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SYNOPSIS.
Enid Maitland, a frank, free and un
spoiled young Philadelphia girl, Is 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
reer, Newbold, whose wife fell off a cliff
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 letters
which he says were found on the dead
woman’s body. She reads the letters and
at Kirkby’s request keeps them. While
bathing in mountain stream Enid is at
tacked by a bear, which Is mysteriously
shot. 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.
Campers in great confusion upon discov
ing Enid’s absence w’hen 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. Miner
cooks breakfast for Enid, after which
they go on tour of inspection.
CHAPTER XI. (Continued).
“I will go and cook you some break
fast while you get yourself ready. If
you have not washed, you'll find a
bucket of water and a basin and towel
outside the door.”
He went through the Inner door as
suddenly as he had come through the
outer one. He was a man of few words,
and whatever social grace he might
once have possessed, and in more fa
vorable circumstances exhibited, was
not noticeable now. The tenderness
with which he had caressed her the
night before had also vanished.
His bearing had been cool, almost
harsh and forbidding, and his manner
was as grim as his appearance. The
conversation had been a brief one, and
her opportunity for inspection of him
consequently limited. Yet she had
taken him in. He was a tall, splendid
man. No longer young, perhaps, but in
the prime of life and vigor. His com
plexion was dark and burned browner
by long exposure to sun and wind, win
ter and summer. In spite of the brown,
there was a certain color, a hue of
health in his cheeks. Hl/ eyes were
hazel, sometimes brown, sometimes
gray, and sometimes blue, she after
ward learned. A short thick closely
cut beard and mustache covered the
lower part of his face disguised but
not hiding the squareness of his jaw
and the firmness of his lips.
He had worn his cap when he enter
ed, and when he took it off she no
ticed that his dark hair was tinged
with white. He was dressed in a leath
er hunting suit, somewhat the worse
for wear, but fitting him in away to
give free play to all his muscles. His
movements were swift, energetic and
graceful. She did not wonder that he
had so easily hurled the bear to one
side and had managed to carry her —no
light weight, indeed! —over what she
dimly recognized must have been a
horrible trail, which, burdened as he
was, would have been impossible to a
man of less splendid vigor than he.
The cabin was low ceiled, and as
she sat looking up at him, he had tow
ered above her until he seemed to
fill it. Naturally, she had scrutinized
his every action, as she had hung on
his every word. His swift and some
what startled movement, his frowning
as he had seized the picture on which
she had gazed with such interest,
aroused the liveliest surprise and cu
riosity in her heart.
Who was this woman? Why was he
so quick to remove the picture from
her gaze? Thoughts rushed tumultu
ously through her brain, but she real
ized at once that she lacked time to
Indulge them. She could hear him
moving about in the other room. She
threw aside the blanket with which
she had draped herself, changed the
bandage on her foot, drew on the
heavy woolen stocking which, of
course, was miles too big for her, but
which easily took in her foot and
ankle encumbered as they were by
the rude, heavy but effective wrapping.
Thereafter she hobbled to the door
and stood for a moment almost aghast
at the splendor and magnificence be
fore her.
He had built his cabin on a level
shelf of rock perhaps fifty by a hundred
eet in area. It was backed up against an
overtowering cliff, otherwise the rock
fell away in every direction. She di
vined that the descent from the shelf
into the pocket or valley spread before
her was sheer, except off to the
right, where a somewhat gentler ac
clivity of huge and broken boulders
gave a practicable ascent —a sort of
titanic stairs —to the place perched
on the mountain side. The shelf was
absolutely bare save for the cabin
and a few huge boulders. There were
a few sparse, stunted trees further up
on the mountain side above; a few
■hundred feet beyond them, however,
came the timber line, after which
there was nothing but the naked
rock.
