The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 1, 1906, Page 4

| THE _— L. From Last Sunday.) was ence in the bell jingled amp of the n could be floors out- e child nestled on s She tried to jute t no tenderness v e, insisting ‘ from her figh ed ani- out . her said with go.” she do anything mean to do?’ he she answered 1 . . e here to find out w 1 felt, and 1 wanted came over in the ent Vaughan, but e at -woman I said I said it t i Well '3 and again she Hu she said bl We were want i X wh u '] nto it."” T - e question,” he returned k same. I'm not | ite well aware of | a r me you would sar hade mo attempt to rding her draw ¥ € > days She gazed k at eking herself the same stion tie A1 of the eyelids, a £ . lip betrayed that in . was not all dead that he and to do?" she asked ) thout 0-oper- r ar 1 take a w yme has suffi- S . she exc 1 o hav fiscontinue yur work, forever your « osed e of » w it down with a 1 \ the struc- and there was a ma ves as if she saw it he asked answerad. *'Ses here, may as well come Il go back to Eng- iet bygones be bygones. She paused and looked the masses of dark .hair fingers nad strayed in “sweethearting” to the own lips had pressed, feeling wrung won't from y 0 their her m of womanly she whispered, “go back k. and leave the little church flock, the stir, the struggle. the o back to a smug, comfor e, 8, rksome existence? 1 he said piteously every one does it ke here " she said coldly, and he that the truth | ouldn t like it if I was here v ve she added. This, alas. was aung, the complaint, the outward rebellion He knew Deliz would_do. vou won't ing v go,"” she said It's because leave he yice. won't Clement Vaughan Iu spoil you for anm: that friend - said so. n I ng, 1 I wouldn't say anything till off now' to her she She arose ider. the escape from what had st eresting inter- dinner. the lit- his thin, white on a farewell By-by!"” he shrilly By-by!” » watched them mechanically as opened and closed upon them— his wife and child, his wife and child! e found hie w 1l strength and con- as :d been before, by nfluence. That was why he had Was this not an excuse, a And the other—it crept softly back upon the tingle of the sense, the rapture nion.. With them came the con- com f wrong, and, to his horror and ensified the charm! For the st time thought of Katharine Chis~ , of her a temptation! He t ed from e to side, like a wild caught in a re. The life into which he was born, the habits of auster- t of rifice, to which which he had vol- earlier generation, the delirtum but it was as Lucifer in vain, rebeuious pro- the men whom mned? Was the a thing to defy heaven . n why call on God? rred to him, “What hat was he indeed? his strivings and pray- of charity, his hours of parson?’ No saint n to smoking flax’ not be broken. the smoking flax would not | temptati But the bruised reed, sed reed would be quenched—with promised the w would find it! every temptation was v of escape! He must, he CHAPTER XXX. EUREKA CHANGES FRONT. T never was anything quite so homesick and forlorn as Annie Otter. She | had cried until her little peaked nose was | as pink as the raspberries growing in her grandmother's garden at home; her| bulging blue eves looked as if they had | been stitched in with red worsted. “H'I'm back ind by one oi the boarders, pos- sibly as hostage for the board money still owed to Mrs. McClintock. The wyellow dog nestled against her skirt€. He knew what it was to be home- sick and forlorn. '‘He looked sympathy and commiseration out of his cinnamon- brown eyes and whined. They two were on the back stoop, awaiting the last call to dinner, while Annie’s mistress talked with her man, who wasn't her man any more; neither was Annle to call her by L ship, brought him near. back to the study and | this | the bright, shining one, was | SAGEBRUS PARSON.. . .. his name—when they’d come all *his wsy | The rap at the dcor aroused her. him! Oh, it was dreadful en E€he turned wide, startied eyes upon her and impossible to be borne! | sister as Emmeline entered, : goin’ back ’‘ome,” said Annie| “pid yvou say Ccme in'? l'_v\fnsnt Otter. sure,” Emmeiine began plaintively, then piunged at opnce into the middle The boarders clattered out and down the front steps. Onme or two of the of her tale. “Oh, Katbarine, I don't ¥ ca ross . know what vou'll say! I have such a ;‘.mnxu men called across the yard to| (7O0% NI, B0 owe for you! Some- i thing perfectly awful has happened!” Hi‘there, Posy Katharine sprang to her feet, re- “Don’t cry, Sissy. ‘Taint as bad as ner forebodings. “What na.t it Jooks: 2" she cried. “Is any one hur “Wait till the clouds roil by, Mamie!" One never knew what might Annie Otter bolted for the Kitc ureka. the vellow dog at her heels, and co o e 3 ian that!” returned Miss ool oo o ot el ik Revdonftins meline solemnly. She seated herseif DN Mo . Yaushian send.. Cset straight-backed chair, herself as Annie asked, then clapped. both hands over her mouth “The widder” jumped. She had heard agitated voices in the front room, uch a revelation went beyond the jest conjecture. han’s still a-talkin® id cunningly ord. The rest don't say a of ain't to know. Annie's look of wretchedness changed to one of relief. It was such a con ! fort to have some one else in the ret! A secret unshared is the most nopeless