The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 21, 1904, Page 4

it wid a mighty bad look 'bout de mouf. Den he gone up to de cupoly an’ lef’ it dah, an’ den come down ag'in. Whiles dey all is eatin’, he 'nounces th'ee time’ dat he goin’ be ‘way endu’in’ de evenin’. Den he gone out de front do’, an’ out de gates, an’ down de street. Den, suh, den, suh, ’tain’t no mo'n a half-’'n-"our ago, Nelse come to me an' say dat he see de boss come roun’ de stable, keepin’ close in by de shrubbery, an’ crope in de ball-room window, w'ich is close to de groun’, suh. Nelse 'uz a cleanin’ de harness in de back yo'd an’ he let on not to see him, like. Miss Betty, she walkin® in her gyahden an’ Miz Tanberry fan’ on de po'ch. Nelse, he slip inde house wHuh de lights ain’ lit, an’ stan’ an’ listen long time in de liberry at de foot er dem sta’hs; an’ he hyuh dat man move, suh! Den Nelse know dat he done crope up to de cupoly room an'—an’ dat he settin' dah, waitin’! Soze he come an’ tole me, an’ I beg Miz Tanberry come in de kitchen I shet de do’ an’ tole her. An’' she sended me hyuh to vou, suh. An’' if you 'uz a-goin’, de good God ‘lmighty er kep’ you ontel I got hyuh! “No; I wasn't going.” Tom smiled upon her, sadly. “I dare say there's a simpler explanation. Don’t you sup- pose that if Nelson was right and Mr. Carewe really did come back, it was because he did not wish his daughter and Mrs. Tanberry to know that—that he expected a party of friends, possibly, to join him there later?” “What he doiln’ wid dat gun, suh? Nobody goin' play cyahds ner frow dice wid a gun, is dey?” asked Mamie, as she rose and walked toward the door. “‘Oh, that was probably by chance.” “No, suh!” she cried, vehemently. “An’ dem gelmun wouldn’ play t'-night, no way; mos’ on 'em goin’ wid you to- morrer an’ dey sayin’ good-by to de'r folks dis evenin’, not gamblin’! Miz Tanberry “ll be in a state er mine ontel she hyuh f'um me, an’ I goin' hurry back. You won’ come dah, suh? I kin tell her dat you say you sutney ain’ comin’ nigh our neighborhood dis night?” “I had not dreamed of coming, her, please. Probably I shall not out at all this evening. But it kind of you to come. Good-night He stood with a candle to light her tell go was down the stairs, but ter she had gone he did not return to the office. Instea went slowly up to h roor ncing of neithe ften locked—to behold a chaos of disorder and unfi ished packing. In his own chamber it only remained for him to close the lids of a few big boxes, and to pack a small trunk wh nt to take with him to the ca e State troops, and he would be ; for departure. He set about , concluding that there was no necessity to wear his uni- form on the amboat. ~decided to ple the trunk, and went to the bed where he had fol and left it. It was not there. Nor did a thorough search reveal it anywhere in the room. no one could have stolen it, for heé had gone down to the office iley had remained on this floor amie had come within a few minutes after Crailey went out, and during his conversation with her the office door X been open: no one could have d without being seen. Also, a f would have taken other things well as the uniform; and surely C: It wust have heard; Crailey would— n Tom remembered the figure in e long cloak and the military cap, nd, with a sick heart, began to under- d. He had read the Journal, and he knew why Crailey might wish to masquerade -in 2 major’s uniform that night. If Miss Carewe read it too, and stran in her mind, and a word would convince her. »m considered it improbable that the wonder would rise, for circumstances had too well established her in a mis- take, tri 1 and ordinary enough at rst, merely the confusing of two names by a girl new to the town, but so strengthened by every confirmation Crailey’s wit could compass that she would, no doubt, only set Cummings’ paragr: aside as a newspaper error. Still, Crailey had wished to be on the safe side! Tom sighed rather bitterly. He was convinced that the mnarlequin would come home soon, replace the uniform (which was probably extremely becom- ing to him, as they were of a height and figure much the same), and after- ward, in his ordinary dress, would sally forth to spend his last evening with Fanchon. Tom wondered how Crailey would feel and what he would think about himself while he was changing his clothes; but he remem- bered his partner’s extraordinary pow- ers of menfal adjustment—and for the first time in his life Vanrevel made no allowance for the other's temperament; and there came to him a moment when he felt that he could almost dis- like Crailey Gray. At all events, he would go out