"Stephen, where does that lead?" was the query.

"That leads into the one we saw yesterday. We call this end Beersheba, and the other Dan, because it is so much nearer the mouth of the cave. I have explored the whole passage, but it has nothing worth showing visitors. But I have no doubt there's miles that nobody has ever been over. It's a big place, I tell you."

"Didn't you find the dead stranger?" asked the tall girl, who always had something to say.

"Can't say as I looked for him, miss."

In high spirits the party retraced their steps as far as the Bottomless Pit on the right, and the black chasm Beersheba, on the left, a distance of about five miles from the entrance to the cave.

"Take care!" warned the guide; "it is wet and slippery here, and the path is very narrow."

They were creeping on in single file when Stephen called back,—

"Mr. Hammond, you look pretty strong—would you help steady this railing? It seems a little shaky."

Hammond came on ahead and stood bracing the bridge, which was one of the very few man-made structures in the cavern, while the other escorts led the girls, one at a time, around the abrupt and slippery ledge. In consequence of this stringing out of torches, the light was dim along the narrow way, so that even these few steps of advance had left the Bottomless Pit in darkness.

Suddenly there was a rapid, rushing sound in the rear; a whirring echo; a suppressed cry, and a heavy splash far below. The ladies screamed, and the faces of the men grew pallid with horror.

"My God! What was it? Who was it?" burst from their lips.

"Don't go back, gentlemen!" shouted the guide. "It's no use! Come on this side here—I'll go back. First, see who is missing. If anybody is down there, the Lord have mercy on him, for man can't help him."

Soon the trembling, awe-struck party were safe on a platform, and the lights were bunched to their full radiance. Some one cried:

"Minnie Dare is not here!" "And, by Jove, Eldon Brand is not here, either!" said the chorus. Then in a low tone, "Could it have been suicide? How horrible!"

And this thought was the prevailing one, for the trials of the lovers were well known.

Jason Hammond ran back precipitately with the guide, and in a sort of frenzy peered far into the awful chasm. Words of blasphemy were on his lips as he began to realize to what end his persecution had driven the fair young creature he had sworn to win. As for Brand, he rejoiced in his fate. Could it have been an accident? He thought not.

"No use," repeated the guide, "I can come back here and bring somebody who will go down on a rope. But I tell you the bottom of that place has never been found yet. We let a young fellow down by a rope last summer in a frolic—his name was Mr. Clarence Prentice—and he pretty soon called out to haul him up. Learned folks say a river runs down there, and there ain't any bottom at all. Everything gets swept away with the current. I don't know how it is, I am sure,"

Slowly the terror-stricken company wended their way back to earth, the light of enjoyment driven from their hearts. The girls gave themselves up to sobs and tears, and all dreaded to convey the tidings to the bereaved families.

The men went back with ropes and grappling hooks, but nothing came of their labors. The bodies of the hapless lovers were not found, and none knew how they had gone over the treacherous crag into the abyss below. Surmises were rife, but prudence chose the better part of silent sympathy. The newspapers fairly gloated over the tragedy, and summer visitors were divided between curiosity to look upon the spot and fear lest they, too, might miss their footing; hence the profits of Cave Hotel were not noticeably on the decrease.

Colonel Dare refused to be comforted, unless, indeed, he could rejoice at the escape of the dove from the eagle's clutches. Now that the girl was lost to him, Hammond was willing to accept terms before declined; and the Dare ancestral home was at once put upon the market for sale.

Eldon Brand had no near relatives, but there were many to mourn his untimely fate.

* * * * *

Some hours after the disappearance of the lovers, Stephen, the guide, re-entered the cave with a large bundle in his arms, and accompanied by a single tourist, a sedate man who was a stranger to the region. They proceeded along the short route to the chapel. Adjusting the torches, Stephen gave a low whistle, when from behind a mammoth stalagmite came forth a young man and a fair maiden, who took their stand in the Double Niche.

Eldon Brand had left nothing undone during his hours of preparation; and when the man of God stood before the youthful pair, he held in his hands the properly authenticated document which was to cement the marriage tie in the civil courts. He had never before officiated at so unique a bridal, and when once more on terra firma proper, he bore the secret away to his Northern home.

Days passed and still the tragic fate of the hapless lovers held a place in fireside chats.

Night had fallen. All was quiet in the sparsely settled neighborhood of Cave Hotel. Stephen, the guide, with basket and torch, swiftly descended the winding stairs and entered the grand colonnade, where the bats still held high carnival. He pushed on, sometimes a little cramped for space, till he reached the black avenue he had called Dan. Stooping he possessed himself of a string that was fastened to a stake in the ground, and followed its course through intricate windings till a light glimmered in the distance. Whistling softly, he advanced more rapidly. A shadow was flung upon the curtains of a doorway, and parting the folds, a figure appeared at the opening.