form of solitary confinement | “Baby there, to she queried replied Mrs. McClintock nt to see him—There She scuttled awa the ront room but if i herself oi Fate had put intc was still that olc Dale to be wiped out of the countless occa when the parson had shown hi e of her and his contempt. Sh hurried into the hall. Della was al ady halfw: up the stairs with the he at her mercy ur hurry?” she called fa didn’t ye ask your hus d to stay and eat dinner with ye? a looked down over the bannister Her face was white. Should she deny er true r s woman? Whitex yet she grew, e did not speak. Ye oughter kep ver husband to ea wi:h ye!” repeated the in direction of the Her heart was in her throat, choked her, she must e opportunity that her hands. There ore over Dick ¥ nothing avail The parson had gone; but his wife was ¥ y t's but andlady. | “mmeline. “To think that I've let that| Tell that hard-featured mocking | man hold' my hand and go to sleep the | creature that she was not Clement|way he di i Vrughan's wife? Impossible! Katharine lauglied, a wild, hysterical He was in a hurry this noon. ‘Hellaugh, then drew a long, sobbing | will be in again, later,” she said loftily. | 1, ‘wrapping her dignity of married womanhood about her, went on to he room Very soon after she had entered there came a tap at the door. “I wanter entrewed,” said Mrs. McC tock, entering, “but I v thinkin p'r'aps you'd like somethi differaat for dinner. The rest of us had p'a feet.” She seated herself in a rociing- chair and rocked to and fr). | “It makes very little difference what| “lHow do I look?" asked Katharine. I bave,” snapped Delia, “so I am al- “Oh, I can't te]l you—as if you had| lowed to ecat it alone and in peace. Tell|jost evervthing.” Miss Emmeline |, | Annie to bring the baby’'s milk. and g |stretched out her small, jeweled hands| | cracker, and be quick about it!” She|in protest. | | opened the door into the hall “1 have,” said Katharine, speaking as | “My, but she's a Tartar!" commented the landlady, descending the stairs. “T guess he's £t his dose, all right, with- out any nelp from me.” She found over to her mistress. to be dealt with as Delia saw good, then threw a shawl over her head and went out the back way through the alley to Mag Reddy's To her, with voluble comments upon the story, she handed the torch. Mag handed it to Billy, her man. Billy took it to Jackson's salcon. Before midnight had | ned that this was no ordinary call| hac | lationship to Vaughan before | Annie and delivered her ght and unconforming. ‘“Katha- . vou know I never did believe in man as you did!” You mean Mr. Vaughan,” said Katharine. She resumed her seat at the piano. Here were more preposter- “Has Mr. Haver- Mr. Winslow, ous stories, evidently. | ford been here? No? perhaps? Who hag been so kind as to bring you the latest gossip about Mr. " | Vaughan?” “You won't speak like that when I tell you what Mrs. Wellman said. Yes, it was Mrs. Wellman herself who told me. She got it from the Morgans, who hedrd it direct from Mrs, Barker, and he- heard it from— ever mind whom she heard it | vom,” interrupted Katharine impa- jently. “What did she hear?” “She heard,” said Miss Emmeline, Iragging her words out with irritating :ave come out to him from where he ived in England: ** she paused. Every particle of colar had left the yright face before her. slack with intensity of emotion, trans- ixed her where she sat. And a child repeated Katharine. “Yes, a woman and a child. First she said she was. Anyway, o see he the McClintock boarding- nouse; was there for hours, this very norning- 3 “This very morning?" repeated Kath- | arine. This very morning, when she had dreamed herself into his arms! image of him. The woman is quite sreath meline,” she said sternly, “did Wellman feel sure—that this—- Sure? Do you suppose Mrs |if the story wasn't true? sShe was wild!—Don’t look like that, Katharine! I should think.you'd be glad you'd found him out. Don’t look like that!" if to some one far away, out of sight; “lost everything, all faith in God. and man. I have said of him, “He makes me believe in the Immaculate Concep- tion. He is what Christ would have been with a human father. His is the veulization of the sins of the world { which he cannot take away, the burllen | he is aficted and which he cannot re- move! He bearsin his body the marks of human suffering. He is one of those on whom the stigmata are to be found. the conflagration had spread from the | They jeiger Grade to Richmond \Hill | intonations of his voice It was Mrs. Wellman who ignited| Here Miss Emmeline, who had broken Miss Emmeline, seeking her out for!in, every now and then upon the impas that purpose as -she set alone in the|sioned words with little cries of ex- library reading. Katharine was in her | >wn room, plaving softly to herself on) the piano. The rest. save the children, who were in bed, had gone to one of the infrequent dramatic performances given by traveling companies in the town hall “I never was | days” said Mrs. | had repeated what Mr. Morgan said that Mrs. Barker said that Mrs. Jack- son said her husband told her. “And Shed’s out of town, as he always is when there's anything going on 1 so upset in all Wellman, my when she | ‘Katharine, lation, cried out 1 of you. don’t blaspheme “Is it blasphemy to tell the truth inquirea Katharine, still speaking in that far-away, dreaming voice., “I'm only saying it because I must say it to 0! one. And you won't tell; you | won't even take it in.” “Of course I won't tell,” said Miss | Emmeline with energy. “1 wouldn't for |the world have any one know that you {ever said such things! How vou ever post be THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. k jeliberation, “that a woman and child | Only the eves, | “A woman?