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Single Copy, 5 Cents. fr.,-r .'S'^' •I [Eniered at the Post Office at F.ltrin, 111., as Second Class Mail Mutter. I r {' The New Sabbath Library. PRICE, 5 CENTS PER COPY. POSTP AID TO ANY ADDRESS. ffTO rneot the jfrowlne demuiul for pure literature at popular prices, we began In April. 1898. the issue of a lL publlciitlon entitled the New Sabbath Library. The success of these issues has proved to be unprecedented, and they have attained an almost world-wide celebrity. Although -ippealing particularly to youn« people, they will interest all lovers of good ,ind whole.some literature, wheth-r young or old. Kach Lssue of the New Sabbath Library contains a complete story, most of them written expressly for 'I'he books are of unitorni style and size ( 8'/j X 8!/t ). each containing 96 large pages. us and copyrighted. A Devotee and a Darling BT BKCCA MlDDl.BTON SAMPSON. Fannie, an impulsive girl of sixteen, becomes de- votedly attached to church work and to the study of her Bible. She is severely tried at home, and at last, in a manner both strange and startling, her eyes are opened to see her own mistaken life. ^^ The Wrestler of Philippi I5y Pannib R. Newberry. A tale of the times of tlie early followers of Jesus, and how they lived the Christ-life in the Hrst century. This book portrays the times of the early Church. Its Orionia) setting, description of quaint customs, etc., give it a peculiar interest and attractiveness. Titus: a Comrade of the Cross By Florence M. KiNCiSLBY. The publishers of this book, desiring to secure a life of Christ of superior merit, offered a prize of Jl.tXX) for the best manuscript submitted. The committee de- cided in favor of "Titus." It was an immediate suc- cess, over one mi* lion copies having been sold. Out of the Triangle By Mary E. Bamfobu. This Is a story of the days of persecution of Chris- tians under the Emperor Septimius Severus. The scene is mainly laid in Alexandiia and the Libyan Desert. The book relates the narrow escapes of an Egyptian lad who has become a Christian. The Days of Mohammed Hv ANNA May WriiSON. Yusuf. a Persian of the Are-worshiping sect, has re- volted against his religion, and decides to leave Persia in search of Truth. In his travels he meets that strang- est character of ancient or medieval times, Mohammed, '.rhe scene is conilned almost entirely to Arabia. C H O IN ITA By ANNiK Makia Barnes. The gifted author of this book has here produced a Yivid story of the Mexican Mines. It first ap.jeared In the Young Pkopt^e's Weekly, and its publication in book form Is In response to numerous requests from it» many thousands of d iltghted readers. The Prince or the House of David By Rbv. J. H. Ingbaham. The fame jf this book has been long established, and its fascination has held sway over multitudes of de- lighted readers. The scene is laid in Jerusalem, during the most stirring period of earth's history. This edition has been revised and in par*j8 rewritten. A St ar in a rnson Pi a talk op canada. By Anna May Wilson. The central figure of the story is a young man who, being placed in the penitentiary on circumstanili?,l evidence, there learns to understand the spirit of ^hri.'^t's self -giving, and is finally set free. Ten Nights in a Bar=Room By T. S. Arthur. New and complete edition of this famous work, which has acquired a world-wide reputation as the most, thrilling and powerfully written temperance story ever producfd. The book comprises 96 large pages, with illustrations. Printed from new type on good papt- r. Intra Muros; a Dream of lledven By Mrs. Hbbbcca K. Springer. Author of "Beech wood," "Self,' "Songs by the Sea," "Leon." etc. An entertaining book, calculated to ma '.te heav n seem nearer and more real to us, and death far less gloomy. This remarkable work will bring comfort and consolation to the heart of every reader. A Double Story By Oborgb macDonalo. This beautiful and fascinating story is one of the most popular ever written by the great author who won the title of "A Lover of Children." It is here presented in a more attractive form than ever before. Mr. MacDonald's writings are filled with helpful lessons. The Young Ditch Rider By John H. Whttson. The author writes after a protracted experience In the W^est. The Young Ditch Rider forms a rare picture, and the portrayal of scenes and events Is a fascinating one. In this book is also printed Mr. Whilson's later story, " In the Land of the Mlrase." «'! sink! recti At dark blacl flshe on t hum goini his I ing i Th who with body coul{ flciei billo and his ( CONTINt^KD ON THIRD PAGE COVER ) A Star in a Prison; A TALE OF CANADA. By ANNA MAY WILSON. . David C Cook Publishing Company, Elgin, 111., a.id 36 Washington Street, C'licago. CHAPTER I. BUNNY HAS AN ADVENTURE. LL through the day the whip of the west wind had been laid upon the face of the deep, and the long waves of Lake Ontario still heaved in rebellion at its lash. The sky above was gray, the water below was leaden, but, from a rift of cloud in the west, a red gleam shot from the sinking sun across the rolling surface. Di- rectly in the path of this was a small boat. At one end of the craft sat a man, a large dark man, with a bushy beard, and black, black eyes. He wore the oiled coat of a fisherman and an oiled-silk sou'wester was on his head. He was in no state of good humor this evening. Things had not been going well lately with. Fisherman Jack, a;id his ruffled temper was accustomed to vent- ing itself upon anything within reach. That thing at present was a small boy, who crouched at the other end of the boat, with the rope of the rudder about his body. But he was trembling so that he could scarcely draw upon the cord suf- ficiently to keep the craft with its end to the billows. This lad had an honest, round face, and beautiful blue eyes. His hair fell over his white brow in a tangle of waving Copyright, 18^ by David C. tresses, and his broad, boyish chest and straight shoulders gave the promise of a man with a noble physique. He was a very pleasing child to look upon. Had he pos- sessed a father and mother he would have been the idol of their eyes. As It was, he was merely a trembling little fellow without a relative, so far as he knew, in all the wide world. He knew little of himself save that his name was William Hare, and that he had always been called Bunny. Ages and ages ago, it seemed to him, he had drifted into Fisherman Jack's cabin; since then he had helped with the fishing and had re- ceived for his wages chiefly abuse. Indeed, lately it seemed that Jack was harder to please than ever; but then, he had been drinking more heavily for the last few months. To-night Bunny had made some mistake in adjusting the nets. Jack had sworn at him, and now was glaring at him with angry eyes. " See here, young fellow," he was saying, " I have put up with you just as long as I will. You do not earn your bread. Then there are the clothes to be thought of. You earn the clothes still less. I want you no more. You will leave my house this night, and never set foot In it again!" A big lump came into Bunny's throat. Where should he go? Jack's cabin was all the spot he knew as home, and he did not want to leave it. "But, Jack—" he faltered, with beating heart. Cook Publis hing Company. 4\m^ A STAB IN A PBI80N, "Not a, word more!" Interrupted Jack. **Yo'»i leave me tuls night! Now, do you understand?" When Jack spoke In that tone, Bunny knew he was in earnest. Tears rushed to the lad's eyes, ^nd the red sunlight, falling upon them, made streaks of radiance that almost blinded him. He lost control of his rudder-rope, and the boat swerved around broadside to the waves. Jack spoke angrily to him again, and the boy wished they were In, so that he might run away, away, away, where he would never hear wicked words and see dark looks again. Poor Bunny! Little did he know what a strange life was before him, or that this night's proceedings were to launch him into a career such as had never fallen to another beside himself. . When the boat touched the shore, and was drawn up on the beach. Jack strode oflf into the cabin. Bunny dared not go. He sat down beside the old boat, which seemed al- most like a friend, laid his head upon it, and shivered with the chill wind. Tears came again to his eyes, but he fought them back bravely. Night was fast falling. The stars began to come out. He looked up at them, and wondered if God, who, he thought, was away up above them, could look down through those tiny, bright spots and see the small boy shivering beside the boat on the dark, lonely shore. " I haven't any folks anywhere," he thought. " There isn't one who cares for me!" and the tears rolled down hiy cheeks. He almost wished that he could die. Thea a patter, patter, sounded on the stony beach behind him. A glad throb shot through Bunny's heart, for he knew that light step. Before he could turn his head, a warm nose was *M)ked in boside his face, and a bushy tail was waving about in the air. " Carlo! Carlo!" cried the boy, clasping his dog-friend to his breast, and burying his face in the black, curly fur. "You care for me, doggie, don't you? I wonder If God sent you to me?" Bunny did not know very much about God. He had been, a few times, to Sunday-school In the little town whose lights wr e now twinkling a short distance down the shore. He had picked up some Ideas there, but these had set him thinking, and, with the pure heart of an Innocent child, he seized upon the fact that there was some bond be- tween him and God. Now, in his loneliness, the boy's heart turned to him as naturally as does the frightened babe to Its. mother. " Yes, doggie," he went on, " I guesc God sent you to keep me company, didn't he? and to let me know I have one real friend, anyway. Because you love me, doggie, don't you?" And the dog flourished his great tail vigorously, and licked the boy's cheek In assent. "What will I do now, old boy?" asked the lad, as he nestled his cold fingers against the warm neck of his friend. Carlo sat down, raised his ears Inquir- ingly, and looked into Bunny's face as though he did not fully ur derstand. "You see," explained the boy, "Jack will not let me go home any more, so where will I go?" Carlo gave a short bark, started up, and looked at Bunny again with ears erect, as though he were quite ready to start off at once on a pilgrimage around the world with his young friend. "If I could only take you, old boy. It wouldn't be so lonely," went on Bunny. "We could sleep together in the green woods, and you would keep me warm at nights, and you could hunt chipmunks in the daytime. But then," he added, " what would I give you to eat? Besides, you belong to Jack." Again he let nis cheek drop down on the glossy coat It was quite dark no\. , but the boy was not afraid, with Carlo by him. His eyes grew very thoughtful for those of a ten-year-old lad. He fixed them upon a bright streak on the horizon, across the water, and resolutely attempted to look into maMmm- w^ A STAR IN A PRISON'. the future. lie must do something, ;;o somewhere. Could he get work among the farmers? No, the haying was almost on, and he was not strong enough for that. Then Carlo lay down by him and went to sleep. Bunny could not sleep for excitement. This seemed a terribly venturesome thing that he was about to do. Oh, how wearisome the what about going on one of the steamers for hours were, and how lonely! He had • • ■<■■' ^ ■ i ■ 1 / *■■■ , * / / / I 1 Vi^BHH^^^B^r • T^ ■^ ^k, ''^, - 7 . :.-^ ■ s n^- . #' *^ fc** * 1 . 't> L.... .:.,-_.,.i»#.^ S8*»-- • ■ — «• — ;.:: Bunny sat down bestJe the old boat— See page 2. awhile? He had seen boys scrubbing the decks of the vessels thot called at the town. Surely he could do that. He would ask the men to try him. He would strive hard to please them. Yes, the " Nubian " would be in to-night, at one o'clock. He would go down and try. At any rate they could do no worse than refuse him. never imagined a night could be so long. Surely the " Nubian " could not be coming in this time. He listened to the plash of the water on the beach, and watched the dark heaOI' rd about which the down-going ves- sels usually came. Tlie moon rose and gleamed through ragged clouds upon the broad waters. Buuuy was glad to see her. A STAR IN A PRISON. but she seemed very cold and solitary. He felt even more lonely than before. ^.t last the far-off throb, throb of a steamer sounded, coming nearer and nearer. Bunny sat up, and stared with all his might at the end of the promontory looming up against the sky. Yes, there came a vessel at last, Its head-light shining through the darkness like a great, glaring eye. It was the " Nubian." Bunny knew her colors very well. The boy sprang to his feet, and the dog, alert in an instant, sprang up, too, with ears erect and tail wagging. "Carlo, dear old fellow!" said the boy, and Immediately two great paws were placed on his shoulders, and a warm tongue was trying to lick his face. Bunny clasped his arms about the shaggy neck, and kissed the black hearl. " Now, doggie," he said, with an ache at his heart, and a lump in his throat, " I must go. Go home, doggie." Carlo looked at him in astonishment. " Go home. Carlo," he repeated, with a sob In his voice. And the dog started off for the cabin, with an injured air, pausing, no"7 and again, to glance back doubtfully at the little figure standing alone on the shore, in the moonlight. Not until his four-footed friend had reached the doorstep of the cabin above, did Bunny move. He stood watching until the dog disappeared in the shadow of the house, then he started off at a run towards the town, where the red and green lights about the wharf and the station seemed j beckon him on. Carlo watched him with ears erect, and a wondering expression on his black face. What process of reasoning went through his doggish brain, it would be hard to state. Certain it is that he looked, first at the retreating boy, then at the cabin, then at the boy aga'n, wondering probably in whic.i direction his duty lay, and that finally he set off after, Bunny with a swing- ing trot, keeping discreetly at some distance behind, yet never losing sight of his lonely little friend. When Bunny reached the wharf, the steamer was Just in, the gangway was thrown out, and a few men were beglaning to roll some casks and boxes down into the vessel. Bunny paused, and looked timidly about. His heart was beating so that he could al- most' hear it. In the meantime Carlo had crept along behind him, and sat down in the shadow. Bunny made up his mind to ad- dress one of the men. " Please, sir," he said, " haven't you some work I can doV" " Surely," replied the man, with a smile. " Help down witl^ those barrels." Poor Bunny looked at the barrels, and placed his hands against one, but ke could not move it. The man laughed. " Out of a job, eh?" he asked. "Yes, I'd — I'd like to work on the boat, if there's anything I can do." The man smiled again. " I guess you are a young runaway, aren't you?" Bunny looked up indignantly. " Indeed no, sir; I haven't any home to run from." " Come, now! You're only foolin'," was the reply. Bunny rubbed his eyes hard to keep back the tears. " But no," he said with a break in his voice, " Jack told me I must never go into his house again. I — I haven't any place to sleep in!" A man who had been standing idly near, watching the sailors, now turned and looked at the lad. He was one of the townspeople, and knew something of Jack and his charge. "Why, bless me!" said he, "if it isn't Fisherman Jack's boy! So he's given you a walking-ticket at last, eh? Well, you'll not lose much." The boat's mate happened to be standing near. He war a tall, kind-hearted man, who had children of his own, and he had noticed the pathetic look of appeal on Bunny's face. A STAR IN A PRISON. " Who is ne?" he asked, with a nod towards the lad. " A poor little gaffer who hasn't a friend to his name!" replied the town man. " His father and mother was people who came out from England, — they was a runaway match, I recicon; leastways they had nothing to do with their folks. I mind well when they died. People didn't do right with the little 'un, and Fisherman Jack got him someway. If ye've a job, mate, it'll be a kindness to animals to give it to him. Jack hasn't been over - kind to him, I'll be bound." " Well, then, tumble in, lad," said the mate to Bunny. And the boy waited for no second invitation, but Immediately ran down the gangway. A gleam of black shot across after him. It was Carlo, who lay down at Bunny's feet, and looked up at him with flattened ears, and the most apologetic air imaginable. The boy's heart gave a great leap of joy. He patted the dog on the head. " Oh, dog- gie, doggie, you must go home!" said he. But Carlo merely looked up more imploringly than e"er, and thumped his tail on the floor. Bunny then caught him by the paws and tried to drag him out. But he was obstin- ate. He braced his feet on the floor and refused to go, and the kind-hearted mate, looking down at the handsome, glossy crea- ture, said indulgently: " Let him stay." " He's Jack's dog," replied the boy. But the mate had gone on, and the gangway was being drawn in, so there was nothing for it but to let Carlo remain. Bunny put his hand on the dog's head, feeling that now, indeed, he was not wholly friendless. He then looked about for some place to sleep. There was a cozy-looking corner in among some boxes. Bunny crept into it, and Carlo followed. The two nestled down together. The engine throbbed, the vessel swayed. The motion lulled the sleepy lad to rest. His long lashes drooped, sounds about the vessel seemed to drift farther and farther away, and the little homeless waif wa' sound asleep, with his head on Carlo's soft coat. The men were rolling the casks and boxes about, but tiijit did not bother the little sleeper. He was all unconscious that, not noticing him in his dark corner, the men had piled the boxes before and above him, so that he could not get out at all. He was awakened by a gentle whine. Carlo was poking his nose down beside his face. Bunny rubbed his eyes sleepily. For a moment he could not realize where he was. Then the dull throbbing of the machinery recoiled all to him, and he started up. He found himself walled in by bales and trunks, but could see, through the chinks, that it was broad daylight. "I guess we're in a trap now. Carlo," he said. "They didn't know we were in here, did they, old fellow?" Carlo gave an approving bark. Bunny tried to move the boxes, but :}ould not. He did not like to call out. "We'll wait, old boy," he said, " and maybe at the first p'^rt they'll be moving these things." The minutes wore on — ten, twenty, thirty. Every moment seemed an hour. Besides, the air was close. Ages seemed to go by. Carlo was very patient, but Bunny was get- ting hungry. He tried again to push the trunks aside, but only su' needed in knock- ing down a shower of dust, which got into his eyes and throat. He was seized with a fit of coughing. Then some one said: " Who's there?" Now, over an hour before, upon the deck of this self -same steamer, an oldish man and a little girl, evidently a grandfather and his grandchild, had appeared. They had break- fasted, and were now pacing up and down, enjoying the crisp breeze that had set the waves a-dancing. The little girl had curling hair, golden as a tangle of embodied sunbeams, and her broad, white hat kept blowing up from her head, so that her grandfather had to stop often to arrange A STAB IN A PRISON. It. PreBently It went off completely, over the railiui;. uud out on the blue waves, where It bobbed up and down provoklugly, like a white water lily Just out of reach. The little girl gave a scream. The old man looked helplessly after It. " Never mlud, grandfather," said the child. " There's a blue hood In the big valise. We'll go down below and hunt It up." "Just so, Just so, Gertrude." said the grandfather. " You'll catch your death of cold if you have nothing on your head. Gome, now, and we'll find it." They went below and began searching among the bales and valises. All at once they heard coughing that seemed to come from the bottom of the pile. '• Who's there?" called the grandfather twice. At the second call, a thin, half- buried voice piped out, ** Bunny Hare!" " What are you doing?" " Chok-ing!" " Ho, ho! You are, are you! Come, sir," to one of the boat hands, " there's a bunny in here that seems to have too close a hutch. Get him out, will you?" The man began to haul the bales down, in no good humor. As soon as an opening presented itself. Bunny crept out, with dust on his nose, and his face red with coughing. The man caught him by the shoulder, and gave him a shake. Carlo leaped out with a savage growl, and the man let go his hold. " So, you little varmint, you steal a ride, do you?" he said. The little girl, who had been clinging to her grandfather's hand, now stepped for- ward. " Please, what are you going to do with him?" she asked. " Just trundle him oflP with the rest of the baggage, at the first stopping-place," said the boatman. " Serve him right, the little stowaway!" added Gertrude's grandfather, drawing her away. Just then the tali mate came up. "Oh, you're here, are you?" he said good-humor- edly. "This is no stowaway, sir, but a young man who alms at being captain some day, eh? Well, my lad. Just straighten those valises, and we'll see that you get some breakfast." Bunny sprang to work with alacrity. Meanwhile the girl and her grandfather had gone on. But the child kept looking back. Presently she reached up and whis- pered: " Grandfather, doesn't he look like our Wllhelm?" The grandfather turned quickly about, and took a sham look at Bunny. " I believe he does," replied he. Then they walked on again. The big valise was found, the blue hood was tied on, and they went again on deck. The waves were dancing and sparkling more merrily than ever, but little Gertrude could not help thinking of the forlorn boy, piling valises In that hot, grimy place below, before he might have any breakfast. After a time she climbed up on the arm of her grandfather's chair, put her arms about his neck, and gazed out over the blue water, with a wistful look In her eyes. " I don't believe he has any fri<^nds, grand- father," she said, at length. "Who, child?" "That little boy — Bunny Hare. What a funny name he has!" " Like enough the little rogue was lying about It." The child's eyes looked reprovingly at him. "Oh, Grandpapa Steinhoff!" she said, "I don't think he's a bad little boy, for he looks Just like Wllhelm." The grandfather coughed. His one great passion had been his affection for his two little grandchildren, and one of them had died over a year before. Now his whole heart was given to the little orphan who was sitting on the arm of his chair. He had little room In his affections for anyone else. His whole life was given up to humor- ing her every wish, and in striving to make ;:,?.-;:nr:?fJt.}'W!if!?ifi.'j"r iiiiwiwiiiiiiMiiifP.. , •» A STAR IN A PRTSOir. "paying" investmeiitg which should develop into a fortune for her. But he and the child BiJll mourned over Wilhelm, and spoke of hlui. ever yet, In whispers. Aftf>r a pause, Gertrude said, " Grandpapa Stelnhoff?" " Yes, dear." '* Couldn't we take that poor little boy to Ottawa with us? We'll need some one to look after the fires, the way John used to, you know." Gertrude now had her face bent down against her grandfather's, and on-lookers smiled to see the pretty pictuie— the plead- ing, red lips, the blue hood, and the gollen curls escaping from it to mingle with the long, gray-streaked locks of the man. " Do you want him very much, Gertie?" he said, after a moment of silence. " Yes, grandpapa mine." He pulled one of her curls. "What a tease you are!" he said. "Well, run away down, then, and bring him up till I talk to him for a while." She was off like a gleam of sunshine, and went picking her way daintily through the grimy passages below to the place where she had seen Bunny. He had finished his work, also his breakfast, and was sitting on a box, holding his knee with both hands, while Carlo lay beside him panting contentedly. Bunny was feeling very much alone and very timid. He thought the little girl coming toward him through the dirty, smoky pass- ages must look like an angel — but then, angels didn't wear blue hoods. At any rate she seemed as one from a sphere differ- ent from his, and as she paused before him, he looked up at her with a half-wistful, half-pleading face. " Please, Bunny Hare," she said, " my grandpapa would like to talk to you for a little while." "To me?" Bunny said, in astonishment. "Yes," she replied eagerly. "And maybe he'll do something nice for you. Come now, please, 'cause I want to have everything settled," she added with a gravely Important air. He arose and followed her up the stair and throufrh the cabin, which he thought must be the most beautiful place ever any one was in. Then she triumphnntly led him to her grandfather, who looked at him for a moment, Hofteniug n.ore and more as the resemblance to Wilhe'im appeared more evident. "What is your name?' he asked. " Bunny Hare, sir; at least, William Hare," added the boy, who was used to hav- ing his nickname, Bunny, laughed at. " Wilhelm, too, aye!" muttered the grand> father; then aloud, he asked: "Where are your mother and father?" " Dead, sir, ever so long ago," replied the boy. " An orphan, as our Wilhelm was," mut- tered the man again. Then he asked, "What are you doing here?" Bunny explained. Gertrude pleaded for him, and the result was that the boy who " looked like Wilhelm," was taken with his new friends off the boat and on to a rushing train which bore the three swiftly to the capital. He was henceforth to be, not the boy who should " take care of the fires," bat the odopted grai -on of Hermann Stelnhoff, and to be known i Wilhelm Stelnhoff. In his early lift his man with whom Bunny Hare was no., to be so cJose'v asso- ciated, had, in company with his brother ' Fritz, drifted about Canada. They had been in all sorts of obscure and unlikely places; had set their traps In the fastnesses of the great forests, had carried on a system of barter with the Indians, and had kept stores for that purpose on the very confines of civilization. But Fritz had at last settled down in the capital, and now- Hermann, with his little Gertrude, the only one remaining of his family, was going thither also, to spend the remainder of his life near his brother. When the trio reached the dtv ihe> wer*^ 8 A STAR IN A PRISON. welcomed by this brother, and, with his assistance, a cozy home was soon secured in a once fashionable quarter of Sandy Hill. It was a white cottage, set In the midst of a broad, rambling garden filled with tall trees and blossoming shrubbery. A green -veranda, hidden beneath clematis and Vir- ginia creeper, ran about the house, and a very high picket fence enclosed the grounds, giving the place a delightful air of privacy and home-like seclusion. Bunny, or, as he was now called, Wil- helm, thought the place was the most beau- tiful that he had ever seen. He and Ger- trude played for hours every day in that wonderful garden, and many a passer-by paused to look at the prevty sight — the fairy girl with the long, golden curls, the staunch little tad dressed in sailor-blue, w^ith his hat on the back of his head, and his fair waving hair blown about his rosy face, and lastly, the great, black collie which entered into their fun with all his heart. Occasionally they would go down the street on little shopping expeditions, and Wllhelm would scarcely let go of the little girl's hand for a moment. " I have got to take care of her, you know," he would say to the old ibhop-woman who weighed out their candles for them. This sense of having some one to care for was the sweetest change of all to the bo J. He 'felt as though now he really had " folks " like other boys, and he could scarcely recognize In himself the little Bunny, the poor, forlorn waif who had sat, all homeless, hugging ills dog, that weary night on the lake shore. It all esemed like a dream noAV, yet he thought of those days sometimes, and his blue eyes would then grow very solemn. One day he was lying on tlie ground, leaning on his elbows, with his chin In his hands, and his sal* or hat, as usual, on the back of his head. "Gerth he sold, "what makes you happy all the time?" "Why," she replied, "'uts ot things. I've got ribbons, and pretty dresses, and this garden to play about in, and you and grandfather to love me, and for me to love." " Yes," returned the little philosopher, " when people love you, and you love people, you think kind thoughts, don't you, and that makes you happy?" " 