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/ \ Child’s Hand Rolled Away the Stone I k By Beulah R. Stevens «X 5unn’ H-G# F WARREN sat down heavily in his arm chair; his step was slow. His wife recognized the signs. “Well, what is it now?” she asked as she stopped to lay her hand upon the head whose fast whitening locks, in their persistent wave, were her great pride. “It's .07. He gets more ob stinate and obstreperous every day. in spite of his line features. 1 declare the fellow looks more like a beast than a man. I'm afraid we’ll have to give him a taste of the cat.” "Oh. l hope you won't have to do that!” she said. “Flossie and I don’t like it, i^o we Fluff?” Sudden tears sprang to the big blue eyes as the child stole to lies father and laid her head upon his shoulder. “There, there, Flossie girl," drawing her tenderly to his side, “don't you go to feelin’ bad about it yet. Maybe he'll ca m down when I tell him what he's coinin' to. And, anyway, we'll fix it so's you won't know nothin’ about it.” But the child could not forget a whip ping that had been administered to an uncontrollable negro some time before. Unfortunately she had heard his fierce oaths and'blasphemies and bis final cries lor submission, and for days and nights her sensitive little soul had borne the scars. Flossie, the only child, bloomed in the stern atmosphere of her father's prison like, some delicate anemone among moun tain boulders. Her matter of fact mother had much ado to understand this child of hers, who. from some far ancestry, had inherited a soul as fair and pure and delicate as the fragile body. But the father divined, if he did not understand, and between the two there existed a love peculiarly tender and deep. Now, little Flossie was a twentieth cen tury maiden and lived in an up-to-date city Where modern methods of education pre vailed: so that while she had not yet ompteted' her first year at school, she wrotl a fair, round, legible hand and could read and spell surprisingly. When she could write “I see” the first week of her school life, she learned, as she after wards instructed her school of dolls, that "you must begin with a big letter and end with a dot or a buttonhook.” There was a written letter in her first reader, too. so she knew how it ouglit to look. Only instead of “Dear friend Annie,’ she must write, “Dear friend 97." That was easy enough after she got 'i ora, the errand boy, to show her which page bore the magic number. Then she asked him to spell “bear.” “The big brown bear that dances?” “Olt. no. not that.” “Bare-footed, then?" "No—no." Then rather hesitatingly, • To bear—anything—like a toothache—or —or a broken heart." Tom was not certain on this point but he undertook to consult one of the trus ties. and soon Flossie had added this needed word *o her vocabulary. So it was really not a very hard task for the iittle fingers to evolve the following: Dear friend 97: They say they will give you the cat if you don't be good. I oon't think I can bear for you to have that. Won't you be good? It’s lots nicer to be good. Your little friend, FLOSSIE. Flossie stood at a cautious distance be fore a certain guard in the corridor, her hands behind her. her flower face earnest and a trifle pale in its sweet determina tion. “Reynolds, you have asked me two or three times for a kiss.” she said with the air of a little princess. The man assented by a gruff nod and touched her cap sulkily. “And 1 wouldn't give you one, ’cause I saw you hit that man the other day. and 'cause you talk so mean to the men.” She eyed him in stern disapproval for a moment, and the man shuffled un easily. "But I've made up my mind to give you one if you'll do something for me." He waited, and she came a little closer and held out her letter. "I want you to give this t a 97. You can read it. so’s you’ll know there ain't anything papa wouldn’t like." The man glanced through (he childish epistle, and then began a strange com motion in his rough breast. In that In stant. from some hidden depth, there sprang into full blossom in his heart that flower of chivalry whose germ lies dor mant in every true man's breast, waiting only the right touch to bring it to the light. He kept his eyes upon the floor as he said: “i'll take this to 97. Miss Flossie; but you needn't give me a kiss. 1 wouldn't care for one I had to buy." Then as he turned away he continued, rather huskily, “But l—l won't be so rough to the men any more." lie was stopped by th» sweet, imperious child voice: “Reynolds!” He found Flossie barring the way. "Stoop down, 1 want to tell you something.” Obediently he knelt upon one knee. Then, for the first time in his hard life. Reynolds fell the clinging of a child's tender arms. The rose-lear lips