The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 14, 1904, Page 4

T blowing upon him: the double doors n the veranda had been left open coclness. “There,” he said, point- ing to them. But—I heard you other direction.” He was breathing quickly; he saw his ance—if Jefferson Bareaud did not e now. You did not hear me come down the stairs.” He leaned toward her, risking it all-on that No.” “Ah'” A sigh too like a gasp burst from Crailey. His head lifted a little, and his eyes were luminous with an rness that was almost angulsh. He set his utmost will at work to col- lect come from the ch come what would,” the door open, went to the foot at stairway; then I stopped. I mbered something; I turned, and g away when you opened the You remembered what?"” r strained attitude did not relax, utmost scrutiny, was the te astonishment of her distended but a hint of r was again cheek and her lip trembled a e that of a child about to icker of hope in his breast and the rush of hi his weep. said, wonderingly. i with a splendid bound, his beautiful and treach- who had deserted him instant; but she made folding him in protec- breathing through his d and vehement whis- cial r it now, ut the words upon the ay. have a friend and I would lay my Jlife to make him what he i be. He has always thrown every- away—his life, his talents, all his v and all of mine—for the sake hrowing them away! Some other t tell you about that room: but it s ruined my friend. To-night I dis- covered that he had been summoned h and I made up my mind to come ke him away. Your father has to shoot me if I set foot in his or on ground of his. Well, my ity was clear and I came to do it. And yet—I stopped at the foot of the stair—because—because I remembered that you were Robert Carewe’s daugh- What of you, if I went up and me to me from your father? I would not have touched sked me not to speak of and I have obeyed st tell you one thing now for this friend of mine else under heaven, but eft him to his ruin, and and times, rather than e upon you! A thousand ! I swear it should be a nes a thousand! aded in one speech from s dock to Capulet's gar- r eyves were shining into at light when he finished. K1y she whispered. “Go » quickly! vou understand?” but I shall. Will you go? ht come—my father might t any moment.” ) you want to drive me quite mad? She laid a trembling, ur- hand upon his sleeve. “Naver until you tell me that you stand,” replied Crailey firmly, lis- g keen for the slightest sound from overhead. “Never—until then!” When I do I shall tell you; now I only know that you must go.” But tell me—" “You must go!” There was a shuffling of chairs on the overhead, and Crailey went. He went even more hastily than might have been expected from the adaman- tine attitude he had just previously as- sumed. Realizing this as he reached the wet path, he risked stealing round to her window: “For sake!” he breathed; and having forestalled any trifling im- perfection which might arise in her recollection of his exit from the house, he disappeared, kissing his hand to the rain as he ran down the street. Miss Betty locked her door and pulled close the curtains of her window. A numerous but careful sound of foot- steps came from the hall, went by her door and out across the veranda. Si- lently she waited until she heard her father go alone to his room. She took the candle and went in to Mrs. Tanberry. She set the light upon a table, pulled a chair close to the bed- side, and placed her codl hand lightly on the great lady’'s forehead. “Isn’t it very late, child? Why are you not asleep?” “Mrs. Tanberry, I want to know why there was a light in the cupola-room to-night?” “What?” Mrs. Tanberry rolled her- self as upright as possible, and sat with blinking eyes. “I want to know what I am sure you know, and what I am sure everybody knows, except me. What were they doing there t6-night, and what was the quarrel between Mr. Vanrevel and my father that had to do with Mr. Gray?” Mrs. Tanberry gazed earnestly into the girl’s face. After a long time she said in a gentle voice: *Child, has it come to matter that much?” “Yes,” sald Miss Betty. CHAPTER XIIL THE TOCSIN. Tom Vanrevel always went to the office soon“after the morning distribu- tion of the mail; that is to say, about ten o'clock, and returned with the let- ters of the firm of Gray & Vanrev- el, both personal dnd official. Crailey and he shared everything, even a box at the postoffice; and in front of this box, one morning, ¢ fter a night of rain, Tom stood staring at a white envelope bearing a small, black seal. The ad- dress was in & writing he had never seen before, but the instant it fell under his eye he was struck with a distinctly pleasurable excitement. ‘Whether