SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER Il.—Arriving at the lonely
little railroad station of El Cajon, New
Mexico, Madeline Hammond, New York
finds no one to meet her. While in
e waiting rocm a drunken cowboy en-
ters, asks if she is married, and departs,
leaving her terrified, He returns with a
priest, who goes through some sort of
ceremony, and the cowboy forces her to
say “Si.” Asking her name and learning
her identity the cowboy seems dazed. In
& shooting scrape outside the room a
Mexican is killed. The cowboy lets a
rl, “Bonita,” take his horse and escape,
en conducts Madeline to Florence
Kingsley, friend of her brother.
CHAPTER II.—Florence welcomes her,
learns her story, and dismisses the cow-
boy, Gene Stewart. Next day Alfred
Hammond, Madeline's brother,
Stewart to task. Madeline exonerates
him of any wrong intent.
CHAPTER III.—Alfred, scion of a
wealthy family, had been dismissed from
his home because of his dissipation.
Madeline sees that the West has re-
deemed him. She meets Stillwell, Al's
employer, typical western ranchman.
Madeline learns Stewart has gone over
the border.
CHAPTER IV.—Danny Mains, one of
Stillwell’s cowboys, has disappeared,
with some of Stillwell’'s money. His
jrienas link his name with the girl Bo-
a.
CHAPTER V.—Madeline gets a glimpse
of life on a western ranch,
CHAPTER VI.—Stewart’s horse comes
to the ranch with a note on the saddle
asking Madeline to accept the beautiful
animal. With her brother's consent she
does so, naming him ‘“‘Majesty,” her own
pet nickname. Madeline, independently
rich, arranges to buy Stiliwell’s ranch
fod that of Don Carlos, a Mexican neigh-
T.
She rode back across the mesz and
down the trail, and, once more upon
the flat, she called to the horse and
made him run. His spirit seemed to
race with hers. The wind of his speed
blew her hair from its fastenings.
When he thundered to a halt at the
porch steps Madeline, breathless and
disheveled, alighted with the mass of
her hair tumbling around her.
Alfred met her, and his exclamation
and Florence's rapt eyes shining on
her face, and Stillwell’s speechless-
ness made her self-conscious. Laugh-
ing, she tried to put up the mass of
hair.
“My hat—and my combs—went to
the wind. I thought—my hair would
£0,100. , . There is the evening
star. . + + 1 think 1 am very hun-
gry.”
And then she gave up trying to
fasten up her hair, which fell again in
a golden mass.
“Mr. Stillwell,” she began, and
paused, strangely aware of a hurried
note, a deeper ring in her voice. “Mr.
Stillwell, I want to buy your ranch—
to engage you as my superintendent.
I want to buy Don Carlos’ ranch and
other property to the extent, say, of
fifty thousand acres. I want you to
buy horses and cattle—in short, to
make all those improvements which
you said you had so long dreamed of.
Then I have ideas of my own, in the
development of which I must have
your advice and Alfred’s. I intend to
better the condition of those poor Mex-
icans in the valley. I intend to make
life a little more worth living for
them and for the cowboys of this
range. Tomorrow we shall talk fit
all over, plan all the business details.”
Madeiine turned from the huge,
ever-widening smile that beamed down
upon her and held out her hands to
her brother.
“Alfred, strange, is it not, my com-
ing out to you? Nay, don't smile. I
hope T have found myself—my work,
my happiness—here under the light
of that western star.”
CHAPTER VII
Her Majesty’s Rancho.
Five months brought all that Still-
weli had dreamed of, and so many
more changes and improvements and
innovations that it was as if a magic
touch had transformed the old ranch.