pressed liis'eheek, and as he encircled tTi'c ITtfTS"" hgure half fearfully, the soft arms tight ened round his neck in “a good hug” and the little voice murmured sweetly: "l love you for that!” Reynolds handed the note to 97. “Here! i'll strike a match so's you can read it.” And as the prisoner lifted his head from its perusal, the gaze of the two men met, and what 97 saw ! n the guard's eyes made him unashamed of the mist that blurred his own. Sheriff Warren was astonished that af ternoon to have 97 voluntarily address him. lie looked up in surprise to find the “beast” gone and a man's face, quiet and gentle, looking at him with imploring earnestness. “I know 1 don't deserve it. sir, but will you, as a great favor, bring Miss Flossie to see me some time. You will have no more trouble with me. sir. I assure you.” Flossie's eyes were shining and her checks were glowing as her father took her on his arm. 97 wanted to see her! 4- a •£• • 4* ••fr* •F • -y•*•*i stricken father and mother would have sunk in despair. Then slowly, slowly, she came back to life, and more than ever clung to her prisoner. The strong arms cradled her for hours wher the shadowy little frame grew so wear’ of the bed; and little by little her demand to “talk” drew from him the story of his trouble. "But, if you didn't steal the money, and you knew the man who did, why didn’t you tell everybody so?” “Well, they wouldn’t have believed me. little one. i had no proof that would stand in court, and he was the president of the bank, while l was only cashier. Besides—” he paused, his face changing and his vpice broken. “I want to hear that 'besides.' ” said the child softly, her quick intuition divining that here lay the kernel of the matter. “I'll tell you. little Flossie. Perhaps will do me good to talk about her. though I pray her eyes may ne\ei rt?st upon my face again. “This man had a daughter, 'Mildred, and ^ she and 1 were sweethearts. Now how could I tell her her lather was a thief? It would have broken her heart to have him put here where I am. He died only a few weeks afterwards, but even then 1 could not let the world know that she was the daughter of a thief. There was no one to grieve over me. She would soon forget me and be happy. Flossie shook her head doubtfully over this. At last she said: “And did you love her enough to come here and be a prisoner for five years to save her from knowing that her father did it?” Ninety-seven turned his lips to the little hand that caressed his cheek and nodded mutely. Flossie raised herself to look him squarely in the face. “Then if I was you. I’d keep good and make time, and when I got out I’d be a good man and do something to show her that l couldn't have been a thief.'' Somehow the words, simple and child ish as they were, put new hope into 07's heart, and he lived thenceforth in their spirit. The child pondered deeply o\ er the sad a:-’ ““ friend TV if* dissatisfaction she ?elt shelcouta Sot ua v, ‘ t ~. t\ nmea to but there was a weak^-. of -i ••*;*«> *2-• v -i-• *i-•* * The flaw was found! “And her father's dead. too. so he can’t go to prison." murmured the child as she ran off to think the matter over. “I'm going to do it. Of course she loved 97 best, and l spec’ her heart is just breaking. I’m going to write to her all about il and maybe she can get them to let 97 out.” Mildred West sat in her beautiful home, listless and sad. Trouble had come upon her in an avalanche; the man she loved sent to prison as a thief, her father changed to a morose, irritable man, and suddenly snatched from her by death. She thought of her mother, long in heaven. “if I could only go. too. It would be better," she thought sadly. “Only one letter, Kate?” as the maid brought in the mail. “Put it on my desk." For some time she sat neglectful of this communication that was to so change her life. She picked it up at last, lan guidly. The direction was a scrap of typewriting carelessly spaced, cut out and pasted on tne envelope. Flossie had man- aged this by coaxing 97 to write Mildred's •name and address as he was amusing her one day at the typewriter. '• “A circular, t suppose,” and the letter r;-as slowly torn open. Who shall say what tempest of shame, of regret, of jojj.'. of pain, of triumphant trust as sailed that girlish heart as the words burtned themselves into' her conscious ness. Trac.i was innocent! He loved her weld enough to give live years of his life* and a lifetime of undeserved shams and; censure to sh her from disgrace. “Greater love hath no man than this.” Ah, > how much greater, his giving his lil'o in this wa. A d now she sadly understood her fa(J( ier s last words. When paralysis ha-: lah,' him low, she had watched b> h.s pJ| for any sign of consciousness in vain, till&at the very last, the feeble flame flicHfred into a transient glow ere it went out Iforever. She was sitting with her han<*hi his when his eyes fluttered slowly open* an d fixed upon her Rice. The drowJF brain struggled for its old mas- tery.X^t seemed she could see the fierce light l le was making for consciousness. _i'iho'*>h not a mu&fli: qui'e-re/ •tcf.h me. bm T told tb in, , nay engagement and we p . 