The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 25, 1906, Page 3

i / \ '/ 3 / told the colonel that he was the only 8 tant visitor she had f you've another as regular as 1 am,” he had answered, “I'll have te look into it.” Then he had added, in what he fondly thought was a light, unmeaning tone, ‘Don’t even see much of Rion?” “Rion?’ June .ad replied with the arched eyebrows of surprised query. I don’t see him at all.” After that there was nothing more to be sald, except of coursc for the colonel to go to Rion and ask him why he had not called on Miss Allen, and for Rion, red and embarrassed, to answer that he did not suppose Miss Allen would care 1o sec him, but if she did he would go. There was one house to which she did pay constant visits. This was Mitty Sul- livan's, on the north side of town, near the Cresta Plata hoisting works. These were booming days for Mitty Her husba fortyne was mount leaps tao vas to be easily culated The CGrac boys' belief in their superintendént had not been misplaced. The brawny, half-educated Irishman had risén 10 a commanding position, and was respectfully alluded to as having “the best nose for ore in the two States.” He was already very rich. having for the past four vears successfully speculated on * fde information His great gains he princely salary he received sta Plata seem small. He was of the whirlpool now and with him. She had a baby. saw it, backed by the fortune and Barney were making, o- 1o Europe and marrying “a lord.” s horizon had widened with ¢ rapidity since the days when at table at the Foleys hotel. 1e of the afternoons of Rosamund's 3 walked across town for a cup of tea with her old-time ym B street and its neat house- nd gardens she descended to the never-ending movement of the street be- low This—the mailn stem of the mining cliy—forever ‘seething with a turbulent curtrent of life, was the once famous C stréet,’a thoroughfare unique in the his- tory of American towns, The day shift would not be up for hours yet When its ;time was up the mines would vomit forth thousands of me who, penbed all day In the dark, iing heat of .the underground city, would pour into the garish br ey of the overground one for the diversions:of the night. Here, in the gusto of their liberation, they would range till daylight restless eddles of life;' passing one street and down the athéf, never silen never still, pressing véigiely on’ through the noite and - glare, with the encircling blackness hanging round their little piecs of animated, outside world, like an inky street was crowded. stretched up its mile or two of length like a gray neve: ron, filled to both walls with a human river. Under the areade fc d by a continuou of roofs that jutted from the second-story windows across the stdewalk, an -endles. throng passed up and down lected, in- grouns before s overfliowed the sidewalks windows, i encroachied v, congested on' the middle of the ros in 2 close packed, swaylng mass of heads in ffont of the bulletin boards where the stock quotations were pasted up, gathered i lkative knots at corners. he street. in the mud- of which playing cards. bits of orange peel. ical posters. seraps and ribbon were imbedd~d like the pattern in a carpet, was as full the sidewalk. The day of the overlan freighters were past, but orc wagons still drove een-mule teams. the - driver guiding by a single rope, the mules bend- ng their necks under the picturesque ‘hes of thelr bells. Between these v managers flashed by in their bug- ping here and there to lean from their seats for a moment’s converse with a knot of men. In ‘more fashionable cquipages, brought up from San Fr: cisco and drawn by sleek-skinned, 1 - tailed o the wives of suddenly en- riched superintendents lolled back gor- geously, their beruffled silk skirts floating out over the wheel, the light flashing on their diamo Over all this movement of life there was an unceasing swell of sound com- bination of many notes and keys, more noticeable by reason of the outlying rim of silence. Thousands of voices blended into a single sonorous hum, through which broke the jingling of pianos from the open* doors of saloons, the click of ard balls, the cries of the drivers to theif mules, the raucous voice of street hawkers selling wares at populous cor- ners, and the sweet, broken melody of the bells. Beneath this—a continuous level uridertone—was the murmur of machin- ery. with the faint throb of the en beating through it like the sound of the steady, unagitated pulse-beats of a labor- ing. Titan pressed through the throng, walk- ng ravidly - toward the upper end of C street. Here, looking down on the dark d walls and tall chimneys of the Cresta ata, stood the pretty one-story cottage where Mitty Sullivan lived. Tt was sur- rounded by a square of garden, in which Iflacs were budding and apple trees showed a delicate hoar of young blos- som. Mitty's prosperity revealed itself in many ' wa She had a nurse for the baby as well as a “hired girl.” She was exceedingly anxious to spend money and very ignorant of how to do it. She had passed the stage—a récoghized station in the ascending career