"I can't see where it can be," Miss Dixon was saying.

"It was on your dresser when I went up for the salts," said her chum. "Are you sure you didn't take it after that?"

"Positive! It's gone—that's all there is to it."

"What's gone?" asked Ruth.

"One of my rings," was Miss Dixon's answer. "I left it on my dresser and my door was open. It was there when I went down to supper, and we were all at the table together——"

"Except Estelle Brown!" said Miss Pennington quickly.



CHAPTER X

LIEUTENANT VARLEY

For a moment Ruth stood looking with wide-open eyes at the two former vaudeville actresses. On their part they stared boldly at Ruth, and then Miss Dixon turned and slightly winked at Miss Pennington.

"That was one of your valuable rings, wasn't it, dear?" asked Miss Pennington, in deliberate tones.

"It certainly was—the best diamond I had. I simply won't let it be lost—or taken. I'm going to have it back!"

She spoke in a loud tone, and the door of Estelle's room, farther down the hall, opened. Estelle looked out. She was in negligee, and she seemed to be suffering.

"Has anything happened?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Miss Dixon. "Something has happened. Some one has stolen my diamond ring!"

"Oh!" gasped Ruth, "you shouldn't say that!"

"Say what?"

"Stolen. It's such a—such a harsh word."

"Well, I feel harsh just now. I'm not going to lose that ring. It was on my dresser when I went down to supper, and now it's gone. It was stolen—or taken, if you like that word better. Perhaps you want me to say it was—borrowed?" and she looked scornfully at Ruth.

"It may have slipped down behind your dresser."

"I've looked," said Miss Pennington. "You came up here from the table before we did," she went on, addressing Estelle. "Did you see anything of any one in Miss Dixon's room?"

"I? No, I saw no one." Estelle was plainly taken by surprise.

"Did you go in yourself," asked Miss Dixon brusquely. "Come, I don't mind a joke—if it was a joke—but give me back my ring. I'm going into town, and I want to wear it."

"A joke! Give you back your ring! Why, what do you mean?" and Estelle, her face flashing her indignation, stepped out into the hall.

"I mean you might have borrowed it," went on Miss Dixon, not a whit daunted. "Oh, it isn't anything. I've often done the same thing myself when we've been playing on circuit. It's all right—if you give things back."

"But I haven't taken anything of yours!" cried Estelle. "I never went into your room!"

"Perhaps you have forgotten about it," suggested Miss Pennington coldly. "You seem to have a headache, and sometimes those headache remedies are so strong——"

"I am tired, but I have no headache," said Estelle simply, "nor have I taken any strong headache remedies, as you seem to suggest. I haven't been walking in my sleep, either. And I certainly was not in your room, Miss Dixon, nor do I know anything about your ring," and with that she turned and entered her room, whence, presently, came the sound of sobbing.

For a moment Ruth stood still, looking at the two rather flashy actresses, and wondering if they really meant what they had insinuated. Then Alice's voice was heard calling:

"I say, Ruth, are you and Estelle coming? The boys have the auto and they'll take us in. Come on."

Ruth did not answer, and Alice came running up the stairs. She came to a halt as she saw the trio standing in the hall.

"Well, for the love of trading stamps! what's it all about?" she asked. "Are you posing for Faith, Hope and Charity?"

"Certainly not Charity," murmured Ruth.

"And I certainly have lost what little faith I had, though I hope I do get my ring back," sneered Miss Dixon.

"Your ring? What's the matter?" asked Alice. "Have you lost something?"

"My diamond ring was taken off my dresser," said the actress.

"And that Estelle Brown was up here ahead of us, and all alone," said Miss Pennington. "She may have borrowed it and forgotten to return it."

"That's what one gets for leaving one's valuable diamond rings around where these extra players are allowed to have free access," sneered Miss Dixon.

"You mean that little chip diamond ring of yours with the red garnets around it?" asked Alice.

"It isn't a chip diamond at all!" fired back Miss Dixon. "It was a valuable ring."

"Comparatively, perhaps, yes," and Alice's voice was coolly sneering, though she rarely allowed herself this privilege. "I'm sorry it is lost——"

"Why don't you say taken?" asked Miss Pennington.

"Because I don't believe it was," snapped Alice. "Either you forgot where you laid it or it has dropped behind something. As for thinking Estelle Brown even borrowed it, that's all nonsense! I don't believe a word of it."

"Nor I!" exclaimed Ruth.

"Did you speak to her about it?" asked Alice, and then as the sound of sobbing came from Estelle's room she burst out with:

"You horrid things! I believe you did! Shame on you!" and she hurried to the closed door.

"It is I—Alice," she whispered. "Let me in. It's all a terrible mistake. Don't let it affect you so, Estelle dear!"

Then Alice opened the unlocked door and went in. Ruth paused for a moment to say:

"I think you have made a terrible mistake, Miss Dixon," and then she followed her sister to comfort the crying girl.

"Humph! Mistake!" sneered Miss Dixon.

"That's what we get for mixing in with amateurs," added her chum. "Come on, we'll speak to Mr. Pertell about it."

But, for some reason or other, the director was not told directly of the loss of the ring, nor was Estelle openly accused. She felt as badly, though, as if she had been, even when Ruth and Alice tried to comfort her.

Estelle had left the table early, but though she had passed Miss Dixon's room, she said she had seen no one about.

"Don't mind about the old ring!" said Alice. "It wasn't worth five dollars."

"But that I should be accused of taking even five dollars!"

"You're not!" said Ruth, quickly. "They don't dare make an open accusation. I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Dixon found she had lost her ring and she's ashamed to acknowledge it."

"Oh, but it is dreadful to be suspected!" sighed Estelle.

"You're not—no one in his senses would think of even dreaming you took so much as a pin!" cried Alice. "It's positively silly! I wouldn't make such a fuss over such a cheap ring."

But Miss Dixon did make a "fuss," inasmuch as she talked often about her loss, though she still made no direct accusation against Estelle. But Miss Dixon and her chum made life miserable for the daring horsewoman. They often spoke in her presence of extra players who did not know their places, and made sneering references to locking up their valuables.

At times Estelle was so miserable that she threatened to leave, but Ruth and Alice would not hear of it and offered to lay the whole matter before Mr. Pertell and have him settle it by demanding that the loser of the ring either make a direct accusation or else keep quiet about her loss.

Mr. DeVere, who was appealed to by his daughters, voted against this, however.

"It is best not to pay any attention to those young ladies," he advised. "The friends of Estelle know she would not do such a thing, and no one takes either Miss Dixon or Miss Pennington very seriously—not half as seriously as they take themselves. It will all blow over."

There were big times ahead for the moving picture girls and their friends. Some of the most important battle scenes were soon to be filmed, those that had already been taken having been skirmishes.

"I have succeeded in getting two regiments of the state militia to take part in a sham battle for our big play," said Mr. Pertell one day. "They are to come to this part of the country for their annual manoeuvers under the supervision of the regular army officers, and by paying their expenses I can have them here for a couple of days.

"They will come with their horses, tents, and everything, so we shall have some real war scenes—that is, as real as can be had with blank cartridges. It will be a great thing for my film."

"And will they work in with our players?" asked Mr. DeVere.

"Oh, yes, indeed! I intend to use your daughters in the spy and hospital scenes, and you as one of the generals. In fact, Mr. DeVere, I depend on you to coach the militia men. For though they know a lot about military matters, they do not know how best to pose for the camera. So I'll be glad if you will act as a sort of stage manager."

"I shall be pleased to," answered the old player. And he was greatly delighted at the opportunity.

About a week after Mr. Pertell had mentioned that two regiments of militia were coming to Oak Farm, Ruth and Alice awakened one morning to see the fields about them dotted with tents and soldiers moving about here and there.

"Why, it does look just like a real war camp!" exclaimed Alice, who, in a very becoming dressing gown, was at the window. "Oh, isn't it thrilling! How dare you?" she exclaimed, drawing hastily back.

"What was it?" asked Ruth from her room.

"One of the officers had the audacity to wave his hand at me."

"You shouldn't have looked out."

"Ha! A pity I can't look out of my own window," and to prove that she was well within her rights Alice looked out again, and pretended not to see a young man who was standing in the yard below.

There was a bustle of excitement at the breakfast table. All the players were eager to know what parts they would have, for this was the biggest thing any of them had yet been in—with two regiments taking the field one against the other, with many more cannon and guns than Mr. Pertell had hitherto used.

"I'll be able to throw on the screen a real battle scene," he said.

"The only trouble," declared Pop Snooks, "is that their uniforms aren't like those of the days of sixty-three." Pop was a stickler for dramatic correctness.

