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CHAPTER IV.
ISS BOYLAN made the little water trip
extremely entertaining. She sang a
boat song; she told a legend about an
Indian Undine; then she was silent—
dangerously silent —trailing her white
hand through the water, the low sun
glinting on her bronze hair.
Her talk, her song, had been . for
Charley Glenn chiefly. It was very flat-
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tering to the young man. It would have been exas
perating to the elder one had not the girl—born
coquette that she was —soothed him with glances
that said, “Be patient; you shall understand.”
She was thinking far less about her two compan
ions than about the grave, silent man who avoided
her. She had heard him ask a boy to be his guide to
Mystic Lake, and presently she stopped rippling her
fingers through the water over the side of the boat,
and, looking up at Charley Glenn, asked him to take
them into Mystic Lake.
“There’s a connecting channel between the two
lakes, isn’t there?” she asked. “I hear there is a
little island in Mystic and that it is inhabited by a
mysterious recluse, who has insight into the future.
Let’s go there and have him tell our fortunes.”
“Why, he is not at all a professional fortune teller,”
Charley said. “He would probably refuse to open
his lips; he’s a queer, moody fellow. An offer of
money would have no temptation for him.”
“But what if —
“ ‘The silver that I brought
Were ringing on my tongue’?”
she quoted, laughing.
“I don’t see how he could resist that,” Glenn re
turned, so impressively that she blushed, and he him
self colored at his own earnestness and added, in a
cooler tone: “But it is too late to go to the island.
We would miss the evening entertainment in the
park—the stringed band and the singing.”
"Then I will postpone paying my respects to the
recluse until later. Our train does not leave until
near midnight. The moon will rise presently—the
full moon. It will be more romantic to visit the
island by moonlight.”
Glenn turned the boat toward the shore, and
Colonel Dudley broke a short silence by asking why
Mystic Lake had not come in for the same improve
ments that had been bestowed on Sunset. “It seems
to have been left to its own wild loveliness.”
“Mystic Lake and the land about it belongs to Miss
Thorne,” Charley answered. “It can not be sold or
disturbed until she is twenty-one. Her parents are
dead. This and other valuable property in the city
was left to her by her grandmother Elliot.”
“Ah, I know the Elliot property in Altamont; it is
quite valuable. I remember that there is a curious
clause in the will giving the property to the girl’s
guardian in the event that she dies before she comes
of age, or is living out of the State when that time
arrives. Who is Miss Thorne’s guardian?”
“I am,’ answered Charley. “Her mother married
my father and became like a mother to me. The
curious clause in the grandmother’s will was inserted
with the idea of making Sylvia a homekeeping girl.
Her mother, when very young and gifted with a fine
voice, had been tempted to join a traveling opera
troupe, where she made an unfortunate marriage.”
“Is it possible that this girl is Hubert Thorne’s
daughter?”
“She is,” Charley answered. His lips were com
pressed after he had uttered the monosyllables. It
was plain he did not wish to talk further concerning
Sylvia’s affairs.
The boat touched the bank, and the occupants got
out. It was near sunset. The music of stringed in
struments came to them from the park.
“The concert has begun,” said Anabel.
CHAPTER V.
The sun had set. The park had undergone a trans
formation. Japanese lanterns swung from the trees
and flashed their colored rays through the wooded
vistas. The light, blending with the rays of the ris
ing full moon, gave a weird picturesqueness to the
scene.
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH
A Story of the Conflict of Good and TLbil —*By Mary £. Hryan.
The Golden Age lor September 8, 1910,
Underneath a huge oak a gypsy tent had unfolded
its gray and crimson wings like some huge bird. In
front of it burned a camp-fire, over which swung a
camp-kettle from a pole supported by forked sticks.
A gypsy woman, with a red shawl over her head, sat
by the fire, now and then stirring the contents of
the kettle with a long wooden spoon. Several chil
dren and men, dressed as gypsies, were grouped
about the tent. One of these young men thrummed
idly on the strings of a guitar.
Miss Boylan came up with her two escorts. She
glanced quickly around the crowd, and her face
changed when she saw that two persons of the assem
bly stood apart, one talking earnestly, the other
listening. One was Stanley King, the other Agnes
Dudley. It was the colonel’s wife who was speak
ing. King listened to her, his dark face impassive as
bronze, save for a slight expression of scorn about
the close-shut mouth.
The look of contempt deepened when he raised his
eyes and met the eyes of Anabel. Her heart sank.
Her guilty conscience told her what it was that Mrs.
Dudley had been saying to this man, whose good
opinion she valued so highly. What could she do to
counteract the evil she knew he had been hearing of
her?
“I must speak to him,” she thought. “I must clear
myself of any real wrong doing. I will acknowledge
to him all that has taken place. I have allowed
Colonel Dudley to flatter me —yes, to make love to
me, perhaps, partly because Stanley King was so in
different and partly to spite Mrs. Dudley, who has
slighted me so often. Will Stanley King believe me
against her? Oh, he must —believe me he shall!”
She made a step nearer to him when Mrs. Dudley
had moved away. She tried to catch his eye, but he
was looking fixedly at the lighted scene before him.
And quickly the performance began. There were
songs by four of the men gypsies, while one play 3d
the guitar; then a dance by the gypsy children, and
a romping, wildly graceful play. After this a girl
came out of the tent —a slight, graceful figure, wear
ing a yellow scarf over her head, and a crimson
bodice laced with gold cord. Anabel did not recog
nize the girl, but a voice near her said, “It is Sylvia
Thorne! How the brown powder and rouge disguise
her fairness!”
