The evening world. Newspaper, September 29, 1914, Page 15

PMR sp rman, he The Story of a Little EEL ATR Fe Pew we are ‘ rm ENE OT Ve ing. wo: BURNING AT BOTH ENDS §° —weenmer~ 1 “Mountain Country” Girl Who Wanted to Become “Civilized” JOHN BRECKENRIDGE ELLIS ©9000000000 000000 Copyright, 1913, by Bobbs- Merrill Co.) SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING OBAPTERS, Brick Willock, an outlaw in the southwest, saves tie Hives of & settler named Ciedware and the latter's haby atendaughter, Lahoma. Giedware and the ehiki find refuge among Indiana Gledware marries into a tribe, whose chief, Red Feather, then brings Lahoma to Willock’s mountain lair find leat « her with the outlaw, Willock and bie chem, A\ ins, adore the little girl, Ae she grows lider Lahovwa expresses a longing to become “civ. ised,” rick promises that her wish shall be wanted, CHAPTER V. (Continued,) Getting Civilized. evening in May a tall, ithe figure crept along the southern base of the moun- tain ran, following its curves with cautious feet as if fearful of discovery. He was a young man of twenty-one or two, bronzed, free of movement, agile of step. . A few yards from Brick Willock’s dugout now stood a neat log cabin, and not far from the door of this cabin was a girl of abvut fifteen, seated on the grass. The man stared in wonder. He was like @ thirsty traveller drinking at a cool well unexpectedly discovered in a desert country. For two years he had led the life of the cowboy, exiled from his kind, going with the boys from lower Texas to Kansas along the Chisholm Trail, overseeing great herds of cattle, car- ing for them day and night, scarcely ever under @ roof, e that of a dugout. For two years he had seen no one Nike the girl of the cove, none— though he had seen women and girls of the settlements, often enough— who even suggested her kind. Her dress, indeed, was plain enough, and obviously chosen in cheerful ignor- ance of forms and conventions, though the color, a delicate pink, was all he could have wished. After all, the clothes revealed.nothing except absence from city shops and city otandards. At last the young man tore himself away, retraced his steps as cautiously as he had come, and flung himself upon the pony left waiting at a shel- tered nook far from the cove, As he sped over the plains toward the dis- tant herd it came to him suddenly tn @ way not before experienced that it was May, that the air was balmy and fragrant, and thet the land, softly lighted in the clear twilight, was ein- sularly beautiful. The G-Bar headquarters, where the youth worked, was on the west- era bank of what was then known ae Red River, but was really the North Fork of Red River. “Old Man Walker,” who was ecarcely past mid- dle age, had built his corral on the margin of the plain which extended to that point in an unbroken level from a great distance, and which, having reached that point, dropped without warning, a sheer precipice, to an extensive lake. The young man reached the corral after a ride of twelve or thirteen miles, most of the distance through a country of difficult sand. He gal- loped up to the rude inclosure, sur- rounded by a cloud of dust through which his keen eyes discovered Miz- #00 on the eve of leaving camp. Miz- x00 was one of the men whose duty it was to ride the line all night—the line that the young man had guarded all day—to keep Walker's cattle from drifting. “Come on, Mizz,” called the young man, as the other swung upon his bronco, “I’m golng back with you.” The lean, leather-skinned, sandy- mustached cattleman uttered words not meet for print, but expressive of hearty pleasure. “Ain't you hi enough of it, BIT’ he added. “I'd think you'd want to lay up for to- morrow's work. “Oh, I ain't sleepy,” the young man declared, as they rode away side by side, “I couldn't close an eye to- and 1 want to talk.” 1 talk my head off," Mizzoo de- clared, “if that'll keep you on the move with me, for It's one thing meeting a ghost in the desert all alone, and quite another when there's a pair of us. Yes, | know you'd be- Neve nothing I say about that spirit, and I only hope we'll come on It tov night! It ain't been a week since I see something creeping along behind mé whilst I,was riding the line, a lit. tle thing as swift as a jack-rabbit