'on '-os'ui -tun u , ,, : ., " "‘hip and with er.-Uft v.-c-n' 'hand of death: u soiling, she felt instinctively; am y .shall out conscious motive her little inn. 1 •‘God bless the little hand that touched my heart and released the demon of despair.” Then he meant to he good! He wouldn't want to see her "ess lie did! It was an eager little face that looked out from the wealth of golden curls, and it was a warm and friendly lit tie hand that slipped quickly between the bars where it was caught in a close clasp. “Oh, you will! You will, I know!” she cried in joyous triumph. 97 bent bis lips to the fairy fingers. “This little hand is the first friendly clasp 1 have known since fate turned me from a man to a number. God knows I am innocent—I didn't deserve this—but little Flossie, I believe like you, ‘it's lots nicer to be good,’ and I shall rebel no longer. God bless the little hand that touched my heart and released the demon of despair that was eating my life away.” And so, as the weeks rolled by, 97 grew in favor, till by Flossie's influence he was made a “trusty,” and when it could be managed, became her loved com panion. Then one dark day Flossie fell 111. Scarlet fever held her in its dread grasp, and 97 was one of those quarantined with her. It was a long, fierce fight with death, but 97 knew she could not die! He kept up hope when, but for his cheer, the groped blindly for it. One day when her mother and she were alone, Flossie put forth a most startling query. "Momsey, would you rather grandpa would steal a lot of money or have papa do it?” "Lord love the child! What crochet has she got in her head now?" But as Flossie insisted on an answer, to humor her she began to consider the matter. Her final decision that “if one had to, she would say let it be grandpa,” filled the child's heart with joy as she inquired breathlessly: “And before you were married—when you and papa were sweethearts?—” “Well, 'twould a pretty nigh killed me either way, but I don't see how I could a stood it if such a thing had come out about your pa when we was keepin’ company.” parted, an-1 dying man The nrgrew clearer, the lips one. mighty effort the his last message: "I—did—it! I—did—it—for you! governjr—” but the ebbing strength failed, anu with one last effort he gasped the name “Tracy!"—and Mildred was fatherless. Now she understood: With what a pang of hot shame as made her cover her burning face from the light! With what a rush of joy as she realized all it meant to Tracy! The governor! bue must not lose a minute! Within a week a letter went to M;ss Flossie Warren, and taking her father into her confidence they read it together. Some days later Tracy stood at the window with Flossie, watching the spar rows build. It was springtime in the southland aiu CONTINUED ON LAST PAGE. Hearts By HolUe Enninie Rives Author of “SmoKing Flax*’ •A Furnace of Earth” Etc • v• v• *1*• -1-• v• • ’1*• -!-• • *1*• *2’tv*v • v• v• v*v• v• v• v• -I-• v®*1-• v• v• v • v• v• ■!* CHAPTER TWENTY. THE WAKE OF WAR. f was a gloomy Virginia to which Anne returned that anxious fall—a Virgin! i whose heart beat with the North, where Howe was Jy'N weaving his famous, cord jJLr to encircle the throat of the monster Rebellion. I H V Pastoral life had ended abruptly; the Golden Age had become one of Tron. (I “And all the women that were wise-hearted, did spirt with their hands." Those Virginia women! They stayed at home through all the fear and loss and wonder of that early campaign when tried armies met untried ones. They wrote brave letters to their husbands and sons riding with Washington and marching in the raiiKs under Wayne and Weedon. And, cheering themselves how they might, they sold their jewels, melt ed their clo'-k weights for bullets, tore up their dresses to make Mags and their underclothes for lint and bandages. Gladden Hall suffered with the rest. Colonel Tillotson was much away on af fairs of the Committee of Safety, or at Williamsburg conferring with his Excel lency Governor Henry; and the looms which wove at all turned out cloth for continental uniforms. Across the plant rows, where the negroes hoed, Groani, 1 be overseer, with cowhide under his arm and his old Fontenoy bell mouth tower musket strapped on his back, still walked his horse with ferret eyes under his broad-brimmed hat. But there