EE ——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Bellefonte, Pa., June 22, 1906.
ARR
OUT OF THE THRONG.
Out of range of the guslight's glare,
Away from the maddening crowd;
Out on the prairie, bleak and bare,
Canopy of sun and cloud;
Longing for you with all my heart—
Holding myself to blame
For keepiog you and I apart—
Loving you just the same.
Away from the singing, humming wires;
Away from the throng-surged street;
Away from the city's towering spires,
With never a soul to greet
Through the hot and dreary summer's day,
Save perhaps a man or two;
Eyes growing dim, and mind away,
Thioking, dear one of you.
Out of the land of sighs and pain;
Away from revel and fun;
Out on the lonely, grass-grown plain
Under the scorching sun.
Yet bearing my hardships like a man—
Playing life's fitful game,
With aching heart ‘neath summer's tan—
Loving you just the same,
Harney Vax Demanx,
THE ATAVISM OF ABIMELECH.
Abimelech Crummitt, preacher of the
word, pushed hack his broad-brimmed hat
and turned in his wagon-seat to peer cari-
ously through his grey eyebrows
after the two horsemen who bad galloped
him toward the town of Colomo. Abim-
ech, who knew every citizen o® Howell
county, knew not these men and the horses
rode—lithe, powerful and slender of
limb—were of a breed strange to that re-
*‘Beauties’’ soliloquized Abimelech—unot
of the riders.
When the cavaliers bad finally disap-
within the town, Abimelech ocluck-
ed to his own round, sturdy steeds and
jolted noisily on toward bis little white
farmhouse in the distance.
It was just as he reached the croes-roads
that he beard the first shot; he bad already
balted, abruptly, when the fusilade 3
he was hurrying back toward Colomo when
his alert ears caught the final report—the
, spiteful voice of the muzzle-loading,
-making rifle of she predatory pioneer
whose convincing eloquence had ed
the reluctant aborigine to ‘move on.”’
As he hastened toward the connty-seat
Abimelech was sore troubled of spirit.
Next to the fair fame of his meek, Quaker-
Juve spouse, Martha, be cherished the
r fame of Colomo. Almost a balf centa-
ry before, he bad heiped as the ‘‘raising’’
of the first house in the town; he had loy-
ally rejoiced when the straggling vil
been chosen as the connty-seat, and he
bad been one of the foremost to contribute
hie quota of hewn logs {or the court-house.
For more than fourteen years—ever since
the extirpation of the lawless Roliban gang
—Colomo bad been a model of peace and
quietude, a city of law and order and
brotherly love—a condition largely dae to
the insistent influence of Abimelech and
his sect. Wherefore Abimelech was per-
plexed and much mortified by those omi-
nous sounds thas presaged the return of
crime and lawlessness to Colomo.
He tied his panting and indignant horses
to the ancient hitching rack that disfigured
the Publis tquare, and proceeded slowly to-
ward the gaping crowd that surged about
the entrance to Lumson’s livery stable.
Hallway across the street he mes the coun-
ty clerk, a bard, strange look on his usoal-
ly jolly face.
*‘What was the shooting about, friend
Hiram ?”’ asked Abimelech.
The county clerk slackened his rapid
Pe Daddy Dow's killed; shot down like a
mn
Abimelech’s grave eyee grew wonder-
wide.
“Killed! Israel Dow—"'
“Yes; two hoss-thieves. We bad notice
they was beaded this way, an’ we'd have
got ’em, only Stone was 100 sudden—tried
to arrest ‘em before they was oat of th’
saddles. They whirled an’ was off like
© two streaks, after firin’ th’ shot thas killed
r ol’ Daddy—an’ him dozin’ peaceful in
Dieor chair.”
“And they escaped, friend Hiram ?”’
The clerk’s eyes flashed vindictively as
he hurried on.
“We got one. Bill Seward dropped 'im
on th’ jump, with his old rifle,shot through
th’ bip. Stone hustled 'im down to Jail—
bus be won't be there loog.”’
Abimelech crossed the street and peered
over the fast ivoreasing assemblage of
heads. Ap overturned chair and a little
red pool marked the spot where old Israel
Dow—'‘Daddy Dow,” venerated pioneer
and patiiarch—had met death.
