{Con aned from last week).
Madeline's quick, varying emotions
were swallowed up in a boundless
gladness. Something dark, deep, heavy,
and somber was flooded from her
heart. She had a sudden rich sense of
gratitude toward this smiling, clean-
faced cowboy whose blue eyes flashed
through tears.
“Danny Mains!” she said, tremulous-
ly and smilingly. “If you are as glad
%]# You Really Think | Merit Such a
Reward, You May Kiss Me Out-
_ right”
as oe + news has made me—if you
really think I merit such a reward—
you may kiss me outright.”
With a bashful wonder, but with
right hearty will, Danny Mains availed
himself of this gracious privilege.
Stillwell snorted. The signs of his
phenomenal smile were manifest, oth-
erwise Madeline would have thought
that snort an indication of furious dis-
approval.
“Bill, straddle a, chair,” said Danny.
“You've gone back a heap these last
few months, frettin’ over your bad
boys, Danny an’ Gene. You'll need
gupport under you while I'm throwin’
my yarn. Story of my life, Bill.” He
placed a chair for Madeline. “Miss
mond, beggin’ your pardon again,
want you ! to listen, also. You've the
face an’ eyes of & woman who loves
go hear of other people’s happiness.
Besides, somehow, it’s easy for me to
talk lookin’ at you.”
Walking off the porch, he stood be
fore the weary horse and burro. With
the swift violence characteristic of
men of his class he slipped the pack
from the burro and threw saddle and
bridle from the horse.
He untied the pack and, taking a
small, heavy sack from it, he came
back upon the porch. Deliberately he
dumped the contents of the sack at
Btilwell’'s feet. Piece after piece of
rock thumped upon the floor. The
Pleces were sharp, ragged, evidently
broken from a ledge; the body of
them was white in color, with yellow
velns and bars and streaks. Stillwell
grasped up one rock after another.
stared and stuttered, put the rocks to
this lips, dug into them with his shak-
ing fingers; then he lay back in his
chalr, head against the wall, and as he
gered at Danny the old smile began to
sform his face,
Danny regarded Stillwell with lofty
condescension. “Now, Bill, what've we
got here, say, offhand?”
“Oh, Lord, DAnnY! I'm afrald to
say. Look, Miss Majesty, jest look at
the gold. I've lived among prospec:
tors an’ gold mines fer thirty years,
an’ I never seen the beat of this.”
“The Lost Mine of the Padres!”
cried Danny, in stentorian voice. “An’
it belongs to me!”
Stillwell made some incoherent sound
Ha sat up fascinated, quite beside
mself.
“Bill, it was some long time ago
since you saw me,” said Danny. “Fact
is, I know how you felt, because Gene
kept me posted. I happened to run
across Bonita, an’ I wasn’t goin’ to
let her ride away alone, when she told
me she was in trouble. We hit the
trail for the Peloncillos. Bonita had
Gene's horse, an’ she was to meet him
up on the trail. We got to the moun-
tains all right, an’ nearly starved for
a few days till Gene found us, He had
got In trouble himself an’ couldnit
fetch much with him.
“We made for the crags an’ built a
cabin. I come down that day Gene
sent Nis horse Majesty to you. Never
saw Gene so broken-hearted. Well,
after he sloped for the border Bonita
an’ I were hard put to it to keep alive,
But wo got along, an’ I think it was
then she began to care a little for me.
Once I went to El Cajon an’ run plumb
into Gene. He was back from the rev-
olution an’ cuttin’ up some. But I got
IE
TRA leet
(SE
gy eg
STARS
us PEER
away from him after doin’ all I could
to drag him out of town. A long time
after that Gene trailed up to the crags
an’ found us. Gene had stopped drink-
ir’, he’d changed wonderful, was fine
an’ dandy. It was then he began to
pester the life out of me to make me
marry Bonita. I was happy, so was
she, an’ I was some scared of spoilin’
it. Gene's dog-gone hard to buck
against! T had to give in, an’ I asked
Bonita to marry me. Well, she wouldn’t
at first—said she wasn’t good enough
for me. But I saw the marriage idea
was workin’ deep, an’ I just kept on be-
in’ as decent as I knew how. So it
was my wantin’ to marry Bonita—my
bein’ glad to marry her—that made
her grow soft an’ sweet an’ pretty as—
as a mountain quail. Gene fetched up
Padre Marcos, an’ he married us.”