Madeline and Alfred and Florence
had talked over a fitting name, and
had decided on one chosen by Made-
line. But this instance was the only
one in the course of developments in
which Madeline's wishes were not
complied with. The cowboys named
the new ranch “Her Majesty's Ran-
cho.” Stillwell said the names cow-
boys bestowed were felicitous, and as
unchangeable as the everlasting hills;
Florence went over to the enemy; and
Alfred, laughing at Madeline's protest,
declared the cowboys had elected her
queen of the ranges, and that there
was no help for it. So the name stood
“Her Majesty’s Rancho.”
All that had been left of the old
Spanish house which had been Still-
well’s home for so long was the bare,
massive structure, and some of this
had been cut away for new doors and
windows. Every modern convenience,
even to hot and cold running water
and acetylene light, had been Iin-
stalled; and the whole interior painted
and carpentered and furnished. The
ideal sought had not been luxury, but
comfort. Every door into the patio
looked out upon dark, rich grass and
sweet-faced flowers, and every win-
dow looked down the green slopes.
Madeline Hammond cherished a
ERTS a or coer FNS RREEE
takes |
EBTES OF.
ES
1)
fancy that the transformation she had
wrought in the old Spanish house and
in the people with whom she had sur-
rounded herself, great as that trans-
formation had been, was as nothing
compared to the one wrought in her-
self. She had found an object in life.
She had seen her brother through his
difficulties, on the road to all the suc
cess and prosperity that he cared for.
Madeline had been a conscientious
student of ranching and an apt pupil
nf Stillwell. The old cattleman, in his
simplicity, gave her the place in his
heart that was meant for the daugh-
ter he had never had. His pride in
her, Madeline thought, was beyond
reason or helief or words to tell
Under his guidance, sometimes: accom-
panied by Alfred and Florence, Made-
line had ridden the ranges and had
studied the life and work of the cow-
boys. Sometimes she looked in her
mirror and laughed with sheer joy at
sight of the lithe, audacious, brown-
faced, flashing-eyed creature reflected
there. Tt was not so much joy in her
beauty as sheer joy of life. HKastern
critics had heen wont to call her
beautiful in those days when she had
been pale and slender and proud and
cold. She langhed. If they could oaly
see her now! From the tip of her
golden head to her feet she was alive.
pulsating, on fire,
Sometimes she thought of her par
ents, sister, friends, of how they ha:
persistently refused to believe she
could or would stay in the West. They
were always asking her to come home
She wrote that she would return tc
her old home some time, of course, foi
a visit; and letters such as this
brought returns that amused Made
line, sometimes saddened her. Her
father’s business had been such that
he could not leave it for the time re
quired for a western trip, or else.
according to his letter, he would have
come for her. Mrs. Hammond couid
not have been driven to cross the
Hudson river; her un-American idez
of the wilderness westward was thai
Indians still chased buffalo on the out
skirts of Chicago. Madeline's sister
Helen had long been eager to come, &&
much from curiosity, Madeline
thought, as from sisterly regard. And
at length Madeline concluded that the
proof of her breaking permanent tles
might better he seen by visiting rela-
tives and friends befere she went back
Bast. With that in mind she Invited
Helen to visit her during the summer,
and bring as many friends as she
liked.
* * » * * * *
No slight task indeed was it to over-
see the many business details of Her
Majesty's Rancho and to keep a rec-
ord of them. Madeline found the
course of business training upon which
her father had insisted to be invalu-
able to her now. It helped her to as-
similate and arrange the practical
details of cattleraising as put forth
by the blunt Stillwell. She established
an extensive vegetable farm, and she
planted orchards. The climate was
superior to that of California, and.
with abundant water, trees and plants
and gardens flourished and bloomed
in a way wonderful to behold. Here
in the farming section of the ranch
Madeline found employment for the
little colony of Mexicans. Their lives
had been as hard and barren as the
dry valley where they had lived. But
as the valley had been transformed
by the soft, rich touch of water, so
their lives had been transformed by
help and sympathy and work. The
children were wretched no more, and
many that had been blind could now
see, and Madeline had become to them
a new and blessed Virgin.
