The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 3, 1904, Page 2

TO-MO —F “QUEEN OF | QUELPARTE” Next Sunday Call;\ 4+ 4 5 ER words inflamed his rage, not against , but against , who had had her in this 1 in his very arms and had “And was it only a desire for conso- n hy that made ave t in what was ha —"" he paused as if hesitating for a word that would in a seemly manner express his thought, in reality racking for the one that would hurt hardly a maidenly way con- g€ your lack of interest in me?" rd he had chosen told. Her sank suddenly away, leaving her pale. Her face seemed to stiffen and lose its youthful curves. T don’t think,” she sald slowly, at jt's necessary to continue this versation. It doesn’t seem to me to be very profitable to anybody.” looked &t him, but he made no movement You will have to excuse me, Mr. Essex,” she saild, moving toward the door, “but if you won't go I must.” The expected had happened. He sprang before her and locked the door. Leaning his back against it, he stared at her. Both were now very pale, ©0,” he said, hearing his own voice shaken by his rapid breathing, “you're t going. I've not said half I came to 3 I've not come to-day to plead and ke a beggar for the love that u're ready to give one day and take k the next. I've other things to talk about.” Open the door,” she commanded: rpen the door and let me out. I want to hear nothing that you have to say.” “Don’t you want to hear who you " he asked. e words passed through Mariposa like a current of electricity. Every nerve in her body seemed to tighten. looked at him, staring and repeat- She sue are “Hear who I am?” Yes he sald, leaning toward her while one hand still gripped the door- andle; “hear what your real name is, e? Hear who your as and where you were born?" blanched under his eyes. him, suggesting as wveakness and fear that would 1im back his old ascendency. Hor- nvaded her. He, of ali people on know! She could say nothing; hardly think: only seemed a my father was!” she re- e almost in & whisper. I can tell you all that, and too. I've got 2 wonderfully in- story for Yowll not when I begin. Sit down.” you know? Tell me quick- patient. It's a long the Nevada desert. were born; not in the as I heard ling Jake Shackleton that day Willers".” as ng her 4 tiger, standing with his back against the Her eyes were on } , wild and Each word fell a drop of rain that he everything Your mother was Lucy Fraser, but vour father was not Dan Mor He a very different man, and you were est child, his eldest and only ¢ child. Do you know what his » said Mariposa Shackleton.” he saw “Yes in a low voice; x's turn to be amazed. t her, speechless, com- he cried, starting d toward her; “you know J “Yes,” she answered; “I know it. He stood glaring, trying to collect his senses and grasp in one whirling mo- ment what difference her knowledge ke to him. ‘How—how—did you know {t?” stammered. . “That's not of any consequence. I now that 1 am Jake Shackjeton's eld- t living child; that my mother was married twice; that I was born in the desert instead of in Eildorado County. I know it all. And what is there so odd about that?” She threw her head up and Jooked with bafling coldness into his eyes. “Why shouldn't I know my own parentage and birthplace?” “And—and—" he continued to speak with eager unsteadiness—“you've done nothing yet?” “Done nothing yet,” “what should I do? “That's all right,” he said hastily, evi- dently relieved; “you couldn’t do any- thing alone. There must be some one to help you.” “Help me do what?” Both had forgotten the quarrel, the locked door, the fever pitch of ten min- utes earlier. All other thoughts had been crowded out of Mariposa's mind by the horrible discovery of Essex’'s knowledge, and by the apprehensions that were cold in her heart. She shrank from him more than ever, but had no desire now to leave the room. Instead, she persisted in her remark: “Help me do ~hat? I don’t know what you mean.” “Help you in establishing your claim. And fate has put into my hands the wvery person, the one person who can do that. You know there was a man who was in the cabin with Moreau—a part- ner. Did you ever hear of him?” She nodded, swallowing dryly. Her sense of apprehension strengthened with his every word. “Well, I have that man under my “You know it?” he she repeated; hand. He and Mrs. Shackleton are the only living witnesses of the transaction whereby your mother and you passed imn Moreau's keeping. And I have him. I've got him here.” He made a gesture with his thumb as though pressing the ball of it down on some- thing. Then he looked at Mariposa with eyes full of an eager cupidity. She did not respond with the show of interest he had expected, but stood looking down, pale and motionless. Her brain was in an appalled chaos from which stood out only a few facts: This terrible man knew her secret—the secret of her mother’s life and honor— that she would have died to hide in the sacredness of her luove for the dead man and woman who could no longer de- fend themselves. y “It seems as if fate had sent me to help you,” he went on; ‘you comidn’'t do it alone.” “Do what?" she asked without mov- tablish your claim as the real Of course you're the chief heir. been looking it up. The others will get a share as acknowledged children. But you ought to get. the bulk of the fortune as the only legitimate child.” “Establish my claim?" she repeated. “Do you mean, prove that I'm Jake Shackleton's daughter “Yes. And there's tremendously important point. Did ycur mother have papers or letters showing that she had been Shackleton’s wife?"” “She left her marriage certificate,” she said dully, hardly conscious of her worgs. “I have it.” “Here?