Danny paused in his narrative,
breathing hard, as if the memory of
the incident described had stirred
strong and thrilling feeling in him.
Stillwell’s smile was rapturous. Made-
line leaned toward Danny with her eyes
shining.
“Miss Hammond, an’ you, Bill Still-
well, now listen, for this Is strange
I've got to tell you. The afternoon
Bonita an’ I were married, when Gene
an’ the padre had gone, she left me
for a little, an’ when she came back
she wore some pretty yellow flowers
in her hair. She sald some queer
things about spirits rollin’ rocks down
the canyon. Then she said she wanted
to show me where she always sat an’
waited an’ watched for me when I was
away. She led me around under the
crags to a long slope. It was some
pretty there—clear an’ open, with a
long sweep, an’ the desert yawnin’
deep an’ red. There were yellow flow-
ers on that slope, the same kind she
had in her hair.
When 1 heard the strange crack of
rollin’ rocks—heard them rattle down
an’ roll an’ grow faint—I was some
out of my head. But not for long. Them
rocks were rollin’ all right, only it was
the weatherin’ of the cliffs.
“An’ there under the crags was a
gold pocket.
“Then I was worse than locoed. I
weit gold-crazy. T worked like seven-
teen burros. Bill, I dug a lot of gold-
bearin’ quartz. Bonita watched the
trails for me, brought me water. That
was how she come to get caught by
Pat Hawe an’ his guerrillas. Sure!
Pat Hawe was so set on doin’ Gene
dirt that he mixed up with Don Carlos.
Bonita will tell you some staggerin’
news about that outfit. Just now my
story is all gold. 3
Danny Mains got up and kicked back
his chair. Blue lightning gleamed
from his eyes as he thrust a hand
toward Stillwell,
“Bill, old pal, put her there—give me
your hand,” he said. “You were always
my friend. You had faith in me, Well,
Danny Mains owes you, an’ he owes
Gene Stewart a good deal, an’ Danny
Mains pays. I want two pardners to
help me work my gold mine. You an’
Gene. Go fetch him; an’ right here in
this house, with my wife an’ Miss
Hammond as witnesses, we'll draw up
a8 pardnership. Go find him, Bill. I
want to show him this gold, show him
bow Danny Mains pays! An’ the only
bitter drap in my cup today is that I
can’t ever pay Monty Price.”
Madeline watched the huge Stillwell
and the little cowboy, both talking
wildly, as they walked off arm In arm
to find Stewart. She imagined some-
thing of what Danny’s disappointment
would be, of tire elder man's conster-
nation and grief, when be learned
Stewart had left for the border. At
this juncture she looked up to see 8
strange, yet. familiar figure approach-
ing. Padre Marcos!
Mention of Padre Marcos, sight et
him, had always occasioned Madeline
a little indefinable shock ; and now, &s
be stepped to the porch, a shrunken,
stooped, and sad-faced man, she was
startled.
The padre bowed low to her.
“Senora, will you grant me andl
ence? It is a matter of great moment,
which you might not care to have any
ong hear.”
Wonderingly Madeline inclined her
head. The padre gently closed one
door and then the others.
“Senora, I have come to disclose 8
secret—my own sinfulness in keeping
ft—and to implore your pardon. Do
you remember that night Senor Stew:
art dragged me before you in the
walting-room at El Cajon?”
“Yes,” replied Madeline.
~ “Seriora, since that night you have
been Senor Stewart's wife!”
Madeline became as motionless as
stone. - She: seemed’ to feel nothing,
only to hear.
“You are Senor Stewart's wife. 1
have kept the secret ‘under fear ‘of
death. But I could keep it no longer.
Senor Stewart may kill me now. Ab,
Senora, it 18 very to you. You
were ‘80 frightened that night, you
knew ‘not what - happened. Senor
Stewart threateped me, He forced
you. He made me speak the service.
He made you speak the Spanish yes.
a ~
And 1, Senora, knowing the deeds of
these sinful cowboys, fearing worse
than disgrace to one so beautiful and
so good as you, I could not do less
than marry you truly. At least you
should be his wife. So I married you,
truly, in the service of my church.”
“My God!” cried Madeline, rising.
