The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 4, 1906, Page 3

\ Why didn't vou light with an sound and did not move slones on the table June drew the lamp ward d lit it. The sudden t seemed to rouse him. 7 raked under his weight Iis indrticulaté the talle the scat- rock. Jure had the wick which when she csted on agments o to lgok at arefully adjusting > & snppr long, brown of lampligh stones. TI . she set away. H closer nd holding t der it, leaned forward, cm as he turned the Where did you get these without Iooking up. She- told ‘him. turning again toward the table, absently watching him. Near the hillside? Ju v the piece of the hill ried. “Yes, along the ground there. strewed with stones and earth and roots. There's quite a wall of rock left bare and these bits of it are all over. New weeds are sprouting everywhere. 1 suppose that's what took Bloss there. He rose and. going to-a bookcase. toak out a hand magnifying gl and returning to the light, studied the fragments . through it. Something In ce as he bent over them struck &v of her dejection said, drawing near, What's odd about bhand and wick cd the father slanting o stones Zing t 1t's all face transfigured with trembling hand on bers. float,” he said, “undeniable If I'm not mistaken we've got he ledge at last.” END OF "BOOK II. TheTown | E - + CHAPTER 1. BOOK I Down in the City. darkness of the early Novem- In the ight Colonel Parrish rattled acr town i hired carriage. It was 8:30 when he left his rooms (they were a e suite on a sunny corner of Kearny sireet), and now as he turned into Fol- he calculated that if the were they could be en > by 9 In the autumn of the hours for evening entertain- street ents were still early. and the par- ticular entertainment to which the colonel intended taking -~ June and Rosamund Allen was one of the regu- lar receptions which united the aris- of San Francisco at the house Ira Davenport The great detached bulks of the buildings that the carriage passed gleamed with lights, for Folsom street vas still the home of the elect. From t arch of lofty porches hall lamps cast a faint gleam into the outer dark- of shrubberies and lawns. hrough the scrollwork of high iron the paths. ‘shone issed -borders. black facade w bedded flags of the mar- white between darkly Here and there & s cut into by rows of gates ighted windows, uncurtained and tered. The strect suggested Jusion, and dignity. ‘Fhe rtunes, which were latér to erect huge piles on San Francisco’s wind- swept hillcrests, had not yet arisen to blight the picturesqueness of the gray, sea-girdled city His own house was one of the larg- est in the street. Now. in the dark- it loomed an -irregular black cut into with squares and slits of light. Just a month before the lease of his tenants had. expired and he was able to see one, at least, of his dreams realized—Alice’s daughters quartered under his roof. The revolution of fortune’s wheel had been, where the Allens were con- ¢erned, -sudden and dizzyin The ledge, that man for years had fruit- lessly sought, in one night had been lald AT Even for the time and the country it was a startling réversal of conditions. In the spring Beauregard Allen had been @ beggar. In the sum- mer he.saw himself a man of wealth. Experts pronounced the discovery one of moment. The mine, called the Bar- ranca, was regarded as richer in prom- ise than' the Buckeye Belle. Distant portions of the tract, which had come to his possession in so unlookéd for manner, were sold for large sums. The whole region was shaken Into as- tonished mation and Foleys was more . effe 1ly wakened from the dead than would have been by the colonel’s original scheme. Allen’s sloth and despondency fell from him like a garment. With the ready money from the land sales he at once began the development of the prospect hole. In July a square tun- nel mouth and a board shed/intruded on ‘the sylvan landscape near the land- slide. In September a fair-sized hoisting < works housed the throb of engines and : "the roil of cars. The noise of Beauregard Alle; strike went abroad through foot- ".Hl California and its echo rolled to San Francisco, where men who had known him in the esriv days suddenly remem- bered him as “Beau” ‘Allen, the handsome Southerner, who had come to grief and | dropped out of sight in the fifties, In Septémber he came down to San { Francisco and The saw the colonel. meeting at first was constrdined, but as snoke Allen of his daughters and aint wore away ul the two men talked as beings united 4 wmutual interest. The colonel had recognized the fact that the breach must be healed. He had had to struggle igainst kis old repugnance, but there was \ nothing else for it. No wrong, however deep, should stand between him and Alice’s daughters. and he ld not know laughters without accepting the fath- And how he did want to know them! They had