Whoen Abimelech bad listened to the
muttering of those about him, when be had
seen man alter man leave the crowd and
burry toward the court-house, his long,
clean-shaven face grew severely serious,
He clasped his callonsed hands hehind his
broad back and walked thoughtfally alo
the main street to the rickety jail on the
riverside, climbed the creaking steps, and
rapped softly npon the door. I slowly
swung open and the sheriff stood on the
threshold, barring Abimelech’s entrance,
“What's your business, Ab ?'’ asked the
officer, biusquelv. ‘‘I'm busy.”
*I tear the’ll be much busier very soon,
friend Stone,”’ Abimelech observed. The
sheriff eved him sharply, and laoghed
faintly and nueasily.
“They'll ind us ready,”’ he answered.
“J reckon me an’ my dep’sy knows our
business.’
““Thee and thy deputy! Friend Stone,
Whey Wl ne d twenty depaties !"’
e sheriff frowned and bis face flushed
angrily; bus there were many wearers of
the broad brim in Howell countv—a fact
worthy of consideration by an officer seek
ing a second term.
“Wheie'd 1 ges ‘em ™ 3s growled, ur
guess you ain’s on to pul sentiment io
this matter, Ab.”
Beyond the sheriff, astride a chair, his
bat carelessly awry, the deputy removed
the pipe from his lips and laughed soeer-
i .
bs ot] swear Ab in, Tom ?” he
. “They may not he afeared of
w h ut they'd never tackle sich a terrcr as
Ab.
Well did Abimelech comprehend the
irony of the suggestion. No man in Ho-
well connty was better fisted for personal
combat than Abimelech. Standing flat-
footed on bis native soil, he could fold his
massive arms on the top of a ten-rail fence.
To vault lightly over the same fence, or
with one blow to sink his axe to the helve
in a standing poplar, were feats easy of ac-
complishment by Abimelech. Bat, trueto
the tenets of his sect, Abimelech, only be.
gotten son of Elibu and Ketarah, was a
mau of He bad seen his neighbors
march, rifle on shoulder, to join Harrison
at Tippecanoe; drafted da the dark
days of the grea rebellion, he bad promps-
ly fernished a substitate. With meekness
and io silence he had many times heard his
courage questioned—for be was a man of
few save when the Spirit moved and
She Prisnds’ Moding home aug with Abim-
e s ent prayers quavering ex-
hortations.
And so, when the grinning sheriff com-
manded bim to bold up bis right hand,
Abimelech only glared at him in reproving
mildoess and answered : ‘“Thee knows I
can’s fight, friend Stone.”
“You're like th’ rest of 'em,”’ the sher-
iff declared, contemptuously, ‘‘only yom
can’t an’ they won't.”
““Then, friend, I demand that thee im-
mediately telegraph the Governor for the
militia.”
““Tb’ militia be d—d, an’ you with is!"
the sheriff snarled. ‘‘Howell county can
mavage its own affairs without shootin’ ite
citizens down to save th’ neck of a marder-
in’ boss-thief. An’ don’t you come nosin’
around tryin’ to run my w
ye're too big a coward to practice what you
Abimelech calmly turned, passed down
the steps and leaned against the dilapidat-
ed paling fence, his broad chin on his enor-
mous chest, He was thinking of the Gov-
ernor, whose half-section adjoined his own
modest ‘‘forty’’—the Governor, shrewd ob-
server and reader of men, who had once
said, hamorously : “If Qaaker Ah were to
state that two and swo made six, I should
feel it my duty to cause the arithmetics of
our schools to be altered accordingly.”
Whatever his personal courage, Abimelech’s
stern probity and calm, conservative judg-
ment remained unchallenged and unques-
tioned.
Ten minutes later Abimelech stood in
the little office of Colomo's solitary rail.
road, seribbling, erasing and re-writing,
perplexedly—for the pen was a clums
wea
in his antutored band. At last he
tened up and regarded the agent du-
“Friend,” he asked, ‘‘can ye get this
through as once ?”’
The man scanned the m ,and looked
up at Abimelech’s grave, anx .