“Hear me! I implore you, Senora,
hear me out! Do not leave me! Do
not look so—so— Ah, Senora, let me
speak a word for Senor Stewart. He
was drunk that night. He did not
know what he was about. In the
morning he came to me, made me
swear by my cross that I would not
reveal the disgrace he had put upon
you. If I did he would kill me. Life
is nothing to the American vaquero,
Senora. 1 promised to respect his
command, but I did not tell him you
were his wife. He did not dream I
had truly married you. He went to
fight for the freedom of my country—
Senora, he is one splendid soldier—
and I brooded over the sin of my se-
cret. If he were killed IT need never
tell you. But if he lived I knew that
I must some day.
“Senora, I pray you, do not misun-
derstand my mission. Beyond my con-
fession to you I have only a duty to
tell you of the man whose wife you
are. But I am a priest and I can read
the soul. The ways of God are in-
scrutable. I am only a humble instru-
ment. You are a noble woman, and
Senor Stewart is a man of desert iron
forged anew in the crucible of love.
Quien sabe? Senor Stewart swore he
would kill me if I betrayed him. But
he will not lift his hand against me.
For the man bears you a very great
and pure love, and it has changed him.
To love you above the spirit of the
flesh; to know you are his wife, his,
never to be another’s except by his
sacrifice; to watch you with a secret
glory of joy and pride; to stand, while
he might, between you and evil; to
find his happiness in service; to wait,
with never a dream of telling you, for
the hour to come when to leave you
free he must go out and get himself
shot! Senora, that is beautiful, it is
sublime, it is terrible. It has brought
me to you with my confession. So I
beseech you in my humble office as
priest, as a lover of mankind, before
you send Stewart to his death, to be
sure there is here no mysterious dis
pensation of God. I pray you, Senora,
before you let Stewart give you free-
dom at such cost be sure you do not
want his love, lest you cast away
something sweet and ennobling which
you yourself have created.”
CHAPTER XXI
News of Stewart.
Blinded, like a wild creature, Made
fine Hammond ran to her room. She
felt as if a stroke of lightning had
shattered the shadowy substance of
the dream she had made of real life.
The wonder of Danny Mains’ story,
the strange regret with which she had
* en
Fan.
realized her injustice to Stewart, the
astounding secret as revealed by Padre
Marcos—these were forgotten in the
sudden consciousness of her own love.
She liberated the thought that knocked
at the gates of her mind. With quiv-
ering lips she whispered it. Then she
spoke aloud:
“1 will say it—hear it. I—I love
hip!”
In a nature like hers, where strength
of feeling had long been inhibited as
a matter of training, such a trans-
forming surprise as sudden conscious-
ness of passionate love required time
for its awakening, time for its sway.
By and by that last enlightening mo-
ment come, and Madeline Hammond
faced not only the love in her heart,
but the thought of the man she loved.
Suddenly, as she raged, something
in her—this dauntless new personality
—took arms against indictment of
Gene Stewart. Her mind whirled about
him and his life. She saw him drunk,
brutal; she saw him abandoned, lost.
Then out of the picture she had of
him thus slowly grew one of a differ
ent man—wedk, sick, changed hy
shock, growing strong, strangely, spir-
itually altered, sflent, lonely like an
eagle, secretive, tireless, faithful, scft
a8 a woman, hard as fron to endure.
and at the last noble.
“0h, it is a]l terrible!” she cried. “I
am his wife. His wife! That meet-
ing with him—the marriage—then ds
fall, his love, his rise, his silence, his
pride! And I can never be anything
to him: Could I be anything to Mm?
IL Madeline Hammond? But I am his
wife, and I love him! His wife! 1
am the wife of a cowboy! That might
be undone. Can my love be undone?
Al, do I want anything undone? He
is gone. Gone! Could he have meant=—
I will not, dare not think of that. He
will come back. No, he never will come
back. Oh, what shall I.do?" *
® * LJ * e ® ®
And on the morning of the next day,
when Madeline went out upon the
porch, Stillwell, haggard and stem,
with husky, incoherent word, handed
hér a message from El Cajon. She
read:
“El Oapitan Stewart captured: by
rebel ‘soldiers in fight at Agud Prieta
pesterday. He vas a sharpshooter in
the federal ranks. Sentenced to death
Thursday at sunset.”
CHAPTER XX
The Ride.
“Stillwell I”
The old ‘cittleman stood mute be.
fore her, staring at her white face, at
her eyes of flame,
“Stillwell! I am Stewart's wife!”
