When the meal was over they all hastily left the table and went to their rooms to put on their traveling wraps.

Fabian and Violet were to accompany the travelers to the railway depot to see them off, so that there was to be no leave taking at the hotel except of the baby.

Corona went into the nurse's room, took the mite in her arms, held it to her bosom, caressed and kissed it tenderly, but dropped no tear on its sweet, fair face or soft white robe.

The baby received all this love with delight, leaping and dancing in Corona's arms, then gazing at her with intense eyes, and crowing and prattling in inarticulate and unintelligible language, of some happy, incommunicable news, some joyful message it would deliver if it could.

"Come, Cora. We are waiting for you, my dear," sounded the voice of Mr. Fabian in the hall outside.

Corona kissed the baby for the last time, blessed it for the vague sweet hope it had infused into her heart, and then laid it in its nurse's arms and left the room.

"We shall barely catch the train, if we catch it at all. And the captain is as nearly in a 'stew' as an officer and a gentleman permits himself to get. We have been looking for you everywhere," said Mr. Fabian.

"I was in the nurse's room, bidding good-by to the baby," replied Cora.

"Oh!"

No more was said. Baby was excuse for any amount of delay, even though it had caused the missing of their train and the driving of the captain into a war dance.

They hurried down stairs and entered the carriages that were waiting to take them to the depot—Fabian, Violet, Clarence and Corona in one; Captain and Mrs. Neville, and Mrs. Neville's maid, in the other. And so they drove to the depot, and arrived just in time to take their tickets and rush to their seats on the train, with no further leave taking than a kiss all around, and a general, heartfelt "God bless you!"

The train was speeding away, leaving Washington City behind, when our party first began to realize that they were really "off" and to take in their surroundings.

Captain and Mrs. Neville sat together about midway in the car. Clarence and Corona sat immediately behind them. On the opposite side sat Mrs. Neville's colored maid, Manda, and in the rear corner, on the same side, the captain's orderly—a new recruit. About half the remaining seats in the car were occupied by other travelers.

At Harper's Ferry, amid the most beautiful and sublime mountain scenery of Virginia, the train stopped twenty minutes for dinner, which, in those ante-bellum days, was well served from the hotel at the depot. After dinner, the train started off again at express speed, stopping but at few stations, until near night, when it reached North End Junction, where Mr. Clarence was to get off.

"Cora, my darling, we must part here," said Mr. Clarence, gathering up his effects, as the train slackened speed.

"Oh, Uncle Clarence! Dear Uncle Clarence! God bless you! God bless you!" sobbed Corona.

"Keep up your heart, dear one. You may see me sooner than you dream of. The missionary mania is sometimes contagious. You have it in its most pronounced form. And I have been sitting by you for eight hours," replied Mr. Clarence, forgetting his prudent resolution to say nothing to Corona of an incipient plan in his mind.

"What do you mean, dear Uncle Clarence?" she anxiously inquired.

"I hardly know myself, Corona. But ponder my words in your heart, dear one. They may mean something. Here we are! Good-by! Good-by! God bless you!" exclaimed Mr. Clarence.

"Good-by! God bless you!" cried Corona, and they parted—Clarence jumping off the train just as it started again, at the imminent risk of his life, yet with lucky immunity from harm.

Corona, looking through the side window, saw him standing safely on the platform waiting a North End train to come up—saw him only for an instant as her train flashed onward, and "pondered his words in her heart," and wondered what they meant.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

ON THE FRONTIER.

Traveling in the ante-bellum days, even by steamboats and railway trains, was not the rapid transit of the present time. It took one day for our travelers to reach Wheeling. There they embarked on a river steamer for St. Louis. On Monday morning they took a steamboat for Leavenworth, where they arrived early in the evening.

This was the first and best part of their long journey. The second part must of necessity be very different. Here their railway and steamboat travel ceased, and the remainder of their course to the far southwestern frontier must be by military wagons through an almost untrodden wilderness.

I know that since the days of which I write this section of the country has been wonderfully developed, and the wilderness has been made to "bloom and blossom as the rose," but in those days it was still laid down on the maps as "The Great American Desert." And Fort Leavenworth appeared to us as an extreme outpost of civilization in the West, and a stopping place and a point of new departure for troops en route for the southwestern frontier forts.

Captain Neville and his party landed at Leavenworth on the afternoon of a fine November day. The captain led the way to the colonel's quarters. A sentinel was walking up and down the front. He saluted the captain, who passed into the quarters, where an orderly received the party, showed them into a parlor, gave them seats, and then took the captain's card to the colonel.

In a few moments Col. —— entered the parlor, looked around, recognized Captain Neville, and greeted him with:

"Ah, Neville! delighted to see you! Mrs. Neville, of course! I remember you well, madam! And this young lady your daughter, I presume?" he added, turning from the elders to shake hands with Corona.

"No; not our daughter, I wish she were; but our young friend, Mrs. Rothsay, who is going with us to Farthermost," Captain Neville explained.

"To join her husband! One of the new set of officers turned out by the Academy! Happy man!" exclaimed the colonel, warmly shaking Corona's hand.

"No, sir; Mrs. Rothsay is a widow. She goes out to join her only brother, Lieutenant Haught!" the captain again explained, in a low and faintly reproachful tone.

"Oh! ah! I beg pardon, I am sure. The mistake was absurd," said the colonel, with a penitent air.

"When did you leave Washington?"

"A week ago to-day; but the boats were slow."

"Pleasant journey, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, so far."

At this moment the colonel's wife came into the room. She was a tall, gray-haired woman with a fair complexion and blue eyes, and dressed in black silk and a lace cap. She shook hands with Captain and Mrs. Neville, who were old friends, and who then presented Mrs. Rothsay, whom the hostess received with much cordiality.

Meanwhile the colonel and the captain strolled out upon the piazza, to smoke each a cigar. The former inquired more particularly into the history of the beautiful, pale woman who had come out under the protection of the captain and his wife.

Captain Neville told him all he knew of Mrs. Rothsay's story—namely, that she was the granddaughter of the famous Iron King, Aaron Rockharrt, lately deceased, and that she was the widow of the late Regulas Rothsay, who so mysteriously disappeared on the evening of his wedding before the day of his expected inauguration as governor of his native State, and who was afterward discovered to have been murdered by the Comanche Indians.

In the evening, when a number of officers dropped into the drawing room of the colonel's quarters, our party were quite able to receive them.

One unexpected thing happened. Among the callers was a certain Major ——, a childless widower of middle age, short, thick-set, black-bearded and red-faced, with a bluff presence and a bluff voice, who fell—yes, tumbled—heels over head in love with Corona at first sight.

This catastrophe was so patent to all beholders as to excite equal wonder and mirthfulness.

Only Corona of all the company remained ignorant of the conquest she had made; ignorant, that is, until the visitors had all left the quarters, when her hostess said to her in a bantering tone:

"You have subdued our major, my dear, utterly subdued him. This is the first case of love at first sight that ever came under my notice, but it is an unmistakable one. And, oh, I should say a malignant, if not a fatal, type of the disorder."

So closed the day of our travelers' arrival at Fort Leavenworth.

It was Saturday afternoon, on the sixth day of the visitors' stay at the fort, and the ladies were on the parade ground watching the drill, when the word came that the steamer was coming up the river with troops on board.