Madeline looked abroad over these
lands and likened the change in them
and those who lived by them to the
change in her heart. It may have been
fancy, but the sun seemed to be
brighter, the sky bluer, the wind
sweeter, Certain it was that the deep
green of grass and garden was not
fancy, nor the white and pink of blos-
som, nor the blaze and perfume of
flower, nor the sheen of lake and the
fluttering of new-born leaves. Where
there had been monotonous gray there
was now vivid and changing color.
Formerly there had been silence both
day and night; now during the sunny
hours there was music. The whistle
of prancing stallions pealed in from
the grassy ridges. Innumerable birds
had come and, like the northwara-
journeying ducks, they had tarried to
stay. The song of meadow-lark and
blackbird and robin, familiar to Made-
line from childhood, mingled with the
new and strange heart-throbbing song
of the mocking-bird and the piercing
blast of the desert eagle and the mel-
ancholy moan of the turtle-dove.
CHAPTER VIII
E! Capitan.
Stillwell’s interest in the revolution
across the Mexican line had mapifestly
increased with the news that Gene
Stewart had achieved distimction with
the rebel forces. Thereafter the old
‘least since the night it had been
: SE ——
cattleman sent for El Paso and Doug- |
|
las newspapers, wrote to ranchmen he
knew on the big bend of the Rio
Grande, and he would talk indefinitely
to anyone who would listen to him,
There appeared to be no doubt that
the cowboy had performed some dar-
ing feats for the rebels. Madeline
found his name mentioned in several
of the border papers. When the rebels
under Madero stormed and captured
the city of Juarez, Stewart did fight-
ing that won him the name of El Capi-
tan. This battle apparently ended the
revolution. The capitulation of Presi-
dent Diaz followed shortly, and there
was a feeling of relief among ranchers
on the border from Texas to Caiifor-
nia. Nothing more was heard of
Gene Stewart until April, when a re-
port reached Stillwell that the cow-
boy had arrived in El Cajon, eviderkly
hunting trouble. The old cattleman
saddled a horse and started post-haste
for town. In two days he returned,
depressed in spirit. Madeline hap-
pened to be present when Stillwell
talked to Alfred.
“Wal, it’s sure amazin’ strange about
Gene. It’s got me locoed. He arrived
in El Cajon week or so ago. He was
trained down like as if he'd been ridin’
the range all winter. He had plenty
of money—Mex., they said. An’ all
the Greasers was crazy about him, '
Called him El Capitan. He got drunk
an’ went roarin’ round fer Pat Hawe.
22 7 ==
\}
Gg 72
‘Gene Walked Up an’ Down, Up an’
Down, All Day -and Night, Lookin’
fer Pat.”
You remember that Greaser who was |
plugged last October—the night Miss |
Majesty arrived? Wal, he’s daid, an’
people say thet Pat is a-goin’ to lay
thet killin’ onto Gene. I reckon thet's
jest talk, though Pat is mean enough
to do it, if he hed the nerve. Any-
way, if he was in El Cajon he kept
mighty much to hisself. Gene walked
up an’ down, up an’ down, all day
an’ night, lookin’ fer Pat. Then Gene
met Danny an’ tried to get Danny |
drunk. An’ he couldn’t! What do
you think of that? Danny hedn’t been
drinkin’—wouldn’t touch a drop. I'm |
sure glad of thet, but it’s so amazin’ |
strange.
red liquor.
Why, Danny was a fish fer .
I guess he an’ Gene had
some pretty hard words, though Tm
not sure abcat thet. Anyway, Gene
went down to the railroad an’ he Zot
on an engine, an’ he was in the engine |
when it pulled out. I jest hed an idee,
Miss Majesty. If I can get him, Gene
Stewart is the cowboy I want for my
foreman. He can manage this bunch
of cow-punchers that are drivin’ me
dotty. What's more, since he’s tought
fer the rebels an’ got that name Kl
Capitan, all the Greasers in the coun-
try will kneel to him. Now, Miss
Majesty, we hevn't got rid of Don
Carlos an’ his vaqueros yet. 1 don't
like the looks of things a little bit.