Below several hundred feet lay a
clear, emerald pool, whose edges were
bordered by pines, where it was not
dominated by high cliffs. Already the
lakelet was rimmed with ice on the
shaded side. This enchanting little
body of water was fed by the melting
snow from the crest and peaks, which
in the clear, pure sunshine and rati
fied air of the mountains seemed to
rise and confront her within a stone’s
throw of the place where she stood.
On one side of the pretty lake in
the valley, or pocket, beneath, there
was a little grassy clearing, and there
the dweller in the wilderness had
built a rude corral for the burros. On
a rough bench by the side of the door
she saw the primitive conveniences to
which he had alluded. The water
was delightfully soft and as it had
stood exposed to the sun’s direct rays
for some time, although the air was
exceedingly crisp and cold, it was
tempered sufficiently to be merely
cool and agreeable. She luxuriated
in it for a few moments, and while
she had her face buried In the towel,
rough, coarse, but clean, she heard a
step. She looked up In time to see
the man lay down upon tlie bench a
small mirror and a clean comb. He
said nothing as he did so, and she had
no opportunity to thank him before
he was gone. The thoughtfulness of
the act affected her strangely, and she
was very glad of a chance to unbraid
her hair, comb it out and plait it
again. She had not a hair pin left, of
course, and all she could do with it
was to replait it and let it hang upon
her shoulders. Her coiffure would have
looked very strange to civilization, but
out there in the mountains, it was em
inently appropriate.
Without noticing details, the man
felt the general effect as she limped
back into the room toward the table.
Her breakfast was ready for her. It
was a coarse fare, bacon, a baked po
tato, hard tack crisped before the fire,
coffee, black and strong, with sugar,
but no cream. The dishes matched
the fare, too, yet she noticed that the
fork was of silver, and by her plate
there was a napkin, rough dried, but
of fine linen. The man had just set
the table when she appeared.
“I am sorry I have no cream,” he
said, and then, before she could make
comment or reply, he turned and
walked out of the room, his purpose
evidently being not to embarrass her
by his presence while she ate.
Enid Maitland had grown to relish
the camp fare, bringing to it the appe-
tite of good health and exertion. She
had never eaten anything that tasted
so good to her as that rude meal that
morning, yet she would have enjoyed
the brimming, smoking coffee pot on
It better, she thought, if he had only
shared it with her, if she had not been
compelled to eat it alone. She has
tened her meal on that account, deter
mined as soon as she had finished her
breakfast to seek the man and have
some definite understanding with
him.
And, after all, she reflected that
she was better alone than in his
presence, for there would come steal
ing into her thoughts the distressing
episode of the morning before, try
as she would to put it out of her mind.
Well, she was a fairly sensible girl;
the piatter was passed, it could not be
helped now, she would forget it as
much as was possible. She would
recur to it with mortification later on,
but the present was so full of grave
problehas that there was not any room
for the past.
CHAPTER XII.
A Tour of Inspection.
The first thing necessary, she de
cided, when she had satisfied her hun
ger and finished her meal, was to get
word of her plight and her resting
place to her uncle and the men of the
party, and the next thing was to get
away, where she would never see this
man again, and perhaps be able to for
get what had transpired—yet there
was a strange pang of pain in her
heart at that thought!
No man on earth had ever so stim
ulated her curiosity as this one. Who
was he? Why was he there? Who
was the woman whose picture he had
so quickly taken from her gaze? Why
had so splendid a man buried himself
alone in that wilderness? These re
flections were presently interrupted by
the reappearance of the man him
self.
“Have you finished?” he asked, un
ceremoniously standing in the door
way as he spoke.
“Yes, thank you, and it was very
good indeed.”
Dismissing this politeness with a
wave of his hand, but taking no other
notice, he spoke again.
“If you will tell me your name—” x
"Majtland, Enid Maitland."
“Miss Maitland?”
The girl nodded.
“And where jjou came from, I will
endeavor to find your party and see
what can be done to restore you to
them.”
