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D Addtonal comments/ Commentaires suppMrnsntaires: This iiiffl ■ IHoMd •! Mm reduction ratio dMcfcad batow/ C* docamtnt nt film* M taux d» rMueiion indieu* ei'dMioui. 10X 14X 1IX 2ZX 2«X 12X tax 2DX 2«X Th* copy flimad hara hu bMn rapredu««d thanlM to th* gwiwMity of: National Library of Canada L'M«mpl«ir« film* fut raproduit grtea i la g4n4roaM da: Bibliothiqua national* du Canada Tha imagaa appaaring hara ara tha bast qualitv pessibia eenaidaring tha eendltien and lagibillty of tha arlginal eepy and In kaaping with tha filming eoniract apaclfleatiena. Las imagas suivantaa ont ttt rsprodultas avac la plus grand soin. compta tanu da la condition at da la nanat* da raHamplaira film*, at »n eonfermM avac las conditions du centrat da Original eoplaa In printad papar eowats ara fUmad baginning with tha front eavar and afNHng on tha iaat paga with a printad or illuatratad Impraa- slon. or tha back eovar whan approprlata. All othar original eoplaa ara fllmad bagliming on tho first paga with a printad or Illuatratad impraa- slon, and anding en tha Iaat paga wMi a printad or Illuatratad imprasalon. Tha last racerdad frama on aaeh mlcroficho shall contain tha symbol —^(moaning "CON- TINUED"!, or tha symbol V Imaaiiing "END"), whichavar appliaa. Laa aaamplalras orlglnaux dont la couvartura an papiar aat imprimia sont fllmto an commandant par la pramlar plat at an tarmlnant soit par la damltra paga qui comporta una amprainta d'impraasion ou d'illustration. salt par la sacond plat, salon la cas. Tous las autras aaamplalras orlginaua sont fllmta an commandant par la pramMra paga qui comporta una amprainta d'impraaalon ou d'illuatratfon at an tarminant par la damlAra paga qui comporta una talla amprainta. Un daa symbolos sulvants tpparaltra sur ia damUra imaga da chaqua microfieha. salon la cas: la symbols ^ signifia "A SUIVRE". ia symbols ▼ signlfia "FIN". Mapa. platas, charta, ate, may ba fllmad at diffarant raductlon ratios. Thosa too larga to ba antiraly included in ona aapoaura aia fllmad baginning In tha uppar laft hand eomar. laft to right and top to bottom, aa many frames as required. The follewing diagrama IHuatrata the meth'^d: Laa cartas, planches, tableaux, etc.. pauvant ttr* fllmto * daa taux da rMuctlon diffarants. Lorsqua la document eat trap grand pour ttra reprodult en un soul clichi. ii est film* t partir da I'angia supiriaur gauche, da gauche a droita. at do haut an baa. an prenant la nombra d'Imegea ndcassalre. Laa diagremmea suivsnts illustrent la mtthoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 **e«ocofr MfownoN tbt chart (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2) A /IPPLIED IMBIBE Inc 1«53 Eoat Moln SIrMi Roch«t«f, r4«. York 14609 u« (716) «2 - OXM - Phoni"" "* (716) JB6-59M-FO, ^ *i5c2 xir /• ^* / 3 .^p WINONA AND OTHER STORIES BY WILLIAM J. FISCHER AMkw of " Smo br lb* Vayaidt " WITH AN IWTl^HlCflON BY J. E. COPLi .. S. J. ^m ST.LOUIS.MO..,JFMr«»jj /i,^_, PUBLISHED BY B. HBk *» fS'f !3034 HV"^ To my dnr mother and/athtr, whet* strong, abuling love I count the iweet- tit thing on earth, I graUfuUy dedi- eate this Utile booh oj tales in the hope that it may bring bach precious mem- ories of that Childhood— Kingdom, whose doors have closed upon me forever. THE AUTHOR. Waterloo, Canada, Easter 1906. CONTENTS t'live Winona 7 The Professor's Secret 87 One Easter at Highmore 70 Shadow and Sunshine 105 For Love's Own Sake 113 A Voice in the Night-Wiuds .... 147 Light Beyond the Stars 161 The Parting of the Ways 191 SAID BEFOREHAND. The author of these eight delightiul tales is not unknown to readers of Catholic magazines and newspapers in Canada and the United States. William J. Fischer, physician, poet, discrimi- nating biographical sketcher, and clever prose story writer, here presents his first book of short stories to the publ ic. The little work is destined to be as popular with old and young as his book of poems: "Songs by the Wayside. " While a profound lover of nature, and living close to it, as shown in these pages, Dr. Fischer takes life seriously — as all physicians, whether of soul or body, must necessarily do— and yet one cannot fail to discover between the lines of these pretty stories a glowingly warm heart which loves humanity. I have read these stor- ies more than once, and there is much that is worth remembering in them. In reading "Winona, and Other Stories " the critical reader will, I think, be satisfied with the literary style, which has an individuality about it not unpleasing. As might be expected from the pen of a physician-author, several of the stories deal (5) 6 INTRODUCTION. with pain and sickness, but, after all, there is no finer field than the sick bed, and its surroundings for the display of those qualities which most en- noble oui mature. Book: ^f short stories were never as popular as at the picsent time, and unless one is greatly mistaken, this little volume, written during moments of spare leisure in a very busy life, will find many friends, and its author will increase the number of those he already possesses. J. E. COPDS, S. J. Easter 1906, Creighton University, Omaha, Nebraska. WINONA. Chapter I. Sheltered by a number of large pine trees, in the very heart of Notre Dame de Larette— the thickly populated home of the Hurons— stood the lodge of the humble Jesuit missionary. On all sides, as far as eye could reach, were rows and rows of wigwams, the homes of these thrifty children of the wilderness and, through the light and dark green tints of the maple, spruce and pine, one caught glimpses of crimson on the blue sky, that told too soon that another day was nearing its end. Good Pere Menard, the gentle Blackrobe, who had labored for twenty years among the Huron tribe, had reasons to congratulate himself, for had he not founded this very village and had he not also carried the faith to these deserving creat- ures? It was a desperate struggle at first. Tso- hahissen, the brawny, old, copper-faced chief, would not listen to the gentle tales of a Redeem- er who had suffered the agonies of Calvary's re- demption, but Father Menard was determined and, in his mind, treasured visions of a distant, (7) 8 WINONA. glorious day that was to bring him the laurel wreath of victory. That day did come, and, when Tsohahissen bowed his head and was baptized, it was not long before the Whole tribe came with him. The great mountain had crumbled to atoms, the big chief was a follower of Christ and now the way was clear and, far beyond, basking in the sunshine of God's smile, lay the wide, open fields that the Blackrobe was to explore. The soil was good, the reaper was experienced and in time there was to be a golden harvest of souls. Every day, in the twilight hours— those dWic- ious moments so silent and sacred — one could see, there in the open air, a picture that the skilled,' artistic fingers of mortal man could never do just- ice to. ThSre sitting on the grass, silently list- ening, were the upturned faces of hundreds of red children, their hearts swaying under the clear, ringing words of the cassocked priest, as ir soft, musical voice, with crucifix in hand, he pictured the drama of the Crucifixion. And as he stood there, in his pulpit, upon the bared stump of i.n old oak free that had fallen a prey to Canadian winds and storms, tears would steal out of his eyes, while a few stray sunbeams from the west brightened his beautiful face— a face that had the freshness of spring in it though it WINONA. 9 was crowned by the white of a premature winter. "I am so glad," he would often say, "that God pointed my way out so clearly. Even when I was but a child, mastering the Latin elements, I dreamed dreams which have since come true. Later, I saw the hand of God directing my foot- steps to this western hemisphere— this land where one sees nature, in all her glory, unshom of her many beauties, unmolested, gldTious, real, a veritable garden of Eden, wherein millions of birds pour forth daily their souls in music, doing glory to their Creator. ' ' Often his thoughts un- locked the heart of nature and he stole into that holy of holies to hold sweet converse with her. He loved the glorious forest, the sun and moon and stars, the rivers and lakes that shone in the starlight, the flowers that turned their faces to the sun and the birds that madrigaled unceas- ingly. His was a Wordsworthian love almost. To him the earth itself was a grand poem. He studied it carefully and it brought him nearer to that other land above, where golden fields lay ba-'ing in eternal sunshines. Often he would "When I shall go to sleep and wake again At dawning in another world than this — What will atone to me for all I miss? The light, melodious footsteps of the rain, The press of leaves against the window pane. 10 WINONA. The sunset wistfulness and morning bliss, The moon's enchantment and the twilight kiss Of winds, that wander with me through the lane. Will not my soul remember evennore The eartHy winter's hunger for the spring, The wet, sweet cheek of April, and the rush Of roses through the summer's open door. The feelings that the scented woodlands bring At evening, with the singing of the thrush. " Father M«!nard was a descendant of a noble family closely connected with French royalty. Parts, by the Seine, had often sung the praises of his ancestors. The death of his parents^ left himself and an only brother, Gabrielle, orphans at a period in life when children realize too fully what it means to be without father or mother. But the two found a good friend and mother in the Countess Boulanger. "Be good to these two boys, for my sake, Fanchon, and God will re- ward you!" were the dying mother's last words as she pressed the noble. French lady's hand. The two women had been friends through life and Fanchon Boulanger, Countess and possessor of millions in this worid's goods, took the or- phans into her heart and from that day on was a mother to them in every sense. The day Father Menard left Paris, Gabrielle was exactly eighteen years old and was pursuing the study of the sciences and the languages at WINONA. 11 the University. The former, having ^duated in medicine a number of yeara before, and find- ing the practice of his profession distasteful, enter- ed the Jesuit novitiate and was ordained when he was about thirty, leaving the next day with a band of missionaries to do God's work in the western hemisphere. And now twenty yea» had passed since that day, and how he longed to clasp his brother to his heart! ' ' Not yet! not yet! " he murmured, one evening as he rose from a bench and closed the rude wooden door of his lodge and made for the open space, where the Indians were wont to gather at sundown. "Not yet— not yet! When my work is done and the shadows are creeping about me tis then I will return to thee, my beloved Franc^ —to rest and to die in peace in thy outstretched arms." Th«a:r was sultry and heavy with the perfume honeysuckle, as the good priest walked along the well-beaten pathway. Theground was parch- ed and dry. It had not rained for weeks and the fields of corn were burning up in the heat Not a breeze stirred the leaves overhead. The grass was turning red, the trees and flowers were wilting— the very tongue of Nature was parched an(i hotand longed for the cooling show, rs, that G a alone could give. As the earnest Blackrobe ;rew nearer he at once noticed that the Indians u WINONA. gathered in groups, where discussing some vital issue. Their voices smote the air with their hiss ing sounds. Thewhole village wasin an uproar, i^ud. shnll cries rang out everywhere; men agitated, threw their arms into the air; women distracted with excitement, sang minor strains, clear-cut and vigorous, and the monotony of many drums, clappers and rattles filled in the strange medley, that was intensely weird and gruesome. Father Menard halted a few minutes, his gaze intently fixed on the swaying multitude in .front of him. Suddenly his eyes fell upon Tsohahiss- en The old chief was carrying a large pole, nchly painted, on his swarthy shoulders and his band were following in the rear with dance and song. The missionary knew what was coming and in his heart felt something that was akin to pain. He sighed deeply and whispered thoughtfully: "My poor children! God pity themi They are preparing for their rain-dance and there will be great excitement in the village shortly. Poor TsohahissenI he is not himself at all this evening. •• Then, with a quick turn, he was off. and in his heart he wondered if he could prevent them from carrying oat this fool- ish dance. Since his coming among them they had abandoned many former customs, and the last timeTsohahissen stood ready for the dance WJNONA. 18 about two years ago, Father Menard's words worked almost magically; the Indians at once had left their respective places and rallied around him and the dance did not go on. Tsohahissen saw the Blackrobe coming down the pathway and ran out to meet him. When they met, the old chief was breathless and cow- ered at the priest's feet and kissed the hem of h.s cassock. Then he rose and. laying his strong hand on the priest's arm, motioned to the scene m front of him and exclaimed in a voice hoarse from yelling: "Ahl my father! See, thy children wait thy coming with joy. The rivers, the fields, the trees-everything around cries for rain. The flowers in the forest are sad and hang their heads and, when the grass turns red in the sun everything dies. So big chief will start rain- dance to-night, before the moon comes out, and braves will follow his example and the Blackrobe will give his blessing. " The Indian chief seemed nervous, as he ran his brown, wrinkled fingers through a chain of buf- falo teeth that hung around his neck, and, when his old dark face was full npon^e sweet-faced pnest, his eyes fairly shone like two balls of fire. Father Menard was silent for a moment. Then he put his hand on the old man's stooped should- ers and said lovingly: "Much better would it be, my son, if you and your children were to get 14 WINONA. down on your kneea with me this evening and aek God, your Father in heaven, to give you rain." Tsohahissen raiaed himself proudly; the eagle- featherson his head shook slighUy and there was a dissatisfied look in his wild eyes. The priest noticed it and he knew the virulence of Tsohahis- sen's anger, for. good as the latter was, it almost tore his heart ^n two to see the old traditions and customs of his Huron forefathem thrown aside so carelessly. Father Menard knew all this und as he looked up at the man before him— a towering oak among the beeches and saplings— he noticed that the old chief's eyes were full of tears. "Hear you not the big river yonder calling for water, O my father?' ' the old man exclaimed with emotion. "He is calling me. The leaves of the trees are also speaking and the lonely cry of the woodchuck haunts me in my sleep. I fear they are dying and I must hurry. The birds of the air are leaving us and the moose and deer are lean and holloV-eyed. And O, my Indians, my family— they are starving now— the river is dry- ing up and I see nothing but dead men's bones. Come, my father! Come with mel I will take the Blackrobe to his poor children." And, arm in arm, the priest and chief walked off together and, as Tsohahissen led him forward, cheer followed cheer, and cries, shrieks, war- WINONA. 16 nd ae le the whoops came in rwiit succession, until the whole forest trembled am' shook as with fear. The great ceremos y at last began. Th pole, about eight feet high, with iiav« eagle-feathers on top. was in its plac. Tsohahissen stood adminng the red ri- had painted on it. He. himself, had also the paint from a red stone, which he found shallow river. The women never took jwrtTn the dance— ihe chief always said that the,r faces would scare the rain away-but they were always present and brought cakes and hominy for the men to eat. The men had now formed large cir cles around the pole and Tsohahissen ; the fi^ thpt had been already prepared and. wken it w.^ b.azing away briskly, threw on tobacco lea^ e dntil heavy clouds of smoke filled the i.ir Then he raised his proud head and, as the smok* rose skyward, extended his bared irms plead ingly tothe heavens and cried in a high, strange hysterical voice: "Rawen Niyoh! I want you to take care of the Indians, your own peoplel My family is here in the wide, open forest. I want rain! Things, won't grow— the earth is too dry. Everything is homing up in the heat. Nothing grows and my children are starving Hear you not their cries of despair, you big mighty. Great Spirit? We must have com, m 16 WINONA. here ia itoine tobacco for you that you may know we are here and want rain— rain — rain I" Nearby knelt Father Menard , crucifix in hand, deeply absorbed in prayer. In a moment, the red chief made for the pain- ted pole and, bowing down low before it, the dance began. The men swayed around wildly and halted and faced the east, then the north, and then the west, as they sang six songs (or rain. The songs were all in a minor key and fairly glowed with an intensity of feeling that -ould not but inspire the heart of every brave. The tempo was quick and delightlul and the parting words of the song were lost in louu tones of frenzy and delirium. The priect was too much absorbed in his pray- ers to notice the dramatic attirades of the parti- cipants in the dance. Suddenly, he felt .. light touch on his shoulder. Turning, very much frightened, he saw the form of an Indian lying in the grass behind him, like a panther ready to spring up at the slightest provocation. He rose and faced the strange intruder in the high grass, as the latter raised himself on his hands and knees and whispered: "They must not see me over there. I have Iroquois blood— they have Huron b'ood. They do not mix well. We hate —we hate each other. I am the servant of Geronimo — big, fine, Iroquois chief, who has WINONA. 17 camped with his braves thirf„ ».!i , He call, me F.yin/Sg/e 'Kc""^»/">«> "';«• and strong. Two d«v. il '" '''''^'' n.arch hefe and JurnT,?; Hurr",?""^ '"^ Winona, chief, onlv t^»A i " ^"a«e but princessltook ve.^ 'ick "ih^r""' ''T **'" t!(ul_t,-. •*"' "ne I, M> beau- With herein ^:^:rt%X":.r.r.s Geron.mo-good manl He send le l ^ Blackrobe and ask me to bringhL bLk to i" >ng girl. Strong chief heafnl. . ° *'^" French hunters Vw Srot"? T^ ""I"" and beg, him to come to hfrS^w ^J^V f day grows too old. " ' *"* *•"* rr^rem'^id rdrastd^r'r'.'''r ^^^ .•'Will you go to Geronto? ffisbi 't A""'"" is breaking. " '*• '*'' heart Fath e'";tt?:t5ter^» ''^"'^'^- "P°" was he to do? wLl^^l ??*"'*'""• ^"^^ the enemy and X%"cSrji:''Sr5u1 participants in thed^S excitement among the TsohaSssen v^th'^larglToSroHV"' bounded over the gra.i„^ehe°2^;rX- 18 WINONA. Father Menard stood. One of the women, who was on her way to the shallow river for water, happened to spy the stranger in the grass;. Not- ing that he was an Iroquois, she hastened back unnoticed to tell Tsohahissen that an enemy was in the camp. In a moment, they were upon both, howling and shrieking like a pack of wolves. Flying Eagle sprang to his feet and faced the whole frenzied populace, that would have cut him down with a sweep of tomahawks had not the gentle Jesuit interfered. With a quick, turn of the arm, the priest raised his crucifix into the air. His face was pale and his lips were mov- ing and, by some strange power, hundreds of hands loosened their grip on their deadly toma- hawks, while disordered, angry voices suddenly ceased — and strong men, men who but a moment before possessed Herculean strength, now sank back powerless in the light that shone from the little wooden crucifix. Then Father Menard briefly told his hearers the object of Flying Eagle's coming. "At day- break," he added, "I will leave you, my dear children. The voice of God calls me into the camp of the Iroquois. But I will return again. In the meanwhile, be good and place your hearts in your Father's care, Who is in heaveni" Flying Eagle was the guest of the learned WINONA. 19 jMtMt that evening and for some time they sat Wking in the old lodge down by the pine trees and. when later they both fell asleep. Father Menard dreamed a beautiful dream-and he was to be the peace-makerl Chapter II. At midnight, a heavy rain was falling. Feals of loud thunder shook the earth and now and then there wa. a crash of falling timber. The heavens flashed continually and, in the west, inky clouds ^ere writhing, demon-like, in a liv- ing hell of fire. Father Menard turned slightly on his couch and, slowly raised himself on his hands. Then he moved mechanically to his feet and lit the tallow candle on the table and strode sleepily across the floor. Just then there was a loud peal of thunder and crash followed crash; the poor priest's heart beat more rapidly as he said, thoughtfully: "A.hl 'tis a stormy night — ^but I am glad that God heard my prayer for rain. I hope that no harm may come to my Indian children! ' ' Then he went to the window and looked out across the dreamy landscape. It was a titanic battle of the elements. The rain was coming down in torrents and, when the skies again flashed lightning, he saw long rows of wigwams in the distance and more — he thought he saw the figure of a man, creeping along in the rain. In a second, the priest was down on his knees (20) WINONA. 21 and, from his heart, gave thanksgiving to his God. When he rose, there was a tap at the door. Who could be out at this hour? Perhaps one of his children of the wilderness was dying and longed for his strong word to give courage to the passing soul. He lifted the latch, the door flew open and there, on the threshold, stood the figure of a man, tall and full of majesty. It was Tsohahissen, poor, old man, dripping wet. The chief strode into the room proudly, and kissed his friend's hand. "O my good, kind fatherl Tsohahissen is happy. The sound of the rain has made the chief glad. He could not sleep so he left wigwam and, seeing a light in Blackrobe's window, knew that he was awake and came here to thaak him for his prayers. His God has been good to us and given us rain. Rain-dance no good— chief and braves danced full time but no rain. Chief now wise and will dance no nore. •• Tsohahissen's voice trembled and his eyes had a faraway look in them. Then, sud- denly, he clutched his battle-axe and sprane to the door. * "Oh, my son," intercc'-l the priest, "you must not go now; wait till the storm is over." Tsohahissen's face wrinkled into a smile, as he shook his head and said carelessly: "Big chief fears neither thunder, lightning nor rain. He loves it— but wife and child are all alone in «> WINONA. wigwam and they wait Tsohahissen's return." Then he raised himself straight as an arrow his fiery eyes fairly sparkled. thei« was a sudden sweep of his right arm and almost instantly he sprang out into the darkness and rain. Chaptkr III. When the dawn purpled the eastern hills, Father Menard and Flying Eagle left the lodge, the latter carrying a canoe on his strong should- ers. When they were gone, Nanette, the trusty Flench m-.id, who had come to the wilderness twenty years ago with her priest-cousin, gently closed the door and sighed deeply. That morn- ing she thought she had noticed a strange look in the Blackrobe's eyes, such as she had never seen before and, in her heart, she wondered if he would ever come back to Notre Dame de Larette alive. He had been a father to her and, now that he would be gone for some time, the little lodge down by the pine trees would become very lonely. When the two reached the river shore, they were greeted on all sides by the Indians, who stood waiting to give them a royal farewell. Tsohahissen strode sadly to the gentle priest's side and was engaged in earnest conversation for some minutes. "Iroquois hate Hurons!" he muttered, ner- vously. "I fear they will capture and kill our good father and Blackrobe will return to our (23) 24 WINONA. homes no more, i am sad. for I love- vou," and h.shps trembled overcome with em .