| he sald she wasn't his wife and then| he's been | ‘And the child, every one says, is the | l#ood-looking, a blonde,” finished Aunt| Well- | man, of all women in the world, would | come over here, all upset as she was,| You know | | how the Wellmans have felt about him. | of the sorrow of the world with which | | ' be “good™ to him. He was already be- ginning to see this place through her eves. It was indeed a different Eureka that he saw. He no longer went gayly forth to meet it, amused by its crudities, tole- rant of its faults, welcoming its whim- sical advances, touched by its unexpect- ed kindness. The crudities were coarse, brutal even. The faults paraded themselves |openly; and there were nn advances, the kindness had ceased. Eureka had | changed front. When it dealt with him at all it was roughly, familiarly, in a | manner very different from its former obsequiousness. Well, what of that? He was no bet- ter than other men; he asked no better treatment. He had never demanded homage to “the cloth.” He was willing to be judged as a man. That they | should forget how he had served them, | night and day, at any cost, with prodi- | gal expenditure of strength and time— ah, well, let it go. He had not asked for appreciation or gratitude. There was the thing to be done and he had done it. ¥ But it was hard that the only places in town where he now felt at home were the little church with the study where he slept, when he slept at all, and the McClintock boarding-house, where Delia continued to conduct her experiments. CHAPTER XXXIL A Call From the Supcrintendemt of Missions. It was pitiful to see the little church &0 down. The first Sunday the Morgans stayed away; the next, Mrs. Weliman and Tom and Maud. After that, most of the women dropped out. Shed kept on. So did Jo and Tim Noonan and the other miners. So-did Dick. Jack came more regularly than ever. Barker | manifested a sudden zeal which was evidently designed tg atone for the ab- sence of his daughter Louise from the | organ. There was no one alse who could play, so- the preacher became again the organist, as during the first Sundays after his arrival. 3 He appeared not to notice the dwind- ling of his congregation. His ch fulness and patience were indef: |able. He continued to preach with fervor, to pray as if speaking to One who heard him; and he sang with a melancholy sweetness which brought moisture to the eyes of more than one | |of the rough men present. As luck would have it, even these pitifully few adherents lessened. Shed was obliged to go away on business. This was early in November. The tenth of November the superintendent of missions was due on his agnual visi- tation. He had left Eureka till almost the end of the tour. promising there to comfort himself for the disappoint- ments and discouragements encoun- | tered elsewhere. He had been kept in- formed by Frank Henley, until within the past six weeks, on the subjects which Vaughan was too modest to men- tion; had been told of the ‘“dare,” of the debate, of other victories achieved | by Vaughan. He stopped at Galena on ‘his way, but Frank confessed he had ueard nothing from Clement for over a month. “I haven't even had a Sentinel from m,” said Frank. “I'd promised Mary to go over if I didn't hear soon. Tell him so. . Tell him I'll be over some time next ‘week.” g “I'll do so0," said the superintendent, and rode off into the gay autumnal landscape. It seemed to open and close upon him. Over him brooaed a dull gky. Around him the outlines of the {mountains were dissolved into soggy masses, without form eor strength. From an indistinguishable hiding-place in their dark sides emerged a band of coyotes that followed him at a respect- ful distance, but near enough to give him an uncomfortable sense of being watched and shadowed. The gray of the sagebrush was | grayer than its wont. The rain had . made the roads heavy. Where he crossed the alkali flats every footprint of his horse filled with the ooze of the thought them is more than I can com- | | prehend. But you always did have such t had to talk to somebody, so I|an imagination!" come over here.—Shed fairly worships| Katharine turned away with an im- the ground that man walks on.—1 don't know what on earth the church’ll do. 1 suppose it'll go to pieces again.