Freeman interrupted him at this point, "A man should be courageous enough to own his own children!"

"You sneaking hypocrite!" shouted Doctor Hissong, "You let one of your own sisters die in poverty and distress!"

"You are a damned liar!" said Freeman.

Doctor Hissong leaped from the stand, a derringer in his hand. The crowd fell back. Freeman fired point-blank at Hissong, but missed, then turned to run. Doctor Hissong brought up his derringer and pulled the trigger. Old Brad shouted, "You got him in de laig, doctah, but he runnin' yit!" Freeman's son, Henry, the one who kicked Coaly that day in school, caught up his father's pistol which had fallen to the ground, but as he turned toward Doctor Hissong, Shawn sprang forward, knocking the revolver from his hand.

The older men separated the younger combatants, and the crowd broke up and turned homeward.



CHAPTER XV

The town marshall of Skarrow was a very busy man the next morning after the burgoo, serving warrants on Doctor Hissong and Freeman, summoning witnesses and a jury, and getting men to serve on a jury in a small town, where two of its foremost citizens are to stand trial, is a matter of considerable difficulty. Freeman had only received a slight flesh wound, and was not confined to his home.

Court was held in the office of Judge Budlong, who acted as prosecuting attorney, magistrate, writer of wills and general collector of accounts and rents. An occasional runaway couple, seeking the marriage bond, added a few dollars to his bank account, for the Judge had a happy-go-lucky ceremony which did not impress nor detain a restless lover too seriously with the sanctity of the occasion. There were a few law books on the table, a heavy tool-chest, where the Judge kept a jug of white corn whiskey under lock and key. The police Judge, a sort of hanger-on about town, put a coal of fire in his pipe and said, "Gentlemen, air you ready to try this case?"

Budlong arose and balanced his ponderous form against the table, holding a law-book in his hand. The tuft of whiskers on his chin seemed to quiver into an accompaniment to his words. He began reading in a deep voice: "Gentlemen of the jury, to enlighten you as to the nature of this case, I shall read to you under Subdivision V, Section 1165, Kentucky Statutes: 'If any person shall by fighting, or otherwise unlawfully pull or put out an eye, cut or bite off the tongue, nose, ear or lip, or cut or bite off any other limb or member of another person, he shall be confined in the penetentiary for not less than one, or more than five years'."

"That law don't seem to apply to this case," said the police-Judge.

"Shut up," said Budlong, "I ain't through. What do you know about law, anyhow?"

"I ain't very strong on tecknickelties," said the police-Judge, "duly elected by the voters of this town, I am the Court, and as such I perpose to perside, and I demand, sah, your respectful recognition of that fact."

"Duly elected," said Budlong, "because nobody else would have it. But, gentlemen of the jury, I shall read you Section 1166, which is as follows, 'If any person shall draw and present a pistol, loaded with lead or other substance, or shoot at and wound another with the intention to kill him, so that he does not die thereby, he shall be confined in the penetentiary not less than one, or more than five years. There's your law, gentlemen. Call the first witness!"

"Bill Shonts!" called the marshall. Bill came to the chair.

"What's your name?"

"W'y, Jedge, you know my name."

"Answer my question. What's your name?"

"Bill Shonts."

"Where do you live?"

"Sho, Jedge, you've knowed me all my life!"

"That ain't the question. You answer accordin' to the custom of the court."

"I want you to state what you know about this case."

"Directly, or indirectly, Jedge?"

"Where was you when this difficulty started?"

"Well, sir, I was not in any one certain spot, directly, but indirectly, I was jest beginnin' to—"

"State where you was at!" thundered Budlong.

"Well, sir, jest at the time of this difficulty, I was jest beginning to take a nap—"

"Do you mean to say that you was asleep?"

"Not directly, Jedge, but—"



"Where was you when the damn lie passed?"

"Jest beginning to move."

"Did you see Doctor Hissong draw a pistol?"

"No, sir, not directly."

"Did you hear a shot?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where was you then?"

"Ramblin' away, sir."

"What do you mean by ramblin' away?"

"Runnin', flyin', hittin' the dust."

"Then you don't know who fired first?"

"No, sir, not directly."

"Call Jerry McManus," said Budlong. A red-faced, jovial-looking Irishman took the chair.

"Where were you when this trouble started, Jerry?"

"Under a sycamore tree, asleep."

"Had you been drinkin'?"

