He lifted the jug and looked longingly at the coin on the ground.

"You don' know what hit is to wan' hit so bad, Mr. Baron."

"Do I not know? Good God! Bud, it was because I wanted half that sum so much that I couldn't r-resist the temptation of it shining in a man's hand, that I did the thing for which never shall I for-rgive myself. You know, Bud; you r-recollect——"

He hid his face in his hands and gave a sob of tortured remembrance. Bud's easy sympathies were strained almost to the point of tears.

"Ah know," he responded, hastily; "you hadn' oughter 'a' done hit. Don', Mr. Baron, don'! Ah'll think about stoppin', Ah certainly will. Sit up, Mr. Baron," he cried, agitatedly, "here's folkses comin',—Mrs. Baron an' Miss Sydney."

Von Rittenheim raised his head, hardly believing Bud's cry to be other than an excuse to rouse him from his emotion. But he saw in the road below him a party of four people on horseback approaching his cabin. Even from his elevation he could recognize Sydney's erect carriage, and the white habit that it pleased Hilda to wear. He rose to his feet.

"Think of what I say, boy," he said to Yarebrough. "I am older than you, and God knows I've earned my experience."

Bud watched him down the hill. When he was greeting his guests at the door of his cabin, Yarebrough picked up the jug and the coin, and disappeared into the woods.

Wendell was taking the baroness off her horse, and Bob was performing the same office for Sydney, when Von Rittenheim reached them.

"We are come to beg a welcome fr-rom you for a few minutes, dear Friedrich," said Hilda, in English.

"Which surely is yours," returned Von Rittenheim, kissing her hand. He turned to Sydney, but she was busy doing something to her saddle, and greeted him over her shoulder. His hand dropped to his side.

"Let me help you tie the horses, Bob," he insisted, and took Sydney's animal from him.

"Dear Yonny," he murmured, in the unresponsive ear, as he fastened him in the shade, and gave him a pat and a lump of sugar from his pocket.

"May we go in?" asked Hilda. "I want to see the state of your storeroom," she added, with an air of protecting care that sat prettily on her youthful face.

"Natuerlich," called Friedrich from Johnny's side. "The key of the cupboard is in the table-drawer."

Sydney was alone on the porch when Friedrich came up the steps.

"Your view is lovely," she said. "I think I like Pisgah better from this angle than from any other."

"Then do I, too," he replied, looking at her with his heart in his eyes, for it was long since he had seen her, and to a lover yesterday, when it is passed, is as a thousand years.

Sydney threw up her chin haughtily, and von Rittenheim thought ruefully of the category in which undoubtedly she classed all his remarks of that kind.

"Will you not enter?" he said. "Never have you honored my roof, I think." And Sydney was glad to do so to avoid being alone with him.

They found Hilda leaning against the table opposite the cupboard, while Bob recited the contents of the shelves, and Wendell wrote them down.

"Two packages of oatmeal."

"Oatmeal," echoed John.

"One tin of mustard."

"Mustard."

"A sack half-full of cornmeal."

"Cornmeal."

"What in the world are you doing?" cried Sydney, in amazement.

Friedrich looked annoyed. No one likes to have his house-keeping arrangements too closely scrutinized.

"Friedrich, this list is going to help you ver-ry much to know what you must or-rder from the—how you call him?" She appealed to John and Bob in turn. "The grocy?"

Friedrich smiled to conceal his irritation.

"My way, Hilda, is to get more of something when I find empty the box that holds it. I'm afr-raid I am not pr-rovident."

She returned his smile adorably.

"That I must teach you," she said, and Sydney and John turned away.

Sydney walked to the mantel-shelf, which was so high that it was on a level with her eyes. There was an array of pipes and a tin box of tobacco; a volume of Schiller, with some matches lying loose upon it; and, flat on the board, a photograph. She picked it up idly, not noticing what she was doing, conscious only of doing something, so that her separation from the others might not be noticeable. Her discovery proved to be half of a picture of a Neighborhood picnic, taken by an itinerant photographer who had established his tent near the Flora post-office. It was that side of the group in which she was standing, and her figure was brought into relief by a frame of card-board slipped over it like a mat. It had become a picture of herself, and of herself alone.

Her first feeling—the instinct that comes before thought—was one of pleasure; he had cared enough to do that. But quick upon it came the cry of wounded pride. She found von Rittenheim at her side, and turned upon him fiercely.

"How dare you?" she cried, in an undertone. "How dare you do such a thing? You know I never have given any man my picture,—once I told you so,—and you have made this a picture of me alone. You, who——"

She broke off, choking, but she had enough voice to add,—

"But it is like you, it is like you!" as she tore the card into bits and flung it into the fireplace.

Friedrich stooped involuntarily to catch the falling fragments, but he saw at once the foolishness of his movement, and desisted. He said nothing, and Sydney, made ashamed of her tirade by his silence, as she would not have been by any words, at last looked up at him. The expression on his face was so hopeless, so unutterably sad, that she, in her turn, stood silent.

"Could you not have left me that?" he whispered, hoarsely.

Sydney was held by the inexplicable bond of his mute pain. A sense of comprehension went through her, and with it a thrill of happiness. It might be that after all—yes, it must be that he had not been trifling with her, that he had cared, that he was suffering as she herself was suffering. And if so, how rewarded was her sacrifice! Her love had been strong enough to make her willing that he should love another woman, if his happiness lay in so doing. Her reward came in the knowledge that after all his love was hers—that he was sharing her sacrifice. Why this was she did not understand; she only felt sure that she was right, and she gloried in it. Then, woman-like, she reproached herself for the moments when she had cheapened her renunciation by the suspicion that he had been flirting with her.

Friedrich stood beside her, his left hand clutching his heart. He felt as if, in destroying that picture, so often gazed at through clouds of meditative smoke, so often kissed, she had done him a physical injury. Through his coat he pinched hard her little handkerchief, which always rested over his heart, lest she should divine its presence, and in some way tear that from him, too. His suffering was so great that he did not follow her change of expression, but his fingers felt hers touch them ever so fleetingly, and her whisper came to his ears,—

"Forgive me. I think I understand now."

Across the room came Hilda, who never could stay away from Friedrich many minutes, in spite of Wendell's efforts to interest her; and Wendell himself, following her reluctantly only when her progress brought him near von Rittenheim; and Bob, never truly happy except near Sydney. There was laughing and talking, in which Friedrich and Sydney heard themselves taking part, and wondered how it could be.

"Also we br-rought you an invitation," said Hilda, "as well as our so interesting selves."

"Yes," said Bob, "we're going on a 'possum-hunt to-morrow night, and we want you and your best dog."

"You shall have me! I r-remember last year when first I came I heard the dogs on the mountain, but then I had no kind fr-riends to make me the invitation."

"It's a little early, but we want to be sure to have one before Mr. Wendell goes."

"You go soon?"

Von Rittenheim's interest was only a courteous expression of concern, but John, fretted by Hilda's alternate encouragement and coldness, was tormented by his nerves, and not in command of his judgment. He saw in the Baron's question a malicious pleasure in his prospective departure.