"We were camped down that canon
at a place where another brook, a
large one, flows into it, several miles,
1 should think, below the place
where —”
She was going to say “where you
found me,” but the thought of the way
in which he had found her rushed
over her again; and this time, with
his glance directly upon her, although
it was as cold and dispassionate and
indifferent as a man’s look could well
be, the recollection of the meeting
to which she had been about to allude
rushed over her with an accompany
ing wave of color which heightened
her beauty as it covered her with
shame.
She could not realize that beneath
his mask of indifference so deliber
ately worn, the man was as agitated
as she, not so much at the remem
brance of anything that had trans
pired, but at the sight, the splendid
picture, of the woman as she stood
there in the little cabin then. It seem
ed to him as if she gathered up in
her own person all the radiance and
light and beauty, all the purity and
freshness and splendor of the morn-
ing, to shine and dazzle in his face.
As, she hesitated in confusion, perhaps
comprehending its cause, he helped
out her lame and halting sentence.
“I know the canon well,” he said.
“I think I know the place to which
you refer. Is it just above where the
river makes an enormous bend upon
itself?”
“Yes, that is it. In that clearing
we have been camped for two weeks.
My uncle must be crazy with anxiety
to know what has become of me,
and —”
The man interposed.
“I will go there directly,” he said.
"It is now half after ten. That place
is about seven miles or more from
here across the range, fifteen or twen
ty by the river. I shall be back by
nightfall. The cabin is your own."
He turned away without another
word. /
"Wait,” said the woman. “I am
afraid to stay here.”
She had been fearless enough before
in those mountains, but her recent ex
perience had somehow unsettled her
nerves.
"There is nothing on earth to hurt
you, I think,” returned the man.
“There isn’t a human being, so far as
I know, in these mountains.”
“Except my uncle’s party?”
He nodded.
"But there might be another —bear,"
she added desperately, forcing herself.
“Not likely; and they wouldn’t come
here if there were any. That’s the
first grizzly I have seen in years,,”
he went on, unconcernedly, studiously
looking away from her, not to add to
her confusion at the remembrance of
that awful episode which would ob
trude itself on every occasion. "You
can use a rifle or gun?”
She nodded. He stepped over to
the wall and took down the Winches
ter which he handed her.
“This one is ready for service, and
you will find a revolver on the shelf.
There is only one possible way of ac
cess to this cabin; that’s down those
rock stairs. One man, one woman, a
child, even, with these weapons could
bold it against an army.”
“Couldn’t I go with you?”
“On that foot?"
Enid pressed her wounded foot upon
the ground. It was not so painful
when resting, but she found she could
not walk a step on it without great
suffering.
“I might carry you part of the way,”
said the man. “I carried you last
night, but it would be impossible, all
of it.”
“Promise me that you will be back
by nightfall, with Uncle Bob and —”
“I shall be back by nightfall, but I
can’t promise that I will bring any
body with me.”
“You mean?”
“You saw what the cloudburst near
ly did for you,” was the quick an
swer. “If they did not get out of that
pocket, there is nothing left of them
now.”
“But they must have escaped,” per
sisted the girl, fighting down her
alarm at this blunt statement of possi
ble peril. “Besides, Uncle Robert and
most of the rest were climbing one of
the peaks, and—”
“They will be all right, then; but if
I am to find the place and tell them
your story, I must go now.”
He turned, and without another
word or a backward glance, scrambled
down the hill. The girl limped to the
brink of the cliff over which he had
plunged and stared after him. She
watched him as long as she could see
him, until he was lost among ther
trees. If she had anybody else to de
pend upon, she would certainly have
felt differently toward him; when
Uncle Robert, and her aunt, and the
children, and old Kirkby, and the rest
surrounded her, she could hate that
man in spite of all he had done for
her, but now she stared after him de
terminedly making his way down the
mountain and through the trees. It
was with difficulty she could restrain
herself from calling him back.
The silence was most oppressive,
the loneliness was frightful. She had
been alone before in those mountains,
but from choice; now the fact that
there was no escape from them made
the sensation a very different one.