"Yis, sor, thot is to say, accordin' to the liberties av a mon injoyin' the soshabilities av good company."

"Did you hear the dam lie pass?"

"No, sor, I heard no footsteps av iny sort."

"Did you hear a shot from where you lay?"

"There wor no shot from where I lay. If there wor iny shot from where I lay, thin I wor already half-shot."

"Wasn't you in a state of intoxication?"

"I wor in the state of Kintucky."

"Stand aside," said Budlong, "Call the next witness." One by one the witnesses gave their testimony, varying according to the friendly feeling for the men on trial. At last, Budlong said, "Call Brad Jackson." Old Brad got in the witness chair and gazed listlessly at the ceiling.

"Brad, was you present when this difficulty started?"

"No, sah."

"Where was you?"

"In de grove, eatin' soup."

"Where was you when the lie passed?"

"On my way to Doctor Hissong."

"State to the jury what you know about this case."

"Yassir, genelmun, hit remine me uv de time when Kernel Poindexter an' Mistah Fontaine had a quarrel ovah a fox-chase down in Baton-Rouge—"

"Confine yourself to the case," said Budlong.

"Yassir, thankee, Jedge, en Kernel Poindexter he 'low dat his dawg, Watercress wuz in de lead, full yelp at de crossin' 'buv de bayou—"

"I don't care nothin' about that fox-chase," shouted Budlong, "You tell the court what you know about this case."

"Yassir, I'm tryin' to, Marse Jim—en Mistah Brandon Fontaine, you know, he want one er de ole quality in dat naberhood, he sorter drap in dar, en pick up a lot er money by sorter tradin' en watchin' 'roun' de edges, en a kine uv cotton swapper, en wo' fine duds en' de bigges' watch-chain yo' ever see—"

"Judge, will you pull that old nigger back to this case?" said Budlong.

"In due time, sah, in due time," said the police-Judge, who wanted to hear the outcome of Brad's story.

"Yassir, en Mistah Brandon Fontaine en Kernel Poindexter, dey met in front uv de post-office, en Mistah Brandon Fontaine he smokin' a long, black seegar, en one foot crossed on tuther, en when Kernel Poindexter come up, Mistah Fontaine say, 'Yo' dawg cut thru en got in de lead,' en Kernel Poindexter, he look jes ez cool ez a cabbage-leaf, en he say, 'Hit's a scan'lous lie, frum low trash!' Kernel Poindexter done turned white en his eye wuz all glitter—"

"I told you, for the last time, to tell what you know about this case!"

"Yassir, easy, Marse Jim. Gimme a chanst. En Mr. Brandon Fontaine kinder thode hi han' behine him, en' Kernel Poindexter crac' erway at him en bust a bottle uv whiskey inside his pocket en dis hyar Mistah Fontaine, he showed de yaller jes' lak Mr. Freeman did yestiddy, en he rin so fas' dat yo' could play checkers on his coat-tail!"

"Stand aside," roared Budlong.

The case went to the jury. That august body retired to deliberate. The stragglers near the window heard hot words and wrangling in the jury-room. In the course of an hour, the door opened and the jury filed in.

"Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen?"

"We have," said the foreman.

"What is it?"

"We don't find no evidence to convict nobody."

"So help me, Caesar!" said Budlong.



CHAPTER XVI

John Burney was clearing away the wreck of a coal-barge that had drifted under the lower edge of the wharfboat. The water had fallen, leaving part of the barge on shore. Burney had used every known method in trying to remove the wreckage. Old Pence Oiler came by and walked up to the heavy mass of timbers and called to Burney, "John, she's too wet to burn, and there ain't but one way to git her off, an' that's to lay a stick of dynamite under the front end, give her a slow fuse and blow her out."

Burney called to Shawn, who was on the bank, and asked him to go down to Bennett's mill and get a stick of dynamite, and Shawn, desirous of seeing the blast, hastened on the errand.

"Be careful how you handle that goods," said Bennett, "I knowed a feller once who left some of it layin' around, and a hog et it, and the man kicked the hog and lost a leg!"

Shawn helped Burney to place the stick, unmindful of one of Coaly's never-failing traits. Shawn had taught him, as a young dog, to carry things from the boat in his mouth, and faithful Coaly could be sent back for his glove or any small article left behind. The little dog stood watching Shawn and Burney as they placed the stick and touched the fire to the fuse.

"Run, Shawn!" yelled Burney.

Old man Oiler backed his boat out into the stream, and Shawn and Burney ran up the shore.

