Chapter 3

the horizon, suddenly awoke, blushing and smiling in the rosy light. Then, as rays of living flame shot upward, mingling with the crimson waves and changing them to molten gold, the snowy caps of the higher peaks were transformed to jewelled crowns. There was a moment of transcendent beauty, then, in a burst of glory, the sun appeared.

"That is a sight I shall never forget, and one I shall try to see often," Darrell said, as they retraced their steps to the cabin.

"You will never find it twice the same," Mr. Britton answered; "Nature varies her gifts so that to her true lovers they will not pall."

After breakfast they again strolled out into the sunlight, Mr. Britton seating himself upon a projecting ledge of granite, while Darrell threw himself down upon the mountain grass, his head resting within his clasped hands.

"What an ideal spot for my work!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Britton smiled. "I fear you would never accomplish much with me here. I must return to the city soon, or you will degenerate into a confirmed idler."

"I have often thought," said Darrell, reflectively, "that when I have completed this work I would like to attempt a novel. It seems as though there is plenty of material out here for a strong one. Think of the lives one comes in contact with almost daily--stranger than fiction, every one!"

"Your own, for instance," Mr. Britton suggested.

"Yours also," Darrell replied, in low tones; "the story of your life, if rightly told, would do more to uplift men's souls than nine-tenths of the sermons."

"The story of my life, my son, will never be told to any ear other than your own, and I trust to your love for me that it will go no farther."

"Of that you can rest assured," Darrell replied.

As the sun climbed towards the zenith they returned to the cabin and seated themselves on a broad settee of rustic work under an overhanging vine near the cabin door.

"I have been wondering ever since I came here," said Darrell, "how you ever discovered such a place as this. It is so unique and so appropriate to the surroundings."

"I discovered," said Mr. Britton, with slight emphasis on the word, "only the 'surroundings.' The cabin is my own work."

"What! do you mean to say that you built it?"

"Yes, little by little. At first it was hardly more than a rude shelter, but I gradually enlarged it and beautified it, trying always, as you say, to keep it in harmony with its surroundings."

"Then you are an artist and a genius."

"But that is not the only work I did during the first months of my life here. Come with me and I will show you."

He led the way along the trail, farther up the mountain, till a sharp turn hid him from view. Darrell, following closely, came upon the entrance of an incline shaft leading into the mountain. Just within he saw Mr. Britton lighting two candles which he had taken from a rocky ledge; one of these he handed to Darrell, and then proceeded down the shaft.

"A mine!" Darrell exclaimed.

"Yes, and a valuable one, were it only accessible so that it could be developed without enormous expense; but that is out of the question."

The underground workings were not extensive, but the vein was one of exceptional richness. When they emerged later Darrell brought with him some specimens and a tiny nugget of gold as souvenirs.

"The first season," said Mr. Britton, "I worked the mine and built the cabin as a shelter for the coming winter. The winter months I spent in hunting and trapping when I could go out in the mountains, and hibernated during the long storms. Early in the spring I began mining again and worked the following season. By that time I was ready to start forth into the world, so I gave Peter an interest in the mine, and he works it from time to time, doing little more than the representation each year."

As they descended towards the cabin Mr. Britton continued: "I have shown you this that you may the better understand the story I have to tell you before I leave you as sole occupant of the Hermitage."

_Chapter XXVI_

JOHN BRITTON'S STORY

Evening found Darrell and his friend seated on the rocks watching the sunset. Mr. Britton was unusually silent, and Darrell, through a sort of intuitive sympathy, refrained from breaking the silence. At last, as the glow was fading from earth and sky, Mr. Britton said,--

"I have chosen this day and this hour to tell you my story, because, being the anniversary of my wedding, it seemed peculiarly appropriate. Twenty-eight years ago, at sunset, on such a royal day as this, we were married--my love and I."

He spoke with an unnatural calmness, as though it were another's story he was telling.

"I was young, with a decided aptitude for commercial life, ambitious, determined to make my way in life, but with little capital besides sound health and a good education. She was the daughter of a wealthy man. We speak in this country of 'mining kings;' he might be denominated an 'agricultural king.' He prided himself upon his hundreds of fertile acres, his miles of forest, his immense dairy, his blooded horses, his magnificent barns and granaries, his beautiful home. She was the younger daughter--his especial pet and pride. For a while, as a friend and acquaintance of his two daughters, I was welcome at his home; later, as a lover of the younger, I was banished and its doors closed against me. Our love was no foolish boy and girl romance, and we had no word of kindly counsel; only unreasoning, stubborn opposition. What followed was only what might have been expected. Strong in our love for and trust in each other, we went to a neighboring village, and, going to a little country parsonage, were married, without one thought of the madness, the folly of what we were doing. We found the minister and his family seated outside the house under a sort of arbor of flowering shrubs, and I remember it was her wish that the ceremony be performed there. Never can I forget her as she stood there, her hand trembling in mine at the strangeness of the situation, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her lips quivering as she made the responses, the slanting sunbeams kissing her hair and brow and the fragrant, snowy petals of the mock-orange falling about her.

"A few weeks of unalloyed happiness followed; then gradually my eyes were opened to the wrong I had done her. My heart smote me as I saw her, day by day, performing household tasks to which she was unaccustomed, subjected to petty trials and privations, denying herself in many little ways in order to help me. She never murmured, but her very fortitude and cheerfulness were a constant reproach to me.

"But a few months elapsed when we found that another was coming to share our home and our love. We rejoiced together, but my heart reproached me more bitterly than ever as I realized how ill prepared she was for what awaited her. Our trials and privations brought us only closer to each other, but my brain was racked with anxiety and my heart bled as day by day I saw the dawning motherhood in her eyes,--the growing tenderness, the look of sweet, wondering expectancy. I grew desperate.

"From a booming western city came reports of marvellous openings for business men--of small investments bringing swift and large returns. I placed my wife in the care of a good, motherly woman and bade her good-by, while she, brave heart, without a tear, bade me God-speed. I went there determined to win, to make a home to which I would bring both wife and child later. For three months I made money, sending half to her, and investing every cent which I did not absolutely need of the other half. Then came tales from a mining district still farther west, of fabulous fortunes made in a month, a week, sometimes a day. What was the use of dallying where I was? I hastened to the mining camp. In less than a week I had 'struck it rich,' and knew that in all probability I would within a month draw out a fortune.

"Just at this time the letters from home ceased. For seven days I heard nothing, and half mad with anxiety and suspense I awaited each night the incoming train to bring me tidings. One night, just as the train was about to leave, I caught sight of a former acquaintance from a neighboring village, bound for a camp yet farther west, and, as I greeted him, he told me in few words and pitying tones of the death of my wife and child."

For a moment Mr. Britton paused, and Darrell drew instinctively nearer, though saying nothing.

"I have no distinct recollection of what followed. I was told afterwards that friendly hands caught me as the train started, to save me from being crushed beneath the wheels. For three months I wandered from one mining camp to another, working mechanically, with no thought or care as to success or failure. An old miner from the first camp who had taken a liking to me followed me in my wanderings and worked beside me, caring for me and guarding my savings as though he had been a father. The old fellow never left me, nor I him, until his death three years later. He taught me many valuable points in practical mining, and I think his rough but kindly care was all that saved me from insanity during those years.

"After his death I brooded over my grief till I became nearly frenzied. I could not banish the thought that but for my rashness and foolishness in taking her from her home my wife might still have been living. To myself I seemed little short of a murderer. I left the camp and wandered, night and day, afar into the mountains. I came to this mountain on which we are sitting and climbed nearly to the top. God was there, but, like Jacob of old, 'I knew it not.' But something seemed to speak to me out of the infinite silence, calming my frenzied brain and soothing my troubled soul. I sat there till the stars appeared, and then I sank into a deep, peaceful sleep--the first in years. When I awoke the sun was shining in my face, and, though the old pain still throbbed, I had a sense of new strength with which to bear it. I ate of the food I carried with me and drank from a mountain stream--the same that trickles past us now, only nearer its source. The place fascinated me; I dared not leave it, and I spent the day in wandering up and down the rocks. My steps were guided to the mine I showed you to-day. I saw the indications of richness there, and, overturning the earth with my pick, found gold among the very grassroots. Then followed the life of which I have already given you an outline.

"For a while I worked in pain and anguish, but gradually, in the solitude of the mountains, my spirit found peace; against their infinity my life with its burden dwindled to an atom, and from the lesson of their centuries of silent waiting I gathered strength and fortitude to await my appointed time.

"But after a time God spoke to me and bade me go forth from my solitude into the world, to comfort other sorrowing souls as I had been comforted. From that time I have travelled almost constantly. I have no home; I wish none. I want to bring comfort and help to as many of earth's sorrowing, sinning children as possible; but when the old wound bleeds afresh and the pain becomes more than I can bear I flee as a bird to my mountain for balm and healing. Do you wonder, my son, that the place is sacred to me? Do you understand my love for you in bringing you here?"

Darrell sat with bowed head, speechless, but one hand went out to Mr. Britton, which the latter clasped in both his own.

When at last he raised his head he exclaimed, "Strange! but your story has wrung my soul! It seems in some inexplicable way a part of my very life!"

"Our souls seem united by some mystic tie--I cannot explain what, unless it be that in some respects our sufferings have been similar."

"Mine have been as nothing to yours," Darrell replied. A moment later he added:

"I feel as one in a dream; what you have told me has taken such hold upon me."

Night had fallen when they returned to the cabin.

"This seems hallowed ground to me now," Darrell remarked.

"It has always seemed so to me," Mr. Britton replied; "but remember, so long as you have need of the place it is always open to you."

"'Until the day break and the shadows flee away,'" Darrell responded, in low tones, as though to himself.

Mr. Britton caught his meaning. "My son," he said, "when the day breaks for you do not forget those who still sit in darkness!"

_Chapter XXVII_

THE RENDING OF THE VEIL

The story of Mr. Britton's life impressed Darrell deeply. In the days following his friend's departure he would sit for hours revolving it in his mind, unable to rid himself of the impression that it was in some way connected with his own life. Impelled by some motive he could scarcely explain, he recorded it in his journal as told by Mr. Britton as nearly as he could recall it.

Left to himself he worked with unabated ardor, but his work soon grew unsatisfying. The inspiring nature of his surroundings seemed to stimulate him to higher effort and loftier work, which should call into play the imaginative faculties and in which the brain would be free to weave its own creations. Stronger within him grew the desire to write a novel which should have in it something of the power, the force, of the strenuous western life,--something which would seem, in a measure at least, worthy of his surroundings. His day's work ended, he would walk up and down the rocks, sometimes far into the night, the plot for this story forming within his brain, till at last its outlines grew distinct and he knew the thing that was to be, as the sculptor knows what will come forth at his bidding from the lifeless marble. He made a careful synopsis of the plot that nothing might escape him in the uncertain future, and then began to write.

The order of his work was now reversed, the new undertaking being given his first and best thought; then, when imagination wearied and refused to rise above the realms of fact, he fell back upon his scientific work as a rest from the other. Thus employed the weeks passed with incredible swiftness, the monotony broken by an occasional visit from Mr. Britton, until August came, its hot breath turning the grasses sere and brown.

One evening Darrell came forth from his work at a later hour than usual. His mind had been unusually active, his imagination vivid, but, wearied at last, he was compelled to stop short of the task he had set for himself.

The heat had been intense that day, and the atmosphere seemed peculiarly oppressive. The sun was sinking amid light clouds of gorgeous tints, and as Darrell watched their changing outlines they seemed fit emblems of the thoughts at that moment baffling his weary brain,--elusive, intangible, presenting themselves in numberless forms, yet always beyond his grasp.

Standing erect, with arms folded, his pose indicated conscious strength, and the face lifted to the evening sky was one which would have commanded attention amid a sea of human faces. Two years had wrought wondrous changes in it. Strength and firmness were there still, but sweetness was mingled with the strength, and the old, indomitable will was tempered with gentleness. All the finer susceptibilities had been awakened and had left their impress there. Introspection had done its work. It was the face of a man who knew himself and had conquered himself. The sculptor's work was almost complete.

Not a breath stirred the air, which moment by moment grew more oppressive, presaging a coming storm. Darrell was suddenly filled with a strange unrest--a presentiment of some impending catastrophe. For a while he walked restlessly up and down the narrow plateau; then, seating himself in front of the cabin, he bowed his head upon his hands, shutting out all sight and thought of the present, for his mind seemed teeming with vague, shadowy forms of the past. Duke came near and laid his head against his master's shoulder, and the twilight deepened around them both.

Far up the neighboring mountain a mighty engine loomed out from the gathering darkness--a fiery-headed monster--and with its long train of coaches crawled serpent-like around the rocky height, then vanished as it came. The clouds which had been roving indolently across the western horizon suddenly formed in line and moved steadily--a solid battalion--upward towards the zenith, while from the east another phalanx, black and threatening, advanced with low, wrathful mutterings.

Unmindful of the approaching storm Darrell sat, silent and motionless, till a sudden peal of thunder--the first note of the impending battle--roused him from his revery. Springing to his feet he watched the rapidly advancing armies marshalling their forces upon the battle-ground. Another roll of thunder, and the conflict began. Up and down the mountain passes the winds rushed wildly, shrieking like demons. Around the lofty summits the lightnings played like the burnished swords of giants in mortal combat, while peal after peal resounded through the vast spaces, reverberated from peak to peak, echoed and re-echoed, till the rocks themselves seemed to tremble.

With quickening pulse and bated breath Darrell watched the storm,--fascinated, entranced,--while emotions he could neither understand nor control surged through his breast. More and more fiercely the battle waged; more swift and brilliant grew the sword-play, while the roar of heaven's artillery grew louder and louder. His spirit rose with the strife, filling him with a strange sense of exaltation.

Suddenly the universe seemed wrapped in flame, there was a deafening crash as though the eternal hills were being rent asunder, and then--oblivion!

When that instant of blinding light and deafening sound had passed John Darrell lay prostrate, unconscious on the rocks.

_Chapter XXVIII_

"AS A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH"

As the morning sun arose over the snowy summits of the Great Divide, the sleeper on the rocks stirred restlessly; then gradually awoke to consciousness--a delightful consciousness of renewed life and vigor, a subtle sense of revivification of body and mind. The racking pain, the burning fever, the legions of torturing phantoms, all were gone; his pulse was calm, his blood cool, his brain clear.

With a sigh of deep content he opened his eyes; then suddenly rose to a sitting posture and gazed about him in utter bewilderment; above him only the boundless dome of heaven, around him only endless mountain ranges! Dazed by the strangeness, the isolation of the scene, he began for an instant to doubt his sanity; was this a reality or a chimera of his own imagination? But only for an instant, for with his first movement a large collie had bounded to his side and now began licking his hands and face with the most joyful demonstrations. There was something soothing and reassuring in the companionship even of the dumb brute, and he caressed the noble creature, confident that he would soon find some sign of human life in that strange region; but the dog, reading no look of recognition in the face beside him, drew back and began whining piteously.

Perplexed, but with his faculties thoroughly aroused and active, the young man sprang to his feet, and, looking eagerly about him, discovered at a little distance the cabin against the mountain ledge. Hastening thither he found the door open, and, after vainly waiting for any response to his knocking, entered.

The furnishings were mostly hand-made, but fashioned with considerable artistic skill, and contributed to give the interior a most attractive appearance, while etchings, books and papers, pages of written manuscript, and a violin indicated its occupants to be a man of refined tastes and studious habits. The dog had accompanied him, sometimes following closely, sometimes going on in advance as though to lead the way. Once within the cabin he led him to the store-room in the rock where was an abundance of food, which the latter proceeded to divide between himself and his dumb guide.

Having satisfied his hunger, the young man took a newspaper from the table, and, going outside the cabin, seated himself to await the return of his unknown host. Sitting there, he discovered for the first time the railway winding around the sides of the lofty mountain opposite. The sight filled him with delight, for those slender rails, gleaming in the morning sunlight, seemed to connect him with the world which he remembered, but from which he appeared so strangely isolated.

Unfolding the newspaper his attention was attracted by the date, at which he gazed in consternation, his eyes riveted to the page. For a moment his head swam, he was unable to believe his own senses. Dropping the sheet and bowing his head upon his hands he went carefully over the past as he now remembered it,--the business on which he had been commissioned to come west; his journey westward; the tragedy in the sleeping-car--he shuddered as the memory of the murderer's face flashed before him with terrible distinctness; his reception at The Pines,--all was as clear as though it had happened but yesterday; it was in August, and this was August, but two years later! Great God! had two years dropped out of his life? Again he recalled his illness, the long agony, the final sinking into oblivion, the strange awakening in perfect health; yes, surely there must be a missing link; but how? where?

He rose to re-enter the cabin, and, passing the window, caught a glimpse of his face reflected there; a face like, and yet unlike, his own, and crowned with snow-white hair! In doubt and bewilderment he paced up and down within the cabin, vainly striving to connect these fragmentary parts, to reconcile the present with the past. As he passed and repassed the table covered with manuscript his attention was attracted by an odd-looking volume bound in flexible morocco and containing several hundred pages of written matter. It lay partly open in a conspicuous place, and upon the fly-leaf was written, in large, bold characters,--

"To my Other Self, should he awaken."

He could not banish the words from his mind; they drew him with irresistible magnetism. Again and again he read them, until, impelled by some power he could not explain, he seized the volume and, seating himself in the doorway of the cabin, proceeded to examine it. Lifting the fly-leaf, he read the following inscription:

"To one from the outer world, whose identity is hidden among the secrets of the past:

"With the hope that when the veil is lifted, these pages may assist him in uniting into one perfect whole the strangely disjointed portions of his life, they are inscribed by

"JOHN DARRELL."

He smiled as he read the name and recalled the circumstances under which he had taken it, but he no longer felt any hesitation regarding the volume in his hands, and he began to read. It was written as a communication from one stranger to another, from the mountain recluse to one of whose life he had not the slightest knowledge; but he knew without doubt that it was addressed to himself, yet written by himself,--that writer and reader were one and the same.

For more than two hours he read on and on, deeply absorbed in the tale of that solitary life, his own heart responding to each note of joy or sorrow, of hope or despair, and vibrating to the undertone of loneliness and longing running through it all.

