"Why shouldn't we be?" asked Ruth.

"Oh, I don't know, but I thought——"

"Silly!" cried Alice, as she threw her arms about the strange girl and kissed her.

Suddenly, from a distant hill, came a dull, booming sound, that, low as it was, seemed to make the very ground tremble.

"What's that?" cried Alice.

"Thunder," suggested Ruth.

"It sounded more like an explosion," asserted Estelle.

"There it goes again!" exclaimed Alice.

"Look!" cried her sister.

She pointed through the open window, and as the girls peered out they saw the top of the hill fly upward in a shower of dirt and stones.

Once more the deep boom sounded.

"It's a big gun!" cried Alice. "I remember, now. Mr. Pertell said he wanted pictures of a siege of a fort, and he sent for a big gun to get explosive effects. Come on over!"

"And be blown to pieces?" objected Ruth. "Don't dare go, Alice DeVere!"

"Oh, come on! There's no danger. Russ is going to make the films. I guess they're just trying it now. It's too late to make good pictures. Come on."

"I'll go," offered Estelle. "I don't mind the noise."

Ruth declined to go, so the other two girls set off. On the porch they met Russ and Paul, who confirmed their guess that it was a big siege gun which Mr. Pertell had sent to New York to get, so he might show the effect of explosive shells.

"I'm going to film some to-morrow," Russ said.

"Be careful," urged Alice. "Don't get blown up!"

"I'm no more anxious for that than any one," laughed Russ, and together they set off toward the place where the big gun was being tried out.



CHAPTER XX

A WRONG SHOT

The big gun which Mr. Pertell had secured to make more realistic the war play he was preparing for the films, was an old fashioned siege rifle, made toward the close of the Civil conflict. It had not been used more than a few times, and then it had been stored away in some arsenal. The director, hearing of it, had secured it to fire at a certain hill on Oak Farm.

This hill would, in the motion pictures, form a stronghold of the Southern forces and it would be demolished by shells from the large cannon, and then would follow a charge on the part of the Union soldiers.

Real shells, with large explosive charges in them, would be used, but it is needless to say that when the shots were fired at the hill the players taking the parts of the Southerners would be at a safe distance.

"They're just trying it out now," observed Russ, who with Paul, was walking over the fields with Alice and Estelle. "Mr. Pertell wants to get the range, and decide on the best places from which to make the pictures. I think we'll film some to-morrow if it's a good day."

"What's the matter with your eyes, Estelle?" asked Paul, as he looked at her. "Were you working in the studio to-day? I know those lights always affect my sight."

"Why, no, I wasn't in the studio," and then Estelle realized why her eyes were so inflamed—it was from crying. She gave Alice a meaning glance, as though to enjoin silence, but she need have had no fears. Alice would not betray the secret.

The big gun had been mounted on a level piece of land, not far from the hill, and on this plain had been thrown up earthworks behind which the Union forces would take their stand in an effort to reduce the Confederate stronghold.

"They're going to fire!" cried Estelle as they came within sight of the gun, and saw, by the activities of the men about it, that a shot was about to be delivered.

Alice covered her ears with her hands, and Russ and Paul stood on their tiptoes and opened their mouths wide.

"What in the world are they doing that for?" asked Estelle.

"I can't hear a word you say!" called Alice, making her voice loud, to overcome her own hearing handicap.

"There she goes!" cried Russ.

The earth trembled as flames and smoke belched from the muzzle of the cannon, and the girls screamed.

Something black was seen for an instant in the air amid the swirl of smoke, and then another portion of the hill was seen to lift itself up into the air and dirt and stones were scattered about.

"A good shot!" observed Russ, letting himself down off his tiptoes. "That would make a dandy scene for the film."

"That's right," agreed Paul, also letting himself down and closing his opened mouth.

"Why did you do that?" asked Estelle, when the echoes of the firing had died away. "Why did you stand on your toes, and open your mouths?"

"To lessen the shock to our ear drums," answered Paul. "It is the concussion, that is, the rushing back of air into the vacuum caused by the shot, that does the damage. By opening your mouth you equalize the air pressure on the inside and the outside of your ear drums, just as you do when you go through a river tunnel. When there is a partial vacuum outside your ear, the air inside you presses the drum outward, and by opening your mouth—or by swallowing you make the pressure equal. Sometimes the pressure outside is greater than the pressure inside, and you must also equalize that before you can be comfortable."

"But that wasn't why you stood on your toes," Alice said.

"No; we did that to have less surface of our bodies on the ground so the vibration would be less. If one could leap up off the earth at the exact moment a shot was fired it would be much better, but it is hard to jump at the right instant, and standing on one's toes is nearly as good. Then you present only a comparatively small point which the vibrations of the earth, caused by the explosion of the gun, can act upon."

"That's a good thing to remember," Estelle said. "Are they going to fire again?"

"It looks so," observed Russ. "But if they knock away too much of the hill there won't be any left for the pictures to-morrow."

"I believe they want to make the top of the hill flat," said Paul. "They are going to have some sort of hand-to-hand fight on it after the Unionists capture it," he went on. "I heard Mr. Pertell speaking of it."

"There goes another!" cried Alice, as she saw the same preparations as before and one man standing near the gun to pull the lanyard, which, by means of a friction tube, exploded the charge.

Once more the projectile shot out and, burying itself in the soft dirt of the hill, threw it up in a shower.

"That'll save me a lot of work!" exclaimed a voice behind the young people, and, turning, they saw Sandy Apgar smiling at them. "That's a new way of plowing," he went on. "It sure does stir up the soil."

"Won't it spoil your hill?" asked Alice.

"Not so's you could notice it. That hill isn't wuth much as it stands. It's too steep to plow, and only a goat could find a foothold on it to graze. So if you moving picture folks level it for me I may be able to raise some crops on it. Shoot as much as you like. You can't hurt that hill!"

The men at the gun signaled that they were going to fire no more that day, and then, as it was safe, the young folks made a trip to see the extent of damage caused by the shells.

Great furrows were torn in the earth and the stones, and the top of the hill, that had been rounding, was now quite flat, though far from being smooth.