^ iJlZ^^I.^ P"^' "'^ •»» »»and and. lay- tagUonTsohahissen-sshoulder. said conso'ling- !.L /! ***• «^** '^''••^" I »» going on an clu^d needs me^ My life is i„ God's Lds and iZ 7 """^""^ '° ^^"- With Him I can face any danger. And some day, who knows Geronmo an,d Tsohahissen may yet beZ; EnrotTf"^^-"^--^'-'--^- T«,hahissen opened his eyes eagerly andshook h« feather-crowned head, as if what the prie^ had said was nigh to impossible. In another few minutes Father Menard was in the paddles mtheair. Another second and thev smotethewater. There was great spIasWnga„ J prghngandthetwo were off. andSngtie I„d lans stood and watched until the can<^ and ^ ^pants seemed like a small speck on the d£ tant. blue waters. For evenings after, there was one solitary wateher on the river shore. It was TsohahiS^ -poor man! His red face bore a saddened look as he gazed mto the troubled, angry waters A^in and again he raised his hand t^is mS and shouted wild-sounding words into the lone y WINONA. 26 night around him, but the splashing, moaning waves alone made answer. It was late when Father Menard and Flying Eagle reached their destination. The good priest was very tired— most of the journey having been made on foot. Geronimo stood waiting at the edge of the foiest in the moonlight to extend his friendly greeting and escort the illustrious visitor to the village. The great chief of the Iroquois was a very old man; his shoulders were slightly stooped but his gait was still strong and steady. On his fierce, swarthy, rough face, how ever, which was surrounded by a mas3 of raven- black hair, one could see a few soft lines, that were ready to run into a smile at the slightest provocation. His cheek bones were very prom- inent, his glance was quick and penetrating and somewhat s*em, but it melted into kindness, as he eyed the Blackrobe intently. In the central part of the village, a bonfire was glowing and, thickly grouped around, sat the braves, holding their pipes and smoking in silence. When the party drew nearer, Flying Eagle gave one shrill cry and went to the anx- ious faces, staring into the flames. In a moment he was among them and all the men took up the cry. It was so loud and shrill that bird and beast alike became suddenly frightened. When Geronimo drew near, leading Father 26 WINONA. Menard by the arm. heads turned and hundred, ?hev W*^ "T " '''"'"^ "« "P*"'*^'" «S they looked upon him with a feeling of awe. Gomel 'said Geronimo kindly to the priest you must be hungry-the meal i, ready, ?^a7d and partook free y of venison and choice cuts o^ hard, beechwood platters. when Father Menard answered, in the Iroquois thTr ''f.'' "^'"''^ ''° "" "« couldTZ the hfe of the sick child, the earnest red-face burst into a smile of gratitude. h.r^'?" !''' ^''^ '"*^"^ Geronimo's wigwam, Ut a few feet away, thechattering voices o^id^ -to them he was greatness itself. His arrows never missed in a chase, his battle-axe and svZl never failed to draw blood in batUe. He^' fnd w;? "Tr "l-wthe language of be^ Wh.. t,?' "^ "^^'^ *"- ^^ ""^ wealthy. When the pnest entered the wigwam his glance lut": \'" *'' surroundings. Sca^tter^ about everywhere were rich furs of black fox snowy ermine, brown otter, beaver and deer' Spears, war-axes, bows, arrows, tomahawks' WINONA. 27 shields and much bead-work hung from every comer. Upon several fine skins of snowy ermine lay Winona— the dying girl— the glory of Geronimo's wild heart. She could not have been more than eighteen, this lovely princess of a mighty nation. She was extremely beautiful — her face had no rough lines or prominent angles. It was so un- Indian-like. Her complexion, too, was not that deep bronze, but a very soft, light yellow. Her lips had the color of the crimson twilight, her long, flowing hair was black as the night. Neck- laces of white beads and strings of wampum lay on her throbbing bosom, and her dress was of fine deer skin, thinned and cuied so that it was soft as silk. A pair of fine buckskin moccasins, embroidered with quill-work, beids and shells, covered her feet. Beside her knelt the "medicine- mn." He was gaunt and wild-eyed and it seemed almost incredible that a heart could go on beating and sustain life in so thin and wasted a body. But he was a power in his community — this strange-looking individual with the white, flowing hair, the long fingernails and mufiSed monotones. "Wise as the wisest in council grave. He sat with the chiefs around hii - He knew of the roots that ever save; He sought them down by the Blackstream's wave, He knew the star of each warrior brave And knew where the fates had found him." Yesterday, at sunrise, he had come to Gero- WINONA. Pewed. The sick rhn7 ^*t '"'y and ^isap- The pHest lald^s ^ rirp^r ^"•■"^' very weak and fluttering i P^'se-it was Her body was «>ld andVvt? 'T'^P""- Perepiration. '^^'**' ^"'' » dammy on«''%'drdih;trj;t' r "^ ^'^"•"'-'' - his satchel and S ifZ ! "" '*'* ''^'^'^ Quicklyhepouredo^^af^^ '* * '"«" '^•a'- -d into a liSe glai syrii" S'^ "' ^ ''^'>' «^- water, and injectedit S!' '^'^ "P^^'^ '^ith he filledseve?earthrr ^'^'''''*™- ^hen placed then, a^n^'d Jh^" Sd^^*'? ^/ water and and overcome the state of In ""*"** '"''""'"o had fallen into (Jj^n^r fT *'''' ^'"""^ ^"% and then 2^S "y^^? i'-^ P"-* -" beautiful princess, live?- ^'"°"«' '"V The learned Jesuit nierelv raised hw raised his eyes and WINONA. answered: "I will be better able to tell later on. I will do my best" To Gerooimo, Winona was everything. Since her mother's death, two years ago, she had been to him a consolation and a companion. In thirty minutes the hypodermic injection was repeated— the heart had not yet responded to the stimulus. Small pellets, containing some active medicinal substance were also given the girl. In a few moments, Winona's eyes closed and she drifted into a calm, refreshing ^eep. Father Menard then strode to the chief's side. "You must lie down, Geronimo — it is late. You look tired and worn out and to-night you must have a few hours of quiet sleep. I will watch the sick child and. if anything happens, I will call you." Geronimo at first refused bluntly, but soon the priest's gentle voice mastered the latter's feelings and he sank down upon a pile of buffalo skins and was soon asleep. The missionary stole to the side of the sick girl —she was sleeping quietly. He felt her pulse and his eyes brightened instantly. Again he raised his eyes to heaven and laying his crucifix upon her breast, prayed in silence. Without, strong winds shrieked and whistled through the writhing branch ts. and now and then the mourn- ful cry of- 9«ue wild animal ia the forest stole so WINONA. bed-iide. "^^ watcher at her woke S.I0 vrf. "r'-^^ pSt y.wned. opened an^dTub^ht^e. l' t'^ he «w the Blackrobe bendTng ov«"L . " and miehty fear nM.-»«tJ "• " P*"* body. HeMlf^!^*^ '^'^'y ""««»* m hi- to Ws kni ^ ^"^ •» ;« "^ himself deadi I felt it—r 1. "• Winona is dead— Then his head feU into his hmre bm»« 1. ^ Md he sobbed like a child. ^^ ^"^ "GeronimoJ" exclaimni «,- "Raise yourselfl Wi«nT- ^^ «^'y- -lives I s^r ThI 1 1 "°* *'""''' ''"^ «^ that sickIS, If'y^t^nSr ^ThTf "'^ '" ^^_; ?"«««». the heartsof her Iroquois child- QuicklyhelodGerem mo tothesick child, who WINONA. 81 greeted both with a smile that lingered for aome time on two bright, rosy lip*. Geronimo bent over the beautiful form and stroked the black locks gently, while Father Menard brushed aside the heavy curtains at the doorway and left the wigwam. And for some minutes father and child were alone. The sky was a mass of slate-colored clouds, but far in the East, through the distant cedars and hemlocks, a few long lines of red light told of the birth of another day. The birds were stirring in ^he trees and flocks of wild geese in the grassy iiiaishes were ey eing the skies to take their morn- ing cruise. On a distant mountain top, a lonely elk bugled forth glad welcomes to the infant day, that lay cradled in the lap of the rosy dawn. The priest's responsive heart beat gladly with- in him as his eyes drank in the beauty of the morning hour, and almost suddenly the sun smiled upon the face of nature. Soon there was a great stir in the village. Hundreds of wig- wams threw forth their occupants and women were running around every- where, preparing the morning meal. Father Menard quit his place and silently en- *^ed the wigwam. There he saw a beautiful picture— one he did not expect to see so soon — and it was all arranged, in his shoVt absence, by the artistic fingers of a powerful Creator. On her WINONA. father at the bedSde Ger^l- ^ T'' °' ''^^ bowed and in his hands he hTd fa^^^r' T which the Priest had „ia^^ ^^ cruafix, in the nighSe ^"^^ !? "^" "^'"""^'^ ''^^-^ >ips mo^d sZy an^'d'Z^:;- '^'""'^ '"'^ ''^^ disturbed the quiet sereni^ nf I ^^''^ ''^ ''^'^ instant, he sank upoTh^,? ^ '*"^- ^^ «" face as he whis^pe^i'^^-^^r^^^^^^ '''' thee!" For some time allkt,.!?- m ^ ^^^"^ to the good priest it slmed JhtT ""' ^"'^ warn was peopled and Se '^ ^^.^^ ^'^- faced beings, who had >:t^i • . ^^' ^^^^t" and, in his' L^rt, he feU Lrhr^ ^^ ^"""■^^' stir and rustle of ;ngei?wX "•■' ^"^ !y upon mnZ:::T:tt:zz -^^<^ ^-ng. ions, fierce, red face nf f^ • ^^ "'*° *^ ^nx- mountains tains 1 Chapter IV. One month had passed and Winona had fully recovered from her illness and Father Menard was beginning to think of his homeward journey. Much had come to pass in all this time and the good priest felt elated, and justly so. Geronimo and Winona had both become deeply interested in the story of the Christ and many were the searching questions the Blackrobe answered. One thing alone troubled him sorely. On several occasions, Geronimo had given utterance to his great hatred of the Hurons. But he said nothing of their intended invasion. One evening the three sat together in front of the chief's wigwam. Father Menard had just pictured the birth of the infant at Bethlehem and now the spell of silence was upon all. Up in the beeches overhead, a number of squirrels libbled and frisked exultingly and, several yards away, a limpid brook made sweet music for tired eouls. - The priest ran his fingers thoughtlessly through his beads, and Winona gazed upon him intently. Suddenly Geronimo's strong voice broke the lethargy of the moment: "To-morrow the Black- robe leaves us and we will miss his kind face. (33) 34 WINONA. Chief and daughter will be lonely without him and the wigwam will not be as bright when he is gone. But he will come again — often — and tell us stories of his good God. The way is not long and Flying Eagle will always accompany him. He knows every path in the big forest. ' ' The chief eyed the priest for a moment and his voice melted into a tone of pathos, when he asked: "Will Blackrobe forget us or will he come again, as a friend, to the camp of the Iroquois?" "Certainly, my good man!" answ- ered the priest, as he rose from the wooden bench. "I will come again — often — to see you. Twice every seven days, in snow or rain, the Blackrobe will journey to your village and, as sign of trust, he leaves his crucifix with Geronimo. Great chiefl I will be happy to meet you and your braves here whenever I come, and you will find in me a good friend," and he handed Geronimo his precious crucifix, as a pledge of his promise. The old man took the proffered token and pressed it to his bosom. Winona, too, was pleased. Slowly she rose and took the Blackrobe's hand in her own. "I am so glad you will come ag^in," she said. "Winona wants to become your friend and learn more about your God." Just then, Geronimo strode out of the wigpwam and soon returned with a bundle of rich furs and skins under his arm. "Geronimo brings his WINONA. 36 costliest furs and skins to the good Blackrobe," he said kindly, "and asks him to accept them in payment for his trouble and services. Skins and furs are good — the best. They will bring in much money at the trading post. " The priest thanked him kindly 'n the Iroquois tongue and added: "But keep youi kins and furs, my friend! I do not seek to rob you of these treas- ures. Only give me your good will — and more — will you let me name my own reward?" "With pleasure, O my father!" answered Geronimo thoughtfully. "May I ask you, then, in the name of my God, Geronimo, to give up all thought of your pre- arranged attack on the Hurons, who dwell peace- fully in yonder village? Their lives are dear to me — for I love them. I know the virulence of an Iroquois' hatred — but you must not harm my children! Will you promise?" Geronimo tossed his head arrogantly and bit his lips in anger. That demon-hatred was again lashing his soul, his face was re ^nr than ever. It seemed as if every drop of blood in his body had suddenly run to his head to stimulate his thoughts. An indignant look crept into his face, as he stepped about proudly, and he was on the verge of refusing, when his eyes stole from the priest to Winona. She trembled and, when he saw that the tears were gathering in her eyes, a 36 I f I WINONA. shnll cry smote the air and he exclaimed, almost wildly, as his fingers tightened about the cracifix: ' 'Geronimo promises! Geronimo promises! Black- robe's children shall live in peane! ' • and he sprang to the priest's side and took the outstretched hand in his own. Chapter V. When Father Menard again returned to Notre Dame de Larette all hearts were glad. Tsohahis- sen, himself, had gone down the river in his canoe to meet him at sundown. Nanette also felt glad and, in the little lodge by the pine trees, the table was set and a brisk fire was burning in the-grate and the trusty maid sang lustily, as she knitted carelessly. There was a rap at the door. A bright look stole into Nanette's brown eyes when the door opened wide to let in Father Men- ard. Gladly she sprang forward to meet him. "Well, Nanette," he exclaimed tenderly after the evening meal was over, "any news from France, from home — from Gabrielle? Any letters, post-cards, parcels?" "Yes, my dear cousin. Batiste, the French trader, brought a letter yesterday. Let me hope it contains nothing but good news!" and from the drawer she took the treasured envelope. "Ah, yes,! explained the priest, "from Paris — from the dear Countess Boulanger," as he opened it carefully. Then slowly he read the contents to Nanette and several times he paused to wipe his tearful eyes: (87) WINONA. My Dear Son:-Your last letter arrived safely. We were glad to hear of your good work among he Indians. God is with you in that distant land-no wonder, then, that you are happy and contented. Twenty yeare ago you leftourLu- UM chateau and what long yea« they were for Gabnelle and myself ! But soon the spell is to be broken. Gabrlelle has practiced mVdicine in Pans faithfully for ten years and needs a „^ badly, and he is going to America to visit Vou ?Tt u ^ ^'^ '° "*^y ^*h yo" as long as he wish^. I would also like to go. my dear child, but rheumatism has crippled me in my old days and the ,oumey would be too much for me I suffer much-but then it is sweet to suffer one s Calvary ,n th.s life. Your brother has been good to me and I will miss him so, but. for your ^e. I will make the sacrifice. I am sending you two large boxes, containing much that will be of use to you in your forest home. I also enclose sev- eral dresses for Nanette-the good child! Give her my love I will write her in two weeks; my rh^imatism ,s bad today and my fingers are vJy '•Pray for me often, my child, for God knows my hfe s sun .s now westering near the horizon! I will never forget you or Gabrielle. for I have WINONA. 89 Ic 'ed you both, as if you had been my own children. "Let me hear from you again when the next ship sails. "Your dear, "Fanchon Boulanger." The days wore on and summer faded into au- tumn, and one day in October, when the winds were cold and the trees were aflame with color, Gabrielle entered Notre Dame de Larette with his French guide, tired and exhausted, glad that the long journey was at an end. The good priest embraced him warmly. Nanette was also over- joyed, and for hours the three sat together in the candle-light, chatting briskly of old friends and old scenes of sunny France. Father Menard was the picture of happiness — his face softening into a smile, as from time to time he puffed his quaint old Normandy pipe. Gabrielle was very talk- ative, and often the priest's eyes rested on the handsome figure of his brother in the jre-light, with his thickly set shoulders and manly brow. His face was fresh and ruddy and on it were written lines of tenderness and expression. Two dark, dreamy eyes — such as poets love to sing of — flashed continually and softened into sunshiny smiles. Verily, he was a fine specimen of man- hood — a sturdy young oak, erect, strong and promising in the fresh light of life's morning. Chapter VI. The winter passed slowly by, and Gabrielle of- ten accompanied his brother on his visits to the Iroquo.s village. The Indians received b^S kmdly and the work in the mission w JprosSf 2 Hearts that had been cold now^e™ ner m.nds expanded and life held forthToftLr Ideals to these poorred children. A new awaken 2 was taking place, a new dawn wasTasX^." To Gabrielle. this wild life of the forest seemed glonous; he fairly revelled in the new S af bnght and the minutes so fleeting and joyous Some strange thing had stolen imo his^b^^n^.' He felt he was a different man-he knewT the halls of his memory were lively with inte^S' A new people thronged its corridors and. Sve all else, the sunlight of a woman's face^Wn! ona s-was continually upon him. Go where he might, there she stood before him. you'g viv! aoous and beautiful. He could not for^ Z From out that new sea of faces hers stL Z WINONA. 41 clear and distinct, singular, striking and beauti- ful, and, above all, so un-Indian-like— a face that would have set the brain of sculptor and artist alike mad with delight. All that winter and following spring Gabrielle had not breathed a word of his admiration of Winona to his priest-brother. Both toiled faith- fully on, the one tending to the bodily, the other to the spiritual wants of the two Indian missions. But in his heart Gabrielle tre isured many a happy secret. The warm admiration of those first days was now leading him into avenues, rich with asphodel and rose, and here it was a new and mighty feeling overpowered him which made of life a beautiful abode, where flowers shone brightly and birds sang unceasingly to the heart that had never before realized what it was to love an ideal woman. Love had stolen in gradually and quietly and, now that she had placed her delicate fingers upon him, his temples throbbed hotly and he often dreamed of a day in the future and prayed that his dream might come true. A year and a half passed by and many happy hours had Gabrielle spent in Winona's company. He had studied hard and now conversed freely In the Iroquois tongue. Winona, too, proved herself an apt pupil of the former and was quite happy in being able to express herself in French. Geronimo, also, was delighted with his daugh- 42 WINOKA. ter's progress and, in his eyes, Gabrielle was the sum-total of perfection itself. One evening, late in summer, the Indians were gathered in an open space listening atten- tively to Father Menard's words of gratitude. Now, that the last barriers between the Hurons and the Iroquois had crumbled away, the good priest felt elated that at last the two nations had ' signed a treaty to be on friendly terms with each other. But an hour ago the peace proceedings had been in progress. Tsohahissen had come in person to extend the good wishes of his people and Geronimo received him kindly. And, pow, they sat side by side, the two strong heads of the two villages, the two chiefs who had often clashed battle-axes, the two men who had nour- ished a fierce and deadly hatred for years, no longer enemies but friends— both having white souls to redeem, with God as common Father and Master. Gabrielle and Winona had stolen away from the crowd to a bench in a thicket of saplings, not far off, and the glorious moon, that hung like a golden crescent above the spruces and hemlocks and gray hills, seemed to pause on her journey and listen for the sound of their glad voices. Gabriell; s hand stole warmly into Winona's and for a moment silence reigned, while the WINONA. 48 music of a distant water-fall played a strange in- terlude. At last Gabrielle's lips parted. " Win- onal" he exclaimed passionately, "the longer I look into your glowing eyes, the hotter bums this fever within, that has been consuming me for many a day. I would have told you long ago but I dared not. I was afraid lest you might crush me. You are the little princess of my heart's kingdom — Winonal I love youl Hear me — Winona — I love youl Will you become my wife?" And, unconsciously, he drew her to his breast and their lips met — but it was only for a second. Winona's face looked white in the moonlight and she raised herself from him like a frightened bird. It was all so sudden and her heart was at a standstill. "Love me Gabriel le? How can you?" she spoke tremblingly. "I am only an Indian — you are so grand, so noble, so good. You should despise me — and yet you say you love me. Nol Nol I cannot become your wife, and yet — and yet — ' ' She paused a moment, her cheeks were hot and in her eyes tears gathered. "And yet, " she sobbed, "I love you, Gabrielle. I had never known what love was until you came. ' ' Silently her hand stole into his and she drew herself to him, like some frail thing seeking pro- tection in his strong arms. 44 WtNONA. J" « then there was a stir in the thicket but thetwo did not heed it. In a moment two wild, fiery eyes were riveted on them. The moonlight was full upon the gloating, angry face; the teeth were set, the eyes were hateful, fiery balls and, from them, shone a demon-like depair. It was Flying Eagle. Wolf-like, he had tracked the innocent lamb to her lair; his eyes had looked on a scene he had too well expected, and, as he raised his lithe body into the air, there was a look of determination in them as he whispered hotly: "You pale-facel I hate youl I will kill youl Yes, kill you— you French dogi You love Winona— hal hal She will yet be mine and I will step over your corpse to make her my bride. Flying Eagle loves Winona with all his wild, red heart but he hates, and will, kill, the French dogi" Then he stood ready to spring upon them both like some wild thing, but he bit his lips and raised his clenched fist into the air and , with a curse on his lips, crept through the long grass, like a deadly, hissing snake. That night Gabrielle opened his heart to his brother and told him how he had decided to spend the remainder of his days with the Indians and, at some time in the near future, take Win- ona unto himself as wife. The priest was pleas- ed and inwardly congratulated himself that he had such a brother and that he was to get so WINONA. 