I'll tell you now thet Don Carlos
knows somethin’ about the cattle I
lost, an’ thet you've been losin’ right
along. Thet Greaser is hand an’ glove
with the rebels. I'm willin’ to gamble
thet when he does get out he an’ his
vaqueros will make another cne of
the bands of guerrillas thet are har- |
assin’ the border. This revolution
ain't over yet. It’s jest commenced.
An’ these gangs of outlaws are goin’
to take advantage of it. We'll see
some old times, mebbe. Wal, I need
Gene Stewart. I need him bad. Will
you let me hire him, Miss Majesty, if
I can get him straightened up?”
The old cattleman ended huskily.
“Stillwell, by all means find Stew-
art, and do not wait to straighten him
up. Bring him to the ranch,” replied
Madeline.
Thanking her, Stillwell led his horse
away.
Madeline had discovered that a good
deal of her sympathy for Stillwell in
his hunt for the reckless Stewart had
insensibly grown to be sympathy for
the cowboy. It was rather a paradox,
she thought, that opposed to the con-
tinual reports of Stewart's wildness
as he caroused from town to town
were the continual expressions of good
will and faith and hope universally
given out by those near her at the
ranch. Stillwell loved the cowboy;
Florence was fond of him; Alfred
liked and admired him, pitied him;
the cowboys swore their regard for
him the more he disgraced himself.
The Mexicans called him Kl Gran
Capitan. Madeline’s personal opinion
of Stewart had not changed in the
formed. But certain attributes of his,
not clearly defined in her mind, and
the gift of his beautiful horse, his
valor with the fighting rebels, and all
this strange regard for him, especially
that of her brother, made her exceed-
Sh ARATE ce ion meee,
ingly regret the cowboy's present be-
havior.
Meanwhile Stillwell was so earnest
and zealous that one not familiar with
the situation would have believed he
was trying to find and reclaim his own
son. He made several trips to little
stations in the valley, and from these
he returned with a gloomy face. Made-
line got the details from Alfred. Stew-
art was going from bad to worse—
drunk, disorderly, savage, sure to
land in the penitentiary. Then came
,a report that hurried Stillwell off to
Rodeo. He returned on the third day,
a crushed man. He had been so bit-
terly hurt that no one. not even Made-
line, could get out of him what had
happened. He admitted finding Stew-
art, failing to intluence him; and when
the old cattleman got so far he turned
purple in the face and talked to him-
self, as if dazed:
drunk. He was drunk, or he couldn’t
hev treated old Bill like thet!”
Madeline was stirred with an anger
toward the brutal cowboy that was as
strong as her sorrow for the loyal old
cattleman. And it was when Stillwell
gave up that she resolved to take
hand. She yearned to have the faith
in human nature that Stillwell had in
Stewart.
She sent Nels,
own horse, and leading Majesty, to
Rodeo in search of Stewart. Nels had
instructions to bring Stewart back to
the ranch. In due time Nels re-
turned, leading the roan without a
rider,
“But Gene was
mounted upon his
“Yep, I shore found him,” replied ,
Nels, when questioned. “Found him
half sobered up. He'd been in a scrap,
an’ somebody hed put him to sleep, 1
guess. Wal, when he seen thet roan
hoss he let out a yell an’ grabbed him
round the neck. The hoss knowed
him, all right. Then Gene hugged the
hoss an’ cried—cried like—I never
seen no one who cried like he did. |
waited awhile, an’ was jest goin’ to,
say somethin’ to him when he turned
on me red-eyed, mad as fire. ‘Nels/
he said, ‘I care a h—Il of a lot fer
thet hoss, an’ I liked you pretty well,
but if you don’t take him away quick
T'il shoot you both.’ Wal, I lit out.