The next day had been set for filming the scenes with the big gun in them. Contrary to expectations, no pictures could be taken, as the throwing up of the earthworks had not been finished. But a number of men from both "armies" were set to work, and as it afforded good practice for the militia they were called on to dig trenches, throw up ridges of earth, and go through other needful military tactics.

The girls had no part in the scenes with the big gun, except that, later on, they were to act as nurses in the hospital tent.

On top of the hill a force of Confederates would be stationed, and they were to reply to the fire of the big gun. Of course, when the projectiles struck the hill the soldiers would be a safe distance away, but by means of trick photography scenes would be shown just as if they were sustaining a severe bombardment.

"Is everything ready?" asked Mr. Pertell, a few days after the setting up of the big gun, during which interval a sort of fort had been constructed on the hill and a redoubt thrown up.

"I think so," answered Russ. "We couldn't have a better day, as far as sunshine is concerned. I'm ready to film whenever you are."

"I'll give the word in a minute. Paul, you're in charge of a detachment of Union soldiers that storms the hill as soon as the big gun has silenced the battery there."

"Very well, sir."

The big gun rattled out its booming challenge and was replied to by volleys from the rifles of the Confederates on the hill and by their field artillery, which they hurriedly brought up.

Shot after shot was fired, and one after another the Confederate cannon were disabled. They were blown up by small charges of powder put under them, set off by fuses lighted by the Confederates themselves, but this did not show in the picture, and it looked as though the Southern battery was blown up by shots from the big gun.

"All ready now, Paul! Lead your men!" yelled the director, who was standing near Russ and his camera. "Rush right up the hill. Stop firing here!" he called to those in charge of the big gun.

But something went wrong, or some one misunderstood. As Paul was charging up the hill at the head of his little band, Russ, turning his head for an instant, saw a man about to pull the lanyard of the big gun.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he yelled. "It's aimed right at Paul and his fellows!"

But Russ was too late. The man pulled the cord. There was a deafening roar, a cloud of smoke, a sheet of fire, and a black projectile was sent hurtling on its way against the hill, up the side of which Paul was climbing with his soldiers.



CHAPTER XXI

THE BIG SCENE

Nothing could be done! No power on earth could stop that projectile now until it had spent itself, or until it had struck something and exploded.

Horror-stricken, those near the big gun looked across the intervening space. How many would survive what was to follow?

The man who had pulled the lanyard sank to the ground, covering his face with his hands.

For a brief instant Paul, leading his men, looked back at the sound of the unexpected shot. He had been told that no more were to be fired. Doubtless, this was an extra one to make the pictures more realistic. But when he saw, in a flash, something black and menacing leaping through the air toward him and his men, instinctively he cried:

"Duck, everybody! Duck!"

He fell forward on his face and those of his men who heard and understood did likewise.

Ruth, Alice and Estelle, who were watching the scene from a distant knoll, hardly understood what it was all about. They had thought no more shots would be fired when Paul began his charge, but one had boomed out, and surely that was a projectile winging its way toward the partly demolished hill.

"That is carrying realism a little too far," said Ruth. "I hope——"

"Paul has fallen!" cried Alice. "Oh—something has happened!"

One must realize that all this took place at the same time. The firing of the shot, the realization that it was a mistake, Paul's flash of the oncoming projectile, his command to his men and the vision had by the girls. All in an instant, for a shot from a big gun does not leave much margin of time between starting and arriving even when fired with only a small charge of powder for moving picture purposes.

And, so quickly had it happened that Russ had not stopped turning the crank of his camera, nor had an assistant on the hillside, where he had been stationed to film Paul and his soldiers.

And then the projectile struck. Into the soft dirt of the hillside it buried its head, and then, as the explosion came, up went a shower of earth and stones. And ever afterward the gunner who inserted that charge blessed himself and an ever-watchful Providence that he had put in but half a charge, the last of the powder.

For it was this half-charge that saved Paul and his men. The projectile struck in the hill a hundred feet below where Paul was leading his force up the slope, and though they were well-nigh buried beneath a rain of sand and gravel, they were not otherwise hurt—scratches and bruises being their portion.

"What are they trying to do, kill us?" cried a man, staggering to his feet, blood streaming from a cut on his cheek.

"This is too much like real war for me!" yelled another throwing down his gun. "I'm going to quit!"

"No you don't!" shouted Paul. "Come on. It was a mistake. They won't fire any more. It will make a great scene on the film. Come on!"

He gave one look back toward the Union battery and saw Mr. Pertell fluttering a white flag which meant safety. Waving his sword above his head, Paul yelled again:

"Come on! Come on! It's all right! Up the hill with you! That shot was only to put a little pep in you!"

"Pep! More like sand! I got a mouthful!" muttered a sergeant.

"Get every inch of that. It's the best scene we've had yet, though it was a close call!" telephoned Mr. Pertell to the operator on the side of the hill. "Film every inch of it!"

"All right! I'm getting it," answered the camera man and he went on grinding away at his crank.

The explosion of the shell had, for the moment, stopped the advance of Paul and his men up the hill, but this momentary halt only made it look more realistic—as though they really feared they were in danger, as indeed they had been. Now the director called:

"It's all right, Paul! Go ahead! Keep on just as if that was part of the show."

"It was a lively part all right!" and Paul laughed grimly. "Come on, boys!"

And the charge was resumed.

Back of the dismantled battery, whence they had presumably been driven by the fire from the big gun, the Confederates were massed. They were waiting for Paul's charge, and they, too, had been a little surprised by the unexpected firing of the shell.

But now, in response to a signal on the field telephone, they prepared to resist the assault.

"Come on, boys! Beat the Yankees back!" was the battle cry that would be flashed on the screen.

Then came the fierce struggle, and it was nearly as fierce as it was indicated in the pictures. Real blows were given, and more than one man went down harder than he had expected to. There were duels with clubbed rifles, and fencing combats with swords, though, of course, the participants took care not to cut one another.

In spite of this, several received minor hurts. But this result only added to the effectiveness of the scene, though it was painful. But in providing realism for motion pictures more than one conscientious player has been injured, and not a few have lost their lives. It is devotion of no small sort to their profession.