"Our raw recruits at last," said Captain Neville, who was standing with the ladies.

"And that means, I suppose, that we are to start for Farthermost at once," said Mrs. Neville.

"Not on the instant," laughed the captain.

"This is Saturday afternoon. To-morrow is Sunday. We shall leave on Monday morning."

"Rain or shine?"

"Fair or foul, of course," said the captain.

It was really the steamer with the new recruits on board. Half an hour later they landed and marched into the fort, under the command of the recruiting sergeant, and they were received with cheers.

That evening Captain Neville announced his intention to set out for Farthermost on Monday morning. Of course this was expected. And equally, of course, not one word was said to induce him to defer his departure for one day. Military duty must take precedence of mere politeness.

The next day being the Sabbath, the ladies attended the morning service in the chapel of the fort. The irrepressible Major —— was present, and after the benediction, attached himself to Captain Neville's party, and walked home with them to the colonel's quarters, but not next to Cora, who walked with Mrs. Neville.

As the major paused at the door, Mrs. —— had no choice but to invite him to come in and stay to dinner, adding that this was the last day of the Nevilles' and Mrs. Rothsay's sojourn at the fort.

The major thanked the lady, and followed her into the drawing room, where he sat talking to the colonel, while the ladies went to their rooms to lay off their bonnets and cloaks. They came down only when called by the bell to the early Sunday dinner.

As this was the last day of the guests' stay at Fort Leavenworth, many of the officers dropped in to say good by; so that the party sat up rather later than usual, and it was near midnight when they retired to rest.

Corona did not go to bed at once. She sat from twelve to one writing a letter to her Uncle Clarence, not knowing how the next was to be mailed to him.

The next morning was so clear, bright, and beautiful that every one said that it must be the perfection of Indian summer.

On the road outside the walls five strong army wagons, to which stout mules were harnessed, stood in a line. These were to serve the men as carriages by day and couches by night. Besides these, there were two carriages of better make and more comfortable fittings for the captain and the ladies of his party.

The farewell breakfast at the colonel's quarters partook of the nature of an official banquet. It was unnecessarily prolonged.

At length the company left the table.

Mrs. Neville and Mrs. Rothsay went to their rooms to put on hats and cloaks. As soon as they were ready they came down to bid good by to Mrs. —— and some other ladies who had come to the colonel's quarters to see them off.

When these adieus were all said, the colonel gave Mrs. Rothsay his arm to lead her to the carriage, which stood in line with the army wagons on the road outside the walls.

Captain and Mrs. Neville had gone on before.

"There, the steamer has landed, and here are some people coming up from it," said the colonel, pausing at the gate with Corona on his arm, as a heavy carriage, drawn by a pair of powerful draught horses, came up from the steamboat landing and drew up at the gate.

A tall man, in a long overcoat and a fur cap, jumped down and approached Corona.

"Uncle Clarence! Oh, heaven of heavens! Uncle Clarence!" she exclaimed, pale and faint with excess of surprise and joy.

"Yes, my dear; I am going with you. See, I have my own carriage and horses, brought all the way by steamer from St. Louis. Our own servants, brought all the way from North End. Now introduce me to your friend here, and later I will tell you all about it," said the new comer, with a smile, as he kissed his niece.

"Oh, Colonel ——, this is my dear Uncle Clarence—Mr. Clarence Rockharrt, I mean," said Corona, in a rapture of confusion.

"How do you do, sir? I am very glad to see you. Really going over the plains with this train?" inquired the colonel, as the two gentlemen shook hands.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE NEW COMERS.

"Yes, colonel," briskly replied Clarence, "I am really going out to the frontier! I have not enlisted in the army, nor have I received any appointment as post trader or Indian agent from the government, nor missionary or schoolmaster from any Christian association. But, all the same, I am en route for the wilderness on my own responsibility, by my own conveyance, at my own expense, and with this outgoing trail—if there be no objection," added Clarence, with a sudden obscure doubt arising in his mind that there might exist some military regulation against the attachment of any outsider to the trail of army wagons going over the plains from fort to fort.

"'Objections!' What objections could there possibly be, my dear sir? I fancy there could be nothing worse than a warm welcome for you," replied the colonel.

At that moment Captain Neville, who had put his wife in their carryall, came up to see what had delayed his guest.

"My dear Mrs. Rothsay, we are ready to start," he said. Then seeing Mr. Clarence, whom he had met in Washington and liked very much, he seized his hand and exclaimed:

"Why, Rockharrt, my dear fellow! You here! This is a surprise, indeed! I am very glad to see you! How are you? When did you arrive?" and he shook the hand of the new comer as if he would have shaken it off.

"I am very well, thank you, captain, and have just landed from the boat. I hope you and your wife are quite well."

"Robust, sir! Robust! So glad to see you! But so sorry you did not arrive a few days sooner, so that we might have seen more of you. You have come, I suppose, all this distance to bid a last, supplementary farewell to your dear favorite niece?"

"I have come to go with her to the frontier, if I may have the privilege of traveling with your trail of wagons."

"Why, assuredly. We are always glad of good company on the way," heartily responded the captain.

"Oh, beg pardon, and thank you very much; but I did not intend to 'beat' my way. Look there!" exclaimed Clarence, with a brighter smile, as he pointed to the commodious carriage, drawn by a pair of fine draught horses, that stood waiting for him, and to the covered wagon, drawn by a pair of stout mules, that was coming up behind.

"Oh! Ah! Yes, I see! You are traveling with your retinue. But is not this a very sudden move on your part?" demanded the captain.

"So sudden in its impulse that it might be mistaken for the flight of a criminal, had it not been so deliberate in its execution. The fact is, sir, I am very much attached to my widowed niece, and not being able to dissuade her from her purpose of going out into the Indian country, and being her natural protector and an unincumbered bachelor, I decided to follow her. And now I feel very happy to have overtaken her in the nick of time."

"I see! I see!" said the captain with a laugh.

While this talk was still going on, Corona turned to take a better look at the great, strong carriage in which her uncle had driven up from the steamboat landing. There, to her surprise and delight, she saw young Mark, from Rockhold, seated on the box. He was staring at her, trying to catch her eye, and when he did so he grinned and bobbed, and bobbed and grinned, half a dozen times, in as many half seconds.

"Why, Mark! I am so surprised!" said Corona, as she went toward him. "I am so glad to see you!"

"Yes'm. Thanky'm. So is I. Yes'm, an'dar's mammy an' daddy an' Sister Phebe 'hind dar in de wagon," jerking his head toward the rear.

Corona looked, and her heart leaped with joy to see the dear, familiar faces of the colored servants who had been about her from her childhood. For there on the front seat of the wagon sat old John, from Rockhold, with the reins in his hands, drawing up the team of mules, while on one side of him sat his middle-aged wife, Martha, the housekeeper, and on the other his young daughter, Phebe, once lady's maid to Corona Rothsay.

Corona uttered a little cry of joy as she hastened toward the wagon. The three colored people saw her at once, and, with the unconventionally of their old servitude, shouted out in chorus:

"How do, Miss C'rona?"

"Sarvint, Miss C'rona!"

"Didn't 'spect to see we dem come trapesin' arter yer 'way out yere, did yer now?"

And they also grinned and bobbed, and bobbed and grinned, between every word, as they tumbled off their seats and ran to meet her.