45 handsome and virtuous a wife as Winona. At first the question of caste thrust itself upon him, and the thought of his brother marrying an In- dian caused him to revolt inwardly, but in an in- stant the feeling left him. "She is good," he thought. "Winona is one of God's creatures and her soul is just as white and pure in His eyes as that of any white woman. ' ' Chapter VII. Preparations for the marriage ceremony had been in progress for some weeks. The heart of Geronimo never beat more proudly than on the night Winona told him of Gabrielle's love and devotion. To-morrow, at sunrise, Mass was to be celebrated at the altar in the grove of oines nearby, and Father Menard was to pronounce the two, man and wife. The whole Huron tribe, led by Tsohahissen, were 'invited and would at- tend the cermony in a body and, with the Iro- quois decked in all their battle array, the con- gregation would no doubt not only be great in numbers but also grand in their gorgeous dis- play of finery and color. Only one soul in the two villages was restless. It was Flying Eagle. Not many moons before the last winter had set in, he had told Winona of his love for her— but she had spumed him and he had never forgiven her for it. And, strange, he stiU loved her. The roots had grown down too deeply into his heart. During all the days that passed, he had played his part so well that no one suspected treachery on his part. He stood a favorite in all their eyes, especially in Geron- (46) WINONA. 47 imo's. Winona, too, thought that the old-time love for her was all forgotten, and happily await- ed the morrow. That night, after the whole village was asleep, the figure of a man could be seen gliding through the grove of pine trees, where the altar stood ready for the morrow's ceremony. It was Flying Eagle. Where was he going.' Had his last plans, to which straws of hope he had clung like a dying man, been again frustrated and was he now making good his escape to die out among the lonely hills in despair? Chapter VIII. Early next morning the Indians were astir with excitement. Throngs of Hurons and Iro- quois swarmed the forest— men, women and children of all ages and sizes— and the chatter of their many voices drowned the music of the large river that flowed through the nearby marshes. Presently, the chimes announced the hou'r for Mass. All betook themselves to the pine grove. Father Menard was robing for the Mass. Geron- imo and Tsohahissen were already in their places and near the front knelt Winona and Gabrielle, their faces aglow with an almost superhuman joy- When the Mass began, a silence as of the tomb, fell upon the kneeling multitude. Not even a child cried or spoke, and there were many present. All was happiness and quiet, save for the sweet-voiced choristers in the trees, intoning their litanies of joy. It was a happy hour— "breathless with adoration," and many an eye followed the officiating priest at the altar. And now the priest turned, facing the people, chalice in hand, and, as the chimes (48) ■If WINONA. 49 rang out three times, all heads were bowed in prayer. Slowly, reverently, he walked towards the kneeling pair and, bowing, administered to both the Communion. Both knelt in prayer for a moment and then rose to go to their seats. No sooner had they turned, facing the crowd, when an arrow whizzed quickly through the air. Few had seen it— it had come so rapidly— but all heard the shrill cry that came from a stagger- ing woman's lips. Father Menard turned and, rushing from the altar, saw what had happened just as Gabrielle caught Winona in his arms. The arrow had only grazed her cheek, and a look of gratitude was on the priest's kindly, old face By this time the people were panic-stricken but the priest motioned them back. They laid Winona down gently in the grass and for a moment the two brothers watched the pale face of the stricken woman. Just then, a second arrow hissed through the air, striking the priest's breast just as he had bent over to bathe Winona's dry lips with water. The poor, old priest raised himself suddenly, his trembling hands on the arrow that stuck fast. A sickly groan escaped from him and he sank to the ground, powerless— a dying man— on his lips a word of prayer to his Maker and his God. The Indians Jiad how swarmed around the dy- 60 WINONA. ing priest, their hearts sick with sorrow. The whole forest was filled with sobbing me , women and chilA-en. Tsohahiasen and Geronimo were at Father Menard's side and Gabrielle was busy administering restoratives and dressing the wound. The arrow had pierced the priest's heart. He could not live. Suddenly there was a crash as of breaking tim- ber, and the faithful priest's eyes opened just in time to see a man, bow and arrow in hand, faUing to earth. The branch of a pine tree overhead , on which the murderer had been standing and hid- ing, had broken at the worst possible time— only to deliver him into the hands of his captors It T.as Flying Eagle-his weight had been too much for the bough, from which he had sent his deadly arrows. "KiU himl Kill himi" came from hundreds of throats, as he fell to the ground. Tsohahissen and Geronimo sprang from the priest's side, their faces aflame with a bitter anger. The dying priest heard the cry. He opened his eyes and motioned the two chiefs back, as he said huskily: "Nol nol You must not kill him — . forgive Flying Eagle. Do not touch a hair of his headi God alone has the right to punish and take life. I die happy_my-work-is done —and— I— see the gates— of heaven— opening. I— have— been the peace-maketv-Ir-am going WINONA. 61 —into— the Lijfhtl Good-bye— Gabrielle I— Good-bye— Winona!— Good-bye— all!" The trembling hands slowly raised the crucifix to the lips— the passing soul hovered a moment on the brink of eternity— and then life was extinct. Gabrielle stole to Winona's side and wept bitteriy. Now that his brother had passed out of his young life forever, his heart was fast breaking. There was nothing to comfort him, for Winona still lay there unconscious. Would her soul, also, pass through those golden gates into the land where it is always morning? Would her eyes never open again— if only for a moment— that he might look into their blue depths? Oh I if she would only wake that he might speak but one word to her before she goes! The people were wild with excitement and the mob would have torn Flying Eagle to pieces had not Tsohahissen and Geronimo interceded. Both bore painful expressions— they realized that the great friend of the red man was gone and amidst a flow of tears tried to assuage the sorrow of their people. The Blackrobe's tender voice was forever hushed and their hearts were breaking, for they knew that never again would it music forth mel- odies to tired hearts from life's plaintive keys. And the touch of that gentle handl How the children would wait in vain, through the long 62 WINONA. winters and summers, for the little pat on their chubby cheeks, which he never forgot to give. Geronimo at once returned to the side of his daughter after he had spoken to his people. Winona stirred restlessly. Her face grew warm- er and her eyes suddenly opened. They greeted Gabrielle's. "Where am I? What has happened?" she sighed faintly. '*0, take me away from herel You are crying— and on our wedding-dayl Everything seems so strange to me — and fatUer —he is crying. Oh I what is the matter? Am I dreaming?" The two men could not speak their hearts were breaking with grief. Then she turned her head. Her eyes fell up- on the body of the priest nearby, whose face bore a smile and looked heavenwards. Winona rais- ed herself on her arms and stared vainly. "He isdead— OhI theBlackrobe is deadi" she sobbed and fell back overcome with emotion. And, for some time, the three wept together. I li: Chapter T.X. Flying Eagle was surrounded and watched all that day, but in the night made his escape and, being fleet of foot, easily ouban his pur- suers. And from that day on not a soul ever heard of Flying Eagle again. It is thought that in some lonely spot far be- yond the eastern hills, far away from the sound of human voice, he spends sunless and miserable days, without friend, without test. Even the wild animals of the glen seem to spurn him like some deadly, loathsome thing. His life is a torture and a burden and his heart suffers a remorse that is known only to those who feel the silent penalty of crime. For days Winona's life hung by a thread. The arrow that had grazed her cheek had been poisoned with curari— that deadly Indian poison — and a violent toxaemia fast undermined her vitality. Gabrielle called all the resources of his pro- fession to bis aid and fought the disease vigor- ously and, when he felt that he was going to win, his heart gav? a bound of joy that set his nen'es a-tingling. Winona was to live after all— and he thanked God for it. (53) Chapter X. Years and years have passed since the open- ing chapter in this story. The Huron and Iro- quois tribes are no more. Another race of men inhabit the country where once they lived and roamed. Notre Dame de Larette is only a mem- ory of other days. In its place, a great city has nsen up, filled with the spirit of a happy pro- giess. The little chapel down by the pine grJve, which stands to this day, is the only relic of the past. Gabrielle erected it over his brother's grave. In it also rest all that is earthly of Win- ona and Gabrielle. A few, old settlers still remain and, sitting by the fireside on the cold winter evenings, with pipes in hand, they love to tell the tale of these red children, as they heard it in the long ago from the lips of some reminiscent grandfather or grandmother. And then the story of Winona and Gabrielle flowers in their minds, and the heroic mission of the good old Blackrobe, who struggled on and fought the fight for nearly a quarter of a century, and eyes grow moist and hearts expand and bum with lore for those sil- ent figures that grace the brilliant kaleidoscope (54) WINONA. 05 of the past in aback-ground of spreading spmoe, maple and pine. And, as long as men are men, such honest, good souls as Father Menard— men who fight ihe battle in life's most secluded and despised fields, will ever occupy a lasting place in the silent niches of the world's great martyrs. Winona and Gabrielle also live in the hearts of the people and to this day even the little child- ren love to sit around and listen to the stoiy of the beautiful bride of the foi-est THE PROFESSOR'S SECRET. Chaptkr I. A few gleams of sunshine stole playfully into the large, cheerful music room and threw their dreamy shadows on a white, marble bust of Beethoven that stood on the piano in the comer. Signor Francesco Bottini had be^n busy most of the afternoon and there, at his table he still sat, pouring over the manuscripts of a new Requiem Mass, which he had just completed. His eyes had a satisfied look in them, and, deep in his heart, he knew that he had written his master- piece— something that would at last ring itself into the ears of the musical critics. Presently, he rose and walked to the window and, brushing back the heavy damask curtains, his eyes wandered down into the busy, throbbing street, pulsating with life. Dear old St. Patrick's across the street, looked radiant in her twilight glory and over the distant, lone, blue hills the .sun was throwing his la.st, bright shafts of light. Without, everything was bright and cheerful, but within the heart of the old professor, all was dark and desolate. As he stood there one could not (57) n THK PKOPKaSOK'S SKCKMT. ^nd the« w., . bold .weep of fullnei In W. •ppea«nce. His hair wm bl«:k as the ravw ^ it wmewhat intensified the golden Snt S hi! oomple«on. On hia face were written <«™i new^refinement and great depth of chanuter. It waa a face of marvellous sweetness and great gentleness and. ^et. there was « latent sad^ m those dark, fiery, dancing eyes. whosT^c^ no one conld undersund. «uch'le;sTat^C^ For a moment. Signor Bottini sighed heavily piano His eyes were moist and his fingers trembled as they moved slowly over the cSd vory keys. He was playing the "Misere,?- I„^i!"i!'~°*^ "* ^'''*'' J»«fe"ow-conntryman .nd t^chei^nd thesad. plaintive tones s^ 2r^hV^f^" ''"'*"'''''»*""• The tender • r, that followed, was sweet and stirring. It •^s|^ed to appeal strongly to the Signor's P^nt feehngs and several large team rolled down his cheeks. "Horten.sel- he whispered tenderly, "Hor. hr^nir'*^"' ^'--^J-Wm'ercy'n There was a rap at the door and. suddenly, a welWrest, young Italian entered. It wa. An- THK pkupiumok's skckkt. 60 lieiico, the profeMor's trusty office-boy and hia voice had a ring of freshness in it when he aaid: "Signorl Madamoiselle Laportel" The old man read the perfumed card and ex- claimed: "Please show theyoung lady up-staire Angelico!" ' The door closed genUy and, in a few moments opened again. "I am delighted to see you Signor," came from the handsome, young wom- an, as she entered the study, gowned in a simple dress of black. "But you are not well-you look — " "I am pretty well, Felice." interrupted the professor. "Tistrue. I look somewhat strange —but that is nothinp. child. You see I am so troubled and worried with my new Mass and this accounts for it. But pardon me. how are you. Felice? I have missed you in my study. Yon were always so bright and cheerful." The soft, deep eyes— blue as the aea— suddenly opened and the young woman replird somewhat nervously: "I am not well, Signor. There is a wound deep in my heart, that Time alone can heal. Since God, in His wisdot .. took Hortense away from us. our home has been enijiti . With her went its brightest sunbeam, its purest flower and its highest and noblest inspiration. Six months have gone by since that sad day and 60 THK PROFKSSOR'S SKCRKT. dear, old mother's heart will never be the same again. To-day mother asked me to open the piano. It was the first time for many days I sang for her and when I turned she was smiUng. It was the first smile I had seen on mother's fa^ in all these long, weary months-and. oh, it made my heart so glad. Then she came over anr put her hand on my shoulder and said: Fehce, my child you must call in and see Signor Bottin.and arranb with him for your singing lessons. The house is empty since Hor^nse sings no more. I miss her in the parlor, in t^e cathedral, intheconcert-hall-here. there, every- wnere— and I want you to take her place." Signor, will you then for mother's sake, for Hortense's sake, take an interest in me?" "Certainly. Felice." answered the dear, old musician. "For your mother's sake, for Hor- tense s sake, I will do anything. There are great possibilities in your voice, my child, and I know you will succeed because you work dili- gently. Only to-day I met Father O'Brien and he rep-etted that Hortense's place had not yet ^en filled m the choir. « ~s; Craptsr IV. n The pearly gates of the morning opened and ushered in a perfect day. Signor Bottini turned nervously on his couch and a look of sadness came into his eyes. He had been sitting up in his easy chair every afternoon for the past two weeks and Dr. McCabe reversed matters a little now and tol^ Felice that the professor might sit up in the morning if he wished. This came as a blessing to the Signor. "Put my chair close up to the window this morning," he said to Felice, "so that I will be able to hear the singing and the music. And, Felice, when you go to church, tell the sexton to open the large window in the choir loft so that I will be able to hear it all the better." When Felice was reajdy to go, the professor took her hand in his and said: "Felice, my child, now do your best Remember that Hor- tense in heaven is listening." The church bells had ceased ringing and now came the sounds of the organ — heaving and mighty as the ocean. Bottini trembled and looked at his paralyzed arm. Then tears came to him and he bowed his head and remained in (74) THK professor's SECRET. 76 this attitude for some time. The Requiem Aeternam and Kyrie had been sung and Signor Bottini had heard every word. Then he raised his eyes to heaven and his lips moved in prayer. Out upon the air, again, came the swelling notes of the great organ. A noble chorus of male voices reverently answered the chant of Father O'Brien, at the altar. Then there was a pause until the clear, diapason notes played the beautiful prelude to the Dies Irae. Signor Bot- tini raised himself and listened eagerly. Felice was singing and the words floated out upon the wings of the morning, clear and distinct: "Dies Irae, dies ilia Solvet saeclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla. Quantus tremor est futurus Quando Judex est ventt'Tua, Cuncta stricte discussurusi" Low and sweet was the air at first, rising and falling till the mighty, roaring, voluminous voice filled every nook of that imposing edifice. There were no grand-opera trills and triplets, no fairy- like cadenzas in the selection. It was nothing but a grand, simple, pleading, touching air- one that came from the heart; one that went di- rectly to the heart. A look of satisfaction crept into the Signor's wearied face when Felice had finiahed. Then the full choir of sixty voices took 76 THK PROFESSOR'S SBCRKT. if' up the strain. It was full of power and majesty and Bottini could hardly sit it out. His face twitched; he became resUess and be moved around nervously in his chair. He could stand it no longer. "I must gol I must," he gasped, as he rose from his chair and threw his heavy cloak about him. "I feel that God is urging me to go— " and he opened the door and made for the stairs. He felt weak but the thought of what he was about to do seemed «o bring surplus strength to his body. When Bottini reached the church door he was panting for br-ath. "I must! I must!" he still gasped, as he entered the church and made for the steps that led to the gallery. The Dies Irae was still being sung, and now came the last few sentences, in a faint, trembling voice: "Pie Jesu Domine, Dona eis requiem I " When the Amen was sung. Signer Bottini staggered into the gallery and made for the organ. His breath came in interruptions. He whispered something to Herr Richter, then turned and faced Felice and smiled gently. In a moment Bottini himself was at the organ, playing most beautifully— playing as he had never played be- fore. His paralyzed arm hung helpless at his side— his right hand was on the keyboard. Herr THE PKOFESSOR'S SECRET. 77 Richter had charge of the stops. The Signer looked strong and every one in that vast cathe- dral s«^med to recognize the strange power that swayed the keys and pedals of the organ. Now he was playing a delicate, distant-sounding aria -It was so sweet, so clear and tender and it seemed as if the heavens had suddenly opened and an angel was singing a song of peace and joy to the silent, praying multitude below. Then came the voice of the officiating priest and Bottini sent back answer from the organ. The Sanctus and Agnus Dei -. "And remember your promise, Kenneth I You have plucked the fairest flower in all my parish and I hope that bitter sorrows may never mar or blight its beauty — good-bye 1" And he shook hands with both of them vigorous- ly and closed the door. When they were gone, Father Francis sank down before a statue of the Blessed I^y and prayed that the man, whom he had just made happy, might not be lost, and some day would receive the gift of faith. Cecile was a saint of earth, bethought, and surely her pure, Christian character would do much to this end. Words and exhortations had been use- ONB EASTER AT HIGHMORS. 81 ieas. They had fallen on barren, hard rocks. Cecile had married the man she loved; she was happy, but, in all her joy, there was the under- tone of a regret, and she dreamed of the future and wondered in her soul if her dream would ever come true. For days and days Father Francis' words ranir in Kenneth's ears. "Remembei your promisel" the strange, mystic voices said, and he could not hush them. "Perhaps, in some far-off day these self-same voices would remind him of his sacred pledge. Let us hope that, when they did speak, he heard themi Thirteen years had passed. The Camerons were still counted the wealthiest family in High- more, and, to outward appearances, really de- served the distinction. Kenneth had changed little in these years, and Clyde, his young son now ten years old. was the dead picture of him ' Cecile had changed much in looks. One would hardly have known her, with htr trouble, sad face. The years were weaving light silver strands through her hair, and no one in all Highmore but herself knew the reason. Ken- neth had been a traitor to the promise he had made to Father Francis years ago, and this was the strange power that made her so unhappy The fires of bigotry that had been burning in Kenneth's soul, lit up in all their virulence, one Oiin SASTSft AT HXOBMOUI. morning after breakfast. The baby was a montb old and had not yet been baptised, and CecUe's ■nfiering, mother-heart was bleeding with an* guish. "Don't you think it is time baby was being baptized, Kenneth?" she asked, gladly. ' ' Baby baptized?' ' he interrupted hotly. ' 'Ce- dle, are you going mad? Baby baptized — ^well hardlyl That boy will go to his father's church, so you can put all your little scrupka aside, ' ' he added, sarcastically, i The color in Cecile's cheeks reddened, and for the moment she was stunned. She thought that she had known Kenneth, but now, alasl she divined in him another man. After a few min- utes, she was quite composed and said, in a trembling vmce. ' ' But your promise , Kenneth I Have you forgotten how you promised Father Itands that if any children should be bom to us, they were to be baptized and raised Catho- lics. Have you forgotten so soon? It pains me deeply." "Promiacsconnt for nothing," he stammered forth scornfully. "I never for one moment, in- tended to do it, anyway — and, pshawl the priest is dead." "The priest is dead, 'tis true, and more's the jnty," added Cecile sadly. "But, Kenneth, there were other ears than his that heard the ONK BASTSR AT HIOHlfOM. 88 promise. There is a God in heaven and H. -l«r^ "«» ' •» «l*d that the;:! ^,t remembers your words still. • • •« wno "Enough of this nonsense— this oW «,-,» talk I" ■hnnii.j r> =s"ac uis oia-woman look «» H ^*^*"° ""*"''• •»«' tJ'««was a look of deep scorn in his eyes. "My child will never-never. I «.y_be baptized by a priesT" -ndlje stormed out of the room in 7gr^S 'of neS'r"?