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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
neer, 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 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 for Enid, after wklch
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. The
hermit falls in love with Enid.
CHAPTER XIV. (Continued).
Having little else to do, she studied
the man, and she studied him with a
warm desire and an enthusiastic pre
disposition to find the best in him.
She would not have been a human
girl if she had not been thrilled to
the very heart of her by what the
man had done for her. She recognized
that whether he asserted it or not, he
had established an everlasting and
indisputable claim upon her.
The circumstances of their first
meeting, which as the days passed
did not seem quite so horrible to her,
and yet a thought of which would
bring the blood to her cheek still on
the instant, had in some way turned
her over to him. His consideration
of her, his gracious tenderness to
ward her, his absolute abnegation, his
evident overwhelming desire to please
her, to make the anomalous situation
in which they stood to each other
bearable in spite of their lonely and
unobserved intimacy, by an absolute
lack of presumption on his part—all
those things touched her profoundly.
Although she did not recognize the
fact then perhaps, she loved him from
the moment her eyes had opened in
the mist and rain after that awful
battle in the torrent to see him bend
ing over her.
। No sight that had ever met Enid
Maitland’s eyes was so glorious, so
awe inspiring, so uplifting and mag
nificent as the view from the verge
of the cliff in the sunlight of some
bright winter morning. Few women
had ever enjoyed such privileges as
hers. She did not know whether she
liked the winter crowned range best
that way, or whether she preferred
the snowy world, glittering cold in the
moonlight; or even whether it was
more attractive when it was dark and
the peaks and drifts were only light
ed by the stars which shone never so
brightly as just above her head.
When he allowed her she loved to
^.stand sometimes in the full fury of
the gale with the wind shrieking and
sobbing like lost souls in some icy
inferno through the hills and over the
pines, the snow beating upon her, the
sleet cutting her face if she dared to
turn toward the storm. Generally he
left her alone in the quieter moments,
but in the tempest he stood watchful,
on guard by her side, buttressing her,
protecting her, sheltering her. Indeed
his presence then was necessary,
without him she could scarce have
maintained a footing. The force of
the wind might have hurled her down
the mountain but for his strong arm.
When the cold grew too great he led
her back carefully to the hut and the
warm fire.
Ah, yes, life and the world were
both beautiful to her then, in night,
in day, by sunlight, by moonlight, in
calm and storm. Yet it made no dif
ference what was spread before the
woman’s eyes, what glorious picture
was exhibited to her gaze, she could
not look at it more than a moment
Without thinking of the man. With
the most fascinating panorama that
the earth’s surface could spread be
fore human vision to engage ■ her at
tention, she looked into her own
heart and saw there this man!
Oh, she had fought against it at
first, but lately she had luxuriated
in it. She loved him, she loved him!
And why not? What is it that wom
en love in men! Strength of body?
She could remember yet how he had
carried her over the mountains in the
midst of the storm, how she had been
so bravely upborne by his arms to his
heart She realized later what a task
that had been, what a feat of strength.
The uprooting of that sapling and the
overturning of that huge Grizzly were
child’s play to the long portage up
the almost impassable canon and
mountain side which had brought her
to this dear haven.
Was it strength of character she
sought, resolution, determination?
This man had deliberately withdrawn ;
from the world, buried himself in this
mountain, and had stayed there deaf
to the alluring call of man or woman;
he had had the courage to do that. (
Was it strength of mind she ad
mired? Enid Maitland was no mean
judge of the mental powers of her
acquaintance. She was just as full of
life and spirit and the joy of them as
any young woman should be, but she
had not been trained by and thrown
with the best for nothing. Noblesse
oblige! That his was a mind well
stored with knowledge of the most,
varied sort she easily and at once
perceived. Os course the popular
books of the last five years had passed
him by, and of such he knew nothing,
but he could talk intelligently, inter
estingly, entertainingly upon the great
classics. Keats asd_^Shakespeare were
his most thumbed volumes. He had
graduated from Harvard as a civil
engineer with the highest honors of
his class and school and the youngest
man to get his sheepskin! Enid Mait
land herself was a woman of broad
culture and wide reading and she de
liberately set herself to fathom this
man's capabilities. Not infrequently,
much to her surprise, sometimes to
her dismay, but generally to her sat
isfaction, she found that she had no
plummet with which to sound his
greater depths.