Horror of horrors! When Burney turned to look back toward the wreckage, he saw Coaly coming after them with the dynamite stick in his mouth, the fire slowly creeping up the fuse.

"Go back, Coaly! Go back!" yelled Burney. He threw a boulder at the little dog, but he came on. Burney ran for the willows under the bank as Coaly quickened his pace. Shawn had taken refuge in an old saw-mill and peered out, wringing his hands in an agony of suspense. Burney was breaking down the dry willows and yelling, "Go back, Coaly!"

Suddenly, there was a loud report that shook the earth. The ground was torn up and bark and driftwood were scattered everywhere. Shawn and Burney ran up, but there were no signs of Coaly, not even a trace of bone, hide nor hair. Coaly had returned to the original atoms of atmosphere and nothingness.

Shawn sat upon a log and wept. Pence Oiler came up, cut a piece of tobacco from his plug and said, "There's nothin' to bury—not even a tooth."



CHAPTER XVII

THE STATES AND THE AMERICA

The winter days had come again, and the year was fast drawing to its close. Doctor Hissong had been elected to the Legislature, and was making arrangements to leave for Frankfort the first of January. Shawn was in school, growing into a handsome and athletic young man of eighteen years, with the light of health glowing in his eyes, and with an honest purpose in his heart.

One morning Mrs. Alden sent word to him to call at her home after the school hour. Shawn went up there in the afternoon. The good woman greeted him with a smile and bade him be seated by the library fire.

"Shawn, I have sent for you, purposely, to ask a great favor."

The black eyes beamed the sincere impulse of his heart, as he turned to her and said, "Mrs. Alden, it would make me happy to do something for you."

"I am going to Cincinnati on the boat to-night, Shawn. I am going there to see a great specialist, and I would like very much for you to go with me."

"It will give me pleasure to go," said Shawn.

Shawn met Mrs. Alden's carriage at the wharfboat, and exerted himself to make her as comfortable as possible until the arrival of the up-stream boat. At 8.30 o'clock the wharfmaster came into the little waiting-room and said, "The America will soon be here."

In a short time the great steamer drew up to the wharf, and Shawn, supporting Mrs. Alden's frail form with his strong arms, went up the steps and into the cabin. The chambermaid placed Mrs. Alden's chair in the ladies' cabin, and Shawn went off to select a convenient and comfortable stateroom.

The cabin presented a scene of merriment. Under the gleaming lights were a hundred happy couples, dancing away the gladsome hours. The strains of music swelled and floated far out into the night, and the joyous voices mingled with the changing melodies.

Shawn sat near Mrs. Alden, and together they gazed upon the gay throng and enjoyed the inspiriting music. Far below, in the engine-room, the lights glimmered over the polished machinery. The engineer glanced occasionally at his steam-gauge and water-cocks. The negro firemen were singing a plantation melody as they heaved shovels of coal into the glaring furnace under the boilers. Roustabouts and deck-hands were catching short rounds of sleep in their bunks back of the engine-room. Sitting on either side of the boiler, were "deck passengers," those too poor to engage passage in the cabin, and here and there, tired children lay asleep across their mothers' knees.

In the pilot-house, Napolean Jenkins, the head pilot, stood with his hand on the spokes of the wheel, gazing with the eyes of a night-bird on the outlines of shore and hill. Mann Turpin, his steersman, stood at the right of the wheel. Jenkins knocked the ashes from his cigar, and the glow from the deep red circle of tobacco fire momentarily radiated the gloom of the pilot-house. The night was serene and clear, the full moon shining and shedding her dreamy light over the sleeping, snow-clad valley, and the silvery rays filtered through the clustering branches of the towering trees. As the great boat swung along past a farm-house, Jenkins heard the shrill, alarming cry of a peacock. Strains of music came floating upward from the cabin. The grim, black smoke-stacks were breathing heavily, and the timbers of the Texas trembled as the boat came up under the high pressure of steam.

The lights of Wansaw were just around the bend. Jenkins blew a long blast for the little town. The sound echoed and re-echoed among the wooded hills. The farmer in his bed on the silent shore turned on his pillow as the deep, sonorous sound fell upon his ear—the sweet, weird music of the stream.

Jenkins made the landing, and heading his boat for the middle of the river, made a long crossing for the Indiana shore.

"It's a fine night," said Turpin.

"Beautiful," said Jenkins.