He strove vainly to recall the characters in the strange drama in which he had played his part but of which he had now no distinct recollection; dimly they passed before his vision like the shadowy phantoms of a dream from which one has just awakened. He started at the first mention of John Britton's name, eagerly following each outline of that noble character, his heart kindling with affection as he read his words of loving, helpful counsel. His face grew tender and his eyes filled at the love-story, so pathetically brief, faithfully transcribed on those pages, but of Kate Underwood he could only recall a slender girl with golden-brown hair and wistful, appealing brown eyes; he wondered at the strength of character shown by her speech and conduct, and his heart went out to this unknown love, notwithstanding that memory now showed him the picture of another and earlier love in the far East.

But it was the story of John Britton's life which moved him most. With strained, eager eyes and bated breath he read that sad recital, and at its termination, buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child.

When he had grown calm he sat for some time reviewing the past and forming plans for future action. While thus absorbed in thought he heard a step, and, looking up, saw standing before him a man of apparently sixty years, with bronzed face and grizzled hair, whose small, piercing eyes regarded himself with keen scrutiny. In response to the younger man's greeting he only bowed silently.

"You must be Peter, the hermit," the young man exclaimed; "but whoever you are, you are welcome; I am glad to see a human face."

"And you," replied the other, slowly, "you are not the same man that you were yesterday; you have awakened, as he said you would some day."

"As who said?" the young man questioned.

"John Britton," the other replied.

"Yes, I have awakened, and my life here is like a dream. Sit down, Peter; I want to ask you some questions."

For half an hour they sat together, the younger man asking questions, the other answering in as few words as possible, his keen eyes never leaving the face of his interlocutor.

"Where is this John Britton?" the young man finally inquired.

"In Ophir--at a place called The Pines."

"I know the place; I remember it. How far is it from here?"

"Fifteen miles by rail from the station at the foot of the mountain."

"I must go to him at once; you will show me the way. How soon can we get away from here?"

Peter glanced at the sun. "We cannot get down the trail in season for to-day's train. We will start to-morrow morning."

Without further speech he then went into the cabin and busied himself with his accustomed duties. When he reappeared he again stood silently regarding the younger man with his fixed, penetrating gaze.

"What awakened you?" he asked, at length.

The abruptness of the question, as well as its tenor, startled the other; that was a phase of the mystery surrounding himself of which he had not even thought.

"I do not know," he replied, slowly; "that question had not occurred to me before. What do you think? Might it not have come about in the ordinary sequence of events?"

Peter shook his head. "Not likely," he muttered; "there must have been a shock of some kind."

The young man smiled brightly. "Well, I cannot answer for yesterday's events," he said, "having neither record nor recollection of the day; but I certainly sustained a shock this morning on awaking on the bare rocks at such an altitude as this and with no trace of a human being visible!"

"On the rocks!" Peter repeated; "where?"

"Yonder," said the young man, indicating the direction; "come, I will show you the exact spot."

He led the way to his rocky bed, near one end of the plateau, then watched his companion's movements as he knelt down and carefully inspected the rock, then, rising to his feet, looked searchingly in every direction with his ferret-like glance.

"Ah!" the latter suddenly exclaimed, with emphasis, at the same time pointing to a rock almost overhanging their heads.

Following the direction indicated, the young man saw a pine-tree on the edge of the overhanging rock, the entire length of its trunk split open, its branches shrivelled and blackened as though by fire.

Peter, notwithstanding his age, sprang up the rocks with the agility of a panther, the younger man following more slowly. As he came up Peter turned from an examination of the dead tree and looked at him significantly.

"An electric shock!" he said; "that was a living tree yesterday. There was an electric storm last night, the worst in years; it brought death to the tree, but life to you."

To the younger man the words of the old hermit seemed incredible, but that night brought him a strange confirmation of their truth. Upon disrobing for the night, what was his astonishment to discover upon his right shoulder and extending downward diagonally across the right breast a long, blue mark of irregular, zigzag form, while running parallel with it its entire length, perfect as though done in India ink with an artist's pen, was the outline of the very scene surrounding him where he lay that morning--cliff and crag and mountain peak--traced indelibly upon the living flesh, an indubitable evidence of the power which had finally aroused his dormant faculties and a souvenir of the lost years which he would carry with him to his dying day.

_Chapter XXIX_

JOHN DARRELL'S STORY

On the following morning the cabin on the mountain side was closed at an early hour, and its late occupant, accompanied by Peter and the collie, descended the trail to the small station near the base of the mountain, where he took leave of the old hermit. On his arrival at Ophir he ordered a carriage and drove directly to The Pines, for he was impatient to see John Britton at as early a date as possible, and was fearful lest the latter, with his migratory habits, might escape him.

It was near noon when, having dismissed the carriage, he rang for admission. He recalled the house and grounds as they appeared to him on his first arrival, but he found it hard to realize that he was looking upon the scenes among which most of that strange drama of the last two years had been enacted. Mr. Underwood himself came to the door.

"Why, Darrell, my boy, how do you do?" he exclaimed, shaking hands heartily; "thought you'd take us by surprise, eh? Got a little tired of living alone, I guess, and thought you'd come back to your friends. Well, it's mighty good to see you; come in; we'll have lunch in about an hour."

To Mr. Underwood's surprise the young man did not immediately accept the invitation to come in, but seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Underwood," he responded, pleasantly, but with a shade of reserve in his manner; "I remember you very well, indeed, and probably yours is about the only face I will be able to recall."

For a moment Mr. Underwood seemed staggered, unable to comprehend the meaning of the other's words.

The young man continued: "I understand Mr. Britton is stopping with you; is he still here, or has he left?"

"He is here," Mr. Underwood replied; "but, good God! Darrell, what does this mean?"

Before the other could reply Mr. Britton, who was in an adjoining room and had overheard the colloquy, came quickly forward. He gave a swift, penetrating glance into the young man's face, then, turning to Mr. Underwood, said,--

"It means, David, that our young friend has come to his own again. He is no longer of our world or of us."

Then turning to the young man, he said, "I am John Britton; do you wish to see me?"

The other looked earnestly into the face of the speaker, and his own features betrayed emotion as he replied,--

"I do; I must see you on especially important business."

"David, you will let us have the use of your private room for a while?" Mr. Britton inquired.

Mr. Underwood nodded silently, his eyes fixed with a troubled expression upon the young man's face. The latter, observing his distress, said,--

"Don't think, Mr. Underwood, that I am insensible to all your kindness to me since my coming here two years ago. I shall see you later and show you that I am not lacking in appreciation, though I can never express my gratitude to you; but before I can do that--before I can even tell you who I am--it is necessary that I see Mr. Britton."

"Tut! tut!" said Mr. Underwood, gruffly; "don't talk to me of gratitude; I don't want any; but, my God! boy, I had come to look on you almost as my own son!" And, turning abruptly, he left the room before either of the others could speak.

"He is a man of very strong feelings," said Mr. Britton, leading the way to Mr. Underwood's room; "and, to tell the truth, this is a pretty hard blow to each of us, although we should have prepared ourselves for it. Be seated, my son."

Seating himself beside the young man and again looking into his face, he said,--

"I see that the day has dawned; when did the light come, and how?"

Briefly the other related his awakening on the rocks and the events which followed down to his finding and reading the journal which recorded so faithfully the history of the missing years, Mr. Britton listening with intense interest. At last the young man said,--

"Of all the records of that journal, there was nothing that interested me so greatly or moved me so deeply as did the story of your own life. That is what brought me here to-day. I have come to tell you my story,--the story of John Darrell, as you have known him,--and possibly you may find it in some ways a counterpart to your own."

"I was drawn towards you in some inexplicable way from our first meeting," Mr. Britton replied, slowly; "you became as dear to me as a son, so that I gave you in confidence the story that no other human being has ever heard. It is needless to say that I appreciate this mark of your confidence in return, and that you can rest assured of my deepest interest in anything concerning yourself."

The younger man drew his chair nearer his companion. "As you already know," he said, "I am a mine expert. I came out here on a commission for a large eastern syndicate, and as there was likely to be lively competition and I wished to remain incognito, I took the name of John Darrell, which in reality was a part of my own name. My home is in New York State. I was a country-bred boy, brought up on one of those great farms which abound a little north of the central part of the State; but, though country-bred, I was not a rustic, for my mother, who was my principal instructor until I was about fourteen years of age, was a woman of refinement and culture. My mother and I lived at her father's house--a beautiful country home; but even while a mere child I became aware that there was some kind of an unpleasant secret in our family. My grandfather would never allow my father's name mentioned, and he had little love for me as his child; but my earliest recollections of my mother are of her kneeling with me night after night in prayer, teaching me to love and revere the father I had never known, who, she told me, was 'gone away,' and to pray always for his welfare and for his return. At fourteen I was sent away to a preparatory school, and afterwards to college. Then, as I developed a taste for mineralogy and metallurgy, I took a course in the Columbian School of Mines. By this time I had learned that while it was generally supposed my mother was a widow, there were those, my grandfather among them, who believed that my father had deserted her. My first intimation of this was an insinuation to that effect by my grandfather himself, soon after my graduation. I was an athlete and already had a good position at a fair salary, and so great was my love and reverence for my father's name that I told the old gentleman that nothing but his white hairs saved him from a sound thrashing, and that at the first repetition of any such insinuation I would take my mother from under his roof and provide a home for her myself. That sufficed to silence him effectually, for he idolized her. After this little episode I went to my mother and begged her to tell me the secret regarding my father."

The young man paused for a moment, his dark eyes gazing earnestly into the clear gray eyes watching him intently; then, without shifting his gaze, he continued, in low tones:

"She told me that about a year before my birth she and my father were married against her father's will, his only objection to the marriage being that my father was poor. She told me of their happy married life that followed, but that my father was ambitious, and the consciousness of poverty and the fact that he could not provide for her as he wished galled him. She told me how, when there was revealed to them the promise of a new love and life within their little home, he redoubled his efforts to do for her and hers, and then, dissatisfied with what he could accomplish there, went out into the new West to build a home for his little family. She told of the brave, loving letters that came so faithfully and the generous remittances to provide for every possible need in the coming emergency. Then Fortune beckoned him still farther west, and he obeyed, daring the dangers of that strange, wild country for the love he bore his wife and his unborn child. From that country only one letter ever was received from him. Just at that time I was born, and my life came near costing hers who bore me. For weeks she lay between life and death, so low that the report of her death reached her parents, bringing them broken-hearted and, as they supposed, too late to her humble home. They found her yet living and threw their love and their wealth into the battle against death. In all this time no news came from the great West. As soon as she could be moved my mother and her child were taken to her father's home. Her father forgave her, but he had no forgiveness for her husband and no love for his child. He tried to make my mother believe her husband had deserted her, but she was loyal in her trust in him as in her love for him. She named her child for his father, 'John,' but as her father would not allow the name repeated in his hearing she gave him the additional name of 'Darrell,' by which he was universally known; but in those sacred hours when she told me of my father and taught me to pray for him, she always called me by his name, 'John Britton.'"

As he ceased speaking both men rose simultaneously to their feet. The elder man placed his hands upon the shoulders of the younger, and, standing thus face to face, they looked into each other's eyes as though each were reading the other's inmost soul.

"What was your mother's name?" Mr. Britton asked, in low tones.

"Patience--Patience Jewett," replied the other.

Mr. Britton bowed his head with deep emotion, and father and son were clasped in each other's arms.

When they had grown calm enough for speech Mr. Britton's first words were of his wife.

"What of your mother, my son,--was she living when you came west?"

"Yes, but her health was delicate, and I am fearful of the effects of my long absence; it must have been a terrible strain upon her. As soon as I reached the city this morning I telegraphed an old schoolmate for tidings of her, and I am expecting an answer any moment."

They talked of the strange chain of circumstances which had brought them together and of the mysterious bond by which they had been so closely united while as yet unconscious of their relationship. The summons to lunch recalled them to the present. As they rose to leave the room Mr. Britton threw his arm affectionately about Darrell's shoulders, exclaiming,--

"My son! Mine! and I have loved you as such from the first time I looked into your eyes! If God will now only permit me to see my beloved wife again, I can ask nothing more!"

And as Darrell gazed at the noble form, towering slightly above his own, and looked into the depths of those gray eyes, penetrating, fearless, yet tender as a woman's, he felt that however sweet and sacred had been the friendship between them in the past, it was as naught compared with the infinitely sweeter and holier relationship of father and son.

They passed into the dining-room where Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean awaited them, a look of eager expectancy on both faces, the wistful expression of Mrs. Dean as she watched for the first token of recognition on Darrell's part being almost pathetic.

Mr. Britton, who had entered slightly in advance, paused half-way across the room, and, placing his hand on Darrell's shoulder, said, in a voice which vibrated with emotion,--

"My dear friends, Mrs. Dean and Mr. Underwood, allow me to introduce my son, John Darrell Britton!"

There, was a moment of strained silence in which only the labored breathing of Mr. Underwood could be heard.

"Do you mean that you have adopted him?" Mr. Underwood asked, slowly, seeming to speak with difficulty.

"No, David; he is my own flesh and blood--my legitimate son; I will explain later."

Mrs. Dean and Darrell had clasped hands and were scanning each other's faces.

"John, do you remember me?" she asked, with trembling lips.

Darrell bent his head and kissed her. "I do, Mrs. Dean," he replied.

She smiled, at the same time wiping away a tear with the corner of her white apron.

"I don't think I could have borne it if you hadn't," she remarked, simply; then, shaking hands with Mr. Britton, she added:

"I congratulate you, Mr. Britton; I congratulate you both. If ever there were two who ought to be father and son, you are the two."

Mr. Underwood wrung Darrell's hand. "I congratulate you, boy, and I'm mighty glad to find you're not a stranger to us, after all."

Then, grasping his old-time partner's hand, he added: "Jack, you old fraud! You've always got the best of me on every bargain, but I forgive you this time. I wanted the boy myself, but you seem to have the best title, so there's no use to try to jump your claim."

Lunch was just over as a messenger was announced, and a moment later a telegram was handed to Darrell. As he opened the missive his fingers trembled and Mr. Britton's face grew pale. Darrell hastily read the contents, then met his father's anxious glance with a reassuring smile.

"She is living and in usual health, though my friend says she is much more delicate than when I left."

"We must go to her at once, my boy," said Mr. Britton; "how soon can you leave?"

"In a very few hours, father; when do you wish to start?"

Mr. Britton consulted a time-table. "The east-bound express leaves at ten-thirty to-night; can we make that?"

"Sure!" Darrell responded, with an enthusiasm new to his western friends; "you can't start too soon for me, and there isn't a train that travels fast enough to take me to that little mother of mine, especially with the good news I have for her."

Half an hour later, as he was hastily gathering together his possessions, he came suddenly upon a picture, at sight of which he paused, then stood spellbound, all else for the time forgotten. It was a portrait of Kate Underwood, taken in the gown she had worn on that night of her first reception. It served as a connecting link between the past and present. Gazing at it he was able to understand how the young girl whom he faintly remembered had grown into the strong, sweet character delineated in the recorded story of his love. He was able to recall some of the scenes portrayed there; he recalled her as she stood that day on the "Divide," her head uncovered, her gleaming hair like a halo about her face, her eyes shining with a light that was not of earth.

He kissed the picture reverently. "Sweet angel of my dream!" he murmured; "come what may, you hold, and always will, a place in my heart which no other can ever take from you. I will lay your sweet face away, never again to be lifted from its hiding-place until I can look upon it as the face of my betrothed."

His trunk was packed, his preparations for departure nearly complete, when there came a gentle tap at his door, and Mrs. Dean entered.

"I was afraid," she said, speaking with some hesitation, "that you might think it strange if you did not see Katherine, and I wanted to explain that she is away. She went out of town, to be gone for a few days. She will be very sorry when she returns to find that she has missed seeing you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dean," said Darrell, slowly; "on some accounts I would have been very glad to meet Kate; but on the whole I think perhaps it is better as it is."

"I don't suppose you remember her except as you saw her when you first came," Mrs. Dean added, wistfully; "I should like to have you see her as she is now. I think she has matured into a beautiful young woman."

"Yes, I remember her, Mrs. Dean; she is beautiful."

"Oh, do you? She will be glad to hear that!" Mrs. Dean exclaimed, with a happy smile.

Darrell came nearer and took her hands within his own. "Will you give her a message from me, just as I give it to you? She will understand."

"Oh, yes; gladly."

"Tell her," said Darrell, and his voice trembled slightly, "I remember her. Tell her I will see her 'at the time appointed;' and that I never forget!"

_Chapter XXX_

AFTER MANY YEARS

The evening train, as it was known,--a local from the south,--was approaching the little village of Ellisburg, winding its way over miles of rolling country dotted with farm-houses of snowy white; to the east, rough, rugged hills surmounted by a wall of forest, while far to the west could be seen the sandy beaches and blue waters of Lake Ontario.

The arrival of this train formed one of the chief events in the daily life of the little town, and each summer evening found a group of from twenty to fifty of the village folk awaiting its incoming. To them it afforded a welcome break in the monotony of their lives, a fleeting glimpse of people and things from that vague world outside the horizon bounding their own.

Amid the usual handful of passengers left at the station on this particular evening were two who immediately drew the attention of the crowd. Two men, one something over fifty years of age, tall, with erect form and dark hair well silvered, and with a grave, sweet face; the other not more than seven-and-twenty, but with hair as white as snow, while his face wore an inscrutable look, as though the dark, piercing eyes held within their depths secrets which the sphinx-like lips would not reveal. Closely following them was a splendid collie, trying in various ways to give expression to his delight at being released from the confinement of the baggage-car.

There was a sudden, swift movement in the crowd as a young man stepped quickly forward and grasped the younger of the two by the hand.

"Darrell, old boy! is this you?" he exclaimed; "Great Scott! what have you been doing to yourself these two years?"

"Plenty of time for explanations later," said Darrell, shaking hands heartily; "Ned, I want you to know my father; father, this is my old chum, now Dr. Elliott."

The young physician's face betrayed astonishment, but he shook hands with Mr. Britton with no remarks beyond the customary greeting.

"Now, Ned," continued Darrell, "get us out of this mob as quickly as you can; I don't want to be recognized here."

"Not much danger with that white pate of yours; but come this way, my carriage is waiting. I did not let out that you were coming back, for I thought you wouldn't want any demonstration from the crowd here, so I told no one but father; he's waiting for you in the carriage."

"You're as level-headed as ever," Darrell remarked.

They reached the carriage, greetings were exchanged with Mr. Elliott, and soon the party was driving rapidly towards the village.

"We will go at once to my office," Dr. Elliott remarked to Darrell, who was seated beside himself; "we can make arrangements there as to the best method of breaking this news to your mother."

"You have told her nothing, then?" Darrell inquired.

