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7 THE FLOWERS COLLECTION to Finale ^ A Tale of the Psychic ■•■« ■ • o By ITALY HEMPERLY. Written for The SUNNY SOUTH. HE day was waning, and the last rays of the June sunshine foil across the tall buildings, and some times on the tired faces of the surging mass of human beings as they passed along the open streets. Now and then the soft wind brought the odor of unseen roses that bloomed somewhere in the yards and gardens. I had left home in a cheery mood, but T r.ow felt the oncom ing of ono of the old. restless moods that always told of the coming of something unusual—something that always held more shadow than ,. 0 — 1 was one of several pupils who were studying psy chology under I>r. Schane. We were to have the last lesson of the season at 8 o'clock. When I arrived at the studio, the friend whom I was to meet was not in, but Miss Zif Jemison, the little psychic, sat reading a letter under the glare of tho electric light. I had seen the girl several times, and felt strangely attracted to her. but there was a gentle elusiveness about her that kept mo from more than a passing word or smile. Tonight • the strange pallor and pathos of Iter face gave me a little pang, as she sat for a moment uncon scious of my presence. She was tall and very fragile looking, but there was a something about her that often expressed great and unexpressed strength. Her face was cold and unresponsive in repose, but there were moments when her features warmed to sudden light and beauty. Feeling my gaze she raised her eyes. They were blue eyes, very dark and gloriously beautiful. Slowly her crim son lips curved into a smile and site nodded. "I thought you would come,” she said quietly. 'I have felt your thoughts of me, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my seeming in difference. And I am sure you will when I tell you my story. Then you will realize that I am scarcely a human be ing— that I ant Just a living purpose. ’ I settled back in my chair with a lit tle thrill of pleasure. First, because 'I knew 1 was going to learn a mystery; second, because I knew that the mys tery was one of tragedy and heart-throb^ Zif was a type of woman whom nothing moved deeply unless it touched her heart. She arose and laid the letter on the table, and returned noiselessly to her chair. At that moment the thought oc curred to me that she always moved about and did things in a noiseless way. Only the sound of her voice broke the silence that seemed to hang about her like a garment. And there were times when even her voice seemed but a soft, thrilling solo. She clasped her hands behind iter head, and closed her eyes for a moment. “I will make by story as brief as pos sible, for it will not be long until the others come in. Five years ago I was a happy light-hearted girl. I loved, and was loved in return by a man who was my ideal in every way. My father was a musician and we wero poor. lie was an invalid, and we made our home in the suburbs of New York. X inherited his love of music, and when I was a child he taught me to play the violin. After ward 1 earned a support for us by team ing violin lessons, it was at the home of one of my little pupils that 1 met the man X loved. He was very wealthy, but this 1 did not know then, nor would i have cared. It was his nobility and strength of character that appealed to me irresistibly. Afterward he told me that he had loved me from the moment he had seen me—loved me without even knowing my name." Her face had grown wonderfully tend er. but the expression changed with the swiftness of thought. "But from the first X felt the shadow of some unseen evil. It would come over me !n the brightest sunshine, while his beloved voice sound ed In my ears. I told him of my fears, but he laughed, and told me it was a childish fancy. But for this vague fear, I would have been supremely happy, 'the day set for our marriage was fast ap proaching. But one morning the news that he had been found dead at the bank with a pistif by iiis side, came to us like a bolt out of a clear sky. At once there was a rumor of suicide, but l knew that this was utterly false. Yet all search and investigation failed to throw any light on the mystery. There were no relatives, save a cousin, who waa then sold to bo in Canada. Before the shock had fully passed by dear father died. I do not know«how I lived on after that. In a few weeks my dead betrothed’s cousin came from Canada, and took charge of his business, and his effects. But ho was no financier, and the hank was soon ruined by his wild schemes and Investments. "He had many friends, for he was a •wonderfully attractive man. but from the lirst I loathed him. When i met him and touched ills hands and looked into his eyes I knew that lie was a man with the shadow of a great crime on his soul. Dimly I connected him with tho death ot my Paul. Day by day the feeling grew until it became a certainty. The thought haunted me, waking or sleeping. I gave up my pupils for I found it Impossible to teach with any satisfaction. One d^y when I had spent all my earnings. 