Back and forth surged the fight, sometimes Paul's men giving way, and again driving the Confederates back from the crest of the hill. Small detachments here and there fired volleys of blank cartridges from their rifles, but there was not as much of this for the close-up pictures as there had been for the larger battle scenes. For while smoke blowing over a big field on which hundreds of men and horses are massed makes a picture effective, if seen at too close range it hides the details of the fighting.

And Mr. Pertell wanted the details to come out in this close-up scene.

Back and forth surged the fight until it had run through a certain length of film. Then the orders came that the Confederates were to give up and retreat. Before this, however, a number of them had been killed, as had almost as many Union soldiers.

Then came a spirited scene. Paul, leading his men, leaped up on the earthworks of the Confederate battery, cut down the Southern flag—the stars and bars. In its place he hoisted the stars and stripes, and with a wild yell that made the fight seem almost real, he and his men occupied the heights.

"Well done!" cried Mr. Pertell, enthusiastically, when he came over from the ramparts of the big gun. "Are you sure none of you was hurt when that shell exploded?"

"None of us," answered Paul. "It fell short, luckily, and the dirt was soft. No big rocks were tossed up, fortunately, and we came out of it very nicely."

"Glad to hear it. I've discharged the man who fired the gun."

"That's too bad!"

"Well, I hired him over again—but to do something else less dangerous. I can't afford to take chances with big cannon. But I think the scene went off very well. That stopping and the bursting of the shell made it look very real."

"That's good," Paul said, wiping some of the dirt and blood off his face, for he had been scratched by the point of some one's bayonet.

That ended this particular scene for the day, and the players could take a much-needed rest. Plenty of powder had been burned, and the air was rank and heavy with the fumes.

"Are you sure you're all right, Paul?" asked Alice, when he came up to the farmhouse later in the day.

"Well, I think I'd be better if you would feel my pulse," he said, winking at Russ. "And you don't need to be in a hurry to let go my hand. I sha'n't need it right away."

"Silly!" exclaimed Alice, as she turned, blushing, away.

"It must have been a shock to you," said Ruth.

"It was. But it was over so quickly I didn't have time to be shocked long. Now, let's talk about something nice. Come on in to the town, and I'll buy you all ice-cream."

"That will be nice!" laughed Estelle.

It was several days later that Mr. Pertell, coming to where the moving picture girls and their friends were seated on the porch, said:

"The big scene is for to-morrow. In the hospital. This is where you are looking after the wounded officer, Ruth, and Alice, on pretense of being a nurse seeking to give aid, comes in to get the papers. I want this very carefully done, as it is one of the climaxes of the whole play. So we'll have some rehearsals in the morning."

"Am I to do that riding act?" asked Estelle.

"Yes, you'll do the horse stunt as usual. There's to be a cavalry charge, Miss Brown, so don't get in their way and be run down."

"I'll try not to," she answered.



CHAPTER XXII

ALICE DOES WELL

Long rows of wounded men lay stretched out on white cots in the hospital. Some wore bandages over their heads all but concealing their eyes. Others were so entwined with white wrappings that it was hard to say whether they were men or oriental women. Still others raised themselves on their elbows, spasms of pain corrugating their brows, while red cross nurses held to their lips cooling drinks.

Here at the bedside of one stood a grave surgeon, slowly shaking his head as he came to the melancholy conclusion that a further operation was useless. Over there they were carrying out a motionless form on a stretcher, a sheet mercifully draped over what was left. At the entrance to the hospital other bearers were carrying in those who came from the scene of the distant firing.

The boom of big guns shook the frail shack that had been turned into a hospital. Now and then, as the wind blew in fitful gusts, there was borne on it the acrid smell of powder. And again, in some dark corner of that building of suffering, there could be seen through the cracks, left by hasty builders, the flash of fire that preceded the booming crash of the cannon.

A sad-faced woman in black moved slowly down the line of cots led by a sympathetic nurse. She came to one bed, stopped as though in doubt, passed her hand over her face as if she did not want to admit that what she saw she did see, and then she fell on her knees in a passion of weeping, while the surgeons turned away their heads. She had found what she had sought.

From the farther door there entered a man, limping on crutches improvised from the limbs of a tree. Stained bandages were about one arm and another leg. His head, too, was wrapped so that only half his face showed. A hurrying orderly met him.

"You can't come in here!" he cried.

"Why not, I'd like to know. Ain't this the horspital?"

"Of course it is."

"Then why can't I come in here. I'm hurt, and hurt bad, pardner. Shot through leg and arm, and part of my jaw gone. Why can't I come in?"

"'Cause you can't. Didn't we just carry you out for dead? What'll the audience think if they see you walking again? Git on out of here!"

"I will not! I've wrapped this bandage around my head on purpose so they won't know me. Let me come in, will you? That's real lemonade them pretty nurses is givin' out to drink, and I'm as dry as a fish. I've been firin' one of them guns until I've swallowed enough smoke to play an animated cannon ball. Let me in the horspital."

"Yes, let him in!" called Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. He was at the far end of the shack that had been hastily erected on Oak Farm as a hospital, for the last big scenes of the war play, "A Girl in Blue and A Girl in Gray."

"All right, just as you say," answered the orderly. "Come on in, Bill. Are you going to die this time?"

"I am not! I'm going to be one of them converts, and get chicken sandwiches and jelly."

"You mean convalescent."

"Um. That's it! Lead me to me bed, will you, for I'm a sadly wounded old soldier—that's what I am."

Amid laughter he was led to a cot, where a smiling nurse tucked him in between the yellow sheets. For, as has been said, yellow takes the place of white in inside scenes.

And this was an inside scene, powerful electric lights dispelling all shadows so the cameras could film every motion and expression.

"Now remember!" called Mr. Pertell when the "wounded man," one of the extra players, had been comfortably put to bed, "remember no smiling or laughing when we begin to make the picture. This is supposed to be serious."

The rehearsal went on and finally the director announced that he was satisfied. Then the scenes were enacted over again, but with more tenseness and with a knowledge that every motion was being filmed with startling exactness.

"Now, Ruth, you come on!" called Mr. Pertell. "We've made a little change from the original scenario. You're to relieve Miss Dixon, who has been on this case. He's one of the Northern officers, you remember, and he has with him papers that the Confederacy would do much to get.