—by you?” osity. “Yes; upstairs—in my little desk.” “Ah,” he said, with almost a laugh of relief. “That settles it. You with the certificate and I with Harney! Why, we've got them.” - “We?" ghe said, loeking up as though waking. “We?"” “Yes; we,” he answered. He had ccme close to her and, stand- ing at her side, bent his head in order to look more directly into her face. “This ought to put-an end, dear, to your objectior he said gently; "you can’t do it alone. No woman could, much less one bike you—young, inex- perienced, ignorant Oof the world. You've got no idea what a big con- test like this means. There must be a man to help you, and I must be that man, Mariposa. We can marry quietly as soon as-you are ready. It would be better not to make any move u,:lil after that, as it would be much easier for me to conduct the campaign as your h band than as your fiance. I'd take the whole thing off your shoulders. You'd have almost nothing to do, except’ be certain of your memo:ies and dates, and I'd see to it -that you were letter perfect in that when the time came. I'd stand between you and everything that was dispgrecable.” He took her which for the ment was passive in his. “When will it be?" he sald, givieg it gentle squeeze; ‘“‘when She tore her hand aw “Why, you're cra “There’ll never be any of it. with quick curi- mo- she cried. Never be any claim made or contest, or anything. that you talk of. You want me to make money out of my mother’s story that was a tragedy—that I can hardly think of myself! - Oh!—" -She turned around, speechless, and put her harnd to her mouth. She thought of her dying mother, and f for that smitten soul, so deeply ed, so tenderly loving, rent her with throe of pi poignant as bodily four mother is dead,” he said, un nding her and feeling some real ympathy for her. “It can’t hurt her w 5 “Drag it all out into the light,” she in a court with thase ons! Have it in the il the mean low people in who couldn't for mo- understand anything that was and noble, jeering and talking my father and mother! That's what you call establishing my claim, ito That's not all of it,” he stammered, taken aback by her violence. *“And, y, it's all true.” then, crnta, one ment pure over I'll lie and say it w me to fighting I'd That I was not Jake Shack- 1's daughter, and that my mother knew him, or saw him, or heard of him. TI'd burn that certificate and: say that there ngver such a thing, and that anybody who suggested it was a lar madman. And when it comes tot there’s just one thing to say: 1 wouldn’'t marry you if forty fortunes hung on it. I'd rather beg or steal than be your wife if you owned all the Comstock mines. That's the future you think is going to tempt me —you for a husband and a fortune for us both, made by proving - that my mother was never really married to the man I called my father!” “But—but,” he said, not heeding her anger in his bewildered amazement, “you intended it sooner or later your- self?” “I?—I?—Betray my money? I do that?” She stared at him with eyes of wild indignation. He began to have a cold comprehension of what she felt, and it shook him as violently as his passion for her had ever done. “But you don’t understand,” He cried. “Yes, I understand you now,” she parents for said in a low voice; “you've made me understand you.” “I only want to make you under- stand one thing—how much I love you.” She drew back with a movement of violent repugnance. He suddenly stretched out his arms and eame to- ward her. She ran toward the door, for the mo- ment forgetting ft was locked. Then, as it resisted, memory awoke. He was beside her ahd tried to take her in his arms, but she turned and struck him, =L > 7 weetheart?”. — with all her force, a blow on the face. She saw the skin redden under i “Open the door!"” she gasped; “open the door!” For the moment the blow so stunned and enraged him that he drew back from her, his hand instinctively rising to the smarting skin. An oath burst from his compressed mouth. “I'd like to kill you for t‘ said, “Open the door,” she almost shrieked, rattling the handle.. “I'll pay you for this. You seem to forget that I know all the disreputable secrets of your beginnings. I can tell all the world how your mother was sold to Dan Moreau, and how—" Mariposa heard the click of the gate and a step on the outside stairs. She drowned the sound of Essex’s voice in a sudden furious pounding on the door, while she cried with the full force of her lungs: “Benito! Miguel! Mrs. Garcia!