and as sly as a coyote—something with long arms and short legs and the face of an Injun"—— “Of course it was an Injun,” re- turned the young man carelessly. “He is hanging about herp to steal some of our horses. | don’t want you to talk about your ghost, I've heard of him thousand times.” “Bill, the more you talk about @ ghost, the more impressive he gets. I tell you that wasn't no live Injun!” “He's a knowing old ghost if he's found you, Miszoo, but if you want my company, to-night, you'll drop the Indian. What | want you to talk abo is that little girl you met on the trail down in Texas, seven years Mizzoo burst out tn a hearty laugh, “{ reckon it suits you better to take her as a little kid,” he cried, his tall form shaking convulsively, “I'll never ferget how you looked, Bill, when we tried to run a bluff on her daddy last month!” The other did not answer with « smile. Apparently the reminiscence pleased him less than it did the old. er man. He spurred his horse !m- patiently, and it plunged forward through the drifted banks of white sand. { Mizzoo hastened to overtake him, still chuckling., “Old Man Walker knowed what a proposition he was handing us when he ordered us to drive the old mountain-lion out of his lair! Looks like the six of us ought to have done the trick. ‘Them| other fellows looked as wild as bears,: and you was just Ike a United States soldier marching on a Mexi- can strongholt, not stopping noth- ing, and {t ain't for me to say how brave I done. Pity you and me was at the tall-end of the attacking party. | Fust thing we knowed, them other, four galoote was falling backwards a-getting out of that trap of a cove, and the bullets was whissing about) our ears” — He broke off to shout with laugh ter, “And It was all done by on old settler and his gal, them standin, out open and free with their breech. | loaders, and us hiking out for camp) like whipped curs!” The young man was impatient, but he compelled himself to speak calmly. “As I never got around the spur of the mountain before you fellows were! in full retreat, 1 object to being! classed with the whipped curs, and you'll bear that in mind, Mizzoo, You saw the girl all right, didn’t you?” “You bet I did, and as soon as I see her I knowed it was the same I'd came across on the trail seven year ago.” “Guess I'll leave you now,” marked the young mai “Yes, better turn in, for you're most uncommon dull, you know,” Mizgoo re- piled frankly. “'Twould be just about as much company for me if you'd hike out and leave me your picture to carry along.” Instead of taking the direction to- ward the river, tne young man set out at a gallop for the distant mountain range which, in the gloom, seemed not far away. After an hours hard riding he reached {t. His impatience had made that hour seem almost tn- terminable, yet it had not been long enough to furnish him with any clear reason for having come. If, as Miz- zoo had declared, he needed sleep, he would surely not think of finding it near the cove from which his com- Panions had been warned under pen- alty of death. If drawn by longing for another glimpse of the girl of the cove he could not expect to see her an hour or two after midnight. Yet here be was, attracted, and still urged on, by impulses he did not attempt to resist. re- CHAPTER VI. The Flag of Truce. MMBARLIEST dawn found the young man seated compos- edly upon one of the flat- tened outcroppings of the ill of stone that lay like an island between the outer plain and the shel- tered cove, Suddenly he looked around as a hairy wild giant strode forth from the dugout, gun in hand. “Don't you come no futher!” Wil- lock commanded, threatening with his gun, “Keep your hands above your head until I can ship your cargo.” Obediently he stood while the great whiskered fellow took the weapons from his belt, and dived into his hip pockets, “That'll do. had "se hard to put it into a few word the other complained, “I'd like to have a little talk with you.” “You are one of them fellows that come here to run us out of the coun- try, ain’t you? I don’t remember weeing you, but I guess you belong to the bunch over on Red River, Well, you sce we're still here, mean- ing to stay. Are your pards outside there waiting for a message?” ‘Nobody knows I'm here, or thought of coming. Let