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THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
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Digitized by tlie Internet Arcliive 
 
 in 2010 witli funding from 
 
 University of Nortli Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/initialexperiencOOking 
 
WORKS OF 
 
 Under Fire. Illustrated. Cloth, ;fi.2S. 
 
 The Coi-onkl's Daughter. Illustrated. Cloth, ^1.35. 
 
 Marian's Faith. Illustrated. Cloth, ;gi. 25. 
 
 Captain Blake. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 Foes in Ambush. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 Kitty's Conquest. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Starlight Ranch, and Other Stories. Cloth, ;Ji.oo. 
 
 Laramie; or. The Queen of Bedlam. Cloth, Ji. 00. 
 
 The Deserter, and From The Ranks. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Two Soldiers, and Dunraven Ranch. Cloth, ]Ji 00. 
 
 A Soldier's Secret, and An Army Portia. Cloth, 
 
 $1.00. 
 Waring's Peril. Cloth, ^i.oo. 
 
 Editor of 
 
 Thb Colonel's Christmas Dinner, and Other 
 
 Stories. Cloth, $1.25. 
 An Initial Experience, and Other Stories. Cloth, 
 
 ^i.oo. 
 
 For sale by all Booksellers. 
 J B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
AN 
 
 INITIAL EXPERIENCE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 CAPT. CHARLES KING. 
 
 Philadelphia: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 1895. 
 
Copyright, 1894, 
 
 BY 
 
 J. B. LiPPiNCOTT Company. 
 
 Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PA6B 
 
 An Initial Experience 5 
 
 By Captain Charles King, U. S. Army. 
 
 In the " Never Never Country" 15 
 
 By R. Monckton-Dene, Acting Hospital Steward U. S. 
 Army. 
 
 The Siren of Three-Mile Bend 72 
 
 By R. Monckton-Dene, Acting Hospital Steward U. S. 
 Army. 
 
 The Lost Pine Mine 104 
 
 By Alvin Sydenham,, Lieutenant U. S. Army. 
 
 Private Jones of the Eighth; or, A Military Mesalliance 113 
 By R. Monckton-Dene, Acting Hospital Steward U. S. 
 Army. 
 
 Jack Hilton's Love-Affair 146 
 
 By T. H. Farnham. 
 
 Wauna, the Witch-Maiden 174 
 
 By Alvin Sydenham,, Lieutenant U. S. Army. 
 
 Conyngham Foxe and the Charity Ball 188 
 
 By Alvin Sydenham, Lieutenant U. S. Army. 
 
 The Soldier's Aid Society 207 
 
 By Caroline Frances Little. 
 
 A Pitiful Surrender 215 
 
 By John P. IVisser, First Lieutenant U. S. Army. 
 
 The Story of a Recruit 232 
 
 By D. Robinson, Captain U. S. Army. 
 
 Chronicles of Carter Barracks 241 
 
 By H. W, Closson, Colonel U. S, Army. 
 
 I 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Fifteen years ago there were no soldier stories — so far 
 as the regulars were concerned. War literature was abun- 
 dant : hosts of tales, long and short, good, bad, and indif- 
 ferent, had been told and were in active circulation regarding 
 the volunteers and their stirring service during the four 
 years' struggle ; but of the life and doings of the soldier of 
 the little standing army — either during the days of the Re- 
 bellion or the still more hazardous and trying times on the 
 Indian frontier, the people knew next to nothing. Just why 
 this should have been so, it is hard to say. With such rich 
 mine of experiences to draw upon, with men to paint the 
 scenes who had been both actor and artist in the field, 
 there were still no pictures of our bluecoats on the border. 
 Then, one by one the " professionals" began to take up the 
 pen, and in the columns of military periodicals to tell of 
 scenes and deeds whereof the public had never heard. Soon 
 these began to find their way into framing of their own and 
 be offered in open market, and lo ! the reading public bid for 
 more, and others came, and brush was added to pen, and 
 artists like Remington and Zogbaum illumined the pages of 
 the great weeklies and the magazines with vivid scenes from 
 our life on the plains. And still old soldiers said that better 
 
 3 
 
4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 yarns were spun around the camp fires than found their 
 way into the papers, and young soldiers began to tell them 
 in print. One of these, all too soon, at the outset of what 
 promised to be a brilliant — what was sure to be an honored 
 career, was taken from the ranks to join an immortal host, 
 and one of the last stories from his gifted pen, grouped with 
 these camp-fire talks of older and graver heads, the pub- 
 lisher has chosen from among the many soldier tales now 
 told on every side, and in this little volume commends them, 
 one and all, to the reader. 
 
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Next to his first battle, I know of nothing that more 
 deeply impresses a young soldier than his first night march. 
 Out of the chaos and confusion that followed Bull Run-the- 
 First, came the order, organization, and discipline intro- 
 duced by McClellan. We had had weeks of daily drill and 
 parade in the camps around the Capital. We had seen our 
 brigade swelled into the proportions of a division by the 
 successive addition of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Massa- 
 chusetts, the Seventy-ninth Highlanders of New York, the 
 Second Fire Zouaves, and the Thirty-second Pennsylvania. 
 We were, or thought we were, a rousing big brigade 
 before, and prided ourselves on being the only real Western 
 brigade around Washington ; for, when ordered into camp 
 back of the old Porter mansion on Kalorama Heights, our 
 Second Wisconsin — ragged " veterans" of the first battle — 
 were reinforced by the Fifth and Sixth from our own State, 
 and Sol Meredith's Nineteenth Indiana, all "cram full," 
 as we said, of enthusiastic Westerners, with a Wisconsin 
 West Pointer for our brigadier. The Massachusetts and 
 Pennsylvania men, with the Fire Zouaves, remained with 
 us only until after McClellan' s first review ; but we still had 
 five full regiments when the chilly nights of late August 
 made our sentries' noses and fingers tingle, and I had 
 dropped the drumsticks to go on permanent duty as orderly 
 at brigade head-quarters, a promotion which to any juvenile 
 mind carried with it the rank and more than the emoluments 
 of a volunteer aid, I doubt if ever before the functions of 
 brigade orderly were clothed by the incumbent with greater 
 importance — or ever since. It led me into blunders which, 
 superadded to the bumptiousness of boyhood, came near 
 putting an end to what I honestly believed was the dawning 
 of a brilliant military career ; as, for instance, when I thought 
 the patrol of regulars had no business to try to halt me when 
 
 I* 5 
 
6 AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 I was galloping through Georgetown with despatches for the 
 general-in-chief ; or when, resenting certain chaffing allu- 
 sions by Baldy Smith's Vermonters, at Chain Bridge, to the 
 diminutive size of the Wisconsin orderly, I said opprobrious 
 things to one of their number, whose principles were as 
 fixed as his bayonet, for, all unsuspected, he was a sentry 
 regularly posted as such, and, very properly, wouldn't per- 
 mit in his presence a violation of that particular one of the 
 Army Regulations which provided that all sentries must be 
 treated with respect by all parties whomsoever. He gave 
 me the choice of swallowing my words or that bayonet, and 
 one or the other it would have had to be but for the coming 
 of an officer of the guard, who held that the sentry was the 
 first offender. The Vermonters were armed with the Enfield 
 rifle in those days, and I have hated the sight of the Enfield 
 bayonet ever since. 
 
 These were the few disagreeable features of the duty. Its 
 prides and pleasures were many. It was wonderful, it was 
 thrilling, one lovely evening in the early autumn, to listen 
 to the clicking of the telegraph instrument in the office of 
 the assistant adjutant-general, to watch the eager light on 
 the face of the operator, and the expectant look on those 
 of the officers close at hand, and then to hear the low voice 
 of the general as he read the pencilled despatch directing 
 him to hold his brigade in readiness to march at a moment's 
 notice — no one could say whither. Further telegraphing I 
 there was, to and fro, and intimation that there was no need I 
 of keeping the men in ranks, or even "sleeping on their | 
 arms." In those early days of the war many officials ' 
 thought it necessary to warn commands to be ready at a 
 moment's notice, when an hour's would have been amplyODr 
 sufficient. Perhaps it was necessary, but we Badgers were - ^ 
 eager to move, and didn't think such precaution called for.|M|f»f 
 
 Tattoo sounded as usual. The staff-officers had per- - 
 sonally notified the five regimental commanders, but pretty 
 much everybody turned in for a night's rest, leaving camp 
 to the care of the guards. The belief seemed to be general 
 that marching orders would not come before reveille, if they 
 did then. Even at head-quarters, at the old mansion afore- 
 mentioned, the general and the staff turned in, leaving the 
 operator to doze at his desk, held there by some mysteri- 
 
 m 
 
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 7 
 
 ous "tip," and the orderly to toss and roll, wide-eyed, 
 upon his blankets on the portico without. The long Vene- 
 tian windows stood open to admit the fresh night air ; the 
 sentry paced to and fro in the starlit walk in front ; beyond 
 and beneath him stretched the dim night-lights of Washing- 
 ton, and not a sound but his crunching heel on the gravel 
 broke the solemn stillness, until, all of a sudden, towards 
 twelve o'clock, the instrument and the operator woke up 
 together. As for the orderly, he hadn't been asleep at all. 
 
 I cannot now recall the precise words of that midnight 
 order. It was brief and to the point, however. It directed 
 the brigade to move at once to the support of General W. 
 F. Smith's command then crossing the Chain Bridge up the 
 Potomac, with the object of seizing the heights on the Vir- 
 ginia shore. It must be remembered that at this time the 
 triumphant South had planted her banner on Munson's 
 Hill in full view of the Capitol, and that Southern videttes 
 and pickets lined the Potomac from a point easily in long 
 cannon-shot of the spires of Georgetown. Smith's brigade, 
 which comprised, among others, the Vermonters and the 
 Sixth Maine, had been in camp on the plateau overlooking 
 Chain Bridge from the Maryland shore, and, so we were 
 afterwards told, had frequently suffered alarm and annoy- 
 ance at the hands of the active foe on the opposite bank. 
 The heights were bold, heavily wooded, and commanding. 
 Smith's orders, I presume, were to cross at night, seize and 
 fortify them. Ours were to follow and support. 
 
 I can remember the general's quiet order to his chief of 
 staff, who came hurriedly in from an adjoining room, pencil in 
 mouth, and both arms together working into his blue flannel 
 sack coat. I remember that while there was nothing what- 
 ever in the order to say so, the impression I got was that 
 all rebeldom was headed for the south end of that bridge, 
 and all Wisconsin, Indiana, and Highlanders to boot, in 
 King's Brigade were needed there to beat back the invader. 
 Long before the staff-officers proper could mount and 
 away on their mission, I had bolted out of the back door 
 and through the rear court of the old southern homestead 
 and down the steep slope into the dark depths of the ravine 
 that interposed between head-quarters and the regimental 
 camps, and then went panting up the opposite rise, to meet 
 
8 AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 the challenge of the first sentry, — a boy from my own town 
 and school of years before ; and so eager was he over the 
 glorious news I was so unsoldierly as to tell him, as he recog- 
 nized and let me pass, that he shouted after me through the 
 chill starlight, "Say ! for God's sake get me off post so't 
 I can go too." I ran straight to the colonel's tent, — Cobb, 
 of the Fifth Wisconsin, — and he was napping like a weasel, 
 and out of his bunk before I was out of hearing. "Tell the 
 drum-major to have the long roll sounded, will you?" said 
 he as I sped away to rouse the next command. It couldn't 
 have been two minutes before every drummer in the Fifth 
 was battering away at his sheepskin, while I tore on through 
 the camp of the Sixth and then up the Georgetown road to 
 the more distant post of the Highlanders, the drums of the 
 Second Wisconsin and the Nineteenth Indiana already swell- 
 ing the chorus of their fellows in the Fifth. This was the 
 accepted method of the first days of the war, and was con- 
 sidered very swell and soldierly then, though the system re- 
 mained but a brief time unmodified. I had run nearly half a 
 mile, and had enjoyed every inch of my way, and every 
 atom of my vicarious importance before the first check came. 
 This was at the guarded tent of the new colonel of the stal- 
 wart Seventy-ninth, — grim, gifted, old "Ike" Stevens, he 
 who died so gloriously at Chantilly, with Phil Kearny, a year 
 later. Stevens was new to the brigade, but old to the busi- 
 ness. The Seventy-ninth had lost their colonel at Bull Run 
 and their heads soon after, owing to some misunderstanding 
 among the men as to the terms of their enlistment. There 
 had been temporary deprivation of arms and colors, a court- 
 martial of the ringleaders, a sharp admonition, and then, 
 having learned a valuable lesson, the regiment was ready 
 for serious work again, and an experienced soldier was put 
 at their head by way of preventing their losing it next time; 
 and this new colonel knew not the diminutive orderly pala- 
 vering out there in the dark with a six-foot-two sentry in 
 vain endeavor to persuade him to rouse his chief if the 
 countersign wasn't sufficient to satisfy him the messenger 
 came properly vouched for. What the colonel did know 
 was that no small boy had any right raising such a big row 
 about his tent, and he came out in deep exasperation — and 
 night shirt, — and, despite the distant thunder of the drums in 
 
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 9 
 
 the camps behind, he might have sent the orderly to learn 
 his lesson at the guard tent, had not an aide trotted up at 
 the instant with orders which called for more serious work. 
 I had never met Colonel Stevens before ; I always managed 
 to keep out of his way afterwards, fearful that he might re- 
 member me and resume the pointed remarks he was making 
 when Lieutenant Benkard, late of the New York Seventh, 
 rode in to claim his attention in the nick of time. 
 
 The Second and Fifth were already forming line as we re- 
 turned, the aide gravely admonishing the orderly that it was 
 a case of too much zeal and juvenile enthusiasm on the lat- 
 ter' s part, but I doubt if he cared much. The youngster 
 had enjoyed the unspeakable delight of rousing the brigade 
 for its first night march. 
 
 And what a march it was ! In the dim starlight, through 
 the winding, tree-fringed road, down into the gorge of Rock 
 Creek, then up over the cobblestones through the quaint, 
 old-fashioned streets of Georgetown, with night-capped 
 heads popping from the windows on every side, and low, 
 wondering, awe-stricken comments at the strength and 
 numbers of the command. And then the general led us 
 out upon the Aqueduct road, and there to our left, vague, 
 shadowy, silent, flowed the Potomac, the mist already 
 hovering over its fast-flitting wave. And all ahead was 
 darkness, and all in rear solemn, disciplined silence. Even 
 among those nil admirari scoffers of the Second — they 
 who, having borne the heat and burden of Bull Run, looked 
 down upon their newer comrades who hadn't — there was 
 none of the ribald comment on matters and things in gen- 
 eral, and other fellows' officers in particular, with which they 
 punctuated so many of the periods of their subsequent his- 
 tory. Nobody except at head of column knew just where 
 we were going, and the mile-long procession tramped 
 steadily on through the night, nine men out often — to say 
 nothing of the orderly boy — ready to bet on a battle at 
 dawn. 
 
 We had accompaniments then that were either lost or 
 consolidated in the more practical days that followed. Each 
 regiment had a big band, and one of them a vivandiere, a 
 really gentle and lovable girl who had left her far western 
 home to follow her father to the front and nurse and soothe 
 
lO AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 and cheer the sick and wounded. She was perfecdy simple 
 and earnest about it all. She had as much faith in her 
 value and importance as I had in mine, and was as equally- 
 innocent of the idea that she could ever be very much in 
 the way. She had two suits of uniform and two tents. 
 She marched with the band when it "trooped" along the 
 line at dress parade wearing all her jaunty finery, and sat at 
 the hospital tents and read to the sick, especially one fine- 
 looking, dark-bearded officer, in the more sober but no less 
 effective every-day garb. She occupied one of her two 
 tents, while her "maid," a brawny Irishwoman, occupied 
 the other, and both were pitched under the wing of the 
 surgeon's. And when we started on this march our vivan- 
 diere wanted to go, but our orders were to leave camps, 
 baggage, everything in fact, standing, and her place, said 
 the doctor, was with the sick. Nevertheless, at one of the 
 halts, while a staff-officer explored the dim lane ahead, not 
 knowing which of two evil roads to choose, a rattle of 
 wheels was heard over a stony stretch some distance back, 
 and the titter went round in the ranks of the Second that 
 the Fifth had " sent back for their nurse," which led to the 
 remark on the part of a " B" Company corporal that he 
 could lick the man in the Second who started that lie till 
 six nurses couldn't help him. And then "Attention !" was 
 passed down the column, and arms went up to right 
 shoulder shift again and the fight was declared off until we 
 had settled the business in hand. The orderly heard more 
 or less of this working his way up to the front again after 
 an errand that took him back to little Colonel O'Connor, 
 the new soldier head of the ribald Second, who was to lead 
 them into their next great fight on the historic field near the 
 Warrenton Pike, and go down to his death with such appal- 
 ling percentage of his famous battalion, the regiment that 
 was to win the proud record of having faced the foe so stub- 
 bornly and so often as to stand foremost in the army of the 
 United States — regular and volunteer infantry — in its roll 
 of honor of officers and men killed or mortally wounded 
 in battle. 
 
 Who could picture what was to come as we tramped 
 sturdily on that long September night ? Somewhere up the 
 road, I remember, where all was pitchy darkness, there 
 
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. II 
 
 came a sharp, excited challenge. A sentry belonging to a 
 guard posted over some bridge or field work didn't propose 
 to let that host run over him without knowing who they 
 were, and the whole brigade had to halt until a staff-officer 
 dismounted and went ahead and gave him the countersign, 
 and explained all about it, perhaps ; and then the general 
 said a kindly word to the sentry, complimenting him on his 
 knowledge of sentry duty ; and the sentry, rejoicing, slapped 
 his musket butt and grinned, and said he guessed the boys 
 he trained with was all pretty much up to snuif. And this 
 point being good-humoredly conceded, the column again 
 trudged on. And then another " picket," about a hundred 
 yards ahead, concluded he'd interview us too. And this 
 sort of thing becoming monotonous, the general told old 
 Colonel Cutler, commanding the Sixth Wisconsin, which 
 led the brigade, to send a lieutenant with some men ahead 
 as a sort of avant courier, and my veteran townsman, 
 Herr Schumacher, a gallant German soldier and American 
 citizen, pushed out with a half platoon, and did the inter- 
 viewing, — first man of the Western brigade to reach the 
 Vermont picket at the dim and ghostly bridge, and to lead 
 us into its dark, cavernous mouth ; one of the first of his 
 gallant regiment to win promotion to a major's leaves, and 
 iall, face to the foe, while they were still new and glistening. 
 Behind the statuesque Vermonters a group of anxious 
 women were eagerly questioning. There had been firing 
 across the stream when Smith's advance pushed through. 
 " They say Jim Tennant's shot," was their cry. And, just 
 as the foremost of our staff, following the beautiful gray 
 mare that bore the general, rode out from beneath the 
 wooden roof of the quaint old bridge, there came low sum- 
 mons from the front : " Open out ! Let this party through," 
 and a squad of soldiers, stretcher-bearing, swung silently 
 by, a muffled form writhing in their midst. The Vermont 
 general's guide was the first victim of the night advance. 
 The orderly had across his shoulder a little ' * Volcanic' ' rifle, 
 — the pigmy progenitor of the Winchester of to-day, — a 
 thing that fired a bullet the size of a marrowfat from one 
 end, and singed off your eyebrows at the other owing to 
 some imperfection in the gas-check, a thing he lent to every- 
 body who wanted to try it, secure in the conviction that he 
 
12 AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 wouldn't want it again. But after poor Tennant was borne 
 by, and we pushed on up the rocky sides of Pimet Run, up 
 the winding ascent to the heights where next day the Hues 
 of Forts Ethan Allen and Marcy were staked, the orderly 
 thought he might really have to pull that trigger again. 
 
 Half an hour of stumbling and alternate challenge, halt, 
 and push ahead, and at last we emerged from under the trees 
 into the open starlight again, upon some high ground, 
 where dim, shadowy horsemen were huddled, and long Hues 
 of infantry faded away into darkness at front and flank, and 
 the general in support announced his presence to the general 
 on the spot, and then it became a question what on earth 
 to do with all these men. Far to the east the morning 
 star was shining on the upper fringe of the russet dawn. 
 We had come for all we were worth, expectant of a fight, 
 but the Vermont general was saying to his Wisconsin com- 
 rade that there didn't seem to be enough for both to do, 
 and certainly, by inference, no room for two. He would 
 like to have the support of the new brigade provided places 
 could be found for them to camp, and places, temporary at 
 least, were found for all but the Sixth Wisconsin, which re- 
 traced its steps to the north shore again, and went into camp 
 along what was known as the "Upper Road," some five 
 hundred yards back from the river bank. And here, too, 
 were pitched the tents of the general and staff". And here, 
 for several days, we stayed with nothing beyond an occa- 
 sional "affair of outposts" at the front to excite us, while 
 the powers that were went on with the duty of fortifying 
 those Virginia heights, and then of reinforcing the fortifiers, 
 for more troops began coming, one of the first regiments 
 to arrive being the so-called "California," which was re- 
 cruited East, but credited to the Pacific slope, which was 
 commanded by the President's old-time friend. Colonel 
 (erstwhile Senator) E. D. Baker ; and, by one of those strange 
 freaks of military life, Colonel Baker was ordered to report 
 with his command to Colonel I. I. Stevens, his long-time 
 personal and political opponent, if not open enemy. Mr, 
 Lincoln was quick to hear of and see this, and straightway 
 settled things by promoting Stevens a brigadier and sending 
 him elsewhere. 
 
 All the same, there was only one brigade organized at the 
 
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. I3 
 
 Virginia end of the bridge, and men enough were there for 
 three. It was then that there came to us one whose name 
 was soon on every tongue, — the soldier who was pronounced 
 ' * superb to-day' * at Gettysburg, and who rose to be a 
 model corps commander in the Grand Army of the Union, 
 and to die long years after the war, a ' ' favorite' ' for the 
 Presidency and the acknowledged head of the Military 
 Order of the Loyal Legion. 
 
 And with his coming came one of the proudest days of 
 the orderly's life. It had been storming hard; the mud 
 was deep, the roads were mire, the skies were floods, and I 
 was alone at head-quarters. Our general had gone in to 
 Washington on duty, taking some of the staff with him. The 
 others had gone to visit the camp of the Sixth Wisconsin, 
 and down the ' ' upper road' ' there presently appeared a 
 long column of bedraggled blue infantry. Away from 
 their front came galloping two horsemen, wrapped in rub- 
 ber overcoats and dripping with rain, and these headed 
 straight for our tents, whence even the sentry had been 
 withdrawn. I had seen some of the famous men of the 
 old Army, — Scott, Harney, Sidney Johnston, and C. F. 
 Smith, — superb-looking soldiers when in their prime and 
 long after, but the leader of these two was mate for the best 
 of them. He rode admirably and with the seat even then 
 I knew to be West Point, and he rode straight to our tent, 
 and reined up as the youngster in Zouave rig rose and 
 saluted him. 
 
 His first inquiry was for the general, and was told he was 
 gone to Washington. * ' Any of the staff here ?' ' was the 
 next, and, in all the valorous importance of sixteen years and 
 five feet nothing, the orderly answered, "Yes, sir, — I am ;" 
 and the handsome rider was too much of a gentleman to 
 laugh, though his lips twitched under his brown moustache. 
 ' ' Well, I was told to apply here for a guide to General 
 Smith's position across the river," said he, as though 
 doubtful now of getting one, and he looked pleased when 
 the youngster said, "All right, sir; I'll go with you at 
 once," led out his own horse, mounted, and pointed to a 
 pathway across the storm-swept plateau where the Sibley 
 tents of the Sixth Maine were still standing. "If you'll 
 turn the head of column off there, sir, we can save a mile. 
 
14 AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 The wagons'U have to follow round by the road," said he, 
 and the tall officer sent an order accordingly. Presently 
 he and his guide were riding side by side in the lead of the 
 long, light-blue snake that came curving and crawling after 
 them over the miry way, — two big, brand-new regiments of 
 Pennsylvanians. Down the steep ramp at the brow of the 
 bluff went the oddly matched pair, the few staff-officers 
 following, the leading regiment close behind, and every 
 now and then the tall general turned and took a curious 
 look at the orderly, and presently began asking questions 
 as to how he came to be in service at so early an age, where 
 he was from, etc. One question led to another, the general 
 finally flattering the boy with the statement that, in his 
 opinion, he was cut out for a soldier and ought to go to West 
 Point, — and that was and had been for years the dearest 
 wish of the youngster's heart; he was even then impor- 
 tuning the great War President to promise him one of the 
 next ten appointments "at large," and this the tall, hand- 
 some general said he was glad to hear. They had threaded 
 their way through the Virginia woods by this time, and 
 were close to General Smith's head-quarters, and there, be- 
 fore reporting his arrival, did the newcomer turn and offer 
 his gauntleted hand to the little fellow, and thank him for 
 the service rendered, and say, " Now, my lad, I shan't for- 
 get you or the talk we've had. Perhaps I can help you 
 some day in getting what you want, and if I can you let 
 me know. My name's Hancock." 
 
 And in less than two years after, the same tall soldier, a 
 national hero by that time, famous for his services on every 
 field where fought the Army of the Potomac, doubly famous 
 for Gettysburg, from whose wounds he was just recuper- 
 ating, rose stiffly and slowly from the sofa where he sat, sur- 
 rounded by a throng of admiring men and women, in the 
 parlor of Cozzens' Hotel, to welcome a small-sized cadet 
 who, in the glory of his first pair of chevrons, had come 
 somewhat timidly to pay his respects, and he took the 
 youngster by the hand, and introduced him to the assem- 
 bled party as "My young veteran, — my guide the first 
 time I crossed the Potomac at the head of my brigade." 
 And small wonder was it that the "young veteran" well- 
 nigh worshipped Hancock from that time on. 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY."* 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE KIMBERLEY GOLD-FIELDS. 
 
 The blazing sun of the tropics pours down nis fierce 
 rays on the arid region that hes between the upper waters 
 of the Fitzroy and Ord Rivers, in the Kimberley district 
 of Northwestern AustraUa, and the barren, treeless waste 
 quivers in a haze of furnace-like heat. 
 
 Strewn about the sandy plain are huge jagged-edged 
 granitic boulders, remnants of a mighty mountain of stone 
 riven into ten thousand fantastic fragments by some terrific 
 convulsion of Nature in prehistoric times. 
 
 The monotonous sienna tint of the landscape fades into 
 the shimmering purple of immeasurable distance, unrelieved 
 by a vestige of vegetation, save where a few parched leaves 
 still cling to the living limb of a solitary lightning-stricken 
 
 * The "Never Never Country" is a bush term applied to all that 
 practically unknown portion of Australia lying beyond the confines of 
 the remotest settlements. It obtained its curious name from an old 
 bush song, writh the frequent and suggestive refrain, — 
 
 " If you once get there, 
 You'll never come back, never come back," — 
 
 the truth of which has been but too often verified. 
 
 The " Never Never Country" has always been a land of promise to 
 the venturous pioneer spirits of Australia, who still seek to find new El 
 Dorados within its trackless solitudes, and the bones of many a fearless 
 bushman lie bleaching on its desert wastes. In my early youth the 
 whole of the northern portion of Australia west of the one hundred and 
 forty-fifth meridian was known as the " Never Never Country" and was 
 thought to be a hopeless desert. Now the foot-falls of the white man 
 echo along the border of the Northern Territory from the Gulf of Car- 
 pentaria to the boundary of South Australia, and the "Never Never 
 Country" will soon become nothing but a legend of the bush. It is at 
 present limited to the unknown districts of Western Australia and the 
 Northern Territory. 
 
 15 
 
1 6 IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 
 
 gum that rears its gaunt and withered arms to the sky, as 
 if in supplication for deUverance from such a scene of 
 hideous desolation. 
 
 The eye searches in vain for some sign of life ; no living 
 thing is to be seen ; a tomb-like silence broods over the 
 illimitable expanse. It is only when the sun goes down 
 that Nature awakes from her noontide torpor ; then the 
 bush resounds with the varied noises of an exuberant life. 
 In the pale glimmer of the moonlight the great jagged- 
 edged boulders of the plain assume weird and ghostly 
 gnome-like shapes seemingly instinct with life and motion ; 
 noxious creeping things crawl forth from noisome nooks ; 
 huge bats — noiseless winged phantoms of the night — flit to 
 and fro in the spectral shadows of the rocks ; mysterious 
 sounds echo in the vast profound of the desert, and at 
 times the long-drawn melancholy cry of some night-bird 
 quavers down the passing breeze like the wail of a lost 
 spirit condemned to haunt the frightful solitudes of the 
 place. 
 
 Far away to the southward the dead level of the plain is 
 broken by a range of lofty hills. To these we must journey 
 to find the scene of our story. 
 
 Imagine a gigantic winding fissure some three miles in 
 length by a furlong in width running through the heart of 
 the mountains. One side of the canon-like cleft is a sheer 
 smooth wall of dark bluish -gray stone a thousand feet in 
 height, washed at its base by a small creek of clear cold 
 water, in whose limpid bosom the frowning face of the 
 mighty precipice is mirrored. 
 
 The other side is but half the height of the first, and 
 rises from the sandy bed in a succession of plateaus or ter- 
 races broken in continuity by enormous rents and chasms 
 yawning darkly in the face of the rock, while at the sharp 
 projecting corners, in the sinuosities of the gorge, great 
 pinnacled points of craggy beetling cliffs and curiously 
 smooth dome-shaped masses of rock, clothed in varying 
 hues of sombre gray, are outlined in fantastic contour 
 against the sky. 
 
 Throughout unnumbered ages this savage gorge had 
 echoed only to the gibbering cachinnations of the laughing 
 jackass as he flew from crag to crag in the rocky defile, but 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. I7 
 
 now its hollow abysses resound with the hum of human 
 voices, and the metallic clang of the pick, the rattle and 
 click of the sifting-cradle and the washing-dish daily 
 reverberate within its cavernous depths. 
 
 Two years ago five bold prospectors pushing southward 
 from the gold-fields of the Kimberley, under the leadership 
 of one Henry Harte, penetrated the frightful desert that 
 guards the approach to the mountains from the north and 
 discovered that the red sands of the gorge contained gold. 
 They thought they were the first to search for the treasures 
 hidden in these lonely mountains, until in a sheltered angle 
 of the canon they found a human skeleton. The body that 
 once contained these whitening bones had long since crum- 
 bled into the primal dust ; only the more durable portions 
 of its clothing had survived the ravages of time. The 
 fleshless tibiae were still encased in a stout pair of miner's 
 boots, and a cabbage-palm hat sat rakishly on the smooth 
 and polished dome of the skull, giving to the grewsome 
 thing an appearance that was hideously grotesque. Close 
 by, half buried in the debris, lay a miner's pick, a tin quart 
 pot, transformed into a sieve by numerous rust-worn holes, 
 and other articles of a prospector's outfit. Near the skele- 
 ton's right hand a time-worn leathern pouch, such as miners 
 usually carry on their belts, lay rotting in the sand, and 
 from its bursting seams a golden stream of yellow dust had 
 poured out upon the ground. For this yellow dust the 
 unknown, whose bones lay bleaching in the glare of the 
 blazing tropic days, had braved the dangers of the desert ; 
 to gather this shining heap of gold he had dwelt months in 
 the silent heart of the mountains, and, having gathered it, 
 had lain down to die in the dread solitudes of that stu- 
 pendous chasm — alone. When this discovery of gold first 
 became known many adventurous spirits from the Kimberley 
 crossed the burning northern plains and pitched their tents 
 in the great winding gorge of the mountains. A year went 
 by and the yield of gold not only surpassed the expecta- 
 tions of the most sanguine among them, but satisfied even 
 those gray and grizzled individuals who remembered the 
 golden days of Gympie* and the Palmer,* and, in their 
 
 * Rich gold-fields of Queensland. 
 b a* 
 
l8 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 boasts of a time when nuggets were as plentiful as stones 
 in the creeks, were wont to disparage all subsequent 
 discoveries. 
 
 At the end of another year a thousand eager treasure- 
 seekers were washing the golden sands of the gorge. Their 
 numbers daily increased, for the way to the camp no longer 
 lay across the forbidding northern desert. 
 
 On the other side of the mountains the country to the 
 westward, watered by the tributaries of the Fitzroy, was 
 found to be of a more inviting nature, and through it com- 
 munication had been opened up with the western coast, 
 some two hundred and fifty miles away. A coach ran 
 monthly between a newly-established port and a point one 
 hundred and fifty miles distant from the camp, and teams 
 of pack-mules might occasionally be seen winding along 
 the sinuous course of the Fitzroy, laden with supplies for 
 the field. 
 
 Midway between the mountains and the coast a small 
 stream meandered through the plain on its way to the 
 river. This stream an American miner, with reminiscent 
 patriotism, had sought to call Hail Columbia Springs, but 
 among the prosaic Australians, on whom this poetic flight 
 of transatlantic fancy was lost, it was more generally known 
 as Damper Creek. 
 
 One Silas Barham, a squatter from the Murchison, had 
 bought a block of grass country on the westward side of 
 Damper Creek, and from his station supplies of beef were 
 drawn for the camp in the mountains. 
 
 In the early days of the " rush" the gorge was known as 
 Skeleton Gulch, a name suggested by one of the incidents 
 connected with its discovery. For this name that of Dirty 
 Mary's Gully had been substituted, — no one knew exactly 
 when or by whom, for men were too busy in those days 
 staking out claims and washing rich patches of "dirt" to 
 take heed of such minor occurrences as a change in the 
 name of the camp. But when the first feverish excitement 
 had subsided they began to ask each other who Dirty Mary 
 was, but no one seemed to know. Surmises as to her iden- 
 tity were frequent, but unsatisfactory, for in spite of much 
 conjecture and inquiry on the part of divers individuals 
 curious to learn how an uncleanly female of the name of 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY. IQ 
 
 Mary came to be associated with the gully in a proprietary 
 sense, her personality remained shrouded in impenetrable 
 mystery. 
 
 A facetious miner once stated his belief that her name 
 must have been Harris, and while the allusion was lost on 
 most of the inhabitants of the Gully, not a few of them 
 unconsciously gave additional point to the witticism by 
 freely expressing their doubt of her personal entity in the 
 emphatic words of the fiery Betsy Prig. Like that sceptical 
 lady, " they didn't believe there never was no such a per- 
 son.' But, notwithstanding this general conclusion, no 
 one ventured to change the name of the camp, and as 
 Dirty Mary's Gully it continued to be known. 
 
 The camp was divided into two parts, known as the 
 upper and lower camp. The earlier arrivals had taken 
 possession of such of the plateaus on the side of the ter- 
 raced wall of the gorge as were accessible, and groups of 
 tents were dotted here and there, at various altitudes, on 
 the face of the rock. But the lower camp lay in the bed of 
 the gorge. It consisted of a cluster of tents and ' ' hum- 
 pies"* pitched in a wide sweeping curve of the canon, — 
 a sort of huge natural amphitheatre, — and was flanked on 
 either side by a vigorous growth of scrub that fringed the 
 circular base of the cliff. Sloping gently downward from 
 this belt of scrub to the creek at the foot of the opposite 
 wall was a wide stretch of gravelly sand, and in this sand — 
 the deposit of ages — the gold was found. 
 
 In no other spot in the world can such a heterogeneous 
 assemblage of humanity be found as in a mining-camp. 
 This was especially true of Dirty Mary's Gully, for repre- 
 sentatives of almost every nationality, color, language, and 
 creed under the sun had found their way thither, the only 
 thing in common between them being the universal thirst 
 for gold. 
 
 Tall, gaunt stockmen from the distant plains of New 
 South Wales, sallow Victorians from the mining districts of 
 Ballarat, bronzed Queenslanders from the Barcoo and the 
 Warrego, and sturdy colonists from New Zealand's humid 
 shores fraternized with their ruddier cousins from the three 
 
 * A humpy is a small hut built of sheets of bark. 
 
20 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 kingdoms. Chattering Chinamen from Hong-Kong, and 
 swarthy Malays from the Straits Settlements worked side 
 by side with Portuguese half-breeds from Timor and dusky 
 Hindoos from the jungles of Bengal. One caught the rich 
 brogue of the Emerald Isle mingling with the jargon of 
 Cathay, and the accent of London and the dialect of old 
 Scotia were heard amid the gabble of Malaysia. Uncouth 
 bushmen from the back blocks, who could neither read 
 nor write, conversed affably with men of university edu- 
 cation ; liberty, equality, and fraternity reigned supreme ; 
 there were no social distinctions, no caste ; mere intel- 
 lectual superiority counted for nothing, and a man's only 
 claim to consideration was based upon the value of his 
 claim. 
 
 And what strange stories of vicissitude, could they be but 
 known, were the lives of many of the characters in that 
 motley throng ! There was old Dan Creel, — usually known 
 as ' ' the Professor, " — a man of some fifty years of age, whose 
 wrinkled face and thin gray locks gave him an appearance 
 of much greater age, — a tall, spare man with smooth- 
 shaven, hollow cheeks, sharp, hooked nose, and pale, 
 emotionless countenance, lighted by two dull, deep-set 
 eyes that gave no token of the prodigious learning they 
 had gleaned in God knows how many years of patient 
 study, for "the Professor," albeit but a humble miner, was 
 a profound scholar. The languages of Horace and Euripi- 
 des were to him as his mother tongue ; of Arabic, Hebrew, 
 and Sanskrit he knew more than many a modern professor 
 in the universities ; he was familiar with the stately tongues 
 of Cervantes and of Dante ; he argued with Von Wedern 
 the German and De Remy the Frenchman in their own 
 vernacular, and talked with Naa Dee the Malay, Ganerjee 
 Dass the Hindoo, and Ah Chin the Chinaman in the dia- 
 lects of their respective countries. Indeed there hardly 
 seemed to be a language he had not learned, or a branch 
 of study upon which he had not pored. 
 
 What strange circumstances had driven this gifted and 
 prematurely-aged man to earn his bread by the sweat of 
 his brow in the heart of that desolate waste? Whatever 
 the secret it was well guarded : on the subject of his past 
 history ' ' the Professor' ' was as silent as the grave. 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 21 
 
 There was Von Wedern the German, — an exile from 
 the Fatherland, — a stout, somewhat heavy-looking, good- 
 natured, yellow-haired, blue-eyed young Teuton, whose 
 appearance at once suggested the roystering student of 
 Heidelberg or Bonn. His forte was music, and he played 
 Beethoven's sublime sonatas, with the manner of a virtuoso, 
 upon an old violin of exquisite ti?iibre which he guarded as 
 tenderly as though it were a thing of life and feeling. He 
 was the chosen friend of " the Professor," and many even- 
 ings after the day's work was done the two might be seen 
 outside their tent indulging in a friendly game of chess, of 
 which noble pastime, as of everything else, " the Professor" 
 was a master. 
 
 There was Lyndon the Englishman, — one of the five 
 pioneers of the field, the younger son of an ancient and 
 noble house, — a man of many accomplishments and re- 
 markable personal beauty, who had flung away opportu- 
 nities, talents, and money in the vortex of London dissipa- 
 tion, and now wooed the fickle goddess Fortune in these 
 distant Australian wilds. 
 
 There was his friend Harte the Queenslander, a man of 
 gigantic stature, keen of eye, fierce of aspect, and mous- 
 tached like an Austrian Magyar, — a veritable child of na- 
 ture, familiar with every sight and sound of the trackless 
 bush, whose life was one continuous record of adventurous 
 daring. Under his guidance the field had been discovered, 
 and this circumstance, together with his well-known repu- 
 tation, made him the most prominent man in the Gully, 
 Between this fearless and untutored bushman and the ac- 
 complished Lyndon ties of the closest intimacy existed ; 
 they had been through many a perilous adventure together, 
 and their friendship was as that of David and Jonathan. 
 
 There was Le Harne the doctor, a sad illustration of the 
 moral ruin wrought by drink. He had graduated with 
 highest honors in the medical schools of England, and no 
 man came to the colonies to enter upon the duties of an 
 honorable profession with brighter prospects than he. But 
 the demon of drink had taken possession of him com- 
 pletely ; he lived for nothing but brandy. At times he 
 remained in a drunken stupor for days together, and in the 
 intervals between these orgies he was generally in a maudlin 
 
22 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 State of semi-intoxication. He, however, was universally 
 liked by the rough miners, who appreciated his undoubted 
 talent, for had he not cut off the gangrenous hand and so 
 saved the life of Bristol Bill the packer? Had he not 
 pulled many of them through stiff "bouts" of the fever 
 and ague? Had he not, drunk or sober, satisfactorily 
 officiated at several interesting events in the lower camp 
 which resulted in an increase in the population of the 
 Gully? 
 
 Moreover, excessive drinking was a virtue rather than a 
 vice in the moral code of Dirty Mary's Gully, the capacity 
 to dispose of unlimited quantities of "tanglefoot" — the 
 generic term for drink of all kinds — being regarded as an 
 enviable distinction. An omission to respond to a "shout" 
 would have been looked upon as an insult to the commu- 
 nity, for the lex non scripta of the Gully required a man to 
 drink when invited whether he wanted to or not. It is but 
 just to state, parenthetically, that there is no instance on 
 record of any inhabitant of the Gully ever being called 
 upon to resent an insult of this description. There were 
 numbers of those curious types of humanity only to be 
 found in the diggings whose lives are spent in wandering 
 from field to field in pursuit of the phantom Fortune that 
 but few, alas ! overtake. Among these there was Twenty- 
 Two- Year-Old-Scotty, — no one had ever known him by 
 any other name, — whose chief claim to notoriety lay in the 
 fact that at the age of twenty-two he had found a " claim" 
 called the Golden Bar, out of which in one day he took 
 four thousand pounds' worth of gold. Poor devil ! his 
 suddenly acquired wealth had only purchased him a brief 
 debauch. He was now a grizzled veteran of fifty, but the 
 name Twenty-Two- Year-Old-Scotty, given to him in com- 
 memoration of his youthful find, had clung to him through 
 a life of varying luck in many widely distant fields. His 
 chosen companion was an individual called Blue Peter, a 
 weather-beaten bushman with a thick stubbly beard of such 
 exuberant growth that nothing could be seen of his face 
 save the nose and two keen blue eyes twinkling humorously 
 beneath a pair of bristling eyebrows of the dimensions of 
 ordinary moustachios. He had earned his strange sobri- 
 quet by the frequent use of adjectival phrases of singular 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 23 
 
 construction and of such extremely lurid significance that 
 whenever he spoke the atmosphere in his vicinity was 
 popularly supposed to become impregnated with a sulphury 
 odor and to acquire a cerulean hue. Be that as it may, 
 his conversation was so interlarded with startling profanity 
 and curious expletives that it made amends in originality 
 for what it lacked in elegance. These two men with Bris- 
 tol Bill the packer were the other three pioneers of the 
 field. 
 
 But perhaps the most interesting personage in the camp 
 — at least to the male portion of the population — was Helen 
 Compton, a young woman some twenty-six or twenty-seven 
 years of age, who presided at the bar of the "Golden 
 Dawn' ' and ministered to the numerous wants of the thirsty 
 patrons of that pretentious establishment. A woman of 
 refined and cultured intelligence, of stately presence and 
 regal beauty, she had nothing in common with the coarser 
 female element of the Gully, whose morals — let us be 
 euphemistic if we 7nust be truthful — were not beyond re- 
 proach. Gifted with every charm of mind and person, it 
 was evident that at some period in her life she had moved 
 in polished circles, and one wondered how her lot came to 
 be cast amid these rude surroundings and semi-savage asso- 
 ciations. Her pale, clear-cut features wore a look of patient 
 resignation, but at times when the statuesque face was in 
 repose, a shadow of utter weariness, an expression of pas- 
 sionate yearning, came into her magnificent dark eyes, in 
 the slumberous depths of which lurked the fire of a proud 
 and passionate nature. She was idolized by the rough 
 miners, to whom her beauty was a revelation ; she was 
 their ideal, their divinity, and in the evenings when the 
 day's toil was done, the bar filled with bronzed and bearded 
 men, clean and fresh from a vigorous application of soap 
 and water, who sought with uncouth gallantries and all the 
 curious arts of bush coxcombry to find favor in the sight 
 of their stately Hebe. 
 
 But there was only one for whose coming she looked, 
 — one whose handsome face, graceful bearing, and fasci- 
 nating charm of manner had ever made him a favorite with 
 women, — Lyndon the Englishman. He and his friend 
 Harte spent their evenings in the " Golden Dawn," where 
 
24 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 games of euchre, poker, loo, and such Hke amusements — 
 often for very large stakes — were nightly in progress. 
 
 In the early days of their acquaintance, Lyndon was wont 
 to stay for a few moments to chat with her, ere he and 
 Harte left for their common quarters higher up the cliff. 
 These nightly conversations imperceptibly lengthened, until 
 at last Lyndon dropped out of the card-playing clique alto- 
 gether, and spent the whole evening in Helen's society. 
 
 II. 
 
 The "Golden Dawn" was quite a chef d' ceuvre of bush 
 architecture. Built of roughly-planed boards, with a high- 
 pitched overhanging roof of red bark, and picturesquely 
 placed on a jutting plateau of rock in the sloping face of 
 the cliff, it made a most imposing appearance among the 
 scattered tents and "humpies" in the upper camp. Van 
 Steen, the proprietor, a wheezy little Dutchman, kept a 
 supply of miscellaneous goods in a large room at one end, 
 which he called "the store." At the other end, divided 
 from the store by a number of living-rooms, was the bar, 
 which was supposed to be under the immediate supervision 
 of Mrs. Van Steen ; but as that good lady was fat and lazy, 
 and spent the greater portion of her time in bed, Helen had 
 practically sole charge of it. In her hands it had been 
 made to assume quite a cheerful and inviting aspect. The 
 floor was always kept freshly sanded ; the tables, if rough, 
 were always clean, and the bark partitions were adorned by 
 several neatly-framed drawings and sepia sketches of bush 
 life, the work of Lyndon's facile pen. There was an air of 
 rude comfort about it which the rough miners, accustomed 
 only to the asperities of bush existence, gratefully ap- 
 preciated. Moreover, it seemed to them that ' ' shandy- 
 gaffs" and "rum punches" acquired a subtler flavor when 
 mixed by the deft fingers of the stately Helen than those 
 dispensed in the reeking bar of the "Welcome Nugget," 
 the rival hotel in the lower camp, where uncleanliness, to 
 say nothing of ungodliness, reigned supreme. The ' ' Wei- 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 25 
 
 come Nugget' ' was the resort of the worst element of the 
 Gully, both male and female, and its interior was nightly 
 the scene of Bacchanalian orgies that rang out upon the 
 still air in echoing bursts of revelry hideously discordant. 
 This vile place was owned by a repulsive-looking ruffian 
 named Ricardo, whom the miners with satiric irony had 
 dubbed "Pretty Dick." He was a half-breed from the 
 Philippines, — a powerful, well-knit, muscular fellow, lithe 
 and active as a panther, but hideous in the extreme as to 
 his facial aspect. 
 
 He had suffered severely from "sandy blight"* in the 
 Gulf Country, and the lower lids of his glazed and blood- 
 shot eyes hung down upon his cheeks in pendulous folds, — 
 red, inflamed, and rheumy. His countenance, frightfully 
 pitted with small-pox, was further disfigured by a huge cica- 
 trix extending from scalp to chin. This dreadful wound, in 
 healing, had drawn the angle of his mouth up into the 
 centre of his cheek, imparting to his face a perpetual leer, 
 — a fixed and ghastly grin that was absolutely diabolical in 
 its expression. 
 
 This ruffian's moral nature was in fitting conformity with 
 his repulsive exterior. He possessed to a marked degree 
 all the cowardly, crafty, and vindictive qualities that dis- 
 tinguish his mongrel race. Moreover, rumor connected 
 his name with many an inhuman crime, a circumstance 
 which appeared to enhance his reputation in the eyes of the 
 rowdy element that frequented his resort. And this dis- 
 torted image of humanity had, in common with the rest of 
 the camp, fallen beneath the spell of Helen Compton's 
 beauty. Her calm, stately presence stirred his black soul 
 to its deepest depths and fired his gross and sensual nature 
 with an all-consuming passion. Night after night he turned 
 the care of the "Welcome Nugget" over to Stumpy 
 Tom, his partner, and sought the bar of the "Golden 
 Dawn," where he would sit for hours with his bloodshot 
 eyes fixed upon Helen's every movement, grinding his 
 yellow teeth in silent rage and jealousy at every smile she 
 bestowed upon the handsome Englishman. 
 
 Helen soon saw that she was the object of this man's 
 
 * An affection of the eyes common on the sandy plains of Australia. 
 B 3 
 
26 IN THE "never NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 regard, and the discovery filled her with an indescribable 
 sense of loathing and disgust. 
 
 One evening he entered the bar at an early hour, and 
 Helen was seated there alone. He had been drinking 
 slightly, and this stimulus emboldened him to take advan- 
 tage of the opportunity to urge his foul suit. His beady eyes 
 glittered, and his whole frame shook with ill-suppressed ex- 
 citement, as he offered her all his wealth. He knew that was 
 the only argument in his favor, and he dwelt upon it. 
 
 He was rich, and had shares in many of the best claims 
 in the Gully. His men had struck a vein of quartz in his 
 new claim, the Morning Star, which promised to yield 
 thousands. She should have all, — claims, shares, money, 
 everything. She should live in Melbourne or Sydney like 
 a princess, if she would only be his wife. Helen was 
 startled at the man's intense earnestness. She heard him 
 throughout with paling cheek, and then told him plainly and 
 calmly that she could not be his wife. This refusal only 
 added fuel to his unreasoning passion. Intoxicated with 
 her beauty and robbed of discretion by the drink he had 
 taken, he seized her by the wrist and waist and, regardless 
 of rapidly-approaching footsteps, bent down and would 
 have pressed his loathsome lips to hers, when two tall 
 figures — Harte and Lyndon — loomed in the door-way, and 
 in another instant the ruffian was stricken to the earth by the 
 Englishman's stout arm. 
 
 From that day forth the half-breed came to the bar of 
 the "Golden Dawn" no more, a wholesome piece of dis- 
 cretion on his part, in view of Harte' s threat to shoot him 
 on sight if he ever ventured within pistol-shot of the place 
 again. But in his heart he vowed to be revenged for the 
 blow he had received, and whenever he passed Lyndon his 
 eyes gleamed with an expression of concentrated hate that 
 boded ill for the handsome miner, who returned the venge- 
 ful glance with a contemptuous smile. 
 
 Now, old Van Steen, the Dutchman, owned shares in 
 several good claims, and as the store occupied most of 
 his attention during the day, he took Blue Peter — who had 
 shares in the same claims — into partnership, to look after 
 the mining interests. Blue Peter, having been duly installed 
 as a member of the firm, at once assumed a fatherly interest 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 27 
 
 in Helen, for whom he had always entertained a most 
 respectful admiration. 
 
 "It ain't right," he remarked to old Van Steen, with 
 much profane emphasis, "it ain't right to keep that poor 
 
 gal hard at it all the day and then expect her to wait 
 
 on us fellers all the night. So if so be, part- 
 ner, as you ain't got no objections, I'll take her place o' 
 nights once in a while behind the bar and give her a breathin' 
 spell." Old Van Steen offering no objection, it was agreed 
 that Blue Peter should take Helen's place every other night. 
 There was a prevailing impression that Blue Peter's solici- 
 tude on Helen's behalf was not wholly disinterested, for it 
 was observed that upon taking charge of the bar he imme- 
 diately appropriated to his own use a bottle of exceedingly 
 fiery whiskey, from which he imbibed copious draughts at 
 frequent intervals with an air of such deep abstraction that 
 he quite forgot to debit the cost to his personal account on 
 the slate at the back of the door, whereon he kept a hiero- 
 glyphic record of the bibulous propensities of such of his 
 patrons as obtained their liquor on credit. 
 
 The arrangement with Blue Peter enabled Helen to spend 
 many delightful evenings in Lyndon's company. Her life 
 in this remote mining- camp was a peculiarly solitary one. 
 
 The otiose Mrs. Van Steen was the only one of her own 
 sex with whom she could associate, for although there were 
 a number of women in the lower camp who, as a sort of 
 placebo to public sentiment, were spoken of as the wives 
 of the men with whom they lived, their matrimonial ties were 
 apparently of a very temporary nature, as it was no unusual 
 thing — though at times somewhat confusing to the "new 
 chum"* unacquainted with the prevaiHng laxity of morals 
 in Dirty Mary's Gully — to find a female known as " Mrs." 
 This on Monday figuring as "Mrs." That on the follow- 
 ing Saturday. It was therefore but natural that, amid these 
 rude surroundings, Helen should yearn for congenial com- 
 panionship. From the first she had felt drawn towards 
 Lyndon, whose manner and bearing had at once stamped 
 him as superior to the uncouth bushmen with whom she 
 
 * The term " new chum" is synonymous with the expression " tender- 
 foot" in the Western States. 
 
