CHAPTER XIX

For, immune from scoff of bachelor chum, Into his kingdom he had come; A rose-strewn path he would henceforth tread Through the generous will of the kindly dead.

--_The Legatee_

"Go on! you're only fooling! Is that straight now, Hop? What pipe-dream's all this?"

Dr. Musgrave's incredulous remarks were addressed to Provost-Sergeant Hopgood, the non-com. in charge of the guardroom, who, reclining in an easy chair in the former's combined study and consulting-room on this September evening, was regarding his host somewhat lugubriously through a blue haze of cigar smoke.

"No pipe-dream at all ... kind of wish it was," he answered, with a slight trace of bitterness in his tones. "'Twas Churchill wised _me_ up. He was in from Sabbano today. Appears Ben's been rushing this girl--or woman, I should say--she's near thirty, I understand--for quite a time, now."

Musgrave's air of surprise was slowly succeeded by one of unwilling conviction.

"Well, I'll be----!" he muttered. "I might have tumbled, too!"

"Why, what's up?" said Hopgood eagerly, staring at him now with wide-eyed wonder. "You knew about it all the time, eh? Did Ben tell you? Have you seen her? What's she like?"

Musgrave knocked the ash off his cigar and gazed reflectively out of the open window.

"Think I have," he said. "I was walking down Eighth Avenue with him--day he was in town, last month. 'Hello!' he says, pulling up suddenly. 'Here's somebody I know from my district!' And, in that happy, casual, easy way he's got, he introduced me to a female acquaintance of his, who'd just come out of Black's jewelry store. She was a great big tall dark girl--finest figure of a woman I think I've ever seen. Regular whopper--not fat with it, either. Made you think of Boadicea, or Brittania, somehow, to look at her. She didn't strike me as being a beauty, exactly, but she'd got a nice kind face. Lots of fun in her, too, and a lady, unmistakably. I rather liked her. We stood there chatting a few minutes, and I remember she told me she was in town for a day or two, shopping. Never a peep from that old fox, Ben, though. You'd never have dreamt there was anything doing from the way he acted then. Everything was as casual as you please. Begad! I'll soak it to him for putting it over on me like this! That's if it _is_ right," he added, with a dubious smile. "Somehow, I can't credit it, though. Why, he's the very last man I'd have expected to go dangling after a woman!"

"Bet he don't do much dangling," remarked the Provost sagely. "Not if I know him. He ain't that kind. More'n likely it's the other way round. I've known quite a few women get struck on him. Queer beggar! he's never aloof, rude, or cold, but somehow--he just doesn't seem to _notice_ 'em at all. P'r'aps that's what gets 'em. Besides, he's a proper man to look at, and when he's penned in a corner with a woman with no chance of escape, he talks in that kind, simple way of his--you know his way, Charley."

Musgrave nodded.

There was a long silence, the two men puffing thoughtfully at their cigars and gazing with owlish abstraction at each other.

"Didn't you tell me once that he was engaged to some girl in Jo'burg? When he was with the Chartered Company?" pursued Hopgood.

"Yes," answered Musgrave moodily, "he was." He paused, and an unfathomable, far-away look crept into his eyes as he gazed absently across at a window in the opposite block that the last rays of the dying sun transformed into a flaming shield of fire. "Beautiful Irish girl named Eileen Regan. She'd a face like a Madonna, I remember. She was a Roman Catholic, and a very devout one at that. They _might_ have been happy together.... I don't know. It's hard to predict how these mixed religions'll turn out. Poor things never got the chance to see, anyway. For she died--died of enteric, just before the war started."

Hopgood eyed the other tentatively for a second or two. "_This_ one's Irish, too, I understand?" he remarked. "Irish-American, anyway.... He seems mighty partial to the Irish. Her name's O'Malley. They'll be able to keep a pig and 'live pretty,' what?"

And, overcome by the thought, he made a comical grimace of despair and sank back into the depths of his luxurious chair, while the roar of the busy street below floated up to their ears.

Musgrave cleared his throat. "Mother was an Irishwoman," he said presently. "Probably that accounts for it. She was a Miss Fitzgerald, of Dublin--sister of that brave, splendid chap, Captain Fitzgerald, who was killed along with poor Fred Burnaby and many others of Stewart's column, when the square was broken in the fight near the wells at Abou Klea, in the Soudan War of 'eighty-four and five."

He smoked on silently for a space. "Oh, h--l!" he burst out, with a sudden incredulous bitterness that startled even the cynical Hopgood. "Why, that beggar's _always_ come to me before with his troubles. Guess I'm the only one he ever _does_ confide in. Many's the time I've acted as Father-confessor and mentor to him. Surely he'd never have passed me up in such a momentous business as this? What saith the poet:

"You may carve it on his tombstone, You may cut it on his card That a young man married is a young man marred."

The Provost emitted a noisy, snorting laugh.

"Yes," he remarked, with the jeering familiarity of old acquaintance, "and I must say you're a nice blooming old Gamaliel to act as mentor to anybody, Charley, especially if you expect him to embrace _your_ self-constituted creed of morality and philosophy. Oh, you're some Father-confessor, all right, what? Besides, he _ain't_ young. That is, unless you call thirty-nine unsophisticated youth. 'Bout time he _was_ making the break. There's no fun in getting married when you're old, all same Pope's 'January and May.' He happened to mention it was his birthday to a bunch of us down town when he came in last month. I remember him saying it was his thirty-ninth, because I and Berkley, Mac, and Port stuck him for the drinks on the strength of it. We rushed him into the Alberta bar right away and--"

"How about the way he used to hand it out about non-coms and bucks getting married in your Force, too?" interrupted Musgrave, grinning. "'Look at Beckstall,' he would say. 'Look at Corbett,' and lots of others. 'Big families--always broke--dragging out their miserable lives in rotten little line detachments--can never afford to send their poor wives away for a change anywhere--they don't _live_--they just _exist_, from one year's end to another. That's all there's to it! D'you think I'd let myself in for a purgatory like _that_?' and so on. You've heard him, Hop, too--lots of times, what?"

Hopgood held up his hands appealingly.

"Don't shoot, Colonel!" he said. "I'll come down! _I'm_ not holding any particular brief for him. Guess he's pretty well able to conduct his own defense. _Ish ga bibble!_--it ain't _our_ funeral."