She sat down and brooded over her
situation until she felt that if she did
not do something and in some way di
vert her thoughts she would break
down again. He had said that the
cabin and its contents were hers. She
resolved to inspect them more close
ly. She hobbled back into the great
room and looked about her again.
There was nothing that demanded
careful scrutiny. She wasn’t quite
sure whether she was within the pro
prieties or not, but she seized the old
est and most worn of the volumes on
the shelf. It was a text book on min
ing and metallurgy, she observed, and
opening it to the fly leaf, across the
page she saw written in a firm, vig
orous masculine hand a name, “Wil
liam Berkeley Newbold,” and be
neath these words, “Thayer Hall, Har
vard,” and a date some seven years
back.
The owner of that book, whether the
present possessor or not, had been a
college man. Say that he had gradu
ated at twenty-one or twenty-two, he
would be twenty-eight or twenty-nine
years old now, but if so, why that
white hair? Perhaps, though, the
book did not belong to the man of the
cabin.
She turned to other books on the
shelf. Many of them were technical
books, which she had sufficient gen
eral culture to realize could be only
available to a man highly educated,
and a special student of mines and
mining—a mining engineer, she de
cided, with a glance at those instru
ments and appliances of a scientific
character plainly, but of whose actual
use she was ignorant.
A rapid Inspection of the other
books confirmed her in the conclusion
that the man of the mountains was
indeed the owner of the collection.
There were a few well worn volumes
of poetry and essays, Shakespeare, a
Bible, Bacon, Marcus Aurelius, Epicte
tus, Keats, a small dictionary, a com
pendious encyclopedia, just the books,
she thought, smiling at her conceit,
that a man of education and culture
would want to have upon a desert is
land where his supply of literature
would be limited.
The old ones were autographed as
the first book she had looked in; oth
ers, newer additions to the little li
brary, if she could judge their condi
tion, were unsigned.
Into the corner cupboard and the
drawers, of course, she did not look.
There was nothing else in the room
to attract her attention, save some
piles of manuscript neatly arranged
on one of the shelves, each one cover
ed with a square of board and kept
in place by pieces of glistening quartz.
There were four of these piles and an
other half the size of the first four
on the table. These, of course, she did
not examine, further than to note that
the writing was in the same bold,
free hand as the signature in the
books. If she had been an expert she
might have deduced much from the
writing; as it was, she fancied it was
strong, direct, manly.
Having completed her inspection of
this room, she opened the door and
went into the other. It was smaller
and less inviting. It had only one
window, and a door opened outside.
There was a cook stove here, and
shelves with cooking utensils and
graniteware, and more rude box re
ceptacles on the walls which were fill
ed with a bountiful and well selected
store of canned goods and provisions
of various kinds. This was evident
ly the kitchen, supply room, china
closet. She saw no sign of a bed in
it, and. wondered where and how the
man had snent the night.
By rights, her mind should have
been filled with her uncle and his
party, and in their ajarm she should
have shared, but she was so extremely
comfortable, except for her foot, which
did not greatly trouble her so long as
she kept it quiet, that she felt a cer
tain degree of contentment, not to say
happiness. The adventure was so ro
mantic and thrilling—save for those
awful moments in the pool—especially
to the soul of a conventional woman
who had been brought up in the most
humdrum and stereotyped fashion of
the earth’s ways, and with never an
opportunity for the development of
the spirit of romance which all of us
exhibited some time in our life, and
which, thank God, some of us never
lose, that she found herself revelling
In it.
She lost herself in pleasing Imagina
tions of tales of her adventures that
she could tell when she got back to
her uncle, and when she got further
back to staid old Philadelphia. How
shocked everybody would be with it
all there! Os course, she resolved
that she would never mention one ep
isode of that terrible day, and she had
somehow absolute confidence that thia
man, in spite of his grim, gruff tact
turnity, who had shown himself so ex
ceedingly considerate of her feelings,
would never mention it either.