was .little leaf raised, and the wharves at foot of the lawn were overgrown (h weeds. tide the great house there was the • jN. candle lighted dining room, the ,. ; ~,..lVrked chairs, the tall, cumbrous V> portraits, the polished .side- hoard reflecting the slender-stemmed glasses. But the meals were silent. Anne's trouble hung over the house- held in a shadow that was not lightened by the presence of vaster ones near at hand. She had sorrowed with thdt fes tering sorrow that is self-accusatory. And to know that never so few, aware of her part In that Philadelphia scene, believed her to have done a heroic thing, was like an added death to her. For a time she had fled for refugp to her old passion for the cause. But the effort failed. One day early in the New Year, when the world was dusted with delicate frost like seed pearl, Colonel Tillotson brought to Gladden Hall the news of how “t.he old fox of Mt. Vernon," by a wily double across the ley Delaware, had taken the Hessians at Trenton. Anne heard it apa thetically; to her despair, victory and de feat spelled the same. When the door closed upon her, the colonel looked at his wife silently. “And she still believes in him!” “As she believes in us,” replied the lady softly “Colonel," she said keenly, “you have heard news." "Aye,” he answered, after a pause. “I have. A reply came to Mr. Henry’s confidential inquiries today. There is no doubt that Armand is the same prisoner who '-scaped from the Duchess of Gor don oft Amboy last August.” "Thank God!” breathed Mrs. Tillotson, fervently. “I am glad; I can't help it.” “Anne had better not know. ’Twill do her no possible good. ’ “Colonel,” said the lady decisively, “in this 1 must have my way. 1 am going to tell her just as fast as I can.” She rose, laid aside her knitting, took up a candle, and left him standing dubiously before the fire. The light came back to Anna like the spring sun; the great horror was gone, and in spite of the war’s gloom. Glad den Hail grew more cheerful again. She devoured the columns of the Gazettes. and rend eagerly letters which came to Henry from abroad. These told tier how the Reprisal, dodg ing the British sloops of war, had land ed Benjamin Fianklin safely at Nantes, of his meeting there with Beaumarchais, and of his reception in Paris at the little hotel In the Rue Vieille dw Temple, where a mercantile sign of “Roderique Hortalcz & Co.” hid a pleasant conspiracy whose object was the furnishing of war sup plies to the American colonists, and whose silent partners were a prime min ister and a king. Somewhere, she thought, there in his own land, perhaps, Armand was safe—not believing in her, but free and uncondemned. The sound of war came nearer when Howe’s fleet sailed into the Chesapeake, and when Henry, summoned in haste from Hanover, called out the militia. She watched them march through Wil liamsburg. sixty-four companies strong; but the fleet and the army it carried sailed on. to beat hack Washington at Brandywine, to enter Philadelphia, and turn the grave town into an orgie of Tory rejoicing. rhiiip Freneau was still mixing caus tic ink. The sparkling vitriol of his rhyming was flying on satire wings through the length and breadth of the land. It was a time now when the pen was become mighty—when more money was offered in Royalist New York for the capture of a Quaker editor of a Tren ton Gazette than for the body of a Con tinental governor of New Jersey. And this adventurous scape-goat, with tlie spirit of his Huguenot ancestors who es caped over sea with the Pintards and the DeLanceys after Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, was putting liberty into type—was sending out songs of virile vigor to be chanted in the patriot's line, to hearten dog-day marches and camps in bloody snows. So the months passed, in alternate hope and despair. Spring unfurled, sum mer dropped its blooms, autumn singed • -’- • -’- a -!- • "S* glebe and copse, snow foil and purified tile earth stains. And at last Virginia knew that Burgoyno had been entrapped in the northern forests; that Philadelphia had been evacuated; that the cord which was to encircle the throat of the Rebel lion had snapped; that France had recog nized independence and made a treaty of alliance with the United States. There followed a closer campaign when Lord Germaine, the king's war minister, having failed to strangle the monster, attacked its extremities—when the red-coats swept into the south ern harbors, when Savannah aiid Augusta fell, when Lincoln s army was caught at Charlestown, and Gates routed at Camden—and these were the south's darkest days. It knew there was no hope ,from the army in the north, meager, ill-clothed, half starved, without magazines, arsenals or