—Come and open this door! Come and let me out! I'm locked in! Come! Essex was at the door in an instant, the key in the lock. As he turned it he gave her a murderous look. “You fool!” he said under breath. As the portal swung open apnd he passed into the hall, the front door was violently pushed inward, and Barron almost fell against him in the hurry of his entrance. The new-comer drew back from the departing stranger with an apologetic start. d “Beg your pardon,” he said bruskly, “but I thought I heard some one scream in here.” “Scream?” said Essex, languidly se- lecting his hat frem the disreputable collection on the rack; “I didn’t notice it, and I've been sitting in there for nearly an hour with Miss Moreau. 1 fancy you've made a mistake.” *1 guess I must havs.. It's odd.” The hall door slammed behind Essex, and the other man turned into the par- lor, where the light was now very dim. In his exit from the room Essex had flung the deor open with violence, and Mariposa, who had backed against the walil, was still standing behind it. As Barron pushed it to he saw her, a vague black figure with white hands and face, in the dark. “What on earth are you doing there?"” he said; “standing behind the door like a child in the corner.” She thanked heaven for the friendly dark and answered hurriedly: T—didn’t want you to catch me. he his I never saw you untidy, and don’t believe you ever were. I met a man in the hall, who said he'd been here for an hour. You must have{been playing puss in the corner with hi Al ; his name's Essex, and He's a friena of Mrs. Willers' that 1 know. He was here, and I thought he'd come about music lessons, so I came down looking rather untidy. That was how it happened.” “And he stayed an about music lessons?" “No—oh, no; other things.” They turned into the hal, Barron, in his character of general guardian of the Garcia fortunes, shutting the door of the state apartment. He had the ap- peerance of taking no notice of Mari- cs2, but ds soon as he got into the t of the hall gas he sent a light- ning-like glance over her face. “It was funny,” he said, “but as I came un the steps T thought I heard some ong calling out. 1 dashed in and fell into the arms of your music-lesson man, who sald no cries of any kind had disturbed the joy of his hour in younr gooiety.” Mariposa had begun to ascend the stairs, hour talking she said over her shoulder; “1 don’'t think there were any cries. Why should any one cry out here?” “That's exactly what I wanted to know,” he sald, watching her ascend- ing back. * ; She turned and passed out of sight at the top of the stairs. Barron stood be- low under the hall gas, his head drooped, - He was puzzled, for, say what they might, he was certain he had heard cries. ° CHAPTER XIX. At The Trumpet office the next morn- ing Essex found a letter awaiting him. It ‘was from Mrs. Shackleton, asking him to dinner un a certain evening that week—"very informally, Mr. FEssex would understand, as the family wasg in such deep mourning.” Essex turned the letter over, smiling to himself. ‘It was an admirable testi- meny to Bessie's capability. The Jetter contained more for Essex than a simple invitation to dinner. It was the first move of the Shackleton faction in the direction he desired to see them take. Bessie had evidently heard something that had made her realize he, too, might be more than a pawn in the game. He answered the note with a sentence of acceptance and a well-turned phrase, expressing his pleasure at the thought of meeting her again. He was not in an agreeable frame of mind. His Interview with Mariposa had roused the sleeping devil within him, which. of late, had only been drowsy. His worst side—ugly traits in- herited from his rascally father—was developing with overmastering force. Lessons learned in those obscure and unchronicled years when he had sw between :find::“ ll:( Parig were begin- ning to bear The dinner at Mrs. Shackleton’s was a small and informal one. The com- pany of six—for, besides himself, the only guests were the Count de Lamolle and Pussy Thurston—looking an ‘ex- ceedingly meager array in the vast g - L BY GERALDINE BONNER f & The Count de Lamolle gave Hssex a quick glance, and, as they stoud to- gether in front gf one of the fires—the two girls and Win having moved away to look at a painting of Bougueréau's on an easel—addressed a casual te- mark to him in French. The Count _had already met the newspeper man, and set him down, without illmsion cr hesitation, as a clever adventurer. He overcame his surprise at meeting him in the house of the bonanza widow, by the reflection that this was the United States, where all men are equai, and women with money free to be wooed by any of them. The Count was in an uncertain and almost uncemfortable ‘state of mind. The letter he had received from. Mrs. Shackleton, bidding him to the feast, was the second from her since Maud's rejection of him. The first had been of a consolatory and encouraging nature. Mrs. Shackleton told him that Maud was young, and that many women said no, when they meant yes. The