The gypsy woman seated by the swinging pot be
gan to nod; the men who had sung disappeared. The
girl picked up the guitar they had left and began to
play, as she stood leaning against a tree. From be
hind the tent appeared a cavalier, and, approaching
her, doffed his plumed hat. She smiled on him
and continued to touch the strings of the guitar. He
began to sing, and she joined in. It was the old,
charming duet, “The Gypsy Countess”. Her sopraaio
responded sweetly to his tenor. The pose and ges
tures of each were full of poetic grace, for the count
was Claude Harland, Faith’s poet-brother.
The scene gave a real setting to the song. As it
closed, the two voices chimed together in strains of
impassioned earnestness. The gypsy dame by Ihc
fire started up as from sleep and gazed frowningly
at the pair. Then, still looking at them, she began to
sing the old but nobly dramatic song, “The Gypsy's
Warning”—
“Heed him not, oh, gentle lady,
Though his voice be low and sweet.”
The contralto voice, low at first, rose, rich and
strong, pouring out the tragic words with deep effect.
People looked at each other in amazement. Could
this be Faith Harland singing in that way—Faith
Harland, who sang every Sunday in the church
choir? The passionate fervor, the sad intensity of
appeal expressed in her voice was a surprise to those
who knew her. To Glenn it was a revelation. He
had often thought she was cold; he had never
dreamed that the quiet little home girl could feel with
the depth her tones expressed tonight.
It seemed to him that the sense of wrong, which
thrilled through the song, was directed to him. His
conscience reproached him. He had hardly spoken
to Faith today. When she ceased singing, he started
to go to the tent which she had entered, but Miss
Boylan’s ungloved hand fell on his arm, as she asked:
“Who is the gypsy dame? I never heard anything
on the stage more dramatic.”
She kept her hand on his arm while the entertain
ment went on. The gypsy children came out, leading
a donkey by a garland around his neck, and sang, in
merry chorus, “The Gypsy Mule Bells”. When they
had passed on, dancing around the donkey, the count
and the gypsy girl reappeared and sang a serenade.
Miss Boylan’s eyes wandered continually to where
King stood, leaning against a tree, his arms folded,
his gaze directed to the stage. She saw that he was
absorbed in listening to and watching Sylvia. Earlier
in the day she had noted, with jealous anxiety, his
start of surprise and his look of admiration when he
first saw Sylvia Thorne.
When the song was ended and one of the gypsy
men was playing a violin solo, King turned to Bal
lister, who stood near him, and asked: “Are the two
who sang together brother and sister?”
“No,” was the reply; “they are cousins.”
“And lovers, I imagine.” There was an undertone
of interest in the careless assumption.
“So people say,” returned Ballister; “but it’s ab
surd to one who knows Claude. He’s like a boy or
an overgrown child, though he’s twenty. The two
grew up together. It isn’t long since they were
rambling in these woods, gathering muscadines and
hickory nuts.”
“She is Glenn’s half-sister, isn’t she?”
“No, she’s not any kin to Charley. His father mar
ried her mother. A beautiful woman she was, but
she had no heart to give him. Her heart was broken
over her first husband—Sylvia’s father. You knew
him, or you knew of him, of course —Hubert Thorne.”
“The man who killed Banker Haynes?”
“The same.” There was a pause, then Ballister
said: “Poor devil! He committed suicide, you know,
after he had escaped from jail and they had captured
him again somewhere out West. I always thought
his fate was a pity. It is said he killed Haynes for
insulting his wife. She was a beauty, and she had
been on the stage, and she was a poor man’s wife, so
the rich banker felt at liberty to insult her. There
was only one witness to the killing, and lie swore
Thorne gave Haynes no chance to defend himself.
Haynes had money and influence; Thorne had
neither. But he never would have been convicted if
it hadn’t been for the powerful speech the State’s
attorney made against him. It was Syd Curtis;
you’ve heard of him, of course. A man had a poor
chance for his life when Curtis was against him. It
was his speech that did the business for Thorne.”
King was silent. He did not remind Ballister that
Sydney Curtis was his uncle —his mother’s brother.
He did not tell him that he himself, a strippling of
sixteen, was in court when Thorne was convicted;
that he had heard that terrible speech of his
uncle’s; had seen the prisoner clench his hand and
call for God’s vengeance on the denouncer; had seen
the young wife fall in a swoon and had heard the
child’s scream of anguish ring through the court
room. And this was the child! She must remember
that tragic scene; she must cherish bitter hatred for
the man who procured her father’s conviction. King
dreaded for the knowledge to come to her that he
was the nephew of that prosecuting attorney. What
he had just heard increased the interest that Sylvia’s
grace and flower-like beauty had awakened in him.
He felt strongly drawn to this girl, whose childhood
had been shadowed by so terrible a tragedy. She
seemed different to him from any woman he had
seen. He had always been a shy man where women
were concerned, and absorbed in his work. Belle
Boylan, poor, gifted and struggling, had appealed to
his chivalrous feeling for women. He had given her
what help was in his power to gain a position on the
paper of which he was part owner. He believed her
to be a noble girl, and it had been an embittering
experience to be disillusioned. It confirmed the
cynical opinion he entertained about women.
CHAPTER VI.
The concert was over, though the notes of a guitar
continued to come from the front of the tent, and a
group of the village girls, dressed as gypsies, moved
about the camp fire, laughinbly telling fortunes to
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