dis- course, only because he saw that Harry was speechless with fright, and he want- ed to give him time to recover. Daisy had listened to the officer with keen attention. *“Is this so, Harry?" she asked. “Have you such a paper? The poor fellow's teeth were chattering behind his smile, and he looked at her piteously, but could not answer. “Perhaps I can refresh his memory, as the lawyers say,” the officer continued, with unabated good nature. ‘“When you Jeft Mr. Bunton's office that day Harry shook so at these words that Daisy drew his head to her side, and pet- ted it—"you told Dan Mannix—nice chap, Dan; sent his regards to you—that you were going to Dr. Paxton’s to deliver a paper. Having to meet the present Mrs. Lawton on that very self-same day, you overlooked the errand to the doctor's— as the Paxtons’ servant girl was telling me the other day. Nice girl, that. Then when you reached New York, with that blood-stained overcoat, which Katie mended for you, she sewed up a paper in the lining for you. And Katle's a very respectable woman, too,” he added, turn- ing to Mr. Bannister, as if it was a mat- ter of importance. He .was watching Harry closely as he continued to the law- yer, “‘a decent woman. I was talking to her the other day. Keeps a respectabie boarding-house. But, sir, it's queer the way women Ilike her remember some things—like they happened yesterday, when they may have happened as long ago as when Harry first came to town. “For heaven's sake, stop that chat- ter!” Daisy exclaimed, turning upon the officer savagely. “What is it, Harry? Sweetheart, darling! I sha'n't let them hurt you. Have you gdt the thing they want?” He muttered something about not wanting to give it to the wrong people and get into more trouble. Then Dalsy turned to the men and said haughtily, “I don't know who you are, or what right you have to ask my husband to give you anything. This sounds like some sort of blackmalling scheme, and T'll not let him give you anything until I've seen my lawyer. I bid you good evening, gentlemen.” This was sald in a superb manner, and the detective nodded his head in approval of it, but at the same time it was wear- “As you please, “You don't know who 1 am, to be sure, but Harry does, and he paper. lem flat he had chanced to have renewed that day. At sight of it Harry buried his face in his hands and wept. He called his wife's name and she bent over him to catch his whispered words. '.runkin.lnorner from it an old which she tossed tor the de- rearing her THE SUNDAY CALL. few threads holding & paper In place between the cloth and lining, and handed the paper to the lawyer. Mr. Bannister gave it & searching glance, ex- amined the acknowledgment and signa- ture, drew a long sigh of relief and turn- ing to Daisy sald: “Madam, you are quite right in demanding that your husband shall not give up a thing of possible value without some evidence to protect him in an emergency. Will you be good enough to let me use the writing paper on that deek for a minute?”’ She looked at him with interest; his tone and manner, so different from his companlon’s, encouraged her to say, “You show me consideration, sir. May I ask—"" “T am Caleb Bannister, Mrs. Lawton.' “Oh! I hope you will excuse my rude- ness, I feared that this might be a part of the trick which once cruelly separated me and my husband. He has a very sensitive nature, and I must stand be- tween him and those who for some reason sought to part us once, and might do so again.” This was in her gentlest man- ner, and a very pretty one, too, and as she spoke and her confidence grew in the knowledge of whom she addressed, she began to enjoy the situation, her own part in the interview, its dramatic points. As the lawyer sat at the desk and wrote she returned to Harry and sald soothing- Iy: “It's not that old false charge, Harry, dear; not the trick they separated us by before. Mr. Bannister is a gentleman, sweetheart. He won't do us any harm. Don't be frightened, darling; I'll see that you're protected in giving up the paper— whatever it 1s.” “Now, Mr. Lawton,” Mr. Bannister sald after a few minutes’ writing at the desk, “T'll give you a receipt for this paper, when you have signed here.” Harry, won- derfully revived by his wife’'s words and by belng called “Mr. Lawton” by the great lawyer, stepped over to the desk briskly. “You see,” sald Mr. Bannister, “this s a simple statement that a paper you have voluntarily surrendered to me was given