through some spiritual ex- halation of the writer fragrant on any missive, or because of a hundred mi- crescopip impressions, there are an- alysts who are able to select, from a pile of Jetters written by women (for the writing of women exhibits certain phenomena more determinably than that of men) those of the prettiest or otherwise most attractive. And out upon the lover who does not recognize his mistress’s hand at the first glimpse ever he has of it, without post mark or other information to aid him! Thus Vanrevel, ‘'worn, hollow-eyed, and sal- low, in the Rouen postoffice, held the one letter separate from a dozen (the latter not, indeed, from women), and stared at it until a little color came back to his dark skin and a great deal of brightness to his eye. He was no analyst of handwritings, yet it came to him instantly that this note was from a pretty woman. To see that it was from a woman was simple, but that he knew—and he did know—that she was pretty, savors of the occult. More than this; there was something about it that thrilled him. Suddenly, and without reason, he knew that it came from Elizabeth Carewe. He wa'ked back quickly to his office with the letter in the left pocket of his | coat, threw the bundle of general correspondence upon his desk, went up to the floor above, and paused at his own door to listen. Deep breathing from across the hall indicated that Mr. Gray’s soul was still encased in slum- ber, and great was its need, as Tom had found his partner, that morning at five, stretched upon the horse-hair sofa in the office, lamenting the emptiness of a bottle which had been filled with fiery Bourbon in the afterncon. Vanrevel went to his own room, locked the door, and took the letter from _his pocket. He held it between his fifigers carefully, as though it were alive and very fragile, and he looked at it a long time, holding it first in one hand, then in the other, before he opened it. At last, however, after ex- amining all the blades of his pocket- knife, he selected one brighter than the others, and loosened the flap of the en- velope as gently and carefully as if it had been the petal of a rosebud that he was opening. ’ “DEAR MR. VANREVEL: I believed you Mst night, though I did not under- stand. But I understand, now-—every- thing—and, bitter to me as the truth s, 1 must show you plainly that I know all of it, nor can I rest until I do show you. I want you, to answer this letter— though T milst not see you again for a long time—and in your answer you must set me right if I am anywhere mistaken hat 1 have learned. t first, and until after the second we met, 1 did not believe in your heart, though I did in your mind and humor. Even since the there have come strange, small, inexplicable mis- trustings of you, but now 1 throw them all away and trust you wholly, Monsieur Citizen Georges Meilhac! I shall always think of you in those impossible gar- ishments of my poor greatuncle, and I persuade myself that he must have been a little like “I trus story of time u. because I have heard the vour profound goodness. The first reason for my father's dislike was your belief in freedom as the right of all men. Ah, it is not your pretty exagge tions and flatteries (I laugh at them that speak for you, ‘but your career, self, and the brave things vou have done. Iy father's dislike flared into hatred be- ause you worsted him when 8 covered that he could not successfully defend the wrong against you and fell back upon sheer insult. “He is a man whom I do not know— strange as that seems as 1 write it. It is only to you, who have taught me so much, that T could write it. 1 have tried to know him and to realize that I am his daughter, but we are the coldest ac- quaintances, that is all; and I cannot see how a change could come. I do not un- derstand him; least of all do I under- stand why he is a gambler. It has been explained to me that it is his gr sion, but all I comprehend words is that they are full of s his daughter. ‘This is what was told me; me for he has al- vs played heavily and skillfully—ad ing_much to his estate in that w - in Rouen always with a cert which was joinéd, se th “Your devotion to Mr. G the most beautiful thing in know all that the town knows of that, except the thousand hidden sacrifices have made for him, those things ich no one will ever know. (And yet, you see, I know them after all!) For your sake, because you love him, I will not call him unworthy. “I have heard—from one who told un- willingly—the story of the night two years ago, when the play ran so terribly high; and how, in the mornng when they went away, all were poorer except one, their host—how Mr. Gray had nothing left in the world, and owed my father a great sum which was