until Crailey Had come and left again; for he had no desire to behold the masquer- -ader's return. So he exchanged his dressing-gown for a coat, fastened his collar, and had begun to arrange his cravat at the mirror, when, suddenly, the voice of the old negress seemed to sound close beside him in the room: “He's settin’ dah—waitin’!" The cravat was never tied; Tom's hands dropped to his sides as he started back from the staring face in the mirror. Robert Carewe was wait- ing—and Crailey—— All at once there was but one vital necessity in the world for Tom Vanrevel, that was to find Crailey; he must go to Crailey— even in Carewe's own house—he muyst g0 to Crailey! He dashed down the stairs and into the street. The people were making a great uproar in front of the hotel, ex- ploding bombs, firing muskets in the air, sending up rockets; and rapidly wonder rose crossing the outskirts of the crowd, he passed into Carewe street, unnoticed. Here the detonations were not so deaf- ening, though the little steamboat at the wharf was contfibuting to the con- fusion with all her power, screeching simultaneously approval of the cele- bration and her last signals of depart- ure. At the first corner Tom had no more than left the sidewalk when he came within a foot of being ridden down by two horsemen who rode at so desper- ate a gallop that (the sdund of their hoof-beats being lost in the uproar from Main street) they were upon him before he was aware of them. . He leaped back with an angry shout to know who they were that they rode so wildly. At the same time a sharp explosion at the foot of the street sent a red flare over the scene, a flash, gone with such incredible swiftness. intq re- newed darkness that he saw the flying horsemen almost as equestrian statues illumined by a flicker of lightning, but he saw them with the same distinct- ness that lightning gives, an@ recog- nized the foremost as Robert Carewe, And in the instant of that recognition, Tom knew what had happened to Crai- ley Gray, for he saw the truth in the ghastly face of his enemy. Carewe rode stiffly, like a man frozen upon his horse, and his face was like that of a frozen man; his eves glassy and not-fixed upon his course, se that it was a deathly thing to see. Once, long ago, Tom had seen a man riding for his life, and he wore this same look. The animal bounded and swerved un- der Vanrevel's ememy in the mad rush down the street, but he sat rigid, bolt upright in the saddle, his face set to that look of coldness. The second rider was old Nelson, who rode with body crouched forward, his eyeballs like shining porcelain set in ebony, and his arm like a flail, cruelly lashing his own horse and his master’'s with a heavy whip. “De steamboat!” he shouted. hoarse- ly, bringing down the lash on one and then on the other. “De steamboat, de steamboat—fo' God's sake, honey, de steamboat They swept into Main street, Nelson leaning far across to the other's bridle, and turning both horses toward the river, but before they had made the corner, Tom Vanrevel was. running with all the speed that was in him to- ward his enemy’s house. The one block between him and that forbidden ground seemed to him miles long, and he felt that he was running as a man in a dream, and, at the highest pitch of agonized exertion, covering no space but only working the air in one place, like a treadmill. All that was in his mind, heart and soul was to reach Crailey. He had known by the revela- tion of Carewe's face in what case he wouid find his friend; but as he ran he put the knowledge from him with a great shudder, and re »d upon in- credulity in spite of hi Al he let himself feel was the need to run, to run until he found Crailey, who was somewhere in the darkness of the trees about the long, low house on the cor- ner. When he reached the bordering hedge, he did not stay for gate or.path, but. with a loud shout, hurled himself half over; half through, the hedge, like a bolt from a catapuit. Lights shone from only one rcom in the house, the library; but as he ran toward the porch a candle flickered in the hall, and there came the sound of a voice weeping with terror. At that he called more desperately upon his credulity to aid him, for the voice was Mrs. Tanberry’: If it had been any other than she, who sobbed sc hopelessly—she who was always steady and strong! If he could, he would have stopped to pray, now, before he faced her and the truth; but his flying feet carried him on. “Who is it?” she gasped, from the hall. “Mamie? brought him?” brokenly, Have you “It's 1" he cried, as he plunged through the doorway. “It's Vanrevel.” Mrs. Tanberry