to you by the party men- tioned to dellver as set forth here, and that through an oversight you neglected to deliver it then; that it has remained in your possession. continuously since, un- altered In any manner. A mere statement of the facts, you see.” Harry, with a great air of importance, smiled, and blinked wisely, as he attend- ed to the lawyer's words, signed where directed and took the receipt for the pa per, as if concluding a very satisfactory business transaction. Mr. Bannister took his hat and looked inquiringly at the of- ficer. Harry was whispering to Dalsy, who nodded her head approvingly, when he sald aloud, “Gents, we'd like you to stay and have dinner with us. A small bottle and a bird. Eh, captain?” “Delighted!” answered the detective, with prompt cheerfulness. *“Governor?’ I should like to reach the general post- office before it closes—it is some minutes of 6 yet. And I have some telegraphing to do. You remain, captain, and meet me at the train.” He bowed gravely to Daisy and left the room. In the hall he stopped and pressed his hands to ms temples. “If 1 had not seen {t—actually seen it—I could not be convinced. And I thought I knew human nature!”” At the head of the Bessie. “Is it true, sir, médrried?” she asked. “Ah, you are the young woman I advise you to go home.” She was weeping. “I love him! I give him up? I've got work, Must I give him up? “I should suppose ®0,” the lawyer said, and again he made the unusual motion of putting his hands to his tem- ples. “Are you in need “Won't this relleve your—will you take this?" and he handed her a bank bill, which she took. “But Harry's in no trouble, sir.«if you please, is he, sir?” “No other trouble than Mrs. Harry,” lawyer said, hurrying down the stairs he met that they are Yes. Must now. the stairs A few minutes later he had sent the deed in a registered package to Howard Paxton's lawver in White River and telegraphed him of the fac with di- rections to have it recorded without de- lay. XXV—A GOOD DEED. “Dear Mamma—I've found Harry. I al- ways felt that he was not dead, and that I should find him again. He has suffered much, but he is happy now. 1 forgive papa, now that I have found Harry. Do not worry about me. Iam gajng to be an actress. There is no use telling people, until 1 succeed. I shall succeed. 1 shall be famous, and earn money for Harry and, myself. If that was what papa feared, he need not fear any more. 1 shall earn all the money Harry wants, without asking papa for any. I have ta- ken all my jewelry, but nothing else. Af- fectionately, DAISY. “P. S.—I am all right, so don’t you worry a bit. Tell folks, if they ask, that I'm vistting grandpa, . This was the letter that Mrs. Bunton, her sad face tear-swollen, gave to her husband when he returned home, after learning at police headquarters that Harry Lawton had gone away from his room with a stylishly dressed woman. When he had wearily read the letter his wife looked at him and said, “You knew it, Isaac?” “Yes, Carrie.” . “Do yus want to tell me what you know, Isaac™’ He was sitting bowed over a table, and hook his head in Niswer to her question. fter a silence, broden only by his deep, troubled breathing, gnd her sighs, she sald, “Can we not go home now?” He raifed his heav and looked at his wife for a time, but as if he did not see her, then replied, “Not now, dear. Per- haps after a while. I—I can’t explain now. You won't ask me now, Carrie?” “No, dear. But if there is any other trouble, won't you tell me? It seems as if there was something—I don't know— something awful, lsaac, that's threaten- ing us.” He forced himself to smile, and said with an effort, “Nonsense, Carrie! I'm bothered by this, but we’ll come out all right.” But things would not come all right. He no longer made a pretense of playing a game of skill in Wall street, but gam- bled in stocks with a dice thrower's in- fatuation and desperation. Luck seldom favored him, and at last a crisls came when he had to realize on his only un- pledged t—the mining land! Before be made up his mind to take that step he considered long the chances agahet him in this last throw of the dice. He con- vinced himself, or sald to himself that he was convinced, that he had been fool- ish to suppose that the evidence of Dr. Paxton's ownership was not destroyed. Harry had to be sure, but his own eyes furnished the evidence that the vallse Harry carried was wholly de- stroyed. Now that he had some notion of the life of the