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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 engl
ilfer, 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 otters
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 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. Miner
cooks breakfast Jpr Enid, after which
they go on tour of inspection. The her
mit tells Enid of his unsuccessful attempt
to find the Maitland campers. He admits
that he is also from Philadelphia.
CHAPTER I.—(Continued.)
Entering the main room, he led her
gently to one of the chairs near the
table and immediately thereafter light
ed the fire which he had'taken the
precaution to lay before his departure
It had been dark in the cabin, but the
fire soon filled it with glorious light.
She watched him at his task and as
he rose from the hearth questioned
him:
“Now tell me,” she began, "you
found—”
I “First your Supper, and then the
Story,” he answered, turning toward
the door of the other room.
“No,” pleaded the girl, "can’t you
see that nothing is of any importance
to me but the story? Did you find the
camp?”
“J found the place where It had
been.”
"Where it had been!”
“There wasn't a single vestige of it
left That whole pocket, 1 knew it
well, had been swept clean by the
flood."
“But Kirkby, and Mrs. Maitland
and—”
"They weren’t there.”
"Did you search for them?”
"Certainly.”
"But they can’t have been drowned,”
she exclaimed piteously.
“Os course not,” he began reassur
ingly. “Kirkby is a veteran of these
mountains and —”
"But do you know him?” queried.the
girl in great surprise.
”1 did once,” said the man, flushing
darkly at his admission. "I haven’t
seen him for five years.”
So that was the measure of his iso
lation, thought the woman, keen for
the slightest evidence as to her com
panion’s history, of which, by the way,
he meant to tell her nothing.
"Well?” she asked, breaking the
pause
"Kirkby would certainly see the
cloud burst coming and he would take
the pedple with him in the camp up on
the hogback near it. It is far above
the flood line: they would be quite safe
there.”
“And did you look 'or them there?”
"1 did. The trail had been washed
out, but 1 sctambled up and found un
disputed evidence that my surmise
was correct. I haven’t a doubt that
all who were in the camp were saved.”
“Thank God for that,” said the girl,
greatly relieved and comforted by his
reassuring words. “And Robert Mait
land and the rest on the mountain,
what do you think of them?”
"1 am sure that they must have
escaped, too. I don’t think ai*y of
them have suffered more than a thor
ough drenching in the downpour and
that they are all safe and perhaps on
their way to-the settlements now.”
"But they wouldn't go back without
searching for me, would they?” cried
the girl.
"Certainly not. I suppose they are
searching for you now."
“Well then—”
"Wait.” said the man. “You start
'ed down the canon, you told every
body you were going that way. They
naturally searched in that direction,
they hadn’t the faintest idea that you
were going up the river.
"No," admitted Enid, "that is true.
1 did not tell anyone. I didn't dream
of going up the canon when I started
, out in the morning, it was the result
of a sudden impulse.”
“God bless that —” burst out the
man, and then he checked himself,
flushing again darkly.
What had he been about to say?
The question flashed across his own
mind and into the woman's mind at
the seme time when she heard the
Incompleted sentence: but she, too.
checked the question that rose to her
lips.
“This is the way I figure it,” con
tinued the man hurriedly to cover up
his confusion. “They fancy them
selves atone, in these mountains,
which, save for me, they are; they be
lieve you to have gone down the can-
on. Kirkby with Mrs. Maitland and
the others waited on the ridge until
Mr. Maitland and his party joined
them. They couldn't have saved very
much to eat or wear from the camp,
they were miles from a settlement;
they probably divided into two parties,
the larger with the woman , and chil
dren, started for -home, the second
went down the canon searching for
your dead body!”
“And had it not been for you,” cried
the girl. Impulsively, “they bad found
it."
"God permitted me to be of service
to you,” answered the man, simply.
"I can follow their speculations exact
ly; up or down, they believed you to
have been in the canon when the
cloud burst, therefore there was only
one place and one direction to search
for you.”
