"Much, Carlia—I—"

He arose and came to her, but she evaded him.

"Keep away, Dorian; don't touch me. You had better go home now."

"You're not yourself, Carlia. What is the matter? You have never acted like this before."

"It's not because I haven't felt like it, but it's because I haven't had the courage; but now it's come out, and I can't stop it. It's been pent up in me like a flood—now it's out. I hate this old farm—I hate everything and everybody—I—hate you!"

Dorian arose quickly as if he had been lifted to his feet. What was she saying? She was wild, crazy wild.

"What have I done that you should hate me?" he asked as quietly as his trembling voice would allow.

"Done? nothing. It's what you haven't done. What have you done to repay—my—Oh, God, I can't stand it—I can't stand it!"

She walked to the wall and turned her face to it. She did not cry. The room was silently tense for a few moments.

"I guess I'd better go," said Dorian.

She did not reply. He picked up his hat, lingered, then went to the door. She hated him. Then let him get out from her presence. She hated him. He had not thought that possible. Well, he would go. He would never annoy any girl who hated him, not if he knew it. How his heart ached, how his very soul seemed crushed! yet he could not appeal to her. She stood with her face to the wall, still as a statue, and as cold.

"Good night," he said at the door.

She said nothing, nor moved. He could see her body quiver, but he could not see her face. He perceived nothing clearly. The familiar room, poorly furnished, seemed strange to him. The big, ugly enlarged photographs on the wall blurred to his vision. Carlia, with head bowed now, appeared to stand in the midst of utter confusion. Dorian groped his way to the door, and stepped out into the wintry night. When he had reached the gate, Carlia rushed to the door.

"Dorian!" she cried in a heart-breaking voice, "O, Dorian, come back—come back!"

But Dorian opened the gate, closed it, then walked on down the road into the darkness, nor did he once look back.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Carlia's ringing cry persisted with Dorian all the way home, but he hardened his heart and went steadily on. His mother had gone to bed, and he sat for a time by the dying fire, thinking of what he had just passed through.

After that, Dorian kept away from Carlia. Although the longing to see her surged strongly through his heart from time to time, and he could not get away from the thought that she was in some trouble, yet his pride forbade him to intrude. He busied himself with chores and his books, and he did not relax in his ward duties. Once in a while he saw Carlia at the meeting house, but she absented herself more and more from public gatherings, giving as an excuse to all who inquired, that her work bound her more closely than ever at home.

Dorian and his mother frequently talked about Uncle Zed and the hopes the departed one had of the young man. "Do you really think, mother, that he meant I should devote my life to the harmonizing of science and religion?" he asked.

"I think Uncle Zed was in earnest. He had great faith in you."

"But what do you think of it, mother?"

After a moment's thought, the mother replied.

"What do you think of it?"

"Well, it would be a task, though a wonderfully great one."

"The aim is high, the kind I would expect of you. Do you know, Dorian, your father had some such ambition. That's one of the reasons we came to the country in hopes that some day he would have more time for studying."

"I never knew that, mother."

"And now, what if your father and Uncle Zed are talking about the matter up there in the spirit world."

Dorian thought of that for a few moments. Then: "I'll have to go to the University for four years, but that's only a beginning. Ill have to go East to Yale or Harvard and get all they have. Then will come a lot of individual research, and—Oh, mother, I don't know."

"And all the time you'll have to keep near to God and never lose your faith in the gospel, for what doth it profit if you gain the whole world of knowledge and lose your own soul." The mother came to him and ran her fingers lovingly through his hair. "But you're equal to it, my son; I believe you can do it."

This was a sample of many such discussions, and the conclusion was reached that Dorian should work harder than ever, if that were possible, for two or perhaps three years, by which time the farms could be rented and the income derived from them be enough to provide for the mother's simple needs and the son's expenses while at school.

Spring came early that year, and Dorian was glad of it, for he was eager to be out in the growing world and turn that growth to productiveness. When the warm weather came for good, books were laid aside, though not forgotten. From daylight until dark, he was busy. The home farm was well planted, the dry-farm wheat was growing beautifully. Between the two, prospects were bright for the furthering of their plans.

"Mother, when and where in this great plan of ours, am I to get married?"

Dorian and his mother were enjoying the dusk and the cool of the evening within odorous reach of Mrs. Trent's flowers, many of which had come from Uncle Zed's garden. They had been talking over some details of their "plan." Mrs. Trent laughed at the abruptness of the question.

"Oh, do you want to get married?" she asked, wondering what there might be to this query.

"Well—sometimes, of course, I'll have to have a wife, won't I?"

"Certainly, in good time; but you're in no hurry, are you?"

"Oh, no; I'm just talking on general principles. There's no one who would have me now."

The mother did not dispute this. She knew somewhat of his feelings toward Carlia. These lovers' misunderstandings were not serious, she thought to herself. All would end properly and well, in good time.

But Carlia was in Dorian's thought very often, much to his bewilderment of heart and mind. He often debated with himself if he should not definitely give her up, cease thinking about her as being anything to him either now or hereafter; but it seemed impossible to do that. Carlia's image persisted even as Mildred's did. Mildred, away from the entanglements of the world, was safe to him; but Carlia had her life to live and the trials and difficulties of mortality to encounter and to overcome; and that would not be easy, with her beauty and her impulsive nature. She needed a man's clear head and steady hand to help her, and who was more fitting to do that than he himself, Dorian thought without conscious egotism.

If it were possible, Dorian always spent Sunday at home. If he was on his dry farm in the hills, he drove down on Saturday evenings. One Saturday in midsummer, he arrived home late and tired. He put up his team, came in, washed, and was ready for the good supper which his mother always had for him. The mother busied herself about the kitchen and the table.

"Come and sit down, mother," urged Dorian.

"What's the fussing about! Everything I need is here on the table. You're tired, I see. Come, sit down with me and tell me all the news."

"The news? what news!"

"Why, everything that's happened in Green street for the past week. I haven't had a visitor up on the farm for ten days."

"Everything is growing splendidly down here. The water in the canal is holding out fine and Brother Larsen is fast learning to be a farmer."

"Good," said Dorian. "Our dry wheat is in most places two feet high, and it will go from forty to fifty bushels, with good luck. If now, the price of wheat doesn't sag too much."

Dorian finished his supper, and was about to go to bed, being in need of a good rest. His mother told him not to get up in the morning until she called him.

"All right, mother," he laughed as he kissed her good night, "but don't let me be late to Sunday School, as I have a topic to treat in the Theological class. By heck, they really think I'm Uncle Zed's successor, by the subjects they give me."

He was about to go to his room when his mother called him by name.

"Yes, mother, what is it?"

"You'll know tomorrow, so I might as well tell you now."

"Tell me what?"

"Some bad news."

"Bad news! What is it?"

The mother seemed lothe to go on. She hesitated.

"Well, mother?"

"Carlia is gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Nobody knows. She's been missing for a week. She left home last Saturday to spend a few days with a friend in the city, so she said. Yesterday her father called at the place to bring her home and learned that she had never been there."

"My gracious, mother!"

"Yes; it's terrible. Her father has inquired for her and looked for her everywhere he could think of, but not a trace of her can he find. She's gone."

Mother and son sat in silence for some time. He continued to ask questions, but she know no more than the simple facts which she had told. He could do nothing to help, at least, not then, so he reluctantly went to bed. He did not sleep until past midnight.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dorian was not tardy to Sunday School, and, considering his mental condition, he gave a good account of himself in the class. He heard whispered comment on Carlia's disappearance.

After Sunday school Dorian went directly to Carlia's home. He found the mother tear-stained and haggard with care. The tears flowed again freely at the sight of Dorian, and she clung to him as if she had no other means of comfort.

"Do you know where Carlia is?" she wailed.

"No, Sister Duke, I haven't the last idea. I haven't seen her for some time."

"But what shall we do, Dorian, what shall we do! She may be dead, lying dead somewhere!"

"I hardly think that," he tried to comfort her. "She'll turn up again. Carlia's well able to take care of herself."

The father came in. He told what had been done to try to find the missing girl. Not a word had they heard, not a clue or a trace had been discovered. The father tried hard to control his emotions as he talked, but he could not keep the tears from slowly creeping down his face.

"And I suppose I'm greatly to blame" he said. "I have been told as much by some, who I suppose, are wiser than I am. The poor girl has been confined too much to the work here."

"Work doesn't hurt anybody," commented Dorian.

"No; but all work and no play, I was plainly reminded just the other day, doesn't always make Jack a dull boy: sometimes, it makes dissatisfaction and rebellion—and it seems it has done that here. Carlia, I'll admit had very little company, saw very little of society. I realize that now when it may be too late."

"Oh, I hope not," said Dorian.

"Carlia, naturally, was full of life. She wanted to go and see and learn. All these desires in her were suppressed so long that this is the way it has broken loose. Yes, I suppose that's true."

Dorian let the father give vent to his feelings in his talk. He could reply very little, for truth to say, he realized that the father was stating Carlia's case quite accurately. He recalled the girl when he and she had walked back and forth to and from the high school how she had rapidly developed her sunny nature in the warm, somewhat care-free environment of the school life, and how lately with the continual drudgery of her work, she had changed to a pessimism unnatural to one of her years. Yes, one continual round of work at the farm house is apt either to crush to dullness or to arouse to rebellion. Carlia was of the kind not easily crushed.... But what could they now do? What could he do? For, it came to him with great force that he himself was not altogether free from blame in this matter. He could have done more, vastly more for Carlia Duke.