"Yes," he said, "I must go soon, I'm afraid. You're playing in luck these days, old man. You gain what I lose—and the close season for moonshiners is coming on, now that the corn is ripe."

Hilda, who did not understand a word he said, laughed softly, as if in amusement at his wit. Von Rittenheim, who had not been able to follow the colloquialisms, frowned at "moonshining," which rang out for his ears above all else. Sydney and Bob looked with horror at the sneering face before them.

"John," said Sydney, sternly, "you forget yourself strangely."

As they were about to start she leaned from her horse and gave her hand to Friedrich.

"You have much to forgive me," she said.

"For much have I to thank you," he returned.



XXIII

The 'Possum-Hunt

Buzzard Mountain, wooded to the top, extends for two miles north and south. Its long, gradual slope is like the body of a dormant animal, rising from the sunken haunches over a long and flattened back, and falling again to the nose dropped sleepily between the outstretched paws.

The meet for the 'possum-hunt was at its northern end, on the outskirts of the settlement. The run was to be along the crest towards the south, bringing the hunters out at the end of the ridge nearest their homes.

The night was lighted by a youthful moon, not brilliant enough to dim the lustre of the stars, shining clear through the air. It was cool with the first touch of autumn; so cool as to invite to exercise, yet so warm as to make it a pleasure to be in the open.

The hunters were in high spirits. The men from the hamlet about the post-office,—'Gene Frady and Alf Lance, Mitchell Robertson, the blacksmith, Doc Pinner, the carpenter, and a half-dozen more, with a boy to drive back the horses, were piled into a wagon. There were much pushing and scrambling for places, and many ejaculations of discomfort.

"Git off mah feet, 'Gene."

"Hang 'em outside, man. Ah gotter sit somewheres."

"Ouch! What fool put rye-straw in here?"

"Powerful penetratin', ain' hit?"

"Now, look here, that dog's gotter run with the rest. They ain' no room for him in this wagon."

"Cain' you-all make them horses o' yo's git along a little mo' lively, Alf? Mr. Baron'll 'a' cleaned the mountain o' 'possums befo' we git there."

"How you-all think they's goin' ter hurry with so many fellers ter haul? Some o' you boys gotter light 'n walk up this hill in a minute, so ye better enjoy drivin' while ye can."

At a deserted cabin on the road that ran through the northern gap they found Bob Morgan and John Wendell, who had come in a buggy, and the Baron on his mule. A small negro was to take the vehicle, with von Rittenheim's animal tied behind, around the base of the mountain to the German's house, there to await the end of the hunt. The boy's brown face was twitching with excitement, as the men began to throw their coats into the wagon, and to light their torches, split from the heart of the yellow pine.

"Oh, Lor', Missa Bob," he cried, rubbing one bare foot up and down the other leg in ecstasy, "lemme go, too. Ah'll never ast ye nothin' again, Ah swear Ah won't. Please, Missa Bob."

"Can't do it, Scipio," said Bob, kindly. "You're the only man we've got to look after these creatures. Here, don't let your eyes pop out of your head. I tell you, you drive to Mr. Baron's and tie the horse and the mule,—tie 'em strong, mind,—and then you can come up the other side and meet us."

Scipio's mournful eyes followed the disappearing forms with an appreciation of their purpose rather than of the picturesqueness of their appearance. The flaming lights grew silent as the distance became too great for his ear to catch their sizzling. They danced hither and yon,—now scattered, now flashing in a bunch. He followed the course of a very bright one as it appeared and vanished, but went always on and up.

"Ah 'low dat's Missa Bob's," said the loyal little soul. "He sho' would have de bigges'."

On the hill-side the men opened their line to cover a wide stretch of the mountain, and plunged upward through the scrub of pines and oaks. There was much running about of the dogs, and desultory barking, corrected by spicy admonitions from their masters, until the ascent's steepness forced silence upon them by the weapon of difficult breathing.

Once 'Gene Frady tripped on a root and fell headlong, pitching his torch into the dry duff a man's length before him. There was a rush to stamp out the incipient fire, the autumn terror of the forests, before any one lent a hand to help the fallen. Robertson went half-way up his leggings in a spring, and stood swearing fiercely, while the rest jeered at him and ordered him to move on before he muddied up a good drinking-place. Bob and Friedrich pushed on on adjoining courses, an occasional cry of "malerisch," or "zauberisch," showing that von Rittenheim was regarding the scene as well as the sport. On the other side of Bob climbed Wendell, sullenly self-reproachful in the Baron's presence, yet of too exuberant a nature not to be alive to the excitement of the chase.

Of a sudden a hound gave voice,—the bay that makes hunters of us all. The other dogs rushed to his standard, yelping, barking, galloping from all directions across their masters' paths, until the forest seemed suddenly alive with them. One after another found, and added his note to the general cry that trailed off into the distance. The men who had started to follow paused, and the rest drew together.

"Rabbit," suggested Bob, disgustedly, and the others nodded, and began to whistle for their retainers.

Singly they returned, with swinging tongue and pendant ears, and a disposition to sit down and contemplate the scenery. Then once more came a cry, the steady bay of a dog at stand. His companions instantly forgot their fatigue, pricked up their ears, pulled in their tongues, and started towards the herald, with all the huntsmen in pursuit.

Gathered about a veteran oak, whose blasted top betrayed it the lightning's victim, were grouped the dogs, each one shoving to better his place in the bunch, each with tuneful throat and uplifted tail. Occasionally one from the outskirts would rush around the crowd of his fellows and try to push in from the other side of the ring. The ones nearest the tree snuffed at a hole in the trunk between the roots, and dug fiercely with their forepaws.

"Holler, ain' hit?"

"Yes. He's went in that-a-way."

"Don' look like hit's holler up fur."

"No. Reckon we c'n chop him out."

Lance pushed among the dogs, kicking and cuffing them out of his way, and sounded the tree with the back of a hatchet.

"Ah 'low hit's gone all the way up," he cried.

"Well, chop hit 'n fin' out!" returned his friends, impatiently.

He began cutting a square and soon broke through the outer shell.

"Gimme a glove, one o' you fellers," he cried. "Ah ain' aimin' to have a finger chewed off this time."

Some one tossed him the desired protection. He put it on and thrust his arm into the hole, while the crowd pushed up on to the dogs, and they yelped excitedly.

"Ah tol' ye so. Hit's holler clear up's fur's Ah c'n reach."

"All right. We'll smoke him out, then. Git out o' here, you dogs, an' give us a chance at this fireplace."

The hole at the base of the tree was quickly enlarged enough to push in a smudge, and the opening which Lance had made above was closed with moss and green leaves.

"Hi, there she comes," cried some one, enthusiastically, as the thick white smoke made its way out of the broken top. "The varmint won' stan' that long."

Soon, indeed, amid a shower of bark and burning punk, a black and white ball scrambled into the air and dropped from the ragged splinters that offered no sufficient hold for its claws.

