I As
 
 He passed by with Miss Jefferys 
 on his arm. Page 24 
 
 Frontispiece
 
 The Records 
 
 Being Truthful Accounts, Grave and Gay, 
 of the Doings of Certain Real People 
 
 Hereinafter set down for the Edification of the Wise and 
 
 the Foolish, and the Amusement of the Tired 
 
 and the Unhappy 
 
 CYRUS TOWN SEND BRADY 
 
 Author f " The Corner in Coffee," " The Southerners," "A Doctor 
 
 / Philosophy," "A Little Traitor to the South" "Sir 
 
 Henry Morgan, Buccaneer,'' etc., etc. 
 
 Illustrations by 
 LOUIS D. ARATA 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL 
 
 Tht Recordt 
 
 Issued October,
 
 2229152
 
 ACKNO WLEDGMENT 
 
 With one exception these stories have already seen the light 
 in the different magazines of the country and are here re- 
 printed by the gracious permission of The Associated Sunday 
 Magazines, Century, Cosmopolitan, Delineator, Illustrated 
 Sporting News, Lippincott* s, New York Herald, Scribner's, 
 Smart Set, St. Nicholas, and the Twentieth Century Home.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It is said that everybody has at least one good story 
 in him. Perhaps by that is meant that every human 
 life however obscure and humble, possesses elements 
 of tragedy, comedy, and mystery ; and if it could be 
 described clearly and properly would in itself be 
 a romance which would meet the requirements of 
 that famous dictum, " Will it make you laugh ? 
 Will it make you cry ? Will it make you wonder ? " 
 
 I have not attempted anything so ambitious as the 
 setting forth of a single human life in this book 
 rather I have tried to put the reader in communi- 
 cation with many lives. Acting on the theory that 
 where there was a certain long story there was also 
 a possible short one, I have made it my business 
 and it has also been my pleasure ! when I could 
 do so with propriety, to get from various people with 
 whom I have been brought in contact during a diver- 
 sified life spent in many places and in touch with 
 all sorts and conditions of men and of women not 
 a few experiences joyous and sad, episodes tragic 
 and comic, adventures and other happenings, that 
 go to make up life. One or two of the matters dis- 
 cussed are based upon personal experiences, some of 
 them came under my own observation, while others 
 were related to me by persons whose veracity, unlike 
 their stories, is beyond question. 
 
 These I have faithfully set down with just enougn 
 modification to make them credible, with just enough 
 imagination to supplement and show forth the truth
 
 6 Preface 
 
 that is in them. Since there is in nearly every story 
 at least a basis of truth some of those which appear 
 most improbable, nay, impossible, are absolutely true 
 even to details I have seen fit to name the collec- 
 tion " The Records." 
 
 The stories have been gathered, as is evident even 
 to a casual inspection, from all parts of the country. 
 My knowledge of them has extended over many 
 years, the writing of them has been done at intervals 
 during a long and busy period. 
 
 Lest I should be deemed guilty of using the scalpel 
 of the surgeon, or the knife of the demonstrator, OR 
 human experiences in unauthorized ways, it will in- 
 terest the reader to learn that in most cases the 
 record has been made not only with the permission 
 but often upon the urgency of the person most in- 
 timately concerned. No one, it is probable, will be 
 able to identify those people whose doings are here 
 recorded ; but, surprising as it may seem, several of 
 the actors in the little tragedies or comedies, as the 
 case may be, have been more than willing to appear 
 in this book under their own proper names ! 
 
 I have sometimes been accused of writing in haste 
 and repenting at leisure. Certainly such a charge 
 can not be made against me for this book, at least; 
 for I have written it at leisure. I put it forth in the 
 hope that its reception may not cause me to repent 
 of it in haste. 
 
 GYROS TOWNSEND BRADY. 
 
 BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, June 1, 1904.
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 He passed by with Miss Jefferys on bis arm. Frontitpiece 24. 
 
 "Glad you like it, ma'm," he repeated . . . 43 
 
 " Well, what day is it ? " 74 
 
 "He was mine, if love gives a claim!" she cried . 88 
 
 He got a fierce bite ' . . . . . . IOJ 
 
 "Stop! " he cried; "just as you are!' 1 . . . 113 
 
 He bad just strength enough to lift the lantern . . 153 
 
 "Strike!" he said 180 
 
 "You!" zp7 
 
 "My God! My God ! What must I do?" . . 230 
 
 How strangely happy she felt clinging to bis arm . . 252 
 
 "I I teg your pardon," be said .... 277 
 
 "Well, sir?" asked Mr. Wilder, expectantly . . 293 
 
 She stared at them in petrified astonishment . . 309
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FIRST RECORD 
 
 A Syndicate Hero ...... 1 1 
 
 SECOND RECORD 
 
 How "The Kid" Went Over the Range . . 29 
 
 THIRD RECORD 
 
 Her Birthday ...... 65 
 
 FOURTH RECORD 
 
 To Her Who Loved Him Best of All" . . 79 
 
 FIFTH RECORD 
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 89 
 
 SIXTH RECORD 
 
 Divided A Romance of the Mountains . . 107 
 
 SEVENTH RECORD 
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward .... jjj 
 
 EIGHTH RECORD 
 
 The Reparation ...... 161 
 
 NINTH RECORD 
 
 The Wreck and the Letters .... 183 
 
 TENTH RECORD 
 
 The Atheist ....... 2IJ 
 
 ELEVENTH RECORD 
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor .... 2JJ 
 
 TWELFTH RECORD 
 
 The Levite ....... 265 
 
 THIRTEENTH RECORD 
 
 Graduates of the School ..... 285 
 
 FOURTEENTH RECORD 
 
 The Matchmaker .....
 
 THE RECORDS 
 
 First Record 
 
 A SYNDICATE HERO* 
 
 The fact that persons whose patronymic is Smith 
 usually labor under the added disability of such un- 
 distinguishing names as John or William, is the re- 
 sult of one of those forms of parental aberration 
 which shows a profound lack of consideration for the 
 future. Smith isn't a bad name of itself. There is 
 something strong and sturdy about it which suggests 
 Hal of the Wynd, and which goes back very far 
 even to Tubal Cain. But it is widely diffused, and 
 therefore lacks distinction. Ergo, he is a wise father 
 of Smiths who can differentiate his progeny from the 
 monotonous mass by coupling Smith with something 
 that, being peculiar, identifies, while it also differ- 
 entiates. 
 
 The practice of parting names in the middle is 
 generally reprehended, but if it be ever excusable, 
 it is so in the case of Smith. P. Sigsbee Smith 
 thought so, at any rate, and he possessed none of the 
 qualities usually ascribed to those who bisect a name. 
 He was born in that section of country so little 
 
 * By courtesy of " Scribner's Magazine."
 
 12 The Records 
 
 known, and less noticed by the East, which lies be- 
 yond the Mississippi and which, like the famous tail 
 of the story, will, some day, wag the national dog! 
 
 Contrary to the habit of Western youth in good 
 circumstances, he had not been sent East to college, 
 but had been educated at a Western State University, 
 whose diploma meant less, perhaps, than those of the 
 more ancient institutions, but which, nevertheless, 
 covered a multitude of healthy college influences. 
 His father had been a soldier, who had fought with 
 distinction, under Grant, in the Civil War, and had 
 made a good income afterward in law and politics; 
 the small accumulations of which he left to P. Sigs- 
 bee, his only surviving descendant. 
 
 P. Sigsbee roughed it for a time in the West after 
 the death of his father, and then, by shrewd and 
 judicious investments, increased his original legacy, 
 until it grew to a comfortable fortune beyond the 
 Mississippi! It was a mere drop in the bucket, he 
 found out, when he came East. He didn't come East 
 to make a greater fortune, or because he was dis- 
 satisfied with the West, either, but because of a 
 woman. 
 
 Elorence Jefferys, whose father owned, or con- 
 trolled, the great Hamilton railroad system, which 
 gridironed a large part of the West with its tracks, 
 was the cause of P. Sigsbee's defection. In company 
 with hundreds of others, he had met her for one brief 
 half -hour at a reception given her father by the local 
 railroad magnates on one of the General's tours of 
 inspection. P. Sigsbee saw her, was conquered, and
 
 A Syndicate Hero 13 
 
 came East forthwith. Florence Jefferys did not 
 know him from Adam, of course, but he was, never- 
 theless, determined that she should know him, and 
 he was youthful enough, and buoyant enough, and 
 hopeful enough, to believe that with knowledge she 
 could not fail to love him as he loved her a very 
 iWestern point of view, indeed! 
 
 To come to New York was easy, but to get re- 
 introduced to Florence Jefferys was difficult. The 
 months passed, and he got no nearer to her than the 
 columns of the daily papers, in whose social reviews 
 she often appeared. He was a resourceful youth, 
 or he would never have thought to patronize a 
 " Press Clipping Bureau " for accounts of her 
 doings! Realizing, at last, that a long, hard cam=- 
 paign would be needed, he decided to settle in New 
 York for good. He was a tenacious man, and what 
 he determined, he determined. 
 
 He had studied law, for which he had no fancy 
 or faculty, so he hung out his shingle in one of the 
 poorer down-town districts more to justify himself 
 for doing nothing, than for anything else and pro- 
 ceeded to camp on the trail of Miss Jefferys. It led 
 him in the summer to Bar Harbor, where her father 
 owned one of those palacps of pleasure modestly dis- 
 guised under the name of a " cottage." 
 
 P. Sigsbee was a good-looking young man, and as 
 he dressed well and had the good luck to make the 
 acquaintance of one or two old army friends of his 
 father, he at last achieved a slight acquaintance with 
 his divinity. If not heart-whole and fancy free, she
 
 14 The Records 
 
 was yet unengaged, for the papers, he was sure, 
 would have announced an engagement long since. 
 
 There were not many available young men at 
 Bar Harbor so early in the season. At least they 
 did not bear any proper proportion to the available 
 young women, and P. Sigsbee progressed somewhat 
 in his acquaintanceship with the young lady, al- 
 though he could not flatter himself that he made 
 any deep impression upon her heart. There seemed 
 no way of advancing himself in the affair, and in 
 dismay he was conscious at last that the summer was 
 waning without bringing to him the desired results. 
 As it wore on, more available people of the mascu- 
 line persuasion came to the island, and Miss Jefferys 
 got farther from him than ever. 
 
 Among his acquaintances was a young man named 
 Lutterworth. Lutterworth was an ambitious young 
 fellow, of good family, and better parts, who was 
 the special correspondent of a syndicate of New 
 York, Boston and Philadelphia papers, as well as 
 the representative of the Associated Press at Bar 
 Harbor. They were congenial spirits, these two, 
 and in a moment of desperation, P. Sigsbee confided 
 his situation to the other. 
 
 " What you want, P. S.," said the sage Lutter- 
 worth, after reflecting deeply upon the confidence 
 of his friend, "is to get yourself before the public 
 in some way. You want to be a hero, create a sensa- 
 tion, shine out as doing something startling. Get 
 yourself talked about, you know, for courage and 
 daring, and so on. Those things," oracularly, " ap-
 
 A Syndicate Hero 15 
 
 peal to a woman " he was twenty-two and knew it 
 all! " Get 'em talking about you. Now, if you 
 can only suggest some sort of a sensation, I'll work 
 it up in the papers for all it is worth." 
 
 " Yes," answered P. Sigsbee, disconsolately, " I 
 suppose so. But where's the sensation to come from? 
 Hang it all, I'm willing to do anything that a man 
 can do. But what is there to do? I can ride a 
 broncho, or rope a long-horn, or shoot a pipe out of 
 your mouth from across the road, but these things 
 don't seem to go here. I don't believe there's a 
 cayuse or a steer on the island. And that's about 
 all I'm good for." 
 
 He had quite forgotten his college degree and his 
 law office, it seemed, but of what avail were they in 
 winning a woman's heart! " 
 
 " No," said Lutterworth thoughtfully, " there's 
 not much chance for the display of such rare and 
 valuable talents in this locality. Yet these things 
 should be worth something, P. S. Ah, I have it! " 
 he suddenly exclaimed, light breaking in upon him. 
 " The very thing! What was it you were telling me 
 yesterday about a row on the Tennessee ? " 
 
 " It wasn't much of a row." 
 
 " At any rate, let's have it. Perhaps I may do 
 something with it." 
 
 " Well, you see, since General Grant died the 
 other day, all the naval officers have been wearing- 
 crape as a badge of mourning. I was visiting the 
 flag-ship with some young ladies, and somehow we 
 began to discuss the dead general. You know he
 
 16 The Records 
 
 was one of father's friends, and has always been a 
 hero of mine. That man, Sluman, you know, that 
 little whiffet that's on the Admiral's staff how such 
 a man as the Admiral could put him, or keep him, 
 on his staff is more than I can tell " 
 
 " Yes, yes, but go on." 
 
 " That little ass made some remarks concerning 
 Grant which were highly derogatory insulting I 
 called them. It made me mad, especially as he was 
 wearing crape for Grant at the time, so I took him 
 aside and told him forcibly that if he made any 
 more talk like that in my presence, I'd knock his 
 head off, if I had to do it before the whole ship's 
 company. I believe I'd have done it right then and 
 there, as it was, but you see the young ladies were 
 present." 
 
 "Um!" returned Lutterworth. "Did they hear 
 what you said? " 
 
 " I suppose so. I didn't speak so low as I should 
 have done, perhaps." 
 
 "I think I can make something out of that story. 
 All you have to do is to back me up in whatever I 
 say, and we'll set afloat a bigger sensation than the 
 old flagship herself." 
 
 " What are you going to do? " 
 
 " Never mind," answered the resourceful Lutter- 
 worth, " I'll fix it up all right." 
 
 " I'd hate to be laughed at." 
 
 " You'll be admired, envied, adored! Leave it 
 to me."
 
 A Syndicate Hero 17 
 
 " Well, go ahead," at last assented P. Sigsbee, 
 not entirely easy in his mind, however. 
 
 The next morning there was a brief despatch in 
 the Associated Press reports to the effect that one 
 of the officers of the North Atlantic Squadron, then 
 on its annual summer cruise to Bar Harbor, had 
 spoken in a manner derogatory to the memory of 
 General Grant; and that a prominent summer so- 
 journer had taken exception to the officer's remarks, 
 and had sent him a challenge to fight a duel. In the 
 special correspondence to the metropolitan dailies 
 which Lutterworth represented there was a fuller 
 and more explicit account of the row, with the addi- 
 tional information that the challenger was a West- 
 ern man whose father had served under and had 
 been a friend of the great general. 
 
 They were innocent-looking little paragraphs, but 
 they excited a great deal of attention. It was sum- 
 mer and there was not much doing in the country at 
 large. The item was widely read and commented 
 upon with avidity. 
 
 The arrival of the papers made a sensation on the 
 island as well. A little thing stirs up a summer 
 colony, and this was apparently a great one. As 
 soon as he read the notice, P. Sigsbee, in great per- 
 turbation, posted off to find Lutterworth. 
 
 " See here," he exclaimed. "You blamed idiot, 
 what does all this mean? You'll get me into no end 
 of trouble." 
 
 " Keep cool, old man," said Lutterworth, inaper- 
 turbably. " It's all right. You let me work it out 
 2
 
 18 The Records 
 
 in my own way. You are not afraid to fight a duel, 
 are you?" 
 
 " Fight a duel? Of course not! I've looked into 
 the mouth of a loaded pistol more than once. I'm not 
 afraid of anything but being made a fool of. But 
 this will never do at all." 
 
 " It'll work; you see if it doesn't. Besides, it's 
 just beginning." 
 
 " What are you going to do now?" 
 
 " I'm going to interview you." 
 
 " Not by a " 
 
 " Hold on! Yes, I am. Let me see. You sent 
 a challenge off to young Sluman. Now the question 
 is, what did he do? " 
 
 "But I didn't send a challenge, you idiot!" 
 
 " I know, I know. But in this story you did. 
 iWhat do you think he would do in that case?" 
 
 " "Well, if I'm a judge of a sneak, he'd try to get 
 out of it." 
 
 "Exactly. But how?" 
 
 " I don't know. But you addle-headed " 
 
 " Don't call names. Let me think. I'll make 
 him decline it as against the rules of the service. 
 That's first-rate. Now, one other question. What 
 would you do under such circumstances?" 
 
 "You'll drive me crazy. I tell you the circum- 
 stances are impossible." 
 
 " But if they were possible?" 
 
 " Well I suppose if I were fool enough to get 
 into such a scrape I'd brand him as a coward, and 
 threaten to shoot him on sight."
 
 A Syndicate Hero 19 
 
 "Good! Splendid! Great head! What would 
 he do, then? " 
 
 " Anyone who wasn't an utter abject craven would 
 take me up then, I suppose, but " 
 
 " Good again. Everything is going along delight- 
 fully. He accepts your challenge. Yes, you can 
 fight in Green Mountain Gorge. That would be a 
 beautiful place for a fight, so wild, so romantic." 
 
 " I'll tell you one thing, Lutterworth. If you 
 keep on there will be a shooting match, and it won't 
 be in Green Mountain Gorge, either, and you'll be 
 the victim." 
 
 " P. S., if you- don't bless me for this until the 
 end of your life, after I get through, you can shoot 
 me on sight. Now, go, my boy hold on, though! 
 Those yarns about your prowess, riding bronchos, 
 shooting pipes, all that stuff. Is that straight 
 goods?" 
 
 "True as Gospel, but " 
 
 "All right. Get out!" 
 
 "Lutterworth, you're a fool! You'll ruin me," 
 said P. Sigsbee, turning away in despair. 
 
 The next morning the papers contained an inter- 
 view with the challenger, whose name, however, for- 
 tunately for P. Sigsbee's peace of mind, was not 
 given. The affair was cleverly exploited further. A 
 challenge had been sent and declined by the naval 
 officer on the plea that the customs of the service 
 prevented his acceptance. The challenger thereupon 
 had declared his intention of publicly branding the 
 other man as a coward and shooting him on sight.
 
 20 The Records 
 
 At that the naval officer had accepted the challenge, 
 seconds had been named, one of whom was a promi- 
 nent young literary man Lutterworth wanted to 
 get a little personal glory out of his magnificent in- 
 ventions a meeting had been appointed to take 
 place in Green Mountain Gorge the next morning. 
 After these preliminaries had been settled, it was 
 stated that the Admiral had somehow got wind of the 
 affair and peremptorily confined the young officer 
 to his ship. 
 
 The excitement was increasing. Lutterworth had 
 handled the case most brilliantly. His telegrams 
 told just enough to pique curiosity to the highest 
 point. It was the sensation of the hour. Staid old 
 veterans of the late war, such as by good fortune 
 General Jefferys happened to be, discussed the affair 
 over their cigars, and while they all deprecated the 
 practice of duelling, they were delighted to find 
 some one willing to fight to defend the memory of 
 the dead commander. Fair damsels exchanged im- 
 pressions and lauded the heroic challenger to the 
 skies " So romantic! So gallant, you know!" 
 
 Lutterworth received a frantic telegram every half 
 hour during the morning, asking for more particu- 
 lars. When P. Sigsbee found him in his room after 
 the arrival of the papers, he was chuckling with 
 glee. 
 
 " What did I tell you, old man? This is the sen- 
 sation of the day." 
 
 " It is," grimly assented P. Sigsbee. " Too much 
 of a sensation for me. Thank the Lord nobody iden-
 
 A Syndicate Hero 21 
 
 tifies me with it yet. If they did I should be the 
 laughing stock of the town." 
 
 " Not you. You don't know these Eastern people. 
 Besides, before to-morrow you will be identified with 
 it." 
 
 " You are not going to interview me again? " 
 
 " No, indeed. I will now make a formal request 
 of you for an interview " 
 
 " Which I decline to grant, at once." 
 
 " Of course, that's the proper thing for you to 
 do now. I am going to find out your name from 
 some other source." 
 
 " I forbid you," wrathfully. 
 
 " Oh, keep cool"! " 
 
 " You can't get my name from any other source, 
 anyway. No one " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I can," said Lutterworth, teasingly. 
 
 "What source?" 
 
 " Who were those young ladies who were with 
 you on that ship that day you talked to Sluman? " 
 
 " I shall not tell you." 
 
 " Well, I have found out without your help." 
 
 " Who told you? " 
 
 " They did themselves. They are more than 
 willing to talk of this affair. One is Miss Johnson, 
 the other Miss Rivers. Miss Rivers, whom I know 
 very well, told me she was sure you were the man. 
 I met these young ladies last night and they dared 
 me to deny it" 
 
 " You didn't deny it, of course ? " 
 
 " Certainly not."
 
 22 The Records 
 
 < What did you do?" 
 
 " I made them swear secrecy as to the officer's 
 name." 
 
 " Oh, they knew that, too? " 
 
 " Yes. I don't want anybody to get into trouble 
 over this affair, although that man deserves it, I de- 
 clare. I think those girls will keep quiet about him, 
 all right. But they are certain to tell your name." 
 
 " Great Heavens! What have you done for me? " 
 
 " The best thing in your life. Just wait until I 
 am through with you. Miss Rivers is an intimate 
 friend of Colonel Winsor's daughter. Colonel Win- 
 sor is an old friend of General Jefferys. Fannie 
 Winsor is one of Florence Jeffeay's boon compan- 
 ions " 
 
 " See here, Lutterworth, when you speak of that 
 young woman, please refer to her as 'Miss Jefferys.'" 
 
 " Oh, Lord, you're hit hard ! "Well, Miss Rivers 
 told Miss Winsor. Miss Winsor told her father, her 
 father told General Jefferys. Miss Winsor also told 
 Miss Jefferys. There was a dinner party given there 
 last night and they were all talking about it. Gen- 
 eral Jefferys said you were a fool to fight a duel, 
 but he'd like to meet you just the same. Miss Jef- 
 ferys said you were a hero to defend General Grant, 
 and said further, that she had met you, and that 
 you were a man." 
 
 " You don't say so! " joyfully grabbing the other 
 man's hands. " Lutterworth, old man 
 
 " I told you to let me alone and I'd fix you all
 
 A Syndicate Hero 23 
 
 right. Now go away and leave me. You have re- 
 fused to be interviewed. That's all I want." 
 
 At the hotel when he went back, P. Sigsbee found 
 an invitation to a lawn party given that evening at 
 the Jefferys cottage. He went, of course, and had a 
 happy time. Although, when taxed by his fair 
 hostess, he denied up and down that he had sent any 
 challenge and he repeated his denial to General Jef- 
 ferys, who condescended to notice him during the 
 evening, he was not believed. Besides, P. Sigsbee 
 could not deny, in the face of the testimony of the 
 Misses Rivers and Johnson, that he had been in the 
 flag-ship, and had reproved the officer name still 
 undeclared for ojefaming the memory of the dead 
 general. That was enough. 
 
 He made more progress in his wooing in that one 
 evening than he had hoped to achieve in years. 
 Florence Jefferys really distinguished him by her 
 cordiality, and on his departure he received from 
 both her father and herself an invitation to call, 
 which set him in the seventh heaven. All he wanted 
 was an opportunity he was a well-bred, likeable, 
 admirable fellow and Lutterworth had given him 
 that. He resolved to embrace it in spite of the fact 
 that his conscience troubled him greatly. 
 
 Lutterworth was at the lawn fete, too. So was 
 the Admiral. So also were a number of officers on 
 his staff, all earnestly denying that there was any 
 truth whatever in the yarn. Lutterworth and the 
 Misses Johnson and Rivers observed with glee that 
 Ensign Sluman turned pale as death when P. Sigs-
 
 24 The Records 
 
 bee, supremely unconscious of his presence, passed 
 by with Miss Jefferys on his arm. He at once ex- 
 cused himself from further attendance on the 
 Admiral, on the plea of illness, and fled to the ship. 
 He had already had a miserable time in a desperate 
 endeavor to divert suspicion from himself in the 
 wardroom. 
 
 Lutterworth left the party early in order to get 
 his special correspondence off in time for the next 
 day. As he walked down the road he was overtaken 
 by the Admiral with two of his young officers. They 
 were riding in one of the buckboards indigenous to 
 the island, and when they overhauled the young man 
 trudging along in the dust and darkness they hos- 
 pitably invited him to a vacant seat. 
 
 " Mr. Lutterworth," said the Admiral, " you know 
 pretty much all that is going on in these latitudes. 
 Tell me how that absurd story originated? That 
 duel affair, you know." 
 
 " I know no more than is contained in the reports, 
 sir," promptly answered Lutterworth, with a strict 
 regard for the truth and very tactfully as well. 
 
 " Lies, all of them! I'd like to get my hands on 
 the swab that wrote 'em ! " exclaimed young Wright- 
 son, truculently, from the front seat. 
 
 The situation began to get interesting for Lutter- 
 worth. Suppose these bloodthirsty warriors found 
 out that he ? 
 
 " It's an infernal outrage, a slander on the whole 
 navy, that's what it is! " 
 
 " I am going to find out about it. To-morrow I
 
 A Syndicate Hero 25 
 
 shall be in possession of the facts," said the Admiral, 
 sternly. " I telegraphed to some of my friends in 
 New York to go around to the papers and get the 
 name of the correspondent. If I catch him I will 
 make it hot for him. He ought to be keelhauled. 
 You know him, I suppose? " 
 
 " I only know what is in the papers, Admiral," an- 
 swered the youngster boldly, but not feeling very 
 happy. 
 
 " Well, we shall all know in the morning. By the 
 way, we are having a reception on the flag-ship to- 
 morrow from ten to twelve. You know the fleet sails 
 in the afternoon. We shall be glad to welcome you, 
 Mr. Lutterworth." 
 
 " Thank you, I'll be there, sir," said Lutterworth, 
 gamely, making an excuse to leave them as he did so. 
 
 Well, he was in for it, anyway, they would surely 
 find out, and he might as well have as much fun as 
 he could before he was caught. So he rushed off to 
 his office, composed himself in spite of the threaten- 
 ing exposure and went to work on his despatches. 
 Fortunately, P. Sigsbee was not invited to the ship. 
 
 The next morning the duel sensation of Mt. Desert 
 was further exploited. It was announced that two 
 of the belles of the island had overheard a portion 
 of the conversation and the name of the young man 
 who had offered the challenge was Mr. P. Sigsbee 
 Smith, formerly of Colorado, now a resident of New 
 York. Here followed a glowing account of Smith, 
 and his prowess with deadly weapons. He was char- 
 acterized as one of the finest products of the United
 
 26 The Records 
 
 States combining the freedom and courage of the 
 West with the culture and refinement of the East. 
 His removal to New York was dwelt upon, and, as 
 a final Napoleonic touch of Lutterworth's daring 
 genius, P. Sigsbee was announced as a prominent 
 Republican candidate for Congress in the down-town 
 district in which he resided, that fall. There was a 
 lot more about the situation, consisting of interviews, 
 real or fictitious, from some very important men, 
 who, without committing themselves to the approval 
 of the duel, commended the young man's bold de- 
 fence of the memory of General Grant. There was 
 also a modest denial of the report, purporting to 
 come from P. Sigsbee himself, which was so cun- 
 ningly worded by the ingenious Lutterworth, that it 
 carried conviction to everybody that the story was 
 true. 
 
 The papers and the answer to the Admiral's in- 
 quiries got to the flag-ship at the same time. Lutter- 
 worth, first of the reception guests, arrived soon 
 after. The officers, except Sluman, who was so ill 
 he had to go on the sick list, and was confined to his 
 cabin, had arranged a warm reception for that young 
 man. He had wit enough to imagine the situation, 
 and was prepared for defence. As he nonchalantly 
 stepped through the gangway he was met by a dele- 
 gation headed by "Wrightson. The threatening ap- 
 pearance of that young man and his comrades boded 
 ill for the correspondent. 
 
 " Mr. Lutterworth ' he roared out, savagely, 
 
 shaking his fist in the young man's face.
 
 A Syndicate Hero 27 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Wrightson," suavely answered Lutter- 
 worth, turning to the gangway, " allow me, Miss 
 Rivers and Miss Johnson! " 
 
 There could be no fighting in the presence of 
 ladies, and Lutterworth with a devotion he rarely 
 manifested, took care not to leave them for a mo- 
 ment. He resisted the most pressing invitations to 
 go below just a moment for a drink, a word, for any 
 purpose. At last he and his two friends left the ship 
 together with the first of the guests to depart. 
 Wrightson would have given a month's pay to have 
 gone with him, too. It cannot be denied that Lutter- 
 worth was a genius. 
 
 The sailing orders of the Admiral were imperative 
 and the ship got under way at twelve o'clock, carry- 
 ing from the harbor a fine body of young officers who 
 thirsted for an opportunity to go ashore and inter- 
 view Lutterworth, and, incidentally, P. Sigsbee Smith, 
 as well. There was one among them, however, who 
 watched the rocky shores of the island fade into the 
 distance with feelings of relief too great to be 
 imagined. 
 
 That fall two things happened to P. Sigsbee Smith. 
 One was his election to Congress on the strength of 
 his bold defence of General Grant, which many new- 
 found advocates worked to the last limit in a swift 
 red-hot campaign in his district! The other, just 
 after his election, was his marriage to Miss Florence 
 Jefferys, with the full approval of the old general 
 himself. Lutterworth was his best man at the wed- 
 ding, as he had been his right-hand man in the cam-
 
 28 The Records 
 
 paign. As P. Sigsbee Smith frankly acknowledged, 
 if it had not been for that brilliant and audacious 
 youngster, neither of the successes would have come 
 to him. Hia wife still believes him a hero, in spite 
 of the fact that he told her the truth before they 
 were married. She had loved him at first for the 
 dangers she thought he had evoked; after that she 
 loved him for himself alone at least that is what 
 she said, and P. Sigsbee believed her, too!
 
 Second Record 
 
 HOW "THE KID" WENT OVER 
 THE RANGE* 
 
 There had been a quarrel between them, a lover's 
 quarrel over a trivial matter unworthy a second 
 thought. Most lovers' quarrels have about as much 
 foundation as theirs. Whatever the ethics of the 
 situation, it was sufficiently painful to fill both of 
 them with misery. On the principle of so bearing 
 herself that the other party should suffer the more 
 in any quarrel, Miss Josephine Cooper, deliberately 
 disregarding several tentative efforts at reconcilia- 
 tion which Lieutenant William Barnard, 12th 
 Cavalry, U.S.A., being the injured party and the 
 masculine, felt that it was only proper he should 
 make coolly ordered her horse, asked Captain Mc- 
 Cauley to assist her to mount, and prepared to ride 
 away. 
 
 Before she did so, she flashed one look at Barnard 
 hovering disconsolately near with a mien as pro- 
 foundly abject as even the most self-willed woman 
 could desire. Fortunately for him, he caught the 
 glance of the sparkling blue eye, and seemed to find 
 something encouraging there, although it was patent 
 a moment later that the wish was father to the 
 supposition. 
 
 * By courtesy of " Ees Esa Publishing Co."
 
 30 The Records 
 
 At any rate, he stepped to her side, and, under 
 pretense of adjusting the stirrup strap, detained her 
 for a few moments an attention to which she had 
 no inward objection, be it said. 
 
 " Josephine " he began. 
 
 " I think you would better say ' Miss Cooper ' 
 after last night," she interrupted, coldly. 
 
 " I wish to apologize," he went on, unheeding; 
 " it's all my own fault. I was all wrong. I'm a 
 beast." 
 
 He had not been, and he was not, but that was 
 what the girl wanted him to say, nevertheless. Her 
 heart throbbed with delight as he spoke, but, because 
 she felt guilty herself, she concluded he had not yet 
 had punishment enough. 
 
 " I accept your apology, Mr. Barnard, although no 
 apology can ever restore matters to er the former 
 footing. Good morning." 
 
 She lifted the reins, but he caught the bridle and 
 detained her. 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! " he pleaded. " Surely, you 
 were a little to blame yourself." 
 
 He was a profoundly politic young man, but this 
 bad move was due to his agitation lest she should 
 escape him. 
 
 " Not at all, sir," replied the girl, with a great 
 show of spirit. " Take your hand off the bridle at 
 once! " 
 
 " At least " he urged, desperately, " don't go out 
 alone." 
 
 "Why not?"
 
 Hmv (( The Kid " Went Over the Range 31 
 
 " I don't know, but I fear 
 
 " ' A soldier and af eared? ' " she quoted, laughing 
 without merriment. 
 
 " ' Afeared ' for you, Josephine." 
 
 " Nonsense, Mr. Barnard! What is there to "be 
 afraid of? There are no Indians except tame ones 
 and dead ones for a hundred miles. The most un- 
 pleasant object I am likely to encounter during the 
 day could not be so bad as yourself, sir. I'm going 
 for a canter. Will you release my horse? " 
 
 He made no movement to let go the bridle. She 
 lifted the little raw-hide whip he had given her. 
 
 "Great heavens!" he gasped, staring at her. 
 " You wouldn't strike me? " 
 
 " Of course not, but the horse. Will you let 
 him go? Thank you. Good morning." 
 
 She cantered off over the open toward the wood 
 which bordered the river, leaving the lieutenant bit- 
 ing his lips in futile annoyance. 
 
 " Hello! " said the little bishop, looking up as the 
 young man stamped his foot, and muttered some- 
 thing which was decidedly unecclesiastical. " What's 
 the matter, Barnard? " 
 
 "Nothing, sir." 
 
 "Where is Josephine?" 
 
 " Gone off yonder." 
 
 "Oho!" said the bishop. "You have had a 
 difference, have you? I see." 
 
 " Yes, sir. My cursed I beg your pardon, sir 
 temper " 
 
 " Ye-es," remarked the bishop sapiently. " I sup-
 
 32 The Records 
 
 pose so. I've seen this sort of thing before. You 
 can tell her it was your temper, but you needn't be 
 particular to inform me. Never mind; she'll come 
 back safely, presently." 
 
 " But I donH like to see her riding over this coun- 
 try alone, sir." 
 
 " What could happen to her? " asked the old man. 
 
 " Nothing that I know of." 
 
 " There are no hostiles around here now, are 
 there?" 
 
 " Not one," answered Captain McCauley, joining 
 in the conversation. " I don't know anything that 
 could possibly happen to her. She is quite safe. 
 There are no wild animals here and she has a re- 
 volver in her holster. I saw to that, and she knows 
 how to handle it, too. Bishop, it's just a lover's 
 apprehension on Barnard's part. I wish he'd show 
 as much interest in his company back at Fort Kin- 
 
 " Suppose you follow her, Barnard," suggested the 
 bishop, " I've no doubt she would be more than 
 willing to have you overtake her." 
 
 " Not I! " replied that young man, moodily. 
 " She wouldn't speak to me if I did, and I'd better 
 keep away from her a little, I think." 
 
 " Very well," answered the old man, " McCauley 
 and J are going fishing. Come along." 
 
 "Do you think she could get lost?" asked Bar- 
 nard, as Captain McCauley scrambled to his feet and 
 got ready to join the bishop. 
 
 " Of course not," answered that veteran. " She
 
 Haw " The Kid" Went Over the Range 33 
 
 has been on the plains before. She has only to keep 
 watch of the sun, or, at worst, to follow the river. 
 Come along, Barnard. Don't be a jack over that 
 girl! She's all right. Better join us for a day's 
 fishing. There's nothing so good for a man in a 
 certain condition, as fishing. He can sit and moon 
 over the water all day with his thoughts elsewhere, 
 and be perfectly happy, thinking he is occupied and 
 not wasting time. It looks cloudy over there, doesn't 
 it, bishop ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the bishop, " it ought to be a 
 good day for fishing. Come along, Barnard; the 
 weather will accord with your emotions." 
 
 So, with laughter and gentle raillery, they took the 
 disconsolate lover with them to the river. The 
 bishop was enjoying one of his rare vacations, and 
 Captain McCauley, an old friend, had invited him to 
 spend as much time as he could at old Fort Kinney, 
 in Northern Wyoming. The bishop had brought 
 with him Miss Josephine Cooper, one of the Bethany 
 College girls, who had graduated that year, and who 
 wanted to see something of the life in the mountains 
 before she returned to Philadelphia. As the bishop 
 and her parents were old-time friends, they were 
 willing that he should take her along. All the eligible 
 young officers at Fort Kinney had promptly fallen in 
 love with Miss Josephine, but Barnard seemed to be 
 in higher favor than the rest. 
 
 Toward the close of the bishop's visit, McCauley, 
 who was a bachelor, had made up a party for a fish- 
 ing and hunting expedition down the Powder River
 
 34 The Records 
 
 Valley. Barnard, who was his junior lieutenant, 
 had been invited, and Josephine Cooper, accom- 
 panied by Mrs. Maloney, the wife of Sergeant 
 Maloney, who was in charge of the soldiers and 
 servants of the party, had gone along too. They 
 had enjoyed a delightful time, and were preparing to 
 return the following day, when the unfortunate 
 quarrel between Josephine and Barnard cast a cloud 
 over the happiness of both. 
 
 Barnard's misery, as he followed the others down 
 to the river, however, was more than matched by 
 Josephine's regret. Why had she been so perverse? 
 He had apologized, admitted that he was wrong when 
 he had not been, when she really was to blame ; there- 
 fore, she might have forgiven him without loss of 
 dignity or prestige, in which case he would have 
 been with her, and she would not have been loping 
 along under the trees alone. Not that she was afraid 
 of anything, but there was no particular fun in rid- 
 ing alone, and she wished she could call him to her. 
 She checked her horse and furtively glanced back, 
 but she saw Barnard following the bishop and the 
 captain toward the river away from her. 
 
 " Fishing! " she murmured to herself, " that's how 
 much he cares for me! That's all men care for any- 
 way killing something, or breaking some woman's 
 heart! Get up, Dick! " 
 
 She laid her -whip lightly on the neck of the big 
 cavalry horse, and the well-trained animal instantly 
 sprang into a long sweeping gallop which carried 
 her over the country at a great pace. He was not
 
 How " The Kid " Went Over the Range 35 
 
 exactly a lady's horse there were none at the post 
 but she was a good enough horsewoman to manage 
 him thoroughly, and she rather enjoyed the big, 
 rangy trooper. 
 
 Just before she entered the thick of the wood, she 
 turned back for one more look. The camp, with its 
 Sibley tents and big, canvas-covered wagons, shone 
 brilliantly white in the green of the landscape, and 
 Bridget Maloney's red petticoat, as she busied her- 
 self over the remains of the breakfast, added a bright 
 dash of color to relieve the white. The sergeant and 
 his helpers, the drivers and others, were lounging 
 around the camp, but ttie three other men had van- 
 ished. 
 
 The country in which Josephine found herself 
 was sufficiently beautiful to compensate so far as 
 the absence of humanity can ever be compensated for 
 by nature for her solitude. Before her and close 
 at hand, for the camp had been made among the 
 foothills, rose the gigantic peaks of the Big Horn 
 Range. It was summer, but the tops of the moun- 
 tains were covered with banks of snow which fairly 
 blazed in the brilliant sunlight. She had been 
 steadily ascending since leaving the camp, and she 
 could look back for miles over scenery peculiarly 
 wild, rugged and desolate. 
 
 Great rocky buttes rose here and there around her, 
 and sometimes the expanse of the country was broken 
 by clumps of trees or level, grass-covered masses of 
 rocks like that in which the camp was made: The 
 winding course of the river as it meandered toward
 
 36 The Records 
 
 the distant plateau, which resembled the prairies of 
 the bishop's diocese, was indicated by trees at all 
 levels. In front of her, the mountains rose black, 
 awe-inspiring and grand. The influence of their 
 majesty and calm gradually stole over her. A quar- 
 rel, even a great one, in the presence of these 
 tremendous manifestations of nature, seemed trivial, 
 petty; and a little disagreement, such as had parted 
 the lovers this morning, was of no consequence what- 
 ever. 
 
 She checked her horse, and would have turned 
 back; but reflecting that Barnard had gone fishing, 
 she concluded to go forward over the foothills for 
 a nearer look at those great mountains. She deter- 
 mined to forgive him as soon as she might see him. 
 Kay, she would even admit that she had been in the 
 wrong, not he. Having reached this happy conclu- 
 sion, she felt immensely relieved, and gave herself 
 with unalloyed pleasure to the enjoyment of the 
 marvellous scenery. There was something in the 
 situation entrancing to the Eastern girl, who, except 
 for her four years at Bethany, had seen little of the 
 West. She had come to Bethany only because her 
 parents wished her to have the benefit of the bishop's 
 cai-e, as many other Eastern girls had received it. 
 She rode on, therefore, threading her way among 
 rocky buttes, galloping over stretches of grassy 
 sward, plunging through bits of forest, forcing her 
 horse across some narrow, shrunken stream, giving 
 no thought whatever to time, distance or direction, 
 and ever climbing higher and higher up the slope.
 
 How " The Kid" Went Over the Range 37 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on the changing panorama of 
 mountains before her as her tortuous course brought 
 mighty peaks into successive view. She was fas- 
 cinated. 
 
 The stillness was perfect. The solitude was abso- 
 lute. There was nothing to disturb the current of 
 her thoughts until she was suddenly awakened by a 
 peal of thunder. It had been growing darker for 
 some time, but she had not noticed it. She looked 
 back quickly, and saw that the sky was heavily over- 
 cast. She had been long enough in the West to 
 recognize the signs of a cyclone. It had developed 
 with astonishing rapidity, and seemed about to burst 
 upon her. What should she do? 
 
 Before her rose a lofty and threatening mass of 
 rock. On the other side of it, possibly, she might find 
 shelter of some kind. Her first thought, of course, 
 had been to ride toward the camp, but, in the haze 
 of that approaching cyclone, she could not see it, 
 and she no longer knew in what direction it lay. 
 This would have given her great uneasiness had not 
 her thoughts been centered upon the storm. She 
 could look for the camp later; now, she must seek 
 shelter. Under the lee of the great rock she might 
 find a hiding-place. 
 
 The horse, as if sharing her apprehension, had 
 been pawing the ground uneasily, and welcomed the 
 shake of the reins and the word which sent him 
 toward the rock. It was, perhaps, half a mile dis- 
 tant, and the way was fairly clear. She looked at 
 her watch. It was just eleven o'clock. She had
 
 38 The Records 
 
 been gone nearly four hours, therefore. They 
 had breakfasted early, and she had started 
 early from the camp, and the horse was somewhat 
 tired, but she fairly raced him over that ground. 
 Just as she gained the rock, the storm broke upon 
 her. 
 
 There was not a tree in her vicinity. There was 
 nothing that the cyclone could take hold of, so it 
 passed harmlessly over her head with a terrific roar- 
 ing that nearly frightened her to death. What might 
 have happened to her had she not gained the shelter 
 of that huge rock, she could see by the way the 
 storm tore up trees farther away in its path. 
 
 After the wind had spent itself, down came the 
 rain. Such was the storm's violence that she waited 
 for some time, thinking it would break, but, at the 
 end of a half -hour, there were no indications what- 
 ever of a cessation. It was now noon, and she was 
 tired and hungry. It required some hardihood for 
 her to leave the shelter of the rock, and battle with 
 the rain, and she waited a few moments longer. She 
 wished more than ever for the presence of Barnard. 
 But something had to be done. She could not remain 
 there forever. She doubted if any one could find her 
 without a long, exhaustive search. She must get 
 back of her own motion. How to do that was a ques- 
 tion while the rain kept up. 
 
 At last, she walked her horse out into the open, and 
 looked in the direction whence she supposed she had 
 come. The view was hidden in a black whirl of driv- 
 ing rain. She could neither see nor hear the river.
 
 How " The Kid" Went Over the Range 39 
 
 It had been her intention to make for it and then, 
 so far as she could for the Powder River up there 
 was a wild, mountain stream, often tearing through 
 cliffs and canons, which would prevent any one from 
 reaching its banks to follow its general course down 
 the mountain, until she reached the camp. That was 
 the only intelligent course. Now, even that could 
 not be done at least, not in this rain. 
 
 It dawned upon her at last, as she sat on her shiver- 
 ing horse, drenched to the skin, that she was lost. 
 She could scarcely see the top of the great rock 
 that had sheltered her from the mist and rain. These 
 weather conditions wqre rather unusual, but were, 
 nevertheless, a painful fact to her. What could she 
 do? She was utterly bewildered. Yet she could not 
 remain still. She shook the reins over the horse's 
 neck, and spoke to him. He turned, and slowly made 
 his way forward. Going anywhere was better than 
 standing still, for she had become so nervous that it 
 was impossible for her to remain long in one place. 
 She would let the horse choose, since she had lost all 
 sense of direction. 
 
 The horse proceeded carefully, picking his way, at 
 first, but finally he seemed to strike some sort of a 
 trail. She had heard that there were no settlements 
 nearer than Fort Caspar, toward which the military 
 road from Fort Kinney led southward. Yet, as she 
 rode on, by bending low over the saddle she could see 
 marks of a trail. It was an ascending trail; they 
 were going upward, but certainly not in the direction 
 of the camp; and yet, if that were a trail, it must
 
 40 The Records 
 
 lead somewhere, it must have been made by a human 
 being. There had been some effort, apparently, to 
 put this way in a rough condition for a horse to 
 travel. As she progressed, she grew more certain 
 of this fact. 
 
 So absorbed was she in her speculations, that she 
 did not notice that it was growing lighter. In fact, 
 the rain had ceased almost as suddenly as it had 
 begun, and, although the mists still hung low, it was 
 evident that they were thinning also. She was irreso- 
 lute as to what to do, but, seeing the trail more 
 clearly, she now concluded the best thing was to keep 
 on jogging ahead. By-and-bye the sun came out, 
 and the mist disappeared with astonishing rapidity. 
 As soon as she could see about her, she checked the 
 horse, and surveyed the scene. 
 
 She was in the midst of a rocky pass. The scenery 
 was rugged and grand beyond description. Far below 
 her, the river rushed madly to the southward 
 through a deep, gloomy canon. Far above her, on 
 either side, towered huge walls of rock. The trail 
 led along the face of the cliff, and a few feet ahead 
 of her bent around a bold escarpment, and was lost. 
 It was a steadily contracting trail. Before her it 
 narrowed so that two horses could not pass. As she 
 looked back, she could see nothing familiar. She 
 had wandered into this great rift in the mountains 
 from where she knew not, how, she knew not. She 
 might follow the trail back again, but whither it 
 would lead her she had no idea; certainly, not to the 
 camp.
 
 41 
 
 It was long past noon now one o'clock, she found, 
 by looking at her watch. It would be hours before 
 she could hope to reach the camp, if she ever reached 
 it. Somebody must live at the end of that trail. 
 She hesitated a moment or two, then decided to go 
 forward. It would be perilous to pass around that 
 narrow, jutting precipice, but it would be almost as 
 perilous for her to go back. She shuddered as she 
 saw the dangerous way over which she had come in 
 the mist and rain. The horse had carried her safely 
 thus far. She would trust him farther. 
 
 She wanted to see what was around that projecting 
 buttress of rock, anyway, so she urged her horse 
 cautiously on. It was narrower than she had im- 
 agined. "Where the trail turned, her shoulder act- 
 ually brushed against the overhanging cliff. She 
 shut her eyes, and repressed a desire to scream. The 
 horse went so slowly and carefully that he scarcely 
 seemed to move. She repented of her action. Why 
 had she come ? If he stepped on a loose stone, if his 
 foot slipped, they would both go to their death over 
 that precipice, hundreds of feet below. Mr. Barnard 
 would never know how much she had loved him, how 
 sorry she had been, that she would have been his 
 willingly, that the horse stopped! 
 
 She opened her eyes. They had turned the cliff. 
 The trail widened before her, and she stood in safety 
 on a little shoulder of the mountain as wide as a 
 street. Before her was spread out one of the most 
 enchanting pictures she had ever seen. The trail 
 dropped gently down the slope into a beautiful val-
 
 42 The Records 
 
 ley, through which the river ran. The valley 
 " pocket " or " hole " as such things were called out 
 there was two or three miles long, perhaps a mile 
 wide at its greatest width, and was literally sur- 
 rounded by towering walls of barren, unbroken rock. 
 At the other end, a waterfall plunged down a pre- 
 cipice that must have been a thousand feet high, 
 forming the source of the river, which ran purling 
 through the level surface of the valley till it entered 
 the canon. The area before her was dotted with 
 trees. There were houses in the clearing, the smoke 
 from chimneys floated softly in the still air. There 
 were horses and cattle in the meadows. It was a 
 paradise in these arid mountains. 
 
 For a moment, in the heavenly scene which spread 
 before her vision, the girl forgot that she was alone, 
 wet, shivering, hungry; that she was lost. The rain 
 had given a fresh touch to everything, and the place 
 appeared bathed in the sunlight like a gigantic gleam- 
 ing emerald in a matrix of gray granite. 
 
 " Oh! " she exclaimed, " how beautiful! " 
 
 " I'm glad you like it, ma'am," spoke a voice at 
 her elbow. 
 
 As she turned toward the side of the mountain, 
 she saw a rifle protruding over a low wall of rock; 
 it was followed by the tall, well-built and elegant 
 person of a Western cowboy in the conventional 
 attire, loose shirt, flowing handkerchief, leather 
 " chaps," boots, spurs, broad hat, and so on. Around 
 his waist was a belt, from which depended a sheath-
 
 " Glad you like it, ma'am," 
 he repeated. Page 43
 
 How " The Kid" Went Over the Range 43 
 
 knife on one side, on the other a heavy revolver. He 
 carried his rifle in his hand. 
 
 " Glad you like it, ma'am," he repeated, taking off 
 his hat, and exposing a head covered with dark curls. 
 
 "Like it?" said Josephine, "why, it is lovely! 
 I'm lost, sir. My party is camped on the Powder 
 River. I rode away alone this morning and was 
 overtaken by the storm. How I came here I scarcely 
 know." 
 
 " Wall, you better git out these diggin's as quick as 
 you kin, ma'am. Take my advice, an' mosey down 
 that trail ter onct." 
 
 " But can't I get something to eat, and some one 
 to show me the way? " 
 
 " Ain't nobody goin' to show you out of here. 
 P,eople who gits in here never comes out. As fer 
 eatin', I've got some bread and meat, an' here's some 
 liquor." 
 
 He reached behind a rocky wall, and handed her 
 a couple of roughly made sandwiches, and then drew 
 from his pocket a silver-mounted flask of whiskey, 
 which he uncorked and proffered her. 
 
 " Thank you," said the girl, taking the sandwiches ; 
 " I'm afraid I'm robbing you." 
 
 "Never mind that; I kin git more," he answered 
 laconically, again offering her the liquor. 
 
 " No, I'd rather have some water, if you please." 
 
 " There ain't none up here, but I'll git you some," 
 turning away. " You'd best git off your hoss an' 
 stretch yourself while you eat. You'll have some tall
 
 44 The Records 
 
 ridin' to do before you git back, if y'ever do git 
 back." 
 
 There was something mysterious about the whole 
 thing, but Josephine Cooper felt sufficiently able to 
 take care of herself in the presence of any ordinary 
 man, and this handsome young fellow appeared en- 
 tirely harmless, so she felt no uneasiness. She per- 
 mitted him to assist her to dismount from the horse, 
 which was too tired to move away, and she sat down 
 on the rock and began to eat her sandwiches while 
 her interlocutor went for water. He came back with 
 a tomato-can full of that precious liquid and handed 
 it to her with an apology for the cup, and then stood 
 and watched her eat and drink. 
 
 " I don't know what's goin' to happen to you," he 
 said at last. 
 
 " Happen to me ? " exclaimed the girl. " Why, 
 aren't you going to look after me? Take me down 
 the mountain, and back to the camp. Mr. but 
 you haven't told me your name." 
 
 " Carter, ma'am," answered the young fellow, gaz- 
 ing dubiously at her; " Kid Carter, they calls me 
 up here. What's yourn? " 
 
 " Josephine Cooper," responded the girl, extend- 
 ing her hand. " I am here with the bishop and Cap- 
 tain McCauley and Mr. Barnard from Fort Kinney." 
 
 " Oh, they're soldiers, ain't they? " said the young 
 man, taking her dainty hand in his great paw. " Wot 
 are they doin' there? " 
 
 " They are out for a little fun."
 
 How " The Kid " Went Over the Range 45 
 
 " That means pluggin' some poor devil like me, I 
 suppose," grimly answered Mr. Carter. 
 