“My Gawd, Miss Majesty!" he burst
out. “I knowed somethin’ turrible was
wrong. Aw, sure it's a pity—"
“Do you think I'll ‘let him be shot
when I know him now, when I’m no
longer blind, when I love him?” she
asked, with passionate swiftness. “I
oe
yA
AEE
oA fe Eo nd
Eo
= =
BS
7
if i im A i
i i Vi
WH An if fi! i"
ii Wh fl iyi fi i
\
It—Hear It—-l—| Love
Him!”
“i Will Say
will save him. This is Wednesday
morning. 1 have thirty-six hours to
save his life. Stillwell, send for Link
and the car!”
She went into her office. Her mind
worked with extraordinary rapidity
and clearness. Her plan, born in one
lightninglike flash of thought, necessi-
tated the careful wording of telegrams
to Washington, to New York, to San
Antonio. These were to senators, rep-
resentatives, men high in public and
private life, men who would remember
her and who would serve her to their
utmost. Never before had her posi-
tion meant anything to her comparable
with what it meant Low. Never in all
her life had money seemed the power
that it was then. If she had been
poor! A shuddering chill froze the
thought at its inception. She dispelled
heartbreaking thoughts. She had
power. She had wealth. She would
set into operation all the unlimited
means these gave her—the wires and
pulleys and strings underneath the sur-
face of political and international life,
the open, free, purchasing value of
money or the deep, underground, mys-
terious, incalculably powerful influ-
ence moved by gold. She could save
Stewart.
When she went outside the car was
there with Link, helmet in hand, a
cool, bright gleam in his eyes, and with
Stillwell, losing his haggard misery,
beginning to respond to Madeline's
spirit.
“Link, drive Stillwell to El Cajon in
time for him to catch the El Paso
train,” she said. “Wait there for his
return .and if any message comes
from him, telephone it at once to me.”
Then she gave Stillwell the telegrams
-tp send from El Cajon and drafts to
cash in El Paso. She instructed him
to go before the rebel junta, then sta-
tioned at Juarez, to explain the situa-
tion, to bid them expect communica-
tions from Washington officials re-
questing, and advising Stewart's ex-
change as a prisoner of war, to offer
to buy his release from the rebel au-
thorities.
There was a crack, a muffled sound
bursting into a roar, and the big car
jerked forward to bound over the edge
of the slope, to leap down the long in-
cline, ‘to shoot out upon the level val-
ley floor and disappear In moving dust.
Madeline endured patiently, endured
for long interminable hours while hold-
ing to hope with indomitable will.
No message came. At sunset she
went outdoors, suffering a torment of
gccumulating suspense. Night fell.
‘She prayed for the sun not to rise, not
to begin its short twelve-hour journey
toward what might be a fatal setting
for Stewart. But the dawn did lighten,
ewiftly she thougnt, remorselessly.
Daylight had broken, and this was
Thursday !
Sharp ringing at the telephone bell
startled her, roused her into action.
She ran to answer the call.
“Hello—hello—Miss Majesty!” came
the hurried reply. “This 's Link talk-
fn’. Messages for you. Favorable, the
operator said. I'm to ride out with
them. I'll come a-hummin'.”
That was all. Madeline heard the
bang of the receiver as Stevens threw
it down, Favorabie! Then Stillwell
had been successful. Her heart leaped
Suddenly she became weak and her
bands failed of their accustomed
deftness. It took her what seemed a
thousand years to dress. Breakfast
meant nothing to her except that it
helped her to pass dragging minutes
Finally a low hum, mounting swift-
ly to a roar and ending with a sharp
report, announced the arrival of the
car. If her feet had kept pace with
her heart she would have raced out to
meet Link.
He gave her a packet of telegrams.
Madeline tore them open with shaking
fingers, began’ to read with swift, dim
eyes. Some were from Washington, as-
suring her of every possible service;
some were from New York; others
written in Spanish were from El Paso,
and these she could not wholly trans-
late in a brief glance. Would she
never find Stillwell's message? It was
the last. ‘It was lengthy.’ It read:
' “Bought Stewart's relefise. Also ar-
ranged for his transfer as prisoner of
war. Both matters official. He's safe
if we can get notice to his captors.
Not sure I've reached them by wire.
Afraid to trust it. You go with Link
to Agua Prieta. Take the messages
sent you in Spanish. They will protect
you and secure Stewart's freedam.
Take Nels with you. Stop for noth-
ing. ‘Tell Link all—trust him--let him
drive that car.
“STILLWELL.”