"Well, Brother Duke," said Dorian. "Is there anything that I can do?"

"I don't think of anything," said he.

"Not now," added the mother in a tone which indicated that she did not wish the implied occasion to be too severe.

The father followed Dorian out in the yard. There Dorian asked:

"Brother Duke, has this Mr. Lamont been about lately?"

"He was here yesterday. He came, he said, as soon as he heard of Carlia's disappearance. He seemed very much concerned about it."

"And he knew nothing about it until yesterday?"

"He said not—do you suspect—he—might—?"

"I'm not accusing anybody, but I never was favorably impressed with the man."

"He seemed so truly sorry, that I never thought he might have had something to do with it."

"Well, I'm not so sure; but I'll go and see him myself. I suppose I can find him in his office in the city?"

"I think so—Well, do what you can for us, my boy; and Dorian, don't take to heart too much what her mother implied just now."

"Not any more than I ought," replied Dorian. "If there is any blame to be placed on me—and I think there is—I want to bear it, and do what I can to correct my mistakes. I think a lot of Carlia, I like her more than any other girl I know, and I should have shown that to her both by word and deed more than I have done. I'm going to help you find her, and when I find her I'll not let her go so easily."

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear you say that."

Monday morning Dorian went to the city and readily found the man whom he was seeking. He was in his office.

"Good morning. Glad to see you," greeted Mr. Lamont, as he swung around on his chair. "Take a seat. What can I do for you?"

As the question was asked abruptly, the answer came in like manner.

"I want to know what you know about Carlia Duke."

Mr. Lamont reddened, but he soon regained his self-possession.

"What do you mean!" he asked.

"You have heard of her disappearance?"

"Yes; I was very sorry to hear of it."

"It seems her father has exhausted every known means of finding her, and I thought you might, at least, give him a clew."

"I should be most happy to do so, if I could; but I assure you I haven't the least idea where she has gone. I am indeed sorry, as I expressed to her father the other day."

"You were with her a good deal."

"Well, not a good deal, Mr. Trent—just a little," he smilingly corrected. "I will admit I'd liked to have seen more of her, but I soon learned that I had not the ghost of a chance with you in the field."

"You are making fun, Mr. Lamont."

"Not at all, my good fellow. You are the lucky dog when it comes to Miss Duke. A fine girl she is, a mighty fine girl—a diamond, just a little in the rough. As I'm apparently out of the race, go to it, Mr. Trent and win her. Good luck to you. I don't think you'll have much trouble."

Dorian was somewhat nonplused by this fulsome outburst. He could not for a moment find anything to say. The two men looked at each other for a moment as if each were measuring the other. Then Mr. Lamont said:

"If at any time I can help you, let me know—call on me. Now you'll have to excuse me as I have some business matters to attend to."

Dorian was dismissed.

The disappearance of Carlia Duke continued to be a profound mystery. The weeks went by, and then the months. The gossips found other and newer themes. Those directly affected began to think that all hopes of finding her were gone.

Dorian, however, did not give up. In the strenuous labors of closing summer and fall he had difficulty in keeping his mind on his work. His imagination ranged far and wide, and when it went into the evil places of the world, he suffered so that he had to throw off the suggestion by force. He talked freely with his mother and with Carlia's parents on all possible phases of the matter, until, seemingly, there was nothing more to be said. To others, he said nothing.

Ever since Dorian had been taught to lisp his simple prayers at his mother's knee, he had found strength and comfort in going to the Lord. With the growth of his knowledge of the gospel and his enlarged vision of God's providences, his prayers became a source of power. Uncle Zed had taught him that this trustful reliance on a higher power was essential to his progress. The higher must come to the help of the lower, but the lower must seek for that help and sincerely accept it when offered. As a child, his prayers had been very largely a set form, but as he had come in contact with life and its experiences, he had learned to suit his prayers to his needs. Just now, Carlia and her welfare was the burden of his petitions.

The University course must wait another year, so Dorian and his mother decided. They could plainly see that one more year would be needed, besides Dorian was not in a condition to concentrate his mind on study. So, when the long evenings came on again, he found solace in his books, and read again many of dear Uncle Zed's writings which had been addressed so purposely to him.

One evening in early December Dorian and his mother were cosily "at home" to any good visitors either of persons or ideas. Dorian was looking over some of his papers.

"Mother, listen to this," he said. "Here is a gem from Uncle Zed which I have not seen before." He read:

"'The acquisition of wealth brings with it the obligation of helping the poor; the acquisition of knowledge brings with it the obligation of teaching others; the acquisition of strength and power brings with it the obligation of helping the weak. This is what God does when He says that His work and His glory is to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man'."

"How true that is," said the mother.

"Yes," added Dorian after a thoughtful pause, "I am just wondering how and to what extent I am fulfilling any obligation which is resting on me by reason of blessings I am enjoying. Let's see—we are not rich, but we meet every call made on us by way of tithing and donations; we are not very wise, but we impart of what we have by service; we are not very strong—I fear, mother, that's where I lack. Am I giving of my strength as fully as I can to help the weak. I don't know—I don't know."

"You mean Carlia?"

"Yes; what am I doing besides thinking and praying for her?"

"What more can we do?"

"Well, I can try doing something more."

"What, for instance!"

"Trying to find her."

"But her father has done that."

"Yes; but he has given up too soon. I should continue the search. I've been thinking about that lately. I can't stay cosily and safely at home any longer, mother, when Carlia may be in want of protection."

"And what would you be liable to find if you found her?"

That question was not new to his own mind, although his mother had not asked it before. Perhaps, in this case, ignorance was more bliss than knowledge. Whatever had happened to her, would it not be best to have the pure image of her abide with him? But he know when he thought of it further that such a conclusion was not worthy of a strong man. He should not be afraid even of suffering if it came in the performance of duty.

That very night Dorian had a strange dream, one unusual to him because he remembered it so distinctly the day after. He dreamed that he saw Mildred in what might well be called the heavenly land. She seemed busy in sketching a beautiful landscape and as he approached her, she looked up to him and smiled. Then, as she still gazed at him, her countenance changed and with concern in her voice, she asked, "Where's Carlia?"

The scene vanished, and that was all of the dream. In the dim consciousness of waking he seemed to hear Carlia's voice calling to him as it did that winter night when he had left her, not heeding. The call thrilled his very heart again:

"Dorian, Dorian, come back—come back!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

The second week in December Dorian went into action in search of Carlia Duke. He acknowledged to himself that it was like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack, but inaction was no longer possible.

Carlia very likely had no large amount of money with her, so she would have to seek employment. She could have hidden herself in the city, but Dorian reasoned that she would be fearful of being found, so would have gone to some nearby town; but which one, he had no way of knowing. He visited a number of adjacent towns and made diligent enquiries at hotels, stores, and some private houses. Nothing came of this first week's search.

A number of mining towns could easily be reached by train from the city. In these towns many people came and went without notice or comment. Dorian spent nearly a week in one of them, but he found no clue. He went to another. The girl would necessarily have to go to a hotel at first, so the searcher examined a number of hotel registers. She had been gone now about six months, so the search had to be in some books long since discarded, much to the annoyance of the clerks.

Dorian left the second town for the third which was situated well up in the mountains. The weather was cold, and the snow lay two feet deep over the hills and valleys. He became disheartened at times, but always he reasoned that he must try a little longer; and then one day in a hotel register dated nearly five months back, he found this entry:

"Carlia Davis."

Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the name. Carlia was not a common name, and the handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He examined the signature closely. The girl, unexperienced in the art of subterfuge, had started to write her name, and had gotten to the D in Duke, when the thought of disguise had come to her. Yes; there was an unusual break between that first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia had been here. He was on the right track, thank the Lord!

Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remembered the lady. Did he know anything about her? No; that was so long ago. His people came and went. That was all. But Carlia had been here. That much was certain. Here was at least a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which he could work. His wearied and confused mind could at least come back to that name in the hotel register.

He began a systematic search of the town. First he visited the small business section, but without results. Then he took up the residential district, systematically, so that he would not miss any. One afternoon he knocked on the door of what appeared to be one of the best residences. After a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the handsome young fellow and bade him come in. He stepped into the hall and was shown into what seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had known had not smelled so of stale tobacco smoke. He made his usual inquiry. No; no such girl was here, she was sorry, but—the words which came from the carmine lips of the girl so startled Dorian that he stood, hat in hand, staring at her, and shocked beyond expression. He know, of course, that evil houses existed especially in mining towns, inhabited by corrupt women, but this was the first time he had ever been in such a place. When he realized where he was, a real terror seized him, and with unceremonious haste he got out and away, the girl's laughter of derision ringing in his ears.

Dorian was unnerved. He went back to his room, his thoughts in a whirl, his apprehensions sinking to gloomy depths. What if Carlia should be in such a place? A cold sweat of suffering broke over him before he could drive away the thought. But at last he did get rid of it. His mind cleared again, and he set out determined to continued the search. However, he went no more into the houses by the invitation of inmates of doubtful character, but made his inquiries at the open door.