"And that was?”
“Down the canon?”
‘“What did you do then?”
"I went down the canon myself. I
think I saw evidence that some one
had preceded me, too.”
"Did you overtake them?”
"Certainly not, they traveled as
rapidly as I; they must have started
early in the morning and they had
several hours the advantage of me.”
"But they must have stopped some
where for the night and—”
"Yes,” answered the man; "if I had
only myself to consider, I should have
pressed on through the night and
overtaken them when they camped.”
“Only, yourself?”
“You made me promise to return
here by nightfall. I don’t know wheth
er I should have obeyed you or not. I
kept on as long as I dared and still
leave myself time to get back to you
by dark.”
She had no idea of the desperate
speed he had made to reach her while
it was still daylight.
“If you hadn’t come when you did,
I should have died,” cried the girl im
petuously. "You did perfectly right.
I don’t think I am a coward; I hope
not. 1 never was afraid before, but —"
“Don’t apologize or explain to me,
it's not necessary; I understand ev
erything you feel. It was only because
I had given you my word to be back
by sunset that I left off following their
trail. I was afraid that you might
think me dead or that something had
happened and —”
“I should, I did,” admitted the girl.
"It wasn’t so bad during the day time,
but when the sun went down and you
did not come I began to imagine ev
erything. I saw myself left alone here
in these mountaihs, helpless, wound
ed, without a human being to speak
to. I could not bear it.”
"But I have been here alone for
five years,” said the man grimly.
“That’s different. 1 don’t know why
you have chosen solitude, but I —”
“You are a woman,” returned the
other gently, “and you have suffered,
that accounts for everything.”
“Thank you,” said Enid, gratefully.
"And I am so glad you came back to
me."
"Back to you^’ reiterated the man,
and then he stopped. If he had al
lowed his heart to speak he would
have said. Back to you from the very
ends of the world. “But I want you to
believe that I honestly did not leave
the trail until the ultimate moment,”
he added. .
"I do believe it;” she extended her
hand to him. “You have been very
gooti to me, 1 trust you absolutely.”
And for the second time he took
that graceful, dainty, aristocratic
hand in his own larger, stronger, firm
er grasp. His face flushed again; un
der ether circumstances and in other
days perhaps he might have kissed
that hand. As it was he only held
it for a moment end' then gently re
leased it.
“And you think they are searching
for me?” she asked.
“I know it. I am sure of what I
myself would do for one 1 love—l
loved. 1 mean, and they—”
“And they will find me?"
The man shook his head.
“I am afraid they will be convinced
that you have gone down with the
flood. Didn’t you have a cap or—” •
“Yes,” said the woman, "apd a
sweater. The bear you shot covered
the sweater with blood. I could not
put it on again.”
As she spoke she flushed a glorious
crimson at the remembrance of that
meeting, but the man was looking
away with studied care. She thanked
him in her heart for such generous
and kindly consideration.
“They will have gone down the
stream with the rest, and it’s Just pos
sible that the searchers may find
them, the body of the bear, too. This
river ends in a deep mountain lake
and I think it is going to snow; it
will be frozen hard tomorrow.”
"And they will think me—there?”
"I am afraid So."
“And they won't come up here?”
“It is scarcely possible.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the woman faintly
at the dire possibility that she might
not be found.
“1 took an empty bottle with me,T
said the man. breaking the silence, “in
which I had enclosed a paper saying
that you were here and safe, save
for your wounded foot, and giving
direction how to reach the place.
I built a cairn of rocks in a shel
tered nook' in the valley where
your camp had been pitched and left
the tightly corked bottle wedged on
top of it. If they return to the camp
they could scarcely fail to see It”
“But if they don’t go back there.”
“Well, it was just a chance.”
“And if they don’t find me?”
“You will have to stay here for a
while; until your foot gets well
enough to travel, anyway," returned
the man, evasively.