As swift as sight, 'Gene Frady dashed close to the bole and caught the falling creature in his hands. High above the leaping dogs he held it, while they snarled, defrauded of their prey.

"Quick, that crocus sack," he called. "Ah promised the kids to bring one home. Give him a switch, Mitchell."

The 'possum, rousing from the semi-stupor into which the smoke and the shock of his fall had thrown him, was beginning to struggle violently. Robertson broke a finger-thick stick and thrust it between the snapping jaws, that clamped upon it fiercely. The rat-like tail wound about the other end of the rod, and the bag was drawn over him while he clung to his fancied means of safety. Frady flung his burden high on his back to secure it from the dogs, and the others put out the fire in the tree, and again fell into open order to beat the woods.

The next 'possum which they discovered, more fortunate than his brother, who had been sighted on the ground where locomotion is slow and awkward for his kind, was aloft in the branches when the dogs spied him. He clambered dexterously about with his hand-like extremities, aiding his progress with his prehensile tail; but he had not calculated upon the added heaviness which his autumn diet had given him. He ventured upon a sapling that bent beneath him. Wendell added his weight to bear it to the ground, and the dogs leaped at their victim and tore him into bits.

Both men and dogs were tired now, and pushed on with less enthusiasm. The dogs, indeed, who had covered many more miles in their wild dashings than had their masters, were not above sitting down occasionally and lapping a memento of the last 'possum's sharp teeth, or passing a rueful paw over a slit and bleeding ear.

As they were approaching the southern end of the mountain, and realized that the edge of the excitement was blunted, the men walked nearer to each other, and talked on indifferent themes as they pushed through the brush just below the top of the ridge. One after another fell silent, perhaps through fatigue; possibly impressed with the beauty of the night.

Through the openings in the tree-tops the stars shone with steady clearness, doing their best to replace the light of the little moon which had gone to rest early, like most young things. Under the forest cover the starlight did not penetrate, and the darkness was illumined by the yellow flare of the torches. The fall of feet on crackling twigs, and the slapping of smitten shrub-leaves broke the thick silence that falls on the earth with night.

To Pink Pressley, crouching at the entrance of his cave, the sound of approaching steps was a threat. He had put out his fire as soon as he heard the dogs on the other end of the ridge, and for two hours he had followed the course of the hunt by their barking and the cries of the men. He guessed it to be what it was,—a 'possum-hunt,—yet suspicion born of guilt hinted always at such a hunt as an excuse for a raid upon his still.

On the other hand, the party was coming from the north, and might be made up of men from Asheville. In that case, since, perhaps, they did not know the mountain, it was quite possible that they would turn back before they reached his hiding-place. At any rate, he determined to stay where he was, and run the risk of detection. If it should prove to be a raid, he was not averse to exchanging shots with the revenue men. The thought of it filled him with a fierce joy. Three times they had destroyed his whole plant, and this time he meant to fight for it.

He took down the boards that filled the cave's mouth, and pulled the bushes more carefully before it. The dogs would find and reveal him as quickly with one arrangement as the other, and he had no desire to undergo a siege shut up in that hole, when he might burst out and defend himself with some enjoyment.

Screened by his net-work of bushes, he listened keenly to every sound. A misgiving seized him that Bud had betrayed him, and he cursed him in a whisper. Yarebrough had told him in the afternoon that his baby was ill, and that he could not leave Melissa alone with her that night; but he had confessed at the same time, with his usual lack of reticence, that the Baron had "been a-talkin'" to him, and Pink suspected that the baby's illness was a fabrication to excuse his non-appearance at the still, and possibly his treachery. Pressley's judgment of his partner's honor was based on his own, and he felt in his pocket to make sure of the safety there of a letter whose crackle sounded pleasantly in his ears.

"'Twon' do to give him too much rope," he muttered.

Nearer came the soft scampering of dogs and the trampling of men, and the torches' glow warming the unlighted forest. Pressley hoped that they might pass along the mountain's side below him, or on top of the ledge that roofed his cavern, but there always was danger from the dogs. Even as he thought it, one padded along the shelf of rock that lay like a step before his door, and stopped short with a growl. He was so near that Pink struck him with the butt of his revolver, and sent him off with a paw uplifted in pain.

The man leaned out from his shelter and stared towards the right, whence the lights were coming. Then he looked straight ahead for a moment, down the mountain, under the leafy tops, and wished it were all over and he knew how it had come out.

When he looked back the foremost men were in view, a group of three or four, with their dogs following at heel soberly enough. Their torches flung grotesque shadows on the trees, and distorted their figures into uncouth semblances. He could not recognize them, yet they seemed familiar. Those two in front—was it——? Yes, by God! Like a fiend he sprang from his lair and rushed at von Rittenheim, as if from the very bowels of the rock. His face glared, malignant, in the unsteady light.

"So you did squeal on me, you damned German!" he yelled. "Take that and that and that." He fired three times full at von Rittenheim's face. With the third shot another rang in unison, and Pressley fell, twisted and snarling, on the stone before his still.

Bob Morgan's hand, holding the smoking pistol, fell to his side.

"Are you all right, von Rittenheim?" he asked; then added, weakly, "I reckon you'll have to carry me down, boys. He's touched me." And he staggered into Friedrich's arms.

He had been walking a stride higher up the hill-side than von Rittenheim, and, flinging himself from his greater elevation between the German and his assailant, he had received the bullets meant for Friedrich's head lower in his own body.



XXIV

"Fought the Fight"

Bob lay white and still upon his bed, breathing painfully. Two of Pink's bullets had torn their way through his lungs, and the third had splintered his collar-bone. A surgeon had come out from Asheville, and, after examining the wounds, had sent for help. When the second physician arrived, they had probed and prodded the inert body, while Dr. Morgan, with an ever-growing fear clutching at his heart, administered the chloroform with a steady hand. Outside the door Mrs. Morgan had knelt against the wall, tearless, and without a word of prayer.

Now it was over, and there was no hope, only waiting for the end,—the waiting that saps courage from the heart of the onlooker, and makes endurance seem a thing impossible; the torture of seeing suffering that is not to be relieved; suffering that seems all unnecessary, since death is to be the issue after all.

Bob had asked for Sydney as soon as he came out of the chloroform, and she had responded at once.

"You won't leave me, dear?" he had questioned, when he opened his eyes from the drowsiness that the opiate forced upon him, and saw her sitting beside him.

"No, Bob; I'll stay as long as you want me."

He had smiled feebly at her.

"It won't be very long."

A glimmer in his eyes showed that he understood the possible impertinent interpretation of his speech.

"You won't mind letting me hold your hand, Sydney, will you?" he had said, in his hoarse, weak voice. "It's one of the perquisites of dying. Tuck your fingers in there, dear. Those doctors have strapped me up so I can't move my arm."

So she sat with her hand in his, and her eyes looking out across the meadows to Buck Mountain, while Bob dozed and woke and dozed again, always smiling happily at her when he found her still beside him, and pressing her fingers in his weak grasp.