1 heard that Dr. Schane had opened a .school of psychology. He was a master of the science, or. at least, a master of all that js known of the science at present. I went to him; he needed a psychis in school and ■was ready to pay me for my time. I needed the money, hut my one thought was to study this man. to wrest from him a concession of the crime I know in my soul he had com mitted. And for five years this, struggle f souls has gone on. Never for a mo ment have I wavered in my purpose; but I have always let him dream that I am a creature to he bent and moulded by his will. Only in one way have I fully asserted myself; I would not allow him to make love to me. There have been moments when lie has feared me, but these fears. I could always sweep aside by suggestion, for crime clouds •he soul's aura and blunts one’s intui tions. But the confession—the evidence I have longed fbr has never come. Once it trembled on his. Ups. but he controlled himself with a mighty efTort. O the madness of that moment! I loathed the man. hut I could but admire his supreme self-control.’’ She had been talking rapidly and her head sank wearily hack against the chair. "But T am tired of the even struggle that may not end for years. I have learned nothing definite; but once out of mv body my soul could see and know l ow to wring the secret 'Prom him—the secret that would clear up the mystery of my beloved's death. And I have come »o think of this as the only way.” She paused for a moment and then went on. "The subject of vibration has always ieeply interested me. For every mate rial body there is x note or vibration of dissolution. Sometimes I fancy I have found my note of dissolution, and the hought fills me with inexpressible joy. Death would bo such an angel of wel come. I have a horror of the bodily de cay that usually precedes death. Earth hold no more pain or pleasure for me; and if I could dissolve—if I could drift away like the breath of a‘ flower, why shouldl not? Zif is a German word, meaning blossom as you may know. My father gave me the name.” A brief smile flashed across her face. Dimly I grasped the drift of her thoughts. In the pause that followed we heard the sound of voices in the passage. She leaned forward and listened. ■’They are coming,” she said. "And ‘omght I may play the ’ finale. You ust sit with your face to the west window. And now.' farewell!" There was an ineffable charm and sweetness in her manner. In the next ’nstant her fare was again cold and calm. "To Dr. Schane T will come again.” I gave a start for I had not connected Dr. Schane with the story, although she had used his name. The door opened and the doctor came in followed by several pupils. To me the words of the lecture that folldwtd conveyed no meaning. My brain was in a whirl. At the conclusion of the lesson Zif was put in the hynotic state. In this state she would often play selec tions she had never tried bef re. Dr. Pchane stood a few feet aivay giving si- ent suggestions. Slowly and mechanic ally Zif placed her violin in position and 'ifted the how. Her eyes deepened and then fluttered to. Then came slow strains full of power and feeling, then followed notes of darkness and despair, and again the strain changed to one of pleading—tender, elusive, mystic, like the far faint odors that come on the wind in a summer twilight. My eyes involuntarily sought the doc tor’s face. His look expressed great wonder and fear. Something was wrong somewhere. We all felt it- Slowly the girl’s face relaxed into a smile and the how fell fr m her hand. Dr. Schane bent over her with a groan. I know not what it was, but something impelled me to look across at the west window. And at I have a soul a soft luminous ’ight gathered into a shadowy form and floated out into the night. None of us felt that Dr. Schane was in any way responsible for the girl’s death and so the full story was not civer to the public. The physicians pro nounced it a case of heart failure. But In my soul T knew