It was worse than useless to argue with Musgrave. All his opponent's best hits were turned aside by the target of his cynicism and unbelief, while his repartee and sarcasms often came home.

"Funny chap!" he resumed musingly. "I think he is just about _the_ most interesting and complex character I've ever come across. He's very much of a man, but at the same time--he's as simple as a kid in some things. Beggar reads a lot, and he's as rum in his tastes in that as he is in everything else. Fond of all this old-fashioned stuff. The heighth of his imagination in humor he finds in Balzac's and Rabelais' yarns, or Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' and his ideals of pathos in George Eliot's or Dickens's tales. Whatever can you do with a man like that?"

"Oh, what's the use of talking?" broke out Hopgood testily:

"A fool there was, and he made his prayer--"

he quoted, with a low, bitter laugh. "And by gum! it's me that knows it."

The doctor silently eyed him in cynical abstraction awhile after this outburst, then his grim mouth relaxed into a faint sympathetic grin, and he held out his hand.

"Aye!... 'Even as you and I,'" he finished softly. "Shake!... Is _that_ why you chucked up your commission in India?... I and Ben always thought so," he continued, as the Provost nodded wearily to his query. "None of our business to get making inquisitions, though.... Well! this sad news has been quite a shock to our nervous systems. Kind of breaks up us 'Three Musketeers,' eh?... Looks very much as if we're going to lose our D'Artagnan. The old chum of your bachelor days is, somehow, never the same again to you after he gets married. S'pose an all-wise Providence has ordained things so for some unfathomable reason. Think we need a little drink to console us."

And he got up with a dreary sighing yawn and, unlocking a small mahogany liquor cellaret, produced a splendid silver and cut-glass "Tantalus."

"What's yours, Hop?" he inquired. "Brandy, or 'Scotch'?"

Leaving these two well-meaning, if cynical, worthies to console each other with the bitter philosophy which retrospection of past irremedial misfortunes has caused many better, and worse, men than them to revert to, let us return to the detachment at Cherry Creek, where at this particular moment the object of their commiseration is leaning back in his favorite chair, with his head resting in its customary position against the leopard-skin kaross. Tired out by a long and uneventful four days' patrol, Ellis lit a pipe and gazed wearily out through the open door into the gathering dusk. Gradually, his mind, still obsessed with the vague memories of brands of missing cattle and horses and the usual round of more or less petty complaints, strayed back to the Trainors' establishment.

He found himself wondering how Mary was, and what had caused her to be so strangely silent and abstracted during that last homeward ride together from Lone Butte. At supper time, too, he mused, she had been in the same mood ... had hardly spoken to him at all? Could it be that--?

And, not unmixed with an unfamiliar, slightly self-conscious, feeling of shame, came the sudden thought that she _might_ have grown to regard his attentions in a more serious light than mere frank camaraderie. And, if that was so--well--she sure _must_ be thinking him a proper "laggard in love." Not much of the "Young Lochinvar" about him, he reflected bitterly. Anyway, it certainly didn't seem very gentlemanly behavior on his part, or the right thing, exactly, to run around after a girl--like he undoubtedly had, to a certain extent--with Mary, and then keep her "hanging on the fence" indefinitely, as it were, like that. Surely the Trainors must be wondering not a little, too. How the deuce was it that he had never thought of his conduct in that light before? What a simple fool he had been not to have "tumbled" to all this earlier? Should he chance it? She could but "turn him down" like she had the rest--some of whose very palpable discomfiture he had been a casual and not altogether disinterested witness on more than one occasion.

And then, on the other hand, was he _justified_ in asking _any_ woman to share the lot that he had so often bitterly inveighed against as being utterly insufficient, unsuitable, and contrary to all his ideals of conjugal happiness?

His somewhat gloomy reflections were suddenly disturbed by the sounds of an approaching rider, who presently drew up outside the open door.

"Oh, Sargint!" came the gruff bark of Gallagher; "yu're back, eh? Bin down for me mail, so I brung yores along."

"Good man! much obliged. Come on in, Barney!" Ellis called out.

And the rancher, swinging down from the saddle, dropped his lines and slouched in with a packet of letters in his hand.

"Nothin' doin', an' nobody around for yu' while yu' was away," he remarked, dropping into a chair and lighting his pipe. "Gosh, but it's a warm night for this time o' year!"

The Sergeant reached out for, and began leisurely to open up his mail. Most of it bore the regimental stamp of L Division. Returned crime reports, with caustic, blue-pencilled marginal comments in the O.C.'s caligraphy, requesting certain omitted particulars therein. Circulars respecting stolen stock, descriptions of persons "wanted" for various crimes, drastic orders emanating, primarily, from Headquarters at Regina, regarding new innovations to be observed in certain phases of detachment duty, etc., the monthly "General Orders," and so on. But presently a somewhat large envelope, addressed in a clerk's hand and bearing an English stamp and the London postmark, attracted his attention. Whoever could be writing _him_ from the Old Country? he wondered. The only letters he ever received from _there_ were mostly from Major Carlton, and this wasn't _his_ handwriting.

With a vague feeling of uneasiness, he turned it over in his hand irresolutely for a moment, then opened it. It contained a closed envelope and a letter which bore the heading of a London legal firm. Mechanically he smoothed this latter communication out and began to read the epoch-making document that was destined later to create for him a new world and to transform his desert into a paradise.

_Dear Sir_,--We are charged with the melancholy duty of breaking to you the news of the death of your old friend, Major Gilbert Carlton, on the 20th ult. Our late respected client, although possessing all the outward appearances of being a hale, robust old soldier, had for many years suffered from what physicians term an "aortic aneurism," the origin of which was probably the result of the privations and exposure endured by him in the various campaigns that he had gone through. The final bursting of this "aneurism" was the cause of his sudden death.

Suffering from such an ailment, it is therefore not surprising that he apparently realized of late that his end might come upon him unexpectedly at any moment of his advanced age. This presentiment he recently confided to us, during one of his last business visits. The enclosed letter he left in our care, charging us--in case of his decease--to forward it immediately to you.