128 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 was daily brought in contact. It is true " the Professor," 
 Von Wedern the German, and De Reniy the Frenchman 
 were men of undoubted breeding and education ; but beyond 
 a passing compliment when they took a drink, they said 
 but little to her ; all their spare moments were given up to 
 the fascinations of euchre and loo. But Lyndon had always 
 had a weakness for the society of women, since the palmy 
 days of his existence in London drawing-rooms, when he 
 had been the bHe noire of numberless fond mammas whose 
 marriageable daughters, notwithstanding a judicious train- 
 ing in worldly principles, somehow would persist in falling 
 hopelessly in love with the accomplished, but spendthrift, 
 younger son. He was powerfully attracted by the grace 
 and beauty of this singular woman, — more, perhaps, than 
 he cared to admit. There was an indefinable air of pathos 
 in her every look and action, apart from the element of 
 mystery surrounding the presence in a mining-camp of a 
 woman of her gentle nurture and cultivated mind, that 
 deepened the interest he took in her, and he welcomed the 
 respite from interminable discussions of values of claims 
 and newly-found nuggets — the universal topic of conversa- 
 tion in the Gully — which these pleasant evenings in her 
 society afforded him. And this interest would doubtless 
 have developed into a deeper attachment had it not been 
 for the memory of fair Edith Barham, to whom he had 
 given his heart two years before, when he and his friend 
 Harte were staying at WoUattara Station, on the Murchison, 
 He was only waiting until he had " made his pile," — to use 
 a colloquialism of the Gully, — to go and claim her from 
 her worldly old father, who had bluntly intimated that he 
 would rather see his daughter marry for cash than senti- 
 ment. 
 
 Helen had early discovered that the handsome miner 
 was growing very dear to her. But, inconsistent as it may 
 seem, with the dawning of this her first love arose the hope 
 that it might not be returned ; for deep within her breast 
 there rankled the memory of a shameful wrong that had 
 darkened and embittered her life, and though morally she 
 felt herself to be guiltless, she knew that in such cases as 
 hers the thumbs of a merciless world are always turned 
 downward in relentless condemnation. She did not seek 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 29 
 
 to find solace in the thought that, here in the heart of the 
 mountains, her past history was known only to herself. 
 Indeed, in view of the courteous deference and respect paid 
 her on every hand, that very circumstance made her feel 
 that she was living a life of false pretence. 
 
 In the calm, still evenings she frequently walked with 
 Lyndon as far as the spot where the path to the lower camp 
 branched off from the road that ran along the side of the 
 canon. In all her walks and talks with him she had never 
 referred in any way to her past life, though he had told her 
 almost everything he had to tell about himself Sometimes 
 she longed to tell him the sad secret of her life, and yet 
 again she feared the revelation might make her an object 
 of scorn and reproach in his eyes, for she knew instinctively 
 that he had the fullest faith in her innocence and purity. 
 And it thus happened that the story, always trembling on 
 her lips, was continually deferred. 
 
 Now, Ricardo, in spite of Harte's threat, sometimes ven- 
 tured into the neighborhood of the "Golden Dawn" by 
 night, in order that he might feast his eyes with an occasional 
 glimpse of Helen as she passed to and fro about the bar. 
 He came to the upper camp one evening and placed himself, 
 as usual, in a position whence he could see without being 
 seen. Being unaware of the change in the arrangements 
 at the " Golden Dawn," he was surprised to see Blue Peter 
 officiating in the place of Helen. His mind was busy form- 
 ing theories to account for the change, when he heard voices 
 close at hand, and a few minutes later he saw Helen walk- 
 ing slowly down the rocky road accompanied by the man 
 upon whom he had sworn to be revenged. Burning with 
 jealous rage, he followed them at a distance, and when they 
 halted at the edge of the terrace he drew near under cover 
 of the rocks, and crouched down in the shadow of a small 
 belt of myall some thirty yards away. His heart was filled 
 with vengeful fury. Again and again he raised his pistol, 
 but the fear that, instead of his hated rival, he might kill 
 the woman for whom he would have given his soul, re- 
 strained him from pressing the trigger. Unconscious of his 
 close proximity, Helen and Lyndon stood for some time 
 listening to the concatenation of curious sounds arising 
 from the nightly revel in the lower camp, and admiring the 
 
 3* 
 
30 IN THE "never NEVER COITNTRY. 
 
 weird effect of light and shadow in the sweeping curve of 
 the gorge. 
 
 When at last Lyndon made a motion as if to continue the 
 walk, Helen, who had been in a strangely silent mood all 
 the evening, laid her hand on his arm and said, — 
 
 " Francis, I should like to tell you a story ; it is rather 
 ;i long one, but the night is young and we can sit down on 
 this ledge of rock." 
 
 Lyndon, wondering somewhat at the sudden tone of sad- 
 ness in her voice, sat down beside her, and, after a short 
 silence, during which she seemed to be struggling to sup- 
 press some rising emotion, Helen, in a low, steady voice, 
 began her story. 
 
 III. 
 
 HELEN'S STORY. 
 
 "Some years ago, when I was in England, I knew a 
 young girl, the only daughter of a retired merchant of con- 
 siderable fortune. She lost her mother when quite young, 
 and at an early age was sent by her father to a fashionable 
 seminary in Paris, where she received a finished education. 
 At the age of nineteen she left school to assume control of 
 her father's household, where for the next two years she 
 lived a life of luxurious ease, surrounded by every comfort 
 a refined and cultivated taste could suggest. From her 
 mother this young lady, whom I will call Eleanor, inherited 
 unusual personal beauty, and, as her father was known to 
 be wealthy, suitors for her hand were not long in declaring 
 themselves. But in those days Eleanor was of a proud 
 and independent spirit, and, as her heart had not yet been 
 touched, she dismissed all her admirers with very scant 
 ceremony, though many of the offers she received were most 
 eligible ones from a worldly point of view. After a while 
 she noticed that these continued refusals caused her father 
 a good deal of uneasiness. He seemed bent upon her 
 marrying, and let no opportunity slip of impressing upon 
 her the necessity of making what is termed a ' good match.' 
 When she reflected that she was the only daughter of a 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY. 3I 
 
 wealthy man, it seemed to her that he laid undue stress upon 
 this point. But she did not know that her father was 
 heavily involved ; she did not know that disastrous specu- 
 lations had swallowed up his fortune, and that for months 
 past he had been upon the verge of bankruptcy, striving 
 to recoup his losses by still more desperate ventures, or she 
 would have realized that his seeming urgency was but a 
 tender regard for her welfare, — that he might see her 
 well provided for before the inevitable crash came. Her 
 enlightenment came soon. 
 
 "One day her father was found dead in the library, an 
 empty pistol by his side. When his affairs were wound up 
 it was discovered that he had died hopelessly insolvent. 
 The dear old home with all its luxurious appointments was 
 sold to satisfy the creditors, and Eleanor found herself at 
 twenty-one reduced from affluence to beggary, without a 
 relative in the wide world, or indeed any one upon whom 
 she had the slightest claim for assistance. A few of her late 
 father's near acquaintances interested themselves on her 
 behalf, and obtained for her a position as governess in the 
 family of a Mr. Lothbury, a wealthy London stock-broker. 
 The Lothburys lived about one hundred miles from London, 
 in a great modern mansion called Lombard Place, where 
 they maintained a large establishment on a scale of ostenta- 
 tious grandeur that quite eclipsed the old country families 
 in that neighborhood. In addition to Mr. and Mrs. Loth- 
 bury, the home circle contained two grown daughters — Julia 
 and Ella — and four other children, — three girls and a boy, 
 ranging from nine to fourteen years of age, who were placed 
 in Eleanor's charge at a stipend of one hundred pounds a 
 year. 
 
 ' ' Accustomed all her life to the gratification of every 
 whim and caprice, and to the tender solicitude of a fond 
 and indulgent parent, Eleanor found the bread of depend- 
 ence very bitter food. By Mr. Lothbury she was treated 
 with affable condescension, as became a man of his extreme 
 importance, by Mrs. Lothbury with haughty patronage, 
 while the two grown daughters seemed to regard her with 
 a combination of ' envy, hatred, and malice, and all unchari- 
 tableness.' The reason for this was not hard to find. 
 Eleanor, as I have told you, was considered very beautiful. 
 
32 IN THE "never NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 She was an accomplished musician, an excellent linguist, 
 and a brilliant conversationalist. When Lombard Place 
 was full of company, as it generally was, she was frequently 
 called upon to display her musical talent for the edification 
 of the guests, and Mrs. Lothbury observed with virtuous 
 indignation that on these occasions the gentlemen present 
 seemed to take a greater interest in the penniless governess 
 than in her own angular daughters, notwithstanding each 
 of those unprepossessing young ladies had an undeniable 
 attraction in the shape of a dowry of two hundred thou- 
 sand pounds. It thus fell out that the drawing-room was 
 tabooed to Eleanor, and instead of dining as heretofore in 
 the great dining-room as one of the family, she was 
 requested to take her meals in her own room. 
 
 " Her life was indeed a cheerless one. The children she 
 was paid to teach were ignorant, wilful, and insubordinate, 
 and lost no opportunity of insulting her by repeating in 
 her presence the sarcastic remarks they heard their elder 
 sisters make about the governess. Her proud, sensitive 
 spirit writhed in anguish at the petty slights she was daily 
 compelled to endure, and the galling sense of dependence 
 made existence well-nigh unbearable. And so her life went 
 on from day to day without a single word of sympathy to 
 relieve its hopeless monotony. 
 
 "She had been about six months in Mrs. Lothbury's 
 household when preparations were made for great Christ- 
 mas festivities. Invitations were issued to hosts of friends 
 and acquaintances of the family in the immediate neighbor- 
 hood and in London. As Christmas drew near the house 
 filled with guests, and one evening Eleanor was sitting in 
 her room alone, thinking sorrowfully of the past, when a 
 footman unexpectedly summoned her to the drawing-room 
 to play one of Beethoven's sonatas, which no one there was 
 able to do justice. Seated at the piano was a dark, hand- 
 some man with a blase air, who, as she approached, vacated 
 the seat and stood by to turn the music for her. As she 
 rendered the divine inspiration of the great master she felt 
 that this man's gaze was fixed upon her face, and, timidly 
 venturing to glance upward after striking the last chord, 
 she met his eyes gazing down into hers with a look of bold 
 and undisguised admiration. 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 33 
 
 ' ' A few minutes later, as she sat alone in a deep recess 
 near the piano awaiting any further demands that might be 
 inade upon her services, she saw the dark gentleman walk 
 up to Mrs. Lothbury, who was but a few feet away, and 
 prefer some request, whereat that grande dame feigned a 
 look of amused astonishment. 
 
 " ' Impossible, my dear Sir Gilbert,' she heard Mrs. 
 Lothbury say. ' She is the governess, and we only had 
 her down to play those pieces for you. ' 
 
 " 'Yes, I am aware of that,' said the dark gentleman, 
 with the faintest possible emphasis. ' But even so, I 
 would venture to ask again for an introduction.' And Mrs. 
 Lothbury, seeing that he would take no denial, led the way 
 with very ill grace to the corner where Eleanor sat, and 
 introduced her to Sir Gilbert Thornhaugh. For the re- 
 mainder of the evening the baronet sat by her side, and 
 Eleanor for the first time in many weary months enjoyed 
 the novel sensation of being treated with courtesy and 
 deference as an equal in a house where she had hitherto 
 been compelled to submit to all the slights of dependence. 
 Yet, in spite of her feeling of gratitude to the baronet, 
 there was an indefinable something in his manner that 
 repelled her. 
 
 " During the next few days, in her solitary walks about 
 the grounds, she frequently met Sir Gilbert, who invariably 
 stopped to chat a few moments with her. She could 
 plainly see that he admired her, and one day as she sat 
 thinking of this in the cheerless school-room after a more 
 than usually trying day with her refractory pupils, a sudden 
 hope dawned within her that his admiration might turn to 
 love. What if he should ask her to be his wife ! Such a 
 thing might come to pass. She had read of such happen- 
 ings in novels, and there are stranger things in real life 
 than are found in fiction. Why should there not be a 
 romance in her humdrum life ? True, she did not, and felt 
 that she could not, love this dark, sinister-looking man 
 with the repellent smile. But what of that? Better life 
 with a man she could not love than an endless round of 
 drudgery ; and she fostered this new-born hope until it 
 became the day-star of her existence. Had she but known 
 that while Sir Gilbert Thornhaugh dallied with her in the 
 
34 IN THE "never never COUNTRY. 
 
 garden he was on the eve of offering his hand and title to 
 Miss Lothbury, with whose dowry he intended to pay off 
 his large debts and the heavy mortgages on his landed 
 property, — had she but known that he was a notorious 
 profligate and libertine, a veritable wolf in sheep's clothing 
 going about seeking whom he might devour, her life might 
 not have been wrecked. But I am dwelling too long on 
 this part of Eleanor's history, and I have yet much to tell. 
 One dull winter afternoon she met Sir Gilbert in the garden, 
 and, as usual, he stopped to talk to her. While they were 
 conversing, Mrs. Lothbury, who had evidently observed 
 them from the windows, came up and addressed some 
 commonplace remark to Sir Gilbert, studiously ignoring 
 the presence of the governess ; but Eleanor could see that 
 inwardly her employer was furious. Next day the children 
 did not attend school, and during the morning hours their 
 absence was explained by a note to the effect that ' Mrs, 
 Lothbury, having no further need of Miss Galbraith's ser- 
 vices, begged to inclose a check for a quarter's salary in 
 lieu of the customary notice.' 
 
 "Later in the day Eleanor, having packed her scanty 
 wardrobe, was sitting by the window in the waning light of 
 the January afternoon. The snow was falling fast outside, 
 and the trees in the garden looked white and ghostly in the 
 deepening gloom. How typical the bleak outlook was of 
 her own dreary prospects ! she thought. To-morrow she 
 would go forth into this cold world houseless and homeless, 
 and as the full measure of her friendlessness came home to 
 her she bowed her head to the cold sill and wept in her 
 agony of heart. She had barely recovered from her storm 
 of tears when the door of the school-room opened, and in 
 the flickering firelight she could just distinguish the form of 
 Sir Gilbert Thornhaugh coming towards her. She rose, 
 and Sir Gilbert, bowing, said, ' Pardon this intrusion on 
 your privacy, Miss Galbraith, but I only this moment heard 
 that you were to leave us, and as I feel that I am, in a meas- 
 ure, the cause of your dismissal, I at once came to express 
 my sorrow, and to ask whether I could be of assistance to 
 you in any way.' He spoke so gently, and there was such 
 a ring of kindly sympathy in his low voice, that her heart 
 was touched, and the ready tears sprang to her eyes again. 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 35 
 
 She was about to thank him, brokenly, when he took her 
 hand and whispered, — 
 
 " ' Eleanor, I know you are friendless and alone, let me 
 be your protector, let me shield you from the storms and 
 conflicts of Hfe.' And Eleanor, trusting in his honor, could 
 only place her hands upon his shoulder and sob as though 
 her heart would break. He placed his arm about her until 
 the paroxysm died away, and then said, ' You are to leave 
 on Saturday, I am told ; to-day is Thursday. I have to go 
 to London on an important matter within an hour, and will 
 meet you at the terminus there on Saturday evening. Till 
 then good-by, dearest.' He bent and kissed her, and in 
 another moment she was again alone. 
 
 "This unlooked-for termination to all her troubles raised 
 Eleanor's spirits wonderfully, and she stepped into the 
 brougham on her drive to Leicester en route for London 
 with a lighter heart than she had known for months. The 
 frosty weather that had prevailed for some weeks past gave 
 place on the morning of her departure to a decided thaw, 
 and Leicester Station was enveloped in a heavy mantle of 
 fog as she took her seat in the 3 P.M. express for St. Pan- 
 eras. Owing to the thick weather frequent stoppages were 
 made on the journey, and the express was three hours over- 
 due when it reached the terminus. The people on the plat- 
 form looked like ghosts in the fog, and Eleanor feared she 
 would miss her lover in the Cimmerian gloom. But he was 
 patiently awaiting her near the main entrance, in front of 
 which stood his well-appointed private cab, and it was with 
 a feeling of security for the future, if not of happiness, that 
 she took her seat by his side. She had never been in 
 London before, and every one of the maze of streets 
 through which they drove looked alike to her in the fog. 
 In about twenty minutes the cab drew up at a brilliantly- 
 lighted place, which Sir Gilbert told her was the Hotel Con- 
 tinental, and where he said they would have some supper. 
 Eleanor, not having eaten anything since noon, was noth- 
 ing loath to fall in with this suggestion, and Sir Gilbert led 
 the way to a private apartment, where a most sumptuous 
 repast was speedily provided. During the supper, Eleanor, 
 seeing that Sir Gilbert said nothing on the subject, timidly 
 ventured to ask what arranoements he had made for their 
 
36 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 marriage. She fancied that a gleam of amusement came 
 into his eyes at this question, but it was a mere shadow, 
 and his voice was very tender as he told her that he had in- 
 tended to apply for the license on Monday morning. After 
 supper they lingered awhile over a bottle of sparkling 
 champagne, and Eleanor's former bright spirits revived 
 under the influence of the generous vintage. But the even- 
 ing drew on apace, and at last Sir Gilbert rose and touched 
 the bell. Having paid the bill, he gently adjusted her cloak, 
 and led her down to the entrance, where, during supper, 
 his cab remained waiting. He handed her in ; she heard 
 him say 'St. John's Wood' to the driver, and then he got in 
 himself. Eleanor had such a firm faith in his honor that she 
 experienced no feeling of misgiving, and even had she enter- 
 tained any doubts as to the propriety of her position, they 
 would have been dispelled by the tender assurances of devo- 
 tion which he poured into her ears as they drove on. At 
 last the cab stopped, and Sir Gilbert, dismissing the man, 
 led the way through a small iron gate and across a broad 
 stretch of lawn until they came to the door of a house. A 
 ring at the bell was answered by a page in livery, who took 
 his master's hat and stick and vanished, and Sir Gilbert, re- 
 moving Eleanor's cloak, said, 'Welcome to your future 
 home, dearest.' 
 
 "The next day, Sunday, the weather being wet and 
 gloomy, they remained in the house all day. Eleanor, 
 whose powers of observation were of the keenest, noticed 
 that while her lover's assurances were apparently as earnest 
 and loving as before, there seemed to be a subtle change in 
 his manner, now that she had spent a night beneath his roof, 
 that she could not well define, and as evening again ap- 
 proached she began to feel a vague sense of uneasiness 
 which even the thought that she was to be married on the 
 morrow could not wholly allay. 
 
 " Monday morning came, and after breakfast Sir Gil- 
 bert's cab dashed up to the door and he drove oft, osten- 
 sibly to procure the license for their marriage. As hour 
 after hour passed and he did not return, she became alarmed. 
 Her fears were in no wise diminished when she dwelt upon 
 her position, and she began to regret the step she had taken. 
 It was quite dark when she heard the welcome sound of the 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 37 
 
 cab wheels ringing on the gravel drive. Her heart fell at 
 the sight of Sir Gilbert. He had left her in his ordinary- 
 attire, he returned in evening dress, and though his gait and 
 speech were steady, the unwonted brightness of his eyes and 
 his flushed cheeks told her that he had been drinking. The 
 subtle change in his manner that she had noticed in the 
 morning was now more marked. He was no longer the low- 
 voiced lover full of eloquent assurances of tender devotion, 
 but a matter-of-fact individual who spoke with the air of one 
 who feels that he is master of the situation. 
 
 " ' Sorry I'm so late, my dear,' he said, coolly, by way 
 of explanation of his absence, 'but it couldn't be helped. 
 You see I met Legard Villiers and one or two other fellows 
 at the club, and they would insist on my going down to 
 Tattersall's to look at some horses. I dined and changed 
 clothes at the club, and have only driven back to take you 
 to the theatre. So run up-stairs and put on that dress you 
 wore the night I saw you first; it suits you charmingly.' 
 
 ' ' * But did you get the license ?' said Eleanor, in a falter- 
 ing voice, for a sickening dread was beginning to steal over 
 her. She had staked everything upon this man's honor, 
 and his levity aroused a horrible suspicion in her mind. 
 
 " ' Oh, the license, yes,' drawled Sir Gilbert, in an indif- 
 ferent tone. ' I found that under our infernal marriage 
 laws it is necessary for one or both of the contracting parties 
 to reside in a parish fifteen days before the ceremony can be 
 legally performed, unless they care to go to the expense of 
 a special license, in which case I am told they are required 
 to furnish reasons for their desire to enter into conjugal 
 felicity in such a deuce of a hurry to no less a personage 
 than the Archbishop of Canterbury. But we can talk this 
 over in the cab ; so run off now, my dear, and dress. I 
 will wait here for you, and pray do not look so confoundedly 
 solemn ; you cannot imagine how it spoils that lovely face of 
 yours.' 
 
 " I cannot attempt to describe to you the state of poor 
 Eleanor' s mind during the next few days. Sir Gilbert' s levity 
 vanished with the fumes of the wine he had taken. His 
 manner became again that of a tender and considerate lover, 
 but he evaded all discussion of the marriage, turning the 
 conversation into other channels with the remark that there 
 
38 IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 
 
 was no need to discuss that question until they had complied 
 with the residential qualifications required by the law. Fail- 
 ing to arrive at any more satisfactory understanding, Elea- 
 nor, with her mind in a chaos of doubt and fear, decided 
 not to leave the house until the expiration of the legal 
 period. 
 
 "Sir Gilbert did not seem to mind this in the least, 
 and he went out every day, returning, as a rule, just before 
 dinner to spend the evening with her. During his absence 
 Eleanor usually passed the time in reading, and one after- 
 noon she was idly glancing through the items of metropoli- 
 tan gossip in a well-known society journal, when her eye 
 caught an announcement that almost stilled the beating of 
 her heart. The paragraph appeared among many others of 
 a similar character, and stated that a marriage had been 
 arranged between 'Sir Gilbert Thornhaugh, Bart., of Darn- 
 forth Chase, Cumberland, and Curzon Street, Mayfair, and 
 Julia, eldest daughter of Throgmorton Lothbury, Esq., of 
 Lombard Place, Leicestershire, and Capel Court in the 
 City.' She sat there like one in a dream, reading and re- 
 reading the words that proclaimed so tersely Sir Gilbert's 
 villany, until its letters seemed to be imprinted on her brain 
 in letters of fire. She saw everything clearly now. The 
 generous sympathy, the offer of marriage, the eloquent 
 vows, were all false, false as the wicked heart that had 
 devised these infamous means to an infamous end. She had 
 simply been his victim, his dupe, to be cast aside like a 
 broken toy whenever his fancy wearied. How could he 
 take advantage of her helplessness to do her this grievous 
 wrong ! In the bitterness of her mental anguish she cried 
 aloud, but no tears came to the dry and haggard eyes to 
 relieve the pent-up agony of her soul. 
 
 "The dull gray light of the winter's day was fast fading 
 out of the leaden sky when Sir Gilbert returned from his 
 drive. He entered flicking his polished boots with a thin 
 riding-cane and whistling an operatic air. As he came up 
 and laid his riding-cane upon the table she rose and stood 
 before him with the paper in her hand. She held it out to 
 him, pointing to the paragraph. ' Is this true, Gilbert ?' she 
 asked, in a voice that seemed unlike her own. He took the 
 paper, and she could see his dark face flush to the temples 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 39 
 
 as he slowly read the item. And then he laughed a short, 
 nervous little laugh, and asked her with studied irrelevancy 
 if she would go with him to the theatre after dinner. ' This 
 is no trifling matter, Sir Gilbert,' said Eleanor. ' You asked 
 me in a moment of sore distress to be your wife, and I, 
 homeless and utterly friendless as I was, gave myself to 
 your keeping. I came to this house trusting in your sense 
 of honor, and relying on your promise to consummate our 
 marriage as speedily as possible. You have advanced 
 various quibbles to delay the ceremony, and I had begun to 
 doubt your honesty of purpose before I saw this paragraph. 
 Why did you deceive me in this shameful way ? Why did 
 you ask me to be your wife ? Why ' 
 
 "'Excuse me, my dear; I asked you nothing of the 
 sort, ' interrupted Sir Gilbert. ' I simply asked to be al- 
 lowed to be your protector, and, I may add — that is to say, 
 I thought that under the circumstances you fully under- 
 stood me. And I really do not see,' he continued, in a 
 cold matter-of-fact tone, — ' I really do not see why you 
 cannot accept the situation like a sensible woman. Here 
 you are mistress of the house, with servants and every con- 
 venience, and can remain so as long as you choose, I am 
 head over heels in debt, and am compelled to make this 
 marriage to satisfy my creditors. Of course I love you, 
 and all that sort of thing, and if I am to be tied for life to 
 the angular Miss Lothbury, there is nothing to prevent my 
 spending most of my time with you in this charmingly 
 secluded neighborhood ; so let us kiss and make friends.' 
 Eleanor's proud spirit was stung to fury at his cool villany, 
 and as he stepped towards her she took the riding-cane from 
 the table and struck him with all her strength across the 
 cheek, — a blow that marked his face from ear to chin with 
 a thin purple weal. She hurried from the room to her own 
 chamber, where she gathered together a few articles of 
 clothing in a small valise, and then quietly left the house. 
 
 "You, Francis, who know the immensity of London, 
 can perhaps imagine the poor girl's feelings as she stepped 
 forth into its endless labyrinth of streets, homeless, friend- 
 less, and now without honor. Her first care was to find 
 shelter for the night. To this end she bought a paper from 
 a newsboy and read its columns beneath the light of a street- 
 
40 IN THE "never NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 lamp. She selected an advertisement at random, hailed a 
 passing hansom, and was soon beneath a roof. I need not 
 go into all the weary details of the next few weeks, how she 
 answered innumerable advertisements in the hope of obtain- 
 ing employment, only to find that the fact of her friendless- 
 ness was looked upon as being cause for suspicion rather 
 than sympathy, and that no one would accept her services 
 without recommendations, of which, of course, she had 
 none. Her slender store of money was soon exhausted, 
 and it was not long before she had to pawn her trinkets to 
 satisfy the cravings of hunger. 
 
 ' ' At last there came a day when she again found herself 
 in the streets of London, this time absolutely penniless. 
 She wandered aimlessly along through the crowded thor- 
 oughfares during that bleak March day, and evening found 
 her cold and hungry on Westminster Bridge. She stood 
 in one of the embrasures watching the river fast flowing 
 seaward, its dark rippling bosom gleaming with the shat- 
 tered shafts of light from a thousand lamps. In her 
 brighter days she had sometimes read of wretched beings 
 who had sought nepenthe in its cold embrace, and the 
 thought of these at this time filled her mind with a 
 nameless horror. 
 
 "She tore herself away from the hideous fascination of 
 that dark swirling flood and mingled again with the great 
 city's ceaseless tide of life until she came to Waterloo Place, 
 where Vice nightly holds her shameless parade. She shud- 
 dered as she passed those crowds of painted, loud-voiced 
 things that throng its pavements, and hurried on into the 
 roar of Piccadilly, faint and weary with increasing hunger. 
 At the door of St. James's Cafe two young men in even- 
 ing dress stood talking. As she passed beneath the garish 
 light of the entrance-lamps one of them turned and followed 
 her, and in another moment he was walking by her side. 
 What he said she did not know ; she was only conscious of 
 clinging to him for support and telling him, in a voice that 
 was weak and faint with hunger, that she had eaten nothing 
 for three days. He took her arm and led her into Regent 
 Street, and almost before she could collect her senses she 
 was seated at a table in the Cafe Royal. 
 
 "It was not until the pangs of hunger were appeased 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 41 
 
 that the hideous thought occurred to her that her com- 
 panion evidently took her for a femme de pave. She 
 glanced at him, and, seeing- that he, possessed an honest 
 face and kindly eyes, she determined to tell him her pitiful 
 story and trust to his magnanimity. He heard her through- 
 out with manifest surprise and sympathy. He told her 
 
 that he was a surgeon on the staff of the Hospital, 
 
 and that he believed he could find her employment as a 
 nurse. He gave her his card, and after delicately pressing 
 upon her a sum of money to meet her immediate needs, he 
 
 took his leave, telling her to call at the Hospital on 
 
 the following afternoon. The young surgeon was as good 
 as his word, and he obtained a subordinate position for her 
 in his own hospital. 
 
 " In her new role Eleanor was brought face to face with 
 human suffering in all its ghastly forms, and her own lot 
 seemed comparatively cheerful by contrast with that of the 
 helpless beings to whose wants she was called upon to min- 
 ister. The life was monotonous, the surroundings depress- 
 ing, but when she remembered her bitter experience in the 
 streets of London, she was thankful even for such meagre 
 comforts as were vouchsafed to her. She brought such an 
 amount of intelligence and zeal to bear upon her new duties, 
 and did the work intrusted to her with such assiduity and 
 fidelity, that promotion, such as it was, came rapidly. At 
 the end of six months she had almost become reconciled to 
 her lot, when an event occurred that again changed the 
 current of her life. This was the birth of her child, a 
 nameless little waif that breathed but one short hour and 
 died. Her sister nurses, severely superior in the dignity of 
 virtue never assailed, jealous of her beauty, and envious of 
 the marked courtesy with which she was always treated by 
 the visiting surgeons, who had learned her story, raised 
 their voices in general condemnation, and protested to the 
 resident physician against the contamination of further asso- 
 ciation with her. At this juncture the young surgeon who 
 had first assisted her, and who throughout had remained 
 her friend, again came to her aid by obtaining for her a 
 position as attendant to an invalid lady who was going out 
 to Australia. Her mistress died shortly after her arrival in 
 the colonies, and she was again thrown upon the tender 
 
42 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 mercies of the world. She found employment as a barmaid 
 with a hotel-keeper in Sydney. This man and his wife 
 were very kind to her in their rude way, and when the 
 Kimberley gold rush broke out and they went north she 
 went with them, and — and that is all." 
 
 " Helen," said Lyndon, breaking the silence that ensued 
 when she so abruptly ceased, " you have been speaking of 
 yourself. Why did you tell me this sad story ?' ' 
 
 " Because my life is empty and wretched," she answered. 
 "We have been such friends, you and I, and I thought 
 perhaps you might learn to — to care for me, — most men 
 do," she added, with a wan little smile. "I told you be- 
 cause I wished you to know my past, that you might see 
 how unworthy I am of any man's regard. I told you 
 because I need your sympathy — because — because — oh, 
 Francis, can you not see? Because I love you!" 
 
 Ere Lyndon could reply she rose and hurried up the 
 narrow pathway that led to the "Golden Dawn." She did 
 not see the crouching figure in the belt of myall as she 
 passed, or the bright gleam of the moonlight on the pistol- 
 barrel pointed at the figure of him she had left seated on 
 the rock. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While Helen was telling the sad episode in her life to 
 Lyndon, the miners in the bar of the "Golden Dawn" 
 were engaged in discussing the prospects of getting a pack- 
 train through the one hundred and fifty miles of rugged 
 mountain and burning sand intervening between the Gully 
 and the packers' camp at Damper Creek before Christmas, 
 which was now near at hand. 
 
 "If some one don't push through this week, we'll not 
 get mooch of a Chreestmas dinner," said old Van Steen, 
 whose rubicund visage was barely visible through the clouds 
 of smoke arising from an enormous pipe. 
 
 "I rec'lect spendin' a pretty hard Chris'mas on Peak 
 Downs," drawled Twenty-Two- Year-Old Scotty, as he pa- 
 tiently whittled a particularly hard fig of tobacco with a 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 43 
 
 particularly dull knife; "and if I don't disremember," he 
 added, with a reflective air, "we didn't have nothing mor'n 
 weevilly hardtack for nigh onto a month." 
 
 " That's nothin'," said Harte ; "I spent Chris' mas one 
 time in the 'Never Never,' up in the Northern Territory, 
 and me and a black fellow lived for ten days on a handful of 
 wild plums and a bandicoot."* 
 
 "Talkin' of Chris' mas dinners," said Blue Peter, with a 
 prefatory oath, as he lounged over the bar, " I was on the 
 Condamine, one time, — I disremember the date ezac'ly, 
 but it was in Joshua Peter Bell's f time, anyway, — and me 
 
 and a man named Tim Shea, — the — est homehest 
 
 son-of-a-gun that ever chawed damper, — in fact, the station 
 
 hands used to say he was that ugly he would 
 
 scare a blind cow. Well, as I was a-goin' to say, we had 
 knocked up a big check together, and was comin' down to 
 
 Brisbane to spend it. You never seen such a 
 
 season as that was. It was the year of the big flood, and 
 afore the rains come the weather was that unsettled it would 
 ha' set a saint a-swearin'. One day it would be a hundred 
 and ten in the shade, and the next it would be rainin' cats 
 and dogs. 
 
 ' ' Well, the rains come on long before we got down to 
 
 the coast, and we had the all-firedest time you 
 
 ever hearn tell of Stations was scarce in them days, and 
 we had to make our flour and tea pan out as best we could. 
 Chris' mas Day come, and we was still on the Wallaby. It 
 
 had been rainin' like all day, and we was that wet we 
 
 looked like we might ha' camped in a creek, and, what was 
 worse, our flour was, too. The horses had about give out, 
 and we was thinkin' of makin' a wet camp for the night, 
 when Tim Shea sez, sez he, ' Peter,' sez he, 'there used to 
 
 be a man what kep' a store on the stock road by 
 
 the name of Jake Miller, and if I ain't miscalkilatin',' sez 
 he, ' it's about two mile this side of us.' Well, to come to 
 the p' int, we struck across for the store, and sure enough we 
 made it about an hour after dark, and of the all-fired con- 
 sarns I ever seen called a store, that was the all-firedest. 
 
 * A small burrowing animal. 
 
 t A well-known Queensland squatter of his day. 
 
44 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 There was nothin' in it but two or three tins o' canned 
 stuff, a box o' lamp-glasses, a bar or two o' soap, and sech 
 
 like odds and ends. I hearn afterwards the store was 
 
 on'y a blind, and that Jake was a-runnin' a whiskey-still 
 about a mile or so down in the scrub, and used to do a 
 roarin' trade with stockmen on the road. Well, we walks 
 in, and mighty glad we was to get a dry roof over our 
 heads. Jake was a-settin' one side a blazin' fire, and a big 
 old cat sat op' site to him on the other. 
 
 " ' Evenin', stranger,' sez I. ' Welcome,' sez he, movin' 
 for us to draw near the fire and haulin' out a bench for us 
 to set on. Then he lifts down two billys from a hook over 
 the fireplace, and shoves a bottle over to us and motions 
 
 us to help ourselves, which we did, and mighty 
 
 quick, I can tell you. But we was feelin' more hungry 
 than thirsty, and after talkin' permiscus-like for half an 
 hour, I seen Jake was makin' no signs of gettin' supper, so 
 I sez, 'Jake,' I sez, 'ain't there nothin' to eat,' I sez, 'in 
 this yere humpy ?' 
 
 " 'Eat,' he sez; 'why,' sez he, 'I ain't,' he sez, 'had 
 nothin' to eat,' he sez, 'for a week, barrin' a bottle of 
 Crosse and Blackwell's pickles and a tame magpie; and,' 
 he sez, ' I don't expect to get nothin' for another week, if 
 the coach don't come by on Saturday, onless,' he sez, 'I 
 tackle them there cans o' sweet stuff in the store, which 
 they're not the most nourishin' est thing in the world,' 
 he sez. 
 
 " 'It's pretty tough, ' I sez, 'to go without somethin' to 
 eat, especially bein' as it's Chris' mas Day,' I sez. 
 
 " 'Any way,' sez Tim Shea, 'we've got a morsel o' wet 
 flour,' and he unrolls his swag, and sure enough it was 
 
 wet, for there was a sight more water in the swag 
 
 than flour. 
 
 " ' You can't make no damper out o' that,' sez Jake. 
 
 "'Can't I?' sez Tim Shea. 'Why,' sez he, 'me and 
 another feller on the Warrego one time made a damper out 
 o' three wax candles and a hatful o' sawdust, and,' sez he, 
 ' mighty good it was, too, barrin' it was that tough it was 
 like bitin' a piece out o' the edge o' a billy-can.' 
 
 " ' By thunder,' sez Jake, jumpin' up, 'I clean forgot ; 
 we can have a good meal, after all. ' With that 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 45 
 
 he goes out into a room at the back, and the cat gets up 
 with her tail in the air and walks out with him, rubbin' her- 
 self agen his leg as though she knowed there was some- 
 thin' to eat in there as well. 
 
 " 'One o' you fellers go out into the store,' sings out 
 Jake, ' and get a bottle o' dried sage and a bottle o' them 
 
 pickled onions, and chop 'em up for dressin'.' We 
 
 done as he said, and by and by he comes in with what 
 looked like a small bandicoot, but it was skinned, and its 
 legs and head was off, so we couldn't tell. 'We'll have 
 some stewed rabbit for onct,' sez he. 
 
 "'Rabbit,' I sez. '77;<rj/ ain't across the border, sure- 
 /zV, ' I sez, for the last I hearn tell o' them they was two 
 hundred mile south of it. 
 
 ' ' ' We' 11 eat first and talk afterwards, ' sez he, short-like, 
 and he stuffs the rabbit with the chopped sage and onions, 
 and skewers it up with a splinter o' wood, and shoves it in 
 a big iron pot to boil, while Tim Shea spread out the wet 
 flour in a pan in front o' the fire to dry. 
 
 "Well, I never tasted no better meal than that there 
 
 rabbit. True, there wasn't much of it for three 
 
 hungry like us, and there was soon nothin' left but 
 
 the bones. 
 
 " ' Where's the cat ?' sez Tim Shea ; ' she can 
 
 eat the bones.' 
 
 " ' She'll never eat no more bones,' sez Jake, in a solium 
 sort o' voice. 
 
 "'Why?' I sez. 
 
 " 'Why,' he sez, sez he, speakin' slow-like and lookin' 
 me straight in the eye, 'didn't you,' he sez, 'notice no 
 
 kind of a pecooliar flaviour,' he sez, ' about that there ■ 
 
 rabbit ?' And then we seen through it. 
 
 " ' Well,' I sez, ' I've et many cur'ous things in my time, 
 but,' I sez, ' I'm damned,' I sez, 'if ever I et a boiled cat 
 
 stuffed with sage and onions for a Chris' mas dinner 
 
 afore. ' 
 
 " 'As for me,' sez Tim Shea, pickin' his teeth with a 
 fork sorrowful-like, seein' there was no more, ' I on'y wish 
 
 that there cat had a litter o' kittens, so's we could 
 
 make 'em up into a pie with the flour for breakfast.' " 
 
 Blue Peter paused at this point and took a deep gulp out 
 
46 IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 
 
 of the black bottle which he kept in a corner of the shelf 
 for his own especial benefit, and then observing a some- 
 what incredulous smile on the faces of certain "new 
 chums," whose experience of the exigencies of bush cater- 
 ing had yet to be learned, he was proceeding to assert the 
 truth of his story with a lengthy string of highly original 
 oaths, when a pistol-shot rang out upon the still night air. 
 This circumstance in itself would have occasioned no sur- 
 prise, as the interchange of bullets was a matter of frequent 
 occurrence in the lower camp, to say nothing of the playful 
 eccentricities of Bristol Bill the packer, who, in the absence 
 of an extinguisher, was in the habit of placing his slush- 
 lamp on a stump in front of his tent, and neatly snuffing it 
 out with a revolver at twenty paces before retiring for the 
 night. But the shot was followed in a few minutes by a 
 shriek so wild and piercing that every one in front of the 
 bar rushed out to see whence it came, and Blue Peter's 
 profane asseverations of undeviating veracity were made 
 to the empty air. 
 
 The scream had been heard in every tent in the upper 
 camp, and as the men from the "Golden Dawn" poured 
 out into the open air they met miners running from every 
 point towards the spot whence the sound had appeared to 
 come. A loud coo-ee some distance down the road an- 
 nounced a discovery, and the whole crowd of excited men 
 ran in that direction. 
 
 Just beyond the clump of myall, and close by the spot 
 where the path to the lower camp branched off from the 
 road running along the wall of the gully, they found Lyn- 
 don bleeding profusely from a wound near the shoulder, 
 and supported in the arms of Helen and Bristol Bill the 
 packer. A hundred eager questions were asked, but Harte, 
 stepping to the front, waved back the curious crowd. 
 "Ask no questions now," he said. "Here, one of you 
 chaps give me a hand. We'll carry him down to Bristol 
 Bill's place ; it's the nearest. And a pair of you run up to 
 the doctor's tent. He was drunk three hours ago ; if he 
 ain't sober now, chuck a couple of buckets of water over 
 him ; but bring him along, anyhow." Harte' s orders were 
 obeyed with alacrity. When he and another miner pre- 
 pared to lift Lyndon's limp and helpless form, Helen 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 47 
 
 pleaded with them that he might be taken to the hotel, 
 where she could nurse him. It won't do, miss," said 
 Harte. "It's half a mile to the ' Dawn ;' he might bleed 
 to death while he was carrying there, for God knows how 
 badly he's hurt. Bristol Bill's humpy is just behind that 
 big rock ahead of us, and it ain't a hundred yards away." 
 Helen admitted the force of Harte' s reasoning, and Lyndon 
 was carefully borne by the two stout miners to Bristol Bill's 
 abode. They laid him tenderly on the rude bed, and 
 Harte at once proceeded to cut away the clothing in the 
 neighborhood of the wound. The ball had penetrated the 
 right arm just above the flexure of the elbow, and, passing 
 behind the biceps muscle, had emerged on the inner side of 
 the arm. The sight of Lyndon's ghastly and clammy face 
 made Helen sick with fear ; but her knowledge of hospital 
 practice here stood her in good stead. She knelt beside 
 the bed and compressed the brachial artery pending the 
 doctor's arrival, and her fears were in some measure allayed 
 when she saw that the hemorrhage was at once reduced in 
 volume. 
 
 After what seemed to her an interminable delay, Le 
 Harne arrived. He had been found in his tent sleeping 
 off the effects of a protracted debauch. But as soon as he 
 had been made to understand the gravity of the case he 
 had pulled himself together and hurried down to the 
 wounded man. It was impossible to look at the doctor, 
 as he stood beside the bed, without feeling impressed with 
 his outward personality. His pale, sharply-chiselled face, 
 albeit sadly marred by the ravages of dissipation, was 
 the face of the student and scholar, and his fine eyes, 
 though bloodshot from the effects of drink, were bright 
 with the calm, steadfast look of one who feels that he has 
 confidence in himself ' ' I have no doubt the brachial artery 
 is injured," he said, when he had examined the wound; 
 "and," he added to Helen, "he would certainly have 
 bled to death before I got here had you not applied com- 
 pression. I shall have to cut down to the artery and ligate 
 it. I have performed the operation several times before ; 
 it is not difficult." 
 
 His calm tone raised the spirits of his hearers, who had 
 the fullest faith in his surgical skill. That it was of a high 
 
48 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 order he had amply proved by the successful treatment of 
 several severe accidents that had happened in the camp. 
 Even his instruments bore testimony to his talent. The 
 superb set he owned was the gift of a grateful patient upon 
 whom, when in England, he had performed an exceedingly 
 dangerous operation, after other surgeons had declined to 
 undertake the risk. 
 
 Bristol Bill's humpy, though roomier than the major- 
 ity of habitations in the Gully, was by no means the place 
 one would have chosen for the performance of a surgical 
 operation. The space was limited, the light was bad. At 
 the far end of the rude dwelling lay the wounded man 
 supine, in the condition of profound prostration induced 
 by excessive loss of blood. On one side knelt Helen, 
 still compressing the brachial artery ; on the other stood 
 Harte, his stern face set and gloomy, watching Le Harne 
 as he rapidly prepared the instruments and other ac- 
 cessories, while gathered around the door of the humpy 
 were groups of miners anxiously awaiting the doctor's ver- 
 dict. Everything being ready, Le Harne cut down through 
 the tissues and laid bare the injured artery. He picked out 
 the coagulum of blood and a few fragments of cloth from 
 the wound, and skilfully passing two ligatures, one above 
 and one below the aperture, in the arterial tunics, he secured 
 the vessel in the wound, and then divided it between the 
 ligatures. 
 
 " We have two things to fear now," he said, as he finished 
 dressing the wound, ' ' gangrene and secondary hemorrhage ; 
 but as the humerus is intact and there are no complications, 
 I do not think we need anticipate the former. The chief 
 danger we have to apprehend is secondary hemorrhage. 
 But with careful nursing I think we shall be able to pull him 
 through. If you will arrange the nursing," he continued to 
 Harte, " I will go back and prepare some stimulants." 
 And giving such general directions as he considered neces- 
 sary, Le Harne took his leave. 
 
 "Now," said Harte, shutting the door and addressing 
 Helen and Bristol Bill, "the first thing I want to know is, 
 how did this affair happen ?" 
 
 Helen told how she had been for a walk with Lyndon as 
 far as the clump of myall, and how she had left him seated 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 49 
 
 on the rock. She stated that she had not got more than a 
 hundred yards away when she heard the shot. The sound 
 had appeared to come from the immediate neighborhood of 
 the spot she had just left, but a sharp bend in the path hid 
 the place from view. An uneasy feeling in her mind that 
 something was wrong had prompted her to return, and she 
 had found Lyndon bleeding and insensible at the foot of the 
 rock on which she had left him a few moments before. 
 
 "I'd jest finished my pipe," said Bristol Bill, " and was 
 comin' up to the ' Dawn' when I heerd a gun. Like the 
 young lady here, I couldn't see nothin', the road bein' so 
 powerful full o' turns. But as I got round the big rock 
 yonder I seen her white dress as she come down the path 
 from the ' Dawn,' and the next minute I heerd her skreek, 
 and I knowed somethin' was wrong. I run up to her, and 
 when I seen how things was I give the coo-ee that brought 
 the chaps down. Mor' n that I know nothin' and see nothin' . ' ' 
 
 For a moment Harte was silent. Then turning to Bristol 
 Bill, he said, "There's somethin' back o' this that we must 
 find out. Just ask the boys outside to step up to the ' Dawn. ' 
 I'll join 'em in a minute, and at the meetin* we'll see what's 
 to be done." To Helen he said, " Of course, I'm goin' to 
 nurse him, miss: I'm his mate, as you know ; but I want 
 to step down to the lower camp for a bit, and I'd feel obliged 
 if you'd sit by him till I get back." 
 
 "WilHngly," replied Helen. "I intend to share the 
 nursing with you, for he will need all the attention we can 
 give him." 
 
 Harte shook her hand in silence and then stepped softly 
 out on his way to the lower camp. Meanwhile, the miners 
 of the upper camp accompanied Bristol Bill in a body to 
 the "Golden Dawn," where during Harte' s absence the 
 event of the night became the subject of an animated con- 
 versation. Lyndon had been such a universal favorite in 
 the camp that every man experienced a desire to avenge 
 the outrage. The general consensus of opinion inclined 
 to the belief that Ricardo was the assassin. His hatred of 
 Lyndon had long been a matter of notoriety, and this fact 
 alone was, in the minds of the excited miners, sufficient to 
 condemn him without further proof Such a unanimity 
 of suspicion would, in many communities, have procured 
 ^ d 5 
 
50 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 Ricardo a long rope and a short shrift without any prelim- 
 inaries whatever ; but the Australian bushman, though in 
 many respects a wild and lawless fellow, is at heart opposed 
 to mob law, and the swift judicial methods of Judge Lynch 
 are rarely resorted to even in the remotest settlements, in 
 the absence of direct proof of guilt. Still, there were not 
 a few at the meeting who maintained that the evidence was 
 strong enough to warrant them in hanging Ricardo to the 
 nearest tree, and Blue Peter intimated, with many wholly 
 unnecessary expletives, that it would be well for the lower 
 camp, on purificatory principles, to hang half a dozen more 
 of the inhabitants along with him while they were about it. 
 The discussion was at its height when Harte entered. 
 
 " Boys," he said, as he took his seat, " I asked you for 
 to come up here to-night, so's we might talk over this affair 
 and see what was to be done. If any of you has anythin' 
 to say I'd like to hear it." Whereupon up rose an Ameri- 
 can miner, — a sallow, attenuated individual with a sepulchral 
 voice, who represented the party advocating the immediate 
 hanging of Ricardo. 
 
 " We all know that the young Britisher hadn't an enemy 
 in the camp outside of Ricardo," he said, with peculiar in- 
 tonation, "and some of us have heard Ricardo say down 
 in the ' Nugget' that he would get square for that knock 
 down he got some day. Maybe this ain't evidence, but I'd 
 plank my bottom dollar on the notion that Ricardo done 
 the shooting, and there's lots more of my way of thinking. 
 I ain't got nothing to say agenst this country nor its ways. 
 The country's used me well and I'm doing well in it. But 
 its away behind America in some things. Why, Lord bless 
 me, out in Arizona we'd have had that Ricardo comfortably 
 hung half an hour ago, and I move we nominate a com- 
 mittee of four to go down and hang him right away. ' ' 
 
 " I second that there motion," said Blue Peter, 
 
 with a tremendous oath, amid a chorus of " Bravo, Yank !" 
 
 " Boys," said Harte, rising, "you all know that Lyndon 
 is my mate. Me and him has been through thick and thin 
 together for four years now, and I'd sooner lose my, right 
 arm than see him die. You all know, too, that I don't, 
 
 and never did, take no stock in that d d Portuguee. If 
 
 I knew for certain that he done the shootin', I'd kill him 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 5I 
 
 in his tracks same as I would a prowlin' dingo. But I ain't 
 certain. I've been down to the 'Nugget,' and Ricardo is 
 in bed ; I seen him there. He says he's got fever and ague, 
 and Stumpy Tom he says his partner's never been outside 
 the 'Nugget' since mornin'. Like the rest of you, I've a 
 strong notion he's lyin'. But I will not act on a notion, 
 and I'll tell you why. Once down to Victoria I was the 
 cause of gettin' an innocent man twenty years. I swore to 
 what I thought was right, but years afterwards I accidentally 
 found out I was wrong. But it was too late then : the man 
 had died in prison, and I ain't felt easy in my mind since. 
 So I move we wait for a day or two till my partner gets his 
 senses again. He may have seen somethin' before he was 
 shot. Meantime, let us do what we can to find out more 
 about the case." 
 
 Harte's motion was received with a hum of disapproval. 
 Then "the Professor" arose. " Gentlemen," he said, in his 
 calm, clear voice, "let me say a few words. Harte is right. 
 In view of the wide-spread popularity of our injured friend, 
 suspicion is not unnaturally directed to the only man who is 
 known to have borne him any ill-will. But remember that 
 mere suspicion unsupported by anything of a tangible nature 
 is not evidence, — not even circumstantial evidence. I per- 
 haps speak feelingly, for in years gone by I myself was the 
 victim of a foul and unjust suspicion. But no matter. 
 There is a great deal of mystery in this case, and an ac- 
 cused person is, I believe, always entitled to the benefit of 
 the doubt. Do not let passion and prejudice rob you of 
 your sense of justice. The spirit of the laws which govern 
 the more settled districts in this great country should pre- 
 vail even in this remote spot. In a few days representatives 
 of those laws in the person of a resident magistrate and a 
 posse of mounted police will arrive here. In the mean 
 time Ricardo can be watched, and if at any time he should 
 attempt to leave the Gully, or any evidence be forthcoming 
 against him, he can be arrested to await his trial before a 
 properly constituted legal tribunal. In seconding Harte's 
 motion, let me beg of you not to proceed to any act of 
 violence on mere suspicion," 
 
 Again a hum of disapproval arose, but such was the in- 
 fluence of the last two speakers in the camp that the course 
 
52 IN THE 'NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 
 
 they advocated was eventually adopted, much to the dis- 
 gust of the individual known as Yank, who remarked to 
 Blue Peter over a friendly "nobbier" of whiskey that it 
 was a "tarnation swindle they hadn't hung that ugly son 
 of a gun of a Portuguee at first and done all the talking 
 afterwards. ' ' 
 
 During Harte's absence Helen busied herself in carrying 
 out the doctor's instructions, and having made her patient 
 as comfortable as the ascetic simplicity of Bristol Bill's 
 domestic arrangements would admit, she shaded the light 
 of the sputtering lamp from his face and sat down in the 
 semi-darkness beside his bed. 
 
 The reaction from the shock of the wound was accom- 
 panied by pronounced feverish symptoms, and as the night 
 wore on the sick man grew restless with the excitement of 
 delirium. In his wanderings a woman's name was continu- 
 ally on his lips. Helen felt a momentary pang of jealousy 
 at the discovery that in spite of their close friendship an- 
 other woman had always been uppermost in his thoughts, 
 but she dismissed it as unworthy of her. 
 
 " It is better so," she thought, sadly; " if he had cared 
 for me my happiness would have been too great." 
 
 She took his burning hand between her cool palms, and 
 with the name "Edith" still on his lips he sank into a trou- 
 bled sleep. A few minutes later she heard Harte's foot- 
 steps returning from the "Golden Dawn," and she stole 
 softly from the side of the sleeping man to meet him at the 
 door. 
 
 " Now, miss," said Harte, "you'd better go back to the 
 ' Dawn' and get some rest ; it's nigh onto midnight now. 
 I'll sit with him till daybreak, and if anythin' serious should 
 turn up, I'll send the black boy Jim up for the doctor." 
 
 " Before I go I want you to tell me one thing, Harte," 
 said Helen. ' ' He was delirious all the evening until he 
 fell asleep a few minutes ago, and all the time he called 
 upon the name of Edith. Who is Edith ?" 
 
 "Well, miss," replied Harte, "it's rather a long story, 
 but I'll make it as short as I can for you. You see a couple 
 o' years back me and Frank and another chum by the 
 name o' Villiers took a mob o' cattle out to the Murchison. 
 The squatter at WoUattara Station — Silas Barham, him as 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 53 
 
 owns the station on Damper Creek — asked us to stay a 
 month or two at his house. He had a daughter Edith, one 
 o' the bonniest girls I ever set eyes on. I noticed afore 
 long that she was powerful gone on Frank, — he always was 
 a takin' chap with women, was Frank, — and Frank, too, 
 on her for that matter, and they used to spend hours 
 playin' the piano and readin' together when me and the 
 squatter was talkin' about sheep and cattle and such-like. 
 By and by the squatter began to notice this too. Now, 
 old Barham was one of the richest men in the colony. He 
 had come out in the early days with nothing, and had made 
 his pile, and if there was one thing he loved more than his 
 daughter it was his money. When we was out ridin' 
 together on the plains he often used to talk to me of his 
 plans and schemes. 
 