As the sun sank towards the west he roused from his stupefied slumber, and spoke with growing clearness.

"It's mighty good of you to stay here, Sydney. I'm selfish to ask you, but I haven't seen you much lately, I've been so busy with the crops."

"You've never failed me, Bob dear. It's my turn now."

"It's just because I'm weak, I suppose, but I want a little flattery. Don't you think I've done pretty well about—drinking?"

"You've been wonderful, Bob. I honor and respect you more than I can say. You feel that, don't you?"

"Thank you, dear. You know I did it for you? Oh, I told her all about it," as Sydney glanced towards the corner where Mrs. Morgan, worn out with grief, was sleeping behind a screen. "I've been a little more hopeful about you lately, since—well——"

He paused, not liking to finish his sentence "since the Baroness came," for it suggested implications too delicate for utterance.

"But I always knew, really, that you couldn't care for me in that way. It was a temporary deceit, the way you can make yourself believe for a few minutes that you haven't a toothache, and then it jumps on you again."

"Dear old Bob."

Sydney bent forward and kissed him. Over his face spread a radiance of unexpected happiness.

"Oh, Sydney, you darling! I say, Sydney, if you wouldn't think that I'm taking advantage of my condition—would you mind—would you do that again?"

She kissed him again, gladly, willingly, and he sank happily to sleep. When he woke once more he asked for von Rittenheim.

"He's down-stairs. He's been waiting all day hoping you'd want to see him."

Sydney summoned Friedrich. He uttered an exclamation of sorrow as he saw the big black eyes looking from their hollows, and the white face of the man so suddenly brought to this pass from the full tide of strength.

"For-r my sake!" he groaned. "How with all my soul I wish it were I!"

He took Bob's other hand—Sydney had resumed her old position—and tried to command his voice. It was Bob who spoke first:

"What about Pressley?"

Von Rittenheim looked questioningly at Sydney, who nodded.

"He's dead, Bob."

A ray from the setting sun found its way to the bed and lighted up the dying man's face.

"Kind of sudden for him, too," he mused. "Did he live any time at all?"

"No. Your bullet went through his heart. He must have died instantly."

"It's a mighty serious thing to do, to kill a man. I never realized before how serious it was. But I'm not sorry."

"You saved my life, Bob. I can't talk about it. Only, I'd give it gladly, gladly, to keep you, old man."

He bent his head with a sob.

"Never mind that, Baron. I suspect Yarebrough'll be all the better for not having Pink to lead him into mischief."

"It has saved him from a heavy punishment. They found in Pr-ressley's pocket a letter offering to turn State's evidence."

"That would have sent Bud to jail and freed himself, wouldn't it?" asked Sydney.

"Yes. He must have been afraid of betrayal."

"No," cried the girl; "I'm sure he planned the whole thing to spite Melissa. I heard him threatening her one day. He said he'd make her sorry she ever married Bud."

"I think you're right, Sydney," said Bob. "He was working Bud all summer, I'm confident, with the purpose of betraying him at the end."

He sank a little into the pillow, and Sydney gave von Rittenheim a glance of dismissal.

"You're tired, dear," she said to Bob.

"A little. I think I'll take a nap. Oh, Baron, I almost forgot. I was in Asheville a few days ago,—Monday, Tuesday,—I don't know when," he went on, weakly, "and I met a man who said he thought he knew you. He's at the hotel,—a German."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"I can't remember. Something long. He said if you were Friedrich von Rittenheim from the Black Forest that he knew you well, and would you look him up? You will, won't you?"

"Yes, I will."

"If you don't, he'll think I've broken my promise."

"I will. He shall know that you told me. Good-by, Bob, good-by."

But Bob was asleep and did not answer.

It was with the ebbing of the night and the coming of the dawn that Bob's soul went out,—went out in stress and travail.

When the struggle was over, Sydney left the old doctor and his wife kneeling side by side at the edge of the bed, and crept down-stairs. Von Rittenheim was sitting before the fire, his head buried in his hands. He sprang to meet her as she entered.

"Is he——? Has he——?"

The girl nodded.

"Just now."

Suddenly she threw her arms over her head and broke into stifled sobs.

Friedrich was torn with distress. He drew her to the fire, and established her in a big chair, wrapping her warmly in a rug from the couch. Somewhere he found a glass of wine, and made her take it. Then he knelt beside her, rubbing the fingers that were cold and cramped from Bob's long clasp, and talking softly to her as to a child.

God alone knows the force he put upon himself not to take her in his arms and comfort her on his breast; not to pour into her ears the words that were burning his heart out. Drops of moisture stood on his forehead as he resisted the temptation that was the stronger because he felt that she returned his love, and that these forbidden words would be her greatest comfort. But Sydney was not insensible of their subtle, unspoken sympathy, and at last yielded to the solace of warmth and the consciousness of being cared for, and, exhausted, closed her eyes in sleep.

Friedrich stirred the fire and watched its light play on the face of the woman he loved, and gave himself up to wonder and longing and regret.

* * * * *

Unless it had been that of Dr. Morgan himself, no other death in all the country round could have touched so nearly so many hearts. Around the grave, lined with the glistening laurel-leaves of victory, stood old and young, rich and poor, men and women, and even little children. There were those who had come because he was the Doctor's son; there were those who had been with him on many a gay excursion; there were those who had experienced his tenderness and loving-kindness. Old man Johnson, from over the river, who had walked eight painful miles, laid the first shovelful of earth into the grave. Patton McRae helped to cover his life-long friend. The negroes from the farm sobbed audibly as they worked. A tramp came into the graveyard from the road and asked whose buryin' it was. They told him, and he swore softly, and begged to be allowed to help. John Wendell yielded his shovel to Hamp Pinner, and he to Colonel Huger.

Then the women came forward and covered the mound with boughs of green, and clusters of flowers, and sprays of bright leaves, and Sydney laid about the whole grave a garland of feathery aster and delicate fern. Through the quiet came a sweet, sonorous voice reading the words of the hymn,—

"Love's redeeming work is done, Fought the fight, the victory won."

Out of the church-yard, side by side, with bowed heads, walked Bud Yarebrough and Friedrich von Rittenheim,—the man whose fragile honor had been preserved by Bob's act, and the man whose life he had given his own to save.



XXV

Carl von Sternburg

Mrs. Morgan and the Doctor had insisted upon giving to von Rittenheim Gray Eagle and Bob's buggy. They could have done nothing kinder or more tactful, for Friedrich was apprehensive even of their seeing him for whom their son had given his life, and their insistence upon his accepting this remembrance of their dead boy proved their feeling towards him more cogently than any words.

It was the good gray horse that he was driving towards Asheville a few days after the funeral, on his way to fulfil his promise to Bob to hunt up the German who had claimed acquaintance with him.

As he travelled on, he thought of the two notable journeys which he had made on this same highway,—the heart-chilling ride through the penetrating morning mist at the head of the men who had arrested him, and the wild flight through the darkness to secure the surgeon for poor Bob. Between the two had intervened a lifetime of experience. He had been branded a criminal, and had rehabilitated himself; he had knocked at the door of death, and been refused; he had lost his confidence in man's honesty, and had regained a fuller faith in his goodness; he had watched the slow blossoming of the tender flower of love's hope within his heart, and he had seen it overshadowed by the stouter growth of loyalty to his word.