^!!' """^ *^'* '*'"*^' decile had never again, except on a few. thoughtless occ«.ons. mentioned baptism or knythbgpT Jimng to Clyde's condition, and. wh« she C 2^ w«i' 5i'j" " ^" ^"^ ^"1«» break. b« rte was afraid, and sealed her lipa for Z Mke of her child-for peace afJr on »ciaimed Mother, poor Tim Flannagan next door has just died I w,. „ ,,, beds-^;;^ HWe. pale fingen,. and ih.a kissed me good-bye aep^«t from the Catl.elr,i prav.d ^tU poor IW aU mommg^Poor VimI how . will S h.ml He was about the only boy I ever kuew ;^ T,f~i" Clydeco«lc„ot.p.akaS word, for the deathbed scene he hs^ jn^w^ 84 dint XAWBS AT HIOHMOBS. neaaed, had made him think of too many thing* and he bunt into tears, and the kindly ring of his mother's voice conld not assuage the pain of his little, wounded heart After some time Clyde's little tain of tears was over, but the feelings of deep sorrow still pene- trated his soul, for he realized that he had lost the first little friend of his heart's kingdom, and that for years to come there would be an empty place nothing could fill. M ■\ I: II: Chaptkr II. On the evening before Tim', funeral, the Cam- when Mr. Cameron suddenly ro«e. after consult- ing hw watch, and exclaimed: "By jove. Cecilel lalmost forgot It is past seven, and I should have been at the office long ago. fixing np my monthly stotement. " ^ f f "Since you will be away then for some time " interposed Mrs. Came.on. "Clyde and I will tt*e « mn over to Flannagan's. Clyde so wishes to see poor little Tim before he is taken have liked to have taken Clyde to church with her in the morning, but she was afraid lest her husband might enact another scene in their household drama. The very mention of it would bring forth suchavolley of abusive, sarcas- tic words that Cecile once more smothered those teelings that her honest heart had known so well. When Clyde and his mother returned from the Hannagan-s, neither spoke. Their heart, were too full for utterance. Clyde was .sitting ma rocker before the fire place, running his fingers carelessly through an open book, while (86) *»'«oeorr msouition tbt outr (ANSI ond ISO T^ST CHAKT No. 2) I 1.0 gia II 5 ■** 12. 12.0 1.8 !:25 iu ■HI I A 1853 Eost Mom StrMt »0<*ftl«r. Nm Yorti 14W9 USA ('!») »«2 - 0300 - Ption. (716) 2se - S9» - Fen 86 ONB EASTER AT BIGHMORB. his mother's lips moved silently and her fingers counted pearly beads that lay hid in the hiuid> kerchief on her lap. Presently Clyde broke out tenderly : ' ' Mother, why won't you let me go to the Sisters' school, so that when I am sick they will come to me and pray for me, like they ilid at Tim's sick bed? I am not like other boys at all, and I just hate my old tutor. He never mentions God's name to me and it all seems so strange, and now I am nearly eleven years old — and, ohi how I do wish I could say half the prayers that those children do. And, mother, I would like to go to your chtu-ch on Sundays and do just what you do and learn to pray to Mary, like Tim used to do. Bven if father does get ingry, I don't care — I want to be just like Tim ".'here was a momentary pause. "Never mind my boy, my prayer, I am sure will some day be answered." she said, "and then everything will be all right." "But I want to learn how to pray, now," he interrupted. "That some day may be too late for me, mother. I want to be one of Mary's children, like Tim, and when I know how to pray, I will have much to ask for." The clock struck eleven. "Come, Clyde" Mrs. Cameron said, sweetly, "it is time you were in bed." When the child was ready to retire, he ONB BASTBK AT HIGHMORB. 87 came to his mother, climbed on her knees, and whispered into herears: "The prayers, mothcrl teach me your "Our Father," and that "Hail, Mary," to-nightl I am sure poor Tim needs a prayer. Let my first one be for him. ' ' Mrs. Cameron kissed the little red lips and then went to the boy's room closed the door gently and said in a trembling voice: "Re- member, Clyde! that your father hears nothing of this. Come, let us kneel down together. ' ' The moonbeams stole through the fine lace curtains and threw their light upon Clyde's golden, curly hair, as he blessed himself and repeated, word after word, the "Our Father." Just then the front door opened and in walked Mr. Cameron. The house was unusually quiet, and thinking Cecile and Clyde were fast asleep,' he took off his overcoat and tip-toed into the drawing room, so as not to disturb their slumb- ers. That very moment the voice of a child came ringing across the hallway— it was sweet and tender, just likethi first song of a young bird in spring— and the words stole into the drawing room, reverently and distinctly: "And lead us not— into temptation— but deliver us from evil — amen. There was only a momentary silence ,V 88 ONE EASTKK AT HIGHMORE. — a slight pause and the two began again : ' ' Hail , Mary, full of grace— " Kenneth Cameron stood still for a moment, a dark shadow crept into his pale face; his teeth were set and there was a wild look in his eyes, as he tip- toed across the hall and then stood at the door of Clyde's room. It was partly closed, and there, in the comer, he saw all. There was Clyde in- his white robe, and beside him knelt Cecile, and his boy was being taught how to chatter "papist" prayers. Was it possible? The fires of a fierce hatred were consuming Cameron's soul. His muscles twitched; he could hardly stand it out. Out upon the silence again came the voice of the child, — "Holy Mary — Mother of God — pray for us sinners — " The excited man bit his lips in anger. "Oh, I cannot stand it," he thought, "the idea of teaching my boy to pray to a woman! I will yet bend Cecile 's haughty will and she will yet have to cower down in the dust at my feet and beg my pardon. ' ' A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind. Now came the sweet voices of mother and child. They were making the sign of the cross — "In the name of the Father — and of the Son — ' ' Ken- neth Cameron thought of his promise to poor Father Francis, thirteen years ago, and again he brushed it away carelessly. The battle was on. It had reached the climax. He could ONH KASTEK AT HIGHMORE. 89 not Stay the wild impulses of his haughty nature —his face was the picture of a madman's, and in he darted, into the very room where mother and child were kneeling, and roughly snatched the little one from the floor, amid a cry of curses that would have put to shame even Lucifer him- self. "Cecile Emery." he groaned, "let this night put an end to all your foolish fanciesi That boy will never be a Catholic and mumble monoton- ous prayers and bend his knee to the priest, and if yoa persist in making my life uncomfortable I will tear your heart in two. You do not de- serve my love and you are degraded in my eyes for having planned and schemed and plotted against me and my child when my back -is turned. By heaven, I swear! you shall yei ,uf. fer for this!" Clyde stood transfixed— a wit- ness to another act of high society drama— and in his eyes the tears gathered fast. Mrs. Cameron knelt at the bedside. Her eyes were dry, and her hands held fast her throbbine temples. "Cecile," he shrieked, "do you hear me with your mumbling witchery of prayer? Remem- ber, this night ends your trickery with that child!" and*' stormed out of their sight and paced the hi .th the fury of a caged lion. When he was gone, Clyde stole over to his ■f . . 1 4. 90 UNK KASTUK AT HIGHMORR. mother's side, put his trembling, childish arms around her neck, and planted a kiss on her fev- erish cheeks. Then in the moonlight, he knelt down again beside her and, I really believe, bis lips moved in prayer. Chapter III. Two months had passed and the Cameron house was bright and cheerful as ever. Ken- neth seemed to have forgotten all about the fatal night, and Cecile tried very hard to forget. Every day she made a visit to St. Peter's and God only knows what her thoughts were. One day, eariy in February, when steel-gray skies were dull and cheerless, Cecile stood at her window, gazing down the long, empty, desolate street. It had just begun snowing a little and the streets were very slippery. She had sent Clyde T.ith a message to the grocer's, and he had not returned, though he had been gone a full hour. Just then, the ambulance swept around the corner, and for an instant a mighty fear swayed her inmost feelings. The ambulance halted before her very doors. She felt dizzy; everything was moving around her and she came near falling to the floor, but she held fast to a chair standing near by. She stared through the window almost wildly; she saw her husband, and then came the ambulance surgeons carrying an almost lifeless, pale body on a stretcher. The door opened, she stared at the men; she could (91) \ i it if 92 ONK KASTKK AT Hir.HMORK. not Speak; she stared at the being on the stretch- er — it was tlie body of a child. She threw her hands into the air and shrieked. "My God! it is Clyde — "she moaned, as .she sank into Ken- neth's strong arms. Another of the many accidents that take place in our large cities had occurred, and again, as usual, the unhappy victim was a poor, little, un- suspecting child. Clyde, on his way home, tried to hurry over the King street crossing just as a west-bound car wks coming up a number of yards behind him. The streets had just frozen hard after a thaw, and the poor lad slipped and fell with the back of his head upon one of the iron rails. It was an awful fall; the child was dazed and uttered a sickly cry. A policeman saw the child falling and made for the crossing. The motorman also saw the boy lying there, and tried to stop the car; it was going at a slow speed, thank God! Clyde's body would have been crushed under the wheels had not the policeman's strong arms just then been active. The child was in a state of collapse, and restor- atives were administered, until the ambulance arrived that was to convey the little sufferer to his home. All next day Clyde lay in his little cot, to all appearances dead. His breathing was shallow; his little pulse almost imperceptible. Not a word ONK KASTKK AT HIGHMOKE. 93 had yet passed his lips, and he seemed to be in a continual stupor. Dr. Von Hartmann the emi- nent specialist, had been called into the Cameron house, several days after, by the family physi- cian, and upon examining the child, the famous German professor at once said: "My dear people, I am very sorry, the child will die; its chances to live are very meagre. The symptoms at first were those of concussion of the brain, but during the last twenty four hours meningitis has set in, and this makes the prognosis so unfavorable. I have seen quite a few traumatic cases and, out of their number, only two recovered." Mrs. Cameron was almost wild; the excite- ment had been too much for her. If Clyde would only speak how much better she would feel, and then to think that her only child had to die — and to die unbaptized. O horrible thoughtl The agony of it sickened her deeply, but she bore up bravely and found a consolation in prayer. Three weeks had passed and Clyde's condition had not changed much, although Dr. /on Hartmann seemed more hopeful. She how- ever, resolved to make a novena to the Mother of God, and one morning she placed a little, white, marble statue of the Virgin at Clyde's bed- side. Before this, a candle was to burn all day and night. She cared not what Kenneth would say, but she expected a few words of reproach M ONR KASTKK AT HItiHMORB. \ i from him that afternoon. But strange to say, he saw the statue and burning candle and not a word passed his lips, and Cecile was glad, for she felt that his cold, icy heart was begin- ning to thaw. Perhaps the sight of the sick child had put a check on his tongue, so as not to desecrate the serenity of the sick chamber. One evening, shortly after the lights were turned low, Mr and Mrs. Cameron watched at the bed of their sick child. Clyde moved around nervously on his pillowi, his soft blue eyes opened , and for a moment he gazed into the two tear- stained faces over him; then his lips moved, for the first time since the accident, and he whisp- ered: "Hail, Mary, full of grace—." Again, he raised his fingers to his forehead, as if to bless himself, and a stupid, faraway look came to his face, and his hand fell down helpless at his side. Cecile wept bitterly, and upon Kenneth's troubled face there was a look, as if a storm wer« brewing within his soul. The days wore on, and dark, cheerless days they were, but they were getting somewhat brighter. Clyde seemed more himself; he was less drowsy and tried to speak with great fervoi , but then, almost as suddenly, his mind would become a blank. Yet, all in all, the doctors were well pleased with his condition. . Day by day his ONK BASTRR AT HlQHMORB. 95 power of speech grew stronger, and he would converse quite freely with thobe around him Notone moment washe free from pain, and, when his temperature ran up and wild, fever tempests consumed his energy, then he would sink into a low, muttering delirium, and often, very often raise his fingers to his forehead, and there thev remained until tired and exhausted he fell asleep. One afternoon, when he awoke out of a re- freshing sleep, he motioned his lather to his bed- side, and said, in a slow, weak voice: 'Father, I am not going to get better, and I am going to ask you one favor before I die. It is the last I wiU ever ask of you," and he halted asif tocatch his breath. "Go on, my dear," said Mr. Cameron. "I would like to have Father Doyle come to see me," the child continued, "so that he could speak to me the way he spoke to poor Tim one afternoon when I was there. He Hos such a warm heart, and he will make me very happy. Will you go for him. Father?" "Yes, my child, I will have him come" he answered. "I wish, father, that you yTurself would go for him, ' Clyde interrupted. Kenneth Cameron's eyes opened widely: he waited an instant, then he said nervously, "I wUl, my boy I" Cecile overheard the convetsa- 96 ONK KASTKK AT HIUHMURR. tton, and in her soul a fresh, new light was juat then shining. Good old Father Doyle— be of the gentle face and snow-white hair — eamt daily to »ee Clyde, and stayed long hours to speak and read to him. After one of these visits, Clyde said to his father; "I don't know, but every time I see Father Doyle coming in the doorway, my heart gives a jump, and all the pains iu my back leave me just as rapidly as they came. His kin^ voice and his gentle smile do more for me than Doctor Von Hartma in does with electricity and drugs. And, oh, fataer, I am so hap^jy, for I am get- ting to be more like Tim Flannagan every day" — and he smiled gently. It was the first smile Mrs. Cameron had seen on Clyde's face all dur- ing his illness, and that smile lit up theaarkness and the gloom of all her succeeding days. A great change was also coming over Kenneth. He had taken o£f the mask of his other self, and in Cecile's eyes was again the upright, manly heart and ardent lover of those early years. One day the little tallow candle on the table in front of the Virgin's statue went out, and to Cecile's great surprise, Kenneth himself lit it. And with that same match the Virgin, herself, lit the fires of faith and understanding that were smoulder- ing in his soul, while the embers of his former' vague, religious persuasions were turning cold in death. Chahtkr IV. It wanted but two weeks of Easter. aiiU High- more, with its rich avenues of spruce trees. wa.s Ijeginning to look its prettiest. The lawns were changing to green in the sunlit .;, the birds were returning in flocks, and flowers wea ever>-where beginning to push their heads throu,-h the wet earth. April's coming had been vcy welcome and still he lingered, breathing fresh lifr into valley and meadow, and, from his golden c' ice wreathed with the buds and blossoms of sprinjr' he poured forth fresh, cooling showers. It was a grand awakening, and it spoke to Kenneth Cameron's .soul more deeply and more clearly than words or actions had ever done. He, too felt an awakening, but it was an awakening of the soul— an awakening, profound and majestic He was beginning to think of eternal .springs and eternal sunshines, and he stood at the gates of the dreaded Dawn, no longer the doubter and scoffer, but the believer, ready to pass out into the perfect day of prophetic faith— a day filial with joy and love and peace. Mrs. Cameron was also breathing ea.sier, for Dr. Von Hartniann had expressed every hope of (97) > : 98 ONK KASYKK AT HIGHMOKK. ! ■ S i i ; i i Clyde's recovery. The pains had left his back, the temperature was down to normal, his mental faculties were perfectly restored, and the only remnant of the old disease was a slight head- ache, that he experienced at times. But the jKMjr child was only a shadow of his former self, yet mother and father were both over joyed to know that God had spared their little one. Clyde grew stronger daily and vvas now sitting up in bed, and, when Dr. Von Hartmann promised the lad a drive with his ^father on Easter Sunday, the acme of childish happiness was reached. One evening just as Mr. Cameron was going out the front door, his wife called him back: "Kenneth, are you going out again? My! we haven't had you home with us one evening since the middle of March, and this seems so strange, for you never went out much before. Kenneth, I am beginning to have strange misgivings." "Calm yourself, Cecile ! " he answered smiling- ly. "You see I am so busy, and I have come home so often during the day since Clyde's ill- ness, that my work is never finished. I am, just now, balancing accounts and soon, my dear, I will be able to hand you the receipts." "To hand me the receipts," Cecile thought. "What did he mean? Had he been in financial straits that she knew nothing of?" Cameron, in parting, only smiled, and I won- ONE EASTEK AT HK.HMORE. 99 tblthL^l t expenenced spiritual difficulties^ sett inl K T""*'''"^ °^' »"d J'e thought of settling a debt, which he owed her. It all «.ml about in this way: '^'"^ wJ?"outt"t'''r*"f ""'y'" March Kenneth was out for a walk. A soft breeze came sween ng up f^om the lake; it was so cool and S-' mg The streets were crowded with churchgoers steps in the direction of St. Peters P«, doubtful whether or not he should enter th. •sacred edifice. He had just turned his btk ^ you saM' Sr"°°; '' " '^"^'"^'^ I »« tosee "Now 2. "^^ '''"'*'' Pother, gently Tsto peak a'n^r^- '''' '^^"'^'^ ^^^^^^ishop IS to speak, and there is a feast in store for the -ngregation." The chimes ceased ringing and the^rreat organ pealed forth volumes o?2u„7 in front of the pulpit. '^ "Divine Providence againj" whispered the .: I 100 ONB EASTER AT HIGHMORB. priest to himself, as he entered the sanctuary. That very evening Father Doyle had a caller at the rectory. It was Mr. Cameron. The Arch- bishop'ssermon on Faith had set his brain think- ing, and every truth in the eloquent discourse had taken deep root in Kenneth's soul. What passed between the two men that night only they themselves knew. But for evenings after you could see a dim light in Father Doyle's study at a certain hour, and the venerable old man, cate- chism in hand, instructing Highmore's wealthy broker. And now we can g^ess where Kenneth spent so many of his evenings. Easter dawned, bright and rosy, with the ring- ing of bells over the roof-tops of the city. The heart of the morning beat joyous and free, and Clyde could hardly wait for his mother's return from early mass, for this was to be the day of his drive. "Won't you have breakfast before going out driving, Kenneth?' ' asked Cecile lovingly. Ken- neth shook his head and answered somewhat strangely: "Thank you, Cecile! I little feel like eating anything just now. After the drive, a morsel will taste all the better, my dear," and he laughed a bright, cherry laugh, that sent a thrill of joy through Cecile's heart. When father and son were comfortably seated in the coupe and speeding down Central avenue, ONH KASTER AT HIGHMnKK. IQl Mr. Cameron turned to Clyde. There was a look of almost superhuman joy in his face, and he ask 1, in a trembling tone of voice- "Clyde you ave seen so much of Father Doyle-would you . .ally like to become a Catholic?" "With all my heart, father," cametheanswer in a fine, soft, childish voice. "I oftenthonghl of It, but I dared not ask you." thJ?u """^..T^ """ "°^' ^^y^'''" proceeded the father. I have kept a little surprise from you and your mother. Last night I went to confLs- lon to good, old Father Doyle, and this morning I am to be baptized and receive Communion in the rectory chapel. And now, Clyde, you see why I could not take bre«kfa.st this morning; it would have broken my fast. . Little your mother dreams of the surprise that this Easter will brine her —and he laughed gladly. Clyde opened his large, blue eyes; he was al- m«tdumb. He could hardly believe his father's words. "Oh, father!" he at last broke forth amidst a flow of tears, "I am .so happy. Can't r also be baptized with you? Do speak to Father Doyle. I am sure he won 't refuse me. ' ' They had to wait at the rectory some minutes The housekeeper had told them that Father Doyle had just gone to the Cathedral for hosts as the Archbishop was going to say his mass in his pnvate chapel in the rectory. ■t :' ■ t!J 102 ONK KASTKR AT Hir.HMORK. Fifteen minutes later, both father and son had been baptized and received into the Church. The Archbishop, himself, kindly performed the ceremony, and, trembling old man that he was, he seemed still very active and strong for his years, as he mounted, with heavy step, the altar, to administer the first Holy Communion to Ken- neth Cameron, while Clyde in his heart, thanked God that his first sweet prayer to Mary had been answered. Father Doyle was sponsor to both baptisms. After mass, the Archbishop blessed both father and son where they were kneeling, and went to the Cathedral to preach the Easter sermon. Mr. Cameron and Clyde occupied front pews, and as the venerable Archbishop spoke, large, heavy tears rolled down Kenneth's cheeks. He thought of the Archbishop's former sermon on Faith, and thanked God inwardly, for hav- ing directed his footsteps to old St. Peter's on that memorable Sunday evening. When the coupe again stopped in front of the Cameron residence, the Archbishop was the first to alight, and he remarked thoughtfully. "You should have told your wife of this, Mr. Cameron. I dare say, she little suspects what has happened, but, after all, it will be a pleasant surprise foi her, and a moment of happiness, the like of which she will not experience ag^n." "A i"oment of happiness, your Grace" added l'« ' ONK KASTKH AT HIGIIMORK. luy Father Doyle, as he stepped to the pavement, "into which can be crowded all life's years of sorrow. ' ' Just then Kenneth Cameron's eyes lit up with a smile. He had seen Ceciles face through the lace curtains and his heart gave a wild thrill of joy. The Archbishop himself took Clyde in his arms and lifted him from the carriage, and together they walked into the house. Mrs. Cameron's eyes sparkled as she knelt to kiss the Archbishop's ring. He had been a dear friend to the Emery's in the days gone by, and, as he stooped to bless Michael Emery's only chilt" , hissaintly old heart felt a pain that was akin to sorrow. "May all your days be filled with sunshine," he said, "and may God bless you and vouts!" Just then a thought pierced Cecile's soul. She thought oi Kenneth and wondered in her heart if her prayer would ever be answered. She raised hereell from her knees and smiled to Father Doyle, as she clasped hands. Then turning to Kenneth and Clyde, she noticed a strange look in both their eyes, which spoke of a secret something she dreaiued not of. Kenneth rose to the situation and laid bare the secret, that up to now had bwai hidden in his heart. "Cecile," heexclaimed, with much feel- ing, "the accounts are balanced— the debt is paid. Here are the receipts," and he handed '"i 104 ONB BASTBR AT RIGHMORB. her two souvenir documents. They bore the particulars and date of her husband's and son's baptism and entrance into the Church. Cecile trembled and held the documents to her gaze. The tears were gathering in her soft eye- lids. The surprise had totally upset her. "Oh, Godl"shecried"IthankTheel" Andshekissed Kenneth and Clyde just where they were stand- ing. i I. SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. An hour ago, I walked through the Halls of Misery. About me were seas of pale, sick faces —some bearing a hopeful look, some down- cast and despairing, others, again, contracted by the ravages of pain. The little hospital clock in the far comer ticked away the minntes that weighed like lead upon some poor, tired souls, and all the air was heavy with rose- perfume. The long, white ward was silent, save for an oc- casional weak moan that came from the bed, near the last window, where a little light flickered peacehilly. With aching heart, I drew near. Poor, degraded mani How my heart went out to him as he lay there, almost battered beyond recognition— another unhappy victim of the terrible accident in one of the down-town streets. His face had a hard look upon it, and as I drew near he gave me a hard smile that almost froze the blood in my veins. I took his hand and bent over him and spoke, but he made no ans- wer. His glassy eyes only opened to close again. I felt that death had taken hold of his heart- strings, and that the end would only be a matter oi a few minutes. At the bedside knelt the sweet-faced nun, who (105) :1>: 106 SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. 