The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 31, 1904, Page 5

THE SA g E AN (Copyright, 1504, by T. C. MeClure.) HARLES AUGUS- TUS had had a most unpleasant day. It had commenced well enough, but had clouded over soon after he had started on his lessons about Rat, and the Act-ive ns had brought Miss and with it something Charles Augustus’ d by no m-ans under- the Dog. and th Cat. Then Hig stand You see, Charles Augustus loved his governess greatly. She came next to ther d mother and way above Charles Augustus had quite ss Purvis when even talked over he young lady her- when she read it, made we go all pink and ale, and her eyes 1 she put the letter of her gown, and Charles Augustus thought that was the end of it. But it was not. For as often as he looked up from his book or slate, he saw Miss Purvis reading the letter, and each time he saw tears in her eyes. What could it be in those scrawly blacks marks to make people cry? He cried when he wus spanked or shut up in a closef, or had to do something he did not want to—but this wasn't like that. Charles Augustus could not understand this silent crying. When he cried he wanted to let the whole world know—and usually succeeded. Later, when lessons were over, he saw Miss Purvis, through the window, writing a letter and she was crying over that. Plainly, there was some- thing in this writing business which was decidedly unpleasant. Charles Augustus decided then and there that he would never write. Then when she had finished she went off to the village and would not let Charles Au- gustus go with her. In that half hour of easy-time which came when Charles Augustus had shifted from his day things into the ample lengths of his flannel pajamas, and, cuddled down into the big chair -+ | lv e L with Miss Purvis, toasted his pink toes before the fire preparatory to go- ing bedward, he came once more across this peculiar thing which he could not understand. For Miss Pur- vis was strangély silent, only answer- ing a listless yes or no to his observa- tions Bn life, and the curioys ways of people, and the idiosyncrasies of the goat. She did not take much interest even when he touched upon the many things he would give her when he be- came a man and they were married—- the rings like mamma’s, and an ex- press wagon, and a jar of ginger. Though her arm drew him close when " he told her how much he loved her, yet Charles Augustus was not satis- fied. He felt as though something in- visible were between them. He put up a hand and turned her face toward him. % “You do love me, don’'t you?" he said. “And you will wait-for me until I am big?” She kissed him and teld him *Yes"” -—she would always be his sweetheart. “But I'm afraid, dear, I'll have to go away. Will you mind?"” i Charles Augustus minded very much HIS AWAKENING | By M. Louise Cummins by T. C. McClure.) UCYGRIERSON ked at the door \er Cousin Royce's holding a ile of letters and which she had t taken from the 3 rep-toned, muffled the snug bache- ts rows of bookshelves, moment contemplating and square should- ver the desk. impatient glance over - ¥ interruption, but ind with clearing face when Come in” she entere witk und stood fi swung arc he sav who it was, “Say, Luce,” he said eagerly, “how's this for an idea? The hero is desperate- ly in love with the heroine, who cares nothing for him. In his despair he re- members the old college professor who always helped him out of his dilemmas, and forthwith goes to him for advice. The professor, who is an indefatigable microbe unter, and has been for years trying to discover the germ of love, thinks with glee that in this unusually bad case is his chance. After much re- search he finds the love germ, and car- ries it carefully to his laboratory. But & sportive soph lets it look among the ‘co-eds,’ with the disastrous result that every one begins promiscuously to fall! in love with every one else. Of oéurse the heroine gets inoculated and falls in love with the hero.” “And the professor himself becomes enamored of the laundress,” she put in laughingly. “Just so! I was working on his solllogquy prior to the advent of the love-lorn youth, when you came in."” “And of couse began at the end as usuall” “Y-yes. But the rest will come me. Here's the last verse anyhow: 1 Lave found the germ of health, The germ of melancholia and paresis, But my reputation’s lost 1f I can’t at any cost Pescribe the germ of Love in my great thesis. “How's that?” “Great!” £he smiled encouragement with ap- preciative eyes and lips. But the light @ied from her face as he swung back to the ‘desk, waving the paper hilariously ‘above his head. She bit back a sigh