He turned and gazed toward the stern of his boat as she swung into the clear and squared herself for the point of the bend. The moonbeams glittered and danced on the waves in the wake of the steamer, and the rays touched the snow on the hills with diamond sparks. The tall sycamores on either side stood clearly outlined against the wintry sky, and the white corn-shocks on the distant ridge were silhouetted like Indian wigwams. Here and there a light glimmered from some cabin window, and a dog barked defiance at the boat as it sped up stream.

"The States ought to be about due," said Turpin.

"I think I hear her now," said Jenkins.

When they got up to the point of the bend where they could see up the river, they saw the States coming down. From her forward smoke-stacks were the signal lights of emerald green and ruby red, trembling in delicate brilliancy against the background of silvery sky. The splash of her ponderous wheels as they churned the water, seemed to vibrate into a song of gathering power. When the two boats were about eight hundred yards apart, Jenkins turned to Turpin and said, "Blow two blasts; I'll take the left side." Turpin sounded the blasts, and Jenkins headed for the Indiana shore. Jacob Remlin, the pilot on the States, blew one blast of his whistle just as Turpin sounded the first signal on the America. Jenkins on the America, did not hear Remlin's one signal, because it sounded at the same time of the first signal from the America. Remlin on the States, heard the last one of the signals from the America, taking it for an answer to his own signal, and he also headed his boat for the Indiana shore. Both men violated the rules of signals. Remlin should not have blown any signal until he heard from the up-stream boat, and Jenkins, not hearing any signal from the States, should have stopped his boat. Jenkins was standing on the starboard side, that placing him behind the chimney, and he did not see the States until she came out across his bow.

"My God!" shouted Turpin, as he saw the States bearing down upon them like some ferocious monster, "We're lost!"

The boats came together with a fearful crash. The smoke-stacks groaned and hissed, and great clouds of smoke rolled over the scene. The first shock of the collision brought a sudden check to the dancing on the America, throwing many to the floor and mixing up the whole assembly into a confused mass. Heads were peering through the transoms of the staterooms and voices excitedly calling, "What's the matter?" John Briscoe, the watchman, came hurriedly through the cabin and said, "The States and the America have run into each other!"

The strains of music had ceased giving way to anxious inquiries on every side. The officers of the boat were running to and fro, giving orders, the negro cabin-boys adding to the chaos of the scene by loud and far-reaching cries.

On the roof, the Captain was giving orders to Jenkins: "Come ahead, outside!" Jenkins pulled the bell-rope and the brave engineer responded to the order. The boats had swung a short distance apart, the States rapidly sinking. Jenkins put the America up between the States and the shore. The States was carrying, as freight, a lot of barrels of coal-oil and gasoline, and in the collision these were smashed and the gasoline caught fire and in a few moments the sinking boat was all ablaze forward.

Jenkins groaned as he saw the fire, for the flames had already swept over upon the America, and he saw that his boat was also doomed. The bow of the America was almost touching the gravel, and believing that he had his boat safely on shore, Jenkins hurriedly left the pilot-house. Charles Ditman, the other head pilot of the America, off watch, ran up into the pilot-house and catching the wheel, rang for reversed engines, and backed the boat out into the river, away from the States, but his action was miscalculated, for fire had broken out on the America, and great sheets of flame were leaping from her forward decks and guards. Had the boat held the position in which Jenkins had placed her, all the passengers might have escaped. Officers and crew were cutting away timbers with axes and dashing water upon the fire, but the great crackling tongue of flame licked up everything in its pathway. The heavens shone like a great, golden mirror under the spreading blaze. The burning oil flowed out over the water and flamed up across every avenue of escape. From out the black clouds of smoke, great sheets of flame burst through, rolled heavenward, and leaped down again like some devouring demon.

In such a transformation from pleasure to horror, who can discern the turning impulses within the human breast—of fear, of hope or of heroic self-control? To some, such a moment brings hopeless despair, or frantic terror, which will crush women and children and crowd them from places of safety, and oftimes in such an hour there comes to those of otherwise timid dispositions, a grandeur of heroism never evidencing itself before; some latent, slumbering power of soul that can only be awakened by some fearful test of human tragedy.

From the burning boats came wild cries, shrieks and screams. Some were kneeling in prayer, others cursing and bemoaning their plight. Dr. Fannastock, a millionaire manufacturer from Philadelphia, clasped his beautiful daughter in his arms and cried, "I will give one hundred thousand dollars to the one who saves my child!" Both were lost. Ole Bull, the famous violinist, who had taken passage at Louisville, stood quietly holding his violin case, calmly endeavoring to reassure the frightened women and children. The fire was fast approaching the rear cabin.