"It won't matter," said Mr. Pertell. "The views of the battle will be distant ones, and no one will be able to see the kind of uniforms the men wear. Those who are close to the camera will wear the proper Civil War uniforms we have on hand. The officers of the Guard have agreed to that."

Considerable preparation was necessary before the big film of the battle could be taken, and to this end it was necessary to have several conferences among the officers and Mr. Pertell and his camera men and assistants, including Mr. DeVere. A number of the Guard officers were constantly about the farmhouse, arranging the plans.

One afternoon Alice was sitting on the porch with Estelle, waiting until it was time for them to take their parts in a side scene of the production. A nattily attired young officer came up the walk, doffing his cap.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I am Lieutenant Varley, and I was sent here to ask for Mr. Pertell. Perhaps you can tell me where I can find him?"

Alice looked and blushed. He was the one who had audaciously waved to her beneath her window, but now he showed no sign of recognition. As his gaze rested on the face of Estelle Brown, however, he started.

"Excuse me!" he began, "but did you reach your destination safely?"

"My destination!" exclaimed Estelle. "What do you mean? I don't know you!"

"Perhaps not by name. But are you not the young lady whom I met some years ago in Portland, Oregon, inquiring how to get to New York?"

"You are mistaken," said Estelle, and her voice was frigid in tone. "I have never been in Portland in my life," and she turned aside.



CHAPTER XI

WONDERINGS

For a moment Lieutenant Varley seemed to hesitate, and Alice felt sorry for him. He was distinctly not of the type that would try to make an acquaintance in this way just because Estelle was a pretty girl. He seemed embarrassed and ill at ease. But he was not the sort of young man to give up, once he thought he was right, as he obviously did in this case. To do so, Alice felt sure he reasoned, would have been to acknowledge that he was just the sort he seemingly was not.

"I really beg your pardon," he went on, in a firm but respectful tone. "I am sure I have met you before. I do not wonder that you do not remember me, but I cannot forget you. Yours isn't a face one easily forgets," and he smiled genially, and in a manner to disarm criticism.

"But I never was in Portland," insisted Estelle, and it was plain that she was puzzled by his persistence but not offended by it. "And I don't remember ever having seen you before."

"Perhaps if I recall some of the circumstances to you it may bring back the memory," suggested the lieutenant. "Believe me, I do not do it out of mere idle curiosity, but you seemed in such distress at the time, and so uncertain of where you wanted to go, that I really wished after I had directed you that I had placed you in charge of the conductor of your train."

"But I never was in Portland," said Estelle again, "and though I have been in New York, I went there from Boston. Surely you have confused me with some one else."

The young officer shook his head.

"I couldn't do that," he said with a smile that showed his white, even teeth. "It was just about this time three—no, four years ago. I was in Portland on business, and as I entered the railroad station you were standing there——"

Estelle shook her head, smiling.

"Well, for the sake of argument," admitted the lieutenant, "say it was some one who looked like you."

"All right," agreed Miss Brown, and she and Alice drew near the porch railing, on the other side of which stood the officer with doffed hat.

"A young lady was standing there, and she seemed quite bewildered," went on Lieutenant Varley. "I saw that she was in some confusion, and asked if I could be of any service to her. She said she wanted to get to New York, but did not know which train to take. I asked her if she had her ticket, and she replied in the negative. I asked her if she wanted to buy one, and she said she did, showing a purse well filled with bills——"

"Then surely it could not have been I!" exclaimed Estelle with a merry laugh. "I never had a purse well-filled with bills. We moving picture players—at least in my class—don't go about like millionaires. Gracious! I only wish I did have a well-filled purse, don't you, Alice?"

"Surely. But what else happened? I'm interested in the story."

"And I was interested in the young lady," went on the officer. "I bought her ticket for her with the money she handed me, and put her on the train. She was quite young—about as old as you"—and he smiled at Estelle, "and I asked her if some one was going to meet her. She said she thought so, but was not sure, at any rate she felt that she could look after herself. I left her, and meant to speak to the conductor about her, but did not have time.

"I have often wondered since whether she arrived safely, and when I saw you sitting here I felt that I could ascertain. For I certainly took you for that young lady."

"I am sorry to spoil your romance," said Estelle, "but I am not the one. I never was farther West than Chicago, and then only for a little while, filling a short engagement in the movies."

"Well, I won't insist on your identity," said the lieutenant, "but I'm sure I'm not mistaken. However, I won't trouble you further——"

"Oh, it has been no trouble," interrupted Estelle. "I'm sure I hope you will find that young lady some day."

"I hope so, too," and the lieutenant bowed. But, judging from his face, Alice thought, it was plain that he was sure he had already found the young lady in question.

At that moment Mr. Pertell came out on the porch and saw the lieutenant.

"Ah, I'm glad you are here," observed the manager. "I want to ask you a great many things. This staging of sham battles is not as easy as I thought it would be."

"We can have the sham battles all right," answered the officer, with a smile. "But I can imagine it is not easy to get good moving pictures of them. We have to operate over a large area, and we can't always tell what the next move will be. Though, of course, for the purpose of making views we can ignore military regulations and strain a point or two."

"That's just what I want to talk about," remarked Mr. Pertell. "In the attack, for instance, the way the plans have been made the sun is wrong for getting good views. Can't we switch the two armies around?"

"Well, I suppose we can. I'll speak to the colonel about it," and then the two went inside, where Mr. Pertell had his office in the parlor of the farmhouse.

"What do you think of him, Estelle?" asked Alice.

"Why, I think he's very nice, but he's altogether wrong about me."

"And yet he seemed so positive."

"Yes, that is what makes it strange. But I never saw him before—that is, as far as I know; and I'm certain I was never in Portland. He must be mistaken, but it was nice of him to admit it. I thought at first he was using the old method to get acquainted."

"So did I. But he isn't that kind."

"He doesn't seem to be."

Russ Dalwood came around the corner of the porch with Paul Ardite and Hal Watson, a young man lately engaged to play juvenile roles. Hal had become very friendly with the little group that circled around Ruth and Alice.

"You girls have an hour yet before you go on," Russ informed them. "We haven't anything to do until then, either. Want to take a run in to town? I've got to call at the express office for some extra film, and the auto is ready. Where's Ruth?"

"Up in her room. I'll go for her," offered Alice. "Shall we have time?"

"Plenty. You can even buy yourself some candy—or let us do it for you," laughed Paul.

"We'll let you do it!" said Estelle, as Alice hastened to summon her sister.

"Ruth! Ruth! where are you?" called Alice, as she ran upstairs—Alice seldom walked.

"Here, just reading over my new part. What's the matter?"

"We're going for an auto ride with the boys. Come along. You can study in the car."

"Yes, a lot of studying I could do under those circumstances. But I'll come—I want a bit of diversion. Who else is going?"

Alice told her, and then spoke about the young lieutenant.

"Wasn't it queer he should be mistaken?" she asked.

Ruth did not reply for a moment.

"Wasn't it?" repeated her sister.

"I was just wondering," said Ruth, slowly. "Was it?"



CHAPTER XII

AN INTERRUPTION

While Alice was putting on her hat Ruth looked at her in some surprise.

"Was it?" she repeated.

"Was what?" asked her sister.

"Was it a mistake?"

"Of course it was, Ruth! Didn't I tell you Estelle said he must have taken her for some one else, as she had never been in Portland in her life? Of course, it was a mistake. What makes you think it wasn't?"

"Because, Alice, I am beginning to have doubts regarding Estelle."

"Doubts! You don't mean about the ring?"

"Of course not! But I am beginning to think she is not altogether what she seems to be."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, nothing serious, of course. And if she has done what I think she has it isn't any worse than many girls have done, and have gained by it, rather than lost, though it was risky."

"You mean?"

"I mean that I believe she isn't telling us all she knows. She is hiding something about her past. And I believe it is that she has run away from home because her family would not let her go into moving pictures. You know we sort of suspected that before. Now, in that case, she would have every reason to deny that she had seen that young lieutenant in Portland."

"Why should she, providing I grant that you are right?"

"Because he might know her friends and would tell them where she was. And she doesn't want that known until she has made a reputation. I don't blame her. If ever I ran away——"

"Ruth! you are not thinking of it, are you?"

"Silly! Of course not. But if I should I wouldn't want to run back home until I had something to show for my efforts. It may be that way in Estelle's case. She doesn't want to return like the prodigal son."

"I believe you're entirely wrong," declared Alice. "What I think is that she perhaps comes of good people. When I say that I don't mean that they were any better than we are, but that they so regarded themselves, and would look askance at motion picture players. Well, Estelle doesn't want to bring any annoyance on her family, and that may be the reason she doesn't tell much about herself. But as for that young officer's having seen her, I believe Estelle when she says he is mistaken. Don't you?"