'Course," assented Gertrude with a nod. " Well, then, I guess poor Jack never had anybody to care for," said the boy, stroking Cano thoughtfully. " Because, you know, he wasn't very happy." " Well, I'm sure he might have cared for you," replied Gertrude, indignantly. "Or Carlo," nodde^i Wllhelm, while the dog raised his head and winked approvingly. " Gertrude," went on the lad, " wouldn't it be very strange if I should ever meet Jack again?" " Very," said the child. "And if I do," returned he, "I will try very hard to care for him, and be kind to him." Yes, little fair-haired boy, lying there In the grass, you are yet to have the oppor- tunity of making good your words, in the midst of circumstances more strange than you would ever have dreamed of. In the meantime, Wllhelm and Gertrude started to school. Wllhelm had to begin in a very low form Indeed, but he was clever aad willing, and soon distanced the rest of his class-mates. In course of time he en- tered the high-school, and grew up, a tall, alert youth, a favorite alike with teachers and students, whether in the school-room or on the campus. And, during all thesa years, the same quiet, peaceful life went on in the vine-covered cottage. If a shade of anxiety was on Hermann's brow no one noticed it. He spent a great deal of his time dabbling at experluitjnt^ in physics and chemistry, for he was a scientist of no mean order, and hoped some day, to em- body some of his theories In an invention mmfm * ed Wllhelm from his side. " That is all I want of you now," he said. " Good- night, boy." And the young man left the room. Wilhelm stopped school at once, and set out in quest of a situation. For the next three weeks he spent nearly aii his time in going from place to place seeking for work. Finally he was glad to take the place of accountant for a large manufacturing firm, and when he at last sat down on a tall stool In his close, dingy little office, he felt as independent as a king on his throne. As the months went by, the constant addition of long columns, the writing of invoices and bills of account, grew often irksome. Every inclination of his mind turned towards science and philosophy rather than to jour- nals and ledgers. Yet he did not repine. He believed in doing with all his heart the duty that was ai hand, so he entered into his monotonous tasks with a will, and still dared to hope that the future might bring with it something more congenial to his tastes. His faithfulness did not escape the notice and the commendation of his em- ployers. In the meantime he continued to study every night, and still felt that by concen- tration and persevering effort, he could ac- complish much. CHAPTER IV. A DAY OP STRANGE OCCURRENCES. O Gertrude, not an eddy had come with the cur- rent of life. She had now become the little housekeeper, and a pleas- ant sight it was to see the shimmer of her hair and the warm rose-bloom of her face as it bent in sober interest over the crisp green salads or the soft white biscuits which her slender fingers often made for the dainty home table. She seemed a part and parcel of Wilhelm's life. Together they walked down busy streets, or strolled through fields white with daisies. Together they went to church and sat with reverent faces, where the soft amber light from a great stained-glass win- dow fell upon them. Hermann never went there with them. He noted their growing interest in things of a religious nature, and never attempted to Interfere with their Ideas In any way, yet he smiled at what he looked upon as a harmless and pretty delu- sion of young minds, and an excusable clinging to tradition of older ones. 16 A STAB IN A FBI SON. Upon one occasion only had he crept within the portals of the church, and then Wllhelm and Gertrude did not know of It. It was at the time when they Joined the professed band of God's people. Together they walked down the broad aisle among the crowds of new communicants. Together they knelt at the communion table, and ac- knowledged themselves followers of Jesus. Together they listened with a new reverence to the tones of the minister reading softly the words by which the Savior had insti- tuted the feast of Joy. And awuy up In the dim gallery, frcm the shadow of a great pillar, two old ejes looked down upon them, and an old heart was strangely moved, It knew not why. Then, after the service, an old, bent man hurried silently away, feeling unusually lonely upon this glorious Sabbath morning, for he was not one of these; he knew nothing of the spiritual rejoicing which these people professed. Hermann said nothing of his Isit, and its emotion soon passed out of his mind. The young people often talked of their grandfather's barren spiritual condition, and formed plan^, for securing even his Interest in the worship which they were learning to love better every day; but when they at- tempted to speak of such things to him, tbey were Invariably disappointed, for he ever put them gently aside, and would not listen. So the time went by in which these two young people were united in thought, in aim. and In interest. Little wonder was It that they loved each other as few brothers and sisters, perhaps, do. To Gertrude, indeed, Wllhelm was ever the dearest, and best, and most respected of brothers. In Wll- helm, however, a different feeling was growing, with a power as awful as it was sweet, and one day he suddenly realized that he loved Gertrude more than 'ie could ever love anyone else in all the wide world. He and she had been out all the afternoon with a gay party of young friends who were roaming thiough a small wood In search of flowers. Towards evening they became sep- arated. In some way, from the rest, and found themselves in a wooded dell alone. They stopped to rest for a few moments on the bank of a gurgling stream which purled noisily below, winding its way over mossy stones and beneath tangles of bramble, and vines bright with red berries. The girl was sitting upon the moss-grown trunk of a fallen tree. From the leafage above a flood of green gold hurrA through, seeming to form itself into a halo about her head. She wore a soft dress of white, and a bunch of wild roses was caught at her throat Her eyes were raised thoughtfully to the glints of the blue sky above, and her tiny hands were caressing the little white dog that had crawled to her knee, with the sweet tenderness which marks the touch of every true woman towards that which Is small, or feeble, or helpless. All at once Wllhelm realized that he loved her. He knew, too, that it was not the glamour of the place, nor the hour, nor even her radiant beauty, that had fallen upon him, but that he loved her for her noble womanhood, her gentle, joy-glving life, her tender, loving heart. He thought then that he must have always loved her thus. He was sitting at her feet, and as he glanced up at her she caught a look so wist- ful, so pleading, that she started at its In- tensity, though she did not guess at its meaning. It reminded her of the look she had seen upon th^ face of the little lad whom she had gone to seek in the grimy, lower part of the vessel, so long ago. She mentioned the recollection to him. His face changed, the flush upon his cheek deepened, and the light In his eyes grew more Intense. He arose and sat down beside her. " Yes," he said, and a tremble of emotion was in his voice. " You became the guardian angel of the ragged little lad then. You have been his guiding spirit ever since." She raised her head to look at him with a little deprecating gesture, and her soft. i»»i i i i t * w wmmmm .a me sep- rest, and ell alone. uients on u which way over n^les of d berries. ass-grown e leafage through, about her i^hite, and ht at her jughtfully i, and her ttle white nee, with larks the ards that ss. All at ;d her. He lOur of the er radiant but that he thood, her er, loving must have ind as he Dk so wist- at its In- ess at its e look she little lad the grimy, ago. She , His face deepened, ire intense. of emotion e guardian then. You since." ; him with \ her soft, A STAR IN A PRISON. 17 golden billows of hair almost swept his cheek. She dropped her little hand, like a warm, white rose-leaf, on his knee. It was an old habit of her childhood, and she thought nothing of it. Wllhelm's hand closed upon it, and he trembled. Then speech came to him. He told her of his love in simple, burning words that were the utterance of his very heart. He asked her to be his wife. For one moment she looked at him with a startled expression in her gentle, blue eyes, then she dropped her head, and he could not see t' it she was quietly weeping. " Gertrude," he pleaded, " will you not speak to me?" She brushed her hands over her forehead with the little gesture that was habitual to her when she was troubled. " Wllhelm," she said, with a tremor in her voice, " I am so sorry you care for me in this way. We have been so happy just as we were — and, oh, Wilhelm, I cannot give you the promise you ask of me! Don't you know you are just a dear, dear brother to me— and you deserve more than tliat In a wife, Wilhelm." Her voice broke down. She bowed her head on her hands and sobbed. Wllhelm's face grew very pale. For a moment he sat as though crushed with the overthrow of his hopes, then he looked at her bowed head, and his face softened. Once more he took her hands in his. "Gertrude," he said, "don't cry, little sister. Forgive me for distressing you, Ger- trude. See, Gertie, listen. I will promise you that I shall never trouble you in this way again— unless," he added, in a low tone, " unless a time shall come when you may be willing to hear me." " But," she sobbed, " I hate to have you hurt so, Wilhelm!" "Never mind," he said, comforting her. " I shall always be a better man for having loved you, Gertie. You have been a great influence in my life, little sister. You have always believed In me. Gertrude. Believe in me still. I shall try to be a good man, worthy of your trust. I shall try not to dis- appoint you." He was trying to comfort her, but his voice had a hopelessness in it that was sadder than tears. Gertrude stood up, and dashed the tears from her face. " Wilhelm." she said, " I cannot hear you talk like this. You are not thinking of what you are saying. To direct your life by what I or any other woman may think of you is not worthy of you." She paused, and her voice took a cadence softer, sweeter than that of the purling brook at her feet. " No, Wilhelm, my brother," she continued, " you will not disappoint your own best self. I know you will not. Your ideal of what is highest and noblest in life is independent of me, or of any human being." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, and Into her eyes came the far-off expression which sometimes made her look as though she were gazing beyond the skies. " Dear Wilhelm," she whispered, " if you should never see or hear of me again, you would still be the best that you can be, for your own sake, and — God's." He bowed his head, for her words had the effect, as they so often had, of direct- ing his thought, not to herself, but to things higher than those of earth. As she concluded, the merry laughter of the returning party was heard. In a few moments the bushes parted, and the young people, laden with gay trophies of the forest ramble, burst through. " Well, I declare!" exclaimed one of the young ladies, " if this devoted brother and sister haven't been here all by themselves! We were wondering where you had strayed. Come, Gertrude, let me drape your hat with ferns." The girls strayed off together, and Wil- helm followed with some of the others. As they passed out of the wood and took their way down the long white road that led to . . .- -^ \ "1 18 A STAR IN A PBISON. the city, whose spires and pinnacles were now sparkling with the evening sun, some one else also emerged from It upon the opposite side, and took his way over a fence and across a green field. This was a lad perhaps fourteen years of age. His eyes were black and bright, his skin brown as a butternut, his smile merry. He wore a ragged felt hat, and trousers that reached to bis knees. He had on no shoes or stockings, but his bare feet pattered bravely over hot sand and sharp stones, and trod luxuriously through the soft, cool green grass, dotted with buttercups. He was a thorough little street boy, shrewd, sharp, ragged and happy. He had lived mostly among men; he read the dally newspapers, which he sold at the street corners, and he knew some- thing of politics. He saw and heard three times as much as the ordinary boy who walks In the usual paths of life, and his wanderings in search of work, of food, or of adventure, led him into all sorts of queer by-paths, and odd, out-of-the-way corners. This afternoon he had succeeded in finding an adventure. He was laughing softly to himself, for he had been an unobservrd spectator of the lit- tle Hcene between Wilhelm and Gertrude in the wood, and, as yet, he was inclined to look with a great deal of amusement, and, perhaps, a little contempt, upon all such dis- plays of feeling. " I guess Monsieur Adolphe Belleau got wan lesson dat trip!" he was saying to him- self. "Ma foi! dey didn't know dey had an audience! Was it a mean trick to look on? But, no; Adolphe was dere first In de cool, grassy place. If de branches were not close enough. It was not at all a fault to heem. For why did dey come dere if dey wanted not to be seen?" He laughed again. "Well, it ifv^as better dan de theater, and Adolphe Bellleau was de audience!" He stopped, plucked a buttercup, and put it in his button-hole. " It's not so pretty as de L\alr of de lady," he said to himself. " Pure gold, it was, very pritty. Heem, too, heem very handsome gentleman." So saying, the French boy ran along, leaping over ditches and high fences, and carolling gay little snatches of song to him- self. Presently, as he crossed a green field, on the very outskirts of the city, he caught a glimpse of some one whom he thought he knew, Just outside of the fence that bor- dered the road. It was a crooked figure, hobbling painfully along with a pair of crutches. Adolphe gave a shrill whistle. An answering whistle came back across the buttercups, and the owner of the crutches placed a very homely face, consisting chiefly of a wide mouth, and two great, wistful eyes, against the space between the pickets. "Hi! I thought to myself it was you, Georgle," called the French boy, running towards him. " W'at are you doing here?" The crippled lad looked wistfully at the blossoming field. " I was Just wishing," re- plied he, " that I could get in there. The grass looks so cool, and my feet ache so to-day!" " Oh, we'll feex dat all right," returned the other quickly. " I know a place w'ere de— w'at-you-call heem ?— peecket is broken. I will help you t'roo. Den we will go and sit under de bushes." He walked along inside of the fence, and the poor, weak lad hobbled along on the out- side until the broken place was reached. Then Adolphe helped him through, and guided him over the rough, grassy ground until they came to a tall clump of bushes v.'hich grew beside a tiny riU. ,. " Now den, you can put de poor, sore feet into de cool water," said Adolphe, stepping In, and watching the little ripples curling about his own sturdy brown ankles. The cripple sank down, with a sigh, upon a soft bank. "It is beautiful here," he said, "and you are very Icind to me, Adolphe—- so different from the other boys. Do you know," and be lowered his voice In ■•ppi mmmmmmfmmmmmmm icm, too, b alongr. ces, and to him- Lien field, e caught ought he hat bor- d figure, pair of whistle. cross the crutches onsisting 70 great. ween the iwas you, running here?" y at the tiing," re- lere. The ache so returned ice w'ere s brolcen. 11 go and ence, and n the out- reached, ugh, and ly ground of bushes sore feet stepping >s curling s. ilgh, upon bere,*' he [ to me, ther boys, a voice in A STAR IN A PRISON. 19 a pathetic whisper, " they call me, some- times, ' bandy - legs,' and ' hop - and - go fetch!' •• " Dey do?" rejoined Adolphe, with em- phasis. "Well, dey not do it if Adolphe Belieau !s around. Dat's all I have to say!" " What malces you so different?" aslced the t)oy, looliing at Adolphe with his great eyes full of wonder. Adolphe reflected. "Why, I guess I caught any goodness T have from de kind doctor— Dr. Keith Cameron," he said. " Dat sort of t'ing is — is ^^ontagious, you Icnow." The lame l>oy nodded. He scarcely under- stood the long words which it was the French boy's pleasure to use occasionally, so he always nodded assent. " Do you l£now heem?" inquired Adolphe. Georgie*s face brightened. " Know him! I should say 1 did!" he replied, with par- donable pride. " Why, he saw me on the street one day, uud uslied me about my knees; and tlien he came to our bouse." '*' Talk about city missionaries!" remarked the French boy philosophically, " dere is not of dem one who can hold a candle to heem— among de heathens of dis city, at any rate." He sat down, pushed his hat to the back of his head, placed a 'buttercup stem between his teeth, and put his hands in his pockets. He seemed to have something on his mind. Presently he jerked his hands out again in a very decided manner, and threw the but- tercup into the stream. " I am going to tell you somet'ing, Qeorgie," he said, " because you don't go around wit' de fellers, and you'll not tell, will you?" " Never!" said the cripple, with emphasis. "Well, den, it is wan secret. I have not told it to anywan more, except to dis same Dr. Cameron. You know de old house at 425 Street, w'ere de l)oys sometimes go up in de loft to play ' FoUow-your-leader '?" Georgie nodded. " Well, den, it is not empty, as we was t'lnk at wan tam." "Has somebody moved into it?" "No. Hush! I will tell you all. Las' night, very late, I see a man, very ole, very bent, go down de street dere. Heem dressed very fine. I know he not belong to dat quar- ter. I follow heem away out to dat house. He goes in at de back; gets in. too, mind you, past all dose boards on de door. I creep into de shed. I see a red, very ^mall light go up t'roo a crack. I climb up in de loft and look down. I see a room, wit' machines. Den I see de old man working wit' dem, and affer while, so sure as my name is Adolphe Belieau. I see heem take from dem money— new bills. It nearly take my breath from me. I say to myself, * Dis money not good, else he never work at it in dat ole house ail barred up.' ' Georgie was listening in open-eyed won- der. " Who is he?" he asked. " I do not know," answered Adolphe, " but de police find out pretty soon, I guess. He is a man very ole, very t'in. He has a gray beard, and hair of gray dat trails out over hees collar. He wears a black coat, very fine, and on hees head he has a skull-cap of black, dat he did not wear on de street. Hees hands dey tremble very much." " My!" said Georgie, " what did you do? Will he be put in prison?" "I went to tell de police. I meet Dr. Cameron Instead, so he tell dem, and take me wit' heem to de police station dis morn- ing very early. As soon a& dey get heem. dey will fees heem, sure." Now, by a strange coincidence, it happened that this conversation was overheard by none other than Wiihelm Stelnhoflf. On leaving the party in the city, he had turned back In search of some spot where he might be quite alone. He felt that he did not care to see or talk to people this evening, and his feet, quite naturally, turned down towards one of his old botanizing haunts, the little rill that fiowed through the butter- cjp-covered field. He lay down in the i :|'~T' 20 A STAR IN A PBiaON. shade of the evergreen bushes, and gave hluiHelf up to his own meditations. I'lts- ently he heard voices, but, perceiving that the new-comers were only two lads, dabbling their feet In the water, he paid no further altentlon to them. Then, In a vague sort of way, he realized that he had lieard a few words which referred to something out of the ordinary. They were those relating to the making of the "not good " money. With- out Imagining that he was. In any way, playing the part of eavesdropper to any- thing of real importance, he continued to lie there. Every word spoken by Adolphe, In de- eerlblng the strange old man, came to his ear. What was there in them which caused him to start, with a sudden, keen awakening of every faculty? In vain he told himself that this was but the Idle talk of a ragged boy. An Indefinable horror seemed settling on his mind, for was not his grandfather, Hermann Stelnhoff, also bent and thin? Had he not also trembling hands, and gray beard and hair? Did he not also wear a black coat, and. In the house, a black skull- cap? He tried to persuade himself that a dozen old men In the city might answer to just such a description, and yet, and yet— Wilhelm had a reason for having his sus- picions point directly towards Hermann Stelnhoff. Befcri'e his eyes came the vision '. strange occurrence, that had seemed to b ji, at the time, rather peculiar, but that was now fraught with a new and horrible significance. In vain he tried to think that it was but a trifling Incident after all. It returned to him again and again, with awful force, with a poisonous breath of sus- picion which he could not drive away. Upon the night of the occurrence in ques- tion, he had been studying later than usual. At last, finding his eyes weary, he had put out the light and had sat down by the win- dow to rest a minute before making ready for bed. It was a beautiful, calm night, and as he sat there looking out upon the waving branches, and the lights twinkling like dia- monds in all parts of the city, he fancied he heard the lower, outside door leading from (Jrandfather Stelnhoff's laboratory, close quietly. A moment later he noticed p* dark figure gliding along In the shadow of the trees. Snatching up his hat, he hurried quietly out, and followed on to the gate and out upon the shaded street. In a few mo- ments the figure moving on ahead came out Into the glare of a street-lamp, and Wilhelm saw ^hat It was none other than Hermann Stelnhoff. Somewhat surprised that his grandfather should be making a Journey out at such a late hour, Wilhelm resolved to follow, merely to see that no harm came to him. The old man went steadily on, seemingly with some object In view, towards the dis- trict of Lower Town, and, as the more for- saken portion of that vicinity was reached, the stillness was so marked that Wilhelm could hear the tapping of the old man's stout cane on the sidewalk. Perhaps Her- mann, too, heard his following step. At any rate, he turned. Wilhelm happened to be im- mediately beneath a light. The old man recognized him at once, and came back towards him. " What are you doing here, grandfather?" asked Wilhelm. " Rather, may I ask, what are you doing here?" returned Hermann. " Why," replied Wilhelm, " I saw some one leaving the house. I followed. Tlie person proved to be you, so I came on to see that nothing happened to you." The old man had started vigorously back towards home. " It's a pity," he said, " if I can't go out for a w^alk when I can't sleep. I'm not a child again yet, Wilhelm." He spoke petulantly, and Wilhelm was willing to accept the explanation, thoagh he wondered a little why Hermann should pass the beautiful residence streets above, and choose this lonely, forsaken locality for bis walk. A STAJi IN A PRISON. 21 This evening, as tlie words of tlip little French boy fell diHtlMctly ui>r.n Wilholm'H ear, every detail of that nlRhtly advcMitiiro cn'me bn^'k wlih condomnlnj? dlstlnottu'ss. From the other nldo of the bushes he heard the French boy say; " Now, Georgle, you'll no tell dls t'lnj?, because, you know, It ni"s' be kcp' a grand aecret, until de ole fellei is "aught." " I'll not tell, sure, AUoli»lie, until you let me," replied the cripple, " Now, den, we mus' go home," returned the other voice; "de dew she's fallin', and you'll have de cold, Georgle." The cripple answered wistfully, " I'd like to stay here all night, Adolphe, along with you. It would be so beautiful to see the stars come out." " But I mus' go home to Agnes." returned the French boy. " She is seeck, you know, an' not better yet." "Very well, then; come on," i?aid Georgle; and together they set out across the now (lurkening field, little dreaming of the un- easy mind they had left behind them among the bushes. As they disappeared, Wllhelm sat up, and once more tried to throw the anxiety from his mind. He reasoned with himself. " It Is ungrateful, it Is contempt- ible In you, Wllhelm Stolnhoft', to let such a thing enter your mind! You dishonor your manhood by harboring such a sneaking sus- picion." But he could not satisfy himself. He could bear the suspense no longer. He must know the truth of this thing. He would go home at once and place the matter before Hermann. Then he would be sure. He got up immediately and took his way, with feverish iiaste, across the fields. The night winds blew softly, the stars came out calmly. But nature's balm brought no rest for his anxious spirit to-night. Truly, in the words of a great poet: " We receive but what we give. And in our life alone does nature live. OnPH id her wedding- jmrmont, onrx her Jihroud! And would wp aught iK'hold of liit?hor wortli 'i'hnn tiint inanimnte rold world allowed To the poor, loveiesH, ever-nnxioua crowd, Ah! from the goul itself mtint issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, Enveloping the earth." CHAPTER V. ADOLPHE'S REMARKABLE DISCOVERY. HE manner In which Adolphe F^Meau had happened upon his ad- venture of ihe night before, was somewiiat as follows: Through the day he had been working on the very outskirts of the city, and had been delayed until quite late In the night. Somewhat lonely, he was trudging along towards home with his hands in his pockets, singing merrily to keep himself company, when, just as he reached the com- mons, with the willow-shaded street running along beside It, he noticed the peculiar figure of the old man whom he had de- scribed to Georgle, and who happened, at the time, to be near one of the few lamps scattered along on the edge of the street. His appearance struck the boy. Altogether there was something strange in the pres- ence of a man so old, so well dressed, and so business-like in his demeanor, upon such a street as this, at such a late hour, for it was verging upon midnight. Adolphe would follow, and see where he was going. The bent figure glided on ahead, dimly, in the shadow under the trees; the boy crept along silently behind. The gay song was hushed, and the lad's whole being became focused in one idea — seeing. For the time he was all eyes. He saw the old man pause once and glance up and down the street. Adolphe stopped stone still. Mtt 22 A STAB IN A FBI SON. "ti ijjiii The old man passed rapidly on again until he reached a passase leading in at the end of an isolated house. Adolphe Isnew the placa well. It was a square stone house, with a partially open shed at the back. The door leading from *his thed into the house was securely boarded up; so was every other door and every window. It seemed a very innocent structure, peacefully await- ing a new tenant. The passage into which the old man turned was a narrow one, shel- tered on the north by a very high board fence. Adolphe ran swiftly along and dropped down at the outer end of this fence. He was Just in time to see the old man enter the shed, gliding like a darlf shadow from with- out, Into the darker shades of the blackness within. Adolphe crept nearer. He heard a sound as of the cautious displacing of boards. Thpn a door seemed to creak. The boy's being was now resolved into one organ of hearing. Again came the sound as of boards, or a board, being gently shoved into place. What did it all mean? Was this man an old n?i8er, entering here by night to secrete his bags of gold? Visions of buried pots and untold riches danced before the lad's eyes. He lay until all was still, then he silently entered the shed, and stood breathlessly ready to fly at the slightest warning. He strained his ears to listen* There! A dull souuf' of tapping came faintly from within. This strange, nightly visitant was certainly inside the house. Adolphe silently moved towards the door, and felt it cautiously. The rough boards were still there. He passed his bond along. Yes, the lace seemed barricaded up securely as ever. How was this? Was this old man a wizard, that he could thus pass through barred and boarded entrances? There was some mystery here. The boy listened again, and stared about in the darkness. Presently his sharp eye caught sight of a tiny ray of red light, scarce larger than a thread, streaming out through the darkness above him, and visible through the interstices of a broken "loft." Adolphe would climb up and see. He had often gone up there be*t>re with the boys when playing " FoUow-your-leader." His heart was throbbing until he fancied he could hear it. He slipped to the end of the shed and drew himself up by the beams and supports. Then he crept along until the lit- tle hole whence the tiny ray issued was ac- cessible. He placed his eye to it. The stone-work had cracked, and, at one point, the opening went clear through to the room below. Of a portion of this room Adolphe had a dis- tinct view. It was filled with red fumes, and a pungent odor of chemicals came up even through the crevice. But what he saw distinctly was a part of a table, and upon it a variety of instruments of whose use Adolphe had not the slightest idea. Pres- ently the old man came beside the table, and stood directly in view. Adolphe could not see the face very distinctly, but noted the summer overcoat of black and the round, black cap. The old hands, which were thin and trembling, were busied with the appara- tus on the table, and, to Adolphe's great astonishment, he saw them take, from be- neath a sort af press, what appeared to be a crisp, new bill. Like a flash it came upon the boy that this was spurious money. He almost caueht his breath in astonishment. "Whew!" he exclaimed to himself, "dat ole duffer knows how to make money. He mus' be a bad wan, no mistake!" The old man below worked away, all un- conscious of the bright eyes above that we ". eagerly watching his every movement. Meanwhile, Adolphe's acute brain was prob- ing the consequences of all this, and revolv- ing what his own course of action In regard to the matter should be. v "I ought to make a stop to dls leetle game," he was saying to himself. " De p'lice ought to know about it. Now, Adolphe «;■. mmm ng out visible " loft." ie had |e boys " His led he of the ms and the lit- w&B ac- le-work opening ow. Of i a dis- fumes, ame up he saw id upon ose use I. Pres- e table, le could it noted e round, ere thin appara- !'s great !rom be- 1 to be a me upon oey. He bment. !lf, "dat ney. He ', all un- hat we ' ovement, fas prob- d revolv- n regard lis leetle De p'lice /idolphe W- mmmm A 8 TAB IN A PRISON. 