sea-food man, he argued that such a wretched existence would have surely prompted Harry to make some use of the deed if he had saved it from the wri “No,” he thought; “if Harry had the deed he would have ap- proached me, or Howard Paxton. with an offer to produce it for a re- ward.” This reasoning encouraged him very much. Its faultiness, the fact that he did not consider Harry's cowardice, would have been seen by any reasoner not so desperately intent upon proving his own safety. The time had arrived when he must prove that he was both justified and secure In making an offer to sell the land. So his decision met his necessities. Having determined to play his hand as fate had dealt it to him he would play it boldly. Instead of calling upon Mr. Bannister he sent the lawyer a note asking him to call, and he was glad he had shown that evidence of confidence, when he received a polite reply, naming a time when the lawyer would call, “if it suited Mr. Bunton's convenience.” The interview was a pleasant surprise to Bunton. Mr. Banaister expressed his satisfaction that the prolonged negotia- tions promised to come to a speedy end. “You've mentloned the very point in- volved,” Mr. Bunton said briskly. “Speed. Now that I've made up my mind to sell the property I want to have the business endcd as soon as possible.”” They discussed the details. The mat- ter of price no longer stood between them. Mr. Bannister admitted that the recent exploration of the land had justi- fled Mr. Bunton’s view of its value, The deal Involved was s of an assured supply of ore so admit- tedly great, the perll to thelr position, if the bunton land feli into the hands ot a rival, so manifest, he would not dis- pute the price. This was giving away his hand so free- 1y that Bunton looked at the speaker to see If he could divine a tricky intention. But the lawver's expressionless face re- vealed nothing. “I feel justified in saying,” Mr. Ban- nister concluded on this point, “that my principals will agree to the figure, or one substantially that. A hundred thou- sand dollars one way or the other will not keep us apart on the price, eh?" “Certainly not,” the ather replied, and he tried to repress the great sigh of re- lief with which he heard the words:s As to the manner of payment there was some discussion. Mr. Bunton wanted the greater part cash, the lesser part stock and bonds of the proposed company; Mr. Bannister asserted that the greater part should be paid in the company's securi- ties, but again he was disposed to think that Mr. Bunton's wishes would be met in that respect also, The question of the time of t fer brought them to a hiteh. Buu- ton said that the title of the land had been so often and thoroughly examined of late, the transfer should be concluded after another merely perfunctory search of the title. “No,” the lawyer responded, slowly and thoughtfully, “that will not do in this case. If we were considering an ordinary transaction it might do. But, as the at- torney for the intending purchasers, 1 must insist. in a case of this magnitude, that a thorough and extended search, by experts, must be made before we pro- ceed further than to a written agreement as to terms.” “And that will take a couple of weeks, I suppose,” Bunton sald, with a show of impatience. ‘A couple of months would be nearer the time, I think.” “The time is long. It will inconvenience me in certain plans I have made.” “1 regret that. I can only promise to expedite my inquiries as to your capacity to give title.” B “My capacity, sir!” Bunton's heart beat ast. “It 1s an almost obsolete phrase—but I am an old-fashioned lawyer." “In the meantime I may lose an equally good chance to sell.” “We will deposit $100,000, with our agree- ment, in escrow, to be forfeited to vou if we fail to complete a purchase—when it is proved that you can give a good title.” Again Bunton started. He could not help it, though he had tried to prepare himself to hear fust such words. Was it a sharp claw, suddenly darted out and with- drawn, that had pricked him? No, the heavy, well-colored face of the lawyer suggested bovine rather than feline char. acteristics, “Two months tim A ““We wish to be reasonable, but matters of such importance as are involved in our modern combining of great interests de- mard searching investigation in every di- rection that prudence and experience sug- gest, lest some iIncurable flaw be discov- ered when it is too late to apply an hon- est