 "Speakin' of his daughter one day, he said he calcu- 
 lated to take her down in a year or two to Melbourne, 
 where she had been to school, and he reckoned what with 
 her looks and his money she'd make a good match. He's 
 a blunt, plain-speakin' chap, is Barham, and when he found 
 out Frank and Edith was sweet on one another, he just 
 called Frank aside and told him straight that he'd not 
 allow no man to marry his daughter for her money. We 
 was in the stock-yard at the time, and when old Barham 
 spoke I seen the blood mount into Frank's face, and I 
 guessed what the old man was driving at. The hint that 
 he was after the girl for her money stung Frank like the 
 lash of a stock-whip, for if there is a thing he don't care a 
 curse about it's money. I expected some hot words from 
 him, but instead he just turned to me and said, quite cool- 
 like,— 
 
 " ' Henry, my boy, just saddle up the horses, will you. 
 This individual has been so accustomed to the society of 
 people of his own sordid stamp that he is quite unable to 
 distinguish a gentleman when he meets one.' And with 
 that he turns his back on the squatter and walks away. 
 Half an hour later we were on our way to the coast, with- 
 out ever speakin' a word of farewell to Barham or Miss 
 Edith. We had p'r'aps gone about four miles when I 
 found I'd left my pipe behind, so Frank and Villiers just 
 went slowly ahead while I loped back for the pipe. Miss 
 
 5* 
 
54 IN THE "never never COUNTRY. 
 
 Edith seen me enter the stock-yard and she come out. ' Is 
 it really true he is going away ?' she said, and there was 
 tears in her eyes as she spoke. 'Yes, miss,' says I, 'it's 
 true enough.* 'Well,' says she, 'give him this,' and she 
 gave me her handkerchief, 'and tell him I'll never — never 
 forget him.' 
 
 "That's over two years ago now. We come up to the 
 Kimberley from the South, and from there to this place. 
 When the Gully got into full swing, old Barham, seeing a 
 chance to make more money, come up from the Murchison 
 and started a station on Damper Creek. Three months 
 ago he went South to bring his daughter up to live with 
 him, and Bill Stokes, who come through from the coast a 
 week since, tells me she's there now. Frank heard this 
 the other day, and that's what perhaps put her in his 
 thoughts." 
 
 Harte ceased ; then, in a firm and decided voice, Helen 
 said, — 
 
 ' ' Harte, he desires to see her, and he shall see her if I 
 can accomplish it. I will go down to Damper Creek and 
 tell her of his condition, and if she cares for him as you 
 say, she will return with me and help us nurse him back to 
 health and strength." 
 
 The bushman gazed curiously into the earnest face of this 
 singular woman, who thus calmly proposed to undertake a 
 journey across one hundred and fifty miles of desert to 
 bring a rival to the bedside of the man she loved. His 
 keen perception, trained in the hard school of the bush to 
 a close observance of every individual with whom he came 
 in contact, had long ago discerned her growing attachment 
 for Lyndon, jealously as she had guarded the secret, and, 
 though he could not fathom the motive of her present de- 
 termination, his admiration for the self-abnegation it implied 
 was not one whit the less. 
 
 " It's a stiff" journey, miss, — one hundred and fifty miles, 
 and the water-holes is empty," he said, hoping to dissuade 
 her from what he considered a fool-hardy venture. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know," she interrupted, with a slight ges- 
 ture of impatience. " But think how pleased he will be to 
 see her, and so unexpectedly too. If it were twice as far I 
 would go. Give me the black boy Jim to look after the 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 55 
 
 horses and prepare the meals, and with a few directions 
 from you I can make the journey." 
 
 Harte, seeing that opposition was useless, proceeded to 
 explain the topography of the district. "The lay of the 
 country ain't easy to get on to," he said. " These moun- 
 tains here run this way." And he described a huge cres- 
 cent on the ground, marking the salient points with a stick. 
 "If we could make Damper Creek as the crow flies it 
 wouldn't be much over fifty miles, but the other side of the 
 gully is too steep to be crossed anywheres. If you could 
 follow the bed of the creek you might p'r'aps find water, 
 but ten miles from here the bed is too rough for anything 
 but a pack-train, and you'd easy lose a day in time. So 
 you'd better follow the track around this side o' the gully 
 till you get behind the big rock away off there in the bend, 
 where it crosses the ranges to the plains. Then you strike 
 almost due north' ard across the desert until you get around 
 the other end of the ranges where the creek loses itself in 
 the plain. Passin' round the end o' the ranges, you strike 
 due south one hundred miles, — but Jim, he knows the way ; 
 you trust to him, and you'll get through all right. I reckon 
 you'll be wantin' to start about daybreak, so we'd better 
 say good-night now. You' 11 need all the rest you can get, 
 for it's a hard journey for a woman." 
 
 Helen shook the huge hand of the bushman, and, with a 
 last peep at the recumbent form of Lyndon, took her way 
 up the cliff. 
 
 Next morning she arose before sunrise, and, mounted on 
 one of Bristol Bill's sturdy pack-horses, set out on her self- 
 imposed journey, accompanied by the black boy Jim. 
 
 V. 
 
 It is noon at Damper Creek Station. The sun beats 
 down from the incandescent sky, and all 
 
 " the landscape indistinctly glares 
 
 Through a pale steam." 
 
 Silas Barham's homestead, half hidden by a grove of sandal- 
 wood in a bend of the creek, is sheltered from the sultry 
 
56 IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 noontide glare. Its verandas are covered with trailing 
 vines of the leafy passion plant, and beneath their grateful 
 shade is a young girl half sitting, half reclining in a silken 
 hammock. She is very beautiful, this daughter of the 
 plains. Her fair face, framed in a nimbus of golden hair, 
 is delicately lovely, and her eyes are of the deep azure tint 
 of her native austral skies. With hands clasped behind 
 her shapely head, she swings lazily to and fro, gazing list- 
 lessly out upon the plain. 
 
 As far as the eye can see the bush is burned brown and 
 bare, for it is six months since rain fell, and the grass is all 
 gone save in the vicinity of the creeks and water-holes, 
 where the thirsty cattle lie all day. In the north the blue 
 peak of an outspur of the ranges is faintly visible against 
 the sky ; in the south the smoke of a distant bush-fire 
 hangs upon the horizon in a sullen cloud. There a ' ' thin red 
 line" of flame is marching ever onward through the parched 
 forest, — destruction in its van, devastation in its train. 
 
 Among the stones of the creek the nimble lizard, in his 
 gaudy garb of emerald and bronze, darts to and fro like a 
 streak of living flame, and the iguana basking on the 
 scorching rock utters a curious crooning cry of delight, for 
 to them heat is life and fierce rays fire their torpid blood ; 
 but the whip-bird droops his tired wing upon the bough 
 and sounds no more his metallic note ; the sibilant mono- 
 tone of the cicada is no longer heard ; an oppressive silence 
 reigns in the solitudes of the bush, and wearied Nature 
 sleeps. 
 
 Suddenly the familiar landscape changes as if by enchant- 
 ment. The arid expanse beyond the creek becomes a ver- 
 dant plain, dotted with browsing herds. A limpid lake, 
 with silvery waters rippling to the breath of gentle zephyrs, 
 laps the green banks of dewy lawns, where splashing foun- 
 tains play and sparkle in the sunlight and graceful palms 
 bend their lofty heads to the breeze. 
 
 " The misted purple of the mountain peak 
 Looks far ethereal," * 
 
 and slowly melts into the distance. 
 
 * " A Dream of Phidias," Rennel Rodd. 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY. 57 
 
 Like a vision from the ' ' Arabian Nights' ' rise marble 
 mosques and minarets, and the hundred spires and domes 
 of an Oriental city. It is the mocking mirage of the desert, 
 soon to vanish in a trembling haze, yet, while it lasts, clear 
 and distinct with the delusive semblance of reality. 
 
 The young girl springs from the hammock, and, shading 
 her eyes with her hands, gazes at the fairy picture in rapt 
 delight. 
 
 "Mr. Dunn ! oh, Mr. Dunn !" she calls to the foreman, 
 who is enjoying a siesta in a cool corner at the far end of the 
 porch, " come and look at this wonderful mirage !" 
 
 The sight of a mirage is no novelty to the old bushman, 
 the greater part of whose life has been spent in the " Never 
 Never Country," but to gratify his young mistress he comes 
 forward from his shady nook to look at Nature's transfor- 
 mation scene. 
 
 "Is it not wonderful?" the young girl says. "Look 
 how clearly defined those towers and palaces are ! A Mos- 
 lem city, too ! Just such a one as I imagine Bagdad to 
 have been in the golden prime of the good Haroun-al-Ras- 
 chid. I almost fancy I can hear the voice of the muezzin 
 from yonder lofty mosque calling the faithful to prayer 1 
 And see beneath that large stone archway two horsemen are 
 riding. How strangely real it all seems !" 
 
 ' ' I don' t know nothing about no Bagdad nor no faithful, 
 Miss Edith," says the old bushman, whose mind is abso- 
 lutely impervious to poetic allusion ; " but them horsemen 
 is real; they don't belong to no mirredge, they don't. 
 They're movin' this way, too ; and when the mirredge is 
 gone you'll see they'll be left on the plain." 
 
 Even as he speaks the outlines of the mirage become 
 blurred and indistinct, and the phantom city vanishes as 
 quickly as it appeared. The faint outline of the solitary 
 peak again looms up above the northern horizon, but the 
 two figures are still seen moving across the plain. The 
 young girl runs into the house, and returning with a pair of 
 small field-glasses, she quickly levels them at the distant 
 objects. 
 
 "Why, one is a woman," she says, in astonishment, 
 "and the other a black fellow. They are heading for the 
 creek. ' ' 
 
58 IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 
 
 And in another half-hour two dust-begrimed travellers 
 ride up to a large water-hole, where they and their jaded 
 steeds halt to quench their thirst. Then, remounting, they 
 cross the creek and make for the homestead. At the gate 
 the horsewoman, throwing her bridle to the black fellow, 
 again dismounts, and, walking up the pathway, ascends the 
 steps of the veranda. 
 
 "Have I the good fortune to meet Miss Barham?" she 
 says, in rich, clear tones. 
 
 "That is my name," answers the squatter's daughter. 
 
 ' ' I have come from the Gully, ' ' continues the traveller, 
 "to bring you news of one in whom, I am told, you take 
 deep interest. I speak of Francis Lyndon. He lies wounded 
 almost unto death at the Gully, and in his delirium he calls 
 for you. His friend Harte told me you were here, and I 
 came over to tell you of his condition, because I thought 
 you might wish to see him before he dies, or to help me 
 nurse him back to health should his life be spared. Will 
 you ride back with me ?' ' 
 
 At the mention of Lyndon's name Edith Barham' s fair 
 face crimsons with a tell-tale glow. Tender memories of a 
 brief period of happiness in her life at Wollattara Station, 
 when she first learned to love the handsome, careless Eng- 
 lishman, are awakened within her, and she feels that he is 
 even dearer to her now than in those sunny days, two years 
 ago, when they spent so many happy hours together by 
 the reedy banks of the Murchison. Her father is away at 
 the port awaiting the arrival by steamer of a mob of cattle 
 for the station. She knows that he would never permit her 
 to make the journey to Dirty Mary's Gully, but her sense 
 of filial duty is overwhelmed in her reawakened love ; and 
 when she thinks of Lyndon lying wounded, perhaps dying, 
 in the distant camp, a great yearning to be near him fills 
 her breast. She turns to the messenger. 
 
 "Miss ?" 
 
 " Compton," says the other ; " but call me Helen, please. 
 We shall be very dear friends, I hope." And she frankly 
 extends her hand, which is as frankly clasped. 
 
 " Helen," the squatter's daughter says, simply, " I will 
 return with you." 
 
 It is sundown at Damper Creek Station. The shadows 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 59 
 
 lengthen on the plain, and the murky bosom of the distant 
 smoke-cloud glows with the lurid light of the fire beneath. 
 A heavy wraith of mist rises from the creek, where the low- 
 ing cattle stand knee-deep taking their evening draught. 
 The bull-frogs croak in dismal chorus in the muddy mar- 
 gins of the water-holes, and the air is filled with the vibrant 
 hum of a teeming insect-life. 
 
 From the gate of the homestead three figures ride forth. 
 They are Edith Barham, Helen Compton, and the black boy 
 Jim. They halt for a few minutes at the creek to give their 
 horses a last drink, for the way before them is long. Across 
 dreary solitudes of sand that echo only to the curlew's 
 mournful wail, and stony, waterless wastes, 
 
 " that seem to upbraid 
 
 The sun in heaven," 
 
 it lies ; and if their horses fail them, they are lost. 
 
 And so through the bare and melancholy landscapes of 
 the ' * Never Never Country, ' ' where eternal silence dwells, 
 they go until, at noon on the second day out from the 
 station, they halt in the shadow of a giant rock at the end 
 of the ranges in the recesses of which their destination 
 lies. 
 
 To the right is the huge crescent of the mountain chain ; 
 before them extends the boulder-strewn desert mentioned in 
 the opening pages of this story. It is only fifty miles to 
 the camp now, but the horses are breaking down. The 
 poor animals stand with heaving flanks and dilated nostrils. 
 Their staring eyes are bloodshot, and they whinny hoarsely 
 in the agonies of thirst. Since daybreak the heat has been 
 intense. The breath of the desert is like the blast of a 
 furnace ; a purple haze of heat obscures the sky, and 
 through it the noonday sun, shorn of his dazzling beams, 
 shines with a sickly glare. 
 
 The younger woman gazes at the elder with a look of 
 helpless interrogation, 
 
 ' ' What are we to do ?' ' she asks, in a weary tone. 
 
 * ' Push ahead as far as the horses can go, then leave 
 them to their fate and walk," the other answers, tersely. 
 ' ' There is enough water for us in the canvas bottles, and, 
 
6o IN THE "never NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 if the worst comes to the worst, we can halt and send Jim 
 ahead for aid. ' ' 
 
 And then the black boy speaks for the first time since 
 leaving Dirty Mary's Gully. 
 
 " Missy no push 'head," he says, earnestly, in his Pigeon 
 English. ' ' Budgeree * place, this ; all same long o' water- 
 hole bym'by. Camp here. One — two hour big fellow rain 
 come. Plenty wind; al'gether too much plenty wind. 
 Yaramanf no die; him drink plenty bym'by. Jim all 
 right ; he know. ' ' 
 
 And with impHcit trust in the unerring instinct of this 
 dusky child of Nature, they hobble their tired horses and 
 sit down in the shadow of the rock. 
 
 An hour passes. Fiercer grows the fervid heat, and 
 Helen begins to doubt the wisdom of the course they have 
 taken. 
 
 But at last, when hope is almost gone, a change takes 
 placCo Sudden gusts of wind arise and scurry over the 
 plain, their erratic courses marked by little spiral columns 
 of dust. In the north appears a small black cloud, no 
 larger than that the servant of the prophet of old beheld 
 from Carmel's hoary top. Rapidly it increases in size until 
 it fills the whole horizon. Soon the sun is obscured, and 
 the gloom of night succeeds the blinding glare of day. 
 Pale lightnings shoot athwart the inky sky, and the re- 
 sponsive thunder echoes with reverberant roll in the hollow 
 defiles of the mountains. Afar off an angry sea of clouds 
 surges and seethes as though tossed in the conflict of 
 mighty winds. A funnel-shaped mass descends in huge 
 spirals from the lowering canopy, and is met in mid-air by 
 a whirling cone of sand uprising from the earth ; and then 
 the brooding silence of the desert is broken by a strange, 
 moaning sound, that rises in volume until it becomes a 
 deafening shriek, and the Storm King, enthroned in the 
 whirlwind, sweeps down upon the plain. 
 
 The travellers seek the lee of the giant rock, and fling 
 themselves face downward on the earth until the violence 
 of the storm abates. For nearly an hour it rages with 
 cyclonic fury, then it ceases as suddenly as it began. The 
 
 * Good. ■(• Horse. 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 6l 
 
 dense clouds of driving sand subside, and a welcome rain 
 descends in torrents from the leaden sky. 
 
 Edith and the black boy Jim emerge from a sheltered 
 angle of the rock, and shake the all-pervading sand from 
 the folds of their clothing. Helen is nowhere to be seen. 
 Edith, in a tremor of apprehension, loudly calls her by 
 name, and a faint voice responds from the other side of the 
 rock. There Helen is found half-buried in a sand-drift, 
 from which she is extricated by the united efforts of Edith 
 and the black boy Jim. The bodice of her riding-habit is 
 torn to shreds, and she is bleeding from an ugly wound in 
 her side. 
 
 "It is nothing," she says, with a half-smile at the look 
 of deep concern on Edith's face. "I wanted to see the 
 sand-spout, and foolishly ventured from the shelter of the 
 rock to catch a glimpse of the phenomenon. The wind 
 caught my habit and hurled me among those jagged points 
 of rock. I thought at first my ribs were broken, but it is 
 only a flesh wound." 
 
 It is, in truth, a serious injury, but she makes light of it 
 to relieve her friend's evident anxiety. 
 
 They water the horses at a shallow depression the rain 
 has filled. Here also Helen bathes her wound, and, tear- 
 ing off the lower edge of an undergarment, instructs Edith 
 how to apply a compress and bandage to stop further 
 bleeding. 
 
 Then they remount and continue their journey. The 
 sturdy little stock horses, reinvigorated by water and rest, 
 gallantly respond to the spur. The loose, powdery sand, 
 thoroughly soaked with rain, is now as hard and firm as the 
 wet sea-beach at low tide, and no longer impedes their 
 progress. Hours pass by, night falls, and still they push 
 ahead. At nine o'clock they reach the mountains and be- 
 gin their ascent. The crest is topped, and they pass into 
 the sombre shadows of the canon. When the great bend 
 is reached they can see the lights of the upper camp, on 
 the farther side, twinkling through the rain. 
 
 'We shall soon be there now," says Helen, encour- 
 agingly, to Edith, who is nearly dead with fatigue ; and 
 then, following the black boy Jim in single file, they de- 
 scend the perilous winding path that leads down to Bristol 
 
 6 
 
62 IN THE "never NEVER COUNTRY." 
 
 Bill's abode. But, to Helen's surprise, no welcoming 
 beacon-light streams from its windows. She rides to the 
 front of the "humpy." The door is unhinged and the 
 place deserted. 
 
 "They have removed him for some reason," she says, 
 excitedly. ' ' We must go up to the ' Golden Dawn' to 
 inquire." 
 
 A quick ear catches the clatter of their horses' hoofs 
 ascending the steep pathway to the " Golden Dawn," and 
 when they reach the hotel Harte's stalwart figure comes 
 forward to greet them in the rain. Helen springs from the 
 saddle unaided, and assists Edith, who is now completely 
 exhausted, to alight. She leads the squatter's daughter to 
 her own warm chamber and places her in charge of the 
 motherly Mrs. Van Steen, who promptly puts the tired 
 girl to bed. Helen herself experiences no sense of fatigue. 
 On the other hand, though her wound is painful, she is 
 conscious of a strange feeling of exaltation, her nerves are 
 strung to the highest tension, and her pulses throb with 
 feverish heat. Quickly she changes her wet, clinging gar- 
 ments for dry clothing, and, hastily knotting her dark, 
 luxuriant tresses into a loose coil on the top of her head, 
 she hurries to rejoin Harte at the door. 
 
 " How is he?" she asks, with eager solicitude. 
 
 "I've bad news for you, miss," says Harte, gloomily. 
 "We moved him from Bristol Bill's up here half an hour 
 or so back. You see, it's bin rainin' hard all the afternoon, 
 and I'm afeard the creek' 11 be down afore long. Bristol 
 Bill's humpy is only twenty feet above the bed o' the creek; 
 this here place is a hundred and fifty, and out o' reach of 
 any flood. So we took the door o' the humpy, and me 
 and Sim Jenkins started to bring him up on it to my tent. 
 But Sim, as was in front, he fell, and dropped his end. 
 The jar started the wound bleedin' afresh. So, bein' as 
 the doctor boards at the ' Dawn* now, we brought him 
 here. Harne's fixed up the arm agen, but I'm afeard poor 
 Frank's gone up." 
 
 " Let me see him," she says, quietly. 
 
 Harte leads the way into Le Harne's room. On the bed, 
 at the farther side, lies Lyndon's still insensible form. His 
 face wears the pallid hue of death, and only by the closest 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 63 
 
 observation is one certain that he yet breathes. Le Harne 
 welcomes Helen with a bow of silent recognition. She 
 walks to the couch and bends tenderly over the pale face 
 of the man she loves. 
 
 "What are his chances?" she says, at length, to the 
 doctor, in a strangely calm tone that contrasts oddly with 
 her flushed face and nervous manner. 
 
 "He has but one chance, and that a slender one," re- 
 plies the doctor. "He is in such a condition of anaemic 
 debility that nothing, in my opinion, can save him but 
 transfusion." 
 
 "What's that?" queries Harte. 
 
 ' ' Some one must furnish blood to replenish his depleted 
 system," answers the doctor. 
 
 Harte bares to the shoulder a mighty arm so knotted and 
 corded with huge muscles that it looks like a gnarled limb 
 of his native iron-bark. 
 
 ' ' Take what you want from that, ' ' he says, grimly. * ' I 
 reckon /can stand it." 
 
 " No ! no !" says Helen, stepping in front of the bush- 
 man. " I will be the donor." 
 
 "It won't do, miss," says Harte, gently but firmly. 
 " You've done your share already ; now it's my turn. I'm 
 ready when you are, Harne. ' ' 
 
 " I tell you I will be the donor !" she repeats, stamping 
 her foot, her eyes aflame, and her cheeks aglow with ex- 
 citement. It is no longer the old calm, patient Helen who 
 speaks, but a passionate, imperious woman, determined to 
 have her way. "See, here is life-blood in abundance!" 
 she continues, drawing herself up to the full height of her 
 Junoesque stature. She bares her bosom as she speaks, 
 and tears away the bandage that covers the ragged and 
 bleeding rent beneath the white globes of her breast. 
 " And," she adds, with infinite tenderness in her voice, " I 
 would willingly give it, every drop, to save his life." 
 
 Le Harne, observing the condition of nervous excite- 
 ment under which she is laboring, tries to enter a last 
 protest. 
 
 ' ' Really, Miss Compton ' ' he begins. 
 
 Helen turns upon him quickly. 
 
 "Shame on you," she says, in a reproachful tone, "to 
 
64 IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 
 
 waste precious time in useless opposition ! His frail hold 
 on life may fail even while we talk, and I will not be 
 dissuaded." 
 
 Harte sits down, with a curious expression in his strongly- 
 marked face. Accustomed all his rugged life to brook no 
 opposition, it is a novel sensation to him to yield. With a 
 man his course of action would have been clear. In that 
 case he could have simplified matters in a twinkling by 
 pitching the obstinate individual through the window. The 
 only argument he knows is force, and this he cannot apply 
 to a woman. His strong nature is powerless before Helen's 
 headstrong will, and he unwillingly resigns himself to the 
 situation and says no more. 
 
 It is a strange scene. The flickering flame of the pen- 
 dent oil-lamp, though augmented by the light of two wax 
 candles guttering in the necks of empty beer-bottles, barely 
 suffices to relieve the gloom of the rude chamber. At one 
 side of the bed, with his back against the wall, sits the huge 
 bushman, looking dogged and unhappy. On the other is 
 the doctor, busy with his instruments ; and at the sick 
 man's head stands Helen, her bosom bare and bleeding, 
 while her long hair, uncoiled, falls in dark, waving masses 
 to the floor. 
 
 Outside, the ceaseless drip, drip of water from the eaves 
 falls with monotonous cadence, and through the thin bark 
 partition can be heard the ticking of the clock and the 
 muffled voices of the miners drinking at the bar. 
 
 ' ' I have no proper instruments for the operation of trans- 
 fusion," says the doctor, breaking the silence. " We shall 
 have to be content with an improvisation and the method 
 known as hydrostatic pressure." 
 
 He takes a glass tube from his case as he speaks and 
 holds its middle in the flame of one of the candles. When 
 the glass is softened by heat he draws the two ends asunder, 
 thus forming two tubes, each tapering to a point. One of 
 these he affixes to a piece of rubber piping, in the other 
 end of which he inserts a glass funnel. This rude appli- 
 ance he washes in a solution of boracic acid, and his impro- 
 visation is complete. He beckons Harte to come round to 
 hold the funnel. With a few rapid strokes of a keen scal- 
 pel he opens the median cephalic vein in Helen's arm, and 
 
IN THE "NEVER NEVER COUNTRY." 65 
 
 the red stream pours forth into the funnel held to receive it. 
 Then, opening the median basilic vein in the sick man's 
 arm, he inserts the point of the canula, and Helen's life- 
 blood begins to flow into Lyndon's empty veins. 
 
 When the operation is completed Le Harne applies a 
 dressing to both incisions, and prevails upon Helen to allow 
 him to re-dress the wound in her side, which is still 
 persistently bleeding. 
 
 " If you need me again," he says, as he ties the band- 
 age, ' ' you will find me in the bar. I trust, however, I 
 shall not be needed, for I have done all that surgery can do 
 to save his life. The issue depends upon the latent strength 
 of his constitution." 
 
 " Leave me, Harte," says Helen, when the doctor goes. 
 " I will take the first watch. I am not in the least tired," 
 she adds, observing the frown of disapproval that clouds 
 Harte' s face. "To-morrow, no doubt, I shall feel the 
 fatigue of the journey, and then your turn will come." 
 
 Harte, having learned the futility of opposition to her 
 wishes, utters no remonstrance, and silently but unwillingly 
 withdraws. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Harte, on leaving the sick-room at Helen's request, 
 proceeds to the other end of the building, and passes the 
 time pacing restlessly to and fro along the veranda. 
 
 " Strange it ain't down yet, but it can't be long now," he 
 mutters, half audibly, as he stops to light his pipe. 
 
 It is eleven p.m. The rain has ceased, and the pale moon 
 sheds a fitful light upon the sodden earth through remnants 
 of scudding cloud. There is something in the scene that is 
 impressive even to the unimaginative bushman, accustomed 
 as he is to the varied aspects of Nature in the vast solitudes 
 of the ' ' Never Never Country. ' ' 
 
 What a strange, weird land it is ! doubly strange and 
 weird when the shades of night have fallen. What mon- 
 strous shapes marshal in the deep gloom of the canon ! 
 Gaunt and ghostly trees ! Rugged and fire-scathed rocks I 
 e 6* 
 
66 IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 
 
 Crag piled upon crag in wild upheaval, and jagged peaks 
 riven with darkly-yawning chasms that bear mute witness 
 of the primeval cataclysm when molten rocks seethed in 
 hissing seas and Nature writhed in the throes of birth. 
 Eons of ages ere man was, the Southern Cross nightly 
 gleamed upon this wild, unearthl)'^ landscape and marked no 
 change. The star the shepherds saw of old shone upon the 
 same unbroken solitude. Near twice a thousand years have 
 fled, and again it is Christmas-eve. But how changed the 
 scene ! Man, in his lust for gold, has defiled Nature's sanc- 
 tuary. 
 
 Since noon it has been raining as it only can rain in the 
 tropic belt, — a steady fall of one unbroken sheet of water, 
 pouring down with the rush of a cataract. 
 
 Since sundown the creek has risen rapidly, but little reck 
 the miners in the lower camp. They are celebrating that 
 festive season by drinking themselves drunk on fiery liquors 
 in the "Welcome Nugget." From the windows of that 
 vile resort wild strains of discord float, for there is a ball, — 
 save the mark ! — given by " Pretty Dick," the proprietor, 
 to a select circle of friends. Bursts of unholy revelry, 
 obscene songs, and brutal jests desecrate the hour. Lewd 
 women, — offscourings of the great Southern cities, — their 
 blood fired by strong drink, fling the last shreds of modesty 
 to the winds, and tread the wild measures of the danse du 
 ventre amid the coarse plaudits of their drunken admirers. 
 
 Fast and furious grows the fun ! The orgie is at its 
 height when the wheezy clock in the outer bar strikes the 
 midnight hour and ushers in the Christmas-morn. But, 
 hark ! What strange sound is that ? A low but gradually- 
 increasing roar, as of distant but continuous thunder. It 
 rises above the thud of the dance, the discord of fiddle and 
 concertina, and drowns the drunken shout. Silence falls 
 upon the godless throng, and each gazes upon his neighbor 
 with blanching cheek and inquiring eye. 
 
 The strange roar draws nearer and nearer. At last its 
 import dawns upon the revellers, and with a wild scream of 
 terror they pour forth into the night. Too late ! No 
 human aid can save them from that rushing wall of water, 
 crested with curled and foaming wave ! Too late, the tardy 
 shriek for mercy ! The mountain torrent, swollen with the 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 67 
 
 tropic rains, is even now upon them. Another moment and 
 the thunderous tide has swept their bodies onward, and the 
 lower camp is buried forty feet beneath the flood. 
 
 ^ ik rfc jJc ^tc 5k rkz 5k 
 
 When Harte leaves her, Helen seats herself by the sick 
 man's side. She is strangely happy now, and an ineffable 
 sense of peace pervades her whole being. She feels in- 
 tuitively that Lyndon will live, and — oh, sweet reflection ! 
 — he will owe his life to her. 
 
 For a long time she sits thus watching his faint breathing. 
 At last a dreamy languorous feeling steals over her wearied 
 senses ; the nervous strain she has borne so long is breaking, 
 and exhausted nature clamors for repose. She makes an 
 effort to shake off" this increasing somnolence, but the heavy 
 lids droop again and again. She kneels 
 
 " Full lowly by the corners of his bed," 
 
 and lays her cheek against the sick man's face. 
 
 " I am very tired," she murmurs in his unconscious ear ; 
 " but if I must sleep, it shall be near you." 
 
 There is a couch at the other end of the room, and when 
 she tries to drag this beside the bed she discovers that she 
 is growing very faint and weak. She bends once more over 
 the sick man, in whose waxen cheeks the faint glow of re- 
 turning vigor imparted by her life-blood is beginning to 
 appear, and imprints a long kiss on his cold brow. 
 
 "Good-night, my love," she whispers, softly. "To- 
 morrow no longer mine." 
 
 Then reclining upon the couch she has placed near the 
 bed, she clasps his hand in hers. The tired eyelids close, 
 the long lashes droop upon the pallid cheek, and she sinks 
 insensibly into a heavy, dreamless slumber. And Harte, 
 returning to the sick-room as the purple streaks of dawn 
 brighten in the eastern sky, finds her, as he thinks, still sleep- 
 ing. But when the first rays of the rising sun stream through 
 the lattice, the bushman sees it is a sleep that knows no 
 waking. The generous heart, drained of its crimson tide 
 to give another life, has ceased to beat, for in the darker 
 hours that precede the dawn the tired spirit has passed into 
 the shadows of the dim Unknown. 
 
68 IN THE "never never COUNTRY," 
 
 The statuesque face, so life-like in its tranquil calm, looks 
 like a sculptured master-piece from the cunning hand of 
 Phidias, — 
 
 " for she did not seem as dead, 
 
 But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled." 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 Weeks have passed since the rain. The creek flashes 
 merrily in the sunlight over the smooth stones in its accus- 
 tomed channel as though no mountain torrent had ever 
 disturbed its crystal pools. 
 
 The " claims," silted up by the flood, have been reopened, 
 and the miners of the upper camp delve for gold in the 
 sands of the gorge as feverishly as before. The catastrophe 
 that overwhelmed the lower camp is but an ordinary event 
 in their adventurous lives, and it is forgotten even before 
 the transient traces of the storm have disappeared. 
 
 For many days Lyndon hovers between life and death in 
 the darkened room at the "Golden Dawn," but the nat- 
 ural strength of his constitution, fostered by Harte's watch- 
 ful nursing and Edith's tender care, triumphs in the end. 
 
 One calm summer evening, in the early period of his 
 convalescence, Edith leads him — for he is yet gaunt and 
 feeble and the mere shadow of his former stalwart self — 
 down to the belt of myall where he received his wound. 
 There, in a secluded clearing, — where the lyre-bird comes 
 to flaunt his graceful plumes unseen of man, and the golden 
 wattle-trees load the air with their sweet perfume, — he sees 
 a new-made grave among the ferns. Its head is marked by 
 a rough-hewn shaft of glistening quartz. About the stone 
 the wild clematis twines, and through the leaves he reads 
 the one word. " Helen" carved in a smoothly-chiselled 
 space. 
 
 And by that solitary grave he first learns from Edith the 
 particulars of his illness. As he listens to the story, mem- 
 ories of Helen — the sad episode in her Hfe, her patient 
 resignation, her classic face and queenly grace, and the 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY." 69 
 
 many happy hours he spent with her beneath the shade of 
 those very trees — crowd fast upon him. And when he is 
 told of the sacrifice she made to give him Hfe, he reahzes 
 the strength of her unselfish devotion. A convulsive 
 choking he has not known since childhood's tearful days 
 swells in one huge sob to his throat, his eyes grow dim 
 with a sudden mist, and, as he turns feebly away, he recalls 
 the words of a long-forgotten verse, — 
 
 " Greater love hath no man than this." 
 
 In the days to come, as his vigor returns, Edith many a 
 time walks down with him to the self-same spot. And oft 
 at eve, as they sit and talk, happy in their mutual love, the 
 bell-bird in the copse hard by the grave intones his marvel- 
 lous note, — a clear and silvery tolling that swells upon the 
 passing breeze, like the mellow vesper chime of some dis- 
 tant forest campanile. 
 
 Their happiness is no longer marred by the shadow of 
 parental disapproval, for when the squatter, returning 
 from the coast to Damper Creek, learns from his foreman 
 that " Miss Edith went off of a suddent with a stranger 
 woman from the Gully, and left no word behint," he rides 
 over to the camp to ascertain the why and wherefore of her 
 going. 
 
 When he discovers the state of affairs at the Gully his 
 anger at first knows no bounds. His indignation cools, 
 however, when he finds that Lyndon is no longer a penni- 
 less adventurer, but is now to some extent a man of wealth, 
 with a prospect of becoming indefinitely wealthier, since he 
 holds a half-share in a quartz-lode of great richness, recently 
 discovered by his friend Harte ; and as wealth is the squat- 
 ter's criterion of excellence in a suitor, the obdurate old 
 man, after making a transparent show of reluctance as a 
 species of compromise with his dignity, yields to his 
 daughter's wishes, and sets the seal of his approval on 
 her choice. As a si7ie qua non to this act of parental con- 
 cession, he exacts from Lyndon — a somewhat unnecessary 
 measure, Lyndon thinks — an assurance that he will abandon 
 his adventurous life and settle down to pastoral pursuits at 
 Wollattara Station. 
 
7© IN THE "never never COUNTRY. 
 
 And so it is arranged that they shall leave for the South 
 vid Damper Creek as soon as Lyndon is strong enough to 
 undertake the journey. As a preliminary to the approach- 
 ing exodus, the squatter sells his station at Damper Creek 
 to old Van Steen at a very profitable figure, and Lyndon 
 and Harte dispose of their valuable ' ' claim' ' to the repre- 
 sentative of a Melbourne syndicate for a sum sufficient to 
 secure each of them a handsome competence for life. 
 
 Soon the day arrives which is to be their last in Dirty 
 Mary's Gully. Harte having arranged with old Van Steen 
 for the horses, and instructed the black boy Jim to have 
 them ready at the veranda by four o'clock the following 
 morning, accompanies Lyndon to the bar of the " Golden 
 Dawn." Here they comply with the Antipodean custom 
 of "shouting" for all hands before taking their departure, 
 a proceeding which meets with the unqualified approval of 
 the individual known as Yank, who remarks, with genial 
 generality, after disposing of numerous "nobblers," that it 
 is ' ' real nice to be /seated in a country as encourages sech 
 free institootions," — an observation with which Blue Peter 
 evinces his entire coincidence by expressing a sanguinary 
 
 desire to witness the eternal cremation of " every 
 
 cuss" who shall advance an assertion to the contrary. 
 
 Next morning the five travellers — the squatter, Harte, 
 Edith, Lyndon, and the black boy Jim — are astir long be- 
 fore daybreak. The horses, saddled and packed, neigh 
 shrilly at the hitching-posts. Le Harne, "The Professor," 
 Blue Peter, Yank, Bristol Bill, and other worthies of the 
 Gully, are assembled on the veranda to wish them " God- 
 speed." 
 
 There are many final hand-shakings and good wishes. 
 Blue Peter alone is strangely silent. He feels that he can- 
 not find adequate expression for his regrets in Edith's 
 presence; but at the last moment he beckons Harte and 
 Lyndon aside, and gives vent to his feelings in a valedictory 
 burst of unexampled profanity. 
 
 And then the little cavalcade rides slowly down the wind- 
 ing path ; past the belt of myall, past the flood-swept site 
 of Bristol Bill's humpy up the opposite ascent, and round 
 the bend. At the end of the great curve they halt for a few 
 moments to take a last look at their late abode ere the turn 
 
IN THE "never never COUNTRY. 7 1 
 
 in the path hides it from their sight. Two hundred feet 
 beneath hes the wide circular sweep of sand, now lost to 
 view in the rising morning mists, where once the lower 
 camp stood. On the other side of the vast amphitheatre 
 they can dimly discern the shadowy outlines of the scat- 
 tered tents and humpies of the upper camp. But as they 
 look, the shroud-like vapors roll away in the bright beams 
 of breaking day ; the towering peaks beyond stand out 
 sharp and clear against the roseate glory of the coming- 
 dawn, and the shadows haunting the gloomy depths of the 
 gorge flee one by one before the growing radiance, until 
 the headstone that marks the grave of Helen gleams 
 through the vanishing pall of mist like a spot of pure white 
 snow on the dark face of the cliff, as 
 
 " Morn in the white wake of the morning star 
 Comes furrowing all the orient into gold." 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 Three-Mile Bend was a typical Australian mining- 
 camp. There was the usual mixture of languages, creeds, 
 and nationalities, and representatives of almost every clime 
 mingled fraternally or otherwise beneath its glowing north- 
 ern skies. It differed perhaps from some of its prototypes 
 in one respect, — it was richer. The nuggets lay in bushels 
 beneath the yellow sands that formed the bed of the huge 
 curve in the creek from which the camp took its name. It 
 was situated in a rugged chain of mountains near the Roper 
 River, in the Northern Territory. Remote as the spot was 
 from civilization, the magnetic influence of the royal metal, 
 finding its subtle way over mountain, desert, creek, and 
 plain, kindled the a2i7-i sacra fames in the hearts of hun- 
 dreds of eager fortune-seekers in the far-off cities of the 
 south, and impelled a multitude of adventurous spirits to 
 brave the hardships of those distant wilds. 
 
 There were exciting times in the early days. An insulting 
 remark often cost the daring speaker his life ; men settled 
 old scores — new ones too, for that matter — with the knife ; 
 and whenever the stillness of the night was broken by the 
 sharp crack of a pistol-shot, — as it frequently was, — those 
 who had retired to rest simply turned in their blankets and 
 muttered, " Another ' chum' lost the number of his mess." 
 There was no restraint. Law and order did not exist even 
 in name. The lust for gold aroused the basest passions of 
 the human heart in all their fierce intensity. For gold, 
 men quarrelled, fought, and died. For gold, half the deca- 
 logue was set at naught. For gold, honor was lost, con- 
 science stifled, and friendship betrayed. ' ' Aurum omnes, 
 victa pietate colerunt, " 
 72 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 73 
 
 II. 
 
 Dick Hogan and Charles Inglefield were two among 
 the many who went to the field, Hogan with the first rush, 
 Inglefield some twelve months later. Two individuals 
 more dissimilar in every respect it would be impossible to 
 conceive. Theirs was one of those incongruous friendships 
 so often seen in mining-camps. Inglefield was young, 
 handsome, and graceful ; Hogan was middle-aged, rugged, 
 and plain. Inglefield was a Melbourne 'Varsity man, and 
 consequently educated, while Hogan' s mental attainments 
 were of the most ordinary kind. Inglefield was shallow, 
 selfish, and unprincipled ; Hogan was simple, generous, and 
 true-hearted. 
 
 Their connection was of some years' standing, and dated 
 from a day when Hogan jumped from an incoming steamer 
 in Cleveland Bay and perilled his own life to save that of 
 Inglefield, who had been accidentally knocked overboard 
 from the deck of a passing cutter. That was a fortunate 
 day in more ways than one for Inglefield. He had landed 
 in Queensland several months before with a few hundred 
 pounds, a liberal education, and an all but hopeless pros- 
 pect of making amends for a wasted life in Victoria by a 
 new start in the younger colony. He found, as many be- 
 fore him had done, that the sine qua non of success in the 
 new country was work, and hard work at that. But for 
 work of any kind he had no aptitude or inclination what- 
 ever. At the time of his rescue by Hogan he had done 
 nothing, his little capital had dwindled to two figures, and 
 the outlook for the future was particularly dismal. 
 
 Hogan at that time was a simple-hearted, ignorant miner, 
 who could barely write his own name. Sensitively con- 
 scious of his deficiencies, he had at once recognized in 
 Inglefield a mind superior to his own, and he looked up to 
 the University man with the respect ignorance always con- 
 cedes to education. 
 
 Inglefield was at first amused and then bored by this 
 rude homage, but finding that his preserver, so far from 
 wishing to terminate the acquaintanceship, seemed to take a 
 sort of fraternal interest in him, he accepted the situation 
 with a serenity none the less philosophic in that Hogan, 
 D 7 
 
74 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 with the effusive generosity characteristic of his class, in- 
 sisted on paying- all the bills. He became still more recon- 
 ciled to the infliction when he learned that Hogan was a 
 successful miner, with the result of several profitable enter- 
 prises on the Heberton tin-fields lying to his credit in the 
 Queensland National Bank in the shape of a snug balance 
 of two thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. 
 
 In view of this comparative wealth Inglefield felt no com- 
 punction in requesting a loan of fifty pounds, and when, in 
 response, Hogan handed him a check with a vermicular 
 signature for twice that amount he, figuratively speaking, 
 kicked himself for his moderation. 
 
 One evening as they were dallying over the third bottle 
 in the smoking-room at their hotel, Hogan said, in the rude 
 vernacular of the bush, " Pardner, you are a scholard an' 
 I ain't. Now, I've spent 'bout all the time I want to in 
 this yere city, an' I'm thinkin' of goin' up to Cairns nex' 
 week for the Mulgrave to prospect a bit. I was made for 
 work, /was, an' you wasn't. No offence, I can see for 
 myself. You're what they call a gentleman, j/i?^ are, an' 
 I ain't. But what I want to put to ye is this : as I said 
 afore, I'm no scholard, Fvi not, but I want to I'arn; it's 
 hard work doin' business when you can't neither read nor 
 write, an' bein' as you ain't got no money — no offence, 
 ye' re welcome to half I've got — or ye wouldn't ha' bor- 
 rowed o' me, an' seein' as ye seem to ha' had plenty o' 
 schoolin' , what I put to ye is this : you come along wi' me, 
 an' we'll go prospectin' here an' there, we will, — I'm 
 reckoned pretty lucky, / am, — an' I'll do the work an' ye 
 can take half the dust, providin' you I'arn me to read an* 
 write an' figger some, for, darn my skin, I never had no 
 schoolin', /didn't." 
 
 Inglefield' s eyes gleamed at this proposition. An arrange- 
 ment in which he received half the profits while the other 
 undertook all the labor — for he did not look upon his 
 tutorial duties in the light of work — suited his temperament 
 exactly. But he thought it politic to affect to be unable to 
 fall in with the scheme ; it would not do for a man of his 
 superior breeding to be patronized by this bush boor. 
 Hogan, however, was not to be denied. He repeated his 
 request, as Inglefield had calculated he would do, and this 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 75 
 
 afforded the latter the pretext of yielding to pressure. So, 
 as he phrased it, " he subordinated his personal interests to 
 the claims of friendship," a spirit of magnanimous self-denial 
 that touched Hogan very deeply. 
 
 The preliminaries having been agreed upon, Inglefield 
 laid aside his ' ' store clothes' ' and donned the moleskin 
 trousers, laced leggings, red shirt, and broad-brimmed hat 
 of the typical miner, a costume that became his graceful 
 person to picturesque advantage. 
 
 The curious compact between them was rigidly kept. 
 During the following two years Inglefield received quite a 
 respectable sum as his moiety of the profits resulting from 
 his partner's native shrewdness and judgment, while Hogan' s 
 humble ambition "to read an' write an' figger some" was 
 not only attained, but he learned to express himself in tol- 
 erable English, and acquired quite a little fund of general 
 knowledge besides. 
 
 At Charters Towers they heard of the discovery of gold 
 on the Roper River. Hogan, believing the new field to be 
 one of great promise, proposed to go, but Inglefield de- 
 murred. The novelty of a miner's nomadic existence had 
 worn away. Moreover, as a result of Hogan' s labor he 
 again had a bank account, and he longed once more for the 
 excitement and dissipations of his past life. At Townsville 
 they parted, but not before Hogan had exacted a promise 
 from his whilom partner to come north and rejoin him if 
 the field should turn out well. 
 
 " I consider you my partner yet," he had said, with 
 moist eyes, as they shook hands for the last time at the 
 gangway of the steamship " Warrego," " and half of what 
 I strike is yours ; and I'll write to the post-office at Mel- 
 bourne and let you know how my luck pans out." The 
 simple miner felt the parting keenly, for during the two 
 years of their association together he had become warmly 
 attached to his city-bred chum. But Inglefield at heart 
 despised his humble friend. His shallow, selfish nature 
 experienced no regret at the severance of old ties. He 
 sailed southward with a light heart and a heavy purse, 
 intent only on the meretricious pleasures to be purchased 
 with his friend's hard-won gold. 
 
76 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 III. 
 
 She was plump, petite, and pretty, with a profusion of 
 golden hair, a pair of laughing, violet eyes, and a rose-bud 
 of a mouth, which, when she smiled, rippled into dimples, 
 and disclosed two perfect rows of -dazzlingly white and 
 even teeth that gleamed like pearls in a coral setting. 
 Her delicate loveliness was a revelation to the miners of 
 Three-Mile Bend, and aroused quite a furor of admiration 
 in their rugged bosoms. It is true there were one or two 
 other women in the camp, but they were middle-aged, 
 slatternly creatures, whose presence did not inspire any 
 great amount of chivalric enthusiasm. Compared with 
 these she appeared to the astonished miners like a radiant 
 vision from another world. 
 
 Her arrival in the camp was the sensation of the hour, 
 and robbed the current topic of conversation — the shoot- 
 ing of Red-nosed Bob by Whistling Pete — of all its interest. 
 They called her the Queen of the Ranges, an appellation 
 which, however, soon became abbreviated to Queenie. 
 
 Two months agone she had been a bar-maid in a swell 
 hotel in Sydney, with but one desire in life, — to be rich, — 
 and with no apparent prospect of ever attaining that am- 
 bition. The husband of the woman with whom she then 
 lived was an ex-miner, and when, seized with the gold 
 fever, he announced his intention of taking his wife and 
 family to the new El Dorado, she resolved to go with 
 them. An idea had occurred to her practical mind. She 
 had a little capital of some three hundred pounds, and 
 with this she determined to purchase a stock of liquors in 
 Sydney, for consignment to the port in the Arafura Sea, 
 and transhipment to the new gold-field. She would go 
 there and retail them herself 
 
 "There is five hundred per cent, profit in it," she had 
 said to herself, ' ' and who knows but that I may marry 
 some lucky digger?" 
 
 " Go, by all means," the ex-miner had said, in answer tc> 
 her request for advice. ' ' A hotel on a gold-field is worth 
 more than a well-paying claim, and with your face you 
 ought to draw half the trade of the camp. Being a car- 
 penter, I can do a little towards giving you a start. I 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 77 
 
 haven't forgot the time you nursed my wife through her 
 sickness, and I'll build a shanty for you first thing after 
 we get there. Yes, go, by all means. ' ' 
 
 And this is how she came to be in Three-Mile Bend. 
 She was not slow to see the impression she had made, 
 and she determined to profit by it. As soon as her stock- 
 in-trade arrived by the pack-train she began by revolution- 
 izing the hotel system of Three-Mile Bend. There were 
 half a dozen other "hotels" in the camp, dirty, stuffy little 
 dens, built of bark, where bad whiskey was dispensed in a 
 devil-may-care sort of a way across an unplaned board that 
 did duty for a bar. " Queenie's," as the miners called her 
 place, was a spacious, well-lighted "shanty." The bar 
 was covered with marbled oil-cloth, and kept scrupulously 
 clean. In other places men stood up to drink for lack of 
 facilities to sit down. Queenie had several tables made. 
 These she also neatly covered, and her patrons were thus 
 enabled to play a game of cards in comfort whenever they 
 wished. She kept her liquors in tastefully-labelled bottles 
 instead of forbidding-looking jars, and she knew how to mix 
 all kinds of drinks that were grateful to palates weary of a 
 long course of fiery whiskey and flat beer. It was wonder- 
 ful, too, to see the moral power she exercised over the 
 minds of these lawless men. In the other " hotels" fights 
 and shooting scrapes were of nightly occurrence. Nothing 
 of the kind ever happened at Queenie's. One night two 
 miners had grown quarrelsome over a game of cards. 
 Knives were drawn, and there was a prospect of bloodshed, 
 when she rushed fearlessly in between them and, with flash- 
 ing eyes and imperious mien, ordered them to desist. The 
 two men stared at her in stupid amazement for a minute or 
 two, then they laughed and shook hands. This courageous 
 action on the little woman's part endeared her to the hearts 
 of the whole community. After that night, if any man had 
 attempted to create a disturbance, she could have counted 
 on a dozen stalwart champions to throw the brawler out. 
 
 She understood their wild natures exactly. She had a 
 pleasant greeting for every one, and, in the evenings, as 
 she glided about the room, smilingly executing her numer- 
 ous orders, the eyes of these rough men followed her 
 dainty figure with honest admiration. There was not a 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 man among them who would not have been willing to 
 do and dare anything for her sake. 
 
 " I never see the likes," said Whistling Pete, the camp 
 oracle, to a circle of bibulous satellites. "The inflooence 
 o' that little critter is somethin' amazin'. Look at Big 
 Mike. He never shaved for ten year, an' now he's gone 
 an' cut off his beard ; he parts his hair in the middle, an' 
 wears store pants all the time, an' all on account o' her. 
 Then there's Fossicking Bob, who never was known to 
 put on a clean shirt till the one he was wearin' fell to 
 pieces, so to speak. He's had his hair cut, an' he spruces 
 hisself up every night, an' sports a biled dickey an' a red 
 tie. Why, I believe Whiskey Jim 'ud take to drinkin' 
 soft stuff if she arskt him. Lord, what fools these wim- 
 men do make o' us, to be sure." And Whistling Pete 
 held his whiskey against the light, looked through it criti- 
 cally for a moment with one eye closed, and then slowly 
 swallowed it with an air of profound meditation. Whistling 
 Pete being the deadliest shot in the camp, his remarks 
 were followed by a running comment of acquiescence. 
 
 No wonder, then, that the little adventuress absorbed fully 
 three-fourths of the patronage of the camp, and that dust 
 and nuggets flowed into her coffers in a continuous golden 
 stream. During the first three months she had no less 
 than six offers of marriage. To attain her ambition she 
 was quite prepared to sacrifice sentiment to riches, and 
 was perfectly willing to marry any man, however uncouth, 
 if he only had the recommendation of sufficient wealth. 
 But her would-be lovers, though owners of rich claims, 
 spent everything they earned, and she had learned enough 
 of mining vicissitudes to know that even a ' ' ten-ounce-a- 
 day" claim may " play out" all at once and leave its owner 
 with no more capital than a pick. 
 
 There was only one man in the camp who came up to her 
 mercenary ideal. His name was Dick Hogan. The miners 
 called him "Lucky" Hogan, and not without reason. 
 His claim, which was by far the richest in the diggings, 
 had yielded "pocket" after "pocket" of nuggets. Hogan 
 was a quiet, reserved man, who lived a solitary life in a tent 
 remote from the camp. He was seldom seen away from 
 the vicinity of his claim, save when he came into the Bend 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 79 
 
 to deposit his gold at the Bank Agency, and he had never 
 visited Queenie's. 
 
 She had several times heard of " Lucky" Hogan and his 
 valuable claim. " If I find these tales are true," said the 
 sprightly little adventuress, "I'll marry him," and she 
 laughed a gay little laugh at her own conceit in leaving 
 Mr. Hogan' s possible objection to the arrangement out 
 of the question altogether. So one evening she addressed 
 a cautious inquiry on the subject of Hogan' s wealth to 
 Whistling Pete, who, as a rule, knew a great deal more 
 about his neighbor's business than he did about his own. 
 
 "Why, bless yer pretty face, miss," said Whistling Pete, 
 with bush gallantry, "Dick Hogan's claim is a perfect 
 Mount Morgan.* It's bin pannin' out fifty ounces a day 
 for the past three weeks, an' only yesterday he struck a 
 vein o' quartz in a new prospect that'll likely go ten ounces 
 to the ton. Why, he must ha' took ten thousand pounds' 
 worth o' gold out o' the hole at least, an' he's refused an 
 offer o' thirty thousand, cash down, from the bank since 
 
 he struck the reef, an' I shouldn't be surprised if " 
 
 At this point a man appeared in the door-way, and Whist- 
 ling Pete paused. He bent over the counter and, placing 
 his hand to his mouth, said, in a stage whisper, "That's 
 him, miss. That's Lucky Hogan hisself " 
 
 Queenie glanced towards the door, and saw an unkempt- 
 looking man, apparently about forty-five years of age, 
 dressed in a miner's working-suit. He walked with a 
 slight stoop, and his grizzled beard was plentifully sprinkled 
 with gray. His bearing was awkward and uncouth, and he 
 had never in his best days been more than an ordinary- 
 looking man. He had only one good feature, — his eyes, 
 which were large, dark, luminous orbs, soft and tender as a 
 woman's. In them one could plainly read the trustful, 
 generous nature of the rugged Croesus. "Rough," thought 
 Queenie, "very rough ; but also very simple, and very rich." 
 