“This is th’ ¢ s business; th’ Gov-
ernor can’t—"’
“Friend,” Abimelech interrupted,
“James Wilson is not the man to quibble
in such a case. He was raised in Colomo,
and he loves it, I bave given thee the
message; if thee shirks thy duty thee will
have to answer to James Wilson.”
“The agent seized the key of the instru-
ment.
“I'1 try,” he said, goardedly. “If the
haven’s cut th’ wire I can get it throug
nick.’
“I thank thee, friend,” said Abimelech,
fervently. “I'll wait for an answer.’
Thirty long anxious minates ticked
away. Then, with a sigh, Abimelech rose
from his seat in the dim corner of the dingy
room.
“1 may as well go home,” besaid, in an-
swer to the agent's questioning glance.
“I've doue all I can, aod I don’t want to
be here when—""
“Answers coming,’ the agent broke in
as the little instrument suddenly set up an
iusisteut clatter.
A moment of hasty scribbling and he
laid before Abimelech the listle yellow
sheet, yet uncopied.
MernoroL1s, Ind., Jul 10, 187—
** Abimelech Crummitt, "no, ad
» there by ten, special train.
Tp be pe “lynching in Colomo.
s on you.
Hold the jail, rely yo Wizson."
Outside the office, the little sheet of pa-
per clutched iu his hard band, Abimelech,
gazing helplessly down the street, saw that
the stores were closed, the streets silent
aod deserted. Somewhere on that balmy,
summer evening the men of Colomo were
gathering, organizing, planviog deliberate
murder, and Abimelech groaned as he
thought of the Governor of a mighty State
relying ou one man to thwart that mob—
wo shat man Abimelech Crummits, preach-
er of the word, man of peace! II it were
only either of these poor, misguided men
of war, Captain Adonijab Crammiss who
had stood with Stark at Beonington, or
Seekpeace Crammits who bad charged with
Cromwell at Naseby. Into Abimelech’s
mind flashed a damning doubt, a sinfal
suspicion that, perbaps, after all, there
might be times when the sword rather
than the word was necessaey lor the accom-
plishment of the Lord's work.
*‘Hold the jail. I rely on youl”
Mechanically Abimelech muttered those
words as he moved dejectedly in the direc-
tion of his waiting team. The old clock in
the court house tower struck vine, slowly
and solemnly. The moon began to peep
timidly above the dim horizon. Glaucing
up, Abimelech saw that the windows of
the cours-house were ablaze with light.
As he passed slowly under the old oak in
the court-house lawn, soinething dangling
in its branches awayed in the rising breeze
before his face. Immediately he seized the
tions noosed thing, tore is down,and
urled it far away. The doors of she court-
house squeaked on their rusty hinges, and
a grim, double column of men marched
forth, tarned roward the jail. and halved
whije the leaders called ont sharp, stern in-
structions. Shuddering, Abimelech made
three plunging strides toward his team,
then stood still, gripping the Governor's
message in bis hands. ‘J rely on you I"
The words hunrned in his brain. If he could
gain a hearing from these men of Colomo
before they began their murderous work,
perhaps— “Is not my words like as fire ?
. . . and like a hammer that breaketh the
rock in pieces ?'’ A great voice seemed to
ery ou the question, and make of it a com-
ma
Down the dark side of the street Abime-
lech, half crouching, sped to the jail,
aprang up the steps, and beat upon the
oor
“Git away from there,’ the sheriff called.
““Th’ shootin will begin within a mionie.”
“No!” eried Abimelech. “I can help
thee. I'll take the affirmation if necessary.”
“I'd let him in, Tom'’—the ras
voice of the deputy penetrated through the
thin door; “‘it’ll help vs in case th’ Gov’'n-
er gits inguisitive—an’ he'll git ov 10 our
game out shere.”’
The shen fl mumbled over the affirmation
an he hastily rebolted the door behind his
rearnit.
*“There need be no bloodshed, friend
Stone,” Ahimelech exclaimed; ‘I'll speak
tn those erring—"’
* “Do yer talkin’ at the other door—
throogh yonder,”’ interjected the sheriff,
thrusting a revolver into Abimelech’s
band. “Jap an’ me stays here.”