“But winter is coming on; you said
the lake would freeze tonight and if it
snows?"
“It will snoW.”
The woman stared at him appalled.
“And In that case—”
“I am afraid,” was the slow reply,
“that you will have to stay here.”
He hesitated in the face of her white,
still sac winter,” he added, des
perately.
“My God,” exclaimed the girl,
“alone, with you?”
“Miss Maitland,” said the man, reso
lutely, “I might as well tell you the
truth. I can make my way to the set
tlements now or later, but it -will be a
journey of perhaps a week. There will
be no danger to me, but you will have
to stay here. You could not go with
me. If I am any judge you couldn’t
possibly use your foot for a mountain
journey for at least three weeks, and
by that time we shall be snowed in
as effectually, as If we were within
the arctic circle. But if you will let
me go alone to the settlement 1 can
bring back your uncle, a woman to
keep you company, before the trails
are impassible. Or enough men to
make it practicable to take you
through the canons and down the
trails to your home again. I could not
do that alone even if you were well,
i/ the depth of winter "
The girl shook her head stubbornly.
“A week alone in these mountains
and I should be mad,” she said deci
sively. “It isn’t to be thought of.”
"It must be thought of,” urged the
man. “You don't understand. It is
either that or spend the winter here
with me.”
The woman looked at him steadily.
“And what have I to fear from you?”
she asked.
“Nothing, nothing, as God is my
witness,” protested the other; "but
the world?"
"The world," said the woman reflec
tively. "I don’t mean to say that it
means nothing to me, but it has cause
enough for what it would fain say
now,” She came to her decision swift-
Ily “There is no help for it,” she
k continued, “we are marooned" —she
smiled faintly as she used the old
word of tropic island and southern
sea —"together. You have shown me
that you are a man and a gentleman.
In God and you I put my trust When
my foot gets well, if you can teach me
to walk on snow shoes and it is pos
sible to get through the passes, we
will try to get back; If not, we must
wait."
“The decision is yours,” said the
man, "and yet I feel that I ought to
point out to you how —”.
"I see all that you see,” she inter
rupted. “I know what ds in your
igind. It is entirely clear to me. We
can do nothing else.”
"So be it You need have no appre
hension as to your material comfort;
I have lived in these mountains for a
long time. I am prepared for any
emergency. I pass my time in the
summer getting ready for the winter.
There is a cave, or recess rather, be
hind the house which, as you see, is
built against the rock w|ll, and it is
filled with wood enough to keep us
warm for two or three winters; I have
an ample supply of provision and
clothing for my own needs. You will
rfeed something warmer than that you
wear,” he continued. •
"Have you needle, thread and cloth?”
she asked.
"Everything,” was the prompt an
swer.
"Then I shall not suffer.”
“Are you that wonder of wonders,”
asked the man, smiling lightly, "an
educated woman who knows how to
sew?”
. “It Is a tradition in Philadelphia,”
answered the girl, "that her daughters
should be expert needlewomen."
“Oh, you are'from Philadelphia.”
“Yes, and you?”
She threw the question at him so
deftly and so quickly that she caught
him unaware and off his guard a sec
ond time within the hour.
“Baltimore,” he answered before he
thought, and then bit his lip. He had
determined to vouchsafe her no infor
mation regarding himself, and here she
had surprised him into an admission
in the first blush of their acquaint
ance, and she knew that she had tri
umphed for she smiled in recognition
of it.
She tried another tack.
“Mr. Newbold,” she began at a ven
ture, and as it was five years since be
had heard that name, his surprise at
her knowledge, which after all was
very simple, betrayed him a third
time. "We are like stories I have
read, people who have been cast away
on desert islands and —”
“Yes,” said the man, "but no cast
aways that I have ever read of have
been so bountifully provided with ev
erything necessary to the comfort of
life as we are. 1 told you I lacked
nothing for your material welfare, and
even your mind need not stagnate.”