me put that affair in its true light. The boys are all under our boss, and when he lays down the, law it isn't for us to argue with him—we carry out orde: “Unless there's a Brick Willock In- volved in them orders,” returned the man with a grim smile. “But it's our duty to try togearry out the orders, whether we like ‘em or not, So you won't hold that against me—that little scrimmage of tast month, especially as you came out best man,” “1 used to have a boss myself,” Wiilock spoke uncompromisingly. “But when he give me certain orders, one particular night that I recollect, I knocked him on the head and p#* out for other parts, You rust of thought yourself in pretty business coming over here to take away the jand and all on it, that's belonged to me for nine years, and nobody never having tried to prize me out of it ex- cept some trifling Injuns and horse- thieves, Ain't they no honesty in the world? Hasn't no man his property rights? I guess your boss knowed this wasn't his land, didn't he? What's going to become of this country when man isn't satisfied with what ts his'n? Well, now you've had a little talk Now—what do you with me, and hoping you've enjoyed’ it, you can just mosey along. I'll end your weapons after you by & messenger.” The young man cast a despairing nce toward the girl who stood like @ statue in her doorway, gravely lis-" tening. The man with the bushy white hair had drawn near, but evi- dently with no thought of interfer- ing. “Willock,” the voice came so eager, ao impetuous, that the. words were somewhat incoherent, “I've got to talk to your daughter—hold on, don’t shoot, listen—that’s what I've como for, to see her and—and meet her and hear her voice. | can't help it, can I? It's been two long years since I left home, back East, and in all these two yeurs I've never seen any- thing like your little girl and—and what barm can it do? I say! Have pity on a fellow, and do him the big- gest favor he could enjoy on thie rth when it won't cost you a ‘penn: or a turn of your hand. Look here hold on, don’t turn away!—I'm just so lonesome, so homesick, ao dead killed by all these sand-hills and al- kall beds and nothing to talk to from one year’s end to the next but men and cattle, a ‘Willock: glared at him in atlence, fingering the trigger thoughtfully. “There I've sat on that hill,” he continued, “since two o'clock last night waiting for daylight so I could you to help a miserable wretch ‘9 just starving to death for the sound of a girl's voice, and the sight of a girl's smile. Isn't this square, waiting for you, and telling you the whole truth? I never saw her but once, and that was from this same hill, She didn’t know I was watch- ing; it was yesterday. Maybe all I'm saying sounds just crasy to you, and I reckon I'm out of my senses, but until I saw her I didn’t know bow heart-sick I was of the whole busi- ness.” “It ts kinder lonesome,” remarked the other gruffy, He lowered his gun and leaned on it irresolutely. “You've sure touched me in the right spot, son, for I knows all you mean and more that you ain't even ever dreamt of. But you see, we don't know nothing about your name, your char- acter, if you've got one, nor what you really intends, I like your looks and the way you talk, fine, just fine, but I've saw bobcats that was mighty sleek and handsome when they didn't know I was nigh.” “My name is Wilfred Compton. I —I have a letter or two im my pocket that I got a long time ago; they'd tell somothing about me, but I'd rather-not show ‘em, ae they're pri- vate"— “From gewr gal, I reckon?” asked Willoe @2re mildly. “Yes,” he answered st«smily. “Carried’ em as long @»a year?” “Nearly two years.” “Mean to still lug ‘em ar@und?” “Ot course I'm going to keep ‘em. “Well, | don’t deny that's pretty fa- vorable. Now look her been half-crazy from lonesomeness, and I don't believe I've got the heart to send you away. That gal of ours he's just a kid, you understand. + + . Now you wouldn't be taking up’ no idea that she was what you'd clas- sity as a young lady, or anything like that, eh?” “Of course not—she's Afteen or g@iz- teen, I should think. Upon my honor, Willock, any thought of sentiment or fomance is a thousand miles from my mind.” “Yes, just so. But such thoughts travels powerful fast; don’t take ‘em long to lap