—The | fort have to superintendent take it up. of Missions 'l He sent him here.” “Has anybody seen her?" asked Miss “The Emmeline, in h woman, 1 mear shed, awed tones day she came, stand front of Jack Per: saloon, talkin’ with him, with the child in her arms. Just think, a.child! on the corner in " suggested she ain't,” First, she the visitor. then she said she wa: said she was, looks queer, his not saying a word all this time.” “Yes, it does,” said Miss Emmeline. The vague doubts and suspicions which the young preacher had aroused in her upon his arrival returned. No wonder he made her feel queer. What would Katharine say tened absent-mindedly, while Mrs. Wellman went on repeating gossip, hearsay and supposition. Now and |then she interjected a sympathetic or encouraging exclamation. “lI must go!" length. Miss Emmeline down the steps, off into the velvety October darkness. There was a damp, unwholesome odor of decaying vegeta- tion in the afir. quivered before it. It somehow seemed related to the story she had heard, an atmosphere to be avoided, to guard one's self against. She instinctively laid about her for a jjotecting counter- influence. Katharine ought to know, anyway. She tiptoed acros$s the hall land rapped at he door of the little sit- ting-room. Katharine sat before the piano, |dreamily fingering the keys. Her heart had been filled with strange, changing emotions since dawn. The sleepless |4 presence that enfolded and claimed | her, had carried her through the morn- ing hours in a sort of rapturous dream. ‘Then had come the reaction, the loss of the presence. She had dropped to the hard earth, filled with vague ter- rors, questions, doubts. In this mood she had wandered about all day and had finally turned to, the little song for | comfor: ana support. “1 take the Joy, 1 dare the Pain! 1 dare the Pain!” she had sung over and lover to herself. Of course there must | be pain, there must be hurt; nothing 20 great as this could be had without a | price. Life was life, the world was the | world. “He sang the Pgin meankind must | know.” Was he suffering now, as she | suffered? There was comfort in the thought; that, too, induced companion- “Mrs. Morgan thinks she saw her the n’ exclaimed | She lis-| said Mrs. Wellman at| watched her Her delicate nostrils | night, the Intoxicating consciousness of | patient gesture. “Would you mind Very gig nis work. Eureka could be handed | , Emmeline,” she said with an ef-| ouer to one of these . “if I asked you |and leave me alone?" | “Wny, no,” said her sister amiably. | “Phere come Arthur and Mabel and | Ned. She hurried out into the hall. Katha- rine could hear her exciaim and ques- tion, could hear Arthur's low reply. _Emmeline had asked him if he knew. He had answered yes. They all wenc |into the room opposite for a consulta- | tion. -They were asking Emmeline how | she, Katharine, “took it.” They would wonder what to say to het or if they should ignore the topic altogether. She would have to meet them in the morn- ing, knowing that they knew, and they would know that she knew. And there was £0 much more behind which they did not know, but of which she would be conscious; her blind faith, her un- qualified surrender, her agony of humil- iation. Why did he not tell her, if the woman was his wife? Was she his wife? Why @id he—he—what had he done? Sh- had taken the ipitiative, from the time he brought Eisie home. From be- ginning to end it h}d been her doing, hers alone. Ile had even evaded her. She had followed, invited, encouraged, overwhelmed him. She would have made him a king in the dazzled eves of Eureka; instead he was to be—scorned here, sneered at there—she saw it all plainly. H!s name would become a byword, a jest, in the saloons and dancehalls and dens: not that his ex- perience was a new thing to them, but because of the high stand he had taken. He could not meet it, he must not. There was no tact, no resource that could combat such a condition. He could not—not now—outwit, overcome his enemies; charm, convince his friends. He must go away. Would he? It was not like him. It was more like him to stay in the changed Eureka, a coarse, cruel Eu- reka, a place he had not Xknown till now. Through all the indignation and hurt and soreness which filled her crept unnamed terrors, apprehending trage- dies to come. The man through whom she had been humiliated and wounded went obstin- ately on, as she had foreseen that he would do, making his dally morning call upon his wife and child, pleading with the woman, coaxing the chiid. Sometimes they seemed on the point of vielding. The woman softened, the child smiled. Then, with a common impulse, they turned their backs on him. He no longer attempted to study or write. Each 'c.? begun with uncertainty, end th dismay. :htht; Delia saw plainly. _of the screw and the thi: would be h Bim sately mk\l‘-w&‘mflm AN hideous, yeilow alkali water, John Harman was not in a frame of mind to resist the somber influences of the day and the scene. Wherever he had been he had found affairs in a more than usually depressing condition. One preacher drank, another was lazy. Most of his missioners were men of conscience; but they were not men of abuity. The shrewdness, the snap, the endurance seemed to be all enlisted on the other side. Thank heaven there was Vaughan Would that there were more like him! {1 Some of the younger men must be sent| down to Eureka to see how Vaughan neophytes and to go to bed now | yaughan could be sent to start another mission. There suould be one at Elko. Vaughan and see what he thought. 