Mechanicaliy grasping the unfamiliar
weapon, Ahimelech harried throogh the
inner door of the office and into the cori-
dor that circled the cage of grated cells. A
dozen jailbirds, wrimy and unkempt,
leered out at him between the iron bars.
He slipped the solitary bolt of the pine
door and peered ont. The head of the grim
¥ | he gasped.
Ping | tered Abimelech, *‘we’ll save Colomo yet."
column was filing through the gate of the
dilapidated fence. Ab melech dropped the
revolver into his removed his
broad-brimmed bat, and stepped out into
woonligbs. The white bair thas the breeze
tossed about his bead was little whiter
then his face. Abimelech lifted up his
“Halt, friends !"’ he citied 0 deep, so-
norous tones. The columu balted, as if in
surprise. “It’s Qoaker Ab,’ a dozen
voices muttered. The leaders whispered
, then one called out :
“Go home, Ab—get out of the way. We
don’s want to bart you.”’
“Is is thee, friends, who should go
home,’ returned Abimelech; ‘‘thee who
sre about to commit murder, and bring
disgrace upon our town of Coiomo,
Friends, listen to me—"'
“Forwaid !"’ growled a score of voices.
“We dido’t come here for a sermon. For-
ward !"' The column pressed against its
leaders, who held is back.
“Crammist,”’ called one,’”’ we don’t par-
ticalar waot this fellow if he'll tell who his
per was, and where he’s headed for.
was his partver that sbot Daddy."
Abimelech’s face shone.
“Friends, I'll ask bim—if the’ll promise
me to make no attack hefore I repors.”’
“Sore! We'll wait. Won't we, boys?"’
Sabdued laughter ran down the column
as a hundred voices gave assent. Honest
Abimelech re-entered the jail and hastened
around the corridor, peering iuto each cell.
From the floor of the farthest one a man
with a pallid, pain-distorted face looked up
through balf-closed eyes aud spoke couvul-
sively between clenched teeth :
*‘It's me you're—lookin’ for. Au’ you
can—go back an’—tell that mob—to go to
-—
Abimelech covered his ears to shut out
that last word.
“Frieud,” he said, earnestly, ‘‘if thee
refuses, only a miracle can save thee.”
The mau on the floor held out a hand.
“Give we that gun—in your pocket,”
“I'll bave—company—on th’
way over.’
“Blank cartridges, friend—like the oth-
ers,” answered Abimelech, with a sigoifi-
cant gesture toward the sheriff's office.
““The only chance is to—"’
A volley of shots from the cffice drowned
his voice.
A chorus of fierce cheers arose from the
columu he bad just lett.as it sweps through
the open door and into the jail.
Over the solemn face of Abimelech flash-
ed a look of indignant amazement; his long
h:avy jaw shut with a click. He seized
the rusted bar that fastened the prisoner's
door, and in his immense bauds it snapped
like a pipe stem. He lifted the groaning
prisoner in his arms and sped to the flimey
stairway that led to the upper story. As
he spravg upon the lowest step au axe
hurled from the oncoming mob glanced
from his white head. Ahimelech reeled,
took ope more upward, staggering step,
shifsed his burden to his left arm and faced
the mob. Blood streamed over his face—
not the blood of Abimelech, man of peace,
expounder of tive word; it was the blood of
that Captain Adonijah who had stood with
Stark at Bennington, of Seekpeace Crum-
mitt who had charged with Cromwell at
Naseby ! From behind the sl eye:
brows his eyes shot forth blue fire; his
teeth gleamed, white and set, beneath the
snarling lips. A ponderous arm swung in
darting, catapultic circles againss the fore-
most pursuers, hurling them back disabled.
Then, with three springs, Abimelech reach-
ed the upper floor and laid his borden
down. Stooping, he wrenched the flimsy
stairway from its upper fastenings and it
fell, crashing, with ite load of panting,
scrambling wen.
**By the gods, old boy, you're a brick I"
the wounded man moaned.
Two men in the cell at Abimelech’s back
pressed their hard faces against the bars,
“Let us out, Goliath,’ said one. “We'll
help ye keep 'em down.”