over a thousand mile. “But it’s because she is a young girl, fresh and unartificial as the mountain breezes, that 1 want to be wit her for a little while—yes, get to_know her, if I may.” Willock turned to the taciturn old man standing a little behind’ him, “Bill Atkins, at do you say?” “I say, fire him and do it quick!” was the instant rejoinder, accompa- nied by threatening twitchings of the huge white mustache, Willock was not convinced. “Son, if you sets here till we have had our breakfast, and has held a caucus over you, I'll bring the verdict in about an hour. If you don’t like that, they’s nothing to do but put out for your ranch.” “t go on duty at seven,” replied the young man composedly, “but | have @ friend riding the lino that'll stay with it till I come. So I'll wait for your caucus.” “That friend—one of them devils I shot at the other day?” Wilfred Compton smiled with sud- den sunniness. “Ye: Somewhere beneath the immense whiskers, an answering smile slipped ike @ breeze, stirring the iron-gray hair, “I kinder believe in you, son! Nobody can'tggainsay that you've Played the man tn this matter. Now, just one thing .more, You must swear here before me, with Bill At- kina for an unwilling witness, that should we let you make the acquain- tance of our little gal, and should you get to be friends, you two, that the very first minute it comes to you that she ain't no little gal, but ts in the way of being food for love—Bill Atkins, air I making myself plain?” “You ain't,” returned tho old man sourly. “You're too complicated for ordinary use.” “Then you tell him what I mean.” The old man glared at Wilfred fiercely, “If we decide to grant your request, young man, swear on your honor that the second you find your- self thinking of our little girl as a woman to be wooed and won, you'll put out and never atop till you're so far away you'll be clear out of her world, And not one word to her, not 80 much as one hint, mind you, as to the reason of your going; it'll just be goodby and farewell.” “You have my word of honor to all these conditions,” Wilfred cried Nght- ly. “As a@ child of the mountains I ik for her acquaintance. If | should ever feel differently about her I'll go away and stay away until she’ woman. Surely that's enough to promise!” HE two men went into the | cabin. An hour later they seated obediently on the rock, but at sight of them he rose lock called, ashe strode toward a grassy bank that sloped up to a line CHAPTER VII. The Half-Opened Bud reappeared, accompanied by the girl. Wilfred was etill witha gay laugh ang advanced, “Come over here in the shade,” Wil- of three cedar trees of interlocked branches, “Come over here and know her, This ts our gal.” ‘Lahoma looked at the young maa with grave interest, taking note of his garments and movements as she might have examined the skin and actions of some unknown animal. Bill Atkins also watched him, but with suspicious eye, as if anticipat- ing judden ing on his ward. “Set down,” said Willock, sinking on the grass. “The last man up ie the biggest fool in Texas!" Lahoma and Wilfred instantly dropped as if shot, at the same time breaking into unexpected laughter that caused Willock's beard to quiver sympathetically. Bill Atkins, sour and unresponsive, stood as stiffly erect as possible, aided no little in this obstinate attitude by the natural un- elasticity of age, The young man egclaimed boyishly, atill smiling at the girl, “We're friends already, because we've laughed to- gether.” ° cried Lahoma, “and Brick {s in It, too. That's best of all.” “1 ain't in it!" cried Bill Atkina, so fiercely that the young man was somewhat discomposed. “Now, Bill,” exclaimed the gtrl, re- Provingly, “you sit right down by my side and do this thing right.” She explained to the young man, “Bill Atkins has been higher up than Brick, and he knows forms and ceremonies, but he despises to act up to what he knows. Sit right down, Bill, and make the move.” There was some- thing 60 unusual tn the attitude of the blooming young girl toward the weather-beaten, forbidding-looking man, something so authoritative and at the same time eo protecting, at once the air of a superior who co: mande and who shelters from the tyranny of othere—that Wilfred was both amused and touched. “Yea, Bill,” said