Of his future, in so far as it might have to do with Sydney, he did not allow himself to think. There was no shaft of light lying upon that road. But a clear and steady, though not far-reaching flame illumined the present, for he felt sure now that she loved him, and that gave him a certain happiness. It was like having a beautiful secret,—a secret whose delight would be doubled if it might be shared with the world, but nevertheless a secret which gave joy in mere solitary contemplation.

Hilda was a subject which forced itself with increasing potency upon his mind. After the first shock of her sudden coming had passed, he had been touched by her turning to him in her loneliness. That Sydney's withdrawal from him lay at Hilda's charge he could not fail to see, and he blamed himself for the occasional repulsion against his sister-in-law with which the situation filled him. She was so sweet, so childlike, so full of trust in him, so regretful for her mistakes of the past, so reticent as to Maximilian's ill-behavior. Her whole conduct won his respect and confidence, even while he felt himself subtly encompassed by the seine of her entire reliance upon the keeping of his oath. That she expected him to marry her he did not formally concede to himself, but he was quite sure that she did not expect him to marry any one else.

His errands done,—a commission for Mrs. Morgan and some business for the firm,—he betook himself to the hotel and asked for the register. He was running over the names when he heard some one behind him saying, in German,—

"It is my von Rittenheim! It is my dear Friedrich!" and "dear Friedrich" and a somewhat stout young man a few years younger than he flung themselves into each other's arms, and kissed both cheeks after the manner of their race, while the clerk turned to his safe to conceal the grin that inwreathed his countenance.

"Von Sternburg! What in the world brought you here?"

"Baedeker. This scenery is among the things a globe-trotter has to see."

"Shall you stay long?"

"I go to Florida day after to-morrow. Come on to the veranda and tell me about yourself."

"If I can stop asking questions long enough!"

It was while they were talking and smoking in the sunshine with the glorious western range spread before them, that von Sternburg said,—

"And poor old Max is dead."

He knocked the ash from his cigar with his little finger, and glanced at Friedrich, who was non-committal.

"Yes," was all he said.

"I suppose they've never found any trace of the she-devil, have they?"

Friedrich sat up with a jerk and stared at von Sternburg.

"She-devil? What she-devil?"

"What she-devil? Why, the Baroness, of course. Max's wife."

"No trace of Hilda? She-devil? What are you talking about?"

"Do you mean to say that you don't know about Maximilian's death?"

"I know he shot himself."

"And you don't know why?"

"I had not heard from Max for six months before he died. I did not know of his death until several months after it occurred!"

"That was strange! Your man of business did not write you?"

"It was my fault. I hadn't sent him my address for a long time. When I did there was a reason for his not writing at once."

"Who is he?"

"Stapfer."

"I knew it!"

Von Sternburg slapped his knee.

"Stapfer was crazy over her, and she had some reason for your not knowing."

"She! Are you talking about my sister-in-law?"

"Oh, you needn't put on any dignity over her. She isn't worth it, though I suppose you don't know that as well as you will in a few minutes."

Friedrich passed his hand over his face.

"I can't understand it. You say Stapfer was in love with Hilda?"

"And she made use of him, just as she did of Moller and von Hatfeldt and everybody else who came near her. She overreached herself about von Hillern, though."

"It seems treachery to listen to you, von Sternburg."

"Treachery! Why, my dear boy——"

Von Sternburg ended his sentence with an expressive gesture.

"And Max—did he know?"

"Why, that's what killed him, man! Haven't you kept in touch with anybody in the Fatherland who would write you any news?"

"I haven't received a letter from a soul except Max and Stapfer since I came to America."

Von Sternburg gave a whistle of surprise.

"Then you don't even know how Max improved? Everybody thought when he married Hilda von Arnim that he did it merely for the pleasure of cutting you out. Forgive my speaking so plainly."

He laid a deprecating hand on von Rittenheim's knee. Friedrich nodded silently.

"I haven't a doubt in the world that that was his chief motive then. But after you left he fell a victim to the charm that she seems to exert over everybody who doesn't know her tricks—you must let me go on now," he said, quickly, in response to a motion of von Rittenheim's, "or I can't establish my case. He fell madly in love with her, and it made another man of him."

"There was much good in Max."

"Well hidden all through his youth, you must allow. He gave up drinking——"

"Not entirely?"

"He drank only what a gentleman takes for dinner."

"He was not intoxicated when he sh—when he died?"

"I know for a fact that he was not drunk once during the whole last year of his life."

"You know? How do you know? Forgive me, Carl," as a look of annoyance clouded von Sternburg's face, "but every proof is important to me."

"I was living at our Schloss—at my father's. I saw Maximilian nearly every day. We were together constantly."

"Extraordinary!" murmured Friedrich. "Did this wonderful change extend to his money affairs?"

"Well, you know Max could use any amount of money, and you couldn't expect him to become an economist at one shot. Then he always spent a great deal on his wife; he was continually sending to Paris for something for her."

Friedrich scowled thoughtfully.

"Still he paid all his old debts out of his Aunt Brigitta's legacy, and didn't make any new ones."

"That means more for Max than it would for most people."

"He told me that he could not have afforded to keep up the Schloss without your help, but aside from the expenses of the house he had plenty, plenty."

"And Hilda?"

"Oh, the Baroness is a millionaire. Her aunt in Heidelberg died more than a year ago and left her all her fortune. Max never got a pfennig of it though, even in a Christmas-gift."

There flashed across Friedrich's mental view his cabin, differing in no respect from those of the "mountain whites," his neighbors. Then a picture of a little figure with white neck and arms shining through the filmy blackness of her gown, shrinking into an arm-chair, and saying, "I always had enough for my needs, even when——"

"Was he kind to her?"

"Kind? I tell you he loved her with the most unselfish devotion. It was his dearest wish to live a life so correct that she might be proud of him. You couldn't expect more than that, could you?"

"Not from Maximilian," admitted von Rittenheim. "Perhaps the very intensity of his love may have made him exacting towards her?"

"My dear fellow, she paid no more attention to him and his wishes than if he were the lowest servant on the estate. She had a constant flock of men hanging about, with whom she flirted desperately, entirely regardless of Max's feelings. I must say he bore it like an angel! Why, if my wife—well, never mind, I haven't one yet. She made herself conspicuous with Moller—Colonel Moller, you know, before von Hatfeldt killed himself on her account."

"The Graf's son?" Friedrich was startled.

"The second son. He took poison and told his father why. The old man went to Max about it."

"Poor old Max!"

"What could he do? When he charged her with it there's nothing so sweet and gentle on earth as that girl! What had she done? Nothing at all, but torment a poor fellow until his nerves and will were wrecked. How could she be responsible for that?"