remedy."” seems an unreasonable v, Mr. Bunton, you and T are equally desirous that the first steps in this transaction shall be o fair and open that there. shall be nothing to conceal from public ecrutiny—so far as you and I are concerned.” “Naturally, sir.”” Isaac Bunton tried to say this without first clearing his throat, but he could not. He inwardly cursed trat his voice was hoarse. and boldly re. peated, “Naturally, sir: naturally.” “This lawyer of great reputation seems to be a prosy, rather thick-witted fellow,” Bun- ton said to himself, “and is incapable of playing with me, as his words In the mouth of a b er man might suggest. Nothing to fear here!” “Naturally, Mr. Bunton. So I shall pro- ceed in hy way, hastening matters as far as seems prudent, and when I am satis- fled that the title you offer Is perfect I shall communicate.” “The sooner the better,” Bunton sald hastily, beginning to tire of the lawyer's slow talk, that had so many phrases sug- gesting doubt where there doum.p could be no But could there be a doubt? Was the lawyer suspicious as well as cautious? Had he not needlessly repeated those phrases that made the hearer start; had he not laid meaning emphasis upon them? These questions would not leave his mind, and when the morning after the intecview Wwith the lawyer he saw In the Chronicle, in an article on the iron combine, a sug- gestion that proceedings wera dragging because of a possible flaw In the title of one of the undeveloped properties in- volved, he was possessed by a sudden fear and kept his paper in front of his face that his wife might not see him, for he thought he must be very pale—he was 50 cold! : But the wife knew—knew that Tsaac was in more trouble than ever before and that now, for thé first time in their lives together, it was a trouble he could not tell her. Bo she only grieved silently for him; keeping up, for he seemed to wish it, their show of enter- taining and being entertained—of living a soclety life! And her heart broken for him! ¥or him, not for Dalsy. The shock of hearing that Harry was alive was not an unpleasant one to Mrs. ‘Bunton; nor was she deeply grieved that Daisy had gone into the theater for a career. That, as a solution of the mys- tery of her daughter's unwatched hours large, the necessity . for months, was a rellef. It might have been—oh, God! that other thought had been such a burden of dread that to hear this fact was & joy. Daisy might suc- ceed. Women had gone from a life as sheltered as hers and succeeded and been respected in the exposed life of the theater. 8o, gradually, in the deep gloom of her sorrow and misgivings/about her husband, Mrs. Bunton came to think of Daisy as happily removed from the gen- eral worry and care with which her own life was beset. Daisy wrote to her mother secretly, sending many favorable newspaper notices of Marguerite Boyn- ton; and as these notices grew in im- portance the mother's pride was aroused, and she looked forward to seeing Daisy perform, as her daughter urged that she must, when the troupe neared New York. She did not tell her husband of Dalsy's whereabouts. He had, after the first, seemed not to want to know where his daughter and son-in-law were. She did not even tell her husband when she heard from Daisy that she had had a “funny experience.” A lawyer had come and got from Harry a paper that her father gave him to deliver more than two vears ago and which the dear, care- ful fellow had kept so well all the time he was In such trouble that the lawyer found it to be all right. Mrs. Bunton would have told her husband of this had he not seemed to suffer at any chance reference to Harry. Tsaac had another cause for worry just at that time. His father had seen, in the White River Advocate, the article copied from the New York paper about the cause of delay in the fron combine proceedings. He wrote to Isage about it, brt was not satisfied with the reply. The White River papers frequently had stories about the social and financial triumphs of Isaac Bunton, and in this way the old farmer-banker had learned much to worry him about his son. He wrote that the New York affairs of the bank required attention and that he would make that an excuse to visit his son. Isaac's exposition of his financial af- fairs did not satisfy his father. “Even if you sell the land, Isaacr the market 'll have to go your way to let you draw out without using up a lot of the purchase price, large as it 18" “But, father, when