“Link, do you know the roads, the
desert hetween here and
Il i)
il) Hd )
“Can an Automobile Be Driven Fron
Here Into Northern Mexico?”
Agua Prieta?’ she asked. Can an au-
tomobile be driven from here into
northern Mexico?”
“Sure. But it’d take time.”
“We must do it in little time,” she
went on, in swift eagerness. “Other-
wise Stewart may be—probably wiii
bhe—Dbe shot.
Link Stevens appeared suddenly to
grow lax, shriveled, to lose all his pe-
culiar pert brightness, to weaken and
age.
“I'm only a—a cowboy, Miss Majes-
ty.” He almost faltered. It was a sin-
gular change in him. “Thet's an aw-
ful ride—down over the border. If by
some luck I didn’t smash the car I'd
turn your hair gray. You’d never be
no good after thet ride!”
“I am Stewart’s wife,” she answered
him, and she looked at him, not con-
scious of any motive to persuade or al-
lure, but just to let him know the
greatness of her dependence upon him.
He started violently—the old action
of Stewart, the memorable action of
Monty Price. This man was of the
same wild breed.
Then Madeline’s words flowed in a
torrent. “I am Stewart’s wife, I love
him; I have been unjust to him; I
must save him. Link, I have faith in
you. I beseech you to do your best for
Stewart's sake—for my sake, Ill risk
the ride gladly—bravely. T’ll not care
where or how you drive. I'd far rather
plunge into a canyon—go to my death
on the rocks—than not try to save
Stewart.”
How beautiful the response of this
rude cowboy—to realize his absolute
unconsciousness of self, to see the
haggard shade burn out of his face,
the old, cool, devil may-care spirit re-
turn to his eyes, and to feel something
wonderful about him then! It was
more than will or daring or sacrifice.
A blood-tie might have existed between
him and Madeline.
“Miss Majesty, thet ride figgers im-
possible, but I'll do it!” he replied. His
cool, bright glance thrilled her. “I'll
need mebbe half an hour to go over
the ‘car an’ to pack on what I'll want.”
She could not thank him, and her re-
ply was merely a request that he tell
Nels and other cowboys off duty to
come up to the house. When Link had
gone Madeline gave a moments
thought to preparations for the ride.
A number of cowboys were waiting.
She explained the situation and left
them In charge of her home. With
that she asked Nels to accompany her
down into the desert.
“Why, Miss Majesty, I'm powerful
proud to go. If you're goin’ down
among the Greasers you. want me.”
Madeline heard the buzz of the car.
Link appeared, driving up the slope.
He made a short, sliding turn and
stopped before the porch. Link had
tied two long, heavy planks upon the
car, one on each side, and in every
available space he had strapped extra
tires. A huge cask occupied one back
seat, and another seat was full of tools
and ropes. There was just room &n
this rear part of tne car for Nels to
jueeze in. Link put Medeline in front
beside him, then bent over the wheel.
Madeline waved her hand at the si-
lent cowboys on the porch. Not an
audible good-by was spoken. :
(To be continued).
LOVE STORY MADE IMMORTAL
Romance of Elaine, the “Lily Maid of
Astolat,” Subject of Great Verses
by Tennyson.
Elaine, “the lily maid of Astolat,”
loved Sir Lancelot, but was not loved
in return. Sir Lancelot was sworn to
celibacy, and In addition his interest
was centered in Guinevere, the queen.
Elaine, realizing the hopelessness of her
passion, died of a broken heart. In
accordance with her last request her
body, clad in white, and resting on
the bed on which she died, wag placed
on a barge and guided by an old dumb
servitor to ‘Arthur's palace. In
her right hand ‘was placed a ily, and
in her left hand a letter declaring her
love. When the “dead steered by the
dumb” reached the palace wharf, the
king requested that thé body be
brought ashore. The letter was then
read, and the departed buried ina
manner befitting ‘a queen. On the
tomb was inscribed: the sad narrative
of Elaine's unrequited passion.
The story is derived from Sir Thom-
as Malory’s history of Prince: Arthur,
and has been told.in blank verse by
Tennyson, forming one of the “Idylls
of the King”
o—— ————
——Subscribe for the “Watchman.”
SRS,
BR,
POPLAR TREES GIRLS DOWRY
Planted at Child's Birth, They Provide
a “Dot” Demanded on Her
Marriage.