to be paid in twenty-four hours; how vou took every- thing you had saved in the years of hard work at your profession, and borrowed the rest on your word, and brought it to my father that afternoon; how, when you had paid your friend's debt, you asked my father not to play with Mr. Gray again: and my father made that his excuse to send ypu a challenge. You laughed st the challenge—and you could afford to laugh at it. “But this is all shame, shame for Robert Carewe's daughter. It seems to me that I should hide and not lift my head; that I, being of my father's blood, could never look you in the face again. It is so unspeakably painful and ugly. T think of my father's stiff pride and his look of the eagle— and he still plays with your friend, almost always ‘suc- cesefull: And your friend still comes t'; (v‘lay—bul I will not speak of that side of it. “Mr. Gray has made you poor, but I know it was not that which made you come geeking him last night. when I found you there in the hall. It was for his sake you came—and you went away for mine. Now that I know, at last— now that 1 have heard what your life has been (and oh I heard so much more than I have written)—now that my eyes have been opened to see you as you are, I am proud, and glad and humble that I can believe that you felt a friend- ship for me strong enough to have made you go ‘for my e’ You will write to me just once, won't you? and tell me if there was any error in what I listened to: but you must not come to the gar- den. Now that I know you, I cannot meet you ellnduth}ely again. It would hurt the dignity which I feel in you now, and my own poor dignity—such as it is! 1 have been earnestly warned of the danger to you. Besides, you must let me test myself. I am all fluttering and frightened and excited. You will obe; me, won't vou?—do not come until send for you. “ELIZABETH CAREWE.” Mr. Gray, occupied with his toilet about noon, heard his partner descend- ing to the office with a heavy step, and issued from his room to call a hearty greeting. Tom looked back over his shoulder and replied cheerily, though with a certain embarrassment; but v has been ur life. I Crailey, catching sight of his face, ut- tered a sharp ejaculation and came down to him. “Why, what's’ the matter, Tom? Ycu're not going to be sick? You look like the devil ana all!” “I'm all right, never fear!"” Tom laughed, evading the other’s eye. “I'm going out in the country on some busi- ness, and I dare say I shall not be back for a couple of days; it will be all up and down the country.” He down a travelling-bag he was carryi and offered the other his hand. ~by.” “Can’t I go for you? You don't look able—" d “No, no. It's something I'll have to attend to myself.” ““Ah, I suppose,” said Crailey, gently, “I suppose it's important, and you couldn’t trust me to handle it. Well— God knows you're right! I've shown you often enough how incompetent I am to do anything but write jingles!"” “You do some more of them—without the whisky, Crailey. They're worth more than all the lawing Gray & Vanrevel have ever done or ever will do. Good-by—and be kind to yourself.” He descended to the first landing, and then, “Oh, Cralley,” he called, with the air of having forgotten something he had meant to say. “Yes, Tom?" “This morning at the postoffice I found a letter addressed to, me. I opened it and—" He hesitated, and un- easily shifted his weight from one foot to the other, with a feeble, deprecatory laggh. “Yes, what of it?” ‘“Well—there seefned to be a mistake. I think it must have been meant for you. Somehow, she—she's picked up a good many wrong impressions, and, Lord knows how, but she’s mixed our names up and—and I've left the letter for you. It's on my table.” He turned and calling a final good- by over his shoulder, went clattering noisily down to the street and van- ished from Crailey’s sight. Noon found Tom far out on the Na- tional Road, creaking along over the yellow dust in a light wagon, between bordering forests that smelt spicily of wet underbrush and May apples; and, here and there, when they would emerge from the woods to cleared fields, liberally outlined by long snake fences of black walnut, the steady, jog-trot- ting old horse lifted his head ané looked intergsted in the world, but Tom never did either. Habitually upright, walk- ing or sitting, straight, Keen, and alert, that day’s sun saw him - drearily hunched over, mile after mile, his fore- head laced with llnes of pain. He stopped at every farm house and cabin, and, where the young men worked in the fields, hailed them fram the road, or hitched his horse to the fence and crossed the soft furrows to talk with them. At such times he stood erect again, and spoke stirringly, fitding