“The law put thee in; the law must let
thee ont,” laconically said Abimelech.
From below arose curses aud epithets no-
complimentary to Abimelech. e shoot-
ing ceased, and more men pourtd ioto the
corridor—{rom the sheriff's office. The top
of a ladder shot up through the opening as
Abimelech’s feet. The voice of the sheriff
called from helow:
**Abimelech Crummitt, as sheriff of Ho-
well county, I demand my prisoner that I
may protect him.”’
“Come up and get him,” growled Abim-
elect.
‘The officer's bead reared itself above the
upper floor.
A bairy hand twined like a rope of wire
around tne scrawny neck, shook the sheriff
of Howell county rudely in mid-air, and
dropped kim to the floor below. Then
Abiwelesh seized the ladder, drew it quick-
ly upward, and waited.
Listening, hopefully, to catch the first
sound of the special, be heard only the
tramping of mauy feet, the confused babble
of angry voices. Suddenly, with a rend
crash, fragments of glass and sash si
through the bars of the window at his
right. He took the heavy revolver from
his pockes aud banded it to the maa at his
feet.
“Thee wuss try to guard the stairway,”
be said. ‘‘Hit every bead. I wust go to
the window.”
“They'll shoot youn,”’ the man warned.
Abimelech drew himself up proudly.
“Shoot me? They daren’t!”
He drew an arm across bis eyes to wipe
away the blood, leaped toward the window
tben halted, perplexed. In the moonlight
he raw two ladders throoged with men.
To attempt to overthrow them—to thrust
his arms between the bars—ineant certain
maiming by those battering hammers. He
glanced about, despairingly. His blazing
eyes discovered 8 dim and varrow cul-de-
sac, formed by the wall of the building,
and a row of cells. He raised the helpless
prisoner, carried him to the further end of
the blind passage, and tenderly laid bim
down. He heard the bars of the window
fall, Flasering under the bammers. He
beatd obeers, fierce cries, the rush of many
feet. And he heard the roar and rattle of
a train speeding into town.
*‘By the mighty swmd of Gideon,’ mat-
The opening of the passage filled with
dark, hesitating, peering forms. Abime-
lech took two strides forward; the last of
battle swelled his nears.
“Cowards!’’ he challenged, ‘come on! I
bear no arms save those the Lotd gave me!”
men of Colomo— with angry faces and cruel
eyes, and Abimelech struck—struck with
hare hands as even be bad pever struck
with axe and maul. Down wens the fore.
most, man after man, bot others pressed
forward, climbed over prostrate forms, pre-
cipitated themselves upon the giant, forced
him back inch by inch, while he longht a«
Adonijah and Seekpeace had never foughs.
“Kill him! Kill the meddling Quaker!”
they soreamed,=narling like enraged beasts.
A demon leaped up within Abiwmelech’s
hreast; the impulse to slay his
brain. His retreating foot strunok the ham-
mer-like weapon that bad slipped trom the |
nerveless band of the fainting man upon
the floor. He stooped, quickly, to seize it,
bis loes leaped npou him, and the strug
gling wass crashed to the floor. With a
tau’s streugth Abimelech rose to his
kuees aud swung she weapon above his
bead. Then, as a column of blue coats and
leveled bayonets came charging down tbe
Pe bis swimwivg eyes, and he pitch-
ed forward, a quivering wass of mighty
bone and muscle, muttering in triumphant
delirinm between clenched teeth : *‘[ rely
on you!”
When Abimelech opened his eyes they
wandered painfully about a familiar 100m
through whose little eastern window the
sau was shiniog brightly, Hix bozzing ears
caught the sound of old Dr. Newland:
“Just keep him quiet, Mrs. Crummist.