set the iron candle- stick down upon the table with a crash. “You've come too late!” she sobbed. “Another man has taken your death on himself.” , He reeled back against the wall. “Oh, “Oh, God, God, God! she answered. “It's the poor vagabond that you loved so well.” Together they ran through the hall to the library. Crailey was lying on the sofa, his eyes closed, his head like a piece of carven marble, the gay uni- form, in which he had tricked himself out so gallantly, open at the throat, and his white linen stained with a few little splotches of red. Beside him knelt Miss Betty, holding her lace handkerchief upon his breast; she was as white as he, and as mo- tionless; so that, as she knelt there, im- movable beside him, her arm like ala- baster across his breast, they might have been a sculptor’s group. The handkerchief was stained a little, like the linen, and like it. too, stained but a little. Near by, on the floor, stood a flask of brandy and a pitcher of water. “You!”. Miss Betty’s face showed no change, nor even a faint surprise, as her eyes fell upon Tom Vanrevel, but her lips soundlessly framed the word. “You!” Tom flung himself on his knees be- side her, “Crailey!” he cried in a sharp voice that had a terrible shake in it. “Crai- ley! Crailey, I want you to hear me!” He took one of the limp hands in his and began to chafe it, while Mrs. Tan- berry grasped the other. “There's still a movement pulse,” she faltered. “Still!"” echoed Tom, roughly. “You're mad! You made me think Crailey was dead! Do you think Crailey Gray is going to die? He couldn't, I tell you— he couldn’t; you don’'t know him! Who's gone for the doctor?” He dashed some brandy upon his handker- chief and set it to the white lips. “Mamie. She was here in the room with me when it happened.” . in the ‘“ ‘Happened’! ‘Happened’!” mocked her, furiously. *“ ‘Happened’ is a beautiful word!” ‘ “God forgive me!” sobbed M}s. Tan- berry. “I was sitting in the library, and Mamie had just come from you, when we heard Mr. Carewe shout from the cupola room: ‘Stand away from my daughter, Vanrevel, and take this like a deg!" Only that—and Mamie and 1 ran to the window, and we saw through the dusk a man in uniform leap back from Miss Betty—they were in that lit- tle space near the hedge. He called out something and waved his hand, but the shot came at the same time, and he fell. Even then I was sure, in spite of what Mamie had said, I was as sure as Rbbert Carewe was that it was you. He came and took one look—and saw— and then Nelson brought the horses and made him mount and go. Mamie ran for the doctor, and Betty and I carried Crailey in. It was hard work.” Miss Betty’s hand had fallen from Crailey’s breast where Tom’s took its place. She rose unsteadily to her feet and pushed back the hair from her forehead, shivefing convulsively as she locked down at the motionless figure on the sofa. “Crailey!” said Tom, angry, shaking voice. ‘‘Crailey, you've got to rouse yourself! This won't do; you've got to+be a man! Crailey!” He was trying to force the brandy through the tightly clenched teeth. . ‘‘Crailey!” “Crailey!” whispered Miss Betty, leaning heavily on the back of a chair. “Crailey?"” It was then that Crailey’s eyelids fluttered and slowly opened; and his wandering glance, dull at first, slowly grew clear and twinkling as it rested on the ashy, stricken face of his best friend. s “Tom,” he said, feebly, “it was worth the price to wear your clothes just once!”! And then, at last, Miss Betty saw and understood. For not the honest gentle- man, whom every one except Robert Carewe held in esteem and affection, not her father's enemy, Vanrevel, lay before her with the death wound in his breast for her sake, but that other— Crailey Gray, the ne’er-do-weel and light-o'-love, Crailey Gray, wit, poet and "scapegrace, the well-beloved town scamp. - ' He saw that she knew, nm{, as his brightening eyes wandered up to her, he smiled faintly. “Even a bad dog likes to have his day,” he whispered. CHAPTER XIX. he in the same Will Cummings had abandoned the pen for the swoml until such time as Santa Anna should cry for quarter, and had left the office in charge of an im- ported substitute; but late that night he came to his,desk once more, to write the story of the accident to Corporal Gra and the tale that he wrote had been already put into writing by Tom Vanrevel as it fell from Crailey’s lips, after the doctor had come,:§o that none might doubt it. No one did doubt it. 