eager listeners. There was one ques- tion they asked him over and over: “But are you, sure the call will come?” e “As sure as that we stand here; and it will come before the week is out. We must be ready!” Often, when he left them, they would turn from the work in hand, leaving it as it was, to lie unfinished in the fields, and make their way slowly and thoughtfully to their homes, while Tom climbed into his creaking little wagon once more, only to fall irto the me dull, hunched-over attitude. He had many things to think out before he faced Rouen and Crailey Gray again, and more to fight through to the end with himself. Three days he took for it, three days driving through the soft . May weather behind the kind, old jog- trotting horse; three days on the road, from farm house to farm house and from field-to field, from cabin of the woods to cabin in the clearing. Toss- ing unhappily at night, he lay sleepless till dawn, though not because of the hard beds; and when daylight came, Jjourneyed steadily on again, over the vagabond little hills that had gypsied it so far into the prairie-land in their wanderings from their range on the Ohio, and, passing the hills, went on through the flat forest land, always hunched over dismally in the creaking wagon. But on the evening of the third day he drove into town, with the stoop out of his shoulders and the luster back in his eyves. He was haggard, gray, dusty, but he had solved his puzzle, and one thing was clear in hie mind as the thing that he would do. He patted the old horse a hearty farewell as he left him with the liveryman from whom he had hired him, and strode up Main street with the air of a man who is going somewhere. It was late, but there were more lights than usual in the windows and more people on the streets. Boys ran shoutling, while, here and there, knots of men argued loudly, and in front of the little corner drug store ‘& noislly talkative, widely ges- ticulative crowd of fifty more had gathered. An old man, a cobbler, who had left a leg at Tippecanoe and re- placed it with a wooden one, chastely decorated with designs of his own carv- ing, came stumping excitedly down the middle of the street, where he walked for fear of the cracks in the wooden pavement, which were dangerous to his art deg when he came from the Rouen House bar, as on the present occasion. He hailed Tom by name. “You're the lad, Tom Vanrevel,” he shouted. “You're the man to lead the boys out for the glory of the State! You git the whole blame Fire Depart- ment out and enlict ’em before morn- ing! Take ’em dowr to the Rio Grande, you hear me? And you needn't be afraid of their puttin’ it out, if it ketches afire, neither!” Tom waved his hand and passed on; but at the open doors of the Catholic church he stopped and looked up and down the street, and then, unnoticed, entered to the Gim interior, where the few candles showed only a bent old woman in black kneeling at the aitar. Tom knew where Elizabeth Carewe knelt each morning; he stepped softly through the shadowy silence to her place, knelt, and rested his head upon the rail of the bench before him. The figure at the artar raised itself after a time, and the old woman limped slowly up a side aisle, mumbling her formulas, courtesying to the painted saints, on her way out. The very thin- est lingerings of incense hung on the air, seeming to Tom like the faint odor that might exhale from a heavy wreath of marguerites, worn in dark brown hafr. Yet, the place held nothing but peace and good-will. And he found nothing else in his own heart. The street was quiet when he emerged from that lorn vigil; the cor- ner groups had dissclved; shouting youths no longer patrolled the side- walks. Only one quarter showed signg of life; the little club house, where the windows still shone brightly, and whence came the sound of many voices settling the destinies of the United States of America. Thither Tom bent his steps thoughtfully, and with a quiet mind. There was a small veran- da at the side of the house: here he stood uncbserved to look in upon his noisy and agitated friends. They were all there, from the old gen- eral and Mr. Bareaud, to the latter's son, Jefferson, and young Frank Cheno- weth. They were gathered about a big table upon which stood a punch bowl, and Trumble, his brow as angry red as the liquor in the cup he held, was pro- posing a health to the President in a voice of fury. ) “In spite of all the Crailey Grays and traitors this side of heli!” he finished politely. Crailey emerged instantaneously from the general throng and mounted a chair, tossing his light hair, back from his forehead, his eyes sparkling and happy. “You find your own friends already occupying the place you men- tioned, do