 " No, no ; merely a hunting and fishing expedi- 
 tion," interrupted Miss Cooper. " Why, do you 
 fear them? " 
 
 " I ain't af eard of no one," said the man, proudly. 
 " Only " 
 
 " Look here, Kid," interrupted another voice, 
 " what in blazes hev you got there? " 
 
 A shocky, villainous-looking ruffian, dressed in 
 rude garments of home-made manufacture, but 
 armed like the cowboy, suddenly appeared on the 
 trail. 
 
 " Good Lord, it's a female woman! How did you 
 git her? Say, where did you come from, sis? " 
 
 He slouched forward, and peered insolently into 
 her face. She sprang to her feet instantly, shrink- 
 ing nearer to Kid Carter, who instinctively placed 
 himself between the two. 
 
 " Who is this person? " indignantly asked the girl. 
 
 " Pusson! " roared the other man, throwing back 
 his head and laughing viciously, " pusson, eh ? I'm 
 a gent, I'll hev you understand, as has killed four 
 men to his two." 
 
 " A murderer! " cried the girl, and then, sud- 
 denly turning to Carter, she asked him, " Is it true? 
 Are you a ? " 
 
 " Murderer? " interrupted the second man. 
 " We're all murderers up here or horse-thieves, or 
 else we've done time, an' the law wants us, or " 
 
 " What is this place ? " asked the girl, faintly.
 
 46 The Records 
 
 " It's called ' HeU Hole,' " answered Kid Carter, 
 biting his lip and blushing, violently. 
 
 " Yes, that's what we call it," interrupted the 
 other man, again. " My name's Hollis, Pete Hollis. 
 1 Three-fingered Pete,' " he added, holding up his 
 left hand, " 'cause I got this one cut off in a little 
 round-up with a gent, w'ich I blowed the top of his 
 head off to let some light inter his brains, so he 
 wouldn't tackle a man like me. An' this pocket 
 w'ich we calls ' Hell Hole ' belongs to us, me an' some 
 gents below. We diskivered it, an' we keeps open 
 house fer everybody that's in trouble, ye know, as is 
 wanted by a sheriff or the military, or anythin' like 
 that. The way you come is the only way in, an' no- 
 body that comes in goes out agin. See that little 
 rock pile there ? We've allus got a man there keepin' 
 watch. We kin hold this place against a thousand 
 men. All we've got to do is to draw a bead with a 
 rifle when we hears any one comin', an' blaze away. 
 They can't only come one at a time, an' we allus 
 settles the fust one afore t'other gits around." 
 
 " But those houses down there? " 
 
 " You don't think we live like Injuns in tepees, 
 do ye? We farm a little down there, jist enough to 
 keep us in grub. Why, we've got a society, family 
 life, down there. Women I'll interduce you to 
 'em. Wot are you in here fer? " 
 
 " Great heaven! " exclaimed the girl to the cow- 
 boy. " Take me away from here ! " 
 
 " Don't you move, Carter," cried the other man, 
 covering him with his Winchester. " I got the drop
 
 How " The Kid" Went Over the Range 47 
 
 on. ye. I'd be justified in blowin' yer brains out, 
 Carter, fer these interestin' pereeedin's. But you're 
 a tenderfoot here, an' don't know the rules of the 
 range. Everything wot comes in here has to go to 
 the captain for his inspection. If you claims the 
 girl, you kin do it down there, though I don't reckon 
 the claim'll hold good, seein's I come on the scene. 
 Go on down that trail; you f oiler him, miss; your 
 horse'll come along, I reckon." 
 
 " But if I refuse to go? " asked the girl. 
 
 " I'll let daylight through him," roared Hollis, 
 pointing to Carter. 
 
 " Don't mind me," said that young man smiling up 
 at her, " I wouldn't mind it. I was a fool to let him 
 git the drop on me. It's all in a day's work." 
 
 " Have you killed a man, too? " she asked, looking 
 at him in a daze while he stood silently before her. 
 
 " Of course, or he wouldn't be up here," said 
 Hollis. " Now, stop this palaverin' an' mosey." 
 
 The descent into the valley was neither long nor 
 difficult. At the foot of the trail there was an open 
 clearing, one side of which, under some beautiful 
 old trees, stood a rude house. Two or three men 
 were lounging on the porch in front of it playing 
 cards. A slatternly woman, who had once been 
 pretty, was standing in the doorway. 
 
 " Hello, Pete ! " cried one of the men, " what hev 
 you got there? " 
 
 " A woman, by jinks! " cried a second. " Hev yer 
 killed yer man, or wot are ye up here fer? "
 
 48 The Records 
 
 " Welcome to * Hell Hole ' madam," said another, 
 who seemed of a higher grade than the others. 
 
 " Sir," instantly said Josephine with a shudder, 
 " I am a member of a hunting party on the other side 
 of the mountains, and lost my way in the rain and 
 mist. I don't know how I got here. I wish some 
 one to show me the way back to my camp." 
 
 " Captain," cried Hollis springing forward, " she 
 hadn't ought to be let go. Let her stay here, I'll 
 take keer of her." 
 
 "You will, eh?" said the semi-respectable in- 
 dividual addressed as " captain." " Well, who found 
 her? " 
 
 " I did," said Carter, " she came up the trail on my 
 watch an' I rounded her up." 
 
 " Didn't look much like roundin' up to me," said 
 Hollis savagely. " W'en I saw 'em she was a-settin' 
 on the ground eatin' his sandwiches an' he was a- 
 talkin' to her as peaceful an' lamblike " 
 
 " She is my captive," said Carter stubbornly. " I 
 found her I took her; I could hev shot her all right. 
 I'd drawed a bead on her w'en she rounded that 
 curve, but I seen she was a woman. I made her git 
 off her horse. We come here. She's my captive. 
 Ain't you miss? " 
 
 He shot one appealing glance at her. The girl was 
 in a frightful situation. What she should do she 
 could not imagine. There was something, however, 
 in Mr. Carter's look that promised hope. If she read 
 him aright he was willing and anxious to help her.
 
 Haw " The Kid" Went Over the Range 49 
 
 Moistening her lips she answered, staking all on his 
 worthiness : 
 
 " Yes, he caught me." 
 
 " But," said Hollis, starting forward, his face 
 flushing, " she is mine. I want her an' I'm goin' to 
 have her." 
 
 " Get back, you dog! " said the captain whipping 
 out his own gun, and covering Hollis with it, " you 
 don't seem to know how to treat a lady. Don't you 
 lift a finger, or I'll blow your brains out. Madam," 
 he said turning to the girl, " my name is Bell John 
 Bell. I was once a surgeon in the United States 
 Army. I had a-er-little difficulty with a man down 
 in Laramie and I in short I killed him and had to 
 pull in my freight. That's how I came to be here. 
 Have no fear. You shall be safe." 
 
 " Thank you," cried the girl, a gleam of relief ap- 
 pearing in her face, " Thank you." 
 
 " She's mine, I tell you," said Carter sullenly, " I 
 got her an' by the laws you made me sign to last 
 week, w'en I fust come here, the disposin' of her 
 belongs to me. 
 
 " He's right, captain." 
 
 " The Kid's kerrect, old man," cried one of the 
 ruffians. 
 
 " Law is law," added another. 
 
 It seemed strange to hear these outlawed men 
 pleading the power of the law. The captain looked 
 anxious. Suddenly his face fell upon the form of 
 Hollis. 
 
 " What are you skulking here for, you hound! " 
 4
 
 50 The Records 
 
 he shouted. " Are you not on watch? Get back to 
 the trail; the whole United States army might be 
 pouring through that pass, for all you know! Up 
 there, lively! " 
 
 Hollis turned instantly, and started on a run up 
 the road, pursued by the angry shouts of the rest 
 of the gang, who were profoundly incensed at him 
 for his absence, for their safety depended upon their 
 rigid control of that pass. 
 
 The place was a city of refuge for all the scoun- 
 drels of the Northwest. It had been held inviolate 
 for a dozen years by the prowess of the men who 
 found shelter there. It was impossible to enter the 
 " pocket " except through that dangerous pass. 
 Sheriffs had tried it, mobs of indignant cattle-owners 
 had attempted it, even the United States army had 
 essayed it, but with no success whatever. When a 
 man got in here he was safe from punishment so 
 long as he stayed there ; provided, of course, that he 
 were able to get along with the other outlaws and 
 desperadoes who lived there. 
 
 " Madam," said Bell, " what the Kid says is right. 
 That's the law of this place. We're all outlaws, but 
 we have learned from that very fact that we must 
 have some law or we can't live. You belong to him. 
 But, hark ye, Kid Carter, if you harm that young 
 woman, by God, look to it! I'll shoot you on sight! 
 Who is with your party, madam? " 
 
 " Captain McCauley and the bishop ' 
 
 " If you ever get out of here alive, and if you ever 
 see them again," continued the doctor, " give my
 
 Hmv " The Kid" Went Over the Range 51 
 
 compliments to McCauley, and tell him I'm living in 
 Hell " He paused just long enough before he 
 added the word " Hole " to make his meaning ap- 
 parent to her. 
 
 " Ma'am," said Carter, " the sooner we git out 
 of here, the better." 
 
 " What are you going to do with her? " asked Bell. 
 
 " Take her back to her camp." 
 
 " Wot ! " cried one of the men, " you're goin' to 
 leave the 'Hole?'" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " Well, it's your own risk," said another; " dog- 
 gone it, I'd not do it fer N no woman! " 
 
 " Are you comin' back, Kid? " 
 
 " If I kin git back," said the young man. 
 
 " Bring some coffee, ISTell," cried the doctor to the 
 woman in the door a lady who had made way with 
 her husband. " I'm sorry we have no sugar at pres- 
 ent," he added, handing it to Josephine ; " we mostly 
 take things black and strong in here. Have you had 
 a bite to eat?" 
 
 " All I wanted," answered the girl, drinking her 
 coffee, the stimulating effect of which she thought 
 would be valuable to her. 
 
 " Allow me," continued the doctor, as Carter led 
 up the horse, which had been refreshed by a good 
 drink of water, and had been cropping the grass. He 
 lifted her to the saddle with perfect ease and grace. 
 " It's a long time," he said, softly, " since I have 
 met a lady, and I wish to God but this is part of the 
 punishment."
 
 52 The Records 
 
 Carter seized the bridle, turned the horse about, 
 and they went up the trail, leaving the captain and 
 one or two of his associates, who emulated his move- 
 ment, standing bareheaded behind them. They went 
 along for some distance without saying a word. 
 Carter plodded moodily ahead, and the horse fol- 
 lowed steadily after. It was the woman who broke 
 the silence. 
 
 " Mr. Carter," she said, softly. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " Mr. Carter," louder. 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 "Mr. Carter!" 
 
 " "Well, wot is it ? " he said, gruffly, at last, not 
 looking at her. 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 "Is what true?" 
 
 " What those men said. Are you ? " 
 
 " Yes, every one of us." 
 
 " It can't be possible! And you are ? " 
 
 " You see, ma'am," said the young man, stopping 
 and turning to her, his face flushed, " it was this way. 
 He done me dirt, an' most broke me down in 
 Laramie. Filled me with bad whiskey an' w'en he 
 got me drunk, robbed me of my money at kyards. 
 Then I up an' plugged him full of holes. The sheriff 
 tried to take me an' I laid him out, too." 
 
 " And all this for a sum of money? " 
 
 " It didn't belong to me," explained Carter. " It 
 belonged to the Cross Bar Cattle Company. I was 
 fetchin' it from the bank fer the old man to pay the
 
 Hmv " The Kid" Went Over the Range 53 
 
 hands with a whole lot of it, too. I wish to God 
 I hadn't shot him. Savin' a drunk now an' then, 
 an' a gamble w'en I had the money, I've lived clean 
 an' straight as punchers go. But that was onct too 
 often. I didn't mean to shoot the sheriff, noway." 
 
 " Then what happened? " asked the girl. 
 
 There was something so boyish and frank about 
 the young man, and she had gone through so much 
 that day, she had seen him against such a background 
 of utter blackguardism and crime in the person of 
 the others, that she scarcely realized the enormity of 
 his offense. 
 
 " Then, I broke away ^or this place. It's knowed 
 all over the West. If you onct git in here you're 
 safe so long as you stay here. It's well named, ain't 
 it? to turn a paradise into Hell Hole by interducin' 
 men like them." 
 
 " Do you have to stay here all your life? " 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to stay here ten minutes." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " I'm goin' to take you back to the camp." 
 
 " Couldn't I find my way back alone ? " 
 
 " Not in a thousand years." 
 
 "And after that?" 
 
 " I'll come back here." 
 
 " Oh, don't," cried the girl. 
 
 " Where else kin I go? If I left here I'd git 
 ketched an' jugged, an' tried, an' as the evidence is 
 plain, I'd swing fer it. I'm young yit. I ain't quite 
 sick of this place. They do git tired of it sometimes 
 an' break out no matter wot happens, but I kin stand
 
 54 The Records 
 
 it a little longer. Gosh ! it'll be horrible when you're 
 gone it sure will. Old Doc Bell said it had been 
 years I heard him since he had spoken to 
 a lady. I ain't never spoke to one since 
 I left my mother, before this mornin'; leastaways, 
 no one like you. Don't be skeered," he added, as 
 he saw a strange look sweep over her face, " I won't 
 hurt you." 
 
 " I'm not in the least alarmed, Mr. Carter; I trust 
 you implicitly." 
 
 " Say, don't call me ' Mr. Carter;' it seems strange 
 like, an' as if you was a judge or a court, or some- 
 thin'. Everybody calls me ' Kid.' ' 
 
 " Very well, then. I'm not a bit afraid of you, 
 Kid. I know you will take me back to the camp. 
 You were ready to protect me a moment since." 
 
 " I'd like to see any one lay a finger on you ; it 
 would a' been the last of him," said the man in the 
 most matter-of-fact way. 
 
 " Thank you," said the girl. 
 
 " Say, Miss, put it there," he said, innocently ex- 
 tending his hand. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation she put her own 
 hand in his. He shook it vigorously a second time. 
 By this time they had come to the curve of the moun- 
 tains where the pass narrowed and where the watch- 
 man was stationed. Hollis stood there, gun in hand, 
 looking as ugly as might be expected from one of his 
 calibre. 
 
 " I've got to leave you to go alone a bit," whispered
 
 Hmv " The Kid" Went Over the Range 55 
 
 Carter, " I've got to take keer of that man. Ride 
 around that bend. I'll cover you an' follow you." 
 
 The girl obediently urged her horse forward, 
 
 f although all her terror came back to her as the 
 
 ' animal slowly edged its way around the narrow trail 
 
 over the yawning abyss. Behind her, with his back 
 
 toward her and his face toward Hollis, his gun in his 
 
 hand, stumbled Kid Carter, and she heard him say as 
 
 she turned the corner: 
 
 " Don't make no move with that gun of yourn, 
 Hollis, or I'll let daylight through you, an' they'll 
 need another man to watch this pass." 
 
 " Are you goin' down^ with that woman? " asked 
 Hollis. 
 
 " I am; wot's that to you? " 
 
 " Well, you're a fool! " snarled the other man. 
 " I don't need to waste my shot on you. You'll be 
 dancin' on nothin' in Laramie in a few days." 
 
 " That's my business." 
 
 " Yours and the sheriff's," laughed the other. 
 
 " An' I warns you to stay right here where you 
 are, fer the present," said Carter, paying no atten- 
 tion to this jeering remark. " If you pokes your 
 nose around that bend of rock, I'll make a target of 
 it. An' I'll aim to kill, too." 
 
 Another moment and he slipped around the cliff 
 and stood by her side. She had caught only a por- 
 tion of the conversation, but it had been enough for 
 her. 
 
 " There is no danger to you, is there? " 
 
 " No," answered the man, lying with the grace and
 
 56 The Records 
 
 ease of a gentleman. " They don't know me down 
 there; that is, they don't know wot I've done or that 
 I've put fer this country, an' if you don't tell 'em, 
 I kin git back all right.'*' 
 
 "If I don't tell? Is that kind? I trusted you; can't 
 you trust me? " 
 
 " I kin," answered Carter, instantly. " But it's 
 gittin' late, an' we've got to hurry up. We won't git 
 to that camp till long after dark, as it is. I wisht I 
 had a pony." 
 
 He seized the bridle, and pushed rapidly down the 
 trail. 
 
 " Why don't you reform, and try to make some- 
 thing out of yourself? " asked the girl, when they 
 had crossed the dangerous part of the pass, and con- 
 versation was more easy. 
 
 " Reform? Where'd I go to reform? Do you 
 think anybody could reform in that hole?" 
 
 " Can't you get away somewhere where people 
 do not know you? " 
 
 It never occurred to the girl that she was actually 
 making herself accessory after the fact to a murder, 
 or, at any rate, to the murderer compounding a 
 felony, as it were! 
 
 " I ain't got no money noway to help me along," 
 continued the cow-boy. " The whole country south 
 between the railroad an' here is on the lookout fer 
 me." 
 
 The girl put her hand into the bosom of her dress, 
 and pulled out a small purse. Before she could say 
 a word, or even extend her hand, he stopped her.
 
 How " The Kid ' ' Went Over the Range 57 
 
 "Put that up! I ain't that low." 
 
 " I know you're not, but " 
 
 " How much hev you there ? " he asked, compre' 
 hending the small capacity of the dainty affair in a 
 glance. 
 
 " Four or five dollars, but I can get plenty more." 
 
 " That wouldn't carry me a hundred miles, an' if 
 you had a million I wouldn't take it. I ain't that 
 mean. No use of your talkin', Miss; I drawed these 
 cards, an' I've got to play this hand out, wotever it 
 is." 
 
 There was something so hopeless about the situa- 
 tion in which her sympathies were so profoundly en- 
 listed, that the girl w r as filled with dismay. There 
 did not seem to be any subject upon which they could 
 converse, and they journeyed forward thereafter in 
 silence, broken only by his warnings and her infre- 
 quent questions. Carter seemed to know the lay of 
 the land fairly well. 
 
 " I have hunted in it, hunted them fellers," he 
 said, in answer to a question. " In '92 I was one of 
 a posse that tried to clean out that pocket back there 
 that infernal gang; I beg your pardon, ma'am 
 so I knows this country pretty well. They keep an- 
 other lookout above that place where I was keepin' 
 watch, an' we've knowed all about your party for 
 days. Some of the gang was fer goin' down an' 
 raidin' the camp, but didn't dare ; there was too many 
 men in the party." 
 
 The girl shuddered at the possibility the man's 
 simple speech conjured up in her mind. They had
 
 58 The Records 
 
 been so entirely peaceful in the camp, never dream- 
 ing of danger of any kind. 
 
 The two had progressed several miles, when, sud- 
 denly coming around a gigantic butte, which 
 Josephine thought she recognized, and which was 
 indeed the one that had afforded her shelter from 
 the cyclone, they had a fair view of the whole east- 
 ern slope of the mountains. Away off in the distance 
 lay the white tents of the camp. 
 
 It was now late in the afternoon and the girl could 
 not possibly reach it before dark; but she instantly 
 turned to Carter, who stood by her side, surveying 
 the prospect. 
 
 " There is the camp," she said. 
 
 " I sees it." 
 
 " I can make my way there now, I think, without 
 your assistance." 
 
 " It'll be dark long before you git there," re- 
 turned the man, " I'm goin' with you." 
 
 She endeavored to dissuade him, but could not 
 move him. They went forward more rapidly, after 
 that; as rapidly, indeed, as the man could keep pace 
 with the horse, and it was not until late in the even- 
 ing that they found themselves on a bit of level 
 ground; perhaps half a mile of prairie, with the trees 
 at the other end, which alone shut out a view of the 
 camp. Off to one side, they could hear the rush of 
 the river. Scarcely had they progressed a quarter of 
 the way down the open, when a little party of horse- 
 men entered just behind them. As soon as these
 
 How " The Kid" Went Over the Range 59 
 
 caught sight of Josephine and her companion they 
 shouted loudly to attract their attention. 
 
 " Oh! " cried the girl turning her horse, " there's 
 the bishop ! " as she recognized a little stout man at 
 the head of the party. " And there's Captain Mc- 
 Cauley and and Mr. Barnard." 
 
 "Who are the others?" asked Carter, whipping 
 out his gun. He stood poised on his foot as if to 
 run. " Those are your friends ; but that othetr 
 man an' them with him; I reckon they're lookin' fer 
 me." 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " That's the sheriff of\ Johnson county an' that's 
 his posse. They've been huntin' me an' your friends 
 hev pressed them inter service to hunt you. It's all 
 up with me, but I'm glad you're safe." 
 
 "But you will be taken! " cried the girl; "they 
 will " 
 
 " No matter." 
 
 "Wait!" 
 
 Disengaging her foot from the stirrups she sprang 
 to the ground instantly. 
 
 "Take my horse!" she gasped. "Quick! You 
 saved me, I'll save you." 
 
 The man hesitated. 
 
 "Go!" she urged. 
 
 It was the work of a second for him to unbuckle 
 the saddle and throw it aside. Gathering the reins in 
 his hand he leaped to the back of the big cavalry 
 horse. 
 
 " Good-bye," cried the girl lifting her hand.
 
 60 The Records 
 
 They were very near now, but he pulled off his 
 sombrero, bent low over the saddle, seized her hand 
 and pressed a long kiss upon it. 
 
 " If I'd 'a' met you afore," he cried, " I might 
 hev been a different man." 
 
 The party was close at hand. Still holding his 
 cocked pistol, Carter put the spur into the horse. 
 He started off on a gallop instantly toward the other 
 end of the glade. 
 
 " Josephine ! " cried the bishop, as they ap- 
 proached, " are you safe? We have been searching 
 for you all day." 
 
 " Entirely so," answered the girl, " thanks to that 
 man," pointing to the rapidly disappearing figure. 
 
 " Who is he? " asked Barnard jealously as he dis- 
 mounted and took her hand. " I've been wild 
 with " 
 
 " By gosh, I know him ! " exclaimed the sheriff. 
 "That's my man. That's Kid Carter! him we've 
 come to ketch, boys. After him! " 
 
 He lifted his Winchester as he spoke, and levelled 
 it at the fleeing man. The girl rushed toward the 
 sheriff frantically waving her hands and screaming. 
 The startled horse jumped aside, the gun went off 
 and the bullet sped harmlessly down the valley. But, 
 by this time, other rifles were cracking; she could 
 not attend to them all, and one shot hit the old troop 
 horse. He jumped into the air and fell. Carter, 
 revolver in hand, was off him in a minute, making 
 for the woods near the river bank amid a fusilade of 
 bullets. Josephine Carter, who had stood appalled at
 
 How " The Kid" Went Over the Range Gl 
 
 first, now ran into the open between the posse and 
 the fugitive, her arms extended as if to protect him. 
 She might as well have tried to check a whirlwind, 
 for they brushed her aside without a second's hesita- 
 tion, and galloped forward, firing as they ran. The 
 cruel joy of a man hunt was with them. There were 
 good shots in that posse. Carter suddenly staggered 
 and fell just as they reached him. He lay on the 
 ground, his revolver still clenched in his hand. 
 
 " Be careful, boys," said the sheriff, riding up; 
 " he's got his gun with him yet." 
 
 " You needn't be afraid," gasped out the Kid, 
 dropping the weapon, " I won't shoot. I don't want 
 no more blood on my hands. Where's the lady? " 
 
 " Here," answered Josephine, forcing her way 
 through the men; " are you much hurt? " 
 
 "I'm. done for, this time. Say, I'm glad I don't 
 hev to go back to that place." 
 
 " What does he mean? " asked the sheriff. 
 
 " That pocket in the mountains, you know," said 
 the girl, stooping down and slipping her arm under 
 the dying man's head; " I ventured in there in the 
 storm " 
 
 " Good gosh! have you been in Hell Hole," said 
 the sheriff, " and got out alive? " 
 
 " Yes, thanks to him. He claimed me, and 
 brought me here at the risk of his life." 
 
 " Kid," said the sheriff, stooping down and taking 
 the man's hand, " that was white of you. If I'd 
 known that, I'll be blamed if I'd 'a' shot at you! 
 Eh, boys? "
 
 62 The Records 
 
 " It's just as well," said the Kid, faintly. " Thank 
 you, ma'am; I'm glad I done it. Is that the bishop 
 you was talkin' about? I have been a bad boy, 
 bishop. But seein's I'm knocked out this time, don't 
 you think I'll git a show when I've gone over the 
 range? " 
 
 " You gave your life for another, for this girl, 
 my boy," said the old man, kneeling down by him. 
 " It was a sacrifice, an atonement. ' Greater love,' 
 said Jesus, t hath no man than this, that a man lay 
 down his life for his friends.' ' 
 
 " An' I didn't shoot the posse when I might hev. 
 I wanted as clean a hand as I could carry now. I'm 
 sorry to have all this unpleasant business a-dooin' 
 afore you miss; I sure am. It's growing dark mighty 
 sudden, ain't it? It must be gittin' late. I'm not 
 afraid to die if you think I hev a chance." 
 
 " Yes, yes," cried the girl, " I'm sure of it." 
 
 " I've been in hell onct to-day," he gasped out, 
 " an* in heaven, too." He smiled up at her. 
 "Would you lemme kiss your hand ag'in afore ?" 
 
 The girl glanced interrogatively at Barnard. 
 There was no need of explanation between these 
 two at this time. She knew that he loved her and 
 he knew that she loved him, and the petty quarrel 
 was composed in the shadow of the death angel's 
 wing. Then she bent her head, lifted Carter's head 
 a little higher and kissed him on the lips. The smile 
 broadened it was almost a laugh then stopped 
 suddenly. It was as if a hand had been passed over 
 his face and smoothed it out.
 
 Hmv " The Kid" Went Over the Range 63 
 
 She laid his head back on the sod, and rose to her 
 feet. The bishop still knelt, praying in the twilight; 
 the others stood around, their hats in their hands. 
 
 But poor Kid Carter had gone over the range.
 
 Third Record 
 
 HER BIRTHDAY* 
 
 Romance had never ceased to play a part and a 
 large one in the career of Edith Gordon. The 
 one regret of her life was that John Gordon, her 
 husband, had become so intensely practical. It had 
 been " Jack " in those days when the blood burned 
 and the heart was prodigal with vows and protesta- 
 tions; but that time was long past, and the erstwhile 
 dashing " Jack " had developed into the stout, some- 
 what prosaic, entirely unromantic " John," a man 
 eminently unsuited to play Romeo to Edith's Juliet. 
 
 Edith herself had not stood still outwardly 
 during the advancing years, yet she had not lost a 
 great deal. While, of course, the freshness of youth 
 no longer shone in her face, the classic features, 
 about which " Jack " had been wont to rave, but 
 which " John " now viewed with such complacency, 
 had been left unravaged by the course of time. The 
 gloss and sheen were gone from the abundant chest- 
 nut hair that waved above her sweet low brow, but 
 the soft light of the somewhat premature gray crown 
 of advancing years provided a substitute scarcely less 
 charming. 
 
 Her figure, too, was not quite what it had been. 
 
 By courtesy of "The Delineator." 
 
 5
 
 66 The Records 
 
 The fulness of a ripe Edith thought sometimes 
 with dismay that it was a ripening development 
 of womanhood had overwhelmed the slender curves 
 of girlhood; but the result was still satisfactory, es- 
 pecially when aided by those mysterious devices by 
 which feminine humanity successfully conceals the 
 overloading tendency of ageing flesh. No greater 
 insult could be offered Edith Gordon than to say 
 that she was getting " fat." No one in the house 
 said it either, although ill-natured people outside 
 sometimes did not refrain from such " slander and 
 evil speaking;" but Edith's heart was as young, as 
 fresh, as verdant as ever; her mind was as imagina- 
 tive, as subtly apprehensive of the mysterious, the 
 beautiful, the heroic, as it had been when she was 
 a girl. 
 
 In that sort of development she had stood still. 
 It was a never-ending source of grief to her that 
 John she hated that name, and never called him 
 that except in public; in private it was often " Jack, 
 darl," or something else equally affectionate that 
 John was so changed, so unresponsive, so unroman- 
 tic. Why, he had actually declared that he would 
 rather be comfortable in his clothes than look well 
 in them any day of the year. That he didn't really 
 care enough about growing stout to diet himself! 
 That nothing on earth would induce him to "bant," 
 and as for exercise, he abhorred it! He was never 
 so happy as in a shabby old dressing gown and a 
 disreputable pair of slippers, by his own fireside, with 
 Edith, more beautiful than ever he averred with
 
 Her Birthday 67 
 
 truth in his heart opposite him, and the children 
 of this singular pair, six in number, clustered around 
 them. 
 
 But after all, John was a good sort of a man. He 
 was the best of husbands and absurdly devoted to 
 Edith in his own quiet way. He really never left her 
 if he could help it. When he went away from the 
 city on business he always took her with him. He 
 delighted to see her beautifully dressed, and while 
 he sometimes mocked, he inwardly approved of all 
 her efforts to maintain and retain the charms which 
 had won him to her affections so many years before. 
 But he was not demonstrative. ~No contingencies 
 that could arise would prevent him from eating his 
 dinner. Edith was furiously jealous at times of the 
 children, who moiled and toiled about him and over 
 him, and to whom he frequently addressed those pet 
 names and endearing terms which she had once 
 thought were her own peculiar property. 
 
 But she never had the slightest chance to be 
 jealous of anyone else. She sometimes longed for 
 him to give her an opportunity to rise out of the 
 placid humdrum consciousness of his steady affec- 
 tion; and in more daring flights of imagination she 
 frequently wished that in some way, without doing 
 anything wrong or compromising herself in any way, 
 she could make John ragingly jealous; see him lose 
 a meal or two and get thin. 
 
 But nothing happened. She often thought, with 
 a sigh, that all the romance of her life was past; 
 there was nothing before her but to live on in this
 
 68 The Records 
 
 contented, peaceful, uneventful way until the end. 
 If Edith had enjoyed a wider experience of life 
 and husbands she would have known that she was 
 blessed almost above women. 
 
 John honestly tried, at times, to rise to the meas- 
 ure of her requirements. For instance, he never 
 consciously forgot an anniversary. There were more 
 anniversaries in Edith's calendar, too, than Saints' 
 Days in the Church year. Long ago John had 
 learned manfully to face the consequences of those 
 frightful lapses of memory which confronted him in 
 the presence of Edith with this question trembling 
 upon her lips: 
 
 " John Gordon, do you know what day this is? " 
 
 When Edith asked that question she was not seek- 
 ing information as to the day of the week or the 
 month. She wanted John to remember that it was 
 on such a day as this that he had first met her at 
 so-and-so's house. She wanted John to remember 
 every detail of that meeting, which her own mar- 
 velous imaginative faculties could reproduce with 
 absolute accuracy. Everything that ever happened, 
 that was connected with their courtship and early 
 life, was an anniversary, and John really remem- 
 bered them remarkably well. He was a very busy 
 man. He had a great many cares. The needs of 
 his growing family were sufficient to require his un- 
 divided attention. Once in a while, he forgot, but 
 not often. 
 
 During a crisis in his business, which had filled 
 him with apprehension, on a certain morning Edith
 
 Her Birthday 69 
 
 came down to breakfast arrayed with extraordinary 
 bravery. She wore a new shirt-waist of the color 
 and style which John affected. In the centre of the 
 table was a great bunch of chrysanthemums, flowers 
 associated with their wedding day, which had hap- 
 pened to fall a few days after Edith's twenty-second 
 birthday. She had made an heroic resolution before 
 she descended to the dining-room that she would not 
 call John's attention to the fact that that day was 
 her birthday in words, that is ; but she had been un- 
 able to restrain herself from indicating in some way 
 the festive character of the day. Not that it was 
 particularly festive for Edith, either, for no woman 
 approaches her fortieth birthday with feelings of 
 equanimity, but that would not matter to John, who 
 was accustomed to say that the older he got the hap- 
 pier he was; and he, at least, ought to rise to the 
 occasion. 
 
 And John had risen to the occasion, too. The 
 birthday was one of the things he had not forgotten. 
 He had previously provided her liberally, in accord- 
 ance with his means, with the jewels which looked so 
 pretty upon her beautiful hands; and on this occasion 
 he had decided to add to her already large collec- 
 tion, what she had long coveted, a pearl. A fine 
 specimen which he had purchased the night before, 
 at that very moment lay in his pocket. But John 
 gave no outward sign. The Stock Market was in 
 a feverish condition, and he buried himself in the 
 paper the moment he sat down. John and Edith 
 breakfasted alone with William. The other children
 
 70 The Record* 
 
 had their breakfast earlier and had gone to school 
 when these two came down. William was the young- 
 est. He was " goin' on four/' as he proudly said, 
 which meant that he had just passed his third birth- 
 day. He was an observant young man. Nothing 
 out of the common escaped his youthful eye. 
 
 " Mamma," he asked at last, " why are you all 
 dressed up?" 
 
 His father, who was turning the paper at that 
 moment, fortunately caught this remark and looked 
 over at his wife. 
 
 " Well, Edith, I must say that you look very well, 
 indeed, this morning, my dear. What's the occa- 
 sion? " 
 
 Edith blushed violently and her heart throbbed in 
 spite of herself at the question. She temporized, 
 however. The possibilities of the situation were so 
 great that she wanted to enjoy them a little longer. 
 Instead of the usual retort, 
 
 " Why, John Gordon, don't you know what day 
 it is? " she replied lamely enough. " Why er 
 nothing particular." 
 
 " And the flowers, too," said John, " they're gor- 
 geous. They always remind me of our wedding day," 
 he added swiftly, knowing that this was an exceed- 
 ingly safe remark to make; and then will it be be- 
 lieved? the odious man calmly went back to his 
 paper and coffee. 
 
 Edith stopped eating at once and stared at him in 
 silence. Could it be possible? He had forgotten
 
 Her Birthday 71 
 
 many things, but never her birthday! William came 
 to the rescue. 
 
 " Why don't you eat your bekfast, mamma?" he 
 remarked. 
 
 Again this caught the attention of John. 
 
 "What's the matter, Edith?" he said. "Aren't 
 you well?" 
 
 " Who, I? Perfectly well," returned Edith with 
 rising indignation, immediately beginning to attack 
 her waffle furiously, although every mouthful choked 
 her. 
 
 John had finished his breakfast. He excused him- 
 self, rose from the table, caught William's chubby 
 face in his two hands, and after carefully wiping 
 the fringe of molasses from around his mouth, 
 pressed a long, exuberant kiss upon the baby face; 
 then he stepped over to Edith, laid his hand upon her 
 shoulder, turned her cheek up to him, kissed her 
 softly, in what, it must be admitted, was rather a 
 matter-of-fact manner, and went out. 
 
 Edith heard the door close behind him. It was 
 too much. She rose from the table, unheeding the 
 baby's protests he objected very much to being left 
 alone and ran upstairs to her room. She shut the 
 door, threw herself face downward on the bed, and 
 sobbed out her grief and disappointment in an agony 
 of tears. 
 
 William, though he did not like solitude, disliked 
 emptiness the more. He stayed at the table until, 
 with the assistance of the maid, he had disposed of a 
 wonderful quantity of cocoa and waffles, there being
 
 72 The Records 
 
 no mamma present to interdict his consumption; 
 then he clambered up the stairs, opened the door 
 of his mother's room and entered. 
 
 " What's the matter, mamma? " he said, " why are 
 you cryin'?" 
 
 " Oh, William, my precious baby, mamma's only 
 comfort," wailed Edith, stretching out her arms 
 toward the chubby boy, " come here to me, my little 
 son. Mamma is so miserable. It's her birthday, and 
 and papa didn't remember. Mamma is forty 
 years old to-day that's bad enough. She's so lone- 
 some, so unhappy! No one even wished her ' many 
 happy returns.' ' 
 
 " I'll do it, mamma," said William, getting up on 
 the bed and nestling down by her. " Won't you have 
 a birfday cake wiv cannels on it like I did? " 
 
 "No, nothing, nothing! Nobody cares for mam- 
 ma's birthday. She's an old woman now! So lone- 
 some, her heart's broken!" 
 
 " Won't papa give you somethin' ?" 
 
 " He's forgotten all about it, darling. He doesn't 
 care for mamma any more." 
 
 Edith was so absorbed in her grief, and William 
 was so absorbed in Edith, that they did not hear the 
 hall door open. They did not mark John's rather 
 heavy tread upon the stairs, consequently they were 
 both greatly surprised when the door opened and he 
 stood before them, an expression of amazement on 
 his face at the sight of the two figures, for the con- 
 tagion of his mother's misery had been too much 
 for the susceptible infant, and while she was sob-
 
 Her Birthday 73 
 
 bing softly he was roaring with all the vociferous- 
 ness of childhood. 
 
 " Why, Edith! William!" cried John in astonish- 
 ment, " what's the matter?" 
 
 At the sound of his voice Edith sat up, a flash of 
 hope pervading her being. He had remembered, 
 then, and had come back! All would be well. But 
 his first words undeceived her. 
 
 " I left those vouchers I was examining last 
 night," continued John, ' and came back for them. 
 'I find you in tears. My dear girl, what is the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 John was unconsciously adroit. Edith loved to 
 be called his " dear girl " and John knew it. This 
 time, however, the words did not mollify her. Since 
 he did not know, she resolved he never should. She 
 determined that hereafter her birthday should pass 
 by unnoticed. She felt the luxury of martyrdom 
 stealing over her, which was some compensation for 
 her misery. She dried her tears as best she could 
 and looked disdainfully and coldly at him. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing at all," she said. 
 
 " Dere is, too," said William, sturdily. 
 
 "William!" said Edith sharply, "I forbid you 
 to speak. Don't say a word!" 
 
 Generally John did not interfere between Edith 
 and the children. This time he broke that wise rule. 
 He drew a nickel from his pocket. 
 
 " Bill," he said, holding up the coin, " come here." 
 
 In a second that infant was in his arms, his face 
 shining through his tears.
 
 74 The Records 
 
 " What's the matter with mamma, son? " asked 
 John. 
 
 " Willie, dear," cried his mother imploringly, but 
 the allurement of the nickel was too great even for 
 his filial affection. 
 
 " Papa, don't you know what day it is?" asked the 
 smiling William. 
 
 " Great Heavens!" thought John in consternation, 
 " have the children begun to ask that infernal ques- 
 tion, too?" 
 
 He racked his brain for a possible neglected anni- 
 versary. 
 
 " Well, what day is it? " he asked finally. 
 
 " Why, it's mamma's birfday," said William tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 John turned open-mouthed to Edith. She had 
 risen and was confronting him like an angry goddess. 
 The flash of indignation upon her cheek, the tear 
 that sparkled in her eye and Edith was one of the 
 few women who look pretty in tears made her 
 fairly adorable. He thought she had never appeared 
 more charming, even when she was only sixteen. 
 For an instant his admiration shone in his glance, 
 and the unerring Edith was quick to detect it. There 
 was an opportunity for him to get into her good 
 graces once more. Alas! Nemesis must have been 
 guiding him, for what did John do? His admira- 
 tion faded into an expression of amusement. He 
 snickered, he chuckled, he laughed. He sank down 
 in the nearest chair and roared. Edith had never 
 been so furiously angry before. This was adding
 
 "Well, what day is it?" Page 74
 
 Her Birthday 75 
 
 insult to injury. So soon as she could make herself 
 heard, she began, 
 
 " For my part, John Gordon, I see nothing about 
 which to laugh. You have forgotten my birthday, 
 a thing you have never done before since we have 
 been married. I dressed myself to please you. I 
 put those chrysanthemums on the table because they 
 reminded you always of our wedding day and my 
 birthday. I had the breakfast you liked, too and 
 and you never noticed anything! If it hadn't been 
 for the baby you wouldn't have known whether I 
 was dressed or not. I even forgot my prejudice and 
 ordered that horrid vulgar liver and bacon a com- 
 bination I detest for you especially. I don't be- 
 lieve you even knew what you were eating! And 
 then, when you came back, I thought you had re- 
 membered, and had come to wish me many happy 
 returns and and ' 
 
 " But, my dear Edith " 
 
 " Don't say a word ! I never was so unhappy in 
 my life ! It is quite evident that you do not care for 
 me now that I am getting old. All you think of is 
 comfort, comfort and your children. And I'm forty 
 and married to a man who has ceased to love me at 
 all. It's bad enough to be forty without being so 
 neglected and so lonesome ! " 
 
 Here Edith put her head down in her hands and 
 began to cry. John was sober enough now, although 
 the remains of his amusement were plainly visible. 
 It was William who broke in.
 
 76 The Records 
 
 " Papa, you're bad to my mamma, I don't love 
 you any more." 
 
 " William," said John gravely, " ask mamma the 
 date of her birthday." 
 
 " Thoughtless, cruel, forgetful man," sobbed 
 Edith, " he can't even remember the date. It's No- 
 vember 5th, if you will have it." 
 
 " I thought so," said John, " and Edith, my dear- 
 est wife, do you realize that to-day is the third of 
 November, and your birthday isn't until day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " John Gordon, you are deceiving me It's one of 
 your ways of getting out " 
 
 " Look at the calendar, my dear," said John. 
 "You see?" 
 
 Poor Edith! She was certainly two days ahead. 
 She stood looking at John in hopeless dismay. John 
 was making a herculean effort to restrain his mirth. 
 He tried valiantly, but it was impossible. Edith 
 didn't know whether to continue weeping or join in 
 his laughter; it was all so fearfully unromantic, this 
 whole proceeding. William was also waiting to see 
 which way the wind was blowing. Finally Edith 
 caught the infection of her husband's humor and 
 joined in his glee. William's high-pitched staccato 
 trill made an appropriate obligato for the merry con- 
 jugal duet. 
 
 " Well, now the thing has come out," said John 
 in his matter-of-fact way, feeling in his waistcoat 
 pocket, " since you have arranged this day for your
 
 Her Birthday 77 
 
 birthday, I might as well give you the present I was 
 keeping for you," handing her a little packet. 
 
 With eager fingers, she tore it open, disclosing 
 the radiant pearl. There was a little slip of paper 
 enclosed in the circlet of the ring. 
 
 " Eead it," said John. 
 
 " To Edith, pearl among wives, from her lover and 
 husband" 
 
 Yes, and the name signed to it was not " John," 
 but " Jack," and there he stood, fat, unromantic, 
 rather indifferent as to dress, blushing like a girl. 
 
 Edith flung her arms around his neck, kissed him 
 enthusiastically, then /held him at arm's length. 
 
 " John Gordon," she said severely, " you are really 
 just too provoking for anything! How unromantic 
 of you. Now you have gone and spoiled my birthday 
 by giving me my present to-day!"
 
 Fourth Record 
 
 "TO HER WHO LOVED HIM BEST 
 OF ALL"* 
 
 When "Evidenced by Service " was published it 
 met with an instant and overwhelming success. His 
 friends and in truth most readers were that, for 
 he was a popular author and had written much 
 finished its perusal wit]a three states of emotion striv- 
 ing for the mastery surprise, admiration, and re- 
 gret. His other books, while they had all been hon- 
 est, wholesome, pleasing novels, had not led them 
 to expect anything at once so deep, so brilliant, so 
 subtle as this. In each human being, it has been 
 said, there is at least one real book, one real romance. 
 This was his. 
 
 The conception of the novel was so startling and 
 original, it was worked out on such strong and un- 
 usual lines, the characters were so finely drawn, and 
 the affection of the woman who filled the centre of 
 the story was evidenced in so strange and powerful a 
 way, by an act of unprecedented service to, and sac- 
 rifice for, her lover that his warmest admirers even, 
 to say nothing of the public generally, were lost in 
 admiration. The critics, even the great ones whose 
 words have weight, praised the book without a dis- 
 
 * By Courtesy of " The Century Magazine."
 
 80 The Records 
 
 senting voice; the presses put forth edition after 
 edition, and the book stores could hardly keep pace 
 with the eager buyers. It was the literary sensation 
 not only of the day, and of the season, but of the 
 year. 
 
 The regret of it all was that he was no longer alive 
 to enjoy his belated but unequivocal triumph. He 
 had been an old-fashioned author in many respects, 
 never making use of a secretary or a typewriter 
 for instance, but writing his books laboriously out 
 in longhand. They found him dead one morning 
 before his desk, his head bowed upon his left arm, 
 and that arm upon the manuscript of this last story. 
 The pen was still clasped in his hand. He was indif- 
 ferent now to praise or blame, success or failure. 
 He had been a hard, persistent worker with his busy 
 pen all his life, and it was a great pity that success 
 came so late too late. 
 
 The last words that he had written had been traced 
 upon the top sheet of paper, blank save for this sig- 
 nificant line of dedication: 
 " TO HER WHO LOVES ME BEST OF ALL." 
 
 There was no explanation vouchsafed as to who 
 was in his mind when he wrote, not the faintest clue 
 anywhere by which the identity of that unknown 
 woman could be discovered. There was some little 
 speculation about it among the critics for a time, some 
 natural curiosity in the public mind at first; but 
 the matter soon ceased to interest in the larger ap- 
 peal to discussion made by the wonderful book itself, 
 and the question dropped from the view of every-
 
 " To Her Who Loved Him Best of Air 81 
 
 one except five women. To them it became of vital 
 moment indeed, for each one of the five loved him, 
 and the question, "Is it I?" was at once of serious 
 import so 'soon as it was formulated by five unde- 
 cided jealous hearts. 
 
 It so happened that not one of them had seen the 
 dedication until the book had been published, for 
 the manuscript had been sent by his literary execu- 
 tors to the publisher without inspection or revision 
 by any member of his family or by any of the others. 
 In one way or another the book came into the hands 
 of each one of them about the same time, and the 
 five women faced the ^problem without reading the 
 book that was a secondary matter and strove to 
 solve it at the same instant from the dedication 
 alone. 
 
 The first to consider it was an old, bowed, white- 
 haired woman of threescore and ten years a woman 
 bereft of her only son, who sat alone waiting the end. 
 She wondered, at first dully and then with awakening 
 apprehension, if she had been in his thoughts as he 
 had traced the words. What love is there that hu- 
 manity may feel that equals a mother's love? She 
 had borne him; in her bosom he had lain; she had 
 carried him in her arms as a child; her knee had been 
 his altar in infancy. Over him, around him, about 
 him, her fostering care had ever been thrown. She 
 had trained him, developed him. It was largely due 
 to her labor and love that he was what he was. 
 
 There had been other children born to her. One 
 6
 
 82 The Records 
 
 by one they had gone. He only had been left alive. 
 To him only had she turned at last. Did he mean 
 her? Had this great work that crowned his life 
 been dedicated to her? Surely none had loved him 
 as she. By right, then, she could claim it from all 
 the world from wife, from child, from friend, she 
 thought with the quiet but exceeding bitter jealousy 
 of the old. 
 
 " Evidenced by Service." She read the title over 
 again. She had scarcely noted it before. What did 
 that mean? "Was it love that was evidenced? How 
 stood she there? Had she loved him by that test? 
 Had she served him in the end as in the beginning? 
 Had her devotion wavered or faltered? Was there 
 a taint of self in it? Her conscience smote her 
 at the thoughts. He had been worried, harassed, 
 straitened in many ways in these latter years. She 
 had seen it, she had known it. Had she aggravated 
 his trouble? Had she done what she could for him, 
 had she given or demanded? There had been quar- 
 rels, causeless, foolish, jealous quarrels with his wife, 
 dissensions between them on account of him. Had 
 it been her fault? Had she shown the spirit of love, 
 of comity, of self-sacrifice? Had she thought of him 
 or herself first? Had she striven to make him happy? 
 Was it she, after all? His look reproached her be- 
 cause there was only love and consideration for her 
 in it no reproof for his mother. She sat staring 
 aimlessly before her in the silence, so old, so lonely, 
 the book neglected in her lap. Was it she? O God, 
 was it she?
 
 ." To Her Who Loved Him Best of Air 83 
 
 What of another woman? He had been fond of 
 quoting to his wife, she now remembered, that little 
 word of Scripture, " A prophet is not without honor, 
 save in his own country." And to-day that broken- 
 hearted wife sat alone before his desk in the study 
 on the top floor of their home, which she had so in- 
 frequently visited when he lived and worked there, 
 but which now seemed the only room in that lonely 
 house in which she could bear to abide, for there 
 everything spoke to her of him. She lifted the book 
 to her lips and confidently appropriated to herself 
 the dedication. He had thought of her then. Thank 
 God ! Yes. In those Closing hours, in that last night 
 before he went to sleep to awake elsewhere, he had 
 thought of her, of her. She kissed the page with 
 a passionate intensity. No one had loved him as she. 
 He must have known it. 
 
 But stop. Doubt came into her heart also. Did 
 he, had he known it ? Had she known it herself until 
 after? Ah, no. She must be honest with herself 
 now, and if she had not, how could he have known? 
 There had been quarrels, differences, dissensions, 
 petty bickerings, ill tempers her fault, her fault. 
 She had not entered into his work, had not under- 
 stood him, had not sympathized with him as she 
 might. She had been captious, indifferent, exacting. 
 Had she? Had he been first in her thoughts before 
 all the rest? He was so tired, not himself, and she 
 had not comprehended. He had died alone, over 
 his book, pen in hand, like the knight in his harness.
 
 84 The Records 
 
 What had he said last to her? Or she to him? When 
 had she kissed him last in life? 
 
 He had worked so hard, so faithfully, for her and 
 her children. Had she worked for him? Had she 
 kept from him all trouble, all annoyance, that she 
 might have done? Or had she loaded these things 
 upon his already burdened shoulders? Had she been 
 a helpmate to him? " Wilt thou obey him, and 
 serve him, love, honor and keep him?" Service? 
 Had she evidenced aught by that supreme test? 
 There was his mother there were so many things. 
 They crowded swiftly upon her. 
 
 Had she ever known him before? Ah, now she 
 knew him. None knew him as she. He had been 
 so kind to her, so gentle with her, so indulgent to 
 her. How had she repaid him? She remembered 
 again so many things he had said and done things 
 full of meaning to her now, different meaning, bet- 
 ter meaning. The illumination of a great sorrow 
 was upon her, the enlightment of a great loss was 
 poured into her soul. She knew him at last. She 
 saw him as he was. She loved him now as none 
 other could. She understood him as never before, 
 and it was too late, too late! Could he have meant 
 her when he wrote those last words? Could he have 
 fathomed her heart in spite of herself? Or was there 
 some other one? Who could it be? 
 
 She laid the book down on the desk, where his 
 head had lain when he died, rested her head on her 
 hands, and stared at it in a cold agony of jealous inde- 
 cision, as one fascinated. Like the mother, she had
 
 " To Her Who Loved Him Best of All ' ! 85 
 
 no tears. She was praying, praying in vain for one 
 word of assurance. 
 
 In the privacy of her chamber sat his daughter. 
 She was a girl of eighteen, with all the undimmed 
 enthusiasm of her years. She had been proud of 
 her father, passionately attached to him. Fond of 
 her mother, yes, but the two stood on such different 
 planes that there was no comparison. She took the 
 book in her hand and bedewed the page with her 
 tears the easy tears of youth. She had been such a 
 comfort to him in many ways, he had said sometimes. 
 She had understood him less, but had worshipped him 
 more. Had he meant her? 
 
 There was a childish jealousy in the query in her 
 heart, jealousy of her mother, of her grandmother, 
 of everybody. What was the test he himself had 
 lain down? The highest test of love, service? Had 
 she served him? Had she helped him as she might 
 have done? Had she been a daughter indeed? Alas! 
 there arose before her moments of folly, of petu- 
 lance, of scenes that had tried him almost beyond 
 endurance. If she only had not done it! If she 
 only had always been what he fain would have made 
 her, and what she could so easily have been! It was 
 not she, fond, foolish little child. Would God it 
 might have been! 
 
 Away out West a woman who had lived unmarried 
 all these years for love of him pressed the book to 
 her heart, which cried out, in jealous pain she could 
 not stifle, that he must have meant her, there could
 
 86 The Records 
 
 be no other. They had been boy and girl lovers to- 
 gether and were to have been married. She was 
 young and foolish ; they quarreled. It was her fault. 
 He went away and married some one else. She had 
 never seen him since then, and she had repented 
 only once that was all her life. When too late she 
 discovered that she had loved him with a passion like 
 that Francesca bore Paolo, or Petrarch held for 
 Laura. 
 