“I have looked at your books al
ready,” said the woman, answering
his glance.
This was where she had found his
name, he realized.
“You will have this room for your
own use and I will take the other for
mine,” he continued.
“I am loath to dispossess you.”
“1 shall be quite comfortable there,
and this shall be your room exclusive
ly except when you bid rpe enter, as
when I bring you your meals. I shall
hold it inviolate.”
“But,” said the woman, '“there must
be an equal division of labor. I must
do my share.”
"There isn’t much to do in the win
ter except to take care of the burros,
keep up the fire and prepare what we
have to eat."
"I am afraid I should- be unequal to
outdoor work, but in the rest I 1 must
do my part”
He recognized at once that idleness
would be irksome.
"So you shall,” he assented heartily,
“when your foot is well enough to
make you an efficient member of our
little society.”
"Thank you, and now—”
“Is there anything else before 1 get
supper?”
"You think there is no hope of their
searching for me here?”
The man shook his head.
“If James Armstrong had been in
the party,” she said reflectively, "I am
sure he wcjjld never haver-given up.”
“And whois James Armi^qflg, may
I ask?” burst forth the other bluntly.
“Why he—l —he is a friend of my
uncle and an—acquaintance of my
own.”
“Oh,” said the man shortly and
gloomily, as he turned away.
Enid Maitland had been very brave
in his presence, but when he went out
she put her head down on her arms
on the table and cried softly to her
self. Was ever a woman in such a
predicament, thrown into the arms of
a man who had established every con
ceivable claim upon her gratitude,
forced to live with him shut up in a
two-room _ log. cabin upon a lonely
mountain range, surrounded by lofty
and inaccessible peaks, pierced by ter
rific gorges soon to be Impassable
from the snows? She had read many
stories of castaways, from Charles
Reade’s famous “Foul Play” down Jo
more modern instances, but in thße
cases there had always been an island
: .comparatively large over which to
reign- with privacy, seclusion, opportu
nity for withdrawal; bright heavens,
balmy breezes, idyllic conditions.
Here were two uplifted from the earth
upon a sky-piercing mountain. They
would have had more range of action
and more liberty of motion if they
had been upon a derelict in the ocean.
And she realized at the same time
that in all those stories the two cast
aways always loved each other. Would
it be so with them? Was it so? And
again the hot flame within outvied the
tire of the hearth as the blood rushed
to the smooth surface of her cheek
again.
What would her father say if he
could know her position, what would
the world say, and above all what
would Armstrong say. It cannot be
denied that her thoughts were terri
bly and overwhelmingly dismayed,
and yet that despair was not without
a certain relief. No man had ever so
interested her as this one. What was
the mystery of his life, why was be
there, what had he meant when he
had blessed the idle impulse that had
sent her into his arms?
Her heart throbbed again. She lift
ed her face from her hands and dried
her tears, a warm glow stole over iter
and once again not altogether from
the fire. Who and what was this
man? Who was that woman whose
picture he had taken from her? Well,
she would have time to find out. And
meantime the world oiitside could
think and do what It pleased. She
sat staring into the fire light, seeing
pictures there, dreaming dreams. She
was as lovely as an angel to the man
when he came back into the room.
CHAPTER XIV.
The Woman’i Heart.
That upper earth on which they .
lived was covered with a thick blank
et of snow. The lakes and pools were
frozen from shore to shore. The
mountain brooks, if they flowed at all,
ran under thick arches of ice. The
deepest canons were well nigh impas
sible from huge drifts that sometimes
almost rose level with the tops of the
walls. In every sheltered spot great
banks of white were massed. The
spreading branches of the tall pine
trees in the valleys drooped under
heavy burdens of snow. Only here
and there sharp gaunt peaks were
swept clean by the fierce winter
winds and thrust themselves upward
in icy air, naked and bare. The -cold
was polar in its bitter intensity.