'What reascn had Mr. Carewe to injure Crailey Gray? Only five in Rouen Knew the truth; for Nelson had gone, With this master. and, éxcept Ma- mie, the other servants of the Carewe household 'had been among the crowd in front of the Rouen House when the shot was fired the ster went over the town; how ey had called to say good-by to rs. Tanberry; how Mr. Carewe hap- ed to be examining the musket his father had carried in 1812, when the weapon was accidentally discharged, the ball entering Crailey's breast; how Mr. Carewe, stricken with remorse and horror over this frightful misfortune. and suffering too severe anguish of mind to remain upon the scene of the tragedy which his carelessness had made, had fled, attended by his servant; and how they had leaped aboard the evening boat as it was pulling out, and were on their way down the river. And this was the story, too, tnat Tom told Fanchon; for it was he who brought her to Crailey. Through the long night she knelt at Crailey’s side, his hand always pressed to her breast or cheek, her eyes-always upward, and her lips moving ‘with her prayers, not for Crailey to be spared, but that the Father would take good care of him in heaven till she came. *“I had already given him up,” she said to Tom, meek- Yy, in a small voice. “I knew it was to come, and perhaps this way is better than that—I thought it would be far ay from me. Now I can be with him, and perhaps I shall have him a little longer, for he was to have gone away before noon."” The morning sun rose upon a fair world, gay with bird-chatterings from the big trees of the Carewe place, and pleasant with the odors of Miss Betty’s garden, and Crailey, lying upon the bed of the man who had shot him, hark- ened and smiled good-by to the summer he loved; and, when th§ day broke, asked that the bed be moved so that he might lie close to the window. It was Tom who had borne him to that room. “I have carried him before this,” he said, waving the others aside. Not long after sunrise, when the bed had been moved near the window, Crailey begged Fanchon to bring him a miniature of his mother which he had given her, and urged her to go for it herself; he wanted no hands but hers to touch it, he said. And when she had gone he asked to be left alone with Tom. “Give me your hand, Tom,” he said, faintly. ‘T'd like to keep hold of it a minute or so. I couldn’t have said that yesterday, could 1, without causing us both horrible embarrassment? But I fancy I can now, because I'm done for. That’'s too bad, isn't it? I'th very young, after all. Do you remember what poor Andre Chenier said as he ‘went up to be g\llllotlned?—".rhgre ‘were things in this head of mine!’” But I want to tell you what's been the mat- ter with me, It was just my being a bad sort of poet. I suppose that I've never loved any one; yet I've cared mare deeply than other men for every lovely thing I ever saw, and there’s so little that hasn't loveliness in it. I'd be ashamed not to have cared for the beauty in all women I've made love to —but about this one—the most beauti- ful of all—I—" ~ “She will understand!” said Tom. quickly. 2 S “She will—yes—she’'s wise and good. If Fanchon knew, there wouldn't be even a memory left to her—and I don’t think she’d live. And do you know, I ‘believe I've done a favor for Miss Betty in getting myself shot; Carewe will never come back. Tom, was ever a man’s.knavery so exactly the architect of his own destruction as miney And for what gain? Just the excitement of the comedy from day to day!—fér- she was sure to despise me as soon as she knew—and the desire to hear her voice say another kindly thing to me— and the everlasting perhaps in every woman, and this one the Heart's De- sire of the world! Ah, well! Tell me— I want to hear it from you—how many hours does the doctor say?” “Hours, Crailey?” Tom’'s hand twitched pitifully in the other’s feeble grasp. ~ ' “I know it’s only a few.” . “They’re all fools, doctors!” exclaim- ed Vanrevel, fiercely. \ “No, no. And I know that nothing can be done. You all see it, and you want me to go easily—or you wouldn’'t let me have my own way so much! Tt frightens me, I own up,-to think that so soon I'll be wiser than the wisest' in the world. Yet I always wanted to know. I've sought and I've sought— but now to go out alone on the search— it must be the search, for the Holy Grail—I—" . “Pleage don't talk,” begged Tom, in a broken whisper. “For mercy’s sake, lad. It wears on you so.” Crailey laughed weakly. Do you think I could die peacefully without talking a great deal?” After a little while, he closed his eyes with a sigh; the dactor bent over him quickly, and Miss Betty started for- ward unconsciously and cried out. But the bright eyes opened again and fixed themselves upon her with all their old gay inscrutability. “Not yet,” said Crailey. “Miss Ca- rewe, may I tell you that I am sorry 1 could not have known you sooner? Perhaps you might have liked me for Fanchon’s sake—I know you care for her.” “I do—I do!" she faltered. “I love her, and—ah!