 And he had loved her. If things had been differ- 
 ent and they had been together, how her love would 
 have uplifted him, ennobled him! She knew that 
 she would have made him a better wife than any 
 other; that she would have understood him, sympa- 
 thized with him, helped him, aided him, as none other 
 could. He must have felt it. The compulsion of 
 her passion must have been upon him. He must 
 have known it. Her heart must have spoken to him 
 in some ethereal hour. Sometimes the dying see 
 visions. Had he seen her at last and believed? And 
 was she wrought within the fabric of his final dream \ 
 
 Yet, she, too, had failed him. She had robbed him 
 of the treasure of her affection. When she might 
 have been all to him she had elected to be nothing. 
 Could that be explained or brushed aside? Service? 
 She had given him none at all. She had loved him 
 as none other. But had he understood? No, the 
 book was not for her; she could not claim it by des- 
 sert, however much her desire. He would never 
 know it. He could never understand. Her heart 
 might break with impotent passion, it could make no 
 difference now.
 
 " To Her Who Loved Him Best of All M 87 
 
 Out where they laid him on the slope of the hill 
 fronting the east, a woman held the book in her trem- 
 bling hand, and looked down at the green mound 
 stretching monotonously from her feet. There were 
 withered flowers upon it, blossoms as evanescent as 
 remembrance. She stood there unheeding the soft 
 drip of the rain drenching the garments enshrouding 
 her figure, a wretched, unfortunate woman, fallen 
 as low as humanity could fall and yet be human. 
 
 Late one night years ago he had been walking 
 along the deserted river front of the great city in 
 search of local color for one of his novels, and he 
 had pulled from the water at the risk of his life this 
 wretched creature, sick with the hideous horror of 
 her situation, and striving to end it all with one 
 plunge into the icy flood. Nor had his services 
 ceased there. He had provided for her, found a place 
 of rest for her, helped her, in his strong and quiet 
 way, to make something out of herself, put her in the 
 way of becoming a good woman once more. 
 
 No one had ever spoken to her as he. She had 
 never met one like him. Her heart had gone 
 out to him. She had loved him with her 
 whole soul. She had worshipped the ground he 
 had walked upon. If he had known he might have 
 meant her. If he had looked he might have recog- 
 nized her devotion. The book might have been for 
 her; she would appropriate it to herself anyway; 
 by right of the truth it was hers for she had loved 
 him best of all. 
 
 Yet the love she bore him had not served to save
 
 88 The Records 
 
 her. The last state of the woman was worse than 
 the first. She loved him, yet she had been weak. 
 She had tried O God how she had tried! and if 
 she had failed it had not been his fault. Had he 
 known of her failure it would have grieved him to 
 the very heart, but she had gone away and left no 
 word. 
 
 " He should have been mine ! He was mine, if 
 love gives a claim!" she cried, stretching out her 
 hands to the cold, gray clouds bending low above her 
 head. " If I could have been his it might have been 
 different. He did not know, but the book was for 
 me. There is no other can feel as I. He was life 
 to me, salvation to me!" 
 
 Stop ! There had not been life enough in her love 
 for him to draw her away from the body of death 
 to which she was bound. Her love had not been 
 strong enough to save her from shame. Whoever 
 else there might be, whoever else might claim the 
 words, she was the unworthiest of them all. The 
 book was not for her. She hesitated even to read it, 
 although to buy it had taken her last penny. She 
 knelt down on the wet grass, her face in her hands, 
 but could form no petition. She could not even 
 think of God, for she thought of him. 
 
 Yet in the book, all unconsciously it may be, he 
 had solved the problem, and presently one woman of 
 the five read and understood, a peace in her heart 
 that to the others was denied.
 
 " He was mine, if love gives 
 a claim!" she cried. Page I
 
 Fifth Record 
 
 THE BABY'S ADVENTURES AND 
 MINE 
 
 I 
 
 THE FIRST ADVENTURE* 
 
 The family were enjoying an attack of tonsillitis. 
 I think there were one hundred and fifty cases dis- 
 tributed throughout the hotel in which we were 
 spending the summer, but we got more than our 
 share of the disease, for the baby's mother, his two 
 sisters, his big brother, and, most unfortunate of all, 
 even his nurse, had it. And they all had it prac- 
 tically at the same time, too. 
 
 He and I escaped; but I had him, and I don't know 
 which was the more trying. At present I think the 
 baby was but then, I have never had the tonsillitis. 
 I am his father. I didn't have a happy time during 
 that epidemic, for so many people were ill in the hotel 
 at the same time that there was no way of getting a 
 trained nurse for my family, and I had to attend to 
 them and the. baby also. We turned our apartments 
 into an infirmary, with the exception of one room in 
 which the baby had to stay. He wasn't a little baby; 
 in fact, he was two and a half years old, solid and 
 
 * By courtesy of "St. Nicholas Magazine."
 
 90 The Records 
 
 substantial for his age, and, though I do say it my- 
 self, he was an unusually active and intelligent child 
 how active I never quite realized before. 
 
 However, as it turned out, the first day of the 
 tonsillitis visitation he had sprained his leg, or hurt it 
 in some way, and was unable to walk. He had to 
 be carried everywhere. In passing, for a month 
 after this, whenever he got lazy and wanted to be 
 " cawied," his thoughts would recur to the halcyon 
 sprained-leg days when I was his porter, and the leg 
 would suddenly pain him again! "Well, at the time 
 I thought this enforced " immobility " was a terrible 
 hardship for me for he was a stout, well-built, 
 heavy youngster, and it was quite a job to " tote " 
 him around all day long except at my hourly visits 
 to the sick members of the household for the pur- 
 pose of administering nauseous medicine; but it had 
 its advantages, as I afterwards learned, for when he 
 was put down anywhere he " stayed put." He was 
 very careful of that game leg of his; consequently, 
 I was entirely safe in leaving him. The next day it 
 was better at intervals the leg, I mean, and so were 
 the other patients but he still required a good deal 
 of carrying; and as he gained more freedom of mo- 
 tion, he did manage to get into some mischief. He 
 was not up to his capacity, however. The third day 
 he was well. The tonsillitis invalids were also able 
 to take their own medicine without my help. As I 
 had been kept in the house with that baby for two 
 days, I thought it advisable for his health and my 
 own comfort to get outdoors.
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 91 
 
 The hotel fronted on a beautiful little lake. At 
 the foot of the bluff upon which it stood was a boat- 
 house. Like all Adirondack boat-houses, a sloping 
 platform ran from the boat-racks into and under the 
 water. You put your boat on the platform, shove 
 it off yourself, and spring in as it glides away, or 
 you get in first and someone else does the shoving 
 for you. The baby wanted to go fishing. He 
 wasn't an expert angler, never having caught any- 
 thing, although he fished patiently with a pin hook 
 and twine from the end of a switch. 
 
 His leg had become well with astonishing sudden- 
 ness, and as he frisked down the path, clinging to 
 my hand, he seemed as active as ever. I had dressed 
 him painfully, it must be admitted, being unused 
 to a task of that kind in his best suit of clothes. I 
 put on this suit partly because it happened to be 
 the first one in the bureau drawer. I got the boat 
 out with the assistance of the boatman, and was pre- 
 paring to enter it, when the baby dropped a ball he 
 was carrying. It rolled down the platform and 
 slipped into the water. He darted after it. Sqme- 
 body screamed as they saw him plunge forward. I 
 looked up, made a step forward and clutched him. 
 
 You can't imagine how slippery that platform was 
 under water. I never dreamed that anything made 
 of wood could be so sleek. I lifted up the baby, and 
 made a frantic effort to keep my balance. In vain! 
 Out went my feet, and down we both went sprawling. 
 It seemed to me we didn't stop until we had shot 
 twenty feet out into the lake. I kept tight hold
 
 92 The Records 
 
 of the baby, who was now yelling at the top of his 
 voice. He kept up his screaming until he was soused 
 under. Fortunately, I am an expert swimmer, and 
 I easily lifted him out of the water at least his 
 head and swam around to the landing-place and 
 scrambled ashore. 
 
 Then he began roaring again. He wasn't the only 
 one who roared either, for the boat-house was filled 
 with people. It was usually empty at that hour of 
 the morning, but on this particular day it seemed to 
 me that everybody in the hotel was there. As we 
 climbed out they roared, too but with laughter. 
 I could not see anything funny then. I shook the 
 baby, I'll admit, but merely to shake the water out 
 of him, or off of him, of course. 
 
 " What are you crying about?" I asked desper- 
 ately. 
 
 The cause of his weeping is clear to me now, but 
 at the time it was inexplicable. 
 
 "What do you want?" I continued as there was 
 no abatement of his cries. 
 
 " I duss want to be excruged for f allin' in de 
 water," he sobbed out at last. 
 
 I had to " excruge " him right then and there be- 
 fore he stopped screaming. Wet and bedraggled we 
 trailed across the road and up to our apartments. 
 We had to change every stitch we had on. Having 
 recovered from this impromptu bath we started out 
 on our original expedition, our first failure only mak- 
 ing the baby more determined. 
 
 This time we entered the boat without any
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 93 
 
 mishap, I rowed out into the lake, and the 
 youngster cast his line and began. I had a 
 book, the day was pleasant, and I sat reading, 
 glancing at him occasionally to see that he didn't get 
 into mischief. He was quite content to fish there 
 for hours without any result. He had the true spirit 
 of Izaak Walton in him, I think, and when he was 
 fishing was the only time in his life that he remained 
 still and kept quiet, so I encouraged the pastime. 
 The boat drifted slowly along, the absorbed angler 
 watching his hook. Suddenly I heard an excited 
 scream from the stern-sheets. The small boy had 
 risen and was dancpg frantically up and down on 
 the seat, holding his fishing-pole with both hands, 
 yelling, " I dot a fis'! I dot a fis'!" 
 
 It was somewhat of a problem whether he had 
 " dot a fis' " or the " fis' " had " dot " him; but be- 
 fore I could take in the fact that the line was taut 
 as a wire and the young angler was holding on des- 
 perately, he pitched wildly overboard. I made a 
 hasty movement to save him and, by ill-luck, over- 
 turned the cranky boat. I caught him by the leg 
 just as he went down again, fearing lest the fish, 
 which seemed as strong as a whale, might tow him 
 across the lake. 
 
 As I said before, I was a good swimmer, even with 
 my clothes on. This was a second time that day I 
 had a chance to display my prowess in the water. 
 The baby didn't cry this time. The true spirit of 
 the sportsman was in him. He just shut his little 
 teeth and hung on to that rod with two chubby little
 
 94 The Records 
 
 fists. I swam to the boat, tossed him upon the bot- 
 tom of it, and then started to push the boat to the 
 shore. The baby never let go of his prize, but kept 
 on exclaiming: " I dot a fis'!" 
 
 Meanwhile some one from the shore rowed out and 
 towed us in. We furnished a good deal of amuse- 
 ment for the hotel that day. People apparently ex- 
 pected something to happen to us, for a larger crowd 
 than before was at the boat-house as we landed. My 
 thoughts were too deep for utterance, and all the 
 baby did was to hold up his pole proudly and draw 
 attention to the fish dangling from the end of it. 
 That fish was about three inches long. 
 
 "I taught him; I taught dat fis'!" he said to the 
 assemblage, his voice shrill with excitement. " I 
 duss hooked him, an' I didn't let go, and my papa 
 holded me up." 
 
 It was an effective speech, if I may judge by the 
 results. I have thought since that he would make 
 a capital comedian, if the chief function of a come- 
 dian is to make people laugh. 
 
 Well, we made another trip to our apartments and 
 changed our clothes a second time. It was Monday, 
 and two weeks' laundry had just gone. Our stock 
 of clothes therefore, was running rather low. I 
 think my son seemed to have the faculty of getting 
 more rumpled and mussed when I had him in charge 
 than he ordinarily did when accompanied by his 
 nurse. We got our dinner, and proceeded to go 
 forth in search of more amusement. 
 
 This time we walked. I had had enough of the
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 95 
 
 water, for that day at least; so we strolled around 
 the foot of the lake, toward the bowling alley which 
 was on the other side. I had an engagement with 
 one of the guests for a bowling match that afternoon. 
 The baby enjoyed going there. He had the free 
 range of the place, so long as he kept off the alleys, 
 and he usually had great fun playing with the little 
 balls. 
 
 The only people bowling that afternoon were the 
 man and myself. The other alleys were free. The 
 baby played in these empty alleys, rolling the little 
 balls around, and almost every time he rolled a ball 
 'he slipped and fell on the polished floor. So long, 
 however, as he did not fall heavily enough to hurt 
 himself we paid no especial attention to him, but 
 kept on with our game. Consequently we didn't 
 notice his absence until we heard a fearful howl from 
 the adjoining room. 
 
 We dashed into the room, which was used as a 
 locker room, beyond which lay the shower baths. 
 He was in the middle of the big square shower 
 one of those things with many pipes which throw the 
 water at you from all directions. It was so arranged 
 that one swing of a lever opened every one of them. 
 He had wandered in there and had pulled the lever. 
 They were all going hard. That infant was seated 
 on the floor in the middle of the shower, the water 
 streaming iipon him in every possible direction. It 
 was lucky none of it was hot water it being summer. 
 
 He may have been weeping, of course we could 
 not tell the water from tears under the circumstances,
 
 96 The Records 
 
 but his lung power had not been diminished by his 
 exploits of the day, and he was screaming lustily for 
 help. 
 
 Really it was an extraordinarily funny sight, and 
 I am ashamed to say my friend and I laughed. As 
 soon as we could recover ourselves a little, I directed 
 that baby to come out. He was usually an obedient 
 child, but either he didn't hear me or he was too 
 scared to come forth; certainly he didn't heed my 
 commands. 
 
 He sat there as solid as a pyramid, the water 
 streaming down upon him. Threats, commands, ap- 
 peals were alike useless. There was no help for it: 
 I myself had to turn that water off and get him. The 
 controlling lever was behind him. It was too far for 
 me to reach in and turn it off; I had to go in. My 
 laughter ceased rather suddenly, but my incon- 
 siderate friend continued to see the humor of the 
 situation with even more force than before. The 
 way he laughed was exasperating! 
 
 Well, there was no use waiting any longer. In 
 I plunged boldly, found the lever, turned off the 
 water, took that infant, and started home. It was 
 a triumphal march we made through the village, 
 around the end of the lake, back to the hotel. I 
 never knew until that day how many of the guests 
 were accustomed to take walks through that wood- 
 land path. And they were so interested in us, too. 
 
 " What, again?" 
 
 " How many times does this make? " 
 
 " Well, you are certainly fond of the water! "
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 97 
 
 " Why don't you get a bathing-suit? " 
 
 "Or a rubber coat?" 
 
 " I declare " (this from some motherly old ladies), 
 " it's a shame to treat a baby so ! " 
 
 " He isn't fit to be trusted with a child, anyway." 
 
 " Where's the poor thing's mother? " 
 
 Such were some of the comments of those unfeel- 
 ing people. 
 
 I took that young man up to our apartments for 
 the third time that day, and this time put him to 
 bed. He hadn't said a word to me during our in- 
 teresting walk home, and he did not until I was tuck- 
 ing him under the sheets, there to remain while some 
 of his wardrobe was drying. Then, as I bent over 
 him, looking as stern and inexorable and disgusted 
 as a man could well look who had undergone such 
 mishaps, he reached up his little arms, drew my head 
 toward him, and whispered: 
 
 " Are you mad, papa ? 'Cause if you're mad, I 
 duss want to be excruged: 
 
 After that I had to " excruge " him again. My ! 
 but I was glad when night came. 
 
 The next day the nurse was able to assume her 
 responsibilities once more, and I cheerfully relin- 
 quished that delectable infant into her keeping. I 
 have a great respect for that nurse, she managed 
 him so easily a most remarkable young woman, 
 indeed! I never appreciated what a necessary ad- 
 junct to the family happiness and safety she was. 
 And I earnestly trust that if the family is again laid 
 low by tonsillitis, its attacks will come " piecemeal "
 
 98 The Records 
 
 and always leave free at least one member more 
 skilled than I to undertake the care of this very dear 
 but very strenuous youngster. 
 
 II 
 
 THE SECOND ADVENTURE* 
 
 The baby did not go alone, of course. No! He 
 was too young to do that, being only three and a half 
 years old at this time. Jim and I went with him. 
 He took us, or we took him, I don't know which 
 exactly, neither does Jim; anyway, it does not matter 
 very much we all three went together, and in spite 
 of the baby's mother! I think the mother wanted 
 very much to go along, so did Mrs. Jim, and the little 
 girl, and the maids, but we really could not take 
 everybody, you see; we had to draw the line some- 
 where, so we drew it at the ladies. " I dest want to 
 do wif de men," said the baby proudly, and as it was 
 preeminently his own particular fishing excursion, 
 we had to humor him, of course. 
 
 Jim he is forty-seven years old, if he is a day! 
 was very fond of the baby, and it was not his baby 
 either, it was mine. I don't usually call the baby 
 " it," seeing that he is a little boy, but that time it 
 seemed more grammatical to do so. 
 
 But where was I? Oh, yes, talking about Jim! 
 Jim he had other names than that, of course, big, 
 handsome, grown-up names like you see in story- 
 
 * By courtesy of " Lippincott's Magazine."
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 99 
 
 books had a fishing and hunting lodge in the moun- 
 tains of Minnesota, not far from the Mississippi 
 River. We all sailed down the river with the baby 
 in a little stern-wheeled steamboat called the Cy- 
 clone ! And it was the tamest, quietest cyclone I was 
 ever caught in out West. It was very pleasant up in 
 the pilot-house, and being and old sailor myself, the 
 captain let me steer the boat while the baby and Jim 
 and Mrs. Jim and Jim's little girl and the baby's 
 mother and the maids all ate peanuts ! They ate five 
 large bags too. The baby wanted to steer the boat 
 himself, but we persuaded him to accept peanuts 
 instead. 
 
 The lodge they called it Brook Lodge was a 
 most delightful place. There was a log house for 
 the grown-ups, with a men's side and a woman's 
 side, separated by a curtain which was tucked up 
 during the day. It the cabin, that is had eight 
 sleeping-berths in it, two in each corner, one above 
 the other, like a Pullman car, and in the end of it 
 was a huge rock fireplace. There was another log 
 cabin for the children and the maids, the baby slept 
 there, and still another house for a kitchen, named 
 the Waldorf-Astoria. The dining-room was made 
 out of wire screens bolted together, with a canvas 
 roof over it; there was an ice-house, a stable, and so 
 on; and the bath-room was a tent with a real tin tub 
 in it on a board floor. 
 
 It was quite dark when we drove up to the place, 
 and we all had to work very hard for awhile opening 
 the cabins, preparing supper, building fires, carrying
 
 100 The Records 
 
 water, and getting ready for the night. Jim believed 
 in everybody working. Even the baby worked; he 
 ran around everywhere and bossed the job he and 
 Jim. As for me, I brought in seventeen large logs 
 for the fire ! a thing I had not attempted since I was 
 a boy and had to do chores at home. 
 
 The lodge stood on the top of a high hill covered 
 with trees, which happened to be situated just where 
 three valleys met; through each of them ran a little 
 brook filled with fish. The whole place was surrounded 
 with mountains, and out there they had farms on the 
 mountain tops! We could see the brown wheat- 
 fields on the crests. The baby had caught just one 
 solitary fish in all his life. That was in the Adiron- 
 dacks the year before. He capsized the boat with me 
 in it when he caught it, and he remembered about it 
 and wanted to do it again catch fish, I mean, not 
 capsize a boat, of course ; that part he did not like at 
 all, neither did I ! So Jim, who was the nicest fellow 
 in the world and great chums with the baby, planned 
 to take him fishing in the morning. 
 
 That morning it rained. I never saw it rain cats- 
 and-dogs, but if it ever did or could rain cats-and- 
 dogs, I am sure it would have done it then. The 
 baby was miserable ; so were we. It looked as though 
 it would rain forever. We wanted to take him any- 
 way, rain or no rain, but the baby's mother said no. 
 She put her foot down too when she said it. The 
 baby's mother's foot is small, but the baby and I 
 have learned that when it comes down it covers all 
 the necessary territory. So we had to amuse our-
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 101 
 
 selves the best way we could before the log fires in 
 the cabins, praying and hoping the rain would cease. 
 Meanwhile we busied ourselves by getting everything 
 ready in case it ever did clear. 
 
 Sure enough, at about three o'clock the rain at last 
 stopped. It was cold and damp; the sky remained 
 overcast and threatening; the woods, the fields, and 
 especially the weeds and grass bordering the brooks, 
 were soaking wet; and the brooks themselves were 
 full to overflowing with dark, muddy water. The 
 prospects for good fishing, therefore, were not bril- 
 liant. Unfortunately, we could only spend one day 
 at the lodge, so we had to go fishing then or not at 
 all. Besides, we really wanted to go to take him, 
 that is. So we begged the baby's mother, at least 
 we got Mrs. Jim to do it for us, and at last she 
 said we might take him, although she knew it would 
 be the death of him. 
 
 We fixed him up for the occasion with great care. 
 We did not wish to kill the baby because we he, I 
 mean wanted to go fishing. A pair of rubber boots 
 belonging to Jim's little girl were brought out. The 
 baby eyed them dubiously while the rest of us smiled. 
 " You won't laugh at me, mamma," he said ner- 
 vously, " w'en I det 'em on me, will you? " The 
 baby, like most persons, male persons, that is, 
 objected to being laughed at. The boots came up to 
 his middle nearly. We covered his overcoat with an 
 old blue sweater, too large for him, which came down 
 to his boots, and then we put one of Jim's old caps 
 on his head. He looked so funny when he was
 
 102 The Kecvrds 
 
 dressed finally that his mother and Mrs. Jim and 
 the others had to go out behind the cabin and laugh 
 into the rain-barrels for fear he would hear them and 
 have his feelings hurt. Babies have feeling, you 
 know, just like boys and girls and grown-ups. Jim 
 and I did not laugh. We were proud of our handi- 
 work. So was the baby. You should have seen him. 
 
 During the day we had given much thought to the 
 question of transportation. The baby could not walk 
 in those boots, or through the wet weeds either. We 
 had to carry him, that was certain. Jim suggested 
 that we take him in a barrel. Mrs. Jim and the 
 baby's mother said that was absurd, but we thought 
 not. So Jim hunted up a cement-barrel, and I, being 
 an old sailor, made a rope sling with two handles to it 
 to carry the barrel. 
 
 Well, we had it ready at last, and into it we loaded 
 the baby with the bait and some other things, and 
 each seizing a handle we started off down the hill, the 
 whole family looking gleefully on. The baby was 
 very doubtful about the barrel. It was too short, we 
 soon found, and as the baby's weightiest part is his 
 head he is a very large-headed, brainy infant the 
 whole contrivance with him in it was decidedly top- 
 heavy, and lurched to and fro frightfully as we 
 slipped and stumbled down the steep, wet hill. It is a 
 wonder he was not pitched out. The baby was 
 plucky, however, and he held to the barrel tightly, 
 but when we reached the bottom he ejaculated quite 
 brokenly between swings, 
 
 " Dis barrel makes me awshul sick! "
 
 He got a fierce bite. Page 103
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 103 
 
 It was enough to make an old sailor like myself 
 seasick, I guess. So we took him out. Away up at 
 the top of the hill the ladies, who could see us quite 
 plainly, were yelling: 
 
 "We told you so!" 
 
 But we did not pay any attention to them then, as 
 you may imagine. 
 
 After that one of us carried the baby pickaback, 
 while the other one carried the barrel, the rod, the 
 bait, and the other things. We took turns carrying 
 the baby; he was the heaviest, although the barrel 
 and the other things were most awkward to handle. 
 Jim carried the baby most of the time. He hasn't 
 had so many babies to carry as I have and it was more 
 of a novelty to him than to me, so I let him gladly. 
 You have no idea how heavy that baby got before we 
 reached the creek. I never knew before that a child's 
 weight could increase so greatly in so short a time. It 
 seemed a long time too. 
 
 Well, we reached what looked like a good place 
 for fishing at last. We stood the baby down in the 
 grass temporarily, and while Jim baited the hook 
 I fixed our famous fishing-barrel as close to the 
 water's edge as possible, so as to make a nice, dry, 
 convenient place for the baby to fish from. Then 
 I sat down in the wet grass and held the barrel by the 
 rope handle to keep it from sliding into the creek. 
 Then Jim put the baby in the barrel, handed him the 
 small rod, and proceeded to give him his first lesson. 
 
 The baby was an apt pupil. In about ten seconds 
 he got a fierce bite. He pulled frantically, and out
 
 104 The Records 
 
 of the water came a big sucker about a foot long! 
 I don't know which was the more surprised, the 
 sucker or the baby. The infant yelled like mad and 
 dropped the rod. We did not know just why he 
 yelled fear or excitement, perhaps both. Anyway, 
 Jim grabbed the pole and I grabbed him with one 
 hand, so we did not all slide into the brook then. 
 We gave the baby the pole again and he finally 
 landed the fish high and dry on the bank. As it lay 
 flapping and wriggling in the grass he eyed it glee- 
 fully and shouted and screamed and clapped his 
 hands with triumphant joy. We did too. It was as 
 much fun as going-to-the-circus-with-the-children 
 used to be. 
 
 We all made so much noise over this first capture 
 at that place that there was no use in trying it there 
 any longer, so we unhooked the fish, put it in the 
 fishing bag slung over the baby's shoulder, and 
 started off again. 
 
 This time we found a likely trout-hole. We were 
 most anxious to have the baby catch a trout, if pos- 
 sible. So we fixed things as before and cautioned 
 him to be very quiet, as trout do not like noise. He 
 was as still as a mouse after we got him planted in 
 his barrel again, rod in hand. It was a bad day for 
 trout, but we almost had one, at least we thought so, 
 when the baby suddenly broke the exciting silence 
 by a fearsome howl! 
 
 " Sh-sh-sh ! " I said, but the howling only increased 
 in volume. 
 
 " What's the matter? " asked Jim.
 
 The Baby's Adventures and Mine 105 
 
 " Dis fish is bitin' me in de stummick! " wailed the 
 baby, pointing to the bag, which had slipped around 
 so that it hung before his waist-band. The fish he 
 had caught and placed in the bag had suddenly com- 
 menced wriggling, which had scared the young angler 
 out of his wits. Of course, we lost that trout. 
 
 "We explained matters and quieted him down. In 
 the middle of it all he got another bite, dropped the 
 rod, and away it went. Jim got it, he also got very 
 wet, but when the baby pulled out his second fish, 
 another sucker, he said he did not mind it getting 
 wet, I mean. 
 
 "Well, we fished the brook for about five miles, 
 more or less, and the baby caught one sucker per 
 mile. The last effort was attended by several cir- 
 cumstances of an unusual and dramatic nature. 
 
 The bank of the creek was everywhere very slip- 
 pery and the standing-ground very narrow. I planted 
 my heels in the ooze and sat down with my back 
 against the bank, holding the barrel between my 
 knees, on one of which Jim calmly and recklessly sat 
 down. They were all depending upon me, you see. 
 In the excitement of catching the last fish something 
 gave way, my feet slipped; how it ever happened I 
 cannot explain of course it was the baby's fault, 
 since he brought us fishing. Anyway, we all fell in. 
 That is, Jim and I did. As we slipped we both 
 desperately caught at the barrel and lifted it clear 
 of the water. The baby gallantly hung on to the 
 edge with one hand and with the other clutched 
 desperately the rod. When matters quieted down
 
 106 The Records 
 
 again he calmly remarked to his two faithful servi- 
 tors Jim and I, you know standing breast high 
 in the ice-cold water above our waists. 
 
 "Idotanudderfish!" 
 
 Inasmuch as the fish had been flapping in our faces 
 for the last half minute, we were quite aware of the 
 fact. 
 
 We put the baby, still in his barrel, back on the 
 bank again, clambered out of the brook slowly, sadly 
 sat down by the barrel and emptied the water out of 
 our long wading-boots and looked plaintively at the 
 young fisherman. He was a wise baby indeed. I 
 said before that he was large-headed and brainy. He 
 returned our mournful and beseeching gaze with 
 interest and at last remarked gravely: 
 
 " I dess I'll do home now. I had anush." 
 
 We too had " anush." So we carried him back 
 over the hills and through the fields and far away 
 awfully " far away," by the way till we reached the 
 lodge again. There he was received, with his six 
 suckers and his two servitors, with open arms by his 
 mother and by Mrs. Jim, and by the little girl and all 
 the rest. I guess they were glad they had not gone 
 along when they saw us. 
 
 The next morning was bright and sunny. We had 
 an hour or two at our disposal before the time for 
 leaving came. We dressed him up as before and 
 " kodaked " him. That baby wanted to go fishing 
 again, but this time we demurred. As I said before, 
 we had had " anush " to last us for some time and it 
 was Sunday, anyway.
 
 Sixth Record 
 
 DIVIDED 
 
 A KOMANCE OF THE MOUNTAINS* 
 
 He was an artist; she was a dreamer; both were 
 poets. They were alone together on the roof of the 
 world, above them nothing but heaven, beneath them 
 all of the earth. 
 
 " There," the guide had said, " you c'n see f ei 
 yourself. That's the summit. It's the highest p'int 
 in the range." 
 
 " We would rather go forward alone; I know the 
 place," said the man, as the mountaineer made as 
 if to show them the way. 
 
 " Jest as you like," returned the other. " Be 
 careful of the cliff on the far side. I'll go down to 
 the camp, an' me an' my wife'll git the things ready 
 fer the night." 
 
 There was a great contrast between the two left 
 on the crest. Not in height, for he was but slightly 
 above the middle size, and she but slightly beneath 
 him as they stood side by side. But he was all 
 strength and vigor, like the splendid canvases he 
 painted, while she was all delicacy and grace, like 
 the visions she saw, the dreams she dreamed. 
 
 *By courtesy of " The Twentieth Century Home."
 
 108 The Kecords 
 
 Without his aid, she would never have mastered 
 the almost insurmountable difficulties of the lonely 
 mountain. It was the guide's part, as a rule, to 
 help the woman, but he- had jealously reserved that 
 privilege for himself. His hand had. led her upward. 
 She dreamed and prayed, he hoped and determined, 
 that so it should be for life. 
 
 The way was easy now, but the habit of the morn- 
 ing nestled her hand in 'his as they stepped over 
 the broken rock toward the pinnacle on the summit. 
 The mountain, precipitous on all sides, rose to a point 
 where it fronted the west, like the great bow of a 
 mighty ship cleaving an ocean of air. Thence it fell 
 away in a sheer sweep of cleft rock, until the preci- 
 pice was lost in the pine trees a thousand feet below. 
 
 He had been there often before and was familiar 
 with the scene. It was at his insistence that she had 
 essayed the difficult and dangerous task. He had 
 brought her there with deep and serious purpose. 
 There was one spot which lacked but her presence to 
 be to him the vertex of the world the universe, 
 even; and thither, with steps of increasing slowness, 
 and with a deepening gravity of port and mien, as 
 one approaches with bated breath the realization of a 
 cherished hope, grasps at the embodiment of a pre- 
 cious dream, he led 'her. Hand in hand they stepped 
 unto it, and " God He knoweth how blythe they 
 were." 
 
 At the very apex of the point, wind or weather, 
 rain or sun, heat or cold, or mayhap the hand of God, 
 had scooped out a little hollow in the old Laurentian
 
 Divided 109 
 
 rock first of all the earth's surface to lift its head 
 above the vasty deep in the world's morning. It was 
 the oldest and greatest of all earthly thrones. The 
 rock descended in a few natural steps, and then 
 spread out flatly in front of the pinnacle for a few 
 feet, before it fell sheer away in the swimming 
 abysm, with plunge and depth appalling to the stout- 
 est heart. 
 
 Tenderly, daintily, with courtesy, with reverence 
 and worship for he loved her he led her there. 
 He enthroned her in that regal chair of the ages, 
 then stepped back upon the dizzy verge and turned 
 and looked at her. From one of his temperament 
 the action was in itself a compliment, the force of 
 which could not be misunderstood. 
 
 Before her lay unrolled such a panorama as does 
 not often delight human vision. The mountain was 
 in the center of a vast crescent of mighty peaks only 
 less exalted than itself. Broken ranges of slightly 
 lees altitude sprang irregularly from the great semi- 
 circle, diminishing miles away in softly rounded hills, 
 that lost themselves in level vistas of distant plains. 
 Valleys inaccessible, unseen, their very existence not 
 dreamed of except by those who overlooked them 
 from above, lay at her feet. 
 
 The sunlight of the west in splendor, though fad- 
 ing in the sky, flashed through the rifts in the foot- 
 hills and fell upon tiny lakelets in borders of emerald 
 that dotted the prospect, mellowing the sublime into 
 the tender and the beautiful. It was a scene to fill 
 a painter's eye and a poet's mind. Again and again
 
 110 The Records 
 
 he had essayed to paint it, only to throw aside his 
 brush in despair. Again and again he had returned 
 to it, only to be filled anew with a sense of its splen- 
 dor, its beauty, and his own impotence. 
 
 At that hour it was nothing to him. In the face 
 of the world with all its appeal, he was looking at 
 the woman. 
 
 The sight was novel to her. He had told her little 
 about it. She was quite unprepared for it. It ap- 
 pealed to her as profoundly as it did to him. While 
 he placed her on that throne he kept himself between 
 her and the prospect, and it was not until he had 
 stepped aside that the magnificence of it burst upon 
 her. He could see the look of sudden surprise leap 
 into her eyes; he could mark the quick intake of the 
 breath, the pause in her bosom's fall, as if her heart 
 had hesitated in its beating for a moment. 
 
 Then she looked at him. In the face of the world, 
 the woman returned the look of the man. 
 
 Something leaped within their hearts that tran- 
 scended nature, that was greater than all that was 
 material beneath them, even though fashioned by the 
 hand of God. He and she on the mountain top love, 
 the world forgetting, by the world forgot. That one 
 look repaid him. He stepped closer to her, sank 
 down at her feet on the spur of the rock, a step of 
 the throne, and she leaned forward a little, resting 
 her hand upon his shoulder. They were silent while 
 they gazed. 
 
 " After you," said the man at last, " I love this."
 
 Divided 111 
 
 He threw his head back and the woman smiled 
 down upon him. 
 
 " After you," she said, softly, triumph mingling 
 with passion, " I love nothing." 
 
 In a woman's heart there are depths which a man 
 may not sound; there is more of God's image in one 
 woman's soul than in the souls of many men. Upon 
 them is the touch divine that has made them 
 women and beloved. In that hour the man knew 
 this. 
 
 " Yours is best," he said, humbly. " I am at your 
 feet, happy to be there to learn from you light 
 and truth, and what sums them all up love." 
 
 His strong face softened; the firm, set lines re- 
 laxed a little. He bowed over her slender hand; 
 the other she laid upon his head. 
 
 " You are here," he said, at last, " where I have 
 dreamed of you, where I fain would have you, 
 and here I am where I fain would be at your feet." 
 
 " No, no, we are here together. That is better," 
 she made answer. " You should be by my side, or 
 you should be here and I there." 
 
 It was the strife of self-abnegation that well- 
 nigh sets the seal divine upon human passion. 
 
 " There is no room on earth for another where 
 you sit; and no one could by rights be by your side." 
 
 " Hush!" she answered softly; " it is sacrilege." 
 
 " The truth, only the truth. You sum up hu- 
 manity to me. I want no one, nothing else. I 
 am satisfied with the satisfaction that craves a little
 
 112 The Records 
 
 more and receives a little more with each passing 
 hour." 
 
 " And I, too, want nothing else. We are here 
 together, alone, the world below us, beneath us, in 
 the distant beyond, or in the swift-vanishing past." 
 
 " Would you like it to be so always?" 
 
 "Forever!" 
 
 " Listen! Kay, first look." 
 
 As he spoke, he rose and pointed far down the 
 mountain. 
 
 " Follow my hand," he said; " there! " 
 
 Her glance swept along the outstretched arm. 
 
 "Why, it is a heart!" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, Lake Heart, I named it. At the head of 
 the lake there is a little hill. Do you see it?" 
 
 " Distinctly." 
 
 " It overlooks that little heart-shaped stretch of 
 water. See how it nestles on the side of this great 
 mountain. Opposite it lies another mountain. One 
 standing there would have the whole sweep of this 
 mighty range in full view. On that little knoll I 
 would build a house our house. Build it out of the 
 fragrant pines that shade the mountain sides. Rude 
 it should be on the outside; the interior I would 
 line with mother-of-pearl. There we would go. It 
 would be silent, still. No one could come there; 
 we would be alone. I could paint; you could help 
 me. You could write; perhaps I could help you. 
 We would be far away from the world. We need 
 not know from day to day how the current of human 
 passion ebbed and flowed out yonder, who lived or
 
 'Stop ! " he cried ; 
 
 'just as you are!" Page 113
 
 Divided 113 
 
 who died, who rose or who fell, but we would work 
 and live and love together." 
 
 " It is enough," said the woman; " when I am 
 free I will go with you." 
 
 " Because I suggested it? " 
 
 " Because I want no greater happiness than 
 that." 
 
 " It shall be so," said the man, putting out his 
 hand. 
 
 Unhesitatingly she met it with her own, rising 
 at the same time under some controlling impulse. 
 The contract was ratified by no kiss, no enfolding 
 embrace, not by heart beating against heart, but 
 by that simple, strong, pervading clasp. They were 
 facing the future hand in hand. It was he who 
 broke the pause. 
 
 " Stop! " he cried; " just as you are! " 
 
 She stood slightly bent forward, her weight rest- 
 ing upon her right foot, her left hand upon the 
 rocky arm, her right hand outstretched and warm 
 from his clasp. She had taken off the knitted moun- 
 tain cap she wore, and the soft wind of the evening 
 it was absolutely calm in the valley and but the 
 slightest current of air stirred on the mountain- 
 top swept her hair, lightened by the sun's last 
 kiss, back from her sweet low brow. The dark blue 
 of her dress blended with the weather-beaten backr 
 ground of the ancient mountain. There was a dash 
 of color in her usually pale cheeks. She was a sight 
 to make a man forget the world. 
 
 Pencil and paper, which he was never without,
 
 114 The Records 
 
 were in his hands. Swiftly, as one would fain seize 
 and hold a final moment, he sketched the outlines 
 of the picture, her head and shoulders, partly turned 
 from him, rising in silhouette against the pale gray- 
 ness of the eastern sky. Catching some of the 
 spirit that actuated him, she held her pose motion- 
 less for what seemed to be an incredible time. Sud- 
 denly the sun dropped behind the screen of hills. 
 Her hand fell to her side. The sketch was over; 
 she was weary. She tottered, and would have fallen, 
 but that he held her close. There had been some- 
 thing so tense, so nervous, in the situation, she was 
 overwhelmed with sudden feeling. 
 
 " How thoughtless of me ! " he cried, remorse- 
 ful, seeing her weakness. 
 
 "Did you finish?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They stood together for one last glimpse. There 
 were deep shadows in the valleys; the light was 
 gone from the little lakes; the emerald of the pines 
 was turned into shrouding darkness. Here and there 
 in front of them, the fading light streamed softly 
 beyond the crest of hills in pale, nebulous bars. 
 Before them, clear and cold, gleamed a sudden silver 
 star in the twilight. It was strangely cold. She 
 shivered slightly in his arms. 
 
 " I can paint it now," he said; " it has the human 
 touch of human life at last." 
 
 He drew gently and carefully from the edge of 
 the sheer precipice and together they turned away.
 
 Divided 115 
 
 She was the last representative of an ancient 
 colonial family which had owned large estates on the 
 banks of the Delaware in New Jersey for genera- 
 tions. Her father a stern, cold, unsympathetic 
 man, forever in arms against her because she had 
 not been a son had spent much of his early life 
 in England, where he had been educated, where 
 he had imbibed habits, thoughts and prejudices 
 which are outside of and beyond the realm of books. 
 The estates had come to him heavily encumbered, 
 and he had not succeeded in diminishing the charges 
 upon them. An opportunity to recoup the family 
 fortunes had been provided through the beauty of 
 his daughter and the passion the more powerful 
 and persistent because it was that of an old man 
 of a friend of his whose estates adjoined his own. 
 
 She had known this man for years, and to know 
 him was to esteem and like him. She was a deli- 
 cately nurtured, retiring girl, educated mainly at 
 home in accordance with her father's ideas. She 
 had seen nothing of the outside world, and it was 
 quite natural, therefore, that, at her father's insist- 
 ence, and at the pleading of the old man, who really 
 loved her, she had engaged herself to marry him. 
 The state of her health had caused her father to 
 send her to spend the summer in the mountains. 
 One of his friends had a camp there, and he had in- 
 vited the girl to be his guest.
 
 116 The Records 
 
 Her sojourn had been in every way beneficial. 
 Her health had improved greatly, the pulmonary 
 tendency which had so alarmed her father and her 
 betrothed had disappeared. Altogether it had been 
 a satisfactory experiment except in one particular. 
 This untutored, inexperienced girl, pledged to a man 
 as old as her father, for whom she had no feeling 
 other than respect and esteem this unworldly 
 child of an artificial rearing, without knowledge or 
 experience of life had been brought face to face 
 with nature in more shapes than river and lake, 
 mountain and valley. 
 
 In the camp there was another guest, a young 
 artist, whose reputation was already national. As 
 the clear air, the bright sunlight, the fragrant balm 
 of the pine-clad hills, had entered her being, and 
 she had drunk in nature, so also had the passion of 
 the man, which had sprung into existence at a 
 glance, entered her soul. She had been made over 
 physically, and spiritually as well. For the first time 
 in her life, she knew what love was. She found its 
 reality beyond all the artless dreams in which she 
 had indulged. He had surprised her in her inno- 
 cence and inexperience, and she had yielded her af- 
 fection to him without hesitation, almost without 
 thought. 
 
 It was not until she had found herself pledged 
 to him, and the natural demand of her lover that 
 she should name some day upon which he could 
 claim her for his own, was pressed upon her, that 
 she realized that she was bound to another. Her
 
 Divided 117 
 
 conceptions of honor were as strong and inflexible 
 as the rocky trails that had upborne her in many a 
 beloved walk with him among the hills; while her 
 ideas of the obedience due from child to parent were 
 as deep-rooted as those of her father. Sometimes, 
 as on the crest of that final cloud-piercing peak, she 
 forgot what lay behind. The fetters of custom and 
 habit and honor fell away; her passion rose with his 
 own, and swept her into a new world which knew 
 nothing but the love they bore for each other. 
 
 But it was not always so, and then the man tried 
 to reason with her; he even tried to laugh her scru- 
 ples to scorn. The most that she would promise, in 
 her serious moments, was that if by any honorable 
 method she could be released from her obligation, 
 and could win her father's consent, she would give 
 herself to him unreservedly. 
 
 She had lingered in this lover's paradise, hesitant 
 and reluctant to put her fate to the touch, and he, 
 thinking to bind her the more irrevocably, had en- 
 couraged her to delay. But they had come out of 
 the world of dreams in which they had lived at 
 last, and finally she made the plunge. She wrote to 
 her father of this new love in her heart, and begged 
 him to consent, and to secure the consent of the man 
 to whom she was betrothed, to the breaking of the 
 old engagement and the making of the new. The 
 answer came back after many days, for this was 
 long ago and the facilities of travel were not what 
 they are at present. That answer was a prompt,
 
 118 The Records 
 
 unqualified negative, with a peremptory demand 
 that she should return home immediately. 
 
 Cast down, but not despairing, she wrote again. 
 This time not only to her father but to the other 
 man. The two old men must have considered the 
 letters together, for the letter that came back was 
 from both. The father pointed out the worldly ad- 
 vantages of the match, laid upon her with all the 
 force in his possession the duty of obedience to a 
 parent, and linked and fettered the woman with the 
 chains of an obligation, a plighted word, an honor 
 to maintain. 
 
 The old lover pleaded and made many promises. 
 One more effort the girl made. She wrote this 
 time to her father alone and told him that she could 
 not live without this man. That into her lonely 
 life this love had blossomed, how and why she could 
 not tell. It had entwined itself around the founda- 
 tions of her existence and to uproot it meant de- 
 struction. Life and love they went together. She 
 would obey him thus far she would come home 
 immediately and reinforce her plea with her per- 
 sonal appeal. But she begged him to write her at a 
 place appointed on her return journey. 
 
 Then they separated, these two. The girl made 
 no secret of her love; indeed, she could not, nor had 
 she the desire. He pleaded with her, and her only 
 appeal from him was her consciousness of duty, her 
 sense of obligation; and before that he bowed, he 
 fell, and where he fell there he would fain have died.
 
 Divided 119 
 
 " If," she said, at last, " I can do it with honor, 
 I will come back to you. If not, I bid you farewell." 
 
 When they parted, it was as if death had stepped 
 between them. As she had said, she went alone 
 down the mighty river and across the great lake on 
 her homeward way. When she reached the hotel 
 by the side of the water, the roar of whose falls 
 fills the ear with a strange yet terrible sound, she 
 found a letter from her father in answer to her last 
 one. 
 
 " You must come 'home. You must marry the 
 man to whom you have plighted yourself, and to 
 whom I have passed my word. Your duty, your 
 honor, call you. You must forget this other man." 
 
 That was all. After she read it, she sat still and 
 thought upon it; and as she thought, the bitterness 
 of death passed away from her. She wrote a few 
 words to her father, a few words of explanation 
 without justifying herself at all. Then she drew 
 another sheet of paper closer and wrote upon it her 
 lover's name. Then she stopped. There was noth- 
 ing that she could say to him then that she had not 
 said before, nothing that she could tell him now 
 that she had not told him often. Where she was 
 going she could not tell, but she did not believe 
 there was a place on earth or in heaven from which 
 her soul could not speak to his. He would know 
 and understand. Love could bridge whatever gap 
 there might be. 
 
 She left the letter for her father on the table, 
 nothing else. She went down to the river bank and
 
 120 The Records 
 
 walked up it during the long afternoon, under the 
 wild blazoning of the autumn leaves, until she found 
 a boat. She cast it adrift and seized the oars. He 
 had taught her how to use them. She was rtry 
 tired from her long walk, but she resolutely drove 
 it into the middle of the stream. 
 
 Although she was now far above the falls, the 
 current was already swift. It needed a stronger and 
 more powerful arm than hers to cope witli that 
 mighty downward rush of water; his might have 
 accomplished it, but not hers alone. Out in the 
 middle of the river, where the full force of the cur- 
 rent caught her, she cast adrift the oars. With the 
 swiftness of thought itself, she was swept down. 
 She sat low in the center of the boat, her head 
 buried in her arms, her arms folded on her bended 
 knees. 
 
 She was thinking of him, of that peak on the 
 mountain-top, of that little lake like a heart in that 
 sequestered valley where they had planned to spend 
 the long years of their life She had closed her eyes 
 she needed no other light. She was thinking of 
 him. 
 
 The roaring of the falls broke on her ear un- 
 heeded. There were people upon the shore. She 
 swept by a little island and did not hear the shrill, 
 terror-full cries of those who watched her not a 
 stone's throw away. The boat rocked and pitched 
 frightfully. 
 
 She was drenched with spray, thrown this side 
 and that. Instinctively she put out her hand to
 
 Divided 121 
 
 steady herself, raised her head, opened her eyes. 
 She was on the brink. She lifted her hands high 
 in the air as if to grasp a mountain peak. She saw 
 a face as in a dream. 
 
 m 
 
 Back in the hills he waited, with a growing cer- 
 tainty that his wait would never be terminated. It 
 was a month, perhaps, before he learned the whole 
 truth. When the realization came to him, he fled 
 to the mountain-top once more. Again he stood 
 upon the giddy verge. One little movement, one 
 relaxation of the muscles even, and he was gone. 
 Death would meet him in mid-air long before he 
 pitched upon the rocks hid in the pines at the foot 
 of the cliff. As he stood there hesitant, yet deter- 
 mined, his eye fell upon the little lake shaped like 
 a heart, silvery again in the emerald as on the day 
 they had planned their future. Death! It was 
 nothing. ~No death could separate love like theirs. 
 Though he was here, and she was there, there was 
 nothing between; they were side by side. He would 
 carry out the plan. He would abide there and she 
 would be with him. He kissed the spot where she 
 had been enthroned and plunged down the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 On that softly rounded knoll, he built that great 
 log house of which they had dreamed. He built 
 it slowly from year to year, and mainly with his own 
 hands, with as little assistance as the requirements of
 
 122 The Records 
 
 the situation necessitated. And there he lived alone. 
 Save for an occasional visit to the nearest settlement 
 for the necessaries 'of life, he saw no one. The 
 country was still a virgin wilderness. After a time, 
 he laid aside his brush forever, but for occupation 
 he added to his lodge ; he made trails from the cabin 
 to the summits of the everlasting hills about him. 
 He roamed the mountains. Often from the low 
 mountain which he named for her, he watched the 
 peak where they had planned. In the long winters 
 he had his books, and now and again a wild four- 
 footed friend who found him unique in the race of 
 men in that he was not an enemy. Indeed, he loved 
 all except his kind. 
 
 One day, a wandering hunter, a halfbreed, French 
 and Indian, fell prostrate before the cabin door. 
 He was desperately ill. The man took him in and 
 nursed him back to health. The grateful halfbreed 
 refused to leave him. He was as silent as his self- 
 imposed master, and the two thenceforth lived to- 
 gether. Solitude was not a passion with the artist, 
 though. Indeed, he did not know the word; he 
 was never lonely, for as he walked the hills she 
 was ever by his side. 
 
 So the years sped away. Railroads pierced the 
 region. Great hotels rose upon the banks of its 
 thousand lakes. It became the playground, the place 
 of summer rest, for hundreds of thousands of people. 
 He was not poor and he had bought a vast expanse 
 of territory, as much as his means would permit, 
 for himself. He owned the valley, the lake, the
 
 Divided 123 
 
 mountain sides, and he allowed no one to settle 
 there; but he could not prevent people from wan- 
 dering thither. From time to time, at nightfall, 
 those explorers or travelers sought shelter at the 
 lodge. And it was freely given them. 
 
 Solitude had not dimmed the courtesy of the 
 gentleman, or impaired the claims of hospitality. 
 The great lodge with its many rooms, its high obser- 
 vatory tower, was theirs. They could roam at will 
 through it. But there was one part in it that no 
 human eye save his had ever seen, its threshold 
 no human foot save his had ever crossed; not even 
 the halfbreed, who had been his companion in his 
 exile for so many years, knew what was there. 
 
 This was a great " L " that ran from one side 
 of the building in the most open portion of the clear- 
 ing. There was no window to it, the curious ob- 
 served. If lighted at all it must have been through 
 the roof. There was no door save that which 
 opened from his own private apartment. Thought- 
 less people had asked him about it, but no one had 
 ever asked him after the first time. It was a mys- 
 tery which they could not solve. 
 
 He would have preferred to be left alone, entirely 
 alone, with her. He loved the winter, for then 
 the deep snows rendered the lodge impossible of 
 access for any one. But the spring, before the peo- 
 ple came back to the wilderness, was the most joy- 
 ous season of the year to him. In the perennial 
 freshness of reproducing nature, there was a more 
 congenial atmosphere for her and love. His pas-
 
 124 The Records 
 
 sion burned still in his breast as he had been a boy 
 again. 
 
 He was a gray-haired old man now. She had been 
 by his side for thirty years, yet she stepped along 
 with the same airy freshness and innocence of girl- 
 hood of a youth eternal. Her eyes looked at him 
 with the same brightness as in the days of long ago. 
 Time had stood still for her, as the world had stood 
 still for him since they had been united. 
 
 That spring, there was a great drought in the 
 land. Not a drop of rain laved the parched and 
 weary earth for months. When the long days of June 
 came, a party of careless campers left a partly ex- 
 tinguished fire in the forest. The live coals burrowed 
 in subtle concealment under the thick carpet of pine- 
 needles which had fallen since the days of the forest 
 primeval, the fire coal growing greater and greater 
 as it wormed its way along, until, by and by, a 
 little brush heap burst into a glowing flame, which 
 surged about the base of a mountain monarch until 
 he yielded to the burning embrace, and in turn com- 
 municated the contagion of his fiery passion to a sis- 
 ter tree, and in the twinkling of an eye the forest 
 was ablaze. 
 
 He discovered the peril immediately, and realized 
 after a brief inspection that the course of his life 
 would be forever changed unless by some means 
 the fire could be diverted, for a mighty army of 
 flame was blazing down upon him and his beloved 
 lodge. 
 