"They are under the officer's pillow, you know. He is afraid to let them out of his possession. You must humor him, though you know that the papers will soon have to be taken away as he is to be operated on. It is here that Alice, as the spy, gets her chance. She pretends to be one of the nurses of this hospital, dons the uniform, and comes in here to get the papers. Are you ready?"

"Yes," answered Ruth.

Then the big hospital scene began.

Ruth, in her garb of a nurse, took her place at the side of the injured officer's cot. She felt his pulse, took his temperature and administered some medicine. Then the injured man, who was Mr. DeVere himself, sank back on his pillows. His hand went under the mass of feathers and brought out a packet of papers. At this point a close-up view was taken, showing on the screen the papers in magnified shape, so that the audience could note that they were Civil War documents. It was these that the officer was afraid would fall into the hands of the Confederates, so he kept them ever near him.

Ruth made as if to remove them when he had placed them under the pillow again, but he awoke with a start and prevented her. This was to show that it was necessary for some one to take them while the operation was being performed.

Then the scene changed to show Alice preparing for her work as a spy. The camera was taken to another part of the hospital, Ruth and her father having a respite, though they maintained their positions.

"Did I do all right, Daddy?" asked Ruth.

"Very well, indeed. You are getting to be a good actress. I wish you were on the speaking stage."

"I like this ever so much better. I never could speak before a whole crowd."

Alice was shown making her way into the hospital, a previous scene having depicted her as promising the Confederate officer in whose employ as a spy she was, that she would get the papers. She entered the hospital, pretending to be in search of a missing relative. Then, watching her chance, she prepared a sleeping powder for a tired and half-sleeping nurse off duty and prepared to take her uniform.

Alice played her part well. The sleeping nurse aroused, took the drugged drink, and went more soundly to sleep than ever. Then Alice was shown in the act of taking off the uniform. Another scene showed her walking boldly into the ward room to relieve Ruth.

There was a little scene between the two sisters, and Ruth registered that Alice must be very careful not to alarm or shock the wounded man who was soon to undergo the operation.

Alice acquiesced, and then sat down beside the cot. Slowly and carefully, like some pickpocket, she inserted her fingers under the pillow. Amid a tenseness that affected even the actors working with her, Alice took out the papers, inch by inch, and began to move away with them.

It was at this point that she was to be discovered by Paul, in the next bed. He had, in a previous scene, supposed to have taken place several months before, saved Alice's life, and they had fallen in love, Alice promising to wed him after the war. He supposed her to be a true Northern girl, and now he discovered that she was a Southern spy.

There was a strong scene here. Paul leaped from his bed, and tried to get the papers away from Alice. She, horror-stricken at being discovered as a spy by her lover, is torn between affection for him and duty to the South. She throws him from her, as he is weakened by illness, and is about to escape with the papers, when she fears Paul is dying and she is stricken with remorse. She decides to give up her task for the sake of her lover.

Slowly and softly, without awakening the old officer, she puts the papers back under his pillow and then, stooping over Paul, who has fainted from loss of blood, she kisses his forehead and goes out in a "fadeaway."

"Good! Great! Couldn't be better!" cried Mr. Pertell, as Alice came out of range of the camera. "That was better than I dared to hope. This will make a big hit!"



CHAPTER XXIII

A BAD FALL

"Have you made up your mind yet, Estelle?"

"No, Ruth! I haven't. I don't know what to do."

The two girls were in Estelle's room. Miss Brown was putting some protective padding under her outer garments, for in a little while she was to take part in a desperate ride—one of the last scenes in the big war play—a ride that had a part in a cavalry charge that was to be made by the desperate Confederates on the hosts of Unionists, who were closing in on their enemies. It was to be the last battle—a final stand of the Southern States, and they were to lose.

But Estelle was to make a desperate ride to try to save the day. This time she was to pose as a daughter of the South. The ride would necessarily be a reckless one, and Estelle felt that she might fall; so she was preparing for it.

"I don't know what to do," she went on to Ruth, who was helping her. "Sometimes I feel like doing as you and your sister suggest, and let your father into the secret—and Mr. Pertell too—and have them try what they can do to discover who I am.

"Then again, as I think it over, I'm afraid. Suppose I should turn out to be some one altogether horrid?"

"You couldn't, my dear, not if you tried. But if you don't want my father to know, and would rather work out this mystery yourself, why, I won't say another word."

"I want to think about it a little more," Estelle said.

They had been talking about her strange case, and the possible outcome of it. Alice had suggested that a motion picture story be written around it.

"It could be called 'Who is Estelle Brown?'" Alice said, "and it could be a serial. You could pose in it, Estelle, and make a lot of money. And, not only that, but you'd find out who your relatives were, I'm sure."

"Oh, I couldn't do it!" Estelle had cried. "I'd like the money, of course. I never was so happy as when I found I had a purse full when I was on that Cleveland boat! But I could not capitalize my misfortune that way."

"No, I was only joking," said Alice. And so the matter had gone on. Now Ruth had broached the subject again, and Estelle was still undecided.

"Wait until after this big ride of mine," she said. "Then I'll make up my mind. I really do want to know who I am, and I think, after this engagement, if I don't find out before, I'll go to Boston again. I'm sure my people are from that vicinity."

So it was left.

From outside came the stirring notes of a bugle. At the sound of it Ruth and Estelle started.

"That's the signal," said the latter. "I must hurry."

"I'll help you," offered Ruth, and she assisted in the tying of the last strings, and the snapping of the final fastenings of the suit of protective padding the rider wore.

"You don't take part in the actual charge, do you?" asked Alice, who came in at this point.

"Well, I have to ride ahead of the Union forces for a way," Estelle answered. "But I'm not afraid. Petro will carry me safely, as he has done before."

The girls went down and out into the yard. Off on the distant meadow of Oak Farm, which had been turned into a battlefield for the time being, were two hostile armies. The two regiments of cavalry were to meet in a final clash that was to end the war. There was to be the firing of many rifles and cannon. There were to be charges and countercharges. Men would fall from their horses shot dead. Certain horses, trained for the work, would stumble and fall, going down with those who rode them, the men having learned how to roll out of the way without getting a broken arm or leg. In spite of their training and practice, nearly all expected to be scratched and bruised. However, it was all part of the game and in the day's work.