"Ah, old fellow, you never forget us," was the cheery greeting.

"Not I," said the man, "I think you will find your list all made out here," depositing his basket inside.

The room was small and irregular in shape, but good taste and moderate expenditure had converted it into a rustic boudoir of no mean pretensions. Cretonne hangings concealed the rough walls, and a few small pictures served to confine their bright folds to the uneven surface of earth and rock. The earthen floor was covered by a mat. A couch of the light, portable kind was daintily spread. A shelving rock, covered with a mat of Japanese print, held a never-failing lamp, and two camp-chairs completed the furniture, which had been conveyed into the cave with the utmost care and secrecy. A few books and a number of papers lay scattered about. The presiding deity of the fairy bower looked a radiant welcome for the trusty ally upon whom they were dependent.

"You dear old Stephen! Don't you think it is time we ventured out into the world again?"

"Why, I think this looks like Heaven!" he said, with the freedom of his office, "I don't know what you'd leave it for."

"Yes, but you know that if it were not for your basket we should be forced to appear. But I am learning to manage the ovens and pans. See here," and opening an inner curtain she revealed an alcove, where a few primitive cooking utensils were collected beside a small gasoline stove.

"I reckon your cooking don't come to much more than warming over my bill of fare," said Stephen, with an involuntary glance at the soft white hands, and an indulgent smile for the young housekeeper.

"Oh, but I do cook, really," she protested. "Eldon, did you ever taste nicer eggs? And the water down there carries off all the shells and scraps. Hear it rush along now!" and busily the stream did run to flow into Green river, so the knowing ones said. "But," she added; "if my father only knew. The moment we hear that that hateful man has gone abroad we will defy all the rest. Do you know, Stephen," in a lower tone, "we were very near being caught on the hill to-day. I was all bent over as usual in my old woman's dress, and Eldon was limping along on his crutch stick when—hark! what was that?"

"Did you hear anything?" asked Eldon, coming to her side, "don't be frightened, love. It could not have been any one. You are nervous."

The young wife's cheek paled a little as she reminded him of a frightful dream she had before mentioned.

"Nonsense, dear, we are safe as long as my bank holds out. In a short while we will brave the world and be at least a nine days' wonder."

Hoping to persuade Minnie Dare to elope with him, after their colloquy on the balcony the night of the ball, and thereby escape her persecutor, the young man had not followed the cave party on the long route without first amply supplying his purse. Stephen had suggested the strategem they impulsively employed of temporarily disappearing into the black corridor opposite the Bottomless Pit, after throwing a heavy rock down the abyss to simulate a fall; and Stephen had mapped out for them the whole situation succeeding the supposed catastrophe. Thus far they had not lacked for comforts; and stolen visits in disguise to the upper regions had varied their solitude and given refreshing glimpses of sunlight.

"Eldon, I am sure I heard a noise!" again exclaimed the girl, clinging in terror to his arm.

To appease her, the two men went out and made search. All was as usual—unless, indeed, a shred of cloth adhering to a jagged rock had not been there before. Stephen soon after left the pair, unconscious that a dark shadow was following him into the upper world, there to vanish among the shadows.

For there is nothing hidden that shall not be revealed; and this well-guarded secret, known to only four persons, was trembling at its foundation. For her beloved father's sake the young wife was willing to endure privation; for she reasoned that Hammond would have no motive for vengeance if she were supposed to be lost; that her death would end the mysterious power that threatened disgrace to Colonel Dare. Stephen was paid well to be on guard, and his report that he had more than once seen Hammond in the vicinity, made them exercise extreme caution and vigilance in going outside.

At first the spirit of unrest had drawn the baffled suitor to the scene, where he had driven the unwilling maiden to her death, for he had loved her as well as a selfish nature can love. Gradually there dawned upon his mind a suspicion somewhat akin to the truth. Rumors were afloat that Stephen made nightly visits to the cave, not with exploring parties, but alone. A young couple had been seen wandering over the hills in the moonlight. Superstition said it was the ghosts of the ill-fated lovers. But when Jason Hammond heard these things they startled him as if struck with an electric shock. He did not believe in ghosts. He resolved to watch. He, too, saw the figures at night. He saw them disappear behind the steep ledge that leads downward into the bowels of the earth. He drew his own conclusions.

If true, what should stay his vengeance against those who had thus duped him? He sought his opportunity, and cautiously followed the guide unto the very portals of the lovers' retreat. He heard the voices he remembered but too well. He knew now where to strike. He knew, too, that fear of him kept Minnie Dare thus hidden, as in a grave. Aye, she feared disgrace for her father, and more than all, she feared his vengeance against her husband—for he did not doubt that they were married. Husband? As the word forced itself, the man ground his teeth in baffled rage and hate. He would take care that the dreaded vengeance should be swift and sure.