already brought brightness and » into his life, In un effort to treat matter lightly he told himself that the harboring of old resentments, when they the way to the forming of new was oo much like cutting off your o splte your face. Deep in-his rt lay the feeling that, apart from his «ction-for them, they might need him. He knew Allen of old and Alice was dead. it was their father's intention to have them make San Franclsco their home. In the larger city they would have the ad- vantages of soclety and chans to marry well. One of the cbjects of his visit was 1o look about for a house whence they could be iaunched into the little world ia which he once had played his part. It was thas that the colonel, the lease of his old tenant having just expiréd, was able to offer them his own house for as long @ period of years as they might wish. But Allen, swollen with the pride of his rew fortunes, would rent no house. He ther, nose woulc buy one, a fitting home for two such girls as his. When it came to that the colonel was as willing to sell as to rent. The price of 9,000 was put upon the Folsom sireet mansion, and Allen, being much impressed by its size and old- fashioned splendot, purchased it, paying down the sum of 10,000, while the colonel beld a mortgage maturing in three years for the other $20,000. Alien, despite his sudden dccession, to wealth, claimed that his expenses just' now were of the heavi- es In Cctober he contemplated the biilding of a twenty-stamp mill at the mine, and the shaft house was to be en- larged. The winter outfits for his daugh- ters would be costly. It was his inten- tion that June and Rosamund should be as richly and modishly clad as any of the voung women who cast a glamour over the society of the city. To-night they were to make their en- trance into that society. Mrs. Davenport was an old friend of the colonel's and he tad asked for invitations, assuring her that she would find his protegees two of the prettiest and sweetest girls in ‘the’ world. Now as he sprang from the car- riage and pushed open the tall gate of scrolled fron work he smiled to himself, cheerfully confident that he had not over- stated the charms of the Misses Allen. His ring brouglht one of the new Chinese servants to the door, a quiet man, soft- footed as a cat, and clothed in freshly laundered white. Standing in the hall under the light he watched this spectral figure flit noiselessly up the stairway. The hall, papered in a deep reddish purple on which here and there the gleam of gold arabesques was faintly visible, ‘was wide and dim. It would require a galaxy of lamps thoroughly to dispel the gloom that lurked in its dusky corners. A state- ly staircase, thickly carpeted and with a darkly polished handrail, ran up in front of him. There was a light again at the top of this throwing faint glimmerings on reteding stretches of wall, lso som- berly.papered. Through the wide arch on his right he could look into a half-lighted parlor, where a globe or two in the chandelier shone a translucent yellow. To his left the doors into the reception room were open, and here by a table, a reading lamp at his elbow, sat Beauregard Allen smok- ing a cigar. He was in evening dress, but a button or two of unloosened waistcoat, and the air of sprawling ease that marked his attitude, did not suggest the trim alertness of one garbed and tuned for festival. 0od evening, Parrish,” he said. *“The girls will be down in a minute. I'm geing to beg off. Can’t drag me away from a good cigar and comfortable chair on such a damned cold night.” His face was flushed; he had evidently been drinking more than was' consistent with a strictly temperate standard, a con- dition which often marked him after din- ner. But the old tendency toward an open and unabashed inebriety had been conquered. Well dressed, his beard trimmed, the sense of degradation and failure lifted from him, he looked a stal- wart, personable man, in whom the joy of life was still buoyantly and coarsely alive. The colonel, leaning against the door frame, was about to launch into the de- sultory conversation that fills gaps, when the rustle of skirts on the stairs caught his ear. June and Rosamund were de- scending, their cloaks on their arms that they might show themselves in their new finery. Their mourning for their mother took the form of transparent black gauze, through which the delicate whiteness of their youthful arms and “shoulders gleamed. They laughed as they met the colonel’s eye, both slightly abashed by the unwonted splendor of their attire. Their sudden rise from poverty, their translation to the city, and their short stay in its sophistieated atmosphere, ‘had already worked a marked change in them. Their air of naively blushing rusticity was gone. They looked finer, more mon- daine, than they had only six weeks be- fore. Rosamund, who was of an