Then it occurred to Dorian that Carlia, being a country bred girl and accustomed to work about farm houses, might apply to some of the adjacent farms down in the valley below the town for work. The whole country lay under deep snow, but the roads were well broken. Dorian walked out to a number of the farms and made enquiries. At the third house he was met by a pleasant faced, elderly woman who listened attentively to what he said, and then invited him in. When they were both seated, she asked him his name. Dorian told her.

"And why are you interested in this girl?" she continued.

"Has she been here?" he asked eagerly.

"Never mind. You answer my question."

Dorian explained as much as he thought proper, but the woman still appeared suspicious.

"Are you her brother?"

"No."

"Her young man?"

"Not exactly; only a dear friend."

"Well, you look all right, but looks are deceivin'." The woman tried to be very severe with him, but somehow she did not succeed very well. She looked quite motherly as she sat with her folded hands in her ample lap and a shrewd look in her face. Dorian gained courage to say:

"I believe you know something about the girl I am seeking. Tell me."

"You haven't told me the name of the girl you are looking for."

"Her name is Carlia Duke."

"That isn't what she called herself."

"Oh, then you do know."

"This girl was Carlia Davis."

"Yes—is she here!"

"No."

"Do you know where she is?"

"No, I don't."

Dorian's hopes fell. "But tell me what you know about her—you know something."

"It was the latter part of August when she came to us. She had walked from town, an' she said she was wanting a place to work. As she was used to farm life, she preferred to work at a country home, she said."

"Was she a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl?"

"Her hair was dark, but there was no roses in her cheeks. There might have been once. I was glad to say yes to her for I needed help bad. Of course, it was strange, this girl comin' from the city a' wanting to work in the country. It's usually the other way."

"Yes; I suppose so."

"So I was a little suspicious."

"Of what?"

"That she hadn't come to work at all; though I'll say that she did her best. I tried to prevent her, but she worked right up to the last."

"To the last? I don't understand?"

"Don't you know that she was to be sick? That she came here to be sick?"

"To be sick?" Dorian was genuinely at loss to understand.

"At first I called her a cheat, and threatened to send her away; but the poor child pleaded so to stay that I hadn't the heart to turn her out. She had no where to go, she was a long way from home, an' so I let her stay, an' we did the best for her."

Dorian, in the simplicity of his mind, did not yet realize what the woman was talking about. He let her continue.

"We had one of the best doctors in the city 'tend her, an' I did the nursing myself which I consider was as good as any of the new-fangled trained nurses can do; but the poor girl had been under a strain so long that the baby died soon after it was born."

"The baby?" gasped Dorian.

"Yes," went on the woman, all unconsciously that the listener had not fully understood. "Yes, it didn't live long, which, I suppose, in such cases, is a blessing."

Dorian stared at the woman, then in a dazed way, he looked about the plain farm-house furnishings, some details of which strangely impressed him. The woman went on talking, which seemed easy for her, now she had fairly started; but Dorian did not hear all she said. One big fact was forcing itself into his brain, to the exclusion of all minor realities.

"She left a month ago," Dorian heard the woman say when again he was in a condition to listen. "We did our best to get her to stay, for we had become fond of her. Somehow, she got the notion that the scoundrel who had betrayed her had found her hiding place, an' she was afraid. So she left."

"Where did she go? Did she tell you?"

"No; she wouldn't say. The fact is, she didn't know herself. I'm sure of that. She just seemed anxious to hide herself again. Poor girl." The woman wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron.

Dorian arose, thanked her, and went out. He looked about the snow-covered earth and the clouds which threatened storm. He walked on up to the road back to the town. He was benumbed, but not with cold. He went into his room, and, although it was mid-afternoon, he did not go out any more that day. He sat supinely on his bed. He paced the floor. He looked without seeing out of the window at the passing crowds. He could not think at all clearly. His whole being was in an uproar of confusion. The hours passed. Night came on with its blaze of lights in the streets. What could he do now? What should he do now?

"Oh, God, help me," he prayed, "help me to order my thoughts, tell me what to do."

If ever in his life Dorian had need of help from higher power, it was now.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Dorian had not found Carlia Duke; instead, he had found something which appeared to him to be the end of all things. Had he found her dead, in her virginal purity, he could have placed her, with Mildred, safely away in his heart and his hopes; but this!... What more could he now do? That he did not take the first train home was because he was benumbed into inactivity.

The young man had never before experienced such suffering of spirit. The leaden weight on his heart seemed to be crushing, not only his physical being, but his spirit also into the depths of despair. As far back in his boyhood as he could remember, he had been taught the enormity of sexual sin, until it had become second nature for him to think of it as something very improbable, if not impossible, as pertaining to himself. And yet, here it was, right at the very door of his heart, casting its evil shadow into the most sacred precincts of his being. He had never imagined it coming to any of his near and dear ones, especially not to Carlia—Carlia, his neighbor, his chummy companion in fields and highways, his schoolmate. He pictured her in many of her wild adventures as a child, and in her softer moods as a grown-up girl. He saw again her dark eyes flash with anger, and then her pearly teeth gleam in laughter at him. He remembered how she used to run from him, and then at other times how she would cling to him as if she pleaded for a protection which he had not given. The weak had reached out to the strong, and the stronger one had failed. If 'remorse of conscience' is hell, Dorian tasted of its bitter depths, for it came to him now that perhaps because of his neglect, Carlia had been led to her fall.

But what could he now do? Find her. And then, what? Marry her? He refused to consider that for a moment. He drove the thought fiercely away. That would be impossible now. The horror of what had been would always stand as a repellent specter between them.... Yes, he had loved her—he knew that now more assuredly than ever; and he tried to place that love away from him by a play upon words in the past tense; but deep down in his heart he knew that he was merely trying to deceive himself. He loved her still; and the fact that he loved her but could not marry her added fuel to the flames of his torment.

That long night was mostly a hideous nightmare and even after he awoke from a fitful sleep next morning, he was in a stupor. After a while, he went out into the wintry air. It was Sunday, and the town was comparatively quiet. He found something to eat at a lunch counter, then he walked about briskly to try to get his blood into active circulation. Again he went to his room.

Presently, he heard the ringing of church bells. The folks would be going to Sunday school in Greenstreet. He saw in the vision of his mind Uncle Zed sitting with the boys about him in his class. He saw the teacher's lifted hand emphasize the warning against sin, and then he seemed to hear a voice read:

"For the Son of man is come to save that which is lost.

"How think ye if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?

"And if so be that he find it, verily, I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of the ninety and nine which went not astray."

Dorian seemed to awaken with a start. Donning coat and hat, he went out again, his steps being led down the country road toward the farmhouse. He wanted to visit again the house where Carlia had been. Her presence there and her suffering had hallowed it.

"Oh, how do you do?" greeted the woman, when she saw Dorian at the door. "Come in."

Dorian entered, this time into the parlor which was warm, and where a man sat comfortably with his Sunday paper.

"Father," said the woman, "this is the young man who was here yesterday."

The man shook hands with Dorian and bade him draw up his chair to the stove.

"I hope you'll excuse me for coming again," said Dorian; "but the fact of the matter is I seemed unable to keep away. I left yesterday without properly thanking you for what you did for my friend, Miss Carlia. I also want to pay you a little for the expense you were put to. I haven't much money with me, but I will send it to you after I get home, if you will give me your name and address."

The farmer and his wife exchanged glances.

"Why, as to that," replied the man, "nothing is owing us. We liked the girl. We think she was a good girl and had been sinned against."

"I'm sure you are right," said Dorian. "As I said, I went away rather abruptly yesterday. I was so completely unprepared for that which I learned about her. But I'm going to find her if I can, and take her home to her parents."

"Where do you live!" asked the man.

Dorian told him.

"Are you a 'Mormon'?"

"Yes, sir."

"And not ashamed of it!"

"No; proud of it—grateful, rather."

"Well, young man, you look like a clean, honest chap. Tell me why you are proud to be a 'Mormon'."

Dorian did his best. He had had very little experience in presenting the principles of the gospel to an unbeliever, but Uncle Zed's teachings, together with his own studies, now stood him well in hand.

"Well," commented the farmer, "that's fine. You can't be a very bad man if you believe in and practice all what you have been telling us."

"I hope I am not a bad man. I have some light on the truth, and woe is me if I sin against that light."

The farmer turned to his wife. "Mother," he said, "I think you may safely tell him."

Dorian looked enquiringly at the woman.

"It's this," she said. "My husband brought home a postcard from the office last evening after you had left—a card from Miss Davis, asking us to send her an article of dress which she had forgotten. Here is the card. The address may help you to find her. I am sure you mean no harm to the girl."

Dorian made note of the address, as also that of the farmer's with whom he was visiting. Then he arose to go.

"Now, don't be in such a hurry," admonished the man. "We'll have dinner presently."