 Whistling Pete left the bar and walked over to the soli- 
 tary table at which Hogan had taken his seat. He was 
 curious to know the meaning of the lucky digger's unusual 
 visit to Queenie's. 
 
 * The richest gold deposit in Australia, perhaps in the world. 
 
8o THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 " Good-evenin', Mr. Hogan," he said, deferentially. 
 ' ' Good-evenin' , sir. It ain' t often we have the pleasure 
 o' seein' you among us here." 
 
 "No," said Hogan. "That's a fact. This is the first 
 time I've been so far from my claim ; but I heard you had 
 tables up here, and I came around the bend to write a let- 
 ter. I want to bring my partner up here from Melbourne." 
 
 " Why, I never knowed you had a partner, Mr. Hogan," 
 said Whistling Pete, whose curiosity was aroused at this 
 piece of news. 
 
 " Yes," said Hogan, who was in a communicative mood. 
 "Yes, he's a young chap, — a city chap. I met him in 
 Townsville when I was last in Queensland, and took quite 
 a liking to him. Mine is a lonely sort of life," he continued, 
 half sadly, "and I'm longing for companionship. Then, 
 again, I've got some sort of a complaint here," — he placed 
 his hand over his heart, — " Anjner pectris I think the Port 
 Darwin doctor called it, — I didn't rightly catch the name, 
 — which takes me in stiffish spells at times. My partner 
 promised to come if I wrote for him, and, as I'm likely to 
 go off the hooks all of a sudden, I thought I'd have him 
 
 by in case anything should happen, and then " A 
 
 silvery voice interrupted him. It said, — 
 
 " Mr. Hogan, what shall I bring you to drink ?" 
 
 The miner looked up, and saw the lovely face and won- 
 derful eyes of the little adventuress looking smilingly down 
 into his own rugged visage. He had often heard extrava- 
 gant praises of this woman's beauty, but without any degree 
 of interest. All his life had been spent in the bush, and he 
 had no higher ideal of womanhood than the shanty-keepers' 
 wives with whom he occasionally came in contact in his 
 wanderings. Queenie's dainty, piquant beauty took him 
 quite by surprise. He stared at her in speechless amaze- 
 ment, until Whistling Pete, who chafed at any delay, how- 
 ever slight, with a drink in the near perspective, put an 
 end to the pause by ordering whiskey for himself and writing 
 materials for "Mr. Hogan." Hogan gazed after her in 
 rapt admiration as she went to execute the order. Though 
 nothing more than a perfect specimen of a very ordinary 
 type of beauty, to the untutored miner she appeared like 
 a goddess amid such rude surroundings. His eyes dwelt 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 8l 
 
 upon the supple curves of her small and graceful figure, 
 her slender white hands, her snowy throat with its circlet 
 of creamy lace, and caught the gleaming sheen of her dead- 
 gold hair as she moved to and fro in the lamp-light. And 
 when she came back with the order, and turned her great 
 violet eyes upon him and smiled, a flush arose to his 
 weather-beaten cheek, and he dropped his gaze in awk- 
 ward confusion. 
 
 Before he left he wrote a long letter to " Charles Ingle- 
 field, Esq.," telHng hhn all about the diggings, and remind- 
 ing him of his promise, and that " Charles Inglefield, Esq.," 
 might not be prevented from coming by lack of funds, he 
 inclosed a draft on the Bank of Victoria for two hundred 
 pounds. And then he bade her good-night, and walked 
 thoughtfully home to his tent. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Some weeks later a young man stood on the steps of 
 the Melbourne post-office reading a letter he had just called 
 for. He was evidently surprised at its contents, and he 
 read it half aloud in disjointed scraps, mingled with run- 
 ning comments of his own. 
 
 "Took three thousand pounds out in three months." 
 "By Jove!" "Offered thirty thousand pounds in cash 
 for the reef" "Whew! Why, damme, the old boor 
 will be a millionaire!" "Living all by myself and feel 
 lonely." "The devil he does; so do I." "You prom- 
 ised to come north if my luck panned out well." "So 
 I did, but I did not expect my own luck to turn out so 
 cursed rough." "I should be very pleased to see you ; 
 will you come?" "Will I come? You bet I'll come, 
 my unsophisticated friend ; I want some of that thirty 
 thousand pounds very badly, — especially just now." " I've 
 always considered you my partner, my boy, and half of 
 what I've made is yours, and half the claim also." " By 
 Jove I this is the devil's own luck." " I send you a draft 
 on the Bank of Victoria to meet your expenses." "It's 
 / 
 
82 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 deuced fortunate for me you do." And "Charles Ingle- 
 field, Esq.," tore the letter to fragments, and, having re- 
 freshed himself with a brandy and soda on the strength 
 of the good news, walked jauntily to the Bank of Victoria, 
 where he cashed his draft. 
 
 Thence he went to the office of the Australian Steam 
 Navigation Company and secured a cabin passage in the 
 next steamer for the north. 
 
 V. 
 
 After his first visit Hogan became a regular nightly 
 frequenter of Queenie's. She was the first beautiful 
 woman he had seen, and her beauty completely fascinated 
 him. He soon appreciated the difference between the 
 comfortable bar and his comfortless tent. Every night 
 he was greeted with a smiling welcome, the easiest chair 
 and snuggest corner were kept for him, and his glass of 
 grog was always mixed exactly to his taste. And Queenie 
 would come and sit opposite to him each evening, and 
 laugh and chat with him in her own naive and charming 
 manner until he became intoxicated with her presence. 
 He had no intimates in Three-Mile Bend, and, like many 
 men who lead a solitary life, he was addicted to a habit of 
 expressing his thoughts aloud. 
 
 "This won't do, Dick, my boy," he said to himself, at 
 the end of a month; "you're getting too fond of that 
 little woman. What can an innocent, delicate young thing 
 like that have in common with a rough, weather-beaten 
 hulk like you. She's made of different clay to you ;" and 
 he looked down at his knotted, toil-worn hands and sighed. 
 "You'll have to knock off going up there, or you'll be 
 making a fool of yourself" So by a mighty effort of self- 
 restraint he remained away for three nights, and was miser- 
 able. For the first time in his life he experienced the joy- 
 lessness of his existence. He looked out upon the circling 
 chain of sun-baked hills and the wide expanse of brown 
 and barren plain. All his toilsome days had been spent 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 83 
 
 amid solitudes like this, and the only gleam of sunshine 
 that had brightened his lonely life had been his friendship 
 for Inglefield. But now his solitary heart yearned for some- 
 thing to love, something to cherish. He was rich, and 
 could afford to give up this wandering, friendless existence. 
 More than once in his reveries he caught himself dreaming 
 of a placid retirement in some lovely spot in the south. 
 If he could only believe that Queenie would be willing to 
 share that retirement with him, he would indeed be happy ; 
 for he had learned to love the little woman with all the 
 strength of his rugged, faithful nature. But how could this 
 fair young creature in all the pride of her youth and beauty 
 possibly care anything for him, a gray-headed, middle-aged 
 man, old enough to be her father ? 
 
 "No," he said to himself, sadly; "I'm too rough, too 
 old; such happiness is not for me. I'll go near her no 
 more." But his strength of will failed him. On the fourth 
 night he was again in his accustomed corner at the hotel, 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Hogan," she said, with her sweetest smile, 
 when he entered, ' ' I am so glad to see you ! I have missed 
 you so much. I was beginning to fear you were ill." 
 
 The miner's sunburnt cheek flushed with pleasure and 
 hope at the warmth of her greeting. Perhaps she cared 
 something for him after all, and that night he walked home 
 with a jauntier step and a lighter heart. " I'll wait a week 
 or two," he said to himself; " she hardly knows me yet." 
 
 Poor, simple-minded Hogan ! She knew him but too 
 well. He wore his heart upon his sleeve, and the keen 
 woman of the world read it like a book, and laughed in 
 secret at her easy conquest. 
 
 Every day now he left off work at noon and went up to 
 the hotel. In the afternoon the bar was deserted, and he 
 could talk to her alone. He always brought her the largest 
 nugget he had found during the morning. Many a time 
 he was on the verge of approaching the subject nearest his 
 heart, but he hesitated at the supreme moment. He was 
 entirely ignorant of amorous amenities, and knew not what 
 to say. 
 
 "This will never do, Dick, my boy," he said to himself 
 one night. "You've got to do the asking, she hasn't. 
 You've known her now nearly two months, and you'd 
 
84 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 better try your luck. ' ' Next morning he went to work at 
 his claim as usual. In the first cradle of dirt he washed he 
 found a nugget of gold of extraordinary size. It was the 
 largest that had been found on the field. " It'll weigh over 
 three pounds, ' ' he said, surveying it with admiration. "It's 
 two days' work in itself, so I'll knock off and take it up to 
 her, and just ask her to take it along with myself. ' ' 
 
 He found Queenie seated at one of the tables in the bar 
 engaged in some feminine occupation. As she came forward 
 to greet him with a smile, he thought she had never looked 
 so lovely. He sat down beside her. Several times he 
 essayed to broach the momentous subject, but each time he 
 was at a loss for words. His manner was nervous and em- 
 barrassed ; he could only talk disconnectedly in an aimless 
 way upon the most commonplace topics. At last he mus- 
 tered up courage to come to the point. " Miss," he said, 
 in a husky voice, and then he gave a great gulp and paused. 
 She sat beside him apparently unconscious of his agitation, 
 though she knew very well what was coming. " Miss," he 
 began again, "I — I — it's a fine day." Now, there had not 
 been a cloud in the sky for months, and the observation 
 was so inapt and unexpected, and was blurted out with such 
 comical solemnity, that she almost laughed outright in 
 his face. But restraining the impulse, she leaned for- 
 ward, gazed out of the window, and said, in a tone of sur- 
 prise, — 
 
 " Why, so it is, Mr. Hogan, a beautiful day," as though 
 she had previously been under the impression that it was 
 raining very hard outside. 
 
 An awkward pause ensued, and Hogan shuffled about 
 uneasily in his chair. At last he drew in a deep breath, as 
 men do when about to undertake some great physical feat, 
 and stammered, "I— I wanted to ask you if— that is, I 
 wanted to say — in fact, I — I — only came over — to — to — 
 make you a present." He put his hand in his pocket and 
 drew forth the nugget. Queenie' s eyes gleamed at the 
 sight of the huge yellow lump of gold. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Hogan, I cannot take it ; at is too kind of 
 you," she said, meaning to take it all the while. He pressed 
 it on her, and she took it with feigned reluctance. Another 
 pause. Her hand toyed with the nugget in her lap. Ho- 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 85 
 
 gan took the slender fingers in his horny palm. She did not 
 withdraw them, but turrned her head away with an admirable 
 assumption of modest confusion, Hogan was emboldened 
 to proceed. 
 
 ' ' Miss, ' ' he said, in a low tone that vibrated with intense 
 earnestness, "I'm only a rough miner, I'm not much to 
 look at as looks go, and I'm getting on in years. But if 
 I'm rough, I've got an honest, manly heart, and it would 
 make me the happiest man in the Territory to-day if — if — 
 you'd take it along with the nugget," 
 
 " Mr. Hogan," she said, with demure look and downcast 
 eyes, "I have long had a sincere regard for you, and if 
 
 you think I could make you happy, I " She paused, 
 
 as if at a loss for words, 
 
 "You will be my wife?" he added, joyously. 
 
 "Yes," she said, and the comedy was over. 
 
 He stayed for some time, and talked to her of his plans 
 for selling the reef as soon as it was developed sufficiently 
 to ascertain its value. This suited her views exactly ; she 
 was utterly weary of this rude life, and longed to make her 
 appearance as a woman of wealth and fashion in the beau- 
 inonde of the south. She heard of the existence of the 
 partner and his prospective arrival in Three-Mile Bend with 
 some misgiving. She said but little on the subject, but she 
 inwardly determined that Hogan' s ridiculous intention of 
 giving him a half-share in the claims should never be fulfilled. 
 As for Hogan, he underwent a complete metamorphosis. 
 He trimmed his unkempt beard and changed his clay-stained 
 garments every evening for store clothes. His step was 
 sprightlier, his eye was brighter, perfect happiness shone 
 in every line of his honest visage, and he looked ten years 
 younger. 
 
 A week or so later a pack-train wound slowly into camp 
 along the creek. When it halted at the paddock a horse- 
 man detached himself from the group of packers and rode 
 up to Queenie's, where he dismounted and stepped up to 
 the bar. 
 
 It was not yet noon ; the miners were at work in the 
 claims, and the hotel was deserted. The new arrival was a 
 young man of handsome presence and graceful bearing, 
 and when he saw that the bar was attended by a pretty 
 
86 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 woman, instead of the dishevelled slattern or bearded 
 ruffian, as is usual in bush shanties, he doffed his broad- 
 brimmed hat in courteous salutation. 
 
 ' ' Can you tell me where I am likely to find Mr. Hogan ?' ' 
 he inquired. "The packers told me you would be able to 
 direct me from here." 
 
 She gave him the required information, but the stranger 
 seemed in no hurry to leave. The fact is he was agreeably 
 surprised to find so pretty a woman in this remote spot, 
 and he ordered something to drink that the interview might 
 be prolonged. In the course of half an hour's conversa- 
 tion he found that beauty was not her only charm. She 
 was also educated, witty, and vivacious. 
 
 "By George! she's a stunner," was his mental com- 
 ment as he strode down the creek towards Hogan' s claim. 
 " How the devil did she get into this God-forsaken country, 
 I wonder?" 
 
 "So that's Mr. Charles Inglefield, the partner," thought 
 Queenie. "Well, it's one comfort he's a gentleman, and 
 a handsome one, too. He will be able to talk to me in 
 decent English at any rate, which will be quite a relief from 
 the conversation of these clownish diggers." 
 
 Inglefield had nearly reached the solitary tent out in the 
 bend when a clay-stained figure emerged from a hole in the 
 ground to his right. It was Hogan returning from work. 
 The miner, who was short-sighted, stopped to await the 
 stranger's approach ; but as soon as he recognized his part- 
 ner he rushed forward with arms extended. ' ' God bless 
 you, my boy!" he said, with tears in his eyes. "You 
 don't know how pleased I am to see you. It's been mighty 
 lonely out here without you ; why, it must be a year since 
 we parted. But come and look at the claim." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you've been offered thirty thou- 
 sand pounds for that mud-hole?" said Inglefield, looking 
 down into the claim with an incredulous air. 
 
 " No, no, not for this, though this mud-hole, as you call 
 it, is not to be sneezed at. I've taken eight thousand 
 pounds out of that hole, — half of it is to your credit at the 
 Agency, — and it still pans out close on twenty ounces a 
 day. The claim the bank wants to buy is a quartz reef out 
 there in the ranges. We'll look at it to-morrow. It's in 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 87 
 
 your name. You see I had to take it out in your name, — 
 it don't matter whose name it's in being as we're partners, — 
 for the mining laws don't allow a man to hold two 'pros- 
 pects' at once unless he buys them, and this one here was 
 too good to give up, so I registered the reef in your name, — 
 I'll give you the license when we get to the tent, — and I 
 pay a fellow called Whiskey Jim an ounce a day to work at 
 it to keep it from being 'jumped.' There's several other 
 reefs been found since, and there'll be a set of stampers up 
 in a month or two, so's we can crush the stone, and then 
 we'll put a whole gang at work. If the reef's half what I 
 think it is, it's dirt cheap at three times thirty thousand 
 pounds. ' ' 
 
 Inglefield gasped. Ninety thousand pounds, and this 
 claim was in his name, in fact was his property. It is true 
 Hogan considered himself a partner, but supposing he 
 quarrelled with Hogan, supposing he wished to ,sell and 
 Hogan didn't, there was nothing to prevent him from doing 
 as he pleased. The claim was his absolutely, and Hogan 
 would have no voice in the matter at all. These thoughts 
 passed through his mind like a flash, and even then his 
 scheming brain was busy devising an act of selfish treachery 
 against the humble, generous-hearted man whose toil had 
 placed wealth within his reach. He was aroused from his 
 thoughts by Hogan. 
 
 "Come with me to the tent," he said. "I'll just change 
 my clothes, and then I'll show you something I value even 
 more than the claims." 
 
 ' ' What on earth can this be ?' ' thought Inglefield. " By 
 the way, Dick," he asked, as they walked on, "who is that 
 remarkably pretty little woman in the shanty over there on 
 the slope?" 
 
 " I was just going to take you down to introduce you," 
 said Hogan, with a mysterious smile. 
 
 " I was never so surprised in my life," continued Ingle- 
 field ; ' ' one would never expect to find a woman of her 
 stamp in this infernal desert." 
 
 "No, that's a fact," said Hogan; "and she's just as 
 innocent as she is pretty, though she does keep a hotel ; 
 and I'll tell you what, my boy, — I may as well tell you 
 now, since you've seen her, — I'm the luckiest man in these 
 
88 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 diggings in more ways than one. She's promised to be 
 my wife. Congratulate me." 
 
 Inglefield uttered some stereotyped phrases with an affec- 
 tation of warmth, but in his heart he was thinking, "What 
 on earth can that woman see in this uncouth old chap ?' ' 
 Suddenly he remembered the claim. ' ' Ah ! ah !" he said 
 to himself; "I have it. It's the claim the little damsel 
 with the violet eyes is in love with, not the man. I wonder 
 what she will say when she finds that I hold the certificate?" 
 And with thoughts like these in his mind he walked with 
 Hogan up the creek to the hotel. 
 
 It was soon noticed by the miners of Three-Mile Bend 
 that Hogan' s partner was not a worker. He lounged about 
 Queenie's all day long, drank wine, and laughed and talked 
 with the pretty proprietress from sun-up to sun-down. 
 When Whistling Pete, with mild sarcasm, remarked to 
 Hogan that he better keep a watch on his partner, or he 
 would "be killin' hisself with work," the latter replied, 
 somewhat warmly, "That's all right. The boy's no 
 worker, and couldn't work if he tried. He's city bred, and 
 never did anything in his life. But I've known him two 
 years now, and he did what was right by me : he taught 
 me to read and write, and in fact all I know. Work's 
 pleasure to me, and it ain't to him, and if he don't like to 
 work, it's nobody's business but his own. I'm his partner, 
 and I'm satisfied, and I reckon everybody else may as 
 well be." 
 
 As for Queenie, she was delighted with Hogan' s partner. 
 He knew all the latest gossip from the great southern cities ; 
 his manner was easy and well bred, and he had a way of 
 making himself agreeable that seemed perfectly delightful, 
 after the rude gaucheries of the diggers. And Inglefield 
 found in Queenie a woman with a thorough knowledge of 
 the world ; a woman of ready and cultivated wit, to whom 
 it was a pleasure to talk, and he saw that his stay in Three- 
 Mile Bend bade fair to be one of the most interesting epi- 
 sodes in his life, instead of a period of dreary en7i2ii as he 
 had expected it would be. 
 
 During the day the miners were at work, and little or no 
 trade was done at the bar. Queenie had formerly been in 
 the habit of whiling away this time in sewing or some other 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 89 
 
 feminine occupation, but now she closed the place and took 
 long rides with Inglefield along the creek and in the wooded 
 valleys of the ranges. And the trustful Hogan, in his ig- 
 norance of the ways of the world, saw these things with an 
 approving eye, and said, — 
 
 ' ' That' s right, my boy ; it must be lonely for her up 
 there alone these long days, and you're just the chap to 
 talk to her and amuse her." A hint from any one as to 
 the possibility of treachery on the part of his friend would 
 have been taken by him as a personal insult, and he would 
 as soon have doubted his existence as Queenie's faith. 
 And so these daily rides continued, while Hogan went 
 about his work in blissful fatuity, happier each succeeding 
 evening in that he was one day nearer his wedding-day. 
 
 Inglefield, as a man about town in the great southern 
 cities, had had his little affaires du cceiir by the dozen, but 
 steeled, as he fancied he was, against the arrows of the 
 blind god, he found his pulses stirred by this woman as 
 they had never been before. There was an indefinable per- 
 sonal charm about her and a witchery in her deep violet 
 eyes that enthralled him. One afternoon as they were re- 
 turning from the daily ride he reined in his steed, turned 
 towards her, and said, abruptly, — 
 
 "Alice," — he called her by her true name, which no one 
 else, not even Hogan himself, had learned, — " Alice, I love 
 you." She raised her great liquid eyes to his ; the glamour 
 of her beauty was upon him, and he bent forward in his 
 saddle and kissed her on the lips. 
 
 "Really, Mr. Inglefield," she said, with calm compo- 
 sure, ' ' you are quite histrionic. What would Mr. Hogan 
 think of the partner in whom he places such implicit faith 
 had he witnessed this little scene?" 
 
 "But, Alice," he said, "do you really intend to marry 
 that clod?" 
 
 "Certainly I do," she replied. "Do you think I wish 
 to spend my entire existence in this Sahara ?' ' 
 
 " But at any rate you cannot possibly care anything for 
 him ; he is old enough to be your father." 
 
 "You forget that his claim is worth ever so many 
 thousand pounds," she said, with a cynical little smile. 
 
 ' ' You are mistaken, ' ' he said, laconically. 
 
 S* 
 
go THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 " How SO?" she asked, in some surprise. 
 
 By way of reply he drew forth a paper, which he handed 
 to her to read. It was a miner's hcense giving him the 
 right to work a certain claim known as ' ' Eureka Reef. ' ' 
 
 " What does this mean?" she inquired. 
 
 "It means," he answered, in a triumphant tone, "that 
 the claim is mine. It appears that Hogan was not allowed 
 by the mining laws to hold two claims, so he registered the 
 Eureka Reef in my name. The claim is mine absolutely, 
 and I have made up my mind to sell it and get out of this 
 infernal desert." 
 
 Her face grew pale as marble. So, after all, her scheme 
 had fallen through, and her dream of wealth which she had 
 thought so near realization, had vanished. She spurred 
 her horse ahead that he might not see her bitter disappoint- 
 ment, but he caught up to her and placed his hand upon 
 her rein, 
 
 "Alice," he said, "listen to me. You must have made 
 money since you have been here. I have four thousand 
 pounds which Hogan has already placed to my credit at 
 the bank, and I can raise thirty thousand, perhaps more, 
 on the claim to-morrow. This sum will enable us to begin 
 life afresh in London or Paris, where we have the advantage 
 of being unknown. Let us not inquire into the past, which 
 perhaps in either case will not bear a rigid investigation. 
 I have already told you that I love you. Come with me." 
 She heard him out in silence. Hardened woman of the 
 world though she was, such a piece of cold-blooded villany 
 as this infamous proposition to rob the confiding Hogan 
 of wife and fortune at one stroke made her shudder. But 
 she could not allow any feelings of compunction to thwart 
 her ambition ; she was determined to attain that at any 
 cost. 
 
 This handsome scoundrel was not indifferent to her, and 
 he really owned the claim, while for the simple miner to 
 whom she had plighted her faith she did not care one jot. 
 She looked up into Inglefield's face. "Let us leave this 
 frightful place as soon as possible," she murmured. 
 
 "To-day is Monday," he said, " I will go down to the 
 bank and obtain an advance on the claim in the morning, 
 and we can leave in the afternoon when the miners are at 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 9I 
 
 work. This will give us ample time to catch the coach at 
 Dead-Man's Gulch." 
 
 * ' But do you know the way ?' ' she asked. ' ' I have 
 heard that it is considered a very dangerous ride for those 
 who are not familiar with the country. ' ' 
 
 "Bah!" he said. "It is a mere bagatelle. The first 
 twenty miles are in the ranges, the track is rough, but well 
 defined. Then comes a stretch of seventy-five miles of 
 sandy plain, which is monotonous but entirely free from 
 danger. We have only to ride straight ahead. There is 
 a water-hole half-way across ; it is barely a month since I 
 made the journey, and I know the landmarks well." 
 
 That evening she went about her business as usual, and 
 Hogan thought she had never looked so bright and pretty. 
 She laughed and chatted with him with more than ordinary 
 vivacity. She felt no qualms of conscience at the blight 
 she was about to bring upon this man's happiness ; perhaps, 
 if the truth were known, it was not the first time she had 
 done this thing. 
 
 In the morning, Inglefield went down to the bank, and 
 asked the manager point-blank what he was prepared to 
 offer for the claim. "I have already offered Mr. Hogan 
 thirty thousand pounds for it," said the official, "and I am 
 prepared to stand by the bid." 
 
 "But Mr. Hogan has nothing to do with it,'[ said 
 Inglefield. "The claim is mine and is registered in my 
 name." 
 
 "Yes, I am aware of that," said the manager; "but 
 you are partners, are you not?" 
 
 "That may be," replied Inglefield, coolly; "but the 
 fact remains that this claim is mine, and I wish to sell it." 
 
 ' ' I should not care to act in the matter, ' ' said the man 
 of business, " without consulting Mr. Hogan." 
 
 "Very well," said Inglefield, "I'll bid you good-morn- 
 ing ; with such a property I need not hunt for a purchaser. ' ' 
 
 Now, the manager was perfectly well aware of the great 
 value of the reef ; he knew that it was a bargain at twice the 
 sum he had offered. The claim was indubitably Inglefield's, 
 and though he knew that in selling it Inglefield was guilty 
 of the basest ingratitude towards Hogan, he could not allow 
 ethics to stand in the way of business. 
 
92 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 "I'll repeat the original offer," he said, as Inglefield 
 turned towards the door. 
 
 " I want fifty thousand pounds," said Inglefield. 
 
 "I cannot increase my advance," said the manager. 
 Though after half an hour's discussion he did increase it 
 by five thousand pounds, for he was as anxious to secure 
 the property as Inglefield was to sell it. At this price the 
 bargain was made, and Inglefield, having signed the neces- 
 sary transfer papers, left the agency with a sight draft on 
 Sydney for that amount, together with his credit balance in 
 his pocket. 
 
 At three o'clock that afternoon two sturdy little pack- 
 horses stood in front of Queenie's fully equipped for the 
 journey to Dead-Man's Gulch. Inglefield strode up and 
 down the veranda waiting impatiently for Queenie. She 
 came forth looking very lovely in a short dark-blue habit. 
 In her hand she held a huge nugget of gold, — Hogan's last 
 gift. "We may as well take this," she said, handing it to 
 Inglefield, who placed it in a pouch at his belt. " I think 
 that is all," she added, "except my money; I have over 
 two thousand pounds in the bank." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," he said, hurriedly. "We can 
 draw against that in Sydney." He was about to lift her in 
 the saddle when the tall form of Whistling Pete appeared 
 on the scene. Whistling Pete, having had a run of bad 
 luck, had given up work for the day several hours earlier 
 than usual, and was coming up to Queenie's to drown his 
 disgust in a " nobbier' ' or two of whiskey. 
 
 "Afternoon, miss," he said. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mr. Pete," replied Queenie, without 
 the slightest trace of discomposure. "You came just in 
 time to do me a favor. Mr. Inglefield and I are going for 
 a rather longer ride than usual, and I should be so much 
 obliged if you would attend to the bar in my absence. In 
 case we are not back by the time Mr. Hogan comes up, 
 
 you might tell him But stay, I'll write him a little 
 
 note. I'll not be a moment," she said, turning to Ingle- 
 field. She went into her room at the back of the bar, and 
 wrote a few lines. "There," she said, with one of her 
 sweetest smiles, " if you will give that to Mr. Hogan for 
 me it will explain my absence." 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 93 
 
 " I wrote the note for a purpose," she said, in reply to 
 an inquiry Inglefield made as to its necessity as they rode 
 away. " He will not feel inclined to follow us after he has 
 read it." 
 
 Whistling Pete gazed after them until a turn in the track 
 hid them from view. " I reckon you are going for a ride, 
 an' a mighty long ride, too," he muttered, — his quick eye 
 had noticed the water-bottles and bags of corn at the saddle- 
 bows, — "an' if I tend the bar till ye return I reckon this 
 yere claim's mine ontirely." 
 
 Whistling Pete was not troubled by any punctilious scru- 
 ples. As soon as they were out of sight he opened the 
 note and spread it out flat upon the bar. Unfortunately, 
 however, his early education had been neglected. He 
 could read the label on a bottle with remarkable facility, 
 but he might as well have tried to decipher a transcript 
 from an Egyptian obelisk as the fine Italian hand in which 
 Queenie's note was written. At sun-down, when the miners 
 returned from work, they found Whistling Pete behind the 
 bar rearranging the bottles on the shelves with a proprie- 
 tary air. 
 
 "Read that," he said, handing the note to Whiskey 
 Jim. " Read her out aloud." 
 
 Whiskey Jim took the note, and, assuming a tragic man- 
 ner, read as follows : 
 
 " Dear Mr. Hogan, — In accepting your generous offer of marriage 
 I fear I allowed mj'self to construe mere sentiments of a warm regard 
 into the promptings of affection, for I liave lately learned that that un- 
 divided love, without which no union can be truly happy, is not mine 
 to give you. Believe me, I am sincerely sorry, for I esteem you very 
 highly. But we cannot control the dictates of our hearts ; and since 
 that love which I had thought was yours has been won by another, I 
 feel sure you will not be unwilling to terminate our engagement. I 
 deemed it best to write, as being less painful to both of us than a per- 
 sonal explanation. 
 
 "We leave for the coast on the Saturday coach. 
 
 "Wishing you every happiness and prosperity in all your under- 
 takings, I am, 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 " QUEENIE." 
 
 ' ' I knowed it !' ' shouted Whistling Pete, striking the 
 counter with his clinched fist till the glasses rang again. 
 
94 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 "She's bolted. I knowed it when I seen 'em this after- 
 noon. An' consequently, bein' as she has bolted, I hereby 
 perceed to jump this yere claim. Drink up, boys, it's my 
 shout this time." 
 
 The close intimacy existing between Inglefield and 
 Queenie had been the subject of general comment. No 
 one was much surprised at her flight, but every one was 
 curious to see what effect it would have upon Hogan. It 
 was growing dark when they saw him coming along the 
 flat, a little ahead of his usual time. He had not felt well 
 that day. That alarming sensation of constriction about 
 the chest, attacks of which had been rather frequent of late, 
 had affected him all morning, and he had left off" work 
 earlier than usual. He called at the bank on his way to 
 Queenie' s to deposit the result of the past two days' labor. 
 "There seems to be no end to my luck," he said to the 
 manager, in a cheery voice, as that official weighed the 
 gold. " I struck another reef to-day, and in my original 
 claim, too. I want to see you some time during the week. 
 I'm thinking of floating the two claims into a company; 
 but I must talk to my partner first and see what he thinks 
 of it." 
 
 "Your partner was in here this morning, Mr. Hogan," 
 said the manager, "and he sold the Eureka claim to me." 
 
 Hogan could scarcely believe' his ears. "Sold the 
 Eureka claim?" he repeated slowly, as though he had not 
 heard aright. 
 
 " Yes, and he seemed anxious to sell, too. The claim 
 was registered in his name ; and business is business, you 
 know, Mr. Hogan," said the manager, with an apologetic 
 air. 
 
 ' ' What did you advance on the claim ?' ' asked the miner, 
 in an agitated voice. 
 
 "Thirty-five thousand p(^unds." 
 
 "Thirty-five thousand pounds ! and in six months it will 
 be worth a hundred thousand." 
 
 For the first time in his life Hogan' s heart was filled with 
 anger. He was deeply hurt that his friend should have 
 taken it upon himself to sell the reef without asking his 
 opinion. He had discovered and developed it, and knew 
 its value ; and now the claim, which would have made a 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 95 
 
 fortune for both of them, had been foolishly sold for a third 
 of its value. He left the bank abruptly and walked up to 
 the hotel, filled with feelings of just resentment at the folly 
 of his friend. As yet no thought of treachery crossed his 
 mind. 
 
 Whistling Pete was officiating behind the bar. Hogan 
 saw nothing extraordinary in this, as Queenie frequently 
 asked this man to assist her, much to his own satisfaction, 
 as his services were paid in kind. Nor did he notice the 
 sudden silence that fell upon the crowd when he entered, or 
 observe the curious looks with which they regarded him. 
 "Where's my partner?" he asked, in evident perturba- 
 tion. 
 
 "He went out ridin', as usual, with Miss Queenie this 
 afternoon," said Whistling Pete. 
 
 " I want to see him as soon as he comes back ; he's sold 
 my claim — our claim ; leastways, it was in his name. I had 
 to take it in his name, but the claim was mine ; though, 
 being my partner, of course he had a half-share," Hogan 
 blurted out in his agitation. 
 
 " Sold the Eureka claim?" asked a dozen curious voices. 
 
 ' ' Yes, and for less than half its value. ' ' 
 
 Whistling Pete gave utterance to the long low whistle 
 that had earned him his sobriquet. "I'm sorry for ye, 
 Mr. Hogan," he said, with a ring of pity in his rough 
 voice, " but brace yerself like a man, for I'm afeard there's 
 worse news for ye ;" and he handed him Queenie's note. 
 Hogan opened it without the least suspicion of the blow 
 that was to fall. At first he did not seem to fully compre- 
 hend the import of those hypocritical sentences, but as the 
 heartless treachery of the faithless pair dawned upon him in 
 all its naked truth, an ashen hue overspread his tanned and 
 weather-beaten cheek, and all the light and life seemed 
 crushed out of his being at a blow. The scene about him 
 grew blurred and indistinct, a rushing noise surged within 
 his brain, his lips moved, but they uttered no sound. A 
 frightful feeling of suffocation oppressed him ; he placed his 
 hand on his heart and swayed to and fro like a drunken 
 man. With a mighty effort he recovered himself These 
 men should not see his agony and mock at his misery and 
 shame. He crushed the note in his hand, turned his pale 
 
96 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 face upon the company with a ghastly smile, and then 
 walked slowly but firmly out of the place, 
 
 "He didn't seem to take it much to heart," said Big 
 Mike, with a grin. "If it had been me, now, I'd ha' got 
 my horse an' rode after them, an' had a word or two to say 
 to that young whipper-snapper of a pardner o' his'n." 
 
 "Takes it quieter than /expected," said several other 
 miners. 
 
 " Cures leves loquunter ingentes stupe^tt,^' quoted the 
 drunk-sodden ex-Oxonian known as Whiskey Jim. 
 
 "You're right, Jim," added Whistling Pete, who had 
 caught the sound of the last syllables. "The gent is 
 stoopid, — knocked r(?;«pletely stoopid." 
 
 And then the crowd adjourned to the bar to discuss the 
 affair in detail over their drink. Meanwhile, Hogan walked 
 towards his tent like a man in a dream. He lifted the flap 
 and stepped inside. Mechanically he lighted his lamp, and 
 stood for some minutes in the centre of the floor, passing 
 his hand across his vacant eyes as though trying to re- 
 call something he had forgotten. Then he read the note 
 again. Its cold tone cut him to the heart. How could she 
 have done this shameful thing, — she whom he had believed 
 to be so childlike and innocent, and on whose faith and 
 purity he would have staked his very soul ? And his part- 
 ner, too, the man he had befriended and enriched, the man 
 he had loved as a brother, how could he be guilty of such 
 double-dyed treachery ? He groaned in his agony of spirit. 
 But now mingling with his keen mental anguish there came 
 a sharper physical pain. Another of those spasms from 
 which he had suffered at intervals during the past year 
 came over him. His heart felt as though it were being 
 crushed in the grip of a vice. He gasped for breath like a 
 drowning man, beating the air with clinched hands, and 
 then, uttering a loud cry, he fell forward with arms out- 
 stretched upon the floor. 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 97 
 
 VI. 
 
 Night falls in the ranges as a man and woman pick 
 their cautious way, on horseback, over the stony mountain 
 track. In the recesses of a gloomy defile they hear the 
 clatter of approaching hoofs, and a voice hails them in the 
 darkness, " How far to Three-Mile Bend?" They cannot 
 see the solitary horseman, but the sound of his voice agi- 
 tates the woman strangely. She involuntarily spurs her 
 horse ahead as her companion shouts in reply, "Fifteen 
 miles, and deuced rough at that." They continue their 
 way through narrow gorges and rocky plateaux, trusting 
 to the instinct of their steeds, for they cannot see the track. 
 At last they descend and reach the plain. A strip of sandy 
 desert seventy-five miles in width lies between them and 
 the next range in which their destination lies. But it is 
 nothing. Did they not both cross this same strip before 
 when they came to Three-Mile Bend? It was a safe enough 
 journey then ; they simply rode straight ahead. They do 
 not know that this narrow strip is but the corner of a vast 
 barren tract that extends miles upon miles to the westward ; 
 they forget that when they crossed this strip before they 
 were under the leadership of men who knew the country ; 
 they forget that these shifting sands are constantly obliter- 
 ating old landmarks and forming new ones ; or, if they 
 think of these things, they heed them not. They have 
 but just time to catch the coastward coach at Dead-Man's 
 Gulch. Their horses are still fresh, and they themselves 
 feel no fatigue. They decide to ride on in the cool night- 
 time ; it will be better to halt during the heat of the day at 
 One-Tree Water-Hole, which is something less than half- 
 way across. And so with the confidence born of ignorance 
 of the perils of the bush they ride blindly onward in the 
 darkness. 
 
 Several hours before sunrise they halt, though they have 
 not yet reached One-Tree Water-Hole. They have trav- 
 elled many miles since starting, and the horses are now in 
 need of rest. So they hobble the hardy animals, give them 
 a feed of corn, and lie down themselves to snatch a brief 
 repose while the air is yet cool. When they awake the 
 sun is high in the heavens. There is nothing in sight but 
 E 5- 9 
 
98 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 an undulating sea of sand. They look for the track. Fatu- 
 ous fools, to expect to find a track in the ever-changing 
 surface of that sandy waste. 
 
 As yet they feel no alarm. Why should they? The 
 strip is barely seventy-five miles wide. They have only to 
 ride straight ahead, as they did on the journey out, and 
 they are bound to reach the water-hole, or sight the other 
 range in an hour or two at the least. But sundown finds 
 them in the centre of an unbroken circle of earth and sky. 
 They camp for the night with feelings of chagrin rather than 
 of alarm. They must reach Dead-Man's Gulch by Friday 
 night or they will miss the coach. This thought, and not 
 the idea of their danger, is uppermost in their minds. 
 
 At sunrise they start again. The horses have had no 
 water for nearly forty hours, and are beginning to show 
 signs of distress. But they must push forward. About 
 noon the weary horses prick up their ears, sniff the air 
 joyously, and break into a canter. A thin line of brush 
 appears ahead, and beyond something gleams in the sand 
 like a sheet of glass. 
 
 "Hurrah!" shouts the man. "The water-hole at 
 last." 
 
 The horses race madly towards the water, and the pool is 
 soon reached. To their surprise the animals instead of 
 drinking deeply merely dip their noses into the water and 
 turn away. The man dismounts and kneels down in the 
 sand to take a drink himself 
 
 " Good God ! the water is as salt as brine." It is not 
 One-Tree Water-Hole after all, but one of those salt lagoons 
 so common in the Australian desert. 
 
 The woman grows deathly pale and trembles violently. 
 She is the first to realize their perilous position. The man 
 tries to reassure her, though his own confidence has left him. 
 But they have no time to dally, there is only a quart of 
 water left in the canvas bottles. They have evidently gone 
 too far to the westward. If they now ride eastward they 
 will doubtless make the hills, though too late for the coach. 
 But rundown again finds them in the centre of an unbroken 
 circle. They halt near a huge hummock of drifted sand. 
 The horses are dead beat and can go no farther. They lie 
 down, making piteous noises, and the woman sees that they 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 99 
 
 will never rise again. The travellers sleep through the night 
 in spite of the black outlook before them. When day 
 breaks their prospects are still gloomier : both the horses 
 are dead. They have but a pint of water between them 
 now, but as a forlorn hope they set out on foot to the east- 
 ward in the hope of yet making the hills. On, on they go 
 in the blinding glare until the woman is ready to faint with 
 heat and fatigue. Long before noon the last drop of water 
 is gone, and still the same unbroken circle surrounds them 
 on every side. 
 
 Another hummock of sand looms up ahead, and they 
 hasten their faltering steps to gain a moment's respite from 
 the oven-like heat in its friendly shade. What are those 
 dark objects in the sand beyond? They strain their eyes. 
 The woman utters a shriek of horror. She recognizes the 
 bodies of their horses. They have returned to the starting- 
 point of the morning. They have been traveUing in a circle. 
 They are ' ' bushed. ' ' 
 
 The woman flings herself upon the man's breast and 
 clasps his neck in a frenzy of terror, and then sinks help- 
 lessly down in the shadow of the hummock. All hope is 
 gone now. She clasps her knees with her hands and bows 
 her head. Her long hair falls about her shoulders as she 
 rocks herself to and fro in the very abandonment of despair. 
 And the burning sun shines pitilessly on, and the brown and 
 barren waste smokes with the heat, and a silence as of death 
 broods over the desert. Throughout that blazing afternoon 
 and calm, starlit night they sit there motionless and silent 
 — words are useless now — and await the end. 
 
 Yet another day breaks, — a day of mental and physical 
 torture. During the burning hours that seem unending 
 they lie panting in the small area of shade, their bodies 
 racked by the agonies of thirst. The cool air of evening 
 brings no relief ; wild-eyed and haggard, they pass another 
 night in sleepless horror. They dread the torments of the 
 coming day. Once more morning dawns upon the desert 
 and finds them both alive. All that day the woman leans 
 helplessly back against the hummock of sand. Her strength 
 is spent ; her tongue cleaves to her palate, and she cannot 
 speak. She sits with eyes fixed upon the hazy horizon in 
 hopeless vacancy. The sun is yet high in the heavens when 
 
lOO THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 she turns feebly towards the man ; a look of piteous agony 
 is in her haggard eyes ; she clutches his hand convulsively, 
 and with a faint gurgling moan leans back in his arms to die. 
 The man, too, sutTers frightfully, but his stronger organiza- 
 tion dooms him to agonies more prolonged. He lays the 
 dead body down, and rising to his feet shades his eyes with 
 his hands, and scans the wide circumference for some faint 
 sign of hope. Poor wretch ! The shipwrecked sailor adrift 
 on the pathless ocean has a better chance of rescue than he. 
 He gazes hopelessly at the huge coppery disk of the set- 
 ting sun as it slowly sinks below the level of the plain. He 
 knows that he will never see it again. Darkness deepens 
 over the wide expanse, and the man flings himself face down- 
 ward upon the earth and prays for death until fitful slumber 
 steals over his wearied senses. Throughout the night he 
 tosses and turns in his troubled sleep, oppressed with a 
 hideous nightmare. Grim goblin forms — creatures of his 
 fevered brain — hover about his sandy pillow, and menace 
 and mock and taunt with frightful gestures. An hour be- 
 fore sunrise he awakes from the ghastly phantasm with a 
 shuddering shriek, and awaits in dumb despair the dawning 
 of his last day of Hfe. Anon the sun leaps above the edge 
 of the desert, and the day begins. Higher and higher 
 mounts the blazing orb ; hotter and hotter grows the air. 
 The man lies gasping in the sand like a hunted animal, and 
 his swollen tongue vainly licks his dry and blackened lips 
 for relief from the torment of thirst. But lo ! a gentle 
 breeze arises, and a tiny cloud appears in the west, A 
 mighty wave of hope surges up in the heart of the man. 
 The breeze and the cloud may bring rain, and if they should 
 he has yet a chance for life. He kneels down in the powdery 
 sand, his hands uplifted in an agony of supplication. But 
 alas for his hopes ; the fitful breeze dies down, the cloud of 
 promise fades away. He shakes his clinched fist at the 
 brazen sky, and curses his Maker and the mother that 
 bore him in his torment. He feels for his revolver ; it 
 is not there. Instead, his hands encounter a wallet which 
 contains a huge nugget of gold. He flings it from him. 
 Curses on the gold, the glittering dross cannot purchase a 
 drop of water to assuage his burning thirst. He sits down 
 beside the dead in a semi-stupor ; he takes the cold hand 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. lOI 
 
 in his, and tenderly strokes the long yellow tresses. Low 
 mutterings escape his parched lips ; the light of a merci- 
 ful madness is in his eyes. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" he laughs ; " won't they be surprised 
 to see us ? Scapegrace Charlie they used to call me ; but 
 now we have thousands, they'll welcome us. What a joke 
 it is ! Hurrah for the magic power of gold, gold, gold ! 
 Who says it is not ours ? It is ours ; it is mine ; the claim 
 is mine, and we shall have horses and carriages, and a villa 
 at Toorak ; and I tell you we'll live a right royal life." And 
 then his delirious fancy takes another turn. He is in Mel- 
 bourne surrounded by a jovial crowd of boon companions. 
 " Fill up, boys, it's my shout ! Here, waiter, bring us 
 champagne ; we'll have a night of it, for I've got the 
 dust! See here! isn't that a beauty? That nugget 
 weighs three pounds if it's an ounce, and I know where 
 there's lots of them, — lots of them. There's thousands — 
 millions in my claim. You've only to scratch the soil and 
 nuggets are there for the gathering. And there's quartz 
 too in the ranges. But drink up, fellows, your glasses 
 are empty ; let us make a jolly night of it." And the 
 poor wretch seizes an imaginary bottle and pours out a 
 barmecidal bumper, and goes through the motion of drink- 
 ing with an air of ghastly hilarity. ' Tis but the beginning 
 of the end. These wild ravings soon die away into discon- 
 nected mutterings, and finally cease. The sitting pos- 
 ture becomes a recumbent one ; the breath comes in ster- 
 torous gasps ; the lack-lustre eyes gaze upward to the sky 
 with a filmy stare, and soon Silence and Death reign over 
 all. 
 
 And the ghoulish beetle bids his comrades to the feast ere 
 it is too late. For the rains will come and the flesh will 
 wither and rot away, and nothing will remain but a heap of 
 whitened bones to mark another episode of the bush. 
 
 Shortly after sunrise on the morning after Queenie's 
 flight a solitary horseman rode into Three-Mile Bend. 
 In front of a large shanty, above the door of which he 
 read " Queen of the Ranges Hotel," a crowd of men were 
 standing. He addressed himself to them. "Can any of 
 you tell me," he said, after the usual salutations had been 
 
 9* 
 
I02 THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND. 
 
 exchanged, "if there is a woman in this camp of the name 
 of HiUington, — AHce HiUington ?" 
 
 " No, there's no HiUington. There's a Hihon, wife of 
 Tom Hilton as keeps the ' Miners' Rest' up the creek," 
 said a man who appeared to be a leader in the party, and 
 whom the others called Pete. 
 
 The new-comer's face fell. " Stop a bit. What an ass 
 I am ! Of course she would change her name," he said ; 
 " but perhaps this will help you. Here's her photograph." 
 
 " Why, it's Queenie !" said the man called Pete. " Is she 
 anythin' to you, stranger?" he asked, in a curious voice. 
 
 *' She's my wife," said the new-comer, laconically. 
 
 "Sorry for you, then," replied the man called Pete. 
 " She bolted last night with a young feller by name o' Ingle- 
 field, an' she bein' engaged to Dick Hogan, the luckiest 
 cuss in the diggins', too." 
 
 "Then, by G — d, I passed them both last night not 
 twenty miles from here. It was dark and I could not see 
 her features," said the stranger, with a furious oath. 
 
 " Well, that 7S kinder rilin'," said the man called Pete, 
 with a sympathetic inflection. 
 
 " I should think so," the young man said, hotly. " Lis- 
 ten. When I knew that woman first she was an actress in 
 New Zealand. I was a lawyer in good practice in Dune- 
 din, but she bewitched me — curse her ! — with her innocent 
 face and siren beauty, and I married her. She nearly ruined 
 me in a year with her extravagances ; and then, when I lay 
 sick with brain fever, she ran away with a squatter from 
 Otago. When I recovered I could find no clue to her 
 whereabouts, though I afterwards met and shot the squatter. 
 But that's neither here nor there. At last, however, I 
 traced her to Sydney, where I learned she had kept a bar 
 in the Metropole. They told me there that she had gone 
 to the diggings on the Roper, and I followed her here only 
 to miss her." 
 
 "An' ye can't catch them now," said the man called 
 Pete. " Yer hoss is dead lame, an' they'll catch the 
 Saturday mornin' coach, an' there ain't another for a 
 fortnit." Then the man called Pete proceeded to tell 
 Queenie' s doings in the camp with such fanciful exaggera- 
 tions as his exuberant imagination suggested. 
 
THE SIREN OF THREE-MILE BEND, IO3 
 
 "It's rather hard on this poor devil Hogan, if he was as 
 'gone' on her as you say," said Hillington when the miner 
 called Pete had finished. " But he'll thank his stars things 
 have turned out as they have when he learns what she is. 
 She would have made ducks and drakes of his money in 
 no time. Where's his tent? He's probably feeling sore 
 over it, and I'll go and ease his mind a bit." 
 
 "It's away round the bend, furthest tent on the flat, a 
 mile from the edge o' the camp," said the man called Pete. 
 
 Having received these directions, Hillington turned his 
 horse's head and rode slowly down the creek. When 
 he rounded the bend he saw the solitary tent on the flat. 
 He reached it, dismounted, raised the flap, and looked in. 
 A man with his arms outstretched lay prone upon the floor, 
 and Hillington saw that he was dead. He raised the corpse 
 and laid it on the narrow pallet, and took the siren's note 
 from its stiflened fingers. " Poor old chap," he said, com- 
 passionately, as he looked down at the rugged features, on 
 which a look of agony still lingered. " Poor old chap. 
 Well, it's an ill wind that blows no one any good ; and if 
 she killed you, your death has brought wealth to me." 
 And he went out and jumped the dead man's claim. 
 
THE LOST PINE MINE. 
 
 I HAVE just received a letter from my agent offering me 
 a safe investment, — a cool thousand if I buy and sell 
 within a month, — twenty shares of the " Lost Pine Mining 
 Company, — Limited. ' ' 
 
 Mines are risky investments at best. Millions are made 
 in them every year, but more lost. I have never yet been 
 on the winning side. Before writing " buy" I shall reflect. 
 
 What says the Prospectus ? 
 
 "Heavy silver-bearing lode, — surface exposure, one 
 hundred feet by twelve, — vertical, developing side pockets, 
 — numerous branches " 
 
 Where is the phenomenon? 
 
 "Santa Catalina Mountains, Pima County, Arizona. 
 Agent B. N., Tucson." 
 
 A familiar locality ! I'll bet that agent a hat I can give 
 him points on the "Lost Pine Mine." Haven't I trailed 
 that country from Dan to Beersheba in the days gone by ? 
 
 How? Where? When? 
 
 In the days of my first service, — four years between the 
 Gila and the northern Mexican border, — know every water- 
 hole and every patch of bunch-grass between Nogales and 
 the Gila Range. It was in the beginning — in the days of 
 fresh commencements — that I made the acquaintance of 
 that mine. It is the same, — the "Lost Pine Mine." It 
 never had a name until the day we met. By me it began 
 to wear the dignity of a name. By it I began to get 
 knowledge and understanding of mines. We are old 
 friends. To-day it is a certainty of the business world. 
 Surely out of the beginning groweth the end. That mine 
 has prospered from the start. 
 
 And this is the history of the beginning. 
 
 Less than a year previous I had run the gauntlet of the 
 
 terribly learned Medical Examining Board of the army, 
 
 and had been admitted to the rank and dignity of first 
 
 lieutenant and assistant surgeon. When I placed my first 
 
 104 
 
THE LOST PINE MINE. I05 
 
 order for uniforms with Hatfield, and ran up a bill for trim- 
 mings with Ridabock, I felt more valuable than a ton of 
 twenty-four-carat gold, and more dignified than a Hindoo 
 god with a diamond eye. I was a star of the first magni- 
 tude. If an acquaintance failed to congratulate me upon 
 these hard-won honors, I put his omission down to malice, 
 and cut him off my list. Out of twenty-two aspirants I 
 had been the only one accepted by the board. The only 
 one who possessed the requisite learning and ability — I 
 thought. The only one who happened to know just what 
 the board happened to ask — it afterwards appeared. I 
 thought myself an unusually gifted scholar, certain to add 
 wonders to medical science in the army. Every one else 
 thought I was an ass. But that was in the days of bursting 
 shells and pin-feathers. 
 
 My first orders lifted me away from scenes of intellectual 
 triumphs and dropped me into those of physical failures, — • 
 with a cavalry battalion in the cactus-beds near the Mexican 
 line, somewhere south of Tombstone. The drop was flat- 
 tening. From Central Park, a silk hat, tan kids, and 
 white gaiters, to the heart of an alkali desert, the back of 
 a quartermaster's mule, and the nightly shelter of a saddle- 
 blanket. A month before I would have fainted at the sight 
 of myself "Trousers, mounted, made heavy, — boots, 
 heavy, hand-sewed, — hat, campaign, drab," was the de- 
 scription the salient points of my field uniform bore on the 
 quartermaster's returns. The ensuing grief shook the 
 scales from my eyes. 
 