ample, gracious build, had already, by the aid of the admirable dressmaker who had fash- joned her ‘gown, achieved a figure of small waisted, full busted elegance, which, combined with her naturally fine carriage, gave her an appearance of metropolitan poise and distinction. She had that bounteous and blooming type of looks which is peculiar to the women of California, and which (as is the case with .the character that accompanies it) is curiously lacking in feminine subtilty and romantic sug- gestion. By far the handsomer of the two sisters, she was not destined to cast the spell over the hearts of men which was the prerogative of June. She, too, had improved, but neither skillful dressmakers nor luxurious sur- roundings would ever make her a radiant- Iy good-looking or particularly noticeable person. Her hair, which had been so un- sightly six months before, was now her one beauty. It hung round her head in a drooping mass of brown curls, the longest just brushing the nape of her neck. Through them was wound a ribbon of black velvet in the manner of adornment sometimes geen in cighteenth century minjatures. The girls grumbled a little at their father’s defection, but the truth was that they were so excited by the evening's prospect that their regrets had a perfunc- tory tone. In the carriage they plied the colonel with questions as to the nature of the entertainment and the ple they were likely to meet. It amused and some- what puzzled him to see that the antlci- pation of what he had supposed would be a beguiling and cheerful amusement was throwing them into nervous tremors. As the large outline of the Davenport house rose before them all attempt at conversa- tion died, and they sat stiff and speech- less on the seat opposite him. The Davenport house, as all old Cali- fornians know, was at that time and had been for ten years the focus of the city’s social life. Mrs. Davenport was a South- erner and had been a beauty, facts which bhad welghed with the San Franciscans since the days when “‘the water came up to Montgomery street.”” The Southern tra~ dition still retained much of its original power. The war had not broken it, and the overwhelming eruption of money which the Comstock was to disgorge had not yet submerged the once dominant “get.”” At its head Mrs. Davenport ruled with tact and determination. She- ap- peared to the Allens as a graciously cor- diai lady of more than .middle age, whose sweeping robe of gray satin matched the hair she wore parted on her forehead and drawr primly down over the tips of her ears. To the sisters it was the entrance into a new world, the world their parents had strayed from and often described to them. Seated in armchaire of yellow brocade, they surveyed the length of the parlor, & spaeious, high-ceilinged apartment, of a prevailing paleness of tint and overhung by ecrystal chandeliers. The,black shoul- - ders of men were thrown out against the white walls delicately touched with a de- sign in gilding. TLong mirrors reproduced. the figures of women rising from the curving aweep of bright-colored, beruffied trains. A Chinaman carrying a wide tray of plates and glasses moved from group to group. ) e foon several of the black coats had gath-. ercd around the chairs of June and Rosa- mund. The colonel had-to give up his seat, . N .about her. ‘lowed by a smile of undi: “you,”. S B PR and June could see him talking to men In the doorways or dropping into vacant places beside older women. He kept his eye on them, however. It delighted him to see that their charm was so quickly rec- ognized. Round about him their name buzzed from a knot in a corner, or 2 group. on.a sofa. Many of those present had known Beauregard Allen in his short hey- day. Almost everybody in the room had heard of his strike near Foleys and sud- den translation from poverty to riches. _When at length the colonel saw the chair heside June vacant he crossed the room and dropped into it. He was anx- jous to hear from her how she was en- Joying herself. . “Well,” he said, “the old ‘man’'s been frozen out- for nearly an hour. Didn't it make you feel conscience-stricken to see me hanging around the deorway and 100k- ing hungrily at this chair?"’ “I was dying for that man to go.” she answered. - “I did everything but ask hgm.” “Oh, you sinner! her dancing eyes. to when you die?” “Where do you think you will?” she asked, grave, but with her dimple faintly, suggested. “I'd like to know, because then I can arrange to have just about the same sort of record, and we could g0 together.” He could not restrain his laughter, and she ‘added in her most caressing tone: ““It would be so dreary for you to go to one place and me to be in another.” * Before he could answer she had raised her eyes, glanced at the door, and then suddenly flushed, her face disclosing a sort of sudden quick ‘snap into focused attention. “Mr. Barélay,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t expect to see him to-night.” The colonel turned his head and saw Jerry Barclay entering the room in the company of a lady and gentleman. Many other people looked at them they moved to where Mrs. Davenport stood, for théy were unquestionably a notice- able trio. ¢ . The woman was in the middle, and bé- tween the proud and distinguished figure of Barclay and the small, insignificant one of her other escort, she presented a striking appearance. She was of a large, full build, verging on embonpoint,™ but still showing a restrained luxurlance of outline. A dress of white lace clothed her tightly and swept in creamy billows over the carpet behind her. It was cut in a square at her neck. and the sleeves ended at her elbows, revealing a throat and forearms of milky whiteness. This ivory purity of skin was noticeable in her face, which was firmly modeled, rather heavy In feature, and crowned with a coronet of lusterless black hair. She was Lardly handsome, but there was some- thing sensational, *arresting, slightly re- pelling, in the sleepy and yet vivid vitali- ty that seemed to emanate from her. “Who is 1t?" said June in a low voice. ‘““What a curious looking woman!” The colonel, who had been surveying he said, looking into “‘Where will. you g0 _ the newcomers,” looked at his companion with eyes in which there was a slight veiled coldness. The same quality was noticeable in his voice: “Her name's Newbury, Mrs. Willlam Newbury. Her husband's a banker here.” “Is that her husband with her, that little man?"” “Yes." “But he's so old! He looks like her father. What did she marry him for?” “I don’t know. I'm not her father-con- fessor. He's got a good deal of money, 1 believe.” The colonel did not seem interested in the subject. He picked up June's fan and ‘How did you- like the young fellow who had this chair just now, Stasley Davenport? He's the last unmarried child my old friend has left.” The girl's eyes, however, had followed the newcomers with avid, staring curi- osity, and she said, 5 “Very much. Are Mrs. Newbury and her husband great friends of Mr. Bar- clay’s?” “I believe they are. I don’t know much 1 knofv ‘her husband in busi- ness. He's a little dried up, but he's a first-rate fellow in the main.” *“Is she an American? She queer and foreign.” “Spanish, Spanish-Californian. She and her sister were two celebrated beauties here about twelve years ago. Their name was Romero—Carmen and Guadalupe Romero—and they were very poor. Thelr grandfather had been a sort of a shep- herd king, owned a Spanish grant about as big as a European principality, and when the Gringo came traded off big chunks of it for lengths of calico and old firearms and books he couldn’t read. The girls were friends of Mrs. Davenport's only daughter Annie, and she gave them a start. Carmen—she was the elder of the two—married an Englishman, a man of pgsition and means that she met in ‘this house. She lives over in England. This one—Lupe—married Newbury about ten years ago.” “Do you think she's pretty?’ asked June, anxious to haye her uncertainty on this point settled by what sue regarded as expert opinion. “No. I don’t admire her at all. She was handsome when she married. Those Spanish women all get too fat. You saw something of Barclay at Foleys after I left, didn’t you?" She dropped her eyes to the hands folded in her lap and said with a non- chalant air: % “Yes, he was at Foleys for over a week. He came back from Thompsons Flat just after you left, and he used to come and see us every afternoon. We had lots of fun. He helped us with the garden, and he didn't know how to do anything, and we had to teach him.” ““You saw a lot of Rlon Gracey, too, 1 suppose,” said “her companion, with a gidelong eye on her. It pleased him to note that at this re- mark she looked suddenly ¢onscious. The colonel had for some time cher- jshed a secret hope. It was one of the subjects of mutual agreement which had made it easier for him and Allen. to bury the hatchet. The latter had told him of Rien Gracey's continued visits to the cot- tage throughout the summer, and both men had agreed that no woman could find a better husband than the younger of the Gracey boys. B : s June's consclous ‘air was encouraging, but her words were aggravatingly non- committal. X “Oh. vyes,” she said, “we saw Mr. Gracey often. He was always coming, into Fo}eys to buy supplies for the Buckeye Belle.” ] At that moment Barclay, who -had looks so .turned away from his companions, saw her, and with a start of recognition fol- ‘ pleas- ure, hurried toward her. The colonel roge with some reluctance. He was surprised and not entirely pleased at the open de- light ‘of the young man's countenance, the confident friendliness of his greeting. He gave up his chair, however, and as he crossed the room to one of his eiderly cronies be saw that Mrxs. Newbury was watching Jerry Barcley and June .with a slight. lazy smile and attehtive .eyes.. - “I came here ‘to-night sol 0 said the young man, as soon gx.