better. Zif, the love ly pallid blossom, had not found the note of dissolution, but she had found the vibration that would break the silken tie that bound her spiritual body to its earth-body. For weeks her story and her death haunted me. This morning I read this hit of new? in one of the New York papers; "Dr. Sfh.ane, the well-known psychol ogist died last night at St. Joseph's in- Irmary. The doctor has been ill for several weeks, and for a few hours be fore his death he was delirious. In these wild moments he talked and raved of his cousin, Paul Devine, whom he im agined that he had Just killed. It (will be remembered that Paul Devine was found dead in his office several years ago. The mystery surrounding his death was never fully cleaTed up. but it was supposed to have been a case of self- destruction. And it. seems that Dr. Schane was devoted to his coufin, and has never fully recovered from the • hock of his untimely death.” I pushed the paper aside. It is the •• ‘finale’ ’ again,” I whispered. And as I look out to the green of the waving ♦rees in the June sunshine I wonder if the spirit of Zif .found the spirit of her l eloved. and if she is happy- Truly, I believe so. • e ^®.«.# *•> 0 a-*- a a *•> 0 0 .«■• .*.0. 0 .*.0 0 §«. 0 *'>■■■ aaa -a.***.a-~a-~a-~a—a— •~a-~a—a~a-*a~ —a+ a—a—a—a—a—a-» a—a—»-~* ‘ a * » ^ In the NicK of Time Other Times, Other Morals By C. RANDOLPH LITCHFIELD. HRRB are. probably, many travelers very familiar witli the fourteen-mile stretch between Coochlev junction and Yalton who are not aware that about naif a mile in advance of the bend—Dalton's bend, as it is usually styled—stands a signal, for its so hap pens that the signal has only once brought a train to a stop; it generally stands "open,” for it is an emergency signal, intended for use only in the event of the occurrence of an accident such as befell in ISHS, when a largo quantity of the side of the "cut ting” at the bend subsided on the line, wrecking the midnight express, which ran into the debris at a steady thirty miles an hour—the maximum speed allowed for the bend- It was, indeed, this lamentable accident that led the company to hoist the signal in question; but as no subse quent falls occurred at the “cutting.” the signal had always remained at "open” until one dark, mild night in winter. Therefore, it came as something like a shock to the driver of the l I :27 up- express to see t lie red light winking warningly to him us he ran ill?' train down the straight from Coochley. •Shut off. Jim!” ne cried, springing to tho brakes. "Bed ahead!” "So ’tls! That’s queer.” exclaimed his stoker, looking through the window of the cab, as he closed the valves and opened the whistle. The abruptness of the stop naturally excited wonderment among the compara tively few passengers who were London- bound by the express, and as the stoker and guards sprang down on to the perm anent way to investigate the matter, a score of inquiring heads were thrust out of the windows, and nineteen of these all appeared at the windows on the rear side, as if everyone realized intuitively that the reason of the stop was ascer tainable on that side, as, of course, it was. The twentieth head was thrust out of a first-class window on the oft s’de, and was a woman’s; and as she leant out she turned the handle of the door with her right hand and held it eiiAfitly open, as if she contemplated jumping out. Seeing a head appear at the window of a compartment farther along the tra'n, she quickly withdrew and held the door closed. But by the light thrown on the permanent way from the windows she al most at once saw that the other head disappeared, when she opened the door wider, while her eager eyes searched the brushwood of the plantation, which lay on the down side of the line. Suddenly a man leapt out from the nut trees in the foreground and Jaslied across the line to her carriage, clamber ing nimbly In as she held the door back of him. ’T>one!" he panted .Immediately drop- beneath the seat. “Quick!” he said, as she. closed the door. “Sit down and spread your rug so ns to screen me." She dropped weakly upon the seat and threw the rug over her knees and a portion of tho seat, then picked up a magazine she had hitherto not opened. “Keep quiet.” she said, in a low, trem ulous voice, as she bent her glimmering eyes upon a letterpress page tof the mag azine. ’’Y'ou’re a brick! I knew you wouldn’t fail me, if you only understood,” said the man under the seat. There was a long wait, for the stoker and vanguard had gone forward to in vestigate. *’I