 It was necessary for me to learn something without de- 
 lay, and in Arizona information is not acquired without 
 poverty and earnest purpose, two things I knew not of 
 Urged by the sustaining spur of good resolutions, I rose 
 betimes, and, cinching my mule by the light of the morn- 
 ing sun, rode forth into the chaparral to slay bush-rabbits 
 with my six-shooter and flatter the vanity of the ranchmen 
 by asking questions. They taught me to follow a moccasin 
 trail, throw a lasso, and make the diamond hitch over the 
 back of a fractious mule. There was little I could teach 
 them, for the sturdy fellows rarely fell ill with a more serious 
 ailment than delirium tremens. 
 
 The novelty of their habits and manners, and a desire to 
 
Io6 THE LOST PINE MINE. 
 
 acquire the mysteries of plainscraft, were the attractions 
 which drew me to them at first, but as their better acquaint- 
 ance with me rendered them more approachable, I discov- 
 ered a rugged honesty and sincere hospitahty, which, added 
 to their reckless bravado, gave their ways an irresistible 
 charm. I sought their friendship, and went among them 
 whenever it was possible to leave camp. 
 
 It happened that during the annual beef "round-up" I 
 rode over and passed the night with my acquaintances. 
 The following morning there occurred in the camp what 
 the New York Herald would head-line as "Murder — 
 Deliberate Assassination — The Shooting of a Mexican by 
 Cow-boys." The Tombstone Blade referred incidentally 
 to the affair as a "Heated altercation between Messrs. Q. 
 and R., of the X-Bar Cattle Company, and a Mexican 
 named Manrico, which resulted fatally to the latter." 
 
 Being law-abiding citizens, Messrs. Q. and R. delivered 
 themselves over to the sheriff for trial. I was named as a 
 witness for the defence, and served with summons to appear 
 in court the following day to give my testimony. 
 
 The accused, the other witnesses for the defence, — there 
 were none for the prosecution, — and myself rode over next 
 morning, reaching the low adobe building which served as 
 county house about noon. We found the judge seated 
 behind his pine-slab table in his shirt-sleeves, with his feet 
 on a copy of Walker's "American Law," engaged in tar- 
 get practice, the bull's-eye being a retired herring-box 
 partially filled with saw-dust that stood in one corner of the 
 room. After several minutes of silent rumination he would 
 launch the results with unerring certainty at the herring- 
 box. The aim of life in Arizona is to hit something. 
 
 The clerk of the court was there, also the attorney for 
 the prosecution. All wore six-shooters, and the judge had 
 a Winchester rifle standing handy for the punishment of 
 contempts of court. When a few of the jury had assem- 
 bled we took seats. The judge smote the herring-box 
 again, rapped with his heel on the table, and opened the 
 trial. 
 
 "This yer court's in session. Perceed, Mr. Attorney." 
 
 The prosecution arose and stated apologetically that he 
 had no witnesses to examine, as the complainant had named 
 
THE LOST PINE MINE. tOJ 
 
 none, being deceased, for which good reason all of the evi- 
 dence must be adduced from the witnesses on the part of 
 the defence. Mr. Q., otherwise known as Pecos Bill, con- 
 ducted his own defence. By the time I reached the stand 
 the absent members of the jury had arrived. All wore one 
 or more six-shooters. 
 
 In New York the courts do not sit in weapons. Not 
 being informed of the Arizona custom, I had left all of 
 mine at the camp. It was evident that the jury regarded 
 me with a contempt which deepened into disgust when the 
 evidence I gave appeared to favor the prosecution. I had 
 seen the Mexican shot in the back, which fact would lead 
 to the necessary conclusion that the shooter was behind 
 him. I made that statement, and there was a chorus of 
 groans from the jury. 
 
 Pecos Bill rose scornfully, and planting his right foot 
 firmly, turned his body so as to place his left back where 
 his right breast had been. 
 
 "There," said he, " don't you see how a man standing 
 in front of me could shoot and hit me in the back ?' * 
 
 I had to confess that the feat was possible. Pecos Bill 
 triumphantly resumed his seat and turned upon me a look 
 of pity, which meant that I was ' ' a deal greener' ' than 
 he ever supposed. The jury remarked facetiously among 
 themselves that nobody but a freak or a lunatic ever trav- 
 elled without a "gun." The judge suggested that possibly 
 I was " con compis mentis." 
 
 It was evident that Pecos Bill had friends in that jury 
 with whom I was unacquainted, unto whom it would have to 
 be made pretty clear that my prejudicial evidence had not 
 been given with malice prepense, before it would be safe 
 to meet them out of court. I wished more than ever I had 
 stayed in my tent and read novels before going near that 
 cursed " round-up." " Mr. Potter of Texas" at the third 
 reading was preferable to a murder trial in Arizona without 
 a gun. Shakespeare wrote, ' ' Thrice is he armed that hath 
 his quarrel just." Shakespeare had never been in Arizona. 
 
 However, in due course of law the case was concluded 
 and the jury charged. They lost no time in returning a 
 verdict of justifiable homicide. Pecos Bill celebrated his 
 release from custody by leading the crowd, judge, bar, and 
 
I08 THE LOST PINE MINE. 
 
 jury, over to the licensed liquor-house presided over by 
 one Honest Organ, a retire4 Methodist minister, noted as 
 being the greatest single-handed liar in the Territory, — 
 and there we irrigated. After many assurances that my 
 mistakes had been misinterpreted, and that there was no ill 
 will, I was permitted to mount and set out for camp. Even 
 my mule trotted out briskly with the joy of getting away. 
 
 Fancy, oh, gentle rider of Central Park, with your 
 smoothly-galloping chestnut bay, and your Whitman sad- 
 dle, — and you, fearless rough rider of the Rosetree Hunt, 
 chasing foxes for pleasure, — how you would feel mounted 
 on the back of a string-halt quartermaster's mule in a desert 
 of chaparral, with thirty miles and sundown, and Heaven 
 only knows what else, between you and supper ! There 
 are moments when the problems of equitation present no 
 inspiring features. My progress that afternoon was blighted 
 by such moments. Alone in Arizona without a "gun," 
 and no knowing how many offended citizens abroad in the 
 neighborhood ! Better be in mid-ocean without a rudder. 
 
 As I jogged along, watching the reddening sun drop 
 lower in the heavens, the silence and loneliness became op- 
 pressive. Every bush-rabbit that crossed the trail gave me 
 a start. The possibilities of the desert multiplied in my 
 mind. Any wayfaring desperado I met could lay me low 
 and drag my body out among the bushes, where the 
 coyotes would prepare my bones for later discovery, and 
 the label, in some dime museum, " Traveller overcome with 
 thirst in the desert." Geronimo's entire band might be 
 sojourning on that very trail between me and the camp. 
 An elegant evening's entertaiment I would furnish them ! 
 
 Towards sunset I approached a deep coulee that crossed 
 the trail. Looking ahead into the gathering dusk, I saw 
 two ponies lariated among the mesquite bushes. The sad- 
 dles appeared to be of the Indian pattern, but there were 
 no riders anywhere in sight. My first thought was to put 
 about and retreat, but that was useless, for either pony 
 was a far better mount than my mule. It would be wiser 
 to keep straight ahead on the trail and trust to finding 
 "friendlies," — White Mountains or Pimas. 
 
 As I approached the ponies a tall white man sauntered 
 out of the bushes and planted himself squarely in my path. 
 
THE LOST PINE MINE. IO9 
 
 He wore the wide-rimmed hat, dirty blue overalls, and 
 greasy buckskin shirt of a miner, and most prominently a 
 scraggy, sandy beard, which, after radiating in all directions 
 from his head, fell half-way to his waist. He concluded the 
 movement by thrusting the butt of his Winchester rifle be- 
 tween his toes and holding up his left hand. 
 
 " Pause, stranger," he said, quietly. 
 
 Pausing was right in my line. I wouldn't have refused 
 his request for half the Territory in fee-simple. I paused 
 and said, "Good-evening." 
 
 "Light," he said. I lit. 
 
 Without altering his position he looked me over from 
 head to foot. Then turning his beady eyes full into mine, 
 and wrinkling his shaggy eyebrows, he inquired, — 
 
 " You air that medico from the soldier camp ? Thought 
 likely you might pass this way." He turned and beckoned 
 me to follow him into the chaparral. 
 
 I answered "Yes," and walked after him, feeling like a 
 doomed convict on his way to the cart. Surely the hour 
 had come. 
 
 We entered an open space in the centre of which was the 
 figure of a man reclining upon a blanket. 
 
 "Pard," said my captor, addressing the figure, "I hev 
 brought you the medico." Then turning to me he added, 
 " Pard an' me hed a dispute about who owned the mine, an' 
 I winged pard." 
 
 Joy of the thought ! My professional skill was required. 
 The other fellow was to be the victim, not me. I might 
 leave my revolver behind, but my pocket surgical case, 
 never. 
 
 " What can I do for you, my friend?" I asked, bending 
 over him. The right arm was bound up with a red bandana 
 handkerchief, and blood was oozing out. 
 
 "You might patch up that hole Tonto bored in me," he 
 answered, feebly. " He got to rarin' aroun' here like hell 
 beatin' tan-bark, all out of my claimin' the mine. When 
 he swore he would never let me own that mine alive it riled 
 me, an' I war goin' to make medicine weth him, but Tonto 
 air double-geared — easy, doc, it air very techy — double- 
 geared lightenin' on puUin' trigger, an' he winged me 'fore 
 I could git my gun levil. I reckin the mine's his." 
 
no THE LOST PINE MINE. 
 
 ' ' Which will teach ye hereafter to respect the wishes of 
 an honest pardner," observed the master of the situation, 
 sententiously. 
 
 " It air a ticklish thing to shoot a man's ole pardner," 
 continued the afflicted, as I went on with my surgery. 
 "Me an' Tonto's been prospectin' together for nigh five 
 year wethout onct fallin' out. I finds a mine an' digs till I 
 thinks it ain't no use diggin' no more, an' gives up, advisin' 
 Tonto to do the same, an' pull stakes an' move further up 
 the creek. Tonto won't leave it, digs deeper an' deeper 
 an' strikes ore. Thet's why he thinks he orter hev that 
 mine o' mine, jest as if he finds it himself It 'pears to me 
 it makes no difference who works in a mine, — the man ez 
 finds it owns it. How do it 'pear to you, doc ?" 
 
 In a country where weapons only carry weight I preferred 
 to defer my opinion. " That depends," I answered. 
 
 "You see, doc," he went on, holding out his arm while 
 I bound it up. "I finds that mine twict. When we first 
 struck her, there war a tall pine-tree standin' up on the edge 
 of the gulch right over the lead, an' it wa'n't no trouble to 
 find the mine by thet pine-tree. But while we war gone 
 down to Tombstone to git grub the wind blew thet tree 
 clean out by the roots, an' it war the devil's own game to 
 find the place ag'in. Thet's how we come to call it the ' Lost 
 Pine Mine.' I dumb up out of the gulch an' walked along 
 till I struck thet tree lyin' flat on the mesa, an' thet's how 
 I found it ag'in." 
 
 The bullet from Tonto's revolver had passed through the 
 fleshy part of the forearm without striking any bones. I 
 washed the wound with the water remaining in my canteen, 
 and bound it up in my own handkerchief, tying the old one 
 around it. Without bandages and antiseptics that was the 
 best that could be done. 
 
 "You will have to go to the camp with me," I said. 
 " I can do no more for you here." 
 
 The stately and silent Tonto interposed. ' ' Wait till we 
 hev done weth the mine, medico," he observed, in measured 
 tones. " I am no pard to a man ez doesn't respect my 
 rights. Thet mine wouldn't never hev bin found ef it 
 hedn't bin fur me, an' ef pard sez thet mine's his, he lays 
 here till he rots fur all the good Tonto Bill '11 be lo him 
 
THE LOST PINE MINE. Ill 
 
 ag'in. I don't shoot no man an' make up vveth him onless 
 there's prospect of his comin' to reason. Ef pard says the 
 mine's mine, I'm willin' to stick weth him till the crack o' 
 doom, an' we'll work it together. There ain't no use in a 
 man's bein' onreasonable. What say, pard?" 
 
 " I think ye hold an ace full, Tonto. I ain't no man to 
 dispute the rights of my ole pardner." 
 
 "Why don't you sell out your interest?" I suggested. 
 " That will be more hke business." 
 
 "Sell my interest! I be durned. How much' 11 you 
 give, Tonto ?" 
 
 " Dollar an' a drink of whiskey," chuckled Tonto, out of 
 his beard. 
 
 " Whar's the whiskey ?" 
 
 " Plenty at Honest Organ's. Here's the dollar." 
 
 " Goin', goin', gone ! Sold to Tonto Bill fur a dollar an' 
 a drink of whiskey, — all my interest in the Lost Pine Mine, 
 — me, Ephraim Carter, known to most people ez Prospect 
 Pete, — so help me Bob ! Now air you satisfied, Tonto ?" 
 
 " Ez fur ez it goes," answered Tonto, sitting cross-legged, 
 and drawing from his pocket a dirty yellow envelope ; " but 
 I think we'll put the deal in writin'." He spread the 
 envelope on his boot-top, and wrote painfully with the stub 
 of a pencil, — 
 
 ' ' i eferam carter this day sell & make over to William 
 Johnson all my stock & profits in The lost pine Mine, fur 
 a dollar & a drink of whiskey. ' ' 
 
 "Make yer mark, Pete," said Tonto, passing over the 
 paper. Ephraim Carter took the pencil in his left hand and 
 made a cross under the writing. 
 
 ' ' What do it say, doc ?' ' he asked. I read the writing. 
 
 " Now, medico, ye kin spread yer fist on thet document 
 by way of witnessin' the proceedin' . ' ' Tonto gave me the 
 envelope, and I wrote my name. Then he folded it care- 
 fully and placed it in the inside pocket of his shirt. Lean- 
 ing over he grasped Pete by the left hand. 
 
 "Shake, Pete ! Now ye kin bet on Tonto Bill fur yer 
 pard fur better er worse, fire an' brimstone an' blood, fur- 
 ever. Ye' 11 work thet mine weth me half an' half, even up, 
 an' now she's mine they can't be no more disputes." 
 
 Prospect Pete gurgled softly, bending over the proffered 
 
112 THE LOST PINE MINE. 
 
 hand. ' ' What a queer way to treat a pard !' ' he murmured 
 in a thin voice. " I said it was dirt cheap, but a mine ain't 
 nothin' but dirt nohow till it's worked. An' now ye give 
 me half ! Bill, ye war always a brother to me. in spite of 
 my rantankerous ways. I'll never dispute ye ag'in. 
 Never. So help me !" 
 
 His bearded pard helped him to his feet and assisted him 
 tenderly to the back of the pony. " Do ye feel fit?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Fit enough," answered Pete. 
 
 The purple twilight deepened into night as we crept slowly 
 along the trail leading to the camp in the foot-hills. The 
 wounded arm forbade a gait faster than a walk. The part- 
 ners of the " Lost Pine Mine" were absorbed in their own 
 meditations. No sound except the far-off wail of coyotes 
 and the shuffle of the animals' hoofs on the trail broke the 
 stillness until the sentinel challenged us at the camp, and 
 there, dismounting my patient at the hospital tent, I placed 
 the arm on the road to recovery. 
 
 Until to-day, since the twain jogged out of the camp side 
 by side the morning following our strange meeting, I have 
 not thought of the " Lost Pine Mine." Now it all comes 
 back, and 1 write it as I remember it. The partners never 
 crossed my path again. I witnessed the transfer of a drink 
 of whiskey which I can never take oath was transferred. If 
 Honest Organ says it wasn't I shall know it was. 
 
 For the sake of the " pards" and those early begin- 
 nings I shall write to my agent, — 
 
 "Buy." 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH ; OR, A MILITARY 
 MESALLIANCE. 
 
 A VERY dingy flag, hanging out of a very dingy window, 
 in a very dingy street, of a certain dingy city, indicated to 
 all whom it might concern the locale of a United States 
 army recruiting rendezvous. It was an hour before the 
 time when the recruiting officer usually made his appear- 
 ance, and a very elongated corporal in a decided state of 
 undress was leaning out of an upper window gazing up and 
 down the street with an air of profound contempt for all 
 things sublunary. He had been engaged in this arduous 
 occupation perhaps half an hour when a tall, fine-looking 
 young man crossed over from the opposite side of the street 
 and entered the office below without pausing to read cer- 
 tain alluring statements pasted on a board at the door, set- 
 ting forth the advantages of a soldier's life in the United 
 States service. This circumstance having fallen within the 
 observation of the elongated corporal, that attenuated indi- 
 vidual withdrew his upper extremities into the room, and 
 proceeded to complete his toilet with the expression of a 
 mar utterly harassed out with the cares and responsibilities 
 of life. Then having satisfied himself as to his personal ap- 
 pearance, as reflected from a variety of stand-points in a 
 cracked mirror at the end of the room, he extracted a plug 
 of tobacco and a pipe from the pocket of a coat behind the 
 door, and slowly descended the stairs, whistling that cheer- 
 ful and popular air known as ' ' Johnny, get your gun. ' ' In 
 the office below he found awaiting him the tall young man, 
 who immediately said, ' ' Can I enlist at this office for the 
 United States army ?' * The elongated corporal, who was a 
 man of great deliberation, evidently did not think that this 
 question called for any immediate reply, for he leisurely 
 began to fill his pipe, and when that delicate operation had 
 been completed to his entire satisfaction, he condescended 
 h JO* 113 
 
114 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 to drawl laconically, " If you want infantry, you can ; if you 
 want cavalry, you can't." Then, apparently satisfied that 
 no further information could possibly be required of him, 
 he spat in the fire, lit his pipe, tilted his forage-cap on the 
 back of his head, and gazed critically, with his head on one 
 side, at the tall young man through dense volumes of smoke. 
 "It is immaterial to me whether I go to cavalry or in- 
 fantry," said the tall young man. " I simply wish to know 
 whether I can enlist here, and at what time." By way of 
 reply the elongated corporal stepped out into the gloomy 
 passage-way, opened a door, and bawled "Tom!" at the 
 top of his voice. " All right !" came a gruff response from 
 somewhere in the back premises, and shortly afterwards 
 a heavy tread announced the approach of "Tom," who 
 turned out to be the recruiting sergeant. The sergeant 
 was a short, fat man, with a hoarse voice and a cadaverous 
 aspect. His eye had the appearance of the visual orb of a 
 boiled cod-fish ; his cheeks were pendulous and flabby, 
 and his face wore an expression of habitual exasperation. 
 "Well?" said he, interrogatively and irritably, as he en- 
 tered the office. The elongated corporal did not vouchsafe 
 an oral reply ; he slowly withdrew the pipe from his mouth, 
 expectorated several times with extraordinary precision into 
 a spittoon at the far end of the room, and jerked his left 
 thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the tall young 
 man. 
 
 "And what in thunder do you want?" said the fat ser- 
 geant, in a most irascible tone, when he beheld the applicant 
 for enlistment. 
 
 " I wish to enlist in the United States service," answered 
 the tall young man. 
 
 "Then why the devil don't you come at the proper 
 time?" said the sergeant. " Do you think we are going to 
 get breakfast before daylight to please you fellows ? No, 
 not by a sight." 
 
 The tall young man replied to the effect that, as it was 
 close upon ten o'clock when he came in, he felt justified in 
 assuming that the business of the day had begun. 
 
 "You've no right to think anything about it," growled 
 the sergeant, with a terrific scowl, seating himself at a desk 
 and viciously grabbing a paper from a pigeon-hole on his 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. II5 
 
 right. ' ' Come here and answer these questions. ' ' He 
 unrolled as he spoke the form of questions which every 
 applicant for enlistment is required to answer ; but before 
 asking any of these he winked at the elongated corporal, as 
 much as to say, " Now pay attention and you'll have some 
 fun," and proceeded to frame a few on his own account, 
 with a view to the embarrassment of the recruit and the ex- 
 hibition of his own facetiousness. 
 
 But he had reckoned without his host, for the tali young 
 man kept remarkably cool, and met all these impertinent 
 queries with some caustic and ready reply, to the great dis- 
 comfiture of the sergeant and the intense delight of the 
 elongated corporal, who chuckled gleefully at the turn 
 affairs were taking, and nearly asphyxiated himself in his 
 efforts to suppress his hilarity and maintain his countenance 
 in a state of befitting solemnity. The sergeant thereupon 
 became savage, and began to ask the questions from the 
 recruiting-paper with the air of a bullying attorney brow- 
 beating a witness. During this catechetical examination he 
 several times returned to a question previously asked, as 
 though he suspected the recruit of prevarication and wished 
 to convict him of mendacity by entangling him in some 
 contradictory statement. He took a particular delight in 
 repeating the question, ' ' Have you any one dependent on 
 you for support ?' ' and seemed to regard a negative reply 
 with such evident incredulity as to cause the recruit to think 
 there must be a prevailing impression in the sergeant's 
 mind that he was the sole support and stay of a large num- 
 ber of indigent relatives, and had come into the army for 
 the express purpose of providing for their maintenance out 
 of his pay of thirteen dollars a month. 
 
 Just as this document was completed a gentleman entered 
 the room, whereupon the elongated corporal, who had been 
 lounging listlessly against the mantel-piece, called "'Ten- 
 skunf in a sepulchral tone, glared fixedly at an' imaginary 
 spot in the opposite wall, and assumed an attitude of such 
 extreme rigidity as to give rise to a doubt whether his 
 spinal column would ever regain its flexibility. From these 
 indications the recruit concluded that he was in the pres- 
 ence of the recruiting officer, as indeed he was. The savage 
 sergeant's insolence of manner vanished instanter, and gave 
 
Il6 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 place to an obsequious deference as he brought the recruit 
 before the officer, who asked the tall young man a few- 
 pertinent questions, and then ordered him to strip for his 
 physical examination. This examination proved the tall 
 young man to be a fine specimen of athletic manhood. 
 He stood fully six feet high, and tipped the scale at one 
 hundred and eighty-five pounds. His figure was erect 
 and soldierly, his frame well knit and muscular, and his 
 general appearance was so far above the average that he 
 passed the ordeal without the slightest difficulty. Half an 
 hour later he signed his enlistment papers and his name 
 was duly entered in the recruiting-book as "Private 
 Thomas Jones, G. S. R. U. S. Army," with many addi- 
 tional particulars. 
 
 This business having been concluded, the officer retired 
 to his private room, and the elongated corporal, interposing 
 a door between himself and the fat sergeant, made a panto- 
 mimic show of emptying a great number of glasses, jerked 
 his thumb in the direction of the street, and beckoned the 
 recruit into the passage. He then piloted the way to a 
 neighboring saloon with a degree of alacrity quite surprising 
 in view of his previous deliberation ; such, indeed, was his 
 precipitance that he had called for "two beers" before he 
 discovered "that he hadn't got no change." The tall 
 young man laughed at this transparent stratagem, and ten- 
 dered a five-dollar bill in payment for the beer, at the same 
 time calling for a further supply, for the elongated corporal 
 had emptied his first glass at a gulp, remarking, with a re- 
 dundancy of negatives, ' ' that he never allowed no beer to 
 get stale nohow," — a principle he again proceeded to act 
 upon by immediately emptying his second. Under the 
 cheerful influence of the beer his previous taciturnity gave 
 place to a convivial mood, induced possibly by the hope 
 that the remains of the five-dollar bill would be converted 
 into more liquor. In that belief be entered upon a mono- 
 logue eulogistic of the tall young man, the disinterested- 
 ness of which was open to considerable question, as it 
 concluded with a request to be accommodated with the 
 loan of fifty cents, which was granted with such unexpected 
 readiness that he was induced to repeat the operation later 
 on to the extent of a dollar. The tall young man then 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. II7 
 
 returned to the office, where he donned a blue uniform in 
 place of his " mufti," and was told by the fat sergeant to 
 hold himself in readiness to proceed, with three other re- 
 cruits, to the receiving depot, for which destination he left 
 at seven o'clock that evening in charge of the elongated 
 and, by that time, semi-inebriated corporal,* 
 
 II. 
 
 It was muster-day at Fort Buell, head-quarters of the 
 Eighth United States Artillery. First call had sounded all 
 round the garrison, and groups of soldiers were gathered in 
 front of their respective quarters, the more nervous and 
 diffident among them going through the manual of arms, 
 making the most of this last opportunity of practice to in- 
 sure precision at the crucial moment in the approaching 
 ordeal, while others, more confident in their knowledge of 
 tactics, lounged carelessly about, interchanging harmless 
 and frequently pointless witticisms with their comrades in 
 the other batteries. Midway between the barracks and 
 "officers' row" stood knots of officers discussing garrison 
 or regimental matters until the sounding of assembly, and 
 on the far side of the parade-ground could be seen the 
 portly form of the commanding officer, Colonel Colchicum, 
 resplendent in gold cord and flowing scarlet plume, stalking 
 to and fro on the porch in front of his quarters. Colonel 
 Colchicum was a large man with a fierce look and a very 
 imposing manner. He prided himself on being a martinet, 
 but in spite of his rigid exaction of all the details of military 
 discipline he was not disliked by the men, who, while ad- 
 mitting his severity, nevertheless recognized his justice and 
 impartiality. Moreover, there was a prevailing idea among 
 them that his "bark was worse than his bite," that his 
 acerbity of manner was not the natural bent of his disposi- 
 tion, but had been superinduced by a long course of femi- 
 nine tyranny at home ; for it was an open secret in the 
 
 * This is a record of an actual enlistment. 
 
Il8 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 garrison that in his quarters the awe-inspiring colonel, 
 whose tremendous frown sent the heart into the boots of 
 the luckless soldier who hoped to pass muster with a "kit" 
 out of keeping with the standard of inspection require- 
 ments, was mild and docile as a lamb, and lived in a state 
 of abject subjection to a stringent code of petticoat govern- 
 ment as formulated by Mrs. Colchicum, a very small woman 
 with a very loud voice. The men were wont to gauge, 
 and pretty accurately, too, the measure of the colonel's 
 domestic infelicities by his manner at inspections and 
 parades, and the circumstance of having to march past at 
 the double several times was usually accepted as an indi- 
 cation that he had been visited with the infliction of a more 
 than ordinarily lengthy curtain lecture, the exercise of any 
 undue severity being simply regarded as an outlet for those 
 feelings of exasperation he dared not give vent to at home. 
 But when assembly sounded and the colonel took his post, 
 the men noted with inward satisfaction that his face wore 
 an unusually cheerful expression, which was significant of a 
 cessation of hostilities at domestic head-quarters, and a 
 favorable augury for an easy inspection. But if the colonel 
 was in a good humor, Captain Hardtack, commanding Bat- 
 tery A, was not ; indeed, as a matter of fact, he very seldom 
 was. Captain Hardtack was a type of officer now happily 
 rare in the service. He was harsh, captious, and exacting 
 with his men in line of duty, and even in their leisure time 
 subjected them to a system of petty surveillance with a view 
 to making their personal habits a ground of complaint in 
 case they should afterwards be guilty of any trivial derelic- 
 tion of military duty. The men could have borne without 
 a murmur with the mere exaction of disciplinary require- 
 ments, however severe, but the captain's puerile treatment 
 exasperated them beyond endurance, with the result that 
 several of the best soldiers among them deserted. The 
 battery lost its esprit de corps, and became a mere gather- 
 ing of pusillanimous spirits who trembled with timid embar- 
 rassment in the captain's hated presence. The men did 
 their duty perfunctorily and without the slightest show of 
 zeal, happy if they passed through the day without having 
 incurred some scathing reprimand or suffered the curtail- 
 ment of some little privilege. Matters were in this condi- 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. IIQ 
 
 tion when Private Jones was assigned to the battery. In 
 our journey through Hfe we not infrequently meet with in- 
 dividuals for whom, without exactly knowing why, we con- 
 ceive a strong feeling of aversion. When Private Jones, 
 on the morning of his arrival at Fort Buell, reported at the 
 orderly-room, he at first sight experienced an instinctive 
 dislike for Captain Hardtack. This dislike was mutual (for 
 even officers condescend at times to entertain personal an- 
 tipathies to enlisted men), and as the days went by Captain 
 Hardtack felt that he hated the keen-eyed, handsome pri- 
 vate soldier whose calm self-possession nothing seemed to 
 disturb, although he might have been at a loss to find a 
 reason for his antipathetic sentiments had he been called 
 upon to give one. On this particular muster he was more 
 than usually captious, and in his preliminary inspection 
 before the march past in review found fault with his men, 
 collectively and individually, emptying out the vials of his 
 wrath upon the head of Private Jones, from the sleeve of 
 whose dress-coat a button was missing. And the captain 
 made full use of this opportunity for the display of his vitu- 
 perative powers. The soldier that he disliked had never 
 before given him the slightest occasion for a reprimand, for 
 during the year Private Jones had been in the battery he 
 had proved himself to be a soldier in every sense of the 
 word. He was clean, precise, and intelligent, cardinal 
 virtues in military life, and turned out at guard-mount 
 with such spotless attire and highly-polished accoutrements 
 that the adjutant, who had a nice appreciation of soldierly 
 qualities, invariably selected him for the coveted position 
 of orderly. With his comrades Private Jones was a general 
 favorite. They were not long in discovering that he was a 
 man of superior talent and education, and his opinion and 
 assistance were frequently sought in the settlement of many 
 little company arguments. He was generous almost to a 
 fault with his money, of which he apparently obtained a 
 regular supply from some mysterious source irrespective of 
 his pay, a circumstance which gave a show of color to the 
 rumor that he was the scapegrace son of some wealthy man, 
 to say nothing of various other speculations as to his social 
 status prior to his enlistment. But the curious were obliged 
 to content themselves with mere surmise, for Private Jones 
 
I20 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 was remarkably reticent in regard to his previous history, 
 and pohtely, but with unmistakable firmness, repelled all at- 
 tempts to draw him into conversation on the subject. At 
 any rate, the fact remained that Private Jones always had 
 money, and, from a soldier's point of view, plenty of it, and 
 he spent it with a freedom remarkable even for a soldier, 
 and with a recklessness that would almost have satisfied a 
 sailor. It was a matter of considerable surprise to the other 
 officers in the garrison, who had long since recognized in 
 Private Jones a remarkably fine-looking and intelligent 
 soldier, that he had not been promoted to a corporalship. 
 The reason advanced by Captain Hardtack for ignoring 
 qualifications which were patent to everybody was that 
 Private Jones had the reputation of being a heavy drinker. 
 In order that it may not be inferred from this that Captain 
 Hardtack was an advocate of the principle of total absti- 
 nence, it may be stated that the frequent delivery of spirit- 
 cases at his quarters afforded some ground for believing 
 that he held opinions to the contrary of a very unequivocal 
 character. But if Private Jones drank a great deal, there 
 was evidently a method in his drinking, for he was never 
 known to neglect his duty on that account ; nor did he 
 seem to suffer from those macrocephalous sensations which 
 usually follow an inordinate indulgence in alcoholic liquors, 
 nor had he ever appeared upon the battery sick report as a 
 sufferer from "acute alcoholism," a frequent and, it may 
 be added, very accurate diagnosis of a great number of 
 cases in the monthly return of patients at the post hospital ; 
 for Major Probang, the post surgeon, had been too long in 
 the service to be deceived by fictitious ailments, as many an 
 over-night canteen-reveller who tried to " beat the sick re- 
 port" with a supposititious " cold in the head" found to 
 his cost. But at last there arose a vacancy when Private 
 Jones's merits could not well be ignored, however, for there 
 was absolutely no other man in the battery capable of filling 
 the position. Private Jones was accordingly sent for to the 
 orderly-room, when Captain Hardtack, with an air of great 
 condescension, said to him, "Jones, there is a corporalship 
 vacant in the battery, and I have decided to make you a 
 non-commissioned officer." 
 
 "With your permission, sir," said Private Jones, "I 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH, 121 
 
 respectfully wish to say that I have no desire for promotion 
 and would prefer to remain a private. ' ' 
 
 "Your preferences will not be consulted," said the cap- 
 tain, angrily. " I intend to promote you." 
 
 ' ' In that event, sir, I have only to ask you to consider 
 my resignation of the position," replied Private Jones, re- 
 spectfully. 
 
 ' ' Not unless you can give me good and sufficient reasons, ' ' 
 said the captain. 
 
 ' ' I have my reasons, sir, ' ' said Private Jones. 
 
 *' State them," commanded the captain. 
 
 "In the first place, sir," said Private Jones, "the dif- 
 ference between the pay of a private and that of a non- 
 commissioned officer is so small as to be beneath considera- 
 tion. Secondly, as no examination is required to determine 
 a soldier's fitness for promotion, that promotion cannot be 
 regarded as a recognition of qualifications superior to those 
 of the ordinary rank and file. It would seem rather to 
 depend upon the mere negative recommendation of having 
 done nothing ' to the prejudice of good order and military 
 discipline' during the term of service as a private, or upon 
 the whim or caprice of the battery commander. Thirdly, 
 the non-commissioned officer has no especial privileges. 
 He messes and sleeps with the men ; consequently his in- 
 terests and associations are, in a great measure, identical 
 with theirs. Under these circumstances it is not to be ex- 
 pected that much dignity or authority can attach to the 
 office. Fourthly, it not infrequently happens that a raw 
 recruit, with perhaps no more than three months' service, 
 is given some extra-duty position in one of the staff" depart- 
 ments, and is thereby enabled to draw more pay than the 
 regimental sergeant-major, which seems to me such an 
 extraordinary ' ' 
 
 " That will do," said the captain, with an unsuccessful 
 attempt at an assumption of supreme indifference ; "I did 
 not ask you for any comments upon the Army Regula- 
 tions. Go to your quarters ; you will not be promoted." 
 And thus it fell out that Private Jones remained Private 
 Jones to the end of the chapter. 
 
 F II 
 
122 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now it came to pass about this time that Captain Hard- 
 tack decided to take unto himself a wife, and 
 
 " Indulge in the felicity 
 Of unbounded domesticity." 
 
 There was quite a bevy of marriageable young ladies in the 
 post, each of whom possessed more or less pretensions to 
 good looks. They greatly exceeded in number the eligible 
 ti\2\q partis, and as the garrison was comparatively isolated, 
 and the circle of acquaintance necessarily limited, any one 
 of them would doubtless have been glad to secure Captain 
 Hardtack as a partner for life. The gallant captain knew 
 this, but his mind was in a woful state of indecision caused 
 by such an amplitude of choice. After a long period of 
 deliberation, wherein he duly weighed the pros and cons of 
 a union with each individual young lady, he came at last to 
 the conclusion that he could not do better than confer his 
 hand and heart upon the colonel's daughter, an acidulated 
 disappointed maiden of uncertain age, a veritable Tabitha 
 Bramble in disposition, 
 
 " Whose homely face and bad complexion" 
 had long since 
 
 " Caused all hopes to disappear 
 Of ever winning man's affection." 
 
 She had, however, one attractive recommendation in the 
 possession of a considerable fortune in her own right, which, 
 in Captain Hardtack's eyes, made ample amends for her 
 numerous personal deficiencies, and he had almost made 
 up his mind to declare his intentions, confident in the 
 assurance of a ready acceptance (for Miss Colchicum, like 
 Barkis, was "willin'," and had been for years), when an 
 event occurred which caused a complete alteration in his 
 matrimonial plans. This event was the arrival at the post 
 of Miss Quilkey, the daughter of Captain Quilkey, the 
 regimental quartermaster, a bright vivacious girl of nine- 
 teen summers, who had just returned to the post from a 
 lengthy sojourn in the East, whither she had been to com- 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 1 23 
 
 plete her education. Miss Quilkey was a magnificent type 
 of budding American womanhood. She was a brunette, 
 tall, lithe, and graceful, and her lustrous dark eyes, full of 
 fire and life, took by storm the heart of every unmarried 
 officer in the post. Among others who succumbed to her 
 fascinations were Captain Hardtack and his junior sub- 
 altern, Lieutenant Symper, who both became aspirants for 
 her hand. Now, Captain Hardtack in his inmost heart 
 had always envied and hated Lieutenant Symper because 
 the latter had plenty of money, and Lieutenant Symper 
 experienced a profound contempt for his superior officer 
 because that gentleman had none. Outwardly, however, 
 they made a great show of cordiality until they became 
 rivals in love, when a spirit of such deadly enmity arose 
 between them that they disdained all intercourse save "in 
 line of duty." Lieutenant Symper was the son of a de- 
 funct post-trader, who had amassed a competency by the 
 sale of vitriolic whiskey and watery beer to the soldiers of 
 some Western post. The old trader, shrewdly perceiving 
 that his son's services in civil life would never command a 
 remuneration equal to the pay and emoluments this liberal 
 government bestows upon its gallant defenders, had decided 
 to place him in the army, and after a great deal of wire- 
 pulling and the exercise of a vast amount of adroit political 
 finesse, a judicious employment of which will accomplish 
 wonders in this free and enlightened republic, he succeeded 
 in getting his son appointed to West Point, where that 
 obtuse youth, to every one's intense surprise, eventually 
 graduated. Shortly after this event the old man consider- 
 ately died, leaving behind him the snug sum of one hun- 
 dred thousand dollars, of which the ci-deva7it cadet, now 
 Lieutenant Symper, forthwith took possession, and at once 
 assumed airs of commensurate importance. Lieutenant 
 Symper was a tall, slim young man with an incipient mous- 
 tache, a vacuous smile, one idea, and an eyeglass. He 
 seemed to be continually absorbed in the contemplation of 
 his own personal attractions. As the soldiers less euphe- 
 mistically expressed themselves, he was ' ' stuck on him- 
 self ' ' He had a fixed idea that he was created solely for 
 the purpose of posing for the admiration of the feminine 
 portion of humanity, and evidently considered himself a 
 
124 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 lady-killer, par excellence, and a beau of the first water. 
 He became deeply smitten with the charms of the beautiful 
 Miss Quilkey, and that he had only to declare his passion 
 to find it fully reciprocated he had not the slightest shadow 
 of a doubt. 
 
 Captain Quilkey, the quartermaster, was an elderly man 
 with a partiality for whiskey and whist, expensive tastes 
 both, for he drank a great deal of the former and played 
 most atrociously at the latter. As he had no means out- 
 side of his pay, and as Mrs. Quilkey was addicted to a 
 gorgeous extravagance in matters relating to her personal 
 adornment, he often experienced considerable difficulty in 
 making "both ends meet." He therefore viewed the at- 
 tentions of Lieutenant Symper to his daughter with an 
 approving eye, though he had a very depreciative opinion 
 of that gentleman's mental capacity. But one cannot af- 
 ford to be hypercritical with a prospective son-in-law who 
 has one hundred thousand dollars. On the other hand, 
 Mrs. Quilkey was inclined to favor the suit of Captain 
 Hardtack, who was the senior captain in the service, while 
 Lieutenant Symper was only an additional second lieu- 
 tenant. If her daughter married the captain she might 
 live to see her a colonel's wife, which in the other case, at 
 the present slow rate of promotion, she could not hope to 
 do. And this social advantage on the one side more than 
 outweighed, in her mind, the monetary consideration on 
 the other. But Miss Quilkey, although she listened duti- 
 fully to her father when he enlarged upon the worldly bene- 
 fits to be gained by a marriage with Lieutenant Symper, 
 and to her mother as to the social advantages of a union 
 with Captain Hardtack, had certain romantic notions of her 
 own in regard to matrimony. She was, moreover, a very 
 self-willed young lady, and certainly had no intention of 
 being either coerced by her father or cajoled by her mother 
 into a viariage de convenarice with a man she did not love. 
 She therefore rejoiced in secret at the divided counsels in 
 the domestic camp, and hoped by a little judicious manoeu- 
 vring to prevent a union of the parental forces in favor of 
 either the captain or the lieutenant. In her ability to do 
 this she felt that the continuation of her single blessedness 
 lay. She certainly gave neither of her admirers the slightest 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 1 25 
 
 encouragement. She trembled at the thought of marriage 
 with Captain Hardtack, whose 
 
 " Narrow, foxy face, 
 Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye" 
 
 inspired her with a feeling of deep distrust, and when in 
 his company she made no attempt to conceal her senti- 
 ments of aversion. But this only inflamed the captain's 
 passion and made him more determined to win her. If she 
 hated Captain Hardtack she simply despised Lieutenant 
 Symper, and returned his vapid compliments with such 
 merciless and scathing sarcasm as would have convinced him 
 of the hopelessness of his suit had he not been blinded by 
 overweening self-conceit. Matters went on in this way for 
 some time ; the captain hesitating to make his proposal 
 until he felt more sure of his ground. In the mean time he as- 
 sumed an air of mournful resignation as best befitting the 
 condition of a love-lorn swain, and improved "the shining 
 hour" by assiduously cultivating the good graces of Mrs. 
 Quilkey, upon whose co-operation in his matrimonial 
 aspirations he plainly perceived he could count. Lieu- 
 tenant Symper, however, had no such misgivings as to the 
 success of his suit, and several times when alone with the 
 fair object of his regard had been on the point of launch- 
 ing into an ardent declaration of his pa-ssion. But that 
 unimpressionable young lady, whenever the conversation 
 took a tender turn, changed it at the supreme moment into 
 channels so severely commonplace, and with an air of such 
 provoking nonchalance, that the lady-killing lieutenant, in 
 spite of his assurance, was fain to defer his amorous avowal 
 to some future occasion. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Colonel Colchicum, the commanding officer of Fort 
 Buell, was a thorough soldier, with a high sense of the 
 honorable character of the military calling, not only from 
 his stand-point as an officer, but as affecting the humblest 
 
 u* 
 
126 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 private in the regiment. He was fully convinced of the 
 pernicious influence of the general fatigue system upon the 
 service, and maintained that, beyond the necessary police 
 of quarters, nothing should be required of a soldier but 
 duties of an essentially military character. But a strict per- 
 formance of these he exacted to the uttermost, aiming to 
 make his command a model of perfection to the minutest 
 detail, not only in the school of the soldier, but also in the 
 general bearing and appearance of the men. To be seen 
 about the garrison in uncleanly or slovenly attire, or to be 
 lacking in the slightest degree in military carriage or bear- 
 ing, was in his eye the gravest offence of which a soldier 
 could be guilty. The colonel was wont to argue that the 
 system of general fatigue was accountable for a large per- 
 centage of desertions. "Hang it, sir," he would say, in 
 his blunt way, to the lieutenant-colonel, who entertained 
 diametrically opposite views, " I do not want visitors to this 
 post to go away with the idea that the uniform of the 
 United States soldier is made of brown canvas, and that 
 the weapon with which he is most familiar is a long-handled 
 shovel. This is an artillery regiment, not a corps of sappers 
 and miners, hence my men have no use for the pick." The 
 men were thoroughly in accord with the colonel's ideas, 
 and severe as was his regime, they infinitely preferred it 
 to a life of ditch-digging and road-making, which they 
 thought, and not without reason, was the work of a pioneer 
 corps and not of regiments of the line. As a result of this 
 wholesome discipline each company in the post in its desire 
 to attain the colonel's standard of military perfection be- 
 came filled with a spirit of generous emulation, and the 
 regiment earned the enviable reputation of being the 
 smartest in the service. The military routine at Fort Buell 
 began at reveille. At eight o'clock the regiment turned out 
 for dress parade, and immediately after this ceremony the 
 adjutant mounted the guard. Then, after a short interval, 
 came drill for an hour in the school of the battalion, or in 
 mechanical manoeuvres with the heavy guns in the case- 
 mates, and this in the winter months concluded the military 
 duties of the day. 
 
 It thus happened that Private Jones had ample leisure at 
 his disposal, and he was in the habit after morning drill of 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 127 
 
 taking long walks in the fine country in the neighborhood, 
 and when the weather grew cold enough he spent a good 
 deal of time skating on a small lake a mile or so from the 
 post. In the clear winter afternoons parties of officers, 
 with their wives and daughters, and scores of soldiers might 
 be seen hurrying through the keen crisp air to this lake to 
 indulge in the same invigorating recreation. On a certain 
 afternoon several ladies of the post (among whom was Miss 
 Ouilkey), accompanied by Captain Hardtack, Lieutenant 
 Symper, and other officers of the garrison, went down to 
 the lake for a spin upon the ice. As a matter of fact, both 
 the captain and the lieutenant regarded this excursion with 
 considerable misgiving, for neither could skate ; but both 
 made a point of going, as each was afraid the other might 
 steal a march on him on the way down if he remained away. 
 Miss Quilkey was a superb performer on the ice, and as 
 soon as her skates had been adjusted she glided swiftly out 
 on to the glassy surface in a succession of intricate and 
 graceful curves, disdaining many a willing proffer of escort. 
 Shortly afterwards the rivals, with gloomy forebodings of 
 disaster, timidly ventured on to the icy expanse to en- 
 counter all the hideous experiences of a first time on skates. 
 The lake was soon covered with a host of flying skaters, 
 whose enjoyment of the sport was so keen that the initial 
 struggles of Captain Hardtack and his subaltern were 
 almost unnoticed. 
 
 The afternoon wore on apace, and the officers and their 
 ladies were preparing to leave the pond, when the attention 
 of every one was attracted by screams mingled with the 
 cracking of ice, and not far away in the gathering gloom a 
 lady was seen struggling in the water. It seems that Miss 
 Quilkey, in skating back to join her friends from a distant 
 portion of the lake, unwisely tried to make a short-cut 
 across a treacherous-looking piece of ice beneath an over- 
 hanging clump of trees. Lieutenant Symper was nearest 
 to the scene of the accident, and for some time past had 
 been in that vicinity making strenuous but unsuccessful at- 
 tempts to maintain his equilibrium with the aid of a chair. 
 Captain Hardtack's efforts at locomotion were as yet con- 
 fined to an occasional series of spasmodic scuffles, which 
 invariably terminated in his taking a seat upon the ice with 
 
128 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 unexpected suddenness. Assistance, therefore, from either 
 of these gentlemen was out of the question, and it might 
 have fared ill with Miss Quilkey had her cries not reached 
 the ears of Private Jones, who was skating at no great dis- 
 tance away. He hurried to the spot, skating boldly to 
 within a few feet of the hole. He then lay down in order 
 to distribute his weight over the greatest possible area, and 
 crawled cautiously towards the broken edge until he 
 grasped Miss Quilkey's hand. He had almost succeeded 
 in pulling her out of the water when their united weight 
 proved too great a strain ; the ice broke again and pre- 
 cipitated both into the water. 
 
 But by this time assistance was rapidly converging from 
 all sides, and Private Jones knew that if he could hold out 
 for a few minutes longer and support Miss Quilkey, who 
 was now insensible, their safety was assured. Fortunately, 
 a rope had been brought to the lake by a prudent member 
 of the party in view of possible emergencies, and a noose 
 having been made in this, the bight was flung to Private 
 Jones, who had just sufficient strength left to pass it round 
 Miss Quilkey and over his own shoulders before the numb- 
 ing sensation of cold robbed him of consciousness. When 
 he regained his senses it was to find himself in the post 
 hospital and the hero of the garrison. After she recovered 
 from the shock of her immersion, Miss Quilkey sent for 
 Private Jones to personally express her gratitude for his 
 timely aid. 
 
 ' ' I am so deeply indebted to you, Jones ; I feel I owe 
 my life to you," she said, with evident feeling, grasping his 
 hand warmly. 
 
 " Do not mention it. Miss Quilkey," said Private Jones, 
 bowing. ' ' I did nothing but my duty. I am only too 
 happy to have been of service." 
 
 If Miss Quilkey was surprised at the courteous tone of 
 the speaker, a tone that indicated a degree of culture and 
 breeding far above his station, she was still more surprised 
 to find that her rescuer was a remarkably good-looking 
 young fellow with the unmistakable air of a gentleman, 
 and that night in the solitude of her chamber, as she sat 
 by the fire before retiring to rest, in a dainty lace-edged 
 robe de chambre, she caught herself more than once think- 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 1 29 
 
 Ing of the handsome private who had saved her Hfe at the 
 risk of his own. " Pshaw !" said she, as she crept into her 
 cozy bed ; ' ' how absurd of me to be thinking of a soldier in 
 this way !" But despite the absurdity he remained in her 
 thoughts until she fell asleep. 
 
 The next day at guard-mount Private Jones was detailed 
 as orderly to the commanding officer. She passed him 
 several times during the day as he followed the portly 
 figure of the colonel in the daily round of garrison inspec- 
 tion, and she could not help remarking to her friend, Miss 
 Probang, the doctor's daughter, who accompanied her, 
 how handsome and soldierly the orderly looked in his 
 trim and well-fitting uniform. The days went by, and 
 Private Jones, instead of lingering in her recollection 
 merely as one who had done her a service, grew to be 
 the central figure in her thoughts. She began to take 
 an unusual interest in the morning parades, and her eyes 
 brightened as they dwelt upon a stalwart figure on the 
 extreme right of the leading battery, as the regiment in 
 column of companies swept past in review. This grow- 
 ing regard for one beyond the pale of social cognizance 
 began to frighten her, and when she asked herself what 
 this new emotion was that stirred her pulses and thrilled 
 her with a vague delight, she dared not supply the answer. 
 An officer's daughter to be captivated by the personal 
 beauty of a private soldier, — it was ridiculous ! Consid- 
 eration for her friends and respect for the honor of her 
 family demanded that she should stifle this rising regard, 
 and she strove with all her strength to subdue it. But 
 her efforts were in vain, for this vulgar passion daily gather- 
 ing strength gradually overwhelmed her remaining scruples 
 of shame, pride, and self-respect, and she finally awoke to 
 the humiliating yet pleasing consciousness that she loved 
 the handsome Private Jones with all the strength of her 
 impetuous nature. 
 
 In the performance of his duties in various parts of the 
 garrison Private Jones frequently passed Miss Quilkey, and 
 he had long formed a mental opinion that she was the love- 
 liest girl he had ever seen. At first his thoughts were simply 
 the outcome of that respectful admiration with which any 
 honest man may regard a beautiful woman, however wide 
 
130 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 the social gulf between them. During the weeks following 
 the accident on the lake he also frequently met her in his 
 solitary walks in the adjacent country, sometimes alone, 
 sometimes accompanied by her lady friends of the garri- 
 son, and on every occasion she gave him a little inclination 
 of her dainty head by way of recognition, from which he 
 knew that the remembrance of his service still lived grate- 
 fully in her recollection. Her exquisite beauty daily grew 
 upon him, and he began to look forward to his afternoon 
 walks with unwonted interest. Ere long he felt that his 
 nascent admiration was growing into a warmer and deeper 
 emotion, and at last he stood face to face with the fact that 
 he was hopelessly, desperately in love. Had he not been 
 so deeply in earnest he would have laughed at the very idea 
 of such preposterous presumption. As it was, he felt that 
 the only thing he could do was to stamp out this absurd 
 passion at any cost to himself, and, lover-like, proceeded 
 very illogically to continue his walks, arguing that whatever 
 his ultimate course might be, he need not at present deny 
 himself the happiness of seeing her. Had he only known 
 the state of her mind his own might have been less gloomy. 
 Sometimes when he passed her he fancied that he noticed 
 a rising flush siififusing the lovely face, and he wondered 
 whether she could have any suspicion of his secret. Private 
 Jones, though a common soldier, was a man of honor and a 
 man of sense. He determined that by no act of his should 
 she ever learn that secret, and made up his mind to apply 
 for a transfer to the Seventh Cavalry, at that time stationed 
 near a hostile Indian encampment, in the hope that in the 
 hardship and excitement of campaign life he might find a 
 nepenthe. The next day he made out his application and 
 handed the 'same to the first sergeant until the return of 
 Captain Hardtack, who had left the post on a three days' 
 leave of absence. Now, in Battery "A" there was a cer- 
 tain Private Robinson who had won the virgin affections of 
 a buxom female domestic of Milesian extraction who pre- 
 sided over the culinary department in the quarters of 
 Captain Ouilkey. As enlisted men were not allowed in 
 the vicinity of the officers' quarters, save in line of duty, 
 the gallant Private Robinson was reduced to the necessity 
 of holding stolen meetings in the unromantic seclusion of 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. I3I 
 
 the scullery, where about three nights a week he discussed 
 his future matrimonial plans, and simultaneously disposed 
 of surreptitious snacks of cold comestibles which the buxom 
 cook, devoutly believing in the old adage, " the way to a 
 man's heart is through his stomach," abstracted from the 
 larder for his refection. Among other garrison gossip 
 which he retailed one night for the delectation of his lady- 
 love was the fact that Private Jones had applied for a 
 transfer to the front. There was really nothing in this 
 particular fact to interest the fair Milesian, but the war 
 with the Sioux was at that time the principal topic of 
 discussion throughout the garrison, and Private Robinson 
 incidentally mentioned Private Jones's transfer in the course 
 ol a lengthy dissertation on the campaign, wherein he proved 
 to the entire satisfaction of himself and the buxom cook 
 that had the war been conducted on the principles he laid 
 down the whole affair would have been amicably settled 
 long ago. As there appeared to be no prospect of any 
 immediate refreshment, he concluded by expressing a de- 
 sire to be summarily scalped if he didn't apply for a trans- 
 fer himself before guard-mount next morning. This con- 
 tingency so alarmed the buxom cook that she forthwith 
 went to an adjoining cupboard, and produced therefrom 
 a bottle and the remains of a beefsteak pie, a proceeding 
 which previous experience had taught her was usually 
 followed by unusual good spirits on the part of her ad- 
 mirer. 
 
 Private Robinson winked at his reflection in a small mir- 
 ror on the opposite wall as a tribute to the success of his 
 diplomacy, and after several draughts from the bottle to the 
 health of the buxom cook, he proceeded to demolish the 
 pie, afterwards allaying her fears with the assurance that 
 "she needn't feel no alarm, he wasn't going to no front no- 
 how." 
 