you, General?” he asked. | General Trumble stamped and shook his fist. “You're a spawn of Aaron Burr!” he vociferated. “There's not a man here to stand by your infernal doctrines. You sneer at your own State, you sneer at your own country, you de- file the sacred ground! What are you, by the Almighty, who attack your na- tive land in this, her hour of peril!" “Peril to my native land!” laughed Crailey. “From Santa Anna?” “The general's right, sir,” exclaimed the elder Chenoweth indignantly, and most of the listeners appeared to agree with him. “It's a poor time to abuse the President when he's called for vol- unteers and our country is in danger, sir!” “Who is in danger?” answered Crai- ley, lifting his hand to still the clamor of approbation that arose. “Is Polk In danger? Or Congress? But that would be too much to hope! Do you expect to. see the Greasers in Washington? No, you idiots, you don't! Yet there'll be plenty of men to suffer and die; and the first should be those who thrust this war on us and poor little Mexico: but it wop’'t be they; and men who'll do the fighting and dying will be the coun- try boys and the like of us from the towns, while Mr. Polk sits planning at the White House how he can get elected again. I wish Tom were here, confound you! You listen to him, because he al- ways has the facts and I'm just an em- broiderer, you think. What's become of the gaudy campalgn cry you were all wearing your lungs out with a few months ago? ‘Fifty-four-forty or fight!” Bah! Polk twisted the lion’s tail with that until after election. Then he saw he had to make you forget it, or fight England and be ruined, so he forces war on Mexjco, ‘and the country does forget it. t's it; he asks three regi- ments of volunteers from this State to die of fevers and 'get shot, so that he can steal another country and make his own elect him again. And you ask me to drink the health of the politician who sits at home and sends his fellow- men to die to fix his rotten jobs for him?” Crailey had persuaded himself into such earnestness, that the depth of his own feeling almost choked him, but he finished roundly in his beauti- ful, strong voice: “I'll 'drink for the good punch’s sake—but that health?— I'll see General Trumble in heaven be- fore I'll drink it!"” There arose at once a roar of anger and disapproval, and Cralley became a mere storm center amid the upraised hands gesticulating madly at him as he stood, smiling again, upon his chair. “This comes of living with Tom Van- revel!” shouted the general furiously. “This is his damned abolition teaching! You're only his echo; you spend half your life playing at belng Vanrevel!”, “Where is Vanrevel?” said Tapping- ham Marsh. “Ay, where is he!” raged Trumble, hammering the table till the glasses rang. “Let him come and answer for his own teaching; it's wasted time to talk to this one; he's only the pupil. ‘Where is the traitor?” “Here,” answered a voice from the doorway; and though the word was spoken quietly it was, nevertheless, at that juncture, silencing. Every one turned toward the door as Vanrevel entered. But the apoplectic general, whom Crailey’s speech had stirred to a fury beyond control, almost leaped at Tom’s throat. “Here's the tea-sipping old granny,” he bellowed hoarsely. (He was ordi- narily very fond of Tom.) “Here’'s the master! Here's the man whose example teaches Crailey Gray to throw mud at the flag. He'll stay here at home with Cralley, of course, and throw more, - while the other boys march out to die under it.” “On the contrary, General,” answered Tom, raising his voice, “I think you'll find Crailey Gray the first to enlist, and as for myself, I've raised sixty men in the ccounty, and I want forty more from Rouen, in order to offer the Gov- ernor a full company. So it's come to ‘the King, not the man’; Polk is a piti- ful trickster, but the country needs her sons; that's enough for us to know; and while I won't drink to James Polk""—he plunged a cup In the bowl and drew it out brimming— “I'll empty this to the President!" It was then that from fifty throats the long, wild shout went up that stirred Rouen, and woke the people from their midnight beds for half a mile around. CHAPTER XIV. THE FIRM OF GRAY & VANREVEL. For the first time it was Cralley who sat waiting for Tom to come home. In a qmlt drawn to his partner’s desk in the dusty office, he half-reclined, arms on the desk, his chin on his clenched fists. To redeem the gloom he had lit a single candle, which painted him dimly against the complete darkness of his own shadow, like a very old portrait whose background time has solidified into shapeless browns; the portrait of a fair-haired gentleman, the cava- lier, or the Marquis, one