credit. Washington lay watching like a hawk Clinton's ten thousand men at New York, hoping for an effective force from France, waiting with the sublime patience which, more than all else, made him a great soldier. Virginia bore her burdens uncomplain ingly—giving of her substance to the struggle, while the slaves which Corn wallis sent scampering from burned low er plantations trailed through her bor ders, sowing insurrection among the faith ful blacks. ” Tohn-tlie-Baptist." demanded Anne sternly, one day, after Groam had re ported that srarce fifty slaves remained* in the quarters, "an the British come here, are you going to run away, too?” “Mis’ Anne!” he complained appeal ingly. “Don’ yo’ know no ’speetable nig ger gwineter list'n to dem shif’less trash whut go ranshacklin' eroun’ widout no homes? Dee ain’ no ’count; yo' couldn’ swap ’em off fo’ shucks. Yo’ knows I ain’ nuwer gwine leabe de plantation whar I wuz drug up. Dat Cornwallis! Huh! Dis nigger smell de brimstone whut's buntin’ fo’ him!” When the sky looked blackest came • • i• -I- o• vr•v*v*v»v*v*^*v«’i’*v*4'»v*v»v General Nathaniel Greene into the south, young, light-hearted and eager. And what did he not accomplish? He welded anew the scattered remnants of Gates’ army, fanned North Carolinian whiggerv into a blaze, beat Tarleton. sent Corn wallis bark, breathing hard, to the %ea- coast. It was the end of the second cam paign. “What will King George do now?” Anne asked Henry jubilantly. His face was very grave, as he an swered: “There is only one thing left; ’tis a stroke at the heart of the re bellion. And that heart is here in Vir ginia-” He guessed truly. There were hasty preparations for flight throughout the lower peninsula on that snow-shod day when the traitor Arnold's fifty ships came to anchor off James town Island. The sky was a ceiling of ■translucent gray. The stubby cedars trailed sweeping boughs of crystalled beryl, and every shrub was cased in ar gent armor. Fleet horsemen bad ridden from Williamsburg in all directions, rous ing the frozen countryside. At noon Anne took her place In the chariot beside Mrs. Tillotson. bound for Doctor Walker’s of Castle Hill, far enough north to he beyond the reach of the invaders. Her * 1 aunt was to fare even farther, to Berkeley. They waved brave goodbys through tears to the little group of house negroes whimpering on the. porch. Rashleigh was to go with the remaining servants to Brandon. Mammy Evaline was left in charge of the place, and John-the-Bap- tist, her son. was to care for the horses and run them off on approach of the British. The house linen and silver Anne had buried with her own hands, and the family portraits had been hidden under the stables. It was. a sad journey, but one per formed that day by more than one house hold. Colonel Tillotson rode a part of the way beside the coach. “ 'Twill not be for long.” he insisted cheerlngly. "I have assurance from Mr. Henry that Washington will send troops before spring breaks. He thought it would be General t*afayette—the young French marquis who passed through ^Villiams- btrrg. you remember. Would Washington himself could come!” he added fervently. But his wife was not to he. comforted. “Colonel,” she cried brokenly, "1 fee! sure we shall never see Gladden Hall again.” More than once before spring came, tip toeing down the trees, Anne looked out to the north from quiet Castle Hill, home sick for a sight of Greenway Court and Baron Fairfax. Weakness and age. had at last sent the old man to his chair, and he sat through the long days, sor rowfully patient, as his ancestor, the hero of Naseby fight, sat at Denton in York shire, waiting the coming of the vic torious banners of the king. The beginnings of the struggle had found him doggedly wrathful. “ ‘Bill of Rights,’ aigh?” he would shout. ”1 want no benefit of It. I am a Co lonial, and loyal." And when his neighbors contended that what they stood for was the old issue for which their ancestors broke pikes at Marston Moor, he turned his back upon them. In the Old Dominion there was com parative tranquillity, 'but even in the for est he had heard the first blare of the king's armies in Boston and New York with a hungering fear that drew his eyes often wistfully toward Mount Vernon. There sat the lad lie had tr.'.ned and molded, "the first soldier in Virginia.” a grave man. They whispered evil things of this nina's loyalty now, hut the baron for long shut his ears and would not hear. / The time came soon when tories were hated, despised. driven by fire from their homes, their property confiscate. But this old man alone was not touched. “Let the rebels come!" he had roared, pounding the floor with his thorn stick. 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