Mr. Clarence hoisted the two women to their seats, one on each side of the driver, and then turned to Corona.

"Come, my dear. Let me put you into our carriage," he said, as he drew her arm within his own and led her on.

"Oh! I have not taken leave of Colonel —— yet.

"Where is he?" she inquired, looking around.

"Here I am, my dear Mrs. Rothsay. Waiting at the carriage door to put you in your seat and to wish you a pleasant journey. And certainly, if this initial day is any index, you will have a pleasant one, for I never saw finer weather at this season of the year," said the colonel, cheerily, as he received Corona from her uncle's hand, and, with the stately courtesy of the olden time, placed her in her seat.

"I thank you, colonel, for all the kindness I have received at your hands and at those of Mrs. ——. I shall never forget it. Good by," said Corona, giving him her hand.

He lifted the tips of her fingers to his lips, bowed, and stepped back.

Mr. Clarence entered the carriage and gave the order to the young coachman. Carriage and covered wagon then fell into the procession, which began to move on. A farewell gun was fired from the fort.

"Uncle Clarence," said Corona, after the party had been on the road some hours—"Uncle Clarence, how came you first to think of such a strange move as to leave the works and come out here? And when did you first make up your mind to do it?"

"I think, Cora, my dear, that the idea came vaguely into my mind, as a mere possibility, after my father's death. It occurred to me that there was no absolute necessity for my remaining longer at the works. You see, Cora, however much I might have wished for a change in my life, I never could have vexed my father by even expressing such a wish, while he lived. After his death I thought of it vaguely."

"Oh! why didn't you tell me?"

"My mind was not made up; therefore I spoke of the matter to no one. I only hinted something to you, when on bidding you good by at North End Junction I told you that you might possibly see me before you would expect to do so."

"Yes; I remember that well. I thought you only said that to comfort me. And you really meant that you might possibly follow me?"

"Yes, my dear; that is just what I meant. I could not speak more plainly because I was not sure of my own course. I had to think of Fabian."

"Yes. How, at last, came you to the conclusion of following your poor niece?"

"Fabian and myself could not agree upon a certain policy in conducting our business. There was no longer the father's controlling influence, you see, and Fabian is the head of the firm; and I could not do business on his principles," said Mr. Clarence, flushing up to his brow.

"No; I suppose you could not," said Cora, meditatively; and then she was sorry that she had said anything that might imply a reproach to the good-humored uncle she had left behind.

"Still, I said nothing about a dissolution of partnership until Fabian complained that I, or my policy, was a dead weight around his neck, dragging him down from the most magnificent flights to mere sordid drudgery. Then I proposed that we should dissolve partnership. And he said he was sorry. And I believe he was; but also glad, inconsistent as that seems. For he was sorry I could not come into his policy, and stay in the firm; but since I could not so agree with him, he was relieved when I proposed to withdraw from it. We disagreed, my dear Cora, but we did not fall out; we parted good friends and brothers with tears in our eyes. Poor little Violet cried a good deal. But you know she has such a tender heart, poor child!—Look at that herd of deer, Cora, standing on the top of that swell of the land to the right, and actually gazing at the trail without a motion or a panic. I hope nobody will shoot at them!" exclaimed Mr. Clarence, suddenly breaking off in his discourse to point to the denizens of the thicket and the prairie, until upon some sudden impulse the whole herd turned and bounded away.

So they fared on through that glorious autumn day—over the vast, rolling, solitary prairie—now rising to a smooth, gradual elevation that revealed the circle of the whole horizon where it met the sky; now descending into a wide, shallow hollow, where the rising ground around inclosed them as in an amphitheater; but everywhere along the trail, the prairie grass, dried and burnished by the autumn's suns and winds, burned like gold on the hills and bronze in the hollows, giving a singularly beautiful effect in light and shade of mingling metallic hues.

At noon the captain ordered a halt, and all the teams were drawn up in a line; and all the men got out to feed and water the horses and mules, and to prepare their own dinner.

They were now beside a clear, deep, narrow stream, a tributary of the Kansas River, running through a picturesque valley, carpeted with long grass, and bordered with low, well-wooded hills on either side. The burnished gold and bronze of the long dried grass on the river's brim, dotted here and there with a late scarlet prairie flower, the brilliant crimson and purple of the autumn foliage that clothed the trees, the bright blue of the sky and the soft white of the few downy clouds floating overhead, and all reflected and duplicated in the river below, made a beauty and glory of color that must have delighted the soul of an artist, and pleased the eye of even the most careless observer.

Mike O'Reilly, the captain's orderly, was busy spreading a table cloth on the grass, at the foot of a hill on the right, and old John, Mr. Clarence's man, was emulating Mike by spreading a four-yard square of white damask at a short distance behind him.

Our friends had nearly finished their lunch, when something—she never could tell what—caused Corona to look behind her. Then she shrieked! All looked to see the cause of her sudden fright.

There stood a group of Indians, with blankets around their forms, and gleaming tomahawks about their shoulders.

"Pawnees—friendly. Don't be afraid. Give them something to eat," said the captain, in a low tone, addressing the first part of his conversation to Corona and the last part to Mrs. Neville.

But Corona had never seen an Indian in her life, and could not at once get over her panic caused by the sight of those bare, keen-edged axes gleaming in the sun.

Captain Neville spoke to them in their native tongue, and they replied. The conversation that ensued was quite unintelligible to Clarence and Corona, but not to Mrs. Neville, who beckoned to two squaws who stood humbly in the rear of the braves. They were both clothed in short, rude, blue cotton skirts, with blankets over their shoulders. The elder squaw carried a pack on her back; the younger one carried a baby snugly in a hood made of the loop of her blanket at the back of her neck.

They both approached the ladies, chattering as they came; the elder one threw down her pack on the grass and began to open it, and display a number of dressed raccoon skins stretched upon sticks, and by gibbering and gesticulations expressed her wish to sell them.

Neither of the ladies wished to buy; but Mrs. Neville give her loaves of bread and junks of dried beef from the hampers on the grass, and Corona gave her money.

She put the money in a little fur pouch she carried at her belt, and she packed the bread and beef in the bundle with the highly flavored raccoon skins. She was not fastidious.

While Mrs. Neville and Corona were occupied with the squaw, Captain Neville and Mr. Clarence had been feasting the braves, and the attendants had been washing dishes, repacking hampers, and reloading wagons for a fresh start.

When all was ready the wayfarers took leave of the Indians and re-entered their conveyances and resumed their route, leaving the savages still feasting on the fragments that remained.

It was now two o'clock in the afternoon, as the long trail of carryalls and army wagons passed up from the beautiful valley and out upon the vast prairie that still rolled on before them in hills and hollows of gold and bronze, blazing under the bright autumnal sun.

Men and women, mules and horses, had all been rested and refreshed by their mid-day halt and repast.

The people, however, seemed less inclined to observe and converse than in the forenoon.

Even Clarence saw more than one flock of birds sail over their heads, and made no sign; saw a herd of deer stand and gaze, and said not a word.

At length Clarence took out his cigar and lit it, and as he smoked he watched the descending sun until it sank below the horizon and sent up the most singular after-glow that Clarence had ever seen—a shower of sparks and needle-like flames from the edge of the prairie immediately under the horizon.