-fli! colonel was out of earshot.. . . “But how did you know 1 ~— ely to. see. e asked the innocent June. “I never told YiRe 0, you naughty girl, you never did. But T heard it. e “Little birds?” she queried, tilting up hér chin and looking at him out of the ends of her: eyes. “Little - birds,” he ncquiesced. ‘‘And why didn’t you let me know? Don’t T re- member your making me a solemn prom- ise at*Foleys tb tell me the first thing 1f you ever came to San Francisco? You were doubtful then if you ever would.” “Yes, I think you do,’ she agreed. “That is, if you've got a good memeory.” “You evidently haven't.” “I remembered it perfectly and was walting until we got settled in our new house before I wrote vou. I was going to give you a surprise. ““Well, vou've surprised me enough al- ready.” He leaned a little nearer to. her, and looking at her with cyes that were gt once soft: and -bold, sald: *‘You'v changed so; you've changed immensely since I last saw you.” - ., Bhe dropped her eves and sald de- murely: 3 ‘I hope it's for the better,” then looked up at him énd their laughter broke out in happy duet. - . The colonel -heard it across the room and glacing at them felt annoyed that June should look so suddenly flushed and radiant. Evidently she and Jerry Bar- clay, in.the ten days he had spent at Foleys, had become very good friends. An hour later the Misses Allen were standing at the top of the steps that led from the porch to the street. Guests were departing in all directions, and the lan- terns of carrlages were sending tubes of opaque, - yellow® light through the fog. The colonel had gone in quest of theirs, cautioning his charges to wait in the shei- ter of the porch for him. Here they stood, close-wrapped against the damp, and peering into the churning white cur- rents. Just below them two men, the col- lars of their coats up, paused to light their cigars. One accomplished the -feat | without difficulty; the other stood with his hand curved around the match, which many times flamed and went out. Suddenly June heard his companion say between puffs: “Queer, Mrs. Newbury being here!” “Oh, 1 don't know,” said the other, drawing a new match from his pocket, “Mrs. Davenport knew the Romero girls long before they were married. They were friends of Annie Daven- port’s. Nobody'd ever breathed a word against either of them then. She wouldn’t throw Lupe down on a rumor- ed scandal. I dor't see how she could.” \ “Lots of people have. And you call it a ‘rumored scandal’ all you want; everybody believes it. She owns him body and soul.” The other man had at at last induced the tip of his cigar to catch. He threw back his head snd drew a few quick insplrations. “That’s the story: But a woman like Mrs. Davenport Is not going.to damn her daughter’s friend on hearsay. Wo- men have got a creed of their own; they believe what they want to and dis- belleve what they want to. She wants to helieve that the affair's purely pla- tonic, and she does it.” “But Barclay! To hang round her that way in public—what a fool!” “Oh, Barclay!'—a shrug went with the words—"he does what he’s told!” The man turned as he spoke and saw the two girls above him en the step. He threw a low-toned phrase at his com- panion, and without more words they started out and were absorbed in the darkness. Almost simultaneously a carriage rattled up and the colonel's voleerbide June und Rosamund descend. © Achalf-hour later, ‘as they were mounting the staifs to their wooms, June said suddenly: 3 “Did vou hear what those men were saying on the steps as we stood there walting?” They had both heard the entire con- versation, and though they did not un- derstand the true purport of the ambig- uous phrases, they realized that they “.contained a veiled censure of Mrs. New- bury and Jerry Barciay. Their sccluded “bringing up in an impoverished home where the courseness of the world never entered had kept them ignorant of the winked-at sins of society. Yet the crude frankness of mining camps had paraded before their eyes many things that girls brought up in the re- spectable areas of large cities never see. “Yes, I heard them,” said Rosamund. “What did they mean: I didn’t un- derstand them. They seemed to think there was something wrong about Mrs. Newbury." . ? “I don't know what they meant. But I didn’t like her looks at all. I wouldn't want her for a friend.” “They said something of Mr. Barclay, too, didn’t they?” “Yes; they sald he-was a fool and did as he was told.” “Well,” sald June, bristling, “those are just the two particular things about him I should think were not true. But there was some one that they said she —T suppose that meant Mrs. Newbury— owned