1t was afternoon when he drove up mans', where he always stayed. and Maud ran out to meet him mother followed slowly. She was a tall, angular woman of New England ancestry. Shed, who was born in the Middle West, declared “that was all that ailed her.. When she had scruples and convictions, or, as he said, bore down,” he would exclaim “There vou go, Sarah! Plymouth Rock! I'd have it cut out!” But she was a good woman, and upon that very foundation- stone of her character which was some- times a stone of stumbling to her easy- going husband he leaned perpetually The only time of weakening he had ever known in her was when she had learned, during his absence, of the ad- vent of the woman and child from Eng- land, and in her perplexity and worry had flung herseit and her confidences upon Miss Sinclair, “It warn't a bit like her,” he mused. “She must have been pretty well up- set.” Her demeanor, today, when she met the superintendent, showed that she was not yet mistress of herself. He noticed it, being in t habit of no- ticing the mental condition of those he had to deal with, but attributed it to anxiety over the burden of entertalning him during Wellman's absence. This was, indeed, the subject of her firs Tom their she said earnestly, ‘a8 if Shed was always out of town when folks come. He says he'll be back tonight. Youwll stay over night?” Re- assured on this core, her mind re- verted- to the other topic, never far from her consciousness: “He's always away when things happen. That's the way it was when the trouble came.” “Trouble?” repeated Harman, looking puzzled. * “Oh, dear, hain't you heard!" sighed Mrs. Wellman. “Have I got to be the one to tell you? Warn't there nobody to tell you but me?” “I came directly here said Harman. “I thought I wouldn't go to the church until later. I wrote Vaug! to that effect. I hadn't heard from him, di- rectly or indirectly, for some weeks, but he knew I was traveling about— 'does the trouble concern him?" For a pained look had stolen over Mrs. Wel man’s face at the mention of Vaughan's name. _ Sarah Wellman choked and swallowed ."t‘:-fih'h: .r.un- shed 1 i e 117" Hi ¥ his bills? Has he habits?” A Story oEarly Life in the State of Nevada He would talk the matter over with| Richmond Hill and haited at the Well- | “I'm afraid he-got into them before he came here,” she blurted out. “I can't tell you—I can’t do it. There's Mr. Wilkins coming up the road. Tommy, run and ask Mr. Wilkine to step in a| minute.” She turned to her guest. “I'm goin’ to see about dinner. He'll tell you all you wanter know.” A few searching questions brought out the whole story from Ned. He be- | |lieved Vaughan had told the truth, but| 4 of course things were in an awful mess | Was now a fact! —the church had very nearly gone to|none! Dieces. X L But he must escape or go mad. How “Tou know how people are: they're|d1d men escape from the recurring tor- : 5 like sheep,” said Ned. “They piled in|tUie of 2 thousht like thie? = = L there, the church wouldn't hold them.|p, b0 .o squat, black flask, the dévil’ Now they've all gone the other way. :er;\'oy answering him. ““Fake me, ‘can understand how Vaughan couldn't| . ot o™ ) ce me and forget!” 2 talk about his troubles when he came "} : o Here T4 wob peiractly matnent foriguen] . SEat: was th8 lemplation, the fory of it, he saw now, at last; that was the a sensitive fellow as he is to say noth- | . i o ing, and go along B |plea which sorrow and shame a1} des “His friends at Galena knew X"_".h‘"!,‘liel“elflvon found irres:stible. That was O B e Wrney suid |t} Net the ‘appéal to: the'puists. (ke v p d body, the ap- . [glo“ through the chilles y :"fi;f‘fn‘i"r':(f‘r";"fniffifi him or 86en | peasing .of hunger and thirst, but es- . - ape! He caught the flask. un'l:orkl_’d it [ There ;la::k;‘;zhi&sh;:’ e BaperSy | With trembling fingers and raised It to Penrose showed his friendliness. There |Nis lips. No, mo. not 'het wev: are number of us who still believe in | Vaughan—but, of course, this thing is bad for the Church.” “It's ruinous!” said Harman. bear it, he, a young man! The pitiless vears spread out before him, monoton- ous, arid as the desert around the can- yon! thought of them. How could he endure this fate, this destiny, this lot in whicn he had no choice? It had haunted him since Delia came, as a threat, defied ad ignored— as a possibility, combatted, resisted. It Escape there was | | | | way of the brute! Where then? Out into the free air, under the open sky, as often before, He ate his dinner in silence, and as| | where! With somewhat of the oid soon as he had swallowed the last mouthful immediately left the house. Vaughan was waiting for him in the doorway-—a somber figure, with rest- less eyes which burnt themselves into Harman's memoery. He had otulived the period of heroic endurance, ex- hausted his patience. He was a man at bay, fighting with his back against the wall. Harman's first words were not calculated to Soften the situation.