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CHAPTER 111.
Faith Harland —Much-Tried Daughter and Sister.
•»
YLVIA’S fears vanished in the cheerful
brightness of the breakfast room which
she presently entered. It was a scene
of peace and comfort —the large win
dows opening on the garden, the table
spread with snowy linen, the white
haired minister standing behind his
chair, waiting to pronounce a blessing
on the repast.
Charley Glenn, handsome and happy, came running
in from the gate, before which his new phaeton and
sleek ponies were standing, in charge of a little dar
key footman in scarlet and blue.
The hermit’s warning passed from Sylvia’s
thoughts as she seated herself at the head of the
well-appointed breakfast table and began to pour out
the fragrant coffee.
“We shall have to eat as if we were at a railroad
dinner station,” Charley said, looking at his watch.
“We will just have time to drive to Harland Cottage
and then to the station before the train is due.”
“I shall drink my coffee scalding,” Sylvia answered,
laughing. “It would never do to have the excursion
party arrive when the distinguished mayor and his
household were not on the spot to impress them
with the dignity of Glenwood.”
“There would be some hope of impressing them if
my father would consent to go,” answered Charley,
looking fondly at the noble face of the old minister.
Harland Cottage was half a mile distant. Faith
was dressed and standing on the porch with her
brother when they drove up. Her round, trim figure,
in a pretty gown of white muslin; her young face,
sweet and strong, but indicating quiet self-repression,
was in complete contrast to the slender figure and
dreamy beauty of her brother Claude.
The people of Glenwood, who one and all loved
Faith Harland, declared she ought to bundle that
idle, poetry-scribbling brother of hers out to earn his
own living, instead of supporting him by her school
keeping and waiting upon him as if he were a baby.
She had enough to do, Heaven knows, to look after
her good-for-nothing father, whom she kept in fine
victuals and fine tobacco and wines, while she turned
her old dresses and mended her gloves. It was a
shame that Faith should be sacrificed to those two.
She ought to have been Charley Glenn’s wife years
ago. They had been sweethearts ever since they
were children, but Faith would not go to a husband
with that burden on her hands.
So the gossips of Glenwood chattered, but no one
ever heard a complaining word from Faith. She was
sister and mother in one to Claude. She believed in
his genius, and she was tender to his weakness.
She was tender, too, with her broken-down father,
and she loyally remembered only his better days,
when he was a brave soldier and a dauntless political
leader.
To see her this morning, sweet and serene as the
June day itself, one would not guess that she had
been up more than half the night with her father,
who was on the verge of one of his periodical sprees,
and restless and nervous to a harrowing degree.
She had taken him his breakfast, and left him in
charge of a kind-hearted neighbor, whose children
she taught free of charge because of his willingness
to come over and play draughts with her father and
listen to his war stories.
Charley Glenn, with the quick eye of a lover, noted
the shade of anxiety on the girl’s expressive face,
and understood the cause. It was with much ado
that he had persuaded her to come with them today.
He was resolved she should enjoy the rare holiday.
He brought out his best jokes to make her laugh.
She had the sweetest laugh in the world, he thought.
He was presently gratified by seeing her face light
up with charming animation as they drove up to the
station and her eyes took in the lively scene.
CHAPTER IV.
The Party from the City.
All the town —carriage people and plainer folk —
were assembled about the handsome new station
house in honor of the trainful of visitors that were
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH
A Story of the Conflict of Good and Irbil —Mary IL. "Bryan.
The Golden Age for September 1, 1910.
momentarily expected. A brass band, composed of
young men of Glenwood, was in readiness to sound a
noisy greeting.
“Yond’ he comes!” announced a freckled urchin,
who had mounted on an upturned barrel.
The small boys gave a shout, the train steamed
around a curve, came to a stop beside the platform
of the station, and the passengers began to get off.
The military figure and Roman nose of General
Hammond, prospective governor of the State, was
familiar to all, and as he stepped from the car the
crowd cheered and the band struck up “Hail to the
Chief.”
More cheers greeted Colonel Dudley, the writer of
the heavy political editorials in The Altamont Ad
vance. He bowed in acknowledgment, then turned *
to assist his little auburn-haired wife from the car,
and then to hold out his hand to a handsome, well- •
formed young woman in a jaunty outing suit of white
and scarlet, who laughingly declined assistance and
sprung from the step.
A voice in the-crowd cried out, “Belle Boylan!”
and there was a round of cheers for “Belle Boylan”
in response, to which greeting the young woman
bowed, smiling radiantly, thus acknowledging her
self to be Anabel Boylan, the clever woman writer on
The Advance, whose brilliant little paragraphs,
humorous or pathetic sketches and bits of sentimen
tal verse had gained her a wide circle of admirers.
It was noticeable that when Miss Boylan was
greeted with applause, Colonel Dudley’s little wife
had smiled scornfully; also she had turned her back
to the fair poetess. Miss Boylan did not seem to
heed this, however. Her bright eyes had glanced
hurriedly around until they lighted upon the face of
a man who, an instant before, had stepped from the
smoking car.
A dark, strong face it was, with a mixture of cyni
cism and kindliness in its expression. The finely
formed head crowned a tall, imposing figure that
looked at careless ease in a gray suit, while a soft
felt hat was drawn over the brainy forehead.