1 I ;• had not left him since his body had been carried in, early in the afternoon. Her eyes seemed to be treasuring visions other mortals dreamed not of, and her lips were tuned to the melody of prayer. Presently, she rose, and bending over the dying man, listened for a moment, then answered sweetly: "Vou must not speak so, poormani You are not alone, for God Himself is near, willing to be your friend — " "My friend?" faintly spoke up the dying man, and for an instant he lingered upon the music of that word, whose true meaning he had never realized until now. But it was too late. Suddenly, a darkness crept into his wild eyes, a loud volley of curses fell from his lips — he cursed God, life, everybody— curses so horrible that the very air and rose leaves trembled and stirred the hearts of the many sleepless observers who moved uneasily in their white beds in the long ward. His fists clinched terribly, his whole body shook, and another awful curse died on his lips. And his soul passed out into a cold and desolate night, with no bright star to cheer its bitter journey. The good, little nun stared a minute into the face, set cold in death. A few tears crept from her tired eyes; they rolled down her snowy guimpe, and I almost thought I heard them fall, so deep was the silence. SHADOW AND StrNSHINK. 107 Then, turning to me, she whispered- "He is gone-poor mani God be merciful!" and sadlv she crept out of the long, white ward, sick at heart for the passing of an unrepenting soul. And instantly these beautiful lines came to me- If we live truly, we shall see truly. " It is as «»sy for the strongman to be strong, as it is for the weak tobe weak. When we have new per- ception, we shall gladly disburden the memwy of Its hoarded treasures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be assweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the com. ' ' I paused a moment in the presence of death andagainmyheart ached, for it had been wit- ness to many such scenes. Presently, the sound of a little silver bell floated outside, down the long corridor. It grew louder and louder as it drew nearer, and in another minute the 6ld gray haired chaplain passed in the light of a buminjr randle, which the good Sister carried reverently Another soul was hovering on the brink of eternity; another life had almost spent its fires in Ae mighty battle of existence. It was pa.ssing from the Now into the Then. The music of the little bell fell upon my heart and eagerly I followed-followed the little bell and the pale, flickering candle-light. Upon a spotless pillow, lay the sickened, tired head of lOS SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. :.. I the dying woman. She was quite young^-on her cheeks still lingered the flush of the last twilight, that had shone through the large open windows. Yes, the twilight of her life was over, and now the night was waiting with her glorious hours of resi, sacred and satisfying. But she feared not, for Christ — the Pilot of her soul — wa.s about to come to her to steer her little barque in- to the blessed tide of Peace, that flowed beneath the sunshines of angels' smiles through a land of roses, where Joy and Love walked arm in arm through asphodelian meadows, and God Him- .self sat reigning in His heaven. Heaven would soon be hers. Her years had been one continual shower of prayer and song. Other lives were the richer for her having lived, and as she lay there, one could almost see the fingers of the MasUr stealing, in the silence, to pluck frotn His garden one of life's purest floweis — a flower with its young life still before it — a flower with all its leafy hopes yet folded — a flower tended and watched and nourished by Himself and destined to bloom to loveliness be- neath other skies. Presently, the priest administered the Commun- ion. His hands shook a little, and no wonder — for they held, in that brief moment, the mighty King of Heaven. The sick woman smiled. The priest had brought her soul's Pilot and she ■ ii itHAOOW AND SUNSHIKB. 108 wanted nothing more. And, tor some time all knelt it prayer. Only now and then, the aob of a strong mai, .u the rear made one feel aad. It was the husband of the dying woman. But a year ago. the old chaplin had made the two, man and wife. The woman's eyes opened for a mo- ment. "The prayers are so lovely," she said. 'They float over the distant waters that divide us like the music of soft-toned reeds, and my Pilot and I are happier on account of them." Then, in trembling voice, she called- "The childl Jim! Wherearethey?" The kind nun rose, bent for an insta.nt over the white crib, and took from it a little blue-eyed babe; it had the face of an angel, and tenderly she placed it in the dying woman's arms. Good-byel Good-byel my little onel Thou art pure as the snow, my little first-bom— my Mary I God always, sooner or later, plucks a lil>" forthe rose. You are my lily— my little, white-souled child, and I will not have to wait long till you rest safely in your mother's arms in heaven." Unconsciously, almost, Bryant s lines came to me, and my lips repeated quietly: "Innocent child and snow-white flower. Well are ye paired in your opening hour; Thus should the pure and the lovely meet. Stainless with stainless and sweet with sweet White as those leaves fast blown apart Are the folds of thy own young heart: Guilty passion and cankering care Never have left their traces there. " I in 1 ^'ii :|l ^ i H i' ■■• ' n ^1 1 i: ii no SHADOW AMI HUN8HINK. Gladly, the dying woman impreswed a parting kiss on the tiny baby cheek. For a moment, she gazed at the little one. "O GodI" she exclaim* sd, "willingly do I give up my life for the sake of my newborn babe— my Mary," and, tremb- ling, she handed the precious charge into the arms the gentle, kind nun. Then, turning to her husband, she said with quivering lips: ' Do not weep, Jim! I am so happ>', and when I am - corner of that magnificently furnished room, the air of which was redolent with the breath of fresh roses. And now she rose from the piano, a slen- der, though graceful figjure — her mouth "with steady sweetness set And eyes conveying unaware. The distant hint of some regret That harbored there." Slowly, she crossed 'the room to stir the fire, which was almost out, and then her eyes wand- ered to the picture of a woman, which hung in its deep gilt frame above the mantle-piece. Long she stood there, gazing into the beloved counten- ance of her poor, dead mother, and almost un- consciously she whispered to herself: "Poor, dear mother! would that you were with me nowl O, my heart is heavy with its dregs of sorrow. Ten long years have passed since the night your fevered lips kissed me their last good-bye. 01 how cruel it was that you were taken from me at a time when I needed your counsel most! But no, it was not cruel — no, I dare not speak thus. God knew what was best and happiness and peace will surely come to me again. O, mother, would that you were -near to advise me nowl I am sorely distressed. Father is bound to have me marry Count Albertini, an Italian nobleman. FOR LOVK'S OWN SAKR. 115 and the thought of it nearly drives me mad. I do not, cannnot, love him. He asks me to for- sake my religion, your religion, mother, for wealth, distinction and an empty title, and, when I mention Francois Fortier's name, father drifts into a violent fit of anger. But I am resolved. I will never forsake the Catholic Church for a hun- dred Italian mnts like Albertini. I will marry Francois Fortier— the man I love. He is only a poor book-keeper, mother, but he has a heart of gold. He has been very reckless of late and has not seen the inside of a Church foryeats, but I love him, and I will make a man of him. Poor mother! poor Francois — " She could not speak another word. Her feel- ings got the better of her and she sank down upon the sofa near by, exhausted and powerless and wept like a child. A few minutes later, she was on her feet again, and her face was as white as that of the carved ivory figure of the Madonna that stood upon the piano. With heavy heart she walked to the large open window, facing the busy, lighted streets, and as she stood there, her thoughts wrestled with a great and mighty prob- lem. The city clock had just struck eight, and sadly she gazed out into the night, while the heart of the city wa? vibrant with life. The band was playing on the island near by and crowds of people were walking in that direction. Presently 116 I'OK LOV«'s OWiN SAKK. I • it struck up the overture of Mascagiu's famous opera, and, when the solo cornetist played the "Ave Maria," Beatrice listened with both ears. Oh, it was so beautiful; it just suited her present state of mind and the tears were again gathering under her soft eyelids. To har it sounded like the voice of some longing,- and desolate heart, telling forth its tale of sorrow into the darkness of night. It touched a tender chord in her heart and almost dreamingly, she whispered to the busy night winds: , "Oh, for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung! The babe upon its mother's breast. The bird upon its young. The heart asleep without a pain. When shall I know that sleep again?" Just then, she felt a light tap on her shoulders. She turned her head nervously, somewhat frightened, and her father stood before her. "Ah, Beatrice darling!" he began, as he kiss- ed her cheeks tenderly. "Don't be frig' tened, it is only papa. Why, how tired and worn you look, dear! I suppose you were wondering what had happened me. And is it really nine o'clock? Well, I was so busy at the oflSce this afternoon, closing a few bargains in real-estate and those blundering fellows held me fast until now. But Beatrice! Child! You look trftubled. What has 1 !»■• I ! I FOR LOVK'S OWN SAKE. 117 happened? Your eye* are red— you were weep- ing, child! Come what is the matter, darling?" And, saying this, he sat down beside her. "Nothing very much," answered Beatrice. ' ' The band in the park yonder played some beauti - ful selections and, as I listened, my heart grew so lonesome. And then, too, I thought of mother' poor, dear mother! Oh how happy I would be could I only hear her vorce! Do you know father, that this is the anniversary of her death?' ' There was silence and the Hon. Harvey St. George gazed sorrowfully at the woman in oil above the mantel-piece, and, when Beatrice turned slightly, she saw that his eyes were filling up with tears." "Come father," she said, "Constance awaits you for supper in the dining room. The bell sounded ten minutes ago. ' • And together they rose and, arm in arm, left the drawing room. The Hon. Harvey St. George was one of the leading real-estate dealers in the city, and was considered by some, as being very wealthy, while others again a.sserted that he was on the down- ward path— on his last legs, as the saying goes— and that before many moons the beauriful St. George mansion would •)e in the hands of hi.s creditors. A man of very distinguished appear- ance, he moved in the best circles of .society. His wife was a daughter of the late Senator Snnth, and, three years after her marriage, she 118 FOR UlVh'S OWN SAKK. \l- became a convert to the Catholic faith. After her death, St George made up his mind never to marry again. He was a large-hearted, good- natured sort of a fellow, and gave freely to the poor, but he 'lad one great fault; he had an un- governable, bad temper, and, when he made up his mind to do a thing, he generally did it. He loved his daughter almost too much, and, as her father, sought her obedience in all things. St. George, himself frequented no particular church. Mrs. St. Geoi^ had been a good Cath- olic and Beatrice was also brought up in her mother's faith, and it had been a rare thing to hear a word of ridicule from St. George's lips. But now, in his flights of temper, he would say distressing and cutting things, that pierced Beat- rice's very soul, but she always forgave him. The other member of the household was Con- stance Burke, the trusty old servant, who, ever since the night of Beatrice's mother's death, had made the St. George mansion her home. She was the best friend Beatrice had in all this world and, to her example and timely instructions, the girl owed in part, her strong grounding in character. Silence reigned in the dining room. Beatrice was looking over the daily papers and her father was taking hissupperratherquietly. Something was troubling him, and it left its shadow on his I I FOR LOVK S OWN SAKH. 119 handsome face. His brow was wrinkled and ais eyes were set. Something was worr ; lag him and Beatrice knew it Just then, Constance opened the door and said: "Mr. St. George, the clerk has just brought the mail, and here, Beatrice, is a letter for you." With her back to Mr. St. George, the good-natured women kissed the per- fumed envelope and handed it to Beatrice, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "Thatijtyou, Constance. From FrancoisI my Francois," whispered Beatrice to herself, as she quickly opened the letter. Then she closed it again; her face turned pale, and the letter with the odor of crushed violets fell to the floor. Nervous- lyshe snatched it upagain, and read it, her hands shaking with fear — Room 46, Hotel Lafayette. (Sydenham Street.) Monday Evening. Dear Beatrice, I could not resist writing you again. Your resolution came as a thunderbolt to me. Do re- consider the matter, Beatrice, for my sake, do! I ask once more. I love you, and will give yon wealth, distinction and happiness, and a beauti- ful home in Naples, if you consent to become my wife. By doing this you will save your father from utter ruin. Think well! You may some day regret this hasty act. Yours XICCOI A ALBERTINI. II 120 FOR LOVB'S OWN SAKR. I ;n Beatrice St George's face paled when she had finished the letter; she was seized with an almost superhuman dread of some impending calamity and the name of Niccola Albertini brought a new terror to her soul. Again this man, whom she hated so, had dared to thrust himself into her very existence. Only yesterday, she had written him a burning letter, that she could never become his wife— but without avail. "By doing this, you will .save your father from utter ruin." What did he mean? Ah I these were the words that pained her deeply and, for a minute, she stared into space, almost wildly, the vessels in her temples throbbing visibly. Poor girl! During all this time, St. George was eyeing his daughter critically, and a cynical smile stole round his eyes, as he exclaimed: "Why Beat- rice, what has happened? The letter seems to have brought you distressing news. Let me read it, childl" Beatrice raised her drooping head and stared wildly at her father, and, rising, obeyed and handed him the Count's letter. Mr. St. George threw himself back in his easy chair and, quickly, his eyes scanned the letter; then he raised his head, and the furrows on his face deepened. Beatrice could not sit it out; she rose and walked the floor with an impetuous tread, an expres.sion of deepanguish in her giriish eyes. Her father watched her, as a cat watches FOR LOVE'S OWN SAKE. 121 a mouse, and at last he exclaimed somewhat hoarsely: "Well, Beatricel What have you to say?" The girl stood still and heaved a deep sigh and, raising her misty eyes to his, exclaimed almost abruptly: "Father! it is impossible. Utterly impossible! Why do you persist in this marriage with this man, whom I hate and can never love? I cannot give up Francois Fortier, for I love him with all my heart." "And you prefer," he exclaimed angrily, "that low-bred fellow, that good-for-nothing scamp, to a wealthy and refined man like Count Albertini? For a girt of your bringing up, Beatrice, I must say, your taste is remarkable." Just then his foot came to the floor with a loud noise. "Oh, father! How can you speak sc of Fran- cois? He may not have the wealth of an Alber- tini, but if the word gentleman has any meaning, father, then, he is a gentleman. I have known him all these years and many a time mother ran her fingers through his golden hair, when we, two, were playmates. But that was long age' To-day he is the self-same fellow, a trifle careless, I know^but he can hardly be blamed for that! I,eft an orphan at eight, and adopted by a careless aunt, he gradually drifted away from God, and now— well, he is nothing. If I give him up now, he will go to utter ruin. But father, 122 FOR love's own SAKB. I cannot do it. I love him and I will marry him; I will help him to save hia soul and lead him back into the embrace of the Catholic faith, which his poor, dead parents loved so tenderly. Father! I have a duty to perform— the salvation of the soul of Francois Fortier. " "Francois Fortier, that miserable worm of the street, that regenerate Catholic, to be married to the daughter of the Hon. Harvey St. George— impossiblel Curse himi Well, after all, this is what a father can expect for sending his daugh- ter to a Convent for a liberal education; this, then, is the sort of rubbish, those pale-faced nuns in- stil into the hearts of their scholars. They make them idolize their very church — set their idola- trous faith above wealth, distinction, honor and fame. Oh, whatfollyl" Beatrice, weak and despairing, sank down on the couch, near the fire place. There was a momentary silence and she began: "Fatherl How can you speak so insultingly of the good Sisters? How dare you stigmatize my faith, my mother's faith, your wife's faith, as idolatrous? Oh, fa- ther, it breaks my poor heart. You must be go- ing mad. I prize my faith, and I am not ashamed to say it, above anything earthly — above wealth, distinction, honor and fame, and as long as I hold the power of speech, I will never sell my soul for the love of that scheming FOR love's own sake. 12S Italian. To live with him would be to me but a lingering death. Oh, fatherl Be merciful to me and I will bless you all my life." And Beatrice wept bitterly. A groan burst from St. George'slips; he wrung his hands, the color left his cheeks, and, rising from his chair, he walked o--er to where Beatrice was sitting and answered somewhat calmly, as his temper was gradually abating: "Beatrice, child, listenl I am a prisoner in the Count's hands. The letter reads, you see — "by doing this you will save your father from utter ruin. ' ' Again these words burned into Beatrice's very soul. She had forgotten them in the hasty dis- cussion that had followed, but now again they stood, black and staring, before her tearful eyes. "Beatrice," continued her father, "I have never told you anything concerning my business relations with Albertini, but now the hour has come, and your marriage is the only means of sparing me from the ignominy of disgrace. The Count holds a large mortgage, on all my posses- sions, which he will destroy if you consent to be- come his wife. I met him at the Hotel Lafayette this morning, and he told me that, if you refuse, I — I — the Hon. Harvey St. George — will be a pauper in the streets of the city, before to-mor- row's sun has coursed the blue canopy to its western home. Will you then persist in your IM FOU LOVK'S OWN SAKS. ' r 1 - •-! 1 1 j J 1 1 ' answer and see your father publicly disgraced, before your very eyes? Think again, child, and I will await your answer on the morrow. " And then Harvey St. George left the dining-room with the day's mail under his arm, while Beat- rice buried her head in a silk cushion on the sofa and sobbed aloud in the extremity of her anguish. Constance Burke soon knelt at her side whis- pering sweet and consoling words, and her kind voice and bright chee^fful smile soon made Beat- rice feel better. "Oh, Constance, I came near forgetting. Will you do me a favor?" "Certainly, dear," came the answer, clear and distinct, like a silver bell. To-day is the anniversary of mother's death, and I must have a mass read for her in the morn- ing. Go at once to Father Stanislaus, as it is gett'ng late, and to-morrow morning we will go to confession I" "Good-bye, Beatricel" "Good-bye, dear!" And inaminute Constance was gone. BeatT''^ went to her room that night sadder than ever. She sank down on her knee in front of the large white statute of the Virgin, which her mother had given her on her tenth birthday, and wept and prayed convulsively. "O Queen of Mercy! be my stay in this darkened hour of FOR I/JVK S OWN SAKK. 125 triall I seek thy advice — what shall I do? Would that mother were only here! Poor, poor motherl And my poor Francois, what will be- come of him? I am helpless in my father's hands. Must I obey him, when my conscience says — no? But I will have to yield. I am sure of it — I feel it. O, my poor, poor Francois!" At an early hour next morning Beatrice and Constance returned from Mass. They had both received the "Bread of Angels" and Beatrice was prepared to face the worst and yet she was happy as the birds, flying through the air. She had made her peace with God and she had nothing to fear. That morning after breakfast, a stormy scene followed. St. George's temper grew violent. "Well, Beatrice," he asked, cooly, "I await your answer. Will you, for your father's sake, consent to marry Count Albertini?" "You have my decision, father," came the answer, clear and distinct, and the girl's lips trembled. ' ' I will not, cannot consent to become his wife." "Then, ungrateful girll" he thundered out viciously, as he pounded his fist on the table, "do your worst! You are no longer a child of mine. Your disobedience and stubbomess has forced me to hate you with all the hatred of a once loving heart. Go, where you will— drift 126 FOR love's own sake. ! 