Dorian was glad to remain, as he felt quite at home with these people, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman. They had been good to Carlia. Perhaps he could learn a little more about her. The dinner was enjoyed very much. Afterward, Mrs. Whitman, encouraged by Dorian's attentiveness, poured into his willing ear all she had learned of the girl he was seeking; and before the woman ceased her freely-flowing talk, a most important item had been added to his knowledge of the case. Carlia, it seems, had gone literally helpless to her downfall. "Drugged" was the word Mrs. Whitman used. The villainy of the foul deed moved the young man's spirit to a fierce anger against the wretch who had planned it, and the same time his pity increased for the unfortunate victim. As Dorian sat there and listened to the story which the woman had with difficulty obtained from the girl, he again suffered the remorse of conscience which comes from a realization of neglected duty and disregarded opportunity. It was late in the afternoon before he got back to the town.

The next day Dorian made inquiries as to how he could reach the place indicated by the address, and he learned that it was a ranch house well up in the mountains. There was a daily mail in that direction, except when the roads and the weather hindered; and it seemed that these would now be hinderances. The threatened storm came, and with it high wind which piled the snow into deep, hard drifts, making the mountain road nearly impassible. Dorian found the mail-carrier who told him that it would be impossible to make a start until the storm had ceased. All day the snow fell, and all day Dorian fretted impatiently, and was tempted to once more go out to Mr. and Mrs. Whitman; but he did not. Christmas was only three days off. He could reach home and spend the day with his mother, but there would be considerable expense, and he felt as if he must be on the ground so that at the soonest possible moment he could continue on the trail which he had found. The pleasure of the home Christmas must this time be sacrificed, for was not he in very deed going into the mountains to seek that which was lost.

The storm ceased toward evening, but the postman would not make a start until next morning. Dorian joined him then, and mounted beside him. The sky was not clear, the clouds only breaking and drifting about as if in doubt whether to go or to stay. The road was heavy, and it was all the two horses could do to draw the light wagon with its small load. Dorian wondered how Carlia had ever come that way. Of course, it had been before the heavy snow, when traveling was not so bad.

"Who lives at this place?" asked Dorian of the driver, giving the box number Carlia had sent.

"That? Oh, that's John Hickson's place."

"A rancher?"

"No; not exactly. He's out here mostly for his health."

"Does he live here in the mountains the year around?"

"Usually he moves into town for the winter. Last year the winter was so mild that he decided to try to stick one through; but surely, he's got a dose this time. Pretty bad for a sick man, I reckon."

"Anybody with him?"

"Wife and three children—three of the cutest kiddies you ever saw. Oh, he's comfortable enough, for he's got a fine house. You know, it's great out here among the pine hills in the summer; but just now, excuse me."

"Is it far?"

"No." The driver looked with concern at the storm which was coming again down the mountain like a great white wave. "I think perhaps we'll have to stop at the Hickson's tonight," he said.

The travelers were soon enwrapped in a swirling mantle of snow. Slowly and carefully the dug-ways had to be traversed. The sky was dense and black. The storm became a blizzard, and the cold became intense. The men wrapped themselves in additional blankets. The horses went patiently on, the driver peering anxiously ahead; but it must have been well after noon before the outlines of a large building near at hand bulked out of the leaden sky.

"I'm glad we're here," exclaimed the driver.

"Where?" asked Dorian.

"At Hickson's."

They drove into the yard and under a shed where the horses were unhitched and taken into a stable. A light as if from a wood fire in a grate danced upon the white curtain of the unshaded windows. With his mail-bag, the driver shuffled his way through the snow to the kitchen door and knocked. The door opened immediately and Mrs. Hickson, recognizing the mail-driver, bade him come in. Two children peered curiously from the doorway of another room. Dorian a little nervously awaited the possibility of Carlia's appearing.

It was pleasant to get shelter and a warm welcome in such weather. After the travelers had warmed themselves by the kitchen stove, they were invited into another room to meet Mr. Hickson, who was reclining in a big arm chair before the grate. He welcomed them without rising, but pointed them to chairs by the fire. They talked of the weather, of course. Mr. Hickson reasoned that it was foolish to complain about something which they could not possible control. Dorian was introduced as a traveler, no explanation being asked or given as to his business. He was welcome. In fact, it was a pleasure, said the host, to have company even for an evening, as very few people ever stopped over night, especially in the winter. Dorian soon discovered that this man was not a rough mountaineer, but a man of culture, trying to prolong his earth-life by the aid of mountain air, laden with the aroma of the pines. The wife went freely in and out of the room, the children also; but somewhat to Dorian's surprise, no Carlia appeared. If she were there in the house, she surely would be helping with the meal which seemed to be in the way of preparation.

The storm continued all afternoon. There could be no thought of moving on that day. And indeed, it was pleasant sitting thus by the blazing log in the fireplace and listening, for the most part, to the intelligent talk of the host. The evening meal was served early, and the two guests ate with the family in the dining room. Still no Carlia.

When the driver went out to feed his horses and to smoke his pipe, and Mr. Hickson had retired, the children, having overcome some of their timidity, turned their attention to Dorian. The girl, the oldest, with dark hair and rosy cheeks, reminded him of another girl just then in his thoughts. The two small boys were chubby and light haired, after the mother. When Dorian managed to get the children close to him, they reminded him that Christmas was only one day distant. Did he live near by? Was he going home for Christmas? What was Santa Claus going to bring him?

Dorian warmed to their sociability and their clatter. He learned from them that their Christmas this year would likely be somewhat of a failure. Daddy was sick. There was no Christmas tree, and they doubted Santa Claus' ability to find his way up in the mountains in the storm. This was the first winter they had been here. Always they had been in town during the holidays, where it was easy for Santa to reach them; but now—the little girl plainly choked back the tears of disappointment.

"Why, if it's a Christmas tree you want," said Dorian, "that ought to be easy. There are plenty up on the nearby hills."

"Yes; but neither papa nor mama nor we can get them."

"But I can."

"Oh, will you? Tomorrow?"

"Yes; tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We'll have to have it then."

The children were dancing with glee as the mother came in and learned what had been going on. "You mustn't bother the gentleman," she admonished, but Dorian pleaded for the pleasure of doing something for them. The mother explained that because of unforeseen difficulties the children were doomed to disappointment this holiday season, and they would have to be satisfied with what scanty preparation could be made.

"I think I can help," suggested the young man, patting the littlest confiding fellow on the head. "We cannot go on until tomorrow, I understand, and I should very much like to be useful."

The big pleading eyes of the children won the day. They moved into the kitchen. All the corners were ransacked for colored paper and cloth, and with scissors and flour paste, many fantastic decorations were made to hang on the tree. Corn was popped and strung into long white chains. But what was to be done for candles? Could Dorian make candles? He could do most everything, couldn't he? He would try. Had they some parafine, used to seal preserve jars. Oh, yes, large pieces were found. And this with some string was soon made into some very possible candles. The children were intensely interested, and even the mail-driver wondered at the young man's cleverness. They had never seen anything like this before. The tree and its trimmings had always been bought ready for their use. Now they learned, which their parents should have known long ago, that there is greater joy in the making of a plaything than in the possession of it.

The question of candy seemed to bother them all. Their last hopes went when there was not a box of candy in the postman's bag. What should they do for candy and nuts and oranges and—

"Can you make candy?" asked the girl of Dorian as if she was aware she was asking the miraculous.

"Now children," warned the happy mother. "You have your hands full" she said to Dorian. "There's no limit to their demands."

Dorian assured her that the greater pleasure was his.

"Tomorrow," he told the clammering children, "we'll see what we can do about the candy."

"Chocolates?" asked one.

"Caramels," chose another.

"Fudge," suggested the third.

"All these?" laughed Dorian. "Well, we'll see-tomorrow," and with that the children went to bed tremulously happy.

The next morning the sun arose on a most beautiful scene. The snow lay deep on mountain and in valley. It ridged the fences and trees. Paths and roads were obliterated.

The children were awake early. As Dorian dressed, he heard them scampering down the stairs. Evidently, they were ready for him. He looked out of the window. He would have to make good about that tree.

As yet, Dorian had found no traces of the object of his search. He had not asked direct questions about her, but he would have to before he left. There seemed some mystery always just before him. The mail-driver would not be ready to go before noon, so Dorian would have time to get the tree and help the children decorate it. Then he would have to find out all there was to know about Carlia. Surely, she was somewhere in the locality.

After breakfast, Dorian found the axe in the wood-shed, and began to make his way through the deep snow up the hill toward a small grove of pine. Behind the shoulder of a hill, he discovered another house, not so large as Mr. Hickson's, but neat and comfortably looking. The blue smoke of a wood fire was rising from the chimney. A girl was vigorously shoveling a path from the house to the wood-pile. She was dressed in big boots, a sweater, and a red hood. She did not see Dorian until he came near the small clearing by the house. Straightening from her work, she stood for a moment looking intently at him. Then with a low, yet startled cry, she let the shovel fall, and sped swiftly back along the newly-made path and into the house.

It was Carlia.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Dorian stood knee-deep in the snow and watched the girl run back into the house. In his surprise, he forgot his immediate errand. He had found Carlia, found her well and strong; but why had she run from him with a cry of alarm? She surely had recognized him; she would not have acted thus toward a stranger. Apparently, she was not glad to see him. He stood looking at the closed door, and a feeling of resentment came to him. Here he had been searching for her all this time, only to be treated as if he were an unwelcome intruder. Well, he would not force himself on her. If she did not want to see him, why annoy her? He could go back, tell her father where she was, and let him come for her. He stood, hesitating.