I've sold this to the Worthington interest the market. or at least the shares I'm interested in, will probably advance rapidly.” “Do you mean that they are depress- ing vour holdings to force you to sell the land?” at's the judgment of man operators; the crowd I train wi stocks we are known to fancs gained strength, just on the rumor that I'm going to let go of the land. at last. The deal will probably be closed to- day, as I have a note from Mr. Bannister that he will call to-day. I'm glad that you'll be at my office to meet him and be in at the end—it will be a newspaper sensation. Mr. Bannister showed some surprise, after being introduced t) the elder Bun- ton, and talking with him for a time on Western affairs, that the younger man atd not suggest retiring 1o the inner of- fice for their conference. At last he said, “Shall we go inside and take up the land tter?” “We 1l not be replied. “And will your father lawyer asked. *Certainly.” Mr. Bannister was silent for as much as half a minute, looking at the old farme and Isaac saw the look and felt as a prisoner must feel when he watches a jury return from their deliberations, and sees “Guilty!” written on every stern face. He would have liked to make some excuse to ask his father to retire, but he could not speak. “Very well,” the lawyer sald slowly and calmly. *“Mr. Bunton”—he turned his eyes on Isaac—'‘can you give me a petter deed for the land than ihe one you gave to Dr: Paxton. iwo years ago last Octo- ber. I refer to the deed this telegram reports as having been recorded by How- ard Paxton's attorney, in White River, yesterday?” 2 Isaac moistened his lips several times before he answered, but when at last he ala speak it was in a quiet and natural tone: “No, sir, I eannot,”” he said. His father rose, staggered, and would have fallen had not Mr. Bannister caught him. . “What does this mean, 1saac, my son the old man whispered faintly. Isaac went to his father, put his arm around him, and led him to a chair. “T'il tell you everything, father. Don’t go, Mr. Bannister. I'd rather you heard."” He sat with one hand shading his eye: the other idly fingering his watch chain, his head bent, but still speaking in a quiet voice. He told the whole story; not shielding or excusing himself much ex- cept when he safd that he intended to share with Howard, somehow; tell him that his father had an interest in the land. At the end he looked up, and ask:d the lawyer, ‘Do you want me to tell this to any one else—the law officers?” Mr. Bannister looked at the father, saw thé unheeded tears course slowly down his quivering face, the daze of shame and grief in his eyes, and then he said, as if he had not heard the question, but firmiy and with intention, “I am sorry—very sorry for you, Mr. Bunton; and if I can be of any nsin to you in straightering out affairs, my services are at your com- mand.” He had, not turbed here,” Iscac remain?’ the looked at either as he spoke, and no listener could have told whether he addressed father or son. But the father replied, “God knows, sir, that we havé no right to ask your help—any man's. I have never asked help of any man before, but—"" The old man's volce faltered and broke, but his eyes looked steadily at the law- er. ¥ hey worked over.books and accounts until far into the night; and for many days father and son went on with the sorry task of settling the son's affairs, al- ways advised by Mr. Bannister. The elder Bunton had at once placed all his property at the lawyer’s disposal, making no complaint when it seemed that not only all the earnings of his lifetime ‘of thrift would be sacrificed, but the inher- ited farm, as well. . “But I'ii save that farm for the old man,” Mr. Bannister resélved, “if I have to make Wall street pay for it.” And he dld—just the old farm and the old homg: stead: not any other thing of value. “Now, Isaag,” the old man sald, with no tone of reproach in his voice, “we'll go back to the farm and begin life over again.” . 