"Looks like de worl' was ketchin on fire ober dere, Marse Clarence," said young Mark, speaking for the first time since they had resumed their march.

"It is only the light reflected by the prairie, my boy," kindly replied Mr. Clarence. And then he smoked on in silence, while the after-glow died out, the twilight faded, and one by one the stars came out. Corona seemed to be slumbering in her seat. Young Mark crooned low, as if to himself, a weird, old camp meeting hymn. It was so dark that he could not have seen to guide his horses, had not the captain's carryall been immediately in front of his own, and the long trail of wagons in front of the captain's, with lantern carried by the advance guard to show the way.

"What's the matter?" suddenly called out Mr. Clarence, who was aroused from his reverie by the halt of the whole procession.

"We 'pears to got sumwhurze," replied Mark, strongly pulling in his horses, which had nearly run into the back of the captain's stationary carryall in front.

"We are at Burley's," called out Captain Neville from his seat.

While he spoke Mike O'Reilly brought up a lantern to show their way to the house.

Clarence alighted and handed down his niece, took her arm, and followed Captain and Mrs. Neville past the wagons and mules and groups of men through a door that admitted them into a long, low-ceiled room, lighted by tallow candles in tin sconces along the log walls, and warmed by a large cooking stove in the middle of the floor. Rude, unpainted wooden chairs, benches and tables were the only furniture, if we except the rough shelves on which coarse crockery and tinware were arranged and under which iron cooking utensils were piled.

Captain Neville and Mr. Clarence returned to the wagons to see for themselves that their valuable personal effects were safely bestowed for the night, and that the horses and mules were well cared for. The proprietor of this place attended them.

While Mrs. Neville and Corona still walked up and down in the room, a small dark-haired woman came in and nodded to them, and asked if they would like to go upstairs and have some water to wash their faces.

Both ladies thankfully accepted this offer, and followed the landlady up a rude flight of steps that led up from the corner of the room to an open trap door, through which they entered the garret.

This was nothing better than a loft, whose rough plank floor formed the ceiling of the room below, and whose sloping roof rose from the floor front and back, and met overhead.

Here they rested through the night.

Let us hasten on. It was the thirteenth day out. The trail had crossed nearly the whole of the Indian Territory, and were within one day's march of Fort Farthermost, on the Texan frontier.

They had passed the previous night at Fort W., and at sunrise they had crossed the Rio Negro, and before noon they had made nearly a score of miles toward their destination. They halted beside a little stream that took its rise in a spring among the rocks on the right hand of the trail. Here the party meant to rest for two hours before resuming the march to Fort Farthermost, which they hoped to reach that same night.

As usual at the noon rest, mules and horses were unharnessed and led down to the stream to be watered and fed. Fires were built and rustic cranes improvised to hang the pots and kettles gypsy style. Since the first day out old Martha had been constituted cook and old John butler to our party.

In a short time Martha had prepared such a hot dinner as was practicable under the circumstances, and John had laid the cloth.

When all was ready the party of four sat down on the dry grass to partake of the meal, to every course of which they all did ample justice.

"This is our last al fresco feast," said Captain Neville, after dinner, as he filled the glasses of the two ladies and of Clarence Rockharrt and proposed the toast:

"Our lasting friendship and companionship."

It was honored warmly.

Next Clarence proposed:

"Mrs. Neville," which was also honored and responded to by the captain in a neat little speech, at the end of which he proposed:

"Mrs. Rothsay."

This was duly met by Clarence with a brief acknowledgment. Mr. Clarence was no speechmaker. But he proposed the health of—

"Our gallant captain," which was drank with enthusiasm.

The captain responded, and proposed—

"Mr. Clarence Rockharrt," which was cordially honored.

Then Mr. Clarence made his last little speech of personal thanks.

After this the company arose and separated, to wander about the camping ground, to stretch their cramped limbs before returning to their seats on their carryalls.

"Come, Clarence, let us follow this little stream up to its head. It cannot be far away," said Corona.

Mr. Clarence silently drew her arm within his, and they walked on up the little valley until it narrowed into a gorge, clothed with stunted trees in brilliant autumn hues, through which the gray rocks jutted. The tinkling of the spring which supplied the stream could be heard while it was yet out of sight.

"Did you bring your drinking cup with you, Clarence? I should like a draught from the spring," said Corona.

"Oh, yes," said her uncle, producing the silver cup. They clambered up the side of the gorge until they reached the spring—a great jet of water issuing from the rock. But there both stopped short, spellbound, in amazement. On a ledge of rock above the spring, and facing them, stood a majestic man, clothed in coat of buckskin, faced and bordered with fur, leggings of buckskin and sandals of buffalo hide. On his head he wore a fur cap that half concealed his tawny hair. The face was fine, but sunburnt and half covered with a long, tawny beard. Corona looked up, and recognized—Regulas Rothsay!

With a cry of terror, she struck her hands to her eyes, as if to dispel an optical illusion, and sank half fainting, to be caught in the arms of her uncle and laid against the side of the rocks, while he sprinkled her face with water from the spring.

She recovered her breath, opened her eyes, and looked anxiously, fearfully, all around her.

There was no one in sight anywhere. The apparition had vanished. Corona and her uncle were alone.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE MEETING ON THE MOUNT.

"What is this? Am I mad? Have I seen a spirit? Oh, Clarence, what is it?" cried Corona, in a tumult of emotion in which her life seemed throbbing away as she clung to her uncle for support.

"Try to compose yourself, dear Cora," he answered, as he gently laid her down on the mossy rocks, and went and brought her water from the spring in his pocket cup.

She raised herself and drank it at his request, and then staring wildly at him, repeated her questions:

"Oh, what was it? Who was here just now? Or was it—or was it—was it—delusion?"

"For Heaven's sake, Cora, calm yourself. It was Regulas Rothsay who stood here a moment ago."

"Rule himself, and no delusion! But, oh! I knew it! I knew it all the time!" she exclaimed, still trembling violently.

"My darling Cora, try—"

"Where did he go? Where?" she cried, staggering to her feet and clinging to her uncle. "Where? Oh, take me to him!"

"Do you see that log cabin on the plateau above us, Cora, to the right?" he said, pointing in the direction of which he spoke.

Her eyes followed his index, and she saw a cottage of rough-hewn logs standing against the rocky steep at the back of the broad ledge above them.

"What do you mean? Is he up there? Is he up there?" she breathlessly demanded.

"Yes; he is in that hut. I saw him climb the rocks and enter it, and close the door. But, for Heaven's sake! compose yourself, my dear. You are shaking as with an ague, and your hands are cold as ice," said Clarence.

"In that hut, did you say? So near? So near?"

"Yes, dear Cora; but be calm."

"Take me there! Take me there! Oh, give me your arm, Uncle Clarence, and help me. My limbs fail now, when I need them more than ever before. Ah! and my heart fails, too!" she moaned, growing suddenly pale and fainter as she leaned heavily against her uncle.

"Cora, darling! Cora, rouse yourself, my girl! This weakness is not like you. Take courage; all will be well," said Mr. Clarence, caressingly, laying his hand on her head.

She sighed heavily as she asked:

"How will he receive me? Oh, how will he receive me? Will he have me now? But he must! Oh, he must! For I will never, never, never go down this mountain side again without him! I will perish on its rocks sooner! Oh, come, come! Help me to reach that hut, Clarence."