Friedrich saw before him John Wendell, haggard and sneering, saying to him something so insulting that Sydney had grown white, and Bob had raised a threatening arm.

"But, as I said, she overreached herself with von Hillern. Fortunately for him he was in love with some one else, which was his safeguard, but he was willing enough to singe his wings, and the Baroness was determined to make him give up his marriage, as a sign that he loved her."

Von Rittenheim stared at the mountains and thought of Sydney. Von Sternburg continued,—

"Maximilian was fully alive to everything that went on, and he was beside himself with distress. Apart from the pain of his own unrequited love, he was acutely anxious over the gossip about her."

"Von Hillern is an old friend of our family."

"Exactly. I think Max blamed him very little, but it preyed on his mind."

"You think it became unhinged?"

"I think so. Indeed, I'm almost sure of it. He hadn't the constitution to endure any mental anxiety."

"I suppose he shot himself in a fit of alienation."

"He shot himself because his wife refused to give up her affair with von Hillern. Whether it was mania, or a passing craze of jealousy, I don't pretend to say."

"How do you know it wasn't on account of financial troubles?"

"I was there in the next room at the time."

Von Rittenheim leaned forward and fixed his eyes on von Sternburg's face with keen anxiety.

"You heard him?"

"I had gone to ask Max to ride with me. The servant who opened the door said he dared not announce me to the Baron; that he was storming about in his dressing-room. I ran up-stairs and into Max's room, which was empty, but I heard his voice in the Baroness's room, which adjoined it."

"You understood what he said?"

"Perfectly. It seemed to be the end of a long argument. He cried, 'Hilda, will you or will you not give up von Hillern?'"

"And she said?"

"'I have told you repeatedly, Max, that I will not.' Then he seemed to go wild, and cried, 'Give him up! Give him up!'"

Von Rittenheim paled. He never moved his eyes from his friend's face.

"Without a word of warning, he fired two shots. I broke open the door instantly, expecting that he had killed Hilda, but he had ended his suffering in another way."

Friedrich's head sank, and Carl again laid a hand upon his knee in awkward sympathy.

"Of course, the whole thing came out," he continued. "The servants knew everything, as they always do, and I had to tell my story at the inquest. The Baroness braved public opinion for a time, first playing the innocent and then the martyr; but one day Graf von Hatfeldt called upon her, and told her a few home truths, and that very night she left the Schloss. Nobody knows where she went to, unless it's Stapfer. If he does, he has kept her secret."

Friedrich preserved a silence that disturbed von Sternburg. Carl crossed his knees uneasily and lighted a cigarette, glancing occasionally at his friend. Just how deeply this would cut him he had no means of knowing.

At last von Rittenheim, looking worn but not unhappy, lifted his head. He rose and walked to the edge of the veranda, and stretched himself as if to shake off some trammel of thought.

"After we have had luncheon, will you do me a great kindness, Carl?" he asked. "Will you drive home with me into the country, and spend the night?"

"My dear fellow, I shall be delighted to do so," cried von Sternburg, surprised and relieved at this unexpected turn of the conversation.



XXVI

Surrender

Uncle Jimmy lighted the room and took away the tea-equipage, while Mrs. Carroll established herself with a book before the fire. Hilda and John arranged the chess-board on a little table near the lamp. The red shade cast a warm glow over the girl's fairness and gave a look of physical vigor to her delicate charm. John made his moves with unthinking swiftness, happy in the sight of her beauty and in the chance touch of her hand.

In a large chair Sydney lay back languidly, her hands idle upon her lap. The shock of Bob's death had exhausted her, and she found herself spent, physically and emotionally. A book lay open upon her knees, but her eyes closed wearily, or stared unseeing into space. She was thinking of all that Bob's life had meant to her of companionship and affection; of the pain that his weakness had brought her, and the pride that had watched his redemption. She had yearned over him in maternal tenderness. Yet she knew that she could but have brushed the edges of his future; that his death at this time saved him from inevitable sorrow. She sighed as she thought that perhaps he knew now, dear old Bob, how completely she was able to sympathize with him in the bitterness of his longing. Involuntarily she glanced at Hilda, and admired her beauty. Hilda caught her look and smiled in return.

"Armes Kind," she cried, tossing her a kiss from her finger-tips, "you are so tired."

It was astonishing to Sydney that she felt no jealousy or envy of Hilda. It seemed to her that it was not natural that she should feel so kindly disposed towards the woman who had taken her lover from her. Yet it was true. Although she could not help an occasional wince at some look or word, yet she had no hard feeling. She did not attribute this lack to any excellence of her own character. It seemed to her but simple justice that a woman who had made so sad a mistake, and who had expiated it so rudely, should have her reward; whereas, what had she done to deserve recompense? Did happiness come at any one's whistle?

But how she wished it would.

Mrs. Carroll laid down her book and sighed in disgust.

"I do wish," she said, "that there was some one here old enough for me to talk to."

"Try me," said John, as the oldest of the company addressed, while the girls laughed.

"I grow so impatient with it," went on the old lady, pursuing aloud her train of thought. "It seems as if the whole body of French fiction writers was in a conspiracy against one's illusions. They are clever enough to see the value of them, you would suppose, yet almost every book you take up teaches that honor is a thing of the external life, and not a part of the very essence of one's being."

"Do you call that an illusion?" asked Sydney.

"I call it a truth, and belief in it an article of faith," said Mrs. Carroll, stoutly, "but these people"—she tapped the book she had laid down—"posit it as an illusion, and then demolish it by all sorts of examples that could occur nowhere outside of Gaul!"

"Do you forget the books that are 'crowned'?" asked John.

"When a Frenchman attempts to be spiritual, it is an unfortunate fact that he becomes insipid," asserted Mrs. Carroll, with a finality that made them laugh again.

"You keep to this day your illusions!" said Hilda, softly admiring.

"I am most glad to say that I do. They are worn, but serviceable still," replied Mrs. Carroll, smiling. "Even at my age, I still believe that most husbands cherish their wives, and that most wives love their husbands, and wear their names worthily."

"Checkmate."

"Oh, Mr. Vendell!"

Hilda was so adorably regretful, and her lack of mastery of her was so captivating, that John was desperately sorry that he had taken advantage of her preoccupation.

"It was Mrs. Car-roll who beat me, not you," she said. "I was listening to her and not thinking."

"Of me? You never do," he whispered.

She was resetting the board, and giving John delicious little thrills from her finger-tips, when Uncle Jimmy threw open the door.

"Baron von Rittenheim," he announced.

Sydney rose in greeting, and Mrs. Carroll gave an exclamation of pleasure at the coming of her favorite, but both were startled into silence by Hilda's cry. The chess-board emptied its burden upon the floor with many tinkling crashes, and she was on her feet, one hand pressed against her head, and the other turned palm outward as if to avert a blow. A grayness like the livery of death came over her face, but now so vitally warm. The red lamp-light behind increased her ghastliness. Her eyes were fixed on the man who had followed von Rittenheim into the room.

"You, you!" she whispered, hoarsely.

Von Sternburg gave a cry of amazement.