Shawn stood by Mrs. Alden's side, buckling a life-preserver around her body. "I'm trusting in God, Shawn," said the good woman, as a ghastly pallor overspread her face.

"Put a little of that trust in me," said Shawn as he bore her in his arms to the aft guards. Hurriedly passing down the back stairs, he went through the engine-room to the rear end of the boat. They were lowering the trailing-yawl, which swung on a level with the floor of the lower cabin. As the yawl touched the water, a score of roustabouts started to leap into it.

"Stand back there!" shouted Shawn. "These women and children must go first."

Shawn lowered himself into the yawl, and catching Mrs. Alden with both hands, placed her on a seat in the stern of the boat. The fire was gaining headway and black volumes of smoke were rolling from the engine-room. Ole Bull, with a countenance pale, but noble in its expression of high courage, tenderly lowered the women and children into the boat. Shawn took each one and placed them as closely as possible on the seats.

"Get aboard," he said to the musician. Shawn pushed the yawl away from the burning boat, and seating himself with the oars, began the fight for the shore. Great sparks from the burning timbers fell about them. The cabin of the America toppled and fell with a crash, and as the burning portions struck the water the waves seemed to hiss as if seeking some struggling soul. The clamor had become deafening; men were leaping into the water and hoarse cries rang out above the flames.

Shawn was bending to the oars, his long boating practice now standing him in good stead. The fumes from the burning oil were almost unbearable, threatening to suffocate the occupants of the yawl. Thirty yards away was the shore. The muscles in Shawn's arms were straining to their utmost. The heavily laden boat was almost dipping water.



"Sit steady, everybody!" cried Shawn. He turned and gazed toward the shore, and then put all his strength into the oars and ran the boat upon the shore. The occupants leaped out, giving joyful expressions for their safety. Shawn wrapped Mrs. Alden in his coat and carried her from the boat. On the bank was a log-cabin, from which a light shone. Hastening thither, he found the door open and a wood-fire burning in the fireplace, the family having gone to the scene of the disaster. Shawn placed Mrs. Alden in a chair and said, "Try to make the best of it until I return; I'm going back to save all I can."

"May God watch over you," sobbed Mrs. Alden.

Shawn sprang into the yawl and pushed out into the stream, and the work he did that night in saving struggling beings, is still talked about along that river. The boats were burning to the water's edge, and along the shore were sobs and groans from those who had reached land; cries of anguish from those who had lost their loved ones. Oh, the suffering of that winter night! Children with blistered limbs, crying for mothers whose voices were hushed beneath the stream; old men writhing in cruel pain, moaning in piteous tones; young men with folded arms hearing again the last sad cries of sweethearts as they were torn from them.

Shawn went back to the log-house and found Mrs. Alden in tears.

"Oh, my dear boy, if I were only strong enough to go among those suffering ones. God has been kind to give me strength to pass through this ordeal, but I am helpless to aid others."

Shawn stood by her chair; the frost had coated his dark hair, his cheeks seemed aflame from the exertion through which he had passed.

The news of the disaster traveled fast.

The Alice Lee, coming up from Madison, stopped at all of the villages and took aboard doctors and those volunteering to help. At midnight they arrived at the scene of the terrible catastrophe. One of the first passengers to step ashore was Doctor Hissong, Brad Jackson just behind him. The old doctor had his saddle-bags and instrument case, and Brad carried a roll of bandages.

"I wonder if they're still alive, Brad?" said Doctor Hissong. Old Brad's heart was heavy with forebodings, but suddenly he gave vent to a yell that nearly upset the nerves of Doctor Hissong: "Fo' Gawd, doctah, yondah's Shawn!"

Shawn came up, and the old doctor threw his arms around him and cried for joy. "Is Mrs. Alden alive, Shawn?"

"All right," said Shawn, as he pointed toward the cabin. Doctor Hissong hastened to the cabin, and when he came up to Mrs. Alden he bent over her hand and kissed it with a beautiful reverence.

"Thank God for saving you," he said.

"And Shawn," gently added Mrs. Alden.

The survivors went aboard the Alice Lee and the injured and the dead were also taken on board. Doctor Hissong and the other doctors gave all their time toward alleviating the sufferings of the unfortunate ones.