suppose you didn’ think to get a second ticket?” inquired the man. after a long pause. "No. Keep quiet." Presently she heard a man on the per manent way speaking to someone at the window of the adjoining compartment. He explained vaguely that the train had been stopped by signal, but that there did not appear to he any reason for it; and he went forward, saying he could see tlxe hand lamps of the stoker and vanguard flashing down the way, as if they were returning. "How difl you work it. Jim?” tho young woman asked, gently. ”1 pinned the signal arm up with an ash stick out of the wood, so that it should show red all the time,” came the reply. In a little while the man from under the next window came running back. “It’s all right,” he said. “They could not find anything wror^-*liead. so they examined the signal and discovered that it had been tampered with. I don't know why. of course but shouldn't be surprised if they find later that some of the mail hags from the rear wagen have disappeared. Seems a likely sort of place for a game like that, with the wood across there so handy. In a minute or two the engine whistled and the train started. It crawled cau tiously round the bend, when the driver eveidently resolved to pick up some of the los time. And when the train had “set” into a speed of about forty-five miles an hour the man under the seat crept out from hiding, and, throwing himself beside the young woman, took her in his arms. "What does it mean. Jim?” she askol, drawing back from his kisses, and look ing with anxious tenderness into his handsome face. “It moans flight, dearest, and this is the only way I could safely attempt it,” ho answered, releasing her. "Did you bring those things?” "Yes, in my bag,” she replied, nod ding toward the luggage rack. “Did you chance to bring anything to eat?" he inquired, taking down the hag and opening it. “Thank heaven, yes! Good for ywu, darling! I haven’t tasted food for nearly thirty Hours; I have been hung up In that plantation for— since daybreak.” He drew a little packet of sandwiches from the bag and hungrily took a bite at them, while at the same time he turned out the other contents of the hag and talked, niot very distln ;ly. but very rapidly and tersely. There was an air of e: ty comradeship which pronounced them to be man and wife. "Of course. I know you got my letter, or you would not be here, darling,” he said. "It was a bit of a problem how to get it to you, and I could not have man aged without you. Jt's like this. I was. coming down from town, to see you yes terday morning, when I happened to read in the paper I got at the station—an early evening paper—tiiat poor old Andler had been murdered in his office at the works and his safe rifled aTld robbed of the plans of the new submarine. The re port left no doubt in my mind that I was suspected of 'the crime, and my disap pearance the evening before certainly gave some color to the theory, for I left my lodgings and the works without say ing where I was going. Of course, I can ex.plain all that. But the point is that the police are looking for me every where; the report concluded with the description of a man the police were looking for. and, thougn no names were mentioned, there can he no doubt the man is myself, and if I am arrested—” “You, Jim? How awful!” “Yes. If I am arrested those plans will he sold to a foreign power before I can defend myself, and every penny I and poor old * Andler have sunk in the ex periments and laying down new plant will be losf. I shall he ruined, and the works will never get another government contract. But I think I know where those plans are. I have had a faint suspicion for some time that Brait, a chap in the estimating office, is not quite straight, and I've known him to have letters from Germany, which he has been very secre tive about. Now. my belief is that Brait returned to the works the other night, after I had left, to steal the plans, and was discovered by old Andler, whom he murdered. There seems to be no doubt in anybody’s mind that the murder was committed In order to obtain the plans.” He sprang up with a pair of seslsors in his hand, and. turning to one of the long mirrors let into the walls of t'he compartment, began clipping off his mus tache. She jumped up and seized his arm. ‘‘Oil, Jim, don’t!” she exclaimed. “i must disguise myself somehow. Aline," he returned. "The matter's as serious as it can be. I am not only making a bid to avert our ruin, but per haps to save myself from the hang man’s noose. Who knowsr Who can guess