——————— Bellefonte, Pa., August 14, 1903. a ————————————————————————————— IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT, If I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face, Before they laid it in its last resting place And deem that death had left it almost fair ; And, laying snow white flowers against my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with lingering caress— Poor hands, so empty and so cold no-night! If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought ; Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ; Errands on which the willing feet had sped ; The memory of my selfishness and pride, My hasty words would all be put aside, And I should be loved and mourned to-night. 1f I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully ; The eyes that chill me with averted glance ‘Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften In the old familiar way ; For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay ! So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night. 0, friend, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses from my dead, cold brow— The way is lonely, let me feel them now. Think gently of me ; I am travel-worn ; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive, O, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-night. — Anonymous. THE GIRL AT DUKE’S. Duke’s slept in the hot sun. Who was Duke, what was he, where did he come from, where did he go—the scion of a noble house, or some intimate citizen of the plains? Nobody knows; his memory is shrouded in the mists of antiquity which wrap the early eighties. The railroad, toiling over the ruddy desert, orosses a little empty run, which in some seasons holds water from heavens knows where ; and at the crossing stands, or crouches, Duke’s. Rosered hills, clasping in their jealous hearts the secret of fertility, some day to be delivered up at the touch of the Genius—rose-red, sun smitten, dusty, tree- less, grassless, waterless hills roll and roll endlessly away from Duke’s lonely and bare as in the ages before history began ; bisected by the two gleaming steel rails, seeming unhuman somehow, savage as the cati, and no more a part of civilization than the flickering, quivering sun-devils are which dance hour after hour above them to the monotonous fiddling of Phaeton in his fiery chariot. Duke’sis a tank, a plat- form, a little wooden shanty, and a name. Passengers upon the observation-cars of the Limited behold it, and in utter idleness watch its oblong diminish over the flat miles ; suddenly the train whips round the shoulder of a hill, and Duke’s is gone for- ever from their memory. When has such a passenger been known to descend at Duke’s? And yet, one after- noon of a day late in April, one did de- scend. The person who got off upon that little oasis of station platform was a girl, She had left the spring behind her piecing out its mosaic of showers and sunshine, with birds singing and mating, and bad traveled two thousand miles to reach this forsaken spot in the land of burning sum- mer. The conductor, as he helped her from the step, looked at her doubtfully; the porter, who followed with her handbag, looked at Duke’s ' disdainfully ; and the passengers in the ‘‘tourist’’ looked won- deringly at all three. ‘‘Well, your folks ain’t here,” said the conductor. *‘Who did you expect, lady ?’’ asked the porter. She replied shyly to both. She was a girl of twenty, perhaps; of a pretty timid- ity; plainly not one who was accustomed to find for herself. ‘‘It is my uncle.” He knows that I am coming.’ ‘‘I suppose it’s all right,’”’ meditated the conductor, ‘‘but I'd be easier in my mind if I saw him waiting for you. Some men have got no sense of punctuality, And if I was lookin’ for the jumping-off place, I cer- tainly wouldn’t go a step farther.’’ ‘Lonely place to leave a lady in, foh suah,’’ assented the porter. ‘‘Well, if you're easy in your mind, I guess we’ll have to be pulling out,’’observ- ed the conductor. ‘“You’re sure you won’t come on to Wheeler ?”’ ¢‘No, sir, I think I'd better nos.’’ They lefs her reluctantly. The porter tossed his carpet-covered stool to the plat- form, and swung aboard, waving his hand encouragingly. She watched the train foreshorten itself to a square in the dis- tance, until the hill shut it out. Its last, least hnmming died away. Instantly primeval silence and desolation reasserted themselves, She looked about her, and saw her trunk, some rods from her. Further off, the line dying green showed where the creek had been. A lizard ran along the edge of the platform, and perceiving her, made a odd little noise in its throat, like the snapping of a match box. Otherwise, there was no sign of life anywhere. Half an hour passed; an hour. Her uncle was long in coming! The shade of the tiny station shifted lazily over the hot boards. She made an effort to draw her trunk within it, for she