 What could two men do to stop such a besom of
 
 Divided 125 
 
 destruction? "Working with frantic energy, the two 
 toiled with the strength of ten. Even the half- 
 breed, who had not lived with his silent master for 
 so many years without catching some of the latter' s 
 purpose, worked like a hero, but with no avail. In- 
 deed, while they labored at one point the blaze swept 
 by them on either side, and they were forced back 
 to the cabin, exhausted, half dead with fatigue and 
 apprehension, in the very focus of an eclipse of 
 fire. A sudden strengthening of the wind already 
 storming down the valley swept the flame upon 
 them. The end of the lodge nearest the avalanche 
 of fire was already blazing. 
 
 The man stood and gazed upon it, hopeless, im- 
 potent, broken-hearted. The halfbreed seized him 
 by the arm to drag him away. The man shook his 
 head, staring immovable a moment. Then, motion- 
 ing backward, without turning, as if to signal the 
 halfbreed to escape while there was yet time, he 
 stepped toward the smoke-enshrouded door. A cry 
 from the man caused him to turn around. The 
 halfbreed was lying helpless on the ground bleeding 
 from a wound in his leg. A sharp woodman's axe 
 lay near at hand. It was no accident, though the 
 man never suspected that. The faithful follower 
 had cut himself in order to produce the result his 
 love craved to make his master come away. The 
 man stood irresolute at the sight. But he could not 
 leave the other man to die, so with a groan he 
 turned, seized the slighter man in his arms, and 
 plunged down through the trees toward the lake.
 
 126 The Records 
 
 It was a terrible passage, for the tops of the pines 
 were crackling with fire above his head. There was 
 a boat on the lake. The lake itself was small, but 
 the only possibility of escape was upon its surface. 
 He laid his wounded companion gently down in the 
 canoe and put the paddle in his hands. But he did 
 not follow. He pushed the boat violently from him 
 and sent it spinning out into the lake. Then he 
 waved his hands in farewell, turned and staggered 
 backward through the smoke and fire. This time 
 he did not hear the frantic call from the man in the 
 boat, nor did he see him ply his paddle madly, so 
 that the boat was driven back to the shore whence it 
 had been thrust away. 
 
 The man plunged into the smoke and flame, full 
 of desperate endeavor yet not unmindful of re- 
 quired caution. He carefully shielded his head 
 until he reached the house. People had often no- 
 ticed the letters, his and her initials, wrought in 
 the bark of the rail around the porch, wondering 
 what they meant. This time they were outlined in 
 fire, for the house was burning. The heat was ter- 
 rific and the smoke suffocating. 
 
 The man sank down upon the threshold dying. 
 He raised himself by a superhuman effort. He could 
 not die there. In his extremity a figure stood beside 
 him and helped him; a cool, slender hand was slipped 
 in his. A voice whispered in his ear. He was on 
 his feet once more. Youth and strength returned 
 to him. Plunging into the house with unswerving 
 accuracy, in spite of the darkness, he threaded his
 
 Divided 127 
 
 way through the maze of rooms. By and by, he 
 came to a door. He was gasping for breath; his 
 heart was beating violently. He had striven to pro- 
 tect his face, yet through the blackened lips he had 
 inhaled the flames. The hand of death was upon 
 him. But the hand of life and love was clasped 
 within his own. He opened the door. 
 
 IY 
 
 "By Jove!" said one of the men to the other, 
 "what's that?" 
 
 " It looks like a house," returned his companion. 
 
 " It is a house," said their guide. 
 
 " It was once, you mean," said the first speaker; 
 " it's about burned up now." 
 
 " There's a piece of it left standing yet, though," 
 returned the guide. 
 
 " The rain came just in the nick of time," said the 
 second man. 
 
 " It did indeed," said the other. " If the wind 
 had not changed with the rain, the whole valley 
 would have been swept as bare as that upper end 
 of it." 
 
 "I wonder if anybody was there?" 
 
 " I guess there was," said the guide. 
 
 " Do you know anything about the place?" 
 
 " Well, there's a story that there was once a man, 
 a painter, that was disapp'inted in love in some way 
 or other, who came here an' built this house. He 
 lived here alone, though of late years parties of
 
 128 The Records 
 
 hunters an' trampers for pleasure used to come 
 through this valley an' spend a night with him." 
 
 " I wonder if he escaped?" 
 
 " I guess so," answered the guide. " He lived 
 long enough in these woods to know danger. He 
 had plenty of warnin' of that fire." 
 
 " Did you say he was an artist?" asked the second 
 man, who carried sketching materials in his hand. 
 
 " I guess that's what they said round here he 
 was," returned the guide. 
 
 " Well, that accounts for it. I recall the story 
 now. My father used to know him. He had a cot- 
 tage over there in Greene Valley, years ago. He's 
 got some pictures painted by that man now at least 
 I have; they were left to me and splendid things 
 they are, too. I remember he told me something of 
 his life. The girl committed suicide and the man 
 became a recluse." 
 
 " That's the man," said the guide, confidently. 
 
 " Did you ever see him?" asked the first man, 
 shifting his gun as he spoke. 
 
 " Never seen him that I kin remember." 
 
 " Let us go over and see if he is there. Per- 
 haps he may not have escaped after all," suggested 
 the artist. 
 
 " All right. And there's a canoe," said the hun- 
 ter, pointing along the shore to where a little boat 
 had drifted. 
 
 The guide easily reached it, and in a few moments 
 brought it down to the point of the lake where the 
 two men, one making sketches and the other accom-
 
 Divided 129 
 
 panying him gun in hand, had entered the desolated 
 valley. The paddle was still in the canoe. The 
 halfbreed had been a methodical man. 
 
 In a short time the little party of three had ap- 
 proached the upper end of the lake. They tied 
 the canoe and clambered out on the little wharf. 
 
 " What's that ?" cried one, pointing ahead. 
 
 There amid the half-burned trees lay a dead body. 
 It was the halfbreed. He was lying prone on his 
 face, his knees drawn up as if he had been crawling 
 forward. 
 
 " By Jove!" said the hunter, " do you see how he 
 is turned? He was crawling toward the house." 
 
 " Why not walking, I wonder," said the artist. 
 
 " See that leg?" said the guide. " He must have 
 hurt himself." 
 
 " I'm going to the house," interrupted the artist, 
 leaping up the slope. 
 
 Where the threshold had been, the others joined 
 him. The house had been burned to ashes, except 
 one long portion of it which, they noticed at the 
 moment, had no windows. They made their way 
 over the charred ruins toward it, and when they 
 reached it they discovered that it, too, had been on 
 fire. A portion of the side and of the roof nearest 
 the approaching flames had gone, and the rain had 
 flooded the first room. 
 
 That room was a bedroom. Although the rain 
 had ruined it, the men saw that it had been beauti- 
 fully furnished, yet with a simplicity not out of 
 keeping with the wild mountains about it.
 
 130 The Records 
 
 It was quite evident that it had been a woman's 
 room, too. Nothing was lacking to it, then, but the 
 woman. Yet, although no woman had ever been 
 in it, and but one man, the air was redolent with the 
 sense of a woman's presence. There was a stone fire- 
 place at one end. The ashes of a fire lay within its 
 depths. Though no one had ever lived there, it was 
 evident that a fire had always burned upon the 
 hearth. 
 
 The light in the room must have come from the 
 windows in the roof. No eyes but his had ever been 
 able to see in it. It had been as sacred from the 
 curious gaze of man as the chamber of a vestal. 
 He had kept it so for her. There was a door at 
 the other end. The men reverently took off their 
 hats and, treading softly over the thick rugs upon 
 the floor, stepped through it into another larger 
 room. 
 
 This room, like the first, was lighted from the 
 roof. It was empty of any furniture. Completely 
 filling the wall on one side to the right of them 
 was a marvellous picture. One stood, as it were, 
 upon the verge of the mountains. There were the 
 peaks and the valleys, the silvery waters, the em- 
 erald of the pines. There was a sense of distance, 
 of appalling, overwhelming elevation. The eye 
 swam while it looked at it. It was the sublime 
 transferred to the canvas by a master hand. 
 
 On the other wall opposite to it there rose another 
 picture, a mountain-peak lifted in the air. They 
 could feel, as they gazed, that the world fell away
 
 Divided 131 
 
 from it in every direction. The blue sky, unflecked 
 by a single cloud, rose overhead; and in front, upon 
 the apex of the mountain, there stood a single human 
 figure. The blue of its dress contrasted with the 
 gray of the stones; the white, clear face with its 
 dash of red, with its eyes of blue, seemed to com- 
 prehend in its beauty and its stillness all the splen- 
 dor and mystery of the world on the other side. 
 It was the Beautiful caught in a supreme moment 
 and eternalized by love and feeling. 
 
 Between the two pictures with his back to the 
 world, his face toward the mountain, prone upon 
 the floor, with outstretched hand toward the peak, 
 lay a gray-haired figure, eternally silent, forever 
 still. 
 
 "My God!" said the hunter, pointing. "The 
 man!" 
 
 " Yes," said the artist, looking higher and point- 
 ing in his turn, " and the woman."
 
 Seventh Record 
 
 THE APOTHEOSIS OF WOODWARD* 
 
 George Woodward's familiarity with the practi- 
 cal side of railroading was exhaustive. Nor was 
 he ignorant of its theoretical aspect. Thrown on 
 his own resources at a very early age, he had fol- 
 lowed the natural course of youth and had drifted 
 on the empire track westward! The Trans-Con- 
 tinental Railroad Company, in the hope of at least 
 approximating its name, was then pushing a tenta- 
 tive iron feeler across what was popularly known as 
 the Great American Desert, and George Woodward 
 became a humble but busy member of the construc- 
 tion corps. Thus he learned something of the prin- 
 ciples of railroad engineering, and acquired much 
 knowledge of the practical work of railroad building. 
 When the road was completed his ambition naturally 
 was to " run " upon it. 
 
 From the round-house he went to the tender, and 
 from the tender to the cab. The day on which he 
 took out his first engine on his first run was the 
 happiest in his life. He had reached the height of 
 
 * By courtesy of " The Cosmopolitan."
 
 134 The Records 
 
 his ambition, he thought. But ambitions change 
 God be thanked! with passing years, and presently 
 George Woodward did a strange thing. With a 
 sigh of regret and a heart pang which only those 
 may know who have held the throttle of a great 
 locomotive, George, of his own motion, deserted the 
 front end of the train and went backward that is, 
 he began braking on a freight! Everybody re- 
 monstrated with him, and many people called him 
 a fool, but Woodward was wiser than his critics. 
 Five years of arduous labor in various capacities 
 finally earned him a position as conductor on 'a first- 
 class passenger run. 
 
 The railroad company, with rare forethought, 
 provided reading rooms for its employees. The 
 superintendent of the reading rooms was a man of 
 liberal education, deep culture, and what is not 
 necessarily a concomitant of these, of sound com- 
 mon sense as well. His wisdom and experience were 
 freely at Woodward's service. The books he needed 
 the superintendent suggested and the company pro- 
 vided. The young railroad man had become aware 
 of his educational deficiencies before it was too late, 
 and in his rare leisure hours he became a close stu- 
 dent of books. Men he also studied; women inter- 
 ested him but little, then. People who watched his 
 progress, whose experience in life was not so deep 
 as their observation had been extensive, used to say, 
 as they marked his splendid development, that 
 Woodward must have had good blood back of him 
 somewhere; a most common but undemocratic state-
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 135 
 
 merit, as if the spirit of God in a man could not be 
 independent of human ancestry on a pinch! 
 
 Everybody on the division realized that Wood- 
 ward was in line for promotion. Vacancies occurred 
 not infrequently on such a great system as the 
 Trans-Continental, whose tracks stretched from the 
 Mississippi to the Pacific seaboard. It was gener- 
 ally believed that Woodward would get the next 
 one. For all his experience Woodward was still 
 young. He had just turned twenty-eight and he 
 could afford to wait. Although swift as well as ac- 
 curate in his methods, he possessed an ample supply 
 of that patience without which achievement can- 
 not be. He was a good waiter, therefore, or rather 
 he had been until the advent of Helen Blount on 
 the system. 
 
 Miss Blount knew the system rather well herself; 
 nor was her knowledge of railroading to be esteemed 
 lightly. That knowledge, however, had not been 
 acquired by hard work. She saw the Trans-Conti- 
 nental mainly through the plate glass windows, or 
 from the observation platform of her father's pri- 
 vate car. What she knew of it she learned from 
 him, and certainly he was fully competent to in- 
 struct her. The experienced reader will at once 
 surmise that her father was president of the road, 
 and that to the inevitable development of stories 
 of this kind it was necessary that Woodward should 
 fall desperately in love with her. It would be a 
 pity to shock the experienced reader by denying the 
 conclusion. He, or she, is right, with this qualifica-
 
 136 The Records 
 
 tion, that old General Blount was the fourth vice- 
 president, the general manager only. The President 
 sat in his elegantly appointed suite of offices, one 
 room at a time, in Wall Street, and manipulated 
 stocks and bonds. General Blount ran the road. It 
 must be admitted that he ran it well. 
 
 The mountain division, which began on the edge 
 of the desert, crossed the great divide and terminated 
 on the edge of another desert, was the longest and 
 hardest to run. The best men were concentrated on 
 that division. There was always something happen- 
 ing to make things interesting. Although the coun- 
 try was as rainless during most of the year as a 
 Sahara, at the most unexpected times clouds would 
 gather and burst, and miles of track would be washed 
 out. The rocky cliffs of the range had an incon- 
 venient practice of disintegrating and dumping a 
 train load of material on the track at the most in- 
 opportune periods. The private car of the general 
 manager was more often seen on that division than 
 any other. Naturally, the best conductor that was 
 Woodward took the great Trans-Continental 
 " Flyers " over that stretch of track with the pri- 
 vate car trailing on behind. 
 
 For himself, old General Blount was intensely 
 democratic. For his daughter, equally aristocratic. 
 It was an annoyance to him that Helen insisted upon 
 accompanying him wherever he went. But the old 
 general had no one but his daughter and he generally 
 acquiesced in her wishes he had to! He used to 
 talk freely with his employees, and he and the divi-
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 137 
 
 sion superintendent, a veteran and experienced rail- 
 roader, would often invite Woodward back into the 
 luxurious observation room for consultation and dis- 
 cussion. Thus the poor but honest and enterprising 
 young man met the highly educated, also the beau- 
 tiful and gracious, if somewhat condescending, 
 daughter of the rich. She was a very different per- 
 son from the women with whom Woodward had been 
 ordinarily associated, worthy as they were, and she 
 stimulated his ambition amazingly. 
 
 He desired a wider field, a more responsible posi- 
 tion and greater authority, not merely for an op- 
 portunity to exercise those talents which he believed 
 he possessed and he was not wrong in his belief 
 but above all, because he saw her on his horizon. 
 Indeed, she was his horizon. At first indifferent, 
 then amused, then interested, and then, after he 
 had taken advantage of a rare opportunity to let her 
 see the real state of his feelings, astonished, some- 
 what outraged, then hesitant, then trembling on the 
 verge her experiences were quite as interesting as 
 his. 
 
 Perhaps the thing that finally turned the waver- 
 ing scale in her mind was the knowledge that General 
 Blount would never permit such a thing. He was as 
 friendly as possible with Woodward and men of his 
 position; but then there was not the slightest possi- 
 bility so the old general might have reasoned 
 that Woodward or anybody else would desire to 
 marry him. When it came to his daughter it was 
 another thing entirely. He was as proud as Lucifer
 
 138 The Records 
 
 ,and infinitely more exclusive. Indeed, so far re- 
 moved from his idea was such a possibility that his 
 very confidence begot a carelessness of which Wood- 
 ward shrewdly took advantage. 
 
 Helen's will was as strong as her father's. She 
 didn't like to be crossed any more than any other 
 daughter of Eve. The general was a fighter, and 
 although no one could have imagined it, his daugh- 
 ter shared his qualities. Besides, Woodward, in spite 
 of certain gaucheries and roughnesses which were 
 outward instead of inward, was really an admirable 
 fellow. Being poor and honest, to make a satisfac- 
 tory hero, it is inevitable that he should also be good- 
 looking and strong. He was. 
 
 Also he loved Helen Blount with a passion, as he 
 would have phrased it, " as hot as a new compound 
 oil burner," the simile being furnished by a species 
 of engine which pulled his train. He hadn't risen 
 from nothing to engineer and then gone back to the 
 bottom again deliberately, working himself up to his 
 present position, without exhibiting a dogged deter- 
 mination which boded ill for any feminine resistant 
 heart. He literally lived for the advent of the 
 general manager's car, and insensibly Helen Blount 
 found herself living for the advent of the young con- 
 ductor. 
 
 Grown bolder with the progress of his love affair, 
 Woodward had finally pleaded openly with her for 
 her consent to his suit, but in vain. Although he 
 was sure she loved him, she had withheld it. Natu- 
 rally, therefore, he could not speak to her father.
 
 The Apotheosis of IVoodivard 139 
 
 Being an honorable young man, distinguished by the 
 general's friendship, he chafed under the situation. 
 There are seasons in which the wisest, the bravest, 
 the most determined of men are helpless; and these 
 are they which depend upon a young woman's " yes " 
 or " no." Helen could not say " no " and she would 
 not say " yes." Matters dragged along in this way 
 until Woodward finally took the bull by the horns 
 meaning the general, not Helen. 
 
 For once Helen did not accompany her father over 
 the division on this particular inspection trip. Wood- 
 ward, therefore, found the general alone. He told 
 him bluntly enough, for he was not a man of a great 
 deal of finesse that is the veneer of civilization 
 which Woodward had not yet been able to acquire 
 that he loved his daughter, that he believed she loved 
 him, and that he wished to marry her. Contrary to 
 his expectation the old man did not explode. The 
 audacity of the situation amused the general. What 
 was the use of losing one's temper over the prepos- 
 terous, the impossible? 
 
 " Have you spoken to Miss Blount? " he asked. 
 
 " I have, sir." 
 
 " Umph! What did she say? " 
 
 She well" 
 
 " Did she consent to your suit? " 
 
 " Well, no sir, not exactly." 
 
 " Did she consent in any degree whatever? " 
 
 " I must admit that " 
 
 " Then you have no evidence at all to back up this 
 extraordinary statement that she er loves you? "
 
 140 The Records 
 
 " Plenty, sir." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 The evidence naturally being of an intangible and 
 abstract character, it was difficult to put his meaning 
 into words without giving offence. Woodward hes- 
 itated, opened his mouth two or three times, and 
 ejaculated, 
 
 " Well, sir, I think" 
 
 Then he stopped short, hopelessly silent. 
 
 " My boy," said the general firmly but not un- 
 kindly, " you have been thinking too much. It's 
 dangerous, especially about women. I like you. I 
 know all about your career and I have watched you 
 carefully for several years. I am going to promote 
 you, at least I intended to do so, at the first oppor- 
 tunity, but you must abandon further pretence to 
 the hand of my daughter. I have other and higher 
 views for her than " 
 
 " I did not believe there was anything higher than 
 the love of an honest man, sir." 
 
 " I hope," said the general sharply, at this trite 
 remark, " that the fact that I have ambitions for my 
 daughter's future which do not include you does not 
 necessarily involve her marriage with a scoundrel, 
 sir!" 
 
 " Of course not, sir, but " 
 
 " I shall speak plainly, Woodward. You are an 
 enterprising ambitious young man, who has accom- 
 plished much and will accomplish much more, pro- 
 vided you keep your head and behave yourself, but 
 you are not in any way, shape, or form, my daugh-
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 141 
 
 ter's equal, and well, the long and the short of the 
 whole thing is, I won't have it! " 
 
 " But, sir," burst forth Woodward impetuously, 
 his dark face flushing, " one might urge from what 
 I have made of myself, out of nothing, that I shall 
 some day even rise " it was a rash thing to say, but 
 the young man was thoroughly angered "to the re- 
 sponsible position of general manager of the Trans- 
 Continental." 
 
 " What! " roared General Blount. 
 
 "You said yourself just now," continued Wood- 
 ward resolutely, " that I was marked for promotion." 
 
 " I did," interrupted the other man, " but I shall 
 not promote you unless I am thoroughly satisfied 
 with your conduct. Do you understand? " 
 
 " Which means to say that I must either give up 
 my hope of promotion or of Miss Blount." 
 
 "By gad, sir!" ejaculated the general manager, 
 "you have no hope of Miss Blount, sir! And but 
 little of promotion." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Woodward quietly, " I shall 
 never give up hope of either." 
 
 " It happens," said the general, " that I control 
 both Miss Blount and the promotion." 
 
 " You certainly control the promotion, but as to 
 Miss Blount I have my doubts." 
 
 " Your doubts and your thoughts are interesting 
 but they are too much for me. I do not believe that 
 you can work for the Trans-Continental any longer. 
 Sit down at the desk there and write out your resig-
 
 142 The Records 
 
 nation, sir! I will have a time check made out for 
 you immediately." 
 
 " Not work for the Trans-Continental ! " gasped 
 Woodward. " Why, I began with the road! You 
 can't mean it! I have never worked for anything 
 else. I know the road as well as you do, and I love it 
 better! You can't mean to discharge me! " 
 
 " I do mean just that, unless you give me your 
 word here and now that you will give up this foolish 
 and ridiculous pretension to my daughter's hand." 
 " I wouldn't give that up for the whole system! " 
 " Very good. You lose both. There is the table." 
 " Look here, sir," said Woodward stoutly, " you 
 are the general manager of this railroad and I am 
 only a conductor, but I am a man and I believe you 
 to be one. We boys out on the division have been 
 proud of you and of your record as a railroad man 
 and your older record as a soldier. I don't think any 
 of them would be proud of you if you act this way. 
 What would you think of me, of any man, who had 
 an ounce of ambition, or who loved a woman as I 
 love your daughter there is no insult to her in 
 loving her, is there? if I allowed you to bluff me 
 in this way and would say I'd give up my hopes of 
 the young lady and God knows they are few 
 enough! for the sake of a job? What would you 
 think of me?" 
 
 " I'd think you were an infernal cad, sir," ad- 
 mitted the old general, somewhat impressed by this 
 presentation of the case. " Well, sir, I'll reconsider 
 my decision in part, though I don't often do it.
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 143 
 
 You need not leave the road. I will send you over 
 to the valley division. But mark me, sir! I'm not 
 going to take a step to bring you any nearer to a 
 promotion, not a step to aid you to accomplish your 
 preposterous ambitions." 
 
 " Excuse me, General," said Woodward, " if I 
 don't believe you." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir? " 
 
 " I don't believe you're the kind of a man that 
 would turn a deserving man down and withhold a 
 promotion which had been earned because that man 
 had ambitions that you thought were preposterous. 
 The valley division is nothing compared with this. 
 Railroading there is as peaceful and quiet as float- 
 ing down stream in a scow, but I'll do my best there 
 too. And I assure you I'll never give up my am- 
 bitions as long as I live." 
 
 The train was pulling into the station just then 
 and his duties gave Woodward an opportunity to re- 
 treat with some of the honors of war, at least. The 
 old general looked at him not without certain admira- 
 tion. Rarely had he been so braved by one of his 
 employees and in his own private car, and he rather 
 enjoyed it, or would, if it had not been for Helen. 
 
 " Gad! " he said to himself, " if that boy had more 
 education and better opportunities I should be afraid 
 for the girl."
 
 144 The Records 
 
 n 
 
 Thereafter, until Woodward was changed to 
 the valley division, Miss Helen Blount did not ac- 
 company her father on his inspection tours. She 
 wondered, until Woodward found means to convey 
 to her the substance of the interview. The old gen- 
 eral did not mention it. There was something 
 ominous in his mind in the statement which the con- 
 ductor had made to him that he thought Helen was 
 not indifferent to him. The general was afraid to 
 pursue any investigations in that direction. He 
 feared what he might find out. He was not without 
 a shrewd suspicion that his daughter's spirit matched 
 his own, and, like a prudent soldier, he did not want 
 an unnecessary clashing. 
 
 Being a wise man, he trusted that absence, other 
 scenes and companions might obliterate impressions 
 which he hoped were faint. Some women would 
 have forgotten, most men would have done so. These 
 were a different pair. Woodward's determination 
 increased with every day and his passion kept pace. 
 Helen admitted to herself that she loved him, and 
 once that admission was made every mental objection 
 was swept away. There are elements which are 
 harmless and innocent when kept to themselves but 
 which immediately explode upon contact. These 
 two needed but to touch each other to produce an 
 explosion which would blow the general's house of 
 cards about his ears irreparably.
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 145 
 
 That touch came. A year after the scene in the 
 car, Helen, who had just returned from a foreign 
 tour, on which she had been despatched ostensibly 
 to improve her mind, really to purge her heart, in- 
 sisted upon accompanying her father once more over 
 the line, and the general in a weak moment allowed 
 it. The valley division struck off at right angles to 
 the main line at the beginning of the mountain di- 
 vision. Woodward got off the " plug passenger " to 
 which he was assigned, one evening, and his heart 
 almost ceased its beating as his glance fell upon the 
 general's private car. Not that the private car itself 
 was a thing to excite a lover, but the shades of the 
 windows were not yet drawn and in the brilliantly 
 lighted little drawing-room he saw Helen Blount. 
 The division superintendent came out of the de- 
 spatcher's office at the same moment and caught 
 sight of Woodward. Coming rapidly toward him, 
 he remarked : " You're just the man I want. Are 
 you too tired to take out No. 5 ? " 
 
 " Too tired ! " The young man's heart leaped in 
 his bosom at the chance. He had just come in from 
 his run and ordinarily would have refused, but here 
 was an opportunity he had never hoped for. " Cer- 
 tainly not!" he exclaimed; "I will take her out 
 gladly. What's the matter? " 
 
 " Sylvester's ill and I have no one to send but you. 
 Go in and get your orders. She's been here twenty- 
 five minuteis already " he hauled out his watch 
 " she's due to leave now." 
 
 Woodward turned and ran into the despatched
 
 146 The Records 
 
 office. The division superintendent walked down the 
 track toward the general manager's car. The gen- 
 eral met him at the door. 
 
 " Who's taking the train out ? " he asked. 
 
 He knew that Sylvester, the regular conductor, had 
 been taken suddenly ill and that they were rather 
 short of trainmen at the division from various causes. 
 
 " Woodward," answered the division superin- 
 tendent, innocently; " he has just come in off his own 
 run and gladly acceded to my request that he take 
 you over the mountain division. He used to run on 
 the division, you know." 
 
 Neither the division superintendent nor any one 
 except the parties immediately concerned knew why 
 Woodward had been transferred. 
 
 " Umph ! " said the general, " yes, I know. On 
 second thoughts, Smithson, I think you can detach 
 my car and let No. 7 take it over. There's less than 
 an hour's difference between the two trains anyway, 
 and it will give me a little more time here." 
 
 It happened that No. 7, the other Trans-Conti- 
 nental west-bound train, followed No. 5 across the 
 continent at an interval of about half an hour. The 
 arrival of the west-bound passengers at the eastern 
 terminus rendered it necessary to run these two 
 trains in that way instead of having one a morning 
 and the other an evening train. 
 
 Helen had been standing by her father when 
 Smithson entered the car, and the general felt the 
 start she gave at the mention of Woodward's name. 
 He was determined that these two should not meet.
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 147 
 
 Under the circumstances there was nothing else for 
 the general to do, when he heard that Woodward 
 was to take the train out, but to delay his car for No. 
 7. He could mot in decency object to Woodward's 
 taking the train over the division, but he could de- 
 tach his car. He would have stopped over a day at 
 Diamond Points, the division terminus, had it not 
 been imperative for him to reach San Francisco as 
 soon as possible. He did the next best thing. 
 
 As Woodward came out of the despatcher's office 
 with his orders he saw the yard engine backing up 
 to the rear of his train. He ran down there, but 
 there was nothing that he could do. The general 
 nodded and smiled satirically at him from the plat- 
 form. Resolutely thrusting herself past her father's 
 portly form until she could see the rear end of the 
 train from which the car had been drawn, Helen 
 also nodded and smiled not satirically at him. 
 After a year's separation, even a nod and a smile 
 counted for much. Greatly disappointed at the cut- 
 ting off of the car, but cheered nevertheless by the 
 glimpse he had caught of the woman he loved, Wood- 
 ward gave the signal for ~No. 5 to pull out. 
 
 The train was a double-header. Going west, there 
 were some very heavy grades to be overcome, to 
 which even the big oil-burning compounds of the 
 division, the finest passenger engines in the world, 
 were unequal. The train was a heavy one, but most 
 of its occupants were through passengers, there be- 
 ing little local traffic on the division, and having once 
 gone through the long line of cars, there was little
 
 148 The Records 
 
 to distract the mind of the conductor from the run- 
 ning of his train. 
 
 In that and in the knowledge that Helen Blount 
 was coming along rapidly behind him on ~No. 7 he 
 found ample food for reflection. The first hundred 
 miles of the journey passed without mishap. At 
 Himalaya, a little water station on the top of the 
 mountain, he got orders to run to Delhi siding and 
 there side-track for No. 2, the east-bound Limited. 
 Delhi siding was on the other side of the mountain, 
 about twenty-five miles away. A hot box had made 
 him ten minutes late, but still he had sixty-two min- 
 utes to make the siding. It would take all of that 
 on account of the grades. 
 
 Sometimes when work was light or when the 
 emergency was critical, Woodward rode on the en- 
 gine. The track from Himalaya to Delhi was the 
 crookedest, the most difficult and dangerous stretch 
 on the system. As he handed the engineer his or- 
 ders he swung himself into the cab of the forward 
 locomotive. The fireman offered to give him his 
 seat, but Woodward motioned him to stay where he 
 was, it being a rather nice job so to manipulate the 
 oil valves as to keep the fire going in the proper way. 
 Both engines were oil-burners of the most improved 
 type. Woodward stood in the narrow space between 
 the tender and the engine peering out ahead from 
 time to time into the pitch darkness illuminated for 
 a long distance by the splendid electric headlight 
 a miniature searchlight, in fact. 
 
 The run was made without incident of any sort,
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 149 
 
 save that they rather lost time on account of an 
 unusually heavy train. They crossed the divide 
 about twelve miles from the siding at Delhi and in 
 order to get there in time the engineers opened up 
 and the train raced down the mountain, taking the 
 curves at a prodigious speed. The head engineer and 
 fireman and Woodward intently watched the track 
 before the train. Coming around the curve which 
 hid the track ahead of them Woodward, who was 
 leaning far out, thought he detected a faint graynesa 
 over the top of the mountain on a shoulder of which 
 the road ran. He swung back into the cab, touched 
 the engineer and pointed. The man nodded, in- 
 stantly shut off the steam and shoved up the re- 
 versing lever. He had not completed these move- 
 ments, rapid as they were, before a bright blaze of 
 light shot into view upon the track a few feet 
 directly in front of them. 
 
 It was No. 2, the Limited they had been ordered to 
 pass at Delhi siding five miles away! There was 
 some frightful mistake for she was turning the curve 
 and coming down upon them at a speed which almost 
 matched their own. Woodward had stepped back 
 between the cab and the tender. He dropped down 
 instantly to the step and held on for a second while 
 the engineer put on the air. Woodward knew the 
 place like a book. The road bed was cut out of the 
 mountain close to its base. For ten feet the slope 
 to the level ground was covered with broken rock. 
 To stay on the engine was death. To jump on the 
 broken rock was death also. Woodward had about
 
 150 The Records 
 
 a second to decide what he must do. One glance 
 he shot at the roaring monster hurling itself upon 
 them in a blaze of electric light. Then he jumped. 
 
 The woman who hesitates is said to be lost but 
 why the problem should be confined to the feminine 
 gender is not obvious. Either possibility of the situ- 
 ation was enough for an ordinary man, but that 
 moment of hesitation subjected Woodward to the 
 perils of both of them, for he not only fell on the 
 rocks but as he struck he was in the midst of the 
 collision as well. 
 
 The terrific force of the impact demolished the 
 engine of the Limited and the first engine of No. 5. 
 The tender of the other engine which was also 
 smashed into an unrecognizable mass of old iron 
 was hurled upon him where he lay at the foot of the 
 declivity. The Limited contained nothing but Pull- 
 man cars, consequently No. 5 got the- worst of the 
 collision. 
 
 The baggage, mail, smoking car and two coaches 
 were shivered into splinters. Even the first two or 
 three of the Pullmans on the rear end were badly 
 damaged. Woodward was not conscious of this or 
 of any of the heartrending scenes which followed, 
 for the oil from the shattered locomotives speedily 
 ignited the wreckage and the helpless passengers 
 pinned under the wreck were involved in a terrible 
 conflagration. 
 
 As the conductor leaped he heard the roar of the 
 collision and the broken tender of the second engine 
 fell over upon him. The blaze of light which had
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 151 
 
 been about him as he jumped was succeeded by in- 
 tense darkness and he knew nothing more. How 
 long it continued he could not tell. Indeed, he did 
 not speculate upon it, for his first thought, when con- 
 sciousness returned, was his duty. Strange to say, 
 he felt no especial pain. He found by cautious ex- 
 periment that he could move one leg and one arm. 
 The others appeared to be held down by something, 
 what it was he could not at first divine. He felt 
 about vaguely in the darkness with both free mem- 
 bers, and discovered at last that he was lying not 
 upon the rocks but upon something soft and sticky. 
 He reasoned slowly but with increasing clearness. He 
 had evidently jumped clear of the embankment, and 
 something he recognized what it was presently 
 had fallen upon him. Light came to him as his mind 
 cleared, from the blazing cars upon the track above 
 him. Not enough to enable him to see, however, 
 but enough to permit him to realize. 
 
 He was the conductor of that train. It was his 
 train and he ought to be there; then flashed into 
 his mind the fact that JSTo. 7 was following close on 
 his heels was only thirty minutes behind him! The 
 wreck had occurred just at the apex of the curve. 
 It could not be seen from the other side by the ap- 
 proaching train, unless the light from the blazing 
 cars might give warning, which from the topography 
 was so unlikely as to be almost unthinkable. It was 
 too faint a possibility to be depended upon. He won- 
 dered if the rear brakeman had been hurt, and, if not 
 if he had done his duty in flagging that train. While
 
 152 The Records 
 
 these thoughts passed through his mind he was mak- 
 ing efforts to free himself. The softness of the 
 ground about him he discovered to be due to water 
 from the broken tank, which had flooded the spot 
 where he lay. Groping about he found a passage to 
 freedom, and by a superhuman effort he at last 
 hauled himself clear of the weights pinning him 
 down, and dragged himself from under the remains 
 of the tender. 
 
 He realized then that he was frightfully burned 
 from his waist down. His clothing was in rags. 
 His face had been swept by fire but his arm providen- 
 tially had fallen across his mouth, and he had not 
 inhaled the flame. Indeed, he would have been 
 burned to death had not the rush of water dashed 
 the oil fortunately the oil tank had been almost 
 empty and fire away from him. As he writhed 
 along the ground toward the blazing wreck, he real- 
 ized that Helen Blount was in ISTo. 7 ! 
 
 How he did it neither he nor any one else ever 
 knew. He crawled up the bank, finding as he did 
 so that one of his arms was broken, staggered to his 
 feet, and started down the track in the direction 
 whence his train had come. Under other circum- 
 stances he could not have walked a step but for her 
 he could do the impossible. 
 
 As he passed the rear Pullman he took one of the 
 lanterns from it in default of any other signal. He 
 rounded the curve and staggered on to the entrance 
 of the canon through which the track swept a few 
 rods before the curve was reached. There was no
 
 He had just strength enough 
 to lift the lantern. Page 153
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 153 
 
 sign of the brakeman. For some reason he had 
 failed to go back and warn the train. Woodward 
 must go on. 
 
 He was in great pain now, suffering horribly. His 
 chest felt as if he had been beaten to a pulp with 
 a hammer. His broken arm dangled uselessly by his 
 side. Blood trickled into his mouth from where he 
 could not tell and nearly choked him. The pain 
 in his legs and body caused by his burns was some- 
 thing frightful. Will alone kept him up. Love 
 alone gave him strength. To stop would be to die. 
 He kept resolutely on. It seemed to him that it took 
 him hours to take a step. Really he ran frantically 
 up the track. It was well that he did so. He had 
 lain insensible for nearly half an hour. There was 
 no time to be lost. Just as he plunged into the 
 mouth of the caiion he heard the roar of ~No. 7's 
 locomotives. Thank God, he was in time! He had 
 just strength enough to lift the lantern, wave it sev- 
 eral times and then fall back to the track. 
 
 The engineers of No. 7 acted promptly. They 
 brought their great train to a sudden standstill, with 
 the pilot of the leader just touching the prostrate fig- 
 ure of Woodward. It was about ten o'clock at night. 
 Most of the passengers were asleep. But General 
 Blount and his daughter happened to be awake. The 
 general, as he felt the air put on, realized that some- 
 thing was wrong. Bidding Helen wait for him, he ran 
 to the door of the car, scrambled down to the track, 
 and hastened toward the head of the train. Helen did 
 not wait. She followed her father and joined the
 
 154 The Records 
 
 little group of engineers, firemen and trainmen just 
 in front of the engine ahead. 
 
 " What's the matter? " panted the general, coming 
 up out of the darkness into the bright illumination 
 of the electric headlight. 
 
 " The train's been flagged, sir," said Digby, the 
 conductor, " something has happened evidently." 
 
 "Who is this?" exclaimed General Blount, step- 
 ping toward a group, which gave way to him. 
 
 " It's one of the negro porters, I think. He's 
 
 badly hurt, and " answered an engineer, who 
 
 was kneeling by the side of the stricken man, and 
 just then Helen appeared on the scene. 
 
 " What is it, father? Has there been oh, what 
 is that?" 
 
 She looked down on the senseless figure of a man, 
 his clothing torn to shreds, his body frightfully 
 burned, his face black with mud and soot ; a horrible 
 picture, indeed. But 'tis hard to deceive a woman's 
 eye, especially when the vision is sharpened by af- 
 fection. 
 
 " It's Mr. Woodward!" exclaimed the girl. " My 
 God! Is he dead?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, not yet," said the engineer, giving 
 way to her as she dropped to the ground and took the 
 man's head in her arms. She did not lose her pres- 
 ence of mind yet there would be time for that later. 
 
 " Water, some one," she cried, " and whiskey!" 
 
 Both were forthcoming, the water from the ten- 
 der, the whiskey rom the general's pocket-flask. 
 
 Between the two, assisted it may be by some con-
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 155 
 
 sciousness of the overwhelming affection of the 
 woman, whose every restraint gave way at the side 
 of her lover dying, perhaps dead, in her arms, Wood- 
 ward opened his eyes. 
 
 " No. 2 and 5 are in the ditch on the curve,' 7 
 he whispered, not recognizing anybody in the blaze 
 of light. " My orders," he continued, endeavoring to 
 raise his hand. He would fain justify himself be- 
 fore he died, he felt. 
 
 With quick intuition the trainmen realized what 
 he meant by those words. The conductor knelt down, 
 thrust his hand into Woodward's coat, and pulled 
 out his last train order. 
 
 " Read," said the prostrate man. 
 
 " No. 5 will take siding at Delhi siding until No. 
 2 passes," read Digby. 
 
 " I obeyed orders," said Woodward, in weak tri- 
 umph. " They need help yonder," he gasped out 
 and then fainted away. 
 
 By this time the right of way was swarming with 
 excited passengers. 
 
 " There has been a wreck; they need help," said 
 the general promptly. " Everybody go forward." 
 
 He himself set the example by leading the way. 
 This time Helen did not follow. She had more 
 pressing business close at hand. Assisted by the two 
 firemen, an improvised stretcher was rigged, and 
 presently Woodward awoke to consciousness in 
 Helen's own dainty bed in the private car. There 
 happened to be two physicians, passengers on the 
 train, and one of them Helen had detained to assist
 
 156 The Records 
 
 Woodward. But that young man would not hear of 
 any attention being paid to him. 
 
 " There are people yonder," he gasped, " burning 
 to death. Go to them, for God's sake! You can 
 do nothing for me." 
 
 There was really nothing much more that any one 
 could do for him then, and the physician, appreciat- 
 ing the situation, after bandaging him hurriedly, left 
 him to Helen. She did all she could. She loosened 
 his clothing, removed his shoes, bathed his face and 
 administered the stimulants that the doctor had left 
 with her. She knew now beyond all doubting that she 
 loved him. She had known it all the time, but had ad- 
 mitted it almost against her will. Now everything 
 was swept away in the knowledge that perhaps it 
 was too late. She hung over him with all her heart 
 and soul in her glance. She would have given life 
 itself for his then, yet there was nothing she could 
 do. That sense of impotent helplessness which adds 
 the last poignancy to anguish when we contemplate 
 the sufferings of those we love, was hers. The ner- 
 vous shock which had afforded a certain amount of 
 relief to Woodward was gone, and he lay in agony 
 inexpressible. But because he was a man and a 
 gentleman and a lover, he strove as best he could to 
 control himself for her sake more than his own. 
 
 " Oh," she said at last, " if I could only do some- 
 thing to help you!" 
 
 " You can," he whispered, heroically. " Smile 
 at me, Helen when you see me suffering the hard- 
 est and I'll smile back as long as I can."
 
 TJie Apotheosis of Woodward 157 
 
 Poor Woodward. When the general returned 
 from the wreck with the mangled remains of those 
 who yet lived he found Woodward insensible, and 
 Helen sitting dry-eyed, white-faced, broken-hearted 
 by his side. 
 
 The story of the run of No. 7 with its awful cargo 
 of sufferers back to the division headquarters at 
 Levinson was one that was often told. Many died 
 on the way to succor, but Woodward had a tenacious 
 hold upon lif e ; and the breath was still in him when 
 they took him to the hospital. 
 
 The general was soldier enough to know when he 
 was beaten. One look at Helen's face, when she 
 said, " Father, I love him," in answer to his inquir- 
 ing glance, convinced him that the game was up, 
 and nothing would prevent the marriage to which he 
 was so genuinely opposed, except the death of Wood- 
 ward. 
 
 No one could have wished that. The division, 
 indeed the whole country, so soon as the story was 
 told, rang with his heroism. There was something 
 magnificently dramatic in the running of that broken, 
 burned figure, wounded almost to death, in the pic- 
 ture of that body collapsing on the track, the lan- 
 tern still in his hand in front of No. 7, which ap- 
 pealed to every heart. For Woodward's action had 
 undoubtedly saved No. 7 from plunging into the 
 wreck of the other two trains, in which case there 
 would have been a much greater catastrophe. 
 
 And there were hints of romance, too. Those west- 
 ern railroad men were keen. They knew a " hawk
 
 158 The Records 
 
 from a handsaw," and that Helen Blount loved the 
 heroic conductor was plain to every one when she had 
 gathered him in her arms in front of the pilot on 
 that eventful night. Everybody wondered what the 
 old general would do. The old general rose to the 
 occasion. "Woodward had been unconscious or deli- 
 rious for a long time, but so soon as he recovered 
 sufficiently to understand what was going on about 
 him, the general and his daughter came to see him. 
 The girl insisted on seeing her lover first and alone. 
 
 Woodward's first question had been for the safety 
 of No. 7 and the woman he loved. The nurses had 
 given him ample assurance upon both points. If 
 he had needed any more, the presence of Helen 
 Blount was enough. She had been warned and, in- 
 deed, she realized from her faithful attendance upon 
 her gallant lover while he had been unconscious in 
 the hospital, that he must not be excited. Sh.e 
 wanted to let him know her feelings, however, and 
 when she knelt down beside his cot in the private 
 room, that he might more easily see her, or that 
 she might get nearer to him, she bent her lips to 
 his thin, scarred hand lying on the cover. 
 
 " Is that the best you can do?" he whispered. 
 
 Then she kissed him upon the lips. 
 
 " Does that mean " 
 
 " It means anything you wish if you will onlj 
 live and get well for me," she said, and then her 
 father entered the door. He sighed deeply as Helen 
 rose to her feet in some confusion. But he was a 
 good loser after all.
 
 The Apotheosis of Woodward 159 
 
 " Woodward," he said, " you must get well now. 
 I have just made you superintendent of the mountain 
 division, vice Smithson transferred. Will you take 
 the position? " 
 
 " Does the lady go with the job? " asked the sick 
 man. 
 
 The general looked at Helen and Helen looked at 
 the general. 
 
 " Yes, I go," said the girl softly. 
 
 " Yes, she goes," echoed the general, reluctantly, 
 it must be admitted. 
 
 " I accept," said Woodward, smiling up at the 
 pair.
 
 Eighth Record 
 
 THE REPARATION* 
 
 ! 
 
 Miss Abigail and Miss Philippa were the last of 
 the Herondines. To be a Herondine in Virginia 
 meant much, to be the last of the family meant 
 more. Miss Abby was fully conscious of her posi- 
 tion, Miss Philippa cared little about it. Miss Abby's 
 ambition was to live up to what she fondly believed 
 were the traditions of her forebears. Miss Philippa's 
 desire was to get the most she could out of the 
 present moment with no backward thoughts for the 
 past and with little concern for the future. Miss 
 Abby was all dignity, poise and pride. Miss Philippa 
 was laughter, gaiety itself. 
 
 Two beings could not be more dissimilar, yet they 
 were as intimately bound together as sunshine and 
 shadow. Unconsciously Miss Philippa summed up 
 her ancestry better than Miss Abby, despite her 
 efforts, for the Herondines had been chief among 
 the fox-hunting, pleasure-loving, easy-going squires 
 of the Old Dominion. To be appropriate the family 
 arms should have sported the mask of comedy and 
 the family motto should have been a jest. 
 
 The first American Herondine had been a cavalier. 
 After the restoration of King Charles he had come 
 
 *By courtesy of "The Associated Sunday Magazines "
 
 162 The Records 
 
 to Virginia, having previously taken to wife a daugh- 
 ter of one of the sternest and most rigorous of the 
 followers of the Great Protector. The lover, like 
 love, will go where he is sent; and dashing George 
 Herondine, to the great astonishment of all who 
 knew him, had been sent, in some mysterious way, 
 straight into the arms of Mistress Abigail Prynford 
 a rollicking blade in a Puritan heart! 
 
 The first lady of Heronshaw Hall had a difficult 
 task to preserve her dignity and adhere to her prin- 
 ciples in the society of the bluff, roystering, gallant 
 Herondine she had married. That she had done so 
 attested the strength of her character and her devo- 
 tion to her creed. She controlled herself, but there 
 she stopped perforce. Nature is freakish. The 
 little Herondines that came in regular succession to 
 the strangely mated couple at Heronshaw partook 
 of. the character of the weaker vessel rather than 
 of the stronger. They were all Herondines from the 
 bone out. 
 
 Two hundred years' incumbency by such a family 
 would waste a principality. When George Heron- 
 dine, the seventh, died in the fifties, the last male 
 of his race, his patrimony was gone. He left to 
 his two daughters, sole issue of his marriage, little 
 but the family home, the ground on which it stood, 
 a few black servants, and the recollection of the 
 past glories of his house to live up to. 
 
 In all the long line of descendants of the first 
 George and his Puritan wife there was but one who 
 in any way partook of the characteristics of the pro-
 
 The Reparation 163 
 
 genitress of the family. ISTo one who knew the two 
 young women, thus left to 'themselves untimeily, 
 could understand Miss Abigail Herondine. The 
 memory of the Puritan had been naturally loat save 
 for antiquarians who delighted to delve in family 
 histories, and Miss Abigail, therefore, remained a 
 family mystery, a social enigma, an atavistic an- 
 achronism in her present. She had even connected 
 herself with the Presbyterians the first Herondine 
 out of " The Church " in two hundred years ! 
 
 Not only was there a disparity in temperament be- 
 tween the two women, but there was a great differ- 
 ence in age as well. Miss Abby was fifteen when 
 Miss Philippa was born. At the time of this 
 story Miss Philippa was twenty and Miss Abby 
 thirty-five. Miss Abby was tall, largely built, and, 
 had there been any gentleman ungallant enough in 
 the Old Dominion so to characterize a lady, she 
 might have been described truthfully enough, as 
 gaunt, not to say rawboned. For the rest, few could 
 mistake her character, none her breeding. 
 
 Miss Philippa well, Miss Philippa was delicious. 
 Miss Abby's dark hair was as straight as an Indian's. 
 Miss Philippa's golden locks curled as naturally 
 as a tendril does. Miss Abby was grim, severe, un- 
 approachable as well as unexceptionable. The few 
 servants left at Heronshaw stood in deadly awe of 
 her. Miss Philippa they adored. Her old mammy 
 fairly worshipped her. It was not known whether 
 Miss Abby had an old mammy or not. But Miss 
 Abby was yet a very woman, and she loved Miss
 
 164 The Records 
 
 Philippa with a passionate devotion, the greater be- 
 cause her mental habit was one of repression, which 
 did not allow her to manifest that love as a more 
 sympathetic and open nature mi^it have done. 
 
 Miss Philippa's frivolity was a constant source of 
 grief to her older sister; and Miss Abby's rigid ideas 
 of duty a much greater word in her vocabulary 
 than love! compelled her to make this disapproval 
 known; information that Philippa met with kisses 
 and entwining clasps and merry laughs. There was 
 room for but two passions in the older woman's 
 breast love for Philippa and for the doing of duty 
 all the time. At least so Miss Abigail thought until 
 the advent of David Graham. 
 
 David was twenty-five years old. He told Miss 
 Abby that he was thirty-one. He was the son of a 
 distant connection of the family, with excellent man- 
 ners, a handsome person, and a manly bearing, set off 
 by education, expensive and adequate. His morals 
 well, his statement to Miss Abby about his age is an 
 indication as to what they were. Kot that he was 
 vicious or depraved. Quite the contrary. With a capa- 
 city for sudden splendid action on rare occasions, he 
 was yet hopelessly weak. "When to his weakness was 
 added a faculty for engaging the affections of 
 women, which often goes with such a character, no 
 more dangerous person could have been introduced 
 into the placid Eden in which Miss Philippa dwelt 
 with her sister of the flaming sword of conscience, 
 vainly angeling at the outer gate. 
 
 Men as well as women were susceptible to the
 
 The Reparation 165 
 
 charm of David Graham's plausible personality. For 
 instance, the young man secured money easily best 
 test of his attractiveness and spent it more easily. 
 He had gone through his own patrimony. He had 
 borrowed from all his friends. Wherever he so- 
 journed he left a lot of debts besides a breaking heart 
 or two. He had fled from creditors many, and 
 women not a few, to hide himself for a time among 
 the mountains of the sequestered valley in which 
 Heronshaw stood loftily dominant in memory at 
 least of the surrounding country. He had vaguely 
 recalled his feminine connections when he pitched 
 upon that place of rustication, and when he reached 
 the Hall the situation appealed to him directly. 
 
 For him to see a woman was to make love to her. 
 He had a passion for the sex. Here were two rep- 
 resentatives. He made love to Miss Abby openly, 
 to Miss Philippa quietly, deftly keeping each in 
 ignorance of the other. He would amuse himself 
 with both. It flattered his pride to be able to do 
 this. By and by he fell really in love with Miss 
 Philippa, so far as it was in him to love any one. 
 But he did not neglect Miss Abby on that account. 
 
 The passion for duty and the passion for Miss 
 Philippa had to make a place in Miss Abby's flinty 
 breast for a passion for David, again a feeling not 
 the less intense because she gave little outward evi- 
 dence of it. And to do him justice Graham hardly 
 realized to what degree his trifling had warmed that 
 glacial heart. He had so lightly given her so little 
 from his point of view, that he did not dream how
 
 166 The Records 
 
 much it meant to her, whose habit and whose misfor- 
 tune it was to give little outward expression yet to 
 feel deeply. He thought too much about Miss 
 Philippa to think greatly about Miss Abby. It was 
 David's misfortune ever to imagine himself hope- 
 lessly in love with the present object of his vagroin 
 attention. He lived in successive states of ecstatic 
 emotion. He was ready to go to the last limit in 
 any of his ephemeral passions, while they lasted. 
 
 One morning Miss Abby, leaving her room for the 
 day's duties, was handed a note by old black Asa, the 
 major-domo of the diminished household. The an- 
 cient butler stated to his mistress that he had been 
 ordered by Miss Philippa to give it to her when she 
 awakened. Such an occurrence was unusual. Miss 
 Abby questioned the butler further. 
 
 " When did Miss Philippa give it to you, Asa? " 
 
 " Late las' night, Miss Abby, af tuh you was in 
 baid, ma'am." 
 