23 Belleau, what mus' you do? If >ou tell de p'lice somebody will pound you for It, sure. De aristocracy of de Champs Elysees, dey not make toleration for any wan who gets too intimate wit' de p'lice," He pushed his cap back off his forehead, and drew his brow down in his dilemma. " Dere's no 'aelp for it," he determined. " I mus' tell about dis. I'll run across de Champs, an' if dere's no p'lice about, I'll go on to de city above." Cautiously he crept down from the loft, noiselessly he glided through the shed, and then his bare feet pattered off, swift as those of a young deer, through the dark, narrow streets of the quarter which he had called " de Champs Elysees." He began to feel quite important. It was not every day that he discovered a counterfeiter. " Mebbe de p'lice will give me dollar for dis," he said, with business-like foresight; then, with a burst of patriotism, " But, if he don't, It will be all correc'. Adolphe Belleau can do «o much as dat gratis for de sake of de state. I say, Monsieur Belleau, but you are to become of importance. You are jus' going to render a favor to de govern- ment. Mebbe you'll be on de civil service yet." , So saying he emerged from " de Champs," and sped through a long, narrow alley. At the end of it he came to a sudden stop, and an event happened which proved in the future to be of some importance. CHAPTER VI. DR. KEITH CAMERON. ET US now look, for a time, upon this u Dr. Keith Cameron, of whom Adolphe and Georgie had spoken in such glow- ing terms, a man who was destined to hold a rather close relation to all that concerns our story, and who became, somewhat un- T willingly, considerably involved in Adolphe's experience at the counterfeiting den. Let us, then, glance at him first in his home, then follow him on through his meeting with the French boy. Upon Elgin street, but a few blocks down from the clatter of the business part of the city, stood a gray stone house of massive appearance. It was rather square and heavy-looking, perhaps, yet it had an air of dignity foreign to the turreted and porticoed structures about it. Across the front stretched a spacious veranda, whose roof was supported by gray granite pillars, the capital of each being formed of a solid slab of stone, fancifully carved with intertwining maple leaves, roses, thistles and shamrocks. Broad stone steps ascended towards the arched doorway. A few shrubs and over- hanging chestnut trees bordered the walk leading to the steps, and a graceful naiad of white marble stood in a small fountain be- hind the shrubbery on either side. Moreover — what a dignitary is title! — not a little of the imposing air of the place was due to a pretentious door-plate, on which was inscribed in bold letters, " Sir Allan Cameron, M. D." Now, be it said, Sir Allan Cameron was, at this time, no longer in the land of the living, nor had been for a period of some ten years. But the door-plate re- mained still. The knight's fortune, as well as his prac- tice, had descended to his son, Keith, with whom society was very well pleased indeed. So were the sick. Hence, on the whole. Dr. Keith Cameron might have been called a very successful man. In spite of the " posthumous " door-plnte, for which his mother was responsible, Keith was a very sensible man, too, with a great, kind heart, and a level head. Upon the evening of that night in which Adolphe made his discovery, Keith stepped out upon the veranda, buttoning up his coat, and looking dubiously, first at the sky, then at the little pools of water that lay in the 24 A STAB IN A FBI SON. street; for It had been raining, and water- drops were still dripping from the points of the chestnut leaves, and trickling disconso- lately down the faces of the naiads, like pearly tears. The sky was gray above, and ominous masses of cloud were crowding up the eastern horizon, but Keith did not hesftate. Throwing back his shoulders, with that imperial dignity which suited him so well, he started off up the street, rejoicing In his strength and the full vigor of the prime of manhood. He was going, this evening, to vlfcit his poor, and, when working among them, he seldom went In his carriage. It seemed that he could get closer to their hearts when he went unattended by any sign of wealth or luxury. And Dr. Cameron thought it no small matter to get thoroughly acquainted with his people. He aimed, not only at healing their bodies, but at touching their hearts and uplifting their minds. After a brisk walk across the bridge and down the brilliantly lighted avenue of Rideau Street, he turned northward, and went on, on. Into the vicinity of the poorest and most filthy part of Lower Town. Do not wonder that this fashionable physician shrank not from such quarters. His heart was not smothered amid the blandishments of wealth and favor. He bad been petted and courted and lionized by the most exclusive society of the city. He had ridden in his luxurious carriage to attend the Governor General at Rideau Hall, or to be present at her Ladyship's levees. With not less pleasure, but infinitely more, he now went, on foot, to carry hope and tenderness into the wretched halls of poverty. He had many calls to make, and was de- layed far into the night. Wearied in both body and mind, he was, at last, about to go home when he stddenly thought of Agnes Belleau, whom he had not yet visited, and whose case required much atten- tion. He could not think of going home to- night without seeing her, so he turned down a side street, an 1 attempted to find a short way to her home. His way led him Into a broad and forlorn avenue, bordered by rickety houses, and almost destitute of light, save that of the stars above, and the reflection from street lamps In the distance. This desolate spot looked as if It had been Intended, In some palmy day of yore, for a boulevard, for a few rows of straggling and neglected trees extended along It, reaching, as It were, their gnarled and ragged arms aloft towardf a purer atmosphere than that surround! g the squalid houses below. Keith followed a somewhat well-trodden path down the side of it, hoping to reach a cross street which might lead to the quarter for which he was in search. No such open- ing appeared. This locality was new to him No one from whom he might Inquire the way was In sight, and the sound of a rude voice singing somewhere, was the only defin- able noise that reached his ear. He paused. The trees above creaked dis- mally. Dank vapors ascended from the sod- den ground below. Keith almost shuddered with an involuntary horror of the place. He was about to retrace his steps, when some one sprang suddenly out from a hidden spot near him, and stood directly In his way, peering Into his face. Keith started and braced himself. This behavior was unusual. It was suspicious. Just such a place as this had often been the scone of robbery and crime. Keith was not a coward, by any means, but hia pulse beat a little faster than usual. Then he smiled at his fears. This mysterious visitant from the gloom was surely but a mere lad. He was, at least, much shorter than Keith. Keith's surprise had magnified the danger. Then a voice spoke. " Are you de genteelman w'at 'tends our Agnes?" " Why, Adolphe!" returned the doctor, " Is it you? What Is the matter? Is Agnes worse? Will you take me to her?" s""i;i_!iiM.;.T 1 w^m A STAR IN A PRISON. 25 find a forlorn s, and of the street te spot n some for a d trees e, their rardf a )undi g trodden reach a quarter h open- to him lire the a rude ly defln- ked dls- the sod- tuddered ace. He en some den spot lis way, If. This ispicious. been the was not ulse beat e smiled ant from lad. He n Keith, danger. ends our 3Ctor, " Is [s Agnes ** Yes — no — yes. Why do not you ask wan question at a time?" laughed the boy. " De saints preserve us! but you remind to myself of old Madame Benoit. She say. 'Good-day, Monsieur Belleau; how pretty you do look to-day!' Monsieur Adolphe, he say, ' Good-day, Madame Benoit,' politely, so. Den she say, * Mademoiselle, your sister, is she well?' Adolphe he try answer, but she say, ' Have you been up to de city to- day? Will you run for me just wan leetle errand to de square of de market? Very good. Monsieur Adolphe mus', of course, go for so polite a lady." •' Is Agnes worse?" ^i : " Oh, but no! For why you not listen w'eu I tell you so?" "Then what do you want of me? I was looking for your house." " I tell you den. I want to gi v^e you leetle peep - show, better dan de theater. Come." " Nonsense, Adolphe! I have no time to waste. If there is a short way from this to your home, take me to it at once." " But no. Monsieur, you come wit' me." " But—" " See, Dr. Cameron," interrupted the boy, seizing the doctor's arm, and lowering his voice mysteriously, " dere's deviltry in it, or call me no more Adolphe Belleau!" •' Well, then, tell the police." "Tell de p'llcc w'en I find chance to get out of it! And let Adolphe Belleau get hees dear leetle bones broken for my pains! No, no! You see, de people In dls Champs Elysees, dey not like de p'llce. Dey very angry w'en anyone tell tales to dem about anyt'lng. Adolphe he tell de p'llce. Some- body find out about It. Adolphe he get t'rashed some fine day. But Dr. Cameron, he not have de privilege to leev near de Champs Elysees. He tell de p'llce — all serene, all very fair and good." "What is it, then? Be quick, boy!" "Come; It Is not very far." The boy was off, and Keith followed him. half-curious, half-annoyed. Down a side alley, In and out between low houses, and through dark streets shaded with over- hanglug willows, they went. On and on, now one turn, now another, then across the common, until a close yard, back of a low, small, solid-looking stone house, was reached. " Now, behold de Grand Opera House!" whispered Adolphe. " You and I will have de box seats. But, silent, quiet, no applause, mind!" All was dark and quiet about the house. Silently Keith and his guide crept up to it, Keith wondering If he were not being made the victim oi a practical joke. Into the shed they went, but no ray of light appearel. Then up on the loft; not a sight or Lound of life was about the place. " I guess de ole feller has skipped," whis- pered Adolplie. " He was preety quick about it." After a long and fruitless wait, the two came down, and proceeded back towards the " Champs Elysees," Adolphe describing vividly, meanwhile, the scene which he had witnessed. " You are not playing a trick upon me, are you. Adolphe?" asked Keith. " For sure no, Mt)nsleur," declared Adolphe emphaticall3|^. " For w'at reason would I play on you a treeck. or tell to you lies?" The lad spoke in such a tone, and with such a genuinely indignant air, that Keith knew he was telling the .ruth. Moreover he had heard, lately, rumors of the circulation of couuverfeit bills. " Believe me. Monsieur," continued the French boy, " I was on my way to tell de p'llce w'en I meet you. I t'ink more wise, more safe, for you to tell dem." Adolphe paused at the door of a low, rather respectable-looking cottage, with his hand on the latoh. " Your evidence will be called Into the case anyway, Adolphe," said the doctor, quietly. "Come to my house the first thing 26 A STAB IN A PRISON. in the morning, and we will go together to the Police Departiueut." "Ye8, Monsieur." said Adolphe, without further remonstrance. When Dr. Cameron spoke in that way he could not choose but obey. Moreover, he had unlimited confi- dence in Dr. Cameron's Judgment as to what was best in all things. Together they entered the cottage. Dr. Cameron found that the girl was improving under the care of the woman who occupied the other part of the house, and who stayed with Agnes constantly when her brother was out. Keith had once urged upon the girl the advisability of going to a hospital, but she had persistently refused. " Dey would not let Adolphe stay wif me," she said, weeping at the thought of separation. So Keith had consented to her remaining where she was. The affection be- tween this brother and sister was a beauti- ful thing, and the very strength of that love which Agnes bore for her younger brother helped her in the recovery from her long, painful illness. As Keith left the house, his mind reverted again to the strange story which the French boy had told him. He felt that he must place the affair at once with the authorities. Then he would be conscience- clear. But nis heart was very sore. The sin of the old man, as well as the suffering which now must certainly follow, cut t!m to the heart. " Oh, I am weary, wear, of sin and its consequences!" he said to himself. " Turn where one will, it is still there." He thought of this old man until he almost seemed to see him. hiding there in the dark- ness, to work his deed of shame. Alas! was not this man but one of the myriads of earth who, in different ways, were working away for the deception of mankind, well content if the outside world might pass by, mistaking the false for the true? Why, why were not these men conscious that the fruit of their work must finally in- jure, not others, but themselves; that the greatest crime they could commit would be the wasting of a life which God had created? Ah, what awful results flowed from a mis* taken conception of that which is worth se- curing in life! How the glamour of the seai'ch for wealth, for fame, for selfish advancement, dazzled men's eyes, making everything of that which was only perish- able! The inner life, the character, — what of it? Let it alone, since it is hidden. The present is sufiicient unto us. Let us eat, drink and be merry! Never mind the divine nature in us! Let it go and give place to a devil! Let us amass the treasures of this world, that all men may point to us and say, "There is a successful man!" "There is a learned man!" "There is a clever man!" Keith would have been one of the last to decry the pleasant things of earth in this line. He believed in having comfort and beauty in our homes. He believed in money earned honestly. He believed in the acquire- ment of knowledge, and In the skillful use of a clever brain. These things were good. It was both lawful and honorable to pursue them. But this must not be done selfishly. A man must not strive for the sake of set- ting himself upon a pedestal, but in order that he might become of the greatest pos- sible use to the greatest possible number of people in the world. This was one of man's highest privileges. Keith was sure of this. He regarded money, talent, brain, as sacred trusts, not as excrescences of self. Keith's mind would bow, with the profoundest reverence, before the most obscure indi- vidual whom one pointed out as good. "Behold," he would say to himself, "an unselfish man, a man of character." And he would feel as though the sight of this man bad brought him nearer Ood. When he reached home that night, he threw himself down upon his bed, but for a long time sleep would not visit him. He dreaded to expose this trembling, aged man. He wondered what the effect would be upon A STAB IN A PBISON. 27 the old, shattered nerves. Yet the thing must be doncs At last he fell Into a heavy sleep, and, as had been arranged, early next morning he and Adolphe proceeded to the office of the Chief of the Police Department, and laid what information they possessed before Chief Watson. During the day the house was examined, and everything found to be as Adolphe had stated. Then the barricades were carefully replaced, and the ferreting out of the case given to a little detective by the name of Sanders, who at once proceeded to talce active measures for the detection of the culprit. CHAPTER VII. THE ESCAPE OF HERMANN AND GERTRUDE. HEN Wilhelm came to the gate of his home that evening, after his visit to the field, lights were already glimmering from the windows. The place looked inviting and home-like as ever, yet to-night he feared to enter it. It seemed as thoufjh a teriible pall were hanging over and abiut it. He could see that Gertrude was standing in the door. "Where is grandfather?" he asked, as he neared her. " In the laboratory," she replied, with a smile. He went on up the stairs. She noticed how haggai'd was his face, and withdrew with a sharp pang at her heart, for she attributed It all to her refusal of his proposal. On reaching the door above, Wilhelm hesitated a mom "it, then knocked with a sudden decision. " Come!" called a weak voice. Wilhelm went in. The room was filled with retorts, mortars and other chemical appliances. Book- shelves, filled with scientific works, were about. Hermann, wearing his black skull- cap, was sitting In an easy-chair. A paper, upon which he had been making computa- tions, was before him. He looked up with piercing black eyes from beneath shaggy eyebrows. "I tell you, Wilhelm," he said, tremu- lously, while a triumphant light beamed from his countenance, " I'll have a fortune for Gertrude yet! Yes, she'll be able to shine with the greatest lady in the land! My last two inventions are nearly com- pleted. There'll be fortune for you both in them, maybe." "Yes?" said Wilhelm, absently. "You haven't told mo of them." The old man leaned forward, and, raising one bony finger, said in an Impressive whis- per: " No, because I wanted to be reasonably sure of success before telling you. It goes to my heart to see young hopes dashed. Yon know, Wilhelm, how often I have hoped in vain. But this time I have little to fear. There Is just one trifie In each necessary to perfect th€?m. I am telling you this, Wil- helm, so that J on may. perhaps, be able to assist me In ferreting out this little catch which still bothers me." "What are these inventions?" asked Wilhelm, still in the same absent-minded way. He was wondering how to broach the thing he feared. " My inventions? One is for the better ventilation of large audience halls; that Is a fortune In Itself. The other is for making brick out of common clay; that will be a priceless boon to this coup'^, as you may readily see." Wilhelm looked at him sharply. Surely this enthusiastic old man, innocently carry- ing on his experiments here, absorbed, mind 28 A STAR IN A PRISON. and soul, lu his Innocent work, could have nc crime on his conscience. No! Hermann Sielnhoff must be Innocent. Wllhelm had d(»ne him a great wrong In having harbored even a doubt of him. A burden seemed to roll ofif the young man. The cloud left his face. He smiled, and listened with interest to a description of the " Inventions," which, like many other ideas of the old scientist, seemed exceed- ingly^plauslble; so surprisingly so, in fact, that Wllhelm recognized the possibility of their completion. "You are very happy in your work, grandfather?" he remarked. "Why, b'.ess your heart, yes!" replied the old man. "If 1 had the faintest idea of ever reaching heaven, I'd want it to be one big laboratory." Wllhelm smiled sadly. He knew very well that Hermann SteinhofC had no belief in the after-life. " There's an old man In Lower Town," he said, " about your age, I should judge, who, it seems, has been trying experiments of a different nature lately. If what I have heard is true, which may not be, a detective is now on his track. He is a counter- feiter." The words had 'scarcely passed Wilhelm's lips, when he sprang up In horrOt. The old man was leaning towards him with uplifted hands. His pallid face was the color. of ivory. His eyes were glaring with unnatural brilliancy, and his mouth had fallen open in terror. But for the lurid, glaring eyes, Wllhelm might have judged him frozen in death. "What is the matter, grandfather?" he cried, seizing him by the shoulder. The old man staggered to his feet, and grasped Wllhelm about the neck. "Wllhelm," he said. In an agonized whis- per, " help me to get away! I did it for Gertrude's sake! Don't let them get me! The disgrace would kill her! Save us! Save ua!" Every word fell like a blow upon Wil- helm's heart. A momentary revulsion of feel- ing for this trembling old man seized him. He struck the tottering form from him, without realizing what he did. The old man's head hit against the corner of a shelf, and a thin, ci'imson stream tr'ckled down the marble forehead. Wllhelm sprang for- ward. " Oh, what have I done!" exclaimed he, and, with a sudden reaction of emo- tion, he caught the old man in his arms and pressed him to his breast as though be were a little child. " Oh, grandfather!" he cried, " how could you — - how could you do it? How, in the name of mercy, am I to save you now?" " It was for Gertrude's sake!" replied the old man. " I thought my imitation so true that it would not be discovered. 1 never dreamed of danger otherwise. I wanted to save rJl the money I could for Gertrude!" Wilhelm was white as death. He had loved and trusted this old man, and he was proving unworthy of trust. Moreover, this thing would bring disgrace arid sorrow to Gertrude, who loved him and trusted him still more. How could she bear it? Wil- helm's whole being was fairly swayed with conflicting emotions. He felt as though all things were slipping from be- neath his feet. Meanwhile, Hermann StelnhoflP was think- ing deeply. A brighter look was stealing over his face, and his body seemed to be gaining strength. "Ha!" he exclaimed, at last. "We will escape them yet. Gertie and I. Give us this one night's start, and I believe we can do It. I know a thing or two yet. Wllhelm, do you go and make ready the pony and carriage." " But Gertrude — you will not take Ger- trude!" said Wilhelm. "Certainly," returned Hermann. "I will A STAB IN A PBISON. 29 tell hor to get her things together at once. Now, get the carriage," Wllhelm, half-dazed, went out to do the old man's bidding. For the time he was in- capable of thought or of reason. He was conscious only of a terrible calamity hang- ing over Hermann and his grand- da lighter, and of a wild desire for their escape. He acted with feverish haste and as If In a dream. It seemed as though It was not he, but some one else, who was harnessing the horse and arrang- ing the carriage robes. In the meantime, Hermann had ap- prized Gertrude of the fact that she was to gather her clothes together im- mediately. In order to set out upon a long journey with him. More than this he would not tell her, and the wondering girl hastily collected her wardrobe, with a strange sense of fear at her heart. When Wilhelm entered, the old man was sitting with his head! bowed on his hands in an attitude of greatest dejection. He looked up and tried to speak, but the words would not come. At that moment he was experiencing to the full the retribution that is the ine itable consequence of wrong- doing. At last he broke down utterly and wept. " Do not (lespipe me altogether, Wllhelm!" he said, brokenly. The young man knelt lieslde him. " Grand- father." he said, " this thing has been a great evil, but tliere is forgiveness for you still, if you will lay hold upon it." "What is the matter, grandfather?" he cried.— See page 28. The old man shook his head quickly. "It is not for that I weep," he said, "but for the ruin and desolation I have brought upon my little girl, and the sorrow I have caused you, lad. For myself, my evil deeds die with me. Yet—" He paused and looked at the young man somewhat wistfully,— " Keep your religion, lad. When men are sincere in it, it seems to keep them 30 A STAB IN A PRISON. straight, aye," be added, half beneath bis breath. Wllhelm Icnew not what to say. lie was thlniiing of Gertrude. " Do you not thinlc it would be well to leave Gertrude some place here?" he asked at length. The old man's face brightened. "A few moments ago I gave her her choice," he re- plied. " She chose to come with me, bless her!" " At least, grandfather," pleaded Wllhelm, "will you not tell me where you are going?" The old man did not answer his question. " Go, ffo! See if Gertrude Is ready," he said. The young man left the room and knocked at Gertrude's door. She came out into the hall, and he saw that she had been weeping. But she was v* ry calm. "Wllhelm, something dreadful has hap- pened!— I know It," she said. "Tell me what it is. Nothing can be so terrible as this suspense." He took her hands in his, gently, timidly, as though they were something sacred. "I cannot tell you, little one," he said. " Gertrude, Gertrude, it may be long before I can see you again, but I will seek you to the ends of the earth! Gertrude, even at this farewell, can you give me no hope?" " Wllhelm," she answered. In a low voice, " seek me as my brother." The quiet words sank upon Wllhelm as a death - blow to his short, sweet dream of ever possessing Gertrude as his wife. "I will, I will!" was all his reply, " mv sister!" He kissed her once, and they two went down the stairs together and out into the calm night, where the light carriage stood waiting in the darkness. Hermann was already there. For one moment the old hand rested in Wilhelm's young, warm grasp, then the horse was started, the wheels rattle! on the driveway, and Wll- helm was alone, crushed, almost beside him- self, with the weight of this, his first great trouble. Mechanically he tm*ned the key which Hermann had left in the door, and put the bunch in his pocket. Mechanically he walked out upon the street and turned his steps towards the house in Lower Town, whose location he had overheard Adolphe describing to Georgie. He did not know why he was going there. He felt dazed and almost delirious. He had not been as well as usual lately, and the occurrences of this day had wrought upon him terribly. He had a sort of vague consciousness that he was going thither in the hope that all might not be as bad as he imagined. He would see for himself, at any rate. In the excited condition of his mind, it never dawned upon him that he was about to do a very danger- ous thing, because, in all probability, the house was even then being watched. His brow grew ever more feverish, his pulses beat painfully, his steps grew faster and faster. Ah, here was the common, here was the willow-shaded street, here was the lonely house! He examined the barricade at the back, and, knowing that it could be easily removed, was not long in discovering that a lift upward and outward was suflBcient to remove it in one piece. He then felt the padlock. Mecht nically his hand sor^ht the bunch of key& in his pocket. He tried one key after another, and at last one turned. He went in and struck a match. A lamp was on the table near. He lit it, and closed the door without realizing that he did so. Then he looked about him. Ah, yes, there was the apparatus, curiously formed, which, in all probability, had been used for the old man's criminal purpose. About were other instruments, evidently used for more inno- cent ends. Wllhelm sat down and bowed his bead upon his hands In agony. Cold beads of perspiration came out upon his forehead. He prayed for strength, and arose, out- wardly calin. His brain began to work more clearly. In one flash he saw what he had done; that in assisting a criminal to escape 'm^. IPWfP mmmm* «^ ^imt^mmm A STAB IN A PRISON. 