"I don't know what to believe," returned Ruth. "But I'm not going to worry over it."

"And you won't tell her you don't believe she is what she seems to be?"

"Of course not, you little goose! But I'm going to keep my eyes open. You know we may be able to give her some good advice. You and I, Alice, don't meet with near the temptations that assail other girls in this business, and it's because father is with us all the while. Now Estelle isn't so fortunate; so I propose that we sort of look after her."

"Oh, I'm very willing to do that."

"And if we see anything that is likely to cause her trouble, we must shield her from it. That is what I mean by sort of keeping watch over her. At the same time, I believe that she is not altogether what she seems. She is hiding something from us—even though we are trying to be so kind to her. But she doesn't really mean to do it. She is just afraid, I think."

"And you really believe that lieutenant knows her?"

"He may. At least I think, from what you said, that he is honest in his belief. But we will watch and wait. We must try to help Estelle in the hour of trial."

"Of course we will. Now hurry, for they are waiting for us."

"Such a funny thing just happened to me!" cried Estelle to the party of young folks when they were in the automobile and on the way to the village. "I was mistaken for some one else."

"What—again?" asked Alice.

"No, the same incident that you witnessed," and she related the episode of the lieutenant as Alice had detailed it to Ruth.

"That was queer," commented Hal Watson.

"I should say so!" exclaimed Russ.

"Was he at all fresh?" Paul asked, and his air was truculent.

"Not in the least!" Estelle hastened to assure him. "He was honestly mistaken about it, that was all," and she enlarged on the incident, and seemed so genuinely amused by it that Alice nudged her sister as much as to say:

"See how much in error you are."

But Ruth only smiled, and Alice noticed that she regarded Estelle more closely than ever.

The party made merry in the town, going into the "Emporium," for ice-cream sodas; and even the presence of Maurice Whitlow at the other end of the counter, where he was imbibing something through a straw, could not daunt Alice's high spirits. Whitlow smiled and smirked in the direction of his acquaintances, but he received no invitation to join them.

As Estelle was going out in the rear of the party, the extra player slid up to her and asked:

"Mayn't I have the pleasure of buying you some more cream?"

"You may not!" exclaimed Estelle, not turning her head, and there were snickers from the other patrons in the place. Maurice turned the shade of his scarlet tie, and slid out a side door.

"You're getting too popular," chided Alice to her friend. "First it's the young lieutenant, and now it's your former admirer."

"I can dispense with the admiration of both!"

"Even the lieutenant?" asked Ruth, meaningly.

"Oh, he wasn't so bad," and Estelle either was really indifferent, or she assumed indifference in a most finished manner that would have done credit to a more experienced actress than she was.

"What's the matter—are we late?" asked Paul, as, on the way back to Oak Farm, he saw Russ look at his watch and then speed up the car a bit.

"Yes, a little. Mr. Pertell said he wanted to begin that skirmish scene at eleven exactly, and it's ten minutes to that now. We can just about make it. The sun will be in just the right position for making the film. It's in a thicket you know, and the light isn't any too good. That's the scene you girls are in," he went on.

"Speed along," urged Paul. "I've got to get into my uniform and make up a bit."

There is very little "make up" done for moving pictures taken in the open, and not as much done for studio work as there is on the regular stage. The camera is sharper than any eye, and make-up shows very plainly on the screen. Of course, eyes are often darkened and lips rouged a bit to make them appear to better advantage. Even the men make up a little but not much. For close-up views, though, where the faces are more than life size, artistic make-up is very essential. The camera, in this case, is a magnifying glass, and the most peach-blow complexion would look coarse unless slightly powdered.

"We'll be all right if we don't get a puncture," said Hal.

No sooner were these words out of his mouth than there came a hiss of escaping air.

"There she goes!" cried Paul. "Stop, Russ!"

"No, we haven't time. I'm going to keep on. It's better to get in on the rims and cut a shoe to ribbons than to spoil the film."

They sped along in spite of the flat tire. And it was well they did, for Mr. Pertell was anxiously waiting for his players when they arrived at Oak Farm.

"You cut it pretty fine," was his only comment. "Don't do it again. Now get ready for that skirmish scene."

This was one little incident in the big war play. In it Ruth and Alice were to be shown driving along a country road. There was to be an alarm, and a body of Confederate cavalry was to encounter one of the outposts of the Union army. There was to be a skirmish and a fight, and the Union men were to be driven off, leaving some dead and wounded. The girls, though shocked, were to look after the wounded.

All was in readiness. The soldiers, some drawn from the newly-arrived National Guards, were posted in their respective places. Lieutenant Varley was to play the part of one of the wounded Unionists.

"All ready—come on with the carriage!" called Mr. Pertell to Ruth and Alice, who were waiting out of range of the camera. They had rehearsed the direction they were to take. "Go on!" called the director to Russ. "Camera!"

The grinding of the film began, and Ruth and Alice acted their parts as they drove along in the old-fashioned equipage. Suddenly, in front of them the bushes crackled.

"There they come!" cried Ruth, pulling back the horses as called for in the play. "The soldiers!"

But instead of a band of men in blue breaking out on the road, there came a herd of cows, that rushed at the carriage, while the horses reared up and began to back.

"Stop the camera! Stop that! Cut that out!" frantically cried Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. "Hold back those men!" he added to his assistant who had signaled for the Confederates to rush up.



CHAPTER XIII

FORGETFULNESS

Ruth and Alice for the moment were not quite certain whether or not this was a part of the scene. Very often the director would spring some unexpected effect for the sake of causing a natural surprise that would register in the camera better than any simulated one.

But these were real cows, and they did not seem to have rehearsed their parts very well, for they rushed here and there and surrounded the carriage, to the no small terror of the horses, which Ruth had all she could do to hold in.

"Oh, what shall we do?" cried Alice. "I'm going to jump out!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" exclaimed her sister. "Sit where you are! Do you want to be trampled on or pierced with those sharp horns, Alice?"

"I certainly do not!"

"Then sit still! This must be a mistake."

It did not take much effort on Ruth's part to make Alice remain in the carriage with all those cows about. For she had learned on Rocky Ranch that while a crowd of steers will pay no attention to a person on a horse, once let the same person dismount, and he may be trampled down.

These, of course, were not wild steers—Alice could see that. But she thought the same rule, in a measure, might hold good.

More cows crashed through the bushes until the road was fairly blocked, and then came another rush of many feet and the Union skirmish party came galloping along. They had received no orders to hold back, and so dashed up.

At the same moment a ragged boy with a long whip came rushing up. Evidently, he was in charge of the cows, but when he saw the soldiers in their uniforms, a look of fear spread over his face.

"I didn't do nothin', Mister Captain! Honest I didn't!" he yelled. "These is pap's cows, an' I'm drivin' 'em over to the man he sold 'em to. I didn't do nothin'."

"Nobody said you did!" laughed Lieutenant Varley with a bow to Ruth and Alice in the carriage. "But why did you drive them in here to spoil the picture?"

"I didn't know nothin' about no picture—honest I didn't! I took this road because it was shorter. Don't shoot pap's cow-critters. I'll take 'em away."

"Well, that's all we want you to do," said Mr. Pertell, coming up with a grim smile. "You nearly got yourself and your cow-critters in trouble, my boy. Drive 'em back now, and we'll go on with the film. Did any of 'em get in, Russ?" he asked.

"Just a few, on the last inch or so of the reel. I can cut that out and go on from there. Hold the carriage where it is, Ruth," he called.

"All right," she answered, for she had now quieted the restive horses.

"Don't be afraid, boy," said Alice to the lad. "You won't be hurt."

"And won't they hurt pap's cow-critters, neither?"

"No, indeed. It was all a mistake."

"I—I didn't know there was no war goin' on," remarked the lad, as he sent an intelligent dog he had with him after the straying animals. "Me an' pap we lives away over yonder on t'other side of the mountain. An' we don't never hear no news. I was plum skeered when I seen all them ossifers. Thought sure I was ketched, same as I've heard my grandpap tell about bein' ketched in the army. He was a soldier with Sherman, and I've heard him tell about capturin' cow-critters when they was on the march."

"Well, this would be like old times to him, I suppose," said Mr. Pertell. "But this is only in fun, my boy—to make motion pictures. So take your cows away and we'll go on with the work. Drive 'em on," and the boy did so with a curious, backward look at the girls in the carriage, and at the Union soldiers, who were going back to their places to get ready anew for the skirmish charge.

"And this time we'll have it without cows," said Mr. Pertell. "They might go all right in a film of Sherman's march, but not in this skirmish fight. All ready now. Take your places again."

The preliminary advance of the carriage, containing Ruth and Alice had been filmed all right. Very little need be cut out. Once the cows were beyond the camera range, Russ again began grinding away at the film.