"No; life has so many uncertainties and she has already suffered so much. You had a long journey before you; if anything had happened to detain you, it was better not to have her in suspense."

"You were right," Darrell replied; "you know I left all that to your own judgment."

"Darrell, old boy," said the doctor, inspecting his companion critically, "do satisfy my curiosity: is that white hair genuine or a wig donned for the occasion?"

"What reason could I have for any such masquerading?" Darrell demanded; "when you come to know my experience for the past two years you will not wonder that my hair is white."

"I beg your pardon, old fellow; I meant no offence. We had all given you up for dead--all but your mother; and your telegram nearly knocked me off my feet."

Here the doctor drew rein, and, fastening the horses outside, they entered his office, a small, one-story building standing close to the street in one corner of the great dooryard of his father's home, and sheltered alike from sun and storm by giant maples.

After brief consultation it was decided that as Dr. Elliott and his father were frequent callers at the Jewett home, the entire party would drive out there, and, in the probable event of not seeing Mrs. Britton, who was an invalid and retired at an early hour, Darrell and his father would spend the night at the old homestead, but their presence would not be known by the wife and mother until the following morning.

"You see, sir," Dr. Elliott remarked to Mr. Britton, "your coming has complicated matters a little. I would not apprehend any danger from the meeting between Mrs. Britton and her son, for she has looked for his return every day; but I cannot say what might be the result of the shock her nervous system would sustain in meeting you. We are safe, however, in going out there this evening, for she always retires to her room before this time."

Both Mr. Britton and Darrell grew silent as the old Jewett homestead came in view. It was a wide-spreading house of colonial build, snowy white with green shutters and overrun with climbing roses and honeysuckle vines. It stood back at a little distance from the street, and a broad walk, under interlacing boughs of oak, elm, and maple, led from the street to the lofty pillared veranda across its front. The full moon was rising opposite, its mellow light throwing every twig and flower into bold relief. Two figures could be seen seated within the veranda, and as the carriage stopped Dr. Elliott remarked,--

"I was right; Mr. Jewett and his elder daughter are sitting outside, but Mrs. Britton has retired."

As the four men alighted and proceeded up the walk towards the house strangely varied emotions surged through the breasts of Darrell and his father. To one this was his childhood's home, the only home of which he had any distinct memory; to the other it was the home to which long ago he had been welcomed as a friend, but from which he had been banished as a lover. But all reminiscent thoughts were suddenly put to flight.

They had advanced only about half-way up the walk when one of the long, old-fashioned windows upon the veranda was hastily thrown open and a slender figure robed in a white dressing-gown came with swift but tremulous steps down the walk to meet them, crying, in glad accents,--

"Oh, my son! my son! you have come, as I knew you would some day!"

Darrell sprang forward and caught his mother in his arms, and then, unable to speak, held her close to his breast, his tears falling on her upturned face, while she caressed him and crooned fond words of endearment as in the days when she had held him in her arms. Dr. Elliott and his father stood near, nonplussed, uncertain what to do or what course to take. The old gentleman on the veranda left his seat and took a few steps towards the group, as though to assist his daughter to the house, but Dr. Elliott motioned him to remain where he was. Mr. Britton, scarcely able to restrain his feelings, yet fearful of agitating his wife, had withdrawn slightly to one side, but unconsciously was standing so that the moonlight fell full across his face.

At that instant Mrs. Britton raised her head, and, seeing the familiar faces of Dr. Elliott and his father, looked at the solitary figure as though to see who it might be. Their eyes met, his shining with the old-time love with which he had looked on her as she stood a bride on that summer evening crowned with the sunset rays, only a thousand-fold more tender. She gave a startled glance, then raised her arms to him with one shrill, sweet cry,--the cry of the lone night-bird for its mate,--

"John!"

"Patience!" came the responsive note, deep, resonant, tender.

He held her folded within his arms until he suddenly felt the fragile form grow limp in his clasp, then, lifting her, he bore her tenderly up the walk, past the bewildered father and sister, into the house, Dr. Elliott leading the way, and laid her on a couch in her own room.

She was soon restored to consciousness, and, though able to say little, lay feasting her eyes alternately upon the face of husband and son, her glance, however, returning oftener and dwelling longer on the face of the lover, who, after more than twenty-seven years of absence, was a lover still.

_Chapter XXXI_

AN EASTERN HOME

Within a few days Darrell and his father were domiciled in the Jewett homestead, the physicians pronouncing it unwise to attempt to remove Mrs. Britton to another home.

To Experience Jewett, who reigned supreme in her father's house, it seemed as though two vandals had invaded her domain, so ruthlessly did they open up the rooms for years jealously guarded from sunshine and dust, while her cherished household gods were removed by sacrilegious hands from their time-honored niches and consigned to the ignominy of obscure back chambers or the oblivion of the garret.

Under Mr. Britton's supervision, soon after his arrival, the great double parlors, which had not been used since the funeral of Mrs. Jewett some seven years before, were thrown wide open, Sally, the "help," standing with open mouth and arms akimbo, aghast at such proceedings, while Miss Jewett executed a lively quick-step in pursuit of a moth, which, startled by the unusual light, was circling above her head.

Not only were the gayly flowered Brussels carpet and the black haircloth furniture the same as when he had been a guest in those rooms nearly thirty years before, but each piece of furniture occupied the same position as then. He smiled as he noted the arm-chair by one of the front windows, to which he had been invariably assigned and in which he had slipped and slid throughout each evening to the detriment of the crocheted "tidy" pinned upon its back. The vases and candlesticks upon the mantel were arranged with the same mathematical precision. He could detect only one change, which was that to the collection of family photographs framed and hanging above the mantel, there had been added a portrait of the late Mrs. Jewett.

Within a week the old furnishings had been relegated to other parts of the house and modern upholstery had taken their places, the soft subdued tints of which blended harmoniously, forming a general impression of warmth and light.

Most of these innovations Miss Jewett viewed with disfavor, particularly the staining of the floors preparatory to laying down two Turkish rugs of exquisite coloring and design.

"I don't see any use in being so skimping with the carpets," she remarked to Sally; "if I'd been in his place I'd have got enough to cover the whole floor while I was about it, even if I'd bought something a little cheaper. A carpet with bare floor showing all 'round it puts me in mind of Dick's hat-band that went part way 'round and stopped."

"That's jest what it does!" Sally assented.

"I wanted to lay down some strips of carpeting along the edges, but he wouldn't hear to it," Miss Jewett continued, regretfully.

"I s'pose," Sally remarked, sagely, "it's all on account of livin' out west along with them wild Injuns and cow-boys so many years. Western folks 'most always has queer ideas about things."

"I never would have believed it to see such overturnings in my house!" exclaimed Miss Jewett, with a sigh; "and if 'twas anybody but John Britton I wouldn't stand it. I wonder if he won't be telling me how to make butter and raise chickens and turkeys next!"

"Mebbe he'll bring 'round one o' them new-fangled contrivances for hatchin' chickens without hens," Sally ventured, with a laugh; adding, reflectively, "I wonder why, when they was about it, they didn't invent a machine to lay aigs as well as hatch 'em; that would 'ave been a savin', for a hen's keep don't amount to much when she's settin', but they're powerful big eaters generally."

Miss Jewett prided herself upon her thrift and economy; her well-kept house where nothing was allowed to go to waste; her spotless dairy-rooms and rolls of golden butter which never failed to bring a cent and a half more a pound than any other; her fine breeds of poultry which annually carried off the blue ribbons at the county fair. She had achieved a local reputation of which she was quite proud; she would brook no interference in her management of household affairs, and, as she said, no one but John Britton would ever have been allowed to infringe upon her established rules and regulations. There had been a time when she had shared equally with her sister John Britton's attentions. It had been the only bit of romance in her life, but a lingering sweetness from it still remained in her heart through all the commonplace years that had followed, like the faint perfume from rose-leaves, faded and shrivelled, but cherished as sacred mementos. She had not blamed him for choosing her younger and more attractive sister, and she had secretly admired her sister for braving their father's displeasure to marry him. And now she was glad that he had returned; glad for his own sake that the imputations cast upon him by her father and others were refuted; for her sister's sake, that her last days should be so brightened and glorified; but deep within her heart, glad for her own sake, because it was good to look upon his face and hear his voice again.

Sally's strident tones broke in upon her retrospection:

"There's one thing, Miss Jewett, I guess you needn't be afeard they'll meddle with, and that's your cookin'. Mr. Darrell, he was tellin' me about the prices people had to pay for meals on them eatin'-cars,--'diners' he called 'em,--and I told him there wasn't no vittles on earth worth any such price as that, and I up and asked him whether they was as good as the vittles he gets here, and he laughed and said there wasn't nobody could beat his Aunt Espey at cookin'."

Miss Jewett's eyes brightened. "Bless the boy's heart!" she exclaimed; "I'm glad they're going to be here for Thanksgiving; I'll see that they get such a dinner as they neither of them ever dreamed of!"

Darrell had won a warm place in her heart in his baby days with his earliest efforts to speak her name. "Espey" had been the result of his first attack on the formidable name of "Experience," and "Aunt Espey" she had been to him ever since.

Her father, Hosea Jewett, was a hale, hearty man of upward of seventy, hard and unyielding as the granite ledges cropping out along the hill-sides of his farm, and with a face gnarled and weather-beaten as the oaks before his door. He was scrupulously honest, but exacting, relentless, unforgiving.

He was not easily reconciled to the new order of things, but for his daughter's sake he held his peace. Then, too, though he never forgave John Britton for having married his daughter, yet John Britton as a man whose wealth exceeded even his own was an altogether different person from the ambitious but impecunious lover of thirty years before. He had never forgiven Darrell for being John Britton's son, but mingled with his long-cherished animosity was a secret pride in the splendid physical and intellectual manhood of this sole representative of his own line.

Between the sisters there had been few points of resemblance. Patience Jewett had been of an ardent, emotional nature, passionately fond of music, a great reader, and with little taste for the household tasks in which her more practical sister delighted. Having a more delicate constitution, she had little share in the busy routine of farm life, but was allowed to follow her own inclinations. She was still absorbed in her music and studies when Love found her, and the woman within her awoke at his call.

After Darrell's birth her health was seriously impaired. It seemed as though her faith in her husband, her belief that he would one day return, and her love for her son were the only ties holding soul and body together, and, with her natural religious tendencies, the spiritual nature developed at the expense of the physical. Since Darrell's strange disappearance she had failed rapidly.

With the return of her husband and son she seemed temporarily to renew her hold on life, appearing stronger than for many months. For the first few days much of her time was spent at her piano, singing with her husband the old songs of their early love, but oftenest a favorite of his which she had sung during the years of his absence, and which Darrell had sung on that night at The Pines following his discovery of the violin,--"Loyal to Love and Thee."

Her delight in the rooms newly fitted up for her was unbounded, and against the background of their subdued, warm tints she made a strikingly beautiful picture, with her sweet, spirituelle face crowned with waving silver hair.

Either Darrell or his father, or both, were constantly with her, for they realized that the time was short in which to make amends for the missing years. She loved to listen to her husband's tales of the great West or to bits which Darrell read from his journal of that strange chapter of his own life.

"You have not yet asked after your sweetheart, Darrell," his mother said one evening soon after his arrival, as they sat awaiting his father's return from a short stroll.

"You are my sweetheart now, little mother," he replied, kissing the hand that lay within his own.

"Does that mean that you care less for Marion than before you went away?" she queried.

"No," Darrell answered, slowly; "I cannot say that my regard for her has decreased. I may have changed in some respects, but not in my feelings towards Marion. I will ask you a question, mother: Do you think she still cares for me as before I left home?"

"I hardly know how to answer you, because, as you know, Marion is so silent and secretive. I never could understand the girl. To be candid, Darrell dear, I never could understand why you should care for her, and I never thought she cared for you as she ought."

"You know, mother, how I came to be attracted to her in the first place; we were schoolmates, and you know she was an exceptionally brilliant girl, and different from most of the others. We were interested in the same subjects, and naturally there sprang up quite an intimacy between us. Then we corresponded while I was at college, and her letters were so bright and entertaining that my admiration for her increased. I thought her the most brilliant and the best girl, every way, in all my acquaintance, and I think so still."

"But, my dear boy," his mother exclaimed, "admiration is not love; I don't believe you ever really loved her, and she always seemed to me to be all brains and no heart--one of those cold, silent natures incapable of loving."

"I think you are wrong there, mother. Marion is silent, but I don't believe she is cold or incapable of loving. She may, or may not, be incapable of expressing it, but I believe she could love very deeply and sincerely were her love once awakened."

"You know she has taken up the study of medicine?"

"Ned Elliott told me she had been studying with Dr. Parker for about a year."

"Dr. Parker tells me she is making remarkable progress."

"I don't doubt it, mother; she will probably make a success of it; she is just the woman to do so."

"There never was any mention of love between you two, was there, or any engagement?" Darrell's mother asked, with some hesitation, after a brief silence.

"None whatever," he replied, then added, with a smile: "We considered ourselves in love at the time,--at least, I did; but as I look back now it seems a very Platonic affair; but I thought I loved her, and I think she loved me."

"You say, Darrell, that your regard for her is unchanged?"

"Yes; the same as ever."

"But you do not think now that you love her or loved her then?"

"No, mother; I know I do not, and did not."

"Then, Darrell, my boy, some one else has taught you what love really is?"

For answer Darrell bowed his head in assent over his mother's hand.

For a few moments she silently stroked his hair as in his boyish days; then she said, in low tones,--

"Answer me one question, Darrell: Was she a good, pure woman?"

Darrell raised his head, his eyes looking straight into the searching dark eyes, so like his own.

"My little mother," he replied, tenderly, "don't think that your teachings all the past years or the lessons of your own sweet life were lost in those two years; their influence lived even when memory had failed."

He bent and kissed her, then added: "She was scarcely more than a child; not so brilliant, perhaps, as Marion, but beautiful, good, and pure as the driven snow."

Hearing his father's voice outside, Darrell rose and, picking up his journal, opened it at the story of his love and Kate's. Then placing it open upon a table beside his mother, he said,--

"There, mother, is the story of my Dream-Love, as I call her. Read it, and if you should wish to know anything further regarding it, ask my father, for he knows all."

_Chapter XXXII_

MARION HOLMES

The following day when Darrell entered his mother's rooms he found her with his journal lying open before her. Looking up with a smile, she said,--

"Darrell, my dear, I would like to meet your 'Kathie,' but that can never be in this world. But you will meet her again, and when you do, give her a mother's love and blessing from me."

Then, laying her hand on his arm, she added: "I understand now your question regarding Marion. As I told you, it is difficult to judge anything about her real feelings. For the first year after you went away she came often to see me and frequently inquired for tidings of you, but this last year she has seemed different. She has come here less frequently and seldom referred to you, and appeared so engrossed in her studies I concluded she had little thought or care for you. I may have misjudged her, but even were that so and she did care for you still, you would not marry her now, loving another as you do, would you?"

Darrell smiled as he met his mother's eager, questioning gaze. "If I had won the love of a girl like Marion Holmes," he said, "I would do nothing that would seem like trifling with that love; but, in justice to all parties concerned, herself in particular, I would never marry her without first giving her enough knowledge of the facts in the case that she would thoroughly understand the situation."

His mother seemed satisfied. "Marion has brains, whether she has a heart or not," she replied, with quiet emphasis; "and a girl of brains would never marry a man under such circumstances."

Handing him his journal she pointed with a smile to its inscription.

"'Until the day break,'" she quoted; "that has been my daily watchword all these years; strange that you, too, should have chosen it as your own."

Had Darrell gone to his aunt for a gauge of Marion Holmes's feelings towards himself she could have informed him more correctly than his mother. She, with an old love hidden so deeply in her heart that no one even suspected its existence, understood the silent, reticent girl far better than her emotional, demonstrative sister.

A few days after moving into the rooms newly fitted up for her Mrs. Britton gave what she termed "a little house-warming," to which were invited a few old-time friends of her own and Mr. Britton's, together with some of Darrell's associates. Among the latter Marion was, of course, included, but happening at the time to be out of town, she did not receive the invitation until two days afterwards. Meantime, Darrell, who was anxious to meet the syndicate from whom he had received his western commission two years before, left on the following day for New York City. Consequently when Marion, upon her return, called on Mrs. Britton to explain her absence, Darrell was away.

Marion Holmes was, as Mrs. Britton had said, a silent girl; not from any habitual self-repression, but from an inherent inability to express her deeper feelings. Hers was one of those dumb speechless souls, that, finding no means of communicating with others, unable to get in touch with those about them, go on their silent, lonely ways, no one dreaming of the depth of feeling or wealth of affection they really possess.

The eldest child of a widowed mother, in moderate circumstances, her life had been one of constant restriction and self-denial. Her association with Darrell marked a new epoch in the dreary years. For the first time within her memory there was something each morning to which she could look forward with pleasant anticipation; something to look back upon with pleasure when the day was done. As their intimacy grew her happiness increased, and when he returned from college with high honors her joy was unbounded. Brought up in a home where there was little demonstration of affection, she did not look for it here; she loved and supposed herself loved in return, else how could there be such an affinity between them? The depth of her love for Darrell Britton she herself did not know until his strange disappearance; then she learned the place he had filled in her heart and life by the void that remained. As months passed without tidings of him she lost hope. Unable to endure the blank monotony of her home life she took up the study of medicine, partly to divert her mind and also as a means of future self-support more remunerative than teaching.

With the news of Darrell's return, hope sprang into new life, and it was with a wild, sweet joy, which would not be stilled, pulsating through her heart, that she went to call on Mrs. Britton.

She had a nature supersensitive, and as she entered Mrs. Britton's rooms her heart sank and her whole soul recoiled as from a blow. With her limited means and her multiplicity of home duties her outings had been confined to the small towns within a short distance of her native village. These rooms, in such marked contrast to everything to which she had been accustomed, were to her a revelation of something beyond her of which she had had no conception; a revelation also that her comrade of by-gone days had grown away from her, beyond her--beyond even her reach or ken.

Quietly, with a strange, benumbing pain, she noted every detail as she answered Mrs. Britton's inquiries, but conscious of the lack of affinity between herself and Darrell's mother, it seemed to her that the dark eyes regarding her so searchingly must read with what hopes she had come, and how those hopes had died. She was glad Darrell was not at home; she could not have met him then and there. But so quiet were her words and manner, so like her usual demeanor, that Mrs. Britton said to herself, as Marion took leave,--

"I was right; she cares for Darrell only as a mere acquaintance."