the amount of circumstantial evi dence that may be adduced against me? I cannot trust the police 'to look to the matter as promptly and energetically as it needs; I must do it myself, for the fact that I was thet. prisoner would prejudice them against my theory, and direc'tly Brait heard thhv <ney had pinned me he would feel safe to dispose of the plans, and when once they were out of his hands, who could say that they had not passed out of mine? The difficulty of establishing my innocence would be trebled and we should be ruined. Give me that vaseline and the safety razor, will you. darling?” Dazed 'by realizing the gravity of his ■position, she complied silently, and he quickly proceeded to give his upper lip Continued on Last Page. By CHARLES MARRIATT. O have another kidney. Har old; they’re so nice," said ■Mrs. Pontifex, holding the little silver dish insinuat ingly under her husband's nose. He looked up from t'he letter he was reading. “A—um—well, d’you |5| Bj jM know, I rather think I I will.” he said, and helped I I himself to the savory mor- | E sel, while his wife leaned ■■auaMS one hand affectionately on his shoulder. “From the Canon, dear?” she asked, softening her voice reverently as she ■glanced at the crested notepaper in his hand. “Yes, my love." said Pontifex. pushing away the dish with a vague movement, while keeping his eyes fixed on the let ter. Mre. Pontifex kissed the tiny bald spot on the top of her husband's head. He winced a little, and put up his hair over the place. His wife, moving noiselessly over the thick carpet, sat down behind tlie elaborately appointed coffee tray. “Won’t you read it to me, Doodlums?” she asked, calling him by his pet name, over her cup. "Er—yes, if you like,” he said, with * little deprecating laugh. “ ‘My dear Mr. Pontifex,’ ” he read aloud, ” ‘I could not rest content with a merely verbal expression of my gratitude ■for your extreme generosity in giving your services to the bazar in aid of our new Clergy house. Not often do the in habitants of a remote country parish have the opportunity of hearing the master pieces of English literature interpreted by one of the foremost dramatic artists of the day. It would be presumptoous of me. to say more than how deeply I en joyed your recitations—(particularly "1'nto This Last” with organ accompaniment. I, for one. am not ashamed to say that at the conclusion of the piece my eyts were not innocent of tears. One seemed to al most hear through the open gates a waft of the angelic music which’—er—h’m. “It is, a blessing and a comfort to realize that even in these days there is, at least, on e man standing In the public eye who both in his art and in his life rallies to the. banner of the old faith, and bears witness to the sanctity of the English home. Trusting that your dear wife, to whom commend me, was none the worse for her cold journey back to London, yours very sincerely, Herbert Langley Saunders.’ ” "What a very nice letter. Hluold,” said Mrs. Pontifex, with tears in her eyes. There was a reason for her emotion beyond t'he actual words of the Canon's letter. During the early days of their married life, when Pontifex was a tour ing actor, he had not shown that en thusiasm for the sanctity of the English home which so impressed his present cor respondent. He complained that his wife was unsympathetic; she retorted that it was difficult to keep a blind faith in the sacred cause of art when a considerable portion of the artist’s earnings were de voted to the entertainment of his col leagues—while she herself needed a new •pair of boots. For some years the Pontifexos did not live together. Then, almost by accident, Pontifex Hit upon his peculiar talent as an interpreter of What might be called •'Pieces with a strong domestio and re ligions flavor.” Success ifollowed. and the Pontifexes were not the first couple to dis_ cover that compatibility of temperament depends to a considerable degree on mate rial circumstances. So they came together again, and with regular meals, his more exalted aspira tions died away, wnile her faith in him and in art was supported by a steadily- increasing balance at the bankers. Pontifex was a tall, romantic-looking man of about thirty-five, with wavy black hair and mustache, and melancholy brown eyes. Though Jje was not too stout, his figure gave the impression of being re tained only by the strenuous use of me chanical devices, and his white face had the peculiar opacity whtc.h comes from habitual good living. Mrs. Pontifex was the type of woman one calls a sensible