—I do like you, Mr. Gray, for I know you, though I never—met you until—last night. God bless you— God bless you!™ She wavered a moment, like a lily in the wing, and put out a hand blindly. “Not you!"” she said sharply, as Tom Vanrevel started toward her. Mrs. Tanberry came quickly and put an arm about her, and together they went out of thé recom. .“You must be good to her, Tom,” said Crailey then, in a very low voice. “I!"” answered Tom, gently. “‘There was never a chance of that, lad.” “Listen ” whispered Crailey. “Lean down—no—closer.” He cast a quick glance at Fanchon, kneeling at the other side of the bed, her golden head on the white coveriet, her cutstretched hand clutching his; and he spoke so close to Tom’s ear and in so low a tone that only Tom could hear. “She never cared for me. She felt that she ought to—but that was only because 1 masqueraded in your history. She wanted t¢ tell me before I went away that there was no chance for we. She was telling me that, when he called from the window. It was at the dance, the night before, that she knmew. I think there has been some one else from the first—God send it's you! Did you speak to her that night or she to you?” “Ah, no,” said Tom Vanrevel. the others.” Mrs. Tanberry and Betty and Mr. Ba- reaud waited in the library, the two wemen huddled together on a sofa, with their arms around each other and all the house was very still. The warm day beyond the window became like Sunday, no voices sounded from without in the noon hush, though sometimes a little group of people would gather across the street to eye the house curiously and nod and whis- per. The strong, blue shadows of the veranda pillars stole slowly across the white floor of the porch in a lessening slant, and finally lay in a line as the tall clock in a corner of the library asthmatically coughed the hour of noon. In this jarring discordance there was something frightful to Miss Betty. She rose abruptly, and, imperi- ously waving back Mrs. Tanberry, who would have detained her—for there was in her face and manner the incip- ient wildness of control overstrained to the breaking-point—she went hur- riedly out of the room and out of the house, to the old bench in the garden. There she sank down, her face hidden in her arms; there on the spot where she had first seen Crailey Gray. From there, too, had risen the sere- nade of the man she had spurned and insulted; and there she had come to worship the stars when Crailey bade her look to them. And now the strange young teacher was paying the bitter price for his fooleries—and who could doubt that the price was a bitter one? To have the spirit so suddenly, cruelly riven from the sprightly body that was but a few hours ago hale and. alert, obedient to every petty wish, could dance, run and leap; to be forced with such hideous precipitation to leave the warm breath of June and un- dergo the lonely change, merging with the shadow; to be flung from the ex- quisite and commonplace day of sun- shine into the appalling adventure that should not have been his for years- and hurled into it by what hand!—ah, bitter, bitter price for a harlequinade! And, alas, alas! for the brave harle- quin! A gentle touch fell upon her shoul- der, and Miss Betty spraug to her feet and screamed. It was Nelson who “All stood before her, hat in hand, his head deeply bowed. “Is he with you?” she cried, clutch- ing at the bench for support. “No'm,” answered the old man. hum- bly. “I reckon we all ain’ goin’ see dat man no mo'.” ‘Where is he?” “‘On de way, honey, on de way.” “The way—to Rouen!"” she gasped. “No'm; he goin’ cross de big water.” He stretched out his hand and pointed solemnly to the east. “Him an’ me cotch de boat, an’ yo’ pa mek ‘em taken de hosses on bode. Den we git off at Leeville, five mile’ down de rivuh, an’ yo' pa hol' de boat while I rid back alone an’ git de news, an’ what de tale is you all is tole, f'um ole Mist' Chen- ’eth; an' Mist’ Chen’eth, he rid back wid me an’ see yo’' pa at Leeville, an’ dey talk in de shed by de landin’, an’ yo' pa tell Mist’ Chen'eth what 'range- ments he goin’ make wid de property. 'Den he git on de boat ag’in an’ dey sto’t her agoin’; an’ he ain’ wave no good-by, ner say no mo’ wu'ds. Mist® Chen’eth rid back whens de light come; but I res’ de hosses an’ come back slow, ‘case I ponduh on de worl’, an’ I mighty sorry fer yo’ pa, Missy. He ain’ comin’ back no mo’, honey, an’ Miz Tanberry an’ me an’ Mamie, we goin’ take keer er you. Yo' pa gone back dah tode F'enchmun, whuh he 'uz a young man. He mighty sick, an’ he scairt, honey; an’ he ain’t goin’ git ovah dat, neider. 