Did she seek in him that fine flow
er of good breeding, gentleness and
consideration? Where could she find
these qualities better displayed? She
was absolutely alone with this man,
entirely in his power, shut off from
the world and its interference as ef
fectually as if they had both been
abandoned in an ice floe at the North
Pole or cast away on some lonely is
land in the South Seas, yet she felt
as safe as if she had been in her own
house, or her uncle’s, with every pro
tection that human power could give.
He had never presumed upon the sit
uation in the least degree, he never
once referred to the circumstances
of their meeting in the remotest way,
he never even discussed her rescue
from the flood, he never told her how
he had borne her through the rain to i
gjlo
EUSWWTd
• ' *
She Loved to Stand in the Full Fury of the Gale.
the lonely shelter of the hills, and in
no way did he say anything that the
most keenly scrutinizing mind would
torture into an allusion to the pool
and the bear and the woman. The
fineness of his breeding was never so
well exhibited as in this reticence.
More often than not it Is what he
does not rather than what he does
that indicates the man.
It would be folly to deny that he
never thought of these things. Had
be forgotten them there would be no
merit in his silence; but to remem
ber them and to keep still —aye, that
showed the man! He would close his
eyes in that little room on the other
side of the door and see again the
dark pool, her white shoulders, her
; graceful arms, the lovely face with
its v crown of sunny hair rising above
the rushing water. He had listened
to the roar of the wind through the
j long nights, when she thought him
asleep if she thought of him at all,
and heard again the scream of the
storm that had brought her to his
arms. No snow drop that touched
his cheek when he was abroad but
reminded him of that night in the
cold rain when he had held her close
and carried her on. He could not sit
and mend her boot without remem
bering that white foot before which
he. would fain have prostrated him
self and upon which he would have
pressed passionate kisses if he had
given way to his desires. But he kept
all these things in his heart, pon
dered them' and made no sign.
Did she ask beauty in her lover?
Ah, there at last he failed. Accord
ing to the canons of perfection he
did not measure up to the standard.
His features were irregular, his chin
a trifle too square, his mouth a
thought too firm, his brow wrinkled a
little; but he was good to look at for
he looked strong, he looked clean and
he looked true. There was about
him, too, that stamp of practical ef
ficiency that men who can do things
always have. You looked at him and
you felt sure that what he undertook
that he would accomplish, that de
cision and capability were incarnate
in him.
But after all the things are said
love goes where it is sent, and
I, at least, am not the sender.
This woman loved this man neith
er because nor in spite of these
qualities. That they were might
account for her affection, but if they
had not been, it may be that that af
fection, that that passion, would have
inhabitated her heart still. No one
can say, no one can tell how or why
those things are. She had loved him
while she raged against him and hat
ed him. She did neither the one nor
the other of those' two last things,
now, and she loved him the more.
Mystery is a great mover; there is
nothing so attractive as a problem we
i cannot solve. The very situation of
the man, how he came there, what
he did there, why he remained there,
questions to which she had yet no
answer, stimulated her profoundly.
Because she did not know she ques
tioned in secret; interest was aroused
and the transition to love was easy.
Propinquity, too, is responsible for
many an affection. “The ivy clings
to the first met tree.” Given a man
and woman heart free and throw
them together and let there be decent
kindness on both sides, and it is al
most inevitable that each shall love
the other. Isolate them from the
world, let them see no other compan
ions but the one man and the one
woman, and the result becomes more
inevitable.
Yes. this woman loved .this man
e She said in her heart —and I am
1 not one to dispute her conclusions —
e that she would have loved him had
i he been one among millions to stand
I, before her, and it was true. He was
e the complement of her nature. They
s differed in temperament as much as
1 in complexion, and yet in those dis
t ferences as must always be to make
e perfect love and perfect union, there
b were striking resemblances, necessary
t points of contact.
.There was no reason whatever why
i Enid Maitland should not love this
- man. The only possible check upon
3 her feelings would have been her
1 rather anomalous relation to Arm
t strong, but she reflected that she had
- promised him definitely nothing.