be- tween her teeth, and laying the bundle of mail beside him turned away. ~ “Don% go.” Royce was bending over his papers and did not look up. ‘“Won't it disturb you if I remain?” “No, it will help me; it always does. 1 think you are my inspiration.” The blood flashed to her face so sud- den’y that she was thankful he did not look up and see it. She sank into a big Jeather chair before the open fire and took up a magazine. “Speed,” Royce's fox terrier, got up from the rug, stretched himself lazily and jumped upon her lap. The young man lifted his head and looked across at her side- ways. “What a picture you make,” he said meditatively. The girl gave an unconcerned shrug o hide the suffocating beating of her heart in her throat. It was terrible to ber, the suggestion of domesticity in ber attitude, and to think it meant nothing to him beyond the fact that in the cozy setting of the “den” she made an artistic picture. to Rqyce was deep in his work again, scarcely conscious of the fact when she rose and left the room in answer to a ring at the bell and the maid's knock. He heard the soft pat-pat of her feet as she ran upstairs a few minutes later, and then the clash of the front door. Having finished the professor’s solilo- quy he rose and strode into the draw- ing-room just in time to see Lucy being helped into a high dogecart by a fair- faced individual in immaculate light overcoat and dogskin gloves. The horses pawed the air when the diminutive tiger left their heads and sprang into his place. Royce had a glimpse of Lucy’s bright face as it was lifted to her com- panion’s. How entirely in her element she looked! He turned away from the window, his foot itripping in a rug, which he kicked savagely back into place. Confound those things that are always catching in people’s feet! Well, here was another day wasted. That stuff he had written was rot. He strode back into his room and tearipg the sheets in two flung them mto the waste paper basket. Then he threw himself wearily Into the chair which the girl he called cousin, because he had known her all his life, though the tie between them was remote, had so lately occu- pied. How pretty she had looked sitting there in the firelight! What could she see in that empty-headed numskull that she should care to go driving with him? Was she, after all, one of the girls to whom a well-weighted pocketbook atoned for any mental lack? He recalled the evening before when after a hard day’s work he had wan- dered into the drawing-room where Lucy sat playing a sweet, illusive littie melody of Chaminade's. Again the feeling of supreme content in being thus alone with her, with no words between them but the soft, tender chords, came over him. Suppose this tailor's block of a man should carry her off to a home of his own? Suppose she should be willing to go? He got up and paced through the rooms, his mind in a whirl of fear. He met the girl in the hall when she returned, ‘her face bright and glowing from her drive, “Well, how goes cheerily. “How goes what?” His eyes were fixed gloomily on her face. He grudged the fact that another man had been able to look at her for the past hour unrestrained. “Why, the professor and his germ quest, of course.” “Oh, it's in the waste paper basket— the only fitting place for it.” She glanced up, surprised at the bit- terness of his tone, and moving swiftly away from him into the “den,” stood bending over his desk. Royce followed, and laying his hands firmly on her shoulders, turned her about until she faced him. “Look here,” he demanded, ‘“what's the use of my making an imaginary professor look for a thing which I've found myself—or, rather, which has found me?” She stared at him in open-eyed be- wilderment, backing slightly from what she saw In his face. “And how am I going to stand it if that empty-headed cad that you went 1t?” she asked driving with this afternoon gets what I - want more than ‘anything else in the world?” His voice was rasping in its anxiety. There was no mistaking his meaning now. Lucy swayed a little, with part- ed, breathless lips, putting out one :and to steady herself against the esk. Royce’'s hold slipped from her shoul- ders to her arms and tightened there. “Don’t say you care for him, Luce,” he pleaded. The girl's throat ached with her longing to comfort him, but the words would not come. “I am nothing without you,” he went on. “Dear, forgive me that because * you have always been in my life I did not realize what it would be ‘o lose you. The vision of you as you sat in my c. air this afternoon, so sweet, so womanly, so helpful—my inspiration, as I truly told you—will haunt me