We'll bave him up in a day or two, and as
as new in a week. Good-day, ma'am”
“Then it wasn’s a dream,’ groaned
Abimelech. A Quaker-garbed, ient- |
faced little woman harried to bis side. i
“Thee wust Dot try to arise, A
lech,” she said with low and gentle voice. |
**Martha, did I—was any owe killed ?”’ i
he whispered hoarsely. {
**No, Abimelech; praise the Lord. Bat!
thee has sinned=—giieviously stunned.” 1
“And | deserve to be disciplined —se- |
verely wid righteously d'sriplined, Martha. |
The little woman honed ber head "Yes,
Ammelech: already swo of the brethren |
have called to express their opinion of thy |
amazing conduet.”’ |
Abimelech clused his eyes wearily and |
his lips rightly,
“Martha,” he said, after awhile, “hing |
we the Bovk—and a pen.” |
While the listle wowan held the ancient
Bible belie him be turned to the old fami- |
Iv record, hwiween she two Testaments, ard
drew two black, obliterating lines through
the names of Captain Adouijab and Seek-
peace Crammitr.
**Martha.” be said, plaintively, “it was
in the blood.”
The listle woman sighed.
“Yes, Abimelech. But thee can live is
down. I will help thee.”
Abimelech raised ove ponderous arm,
Grew the little woman to him, aod kissed
er.
“I rely oo youn,’” he whispered, an odd
smile playing about his lips as be closed
bis aching eyes.-~By Frank N. Stratton, in
Collier's.
SERIES OF SHIPWRECKS.
The Most Singular Chain of Marine
Accidents on Record.
The most singular series of ship
wrecks on record began with the loss
of the English merchantman Mermaid,
which was driven on the rocks of Tor-
res strait in October, 1820, The officers
and crew clung to the shattered vessel,
which was held fast upon a sunken
ledge, until, a few minutes before the
doomed ship went to pleces, a passing
frigate picked them up.
The Swiftsure, as the latter craft
was called, resumed her northward
course, to be foundered in a terrific
gale three days later.
Her combined crews were saved by
the warship Governor Ready, en voy-
age to India, May 18, 1830. The last
named, overtaken by a storm, was
stranded on a barren coast, her three
crews to a man succeeding in reach-
ing the shore.
After staying a week on the inhos-
pitable island they were taken off by
the revenue cutter Comet, which a few
days later sprang a leak and sank in
spite of all efforts to save her.
Fortunately a rescue ship was again
on hand, the four crews being saved
by the Jupiter.
Even then, however, the chain of dis-
asters was not broken, for the Jupiter
just as she was entering the harbor of
Port Raffle turned turtle and went
down with scarcely a moment's warn-
ing. Her crews barely escaped with
their lives, to be picked up by boat
sent to their aid.
Thus the crew of the Mermaid was
wrecked five times in one voyage, that
of the Swiftsure four times, of the
Governor Ready three times and the
Comet twice.
The rescues had been purely acciden-
tal in every case, none of the ships
having been sailing as a consort or
even to the same port.
Though the weather had been tem-
pestuous and the escapes barely made,
not a life had been lost.
DEAD MEN’S SHOES.
Peculiar Beliefs About Them That
Exist In the Old World.
“Dead men's shoes” is a common ex-
pression, but means much in many
parts of the old world, where the boots
of the dead are accorded much im-
portance,
In Scotland, in the northern parts of
England, in Scandinavia, as well as in
Hungary, Croatia and Roumania, the
utmost care is taken among the lower
classes that each corpse is provided
with a pair of good shoes before being
laid into the ground. If the dead per-
son heppens to be a tramp and to have
been found dead barefooted there will
always be some charitable soul to fur-
nish a pair of good boots for interment
along with the corpse,
An inspector of police in Scotland has
been known to purchase of his own ac-
cord a new pair of boots and to place
them in the grave, reopened for the
rass, while other races say that
consist of burning sands. These
of suffering are popularly credited with
forming a sort of antechamber to hell.
It is for this reason that the boots of
the dead are called “hell shoes” in Nor-
way, Sweden, Finland and Denmark.
{ A MARCH
i MISTAKE
By Jeanne 0. Loizeaux
Copyright, 1906, by M. M. Cunningham
“Elsie, John Fielding Is waiting for
you downstairs.”