The door opened again and a woman looked out inquiringly at the young man standing in the snow with an axe on his shoulder. Dorian would have to offer a word of explanation to the woman, at least, so he stepped into the path toward the house.

"Good morning," he said, lifting his hat. "I'm out to get a Christmas tree for the children over there, and it seems I have startled the young lady who just ran in."

"Yes," said the woman.

"I'm sorry to have frightened her, but I'm glad to have found her. You see, I've been searching for her."

The woman stood in the doorway, saying nothing, but looking with some suspicion at the young man.

"I should like to see her again," continued Dorian. "Tell her it's Dorian Trent."

"I'll tell her," said the woman as she withdrew and closed the door.

The wait seemed long, but it was only a few minutes when the door opened and Dorian was invited to come in. They passed through the kitchen into the living room where a fire was burning in a grate. Dorian was given a chair. He could not fail to see that he was closely observed. The woman went into another room, but soon returned.

"She'll be in shortly," she announced.

"Thank you."

The woman retired to the kitchen, and presently Carlia came in. She had taken off her wraps and now appeared in a neat house dress. As she stood hesitatingly by the door. Dorian came with outstretched hands to greet her; but she was not eager to meet him, so he went back to his chair. Both were silent. He saw it was the same Carlia, with something added, something which must have taken much experience if not much time to bring to her. The old-time roses, somewhat modified, were in her cheeks, the old-time red tinted the full lips; but she was more mature, less of a girl and more of a woman; and to Dorian she was more beautiful than ever.

"Carlia," he again ventured, "I'm glad to see you; but you don't seem very pleased with your neighbor. Why did you run from me out there?"

"You startled me."

"Yes; I suppose I did. It was rather strange, this coming so suddenly on to you. I've been looking for you quite a while."

"I don't understand why you have been looking for me."

"You know why, Carlia."

"I don't."

"You're just talking to be talking—but here, this sounds like quarreling, and we don't want to do that so soon, do we?"

"No, I guess not."

"Won't you sit down."

The girl reached for a chair, then seated herself.

"The folks are anxious about you. When can you go home?"

"I'm not going home."

"Not going home? Why not? Who are these people, and what are you doing here?"

"These are good people, and they treat me fine. I'm going to stay—here."

"But I don't see why. Of course, it's none of my business; but for the sake of your father and mother, you ought to go home."

"How—how are they!"

"They are as well as can be expected. You've never written them, have you, nor ever told where you were. They do not know whether you are dead or alive. That isn't right."

The girl turned her bowed head slightly, but did not speak, so he continued: "The whole town has been terribly aroused about you. You disappeared so suddenly and completely. Your father has done everything he could think of to find you. When he gave up, I took up the task, and here you are in the hills not so far from Greenstreet."

Carlia's eyes swam with tears. The kitchen door opened, and the woman looked at Carlia and then at Dorian.

"Breakfast is ready," she announced. "Come, Miss Davis, and have your friend come too."

Dorian explained that he had already eaten.

"Please excuse me just now," pleaded Carlia, to the woman. "Go eat your breakfast without me. Mrs. Carlston, this is Mr. Trent, a neighbor of ours at my home. I was foolish to be so scared of him. He—he wouldn't hurt anyone." She tried bravely to smile.

Alone again, the two were ill at ease. A flood of memories, a confusion of thoughts and feelings swept over Dorian. The living Carlia in all her attractive beauty was before him, yet back of her stood the grim skeleton. Could he close his eyes to that? Could he let his love for her overcome the repulsion which would arise like a black cloud into his thoughts? Well, time alone would tell. Just now he must be kind to her, he must be strong and wise. Of what use is strength and wisdom if it is unfruitful at such times as these? Dorian arose to his feet and stood in the strength of his young manhood. He seemed to take Carlia with him, for she also stood looking at him with her shining eyes.

"Well, Carlia," he said, "go get your breakfast, and I'll finish my errand. You see, the storm stopped the mail carrier and me and we had to put up at your neighbour's last night. There I found three children greatly disappointed in not having their usual Christmas tree. I promised I would get them one this morning, and that's what I was out for when I saw you. You know, Carlia, it's Christmas Eve this morning, if you'll allow that contradiction."

"Yes, I know."

"I'll come back for you. And mind, you do not try to escape. I'll be watching the house closely. Anyway," he laughed lightly, "the snow's too deep for you to run very far."

"O, Dorian—"

"Yes."

He came toward her, but she with averted face, slipped toward the kitchen door.

"I can't go home, I can't go with you—really, I can't," she said. "You go back home and tell the folks I'm all right now, won't you, please."

"We'll talk about that after a while. I must get that tree now, or those kiddies will think I am a rank impostor." Dorian looked at his watch. "Why, it's getting on toward noon. So long, for the present."

Dorian found and cut a fairly good tree. The children were at the window when he appeared, and great was their joy when they saw him carry it to the woodshed and make a stand for it, then bring it in to them. The mail carrier was about ready to continue his journey, and he asked Dorian if he was also ready. But Dorian had no reason for going on further; he had many reasons for desiring to remain. And here was the Christmas tree, not dressed, nor the candy made. How could he disappoint these children?

"I wonder," he said to the mother, "if it would be asking too much to let me stay here until tomorrow. I'm in no hurry, and I would like to help the children with the tree, as I promised. I've been hindered some this morning, and—"

"Stay," shouted the children who had heard this. "Stay, do stay."

"You are more than welcome," replied Mrs. Hickson; "but I fear that the children are imposing on you."

Dorian assured her that the pleasure was his, and after the mail carrier had departed, he thought it wise to explain further.

"A very strange thing has happened," said Dorian. "As I was going after the tree for the children, I met the young lady who is staying at Mrs. Carlston."

"Miss Davis."

"Yes; she's a neighbor of mine. We grew up together as boy and girl. Through some trouble, she left home, and—in fact, I have been searching for her. I am going to try to get her to go home to her parents. She—she could help us with our tree dressing this evening."

"We'd like to have both our neighbors visit with us," said Mrs. Hickson; "but the snow is rather deep for them."

By the middle of the afternoon Dorian cleared a path to the neighboring house, and then went stamping on to the porch. Carlia opened the door and gave him a smiling welcome. She had dressed up a bit, he could see, and he was pleased with the thought that it was for him. Dorian delivered the invitation to the two women. Carlia would go immediately to help, and Mrs. Carlston would come later. Carlia was greeted by the children as a real addition to their company.

"Did you bring an extra of stockings?" asked Mrs. Hickson of her. "An up-to-date Santa Claus is going to visit us tonight, I am sure." She glanced toward Dorian, who was busy with the children and the tree.

That was a Christmas Eve long to be remembered by all those present in that house amid solitude of snow, of mountain, and of pine forests. The tree, under the magic touches of Dorian and Carlia grew to be a thing of beauty, in the eyes of the children. The home-made candles and decorations were pronounced to be as good as the "boughten ones." And the candy—what a miracle worker this sober-laughing, ruddy-haired young fellow was!

Carlia could not resist the spirit of cheer. She smiled with the older people and laughed with the children. How good it was to laugh again, she thought. When the tree was fully ablaze, all, with the exception of Mr. Hickson joined hands and danced around it. Then they had to taste of the various and doubtful makings of candies, and ate a bread-pan of snow-white popcorn sprinkled with melted butter. Then Mr. Hickson told some stories, and his wife in a clear, sweet voice led the children in some Christmas songs. Oh, it was a real Christmas Eve, made doubly joyful by the simple helpfulness and kindness of all who took part.

At the close of the evening, Dorian escorted Mrs. Carlston and Carlia back to their house, and the older woman graciously retired, leaving the parlor and the glowing log to the young people.

They sat in the big armchairs facing the grate.

"We've had a real nice Christmas Eve, after all," said he.

"Yes."

"Our Christmas Eves at home are usually quiet. I'm the only kid there, and I don't make much noise. Frequently, just mother and Uncle Zed and I made up the company; and then when we could get Uncle Zed to talking about Jesus, and explain who He was, and tell his story before He came to this earth as the Babe of Bethlehem, there was a real Christmas spirit present. Yes; I believe you were with us on one of these occasions."

"Yes, I was."

Dorian adjusted the log in the grate. "Carlia, when shall we go home?" he asked.

"How can I go home?"

"A very simple matter. We ride on the stage to the railroad, and then—"

"O! I do not mean that. How can I face my folks, and everybody?"

"Of course, people will be inquisitive, and there will be a lot of speculation; but never mind that. Your father and mother will be mighty glad to get you back home, and I am sure your father will see to it that you—that you'll have no more cause to run away from home."

"What—what?"

"Why, he'll see that you do not have so much work—man's work, to do. Yes, regular downright drudgery it was. Why, I hardly blame you for running away, that is, taking a brief vacation." He went on talking, she looking silently into the fire. "But now," he said finally, "you have had a good rest, and you are ready to go home."