for- ever, unless—unless you will let it be like that for always, Luce.” The girl’s face quivered with happi- ness. She made a little involuntary swaying movement toward him. Still holding her arms, as though he feared she might slip away from him, Royce drew her within his own. Half an hour later he was writing again, but with his left hand closed e s ANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. and sajd so, and the thought kept him awake long after he had got into his bed. Through the door he could see Miss Purvis and the fire. Then he saw her of a sudden bend forward, her face in her arms, and hear her sob. Though he wanted to comfort her, something told Charles Augustus that Miss Purvis wanted to be let alone. At last she raised a tear-stained face. *No, it must not be!” Charles Au- gustus heard her say. “They would think it was for his money. It i§ bet- ter as it is-—better for him. I must leave here as soon as I can, and, oh, 1 don’t want to!” Then Miss Purvis took the letter, kissed it and put it in a box on her dressing table—a box with curious patterns in mother-of-pearl on it, and with a queer lock that only she and Charles Augustus knew how to open. Charles Augustus’ mind started. to work this thing out. This letter was the cause of Miss Purvis' feeling badly. It must be taken away, that was all about -t The room was-quiet, the fire died to a little glow of winking embers, Miss Purvis was asleep. Charles Augustus got up and got the letter. Then he hid it under the mattress, and went to sleep with a lighter heart. Now Miss Purvis would be happy again and she would not go away. But the next day Miss Purvis was not happy. True, she did not cry; nor did she read the letter which Charles 3 upon the small white one which lay on the desk beside him. Now and then he paused to lift it to his lips. “Royce,” she said softly, after a while, “I must tell you. You are away behind In progression. 1 discovered the love germ, or rathcr, it discovered me, as you say, quité a year ago.” Royce flung down his pen and jumped up. And it was not her hand that he kissed then. Augustus had craftily tucked inside his blouse, but yet she was not the Miss Purvis of aforetime; who laughed and sang and romped on the lawn with him. It was not the mere pos- session of the letter then. What was A *‘He must not come.” “I must leave here.” Charles Augustus remembered those words. Some one was coming then; some one who would carry Miss Purvis, the beloved, away. Charles Angustus thought of giants, and gyp- sles, and grew horrilly alive to the exigenaies of the occasion. His father and mother were away, so he could not go to them for advice. There was only one man in Charles Augustus’ confidence, and he was very big and strong and knew everyth'ng. Next to the goat, who was manifestly inadequate under the circumstances, Charles Augustus addred this man. He lived in a house by himself, a long, long way off beyond the most distant trees. Charles Augustus saw the man that afternoon. He had come to call, but Miss Purvis had excused herself. She had a headache, she said. Now the man, whose name was Mr. ,Houghton. { %m bl D CHARLES AUGUSTUS By F. B. Wright - was going down the drive with great strides, and so intent on his own thoughts that he did not hear Charles Augustus call to him. It took him a long time to catch up with the man. Indeed, it did not happen until the lat. ter had turned off into the woods, and Charles Augustus’ hat had been lost on the road, and his legs much scratched, with briers. Then Charles Augustus told his story; about the let- ter, and how 'she had kissed it, and yet cried, and was going away. “And she said, ‘I can’t! I can’t!’ like that,” ended Charles Augustus. “ ‘He mustn’t never know,’ she said, and ‘he mustn’t never come here.’” What wasn’t he to know? and who was he?—and did Mr. Houghton think it was a giant that was coming to carry Miss Purvis oft? Then Charles Augustus took the letter from his'blouse—and then the man knew. “I'm afraid it is a giant,” said Mr. Houghton gravely, “and it's lucky I heard of it in time, because I was go- ing away to-morrow. But now- ' “But now?” said Charles Augustus anxiously. “Now I think I'll go right back to the house with you.” “And you won't let her be tooken— By EN ROUTE I mean taked—away?” said Charles Augustus. “No, she isn't going away,” the man replied—""at least not very far.” They got out into the road and started back, Charles Augustus’ hand in that of his friend's, and his small shoes plowing through the dust. And then, at a turn in the road, they came suddenly on Miss Purvis, very white and scared lopking, and carrying Charles Augustus’” hat. “Charlie,” she cried, “I thought you were lost!