 The day after this tete-a-tHe, Mrs. Quilkey descended to 
 the subterranean depths of the kitchen to superintend the 
 manufacture of an enormous cake and the composition of 
 various other delicacies, in preparation for an approaching 
 party to be given in celebration of her daughter's twentieth 
 birthday. In these domestic duties she was assisted by that 
 accomplished young lady and the buxom cook, whose mind 
 
132 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 was much exercised in fabricating a diatribe upon the thievish 
 propensities of a very placid-looking cat purring contentedly 
 by the stove, from which she hoped her mistress would account 
 inferentially for the disappearance of the pie, the absence of 
 which that careful housewife had already noticed. ' ' Would 
 you belave, mum, not alone the pie, but last Monday night 
 that thafe of a cat stole the lavings of the fish, which they 
 are that partial to as you may 'ave ' eard, to say nothin' of nigh 
 a pound of steak," said the buxom cook, with an assump- 
 tion of virtuous indignation, not, however, without a twinge 
 of conscience at the maze of mendacity into which Private 
 Robinson's extraordinary appetite bade fair to lead her. 
 At any other time Mrs. Quilkey might have expressed her 
 scepticism as to the cat's ability to purloin a beefsteak pie 
 from the upper shelf of a closed cupboard, but this morn- 
 ing her mind was greatly perturbed by a growing rumor, 
 which had some official weight, to the effect that, in view 
 of the grave state of affairs at the front, there was a proba- 
 bility of the Eighth Artillery being ordered into the field to 
 serve as infantry. She therefore contented herself with 
 merely desiring the cook to be more careful in future, and 
 then began to discuss the topic of the hour with her daugh- 
 ter, expressing the fear that the troops might be ordered to 
 take the field at any moment. " Indade, mum, I 'ope not," 
 said the buxom cook, with a sympathetic air. "Them 
 Indians is such murtherin' wretches, more betoken I'm 
 after 'earin' last night as Private Jones, the young man what 
 saved your life, miss, as is in the same battery along with 
 Private Robinson, which is my 'usban' that is to be, 
 is that anxious to go he's gone and transferred there." 
 This statement caused Miss Quilkey the greatest agitation, 
 and as soon as her mother left the kitchen she took 
 advantage of the opportunity to question the buxom cook 
 further on the matter. And the buxom cook, little sus- 
 pecting the interest her words excited, repeated that all 
 she had been told was that Private Jones had obtained a 
 transfer to the Seventh Cavalry. It was only when she 
 heard this that Miss Quilkey realized the depth and strength 
 of her affection. The last few days when alone in her own 
 room she had asked herself what would be the outcome of 
 her degrading love for Private Jones, and had half tortured 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. I33 
 
 herself into a determination to adopt heroic measures ; in 
 other words, to go on a lengthy visit to some relatives of 
 her mother's, in the hope of living it down. But now that 
 he was going from her she felt that this love had grown to 
 be part of her very life ; she could not, nay, would not give 
 it up, come what might. But what could she do? Her 
 first action was peculiarly feminine. She went to her room, 
 and in its friendly solitude indulged in that soothing resource 
 which is known among the fair sex as a "good cry." Her 
 presence was required that day to assist in the decoration 
 of the hop room for a bal masque which the post Committee 
 of Arrangements had decreed should come off that evening. 
 But her interest in this work was gone, and not a few of 
 the young ladies present noticed her air of listlessness and 
 distraite. During the afternoon she slipped away on the 
 plea of headache — she should have said heartache — and 
 hurried to take her usual walk, in the hope that she might 
 meet him once more before he left. She took the oft-fre- 
 quented road outside the reservation fence, and as she 
 turned aside from the main road into a narrow pathway 
 that lead to the lake, she saw the well-known stalwart figure 
 striding towards her. " I must speak to him," she said to 
 herself She strove to Still the rebellious beating of her 
 heart : she must be calm, or he would detect her secret ; 
 she would merely thank him again for the service he had 
 done her and bid him a formal good-by, and then — but 
 she could not bear to think of the dreariness beyond. As 
 he approached she noticed that his face wore a saddened 
 and gloomy expression. He was about to pass with the 
 usual formal recognition, when he saw that she wished to 
 speak to him and stopped. 
 
 " Private Jones," said she, striving to conceal her agita- 
 tion, " I am told you are going away. I am so sorry that 
 — in other words, I mean to say — that is, I thought I should 
 like to thank — to — to — bid you good-by." 
 
 At the word ' ' good-by' ' her voice broke down in a 
 pathetic little quaver, and Private Jones, taking the slender 
 gloved hand extended to him, saw that the girl's tender 
 lips were quivering, and that a tear trembled on the long 
 lashes that fringed the soft, dark eyes. His heart throbbed 
 with a wild, tumultuous joy as the truth dawned upon him. 
 
134 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH, 
 
 He forgot that he was a private soldier ; he forgot that she 
 was an officer's daughter; he forgot everything save the 
 fact that he loved this beautiful girl, and that his affection 
 was returned. He drew her to him and, bending down, 
 kissed her on the lips, whispering, ' ' Dearest, this is too 
 great happiness ; may I — dare I hope?" And Edith Quil- 
 key, placing both her hands in his, bowed her head and 
 simply said, " I love you." 
 
 Then they wandered off together into the unfrequented 
 solitude of the wood for a few delicious moments of sweet 
 communings, wherein Edith discovered to her delight that 
 her soldier lover was a man of undoubted breeding and 
 refinement. 
 
 Now, Lieutenant Sympcr looking out of the window of 
 his quarters happened to see Miss Quilkey passing out of 
 the garrison gate, and he inferred that she was going for 
 her usual walk, but she was too far ahead for him to over- 
 take her. The road to the lake made a wide semicircular 
 sweep round the garrison, and if he made a bee-line across 
 the reservation, he might be able to intercept her, and at 
 any rate have the pleasure of her company for a portion 
 of the way. For some time past the lieutenant had been 
 elaborating a very poetic effusion in which he intended to 
 make the offer of his hand and heart as soon as a favorable 
 opportunity presented itself, and it occurred to him that 
 the road to the lake was perhaps as romantic and secluded 
 a spot as could be found for the purpose. ' ' Now or never, ' ' 
 said he, as he stepped out in quick time for the reservation 
 fence. Between the fence and the side-path to the lake was 
 a thicket of considerable width through which he had to 
 make his way. As he was about to step from this thicket 
 into the roadway his eyes encountered a sight which trans- 
 fixed him with astonishment. Could he believe the evi- 
 dence of his senses ? There, not a hundred paces away 
 from him, was the woman to whom he was about to make 
 an offer of marriage, submitting, and not unwillingly, to 
 the osculatory caress of a private soldier ! As he stood 
 there spellbound, they linked arm in arm and vanished into 
 the opposite thicket, and he remained for ten minutes or 
 more staring vacantly at the forsaken road, absolutely in- 
 capable of thought or motion. 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 1 35 
 
 "Damn that fellow's infernal impudence!" he said to 
 himself, finally turning to retrace his steps to the garrison. 
 As he passed the guard-house he espied the spare form of 
 Captain Hardtack crossing the parade-ground, and forget- 
 ting all his personal enmity in the discovery which meant 
 discomfiture to both of them, and thus extinguished their 
 rivalry, he determined to tell the captain what he had seen 
 in the wood. Captain Hardtack appeared to be totally 
 unconscious of the approach of his subaltern, and affected 
 to take an absorbing interest in the frantic efforts of a 
 teamster of the quartermaster's department to induce a re- 
 fractory mule to proceed in a straight line, that obstinate 
 animal having an insane predilection for travelling sideways 
 like a crab. " Captain Hardtack, I have something I wish 
 to say to you if you can spare the time," said the lieutenant, 
 with intense solemnity. 
 
 Captain Hardtack feigned a start of surprise, as though 
 Lieutenant Symper was the very last person he expected 
 to see, and then said, in a very frigid tone, ' ' I am at the 
 orderly-room every morning at half-past seven, Mr. Symper, 
 when I shall be pleased to listen to anything you may have 
 to say to me ah — er — in the line of duty. ' ' 
 
 " But this has nothing to do with the line of duty," said 
 the lieutenant, with some agitation. " It is a matter which 
 nearly concerns us both." 
 
 " I was not aware, Mr. Symper," said the captain, with 
 an abortive effort to assume an expression of hauteur, — " I 
 was not aware, Mr. Symper, that anything in which you 
 are concerned could by any possible chance ah — er — have 
 the slightest interest for me." 
 
 "But it has," continued the lieutenant, ignoring in his 
 persistence the captain's studied insolence, "and so you 
 will admit if you will grant me a few moments for explana- 
 tion." And the captain, seeing that the lieutenant had 
 evidently something out of the ordinary to communicate, 
 led the way to his quarters. 
 
 Captain Hardtack was at first inclined to think that 
 Lieutenant Symper must be suffering from some species 
 of hallucination, and on second thoughts that this extraor- 
 dinary story was some overreaching subtlety on the part 
 of his subaltern that he could not at present fathom. He, 
 
136 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 however, felt that it must be the truth when the heutenant 
 continued : 
 
 "Captain Hardtack, our relations have been somewhat 
 strained of late owing to our rivalry over this — over Miss 
 Quilkey. As I do not care to number among my ac- 
 quaintances, much less to regard as my future wife, a 
 woman who could so far forget herself as to engage in a 
 low amour with a private soldier, I no longer consider 
 myself a suitor for her hand, and I trust that from this 
 moment our estrangement may cease." 
 
 Now, Captain Hardtack, whatever his other faults, cer- 
 tainly loved Miss Quilkey with all the intensity of his 
 nature, and he determined not to give her up under any 
 circumstances. He felt that her affection for Private Jones 
 could be nothing more than a foolish fancy which would die 
 out when the object of it was removed. He congratulated 
 himself that Jones's application for transfer was still in his 
 hands ; he could easily revoke the indorsement of disap- 
 proval he had put on that morning and forward the applica- 
 tion "approved and recommended." The transfer would 
 undoubtedly "go through," as men were badly needed on 
 the frontier. Lieutenant Symper's rivalry was no longer 
 to be dreaded, and the captain really believed that his pros- 
 pects, which latterly he had begun to regard as somewhat 
 gloomy, looked brighter than ever before. 
 
 "I think," he said to Lieutenant Symper, after having 
 maturely considered the case, — "I think you had better 
 mention this painful matter to Captain Quilkey in a quiet 
 moment. He is in the city on business just now, I believe, 
 but he will be back on Saturday. He will probably send 
 his daughter away for a month or so, and amid new faces 
 and surroundings she will speedily forget this foolish fancy. 
 This scoundrel Jones has undoubtedly presumed upon the 
 service he once did her, and I do not think that her regard 
 for him can amount to anything more than an exaggerated 
 sense of gratitude. We are, of course, in honor bound 
 to keep this matter secret ; to do otherwise would only in- 
 volve Miss Quilkey in humiliation and disgrace. As for 
 this villain Jones, I will forward his application with a strong 
 recommendation that it be granted, and when once he is 
 out of the way, depend upon it, she will forget him. In 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. I37 
 
 the mean time, it is my opinion that the best thing we can 
 do is to preserve the strictest secrecy, taking care not to 
 betray by any word or action that we have the sUghtest 
 inkling of the affair. " 
 
 " But I am under an engagement to dine there this even- 
 ing, and afterwards to take her to the masquerade," said 
 Lieutenant Symper. ' ' How can I do this in the face of 
 what I know?" 
 
 " It is unpleasant, certainly, ' ' admitted the captain, ' ' but 
 it will be policy on your part to go ; indeed, I do not see 
 that you, in view of your previous intimacy, can well make 
 an excuse without exciting suspicion." 
 
 "That is so," said the lieutenant, gloomily. "Go I 
 must, I suppose." 
 
 Edith Quilkey had never appeared to greater advantage 
 than she did that evening. How could this brilliant, viva- 
 cious, and accomplished girl condescend to receive the 
 vulgar caresses of a private soldier ? thought the unhappy 
 lieutenant, as he listened to her bright sallies. 
 
 "You seem very dull this evening, Mr. Symper," she 
 said, in surprise at the lieutenant's monosyllabic replies, 
 for he was usually so talkative. ' ' And the night of the 
 masquerade, too ; you ought to be in your gayest mood." 
 
 " I took a long walk this afternoon, and I don't think it 
 agreed with me, ' ' replied the lieutenant, with frank veracity. 
 
 "Why, I enjoyed my walk immensely, it was such a 
 glorious afternoon," said Edith, with an air of ingenuous 
 innocence. ' ' I walked half round the reservation fence 
 and home by the lake." 
 
 "Quite a long walk to take — alone," remarked the 
 lieutenant, curtly. 
 
 There was something in the way he said this so different 
 from his ordinary tone — ^just the faintest soupgo7i of sarcasm, 
 the merest stress of emphasis on the word "alone" — that 
 her suspicions were aroused. She looked at him ; their 
 eyes met steadily, and hers fell, — for she knew intuitively 
 that her secret was known. 
 
 12* 
 
138 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 V. 
 
 It was the custom of the officers and ladies of the garri- 
 son at Fort Buell to meet together every Wednesday even- 
 ing in the post Hbrary for the weekly " hop." One day it 
 occurred to Lieutenant Symper to suggest a bal masgiie as 
 variation from the unchanging monotony. This brilliant 
 inspiration was welcomed with enthusiasm by the committee 
 of arrangements, who were always on the lookout for novel- 
 ties. There were plenty of visitors of both sexes in the 
 post at the time, and the officers had hosts of friends and 
 acquaintances in the city who would be only too glad to 
 attend, so that everything augured well for the success of 
 the affair. So many invitations were issued that the accom- 
 modations of the post library were deemed quite inadequate, 
 and recourse was had to the great hall of the gymnasium, 
 the floor of which was carefully waxed and prepared for the 
 occasion. The decoration of this room had been intrusted 
 to the superintendence of Miss Penwiper, the adjutant's 
 daughter. Miss Probang, the doctor's daughter. Miss Quil- 
 key, and other young ladies of the garrison, and right well 
 they acquitted themselves of their task, only concluding 
 their arduous labors on the very day of the dance. Shortly 
 after retreat the carriages of the city people began to arrive, 
 and before tattoo had sounded the hall was full. The ball- 
 room was a scene of brilliant light and color. At the end 
 of the great hall, which was decorated with tastefully-draped 
 flags, the national and regimental colors hung in drooping 
 folds, surrounded by glittering stacks of arms, the bright 
 sheen of the bayonets and the crossed swords upon the 
 walls glinting with a thousand flashing rays in the light of a 
 multitude of delicately-shaded lamps, while the many-hued, 
 quaint, and varied costumes of the masqueraders imparted 
 a kaleidoscopic diversity to the scene. 
 
 Here might be seen a turbaned Turk engaged in con- 
 versation with a masked maiden in the picturesque attire 
 of a Tyrolean peasant-girl, and there a tall figure in the 
 gaudy uniform of a Spahi officer bending gracefully over a 
 settee to interchange a running fire of badinage with some 
 lovely unknown in the coquettish dress of a Mexican po- 
 blana. The fact that the masks and strange costumes effect- 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 1 39 
 
 ually concealed the identity of every one present infused 
 an unwonted spirit of interest into the revel, and as mid- 
 night, the hour of unmasking, approached, a general feel- 
 ing of curiosity as to identities arose, which, in those who 
 had made use of so favorable an opportunity to prosecute 
 a series of somewhat vigorous flirtations was not, perhaps, 
 untinged with misgiving. In spite of the confusion of 
 identities a mutual understanding evidently existed between 
 a tall gentleman clad in conventional evening attire and 
 wearing a gray silk mask and a young lady in a blue 
 domino and the dress of a Spanish dancer, a costume that 
 revealed all the supple curves of the wearer's graceful and 
 exquisitely-moulded form. In the early part of the even- 
 ing the gentleman in the gray silk mask singled out the 
 lady in the blue domino, and instead of indulging in the 
 stereotyped request for the pleasure of the next waltz, said, 
 in low voice, " Can you recognize me, Edith?" 
 
 "You here !" said the lady in the blue domino, with a 
 start of unfeigned terror. "Oh, pray be careful, it is so 
 very dangerous, and I cannot bear to think what would 
 happen if you were discovered." 
 
 "Do not be in the least alarmed," said Private Jones, 
 for he it was in the gray mask. " In the very audacity of 
 the idea lies my safety. No one would ever suspect a 
 private soldier of daring to mix with this gay throng." 
 
 "But how did you get here? Admission is by ticket, 
 and the sentry at the door has positive orders to admit no 
 one without a card of invitation," said Edith, adjusting the 
 blue domino more securely. 
 
 "I found a blank card some days ago," said Private 
 Jones, "in the library. I also discovered this afternoon 
 that Private MacTurk, on account of his imposing aspect, 
 would be detailed for this particular ' sentry go,' and know- 
 ing that his education had been shamefully neglected, I 
 took advantage of that fact and handed him the blank 
 card, which he accepted with as much reverence as though 
 it had been duly signed by the committee. My greatest 
 difficulty was to obtain a costume, for my choice was some- 
 what restricted. I, however, recollected that this old 
 London-made suit of evening dress still lay at the bottom 
 of my trunk, so the chances are I shall either be taken for 
 
140 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 an Anglomaniac or some visiting Englishman from the 
 city. But you must reserve as many of the waltzes as pos- 
 sible for me before twelve o'clock, as by that time I must 
 contrive to mysteriously disappear." 
 
 "But I am so terrified!" whispered Edith. "What 
 would happen if you were discovered? Still, I am glad 
 you are here," she added, softly. "I have something 
 important to tell you, so let us sit out our next dance." 
 
 "No, not the next; it is 'My Sweetheart;' we must 
 dance that, you know. Let us sit out the following 
 lancers," said Private Jones. 
 
 Edith Quilkey was undoubtedly very frightened at her 
 lover's extraordinary audacity, but as she whirled around 
 on his vigorous arm to the rhythmical measures of the dance 
 she became conscious only of a languorous sense of happi- 
 ness, and with his eyes gazing down into hers she forgot all 
 her fears and abandoned herself to a voluptuous glow of 
 enjoyment. They sat out the next dance in a quiet nook 
 at the far corner of the hall, and in this tete-a-tete she told 
 her lover her reasons for believing that their secret was 
 known. " If Lieutenant Symper knows it, and I feel sure 
 he does, he will tell papa, and I shall be sent away," she 
 said, fearfully. 
 
 "Will you trust me implicitly, Edith?" asked Private 
 Jones, who saw in her fears an opportunity to test the 
 depth of her affection. 
 
 " Have I not told you, dear, that I would give up every- 
 thing for your sake," she said, somewhat reproachfully. 
 
 Private Jones bent his head down to hers and whispered 
 something. She did not reply for some minutes, but the 
 warm blood crimsoning out from under the blue domino 
 spread over the fair white neck and bosom, and bore evi- 
 dence to the struggle going on within her. Finally she 
 laid her hand in his and said, " I will," which, being inter- 
 preted, meant that they were to go to the city on the mor- 
 row and be privately married, for in this course it seemed 
 their only guard against ultimate separation lay. They 
 danced nearly every waltz together, and Private Jones so 
 far forgot himself in his sense of delirious enjoyment as to 
 take no note of time, and it was not until Edith said, " Oh, 
 do go now ; it is a quarter to twelve," that he realized his 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH I4I 
 
 position, and with a fondly whispered "Till to-morrow," 
 he disappeared from the room. 
 
 When the hour of unmasking arrived many and great 
 were the surprises. Colonel Colchicum was attired in the 
 robes of a monk of La Trappe, though his portly form and 
 rubicund visage implied a decided disbelief in the tenets of 
 that ascetic order. Lieutenant Symper, who was of a 
 Shakespearian turn of mind, appeared as Bottom, a charac- 
 ter which Miss Quilkey wickedly said to her friend Miss 
 Probang had one great advantage, had he only known it, 
 in that he might have saved himself the trouble of purchas- 
 ing a mask. Captain Hardtack looked supremely uncom- 
 fortable in a coat of chain mail of the twelfth century period, 
 several sizes too large for him. There was a vague impres- 
 sion prevailing that he intended to represent Richard Coeur 
 de Lion, though his slight, spare form certainly was not sug- 
 gestive of the herculean proportions of the kingly Crusader. 
 Opinions seemed to be about equally divided as to the cos- 
 tume of Mrs. Colchicum, a wonderful, bag-like, waistless 
 creation covered all over with variegated furbelows and ex- 
 aggerated flounces, the whole surmounted by a stupendous 
 turban of gorgeous hue and complicated structure, some 
 inclining to the belief that she represented a lady of the 
 Georgian era, others that she intended to impersonate the 
 Great Mogul. 
 
 " Who was that tall gentleman who danced with you so 
 frequently, Edith?" said Mrs. Quilkey next morning. 
 
 "Really, ma, I could not see through that thick silk 
 mask, and he left the hall before twelve o'clock," returned 
 Edith, with ready equivocation. "But did he not waltz 
 divinely?" 
 
 Two days after the ball Private Jones was detailed as 
 orderly, and in the forenoon of the same day Captain Quil- 
 key came back to the post. Lieutenant Symper, who was 
 on the watch for him, went over to the captain's quarters 
 to unburden himself of his unpleasant news. The stern 
 old quartermaster heard him out in silence, and then said, 
 his face flushing deeply, — 
 
 "By G , sir, if this preposterous story is not true, 
 
 I " 
 
 "The word 'if,' Captain Quilkey, insinuates a doubt of 
 
142 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 my veracity. Ask your daughter before you condemn my 
 statement ; she shall be my witness," said the lieutenant, 
 hotly. 
 
 " I intend to ask her, sir." 
 
 "In that event, sir, you will permit me to withdraw. 
 You will admit that it is scarcely fitting a third party should 
 be present." 
 
 "I will admit nothing of the sort, sir," retorted the 
 captain, ringing the bell furiously. 
 
 "Send Miss Quilkey here !" he shouted to the buxom 
 cook, who answered his terrific peal with an expression on 
 her features as though she were apprehensive that the house 
 was on fire. 
 
 Edith came down looking very lovely in her light morn- 
 ing gown, but at the sight of Lieutenant Symper and her 
 father's angry face she turned visibly pale. 
 
 " Edith, I have just heard a most extraordinary story," 
 said the captain, and he repeated the sum and substance of 
 Lieutenant Symper' s statement. " Tell me it is not true," 
 he added, pathetically. 
 
 "It is true, papa," said Edith, growing pale as death. 
 ' ' But I love him very dearly. ' ' 
 
 " Love be !" roared the furious old man, concluding 
 
 his sentence with a word that rhymes with "jammed." 
 
 "And oh, papa, I must tell you, I — I — he is — I am his 
 wife," said Edith, tremblingly. 
 
 "What!" shouted the captain and the lieutenant, in a 
 simultaneous burst of incredulous astonishment. 
 
 Just at this moment a knock came to the outer door, and 
 immediately afterwards the colonel entered, while his or- 
 derly, Private Jones, could be seen pacing up and down 
 the front of the quarters outside. The colonel saw at a 
 glance that the relations were somewhat strained, and having 
 a wholesome horror of domestic scenes, he would have beaten 
 a hasty retreat had not Captain Quilkey closed the door. 
 
 "No, no, colonel!" he said, almost sobbing. "Advise 
 me, my friend, in this disgrace that has fallen upon me." 
 And in a few broken sentences he explained the situation to 
 the astonished colonel. 
 
 " God bless my soul !" said that bewildered warrior when 
 he heard the story, * ' Call the orderly in, Mr. Symper. ' ' 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. I43 
 
 "You scoundrel! You infernal villain !" shouted Cap- 
 tain Quilkey, his face purple with fury, as Private Jones 
 
 entered the room. " Out of my sight, or " Here his 
 
 comminatory language came to a dead stop from absolute 
 want of breath, and the threat remained unuttered. 
 
 Private Jones took in the situation at a glance, saluted 
 the colonel with military precision, and stood to attention 
 at the door, looking as little like a scoundrel as it is possible 
 to conceive. 
 
 As he stood there, Edith, still very pale, but quite calm 
 and collected, crossed the room, linked her arm with his, 
 and clung by his side. 
 
 "Sir," said Private Jones, addressing the colonel, "I 
 had intended to see Captain Quilkey when relieved from 
 guard for the purpose of making an explanation in regard 
 to this matter, but this unexpected contretemps has rendered 
 it necessary that I should make that explanation now. My 
 present name I may say is a pseudonyme : I am the son of the 
 late Gilbert Longhurst, the millionaire of New York City, 
 of whom you may possibly have heard. I quarrelled with 
 my father some years ago, and with the perversity and ob- 
 stinacy of youth declined to make any overtures of recon- 
 ciliation. I left home to make my way in the world 
 unaided. I was possessed of a small annuity from my 
 mother's estate, which was sufficient to provide me with 
 the necessaries of life, but having no wish to lead an utterly 
 purposeless existence, and being totally unacquainted with 
 any method of earning a livelihood, I enlisted in the United 
 States service with the ultimate intention of trying for a 
 commission. For reasons in no wise connected with the 
 subject at issue I abandoned this idea. You know how I 
 had the good fortune to be instrumental in saving the life 
 of Miss — of my wife ; a circumstance which was the means 
 of bringing us together, and which resulted in a mutual 
 affection. I received a letter some days ago informing me 
 of the death of my father, an event which has materially 
 altered my social status. I said nothing of this to my 
 wife, as I wished to see whether she would abandon 
 all that she held dear for one she believed to be nothing 
 more than a private soldier. The fact that she did so unre- 
 servedly is to me the sweetest evidence of the depth and 
 
144 PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 unselfishness of her affection. It may perhaps induce Cap- 
 tain Quilkey to modify his harsh opinion of me, and may 
 hkewise tend to remove that opprobrium which will naturally 
 be visited upon my wife for having- contracted what is doubt- 
 less considered an ignominious mesalliance, when I say that 
 by the death of my father I have inherited an estate valued 
 at something like two million dollars. In proof of this 
 statement I am prepared to hand you letters from a well- 
 known legal firm in New York City. I have now, sir, 
 only to respectfully request your approval to an application 
 for the purchase of my discharge, which will be laid before 
 you in the morning." 
 
 To say that this announcement produced a sensation ex- 
 presses the situation very inadequately. Every one was in 
 a state of stupefaction. The colonel was the first to recover 
 from the astonishment this extraordinary turn of affairs had 
 caused, and at once recognized the altered status of his 
 orderly. 
 
 "Jones," said he, "I shall be pleased to approve your 
 application for discharge. In the mean time it will be as 
 well for you to take a leave of absence. Tell the sergeant 
 of the guard to send the supernumerary over as orderly in 
 your place : you are relieved from duty this moment." 
 
 Private Jones saluted and turned to leave the room. His 
 lovely wife, her face crimsoned now with a glow of mingled 
 pride and love, crossed over to her astounded father, and, 
 putting her arms round his neck, whispered, coaxingly, 
 " Papa dear, forgive us." 
 
 That night the stern old man shook hands with his soldier 
 son-in-law, immeasurably happy to find that his beautiful 
 daughter had not made a mesalliance after all. 
 
 When the news became the property of the garrison it 
 created a tremendous sensation. Dozens of soldiers sud- 
 denly discovered that they had always anticipated some- 
 thing of the sort, and the buxom cook remarked to Private 
 Robinson, as he disposed of a liberal allowance of ham and 
 
 eggs,— 
 
 "Sure an' it's himself was always a gintleman, with his 
 illegant ways. ' ' 
 
 As for Captain Hardtack, he did not appear in the 
 bachelor's mess for some days, and it was currently re- 
 
PRIVATE JONES OF THE EIGHTH. I45 
 
 ported at that festive board that the gallant captain com- 
 muned with himself in closed quarters in language which is 
 best represented on paper in a succession of blanks. Lieu- 
 tenant Symper for a time forswore the society of the fickle 
 sex altogether, and made abortive efforts to cultivate the 
 cynical air of a confirmed misogynist ; but his susceptible 
 nature speedily recovered from the blow, and ere long he 
 surrendered to the charms of Miss Penwiper, whom he 
 finally married with great eclat. 
 
 L' ENVOI. 
 
 In a lovely home on the banks of the Hudson River, 
 Edward Longhurst and his lovely wife still live, and their 
 youthful son and heir is never tired of listening to tales of 
 the time when " papa" was " Private Jones of the Eighth." 
 
 13 
 
JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. 
 
 Lieutenant John Randolph Hilton, or, more briefly, 
 Jack Hilton, as he was familiarly known among his more 
 intimate acquaintance, sat in the cosey and elegantly-ap- 
 pointed library of the paternal mansion on Madison Ave- 
 nue, with the morning paper in his hands and his eyes fixed 
 with a look of apparently profound interest upon the column 
 devoted to sporting news. He had just completed his 
 twenty-fourth year ; was nearly six feet tall, with a form 
 finely proportioned, clear blue eyes, light hair, and com- 
 plexion to match, regular features, and of easy and en- 
 gaging manners. He was an adept in all manly sports and 
 athletic exercises ; a bold and fearless rider, with an almost 
 overweening love of horseflesh ; which latter trait had, a few 
 days before, led him, for the first time in his life, into doing 
 a very foolish thing. He had bet — some would not hesi- 
 tate to say recklessly for a person of his rather slender 
 means — upon his favorite horse, which had been badly 
 beaten in the late races at Jerome Park ; and which fact, 
 being duly chronicled in the morning papers, would have 
 afforded him, it is to be supposed, food for reflection of a 
 somewhat painful nature. But it would have been apparent 
 to a close observer that his eyes were not following the 
 lines ; and, from his expression, that the subject-matter be- 
 fore him was not that which engrossed his thoughts. 
 
 This was further evinced by his suddenly tossing the 
 paper aside, rising abruptly from his chair, and pacing up 
 and down the room, muttering to himself, " By Jove, a 
 capital idea ! If this isn't a stroke in love's diplomacy that 
 is sure to win, let no one hereafter say that there is the 
 first spark of genius in Jack Hilton's noddle, that's all." 
 
 He resumed his seat a minute or two after with an air of 
 intense self-satisfaction, and lit a cigar just as the door 
 opened and a young man entered the room, 
 146 
 
JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. I47 
 
 "Accept my sincerest condolences, old boy," were his 
 first words, as he extended his hand to his friend. " Can't 
 stop but a moment ; but I thought you needed sympathy." 
 
 " Pshaw ! I don't want your condolences or your sym- 
 pathy," exclaimed Hilton. " I never felt better in my life. 
 Congratulate me, old fellow ! Congratulate me ! Victory 
 is at last in sight." 
 
 "Well, you do take it rather peculiarly, to say the least," 
 remarked the other, laughing. ' ' For a man who is just 
 out of pocket a cool three hundred to ask the congratula- 
 tions of But you know you have not won your " 
 
 " I say I have, — just as good as won," exclaimed Hilton. 
 
 "Just as good as won ? What do you mean ?" cried his 
 friend, regarding him with a perplexed look. "Are you 
 crazy ? I tell you, you have lost. Why, Excelsior came 
 in third. Haven't you seen the morning papers?" 
 
 "Oh," said Hilton, with a laugh, "you are talking 
 about those beastly races." 
 
 ' ' The man actually laughs about it. Of course I am. 
 And I must say, as the result of your first venture " 
 
 " And I say," exclaimed Hilton, interrupting him, " con- 
 found the races ! My brain was full of another matter. Sit 
 down ; I have something to tell you." 
 
 His friend, Charles Levison, drew a chair up to the oppo- 
 site side of the fireplace and seated himself 
 
 ' ' Fire away ; let fly the shafts of your eloquence, Roa- 
 noke (sometimes facetiously so called by his friends on 
 account of his illustrious namesake), for I think I rightly 
 surmise your theme, and I am all attention," he said, set- 
 tling himself comfortably back in his chair and regarding 
 Hilton with a somewhat amused expression, 
 
 "As my oldest and most esteemed friend, Charlie," 
 Hilton began, handing him a cigar and relighting his own, 
 ' ' whom I have made my confidant all along, as you know, 
 in this affaire dii cceiir of mine with Louise, I am now 
 going to confide to you my next proposed step. It will 
 bring her to my arms at once, I feel sure. I am going to 
 write a novel. I did think at first that I would attempt a 
 poem ; something in the style of ' Childe Harold' ; regular 
 Spenserian metre, four cantos, and all that ; but I'm afraid 
 poesy wouldn't prove my winning card ; my — my forte 
 
148 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 doesn't lie exactly in that direction; No ; I'll write a 
 novel." 
 
 Levison did not look the least bit enlightened. He could 
 not see the connection between Hilton's writing a novel and 
 his way to the fair Louise's heart. But he smoked on in 
 silence, and awaited further developments. 
 
 "Louise, you know," pursued his friend, "besides her 
 other charms and accomplishments, is possessed of high 
 literary attainments ; being in that respect, indeed, espe- 
 cially gifted. She dotes on Byron and Moore, admires 
 sentiments strongly and warmly expressed, and inclines 
 almost wholly to the romantic school of poets, — as she calls 
 it ; and she has often accused me of having no poetry in 
 my soul, because I don't go off into high-flown raptures, 
 like herself, over her favorite authors. Imagine a veteran 
 like me, a plain, matter-of-fact, hardy old son of Mars, pay- 
 ing court to the Muses, and falling into ecstasies of that 
 kind ! But I am sure she likes me ; though, like all of her 
 sex, she is, of course, more or less fickle. She sort of 
 plays fast and loose with me. One day she warms and 
 another fairly freezes me. I don't know how often she has 
 said to me, 'Jack, if you were only an author.' Indeed, 
 she has said it so often, and at times, as I have thought, 
 with such peculiar significance, that I have been tempted 
 to interpret her meaning into, ' Jack, if you were only an 
 author, I'd marry you.' Now, you know, I'm not literary 
 myself, — that is, not particularly so ; and there's all the 
 trouble. Louise is so awfully literary herself that, no doubt, 
 she has made up her mind she won't marry a man who 
 isn't. Hinc illcz lachrynicB. Yes, I shall write a novel." 
 
 "Why not begin in a more modest way, with a short 
 essay !' ' said Levison. ' ' But can you write a novel ?' ' 
 
 " Of course I can't. When I spoke of doing so I simply 
 meant the mechanical or manual part." 
 
 ' ' But, my dear fellow, it requires brains — some at least — 
 as well as hands to be an author." 
 
 "Well, not necessarily in all cases," laughed Hilton, 
 "judging from some of the specimens of the literary art 
 with which the market is now glutted. But in my case, 
 others will supply the brains." 
 
 "Ah! I see. In plain English, you will bribe some 
 
JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. I49 
 
 poor devil of an author to write your novel for you, which, 
 when transcribed into your own handwriting, you will pro- 
 ceed to palm off upon an unsuspecting public as the off- 
 spring of your own genius." 
 
 "You haven't quite hit it," said Hilton; "but not to 
 keep you in suspense any longer, I will now let you into 
 my secret. But first — make me a bet ; for I want to win 
 back some of the money I lost on that confounded horse. 
 I will wager you a hundred to fifty that I will write and 
 have published, within one month from the present time, 
 a good, readable novel, not of my own composition or 
 any one else's, — better than any of Howells's, Bulwer's, or 
 Crawford's, or any other author, and a great deal more 
 original." 
 
 "And yet not written by any one," observed Levison, 
 smiling at the absurdity of the idea. 
 
 "Now for my secret," continued Hilton. "I go to a 
 circulating library and procure — say a dozen novels ; or as 
 many as I can carry away in two or three visits. From 
 each of these I select three chapters and a half, which will 
 give me, at the least, forty-two ; enough to make a good- 
 sized novel. The subject, of course, must turn upon love 
 and heroism ; for that is the kind Louise likes." 
 
 "But, my dear fellow," remarked Levison, amused at 
 his friend's earnestness, " there will be no connection; no 
 continuity of plan or plot." 
 
 " No, — but an amazing degree of variety." 
 
 " And then the names." 
 
 "Those, of course, I shall alter. There must be an 
 English nobleman, — say the Earl of Broadlands, and his 
 young and lovely daughter and sole heiress, the Lady 
 Ethelinda. The rival lovers, — Sir Marmaduke Neville 
 and the Count de Chateau Rouge ; and a villain, — Jasper 
 Blackmore. These are, of course, the merest outHnes ; 
 the other personages and the various incidents of the story, 
 such as murders, thrilling adventures, hairbreadth escapes, 
 heroic exploits, — virtue triumphant, villany defeated, et 
 caetera, et csetera, I will work in as they shall appear in 
 the aforesaid novels. ' ' 
 
 " A novel way of writing one, certainly," laughed Levi- 
 son. ' ' But Louise will be sure to detect the plagiarisms. ' ' 
 
 13* 
 
150 JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. 
 
 " I will take good care to guard against that," said Hil- 
 ton, " as I shall select only the oldest and least-read novels 
 I can find ; such as ' Clarissa Harlowe,' ' Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son,' ' The Mysteries of Udolpho,' ' Cecilia,' ' The Italian,' 
 and other antiquated rubbish of that sort. To be sure, 
 Louise admires the romantic and sentimental, and has read 
 a good deal of such stuff, but I don' t believe she ever waded 
 through any of those. Of course, I shall ask her advice 
 on certain points, and read the story to her before it is 
 printed." 
 
 "A most wise precaution, my dear fellow," remarked 
 Levison, with a touch of sly humor in his tone ; " other- 
 wise she may never be made aware of its existence." 
 
 *' Reserve your jokes, — at least till after the event, my 
 dear boy," retorted Hilton. " And as for my confidence in 
 regard to that, you have my offer of a bet of a hundred to 
 fifty." 
 
 *' And do you really mean to tell me in all seriousness, 
 Jack," asked Levison, " that you think you can write that 
 story out and get it published within the short space of one 
 month. And, besides, there is another difficulty in the 
 way. The publishers would be sure to detect the imposi- 
 tion." 
 
 " Pshaw ! publishers are used to such thefts." 
 
 " But, then, other authors may read your book and 
 expose you. Besides, the critics would mercilessly tear 
 you to pieces." 
 
 "Authors only read their own works. And as for the 
 critics, the more abused a book is the more it is read. It 
 is the very best way to advertise it, and insure it a larger 
 circulation." 
 
 " For a man who professes not to be literary," remarked 
 Levison, laughing, " you seem to have a pretty good knowl- 
 edge of the experiences of publishers, the habits of authors, 
 and the effects of criticism. Nevertheless, I fear your 
 scheme is altogether too chimerical ; but you have my 
 best wishes for your success all the same. And in the 
 mean while I will take up your bet. A hundred to fifty I 
 think you said." 
 
 ' ' With one proviso, ' ' said Hilton. ' ' And that is that I 
 am not ordered to march before the expiration of the time 
 
JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. I5I 
 
 named. If those rascally red-skins only behave themselves, 
 and refrain from a breach of the peace for the next five 
 weeks, I can have my leave of absence extended for that 
 length of time, I am sure." 
 
 " Love and war are pretty serious matters, Jack ; aren't 
 they ?' ' said Levison. ' ' Bad enough when taken separately ; 
 
 but when they get mixed up together Well, one may 
 
 damage the body, but it is quite sure that the other plays 
 very havoc with a fellow's wits." 
 
 "Ah, Charlie," said Hilton, sententiously, " 'the lord 
 of the unerring bow' will some day transfix your heart 
 with one of his fatal shafts. You will then feel less inclined 
 to ridicule la grande passion^ 
 
 " Perhaps. In the mean time I shall remain in full en- 
 joyment of my liberty, and my — wits," observed Levison. 
 " ' The lord of the unerring bow !' That is good. You 
 get that out of Byron ; so it seems you do dip into poetry 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not quite such an ignoramus, in that respect, 
 as perhaps Louise thinks I am ; and I shall soon force her 
 to confess that she has done me great injustice in accusing 
 me of having no poetry or sentiment in my soul," said 
 Hilton. "And now that you know it, what do you 
 think of my scheme ?" 
 
 " What do I think of it? One word in parting, my dear 
 boy," replied Levison, in a tone of unmingled humor and 
 mock seriousness, as he rose from his seat, "which, as 
 your sincere friend and well-wisher, I feel it my duty to 
 speak. Remember Marc Antony, Hercules, and Omphale, 
 and the lion in love. They all yielded to the seduction of 
 your ' grande passion.' And what then became of their 
 prowess ? Under the baleful influence of this same ' grande 
 passion,' the first threw away a throne, the second laid aside 
 his club for a distaff, and the third tamely submitted to 
 having his teeth and nails extracted. As Jack Bunsby 
 would remark, ' the bearings of this obserwation lays in 
 the application on it.' Verbum satis sapientis.'''' 
 
 " Oh, bother your mythological rubbish ! Can't you be 
 serious for once in your life, Charlie?" cried Hilton. "I 
 confide in you as a supposed sympathetic friend, and I find 
 you a veritable Job's comforter?" 
 
Si 
 
 152 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 " Believe me, Jack, I wish you all the success in the 
 world," responded Levison. "I'll drop in upon you in a 
 day or two to learn how you are progressing. And — let 
 me see, ' ' pausing a moment by the open door, ' ' a hundred 
 to fifty, I think you said." 
 
 IL 
 
 Immediately after his friend's departure, Hilton set 
 about his arduous task, or what might be more properly 
 called his labor of love. With the books obtained from 
 the public library, and others borrowed from a few of his 
 friends, he was soon in possession of the working material 
 from which was to arise the wonderful superstructure that 
 was destined (as his rosy imagination pictured it to him) 
 to win for him the hand of the obdurate and fickle Louise, 
 and perhaps lay the foundation of his future fame and for- 
 tune. How happy and proud he would feel when he would 
 have the right to say, " Louise, I am an author," and to 
 behold her soft blue eyes turned upon his with a look of 
 mingled surprise, love, and admiration, and hear her exclaim 
 in tones of unfeigned rapture, " Now, Jack, I am thine. 
 Take me !" 
 
 In order to be free from interruption he confined himself 
 within the strict privacy of his own room, and denied him- 
 self, upon the plea of indisposition, to all callers ; where he 
 would write nearly all day and often far into the night. 
 Not to make his transformation into a full-fledged author 
 appear too sudden, Hilton, like some skilful tactician or 
 wary general, bent upon the capture of some important 
 stronghold, made his advances towards the purpose he had 
 in view with all due precaution. Upon those evenings 
 which he spent with Louise he would deftly turn the con- 
 versation on literary topics, — no very difficult thing to do, 
 — and descant, in an animated way, upon the beauties of 
 literature in general, and those of Byron and Moore in 
 particular. Indeed, the extent and fervor of his newly- 
 awakened admiration for her own two favorite poets equally 
 
JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. 153 
 
 gratified and delighted Louise. She was endowed in a 
 higher than ordinary degree with fine Hterary abilities and 
 discriminative powers, and was at times a most unmercifiil 
 critic. She disliked Browning and laughed at Walt Whit- 
 man. They did not belong to the romantic school of poets. 
 Kipling's themes were distastefiil to her; Tennyson and 
 Longfellow, she thought, might pass, though neither was 
 comparable, in point of interest, to Scott ; but what any 
 one who could revel in the beauties of Byron and Moore 
 and Shelley and Keats might find to admire in the two first- 
 mentioned poets she couldn't imagine ; and more than 
 once, when she was indulging in a merciless dissection of 
 their respective faults and shortcomings, as they appeared 
 to her, did a cold shiver run through poor Hilton at the 
 thought of the farrago of nonsense that he had designed 
 to prepare for her especial delectation. 
 
 But he had soon decided not to adhere too closely to his 
 original plan. In the ardor of his love he had been daz- 
 zled, as it appeared to him, by the brilliancy of his concep- 
 tion ; but when it began to pale in the calm, clear light of 
 reason, he could not fail to become impressed with the 
 utter absurdity of the idea. He would only avail himself 
 of such ideas and suggestions as might be presented in the 
 novels, and trust to whatever powers of originality or inge- 
 nuity he might possess to maintain at least some semblance 
 of uniformity of plan and plot, incorporating verbatim into 
 his work only such passages as should be consistent with 
 such purpose. This would, of course, necessitate more 
 time and labor ; but with the end in view this was nothing. 
 Whether this would prove more satisfactory or not the re- 
 sult could alone determine. And now another step in the 
 pursuance of his plan must be taken. 
 
 The next time he called upon Louise he artfully led her 
 into a discussion upon poetry, during which he slyly inti- 
 mated that he had himself once courted the Muse, and con- 
 fessed to having written several poems and dainty little 
 sonnets to the object of his affections, — when he was quite 
 young and didn't know any better ; some of which, how- 
 ever, had been considered worthy of a place in the columns 
 of a country newspaper. He furthermore admitted that he 
 had written several stories, — he didn't know but that one 
 
154 JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. 
 
 of them might be called a regular novel. This had been 
 published in a Sunday paper, and highly praised by a 
 number of his friends. He hadn't, of course, written any- 
 thing lately, as his professional duties required all his time 
 and attention ; but he had never lost his early love for the 
 poetic muse, and only regretted that he could no longer be 
 her devoted slave. But perhaps — well, he didn't know — 
 he might again yield to the promptings of the — the — the 
 divine afflatus, which he felt at times very strong upon him, 
 and — and write something more. He hadn't, of course, 
 said anything of all this to her before, because — well, he 
 probably hadn't thought it of sufficient importance ; or — 
 which was the more likely — because he had forgotten all 
 about it. (Deliberate falsehoods, every one of them. But 
 Cupid slyly winks and laughs at all such subterfuges ; and 
 the old adage justifies them.) 
 
 If Hilton had hoped to make a highly favorable impres- 
 sion upon Louise by these tender little confidences, he 
 must have felt some disappointment at the way in which they 
 were received. She laughingly remarked that she supposed 
 all school-boys wrote poetry, and that many other children 
 of a larger growth, whose years should have taught them 
 discretion, were afflicted with the complaint known as the 
 cacoethes scribendi. Poor Hilton ; he was committing the 
 same indiscretion himself, and perhaps only to be laughed 
 at for all his pains, — the thought was dreadfully discour- 
 aging. But he tried to comfort himself with the reflection 
 that Louise's words had always been, "Jack, if you were 
 only an author;" and with that fact once established, she 
 might not, perhaps, be disposed to be over-critical in regard 
 to the quality or character of his work. ' ' Only an author." 
 Well, he would be one ; and that was all she had wished. 
 
 But he now felt that he must lead her on to speak more 
 particularly upon the subject of prose fiction. He desired 
 — for reasons not at all difficult to understand — to ascertain 
 the extent of her reading in that direction, and who were 
 her favorite novelists. 
 
 " Louise," he remarked, in a careless tone, shortly after 
 he had opened the discussion, " I suppose you don't care 
 much about old-fashioned novels ; those, I mean, which 
 were written about a hundred years ago. I know you ad- 
 
JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. 155 
 
 mire sentiment, spirited action, romantic situations, and all 
 that, but then, of course, you would never think of read- 
 ing such antiquated stuff as 'The Mysteries of Udolpho,' 
 'The Italian,' or 'Clarissa Harlowe,' or books of that 
 sort." 
 
 "'The Mysteries of Udolpho,' " replied Louise, "was 
 my especial delight when I was a child ; and you may 
 laugh, but I could read it even now, though I remember 
 nearly every word of it. ' ' 
 
 Poor Hilton ; he didn't feel much like laughing. No ; 
 anything but that. He had that very morning incorporated 
 nearly an entire chapter of that work into his own novel. 
 
 "And the others, Louise," stammered Hilton, "the — 
 the — 'Clarissa Harlowe,' 'The Italian,' or 'Sir Charles 
 Grandison,' or — or " 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Louise, "I have read them all; some 
 of them twice over. In fact, there are very few modern 
 novels I care at all about. Especially these so-called real- 
 istic novels ; those of Howells and James, for instance, I 
 think dreadfully insipid. We don't care for reading about 
 people whom one may meet in the street every day. I 
 don't take the slightest interest in the sayings or doings of 
 such ordinary, humdrum folks." 
 
 "No; certainly not," said Hilton, brightening up a 
 little; "neither do I. Your tastes are more for the ro- 
 mantic and the heroic ; the— the love and glory style. But, 
 of course, Louise, you have quite forgotten all about those 
 stories, or most of them, which — which charmed your 
 youth. Indeed, who could remember anything in novels 
 that were spun out into six or a dozen volumes ?' ' 
 
 " I am happily blessed with a very good memory," she 
 replied, ' ' and generally remember nearly all of what I read. 
 Those books, I mean, which have particularly interested 
 me." 
 
 Hilton wished in the very depths of his soul that Nature 
 had been less lavish of her gifts — the one at least of which 
 she had spoken — when dealing with Louise. But, despite 
 these discouragements, he determined to persevere to the 
 bitter end. His work had now progressed too far for him 
 to entertain, for a moment, a thought of abandoning it. 
 But what if, after all, he should fail to find a publisher for 
 
156 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 it? Even should Louise approve his work, and reward 
 him with her sweetest smiles, and warmest words of praise 
 and encouragement, and even extol his genius, what kind 
 of opinion might she not be induced to entertain, upon 
 sober second thoughts, of a writer who could find no pub- 
 lisher sufficiently impressed with the merits of his work to 
 introduce it to the public? In that case, could he claim to 
 be an author at all ? And then all his labor would go for 
 nothing. He also began to harbor a suspicion that he had 
 possibly, in the first exuberance of his feelings, allowed 
 himself to indulge in too roseate and hopeful a view of the 
 final issue of his scheme. And the mere idea of writing a 
 novel, at least forty-two chapters long, hunting up a pub- 
 lisher, and getting his book out, all within a month's time, 
 now struck him as being so supremely absurd that he could 
 hardly resist the conviction that he had made an egregious 
 fool of himself But these various reflections he did not 
 suffer to dampen in the least the ardor of his pursuit. He 
 would still persevere, for his happiness and peace of mind 
 were so deeply involved in the stake at issue that he could 
 not for a moment think of desisting from his purpose. And 
 Fate — so he flattered himself — had decreed that he must 
 go on to final triumph or defeat. 
 
 He derived, moreover, as time went, renewed hope and 
 encouragement from thinking that he could perceive a 
 marked change in Louise. She appeared more glad to see 
 him ; to derive greater pleasure from his society, and to be 
 more uniformly gracious in her manner towards him ; 
 though, apparently, she entertained no suspicion of the 
 real motive that actuated him. Once, when recalling those 
 early courtings of the Muse, the imaginary juvenile efforts, 
 of which he had made previous confession, he came very 
 near betraying his secret. ' ' What would you think, 
 Louise," he had said, with a laugh, "if I should turn au- 
 thor again ? You know you have often expressed the wish 
 that I were one." 
 
 "What would I think. Jack?" she replied, laughing 
 herself. ' ' I fear that I should be compelled to think, and 
 also to say, that you had not mistaken your calling. That 
 the profession of arms was the proper sphere for the dis- 
 play of your activities, and that you were far better qualified 
 
JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. 157 
 
 to achieve distinction upon the field of Mars than in futile 
 dalliance with the Muse in the courts of poesy." 
 
 "And yet, Louise," said Hilton, earnestly, "you know 
 that distinguished soldiers have achieved fame as authors. 
 I could cite several who have gained brilliant reputations 
 
 from the books they have written. And why not ?" 
 
 But he would say no more. The time had not yet come for 
 him to burst upon the astonished and delighted Louise in 
 the full splendor of a literary glory that was destined to 
 throw even the illustrious author of a " Ben Hur' ' into the 
 shade. 
 
 His friend Charlie Levison had called once or twice, but 
 he had found Hilton entirely too much engrossed with his 
 work and impressed with the importance of every moment 
 he could devote to it to waste any time in social amenities ; 
 so his visits had been very brief 
 
 "Remember, old fellow," he said, on leaving him one 
 morning, "one week more and the month will be up. 
 Within this time your book must appear. ' ' 
 
 " I said in the hands of a publisher within a month," re- 
 sponded Hilton. 
 
 "No, you didn't," said Levison. "It is evident you 
 are trying to hedge. ' ' 
 
 "It can't be done," said Hilton. "We will have to 
 call it that." 
 
 "I won't accept the amendment," Levison replied, with 
 a laugh. " The original bet must stand." 
 
 "All right ; but the time isn't up yet. When it is, we'll 
 talk about it. Drop in one week from to-day, and you 
 shall hear what I have written." 
 
 Under the stimulus of his all-absorbing passion, Hilton 
 had proved a most indefatigable worker. Early and late 
 he labored away at his task, and in time had the satisfac- 
 tion to behold his novel assuming quite formidable di- 
 mensions. But his work had been by no means entirely 
 manual. Often he would lay his pen down and wrestle 
 mentally with some knotty problem ; and they were neither 
 few nor easy of solution. Had he undertaken, indeed, an 
 altogether original composition, he might have found his 
 work much less difficult. He believed, or willingly per- 
 suaded himself into the belief, however, that he had main- 
 
158 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 tained a sufficient consistency and thread of connection 
 throughout his story, which, as a set task, the most inge- 
 nious and experienced author would, no doubt, have pro- 
 nounced to be simply impossible. But his method was 
 peculiarly his own, and if the result should prove to be not 
 altogether what he had hoped for, he could console himself 
 at least with the reflection that it was not so from his having 
 failed to do his very best under the circumstances. He 
 knew also that authors had sometimes made curious mis- 
 takes ; and if he made a few more than they had, he could 
 at least plead some distinguished precedents. Besides, he 
 was quite a young author ; it was his maiden effort ; the 
 public and the critics would be more lenient on that account, 
 and not disposed to judge him too harshly. 
 
 And what if he should at first fail to find a publisher for 
 his story ? Would he not but undergo the experience of 
 numberless other authors whose merits the publishers, 
 strangely blind to their own interests, either could or would 
 not see ; and had not some of these authors, shamefully 
 neglected at first and often contemptuously refused even a 
 hearing, afterwards risen to the full noontide splendor of 
 literary fame? 
 