of the Western wife where her husband had presented her with diamond earrings. The siiver, crys- tal and Britannia metal dn the superin- tendent’s cottage were astonishing, only to be rivaled in extravagance by the dresses whith hung in Mitty's own ward- robe and; which had been ordered—regard- less of cost—from the best dressmakers in 8an_Francisco. She greetéd June with affecticn and arew, her into the parlor, recently fur- nished with a set of blue and gold bro- cade furniture, the windows draped with lambrequins to match. - There was a bril- liant mocuette carpet on the ficor gnd the walls were hung with oil paintings. which Barney had. bought on a recent visit to the coast. A quantity of growing plants in the windows added a touch of beauty to the glaring, over-furnished room. Mitty herself had grown into a bloom- ing matron, a trifie ¢oarse, for she was fond of “‘a good table” and saw to it that her hired girl knew how to produce one, and already menaced by the embonpoint which is so deadly a foe to Californian begut: The baby girl on her arm was a rogily’ healthy infant, with Barney's red hair and her mother’s freshness of color. Twenty years later she Would bring her share of the Bonanza fortune, which her father was then atccumulating, to the res- toration of the old New York family into which she was to marry. Her sister—yet unborn-—was to do the same chari- tabie-act by the castle and estates of an English- Earl, who in return would make;her a countess. The greetings over, the baby was plated] by . the table in her high chair and gilen a string of spools and a rub- ber rabbitt to play with, while Mitty, comfortably tettling herself in zn arm- chair,-inquired if June had notjced the stock quotations on " her way down. The hired.girl, who was setting down : - A = TR, the tea tiay, listened with open atten- tion for the answer. Both mistress and maid were “plunging” according to their means, and when June con- fessed that she had passed the.bulle- tins without reading the figures, the two speculators looked at each other in open dismay. “It's so long to wait till Barney comes home,” Mitty complained. *I thought of course you'd read them as you passed.” June was contrite, but could remem- ber nothing. . “And I wanted to know so much! They say that Peruvian's geting soft. re saying so this morning v You didn’t even hear any- thing as you came along? [ believe you're the only woman in Virginia who doesn't speculate.” June had not even heard. The know- ing volubility of Mitty on the fluctua- tions of stocks in which she was as well versed as Barney himself, seemed little short of miraculous to the only woman in Virginia who didn’t specu- late. The servant, who had been cagerly listening to the conversation, now broke in. “I'll run up and have a squint around, Mrs. Sulllvan Maybe 1 can pick up more than Miss Allen.” Mitty tricd to be dignified and give the proposition a deliberate considera- tion But her consent came with a promptitude it was difiicult to suppress. As the woman whisked out through the kitchen door'she said in a tonc intended to excuse her lack of discipline: That girl’'s got money in Peruvian hearing it was ‘soft’ has sort of set her. last week she told me she $30,000 ahead. She only ‘cume to live with us because Barncy being one of the big superintendents, she thought she’d get points, and as she's an Al girl I've got to humor her. They chatted over their tea, Mitty re- galing her guest with the gossip of the day, of which she was full. hey had been talking some time when the conversation turned on Mercedes and Jerry. It was the first time the subject had come up between them. Mitty kneéw part at least of her friend's story and she had tried to spare her, but she hated Mercedes, who h&d ireated her with scornful indifference, and she ha Jerry -because Bafney did. She was glad now to give her candid opin- ion to the woman they had combined to “They Id it was her heaith that was bad and that was why, she had to quit and go below Health!” with a com- pressing of the corners of her mouth a glance of sidelong msaning. health’s all right; it was her tem- mper!” said June faintly. “Uncle Jim said her roat was delicate and he had a cough 5 snorted Mitty. “We all have <, but we don't leave our husbands apc zo cavorting down o San Franc'sco ta throw round money and pick up some othér man. She didn't care for him. That was all that was the matier. It's a simple case and a lot of ‘em get {t.” June silently stitred her: tea. Every word pierced her, but shé wanted to hear them. She had Leard nothing of the sep- aration. except the genérally =accepted story of Mercedes' delicate health. [n- stinet told her that Mitty, thé woman, had looked deeper and would, know more of what had really been the case. Without spcaking she raised her eyes from the cup and fixed them on the baby, who in an excess of affection was licking the face of the rubber rabbit. Mitty went on with complacent volubility ney thought maybe it was a baby. He's a simple, innocent sort of man, Bar- ney Sullivan. But T said toyhim, ‘Don’t vou fear, there won't be any bables in that house! The Lord ain’t goin’ to make such a break as to give ghat woman a baby.’ I guess not,” sald Mitty, folding her arms and looking grimly round the room zs if challenging an unseen audience to contradict her. e returned tc the stirring of her tea her hostess continued: 4 No. She just hated Virginia. Nobody was standing round hcre to kiss her boots and do the doormat act. And she didn’t like Jerry well enough for him tc make her stand it. You have to like a man 2 good deal to stay here in winter” —in. the tone of one who is forced to admit a melancholy fact. “If you don’t, vou're liable to pretend to get sick and have to go below for a spell. I've seen many of 'em go that way.” “Didn’t Jerry try to stop her?” said Jur 2 low voice. “Try to stop her?’—with angry con- tem “not much! He didn’t care. Why, June Allen, he was glad, downright glad, 1 believe. to have her go. He doa't care for anything under the canopy but Jerry Barclay.” “He cared when he married her.” Jun2's voice was iower still and shook. Her friend. noticed it and determined to sow seed. now she had the opportunity. “Next to himself, Jerry Barclay cares for money. That's what he was after, and he didn’t get it the way he expected. He's got the smoothest tongue any man ever had in his head, and he's used it right along to get money with. How long was Mrs. Newbcrry dead when he got éngaged to Mercedes Gtacey? And do vou suppose he’d have ever asked her if they hadu’t struck one of the biggest ore bodies In Virginla on the fifteen-hundred foot level of the Cresta Plata? But they've got him by the leg up here now,” —with an exultant laugh—‘“the whole three of "em’s on to him. They give him a biz salary and don’t they make him work for it—oh, my! There ain't no drones in the Gracey boys’ hive, vou can bet, and Jerry Barclay's got to hustle for every cent he earns. No San Fran- clsco and good times for -him! If Mer- cedes was to ery and do the loving wife act to Black Dan and say.she couldn’t live wlithout her husband I wouldn't bet but ‘what ‘'she’d get him. But she ain't dghe it. She don’t want him, Junie. That's what's the matter. in that she- bang. Nelther of 'em wants the othet.” “Why did she marry him?" said June. “Why did she—"" The baby here interrupted by giving vent to a loud exclamation, and at the same time disdainfully casting her rubber rabbit on the floor. Thén she leaned over the arm of her high chair, staring with motionless qflemn!u “at ‘the dis- carded rabbit, as if expecting to see it get up and walk away. 2 ““That's the thing that gets me,” said Mitty thoughtfully. “Why did she mar: ry him? 8he could have got a better man than Jerry. though I suppose he was about the best In sight at the time. But she's like the baby. here—always eryin’ and strétchin’ out for toys she can't reach. Then you give her the toy and she Jooks It all over and suddenly gives a gort er disgusted snort and throws it on the floor. She ain’t got no more use for it. and the first thing you know she’ll be stretchin’ out for another one.” June made no answer to this and Mitty, big with her Mercedes ~ wi went . on: 5 “She treated him like dirt. Barney was up there one night while they 'were at dinner. He was just in the room ‘in front with the curtains down between an absorbing sentiment, Ubject, for her dislike ‘of - THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. and thevy didn’t know he was there. He gaid ke could hear her. Qickln' at_Jerry. because he'd been half an hour late for dinner. He sald she kep' on pickin’ and pickin’ and- Jerry not -saying - a -word.. Barney says to me when he got home. “Jerry’s pald high for his position’ And 1 says to him when he told .me, ‘That woman's goin’ to make every one pay high for anything they get out er her. She's not givin® things away free gratis.”” The baby's contemplation of the fallen rahbit had by this time lost its charm. “She threw herself back in her chair and raised her voice in a wail distinctly sug- gestive of weariness of spirit and ennui. Mitty lifted her, a formless. weeping bundie, from her chalr. and June's offer. of the rabbit was met by an angrily re- pulsing hand and a writhing movement of irritated disgust. “She’s tired, poor lamb!” said Mitty. rockiug her gent:y to and fro and slapping her back with a comfortable, maternal hand. “We try to keep her awake till Barney gets in. He just thinks there's nothing in the world like his baby.” The dusk was beginning to subdue the brilliancy of sunset. and June, buttoning herseif into her jacket, bade mother and child good-night. Mitty's cheerful good- bys followed her down the passageway. the baby's now lusty cries drowning the last messages which usually delay femin- ine farewells. Once outside, she walked rapidly toward home, avoiding the ecrowds on C street, and fitting, a small, dark figure, through less frequented byways. Tumult was in her heart, also the sense of dread that had been with her ever since she came to Virginia and knew her old love was so near. Since his marriage she had tried with Gesperate persistence to uproot him from her thoughts. She not only had begun to realize his baseness