™ Charles Augustus plunged toward her. “I tolded him!"™ he cried trium- phantly. _ “I've told him all about the letter, and how you cried because the giant was going to carry you off, and he says the giant shan’t, and that you are going to live here happily ever after, amen, like people do in fairy stories. And you are, ain’t you?” Miss Purvis looked at the man a second, and then her face came all pink—and then she said “Yes.” It was a very happy walk back home to Charles Augustus, except that he, for some reason, could not manage to walk between his two friends and hold both their hands at the same time, a thing which Charles Augustus particularly wished. — Nellie Cravey Gillmore (Copyrighted, 1904, by J. B. Mitchell.) 00D gracious!” eried Dolly, getting to her feet with very pink cheeks, “I wonder—" Sanford lifted his hat with one hand and held out the g other. “I'm afraid you don’t quite remem- ber me, Miss Kensington,” he began. ¢Remember you? Remember you, Billy? Why, it's only three years since—oh, do say that you have but — * HER LESSON By H. B. Lewis —fe (Copyright, 1904, by C. B. Lewis.) HERE was but one passenger to alight at Snow Hill, on the Southern Pacific rail- road, and that was Miss Bessie Vaughn of Chicago. Her schoolmate, Nettie Long, whose father owned and man- aged the big Long ranch and who-was now living with him out in the wilds, had written that a person would meet Bessie at Snow Hill with a buckboard and bring her safely to the ranch. The “person” proved to be a young man of 25 years, dressed as a cowboy, but hav- ing rather a distinguished look about him. While he was hastening along the platform, and yet thirty feet away, the girl acknowledged to herself that his features were good and that his face showed character and ambition. Per- haps it was for these reasons that while he was covering the other thirty feet Miss Bessie suddenly decided that he ought to be snubbed. “This is Miss, Vaughn of Chicago, I presume?” he said, as he lifted his hat and smiled a welcome. ‘What right had he to presume? By what right did he smile a welcome and seem ready to shake hands? The girl looked coldly at him and slightly nod- ded her head, and that was snub num- ber one. The young man took it so, but though he colored up he did not lose his smile. . “You will give me your checks, please, and I will put your trunks aboard and ‘we will be off.” There was a touch of authority in his tones that nettled the girl, and she turned away and delivered up the checks with her own hand. She would also have loaded the trunks on the ve- hicle if she had been strong enough. Snub number two had followed fast on the heels of snub number one. ““We have fifteen miles to drive and the road is rather rough,” observed the young man as they got seated. No reply. Snnb number three. g “I take it that you have never visited this section before?” was remarked lf!;; the silence had lasted for a mille. N “But I trust you will ind novelty and pleasure.” Miss Bessie looked straight ahead and shut her teeth pard. What was it to one of Colonel Long's hired men whether she enjoyed the West or not? The man was presumptuous, and she meant her silence to be another snub. ‘Whether it was so taken or not, it was not more than five minutes before a voice which had a touch of the paternal in it remarked: “You don't look overly well, and a couple of months of this bracing at- mosphere will do you a world of good. “Sir, are you a practicing physician asked Miss Bessie, as she tarned to look the young man square in the eyes. “Well, no,” he slowly replied. That was what the boys would have called a settler, and it hung the young man up for the next ten minutes. When he spoke again, however, it was as if nothing had happened. “Jt was on that hill over there he quietly sald, as he pointed with his whip, “that four of our men were sur- rounded by fifty Indian warriors” two ears ago. yMiu Bessie deliberately turned to ook in the opposite direction, and she felt that he was smiling as he contin- d: “e"Ona of the boys was killed, but they killed twelve Indians and held their ground all day.” ‘What was it to her whether one or the whole four cowboys were killed? Indeed, she found herself almost wish- ing that all had been wiped out. She hadn't the slightest interest in the af- fair—not that day. “And over there in that valley is where a drove of steers ran over and trampled the life out of two of our men last spring. We didn’t even find thelr boots.” Miss Bessie looked straight ahead and made no reply. - “And you wouldn’t believe, would you, that this