The littie shelf or plateau jutting ■
out from the mountain side upon I
which the lonely cabin stood was shel
tered from'the prevailing winds, but J
the house itself was almost covered |
with the drifts. The constant fire
roaring up the huge stone chimney
had melted some of the snow at the
top and it had run down the slanting
roof and formed huge icicles on what
had been the eaves of the house. The
man had cut away the drifts from
doors and windows for light and lib
erty. At first every stormy night
•would fill his laborious clearings with
drifting snow, bpt as it became pack
ed down and frozen solid be was able
to keep his various ways open without
a great •deal of difficulty. A little
work every morning and evening suf
ficed. *
Every day he had to go down the
mountain stairway to the bottom of
the pocket to feed and water the bur
ros. What was a quick and simple
task in milder, warmer seasons some
times took him a half a day under the
present rigorous conditions. And the
woman never saw him start out in
the storm without a sinking heart and
grave apprehension. On his return to
the cabin half frozen, almost spent
and exhausted, she ever welcomed him
with eager gratitude and satisfaction
which would shine in her eyes, throb
in her heart and tremble upon her
lips, control it as she might. And he
thought it was well worth all the trou
ble and hardships of his task to be so
greeted when he came back to her.
Wi.nter had set in . unusually early
and with unprecedented severity. Any
kind of winter in the mountains
would have amazed the girl, but even
the man with his larger experience
declared he had never before known
such sharp and sudden cold, or such
deep and lasting snows. His daily
records had never shown such low
temperatures nor had his observation
ever noted such wild and furious
storms as raged then and there. It
seemed as if Nature were in a con
spiracy to seal up the mountains and
all they contained, to make ingress
and egress alike impossible.
A month had elapsed and Enid's
foot was now quite well. The man
had managed to sew up her boot
where the knife had cut It and al
though the job was a clumsy one the
result was a usable shoe. It is as
tonishing the comfort she took when
she first put it oh and discarded for
good the shapeless woolen stocking
which had covered the clumsy band
age happily no longer necessary. Al
though the torn and bruised member
had healed and she could use it with
care, her foot was still very tender
and capable of sustaining no violent
or long continued strain. Os neces
sity she had been largely confined to
the house, but whenever it had oeen
possible he had wrapped her in his
great bear skin coat and had helped
her out to the edge of the cliff for
a breath of fresh air.
Sometimes he would leave her
there alone, would perhaps have left
her alone there always had she not
imperiously required his company.
Insensibly she had acquired the hab
it —not a difficult one for a woman to
fall into—of taking the lead in the
small affairs of their circumscribed
existence, and he had acquiesced in
her dominance without hesitation or
remonstrance. It was she who or
dered their™ dAily. walk and conversa
tion. Her .wishes were consulted
about everything; to be. sure no great
range of choice was allowed them, of
liberty of action or freedom in the
constraints with which nature bound
them, but whenever there was any
selection she made it.
The man yielded everything for her
and yet he did it without in ai^y- way
derogating from his self-respect or
without surrendering his natural in
dependence. The woman instinctive
ly realized that in any great crisis in
any large matter, the determination
of which would naturally effect their
present or Their future, their happin
ess, welfare life, he would assert him
self, and his assertion would be un
questioned and unquestionable by her.
There was a delightful satisfaction
to the woman in the whole situation.
Shq had a woman's desire to lead in
the smaller things in life, and yet
craved the woman’s consciousness
■that in the great emergencies she
would be led, in the great battles she
would be fought for, in the great dan
gers she would be protected, in the
great perils she would be saved.
There was rest, comfort, joy and satis
faction in these thoughts.
The strength of the man she mas
tered was estimate of her own power
and charm. There was a great, sweet,
voiceless, unconscious flattery in his
deference of which she could not be
unaware.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Thin ice.
"What do you think of my skating
costume?” asked she.
"Incomplete," replied be. "There
ought to be a life preserver worn
j with every skating costume.”
A.- < -- '