"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell. "We're going to have the first skirmish, and, after that, Miss Brown, you are to do your ride. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Estelle told the director.

The signal was given through the field telephone and then, with his ever-present megaphone, the director began to issue his orders.

The rifles cracked, the big guns rumbled and roared, smoke blew across the battlefield and horses snorted and pawed at the ground impatient to be off and in the charge. To them it was real, even though their masters knew it was only for the movies.

Bugles tooted their inspiring calls, and the officers, who knew the significance of the cadence of notes, issued their orders accordingly.

"Deploy to the left!" came the command to a squad of Union cavalry, and the men trotted off, to try a flank movement. Then came the firing of a Confederate battery in a desperate attempt to scatter the Union forces.

All the camera men in the employ of the Comet Film Company were engaged this day, and Russ was at his wits' end to keep each machine loaded with film, and to see that his own was working properly.

Pop Snooks had never before been called on to provide so many "props" as he was for this occasion, but he thoroughly enjoyed the work, and when, at the last minute, he had to make a rustic bridge whereon two lovers had a farewell before the soldier rode off to battle, the veteran property man improvised one out of bean poles and fence rails that made a most artistic picture.

"They'll have to get up the day before breakfast to beat Pop Snooks!" exclaimed Russ, admiringly.

All was now ready for the big cavalry charge.

"All ready!" came the order from Mr. Pertell. "Cameras!"

And the cranks began to work, reeling off the sensitive film.

The two bodies of cavalry rushed toward one another, hoofs thundering, carbines cracking, sabres flashing in the sun, white puffs of smoke showing where the cannon were firing.

"Now Miss Brown!" yelled the director, above the riot of noise. "This is where you make the ride of your life!"

"All right!" answered the brave girl, and, giving rein to her horse, she dashed off ahead of a detachment of cavalry that was to try to intercept her.

On and on rode Estelle. Ruth and Alice, who had finished their part in this scene, stood on a little hill, watching her.

On and on dashed Estelle, doing her part well, and foot after foot of the film registered her action. She was almost at the end now. She reached the Confederate ranks, gave over the message she had carried through such danger, and then, turning her horse, dashed away.

How it happened no one could tell. But suddenly Petro stumbled, and though Estelle tried to keep him on his feet she could not.

"Oh—oh!" gasped Ruth. "Look!" and then she turned her head away so as not to see.

Alice had a flash of Estelle flying over the head of her falling horse, and then, unable to stop, the rushing soldiers on their horses rode over the very place where Estelle had fallen.



CHAPTER XXIV

A DENIAL OF IDENTITY

Confused shouts, cries, and orders echoed over the field, Mr. Pertell, dropping his megaphone, rushed toward the scene of the accident, calling on Russ to follow and yelling back an order to have the stretcher men and the doctor follow him.

Dr. Wherry was even then waiting in readiness, for it had been feared that this big scene might result painfully, if not dangerously, for more than one. Some men had also been detailed as stretcher bearers and were in waiting.

"Shall we film this?" asked one of Russ's helpers, as the former dashed past on his way to help Estelle.

"No. Don't take that accident. It won't fit in with the rest of the film. It's all right up to that point, though. We can make a retake of the last few feet if we have to."

Even in this time of danger and suspense it was necessary to think of the play. That must go on, no matter what happened to the players.

"Go on with the cavalry charge—farther over!" directed Mr. Pertell, when he arrived on the scene and found a group of men about the fallen girl. "You can't do any good here. We'll look after her. I can't delay any longer on this scene. Go on with the charge, and carry out the program as it was outlined to you. Russ, you look after the camera men."

"What about Estelle?"

"Dr. Wherry and I will see to her."

The girl's golden hair was tumbled about her head, having come loose and fallen from under her hat in her fall. She lay in a senseless heap at one side of her horse. The animal had not gotten up, and at first it was thought he had been killed. But it developed that Estelle had trained him to play "dead" after a fall of this kind, and the intelligent creature must have thought this was one of those occasions.

"Easy with her, boys," cautioned the director, as the stretcher men tenderly picked up the limp form. "She may have some broken bones."

They placed her carefully on the stretcher and bore her to the hospital. Mrs. Maguire was ready to assist the trained nurse, who was kept ready for just such emergencies.

"The poor little dear!" exclaimed the motherly Irish woman. "Poor little dear!"

Meanwhile, the cavalry charge went on. Estelle had done her part in this. Was it the last part she was to play?

Ruth and Alice asked themselves this as they hurried toward the hospital.

"Oh, if she should be killed!" gasped Ruth.

"Wouldn't it be dreadful? And no one to tell who she really is," added Alice. "We must go to her."

"Yes, as soon as they will let us see her," agreed Ruth.

Dr. Wherry and the trained nurse were busy over the injured girl. A quick examination disclosed no broken bones, but it could not yet be told whether or not there were internal injuries. They could only wait for her to recover consciousness and hope for the best. All that could be done was done.

"Plucky little girl!" murmured Mr. Pertell, when told that Estelle was resting easily, but was still insensible. "She must have seen that she was going to have a bad fall, but she kept on and saved the film for us. We won't have to retake her scene at all—merely cut out the accident. Do your best for her, Dr. Wherry."

"I will, you may be sure."

Ruth and Alice were told that they could see Estelle as soon as she recovered consciousness, and it was safe for visitors to be admitted. And several hours after the accident the nurse, Miss Lyon, came to summon them from their room, where they were waiting.

"She has opened her eyes," Miss Lyon said.

"Did she ask for us?" Alice asked.

"I can't say that she did. She seems dazed yet. Sometimes in falls like this, where the head is injured, it is days before the patient realizes what has happened."

"Is her head injured?" Ruth inquired.

"Yes, she seems to have received a hard blow on it. Whether there is a fracture or a concussion Dr. Wherry had not yet determined. It will take a little time to decide. Meanwhile, you may see her, just for a moment."

Alice and Ruth softly entered the room where Estelle lay on a white bed. Her face was pale, but her eyes were bright. There was a subtle odor of disinfectants, of opiates and of other drugs in the room—a veritable hospital atmosphere.