of character, but the realization was becoming not a matter of worde, but a living force which was Begiuning to chill the feeling that for, <o long had held her in its grasp. The first svmptom of a decline In love. the comprehension and dislike of the faults of the being loved, had begun to stir 33" her. Now Mitty's unexpected revelation had upset this more normal and seréner frame of mind. She felt herself sud- denly swent backward toward a point that she had hoped was far behind. An elation rose in her that frightened her and filled her with shame. Jerry sordid, throwing her from him for the lust of money, was a bearable thought. It was Jer loving and beloved that had been too bitter to be borne. And Mitty had said there was no lave on either side—he was glad to have his wife go. A turmoil of many feelings battlxd in her and the two strongest and most violently opnosed were fear and: Joy As she stole homeward through the darkening streets fcar became stronger than joy. The future loomed suddenly siniste: Her loneliness would soon he gone—gone so far, never again to be réached with an outstretched hand, or a calling voice. And Jerry would be there, close to her, Jerry who did not love his wife, and was glad to have her go. . CHAPTER 1l Smoldering Embers. Rosamund's marriage was set for the end of May. There had been great preparations for the event, which was to be the most brilliant one of its kind that had ever taken place in the town or state. A costly trousseau had been ordered from San Francisco. It was understood that the wedding breakfast was to come from the same blace and be the most sumptuous, and elaborate ever given in Virginia. . Men Neard these rumors with surprise and once more wondered where Allen was get- ting the money “to splurge with.” Even the astute Gruceys were puzzled. Only the colonel was non-committal " and looked on ahietly. i “Rosamund’'s going to have the finest send-off I can give her,” Allen said io him a week before the wedding. “It's the best I can do for her. It's a good thing Harrower's only here for a few days.” The colonel felt like adding it was an extremely good thing, as otherwise Harrower might be called upon to pay for the splendor of his own nuptials Twenty-five thousand dollars - would not. go far with a man, who, with debts' pressing on every side, was spending money at Allen was in giving Rosamund a fine “send-off.” A week before the day set Far- rower arrived and took up his res dence at the International Hotel. It was a feverish, cvercrowded week, full of bustle .nd fussy excitement. There were people constantly at the Murchi- Son.mausion aud Allen was constant- Iy out of it. ‘ilad Harrower been more versed in the ways of the American parent he would have realized that his future father-in-law was avoiding him. But the young man, who thought everything in the place curious and more or.less incomprehensible, regard- ed his behavior as merely another evi- dence of the American father's habit of letting his children manage their own aXairs. je did not like Allen, and wanted as quickly as possible -to get througzh the spectacular marriage and take Rosamund away to the peace of his ancestral acres and the simple country life they both loved. To June thig last week was a whirl of days and nights, reeling by over a dragging, ceascless scnse of pain. To both girls the separation was bitter, Lut Rosamurnd, passing into the arms ,0f an adered husband, for the first time in a hie of unse'fishness did .not enter into her sister's feelings. She wspoke often of the visit June wap to pay.them nexi winter. Lionel wae as dnxious as_ Rosamurd for her to come. - The bridc and grocm were. to, travel on the Continent for part of the summer and ' then visit his people, introducing Rosamund to her new relations. fut by November they would be, setiled in Monk's Court —tiat. was Jdonel's hone —and then June was to come. Rosa- mund even ‘hinted at u cousin ‘of Lidn- el's, a “very decent chap,” Lionel had sald, who was rich and single and “just the right sort for’ June.” There weére six months between now ~and thén—six short months: to Rosa- 1und, beginning a brilliant new Jife with her lover; and six long months to June. alone in the mining city, suf- rounded by the gray desert. The wedding -lay came, and the ex- citement quieted down, to. the sudden ~hush of that solemn noment wheu the voice o a priest proclaims a man and a wonan one. ' The ceremony’ was per- formed in - the house, ' Lionel, after some qualms, having ‘agreed to it June stood heside her sister in the alcove of the bay-window; and listened to the words which oledged her to a man of another country and 'to a life in distant land. Rosamund was pale as she furned from the clergyman to greet the guests that pressed round her. It was a sacred moment to her—the giv- irg of herself in its fullest and deep- est significance to the man she loved till death should part them. . -1t~ was beyond doubt a very bril- liant wedding. The house, ‘hung ywith flowers—every blossom sent up from: Francisco wrapped in cotton wool— 10st its bare, half-furnished look and bécame a bower. The