'Peah to me, Missy, like he done had a vizhum er he own soul, when he come an’ look down at dat young man liyin’ on de grass, las’ night!” Miss Betty threw herself upon the bench again, face downward in her arms. And still the house lay in si- lence under the sunshine. An hour had passed, and the shadows slanted strongly to the east, when the stillness was broken by a sound, low and small at first, then rising fearfully, a long, quavering wail of suprgme an- guish that clutched and shook the lis- tener’s heart. No one could have re- cognized the voice as Fanchon's, yet everyone who heard it knew that it was hers; and that the soul of Cariley Gray had gone out upon the quest for the Holy Grail Miss Betty’s hands clenched convul- sively round the arm of the bench and a fit of shuddering seized her as if with the grip of a violent chill, though "her eyes were dry. Then she lay quiet. A long time afterwward, she became aware of a step that paced the garden path ind her, and turned her face upon Her arm sv that she saw, but made no other motion. It was Tom Vanrevel, walking slowly up and down, his hands behind his back and his hat pulled down over his eves. He had not seen her. She rose and spoke his name. He turned and came to he Almost at the very last,” he sai whispered to me that he thought him a great scamp, but to tell you to be sure to remember that it was all true about the stars.” CHAPTER “GOOD-BY. It was between light, and candl light, the hal kind old Sand Man st hour gentle g s up the stairs when of houses where childr rustic lovers stroll with slow and quiet steps down country lanes, and old bach- elors are loneliest and dream of the things that might have been. Through the silence of the clear dusk came the whistle of the evening boat that was to bear Tom Vanrevel through the first stage of his long journey to the front of war, and the sound fell cheerlessly upon Miss Betty’s ear, as she stood leaning against the sun dial among the lilac bushes. Her attitude was not cne of reyerie; yet she stood very still, so still that, in the wan shimmer of the faded afterglow, one might have passed close by her and not have seen her. The long, dark folds of her gown showed faintly against the gray stone, and her arms, bare from the elbow, lay across the face of the dial with unre- laxed fingers clenching the cornice; her head drooping, not languidly but with tension, her eyes half closed, showing the lashes against a pale ¢heek; and thus, motionless, leaning on the. stone In the dusk, she might have been Sor- row's self. She did not move, there was not even a flicker of the eyelashes, when a step sounded on the gravel of the driveway, and Vanrevel came slowly from the house. He stopped at a little distance from her, hat in hand. He was very thin, worn and old-looking, and in the failing light might have been taken for a tall, gentle ghost; yet his shoulders weére squared and he held himself as straight as he had the first time she had ever seen him. “Mrs. Tanberry told me I should find you here,” he said, hesitatingly. “I have come to say good-by.” She did not turn toward him, nor did more than her lips move as she an- swered, “Good-by,” and her tone was neither kind nor ‘cold, but held no meaning whatever, not even indiffer- ence. There was an interval of silence; then; without surprise, he walked sad- ly to the gate, paused, wheeled about suddenly, and returned with a quick, firm step. “I will not go until T know that I do not misunderstand you,” he said, “not even if there is only the ‘slightest chance that I do. I want to say some- thing to you, if you will let me, though naturally I remember you once asked me never to speak to you again. It is only that I have thought you did that under a misconception, or else I should still obey you. If you—" “What is it that you wish to say?” Her tone was unchanged. “Only that I think the hardest time for you has passed, and that—" “Do you?" she interrupted. “Yes,” he returned, “the saddest of your life. I think it has gone forever. And I think that what will come to you en are; will be all you wish for. There will be a little time of waiting—" “Waiting for what?” He drew a step nearer, and his voice became very gentle. ‘“‘Cummings and I reach our regiment to-morrow night; and there in the camp is a group of men on the way to the war, and-they all go the mcre bravely because each one of