 With deep foreboding, Miss Abby turned away 
 from the old man, went into the library and opened 
 her letter. Philippa and David Graham had run 
 away! They were going to Richmond where they 
 would be married, then to New York, and so for 
 a time out of Miss Abby's life. " David," wrote 
 Philippa, " begs your forgiveness. He knew that 
 you would never consent to my marrying him, and 
 he pretended to make love to you in order that you 
 might not notice us. He knows, of course, that you 
 saw through his trifling and that you did not care." 
 
 "Thank God!" was Miss Abby's first thought,
 
 The Reparation 167 
 
 " that I never betrayed what I felt for him. That 
 he does not know " 
 
 Miss Abby did not phrase it further, but she might 
 have completed the sentence thus: That he did not 
 know her heart was broken, her soul crushed, more 
 by the fact that he had used her to cover another 
 love affair, by the consciousness that her love had 
 been given him honestly in answer to his play, than 
 by the defection of Philippa. 
 
 There was nothing that Miss Abby could do ex- 
 cept suffer in silence. There was no comfort to be 
 found for a wound like this, but she had the courage 
 to make no moan nor outbreak. She wove again 
 the threads of her daily life, but this time alone. 
 There was naught but shadow at Heronshaw, sun- 
 shine was gone from it and for Miss Abby as well. 
 
 Nor did sunshine return when Miss Philippa came 
 back. She had gone away in the springtime; it had 
 come again, a second summer had passed, and it was 
 winter once more. One night it stormed. Miss 
 Abby sat alone in the library, her Bible in her lap, 
 open but neglected, typical of Miss Abby's condition. 
 She was dreaming as even the sternest thank God! 
 may sometimes dream. Into her iron soul was 
 borne the consciousness of a footstep upon the gal- 
 lery outside. She listened. A hand fumbled at the 
 slats of the shutters that covered the long French 
 windows. Miss Abby rose and lifted the lamp. The 
 light showed her a woman's face, ghastly white be- 
 hind the leveled slats, as of a prisoner without hope 
 staring through bars.
 
 168 The Records 
 
 Another woman might have screamed and dropped 
 the lamp, for it was death apparently that confronted 
 her. Miss Abbj put the lamp quietly down upon the 
 table, stepped to the window, opened it, pushed back 
 the shutters and picked up the form that lay huddled 
 on the porch and carried it into the house 
 
 That night Philippa's baby was born. That night 
 the little soul went out on the storm that had brought 
 its mother there. And the mind of Philippa went 
 out in the darkness with the soul of her child. When 
 the long illness was over, Philippa was as a child 
 herself. The past was wiped out of her recollection. 
 There had been a clean was it merciful? erasure. 
 There was nothing in the present. She babbled and 
 smiled and spoke an infinite deal of nothing with not 
 even the two-grain reasons of Gratiano in her chaff. 
 Outwardly she grew prettier than ever, mentally 
 she was nothing. 
 
 There were two shadows in the house instead of 
 one thereafter. But one comfort had Miss Abby, 
 and that was in the paper that she found next to 
 Miss Philippa's heart a marriage certificate. Thank 
 God, he had been man enough for that. Miss Abby 
 knew the whole story. After the baby was born, 
 untimely, on that bitter night she had pierced it out 
 from Miss Philippa's ravings in the delirium of the 
 supervening fever; a story as old as the hills, as 
 oft repeated as wave succeeds to wave on the sea of 
 circumstance, but coming as an unique experience, 
 with a new bitterness, in every instance. Infatuation,
 
 The Reparation 169 
 
 possession, satiety, indifference, hatred, desertion! 
 And a woman's expiation. 
 
 There were whispers which grew and grew until 
 they were cried upon the housetops; there were 
 inquiries covert and open; there were suspicions 
 which assumed the force of certainty among the 
 people round about, but no one questioned Miss 
 Abby. She devoted herself to the care of Miss 
 Philippa as if the woman who had been wife and 
 mother were indeed a child. Vainly she sought to de- 
 velop again the lingering remains of Miss Philippa's 
 intellect. Over and over with a patience that was 
 painful to think on she taught Miss Philippa her 
 letters, for instance. No more sternness, no more re- 
 provings, no more warnings, came from Miss Abby. 
 A keen observer might have said that after a time 
 the house again cointained sunshine and shadow, 
 this time Miss Abby was the sunshine a fierce blaze 
 kindled by anger, fed by desire, yet ever gentle to 
 Miss Philippa, quite unconscious of it all. 
 
 Miss Abby still lived for two things, for Miss Phi- 
 lippa, as she had always lived for her, and for re- 
 venge upon David Graham. Miss Philippa gave her 
 little mental occupation ; she was not so great a stim- 
 ulus to her mind as an intelligent dog might have 
 been, so that Miss Abby practically lived alone, with a 
 desire for some requital upon the man who had 
 ruined the lives of the two women. 
 
 In her way and it was a more dangerous way 
 Miss Abby was as mad as Miss Philippa. She pon- 
 dered over the pages of the Old Testament just as
 
 170 The Records 
 
 the ironside cavalry had been wont to do two hun- 
 dred and fifty years before. Every denunciatory 
 clause found an echo in her heart. An eye for an 
 eye, a tooth for a tooth, evil for evil, blow for blow 
 so her gospel was written. She prayed day after day 
 for its consummation. A desire to compass it was 
 her obsession. The more powerful, the more in- 
 tense, the more tremendous, was this feeling because 
 she gave no outward sign of it. She only waited. 
 She stayed quietly at home with Philippa, whose 
 every mindless laugh pricked on her resolution. 
 
 Then civil war burst over the land. I^o spot in the 
 country was more fought over than the fertile val- 
 ley in which Heronshaw stood. The quiet strip of 
 country became the granary of armies. Miss Abby's 
 patriotism was unbounded. She discovered that she 
 loved Virginia with a force that she had not realized 
 until the demand was made upon her. Battles raged 
 about her house. Armies marched in front of her 
 door. Wounded and ill craved her attention. She 
 did not refuse succor to the men in blue, but her 
 heart went out to the stricken men in gray. The 
 Union troops respected her, and the Confederate 
 soldiers adored her. So she lived on unmolested by 
 either side, impartially ministering to everyone in 
 trouble, yet with her heart fixed in its allegiance to 
 the flag that was barred rather than to that which 
 was striped. 
 
 Summer in 1864. The men in gray had been 
 fought to a standstill. The end was evident to offi- 
 cers and men. Weaker souls desert the losing battle.
 
 The Reparation 171 
 
 With stern determination the braver hearts strove in 
 vain to check the abandonment of the cause by those 
 who lacked the fortitude that sustains defeat. The 
 way of a deserter, if he were caught, was hard. 
 
 Miss Abby was standing on the high pillared porch 
 scanning the white road before her. Suddenly 
 through the hedge upon the other side of the road 
 a figure crawled. Her eye was attracted to it. A 
 man rose cautiously to his feet, stared up and down 
 the road, then darted across it and plunged into the 
 neglected undergrowth bordering what remained of 
 Heronshaw. Again he waited, watchful. Finding 
 himself unobserved, he slunk through the grass under 
 the trees, and stopped before the Hall. He had been 
 wounded; there was a long scar across his face, and 
 his cheek was caked with dried blood. He was a 
 handsome man, whose face and mouth were hidden 
 by a mustache and beard. He wore a sergeant's 
 chevrons upon his sleeve. 
 
 " For God's sake, Miss " He stopped. 
 
 " Ma'am, won't you please help me? " he went on 
 entreatingly. 
 
 Miss Abby knew him at once, in spite of his beard 
 and the change that years of hard living, and hard 
 campaigning perhaps, had wrought in him. She 
 schooled herself into absolute immobility. He had 
 intended to make himself known to her, but after 
 his first glance at her he came to the conclusion that 
 she had not recognized him, and he decided that he 
 would remain unknown as the better part of discre- 
 tion.
 
 172 The Records 
 
 " I am always ready to help any loyal soldier who 
 wears that uniform," said Miss Abby calmly. 
 
 There was a sudden patter of hoofs far down the 
 road. The man and woman both heard it at the same 
 time. 
 
 " My God! " he said, " they are after me! " 
 
 " Are they Federal troops? " 
 
 " No," answered the man, reluctantly, " our own 
 cavalry." 
 
 " What! Then you are " 
 
 " A deserter," desperately. " For God's sake, 
 ma'am, hide me somewhere, unless you wish to see 
 me shot here on this porch. I beg you for " 
 
 He intended to say " For Philippa's sake," but 
 Miss Abby interrupted him. 
 
 " I will help you," she said, " Come." 
 
 The lingering remains of decency in the man 
 smote him. Like all characters who are not wholly 
 bad, who are simply weak, he could rise to the meas- 
 ure of obligation sometimes. He followed her into 
 the house, therefore, and so soon as he was concealed 
 from outside view he stopped her. 
 
 " Miss Abby," he said, " I am " 
 
 " I know who you are," said the woman quietly; 
 " I knew you as soon as I saw you. Come, you have 
 no tune." 
 
 " And you will hide me for for Philippa's 
 sake?" 
 
 " What I do I do for her." 
 
 " Where is Philippa? " 
 
 " Dead to you," answered Miss Abby slowly.
 
 The Reparation 173 
 
 Fortunately Philippa was far afield down by the 
 brook, where she was wont to play with her faithful 
 black mammy as a guard. If only Miss Abby could 
 get Graham hidden before she came back and before 
 the soldiers came up. 
 
 " Miss Abby," said the man, striving to catch her 
 hand as they ascended the stairs, true to his instincts 
 even in his frightful peril, for a short shrift would 
 have awaited him had he been captured, " I I 
 always admired you." 
 
 " I know," said Miss Abby. " Go in there. The 
 window opens on a balcony at the back of the house. 
 From there you can get to the roof." 
 
 " But if the soldiers come? " 
 
 " I will keep them off. You need not fear." 
 
 She observed with a fierce joy in her heart that he 
 was trembling. 
 
 " I've fought through four years of it, Miss 
 Abby," returned the shame-faced man apologeti- 
 cally, " as long as there was a chance of success, but 
 the whole cause has gone to smash and " 
 
 "How were you wounded?" interrupted the 
 woman. 
 
 " I was fired on by the guard yesterday when I 
 tried to break away." 
 
 " I will do what I can for you," she said, closing 
 the door and leaving him. 
 
 When the patrol of cavalry, scouring the country 
 for deserters, which had been hot upon his trail, 
 drew up before the great door of Heronshaw, Miss 
 Abby was ready for them. Without a compunction
 
 174 The Records 
 
 she told them that she had seen the deserter, that he 
 had crossed the road and gone on. Such was her 
 reputation that no man dreamed of questioning her 
 statement. The officer, who had experienced her 
 hospitality, accepted her words without hesitation. 
 He led his men away, and when they had gone Miss 
 Abby went upstairs and summoned Graham from the 
 roof. 
 
 " You are safe now," ahe said, " they have gone 
 up the road." 
 
 " Did you tell them " 
 
 "I lied to them. I told them you were not 
 here." 
 
 " God bless you, Miss Abby!" cried the man, seiz- 
 ing her hand 'and lifting it to his lips. 
 
 The woman suffered him without a change of 
 countenance. 
 
 " You are tired? " 
 
 " Desperately." 
 
 " And hungry? " 
 
 " I have eaten nothing since early yesterday morn- 
 ing. I had no sleep all night. They hunted me like 
 a runaway nigger, curse them!" 
 
 " Come in here." She threw open a door. " This 
 is my room. You will be safe here, undisturbed. 
 No one enters. I will bring you something to eat." 
 
 She ministered to him like an angel. She washed 
 and bound the wound upon his face. She brought 
 him the best that the ravages of war had left. The 
 last bottle of wine of rare old vintage, which had 
 remained concealed in the cellar, she gave to him.
 
 The Reparation 175 
 
 He expanded under her treatment as a flower in the 
 sun. Safe, comfortable, well-fed, his fears left him. 
 He became more like his old self. All his fascination 
 came back to him. Actually he made love to this 
 woman. Neither of them spoke of Philippa; and 
 Miss Abby had given orders that she should not be 
 disturbed. The feelings that ran riot in her breast 
 are beyond description. She discovered to her horror 
 that slhe still loved this man. Yet her decision to 
 take revenge upon him with her own hand was as 
 strong as ever. She had thought swiftly enough, as 
 he stood suppliant before her, a deserter from his 
 colors, that she had but to say the word to see him 
 executed, but that would not satisfy her. Her own 
 hand must do the deed. Vengeance was her's, not 
 God's. 
 
 She listened to him. She allowed him to ramble 
 on. She did not discourage his efforts at lovemak- 
 ing. She hated herself for her response to them. 
 He would make love to a woman any woman if 
 one foot were in the grave, she thought bitterly. 
 She loathed him, yet she lingered. She spent a long 
 time with him, and at last reluctantly withdrew 
 and bade him rest. Forgetful of her so soon as she 
 left him, he threw himself upon the bed and fell at 
 once into a sleep so sound that it was almost a stupor, 
 while she waited listening outside the door. 
 
 Miss Abby had fully made up her mind to kill him. 
 One of the precious treasures of her heritage had 
 been the sword of the first Herondine, a long, 
 straight, sharp-pointed, keen-edged, Toledo rapier,
 
 176 The Records 
 
 that one of her ancestors had bought in Spain when 
 he went hither with young Charles I. on his mad 
 escapade. She would wipe out the disgrace that had 
 been put upon her family, the death of that child, the 
 wreck of her sister's life, her own humiliation, with 
 that bright and treasured blade. So soon as she 
 satisfied herself that he was asleep she went down- 
 stairs to the library and fetched the weapon. 
 
 He was lying slightly upon his side with his arm 
 thrown back, his throat exposed. She would drive it 
 home there. She lifted the sword awkwardly, one 
 hand on the hilt, the other on the blade, which cut 
 her palm unheeded, and stood over him, white as 
 death, rigid as a statue. She would smite him as Jael 
 smote Sisera, as Judith slew Holofernes, as Saul 
 hewed Agag. She was all ironside now. Yet she hesi- 
 tated; why, she could not tell. Perhaps it was the 
 sunlight. Holding the weapon with one hand she 
 went softly to the windows, turned the slats of the 
 Venetian blinds, which had been left open for cool- 
 ness, and shut out the light. There was no hesitation 
 in her heart. She could do it better in the darkness. 
 That was all. 
 
 Yes, she loved him, but he must die. God had 
 given him into her hands. She must slay him, the 
 despoiler of her home. She went back to his side 
 once more and lifted again the weapon. There was 
 a prayer in her heart, of thankfulness for the op- 
 portunity, of desire that she might strike surely, 
 and, by strange inconsistency, of appeal for the soul 
 of the man she was about to send to his Maker.
 
 The Reparation 177 
 
 Her hand did not tremble. She slowly lowered the 
 point of the weapon to his throat. In good time 
 she could throw her weight upon the blade. There 
 was no hurry. One thrust and it would all be over. 
 
 A babble of laughter broke the silence. For the 
 first time in years Philippa entered Miss Abby's room 
 unannounced, uninvited. What had brought her 
 there? One thing Miss Abby had been strict to 
 enforce, and that was to train Miss Philippa to re- 
 spect her sister's privacy. She must have some place 
 where she could be absolutely undisturbed at times, 
 else she would have broken down in the life she 
 had set herself. And Philippa had never entered 
 her room until on that afternoon. The younger 
 woman stepped through the door she had opened, 
 then stopped. Miss Abby turned and looked at her 
 staring in the doorway. 
 
 Miss Philippa's eyes, aided by a touch of light 
 from some unscreened crevice flashing on the steel, 
 were caught by the shining weapon. With a little 
 incoherent cry she ran forward, seized her sister 
 by the arm, looked her in the face, and then, com- 
 pelled by some hidden force, her eyes fell upon the 
 sleeping figure on the bed. Her gaze strained down 
 upon him. There was a moment of awful silence, a 
 silence like that in which mind might have been 
 added to matter, when God breathed the breath of 
 life into mere common clay. A scream, that was 
 as a pang of birth agony, burst from her lips. 
 
 "It's David, it's David!" she cried. "Thank 
 God, he has come back to me! David, David!"
 
 178 The Records 
 
 She threw herself upon the man's breast and en- 
 twined her arms around his neck. She kissed him 
 with little inarticulate cries, differing from those she 
 had uttered before, in that there was heart and soul 
 and reason in their harmonies. The sudden sight of 
 the man she had loved in her youth had called her 
 back from that profound into which his cruelty 
 and desertion had plunged her. She knew nothing 
 of the past but that he was there, that he had come 
 back to her, that she loved him. 
 
 Miss Abby, as if paralyzed, stood holding the wea- 
 pon. Was it for this that he had returned. Was 
 it for this that she had waited? Philippa loved him 
 and he loved Philippa. What a repayment was here? 
 Was it hatred, jealousy what hideous bafflement was 
 in her soul? Slowly Graham raised himself, sleep be- 
 wildered at first. He leaned upon one arm. He 
 pushed off the clinging woman Avith the other hand 
 and stared at her. 
 
 "Philippa? "he cried. 
 
 " David ! " said the girl, lifting and extending her 
 arms, " you have come back to me ! You love 
 me " 
 
 Something snappfed. Poor Httle Philippa yet 
 after all to be envied, thought Miss Abby, for she 
 went into eternity with an assurance in her heart 
 that the man she loved loved her as well. Could 
 there be a heaven were she to be undeceived? 
 Graham sprang to his feet, and lifting the prostrate 
 body placed it tenderly on the bed. 
 
 " You said she was dead," he gasped out hoarsely.
 
 The Reparation 179 
 
 Miss Abby pointed to her sister. 
 
 " It is true now." 
 
 There was a look on the face of Philippa that no 
 one could mistake. The two gazed at her in silence. 
 
 " Thank God," whispered Miss Abby at last. 
 
 " That sword?" asked Graham. " What were you 
 about to do?" 
 
 " Kill you. You deceived me. You broke my 
 heart." All the long pent passion in the woman's 
 soul rushed to her lips. " You came here and made 
 love to me, a lonely woman, and I believed you! 
 Must a woman smile, and laugh, and kiss, to love? 
 I was yours body and soul. You you threw me 
 aside for Philippa. I do not wonder at that. That 
 isn't what I blame you for. You wrecked that child's 
 life. You deserted her as you deserted the army. 
 You are a coward! She came back here five years 
 ago in a storm. She was senseless when I took her 
 in. The baby was born your baby " 
 
 " Where is the child? " 
 
 " Dead, thank God ! We want none of your 
 blood to pollute the earth. He is buried yonder 
 under the cypress." 
 
 "And Philippa?" 
 
 " Until this hour she has been as a child. Her 
 reason thank God for it! fled with the baby's 
 birth. I pieced out her story from her ravings in 
 delirium. I prayed daily, hourly that God might 
 give you into my hands. And when you came this 
 morning, I knew my prayer had been answered. 
 
 " And you were going to kill me? "
 
 180 The Records 
 
 " Another second and I would have sent you to 
 hell where you belong," said the woman slowly. In 
 all the conversation she did not raise her voice from 
 its quiet level, almost subdued monotone. 
 
 " If it had not been for Philippa poor Philippa!" 
 said the man. 
 
 He stared from the still figure of the dead to the 
 stiller figure of the living. He was not lacking in 
 intuition. Now he read Miss Abby's soul like an 
 open book; not comprehending all he was not 
 strong enough for that but enough. And the 
 sight was more terribly accusing than the body of 
 Miss Philippa. He was not all weakness, that man, 
 else these two women would not have loved him. 
 
 " You are right," he said, " you have borne much 
 from me. I will make atonement." 
 
 He threw out his arms, threw back his head. 
 
 "Strike!" he said. 
 
 Clenching her teeth Miss Abby lifted the sword. 
 She pointed it straight at Graham's heart. She did 
 not flinch nor quiver; neither did he. Suddenly 
 the weapon fell ringing to the floor. 
 
 " I can not! Oh, God, I can not! " she whispered. 
 
 " No? Then I will revenge you, Miss Abby," said 
 the man quietly. 
 
 " You will not kill yourself? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 Again the tramp of hoofs upon the hard road; the 
 clanging of sabres, the jingle of bits, a word of 
 quick command.
 
 'Strike!" he said. Page 180
 
 The Reparation 181 
 
 " My friends down there will attend to me," he 
 said, smiling strangely. 
 
 " David," she cried, snatching at him with blood- 
 stained hands as he passed, " don't go! " 
 
 To-morrow, when it was to late, he would repent 
 it bitterly, to-day he was determined. With a white 
 set face he went out. She heard him go through the 
 hall, she heard him descend the stair, she heard him 
 hail the troopers. She ran to the window and tore 
 back the blind. He was standing at the foot of the 
 cypress tree where she had told him the baby was 
 buried, looking down. 
 
 The troopers came clattering up the driveway. 
 
 " Graham! " cried the captain of the squadron. 
 "At last!" 
 
 " I give myself up," said the man quietly. " I 
 am a deserter." 
 
 " You shall be shot in the morning," said the 
 officer, motioning for his men to lead the prisoner 
 away. 
 
 " My God, my God," whispered Miss Abby, " have 
 mercy upon me, have mercy upon me ! "
 
 Ninth Record 
 
 THE WRECK AND THE LETTERS* 
 
 I. 
 
 The smash-up was one of the worst that ever hap- 
 pened on the B. S. & W. road. 
 
 The Westfield night express had been wrecked at 
 Elwood Junction about three o'clock in the morning. 
 It had been raining more or less for a week all over 
 the northwestern part of the State, and the bad 
 weather had culminated in a cloud-burst. A small 
 bridge, which was really nothing more than a short 
 piece of trestle-work thrown over a small branch of 
 the Elwood River, which was usually as dry as a 
 floor, was partially washed out, the stringers, ties 
 and rails being left standing. 
 
 In the darkness the engine went through it. The 
 ravine was both shallow and narrow, the engine filled 
 the space from bank to bank, and the baggage and 
 mail car and the coach piled in on top of it. Later 
 on they found the engineer, with his fireman also, 
 dead under the engine, so that he was beyond cen- 
 sure for running at so high a speed sixty miles an 
 hour under such conditions. 
 
 The train, which was the limited express of the 
 
 By courtesy of " The Smart Set."
 
 184 The Records 
 
 road, did no local business. There were only a few 
 people in the coach, all of whom escaped with their 
 lives, at least. The two rear sleepers did not leave 
 the track, fortunately, but the first one, that carry- 
 ing the through passengers from the south, strange 
 to say, was telescoped with the preceding coach, in 
 spite of the fact that it was a new and heavy Pull- 
 man. It was in that ill-fated car that most of the 
 loss, save that among the train crew, occurred. The 
 berths had nearly all been occupied, and nine pas- 
 sengers in the front half of the car were killed, while 
 many were severely injured. 
 
 Fortunately, as it was summer, there was no con- 
 flagration to add its horrors to the scene. A special 
 train with nurses and physicians and other helpers, 
 together with the wrecking crew, was rushed down 
 from Elwood without loss of time, and the work of 
 rescuing the wounded and clearing the track was at 
 once begun. The dead were laid along the station 
 platform at Elwood, as they were removed from the 
 special train, for identification prior to shipment to 
 their several destinations, and the wounded were 
 made as comfortable as possible either in the cars, at 
 the station, or at the emergency hospital. By day- 
 light, the claim-agent of the road, who, with other 
 officials at Beverly, had been notified by wire, ar- 
 rived, and took charge of the bodies. 
 
 There were two women, a little girl, a baby, a 
 youth of seventeen, and four men. After more or 
 less difficulty and delay they were all identified and 
 their relatives communicated with, except in the case
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 185 
 
 of one man. He appeared to have been a tall, hand- 
 some man of about thirty. He had evidently un- 
 dressed and gone regularly to bed in the sleeper, for 
 he had nothing on him but a suit of pajamas. There 
 was no mark of any sort on them, and nothing what- 
 ever to give any clue to the man's name on or about 
 his person a naked body in a suit of pajamas, that 
 was all. The sleeping car conductor had been killed, 
 while the porter was badly wounded and in a sense- 
 less condition. 
 
 Of course, the unidentified man's baggage and 
 clothing were somewhere in the wreck, if they had 
 not been ground to pieces in the ruin. But how to 
 find such things, or how to identify them with the 
 man, was a puzzling question. There was a great 
 heap of miscellaneous articles on the station plat- 
 form, which had been taken from the wreck, but at 
 present it was impossible to separate or assign them 
 to any one with any certainty. The claim-agent, a 
 tall, slender young man, whose quiet, rather melan- 
 choly air gave little outward evidence of his inward 
 keenness and capacity, was at his wits' end to know 
 how to identify the body in question. 
 
 As he stood pondering the problem, one of his 
 assistants came up and informed him that the porter 
 of the wrecked sleeper had at last recovered con- 
 sciousness, although it was evident that his hours 
 were numbered. As he spoke four men brought the 
 stricken negro out on the platform on a stretcher, 
 intending to put him on a hospital train in which 
 others of the more severely wounded were to be
 
 186 The Records 
 
 taken down to Beverly. It was just possible, thought 
 the claim agent, that the porter might be able to 
 identify the man. He motioned to the bearers to 
 halt, and then, with the help of the assistant, lifted 
 up the dead body so that the porter could see the 
 man's face. 
 
 " Wilder," said the claim-agent, gently, " I'm 
 sorry to bother you now, but here is a passenger 
 from your car about whom I can find out nothing. 
 Can you help us to identify him? Do you know his 
 name? " 
 
 The porter stared feebly at the face of the dead 
 man. 
 
 " Doan know his name, suh," he muttered. 
 
 " Where was his berth? Can you recollect that? " 
 
 " He was in lowah five, suh, I think." 
 
 " Can you give us any other clue, Wilder? " 
 
 The wounded man thought deeply for a few mo- 
 ments, by a very painful effort. 
 
 " Yas, suh, he sent a telegram last night f 'um 
 Ladew to Miss Inez Inez Lancy at " 
 
 He stopped, faltered, struggled to go on. One of 
 the bystanders proffered him a drink of whiskey, but 
 he had fainted. 
 
 " Never mind," said the claim-agent, compassion- 
 ately; " take him into the car, men. That's enough 
 to trace this man." 
 
 Laying the dead main gently on the platform 
 again, the claim-agent went into the telegraph office, 
 and wired the operator at Ladew to repeat to him, 
 for the purpose of establishing an identification, the
 
 TJie Wreck and the Letters 187 
 
 telegram sent last night at six o'clock by a passenger 
 on number three to a Miss Inez Lancy, whereabouts 
 unknown. In a short time the original message was 
 in his hand. It ran this way: 
 
 Miss Inez Lancy, 
 
 Care of Hotel Sullivan, Westfield. 
 Will meet you Monday morning, at ten-thirty, 
 same place. 
 
 HARRY. 
 
 Here was a valuable clue. A wire was at once 
 despatched to the proprietor of the Hotel Sullivan, 
 directing him to inform Miss Inez Lancy, presumably 
 one of his guests, that a man, supposed to be the 
 man who had appointed a meeting with her at ten- 
 thirty that morning, and who signed his name 
 " Harry," had been killed in the wreck at Elwood 
 Junction, and to ask Miss Lancy if she would come 
 down and identify the body, or give information 
 which would lead to its immediate disposition. 
 
 Two hours' later, Miss Inez Lancy herself de- 
 scended from the steps of the parlor-car on the 
 morning local, and was received by the claim-agent, 
 who had been notified by wire to expect her. 
 
 Miss Inez Lancy was dressed in black not mourn- 
 ing, of course, there had been no time for that but 
 she had at least discarded all colors, save that which 
 shone in her very pretty eyes and in the red of her 
 rounded cheeks. She was a stunning-looking woman, 
 if a trifle bold in her carriage. Tall, golden-haired, 
 she made quite an imposing appearance, in spite of
 
 188 The Records 
 
 her general air of agitation and, strange to say, of 
 anxiety and apprehension. Yet there was something 
 about her which impressed the claim-agent unpleas- 
 antly, something he did not like. There were things 
 lacking in her, not compensated for by other things 
 added. She did not seem quite but her quality and 
 her character were nothing to him. He put all such 
 considerations aside, and met her with an excellent 
 asumption of most respectful sympathy. 
 
 " I am the claim-agent of the road," he said. 
 " And you, I presume, are Miss Lancy? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," she exclaimed, in great agitation. 
 " Oh, sir, tell me " 
 
 She clasped her hands appealingly, and looked 
 at him from beneath the fronting shadow of her 
 very large hat. The pose, the manner, the voice, 
 were perfect, and yet 
 
 " You got my wire, madam? " he asked, whereat 
 she nodded. 
 
 " Yes. Take me to him at once." 
 
 The body of the poor man had been taken to a 
 local undertaking establishment, and a drive of a 
 short distance, during which Miss Lancy elaborately 
 sobbed into her handkerchief, brought them to the 
 door. Once in the private room " the mortuary 
 chamber," advertising circulars called it the woman 
 stepped to the side of the casket, and lifted the cloth 
 covering the face of the dead. 
 
 " It is he, it is he ! " she screamed, throwing her- 
 self upon the body with every outward manifestation 
 of grief and agony.
 
 189 
 
 She kissed the face of the dead again and again, 
 lavishing endearments upon him. It was all very 
 touching and affecting indeed, thought the claim- 
 agent, and yet However, he managed to quiet 
 Miss Lancy at last. He took her to the village hotel, 
 where, after getting the address of the man's rela- 
 tives, he left her to the tender ministrations of the 
 landlady and her assistants. 
 
 The man's name was Henry Richardson. He had 
 been a mining-engineer by profession, and a heavy 
 buyer and owner of mining properties in Colorado. 
 His father was also greatly interested in mines, 
 being one of the largest mine owners in that State. 
 Miss Inez Lancy declared that she was the dead 
 man's fiancee, that he was coming to Westfield that 
 morning, as his telegram showed, to marry her forth- 
 with. Her grief was terrible to see, and her con- 
 dition evoked the sympathy and the pity of all the 
 good women of the little town, who were unremit- 
 ting in their efforts to assuage her sorrow. 
 
 The claim-agent immediately wired the elder Mr. 
 Richardson, and received instructions to prepare the 
 body for shipment in the best possible manner, and 
 forward it to Denver without delay. The only train 
 which made a Denver connection did not leave till 
 night, however, and late in the afternoon the claim- 
 agent received a telegram from Hot Springs, Arkan- 
 sas, addressed to the local agent at Elwood, by the 
 way, which greatly astonished him. It ran as fol- 
 lows, being written with a woman's discursiveness:
 
 190 The Records 
 
 Henry Richardson, of whose death I am just in- 
 formed, is my husband. Will arrive Tuesday morn- 
 ing. Hold body till I come. 
 
 MBS. HENEY RICHABDSON. 
 
 The story of the wreck had not yet appeared in any 
 of the papers; there was no source from which the 
 woman signing herself Mrs. Henry Richardson could 
 have heard of her husband's death except from his 
 father in Denver; for outside of the claim-agent and 
 Miss Inez Lancy, no one else knew or could know of 
 it. In the face of such reasoning, the conclusion that 
 she was really the man's wife was irresistible. 
 
 If that were so, who was Miss Inez Lancy? 
 
 There had always been a suspicion of that young 
 lady in the claim->agent's mind, he thought, trium- 
 phantly. He put the telegram in his pocket, after 
 giving directions to hold the body and notify the 
 father in Denver of this new development, asking 
 advice from him, and walked slowly down the village 
 street to the hotel. Arrived there he immediately 
 asked for Miss Lancy. 
 
 " You can't possibly see her," said the landlady, 
 a kind-hearted, motherly old body, who had been 
 most attentive to the woman; " she is quite pros- 
 trated over this terrible affair, and is lying down. 
 She must not be disturbed on any account." 
 
 " I am very sorry," insisted the claim-agent 
 politely but firmly," she must see me. I have an im- 
 portant message about Mr. Richardson."
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 191 
 
 " The poor thing's almost dead with grief and 
 shock and " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know, but you must tell her I must 
 see her at once, nevertheless." 
 
 The woman at last went off, evidently resentful 
 of the claim-agent's lack of sympathy and considera- 
 tion for her charge. 
 
 " Like the soulless corporation he represents, in- 
 truding upon the sorrows of that poor lamb up- 
 stairs," she muttered as she went. 
 
 Well, it turned out that Miss Lancy, " poor lamb," 
 would see the claim-agent after all, and, after a 
 few moments, he was ushered into her presence. The 
 landlady showed a disposition to linger, but, at the 
 claim-agent's pointed request, she at last flounced 
 indignantly out of the room. 
 
 " Miss Lancy," said the claim-agent to that lady, 
 who sat languidly, half reclining in a large arm-chair 
 near the window, her face turned carefully away 
 from the light, " I intended, in accordance with his 
 father's directions to send the body of Mr. Richard- 
 son " 
 
 " My poor, poor love ! " wailed Miss Lancy. 
 
 " to Denver to-night. But a few moments since 
 I received a telegram from his " 
 
 The claim-agent paused. The woman before him 
 sat bolt upright now, her grief merged into a sud- 
 den interest in what he was about to say. 
 
 "Yes. Go on," she exclaimed; "from whom?" 
 
 " From his wife," answered the claim-agent
 
 192 The Records 
 
 abruptly, at the same time carefully watching the 
 face of his companion. 
 
 "His wife!" she faltered, turning very red in- 
 deed. 
 
 " Certainly, his wife. Didn't you know that he 
 was married? " he asked swiftly. 
 
 " Of course I er certainly not! " she 
 answered in great confusion, " and I don't believe 
 it, either. It is some imposter. Why, he was en- 
 gaged to me. His telegram proved that." 
 
 It was a bold statement but it failed. 
 
 " It proved that he was coming to meet you, 
 certainly, but nothing else," rejoined the claim- 
 agent. 
 
 " That woman is some adventuress. I shall stay 
 and face her. He was mine mine ! " burst out Miss 
 Lancy vehemently. 
 
 It was exceedingly well done, thought the claim- 
 agent admiringly. Miss Lancy might have made a 
 fortune on the stage, he was sure, and he was an 
 excellent judge. But to be a successful claim-agent 
 it is necessary to be able to fathom human nature 
 thoroughly, and Miss Lancy's whole performance did 
 not deceive him. 
 
 " Miss Lancy," he said gravely, "I am sorry to 
 be compelled to contradict you or to question your 
 assertions, but I assure you that I am convinced that 
 he was married and that the lady in question was 
 his wife and " 
 
 " I didn't know it anyway," she interrupted, des- 
 perately anxious to maintain her position.
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 193 
 
 " Pardon me, you virtually admitted it a moment 
 since and " 
 
 There was a knock at the door, which the claim- 
 agent took the liberty of answering himself, under 
 the circumstances. A moment after, he read a tele- 
 gram sent him from the station, which was from Mr. 
 Richardson, cancelling his former wire and directing 
 the body to be held for the arrival of his son's wife. 
 
 " That settles it, Miss Lancy," said the claim- 
 agent, putting the yellow slip of paper in her hand. 
 
 "I'll stay here and confront the woman!" she 
 burst out viciously. 
 
 " Pardon me again," returned the claim-agent, 
 suavely he was a very polite claim-agent indeed, 
 and he had been doing some hard thinking in the 
 last few moments, " I think you will not." 
 
 "I will, I will, I tell you f" 
 
 What a coarse, vulgar woman! thought the claim- 
 agent. All he said, however, was: 
 
 " You will go back to Westfield to-night, madam, 
 and you will stay away from here till that man is 
 shipped to Denver in the custody of his wife." 
 
 " Oh, will I? Who'll make me? " 
 
 " I trust your own good sense will show you 
 that I am right." 
 
 " It doesn't. Now, who'll make me go? " 
 
 " I will. I won't have you make a scene and a 
 scandal on our lines over that man in the presence 
 of his poor, bereaved wife. Afterward you will do 
 as you please. Now you will go, stay away and keep 
 quiet."
 
 194 The Records 
 
 "I'll do just as I please, now! " she retorted, de- 
 fiantly, but evidently very ill at ease. 
 
 " The train leaves at nine to-night. I shall be 
 here with a carriage at half after eight. Meantime, 
 you will not mention this to any one, I am sure," he 
 continued, inflexibly; then he bowed to her the 
 claim-agent was always polite and left her baffled, 
 furious, yet determined to have her way. 
 
 His calm confidence shook her assurance to a 
 marked degree, yet she strove to keep up her spirits, 
 and to cling to her resolution to stay just where she 
 was and confront the wife. As for the claim-agent, 
 in spite of his firmness he was filled with dismay. 
 If Miss Lancy absolutely refused to go, he could see 
 no way to compel her to leave except by force, which 
 was not to be thought of. Yet, go she must. He 
 was resolved that there should be no scene, no scan- 
 dal about the dead man, no two women claiming 
 rights that belonged to one, no adventuress so he 
 was satisfied Miss Lancy was to be described dis- 
 puting with the dead man's lawful wife. He even 
 felt a sort of sympathy for the dead man himself, 
 albeit his career evidently had not been a spotless 
 one. The man's fame would be utterly blasted if 
 Miss Lancy remained and created a scene, and he 
 could say never a word nor urge a plea in his own 
 defense. Yes, the woman must be got away at all 
 hazards, but how? He racked his fertile brain for 
 some means and in vain. 
 
 His cogitations were interrupted by the approach 
 of the general superintendent of the road, a veteran
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 195 
 
 railroad man, who had risen after many years from 
 the ranks. He had assumed charge of the work of 
 clearing the road that day. 
 
 " Here," he said, handing the claim-agent a thick 
 package of letters, " you'd better .take charge of 
 these. They were picked up in the sleeper. The 
 woman who wrote 'em, and the man, too, must be 
 a bad lot. They're sickening, even to me." 
 
 The claim-agent took the package, and, returning 
 to the station, he read over the first one. There was 
 no name in the letter till the signature was reached, 
 and that was "Inez"! 
 
 The letters could not be described. They revealed 
 a depth of depravity on the part of the writer and 
 receiver which made the claim-agent almost doubt 
 their humanity. They settled one puzzling ques- 
 tion, however. At half-after eight the claim-agent 
 presented himself at the door of Miss Lancy's room. 
 Bidden to enter, he found that young lady hatless 
 and seemingly composed, with no outward intention 
 of leaving that night. 
 
 " I've come for you, Miss Lancy," said the claim- 
 agent. 
 
 " I see you have," she returned coolly, " and, as I 
 said before, it does not suit me to leave to-night." 
 
 " Miss Lancy, do you recognize this letter? " said 
 the claim-agent, spreading open one from the pack- 
 age, and holding it close to the lamp, so that she 
 could see it. 
 
 The woman gazed at it, shivered violently, and 
 turned a dull, angry red again.
 
 196 The Records 
 
 "You're no gentleman!" she said, wrathfully, 
 "to read a lady's letter! Besides, I didn't write it, 
 any way," she went on, in a vain effort to repair her 
 blunder. 
 
 " I should not like to have any one see such letters 
 as these," said the claim->agent, " even the lowest 
 lady," he paused and how she hated him for that 
 pause " in the land would not like that, would 
 she?" 
 
 " You brute, you brute ! " cried the woman, look- 
 ing as if she could kill him. 
 
 " It is a quarter to nine now, Miss Lancy; we have 
 just time enough to get to the station," said the 
 claim-agent. 
 
 "I won't go, I tell you!" 
 
 " Allow me your hat," he continued, unheeding 
 her interruptions as he handed it to her. 
 
 " My bill I haven't I left my purse " she 
 
 faltered, rising in spite of herself. 
 
 " I'll attend to that. You will take my arm, so, 
 this way here is the carriage." 
 
 The claim-agent was a wonderfully polite young 
 man. 
 
 He did not feel safe, however, until, standing on 
 the platform, he watched the lights of the express 
 bearing the unfortunate Miss Lancy northward, dis- 
 appear in the darkness. It had been a trying day 
 for the claim-agent. He took off his hat, and wiped 
 the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 " And she forgot to ask me for the letters, she 
 was so angry," he murmured in no little surprise, 
 as he turned to go baak to the hotel for the night.
 
 "You!" Page 197
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 197 
 
 II. 
 
 The morning express was due at Elwood at tea 
 o'clock. The claim-agent met it, of course. As the 
 long train drew up at the platform, he stepped back 
 toward the steps of the southern through sleeper 
 from St. Louis nerving himself up for the difficult 
 and somewhat unpleasant task of receiving the 
 widow of the dead mining-engineer. Only one pas- 
 senger left the sleeper and that was a woman. The 
 porter set her bag on the platform and reentered 
 his car. Uncertain as to direction in her unfamiliar 
 surroundings, she turned away from the approach- 
 ing claim-agent and paused in hesitation as to what 
 to do next. 
 
 He had time before he reached her to notice that 
 she was small in stature, but with a beautiful figure, 
 well set off by her fashionably cut, exquisitely fit- 
 ting black gown. Something about her appearance 
 caused the heart of the claim-agent to throb madly 
 in his breast. Instinctively, he quickened his pace, 
 his arm stretched out toward her. He was close by 
 her side when she turned suddenly, faced him, lifted 
 her hand in great astonishment and exclaimed : 
 
 "You!" 
 
 The claim-agent recovered himself by a tremen- 
 dous effort. Dissimulation is supposedly .an attribute 
 peculiar to the other sex, but he noticed that 
 whereas he was successful in controlling himself the 
 woman seemed utterly unable to regain her com-
 
 198 The Records 
 
 posure. She stared at him as if he had risen from 
 the dead. Her face, which had been very pale, 
 slowly flamed with color, her lip trembled until she 
 bit it to keep it still, and a light, whether of terror, 
 surprise, satisfaction, or appeal, or a blending of all 
 four, he could not tell, came into her brown eyes. 
 
 "You!" she exclaimed again breathlessly. 
 
 "Yes, I," he answered formally, lifting his hat 
 and making an attempt to pass her. 
 
 "I did not I did not expect " she faltered. 
 
 " No, I suppose not," he answered with some bit- 
 terness, " but you will pardon me, I am expecting a 
 lady 
 
 " A lady?" she interrupted, with a curiously re- 
 sentful intonation. 
 
 " Yes, the widow of a passenger killed in a wreck 
 at " 
 
 " I forgot him," murmured the woman in deep 
 contrition. 
 
 "All aboard!" called the conductor suddenly. 
 
 " Wait," cried the claim-agent, lifting a warning 
 hand and putting his foot on the car step, " I must 
 see if she is on the sleeper." 
 
 " I am Mrs. Kichardson," abruptly said the woman 
 to whom he had been speaking, at the same time 
 laying her hand on his arm. 
 
 The claim-agent stepped from the car, signaled to 
 the conductor to go ahead that was the first thing 
 to be done and once more faced the woman. This 
 time he was the weaker vessel.
 
 199 
 
 " Oh!" he exclaimed, lamely enough, as the train 
 slowly passed them. 
 
 The woman nodded. The claim-agent bowed for- 
 mally again. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, making a valiant 
 effort to recover his self-possession, " I did not 
 know." 
 
 " Of course not; how could you?" 
 
 " If you will come this way, madam, I have a car- 
 riage here; I will take you to him." 
 
 He managed to speak indifferently, in spite of his 
 excessive agitation. 
 
 " I must tell you," said the woman, so soon as 
 they entered the carriage, " that after we after 
 I left you and was married to him I found out 
 what a terrible mistake it was. And oh, don't 
 look at me so ! It is cruel ! " 
 
 She leaned her head against the cushions, and 
 sobbed bitterly. 
 
 The claim-agent did not know what to do, and he 
 was a rarely resourceful young man, too. He knew 
 well enough what he wanted to do, however. He 
 wanted to slip his arm around the woman's waist, 
 lay her head on his shoulder, take her hands in his 
 and comfort her kiss away her tears. He had done 
 this for her before, too, but it did not seem quite 
 appropriate conduct for the present strange situa- 
 tion. So he sat up very straight and stiff, and did 
 nothing. 'Tis a wise claim-agent who knows when to 
 do nothing. 
 
 " We had not lived together since the first few
 
 200 The Records 
 
 months of our marriage, six years ago/' resumed his 
 companion, after a time. 
 
 Ah, well he knew the time! He could recall as 
 yesterday the shock sustained by a young railroad 
 man who had gone West to seek his fortune, when 
 he received that incoherent, blotted, tear-stained let- 
 ter from the sweetheart who had promised to wait 
 for him, begging him to forget her because she was 
 going to be married to another man. Absence, pov- 
 erty, the wishes of friends, the pressure of parental 
 desire, had overborne her resistance. And now he 
 was sitting by her side again, his pulses beating, his 
 soul thrilling. And she was married and her hus- 
 band was dead, and he was taking her to him. And, 
 until this moment, he had never known the man's 
 name. Her voice called him to himself again. 
 
 " There was no scandal, no divorce; we just sep- 
 arated. Henry Mr. Richardson was such a good 
 man. When he found I loved that I did not care 
 for him he he had a right to be very angry, as 
 he was. It was my fault. I ought never to have 
 married. I was to blame. He was so good and 
 true a man!" the claim-agent thought grimly of 
 Miss Inez Lancy and the package of letters in his 
 pocket, but he said nothing " And now he is dead, 
 in this sudden, awful way poor Henry!" 
 
 She broke down and sobbed afresh as the carriage 
 stopped. The claim-agent got out, and offered her 
 his hand. 
 
 "Is he in there?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes. Do you wish to see him now? "
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 201 
 
 She nodded, dropped her veil, and followed the 
 claim-agent into the room. Her demeanor there was 
 very different from what Miss Lancy's had been. 
 She stood quietly looking upon the face of the dead, 
 murmuring, " Poor, poor Henry! " in a pitying, half- 
 caressing voice. The claim-agent hated himself for 
 it, but fierce pangs of jealousy tore his heart at the 
 sight and sound. Finally, oblivious of his presence, 
 apparently, she said quietly, solemnly almost, as if 
 making a vow or taking an oath: 
 
 " We did not love each other, Henry, or, at least, 
 I did not kve you, and we were not happy together; 
 but in all your grief you were true to me, and so 
 I shall be to your memory." 
 
 The claim-agent thought again of Miss Inez Lancy 
 and her letters, and this time with even a grimmer 
 feeling than before ; but, as before, he said nothing. 
 
 As was only proper, the claim-agent devoted him- 
 self to his companion until her departure. In spite 
 of her marriage she seemed to him as innocent and 
 artless as she had been when he loved her as a girl. 
 The intervening years were wiped out of the man's 
 memory. He forgot everything but that he was in 
 her presence again. For some men, only to look at 
 the woman beloved is to drink of the waters of Lethe. 
 And before they parted the claim-agent spoke his 
 heart. 
 
 " Amy," he said, " under any other circumstances, 
 I should never have mentioned it now. But you are 
 leaving in an hour. Our paths lie wide apart. I 
 may never have another opportunity to speak to you.
 
 202 The Records 
 
 You have been separated from your from Mr. 
 Richardson for over five years, you said. You did 
 not love him. I believe you once loved me. It 
 seems horrible to speak of it now, but I want you 
 to know that I care for no woman but you, that I 
 never have, that I never shall. I love you more than I 
 ever did; and if, after awhile, you will take me, I 
 shall devote my life to making you happy. I have 
 been faithful all these years and shall be to the 
 end." 
 
 There was an acute though unintentional reproach 
 in much that he said, and she winced under it; yet 
 the depth of his passion, which could even forgive 
 her own defection, moved her intensely. His plea 
 was the more impressive because he made it so sim- 
 ply, with so much directness, with scarcely an altera- 
 tion in the tones of his voice even. Only his hand, 
 lying on the table beside her, tightly clenched and 
 trembling betrayed his agitation. She answered him 
 as simply and quietly as he had spoken. 
 
 " Frank," she said, " I can not deny my own heart 
 now; and especially in this solemn hour it seems that 
 I should speak only the truth. Where Henry has 
 gone," she went on idealizing the dead man in a 
 way that was quite natural and to be expected, 
 " there is all truth, I know, and even he would not 
 care now. I never cared for him; I always loved 
 you. It was because of that we separated. I made 
 him very unhappy in his life. Something tells me 
 he loved me to the end. He might have secured a 
 divorce at any time, but he never did. And now
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 203 
 
 he is dead. He probably died thinking of me, loving 
 me. I owe him a long reparation and I intend to 
 make it. You heard what I said over his dead body. 
 I mean it. My conscience hurts me when I think 
 of what I made him suffer. Poor Henry ! " 
 
 It was a strange and unusual situation, indeed. 
 
 " You seem to care more for him dead than you 
 ever did for him living? " questioned the claim-agent 
 sadly. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I do," she answered slowly. For 
 the moment she almost fancied she loved her hus- 
 band. " And I am going to be' faithful to his dead 
 memory, too." 
 
 The luxury of being a martyr was already exercis- 
 ing its powerful fascination upon her. Yet she lif fed 
 her eyes to the face of the young man before her 
 and paused. He looked white and drawn and 
 pained. He had risen and both hands were tightly 
 clasped now. At the sight of him, pity for him and 
 love for him fought with duty and martyrdom in 
 her heart but in vain. She, too, rose and laid her 
 hand tenderly on his breast. 
 
 " Don't grieve so, Frank," she said softly, " I 
 am not worth it " and perhaps she was not, but 
 when did that ever comfort or convince a lover? 
 " But so far as my heart goes it is yours; it always 
 has been yours, it always will be yours. But mar- 
 riage is not for me." 
 
 " Very well, Amy," resignedly said the claim- 
 agent, seeing the futility of further appeal. " If 
 the time ever does come you will let me
 
 204 The Records 
 
 " It will never come," she answered firmly. 
 
 After she had left him that night, the claim- 
 agent took out the package of letters and went over 
 them again. Yes, there was no doubt of it. Rich- 
 ardson was arranging to get a divorce, after which 
 Miss Lancj evidently hoped and expected he would 
 marry her, if the bad letters of a bad woman were 
 to be accepted as evidence. So far from having 
 been faithful and devoted to his wife, the letters 
 proved that he had been untrue to her, that he hated 
 her. Poor Amy! if she only knew what was in those 
 letters. " Poor Henry!" And she thought him such 
 a good man! 
 
 A terrible temptation seized the claim-agent as he 
 thought over the situation. The woman he loved 
 would be faithful to an ideal; but for that she would 
 marry him and he could make her so happy. The 
 letters told all. He could shatter her ideal in an 
 instant. It would be so easy to send the letters to 
 her anonymously. He would never be suspected. 
 The letters belonged to her, anyhow; she was the 
 man's wife, and should succeed to his property. She 
 had taken everything eke belonging to him away 
 with her; only these were left. They would open 
 her eyes, indeed, if only they were sent to her. But 
 the claim-agent could not do that. Richardson was 
 dead and helpless now. He could not strike at a dead 
 man. He could not win a woman's consent to marry 
 him by such means as that, not even if he was sure 
 she loved him, and he was sure he could make her 
 very happy. No, there was nothing he could do.
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 205 
 
 The letters were sealed up in an envelope and, with 
 other unclaimed articles of value, were put in the 
 claim-agent's safe for future disposition. He took 
 up the round of life again bravely enough, but the 
 recent meeting had thrown him back in feelings 
 six years. He was just where he had been. It was 
 all to do over again. It was all bitter hard on the 
 claim-agent. Sometimes the hardest task that can 
 be allotted to humanity is for a gentleman to remain 
 a gentleman. 
 
 m 
 
 Six months after the Elwood wreck the second 
 vice-president of the road, who was also its general 
 attorney and the head of its legal department to 
 whom, indeed, the claim-agent reported sent for 
 that young man. 
 
 Among the many suits which had been brought 
 against the road growing out of the Elwood wreck, 
 the most dangerous was that for one hundred thou- 
 sand dollars for the death of Henry Richardson. 
 The claim was supported by affidavits of his earn- 
 ing capacity, income, expectation of life, and so on, 
 which made it most formidable and difficult to meet 
 and the best lawyer in the State was retained by the 
 plaintiff, suit being entered in the name of the dead 
 man's estate. 
 
 From the viewpoint of the road, the amount sued 
 for was preposterous. In turn, they had offered to 
 settle for five thousand dollars, but the proposition
 
 206 The Records 
 
 had been laughed to scorn by the attorney for the 
 estate. How the suit was to be' combated success- 
 fully did not appear to the general attorney, unless 
 .some pressure could be brought to bear on the plain- 
 tiff or his counsel. 
 
 The general attorney did not immediately disclose 
 the state of affairs to his young subordinate, who 
 had only that morning returned from an extended 
 trip over the lines, and the latter was in entire igno- 
 rance of the fact that the road had been sued for 
 .such an amount. Consequently, he was quite off his 
 guard; and when the general attorney asked if he had 
 not in his safe some incriminating letters or papers 
 which had been found among the effects of the late 
 Henry Richardson, he at once replied in the affirma- 
 tive. 
 