There was no resisting her wild and passionate appeal. Clarence put his arm around her waist, to sustain her more effectually, as he said:

"Now lean on me, Cora, and step carefully, for the path is almost hidden, and very rugged."

"Oh, Clarence, did he recognize me? did he, Clarence? did he?" she eagerly inquired.

"Yes, Cora, he did," gravely answered the young uncle.

"And turned and went away! And turned and went away! Went away and left me without one word!" she wailed, in doubt and distress.

"Cora, my dear, pray control yourself," said Clarence, uneasily.

"Did he speak to you?" she suddenly inquired.

"Not one word."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No; for he was gone in an instant, before I recovered from my astonishment at his appearance."

"How did he look?—how did he look when he recognized me? In anger?"

"No, Corona; but in much sorrow, pity, and tenderness," gravely replied Clarence.

"Then, why did he leave me? Oh, why did he turn away from me?"

"My dear, he had every reason to think that his sudden appearance had frightened you, and that his presence grieved and distressed you."

"Why, oh, why should he have thought so?" she demanded, with increasing agitation.

"My dear girl, you were frightened. I might say appalled. You saw him suddenly, and with a half-smothered scream threw your hands to your eyes as if to shut out the sight, and then sank to the ground. Now what could the man think but that you feared and hated the sight of him?"

"Just as he thought before! Just as he thought before!"

"And he turned sorrowfully away and walked up to his cabin on the mount, entered, and shut the door. I saw him do it."

"Just as he did before! Just as he did before! Oh, Rule! what a fatality! That appearances should always be false and disastrous between us!" she moaned.

"Not in this case, Cora. At least not from this hour. Come, we are on the ledge now!" said Clarence, as he helped his niece, who with one more high step stood on the top of the plateau, her back to one of the most glorious prairie scenes in nature, her face to a rocky, pine-dotted precipice, against which stood a double log cabin, with a door in the middle and a window on each side.

"There is the hut! Now, shall I take you there, or shall I wait here and let you go alone?" he inquired, as they stood side by side gazing on the hut.

She did not answer. Her eyes were riveted on the door of the cabin, while she leaned heavily on the arm of her uncle.

"I see how it is: you are weakening, losing courage. Let me support you to the door," said Clarence, putting his arm around her waist.

But she drew herself up suddenly.

"Oh, let me go alone, dear Uncle Clarence. My meeting with Rule should be face to face only," she replied, still trembling, but resolute.

"Are you sure you can do it?"

"Oh, yes, yes! My limbs shall no longer refuse their office!"

Clarence threw himself down at the foot of a pine tree to sit and await events.

He took out his watch and looked at the time.

"It is one o'clock," he said to himself. "At two sharp the trail will move, or ought to do so. Perhaps Neville might give us half an hour's grace, though. At any rate, I will wait here three-quarters of an hour, and if in that time I hear nothing from Rothsay or Cora, I shall go down the mountain to explain the situation to Neville."

So saying, Mr. Clarence took out his pipe, filled and lighted it, and smoked.

Corona, like a somnambulist or a blind woman, went slowly toward the log cabin, holding out her hands before her. She soon reached it, leaned for a moment against the log wall to recover her breath and her courage, and then knocked.

The door was instantly opened, and Regulas Rothsay stood on the threshold, still clothed in his hunter's suit of buckskin, but without the fur cap—the same Rule, unchanged except in habiliments and in the length of his untrimmed, tawny hair and beard.

In the instant of meeting she raised her eyes to his, and read in them the undying love of his heart.

With a cry of rapture, of infinite relief and infinite content, she sank upon his doorstep, clasped his knees, and laid her beautiful head down prone on his feet. Only for a second.

He instantly raised her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, kissed her, and kissed her again and again, bore her into the cabin, placed her in the only chair, and knelt down beside her.

She turned and threw her arms around his neck, and dropped her head upon his bosom.

And not a word was spoken between them. The emotions of both were too great for utterance, too great almost for endurance.

They were bathed in a flood of light from the noonday sun pouring its rays through the open door and windows of the cabin. It was the apotheosis of love.

Rule was the first to speak.

"You are welcome, oh, welcome, as life to the dead, my love! But I do not understand my blessedness—I do not," he said, dropping his head on her shoulders, while she still lay on his bosom, in a dream, a trance of perfect contentment.

"Oh, Rule, my husband, my lord, my king! I have come to you, unconsciously led by the Divine Providence! But I have come to you, to stay forever, if you will have me! I have come, never, never, never to leave you, unless you send me away!" she said.

"I send you away, dear? I send away my restored life from me? Ah, you know, you know how impossible that would be! But if I should try to tell you, dear, all that I feel at this moment, I should fail, and talk folly, for no human words can utter this, dear! But I am amazed—amazed to see you here with me, as the dead to the material world might be, on awaking amid the splendors of Paradise!"

"You wish to know how I came?"

"No! I do not! Amazed as I may be, I am content to know that you are here, dear—here! But," he said, looking around on the rudeness of his hut, "oh, what a place to receive you in! I left you in a palace, surrounded by all the splendors and luxuries of civilization! I receive you in a log cabin, bare of even the necessaries and comforts of life!" he added, gravely.

"But you left me a discarded, broken-hearted woman, and you receive me a restored and happy wife!" she exclaimed.

"But, oh, Cora! can you live with me here, here? Look around you, dear! Look on the home you would share!—the walls of logs, the chimney of rocks, the floor of stone, the cups and dishes of earthenware, pewter and iron, the—"

She interrupted him, passionately:

"But you are here, Rule! You! you! And the log hut is transfigured into a mansion of light! A mansion like the many in our Heavenly Father's House! Oh, Rule! you, you are all, all to me! life, joy, riches, splendor, all to me! Am I all to you, Rule?"

"All of earth and heaven, dear."

"Oh, happy I am! Oh, I thank God, I thank God for this happiness! Rule, we will never part again!—never for a single day! But be together, to-day and

'To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, To the last syllable of recorded time,'

and through the endless ages of eternity! Oh, Rule, how could we ever have mistaken our hearts? How could we ever have parted?"

"The mistake was mine only, dear. After what you told me on our marriage day, I lost all hope, all interest and ambition in life. I had toiled and striven and conquered, for the one dear prize; all my battle of life was fought for you; all my victories were won for you, and were laid at your feet. But when I found that all my love and hope had brought only grief and despair to you—then, dear, all my triumphs turned into Dead Sea fruit on my lips! Then I left all and came into the wilderness; left no trace behind me; effaced myself from your life, from the world, as effectually as I could do it; and so—believing it to be for your good and happiness—died to the world and died to you!"

"Oh, Rule! Miserable woman that I was! I wrecked your life! I wrecked your career!"

"No, dear, no; the mistake, I said, was mine! I should have trusted your heart. I should have given you the time you implored; I should not have fled in the madness of suddenly wounded affection."

"Oh, Rule? if you could have only looked back on me after you went away, only known the anguish your disappearance caused me and the inconsolable sorrow of the time that followed it."

"If I could have supposed it possible even, I would have hastened to you, from the uttermost parts of the earth!"

"And then they reported you dead, murdered by the Comanches, in the massacre of La Terrepeur, and sorrow was deepened to despair."