Willock, “make the move. Make ‘em know each other.” ‘This is Miss Lahoma Willock,” growled Bill; “and this"—wavi at the young man disparagingly—“says he 1s Wilfred Compton. Know each other!” “I'm glad to know you,” Lahoma 4e- clared> frankly, “It's mighty lucky you came this way, for, you see, 1 just live here in the cove and never touch the big world. I believe you know a thousand thing: about the world that we ain't never dreamed of"-—— “—That wé have never dreame! of,’ corrected Bill Atkins, “That we have never dreamed of resumed Lahoma meekly; “and that's what I would Itke to hear about. I expect to go out In the big world and be a part of It, when I am older, when I know how to protect myself, Brick says. I'm just a ittle cirl now, if I do look so big; I'm only fifteen, but when I am of age I'm going out into the big world; so that's why I'm glad to know you, to use you like a kind of dictionary. Are you coming back here again?” “I hope so!” he exclaimed fervently. “And ao do I, In my cabin I have @ long list of things written down in my tablet that I'd like to know about; questions that come to me as I sit jooking over the nil into the sky, things Brick doesn't know, and not even Bill Atkins. You going to tell me them there things?” Bill interposed: tell me thitse things?” “WIP you kindly th “Will you kindly tell me those things?” Lahoma put the revised ques- on as calmly if she had: net suf- fered correction. “You see how it ts, aon,” Willock ,femarked re,.etfully; “Lahoma keeps Pretty close to me, and I'm ‘always a-leading her along the wrong trails, not having laid out an extensive edu- cation when 1 was planning the grounds | calculated to live in. When 1 got anything to say, I just follows the easiest way, knowing I'll get to the end of it if I talk constant People in the big world ain't no more natural ip talking than ip anything else, They p, builds up fences and arbitrary walls, and Is careful to stay right in the mid- dle of the beaten path, and ['m all Ume keeping BiN busy at putting up the bars after me, so Lahoma will go straight.” “So that's why I'm glad to know you,” Lahoma said gravely. “But why did you want to know me?” She fastened on him her luminous brown eyes, with red lips parted, awaiting the clearing up of this mystery. Wilfred preserved a solemn counte- nance, “I've been awfully lonesome, Laboma, the last two years bec.use, up to that time, I'd lived in @ ofty with friends .all about town and so end of gay times—and these last two years, I've been in the terrible desert, You are the first girl I've seen that reminded me of home; when I saw you and knew you were my kind, the way you held yourself and the emile in your eyes’ —— Bill interposed: “Don’t you forget that binding, young mani’ “Of course not. But I don’t know how to tell just what it means to me to be with her—with ali of you, I mean—but her especially, because— well, I had ey many friends among the girls, back home and—and— It's Bo use trying to explain; if you've known the horrible lonesomeness of the plains you already understand, and if you dun't ¢ 8” “I know what you mean,” *‘ilook: remarked, with @ reminiscent sigh. “Let it not be put tn words,” Bill persisted. ‘If a, thing can’t be ex- pressec, words only misiead. I never knew any good to come of talking about smiles in eyes, There's nothing to It but misleading words. “Go on, Laboma,” sald Willock en- couragingly, “we're both staying with you, to see that you come out of with Jying colors. Just go ahea “I want to ask you al: about your- remarked Lahoma thoughtfully, real sample of the big * . about myself, will Wilfred promised, and Lahoma en- tered on the history of her childhood, Wilfred looked and latened joyously, conscious of the unusual scene, alive to the subtle charm of her fearless eyes, her unreserved confidences, the melt- {ng harmony of her musical tones. To be sure, she was only a child, but he saw already the promise of the woman, The petala as yet were closed, but the faint, sweet fragrance was already astir, He found, to na- ture was already developed something not akin to youth, something Impet sonal, having nothing to do with on number of yeare—lik breath of experience, the anelent freshness of a new day. mountains and nourished in the eoll- tude of th 5. How different