"Don't startle her," cautioned the nurse, motioning for silence.

"We'll be careful," promised Alice, in a whisper.

The two sisters approached the bed. Estelle looked at them but, strange to say, there was no look of recognition in her eyes. Ruth and Alice might have been two strangers for all the notice Estelle took of them.

"She—she doesn't know us," whispered Ruth.

"She will, as soon as you speak," said Miss Lyon. "Just talk to her in a low voice, but naturally. She'll know you then, I'm sure."

"How—how are you feeling?" asked Ruth, in a whisper.

There was no response—no light of recognition in the eyes.

"A little louder and call her by name," suggested the nurse.

"You try, Alice," Ruth whispered.

Her sister stepped to the bedside.

"Estelle, don't you know me?" Alice asked.

The eyes turned in the direction of the voice.

"Were you speaking to me?" came the question, and both Ruth and Alice started at the changed tones of their friend.

"Yes, to you," Alice answered.

"I—I don't know you," was the gentle response.

"Don't you know me—Alice DeVere? And this is my sister, Ruth. Don't you know us, Estelle?"

"Is your name Estelle?" came the query.

"No, that is your name," and Alice smiled, though a cold hand seemed to be clutching at her heart. "That is your name—you are Estelle. Don't you remember?"

"Estelle what? Who is Estelle?"

"You are. You are Estelle Brown! Don't you know your own name?"

The golden head on the white pillow was slowly moved from side to side. The bright eyes showed no sign of recognition. Then came the gentle voice:

"I am not Estelle Brown. I don't know her. What do you mean? I don't know any of you. Why am I here? What has happened? I wish you would take me home at once. I live at the Palace."

"What—what does she mean?" gasped Ruth, looking in alarm at the nurse.

"I don't know. Perhaps she is delirious and imagines she is playing in the moving pictures. Was there a palace scene?"

"Not since she joined the company. But why does she deny her identity?"

"I can not say. Sometimes after an injury like this happens, people say queer things. We had better not disturb her further. I'll call Dr. Wherry."

Alice made one more effort to bring recollection to Estelle.

"Don't you know me, dear?" she asked softly. "I am Alice—your friend Alice. This is Ruth, and you are Estelle Brown, from Boston, you know."

"Boston? I was never in Boston. And I am not Estelle Brown. You must be mistaken."

Her eyes roved around the hospital room, and a look of pain and fright dimmed them. Then, seeming to fear that she had been unkind, she said gently to Alice:

"I am sorry I do not know you, for you are trying to help me, I am sure. But I never heard the name Estelle Brown. I am not she—that is certain. If you would only take me home! My people will be worried. We live at the Palace and——"

She tried to raise herself up in bed. A look of pain came over her face, and she fell back with closed eyes.

"She has fainted!" cried Miss Lyon. "I must get Dr. Wherry at once! Don't disturb her!"

She hastened off, while Ruth and Alice, not knowing what to think, went softly from the room.



CHAPTER XXV

REUNION

"Nothing but a passing fancy," said Dr. Wherry, later in the day, when Ruth and Alice questioned him about Estelle. "When a person has received a hard blow on the head, as Estelle has, the memory is often confused. She will be all right in a day or so. Rest and quiet are what she needs."

"Then she is in no immediate danger?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"None whatever, physically. She came out of that fall very well, indeed. The blow on her head stunned her, but the effects of that will pass away. She has no internal injuries that I can discover."

The last scenes of the war play were taken. The Confederates, after their final desperate stand were driven back, surrounded and captured. The "war" ended.

The regiments of cavalry took their departure. The extra players were paid off and left. A few simple scenes were yet to be taken about Oak Farm, but the big work was over, and every one was glad, for the task had been no easy one.

"Does Estelle yet admit her identity?" asked Ruth of Dr. Wherry, two days after the accident.

The physician scratched his head in perplexity.

"No, I am sorry to say she doesn't," he answered. "She does not seem to recognize that name. I wish you and your sister would come in and speak to her again. It may be she will recognize you this time. A little shock may bring her to herself. I have seen it happen in cases like this."

Ruth and Alice again went to the hospital. Estelle was still in bed, but she seemed to be better. But, as before, there was no sign of recognition in the bright eyes that gazed at the two moving picture girls.

"Don't you know me—us?" asked Alice, gently.

"Yes. You were here before, soon after I was brought here," was the answer.

"Oh, Estelle! don't you know us!" cried Ruth, in horror.

"Whom are you calling Estelle?"

"Why, you. That is your name."

"I am not she. You must be mistaken! Oh, I wish they would take me home. I want father—mother—I want Auntie Amma. Oh, why don't they come to me?"

Ruth and Alice looked at one another. What did it mean? This babbling of strange names? Was it possible that they were on the track of discovering the identity of the girl who now denied the name she had given?

"Who is your father?" asked Ruth.

"And who is Auntie Amma?" inquired Alice.

"Why, don't you know? They live with me at the Palace. And my doll. Why don't you bring my doll?"

"She is delirious again," whispered the nurse. "You had better go. Evidently, she thinks she is a child again. Her doll!"

"I want my doll! Why don't you bring me my doll?" persisted the stricken girl.

"What doll do you want?" asked Alice.

"My own doll," was the reply. "My dear doll that I always have in bed with me when I am ill; my doll Estelle Brown!"

"Estelle Brown!" cried Ruth, in sudden excitement. "Is that the name of your doll?"

"Yes! Yes! Bring her to me, please!"

"Who gave you that doll?" asked Ruth, and she waited anxiously for the answer.

"My doll—my doll Estelle Brown. Why, my daddy gave her to me, of course. My father!"

"And what was your father's name?" asked Ruth in a tense voice.

She and Alice and the nurse leaned forward in eager expectation. They all recognized that a crisis was at hand. Would the stricken girl give an answer that would be a clue to her identity—the identity she had denied? Or would her words trail off into the meaningless babble of the afflicted?

"What is your father's name?" Ruth repeated.

The girl in the bed raised herself to a sitting position. She looked at the DeVere sisters—at the trained nurse. In her eyes now there was not so much brightness as there was weariness and pain.