body and soul. Whom do you suppose they meant?” “Her husband,” said Rosamund promptly. “Whom else could they mean?" June had felt depressed on the way home. At these words her de- pression suddenly vanished and she be- came wreathed in smiles. Thrusting her hand through Rosamund’'s arm she gave it an affectionate squeeze, ex- claiming with a sudden splutter of laughter, - “Well, if his soul isn't a better speci- ‘men than’ his body I don’t think it's much to.own.” Rosamund was shocked; she re- fused even to smile, as June, droop- ing against her shoulder, filled the silence of the-sleeping house with the sound of her laughter. CHAPTER IL Feminine Loglc. Social life in San Francisco at this ‘period had a distinction, a half foreign. bizarre picturesqueness, which it soon after lost and has never regained. Separated from the rest of the. country by a sweep of unconquered desert, ringed on its farther side by a girdle of sea, the ploneer city developed, undis- ‘turbed by ofitside influences, along its own lines.: » 2 ] The adventurers of forty-nine had in- fused into it some of the breadth and breeziness of their wild spirit. = The bonanza period of the Comstock lode ‘had not yet arisen to place huge . for- tunes in the hands of the coarsely am- bitious and frankly illiterate, and to infect the popuface with a lust of money that has never been conquered.. There re few milllonaires, and the passion= e desire to become one had not’ yet een planted in ‘the bosom of cvery. the Far. West, and thénce over the world, was beginning to stir and mutter, but its muttering was still too low to be caught . by any but the sharpest ears. The society which welcomed June and Rosamund was probably the best the city ever had to’ offer.. After.the manner of all flour- ishing communities it aspired to renew itself by the infusion of new blood, and the young girls were graciously greeted. Carriages rolled up to the high iron gates and ladies whose names were of weight trailed their silk skirts over the flagged walk. Coming in late in the wintry dusk it was very exciting always to find cards on the hall table. There were often: men's cards among them. A good many moths had begun to flutter around the flames of youth.and beauty and wealth that-burnt fn the colo- nel's house on Folsom street. In his constant visits he had formed a habit of looking over these cards as he stood in the hall taking off his overcoat. The fre- quency with which the card of Mr. Je- rome Barclay lay freshly and conspicu- ously on top of the pile struck him un- pleasantly and caused him to remark upon the fact to Junme. ““Yes, Mr. Barclay comes quite often,” she said, “and so does Mr. Davenport and Mr. Brooks and Mr. Plerce, and sev- eral others.” She had changed color and looked em- barrassed at the mention of his name, and the colonel had spoken to Rosamund about it. The colonel had begun to rely upon Rosamund, as everybody did, and, like everybody, he had come to regard her as mguch the elder of the two sisters, the one to be consulted and to seek ad- vice of. Rosamund admitted that Mr. Barclay did come rather often, but not indeed, as June had said, often than sev- eral others. “Does he come to see June, or you, or both of you?’ the colonel had asked bluntly, looking at the last slip of paste- board left by the young man. “Oh, June, of course,” said Rosamund, with a little quickness of impatience. “They nearly all come to see June.” “[ don't see what the devil business he has doing that,” said the colonel, throw- ing down the card with angry contempt. “What's he come round here for, any- way? 7 “Why shouldn’t he?” asked Rosamund, surprised at his sudden annoyance. “Well, he shouldn't,” said the colonel shortly. “That's one sure thing. He shouldn’t.”” And ‘so that conversation ended, but the memory of it lingered uneasily in Rosamund’s mind, and she found herself counting Jerry Barclay's calls and watch- ing June while he was there and after he had gone. The visits of the young man were not indeed sufficiently frequent to warrant uneasiness on sentimental scores. He sometimes dropped in on Sunday after- noon, and now and then on weekday evenings. What neither Rosamund nor the colonel knew what that he had formed a habit of meeting June on walks she took along the fine new promenade of Van Ness avenue, and en several occa- sions had spent a friendly hour with her, sitting on one of the benches in the little plaza on Turk street. The first and second times this had happened June had mentioned the fact to her sister, and that a gentleman should sccidentally meet a lady in an afternoon stroll had seemed a matter of so little im- portance Rosamund had quickly for- gotten it. The subséquent meetings, for also lg:arem!y accidental, June, some reéason knowm to herself, had not mentioned to any one. Now it was hard for her to persuade herself that