the girls of @fteen or sixteen such as he had known tn the city or tn sophisticated villages in the east! Lahoma had not been so en- grossed by trivial activities of exact- ing days thet she had lacked time for ought. Her housekeeping cares were few safet; Next Week's Complete Ne in THE EVENING WOR ATALE OF RED ROSES: By George Randolph Chester _ This Book on the Stands Will Cosi You $1.25. You Get ht for OODODIOVOOCOHOGOK 3-402 and dovold of routine, leaving most of the hours of each day for reading, for day dreaming, for absorbed medi- tation, Somehow the dreams seemed to linger in her voice, to hover upon her brow, to form a part of ber; and the longings of those dreams were half velied in her ayes, looking out sbyly as if afraid of wounding her Guardians by full revelation. Wanted to meet life, to take a place in ‘the world—but what would then become of Willock and Bill? “Bill used to live seven miles away atthe mountain with the precipice, jt some cedars frum the cabin—they made it for me, so I could j body tmuni hey said so. j “We aren't far enough along,” ob- served Bill, ‘to be shut up together under a roof. “I'd like to have you visit my par- lor,” Lahoma sald somewhat wist- fully, “I'd like to show you all my booka—they were Bill's when we first met him, but since then ho's given me everything got, haven't you, old Bill Lahoma leaned over and patted the unyielding shoulder, Bill stared moodily at the top of the mountain as if in a gloomy trance, but Wilfred fancied he moved that honored shoulder a trifle nearer the girl. She resumed, her face glowing with ‘over lots of timer {the first on the shelf and through the row he He begins with hen hi th y they stand on the ‘The Children of the Abbey’ Bl ‘a favorite; ‘The Scottish avid Copperfield,’ “The Tal- ieman,’ ‘The Prairie,’ ‘The Last of the Mohicans.’ “I Like ‘The Children of the Abbey’ beat too,” observed Brick Willocy thoughtfully, “Lahoma, she’s read ‘em all to me; that’s the way we get through the winte: wontns, They’s something eoft and enriching about that there ‘Chil of the Abbey,’ and ‘Scottish Chiefs’ has got some pleey high work in it too. I tells Lahoma that I guess them two books lo just about as near the real thing out in the big world.as you can sort of Lie ‘David Copperfe! jow; I've “Ww wh ‘that knowed @ powerful sight more than A’ them characters in David. I used to drift about with a bunch of lows that Uriah Heep couldn't have stood up inst for five minutes. ‘The Talisman’ is noble doings, too, but not up-to-date, As T ra! nd ‘The Last of the M hicans,’ them is dissatisfying books —they make you think, bein; ives in just auch quarters, interest- ing things might happen most any minute—and they never does.” “Why, Brick!” Lahoma reproached him. “Thia has happened"—— she nodded.at Wilfred Compton. “Don't you call that teresting! “Tha: way I discusses them books,” returned Willock with mani- fest satisfaction. “I wasn't never ‘nO man to be overawed by no book, which, however high and by who- ae rete |e ‘t no more ye Bre shadow in a to grab that shadow, and’ wi Just to go out ater game and the mouUntaing all home of an evening to sit down to ‘Plate of bacon and eggs, and gnother of the same, with ee smoking on the Iittle stove, and Lahome urgin: oe me Lag more of real li ‘ing’ than you'd get out of a library. Ain't it, Bill?" hive “Now we want to talk, Brick,” in- Bod ged Lahoma—"don't we, Wil- “So your cabin was bailt,” Wilfred Prompted her, “and the men toox the dugout.” Yes—and then, ob! the most won. dorful thing happened: tled in the arm of the mountain at the west end—a family that had ‘woman and @ baby in it—a sures ‘enough woman with @ sweet face and of a high grade, though worked cove, pretty ee Raat See bard- 8 y thas hed, just taughed whenever he saw oe H in the dugout—and 1 o every day. And thai be like a woman, without ‘being’ soatsa out ng aca: tebe, and ire Taam like this, ‘ er settlers began comin, Greer, but they wer var, ana Brick and Bill don’t Il ks, they stayed sbut up pretty close. But for three years | had the mother and her bavy to show me bow to be a woman. Then came the soidiers. free. thinks a big cattie-king stood esettiers because to farm the land od it since I lost m world—except Brick and Bill. makes me and Brick and Bill mad