"Now come on—Union soldiers!" cried the director.

From their waiting place Lieutenant Varley led his men; and as they swept on past the carriage, Alice and Ruth registering fear, the Confederates rushed out to meet them.

Then began the skirmish. Guns popped. Horses reared, some throwing their riders unexpectedly, but this made it all the more realistic. Men fought hand to hand with swords, using only the flats, of course. Horses collided one with another, and the animals seemed to enter into the spirit of the conflict fully as much as did the men. There was a rattle of rifles, but no cannon were used in this scene.

Russ and his helpers filmed it, and, standing behind them watching the mimic fight, was the director, shouting orders through his megaphone and, when he could not make himself heard in this way, using a field telephone, calling his instructions to helpers stationed out of sight in the bushes, where they could relay the commands to those taking part in the skirmish.

"A little livelier now!" yelled Mr. Pertell. "Give way, you Union fellows, as though you were beaten, and then drive them back to the fight, Mr. Varley. That's the way!"

The conflict raged and the cameras clicked away. It was all one to the camera men—a parlor drama or a sanguinary conflict. So long as the shutter worked perfectly, as long as the focus was correct and the film ran freely, the camera men were satisfied.

"Now you Confederates pretend to be overwhelmed, and then rally with a rush and sweep the Unionists out of the thicket!" ordered the director.

This was done, and, all the while, at one side of the picture crouched Ruth and Alice, as two Southern girls. They had leaped from their carriage and were waiting the outcome of the conflict, stooping down out of the way of flying bullets.

This was a side scene in the war play, and did not involve the main story. Ruth and Alice, as did the other main characters, assumed various roles at times.

"Come on now! You Unionists are beaten. Retreat!" called the director, and Lieutenant Varley's men rode off, leaving him and some others injured on the field of the conflict.

It was here that Alice and Ruth took an active part again. Ruth rushed up to the fallen lieutenant and felt his pulse. No sooner had she done so than the director cried:

"Stop the camera! That won't do, Miss DeVere!"

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because you felt his pulse with your thumb. No nurse would do that. The pulse in the thumb itself is too strong to allow any one to feel the pulse in another's wrist. Use the tips of your first and second fingers. Now try again. Ready, Russ!"

This time Ruth did it right. It was characteristic of Mr. Pertell to notice a little detail like that.

"Not one person in a hundred would object to the pulse being felt with the thumb," he explained afterward; "but the hundredth person in the audience would be a doctor, and he'd know right away that the director was at fault. It is the little things that count."

Ruth and Alice busied themselves ministering to the wounded who were made prisoners by the Confederates. The lieutenant was put in their carriage and driven away. That ended the scene at the place of the skirmish.

"Very well done!" Mr. Pertell told the girls, as they prepared for the next act, which was in a room of a Southern house, whither the wounded had been carried.

These were busy days at Oak Farm. With the arrival of the two regiments of the National Guard, pictures were taken every day, leading up to the big battle scene, which had been postponed. When they were not posing for the cameras, the guardsmen were drilling in accordance with the regulations of the annual state encampment under the direction of the regular army officers.

"Well, have you quite recovered from your wounds?" asked Alice of Lieutenant Varley one day, as she met him outside the farmhouse.

"Oh, yes, thanks to the care of your sister and yourself. By the way, I hope your friend Miss Brown is not angry with me."

"Why should she be?"

"Well, because I thought I had seen her before."

"I don't believe she is. I haven't heard her say. But here she comes now. You can ask her," and Estelle came around the turn of the path. Seeing Alice talking with the lieutenant, she hesitated, but Alice called:

"Come on—we were just speaking about you."

"I wondered why my ears burned," laughed Estelle.

"Perhaps you two are going somewhere," said the officer, preparing to take his leave.

"Oh, to no place where you are not welcome," answered Alice, graciously, with a side look at her companion to see if Estelle objected. But the latter gave no sign, one way or the other.

"Thank you!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I have to take part in a little scene in about an hour, but I would enjoy a walk in the meanwhile. You are both made up, I see?"

"Yes, we are Southern belles to-day," laughed Alice.

"Belles every day," returned the lieutenant with a bow.

"Nicely said!" laughed Estelle. "You are improving!"

She and Alice wore the costumes of generations ago, big bonnets and hoopskirts.

"Let's go over and see what they're filming there," suggested Alice, pointing to where a crossroads store had been put up.

The scene at the store was one to represent a dispute among some Southerners and some Northern sympathizers. It was to end in a fight in which one man was to draw his revolver.

All went well up to the quarrel, and then it became too realistic, for, by some chance, there was a bullet in the revolver instead of a blank cartridge, and it entered the leg of one of the disputants. He fell and bled profusely.

"Get Dr. Wherry!" yelled Mr. Pertell.

"Dr. Wherry went into the village this morning to get some stuff," Russ said, "and he hasn't come back yet."

"Then somebody will have to go after him!" cried the director.

"I'll go!" offered Alice. "I can take this horse and carriage!" for a rig was hitched outside the "store."

"I'll go with you!" cried Estelle, and then, in costume and made up for the pictures as they were, they got into the vehicle and drove off.



CHAPTER XIV

IN THE SMOKE

"Do you think he'll die?" asked Estelle, as she took the reins and flicked the horse lightly with the whip.

"I hope not," answered Alice.

"Did it make you faint to see the blood?"

"A little. Did it you?"

"Yes. I can't bear it! It makes me—— Oh, it makes me——"

Estelle closed her eyes, and Alice was surprised to see her turn pale, even under her rouge, and shudder.

"That's queer," Alice said. "I should have thought, being on a ranch as you were, you might have become used to accidents and scenes of violence."

"Who said I was on a ranch?"

"Why, you did!"

"I did?"

"Yes; don't you remember? That day when we were talking about branding cows——"

"Oh, maybe I did. I'd forgotten. Oh, dear! here comes an auto, and I'm not sure about this horse. I'm afraid he'll start to rear."

At this intimation that there might be trouble, Alice's face took on a worried look, and she fore-bore to press the questions she had been asking Estelle.

The horse showed some signs of fear as he passed the automobile in the road, but the man driving the car was considerate enough to stop his machine and motion to the girls to pass. They did so, the horse getting as far to one side of the road as he could, his nostrils distended and his ears pricked forward.

"There! Thank goodness that's over!" sighed Estelle. "Now to make speed and get that doctor. I hope the man doesn't die."

"I do too," acquiesced Alice. "Did you see how sharply the man looked at us?"

"Who, the man that was shot?"

"No, the one in the auto. He stared and stared!"

"Probably he wondered where in the world we got a horse in these days that was afraid of an auto. I wonder myself where this steed has been in hiding. There are so many cars now that it is a wonder horses aren't using gasoline as perfume."

"No, he wasn't looking at the horse," persisted Alice. "He was looking at us. Perhaps he knew you, Estelle."

"Why do you say that? I'm sure I never saw him before. Maybe it was you he was staring at."

"No, it was you he was staring at, but I don't blame him. You are very striking looking to-day."

"It's this dress. Isn't it quaint?"

"And pretty! Oh, but we mustn't talk so frivolously when that poor man may be dying. We must drive faster."

"Talking isn't going to make the horse go any slower. In fact, I think maybe he'll go quicker to get the trip over with sooner so he can be rid of our chatter. But I don't think the poor man is badly hurt. He may bleed a lot, but they can hold that in check until we get the doctor."

They drove on, and were presently in the village. They had been told where Dr. Wherry had gone—to a drugstore to get some medical supplies—and thither they made their way.

"Do you notice how every one is staring at us?" asked Alice, as they drove along the streets.

"They do seem to be," admitted Estelle, looking for the drugstore. "I guess it's the horse; he is so bony he has many fine points about him, as Russ said. And we're queer looking in these costumes ourselves."

When they alighted at the pharmacy and started in, they became aware of the growing sensation they were creating. For a little throng had gathered in front of the store, and more men and boys came running up, to form in two lines—a living lane—through which Alice and Estelle had to pass.

"We certainly are creating a sensation," gasped Alice, growing embarrassed.

"Look! a regular bridal crowd," said Estelle in a low voice.

Though they undeniably presented a pretty picture in their paint, powder, curls and hoopskirts, they were also an unusual one for that little country village.

"Look at the society swells!" cried one boy.

"Dat's de new fashion—makin' your nose look like a flour barrel!" added another.

"Aren't those dresses sweet?" sighed a girl.

"They must be the latest New York style," added a companion. "I heard that full skirts were coming in again."

"Well, ours are certainly full enough," murmured Alice, looking down at her swaying hoops.

And then some one guessed the truth.

"They're actresses—the movie actresses!" came the cry, and this attracted more attention than ever, for if there is one person about whom the American public is curious, it is the actor.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Estelle, "now we are in for it. Hurry inside the store!"