He seemed anxious to avoid notice, and it was not
until General Hammond saw him and called out,
“Come this way, King,” that the people turned their
eyes to the magnetic face and voiced a hearty wel
come to Stanley King.
They had all heard of him. Many of them had
listened to his straight-hitting campaign speeches
and eloquent lectures. He was known through the
State for his daring, vigorous style of writing and
speaking. He was well-born, a fine conversationalist,
and he could have had social success if he had
wanted it. But he fought shy of women. He seemed
to prefer to be a leader of men.
The applause that followed the utterance of his
name was more hearty than at any time before.
“You are the favorite,” whispered Anabel Boylan,
looking up at him with a brilliant smile. She had
moved lightly to his side as soon as he joined the
group around Colonel Dudley.
He did not respond to her glowing look or her con
fidential whisper, a circumstance that Mrs. Dudley’s
cold blue eyes noted with a gleam of satisfaction.
Aliss Boylan did not move from her position. She
looked as though she wished to give ground to a
rumor that had once connected her name with King’s,
for when Charley, as mayor of the town, came up to
be introduced to King by Judge Ballister, that he
might express his sense of the “honor done to Glen
wood by his distinguished presence,” Miss Boylan
smiled up into the young mayor’s face with radiant
approval.
That smile nearly overthrew the self-possession the
young man had been at such pains to maintain.
This charming face, beaming on him from under
the little white and scarlet sailor hat, seemed to
him the loveliest he had ever beheld.
He colored all over his fair, frank face as she con
tinued to look at him, and, extending her delicately
gloved hand, said, archly:
“As I am not a ‘distinguished presence,’ permit me
to introduce myself. I am Anabel Boylan.”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to make your ac
quaintance, Miss Boylan,” the young man said, cor
dially. “I have your charming book of ‘Heart Songs’
on my table at home.”
“Oh, indeed! ‘Heart Songs’ was one of the sins of
my youth. I have repented of it ages ago.”
“Then you must have written it when you were a
baby in long clothes,” he said, looking with undis
guished admiration into her bewildering eyes, for
getful that he was master of ceremonies today, and
that there were more important guests to claim his
attention.
It was his business to see that these were all
seated in the carriages and wagonettes that were
waiting to receive them.
A warning exclamation from Judge Ballister re
called him to his duties. He hastened to conduct
General Hammond and his “striker” —young Lacy—
and two well-known capitalists to the motor car fur
nished by Judge Ballister. It was hardly as hand
some a conveyance as the next carriage—an open
landau —drawn by a pair of spirited black horses
from Charley’s own stable.
In this carriage he seated Stanley King and
Colonel Dudley and his wife.
He was about to assist Miss Boylan to the remain
ing vacant seat, when a significant look from Mrs.
Dudley made him stop short as he was turning
around to Anabel. The look said plainly, “If she
occupies that seat, it will be unpleasant for two
people if no more.” But, aloud, she only said, with
her sweetest smile:
“Indeed, Mr. Glenn, we must have you in here with
us. We need you to point out the beauties of your
town. I want you to show me where I am to put my
summer cottage.”
There was nothing for Glenn to do but to bow
acquiescence and dispose of Miss Boylan elsewhere.
She had colored deeply, though she tried to appear
careless and smiling.
“Miss Boylan, would you like to have a seat behind
my horses in the phaeton there, with my step-sister
and her cousin?” Charley asked.
He was indignant in his heart at the suave imper
tinence of the auburn-haired lady.
“I should be delighted,” answered Belle, with ador
able sweetness.
As he led her toward his phaeton, drawn up at a
little distance, she said:
“Your horses are beautiful, Mr. Glenn —and what
lovely girls!—brunette and blonde —a contrasting
pair! The fail’ one is your sister?”
“My step-sister—though she seems my own. The
brunette is her cousin—Miss Harland—a teacher in
our little academy.”
But it was not the dark girl with the earnest eyes
who caught and held Belle Boylan’s gaze. It was the
fair face beside the brunette. As her eyes met Syl
via’s, a little shudder ran through her, like that which
causes superstitious ones to say: “Somebody is walk
ing on my grave.”
Did some subtle instinct whisper to her that here
was a being whose life-threads would cross her own
in some dark, tangling way?
As for Sylvia, the moment her eyes fell upon the
graceful figure that moved toward her at her step
brother’s side, she suddenly recalled the hermit’s
warning.
“I do not like her,” was Sylvia’s thought, even
before Glenn had introduced them and had handed
Miss Boylan into the phaeton, where she preferred
to take the front seat, beside Claude.
“I can see everything better, sitting here,” she
said; “and maybe I can persuade Mr. Harland to
trust me with the reins,” she added, smiling at the
boy, whose beauty she had instantly remarked. “He
looks like the picture of a Greek god,” she thought.
“We shall have no end of a good time. I wish you
could be with us,” she said to Charley, as he turned
to leave them, after saying he hoped she would enjoy
the drive.
“I wish I could,” he answered earnestly.
He would have liked to have had Claude’s place
beside this fascinating woman, whose smile was as
bewitching as her little song-poems, which he had
read.
All day he was tempted to hover about her, but his
duties called him here and there.
(Continued on Page 14.)
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