Count knew both these things as well as Mrs. Shackleton; the latter, even better. But it seemedyto him that Maud, youn though she was, had not meant yes, an the handsome Frenchman was not the man to force his attentions on any woman. He watched her without ap- pearing to notice her. Bhe had been greatly embarrassdad at sight of him. Maud sat beside Essex, and even that easily fiuent gentleman found her diffi- cult to interest. She appeared dull and unresponsive. LooKing at her with slightly narrowed eyes, he wondered how the Count, of whose name and ex- ploits he had often heard in Paris, could contemplate so brave an act as marrying her. The Count, who, having more heart, could see deeper, asked himself if the girl was really unhappy. As he listened to Miss Thurston’s marvelous French he wondered, with a little expanding heat of irritation, if the mother was trying to force the marriage against the daughter's wish. He had broken hearte in his day, but it was not a pas- time he found agreeable. He was tou gallant a gentleman to woo where his courtship was unwelcome. When the gentlemen eéntered the drawing-room from their after-dinner wine and cigars, they found the ladies seated by one of the fires below the Mexican onyx mantels. Bessie rose as they approached and, turning to Es- sex, asked him if he had seen the Bou- guereau on the easel, and steered him toward it. “It was one of Mr. Shackleton's last purchases,” she said; “he was very an- xious to haye a fine collection. He had great taste.” Her compenion, looking at the plump, pearly-skinnned nymph and her atten- dant cupids, thought of Harney's de- scription of Shackleton in the days when he had first entered California, and said, with conviction: “What a remarkably versatile man your husband was!, T had no idea he wag interested in art.% P “Oh, he loved it,” said Bessie, " and knew a great deal about it. We were in Europe two yedrs ago for six months, and Mr. Shackleton and I visited a great many studios. That is a Meis- sonier over there, and that one we bought from Resa Bonheur. She's an interesting woman, looked just like a man. Then in the Moorish room there's a Gerome. Would you like to see it? It's considered a very fine example.” He exdressed his desire to see the Gerome, and followed ‘Bessie's rustiing wake intc the Moorish room. “We hoped,” continued Bessie, sink- ing into a seat, “tv have a fine collec- tion, and build a gallery for them out in the garden. There was plenty of room, and they would have shown off better all together that way, rather than scattered about like this. But T've no ambition to do it now, and they'll stay as they are.” E “Why don’t you go on with the col- lection?” said the young man, taking a seat on a square stool of carved teak wood. “It would be a most interesting thing to do, and you could go abroad every year.or twe, and go to the stu- dfos and buy direct from the artists. It's much the best way.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” she sajd, with a lit- tle shrug; “I don’t know enough about it. I only know what I like, and I gen- erally like the wrong thing. I'm not versatile like my husband. When I first came to California I didn’t know a chromo from an cil painting. In fact,” she said, looking at him frankly and laughing a little, “I don't think I'd ever seen an oil painting.” Essex returned the laugh and mur- mured a word or two of complimen- tary disbelief. He was wondering when she would get to the real subject of conversation which had led them to the Gerome and the Moorish room. She was nearer than he thought. “It would be a temptation to go to Paris every year or two,” she sald. “That's the most delightful place in the world. It's your home, isn't it? So, of course, you agree with me.” “Yes, I was born there, lived there off and on ever since. me, there is only one Paris.” “And can you fancy any one having the chance to go there, and live and study, with no trouble about money, re- fusing?” Essex looked into the fire, and re- sponded in a tone that suggested polite indifference “No, that's quite beyond my powers of imagination.” “I have a sort of—I think you call it protege—isn't that the word?--yes"— in answer to his nod—"“whom I want to send to Parlg, She's a young girl with & fine voice. Mr. Shackleton was very much interested in her. He knew her father iu the mining days of the early i wanted to pay off some old and have To now the daughter seems to dislike be- ing helped.” “There are such people,” said Essex in the same tone. “Does she dislike the idea of guing to Paris, too?” “That seems to be it. We both wanted to send her there, have her voice trained, and put her in the way of becoming a singer. Lepine, when he was here, heard her and thought she had the making of a prima donna. But,” she suddenly looked at him with a half-puzzled expression of inquiry, “I think you know her—Miss Moreau?"” Essex looked back at her for a mo- ment/ with bafflingly expressionless eyes. “Yes, T know her. She’s a friend of Mrs. Willers', one of the Sunday edition people on The Trumpet. A very hand- some