When she had met him she had been
? heart whole, he had made some im
pression upon her fancy and might
3 have made more with greater opportun
. ity, but unfortunately for him, luckily
1 for her, he had not enjoyed that priv-
f villi!lllmHi
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CtOWOMH £vL
The Dark Face of His Wife Rose Before Him.
ilege. She scarcely thought of him
longer.
She would not have been human if
her mind had not dwelt upon the
world beyond the sky-line on the oth
er side of the range. She knew how
those who loved her must be suffering
on account of her disappearance, but
knowing herself safe and realizing
that within a short time, when the
spring came again, she would go back
to them and that their mourning
would be turned into joy by her ar
rival, she could not concern herself
very greatly over their present feel
ings and emotions; and besides, what
would be the use of worrying over
those things? There was metal more
attractive for her thoughts close at
hand. And she was too blissfully
happy to entertain for more than a
moment any sorrow. ,
She pictured often her return and
never by any chance did she think of
going back to civilization alone. The
man she loved would be by her side,
the church’s blessing would make
them one. To do her justice, in the
simplicity and purity of her thoughts
she never once thought of what the
world might say about that long win
ter'sojourn alone with this man. She
was so conscious of her own inno
cence and of his delicate forbearance,
she never once thought bow humanity
would raise its eyes and fairly cry
upon her from the house tops. She
did not realize that were she ever so
pure and so innocent she could not
now or ever reach the high position
which Caesar, who was none too rep
utable himself, would fain have his
wife enjoy!
CHAPTER XV.
The Man’s Heart.
Now, love produces both happiness
and unhappiness, but on the whole I
think the happiness predominates, for
love itself if it be true and high is
its own reward. Love may feei itself
unworthy and may shrink even from
the unlatching of the shoe lace of the
beloved, yet it joys in its own exist
ence nevertheless. Os course its
greatest satisfaction is in the return.
but there is a sweetness even in the
despair of the truly loving.
Enid Maitland, however, did not
have to endure indifference, or fight
against a passion which met with no
response, for this man loved her with
a love that was greater even than
her own. The moon, in the trite aphor
ism, looks on many brooks, the brook
sees no moon but the one above him
in the heavens. In one sense his
merit in winning her affection for him
self from the hundreds of men she
knew, was the greater; in many years
he had only seen this one woman.
Naturally she should be everything to
him. She represented to him not only
the woman but womankind. He had
been a boy practically when he had
buried himself in those mountains,
and in all that time he had seen no
body like Enid Maitland. Every ar
gument which had been exploited to
show why she should love him could
be turned about to account for his
passion for her. They are net necess
ary, they are all supererogatory, idle
words. To him also love had been
born in an hour. It had flashed into
existence as if from the fiat of- the
Divine.
Oh, he had fought against it. Like
the eremites of old he had been
scourged -into the desert by remorse
and z another passion, but time had
done its work. The woman he first
loved had ministered not to the spir
itual side of the man,; or if she had
so ministered in any degree it was be
cause he had looked at her with a
glamour of Inexperience and youth.
During those five years of solitude, of
study and of reflection, the truth had
gradually unrolled itself before him.
Conclusions vastly at variance with
what he had ever believed possible
as to the woman upon whom he had
first bestowed his heart, had got into
his being and were in solution there;
this present woman was the precipitant
which brought them to life. He knew
now what the old appeal of his wife
had been. He knew now what the
new appeal of this woman was.
In humanity two things in life are
inextricably intermingled, body and
soul. Where the function of one be
gins and the function of the other
ends no one is able to say. In ail
human passions are admixtures of
the earth earthy. We are born the
sons of old Adam as we are reborn
the sons of the New. Passions are
complex. As in harvest wheat and
tares grow together until the end, so
in love earth and heaven mingle ever.
He remembered a clause from an an
cient marriage service he had read.
“With my body I thee worship,” and
with every fibre of his physical being,
he loved this woman.