31 he had become an accesBory after the fact. Yet nature called out for the safety of his loved ones. He felt that he could not Inform upon them. " I have broken the laws of my country In tvhat I have done," he thought, "but I did it innocently at the time. The question is. what is my duty now?" In spite of himself he felt a sudden, wild glad- ness that even then old Hermann waa speed- ing fast, perhaps, beyond the reach of jus- tice. He could never do this again, Wilhelm thought. Perhaps It would be the turning- point in his lifp. Perhaps, through Ger- trude's Influence, he would at last become a changed kuan. As for himself, he was amenable to punishment. Truly, his part in the culprit's escape might never be found out, yet it would be a terrible secret to carry about with him. He felt that he could not be conscience-clear unless he delivered him- self up. With the sudden resolution which marked a\\ his actions when but one course of right seemed ahead of him, he deter- mined to do this. But he could not do so until the poor, old, sinning man had had time to escape. In many ways Hermann was shrewd and orafiy. He would probably find some place of safety. These conclusions followed each other through Wilhelm's mind with amazing rapidity. Having laid out his own course of action, he turned, to go out of the door, when It suddenly opened. A tall policeman, and a small, dark man, who afterwards proved to be the detective, Mr. Sanders, appeared. "You are my prisoner!" said the police- man, quietly laying a hand on his arm. Wilhelm turned pale as death. There was no need for him to think twice to under- stand what his discovery In this place must mean. Th^ detective observed his changing color, and quickly noted it as an evidence of guilt. The young man made not the slightest effort of remonstrance as his captors led him away. He went silently, almost hope- lessly; yet determined, when the right time came, to fight dearly for his liberty. Neither would he answer any question in reference to the old man whom the French boy had seen. Thoroughly exasperated, the detec- tive left him, and began to prosecute his inquiries in another quarter. In a day or two he had succeeded in learning the history of the Steinhoff family, and had found out about the disappearance of Hermann Stein- hoff and his granddaughter. A keen search was Immediately set afoot, and a description of the fugitives was sent to every available point. At last It was learned that an old man and a falr-hnlred girl had taken passage at Montreal, and had set sail for Europe. A message was sent ahead to Llv'^rpool. but, as It happened, the vessel was disabled In a storm, and obliged to put into port in the south of England. There the supposed fugitives landed and were speedily lost sight of. The search was, accordingly, dropped for the time at the capital, and Hermann Stelnhoflf never knew of the coincidence which had, perhaps, saved him from a dcalh-bed In a prison cell. In the meantime, Wilhelm had been placed in the city jail to await his trial. For a few days a sort of apathy seized hold of him. He scarcely realized, and cared still less, where he was or what became of him. Then the fit of illness which had been creep- ing upon him, hastened by the shock, ren- dered him powerless In mind and body. For weeks he lay upon his bed, sleeping, for the most part, heavily. However, he was well cared for, and at last began to Improve slowly but surely. CHAPTEE VIII. HOW DOROTHY CAMERON FIRST POUND ADOLPHE. KEITH CAMERON had a very lovable and very loving little sister. Her name was Dorothy, and, in all that concerned doing for others, or helping them ?mtf' BIMlBiTtd 32 A STAR IN A PRISON. In any wny, she was an earnest as he. Very often she arcompanlert him on his rounds, and occasionally rthe made little trips of dis- covery on her own account. In fact It was she who had first brought to his notice Adolphe Belleau and hi.s sick sister. Keith remembered the occasion very well. lie had arisen ady Cameron went on with her paper, and Keith ate his breakfast In silence. Then he went to the Tarllament Buildings to look up a reference In the great library. He often went there to read. The lofty cham- ber, with Its beautiful wood-carving. Its gal- lerleo. Its book-lined walls. Its secluded nooks, all Illumined by the soft and diffused light falling softly from the great dome above the marble statue of the Queen, had ever a charm for him. There was Inspira- tion In Its atmosphere; there v/as rest In Its seclusion. When he had found the Information he de- sired he took his way out again, through the long, silent corridors, which, lined with the painted faces of the speakers of the past, seemed jontlnually to unfold page after page of the country's history. He stepped out into the fresh air, through the main en- trance, and stood for a moment proudly re- garding the scene before him. It was a scene worthy of any true Canadian's pride, worthy of the country's capital. Below him. green as emerald In the morning sun, stretched the spacious lawns, with their ter- races, drives and clumps of gay flowers. At either side the stately eastern and western blocks of the buildings proudly reared their heads in massive, yet graceful, beauty. Beyond could be seen the trees of Welling- ton Street, and glimpses of the fine stone edifices which extended far on either side, forming a fitting frontage for Canada's most noble pile of architecture. A light wind was blowing from the west. It was very fresh and cool. Kelih would take a turn In the bracing air before going back to his office. Turning to the right, he passed around the corner of the main build- ing, and v;ent on to the brow of the precipice beyond. It was a scene of which no inhabi- tant of the capital could ever weary. About stretched the spacious grounds at the rear, with their curving walks and perfectly trimmed hedges. Immediately below, the sheer walls of the cliff fell away to the river, A STAR IN A PRISON. 33 r paper, ce. Theu lings to ary. He y chnm- , Its g.al- secluded diffused it dome een, had Insplrn- ;st in its m he de- ough the with the he past, ?e after stepped main en- judly re- c was a I's pride, low him. ng sun, their ter- ^^ers. At western red their beauty. Welling- ne stone her side, Canada's he west, h would )re going right, he in build- precipice o Inhabl- About the rear, perfectly low, the ;he river, its rugged side broken only by the blossom- ing shrubbery, and by the Lover's Walk, shining here and there like a thread of white through the trees, about half way down the steep escarpment. At the base of the cliff ran the broad river, its swift cur- rent curling into foaming waves and eddies, and sparkling brightly in the sun. Beyond, the roofs of Hull stood clear and distinct, in thin, smokeless air. Far up the river a railway train puffed its way along; and below, the Falls of the Chaudi^re, the " Big Kettle," boiled in mad confusion. Keith could plainly see its wild waters, white with foam, and its heavy roar fell distinctly upon bis ear. He turned from it to look for a moment upon the mountains of Quebec, just across, with King's Mountain rising, as the father of the chain, black against the sky. His eye followed them as they became smaller and smaller, purple and more pur- ple, in the long distance, following the wind- ing, glistening river below. Then he ran down the steps to the cooler shades of the Lover's Walk. For a moment he stood leaning upon the railing at the edge of the lower precipice. Above him a flood of green-gold light broke through the tender foliage. The trees farther down were just tipped with bright- ness. "What a glorious worldl" he thought. Then his eye fell upon something— a very strange and interesting something, yet piti- ful withal. It was a little cabin, built in the fashion of a house - boat, upon a rough raft, and anchored to a sort of reedy Island. This island was one that had been very unstably formed by the saw- dust, which, in coming down from the great mills, had lodged, along with other sedi- ment, until a low, spongy bank had appeared above the water. Some straggling bushes grew upon it and a few reeds, but water lay all about the stems. There was not a foot of solid ground upon which a human being could stand. On either side of the little island the current ran very swiftly. The small house, therefore, could boast of no j-ard. save the logs of the raft. It wns, pr()l>al)ly, the home of some poor creature, who sought, in tliis way, to avoid the pay- ment of rent. Fuel, too, would be supplied by the odd bits of driftwood tioating down from the mills. At one end of the cabin a rude, flat-bot- tomed punt was tied up, and presently a young girl and a boy, who looked, at this distance, almost a child, came out and got into it. The girl sat at the end, where there Avas, evidently, no rudder, and the boy tooa: hold of tlie clumsy oars. Keith watched it rather anxiously as it moved out Into tlie swift current and was rapidly carried on, sometimes being almost completely whirled around In an eddy. Te boy looked scarcely large enough or strong enough to manage the punt, yet he seemed to be making an effort to bring It across the current to the shore. In this he was making but slow progress. Slowly, slowly It came, now gilding with some ease across a comparatively smooth spot, now whirling half way about, or darting, swift as an arrow, down the stream and out of Its course. Keith watched with growing uneasiness. Suddenly his heart gave a wild bound. There was something familiar about that girlish figure sitting in the end of the boat. He looked again. Yes, it was Dorothy! Dorothy, with her pink dress and brown cape, and her brown hair flying in the wind. Keith paused no longer. He did not stop to consider that he could get no boat nearer than the end of the canal, and that, to reach It, he must traverse almost the entire length of the Lover's Walk. He was off like the wind. He had not piactised cricket and base-ball fifteen years for nothing. At a sudden curve of the walk he ran Into a portly old member of Parliament, who was quietly taking a morning constitutional. The old gentleman's tall silk hrt flew off one way, his spectacles another, but Keith did 34 A STAR IN A PRISON. »''l not stop. The nstonislipd njonibcr Htnod gazliiK after hliu In Htupeflod wonder. Far- ther down, he dashed between two utiulents who were saunterlnR ah)n>:. reading In the Khade. They Immediately ran after him to see what was wrong, and a gendarme, who appeared on the seene, folh>wed suit. Bnt Keith outran them all. By this time he had run down the stairs, secured a boat and was madly pulling out. Ills astonished pursuers did not know what to think of his actions. Yet there seemed to be method In his madness. £ few sturdy strokes drew him In sight of the old punt, and, to his Intense relief, he saw that It was out of danger, gliding easily along In the calm water close to the shore. Dorothy recognized him and waved her hands, smiling, without the least sign of nervousness In the world. A moment later Ivelth was assisting her from the boat and puttmg a coin Into the hand of the little boatman who had rowed her safely over. "Dorothy, what does this mean?" he asked, as he led her away. "Now, don't scold, Keith!" she said, with a pretty pout. " You can't tind fault with -rour own pupil, surely!" and she caught his arm lovingly. Her face was full of enthusi- asm. " Oh, Keith," she continued, " tliere's such a nice girl over there, but she's so sick, and they are very poor, and—" 'Easy! Eary!" Interrupted Keith. "Give a man time to digest all this, \von't you? Now tell me how you came to venture over there." "Why, I heard the boy asking for some medicine In a drug store, and offering to run errands for it. But the man wouldn't give him either the work or the medicine. The little boy looked so sad, I asked him vehat was the matter, and he told me about his sick sister. I got the medicine out of my own money, and then — I did so want to see the girl! It wasn't very wrong for me to go, was It?" and the thoughtful gray eyes looked up pleadingly. Keith looked down w«th the glimmer of a sndle in his own. ' Terhaps not wrong, but very foolish and venturesome, Dorothy." " But I dhln't know where we were going, Keith. I Just followed the boy, Adolphc." Keith stopped and looked at her a mo- ment. " Dorothy, you would venture In—" " ' Where angels fear to tread.' " laughed Dorothy. " Now, Keith, don't flnish the quo- tation, please." He smiled. " I will talk to you further about this when we go home," he said. He then led her to tell about the little household on the raft— of how it consisted of a pretty French girl, seventeen years of age, and her brother; of how the girl had had work In a factory, but had become so weak that she could not do It quickly and was dischai'ged. and of how since then they had scarcely had enough to eat. The girl, Agnes. Indeed wanted but little, for she was very 111. But Adolphe almost starved In order that he might get things for her. Then the house was so damp, being upon the water, that Agnes' pain was aggravated — and Keith would see to her from this time forth, wouldn't he? .Tust here it may be said that Keith did not disappoint his sister In her expecta- +ion8. From that day the world became >rlghter for Adolphe and Agnes Belleau. As Agnes refused to go to the hospital, she and her brother were removed to rooms in the cottage at which we first saw them, and the damp house on the river, with Its marshy odors and chill mists, was quietly allowed to go to ruin. More than that, henceforth Adolphe hau little iack of work, for, when other sources failed, the good doctor usually had some message to be riln, or some job to be accomplished. Well, then, to resume. When Keith and Dorothy reached home that morning, he drew her Into the library and closed the door. Then he took her In his arms. 1,1 f^i: A STAR IN A PRISON, 35 " Dorothy," he snld, " novor let me hear of your doing this thing again." "Keith!" " Don't yon know how trpnoherous the river 1b? Not only oh account of tho current, but there are bods of sawduHt in the more Hlugglsh portlouB which explode Bome- times. I myself once saw a boat overturned by just such an ex- plosion." "I know. Keith," she sntd, pinching his cheek, " but I didn't like to turn back when we got to the river. Anyway, I wasn't a bit afraid." His face was very grave. "See, little sister," he re- turned, "you must never go about alone in this way again. I say 'must,' and in this- thing I hope you will be willing to respect my wishes." " Not even to help poor, sick people? They are so lonely sometimes. Are you angry with me, Keith?" Keith drew the sweet face up to him and kissed it. " No, Dorothy," he said. In the low, gentle tone that always went straight to Dorothy's heart. " Your heart Is right in this matter. How old are you, dear?" " Fifteen, on Monday. Why do you ask such queer ques- tions, brother.?" " My little sister, will you promise me never to go off on a wild goose - chase like this again, without some older person with you, no matter how much you may want to go?" "Yes, Keith." He kissed her again. " ThAnk you." " If only Octavia Edgar would go with me sonjptlmesl" mused the girl. Octavia Edgar was a very aristocratic young lady and a beauty. She was an Intimate friend of the Cameron family, and had, conse- Keith's voice joined liers.— See page 36. quently. been marked out by the social world as the future bride of Dr. Keith. " Have you tried ner?" he asked, with a smile. " Yes. She says it makes her morbid to see people in want and suffering. So she 36 A STAB IN A PRISON. gives money to the Sisters of the Church instead." Keith almost frowned. "Keith!" " Yes." " Why do the Sisters of the Church wear such horrid, loose cloaks, and long black veils that look so hot and uncomfortable?" She referred to a society of woii^en bound together for purposes of charity and mercy. "Why do you ask?" he inquired. " Because I think there's something of the Pharisee about it. It looks as though they w^re saying, ' Look at me. I am not as other women are. I am religious.' " Keith smiled. "No, it is not that," he replied. " These consecrated women have to go into many rough and wicked places. But even the lowest people' have a sort of respect for those whom they look upon as truly 'religious.' The clothes these women wear show who they are, and thus act as a protection. Besides, these dull, black dresses are very serviceable and very economical, and you know the good Sisters have little money to spend upon themselves." Dorothy looked enlightened. " Oh, I sp«»i" she said. " Do you know, Keith, when I am quite grown up. I think I shall be a Sister." A light like a gleam of sunshine broke over Keith's face. He drew his sister still closer to him, and hid his face in her hair for a moment, then he went abruptly out. When he returned, an hour later, Dorothy was at the piano, singing softly: " Oh, to be tiothinp, nothing! Only to lie at His feet A broken and emptied vessel, For the Master's use made meet." Keith went quickly over, in his Impetuous way, and pla'-^d his hand over the leaf. Dorothy looked at him in astonishment. "As the writer of this meant it," he said, "It is probably all right. As it is often in- terpreted, it is all wrong. The Master wants '::8 to be everything for him, because he is everything for us. He wants us to be the very best of which we are capable. He does not always want broken vessels, but strong, useful vessels, filled with love. He does not want them emptied, except of selfishness and sin." He paused and opened the book anew. " Sing this," he said. And Dorothy sang: " A charge to keep I have, A God to glorify, A never-dying soul to save, And fit it for the sky. To serve the present age, My calling to fulfill, Oh, may it all my powers engage To do my Master's will." ' Dorothy looked perplexed. " Keith, that does not mean that people have to do all in regard to their salvation, does it?" she asked. " By no means," he replied, " but they have to do the choosing, the turning to God, who will separate them from sin. Now, then, I have but five minutes at my dis- posal. Sing this." Her voice rang out again clearly: " Tell me not of heavy crosses. Nor of burdens hard to bear, For I've found this great salvation Makes each burden light appear. And I love to follow Jesus, Gladly counting all but dross, Worldly honors all forsaking For the glory of the cross." Once more he turned the pages and stopped at a favorite. She sang, and this time Keith's voice Joined hers: " For the love of God is greater Than the measure of man's mind, And the heart of the Eternal Is most wonderfully kind. " If our love were but more simple. We should take him at his word, And our lives would be all sunshine In the sweetness of our Lord." "Now, Dorothy dear," Keith said, as she concluded, "suppose you study over these A STAR IN A PRISON. 37 verses that you have been singing. There is a connection in the thought. Find it out if you can." He went out, and Dorothy sat for a long time thinliiug. with her chin in her hand. At last she said to herself, " It's something about action, and burdens, and love. Love is tie last, so I suppose it is the greatest thought. Why, of course! I see now! I love Keith. I would do jusc anything for him, and it would be no burden at all, but a pleasure. That must be the way people ought to feel towards God. Besides, I think I love all the people Keith cares for. I can't help it. Then, shouldn't a true Christian care for everybody, because God cares for everybody?" Was Dorothy right? ' CHAPTER IX. THE TRIAL OP WILHELM STEINHOPF. HE months dragged on slowly, in which Wil- helm gradually re- gained his health, and liept, for the most part, a suffering si- leuce. Then came the time for his trial. There was considerable excitement in court- room circles over the case, but, in spite of Wilhelm's youth, and the spotless reputa- tion which he had hitherto borne, there was but little sympathy for the handsome young prisoner. He was loolced upon as a hypocrite and an impostor of the Vrorst kind, and even his former friends began to forget the hearty candor and irank manli- ness which had ever madr^ aim a favorite among them. They were " really sorry he had turned out so. Who would have be- lieved it of Steinhoff?" On the morning of the trial the court room was crowded. Wilhelm appeared at the bar, pale from illness and worn by men- tal suffering. Conscious of his innocence, he looked calmly and bravely over the sea of upturned faces, vaguely hoping to see one friendly countenance, one glance of sym- pathy, one heart-to-heart gaze which might tell him that even one believed in his honor. He searched in vain. People regarded him curiously, contemptuously, scornfully; nay, perhaps, one or two pityingly; but it was the pity with which one might look upon a Judas, grieving, not for the punishment of his sin, but for the sin itself. Wilhelm read all this in the countenances of the people below. He did not notice one little, round face, hall* hidden by a pillar, gazing at him with sympathy and remorse. Adolphe had crept in, and was saying to himself, " I wish I had kep' my nose out of dat o!e place, for de bad wan has skipped, an' dat Wilhelm is not de wan at all." With, perhaps, the innocent instinct of childhood, the French boy read, in this young man's countenance, the truth which others were failing to find there. Wilhelm's spirit rose in arms against the antagonistic temper which he felt round about him. He blamed the cold crowd for their want of penetration; he accused his friends of inconstancy. A spirit of defiance seized upon him. He folded his arms and looked down with stern face and com- pressed lips. The expression of his coun- tenance was, of course, noted by the report- ers, who remarked in the evening paper upon " the hardened face of the prisoner at the bar." The calling of witnesses began, and an amazing array of them was produced. Little incidents, which were true yet harmless aa the play of a child, were brought in, aDd. Even the f».rt of his proficiency in all branohe«< of scieure. and his practice of carrying on experim#»a*.B with old Hermann, were brought in to serve If ■ti{rr!.M 38 A STAR IN A PBISON. as a condemning evidence, wliile one wit- ness deposed tliat be had once, quite late in the night, met Hermann and Wilhelm Steinhoff coming from the dii'ection of the house in Lower Town. Wilhelm remem- bered the occasion well. It was the night upon which he had followed Hermann. Adolphe gave his testimony impetuously, almost excitedly, yet every effort made to confuse him in his statements was unsuc- cessful. At the close of it, he electrified his audience by turning fiercely upon the judge. "I tell you!" he exclaimed in the exceed- ingly broken English which he used when greatly moved, " you sentence heem over dere for prison, you was do great sin! Heem no wan w'at do mischief! Heem innocent, so innocent as you!" He was, however, quickly called to order, and sat down, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. One grateful look he caught from Wilhelm. and the little brown face went down, to hide the tears that would not be checked. , Wilhelm was at last called upon to answer for himsalf, and a great hush settled upon the chamber. He began, in a low voice, his plea of " not guilty." For the first time he told his story, and told it with a consistency which the severest cross- examination failed to shake. " Your wor- ship, and gentlemen of the jury," he said in conclusion, and in a voice whose tender pathos thrilled even the unsympathetic, " I have willingly, though not deliberately, if It please you, assisted in the escape of one whom I can scarcely choose but believe guilty of the fearful crime which you have attributed to me, as his confr&re. To this I plead guilty, but to naught else. For this, which was, after all, {»entlemen, but the im- pulsive following of the dictates of natural affection, I am willing to suffer the penalty. But in the other matter, my hands, thank heaven, are as innocent as those of a little child! You may condemn me. You cannot take away my innocence! You cannot bestow upon me a guilty conscience! Gentlemen, I plead only for justice, the justice which our free and glorious land concedes to the weak- est of her citizens!" He sat down and a tremor of reaction suc- ceeded the Intense silence which had pre- vailed while he was speaking. But even those who had been touched by the simple directness of his speech, felt through- out that there was no hope. The evidence against him was too strong. His explana- tion of his presence in the old stone house had not been deemed satisfactory, and that, of itself, was held suflicient to condemn him. Besides, the lawyer upon the side of the prosecution was a man gifted with unusual eloquence, and the force of his words was pointed, in this case, by the flrrr>neF -^f the conviction whi(?h he held in rf:aai> t^. the guilt of the prisoner. The jury adjourned, and when they brought in the verdict of "guilty," a mur- mur, chiefly of approval, went throughout the breathless audience. Wilhelm' s face blanched. He cast one appealing, Imploring look upon the judge, then he folded his arms and bowed his head in bitter hopelessness, scarcely hearing the sentence to a long term of hard labor in the penitentiary, which was being pronounced upon him. As the last words fell from the judge' lips, a shrill, boyish A'oice rang through th court room. " You wan weecked ole manl You all weecked! Heem never do it! Heem—" The French boy was standing with flushed face, wildly gesticulating, as his bright black eyes glared upon the judge and the jury. But his passionate appeal was never fin- ished. He was immediately silenced and dragged out of the chamber. As he was hur- ried through the door, he caught a glimpsa of a fine, pale face, whose unutterable sorrow and unspoken indignation found a chord In the boy's own soul. Yes, Dr. Keith Cameron felt in his soul that Wilhelm Steinhoff's statement of innocence might be true. Yet ^W A STAB IN A PRISON. 