On her return she entered the parlor of her own home and stood for some moments gazing silently about her. How shabby, how pitiably bare and meagre and colorless! An emblem of her own life! Throwing herself upon the threadbare little sofa where she and Darrell had spent so many happy hours reviewing their studies and talking of hopes and plans for the future, she burst into such bitter, passionate weeping as only natures like hers can know.

Darrell's trip proved successful beyond his anticipations. He found the leading members of the syndicate, to whom he explained his two years' absence and into whose possession he gave the money intrusted to his keeping. So delighted were they to see him after having given him up for dead, and so pleased were they with his honesty and integrity that they tendered him his old position with them, offering to continue his salary from the date of his western commission. This offer he promptly declined, declaring that he would undertake no commissions or enter into no business agreements during his mother's present state of health.

He had taken with him the completed manuscript of his geological work, and this, through the influence of one or two members of the syndicate, he succeeded in placing with a publishing house making a specialty of scientific works.

These facts, communicated to his parents, soon reached Miss Jewett, filling her with a pride and delight that knew no bounds. Ellisburg had no daily paper, but it possessed a few individuals of the gentler sex who as advertising mediums answered almost as well, and whom Miss Jewett included among her acquaintance. She suddenly remembered a number of calls which her household duties had hitherto prevented her returning, and decided that this was the most opportune time for paying them. Ordering her carriage and donning her best black silk gown, she proceeded with due ceremony to make her round of calls, judiciously dropping a few words here and there, which, like the seed sown on good ground, brought forth fruit, thirty, sixty, and a hundred-fold. As a result Darrell, upon his return, found himself a literary star of the first magnitude,--the cynosure of all eyes.

These reports reaching Marion only widened the gulf which she felt now intervened between herself and Darrell.

Almost immediately upon his return Darrell called upon her. She was at home, but sent a younger sister to admit him while she nerved herself for the dreaded interview. As he awaited her coming he looked around him with a sort of wonder. Each object seemed familiar, and yet, was it possible this was the room that used to seem so bright and pleasant as he and Marion conned their lessons together? Had it changed, he wondered, or had he?

Marion's entrance put a stop to his musings. He sprang to meet her, she advanced slowly. She had changed very little. Her face, unless animated, was always serious, determined; it was a shade more determined, almost stern, but it had the same strong, intellectual look which had always distinguished it and for which he had admired it.

Darrell, on the contrary, was greatly changed. Marion, gazing at the snow-white hair, the dark eyes with their piercing, inscrutable look, the firmly set mouth, and noting the bearing of conscious strength and power, was unable to recognize her quondam schoolmate until he spoke; the voice and smile were the same as of old!

They clasped hands for an instant, then Darrell, as in the old days, dropped easily into one corner of the little sofa, supposing she would take her accustomed place in the other corner, but, instead, she drew a small rocker opposite and facing him, in which she seated herself. His manner was cordial and free as, after a few inquiries regarding herself, he spoke of his absence, touching lightly upon his illness and its strange consequences, and expressed his joy at finding himself at home once more.

She was kind and sympathetic, but her manner was constrained. She could not banish the remembrance of her call upon his mother, of the contrast between his home and hers; and as he talked something indefinable in his language, in his very movements and gestures, revealed to her sensitive nature a contrast, a difference, between them; he had somehow reached ground to which she could not attain. He drew her out to speak of her new studies and congratulated her upon her progress; but the call was not a success, socially or otherwise.

When Darrell left the house he believed more firmly than ever that Marion had loved him in the past. Whether she had ceased to love him he could not then determine; time would tell.

During the weeks that followed there were numerous gatherings of a social and informal nature where Darrell and Marion were thrown in each other's society, but, though he still showed a preference for her over the girls of his acquaintance, she shrank from his attentions, avoiding him whenever she could do so without causing remark.

Thanksgiving Day came, and Miss Jewett's guests were compelled to admit that she had surpassed herself. The dinner was one long to be remembered. Her prize turkey occupied the place of honor, flanked on one side by a roast duck, superbly browned, and on the other by an immense chicken pie, while savory vegetables, crisp pickles, and tempting relishes such as she only could concoct crowded the table in every direction. A huge plum-pudding headed the second course, with an almost endless retinue of pies,--mince, pumpkin, and apple,--while golden custards and jellies--red, purple, and amber, of currant, grape, and peach--brought up the rear. A third course of fruits and nuts followed, but by that time scarcely any one was able to do more than make a pretence of eating.

To this dinner were invited the minister and his wife, one or two far-removed cousins who usually put in an appearance at this season of the year, Marion Holmes, and a decrepit old lady, a former friend of Mrs. Jewett's, who confided to the minister's wife that she had eaten a very light breakfast and no lunch whatever in order that she might be able to "do justice to Experience's dinner."

Marion Holmes was not there, and Darrell, meeting her on the street the next day, playfully took her to task.

"Why were you not at dinner yesterday?" he inquired; "have you no more regard for my feelings than to leave me to be sandwiched between the parson's wife and old Mrs. Pettigrew?"

"I might have gone had I known such a fate as that awaited you," she replied, laughing; "but," she added with some spirit, thinking it best to come to the point at once, "I can see no reason for thrusting myself into your family gatherings simply because you and I were good comrades in the past."

"Were we not something more than merely good comrades, Marion?" he asked, anxious to ascertain her real feelings towards himself; "it seemed to me we were, or at least that we thought we were."

"That may be," she answered, her color rising slightly; "but if we thought so then, that is no reason for deceiving ourselves any longer."

She intended to mislead him, and she did.

"Very well," he replied; "we will not deceive ourselves; we will have a good understanding with ourselves and with each other. Is there any reason why we should not be at least good comrades now?"

"I know of none," she answered, meeting his eyes without wavering.

"Then let us act as such, and not like two silly children, afraid of each other. Is that a compact?" he asked, smiling and extending his hand.

"It is," she replied, smiling brightly in return as their hands clasped, thus by word and act renouncing her dearest hopes without his dreaming of the sacrifice.

_Chapter XXXIII_

INTO THE FULNESS OF LIFE

With the opening of cold weather the seeming betterment in Mrs. Britton's health proved but temporary. As the winter advanced she failed rapidly, until, unable to sit up, she lay on a low couch, wheeled from room to room to afford all the rest and change possible. Day by day her pallor grew more and more like the waxen petals of the lily, while the fatal rose flush in her cheek deepened, and her eyes, unnaturally large and lustrous, had in them the look of those who dwell in the borderland.

She realized her condition as fully as those about her, but there was neither fear nor regret in the eyes, which, fixed on the glory invisible to them, caught and reflected the light of the other world, till, in the last days, those watching her saw her face "as it had been the face of an angel."

No demonstration of sorrow marred the peace in which her soul dwelt the last days of its stay, for the very room seemed hallowed, a place too sacred for the intrusion of any personal grief.

Turning one day to her husband, who seldom left her side, she said,--

"My sorrow made me selfish; I see it now. Look at the good you have done, the many you have helped; what have I done, what have I to show for all these years?"

Just then Darrell passed the window before which she was lying.

"There is your work, Patience," Mr. Britton replied, tenderly; "you have that to show for those years of loneliness and suffering. Surely, love, you have done noble work there; work whose results will last for years--probably for generations--yet to come!"

Her face lighted with a rapturous smile. "I had not thought of that," she whispered; "I will not go empty-handed after all. Perhaps He will say of me, as of one of old, 'She hath done what she could.'"

From that time she sank rapidly, sleeping lightly, waking occasionally with a child-like smile, then lapsing again into unconsciousness.

One evening as the day was fading she awoke from a long sleep and looked intently into the faces gathered about her. Her pastor, who had known her through all the years of her sorrow, was beside her. Bending over her and looking into the eyes now dimmed by the approaching shadows, he said,--

"You have not much longer to wait, my dear sister."

With a significant gesture she pointed to the fading light.

"'Until the day break,'" she murmured, with difficulty.

He was quick to catch her meaning and bowed his head in token that he understood; then, raising his hand above her head, as though in benediction, in broken tones he slowly pronounced the words,--

"'Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.'"

Her face brightened; a seraphic smile burst forth, irradiating every feature with a light which never faded, for, with a look of loving farewell into the faces of husband and son, she sank into a sleep from which she did not wake, and when, as the day was breaking over the eastern hill-tops, her soul took flight, the smile still lingered, deepening into such perfect peace as is seldom seen on mortal faces.

As Darrell, a few moments later, stood at the window, watching the stars paling one by one in the light of the coming dawn, a bit of verse with which he had been familiar years before, but which he had not recalled until then, recurred to him with peculiar force:

"A soul passed out on its way toward Heaven As soon as the word of release was given; And the trail of the meteor swept around The lovely form of the homeward-bound. Glimmering, shimmering, there on high, The stars grew dim as one passed them by; And the earth was never again so bright, For a soul had slipped from its place that night."

After Mrs. Britton's death, deprived of her companionship and of the numberless little ministrations to her comfort in which they had delighted, both Mr. Britton and Darrell found life strangely empty. They also missed the strenuous western life to which they had been accustomed, with its ceaseless demands upon both muscle and brain. The life around them seemed narrow and restricted; the very monotony of the landscape wearied them; they longed for the freedom and activity of the West, the breadth and height of the mountains.

As both were standing one day beside the resting-place of the wife and mother, which Mr. Britton had himself chosen for her, the latter said,--

"John, there are no longer any ties to hold us here. You may have to remain here until affairs are settled, but I have no place, and want none, in Hosea Jewett's home. I am going back to the West; and I know that sooner or later you will return also, for your heart is among the mountains. But before we separate I want one promise from you, my son."

"Name it," said Darrell; "you know, father, I would fulfil any and every wish of yours within my power."

"It was my wish in the past, when my time should come to die, to be buried on the mountain-side, near the Hermitage. But life henceforth for me will be altogether different from what it has been heretofore; and I want your promise, John, if you outlive me, that when the end comes, no matter where I may be, you will bring me back to her, that when our souls are reunited our bodies may rest together here, within sound of the river's voice and shielded by the overhanging boughs from winter's storm and summer's heat."

Father and son clasped hands above the newly made grave.

"I promise you, father," Darrell replied; "but you did not need to ask the pledge."

When John Britton left Ellisburg a few days later a crowd of friends were gathered at the little depot to extend their sympathy and bid him farewell. A few were old associates of his own, some were his wife's friends, and some Darrell's. To those who had known him in the past he was greatly changed, and none of them quite understood his quaint philosophizings, his broad views, or his seeming isolation from their work-a-day, business world in which he had formerly taken so active a part. They knew naught of his years of solitary life or of how lives spent in years of contemplation and reflection, of retrospection and introspection, become gradually lifted out of the ordinary channels of thought and out of touch with the more practical life of the world. But they had had abundant evidence of his love and devotion to his wife, and of his kindness and liberality towards many of their own number, and for these they loved him.

There was not one, however, who mourned his departure so deeply as Experience Jewett, though she gave little expression to her sorrow. She had hoped that after her sister's death his home would still be with them. This, not from any weak sentimentality or any thought that he would ever be aught than as a brother to her, but because his very presence in the home was refreshing, helpful, comforting, and because it was a joy to be near him, to hear him talk, and to minister to his comfort. But he was going from them, as she well knew, never to return, and beneath the brave, smiling face she carried a sore and aching heart.

Thus John Britton bade the East farewell and turned his face towards the great West, mindful only of the grave under the elms, to which the river murmured night and day, and with no thought of return until he, too, should come to share that peaceful resting place.

_Chapter XXXIV_

A WARNING

Spring had come again and Walcott's probationary year with Mr. Underwood had nearly expired. For a while he had maintained his old suavity of manner and business had been conducted satisfactorily, but as months passed and Kate Underwood was unapproachable as ever and the prospect of reconciliation between them seemed more remote, he grew sullen and morose, and Mr. Underwood began to detect signs of mismanagement. Determined to wait until he had abundance of evidence with which to confront him, however, he said nothing, but continued to watch him with unceasing vigilance.

Mr. Underwood, though able to attend to business, had never fully recovered from the illness of the preceding year. His physician advised him to retire from business, as any excitement or shock would be likely to cause a second attack far more serious than the first; but to this Mr. Underwood would not listen, clinging tenaciously to the old routine to which he had been accustomed. Kate, realizing her father's condition, guarded him with watchful solicitude from every possible worry and anxiety, spending much of her time with him, and even familiarizing herself with many details of his business in order to assist him.

In the months since Darrell's return east Kate had matured in many ways. Her tall, slender form was beginning to round out in symmetrical proportions, and her voice, always sweet, had developed wonderfully in volume and range. She had taken up the study of music anew, both vocal and instrumental, devoting her leisure hours to arduous practice, her father having promised her a thorough course of study in Europe, for which she was preparing herself with great enthusiasm.

Though no words were exchanged between Mr. Underwood and Walcott, the latter became conscious of the other's growing disfavor, and the conviction gradually forced itself upon him that all hope of gaining his partner's daughter in marriage was futile. For Kate Underwood he cared little, except as a means of securing a hold upon her father's wealth. As he found himself compelled to abandon this scheme and saw the prize he had thus hoped to gain slipping farther and farther from his grasp, his rage made him desperate, and he determined to gain all or lose all in one mad venture. To make ready for this would require weeks, perhaps months, but he set about his preparations with method and deliberation. Either the boldness of his plan or his absorption in the expected outcome made him negligent of details, however, and slowly, but surely, Mr. Underwood gathered the proofs of his guilt with which he intended to confront him when the opportune moment arrived. But even yet he did not dream the extent of his partner's frauds or the villany of which he was capable; he therefore took no one into his confidence and sought no assistance.

Kate was quick to observe the change in Walcott's manner and to note the malignity lurking in the half-closed eyes whenever they encountered her own or her father's gaze, and, while saying nothing to excite or worry the latter, redoubled her vigilance, seldom leaving him alone.

Affairs had reached this state when, with the early spring days, Mr. Britton returned from the East and stopped for a brief visit at The Pines. In a few days he divined enough of the situation to lead him to suspect that danger of some kind threatened his old friend. A hint from Kate confirmed his suspicion, and he resolved to prolong his stay and await developments.

One afternoon soon after his arrival Kate, returning from a walk, while passing up the driveway met a woman coming from The Pines. The latter was tall, dressed in black, and closely veiled,--a stranger,--yet something in her appearance seemed familiar. Suddenly Kate recalled the "Senora" who sent the summons to Walcott on that day set for their marriage, more than a year before. Though she had caught only a brief glimpse of the black-robed and veiled figure within the carriage, she remembered a peculiarly graceful poise of the head as she had leaned forward for a final word with Walcott, and by that she identified the woman now approaching her. Each regarded the other closely as they met. To Kate it seemed as though the woman hesitated for the fraction of a second, as though about to speak, but she passed on silently. On reaching a turn in the driveway Kate, looking back, saw the woman standing near the large gates watching her, but the latter, finding herself observed, passed through the gates to the street and walked away.

Perplexed and somewhat annoyed, Kate proceeded on her way to the house. She believed the woman to be in some way associated with Walcott, and that her presence there presaged evil of some sort. As she entered the sitting-room her aunt looked up with a smile from her seat before the fire.

"You have just had rather a remarkable caller, Katherine."

"That woman in black whom I just met?" Kate asked, betraying no surprise, for she felt none; she was prepared at that moment for almost any announcement.

"Who was she, Aunt Marcia? and what did she want with me?"

"She refused to give her name, but said to tell you 'a friend' called. She seemed disappointed at not seeing you, and as she was leaving she said, 'Say to her she has a friend where she least thinks it, and if she, or any one she loves, is in danger, I will come and warn her.' She was very quiet-appearing, notwithstanding her tragic language. You say you met her; what do you think of her?"

Kate had been thinking rapidly. "I have seen her once before, auntie. I am positive she is in some way connected with Mr. Walcott, and equally positive that he has some evil designs against papa; but why she should warn me against him, if that is her intention, I cannot imagine."

"Is there no way of warning your father, Katherine?" Mrs. Dean inquired, anxiously.

"Mr. Britton and I have talked it over, auntie. We think papa suspects him and is watching him, but so long as he doesn't take either of us into his confidence we don't want to excite or worry him by suggesting any danger. This woman may or may not be friendly, as she claims, but in any event, if she comes again, I must see her. Whatever danger there may be I want to know it; then I'm not afraid but that I can defend papa or myself in case of trouble."

For several days Kate scanned her horizon closely for portents of the coming storm. She saw nothing of the mysterious woman who had styled herself a friend, but on more than one occasion she had a fleeting glimpse of the man who on that memorable day brought the message from her to Walcott, and Kate felt that a denouement of some kind was near.

Walcott's preparations were nearly perfected; another week would complete them. By that time the funds of the firm as well as large deposits held in trust, would be where he could lay his fingers on them at a moment's notice. At a given signal two trusted agents would be at the side entrance with fleet horses on which they would travel to a neighboring village, and there, where their appearance would excite no suspicion, they were to board the late express, which would carry them to a point whence they could easily reach a place of safety.

But his well-laid plans were suddenly checked by a request one afternoon from his senior partner to meet him in his private office that evening at eight o'clock. The tone in which this request was preferred aroused Walcott's suspicions that an investigation might be pending, and, enraged at being thus checkmated, he determined to strike at once.

At dinner Mr. Underwood mentioned an engagement which would, he said, detain him for an hour or so that evening, but having never since his illness gone to the offices in the evening, no one supposed it more than an ordinary business appointment with some friend.

He had left the house only a few moments when a caller was announced for Miss Underwood.

Kate's heart gave a sudden bound as, on entering the reception-hall, she saw again the woman whose coming was to be a warning of danger. She was, as usual, dressed in black and heavily veiled. Kate was conscious of no fear; rather a joy that the suspense was over, that there was at last something definite and tangible to face.

"Senorita, may I see you in private?" The voice was sweet, but somewhat muffled by the veil, while the words had just enough of the Spanish accent to render them liquid and musical.

Kate bowed in assent, and silently led the way to a small reception-room of her own. She motioned her caller to a seat, but the latter remained standing and turned swiftly, facing Kate, still veiled.

"Senorita, you do not know me?" The words had the rising inflection of a question.

"No," Kate replied, slowly; "I do not know you; but I know that this is not your first call at The Pines."

"I called some ten days since to see you."

"You called," Kate spoke deliberately, "more than a year since to see Mr. Walcott."

The woman started and drew back slightly. "How could you know?" she exclaimed; "surely he did not tell you!"

"I saw you."

There was a moment's silence; when next she spoke her voice was lower and more musical.

"Senorita, I come as your friend; do you believe me?"