She sat rigidly looking at the glow in the grate. He kept on talking cheerfully, optimistically, as if he wished to prevent the gloom of night to overwhelm them. Then, presently, the girl seemed to shake herself free from some benumbing influence, as she turned to him and said:

"Dorian, why, really why have you gone to all this trouble to find me?"

"Why, we all wanted to know what had become of you. Your father is a changed man because of your disappearance, and your mother is nearly broken hearted."

"Yes, I suppose so; but is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"No."

"Well, I—I—"

"Dorian, you're neither dull nor stupid, except in this. Why did not someone else do this hunting for a lost girl? Why should it be you?"

Dorian arose, walked to the window and looked out into the wintry night. He saw the shine of the everlasting stars in the deep blue. He sensed the girl's pleading eyes sinking into his soul as if to search him out. He glimpsed the shadowy specter lurking in her background. And yet, as he fixed his eyes on the heavens, his mind cleared, his purpose strengthened. As he turned, there was a grim smile on his face. He walked back to the fire-place and seated himself on the arm of Carlia's chair.

"Carlia," he said, "I may be stupid—I am stupid—I've always been stupid with you. I know it. I confess it to you. I have not always acted toward you as one who loves you. I don't know why—lay it to my stupidity. But, Carlia, I do love you. I have always loved you. Yes, ever since we were children playing in the fields and by the creek and the ditches. I know now what that feeling was. I loved you then, I love you now."

The girl arose mechanically from her chair, reached out as if for support to the mantle. "Why, Oh, why did you not tell me before—before"—she cried, then swayed as if to a fall. Dorian caught her and placed her back in the seat. He took her cold hands, but in a moment, she pulled them away.

"Dorian, please sit down in this other chair, won't you?"

Dorian did as she wanted him to do, but he turned the chair to face her.

"I want you to believe me, Carlia."

"I am trying to believe you."

"Is it so hard as all that?"

"What I fear is that you are doing all this for me out of the goodness of your heart. Listen, let me say what I want to say—I believe I can now.... You're the best man I know. I have never met anyone as good as you, no, not even my father—nobody. You're far above me. You always have been willing to sacrifice yourself for others; and now—what I fear is that you are just doing this, saying this, out of the goodness of your heart and not because you really—really love me."

"Carlia, stop—don't."

"I know you, Dorian. I've heard you and Uncle Zed talk, sometimes when you thought I was not listening. I know your high ideals of service, how you believe it is necessary for the higher to reach down to help and save the lower. Oh, I know, Dorian; and it is this that I think of. You cannot love poor me for my sake, but you are doing this for fear of not doing your duty. Hush—Listen! Not that I don't honor you for your high ideals—they are noble, and belong to just such as I believe you are. Yes, I have always, even as a child, looked up to you as someone big and strong and good—Yes, I have always worshiped you, loved you! There, you know it, but what's the use!"

Dorian moved his chair close to her, then said:

"You are mistaken, of course, in placing my goodness so high, though I've always tried to do the right by everybody. That I have failed with you is evidence that I am not so perfect as you say. But now, let's forget everything else but the fact that we love each other. Can't we be happy in that?"

The roses faded from Carlia's cheeks, though coaxed to stay by the firelight.

"My dear," he continued, "we'll go home, and I'll try to make up to you my failings. I think I can do that, Carlia, when you become my wife."

"I can't, Dorian, Oh, I can't be that."

"Why not Carlia?"

"I can't marry you. I'm not—No, Dorian."

"In time, Carlia. We will have to wait, of course; but some day"—he took her hands, and she did not seem to have power to resist—"some day" he said fervently, "you are going to be mine for time and for eternity."

They looked into each others faces without fear. Then: "Go now, Dorian" she said. "I can't stand any more tonight. Please go."

"Yes; I'll go. Tomorrow, the stage comes again this way, and we'll go with it. That's settled. Goodnight."

They both arose. He still held her hands.

"Goodnight," he repeated, and kissed her gently on the cheek.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The sudden return of Carlia Duke to her home created as much talk as her disappearance had done. Dorian was besieged with enquirers whom he smilingly told that he had just come across her taking a little vacation up in the hills. What, in the hills in the depths of winter? Why, yes; none but those who have tried it know the comfort and the real rest one may obtain shut out by the snow from the world, in the solitude of the hills. He told as little as possible of the details of his search, even to Carlia's parents. Any unpleasant disclosures would have to come from her to them, he reasoned. Not being able to get Dorian talking about the case, the good people of Greenstreet soon exhausted their own knowledge of the matter, so in a short time, the gossip resumed its every-day trend.

Hardly a day passed without Dorian spending some time with Carlia. She would not go to Sunday School or to Mutual, and it was some time before he could convince her that it was a matter of wisdom as well as of right that she should attend some of the public ward meetings. Frequently, he took his book to the Duke home and read aloud to Carlia. This she enjoyed very much. Sometimes the book was a first class novel, but oftener it was a scientific text or a religions treatise. Carlia listened attentively to his discussion of deep problems, and he was agreeably surprised to learn that she could readily follow him in the discussion of these themes; so that the long winter evenings spent with her either at her home or at his own became a source of great inspiration to the young man who had not lost sight or the mission assigned to him by the beloved Uncle Zed. Dorian talked freely to Carlia on how he might best fulfill the high destiny which seemed to lay before him; and Carlia entered enthusiastically into his plans.

"Fine, fine," she would say. "Carry it out. You can do it."

"With your help, Carlia."

"I'll gladly help you all I can; but that is so little; what can I do?"

"Trust me, have faith in me; and when the time comes, marry me."

This was usually the end of the conversation for Carlia; she became silent unless he changed the subject.

Dorian, naturally undemonstrative, was now more careful than ever in his love making. The intimacy between them never quite returned to the earlier state. Complete forgetfulness of what had been, was, of course, impossible, either for Carlia or for Dorian; but he tried manfully not to let the "specter" come too often between him and the girl he loved. He frequently told her that he loved her, but it was done by simple word or act. Dorian's greater knowledge gave him the advantage over her. He was bound by this greater knowledge to be the stronger, the wiser, the one who could keep all situations well in hand.

One evening, when Carlia was unusually sweet and tempting, he asked if he might kiss her goodnight. She set her face as if it were hard to deny him, but she finally said:

"No; you must not."

"Why not, Carlia?"

"We're not engaged yet."

"Carlia!"

"We are not. I have never promised to marry you, have I?" She smiled.

"No; I guess not; but that's understood."

"Don't be so sure."

"There are some things definitely fixed without the spoken word."

"Good night, Dorian." She was smiling still.

"Good night, Carlia." Their hands met and clasped, atoning the best they could for the forbidden kiss.

One evening when the feeling of spring was in the air, Dorian was going to call on Carlia, when he heard the approach of an automobile. As it turned into the bystreet, leading to the Duke home, Dorian saw the driver to be Mr. Jack Lamont. Dorian kept in the road, and set his face hard. As the machine had to stop to prevent running over him, Dorian turned, walked deliberately to the side of the car, and looking steadily into Mr. Lamont's face, said:

"I'm going to Mr. Duke's also. If I find you there, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. Drive on."

For a moment, the two glared at each other, then the automobile went on—on past the Duke house toward town. When Dorian arrived at his destination, Carlia greeted him with:

"Dorian, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," he laughed.

"You're as pale as a ghost."

"Am I? Well, I haven't seen any ghosts—Say, mother wants you to come to supper. She has something you specially like. Can you?"

"Sure, she can," answered her mother, for she was glad to have Carlia out away from the work which she was determined to stick to closer than ever. Carlia was pleased to go, and kept up a merry chatter until she saw that Dorian was exceptionally sober-minded. She asked him what was the matter with him, but he evaded. His thoughts were on the man whom he had prevented from calling at her home that evening. What was his errand? What was in the scoundrel's mind? Dorian struggled to put away from him the dark thoughts which had arisen because of his recent encounter with Mr. Lamont. All the evening at home and during their walk back he was unusually silent, and Carlia could only look at him with questioning anxiety.

Spring, once started, came on with a rush. The melting snow filled the river with a muddy flood; the grass greened the slopes; the bursting willows perfumed the air; the swamp awakened to the warm touch of the sun. Dorian's busy season also began.

As soon as the roads were passible, Dorian drove up to his dry-farm. On one of these first trips he fell in with a company of his neighboring dry-farmers, and they traveled together. While they were stopping for noon at a small hotel in the canyon, a rain storm came up, which delayed them. They were not impatient, however, as the moisture was welcome; so the farmers rested easily, letting their horses eat a little longer than usual.

The conversation was such which should be expected of Bishop's counselors, president of Elders' quorums, and class leaders in the Mutual, which these men were. On this occasion some of the always-present moral problems were discussed. Dorian was so quiet that eventually some one called on him for an opinion.

"I don't think I can add anything to the discussion," replied Dorian. "Only this, however: One day in Sunday school Uncle Zed painted the terrors of sin to us boys in such colours that I shall never forget it. The result in my case is that I have a dreadful fear of moral wrong doing. I am literally scared, I—"

Dorian turned his eyes to the darkened doorway. Mr. Jack Lamont stood there with a cynical expression on his face. His hat was tilted back on his head, and a half-smoked cigarette sagged from his lips. The genial warmth of the room seemed chilled by the newcomer's presence.