39 what could he do? Absolutely nothing. He had not the slightest means of proving one opinion whicli he held. Wilhelm suffered himself to be led out, scarcely realizing where he was going. When once again in his cell in the city jail, he threw himself on his cot In an agony of despair. Even y«t he could not see all that was before him. He had never been within penitentiary walls. His brow was burning and his lips were dry. His head ached, and a strange, cold, heavy sense of pain was at his heart. He felt that he could scarcely breathe for the oppressive weight that lay upon him. Then suddenly a light seemed to flash upon him. He turned to God. Ah, he had forgotten God during the terrible court-room ordeal! He prayed for strength, for companionship, and was comforted. His earnest com- munion with God caused him to feel that everlasting strength still was his; that he could never be utterly alone. He knew that by prayer he did not change God's attitude to him, but his toward God, for God was ever loving, pitying, sympathizing. He grew willing to trust, and such a peace came upon him that for the time he felt that nothing could ever greatlj^ disturb him more. God might not see best just now to deliver him from this bondage, yet In the end It would be well. He would wait, and trust, and be strong. So he fell into a deep sleep. On the morrow he was to be removed to the peni- tentiary. CHAPTER X. WILHELM LEAVES THE CAPITAIi. NEXT morning Wilhelm awoke, re- freshed in body, but with a crushing sense of calamity bearing upon hhn. He pressed his hands upon his brow, and gradually his confused Impressions resolved themselves into memories. Into thoughts. He saw again the court room full of piti- less faces, heard again the hum of voices that Intervened between the calling of witnesses, as men whispered and laughed, all regardless of the young life that hung in the balance there — freedom, liberty, man- hood, on one side; a living tomb on the other. He heard again the deep, clear tones of the judge ringing out, as though afar off, a ter- rible sentence. The words " Wilhelm Steln- hofr:" smote upon his ear, and he started up with the awful consciousness that he had been the prisoner there In the dock; that his was the doomed life, condemned to Igno- miny, to that fate worse than oblivion, the branded shame of the prison-house. He was now keenly awake. " I am Inno- cent! Oh, heaven, I am innocent! It was all a lie, a shameful, despicable lie!" he cried, and buried his face In his hands. Alas for poor human nature! His peace of the night before had flown. He had not yet reached that blissful height before which earthly griefs fall back abashed. After all, it was not an easy thing for a young man, refined, educated, in the very blossom of life, to look calmly forward to the peniten- tiary. Then he thought of poor, feeble, old Hermann, who was even now breathing the free air of heaven, perhaps In some far-off clime, and of Gertrude, calmly unconscious of the terrible fate which had overtaken lier brother, and with her beautiful confidence in her grandfather all unshaken. " For her sake I can bear it!" he thought. " It would have killed her to know all!" So he pondered until a voice bade him make ready, for It would soon be train time. Then he realized that this was the very day upon which he was to bid farewell to so- ciety, to the beautiful earth, to liberty — all, all that men usually consider necessary to make life worth living. He dressed hur- riedly and ate a little breakfast. Then he went with his conductor to the depot. People turned to look at him curiously. He shrank from their gaze. On the way 40 A STAB IN A PBISON. -^1 -^ il he met two young men whom he had known and turned away his head. He could not bear to look into the faces of those who must now despise him, and he was thankful when he was at last able to sit down upon the hard seat of a second- class coach. As the train sped from the city, dashlug along with its feverish energy through the hazy sunshine of the late autumn, Wilhelm looked wistfully back at the mountains, at the tall spires of the churches, at the flashes of blue water shining occasionally through between trees all gorgeous in crimson and gold. His heart called out a sad farewell, and nature seemed to smile pitifully back. He watched the yellow stubble-fields that went hurrying by, the farm-houses with lit- tle, free children loitering on their doorsteps to see the train pass, the orchards gay with scarlet apples, and ihe Inncs edged with pur- ple sumach; and all the way the rumble of the train resolved itself into a plaintive re- frain which seemed to echo continually in his ears with a pitiful reiteration, " Farewell, farewell, farewell! All that is lovely, fare- well! Life, and hope, and joy, farewell! Friends, and home, and loved ones, farewell, farewell!" The words sang on and on, forming theme L^lves into a sort of low, mon- otonous chant that annoyed him with its persistency, and he was almost relieved when the flash of broad, blue waters, and a glimpse of the solid stone forts about old Cataraqui, warned him that his journey was coming to an end. No time was lost. He was put into a hack and hurried on to the prison. From the hill above he caught a view of long, white walls, with sentries upon them, and of a massive, pillared front. Then a cold, iron touch seemed to fall upon his heart. He cast one longing glance about him. Waving woods, decked in the glorious garb of autumn, ap- peared above him. and an expanse of broad, grass covered flelds. But, In the midst of these flelds, stood a great round tower, whose windows stared out like huge, un- unwinking eyes. In all directions. "The quarries," muttered Wilhelm's guide. And the ' young man looked away again. In a moment he was at the pillared portal and ushered into the gloomy en- trance, whose floor has echoed to the sullen tread of so many of earth's wasted ones. Blue-coated men, with peaked caps, stood about in the great hall. They glanced at him carelessly, and, for one moment, In his seeming degradation, he almost felt as though they were a higher order of beings than he. Then the proud consciousness came upon him, " Whatever they may think of me, I am innocent. I am still myself, and they cannot wrench my individuality from me!" and he held up his head with manly fearlessness. "Good-looking fellow," he heard one of the guards say, in a low tone. " Yes," returned another. In a half whis- per, which Wilhelm's keen ear caught, " but a bad one, they say. For downright, refined badness, trust one of the gentleman sort!" A heavy Iron door was then swung open, and he was conducted down a well-kept garden walk towards the office, in a large building below. Here he sat down. His every nerve was on a tension, and his brain was afire with the unusual mental activity that sometimes attends the most painful crises of li^'e. His very senses seemed to be more acute than usual. Not the smallest detail of the room in which he sat, not the most trivial peculiarity of the men who were In It, escaped him. It was the hungry glance of a man who, in full possession of all his faculties, feels that he is bidding farewell to life. A bright fire was in the grate, for within the stone walls It was cool. His eye sought the glowing, sparkling, joyous flames, and he wondered that they could leap so gayly in such an atmosphere. The clerk and one of the guards laughed at some little jest. He was shocked at their levity. It seemed to A STAB IN A PBISON. 41 him that he was In the very presence of death. Yet it was a living death, and he shuddered. The clerk produced a large book, took up his pen, and proceeded to ask Wilhelm the usual routine of questions. Every answer was carefully recorded, then the j'^oung man was once more given over to a guide. As they entered the corridor he saw men going to and fro; men with hard visages, each bearing a number upon his shoulders. These, then, were some of the men with whom he must live. He Icnew how near, yet he little realized how far off from the most of them he should ever be. His guide now conducted him to a bath- room, where his clothing was taken away from him, and a prison suit substituted, an ill - fitting set of coarse, gray garments, bearing the number 875. An accurate de- scription of his person, and of every mark upon it, was written down, and he was taken to a room where his beautiful, wav- ing hair jjell beneath the hair - cutter's scissors. As the relentless blades cringed about his head, he closed his eyen and sat immovable as a statue; but his clenched hands told of the turmoil of rebellion within, and his lips closed until but a line of white appeared. As the soft locks fell, touching his brow and his cheeks, he felt the bitter bondage of slavery closing upon him. His will was his no longer. His hands, his feet, his body, were no longer his to use as he pleased, but were parts of a machine, which might go only at the bidding of another. He was now the slave of the state, whose laws he was supposed to have outraged; he, as loyal a supporter of right and law as had ever drawn breath. Oh, It was cruel, cruel! Yet, bitter as were the thoughts that crowded upon him, his cup yet lacked the drop of gall which renders the draught of the guilty criminal so dreadful upon a like occasion. The very sense of not deserving the penalty made it seem lighter, for a clear conscience gives the spirit wings, even when the ,'iody is fettered. Wiihelm was then measured, his height, the size of- his head, the length of his arms and middle and little fingers, being accur- ately taken. Then he was given into a photographer's care, and when that was over he was left for a time in a room where, through a barred window, he could see night creeping down. Lights began to twinkle afar off. Upon the rapidly darken- ing water beyond, an up-going steamer sped past, its windows gleaming like a string of Jewels, and its flash-lights turning in every direction, in a cone of soft radiance. Beauty and peace everywhere without, hor- ror and despair within! He heard the tramp, tramp of many men echoing through the great corridor. The prisoners were, then, returning from work. He was not required to form in line with them that night, but was presently taken to his cell alone. Iron gates swung again be- fore him and his guide, and were closed with a relentless click. At length a great, round hall, surmounted by a lofty dome, and flagged with stone, was reached. About it ran numerous iron galleries, ascended by means of narrow iron stairways. From this dome-covered space large wings led off in every direction, and in the center of each wing arose a huge, cube-like struc- ture, pierced by innumerable doors formed of Iron bars. It seemed to Wilhelm like an immense catacomb, honeycombed with numberless, rock-liewn graves. Towards one of these iron doors he was now conducted, and above It he noticed a placard bearing the same number which he now bore upon his shoulders— 875. Involuntarily he paused, before entering the narrow, wlndowless aperture. He was ''eminded by the guide that this was his ''ell. He stepped in. His supper was han''.ed to him in a deep tin dish. The Iror-grated door swung behind him Into Its rjace. The bolt fell. Wilhelm was at last a convict, in a convict's cell. 42 A STAB IN A FBI80N. I: ■Sli He could eat nothing, bnt sat on the edge of his bed for hours, looking dreamily out Into the dimly-lighted passage, where a ghostly light burned all the night through. Then he crept silently Into his hard, narrow cot. At intervals a hollow cough sounded from a neighboring cell. Occasionally the passing footsteps of a guard grew fainter and fainter in the distance. But for these all was still. As he lay there in the darliness, his mind was worlting, worliing. Into the future he could not look, into the present he would not; but every Incident of his past life floated before him as in a dream, and where links were all but forgotten, he wrestled with memory until they appeared. He looked again upon Fisherman Jack in his cabin, and heard the swish of the water lapping upon the beach. He saw the blue-eyed child who ran about at Jack's angry bidding, but who yet was free, free, in comparison with the man who there lay in his coffln-like chamber behind the bars. Again his mind ran on, and the sweet, golden-haired child came before his vision, the child who had gambolled with the boy and the black dog in those happy days ere trouble or anxiety or care had entered that earthly Eden. Once more the scene changed. He lived over again that brief hour in the woodland dell in which he had realized that he loved her. And the memory was not all pain. He saw the beautiful child now grown a more beautiful maiden, heard the soft tones of her voice, and saw the sweet face bathed in tears because of his sorrow. Ah, he loved her now not less than then. His was an affection which stormy vicissi- tudes of life, grief, nay, even death itself, could not change. He thought o^ her until she became woven with his waking thought, woven with his dreams, and when at last, almost at daybrealc, he fell into a troubled sleep, it w'as with the shimmer of her golden hair before his eyes. In the morniug the sudden clang of a gong awoke him. He sprang out of bed and dressed hurriedly, for he knew that no loitering would be permitted. In a few minutes he heard the tread of many feet, as of men marching along the galleries, but no cheerful "good-morning," no sound of word, or gay whistle, or merry laugh, arose above the dull thud, thud, that echoed to the dome above. Then he heard the locks along his own cor- ridor click. He stepped out, and found him- self marching along with a column of men, — gray-coated, shaven, cropped men — each bearing the fatal number on his shoulders. He glanced, with a sort of repulsive horror, at those who trudged silently ahead of him. The visages of those whom he could see seemed to him mostly dull, or sullen, or mis- shapen; but then, he had not had time to study them yet. Still, his heart bled for them. "Poor fellows!" he thought, "the wonder is that they are not wholly idiotic! A silent life and a guilty conscience! What punishment could be worse to anyone who had a trace of manhood left?" He glanced at the one who marched beside him. His face was shrewd and intellectual, but lines of keenest suffering were about the mouth, and there was a bitter, hopeless look In the dark, sunlcen eyes, which seemed to flinch under Wilhelm's straightforward glance. Wilhelm saw in him at once a gen- tleman who had fallen, and who was suffer- ing, not only from the restraint, but from reproaches of conscience. He was evidently French. The black hair, the sallow skin, the flne features and slight, lithe build, pro- claimed the fact. For the moment Wilheln} felt almost glad that he had not been com- pelled to walk in touch Avith one of the lower class — for there are classes even in prison — in whose faces he could read little but sullen indifference, the record of a de- bauched life, and- excess in every manner of evil-doing. By this time the long lines were ready for breakfast. Prisoner attendants stood wait- A STAR IN A PRISON. 43 Ing with deep tin dishes of food, and huge piles of bread cut in thick slices. As the men passed in rapid succession to make way for those who were swarming down from the iron galleries, each took his dish and the quantity of bread which he required. Wilhelm shrank from this coarse and roughly served prison fare. He took but one slice of the bread, and he noticed that the French- man, No. 869, took none at all, while others helped themselves to six, seven or eight great slices. Turning about, the long line tramped back again towards the cells, and, glancing up- ward, Wilhelm saw that the galleries above and the narrow iron stairs were filled with single flies of men hurrying on, in gray, wriggling lines, inside of the iron railings. At the word of a keeper, each line came to a halt, with one simultaneous movement, the doors were opened and the men went in. Then the doors were shut again with an echoing clang, and each convict proceeded to eat his solitary meal within the gloom of his cell. The awful, mechanical movement of it all struck Wilhelm as something that must, in time, grow unbearable. He realized that only thus could order and system and econ- omy of time prevail, and that the prison dis- cipline must be enforced. Yet he was inno- cent, and his whole nature cried out against this enslaving of his reet, his hands, his Dody; this treating of him as though he were a machine, to go only at the command of a keeper, to stop only at his word. He was innocent, he was innocent! he kept crying to himself; he could not bear this injustice! As he sat beside his almost un- tdsted breakfast, his hands clenched, and a heavy scowl fuiTowed his smooth, white brow. Then other thoughts came to him. His head drooped, and a heavy sigh burst from his lips. The brow grew smooth, the mouth tender, and when the call came for the men to go to work, his face was calm, and his blue eyes looked up fearlessly and bravely. He was to go to the quarries. As the men formed in line he once more found himself beside No. 8G9. Walking In step with him, somewhat heavily by reason of the heavy prison shoes, he passed out with the others, through the long corridor, and Into the yard, whose neat walks and velvety grass borders bore evidence to the spirit of prison reform that really charac- terized the Canadian penitentiary. He looked about him. Walls, walls, everywhere walls, with a patch of blue sky framed In betwef. . and the dark figures of the guards walking along on top, rifles in hand, and outlined darkly against the clear, morning sky. On their approach the heavy iron gate at the rear of the entrance-hall turned slowly open. The convicts passed through, and thence, between the graceful pillars of the entrance, into the free air beyond the walls. As Wilhelm's fine, pale face again crossed the threshold, the guard at the gate whispered, "Fine-looking fellow! What a pity!" And another rejoined, " Face as in- nocent as a child's! Who would have be- lieved it!" On up the road went the convicts — the road free to prattling childrtn, hay, even to the dogs of the street, but these strong men were obliged to walk in close order; and by their side walked blue-coated guards, whose long rifles held death within their steel muzzles; death, relentless, certain as fate, were It required for the too-daring one who might think to escape the prison cell by flight. On, on, past a waving, glorious wood, and towards a grassy field bounded by a high picket fence, and guarded by the tall watch- tower which Wilhelm had noticed on the preceding day. And the convicts knew well that within that tower stood armed men whose nerves were steady, and whose duty must be done. In this field were the quar- ries, where, day by day, great quantities of the solid bed-rock were raised from its hid- 44 A 8 TAB IN A PRISON. den bed by the gray-clad men shuffling rapidly towards It. Wllhelm glanced at the man beside him. His eyes were fixed on a passing cloud, and a look of unutterable sorrow was on his pale face. It was the expression of a man whose conscience Is not dead. "Poor fellow!" thought Wllhelm. "It Is something worse than prison that brings such- a look Into his eyes. Can It be that re- morse Is eating his heart out? Perhaps he Is not so bad after all. Heaven only knows what temptation he has had, or how many men with worse natures than his are sitting in the high places of the social world!" Wllhelm felt as though he should like to speak to him, to ask him his name; but that could not be, so he was. and had to remain to Wllhelm, as yet, just the Frenchman, No. 869. At last the gate of the fl^d was reached. The key was turned in the heavy padlock by the guard who walked in advance, and the convicts passed through, walking si- lently and rapidly towards the derricks that marked the depression from which they were taking the huge blocks and slabs of cream-white sandstone. . The men took up their Implements of toll, some indifferently and stupidly, others sul- lenly and resentfully; some with a piteous patience, others with a savage and feverish energy which betrayed the restlessness of minds that sought lethe in the exhaustion of physical labor. For the present Wllhelm belonged to the latter class. His first task was not a very heavy one, but he plied his hammer with a restless vigor, a sort of feverlshness, that soon wearied his weak- ened body. His hands, too, were white and soft and tender, and long before the noon hour came, painful red patches were appear- ing on his delicate, girl-Uke palms. He was compelled to work less fiercely, though he dared not stop to rest. His blows fell less rapidly, and he stopped for a moment to regain his breath. One of the convicts who was passing him half whispered: '* I thought you couldn't keep that up long, mate." The voice sounded strangely familiar to Wllhelm, and he raised his fair, boyish face to look at the speaker. Each gazed at the other for a brief moment in recognition, then Wllhelm exclaimed, "Jack!" Yes, It was none other than Jack. Jack, with his bushy beard all shaven, and a sul- len, bitter, hardened look on his face. For a moment his eyes brightened a little, then, with a hasty glance at an approaching guard, he passed on. A moment later Wll- helm, turning, caught Jack's gaze fixed upon him in a sort of pained surprise. The young man bent again over his work, with a hot flush upon his face. Even rough Fisherman Jack, then, condemned him! Later in the day he heard the voice whisper again: " I never thought you'd turn out bad. Bunny. I thought you were a good one!"' Wilhelm's breath came fast. " I am an Innocent man, Jack!" he whispered. Jack looked at him sharply for a moment. "Aye, I believe you," he said, and passed on. As Wllhelm turned to his task again, his eye fell upon a man who was working near him, and who had overheard his declaration, " I am an innocent man." It was No. 869. Oh, what a hungering, longing look was there! What a world of meaning was in that one timid, envious glance! It said, as plainly as in words^ that he, poor No. 869, would have given life itself to be able to say those precious words. Immediately the dark, deep-set eyes drooped. The man was hack- ing aAvay again at the stubborn stone, and Wllhelm noticed how frail and weak the body was, and how emaciated were the bands. The youth brushed away a suspicious dimness from his eyes. He pitied this man from the bottom of his heart; pitied him A STAB IN A PRISON. 45 most because he saw in him great possibil- ities wasted, thrown aside with prodigal hand. He wondered what his life had been and why he was here. He wondered if he might ask at least his name. He did not want to do what was contrary to rules, but, though conversation was In nearly all cases strictly forbidden, he observed that in ^he quarries where men had often to assist each other in their work, they were permitted to speak occasionally in low tones, but to hold no uninterrupted conversation for even a moment's time. Even then their remarks were supposed to be about their work. This accounted for Jack's lew, halt-fearful words. Noon came, and with it the march back to the penitentiary, whose great dome arose below the hill. Wilhelm was so weary that he fain, would have lain upon his cot to rest. He was not yet fully strong after his illness. But there could be no rest yet. Once more he must march over the dusty road and take up his tools. The autumn was unusually warm, and the sun shone down hot and piti- less. His hands grew more and more pain- ful, and white blisters came out upon the soft flesh. His head ached, and he grew almost faint. He was engaged in separating a slab of the stone, and as he bent over it he felt as though he should fall. Then a hammer, wielded by a powerful hand, fell upon it in heavy blows, and a pick, swung by the same strong arm, completed the oper- ation. It was Fisherman Jack, Wilhelm looked up gratefully and murmured, "Thank you." Jack answered not a word. Without bestowing even a glance upon Wilhelm, he strode off. Wilhelm was deeply pained at seeing Jack in prison. Altliough in those old days by the lake he had feared the man. he had not wholly disliived him. Tender memories, though few, were still connected with that early period, for Jack had been the only father of his early childhood, and had some- times been kind to the fair-haired lad. He recollected that when Jack had abused him he was almost Invariably under the in- ' flueuce of drink, and he surmised tliat the fisherman was now in prison owing to some act committed at such a time. When the evening at last fell, Wilhelm sank wearily down upon a block of stone. His detachment of convicts was the last to leave the field, and while waiting for the order to move forward, he watched the gray, moving lines, sliuffling off past the watch- tower towards the gate, followed by the ever-vigilant guards with their rifles upon their shoulders. Then the order came to fall into line. He arose and dragged his aching limbs into his place. The order, "Forward!" was given, and soon the dry, waving grass of the field was left behind, and no sound was heard save the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of the men down the white, dusty road towards the great dome below. Wilhelm was indeed glad when he could once more throw himself down upon his narrow bed. That night, out of utter ex- haustion, li slept a heavy and dreamless sleep, from liich he awoke refreshed and in better Condition for his work. He did not again during that week have any inter- change of words with Jack, but more than once when the youth was wrestling with an unusually dilticult part of his task, the great, strong Arm of his former foster- , father toolc the heaviest part of the work, and Wilhelm was deeply touched. However, as the days went by, the youth grow more accustomed to the labor, and his muscles grew firmer. Then his work slowly settled down into the dreary, mechanical monotony of a daily treadmill, and he began .to chafe more and more against his fate. He felt as though he must lose his reason ore he had put in ten years of this silent, slavish drudgery, and he began almost to hate the glaring white road and the hazy sun, which was sinking each day farther and farther to the south. Yet he dreaded to look forward to the long winter, with its 46 A STAR IN A PRISON. m m new toll, which would necessitate remain- ing constantly within the walls. lie for- got Jack, forgot poor No. 8(59. Wholly occu- pied with his own misery, he lost sight of theirs. It made hlra almost frantic to think that the very best part of his life was to be thus thrown away; that every ambition, every hope for the future, was to be thus overthrown, and that he must go out at the end of his terra a branded, despised crea- ture, spurned from every mau's door as the very scum of the earth. He brooded over his troubles every day, and kept them before him in his cell every night, until his life grew unbearable. He now took little comfort in knowing that he was Innocent. He tried to pray, but his prayers arose from a heart hard as the stone which he handled day by day. Unwillingly he was beginning to have a conviction that there could be no God. else why this injus- tice? During these terrible days but one thing kept him from absolute recklessness — his love for Gertrude and his grandfather. That one touch of the divine, still kept alive In him, was his salvation. In his moments of deepest misery the thought of them came as a balm upon his spirit, and for their sakes he grew more patient, less bitter. But his most awful, haunting fear was the consciousness of his loss of confidence in God. He went to the chapel on Sundays, but there was little comfort in the services for him. The man who preached was not in touch with his hearers. He spoke from a sense of duty, and as though from a height of superiority unattainable to his pitiful audience. His sermons were a series of flowery harangues, with occasional conven-. tioual appeals and set phrases of religious exhortation, which could have no effect upon the hearts of the men who sat listen- ing to him with folded arms and cold faces. Then came a vague rumor of a new chap- lain. The news spread slowly among the prisoners, and awakened in them the excite- ment which any novelty possesses for men whose changeless life is continually hedged in between four walls. Wllhelm, however, was at that time In such a state that he heard of the new chaplain's arrival with but little interest. One night he was sitting In bis cell, moodily thinking. He had been attempting to read one of the books from the prison library, but, though his light was still burn- ing, the book had fallen from his hand, and he was sitting on the edge of his cot with drooping head. He was feeling utterly hopeless and alone. A keeper had just piissed, bearing letters for some of the con- victs. For Wllhelm, alas! there was never one. None of the gay band of companions with whom he had laughed and talked In the dear old capital, had ever sent even one message of sympathy or encouragement. Day by day he had seen the keepir advanc- ing with the letters. Day by day he had watched, through the bars, with a face of hungry longing. But the keeper had ever passed on without even glancing at the cell, and Wllhelm had turned away again with a cold, gnawing pain at his heart. To-night he was thinking of Gertrude, Gertrude who was still his friend, for she at least was beyond reach of the calumnies which had assailed his name on every side. He wondered where she was, and if she were a little happy. He wondered if she thought of him often, and If she would ever find out his sad story. He wondered if she still believed in God's goodness as she used to do. The tliouglit brought a sad smile to his lips. Ah, Wilhelm was drifting far from his heavenly Father, yet that Father was tenderly near would he but have seen him. Presently he heard the bolt of his cell drawn back. Some one entered, and Wil- helm looked up to see a sweet, familiar face beaming down upon him. For a moment he could not realize who it was. It was a man dressed in black, and wearing a venerable beard slightly tinged with gray. The face iu..«rf* A STAR IN A PRISON. 