For many years he frequently spoke of you to us with great regard and feeling; referring to you always, as "The boy, Ellis," or "_His_ boy," in tones which moved us not a little, evincing as he did, such a kindly love and esteem for you. He was seventy-five years of age, and, as you are of course aware, a bachelor all his life, possessing only distant relatives. Although not by any means a recluse, and enjoying life to its full in his old-fashioned, cheery way at his estate--Biddlecombe Hall, in Devonshire, surrounded by many of his old soldier friends--he was not an extravagant man and the revenues of the said estate have been steadily accumulating for many years. This magnificent property, with all revenues thereof had been left to him under the will of his cousin, the late Lord Baring, his nearest relative.

We enclose a copy of the testament, by which you will see that (with the exception of the estate, which, re a stipulated clause in Lord Baring's will, has reverted at the death of the last incumbent to the Morley Institute, to be used as a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients, and a few bequests to old servants) he has bequeathed to you the great bulk of his money. We hold at your disposal, a sum (discounting probate dues) approximately nearly ninety thousand pounds.

We beg to congratulate you on the acquisition of this considerable fortune. Thinking that you might desire to relinquish your present occupation at once, and not knowing how you are financially situated, we enclose a credit for five hundred pounds, for which please sign the accompanying receipt. Kindly communicate with us at your earliest convenience.

We are, dear sir, yours truly, _Eaton and Smith_.

Dazedly Ellis glanced through the attached copy of the will and reread the letter through. Gallagher, who had been intently watching his face throughout, vaguely aware from the Sergeant's unconcealed agitation that some tidings of an unusual character had been received, inquired casually:

"Why, what's up, Sargint? Hope yu' ain't bin a-gettin' bad news?"

Ellis regarded his interlocutor absently a moment or two, and then his preoccupied gaze flickered away again through the open door into the darkness of the night.

"It's both good _and_ bad, Barney," he answered slowly. "I'll tell yu'--later."

Choking back many conflicting emotions, he now picked up the previously mentioned closed letter which, he perceived, was addressed to him in his old friend's handwriting. With a feeling almost of awed reverence, he broke the heavy wax seal, stamped with the Major's own signet ring and, drawing out the letter, began to read a communication that was to remain indelibly in his memory forever:

_My Dear Lad_,--I take up my pen to write this--the last letter you will ever receive from me--while I am still of clear mind, and in possession of all my faculties. Life is very uncertain at all times, and especially so in the case of an old fellow like me. I have got what the doctors call an "aneurism," Ellis, and have had it for many years now. A man cannot expect to come through the hardships of such campaigns as the Afghan and Soudan, unscathed. I was at Charasiah, Kabul, Maiwand, and Tel-el-Kebir, my boy, and I tell you I have worked, bled, starved and suffered above a bit in my time. My incubus has been troubling me greatly of late and I cannot mistake its meaning. Dr. Forsyth has warned me that it may burst at any time now. Many thanks for granting my wish in sending me that photograph of yourself in your Mounted Police uniform. I look at it often. For though externally it depicts one whom I believe to be a soldier, and a man in word, deed, and appearance, in it I seem to see again the face of a boy that I once loved, because--he had his mother's dear, dear eyes.

Yes, Ellis, my lad!... Now that I know my end is not far off, I feel that I cannot die peaceably without telling you what has been to me a sacred secret since I was in my thirties.

It must have been in 'sixty-two, or thereabouts, when I first met your mother, in Dublin. The regiment that I and your father were in lay at Athlone, then. I grew to love her. Loved her with a passion that I fancy comes to few men, and my supreme desire was to be able to call her my wife. I suppose the Almighty willed it otherwise, though, and it was not to be.... For John Benton, your father, came along, my boy, and he was a big man, and a strong man, and a handsome man, with a bold masterful, loving way with him that took her by storm, as it were, and I--I faded into insignificance beside such a splendid personality as his. He won her from me, but that fact could not kill my love; all outward exhibition of which, though, I have guarded well. My Dear Lad I have worn the willow decently, I hope, as an honest English gentleman should, and have borne my cross patiently through the long, weary years that have passed since then.

With the recollection of _such_ a woman as your mother lingering still in my remembrance,--whose dear face--God grant, I may behold again, shortly--can you wonder that none other has come into my life to take her place, and that I have been true to the memory of my first, and only love. You alone of your family have _her_ eyes, and impulsive, loving ways, and for those reasons were always my favorite--headstrong lad, though you were.

On the subject of your estrangement from your family, I have nothing to say, beyond that I consider that it is a matter which lies entirely between your own conscience--and God. You were sorely tried, I know.

I am leaving to you the greater portion of my money. It is my desire, as through it, I hope, your future path in life will be smoothed considerably. May it ultimately bring you the happiness of enabling you to marry a good, true, loving woman, and of living henceforth, in that station of life to which you properly belong.

Do not grieve for me my lad!... Best think of me just as a kindly old soldier, at the end of his service, who was ready and willing to go to his rest--only awaiting "The Last Post" to be sounded. I have not lived altogether unhappily. I have drunk deeply of the joys of life in my time, and I possess many good and true friends. My days, thank God, have been, for the most part, passed cleanly as a _man_--in the open, breathing His fresh air. Through it I have had ever your dear mother's memory to keep my conscience clear, and have striven steadfastly to adhere and live up to, most all, I trust, of the precepts that are embodied in the formula, "An officer, and a gentleman." As in the sunset of my life I sit alone in my chair in the twilight, dreaming of bygone days, it seems to me that I can see the shining welcome of many long-lost and well-remembered faces. They come and go, and I love them well enough, but _one_--especially beloved above the rest is with me always.

But why speak of _her_?... Now that she is again so near to me--now that I go, I hope, where _she_ has gone!... The guiding-light of the soul of her true womanhood is shining brighter and brighter in the gloom ahead of me still, and of _her_ will my last thoughts be on this side of Eternity.

And now! ... Ellis, my boy! my boy! ... One last "Good-by!" ... God bless you, and may your life be a long and happy one.

I am, believe me, to the last.

_Your old friend_, _Gilbert Carlton_.

A smothered sob burst from Ellis, and the letter fluttered from his grasp to the floor. Gallagher, still watching him curiously, repeated his former query:

"What's up, Sargint? Hope nothin's--"

Ellis interrupted him huskily, but not unkindly.

"Get out, Barney!" he said. "Don't talk to me just now! I'll tell yu'--sometime! Beat it! there's a good chap. I just wanta be alone."