I didn’t even git to say howdy to him.”
#Nels, you think it useless—any at-
tempt to see him—persuade him?’
asked Madeline,
“] shore do, Miss Hammond,” re-
piled Nels, gravely. “I've seen a few
gun-blinded an’ locoed an’ snake-
poisoned and skunk-bitten cow-punch-
ers in my day, but Gene Stewart beats
em all. He's shore runnin’ wild fer
the divide.”
Madeline dismissed Nels, but before
fte got out of earshot she heard him |
speak to Stillwell, who awaited him
on the porch.
“Bill, put this in your pipe an’
smoke it—none of them scraps Gene
has hed was over a woman! It used
¢0 be thet when he was drunk he'd
gorap over every pretty Greaser girl
he’d run across. Wal, Gene's scrap-
pin’ now is jest to git shot up his-
welf, for some reason thet only God
Almighty knows.”
Nels’ story of how Stewart wept
sver his horse influenced Madeline
powerfully. Her next move was to
persuade Alfred to see if he could not
do better with this doggedly bent cow- |
boy. Alfred needed only a word of
i persuasion, for he said he had con-
gldered going to Rodeo of his own
accord, He went, and returned alone,
“Majesty, I can’t expiain Stewards
singular actions,” said Alfred. “ne
Las changed terribly. I fancy his once
magnificent strength is breaking. (t—
it actually hurt me to look at him. i
couldn’t have fetched him back nere—
not as he is now. Bill did all any man
could do for another, We've all doe
our best for Stewart. If you'd been
given a chance perhaps you could have |
saved him. Bat it's too late. Put it
out of mind now, dear.”
Madeline, however, did not forget
nor give it up. Days passed, and
each one brought additional gossip of
Stewart's headlong career toward the
Yuma penitentiary. For he had crossed
the line into Cochise county, Arizona,
where sheriffs kept a stricter observ-
ance of law. Finally a letter came
from a friend of Nels’ in Chiricahua
saying that Stewart had been hurt in
a brawl there. This epistle inclosed a
letter to Stewart from his sister. KEvi-
dently, it had been found upon him.
It told a story of illness and made an
appeal for aid. Nels’ friend forwarded
this letter without Stewart’s knowl-
edge, thinking Stillwell might care to
help Stewart’s family. Stewart had
no money, he said.
The sister's letter found its way to
Madeline, She read it, tears In her
eyes. It told Madeline’ much more
than its brief story of illness and pov-
erty and wonder why Gene had not
written home for so long. It told of
motherly love, sisterly love, brotherly
love—dear family ties that had not
been broken. It spoke of pride in this
El Capitan brother who had become
famous. It was signed “your loving
sister Letty.”
Not improbably, Madeline revolved
in her mind, this letter was one reason
for Stewart's headstrong, long-contin-
ued abatement. It had been received
too late—after he had squandered the
money that would have meant so much
to mother and sister. Be that as it
might, Madeline immediately sent a
bank-draft to Stewart's sister with a
letter explaining that the money was
drawn in advance on Stewart's salary.
This done, she impulsively determined
to go to Chiricahua herself.
Nels, when Madeline asked him to
accompany her to Chiricahua, replied,
reluctantly, that he would rather fol-
low on his horse. However, she pre-
valled over his hesitancy, and with
Florence alse in the car they set out.
For miles and miles the valley road
was smooth, hard-packed, and slightly
downhill, And when speeding was
ATE A AEE ol
le... = ——
perfectly safe, Madeline was not
averse to it. And when the car
stopped in the wide, dusty street of
Chiricahua Nels gladly tumbled out.
“Nels, we shall wait here in the car
while you find Stewart,” said Made-
line, :
Nels crossed the railroad track and
disappeared behind the low, flat
houses. After a little time he reap-
peared and hurried up to the car.