costumes of the women—many imported from Paris—were in-all cases costly and in some beautiful. The men, who squeczed past oné anocher on the stair- way and ‘drank champagne in corners, stood for more wealth than the whole of the far. West had known until the discovery of the Cresta Plata and the Rig Bonanza. The millions that the arid State was pouring out in a silver siream were well represented iu the Murchison mansion that afternoou. The breakfast seemed to June a never- ending procession of raised champague glasses and toasts, She had a vision of the colonel's white head bent toward Rosamund over the low-bowled, thin- stemmea glass in which the golden bub- bles rose, and of the husky note in his voice as he wishéd her joy. She saw her father, with reddened face and blood- shot cyes, rise to his feet, and with the southern fervency of phrase, which he had never iost, bid his daughter God- speed and farewell, the glass shaking in his hand. Harrower stood up beside his bride, her listening face far and spiritual berween the, drooping folds of her veil, and said a few words of thanks, halting and simple, but a man's words neverthe- less. 2 ‘Then the time came for the bride to go up stairs for the change of dress. The guests made a path for her, and June fol- lowed the tall figure with its long, glim- mering train. They said little as Rosamund took off her wedding finery and donned her trav- eling dress. But at the door of the room they clasped each other in a dumb em- brace, neither daring to speak. As she descended Rosamund drew her veil down to hide her tears. Her lips were quiver- ing, her heart was rent with the pain of the parting. June came behind her, calm and dry-eyed, the bleak sense of depres- sion that she had felt for weeks closing round her black and heavy. Part of her- self—the strong, brave part—seemed to be torn away from her with the going of the sister, upon whom she had always leaned. She stood on the balcony and waved her hand as the carriageés drove away toward the statien. Most of the guests went with them to see the bride and groom off. A stream of people poured down the stairs, laughing, chattering, calling ‘back good-bys to June, as she stood by the door. pale but resolutely smiling. She noticed the three tall figures of the col- onel and the Gracey brothers as they crossed the street together, the colonel turning to wave“his hand to her. Her father had gone before them. Finally everybody had left, ‘and she turned slow- Iy back into the deserted house. How " empty it was! Her footsteps echoed in it. She passed into the parlor, into which, from the broad bay-window the afternoon light poured coldly. Linen had been stretched over the carpet, and on this white and shining expanse the broken heads of roses and torn leaves lay here and there. The flowers in the recess wnere the bride and groom had stood were already fading, and the air was heavy with their dying sweatness. She looked into the dining-room at the expanse of the rified table, where the mounds of frult had been broken down by eager hands and the champagne bubules rose languidly in the hailf-filled glasses. There were no servants about and the perfect stlence of the house was more noticeable in this scene of domestic dis- order. She had ascended the stairs and was looking out of a back window when she saw its explanation. From the kitchen entrance the servants, headed by the chef brought up from San Francisco for the wedding, stealthily emerged. Struggling into their coats and hastily jamming on their hats they ran in straggling line in the direction of the depot. intent, as the rest of the world, on seeing the bride de- part. Last of all the Chinaman issued forth, and setting his soft felt wide- - awake on his carefully uprolled queue. stole with soft-footed haste after them. Nothing can be more full of the note of human desolation than an occupied houss suddenly vacated. June passed from room to room fecling the silence as part of the depression that.weighed on her. Through the windows she could sée the wild. mo- rose landscape. beginning to take on the hectic strangeness of, tint ‘that marked its sunset aspect. Its weird hostility was= suddenly intensified, It combined with the silence to augment her sense of lone- liness ' to the point of the unendurable. She ran down the stairs and out on to the curve of balcony which extended from the front door. Some children were playing in the street below, and thelr voices came to her with a note of cheer. Leaning listlessly against the balustrade she looked up the street, wondering when her father would be back. She had ceased to note his comings and goings, but this evéning she watched for his return as she might have done in her childhood. There was no sign of him, and might not be for hours. After the train left he would probably range about the town, whose night aspect he-loved. She turned her head in the opposite di- rectlon, und her eyes became suddenly fixed and her body stiffened. A man was coming down the street, swinging lightly forward, looking over the tops of the houses toward the reddening peak of the Sugar Loaf. There was only one man in Virginia with that natural elegance ot form, that carriage full of distinction and grace, For the first moment he did not see _her, and in that moment June felt none of the secret elation that had been hers in the past at sudden sight of him. In- stead, a thrill of repugnance passed through her, to be followed by a shrink- ing dread. She moved softly back from the balustrade, intending to slip into the haliway, when he turned his head and saw her. £ The old pleasure leaped Into his face. She.saw that he pronounced her name. He flung a cautious logk:about him and then -crossed the road.. With his hand on the gate he gazed up and said, with something of secrecy in his air and voice: ““Have they all gone?”’ % June's ‘affirmative was low. Her repug- nance had vanished. 'Her desfre to re- treat had been paralyzed by .the first. sound of his voice. “And' they've left you all alone?’ The tone was' soft with the caressing quality that to Jerry was second naturé Wwhen an attractive woman listened. “'Yes, ‘they went to. the station to see them off. 1 didn’t want to go. so [ stayed,” she returned stammeringly. Jerry opened the gate. : tone that would reach her ear. ' “I hate to think of you all | and Rosamund_gone. SNk June lookeéd at htm and ‘murmured an affirmative that he could.not have heard, but he put_his foot' on’ the lowest step. She dropped her eyes to her hands resting. on ‘thée balustrade, while the beating of her heart increased with 'his ascending footfall. When he had reached her side she was'trembling. In those few sentences o “Can'T.come up?” he sald In the lowest yourself up flnrg, : 7 3 E - He generally fou “made no effort to enlarge her acquaint- from the bottom of the stairs he seemed suddenly to have obliterated the past year. The words were ordinary enough, but his eyes, his tone, his manner as he now stood beside her, were those of the old Jerry, before Mercedes had stolen him away, . She raised her eyes to’his and imme- diately dropped them. The soft scrutiny of his gaze—the privileged gaze that’ travels over and dwel's on a loved face, with no one to challenge its right—in- creased her flushed distress. Jerry, too, was moyed. . Foy both of them the mo- ment was fraught with danger, and he knew it better than she. ‘“You're all tired out, his tender tone slightly hoarse. g0 in and sit down.” She led the way through the hall, now beginning to grow dim with the first evening shadows, into the long, bare parlor. There was a sofa drawn up against the wall and on this she sat, while Jerry placed a small gilded chalr close in front of her. ““How deserted it looks!” he said, gaz- ing about the room. *“I.suppose everybody was here? I saw a perfect mob of peo- ple going down to the station.” “Yes, everybody went, even the serv- ants. They ‘stole away without telling me. They didn't even wait to clear the things off the table. That's why it's so quiet.” Both spoke rapidly to hide their agi- tation. The woman's was more apparent than the man’s. She kept her eyes down and Jerry watched her as she spoke. It was the first time for ever a year that he had had a chance to scrutinize her at will. She had changed greatly. Her freshness had gone, her face looked small- er than ever and to-day was almost hag- gard. But Jerry had ‘had his fill of beauty. She loved him still, and she was the one woman of the three he had lovel. Bver since Mercedes had left him he had becn telling himself this, and the thought had been taking fiery possession of him, growing more dominant each day. “Rosamund’s made a fine marriage, hasn't she?” he went on, with more flu- ency. ‘“‘Some day she’ll be Lady Rosa- mund, and won't she be a stunning Lady Rosamund? She’'s made for it. Do you remember the time when I was up at Foleys and you had the garden there? ‘What a lot has happened in these last four years." “Yes, a lot,” June assented. A broken rosebud lay on the sofa beside her. She picked it up and began to open its leaves. “And who'd have supposed thcn that Rosamund was going to live in England, and some day be Lady Rosamund?” There was a slight pause, and he added in a lower voice, as if speaking to him- seif: “Who'd have supposed any of the things were going to happen that did?” June pressed apart the rose petals in silence. v “Who'd have supposed I would have done the things that I have done?” he sald, speaking in the same low voice, but- now it was suddenly full of significance. He was looking directly at her. His eyes called hers, and with the rosebud still in her hand, she looked into them for a long motionless moment. It was a look of revelation. He saw her will, like a trapped bird, fluttering and struggling in his grasp. “You're just the same, June,” he said on a rising breath. she faltered, “I've changed y¥. You don't know how I've changed. I'm quite a different person.” “But you haven't lost faith in me?” he said, leaning nearer to her. She drew back, pressing her shoulders against the sofa. and gazing at him with a sort of suspended apprehension® He did not seem to notice her shrinking and went on impetuously: “You understand if there were mistakes