insignificant creek we are crossing was a_mile wide and ten feet deep last May? We lost a thousand head of stock in that flood.” Still no reply. It was snub after snub, and she meant to tire him out. This time the silence lasted for fifteen min- utes, and she it was who broke it at last. The horses had shied at a coyote dodging for cover and started away on a tearing gallop. The young man kept them on the trail, but made not the slightest effort to check the pace. On the contrary, he hummed a popular air as they laid down to their work. The visitor stood it as long as she couldy and then turned and exclaimed: | “Can’t you sge that the horses are running away? Ly ¢ .;lo“m it for some time past,” he quietly replied. i “Then why don’t you stop them?" “Lewill if you so wish, but a run of a few miles won't hurt them any.” She did wish it from the bottom of her heart, for the vehicle was jumping like a geat and it took hands to hold her hat on her head, but she grit- ted her teeth and decided to be smashed into jam before she would prefer the request. The horses ran for three or four miles and then sobe down, and the girl felt that she snubbed the man again by not being afraid. is that man you sent to the depot after me?” she of her schoolmate, almost before she had taken off her hat. . “Who? Why, that's Tom. I'll formal- 1y ln:rofluca you some day.” “You needn’t mind. I found him rather presumptuous and had to snub him.” “Tom presumptuous? Why, he’s the nicest—"" And then she suddenly skipped to some other subject and Tom was for- gotten till next day, when he was bold enough to approach Miss Bessie as she was alone for a moment and ask: “What sort of a gait do you prefer in a horse—a trot or a lope? I am to select one for you to-day.” “Thank you, but you needn’t go to any trouble on my account,” was the reply, and Tom ought to have felt duly crushed as he walked away. He was not seen ..gain for four days, duty having called him away. The two girls rode out every day on ponies se- lected for them, and on the fourth oc- casion something happened. The pony ridden by Miss Bessie suddenly bolted, and when she found him beyond con- trol she could only cling to the saddle and hope he would tire himself out after running a ceuple of miles. But he didn’t. He kept a straight conrse and a headlong gallop for mile after mile, and the girl was thinking of throwing herself from the saddle when a cow pony ranged up beside her, a hand grasped her loose rein, and a voice said in her ear: “Keep your head, Miss Vaughn. I could pull him down and end his run here, but there is need of even more speed.” \ “W-what is 1t?” she asked as she thnmod her head and saw Tom beside er. “Indians. There are flve or six in chase of us, and I am racing for that hill with the rocks on it. CI tight- ly and don't be afraid. After a terrific pace for arosther mile both animals were suddenly pull- ed up, and dismounting and lifting the girl from the saddle, half pulled her up the steep side of the hill to the shelter of the rocks. ““We are all right now,” he cheer- fully said, “but. you keep crouched down till I have a little ‘with these noble red men.” The “talk’” was his Winchester, and before it was over he had killed one and wounded another. Their loss, to- gether with the alarm of the firing, sent the rémaining Indians scurrying away. At the ranchhouse, after the story had been told, Miss Bessie asked for second time: g “Who is this man Tom?" “Why, he's an old Yale man and be- lm.-tpon&ofmobfltmfliuln the East. He came out here for his health, you see. Did you have to snub him again to-day?"” *I—I don’t think so.” *“But -re you going to some other day?" i “No, never again. I'm so so and -hs:ud—ul 1 thlnk_—(hhi—nl- ‘Well, there’s a rumor afloat, and it may be true. just come out—that you did not really see—" rtainly not,” returned he prompt- ly; “after the rain the deck is fear- fully slippery. As a matter of fact, I have just succeeded in picking myself up from it.” Dolly laughed softly and plunged five rose-tipped fingers through a tum- bled heap of sun-blond hair. ‘¥ou haven't changed at all,” she remarked, slipping deftly into the most convenient chair. Sanford regarded her closely for the space of half a minute, a light that was, not unfamiliar there leaping swiftly to his eyes. “No,” he said, quite grave, “not the least bit—=ot in any respect.” Dolly’s lashes, long, blue-black, flickered momentarily over the smoke- colored eves. “Not really?” she ques- tioned in a musing tone. “And you, Dolly,” he pursued, alert, tentative, “you have not changed either, 1 presume?” He took the camp stool opposite her. % A minute’s