| “I am surprised and shocked,” he began | Eureka streets and climbed the Geiger Grade. & The gray day was closing. The can- | von lay in shadow. Beyond it the plain | stretched, dull and undefined. Here and there lights twinkled in the small, awkward mining town. Its smallness, its awkwardness had always appealed to him. They touched him now. Poor little uneasy. Eureka! By tomorrow it would be back at his knees, like a way- ward child, begging to be taken to his reart again. But tomorrow was out of m here,” said Vaughan filppantly “and so is the building. That's abou’ |all. Come in.” He led the way to the 1is reach—for the good of the church! study. Harman followed and seatec He hllrrh_’d away from- the town n!r:d himself ponderously in the chair beforc vent on, blinded by a rush o_f tears. ‘: the desk. He whirled half way around [ Was nearly at the summit now. turn in the road brought him to the nd took an ivory paper-cutter from ¢ s e zreat rock which marked the highest | the desk to occupy his nervous fingers before he continued. He was not|Ddoint. Some one was sitting there, a pleased with Vaughan's manner. woman wrapped in a long cloak. She “Of course,” he said formally, “you | itarted up at his approach, and he saw hat it was Delia. She had the child cannot go on like this.” n her arms. “What do you want me to do?" in- quired the young preacher. “What do you think I should have done in the | first place?” The superintendent cleared his throat | once, twice. 5 “Well, as to that, he began tatingly. “The—ah—secrecy—" “What secrecy?”’ demanded Vaughan “No one asked if I was married. 1 did my best to bring about a recon- ciliation. Nothing would serve excep! to throw up my work here and return to England.” “That,” said Harman positively, what you should have done!” VaugHan stared. Then he burst into a loud laugh. “Perhaps you think I'd better return to England, now. he queried. CHAPTER XXXIL Mzrtin Young Tells What He Saw. Those were dull days at Jack's. Jack was like a surly old lion; he showed iis teeth to every one who “got gay.” Whoever had a story to tell told it in an undertone, ineffectively, missing the point, and winning only a faint, half- hearted response. As for singing, there was none of it Who could enjoy a glass under such circumstances : It was whispered around among the frequenters of the salon that Jack would have to go out of the business. Late that hcilly November afternoon, however, after the gray day when the hesi- o Gald the Superintendent, -1|superintendent of ~missions called on i do, most assuredly.” He beat the air | VAUSHSN, & crowd had gathered such with the paper-cutter, measuring oft | 28 Not been sebn at Jack's in weeks All the old set were there and many others who came but seldom, Barker, Winslow, Ned Wilkins, as wel! as Jo and Dick and Tim ~Noonan. This was partly due to the weather, which, like the crack of a whip, on the first cold nights, is apt to drive human ani- mals hercing together. And it was due also, in part, to the report that the supesintendent of missions was his words. “The reputation of a clergy- man is something that cannot be tam- beat the air. "Once gonme, it is gone forever; it cannot be recovered. It makes no difference how innocent a man may be, if he has placed himself or ben placed in a position to bring disgrace upon the church, there is nothing to do but open the door—" “And kick him out," finished vaughan. "I see. But what if I re- in town, had come, in fact, to fuse to b® kicked out?’ There was|Patch up matters for the Par- son. Some said the thing couldn’t be done, others contended that the Parson would be more popular than ever in a month’s time. The company broke up into groups and discussed the situation —not before Jack;: he would not allow a word on the subject to be sald at any time in his presence. He went from group to group, now, and, as soon as he drew near, the topic of conversation was changed. About 6 o'clock, as one and another threatened to go home for “grub,” Martin Young stumbled up the steps and almost fell into the room. an ugly look in his eyes. The super- intendent evaded them. “Mr. Vaughan. we don’t want any trouble with you,” he said ‘distantly. “If it's a question of money—" “l don’'t want a cent of money from the mission,” broke in Vaughan. “1 never have wanted it. From the day 1 came to this pauperized. impotent or- ganization I've take care that it should not come back to the mission. I've paid off its debts, made it self-support- ing—you know what I've done!"” “Ye-es, I know that you've done re- ,spilled very nearly half the contents on his clothes. “Seen a ghost, Mart?" jaunty young miner. “Ghosts be damned!” returned Martin solemnly. “Gi’ me another!” he called. holding out the empty tumbler. By this time he had become the center of interest. Every one pressed forward, curious to learn what Martin Young saw. The second glassful followed the first and then he turned and faced them, his small reddish eyes redder than ever, his bristling beard awry. “Come on, le's hear! What did you see, Mart?" they urged. “What was it?" He glanced toward Jack, standing by himself, aaprt from the crowd, grave, watchful, his brows bent in the anxious frown they perpetually wore, days. “I see a norful sight” he said im- pressively, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "1 see—a man—push a woman—over the Geiger Grade—an’ then—jump over lusself” ‘What man?” “What man?”’ “What woman?" They crowded him, fostled him, Bag- ker and Winslow and Ned Wilkins rub- bing elbows with the rest. “What man? What woman?”' they repeated. But they kpew what man and what woman. Only Jack remained aloof and silent, gripping @ chairback till the knuckles of his great hands stood up white and hard. “What man! What asked mrfl:’mm at Jack before he an- swered, “The Parson—an'—an'— Before he could finish Jack was in the midst of the group, shaking Martin as a terrier shak a rat. “Ye low-lived ur!” he growled between his teeth. Ye damn liar! “It's the truth, 'fore Gawd!" declared Margin, rolling up his eyes until very little more than the “Lemme go, Jack. It's Gawd's truth. Hope I may dle if it ain’t! Yo g0 'rng‘nd by the lower road an’ you 11 find ‘em! “Boys,” called Jack, one hand still on Martin's collar, “there’s been an—acci- dent. Who'll go along o me on a young preacher earnestly. know how these people are. They change in a moment. They are liable to come trooping back tomor- row. It's the fashion just now to stone me. It has been the fashion to make an idol of me.” He smiled, actually smiled as he added. “It may be again.” Harman shook his head. “It would aot be well for the church,” he said magisterially, “to hold lightly a mat- ter of this Kind. We cannqt ignore, pass over this-—complication. It would have a bad effect upun your authority. It would never do.” The ugly look Vaughan's eyes. “You mean that you want me to— get out?’ he inquired harshly. “Is | that it?" | Harman nodded, once, twice, “That's it!" he said coolly. | good of the church.” “For the good of the church | peated Vaughan desperately. l(m' the good of the church that a son | whe has loved and served her with lall his heart shall be disowned and | exiled because, forsooth, he has loved |and served her above all else, and to | bis own undoing? Is that for the good of the church?” “Something must be conceded to ap- pea.rp‘ncal ' said the superintendent sharply. “Concede ft, then, by all means!" cried Vaughan, towering above him, and lifting his long arms as if to call the unseen hosts to witness. “Concede {it! Concede me! But when we meet before high heaven, John Harman, you will have to concede something to reality, and it's preity sure to be the small, skulking, pettifogging soul in that big, cmofortable body of yours! Harman started up in alarm. Had his troubles driven the young man | mad? Like a maniac indeed Vaughan seemed, his thick, black hair tossed about his white face, the unfathomablg depths of his large, dark eves opening like the pit of remorse into which he would plunge his companion. Self-control returned as suddenly as it had left him. “I beg vour pardon,” he said coldly. “1 forgot myself. I will return to England, as you sug- gest. There are certain matters to be arranged with my—successor. If vou will send him here upon your return, I will attend to them ae soon as may be.” He was all dignity now, all re- serve and resolute calm. Harman put out .his' hand. Vaughan turned away it he had not seen it. “I can't tell you how sorry I am—" began the superintendent, “Have you seen the last Quarterly?” interrupted Vaughan. “No? Take it with you. There are some excellent articles in it. You can read them on the way.” He bowed the superintendent out “But _you | came back into | thrice. “For the woman?” they I will!” said Dick promptly. “So'll I!” said Jo. Half o dozen stalwart fellows joined them. Lanterns, ropes, a ladder were procured. “Now,” said Jack. Jerking Martin into the front 'of the line, “lead on; and if ye've lied, it'll be as much as your damn neck's worth!™ Martin led the way, down the dim streets of Eureka. up the hill, over the brow of it. by a sudden turn to the right, over a narrow, dipping pathway that wound and clung to the side of the mountain. Now and then a man by fell over a tree root or a stone, swore with much ceremony, then returned to |deeply. picked himself up and went on, grumbling; other\vise they marched the long, narrow room, where he had 1 worked and thought und prayed for a (in sflence. The swinging lanterns sent year and a half, where he had dreamed | their rays out, this side and that, re- dreams and seen visions, for the most |vealing n:\hnm of the gray part of the Holy City, and of the estab- |brush a huge licken-blistered lishment of God's Kingdom on earth.|There was nothing else. Not until of late had his dreams been | Thdy were almost at the end of the of a woman's love, his visions of her [path, when sudden'y, by a common im- loveliness. " puls W, now he was to be driven |a presence, every back to Eng d and |ing his lantern His soul fainted within him at the | coward’'s way, the weakling's way, lhei seeking what he had failed to find else- | mark-a-bly well,” said th - “For God's sake give me a diink, | e P ., "aid the superin- |, ebody?” he calied. His hand shook "Now, I'm under a cloud,” said the|3® It recelved the tumbler and he inquired a | whites showed. | Yes, there they were, rock above the path. th lon the ground. wr How could he meet it? How could he | or 11¢ SFCTRG (i1 in her arms, man kneeling beside them | move save to look up, say! | “They're dead!” The concussion had had struck upon the rock. were torn and bleeding from himself down, by tree and and he was covered with dust and dry | 1eaves. | brougn:. | “Your coats™ Every |oft his coat, Jack first. obeyed. Now him: Dick.” together they lifted Ready They lifted t! and, in silence, they tramped back to Eureka, in the lead. Bareheaded th. without their coats, excep robed figure in the rear. N man of them have weather was, although it ber, and damp and chill. CHAPTER XXXI ; The Arrest. At the door of the rooms Jack halted his lit | haste, the old stride, he passed through