When the boat reached Skarrow, it found Mrs. Alden's carriage at the wharf. Shawn and Brad carried her to it. She turned to Doctor Hissong and said, "Bring as many of the injured as you can to my home, and those in need of clothes or assistance in any way."



CHAPTER XVIII

The passing of five years over a country village generally brings but little change in the existing conditions, but even in this prosaic atmosphere of easy going methods and action, the calendar marks some days and events of more than passing notice.

Doctor Hissong had served his term in the Legislature, and proudly pointed to his record in passing the bill for the construction of extra locks and dams on the Kentucky river.

Shawn was attending lectures at the Medical College in Louisville, Doctor Hissong acting as his preceptor and paying all the expenses necessary to his medical education, and now that he had been two years in school and was nearing the end of the course, Shawn felt that life held out a hope for him far beyond the dreams of his earlier years, and his breast swelled with gratitude to those who had shown him such friendship and confidence; to the kind old doctor, who trusted him to his every word and deed, and to Mrs. Alden, who wrote him such beautiful and touching letters, reminding him of his duty to God and his fellow-men, and as he laid each one of her letters aside, it seemed that a newer strength and some higher motive filled his heart.

And there were other letters whose coming he anxiously awaited. The small, round handwriting on the envelope sent the glow of happiness into his eyes; the dear, sweet letters from Lallite, with marginal notes in every conceivable nook and corner of the page; the dainty tid-bits of love. When these letters came, Shawn took them and wandered down to the stream he loved so well. Lallite seemed associated with the murmuring ripples, the tiny pebbles of the beach, and the shimmering bosom of the river. As he sat near the drowsy rumbling falls with her letter in his hand, it seemed that the river flowing past breathed some tender message from the village above and linked his heart into a closer and fonder memory of sweeter hours. And these letters laden with love's tender offerings, with here and there some whisperings of loneliness, some unlooked-for digression embracing the gossip of the neighborhood, or some delicious speculation as to his fidelity and love.

One day, just about three weeks before his graduation, as he sat at the dinner table, a servant came in and placed a telegram beside his plate. Shawn opened the envelope and read, "Come home at once. Dave Budlong."

Something seemed to almost paralyze his heart-strings; some terrible apprehension took possession of him. His mother? Mrs. Alden? Lallite?

Through the long, dragging hours which followed until the evening mail-boat started up the river, he wandered in an agony of suspense.

The river had lost its charm, and the strains of music from the orchestra on the boat, fell on his ears in saddened tones. He walked the hurricane deck, and bent his gaze upon the distant river bends, as counting the dragging miles. At midnight the boat reached Skarrow. Dave Budlong, the old lawyer, was there to meet Shawn. Shawn grasped his hand and eagerly asked, "Tell me what is the matter!"

"Doc' Hissong is very low and has been calling for you ever since last night," said Budlong.

They went up the hill to the office. Old Brad met them at the door, "Praise Gawd, you've come, Shawn—he gwine mi'ty fas'—he nearin' de Valley uv de Shadder." Shawn went in, and as he saw the old doctor's white head on the pillow, the tears gushed from his eyes. He went to the bedside and took the old physician's hand.

"Doctor, it's Shawn; I've come."

A glad beam came into the fast-closing eyes, and the feeble voice struggled into a fitful tone, "Shawn, my boy, God has forgiven me—I don't know how it may be—I've tried to think it out, but somehow I feel that in the long journey I must now take alone, that God will let the light burn for me—I've remembered you, Shawn."

The head sank back upon the pillow. Old Brad was sobbing in the corner. From the hill came the weird tones of a whip-poor-will, and from the far-away bend of the river, the echoes of a steamer's wheel. The moon shot a beam of light through the window and the rays seemed to rest tenderly upon the calm and gentle face. Doctor Hissong's spirit had flown.

"Clear the room," said Budlong, "I want to speak in private with Shawn."

Taking a paper from his pocket he said, "Shawn, Doctor Hissong told me to read you this, his will. I am here to do it. I drew it up."

The old lawyer stood by the mantlepiece, and by the flickering lamplight read:

"In the name of God, Amen. Realizing the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, I, Radford J. Hissong, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby publish this to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking all former wills and codicils.

1st—I give to the old negro Brad Jackson the sum of $500.00 and intrust him to the care of the young man known as Shawn Collins.