she met Jerry Barclay by anything but prearranged design; and June did not like to think that she met him, or any other man, by prearrangement. So she let him elicit from her by skillful ques- tioning her itinerary for her afternoon walks when she had no engagements, and took scme trouble to make herself believe that the meetings still had at least an air of the accidental. But why did she not tell her sister of these walks? Why, in fact, had she once or twice lately almost misled Ros- amund in her efforts to evade her queries as to how she had passed the afternoon? If June happened to be looking in the mirror when she asked herself these questions she noticed that she reddened and Jooked guilty. There was nothing wrong in meeting Mr. Barclay and walking with him or sitting on one of the benches in the quiet litle plaza. Their conversation had never contained a word with which the strictest duenna could have found fault. Why, then, did June not tell? She hardly knew herself. Some delicate fiber of feminine Instinet told her that what was becoming a secretly tremulous pleasure would be questioned, interfered with, probably stopped. She knew shé was not one who could fight and defy. They would overwhelm her, and she would submit, baffiled and miserable. If Jerry Barclay liked to talk to her that way in the open air or on the park bench better than in the gloomy grandeur of the parlor in Folsom street, why should‘'he not? And yet she felt that if she had said this to Rosamund with all the deflant confidence with. which she said it to herself, Rosamund would in some unexpected way sweep aside her argument, show it worthless, and make her feel that if Jerry did not want to see her in her own house he ought not to see her at all. So June used the weapons of the weak, one of the most valuable of which is the maintaining of silence on matters of dis- pute. ¥ It was in February that their father suggested that they should return the numerous hospitalities offered them by giving a dance. It would be a ball They were still too inexperienced in the art of entertainment, and their mourning was yet to deep to permit of their venturing on so ambitious a be- ginning. “Just a housewarming,” - Al- len said when he saw they were rather alarmed by the magnitude of the un- dertaking. There was much talking and consultation of the colonel. Every night after dinner the girls sat long over the coffee and fruit, discussing vital points to whether there should be two salads at the supper and would they have four musicians or five. Al- len called them “little misers,” and told them they “never would be tracked through life by the quartess they dropped.” It wi interesting to the colonel to notice that Rosamund’s hab- its 'of economy clung to her.' while June had assimilated the tastes and extravagances of the women about her with a suddep, transforming complete- ness. ess. It was at. one of these after-dinner consultatlons that he was presented with the list of guests written out neatly in ‘Rosamund’s clear hand. Was it all right, or did Uncle Jim think they had left out anybody? E As he ran his eye over it Allen said suddenly: ¥ L oe " ‘hey've got Mrs. Newbury down there. ‘What do you think about her?” The colonel, who was reading through his glasses, looked up with a sharp glance of surorise and again down at the list. 3 g4 - g where his eyes stopped at the questioned name. “Oh, strike her off,” he said. do you want her for?" “She’s been here to see us,” Rosamund demurred, “and she asked us once to her house to hear somebody sing.” “Why shouldn’t she come?" said June. “What is there about her you don't like 2™ “] .didn't say there was anything,” he answered In a. tone of irritated impa- - tience. “But she's a good deal older than you, and—and—well, [ guéss it wouldn§ amuse her. She doesn't dance. You don’t want to waste any invitations on people who may not come.”™ Apparently this plece of maseuline logic was to him conclusive, for he took -his pencil and made a mark through the name. The evening of the dance arrived, and long before midnight its success was as- sured. It was undoubtedly one of the most brilllant affairs of the winter. It seemed the last touch on the ascending - fortunes of June and Rosamund. They had never locked so well. In her dress of shimmering white, which showed her polished shoulders, Rosamund was beau- tiful, and June, similarly garbed, looked, as some of the women guests remarked, “actually pretty.” As a hostess she danced little. Three times, however, Rosamund noticed her floating about the room encircled by the arm of Jerry Bar- clay. Other people noticed it too. But June, carried away by the excitement of the evening, was indifferent to the com- ment she might create. So was Barclay. He had drunk much champagne and felt deflant to the world. She felt deflant too, - because she was so