 " Ah ! I thought so," exclaimed the hard-headed 
 old veteran, a gleam of satisfaction overspreading 
 his craggy countenance. " The superintendent told 
 me about them; says that they're bad, indeed; quite 
 ruin the dead man's reputation if published, and so 
 on. Fetch them here at once, and let me have a look 
 at them, please." 
 
 Xow, there was no earthly reason why the general 
 attorney should not look at the letters, yet the claim- 
 agent felt exceedingly reluctant to put them in his 
 possession. Yet, just because he really could think 
 of no reason for refusing, he at last complied. A 
 glance or two put the shrewd old lawyer in possession 
 of their contents. He struck the bell on his desk, 
 and, motioning the claim-agent to remain, he bade
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 207 
 
 the porter admit Judge McChesney. At that name, 
 which was borne by the most distinguished lawyer in 
 the State, unless it was the general attorney himself, 
 the claim-agent started, but said nothing. 
 
 " Ah, good morning, Judge," said the general 
 attorney, briskly. " You wanted to see me once 
 more about the Richardson case, I believe," refer- 
 ring to a note on the table. " Well, I have nothing 
 to add to our previous offer of settlement." 
 
 " Which I have once for all emphatically de- 
 clined," said the judge, firmly. " I am empowered, 
 however, to settle for seventy-five thousand dollars 
 cash in hand. This is our lowest, I may say our final 
 proposition." 
 
 " Which I also unhesitatingly decline." 
 
 " And you will do nothing more than the paltry 
 amount you have already offered?" 
 
 " Kothing more. Seventy-five thousand is a pre- 
 posterous amount. No jury would ever award you 
 a tithe of that sum." 
 
 " We'll chance that. The facts are plain, the 
 evidence is clear and convincing, and we are quite 
 ready, indeed, anxious, to go into court with you." 
 
 " You will find us there when you are," said the 
 general attorney, calmly. 
 
 " May I ask if this suit is brought for, or in behalf 
 of, Mrs. Richardson, Judge McChesney?" inter- 
 rupted the claim-agent, at this juncture. 
 
 " I don't mind telling you," answered the judge, 
 after a reflective pause, " that she is only mentioned 
 in the will, given a pittance in the hope of avoiding
 
 208 The Records 
 
 a contest, I presume, though I've nothing to do with 
 that. The suit is brought for the estate at the in- 
 stance of the deceased's father, who is also his exec- 
 utor. Now, Mr. General Attorney, if you have noth- 
 ing further to say, we will leave the decision of the 
 case to the courts. I am sorry that we are unable 
 to agree." 
 
 The judge hesitated a moment, arose and took his 
 hat. 
 
 " Good morning, gentlemen," he said, turning 
 toward the door. 
 
 " Oh, Judge," said the general attorney, as if a 
 thought had suddenly struck him, " a moment, 
 please. Just cast your eye over that." 
 
 He detached a letter from the bundle of papers 
 on the desk, and handed it to the judge. The latter 
 fixed 'his eyeglasses on his nose, and scanned the 
 paper, at first indifferently. 
 
 "What's this?" he said, with sudden interest. 
 " Pah! What disgusting rot! What is it? " 
 
 " That," said the general attorney, nonchalantly, 
 " is one of a bundle of letters addressed, as I learn 
 from others in the package here, to Mr. Henry Kich- 
 ardson by one Inez Lancy, a woman whose reputa- 
 tion is as unsavory as her correspondence." 
 
 Judge McChesney removed his hat and sat down 
 once more. 
 
 " Are there others like it? " he asked. 
 
 He had quite made up his mind to destroy it then 
 and there if it were the only one in existence. The 
 general attorney selected a second letter at random
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 209 
 
 from the bunch, and passed it over. He knew quite 
 well what was passing in the other man's mind. He 
 would have done it himself in like circumstances. 
 
 " Plenty," he answered. " You may retain those 
 two, if you like, Judge ; they are samples of the rest. 
 Each one worse than the others. We don't need 
 em." 
 
 " And you propose ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, we propose nothing." 
 
 " Why then ? " 
 
 " Oh, your client was such a fine fellow, we really 
 wanted you to know him. That stuff would make 
 fine reading for his wife and family, to say nothing 
 of the general public, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 The claim-agent started at that, but neither of the 
 two men was paying the slightest attention to him 
 at that juncture. Judge McChesney threw the two 
 letters down on the desk near the rest, while the 
 general attorney gathered them carefully up. They 
 were of no use to the judge unless he could get them 
 all. The general attorney handed the completed 
 packet to the claim-agent again, while the judge 
 hemmed violently, and took off his eyeglasses and 
 wiped them carefully. 
 
 " Such documents," he began at last, " while 
 highly distressing to friends and relatives, have no 
 legal force in a case of this kind, you understand." 
 
 " My dear Judge," said the general attorney, in 
 a politely remonstrative voice, " legal force ? I am 
 surprised that you should think for a moment that 
 we contemp "
 
 210 The Kec&rds 
 
 "Nonsense!" interrupted the judge vehemently. 
 I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll settle for fifty 
 thousand and the letters." 
 
 " Five thousand," said the general attorney, per- 
 suasively. 
 
 "See you damned first!" retorted the judge, 
 seizing his hat again. 
 
 As he did so, he cast a glance at the claim-agent. 
 That young man was standing by the hard coal fire 
 glowing in the open grate it was midwinter now 
 looking intently down at a familiar package of papers 
 blazing fiercely. The judge stopped again, as if petri- 
 fied. The general attorney followed his opponent's 
 gaze with a glance of his own. As he took in the 
 situation, he sprang to his feet with an oath, and 
 darted toward the fireplace. 
 
 "What's that?" he cried furiously. 
 
 " Those letters," answered the claim-agent, reso- 
 lutely. He was very pale, but quiet and determined. 
 
 " Did you ? " began the general attorney. 
 
 " I dropped them there," answered the claim- 
 agent. 
 
 " Accidentally? " 
 
 The claim-agent shook his head. 
 
 " Designedly? " 
 
 The claim-agent bowed. 
 
 There was a moment of fearful silence. Judgo 
 McChesney broke it. 
 
 " You won't settle for seventy-five thousand, then? 
 Well, good morning."
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 211 
 
 They could hear him laughing clear down the 
 hall. 
 
 " Why in h 1 did you do that?' roared the gen- 
 eral attorney. He was furious with anger. " That 
 was our best card. "We'll be mulcted in terrific dam- 
 ages. That would have held him off. Why, sir, 
 why? " 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 The general attorney stared hard at the claim- 
 agent for a little space, mastered his temper slowly, 
 and spoke more quietly at last. 
 
 " That will cost the road a pretty penny, but it 
 will cost you something individually your posi- 
 tion. Sit down at that desk and write out your res- 
 ignation at once. I accept it in advance." 
 
 The claim-agent bowed, sat down, scribbled a few 
 moments, blotted the paper, glanced over it, and ten- 
 dered it to the general attorney. 
 
 " Very good," said that functionary, briefly. 
 " JN"ow go, sir, and the sooner the better." 
 
 " Before I go I have something to say on my own 
 account," said the claim-agent, standing up very 
 straight and looking his superior in the eye. " I 
 burned those letters because I would not be a party 
 to any blackmailing scheme on the part of this road. 
 Either we are liable for heavy damages or we are not. 
 I am not running this road, or its legal department, 
 but I won't assist at any unfairness or chicanery. 
 In the long run, I believe that even a railroad will 
 make more and pay better by being strictly honest 
 than by any sharp practices whatsoever. Those let-
 
 212 The Records 
 
 ters have no connection with this case, on its merits. 
 To publish them or to get them in as evidence, if 
 it could have been done, would have brought dis- 
 grace on the man's wife and family, and it would 
 have been bad policy, besides." 
 
 " What are the man's wife and family to you, 
 sir? " coolly asked the general attorney, who was 
 much interested in the speech of the claim-agent. 
 
 "His family, nothing; his wife, much. Since you 
 ask about my private affairs, I'll tell you that I knew 
 her when she was a young girl. I " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I was in love with her then, and I 
 am now, and " 
 
 " And you hope to win her by the story of this 
 noble act on your part, do you? " 
 
 " I don't know how she is to find it out unless you 
 tell her," returned the claim-agent, hotly. " She 
 did not love her husband, and she did love me. They 
 were separated shortly after their marriage, into 
 which she was forced by her parents. But she thinks 
 she has wronged him by her indifference, and she 
 believes he was faithful to her. She refused me 
 again last summer because she wished to be true to 
 his memory. I could have given her the letters 
 then, and, by proving his unworthiness, perhaps I 
 might have won her for myself." 
 
 " Why didn't you, then? " 
 
 " I could not." 
 
 " That's twice you have been a fool," said the older
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 213 
 
 man, contemptuously, yet with a certain admiration 
 in his mind for the other. 
 
 " Maybe, but I think I'd rather be a fool than* a 
 general attorney," answered the claim-agent, turn- 
 ing to go. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was not easy for . him to get anything to do 
 after his sudden and summary dismissal from the 
 B. S. & "W. road, but the claim-agent claim-agent 
 no longer at last succeeded in securing a temporary 
 appointment, pending something better, in one of the 
 big corporations in Chicago. To him a few weeks 
 later, entered a messenger with a statement that 
 there was a lady in the reception-room who desired 
 to see him. 
 
 Amy Richardson met him on the threshold. 
 
 " Is there any place where we can be quite alone 
 for a few moments without being interrupted? " she 1 
 asked, so soon as she saw him, and before he had 
 time to say a word even. 
 
 The president of the company was fortunately 
 absent for the day, and, by permission of the man- 
 ager, the agitated claim-agent led the woman he 
 loved into the luxurious little private office, where 
 they were as much alone as if they had been ma- 
 rooned on a desert island. She seated herself ner- 
 vously in a large, capacious arm-chair, which her 
 tiny figure by no means filled, while he stood erect 
 before her. He noticed with a thrill of satisfaction
 
 214 The Records 
 
 that, while her perfectly-fitting gown was dark in 
 color and most unobtrusive in style, she was not in 
 mourning. As for the rest, her cheeks were flushed 
 and her eyes bright with was it satisfaction, antici- 
 pation, or what? Again, he could not tell. Alto- 
 gether she looked, he thought fatuously, even 
 younger and sweeter than she had looked six years 
 before. However, he only stared at her, saying 
 nothing. 
 
 " Oh, do sit down, Frank," she began at last. " It 
 makes me nervous to see you standing there. That's 
 better," she continued, as he obeyed her command. 
 " That suit, you know, about my about Mr. Rich- 
 ardson " She paused. He nodded. " It was set- 
 tled last week. Had you heard?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " The plaintiff compromised for ten thousand dol- 
 lars." 
 
 " I congratulate " 
 
 " Hush! Do you think I would touch a penny of 
 it, or of his money in any shape now? No; five 
 thousand went to the estate and five thousand 
 to " 
 
 She paused again. 
 
 " Not to you? " asked the man. 
 
 " To a certain woman named Lancy ! " 
 
 The murder was out in spite of his efforts, then. 
 
 " I'm sorry you heard," he began, vaguely, feel- 
 ing that he ought to say something, although, to be 
 honest, he was not really sorry at all. 
 
 " And I am glad, glad!" she cried, impetuously.
 
 The Wreck and the Letters 215 
 
 " Oh, the low, mean, wretched woman ! And I 
 thought him so noble, faithful, too." 
 
 " I'm sorry," said the claim-agent, vaguely, rising 
 and coming toward her as he spoke. 
 
 He stopped by her chair, took her hand in his 
 own, and she did not withdraw it. She turned away 
 her head, too, but he could see the color mounting 
 in her cheek, mark the rapid rise and fall of her 
 breast. The man's heart was beating rapidly. He 
 scarce knew what he was doing. 
 
 " And I know about you, too," she went on, more 
 softly, so that he had to bend very low over her to 
 hear her. " Judge McChesney told me how noble 
 and self-sacrificing you had been with those wretched 
 letters." 
 
 "Did he say that?" 
 
 " Well, not exactly. He told me the facts, the 
 words are my own." 
 
 " Thank you. It was nothing." 
 
 " It was the finest thing I ever heard. That 
 woman filed a lien or something or other on the suit, 
 you know, when she learned it was being brought; 
 he had promised her money, and she had letters, his 
 letters I can imagine what hers, were you burned 
 from those I saw. She was going to produce them 
 in court, so Mr. Richardson's father compromised 
 the suit, and she got half, as I said. No, don't inter- 
 rupt me," she went on hastily, as he strove to speak. 
 " If I am stopped now I'll never be able to begin 
 again. After I heard about it I went to your office 
 to to see you, and you were gone. They sent me
 
 216 The Records 
 
 to the general attorney. They said he was an aw- 
 fully gruff man, but I found him a dear. He was 
 nice to me, and he gave me your address. They kept 
 track of you, you see, and I came right here and 
 and " 
 
 She stopped, drew her hand away from him, hid 
 her face and cowered down in the great chair before 
 his steady gaze. 
 
 " Amy," he said, stooping quite low, and taking 
 her in his arms, " does this mean that you will let 
 me love you at last ? " 
 
 " It means more than that," she whispered. 
 
 " Oh, Amy! " rapturously, " will you promise 
 again to wait for me until I get a permanent position 
 and am able to ? " 
 
 " I won't wait another minute, Frank! " 
 
 " Amy, what do you mean? " 
 
 11 I've waited long enough. I we " 
 
 " Will you marry me now, Amy? " 
 
 " Whenever you like. This very minute! " 
 
 It was some time before any coherent conversation 
 was possible or necessary, but when it was, she drew 
 back a little, saying : 
 
 " Oh, Frank^ dearest, there is something else. The 
 general attorney told me to tell you to come back; 
 since the suit was settled, your old place was open 
 for you with an increase of salary. I think he likes 
 
 you." 
 
 " Hardly, but " 
 
 " Wait, that isn't all yet. He told me to tell you, 
 after seeing me, that you weren't such a a he 
 swore awfully fool, after all! "
 
 Tenth Record 
 
 THE ATHEIST* 
 
 The little Bishop was one of the most tactful of 
 men. Some men get to be bishops heaven only 
 knows how who have no tact whatever. Their lives 
 thereafter are most miserable, and their dioceses do 
 not especially enjoy the situation either. Of all the 
 places in which a man may find himself in which 
 are made insistent demands on every possible qual- 
 ity that goes to promote success, that of a bishop is 
 the hardest to fill. Especially is this true in 
 a Western semi-missionary diocese. The Bishop 
 thereof has to be everything that every other leader 
 in secular affairs must be all things to all men and 
 the same to all women, which is harder to win 
 success, and in addition he has to be a lot more things 
 which are usually considered incompatible with suc- 
 cess commanding qualities. 
 
 To be a servant of God and a leader of men at one 
 and the same time is to solve an almost unsolvable 
 problem. Opportunities for trying the experiment, 
 in the episcopal line at any rate, are rare, but the 
 statement may not be gainsaid. Read the promises 
 
 * By courtesy of "The New York Herald."
 
 218 The Records 
 
 in the Ordinal, which, in the nature of things being 
 merely general, seem to cover all possible contin- 
 gencies that may arise. 
 
 Tact, therefore that subtle, intangible quality, 
 which is so unsusceptible of exact definition that 
 everybody explains it differently is one of the most 
 valuable assets to bring to the solution of an epis- 
 copal problem, or any other problem. One can not be 
 tactful with the subtleness and diplomacy of a suc- 
 cessful scoundrel, either, or even with the skill and 
 address of a wise and prosperous man of the world, 
 but one must be tactful with the righteousness and 
 veracity of a saint. This further complicates matters. 
 
 Fools rush in where angels fear to tread! I never 
 could understand why there are so many men in 
 the Church thirsting for a chance to wear the mitre. 
 Perhaps in the fact that they are usually very young 
 men lies the explanation. 
 
 The Bishop was tactful in the right way, and a 
 he was a man of brilliant parts he usually succeeded 
 in what he attempted to do. The rest of us who 
 worked with him in the diocese, with the rash im- 
 petuosity of 'youth were inclined to take the prob- 
 lematical bull by the horns whenever he presented 
 himself, and try to coerce him by brute strength 
 rather than slip a ring through his nose and lead him 
 gently along, filled with the idea that he was only 
 going where he desired and doing as he wished. Con- 
 sequently, we usually failed in delicate operations, 
 and the Bishop had to come to our rescue. A Bishop 
 has to be a sort of moral Macchiavelli, anyway.
 
 The Atheist 219 
 
 For instance, once there was a man who was on the 
 vestry of a church of which the Bishop was rector 
 before he was made Bishop. He was not a religious 
 man in any sense the man, not the Bishop, of 
 course. It does not take much religion to qualify for 
 a vestryman, sometimes. They had but a limited 
 field to draw from for the making of vestries out 
 there, and too close a scrutiny might have abolished 
 most of the vestries. The Bishop found him on the 
 vestry when he took the parish and he had remained 
 there. He was a thorn in the Bishop's side, for he 
 was what is known as a " near^man." ^Nobody had 
 succeeded in getting him very far away from one of 
 his own dollars. That was a most unusual qualifica- 
 tion for a vestryman who, in certain schemes of 
 parish administration, is expected, with his fellows, 
 to pay the church bills his election by his fellow 
 laborers in the vineyard being mainly for that spe- 
 cific purpo&e. 
 
 They had a meeting of the vestry one night, and 
 resolved on some extensive repairs to the church, 
 which needed it badly. The man in question was ab- 
 sent, which he never would have been if he had 
 known the spending of money was in contemplation. 
 Possibly, though I don't say so, the Bishop had taken 
 advantage of his absence to bring up the matter. 
 The next day he met the Bishop upon the street and 
 berated him tremendously for presuming to urge the 
 spending of the necessary moneys. The language 
 that he used was shocking. As he became more and 
 more indignant with each successive mention of the
 
 220 The Records 
 
 amount, he scolded the Bishop like the proverbial 
 fishwife, his vituperation passing all bounds. 
 
 The Bishop had a great deal of the temper of 
 St. Paul in him. Alexander the Coppersmith 
 would have fought shy of him, I am sure. He was 
 aggressive by nature, the man had angered him ex- 
 cessively, and he restrained himself on the public 
 street with great difficulty. Finally matters reached 
 such a point that he only saved himself from break- 
 ing out by turning away. 
 
 He rushed off to his study, sat down, and wrote 
 that man a letter, and the Bishop was a master with 
 his pen, too. The document was entirely adequate 
 to the situation, from a human standpoint, so those 
 of us thought who were conversant w r ith the facts, 
 to whom he read it; and when it was finished the 
 little man surveyed it with much pride, in which 
 we all shared. It was an epistolary gem of its 
 kind. 
 
 Then he reflected that, contrary to his practice 
 when unusually provoked, he had not read a portion 
 of Pusey's famous sermon on Patience, so he hauled 
 forth the well worn volume from his pocket, where 
 he kept it for emergencies of this kind, and read 
 over some paragraphs of the sermon which he al- 
 ready knew by heart. He came to the conclusion be- 
 fore he had read much that a man who could speak 
 so to him, and on the public street, too, could not 
 possibly be a Christian, and that he should not heed 
 what he had said. Under the circumstances there 
 was something else to be done something better.
 
 The Atheist 221 
 
 He tore that letter up, and sat down and wrote 
 another, never mentioning the cause of the dispute 
 or referring to the man's outrageous conduct in the 
 slightest manner. It was one of the tenderest, 
 sweetest appeals to the man for him to take thought 
 for the future and attend to the salvation of his soul 
 for him to come into the Church and be a real 
 Christian instead of a mere vestryman that we ever 
 listened to. 
 
 Most everybody hated that man because he was 
 selfish and quarrelsome, and he knew his unpopu- 
 larity, rather gloried in it, in fact. He had felt a 
 little ashamed of his conduct after the Bishop left 
 him, and that appeal, coming at the right time, 
 touched his heart. No one had ever concerned him- 
 self greatly about his soul before. The letter worked 
 a real reformation. He presently qualified for a 
 higher degree in the church membership than that of 
 a vestryman, and that 'his conversion was sincere was 
 evidenced by the fact that he made the Bishop a 
 standing offer that he would give one-tenth of any 
 sum that he might desire to raise for any church pur- 
 poses at any time! That was much for him, for 
 where his treasure was there was his heart also. 
 That was a sample of the Bishop's tact. Here is 
 another : 
 
 Once he had to raise a large sum of money by a 
 certain date. He had been preaching in the wealthy 
 churches of an Eastern diocese making his appeal. 
 The last Sunday before the appointed day he found 
 he still lacked a considerable amount. The church
 
 222 The Record* 
 
 which had offered him hospitality was one of the 
 wealthiest in the city. He had hoped to get the 
 required sum there. It rained oh, how it did pour 
 that day, a regular deluge. There were perhaps 
 three dozen people in the church. His heart sank. 
 
 He almost felt it would be of no use for him to 
 make his appeal to that handful, yet remembering 
 the advice of one of his homely Western friends to 
 " Allus give 'em the best ye've got in the shop, no 
 matter whatsomever, Eight Rever'nd," he did his 
 very best. He appealed to the faithful two score as 
 if they had been two thousand. After the service 
 one man invited him to dinner, and after dinner he 
 took him into his library, drew out a check book, and 
 said, " I'll make up the balance. How much did 
 you say you needed?" 
 
 " Wait," said the Bishop, after thanking the man 
 for his generous offer, " there yet remain two or 
 three days before the time limit expires. It is prob- 
 able that I may receive sums of money from other 
 sources which will prevent me from calling upon you 
 for so much as I need now, and I can save you some- 
 thing." ; 
 
 " Very well," replied the man; " come around on 
 the day before." 
 
 The required sum had diminshed by more than 
 one-half by belated offerings, and it was with much 
 pride that the Bishop told his new friend how much 
 less he should require from him. The man wrote a 
 check for double the amount and handed it to the 
 Bishop, with the remark that it was the first time
 
 The Atheist 223 
 
 anybody asking for money for religious purposes 
 had ever endeavored to save him a penny, and he 
 appreciated it so much that he gave him twice as 
 much as he asked for, and, what was better still, 
 told him to come again. He was a man to be trusted 
 not to appeal for an unworthy object. 
 
 One time the wardenship of a certain divinity 
 school became vacant. The Bishop was much in- 
 terested in the school and deemed the selection of 
 a new warden to be of great importance. Among 
 the trustees was a party which, by ecclesiastical bias, 
 naturally antagonized anything ^and everything the 
 Bishop put forth. The Bishop had a candidate to 
 whom he had pledged such trustees as he could in- 
 fluence, not quite a majority. The other side, it was 
 learned, had no candidate, and appeared to have no 
 definite plan except to beat the Bishop. 
 
 The Bishop's heart was set upon getting Dr. Sil- 
 ver, perhaps the best man that could be selected. 
 When the meeting was held for the purpose of elec- 
 tion and nominations were declared in order, the 
 Bishop got up and in a very emphatic manner put 
 forth some reasons, which were exceedingly weak, 
 of course, why Dr. Silver should not be nominated 
 and elected. The other party thereupon immediately 
 put the man in nomination, and he was elected 
 unanimously, much to their surprise. 
 
 " You see," said the Bishop afterward, " I not 
 only wanted to have the doctor elected, but I also 
 wanted everybody committed to support him." 
 
 We used to make a great deal of fun of the Bishop
 
 224 The Records 
 
 for this transaction. Yes, whatever the old man 
 set his heart upon he was generally able to achieve. 
 He only failed in one thing, but somebody else suc- 
 ceeded there in the strangest way. 
 
 n 
 
 There was a woman in the diocese named Norris. 
 Probably there were many women named Norris, 
 but this one was distinguished from the others be- 
 cause she was that rare thing among women, an 
 atheist. Stranger still, her husband was a devout 
 churchman, and her course was a lasting grief to him. 
 He never lost his faith, however faith that it would 
 come right in the end, that is, and sure enough it did. 
 She was a brilliant woman and had been in early days 
 a zealous Christian, but something had shattered her 
 faith; some calamity, some trial to which she had 
 been unequal, had utterly destroyed her religion. 
 
 In her heart, Mrs. Morris not only denied the exist- 
 ence of God, but she became a zealous propagandist 
 of her lack of belief. She was ready to dispute with 
 any one upon the subject, and liked nothing better 
 than to/ argue with " Professing Christians," espe- 
 cially the clergy. I have generally found the clergy 
 fond of argument, especially if they can do it all 
 themselves. They do not like to be talked back to. 
 As she was a woman of keen intellect and great men- 
 tal power, easily surpassing many of the clergy in 
 that, and as she had studied the arguments for her 
 side of the proposition, she usually got the better of 
 her reverend disputants in discussions.
 
 The Atheist 225 
 
 There was one, however, with whom she could 
 not argue, and that was the Bishop. There were 
 two reasons, first, because she was not able enough 
 to sustain a controversy with a man of his calibre 
 and acumen, and, second, because after some few 
 discussions he would no longer argue with her. 
 Realizing that it was not a case for argument, he cast 
 about in his mind for other means of converting her, 
 but vainly. He tried to influence her in every pos- 
 sible personal way short of controversy. We used to 
 think sometimes that he shook her confident assur- 
 ance by his very being, but she naver admitted it. 
 
 Among the clergymen of the city there was a 
 Churchman so high that he was an extremist. The 
 atmosphere of that section of the country was not 
 congenial to the growth of such an exotic, and he 
 languished, or his parish did, which was worse. How 
 he came there and why he stayed there we never 
 could find out. But there he was, and there he 
 stayed in spite of everything. 
 
 Your extreme High Churchman, yorr elaborate 
 ritualist, is either a fat autocrat or a lean martyr. 
 A few, a very few, of them in the great cities are 
 the popes of large congregations which they have 
 attracted to them by their talents and by their self- 
 sacrifice. Most of them, especially in small towns 
 or country dioceses, are the slaves of their narrow 
 and rigid opinions. Many of these last and I bear 
 testimony gladly to their sincerity and devotion are 
 martyrs. I know many men who suffer hardships 
 almost incredible in this day, for that they believe
 
 226 The Records 
 
 men of talent and ability who could fill acceptably 
 larger places, where they would not only be more 
 useful but more comfortable, but who are quite will- 
 ing, nay, anxious, to sacrifice themselves for their 
 convictions. I pity them, but I honor them. Many 
 a black cassock covers a sick, worn, hungry, chilly 
 body when that body encloses the soul of an ex- 
 treme High Churchman. To be extreme in anything 
 is to invite martyrdom at best. 
 
 The Rev. Littleton Talbot was a martyr. This 
 kind is always a celibate, and as he had no wife in 
 whom to confide, no one, not even the Bishop, who 
 generally knew everything, realized on what a bare 
 pittance he subsisted, and to what desperate straits 
 he was reduced in the parish of St. Mary the Most 
 Blessed Virgin Mother the name was almost bigger 
 than the parish. He had a stipend from the Mis- 
 sionary Board, which was always promptly paid, 
 even if, as was often the case, the Bishop had to 
 pay it himself out of his own meagre and intermit- 
 tent salary. But that stipend went to the poor, and 
 if anything was left it went to the ornaments and 
 adornments of the church, which was his passion. 
 He would rather have a new cope than a warm coat ; 
 he preferred incense to a good fire, and who shall 
 fault him? 
 
 Chance threw him in the society of Mrs. Nor- 
 ris. Here was a f oeman worthy of his steel. He 
 would convert her. He spoke to the Bishop about 
 it, and the Bishop told him to go ahead, perhaps 
 partly because it was difficult to deny him. There
 
 The Atheist 227 
 
 the Bishop made one of his rare mistakes. He had 
 to make a mistake" once in a while or he would not 
 have been human. Littleton Talbot was about as 
 unadapted and ill-equipped for that purpose as one 
 could well conceive. He had a zeal for God, but 
 alas! not according to knowledge. Most zeal for 
 God is of that kind. He plunged blindly and came 
 to grief. That, however, neither the Bishop nor any 
 one could have expected. 
 
 The woman took a cruel delight in torturing the 
 man. She vitiated all his convictions, shattered all 
 his contentions, and he was just bright enough to 
 see the point of her arguments without being bright 
 enough to find out where she was weak. Personally 
 as well, for she was a woman and beautiful, she daz- 
 zled him. To convert her he came often to see her. 
 
 He became more and more unsettled in his belief 
 and practices. She parted him from his moorings, 
 mental, spiritual and physical. He had no con- 
 fidants and he had to fight it out alone. It is not 
 good for a man to be alone under such circumstances, 
 if ever. He went through the mechanical round of 
 his duties, observing his saints' days, his fasts and 
 his vigils, his matins, his lauds and so on; intoning 
 his services, swinging his censers, wearing his copes, 
 as he had always done; but his heart went out of it 
 all. The savor and sweetness of it were gone for 
 him. 
 
 He was thin, pale, emaciated before; he became a 
 nervous wreck. Like the moth fluttering about the 
 candle, he went back again and again to that woman.
 
 228 The Records 
 
 He heard over and over what she had to say. Her 
 keen, clever, brilliant sentences permeated his brain. 
 By and by he fell and great was the fall of him! 
 He was absolutely and utterly conquered, beaten, 
 broken, ruined, carried away. 
 
 He came to her house the day before Christmas 
 with blasphemy on his lips. With all hei; clever in- 
 tuition she had never dreamed of what was passing 
 in the man's mind. It had been a sport, a game to 
 her, in which she had not realized the torture she 
 had inflicted nor the consequences of her playing. 
 She was horrified when she saw the ruin she had 
 effected. No one had ever questioned her integrity, 
 her honesty, her purity before. She had preserved 
 these in spite of her atheism, but when Talbot's 
 religion was gone everything was gone from him. 
 The man became a moral as well as an intellectual 
 wreck, and on the heels of his blasphemy he poured 
 forth a declaration of frantic passion for her that 
 appalled the woman. Thinking him almost sexless, 
 as it were, she had indulged him perhaps a little 
 imprudently, but in all innocence, and he now pre- 
 sumed to ask her to leave her husband and fly with 
 him. 
 
 She looked into the black void where his own soul 
 had been and shrunk aghast. Even the shallowest 
 soul leaves a fearful abyss when it is gone. She was 
 not only horrified but outraged in every fibre of her 
 being, yet she was too able, too just a woman not 
 to realize that she had only herself to blame. A 
 woman less strong would have driven him from her
 
 The Atheist 229 
 
 with contempt, but she pitied him. Even a poor life 
 ruined is a sad spectacle, and his own had been a 
 good one. She told him with a firmness that even he 
 could recognize that he had misunderstood her, that 
 he had been mistaken; and then she bade him see her 
 no more. 
 
 There was another admonition upon her lips as 
 he staggered out of her presence, cursing her for 
 having brought this shipwreck and misery upon him, 
 but a lingering pride restrained her in silence. When 
 she was alone she sat down to consider and reflect 
 on the situation. What was this man without God? 
 What was any human being without the Divine 
 Presence? She had taken God from this man's life, 
 she had robbed this man's soul of faith and hope, 
 she had shattered his belief, she had given him noth- 
 ing in place of these things. She had ruined him. 
 
 What was her own situation? Her soul was re- 
 volted that he had dared dared! Yet what else 
 could she expect under the circumstances? She had 
 thrust God out of her own life. Would there be 
 no result to her from that dispossession? She saw 
 herself in this moral outcast and shuddered at the 
 sight. What was the fate before her? She hid her 
 face in her hands and at last realized what she had 
 denied. 
 
 That evening she came to the Bishop's study, pale, 
 distraught, anguished, torn in body and soul. Her 
 feelings were evidenced in her face as she told the 
 Bishop what had happened. He was wise enough 
 oh, tactful little Bishop! to allow her to tell her
 
 230 The Records 
 
 story without a word of interruption, yet he listened 
 with a heart beating with hope as it had not beat 
 before. And with the hope there was mingled a 
 great consternation, because he had not foreseen the 
 possibility of such a catastrophe to the poor weakling 
 who had failed, and yet the Bishop could not get 
 this out of his mind who had perhaps succeeded 
 after all. When she had finished and told him how, 
 in the silence in which she had been left, there had 
 come to her a vision, the Bishop expected her to do 
 what she did, put her head down upon her hands and 
 give way. The iron constraint in whic'h she had 
 spoken vanished, and the poor woman sobbed out: 
 " Oh, my God! my God! What must I do? " 
 It was the atheist who was praying. The old man 
 laid his hand upon her head and spoke such words as 
 carried comfort and peace to her soul. She had 
 indeed seen a heavenly vision, and, as no one can 
 look upon such a vision and remain the same, she 
 had been changed born again. 
 
 Ah," murmured the Bishop to himself after she 
 had left him, as he picked up his hat and prepared 
 to go in search of that which was gone astray, " the 
 woman has been brought to Christ again. Perhaps 
 in no other way could it have been brought about. 
 Now for poor Talbot. It was my fault. I must 
 win him back! Then there will be no one lost, no 
 one!"
 
 " My God ! My God ! 
 
 What must I do?" Page 230
 
 The Atheist 231 
 
 ra 
 
 It was snowing and blowing that night as only it 
 can snow and blow out West. It would have been 
 called a blizzard in the East, but out there nobody 
 minded it especially. The little Bishop, who had 
 faced many a storm in life, both of wind and weather 
 and of heart and soul, staggered along in spite of 
 the buffeting of the wind and the drive of the snow, 
 scarcely giving a thought to either. The shepherd 
 was after a sheep that had wandered from the fold 
 that Christmas Eve. The " care of all the churches " 
 is a heavy burden and the phrase is very comprehen- 
 sive. It includes the care of all the weak, feeble 
 under shepherds of the several flocks as well, and one 
 of them had gone sadly astray on this bitter night. 
 
 The Bishop's way led him to the poorer quarters 
 of the town. On one of the side streets he stopped 
 before a poor little weather-beaten structure. Yel- 
 low letters on a black signboard, surmounted by a big 
 cross, seen dimly in the driving snow and the growing 
 darkness, informed the few passers by that it was the 
 Church of St. Mary the Most Blessed Virgin Mother. 
 The Bishop had an idea that he would find Talbot 
 there. 
 
 There were lights in the windows of the church, 
 indicating that it was occupied. He walked to the 
 door and opened it. A few people were engaged in 
 putting up Christmas greens and other decorations 
 preparatory for to-morrow's services. Talbot was
 
 232 The Records 
 
 not there. Inquiry developed the fact that he had 
 not been there, although he had agreed to meet the 
 guild to superintend their preparations. The Bishop 
 chatted a moment or two and then went out. In- 
 stead of leaving the churchyard he turned and 
 ploughed his way through the snow to the chancel 
 end of the building. Why he did this he could not 
 tell, but all his life he rejoiced that he had followed 
 his strange impulse without hesitation. A black 
 figure with outstretched arms lay on the ground like 
 a cross, with head toward the altar. It was Talbot. 
 
 The Bishop knelt down and put his arms around 
 the man and spoke to him. The weather was very 
 cold, but Talbot was burning hot. 
 
 " I have sinned against the Lord ! " he moaned 
 bitterly, unconsciously using the ancient phrase. 
 "My God! " he cried, "let me die! I am a false 
 priest! A lost man! I wish I had died before " 
 
 The Bishop would have given the world to say, 
 in the words of the prophet, " The Lord hath also 
 put away thy sin, thou shalt not die," but the Bishop 
 was an honest man and a truthful, and he could not 
 say that yet. There was one thing he could say, 
 however, and that he did. 
 
 " My son," said the old man, gently and tenderly, 
 " the fault is mine. I allowed you to undertake a 
 task beyond your human strength, and the devil got 
 hold of you, but with God's help we will beat him 
 yet. And and you succeeded after all. She came 
 to my house an hour ago. She is a changed woman. 
 Come!"
 
 The Atheist 233 
 
 He was not a master that he should say " Go ! " 
 only a human follower, so he changed the great 
 injunction to a tender appeal. 
 
 " Come with me," he added, " and sin no more." 
 
 That was why the Bishop took Talbot's services at 
 the Church of St. Mary the Most Blessed Virgin 
 Mother on Christmas Day. And that was why Mrs. 
 Morris went there to meet the new born King rather 
 than elsewhere, and as the Bishop's glance fell upon 
 her during the services he caught himself wondering 
 whether anything else than so great a catastrophe 
 could have brought back the atheist's vanished faith. 
 
 " After all," mused the Bishop again, " when I 
 have set poor Talbot in the right way again every- 
 thing will have been gained."
 
 Eleventh Record 
 
 THE IMPULSES OF ELEANOR* 
 
 The artistic temperament is not usually conjoined 
 with the creative faculty. A man may be an excel- 
 lent editor not in the newspaper sense without 
 ability to write a line. The soul may be full of music 
 with no power of expression. A love of the beau- 
 tiful may permeate the mind without a corresponding 
 ability to show it forth. 
 
 Eleanor Drayton loved the beautiful similia 
 similibus! but had no faculty of expression cor- 
 responding to her feeling. She was neither a poet, 
 nor a painter, nor a musician, although that she was 
 not all three was due to no lack of endeavor. Had 
 her ability equaled her ambition she would have 
 been a feminine Crichton. As it was she was only 
 a remarkably pretty girl, who wrote execrable poetry, 
 painted atrocious pictures and played indifferently. 
 
 It is astonishing that with her real appreciation of 
 the truly beautiful, external to herself, she should 
 not have discovered, long since, her own limitations; 
 but such discoveries are, as a rule, the results of 
 experience. There is a merciful or is it a merciless? 
 
 * By courtesy of " The Twentieth Century Home."
 
 236 The Records 
 
 providence which keeps us in ignorance of our 
 own inabilities until some crushing crisis lays the 
 edifice constructed by our self-conceit in ruins at 
 our feet. Age, like adversity, hath its uses, although 
 some rare mortals there be whose conceit in their 
 performances even age can not wither nor custom 
 stale. Eleanor Drayton was young enough, however, 
 for all this to be in the future. What she would be 
 at the grand climacteric was yet to be determined. 
 
 There are abilities so great that they dispense 
 with the ordinary means of achievement. Strictly 
 speaking, there is no such thing as a self-made man, 
 or woman, but there are those to whom the definition 
 applies with considerable appositeness. Talent sup- 
 plies experience. 
 
 Eleanor Drayton was not that kind of a girl, and 
 it is only fair to say that she had been totally without 
 the advantages that a fine environment may bestow. 
 Otherwise she might have painted better pictures 
 at least she would have learned the rudiments of 
 drawing; she might have written better poetry at 
 least she would have known prosody, syntax, ver- 
 sification, and rhythm; she might have played more 
 acceptably at least she could have mastered the 
 art of fingering and surmounted the ordinary diffi- 
 culties of the piano; she might even have been taught 
 to expand her voice, which was beautiful in conver- 
 sation, into at least acceptable eong. All these 
 things might have happened if she had enjoyed the 
 privilege of competent instruction upon her natural 
 basis of elegance and refinement.
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 237 
 
 But Eleanor Drayton lacked everything but am- 
 bition. Great are the sins and manifold the virtues 
 of ambition; but as it will not inherently damn, so 
 it will not of itself save. 
 
 Eleanor Drayton saw the light, blinking painfully 
 at it as humanity does more or less through life be it 
 ever so long, some twenty years before in a rude little 
 farmhouse on the slope of one of the magnificent 
 mountains of northern New York, where her father 
 managed to eke out a precarious living from the nar- 
 row confines of the rocky, sterile holding he called 
 his own. As for her mother, she stopped blinking 
 at the light when Eleanor came. It was a habit 
 of mothers, most inconsiderate of the young aspi- 
 rant for womanhood. Her love of the beautiful, her 
 desire to produce it, had fallen upon her as an heri- 
 tage from that mother, whose natural capacities had 
 been dwarfed and thwarted by the hard circum- 
 stances of her condition. Her inability to express 
 her imagination Eleanor got naturally enough from 
 her practical, prosaic farmer-father, a grubber in the 
 stony field whence, in the sweat of his face, he 
 wrested daily bread. 
 
 There was something fine in Abraham Drayton, 
 however, or Eleanor's mother would never have 
 married him, and, so far as he could, he strove to 
 stimulate his only child to attempt to express what 
 they both believed to be in her. He never remarried. 
 He brought up his little daughter in the loneliness 
 of the farm in the valley backed by the mountains 
 and fronted by the lakelet, doing by her the best he
 
 238 The Records 
 
 could. She was ignorant of even the rudiments of the 
 things she loved, yet there was nothing she did not 
 attempt. Self-taught, she picked out simple music on 
 the old-fashioned melodeon; she pictured the moun- 
 tains and hills about her, never having taken a lesson 
 in drawing; she wrote verses whose sentiments were 
 great, but which halted lamely on different feet in 
 every line. Her father thought all beautiful, so 
 much so that he suggested at last that she go from 
 the peaceful, sequestered valley in which the even 
 course of her life had been spent, into the great 
 world to storm the high places of its approval with 
 those evidences of her talents. 
 
 New York City was then, as now, the goal of 
 every human ambition. To New York with her 
 pictures and her poetry came Eleanor Drayton. Her 
 father, as unsophisticated as his daughter was inno- 
 cent, allowed her to go alone. After she had been 
 there six months, her disillusionment was nearly 
 completed. Her father had provided for her liber- 
 ally for a man in his circumstances, and she at last 
 realized that she had almost reached the end of his 
 lifetime of saving. Her probation days were over. 
 The high places loomed large before her, but she had 
 begun to feel that she could never scale them. She 
 knew now that her poetry was below contempt, that 
 her hours on the melodeon had brought forth noth- 
 ing. She fought bitterly but unavailingly against a 
 growing suspicion that the pictures were on a par 
 with the rest. 
 
 She had lived with most scrupulous economy in
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 239 
 
 the humblest way, yet she had seen much although 
 she had learned little. It takes much to impress even 
 minor conclusions on inexperience. Contrary to 
 custom, for they usually cleave together, although 
 she had lost most of her illusions, she still preserved 
 her innocence. With innocence and beauty, although 
 she did not realize it, much may be accomplished. 
 
 Her life, as she had planned it, was a failure. She 
 would have to build it again on new lines. What 
 these lines were, in what direction they ran, she could 
 not foresee. At any rate, it was a good thing for 
 her that her disillusionment had come when she was 
 young and while there was time for something else. 
 
 She made up her mind to go back to the farm and, 
 ceasing to be a dreamer, begin to be a woman. She 
 thought, with increasing pain, how inefficient she had 
 been in the daily duties of womankind upon the 
 farm. She would banish the arts and graces from 
 her dreams, and begin with the practical side of life 
 when she got back. She would make up by love and 
 care for the disappointment at her non-success that 
 her father would feel. 
 
 'Twas a brave resolution, but if ever a soul craved 
 and thirsted for the beauties, the refinements, and 
 the elegancies of life which were freely displayed 
 about it, it was the soul of Eleanor Drayton. 
 
 Strange to say, considering her poverty of expres- 
 sion, there was one thing she had in addition to her 
 beauty and innocence which was a fit setting for its 
 rarity and its purity, and that was good taste in dress 
 that excellent, but rare, thing in woman! She
 
 240 The Records 
 
 had one faculty, too, with her needle, and she had 
 made herself good-looking clothes. She wore them 
 with a certain style which was surprising, considering 
 her origin and environment. Her shapely hands were 
 well-gloved, her feet well-booted. 
 
 On the evening before her departure she had ac- 
 companied a young art student to the Waldorf, 
 where her friend was to call on a hoped-for patron. 
 Eleanor had agreed to wait for her friend in the 
 room opening from the corridor which gives entrance 
 to the dining-room, irreverently known as " Peacock 
 Alley." She liked to sit and watch the procession of 
 gorgeously and beautifully attired women with their 
 meek male attendants, whom sometimes it would have 
 been difficult to differentiate from the haughty trib- 
 ute-taking waiters, had it not been for their impe- 
 rious feminine companions. 
 
 Whether it was fashionable or not she could not 
 tell. Whether there was culture and refinement and 
 ability to match the display was a problem that her 
 inexperience could hardly solve, although she had 
 her suspicions; but that it was beautiful no one 
 could deny. 
 
 She had the requisite imagination for any mental 
 achievement, and she was dreaming a strange dream 
 there, on this last night before her departure. She 
 was rudely awakened from it by the sharp voice of a 
 bell-boy, self-importantly threading his way through 
 the chairs crowded with observers. She had heard 
 these bell-boys again and again, but this one attracted 
 her particularly, because he was calling her name
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 241 
 
 more than that, her number. She lived in a little 
 hall bedroom in a flat at 282 East Thirty-third Street. 
 
 "Miss Drayton, ~No. 282. Miss Drayton! " cried 
 the boy. 
 
 Instinctively she touched him as he passed. What 
 could he want of her? The boy stopped. 
 
 " Beg pardon, but are you Miss Drayton? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " Card for you, ma'am," he said briefly, presenting 
 his little silver salver. 
 
 She took the card and read the name, " Mr. 
 Brewer Phillips." 
 
 " The gentleman is in one of the small reception 
 rooms on the first floor up, ma'am," said the boy. 
 " Shall I take you there? " 
 
 Scarcely comprehending the situation, the girl 
 nodded, rose, and followed the boy. She was in the 
 elevator in a moment. One swift glance at its mir- 
 rored sides she would not have been a woman 
 without that reassured her. Her neat street dress 
 of dark blue, set off her pale, clear face, into which 
 the unusual incident had brought a touch of color. 
 It was an adventure. Who could Mr. Brewer Phil- 
 lips be, and what could he want with her? She 
 had little time for reflection, however, for the eleva- 
 tor stopped, and the boy ushered her into one of the 
 small rooms, which she entered, card in hand. 
 
 A man of perhaps thirty-five, sitting in one of the 
 large chairs, rose instantly and looked at her indif- 
 ferently. He was about to turn away, when he per- 
 ceived that she had a card in her hand and was
 
 242 The Records 
 
 approaching him. He stopped, and, after a step or 
 two, she stopped also and looked at him. 
 
 He was one of the finest specimens of manhood 
 she had ever seen, and his evening dress, even to a 
 more experienced and critical eye than that of the 
 simple country girl, was perfect. There was no 
 effeminacy or softness about his appearance either. 
 He had that keen, brilliant, " I will be master of 
 the world " expression which the successful New 
 Yorker, especially if he happen to have birth and 
 breeding behind his achievements, exhibits more 
 powerfully than any one else. He held a letter in hia 
 hand. 
 
 The pause between them threatened to grow em- 
 barrassing. Divining that the young woman before 
 him was unused to the ways of society, he ventured: 
 
 " Pardon me, you are looking for some one? May 
 I assist you? " 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, reading from the card, " for 
 Mr. Brewer Phillips." 
 
 Mr. Brewer Phillips, albeit he was a veteran and 
 experienced man of the world, thought he had never 
 heard his name so exquisitely pronounced. There 
 was a quality in Eleanor Drayton's voice that caught 
 his attention. He looked more closely at her and 
 saw that she was beautiful, not with the clear, cold 
 brilliancy of the women of his world, but with the 
 sweetness and freshness of a wild rose. 
 
 " I am Mr. Phillips, he responded, bowing 
 gravely.
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 243 
 
 " They said the bell-boy, that is that you 
 wanted to see me. I am Miss Drayton." 
 
 In spite of himself, the man started. A look of 
 surprise came into his face. 
 
 " Miss Eleanor Drayton? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was another pause. Mr. Phillips stood de- 
 liberating. Finally he came to a resolution. In 
 accordance with his decision he extended his hand 
 with the letter. 
 
 " I have a letter of introduction to you." 
 
 " To me? " asked the girl, in bewilderment. 
 
 " To Miss Eleanor Drayton." 
 
 Sure enough, there was her name written in bold 
 characters on a very smart looking envelope which 
 he held out to her. "What could it mean? Mechani- 
 cally she took it, opened it, and slowly read: 
 
 "Dearest Eleanor: This will be handed to you 
 by Brewer Phillips, one of Jack's college chums, and 
 one of the finest fellows in New York. I did not 
 know until the other day that you were in New 
 York, and I so much want you to meet Brewer. 
 He has promised me to be awfully nice to you for 
 Jack's and my sake. After he sees you I am sure he 
 will be for your own. Have a good time with him, 
 my dear, and tell me all about it when you come 
 home. Devotedly, BLANCHE." 
 
 There had been an unfortunate mistake. She 
 knew no Blanche, she knew no Jack. The letter was 
 not intended for her. There must be another
 
 244 The Records 
 
 Eleanor Drayton. She was dreadfully embarrassed. 
 As a preliminary to explaining the mistake, she 
 began: 
 
 " I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Phil- 
 lips, but " 
 
 " The pleasure is mine," interrupted the man, 
 " and since I have seen you I have a quarrel with 
 fate." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " The letter should have been received a week 
 ago, but I was off on my yacht on an end-of-the- 
 season cruise, and didn't go back to the office until 
 this afternoon. When do you return home ? " 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " Well, there is time for me to do something for 
 you." 
 
 " Thank you, but I return home to-morrow. And, 
 Mr. Phillips, let me explain." 
 
 " Oh, never mind ! I have a box for the opera to- 
 night. You know Eames sings in * Tosca,' and I 
 should like to take you. Will you go with me ? I'll 
 take good care of you and return you safely. I want 
 to make it pleasant for you in some way." 
 
 A temptation sprang suddenly into Eleanor's mind. 
 Her last night in New York. She had never seen 
 grand opera. Why not? He did not ask her if she 
 knew Jack and Blanche. His invitation was evi- 
 dently earnest and for herself. Why not accept? 
 She might as well, have the pleasure with the pen- 
 alty of an adventure. She knew that people ordi- 
 narily dressed extravagantly for the opera, but there
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 245 
 
 was one dainty white dress she had made herself, 
 which she had copied from one she saw in a Fifth 
 Avenue shop window, that might do. Certainly there 
 were few seamstresses who could " whip and roll " 
 and ply the needle to such advantage as she. Her 
 dress would be all right, and well On a sud- 
 den her good sense seemed to abandon her, and be- 
 fore she recognized what she was doing, she had ac- 
 cepted. 
 
 " It's a quarter to eight now. You have had your 
 dinner? " 
 
 She nodded, with a vivid remembrance of the cup 
 of cocoa and piece of bread in her own fifth-story 
 back. 
 
 " "Well, I don't know how long it will take you to 
 dress for the opera. They say women require an 
 indefinite time." 
 
 " I can do it in half an hour." 
 
 " You may have more than that. The curtain doea 
 not rise until half after eight, and i doesn't make 
 any difference if we don't get there until nine." 
 
 " I shouldn't want to miss even a note of the 
 opening," said the girl, quickly, thinking of the price 
 she was paying for her prospective pleasure. 
 
 " Well, I shall call for you at twenty-five min- 
 utes after eight. Shall I send word to your room? " 
 
 " No it won't be necessary. I will meet you here." 
 
 " And, if you will allow me, I shall send you some 
 flowers." 
 
 " Don't send. Please bring them." 
 
 She began to recognize into what deep water her
 
 246 The Records 
 
 acceptance was thrusting her but still she had not 
 the courage to explain. 
 
 " And you will be ready at the appointed time ? " 
 
 " I surely will. Good-by," answered the girl. 
 
 She returned to the lobby to find that her friend 
 had finished her call; then in her company she went 
 east along Thirty-fourth Street. She did not per- 
 ceive that Phillips left the hotel shortly after and 
 had followed her on the other side of the street 
 until <she disappeared in her own doorway. 
 
 " Well," he thought to himself, as the door closed 
 behind her, " who would have thought it? Such a 
 pretty, innocent-looking little girl! I wonder where 
 the real Eleanor Drayton is? To tell the truth, I 
 don't much care. It's a good thing she didn't fall 
 into the hands of some blackguard who would make 
 her rue 'her folly. I'll step over there and find out. 
 Ah, my man," he said, as he met the janitor coming 
 out of the door, " does a Miss Eleanor Drayton live 
 here?" 
 
 " Sure, she does. Thank ye, sor," replied the man, 
 touching 'his hat, as a coin was slipped into his hand. 
 " There's a young leddy by that name boardin' with 
 the family that owns fhe flat on the fifth floor." 
 
 " That's not quite so bad, then ; it is her real name, 
 anyway. I see how it happened," soliloquized Phil- 
 lips, as he went toward the hotel. " Now for the 
 opera! That girl certainly moves me strangely." 
 