And, with one last lingering look of silent, wondering sympathy, the rancher arose and departed slowly into the night.

Overcome with his thoughts, Ellis sat for a long time motionless; then, mechanically groping for the letter again, he reread it. Its simple pathos touched him strangely as the awe-inspiring significance of the long, patient struggle of that faithful old heart--stilled now, alas, forever--began to creep into his dazed brain. He raised his swimming eyes to the portrait of the gentle woman, the memory of whose beauty and kind, sweet personality had been the good angel alike to poor old Major Carlton and himself throughout both their strenuous and sin-tempted lives.

Not in vain had been her early teachings and loving, self-sacrificing patience and forbearance, while he was yet a wilful, headstrong youngster. As, gently, and with a mother's tact, she strove to curb his faults and instil into him--through love, and love alone--truth, honesty, and the main principles of right and wrong.

Not in vain had she entered into her rest and, as an angel in the stead of a beautiful, pure, true-hearted woman, interceded for the souls of both men in their tempestuous journey through life.

Long and wistfully the Sergeant gazed into the grave, sweet eyes and proud, clean-cut features--so like his own--and his stern bronzed face became softened and glorified with a wave of ineffable filial devotion too sacred for words.

"Mother!" he whispered brokenly. "Mother! Oh, Mother!" and dropped his head upon his outstretched arms across the table.

But grief--no matter however sincere and true--to the average healthy man is but a transient emotion. Ellis was no dissembler, and sadly though he mourned the loss of his old friend, as the first transports of his sorrow subsided and he became calmer, a slow, dim realization of the tremendous possibilities of his good fortune began to flood his mind.

For to him it meant--freedom, at last, from all the unavoidable, petty, sordid worries connected with the calling that he followed. No more gloomy outlooks upon life in general, or pessimistic forebodings arising from the consciousness of straightened means. Free at last to wander around the earth at will and visit all its beauty spots that he had read or heard about. Free to enjoy all the pleasures of the world that money can command. He was still only a comparatively young man, strong and active far beyond the average.

And, above all, it meant--and the very thought of his presumption stirred him strangely and caused a mighty wave of long-pent-up love to surge through his heart--perhaps also it meant--Mary.

So the joy of life filled him and transfigured his scarred, somber face with a dreamy expression of happiness that lies beyond the power of mere words to adequately describe. No more was the ideal life that he had so often--ah! how often?--pictured longingly to himself in his fits of morbid, spiritless depression, only a monotonous repetition of hopeless empty dreams. It actually lay now within his power to gratify his heart's desires to their fullest extent.

And then--to the weary man in that humble abode, which was, nevertheless, all that he could call "Home," there appeared a wondrous fantasy which, in its awe-inspiring, majestic grandeur, might have been likened, almost, unto some allegory, or a scene in the Revelation. With mind absolutely, utterly detached from all things material, he sat there motionless, as if in a dream, and it began to float before his far-away eyes like a filmy roseate mirage.

For, in his exalted imagination, it seemed to him that he was standing upon the shores of a great sparkling crystal sea, as it were, in the first faint flush of a radiant dawn. Purple, crimson, saffron-yellow and turquoise, the morning lights stole in succession across the sleeping world, and slowly--slowly, in the mystic East--the flashing rays of a magnificent sunrise began to creep over the rim of the horizon, transforming the gleaming waste of waters into a vast expanse of golden flame.

And, as he gazed entranced at this gorgeous spectacle, suddenly he grew conscious that he was not alone. Turning, he became aware of the figure of a woman kneeling on the ground hard by, with her head bowed in an attitude suggestive of sorrowful abandon. Her form, though the face was turned from him and partly shrouded by her huge masses of dark, disordered hair, seemed vaguely familiar; and he found himself engaged in idle speculation as to her identity. Something in her posture of dejection instinctively stirred in him a fleeting memory of Thomas Moore's beautiful poem. "Paradise and the Peri," the poor Peri humbly, yet vainly, craving admission into Paradise. Vaguely and disconnectedly, some of the lines wandered into his mind:

One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate;

The glorious Angel who was keeping The Gates of Light beheld her weeping;

Awhile he contemplated the woman with a great pity in his heart, and was about to draw nigh and comfort her when all at once his impulse was checked and he remained spellbound in mute amazement.

For, seemingly from _nowhere_, a transcendentally glorious voice--_that sounded not of this earth_--suddenly arose in the stillness around them. Pure, peaceful, unutterably sweet, far beyond this world and its works, the golden notes floated forth into the hush of the opal dawn, uplifting the hearts of the listeners on the wings of sound--verily to Heaven's gate:

"O Rest in the Lord! wait patiently for Him! And He shall give thee--He shall give thee-- O He shall give thee thy heart's desire!"

The eternal solace of the weary and heavy-laden, the Divine appeal to all poor struggling souls rose and fell, finally melting away into nothingness, save where the deep, cloister-like silence flung back a faint far echo. Beside the bowed female figure there became visible a vague shimmering _something_ which, almost imperceptibly, began to assume the outlines of a human form. Disturbed strangely at what he knew not, the wayward, reckless soul of Ellis Benton became filled with a great and reverential awe.

He sank to his knees and bowed his head. When, fearfully, he dared to raise it again, his eyes beheld _one_ clad in shining raiment, about whom there clung a halo of radiance. Slowly the glistening form turned and a cry of wonderment and adoration burst from his lips. For, lo!--it seemed to him that _once more_ he looked upon the face of his long-dead love--Eileen Regan.

Motionless, she gazed down upon him long and earnestly, with gravely sweet, kind eyes; then, stooping low, she embraced the sorrowing woman tenderly, and kissed her on the brow, bidding her be of good cheer and calling her "Sister." Presently, drawing herself erect, she uplifted her heavenly voice again, and there rang forth--as he well remembered her singing it in _life_, one never-to-be-forgotten Christmas morn, in that little Catholic Church in far-off Johannesburg--"In Excelsis Gloria":

"Glory to God in the Highest! And on earth peace, goodwill towards men!"

She bent and kissed the woman a last farewell. Then, raising her arms in holy benediction, she slowly became a _shade_, as before, unfolding her wings and floating away diaphonously into the silvery mists of the early morn.