"The Baroness—here! Why didn't you tell me, Friedrich?" he demanded, while his mind quickly reviewed the possible relations between von Rittenheim and his sister-in-law, and considered the effect upon them of his frank disclosures of the morning.

Friedrich, whose gaze had been searching keenly first one face and then the other, gave a nod, and without replying to his friend, introduced him to Mrs. Carroll and Sydney. Von Sternburg bent over each hand and then approached Hilda. She was regaining her control, though she trembled so violently as to justify in his precaution Wendell, who had sprung to her, fearing that she would fall.

"This is an unexpected meeting, Baroness," von Sternburg said, in English.

"Why have you come?" she asked, in the same hoarse but articulate whisper.

"As I told Fr-riedrich, Baedeker brought me. I had no idea that I was to have the pleasure of seeing him again among these mountains, much less, you."

"You two men must have had an enormous amount to say to each other," said Mrs. Carroll. "John, give Hilda that large chair. The surprise of seeing Baron von Sternburg has been too much for her."

Hilda sank into the offered seat, and von Sternburg placed himself beside her. He fitted his clothes to the cracking-point, and he had the lack of impressiveness that goes with rotundity. Yet it was clear that he felt himself to have the whip-hand of the situation, and Hilda's manner acknowledged it.

Across the room the others were talking together, though von Rittenheim was not without preoccupation.

"You don't seem glad to see me," von Sternburg said, in German.

Hilda ignored his opening.

"I suppose you have told Friedrich everything," she said at once, in a tone dull with the chagrin of defeated hope.

"Yes," replied von Sternburg, "I think I have."

"Then I hate you!"

She sat erect, and an angry flush colored her cheeks.

"No doubt."

"You have destroyed the only chance of happiness I ever expect to have."

"Do you deserve happiness?"

"Won't you grant me that mercy?"

"Have you ever shown mercy?"

As her regret over the failure of her plans had been swallowed up in resentment at the doer of the mischief, so her passion was swept away by a wave of self-pity. She turned to him with fierce reproach.

"You think I am so heartless as to be outside of the needs of other women, don't you?"

"I must confess that you are the only one of your kind in my experience."

Hilda was maddened at his irony.

"Can you not believe that I am eager to be happy in the way that other women are? That I long to feel the love that comes to every one but me?"

"No,—pardon me,—I cannot believe that."

"Insolent! I don't know why I try to justify myself to you. But listen. Can you imagine what it is to be without a heart? To make men love you for the sport of it, and not to care when they kill themselves for your sake,—truly not to care? And at the same time to have another part of yourself wanting to care,—yearning to feel pity?"

"Is that dual nature yours?"

"You are sneering. You always have thought of me as rejoicing in cruelty, I suppose."

"Certainly as indifferent to suffering."

"You have believed that I thought myself normal; that I was unconscious of my want of feeling."

"I never observed any recognition of your temperament evidenced in your conduct."

"But it is true, Baron. I swear to you that I know my need so well, so painfully well, that on the chance of Friedrich's saving me from all that it means, I was willing to force him to poverty, and to separate him from all that he held dear."

"I don't doubt it, though I don't see how you expected that to help you."

"I thought that, if I could have him near me always, perhaps my heart might wake within me. I do not love him, but he is the only man I ever met whose every thought I honor."

"Yet you were willing to sacrifice him!"

"I needed him."

Von Sternburg looked at her in abhorrence.

"I suppose you don't know what an abomination of selfishness you are."

She did not seem to hear him, but added, bitterly,—

"Now you have come, my hope is gone."

Von Sternburg looked across the room. Friedrich was leaning over Sydney's chair.

"It is still in the family, I should say. It merely has changed its abiding-place."

A spasm which was the recognition of defeat, not the anguish of loss, went over Hilda's face. She crossed the room to Mrs. Carroll, von Sternburg following slowly after.

"Dear Mrs. Car-roll," she said, in English, "Baron von Sternburg has brought news that compels me to leave Oakwood soon—yes, to-morrow. I hope you know how gr-rateful I am to you for your hospitality. Your kindness alvays vill be a br-right spot in my life!"

She looked charmingly young and very lovely as she stooped and kissed the old lady's cheek.

"To-morrow? Oh, surely not to-morrow!" cried Sydney, in hospitable reproach.

"Sydney dear, you are vonderful! I r-really believe you mean it after everything." And she tapped the taller girl's cheek with her tiny hand.

She was entirely self-possessed now, much less agitated than the two men who knew her secret, or than Wendell, who had been stricken at the news of her departure; or than Sydney, who was overcome by embarrassment as she came to appreciate the meaning of her guest's speech.

"I expect never to see you again, Friedrich; I should pr-refer not; so I vant to make my confession to you now. Oh, any one may hear," she said, in answer to a gesture of Friedrich's. "I am quite indifferent—now. Did the Baron tell you that Max shot himself because I r-refused to give up a flirtation? It is quite tr-rue. I lied to you, Friedrich, and I did an injustice to a man who had conquered the follies of his life. Ah, Mrs. Car-roll, I did not love my husband or vear his name vorthily. I am one of the lost illusions."

She looked from one to another in quick observance of their emotion.

"Then, my scar," she went on, lightly, "that vas another lie. I've had it ever since I vas a child. And here is something that Baron von Sternburg could not have disclosed. You see I am r-revealing everything. I am sure he told you that I am rich? Yes? But he vas not avare that I knew from Herr Stapfer that you vere depr-riving yourself for me."

"Oh, Hilda," cried Mrs. Carroll, in quick censure of the non-restitution that might have averted a life-time's self-reproach from Friedrich, "How could you keep it!"

"The money itself vas nothing to me, but I hoped that through Friedrich's poverty I might gain some power over him, and make him do vhat I vanted. I shall see that it is r-restored to you at once, Friedrich."

She turned to Wendell, and her face changed subtly. She became the tempting woman, alluring in the innocence of her child-like beauty.

"Do you still mean vhat you said to me yesterday, Mr. Vendell?"

She leaned towards him a trifle—the merest trifle. Wendell stood silent.

"Do you still vant to marry me—John?" The name was but a breath.

He stared at her as if fascinated by the spell of her glowing eyes. With an effort he looked away from her to von Rittenheim.

"Tell me," he said, huskily, "I don't understand. Her husband? Is——?"

"She will not dishonor you," answered Friedrich to the unspoken question.

"She'll merely br-reak your heart," completed von Sternburg, brutally.

Wendell turned to Hilda in relief, to find her drawn haughtily erect before him. She did not notice his extended hands.

"You doubted me," she flung at him, arrogantly. "I demand from those who love me, all—or nothing."

She swept from the room, small, proud, forceful; while John threw himself upon a chair and buried his head in his hands.



XXVII

Dixie

Gray Eagle was trotting briskly along the road over which another hand had guided him so often,—the Oakwood carriage-way. On his back sat Friedrich, erectly vigorous, singing for the trees' benefit,—

"Oh, I wees' I was in Deexie, Look away, look away! In Deexie Land I take my stand, To live and die in Deexie."