confidently happy. By three the last guests had gome. Allen, hardly waiting for the door to slam on them, stumbled sleepily to bed. and June followed, a wearied sprite, bits of torn gauze trailing from her skirt, the wreath of jasmine blossoms she wore faded and broken, the starry flowers caught in her curls. “Rosie, I'm too tired to stay up a min- ute longer,” she called from the stairs, catching a glimpse of the dismantled parlor with Rosamund, followed by a yawning Chinaman, turning out lights and locking* windows. “Go up, dear,” answered Rosamund in her most maternal tone. “I'll be up in a minute. Sing’s so sleepy T know he’ll go to bed and leave everything open if I don’t stay till he’s done.” The sisters occupled two large rooms, broad-windowed and spacious, in the front of the house. The door of connee- tion was never shut. They talked to- gether as they dressed, walking from room to room. The tie between them, that had never been broken by a week’s separation, was unusually close even for sisters so near of an age, so united by mutual cares and past sorrows. June's room shone bright in the lights from the two ground-glass globes which protruded on gilded supports from either side of the bureau mirror. It was fur- nished in heavily gorgeous manner of the period and place. Long curtains of coarse lace fell over the windows, which above were garnished with pale blue satin lambrequins elaborately draped. The deeply tufted and upholstered furni- ture was covered with a blue and white cretoore festooned with woolen tassels and fringes. Over the foot of the huge bed lay a satin eiderdown quilt: of the same shade as the lambrequins. June, completely exhausted, was soon in bed, and lying peacefully curled om her side waited for her sister's footsteps. As she heard the creak of Rosamund's epen- ing door she called softly: “Come in here. I want to talk. millions of things to say te you.” Rosamund swept rustling into the room and sat down on the side of the bed. Her dress was neither crushed nor torn and the bloom of her countenance was unim- paired by fatigue. “Dear Rosie, you look so lovely,” said June, curling her Mttle body under the clothes comfortably round her sister. “There was nobody here to-night half as good-looking 2s you were.” She lightly touched Rosamund’s arm with the tips of her fingers; murmuring to herself: 3 “Lovely, marbly arms like a statue!” Her sister, indifferent to these compli-_ ments, which shd did not appear to hear, sat looking at the toe of her slipper. “I think it was a great success,” she said. *“Everyhody seemed to enjoy it."” “Of course they did. I know I did. I never had such a beautiful, salumptious time in my life.” $ Rosamund gave her a gravely inspect- ing side glance. “You tore your dress round the bottom, I saw. There was quite a large piece trailing on the floor.” 3 “Yes, it was dreadful”” sald June, nes- tling closer about the sitting figure and smiling In dreamy delight. “Somebody trod on it while I was dancing. and then they danced away with it round them, and it tore off me in yards, as if I was a top and it was my string.” “Were you dancing .with Jerry Bar- clay?” asked Rosamund. “I don’t think so.” She turned her head in profile on the pillow and locked at her_ sister out of the corner of her eye. Meet- ing Rosamund's sober glance she broke into suppressed laughter. “What's the matter with you, Rosie?” she said, giving her a little kick through the bedclothes; “you look as solemn as an undertaker.” “I don’t think you ought to have danced so often with Jerry Barclay. It—it—does not look well. It—" she stopped. “ ‘It'—well, go on. Tell me all about it. A child could play with me to-night. You couldn’t make me angry if you tried.” “June,” said Rosamund, turning toward her with annoyed seriousness, “T don't think you ought to be friends with Jerry “What T've Barclay.” “What do you say that for?” Despite her remark as to the difficulty of her angry. there was making “a distinct, cold edge on June's voice as she spoke. - “I found out to-night. Ever since wo heard those men talk that evening at Mrs. Davenport's I had a feeling that some- thing wasn’t right. And then Uncle Jim belng so positive about not asking Mrs. Newbury here this evening.” - 3 “What's Mrs. Newbury got to do with it “Everything. It's dll Mrs. Newbury. To-night in the -room some girls were talking about her and Mr. Barclay; I asked them what they meant, and I heard it all. It's a horrid story. I don't - like to tell it to you.” - “What {s it?’ said June. She had frowningly grave. “Well, they say—every one says—they'sg lovers.” “Lovers!" exclaimed June. “What 4o you mean by that? She's married.” “That's just the dreadful part of it him have anything to do with anybody else. And Mr. Newbury loves her, and doesn't kmow, and tbinks Jerry Barelay is friend.” (Continued Next Sunday.) - =N > 7