 All of which goes to show, that even the most in- 
 durated veteran, in spite of his assurance in his 
 armor, begot of many campaigns, has joints in his
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 247 
 
 harness which a certain keen little archer may find 
 when occasion serves. 
 
 n 
 
 Exactly at twenty-five minutes past eight, Eleanor 
 Drayton met Brewer Phillips in the room where 
 they had separated some forty minutes before. She 
 still wore her short blue jacket. Such a thing as an 
 opera cloak, or even a golf cape, was as far from her 
 fancy as from her purse. On her head was the same 
 inconspicuous walking-hat which she had worn be- 
 fore. Phillips was accustomed to women dressed 
 cap-a-pie in accordance with the prevailing fashion, 
 and he took in the incongruous costume which 
 seemed so utterly inappropriate to the occasion with 
 something of dismay. 
 
 What would the people who saw him at the opera 
 think? A country cousin? He was big enough, how- 
 ever, to be indifferent to public >- opinion, and, 
 whether he were or not, he had gone into the under- 
 taking with his eyes open, and there was nothing now 
 but to carry it through. He stepped forward and 
 greeted the girl with a courtesy and cordiality which 
 were as rare in her experience as they were charm- 
 ing. Her own courage was at the breaking point. It 
 had ebbed steadily while, with frantic haste, she had 
 arrayed herself in her best and only dress of white. 
 Had there been any way of explaining the situation, 
 she would have withdrawn from the adventure on 
 which she had so impulsively entered. But, how-
 
 248 The Records 
 
 ever, she had reasoned and speculated, she had hes- 
 itated and was last. She desperately resolved to go 
 through with it. 
 
 As he greeted her, he handed her a great bunch of 
 American Beauty roses. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, glad indeed of the distrac- 
 tion, since his steady, rather quizzical gaze was hard 
 to sustain, " what magnificent roses ! I never saw 
 any such flowers as these before, except in the shop- 
 windows here in New York. We didn't have them 
 on the farm. We could not grow roses like those on 
 our hills." 
 
 " On the farm? " he queried. 
 
 " Yes ah, our home in the country, you know. 
 Thank you so much for them," she continued, ner- 
 vously. "Am I in time?" 
 
 " Exactly," he replied, " the carriage is at the 
 door." 
 
 In a few moments, wrapped in warm robes of fur, 
 she was rolling down the street in an elegantly ap- 
 pointed brougham. There was a delicious luxury 
 in the whole proceeding which she had never before 
 experienced, but which she accepted without the 
 slightest difficulty. His manner toward her was per- 
 fect; deferential, and yet with a little touch of pro- 
 tection in it that warmed her heart. If he had 
 known all about her, if she had been what she had 
 assumed to be, he could not have improved on it. 
 The distance to the Metropolitan Opera House was 
 but a short one, and in a few moments too few for 
 the girl, who would have enjoyed riding like that
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 249 
 
 forever they entered the magic portal and stood in 
 the gorgeous lobby. In a short time, having divested 
 herself of her jacket in the little ante-room at his 
 suggestion, the man noting with approval that her 
 gown was not only inconspicuous, from its very sim- 
 plicity of style and material, but that it was won- 
 derfully becoming, she was handed to a seat in one 
 of the parterre boxes. 
 
 They were a little late, the orchestra was playing, 
 the body of the house, the parquet, that is, was 
 crowded with people, and many of the boxes were 
 already full. The scene that burst upon her eyes, 
 and for which she was not prepared, was one of the 
 utmost social magnificence. She sat down in her 
 chair, leaning forward over the rail, and tried to 
 take in the picture with one comprehensive glance. 
 
 Phillips watched her with a pleasure which he had 
 hardly hoped to experience in that place again; the 
 pleasure that an old habitue takes in the impression 
 that a thing well known and of little moment pro- 
 duces upon the unfamiliar and unknowing. He had 
 marked the scene so many times that he was indif- 
 ferent to it now, and while she watched the great 
 horseshoe of humanity glittering with jewels, spark- 
 ling with light reflected from polished arms and 
 rounded shoulders rising from exquisite fabrics of 
 priceless value, to which the great auditorium in its 
 noble and beautiful proportions gave fitting setting, 
 he marked only her. 
 
 He had no idea before how rarely beautiful she 
 was. The clear pallor of her face beneath the
 
 250 The Records 
 
 shadow of her soft brown hair had the daintiest tint 
 of the purest ivory, but now relieved by a mounting 
 flush of surprise and pleasure. She forgot how she 
 came to be there, the strange circumstances of her 
 situation, her deceit, in the charm of it all. 
 
 " Oh/' she murmured, " if I had seen and known 
 things like these, I could have painted better pic- 
 tures, played better music, written poetry that I 
 should not have been ashamed of to-day. But there 
 was nothing nothing on the farm! " 
 
 "Do you like it?" asked Phillips, amusedly, yet 
 tenderly why tenderly, if he had been asked he 
 could scarcely have told, except that the girl was so 
 beautiful, so innocent, so appealing, so honest, some- 
 how, in spite of what he knew. 
 
 "It's heavenly!" she exclaimed, "this magnifi- 
 cent theater, the beautiful women, the lights, the 
 music, the jewels, the flowers " 
 
 She lifted one of the long-stemmed blossoms from 
 her lap and touched it unconsciously to her lips. 
 
 " You are glad to be here ? " 
 
 " Glad! " she exclaimed. " Yes, in spite of every- 
 thing! " unconsciously betraying her feelings. He 
 made no sign, however. 
 
 " It is a privilege to me to have been honored by 
 your presence," he replied. 
 
 The opera was cast and staged superbly. De 
 March! and Scotti were in splendid voice, and Eames 
 sang as beautifully as she looked. The girl listened, 
 entranced. The buzz of conversation from the boxes 
 here and there visibly annoyed her. She leaned for-
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 251 
 
 ward over the rail, absorbed, entranced, at the gor- 
 geous spectacle and the magnificent music. Her 
 bosom rose and fell under her excitement, the color 
 quivered in her delicate cheek as sunlight plays upon 
 a wild rose petal. She forgot everything but what 
 she was there to see. It was a satisfactory occupa- 
 tion for him to watch her. 
 
 And he watched her with a curious admixture of 
 feelings. Who she was, how she came there, he 
 could not know. As to what she was ah, that was 
 another question. He would stake his life upon her 
 purity, her innocence. These were obvious to the 
 most casual observer. Yet it was also obvious that 
 she had no legitimate right to be there; and that, 
 although her name might be Eleanor Drayton, 
 she was not the Miss Drayton to whom he had been 
 accredited. Well, whoever she might be, or what- 
 ever the other Miss Drayton might not be, he felt 
 sure of one thing, that she could not be more attrac- 
 tive or charming than this young ingenue whom fate 
 had thrown into his arms. 
 
 Between the acts they resumed their conversation, 
 although it was at first difficult for the girl to come 
 to earth again. She would rather not have talked, 
 because talking involved further deceit and reminded 
 her that she was only a fraud after all. Yet, after a 
 time, she found that Phillips was scarcely less inter- 
 esting to her than the opera. By degrees he led her 
 to talk about herself. He found out nearly all that 
 he wanted to know. He could perceive how pained 
 she was at the thought of the deception she was
 
 252 The Records 
 
 practising, and he encouraged hefr to talk about 
 herself. 
 
 There is only one person that a woman would 
 rather talk about than herself, and that is the man 
 she loves. Eleanor Drayton did not love Phillips 
 yet, at least she did not recognize that she did any 
 more than Phillips recognized that he loved Eleanor 
 Drayton; so she prattled on, forgetful after a while 
 of the part she was sustaining. 
 
 She laid her life bare before him. In each of the 
 long intermissions a chapter of the story was told. 
 He learned about her father, about the farm, about 
 her ambitions, and about her failures. She did not 
 tell him how heart-breaking it had been, but that he 
 divined. It was 'a curious experience for the girl. 
 Unsatisfying life between the acts; romance, poetry, 
 illusion, while the opera was being sung. He had 
 questioned her so deftly, led her on so delicately, that 
 she scarcely realized that she had told him so much. 
 Besides, between the music and the man, she had no 
 time for thought. 
 
 It was over at last. How strangely happy she felt 
 clinging to his arm in the lobby, oblivious to the 
 curious glances at her little blue jacket and her 
 walking hat, while they waited for the carriage to 
 come to the entrance. She seemed to have a right 
 to be there. She seemed to have known him a long 
 time. 
 
 There was another short drive to the Waldorf, 
 then a supper, the daintiest and most delightful 
 repast that the gods ever set before a goddess, she
 
 How strangely happy she felt 
 clinging to his arm. Page 252
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 253 
 
 thought. It was like part of the play; indeed the 
 whole thing had been like a play to her. 
 
 He kept her there as long as he dared. To be 
 sure, there was no one to question whether the girl 
 went away early or late, and he was enjoying the sit- 
 uation c so greatly, 'he was so attracted and charmed 
 by her, that he fain would have kept her forever. , 
 Yet he had sworn to himself to take no advantage 
 of her inexperience and innocence, and by and by he 
 told himself that they must part, and bade her good- 
 night. 
 
 They were in one of the little reception-rooms 
 whither they had strayed after that supper. 
 
 " It has been 'such a delightful evening," she said, 
 shyly, " the happiest I ever had, but I must explain 
 to you " 
 
 " I must go," answered the man, quickly, taking 
 her hand; " it is very late. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-by!" 
 
 " Do not say good-by. Shall I not see you to- 
 morrow? May I call upon you in the afternoon? " 
 
 " I must go home to-morrow," she faltered. 
 
 " But you will certainly go on the night express. 
 Won't you see me here if I call to-morrow at three? " 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, with bended head and agi- 
 tated eyes. 
 
 He longed to tell her right then and there two 
 things. That he knew she was not the woman he had 
 been sent to meet, the real Eleanor Drayton, and that 
 it was no matter; he loved her. He did not do it, But 
 he held her hand tightly as he said good night.
 
 254 The Records 
 
 " You said it was heavenly to you. It has been 
 that to me. I introduced you to the opera; you in- 
 troduced yourself to me. You have been a vision to 
 me. You won't fail me to-morrow? " 
 
 " I I- 
 
 " Promise me on your word of honor. I won't 
 let you go unless you do ! " 
 
 "I promise," said the girl; "now go! I I 
 can't stand any more, I think. Good-night." 
 
 She turned away lest he should see her eyes brim- 
 ming with tears, and when she looked up he had 
 gone. She shuddered at the thought of going alone 
 through the streets at that hour of night, or morning, 
 to her cheerless lodging, but it had to be done. The 
 doorkeeper of the hotel stared at her curiously as 
 she left the building. He wondered where a young 
 woman dressed in that fashion could be going at that 
 time of night. Fortunately, she met no one on her 
 way, although it would have been unfortunate for 
 any one to have molested her, for, as before, at a 
 safe distance on the other side of the street, Phillips 
 followed her until the door of her apartment-house 
 closed behind her. 
 
 When she reached her room she threw herself, 
 dressed as she was, upon the bed, crushing beneath 
 her the roses which she had dropped there, and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 It had been so delightful, the man had been so 
 courteous, so tender, so appreciative, and so sym- 
 pathetic. She had enjoyed it as if to the manner 
 born, yet it was all got by false pretense. She was a
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 255 
 
 fraud, a sham! She would never see him again, 
 never! The engagement of the morrow? She would 
 not keep it. She could not bear to let him know the 
 truth, and she could never see him again without 
 telling it. She would vanish from his life as he 
 would vanish from hers, leaving in her heart an 
 emptiness which no memory could fill; in his heart 
 what? 
 
 It was very late the next morning before Eleanor 
 Drayton was awakened. She had sobbed herself to 
 sleep after a long wrestle with her miseries, and 
 when she arose her pretty frock was as rumpled and 
 bedraggled as her feelings. The roses on the bed 
 were crushed and broken, and as she glanced in the 
 mirror she was shocked and dismayed at the haggard, 
 wretched expression upon her face. She would not 
 have awakened when she did, possibly, had not her 
 sleep been broken by a rough tapping at 'her door. 
 When she opened it the janitor, whose affections 
 she had won by her quaint courtesy to him, handed 
 her a parcel. Evjen the cheery " good-mornin' " 
 with which he delivered it, failed to reassure her. 
 
 She thanked him, closed the door, and sat down 
 on the one rickety chair in the room, fumbling at 
 the string with unsteady fingers. The parcel bore 
 her address, she noticed vaguely, and on the wrapper 
 was printed the name of one of the leading florists 
 of New York, into the windows of whose establish-
 
 256 The Records 
 
 ment she had often gazed with delighted apprecia- 
 tion. 
 
 When she got the box open at last, she saw a great 
 heap of the most exquisite lilies of the valley. There 
 was no card, nothing to indicate the donor, and after 
 her first exclamation of rapture at the delicious 
 daintiness and exquisite fragrance of the blossoms, it 
 suddenly flashed into her mind that they could have 
 come from but one person in New York. 
 
 At the same time she realized that they had come 
 from him, she also realized that she must be dis- 
 covered, that if he had believed her to be what she 
 had assumed he would have sent the flowers to the 
 hotel. The conclusion was appalling! 
 
 How had he learned? Had she told him? She 
 remembered saying that lilies of the valley were her 
 favorite flowers. He had smiled at her for being 
 so old-fashioned, but tenderly. She had told him 
 many things, she realized now, but certainly she 
 could not have betrayed the main fact of her adven- 
 ture. No, the man must have followed 'her! He 
 knew then, he knew everything! He knew that she 
 was a fraud, that she had enjoyed his society in the 
 place of another woman. That she was not the 
 Eleanor Drayton to whom he had been accredited! 
 Perhaps he had known it all the time! Consterna- 
 tion! The janitor was passing the door again. She 
 called out to him: " Did anybody inquire for me this 
 morning, Michael ? " 
 
 " Yis, miss," replied the man, " the bye that brung
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 257 
 
 thim posies, an' last night there wus a gintilmin here, 
 ma'am, about eight o'clock, jist as ye cum in." 
 
 The faithful Michael did not know that she had 
 gone out again. 
 
 "Who was he?" 
 
 " I dunno, ma'am. But he wus a mighty civil 
 spoken man, an' hansum'." 
 
 This was worse and worse! He had known about 
 it last night, when she was enjoying his company in 
 that fool's paradise. Perhaps he had known about 
 it from the beginning. She buried her face in the 
 cool blossoms and sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 And she had thought she had been successful in de- 
 ceiving him ! 
 
 She wanted to get away, to leave the city, to get 
 back to the farm in the hills. She had been a fool 
 in her dreams and in her ambitions before; last night 
 she had been a fool in her actions. And he knew! 
 She had drunk deep for one brief period of the spring 
 she fain would 'have quaffed, and the taste was now 
 bitter in her mouth. She would go, she would go 
 that very moment. She would never see him again. 
 Yet all the misery she had experienced was as nothing 
 to the pain that filled her breast at that resolution. 
 !No, she would not go. Not until night, at any rate. 
 She would keep her word. She had pledged 'him her 
 honor, and while she had no doubt that he was quite 
 convinced that she had no honor, yet she would show 
 him the contrary, and she would show him that she 
 did not lack courage either, for she would keep that
 
 258 The Records 
 
 appointment, go bravely to him and tell him the 
 truth. 
 
 What must he have thought of her? How bold, 
 how unmaidenly she had been an adventuress! 
 No, She could not face him. Yet she must! After 
 all she could not get away from New York until 
 night, she thought. He had told her and he should 
 know. Yes, she would see him. It would be humili- 
 ating, agonizing, to confess what he already knew. 
 But she had this compensation; she could at least see 
 him and tell him that she was, but for this one fatal 
 misstep, an honorable woman. She did not realize 
 that if he were not already convinced of that fact no 
 statement on her part would carry conviction to 
 him. That was part of her innocence. 
 
 The manuscripts she had submitted variously had 
 all been returned. There was no grate or stove in 
 the room of course it was heated, inadequately 
 enough, by a hot-air register but she could destroy 
 her papers without difficulty. She took out the little 
 heap on which she had toiled so painfully, and tore 
 the leaves into tiny pieces which, in default of a 
 waste-basket, she threw into a corner of the room 
 for the caretaker's attention. Then, with a vivid 
 recollection of the nectar and ambrosia of the night 
 before, she made herself a cup of tea over a spirit 
 lamp, changed her dress, and went to the miserable 
 little art store save the mark! on Third Avenue, 
 which was the only one where her pictures had re- 
 ceived the slightest attention. She intended to get 
 those pictures and destroy them also.
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 259 
 
 When she got there another shock awaited her. 
 Her pictures were gone! "Sold," said the little 
 Hebrew, unctuously rubbing his hands, " sold this 
 morning to a gentleman, a fine handsome man, who 
 drove up and said he would take them all. Took 
 them without looking at them, too," said the man, 
 adding fuel to her misery. 
 
 It was he, of course. She remembered telling him 
 that she had exhibited them in a shop. Yes, she had 
 probably told him where, in answer to what she had 
 thought ( a careless question. It was noble of him to 
 buy them, but he hadn't looked at them! He had 
 not bought them for the sake of the pictures, then. 
 That was crushing! Still, there was another side to 
 it. If not for the sake of the pictures, it must have 
 been for her sake. Yet, how dare he treat her pic- 
 tures so uncavalierly? 
 
 She received the money, at least that proportion 
 that the dealer chose to give her, without a question, 
 returning a decided negative to his request for more 
 pictures. The sum was quite large to her, but she 
 knew what to do with it. It made it doubly necessary 
 for her to see him that afternoon. She would give 
 it back to him. 
 
 How she passed the time until the hour arrived 
 she could 'scarcely remember. But the appointed 
 time found her in the little reception room where he 
 was waiting for her. 
 
 On his part, he had been as eager and as unsettled 
 as she, for fear she would not come. He had sent 
 the flowers the first thing in the morning. He had
 
 260 The Records 
 
 realized that such a girl as he imagined her to be 
 would certainly be unable to carry out the deception 
 further; that she would have to confess when she 
 saw him, and he had a pretty shrewd idea that her 
 conscience would make her see him; that is, if she 
 were the girl he thought her. Under such circum- 
 stances he intended to make it easy for her by letting 
 her know, in this graceful way, that he knew about 
 it and that he had no censure to pass. His anxiety 
 had arisen from the fact that it was barely possible 
 that she might not be the kind of a girl he imagined 
 her to be, in which case all his hypotheses as to her 
 future conduct would fall to the ground. There was 
 joy and relief in his countenance, therefore, and 
 humiliation and despair in hers, as they met. 
 
 " Miss Drayton," he began, taking her unresisting 
 hand in his own, " I am so relieved that you have 
 come. All day long I have been wondering and 
 hoping and waiting for this moment." 
 
 " You sent me those flowers? " asked the girl. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You knew, then? " 
 
 " My dear Miss Drayton " 
 
 "But you knew I was not your Miss Drayton," 
 she burst forth. 
 
 " I wish to heaven you were ! " he said fervently. 
 
 " Hush! Don't talk to me like that, it hurts me. I 
 do not know what you must think of me, but I did 
 not do it deliberately." 
 
 " I think you everything that a woman ought to 
 be," was his extravagant reply. " I understand ex~
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 261 
 
 actly how it occurred. You gave way to a sudden 
 impulse, and I shall bless you forever for having 
 done so." 
 
 " I never knew how it would be until I got here 
 last night, and after I left you and then I shall 
 never get over the shame ! " 
 
 " Don't say that, please ! I understand. It was a 
 surrender to a momentary idea on your part, and I 
 tell you that I am glad that you did it. I did not 
 dream there were girls like you in the world. I shall 
 never forget our evening together. I am a middle- 
 aged man, years older than you are, but Eleanor 
 Drayton, I am in love with you." 
 
 " Don't ! " cried the girl again. " You would not 
 say that if you respected me. You think because I 
 am a fraud, because I took that other woman's place 
 last night, that you can say anything you like to me ! 
 But one error like that doesn't justify you " 
 
 " My dear child ! " said the man, stopping the rush 
 of passionate words by taking both her hand's and 
 leading her to a seat near the window. Fortunately 
 no one entered the room and they were as much 
 alone as if they had been on a desert island. " Does 
 a man insult a woman when he tells her that he loves 
 her and does himself the honor of asking her to be 
 his wife ? " 
 
 " Your wife ! " cried the girl staring at him. 
 
 " I mean just that." 
 
 " Aren't you carried away by an impulse now? " 
 
 " I have had nearly twenty-four hours to think 
 about it, Miss Drayton," answered Phillips gravely,
 
 262 The Records 
 
 " and the more I think, the more determined I be- 
 come. A day is sufficient time in which to accomplish 
 a great deal in New York." 
 
 " You love me? How can you? " 
 
 " I never was good at analysis," answered Phillips 
 smiling. " I only know that I do. But you have 
 not answered me. Do you of course you can not, 
 but will you " It was his turn to become em- 
 barrassed now. " Miss Drayton," he continued for- 
 mally, " I do truly love you. The more I see of you 
 the more I love you. I am alone in the world. I 
 'have a 'sufficiency of this world's goods to keep a 
 wife. Will you marry me ? " 
 
 The girl withdrew her hands, rested her elbows 
 on a window ledge and covered her eyes for a 
 moment of reflection. Not as to whether she loved 
 him. She was sure of that. How could she, how 
 could any woman, help that? But there must be 
 something wrong. It was impossible that he loved 
 her. If there were only some test of his sincerity 
 that she could apply. Ah ! 
 
 " Those pictures of mine," she said looking up at 
 him. " You bought them this morning? Why? " 
 
 " Well, for your sake. I wanted to have them." 
 
 "Not for the sake of the pictures? If they had 
 not belonged to me, would you have bought them? " 
 
 " No, I suppose not. You see, my ordinary bus- 
 iness would not have called me where I could have 
 seen them." 
 
 " There was nothing in the pictures then, to at- 
 tract you? "
 
 The Impulses of Eleanor 263 
 
 " My dear Miss Drayton," he expostulated en- 
 deavoring to stave off the impending question 'he 
 was quick enough to foresee. 
 
 " No, I want an answer," she insisted. 
 
 It was a hard question, but his good angel was 
 standing by his side, and he told the truth. 
 
 " Well, no, then." 
 
 " The pictures are very bad? " 
 
 " If you must have it yes." 
 
 " There is no evidence of talent, genius, then? " 
 
 " Not the slightest." 
 
 " And you bought them because " 
 
 " I bought them because I loved you and because 
 I did not wish pictures like those to appear in public 
 with the name of my future wife signed to them." 
 
 " Thank you," said the girl quietly, " I believe 
 that you do love me. You are an honest man. I will 
 marry you, if you will come to the farm for me." 
 
 " But do you love me? " he queried, puzzled. 
 
 She nodded her head slowly. 
 
 " I cannot help it," she murmured, hiding her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 They were still alone luckily, and he speedily 
 found a more satisfactory resting place for that 
 pretty head than those dainty hands. 
 
 " Now you will tell me why you accepted me after 
 so much catechism? " 
 
 " Your answers convinced me that you were an 
 honest man. If you told me the truth about the 
 pictures, you would tell me the truth about every- 
 thing. I know the pictures are awful. I have 7
 
 264 The Records 
 
 learned that since I came to New York. I tore up 
 my writings this morning. I was going to get the 
 pictures and destroy them also. I told you before 
 that I had failed in everything." 
 
 " There is one thing I am sure you will not fail 
 in." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " In being the sweetest and dearest of wives." 
 
 " I will try," she answered simply. " But it has 
 been so irregular " 
 
 " And therefore so delicious," he interrupted 
 smiling. 
 
 " And I'm glad I'm not the other Miss Drayton." 
 
 " So am I." 
 
 " Yes, but you must come up to the farm and see 
 my father first." 
 
 "I would go to the end of the earth for you! " 
 answered the man.
 
 Twelfth Record 
 
 THE LEVITE 
 
 " Isn't it a pity," said the woman softly, " that 
 friendship, which should be so lasting, is so evanes- 
 cent a thing? " 
 
 She struck a few random chords upon the piano 
 as she spoke, chords in a minor key, as if to accent- 
 uate the sadness of the thought that filled her mind. 
 She sat with her head slightly turned away from the 
 
 NOTE. TJie reader would better not mits this, it is inter- 
 esting. It will be observed that this RECORD is unique among 
 those included in this volume in that it is the only one which 
 has not had the advantage of a previous serial publication. 
 That it has not seen the light elsewhere is due to no fault 
 of my own. It has been submitted to and declined by four- 
 teen of the best magazines of the country. The reasons for 
 this declination are clearly set forth in the following letter 
 from a representative of one of the greatest of our magazines: 
 
 " MY DEAR DR. BRADY: 
 
 " ' THE LEVITE ' is an awfully good story, but I fear our 
 readers are too Puritan in mind to find pleasure in it. We 
 have to be extremely careful as you know because of our 
 peculiar audience. If it were not for that I should be glad 
 to say yes instead of enclosing the MS. 
 
 "Yours, very faithfully, 
 
 In one form or another this was the verdict of most of
 
 266 The Records 
 
 man who leaned over the piano near her. The room 
 was in darkness save for one of those old-fashioned 
 standing oil lamps which threw a brilliant light on 
 the music on the rack and on her face as well. In 
 that light he could see the pallor of her cheek. 
 Through the long open windows the fragrance of the 
 roses about the porch came blowing into the room 
 on the night air. 
 
 " I do not understand," he remarked, edging a 
 shade nearer to her as he spoke. 
 
 " It is simple enough. People meet as we have. 
 Their orbits impinge for the moment. They come 
 in touch for a brief space and then are severed. 
 Like two ships whose paths cross on the ocean, they 
 bow, they dip their flags and sail away parted, for- 
 ever." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked the man drawing 
 still nearer. 
 
 " We have had a pleasant summer together Mr. 
 
 those who considered the story who were willing to explain 
 their refusal. 
 
 I submit to the feminine reader, especially, the question 
 whether or not there is anything in this story which is im- 
 proper or harmful, which should debar it from a magazine of 
 general circulation. I should be pleased to receive written 
 opinions on this question. In this connection, it will be per- 
 tinent for me to assure the reader that this RECORD is more 
 nearly literally true than any other in the book. I received 
 the details from a clerical friend whose reputation is beyond 
 question. The story and the refusal of the magazines to ac- 
 cept it form an interesting comment upon the current discus- 
 sion going on throughout the country between the magazine 
 editors, the authors of short stories and the public. C. T. B.
 
 The Levite 267 
 
 Effingham. Now it is over. I am going away to- 
 morrow, back to the city " her head drooped 
 lower, her voice sank almost to a whisper " back 
 to the city," she murmured, " the city with all its 
 evil, its wickedness, its crime, its shame. Back 
 
 " Do you know what you are saying? " interrupted 
 the man almost roughly. 
 
 " Who should know better than I? " 
 
 " But " 
 
 " I am going out of your life to-morrow," she 
 continued swiftly. " It has been a pleasant shall 
 I say interlude? but it is over and " 
 
 " You are never going out of my life ! " returned 
 the man bending over her. 
 
 She turned her face toward him, lifted her hand 
 and held him back. 
 
 " Out of your life," she persisted relentlessly. 
 " If we should meet upon the street a year from now 
 you will ' pass me by as the idle wind which ' 
 
 "I can not have you say suc'h things as that! ' r 
 said the man taking her hand in his own. " The 
 friendship that forgets is unworthy of the name. 
 Besides I Miss Carstairs, I am only a poor country 
 clergyman, the rector of this little insignificant 
 church here. The life of a clergyman is a hard one 
 at best, and the life of his wife is perhaps harder. I 
 have little or nothing to offer you. I have no hope 
 that you will 
 
 " Stop! " cried the woman rising to her feet and
 
 268 The Records 
 
 tearing away her hand. " You do not know what you 
 say. You don't know what I am." 
 
 " I know you are the sweetest, purest, noblest 
 woman whom God has ever permitted me to meet." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 " Yes. And this summer spent with you has been 
 the happiest in my life. You will forget me doubt- 
 less, and when we meet on the street it will be you 
 who will pass me by as the idle wind which you re- 
 spect not." He smiled sadly as he completed her 
 quotation. " But I love you, Miss Laura. I shall 
 never forget you ! Were my heart earth in its earthy 
 bed it would leap to the tread of your footstep above 
 it. Pass you by? I would give all that I hope for if 
 you would be " 
 
 He hesitated. The woman stood as if petrified, 
 listening to the passionate avowal. 
 
 " Yes," she said as she looked at him, constrained 
 by his feeling, " if I would be your " 
 
 " My wife." 
 
 And as he spoke the magic words she had longed 
 to hear she suddenly stooped, seized his hand before 
 he comprehended what she was about and kissed it. 
 
 " Laura ! Does this mean that you " 
 
 "That I love you? Yes! The years I spent in 
 the convent, so long ago it seems, the few months 
 that I have been here they were glimpses of 
 heaven! I have won the love of an honest man, an 
 honorable gentleman but it was bitterly wrong of 
 me. I should not have let you speak. I should have 
 gone away before but it was so sweet to me ! For-
 
 The Levite 269 
 
 give me. Oh, my God, I am the most wretched of 
 women! " 
 
 " But you said I can scarce believe it that you 
 loved me," he protested, losing sight of all else in 
 that consciousness. " Is it my poverty? My 
 humble position? The life of the wife of a clergy- 
 man that daunts you " 
 
 " No, no ! I could work for you, work with you, 
 slave for you, and count it happiness, but I am not 
 not worthy of you. I am " 
 
 " Say rather I am unworthy of you." 
 
 " No, not that! "When you know you will cast 
 me off." 
 
 " ' Though all men shall be offended because of 
 thee yet will I never be offended,' " returned the 
 priest unconsciously quoting from the Book which 
 was life to him and to those to whom he ministered. 
 " Dearest, I will not allow you to speak so of your- 
 self. If you love me, be my wife." 
 
 He stretched out his arms toward her with all his 
 heart in his voice, in his look, in his gesture; and the 
 woman resolutely turned away from him. There 
 was a step on the porch. A pleasant voice came to 
 them out of the night. 
 
 " Ah, good evening, Miss Carstairs. Effingham,, 
 old fellow, how are you? I saw you two through 
 the window and made bold to enter unannounced." 1 
 
 More quick to recover her equipoise, although she 
 trembled violently under the strain to which she had 
 been subjected, Laura Carstairs turned and bade the 
 newcomer welcome. Russell looked at her keenly.
 
 270 The Records 
 
 The hand she extended to him shook in his strong, 
 firm grasp. Her eyes fell before his direct searching 
 glance, but had her confusion been less she would 
 have seen nothing but a great pity for her in his 
 honest gaze. 
 
 " You are going away to-morrow morning," he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It has been a pleasant summer? " 
 
 " The happiest I have ever known." 
 
 " We will hope for many more for you, eh, Effing- 
 ham? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course," answered the clergyman, 
 who had by this time partially recovered his com- 
 posure. " Russell," he exclaimed, coming to a sud- 
 den determination, " you are my oldest and best 
 friend. It seems proper that I should tell you that 
 I have this day asked " 
 
 " Don't! " cried the woman sharply. 
 
 " I came here," interposed Russell quickly, " to 
 tell you that there is a man hurt seriously who 
 needs your best attention, down the road. You must 
 <3ome at once! " 
 
 " Go quickly," said the woman, extending her 
 band. 
 
 " I shall see you to-morrow," promptly answered 
 Effingham, taking her hand in both of his own as 
 he spoke, "and until then, good^by." 
 
 He could not hesitate before an appeal of that 
 kind. 
 
 " Good-by," whispered the woman faintly.
 
 The Levite 271 
 
 " Come," said Russell, " we must hurry." 
 
 He linked his arm in his friend's and drew him 
 firmly away. A moment, and with one backward 
 glance through the doorway, a smiling, happy, pas- 
 sionate one, 'the clergyman was gone. 
 
 The woman sank down in the chair and rested her 
 forehead on her arm. She was fair to look upon and 
 would have made a fascinating picture were it not 
 for the mortal anguish that transfigured her face. 
 There was an arrow deep within her heart, not shot 
 there by the rosy god. 
 
 " Oh," she said wearily at last, " it is too late ! 
 Who can wash out the past? They never forgive, 
 they never forget to step aside is damnation, to 
 fall is never to rise again! It is too late! " 
 
 n 
 
 " Where is the injured man, Russell? " asked 
 Effingham after they had reached the pleasant tree- 
 embowered road which led across the front of the 
 place Miss Carstairs and one who passed as her 
 invalid aunt had taken for the summer. 
 
 Russell looked up and down the road in the moon- 
 light. It was quite deserted. There was no one to 
 see, no one to overhear. He drew the clergyman 
 into the deeper shadow of the bordering trees. 
 
 " He is here," he said quietly. 
 
 "Here? Where?" 
 
 Russell laid his hand upon the other's breast. 
 
 " You are he."
 
 272 The Records 
 
 "I? What do you mean? I thought you said 
 somebody was hurt that my services were needed? " 
 
 " Old friend, some one is hurt or will be. Some 
 one who will need all the manhood and courage that 
 you possess." 
 
 " What folly is this? If it is a jest it is most in- 
 opportune, Russell, for I had just asked Miss Car- 
 stairs to be my wife when " 
 
 " Miss Carstairs can never be your wife, Effing- 
 ham." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 She " 
 
 Russell hesitated. 
 
 " Speak out, man! For God's sake, what do you 
 mean? " 
 
 " She is She " 
 
 " Not married already? " 
 
 " No. Would that she were! " 
 
 " My God, do you mean " 
 
 " She lives in Boston with Masten." 
 
 The name was a familiar one to the clergyman, 
 to everyone in Massachusetts in fact. Masten was a 
 rich man about town, a man whose acquaintance was 
 an insult to any honest woman. 
 
 " But she is married to him? " queried Effingham 
 desperately. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "It's a lie! A dastardly lie!" 
 
 The clergyman struck viciously at his friend's 
 face. The latter must have expected something for
 
 The Levite 273 
 
 he parried the blow easily and caught his struggling 
 friend by the arms. 
 
 " Effingham," he said quickly, " it is true. Would 
 to God it were not! You have known me since we 
 were boys. We roomed together four years at col- 
 lege. Did I ever lie to you? " 
 
 " It's a mistake then ! It can not be ! I won't 
 hear " 
 
 " You must hear! " insisted the other man. " I 
 pity her, God knows, but there is no doubt of it. 
 Masten told me so himself. I couldn't believe it at 
 first." 
 
 " What is she doing here? " gaspied the clergyman, 
 all that she had said to him a few moments before 
 coming back to him and overwhelming him. This 
 was what she meant then. Oh, God pity him! 
 
 " He is building her a house in Boston, and she 
 came down here to spend the summer. She was ill 
 in the spring. He sent her here. His checks pay 
 her expenses. I've seen them at the bank. She was 
 educated in a convent I have learned. Her father 
 died, her property was lost. She came out of the 
 convent, helpless, innocent, ignorant, and fell into 
 that blackguard Masten's hands in some way I 
 don't know the details and that's all. She is going 
 back to him to-morrow." 
 
 He was an injured man indeed under the shadow 
 of the trees, a man who would have fallen but for 
 the friendly support of Russell's arms, a man who 
 needed all the ministrations of the Rev. Alfred
 
 274 The Records 
 
 Effingham as no man had ever needed them before, 
 to enable him to survive the disclosures of that night. 
 
 ni 
 
 " !No," said the woman firmly, " I tell you again, 
 positively, it can not be. I am determined to break 
 it off now and forever." 
 
 " What are you going to do? " 
 
 " I am going to be a decent woman, please God." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Even I. I do not wonder that you are surprised. 
 I am surprised myself . But I have decided " 
 
 " When a man makes a declaration like that one 
 says cherchez la femme? In this case we reverse the 
 interrogation. Who is the man? " 
 
 Laura Carstairs and Masten were walking across 
 the Common at Boston two days after her departure 
 from the little village where she had spent the sum- 
 mer. At her companion's searching query the 
 woman's face flushed. She turned away her head. 
 
 " There is a man, then! " exclaimed the other. I 
 knew it! " His coarse heavy face was alive with 
 jealous anger. " Who is he? I don't believe all this 
 rot about virtue and so on." 
 
 " Yes, there is a man," said the woman, " a man 
 far removed from you and your kind. A gentleman, 
 a clergyman of the Episcopal Church. When you 
 sent me there to recover from the typhoid fever while 
 you built me a house you builded better than you
 
 The Levite 275 
 
 knew. I met him there. He came to see me. He 
 
 even fell in lave with me." 
 
 " Oh, of course," sneered the man brutally. " I 
 
 understand." 
 
 " No, you do not understand. It is not possible 
 
 for you to comprehend love like his. He asked me 
 
 to to marry him." 
 
 " I think I see you a preacher's wife ! " 
 
 " I shall never be a preacher's wife. I shall never 
 
 be anybody's wife." 
 
 " You didn't accept him then? " 
 
 "Accept him? I? After you!" 
 
 " Did you tell him about our little affair? " 
 
 " No," answered the woman, " I did not." 
 
 " Well, what will happen when you do? " 
 
 " I do not know. But I intend to tell him." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " When I get my courage up. He respects me 
 
 he loves me." 
 
 " Do you think he'll love you as you call it 
 
 when he finds out? " 
 
 " I I do not know. I suppose not." 
 
 Yet as the woman spoke, in spite of herself there 
 
 was a quiver of hope in her voice. There was a 
 
 pleading note in her speech as she turned to her 
 
 ruthless companion. 
 
 " His profession is to forgive," she said. " There 
 
 was a Magdalen once his Master did. Maybe " 
 
 " Laura, you're a fool ! " said the man bluntly. 
 
 " The man wouldn't look at you after he knew the 
 
 truth. I am not much, but I like you and I'm will-
 
 276 The Records 
 
 ing to take care of you. Besides, you have no choice. 
 It's me or " he pointed downward with his finger 
 "the gutter!" 
 
 " That's not true," said the woman desperately. 
 " I will go to him. I will tell him the truth. I will 
 appeal to him." 
 
 " To marry you? " 
 
 " No. To save me! To help me, to " 
 
 The words died away on her lips. They were near 
 the Tremont Street entrance to the Common. A 
 black-coated figure turned in from the sidewalk and 
 stepped upon the path. The woman stopped, stared, 
 and went whiter than before. Masten for all his 
 coarseness was quick and keen. He instantly put two 
 and two together. 
 
 " Your clerical friend, I see," he remarked with 
 damning emphasis. " Pleasant meeting. Well, 
 good-by." 
 
 He struck off into a path branching from the main 
 one, walked a few yards and sat down on a bench 
 puffing lazily at his cigar as he watched the two. 
 
 The Rev. Alfred Effingham was a changed man 
 indeed. The elasticity of youth, the sunshine of 
 happiness, had gone out of him. Once he had 
 walked with the careless firm step of a healthy 
 happy man, all the fair sweet world before him. The 
 vigor of youth had radiated from him when he passed. 
 He had held his head high and feared no man or wo- 
 man. It had been his habit to whistle, sometimes to 
 sing, as he walked along the country roads. Now he 
 dragged his feet wearily over the city street toward.
 
 "I I beg your pardon, ' 
 he said. Page 277
 
 The Levite 277 
 
 the immobile woman as if he had been an old man. 
 His head was bent, his face was white and drawn. 
 His fingers, clasped behind his back, twisted and 
 untwisted nervously. 
 
 The woman had forgotten everything but that he 
 was approaching. As if turned to stone, she stood 
 squarely in the pathway watching him, drinking in 
 every line of his figure, her heart yearning toward 
 him, her whole being, in spite of the stern rigidity 
 of her pose, attracted toward him. A thousand 
 hands seemed stretched out to draw him to her, a 
 thousand hands seemed to thrust her toward him, 
 yet she stood rooted to the spot as firmly as the old 
 elms, swept by the breeze of autumn, shading the 
 way. 
 
 It was not until he was right upon her that he 
 was aware of her presence. Startled out of his ab- 
 straction he lifted his head. Her heart ached to see 
 the agony in his face. 
 
 " I I beg your pardon," he said. 
 
 Then, recognizing her, he stopped dead still, as 
 motionless as she. He stared at her. Was it a sec- 
 ond, a minute, an hour? She made no movement. 
 She said no word. She only looked at him. It was 
 a look like that Peter might have returned to his 
 Master when he heard the cock crow the third time 
 on the betrayal morning. Effingham's lips parted in- 
 voluntarily, as if to speak. A moment then he 
 closed them. His jaw set firmly. He clenched his 
 hands. He drew himself up to his full height and 
 looked her straight in the face, and turned away with-
 
 278 The Records 
 
 out a word, without a gesture, without a sign. He 
 had indeed passed her by as the idle wind which he 
 respected not! 
 
 She turned her head and dry-eyed followed him in 
 a long agonized stare as he went down the winding 
 path beneath the trees. How cold and bleak they 
 looked in autumn's frosty touch; how chill and bare 
 and gaunt and naked beneath the cold glitter of the 
 untempered sun! 
 
 In a moment he was gone. She noticed that 
 his lassitude, his weariness had left him, that he 
 walked erect with head held high again. She could 
 not, of course, know what tremendous pressure con- 
 strained him to this outward manifestation of indif- 
 ference. She could not understand that his heart was 
 tearing his bosom. But she could, if she had known 
 it, have measured the force of his tragedy by the 
 power of her own. 
 
 Despair overwhelmed her like a rushing mighty 
 wind. Her glance fell upon the figure of Hasten. 
 She stood hesitant, irresolute, undetermined. Her 
 evil genius prompted him. And there was a certain 
 sympathy in the man's face. He had seen and under- 
 stood. He was not all bad. He threw away his 
 cigar and came toward her. He even removed his hat 
 as if he had been a gentleman. 
 
 "Well, what did I tell you?" he said compas- 
 sionately. " Poor old girl, you got the cut direct. It 
 was a slap in the face, sure. I'm sorry for you. The 
 sniveling young puppy! "
 
 The Levite 279 
 
 " Stop ! " cried the woman passionately. " Do not 
 dare mention his name ? " 
 
 " I have no wish to," answered the man smiling. 
 But I tell you the truth. You have nowhere to go 
 but with me." 
 
 " Yes," said the woman hopelessly, after a long 
 silence he was too clever to break. " You are right. 
 There is no chance for me. Nothing to do now but 
 go on in the old way. No place to go but with 
 you." 
 
 " Oome then," said the man cheerfully. " You 
 haven't seen your new house yet. It's a little gem." 
 
 He turned away and after a second pause and a 
 backward glance toward the empty path, with slow 
 lagging steps, she followed him. 
 
 IV 
 
 The Reverend Alfred Effingham was one of the 
 Archdeacons of New York. He 'had had a varied 
 career in the ministry; a successful one from many 
 points of view. On the whole his life had been a 
 happy one. He had married, children had been born 
 to him, and his home was pleasant to him. He might 
 have held the rectorship of one of the largest 
 churches in the city, but he had chosen instead to 
 devote 'himself to the missionary field where the 
 laborers are few indeed, and the harvest plenty, but 
 hard to garner. It was his joy to minister to the 
 poor, the humble, the wretched. His happiness had
 
 280 The Records 
 
 been great when the Bishop had offered him this most 
 responsible position. For several years he had gone 
 up and down the hidden byways in the purlieus of the 
 city carrying the Gospel of his Master to hundreds 
 to whom, before his advent, the story of the Cross 
 would have been as incomprehensible as a tale told in 
 a foreign tongue not understanded of the people. 
 
 Especially had his work been among those women 
 whom the world passed by in scorn and contempt. 
 Many a wretched fallen daughter of God had been 
 led through his efforts to acknowledge the universal 
 Fatherhood. He had set the feet of many such 
 upon the right road. His voice had been the voice 
 of hope and encouragement to those who would 
 listen. 
 
 Although his home was one of quiet happiness and 
 peace and love; although there was much inter- 
 change of confidence between husband and wife 
 within its confines, there were some things which he 
 had never told to the partner of his griefs and joys, 
 and one of them was the story of Laura Carstairs. A 
 clerical man of affairs, lacking time for the contem- 
 plative side of the ministerial life, yet he sometimes 
 admitted to himself that his work among women was 
 inspired by the thought of that day, which he would 
 have given all the world to have blotted out when 
 he had left her standing in the way. 
 
 Indeed he had tried to undo his action afterward. 
 He 'had even gone to the length of calling at the 
 house Masten had provided for her. He had sent 
 in his card, and when she had refused to see him, he
 
 The Levite 281 
 
 had written her. The note had come back to him 
 unopened. Then he had gone far west and labored 
 hard in that needy field. By degrees the poignancy 
 of the recollection had been dulled. There he had 
 married. Now he was back again in New York. 
 And that he dealt gently with the erring to-day was 
 in the nature of an expiation. 
 
 It was winter. The sleet was blowing furiously 
 down upon him as he walked toward the steps of the 
 elevated to take an up-town train. He had been 
 down to the Rescue Mission in the very worst sec- 
 tion of the East Side and was going home after the 
 night service there. It was bitter cold, and the 
 street which at that hour ordinarily was filled with 
 humanity save the mark! was almost deserted. 
 As he turned to the stairway, out of the black mouth 
 of an adjacent doorway a woman approached him. 
 She caught him by the sleeve and he turned and 
 faced her. She was a wretched and degraded speci- 
 men of humanity, almost the worst he had ever seen. 
 A neighboring electric light revealed every sin 
 marked, crime traced line in her bloated drunken 
 face. She shivered under her tawdry finery. 
 
 " My good woman," he said gently baring his 
 head as he spoke to her, as if she had been the 
 proudest lady in the land, " what can I do for 
 you? " 
 
 Something in his voice sent a sudden thrill through 
 her. She stared at him in the blaze of light. Rec- 
 ognition flashed into her eyes. 
 
 " You! " she cried in a cracked high-pitched voice,
 
 282 The Records 
 
 releasing his arm and falling back against the iron 
 pillar of the elevated. " You! " 
 
 " You know me then? " he asked curiously. 
 
 " Know you? Aren't you the Reverend Alfred 
 Effingham, once of " 
 
 " I am. Do I know you? " 
 
 There was something strangely familiar in the 
 woman's face, a trace of vanished beauty, a faint far- 
 off shadow of refinement, a simulacrum of culture. 
 And her voice! Where had .he heard it? 
 
 " You didn't know me once," she answered 
 bitterly, coming closer to him, taking his arms in her 
 hands, and thrusting her face into his. " Look at 
 me ! Perhaps you'll know me now. Look at me ! " 
 She shook him roughly in her excitement. " Don't 
 you remember? " 
 
 "Just heaven!" gasped the priest. "You can 
 not be Laura Carstairs! " 
 
 " All that is left of her." She flung out her arms 
 wildly. " All that is left of her. You passed me 
 by once. I told you you would. I was a good woman 
 that day. I had just broken off from the old life. 
 No, I didn't hope, I didn't expect. I only knew that 
 you, a gentleman, a Christian priest, had lifted me 
 up 'and I broke it off then and there. The man 
 I was with he was the man. I had told him I 
 wouldn't live with him any longer. I was going 
 to be a decent woman, because I had seen you. And 
 then you passed me by! And did not speak! Look 
 at me now! Look at me! "
 
 The Levite 283 
 
 " My God! " exclaimed the clergyman clutching at 
 the iron post of the railway for support, while he 
 stared at her in a fascination of horror and remorse. 
 
 She drew herself up before him with something of 
 the old manner, the old air. The years dropped away 
 from her as she stood there. And for a moment to 
 his gaze she looked as on that day in the path. And 
 for a moment almost he loved her! 
 
 " Do you see what I am? " she went on after a 
 pause. " It's written all over me ! The lowest of the 
 low on God's earth! " She gasped out the words 
 brokenly and flung one last bitter phrase at him. 
 
 " And you did it ! " 
 
 Then sihe turned to leave him. 
 
 " Stop! " called the priest as she moved away. 
 
 He sprang forward to her side. He grasped her 
 by the arm. 
 
 " Don't touch me! " she said contemptuously 
 dragging herself free from him as if there were con- 
 tamination in his touch. "You are as guilty as I! 
 Don't speak to me ! Whatever I am, you did it ! " 
 
 Two days after that the Reverend Alfred Effing- 
 ham, whose services were in much demand on similar 
 occasions, was called upon to bury a woman who had 
 been picked up out of the North River, and whose 
 poor body had been reclaimed from the morgue by 
 her more wretched living friends. As he stood by 
 the open coffin in the vulgar commonness of the pub- 
 lic parlor of the resort where she had lived, the pale
 
 284 The Records 
 
 cold lips seemed to whisper up at him, as he read 
 such words from the Sacred Book of Life as seemed 
 appropriate to this body of death. 
 " And you did it ! You did it ! "
 
 Thirteenth Record 
 
 GRADUATES OF THE SCHOOL* 
 
 The Daily Gazette was at once the worst and beet 
 paper in New York. Incidentally, it was also the 
 most successful. Whether it succeeded because it 
 was the worst, or because it was the best, was a ques- 
 tion which neither the proprietors nor the public had 
 ever been able to solve. There was sufficient uncer- 
 tainty about it to render it inadvisable either to 
 elevate it or to degrade it, so long as it continued to 
 succeed. 
 
 Of course the decision as to the character of a 
 paper depended upon the point of view. The Gazette 
 was the best paper in that it gave all the news im- 
 mediately, completely, entirely, sparing no expense 
 to collect it and to disseminate it. It was the 
 worst paper, in that it gave the widest publicity 
 to the latest sensation, criminal or otherwise, 
 with little regard to the canons of decency, propriety 
 and journalistic cleanliness. Frequently, with pro- 
 digious emphasis, it declared that to be a fact which 
 probably was, and which was soon found to be, un- 
 true. All newspapers do that, but not with the same 
 sensational avidity as the Gazette. There was neither 
 
 *By courtesy of " Lippincott's Magazine."
 
 286 The Records 
 
 modesty nor self-restraint in its make-up. It was 
 the "Yellowest" of the so-called "Yellow Jour- 
 nals." Its editorial columns reflected the Jekyll and 
 Hyde spirit of the paper. Sometimes the editorials 
 were clear, logical, forceful, brilliant; appealing to 
 the very highest. At other times false, insincere, 
 illogical, specious, sophistical; appealing to the very 
 lowest. 
 
 The more reputable press and the more highly 
 cultivated public opinion of the city reprehended the 
 Gazette; but everybody bought it, read it, discussed it 
 even the clergy. In any trolley or elevated car at 
 any hour of the day there were to be seen more 
 readers of the Gazette than of all the other papers 
 in New York. 
 
 Its principal rival was the Union. The Union 
 was better than the Gazette, in that the proportion of 
 good to bad in its constitution was about as three to 
 one in the Gazette the proportion was as one to one. 
 It always seemed as though the Union's people emu- 
 lated the policy of the Gazette and imitated that sheet 
 so far as they dared. In other words, a lingering 
 decency or a grovelling timidity kept them from 
 being so bad as they might have been. The Union's 
 circulation bore about the same proportion to the 
 circulation of the Gazette, only in an inverse ratio, 
 as its morals did ; which is a severe reflection on New 
 York. The existence 1 of both papers was a reflection 
 on New York for that matter. But let that pass. 
 The Gazette was the apotheosis of journalistic sharp 
 practice, the Union was a feeble imitation thereof.
 
 Graduates of the School 287 
 
 !N"ot being so bad as its rival, the Union naturally 
 mistook weakness and timidity for virtue and prided 
 itself on its morals! 
 
 Like sin, there was something in the atmosphere 
 of the Gazette that was intensely contagious. It was 
 a marvel how the editor-in-chief thereof managed to 
 keep even half of his editorials above suspicion. 
 Everybody who worked for the paper fell under the 
 blighting spirit of its methods. In its pursuit for 
 news nothing was sacred, no advantage was neg- 
 lected. Facts were obtained and told no matter what 
 the consequences. If there were no facts the lack 
 was supplied by manufacture. The reporters, the 
 various editors, the pressmen, even the newsboys, all 
 felt and succumbed to the noxious influence of the 
 paper. It had outgrown any mere human control. 
 Its policy was become as irresistible as that of Rus- 
 sia, and its editorial autocrats were as submissive to it 
 as is the Czar to his huge empire. The monster ob- 
 sessed them, the virus in its veins contaminated their 
 own blood with the peculiar ichor like to poison; 
 reversing the fabulous conduct of the pelican toward 
 its young, the offspring of the Gazette finally turned 
 upon it and strove to rend it for their own greed; 
 usually being rent themselves in the process. 
 