"Yes; I heard of that massacre. The report of my death must have arisen in this way: I had lived at La Terrepeur for many months, but had left and come to this place some days before the massacre. Some other unfortunate was murdered and burned in the deserted hut, whose bones were found in ashes. I did not return to contradict the report. I wished to be dead to the world, as I was dead to hope, dead to you, dead to myself!"

"Oh, Rule! in all that time how I longed, famished, fainted, died, for your presence! Yes, Rule; died daily."

"My own, dear Cora, how could I have mistaken you? Oh! if I had only known!"

"Ah, yes! if you had only known my heart, or I had only known your whereabouts! In either case we should have met before, and not lost four years out of our lives! But now, Rule," she said, with sudden animation—"now 'We meet to part no more,' as the hymn says. I will never, never, never, leave you for a day! I will be your very shadow!"

"My sunshine, rather, dear!"

"And are you content, Rule?"

"Infinitely."

"And happy?"

"Perfectly."

"Thank God! So am I. But why, oh, why when we met by the spring just now, why, when I was crazed with joy and fear at the sudden sight of you, why did you turn away and leave me?" she passionately demanded.

He looked at her serenely, incisively, and answered, calmly, quietly:

"Dear, because you shrank from me, threw your hands up before your eyes, as if to shut out the sight of me. Dear, your own sudden appearance before me at the spring, to which I had gone for my noonday draught of water, nearly overwhelmed me; but I readily recovered myself and understood it, connected it with the trail below, and concluded that you were on your way to Farthermost to join your brother, whom I had heard of as one of the officers of the new fort. Then, believing that my presence distressed you, I went away."

"Oh, Rule!"

After a little while Rothsay inquired:

"Was not that Mr. Clarence Rockharrt whom I saw with you by the spring?"

"Yes; Uncle Clarence. He helped me up to this ledge, and then he stayed outside while I came in here to look for you."

"Let us go and bring him in now, dear," said Rule.

And the two walked out together.

But no one was to be seen on the plateau; only, on the ground under the pine tree where Mr. Clarence had rested was a piece of white paper, kept in place by a small stone laid upon it.

Rule picked up the stone, and handed the paper to Cora.

It proved to be a leaf from Mr. Clarence's pocket tablets, and on it was written:

"I am going down the mountain to tell Captain Neville that my party will camp here to-night, and join him at the fort to-morrow, so that he may go on with his train at once, if he should see fit. CLARENCE."

"He saw you receive me; he knew it was all right; then he grew tired of waiting for me. He thought I had forgotten him, and so I had, and he left this paper and went down to the trail," Corona explained with a smile.

"Shall we go down and see your friends, Cora? Tell me what you wish, dear," said Rothsay.

Corona looked at her watch, and then replied:

"Courtesy would have required me to go down and take leave of Captain and Mrs. Neville before leaving them, but it is too late now. Their caravan is on the march by this time. They were to have resumed their route at two o'clock. It is after three now."

"We can go to Farthermost later, dear. It is but half a day's ride from here. Shall we go down the mountain and join Clarence? Is it your wish, Cora?"

"No, not yet. He is very well as he is. He can wait for us. Let us sit down here together. I have so much to tell, and so much to hear," said Corona.

"Yes, dear; and I also have 'so much to tell, and so much to hear,'" assented Rothsay, as they sat down at the foot of the young pine tree, with their backs to the rising cliffs and their faces to the descending mountain, the brook at its foot, and the vast, sunlit prairie, in its autumn coat of dry grass, rolling in smooth hills and hollows of gold and bronze off to the distant horizon.

"Tell me, dear, of all that has befallen you in these dark years that have parted us. Tell me of your grandparents. Do they still live?" inquired Rothsay.

"Ah, no!" replied Corona. And then she entered upon the family history of the last four years and four months, since Rule had disappeared, and told him of the sudden death of her dear old grandmother on the very day on which the false report of Rothsay's murder reached them.

She told him of her Uncle Fabian's marriage to Violet Wood a year later.

Of her widowed grandfather's second marriage to Mrs. Stillwater, whom Rothsay had known in his childhood as Miss Rose Flowers.

Of the recent death of this second wife, followed very soon after by that of the aged widower.

And finally she told him of her own resolution to follow her brother Sylvan to his post of duty at Fort Farthermost, to open a mission home school for Indian children, and to devote her life and fortune to their service; and of the good opportunity offered her by the kindness of Colonel Z. in procuring for her the escort of Captain and Mrs. Neville, who were on their way to Farthermost with a party of recruits.

"And Clarence? How came he to be of the company?" inquired Rothsay.

"Uncle Clarence could not agree with Uncle Fabian in business policy. So they dissolved partnership very amicably and with mutual satisfaction. This was after I had left Rockhold. Clarence gathered up his wealth, brought three devoted servants with him, and set out to follow me. At St. Louis he purchased wagons, tents, horses, mules, and every convenience for crossing the plains. He overtook and surprised us at Fort Leavenworth on the very day of our intended departure for Farthermost."

"Clarence came for your sake."

"Yes; and he has enjoyed the journey. On the free prairie he has been like a boy out of school—so buoyant, so joyous—the life of the whole company."

"What will he do now?"

"I think he will go on to Farthermost for this season. After this I do not know what he will do or where he will go."

"He will remain in this quarter, which offers a grand field for a man like Clarence Rockharrt," said Rothsay.

"I should think it might—in the future," replied Corona.

"In the near future. The tide of emigration is pouring into this section so fast that very soon the ground will be disputed with the Mexican government, and true men and brave men will be much wanted here."

"Yes," said Corona, indifferently, for she cared very little at this moment for public interests. "But tell me of yourself, Rule. I long to hear you talk of yourself."

Rothsay was no egotist. He never had been addicted to speaking of himself or of his feelings.

Now, at her urgent request, he told her in brief how he had renounced all his honors in the country for the sake of the woman for whose sake, also, he had first striven to win them and had won them.

"Dear," he said, "from the time you first noticed me, when you were a sweet child of seven summers and I a boy of twelve—yes, winters—for while all your years had been summers, dear—summers of love, shelter, comfort, luxury—all my years had been winters of loss, want, orphanage, and destitution—you were my help, support, inspiration. I longed to be worthy of your friendship, your interest, your sympathy. And for all these things I toiled, endured, and struggled."

"I know! Oh, I know!" said Corona, earnestly.

"Yes, dear, you know it all. For who but you were with me in the spirit through all the struggle, helping, supporting, encouraging, until you seemed to me my muse, my soul, my inner and purer and higher self. Dear, I wronged you when I connected your love with this world's pride. I wronged you bitterly, and I have suffered for it and made you suffer—"

"Oh, no, no, no, Rule! The fault was all my own! I am not so good and wise as you!" exclaimed Corona.

"Hush, dear! Hush! Hear me out!" said Rothsay, laying his hand gently on her head.

"Well, go on, but don't blame yourself. Oh, 'chevalier sans peur et sans reproche,'" said Corona, fervently.

He resumed very quietly:

"When I had reached a position in this world's honor to which I dared to invite you, then I laid my victory at your feet and prayed you to share it. And, Corona, when the bishop had blessed our nuptials, I dreamed that we were blessed indeed. You know, dear, what a miserable awakening I had from that dream on the evening of our wedding day."