“Miss Hammond, I found him,” said
Nels. “He was sleepin’. I woke him,
He's sober an’ not bad hurt; but I
don’t believe you ought to see him.
Mebbe Florence—"
“Nels, I want to see him myself.
Why not? What did he say when you
told him I was here?”
“Shore I didn’t tell him that. I jest
says, ‘Hullo, Gene! an’ he says, ‘My :
Gawd! Nels! mebbe I ain’t glad to see
a human bein’. He asked me who was
with me, an’ I told him Link an’ some
friends. I said I'd fetch them in. He
hollered at thet. But I went, anyway.
Now, if you really will see him, Miss
Hammond, it's a good chance. But
shore it’s a touchy matter, an’ you'll
be some sick at sight of him. He's
layin’ in a Greaser hole over here,
Likely the Greasers hev been kind to
him. But they're shore a poor lot.”
Madeline did not hesitate a moment.
“Thank you, Nels. Take me at once.
Come, Florence.”
They left the car, now surrounded
by gaping-eyed Mexican children, and
crossed the dusty space to a narrow |
Pass- |
ing by several houses, Nels stopped at |
lane between red adobe walls,
the door of what appeared to be an
alleyway leading back. It was filthy.
“He’s in there, round thet first cor-
ner. It’s a patio, open an’ sunny. An’,
Miss Hammond, if you don’t mind, I'll |
wait here for you. I reckon Gene
wouldn't like any fellers around when
he sees you girls.”
“Florence, you wait also,” said
Madeline, at the doorway, and turned
in alone.
And she had stepped into a brokei-
down patio littered with alfalfa straw
and debris, all clear in the sunlight.
Upon a bench, back toward her, sat a
man looking out through the rents in
the broken wall. He had not heard
her. Madeline did not recognize Stew-
art. The side of his face exposed to
her was black, bruised, bearded. His
clothes were ragged and soiled. There
were bits of alfalfa in his hair. His
shoulders sagged. He made a wretched
and hopeless figure sitting there,
Madeline divined something of = why
Nels shrank from being present.
“Mr. Stewart. It is I, Miss Ham-
mond, come to see you,” she said.
He grew suddenly perfectly motion-
less, as if he had been changed to
stone. She repeated her greeting.
His body jerked. Ee moved violent-
ly as if instinctively to turn and face
this intruder; but a more violent
movement checked him.
Madeline waited. - ‘How singular
that this ruined cowboy had pride
which kept him from showing his face!
And was It not shame more than
pride?
“Go away,” he muttered.
“Mr. Stewart!” she began. “I have
come to help you. Will you let me?"
“For God's sake! You—you—" he
choked over the words. “Go away!”
“Stewart, perhaps it was for God's
sake that TI came,” said Madeline,
gently. “Surely it was for yours—
Ai
and your sister's—" Madeline bit her
Jongue, for she had not meant to be-
tray her knowledge of Letty.
He groaned, and, staggering up to
the broken wall, he leaned there with
his face hidden. Madeline reflected
that perhaps the slip of speech had i
been well,
|
“Stewart, please let me say what I |
have to say?”
He was silent. And she gathered
courage and inspiration.
“Stillwell is deeply hurt, deeply
grieved that he could not turn you back
from this—this fatal course. My
brother is, also. They wanted to help
you. And so dol. I have come, think-
fng somehow I might succeed where
they have failed. Nels brought your
sister's letter. I—I read it. [I was
only the more determined to try to
help you, and indirectly help your
mother and Letty. Stewart, we want
you to come to the ranch. My cow-
iin
B\
—
Z
“My Cowboys Are Without a Capable
Leader, Will You Come?
boys are without a capable leader.
Will you come?”
“No.” he answered.
“But Stillwell wants you so badly.”
“No.”
“Stewart, I want you to come.”
“No.”
His replies had been hoarse, loud,
furious. All his motions, like his
speach, had been violent.
“}%ill you please go away?” he
asked.