Elsie looked up to see her mother in
the door and dropped the warm cloak
re was about to put on. She was a
quiet, gentle girl, so unassuming that
Ler dark prettiness was more unno-
ticed than it deserved to be. It had
Leen long since John had come to see
Ler iu the old friendly fashion of the
time before Rose Lisle moved to their
town. The girl gave another touch to
her smooth hair. Her mother stood
watching her and then remarked:
“Mrs. Dent told me today that John
and Rose have been out for over a
| mouth. He has just come home. If a
quarrel with Rose is all that sends him
to you, I should think that”— Elsie
wheeled hmpatiently.
“Miother, John and I have always
been good friends, and I shall not ques-
tion any motive that brings him to see
ine. 1 shall always be the same to him,
You can't expect a man so deeply in
i love as he is with Rose to be regular in
Lis attention to his girl friends. And
10 one could help loving a beauty like
Rose. She's good too.”
Elsie greeted John as if she had seen
ulin yesterday and soothed his evident-
ly overwrought mood with a gentle,
half laughing tact. He was tall and
blond, with fine blue eyes which to-
night were clouded, and his face was
a little careworn. Sometimes he gave
random answers as if he had not heard
what she said. After a half uneasy
hour of the March twilight he turned
to her in awkward masculine gratitude
for her patience with him,
“Elsie, am I keeping you in? I have
not thought to ask if you were going
anywhere.” She smiled and bethought
herself that inaction was not good in
his present mood.
“I was going for a walk and can go
as well another time. 1 was going
quite by myself. You know, I am nev-
er afraid.”
“No, 1 never knew you to be afraid
from the time we were children at
school until now. I have always liked
you for that. But would you mind let-
ting me go with you for the walk?
We used to like ‘pushing the wind’ to-
gether. Shall we go?”
Elsie put on Ler cloak and little red
cap, and the two young people started
away.
Rose lived not far from them, and as
they passed the house both could not
avoid what they saw. From the broad
front windows the light streamed
brightly. The shades were not drawn,
Rose sat at the plano, and over her in
rapt attention stood Norman Cady.
John almost dragged Elsie past, though
he said nothing. He did not know that
he gripped her arm till it hurt and
that he was walking at a pace that
would have put a less healthy girl than
Elsie utterly out of breath,
It was a raw night, with a sharp
wind, The moon was high and cold,
and the sky was streaked with flying
clouds. The road was good, and they
walked on and on, out of the town and
along the river road. The girl was un-
willing to disturb her companion’s si-
went mood and swung gladly beside
him. At length they reached the boat-
house and a great pile of rough logs
in a sheltered corner. John stopped
here and proposed resting.
“Elsie,” he said, “I must have tired
you all out. I am a selfish brute to
drag you about like this. 1 was trying
to get away from myself by reminding
myself what a staunch friend you have
always been. I had not intended to
tell vou my troubles, but I think I
must if you will let me.”
“Tell me about it,” she replied in the
matter of fact comrade's way that
made confidences easy.
“All right, but you must not try to
help me. No one can do that. I sim-
ply need the relief of words before I
settle down to forgetting as fast as I
can.”
He hesitated. A man finds it bard
to confide.
“Is it about Rose?”
make it easier for him.
“Elsie, I loved her almost from the
minute I saw her. Everybody must
know it, for I didn't hide my prefer-
ence, and when 1 want anything under
the sun it is my way to do my best to
get it. 1 wanted her. Soon I made
her my friend and then—well, I thought
she loved me, though we had not spo-
ken of it in words. About a month ago
I wrote and asked her to marry me. I
told her everything a man tells the girl
he loves. I asked her to send me a
note in answer and added that I should
interpret her failure to do so as a re-
fusal, though I was overconfident
enough not to dream of such a thing.”
He looked off across the river and
drummed his heels against the logs,
“Elsie,” he went on, “she did not send
me a word! Not one word! And that
very night she wae heartless enough to
smile and nod and blush at me at a
concert where we were and seemed to
think 1 would see her home the same
as ever! Then the next time we met
she did not even speak!”
“Are you sure she received it?”
“Yes. 1 sent it by my brother, and
he put it into her own hand. He did
not wait for an answer. She could
bave sent that anyway. Well, then I
went away a few weeks. I could not
stand it here, and now that I am back
i 1s worse than ever. I despise myself
for caring, but I hate Norman Cady for
being near her. I thought if I told you,
perhaps just putting it Into words
would wear off some of my anger and
help me forget her. Elsie, be good to
pie and help me forget her. Will you?”