"It was my fault! It was my fault! Oh, vain, foolish, infatuated woman that I was!" cried Corona.

"No, dear; you were not to blame. You were true, candid, natural through it all. Our betrothal, dear, was on your part the betrothal of friends. You did not know your own heart then. You went abroad with your grandparents, and, after two years of travel, you were thrown in the court circles of London, and exposed to all the splendors, temptations and fascinations of rank, culture and refinement, such as you had never met at home in your rural neighborhood. You were caught, dazzled, bewildered. You thought you loved the English duke who sought your hand—"

"But I never did, Rule. Oh, Heaven knows I never did. It was all self-delusion," broke in Corona.

"No; you never did. I saw that in the first instant that I met your eyes in the log cabin up yonder. You never did! It was a self-delusion. Yet you were under the influence of that self-delusion when I found you on our wedding evening in such a paroxysm of grief and despair that I—astonished and amazed at what I saw—shared your delusion and imagined that you loved this duke when you married me. What could I do, my own dear Cora, for whom I would have lived or died at bidding—what could I do but efface myself from your life?"

"Oh! you could have given me time—time to recover from my mental illness, since I had done no evil willingly. Since I had kept my troth as well as I could. Since I had vowed to love and serve you all the days of my life. You should have given me time, Rule, to recover my senses and keep my vow."

"Yes; I should have done so! But, you see, I did not know. How could I know? Oh, my dear Cora! It cost me little to lay down all the honors I had won, for they were worthless to me if not shared by you, for whom they were won. But it cost my life almost to resign you. Mine was 'not the flight of a felon' or a coward, but the retirement of one sick, sick unto death of the world and of all the glory of the world. Some men in my case might have sought relief in death, but I—I knew I must live until the Lord of life should himself relieve me of duty. So I left the city on the night of my wedding day, the night also before my inauguration day."

"Oh, Rule! and as if it required that supreme act of renunciation to tear the veil from my eyes and let me see you as you were, and see my own heart as it was—from that hour I knew how much, how deeply, how eternally I loved you!" said Corona.

Rothsay raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he resumed:

"I wrote two letters—one to you, explaining my motives for leaving, and advising you not to repeat to any one the subject or substance of our last interview, lest it should be misunderstood or misrepresented, and should do you unmerited injury with an evil-thinking world—"

"Yes, Rule. See! See! I have that letter yet!" exclaimed Corona, hastily unbuttoning the front of her bodice and pulling up the little black silk bag which she wore next her heart, suspended from the silken cord around her neck, and taking from it the old, yellow, broken paper which contained the last lines he had written to her.

"You kept that all this time, dear?" he inquired, gently taking the paper and looking at it.

"Yes. Why not? It was the last relic I possessed of you. And it has never left me. I never showed it to a human being, because you did not wish me to do so. But you said you had written two letters. To whom was the other? We never heard of it."

Rothsay looked at her in surprise for a moment and answered:

"The other letter? Why, of course it was my letter of resignation."

"Then it was never found! Never! If it had been, it would have saved much trouble. No one knew what had become of you, Rule. Not even I, except that you had left me on account of that last conversation between us, which you adjured me never to divulge. And oh! what amazement your disappearance caused! and what conjectures as to your fate! Many thought that you had been assassinated and your body sunk in the river. Oh, Rule! Many others thought that you had been abducted by some political enemy—as if any force could have carried you off, Rule!"

Rothsay laughed for the first time during the interview. Corona continued:

"Advertisements were placed in all the papers, offering large rewards for information that should lead to the discovery of your fate or whereabouts, living or dead. And, oh! how many impostors came forward to claim the money, with information that led to nothing at all. A sailor returning from Rio de Janeiro swore that you had shipped as a man before the mast and gone out with him, and that he had left you in the capital of Brazil. A fur trader from Alaska reported you killing seals in that territory. A returned miner swore that he had left you gold digging in California. A New Bedford sailor made his affidavit that he had seen you embark on a whaling ship for Baffin's Bay. These were the most hopeful reports. But there were others. There was never the body of an unknown man found anywhere that was not reported to be yours. Oh, Rule! think of the anguish all these rumors cost your friends!"

"Cost you, my poor Corona! I doubt if they cost any other human being a single pang."

"But all these rumors proved to be false, and your fate remained a mystery until it was apparently cleared up by the report of your murder by the Comanches in the massacre of La Terrepeur."

"A report as false as any of the others, as you see, yet with a better foundation in probability than any of those, as I have explained. But how my letter of resignation should have been lost I cannot conjecture. I posted it with my own hand," said Rothsay, reflectively.

"Why, letters are occasionally lost in the mail! But, Rule, how was it that you never heard of all the amazement and confusion that followed your flight, for the want of your letter to explain it?"

"Because, dear, from the time I left the State capital to this day I have never seen a newspaper or spoken to a civilized being."

"Rule!"

"It is true, dear! Look at me. Have I not degenerated into a savage?"

"No, no, no, Regulas Rothsay! you could never do that! Ah! how much nobler you look to me in that rude forest garb than ever in the fine dress of the drawing room! But tell me about your journey from the city into the wilderness, and of your life since."

"I have been trying to do so, Cora, but every time I try to begin my narrative by reverting to the hour of my flight, I seem spellbound to that hour and cannot escape from it. But I will try again," he said, and he began his story.

He told her, in brief, that on leaving the Rockhold house and going out upon the sidewalk, he found the streets still alight with illuminated houses and alive with the orgies of revelers who had come to the inauguration.

In moving through the crowd he was unrecognized, for who could suspect the black-coated figure passing alone along the street at midnight to be the governor-elect of the State, in whose honor the assembled multitudes were getting drunk?

His first intention had been to take a hack, drive to the railway depot, and board the first train going West. But the hacks were all engaged as sleeping berths by men who could not get accommodations in any of the houses of the overcrowded city.

So he set off to walk, and almost immediately came face to face with old Scythia, the friend of his childhood.

"Old Scythia!" exclaimed Corona, interrupting the narrative.

"Yes, dear; the old seeress of Raven Roost, as they used to call her. Of course, I never, even as a boy, believed in the supernatural powers of divination ascribed to her, but I must credit her with wonderful intuitions. She had divined the very crisis that had come, and in that hour of my agony and humiliation she exercised a strange power over me," said Rothsay; and then he took up the thread of his narrative again.

He told her that on leaving the State capital he had taken neither railway carriage nor river steamboat, but had tramped, with old Scythia by his side, all the way from the Cumberland Mountains to the Southwestern frontier.

The journey had taken them all the summer, for they traveled very slowly—sometimes walking no more than ten miles a day, sometimes sleeping on pallets made of leaves under the trees of the forest, sometimes reaching a pioneer's log hut, where they could get a hot supper and a night's lodging. Sometimes stopping over Sunday in some settlement where there was no church, and where Rule, though not an ordained minister, would on Christian principles hold a service and preach a sermon.

So they journeyed over the mountains, and through the valleys and forests, until at length, in the end of October, they arrived at the poorest, loneliest, and most forlorn of all the pioneer settlements they had seen.

This was La Terrepeur, on the borders of the Indian Reserve. It was a settlement of about twenty log huts, in a small valley shut in by densely wooded hills, and watered by a narrow brook. It was too near the country of the Comanches for safety, and too far from the nearest fort for protection. There was neither church nor school house within a hundred miles.