and charming girl.” “That's the girl,” said Bessie, men- tally admiring his perfect aplomb. “She’s a very fine girl, and, as you say, handsome. But I don’t think she's got much common sense. Girls don’t, as a rule, have more than enough to get along on. But when they’re poor, and 8o alone in the world, they ought to pick up a little.” “Certainly, to refuse an offer such as you speak of argues a lack of some- thing. Have you any idea of her rea- son for refusing?” . ‘He looked at Bessie as he propounded the question, his eyelids lowered slight- ly. She, in her turn, let her kéen gray glance rest on him. The thought flashed through her mind that it was only another evidence of Mariposa's pecullarity of disposition that she .ahnuld have refused sc handsome and attractive a man. . “No,” she sald with unruffled placi- dity, “I don’t understand it. She's a proud girl and objects to being under obligations. But then this wouldn’t be an-obligation. Apart from everything else, there's no question about obliga- tions where singers and artists and people like that are concerned. It's all a matter of art.” “Art leyels all things,” said the young man glibly. . “That's what I always thought. But Miss Moreau doesn’t seem to agree with me. The most curious part of it all is that she was willing to go in the beginning. That was before her moth- er died; then she suddenly changed her mind, wouldn't hear of it, and said she'd prefer staying here in San Fran- cisco, teaching music at fifty centy a lesson. I must say I was annoyed. I had her here and taiked to her. quite severely, but it didn't seem to make any impression. I was puzzled to death to understand it. But after thinking for a while, and ‘wondering what could make a girl prefer San Francisco and teaching music at fifty cents a lesson to Paris and being a prima donna, T came to the conclusion there was only eme thing could influence a woman to that extent—there was a man in the case.” She saw Essex, whose eyes were on the fire, ragise his brows by waysof a polite commentary on her words. “That sounds a very plausible solu- tion of the problem,” he said, “Love's a deadly enemy to common sense.” “That's' the way it seemed to me. She had fallen in love, and evidently the man had not enough /money to marry on, or was in a poor position, or ing. When I thought of that I 5 rtain 1'd found the clew. The silly girl was going to glve up every- thing for love. I suppase I ought to have felt touched. But I really felt sort of mad with her at first. ' After- ward, thinking it over, I decided it was. not so foolish, and now I've veered round so far that I'm inclined to en- courage it.” “On general principles you think do- mestlcity is better for a woman than the glare of the footlights?" “No, rot that way. I think a gift like Mariposa Moreau's should be cultivated and given to the public. 1 never had any sympathy with that man in the Bible who buried his talent in the ground. T think talents were made to be used. What I thought was, why shouldn't Mariposa marry the man she cared for and go with him to Paris? It would be a much better ar- rangement all round. She isn't very smart or capable, and she’s young and childish for her years. Don’t you think she ig, Mr. Essex?” Essex again rdised his eyebrows and locked into the fire. “Yes,” he said in a dubious tone. “Yes, I suppose she is. She is certainly not a sophisticated or worldly person.” “That's just it. She's green—green about everything. Some way or other I didn’t like the thought of sending her off there by herseif, where she didn’'t know a scul. And then she’s so hand- some. If she was ugly it wouldn't mat- ter so much. But she's very good-look- ing, and when ycu add that to her being so inexperienced and green about everything you begin' to realize the re- sponsibility of sending her alone to a strange country, especially Paris.” “Paris is not a city,” commented her companion, ‘“where young, beautiful and unprotected females are objects of public protection and solicitude.” “That's the reason why I want, now, te encourage this marriage. With a husband that she loves * take care of her, everything would be sméoth sail- ing. She’'d be happy and not home- sick or strange, He'd be there with her, to watch over her anc probably help her with her studies. Perhaps he could get some position, just to cceupy his time. Besides, so far as money went, I'd see to it that they were well provided for during the time she was- preparing. Lepine said that he thought two or three years would be sufficient for her to study. Well, I'd give them $15,000 to start on. And if that wasn't enough, or she was not ready to appear at the expected time, there would be more. There'd be no question about means of living, anyway. They could just put that out, of their heads.” “I have always , heard that Mrs. Shackleton was generous,” said Essex, locking at her with a slight smile. 