5 1 !■ >• 1 1 f ' away to the hospital or alms house, but never never again look up to me as your father. In your direst extremity, expect not even a word of pity from me. I would not even spare you un- grateful child, and give a single penny to 'save you from a pauper's grave. I swear it. Go marry your Francois! Go. go to your Catholic Church and see what she will do for youi" The Hon. Harvey St. George left the table and paced the room, with the fury of a caged lion. Beatrice ran up'to him and threw her arms about him and cried out in the fullness of her pure, youngheart:"0, father! Spare me! Save mel Don't throw me out into the cold streetsi Go! Go! I know you not,"' he cried, as he ran out of the room. Beatrice, powerless as an autumn leaf, fell to the floor sobbing as if her young heart would break There was a slight noise— the front door closed vnth a bang and. in an instant, the Hon. Harvey St. George was lost in the black, surging crowds, that filled Champlain street. That afternoon, two deeply veiled women en- tered the humble little church, near the city park. They were Beatrice St. George and Con- stance Burke. They had left the beautiful St. George mansion-forever, and at Constance's invitation, Beatrice was now going to make her home with the Eurkes." Chapter U Francois Fortier sat on the balcony of the Hotel Frontenac, idly puffing away at his cigarette. It was the hour of four in the afternoon. His work at the office was finished, and he sat gazing down sadly into the street, busy with excitement. He was a man of fine appearance, and on his young face, there lurked a tender smile. His laiTge, black eyes, bright and dancing with almost childish gladness, held a singular fascination and, on his broad and full forehead, there was not a wrinkle of care. His complexion was fair and healthy, and the cool north-wind had rouged his cheeks until they matched the brilliant hue of his red neck-tie. A few feet away sat a rather strange looking man, who eyed Francois almost continually. He was dressed in a rich black suit, and wore a heavy dark moustache and beard. A pair of deep colored glasses were fast- ened to his rather stubby nose. He was one of the latest arrivals at the Frontenac— a foreigner, in fact, they said— and, only a few hours since! Francois had met this strange man, downstairs whose card read: Prof. Herman Von Klingfeld, Director Theatre Royal. 20 Potsdam Place. Berlin, Germany. (127) 128 FOR LOVK'S OWN SAKE. Francois did not know that the distingu- ished visitor was so near until he heard his slight cough, and turning he greeted the Professor with a cheery "good afternoon" and motioned him to his side. The Professor obeyed and in a second began to talk vociferously. "Well, this is a delightful afternoon, ' ' he went on. "This Canadian air makes me feel like a new man. This morning I called in to see Dr. Hutchinson, the renywned eye-specialist. You know I heard of this man away over in Germany and he made some wonderful cures. My eyesight had been failing rapidly for the past few months and I decided to give him a trial— md this is why I am here. The doctor intends operating in a few days and gives me great hopes. " "Ah!" exclaimed Fortier, as he lit another cigarette, "he is a great man, and he has a won- derful practice. If anybody can help you, then Hutchinson is the man to do it." A cold wind was now blowing from the north, and the strange man in black rose and saidi "Come, Fortier. It is getting rather chilly out here. Let us go in. Come to my room— it is right on this flat, and let us have a game of cards. " And, when they reached the room, Von Klingfeld handed Francois a chair near the table, that stood facing the large, open window. FOR LOVE'S OWN SAKE. 129 "Well, what shall it be. Professor, euchre or pedro?" questioned Francois. "Neither." answered Von Klingfeld, "tho.se are old maids' games. They go at five o'clock teas and the like, but then we only laugh at them over in Berlin. What say you to a game of poker?" Poker?' ' asked Francois, "well really, Profess- or I don't know a great deal about the game, as I have played it so little. Let it be poker, then but remember I am only a gteen-hom at the game." An eager smile lit up the German's lace. as he shufHed the cards. They had now been playing several hours and the air of the room was heavy with clouds of strong-smelling smoke. On the table stood sev- eral empty bottles of champagne; the bell-boy had evidently been kept busy running the stairs. There was a slight rap on the door. "Come in!" shouted out Von KUngfeld "Ah, It is you Sims. Walk right in and make yourself miserable, partner I" chuckled he lustily. "How do you do, Harry ?" "Hello, there, Francois. " .1. ' "^°°*' y°« take a hand in the game ?" asked the black-headed Professor. "No, thank you Von Klingfeld," answered Harry Sims. "I will only look on." I i " lao FOR LOVE S OWN SAKE. Thirty minutes later Francois rose from the table, after he had counted up his winnings on the tally card, that lay at his elbow. "And do you really want to go, Fortier?" mumbled forth Von Klingfeld, with the accent on the "really." "I must. Professor. I must have a draught of fresh air. The smoke in here is so oppress- ive," answered Francois. "Oh, it is not the fault of the smoke, young man. Ha I ha I You are anxious to leave me, now that fortune has favored you— or is it per- haps that some modern Venus is awaiting you in some part of the city ?" There was a slight turn of sarcasm in this and Herr Von Klingfeld laughed vigorously, when he finished speaking. Francois colored. His eyes had a look of anger in them, and for a moment he thought that he had recognized the voice of the strange man in black. He had heard it before — somewhere. He was sure of it. But no I he must have been dreaming and, just as quickly as the thought had come to him, he banished it again. "Well," Francois went on, ''since you pre- sist so, I will play a little longer. But, sir I it was wrong of me to put my hand in this sort of a game at all . Go on ! shu£3e the cards. ' ' And FOR LOVK'S OWN SAKE. 131 again with a heavy sigh, Francois Fotier dealt the cards, while the strange man in black eyed him furtively. Just as he finished, the bell-boy entered with a letter for Francois. Eagerly he opened the envelope and read it. It was a note from Beatrice St. George. My Dear Francois, Meet me to-night at 8 o'clock at the old church near the city park. I have something to tell you. This afternoon I bade farewell to my home on Champlain street. I am staying at Burke's. Dear old Constance is with me. Father has dis- owned me. May God bless you ! With love, your own BEATRICE. A merry smile stole round Francois' curved lips, and, in his happiness, he djd not notice the searching look the strange man directed on the contents of that mysterious letter. A few words alone were readable:— "Your own Beatrice"— and they wer« plain as day and, when Von Klingfeld read the name, his eyes sparkled, the furrows on his forehead deepened, and a look of disappointment crept into his wild face. "Pardon me, Von Klingfeld," began Fran- cois, "for having kept you waiting. Whose play is it?" "Yours, partner," answered the un- easy Herr Von, from Berlin. 132 FOR LOVK'S OWN SAKE. i i One hour passed. Two! three! four! The German professor was in excellent spirits; he swore and laughed alternately. But not so with Francois Fortier. He, poor boy, was almost despairing, for his losses were heavy and the tell- tale was clearly stamped on his clean-shaven countenance. His face was even redder now than the tie that shone from underneath his coat. It seemed as if almost every drop of blood in hib body had suddenly run to his head to stim- ulate his brain to activity. The hour had arrived and it was of vital moment to the lonely, troubled heart of poor Francois. What was he to do? All the money, which he had deposited in the bank — the hard-earned money, which some day was to make Beatrice happy — nearly all of it was drifting by degrees, into the gp'eedy hands of this strange ma^ in black. And what would Beatrice say? Oh I he could never return to her, almost penniless. The thought of it nearly par- alyzed him and he raised himself up in his chair and his brain battled with a lofty and a mighty purpose. Just then, Harry Sims, the wine-clerk of the Frontenac, rose, and, laying his hand on Por- tier's shoulder, said: "Old boyi take a friend's advice. Quit the game, for it will cripple you financially. ' ' "Let me play," interposed Fortier, "and if I FOR I^VE'S OWN SAKE. 133 lose all I have in the world, on this merciless black devil!" A spiteful look stole over Von Klingfeld's ugly, black {ace. The door closed— Harry Sims was gone, and now the two men were alone. Just then a card fell to the floor and Francois got on his knees to look for it. An opportune moment now presented itself for the cowardly act, and, with wonderful rapidity. Von Klingfeld's fingers dropped a white powder into the empty glass, that Francois had been using, as he said: "Well, Francois, while you are looking for the card, I may as well open another bottle. 1 sup- pose you can sUnd another champagne. ' ' Then the strange man in black opened another bottle and poured the foaming, hissing liquid into the glass containing the poison, and, when Fortier placed the last card on the table, he was busy filling his own glass. Now both drank heartily, and a devilish look of triumph was visible on Von Klingfeld's black face;and, under his breath, he again cursed his partner. Fifteen minutes later, Francois Fortier rose from the table, for a strange, numb feeling was creeping into every muscle of his whole anatomy. Some strange force was overpowering him, and he threw his cards to the table and said: "Enough, I play no more. Von Klingfeld count up your card! How much do I owe vou?" 134 FOR lovk's own sakk. i : i: A deep silence followed. There was an al- most superhuman look of anguish on Portier'a troubled, pale face. "Only a small matter, ' ' answered the elegantly dressed German. "Only si": hundred dollars — which, mark you, have to be paid by to-morrow afternoon. Are you prepared, sir?" Herr Von Klingfeld expected strange things would happen, and little did he dream that Francois Fortier was prepared to meet his de- mands and, when two, trembling fingers pulled forth a blank cheque from a well-nigh empty purse, his wild eyes looked fiercer and stranger than ever. "Six hundred dollars," stammered forth Francois, "it is just the amount to my credit in the bank." In a minute the cheque was filled out and in the hands of the strange man in black. "Well, the game is over, and you are the loser, Francois. Ha! hal cheer up I " broke forth Von Klingfeld loudly, "You seem heart- broken, but don't let small things like this trouble you. When do you desire reveng^e?" The Professor's loud, unbearable laugh again sounded through the smoke-filled room, and every muscle in Francois' body trembled strange- ly. "Revenge, did "Never! ne%'er!" you say?" questioned he. ^m. FOR love's own sake. 136 "Good! Then this day brings me a double victory," shouted the strange man ttiumphantly, but little did Francois dream what these words meant. With a sudden turn Francois Fortier sprang to the door, like a pursued hare. There was a slight noise and then he was gone. A few minutes passed and the strange man in black boarded the car, bound for Sydenham street. In another hour he was in Hotel Lafay- ette and entered room 46. A moment later, the heavy black mustache and beard, and deep-col- ored glasses fell to the floor and the man was no longer Prof. Herman Von Klingfeld— but Count -Albertini — the rival of Francois Fortier, for the hand of Beatrice St. George. Albertini was restless, and hyena-like paced the floor of his handsomel " furnished room, while he cursed and swore, by all that was holy, that he would sooner see Francois Fortier dead than married to Beatrice St. George. And, in a maniacal fit of excitement, he cried out: "Ah, Beatrice St. George, I will yet bend your haughty, young head. The mortgage scheme — false though it be — is sure to work, and you will marry me to save your father from disgrace. Hal Ha! St. George, this was a capital idea of yours — this mortgage affair ! But, should the scheme f^l after all, what then? Ah, then, there is still hope; there is something that will not fail. The 138 FOR LOVR'S OWN SAKE. poison— the poison will work and to-morrow'ii sun will shine upon the form of Beatrice's lover in some lonely, forsaken street. Bravol Revenge — revenge is sweet! But v. hat if the poison should not take effect? Well, then, Portier will do away with himself. The thought of having to return to Beatrice, poorer than the poorest rag- man in the street, will overwhelm him in his dis- tress. He can never again face the girl he loves — neverl Beatrice! Beatrice St. George! You shall yet be mine — mine in body and soul!" And again the Count swore desperately. Then he walked to his desk. A letter was lying there. He opened it and read it. It was from the office of the Hon. Harvey St. George. Count Albert- ini's eyes eagerly scanned the contents. His face turned white, his jaws chattered and again tk fierce volley of curses rang through the room, as he tore the letter into a hundred little pieces. Then, weak and exhausted, he sank into his chair, his fists were clenched and an agonizidg cry of despair filled the room. "Too late! too late!" he groaned, as he buried his miserable face in his hands. I' I Chaptkk III. The clock on the tower of the little, quaint church near the park had just struck the hour of ten and, for two long hours, Beatrice St. George had now been waiting in the darkness for Fran- cois. And still he did not come. She was sure something had happened and her poor heart trembled with fear, and now for the fifth time she entered the dear, little church, and knelt in front of the humble statue of Our Lady above which several pale lights were burning— clear and sus- pended in the darkness, like fiery stars. And again her fingers waddered sadly over her cher- ished beads. Shortly afterwards, there were footsteps on the pavement; the distant sound became clearer and clearer, and, presently, a staggering man passed the little church. It was Francois. His face was pale, his lips were bloodless, and he was rav- ing in a mad delirium. The drug was doing its deadly work. "Beatr; ;! Beatrice!" he cried out sorrow- fully, bv. ine gentle breeze, blowing through the lonely avenue of maplv-« alone made answer. On he stumbled, into the park near by, little know- CIS?) laa POR I.OVK'S OWN SAKF. ing whither he wa:* going. The whole earth was swimming before his eyes and he was hurrying on blindly and his mind was being tossed about madly by merciless winds of thought. Poor, poor man I He was unconscious of everything about him and on he ran, muttering inaudible words to the spectral night that lay over the city like some evil, broodjng spirit— dark and un- fathomable. Presently a woman descended the steps of the old church, and, wrapping her warm woolen shawl about her, halted on the pavement and listened eagerly for a moment. It was Beatrice. The winds were now beginning to settle and the night was getting brighter, for through a dark mass of clouds, the moon was peeping serenely and, presently, she burst forth in all her splendor, flooding the whole city with her sombre gleams of silver light. Beatrice was happy, for a new hope had suddenly risen on the darkened border of her wild despair, as her eyes fell upon some white object on the pavement directly ahead of her. In a minute she was there and picked it up. It was a handkerchief, and, on raising it to the light, she read upon it the name of Francois Fortier. Her blood almost stood still in her veins; a feeling of weakness came upon her, as she stood there motionless, her eyes fixed upon the moon and the glorious, blue sky, gemmed with fiery stars. FOR love's own sakr. l.'K There was an almost wild look of suffering on her face as she hastened through the park, her little beads dangling down at her side and her bloodless lips, tuned to some sweet prayer. Francois Fortier was now wandering through the dense willow groves in the park, near the banks of the foaming and splashing waters, that thundered loudly into the bright moonlight around. "The sea was all a boiling, seething froth, And God Almighty's guns were going off And the land trembled ' ' but Francois heard and .saw nothing. He was now walking along the verj- edge of the bank and, had not the strong arm of a woman pulled him back, he would have stumbled into that deep, hissing, wild abyss of angry water below. Just then the moon peered through the willows, and one could see the pale face of the frightened woman. It was Beatrice. "OGodI 'tis Francois," she exclaimed as fresh tears trickled into her sunless eyes. "But how strange he looks! Speak! Speak Francois! 'Tis Beatrice who calls thee. " But not a word passed his trembling lips. His tired, blood-shot eyes wandered aimlessly to the woman's face. He sighed deeply, but that was all, and mechanically Beatrice led him to a bench near by, and sitting him down, held his droop- 140 FOR LOVK'S OWN SAKE. '■V ing head in her strong amis. And slowly his eyes closed, while he drifted into a sound, healthful sleep, which lasted some hours. The warm rose color gradually returned to his cheeks; his face was getting brighter, and, when he opened his eyes again, Beatrice's heart gave one wild throb of joy. At first he seemed dazed, but, when his eyes wandered to that dear face, bending over him, hesaid: "Ah, Beatrice, it is you; how good of you!" Then he told her of all that had hap- pened in that smoke-filled room at the Hotel Frontenac; but she only smiled, and, raising herself proudly, placed her hand on his young shoulder and said, somewhat softly: "Is that all? Ah! what is money, after all? Francois you have brains and an honest heart, and I — I have two strong arms, that can work for Life's bitter crust of bread. Let the past take care of itself! There is a futtjre awaiting us, in which we may yet taste the sweets of a new-born happiness." Francois Fortier raised his fresh, young face tohersand, trembling with emotion, said: "Beat- rice, I will throw all my wasted years behind me and, by the grace of God, from this night on, I will live a better and a purer life. To-morrow I will call in to see good Father Stanislaus for I feel, that this night, my soul has been saved from deep ruin. To Thy far-seeing guidance, O FOR love's own sake. 141 heavenly Father, I now commit my future." Then his voice grew hoarse, the tears rolled down his ruddy cheeks and there was an expres- .sion of sadness on his young and handsome face as he said: "Ah! who am I that God hath saved Me from the doom, I did desire, And crossed the lot myself had craved. To let me higher? What have I done that He should bow From Heaven to choose a wife for me? And what deserved, he should endow, My home with THEE." Then he took Beatrice's warm hand in his own, and there was a look of determination in his sparkling eyes as he said, somewhat sad- ly: "Forgive me, Beatrice, for my wayward- ness! This week I will make a general confes- sion, and I will seek the Saviour, in his tabern- acle, from Whom I have been estranged so many years. I swear it!" And he raised his eyes to the blue sky above him and piously made the sign of the cross. It had been a happy night for Beatrice after all, and, as they paseed the little church again, she could not help repeating to herself the poet's tender lines: — "Manlike is it to fall into sin. Fiendlike is it to dwell therein; r= 142 FOR LOVE'S OWN SAKE. Christlike is it for sin to grieve, Godlike is it all sin to leave." Then her lips moved and an angel in heaven recorded another prayer of thanksgiving from a grateful, noble heart. The next evening Francois Fortier knelt in the confessional, and good old Father Stanislaus, spoke tenderly to him. "The sacred blood of Jesus," he said, "will wash out all the stains that sin has made upbn your soul. It was on Calvary's Cross that a merciful Saviour suffered for just such sins as yours, dear child. The good Lord is always pleased to welcome back his err- ing children. He is a kind and merciful Father and, ag^in, he speaks his ivords of love and sym- pathy to you, dear child: — "Come unto Me, all you, who ate weary and sorrow-laden, and I will give you rest." Kneel my son, with penitent heart, in the shadow of the Cross of Calvary, and He will forgive you. Bury your Past here to-night in this confessional, and face the morning of your rosy future, with new am- bitions, new hopes and a pure heart. God bless youl Remember me in your prayers, my son!" That evening as Francois knelt in the light of the lamp of the sanctuary there were tears of joy on his blushing cheeks, while his lips whisper- ed to his grateful soul: "Oh! what a weight is lifted from my heart! Oh! I am so happy!" FOK I.OV8 S OWN SAKE. 143 Two weeks later, the bells of the old Francis- can church rang out their silver p^als of glad- ness over the sunny, thatched roofs of the city. That morning Beatrice St. George and Francois Fortier were married by the gentlehearted Father Stanislaus. Fifteen years have passed since that happy day. Francois Fortier, just in the prime of life, is now the proprietor of one of the largest man- ufacturing concerns in New York city and never, since that memorable night in the Hotel Fron- tenac, has he held a card in his hand again. Mrs. Fortier is as happy as a lark in her home on West Sixteenth Street. Her two children, a boy and a girl, are all in all to her, and she is never so happy, as when in the presence of her darlings. The only sorrows, that, darken her bright fyture, are thoughts of her dear father, in that far-off Canadian city. In all these fifteen years, she has never neglected writing him — ^but never a line comes back to cheer her longing and troubled heart. Christmas was drawing near, and one evening she said to her husband, ' 'Francois, will you do me a favor?' ' "Certainly, dear. I will be only too happy." "Well, then, let us make a novenal Offer up your prayers for my intention I I cannot tell you 144 FOk LOVK S OWN SAKB. ; 1" jf w ft I h %' iSii 1l what it is at present but, some day, you sliall know, dear — some day!" The nine days ended on Christmas morning, and Mr. and Mrs. Fortier both received Holy Communion, while the air was ringing with jubilant glorias of praise. On their return from Mass, Mrs. St. George found several letters in the Christmas mail. One of them bore a Canadian postmark and, .some- what nervously, she opened it first. Imagine her surprise when she read the following: My own de?r child! Forgive your poor father for all his coldness of heart. Fifteen long years have passed, since last I saw your dear face and, in all these fifteen years, I have been so unhappy. Dear Beatrice, I received all your many kind, affectionate letters and often I wept for hours after I had read them, and when I tried to answer them, I could not write a single line. The cruel and relentless father that I had been, I felt unworth/ even to write a single word to you. I know that I treat- ed you shamefully, nay, disgracefully, Beatrice, but oh! it was my pride and my bad temper that drove me to it all. Now, I realize, when it is too late, how sinful it was of me. Count Albert- ini is dead. Shortly, after your marriage, he re- turned to Italy and, several months later, I read of his having been murdered in a gambling den FOR LOVR'S OWN SAK8. 