"G'day, gentlemen," said Mr. Lamont. "Mr. Trent, here, is afraid, I understand."

The men arose. Outside the clouds were breaking. Dorian stepped forward, quite close to Jack Lamont.

"Yes, I am afraid," said Dorian, his face white with passion, "but not of what you think, not of what you would be afraid, you dirty, low, scoundrel!"

Lamont raised a riding whip he had in his hand, but the men interfered, and they all moved outside into the yard. Dorian, still tense with anger, permitted himself to be taken to the teams where they began hitching up. Dorian soon had himself under control, yet he was not satisfied with the matter ending thus. Quietly slipping back to where Mr. Lamont stood looking at the men preparing to drive on, he said, "I want a word with you."

The other tried to evade.

"Don't try to get away until I'm through with you. I want to tell you again what a contemptible cur you are. No one but a damned scoundrel would take advantage of a girl as you did, and then leave her to bear her shame alone."

"Do you mean Carlia—"

"Don't utter her name from your foul lips."

"For if you do, I might say, what have I got to do with that? You were her lover, were you not? you were out with her in the fields many times until midnight, you—"

The accusing mouth closed there, closed by the mighty impact of Dorian's fist. The blood spurted from a gashed lip, and Mr. Lamont tried to defend himself. Again Dorian's stinging blow fell upon the other's face. Lamont was lighter than Dorian, but he had some skill as a boxer which he tried to bring into service; but Dorian, mad in his desire to punish, with unskilled strength fought off all attacks. They grappled, struggled, and fell, to arise again and give blow for blow. It was all done so suddenly, and the fighting was so fierce, that Dorian's fellow travelers did not get to the scene before Jack Lamont lay prone on the ground from Dorian's finishing knockout blow.

"Damn him!" said Dorian, as he shook himself back into a somewhat normal condition and spat red on the ground. "He's got just a little of what's been coming to him for a long time. Let him alone. He's not seriously hurt. Let's go."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

On a Saturday afternoon in early July Dorian and a neighbor were coming home from a week's absence up in the hills. They were on horseback, and therefore they cut across by way of the new road in course of construction between Greenstreet and the city.

The river was high. The new bridge was not yet open for traffic, but horses could safely cross. As the two riders passed to the Greenstreet side, they saw near the bridge down on the rocks by the rushing river, an automobile, overturned and pretty well demolished. Evidently, someone had been trying to reach the bridge, had missed the road, and had gone over the bank, which at this point was quite steep.

The two men stopped, dismounted, and surveyed the wreck. Someone was under the car, dead or alive, they could not tell. Dorian unslung his rope from his saddle, and took off his coat. "I'll go down and see," he said.

"Be careful," admonished the other, "if you slip into the river, you'll be swept away."

Dorian climbed down to where the broken machine lay. Pinned under it with his body half covered by the water was Mr. Jack Lamont. He was talking deliriously, calling in broken sentences for help. Dorian's hesitancy for an instant was only to determine what was the best thing to do.

"Hold on a bit longer, Mr. Lamont," said Dorian; but it was doubtful whether the injured man understood. He glared at his rescuer with unseeing eyes. Part of the automobile was already being moved by the force of the stream, and there was danger that the whole car, together with the injured man, would be swept down the stream. Dorian, while clinging to the slippery rocks, tried to pull the man away, but he was so firmly pinned under the wreck that he could not be moved. Dorian then shouted to his companion on the bank to bring the rope and come to his assistance; but even while it was being done, a great rush of water lifted the broken car out into the stream. Lamont was released, but he was helpless to prevent the current from sweeping him along.

Dorian reached for the man, but missed him and stepped into a deep place. He went in to his arms, but he soon scrambled on to a shallower point where he regained his balance. The unconscious Lamont was beginning to drift into the current and Dorian knew that if he was to be saved he must be prevented from getting into the grasp of the mid-stream. Dorian took desperate chances himself, but his mind was clear and his nerves were steady as he waded out into the water. His companion shouted a warning to him from the bank, but he heeded it not. Lamont's body was moving more rapidly, so Dorian plunged after it, and by so doing got beyond wading depths. He did not mind that as he was a good swimmer, and apparently, Mr. Lamont was too far gone to give any dangerous death grip. Dorian got a good hold of the man's long hair and with the free arm he managed to direct them both to a stiller pool lower down where by the aid of his companion, he pulled Lamont out of the water and laid him on the bank. He appeared to be dead, but the two worked over him for some time. No other help appeared, so once more they tried all the means at their command to resuscitate the drowned.

"I think he's gone," said Dorian's companion.

"It seems so. He's received some internal injury. He was not drowned."

"Who is he, I wonder."

"His name is Jack Lamont."

"Do you know him?"

"I know him. Yes; let's carry him up the bank. We'll have to notify somebody."

The man was dead when he was laid on the soft warm grass. Dorian covered the lifeless form with his own coat.

"I'll stay here," suggested Dorian's companion, "while you go and telephone the police station in the city. Then you go right on home and get into some dry clothes."

Dorian did as he was told. After reaching the nearest telephone, and delivering his message, he went on home and explained to his mother what had happened. Then he changed his clothes.

"What a terrible thing!" exclaimed his mother. "And you also might have been drowned."

"Oh, no; I was all right. I knew just what I could do. But the poor fellow. I—I wish I could have saved him. It might have been a double salvation for him."

The mother did not press him for further explanations, for she also had news to tell. As soon as Dorian came from his room in his dry clothes, she asked him if he had seen Brother Duke on the way.

"No, mother; why?"

"Well, he was here not long ago, asking for you. Carlia, it seems, has had a nervous break down, and the father thinks you can help."

"I'll go immediately."

"You'll have some supper first. It will take me only a moment to place it on the table."

"No, mother, thank you; after I come back; or perhaps I'll eat over there. Don't wait for me." He was out of the house, and nearly running along the road.

Dorian found Carlia's father and mother under great mental strain. "We're so glad you came," they said; "we're sure you can help her."

"What is the matter!"

"We hardly know. We don't understand. This afternoon—that Mr. Jack Lamont—you remember him—he used to come here. Well, he hasn't been around for over a year, for which we were very thankful, until this afternoon when he came in his automobile. Carlia was in the garden, and she saw him drive up to the gate. When he alighted and came toward her, she seemed frightened out of her wits, for she ran terror stricken into the house. She went up to her bedroom and would not come down."

"He did not see her, then, to talk to her?"

"No; he waited a few moments only, then drove off again."

"Where is Carlia now?"

"Still up in her room."

"May I go up to her?"

"Yes; but won't you have her come down?"

"No, I'd rather go up there, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Dorian, you seem the only help we have."

He went through the living room to the stairway. He noticed that the bare boards of the stairs had been covered with a carpet, which made his ascending steps quite noiseless. Everything was still in Carlia's room. The door was slightly ajar, so he softly pushed it open. Carlia was lying on her bed asleep.

Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about. The once bare, ugly room had been transformed into quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains and wall-paper and some pretty furniture. The father had at last done a sensible thing for his daughter.

Carlia slept on peacefully. She had not even washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her head. Poor, dear girl! If there ever was a suffering penitent, here was one.

In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing that someone was in the room, she awoke with a start, and sprang to her feet.

"It's only Dorian," said he.

"Oh!" she put her hand to her head, brushing back her hair.

"Dorian, is it you?"

"Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red hair." He tried to force cheerfulness into his words.

"I'm so glad, so glad it's you."

"And I'm glad that you're glad to see me."

"Has he gone? I'm afraid of him."

"Afraid of whom, Carlia?"

"Don't you know? Of course you don't know. I—"

"Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair; but she took it nearer the open window, and he pushed up the blind that the cool air might the more freely enter. The sun was nearing the western hills, and the evening sounds from the yard came to them. He drew a chair close to hers, and sat down by her, looking silently into the troubled face.

"I'm a sight," she said, coming back to the common, everyday cares as she tried to get her hair into order.

"No, you're not. Never mind a few stray locks of hair. Never mind that tear-stained face. I have something to tell you."

"Yes?"

"You said you were afraid, afraid of Mr. Jack Lamont."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, you never need be afraid of him again."

"I—I don't understand."

"Jack Lamont is dead."

She gave a startled cry.

"Dorian—you—?"

"No; I have not killed him. He was and is in the hands of the Lord." Then he told her what had happened that afternoon.

Carlia listened with staring eyes and bated breath. And Dorian had actually risked his life in an attempt to save Jack Lamont! If Dorian only had known! But he would never know, never now. She had heard of the fight between Dorian and Lamont, as that had been common gossip for a time; but Carlia had no way of connecting that event with herself or her secret, as no one had heard what words passed between them that day, and Dorian had said nothing. And now he had tried to save the life of the man whom he had so thoroughly trounced. "What a puzzle he was! And yet what a kind, open face was his, as he sat there in the reddening evening light telling her in his simple way what he had done. What did he know, anyway? For it would be just like him to do good to those who would harm him; and had she not proved in her own case that he had been more patient and kind to her after her return than before. What did he know?

"Shall I close the window?" he asked. "Is there too much draught?"

"No; I must have air or I shall stifle. Dorian, tell me, what do you know about this Mr. Lamont?"