The girls fairly ran into the friendly shelter, and some of the crowd attempted to follow, but the drug clerks barred the way, guessing what the excitement was about.

"Dr. Wherry!" gasped Alice. "Is he here?"

"Right back there—in the prescription department," a clerk said. "Which of you is ill?"

"Neither one!" cried Estelle. "We want him for a man out at Oak Farm. He's been shot—an accident in the play. Tell him to hurry, please, and then show us some way of getting out through a side door. I can't face that crowd—this way," and she looked down at her elaborate hoop-skirted costume, which might have been all right in the days of sixty-three, but which was unique at the present time.

"What's the trouble?" asked Dr. Wherry, coming from behind the ground-glass partition. "Oh, Miss DeVere and Miss Brown!" he went on as he recognized the moving picture girls. "Is some one hurt?"

They told him quickly what the trouble was, and he cried:

"I'll go at once. You'd better come back with me in the auto if you don't want to run the gauntlet of the staring crowd. I'll bring my machine around to the side door."

"What about the horse we drove over?" asked Alice.

"I'll have Mr. Pertell send a man for that."

The girls, in their curiosity-exciting costumes, managed to slip out the side door and into the doctor's automobile without attracting the attention of the crowd. Then they made the trip back in good time and comfort.

"And to think we never for a moment thought of changing our things!" cried Alice, when they were at Oak Farm again.

"Or even of rubbing off some of the make-up," added Estelle. "But we were so excited—at least I was—when I saw the poor fellow hurt. I hope it is not serious."

"No, he's lost a little blood, that's all," said Dr. Wherry. "But I thought you were used to such scenes, Miss Brown, coming from the West, as you did."

"I from the West? Oh, yes, I have been there. Come on, Alice, let's see if they still want us for anything, and, if they don't, we'll change our clothes," and Estelle seemed glad of a chance to hurry away.

"I wonder," said Alice to her sister afterward, "whether she is really so squeamish as she pretends, or if she doesn't want it known that she is from the West?"

"It's hard to say. Estelle is acting more and more queerly every day, I think."

"So do I. Though I am quite in love with her. She has such a sweet disposition."

"Yes, she is a lovely girl. I only wish there wasn't that bit of mystery about her."

"And it is a mystery," went on Alice. "Every once in a while I catch Lieutenant Varley looking at her, when he thinks he isn't observed, and he shakes his head as though he could not understand it at all."

"Then you think he still feels sure she is the girl he met in Portland?"

"I'm positive he does, and he isn't doing it to further his own ends and force an acquaintance with her, either. He honestly believes he has met her before."

"Well, it is very strange. But she doesn't seem to want to talk about anything connected with her past."

"No, and I suppose we should not try to force matters."

The man who was shot was soon out of danger, and, meanwhile, the taking of the war scenes went on with some one else in his place. A number of sham engagements had been fought, all working up to the big final battle, in which Ruth would play her part as an army nurse, and Alice would act as the spy. Estelle, too, had been given a rather important part, much to the annoyance of Miss Dixon, who had been expecting it.

The vaudeville actress made sneering and cutting remarks about "extra players butting in," and there were veiled insinuations concerning the missing ring, but Estelle took no notice, and Alice, Ruth and her other friends stood loyally by her.

"We'll film that burning barn scene to-day," said Mr. Pertell one morning at the breakfast table, when he had ascertained that the atmospheric conditions were right. "That's the one where you two DeVere girls are surprised on your little farm by the visit of some Union soldiers. You have been caring for a wounded cousin, who has escaped through the Union lines, and at the news that the Yankees are coming you hide him in the barn. Then the Unionists set fire to it, and you girls have to drag him out.

"There'll be no danger, of course, for the fire won't be near you—in fact, the barn won't burn at all—only a shack nailed to it. And the smoke will be from the regular bomb. You have plenty of them, haven't you, Pop Snooks?"

"Oh yes, plenty of smoke bombs, Mr. Pertell."

All was soon in readiness for the burning-barn scene. Ruth and Alice received the wounded cousin (an inside scene this) and then, when an old colored mammie (Mrs. Maguire) came panting with the news that the Yankees were coming, the wounded Confederate was carried out to the barn. Then came the visit of the Yankees, who, suspecting the presence of the escaped prisoner, made diligent search, but without success.

"Fire the barn, anyhow!" cried the captain.

Then came the spirited scene where Ruth and Alice got their wounded relative out. He was a slim young man, and they could easily carry him, for he was supposed to be overcome by the smoke.

"Ready, Alice?" asked Ruth, as they went through the action called for in the script.

"Yes, ready. You take his head and I'll take his heels. Don't be too stiff," Alice admonished the young man. "We can carry you better if you're limp."

"I'll be limp enough if I swallow any more of that smoke," choked the actor. "It's fierce!"

Indeed, Pop Snooks had been very liberal in the matter of smoke bombs. Great clouds of the black vapor swirled here and there, and Ruth and Alice had to get free breaths whenever they could.

"Come on!" yelled the director through his megaphone. "Lively!"

Alice and Ruth, half carrying, half dragging, the wounded soldier, staggered out, Russ clicking away at the camera.

"Good! That's good! It's fine!" exclaimed the enthusiastic director.

Ruth was conscious that she was suddenly dragging more of the weight of the man's body than at first. But she thought one of Alice's hands had possibly slipped off, and she did not want to call a halt to get a better hold.

"My! But this is choking!" gasped Ruth.

Finally, she staggered out into the open, dragging the soldier by his shoulders. She slumped down on the ground, in a place free from smoke, and registered exhaustion.

"Where's Alice?" cried Paul, who was holding back in readiness for his appearance in the scene. "Where's Alice?"

"Isn't she there?" gasped Ruth, rising on her elbow.

"No, she isn't. She must be——"

"Hold that pose, Ruth! Don't stir or you'll spoil the scene!" yelled the director. "We'll get your sister!"



CHAPTER XV

THE HOSPITAL TENT

"The show must go on!" This is the motto of circus and theatrical performers the world over. No matter what happens, under what strain or pain the player labors, no matter what occurs short of death itself, the public must not be allowed to guess that anything is wrong. And sometimes even death itself has been no barrier—for players have gone through with their parts on the stage when, but the act previous, they have learned that some loved one had passed away.

And more than one clown has bounded into the sawdust ring with merry quip and jest, with a smile on his painted face, while his heart was breaking with grief.

And so it was with Ruth DeVere. As she staggered out of the smoke clouds and saw that Alice had not followed, at once the dreadful thought came to her that her sister had been overcome by the fumes. And, although the smoke bombs were harmless as regards fire, the breathing of the chemical fumes for any length of time might mean death.

Thus, as Ruth was about to stagger to her feet to go back into the murky cloud to look for Alice, there came the director's orders to "hold that pose!"

The show must go on! That meant it would not do to spoil the scene, ruin the film, and necessitate a retake if, by any possibility, it could be avoided.

"Stay where you are, Ruth! Stop the camera, Russ! Hold the pose—both of you. We'll go on from there when we get Alice out!"

And Ruth, her heart torn with anguish, must remain. She was glad her father was not present.

"Get in there and get the girl!" cried Pop Snooks who was busy lighting more smoke bombs. "Get that girl, some of you fellows!" For he had guessed in an instant what had happened. It was not the first time one of the players had been overcome by the heavy fumes.

Into the cloud dashed some of the head property man's helpers. Russ and Paul, who could leave their posts while the camera was not in motion, also penetrated the murkiness.

Fortunately, Alice had been overcome when within a few feet of the clear atmosphere, and it was the work of but an instant for Paul to carry her outside, where she could breathe pure air.

"The poor dear!" cried Mrs. Maguire. "Here, give her this ammonia and water."

"Don't come too close to her, Mrs. Maguire!" warned the director. "Your black make-up will come off on her face, and it will show in the film."

The director had to think of all those things, though it might seem a bit heartless.

"I'll be careful," promised the motherly old woman. "I'll be careful."

Alice sipped the aromatic spirits of ammonia, and felt better.

"Did I faint?" she asked. "How silly of me!"

"Are you all right?" asked Ruth, still in her place by the side of the soldier, who was supposed to be unconscious.

"Yes, Ruth dear. I'm all right now. Oh, and did I leave you to carry him all alone? I'm so sorry!"

"It was all right. I dragged him."

"Yes, the scene is all right," said Mr. Pertell. "Now, Alice, I don't want to be heartless, but will you be ready to go on in this, or shall we abandon it and make a retake?"

"Oh, I'll go on. Just a moment, and I'll be all right."