and errors and—and—and—miserable mis- understandings, that I was led into them. T was a blind fool. Mercedes never cared for me: She told me so thyee months after we were married. She left me of her own free will. She was glad to go, and I—well, T'll tell you the truth, June —I wasn't sorry.” His face was full of angry confession. He had had no intention of talking to her in this'way, but now he suddenly wanted to reinstate himself in her good opinion and be soothed by her sympathy. She stopped him. “Don't talk about it. Tt's done. if vcu made a mistake, it's done, and that's the end. Oh, Jerry. don’t talk about it.” She rose to her feet; the room was get- ting dim. - Outside the royal dyes of sun- =ct had faded from the sky and the twi- light was softly settling. “I'll have to light the gas,” she stam- mered. “The ‘servants haven't come in, yet. This half-light makes me blue.” Jerry stood aside as she went to the mantel and from among the embanked flowefs drew the matchbox. The chande- ifer hung just above his head draped with garlands of smilax. It was high and as June came forward with the lighted mateh, he stretched .out his hand to take it from her. They were close together under the chandelier as their hands touched. Each felt the tremulous cold of the other's fingers and the match dropped, a red spark, between them. With . suddenly-caught breath Jerry stretched his arms out to clasp her, but she drew back. her hands outspread be- fore her, crying: “Don’t, Jerry,.don’t! Oh, please don't!" She backed away from him and he fol- lowed her, not speaking. his face set, his arms ready to enfold her. She was stop- ped in her récoil by the sofa, and stand- ing against, it she looked at him, with agonized pleading, whispering: “Don’t, Jerry. Oh, please go. Please go and leave me! You loved me once.” He stopped, stood looking at her for a ‘moment of. stricaen {tresolution. then turned without a word and left the room. June fell on the sofa, her face in her hands. She heard his step in the passage. then sharp on every stair a& he ran down to the street. In the darkening room she sat trembling. her face hidden, alone in the empty house. g CHAPTE™ IV, 3 . A Woman’s “No.” Rion Gracey called on June as the colo- nel had suggested, called again the week after, and in a short time fofmed a habit of dropping in every Sunday evening. He generally found the colonel there. and In he said, with “Let's ‘the first stages of reopening the friendship the elder man had been very convenient in relleving the meetings of the constraint which was bound to hover over them. But as the spring Sundays passed and the constraint wore away, Rion did not so tharoughly appreciate the presence of his friend. WIith surprise at his own sub- tility—for the mining man was of those who go ' forcibly —over obstacles, not ound " them—he- discovered what even- ings: the colonel did not dine with June and began to make his appearance then. ‘founa her alone. She had ance, and” after. the wedding her father was constantly in San Francisco or at more congénfal haunts in the town. It ised agitating in Rion to see that she was openly and unaffectedly glad to see him. There was a confidence, a some- thing of trust and reliance in her man- ner that—for him—had not been there be- fore. He thought ghe had never been so winning as she was on these lonely even- ings, when ber face lighted at the sight of him. and her smile was full of a soft welcome, touched with girlish shyness. Women like to think that the beloved member of their sex plays so filling and absorbing a part in the life of the en- slaved man, that all other matters are crowded from his mind. The interests of business dwindle to the vanishing point, the claims of friendship have no place in a heart out of which all else has been pushed. Love, while it lasts, uolds him in a spell, and then, 1 only then, the woman is a reigning goddess, Rion Gracey was not of \this order of man. He had loved June since his meet- ing with her at Foleys, but he had led a life so full of work and business, so preoccupled with a man's large affairs, that there were periods of weeks when he never thought of her. Yet she had been and was the only woman he had ever truly cared for and ardently desired. Before his meeting with her women had been merely incidents in his enward ca- reer. When, during the summer at Foleys, he had come to know her, he had realized how different was the place she would have taken in his life from the transitory interests which were all he had so far known. Then, for the first time. he understood what a genuine passion means to a genuine man. ‘When she had refused to marry him he had left her sore and angry. But the crowded life in which he was so prom- inent a figure soon filled with vital in- terests every moment of his day His wound was not healed, but he forgot its ache. He rigorously pushed the thought of her from his mind. She was not for him, and to think of her was weakness Then he heard a rumor that Barclay was an admirer of hers, and he shut his mouth and tried harder than ever not to think. But time passed and June did not mar- ry. Jerry, given