"Why, not much, Carlia; not much good, at any rate. You know I met him only a few times." He tried to answer her questions and at the same time give her as little information as possible.

"But Dorian, why did you fight with him?"

"He insulted me. I've explained that to you before."

"That's not all the reason. Jack Lamont could not insult you. I mean, you would pay no attention to him if only yourself were involved."

"Now, Carlia, don't you begin to philosophize on my reasons for giving Jack Lamont a licking. He's dead, and let's let him rest in as much peace as the Lord will allow."

"All right."

"Now, my dear, you feel able to go down and have some supper. Your father and mother should be told the news, and perhaps I can do that better than anybody else. I'll go with you, and, if your mother has something good for supper, I'll stay."

But the girl did not respond to his light speech. She sat very still by the window. For a long, long time—ages it seemed to her, she had suffered in silent agony for her sin, feeling as if she were being smothered by her guilty secret. She could not bring herself to tell it even to her mother. How could she tell it to anyone eke, certainly not Dorian. And yet, as she sat there with him she felt as if she might confide in him. He would listen without anger or reproach. He would forgive. He—her heart soared, but her brain came back with a jolt to her daily thinking again. No, no, he must not know, he must never know; for if he knew, then all would surely be over between them, and then, she might as well die and be done with it!

"Come, Carlia."

She did not even hear him.

But Dorian must know, he must know the truth before he asked her again to marry him. But if he knew, he would never urge that again. That perhaps would be for the best, anyway. And yet she could not bear the thought of sending him away for good. If he deserted her, who else would she have? No; she must have him near her, at least. Clear thinking was not easy for her just then, but in time she managed to say:

"Dorian, sit down.... Do you remember that evening, not so long ago, when you let me 'browse', as you called it, among Uncle Zed's books and manuscripts?"

"Yes; you have done that a number of times."

"But there is one time which I shall remember. It was the time when I read what Uncle Zed had written about sin and death."

"O, I had not intended you to see that."

"But I did, and I read carefully every word of it. I understood most of it, too. 'The wages of sin is death'—That applies to me. I am a sinner. I shall die. I have already died, according to Uncle Zed."

"No, Carlia, you misapply that. We are all sinners, and we all die in proportion to our sinning. That's true enough; but there is also the blessed privilege of repentance to consider. Let me finish the quotation: 'The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord'; also let me add what the Lord said about those who truly repent; 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool'. That is a great comfort to all of us, Carlia."

"Yes; thank you, Dorian.... but—but now I must tell you. The Lord may forgive me, but you cannot."

"Carlia, I have long since forgiven you."

"Oh, of my little foolish ways, of course; but, Dorian, you don't know—"

"But, Carlia, I do know. And I tell you that I have forgiven you."

"The terrible thing about me?"

"The unfortunate thing and the great sorrow which has come to you, and the suffering—yes, Carlia, I know."

"I can't understand your saying that."

"But I understand."

"Who told you?"

"Mrs. Whitman."

"Have you been there?"

"Yes."

"Dorian!" She stared past him through the open window into the western sky. The upper disk of the sun sank slowly behind the purple mountain. The flaming underlining of a cloud reflected on the open water of the marshland and faintly into the room and on to the pale face of the girl. Presently, she arose, swayed and held out her arms as if she was falling. Dorian caught her. Tears, long pent up, save in her own lonely hours, now broke as a torrent from her eyes, and her body shook in sobs. Gone was her reserve now, her holding him away, her power of resistance. She lay supinely in his arms, and he held her close. O, how good it was to cry thus! O, what a haven of rest! Would the tears and sobs never cease?... The sun was down, the color faded from the sky, a big shadow enveloped the earth.

Then when she became quieter, she freed her arms, reached up and clasped her hands behind his neck, clinging to him as if she never wanted to leave him. Neither could speak. He stroked her hair, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, wiped away her tears, unaware of those which ran unhindered down his own face....

"Carlia, my darling, Carlia," he breathed.

"Dorian, Oh, Dorian, how—good—you—are!"



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

It was a day in June—nearly a year from the time of the "understanding"—a day made more beautiful because of its being in the mountains and on a Sunday afternoon. Dorian and Carlia lived in the midst of its rarity, seated as they were on the grassy hill-side overlooking the dry-land farms near at hand and the valley below, through which tumbled the brook. The wild odor of hill plants mingled with the pungent fragrance of choke-cherry blossoms. The air was as clear as crystal. The mountains stood about them in silent, solemn watchfulness, strong and sure as the ages. The red glowed in Carlia's lips again, and the roses in her cheeks. The careworn look was gone from her face. Peace had come into her heart, peace with herself, with the man she loved, and with God.

Dorian pointed out to her where the wild strawberries grew down in the valley, and where the best service berries could be found on the hills. He told her how the singing creek had, when he was alone in the hills, echoed all his varied moods.

Then they were silent for a time, letting the contentment of their love suffice. For now all barriers between these two were down. There was no thought they could not share, no joy neither trouble they could not meet together. However, they were very careful of each other; their present peace and content had not easily been reached. They had come "up through great tribulation," even thus far in their young lives. The period of their purification seemed now to be drawing to a close, and they were entering upon a season of rest for the soul.

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." This promise is surely not limited to that hoped-for future time when we shall have laid aside mortality, but the pure in heart see much of God here and now—see Him in the beauty of hill and dale, in cloud and blue sky, in placid pool and running water, in flowers and insect, and in the wonderful workings of the human heart! And so Dorian Trent and Carlia Duke, being of the pure in heart, saw much of God and His glory that afternoon.

Then they talked again of the home folks, of Mildred Brown, and of Uncle Zed; and at length came to their own immediate affairs.

That fall Dorian was to enter the University. The farm at Greenstreet would have to be let to others, but he thought he could manage the dry-farm, as most of the work came in vacation season. Mrs. Trent did not want to leave her home in the country; but she would likely become lonesome living all by herself; so there would always be a room for her with Dorian and Carlia in the little house they would rent near the school. Then, after the University, there would be some Eastern College for a period of years, and after that, other work. The task Dorian had set before him was a big one, but it was a very important one, and no one seemed to be doing it as yet. He might fail in accomplishing what he and Uncle Zed and perhaps the Lord had in mind regarding him, but he would do his very best, anyway.

"You'll not fail," the girl at his side assured him.

"I hope not. But I know some men who have gone in for all the learning they could obtain, and in the process of getting the learning, they have lost their faith. With me, the very object of getting knowledge is to strengthen my faith. What would it profit if one gains the whole world of learning and loses his soul in the process. Knowledge is power, both for good and for ill. I have been thinking lately of the nature of faith, the forerunner of knowledge. I can realize somewhat the meaning of the scripture which says that the worlds were framed and all things in them made by the power of faith. As Uncle Zed used to say—"

"You always put it that way. Don't you know anything of your own?"

"No; no one does. There is no such thing as knowledge of one's own making. Knowledge has always existed from the time when there has been a mind to conceive it. The sum of truth is eternal. We can only discover truth, or be told it by someone who has already found it. God has done that. He comprehends all truth, and therefore all power and all glory is found in Him. It is the most natural thing in the world, then, that we should seek the truth from the fountain head or source to us, and that is God."

Although it was after the usual time of the Sunday sermon, Dorian felt free to go on.

"'When the Son of Man cometh, shall He find faith on the earth?' I hope to help a little to make the answer, Yes. I know of nothing which the world needs more than faith. Not many are specializing in that field. Edison is bringing forth some of the wonders of electricity; Burbank is doing marvelous things in the plant world; we have warriors and statesmen and philosophers and philanthropists and great financiers a-plenty; we have scientists too, and some of them are helping. Have you ever heard of Sir Oliver Lodge and Lord Kelvin?"

No; she never had.

"Well"—and Dorian laughed softly to himself at the apparent egotism of the proposition—"I must be greater than either of them. I must know all they know, and more; and that is possible, for I have the 'Key of Knowledge' which even the most learned scholar cannot get without obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel."

Carlia silently worshiped.

"Now," he continued in a somewhat lighter vein, "do you realize what you are doing when you say you will be my wife and put up with all the eccentricities of such a man as I am planning to be? Are you willing to be a poor man's wife, for I cannot get money and this knowledge I am after at the same time? Are you willing to go without the latest in dresses and shoes and hats—if necessary?"

"Haven't I heard you say that the larger part of love is in giving and not in getting?" replied she.

"Yes, I believe that's true."

"Well, then, that's my answer. Don't deny me the joy I can get by the little I can give."

The sun was nearing the western mountains, the sharpest peaks were already throwing shadows across the valley.

"Come," said Dorian. "We had better go down. Mother has come out of the cabin, and I think she is looking for us. Supper must be ready."

He took Carlia's hand and helped her up. Then they ran like care-free children down the gentler slopes.

"Wait a minute," cried Carlia, "I'm out of breath. I—I want to ask you another question."

"Ask a hundred."

"Well, in the midst of all this studying, kind of in between the great, serious subjects, we'll find time, will we not, to read 'David Copperfield'—together?"

He looked into her laughing eyes, and then kissed her.

"Why, yes, of course," he said.

Then they went on again, hand in hand, down into the valley of sunshine and shadow.

THE END.