The kneeling woman then arose and, turning, came towards him swiftly. A tall, stately figure of a woman, with a kind, strong, sweet face; the tumbled masses of her glossy, raven-hued hair all floating and rippling about her regal shoulders and white columnar throat.

Near she drew to him--nearer. She stretched out her bare rounded arms to him with a little happy loving cry as she smiled into his eyes, and he saw the splendor and glory of the world in hers.

While, far away in his ears, rang the echo of his own voice calling upon a woman's name--wonderingly, passionately--"Mary!... Mary!... Mary!..."

The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid As it was in the days of old. The heart of a man to the heart of a maid-- Light of my tents, be fleet! Morning waits at the end of the world; And the world is all at our feet.

--_Kipling_

"Wake up, Johnny, yu' old fool!... don't yu' start in to lazy on me or I'll--"

Here Ellis shrewdly pinched his mount's withers, causing that animal to flatten his ears and nip playfully at his rider's knee.

"Look out, doggone it! If _I_ happen to get a bit absent-minded at times, yu' needn't follow suit!" he exclaimed sharply, as he jerked his horse away from the edge of a small, but wicked muskeg, around which the trail that led to the Trainors' ranch circled. "I sure don't want to be getting in the soup like Jim McCloud did that time, on _this_ day of all days. I'll hand yu' over to Mary, begad!... she'll teach yu' to 'soldier,' yu' old sucker!"

It was a glorious sunshiny afternoon, and the light cool breeze sent the occasional little tufts of fleecy-white clouds scudding across the turquoise-blue sky, and waved and brushed the surface of the long prairie grass as if with an invisible hand. To the gait of his horse Ellis whistled to himself--happily--half dreamily, as if he voiced some inner thought--an old, long-forgotten air, presently breaking into its words:

"Sae kind, kind and gentle it she, Kind is my Mary; The tender blossom on the tree, Cannot compare wi' Mary."

Duly arriving at the ranch, he dropped his lines, and leisurely sauntering up to the familiar dwelling where he perceived the owner and his wife sitting in the shade of the veranda, he hailed them cheerily.

Trainor looked up at the other's approach and, lowering the paper that he was reading, nodded to him nonchalantly; his spouse gave no salutation whatever, and appeared engrossed in her sewing.

Ellis halted irresolutely, sensing something strange and apathetic in the manner in which he was received--something _distant_, as it were--and he became slowly conscious of a presentiment that his forebodings had not been without reason, and that all was not well as heretofore, when their usual welcome had been so genuine and unrestrained. With a feeling of vague uneasiness at his heart, he regarded them blankly a moment or two, glancing from one to the other inquiringly; then he said:

"Is anything the matter? What's wrong?"

Trainor fidgeted nervously in his chair awhile, and then raising his self-conscious eyes to the level of his questioner's breast, blurted out:

"Well, you see, Benton, it's like this ... er--"

But words seemed to fail him, and he left the sentence unfinished, relapsing into silence and gazing miserably at his wife, as if seeking her assistance in his explanation. The latter, now for the first time, raised her head and, gravely contemplating the troubled, anxious face of the Sergeant, addressed her husband.

"Best tell him, Dave," she said, with an inflection of slightly frigid hostility in her tones. "If you won't, _I will_!"

Thus adjured, Trainor coughed awkwardly and began afresh:

"Well, now, see here; look! I'll tell you, Sergeant. It's about that girl, Mary--Miss O'Malley, I mean. You know how I and Mrs. Trainor love and regard that girl? ... known her since she was a little kiddie, and think as much of her as we do of our own children--"

He stopped, and Ellis nodded silently.

"For over a week now," continued the rancher, "that girl's been acting queerly--seems worried--won't talk, and she's not looking at all well. This afternoon we simply couldn't stand it any longer--she was looking miserable, and it made _us_ miserable, too, seeing her like that. We were right here on the veranda, and she came out of the door to go riding. I caught hold of her by the shoulders--half joshingly--'Mary, my dear!' I said; 'what's wrong? You're not looking yourself. There's something the matter--won't you tell us? You're not afraid to tell _us_, are you, my girl?' She struggled a bit when I had her cornered like that, and tried to get away from me--then she raised those beautiful honest eyes of hers and looked me squarely in the face. She tried to speak, but somehow the words wouldn't seem to come, and--"

"And _then_," broke in Mrs. Trainor, taking up the tale, "she flung away from him and threw her arms around my neck and hid her face against my shoulder. You know, Mr. Benton, she's the very soul of honesty ... candid and unafraid to a degree--she doesn't know what evasion or subterfuge means--she's like a brave, simple child in that respect. She clung to me for a bit, and then she breaks out into that quaint Irish brogue of hers--like she often does when she's agitated or excited:

"'Och! 'tis waithin I am for a man to speak!' she wails out. 'And, oh, my dear! ... weary waithin 'tis, ochone!' And then she burst out crying, with great shaking sobs--oh! _how_ that girl _did_ cry--as if her heart was breaking. I talked to her and soothed her the best I could, and by and by she became quieter, dried her eyes, kissed me, and went away to her horse. She didn't say any more than that and I didn't ask her--didn't need to ... for there! ... isn't that admission enough? D'you think _we_ looking on at this play all this time don't know _who_ she meant?" Mrs. Trainor continued, eyeing Benton severely. "Haven't you been coming here regularly, paying her marked attention, taking her out for rides, and all that? D'you think it's possible to deceive _us_. If you've only been amusing yourself at her expense all these months with no serious intentions, I tell you plainly, Mr. Benton ... I don't think you're acting in a proper manner at all. That girl is one in a thousand. Besides--she has refused many good offers of marriage--and all for your sake, too--from men who were in the position to give her a downright good home and all the comforts of life. You may think it's not our business, but I tell you it _is_!" she ended, with sparkling eyes. "And we've made up our minds this sort of thing shan't go on any longer--that is, unless you can give us your positive assurance that your intentions are really sincere.... No! you needn't look at me in that idiotic way!" she cried, arising and stamping her foot angrily. "I mean what I say, and I--"

Benton, with a flash of white teeth, and a broad and rather foolish grin on his--now happy--face, suddenly stepped forward and gripped the indignant lady gently by the shoulders.