his freedom, married Mercedes. Rion, a man to whom small gossip was dull, a thing to give no heed to as one walked forward, heard none of the talk of Jerry's change of heart. It filtered slowly into Virginia, which was across the mountains in another State, and occupied in a big way with big mat- ters. Even Barney Sullivan, who was well primed with San Francisco gossip after Mitty’s return from visits “down below." did not mention to his chief anything of Miss Allen and Jerry Barclay. ‘When he heard she was coming to Vir- ginia the love-obsession that the woman likes to belleve in came near taking pos- session of him. For a day or two he was shaken out of the current of his every- day life and found if hard to attend to his work. The thought of seeing her again filled this self-contained and masterfu’ man with tremors such as a girl might feel at the coming of her lover. The first time ne saw her on C street he found it difficult to collect his thoughts for hours afterward. The change in her, the loss of what good looks she had once possessed, did not di- minish or alter his feeling. If he had been asked if he thought her pretty he would have honestly sald he did not know, he had never thought about it He did not know how old she was. nor could he cite any special points of beauty that his eye, as a lover, had noted. He only physical attribute that had impre: ed him was her smallness, and this he had noticed because in walking with her. her head only came to a little above uis shoulder, and he was sometimes forced to bend down to hear her. He had been wondering what to do when the cclopel asked him to call. Un less the suggestion had come from some one in authority he never would have dared to go, for he was a lover at once proud and shy, not of the kind who bat- ter and browbeat a woman into aec- quiescence. Her first meeting with him, dominated as it was by mutual embar- rassment. at least showed him that she was not displeased to see him. Since then the meetings had been frequent. her pleasure at his coming open for any one to see. and Rion's hopes, in the beginning but faint. had waxed high and exultant. To June, he and the colonel were the only two figures of an intimate interest in her life. He seemed to fill its emptine: to cheer its isolation. She looked for ward to his coming, hardly knowing why. except that a sense of comfort and strength came with him. He was often in her thoughts, and she found herself stor- ing up small incidents in her daily life to tell him, for no reason but that his un- spoken sympathy was pleasant. She felt the consciousness—so sweet to women— that all which concerned her was of mo- ment to him. Now and then the colonel's past assertion. that the girl who married Rion Gracey would be happy. rose in her mind. She began to understand that it might be so. and what it woula mean, this strong man's love and protection guarding a woman against the storm and struggle of the world, with which she personally was so unfitted to cope. One evening., « month after the wed- ding, he found her sitting on the balcony reading. It had been warm weather for a day or two and the windows and doors of the lower floor were thrown open. showing the receding vista of dimly lighted rooms and passages. She was dressed in white and had a book he had given her Iying open across her knees. As the gate clicked to his opening hand she started and looked down, then leaned forward, her face flushing, her lips part- ing with a smile of greeting. It was a look that might have planted hope in any ‘s heart. m so glad you've come,” she sald, gazing down on him as he ascended. “I was just wondering if you would. When you want a thing very much it never seems to happen. But now yow've hap- pened, so I never can say that again.” “Yes, I've happened,” he answered with the phlegmatic air with which he hid his shypess. “Are you all alone again?" “Yes, quite alone. But I've been read- ing the book you gave me and it's made me forget all about it. I've nearly finished ft. It's a splendid book.” “T'll get you another to-morrow.” he said. leaning with his back against the railing and looking at her with a fond intentness of which he was unconscious. She was pretty to-night in her white dress and with her cheeks flushed with pleasurs at his coming. Rion, who did not notice looks, noticed this, and it stirred his eart. “Let's go in,” he sajd. “There's a sort of chill in the air. You mustn't catch cold. If you got sick you'd have to be sent down to S8an_Francisco. There's no proper person hers to take care of you.” She rose and stood In front of him, half turned to go. “Wouldn't that be dreadful!” she said with careless lightness. “I wouldn't go. Uncle Jim would have' to give up his work on the Cresta Plata and take care of me.” “We wouldn’t want you to go,” he an- swered, as he followed her into the hall. “Anyway, I'd want to keep you here.” She did not appear to notice the change of pronoun, mor the fact that his voice had dropped on the last sentence. With her, white dress sweeping spectrally before he followed her Into the dim parlor. (Concluded Next Sunday.)