might have said at first glance; not describing it immediately as that of a poet, for there was no mark of art upon Crailey, not even in his hair, for they all wore it rather long then. Yet there was a mark upon him, never more vivid than as he sat waiting in the loneliness of that night for Tom Vanrevel; though what the mark was and what its sig- nificance might have been puzzling to define. Perhaps, after all, Fanchon Bareaud had described it best when she told Crailey one day, with a sudden hint, of apprehensive tears, that he had a “look of fate." Tom took his own time in coming; he had stayed at the club to go over his lists—so he had told Crailey—with the general and old Bareaud. His company was almost complete, and Crailey had been the first to volunteer, to the dumfounding of Trumble, who had proceeded to drink his health again and again. But the lists could not de- tain Tom two hours, Crailey knew, and it was two hours since the new volun- teers had sung the “Star-Spangled Banner” over the last of the punch, and had left the club to Tom and the two old men. Only once or twice in that time had Crailey shifted his posi- tion, or altered the direction of his set gaze at nothing. But at last he rose, went to the window and, leaning far out, looked down the street toward the little clubhouse. Its lights were extin- guished and all was dark up and down the street. Abruptly Crailey went back to the desk and blew cut the can- dle, after which he sat down again in the same position. Twenty minutes later he heard Tom's step on the stair, coming up very softly. Cralley waited In silence until his partner reached the landing, then he relit the candle. “Tom,” he called. ‘“Come in, please, T've been walting for you.” There was a pause before Tom an- swered from the hal “I'm very tired, Crailey. g0 up to bed.” “No,” sald Crailey, “come in.” The door was already open, but Tom turned toward’ it reluctantly. He stopped at the threshold and the two looked at each other. “I thought you wouldn’t come as long as you belleved I was up,” said Cralley, “so I blew out the light. I'm sorry I kept you outside so long.” “Crailey, I'm going away to-meor- row,” the other began. “I am te go over and see the Governor and offer him this company, and to-night I need sleep, so please—"" “No,” interrupted Crailey quietly, “I want to know what you are going to do.” “To do about what?"” “About me.” “Oh!” Tom's face fell at once from his friend's face and rested upon the floor. Slowly he walked to the desk and stood in embarrassed contempla- tion of the littered books and papers, while the other waited. “I think it is best for you to tell me,” sald Cralley. “You think so?’ Tom's embarrass- ment increased visibly, and there was mingled with it an odd appearance of apprehension, probably to relieve which he very deliberately took two long cheroots from his pocket. laid one on the desk for Crailey and lit the other himself, with extreme carefulness, at the candle. After this ceremonial he dragged a chair to the window, tilted back in it with his feet on the low sill, his back to the thin light and his friend, and said in a slow, gentle tone: “Well, Crailey?” “I suppose you mean that I ought to offer my explanation first,” sald the other, still standing. “Well, there isn’t any.” He did not speak doggedly or sullenly, as one in fault, but more with the air of a man curiously ready to throw all possible light upon a cloudy phenomenon. “It's very simple—all that I know about. I went there first on the evening of the Madrillon masquerade and played a little comedy for her, so that some of my theatrical allusions— they weren't very illuminating!—to my engagement to Fanchon, made her be- lieve I was Vanrevel when her father told her about the pair of us. I dis- covered that the night his warehouses burned—and 1 saw something more, because I can’t help seeing such things: that yours was just the character to appeal to a young girl fresh from the convent, and full of honesty and fine dreams and fire. Nobody could arrange a more fatal fascination for a girl of nineteen than to have a deadly quarrel with her father. And that's especially true when the father's like that mad I think I'll brute of a Bob Carewe! Then, to you're more or less the town model of virtue and popular hero, in spite of t abolitionism, just as I am the town scamp. So I let it go on, and played-a little at being’ you, saying the nas that you only think—that was all. It isn’t strange that it’s lasted until now. not more than three weeks, after all She's only seen you four or five times, and me not much oftener. No one speaks of you to her, and I've kept of sight when others were about. Mis. Tanberry is her only close friend, and