them has you in his heart—not one but will be a better soldier because of you. 1 want you to belleve that if all of them don’t come back. yet the ome whose safety you think of and fear for will re- turn. For, you see, Crailey tcid me what you said to him when—when he met you here the last time. I have no way to kmow which of them you meant; but—he will come back to you! I am sure of it, because I believe you are to be happy. Ah, you've had your allot- ment of pain! After all, there is so lit- tle to regret; the town seems emply without its young men, yet you may re- H joice, remembering how bravely they went and how gayly! They will sing half the way to Vera Cruz! You think it strange I should say there is so lit- tle to regret, when I've just laid away my best friend. It was his own doc- trine, and the selfish personal grief and soreness grows less when I think of the gallant end he made, for it was he who went away most bravely and jauntily of all. Crailey was no failure, unless I let what he taught me go to no effect. And be sure he would have told you what I tell you now, that all is well with all in the world.” “Please!"” she cried, with a quick in- take of breath through closed teeth. “I will do anything in the world to please you,” he answered, sorrowfully. “Do you mean that—" She turned at last and faced him, but without lifting her eyes. “Why did you come to say good-by to me?” “I don’t understand.” “I think you do.” Her voice was cold and steady, but it was suddenly given to him to perceive that she was trem- bling from head to heel. An exclamation of remorse broke from him. “Ah! You came here to be alone. I—" “Stop,” she said. “You said good-by to me once before. Did you come to see—what you saw then?” He fell back in utter amazement, but A she advanced upon him swiftly. “Was it that?” she cried. The unfortunate young man eould make no reply. and remained unable to defend himself from her inexplicable attack. ou have not forgotten,” she went on. impetuot It was in the crowd, just before they gave you the flag. You saw—I know you saw—and it killed me with the shame of it! Now you come to me to look at the same thing again— and the boat waiting y Is it in revenge for that night at the Ba- ds’? Perhaps this souwds wild to you—I can't help that—but why should you try to make it harder for me?” From the porch came a strong voice: “Vanrevel!” “God knows I haven’t said Tom, in bitter pain. “I don’t un- derstand. It's Cummings calling for me: I'll go at once. 1'd hoped, stupid- ly enough, that you would tell me whom it was you meant when you spoke to Crailey, so that I could help to make it surer that he’s come back to vou. But I've only annoyed you.,k And you were here—away from the house— avoiding me, and fearing that I—" “Vanrevel!” shouted William. (Mrs. Tanberry had not told Lieutenant Cummings where to find Miss Betty.) “Fearing? Yes?" “Fearing that I might discover you.” He let his eyes rest on her loveliness once more, and as he saw that she still trembled, he extended his hand toward her in a gesture of inflnite gentleness, like a blessing, heaved one great sigh, and, with head erect and body straight, set his face manfully toward the house. He had taken three strides when his ‘heart stopped beating at an ineffable touch on his sleeve. For, with a sharp cry, she sprang to him; and then, once more, among the lilac bushes where he had caught the white kitten, his hand was seized and held between two small palms, and the eyes of Miss Betty Ca- rewe looked into the very soul of him. “No!” she cried. “No! Fearing with a sick-heart that you might not come!" Her pale face, misty with sweetness, wavered before him in the dusk, and he lifted his shaking hand to his forehead; her own went with it, and the touch of that steadied him, “You mean,” he whispered, brokenly, “you mean that you—"" “Yes, always,” she answered, rush- ing through the words. half in tears. ‘“There was a little time when I loved what your life had been more than you. Ah, it was you that I saw in him. Yet it was not what you had done after all, but just you! I knew there could not be anyone else—though I thought it could never be you—that night, just before they gave the flag.” “We've little time, Vanrevel!™ called the woice from the porch. Torlt's eyes filled slowly. meant to,” He raised them and looked at the newly come stars. “Crailey, Crailey!” he mur- mured. Her gaze followed his. Ah, it's he— and they—that make me know you will come back to me!" she said. THE END. —— ‘Wateh for Geraldine Bonner's Wonderfully Dramatie California Novel “To-Morrow’s Tangle™ Begins in Next Sunday Call.