47 drew Wllhelm's gaze with a sort of fascina- tion, so kindly, so pure, so tender, yet so well known was It. He looked Into tht deep, loving eyes, and fought with recollec- tion. Then his glance fell to the bands. One was weak and withered, though white and shapely withal. Then all came back. WIl- helm saw again the deep, cool canal, with i t s wooded banks fading in the twi- light. He heard the plash of oars, and saw the gentle face of the coi- p o r t e u r shining through the gloom. He heard the echo of a sweet voice say- ing, " Even In prison they may have risen above their environ- ment, and soared to heights which they never could have at- t a i n e d otherwise. God is here, within us, if we will. Where God is,, is heaven." Ah, as he looked upon this man's face, how the snatches of that conversation came ringing down the years of the past, striking upon Wllhelm's ears with a sound sweet faint as tKat of a heavenly chord! " The warden has been telling me of you, Mr. Steinhoff," now said those same sweet tones. " I have taken the liberty of coming to see you." Yes, It was— It was the colporteur! Wll- helni sprang to his feet and grasped him by the hand. The other returned the pressure warmly, and looked Into the now glowing face with an expression of kindly Inquiry. " Don't you remember me?" Wllhelm sat leaning on the edge of his bed for hours.— See page 42. and asked the young man eagerly. " Don't you remember the boy who rowed you down the canal years ago?" "Why, certainly," returned the low, calm voice; "is this the lad?" There was, perhaps, an almost impercep- 48 A STAR IN A PBISON. liii tlble note of surprise In the acceat, and WIl- helm droppod his head. He hud forgotten that he waa a convict, branded as a crim- inal. " Pardon my presumption," he stammered. " I — I liad f orK'otten." The other seated himself on the cot and drew Willielm down beside him. " There is no presumption, dear boy," he said. " We will be able to renew our friend- ship, will \ve not? You see I expect to be here the most of my time. I am the new chaplain." There was no tone of condescension in the simple greeting, notlilng but the courteous simplicity with which one gentleman may spealc to another. Wllhelm looited again into the magnet'c face, more saint-like even than of yore, and felt the thrill of brotherly love spring up at the touch of the gentle hand. Hope.agaln lived in his heart, and he felt once more a man, not the despised con- vict, No. 875. " I am very glad you have come here," he said. "Just now I was feeling, Iceeniy enough, the need of — of a friend." The chaplain's eyes grew strangely ten- der. He loved as much as he pitied these men, "Yes," he said, "I do not wonder that you feel lonely sometimes. It is an un- natural state of affairs that separates man from tis fellow-men. That is not as God planned it should be. He rejoices when we have friends and home and happi- ness. He is glad, I am sure, at this our meeting." Wilhelm turned sharply upon him. "Then why," he asked, "does he allow the state of things to exist which has helped to drive many a man here? The liquor traffic, for instance. While it continues, men will continue to commit crime. Why does not God stop it? While poverty lasts men will cut through hades Itself to rid themselves of it. Why are not things equalized?" Wilhelm spoke passionately, longingly. His bitter, atlielstic impulses were not ren- dering him happy, tlrough he was honest in them. " Dear lad," returned the low, gentle voice, " how could people be free if God compelled them to act In any way, even though that waj >vere right? How could people love Gotl, who is Love, and the source of all truth and right, if lie took the power of choice away from them?" He paused and looked searchingly into the young, boyish face. " My dear boy," he continued, " God wants us to be men, not machines. If we be men, we must choose. If we be Christians, we must choose the right In spite of every circumstance." Wilhelm was pondering deeply. " Then you think that choice has been of- fered to all these men, even to the lowest, and that each one has recognized the possi- bility of it?" he asked. " I should say so," returned tt plain with a sigh. " God could not leave his chil- dren ever out in the cold. He must plead with tliem in some way; they must choose him or refuse. They must take him as their dear Friend, their Companion and Father, or else they must go their own way, unhappy, erring perhaps, and alone, because away from him." " But look at the different chances people have!" cried Wilhelm, with a deep tremor In his voice. " One boy is brought up in a Christian home, with Christian teaching; another lives all his life amid the evil of the slums. How can the one love God or even know of him as the other does?" The chaplain turned his face, full of love and tenderness, towards the unhappy young man. " He cannot, perhaps," was the low reply. " Yet I am inclined to think that the boy in the slums has his own promptings towards the right. I am sure God considers all the circumstances. My dear lad, one thing we T A 8TAB IN A PBISOIT, 49 3 the he not oose. the * know: God Is abHolutely Just. He mnkos i/^ mistake in couHideiin^ tlicso thiiitjs. He probes the motives of each man down to the very root, and he will do what is well towards every soul." He stopped 8i»eaklng for a moment and looked off tlirough the bars, with a rapt expression upon his countenance. " Do you know," he said, '* sometimes I think we shall be surprised at how many people we meet in heaven — th(> future heaven, I mean," he added. " The trouble is that so many miss the heaven they might have here." He suddenly turned, and the radiant light of truth was in his eyes. " Yes," he said, " God is Love. Can we not trust his love?" The look, the tone, the earnestness of the speaker, brought the words home to Wil- helm's heart. He dropped his face in his hands, and a wave of remorse f' his own heartlessness and his own doubt swept over him. His old, child-like faith returned, and tears dropped through between his fin- gers. The chaplain's own eyes grew dim as he looked upon the bowed, shaven head of the convict, and noted the quiver of suppressed emotion that was passing over him. He had, he thought, said enough for the present. In a moment he arose and placed his hand upon Wilhelm's shoulder. '" Mr. Steinhoff," he said, " I shall see you again often. I am sorry for you, lad. You must be very lonely here. But remember, whatever your past may have been, you may still become strong, triumphant, even in this prison. Nay, you may even rejoice in it, if you will but come close to Jesus and stay there ever. The past is gone, the future is before you." He paused and when he spoke again the tone was even lower and sweeter than be- fore. "You are in a narrow cell," he said, " but Jesus can fill it with his own radiance. Ask him to help you. Trust in him, dear lad, for he is love. Good-night." Wllhelm looked up and grasped the chap- lain's arm. " I tlilnic heaven must have sent you to me," he said. ** Come often." Then —lie oonld not U't this man go without know- ing his name—" What am I to call you?" he asked. " Francis Hare." replied tlie other, " Is my name. Good-night, and sweet dreams to you." Wllhelm gave a start of surprise, bat the chaplain did not see It. He closed the door and a keeper fastened it for the night, then his footsteps echoed down the stone-paved corridor. " Hare— Hare!" murmured Wllhelm; "how strange that he should have my own naniel But "—and the convict thought of his friend- less childhood-" 'tis only a coincidence. I shall not tell him my name. It is not a con- vict's place to claim kinship even in a name." Then Wllhelm fell upon his knees. He prayed that he might understand some- thing, even If it were but little, of this depth of divine love which he had been slighting. He arose and went to bed, but he could not sleep. For hours he lay awake, and it seemed that all the feeling, all the affec- tions of his life, burned with redoubled in- tensity during those hours of waking. He thought of Hermann, whom he had loved and venerated; Hermann, who had proved unworthy of his confidence; he thought of Gertrude, and longed, with unspeakable longing, for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand. Yet he thought of her with Intense pain, for she had rejected his love. His brow grew hot, then cold. Heavy and wet, the perspiration came out upon his forehead, and the unwavering light, shining from the corridor, fell, barred with black shadows, through the grated door upon his clenched hands. He agonized because, though loving, he was loveless. Then a vision comes to him. He sees a garden of old, gnarled trees, through which •llmMMll 'W?T are drops of blood— great cruel drops. And why? Bo- cause he loves a sinful world, and is not loved. Ah, Wilhelm can catch the faintest glimpse of that anguish now! " Jesus," he whispers, " I iove thee!" Over and over again he ropects this. He sees the Man go to the cross. Awful loneliness! Awful torture! And for what reason? This Man is going of his own free will. Ah, that the poor, erring world which he loves may see his love, may realize what he Is, and turn from sin! "He will save his people from their sins." "Oh, blessed Lord!" exclaims Wilhelm. Now that Is all his prayer, just exclama- tions of love and devotion. Wilhelm has given but a drop of his blood, his life, for love's sake, yet he can understand a little better the spirit of the Lord Jesus. •'Blessed Lord!" he cries again, and a great joy fills his heart. Henceforth Wilhelm was a new man, in a new earth, albeit that earth was a prison- house. He had "risen above his environ- ment." CHAPITER XI. DOROTHY IN THE BEL- LEAU HOUSEHOT^D. JET US now glance for f repentance is, ' Do so no more'." Dorothy sat very still for a few minutes. " Octavla," she said at last, " do you think this spirit is the right one to take with you Into the homes of the poor?" The question was a searching one. These girls were accustomed to talk to each other very plainly. The closeness of their friend- ship gave them this privilege, and the one never misundei-stood the other. Octavia looked up quickly. " You mean," she said slowly, " that my very selfishness is the motive for my going there? Well, perhaps you are right." "You have put it very harshly," replied Dorothy. " I simply mean that we should go among these people because we care for them, not for any satisfaction we may de- rive from it ourselves." " Which mounts to the same thing," said Octavia, with a shadowy smile. " But. Dorothy, how am I going to learn to care for them if I never go to see them?" " That is so," admitted Dorotliy. " I'll be delighted to have you go With me." " Well, then," returned Octavia, " my car- riage is waiting here. Come, get on your hat, and take me off at once, or the fever may go away from me. You will have to instruct me as to what has to be done, Dorothy. The breathing of foul airs and smelling of filthy vapors come as a matter of course; but must one coddle the dirty children, and all the rest of it?" She spoke with a light, half-bitter air that distressed Dorothy, whose every emotion showed in her face. " You must not act in any way differently from the way In which you feel like acting," she said, slowly. IP^lfWifPiWPf i,JWrWWWl:W^ mppiiPipHiq -. A STAB IN A FBI SON. 61 Octavla, seized with remorse, leaned siid- dealy forward and caught the sweet face between her hands. "Forgive me, little Dolly!" she said. "I am not so cruel as T seem." Dorothy's brow cleared. " I know that, Octavla dear," she said, " but please don't speak so." ** I win speak with the greatest respect henceforth," rejoined Octavla, kissing her again as she arose to put on her hat. After they had entered the carriage, which was rapidly rolling towards the businoss part of the city, Octavla asked, " What are we going to take with us, Dorothy?" "I don't know what you mean." " Why, provisions, of course. Don't you carry things everywhere you go?'' Dorothy smiled. " Why, no, not always, Octavla," she replied. " They don't want things, so much as (sympathy and encourage- ment in a great many cases. Many of these people would be deeply offended if you went in bluntly with a tilled basket. Others would take all you could give them, and look for more, without stirring a flnper to earn any- thing for themselves. Ot course some really need to have food or fuel or clothes brought in at once. We have to consider all the circumstances of every case before act- ing In this way." " So we'll not take any oatmeal and pota- toes to-day, then?" Dorothy reflected for a moment. " There's John Howard's family." she said; " he is sick. We might venture to take something there, and to Granny Holmes." " Very well," returned Octavla. " What next do you do? Read the Bible?" Dorothy's face grew very grave. " Some- times," she said, " when heart touches lieart Immediately. But often one simply cannot broach this subject before becoming really acquainted with the people, it is toe sacred, too dear, to be roughly intruded before the way is clear. And, Octavla dear, I don't think our Bible - reading has very much efTect upon these poor creatures until the bond of fi.endship an themselves. While there I am sure they must often think of Jesus as he walked about among the hills of Palestine, touching just such poor, blighted ones. Octavia, what a sight his face must have been as he did so! How full of divine love, divine com- passion!" Octavia could scarcely understand the depths in Dorothy's voice. She closed her eyes and wondered if she should ever learn to feel so about these things, and ere she opened them again the Cameron home had been reached, and it was time for Dorothy to get Out. Dorothy wrote a short account of this trip to Keith. She carefully avoided any refer- ence to Octavla's actions, simply saying: " Octavia says she cannot go again, Keith. She does not like such work at all. I do w a?»*Hii«Wi* \'- - " Certainly. What is It?" " May I go out visiting occasionally with Sister Dell? She is such a lovely charactei', and I haven't any one to go with since Octavia will not go again." " :; ; " ' ^ ' ; "Yes, yes!" was the impatient reply, "go with her as much as you please. Child, child! you will drive me crazy with your notions!" And Lady Cameron pressed her white hands to her head as though half dis- tracted. ;>. Dorothy arose and threw her arms impul- sively about her mother. " Dear mother, I w ill not make a friend of even Sister Dell, if you do not wlcb me to." Lady Cameron's face softened. ' r. " I have no objection to Sister Dell," she said. "I believe she is a very fine person, indeed. In fact, her brother is one of the most prominent clergymen in the diocese. I^lOW, then, are you satisfied?" xj. »- "Yes, mother," Dorothy returned; then, with a pudden impulse, she kissed her mother on the clieek, and a hot tear fell up'on it as she said, " Mother dear, thank you." When she had left the room Lady Canv ercn half si bed as she thought, "If she were only more like Octavia Edgar in her tastes!" Then she smiled as her thoughts ran on, " But she is such a dear, little crea- ture, after all! I don't know as I would have her different." From that day Lady Cameron smiled on her dai7ghter's growing intimacy with Sister Dell, and when the hot days came consented to the Sister's proposal that Dorothy should accompany her to a place in the wilds of the mountain country, at which her brother had once had a mission church, and whither she was going for the sake of recuperating her health and for the unbroken rest which such a spot of entire seclusion would afford. Thus the visit was arranged for, and, In great delight, Dorothy prepared for the holi- day, little dreaming that ere its close she was to be brought directly to Gertrude Steinhoff, of whom she was of late begin- ning to grow forgetful. • \ CHAPTER XV» THE STEINHOFFS AGAIN. URING all this time, Adolphe Belleau, the French boy, had been going about, picking up odd jobs here and there, and keeping always tolerably happy. As he grew taller and stronger, he found it much easier to obtain work, and he at last succeeded in getting a situation with a party of lumbermen who were going far up one of the numerous rivers, down which Jumber is continually being floated throughout the timber limits of the Lower Province. After that he drifted from place to place, in all sorts of out-of-the-way corners, until one day he found himself upon a small island in the midst of a rushing river. Upon this island was built a very curious little village, inhabited by a few French lumber- men. The houses, of which there were less than a dozen, were built of logs, in a style peculiar to themselves, low and with widely fm 1 ^imr T tf I'.''*" A STAB IW A PRISON. 65 y should is of the ther had ther she ting her t which I would and, In the holi- lose she Sertrude ;e begiu- lOFFS Ills time, leau, the y , had about, )dd jobs ere. and olerably grew iger, he 'asier to d he at 1 getting len who umerous itinually r limits place, rs, until a small Upon us little lumber- '^ere less a style 1 widely projecting eaves, and seemed to have been set down without any regard to system or order. There was no semblance of a street, but grass-grown paths led from house to house. A sawmill was built at one end of the island, and a strong bridge led from it to the main shore. At the other end tall cliffs covered with blueberry bushes and June- berry trees arose, while yet taller cliffs, densely wooded, closed in upon the banks of the river on either side. There was neither store, nor school, nor post-office. All these were to be found at a scarcely less secluded mountain village across the forest, to which pilgrimages were made at differ- , ent periods once or ■ twice a year by a few of the denizens of the hamlet, who there purchased sui)- plies of provisions for all the rest. v, iv The few people who lived on the island spoke only French. It seemed a spot hid- den from the world, and, indeed, these simple people had but little intercourse with any one outside of their own small sphere. Most of them could not read. In- terested only in their mill and their iumber, they lived a hidden, sleepy and not unhappy life. Adolphe, of course, almost immediately started on a trip of discovery about the island. As he reached the cliffs^, he noticed a small and secluded cabin at the foot of the rocks and partly hidden by trees. Opposite to it, upon a broad granite boulder, sat a girl, dressed in the short, coarse, yet pictur- esviue, garb of the French peasantry, but before Adolphe reached her he caught a glimpse of bright golden hair. He started and looked at her sliavply. She was sitting lookiKg into the water, with an attitude tiiat betokened deep dejection. He crept be- Dpon a granite boulder sat a young: girJ. hind some Iwshos closer to the water, so that he might see her face. Yes, it was Gertrude, paler and thinner than before, and with a hectic flush on her cheek. ... „.^.^,. -;-,.; v. ,,-,.: -^^^^^.^^^^/v:^.i^- 66 A STAB IN A PS I SON. best thing for him to do. He could not tell Dr. Keith Cameron of his discovery, for he had not yet returned from Europe. Then he bethought himself that Miss Dorothy Cam- eron, with Adolphe's sister, Agnes, and a black-gowned lady, was to arrive at the vil- lage of L— — , across the forest, in a few days. Agnes had written him so. He would wait until they came and confer with Miss Dorothy. In the meantime, he would try to get a glimpse of Hermann, if he were still there. , He crept away without alarming the girl, and ascertained from one of the children that an old man lived in the cabin before which he had seen the golden-haired girl; that his name was Monsieur Adler, and that the pretty lady was Mademoiselle Adler; that Mademoiselle Adler was very lovely and kind. She had been teaching the chil- dren to read and write until lately, but she was very often ill now, and could do so no longer. That evening Adolphe lay on the cliffs above the cabin, concealed among the blue- berry bushes, and watched once more to see the old man. He was at last successful. Just at twilight the two fugitives issued from the door and walked slowly down by the river bank, Hermann leaning upon the arm of the frail girl for support. His steps were tottering, and he seemed on the very brink of the grave. Adolphe Belleau's pulses beat faster at the sight of him. "Ah!" he thought, "dere is de man w'at can set Wllhelm SteinhoCf free if he will do it! Heem not leev long anyway. Some wan mus' hurry up make him spik queeck. It is wan beeg shame for de young man In de 'pen' an' de young lady in dis hole so long, all for dat mean ole duffer keep too quiet! I wish de doctor come home soon. Heem de wan to mak' de ole feller confess!" . Hermann Stelnhoflf and his granddaughter had come, by a circuitous, route, directly to this island, which Hermann had come upon by accident when trapping years before. Here, almost out of reach of telegraph or newspaper, he had felt quite secure. The passing curiosity of the few people who lived here was easily satisfied. Besides, the cost of living, in this hidden spot, was ex- ceedingly small. But, notwithstanding all this, Hermann was far' from being contented. He felt that he had wrecked Gertrude's life, yet he feared to return to civilization with her. He had never confessed to her, or given her any inkling of the cause of his hiding. He had impressed upon her the need of absolute secrecy, and had insisted on their adopting an assumed name; and, filled with a name- less dread of she knew not what calam- ity, his granddaughter had yielded to his will. Gertrude was often very unhappy. She felt that something dreadful had happened, and her very ignorance of that terrible thing Invested it with a vague and awful horror. This preyed upon her day by day, until it was little wonder that her face grew pale and her roupd cheeks hollow. Then, too, she missed her old, happy life in the city, and the many young friends she had known there. Above all, she felt the loss of Wilhelm. Too late she had come to realize that she cared for him even as he had cared for her. She wondered if he would ever find her. She thought he was assuredly searching for her, for he had said he would. The temptation to write to him was at times almost Irresistible, but Hermann had forbid- den her to do so, claiming that harm would follow, both to themselves and to Wllhelm. Then, with a fear of becoming wholly melancholy, she had sought for some work to do, and had gathered in the little ignor- ant children in order that she might teach them. Their loving, innocent ways had touched her, and her heart began to go out to those about her. She had ministered wher- ever there was sickness or death, and the simple folk of the secluded hamlet blesse'' A STAB IN A PBISON. 67 her. So the days passed on, long, lonely, yet not altogether wasted, until shfe grew too weak to go about longer. One day she was suddenly obliged to take to her bed. Adolphe, who was still in the vicinity, heard of her illness, and grew still more impatient for the arrival of Dorothy Cameron at L . She arrived before he was aware of it. One hot day towards the end of July, an unusual sight might have been seen on the banks of the stream just below the village. In a green bower, formed by overhanging beech and maple trees, sat a fair girl and a woman whose sombre and loosely - formed garments could not rob her of the sweetness of her face. Dorothy's head was on Sister Dell's knee, and her broad hat, wreathed with ferns, was thrown on the ground near. Great rocks, green with mosses and lichen, arose beyond, and a little waterfall, whose crystal drops trickled and dripped from ledge to ledge, murmured musically near. Sister Dell was quietly enjoying the rest. Dorothy was thinking that it was indeed a day whereon it was enough " not to be do- ing, but to be." They were startled by the sound of some- one breaking through the greenery of the underwood, hen a face appeared, and Dor- othy cried in surprise, \dolphe!" He ad n need, hat iu hand. "You will pardon me ''or dis intrusion. Mademoiselle," he said; tl i, glancing at Sister Dell, he went on in a alf -whisper, " I have found de SteinhoCfs!" "What! Where?" exclaimed Dorothy. "Very near — jus' on de oder side de fores'," he replied. " An' w'at is more, de golden-hair Is very seeck. De ole man is very much distress. Somet'ing mus' be soon done. If de ole man die very queek, dere's no more hope for Wilhelm SteinhoflP to get free." Dorothy was staring at him In perplexity. "But what can I do, Adolphe?" she asked, helplessly. " If you woL'ld write to de good doctor, to ask what he say about it — queeck. Madem- oiselle. Den if you could perhaps see de golden-hair—" Dorothy nodded. " I see," she said. " But we will keep veiy quiet about It until we hear from my brother." " Certain," returned Adolphe, emphatic- ally, "we mus' not alarm dem. Dey safe anyway. Dat ole man heem now too ole, too feeble, to put in de 'pen.' Dey never put heem dere now." , He then proceeded, with many a gesture, to relate all the circumstances of his visit to the island, and his story was heard with the most intense interest both by Dorothy and by Sister Dell, to whom the main facts of the case were already known. When Adolphe had departed to the village in search of his sister, the two friends had a consultation as to what they should now do. It was decided that, in consideration of Sis- ter Dell's connection with a charitable and religious body, she might pay a visit to the sick girl without fear of being thought pre- sumptuous, and, if necessary, might con- tinue to wait upon her. Dorothy for the present would remain where she was. Accordingly, dressed in her long black robes. Sister Dell set out across the forest on the following day. She found Gertrude very ill indeed, and Hermann in despair. He had forgotten his own danger in that of his dar- ling, and was ready to welcome this calm, kindly woman, who so sweetly offered to take charge of the sick one. During the long, hot nights that followed. Gertrude raved incessantly, talking now of some almost forgotten incident of her old life, now of Wilhelm, calling upon him to come and save her from her loneliness, from the dreadful dangers that were closing in about her. Sometimes old Hermann would hear her, and would bow his head and rub the tears from his eyes. At last one night, towards morning, Sister Dell, looking up from her book, for she was im 68 A STAB IN A PRISON. quietly rending, found Gertrude's great, sol- emn eyes fixed upon her. " Who are you ?" she asked. " I am Sister Dell." "And you have been taking care of me?" " I have been trying to." The sick girl closed her eyes for a mo- ment, then opened them again, with the same wistful, half-fearful gaze. " I have been talking a great deal, have 1 not?*' she asked. " Yes, dear. Now, try to go to sleep." " But I cannot go to sleep, and I must talk. I have been speaking about Wilhelm, haven't I?" " Yes." " Do you know whom I meant?" Ger- trude raised her head from the pillow and asked the question searchingly. Sister Dell could not evade the question. " I think we had better not talk about this, to-night," she said. " You must not excite yourself, by talking." " Tell me," pleaded Gertrude. " I shall be much more excited if you do not answer my question." "Well, then," replied Sister Dell, "I thought you meant Wilhelm Steinhoff." Gertrude returned in a low voice, " Yes, I meant Wilhelm SteinhoflC. Can you tell me anything of him?" Her great eyes were again reading the Sis- ter's face, and the latter answered hastily, " I can tell you that he is well. He is not in the city now, so I know little more about him. Now then, I insist on your not asking any more questions, dear. Rememlser," she added in a low voice, " for Wilhelm's sake you must grow strong and well." And Ger- trude was then willing to be patient. In the meantime. Dorothy had written to Keith. He received her letter just as he was starting for home; and, after a short stop in the capital to see his mother, he pro- ceeded at once to the mountain village at which his sister was staying. One fine afternoon he and Dorothy arrived at the Island. He proceeded at once to have an interview with Hermann. For hours the two men were closeted together. No one ever knew what was said in that long, secret conversation, but Dorothy noticed that when they came out the expression of Keith's face was almost triumphant, while Hermann had beejQ weeping. In his hand Keith held a paper upon which something was written. Sister Dell was asked to read it. Then it was placed on a table, and the faltering old man, with the tears still wet upon his withered cheeks, sat down and slowly signed his name, though the hand trembled so that he couW scarcely hold the pen. Then Keith and Sister Dell also affixed their signatures as witnesses. It was Hermann Steinhofif's confession. CHAPTER XVI. JACK LEAVES A FAREWELL FOR BUNNY. URING that spring, before Keith Cam- eron's return, a terrible thing hap- V^-'^t^^^VBWMr pened in the Cana- ZJ^'^Kilj^^B^^ ^^^° pe?nitentiary. %. ^ilW^BH^ For many, many days Fisherman Jack had been revolving a bold plan in his mind. Day after day he grew more and more sullen, more and more moody. Day after day, when working in the back of the pri- son, he thought of the ice-covered channel that lay just without the walls. Then, when the ice grew thin and rotten and began to break, he wrote a letter. It said: " Dear Bunny: I am going to run away if I can. I want to say good-by to you, for mebbe I kant get across for the ice and A STAB IN A PBISON. 