She had so much food for thought
that not even in the late afternoon of
the long day could she force her mind
to the printed pages of the book she
had taken at random from the shelf
which lay open before her, where she
sat in the sun, her head covered by an
old “Stetson” that she had ventured
to appropriate. She had dragged a
bear skin out on the rocks in the sun
and sat curled up on it half reclining
against -a boulder watching the trail,
the Winchester by her side. She had
eaten so late a breakfast that she had
made a rather frugal lunch out of
whatever had taken her fancy in the
store room, and she was waiting most
anxiously now for the return of the
man.
The season was late and the sun
sank behind the peaks quite early in
the afternoon, and it grew dark and
chill lopg before the shadows fell upon
the dwellers of the lowlands.
Enid drew the bear skin around her
and waited with an ever-growing ap
prehension. If she should be com-
pelled to spend the night alone in that
cabin, she felt that she could not en
dure it. She was never gladder of
anything in her life than when she
saw him suddenly break out of the
woods and start up the steep trail,
and for a moment her gladness was
not tempered by the fact which she
was presently to realize with great
dismay, that as he had gone, so he
now returned, alone.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Castaways of the Mountains.
The man was evidently seeking her,
for so soon as he caught sight of her
he broke into a run and came bound
ing up the steep ascent with the speed
and agility of a chamois or a mountain
sheep. As he approached _ the girt
rose to her feet and supported herself
llii^
In Spite of His Hand She Swayed,
upon the boulder against which she
had been leaning, at the same time ex
tending her hand to greet him.
“Oh,” she cried, her voice rising
nervously as he drew near, “I am so
glad you are back, another hour of
loneliness and I believe I should have
gone crazy.”
Now whether that joy in his return
was for him personally or for him ab
stractly, he could not tell; whether
she was glad that he had come back
simply because he was a human being
who would relieve her loneliness or
whether she rejoiced to see him indi
vidually, was a matter not yet to be
determined. He hoped the latter, he
believed the former. At any rate, he
caught and held her outstretched
hand in the warm clasp of both his
own. Burning words of greeting
rushed to his lips torrentially; what
he said, however, was quite common
place, as is often the case. Word
thought and outward speech did not
correspond.
"It’s too cold for you out here, you
must go into the house at once,” he
declared masterfully, and she .obeyed
with unwonted meekness.
The sun had set and the night air
had grown suddenly chill. Still hold
ing her hand, they started toward the
cabin a few rods away. Her wounded
foot was of little support to her and
the excitement had unnerved her, in
spite of his hand she swayed; without
a thought he caught her about the
waist and half lifted, half led her to
the door. It seemed as natural as it
was inevitable for him to assist her in
this way, and in her weakness and be
wilderment she suffered it without
comment or resistance. Indeed, there
was such strength and power in his
arm, she was so secure there,'that she
liked it. As for him, his pulses were
bounding at the contact; but for that
matter even to look at her quickened
his heart beat.
(TO BE CONTINUED.) j
Drainage of the Zuyder Zee.
A great project is again before the
people of Holland—the draining of the
Zuyder Zee. The sea, which, as every
one knows, is at the north of Holland
and covers an area of 50,000 hectares,
a hectare being practically two acres
and a half.
Just half a century ago a scheme to
drain the southern portion of the sea
was first mooted and although it re
ceived considerable, support, the oppo
sition was greater, but now an asso
ciation has been formed and a bill will
be introduced into the chamber. The
promoters see that with 1 an Increased
population means must be taken to
enlarge the country and this reclama
tion of the sea is suggested as capable
of accomplishment If the sea is con
quered there are several lakes which
can be dealt with later.
Overheard.
“Heigho!” said Blldad, as Jlmpson
berry flashed by in his motor car. “I
wish I had a motor car."
“Oh, honsense, Bill,” said Slathers.
“What’s the use? You couldn’t af
ford to keep It.”
“No,” said Bildad, “but I could af
ford to sell it” —Harper’s Weekly.