 And again, what if his remuneration should be small? 
 Did not Milton receive but a paltry ten pounds for his im- 
 mortal epic ; and others who might be named, the scant 
 recognition of whose merits, pecuniarily considered, was 
 far below their just deserts ? Poor Hilton ! he had indulged 
 in a bright and happy dream ; and, as in other cases, 
 was he, perhaps, only destined to an early and bitter 
 awakening ? 
 
 One fear had troubled him at times, which was that he 
 might be ordered to join his regiment before he had com- 
 pleted his work, in which case his project would have to be 
 indefinitely postponed. 
 
 But as the days went by without this apprehension being- 
 realized, and he had nearly ended his sixth week of labor, 
 he now felt entirely confident that he would have sufficient 
 time to finish it. And in a day or two more this would be 
 accomplished. 
 
JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. I59 
 
 in. 
 
 The last word had been written. His magnum opus — 
 the crowning' triumph of six weeks' unremitting labor — 
 was finished, and Hilton threw himself back in his chair 
 with a profound sigh of relief Never, perhaps, did author 
 view with fonder hope or brighter anticipation his first 
 literary offspring than did he the goodly piles of manu- 
 script that lay before him ; and to-night — he trembled at 
 the thought — would he know whether that hope was to be 
 realized or cruelly disappointed, and melt away, like the 
 baseless fabric of a vision, into thin air. 
 
 Levison called upon him, by appointment, in the morn- 
 ing to hear portions of his story read, for Hilton was de- 
 sirous of first obtaining his friend's opinion, and of noting 
 the impression that it made upon him. So lighting their 
 cigars and seating themselves comfortably in their chairs, 
 Hilton with a markedly sober and serious expression, and 
 Levison with a highly amused and expectant look, as if 
 anticipating a rare treat, the former gathered together a 
 number of the loose sheets of his manuscript and arranged 
 them in order preparatory to reading. 
 
 "I suppose it doesn't make much difference where you 
 begin," remarked Levison. 
 
 " I will give you a number of extracts," said Hilton, 
 "You don't suppose I'm going to read the whole thing 
 through to you, do you?" 
 
 Seeing that his friend was, apparently, in no mood for 
 joking, Levison tried hard to assume a serious air, but his 
 sense of the ludicrous getting for a moment the better of 
 him, he could not refrain from saying in a slightly depre- 
 catory tone, "I hope not, indeed, old fellow. But begin 
 where you please," he added. "As the thing has neither 
 head nor tail to it — a sort of nondescript monster, you 
 know — it makes no kind of difference, of course." 
 
 ' ' The chapters are necessarily somewhat short, ' ' said 
 Hilton, not noticing his friend's slyly humorous thrust, 
 " on account of the extent of ground I had to cover ; but I 
 will begin with these two, which are the longest." 
 
 As the reading progressed, Levison tried hard not to 
 laugh. He would, perhaps, have found it difficult to say which 
 
i6o JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 amused him most, Hilton's perfectly serious and earnest 
 manner, or the highly ludicrous character of the matter to 
 which he listened. He had to pinch himself severely, on 
 the sly, several times in order to maintain a becomingly 
 solemn expression and to manifest a (literally) painful in- 
 terest in those passages which were intended to be es- 
 pecially pathetic and soul-harrowing, and thus repress any 
 tendency to a risibility that otherwise he might have 
 found it impossible not to betray. As an offset to this, 
 however, he relieved himself by giving full vent to his 
 mirth over passages of a designedly ludicrous nature ; 
 though he would have found it hard to tell which one in- 
 deed of those he had heard read might not have been justly 
 entitled to such a character. 
 
 When Hilton had finished, Levison exclaimed, "Capi- 
 tal ! First rate ! Couldn't have done better myself But 
 it does seem a little strange now, doesn't it, that the wicked 
 old Lord Melville, who was so unmistakably murdered by 
 those four ruffians at the instigation of his much-abused 
 and long-suffering old wife, — so unquestionably dead and 
 buried, — should have turned up alive and smiling in the 
 next chapter as the husband of the youthful and virtuous 
 Ethelinda, and who was old enough to be her great-grand- 
 father?" 
 
 " I may have got mixed up a little in some places," re- 
 plied Hilton. "But you know such discrepancies appear 
 sometimes in novels ; in fact, in the works of nearly all 
 writers. None are infallible." 
 
 ' ' By the way, what is the title of your book ?' ' asked 
 Levison. 
 
 "The title? By Jove ! I never thought about that," 
 exclaimed Hilton. " I'm glad you mentioned it. Let me 
 see " 
 
 "Why not," suggested his friend, " as your novel is of 
 a sort of nondescript character, you know, take a hint from 
 Wilkie Collins, and call it No Name." 
 
 " Not original ; besides being altogether too prosaic." 
 
 "I should hardly suppose," observed Levison, in a 
 slightly humorous tone, ' ' that such a trifling little matter 
 as a lack of originality would trouble you very much." 
 
 " I have it !" cried Hilton, as if illuminated by a sudden 
 
JACK Hilton's love-affair. i6i 
 
 ray of inspiration. " I will call it Love and Glory. That 
 will catch Louise's fancy right off." 
 
 "Well," said his friend, rising from his seat, "I have 
 not the slightest doubt that your novel will make a marked 
 impression upon her. But, my dear fellow, hadn't you 
 better nuriiber your pages ? You may get them mixed up, 
 and that, you know, might prove — confusion worse con- 
 founded. But I must be off. If agreeable to you I will 
 drop in to-morrow to learn the result. And," he added, 
 pausing a moment after he had opened the door, ' ' I be- 
 lieve it was — wasn't it — in one month's time, and a hundred 
 to fifty? Good-by." 
 
 But Hilton was not to have the pleasure of reading his 
 story to Louise that night. Levison's prediction of the 
 possible consequence of his friend's having neglected to 
 number his pages had unfortunately come true ; for in col- 
 lecting the loose sheets together he had found them so 
 badly mixed up (though Levison would probably have told 
 him, in his aggravatingly humorous way, that could have 
 made no possible kind of difference) that it required the re- 
 mainder of that and the greater part of the next day to 
 bring order out of chaos, which was attended with about as 
 •much difficulty as a novice in the art would experience 
 from his first attempt to put together the various ingeni- 
 ously-constructed pieces of a Chinese puzzle. He finished 
 his task at last, however, and having numbered and divided 
 the sheets into several separate packages, and thus duly 
 prepared, he took his way to the home of Louise. 
 
 He found her seated in the library, and, fortunately, 
 alone. She was writing at a small table in one corner, with 
 an open book lying before her, but rose upon Hilton's en- 
 trance, and gave him a cordial welcome. She appeared, 
 indeed, to be in an especially gracious mood, which he was 
 disposed to regard as a happy augury. He wanted to 
 break the ice as soon as possible and take the first plunge ; 
 but he did not know exactly how to begin. 
 
 " Composing a poem, Louise ?" he said, with a smile, ob- 
 serving the nature of her occupation. 
 
 "A mere trifle that I have just dashed oflf," she replied. 
 "It is a translation of an Italian love-song, or serenade. 
 You shall hear it, and give me your opinion of it." She 
 I 14* 
 
r62 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 took the paper from the table, and read, in a clear, full, 
 musical voice, as follows : 
 
 " As on the dusky brow of night 
 One soHtary gem 
 Pales with its rays each lesser light 
 In her broad diadem, 
 
 " So come thou forth, my soul's desire ! 
 And thy bright eye of love 
 Shall shame the ineffectual fire 
 Of thf^se dim orbs above. 
 
 "As the sweet moon, with modest gaze 
 Upon the limpid stream, 
 Beholds within its liquid rays 
 Her own reflected beam, 
 
 "So thou, my star, serene and fair ! 
 Shalt view within this breast, 
 In brighter rays reflected there, 
 Thine image deep impressed. 
 
 " To thee I now attune my lute, 
 My pleading voice I raise ; 
 Surely thine own will not be mute 
 My song to blame, or praise. 
 
 " I do but ask a word of thee, 
 A whisper, or a sigh ; 
 If it breathe not of love for me, 
 Then, hapless, I shall die." 
 
 "Beautiful ! Exquisite !" exclaimed Hilton, enthusiasti- 
 cally. "Such tender sentiment! Such melting pathos! 
 And now, Louise," he added, in a slightly hesitating voice, 
 ' ' I should like to — to — have you listen to a — a composition 
 of mine." 
 
 " I should be delighted to, I'm sure," she responded, 
 graciously, eying with a partly curious and amused look 
 the several packages of manuscript of which Hilton now 
 divested his pockets and laid on the table in the middle of 
 the room. 
 
 " What may be the subject and title of your poem ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " It is not a poem," he replied, " but a novel, entitled 
 Love and Glory. And before I place it in the hands of a 
 
JACK Hilton's love-affair. 163 
 
 publisher I wish you to hear it, and offer such suggestions, 
 by way of improvement, as you may think advisable." 
 
 The idea of Hilton's appearing in the role of an author 
 afforded Louise not a little amusement. ' ' You have kept 
 your secret well, Jack," she said ; " but I should have 
 thought you would have sought my valuable advice while 
 at work upon your novel. It might have saved you some 
 trouble." 
 
 ' ' The truth is, Louise, I wanted to — to give you a little 
 surprise. ' ' 
 
 " You have certainly done that," she observed, with a 
 laugh, "for I never should have thought that you, who — 
 but 1 won't begin to criticise you before I have heard your 
 story. ' ' 
 
 " I want your candid opinion, Louise. And I hope you 
 will not allow your native sense of politeness to get the 
 better of your judgment." 
 
 ' ' You need have no fear of that ; for I assure you that 
 you will find me a most impartial critic." 
 
 She pushed her book and writing materials to one side of 
 the table, and reclining comfortably back in her chair, waited 
 for Hilton to begin. 
 
 He picked up one of the packages, untied it, and after 
 glancing over the pages to see that it was the right one, 
 began to read in a clear, steady voice, Louise meanwhile 
 maintaining an air of close attention and an unbroken 
 silence. 
 
 The first chapter contained a somewhat elaborate descrip- 
 tion of an ancient English baronial hall of the time of James 
 the First, which he had copied verbatim out of an old novel. 
 The second was devoted to an account of the appearance, 
 manners, and habits of life of its noble proprietor, the Baron 
 of Broadlands, his two lovely and accomplished daughters, 
 the ladies Elfrida and Ethelinda, the names alone being 
 changed, and their respective lovers, also purloined from 
 the same source ; and the third gave a description of a 
 grand tournament gotten up by the aforesaid lovers for 
 the especial delectation of their respective mistresses, for 
 which he had drawn heavily from " Ivanhoe," making 
 only such changes as seemed advisable, but into which 
 he had committed the anachronism of introducing as the 
 
164 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 victor a valiant knight and trusty follower of Richard the 
 First,' — the incidents of his story being supposed to occur 
 within the first half of the seventeenth century, — retaining, 
 even through inadvertency, his very name. 
 
 All had been plain sailing up to this point ; but in the 
 fourth chapter the complications commenced, and the plot 
 began, literally, to thicken. The scene changed to a lonely 
 and ruinous old tower on the Rhine, in one of whose upper 
 rooms sat a dark-visaged and repulsive-looking man deeply 
 brooding over some wrong he had suffered, in some unex- 
 plained way connected with the Baron of Broadlands, and 
 in whose blood he very audibly and ferociously expressed 
 his intention of imbruing his hands. Several times, indeed, 
 he breathed forth slaughter and destruction upon the whole 
 family, including the lovers, and devoted to irremediable 
 ruin the baron's entire fortune and estates. 
 
 Leaving him to his gloomy meditations and sanguinary 
 resolves, the reader was now transported, with all the ease 
 and celerity of the enchanted carpet in the story, to a wild 
 and desolate moor in Yorkshire ; and there suddenly appears 
 upon the scene an honest old farmer, one Obadiah Dumbe- 
 dykes ; though whence he came, or for what purpose, or 
 why, indeed, he should have come at all, is not made appar- 
 ent. He is first seen wending his way slowly and thought- 
 fully over the moor, pausing at times, sighing deeply, and 
 occasionally shedding a tear, and mumbling to himself. 
 " He was thinking," to quote the words of the novel as 
 Hilton read, " of that luckless morning when he discovered 
 at the bottom of his well, as he supposed, the gory head 
 and one of the fingers of the Lady Blanche Melville, who 
 was barbarously murdered by her husband in an uncontrol- 
 lable fit of passion, and who afterwards cut her up into 
 small pieces and distributed her promiscuously about the 
 neighborhood ; but who, on a closer examination, discov- 
 ered them to be the head and finger of his own daughter, 
 who had eloped from the paternal roof twenty years before 
 with some gay Lothario, and of whom nothing had ever 
 been heard until the grief-stricken father had thus brought 
 to light the ghastly remnants of his long-lost and beloved 
 child." 
 
 Up to this time Louise had preserved strict silence ; but 
 
JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. 165 
 
 here, not a little to Hilton's astonishment and discomfiture, 
 she broke into a loud laugh. 
 
 He had regarded this as one of his most touching and 
 pathetic passages, and he could not help feeling a little 
 nettled, to say the least, at the way in which it was re- 
 ceived. 
 
 " Perhaps you think that's funny," he remarked. 
 
 " Awfully," she replied. " But forgive me, Jack," she 
 added, in a tone of contrition. " I promise not to offend 
 again. But, how did those things get into the well?" 
 
 "That's for you to surmise. You don't suppose an 
 author is bound to explain everything, and leave nothing 
 to the imagination of the reader ? If he did, what would 
 become of all the mysteries in the story ?' ' 
 
 Hilton resumed his reading, and now entered upon his 
 fifth chapter, in which, after disposing of Obadiah Dumbe- 
 dykes by making him disappear as mysteriously as he had 
 come, he returns again to the baronial hall of Broadlands. 
 
 But a sad change had come over the fortunes of some of 
 its inmates. The fair Ethelinda is sorely persecuted by the 
 attentions of the old and wicked, but immensely rich. Lord 
 Melville, who, unknown to her, has a wife living in a dis- 
 tant part of the country. Her lover has been waylaid and 
 carried off none know whither, though more than sus- 
 pected to be the work of agents of his rival, the wicked old 
 lord. The lover of Elfrida has also to confront a rival 
 suitor in the person of the Earl of Loch Lomond, a young 
 Scotch nobleman, by whom, for a gross insult offered to 
 him, he is challenged to mortal combat and run through 
 the body, expiring shortly after in the arms of his second. 
 After three times endeavoring unsuccessfully to poison her- 
 self, Elfrida finally resolves upon becoming a nun, and, 
 accordingly, enters the convent of Saint Theresa in Italy, 
 the Lady Superior of which happens to be her maternal 
 aunt. And here followed a rather unnecessarily minute 
 description of the convent itself, and the mode of life of 
 its inmates, for which Hilton was indebt^ to several solid 
 pages of * ' The Abbess. ' ' 
 
 In the beginning of the sixth chapter, a stranger arrives 
 at the hall late one stormy night, and demands immediate 
 audience of the baron, mysteriously intimating that his 
 
i66 JACK Hilton's love-affair, 
 
 business is of a highly important nature, and will admit of 
 no delay. On being' admitted to the presence of the baron, 
 he introduces himself by the name of Jean Gaspard ; and, 
 from the style of his dress, general air, and the peculiarly 
 sinister and forbidding aspect of his countenance, has all 
 the look of a professional cut-throat. He informs the baron 
 that he is the possessor of a secret of the utmost impor- 
 tance to him, in which not only his daughter's happiness, 
 but the honor of his family, is involved. This secret he 
 offers to sell to the baron for a satisfactory consideration, 
 which he names. But, considering the price exorbitant, 
 his would-be purchaser refuses to pay it, and after wrang- 
 ling over the matter some little time, they compromise for 
 half the amount. He then discloses to the baron the fact 
 that Lord Melville, the suitor for his daughter's hand, al- 
 ready has a wife living in England ; but, not doubting that 
 he must be greatly desirous of promoting so highly advan- 
 tageous a match, pecuniarily considered, and allying him- 
 self, matrimonially, with so illustrious a house as that of 
 Lord Melville's, he offers for a further consideration to re- 
 move the old lady to the farthest wilds of Siberia, or 
 through the quicker and surer means of poison. 
 
 This proposition the baron receives in high dudgeon. 
 His sense of honor is outraged, to say nothing of the ordi- 
 nary instincts of humanity, and in a sudden spasm of 
 virtuous indignation he unceremoniously kicks his visitor 
 out of the room. Thus ignominiously repulsed, the latter 
 takes his departure, giving vent to a frightful explosion of 
 Gallic oaths, and vowing dire vengeance upon the baron 
 and his entire family. 
 
 Lord Melville, being confronted shortly after by the 
 baron with the charge of being already married, vehe- 
 mently denies it, and engages to convince him of its falsity. 
 He takes leave of his host for the purpose of procuring, as 
 he says, the necessary evidence to the truth of his words, 
 but with the secret intention of going immediately home 
 and murdering his wife in cold blood, and thus removing 
 the obstacle that stands in the way of the gratification of 
 his wishes. The old lady has stolen a march upon him, 
 however ; for, having suffered long enough, she makes up 
 her mind, from his brutality and infidelities, she hires four 
 
JACK Hilton's love-affair. 167 
 
 ruffians to rid her of such a monster ; and, in consequence, 
 Lord Melville, when about two miles from home, is waylaid 
 and barbarously butchered. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Pardon me, Jack," said Louise, as he made a pause 
 here, "but — I don't quite understand. No doubt it is my 
 own stupidity, but I somehow got the impression that Lord 
 Melville had already murdered his wife. And — I should 
 like to know whether this Jean Gaspard is in any way con- 
 nected with the man in the tower on the Rhine, mentioned 
 in a former chapter. ' ' 
 
 "I — I am afraid," replied Hilton, seeming a little con- 
 fused, ' ' that — that I have misplaced the chapters ; a simple 
 mistake in numbering them, but which I can easily correct." 
 
 " Or you might," suggested Louise, in a slyly humorous 
 tone, ' ' leave the reader to infer that it was a former wife 
 he had murdered. ' ' 
 
 "A brilliant idea, certainly," laughed Hilton, in reply, 
 "but I think I had better make the needed corrections. 
 And, besides, I may have got the cart before the horse in 
 other places. It would be best, I think, to look the story 
 carefully over before I read any further. ' ' 
 
 "But, Jack, as Lord Melville has certainly been mur- 
 dered, and before he had the opportunity of performing 
 the office of executioner himself, I think you had better 
 omit the fourth chapter altogether, as your honest old 
 farmer Dumbedykes seems to be a somewhat incongruous 
 element in the story. But read two or three chapters more, 
 and we will then adjourn the entertainment to a future 
 occasion." 
 
 In compliance with her request Hilton read the three 
 chapters following. In the first one the abducted lover of 
 Ethelinda turns up as the leader of banditti among the 
 romantic wilds of the Apennines. A description of the 
 scenery is given, — verbatim from " The Mysteries of Udol- 
 pho," — followed by a brief account of the cave and habits 
 
1 68 JACK Hilton's love-affair. 
 
 of life of the robbers. In one of their excursions the band 
 captures three or four stray nuns, who have wandered too 
 far away from their convent and become lost among the 
 fastnesses of the mountains. The leader is about to appro- 
 priate to himself, as his share of the booty, the best-looking 
 one of the lot, when to his astonishment he recognizes in 
 her the sister of his long-lost but still beloved Ethelinda. 
 Mutual explanations follow. He learns of the death of his 
 former hated rival, — though how she came by the informa- 
 tion does not appear, — but believing he has forever lost the 
 object of his affections, he makes honorable love to Elfrida, 
 and urges her to become a sort of Maid Marian to the 
 band. Weary of the confinement and dull routine of her 
 convent life, she gladly accedes to his proposals, and the 
 day is set for their wedding. 
 
 But, unfortunately, the old love is still strong upon him. 
 He is assured that Ethelinda still lives ; that he has nothing 
 more to fear from the machinations of an all-powerful rival, 
 and he is animated by a new-born hope that she may yet 
 be his. These reflections, and the overpowering desire 
 awakened by them, gain at length such complete mastery 
 over him that upon the night preceding the day fixed for 
 his marriage he mysteriously disappears, to the surprise 
 and consternation of his followers and the grief and chagrin 
 of the deceived and abandoned Elfrida, who, rather than 
 return again to her convent, accepts shortly after the offer 
 of the next highest in command, and thus consoles herself 
 for the loss of her treacherous lover. 
 
 The next chapters give an account of what befell the 
 lover of Ethelinda from the time of his desertion of the 
 banditti and the hapless Elfrida to that of his arrival at the 
 old Hall of Broadlands. He performs prodigies of valor, 
 rescuing numerous distressed damsels from perilous situa- 
 tions , liberating captive maidens from enchanted castles, 
 where they have been kept in confinement by wicked one- 
 eyed ogres and ferocious three-headed giants and other 
 chimerical monsters ; encounters and puts to flight with his 
 single arm numberless bands of robbers who assail him in 
 lonely and gloomy forests ; slays two or three dragons 
 which vomit out at him fire, smoke, and brimstone ; and, 
 finally, saves a forlorn and beautiful damsel from the hands 
 
JACK Hilton's love-affair. 1.69 
 
 of an abhorred lover, who is carrying her off, by deftly 
 cutting him in two with a single stroke of his sword. Her 
 beauty and distress having first awakened his sympathy 
 and compassion, he is soon sensible of a still warmer emo- 
 tion arising within him, and pity yielding the supremacy to 
 love, he becomes hopelessly enamoured of her. But he 
 thinks of Ethelinda, and endeavors to suppress his newly- 
 awakened passion for the beautiful Ermingarde. But, un- 
 fortunately, she reciprocates his love, and declares with 
 fervent and grateful lips and tears in her soft blue eyes that 
 she will never leave her valiant and handsome dehverer. 
 His various exploits prove him to be, indeed, a veritable 
 second Amadis de Gaul, Orontes, or Palmerin, and like 
 the true knights-errant which they were, he is still faithful 
 to his one, peerless dulcinea ; and this resolution, he fears, 
 if persisted in, may necessitate some awkward explanations, 
 and lead to yet more disagreeable complications when 
 he meets his mistress accompanied by this beautiful 
 stranger. He therefore tells her that she must don the 
 habit of a page, assigning another reason than the true 
 one ; which she immediately proceeds to do, — though as to 
 whence the garb comes or by whom provided the reader is 
 not enlightened, — and so they travel on towards England, 
 where they arrive without molestation or further adventure 
 three weeks after. For most of which foregoing particulars 
 Hilton was indebted to an old romance of chivalry. 
 
 On reaching the Hall the lover — whose name, by the 
 way, happens to be Sir Percy Wyndham — is horrified by 
 the intelligence that the baron was, about a year before, 
 found foully murdered in his bed one morning. His head 
 had been cut off, the rest of his body dismembered, and 
 the various limbs laid out upon the bed with all the neat- 
 ness and dexterity of some accomplished Jack the Ripper 
 of the seventeenth century. Ethelinda, despairing of ever 
 again beholding the lover of her youth, had become the 
 wife of a certain old Lord Merrivale, — Hilton had inadver- 
 tently written it Melville, but Levison's criticism had en- 
 abled him to make the correction, — and upon seeing Sir 
 Percy faints away in his arms just as her husband enters 
 the room. Rage and astonishment at witnessing so un- 
 looked-for a spectacle takes full possession of him. He 
 H 15 
 
lyo JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. 
 
 Storms, swears, and demands an instant explanation all in 
 one breath. Sir Percy, equal to the emergency, declares 
 himself to be her long-lost brother. He gracefully accepts 
 the explanation, apologizes for the rudeness of his behavior, 
 shakes the young man cordially by the hand, and wel- 
 comes him back to England. But alas for the fickleness of 
 woman ! Ethelinda, at first charmed by the youthful grace 
 and beauty of her lover's page, who is her master's almost 
 constant attendant, soon falls desperately in love with Er- 
 mingarde. Not failing to notice Ethelinda' s somewhat 
 changed manner towards him and the apparent abatement 
 in the warmth of her love, and discovering, moreover, that 
 she has lost much of her early beauty, Sir Percy begins to 
 cool off himself The inevitable consequence follows. He 
 soon transfers all his affections to his page, and arranges 
 for a secret marriage with her, not a little rejoiced, indeed, 
 at the turn which affairs have taken. And here — with the 
 prospect of still greater complications in sight — Hilton 
 ended his reading. 
 
 Louise thanked him ; said she had found his story ex- 
 tremely amusing, and that as a literary mosaic it was 
 certainly without a rival. 
 
 " Literary mosaic ?" What covert insinuation might she 
 design to convey by those words ? Could she more than 
 half suspect the truth? And " extremely amusing," He 
 had intended his story to be more than merely amusing ; 
 to make it exciting, thrilling ; an excitant to the higher and 
 nobler emotions. And now to hear it spoken of as if it had 
 been a purely humorous work, — it was not a little discour- 
 aging, certainly. But he screwed up enough courage to 
 say, "And now, Louise, judging from what you have heard 
 read of the story, do you feel competent to express an 
 opinion, and tell me how you think it will strike the public? 
 I desire your candid opinion." 
 
 With inward fear and trembling he awaited her reply ; 
 but as she remained silent several moments — which he was 
 quick to construe as a somewhat unfavorable omen — he 
 added, hastily, ' ' But, Louise, perhaps you would prefer 
 to hear it all before expressing an opinion. And I think 
 myself that would be best. ' ' 
 
 Poor Hilton ! in his gloomy foreboding his feelings were 
 
JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. fjl 
 
 not altogether unlike those which a condemned criminal 
 might be supposed to experience when pleading for a brief 
 stay in the execution of his sentence. 
 
 " I will act upon the suggestion," rephed Louise, whose 
 keen sense of the ludicrous had been stimulated to an un- 
 wonted degree, and who had really found no little enjoy- 
 ment in its secret gratification. ' ' You may leave the 
 manuscript, and to-morrow you shall have the candid 
 opinion that you desire." And with this promise Hilton 
 shortly after took his leave. 
 
 The next evening but one — an unforeseen detention had 
 prevented his earlier appearance — he took his way with 
 throbbing heart and mingled emotions of hope and appre- 
 hension to the home of his beloved. She received him in 
 the library with all that graciousness of manner which she 
 knew so well how to assume upon occasions, and which 
 had the effect of brightening Hilton up a little, though he 
 could not resist the feeling that if the issue of his suit was 
 to be determined by the fate of his story, he had little if 
 anything to hope for. 
 
 But he put a brave face on the matter ; assumed a cheer- 
 ful and even gay air, exchanged a number of pleasantries 
 with Louise, and then asked her, in a jocular manner, if 
 she was ready to pass judgment upon him ; though the 
 poor fellow, if he had actually seen transcribed over her 
 door Dante's famous Hues above the portal of the Inferno, 
 could scarcely have felt more secret trepidation and mis- 
 giving. 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; "I have read your story through, 
 and will now, as you have requested, give you my candid 
 opinion of it. In the first place, it is painfully lacking in 
 coherence and originality ; two very serious, if not fatal, 
 defects in any work of fiction. But to be more definite, ' ' — 
 her manner was becoming severe and her tone icy, — "the 
 situations are in the main forced, most of the characters are 
 grotesquely unnatural ; the language extremely stilted, and 
 frequently disconnected and irrelevant, — you seem, in fact, 
 to have borrowed isolated phrases or expressions from dif- 
 ferent sources and put them into the mouths of your own 
 characters without regard to the proprieties of time, place, 
 or occasion ; some of which, indeed, have a very familiar 
 
172 JACK HILTON S LOVE-AFFAIR. 
 
 sound to me. You often become so hopelessly entangled 
 in the intricacies of your plot — which in some instances seem 
 to have not the remotest connection with or relation to 
 each other — that you mix up characters, events, times, and 
 places in utterly confusing and inextricable complications. 
 Need I say more? No, Jack, — stick to the army. You 
 will never make an author." 
 
 Poor Hilton ! the airy fabric of his hopes and dreams 
 had dissolved ; shattered at one blow. And by the hand 
 of her who had been its inspiration. 
 
 By a strong effort, however, he rallied himself, laughed, 
 admitted the undoubted soundness of Louise's judgment, 
 thanked her for her entire impartiality, and then carelessly 
 remarked that he had, after all, only indulged in composi- 
 tion as a means of whiling away the time which might 
 otherwise have hung heavily on his hands ; that his having 
 spoken to her about publishing it was, of course, a mere 
 joke, as she must so have understood it, for he didn't 
 suppose she thought him bereft of all sense. In short, he 
 spoke and acted in a way which would convey the idea that 
 he considered the whole thing merely as a temporary diver- 
 sion, and of no real importance whatever. 
 
 Louise smiled, but made no pointed comment in reply, 
 merely observing, " I hope. Jack, you don't think me too 
 severe. I only gave you, you know, what you asked for." 
 
 "I am glad it amused you, however, Louise," said Hil- 
 ton ; "I have that satisfaction, at all events." 
 
 He soon turned the subject, — that of literature seeming 
 for the moment to have somehow lost its charm for him, — 
 and after conversing with her awhile upon different matters, 
 he bid her good-night. 
 
 The following morning Levison called upon his friend, 
 and found him in his room, seated at a table which was 
 strewn with books and loose sheets of writing-paper ; the 
 materials which had served his purpose and now become 
 useless. His visage was solemn and his air grave. There 
 was, indeed, an absent, far-away look in his eyes, as if he 
 were entirely unconscious of his immediate surroundings ; 
 and it seemed to require not a little effort for him to realize 
 the fact that his most esteemed friend and trusted confidant, 
 
JACK HILTON'S LOVE-AFFAIR. 173 
 
 Charlie Levison, was standing before him, regarding him 
 with a half-amused and half-sympathetic expression. He 
 needed not to ask the question that was uppermost on his 
 lips, for he read the answer in his friend's manner and looks. 
 
 "Well, old boy, where' s your story?" he said, slapping 
 him on the back to rouse him. He did not want to come 
 to the direct question too abruptly ; he would approach it 
 by degrees. 
 
 "In the fire ; or as much of it as isn't yet consumed is," 
 replied Hilton, grimly. "The fact is, Charlie, I have made 
 a confounded fool of myself; and that's all about it." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw !" exclaimed Levison, with a laugh, " you'll 
 get over it. Try a poem next time. You may be more 
 successful, and have fairer sailing on that tack. But wake 
 up, old fellow, and tell me all about it. You're not going 
 to withhold your confidence from me now, after having 
 excited my curiosity thus far ?' ' 
 
 " That's only fair, I suppose ; but please excuse me now, 
 Charlie ; some other time." 
 
 "Well, Jack, you know faint heart never won fair lady 
 yet. Take my advice : try a new tack, and trust to luck. 
 But why don't you come to the point at once, without beat- 
 ing about the bush so ?' ' 
 
 "I may take your advice," replied Hilton, "and try a 
 new tack." 
 
 "The best tack for you, my boy," laughed Levison, 
 "would be to tack-le her thus : My adorable Louise, will 
 you accept of the hand and heart of your loving and de- 
 voted slave. Lieutenant John Randolph Hilton ? A little 
 formal, perhaps, but to the point." 
 
 "I could never survive the mortification of a refusal," 
 said Hilton. " But I will think over what you have said, — 
 and in the mean while, Charlie, here is my — promissory 
 note for a hundred dollars, payable when I shall happen to 
 be in possession of the requisite amount of funds." 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 It was the season when the snow-caps of the Big Horn 
 range melt and flow down into the valleys, forming icy tor- 
 rents that wear the steep banks of the ravines until not even 
 the horned sheep can scale them, and swelling the streams 
 into impassable floods ; when the tender shoots of the 
 bufflilo-grass, newly pushed upward through the barren sod, 
 clothe the valleys and the slopes of the foot-hills with wel- 
 come verdure ; when herds of buffalo, and bands of elk and 
 antelope, emaciated by the hunger of the long winter, with 
 teeth worn and mouths cracked and bleeding from grubbing 
 the sandy roots of the dead grass, swarm on the hill-sides, 
 and graze from morning till night without stopping for 
 breath. At this season only the wolves and vultures prowl 
 and hover about despondently, for the bones of the last 
 frost-killed victim have been stripped, and the hunters have 
 not yet made the annual descent upon the feeding-ground. 
 Nature — the homely, barren Nature of the desert — smiles, 
 for this is the season which gives the impulse to the pendu- 
 lum of the years. 
 
 The Cheyennes, the Dakotas, the Shoshones, and the 
 Crows had broken up their winter camps in the shelter of 
 the mountains and were taking the trail, some for the hunt, 
 some for war. If the buffalo-robes were worn and old, the 
 teepee-poles cracked and broken, the bows, arrows, and 
 lariats almost expended, it was necessary to march away 
 with the entire tribe to some secluded valley among the 
 foot-hills, and there by skill in hunting and curing hides and 
 meats replenish the exhausted supply and provide a store 
 in advance for less abundant seasons. 
 
 Only those whose meat was not yet consumed, whose 
 ponies where fat, and whose bows and arrows were still 
 abundant were permitted to go forth on the war-trail in 
 paint and eagle-feathers to add deeds of prowess to the his- 
 tory of the tribe. 
 
 Before the streams had begun to swell, in the early 
 174 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 175 
 
 spring of this year, Gall, the chief of all the Dakotas, had 
 sent forth runners to the tribes, commanding them to as- 
 semble upon the head-waters of the Greasy Grass. Several 
 years of war, and one remarkable for a scarcity of buffalo, 
 had reduced the nation to the verge of destitution. An- 
 other summer of war would cost many lives, and if it were 
 followed by a winter without meat or robes, a plague could 
 not be more fatal to the population. A hunt for the entire 
 Dakota nation was therefore an urgent necessity. He had 
 resolved to unite the tribes and conduct them under his 
 own leadership to some country west of the Big Horns where 
 there was plenty of game, — buffalo, deer, antelope, and elk, 
 — to some region where Mineaska, the white man, had not 
 yet found an abiding place. Where to go he knew not, 
 but in some way the trail would be shown to him. 
 
 Very slowly the tribes converged upon the appointed 
 place. The distances which separated the extreme ones 
 were wide, and many days were necessary in which to over- 
 come them. From the Lower Yellowstone, the Tongue, 
 the Powder, the Rosebud, the Little Missouri, and the 
 branches of the Belle Fourche the slow columns lazily ap- 
 proached. The runners which brought tidings of the start 
 of each tribe had all come in, and by summing their reports 
 Gall counted the number of his people as upward of six 
 thousand. By the beginning of the month of June he must 
 be ready to lead them to the hunting-grounds. The task 
 was serious. Six thousand ! It would indeed be difficult 
 to provide game for so great a number. 
 
 Among the first to arrive was the tribe whose totem is 
 the white wolf, — the Uncapapas. One of their number was a 
 medicine-man named Sitting Bull, a sinister, crafty fellow, 
 celebrated among his own people for the success which at- 
 tended his auguries concerning the finding of game. Many, 
 many summers had he led the tribe upon the hunting trail, 
 returning with plenty and without encountering the enemy. 
 He was a dreamer, and in his dreams he claimed that the 
 Great Spirit pointed out to him whatsoever he desired to 
 know. This claim was accepted among the Uncapapas as 
 a fact beyond question. On the night of the next full moon 
 after his arrival Gall summoned him to appear at his lodge 
 for a medicine talk. 
 
176 WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 Just as the red disk of the moon was rising above the 
 hills in the east, Sitting Bull struck upon the poles at the 
 entrance of the lodge. He wore the usual garb of the 
 medicine-men, — the tanned hide of a buffalo bull with the 
 horns still intact on the base of the skull, falling down his 
 back from the head to the foot ; a string of grizzly bears' 
 claws around the neck ; a tom-tom of stretched wolf-skin, 
 and a rattle made of rattlesnakes' tails attached around the 
 border of a wild-cat's skin, hanging at the girdle. He 
 stood upright and silent at the door of the lodge awaiting a 
 response to his knocking. 
 
 " Enter, dreamer !" commanded the war chief in a stern 
 voice. 
 
 The medicine-man pushed aside the matting which closed 
 the entrance, and passing within, seated himself cross-legged 
 facing the fire opposite the chief The latter touched the 
 bowl of his peace-pipe to the ground and turned the stem 
 towards Sitting Bull. He seized it and blew forth clouds of 
 smoke possessing a sickeningly sweet odor. No word was 
 spoken until after several minutes the war chief broke the 
 silence. 
 
 "Dreamer," he began, in measured syllables, "I am 
 told that even in years of scarcity thou canst find hunting- 
 grounds where game is plenty, — that thou hast spoken 
 with the Great Spirit, — and that thou art a great medicine 
 chief among thy people. On account of these reports I 
 shall confide unto thee a great commission. I now com- 
 mand thee to lead my people, the Dakotas, into a land 
 where the buffalo cow is plenty, — where the elk, the deer, 
 and the antelope have not yet been cut down by the hun- 
 ters. I have called my people together in this valley with 
 their squaws, their papooses, their ponies, and their dogs, 
 — six thousand souls, — and as yet they know not whether 
 it is for peace or war. On the day after the next full moon, 
 when the sun is high in the heavens, thou shalt lead them 
 forth. From the top of yon high bluff thou shalt send the 
 runners to guide my people. Take with thee the skin of 
 the white wolf, the emblem of thy tribe. Let its presence 
 keep alive in thy heart the memory of my commands. Go 
 forth, and may the Great Spirit direct thee. Thou who 
 art now the unknown dreamer of the Uncapapas shalt be- 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. I77 
 
 come the great medicine chief of all the Dakotas. If thy 
 skill endures the test, thy leadership shall prevail in war as 
 well as in the chase. The war chief has commanded." 
 
 Sitting Bull closed his eyes and grasped the air as if in- 
 voking the aid of a spirit ; then he shook the rattle and 
 struck thrice upon the drum. He seized the white wolf- 
 skin and tied it about his right arm above the elbow. The 
 war chief extended again the stem of the peace-pipe. He 
 placed it between his lips and blew dense volumes of smoke 
 from his nostrils until the air of the lodge was darkened 
 with it. Then extending his right arm upward to its full 
 length, he rose, chanting, — 
 
 ' ' Wauna ! Wauna ! Priestess of the thunder — the 
 woods — the winds — the cataracts — the floods — the fire — the 
 hail ! Queen of the mighty beasts of the forest — the moun- 
 tain — the prairie ! Command thy servant !" 
 
 He crossed his hands upon his breast and bowed his head 
 as if waiting an answer to his invocation. The fire leaping 
 in the centre of the lodge cast yellow phosphorescence over 
 the hardened outlines of his countenance. Fanaticism, 
 cruelty, cunning, deceit, had all left their imprint there. 
 At length he opened his eyes and extended his open palms 
 over the head of the war chief 
 
 ' ' Great chief, thou art already obeyed. Sitting Bull, the 
 dreamer, thy servant, the obscure medicine-man of the 
 Uncapapas, will lead thy people into the land of plenty." 
 
 So saying, he gathered the folds of his robe around him, 
 turned through the opening of the lodge, leaped upon his 
 pony, and swept across the sea of wigwams to his own 
 village. 
 
 The Peak of the Clouds was buried in the blackness of a 
 stormy night. Heavy masses of dense vapor, carried by 
 the wind, were discharging their thunderbolts against it, 
 shattering the giant firs and tumbling the rocks in ava- 
 lanches down the steep sides. Under the fallen trees 
 and in the sheltered corners of the ravines the panthers 
 crouched, trembling with fear. Torrents of rain, washing 
 downward from the steep slopes, choked the water-ways 
 of the canons, and hurled heavy logs against the curves of 
 the rugged banks like projectiles from a catapult. 
 
 In her cave, half-waf up the mountain-side, dwelt Wauna, 
 
178 WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 the witch-maiden. As a cure for the chill and dampness 
 of the air, she had piled heavy fagots deep upon the fire 
 that burned in the depths of the cavern, and had set up on 
 each side of the entrance a huge blazing knot of pitch-pine. 
 The yellow light emblazoned the shining points of the walls, 
 bringing them into sharper relief, relegating the depressions 
 to obscurest blackness. The smoke of the burning fagots, 
 borne by the draft from the entrance, disappeared into the 
 throat of the dark recess which pierced the interior of the 
 mountain. 
 
 Scattered promiscuously over the triangular-shaped floor 
 were heaps of rehcs of the hunt and war-trail. Piles of 
 dried meat, implements of stone, horn, and bone, saddles, 
 moccasins, bead ornaments, bear-, buffalo-, and panther- 
 skins lay upon the floor without effort at arrangement ; while 
 from poles that rested against the rocky sides dangled 
 scalps of human hair and strings and festoons of elks' teeth 
 and grizzly bears' claws. A raven perched near the en- 
 trance upon a pole laid horizontally between two uprights ; 
 and below, two coyotes, a prairie-dog, and a red fox tugged 
 fretfully at their leashes. There was abundant evidence 
 that the profession of sorceress, oracle, and general man 
 ager of human destinies was a profitable one. 
 
 The witch-maiden passed beyond the blazing pine-knots, 
 and pushing back the tangled masses of her wiry hair, 
 looked out through the mouth of the cave into the seething 
 tempest that swept down the sides of the mountain. Each 
 flash of lightning that lit the slanting forest with its vivid 
 radiance was followed by rolling thunder that shook the 
 very rocks. It was not likely that human beings could be 
 abroad in such a storm. She shuffled back into the cave. 
 
 "The Great Spirit speaks in the clouds, — he is very 
 near," she muttered. " I will discover his will for the 
 Crow people, — the Absaraki." 
 
 She seized the thong which bound the leg of the raven 
 and drew it struggling down from the perch. In front of 
 the fire stood a flat slab of yellow stone. She knelt before 
 it, and drew from her belt a sharp, round-edged knife of 
 flint. Then holding the bird back downward on the rock, 
 she deftly cut out its entrails, taking care not to sever them. 
 The raven flapped its wings violently and uttered harsh, 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. I79 
 
 painful croaks. Spreading the entrails over the surface of 
 the rock, she watched them twist and turn, first into one 
 figure, then into another. 
 
 "The omen is good," she exclaimed. Then drawing an 
 arrow from a quiver on the floor, she spitted the bird upon 
 it and held it, still struggling, in the flames of the fire. 
 The flesh caught and burned quickly in the bright blaze. 
 
 " It is good, good. The Crows will go upon the hunt- 
 ing trail and will find much game. They will never fight 
 again with the white men." She threw the shaft of the 
 arrow after the burned carcass into the fire. ' ' The Great 
 Spirit speaks well in the thunder." 
 
 She was still peering into the fire, watching the dissolving 
 remnant of the raven, when there was a sound of footsteps 
 at the entrance of the cavern. She rose quickly from her 
 knees and turned her small beady eyes upon the intruder. 
 
 " Back, back !" she screamed ; " come not here ! Back, 
 back — or die !' ' She seized a bow and fitted a poisoned 
 arrow to the cord. 
 
 "Stay thy hand, great Wauna," answered the dark 
 figure in the mouth of the cavern. "It is thy servant, 
 Sitting Bull. Peace be between us." 
 
 "Why come ye here at such an evil hour?" asked the 
 witch, in quieter tones, throwing the bow and arrow back 
 upon the floor. "Where are thy gifts and the oflering ?" 
 
 "The squaw brings from the valley two ponies laden 
 with the gifts. I left her far behind, for I must return be- 
 fore the moon is full. I come to seek the will of the Great 
 Spirit for my people, the Dakotas. I must lead them to 
 the hunting-ground where the cow bufialo is plenty. The 
 war chief has sought my counsel, and into my hands has 
 he given the conduct of my people. Since last full moon, 
 through river, and forest, and canon, have I struggled to 
 reach thee, and my body is sick and my bones are full of 
 pains. Speak now with the Great Spirit, that he may 
 watch over and guide my people. See, now ! I have 
 brought thee Tatonka, the white wolf, for an offering." 
 
 The medicine-man drew from the folds of his robe the 
 whelp of a white wolf and placed it in her hands. His 
 moccasins were torn until they scarcely covered his feet, 
 and the water ran down his legs and stood in pools at his 
 
l8o WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 heels. He panted wearily, as if overcome with exhaustion. 
 The rents in his clothing showed that he had passed through 
 the forest where there was no trail. Hunger and fatigue 
 had weakened and emaciated his huge frame, yet his keen 
 eye had lost none of its lustre. Anxiety and eagerness 
 shone from his features. 
 
 "Thou hast done well," said the woman, attaching the 
 frightened wolf to the thong from which she had released 
 the raven. "Thy mission is indeed a modest one, but it 
 shall be well with thee. Thou shalt thyself speak with the 
 Great Spirit. The Wauna shall aid thee. Thou shalt be- 
 come a great leader among thy people." 
 
 "Aid thy servant, great Wauna, that no evil may befall 
 the tribes. If the mission be successful, then shall Sitting 
 Bull become the war chief of all the Dakotas, and thou, 
 Wauna, shall become great among all the people." 
 
 The woman fastened her snaky eyes upon him as if to 
 divine his thoughts. ' ' He who would be war chief must 
 endure pain and affliction without shrinking backward," 
 5he said. " Show me the scars of the sun-dance." 
 
 " I have none. Because I am a medicine-man I have 
 not sought fame on the war- trail." 
 
 " He who would lead his people in battle must prove 
 himself worthy. Come — and flinch not." 
 
 The witch-maiden took two long plaits of sinew having 
 hooks at each end and threw them over the horizontal pole 
 that crossed the entrance. By means of a sliding noose 
 she fastened them so that the four hooks hung down, near 
 together. 
 
 " Come ! Prepare thyself! He who aspires to lead his 
 people on the war-trail must prove himself worthy." 
 
 He cast his robe on the floor of the cave and stood under 
 the hooks. His features hardened and his muscles grew 
 tense. The woman skilfully cut the skin of his back and 
 breast — two vertical slits over each — and slipped the hooks 
 under the ribbons of flesh that were released. 
 
 "Now, free thyself!" she commanded. "Tear thyself 
 loose from the bondage of fear or thou art no better than 
 a squaw. He who would lead his people must be brave." 
 
 The huge savage dropped his full weight upon the hooks 
 and drew up his knees until they touched his chest. Then 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. l8l 
 
 he extended them downward and raised himself, dropping 
 again and again. The Hnes of his face contracted and his 
 muscles stood out like bands of iron. One by one the 
 hooks tore loose until at length he fell exhausted at the feet 
 of the Wauna. Not a sound had passed his lips to tell of 
 the agony of the self-imposed torture. 
 
 "Well done, my son. Well art thou fit to lead thy 
 people in battle. But thou desirest to become a great 
 medicine-chief. Those who would heal their people must 
 prove themselves worthy. Canst thou heal the bite of the 
 snake enemy? Canst thou defy Natakis?" 
 
 She retreated into the recess of the cave, and returned 
 bearing in one hand a huge rattlesnake and in the other 
 several tufts of herbs bound together with thongs. 
 
 " Come, come," she said. " Give thy finger to Natakis. 
 Then from these herbs choose the one which will heal thee." 
 
 The medicine-man took the herbs and drew forth a bunch 
 having long leafless stems with a thorny button on the end. 
 He placed one in his mouth and chewed it to a paste. Then 
 extending his left forefinger he vexed the snake until it 
 buried its fangs in the fleshy part. Instantly he placed the 
 wound in his mouth and sucked the poison into the pulp 
 of the herb. After a time he withdrew it and held it before 
 the Wauna. There was no sign of the poison left, not even 
 a swelling. 
 
 "Well done, my son," chuckled the hag. "Thou art 
 both brave and skilful. Having proved thyself worthy, 
 thou art permitted to talk with the Great Spirit," 
 
 She seized a cup made from the horn of a mountain 
 sheep, filled it with a curious green liquid, and placed it in 
 his hand. 
 
 " Now, drink," she said, "and lay thyself to sleep upon 
 these skins. In thy dreams the Great Spirit will appear 
 unto thee." 
 
 The great savage drained the cup and composed himself 
 upon the heap of furs. His pale features, lit by the yellow 
 firelight, assumed a hue that was haggard and ghastly 
 beyond description. As he lay there almost naked, the 
 impersonation of exhausted animal determination, his frame 
 seemed reduced to bones and bands of sinew. 
 
 When the witch-maiden perceived that the draught had 
 
 i6 
 
1 82 WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 produced unconsciousness, she quickly bound the feet of 
 the wolf cub, and, throwing it upon the flat stone as she 
 had done with the raven, proceeded to disembowel it and 
 spread the entrails out for inspection. The unfortunate 
 animal struggled vigorously, but she held it fast between 
 her knees while the curving membranes twisted about upon 
 the stone. 
 
 " Good, good !" she screamed. "The son of the white 
 wolf is to become great. He shall lead his people into the 
 great valley beyond the Yellowstone. He shall become a 
 great chief." 
 
 She struck a blow upon the head of the cub and threw it 
 into the fire. The fat caught and burned brightly. Leap- 
 ing up, she pressed her forearms against her sides, the 
 fingers pointing downward, and hopping upon one foot 
 danced in a circle around the fire, chanting in a monotone, — 
 
 ' ' Spirit of the Sun, appear ! Speak with thy faithful 
 servant." 
 
 This she repeated until the last trace of the wolf's cub 
 had mingled with the embers of the fire. Then ceasing 
 from the dance, she heaped up more fagots until the air 
 became swelteringly hot. The storm without had spent its 
 fury, and the rain was pattering fitfully upon the stones 
 and fallen trees near the entrance. The medicine-man slept 
 heavily. The hypnotic potion was not needed to quiet his 
 weary limbs. The woman sat down cross-legged before 
 the fire, waiting for his returning consciousness. The twin 
 pine-knots had long burned away, and the firelight threw 
 her shadow athwart the entrance. Long she sat thus, until 
 the morning broke over a storm-washed expanse of drip- 
 ping foliage and swollen streams. At last the medicine- 
 man awoke and sat upright. 
 
 "What hast thou dreamed?" asked the witch-maiden, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, Wauna, prophetess of the storms," he answered, 
 "worthy art thou of thine office! In my dream I saw 
 wonderful things. I saw the horsemen of the white men 
 rushing among the lodges of my people. They were many, 
 and my people were frightened and would have fled, but I 
 bore among them the skin of the white wolf and com- 
 manded them to turn and fight. Their hearts were strength- 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN, 1 83 
 
 ened at the sight. They charged upon the white men, and 
 drove them back, and slew them to a man. ' ' 
 
 "The omen is good, my son. Now art thou rewarded 
 for toihng through the forests, and across the streams, and 
 up the mountain-side to seek the aid of the Wauna. Re- 
 turn now to thy people, and lead them to victory and the 
 hunting-ground. Thou shalt drive back the white men 
 and lead the Dakotas into the great valley beyond the 
 Yellowstone. ' ' 
 
 She darted back into the recesses of the cave, and re- 
 turned with a gaunt bald eagle bound and hooded with a 
 piece of buckskin. "Take with thee the war eagle," she 
 said. "Under its wings shalt thou find victory for thy 
 people. Go, and let not the waters hinder thy flight. The 
 full moon is near at hand." 
 
 He seized the bird by the talons, and, throwing his robe 
 around him, sped out of the cave and disappeared from 
 sight among the firs that covered the mountain-side. The 
 sorceress peered after him, shading her eyes from the bright- 
 ness of the morning sun. 
 
 ' ' He must hasten or be too late. The moon is grow- 
 ing, — it shows in the east when the sun is high. Leader 
 of men, may the deer run slowly compared with thee." 
 
 In the valley of the Greasy Grass a thousand cone-shaped 
 lodges lifted their tattered shapes out of the flowering 
 border of willow and wild rose that marked its winding 
 course. Twenty herds of ponies browsed and chased one 
 another on the slope that ascended towards the foot-hills of 
 the Big Horn range, wandering impulsively this way and that 
 under the watchful eyes of their naked guardians. Groups 
 of dirty, ragged children were tumbling about in the shade 
 of the bushes or mischievously running and hiding to escape 
 capture by their anxious squaw mothers. Many of the 
 braves were pensively smoking in the shade of the lodges. 
 Others, more industrious, were sharpening spear- and arrow- 
 heads or mending their bows and quivers. The camp could 
 not have presented a more lazy or improvident appearance 
 had it remained scattered still among the winter sites in 
 the fastnesses of the mountains. The scarcely perceptible 
 breeze that moved the leaves of the bushes was ineflectual 
 
184 WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 against the enervating warmth of the June sun. Six thou- 
 sand savages, ignorant of the reason for the mighty assem- 
 blage, were indifferently awaiting the command of the great 
 war chief to move, they knew not whither. 
 
 Such was the camp of the Dakotas when a lone horse- 
 man appeared galloping over the crest of the low hills that 
 descended from the Rosebud divide in the east. One by 
 one the curious eyes of the camp were turned upon him, 
 watching him as he dashed rapidly down the slope and 
 swam the stream. He galloped furiously, shouting in- 
 quiries to those he passed on his way, until he reached the 
 lodge of Gall, the war chief, where he stopped and quickly 
 entered. Almost immediately they saw him leap again 
 upon his tired pony and continue his frantic career down 
 the stream among the lodges of the lower villages. 
 
 ' ' To arms ! To arms ! The white soldiers ! Arm for 
 your lives !" he cried as he swept on. 
 
 Instantly the signals were given to the herders. The 
 bands of ponies began to circle and close in upon their 
 leaders, — a moment later they were galloping madly each 
 in the direction of its respective village. 
 