After a minute or two the plucky girl recovered from the effects of the smoke, and, though she was weak and wan, managed to go through her part. She and Ruth carried their "cousin" out of the burning barn which was then allowed to fall to ruins. Or rather, the extra part, built on for the purpose, was, Pop Snook's smoke bombs effectually concealing from the audience the fact that the real barn was not in the least harmed.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Alice with a sigh, as a little later she washed off her make-up and donned her ordinary clothes.

"Do you feel bad?" her sister asked.

"Yes, sort of choked."

"Then let's take a walk up on the hill where there is always a breeze."

On the grassy eminence with the fresh breezes blowing about them, Alice soon felt much better. But Mr. Pertell called off some of the scenes set down for next day, so that she might have a rest.

"We'll soon be ready for the big hospital scene, Ruth, and also for the one where you try to get away with the papers, Alice," said Mr. Pertell to the two girls one day. "And, in order that everything may run smoothly I've made a little change in the scenario. I'm going to have a preliminary hospital scene. In that you will be a sort of orderly, or assistant nurse, Ruth. And there comes an emergency in which you do so well that you are sent for to be a nurse in one of the big hospitals maintained near the front. That will make the story more logical.

"So we'll have one of those hospital scenes to-day. I'll stage a small engagement, and have a number of men wounded. They'll be brought in, and there will be a night scene. The doctors and other nurses go off duty, and you are in charge. An emergency occurs—maybe a bandage slips from an artery and you sit and hold the wound until a doctor can come and tie the artery again. We'll work it out as we go along."

"Is there anything for me?" asked Alice.

"No, your part will stand all right as it is until you get to the big hospital scene. Come on now, Ruth; we'll have a rehearsal."

The rehearsal went off well, and the little change promised to strengthen the story of the war play. The hospital was set up near Mr. Apgar's corn-crib.

"And maybe that'll be a good thing," he said. "If you folks use enough of them there disinfectants and carbolic acid, you may scare away all the rats and mice that eat my corn in the winter."

"Oh! will there be rats and mice?" asked Ruth, apprehensively.

"Not in the hospital," said Mr. Pertell with a laugh. "It will be strictly sanitary—as much so as things were in the days of sixty-three."

The fight between the two forces was staged some distance away from the hospital, and the guns soon began to rattle and to roar again. The girls did not mind them by this time, however.

This skirmish had no particular part in the general story, but it was filmed just the same, as it could be spliced in with the other fighting scenes.

"And you can't get too much of that," Mr. Pertell said.

Russ, with some helpers, was taking the fighting pictures preliminary to the hospital act. He was nearing the end of the reel in his machine when, to his dismay, he found he had forgotten to bring a spare one.

"Here, you!" he called to one of the extra soldiers lying lazily on the grass near the camera, "hop over and ask Pop Snooks to give you an extra reel for me."

The man did not answer.

"Don't you hear me?" yelled Russ, grinding away at the film which was being quickly used up. "Go and get me that reel!"

Still no response.

"Are you deaf?" shouted Russ, and then he thought perhaps the discharge of so many cannon had made the man unable to hear.

"Go over and punch that fellow!" cried Russ to Paul. "Wake him up, and tell him to get me that extra reel."

"All right," Paul assented. "I'd go myself only I have to carry a message to headquarters in a minute or two."

He ran over and kicked the soldier, who seemed to be asleep.

"Hi! What's the idea?" demanded the rudely awakened one.

"The camera man wants you to go to get him some film."

"Who—me?"

"Yes—you! Skip!"

"I can't go get no film!"

"You can't? Why not?"

"'Cause I'm dead, that's why! I was told to be killed, and I was. I fell off my hoss dead, an' I'm deader'n a door nail. I dassn't git up to git no film for nobody. I'm dead!"

And the man rolled over and closed his eyes.



CHAPTER XVI

A RETAKE

"What's the matter over there?" called Russ to Paul. "Is he going to get my film?"

"He says he can't."

"Can't? Why not? Has he lost his legs?"

"No. But he's dead. This is carrying realism to the extreme."

"Oh, good-night!" cried Russ. "I haven't but a few feet left. Make him go."

"I won't go I tell you," the man cried. "I was told to play dead, and I'm goin' to," and he stuck to the instructions he had received.

Fortunately, one of Russ' helpers was free a moment later, and he went for the extra roll of film, while the dead man enjoyed his part to his satisfaction.

"Well, he did just right," said Mr. Pertell, when told of the incident afterward. "I wish more performers would do exactly as they are told. Of course, I don't mean to say a player must slavishly do just as I tell him. But in some cases a dead man's coming to life might spoil a big scene."

Matters were now in readiness for the preliminary hospital scene. A ward had been fitted up in a shed where electric lights could be used to get the necessary illumination, the current being brought from town. In the shed were ranged white beds, in which a number of wounded men were reposing. Other men were in wheeled chairs, while still others sat up as if recovering from a long and dangerous siege from wounds. All were picturesquely bandaged.

The preliminary scenes had been taken. The doctor had made his rounds of the wounded on the cots. He had taken their temperature and had felt their pulses, while the other women of the company, as nurses, accompanied the surgeon on his journey. Other wounded were brought in.

Night settled down in the hospital. The big, hissing electric lights were turned off, and from outside a window "moonlight" streamed in. The moonlight, of course was made by another electric light, properly shaded.

"Now, I think we're ready for you, Ruth," said the director. "You are on duty alone in the ward when the emergency occurs."

In the glow of the beams of light from the window Ruth, on duty alone, took her place.

"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell, from where he was standing behind Russ, who was grinding away at the camera. "You start from your half-doze, Ruth, and listen. Then you approach one of the cots and discover that the bandage has slipped and that the man is bleeding to death. You press on the artery, and finally rouse another of the hospital patients—one not badly wounded—and send him for the surgeon."

Ruth carried out the instructions perfectly. Her acting was so very natural that afterward, when the film was shown, more than one person found himself holding his breath lest Ruth should remove her thumb from the severed artery.

The slightly wounded man limped out to get the surgeon, who came rushing in, and the artery was tied. Then followed words of praise for Ruth. This laid the foundation for her summons to a larger hospital when the proper time came.

The next day more battle views were the order of the day. In one of these Estelle had to do some fast riding, to leap her horse across a ditch and speed away from pursuing troopers.

"Aren't you nervous for fear you'll fall?" asked Ruth, as the young horsewoman was making ready.

"Well, no. I don't think about that part. All I am afraid of is that I may get out of range of the camera. You see I'm not very old at this business."

"Just how did you come to get into it?" asked Alice.

"Why, it was a sort of accident. I was on a boat one day, leaning over the rail looking at the water, when a gentleman came up, begged my pardon for speaking without being introduced, and asked me if I had ever been in the movies.

"I hadn't, though I had often thought I would like to be, and I told him so. He asked me to call at his studio, and I did. They gave me a 'try out,' found I photographed well, and they cast me for small parts. Then they found out I could ride and they let me do some outdoor stuff. From then on I did very well, and when I heard your company was going to make a big war play, I applied to Mr. Pertell. He took me, I'm glad to say."

"And we're glad you're here," ejaculated Alice.

"We'll go out and watch you jump; it fascinates me, though it makes me afraid," Ruth declared. "My sister and I did some riding while we were at Rocky Ranch, but it was nothing to what you do."

"Oh, it takes practice, that's all," answered Estelle.

There were some animated scenes previous to the one in which Estelle took part. There was a fight over the possession of a bridge, and the Confederates, having driven off their enemies, prepared to blow it up to prevent the Union army from using it.

Estelle was to try to reach the bridge before it was destroyed, but, failing in that, she was to ride her horse to a narrow part of the stream and leap over.

All went well, and the time came for her to take her swift ride to try to reach the bridge. On and on she galloped, until she was met by a colored man who warned her of the fact that in another moment the bridge would be destroyed.

"She's going pretty close!" murmured Mr. Pertell, as he stood near Russ, who was filming the scene. "Some of those timbers may fall pretty near her."

But Estelle seemed to know no fear. She rode straight for the bridge, and she was only a short distance away when it blew up, the planks and rails flying high into the air.

Then she turned her horse to reach, ahead of her pursuers, the place she was to jump the stream. So near was she to the bridge that she had to swerve her horse quickly to avoid being struck by a fragment of the falling wood.

"Plucky girl, that!" murmured Mr. DeVere.

While Estelle was being filmed down by the stream, one of the assistant camera men, a new hand, prepared to take a scene where a Southern farmer rides up to warn the Confederate cavalry of Estelle's escape, so they may take after her. Maurice Whitlow was the farmer.

"Here, you!" cried Mr. Pertell to Whitlow, "ride down there and deliver the message—that's your part in this scene."

There was a small automobile which Mr. Pertell had been using standing near, and Maurice leaped into this and started across the field toward a detachment of the Southern cavalry.