'l;efcm they left Mrs. Bunton said that she was going away over one night and they did not ask her where. They knew it was to see Daisy, but her name was never mentioned now. All one evening Mrs. Bunton sat n Daisy’s dressing-room. The date had been announced for her appearance in New York: her identity was disciosed; the Chronicle was in its element; she was D! as the daughter of the Western millionaire, Isaac Bunton, who had just sold some mining land to the iron combine at a startling figure (the lawyer in the case was very reticent, but did not deny that Mr. Bunton had parted with the land); her beauty, her stage appearance—a ggestion of Car- mencita and Cleo de Merode—we ten of> with enthusiasm; and she was envied by ten thousand good women. And her mother sat in her dressing-room all of one evening frightened, ashamed, stunned; while Harry hovered about, smiling in the ecstasy of pride and joy. XXVI—-A LETTER OF MARK. On one of those February days whose decelt we forgive for their beauty, when New York, with unfafiing faith, each year belleves winter vanished and spring trilumphant—and for its faith takes cold in its forgetful head—on such a day Howard Paxton turned Into the cavern- ous entrance to the Brooklyn bridge, in- tending to mount therefrom to the Third- avenue Elevated. His frank smile and brisk, buoyant step were not wholly due to his delight in the fair false promise made by soft sky and warm sun; he was rejoicing in a promise as bright but more real, and was hurrying home to share with Grace the lightness of his heart. “When she recefved that check for Afty dollars for her carpet design she wanted to do large and strange things to cele- brate,” he was saying to himself. “It took all of my stern brotherly influence to dissuade her from a revel of tea and Jam, to say nothing of insinuating cake, candy and all vain vanities. She would have guests to share our realized dream of riches! A serving mald sent in for the evening to emphasize our grandeur and advertise our splendor! But my reason- ing prevailed and she consented to the purchase of a spring wrap and necessary gloves. But now! Now revel and merri- ment! Guests and ale and sausages, and galety and gaiters and gas-stove cooking beyond the dreams of Lucullus!" These riotous imaginings were pro- moted by an interview Howard had Just had. The identity he had concealed under his pen names had be- come known to several of the editors to whom he had sold matter. The discovery had affected them differently. Some had dropped his work indignantly; some had laughed at the deception and continued to use his contributions under his pen names, and one had sent him a note to call and talk the subject over. This edi- tor, whom he had just left, had sald: “1 think that a lot depends upon the place where your work is used, whether it is hurt by your own name. Now, I've been thinking that not one of our readers out of a thousand ever saw your name in the Chronicle, but they did see it often while vyou were known as the White River Advocate Man, and would like to see it again. In short, we've concluded that, so far as our publications are con- cerned, your own name has a value and we want to use it." There were many things about the busi- ness of his profession of which Howard was ignorant when he first went to New York, but which he had learned by pain- ful experience since them. He knew that this editor’s use of his name would help its value as much as the Chronicle’s use of it had injured it, and he was rejoic- ing over that thought as he turned into the bridge entrance, promising himself the pleasure of giving Grace a treat. It was a notable supper at the Paxtons’ apartments that evening. Besides the host and hostess George Bannister and his bappy flancee, Mrs. Carr and George's sister Madge and Mr. Jack Worthington were present. And the menu was as good as the company. Grace made Welsh rab- bit and Gertrude chocolate fudge, Jack cut bread for the sandwiches and George ground a paste of sardines for the same; Howard presided over the store of bottled beer for the men and Madge aover the cof- fee urn for the ladies. George Bannister made no less than a score of speeches over the happy event they celebrated, the passing of the eclipse of Howard’'s name; that writer himself read a poem humor- ously describing the same passing of a shadow; Gertrude burned the fudge and her fingers at a chance allusion to Brook- lyn; and Madge, a wild pleasure of secret joy In her eyes, was silently observant of all, but now and then loocked in impa- tience at her brother. George caught one of those looks, blushed gulltily and drew a sealed letter from his pocket and gave it to Jack, saying, “‘Father told me to hand you this, but I forgot, until Madge’s reproving eyes reminded me. She must know what it's about; I don’t.” Jack took the letter, glanced at it, laid it down hastily and went to Grace. He ‘was deeply In earnest and spoke