The path to the subterranean retreat was perilous to a stranger; but having gone once, he was sure he could go again. The way was even now familiar enough as far as the black avenue of Dan. Here the string, placed for the convenience of the lovers, would guide him, and if his plans should be upset, he could retreat into the other black opening leading to the Bottomless Pit, where he now knew the lost pair had plunged into Beersheba instead of into the chasm, the two landmarks being exactly opposite. He had not forgotten the guide's account of these two unexplored regions where there was "nothing of interest to show tourists." He began to see through the plot from the hour of the so-called tragedy. How easy, with the artful guide's connivance, to cast a stone down the echoing ravine, then conceal themselves in the corridor close by, extinguish their torches, and await in silence the next coming of their assistant! He himself had been adroitly decoyed out of the way to steady the railing of the rickety bridge. The abrupt and narrow ledge had hidden them from view. The escape was easy. All was clear now, and the life of the man who had cheated him should pay the penalty. Should she continue to refuse his suit, she, too, must die. The should find their grave in the spot they loved so well. There would be none to tell the tale.

Armed with a revolver, he groped on, using a torch as far as he dared. The absence of crystal formations, so thick and shining elsewhere, left large, roomy passages easy to traverse, though there were frequent turns puzzling to the uninitiated. As he approached the cosy bower he heard, to his chagrin, the voice of the guide. What should he do? The odds were too many for him. Wait till next day when his victims would probably be alone? Risk going in upon them before nightfall? How had Stephen eluded his vigilance? In this dilemma he crept near enough to get a view of the interior. The sight of Minnie Brand seated at her husband's knee, his hand caressing her flowing curls, so inflamed his wrath that an oath burst from his lips. The sound penetrated the boudoir. It was this time unmistakable. Minnie uttered a faint cry. The two men started up, and snatching a torch, quickly lit it, and dashed out.

"To the inner chamber, my darling!" Eldon called back, as he threw down the folds of the portiere and rushed headlong with Stephen.

They scoured the Short Route avenue to its full length, while Hammond, his soul raging with murderous intent, traversed as rapidly as he dared, the Beersheba avenue toward the Long Route opening.

"By the eternal! He's gone the other way! But he can't get out! Right about!"

Retracing their steps they had to proceed more cautiously, but they soon caught sight of the figure ahead, now lost, now reappearing.

"It is that blackhearted villain, who has hounded us!" cried Eldon. "On! on!"

But the guide, true to his calling, shouted:

"Surrender, or you are a dead man! The Bottomless Pit is right ahead of you."

The fugitive halted a moment, glanced back, then dashed on again in defiance. At a sudden projection he tripped and fell, discharging the pistol into his own body. The sound reverberated in a thousand echoes. The wounded man staggered to his feet, and managed to gain the frail bridge. Here he fell across the railing, swayed there an instant; then as his pursuers came up with helping hands, he plunged into the abyss below.

* * * * *

The denizens of Cave City never tire of telling how Eldon Brand and his wife came back to the world, and how they fared in their romantic retreat. But there was a part of the story as strange as it was tragic. Upon dismantling the boudoir a leathern girdle was found, which contained several hundred dollars in gold, and a letter which ran thus:—

"I am a dying man. I cannot find my way out. I have not strength to call, I must perish here of disease and want. I will make one more effort, but feel that I shall fail. I have made my peace with God. In leaving this world I leave only one enemy behind. This is Jason Hammond, who has wronged me foully. Living or dead, I shall haunt him. To whomsoever shall give this poor body Christian burial, I bequeath my estate." (Here followed the location and description of the property).

"Signed:

"DAVID HAMMOND."

The paper was almost illegible. It had been written in pencil. An extended search was made and the skeleton of a man was found in one of the most inaccessible recesses of the cave's many turnings. Beside the body lay a torch and an exhausted lunch basket. Eldon Brand had the remains reverently committed to earth.

The village gossips love to dwell upon the happiness of the brave young lovers, of the restoration of the gray-haired father to his old home in honor and in plenty, and of the blooming lads and lassies that sprang up as time passed tenderly over the heads of the reunited household.



A REVERIE

The twilight falls in gloom; All day the fitful sun and sparkling show'r Have played at hide-and-seek amid the bloom— The varied tints of Spring's fresh bow'r. Oh, sure each bud and blossom knows the spell Their subtle fragrance weaves about my brow; Oh, sure a mystic tale their echoes tell— Love's soft, low-whispered vow.