'Oh, generous!” she said, with a little movement of impatience, which was genuine. “This is no question of gen- erosity; I want the girl to go and be a singer, and I don't want her to go alone. Now, I've found out a way for her to go that will be agreeable to her and to me, and I take for granted, to the man.” She looked at Essex with a smile that almost said she knew him to be the favored person. “Of course,” she continued, “it would be better for him to get some work. It's bad for & man or woman to be idle. If he knows how to write, it would be an easy matter to make him Paris corre- spondent of The Trumpet. It was my husband’'s intention to have a corre- spondent, and he had some idea of of- fering it to Mrs. Willers. But it's not the work for her, nor she the woman for'it. It ought to.be a man, and a man that's conversant with the country and the language. There’ll be a good sal- ary to go with it. Win was talking - about it only the other evening.” “What a showering of good fortune on one person,” said Essex—"a position ready-made, a small fortune and a beautiful wife! He must be a favorite of the gods.” “You ecan call it what you like, Mr. Essex,” said Bessie. “It's been my ex- perience that the gods take for their favorites men and women who've got some hustle. Everybody has a chance some time or other. Miss Moreau and her young man have theirs now.” She rose to her feet, for at that mo- ment, Pussy Thurston appeared in the doorway to say good-night. The pretty creature had cast more than one covertly admiring lock at Es- sex, during the dinner, and now, as she held out her hand to him in fare- well, she said after the informal West- ern fashion: : “Won't you come to see me, Mr. Es- sex? I'm always at home on Sunday afternoon. If you're bashful Win will bring you. He comes sometimes when he’s got nowhere else in the world to 8o to.” Win who was just behind her, ex- pressed his willingness to act as escort, and laughing and jesting, the party passed through- the doorway into the drawing-room. The little fires were burning low. By the light of one, Maud and Count de Lamolle were looking at a book of photographs of Swiss views. The Count’s expression was enigmatic, and as Bessie approached them she heard Maud say: “‘Oh, that's a mountain. What’'s the name of it, now? I can’'t remember. It's very high and pcinted, and people are always climbing it and falling into holes.” “The Matterhorn, perhaps,” gested the Count, politely. To which Maud gave a relieved as- sent. Her words were commonplace enough, but there was a quality of light-heartedness, of suppressed ela- tion, ‘in her voice, that her mother's quick ear instantly caught. As the girl looked up at their approaching figures her face showed the same newly ac- quired sparkle that was almost joyous. It had, in fact, been a critical evening for Maud, and so miserable did she feel her situation to be that she had taken her courage’in both hands and struck one desperate blow for freedom. ‘When her mcther and Essex had be- gun their pictorial migrations she had felt the cold dread of a tete-a-tete with the Count creeping over her heart. For a space the had tried to remain at- tached to Win and Pussy Thurston, but neither Win nor Pussy, who were old friends and had many subjects of mu- tual interest to discuss, encouraged her society. Maud was not the person to develop diplomatic genius under . the most favorable circumstances. Hailf an hour after the men had entered the drawing-room, she found herself alone with the Count in front of the fire, Win and Pussy having strayed away to the Bouguereau. The Count had tried various subjects of conversation, but they had drooped and died after a few minutes of lan- guishing existence. He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking curi- ously at Maud, who sat on the edge of an armchair just within reach of the fluctuating light. Her hands were clasped on her knee, and she was look- ing down so that he could not see her face. Suddenly she rose to her feet and faced him. She was pale and her eyes looked miserable and terrified. “Count de Lamolle,” she breathed in a tremulous voice. “Mademoiselle,” he said, moving to- ward her, very much surprised by her appearance. “TI've got to say something to you. It may sound queer, but I've got to say L i “Dear Miss,” said the Frenchman, really concerned by her ' tragic de- meanor, “say whatever pleases you. I am only here to listen.” “You don't really care for me. if you’d oniy tell the truth!™ “That is a strange remark,” he said, completely taken by surprise, and won- dering what this extraordinary girl was going to say next. “If I thought you really cared it would be different. Perhaps I couldn’t say it. I hate making people miserable, and yet so many people make me mis- erable.” / “Who makes you miserable, dear young lady?” he sald, honestly touched. “You,” she almost whispered. “You do. You don’t mean to, I know, for I think you're kinder than lots of other men. But—but— Oh please, don’t keep cn asking me to marry you. Don't do it any mcre; that makes me miserable. Because I can’t do it. Truly, I can't.” Count de Lamolle became very grave. He drew himself up with an odd, stiff air, like a soldier. “If a lady speaks this way to a man,” sug- Oh,