It would be idle to deny that, im
possible to disguise the facts, but in
the melting pot of passion the pre
ponderant ingredient was mental and
spiritual; and just because higher and
holier things predominated, he held
her In his heart a sacred thing. Love
is like a rose: the material part is the
beautiful blossom; the spiritual factor
is the fragrance which abides in the ;
rose jar even after every leaf has fad- i
B ed away, or which may be expressed
from the soft petals by the hard cir
t cumstances of pain and sorrow until
t there is left nothing' but the lingering
3 perfume of the flower.
1 His body trembled if she laid a
i hand upon him, bis soul thirsted for
- her; present or absent he conjured
t before his tortured brain the sweet
i ness that inhabited her breast. He
s had been clearsighted enough in an
- alyzing the past, he was neither clear
i sighted nor coherent in thinking of
s the present. He worshiped her, he
. could have thrown himself upon his
> knees to her; if it would have added
r to her happiness, she could have
I killed him, smiling at her. Rode she
I in the Juggernaut car of the ancient
, idol, with his body, would he have un
- hesitatingly paved the way and have
■ been glad of the privilege. He longed
• to compass her with sweet obser
l servances. The world revenged itself
> upon him for his long neglect, it had
summed up in this one woman all its
charm, its beauty, its romance,' and
had thrust her into his very arms.
■ His was one of those great passions
which illuminate the records of the
past. Paolo had not loved Francesca
more.
Oh, yes, the woman knew he loved
her. It was not in the power of mor
tal man no matter how iron his re
straint, how absolute the imposition
of his will, to keep his heart hidden,
his passion undisclosed. No one could
keep such things secret, his love for
her cried aloud in a thousand ways,
even his look when he dared to turn
his eyes upon her was eloquent of his
feeling. He never said a word, how
ever, he held his lips at least fettered
■ and bound for he believed that honor
and its obligations weighed down the
balance upon the contrary side to
which his inclinations lay.
He was not worthy of this woman.
In the first place all he had to of
fer her was a blood stained hand.
That might have been overcome in
his mind; but pride in his self pun
ishment, his resolution to withdraw
himself from man and woman until
such time as God completed his ex
piation and signified his acceptance of
the penitent by taking away his life,
held him inexorably.
The dark lace of his wife rose be
fore him. He forced himself to think
upon her, she had loved him, she had
given him all that she could. He re
membered how she had pleaded with
him that he take her on that last and
most dangerous of journeys, her devo
tion to him had been so great she
could not let him go out of her sight
a moment, he thought fatuously! And
he killed her. In the queer turmoil of
his brain he blessed himself for every
thing. He could not be false to his
purpose, false to her memory, un
worthy of the passion in which he be
lieved she had held him and which
he believed he had inspired.
If he had gone out in the world,
after her death he might have forgot
ten most' of these things, he might
have lived them down. Saner deal
er views would have' come to him.
His morbid self reproach and self con
sciousness would have been changed.
But he had lived with them alone tor
five years and now there was no put
ting them aside. Honor and pride,
the only things that may successfully
fight against love, overcome him. He
could not give way. He wanted to,
every time he was in her presence he
longed to sweep her to his heart and
crush her in his arms and bend her
head back and press Ups of fire on
her lips.
But honor and pride, held him back.
How long would they continue to ex
ercise dominion over him? Would
the time come when his passion ris
ing like a sea would thunder upon
these artificfal embankments of his
soul, beat them down and sweep them
away?
At first the disparity between their
situations, not so much upon account
of family or of property—the treas
ures of the mountains, hidden since
creation he had discovered and let lie
—but because of the youth and posi
tion of the woman compared to his
own maturer years, his desperate ex
perience, and his social withdrawal
had reinforced his determination to
live and love without a sign. But he *
had long since got beyond this. Had
he been tree he would have taken her
like a viking of old, if he had to pluck
her from amid a thousand swords and
carry her to a beggar's hut which love
would have turned to a palace. And
she would have come with him on the
same conditions.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Name Saved Him.
A man brought before the court in
Biddeford, Me., on a charge o>
vagrancy, when asked by the judge to
give his name, answered, “David Go
home" T^e judge contracted his
brows “Your last name again?" he
asked ’Gohome," was the reply. “All
; r'grt. go ahead.’’ said the judge
i ’That's a ■ new one on me.”