"_Mrs._ Trainor!" he said, with a daring earnestness that almost took the breath away from that scandalized dame as she struggled to free herself. "If you open your mouth to say one word more, I'll--as sure as you're the wife of your husband--I'll kiss you bang in front of him!" And, releasing her, he continued: "What you've just told me's made me the happiest man alive.... I know where I get off at, now ... and I'll proceed to tell _you_ something!"

And rapidly he acquainted the astonished pair with the news of his unexpected good fortune, apologizing for his seemingly callous conduct with a deep, sincere contrition that impressed them in no little degree and dispelled all their lingering doubts.

Trainor reached out a massive hand. "Sergeant," he said, with great feeling. "Shake! I'm in wrong! I take it all back how I've misjudged you! I might have known you weren't _that_ kind!"

Ellis, swallowing a little, grasped the offered hand warmly.

"Dave!" he blurted out, "it's _me_ that's to blame, all right. It's mighty good of you and Mrs. Trainor to condone that sure questionable simplicity of mine in the way you have. I should have put myself right with both of you at the start."

But Mrs. Trainor outdid her husband in impulsive warmth.

"You threatened to kiss me," she began archly. "Now, I'm going to do more than threaten. There, sir!"

And, suiting the action to the word, she kissed him heartily. Then, womanlike, as the reaction to her happiness--she began to cry. At which Trainor guffawed and caught hold of her teasingly. But, dragging herself away from him, she pushed Ellis towards the path.

"Now you go!" she sobbed, "after her--straightway. And don't you dare bring her back here until you've kissed her tears away and she's her own happy self again. That is, if you can find her," she added, with wet, smiling eyes. "I don't know exactly which way she went."

"Oh, I'll find her, all right," said Ellis cheerfully. "I think I know where she'll be."

And, turning, he strode off to the waiting Johnny, mounted, and set off at a brisk lope towards "Lone Butte," that reared its head in the hazy distance. For it was _there_ that he guessed instinctively she had betaken herself.

Purposely making a wide detour to escape her possible observation, thirty minutes' brisk riding brought him into a small coulee, dotted with a young growth of Balm o' Gilead trees and alder bushes, which lay to the rear of the butte and exactly opposite to the side where the regular path to the summit began. Here he dismounted and, leading Johnny, to save a later descent for that animal, commenced to slowly make the ascent.

Pausing to take breath within a few yards of the top, the breeze brought to his ears the unmistakable sounds of somebody whistling carelessly to herself. Yes, that was her whistle, all right, he reflected; so she couldn't be so _very_ unhappy. Intending to steal up to her unobserved, and calculating from his memory of the position of the big stone, that she would have her back turned towards him, he crept warily to the summit.

Soon, not thirty feet distant on the small plateau, he beheld her seated on the stone and, as he had surmised, facing the West. But her attitude of dejected abandon sobered him somewhat, and the low, monotonous whistle sounded doleful in the extreme. Noiselessly the Sergeant decreased the distance between them, and when within a few feet halted, not wishing to startle her too badly. On account of her wide-brimmed Stetson hat tipped back on the nape of her neck, and the breeze blowing in her ears, she had not thus far been aware of his close approach, the thick, "old-bottom" prairie grass effectually deadening the ring of Johnny's steel-shod hoofs.

Long and earnestly, with a great love not unmixed with a pang of remorse in his heart, Ellis gazed on the still unconscious girl. Then all at once he gave a violent start, which almost betrayed his presence to her.

For, suddenly, and with the clarity that the great king saw the writing on the wall, again he seemed to behold, and comprehend fully now, the significance of the strange fantasy which had appeared to him in the detachment the previous night.

The dreary whistle ceased, and with her chin resting in her hands she began to idly croon to herself an old-fashioned time-worn ballad, which he vaguely recognized as Whittier's "Maud Muller." Lord! what a time it seemed since he'd heard _that!_ he reflected. It took him right back to the scenes of his boyhood again at Shrewsbury--peaceful, gray-spired old-world Shrewsbury. Verse by verse, came the monotonous refrain of the antiquated poem to his ears--just as a little girl will sometimes drone to herself as she sits plaiting her hair in the sun:

Maud Muller looked and sighed. "Ah me! That I the Judge's bride might be! He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine."

How the air of a long-forgotten song, a chance phrase in a book, the scent of new-mown hay and of certain flowers, the splendor of a tropical sunrise, the glory of a flaming crimson and gold sunset, or the calm beauty of a moonlight night will ofttimes awaken in us strange old longing memories of other--and, perchance--happier days. Harking back now through all the years came to him, dimly, the recollection that the _very last_ time he had heard _that_ was at a gathering of young hearts held in his old school town, when he was a bright-eyed young sinner of thirteen or thereabouts--"soirees," as they were called then. Yes, it was at Dr. Pennington's, and saucy, yet tender-eyed, little Darthea Pennington had recited it. She had cried, too, at its conclusion, he remembered; which spectacle of girlish emotion had prompted him to start in tormenting her with some youthful nonsense, in a well-meant effort to revive her natural gaiety. True, she'd slapped his face as the reward for his impudence, but didn't she relent later to the extent of allowing him to kiss "friends," and afterwards take her in to supper?

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back at he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

With bowed head the listener stood there motionless, whilst a wave of emotion surged through his heart, awakening all the sentiment which, through long years of iron self-repression, had lain dormant in his deep nature.

Whatever had possessed her to hark back to this memory of her girlhood? he mused. Under ordinary circumstances he would no doubt have resorted as heretofore, to his customary badinage--chaffed her about "grinding out Whittier by the yard," or mimicked her in a mincing falsetto. But now--as he heard it _now_--the element of absurdity was distinctly lacking ... nay! it was pitiful--almost tragic ... how like a simple child again she seemed, in her unhappiness?

With pathetic, monotonous regularity--as if she were seeking to distract her thoughts from her trouble by repeating some orison--the interminable stanzas rose and fell, with a quavering cadence:

Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only. "It might have been."

Choking back a lump in his throat, Ellis now dropped his horse's lines and stepped forward.

"Mary!" he called softly.

And, at the sound of his voice the girl, with a slight start and exclamation, turned and looked up at him. With a feeling of deep contrition he remarked her pale, tear-stained face, and the dark shadows under her splendid eyes, denoting mental worry and sleepless nights. Her first surprise over, she settled listlessly back again to her old dejected attitude, but never taking her great weary eyes off his face. Never a word had she uttered yet, but continued to gaze silently on the man before her with a forlorn, wistful expression that cut him to the very heart. Suddenly she began to speak, but her voice seemed to ring strangely lifeless and far away in his ears.