 This profoundly philosophical conclusion had not 
 entered the mind of Hollister. Hollister could re- 
 member the Gazette when neither he nor it was big 
 enough or important enough to attract anybody's 
 notice. He had begun as a " printer's devil " when 
 he constituted one-eighth of the entire force. He
 
 288 The Records 
 
 had risen with, the Gazette until now he was a 
 reporter on its staff earning forty dollars a week. 
 
 He was familiar with its methods, with its ideas, 
 with its principles. He was a part of it, and it 
 was a part of him. If there was anything partic- 
 ularly disreputable in the reportorial line which re- 
 quired address, finesse, courage, persistence, and a 
 brutal disregard of private right, Hollister did it. 
 He had talent in plenty, even genius, and he was 
 dissatisfied with his present position. Not because 
 he disliked to do the things that fell to his lot, but 
 because there was not enough money in it for him. 
 Like the paper, Hollister was out for the material 
 reward every time. As he phrased it, he was 
 not working for his health. He perceived 
 that his talents were not appreciated. His 
 growing dissatisfaction stimulated him to action at 
 last. After much cogitation he determined upon a 
 grand coup for which he planned with remarkable 
 astuteness. 
 
 One morning he presented himself to Mr. Wilder, 
 the managing editor, and handed in his resignation. 
 People as a rule did not last long on the Gazette. 
 They were either too strong to stand it and left, or 
 they were too weak to be of service to it and were dis- 
 missed; but Hollister was a fixture. He had been 
 there before Mr. Wilder himself, and such a thing as 
 the Gazette without Hollister seemed preposterous! 
 Yet there was his resignation. In the case of any- 
 one else it would have been accepted instantly, but 
 with Hollister it was different. There was some-
 
 Graduates of the School 289 
 
 thing so unusual, so peculiar, in the situation, that 
 Wilder discussed it with Hollister. 
 
 " Look here, Hollister," he said with incredulous 
 surprise ; " do you mean to tell me that you are 
 resigning from the Gazette ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Wilder." 
 
 " What's the matter? Haven't we treated you 
 right?" 
 
 " You've treated me well enough, but " an- 
 swered Hollister promptly. 
 
 " Don't you like the work you do? " interrupted 
 the managing editor. " Aren't your associations 
 pleasant? Isn't everything agreeable?" 
 
 " Entirely." 
 
 " Why are you leaving then? Would sixty dollars 
 a week keep you? " 
 
 " No, it wouldn't." 
 
 " Well, what's the matter? " 
 
 " The truth is that Mr. Hanson " 
 
 At this Mr. Wilder pricked up his ears. Hanson 
 was the new owner of the Union. He had recently 
 bought the paper and it was rumored that he in- 
 tended to dispute the supremacy of the Gazette by 
 making use of the latter journal's methods, and 
 where he could do so, of the latter journal's men. 
 
 " Mr. Hanson," went on Hollister coolly, " who 
 used to know me back in Illinois when I was a kid, 
 before I came to New York, you know, and who has 
 been watching my work, 'asked me to be the Sunday 
 Editor of the Union." 
 
 "What!" cried Wilder.
 
 290 The Records 
 
 " A fact, I assure you," said the younger man 
 gravely. 
 
 " How much does he offer you? " 
 
 " Ten thousand a year," returned Hollister calmly. 
 
 " Whew! " exclaimed Wilder. 
 
 " So you see," went on the reporter with all the 
 cool assurance of his class, " while I like you all and 
 shall be awfully sorry to leave the Gazette I can't af- 
 ford to refuse an offer like that for a forty-dollar-a- 
 week reporter's job, or even for the sixty dollars 
 which you so generously offered me a minute ago, 
 which was very kind of you. Hence my resignation. 
 Will you see that it is accepted at once, sir? " 
 
 " Hold on a minute, Hollister! " said Wilder. " I 
 don't mind telling you that Maxey, our Sunday 
 Editor, isn't quite up to the mark. He's let a lot of 
 chances get by him for good stuff that's gone else- 
 where, and the Sunday edition doesn't quite average 
 up to the rest of the Gazette's sales. Now, if I make 
 you an offer of, say, one thousand dollars a month, 
 twelve thousand a year, wouldn't you just as soon 
 stay with us as go over to the Union ? " 
 
 " Frankly, Mr. Wilder, I'd very much rather stay 
 here than go anywhere. I would have stayed here 
 for less than the Union offered me, but now it's too 
 late," answered Hollister, his pulses bounding. 
 
 " Too late? How's that? " 
 
 " I saw Mr. Hanson yesterday and told him that 
 as soon as I resigned from here I would accept his 
 offer."
 
 Graduates of the School 291 
 
 " Well, you haven't resigned. That is, your 
 resignation isn't accepted and " 
 
 " Well, I might get out of the thing on that 
 technicality," returned Hollister meekly; " but it 
 doesn't seem exactly square. We of the Gazette have 
 to exhibit an example of honest and honorable jour- 
 nalism to the world, you know, sir. You taught us 
 that yourself." 
 
 That fiction about honorable journalism was one 
 of the Shibboleths of the! Gazette, and, although both 
 Hollister and Wilder knew it to be a lie, they both 
 nodded gravely as if it were a settled thing, which 
 no contingency or emergency could disturb. 
 
 " Of course, of course," 'answered Wilder. " I 
 see. You're quite right." 
 
 His agreement was so hearty that, for the mo- 
 ment, Holister's confidence in the success of his 
 scheme failed him, and something like consternation 
 came into his breast. However, he said nothing. 
 Mr. Wilder, after a momentary hesitation, finally 
 rose. 
 
 " Just wait here, Hollister," he said leaving the 
 room. 
 
 He had a brief conversation in the private office 
 with McKirk, the owner of the paper. To this con- 
 sultation the editor-in-chief was summoned. It was 
 promptly decided that if Hollister was worth ten 
 thousand dollars to the Union he must be worth 
 twelve thousand to the Gazette. He must be retained 
 at all hazards. 
 
 " What will become of Maxey? " asked the editor-
 
 292 The Records 
 
 in-chief, who, because half of his editorials were 
 good, really had some conscience left. 
 
 " He'll have to go," said the owner briefly and in- 
 differently, " a man who can't keep up with the pro- 
 cession has no place on our paper. We want only 
 the best all the time." 
 
 Unless Maxey had been prudent and had laid aside 
 something for his old age, this doomed him to beg- 
 gary, for no one who was discharged from the Gazette 
 could ever find employment on any other paper, 
 especially if he had been identified long enough with 
 that paper to have imbibed its pernicious methods. 
 But that was a matter of small moment to anybody 
 on the Gazette. Everyone who worked for the paper 
 realized the state of affairs and only entered its ser- 
 vice because of the extravagance of its salaries while 
 they lasted. 
 
 " I have consulted the ' old man,' " said Wilder 
 after he returned to Hollister, " and he says that 
 my tentative offer holds good. If you can get your 
 release from Hanson we'll give you twelve thousand 
 a year to act as Editor of our Sunday edition." 
 
 " I'm afraid it's no go," said Hollister with well 
 simulated dejection. 
 
 " At least you can try it," urged Wilder. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I can." He pulled out his watch. 
 " I'm going to lunch with Mr. Hanson this afternoon 
 at half after one, it's almost that now. If he'll let 
 me off, all right. If he won't I wish you had 
 spoken earlier, but, really ' 
 
 " I'll have the contract drawn up any way, Hoi-
 
 "Well, sir?" asked Mr. Wilder, 
 expectantly. Page 293
 
 Graduates of the School 293 
 
 lister," said Wilder briskly. " We don't want to lose 
 you," lie added with flattering emphasis on the last 
 word. 
 
 " Thank you, sir. Good morning," returned Hoi- 
 lister, going out sadly as if overwhelmed with fear 
 that Hanson would not release him. 
 
 After giving instructions as to the drawing up of 
 the contract a sudden thought struck Mr. Wilder. 
 He hastily summoned one of his confidential clerks. 
 
 " Mr. Richards," he said quickly to him, " you 
 know Mr. Hollister of course? " 
 
 " Certainly, sir." 
 
 " He's going to lunch with Mr. Hanson of the 
 Union at half after one. I want you to follow him 
 wherever he goes, without being seen yourself, of 
 course. Don't let him escape your observation for a 
 moment, and let me know as soon as you can just 
 what his movements are till he gets back here." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 About half after two o'clock Hollister came back 
 to the office of the Gazette, 'and presented himself to 
 the managing editor. 
 
 " Well, sir? " asked Mr. Wilder expectantly. 
 
 " I am happy to say," said Hollister pleasantly, 
 " that Mr. Hanson most kindly released me." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 " He said he wouldn't stand in my light and " 
 
 "Here are the yearly contracts," said Wilder hand- 
 ing them over. He was very busy and he had no 
 time to waste in useless discussion. The thing was 
 settled and he wanted to get rid of it. " They have
 
 294 The Records 
 
 been signed on our part. All you have to do is to 
 sign them and the thing's done." 
 
 Hastily looking them over to see that they were 
 in order Hollister affixed his signature, and im- 
 mediately received the congratulations of the manag- 
 ing editor. 
 
 " You can occupy Mr. Maxey's office at once," said 
 that functionary. 
 
 " Has he been notified? " 
 
 " He hasn't come down yet, but I'll have him in- 
 formed just as soon as he enters the building. As 
 it's Thursday now and getting late you'd better jump 
 in and take a look at the make-up of next Sunday's 
 paper. I shall not expect much from you for the first 
 week, you understand, but there must be a marked 
 improvement after that! " 
 
 " There will be," answered Hollister confidently, 
 bowing himself out. 
 
 As he did so Mr. Wilder suddenly recollected the 
 errand upon which he had despatched his confidential 
 clerk. Ringing the bell he asked the messenger if 
 Mr. Richards had returned. 
 
 " Not yet, sir," was the answer, but while the 
 messenger was speaking, Richards, out of breath, 
 burst unceremoniously into the office. 
 
 " Richards," said Wilder sternly, " you're late. I 
 told you to report to me on Mr. Hollister's move- 
 ments immediately he returned. He has been here 
 for the last ten minutes. You should have preceded 
 him." 
 
 " He fooled me, sir! " gasped out Richards. " He
 
 Graduates of the School 295 
 
 got into a cab and got out on the other side, and I 
 followed the cab until it stopped before I found 
 out " 
 
 " So you allowed yourself to be taken in by that 
 stale old trick, did you? " sneered Wilder. " Urn! 
 Well, what have you to report? " 
 
 " Hollister went down to the Park Row restaurant 
 after he left you " 
 
 " Ah! And lunched with Mr. Hanson? " 
 
 " No, sir, he lunched alone." 
 
 " He did? Didn't he see Mr. Hanson? " 
 
 " He didn't see anyone. He sat there in the 
 restaurant smoking a cigar and reading a paper after 
 lunch until after two." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Perfectly sure. I had him under observation 
 until he took the cab." 
 
 " You are sure that Hollister didn't observe you? " 
 
 " I think not, sir." 
 
 " You think not ! The Gazette pays people like 
 you to know, not to think! It is perfectly evident 
 that he did see you and that he gave you the slip in 
 order to get here ten minutes before you. That ten 
 minutes was enough, sir! We've been swindled, 
 robbed! It's outrageous! And it's all due to you! 
 The cashier will make out your time. We don't want 
 you any longer." 
 
 " This will make a very pleasant story to tell the 
 Union, for instance, won't it? " said Richards coolly 
 and bravely. " And there are other things that I 
 can tell. I haven't been your private secretary and
 
 296 The Records 
 
 confidential clerk for the last two years without 
 knowing something about this paper, Mr. Wilder." 
 
 "Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Wilder 
 furious with rage. " I won't have you around me 
 another minute ! Get out of here ! " 
 
 " You don't have to have me around here, Mr. 
 Wilder, but you won't fire me, nevertheless, I think. 
 There's that Washington correspondent's position 
 that I've wanted so long." 
 
 " Oh, very well," said Wilder savagely. A mo- 
 mentary reflection had convinced him of the strength 
 of Richards' position. It was impregnable for the 
 present. So, too, he realized as his eyes fell upon 
 the contracts, was Hollister's! I'll see that you get 
 it then," he added, " but you won't hold it very 
 long," he muttered under his breath as he went out. 
 " And as for you, Mr. Hollister, I'll fix you! Think 
 of it! And I trained both these men myself! " 
 
 The next thing he did was to take the elevator and 
 repair to the office of the proprietor. To him he told 
 the whole story regarding both Hollister and 
 Richards. 
 
 "Umph!" said McKirk, "pretty bad, isn't it? 
 But after all, Wilder, both these youngsters got the 
 better of you, and Hollister got the better of me and 
 the editor-in-chief, too, and we're the finest news- 
 paper men in New York, I take it. Pretty shrewd 
 of them. They're a pair of rascals, but if they're 
 smart enough for that I guess we haven't done so 
 badly after all in retaining them. They're the kind 
 of men we want on the Gazette."
 
 Fourteenth Record 
 
 \ 
 
 THE MATCHMAKER* 
 
 Molly Clancy was blessed among women in that 
 she had a greater number of lovers than usually fall 
 to a single member of the ruling sex. To be strictly 
 accurate, she had ninety-six adorers who were all 
 passionately devoted to her and were spoiling for 
 a chance to die for her! 
 
 The overwhelming number of captives to Molly's 
 bow and spear was not due altogether to the 
 preeminence or unusualness of Molly's char- 
 acteristics, physical or mental, although in neither 
 case were these to be despised. It was the uni- 
 versal testimony that Molly was as " pretty as they 
 made 'em," and as " smart as a whip." It must 
 be 'allowed that the testimony was not impartial. 
 The testifiers were biased prejudiced. Their af- 
 fection blinded their judgment for this reason; 
 Molly Clancy was the solitary unmarried white 
 woman within a radius of two hundred and fifty 
 miles, and the unmarried troopers of the little two- 
 company post were hers to a man! 
 
 Those few women who were to be found at iso- 
 
 *By courtesy of " The Illustrated Sporting News."
 
 298 The Records 
 
 lated spots in the circumference of a circle in which 
 Fort Grummond was the centre, did not compare 
 with Molly; and this may be admitted without 
 any disparagement of their qualities, because they 
 were all married. The Colonel's wife, the wife of 
 the senior captain, and the blushing bride heroic 
 woman who had left the comforts and luxuries of 
 an Eastern home to be the wife of the junior second 
 lieutenant, the youngest officer to divide his affections 
 between Mars and Venus did not count with the 
 troopers; could not and would not have counted save 
 as divinities to be worshipped at a distance, on ac- 
 count of the difference in rank even if they had not 
 been married. There were no differences in rank in 
 the case of the three or four old campaigners, wives 
 of the sergeants, but they were eliminated from the 
 game by the wearing of the magic circlet on the 
 ring finger of the heart hand. 
 
 A superficial opinion might be that Molly's sin- 
 gle blessedness, the fact that she was the only un- 
 married woman in the post, was a reflection upon 
 her charms; yet no one who knew the state of af- 
 fairs, who saw Molly on her afternoons out she 
 had insisted upon " city ways " even in the wilder- 
 ness surrounded by " honor, love, obedience," and 
 troops of soldiers, could entertain that opinion for 
 a moment. 
 
 " My dear," said the Colonel to his wife, " why 
 doesn't that girl get married? She's disorganizing 
 the whole command! I never saw anything like 
 it. She came down the walk last night at dress
 
 The Matchmaker 299 
 
 parade leading Captain Smith's baby. You should 
 have seen the eyes of the men follow her as she 
 trotted along. You'd have thought somebody at 
 the end of the line had shouted, ' Right dress ! ' as 
 she turned the flank, and such a ragged manual as 
 they put up I never saw! I wish she would get 
 married and have done with it." 
 
 " My dear," said the Colonel's wife soothingly, 
 " what would we do if she left us? You know she 
 is the best cook, the best laundress, the best every- 
 thing, at the post and the. only one as well. I don't 
 see how we could get along without her." 
 
 " No, I suppose not," said the Colonel; "but I 
 wish the men's opinions as to her qualities were not 
 so unanimous. Gad! if this disorganization doesn't 
 stop I'll put her in the guard house and deprive 
 the whole command of the sight of her! Murphy 
 and Schlitzer were up before me last week for 
 fighting down behind the mule corral. When I 
 asked them what was the matter, Murphy stammered 
 out in his delicious brogue : ' We had a little dif- 
 ference of opeenion, sor, about a leddy, sor.' And 
 Schlitzer rolled his blue eyes under his blond hair 
 and muttered, ' Yah, mein Herr Colonel, dot ish so! ' 
 I'm disgusted with the whole lot! I swore that if 
 anybody else was caught fighting about Molly Clancy 
 he should be forbidden to speak to her for the space 
 of four calendar weeks! " 
 
 " Mercy! " laughed his wife, " that is a dreadful 
 punishment, John." 
 
 " Cornelia," remarked the Colonel gravely, " this
 
 300 The Records 
 
 is no laughing matter. Molly must get married, 
 or, at least, she must make a choice between the 
 men of the command." 
 
 " Are you going to turn matchmaker? " 
 
 " Well, there aren't many things a man can do, 
 or a woman, either, that the commander of a two- 
 company post in the wilds of Wyoming doesn't 
 have to do sooner or later," replied the grizzled 
 old warrior smiling; " and I'm going to try my hand 
 at this. Who is the most likely candidate? " 
 
 " Oh, you're willing to take advice, are you? " 
 asked his wife. 
 
 " Not only advice, my dear, but orders, from 
 you," returned the old man, giving his wife a rare 
 and much-valued caress. 
 
 " I think that O'Brien has the inside track," said 
 the Colonel's wife reflectively. 
 
 " That's good! He's the only unmarried ser- 
 geant, and he's entitled to a wife if he wants one." 
 
 " He wants Molly certainly." 
 
 " He shall have her, or I'm not commander of 
 this regiment. O'Brien is a steady, faithful sol- 
 dier, and if we ever get a regiment together again 
 I am going to make him Sergeant-Major at the first 
 opportunity. He can support a wife all right. I 
 will engage Molly to him." 
 
 " And what will we do? " 
 
 " I'll order the wedding put off until we get an- 
 other girl out from the States in the spring. Con- 
 found it! I suppose love can wait for duty for that 
 length of time, can't it? "
 
 The Matchmaker 301 
 
 " You wouldn't wait when we " 
 
 " Oh, we're different," returned the Colonel 
 promptly. 
 
 " Well, it's a very nice plan," said his wife; " but 
 how are you going to bring it about? " 
 
 " Madam," asked the Colonel loftily, " am I the 
 commander of this post or not? " 
 
 " You are with er certain reservations." 
 
 " Quite right, my dear. You are the only reser- 
 vation and I have enlisted you on my side. Molly 
 loves O'Brien, O'Brien loves her. The thing is 
 simple. I will detail O'Brien for the marriage 
 ceremony, square the thing with Molly, get the 
 Bishop to bring up his canonicals, turn out the com- 
 mand, and there you are! " 
 
 " A very pretty programme ; but how to ' square 
 Molly,' is the question." 
 
 " Oh, leave that to me ; I'll manage that," re- 
 turned the Colonel calmly. 
 
 " And er there is another thing." 
 
 " Hey! " exclaimed the Colonel. " What! " 
 
 "It isn't 'what.' It's 'who.' There's young 
 Stevenson." 
 
 "Well, I'll be blessed! You don't mean to tell 
 me that Stevenson, the most unruly trooper in this 
 command, is going to oppose the will of his com- 
 manding officer? If I hear anything from him I'll 
 detail him for the best man! I'm sick and tired of 
 all this foolishness! " muttered the Colonel. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said his wife, " you know best, 
 of course. This is a matter of hearts, not disci-
 
 302 The Records 
 
 pline; but have your way. When are you going to 
 begin? " 
 
 "Now. Where is Molly?" 
 
 " It's her afternoon out. To-morrow is Christ- 
 mas, and we shall need her for the tree, you know. 
 I let her go to-day instead. She said she wanted 
 to take a little walk." 
 
 " She hasn't gone outside the stockade, has she? " 
 asked the Colonel anxiously. " You know the In- 
 dians have been about us all week. They made 
 another attempt to stampede the mules last night." 
 
 " They are always about us," sighed his wife, look- 
 ing very grave. " I wish we could get another detail 
 and " 
 
 " There, there, my dear! " said the Colonel, 
 gently, " somebody has to stay here, and why not 
 we? Besides, we are sent here, and here we must re- 
 main. About the Christmas tree is everything 
 ready? " 
 
 " I think so. We are going to have it in the new 
 Commissary Building which has not been used yet. 
 First, the children will get their things, and after 
 that we have something for each one of the troopers. 
 Is there anybody in the guard house? " 
 
 " No one. There were three this morning. Mur- 
 phy and Schlitzer got out to-day and I released the 
 third man." 
 
 "Who was he?" 
 
 " Stevenson. He had been very insolent to 
 O'Brien." 
 
 " About Molly, I suppose."
 
 The Matchmaker 303 
 
 " Yes. I let him out because to-morrow is Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 " How sweet of you," said his wife, coming nearer 
 to the Colonel and leaning her head against his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Very foolish of me," said the practical warrior, 
 greatly pleased with his wife's approval. " I spoil 
 the men to death, I'm sure." / 
 
 " And they adore you," said his wife softly. 
 
 The day had opened pleasantly. There was a 
 light snow on the ground from the day before, but 
 the morning had been clear though very cold. As 
 the day wore on the sky became more and more 
 overcast, until as the Colonel stepped out of his 
 headquarters late in the afternoon there was every 
 indication of a fierce winter storm. 
 
 Well, there was no reason for apprehension or 
 alarm in that. The fort was situated on a little 
 plateau on the top of a good sized hill. It was 
 strongly palisaded with logs, and the officers' 
 quarters and men's barracks, though rude as pos- 
 sible in appearance, being built of rough pine logs, 
 were warm and comfortable. The fort was well 
 provisioned and the storm would keep the Indians 
 away so that they could enjoy Christmas undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 As the Colonel stood on the porch a man of an 
 erect military figure, although his legs were slightly 
 bowed, showing that he was a cavalryman, came 
 running up the wall toward the porch at a very un- 
 military pace. He halted abruptly before his com-
 
 304 The Records 
 
 manding officer, saluted mechanically, and gasped 
 out in response to the other's nod: 
 
 " Beggin' the Colonel's pardon, sor, but have ye 
 seen Molly Clancy? " 
 
 " My God ! " ejaculated the Colonel in deep dis- 
 gust, " you don't suppose I keep watch on Molly, do 
 you? What do you mean, O'Brien? What's the 
 matter with you? " 
 
 " Beggin' the Colonel's pardon, sor," said the sol- 
 dier, " but I've searched through the post, sor, an' 
 she's nowhere to be found." 
 
 " What! " exclaimed the Colonel, instantly on the 
 alert. " After my positive orders? " 
 
 " Wimmin like Molly Clancy, sor, don't obey no 
 orders, 'ceptin' their own, sor," remarked O'Brien, 
 who knew more of the devious feminine way than his 
 superior officer apparently. 
 
 " They don't, eh? " said the Colonel grimly; a well, 
 I'll see about that." 
 
 " Me an' Molly had some wur-rds this afternoon, 
 sor," faltered O'Brien, then he hesitated, not know- 
 ing how far he might presume upon his Colonel's 
 complaisance. 
 
 " Go on, man, go on ! By gad ! since I came to 
 this post four-fifths of my time has been taken up in- 
 vestigating quarrels between the men about that con- 
 founded female! What is it? " 
 
 " We had some wur-rds, sor, an' I she was for- 
 bid by me to go beyant the stockade." 
 
 " Oh! She had your orders as well as mine, had 
 she?"
 
 The Matchmaker 305 
 
 " Yis, sor," answered O'Brien gravely. 
 
 " And what right had you to give orders to her, 
 pray? " 
 
 " Her an' me is ingaged, sor, if the Colonel 
 plazes." 
 
 " He does please. Go on! " 
 
 " An' we're goin' to git married in the spring, sor, 
 w'en the Colonel gits another gur-rl, sor, if he wants 
 wan." 
 
 " He wants a one-eyed, pock-marked, hump-backed 
 one the next time," said the Colonel sarcastically. 
 
 " Yis, sor; but I misdoot that aven that kind might 
 be in de-mand out here, sor." 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Well, sor, me an' Molly is ingaged an' we don't 
 let onybody know it." 
 
 " Evidently." 
 
 " Because Molly is havin' too good a time, she 
 sez. The Colonel knows how it is wid a woman, 
 sor. Everything has to give way, sor." 
 
 " Tim yes," said the Colonel reflectively, think- 
 ing of certain domestic experiences of his own. 
 
 " But there's wan thing I'll not stand, an' I told 
 her she'd got to guv up that dirty English spal- 
 peen Stevenson beggin' the Colonel's pardon, sor. 
 She said she had an ingagemint with him this after- 
 noon, sor, an' she'd do as she plazed, an' I had to 
 go down to me stables, an' now I can't find her ony 
 place, sor." 
 
 " Have you searched the post? " 
 
 " Yis, sor."
 
 306 The Records 
 
 " And the corral? " 
 
 " Yis, sor." 
 
 " And the sergeants' cabins? " 
 
 " Yis, sor." 
 
 " Orderly," called the Colonel sharply, " send me 
 the Sergeant of the Guard. " Sergeant," he con- 
 tinued a few moments after as that functionary pre- 
 sented himself, " did Molly Clancy and Trooper 
 Stevenson leave the post this afternoon by any of the 
 gates? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 " Sergeant O'Brien asked me, sir, a while ago, and 
 I made inquiry. But a teamster in the other corral 
 says he saw them going over the stockade where the 
 wagons are parked." 
 
 " My God! " exclaimed O'Brien. 
 
 " When they come back," said the Colonel, " put 
 Stevenson in the guard house, Christmas or no 
 Christmas, and send Molly Clancy to me." 
 
 " Colonel, for God's love, sor, lemme go out an' 
 look for 'em, sor! " cried O'Brien, " gimme a squad 
 of men, sor, an " 
 
 The Colonel looked very serious. 
 
 " In your present state, O'Brien, you would prob- 
 ably kill Stevenson if you caught him. Besides, who 
 knows where they have gone ? " 
 
 " The teamster says they had their skates, sir," 
 said the Sergeant of the Guard. 
 
 " Then they will be down under the bluffs by the 
 Big Piney. Send a corporal and four men down to
 
 The Matchmaker 307 
 
 the creek to look them up. Let Jefferson go, he's a 
 good, steady man. See that their carbines are all 
 right, and tell them not to get too far away. It's 
 snowing, and looks threatening. I suppose the In- 
 dians we heard last night have gone back to their 
 lodges now. They're not apt to stay out in a storm 
 like this. O'Brien, come with me. Pull yourself to- 
 gether, man. Come up to the observatory tower. 
 Sergeant, report to me as soon as you get any news." 
 
 n 
 
 Somehow or other it had become known that 
 Molly Clancy and Stevenson were missing. The men 
 swarmed out of their quarters and clustered around 
 the gates or gathered in little knots on the parade, 
 discussing the situation. Jefferson and his squad 
 of four went out of the south gate in a hurry. They 
 ran along the stockade until they came to the place 
 where the two had climbed over. Their trail was 
 plain. They turned and followed it on the run. 
 
 Poor Molly Clancy, resenting the Sergeant's 
 authoritative tone in a spirit of feminine bravado, had 
 deliberately disobeyed the Colonel's orders and her 
 intended husband's as well, and had gone down to 
 the Piney with the reckless and insubordinate 
 Stevenson, who would cheerfully have gone through 
 hell itself to be with Molly. Molly hadn't got a yard 
 away from the fort when she began to feel sorry, and 
 she felt sorrier and sorrier as she went along. Still
 
 308 The Records 
 
 she went! Pride, with Stevenson's subtle and per- 
 suasive assistance, kept her from reconsidering her 
 intention and turning back. 
 
 The wind had swept the snow from the ice, and 
 Molly dearly loved to skate. There was no better 
 skater in the fort than Stevenson. The creek near 
 the fort broadened out under the bluff into a small 
 pond. They skated to and fro for a little while, until 
 Stevenson seated Molly on a fallen log and began to 
 show off in her presence after the manner of the 
 male animal in love. He cut pigeon wings, figures of 
 eight, beautiful circles, and generally arabesqued the 
 ice with intricate evidences of his talent. In the 
 middle of his performance he suddenly threw up his 
 hands, shrieked horribly, and fell backward. His 
 fall was so sudden and so unexpected, and he came 
 down with such fearful force, in a sort of collapse, as 
 it were, that Molly's laughter which had instantly 
 pealed out in the clear, cold air, suddenly stopped. 
 She struggled to her feet and a few strokes brought 
 her to his side. 
 
 An arrow was buried to the feathers in his right 
 breast. He lay on his back with an expression of 
 mortal agony on his face, blood frothing from liis 
 mouth. He was fairly digging his hands and heels 
 into the ice. 
 
 Molly was too startled and too terrified to scream. 
 Staring at him appalled as she balanced herself on 
 her skates, a second arrow skipped across his breast 
 and slid along the ice. The woman looked up at that. 
 On the bank above her stood three Indians. They all
 
 She stared at them in petrified 
 astonishment. Page 309
 
 The Matchmaker 309 
 
 had guns, but fearing to alarm the post had resorted 
 to the silent, swift and subtle weapon of their fore- 
 fathers. She stared at them in petrified astonish- 
 ment. Poor Stevenson saw them at the same time. 
 His only thought was for her. 
 
 " Skate ! " he cried, with astonishing energy. 
 "For your life!" 
 
 The soldier was done for. He knew it and she 
 knew it. There was no way in which Molly could 
 aid him by remaining there. She turned instantly 
 and flew up the pond in the direction of the fort, a 
 wild, mad terror in her heart, for Molly very well 
 knew what happened to women who were captured 
 by Indians. She .had never skated so fast before, 
 but her efforts were vain. The Indians, a lurking 
 war party of adventurous Sioux, had observed the 
 two ever since they had left the fort, and had laid 
 their plans with cunning strategy. As she swung 
 under the trees and bent toward the stockade, a wait- 
 ing savage sprang upon her. As she opened her 
 mouth to scream the warrior clapped his hand over it. 
 She bit him viciously, whereupon he struck her 
 brutally in the face, threatening her with a ferocious 
 gesture a moment afterwards. She was half dazed 
 from the blow and speechless with fright. Then he 
 picked her up she was a little body and he was a 
 huge man and ran swiftly over the ice toward the 
 prostrate soldier. He joined his comrades there, and 
 after a few necessary details with poor Stevenson 
 necessary from the savage point of view the party 
 now increased to some half dozen, gagged the girl,
 
 310 The Records 
 
 dragged her up the slope, mounted her on a pony 
 and off they galloped. 
 
 They had need of speed. It was already beginning 
 to snow. There was a mass of black cloud in the west 
 full of terrible portent, and the wind came sweeping- 
 down the mountain sides with threat and menace in 
 its blasts. 
 
 Jefferson and his party followed the footsteps of 
 the two runaways, which were plainly enough visible 
 in the snow, until they came to the trees bordering 
 the river. Halfway down the bank they were met 
 by .a horrible object. Stevenson had been stripped 
 of his clothes and riddled with arrows. His scalp had 
 been taken. He was a naked, ghastly, mutilated, 
 figure; yet still alive! He was using the last vestige 
 of his strength to crawl up the bank to give the alarm. 
 They could follow his advance by the blood that had 
 poured upon the snow from his wounds. 
 
 " My God ! Stevenson ! " exclaimed Jefferson, as 
 he caught sight of this new St. Sebastian. 
 
 Stevenson had been crawling slowly along the path 
 like a blind puppy. As he heard the voice he lifted 
 his head. He could not see, he could scarcely speak. 
 His consciousness was almost gone. Yet there was 
 one thing to be done. He must do it. Stevenson 
 had been the most unruly man in the regiment, as the 
 Colonel had said. But he was a brave man. 
 
 " Molly! " he gasped. " The Sioux down the 
 creek hurry! " 
 
 " How many? " asked Jefferson quickly. 
 
 " Six! " gasped out the soldier.
 
 The Matchmaker 311 
 
 There was a noise of breaking sticks as Stevenson 
 fell forward upon the arrow shafts. And something 
 else broke then and there which made no sound. 
 
 " Philips," said Jefferson, " run to the fort and re- 
 port to the Colonel. Tell him that Molly Clancy 
 has been taken prisoner by the Indians, and that 
 Stevenson is in the woods dead. The rest of us will 
 stay here until relieved. There may be more of the 
 red devils about." 
 
 Ill 
 
 In spite of himself the Colonel had awaited Jef- 
 ferson's report with deep anxiety. The news that was 
 brought by Trooper Philips was felt in some in- 
 describable way before it was delivered. The officers 
 had assembled at the Colonel's headquarters spon- 
 taneously. They all heard Philips' report. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Colonel surveying the 
 little group who crowded forward eagerly, " Mr. 
 Gatchell," he added, addressing one of the older 
 lieutenants. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Take twenty-four men " 
 
 " An' me, sor, for the love of God ! " cried O'Brien, 
 pressing forward from the background. 
 
 It was very unmilitary, but the Colonel passed it 
 over. 
 
 " O'Brien, too," he added, " and follow the trail. 
 I wish to God I could send out a regiment, but I 
 dare not let more than that number leave the post." 
 
 In an incredibly short time the twenty-four men
 
 312 The Records 
 
 had saddled their horses and were on the parade, 
 O'Brien at their lead. Gatchell instantly reported to 
 the Colonel that he was ready. 
 
 " They all wanted to go, sir," he said. " It was 
 hard to refuse them, but I have twenty-four of the 
 best men in the fort." 
 
 " I believe so," said the Colonel, scanning with 
 practiced eye the erect, soldierly, eager forms before 
 him. " You will pursue the hostiles up the valley 
 of the Big Piney until you reach the mountain pass. 
 On no account go farther than that. Jefferson re- 
 ported that Stevenson said there were only six In- 
 dians. Should you find a greater number, you will 
 proceed cautiously and send back a report to me." 
 
 " Very well, sir," said Gatchell saluting. 
 
 " Bring her back, if you can," said the Colonel. 
 " But for God's sake, don't lose your men, and be- 
 ware of the storm! Have you a compass? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 The officer shook his Colonel's hand, saluted, 
 mounted his horse and the troop trotted out of the 
 parade ground, O'Brien, lean, sinewy, furiously 
 determined, leading the line. Spontaneously the 
 men broke into cheers. 
 
 " Good luck to you! " they shouted. " Bring her 
 back. We'd like to go along with you." 
 
 Gatchell's party were soon lost to sight in the 
 whirling snow, which was now coming down hard. 
 That was an anxious night at Fort Grummond. The 
 wind rose, and before the darkness fell a blizzard was
 
 The Matchmaker 313 
 
 raging down the valley. The next morning at day- 
 break GatchelFs party, half frozen, almost perished 
 from exhaustion, drew up at the gate. They had fol- 
 lowed the trail until they had lost it in the snow, and 
 then at a venture had pushed out to the gap in the 
 mountain, which the Colonel had indicated as the 
 limit of their advance. They had seen nothing of the 
 Indians, and Gatchell had been forced by the severe 
 weather conditions to endeavor to get back to the 
 post lest the whole party be frozen to death. He 
 iad only succeeded in reaching it after incredible 
 hardships, and when he had, it was discovered that 
 O'Brien was missing. 
 
 There was absolutely nothing that the Colonel or 
 anyone else could do until the storm abated, and their 
 helplessness rendered it the more terrible to bear. 
 All thought of Christmas festivity was abandoned. 
 Outside it continued to blow furiously, and the snow 
 still came whirling down. Everybody kept under 
 cover except the sentries tramping up and down in 
 their great buffalo overcoats and fur caps. Every- 
 body, that is, except the Colonel and his Adjutant. 
 The Colonel was uneasy, unusually so. Again and 
 again he inspected the stockade, each time finding the 
 sentries watchful and ready at their posts. Just 
 about noon he stopped before the west gate, which 
 looked out on the Bozeman trail, and peered into 
 the swirling snow as if he would fain pierce the 
 obscurity to see what lay beyond. While he was con- 
 sidering, his eager ear caught the faint muffled note 
 of a bugle. He turned to the sentry.
 
 314 The Records 
 
 " Did you hear that ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " No, sir, I didn't hear anything, sir." 
 
 "Listen! There! Again! Don't you hear it?" 
 
 " It's a bugle, sir," cried the sentry. " Some- 
 body is out there and wants help." 
 
 " Call the guard." 
 
 " Sergeant of the Guard! " shouted the soldier, 
 but his voice could not be heard in the storm. 
 
 " Give me your carbine," said the Colonel, " I'll 
 keep your post. Send the officer of the day to me. 
 Bid the trumpeter sound ' Boots and Saddles ! ' 
 
 In a few moments the parade was alive with men 
 and horses ready for anything in spite of the storm. 
 At the Colonel's orders the bugler, who had been 
 summoned to his side at the gate, lifted his bugle 
 and blew " Officers' Call." In the silence that fol- 
 lowed the familiar notes the officers who had gath- 
 ered about the gate intently listened for a reply. 
 Sure enough muffled and faint in the storm they de- 
 tected a response. It was too indistinct for them to 
 distinguish what it was, but that the sound came from 
 a bugle was certain. 
 
 " There is something out there," said the Colonel, 
 turning to the group. " Captain Brown? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Take your troop out in the direction of the 
 sound. Keep in touch with the fort so as not to lose 
 your way. I do not think it can be Indians in such a 
 blizzard as this, but I don't know. Whoever it is 
 can't be far off, for the sound wouldn't carry any 
 distance in this howling blizzard. We'll cover you
 
 The Matchmaker 315 
 
 from the fort, and should I hear any firing I'll send 
 out half of the remaining troop." 
 
 In a moment Brown's troop were staggering 
 through the open gate. They deployed in line, tak- 
 ing good distance to cover a wide stretch of country, 
 and slowly advanced down the hill toward the valley, 
 while the others waited. In a few moments, it 
 seemed hours, the watchers at the gate could make 
 out the snow-enshrouded figures of the cavalry com- 
 ing back. They stared at the horses and men plod- 
 ding up the ascent looming gray and wraithlike in 
 the midst of the storm. 
 
 " There have been no shots, sir," said the Adju- 
 tant ; " they cannot have had any trouble." 
 
 " No," said the Colonel. 
 
 " There are more than a single troop," suggested 
 the junior Captain. 
 
 " Right," said the Colonel. 
 
 In a few moments Captain Brown rode up to the 
 gate in advance of his troop and dismounted. Brush- 
 ing the snow from his eyes, with his gloved hand he 
 saluted. 
 
 " I have to report, sir, that I have picked up a 
 sergeant and three troopers of E Troop from Fort 
 Bingham." 
 
 " Yes? " said the Colonel interrogatively. 
 
 " They were escorting the Bishop, who came over 
 here to spend Christmas with us and " 
 
 In spite of his soldierly impassivity and immobility 
 the Colonel started forward. 
 
 " Did they see anything of "
 
 316 The Records 
 
 " They've got her with them," said Brown. 
 " They're bringing her along. I hurried ahead." 
 
 " Is " 
 
 " Well and unharmed, sir." 
 
 "And O'Brien?" 
 
 " He's with them, too." 
 
 How the news got back from the officers to the 
 men nobody ever knew; nobody ever inquired, that 
 is, but however that might be, it reached the men 
 almost as soon as it reached the Colonel himself. 
 Such a cheer went up from the troopers standing by 
 their horses on the parade, as the Bishop and O'Brien 
 dismounted from their horses and half carried, half 
 led a drooping figure Molly Clancy through the 
 gate, as sufficed for a moment to drown even the 
 deeper diapason of the storm. 
 
 IV 
 
 The gates were closed, the troopers dismounted, 
 the horses stabled, the officers with the Bishop, Molly 
 Clancy and Sergeant O'Brien, were gathered in the 
 big hall of the Colonel's quarters. 
 
 " IsTow," said the Colonel very sternly, " Molly, 
 what happened to you? " 
 
 " Ef ye plaze, sor," said Molly, " af ther they killed 
 poor Misther Stavenson " 
 
 " Trooper Stevenson," corrected the Colonel. 
 
 " Yis, sor. They tuk me an' beyant tyin' me tight 
 they didn't ha'rm me. They put me on a pony an' 
 we galloped down the valley. I was that skeered
 
 The Matchmaker 317 
 
 I thought I'd die of fright, sor; but I kep' me eyes 
 open, an' I knowed we was a'headin' fer the gap. Ef 
 they got bey ant that I was lost ; I was prayin', sor, to 
 the Blessed Virgin Mary, an' all the ither saints all 
 the time. Yer right riverence knows how 't would 
 be? " She turned to the Bishop. 
 
 The little Bishop didn't pray in that way, but 
 he nodded his head in full comprehension and 
 sympathy. 
 
 " An' sure an' they heard me," continued Molly, 
 " fer the wind growed stronger an' stronger, an' 
 the snow came down thicker an' thicker. I couldn't 
 see nuthin', an' thim Injuns was lost." 
 
 " I guess not," said the Colonel. 
 
 " Yis, sor, they was. The snow w'irled so that 
 it covered the tracks an' we didn't lave no trail. 
 We crouched down behint some rocks at last, an' 
 we saw the sogers stagger by us goin' back to the 
 fort." 
 
 " That was Gatchell's party," said the Colonel 
 to the Bishop. " Why didn't you call out, Molly? " 
 
 " Sure, sor, I was that gagged I was spacheless; 
 but 1 could see well enough, an' I was lukin' for 
 Michael here, an' he wasn't there." 
 
 " Where were you, O'Brien? " asked the Colonel 
 sternly. 
 
 " I er sor, I lost the party at the pass, sor," 
 faltered poor O'Brien. 
 
 " Um! " said the Colonel. " You didn't try very 
 hard to find them, did you? " 
 
 " Sor," said O'Brien, " I was a lukin' fer Molly,
 
 318 The Records 
 
 an' ye know they say a mon can't luk fer two things 
 at onct, sor." 
 
 " Well, did you find her? " 
 
 " I did, sor. I knowed thim red divils had to 
 cut through that pass, an' w'ile it wasn't right to 
 risk the lives of half a troop, sor, yet one sargeant 
 more or less wouldn't make no difference to Uncle 
 Sam, sor. So I hid meself there, an' by an' by, sure 
 enough, along they kim. I got wan wid me carbine, 
 then the ejactor wint wrong, an' I sprung into thim 
 divils wid the butt, sor." 
 
 "Oh, you did, eh?" asked the Colonel, his eyes 
 twinkling. " "What happened then? " 
 
 " Then they fell on me like the starrum itself." 
 
 " Oh, Colonel, sor, if ye could have seen him ! " 
 cried Molly. " There was six of thim, barrin' the 
 wan he shot an' the wan he had knocked sinseless 
 with the butt of his carbine, but the other four lept 
 at him. He backed up agin the wall of the pass 
 an' fit like a tager." 
 
 " 'Twas fer you, me darlint ! " interrupted 
 O'Briem. 
 
 " Cut that! " said the Colonel sternly. 
 
 " Yis, sor," replied the Sergeant much abashed. 
 
 " Then what happened? " 
 
 " Then the Bishop's party cum along, sor, an' 
 only wan of thim got away alive. I mane the In- 
 juns, sor. An', sor," went on the Sergeant, made 
 bold by Molly's pretty eyes and the Colonel's ap- 
 proving glance, " ef I do say it myself, sor, of his 
 Right Kiverence there, I never seed a little mon
 
 The Matchmaker 319 
 
 fit harder than he did, sor. W'y he jist plunged 
 into the middle of thim red divils, got hold of wan 
 mon that was much bigger than he wor by a fut 
 an' a half, sor " the Bishop was a tiny man " an' 
 he hit him a belt in the jaw, sor, that jist laid him 
 out. For a mon of pace " 
 
 The room was in an uproar of laughter now. 
 The Bishop flushed and looked very much annoyed. 
 
 " How is this, Bishop? " asked the Colonel. 
 
 " Well," said the Bishop, " I I am afraid that, 
 carried away by the excitement of the moment, I 
 we burst upon them suddenly as we came around 
 the cliff and saw the Sergeant fighting and Molly ly- 
 ing in the snow and screaming like mad I er 
 possibly. I forgot myself er temporarily." 
 
 " And it's Christmas-tide, too! " said the Colonel 
 reprovingly, yet with a merry twinkle in his eye. 
 " A day of peace and good will. I'm surprised, 
 Bishop!" 
 
 " Yes," said the Bishop, " I remembered that it 
 was, but er unfortunately too late." 
 
 " Well, about the Indians, O'Brien? You say one 
 got away? " 
 
 " Well, sor, we're not sure about that," answered 
 the Sergeant ; " the Bishop's escort counted f er three 
 of thim wid their carbines; I sittled two, an' the 
 wan the Eight Kiverend hit, he fell over the cliff, 
 an' we've heard nuthin' of him sence." 
 
 " I hope I hope he got away," said the Bishop. 
 " I am sure I didn't hit him very hard." 
 
 " Oh, I guess he's all right," said the Colonel sig 
 nificantly. " What then, O'Brien? "
 
 320 The Records 
 
 " We camped fer the night, sor, an' come on in 
 the mornin' blowin' the bugle calls, hopin' you would 
 hear us, an' that's all, sor." 
 
 " Now," said the Colonel, turning to the two 
 culprits, " what am I to do with you? O'Brien, you 
 left your command under most reprehensible circum- 
 stances. I ought to break you, reduce you to the 
 ranks. Molly, you disobeyed my orders, you and 
 Stevenson. He's paid his penalty. What about 
 you? Besides that, you've almost disorganized the 
 post. What am I to do with you? " 
 
 Molly put the back of her hand up to her eyes 
 and began to cry. O'Brien stood very straight at 
 attention before his Colonel, looking and feeling 
 very uncomfortable. 
 
 " May I suggest, Colonel," said the Bishop with 
 considerable diffidence, being a man of authority 
 with others under him, he knew it was not well to 
 interfere in disciplinary matters, " that they have 
 been punished sufficiently as it is and er " 
 
 " I see," said the Colonel. " Molly, will you, if 
 I forgive you this time, do exactly as I say now 
 and forever after? " 
 
 " Yis, sor," sobbed Molly. 
 
 " O'Brien, have you come sufficiently to your 
 senses to know that obedience is the first duty of 
 a soldier, no matter what happens?" 
 
 " Yis, sor." 
 
 "Well, then, attention to orders! My punish- 
 ment for the both of you is that you shall get 
 married at once."
 
 The Matchmaker 321 
 
 " Yis, sor," said O'Brien, a smile illuminating his 
 face. 
 
 " Married? " screamed Molly Clancy suddenly 
 " w'y I 
 
 " Miss Clancy," said the Colonel sternly, " this 
 post is under military rule, and even the er fe- 
 males are subject to my orders. You will marry 
 Sergeant O'Brien to-day or you will spend Christ- 
 mas in the guard house." 
 
 Molly gaped open-mouthed at the Colonel. 
 
 " If the Colonel plazes, sor," burst out O'Brien 
 timorously, " I don't want Molly to be forced." 
 
 " Don't be a fool, Mike," said Molly suddenly 
 blushing furiously, " as betwane you an' the guard 
 house Oh, Mike," speaking softly and stepping 
 nearer to him, " I want you to marry me. Col- 
 onel, I'll obey all orders from you or from the 
 Sargeant here." 
 
 " Good ! " said the Colonel. " Here's a marriage" 
 that begins beautifully. We'll have the wedding 
 at the Christmas tree this afternoon, if the Bishop 
 is ready." 
 
 " I am ready," said the little man, " and I con- 
 gratulate you, Colonel, upon your judgment in this 
 difficult case. It is worthy of Solomon." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you I would make that match all 
 right? " said the Colonel to his wife that night. 
 
 " Anybody could make a match with the assist- 
 ance of a war party and a blizzard," returned that 
 lady scornfully. " Especially if they both wanted 
 to get married as badly as those two."
 
 WHAT THE CRITICS SAY OF 
 
 The Corner in Coffee 
 
 By Cyrus Townsend Brady 
 
 " Let us advise that the book be purchased and read. It is worth 
 while." Norfolk Dispatch. 
 
 " The romance sparkles with wit and humor, and abounds with 
 refreshing satire. The delineation of the characteristics of the typical 
 personages of the story such people as are met with every day in New 
 York is exceptionally accurate and clever. In addition to being an 
 exciting story of ' the street,' the book contains a delightful love story, 
 although the hero is fifty and the heroine thirty-five." The Nashville 
 American. 
 
 " As a good spirited love story with lots of human nature in it and 
 some delightful characters, the story is entertaining, and marks by far 
 the best the author has accomplished in fiction. The reader gets all 
 that is coming to him in the pleasure of reading it, and that is worth 
 the money." Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 " Mr. Brady never wrote a story that could be called dull ; but for 
 a thoroughly amusing tale, one which the reader cannot think of laying 
 aside until he is finished, ' The Corner in Coffee ' leads them all." Bos- 
 ton Transcript. 
 
 " Everyone who enjoys a rattling yarn with plenty of comedy 
 and just a dash of tragedy, will revel in this amusing book." Phila- 
 delphia Item. 
 
 " No less than fourteen applications for the dramatic rights were 
 made to the author. The play has been completed and will be staged in 
 the near future. In the language of its chief character, it is a ' cracker 
 jack ' story and a marked departure from Mr. Brady's usual style." 
 Cleveland Daily World. 
 
 " If the dramatization catches the crispness, the spontaineity and 
 the pathos of the novel, it might prove a great success. Mr. Brady has 
 produced live people, live love making, and live finance, ' The Corner 
 in Coffee ' is the brightest novel to his record." Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 
 
 "Many of the scenes are strongly dramatic, and a capital play 
 ought to result from the dramatization of the book, which is to be one 
 of next season's plays. ' The Corner in Coffee ' is very well written and 
 the portrayal of character is exceedingly felicitous." The Philadelphia 
 Press. 
 
 " The situations are dramatic, the courtship is unique, and the tale 
 is told inimitably with a crispness that is positively refreshing, and a 
 sparkling humor." Albany Times- Union. 
 
 "It is full of dramatic and interesting situations, and has plenty 
 of breadth and swing." St. Louis World. 
 
 I2mo, Cloih Bound, Illustrated. $1.50 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY, Publishers
 
 WHAT THE CRITICS SAY OF 
 
 Sir Henry Morgan Buccaneer 
 
 By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY 
 
 The New York Tribune says and it is true that "Mr. Brady is 
 fond of dashing themes and certainly here he has found a subject to suit 
 his most exacting mood. He has taken a rascal for the hero of his 
 picaresque and rattling romance. The author is lavish in incident and 
 handles one thrilling situation after another with due sense of all the 
 dramatic force that is to be got out of it. His description of the last 
 moments of the old pirate is one of the most effective pieces of writing 
 he has put to his credit. SIR HENRY MORGAN-BUCCANEER is an 
 absorbing story." 
 
 "Cyrus Townsend Brady has had the hardihood to set aside the 
 romantic pirate of fictional tradition and paint a genuine historic pirate; 
 lustful, murderous, brutal, relentless. The story has force and dramatic 
 interest." The Lamp* 
 
 " Mr. Brady has never before been so successful in creating a 
 character who so completely fills the scene. Morgan dominates the 
 book from the first line to the last." Philadelphia Item. 
 
 " The story is a fascinating one a concentration of all the pirate 
 stories that ever were written." Rochester Herald. 
 
 " Mr. Brady has a graphic and realistic power of description. The 
 novel is full measure and running over with thrills." Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 " A thrilling pirate story, a lively romance sufficiently sensational 
 yet not lacking in delicacy." Boston Transcript. 
 
 " The story is full of incident and has an appropriate measure of 
 love and sword play." N. Y. Times. 
 
 " It is as rakish and dashing a craft on seas literary as any of the 
 hero's black-flagged ships on seas actual." N. Y. World. 
 
 "There is 'hot stuff" in SIR HENRY MORGAN-BUCCANEER." 
 N. Y. Evening Sun. 
 
 "The interest of the action, pitched high in the beginning, is held 
 to the point of utmost tension throughout." St. Louis Star. 
 
 Profusely and beautifully illustrated from paintings by J. N. Marchand 
 and drawings by Will Crawford. Cloth-bound, $1.50. 
 
 Sold Every where.'or Sent Postpaid Free on Receipt of Price. 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM CO., Publishers, NEW YORK