"I want to believe you," Kate answered, frankly, "but I can tell better whether I do or not when I know more of you and of your errands here."

For answer the woman, with a sudden swift movement, threw back her veil, revealing a face of unusual beauty,--oval in contour, of a rich olive tint, with waving masses of jet-black hair, framing a low, broad forehead. But her eyes were what drew Kate's attention: large, lustrous, but dark and unfathomable as night, yet with a look in them of dumb, agonizing appeal. The two women formed a striking contrast as they stood face to face; they seemed to impersonate Hope and Despair.

"Senorita," she said, in a low, passionless voice, "I am Senor Walcott's wife."

Kate's very soul seemed to recoil at the words, but she did not start or shrink.

"I have the certificate of our marriage here," she continued, producing a paper, "signed by the holy father who united us."

Kate waved it back. "I do not wish to see it, nor do I doubt your word," she replied, gently; "I understand now why you first came to this house. What brings you here to-night?"

"I come to warn you that your father is in danger."

"My father!" Kate exclaimed, quickly, her whole manner changed. "Where? How?"

"Senor Walcott has an engagement with him at eight o'clock at their offices, and he means to do him harm, I know not just what; but he is angry with him, I know not why, and he is a dangerous man when he is angry."

Kate touched a bell to summon a servant. "I will go to him at once; but," she added, looking keenly into the woman's face, "how do you know of this? How did you learn it? Did he tell you?"

The other shook her head with a significant gesture. "He tells me nothing; he tells no one but Tony, and Tony tells me nothing; but I saw them talking together to-night, and he was very angry. I overheard some words. I heard him say he would see your father to-night and make him sorry he had not done as he agreed, and he showed Tony a little stiletto which he carries with him, and then he laughed."

Kate shuddered slightly. "Who is Tony?" she asked.

The woman smiled with another gesture. "Tony is--Tony; that is all I know. He and my husband know each other."

A servant appeared; Kate ordered her own carriage brought to the door at once. Then, turning on a sudden impulse to the stranger, she said,--

"Will you come with me? Or are you afraid of him--afraid to have him know you warned me?"

The woman laughed bitterly. "I feared him once," she said; "but I fear him no longer; he fears me now. Yes, I will go with you."

"Then wait here; I will be ready in a moment."

At twenty minutes of eight Kate and the stranger passed down the hall together--the woman veiled, Kate attired in a trim walking suit. The latter stopped to look in at the sitting-room door.

"Aunt Marcia, Mr. Britton said he would be out but a few minutes. When he comes in please tell him I want to see him at papa's office; my carriage will be waiting for him here."

Her aunt looked her surprise, but she knew Kate to be enough like her father that it was useless to ask an explanation where she herself made none.

Once seated in the carriage and driving rapidly down the street Kate laid her hand on the arm of her strange companion.

"Senora," she said, "you say you are my friend; were you my friend the first time you came to the house? If not then, why are you now?"

"No, I was not your friend;" for the first time there was a ring of passion in her voice; "I hated you, for I thought he loved you--that you had stolen his heart and made him forget me. I travelled many miles. I vowed to kill you both before you should marry him. Then I found he could not marry you while I was his wife; he had told me our marriage was void here because performed in another country. I found he had told me wrong, and I told him unless he came with me I would go to the church and tell them there I was his wife."

"And he went away with you?" Kate questioned.

"Yes, and he gave me money, and then he told me----" The woman hesitated.

"Go on," said Kate.

"He told me that he did not love you; that he only wanted to marry you that he might get money from your father, and then he would leave you. So when I found he wanted to make you suffer as he had me I began to pity you. I came back to Ophir to see what you were like. He does not know that I am here. I found he was angry because you would not marry him. Then I was glad. I saw you many times that you did not know. Your face was kind and good, as though you would pity me if you knew all, and I loved you. I heard something about a lover you had a few years ago who died, and I knew your heart must have been sad for him, and I vowed he should never harm you or any one you loved."

They had reached the offices; the carriage stopped, but not before Kate's hand had sought and found the stranger's in silent token that she understood.

_Chapter XXXV_

A FIEND AT BAY

Kate, on leaving her carriage, directed the driver to go back to The Pines to await Mr. Britton's return and bring him immediately to the office. She then unlocked the door to the room which had been Darrell's office and which opened directly upon the street, and she and her companion entered and seated themselves in the darkness. The room next adjoining was Walcott's private office, and beyond that was Mr. Underwood's private office, the two latter rooms being separated by a small entrance. They had waited but a few moments when Mr. Underwood's carriage stopped before this entrance, and an instant later Kate heard her father's voice directing the coachman to call for him in about an hour. As the key turned in the lock she heard Walcott's voice also. The two men entered and went at once into Mr. Underwood's private office.

Mr. Underwood immediately proceeded to business in his usual abrupt fashion:

"Mr. Walcott, there is no use dallying or beating about the bush; I want this partnership terminated at once. There's no use in an honest man and a thief trying to do business together, and this interview to-night is to find the shortest way of dissolving the partnership."

"I think that can be very easily and quickly done, Mr. Underwood," Walcott replied.

Kate, who had stationed herself in the entrance where she had a view of both men, saw the cruel leer that accompanied Walcott's words and understood their significance as her father did not. Her hand sought the bosom of her dress for an instant, then dropped quietly at her side, but swift as the movement was, her companion had seen in the dim light the gleam of the weapon now partially concealed by the folds of her skirt. With noiseless, cat-like step she approached Kate and touched her arm.

"You will not shoot? You will not kill him?" she breathed rather than whispered.

Kate's only reply was to lay her finger on her lips, never removing her eyes from Walcott's face, but even then, in her absorption, she noted a peculiar quality in those scarcely audible tones, something that was neither fear nor love; there seemed somehow an element of savagery in them.

Meanwhile, Mr. Underwood was going rapidly through the evidence which he had accumulated, showing mismanagement and fraud in the conduct of the business of the firm and misappropriation of some of the funds held in trust. Of the wholesale robbery, the plans for which Walcott had so nearly perfected, he knew absolutely nothing. As Walcott listened, the sneer on his face deepened.

"You seem to have gone to a vast amount of labor for nothing," he remarked, as Mr. Underwood concluded. "I could have given you that much information off-hand. You have not lived up to your part of the contract, and I see no reason why I should be expected to fulfil mine. You promised me your daughter in marriage, and then simply because she saw fit----"

"We will leave my daughter's name out of this controversy, sir," Mr. Underwood interposed, sternly. "Were it not for the fact that your name has been publicly associated with hers, I would prosecute you for the scoundrel and black-leg that you are."

"But for the sake of your daughter's name you intend to deal leniently with me," Walcott sneered. "Supposing we come at once to the point of dissolving our partnership; it cannot be done any too quickly for me. May I inquire on what terms you propose to settle?"

Mr. Underwood went briefly over the terms which he had outlined on a sheet of paper before him on his desk; Walcott, seated eight or ten feet distant, listened, his dark face paling with anger.

"Pardon me," he said, at the conclusion; "I think I missed a few details; suppose we go over that again together."

He rose and advanced towards Mr. Underwood's chair as though to look over his shoulder, at the same time thrusting his right hand within the inner pocket of his coat. Before he had covered half the space, however, a voice rang through the room with startling clearness,--

"Not a step farther, or you are a dead man!"

Both men turned, to see Kate Underwood standing in the doorway, holding a revolver levelled at Walcott with an aim which the latter's practised eye told him to be both sure and deadly. Astonishment and rage passed in quick succession over his countenance; he looked for an instant as though contemplating some desperate move.

"Stir one hair's breadth, and you are a dead man!" she repeated. He remained motionless, and the hand just withdrawn from his coat disclosed to view a tiny, glittering stiletto.

Kate's only anxious thought was for her father, who, too bewildered to move or speak, was for the time as motionless as Walcott himself; she feared lest the suddenness of the shock might prove too much for him. To her relief, she heard Mr. Britton entering. He took in the situation at a glance and sprang at once to her side.

"I am all right," she cried, brightly; "look after papa, first; then we will attend to this creature."

With the revolver still levelled at Walcott, Kate slowly advanced towards him.

"Give me that weapon!" she demanded.

He gave a sinister smile, but before she had taken another step, her companion sprang into the room with a piercing cry and intercepted her:

"No, no, Senorita!" she exclaimed; "do not touch it! Mother of God! it is poisoned; a single scratch means death!"

At sight of her, Walcott's face grew livid. "You fiend! You she-devil!" he hissed; "this is your doing, is it?" and he burst into a torrent of curses and imprecations.

"Be silent!" Mr. Britton ordered, sternly, and Kate accompanied the command with an ominous click of her revolver. The wretch cowered into silence, but his eyes glowed with fairly demoniac fury.

"Now," said Mr. Underwood, his faculties fully restored, "I want to know the meaning of this; let us sift this whole thing to the bottom."

"Search your man, first, David," said Mr. Britton, and suiting the action to the word he approached Walcott, but was warded off by the woman standing near.

"No, no, Senor, a little turn of the wrist, so slight you would not see, would cause death. I will take it from him; the viper dare not sting me!"

As she extended her hand she tauntingly held her wrist close to the tiny point, scarcely larger than a good-sized pin.

"Life and freedom are precious, Senor!" she said, in low, mocking tones, as she took the weapon from him and handed it to Mr. Britton, who laid it carefully on a table near by, and then proceeded to search Walcott's clothing, saying.--

"I want you to see what you have been dealing with, David."

To the stiletto already placed upon the table were added another of larger size, two loaded revolvers, several packages of valuable securities taken from the vaults of the firm that afternoon, and a nearly complete set of duplicate keys to the safes and deposit boxes of the offices.

Mr. Britton then relieved Kate, congratulating her warmly, and stationed himself near Walcott, who glowered like a wild beast that, temporarily restrained by the keeper's lash, only awaits opportunity for a more furious onslaught later.

Kate stepped at once to her father's side; he turned upon her a look of affectionate pride, but before he could speak, she had drawn forward her companion, saying,--

"Here is one, papa, to whom we owe much. She has saved your life to-night, for I would not have known you were in danger if she had not warned me, and she saved me from worse than death in preventing the carrying out of the farce of an illegal marriage with that villain, by giving me a glimpse of his real character before it was too late."

The change that passed over Mr. Underwood's countenance during Kate's words was fearful to see. From the kindliness and courtesy with which he had greeted the stranger his face seemed changed to granite, so hard and relentless it became.

"An illegal marriage? What do you mean?" he demanded, and there was something in his voice that no one present had ever heard there before.

"Illegal, papa, because this woman is his lawful wife." And Kate gave a brief explanation of the situation.

"Is that so?" he appealed to the woman, his tones strangely quiet.

"Yes, Senor; I have the papers to prove it."

"Do you admit it?" he demanded of Walcott, with a glance which made the latter quail, while his hand sought one of the loaded revolvers lying on the table.

"We were married years ago, but I did not know the woman was living; I swear I did not. I supposed she was dead until the day she came to me."

"How about the past year? You have known all this time that she was living, yet you have dared to press your suit for my daughter, you dog! Not another word!" he exclaimed, as Walcott strove to form some excuse.

He raised his hand and the revolver gleamed in the light. Mr. Britton grasped him by the arm.

"David, old friend, calm yourself!" he exclaimed. "Don't be rash or foolish; let the law take its course."

"The law!" interposed Mr. Underwood, fiercely; "do you think I'd take a case of this kind into the courts? Charges such as these against a man whose name has been publicly associated with my daughter's as her betrothed husband, and the principal witness against that man his own wife! Do you suppose for a moment I'll have my daughter's name dragged through such mire? No, by God! I'll blow the dog's brains out with my own hand first!"

A fierce struggle ensued for a moment between the two men, which ended in John Britton's disarming his friend, Kate meanwhile keeping Walcott at bay as he sought in the momentary confusion to effect an escape.

Once calmed, Mr. Underwood, notwithstanding Mr. Britton's protestations, sullenly refused to prosecute Walcott. Telephoning for an attorney who was an old-time and trusted friend, he had an agreement drawn and signed, whereby, upon the repayment of the funds belonging to him, after deducting an amount therefrom sufficient to replace what he had misappropriated, he was to leave the country altogether.

"You have escaped this time," were Mr. Underwood's parting words; "but remember, if you ever again seek to injure me or mine, no power on earth can save you, and I'll not go into the courts either."

As Kate and her strange companion parted, the former inquired, "Why did you ask me not to shoot him? You surely cannot love him!"

"Love him?" she exclaimed, softly. "No, but I feared you would kill him. His time has not come yet, Senorita, but when it does, this must be the hand!" She lifted her own right hand with a significant movement as she said this, and glided out into the darkness and was gone ere Kate could recall her.

When Kate and her father, with Mr. Britton's assistance, before returning home for the night, removed the articles taken from Walcott's pockets, the tiny, poisoned stiletto was nowhere to be found.

_Chapter XXXVI_

SENORA MARTINEZ

Although Mr. Underwood escaped the stroke which it was feared might follow the excitement of his final interview with Walcott, it was soon apparent that his nervous system had suffered from the shock. His physician became insistent in his demands that he not only retire from business, but have an entire change of scene, to insure absolute relaxation and rest. This advice was earnestly seconded by Mr. Britton, not alone for the sake of his friend's health, but more especially because he believed it unsafe for Mr. Underwood or Kate to remain in that part of the country so long as Walcott had his liberty. Their combined counsel and entreaties at length prevailed. A responsible man was found to take charge, under Mr. Britton's supervision, of Mr. Underwood's business interests. The Pines was closed, two or three faithful servants being retained to guard and care for the property, and early in April Mr. Underwood, accompanied by his sister and daughter, left Ophir ostensibly for the South. They remained south, however, only until he had recuperated sufficiently for a longer journey, and then sailed for Europe, but of this fact no one in Ophir had knowledge save Mr. Britton.

During the last days of Kate's stay in Ophir she watched in vain for another glimpse of her strange friend. On the morning of her departure, as the train was leaving the depot, she suddenly saw the olive-skinned messenger of former occasions running alongside the Pullman in which she was seated. Catching her eye, he motioned for her to raise the window; she did so, whereupon he tossed a little package into her lap, pointing at the same time farther down the platform, and lifting his ragged sombrero, vanished. An instant later the Senora came into view, standing at the extreme end of the platform, a lace mantilla thrown about her head and shoulders, the ends of which she now waved in token of farewell. Kate held up the little package with a smile; she responded with a deprecatory gesture indicative of its insignificance, then with another wave of the lace scarf and a flutter of Kate's handkerchief, they passed out of each other's sight.

Kate hastily undid the package; a little box of ebony inlaid with pearl slipped from the wrappings, which, upon touching a secret spring, opened, disclosing a small cross of Etruscan gold of the most exquisite workmanship. In her first letter to Mr. Britton Kate related the incident, and begged him to look out for the woman and render her any assistance possible.

To this Mr. Britton needed no urging. Since his first sight of her that night in Mr. Underwood's office he had been looking for her, for a twofold purpose. For a number of weeks he failed to get even a glimpse of her, nor could he obtain any clew to her whereabouts.

One night, well into the summer, he came upon her, unexpectedly, standing in front of a cheap restaurant, looking at the edibles displayed in the window. She was not veiled, her face was pale and haggard, and there was no mistaking the expression in her eyes as she finally turned away.

"My friend," said Mr. Britton, laying his hand gently on her shoulder, "are you hungry?"

She shrank from him with a start till a glance in his face reassured her, and she answered, with an expressive gesture,--

"Yes, Senor; I have had nothing to eat to-day, and but little yesterday."

"This is no fit place; come with me," Mr. Britton replied, leading the way two or three blocks down the street, to a first-class restaurant. He conducted her through the ladies' entrance into a private box, where he ordered a substantial dinner for two.

"Senor," she protested, as the waiter left the box, "I have no money, no way to repay you for this, you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, quickly; "I want no return for this. Miss Underwood wished me to find you, and help you, if I could."

"Yes, I know; you are the Senorita's friend."

"And your friend also, if I can help you."

"You saved his life that night, Senor; I do not forget," the woman said, with peculiar emphasis.

"Yes, I undoubtedly saved the scoundrel from a summary vengeance; possibly I might not have done it, had I known what the alternative would be. Where is that man now?" he asked, with sudden directness.

"I do not know, Senor; he tells me nothing, but I have heard he went south some time ago."

The entrance of the waiter with their orders put a temporary stop to conversation. The woman ate silently, regarding Mr. Britton from time to time with an expression of childlike wonder. When her hunger was appeased, and she seemed inclined to talk, he said,--

"Tell me something of yourself. When and where did you marry that man?"

"We were married in Mexico, seven years ago."

"Your home was in Mexico?"

"No, Senor, my father owned a big cattle ranch in Texas. Senor Walcott, as you call him here, worked for him. He wanted to marry me, but my father opposed the marriage. We lived close to the line, so we went across one day and were married. My father was very angry, but I was his only child, and by and by he forgave and took us back."

"Do I understand you that Walcott is not this man's real name?" Mr. Britton interposed.

"His name is Jose Martinez, Senor."

"But is he not a half-breed? I have understood his father was an Englishman."

"His father was an Englishman, but no one ever knew who he was, you understand, Senor? Afterwards his mother married Pablo Martinez, and her child took his name. That was why my father opposed our marriage."

"I understand," said Mr. Britton; "but he claims heavy cattle interests in the South; how did he come by them?"

"My father's, all of them;" she replied. "He and my father quarrelled soon after we went there to live. Then we came away north; we lived for a while in this State,"--she paused and hesitated as though fearing she had said too much, but Mr. Britton's face betrayed nothing, and she continued: "Then, in a year or so, we went south and he and my father quarrelled again. My father was found dead on the plains, trampled by the cattle, but no one knew how it came about. Then Jose took everything and told me I had nothing. He went north again three years ago. A year later he came back and told me I was not his wife, that our marriage was void because it was not performed in this country. I became very ill. He took me away among strangers and left me there, to die, as he thought. But he was mistaken. I had something to live for,--to follow him, as I have followed him and will follow him to the end."

The woman rose from the table; Mr. Britton rose also, and stood for a moment, facing her.

"He is a dangerous man," he said; "how is it that you do not fear him?"

She laughed softly. "He fears me, Senor; why should I fear him?"

"I understand," Mr. Britton said; "he fears you because you know him to be a criminal; because his freedom--perhaps his very life--is in your hands. Why are you not in danger on that account? What is to hinder his taking a life so inimical to his own?"