She tried to
— ——
The girl touched his arm with bes
band.
“You should go to her and have it
git In words. There may be some mis-
oe.”
“There is no mistake, She was sim-
ply playing with me, Elsie, you were
always my comrade, be so now in time
of need.” Elsie laughed, but it hurt
her a little,
“Very well, John, come to me when-
aver you want to. We will talk and
walk and you shall try to forget. I
will not fail you.”
March was gone and April had had
ber last day of grace. It was the even-
ing before May day. Elsie, happy
hearted, was waiting on the porch in
the twilight. John was to come. Now
he nearly always came. They were
going for another walk in the spring
twilight to wander across the green
hills and back along the roadways in
the white moonlight. Elsie thought
only of the moment, but she could not
help a little throb of gladness that he
so seldom spoke of Rose. She did not,
as at first, regret the coolness that had
sprung up between her and Rose.
Nothing seemed to matter but being
happy without thinking why. John
called her “sister” half jokingly, but
with entire affection, and while he
sometimes wandered off inconsolately
by himse!f he seemed content to be
with her. And so she waited. As she
waited her fifteen-year-old brother call-
ed distressingly from his room:
“Sis, for goodness sake get my good
coat from the closet in the hall! I'm
goin’ to be late to that party.”
Elsie went to the dark closet and
emerged with a coat. She knocked at
his door. .
“Oh, come on in and help me with
this fool tie! Great snakes, if you
haven't got the wrong coat! Just like
a girl! Haven't worn that old thing
since winter!” He snatched it from
her impatiently upside down. A letter
fell from the pocket.
Elsie picked it up, and as she glanced
at the address her face went white.
“Terry! What is this?”
At the sound of her voice he turned
to look, and then stood stricken with
tardy penitence. It was addressed to
John Copeland, and in the lower left
corner was inscribed in Rose's hand,
“Kindness of Terry.” Terry stared
and struggled with the refractory tle.
“A pretty mess! Rose gave me that
months ago, and I promised to take it
straight to John. And like a fool I for-
got!” Then he cheered up. “Well,
they're off anyway now. Probably
she'll be glad he never saw it. I will
take it back to her tomorrow.” He
wondered at the strange brightness of
his sister's eyes, at the extreme white-
ness of her face.
“Gee! Not even Rose can touch you
for looks, Sis. I don't wonder that
John"— She turned from him as John's
whistle sounded below. She still held
the letter.
“1 shall give it to John. It is his, I
shall tell him you forgot. I"—
Then she went down to John.
He sat contentedly on the porch with
his hat pushed back on his fair head.
He looked careless and happy enough.
At her approach he rose.
“Ready, sister?’ Her smile was odd,
‘and she held the letter out to him. She
spoke as if she had been running:
“John, take this into the parlor and
read it. No one is there. I told you
there was a mistake. It is to you from
Rose. She gave it to Terry, and he for-
got it. I just found it in the pocket of
bis winter coat.” John did not know
he almost snatched it from her hand.
When he came back from the parlor
his face was shining.
“Elsie, you are an angel! You have
the heart of a sister! You have given
her back to me. She did love me. She
does! I'"—
Elsie smiled and gave him a brave
little push.
“Well, you silly boy, go to her thir
minute!”
He snatched her hand and pressed it
hard. Then he went from her with an
eager swiftness that he had never
shown in coming to her. She knew it—
she had always known it, but never-
theless it was not easy to see. And un-
der her breath she whispered bravely:
“The heart of a sister!”
The Robber's Grave at Montgomery.
In a corner of the churchyard of
Montgomery, writes a correspondent,
is a bare space, known as “the rob-
ing ground, which is especially luxuri-
Traveling Incognito.
Some investigator of curious sub-
jects has discovered that the inventor
of traveling Incognito was Peter the
Great of Russia, The next after
famous Russian sovereign to adopt
practice was Joseph II. of Austria,
in 1777 made a little stay In Paris
der the title of Count von Falkenstein.
OR