"Oh! ... and are you back again?" came the toneless accents, "to mock me with that handsome, cold face of yours? I was happy enough till _you_ came into my life ... you who've laid yourself out to make me love you--for nothing, p'r'aps, except your own amusement ... 'tis through I am with happiness now, I guess ... would to God we'd never known each other.... Oh, go! ... go away, please!... I--I just can't bear it...."

Before the infinite pathos of her hopeless look and bitter words the strong man shook with his emotion until speech seemed beyond him. For, remorse-stricken though he was, beneath her reproach he glimpsed the evidence of so great a love that he could only stand and regard her with awed amazement. Aye!--well he knew now, that come what would or could, all that love was his, and would be his forever. Suddenly he leaned forward with outstretched arms and struggling, heart-wrung words burst from his lips; a golden gleam from the sinking sun, just then, lighting up and intensifying the manly beauty of his strong, clean-cut features.

"Mary!" he cried hoarsely. "Oh, Mary, my girl. I've been thoughtless--I didn't know!... forget--forgive!..."

Dazedly the girl stared for a moment at the imploring face of the man she loved, her misery-benumbed brain failing at first to grasp the significance of his impassioned appeal. Then a quick, joyful light of comprehension dilated her great weary eyes, and with an unsteady movement she arose from her seat on the stone and swayed towards him, sobbing in her throat. The next minute her round arms were about his neck, her eager lips sought his--and they were quite alone.

Long he held the overstrung girl in his arms, kissing and soothing her with every endearment that a man's love can command in such ecstasies; smoothing her glorious hair and pressing his cheek to hers with whispered, broken words of affection until she became calmer, and her happy tears ceased.

Then, gently, he told her the news of his changed fortunes and, drawing forth the lawyer's letter, bade the astonished girl read its contents.

"And now, my dear, I want you to read this, too," he said. "You have the right to."

And reverently he handed her the letter of his old dead benefactor, silently watching her face as she perused its contents. He saw the light gradually fade from her eyes, which commenced to fill with tears. Her lips quivered and she began to sob again softly, as she read on, rocking herself to and fro and making no attempt to hide her emotion. Presently she ended the missive and looked across at her lover with glistening eyes.

"Oh! ... the poor old fellow ... that poor old soldier ... oh! this is _too_ pitiful for anything!... How he must have suffered when he lost her--waiting patiently all those years!..."

She continued to gaze silently at him awhile. Then suddenly, with her wet eyes blazing with her great love, she leaned forward and flung her arms around his neck again with passionate abandon, still clutching the letters.

"Fwas ut for money ye waithed, ye foolish man?" she cried, relapsing into her soft Hibernian brogue as she patted his shoulder caressingly. "Och, glory be! but 'tis glad I am ye didn't tell me--or show me thim letthers till--till afther!... 'Tis little ye must know av th' heart av a woman loike me!... Och, me bhoy! me bhoy! ... a pauper I'd have married ye ... an' loved ye still ... for yersilf alane!"

For answer, Ellis tipped her head back on his arm and kissed her fondly.

"Aye!... I guess you would!" he returned, with a grim chuckle. "And then p'r'aps both of us 'ud have been sorry forever after!... No, my dear! ... when Poverty knocks on the door, Love 'beats it' out of the window!... I've seen too many of these 'Love in a shack' businesses ... everything's all hunkadory at first ... but it don't last.... You and I've worked long enough for the powers that be.... Now that's all changed.... You shall never know sorrow or worry again--if I can help it, Mary, my girl!"

Cheek to cheek, they were silent awhile, gazing dreamily across at the distant "Rockies." Then he continued quietly. "First thing I must get my discharge from the Force. I'll forward an application to 'purchase' tomorrow! Special case ... under the circumstances, I think the O.C.'ll recommend it all right, though as a rule he's dead against this 'purchasing' business ... don't know but what he isn't about right, too ... anyway, 'Isch ga bibble!'... I'll work it somehow within a month. Then we'll hit for Europe, Mary. A downright good long easy-going trip ... taking our time and lazying around in all the beautiful old places we've read or heard about, and never seen.... Rome, Venice, and some of those old Moorish places in Spain. Then when we're tired of them and want some amusement and change of scene we'll go to Paris, or London--see all the best plays and hear all the best singers. Later we'll go on down through the Mediterranean to the north coast of Africa, and see Tunis and Algiers and Cairo. By and by, when we're tired of running around, we'll 'beat it' for this country again and settle down on a place of our own. It won't be a 'rawnch,' like the Honorable Percy's, either.... Guess I know how to run one as it _should_ be run. I know of a peach of a place--sou'west of here--right on the Elbow ... pretty place, too--bush all round it and all kinds of good feed range and shelter. It's an ideal place for either horses or cattle--horses especially. Belongs to old J. G. Robinson. He's getting on in years now and wants to quit the game. I know he'd sell out to me--I know him well. It's the open range and the foothills of 'Sunny Alberta' for me and you, Mary dear--somewhere in the West, anyway ... where we can look across at the 'Rockies'--like we're doing now. We'd never be happy anywhere else. Of course ... you won't be cooped up on this precious ranch-in-perspective _all_ the year round ... neither of us, for that matter. It won't be necessary, for I'm going to try and get Barney Gallagher to come to me as my manager. I fancy I can fix things with him."

The girl, smiling at his enthusiasm with a little happy ejaculation, shook him impulsively.

"Oh, let's wake up!" she cried. "Are we only dreaming? ... are you _sure_ this isn't only just a beautiful dream, from which we'll wake up presently? I can't realize it's all true, yet!"

He tilted her chin up and gazed into the glorious hazel eyes lovingly.

"No, my dear," he murmured, the hard lines of his somber face softened into an expression of dreamy, quiet peace. "It's no dream this time. I'm done with my hopeless, empty dreams now! I'm a poor man no longer! Oh, Mary, my girl! My great big splendid-looking wife-to-be! ... how I surely do love you! Promise me you're going to be very, very happy now, and give me another kiss! We'll have to be getting back. I don't want to be getting into Mrs. T's bad books again," he added, grinning. "She gave me orders ... very peremptory orders ... but I think I can report that I've carried 'em out! Now give that kiss!"