lit tle body. While consuming his meal with slow enjoyment, Pontifex continued to open and read his letters. There was a little bun dle of press cuttings, an invitation to speaik at the forthcoming church con gress on “The Influence of the Dream;” a request for an Interview from the “Ingle-Nodk;” a letter from a countess (asking his terms for an evening, "you'll forgive these business details, my dear Mr. Pontifex”—and, last of all. a small envelope with black edges, addressed in a hand he seemed to remember. The Inclosed letter began without pre liminaries, and ran: “As you will see, I am In London. Will you meet me at Charing Cross by the bookstall where the boat train starts, at half-past one on Thursday? I have something important to tell you—Muriel Image.” Pontifex remembered Muriel Image very well. She belonged to the strug gling days—only six years ago— when he e-mployed his too frequent intervals of “resting” by teaching elocution. To Mu riel Image he haid poured out the aspira tions of his fiery soul t'he story of hs lunhappy life with a woman who did not appreciate his genius, and Muriel, at least, had—sympathized. But not to the extent he then demanded. For soma scruple she had remained firm, though she admitted that she loved him. “What is jt. dear?” asked Mrs. Ponti fex, rather anxiously. "Only a begging letter,” he repliei. adding, with commendable ingenuity, "from one of the old boys who is down on his luck.” Addressed through his old agent, the letter had reached him considerably later than the writer intended, and to day was already Thursday. There was no time to reply, anld Pontifex did not like to ignore it altogether. Though, at the cost of his digestion. ■Pontifex reached the meeting place two minutes before the half hour. Muriel Im age was there already. She came forw'ard. a tall, graceful girl in mourning, pale to the lips with ex citement, but with a passionate look of welcome in her dark eyes, moist with 'happy tears. “Harold,” she said, holding out both her hands. After this interval of time, his name sounded improperly familiar on her lips, a.nd he rather stiffly gave her his hand, from which he had forgotten to remove the thick, lined glove. “Well, Muriel,” he said, in a tone and with a smile that he fancied paternal. “My mother died six weeks ago; so that I—” She did not finish the sen tence, hut colored deeply. “I’m so sorry,” murmured Pontife.x— and he was. He remembered her scruple now. •‘It’s not for myself, dear," she had said, when he bogged her to share his life. “I've no silly prejudices. But my mother has quite conventional ideas, and —anything of that sort—would break her heart.” "Well,” he said, now looking ner vously round the platform, ’’shall we go somewhere out of the cold?” “Oh, but have we time?” she saia. glancing up at the clock and away with emba rrassment. “Just as you like,” he said, in no desire to prolong the interview unnecessarily. There was an awkward silence, and he wondered how he could remind her of the important news she spoke of in her note. "You’re looking very well,” she said, a little regretfully. "Oh. I'm well enough,” he admitted, with a sigh. “She is still—?” “I’m still married,” he said gravely; adding with imperfect regard for lu cidity, “in name only.” She understood him, however. "You make me very glad," she mur mured, laying her hand for a moment on his arm. “Do I?” he murmured. “Dear, cageiT eagle! Of course. I've heard of your success. it’s not—quite— what I expected. ’’But,’’ she said with a little appreciative chuckle, "how weli you do it! I often think that if these solemn Philistines could look into your heart! Well, i suppose it has to be done?” ’’One must live,” he said, gloomily, “and fulfill one's obligations. ’ "She is extravagant?" she asked, flush ing angrily. “Oh, well,” he replied, tolerantly, “one gets the luck one deserves.” "Do you ever see her?” she muttered. Ho nodded sadly. "Sometimes.” “How awful, Harold!” “Come,” he said, with a hoarse note in his voice, "tell me about yourself. Are you in the profession?” •T was a rank failure,” she said, with a laugh. “Then 1 went to Germany, i took a situation with some people who wanted a companion. I had to read aloud—I owed that to you, Harold. I was not unhappy tnere. When my mother became very ill, I was tele graphed for—I was just in time * • * Now, I’m comparatively—there will be no need for me to go back to Germany. They walked a few steps in silence "Property invested, I trust"" ab3ent-mlndedly. “Oh. Harold, how funny Continued on Fifth Page,