69 mebbe the gard will see me and shoot, but I kant stand this life any longer, and I am in for fifteen yeres more. I always thot a lot of you, Bunny; don't forgit me, and If I get drounded plese don't think eny harder of me than you have to. I beleave you're not gllty as you say, and I hope you will soone get free. Good-by from Jack." This letter he addressed to " Mr. Bunny Hare. No. 875;" but he did not give it to the keeper who carried the letters. He pinned it very carefully on the under side of his hard pillow. That day he had, with a number of others, a task at repairing the wall close beside the water. As the shades of evening began to draw on he watched for his opportunity. The guards, deeming the rushing, swollen current, covered with blocks of ice, a sufficient preventive of escape, were keeping a rather careless watch upon the men under their oare. At a moment when no one was looking, he dashed into the boiling flood, and, trusting to his giant strength, began swimming for the opposite side. The prisoners who had been working with him stared, dumb with astonishment. Now they saw his great head appear above the mad waves; now It suddenly disappeared as he dived be- neath a floating piece of ice. The men watching moved not a muscle. As they realized what he was attempting to do they gazed breathlessly, hoping for his success, and determined not to tell on a comrade. Then a guard, turning, saw the gray, mo- tionless figures below, staring out over the water. He, too, looked, and saw for one In- stant the black head appear, about half way across. He raised his rifle to fire, then low- ered it and raised a loud alarm, commanding some one to go across by the bridge to the other side. In the meantime, the convict's strength appeared to be failing. The ice-cold water seemed to be cramping his limbs. His strokes grew weaker and more spasmodic. Once more he disappeared beneath a floe of pure, white ice, and this time he rose no more. Fisherman Jack was dead. Slowly and sadly the shivering group of convicts returned to their cells, and those within, looking at the excited, frightened expression of their faces, wondered what had happened. It was noticed tlmt Fisher- man Jack's great, burly form was not with them. That night Chaplain Hare carded the let- ter to the cell of No. 875. It was the flrst communication which Wllhelm had received in the prison. He read the note, and looked anxiously at the chaplain. "He did not return with the rest," he said; " lie is—" " Drowned," supplied the chaplain, sorrow- fully. Wilhelm placed his hands across his eyes for a moment, then sadly folded the paper, with its pitiful story, and placed it in his bosom. "Poor Jack!" he said. That was all. There was nothing more to be said. " Mr. Steinhoff," said the chaplain after a time, " you will pardon my curiosity, will you not? I have an object in asking. Why did poor Jack address you as Bunny Hare?" "Because," said Wilhelm, "that is real'y my name — William Hare." The chaplain was regarding him anxiously and tenderly, " Do you know what your father's name was?" he asked, "or anything whatever about him?" " I know nothing of him," returned Wil- helm, slowly, " except that his name was Northcote Hare, and that he and my mother both died when I was almost a baby." The chaplain sned by «hades drawn low over the lights, and a nurse was al- ready In attendance. Keith's favorite phy- sician, old Dr. Lambert, was standing by a table working with some bandages. The girl went straight on to the bt d. Keith was very, very white. His head was bound across with a white bandage, and tlie coverlet rose and foU quickly with his heavy breathing. He socmed to be aware of her presence and opened his eyes. Sh^ kissed him gently and took his hand in hers. He smiled, then closed his eyes again, and Dorothy sank on her knees beside the bad. There she remained until the nurse whis- pered in her ear that she must go to bed and try to get some sleep. " No, nurse," she said, " I will stay with you." And no entreaty could alter her de- cision. All through the night she sat, hold- ing Keith's cold hands and looking at bis dear, white face. Once he muttered something. She bent her ear down to his lips to hear. " At the window — Dorothy — bless her! Take care, Macbeth! Take ^are, good horse!" Dorothy's head went down upon the pil- low and her breaking heart found vent in sobs. But Keith began to stir and she im- mediately hushed them again. He opened his eyes. " Dorothy! You here?" he whispered. Oh, yes, I remember," he added, with :\ sigh. She stroked a few locks of waving black hair escaping from beneath the bandage into place and kept her band on his fore- head. It seemed to soothe him. " I didn't get it after all," he said, faintly. "What, Keith?" ."The pardon for young SteinbofF, you 76 A STATi IN A PETSON. know. I — I didn't have tlm«' enouRh. Will — you — see about It, Dorothy, If you can? Don't lot them delay, will you?" " Yes, yes!" she cried, to sntlsfy him, but with a cold horror stenling over her. What did he mean by chnrjjlnK her to see to this? Did he think he was Rolng to die? She arose and went steadily out Into the hall, then she stagRered Into a seat. Old Dr. Lambert fol- lowed her and took her into his arms, as a father might have done. "What does he mean? Oh, what does he mean?" she whispered, wildly. The good old man's cheeks were wet with tears, and his arms tightened about her. " Dorothy, my dear little girl, you must keep bfave — for Keith's sake!" She looked at him sharply. " Keith is going to die?" she said, turning white to the lips. She had read in the doctor's face that which he could not find words to tell. " My poor dear, it is better for you to know the worst," he said. " Doctor, tell me truly, how long can he live?" The doctor wiped his eyes. "We'll — we'll — Dorothy, we'll hope to keep him two or three days!" She sat straight up and stared at him for a moment with wide-open eyes. Then she rose and walked steadily back to the bed- side. She could not lose one moment away from him. Before morning Keith spoke to her again. "Dorothy?" J "Yes, dear." " To-morrow send for all my poor. I want to see them all once more. Doctor says — nobody— can come in, but someone can run my bed to the window— and I'll look down at them all." ^ ::; ^ "Yes, Keith!" Dorothy was choking to keep back the tears. "Where is mother?" he asked. " In her room, Agnes says she is sleep- ing. Do you want to see her?" " No, not now. Don't forget to go to her often, Dorothy." And he closed his eyes again. From that moment on, for the next three days, Dorothy hardly closed her eyes in sleep nor ever went out of his chamber except to go up to her mother's room occasionally. Her great eyes grew hollow, and lieavy black rings came about them. Yet she did not feel weary. Agnes would bring her cof- fee and a little of some dainty trifle, served up in the most tempting manner pos- sible. She would eat and drink mechanic- ally, then return to her vigil again. She made no outcry, but was calm and self-possessed throughout, only for the awful look of lone- liness on her face. Dr. Lambert and the nurse could have wept for her many times a day. Lady Cameron was completely prostrated by the shock, and unable to leave her bed, Octavla stayed with her a great deal of the time, but Dorothy nursed her trouble alone. To her, in this early stage of her grief, no human being could bring comfort. Her whole life, thought and feeling was, as yet, bound up with Keith's flickering torch of life. Nothing else in all the wide world was real to her. CHAPTER XX. KEITH'S " POOR." S the gray dawn, after that first fearful night, stole up over the sky, Keith seemed to grow restless, and, at times, half wan- dering. " Have you sent any one to tell them yet?" he would ask every little while, and then he would turn his shining eyes toward the window. Dr. Lambert had at first objected to this scheme of Keith's for seeing his poor. He A 8TAR IN A PRISON. 77 feared that the excitement might quench Silently they took their places and there too soon the candle which was bo speedily remained, almost motionless, save when burulnjf out. But Keith Insisted so urned forward by the crowd that pressed on anxiously, that In order to save the little from behind. So groat was this crowd strength he had left, his wish was granted, that those In front were pressed upward and, ere the sun arose, a swift Ujiessenger was speeding on horseback from house to house among the flats of Lower Town. The people, un- accustomed to controll- ing their emotions, gave full vent to their grief, and exclamations of sor- row, sobs and tears greeted the message given by the horseman that all who could do so were to meet at Dr. Cameron's house at two o'clock that afternoon. In the meantime, Keith was suffering much pain from Internal injuries. His brain grew clearer as the day wore on. He kept his eyes closed most of the time, but he seemed to be thinking, for at times his face grew radiant. As the appointed hour drew nigh, his bed was gently roiled to the win- dow. But the blind was not yet raised. Octavia, from the win- dow of the room above, looked down upon the strange scene wUhout. A little before two upon the very steps, while many others scat- o'clock a wondrous concourse of people be- tered at either side of the broad walk. Yet gan to gather on the broad pavement that there was no noise, no confusion, led up to the steps of the Cameron home— Precisely at two o'clock Dr. Lambert ragged people, lame people, people with the stepped out upon the veranda. Every eye marks of vice and dissipation in their was on him in an instant, and a hush as of countenances, but all with sorrowful faces, death spread over the motley concourse. A hush spread over the motley concourse. 78 A STAR IN A PBISON. " Friends," said the old doctor, with a break In his voice, " I need not warn you to be as quiet, as self-contained, as possible. Any loud expression of your grief may be harmful to our — our brother. Watch this window and you may see him for a few mo- ments only*^ Now, I depend upon you." "Amen!" responded two or three. And every eye was turned on the window. The blind was drawn up. Every one could see clearly the beloved face of their mutual friend and benefactor, white and wan. In the dark setting of the window. Keith was propped up on pillows, and was supported by an old college friend, and by Octavla's husband. Sir Henry Oldbury. Dorothy stood behind, weeping silently. A momentary swaying took hold upon the people. Uncouth faces changed Instan- taneously. Pity, pain, anguish, were written on every countenance. Some nearest the window knelt as If beseeching his blessing. One woman held aloft her little child to look at him. Tears ran down cheeks rarely visited by them, and heavy sighs and sobs burst from the woe-stricken multitude. Keith looked over the faces, as though he would gaze at each one separately; then he smiled and pointed upward. Many eyes looked towards the sky as though expecting to see an angel In visible form. Groans and smothered sobs broke out afresh. But their friend was growing weaker. He smiled once, and wafted a kiss from his fingers to them. Then the blind v,eut down and they saw him no more. Octavla, looking fr: "Cttr''ron, Wllhelm read and re-read the passage, vaguely trying to realize what it meant. Keith Cameron, the handsome, strong man, whose hearty hand had pressed his, whose deep musical voice had fallen upon his ears in that sell-same chamber but a short' time ago, dead! Surely it could not be I He turned over the paper and searched for a fuller account. Here it was: " A Fatal Accident." Slowly he read the paragraph, which gave a full account of the terrible termination of the polo game. Yes, It was but too true! Keith Cameron, the benevo- lent, the useful physician, was no more. This, then, was' the end of that brilliant career— and yet not the end, for Keith Cam- eron's life had been one that could never die. Wllhelm read on. A paragraph below gave a full account of the strange scene which iiad accompanied the gathering of the poor at the Cameron mansion before Keith's death, and of Hermann SteinhofiC's confes- sion. Wilhelm's heart seemed to stand still for a momenta He sat down in a chair and tried to think. Hermann, too, dead! Her- mann had confessed! Gradually an under- standing of the matter dawned upon him. He wondered what had induced the old man to make this strange, public statement of his guilt. Poor old Hermann! Had he become at last changed? Had his conscience so worked upon him as to urge him to this step, after all the years of silence? But Wilhelm's questions were unanswered. Slowly and sadly he. turned away, and went back to some light task upon which he had been (engaged in the prison yard. And then the instinct of self-preservation arose in him. What effect would Keith's untimely death have upon his, Wilhelm's, cwn fate? This Keith Cameron was the man who had been working for his release. W^f this the cause of tho long delay? TT«» hac ut .i ■.- hl^. ing anxiously for weeks. SufC.>^ tli«> UvSI^m* would not now be gl' n up. ^1 v J2i ' ''4^> St^'InVjff's confessioj somt v'ui would A STAB IN A PBISON. 83 surely see that justice was done. It could not be possible that the cup had thus been placed to his lips only to be withdrawn ere he had tasted one drop of its sweet- ness. Nevertheless he felt unusually depressed, and the dull gloom of the November day added to his depression, for the sadness of approaching winter filters even through prison walls. Above, the sky wrs heavy and gray; about, the walls were dreary and dis- colored, the more so because a light snow had fallen during the night and still lay, pure and white, on the roofs above, in glar- ing contrast to the dinginess about It. How very long it seemed— ages and ages almost— since Wilhelm had wandered about at will, sunshine above and boyish gladness in his heart! For he always thought of the capital as it had been in summer. The old canal arose before him, as he bent over his tasl£, glinting along between its green, wooded banlis; and his eye followed it, down past the great trees of the southern parlt, through between the crowded build- ings of the city, under the bridges, and down the last locks near the river, w lere. with a glimpse of the low, forest-covered Laurentians, it empties into the noble Ottawa, and is lost in Its multitudinous waters. Alas! every day it seemed more like a dream, more like a sweet memory of some fairy scene of a previous stage of existence, in which friends flitted like spectres and a golden-haired maiden was queen. Wilhelm sighed deeply. What was Gertrude doing? It was strange that she had not written to him. When the men formed in line to go In for the night, W^llholm mechanically stepped Into his place. The happy presentiment that he was doing so for the lost time never entered his mind. As he passed through the great hall beneath the dome, a keeper touched him on the arm. "You are wanted in the ofQce, Mr, St«in- hoff." Wilhelm stepped out of line obediently. Then it dawned upon him that the action, the tone, the words of the keeper at this time, could have but one meaning. Im- patiently he stood waiting, yet he dared not build his hopes too high. He watched the men running up the narrow, winding stair- ways, and caught many a stealthy, curious glance from the shaven multitude swarm- ing about the dizzy curves. He saw the long line — that line of which he had for so many years been a member — stand before the barred doors, silently waiting. He saw the doors open together and the men enter with military precision. He heard the locks click. Then the keeper said "Come," and led the way out of the great, bare, dreary chamber. He entered the oflioe, that office with its " cheery fire leaping up in the grate, just as it had upon that other day so long ago. Yet how merrily now did the flames leap and dance towards the roaring chimney! The warden arose to meet him and shook hands with him cordially. " Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Stelnhoflf," said he. " I have a pleasant duty to perform to-day. The order for your lib- eration has come at last. I am very sorry it has been delayed so long. Mr. Stelnhoff. this Is an event unpn edentedjn our Insti- tution. You are discharged with honor. Not a stain will go with you, for your inno- cence has been conclusively proved." The warden laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder kindly. " Heaven knows." he continued, "I wish you had been out of this long ago. You have borne the injustice well." .: .■ Wilhelm had nov spoken. Although he had been expecting this he could scai-oely realize that it had come at last. He sat down upon a chair and for a moment trem- bled. He could grpsp nothing except that he was free, free, freel Tears of thankful- ness and joy ran down his cheeks. The clerk pretended to write, while the warden 84 A STAB IN A FBI SON, walked to the window and rubbed his eyes suspiciously. Then the necessary entries were made in the prison book, and, after a few more pre- liminaries, the clerk handed to Wilhelm two letters. One bore Gerti-ude's fine, peculiar handwriting. In his haste to opeji it, he scarcely noticed that the seal had not been broken by the prison officials. "Dear Wilhelm!" Yes, Gertrude's own fingers had traced the words. He read on. Every word of the letter seemed like an echo of her voice, her old, gentle voice. So engrossed was he that he did not notice that the clerk and the warden had both, with delicate consideration, left the room. " How heartless you must have thought me, Wilhelm!" it ran. "But oh, Wilhelm, we never knew until lately what had hap- pened to you. Had I known you were in that dreadful penitentiary, I do not think the earth itself would have been sufficient to keep me from you! We never heard a word of news away up on that little island, and I murmured over the loneliness of it!— the beautiful, free island, while you— -oh, Wilhelm, I cannot bear to think of it! Poor oKi grandfather! How I wish you could have seen him before he died! But now, not a word more until you are with us. Dorothy and I are planning to weary you with talk when we get you here." In, the second envelope vras a polite little note from Dorothy Cameron and her mother, requesting Mr. Steluhoff to make a visit to their home, where Gertrude was staying, at as early a date as possible. So absorbed was Wilhelm in his letters that he did not notice someone had entered. A tall man, dressed in a long, black, clergyman's core, was standing silently near. Two gentle eyes w ire look- ing down upon Wilhelm, filled with rejoic- ing for his deliverance, and the giowlng fire shone upon a saint-like face framed In with long gray hair, now falling in waves almiit the face, until It seemed like a rare old pic- ture suddenly endowed with life. It was the chaplain. Wilhelm looked up. "My boy, my boy, thank God for this!" said the chaplain, fervently. That was all. Then hand clasped hand In that close, warm grasp which denotes the friendship stronger than death. "You will leave to-night?" asked the chai> lain at length. Upon the impulse of the moment Wilhelm would liave answered "Yes," but he thought of the poor, loveless creatures he had known so long. He could not leave without seeing them again. If he could but speak to them once and bid them farewell; " This Is Saturday evening," he said, slowly. " Do you think the warden will permit me to see the men In the chapel lu the mornii.g, and to speak to them for a moment?" " I am sure," the chaplain replied, quietly, " that the favor will not be refused to Mr. Stelnhoff. I will take your request to the warden." He did so, and received a ready assent. That night Wilhelm did not sleep in his cell. He was taken to the warden's house. No one could do enough for the man who had been wronged, and had suffered so bravely and patiently. How very strange It seemed to tread once more upon soft, carpeted floors, to sit upon cushioned seats, and, above all, to take part in the free, unrestricted conversation of a family circle! At times he was almost afraid of the sound of his own voice, and, unconsciovaly, 'spoke almost in a wl^teiper. Then the dainty bed-room to which he was shown! The soft bed, with its fine, snowy linen—what a marvellous thing it seemed! He almost hated to get Into it for fear of rumpling it. This wps surely unusual lux- ury! Wiiihetea looiied at everj'taiag with an almcM»t elUM-llke interest, and, indeed, as ye^ he was but a child again to the things of the world. A STAJt IN A FBI SON. 85 In the nJght he awoke. The wind was howling about the house. What did that mean? He had never been able to hear the wind in his tomb-like prison cell. He stretched out his hand and it touched a vel- vet cushion. He was so startled that he sat up in bed. Then he remembered where he was, and lay down again with a sigh of contentment. In the morning, accompanied by the genial warden, he passed once more under the great, white pillars, through the iron gate and down the gravelled walk to the peni- tentiary building. The guards saluted, as they advanced; the warden talked fa- miliarly all the way. It was all very strange and unreal. As they entered the corridor Pierre Bel- leau crossed the hall below. He, too, was dressed in civilian's clothes. " Dupont— or Belleau, I believe his name Is— has been discharged to-day," remarked the warden. " Indeed!" Wllhelm stepped aside to offer congratulations to the Frenchman. But no smile entered the sad eyes. "Where are you going, Pierre?" asked Wllhelm. The other shook his head. " It not mat- ter," he said, in his broken English; " dore is no room anyw'ere for a convict. Well," bitterly, "w'at a mHn sows lif> nius' reap, affer all, so he mus' jiot up wit' it de Ijhs' he can." "Wait until to-morrow and fome with me to the capital," urged Williitllil; then, in a lower tone, " We may get trace of Adolphe there you know." The sallow face brightened. Pierre hesi- tated a moment, then said, " I will go, if — if you t'lnk it no disgrace to travel wit' me." "That's all right," said Wilhelm heartily, as he passed on. A fit of coughing seized the French- man as they left him. The warden looked back at him anxiously. " I'm afraid the poor felkjw is not very long for this world," he said. "If he goes with you to the city, I wish you'd sort of look after him for a while." "I will," returned Wilhelm. He <}id not need this reminder. They were now descending the narrow stair, and once more he entered the chapel. But under how different circumstances! This time he did not sit, with folded arms, on a bench below. He was given a seat upon the platform, near the desk, and beside him sat the warden. Every eye In the room was fixed upon him. The pris- oners looked at him enviously yet tliank- fuliy. They rejoiced in the good fortune of this man, whom, in some strange way, they had learned to love, despite tne restrictions of prison disr'pUno It was a plen re to them to liuik at his magnificent physique, now 'iuwn to full n<1 vantage by the ne«t suit of black wliioh had been substituted for his gray prison suit with its odio«s number; to look into his frank, handsome countenance, and to feel that this man, though Innocent, cared for them and looked upon tluMu as brothers. Wilhelm looked over the shaven multitude, the gray-clad creatures whom he had^ ki'own so long, with here and there one clothed in the hideous checked apparel that denoted the incorrigible. With wlmt emotions did he fflze into those faces, feeling that he would give life Itself, even at this moment of free- dom, to be able to raise them, one and all, to a Mseful and happy lisanl'ood; tliose faces, some dull, with but half-awakened faculties or with the monotony of long, changeless years; some sl)firp, shrewd and intellectual; faces, some marked by lives of willful wick- edness, others by the weakness of character that falls almost at tii<^' first provocation; faces, some patient with hopeless waiting, some sullen, bitter, hardened and resentful; yet all, this morning, brightened hy a stir of interest, and with an expression of friendli- ness in the look which they bestowed upon Wilhelm. Little wonder was It that tears 86 A STAB IN A PRISON. came Into the young man's eyes, not be- cause of the weary penalty which these men had Incurred and probably well de- served,^ but because of what they them- selves were. From the very beginning of the service there was an unusual impresaiveness in the air. Every one felt it. Chaplain Hare was very unconventional in his order of worship. After the opening prayer, he said, "Would any one like to begin a hymn?" There was a moment's silence, then a voice at the end of a seat began to sing. One by one the others joined in a low, plaintive, melancholy strain. The words were those written by a convict: " Sowing the tares under cover of night, "Which might have been wheat all golden and bright. Oh, heart, turn to God, with repentance and pray'r. And plead for forgiveness for sowing the tares." It was a sad, wild cry of remorse, and so it sounded from these cowering criminals. Wllhelm did not sing. When the hymn was over, his fine, deep voice arose: " Far off thou hast wandered; Wilt thou further roam? Come, and all is pardoned. My son! My son! *• Thou art friendless, homeless, Hopeless and undone; Mine is love unchanging, My son' My son! "JjVelcome, wand'rer, welcome! " Welcome hnclt to ho e! Thou hast wandef^d lur away, Come home' Come home!" **%* voices ranf out, /r you as" — he paused again, and added in a low voice — "as he has brightened it for me. In this prison I have come cloH«r to him thau ever before. His presence brought me Joy — yes, even joy. And such A STAB IK A PBISON. 