Away rattled Maurice in the car, and the camera man ground away, showing the farmer on his way to give the warning. Suddenly Mr. Pertell turned and saw what was going on.

"For the love of gasoline, stop!" he cried. "The whole scene is spoiled. There'll have to be a retake! Of all the stupid pieces of work this is the worst! Stop that camera!"



CHAPTER XVII

ESTELLE'S STORY

"What's the matter?" cried Russ Dalwood, running back from the stream where he had been to see that an assistant was successfully getting the scene after Estelle had leaped to the other bank.

"Matter! Look!" cried the director, and he pointed to Maurice, speeding to carry his message in the small runabout.

"Good-night!" gasped Russ, who understood at once.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" asked Paul. "Isn't he running the machine all right?"

"Oh, he's running it all right," said Mr. Pertell in tones of disgust. "And that's just the trouble! I told him to jump on a horse with that dispatch, and he goes in the auto!"

"I suppose he thought it was quicker," commented Paul.

"Quicker! Yes, I should say it was! But I'll get him out of there quicker than he can shake a stick at a dead mule. The idea of riding in an auto to carry a message in Civil War days. Why, there wasn't a real auto in the whole world then. How would it look in a film to see an up-to-date runabout butting in on a scene of sixty-three. Get him back here and make him start over again on a horse as he ought to," went on the director. "An auto in sixty-three! Next he'll be sending wireless telephone messages about fifty years before they were ever dreamed of!"

Fortunately, not much of the film had been reeled off, and the scene was one that could easily be made over. Estelle's leap was not spoiled, nor was the blowing up of the bridge.

"Huh! I didn't think anything about there not being autos in those days," said Maurice, when he had been brought back and mounted on a horse.

"That's just it," commented Mr. Pertell. "You've got to think in these days of moving pictures. The audiences are more critical than you would suppose. Even the children now laugh at fake scenes and incongruities. And as for using a dummy in danger scenes, it's getting harder and harder every day to get by with it. You stick to horses or to Shank's mules, young man, when it comes to transportation in this war film. No autos where they are going to show in the film."

That was only one of the many details the director and his assistants had to look after. If eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, it is much more so the price of good films. The camera sees everything in a pitiless light. It exaggerates faults and it refuses to shut its eye to anything at which it is pointed. The absolute truth is told every time.

Of course, there are trick films, but even then the camera tells the truth fearlessly. It is only the on-lookers' eyes that are deceived. The camera can not be fooled. And though a man may be seen to be shaking hands with himself or cutting off his own head, it is done by double exposure, and could not be accomplished were it not for the fact that the camera and the film are so fearlessly honest and truth-telling.

"What's the matter, Estelle?" asked Alice of the rider that afternoon, when they were in Ruth's room resting after the work of the day. "You seem to be in pain."

"I am. I strained my side a little in that water jump. Petro slipped a bit on the muddy bank."

"Did you do much jumping out West?" asked Ruth, while Alice was getting a bottle of liniment.

"In the West? I don't know that I ever jumped there. I can't remember——"

Estelle paused, and passed her hand across her eyes as though to shut out some vision.

"Are you faint?" asked Ruth.

"No—no, it isn't that. It—it is just that I—that I—— Oh, I wonder if I can tell you?" and Estelle seemed in such distress that the two sisters hastened to her.

"What is it? Tell me, are you badly hurt?" asked Ruth. For she had known of performers who concealed injuries that they might not be laid off, and so lose a day's work. "What is the matter, Estelle?"

"It is my—my head."

"Did you fall? I didn't hear them say anything about it!" exclaimed Alice.

"No, it isn't that," and the girl looked from one sister to the other. "Oh, I wonder if I dare tell you?"

"If there is anything in which we can help you, tell us, by all means!" answered Ruth, warmly—sympathetically. "But we don't want to force ourselves——"

"Oh, no! It isn't that. I'm only wondering what you will think of me afterward."

"We shall love you just the same!" cried impulsive Alice.

"Don't be too sure. But I feel that I must tell some one. I have borne all I can alone. It is getting to the point where I fear I shall scream my secret to the cameras—or some one!"

Then Estelle had a secret!

"Do tell us. Perhaps we can help you—or perhaps my father can," suggested Ruth.

"I don't believe any one can help me," said Estelle. "But at least it will be a relief to tell it. I—I am living under false pretenses!" she blurted out desperately.

"False pretenses!" repeated Alice. At once her mind flashed back to Miss Dixon's ring. Was it the taking of this that Estelle was hinting at? The girl must have guessed what was in the mind of her hearers, for she hastened to add:

"Oh, it isn't anything disgraceful. It's just a misfortune. You remember you have been asking me where I learned to ride—whether I didn't use to live on a ranch—questions like that. Well, you must have noticed that I didn't answer."

"Yes, we did notice, and we spoke about it," said truthful Ruth.

"We thought you didn't wish to tell," added Alice.

"Wish to tell! Oh, my dears, I would have been only too glad to tell if I could."

"Why can't you?" asked Ruth. "Are you bound by some vow of secrecy? Is it dangerous for you to reveal the past?"

"No, it is simply impossible!"

"Impossible!" the two sisters exclaimed.

"Yes, I can no more tell you what life I lived, where I lived, who I was, or what I was doing, up to a time of about three or four years ago, than I can fly."

"Why not?" asked Alice, puzzled.

"Because the past—up to the time I named—is a perfect blank to me. My mind refuses absolutely to tell me who I was or where I lived—who my people were—anything of the past. My mind is like a blank sheet of paper. I can remember nothing. Oh, isn't it awful!" and she burst into tears.



CHAPTER XVIII

"WHAT CAN WE DO?"

"You poor dear!" cried Alice, and she knelt down on the floor beside Estelle and put her arms about the weeping girl. Ruth, too, with an expression of sympathy, stroked the bowed head.

"We want so much to help you," Ruth murmured.

"Let me get you something," begged Alice. "Some smelling salts—some ammonia—shall I call any one—the doctor——?"

"No, I—I'll be all right presently," said Estelle in a broken voice. "Just let me alone a little while—I mean stay with me—talk to me—tell me something. I want to get control of my nerves."

Ruth did not seem to know what to say, but Alice pulled a small bottle from her pocket, and held it under Estelle's nose.

"It's the loveliest new scent," she said. "I bought a sample in town."

Estelle burst into a laugh, rather a hysterical laugh, it is true, but a laugh nevertheless. It showed that the strain and tension were relaxing to some extent.

"Isn't it sweet?" Alice asked.

"It is, dear. Let me smell it again. It makes me feel better," and Estelle breathed in deep of the odorous scent.

"How silly I was to give way like that," she went on. "But I simply couldn't help it. This has been going on for so long, and it got so I couldn't stand it another minute. How would you like it not to know who you are?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid," said Ruth, softly.

"That, in a way, is why it has been such a relief to be in the moving pictures," Estelle went on. "I could be so many different characters, and, at times, I thought perhaps, by chance, I might be cast for the very part I have lost—cast for my real self, as it were."

"You must have had a hard time," said Alice.

"I haven't told you half the story yet," Estelle went on. "Would you like to hear the rest?"

"Indeed we would!" exclaimed Ruth. "Not from any idle curiosity, but because we want to help you."

"And I do need some one to help me," murmured Estelle. "I am all alone in the world."

"You must have relatives somewhere!" insisted Alice.

"None that I ever heard of. But then, who knows what might have happened in the life that is a blank to me—in the life that lies beyond that impenetrable wall of the past?

"But I mustn't get hysterical again. Just let me think for a moment, so I may tell you my story clearly. I shall be all right in a moment or two."

"Let me make you a cup of tea," proposed Ruth. "I'll make some for all of us," and presently the little kettle was steaming over the spirit lamp, and the girls were sipping the fragrant beverage.

"Thank you. That was good!" murmured Estelle. "I feel better now. I'll tell the rest of my miserable story to you."

"Don't make it too miserable," and Alice tried to make her laugh a gay one.

"I won't—not any more so than I can help. I think it will do me good to let you share the mystery with me."

"Then it is a mystery?" asked Ruth.

"Somewhat, yes. You may think it strange, but I can not think back more than three years—four at the most. I am not at all certain of the time. But go back as far as I can, all I remember is that I was on a large steamer."

"On the ocean?" asked Alice.

"No, on the Great Lakes. I was going to Cleveland, which I learned when I asked one of the officers."

"And didn't you know where you were going before you asked?" Ruth questioned.

"I hadn't the least idea, my dear. I might just as well have been going to Europe. In fact, when I first looked out and saw the water, I thought I was on the ocean."

"But where did you come from, what were you doing there, where were your people?" cried Ruth.