A cunning, treacherous smile crept over her face and a baleful light gleamed in her eyes, as she replied, "If I die at his hand my secret does not die with me. I have fixed that. If I die to-day, the world knows my secret to-morrow. He knows it, Senor, and I am safe."

"Did it never occur to you," said Mr. Britton, slowly, "that for the safety of others your secret should be made known now?"

The woman's whole appearance changed; she regarded Mr. Britton with a look of mingled anger and terror, as he continued:

"That man's life and freedom are a constant menace to other lives. Are you willing to take the responsibility of the results which may follow your withholding that secret, keeping it locked within your own breast?"

The woman looked quickly for a chance of escape, but Mr. Britton barred the only means of exit. Her expression was that of a creature brought to bay.

"I understand the meaning of your kindness to-night," she cried, fiercely. "You are one of the 'fly' men, and you thought to buy my secret from me. Let me tell you, you will never buy it, nor can you force it from me! So long as he does me no harm I will never make it known, and if I die a natural death, it dies with me!"

"You are mistaken," he replied, calmly; "I am no detective, no official of any sort. My bringing you here to-night was of itself wholly disinterested, done for the sake of a friend who wished me to help you. I have wished to meet you and talk with you, as I was interested to learn your story, out of sympathy for you and a desire to help you, and also to shed new light on your husband's character, of which I have made quite a study; but I am not seeking to force you into making any disclosures against your will."

Her anger had subsided as quickly as it had been aroused.

"Pardon me, Senor," she said; "I was wrong. Accept my gratitude for your kindness; I will not forget."

"Don't mention it. If you need help at any time, let me know; I do not forget that you saved my friend's life. But one word in parting: don't think your secret will not become known. Those things always work themselves out, and justice will overtake that man yet. When it does, your own life may not be as safe as you now think it is. If you need a friend then, come to me."

The woman regarded him silently for a moment. "Thank you, Senor," she said, gently; "I understand. Justice will yet overtake him, as you say; and when it does," she added, significantly, "I will need no help."

_Chapter XXXVII_

THE IDENTIFICATION

The following September found Darrell again in Ophir and re-established in his old-time quarters. To his old office he had added the room formerly occupied by Walcott, his increasing business demanding more office room and the presence of an assistant.

Before leaving the East he revisited the members of his old syndicate and informed them that he intended henceforth making his head-quarters in the West, and if they wished to employ him as their expert, he would execute commissions from that point. To this they readily agreed, and also gave him letters of introduction to a number of capitalists interested in western mining properties, who were only too glad to secure the services of a reliable expert who would be on the ground and familiar with existing conditions. As a result, Darrell had scarcely reopened business at his former quarters before he found himself with numerous eastern commissions to be executed, in addition to his old work as assayer.

He was prepared for the changes which had taken place during the year of his absence, his father having kept him thoroughly informed of all that had occurred.

Darrell was delighted at the story of Kate Underwood's coolness and bravery in saving her father's life, and sent her a note of hearty congratulation, which she kept among her cherished treasures. Since that time, occasional letters were exchanged between them; hers, bright, entertaining sketches of their travels here and there, with comments characteristic of herself regarding places and people; his, permeated with the fresh, exhilarating atmosphere of the mountains, and pervaded by a vigor and virility which roused Kate's admiration, yet led her to wonder if this could be the same lover who had won her childish heart in those idyllic days. Each realized the fact that notwithstanding their love, notwithstanding their stanch comradeship, at present they were little more than strangers. Darrell's love for Kate was a reality, but her personality, so far as he could recall it, was little more than a dream; each letter revealed some unexpected phase of her character; he found their correspondence an unfailing source of pleasure, and was content to await the time of their meeting, confident that he would find the real woman all and more than the ideal which he fondly cherished as his Dream-Love. And to Kate, each letter of Darrell's brought more and more forcibly the conviction that the lover whom she remembered was as a dream compared with the reality she was to meet some day.

About six months had elapsed when Darrell received, early one morning, the following telegram from his father, summoning him to Galena:

"Come over on first train. Important."

By the first train he would reach Galena a little before noon; he had not breakfasted, and had but twenty minutes in which to make it. Calling a carriage, he went directly to his office, where he left a brief explanatory note for the clerk, written on the way, then drove with all possible speed to the depot, arriving on time but without a minute to spare. He breakfasted on the train, and while running over the morning paper, his attention was caught by a despatch from Galena to the effect that one of the leading banks in that city had been entered and the safe opened and robbed on the preceding night. The robbers, of whom there were three, had been discovered by the police. A fight had ensued in which one officer and one of the robbers were killed, the second robber wounded, while the third had made his escape with most of the plunder. It was further stated that they were known to belong to the notorious band of outlaws so long the terror of that region, and it was believed the wounded man was none other than the leader himself, the murderer of Harry Whitcomb and the young express clerk, for whom there was a standing reward of twenty-five thousand dollars, dead or alive. The man was to have a preliminary examination that afternoon, and the greatest excitement prevailed in Galena, as it was rumored that others of the band would probably be present, scattered throughout the crowd, for the purpose of rescuing their leader.

In a flash Darrell understood his father's summons. He let the paper fall and, unmindful of his breakfast, gazed abstractedly out of the window. His thoughts had reverted to that scene in the sleeper on his first trip west. He seemed to see it again in all its sickening detail, the face of the assassin standing out before him with such startling distinctness and realism that he involuntarily placed his hand over his eyes to shut out the hateful sight.

At Galena he was met by his father, who took a closed carriage to his hotel, conducting Darrell immediately to his own room, where he ordered lunch served for both.

"Do you know why I have sent for you?" Mr. Britton inquired, as soon as they were left alone together.

"I had no idea when I started," Darrell replied, "but on reading the morning paper, on my way over, I concluded you wanted me at that trial this afternoon."

"You are correct. Are you prepared to identify that face? Is your recollection of it as distinct as ever?"

"Yes; after reading of that bank robbery this morning, the whole affair in the car that night came back to me so vividly I could see the man's face as clearly as any face on the train with me."

"Good!" Mr. Britton ejaculated.

"Do you think there is any likelihood of an attempt to rescue him, as stated by the paper?" Darrell inquired, rather incredulously.

"If the leader of the band finds himself in need of help it will be forthcoming," Mr. Britton answered, with peculiar emphasis. "The citizens are expecting trouble and have sworn in about a dozen extra deputy sheriffs, myself among the number."

When lunch was over Mr. Britton ordered a carriage at once, and they proceeded to the court-room.

"What is your opinion of this man?" Darrell asked his father, while on the way. "Would you have selected him as the murderer, from your study of him?"

"I reserve my opinions until later," Mr. Britton replied. "I want you to act from memory alone, unbiased by any outside influence."

Arriving at the court-room, they found it already well filled. Darrell was about to enter, but his father took him into a small anteroom, while he himself went to look for seats. He had a little difficulty in finding the seats he wanted, which delayed them so that proceedings had begun as he and Darrell entered from a side door and took their places in rather an obscure part of the room.

"You will have a good view here," Mr. Britton said to Darrell, as they seated themselves, "and there is little likelihood of your being recognized from this point."

"There is little probability of the man's recognizing me, even if he is here," Darrell replied, "for he did not give me a second thought that night, and if he had, I am so changed he would not know me."

"We cannot be too cautious," his father answered.

In a few moments the prisoner was brought in, and there was a general craning of necks to see him, a number of men in Darrell's vicinity standing and thus obstructing his view.

"Wait," said his father, as he was about to rise with the others; "don't make yourself conspicuous; when the man is called for examination you will have an excellent view from here."

Curiosity gradually subsided, and the men sank back into their seats as proceedings went on. Then the prisoner was called and stood up for examination. Darrell drew a quick breath and leaned eagerly forward. The man was of medium height and size, but his movements seemed heavy and clumsy, whereas Darrell had been impressed by a litheness and agility in the movements of the other.

He stood facing his interlocutor, affording Darrell a three-quarter view of his face, but soon he turned in Darrell's direction, scanning the crowd slowly, as though in search of some one.

Darrell saw a squarely built, colorless face, surmounted by a shock of coarse, straight black hair, with heavy, repulsive features, and small, bullet-shaped, leaden eyes of rather light blue. The face was so utterly unlike what he had expected to see that he sank back into his seat with a smothered exclamation of disgust. His father, watching closely, smiled, seeming rather pleased than otherwise, but Darrell was half indignant.

"The idea of a lout like that being taken for the leader!" he exclaimed. "He is nothing but a tool, and a pretty clumsy one at that."

Notwithstanding his vexation, Darrell continued to watch the proceedings, and in a few moments began to grow interested, not so much in the examination as in the conduct of the prisoner. The latter evidently had found the face for which he was looking, for his eyes seemed glued to a certain spot. Occasionally he would shift them for a moment, but invariably, with each new interrogatory, they would turn to that particular spot, as the needle to the pole, not through any volition of his own, but drawn by some influence against which he was temporarily powerless.

"That man is under a spell; he is being worked by some one in the crowd," Darrell exclaimed to his father, in a low tone.

"Yes, and by some one not very far from us; I have spotted him, see if you cannot."

Following the direction of the man's glance, Darrell began to scan the faces of the crowd. Suddenly his pulses gave a bound. Seated at a little distance and partially facing them was a man of the same size and height as the prisoner, but whose every move and poise suggested alertness. He was leaning his arms on the back of the seat before him; his head was lowered so that his chin rested lightly on one hand, while the other hand played nervously with the seat on which he leaned. His whole attitude was that of a wild beast crouched, ready to spring upon his prey. He had an oval face, with deep olive skin, wavy black hair, cut close except where it curled low over his forehead, and through the half-closed eyes, fixed upon the prisoner's face, Darrell caught a glint like that of burnished steel. For an instant Darrell gazed like one fascinated; he had not expected such an exact reproduction of the face as he had seen it on that night. His father touched him lightly; he nodded significantly in reply.

"There is your man!" he exclaimed.

"You are sure? You could swear to it?" queried his father.

"Swear to it? Yes. I would have known him anywhere, but sitting there, watching that man, his face is precisely as I saw it that night. Wait a moment, look!"

The man in his agitation at some word of the prisoner's, raised one hand and brushed his forehead with a nervous gesture, which lifted his hair slightly, disclosing one end of a scar.

"Did you see that scar?" Darrell questioned, eagerly. "You will find it almost crescent shaped, rather jagged, and nearly three inches in length."

"That is all I wanted," his father replied. "I have the warrant for his arrest with me, and the examination is so nearly over I shall serve it at once."

"Can I help you?" Darrell asked, as his father moved away.

"No; stay where you are; don't let him see you until after he is under arrest."

The examination of the prisoner had just ended when Mr. Britton, accompanied by two deputies, re-entered the court-room. The man still maintained his crouching attitude, intently watching proceedings. Mr. Britton approached from the rear. Seizing the man suddenly by the arms, he pinioned him so that for an instant he was unable to move, and one of the deputies, leaning over, snapped the handcuffs on him before he fairly realized what had happened. Then, with a swift movement, Mr. Britton raised him to his feet and lifted him quickly out into the aisle, while his voice rang authoritatively through the court-room,--

"Jose Martinez, alias Walcott, I arrest you in the name of the State!"

The man shouted something in Spanish, evidently a signal, for it was repeated in different parts of the room. Instantly all was confusion. A shot fired from the rear wounded one of the deputies; a man seated near Darrell drew a revolver, but before he could level it Darrell knocked it from his hand and felled him to the floor. The officers rushed to the spot, and as the outbreak subsided Mr. Britton brought forward his prisoner.

A murmur of consternation rose throughout the room, for Walcott had been known years before among the business men of Galena, and there were not a few citizens present who had known him as Mr. Underwood's partner. Walcott, taking advantage of the situation, began to protest his innocence. Mr. Britton, unmoved, at once beckoned Darrell to his side. Upon seeing him Walcott's face took on a ghastly hue and he seemed for a moment on the verge of collapse, but he quickly pulled himself together, regarding Darrell meanwhile with a venomous malignity seldom seen on a human face. Not the least surprised man in the crowd was Darrell himself.

"Do you mean to say," he asked his father, "that this is the Walcott of whose villany you have been writing me, and that he and the murderer of Harry Whitcomb are one and the same?"

"So it seems," Mr. Britton replied; "but that is no more than I have suspected all along."

"Now I understand your fear of my being recognized; it seemed inexplicable to me," said Darrell.

"If he had seen you," his father replied, "he would have suspected your errand here at once."

Incredulity was apparent on many faces as Walcott's examination was begun. He was morose and silent, and nothing could be elicited from him. When Darrell was called upon, however, and gave his evidence, incredulity gave place to conviction. As he completed his testimony with a description of the scar, which, upon examination, was found correct, the crowd became angry and threats of lynching and personal violence were heard on various sides. The judge therefore ordered that the prisoners be removed from the court-room to the jail before any in the audience had left their places.

In charge of the regular sheriff and four or five deputies the prisoners were led from the court-room. They had but just reached the street, however, when those inside heard shots fired in quick succession, followed by angry cries and shouts for help. The crowd surged to the doors, to see the officers surrounded by a band of the outlaws who had been lying in wait for their appearance, having been summoned by the signal given on the arrest of the leader. With the help of the citizens the fight was soon terminated, but when the melee was over it was discovered that the sheriff had been killed, a number of citizens and outlaws wounded, and Martinez, alias Walcott, had escaped.

_Chapter XXXVIII_

WITHIN THE "POCKET"

The remainder of that day and the following night were spent in fruitless efforts to determine the whereabouts of the fugitive. Telegrams were sent along the various railway lines into every part of the State; messengers were despatched to neighboring towns and camps, but all in vain. For the first thirty-six hours it seemed as though the earth must have opened and swallowed him up; there was not even a clue as to the direction in which he had gone.

The second morning after his disappearance reports began to come in from a dozen different quarters of as many different men, all answering the description given of the fugitive, who had been identified as the criminal. Four or five posses, averaging a dozen men each, all armed, set forth in various directions to follow the clews which seemed most worthy of credence. For the next few days reports were constantly received from one posse or another, to the effect that they were on the right trail, the fugitive had been seen only the preceding night at a miners' cabin where he had forced two men at the point of a revolver to surrender their supper of pork and beans; or some lonely ranchman and his wife had entertained him at dinner the day before. He was always reported as only about ten hours ahead, footsore and weary, but at the end of ten days they returned, disorganized, dilapidated, and disgusted, without even having had a sight of their man.

Other bands were sent out with instructions to separate into squads of three or four and search the ground thoroughly. Some of them were more successful, in that they did, occasionally, get sight of the fugitive, but always under circumstances disadvantageous to themselves. Three of them stood one day talking with a rancher, who only two hours before had furnished the man, under protest, with a hearty dinner and a fine rifle. The rancher pointed out the direction in which he had gone, over a rocky road leading down a steep, rough ravine; as he did so, his guest appeared on the other side of the ravine, within good rifle range. A mutual recognition followed; the men started to raise their rifles, but the other was too quick for them. Covering them with the rifle which he carried, he walked backward a distance of about forty yards and then, with a mocking salute, disappeared. Bloodhounds were next employed, but the man swam and waded streams and doubled back on his own trail till men and dogs were alike baffled. This continued for about two months; then all reports regarding the man ceased; nothing was heard of him, it was surmised that he had reached the "Pocket," and all efforts at further search were for the time abandoned.

Of all those concerned in the efforts for his capture there was not one more thoroughly disgusted with the outcome than Mr. Britton. For months he had had this man under surveillance, convinced that he was a criminal and planning to bring about his capture. Through his own efforts he had been identified, and by his coolness and presence of mind he had accomplished his arrest when nine out of ten others would have failed, and all seemed now to have been effort thrown away. He regretted the man's escape the more especially as he felt that his own life, as well as that of his son, was endangered so long as he was at liberty.

About a month after the search was abandoned Mr. Britton was one day surprised by a call from the wife of Martinez. He had not seen her since his one interview with her months before.

He was sitting in Mr. Underwood's office, looking over the books brought in for his inspection, when she entered, alone and unannounced.

She seated herself in the chair indicated by Mr. Britton and proceeded at once to the object of her visit.

"Senor, you told me when I last saw you that my secret would one day come out. You were right; it has. It is my secret no longer and Jose Martinez fears me no longer. You have been kind to me. You saved his life once; you fed me when I was hungry and asked no return. I will show you I do not forget. Senor, there is twenty-five thousand dollars reward for that man. The officers will never find him; but I will take you to him, the reward is then yours, and justice overtakes Jose Martinez, as you said it would. Do you accept?"

"Do you know where he is?" Mr. Britton queried, somewhat surprised by the woman's proposition.

"Yes, Senor; I have just come from there."

"He is in the Pocket, is he not?"

"Yes, Senor, but neither you nor your men could find the Pocket without a guide. I know it well; I have lived there."

"What is your proposition?" Mr. Britton inquired, after a brief silence; "how do you propose to do this?"

"I will start to-morrow for the Pocket. You come with me and bring the dogs. I will take you to a cabin where you can stay over night while I go on alone to the Pocket to see that all is right. I will leave you my veil for a scent. The next morning you will set the dogs on my trail and follow them till you come to a certain place I will tell you of. From there you will see me; I will watch for you and give you the signal that all is right. The dogs will bring you to the Pocket in half an hour. The rest will be easy work, Senor, I promise you."

"But isn't the place constantly guarded?"

"Not now, Senor; the men have gone away on another expedition, but Jose does not dare go out with them at present. Only one man is there beside Jose; I know him well; he will be asleep when you come."

"I shall need men with me to help in bringing him back," said Mr. Britton.

"Bring them, but I think he will give you little trouble, Senor."

As Mr. Britton cared nothing for the reward himself, he chose five men to accompany him to whom he thought the money would be particularly acceptable, and the following morning, with two blood-hounds, they started forth in three separate detachments to attract as little attention as possible. The first part of their journey was by rail, the men taking the same train as the woman herself. On their arrival at the little station which she had designated, conveyances, for which Mr. Britton had privately wired a personal friend living in that vicinity, were waiting to take them to their next stopping-place.

They reached the cabin of which the woman had spoken, late in the afternoon. Here they picketed their horses and prepared to stay over night, while she went on to the Pocket. Before leaving she gave Mr. Britton the lace scarf which she wore about her head.

"I shall not go in there until night," she said; "then I can watch and find if all is right. You start early to-morrow morning on foot. Set the dogs on my trail and follow them to the fork; then turn to the left and follow them till you come to a small tree standing in the trail, on which I will tie this handkerchief. Straight ahead of you you will see the entrance to the Pocket. Wait by the tree till you see my signal. If everything is right I will wave a white signal. If I wave a black signal, wait till you see the white one, or till I come to you."

Early the next morning Mr. Britton and his men set forth with the hounds in leash, leaving the horses in charge of their drivers. The dogs took the scent at once and started up the trail, the men following. They found it no easy task they had undertaken; the trail was rough and steep and in many places so narrow they were forced to go in single file. Some of the men, in order to be prepared for emergencies, were heavily armed, and progress was necessarily slow, but at last the fork was passed, and then the time seemed comparatively short ere a small tree confronted them, a white handkerchief fluttering among its branches.

They paused and drew back the hounds, then looked about them. Less than ten feet ahead the trail ended. The rocks looked as though they had been cut in two, the half on which they were standing falling perpendicularly a distance of some eighty feet, while across a rocky ravine some forty feet in width, the other half rose, an almost perpendicular wall eighty or ninety feet in height. In this massive wall of rock there was one opening visible, resembling a gateway, and while the men speculated as to what it might be, the woman appeared, waving a white handkerchief, and they knew it to be the entrance to the Pocket.

"She evidently expects us to come over there," said one of the men, "but blamed if I can see a trail wide enough for a cat!"

"Send the dogs ahead!" ordered Mr. Britton.

The dogs on taking the scent plunged downward through the brush on one side, bringing them out into a narrow trail leading down and across the ravine. Just above, on the other side, they could see the woman watching their every move.

"I've always heard," said one of the men, "there was no getting into this place without you had a special invitation, and it looks like it. Just imagine one of those fellows up there with a gun! Holy Moses! he'd hold the place against all the men the State, or the United States, for that matter, could send down here!"

The ascent of the other side was difficult, but the men put forth their best efforts, and ere they were aware found themselves before the gateway in the rocks, where the woman still awaited them. She silently beckoned them to enter.

Emerging from a narrow pass some six feet in length, they found themselves in a circular basin, about two hundred feet in diameter, surrounded by perpendicular walls of rock from one hundred to five hundred feet in height. The bottom of the basin was level as a floor and covered with a luxuriant growth of grass, while in the centre a small lake, clear as crystal, reflecting the blue sky which seemed to rise like a dome from the rocky walls, gleamed like a sapphire in the sunlight. Sheer and dark the walls rose on all sides, but at one end of the basin, where the rocks were more rough and jagged, a silver stream fell in glistening cascades to the bottom, where it disappeared among the rocks.

For a moment the men, lost in admiration of the scene, forgot that they were in the den of a notorious band of outlaws, but a second glance recalled them to the situation, for on all sides of the basin were caves leading into the walls of rock, and evidently used as dwellings.

To one of these the woman now led the way. At the entrance a man lay on the ground, his heavy stertorous breathing proclaiming him a victim of some sleeping potion. The woman regarded him with a smile of amusement.

"I made him sleep, Senor," she said, addressing Mr. Britton, "so he will not trouble you."

Still leading the way into the farther part of the cave, she came to a low couch of skins at the foot of which she paused. Pointing to the figure outlined upon it, she said, calmly,--

"He sleeps also, Senor, but sound; so sound you will need have no fear of waking him!"

Her words aroused a strange suspicion in Mr. Britton's mind. The light was so dim he could not see the sleeper, but a lantern, burning low, hung on the wall above his head. Seizing the lantern, he turned on the light, holding it so it would strike the face of the sleeper. It was the face of Jose Martinez, but the features were drawn and ghastly. He bent lower, listening for his breath, but no sound came; he laid his hand upon his heart, but it was still.

Raising himself quickly, he threw the rays of the lantern full upon the woman standing before him, a small crucifix clasped in her hands. Under his searching gaze her face grew pale and ghastly as that upon the couch.

"You have killed him!" he said, slowly, with terrible emphasis.

She made the sign of the cross. "Holy Mother, forgive!" she muttered; then, though she still quailed beneath his look, she exclaimed, half defiantly, "I have not wronged you; you have your reward, and justice has overtaken him, as you said it would!"

"That is not justice," said Mr. Britton, pointing to the couch; "it is murder, and you are his murderer. You should have let the law take its course."

"The law!" she laughed, mockingly; "would your law avenge my father's death, or the wrongs I have suffered? No! My father had no son to avenge him, I had no brother, but I have avenged him and myself. I have followed him all these years, waiting till the right time should come, waiting for this, dreaming of it night and day! I have had my revenge, and it was sweet! I did not kill him in his sleep, Senor; I wakened him, just to let him know he was in my power, just to hear him plead for mercy----"

"Hush!" said Mr. Britton, firmly, for the woman seemed to have gone mad. "You do not know what you are saying. You must get ready to return with me."

She grew calm at once and her face lighted with a strange smile.

"I am ready to go with you, Senor," she said, at the same time clasping the crucifix suddenly to her breast.

With the last word she fell to the ground and a slight tremor shook her frame for an instant. Quickly Mr. Britton lifted her and bore her to the light, but life was already extinct. Within her clasped hands, underneath the crucifix, they found the little poisoned stiletto.

_Chapter XXXIX_

AT THE TIME APPOINTED

For a year and a half Darrell worked uninterruptedly at Ophir, his constantly increasing commissions from eastern States testifying to his marked ability as a mining expert.

Notwithstanding the incessant demands upon his time, he still adhered to his old rule, reserving a few hours out of each twenty-four, which he devoted to scientific or literary study, as his mood impelled. He soon found himself again drawn irresistibly towards the story begun during his stay at the Hermitage, but temporarily laid aside on his return east. He carefully reviewed the synopsis, which he had written in detail, and as he did, he felt himself entering into the spirit of the story till it seemed once more part of his own existence. He revised the work already done, eliminating, adding, making the outlines clearer, more defined; then, with steady, unfaltering hand, carried the work forward to completion.

Eighteen months after his re-establishment at Ophir he was commissioned to go to Alaska to examine certain mining properties in a deal involving over a million dollars, and, anxious to be on the ground as early as possible, he took the first boat north that season. His story was published on the eve of his departure. He received a few copies, which he regarded with a half-fond, half-whimsical air. One he sent to Kate Underwood, having first written his initials on the fly-leaf underneath the brief petition, "Be merciful." He then went his way, his time and attention wholly occupied by his work, with little thought as to whether the newly launched craft was destined to ride the waves of popularity or be engulfed beneath the waters of oblivion.

Months of constant travel, of hard work and rough fare, followed. His report on the mines was satisfactory, the deal was consummated, and he received a handsome percentage, but not content with this, determined to familiarize himself with the general situation in that country and the conditions obtaining, he pushed on into the interior, pursuing his explorations till the return of the cold season. Touching at British Columbia on his way home and finding tempting inducements there in the way of mining properties, he stopped to investigate, and remained during the winter and spring months.

It was therefore not until the following June that he found himself really homeward bound and once more within the mountain ranges guarding the approach to the busy little town of Ophir.

He had been gone considerably over a year; he had accumulated a vast amount of information invaluable for future work along his line, and he had succeeded financially beyond his anticipations. Occasionally during his absence, in papers picked up here and there, he had seen favorable mention of his story, from which he inferred that his first venture in the realms of fiction had not been quite a failure, and in this opinion he was confirmed by a letter just received from his publishers, which had followed him for months. But all thought of these things was for the time forgotten in an almost boyish delight that he was at last on his way home.

As he came within sight of the familiar ranges his thoughts reverted again and again to Kate Underwood. His whole soul seemed to cry out for her with a sudden, insatiable longing. His mail had of necessity been irregular and infrequent; their letters had somehow miscarried, and he had not heard directly from her for months. Her last letter was from Germany; she was then still engrossed in her music, but her father's health was greatly improved and he was beginning to talk of home. His father's latest letter had stated that the Underwoods would probably return early in July. And this was June! Darrell felt a twinge of disappointment. He was now able to remember many incidents in their acquaintance. He recalled their first meeting at The Pines on that June day five years ago. How beautiful the old place must look now! But without Kate's presence the charm would be lost for him. He regretted he had started homeward quite so soon; the time would not have seemed so long among the mining camps of the great Northwest as here, where everything reminded him of her.

The stopping of the train at a health resort far up among the mountains, a few miles from Ophir, roused Darrell from his revery. With a sigh he recalled his wandering thoughts and left the car for a walk up and down the platform. The town, perched saucily on the slopes of a heavily timbered mountain, looked very attractive in the gathering twilight. Though early in the season, the hotel and sanitarium seemed well filled, while numerous pleasure-seekers were promenading the walks leading to and from the springs which gave the place its popularity.

Darrell felt a sudden, unaccountable desire to remain. Without waiting to analyze the impulse, as inexplicable as it was irresistible, which actuated him, he hastened into the sleeper and secured his grip and top coat. As the train pulled out he stepped into the station and sent a message to his father at Ophir, stating that he had decided to remain over a day or two at the Springs and asking him to look after his baggage on its arrival. He then took a carriage for the hotel. It was not without some compunctions of conscience that Darrell wired his father of his decision, and even as he rode swiftly along the winding streets he wondered what strange fancy possessed him that he should stop among strangers instead of continuing his journey home. To his father it would certainly seem unaccountable, as it did now to himself.

Mr. Britton, however, on receiving his son's message, could not restrain a smile, for only the preceding day he had received a telegram from Kate Underwood, at the same place, in which she stated that they had started home earlier than at first intended, and as her father was somewhat fatigued by their long journey, they had decided to stop for two or three days' rest at the Springs.

Darrell arrived at the hotel at a late hour for dinner; the dining-room was therefore nearly deserted when he took his place at the table. Dinner over, he went out for a stroll, and, glad to be alone with his thoughts, walked up and down the entire length of the little town. His mind was constantly on Kate. Again and again he seemed to see her, as he loved best to recall her, standing on the summit of the "Divide," her wind-tossed hair blown about her brow, her eyes shining, as she predicted their reunion and perfect love. Over and over he seemed to hear her words, and his heart burned with desire for their fulfilment. He had waited patiently, he had shown what he could achieve, how he could win, but all achievements, all victories, were worthless without her love and presence.

The moon was just rising as he returned to the hotel, but it was still early. His decision was taken; he would go to Ophir by the morning train, learn Kate's whereabouts from his father, and go to meet her and accompany her home. He had chosen a path leading through a secluded portion of the grounds, and as he approached the hotel his attention was arrested by some one singing. Glancing in the direction whence the song came, he saw one of the private parlors brightly lighted, the long, low window open upon the veranda. Something in the song held him entranced, spell-bound. The voice was incomparably rich, possessing wonderful range and power of expression, but this alone was not what especially appealed to him. Through all and underlying all was a quality so strangely, sweetly familiar, which thrilled his soul to its very depths, whether with joy or pain he could not have told; it seemed akin to both.

Still held as by a spell, he drew nearer the window, until he heard the closing words of the refrain,--words which had been ringing with strange persistency in his mind for the last two or three hours,--

"Some time, some time, and that will be God's own good time for you and me."

His heart leaped wildly. With a bound, swift and noiseless, he was on the veranda, just as the singer, with tender, lingering emphasis, repeated the words so low as to be barely audible to Darrell standing before the open window. But even while he listened he gazed in astonishment at the singer; could that magnificent woman be his girl-love? She was superbly formed, splendidly proportioned; the rich, warm blood glowed in her cheeks, and her hair gleamed in the light like spun gold. He stood motionless; he would not retreat, he dared not advance.

As the last words of the song died away, a slight sound caused the singer to turn, facing him, and their eyes met. That was enough; in that one glance the memory of his love returned to him like an overwhelming flood. She was no longer his Dream-Love, but a splendid, living reality, only more beautiful than his dreams or his imagination had portrayed her.

He stretched out his arms towards her with the one word, "Kathie!"

She had already risen, a great, unspeakable joy illumining her face, but at the sound of that name, vibrating with the pent-up emotion, the concentrated love of all the years of their separation, she came swiftly forward, her bosom palpitating, her eyes shining with the love called forth by his cry. He stepped through the low window, within the room. In an instant his arms were clasped about her, and, holding her close to his breast, his dark eyes told her more eloquently than words of his heart's hunger for her, while in her eyes and in the blushes running riot in her cheeks he read his welcome.

He kissed her hair and brow, with a sort of reverence; then, hearing voices in the corridor and rooms adjoining, he seized a light wrap from a chair near by and threw it about her shoulders.

"Come outside, sweetheart," he whispered, and drawing her arm within his own led her out onto the veranda and down the path along which he had just come. In the first transport of their joy they were silent, each almost fearing to break the spell which seemed laid upon them. The moon had risen, transforming the sombre scene to one of beauty, but to them Love's radiance had suddenly made the world inexpressibly fair; the very flowers as they passed breathed perfume like incense in their path, and the trees whispered benedictions upon them.

Darrell first broke the silence. "I would have been in Ophir to-night, but some mysterious, irresistible impulse led me to stop here. Did you weave a spell about me, you sweet sorceress?" he asked, gazing tenderly into her face.

"I think it must have been some higher influence than mine," she replied, with sweet gravity, "for I was also under the spell. I supposed you many miles away, yet, as I sang to-night, it seemed as though you were close to me, as though if I turned I should see you--just as I did," she concluded, with a radiant smile. "But how did you find me?"

"How does the night-bird find its mate?" he queried, in low, vibrant tones; then, as her color deepened, he continued, with passionate earnestness,--

"I was here, where we are now, my very soul crying out for you, when I heard your song. It thrilled me; I felt as though waking from a dream, but I knew my love was near. Down through the years I heard her soul calling mine; following that call, I found my love, and listening, heard the very words which my own heart had been repeating over and over to itself, alone and in the darkness."

Almost unconsciously they had stopped at a turn in the path. Darrell paused a moment, for tears were trembling on the golden lashes. Drawing her closer, he whispered,--

"Kathie, do you remember our parting on the 'Divide'?"

"Do you think I ever could forget?" she asked.

"You predicted we would one day stand reunited on the heights of such love as we had not dreamed of then. I asked you when that day would be; do you remember your answer?"

"I do."

He continued, in impassioned tones: "Are not the conditions fulfilled, sweetheart? My love for you then was as a dream, a myth, compared with that I bring you to-day, and looking in your eyes I need no words to tell me that your love has broadened and deepened with the years. Kathie, is not this 'the time appointed'?"

"It must be," she replied; "there could be none other like this!"

Holding her head against his breast and raising her face to his, he said, "You gave me your heart that day, Kathie, to hold in trust. I have been faithful to that trust through all these years; do you give it me now for my very own?"

"Yes," she answered, slowly, with sweet solemnity; "to have and to hold, forever!"

He sealed the promise with a long, rapturous kiss; but what followed, the broken, disjointed phrases, the mutual pledges, the tokens of love given and received, are all among the secrets which the mountains never told.

As they retraced their steps towards the hotel, Darrell said, "We have waited long, sweetheart."

"Yes, but the waiting has brought us good of itself," she answered. "Think of all you have accomplished,--I know better than you think, for your father has kept me posted,--and better yet, what these years have fitted you for accomplishing in the future! To me, that was the best part of your work in your story. It was strong and cleverly told, but what pleased me most was the evidence that it was but the beginning, the promise of something better yet to come."

"If only I could persuade all critics to see it through your eyes!" Darrell replied, with a smile.

"Do you wish to know," she asked, with sudden seriousness, "what will always remain to me the noblest, most heroic act of your life?"

"Most assuredly I do," he answered, her own gravity checking the laughing reply which rose to his lips.

"The fight you made and won alone in the mountains the day that you renounced our love for honor's sake. I can see now that the stand you took and maintained so nobly formed the turning-point in both our lives. I did not look at it then as you did. I would have married you then and there and gone with you to the ends of the earth rather than sacrifice your love, but you upheld my honor with your own. You fought against heavy odds, and won, and to me no other victory will compare with it, since--

'greater they who on life's battle-field With unseen foes and fierce temptations fight.'"

Darrell silently drew her nearer himself, feeling that even in this foretaste of joy he had received ample compensation for the past.

A few days later there was a quiet wedding at the Springs. The beautiful church on the mountain-side had been decorated for the occasion, and at an early hour, while yet the robins were singing their matins, the little wedding-party gathered about the altar where John Darrell Britton and Kate Underwood plighted their troth for life. Above the jubilant bird-songs, above the low, subdued tones of the organ, the words of the grand old marriage service rang out with impressiveness.

Besides the rector and his wife, there were present only Mr. Underwood, Mrs. Dean, and Mr. Britton. It had been Kate's wish, with which Darrell had gladly coincided, thus to be quietly married, surrounded only by their immediate relatives.

"Let our wedding be a fit consummation of our betrothal," she had said to him, "without publicity, unhampered by conventionalities, so it will always seem the sweeter and more sacred."

That evening found them all at The Pines, assembled on the veranda watching the sunset, the old home seeming wonderfully restful and peaceful to the returned travellers.

The years which had come and gone since Darrell first came to the Pines told heaviest on Mr. Underwood. His hair was nearly white and he had aged in many ways, appearing older than Mr. Britton, who was considerably his senior; but age had brought its compensations, for the stern, immobile face had softened and the deep-set eyes glowed with a kindly, beneficent light. Mr. Britton's hair was well silvered, but his face bore evidence of the great joy which had come into his life, and as his eyes rested upon his son he seemed to live anew in that glorious young life. To Mrs. Dean the years had brought only a few silver threads in the brown hair and an added serenity to the placid, unfurrowed brow. Calm and undemonstrative as ever, but with a smile of deep content, she sat in her accustomed place, her knitting-needles flashing and clicking with their old-time regularity. Duke, who had been left in Mr. Britton's care during Darren's absence, occupied his old place on the top stair, but even his five years of added dignity could not restrain him from occasional demonstrations of joy at finding himself again at The Pines and with his beloved master and mistress.

As the twilight began to deepen Kate suggested that they go inside, and led the way, not to the family sitting-room, but to a spacious room on the eastern side, a room which had originally been intended as a library, but never furnished as such. It was beautifully decorated with palms and flowers, while the fireplace had been filled with light boughs of spruce and fir.

As they entered the room, Kate, slipping her arm within Mr. Britton's, led him before the fireplace.

"My dear father," she said, "we have chosen this evening as the one most appropriate for your formal installation in our family circle and our home. I say formal because you have really been one of ourselves for years; you have shared our joys and our sorrows; we have had no secrets from you; but from this time we want you to take your place in our home, as you did long ago in our hearts. We have prepared this room for you, to be your _sanctum sanctorum_, and have placed in it a few little tokens of our love for you and gratitude to you, which we beg you to accept as such."