The aspen fluttered its yellow leaves in applause, and the sourwood threw at him by the breeze's hand a cluster of its scarlet foliage. The mouse-gray goldenrod nodded approval of his mood, and the oak-trees swung their yet green boughs in sympathy with his light-hearted onward rush.

The air was cool and warm, and bright and mellow, and all the contradictions that make October the month of the year's mature perfection; that middle age of the seasons, when the blossoms of folly are past, and the fruits of the will are ripened, and the chill of bare winter is still in the future.

Occasionally, in sheer exuberance, von Rittenheim rose high in his stirrups and gave a whoop of gladness that made Gray Eagle skip in sympathetic deviation from his usual long stride.

It was during one of these upstandings, when his head was brought above its customary level, that Friedrich saw a girl running away from the carriage-road down the lane that led to the sheep-farm. The sunshine burned on her brilliant head, and Gray Eagle found his glad career brought to a sudden close, and his amusement abruptly reduced to the occupation of nibbling the stem of the young tree to which he was tied. He watched his rider's long legs vault over the gate, and pondered wisely on the similarity of interests of his two masters, for he, too, now descried a flash of color in the distance.

Sydney's race ended beneath a huge oak, against which she leaned, breathless and laughing, and faced her pursuer, who was close upon her. The musical ring of his rowelled spurs ceased as he grasped her hands.

"Unartiges Maedchen! Do you intend never to let me see you again? Tell me what you mean by it."

Not a word said Sydney—only laughed at him provokingly.

"I am of a mind to punish you," he cried, drawing her towards him, and leaning over her. He looked determined, and Sydney surrendered her silence with dignified haste.

"No, no, don't," she said, in reply to his gesture rather than his words. "I'll tell you anything. What do you want to know?"

"First, wherefore you were r-running down here."

"To escape from you."

"Tr-ruly?"

He dropped her hands and looked cut to the heart; so hurt that Sydney hastened to apply ointment to the wound.

"But I was walking on the carriage-road to meet you."

"You were?" Friedrich's gloomy face was alive again. "Then why did you r-run?"

"I don't know. For the same reason a kitten won't come when she's called, I suppose."

"Even though she wants to?"

"Who knows what a kitten wants?"

"It would give me the gr-reatest of pleasure, Miss Car-roll, to shake you!"

"I don't doubt it."

"It is such a hard blow to my vanity that you r-ran. See, I tr-ry to comfort myself in this question: Perhaps you did not know it was I whose horse you heard?"

"Of course I knew it was you."

"Oh, Sydney, dear Sydney, did your heart tell you that your lover was on the r-road?"

The girl blushed hotly at this bold speech, but she declined to be sentimental.

"Not at all," she said. "There was other evidence. Who else could sing like you, 'Oh, I wees' I was in Deexie'?"

Her mimicry of his pronunciation was so good, and at the same time so absurd, that they both laughed joyously.

They walked slowly towards the gate, behind which Gray Eagle was waiting with what patience he might.

"Tell me, my pr-rincess, why have you not allowed me to see you since that evening, though I have come every day?"

"That terrible evening! Oh, Friedrich——"

"Say that again!"

"What? Friedrich?"

"Yes. Now just one time more."

"How absurd you are, Friedrich!"

"I thank you. Now tell me."

"Why, for the first day or two there was so much to do in getting them away in their different directions—Hilda and John. Grandmother has had a letter from John, from Palm Beach. He has joined Baron von Sternburg there. And then—oh, Friedrich, perhaps it was foolish, but I could not feel as if we ought to be happy, you and I, so soon after that."

"What a dear, sensitive child you are! And you thought the time of mourning was up to-day, did you?"

"No, but—you won't make fun of me if I tell you?"

"I have al-ways supposed that it was you who teased me."

"But you might think it was funny ever so many years from now!"

"Ah, now there are going to be years in the future. Only a little while ago the future was made up of thousands and thousands and thousands of inter-rminable days."

"I know."

"You felt it so, too?"

"Yes. That's the reason why—you won't ever laugh at me, will you?—I wanted the years to begin to-day. I couldn't wait another twenty-four hours."

"My dar-rling!"

They stopped, and Friedrich drew her gently into his arms.

"Will you let me kiss you?"

She lifted her face trustfully to his, and Gray Eagle watched them gravely over the gate.

"I wees' I could make you know what you are to me, my pr-rincess, what it means that you give yourself to me. It is not merely that I love you, my dar-rling, with all the strength that has been gathering in me while the years were adding themselves to my age. And it is not only that I think you are per-rfect, so lovely in the char-racter, and so clever, and so beautiful, my dear white r-rose. It means, besides those things, that you have saved me from the sin of letting my poor powers grow weaker; that you have changed me from a plaything of chance into a man of will and action. I am bor-rn again, my heart's joy, into a world of force and possibility, and you are the queen of the world, most pr-recious."

She laid her bright head against his breast.

"Will you not say something to me, heart's dear-rest?"

"I am too happy, dear, to speak."

"And I am too happy to keep still!"

They released Gray Eagle from his bondage, and walked along the carriage-road towards the house.

"After all, Friedrich, it was Bob who gave us to each other."

"Twice over, dear. He sent me to von Sternburg, and he saved my life for—us."

"Poor Hilda!"

"Poor Bob!"

THE END



A DAUGHTER OF THE SNOWS.

By JACK LONDON.

A strong and extremely dramatic story. Its love interest intense. The book is beautifully illustrated in colors from drawings by F. C. Yohn, and is handsomely bound.

Illustrated in colors. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.

THE INEVITABLE.

By PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS.

The hero of Mr. Mighels's book is an exceedingly interesting and good-looking young fellow of twenty-four years, whose parentage is shrouded in mystery.

With frontispiece in colors by John Wolcott Adams. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.

WOVEN WITH THE SHIP.

By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY.

Mr. Brady's thousands of readers will derive fresh pleasure from his new book. It has an intensely interesting plot and something happens on every page. Illustrated with stunning drawings by Christy, Leyendecker, Glackens, Parkhurst, and Crawford, and has a striking cover design in colors.

Illustrated. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.

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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.



ADAM RUSH.

By LYNN ROBY MEEKINS.

A new and interesting figure in a love story with the charm of country and village life in every chapter.

Frontispiece by Francis Day. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.

BREACHLEY—BLACK SHEEP.

By LOUIS BECKE.

Mr. Becke's work is stamped by vigor of expression and an intensely dramatic imagination. Breachley is the most capable and in many respects the most interesting of his books.

12mo. Decorated cloth, gilt top, $1.50.

A BLAZE OF GLORY.

By JOHN STRANGE WINTER.

A new novel by an author whose thousands of readers attest to her continued popularity. This is one of her strongest and brightest stories.

12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

GENTLEMAN GARNET.

By HARRY B. VOGEL.

A tale of old Tasmania by a popular novelist. Lippincott's Series of Select Novels.

Crown 8vo. Decorated cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.

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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.

THE END