The travelers were hospitably received by the pioneers, and here, as the autumn was far advanced, and travel difficult, they determined to halt for the winter, at least, and in the spring to go farther south in search of Scythia's tribe, the Nez Percees, who had been moved away from their former hunting grounds.

They were feasted and lodged by the hutters that night. The next morning the men turned out in a body, felled trees and cleared a spot on the slope of a wooded hill, sawed logs and built two huts, one for Rothsay, and one for old Scythia. They were finished before night. And then the settlers had a house-warming, which was a breakdown dance to the music of the one fiddle in the settlement, and a supper of such eatables and drinkables as the place could afford.

But there was no furniture in these two primitive dwellings. So once more these wayfarers had each to sleep on a bed of leaves.

On the second day the man who owned the only mule and cart, and was the only expressman and carrier to the settlement, offered to go to the nearest post trader's station—a distance of fifty miles—and purchase anything that the strangers might need, if said strangers had the money to buy.

Rothsay had money in notes, hardly thought of, and never looked at, except when, on their long journey, he had to take out his pocket book to pay for accommodations at some log cabin, or to purchase a change of under clothing at some post trader's.

Also old Scythia had a pouch of silver and gold coin, saved from the money that had been regularly sent to her by Rule from the time when he first began to earn wages to the time when they set out for the wilderness in company.

Of this money they gave the frontier expressman all that he required to purchase the plainest furniture for the log cabins—bedding, cooking utensils, crockery ware, and some groceries.

"Yer can't buy bed or mattresses at the post trader's; but yer can buy ticking, and we can sew it up for yer, and the men will stuff with straw. There's plenty of straw," said one of the kindly women, speaking for all her neighbors.

And the expressman set out with his list.

In three days he was back again with a satisfactory supply. The women made the straw beds and pillows and hemmed the sheets. The men filled the ticks and "knocked together" a pine table and a few rude, three-legged stools. And so Rothsay and old Scythia were settled for the winter.

Rothsay took upon himself the office of teacher and preacher. Among the articles brought from the post trader's were a few Bibles, hymn books, and elementary school books, slates and pencils.

He began his labors by holding a religious service in his own cabin on the first Sabbath of his sojourn at La Terrepeur, which—perhaps for its rarity—was attended by the whole of the little community. And on the next day he opened his little school in his hut, where he taught the children all day, and where he slept at night. Old Scythia's cabin was kitchen and dining room.

All that autumn, winter and spring Rule labored among the pioneers of La Terrepeur. It was not true, as had been reported, that he was a missionary and schoolmaster to the Indians; for no one of the savages who occasionally came into the settlement could be induced to approach the "school."

It was in June that old Scythia became restless and anxious to find her tribe—the wandering Nez Percees.

Rothsay gave his school a vacation and set out with Scythia to find the valley where they were reported to be in camp.

"This valley below, Cora, dear," said Rothsay, interrupting the course of the narrative. "But when we reached it, the Nez Percees had disappeared. A lonely old hunter, who had built this hut, was the only human being in the place, and he was slowly dying, and he would have died alone but for the opportune arrival of old Scythia and myself. He told us that the Nez Percees had crossed the river about two weeks before, and were far on their migration west."

"Old Scythia sat down flat on the floor, drew up her knees, folded her hands upon them, dropped her head, and died as quietly as a tired child falls to sleep."

"Oh!" exclaimed Corona, "how sad it was."

"Yes; it was sad; age, fatigue and disappointment did their work. I buried her body under that pine tree where your Uncle Clarence sat down. The old hunter's struggle with dissolution was longer. He lingered five days. I waited on him until death relieved him, and then laid his body to rest beside old Scythia's. I was then preparing to return to La Terrepeur, when a wandering scout brought me the news of the massacre of the inhabitants and the destruction of the settlement. Since that time, dear Corona, I have lived alone on this mountain. That is all. Come, shall we go down and see your uncle?"

"Yes," said Corona.

And they arose and walked down into the valley.

They soon found the wagon camp of Clarence Rockharrt and his followers.

The horses and mules, which had been unharnessed, watered and fed, were now tethered to the scattered tree trunks, and were nosing about under the dried leaves in search of the tender herbage that was still springing in that genial soil beneath the shelter of the fallen foliage. The wagons had been drawn up under cover of the thicket and prepared as sleeping berths.

On the grass was spread a large white damask table cloth, and on that was arranged a neat tea service for three.

Martha was busy at a gypsy fire boiling coffee and broiling venison steaks.

"You are just in time, Rule. How do you do?" exclaimed Mr. Clarence, emerging from among the horses, and coming forward to shake hands with Rothsay as if they had been in the daily habit of meeting for the last four years.

The two men clasped hands cordially.

"I always had a secret conviction that you were living, Rule, and always secretly hoped to meet you again, 'somehow, somewhere;' and now my prescience is justified in our meeting to-day."

"Clarence," gravely replied Rothsay, "you ask me no questions, yet now I feel that you are entitled to some explanation of my strange flight and long sequestration. And I will give it to you to-morrow."

"My dear Rothsay, I have divined much of the mystery, but you may tell me what you like, when you like. And now supper is ready," said Clarence, heartily, as the four servants came up, each with a dish to set on the cloth, quite an unnecessary pageantry where one would have been enough, but that they all wanted to see the long-lost man. And with the warmth and freedom of their race they quickly set down their dishes and gathered around the stranger to give him a warm welcome, expressing loudly their surprise and delight in seeing him.

"Dough 'deed I doane wonner at nuffin' wot turns up in dis yere new country!" old Martha declared.

Then followed a gay and happy al fresco supper.

By the time it was over the sun had set, and the autumn evening air, even in that southern clime, was growing very chilly.

So the three friends arose from the table.

Rothsay and Corona turned to go up the hill. Clarence escorted them, carrying Corona's bag.

They parted at the door of the log cabin.

"I shall have our tent pitched at the foot of the mountain early to-morrow morning, and breakfast prepared. You will come down and join me," said Mr. Clarence, as he bade the reunited pair good night.

The wagon camp did not break up the next day, nor the day after that.

On the third day who should arrive but Lieut. Haught, absent on leave, and come to look up his relations. His meeting with them was a jubilee. His sister wept for joy; his brother-in-law and his uncle would have embraced him if they had expressed their emotions as continental Europeans do; even the negroes almost hugged and kissed him.

On Lieut. Haught's representations and at his persuasions the little camp broke up, and with Rothsay and Cora in company, marched off to Fort Farthermost, where they were cordially received by the commandant and the officers, and where the reunited pair commenced life anew.

My story opened with the marriage and mysterious separation of the newly married pair. It should close with their reunion.

The later life of my young hero belongs to history. It would require a pen more powerful than mine to pursue his career, which was as grand, heroic and romantic as that of any knight, prince, or paladin in the days of old.

His pure name and fame became identified with the rise and progress of a great State in that Southwestern wilderness. Soldier, statesman, patriot, benefactor, all in one, his memory will be honored as long as his country shall last. And yet, perhaps, the crowning glory of his character was his power of self-renunciation—proved in every act of his public life, but shown first, perhaps, when, to leave the life of one beloved woman free, he renounced not only the hand of his adored bride, but

"The kingdoms of the world and the glory."

THE END