She bent towards the fireplace. "The hearthstone is ever an emblem of home. In lighting the fires upon this hearthstone, we dedicate it to your use and christen this 'our father's room.'"

The flames burst upward as she finished speaking, sending a resinous fragrance into the air and revealing a room fitted with such loving thought and care that nothing which could add to his comfort had been omitted. Near the centre of the room stood a desk of solid oak, a gift from Mr. Underwood; beside it a reclining chair from Mrs. Dean, while on the wall opposite, occupying nearly a third of that side of the room, was a superb painting of the Hermitage,--standing out in the firelight with wonderful realism, perfect in its bold outlines and sombre coloring,--the united gift of his son and daughter, which Darrell had ordered executed before his departure for Alaska.

With loving congratulations the rest of the group gathered about Mr. Britton, who was nearly speechless with emotion. As Mr. Underwood wrung his hand he exclaimed, with assumed gruffness,--

"Jack, old partner, you thought you'd got a monopoly on that boy of yours, but I've got in on the deal at last!"

"You haven't got any the best of me, Dave," Mr. Britton retorted, smiling through his tears, "for I've got a share now in the sweetest daughter on earth!"

"Yes, papa," Kate laughingly rejoined, "there are three of us Brittons now; the Underwoods are in the minority."

Which, though a new view of the situation to that gentleman, seemed eminently satisfactory.

Later, as Kate found Darrell at a window, looking thoughtfully out into the moonlit night, she asked,--

"Of what are you thinking, John?"

"Of what the years have done for us, Kathie; of how much better fitted for each other we are now than when we first loved."

"Yes," she whispered, as their eyes met, "'God's own good time' was the best."

THE END

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The following, taken from story, will best describe the heroine: A TOAST: "To the bravest comrade in misfortune, the sweetest companion in peace and at all times the most courageous of women."--_Barbara Winslow._ "A romantic story, buoyant, eventful, and in matters of love exactly what the heart could desire."--_New York Sun._

SUSAN. By Ernest Oldmeadow. With a color frontispiece by Frank Haviland. Medallion in color on front cover.

Lord Ruddington falls helplessly in love with Miss Langley, whom he sees in one of her walks accompanied by her maid, Susan. Through a misapprehension of personalities his lordship addresses a love missive to the maid. Susan accepts in perfect good faith, and an epistolary love-making goes on till they are disillusioned. It naturally makes a droll and delightful little comedy; and is a story that is particularly clever in the telling.

WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE. By Jean Webster. With illustrations by C. D. Williams.

"The book is a treasure."--_Chicago Daily News._ "Bright, whimsical, and thoroughly entertaining."--_Buffalo Express._ "One of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written."--_N. Y. Press._ "To any woman who has enjoyed the pleasures of a college life this book cannot fail to bring back many sweet recollections; and to those who have not been to college the wit, lightness, and charm of Patty are sure to be no less delightful."--_Public Opinion._

THE MASQUERADER. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. With illustrations by Clarence F. Underwood.

"You can't drop it till you have turned the last page."--_Cleveland Leader._ "Its very audacity of motive, of execution, of solution, almost takes one's breath away. The boldness of its denouement is sublime."--_Boston Transcript._ "The literary hit of a generation. The best of it is the story deserves all its success. A masterly story."--_St. Louis Dispatch._ "The story is ingeniously told, and cleverly constructed."--_The Dial._

THE GAMBLER. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. With illustrations by John Campbell.

"Tells of a high strung young Irish woman who has a passion for gambling, inherited from a long line of sporting ancestors. She has a high sense of honor, too, and that causes complications. She is a very human, lovable character, and love saves her."--_N. Y. Times._

THE AFFAIR AT THE INN. By Kate Douglas Wiggin. With illustrations by Martin Justice.

"As superlatively clever in the writing as it is entertaining in the reading. It is actual comedy of the most artistic sort, and it is handled with a freshness and originality that is unquestionably novel."--_Boston Transcript._ "A feast of humor and good cheer, yet subtly pervaded by special shades of feeling, fancy, tenderness, or whimsicality. A merry thing in prose."--_St. Louis Democrat._

ROSE O' THE RIVER. By Kate Douglas Wiggin. With illustrations by George Wright.

"'Rose o' the River,' a charming bit of sentiment, gracefully written and deftly touched with a gentle humor. It is a dainty book--daintily illustrated."--_New York Tribune._ "A wholesome, bright, refreshing story, an ideal book to give a young girl."--_Chicago Record-Herald._ "An idyllic story, replete with pathos and inimitable humor. As story-telling it is perfection, and as portrait-painting it is true to the life."--_London Mail._

TILLIE: A Mennonite Maid. By Helen R. Martin. With illustrations by Florence Scovel Shinn.

The little "Mennonite Maid" who wanders through these pages is something quite new in fiction. Tillie is hungry for books and beauty and love; and she comes into her inheritance at the end. "Tillie is faulty, sensitive, big-hearted, eminently human, and first, last and always lovable. Her charm glows warmly, the story is well handled, the characters skilfully developed."--_The Book Buyer._

LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Humphry Ward. With illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy.

"The most marvellous work of its wonderful author."--_New York World._ "We touch regions and attain altitudes which it is not given to the ordinary novelist even to approach."--_London Times._ "In no other story has Mrs. Ward approached the brilliancy and vivacity of Lady Rose's Daughter."--_North American Review._

THE BANKER AND THE BEAR. By Henry K. Webster.

"An exciting and absorbing story."--_New York Times._ "Intensely thrilling in parts, but an unusually good story all through. There is a love affair of real charm and most novel surroundings, there is a run on the bank which is almost worth a year's growth, and there is all manner of exhilarating men and deeds which should bring the book into high and permanent favor."--_Chicago Evening Post._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, - NEW YORK

NATURE BOOKS

With Colored Plates, and Photographs from Life.

* * * * *

BIRD NEIGHBORS. An Introductory Acquaintance with 150 Birds Commonly Found in the Woods, Fields and Gardens About Our Homes. By Neltje Blanchan. With an Introduction by John Burroughs, and many plates of birds in natural colors. Large Quarto, size 7-3/4x10-3/8, Cloth. Formerly published at $2.00. Our special price, $1.00.

As an aid to the elementary study of bird life nothing has ever been published more satisfactory than this most successful of Nature Books. This book makes the identification of our birds simple and positive, even to the uninitiated, through certain unique features. I. All the birds are grouped according to color, in the belief that a bird's coloring is the first and often the only characteristic noticed. II. By another classification, the birds are grouped according to their season. III. All the popular names by which a bird is known are given both in the descriptions and the index. The colored plates are the most beautiful and accurate ever given in a moderate-priced and popular book. The most successful and widely sold Nature Book yet published.

BIRDS THAT HUNT AND ARE HUNTED. Life Histories of 170 Birds of Prey, Game Birds and Water-Fowls. By Neltje Blanchan. With Introduction by G. O. Shields (Coquina). 24 photographic illustrations in color. Large Quarto, size 7-3/4x10-3/8. Formerly published at $2.00. Our special price, $1.00.

No work of its class has ever been issued that contains so much valuable information, presented with such felicity and charm. The colored plates are true to nature. By their aid alone any bird illustrated may be readily identified. Sportsmen will especially relish the twenty-four color plates which show the more important birds in characteristic poses. They are probably the most valuable and artistic pictures of the kind available to-day.

NATURE'S GARDEN. An Aid to Knowledge of Our Wild Flowers and Their Insect Visitors. 24 colored plates, and many other illustrations photographed directly from nature. Text by Neltje Blanchan. Large Quarto, size 7-3/4x10-3/8. Cloth. Formerly published at $3.00 net. Our special price, $1.25.

Superb color portraits of many familiar flowers in their living tints, and no less beautiful pictures in black and white of others--each blossom photographed directly from nature--form an unrivaled series. By their aid alone the novice can name the flowers met afield.

Intimate life-histories of over five hundred species of wild flowers, written in untechnical, vivid language, emphasize the marvelously interesting and vital relationship existing between these flowers and the special insect to which each is adapted.

The flowers are divided into five color groups, because by this arrangement any one with no knowledge of botany whatever can readily identify the specimens met during a walk. The various popular names by which each species is known, its preferred dwelling-place, months of blooming and geographical distribution follow its description. Lists of berry-bearing and other plants most conspicuous after the flowering season, of such as grow together in different kinds of soil, and finally of family groups arranged by that method of scientific classification adopted by the International Botanical Congress which has now superseded all others, combine to make "Nature's Garden" an indispensable guide.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, - NEW YORK

FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS

Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. Library size. Printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents a volume, postpaid.

* * * * *

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. By Myrtle Reed.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance finds a modern parallel. One of the prettiest, sweetest, and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories * * * A rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity. A dainty volume, especially suitable for a gift.

DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR. By Norman Duncan. With a frontispiece and inlay cover.

How the doctor came to the bleak Labrador coast and there in saving life made expiation. In dignity, simplicity, humor, in sympathetic etching of a sturdy fisher people, and above all in the echoes of the sea, _Doctor Luke_ is worthy of great praise. Character, humor, poignant pathos, and the sad grotesque conjunctions of old and new civilizations are expressed through the medium of a style that has distinction and strikes a note of rare personality.

THE DAY'S WORK. By Rudyard Kipling. Illustrated.

The _London Morning Post_ says: "It would be hard to find better reading * * * the book is so varied, so full of color and life from end to end, that few who read the first two or three stories will lay it down till they have read the last--and the last is a veritable gem * * * contains some of the best of his highly vivid work * * * Kipling is a born story-teller and a man of humor into the bargain."

ELEANOR LEE. By Margaret E. Sangster. With a frontispiece.

A story of married life, and attractive picture of wedded bliss * * an entertaining story of a man's redemption through a woman's love * * * no one who knows anything of marriage or parenthood can read this story with eyes that are always dry * * * goes straight to the heart of every one who knows the meaning of "love" and "home."

THE COLONEL OF THE RED HUZZARS. By John Reed Scott. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

"Full of absorbing charm, sustained interest, and a wealth of thrilling and romantic situations. "So naively fresh in its handling, so plausible through its naturalness, that it comes like a mountain breeze across the far-spreading desert of similar romances."--_Gazette-Times, Pittsburg._ "A slap-dashing day romance."--_New York Sun._

THE FAIR GOD; OR, THE LAST OF THE TZINS. By Lew Wallace. With illustrations by Eric Pape.

"The story tells of the love of a native princess for Alvarado, and it is worked out with all of Wallace's skill * * * it gives a fine picture of the heroism of the Spanish conquerors and of the culture and nobility of the Aztecs."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._

"Ben Hur sold enormously, but _The Fair God_ was the best of the General's stories--a powerful and romantic treatment of the defeat of Montezuma by Cortes."--_Athenaeum._

THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS. By Louis Tracy.

A story of love and the salt sea--of a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibal Fuegians--of desperate fighting and tender romance, enhanced by the art of a master of story telling who describes with his wonted felicity and power of holding the reader's attention * * * filled with the swing of adventure.

A MIDNIGHT GUEST. A Detective Story. By Fred M. White. With a frontispiece.

The scene of the story centers in London and Italy. The book is skilfully written and makes one of the most baffling, mystifying, exciting detective stories ever written--cleverly keeping the suspense and mystery intact until the surprising discoveries which precede the end.

THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI. A Romance. By S. Levett Yeats. With cover and wrapper in four colors.

Those who enjoyed Stanley Weyman's _A Gentleman of France_ will be engrossed and captivated by this delightful romance of Italian history. It is replete with exciting episodes, hair-breath escapes, magnificent sword-play, and deals with the agitating times in Italian history when Alexander II was Pope and the famous and infamous Borgias were tottering to their fall.

SISTER CARRIE. By Theodore Drieser. With a frontispiece, and wrapper in color.

In all fiction there is probably no more graphic and poignant study of the way in which man loses his grip on life, lets his pride, his courage, his self-respect slip from him, and, finally, even ceases to struggle in the mire that has engulfed him. * * * There is more tonic value in _Sister Carrie_ than in a whole shelfful of sermons.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, - NEW YORK

PRINCESS MARITZA A NOVEL OF RAPID ROMANCE. BY PERCY BREBNER With Harrison Fisher Illustrations in Color.

Offers more real entertainment and keen enjoyment than any book since "Graustark." Full of picturesque life and color and a delightful love-story. The scene of the story is Wallaria, one of those mythical kingdoms in Southern Europe. Maritza is the rightful heir to the throne, but is kept away from her own country. The hero is a young Englishman of noble family. It is a pleasing book of fiction. Large 12mo. size. Handsomely bound in cloth. White coated wrapper, with Harrison Fisher portrait in colors. Price 75 cents, postpaid.

* * * * *

Books by George Barr McCutcheon

BREWSTER'S MILLIONS

Mr. Montgomery Brewster is required to spend a million dollars in one year in order to inherit seven millions. He must be absolutely penniless at that time, and yet have spent the million in a way that will commend him as fit to inherit the larger sum. How he does it forms the basis for one of the most crisp and breezy romances of recent years.

CASTLE CRANEYCROW

The story revolves around the abduction of a young American woman and the adventures created through her rescue. The title is taken from the name of an old castle on the Continent, the scene of her imprisonment.

GRAUSTARK: A Story of a Love Behind a Throne.

This work has been and is to-day one of the most popular works of fiction of this decade. The meeting of the Princess of Graustark with the hero, while travelling incognito in this country, his efforts to find her, his success, the defeat of conspiracies to dethrone her, and their happy marriage, provide entertainment which every type of reader will enjoy.

THE SHERRODS. With illustrations by C. D. Williams

A novel quite unlike Mr. McCutcheon's previous works in the field of romantic fiction and yet possessing the charm inseparable from anything he writes. The scene is laid in Indiana and the theme is best described in the words, "Whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder."

Each volume handsomely bound in cloth. Large 12mo. size. Price 75 cents per volume, postpaid.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS 52 DUANE STREET :: NEW YORK

_NEW POPULAR EDITIONS OF_ MARY JOHNSTON'S NOVELS

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

It was something new and startling to see an author's first novel sell up into the hundreds of thousands, as did this one. The ablest critics spoke of it in such terms as "Breathless interest," "The high water mark of American fiction since Uncle Tom's Cabin," "Surpasses all," "Without a rival," "Tender and delicate," "As good a story of adventure as one can find," "The best style of love story, clean, pure and wholesome."

AUDREY

With the brilliant imagination and the splendid courage of youth, she has stormed the very citadel of adventure. Indeed it would be impossible to carry the romantic spirit any deeper into fiction.--_Agnes Repplier._

PRISONERS OF HOPE

Pronounced by the critics classical, accurate, interesting, American, original, vigorous, full of movement and life, dramatic and fascinating, instinct with life and passion, and preserving throughout a singularly even level of excellence.

Each volume handsomely bound in cloth. Large 12mo. size. Price, 75 cents per volume, postpaid.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS 52 DUANE STREET :: NEW YORK

_GET THE BEST OUT-DOOR STORIES_

Stewart Edward White's Great Novels of Western Life.

GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS

THE BLAZED TRAIL

Mingles the romance of the forest with the romance of man's heart, making a story that is big and elemental, while not lacking in sweetness and tenderness. It is an epic of the life of the lumbermen of the great forest of the Northwest, permeated by out of door freshness, and the glory of the struggle with nature.

THE SILENT PLACES

A powerful story of strenuous endeavor and fateful privation in the frozen North, embodying also a detective story of much strength and skill. The author brings out with sure touch and deep understanding the mystery and poetry of the still, frost-bound forest.

THE CLAIM JUMPERS

A Tale of a Western mining camp and the making of a man, with which a charming young lady has much to do. The tenderfoot has a hard time of it, but meets the situation, shows the stuff he is made of, and "wins out."

THE WESTERNERS

A tale of the mining camp and the Indian country, full of color and thrilling incident.

THE MAGIC FOREST: A Modern Fairy Story.

"No better book could be put in a young boy's hands," says the New York _Sun_. It is a happy blend of knowledge of wood life with an understanding of Indian character, as well as that of small boys.

Each volume handsomely bound in cloth. Price, seventy-five cents per volume, postpaid.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS 52 DUANE STREET :: NEW YORK

_THE GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS OF STANDARD WORKS_

A FULL AND COMPLETE EDITION OF TENNYSON'S POEMS.

Containing all the Poems issued under the protection of copyright. Cloth bound, small 8 vo. 882 pages, with index to first lines. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents. The same, bound in three-quarter morocco, gilt top, $2.50, postpaid.

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON AND HER TIMES, by Mrs. Roger A. Pryor.

The brilliant social life of the time passes before the reader, packed full of curious and delightful information. More kinds of interest enter into it than into any other volume on Colonial Virginia. Sixty illustrations. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.

SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND, by William Winter

A record of rambles in England, relating largely to Warwickshire and depicting not so much the England of fact, as the England created and hallowed by the spirit of her poetry, of which Shakespeare is the soul. Profusely illustrated. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.

THEODORE ROOSEVELT THE CITIZEN, by Jacob A. Riis.

Should be read by every man and boy in America. Because it sets forth an ideal of American Citizenship. An Inspired Biography by one who knows him best. A large, handsomely illustrated cloth bound book. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS 52 DUANE STREET :: NEW YORK

_THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS THAT HAVE BEEN DRAMATIZED._

BREWSTER'S MILLIONS: By George Barr McCutcheon.

A clever, fascinating tale, with a striking and unusual plot. With illustrations from the original New York production of the play.

THE LITTLE MINISTER: By J. M. Barrie.

With illustrations from the play as presented by Maude Adams, and a vignette in gold of Miss Adams on the cover.

CHECKERS: By Henry M. Blossom, Jr.

A story of the Race Track. Illustrated with scenes from the play as originally presented in New York by Thomas W. Ross who created the stage character.

THE CHRISTIAN: By Hall Caine. THE ETERNAL CITY: By Hall Caine.

Each has been elaborately and successfully staged.

IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: By F. Marion Crawford.

A love story of Old Madrid, with full page illustrations. Originally played with great success by Viola Allen.

JANICE MEREDITH: By Paul Leicester Ford.

New edition with an especially attractive cover, a really handsome book. Originally played by Mary Mannering, who created the title role.

These books are handsomely bound in cloth, are well-made in every respect, and aside from their unusual merit as stories, are particularly interesting to those who like things theatrical. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents each.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS 52 DUANE STREET :: NEW YORK

End of Project Gutenberg's At the Time Appointed, by A. Maynard Barbour