And also there was more of the light of understanding. She looked from one to the other. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. It was a tense moment. Would she be able to answer? Would the obviously injured brain be able to sift out the right reply from the mass of words that hitherto had been meaningless?

"What is your father's name?" repeated Ruth in calm, even tones. "Your father who gave you the doll, Estelle Brown? Who is he?"

Like a flash of lightning from the clear sky came the answer.

"Why, he is Daddy Passamore, of course!"

"Passamore!" gasped Alice. "Passamore?"

"Is your name Passamore?" whispered Ruth.

"Yes, I am Mildred Passamore. My father is Jared Passamore of San Francisco. I don't know why I am here, except that I was hurt in the railroad accident. If you will telegraph to my father, at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, he will come and get me. And please tell him to bring my doll, Estelle Brown.

"I know it seems silly for a big girl like me to have a doll," went on the injured one. "But ever since I was a child I have had Estelle with me when I was ill. I am ill now, but I feel better than I did. So telegraph to Daddy Passamore to bring Estelle Brown with him when he comes for me. And tell him I was not badly hurt in the wreck."

And with that, before the wondering eyes of the nurse, of Alice and of Ruth, Estelle Brown—no—Mildred Passamore, turned over and calmly went to sleep!

For an instant those in the hospital room neither moved nor spoke. Then Alice cried:

"That solves it! That ends the mystery! I'll go and get the paper."

"What paper?" asked Ruth.

"Don't you remember? The old paper that I wrapped my scout shoes in when we were packing to come to Oak Farm. The one that father saved because it had a theatrical notice of him in it.

"It was that four-year-old paper which contained an account of the strange disappearance of the wealthy San Francisco girl, Mildred Passamore. Don't you remember? There was a reward of ten thousand dollars offered for her discovery."

"Oh, I do remember!" gasped Ruth. "And this is she!"

"Must be!" declared Alice. "She says that's her name. And from what she told us she can, as Estelle Brown, think back only about four years. She must have received some injury that took away her memory. Now she is herself again.

"Ruth, I believe we have found the missing Mildred Passamore! We must tell daddy at once, and Mr. Pertell. Then we must telegraph Mr. Passamore. I'll get his address from the old paper. But the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, will reach him, I presume. Oh, isn't it all wonderful!"

"It certainly is," agreed Ruth.

They gave one glance at the sleeping girl—Mildred or Estelle—and then went out, while Miss Lyon summoned Dr. Wherry to acquaint him with the strange turn of the case.

"Mildred Passamore found! How wonderful!" exclaimed Mr. DeVere, when his daughters told him what had happened. "But we must make sure. It would be a sad affair if we sent word to the father, and it turned out that this girl was not his daughter. We must make sure."

Alice got out the old paper. It contained a description of the missing Mildred Passamore, and in another newspaper dated a few days before the one Alice had used as a wrapper for her shoes (another paper which Mr. DeVere had saved because of a notice in it) was a picture of the girl.

"It is she! Our girl—the one we knew as Estelle Brown—is Mildred Passamore!" cried Alice as she looked at the picture in the paper.

"There is no doubt of it," agreed Ruth, and Mr. DeVere affirmed his daughters' opinions.

Mr. Pertell was told of the occurrence, and, being a good judge of pictures and persons, he decided there was no doubt as to the identity.

"We will telegraph to Mr. Passamore at once," decided the director.

The crisis—for such it was in the case of the injured girl—seemed to mark a turn for the better. She slept nearly forty-eight hours, awakening only to take a little nourishment. Then she slept again. She did not again mention any names, nor, in fact, anything else. Her friends could only wait for the arrival of Mr. Passamore to have him make sure of the identity.

He had sent a message in answer to the one from Mr. Pertell saying that he and his wife were hastening across the continent in a special train.

"That means he hasn't found his daughter up to this time," said the manager, "and there is every chance that this girl is she."

Three days after her startling announcement Estelle or Mildred, as she was variously called, was much better. She sat up and seemed to be in her right mind.

"I don't in the least know what it is all about, nor how I came here," she said, smiling. "The last I remember is being in a railroad train on my way from San Francisco to visit relatives in Seattle. There was a crash, and the next I knew I found myself in bed here. I presume you brought me here from the train wreck."

"Yes, you were brought here after the—the—ah, accident," said Mr. Pertell, lamely.

"The nurse tells me you are a moving picture company," went on Mildred. "I shall be interested to see how you act. I always had a half-formed desire to be a moving picture actress, but I know Daddy Passamore would never consent to it."

"And she's been in the films for three years or more, and doesn't remember a thing about it!" murmured Alice. "Good-night!"

"Alice!" rebuked her sister. But Alice, for once, did not care for Ruth's rebuke. Her astonishment was too great. And it was a queer case.

"We must be very careful!" said Dr. Wherry when, after a swift ride across the continent, Mr. Passamore and his wife reached Oak Farm. "We must not startle the patient."

"Oh, but I want to see my little girl!" cried the mother, with tears in her eyes. "My little girl whom I thought gone for ever!"

"I hope this will prove to be she," said Mr. DeVere.

"I'm sure it will!" cried the father. "No one but Mildred would remember her old doll—Estelle Brown!" and he held up a battered toy.

Softly, the parents entered the room. The girl on the bed heard some one come in, and sat up. There was a look of joy and happiness on her face; and yet it was not such as would come after a separation of four years. It was as if she had only separated from her loved ones a few hours before.

"Oh, Daddy! Momsey!" she cried. "I did so want you! And did you bring Estelle Brown?"

"My little girl! My own little lost girl!" cried Mrs. Passamore. "Oh, after all these years—when we had given you up for dead!"

"After all these years? Why, Momsey, I left you only two days ago to go to Seattle. There must have been a wreck or something; for I heard a dreadful crash, and then I awakened here with these nice moving picture folk. They were on the same train, I guess."

Dr. Wherry made the parents a signal not to tell the secret just yet.

"And did you bring Estelle?" asked Mildred.

"Yes, here is your doll!" and as Mr. Passamore handed it to his daughter he and his wife exchanged tearful glances of joy. The lost had been found.