is that Ahe soldiers hadn't any right to drivé out the sett claims this country, wetted. “But they didn't drive you out?” Wired re erued, Inawisingty, d stand of @ Iiked me ‘most Fe erby came from Ohio, and he had spect to the Government, eo when ¢! id! he pulled up atake Bot no Fespect to noth- wapisined, “that stanaa in the way of doing what we're a mind to. The soldiers come to force us out, but they changed their minds, I reckon they knew they hadn't no morality om their side. Sure Hing they knowed they had but very litt! occupying thelr posl- Cm ing,” Bien fel. M as you . voice NDLPCVOOS o1@res 4 tion. None was left but ué ia Country til you cartiemen eg aii fying heaven and eart! Kc > ing We got just as much right te cove as Uncie sam himeeif, t to stay here at anchor oma steams out witn pats ua along kno ‘m afraid Until that time com f we to lay to in this arbor, 7 feels sheltered. Nothing % sheltering than knowing you Bave | moral right and a dependable gum,’ “Bo that's about ail, on... "These past four ® Just been to ourselves, with @ Journey once a year to the ments; and all the-time I had ‘eet thoughts to dream over, the little family that used to-tive the weat mountain, And I've tried do like Mra, Featherby used to and be like she was, and if) I ake as fine Shi fa a 5 r higher w BM used to know Kit'C those famous pioneers, “ e's been most everywhere—except | settled places. When a bay Sam Houston and ate with he has heard David Crockett b own ears—has heard him say ‘Be you're right, then go ahead,’ how far Hill has been. But it sort: hurt Brick’s neck, and even be to look up bigh enow, to see Mrs. Featherby had risen, She was lke you—right out of the big world, © She came out here because the family — was awful poor. Is that why you left the big world?” Wilfred shook his head. “I'm he hid ‘but it wasn't was @ girl. Brick Willock explained, & sweetheart; he's been F Lahoma veer at et in breathless, interest. irl out in the Completely civilized, I rockon! “Was, oe he as old as I am? ak “Why, boney!" Brick ae uneasily, “you ain't got fo age at is to speak off. What are yeu bat 4 mere child? This young man 5 ing about them es has got up 1 “4 old enough to think of reat hentia & mething respectable in a! ‘And how old does: a 2 6s anything, aad Wilf look any older than the knight ing guard in The Talisman, look at David “That was obild's work,” retogtes. 7 7] wae afraid of thik” growisa 1 ly eastern girl le at least years old, and eo thoroughly that she thinks this part of the ie still overrun with indians and faloes, She wouldn't Ii @ fortune, and she @ man back East without hb: fo bere. I didn’t have the fag- 8 she love you, Wilfred?” Wer voice was so soft, big, that Bill uttered =. sroan, and even Brick sat Up. She did the Inst th can’ Rt even, he \t om ay “Did ahi a be teal she send you here as a kind “Oh, no, she y told me parted for Both oi difference; but for: Meg OE reshness sparkling with dew. “Does it pierce your heart te of her marrying somebody else’ was sweet with the d sion of a young girl tnt te Tite ot eect Dune! eo we id all I could to keep from bl rouse rather callus . jon't seem to yey thought I wote it sida should alt That what Sve! Bow, pretty calm; “Then that’s wh cried. “I'd just worthy of you if ai fortune than the m: Just elt down and tac “1 will!” he lo had nev ie a nev thought It could be easy. tt bbc A easy, now. laybe I could help you,” suggested earnest); en therby lived near, I asked about such cases and got her and experience. Chapse ox bad He are the »: u've had both n You must tell yourself that she isn’ or ys then you'll remind yourself that are other girls in the world, Them you keep your mind occupled—thu & great thing. If you come to he to a we will try. our mind-—wo. i an pA salve: looked =at Wilfred ‘3 too occupied Bill, this Brick expostulated. chap first rate. He's open Hil, yon are hampering, at times, go my dugout if I and cool my head" big, ‘Your headdl be hy growled Bill, “when this we } Bone 6 Bill,” cried Brick werningty, ing to start up a fire wit even been no kindling Wiiired rove nastity, dearly to come, and come of exclaimed, “but I couldn't self where I'm not wanted,” v' In that case,” remarks flexihly, “you're seeing me ti 4 look fn ines an" (fo Be Continued). ¥ oar oe