was tired of standing, but though she flushed and panted in her endeavor, she was unsuccessful. Auvother half-hour passed. Her eyes were weary with gazing across the glowing slopes, and her brain ached with waiting. Off in the distance a bird lazily sailed, and she fol- lowed its flight aimlessly. A red rock looming upon a hill, a rock of sandstone carved and machicolated by the centuries, confronted her, and she stared at it till presently it glared and blurred, for she was crying. She stepped from the edge of the platform; at once her foot sank to the ankle in the soft, fine dust, which followed in a little jet as she drew back. She could not travel far that way ; besides she was quite ignorant of the road. ‘‘Come to Duke’s,” her uncle had written, ‘‘and I will meet you there.”” That was a month ago, after her mother died. The girl had come promptly, her warm young heart stir- ring with affection for her uncle whose hospitality asked no questions ; he had sent her the money for the journey, and she was here. It was incomprehensible, terrible, that he should fail her now. Should she goback? To whom—and how ? Her questions mocked her. As she stood there forlornly, a musical note reached her ear, and another, and an- other, shaping themselves into the frag: ment of a tune which had been popular in New York years before. From behind the thrust of a hill rode a young man, sitting on a dusty sorrel pony, and singing as he rode. Af the sight of him the girl’s heart leaped, and then sank again ; for she saw that he was plainly bent on errands of his own. He did not glance in her direction. To call to him, without knowing what sort of a man he might be, seemed dreadful; and yet not so dreadful as to les him go and be left again to solitude. He crossed the s between $wo hills, she dust spouting and floating around him, while she sought to make = her mind. He was disappearing, when she gave a low ory— involuntary, it seemed, and so low that he must have bad sharp ears to hear it at his distance. Hear it he did; turned, saw her standing there, and, flicking the sorrel with his quirt, cantered toward her rapid- ly. Instinctively she shrank a little, With she had called to him. ‘You were not sent to meet me?’’ she faltered. ¢“No. Miss,’’ he said respectfully. “My name is Dudley—Miss Dorothy Dudley. I—I expected some one to meet rae here.”’ He waited in silence. He had removed his wide, corded hat, and she saw that his hair was brown, and his face tanned almost black; even his eyelids were tanned, and the blue of his eyes was in sharp contras! to them. : “It was my uncle,’ the girl wens on eagerly. A sudden fearseized her, and she cried : ‘‘He was to meet me at Duke's This is Duke's, isn’6 it ?”’ “This city? Yes, ma’am.” : She looked at him hopelessly, and the tears, which she had restrained, stood in her eyes once more. : ‘Magybe,’’ he said gently, ‘‘if you was to tell me your uncle’s name, Miss, I might know him. I know a good many round here,’’ “‘Gage—Mr. Henry F. Gage. His ranch is the Bar K.”’ The young fellow gave a slight start. “‘Gage-the Bar KK?" he repeated. ‘‘Why, Miss—"’ he broke off. She ventured to look at him again ; and her shy, quick glance noted the clear line of his forehead, the clean, firm line of his jaws, the little upward ourving of his lips; and her girl's heart told her that she was not wholly helpless now, and need not be afraid. She had time to wonder who he was, and on what errand he had been bound, before he spoke again, Yet his pause was scarcely perceptible. “I reckon I’m in some luck; yes I reckon Iam. You wanted Mr. Gage, of the Bar K? That's where I hang out, Miss.” ‘“You live there ?”’ He nodded. ‘‘Foreman,’’ he said pleas- antly. “Isoglad!” She had not known how her nerves were strained until * the relief came. ‘Can you take me there? Is it far ? Do you know why my uncle didn’t come to meef me ?’’ A strange expression, untranslatable to the girl, hovered upon his face. ‘“You say you were expecting him? You wrote tc Wheeler, didn’t you? That's where we get our mail. Wheeler's about forty mileson. I reckon your letter’s there now ; we’ve not been in—not for ten days.” ‘‘And suppose you hadn't come along.’’ ‘‘T guess maybe that was arranged. I don’t guess you're the sort of lady that bard luck is wantin’ to meet.” He paus- ed. ‘Your uncle—Mr. Gage—he’s not at the ranch just now,’’ he added. ‘‘Not at the ranch ?’’ she said after him. ‘Yesterday was a week,’’ he calculated, ‘‘that he wens.’’ ‘‘But what shall I do ?’’ she cried. She told him, hurriedly, all that she could of her affairs; she was glad to explain her strange presence there. She was as unsus- picious of him as a child, he could see. “Well, Miss,’”’ he answered, ‘I don’t know. You see, of course, you could go on to Wheeler. or back to Winslow, and wait there till you hear from him; but shere’s no train till to-morrow, now.”’ ‘‘But how could I wais here till then ?”’ ‘‘And I reckon you are hungry, too,’’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I could tote you right out to the Bar K on Pete—he’s a kit- ten when I give him the say-so, but—'’ He frowned. ‘‘But you would have to walk !” she finished disappointedly. *‘I hope you weren’t thinking I was car- ing about that ?”’ He saw her answer in her look, and it seemed to decide him. ‘‘Come,’’ he said; and though, as soon as he had decided, she hung back, hesitating, suddenly he put his two hands beneath her elbows, and lifted her lightly into the sad- dle, in which she sat sidewise, as if it had been a chair. In front it had a great horn, or pommel, and ‘the rear curved bluntly up, unlike any saddle the girl had ever seen: Obediently she steadied herself with one hand upon the pommel ; her brown skirts fluttered against the sorrel pony’s side, and the animal looked round nervous- ly, but the young man patted his nose, soothing him. ‘There, be good,’” he said. ‘‘Do youn want to lose your good luck, you Pete ? I am expeotin’ youn to behave.” He slipped the bridle over the pony’s head. ‘‘Come on, quit your joking, horse; come on now,’ After a moment the sorrel followed quiet- ly. They set forward into the desert, the man trudging at the pony’s head, and the girl, her little feet raising and falling with the pony’s breathing, her right arm about the saddle-horn, and her brown eyes roam- ing over the hot, dry wastes, but always re- turning to fasten themselves upon the un- conscious back of her young guide. The sun brooded and burned above them, bus she was gay in the relief from her loneli- ness. She asked him his name, and why he had come into this part of the country; she asked him a hundred questions of her uncle, and of the Bar K ranch; but the more she questioned him, the more somber grew his tone, the briefer his replies, until she began to wonder, and $0 remember again the wide desolate spaces about them, and her ignorance of her conductor and her destination. Fear crept into her heart again, and stilled her; until, noticing her silence, he turned round, and, she hardly knew why, she was reassured. She thought how fine the life must be which made men so strong and yet so lightly-formed; and she wondered what he was thinking of, and as she wondered she brushed the red dust from her skirts with her free hand. The heat made her sleepy. She did not known how long they had been traveling when, at the summit of a slope, he turned and said : ‘“There’s the Bar K, Miss.”’ “Oh-h n Imagine, set in the midst of masses of crusted rose-pink topaz and chrysolite, a single great emerald, like a seal, and dan- gling down from it, a narrow silken ribbon of the intenest green. Thus you may con- ceive what wrung the exclamation from the girl's lips, and then kept her silent. The ranch was still a mile away, but in that thin clear air it showed as if it lay at their very feet. Up to their ears came the thin barking of a dog, and the the faint soft sigh of puffing steam. A capful of vapor floated lazily through the trees, and a throb, throb, which the distance robbed of its harshness, proclaiming the working of an engine. ‘“What is that ?’’ she asked. ‘‘That’s the well, Miss, that irrigates the ranch. All the soil round here is rich, if they could only get water to it. Your uncle bapppened to find the water, just here.’ ‘‘Is that all my uncle’s? I don’t see how he could go away and leave it—its so beautiful. How soon do you think be will be back ?”’ The man failed to answer her, relapsing agai into the moody silence from which the sight of the ranch had drawn him. And as they approached the place, her ti- midity rose once more, with the knowledge that she had offended him somehow, though in what way she did not know. They had almost reached the buildings, in the midst of which towered the reservoir and coughed the engine, like a patron saint hoarse with many benediotions, when she ventured to say, hall under her breath: “I hope you won’t forget to let me see you n, to thank you for bringing me here. You know I'm very much obliged to you: Idon’t know what I could have done without you.” ‘Are you, Miss ?°’ ‘I don’t know what I could have done without youn, ‘‘she repeated hurriedly, something in his tone seeming to make his question mocking. He bowed gravely, took her hand in his, and helped her to the ground. For an instant he continued to hold ber, his eyes searching her face. Her heart beat fast ; but he said only : *“You know I'd be mighty glad to be of service to you.’’. Then he released her, and they walked in silence up the little path which led to the door. As they did so a man came round the corner of the low building and confronted them. ‘Why, where the—’’ he begun; then, seeing the girl, he left off speaking, with his mouth still open, and utter surprise written on his face. But he recovered him- self quickly. ‘Why, Bill, up to your tricks, hey ?”’ he said softly. ‘‘Like to meet your friend, if it’s convenient, I would.” The young man made no answer; she quickened her steps, and they left him standing, with an evil smile upon his lips, staring after them. She could feel his sensual look upon her, as she unconsciously walked closer to her guide; it followed her, piercing, enfolding, defiling her in spite of herself. The fear which bad been partly forgotten sprang up in her heart. Was this truely the Bar K ranch, or— She could not finish the thought, even to herself, as she realized her own helplessness, her remoteness from all that she knew of civilizasion. ‘‘This is your uncle’s shack, Miss ; I reckon you’d better keep to it for to-night, anyway,’’ he said; but with that other man 80 near her, his voice had lost its pow- er to reassure. ‘‘Yes,’’ she answered nervously. ‘Can you—can you send a woman here, please?” He shook his head. ‘‘There ain’t any woman on the place, Miss; I’m sorry.” Over his shoulder she caught the eyes of the other man, still tarned steadfastly upon her. She knew that she was growing pale, but she tried to say bravely : ‘‘Never mind ; I—I shall not need one, I think.”” Then, as he left her, she shut the door fast;she meant to lock it bus there was no key, and she could only press a chair against it. She grew weak and sick as she stood there, straining her ears to hear the conversation that should pass outside. Her heart fluttered; her hands grew cold; in a wild thought of escape, she looked about the room, to sce whither she might fly. Mistily she saw the big bare oblong of it, the table with its red cloth, the deer’s heads above the windows, the coyote skins upon the floor; and then her eye caught the two narrow book-shelves upon the opposite wall; and, hardly know- ing what she did, she crossed to them, and took down a volume at random. She means to open if, to look at the fly-leaf, bus her fingers refused to obey her. When she had them under her control, she looked quickly. A name was written there, in bold black chirography; the lines waved and trembled, then settled into a signatare she knew. Henry F. Gage! She had reached her destination. She sank into a chair, not knowing whether she wished to laugh or ery. This was the Bar K ! Lonely she was still, but no longer afraid. She had done right to trust the man who bad been good to her ! While she sat there, trying to force her- self to realize where she was, a silent, soft- padding Chinaman entered, aud began to set the table for her supper. She watched him curiously, and saw that he provided only one place. She was to eat alone. then. She spoke to him, conquering her aversion with an effort, and he bowed solemnly, the tips of his fingers upon his breast, but he made no attempt to answer her question ; and, when she said nothing more, he went on deftly with his work. When she looked towards him, his beady, glittering black eyes were fastened upon whatever occupied his fingers; yet when she looked away, she seemed to be con- scious of their quick stare fixed upon her, and, though she hardly knew why, she was glad when the meal was ready, and the yellow pointed nails once more apexed upon his breast, he signified to her that she should eat, and noiselessly took his de- parture. ‘When supper was over the sun was al- most down and it was seven o'clock, yet there was still no decay in the brilliance of the light. She went to the window and looked out, and the sight drew her, in spite of herself, into the open. She was in the emerald heart ofa world of coral- pink. Softer than scarlet, more glowing than pink, the earth lay suffused, tinted like the embers of a dying fire. Gradually the plains became one rose ; deep purple lowered in the sky, orange and gold and pearl; yet still the marvel and the richness of the rose claimed them and won them all, won them into its heart. Dorothy watch- ed it; and for long minutes there was no change, no diminution of its irresistible splendor; the beauty was flaunted unen- durably, as if God would forgive the world no jot of abasement before his terrible glory. Then slowly a gray veil began to film the heavens; for a moment, as the rose faded, the bright colors gleamed and dis- played themselves again in bands and streaks and burning, prismatic spots; then, suddenly, as if the fire were dead, the wind blew the embers black, and night fell. ‘‘That’s part of why I stay in this sec- tion, I reckon,’’ said the boy in a low voice. She knew that be had been stand- ing quiet beside her. Because she had wronged him in her thoughts, her face caught the dying flush of the sun as she turned to him, and she put out her hand. “‘How wonderful it is! Does it come always ?"? ‘Most always, at this time of year. I reckon you didn’t think much of me for not telling you there were no other ladies on this ranch ?’”’ he asked bluntly. She flushed again. “I didn’t mind,”’ she said. But hiseyes were upon her, reading her, and she added, *“That is—I did at first. But I knew you couldn’t help yourself.” “I kind o’ didn’t want to worry youn be- fore I had to,’’ hesaid eagerly. ‘‘Ithought it’d be better if you came out here, instead of waiting back to Duke’s all night ; but I reckon I'd ought to have told you at the time.”’ ‘You did what you thought was right,’’ she said shyly, defending him against him- self. ‘‘I am very much obliged to you. Are you going to stay on here—at the ranch ? You said you were, didn’t you ?”’ ‘‘Well, we're footloose—me and Pete,’ he said quickly. ‘‘We wouldn’s want to bother yon—,’ : ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’’ She stopped, hardly knowing what, indeed, she had meant tosay. ‘‘Ihope we shall be friends.”’ she added, and again she put out her hand to him half-unconsciously. He took it this time. ‘Friends !"” he said, witha sudden gruff- ness that contrasted oddly with the youth- fulness of his face. ‘‘I reckon I'd like mighty well to sit in that sort of a game with you, Miss Dudley. If, when you know me, you just ask me to chip in, I’d chip in; the cards couldn’t be held that'd pass me out, But it’s not fair—not fair to you. If you knew who you was playin’ with, I reckon you’d have nothin’ to do with me. Maybe I’m a tinhorn; mayhe I’m meaner 'n a sheep-herd; how can you tell—a lady like you, that don’t know and hadn’t ought to know about such things— a lady that the whole world is plum glad, I reckon, to be a cyarpet for ? It’s not fair.” Rememberance of the half-comprehend- ed words the other man had said came back to her as this one denied bimself virtue, and she looked away. He seemed to un- derstand. “Don’t you think,” he said hurriedly, ‘‘that anything Big Ed says about me goes. I wouldn’t—I wounldn’t want——?’ ‘Was you wanting me ?’’ interrupted a voice. Out of the gloom appeared the man of whom he was speaking. ‘‘If it was anyways convenient—ocouldn’t you give me a knock-down to your friend 2’? he repeated. The girl and the boy sprang apart, but as he approached she drew near to the younger man again instinctively. ‘I reckon you’d best mosey,” said the boy quietly. ‘If it was anyways convenient—’’ began the man again, smiling his evil smile. The boy drove it back upon his teeth, and Big Ed dropped. ‘Yes; better mosey,’ said the boy again, through tight lips. “Do not mind him, Mies ; he is only joking.” Big Ed rose and vanished, the boy looking after him. ‘Do not mind him,’’ he repeated soothing- ly. ‘You see, he does not know who youn are,or he would not be sosauncy.’’ His voice was as tender as a woman’s. They walked to the door of the shack, and he bowed a good-night. / *‘I—1I think I'm a little—a little afraid,’ she whispered. ‘‘He was joking,’’ the boy said again. ‘He knows—now.”’ ‘‘Are you—are you going to explain to him 2’? she asked. **Yes, Miss; I'll tell him who you are; that’s all, you see.” He bowed again and closed the door. Sleep would not come to her, though she was very tired. The patron saint coughed monotonously on throughout the night; a coyote on a hill howled tenaciously; and when he ceased,and the throb of the engine had wrought itself innoticeably into the woof of the stillness, there recurred anoth- er sound, faint, yet persistent, which sum- moned her wide awake, and kept her so. It went and came; now it was unheard, now close by again, tapping, tapping, stealthily. She had barred her door and fastened her windows shut before she lay down, and the room was very hot. The night was endless ! At last she could en- dure that sound no longer, and, slipping from her bed, she stole in her bare feet to the window, and pushing aside the curtain ever go little, peered fearfully ous. The moon was up, and turned the coral plains to silver. Before the shack she saw the boy standing, looking away into the color- less night. As she watched him, he began his steady tramping up and down, up and down. = His face was visible in the moon- light, bard and set, so that it frightened her. Yet she remained looking at him, fascinated; her breath, which bad been coming in silent gasps, softened and grew regular, and her heart left off the nervous rapidity of its hammering. Tears came in- to her eyes. Presently she crept back to bed, leaving that silent sentinel to his vigil under the purple black sky, and, after a little, she slept soundly. She did not know how long she had slept, when she was awakened, sharply, as if the veil of her sleep, instead of being lifted, bad been torn across. She lay palpi- tating, fancying that she had heard voices in altercations. Suddenly a shot was fired, then another, close to the shack. She cowered in the bed, vibrant with horror. She knew that if for an instant she should draw the quilt from her month, where she had staffed it, she would be screaming. Then a voice, the boy’s voice, said, gently, at the door : ‘Excuse me, Miss; if maybe you’re awake, I wanted to say don’t be scared; it was a coyote I had to shoot. I know I oughtn’t to have done it.”’ The throb of the engine resumed its place in the silence. Her fears sank, but her horror remained. She fancied that she heard in her ears a cry which no coyote ever gave. The chill which comes before the dawn was in the air. At last the sun rose and found her dressed and shivering. The noiseless Chinaman served her break- fast, as he had served her supper. She could not eat, but, when he had deferen- tially bowed and departed, she made. a pretence. She was sitting at the table when a knock came, and the boy entered. His face was unchanged by his night's watch. **Giood-morning,’’ she tried tosay, rising quickly as he came in. ‘And to you, Miss,’ *“Won’t you—sit down ?"’ “I thank you. I reckon we’ll have to be movin’, Miss.” ‘‘Yes.”” She comprehended his meaning by one of those flashes of understanding in which all that has passed seems to gather to one focus. ‘*My uncle?’ she asked tremblingly. *‘I reckon I'd best explain it to you go- ing in, badn’t I ?”’ ‘‘Now,’* she insisted. ‘Where have you brought me to? Where is my uncle ? What is this place ?’’ She kept her eyes on his, flutteringly, like a bird’s. ‘“This is the Bar K ranch,’’ he said duti- fully. ‘You didn’t think—?’ ‘‘My uncle—Mr. Gage ?”’ ‘Your uncle is dead, Miss Dudley,” he replied somberly. ' The place reeled in red circles around her, and he caught her as she was falling. ‘Dead ?”’ Yes.” ‘It can’t be; it can’t be,’’ she cried. ‘‘I have his Jetters—’ The boy told her obediently and mechanic- ally. ‘‘He went out Tuesday wasa week. When he didn’t come back that night, we went to look for him. It ain’tsafe toleave them go more than one night, ever.”” His eyes swept that merciless ruddy plain. ‘*We found him, Miss. He’d turned down CRE the wrong arroyo, yon see, and then he couldn’s seem to get straight again. Some- times it is hard so to do. Well—I reckon, that’s all. : : ‘‘So, yesterday, yon were telling me—’’ She left the sentence unfinished. For the first time, that morning, his face showed emotion. His lips twitched, and his words came a little jerkily. ‘That was bad. But I couldn’t think what was best to do, and I didn’t want to worry you out there. IT hadn’t no excuse, no right excuse, that is, such as wonld be fit and proper. It was partly seeing you, Miss; I hadn’t seen a lady like you, not for a long time. Never. And—yon was wanting to come right to this ranch ; and I knew I could make it safe and comfortable for you, this night, better than down there at Duke's. So——"’ “I’m ready,’’ she said. ‘‘When does the train go ?”’ ‘‘East or West, Miss ?”’ ‘‘East.”’ ‘‘I supposed you’d be taking one. At ten o'clock.’ ‘Must I ride in—like yesterday ? ‘‘No, Miss. There is a wagon. But I'm afraid I'll have to go with you. There’s nobody else, I reckon, I can truss. I know it ain’t gentleman-like.”’ The girl took the place that he pointed out in the light wagon. She was moving like a person in a dream. She hardly even knew why she had stared at him so eagerly when he entered, nor why she had drawn that long breath of relief when she per- ceived that he was unhurt. She thought she abhorred him; she thought that her only wish was never to see him again, to get away, to escape, to leave behind her this conntry of death. They drove through clouds of dust, which rose and settled upon them. The old, bald, pink buttes glimmer- ed at them maliciously in the heaving dis- tance, seeming to beckon to the girl, to lure her on as they had lared her uncle. Their beauty was dead; they grinned like skeletons. She had been driving forever, it seemed to her, over slopes and through red river-beds as dry as bones. Not even a bird hung in the blue, not even a rabbis loped away listlessly before them; theirs was the only life in the desert. The sun smote upon them, now from the side, now in their faces, now upon their backs. Where she was, whither she was going, she did not know. Yet she was not afraid, as she had been before—only dull and careless of what happened to her. She was hardly more a part of the world, the living, spin- ning world, than the bit of sandstone they were passing. They passed it; she looked at her gnide—and there was Duke’s asleep in the hot sun, amidst the rose-red, sun- beaten, grassless, treeless, waterless hills, as it had been yesterday, and should be to- morrow. But she did not see it, for as it came in sight the boy’s face paled, and he dropped the reins. “I reckon you can find—your—way— now,’’ he said, and his eyes closed peace- fully, ‘““Ive—’’ He toppled toward her, and she bad to put her arms around him. ‘“What is it? what is it?” she cried wildly. His eyes opened slowly. ‘That coyote —bit me,”’ he murmured, and they closed again. The ponies, left to themselves, stopped. They had reached Duke’s. She got water from the perishing creek and bathed his head, and then, taking off her hat, she sat and fanned him. Presently he revived again, and under his direction she found his flask and gave him whisky. ‘‘I—I—didn’t know I was such a dern fool,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Hush !"’ she said. You mustn’t talk.” “I saw this morning,’”’ he answered irrelevantly, ‘‘that you knew I was lying to you last night about that coyote. But I guess you was deceived then ?”’ ‘No,’ she said quickly ; ‘I knew. I heard—but I thought you weren’t hurt.” ‘Don’t you be good to me,” he said. “I wasn’t hurt bad—-I ain’t lying to you now. I reckon I just keeled over with the sun—me being a fool.”’ ‘‘If you would get into the shade—"’ she said hesitatingly. ‘Don’t you be good to me,’’ he repeated. But he moved obediently as she suggested. ‘‘That train’ll be along soon now,’’ he said. ‘‘We bave to flag it, you know, Miss. Naturally, it don’t stop.”’ ‘I know." ‘‘I reckon you’ll be going back to your folks ?’’ he asked at length. ‘“There was only my uncle,’ she answer- ed quietly. ‘Well, a lady like you has got plenty of friends everywhere.”’ ‘‘And yet you wouldn’s be friends—’ ‘Friends I’ he interrupted her.”” You're goin’ away so soon now I reckon it wouldn’t be playing it low-down if I was to tell yon—-"’ ; ‘You oughtn’t to talk,’’ she repeated. “I can’t help myself, Miss. I’ve got to say this. I told you I might be trash, and if yon was to be staying here I wouldn't say a word more. But I can’t let you go away thinkin’ that what he said was true —Big Ed—"’ “Stop !I’’ she cried. ‘Did you—did you—kill him ?”? She looked at him be- seechingly, her eyes praying. But he answered sadly : ‘You can’t understand, Miss. He miscomprehended right at first, and there weren’t any chance to put him straight. He miscomprehend- ed.” The boy’s eyes turned back towards the Bar K, and Dorothy knew clearly that his words were Big Ed’s epitaph. “You can’t anderstand,’’ he repeated. *‘I never thought what he said was true,” she raid. The boy’s face lightened, then fell into gloom again. ‘‘No,’’ he answered to himself, “how conld you understand him—a lady like you ? Well, I reckon I mustbe movin’. ”’ He tried to rise, but she restrained him. “No, no! I—am afraid." “I$’11 be here right soon, now,”’ he said gently. 4 ‘Oh, if you wish to go, go !’’ she sob- bed suddenly. ‘I can flag the train; I can wait here alone. I would rather wait than have you stay ! Go. go !”’ ‘I saw you here yesterday,’’ he whisper. ed, ‘‘and it was like I saw an aungel—an angel from heaven. Yes, I'll go, Miss;I know how I must be annoyin’ you by my words. But would it be playing low-down to say why I wouldn’t be friends as you have said ? Would I dare take a band in that there game ? What do I do first? I lie to you—Ilie to you about your uncle, a gentleman who has been kindly to me. Say I mean you no harm. But what do I do? Ilie. How do Idare befriends with you after that ? Friends—why, I ought to be ashamed of myself, I know; you will not speak to me, Miss; but—it’s not friend- ship’s been in my heart since I’ve seen you !? She did not withdraw her eyes from his, and he went on, more and more rapidly : “I'm older than I look, I reckon. I'm twenty-six. I’veseen a lot of things— things that you wouldn’t ever hear about. But I do not think I ever did a mean trick. I’ve been honest—till yesterday ; and then it had to be you I lied to—you. Well, I reckon I will be going, now.” ‘Are you—are you going to leave me ?’! she asked forlornly. ‘‘Won’t you—stay?’’ She knelt beside him, and his arm clnsed around her. The east bound train, on’ 1e for a wonder, swept unflagged in a w- of dust through Duke's and passen;— looking from the windows saw the t.. there, and laughed a little.—By Jame. Weber Linn, in McClure’s Magazine. 537 Hard on Small Dealers. New Ruling in Regard to Sale of Tobacco, Snuff and Cigars. Deputy internal revenue collector G. W. Rees has received notice from the com- missioner of Internal Revenue in regard to a new ruling affecting the sale of tobacco, snuff and cigars exposed for sale outside of stamped packages. This ruling will bear heavily upon small dealers. Mr. Rees is notifying the dealers hereabonts in regard to the matter. The ruling of the commissioner is as follows : ‘“The language of the revised statutes is so plain as to hardly require explanation. Liberally construed, they permit the sale of manufactured tobacco, snuff, cigars and cigaretts by retail dealers from the original manufacturer’s stamped package only, and require that these products muss remain in such original stamped packages at all times until sold and delivered to customers. ‘Manufactured tobacco, snuff, cigars, and cigaretts found on the market outside of the manufacturer’s packages in which they were originally packed are subject to seizure and forfeiture and the person in whose possession the same are found is hable to prosecution and on conviction to heavy fines and imprisonment. ‘‘From information tbat reached this office, it appears that