145 m Naples. Thus ended this miserable man who brought into this world the bitter cross apon which the last fifteen yea« of l y life have been crucified. Forgive me, dear child! For- give me. Francois-fc>r God knows I have suffer- ed enough I And now, my dear children. I must tell you something, which no doubt will surprise you and I am sure you will be delighted. Yesterday morning at eight o'clock, I was baptized a Cath- olic by Father Stanislaus, in the very church you were married in just fifteen years ago, and this morning, I received my first Holy Com' munion. Constance Burke knelt at my side. Oh! rejoice with me. for this has been the hap- piest day in all my life. This, then, is my Chnstmas surprise for you-but there is still another ,n store. To-night I leave for New York. I am coming to spend the remainder of my days with you and the children. Father Stanislaus and good old Constance Burke accom- pany me, and they will spend their holidays wfth you. Again, then, dear children. I en- treat yon, forgive and forget! Your penitent father, HARVEY ST. GEORGE. When Mrs. Fortier finished reading the letter she cned out gladly, while teats of joy were toll ' ing down her sott cheeks: "O God be praised! 146 FOR LOVE'S OWN SAKE. The prayer is answered. Oh I my heart breaks with joyi ReadI Francois, readl" and she handed him the letter. And, together they stood on that bright Christ- mas morning, under the beautifully moulded arches of the drawing room, decorated with holly and mistletoe— their lives turned to a new joy, and their eyes, gazing, far beyond the frosty gates of the morning, into the golden mist of the future. 1 % A VOICE IN THE NIQHT-WINDS. The shades of night — dark and gloomy — had fallen upon a peaceful Canadian city. In its de- serted streets the wild November winds were tear- ing madly through the naked willows. Nature was singing her saddest songs. The old Profes- sor's face bore a few lines of care, as he sat in his cheerful little study, while the cold, drizzling rain was beating a soft tattoo upon the window- pane, adding a tone of pity to the otherwise soli- tary moan of Autumn. I could not help admiring the kind, old, gray- haired man hciore me. His face was one that always inspired me with kindlier thoughts. There was a wealth of sweetness in his smile, and in his eyes one could see the reflection of the true, pure soul within. He was advanced in the seventies— this noble old oak that had withstood the blasts of many winters. His form was erect and his step firm, but he still loved to meet the boys— "his" boys he called them— at his daily classes in University Hall. He was active and studious, notwithstanding his years. Often, yes, very often, we could see a dim, pale light in the Professor's study, and the old, gray-haired man (147) 148 A VOICE IN THE NIGHT-WINDS. ! •• ! ii;;; bending over his books, long after the lonely midnight bad extinguished her starry lamps in the heavens. On this particular night I )ust happened to drop in on the Professor, and was surprised to find him in a depressed and melancholy mood, for he, of all mortals, appeared to possess the sunniest and brightest of dispositions. He was sitting in his quaint old armchair and when I en- tered his face brightened, but it was only for a moment. < The fire in the grate was burning low, and the sparks, glowing with light, leaped and died away, like the sunbeams of a departing day. Suddenly he raised himself in his chair, and, in a tone of sweetness, said to me: "Do you hear the plaintive strains the winds are singing to- night? They make me sad, and well they may. This is the month of the poor souls, and, do you know, I have been sitting here for several hours saying my beads, for, in the voices of these lone- ly November-winds, I seem to hear nothing but the cries and pleadings of those suffering ones, those prisoners of the Christ-King, who thiist for the sunshine of God's pure smile." Then he turned slightly, and there was a mo- mentary pause. I looked up at him, and in his eye a tear glistened. Glancing about the room, at the shelves that held volumes and volumes of A VOICE IN THK NIGHT-WINDS. 140 history and literature, he exclaimed— and his voice had a tone of pity in it: "Ah, ray booksl Cherished and silent friendsl You beckon me in vain. Often you cheered me in ray weary hours, but to-night you cannot win my spirits." The old Professor then rose and stirred the fii« in the grate. The rain was still falling and the winds were still chanting their weary monotones. He iwused and stood in the middle of the room and listened, while a smile brightened his coun- tenance. I was rude enough to ask the meaning of the smile, and he murmured softly: "I only looked down the pathway of the years, and I heard the songs of my youth vibrate through the lonely corridors of Time— and I was happy. That is all." Then sinking into the old armchair, and opening an old diary that lay upon the table, he read the following tender lines: ' 'When night has come and all the world is stilL And sweet the shadows dance about at will And chase each other round the old, old room, Where oft I sit in silence and in gloom, 'Tis then my thoughts, by music borne along, Awake the echoes of my youthful song. That lingers soft entrancing and reveals The wealth of joy that the dead Past conceals— And on the wings of Mem'ry long it sways That joyful peal— the song of childhood's days. " 150 A VOICK IN THK NIOHT-WINDS. Nervously his fingers turned over a few p*ge>, and his mellow voice again filled the room, as he slowly read: ' ' My thoughts do sigh and leap far o'er the brink Of misty years. In vain sad tears conceal The noble face, that smiled upon my way And cheered me on. Yet, O that moumfnl day, When last I saw its sweet smile fade and steal— ^ My heart was crushed— dark clouds spread over- head; I stood alone and wep^; a friend lay dead." When he had finished, he closed the book, and long he gazed upon a little picture in front of him, and murmured: "Ah! that noble &cel My mother's! In memory it is dear to me still, with its look, so bright and tender, so noble and consoling. The soft, sweet smile that kissed her silver locks glows just as brightly as in the long ago; it lingers o'er my pathway j^et and lures me on. The snow-white locks, the wrinkled brow, the tender eyes — ^the homes of love and pity — ah I can I ever forget them? Can I ever forget how, in the summers of my childhood, she caress- ed and fondled me in her loving arms and kiss- ed my tears away? 'Tis ! ig since then, my child, and now she, too, sleeps sweetly in her grave. In Spring the violets- bend their little, blue heads to kiss her breast and the birds softly sing their gentle requiems. Do you know, my A VOICK IN THR NIGHT-WINDS. 151 boy, I hear my mother's voice in these pleading, sobbing, November vinds. She is calling me, and I feel that these pleasant haunts will not claim me much longer and death to me soon will be doubly sweet. " I tried to steer the dear old man's thonght'- into pleasanter channels, and, in a measure at least, succeeded. He spoke of his early days at college, its joys, its hopes, its disappointments. His eloquence stirred my heart to nobler purpos- es, nobler thoughts. He recounted his days at the University, and reviewed the motley company of young men that had pased out of its sacred portals into the vast arena of life. Then his thoughts stole back to the days of his childhocid. His thin, pale fingers still held fast the cherished beads. In his eyes the tears glistened, and on his lips there waji the motion of a prayer. 'Cherish the tradi- tions and teachings of your childhood's days, ' ' he said to me. ' 'They hold for you, my boy, an end- less boon of joy. What memories cluster - .und the happy scenes of child life! Memories » pure and sweet, whose sacred voices will echo through the silence of past golden years and bring yon joy when life's last shades are gathering. My mind is filled with thoughts like these, and my dear mother is the burden of them all. She it was who fashioned my career and made my early life so pleasant and profitable. She it was who 'i 1 H m N I 1 !!■ P in 162 A VOICK IN THK MOHT-WINIM. often told my youthful heart thase fond, sweet stories which ever delight children — tales of fairies and their princely castles, tales of heroes and warriors of a bygone day. Some of them are forgotten, but one still clings to the memory of scenes in childhood's sunny da>-s. Its most cherished frejments still remain. Listen, then, my boy, to this sweet and tender tale." The kind Professor settled himself into a more comfortable position, and then began: "Many, many year^ ago, among the sunny, vine-clad hills of Prance, there dwelt an organ- builder — Pierre by name. He was young and handsome — as fair a picture as the heart of woman could desire — manly in form, though young in face, with dark-brown, ItistTQus eyes and a pale, creamy complexion which intensified the roses on his cheeks. Then, too, there was the expression of a wealth of tenderness in his smile that ever lingered upon hb noble features. All in all, his face was a picture of honesty; kind- ness, too, shone forth in the twinkle of his eye, and^ many a poor one forgot not to mention the name of Pierre in his evening prayers. "Pierre had built many organs of the sweetest tone and the finest workmanship. His last effort, however, surpassed all expectations, and when the organ was finished, Pierre's handsome &ce glowed with joy, and, bending his knees, he A VOICK IS THR NIOHT-WINDS. 183 raised his .pint in prayer to Heaven in thanks, giving to God. f-thi.* ^"^^^ T ^'"* '••'* •*»" '*'' without Sl^dertH""",'"''' i" *"• '«*-v«nent Father ^1^ .'u"™'"' f^'yh'i^d priest and Pedagogneof the village, had been to him father and constant friend. He loved the good prie^ «.ntly father, he placed the wonderful organ he had ,ust fi„«hed in the village church. The p*ople from far and near came to see the young organ-builder's wonderful masterpiece "Whenever the church bell announced a wedd ing and the happy bride entered the church the organmthe old choir loft would of its own ac^ U seemed as if unseen fingers had stirred the cold Jvoty keys to music; so sweet was it, that it sounded like the song, of angels-.„ ^.o t,m another world. "The peasants of the village were surprised they could not. The music. like a breath from Heaven^ had stolen over them, and they knelt thereabsorbedinrapture. No one could explain to Z"„"i? T^ "f ^"^"' """^ ''«^°'" ^ito« to the old stone church on the hill was Lucille, 154 A VOICK IN THE NIGHT-WINDS. the only child of Francois Lablanc, a poor and humble planter. The suns of twenty summers had warmed the roses in her cheek, and her soft brown hair hung in tresses over her comely shoulders. She was a modest maiden , and many were the admiring eyes riveted upon her as she knelt absorbed in prayer, at Mass on Sundays. Her serene expression resembled that of the gen- tle Madonna. None loved her more than Pierre. They had been playmates from childhood, and, when Father Felicien announced that Pierre and Lucille were to be married, no one was surprised and all rejoiced. ' 'The wedding day arrived in due time. When Pierre led his bride across the threshold of the old gray church, his heart throbbed wildly in its beats of pride and ambition. An awful change had taken place in the heart of our hero. He little thought of his bride — much less of his God. His one absorbing idea was Am own greatness. His mind dwelt upon his wonderful organ and on the praise people would bestow upon him, when it would play again of its own accord upon /^Mr entry into the church. Such then wei 'lis thoughts as he passed into the village church with Lucille. "They advanced slowly — but alas I the organ was as silent as the tomb; not a sound of music stirred the air. Pierre's heart sank, for be A VOICK IN THE NIGHT-WINDS. 156 thought in his own base pride, that it was an omen— a message sent from Heavento warn him of some fault or shortcoming in his beloved Lucille— she who was so good, so noble, so pure. Could she, then, have been false to him, the girl he knew as a child, whom he loved as a woman? Was she to seal the marriage ceremony with a treacherous lie? "The whole day passed and not a word did Pierre speak to his innocent bride and when night threw her dusky mantle over the sleeping village, he secretly stole away through his open window, and, in his heart, bade good-bye to Lucille forever. Forever, did I say? "He wandered on and on, from town to town, over hills and over plains, unnoticed and un- known. Finally he reached a new country where he settled, a stranger amongst strangers. For fifteen years he dwelt there, and miserable years they were. His was no longer the ruddy face of youth; wrinkles of pain and despair had driven away his sunny smile. One day his heart was breaking with longing for the home of his childhood and his abandoned wife. He re- membered how good and pious Ludlle had been —a veritable lily of France— and he, how base suspecting and false. He tried to banish thea^ thoughts, but alasl the longing desire would not be appeased. Was he then, going mad? His 156 A VOICE IN THE NIGHT-WINDS. ^:f! very thoughts seemed to eat into his heart's flesh and leave their wounds bleeding "there. "At last he decided to return and beg forgive- ness. By day and night he journeyed towards the home of his youth; the nearer he approached the stronger grew his longing and the deeper his anxiety. And Lucille? Would she ever be able to forgive him— to forget all? He had traveled for months, and his joufney was now nearing its end. One morning he saw in the distance the tower of the village church rising from the sun- kissed horizon; the cross-tipped spire was golden in the sunlight. His heart beat wildly within him. Did the cross that had so often smiled up- on him in the long ago again inspire hope, that he sped on so eagerly with renewed strength and vigor? "The peasants were just on the way to the vineyards for their daily work. He passed them by in silence; no one recognized him- he was so changed. A few spoke, in an undertone, words which Pierre could not understand. One in pass- ing said to a companion, 'He is either a thief or a fool.' ■ "When he reached the gate of the city he was panting for breath. His whole frame was trem- bling like an aspen leaf in a thunder-storm. A funeral procession was slowly coming down the street, and a crowd of people, young and old. I ':U A VOICK IN THK NIOHT-WINUS. 167 were bringing up the rear. Nearer and nearer wT' , f » ° ""^ «««ni« in him the long- ost P,«Te? All passed him by and none deign«i 1 *^~ . ^^^ procession was moving on— the coffin borne by loving hands, covered with wreaths of beautiful flowers, was accompanied by a crowd of weeping villagers. "Pi«Te could resist no longer and, in a scarce- ly audible tone, muttered: 'Whom, good peo- ple, do you bury that you weep so?' An old gray-haired woman heard and answered- 'Ah! U IS the wife of the organ-builder; the wicked man left her fifteen years ago; she was so good and k.nd to everyone. The poor, dear Lu How we shaU mrss her! Sh. was a mother to tte poor children of the village. Seel how their tears are falling in gratitude. They say her cross was hard to bear, but she bore it patiendy «iough God knowsl And now they are taking her to the little church on the hill, in which they will buo- her.' "LuciUel mypoorLucillel— DeadI My God I Have I—' It was a piercing cry. Pierre had spoken and now he stood speechless. His face was white with horror, his bitter tears fell fast A moment later he sprang to the side of the coffin and joined the mourning throng; there his sobs and sighs passed unnoticed for all wen weeping. 168 A VOICE IN THK NIGHT-WINDS. ■'* ^m Thenshesank down upon the sofa, and againh* thoughts stole back to that lonely k« fn « Hif tant country churchyarf. and h^^moviit" mytT, while the shadows were crJ^^^l •ly around the «.ent. cosy draw^S E,^"'~^ ^ '*" '^-°-" •" "d -round al^n«".ndVJ:?'"'''* "P * ""^'^^'e •tppcarance. and lived as much as noMiki. i-i. !y doubled or trebled their own ^,-7^7 ^ *»|i* -to'l-ple who s^^dev^':^"^ outward .ppear.nce.and when Mr. S« 5iS 164 LIGHT BKYOHD THK STARS. everybody had it th«t surely now Mrs. Geoffrey Orayaon would have to come down from her once lofty pedeataL But no. Mrs. Graywn had made up her mind at the ontaet that lAe would dress aa weU as she ever did, and she accomplished her object, and was more than ever a slave to Dame Fashion. Her bonnets, cloaks and gowns were made after the latest Parisian patterns, and she had a collection of diamonds that would have maddened the heart of any woman with pnde. She had an only child. The boys at the Club Sans Souci called him W^- He was not mote than twenty-five, and the pride he had inhented from his patents found a favorable nidus in his young heart, and burst forth in all its virulence. Through his dead father'sinflnence, JaA had re- ceived an appwntment as cashier in a large loan office. The salary, however, was not over great, but there were good chances for promotion. It was the last day of the old year, and Jack Grayson was sitting at his books balanang up the monthly account. A shadow of despair crept into his young face, and his fingers trembled visibly, as he counted up the long rows of figur«. "A shortage of two hundred dollars!" he gasped, wildly. "How can I ever make it up? How foolish of me to have taken out just four times the amount of my monthly salary! But oh—the debts were crushing, this high life was crippUng LIGHT BIYOND THK STARS. lae me. I was going msd. But what am I now, oh God, but a liar and a thiei" He torned sickly pale, and buried Us turn in his hands. "The money must be in the safe to-night," he groaned, hoanely, "if not, then— oh. my Ood, I see it all. I will be diadiarged, and disgraced —oh wicked wretch that I ami" He was silent for a moment, and heavy beads of perspiration were forming on his cold forehead. His eyes opened staringly. His pen fell to the floor, and he whispered to himself: "I have it. Mother's diamond broochi Ahl it will serve my purpose. I will steal the valu- able jewel from the casket on her dresser— and pawn it. It will bring me the two hundred dol- lars. Ha, hat She will never suspect me. Two months ago to-day I ofiered my heart, my hand to Gertmde. I loved the girl, but she spumed my offer. Now the hour has come in which I will do my deadly work. A mother has no right to shelter the girl who offered an insult to her son. I will turn my mother's heart to bitter hatred by fastening the theft of the brooch upon — upon Gertrude Ferguson." Just then a wild, cutting laugh rang through the empty office, and in another minute Jack Graysmi disappeared in the crowds that were thronging along King street. Just as he was turning the comer he met his mother. 166 UOHT BIVOND THK xTAM. i "Ah, Jackl Where are you going?" the aak- cd, pleasantly. "I am going home for dinner, mother. TUa it my busy day," answered he, hnakily. "Yon may tell Oertrade, then," the added, "that I'll have dinner at two o'clock. TUa ia the night of Mra. Cathcart'a New Year party, Jack, and I have not yet ordered the flowers." Pifteen minntes later. Jack Grayson unlocked the door of his mother's private boudoir. In another minute the casket on the dresser was open— and there lay tlie crested diamond brooch in all its brightness. Quickly he grasped it and placed it in his pocket. Then he drew forth a tiny, embroidered handkerchief, which he had just procured in one of the upstair rooms. A hideous smile stole over his ugly face, and he chuckled lustily, as the perfumed handkerchief fell to the floor. Upon it was worked the name of Gertrude Ferguson. A moment later the door was locked, and Jack placed the keys where ' he had found them. The city clock had just struck the hour of eight. The night was bright and chilly, and the moon was flooding the city with her golden gleams of light. The streets were filled with dark, surging masses of busy people; all hearts were longing patiently for the dawning of th< New Yeat^— the year that was to bring joy to some and sorrow to others. LIGHT BKVONU THX STARS. 167 Oertrade Ferguson was in excellent spirits. Her pare, young heart throbbed gladly within her as she rose from the piano and began to twine branches of holly and mistletoe around the huge drawing room mirrors. She could not ■re- press her inner feelings, and suddenly a rippk of girlish laughter sounded through the room. Then she burst into a song. It was the :een so good to me, is waiting for this letter, so I must hurry. It was only yesterday I wrote you, but mother, something is troubling me and I must tell you all. For ten long years I have kept a sinful secret, and oh! you don't know how I have suflered. Mother, Gertrude Ferguson is innocent of the crime we accused her of. Just ten years ago this coming New Year's day I stole the brooch, to make up a shortage at the loan office. The handkerchief was Gertrude's, but I— I placed it there. I know I should have told you this long ago, but. mother, I could not. Foigiveme, then, and, if you ever meet Gertrude in this world, ask her to forgive me also— for Gcd knows, I have suffered enough. Your «'"'• JAC«. It was a cold and stormy night, late in January. Glaring, electric lights contrasted with grim, dark shadows upon the icy pavements of New York city. A cold wind was blowing and the streets were wcU-nigh deserted. A woman, wrapped in a heavy black shawl, was walking hurriedly np Lexington Avenue. Eagerly she crossed the street and dropped a letter into the mailing-box on the corner. It was Mrs Grayson. On her way home she had to pass St. Vincent Ferrer's Church. It was brightly illuminated ..