naturally, wouldn’t be apt to mention that you are dark and I am fair, or to describe us personally, any more than you and I would mention the general appearance of people we both meet about town. But you needn’t tell me that it can't last much longer. Some petty, unexpected trifle will turn up, of course. All that I want to know Iis what you mean to do.” “To do?" repeated Tom softly, and blew a long scarf of smoke out of the window. “Ah!"” Crailey’s Voice grew sharp and loud. “There are many things you needn’t tell me! You need not tell me what I've done to you—nor what you think of me! You need not tell me that you have others to consider; that you have Miss Carewe to think of. Don’t you suppose I know that? And you need not tell me that you have a duty to Fanchon—"" “Yes,” Tom broke in, quite steady. ‘‘Yes, I've that.” “Well?” “Have you—did you—" he hesitated, but Crailey understood immediately. “No; I haven’t seen her again.” “But you—" “Yes—I wrote. ter.” [y — “Yes; I signed your name. I told you that I had just let things go on,” Cral- ley answered, with an impatient move- ment of his hands. “What are you go- ing to do?” “I'm going over ta see the Governor in the morning. I'll-be away two or three days, I imagine,” ‘“Vanrevel!” exclaimed Crailey hotly “Will you give me an answer and not beat about the bush any longer? Or do you mean that you refuse to an- swer?” Tom dropped his cigar upon the brick window-ledge with an abysmal sigh “Oh, mo, it isn't that,” he answered mildly. “T've been thinking it all over for three days in the country, and when I got back to-night I found that I had come to a decision without kne ing it. and that I had come to it even before I started; my leaving the letter for you proved it. It's a little l'ke th Mexican war, & mixed-up problem an only one thing clear. A few schem have led the country into it to in crease the slave power and make us forget that we thregtened England when we couldn’t carry out the threat. And yet if you look at it broadly, these are the smaller things and they do not last. The means by which the country grows may be wrong, but Its growth is right; it is only destiny, working out through lies and blood, but the end will be good. It is bound to happen and you can’t stop it. I believe the men who make this war for their own uses ‘will suffer in®hell fire for it; buteit is made, and there’s only one thing I can see as the thing for me to do. They've called me every name on earth—and the same with you, too, Crailey—because I'm an abolitionist, but now, whether the country has sinned or not, a good many thousand men have got to do the bleeding for her, and I want to be one of them. That's the one thing that is plain to me.” “Yes,” returned Crafley. “You know I'm with you; and I think You're al- ways right. Yes; we’ll all be on the way in a fortnight or so. Do you mean you won’t quarrel with me Pecause of that? Do you mean it would be a poor time now, when we're all going out to take our chances together?” “Quarrel with you!" Tom rose and came to the desk, looking across it at his friend. “Did you think I might do that?” “Yes—I thought so.” “Crafley!” And now Tom’s expression showed desperation; it was that of a man whose apprehensions have culmi- nated and who is forced to face a crisis long expected, long averted, but fmmi- nent at last. His eyes fell from Crai- ley’s clear gaze and his hand fidgeted among the papers on the desk. “No.,” he began with a painful lame- ness and hesitation. “I did not mean it—no; I meant, that, in the same way, only one thing in this other—this other affair that seems so confused and is such a problem—only one thing has grown clear. It doesn’t seem to me that—that—" here he drew a deep breath, before he went on with increas- ing nervousness—“that If you like a man’ and have lived with him a goed many years; that is to say, if you're really much of a friend to him, I don't believe you sit on a high seat and judge him. Judging, and all that, haven't much part in it. And it seems to me that you've got yourself into a pretty bad mix-up, Crailey.” “Yes,” said Cralley. bad.” “Well,” Tom looked up now, with an almost tremulous smile, “I belleve that is about all I can make of i{. Do you think it's the part of your best friend to expose you? It geems to me that if there ever was a time when I ought to stand by you, it's now.” There was a silence while they looked at each other across the desk in the faint light. Tom’s eyes fell again as Cralley opened his lips. “And in spite of everything,” Crailey said breathlessly, “you mean that you ‘won't tell?” “How coyld I, Crailey?” sajd Tom ‘Vanrevel as he turned away. his tone thought not of I answered the let- “I.'s pretty (Continued Next Sunday.)