and went back to Vaughan. home now,” he said quietly 't everything's done right. he beckoned Dick to him. {along with him.” | The two went off to on a shelving e woman Iying ing piteously, killed them: they “The ladder!” ordered Jack. man He spread the garment carefully over the rounds and pointed for them to do the same. They He beckoned Dick to |and laid them upon the improvised bier. told what her. in her long the He did not His hands letting jutting cliff, It was stripped the bodies heir burdem, had come, Martin still ey were, and t the black- or could any the was Nove: L. A “You go “We'll see undertake tle compa Jack die- tated the necessary arrangements and gent Jo for the Cororer. to sit tomight,” he said, w | came. | “Just as well wait ti | Jack.” the Coroner replied | ‘mmg. it goes” which knew without being told. “You'll have hen the man 11 tomorrer, “I said, vou'll sit tonight” was the answer, “and when Jack Perry says a he Coroner The present occasion proved no exception to the rule. Martin Young was of the tragedy. | tell what they fourd. | amined to the very | tion. the Ma had seen. They tried to tr ed that he was not in a know what he saw. { | | | | “to take | -Nothing.” Those who saw him come into saloon testified that he hi the smell of liquor about had to have a couple of g he could tell his story. They made him tell it It did not vary a hair. roan mare. She had got a foot. had picked up another s purpose, when h the Parson says, “It's you ruined, and you did it on her. “Wasn't it to koop her £ over? they asked. “Not by a damn sigh Martin. He evidently bell had seen what he said. T heginning to beli another yielded. Again an called upon Martin to re repetition strengthened it. 1 seen him! I'll be"—he repeated the of oaths in his repertory tellin’ the trewth!” They believed him. The their verdict—a viol “Where's Mat Kyle “You ain't goin’ there tonight, | oner. “Just as well wait young miners. among the throng waiting pushed his way | humored face puckered li ened child’s. “Why. Ja murred, “yer ! of the night!” “You do as I tell yer.” The crowd increased ou lon the windowpanes room. “You do as I tel Jack, “and then you come Mat disappeared. The ¢ {to let him through. “The they murmured. him.” The street was full come, with shawls ov their dark, draped figures | Some were wi ping: on childish creature, sobbed had a dog with her. | 'S that you, Posy?" cal | miner. Clintock boarders. sir, she faltered. “What ye doin’ here” “This time o' night, all al “Ginger's along,” she pointing to the dog. care! ) } kill me!™ “You think that's what innermost They turned Him inside out, up- side down, shook him, turned him back again, but could not make him let go his first brief statement of what woman scream, saw him lay his b that feature of the story, but e he exclatmed. Mat was not far to seek. He in, his round. & wouldn't - drag a man outer bed at 1—2 clock in the middle “An'—oh, 1 My missus’ is dead an’ !dead, an’ I don’t care how quick t! sole witness The others could only rtin was ex- inten- he ip him, hint- condition to What had he had ad not him; that lasses b( over agaim. He had been coming down the Beiger Grade on his stone in her He had alighted to knock it out, tone for the e heard voices, heard r work. I'm heard the nd rom jumping t!" returned eved that he he jury wers eve it. On man after d again Jack peat this or very ‘T tell yeFy 1 “I'll be— worst string “if 1 ain't v brought in ent death. 7 demanded Jack. to@send him over be ye?' asked the Co till mornin’ “Where's Mat Kyle?" Jack repeated. “Go fetch him,” he ordered one of t.ho‘ outside." ke a fri ck,” he de- “He ain’'t a-bed,” said Jack shortly. tside. They swarmed like bees over the sidewalk and up the steps. flattening their noses to look into the 1 yer” said back here.™ rowd parted re he goes! “He's goin’ to feteh Women had their heads: showed like shadows on the outskirts of the crowd. a small, thin, aloud. She led a young She recognized one of the Mec- “It's me, he asked. lone?" answi we do witi™! | folks from foreign parts?’ he queried. | “Well, we don’t, always. Some of 'em we take real good care of, like I'm go- in' to of you Here, hook on!" He grasped her arm. “Now, trot! | Everybody's out tonight, |ean’t trust everybody like you can me.” He led her at a brisk walk up the street in the direc- ‘ome. he said approvingly. He about sked her a number | her mistress and | | should be sent for, to and answer those asked. ely. 11 be there,” he a good little girl, again. Good-might.” “Good-night,” she ingly. “I- wish't I knew name is.’" | “They ecall me Jo," he |laugh. He s to kiss instead, and walked bdack of lessening, it bhad Coroner was to. 5 g tle could be wh 1 fe than the y n arrested hat was enough to “Not if you was there,” she i learned had been present at that tion of the boarding-house. Before they reached the door she had told him about her father, her grandfather and her uncle with whom she lived “at ‘Brought up by men, good thing! “T ain't much use for girls brought up by wimmen. a lot of fool notions In their heads.” Get of questions the Parson “Would you be scairt to death if you eourt. he said her, better of it, shook her hand to the In where he had left the crowd. besieged with when he came out, but he had not from was now set them