2d—I desire that $1,000.00 of my estate be distributed among the poor of Skarrow.

3rd.—I give, devise and bequeath to the young man, known as Shawn Collins, but whom I hereby acknowledge to be my son, my river-bottom farm, consisting of 387 acres. I bequeath to him my hill farm, consisting of 187 acres. I bequeath to him my town property, consisting of two dwellings and one store-room, my office, bank stock and all other properties found, outside of the first two clauses of this will. This property to belong to the said Shawn, to be used or disposed of according to his pleasure. I desire a modest stone above my grave, and ask that I be buried in the cemetery on the hill, overlooking the river.

In witness whereof I have hereby set my hand, this 18th day of Sept. 186-

Radford J. Hissong.

Witness: Dave Budlong, John Burney, Victor LeCroix.



CHAPTER XIX

After the funeral, Shawn appeared as one upon whom had fallen a great and strange sorrow. He felt as though some dark curtain had suddenly been lowered between him and all prospects of future happiness. There now seemed a lingering consciousness which separated him from his old individuality; something that awakened a flame of anguish within his heart and sent a tingling rush of blood to his cheek, but Mrs. Alden came, with her gracious and charitable heart and sought to soothe the troubled spirit, and her words fell as a blessed benediction into his soul.

"I'm going to Old Meadows, Mrs. Alden, and there bid farewell to every hope and joy that I have in this world."

He rode his horse slowly through the old orchard again, where he and Doctor Hissong had driven that winter morning, but what a change had now come into his heart. He heard the guineas call again, but every sound was teeming with sadness.



Horton took his horse at the gate, and Major LeCroix met him at the porch, and his voice had the old-time ring of welcome. "Horton, call Lally; Shawn has come."

Shawn went into the old family room, Doctor Hissong's will in his hand. Lallite came down the stairs and ran up to Shawn, giving him both her hands. Her eyes were beaming the joy of his return, but Shawn stood with downcast gaze and trembling limbs.

"Lally, here is Doctor Hissong's will. It is fair and just that you read it, and afterward, I am willing to release you from any obligation."

With a frightened glance, the beautiful girl began to read the will. Shawn leaned against the old piano and buried his face in his hands. Presently he felt two soft arms steal about his neck and a gentle voice saying, "Shawn, would it be the nobler course of a love that should change or turn against one, who was in no way responsible for the conditions of birth; to turn against one who has raised himself above every stigma by his high principle and courage, by tenderness and unselfishness? No, Shawn, some better spirit guides me, and no matter what the world may say, I can face it as the woman who loves you, and that love shall shed its light in such radiance that all the shadows will flee away."

"Oh, Lally," said Shawn, as he caught her in his arms, "Through all of this darkness you have been my guiding star. I will start in at the old office next month." And above the softened glow of the mussel-pearl in the pin on her breast, two pairs of eyes beamed with the love which never grows dim with advancing years.

END.



Shawn of Skarrow

By JAMES TANDY ELLIS

Author of

"Sprigs O' Mint," "Kentucky Stories," "Awhile in the Mountains," Etc.

The author of this story of northern Kentucky was born in Carroll County, Kentucky, on the beautiful Ohio river, where the scene of the book is laid. He is well known all over his native state, as a writer, a prince of story tellers, a public speaker and an accomplished musician.

His genial nature is shown not only in his writings, but in all of his general life, and the characters which he gives us in "Shawn of Skarrow," put us in closer touch with the simple beauty of men and women as seen and known through a wholesome and cheerful mind.

Mr. Ellis is the author of a number of books dealing with Kentucky character and life. His writings are true in their coloring, and carry with them a delicious "flavor of the soil."

Illustrated Price, $1.00 net

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS OR SENT ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY

The C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.

Boston Massachusetts



- Transcriber's Note: Page 18 'Oh sing your praise changed to "Oh sing your praise Page 25 sayin', Ba'r changed to sayin', 'Ba'r Page 32 A mussell, my changed to A mussel, my Page 47 jes'' stracted changed to jes' 'stracted Page 71 he was lead into changed to he was led into Page 75 said Joel 'I am changed to said Joel. 'I am Page 96 of burgoo dipping changed to of burgoo, dipping Page 98 '"The bright moon changed to "'The bright moon Page 114 atmoshpere and nothingness changed to atmosphere and nothingness Page 126 in illustration caption, Cabin of the American changed to Cabin of the America Page 131 now that the had changed to now that he had -

THE END