to her in low eager tones, so the others were dis- creetly busy and noisy about thelr occu- pations. “Oh, George!" sald Worthing- ton, glancing over his shoulder a moment, ‘“there’'s something in that letter about you. Better read it.” Madge's wild eyes were dancing, now, and she watched her brother intently. George ran his eyes down the letter un- til he came to his own name, and read, “Say to George that the Consolidated Chemical Limited goes into the hands of a receiver to-morrow. It is an irretriev- able fallure.” Having read these words Gecrge dashed the letter to the table, rushed to Ger- trude and exclaimed, “Love moon of my heart's night! Guiding star of my soul's flight! Anchor of my storm swept life! The shadows of earth, the mists of heaven are dissolved and banished, and unending sunlight plays and dances over the course of—of—Gertle, that damn Chemical Consolidated 1{s bust, your mother must admit that my father was all right, and keep her promise. We marry!” He turned to the startled com- pany and repeated in a voice of rapture, “We marry!” He caught sight of his sister's laugh- ing face, stopped, went to her, and salll, “Madge, you knew this! Father told you, and you have been heartless enough to keep from your brother for hours tfie knowledge that the cause of difference that has kept two hearis apart—Madge, how could you!"™ He caught Madge around the waist, and drew her over to Jhis blushing and laughing sweetheart to be further scolded. Grace seemed to have heard news that greatly agitated her, for her voice trem- bled when she sald, “Howard, please read that letter, and see if—och, Howard—if it is true!™ Howard, who had been only smiling good naturedly at the effects produced an his“ two friends by their perusal of the letter, now took It and with a prelimin- ary ‘“‘Ahem!" started to read it aloud, but he suddenly sat down, and with staring eyes finishéd it in a silence that was general. When he had read it over many times, as it seemed to the others, he turned, and said huskily, “Can you explain this, Worthington?"* “I know it's true?’ Jack exclaimed. T've known of it.for several days; that it was all but settled, so imagine my state of mind, not being able to tell “Grace, and claim what she promised when you should be out of the woods.” If to be out of the woods means to ) be out of trouble, I'm further in the woods than ever before in my life. Grace and I are the owners of the sensational mining lands! Please, Worthington, sit down here and tell me as much as you know—or tell me until I wake up.” Jack told the story to his astonished and delighted audience. He knew it pret- ty well, for his father’s return had ma it necessary—or expedient—that both the Worthingtons should be acquainted with the situation. Mr. Bannister had Im- posed secrecy upon Jack until the ulti- mate legal safeguard had been estab- lishe. around the Paxton title to land; and that had not been done to the final satisfaction of the cautious old law- yer until that day. Mr. Bannister, hearing from George and Madge—so Jack suggest- ed in conclusion—where they were to spend the evening, had given the letter to George to deliver, that the occasion might not lack any cause for celebration the lawyer could supply. Jack took plenty of time to tell his story, and so dawnings of what it all meant began to light up Howard's con- fused understanding. When Jack finished Howard's eyes turned to Madge, but she suddenly became crimson and frightened and ran to her coffee urn, and only looked up to dart a glance of Intense scorn at her brother when he laughed at her and drew attention to her cheeks and eyes. XXVII-MARRYING THE LAND. It was not until he had had many In- terviews with Mr. Bannister and the law- yer from White River that Howard re- allzed the story Jack Worthington had told him. Then he began to regret that it was true. Then, for Grace's sake, he was glad that it was. Anyway he should go on with his work. There was a stigma on his name—undeserved, but there—and he would work as If this good fortune had never come, until that stigma was wholly removed. Mr. Bannister mildly suggested that making & large check good by signing his own name to it was, by way of removing & stigma, a better process than making a poem sell by sign- ing his own name to it—as this world goes. Then Howard sald the thing bothered him. He knew nothing about mining, and probably could not learn. His work was affected already by thought