the law and regula- tions relating to the sales by jobbers and other dealers in manufactured tobacco,snuff, and cigars are quite generally disregarded and ignored, and that these articles are he- ing exposed for sale outside the original package unprotected by the tax-paid stamps. It is the purpose of this circular to give notice to all concerned that these irregularities and violations must cease or those guilty of them must suffer the con- sequences. *‘One dealer in manufactured tobacco is not privileged to take from a manunfactur- er’s package a portion of the contents and deliver the same unaccompanied by the tax-paid stamp to another dealer for resale; neither can a dealer lawfully receive in his possession manufactured tobacco, snuff, cigars, or cigaretts removed from the origi- nal stamped packages. Such unstamped articles exposed for sale or exhibited in show windows, show cases, glass jars, or otherwise by dealers, wholesale or retail, are forfeitable and must be seized. ‘Owing to the existing misunderstand- ing on the part of dealers in manufactured tobacco as to the requirements of the law, immediate steps will not be taken to strict- ly enforce the same, but an opportunity will be afforded such dealers to remedy existing evils and to get their stock of manufactured tobacco, snuff, cigars and cigaretts in condition to fully comply with the law and regulations. “When, on or after November 1st, 1903, manufactured tobacco, snuff, cigars or cigarettes are found on the market exposed for sale outside of the original packages, the same will be seized by the proper col- lector or deputy collector, and the facts re- ported to this office and to the United States District Attorney, with recommenda- tion for such action as may be deemed re- quisite.”’ Methodist Day at Lakemont Park. Ten thousand people are said to have been present at Lakemont Park Thursday on the occasion of the sixth annual renn- ion of the Methodists of Blair and adjoin- ing counties. The weather was ideal, the one shower of the day being a refreshing episode. 3 The morning exercises, beginning at 10:30 o’clock, were presided over by Rev. M. C. Piper, pastor of Walnut Avenue church, and after devotional services Rev. J. Ellis Bell, presiding elder of Altoona district, with a few welcoming and con- gratulatory remarks, introduced Rev. C. E. L. Cartright D. D., of Scottdale, who spoke on ‘‘The Mistakes Moses Didn’t Make.’’ - The benediction was pronounced by Dr. E. J. Gray, of Williamsport, and the audience was dismissed for the noon hour. At 2 o'clock the afternoon exercises opened with an over-crowded audience. Rev. H. C. Pardoe presided over these ser- vices and ‘‘He Leadeth Me’’ was sung by the congregation, followed by ‘See How Great a Flame Appears.”” Rev J. H. Daugherty, of Tyrone, led in prayer. Rev. T. J. Leak, D. D., of Pittsburg, was then introduced and spoke on the life history of ‘‘John Wesley.” Misses Thompson and Buck then sang a duet in a very charming manner. Dr. E. J. Gray, of Williamsport, report- ed prosperous the seminary at that place and as doing noble Christian work, looking after body, mind and soul of the students. The speaker also paid tribute to the life and work of John Wesley. A male quartette inspiringly sang ‘‘Ashamed of Jesus.” Rev. J. M. Yeager, D. D., of New York, then spoke a few words on the blessed outcome of persecus- ed truth. After a few remarks by Rev. J. E. Bell the audience was dismissed with the long metre doxology and the benediction pro- nounced by Rev. T. J. Leak. At the evening meeting Rev. G. M. Kiepfer presided. The lecture of the even- ing was delivered by Rev. Dr. J. M. Yea- - ger of New York. By request, his theme was ““Jauntings in the Old East” instead of the advertised topic, ‘Rocks That Wreck.” The lecture was a very able one and held the undivided attention of the people from the beginning until the close. White Man Lynched for Murder of Girl. Farmer Confesses Crime, Hangs Him Across Wire. Despite the efforts of the victim’s father, Sheriff Richards, who had sworn in twen- ty-five deputies to guard William Hamil- ton, the well-to-do white farmer, who con- fessed the murder of Mabel Richards, 13 years old, he was forcibly taken from the jail at Asotin, Wash., last Thursday short- ly after midnight. He was lynched by a mob of more than one thousand men. With their faces concealed, the men marched to the jail. The officers and guards were swept aside, and the keys taken from the jailor. Hamilton was then dragged from the prison and into the strees. Hamilton was asked if he desired to con- fess. He did so. The manner of the man’s death was dis- cussed. Some sought to torture him, but it was decided to hang him. A mask was put over his head. A rope around his neck was thrown over a guy wire, and seized by many lynchers. - The body was left sus- pended. and Washington Mod
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers