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SYNOPSIS.
Enid Maitland, a frank, free and un
spoiled young Philadelphia girl, 13 taken
to the Colorado mountains by her uncle,
Robert Maitland. James Armstrong.
Maitland's protege, falls in love with her.
His persistent wooing thrills the girl, but
she hesitates, and Armstrong goes east
•on business without a definite answer.
Enid hears the story of a mining engi
neer, Newbold, whose wife fell off a clifi
and was so seriously hurt that he was
’Compelled to shoot her to prevent her be
ing eaten by wolves while he went for
help. Kirkby*, the old guide who tells the
story, gives Enid a package of le ^ ter ®
which he says were found on the dead
woman’s body. She reads the lettera ana
at Kirkby’s request keeps them. While
bathing in mountalng stream Enid is at
tacked by a bear, which is mystericjisly
ahot. A storm adds to the girl’s terror.
A sudden deluge transform brook into
raging torrent, which sweeps Enid into
gorge, where she Is rescued by a moun
tain hermit after a thrilling experience.
Clampers in great confusion upon aiacov-
Ing Enid’s absence when the storm
breaks. Maitland and Old Kirkby go in
search of the girl. Enid discovers that
her ankle is sprained and that she is un
able to walk. Her mysterious rescuer
carries her to his camp. Enid goes to
sleep in the strange man’s bunk.
CHAPTER X.—(Continued.)
Have you ever climbed a mountain
-early in the morning while it was yet
■dark and having gained some domi
nant crest stood staring at the far
horizon, the empurpled east, while the
■“dawn came up like thunder?” Or
better still, have you ever stood with
in the cold, dark recesses of some
deep valley of river or pass and
watched the clear light spread its
bars athwart the heavens like nebu
lous mighty pinions along the light
touched crest of a towering range, un
til all of a sudden, with a leap almost
of joy. the great sun blazed in the
high horizon?
You might be born a child of the
dark, and light might sear and burn
your eye balls accustomed to cooler
deeper shades, yet you could no more
turn away from this glory, though you
might hate it, than by mere effort of
will you could cease to breathe the
air. The shock that you might feel,
the sudden surprise, is only faintly sug
gestive of the emotions in the breast
of this man.
Once long ago the gentlest and ten
derest of voices called from the dark
to the light, the blind. And it is given
to modern science and to modern skill
sometimes to emulate that godlike
achievement. Perhaps the surprise,
the amazement, the bewilderment, of
him who having been blind doth now
see, if we can Imagine it not having
been in the case ourselves, will be a bet
ter guide to the understanding‘of this
man’s emotion when this woman came
suddenly into his lonely orbit. His
eyes were opened although he would
not know it. He fought down his new
consciousness and would have none of
it. Yet it was there. He loved her!
With what joy did Selkirk welcome
the savage sharer of his solitude! Sup
pose she had been a woman of his own
race; had she been old, withered, hid
eous, he must have loved her on the
instant, much more if she were young
and beautiful. The thing was inev
itable. Such passions are born. God
forbid that we should deny it. In the
busy haunts of men where women are
as plenty as blackberries, to use Fal
staff’s simile, and where a man may
sometimes choose between a hundred,
or a thousand, such loves are born, for
ever.
A voice in the night, a face in the
street, a whispered word, the touch
of a hand, the answering throb of an
other heart —and behold! two walk to
gether where before each walked
alone. Sometimes the man or the wom
an who is born again of love knows it
not, refuses to admit it, refuses to
recognize it. Some birth pain must
awaken the consciousness of the new
life.
If those things are true and possi
ble under every day conditions and
to ordinary men and women, how
much more to this solitary. He had
i seen this woman, white breasted like
the foam, rising as the ancient god
dress from the Paphian sea. Over that
recollection, as he was a gentleman
and a Christian, he would fain draw a
curtain, before it erect a wall. He
must not dwell upon that fact, he
would not linger over that moment.
Yet he could not forget it.
Then he had seen her lying prone,
yet unconsciously graceful in her aban
donment, on the sward; he had caught
a, glimpse of her white faee desperate
ly uptossed by the rolling water; he
had looked Into the unfathomable
depth of her eyes at that moment
when she had awakened in his arms
after such a struggle as had taxed his
manhood and almost broken his heart;
he had carried her unconsciously,
ghastly white with her pain-drawn
face, stumbling desperately over the
rocks in the beating rain to this, his
home. There he had held that poor,
bruised slender little foot in his hand,
gently, skilfully treating it, when he
longed to press his lips passionately
upon it. Last of all he had looked
Into her face, warmed with the red
light of the Are, searched her weary
eyes almost like blue pools, in whose
depths there yet lurked life and light,
while her golden hair tinged crim-
son by the blaze lay on the white pil
low —and he loved her. God pity him,
fighting against fact and admission of
it, yet how could he help it?
He had loved once before in his life
with the fire of youth and spring, but
it was not like this. He did not rec
ognize this new passion in any light
from the past; therefore he would not
admit it. Hence, he did not under
stand it. But he saw and admitted
and understood enough to know that
the past was no longer the supreme
subject in his life, that the present
rose higher, bulked larger and bld
more and more of his far-off horizon.
He felt like a knave and a traitor,
as if he had been base, disloyal, false
to his ideal, recreant to his remem
brance. Was he Indeed a true man?
Did he have that rugged strength, that
abiding faith, that eternal conscious
ness, that lasting affection, beside
which the rocky paths he often trod
were things transient, perishable, ev
anescent? Was he a weakling that he
fell at the first sight of another
woman? ,
He stopped his ceaseless pace for
ward and backward, and stopped t?ear
that frail and futile door. She was
there and there was none to prevent.
His hand sought the latch.
What was he about to do? God for
bid that a thought he could not freely
share with humanity should enter his
brain then. He held all women sacred,
and so he had ever done, and this
woman in her loneliness, in her help
lessness, in her weakness, trebly ap
pealed to him. But he would look
upon her, he would fain see if she
were there, if it were all not a dream,
the creation of his disordered imagin
ation.
Men had gone mad in hermitages in
the mountains, they had been driven
insane in lonely oases in vast des
erts; and they had peopled their soli
tude with men and women. Was this
some working of a disordered brain, too
too much turned upon’itself and with
too tremendous a pressure upon it,
producing an illusion? Was there in
truth any woman there? He would
raise the latch and open the door and
look. Once more the hand went stealth
ily to the latch.
The woman slept quietly on. No thin
barricade easily unlocked or easily
broken protected her. Something in
tangible, yet stronger than the thick
est, the most rigid bars of steel guard
ed her; something unseen, indescrib
able, but so unmistakable when it
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He Stared From One to the Other.
throbs in the breast of those who de
pend on it feel that their dependence
is not in vain watched over her.
Cherishing no evil thought, the man
had power to gratify his desire which
might yet bear a sinister construction
should it be observed. It was her pri
vacy he was Invading. She had trust
ed to him, she had said so, to his hon
or, and that stood her in good stead.
Hi's honor! Not in five years had he
heard the word or thought the thing,
but he had not forgotten it. She had
not appealed to an unreal thing; upon
that her trust was based. His hand
left the latch, it fell gently, he drew
back and turned away trembling, a
conqueror who mastered himself. He
was awake to the truth again.
What had he’been about to do? Pro
fane, uninvited, the sanctity of her
chamber, violate the hospitality of his
own house? Even with a proper mo
tive, imperil his self-respect, shatter
her trust, endanger that honor which
so suddenly became a part of him on
demand? She would not probably
know; she could never know unless
she awoke. What of that? That an
cient honor of his life and race rose
like a mountain whose scarped face
cannot be scaled.
He fell back with a swift turn, a
feeling almost womanly; and more
men, perhaps, if they lived in fem
inine isolation, as self-centered as
women are so often by necessity,
would be as feminine as their sisters —
influenced him, overcame him. His
hand went to his hunting shirt. Nerv
ously he tore it open; he grasped a
bright object that hung against his
breast. As he did so, the thought came
to him that not before in five years
had he been for a moment uncon
scious of the pressure of that locket
over his heart, but now that this oth
er had come, he had to seek for it to
find it.
The man dragged it out, held it in
his hand and opened it. He held it so
tightly that it almost gave beneath
the strong grasp of his strong hand.
From a nearby box he drew another
object with his other hand. He took
the two to the light, the soft light of
the candle upon the table, and stared
from one to the other with eyes brim
ming.
Like crystal gazers, he saw other
things than those presented to the
casual vision. He heard other sounds
than the beat of the rain upon the
roof, the roar of the wind down the
canon. A voice that he had sworn
he would never forget, but which, God
forgive him, had not now the clearness
that it might have bad yesterday,
whispered awful words to him.
Anon he looked into another face,
red, too, with no hue from the hearth
or leaping flame, but red with {.he
blood of ghastly wounds. He heard ;
again that report, the roar louder and '
more\terrible than any peal of thun
der that rived the clouds above his
head and made the mountains quake
and tremble. He was conscious again
of the awful stillness of death that su
pervaded. He dropped on his knees,
buried his face in his hands where i
they rested on picture and locket on
the rude table. <
Ah, the past died hard, for a mo- 1
ment he was the lover of old—remorse, 1
passionate expiation, solitude—he and 1
the dead together—the world and the 1
living forgot! He would not be '<
false, he would be true, there was no 1
power in any feeble woman’s tender ’
hand to drive him off his course, to 1
shake his purpose, to make him a new. i
another man. Oh, Vanitas, Van- i
itatum!
On the other side of the door the 1
unconscious woman slept quietly on.
The red firelight died away, the glow
ing coals sank into gray ash. Within
the other room the cold dawn stealing
through the unshaded window looked
upon a field of battle —death, wounds,
triumphs, defeats —portrayed upon one
poor human face, upturned as some
times victors and vanquished alike up
turn stark faces from tl^ field to the
God above who may pity but who has
not intervened.
So Jacob may have looked after
that awful night when he wrestled un
til the day broke, with the angel, *and
would not let him go until he blessed
him, walking, forever after with halt
ing step as memorial, but with his
blessing earned. Hath this man’s bless
ing won or not? And must he pay
for it if he hath achieved it?
And all the while the woman slept
quietly upon the other side of that
door.
CHAPTER XI.
The Log Hut in the Mountains.
What awakened the woman she did
not know; In all probability it was
the bright sunlight streaming through
the narrow window before her. The
cabin was so placed that the sun did
not strike fairly into the room until
it was some hours high, consequently
she had her long sleep out entirely un
disturbed. The man had made no ef
fort whatever to awaken her. What
ever tasks he had performed since day
break had been so silently accomplish
ed that she had not been aware of
them.
So soon as he could do so, he had left
the cabin and was now busily engaged
in his daily duties outside the cabin
and beyond earshot. He knew that
sleep was the very best medicine for
her, and it was best that she should
not be disturbed until in her own good
time she awoke.
The clouds had emptied themselves
during the night, and the wind had
at last died away toward morning, and
now there was a great calm abroad in
the land. The sunlight was dazzling.
Outside, where the untempered rays
i beat full upon the crests of the moun-
I tains, it was doubtless warm, but with
lin the cabin it was chilly. The fire
had long since burned completely
away, and he had not entered the room
tb replenish it. Yet Enid Maitland had
lain snug and warm under her blan
kets. She presently’ tested her wound
ed foot, by moving it gently, and dis
covered agreeably that it was much
less painful than she had anticipated.
The treatment the night before had
been very successful
She did not get up immediately, but
the coldness of the room struck her so
soon as she got out of bed. Upon her
first awakening she was hardly con
scious of her situation; her sleep had
been too long and too heavy, and her
awakening too gradual. for any sud
den appreciation of the new condition.
It was not until she had stared around
the walls of the rude cabin for some
time, that she realized where she was
and what had happened. When she
did so she arose at once.
Her first impulse was to call. Never
in her life had she felt such death
like stillness. Even in the camp al
most always there had been a whis
per of breeze through the pine trees,
or the chatter of water over the rocks.
But here there were no pine trees and
no sound of rushing brook came to
her. It was almost painful. She was
keen to dress and go out of the house.
She stood upon the rude puncheon
floor on one foot, scarcely able yet to
bear even the lightest pressure upon
the other. There were her clothes on
chairs and tables before the fireplace.
Such had been the heat thrown out by
that huge blaze that a brief inspec
tion convinced her that everything
was thoroughly dry. Dry or wet, she
must needs put them on. since they
were all she had. She noticed that
there were no locks on the doors, and
she realized that the only protection
she had was the sense of decency and
the honor of the man. That she had
been allowed her sleep unmolested 1
made her the more confident on that
account.
She dressed hastily, although it was
the work of some difficulty in view of
her wounded foot, and of the stiff con
dition of her rough, dried apparel.
Presently she was completely clothed,
save for that disrobed foot. With the ,
big clumsy bandages upon it, she could :
not draw her stocking over it, and even
if she succeded in that, she could in
no way make shift to put on her boot. .
The situation was awkward, the pre
dicament annoying. She was wearing .
bloomers and a short skirt for her '
mountain climbing, and she did not ;
know quite what to do. She thought of
tearing up one of the rough, unbleach- i
'ed sheets and wrapping it around her I
leg, but she hesitated as to that. It
was very trying. Otherwise, she would
have opened the door and stepped out ,
into the open air. Now she felt her-1
self virtually a prisoner.
She had been thankful that no one ■
had disturbed her, but now she wished ■
. for the man. In her helplessness she
- thought of his resourcefulness with
i eagerness. The man, however, did not
; appear, and there was nothing for her
1 to do but to wait for him. Taking one
, of the blankets from the bed, she sat
s down and drew it across her knees and
- took stock of the room.
- The cabin was built of logs, the
s room was large, perhaps 12 by 20 feet,
3 with one side completely taken up by
the stone fireplace; there were two
r windows, one on either side of the
- outer door, which opened toward the
1 southwest. The walls were unplaster
-1 ed save in the chinks between the
- rough hewn logs of which it was made.
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” He Caught It Up Quickly.
Over the fireplace and abound qn one '
• side ran a rude shelf covered with
1 books. She had-no opportunity to ex-1
amine them, although later she would
become familiar with every one of
them.
Into the walls on the other side
were driven wooden pegs; from some
of them hung a pair of snow shoes, a ■
heavy Winchester rifle, fishing tackle
and other necessary wilderness para
phernalia. On the puncheon floor wolf
and bear skins were spread. In one I
corner against the wall again were
piled several splendid pairs of horns
from the mountain sheep.
The furniture consisted of the single |
bed or berth in which she had slept, i
built against the wall in one of the I
corners, a rude table on which were
writing materials and some books.
A row of curtained shelves, evidently ।
made of small boxes and surmounted I
by a mirror, occupied another space. |
There were two or three chairs, the ;
handiwork of the owner, comfortable
’ enough in spite of their rude construc
' tion. On some other pegs hung a
। slicker and a sou’wester, a fur over
-1 coat, a fur cap and other rough clothes;
i a pair of heavy boots stood by the
fireplace. On another shelf there were
I a number of scientific instruments, the .
■ nature of which she could not deter- I
mine, although she could see that they
I were all in a beautiful state of p/es- ’
| ervaticn.
There was plenty of rude comfort in j
i the room, which was excessively man- ■
I nish. In fact, there was nothing any
where which in any way spoke of the
existence of woman —except a picture
in a small, rough, wooden frame which
stood on the table before which she
sat down. The picture was of a hand
some woman —naturally Enid Maitland
saw that before anything else. She
would not have been a wom«n if that
; had not engaged her attention more
' forcibly than any other fact in the
room. She picked it up and studied
llt long and earnestly, quite uncon
scious of the reason for her interest,
and yet a certain uneasy feeling might
! have warned her of what was toward
i in her bosom.
This young woman had not yet had
i time to get her bearings. She had not
! been able to realize all the circum
i stances of her adventure. So soon as
she did so she would know that into
, her life a man had come, and what- i
I ever the course of that life might be !
i in the future, he would never again
; be out of it.
It was therefore with mingled and j
untranslatable emotions that she stud
ied this picture. She marked with a
certain resentment the bold beauty
quite apparent, despite the dim fading
outlines of a photograph never very
good. So far as she could discern, the
woman was dark haired and dark eyed
—her direct antithesis! The casual
viewer would have found little of fault
in the presentment, but Enid Mait
land's eyee were sharpened by what,
pray? At any rate, she decided that
the woman was of a rather coarse
fiber, that in things finer and higher
she would be found wanting. She was
such a woman, so the girl reasoned
acutely, as might inspire a passionate
' affection in a strong hearted, -reckless
; youth, but whose charms being large
■ ly physical, would pall in longer and
more intimate association; a danger
ous rival in a charge, but not so for
midable in a steady campaign.
These thoughts were the result of
long and earnest inspection, and it
was with some reluctance that the girl
at last put the photograph aside and
looked toward the door. She was hun
: gry. ravenously so. She began to be
: a litt^ alarmed, and had just about
made^tp her mind to rise and stum
ble out as she was, when she heard
। steps outside and a knock on the
I door.
“What is it?" she asked in response.
“May I come in?”
“Yes,” was the quick answer.
The man opened the door, left it
ajar and entered the room.
“Have you been awake long?” he
began abruptly.
I “Not very."
"1 didn’t disturb you, because you
needed sleep more than anything else.
How do you feel?”
"Greatly refreshed, thank you.”
"And hungry, I suppose?"
“Very.”
"I will soon remedy that. Your
j foot?”
; “It seems much better, but I —"
The girl hesitated, blushing. “I can't
get my shoe on, and —"
"Shall I have another look at it?"
"No, I don’t believe it will be neces
sary. If p may have some of that lini
ment, or whatever it was you put on
it, and more of that bandage, I think
1 can attend to it myself, but, you see,
my stockings and my boot —”
The man nodded; he seemed to un
derstand. He went to his cracker box
chiffonier and drew from it a long,
coarse woolen stocking.
"That is the best that I can do for
you," he said.
"And that will do very nicely," said
the girl, "It will cover the bandage,
and that is the main thing."
The man laid on the table by the
side of the stocking another strip of
bandage torn from the same sheet. As
he did so, he noticed the picture. He
caught it up quickly, a dark flush
spreading over his face, and holding
it in his hand, he turned abruptly
away,
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—
Much In the Minority.
Many men ask more than they are
entitled to. but the number getting ft
isn’t large.—Atchison Globa.