"That's it, my dear. Where were they? I didn't know. No one knew. All I could grasp was the fact that I was there on the boat."

"Alone?"

"Yes, all alone."

"But who bought your ticket—who engaged your stateroom?" questioned Ruth.

"That is the queer part of it. I did it myself. When I first became conscious that I was in a strange place I was so shocked that I wanted to scream—to cry out—to ask all sorts of questions. Then I realized if I did that I might be taken for an insane person and be locked up. So I just shut myself in my stateroom and did some thinking.

"The first thing I wanted to know was how I got on the steamer, but how to find that out without asking questions that the steamship people would think peculiar, was a puzzle to me. Finally, I decided to pretend to want to change my room, and when I went to the purser I asked him if that was the only room to be had.

"'Why no, Miss,' he said, 'but when you came on board and I told you what rooms I had, you insisted on taking that one.' That was enough for me. I realized then that I had come on board alone, and of my own volition, though I had not any recollection of having done so, and I knew no more of where I came from than you do now."

"How very strange!" murmured Alice. "And what did you do?"

"Well, I pretended that I had been tired and had not made a wise choice of a room, and asked the purser to give me another.

"'I thought, when you picked it out, you wouldn't like that one,' he said to me, 'but you looked like a young lady who was used to having her own way, so I did not interfere.'

"That was another bit of information. Evidently, I looked prosperous, a fact that was borne out when I examined my purse. I had a considerable sum in it, and the large valise I found in my room was filled with expensive clothes and fittings. Yet where I had obtained it or my money or my clothes I could not tell for the life of me. All I knew was that I was there on board the ship."

"And did you change your stateroom?" asked Ruth.

"Yes; the purser gave me another one. And then I sat down and tried to puzzle it out. Why was I going to Cleveland? I knew no one there, and yet I had bought a ticket to that port—or some one had bought it for me."

"Did that occur to you?" asked Alice. "That some one might have had an object in getting you out of the way."

"Well, if they had, they took a very public and expensive method of doing it," Estelle said. "I was on one of the best boats on Lake Erie, and I had plenty of money."

"Did you find in what name your room was taken?" asked Ruth. "That might have given you a clue."

"The name given was Estelle Brown," was the answer. "I gave that name myself, for I recognized my handwriting on the envelope in which I sealed some of my jewelry before handing it to the purser to put in his safe. Estelle Brown was the name I gave."

"And was it yours?" asked Alice.

"I haven't any reason to believe that it was not. In fact, as I looked back then, and as I look back now, the name Estelle Brown seems to be my very own—it is associated closely with me. So I'm sure I'm Estelle Brown—that is the only part I am sure about."

"But what did you do?" asked Ruth. "Didn't you make some inquiries?"

"I did; as soon as I reached Cleveland. At first I hoped that my memory would come back to me when I reached that place. I thought I might recognize some of the buildings. In fact, I hoped it would prove to be my home, from which I had, perhaps, wandered in a fit of illness.

"But it was of no help to me. I might just as well have been in San Francisco or New York for all that the place was familiar to me. So I gave that up. Then I began to look over the papers to see if any Estelle Brown was missing. But there was nothing to that effect in the news columns. All the while I was getting more and more worried.

"I went to a good hotel in Cleveland and stayed two or three days. Then I happened to think that perhaps my clothes might offer some clue. I examined them all carefully, and the only thing I found was the name of a Boston firm on a toilet set. At once it flashed on me that I belonged in Boston. I seemed to have a dim recollection of a big monument in the midst of a green park, of narrow, crooked streets and historical buildings.

"Then, in a flash it came to me—I did belong in Boston. How I had come from there I could not guess, but I was sure I lived there. So I bought a ticket for there and went as fast as the train could take me.

"But my hopes were dashed. Even the sight of Bunker Hill monument did not bring the elusive memory, nor did viewing the other places of historic interest. Yet, somewhere in the back of my brain, I was sure I had been in that city before. I went to the place where my toilet set was bought, but the man had sold out and the new owner could give me no information.

"I did not know what to do. My money was running low, and I had not a friend to whom to turn. I happened to go in to see some moving pictures, and the idea came to me that perhaps I could act. I had rather a good face, so some one had hinted."

"You do photograph beautifully," said Alice.

"That's what one of the managers in Boston told me when I applied to him," said Estelle. "He gave me a small part, and then I learned that New York was really the place to go to get in the movies, so I came on, with a letter to a manager from the Boston firm.

"It must have been my face that got me my first engagement, for now I know I couldn't act. But, somehow or other, I made good, and then I got this engagement with Mr. Pertell.

"And that is my story. You can see what a strange one it is—for me not to know who I am. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, and that is why I have been avoiding all references to my past. But now I have told you, what do you think?"

"I think it's just terrible!" cried Alice. "The idea! Not to know who you are."

"The question is," said Ruth, "what can we do to help you? This must not be allowed to go any further. Valuable time is being lost. We want to help you, Estelle. What can we do? We must try to find out who you are."

"Yes, but how can you?" asked the strange girl.



CHAPTER XIX

A BIG GUN

Ruth did not answer for several seconds. She seemed to be thinking deeply, and Alice, who was fairly bursting with numberless questions she wanted to ask, respected her sister's efforts to bring some logical queries to the fore.

"Then your hopes that Boston would prove to be your home were not borne out?" asked Ruth, after a bit.

"No, but even yet I feel sure that I have lived at least part of my life in Boston, or near there. One doesn't have even shadowy memories of big monuments and historic places without some basis; and it was not the memory of having seen pictures of them. It was a real vision."

"And the name Estelle Brown?"

"Oh, I'm sure that belongs to me. It seems a very part of myself."

"Did you tell any of this to Mr. Pertell or to the other moving picture managers?" asked Alice.

"No. You are the first persons to whom I have told my secret," Estelle said. "I was afraid if I mentioned it they might make it public for advertising purposes, you know. They might make public the fact that a young actress was looking for herself and her parents. I never could bear that!"

"But you want to find your folks, don't you?" asked Alice.

"That's the queer part of it," Estelle replied. "I seem never to have had any relatives. The way I feel about it now, I would never know that I had had a father or a mother. I seem to have just 'growed,' the way poor Topsy did in Uncle Tom's Cabin. That is another strange part of my present existence. I seem to be in a world by myself, and, as far as I can tell, I have always been there."

"What about Lieutenant Varley?" inquired Alice.

"Lieutenant Varley?" and Estelle's voice showed that she was puzzled.

"The young officer who said he met you in Portland."

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten. Well, I have absolutely no recollection of that, and I'm sure I would remember if I had been in the West. I'm certain I never was there."

"And yet if you weren't in the West how did you learn to ride so well?" Ruth queried.

"That's another part of the puzzle, my dear. Riding seems to come as natural to me as breathing. I don't seem ever to have learned it any more than I learned how to dance. I seem always to have known how."

"There's only one way to account for that," Alice said.

"How?"

"From the fact that you must have started to learn to ride and to dance when you were very young—a mere child."

"I suppose that would account for it. And yet, I can't remember ever being a child. I don't recall having played with dolls or having made mud pies. For me my existence begins about three or four years back, and goes on from there, mostly in moving pictures."

"It is a queer case," commented Ruth. "I don't know what to do to help you. Perhaps it would be a good thing to speak to Mr. Pertell about it. Often when children have been kidnapped, you know, their pictures are flashed on the screen in hundreds of cities, and sometimes persons in the audiences recognize them. That might be done with you, Estelle."

"No, I wouldn't dream of doing that. Perhaps something may turn up some day that will tell me who I really am. And perhaps I shall be sorry for having learned."

"No, you will not!" declared Alice. "You come of good people—one can easily tell that."

"Thank you, dear. And now I have inflicted enough of my troubles on you. Let's talk about something pleasant."

"You haven't burdened us with your troubles, Estelle dear," insisted Ruth. "It is a strange story, and we are interested in the outcome."

"Indeed we are," said Alice. "We want very much to help you."

"That's good of you. But I don't see what you can do. I'm just a sort of Topsy, and Topsy I'll remain. Now please don't say anything about what I have told you to any one—not even to your father—unless I give you permission. I don't want to be the object of curiosity, as well as of suspicion."

"Suspicion!" cried Alice.

"Yes, about Miss Dixon's ring."

"Oh! no one in the world believes you took that—not even Miss Dixon herself. I believe she has found the old paste diamond, and is too mean to admit it!" cried impulsive Alice.

"You mustn't say such things!" objected her sister.

"Well, neither must she, then. Oh, Estelle! Wouldn't it be great if you should prove to be the daughter of a millionaire!"

"Too great, my dear. Don't let's think about it. But I feel better for having unburdened some of my troubles on you. And if you will still be as nice to me as you always have been——"