of mines and mining lands. Mr. Ban- nister had a way out of that trouble: sell the land. The very thought was a rellef to Howard, and the transaction went forward, but without speed. It dragged. Then Jack went to his father, and asked, as a dutiful son should, if B had any objections to welcoming into the Worthington family, as =» daughter-in- law, Miss Paxton, sister of the gentleman from whom they were trying to buy the fron lands. Jack thought the marriage would, expedite the land sale tor which his father was anxious. In reply the elder Worthington mads the only humor- ots remark of his life. “My son,” he sald to Jack, “your father Is a wise oldster, after all. I started out to have you marry that land, and by George you end up by marrying it. En?" He repeated that joke, rot oftem, but pretty regularly, when he thought the company of sufficlent versatility to behold him in all his versatility. He repeated it when he and Mrs. Worthington went to call on Grace, and again when Grace and Howard first dined at the Worthingtons'. His doctor sald that it had done his dis- tinguished patient's health a world of good to turn humorist. Mrs. Marble, mother of Gertrude, wrote to Mr. Bannister, father of George: “You were right, and 1 was wrong, about Chemical Consolidated Limited—if you didn’t wreck it to prove yourself right—so the children may marry, so far as I am concerned.” When his father gave this brief note to George that young man’s eyes blazed, hi attitude was that of an orator, there were all the familiar signs that he was moved to long and impassioned speech. His lips made some soundless motions, and then he took his father’s hand and said quk ly, “I love Gertle, father, and I believe she loves me.” in heaven’s name, quick, before her mother finds another ex- cuse to delay the wedding.” They wers married that evening. Marguerite Boynton conquered Broad- way. She was the novelty longed for; Broadway raved about her and brought her renown and prosperity. To Harry, her husband, it brought happiness, deep and unalloyed. Yes, unalloyed, though there were those that fluttered about Daisy, who laughed at Harry, and more than wished him out of the way, asked that he be sent out of the way. But Har- ry reigned supreme in her affections, even when she discovered that many women felt his fascination as well as she, and that he was too gentle and good-hearted to resent admiration. Surely, Daisy knew that he loved her. Was that not enough? Plainly it was not, for she grew fero- ciously jealous, and they quarreled briskly; and it was she, not he, who must run to make up, to ask forgiveness, to promise not to annoy, to be obedient, or— well there were other stars as great as she, who appreciated him. She was not wholly miserable; for there was a kind of pleasure even in her quarrels with him. He had made her very unhappy much of the time, to be sure, but she did not lose him. That was a triumph to boast of. Once, before Harry, feeling the full of his power over her, demanded, and got, the right to draw all of her earn- ings, once, before that, she sent some money to her mother. It came back to her. Her mother wrote that they did not need it. They were liv- ing on the farm, with Grandfather Bun- ton, and ali worked hard, early and late, as those who go to the earth for a living must. “Your father was a farmer when he was a young man, and he knows the werk, and is strong enough to do it. Wa all work. We live as we can, not com- fortably, but honestly. Do not send money.” ‘With Grace—Mrs. John Worthington Jr, —away on her wedding journey, Howard ‘would have been lonely in the spring, had not Mr. Bannister made out to have him at the country place pretty often. How- ard owned the charm of the old lawyer's society. When It was warm enough to sit in the orchard Howard often told Madge how much he enjoyed his studies of plant life, under her father’s instruc- tion. He had not been out to the farm much, to be sure. Perhaps it was that he cared less for her father's cholce vegeta~ bles than for his choice flowers, His roses, especlally. And of those, one rose in particular, the cholcest of all, though a wild rose. And it had no thorns! Had It—for him? And its color changed so! look! Even as one spoke, it deepened the red of its petals! And it was so young, and fair, and sweet, that its pet- als sparkled yet with dew, and now they grew crimson, and—I love that rose, Sweetheart! May I wear it forever, and breast, voice