*! 174 LIGHT BBYOND TBI STAK8. and every window threw forth a welcome ray of light into the black, inky night arottnd. Un. Grayson halted before the sacred edifice. Bene- diction was being sung — and some strange power held her iast. She did not move a muscle, as she stood there and listened to the loud, majestic peals of the pipe organ, while its music floated out upon the wings of the lonely uight A moment later a soprano voice swayed by tender feeling, pou^ forth its pure, sweet, liq- uid notes. They were clear and joyous as a lark's, now rising, now falling. Never before had Madame Bonvini sung an "O Salntaris" with so much expression. Within the lofty edi- fice one could have heard a pin drop, and the immense congregation listened eagerly for every word that fell from the singer's lips. "O Saving Victim, opening wide The gate of Heaven to man below, Onr foes prem on from every aide, Thine aid aupply. Thy Mrength beMow." Mrs. Grayson drew nearer. That ringing voice spoke to her lonely heart and sought out every longing, every pain. It seemed as if Heaven itself had suddenly opened and an angel's voice was floating on the icy breath of night, so sweet was it — so wonderfully tender. A minute later the huge door swung open wide; there was a slight noise, and then it closed UOHT BBYOND THB STARS. 176 •gain. Mrs. Geofiny Grayson had entend St. '\^ncent'8 and was being ushered into a pew near the pulpit Again that sweet, pleading strain floated over the heads of the large congregation, and clearly the leading soprano sang: "To Thy great name be endleM prain. Immortal Godhead, one in thnel O grant ua endleta length of day* In onr tme native land with Thee." Almost unconsciously Mrs. Grayson sank upon her knees and buried her face in her hands; a strange, mysterious feeling was creeping over her restless heart, and the tears were gathering un- der her eyelids. When the "O Salutaris" was ended, she raised her misty eyes to the pulpit, and there stood Father Anselmo, the learned] white-robed Dominican, his innocent, saintly, religious face aflame with an almost celestial ex- pression. It was the opening night of the miss- ion, and the eloquent theologian was to deliver a series of sermons, and, later on, form a class for those of the Protestant belief who were anxious to study the teachings of the Catholic Church. Father Anselmo raised his hand to his forehead and piously made the sign of the cross. There was a momentary silence, then he began to speak. He spoke of life in the world as it is; of tempta- tion, sin, shame, disgrace. He told his hearers how Christ had suffered on the Cross of Calvar; m. Il ' m UOK'' BBVOND THK STARS. for their sins, and that each sin conunitted by them was said to be but another Calvary of sufier- ing for the heart of the merciful Saviour. He exhorted them most earn<;stly to live better and purer lives. Then he spo) ^ of Heaven— that home of eternal rest and h;irpiness, which would some day be theirs if the> would only follow the Master's precepts. He spoke slowly and dis- tinctly, as he pictured the beauties of that heavenly home beyond the skies, brightened and glorified by the sunshine of God's holy smile. The hearts of the people were stirred to their very depths. Mrs. Grayson in all her life before had never heard so eloquent a sermon. It was grand and impressive, and the good priest's words had sunk into her very soul. She went home that even- ing feeling better and happier for it all. The foUowii^ evening Mrs. Grayson again knelt in St. Vincent's Church. Father Anselmo preach- ed to large and interested congregations. Days, weeks, a month passed — and during this time Mrs. Grayson had been a constant attendant at the mission services. A change was coming up- on her. Her former self was gradually disappear- . ing, and Ac felt it. It was bang replaced by a nobler, freer, purer spirit, and she was happy. The distinguished preacher was doing untold good. His was veritably a harvest of souls. tIGHT BEYO.ND THK STARS. I77 was <'*ily increasing His convert class numben. F.?r T '? P^brruuy. Mrs. Gtayaon called on ' .pV°^ ""^ **'° '^''^ »-«' "«* kindly. Father. ,he said. ' I have come to see you and you must make me happy. I want > ou to make a Catholic out of >.e. I have attenid .U themissionservicessofaratSt. Vincent Fenw's and, of my own accord. I come to you. Will voii assist me, Father?" S^'^:. r"^"'^' «**^ *'»"»"• ' ■ •^'»«*d he. t^ ri ■ \'*'P'«*^ of "ouls is alway, willing to reclann sheep that havestrayed away from the Refold I shall only be too happy. It is my dutj-, and I shall do all I can for you. I mee^ my class every afternoon at four, and I shall be pleased to jee you among them to-morrow. I gave my first instruction yesterday. •' Father Anselmo shook hands in parting and smiled gently. " May God bless and guide her ■ • he whispered to himself, as he closed the doi.r and wended his way to the reception nwm. where other callers were awaiting him. The next afternoon Mrs. Grayson attended her first instruction. Father Anselmo met her at the door with a smile of welcome. That afternoon he spoke on the Seventh Commandment— "Thou shaltnot steal. " He grew more eloquent as he proceeded; his clear, ringing, musical voice filled ■f flit 178 LIOHT BBVONU THK STARS. every one with nobler thoughts, nobler piirposes. Mrs. Grayson listened to every word that fell from his inspired lips; she was deeply interested. Yet she was sad. The kind priest's words had recalled in her memories of a past that was pain- ful to her, and on her way home that evening she could not help thinking of that New Year's evening, long ago, on which she herself had accused a poor, innocent girl of a theft of which she now knew she was innocent. Poor Gertrude I how she must have suffered. Oh, if she could only go to her now and throw herself at her feet and beg forgiveness— oh, then she could be happy; yes, happy as the day was long. But where was Gertrude Ferguson? Where could she find the poor girl she had wronged? Alast nobody seemed to have seen or heard anything about her in Evansville, and Mrs. Grayson had almost given her up as dead. That night she sank upon hei knees and kiss- ed the little crucifix which Gertrude had given her, and, in the fullness of her grief, gave vent to bitter tears. Then she lifted her eyes to Heaven and petitioned God to help her to find the blue-eyed girl she had v.Tonged. ' 'O merci- hil God," shepleaded, "sho'V me poor Gertrude's face, just once again!" Then she rose, and on the darkened horizon of her empty and desolate future a clear, bright ray of hope had suddenly beamed. "M Chaptbk III. Father Anaelino was very busy at St Vincent's but he loved work when it was done in the name of the Master. Often he would say: "No, I never weary of my work. I am only doing my duty as the humble priest — the shepherd of souls. I love to be near my children, to teach them the glorious paths of virtue, love and humility. The ways that lead to Heaven may be rough and thorny, but remember that behind those cruel and pie; dng thorns rosea are clustered — bright red roses— which will some day be twined into garland wreaths to crown your noble brows, when Death shall gently part the silver threads of life that hold you fast" The kind, gray-haired theologian and scholar was also overjoyed, for Easter was coming. Xext Sunday he himself would baptize seventy converts in dear old St. Vincent's. Mrs. Grayson was also one of the many who rejoiced, Ux on that day she too, was to be received into the bosom of the Church which she had learned to love so much. What would Jack say, if he only knew? But no. Jack was not to find out until she was a "real" Catholic— and then she would (179) i I * I { I - I ! I i ■ 11 IMOOCOrt MSOWTKM TtST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) Ui ■ 2j8 |Z5 ta ^^ ■m m L£ ■ 2.2 |i« ■■■ IM III L£ 1 12.0 M^lL ^^R^LIED IMOE I K 16S3 Cost Main StrMt P^ Roch«ttf. N«w rork 14609 USA ^S ("») «2 - 0300 - Phon. ■^ (711) 289 -5189 -Fox 180 LIGHT BBYOND THE STARS. write him a long letter herself and surprise him. She often thought of her poor boy and of the many hardships he had to endure on the distant battlefield, and her eyes wonld fill with tears. Then she would think of those happy days when he was but the little, golden-haired boy the idol of her womanly heart. How she had fondled him in her arms in those moments of happinessi But now he was far away from her, fighting bravely for his country. Cheering let- ters from Jack, howe\rer, filled her aching heart with hope. Not a day passed but Mrs. Grayson was seen in the crowds around the newspaper offices,- reading the bulletins that came fresh from the seat of war. They were like so many letters from home to her — for was not her heart, hei life, her boy out there, and might he not be a , .-tim of the cruel bullet at any moment? Only three days more and Baster, with its glorious hosannas of praise, would again awake the lonely world, robed for a short season in pen- itential garments, to visions of beauty and glad- ness. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was painting New York's lofty towers and buildings with golden gleams of light. The dty clock was just pointing the hour of three when the ambulance slowly drew up and stopped in front tIGHT BEYOND THK STARS. 181 Of St. Josephs Hospital. The door was sudden- ly opened and the form of a dying woman was gently earned up the granite steps on a stretcher bysttong. willing hands. Mother Clotilde's kind faced whitened, as she turned her eyes to Dr. Steen, the ambulance surgeon. "An accident, I presume." she said, sadly How did it happen.'* * 'J The young doctor lowered his eyes and began and there was a tone of pity in his voice as he said; "The woman had been reading the bul- letin boards on one of the down town streets and just as she was turning the comer a west-bound car struck her and threw her into the air Will- ing hands carried her into a drug stor« near by It was there I found her in an unconscious con- dition, but in the ambulance she opened her eyes once and cried out feebly: 'My boy! my boy! Gertrude! where is she?' Then she was silent again, and in an instant her mind was a blank She opened her eyes widely and stared for a moment and then she closed them again. A few feet away from where she was lying they found this little prayer-book! It is blood-stained, and bears the following inscription: 'To Mre. Gray- son, from Father Anselmo. " ' Mother Clotilde took the little prayer-book in her hand, and the tears were creeping into her eyes as she said softly: • ' Poor woman! She is 182 LIGHT BBVOND THK STARS. very ill, and she will need all her strength to pull through. Sister Patricia will take charge of her, doctor, and we shall do all we can for the poor soul." In one of the large rooms in the ward upstairs Sister Patricia sat at the bedside of the poor, un- fortunate woman. A whole day had gone by and not a word had passed Mrs. Grayson's lips. Her face was growing paler and there was a look of deep suffering upon it. The good nun watch- ed her patient continually, and upon her lips there lingered the breath of many a tender pray- er. The face of the sick woman seemed so fam- iliar to Sister Patricia, but she could not place it, and, as she held the woman's thin hands in her own, she felt that they were getting wanner. A rosy flush was already creeping into the sickly, pallid face. Reaction was evidently being es- tablished, and the sweet-faced nun smiled gently. A moment later Mrs. Gra}rson opened her eyes half dreamily and stared into the face of the good Sister bending over her. "How my head pains me! Where am I? What has happened to me?" she asked, in a feeble, trembling voice. Sister Patricia whispered something to her; then she closed her eyes and drifted into a sound sleep which lasted some hours. When again Mrs. Grayson opened her eyes, Father Anselmo stood at her bedside. Her face Lir.HT BEYOND THE STARS. 183 was brighter and the talked considerably. "To- morrow, dear friend," said Father Anselmo, "is Easter Sunday— the day which both yourself and I were looking forward to with sanguine expect- ations. I regret very much that you will not be able to assist at St. Vincent's, but you will be quite happy here with the good nuns. I shall be here at eight in the morning and then I shall baptize you. Rest yourself now! I shall leave you in Sister Patricia's hands. I'm sure she will make you happy." When Father Anselmo rose to go, a few stray gleams of sunlight fell upon his noble face and brightened his snow-white locks. He raised his hand in blessing and made the sign of the Cross. An anxious smile stole over Mrs. Grayson's face. When he had gone. Sister Patrii . entered the room, with a brautiful bouquet of ijaster lilies in her hands. "Mother Clotilde has sent these up for you," she said kindly, as she put them into a vase on the table. The sick woman smiled her thanks, and her fingers moved nervously to a little cruci- fix that lay upon her breast. What a pretty crucifix you have there, dear, ' ' said Sister Patricia softly, as she walked over and loc ■ 'at it. Almost suddenly the color left her fac ., feeling of weakness came over her, and she sank down upon the bed. In an instant she >l\ ■nI 184 tIGHT BKVOND THE STARS. I jwtson her feet «p,i„, and Mrs. Grayson asked n^^usly: "What is the matter. Sister? Ar. "No, dear. It is nothing," she replied. "I once had a crucifix like-But no! I must be ^mmg/. Then she walked to the JSi<^ and opened ,t and sighed deeply. The city was h^ly with people, and a boyish, sweet tenor voice was ringing up from the noisy street. He was one of those little wandering minstrels, and h« musical accent w^ that of a son of sunny vine^adltaly. His pure notes rose and fell and melted into each other as he sang: "I^tna gather up the »nnbeainB, Lying all around our path; I/et us keep the wheat and ri>8e8, Casting out the thorns and chaff. Let us find our greatest comfort In the blessings of to-day. With a patient hand removing All the briars from the way." Sister Patricia could listen no longer, and heart throbbed with something that was akin to P«un. That song had recalled the dearest mem- «»es. and her thoughts went back to a New nw VZ^' ^'^^"'^ •" ** ^■^^''y haunts of her chenshed past. Presently, the lad struck up another sfram, and Mrs. Gray«>n listened eagerly to the Italian love-song. It was so patheticTand WGHT BKYOND THE STARS. I85 mellow notes died aJay on Th^ H ^' ^ spoke cheering words S'^ter Patnan story of aU my^u„hapX S'e^lSl -*'* nused herself up in her hJ »n^ • *"* *^* "Tit«f t«^ P »n ner Ded and continued: just ten years ago last New V^r'. t * a poor girl ont of my honsTiJrt ' "*^ miles from here T fi, t * ***'*" "«"iy -d wonld ha^: doL tXX^h '"1°^ '"' very night I accnsed her^f^^j"^' }'^' *«* brooch. I susne^^i t "**^"» "X diamond HandlcerJii^Sg wT,Lfi„^- ' ''''^' « dressing-room." * '" "^^ P^vate "Handkerchief bearing her «=». I.. • Sister Patricia ^TT - . ^' *="«* o«t yes, went on Mrs. Grayson "R„f 1. • was hasty and wronir of „,-? ^ "' **'*■ « / «uu wrong ot me to have acmsAri i.^ The poor eirl T t-„ , accused her. :iil 186 LIOHT BRVOND THR STARS. pawned the jewel to make up a shortage at the office that would have disgraced us both. But Jack ia a thrive boy now, fighting for his country. Yet, oh, I am so unhappy, for I feel that I must make amends to the poor girl I have wronged. I have searched in vain for her all these years, but God I am sure will some day — " ' 'Lead you to her, ' ' interrupted Sister Patricia. "And he has done so. The longer I look into your searching eyes and the longer I listen to your story, the stronger grows the thought that I have at last met my old friend and benefactor — ^the dearest friend I had in all this world. Mrs. Grayson, is it really — O God be thanked a thousand times I" The sick woman opened her eyes widely; the siu^se had been too much for her, and almost wildly she stared into the pale little face under the black veil. Then she fell back upon the bed, weak and exhausted, murmuring: "Gertrude my child! Come to my arms; forgave me for au my— " The poor woman could not say another word. Sister Patricia kissed her cheeks tenderly and sank upon her knees. Together they wept tears of joy, while the Angelus was ringing a solemn peal of prayer over the roof-tops of the city rich in its twilight glory. Easter morning dawned with the chirping tlOHT BEYOND THR STARS. 187 pine tree, that surrounded the hospital S Gmyson h.d rested well .11 nigh^Tshe^ Jriifc'^w""'' ' '"' »>•??'«« moment in'S^ n^^^-^^^y"'^""''"^- She had m«the g,rl she had wronged. Sister Patnda had forgiven her in her heart long yea« a^ lll^U:'^ ''LlL" '""^ Graysou'iZJonTn Sen ^' *^r«^* ^°«»« of forgivene^i had ly •-h^c«T.'?"; "°'''"°'" "he said kind- ly, how could I forget you. after all you had »»««d you both in my prayers. •• "And now. Sbter." began the happy woman. Kuei" y "'^'^ " '"^ '^ yo- Can y"u guess? Sister Patricia shook her head in the negative, and then she went on. '•wTpIa^ e «ht. This mormng he receives his large class of converts into the Church at St. WntT I am one of them-but I will not be th«^1S he ««>m„g to hear my confession and ^^'m^^; first Holy Communion here. My first Holv Communioni Yes. but Sister, doyouSwttl^ something tells me it will also be iy iS^'^Sh I^am«. happy now. If Jack wJo^ h«| ^^i'Carholi" ""'''^' '^^ mi-teslwillbea When she had finished. Sister Patricia took il ..^i! 1 1 iii ISA LIGHT RRVOND TMR STARS. l\ I i' Hi her thin hands into hers and said, while glistened in her eyes: "Oh, I am also happyT My prayer has been answered. ' ' Mrs. Grayson was growing weaker, and the complications that the doctors bad di«aded were slowly setting in. A dark shadow crept into the gentle nun's face. The hospital clock struck eight, and Father Anselmo had ju.st baptized Mrs. Grayson. Then he heard her confession and administered the Sacraiaent of the dying. Sister Patricia and the renowned and brilliant theologian knelt at the bedside for fifteen minutes and prayed. Mrs. Grayson repeated all the prayers disHnrtly, and] when she raised herself slightiy to bless herself, there was a slight groan, followed by profuse bleeding from the mouth and nose. The fatal hemorrhage that the doctors had foreseen had taken place, and the end was nigh. The poor woman was sinking rapidly, and she was gradually lapsing into unconsciousness. She turned slightly and raised her finger and motioned Sister Patricia to her side. "I am dying. Oh, I am so happy. Pray for mel" she said faintly. Then she closed her eyes, and for the next half hour she was hover- ing on the brink of eternity. Just then there was a slight rap at the door. Mother Clotilde handed Father Anselmo a letter edged in black. mm WOHT BavoND THE STARS. IgQ It WM addressed to M-«. r>,» fniped "imporunt" "'''°"' "'"* *«» '^''tisTJ^t„'^"^T -" visibly ar- Then he hanSs^i ""T *'*' ''>'*"« ^°»»''- tion.the,o^si.er:;td^rd''^f;^:;rr D«A« Mas. Gmavsom- if j. Ion" you of your w^L 1 "? '**"'°' '"'"y »" «" l"t breath. .„d 2Ld LT °' ^" '^'°°*' "«" »•» knew hU. T.lm^'^~nn^'? '".f i*"^ ''^ '" '"•<' t«A«d. .nd on our tir^mi J u '^ ""^ """^ «" 1« hour, and pr^^/n"- ^ '""««' him in hi. "frt*: "S«»ditto»^eT«dMT T'''"«' **"■ '"« •dforitall. Godera^tw^f "'""•""'•"'''on. ^o it. gi^eS^.^'"-^^-^ -eday he^. Mr^ Grayson, that GoH -ill ^7 P"'' ""^ ^'" ^^ "•inj, I aMure you of my hnmbje pmy. Voura in r-hrist, xm. o. Father McBaAov. ,Thedyi„j:r,tp^^x*';es'rd •= Mtr- 190 LIGHT HKYMMI THK STARS. m ing to Heaven to meet my boy. ' ' Then a peace- ful smile stole over her face and in another instant her soul had flown heavenwards. Father Anselmo silently left the room and on his saintly old face there was a look of sadness. Sister Patricia kissed the little crucifix and de- termined to keep it always. Then she rose and walked to the window. The bells of the city churches were sounding their anthems of glad- ness far into the busy streets. '.Tie golden gates of the morning were open and the sun was throw- ing 'ais bright beams on the roof-tops of busy New York. Long she gazed upon that beautiful picture. Bverybody was glad; everything look- ed so cheerful. She alone was sad. Again she raised the little crucifix to her lips, and, while in her deep-blue eyes the tears slowly gathered, her heart was filled with gratitude— for her friends were enjoying the vision of God— the glory of the risen Saviour— the Light beyond the Stars. t THE PARTING OP THE WaVS. Cbaptrr I. The horse kicked impatiently airainst the wooden gate, then threw her head ZZ aij and hstened eagerly. Only a passing windd and rattled through th bon'y Sle^ ^S "cu «ll U "'f, »-"-«» -« evidl^tly S asleep Upon his face was stamped a look o w^^ and hi, breath came in'TnterrJ.TtL' valleys like angiy wolves-they were .^^ei,. ^'nThrco',? "?'"• ^''«'>°-'-,ysh1^'^ T?en r.S!f "^"^ *'"' "^"P""* '" the sleigh. Then a shnll cry rang out into the frozen air- Nell was almost frozen-and suddenly ther« "L IT under the heavy blankets in the s eS arS two eyes opened to survey the surrounding it patting the horse gently, tarew back the gate that opened mto a narrow lane, leading toZ comfortable stebles beyond ^ '^' "Asleep againi- he muttered as he led the h«:seon. "Well! welll The last I knew I ^ dnvingoutofKenwickand here I aT ho^ m : }J m 192 THE PARTING OF THE WAVS. again. I must have been asleep over an hour." He had now reached the stable door and the horse turned her face gladly to his. " Ah , Nell I ' ' he said tenderly, as his hand stroked the lovely, jet-black mane, "you're a jewel. You always seem to know when your master sleeps and you jog along the lone country roads and always bring me home safely. I often think God must be having a hold of the lines. But you're a jewel, old Nell, and my heart's at rest when you are with me." An<^ again he petted her, as a mother would her child, and she stretched her head so lovingly to him and opened her eyes so widely that she seemed to understand it all. In a few minutes Nell was warmly housed and the man entered the house on the hill near-by. A little sign near the doorway bore the inscrip- tion: "Dr. Stewart Wilkins, Physician." It looked as if it were in its last days, this little sign. It was badly in need of a coat of paint, but what matter, since every child within a ra- dius of forty miles knew that the little house on the hill was the home of one of the kindliest souls in all the country-side. Dr. Wilkins had passed the half-century mark in life. For thirty years, he had administered to the good people of Plattsville and vicinity, and many a child at night did not close an eye be- fore asking God's blessing upon the man who TH« PASTING OP THB WAYS. IflS «W through storm and rain, day and ni^h, to take ,t down again, after waiting w^ly W he patients that would not materiLT^L !n K «!fr '"^'^ -'''««i«'^^^oLindln^j heart, and they tumedto him in a„ their affic But he was dying a martyr at the post of duty tj!^^ * '"^ '•*='' "^