87 an expeiiance waits for each one of yon, If you will but come close enough to him. He Is here In our midst, as loving, as real, as he ever was to the disciples of old. And now, dear friends, good-by. I may never see some of you again on this earth. God grant we may meet beyond." He pointed upward as be spoke, and hard hear+s were wondrously moved and shaven heads were bowed. Upon that afternoon Wilhelm waildered out into the streets, up by the heavy, gray forts, down by the rolling water, with Wolfe's Island lying, a long, low line of dun- colored forest, upon the opposite side. He met men and women and little children, and looked curiously into their faces. Their slightest actions were to him Invested with an intense Interest. No one recognized him, though many glarced at him a second time, wondering who the handsome stranger might be. Everything was wonderful, won- derful! In the evening he went to church. It seemed very strange to sit in such a place once more, looking into contented faces, listening to the deep tones of the organ and the singing of the choir. It seemed like being on the <^iUskirts of heaven. That uight he slept at a hotel. Next morning, long before daybreak, he awoke. Ere night should again fall he would be in the capital. He wondered if people would receive him at all, or if he would be an out- cast from society because he had worn the prison gray. He half dreaded to go back among those whom he had once known. Yet Gertrude wai there. What mattered it If all the world looked coldly upon him, so long as she was his friend! Then what should he doV Would any one trust him now, all innocent though he had been proved, enough to give him a situation whereby he might make his living? or would the stigma of the penitentiary still cling to him in any way? Well, if all else fulled, he would go out into the western w'lds of the great Dominion, where many, not more deserving than he, had already found homes. So he tossed and turned and pondered, and wondered when the day would come. At last the gray light came creeping In. Then footsteps began to echo- in the halls. He arose and went downstairs. He drew out his gold watch, which had been kept for him. It was Just seven o'clock. In one hour he would be aboard the train. He sat down at the breakfast table, and looked admiringly at the white cloth and the cen- ter-piece of scarlet geraniums. This was surely unusual style for hotels. He was great^ surprised, at first, when one of the wait«ns came politely to wait upon him, — upon him, the convict, who had for so long eaten from a deep tin dish* In a soli- tary cell! Gradually the usages of civilized life came back to him and he ceased to marveK He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost train time. Then he hurried to the station. Yes, there was the slight figure, in the long black coat. Ear'y as it was, the chaplain had come down to say good-by. With him was Pierre Belleau. "I have bought him a first-class ticket," whlspcrod the chaplajln, referring to Pierre; and Wilhelm smiled as he laid his hand upon the Frenchman's arm. The engine puffed. '* All aboard!" sounded along the platform. "God bless you, lads! Write to me soon!" said the chaplain. And, with a hearty good- by, the two convicts stepped aboard the train and started off on their way to the capital. For a time both were silent. Wilhelm was wondering what reception was ahead of h'm; if Gertrude would be very glad to see him; if she would be very much changed. Pierre was thinking of his family. At last he said, In the broken English which he sometimes used instead of his native language, and in a low, timid voice: w 88 A STAB IN A PBISON. "I t'lnk mebbe It not bes' for dem, my chll'ren, to meet a fader from de peniten- tiary. Doy do better wit'out me now, do you not t'lnk so?" "I tlilnk," returned Wllhelm, "that you should at least let them know of your ex- istence. If Adolphe Belleau is the same Ind that I remember, I imagine he will want lu see his father." Pierre shook his head. " But mebbe I mak' heem as^ nme'. Ah!" plaintively, "no wan want to tak' Pierre In now! Dere's not'lng lef for heem but to die! Dere's no hope in freedom for heem mce! Better heem die in de penitentiary!" Wllhelm turned to him. " See here, Pierre," he said, "there's no use of giving up like this. You really want to see your children again, do you not?" "See dem!" The Frenchman's eyes filled with an intense Are of longing, and a hectic flame burned on his cheek. "Heaven only know how I long to see dem— my baby, an* de wife, an' de leetle girl! How I have lie on my bed in de night, weeping because T was lef dem, an' went down., down till I have shame to go back to dem more. An' den de penitentiary was come. I could not go back. I mak' in my mln' 'levere to write to tell dem de disgrace. But oh, de tor- ture! De anguish of it! Now, I t'ink if I see dem jus' wan time more, hear dem say dey forgive, den I die!" Wllhelm put his hand on the other's shoulder. " Belleau," he said, " to this lad, who may be your son. I owe a debt of grati- tude which I can never repay. For my own sake I shall find him. I shall tell him of you. If I am not mistaken in the honest face I re- member so well, he will then come to you of his own free will. In the meantime, keep me informed of all that you do. I want to be your friend, Pierre Belleau." The Frenchman looked at him with the old wistful, envious expression in his sunken eyes. " But you," he replied. " are too <,good to be friend for wan so weecked. Tou n<»vore do de sin wat mak' earth all black, evil— no, nevere!" Then, dropping into hl?« own language, he confessed. So the train sped on. Meantime, in a comfortable flat of rooms, on one of the cheeriest streets of the capital, a cozy home was being fitted up, into which —though all unknown to Agnes and Adolphe as to I'ierre Belleau — the poor convict was ere long to creep, broken, feeble, yet happier, in his children's love, than he had ever hoped to be in this world. For Adolphe Belleau was prospering, and he aud Agnes were once more beginning housekeeping together. The carpets were down, the simple furni- ture arranged, the white curtains looped back and the walls decorated with Agnes' paintings. Above the mantel was the sweet, sad face of the woman whom Agnes so often saw In her visions. Dorothy had dropped in to see how matters were pro- gressing, and had pronounced everything perfect. Moreover, this was a proud day for the brother aud sister. Upon another wall, that of the National Art Galh ry, at an exhi- bition then being held, hung a picture painted by Mademoiselle Agnes Belleau. Adolphe thought it a marvel. Others stopped to look admiringly at it, perhaps recognizing the mild, thoughtful face which it portrayed. For Agnes had realized her dream of long ago. She had painted "wan picture, very large, very beautiful." It rep- resented "de Queen of Heaven," and the face was that of Mademoiselle Cameron. CHAPTER XXIII. AT LAST UNITED. IN one of the coziest rooms of the Cameron home, upon a heavy couch of crimson velvet, reclined a young woman, upon whose cheeks a faint flush was wavering, A STAB IN A PRISON. 89 and nhout whose sad. sweet llpe a hovering smile (X'C'usionally settled. She was dressed all In black, but the firelight 'wcnme, now and then tangled In her lair, which formed a bright hah about her race. She was gazing into the depths of the coals that kept falling from tht» rrnckUng oak log above. What she saw in them she never hns told, but the visions were surely pleasant. The end of It all was thnl she dropped asleep, with her head on the great cushion. Presently a gentle touch fell upon hef arm, and she arose. The night wind v as blowing over a bleak plain that had ueither tree nor boundary, but the dark, misty sky met the dark, mistj earth upon all sides. The moon shone fltfylly above, and the plain that lit-r feet must tread was all ashes and yielding; sand. No word was spoken, but she followed her guide silently, and It seemed that she had known him before. He was old and bent and the moonlight r«^^vealed faintly his black cap, his long black coat and the thih gray locks streaming over his shoulders. He went ever on and on. She could not hea his footsteps, and her own feet sank piti- fully into the ashes, but sue dared not stop. "Whither goest thou?" she asked. He. would not answer, but glided on before her like a sh^de of the night, And the wind was chill. They came to a river, broad and black and deep and silent. " Carry me! Carry me!" she cried. He answered, " Come," and went on over the black flood. She must press forward alone. She plunged into the dark depths. Arms, strong as steel, bore her aloft. She raised her eyes and saw that the one who bore her wore the garb of a convict. Then a light shoiie from the clouds above, and, looking up, she saw Keith Cameron smiling upon her. Whenever he smiled the light shone more brightly. Then a V'>ice soundid about, above, below, • filling the wliole air: " It Is well." She awoke with a start, and Dorothy Cameron was there on !ier knees l>* side her. " Gertrude, dear." she said, " your brother Nas come;" and she laid her brown curly head upon tlie soft cushion and wept. Poor Dorothy! The gates of death alone would restore to her her brother! Gertrude threw her arms about the kneel- ing form and kissed her tear-stained cheek. Then she went, with throbbing; heart, down the broad stairway. At the doorway sheJiesitated a moment. A strange emotion, akin *o dread, stayed het hand on the folds of the curtain. Then she drew it back and stood for a moment beneath the crimson dr pery. Surely this tould not be Wilhelra! This broad-shouldered man, with t\w deep, calm face, was not the Wiihelm she r* mem- bered — the youth with slight f^irm and boyish faee. Then lie smiled and reached bis hands to her, and she knew him. But he, looking upon the slight, black- robed tigure, the fluslied face, the gol 'en tiair, saw again the same Gertrude of his dreams; Gertrude's old self, a little sad- dened, perhaps, a little ripened by long experience. The same blue eyes looked back into his; the same pretty gestures were not forgotten, for. In the old way, she sat down beside him, and with her tiny hands threw back her hair from her face, just as she used to do. Then she did something that he had very seldom, in the old days, seen her do-she burst into tears. But they were tears mingled with joy. There was little need for words, for each understood the other now. Yet, after a time, all must be told, and ere the shades of evening gathered, Wiihelm had followed Gertrude through hex exile, and Gertrude had suffered and rejoiced with Wiihelm in his imprisonment. So heart was at last bound to heart, and each knew that separ- ation would never come more. Then night fell. .0^. ^^.t IMAGE EVALUATBON TEST TARGET (MT-3) 7 "^ A .^..-^ t/. f/. ^ .<$> 1.0 I.I lu I a 1.25 i 1.4 6" 2.0 Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 673-4503 x5> 90 A STAR IN A PBISOir. A 'i -h In honor of Wllhelm's return, the house Is alight for the tirst time since Keith went, away. The silll. shut-up rooms are cnoe more thrown open, and flowers, gay with pink bloom, are on mantel and shelf, driv- ing out the remembrance of the lingering odor of white rose and lily and hyacinth burdened with perfume — those sad, sweet fragrances of death. And Is the noble young master himself absent from this scene of rejoicing? Can he nevermore revisit this dear spot which he has loved? Mayhap it is his spirit that enters by yon *ialf-open door, that s^ays yon gently waving curtain. If so, there is surely a smile on his spirit-lips, for one of earth's " poor," a little, desolate boy, now grown into uoble manhood, is sitting at his hearth. Misty fingers may point to this man, and shadowy lips may murmur as if on the breath of a south wind, *' Ad astra per aspera," as, with clearer eyes, now gifted with super-mortal vision, the friend of the poor looks down upon thou- sands of earth's human atoms, crawling over the hills and brambles, all unseeing the stars that glimmer, faintly yet surely, at the end of the diflilcult way. Courage, brothers! Courage, toiling ones! The knees are sore, and the feet are weary. The head droops, and the hands toil. The way may be red with drops of the heart's blood. But. at every inch mastered, the star grows brighter and shines more gloriously along, the way and upon the face of the tired traveler. See it growing radiant and more radiant! The toiling one reaches It and Is transfigured before it. Creeping painfully no longer, he enters it and he and the light become one. It Is no longer a star, but a glorified human being, shining as the sun. The name or the star is '* Perfected Char- acter," and behind it is God. Human beings, wist ye not that as ye toll upward ye shine? Know ye not that thrcufj'h struggle ye become strong? Why, then, do ye fry ail for flower-strewn ways and balmy airs and soft arbors wherein ye may indulge In the death-like sleep of indolence? If ye loiter, ye stagnate; if ye stand still, ye die. CHAPTER XXIV. A CHANGED PICTURE. PON his arrival in the city, Pierre Belleau sought out the hum- blest, most obscure of boarding-houses. "It Is good enough for a con vie'," he said. In the meantime Wllhelm obtained from Dorothy Cameron the number of the flat occupied by Adolphe and Agnes, and, at un early date, paid them a visit. He told Adolphe, who was overjoyed to see him, about the poor convict who bore the name of Pierre Belleau. The, youth listened with keen and painful interest, and ii was soon established, wHhout a doubt, that this French convict was the long-lost father, who was now bat little more than a name to Adolphe and his sister. "He Is now in this city. You will go to see him, will you not?" asked Wllhelm, anxiously. Adolphe's face flushed hotly. " Monsieur Stelnhoff," he said, at length, "it is not pleasant to me to meet a convict fader. Heem never true fader, or heem not leave us so. We cannot now have de right affec- tion for heem." "Adolphe," said Wllhelm earnestly, ".can you not forgive him?" The youth was silent. " If you knew that he was alone, suffer- ing, dying, longing for the sight of the chil- dren he has^wronged, would you not go to him, no matter under what circumstances he might be placed?" The lips of the French youth trembled. M sa loi on H yo A STAB IN A FBI SON. 91 "It Is no pleasant task you bring to me, Monsieur Steinhofif," he said. "I know It, Adolphe. But it is for his sake I have told you. He is weary with Jonjing for the consciousness that even one on 1 ills great earth cares a little for him. He cannot live very long. Will you not, by your presence, bring to him one little ray of gladness ere he goes? He has sinned, but he has repented, with a repentance that has eaten his life out." Adolphe sat for a moment gazing down at the floor. Then he looked up resolutely. " I will go," he said. Ere another hour had gone two muflfled forms passed out of the flat, and bent their steps toward the little boarding-house in ^hlch Pierre Belleau lay upon a dingy sofa, coughing feebly. He had caught cold on the train and was hot and feverish. He wondered if he would die soon, and, If not, how he should manage to keep the life in his frail body. Would any one give him work? Would he be able to do It if they did? It would be better if he could die soon. In all the great, dreary world there was not one to care very much. He heard a knock at the little hall door. Then the boarding - house mistress went through and opened It. Some one said, " Is Monsieur Belleau here?" Then the door of the room In which he lay was thrown open. A handsome youth and a dark -eyed girl came In, and stopped hesitatingly before the worn figure on the sofa. Pierre looked again. Could these be — yes, that was the very face of the pretty French girl he had wedded In the little church near Quebec — her face, and yet not hers. He sat up, and his face was trans- formed. " My children!" he said, then bowed his head upon theirs, for with a sudden Impulse they had dropped to their knees at his feet. " I have now seen you. I can die," he said. In the quick, melodious language of his childhood. And now It seemed that he had gone back to the Innocence of his youth again, in these, his children. " But no," said Adolphe, speaking In the same dialect, which fell like music on his father's ears, "you will come home to us, and be our father once more." ' But you do not know all?" " Yes, we know all." Pierre's eyes lighted up with unutterable Joy. " Heaven, too, must forgive," he mur- mured, " since the wronged human children have forgiven." Then Adolphe went out and brought back a hack to the door. And the convict, leaning upon his daughter*s arm, entered It At the flat he was taken iuto the best room and pbced In the best chair. He sal before the grate, and above him was the sad, sweet face of the angel whom Agnes had painted. He looked at it, and an expression of pain payf'ed '»ver his face. " Ah," he murmured to himself, " It Is the little mother's face, as It might be in heaven, but too sad, too sad! If she had been able to see my wickedness she aiight have looked like that. No, no! the pain was spared her. It Is too sad. My brushes, my brushes!" The quick ear of his daughter heard his words. She had told him of the death of her mother, and he had wept. Quietly she slipped from the room and brought him her palette and her brushes. Without seeming to notice her, he took them from her hand. He quickly mixed the paiL- on the board, then began to use the brushes on the face. Agnes watched him with intense interest. With a few delicate strokes he changed the mouth, the eyes. The sadness disappeared from the lips, a radiant smile came into the eyes. The mother seemed to beam with angel happi- ness upon the reunited family. Pierre stepped back and regarded his work. "Aye. my children!" he said. They stepped beside him, one on either side, and he placed his arms about them, and 92 A STAB IN A PBISON. they looked at the face, and the face smiled down upon them. Upon the following day Adolphe went to see Wllhelm Steinhoff. " Monsieur Steinhoff." he seid, " you say you are to me indebted for help get you free. By me has de debt now to be paid. I t'ank you for being de friend to my poor fader, and because you give heera back to us. For ten t'ousan' dollar would I not have seen heem never!" ;, And Wllhelm smiled and was content. CHAPTER XXV. ^ , •; y^^ A SCENE OF PEACE. IS five years later. Autumn has again fallen upon the capital. The birds, gathering In the trees, are plain- tively whistling their last farewell. Upon the mountains across the river the haze lies sleepily, like a thin veil of blue, drawn across the blushing beauties of the crimson- ing forest, and down the broad valley of th) Ottawa the drowsy breeze comes, tardily, like a belated guest. All nature is at rest. And peaceful indeed seems the silent city on the hill, where a few late flowers still bloom at the marble doors, and the yellow leaves come fluttering -lowly down upon palaces which never echo to the sound of careless laughter or the tread of Irreverent feet. The cemetery gate opens and two women enter, one bearing o bouquet of choicest flowers. The other, and the older, woman wears a long, loose garment of black, and a black veil thrown back from the face repeals a countenance still placid and sweet. The women are Dorothy and Sister Dell. Slowly they advance, pausing here and there to look down upon the mound which marks the resting-place of some friend of former days. Sister Dell has been faithfully laboring in a distant city for yuars, and, amid the silent streets of the cemetery, sur- prises meet her on every hand. Presently Dorothy pauses before a pure, white marble shaft, whose glittering surface Is unbroken by device or sculpture. It is the tomb of the gentle colporteur, the saint- like, loving chaplain, Francis Hare. Upon the stone is written the simple inscription: "Traveling alone down the pathway of life, he brightened the way for others." Dorothy tells Sister Dell the story of his life and of his relationship to Wllhelm Steinhoff. ,.^- ^r " By the way," she adds, " our Mh Stein- hoff ha3 gone to take his place as chaplain. His wife has written to me that some of the men who were there when he served his terrible imprisonment are there still, and that they are overjoyed to meet him In his new capacity. I am sure he will do a great work among them, for his personal magnetism is something wonderful. And yet it Is not wonderful, either when one considers the great love and sympathy hie has for every human being." "And his wife— what of her?" Sister Dell is more interested In the welfare of the fair girl whom she once nursed back to life and health. "Gertrude? Oh, she Is very well. You should see how rosy her cheeks are! She is just as happy as can be, and she and her husband positively adore each other." " We shall go together to^ay them a visit some day, Dorrie," ' ' Dorothy was arranging some pure white lilies about the glistening marble. She arose and drew her friend's arm within her own. T A STAB IN A FBI SON. 93 "Assuredly," she said. "We were with Gertrude in her trouble — we will rejoice with h«r in her joy. I thinli you will lilie her husband very much." She paused, then added in a lower tone, "In some ways he re- " ' . . minds me very much of— of Keith. He never tries to be anything famous or great him- self, though with his abilities he might be as famous as he chose. He just wants to be helpful, and he chooses to devote his life to those who arcr^ despised and neglected by others." She valked on, draw- ing lier friend with her, and instinctively Sister Dell liuew whither they were now going. They stopped before a stately, pillared tomb, the tomb of Keith Cameron. Dorothy knelt, as though upon sacred ground, and her face was very grave, while in the deep eyes shone that look which seemed to reach into the very portals of heaven. The red sun- set light shone up in the western sky and rested upon her earnest face. Her lips moved. She arose and began to twine, with loving fingers, the delicate blos- soms about the cold, white pillars. The silence was that of a great cathedral, and to these- two women it seemed that they were indeed within the cloistere of a mighty temple, wherein the earth was the footstool of the Lord, and the clouds above the cur- tains of his chamber. • Leaning upon the railing of the tomb. Sister Dell read the words placed there in recognition of the loving life, ever followed Slowly they advanced, pausing here and there.— See page 92. in the footsteps of Him who was, and always is. Love. "Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, sou of .Tonas, lovpst thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest thft '' love thee. He saith uato him, Feed my lambs. mffmmm'nmfw - 94 A STAB IN A PRISON. ** He saith to him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. " He sa^th unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou Itnowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep." THE END. T^TTS^ ipp 'ter was he third nto him, knowest m, Feed A Swiss Hero. By anna may WILSON. -*^^. > T the town of Stanz, in Switzerland, stands a fine monummt. Its chief figure rep- resents a prostrate warrior, whose arm? are clasped about a bunch of lances. Over his body is rushing another warrioj, with mace uplifted, and eager glance bent on before. The legend attached to this voices a senti- ment which could receive birth only amid a liberty-loving people, and which illustrates well the fact that almost every forward movement, every stroke for freedom, has been made over the sacrificed body or strength of some brave one who gave him- self that the oppressed might arise*. The legend is as follows: During the early days of Switzerland, while the greater part of it was still under the rule and rod of Austria, the peasantry of the mountain- land WPS grievously burdened by the nobles, who thought themselves very powerful be- cause they were upheld in their wiclied deeds by the Duke of Austria. Taxation be- came heavier and heavier, until at last grievous tolls were imposed on every per- son leaving or entering the district of Lucerne. The people bore it as long as they could, then, one day. a troop of Lucerners galloped to the castle of Rothenberg, at which toll was established, and razed it to the ground. News of the affair reached Duke Leopold of Austria. He at once determined to pun- ish the mountaineers, and to force them to bow to his will. With a great army of cuirassed and helmeted men, finely mounted on trained war-horses, he set out for Lucerne. At Sempach, he perceived his way blocked by the peas utry, who were drawn up, in a wedge-shaped body, at the top of a hill. He at once called a halt. It was decided that the horses would be of little use in this hill-fighting, so the men were ordered to dismount, and leave their chargers in care of the servants. Then, forming in solid lines at the foot of the hill, they pressed upward like a moving wall of steel. The day was hot. The sun was high in the heavens, and the light flashed on lance, and helmet, and fluttering pennon. The men above, looking upon the beautiful yet terrible sight, fell upon their knees and prayed. They, poor peasants, wore, instead of linked coats of maii, but homespun jackets of wool. Many were bareheaded. Moreover they were armed but with short clubs, maces and battle-axes, weapons which might prove almost utterly useless when opposed to the long lances, now leveled In. close, moving lines, almost at the brow of the hill. As the Austrlans came near, they burst into a laugh of derision. But their laughter only acted as a fresh incentive to the spirits of the peasantry. The opposing forces closed. Sixty of the hill-men fell, ere yet a single Austrian* had been killed. The short weapons were utterly incapable of reaching the foe across the barrier of lances. The Swiss began to waver. They were on the verge of falling back before the enemy. " I will open a way for you," exclaimed brave Arnold von Winkelried In thunder {ones. " Ye men of the hills, take care of my wife and child!" » Y* I 96 A 8WI88 HEBO. Forward rushed the brave soldier, and, gathering in his mighty arms as many of the lances as he could reach, he threw him- self upon them, and bore them to the ground. " Across his body rushed the brave moun- iaineers. A path had been opened, and, ere the Austrians could recover from their sur- prise, the short maces and battle-axes were among them. The conflict was short and decisive. The enemy, seized by a panic, fled down the hill, Intending to mount their friendly noblemen living In the vicinity. As n'ght fell, and the last pink flush of the setting sun stole u^ the western heavens, thene weary men, looking from the turret windows, saw fires gleaming along the dark mountain-sides, and from the tops of acces- sible peaks. Fiercely they scowled, but little recked the brave mountaineers, who had returned to their humble homos and were now thus signaling the Joyful news of victory to the more remote valleys of the Schwesch. Their Independence waS not yet horses and ride away. But no horse was wholly won, but they were well pleased that to be seen; for the servants, becoming alarmed, had already gone with them, deem- ing their own lives of more value than their masters'! The Austrians, whose heavy armor now hindered them in their flight, became scat- tered amid the fastnesses of the mountains. A few of them Avandered to the castles of they had dealt such a blow to their oppres- sors as would cause their rights to be re- spected more in future, and their free and hardy spirits looked forth to a day when Switzerland might be, what she is now, a brave little land, renowned, among all the empires cf Europe, for her thrift, her Indus- try, and the freedom of her people. MIW C JRCRORN I '-.-^ xMs^m umtK t mm' i * RflLPK CliCHORN lie vicinity, flush of the rn heavens, I the turret ng the dai'k ps of acccs- owled, but Ineers, who homos and ful news of leys of the vaS not yet leased that lelr oppres- » to be re- r free and day when Is now, a ng all the her Indus- le. Tub Nbw Saiiuatu Libkakv— ( Contlnoed from Hecond pa^e cover. Ruby; or, A Heart of Gold By a. LIX.A RILBT. ThU story is of Southern life, and the author has portrayed the different characters in a elf ver way that will charm the reader, while all will love " Ruby," the little lad who gives the book its name, and who brings smiles one moment and tears the next. The Awakening of Kohath Slioane Bt Julia MacNaib Wright. This is one of the most intensely interesting, pleasing;, and helpful stories for young people ever publlshfd. and Avill be gladly welcomed. Ii v.ill thrill the heart of the young person who reads it as few stories have the power to do. Paula Clyde; OR. HOW TlIK BUTTONED HOOTS MAISrHEI). By Kate W. HamOiTON. This story lells of a bright young girl and her praise- worthy resolution. The account of her failures and victories is interesting and helpful and one closes the book with regret. In League With the Powerful B"^ ^UGBNIA D. BIGBAJU. In this book the author tells a story concerning the fate of a little babe separated by shipwreck from Its parents. God's care over this child, the piirents' tru.st, and the blessings which come to many among whom the chUd is thrown, make a beautiful unfolding. Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush ■ ■ By Ian MacLabbn. This edition has been prepared for those who cannot readily understand the Scotch dialecu All difficult words have been translated, and the charm of Maclaren's most noted produjtion thus unlocked to many who migat otuerwise not attempt a reading. The Lamplighter By Mahia S. cumminos. This famous book has for many years been popular with all classes of readers. This edition is abridf^ed and rewritten, thus adapting It to the wants of modern readers, at the same time preserving the Interest and continuity of the narrative. The Pillar of Fire By RBV. J. H. INGRAHAM. This is a gem among religious story books, and for many years has had a wide reputation. We have hud it revised and partly rewritten to correspond with latest research, and while much of the descriptive matter has been omitted, all of the story has b«H-n retaiaed. Marti; A STOKY OK THE fl «»AN WAR. By Annib Makia Barnbs. This timely book by the author of •' Chonita," will be eagerly welcomed by thousands of young people who feel an Interest in the Incidents of the late war between the United States and Spain. The Throne of David. By RBY. J. H. INGBAHAM. This is by many considered the best work ot the great mind which originated "The Prince of the Il'ouse of David" and 'Tne Pillar of Fire." to the furm pre- sented herewith, its popularity will be renewed, as It has been thoroughly revised and partly rewritr,en. TI; A STORY OP SAN l-ftANriSCO'S CHINATOWN. By Maky E. Bamfobd. This unique and Interesting story will attrnct great attention. Mrs. Bamford has been a close observer of the characteristics of (Chinatown's people. The book is illustrated with a large number of engravings. In His Steps. By Rev. Cuaui.es M. Shbluon. An authorized edition of this world- fi«r-ouf> book, and the finost and cheapest yet issued. The work here offered has been thoroughly revised to date, and is beautifully illustrated with a number of choice and specially designed engravings. 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