What a wonderful change--spiritually and physically--a little love can effect! Gone were all poor Mary's dark shadows, pallor, and weary despondency. Once again her laughing long-lashed hazel eyes shone with the happy lights of yore. Locked in each other's arms, for the time being, in a rose-tinted world of their own and completely oblivious to their surroundings, they happened to sway up against Johnny who, turning his head, with a mildly inquiring eye, tucked up his nigh fetlock and nibbled at them for sugar, nickering softly the while.

And Mary's horse, down on the flat below, whinnied back a responsive "All's Well."

Footnote:

GLOSSARY

_Aasvogel_--(_Dutch Taal_) A species of South African vulture. (_Carrion._)

_Allemachtig_--(_Dutch Taal_) Almighty!

_Adios_--(_Spanish_) Good-by!

_Dekho_--(_Hindustani_) Look.

_Disselboom_--(_Dutch Taal_) Wagon-tongue.

_Dopper_--(_Dutch Taal_) A term generally applied to the Boers in S. A.

_Doed_--(_Dutch Taal_) Dead.

_Dorp_--(_Dutch Taal_) A small town.

_Drink hael_--(_Dutch Taal_) Signifying "Drink hearty!"

_Dronk_--(_Dutch Taal_) Drunk.

_Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ke!_--(_Kaffir expressions, urging on horse, oxen, or mule_) Literally--"Get up there! Go on!"

_Inspanning_--(_Dutch Taal_) Harnessing up horse, oxen, or mule teams.

_Indaba_--(_Zulu_) Talk, language.

_I Korner_--(_Dutch Taal_) An expression of incredulity, "understand!"

_Intombi_--(_Zulu_) Young woman.

_Isch Ga Bibble!_--(_Yiddish_) "I should worry!"

_Ja_--(_Dutch Taal_) Yes!

_Kinders_--(_Dutch Taal_) Children.

_Kopje_--(_Dutch Taal_) Small hill, or butte.

_Krantzes_--(_Dutch Taal_) Rocky precipices.

_Laager_--(_Dutch Taal_) Camp, abode.

_Leugenaar_--(_Dutch Taal_) Liar.

_Meerkat_--(_Dutch Taal_) A species of animal like a gigantic gopher which burrows on the veldt.

_Myjnheer_--(_Dutch_) Mr.

_N'dipe Manzi_--(_Kaffir_) "Give me some water!"

_Nee-moyee_--(_Cree_) "No!" (Pronounced "Naz-mo-yer.")

_Outspan_--(_Dutch Taal_) Unharnessing horse, oxen, or mule teams.

_Paseur_--(_Spanish_) Walk.

_Pronto!_--(_Spanish_) "Quick! Look sharp!"

_Salue!_--(_Signifying_) "Here's luck!"

_Saku Bona N'kos!_--(_Kaffir_) "Good day, Chief."

_Saku Bona, Umlungu_--(_Kaffir_) "Good day, White Man!"

_Sjambok_--(_Dutch Taal_) Rawhide whip.

"_Skiet die Verdoe Schepsel!_"--(_Dutch Taal_) "Shoot the damned rascal!"

_Soor_--(_Hindustani_) Swine.

_Taal_--South African Dutch language.

_Trek_--(_Dutch Taal_) March, travel.

_Tronk_--(_Dutch Taal_) Gaol.

_Uitlander_--(_Dutch Taal_) Outlander. Unfranchised by the S. A. Republic.

"_Umbagi!_"--(_Kaffir_) Signifying "Move on there!" "Get along!"

_Umfundusi_--(_Kaffir_) Preacher.

_Umlungu_--(_Kaffir_) "White man!"

_Vierkleur_--(_Dutch Taal_) The flag of the late South African Republics.

"_Voertsek, Du Verdomde Schelm!_"--(_Dutch Taal_) "Get out, you damned rascal!"

_Vrouw_--(_Dutch Taal_) Wife.

"_Wacht-een-bietje!_"--(_Dutch Taal_) "Wait a bit!"

"_Wana!_"--(_Kaffir_) "Stop!" "Halt there!"

RALPH CONNOR'S STORIES OF THE NORTHWEST

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

_THE SKY PILOT IN NO MAN'S LAND_

The clean-hearted, strong-limbed man of the West leaves his hills and forests to fight the battle for freedom in the old world.

_BLACK ROCK_

A story of strong men in the mountains of the West.

_THE SKY PILOT_

A story of cowboy life, abounding in the freshest humor, the truest tenderness and the finest courage.

_THE PROSPECTOR_

A tale of the foothills and of the man who came to them to lend a hand to the lonely men and women who needed a protector.

_THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY_

This narrative brings us into contact with elemental and volcanic human nature and with a hero whose power breathes from every word.

_GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS_

In this rough country of Glengarry, Ralph Connor has found human nature in the rough.

_THE DOCTOR_

The story of a "preacher-doctor" whom big men and reckless men loved for his unselfish life among them.

_THE FOREIGNER_

A tale of the Saskatchewan and of a "foreigner" who made a brave and winning fight for manhood and love.

_CORPORAL CAMERON_

This splendid type of the upright, out-of-door man about which Ralph Connor builds all his stories, appears again in this book.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY

WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

_MAVERICKS_

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler" abounds. One of the sweetest love stories ever told.

_A TEXAS RANGER_

How a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.

_WYOMING_

In this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.

_RIDGWAY OF MONTANA_

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country.

_BUCKY O'CONNOR_

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border.

_CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT_

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders.

_BRAND BLOTTERS_

A story of the turbid life of the frontier with a charming love interest running through its pages.

_STEVE YEAGER_

A story brimful of excitement, with enough gun-play and adventure to suit anyone.

_A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS_

A Western story of romance and adventure, comprising a vivacious and stirring tale.

_THE HIGHGRADER_

A breezy, pleasant and amusing love Story of Western mining life.

_THE PIRATE OF PANAMA_

A tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure.

_THE YUKON TRAIL_

A crisply entertaining love story in the land where might makes right.

_THE VISION SPLENDID_

In which two cousins are contestants for the same prizes; political honors and the hand of a girl.

_THE SHERIFF'S SON_

The hero finally conquers both himself and his enemies and wins the love of a wonderful girl.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York