pause, broken only by the rush and swirl of water against the sides of the ship. Sanford smiled, a trifle enigmati- ly, and looked down at his strong, s tanned hands. “Still in the quest of the ideal, see,” he observed after a little, his keen gray eyes shifting transiently along the deck-rail. “So to speak,” acquiesced Dolly, fol- lowing his gaze. “One might just as well chase rain- bows,” grumbled Sanford, digsing clumsily into his pocket for a cigar. “May I7” he inquired politely. Dolly nodded, catching her full low- er Iip under a curved row of milk-col- ored teeth. “To judge by your re- mark,” she commented, with a sudden inflection of ire, “one would think that I was—am—a—that —"" “Not at all,” corrected he, emphati- cally. “Very brilliant persons frequent- ly foster illusions. It is an infallible sign of a theosophic mind, though commonly speaking—" he broke off ely. 1 , & mistake—I should say.” “Paople learn by mistakes.” “But scarcely ever profit by them. Experience generally comes too late for—the train.” “I have somewhat modifled my ideas,” conceded Dolly, after a pause. “As to—2" “Ideals, of course.” “And may I ask—you would not mind telling me whether you are any nearer the — whether you have really—". He looked at her helplessly, a shadow of dwindling hope across his face. v “Not an jota nearer,” with some abruptness. Sanford smoked complacently for several seconds. The sun dropped steadily in the West, casting a weird, copper glow over the thin, keen, ex- pressive face. Dolly watched him furtively for a little, her gaze gradu- ally shifting to the great plunging emerald columns of sea-water, scatter- ing sheets of opal spray and filling the air with salt fragrance. - . “What takes you to New York, Wil- liam?" she asked after a while with a sudden assumptiqn of casual interest. Sdnford did not at once reply. A queer little smile”developed about the corners of his mouth as he looked at she cut in her half-averted profile. “Don’t be surprised,” he answered presently, “but—I'm going to be married.” A long silence ensued. When Dolly looked toward him again there were tear-traces in her eyes. She held out her hand. “Let me congratulate you, won't you?” Her voice was studledly low, to hide its meaning. “Who is the— the lucky girl, Billy?” “The woman I love,” he replied sententiously, drawing her fingers into both his hands and holding them close. Dolly flushed, snatching them away sharply. “Don’t!"” she cried, “it's—it's mean of you!” “By the way, Dolly,” asked San~ ford, “what are you gding to New York for?” She regarded him narrowly for an instant through contracted lids. “Why, I'm going to be married, too,” she returned with a wee laugh. “And it's a—a sort of disgrace, Bil- ly,” she hurried on. “I've half a mind to tell you the truth about it.” “Do." “The man—I—well, it's some one I've been writing to for a long time, I live there now, you know, but I've been away all summer. He—he lives in the South—New Orleans. Perhaps you know him—Ford, Jack Ford is his name.” “Oh!" “You do know him then?" “I've heard of him.,” sald he, cir- cumspectly. “He’s my ideal,” explained Dolly with a charming blush. “He certainly isn't the sort of fel- low you would have married—once."” “How do you know that? You sald you had merely heard of him.” “Your requirements were ironclad.” “I told you, did I not, that I had modified them?" Sanford stared at her quiszically for a moment. “You also told me that you never would—that there was no one—" “T've changed my mind.” snapped Dolly; “that’'s the prerogative of wise men—and women." Sanford rose slowly from his chair and stood for a second at the back of hers, looking down at the silk rumple of sun-blond hair. “You haven't exactly set the day yet, dear,” he ventured mildly. “And pray how do you know that, Mr. Sanford?” “At leest, I have received no letter.” He bent his head to the mutinous rose face, then lifted it suddenly. pretty “What is your ideal. Dolly?" he asked, curiously. “A man who is a rea! man,” sald she softly, “one who would do any- thing—all things in the great round world to win the girl he loves—who would even go so far as to get some other r-rson to write his letters, for- getting to disguise his little tricks of expression—who—"" 5 “At least,” he broke im, “T didn't use a_typewriter—an old one with the p and q all out of alignment—just such a one as we used to practice upon ten years ago. Remember when we studied shorthand together that—" “I don’t remember a thing about it.,” interrupted Dolly, two pink roses clip~ ping softly into her cheeks, “I never even think about those—do stop, Bill, l'lll:Ir.llurlh.hltflnlDf‘ per.