It was a scene of rejoicing at Oak Farm, and the moving picture girls came in for a big share of praise. For had it not been for the fact that Alice had seen the paper containing the account of the missing girl and saved it, the identity of Mildred might not have been disclosed for some time.

Finally, she was told what had happened; that for four years she had been another person—Estelle Brown—a name she had taken after the awakening following the railroad accident because of some kink in the brain that retained the memory of the doll.

"Then Lieutenant Varley was right, he must have seen you in Portland," said Alice, when explanations were being made.

"He must have," admitted Mildred. "But I don't understand how it happened."

Later on it was all made clear.

Mildred Passamore, the daughter of a wealthy family, living temporarily at the Palace Hotel, in San Francisco, had started on a trip to visit relatives in Seattle. She was well supplied with money.

The train Mildred was on was wrecked near Portland, Oregon, and the girl received a blow on her head that caused her to lose her sense of identity completely. She did not seem to be hurt, and she was not in need of medical aid. Without assistance, she got on the relief train that took the injured in to Portland, and there it was that Lieutenant Varley saw her in the station.

Through some vagary of her brain, Mildred imagined she wanted to go to New York, and, as she had plenty of money, she bought a ticket for that city, the one to Seattle having been lost. Lieutenant Varley had helped her and, though he suspected something was wrong with the young lady the impression with him was not very strong until it was too late to be of assistance to her.

So, her identity completely lost, Mildred started on her trip across the continent. What happened on that journey she never could recollect clearly. That she got on the Great Lakes and then went to Boston was established. The reason for that was that, as a child, she had lived there. This accounted for the toilet set her mother had given her, and for the recollection of the monument and the historic places.

Why she was attracted to moving pictures could only be guessed at, but she "broke in," and "made good." Her ability to ride was easily explained. Her father owned a big stock farm, and Mildred had ridden since a child. But all this, as well as other remembrances of her younger days, was lost after the injury to her head in the railroad accident. She retained but one strongly marked memory—the name of her doll, the name which she took for her own.

So, as a new personage, she came to Oak Farm, unable to think back more than four years, and totally without suspicion that she was the missing Mildred Passamore. That she was not recognized as the missing girl was not strange, since the search in the East had not been prosecuted as vigorously as it had been in the West.

Mr. and Mrs. Passamore, hearing that the train on which their daughter was traveling had been wrecked, hastened to Portland, but there they could find no trace of Mildred. Lieutenant Varley, who might have given a clue, had sailed for Europe the day after his meeting with Mildred. Then began the search which lasted four years, and had now come to an end at Oak Farm.

"And to think that I have been two persons all this while!" exclaimed Mildred, when explanations had been made, and she was on the road to recovery. "But what made my memory come back?"

"The same thing that took it from you," explained Dr. Wherry. "It was the blow you received on the head when you fell from your horse. There had been a pressure on your brain, from the railroad crash, and the fall from your horse relieved it, so you came to yourself."

"Oh, I wonder if I could have taken Miss Dixon's ring in my second personality?" asked Mildred one day, when various happenings were being explained to her.

"No, you didn't!" exclaimed Alice. "It was found down under the carpet, back of her bureau. A maid discovered it there when cleaning. And that snip of a Miss Dixon left without apologizing to you."

"Oh, it doesn't matter, since I am not Estelle Brown, and my doll doesn't care what they say about her!" laughed Mildred. Miss Dixon and her friend had left Oak Farm to go back to New York, for their part in the pictures was finished for the time being.

"And to think that I really became a movie actress, after all!" laughed Estelle. "I think I shall continue in it, Daddy! It must be fun, though I don't recollect anything about it."

"No you sha'n't!" laughed Mr. Passamore. "Your mother and I want you at home for a while."

There is little more to tell.

Mildred Passamore rapidly recovered her health and strength. Her part in the pictures was finished and though he did not exactly relish the appearance on the screen of his daughter in battle scenes, the millionaire, realizing what his refusal would mean to Mr. Pertell, made no objections. Besides, it was Estelle Brown who was filmed, not Miss Passamore.

"Well, what is next on the program?" asked Alice of the director one day, after several other war plays had been made and when they were about to leave Oak Farm, to go back to New York.

"Oh, I think I'm going to get out a big film entitled 'Life in the Slums.' You and Ruth will play the star parts."

"No!" laughed Alice. "Not since we became millionaires. You will have to cast us for rich girls. Mr. Passamore gave us the ten thousand dollars reward, you know."

"All right!" laughed the director, "then I'll bill you as the rich-poor girls."

Before going back to San Francisco with Mildred, Mr. Passamore had insisted that Ruth and Alice take the reward, as it was through their agency that he received word of his daughter's whereabouts. But Ruth and Alice insisted on sharing their good fortune with their friends in the company, so all benefited from it.

The day came for the moving picture players to leave Oak Farm.

"Good-bye, Sandy!" called Alice to the young farmer. "I suppose you're glad to see the last of us!"

"Well, not exactly, no'm! Still, I'll be glad not to see houses and barns that have only fronts to 'em, and there won't be no more mistakes made trying to haul up water from a well that's only made of painted muslin. I'll try an' get back to real life for a change!"

The big war play was over. It was a big success when shown on the screen, and the pictures of Ruth, Alice and Mildred—or Estelle Brown, as she was billed—came out well. The fight where Paul and his men were nearly blown up was most realistic.

"You girls are not going to retire, just because you have a little money, are you?" asked Russ of Ruth, one day, when they were back in New York.

"Indeed, we're not!" cried Alice. "And I wouldn't be surprised if Mildred joined us. I had a letter from her the other day, and, after seeing herself on the screen, she says she is crazy to do it all over again. Give up the movies? Never!"

And it remains for time to show what further fame the Moving Picture Girls won in the silent drama. For the present, we will say farewell.



* * * * *



Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors corrected.

Page 27, "proping" changed to "propping". (propping it up)

Page 34, "himmel" changed to "Himmel". (Ach Himmel! Ach!)

Page 93, "bruskly" changed to "brusquely". (Miss Dixon brusquely)

Page 94, "Devere" changed to "DeVere". (In fact, Mr. DeVere)

Page 95, "property" changed to "proper". (the proper Civil)

THE END