In the southernmost part of Italy is
the province of Calabria. One of the
most charming of the customs here in
Italy’s toe is that relating to a girl's
dowry. For, as In most European
countries, a Calabrian girl has a slim
chance of marriage unless she is the
proud possessor of a “dot.”
The Calabrians, to avoid such a
tragedy as that of bringing up &
daughter and not being able to endow
her with a sufficient dowry to attract
an eligible husband, make provision in
her babyhood against such a misfor-
tune. In some parts of Calabria, when
a little girl is born, her father plants
a row of poplar tree§, which are hers.
By the time she is seventeen years
old the poplars are fine, large trees
and ready to be hewn down. Then
their wood is sold and the money is
set aside for the daughter’s dowry.
Calabria also is rich in historic in-
terest. Scilla is one of the seaports.
Across the straits of Messina is Sicily.
It was here that the mythological
monsters, Scylla and Charybdis, were
supposed to menace mariners. Even
the brave Ulysses was in never-ending
fear of Scylla. It has always been
filled with romance, and from this
mountainous country come thrilling
tales of highwaymen and brigands,
for it was a favorite haunt for out-
laws.
PLUTARCH’S RULES OF DIET
Philosopher Seems to Have Had the
Right Idea Concerning the
Satisfying ot Appetite.
He that is hungry should eat neces-
sary food and find it pleasant; but
when he is freed from his common ap-
petite, he ought not to raise up a
fresh one. For as dancing was no un-
pleasant exercise ta Socrates himself,
so he that can make his meal of
sweatmeats or a second course re-
ceives the less damage. But he that
has taken already what may sufficient-
ly satisfy his nature ought by all
means to avoid them. And concerning
these things, indecorum and ambition
are no less to be avoided than the
love of pleasure or gluttony.
Therefore, when any rare or noble
dish is before you, you will get more
honor by refraining from it than par-
taking of it. Remember what Simon-
ides said, that he never repented that
he had held his tongue, but often that
he had spoken; so we shall not re-
pent that we have refused a good dish
or drank water instead of Falernian,
but the contrary. We are not only to
commit no violence on nature; but
when any of those things are offered
to her, even if she has a desire for
them, we ought oftentimes to direct
the appetite to a more innocent and
accustomed diet, that she may be used
to it and acquainted with it.—
Plutarch.
White Buffalo Robe Prized,
In the old days Indians cherished
the white buffalo robe as almost be-
yond price. In 1832 or 1833 the Man-
dans, hearing that the Blackfeet at
the mouth of the Yellowstone had a
white buffalo robe, sent a delegation
with eight horses and with trading-
goods the 200 miles to procure the robe
if possible. The delegation left the
horses and the goods and returned
afoot with the robe. ‘This was conse-
crated to the Great Spirit and hung
upon a pole, out of touch, as power-
ful medicine.
It is said that not one in a hundred
thousand buffaloes was white. Even
at that the color was likely to be a
yellowish white and the robe was
known by the plainsmen as a “buck-
skin” robe. The pure white robe
scarcely existed.
Millet Studio to Be Museum.
The remarkable building in the main
street’ of ‘the art center Barbizon,
where Jean-Francois Millet painted
“The Angelus” and other master-
pieces, is being restored to its exact
condition when used by the master. It
will be opened officially to tourists and
art pilgrims.
The restoration is almost a work of
dove by Douhin, the last painter of
the Barbizon school, who, after dis-
covering a long-hidden set of camera
plates showing almost every corner of
Millet’s home, bought the lease and
commenced to rebuild and replace,
covering the expense of his operations
by the sale: of coples of Millet’s best
known ' canvases. When completed,
the house will be virtually a Millet
museum.
Cool-Headed Little Girl,
The coolest act I ever saw, says Mr.
Rex Stuart, a railway engineer, in the
American Magazine, was some months
ago on the run between New York
and Albany. We were a little late and
were traveling fast when I saw two
little girls.on the track straight ahead.
A freight was coming north on the
ppposite track. One of the girls saw
the: danger apd jumped clear. The
ether was caught.
There is only Six feet between the
‘rails of the two tracks, and slie was
‘trapped in there. She turned sidewise,
then cput: her hands: straight down at
her sides, shut her eyes and stood
perfectly still. I looked back after we
-bit the curve, and: she was still stand-
ing there as stiff: as a poker, waiting
for the: trains to Of course; it
would: have
dropped flat
scarcely had
a very cool-headed