“Stewart, certainly 1 cannot remain
; here longer if you insist upon my go-
ing. But why not listen to me when I
want so much to help you? Why?”
“I'm a d—d blackguard,” he burst
out. “But I was a gentleman once,
and I'm not so low that I can stand
for you seeing me here.”
“When I made up my mind to help
you I made it up to see you wherever
you were, Stewart, come away, come
back with us to the ranch. When you
are among friends again you will get
well. You will be your old self. The
very fact that you were once a gentle-
man, that you come of good family,
makes you owe so much more to your-
| self. Why, Stewart, think how young
vou are! It is a shame to waste your
life. Come back with me.”
“Miss Hammond, this was my last
plunge.” he replied, despondently.
“It’s too late.”
“At least make an effort, Stewart.
Try!”
“No. There's no use. I'm done for.
Please leave me—thank you for—"
He had been savage, then sullen,
gnd now he was grim. Madeline all
. but lost power to resist his strange,
deadly, cold finality. No doubt he
knew he was doomed. Yet something
halted her—held her even as she took
a backward step. And she became
conscious of a subtle change in her
own feeling. She had come into that
squalid hole. Madeline Hammond,
earnest enough, kind enough in her
own intentions; but she had been al-
most imperious-—a woman habitually,
proudly used to being obeyed, She di-
vined that all the pride, blue blood,
wealth, culture, distinction, all the im-
personal condescending persuasion, all
the fatuous philanthropy on earth
would not avail to turn this man a
single hair’s-breadth from his down-
ward career to destruction. She was
going to fail to help him. She experi-
enced a sensation of impotence that
amounted almost to distress. The sit-
uation assumed a tragic keenness.
And all at once she became merely a
woman, brave and sweet and indomit-
able.
“Stewart, look at me,” she asked.
He shuddered. He was abject,
crushed. He dared not show his
swollen, blackened face. His fierce,
cramped posture reveaied more than
his features might have shown; it be-
trayed the torturing shame of a mao
of pride and passion, a man who had
been confronted in his degradation hy
the woman he had dared to enshrine
in his heart. It betrayed his love.
“Listen, then,” went on Madeline,
and her voice was unsteady. “Listen
to me, Stewart. You can shake off
this desperate mood and be a man.”
“No!” he cried.
“Listen to me again. Somehow I
know you're worthy of Stillwell’'s lova.
Will you come back with us—for his
sake?”
“No. It's too late, I tell you.”
“Stewart, the best thing in life is
faith in human nature. I have faith
in you. I believe you are worth it.”
“You're only kind and good—saying
that. You can’t mean it.”
“I mean it with all my heart,” she
replied, a sudden rich warmth suffus-
ing her body as she saw the first sign
of his softening. “Will you come back
—if not for your own suke or SHll-
well's—then for mine?”
“What am I to such a woman ss
yeu
! “A man in trouble, Stewart. But I
have come to help you, to show my
| faith in you.”
“If 1 believed that, I might try,” he
| said.
! “Listen,” she began, softly, hurried-
i ly. “My word is not lightly given.
Let it prove my faith in you. Look at
me now and say you will come.”
He heaved up his big frame as if
trying to cast off a giant's burden, and
then slowly he turned toward her.
His face was a blotched and terrible
thing. The physical brutalizing marks
were there, and at that instant all
that appeared human to Madeline was
the dawning in dead, furnace-like eyes
of a beautiful light.
“I'll come,” he whispered, huskily.
“Give me a few days to straighten up,
then I'll come.”
(To be continued).
—Get your job work done here.
Many Jobs Open.
More than 600 jobs have been offer-
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courses of The Pennsylvania State
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dean of the engineering school. From
three to seven positions in the indus-
trial world have been offered each stu-
dent, and since the first of February
more than fifty representatives of big
industrial concerns in all parts of the
country have visited the college seek-
ing engineers to affiliate with their
rms.
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