The deep'ning sky o'ercast, The shadows slowly length' ning 'neath the trees, The tender leaves, swift in the vernal blast, To catch the music of the breeze; The young lush grass a-peep above the earth, The trailing vines that to the lattice cling, Ah, these to fancies warm and true give birth, And o'er my senses fling.

On landscape charms I glance; The city's distant hum is lull'd to rest, Athwart the sunset dark'ning clouds advance. And shut from sight the rosy west; A dreamy orison enshrines my heart. Deep shelter'd in the sacred haunts of home, Where elfin sprites among the eeries dart, Irradiate in the gloam.

Shine out, sweet love, unveil Thy ecstasy erst wrought in accents wild; Within my soul there breathes an anguish'd wail, Unsoothed by resignation mild. I would not, if I might, give back the joy That sweeps my pulses with enraptured thrill; In transports pure the moments cannot cloy— My craving lingers still.

Nor time may rend the tie; The fealty that holds the captive will In potent thrall, if sever'd soon, Poor human faith a-blight and chill must die. O birdlings, blossoms, leaflets, flow'rs, Give forth chaste spirits to enchant the air; Let silver'd mem'ries glad the lonely hours, And crown my picture fair.

* * * * *

The night comes on apace; The cricket's chirp, the woodland murmur's swell, Bid nature's changeling melodies efface The glamour of yon phantom spell. The flashing morn adown the glist'ning aisles, A dew-embowered hill and grove and lea, With ruthless light will scatter fairy wiles, Nor leave my love to me.

—E.D.P.



THE MISER AND THE ANGEL

'Twas cold and bleak that winter's night, When hover'd o'er the dying light, The miser hugg'd his shrunken form, And grudged the fire that made him warm.

The old worn latch arose and felt, He started up with threat'ning yell— 'Begone!"—as in the open door A woman stood, faint and foot-sore.

"Just this," she begged, "this rotten board— 'Twill not be missed from out your hoard." "Take it and go!" he thundered out— "Oh, thanks," she moaned, and turned about.

Another shivering night he sat; A lad came in—"Please, Mister,"—"What?" "This piece of rope." He said not nay, But curs'd him as he went his way.

And once again there ventured nigh A child, who fled with frightened cry, As at her head a rusty key— The gift she craved—he flung with glee.

* * * * *

The sands of life were nearly run; "What good to others have you done?" The angel ask'd. The miser sighed. "Not one kind act," he sadly cried.

"Not one? Did you ne'er give, nor lend Relief to neighbor, suppliant, friend?" The dying eyes were closed—he thought On all the misery he had wrought.

A ray of light! "I gave a board." "'Tis well—'twill span death's river ford." "A mouldy rope." "'Twill reach from earth To Heaven. What more of feeble worth?" "A rusty key." "Unlocks the gate. Is this the sum? No—not too late; The sinner's Friend has room for all,— The least you do is not too small."

—E.D.P.



REST

For so He giveth His beloved sleep.

IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

A soul is gather'd home; At morn, at eve, on mission kind intent, Her footsteps evermore were wont to roam, Till years their ceaseless labor spent. Each day its olive leaf of grace brought in— garner'd leaf from charity's broad field; Each day's good deeds redeem'd a life from sin, And gray'd anew her shield.

The lowly suppliant bless'd, When to the hovel came her welcome smile; The cold, the hungry, friendless and distress'd, With gen'rous aid she cheer'd the while; And not alone the desolate and poor Sought counsel of her wisdom and her love; The high-born and the cultured cross'd her door To share her treasure-trove.

A nature great and high, No puny thought could dwell within her breast; How sad to see her worth untimely die! Yet who may wail the needful rest? Her willing hand, her tireless step, her active brain, Rear'd lofty landmarks on the busy way; The haunts that knew her long'd with yearning vain, The reaper's scythe to stay.

The strife at last is o'er; The strife that all great souls must needs endure; And anchor'd fast on Eden's peaceful shore, Her roving bark is strong and sure. The world is full of workers for the right; "They also serve who only stand and wait." No waiting servant she; with armor bright She pass'd the pearly gate.

—E.D.P.



THE CHANGED CROSS

A little gilt-edge volume, Its covers reddish brown, It glossy leaves one burden bore, Without the cross, no crown.

I turned the pages slowly, The fly-leaf wore a name; With eyes suffused in quick response, I noted whence it came.

A tender message bade me Take up the lowly cross, For love and mercy's joint decree Apportions every loss.

"No cross—no crown"—the mandate, With cruel meaning falls; The heavy-laden soul shrinks back, The lonely way appals.

Ah, me! sweet friend, I thank thee; This little ray of light Steals o'er the darken'd firmament, Illuming sorrow's night.

THE END