 The attack by the white soldiers was a complete surprise. 
 Until the cry of the messenger rung out over the lazy camp 
 not a living soul in all the mighty assembly had dreamed 
 of the dread presence. So rapidly had they moved to the 
 attack that even the messenger had not succeeded in dis- 
 tancing them by more than an hour's ride. The braves 
 had barely time to swing their quivers and array them- 
 selves for the fight, when a cloud of dust, rising behind a 
 curve in the banks of the stream, announced the near 
 approach of the enemy. At the sight the war-cry rose, 
 and was caught up from village to village until the air was 
 filled with an agony of demoniacal yells. Activity and 
 confusion prevailed where only a moment before all had 
 been dreamy quietness. It was like the change wrought 
 by an earthquake. 
 
 A cavalry column defiled out of a break in the north 
 border of hills that flanked the Greasy Grass, and plunging 
 into the stream, crossed rapidly, scarcely breaking the trot. 
 Soon they swung into line of battle athwart the valley, 
 up-stream from the Indian village, in plain view of all, the 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 185 
 
 guidons fluttering, and the sabres and bright metal trap- 
 pings flashing in the sunlight. The braves, each mounted 
 on his fleetest pony, armed with rifle, or lance, or bow and 
 arrow, as chance provided, awaited the charge in the edge 
 of the willows that skirted the village. Straight upon them 
 came the battalion of horse, a long unbroken line swinging 
 steadily towards them. It was time to meet the charge. 
 
 The chiefs lead out, and wheeling swiftly parallel to the 
 line, discharged their weapons. The warriors followed, and 
 the sally produced its effect. The line of cavalry halted, — 
 the soldiers dismounted and opened fire with their carbines. 
 A storm of arrows was the reply. The commander's heart 
 failed him. The line mounted and fell back, halted once 
 more, and opened fire. The bullets of the whites were 
 deadly. Already many braves had fallen, and were being 
 borne to the rear by their comrades. This time the whites 
 held their ground ; it seemed impossible to turn them. In 
 the camp was a wild chaos of confusion. The aged men 
 with the squaws and papooses were flying to the hills, 
 driving the spare ponies before them. The sharp reports 
 of rifle, screams, and yells, the neighing of horses, and, more 
 piercing than all, the shrill war-cry, rose out of the circling, 
 struggling mass in the valley. 
 
 Gall, the war chief, looked down from an eminence upon 
 the waning fortunes of his braves. They could see him 
 sitting there like a statue on his long-tailed white pony. 
 On his left a frightened rout of women and children was 
 crowding up into the bluffs ; in front, the smoke and dust 
 of the battle ; on the right, in the distance, a rising cloud 
 of dust gave warning of the approach of another column 
 of the white enemy. It seemed as if the hour had come 
 for him to dash down and lead his yielding people, but 
 still he sat, silent and grim, scrutinizing the strife below, 
 his war-bonnet trailing to the ground, his rifle resting across 
 the pony's withers. 
 
 He alone saw the single horseman that emerged from the 
 opening in the hills and dashed down the slope towards the 
 scene of the struggle. It was the medicine-man of the Un- 
 capapas. Sitting Bull, horned like a demon with the buffalo 
 skull which proclaimed his intercourse with spirits. The 
 white wolf-skin flowed from his shoulder, shining out against 
 
 16* 
 
l86 WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 
 
 the black robe that covered his huge frame like an ermine 
 shield. High above his head he bore the pinioned war 
 eagle, the talisman of victory. Into the thick of the fight, 
 among the astonished braves, he plunged. 
 
 " Death to the Mineaska ! Kill ! Kill !" he cried. 
 
 The effect was like magic. The war-cry rose again from 
 a thousand savage throats, and the braves bore down upon 
 the cavalry like vultures upon the dead. There was no re- 
 sisting the fury of the charge. The remaining horsemen 
 turned and fled across the stream, leaving a wake of killed 
 and wounded. Upon each fallen body leaped a dozen war- 
 riors to strip it of clothing and scalp. The cry of victory 
 rose like a wail from Gehenna. From every drop of blood 
 spilt on that field has sprung a thousand pages of his- 
 tory. 
 
 Down the valley, among the lower villages, rushed the 
 medicine-chief, bearing aloft the living eagle. The war-cry 
 followed the passage of the mighty emblem, and echoed 
 again from village to village. The old men and women, 
 frenzied at the change of fortune, turned back from the hills 
 to join their braves and unite in the plunder and torture. 
 Never was defeat of the whites more unexpected and de- 
 pressing, — never victory of the Dakotas more complete 
 and thrilling. 
 
 The sun was reddening in the west when Gall, the war 
 chief, turned his white pony up the trail that leads to the 
 highest bluff that overlooks the scene of the battle. At the 
 summit he saw the tall figure of the medicine-man calmly 
 surveying the terrible rejoicings in the valley. He still 
 bore the emblems which had spurred the warriors to suc- 
 cess. His attitude was that of the workman who surveys 
 a well-finished task. 
 
 Gall dismounted at his side, and removing his war-bon- 
 net, placed it, together with the trail-rope of the white 
 pony, in the hands of the medicine-chief 
 
 "Sitting Bull," he said, haughtily, "this day thou hast 
 led thy people to a great victory. Henceforth thou shalt 
 lead them in peace as well as in war. Henceforth thou shalt 
 be known as chief of all the Dakotas. Let this spot receive 
 its name from thee. Release the war eagle, that it may 
 tell the sun that a chief has arisen who meets the white man 
 
WAUNA, THE WITCH-MAIDEN. 187 
 
 and leaves his bones to whiten upon the prairie. Surely 
 the Great Spirit speaks in thee. " 
 
 "Thou hast spoken well, war chief," answered Sitting 
 Bull. " It is the day of the full moon. This night shall I 
 command the tribes to move forth into the great valley 
 beyond the Yellowstone. The Great Spirit has spoken. ' ' 
 
 From that day until his death Sitting Bull guided the 
 destinies of the Sioux. A recluse medicine-squaw who 
 dwelt in a remote cavern of the Big Horn range near 
 Cloud's Peak suggested to him the idea of leadership, by 
 interpreting a dream for him. His own cunning and ad- 
 dress accomplished the rest. The story of his visit to the 
 sorceress was related to me by one of his own relatives. 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 At the hour of nine, in the Hotel Bellevue, fronting Broad 
 Street and a frozen city, Conyngham Foxe was weighing 
 with much bitterness the advisabihty of casting loose fore 
 and aft from the social shore and steering out alone into 
 regions unknown and beyond hope of succor. 
 
 He should have been elsewhere. It was the night of the 
 Charity Ball, and in some way, through the machinations 
 of his brother's wife, Mrs. Montmorency Foxe, and his 
 former guardian's wife, Mrs. Penn Gaskill Williamson, he 
 had been selected, assigned, and warned to appear as escort 
 to Miss Rittenhouse, the heiress expectant of two millions, 
 and her mother. 
 
 If he had been called upon to direct his own hanging 
 and spring the drop himself, there might have been some- 
 thing in the prospect worth laughing at. But to receive 
 notice of this high-handed act of ownership and superiority 
 over him from two respectable ladies who must have ob- 
 served long ago how utterly he denied their prerogatives, 
 was an ill too grievous for human flesh to bear. 
 
 They had written, the two of them, no doubt, — one pro- 
 viding chirography, the other composition and rhetoric, — 
 
 " Dearest Conyngham, — It is all arranged. We will leave our 
 house at ten-thirty sharp, — West Logan Square. You are to take Miss 
 Rittenhouse, and of course her mother. Look your sweetest, Cony 
 dear, and come early. 
 
 " Your loving sister, 
 
 "LUCRETIA." 
 
 " Look your sweetest," — to a man. Could anything 
 exceed such drivelling inanity ! 
 
 It was time to oppose this tyranny. The end must come 
 some time. Why not now ? Yet even a shipwrecked 
 sailor in mid-ocean, from clinging to his spar a few hours, 
 acquires an affection for it not to be overcome without ex- 
 ertion. Before cutting the knot and sinking he is bound 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 1 89 
 
 to do a little desperate thinking. Conyngham had been 
 taught to dread social ostracism with the same degree of 
 horror that a voyager entertains for the sea-bottom. Yet 
 for some time past he had been much in doubt as to the 
 soundness of such teaching. There are some things more 
 dreadful to suffer than others : slow torture than death by 
 drowning, and social ostracism than social slavery, perhaps. 
 
 Conyngham Foxe was the last male of a long line of 
 descent, which, tracing backward by way of William Penn, 
 touched Adam. His elder brother, Montmorency, having 
 married early, was gliding into life's shadow without a 
 child. His sister also, being left a widow, had no wayward 
 sons to regret. Therefore, unless Conyngham married and 
 perpetuated the line, it died forever. 
 
 The event of his twenty-first birthday had bestowed upon 
 him a country house surrounded by ample lands and a well- 
 filled barn ; also two hundred thousand in securities return- 
 ing a liberal interest. But the preservation of the family 
 honor, although a most laudable consideration, was not, in 
 Conyngham' s estimation, comparable in any degree to the 
 joy of squandering a competency. 
 
 "If the family name is to be buried," he used to say, 
 "we'll hold a king's wake over the corpse." 
 
 The wildness of his ways had induced his sober Quaker 
 friends to solemnly believe that he was on the broad road 
 to perdition. They passed him by, pointing over their 
 shoulders with a significant shrug. His friends, however, 
 who knew the man at heart, stuck to him with a grim dis- 
 regard of sinister aspersions ; for, having been once ad- 
 mitted to the inner sanctuary of his intimacy, they found 
 they could not do less than die for him. 
 
 In the clubs no one doubted his standing. He had been 
 admitted promptly on becoming of age to the Philadelphia, 
 the Racquette, the Rabbit, and the Ayrmont Gun Club, 
 together with several others of lesser mention. His most 
 grievous breach of rules had been to enter the Philadelphia 
 about nine one morning in evening dress ; but the note of 
 the secretary, brought to him just as he was indulging an 
 eye-opener, brought forth repentance, apologies, and a 
 more faithful adherence to the proprieties of life. 
 
 As a sporting man his success had been something to 
 
190 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 Stand aside and wonder at. He aided and abetted, held 
 stakes, timed, and refereed in all local set-tos where skill 
 and prowess gave tone to the affair ; he was unexcelled as a 
 wing shot ; had been barred from the club pool tourna- 
 ments on account of his certainty in prize-winning ; was a 
 Delphic oracle at the Derby ; and had even been seen 
 coming away too near dawn from certain quiet sanctuaries 
 of the green cloth, unknown to Mayor Stuart and his 
 minions. 
 
 Socially, however, Conyngham was slipping his anchors. 
 Where angels trod with deference he had jumped without a 
 thought, — on the toes of the local society goddesses. They 
 were hurt. They pouted, and vowed that by the bones of 
 immortal Penn they would wipe his name forever from their 
 lists ; but some way he repented not and gave no promise 
 of reform. Then a few ventured to suggest that, for some- 
 thing they felt was in him, they ought to bear with him 
 awhile, and endeavor to rescue him from the oblivion into 
 which they felt this headlong downward career must surely 
 plunge him. 
 
 He had been a member of the City Troop, that venera- 
 ble organization of local patriarchs militant, until his re- 
 peated failures to attend drill had exasperated the ruling 
 powers of that punctilious body to the verge of madness, 
 and they requested him to resign. He did so, and buried 
 his hopes of promotion in the cavalry ; but the military 
 spirit within him was in no wise quenched. Another year 
 found him installed as captain and inspector of rifle 
 practice in a city regiment of the guard. 
 
 Out of the depths of which sinecure office a diplomatic 
 brigadier-general had reached downward and drawn him 
 up, so to speak, to the right hand of the throne, remarking 
 as he did so, — 
 
 " Foxe is wild and worthless, but rich and elegant. He'll 
 make a first-rate aide." 
 
 But they were astounded on the staff" not more by his 
 nonchalance and lack of punctuality than by the excellent 
 form of his uniforms and his knowledge of the minutiae of 
 tactics. 
 
 " Learned it at Chester, — and can't very well forget it," 
 he explained. 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 19I 
 
 And so on this night of the Charity Ball he was coolly 
 contemplating cutting the entire engagement and pulling 
 down upon his head a towering Washington monument of 
 consequences. He sat before the grate, his hands thrust deep 
 in his trousers-pockets and chin buried in bosom, watching 
 the red light flickering on the polished tips of his shoes. 
 
 His student friend, Pilkington Sykes, home from Colum- 
 bia for the Christmas vacation, was remonstrating boldly. 
 
 " Brace up, Foxey ! You can't cut a Charity Ball, your 
 nearest relatives, and two society queens without playing 
 havoc generally. You can't back out now, — it's too late. 
 I sent word for you myself that you would surely be on 
 hand at ten-thirty. You make me out a fool or a liar if you 
 don't go." 
 
 "Can't help it, sonny. I've cut plenty before this. 
 What did they want to run me into it for ? They knew I 
 didn't want to go ; they know I hate such things. I'd 
 give a farm in Jersey if they'd kindly forget that I'm alive. 
 Push the button !" 
 
 " But think of it, man ! If you don't go they'll believe 
 you're crazy, or, what's worse, an ass, or a cad. It's fear- 
 ful, man ! fearful to contemplate ! What will Mrs. Ritten- 
 house think — and Mrs. Penn Gaskill Williamson — and Mrs. 
 Pinckney Drexel ! They'll all cut you dead. They'll ask 
 who the gentleman is when your name is mentioned. I 
 know how it will be. It's fearful, man !" 
 
 "Sonny, be quiet! You're young and inexperienced. 
 If those people had any notion of cutting me, they've had 
 oceans of chances to do it already. I want them to cut 
 me, — I want them to stop sending me invitations, — and 
 they know it. There's a stack now in my club box three 
 months old. Some day I'll have Patrick open them and 
 make out a list of the people who ought never to speak to 
 me. I know of three from the general in the lot, — he told 
 me of them himself. — Come in, boy ! What' 11 you have, 
 sonny? Two Jamaica rum punches. And fly! Don't 
 wait for the elevator ! Three steps at a jump down and 
 back, or never enter this room again !" 
 
 "But you're not going to drink anything, man, before 
 you go to the ball? You're crazy !" 
 
 * ' I tell you r m not going to the ball. Balls are well 
 
192 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 enough for youngsters and society aspirants and swells, but 
 I've had enough of them. Why, sonny, I'll be thirty-two 
 in a week." 
 
 The defiant Foxe struggled to his feet and looked out of 
 the window. 
 
 " Beastly night. I wouldn't wear an evening suit for a 
 thousand dollars, — catch cold and die. — Come in ! Boy, 
 tell them to spread that on my private ledger, — and here's 
 a wheel for you." 
 
 The college weakling was bracing his back against the 
 door, barring the path of the bewildered Buttons, 
 
 " Foxey, I can't stand it ! For my sake — for old time's 
 sake — get into your clothes and go. Get there some way, 
 and then if you must, — faint — have an apoplectic fit in the 
 v/idow's arms — and get sent to the hospital. You must 
 go!" 
 
 "Sonny, you're worse than the plague ! — Boy, tell Saun- 
 ders to send up the likeliest kid in the house, — no, tell him 
 to come himself! Run ! skip ! fly !" 
 
 The youth on vacation fell on his neck and made arrange- 
 ments for an embrace, which was frustrated by a dexterous 
 back-trip that sent him rolling on the floor. 
 
 "None of your tricks, sonny! I'll go if it will make 
 you feel very much better, but you needn't go wild over it. 
 Drink that mixture. It will make your hair curl." 
 
 The head steward' s tap was answered by a gruff" ' ' Come 
 in !" and that pandering worthy's eye fell upon two 
 punch-glasses projected against two upturned heads. 
 
 "Oh — ah — er — Mr. Foxe, did you send for me, sir? 
 What will you have, sir? If it's a carriage, I fear you're 
 most too late, sir. They're all at the ball by this time, sir." 
 
 ' ' Saunders, you idiot ! Gather your wits ! I want you 
 to do something, and do it yourself, and do it quick. 
 Here's a twenty. Now, call a four-wheeler — get in your- 
 self — drive to the Paris laundry for my clothes— break into 
 Reed's and get me a tie — fetch my evening suit from the 
 tailors' — you know, what-you-call-'em, on Chestnut Street, 
 where all my work's done — get that new cape coat, too. 
 Stop at Paddle's and get a pair of evening gaiters — and a 
 pair of lavender gloves any place ! Run ! Don't lose a 
 minute ! Be back here by nine-thirty sharp !" 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 1 93 
 
 "But, sir — Lord, sir — I can't leave, sir, I'm needed 
 'ere, sir — and, it's very late." 
 
 "No 'but's'!' Get out! Make your explanations 
 when you come back. Do you take me for a Chicago 
 pork merchant ? Go ! skip ! and hold the carriage when 
 you come back. You'll make what you can save out of 
 that bill." 
 
 That would be a good deal, the excellent Saunders 
 thought. He heard the last word going through the door 
 fike a shot. 
 
 " Great guns ! Foxey ! The man can't attend to all that 
 in a week. Be reasonable at any rate." 
 
 "Shut up, sonny. I said I'd go to that ball to please 
 you. Now let me go in my own way, for heaven's sake. 
 There's oceans of time for getting ready for a ball." 
 
 The boy was looking out upon the street. The horses 
 of the green car, struggling through the drifts at the inter- 
 section of Broad and Walnut, cast swirling clouds upon the 
 pedestrians laboring by, with their heads pulled down into 
 their coat-collars like misanthropic turtles. 
 
 "Foxey," he said, meditatively, "if you were to miss 
 that ball to-night the town would be too hot to hold you. 
 Broad Street in August will be chilly compared to it." 
 
 "There's Bermuda, sonny. Boat leaves to-morrow, and 
 I've a standing invitation from the Grenadier Guards to 
 come down any time. My health seems to need a change 
 of air, too. But I'm going to the ball, I said. Keep your 
 nerve steady." 
 
 "So is the William Penn statue going to the top of the 
 City Hall tower." 
 
 A bell-boy tapped and entered. 
 
 * ' Barbers all went home at nine, sir. Very sorry. 
 Maybe I can borrow Mr. Lane's razor for you." 
 
 " Bring a razor or a barber in two minutes or I'll have 
 you discharged. Wait ! two whiskeys and a siphon, — ice 
 in the glasses ! Run ! fly !" 
 
 The youth from Columbia nursed his leg and gazed 
 disapprovingly upon the unreasonable Conyngham from 
 the edge of the sofa. Then he went softly to the bath- 
 room and turned on the warm water. At that moment the 
 bell-boy returned with a much-used razor. 
 in 17 
 
194 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 "Where did you get that antiquity ?" inquired the donee. 
 
 ' ' All I could get, sir. Mr. Lane inquired particularly 
 if it was for you. ' ' 
 
 "You brazen dissembler! Why didn't you bring a 
 bread-knife?" 
 
 It was one of those trials to which one must submit with 
 fortitude. A visit to an outside barber was urgently neces- 
 sary, and a boy was despatched to reconnoitre. He re- 
 turned reporting an ancient colored man still on post at 
 Fifteenth and Sansom, and was promptly despatched back 
 to occupy and develop that enemy's attention until Con- 
 yngham arrived. It was better economy to dress first and 
 be shaved afterwards. 
 
 At ten o'clock Saunders returned red in the face and 
 very much out of breath, convoyed by a squadron of bell- 
 boys with bundles. One seized the shirt and inserted the 
 studs. Another laid out and smoothed the dress suit. 
 Still another aided Conyngham in disrobing. At ten- 
 fifteen he was all that his tailor could wish to look upon 
 before dying, — with the single exception of tonsorial finish, 
 — and he descended in the elevator and embarked for the 
 barber's. There was some delay. The driver, having 
 learned that he was serving Mr. Conyngham Foxe, had 
 crawled into his vehicle and was already asleep on the seats. 
 
 The colored barber, complaining of rheumatism and 
 family cares, was delighted to have the ' ' honah of sarvin' 
 sech swell gemmen ;" but he was careful to state that his 
 shop at that time was running on a cash basis, paying and 
 receiving pay as it went. No doubt he had observed a 
 tendency among gentlemen in dress suits to forget their 
 pocket-books and their small change. Only stress of 
 weather had delayed him in his shop beyond the hour of 
 nine. He had not shaved "sech ag'eeable gemmen sence 
 he las' shave Gineral Grant," he explained, however, as he 
 clutched a dollar for his pains. 
 
 On returning to the carriage at ten-forty there was an- 
 other delay and a parley concerning the next halting-place. 
 
 "You ought to go right away, man. I'll get out at the 
 Bellevue, and you drive right on like you were going to a 
 fire. You'll keep them twenty minutes at least as it is." 
 
 " Plenty of time, sonny. They're in no special hurry. 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. I95 
 
 We'll just drive to the club and see if Parkinson's there. 
 He'll want to see me after the ball, and we might as well 
 make a date now. — Driver ! Thirteenth and Walnut." 
 The carriage-wheels creaked through the frozen snow, and 
 the horses' hoofs stirred up clouds that took away the 
 breath of the pedestrians. 
 
 Entering the club, the head porter touched Conyngham 
 on the arm. 
 
 "Mr. Foxe," he said, excitedly, "there's a man been 
 lookin' for ye with a message. I sent him to the Saginaw. 
 He says it's very important, sir, and he's to come back 
 here if he don't find you." 
 
 "Be up in the reading-room. — Ah, Parkinson, just the 
 fellow I want to see. — Sonny, it's too late to go to that 
 beastly ball now. I'd rather not go than be late. You get in 
 the carriage and drive to West Logan Square yourself Tell 
 them that very important business has detained me. A 
 detective from London — case that demands the utmost 
 secrecy — must return to New York to take steamer by 
 midnight train. Make it sound well. Hurry back and 
 meet me here." And the socially condemned took passage 
 by elevator for the library. 
 
 Pilkington Sykes clambered back into the carriage grum- 
 bling lamentations unfit for historical preservation. He 
 felt sure it was the last time he would ever stand by Foxey 
 in a social peril. He could stay with him through any 
 other crisis, but never again where appointments as escort 
 had anything to do with the matter. He was bearing 
 Conyngham Foxe's social head to the basket, and would 
 probably be chief mourner at the funeral. A blooming 
 termination to a holiday vacation. 
 
 Foxe was boring himself with the newest number oi Life 
 when the messenger returned with the note. By the time 
 he had read it through to the signature the Charity Ball 
 and all things thereunto pertaining were obliterated memo- 
 ries. It was from General Porter, and read, — 
 
 " Telegram from the governor orders the command under arms at 
 once for the coke regions to suppress riot among strikers. Am con- 
 fined to bed by temporary illness, and since assistant adjutant-general 
 is out of town, I desire you to assemble the staff and issue all necessary 
 orders in my name. Everything depends upon your promptness and 
 
196 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 judgment. The brigade should depart by early trains in the morning. 
 I send to you as you are usually unoccupied. Report receipt by this 
 messenger. 
 
 " Porter, 
 " Brigadier- General, Commanding." 
 
 Here was something truly worth an effort. He seized a 
 pen and wrote, — 
 
 " Everything will proceed as you direct. Brigade will leave Broad 
 Street Station at eight to-morrow morning. Special car on last section 
 for the staff. 
 
 " FOXE, 
 
 " What's the use being on the staff if you can't ride in 
 a special car?" he thought. "Here, boy; take that and 
 run. You may save a life if you hurry." 
 
 Eleven p.m., half the officers at the Charity Ball, the rest 
 asleep, and a brigade of twenty-five hundred men to be 
 turned out before seven o'clock in the morning ! 
 
 " Thomas, ring up a cab !" he called, sharply, and turned 
 again to the writing-desk. 
 
 "For staff-officers, regimental commanders, and field 
 officers, this," he muttered. 
 
 "Your regiment will be formed under arms at the armory by seven 
 o'clock A.M. to-morrow, the loth inst., with full field equipment and 
 rations for three days in haversacks. From the armory you will march 
 to the Broad Street Station, forming on arrival there as directed by the 
 staff-officer in waiting. By eight o'clock you will be embarked and en 
 route for active service in a region to be announced later. Report re- 
 ceipt at once to head-quarters, City Hall. By command of Brigadier- 
 General Porter. 
 
 "CONYNGHAM FOXE, 
 
 "A.D.C. and A.A.A.G." 
 
 * ' No, cab, sir ; sorry, sir ; every wan out, ' ' interrupted 
 the porter. 
 
 "I'll have to walk, then. Bring my overshoes and that 
 fur-lined coat hanging in my closet. Hurry !" 
 
 Five minutes later he entered the office of the Western 
 Union Telegraph Company at Broad and Chestnut. 
 
 ' ' How many messengers have you ready to go out ?' ' 
 
 "Ten, sir." 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. I97 
 
 ' ' Let all of them go with me ; also an operator who is a 
 typewriter copyist." 
 
 " Right away, sir?" 
 
 * ' Right away. Tell them to come with me. They may 
 not be back before morning, but they will be well paid. 
 That's my address." 
 
 "Certainly, sir," said the clerk, glancing at the well- 
 known name. 
 
 Messengers' fees were not usually paid in bills, and ten 
 dollars would not go far, either. The only place where 
 coin could be had at such an hour were the restaurants and 
 bars. He crossed to Steele's, — they knew him there. 
 
 " Can you let me have a hundred dollars in silver?" he 
 asked of the bartender, who was grinning broadly at the 
 procession of messengers filing through the door. He 
 thought it was one of Mr. Foxe's queer freaks. 
 
 ' ' Certainly, Mr. Foxe. Going to treat that crowd ?' ' 
 
 "Not right away, — not before they earn it," he said, 
 filling his pockets with coin. 
 
 The snow was whirling under the dark archways as he 
 led the little squad struggling through the drifts to the un- 
 finished western gallery of the City Hall. The floors were 
 not laid, no lights were burning, and no watchman stood 
 guard over that part of the building. It was very dark, 
 very quiet, and very cold there. He opened the storm- 
 door of the head-quarters office with a latch-key. It was 
 one of those locks that work with either key or combina- 
 tion, whichever one you choose to be troubled with. He lit 
 the gas, and showed the operater a typewriter and a tele- 
 graph relay. 
 
 "I had that wire cut in here some time ago," he ex- 
 plained. "Thought it might come handy some time or 
 other. I want you to make fifteen copies of that order as 
 fast as ever you can. ' ' He laid before him the order he had 
 written at the club. 
 
 Then turning to the sleepy messengers, he said, — 
 
 "Wake up, boys! I want you to make records for 
 yourselves to-night. I have an important message for 
 each one of you to deliver. You are to hunt for your man 
 and keep on hunting till you find him. Then you are to 
 bring his answer back here. I'll wait for you, and every 
 
 17* 
 
198 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 boy that kicks a goal will get five dollars down for his 
 valuable exertions." He rattled his pockets significantly. 
 The boys were wide awake enough now. Five dollars was 
 an independent fortune to every one of them. 
 
 He took the copies from the typewriter and addressed 
 each in bold characters, writing ' ' Report receipt by this 
 messenger" plainly on the face of each. In ten minutes 
 the boys were fighting the storm, hunting up regimental 
 commanders and staff-officers. 
 
 "If they don't find them at home," he thought, "they'll 
 catch them on their way back from the ball." 
 
 There were other messages to send before the machinery 
 of the brigade could be set in motion. The telegraph- 
 operator would have his hands full. 
 
 "Get your central office and hold it," he said. Then 
 wrote, — 
 
 " You will report with all men of your company under arms, with 
 full field equipment and three days' rations, at the armory before seven 
 o'clock to-morrow morning, the loth inst., preparatory for leaving the 
 city for duty under orders of the governor. By command of Brigadier- 
 General Porter. 
 
 " CONVNGHAM FOXE, 
 
 "A.D.C. atid A.A.A.G." 
 
 This was for the non-commissioned officers, whose ad- 
 dresses were carefully kept by roster. 
 
 "Repeat this message to every name on that list," he 
 said. " It will probably keep you busy awhile." 
 
 The operator knew his business. He sent the message, 
 then the list, and let the central office do the work. He 
 had been a messenger before he learned the sound code. 
 
 The trains had to be gotten out. He made a list of the 
 Pennsylvania officials from the president down to the yard- 
 master, and penned an inverted round robin for them. 
 
 " Brigade ordered to coke regions, to quell rioters. In case you 
 have not been notified by quartermaster-general, we need four trains, 
 fifteen cars each, ready to leave Broad Street with troops at eight to- 
 morrow morning ; one Pullman in every five coaches. Will direct em- 
 barkation in person. 
 
 " Porter, 
 " Brigadier-General, Commanding.^* 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 1 99 
 
 The coke interests and the railroad interests were not 
 widely separated. The brigade would leave Broad Street 
 that morning if nothing else did. There was no doubt that 
 the trains would be ready. Certain expressions of official 
 good-will had been received at head-quarters before. 
 . The room was cold and cheerless, no fire, only one jet 
 of gas. There was no furniture but the tables and the tier 
 of closets ranged around the sides of the room, where the 
 staff-officers kept their uniforms and swords. No sound 
 broke the stillness but the sharp clicking of the telegraph 
 relay. Conyngham put his feet on the table and settled 
 back into a chair. He must wait for those boys. It would 
 never do for the frozen little waifs to be disappointed when 
 they returned, and the operator would surely leave as soon 
 as his last message was sent. But there was really plenty 
 of time before he would have to be at the railway station to 
 direct the embarkation. His uniform was at the club, and 
 the liquid rations for the trip had to be ordered, but it was 
 only a little after midnight. He hoped CA^erything would 
 run smoothly. He hoped it would, but there were mis- 
 givings ; the brigade had never been hurried like this 
 before. 
 
 The clicking of the instrument was soporific. He heard 
 a deep-toned clock-bell strike one, and fell dozing. 
 
 The next fact that forced itself upon his consciousness 
 was that some huge hand was shaking him roughly by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Wake up, will you?" growled a surly voice. 
 
 He struggled to his feet. A heavy, stoop-shouldered 
 man, with dark, sunken eyes and a full beard, was glaring 
 at him from beneath the rim of a grimy silk hat of ancient 
 pattern. He looked like a heavy villain rvfnning loose 
 from some neighboring theatre. 
 
 ' ' What are you sendin' out those orders in Gineral Por- 
 ter' s name for? I know you, Major Foxe. You sent me 
 to jail for runnin' off with your horse last camp, an' had 
 me dismissed in disgrace from the regiment, all along of a 
 little fun. You're tryin' to git the troops down a-fightin' 
 with honest laborin' men that wants fair pay for an honest 
 day's work. Yer a slik, palaverin', lazy aristocrat, — too 
 lazy to do anything yerself, an' too stingy to want an honest 
 
200 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 laborin' man paid full wages. But it's man toman here. 
 You an' I are equal in this deal. You sit down there 
 and countermand those orders or it's all day with you. 
 I'm the man that can make you do it, an' you might as 
 well settle down quietly to business." 
 
 There was no dream about this. The man was the same 
 he had ordered into arrest at the camp, — and he was giving 
 him orders. His tone, his manner, his words, were the re- 
 fined quintessence of impudence. As the fellow talked he 
 collected his scattered senses. 
 
 "What have you to do with any orders I give?" he 
 asked, waving the intruder back with his hand. " You are 
 drunk ; possibly crazy. At any rate, you are laboring un- 
 der a tremendous delusion if you think you can enter this 
 office and carry on to suit yourself There's a door behind 
 you, and it opens from the inside. You get the other side 
 of it in three seconds or I'll put you there !" 
 
 "Not so fast, my young buck!" the man answered, 
 edging back a little. "I'm a member of the Amalgamated 
 Coke Association, an' I've got plenty of backin' in what- 
 ever I undertake. You might jest as well do what I tell 
 you without any fuss, an' save doctor's bills — possibly 
 funeral expenses, an' mournin' for yer wife. I'm here to 
 stop this shipment of soldiers, an' it's got to stop." 
 
 "What in the blooming, howling, jumping blazes do you 
 take me for !" cried Conyngham, throwing his overcoat on 
 the table. ' ' Face about and get through that door be- 
 fore I count three or I'll turn your corpse over to the 
 police !" 
 
 The man didn't seem to electrify worth a Chinese cent 
 piece. He was preparing for fight, not flight. There 
 wasn't a weapon in the building more deadly than a staff 
 sword, and that wouldn't kill a consumptive mosquito. He 
 would be forced to descend to vulgar fists. The prospect 
 was acquiring considerable gloom, but Conyngham took up 
 a sparring attitude and watched his opportunity. The man 
 backed away and waited. 
 
 But he did not wait long. The man made a lunge to 
 strike him, but instead cushioned the blow of a tolerably 
 hard fist somewhere between the eyes. He appeared used 
 to that sort of massage. He only backed away and made 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 20I 
 
 another lunge. This time his foot caught something and 
 he fell over against the table. 
 
 After this brief skirmish of the outposts the reserves were 
 drawn into the engagement. The representative of the 
 Amalgamated Coke Association drew reinforcements from 
 cover in the rear, and dealt so heavy a blow on the head of 
 his dandified opponent that the latter dropped like a bale 
 of hay, and spread his shining shirt front and delicately ad- 
 justed tie all over a very dirty carpet. There are times 
 when a loaded billy is a most trusty weapon. 
 
 This part of the work was done as well as his most influ- 
 ential constituent could have wished. The orders were not 
 exactly countermanded, but the fur-lined overcoat would 
 make up for that. And there was coin in the pockets ! He 
 started to leave his own ragged ulster, but profiting by a 
 wiser second thought, returned and took it with him. The 
 face on the floor was very pale. The billy had cut the 
 scalp, and blood was oozing from the wound. The repre- 
 sentative thought he might have killed him, but there was 
 no time for investigations. The interests of number one 
 required immediate attention, and there was an early train 
 for the coke regions. It left in ten minutes. 
 
 In the house on West Logan Square Mrs. Montmorency 
 Foxe sat tapping the tiling with the toe of her slipper, 
 veiled, gloved, and bundled to the ears. Mrs. Ritten- 
 house, from a seat on the opposite side of the grate, was 
 turning into her daughter's eyes one long earnest gleam of 
 unutterable disgust. 
 
 "Why doesn't the man come? What on earth can be 
 the matter? It is already almost eleven ! He might at 
 least have sent a note. I knew he was careless, but I 
 never believed him utterly lacking in every evidence of 
 good breeding !" stormed the elder Rittenhouse. 
 
 "Some time, mother, during a lucid interval, he may 
 apologize," suggested the daughter. "The disease is not 
 incurable. ' ' 
 
 "There are no doubt excellent reasons for his tardy 
 appearance. Miss Rittenhouse," retorted Mrs. Foxe, taking 
 exception to the final aspersion. 
 
 ' ' Most excellent, no doubt, ' ' nodded the mother. ' ' A 
 
202 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 brief note delivered by a messenger would have prevented 
 our sitting here for an hour wrapped to the tips of our 
 ears." 
 
 Ting-a-ling-a-ling ! away back in the passage. 
 
 A servant entered bearing a card. 
 
 "Now, ladies, do try and look severe," suggested Mrs. 
 Foxe, beaming with triumphant sarcasm, and gathering up 
 her skirts. "Wither him with a glance the moment he 
 enters !" 
 
 But the card read, ' ' Mr. Pilkington Sykes, Columbia 
 College. ' ' 
 
 " Of all others ! Show him in," 
 
 " Ah — er — ladies, good-evening ! Mrs. Foxe ! — I regret 
 to be the bearer of bad news — but Mr. Foxe was on the 
 point of starting here when he was called upon by a gentle- 
 man on very urgent business — very important business — 
 gentleman from London, to return by steamer to-morrow 
 morning — and he begged me present his most humble and 
 sincere apologies. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed! By you. Why not by a messenger? You 
 left him at the club, no doubt. — Mrs. Rittenhouse, Mr. 
 Sykes." 
 
 "A-h-h! Some friend of Mr. Foxe." Through the 
 lorgnettes, — "Most honored to meet you, sir. Tell Mr. 
 Foxe, when you return to the club, that we had not 
 thought of going to the ball after hearing that he had been 
 selected as our escort. He has not inconvenienced us in 
 the least. There is nothing to warrant his apology. — Mrs. 
 Foxe, if you will excuse us, my daughter and I will retire 
 to our rooms." With a sweeping bow the twain glided 
 majestically down the length of the drawing-room and 
 disappeared through the drapery. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Sykes ! How could he have disappointed us 
 so !" moaned Mrs. Foxe. She was ready to weep. 
 
 So was Sykes. He felt that further delay on his part 
 might not prove agreeable, so he bowed himself backward 
 through the door, and rolled back to the club. 
 
 "That's the way they treat a fellow who is not used to 
 lying," he muttered to himself " A flat prospect now, — 
 flat as the house-tops from the Art Club roof-garden." 
 
 The porter told him that Mr. Foxe had left the club on 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 203 
 
 business and would be back soon. ' ' He said you was to 
 wait here, sir." So he waited. 
 
 Twelve o'clock, — playing billiards. One o'clock, — just 
 going down for a cup of coffee and a liqueur. Two 
 o'clock ! What on earth was the matter with Foxe ! He 
 called a carriage. 
 
 The porter did not know where Mr. Foxe had gone. 
 Inquiry by telephone to the Bellevue returned in the nega- 
 tive. Mr. Foxe had gone out without a carriage. It must 
 be staff business. When he played major he would go 
 anywhere under any conditions. It was the only thing 
 that shook him out of his lazy habits. 
 
 "City Hall — west entrance!" he called to the driver. 
 "I'll make sure about head-quarters before I go any place 
 else." 
 
 Hurrying through the dark hall-way he almost fell over 
 two messenger-boys. They had been trying to open the 
 outer door. 
 
 " Mister, they's a bloke in there some place 'as promised 
 us a fiver apiece if we'd take a letter an' bring him an an- 
 swer. An' now we's run all over the city and most froze 
 ourselves doin' it, he's got us locked out." The little 
 fellows were shivering and their voices trembled weakly. 
 
 He must have been there and gone. The door was 
 caught by a spring combination lock, and Sykes knew the 
 combination. He used to loaf in there mornings to read 
 the papers. He lit a match, turned the knob to the proper 
 point and opened the door, the boys at his heels. 
 
 A man in an evening suit was lying opposite the door 
 face downward looking very white and death-like about the 
 ears, and blood was flowing from a cut in a forehead that 
 belonged to no other than Conyngham Foxe. Sykes sus- 
 pended breathing operations a few moments, but had sense 
 enough left to whisper to the messengers, — 
 
 "Here! You youngsters grab a leg apiece and we'll 
 put him in the carriage. There's nothing to be done here. 
 If he's not dead, he's almost frozen. Easy, now !" 
 
 Conyngham made the journey to the carriage and back 
 to the Bellevue much as any dead man would have made it. 
 Ready hands enough were there to bear him to his room 
 and stand horrified around the bed. But he was not rigid 
 
204 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 enough for a dead man. Sykes demanded restoratives and 
 a physician. The shiny shirt bosom was hopelessly stained, 
 and for a man on the point of attending a Charity Ball 
 Foxey presented a most miserable appearance. 
 
 The rubbing and brandy soon had the desired effect. 
 He opened his eyes and began to look hostile. His 
 intellects had resumed operations on a thinking basis. 
 
 "Where's the honorable representative of the Amalga- 
 mated Coke Association?" he asked. "That's what a 
 fellow gets for saving a rascal from the penitentiary. I 
 ought to have let him go up last summer when he ran off 
 with my horse. Now he comes back and slugs me. Oh, 
 sonny, did you pay those boys? I've got to be at Broad 
 Street Station at seven o'clock to see about those trains. 
 Let's have a little terrapin and Duff Gordon and call it late 
 dinner. You oughtn't let that ex-veteran get away. A 
 little solitary meditation will do him good. Fellows ! we 
 ought to go down now and get a small lunch." 
 
 But the doctor vetoed the proposition, and motioned the 
 reviving attendants to go out. Then the doctor and the 
 Columbia infant removed his party dress and arrayed him 
 in garments better suited to a fortnight in bed, and the 
 Columbia infant resolutely mounted guard over him. 
 Foxey began to feel tired and weak, and thought he 
 would go to sleep. The doctor went out, forbidding vis- 
 itors and prescribing quiet and hospital diet. Afterwards 
 Foxey was glad he did. 
 
 Every one has followed the movements of the brigade 
 from the time it assembled at Broad Street Station, all 
 through the coke regions, to the hour of its return. Every 
 one knows how the governor's telegraphic order for troops 
 was sent from Harrisburg at ten o'clock one night, and be- 
 fore the same hour of the next his entire division was en- 
 camped in the coke regions. It was the most phenomenal 
 mobilization in the history of the guard. Familiar as a 
 fairy-tale — to every one who reads the newspapers. 
 
 And the Philadelphia Brigade, although farthest from the 
 scene of the riot, was first to arrive on the ground. 
 
 Conyngham Foxe was absent from the assembly of the 
 staff at the railroad station, and the special car was obliged 
 
CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 205 
 
 to roll away without him. Every man of them had said 
 Foxey would never make a soldier, and this was a clincher ; 
 now they knew of a certainty whereof they spoke. The 
 general being a taciturn man, and not given to talking ex- 
 cept on official business, was rarely approached on moot 
 social points, and had given no opinion concerning the 
 cause of Foxe's defection. This the able members present 
 for duty understood as a sign that he was properly ashamed 
 of having been persuaded for social reasons to appoint an 
 aide-de-camp so completely unfitted for the duties of an 
 officer. Major Foxe's resignation would certainly be forth- 
 coming, and they disputed among themselves concerning 
 his probable successor. 
 
 The brigade had put down the insurrection and had 
 returned before Conyngham left his bed in No. 14 of the 
 Hotel Bellevue. Sykes's report of the conference at West 
 Logan Square had decided him to pass the period of his 
 convalescence at the island of Bermuda. The hotel was as 
 good a place as any to start from ; there was no use in 
 being sent home. Pilkington Sykes decided to cut the 
 spring semester as far as the Easter vacation and go also. 
 He had been present at the execution, had assisted in the 
 funeral services ; it would never do to desert the body 
 at the entrance to the cemetery. 
 
 They were at the wharf of the steamer watching the last 
 of the baggage ascend the plank. The great whistle had 
 already sounded, warning visitors to quit the decks, and it 
 was time to go aboard. The mate above was motioning 
 them to hurry. Conyngham hastened a little, and in doing 
 so almost ran into the arms of a lady who, with her daugh- 
 ter, was just descending. He started back, tipped his hat, 
 and begged pardon involuntarily, without raising his eyes. 
 What was his surprise, then, to be addressed in the most 
 cordial manner, — 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Foxe ! I am so glad to have seen you before 
 you left. We saw some friends away and felt sure we 
 would meet you. You do not know how sorry we have 
 been about your dreadful accident. We have sympathized 
 most truly ever since Mr. Parkinson told us about it. Do 
 be careful of yourself, and come back well as ever. You 
 must come right up and see us the day you arrive. ' ' 
 
 18 
 
205 CONYNGHAM FOXE AND THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 All this was poured forth while Sykes was backing up 
 the plank, and Foxey was bowing and blushing, and the 
 daughter was smiling and warbling little chirps like a 
 canary-bird of, "Yes, Mr. Foxe, indeed we do!" and 
 "We are so sorry," and so on, and the mother talking a 
 little louder and a little louder as Mr. Foxe was receding 
 politely in the wake of the dumfounded Sykes. So they 
 waved their handkerchiefs from the deck as the steamer 
 backed off, and Mrs. Rittenhouse and her daughter 
 beamed upon their diminishing figures a mellow gaze of 
 regretful radiance as if they were taking leave of their next 
 of kin. 
 
 And Sykesey said to Foxey, " If signs and wonders have 
 anything to do with the matter, your grave will probably 
 be kept green. There will be a resurrection in about six 
 weeks, and your late lamented social corpse will gather its 
 dry bones and rise again." 
 
 And Foxey said to Sykesey, "There is no death, — no 
 social death." 
 
THE SOLDIER'S AID SOCIETY. 
 I. 
 
 " And with velvet pansies, around like a bower, 
 The maiden found her mystic flower ; 
 Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell 
 If ray lover loves me, and loves me well." 
 
 Mr. Brayton's house was a large double mansion, 
 white, with green blinds ; it was set a little way back from 
 the street, and upon each side of the straight path, leading 
 from the gate to the door, were broad flower-beds filled 
 with plants of every variety. These beds were bordered 
 with a narrow edge of box, and the whole establishment 
 bore the air of old-time New England aristocracy. On this 
 particular afternoon the front door, with its serpent knocker 
 of brass, stood wide open, as if to welcome the ladies of 
 the village who were going en masse to attend the Soldier's 
 Aid Society. 
 
 Jennie Parker, the belle of the town, with her pink cheeks 
 and golden hair, was walking rapidly down Front Street, 
 arm in arm with her friend Lillie Watson, from Philadel- 
 phia, who was disclosing a wonderful scheme that some of 
 the girls whom she knew had tried to interest the soldiers 
 and themselves. 
 
 " You see, Jennie," she said, " Hettie made six pairs of 
 mittens for our box last winter, and in every one she put a 
 note, and, would you really believe it, she had five 
 answers. ' ' 
 
 "Why, Lillie," exclaimed her friend, "did she sign her 
 real name to them ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Certainly she did, and I think some of her notes must 
 have been very silly, for she is a great flirt, and I never 
 liked her ; but any way, after that ever so many tried it." 
 
 "It would be splendid !" said Jennie. "I'll tell them 
 this afternoon about it. But did you try it, Lillie, and did 
 you get a letter?" 
 
 207 
 
208 THE soldier's AID SOCIETY. 
 
 Lillie blushed and tossed her head, but after some coax- 
 ing displayed a brass button, which she had made into a 
 pin and wore at her neck, saying, however, that she would 
 tell nothing more until that night. 
 
 As they neared the house Lillie asked, ' ' Who is this 
 Miss Brayton whose house we are going to ?' ' 
 
 " Oh, she is an old maid, but her father is the wealthiest 
 man in town, and she started the ' Soldier's Aid' here ; she 
 runs all the guilds and such things, and she does have the 
 loveliest flowers, especially pansies ; she has every variety, 
 and they are in blossom all the year round. People say 
 she had a love-affair years ago and gave up a splendid man, 
 Mr. Carleton, simply because he was an atheist." 
 
 " How very silly she must be ! I suppose she would be 
 too priggish to put notes in any of the things?" asked 
 Lillie. 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes, she is too old for romance ; she must 
 be thirty-five if she is a day," exclaimed the pretty 
 seventeen-year-old maiden. 
 
 The prim New England matrons looked aghast at the 
 idea of notes being sent about promiscuously with their 
 daughters' names attached, but the girls tossed their heads 
 and looked defiant. The Saturday following was appointed 
 for the packing of the barrels, and the ladies chosen for the 
 work were Miss Helena Brayton, Mrs. Martin, and Jennie 
 Parker, whose friend Lillie offered to assist. 
 
 That night, when Helena Brayton went to her room, she 
 unlocked a small writing-desk, and taking out a case which 
 contained an ambrotype of Ferdinand Carleton, looked 
 long and earnestly at it. Then taking out a package of 
 letters, she sat down by her table and read for some time. 
 One envelope contained a bunch of faded pansies, tied with 
 a violet ribbon. "I never cease to think of him," she 
 said, musingly ; and the remembrance of their last inter- 
 view rose up before her. " It would be worse than foolish 
 for me to write any note and put with that dressing-gown," 
 she thought, as her eyes turned to a gray robe which lay 
 on her lounge, and which she had just finished. " I would 
 not want any one but him to get the note," she murmured, 
 "and yet I certainly don't want him to be wounded and 
 laid up in the hospital ; but all the time it has seemed as if 
 
THE soldier's AID SOCIETY. 209 
 
 I were making that robe for him. I had the quilted satin 
 of blue just because I knew he would like it. But it is not 
 likely that he would get either the dressing-gown or the 
 note, and perhaps he has forgotten me any way." 
 
 She laid her arms upon the table, and resting her head 
 upon them, thought and thought. Ah ! no one knew 
 what those twelve long years had been to Helena. Always 
 bright and cheerful before her father and friends, faithful in 
 her church-work and social relations, but always taking as 
 retired a position as possible, none could have imagined 
 the intensity of the hidden sorrow of her heart. She had 
 acted from principle in breaking off her engagement with 
 Ferdinand after his views towards Christianity had become 
 so outre. And yet how often the agonizing thought pre- 
 sented itself that possibly she had done wrong, and that if 
 she had married him she might have influenced him to 
 better things. 
 
 Before the articles made by the Soldier's Aid were 
 packed, Helena had placed in the breast-pocket of the 
 dressing-gown, which she had made with such care, an en- 
 velope containing a sonnet she had composed and a few 
 large, fresh, purple pansies, carefully pressed and tied with 
 violet ribbon. ' ' The pansy was his favorite flower, ' ' she 
 murmured. She blamed herself for the wild idea that 
 Colonel Carleton would ever wear her dressing-gown, or if 
 he did that he would know that she sent it, for she had 
 signed no name or initials, merely dating the paper, and 
 putting the name of her village at the close of the lines she 
 had written. The next week the barrels were on their way 
 to Washington. 
 
 The hollyhocks withered, the asters and marigolds hung 
 their frosted heads, and the flower-beds looked deserted, 
 for autumn was hastening on with rapid steps towards win- 
 ter, and still the cruel war continued, and Helena Brayton 
 heard nothing of the fate of the dressing-gown. 
 
 18* 
 
2IO THE SOLDIER S AID SOCIETY. 
 
 II. 
 
 " By all those token flowers that tell 
 What words can ne'er express so well." 
 
 A FEW nights after the battle of Bull Run, Ferdinand 
 Carleton and his partner were sitting in his bachelor apart- 
 ments talking over the alarming condition of the country. 
 Both were smoking, and Carleton held in his hand the 
 New York Times. 
 
 "Then your mind is made up positively to enlist, is it ?" 
 asked Mr. Sedgwick. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I want to go ; life isn't any too interesting 
 for me to be afraid to risk losing it." 
 
 "That is absurd, Carleton; a fellow with your position 
 and talents can make life answer all his desires. You could 
 get almost any of the girls in New York ; and you ought 
 to be married any way. Mrs. Sedgwick says so ; she says 
 you are just the man to make any girl happy." 
 
 " Oh, I'm a confirmed old bachelor. I'll be forty before 
 long if I don't get killed in the war." 
 
 "That's just it ; you have no time to lose, and ought to 
 see about making some girl happy right away. ' ' 
 
 Carleton laughed rather bitterly, and then as Mr. Sedg- 
 wick rose to go he rose also, saying he would go part way 
 and then drop in at the club and have a game of billiards. 
 As they passed a flower-stand Carleton stopped, and buy- 
 ing a bunch of roses, he asked Mr. Sedgwick to take them 
 to his wife and thank her for her good opinion of him, but 
 to tell her that he was incorrigible ; and then selecting for 
 himself a few rich purple pansies, he fastened them in his 
 button-hole, and bidding his partner good-night, he went 
 into the club. He sat up late that night smoking and 
 thinking, not of the present nor the future, but of the past : 
 and as he handled the now withered pansies, he thought of 
 a sweet young girl with pansies in her hair and at her belt, 
 and he seemed to see her pinning one on his coat. The 
 next week he joined the Seventh Regiment. Fortune 
 favors the brave, and at the time our story opens he had 
 become Colonel Carleton. 
 
 Helena Brayton had seen the promotion mentioned in 
 the Boston papers, and the news had thrilled her with love ; 
 
THE soldier's AID SOCIETY. 211 
 
 but she thought that the sensation she experienced was 
 merely a high order of patriotism. 
 
 One night after a fearful battle Colonel Carleton was 
 bending over a dying comrade who lay bleeding on the 
 battle-field, and was doing all in his power to alleviate his 
 friend's suffering, hoping each moment that an ambulance 
 would come to convey him to some place of shelter. 
 
 "Is there anything more, Hal, that I can do for you?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Oh, colonel, if you could say some prayer for me ; my 
 wife's prayer-book was in my knapsack, but I don't know 
 where it is now ; but you can say one, for it's growing so 
 dark and " 
 
 The hot blood mounted to the colonel's forehead. What 
 prayers did he know ? He had not entered a church since 
 he went the last time with Helena, and had ridiculed the 
 service and pained her tender and devout heart. What 
 should he do ? He dared not in the presence of the angel 
 Death, tell this poor fellow that prayer was useless, as he 
 had believed for years. He now saw by a strange, inward 
 light that his own life had been one great mistake, and that 
 he himself had lived and believed a lie for years. 
 
 There is such a thing as feeling truth ; Colonel Carleton 
 felt it that night ; he felt an invisible presence about him ; 
 he felt that God was Truth, and that the Truth was 
 God ; and that unbelief, agnosticism, and atheism were the 
 weapons of the Prince of Darkness. 
 
 " Say just one, colonel ; it is so cold and dark," gasped 
 the dying soldier ; and in the silence that followed his last 
 request his soul was called home, while the full moon shone 
 down upon Ferdinand Carleton kneeling by a dead body. 
 
 Helena Bray ton's twelve years of prayer for him were 
 beginning to find their fulfilment. 
 
212 THE soldier's AID SOCIETY. 
 
 III. 
 
 " There's a sweeter flower than e'er 
 Blushed on the rosy spray, — 
 A brighter star, a richer bloom 
 Than e'er did western heaven illume 
 At close of summer day. 
 'Tis Love, the last, best gift of heaven ; 
 Love gentle, holy, pure." 
 
 Mrs. Pomroy, the head nurse of the Union Hotel Hos- 
 pital at Georgetown, resolved that the very best of care 
 must be given to Colonel Carleton for several reasons : in 
 the first place he was very severely wounded and needed 
 extra attention ; then he was a favorite colonel and had dis- 
 tinguished himself in several recent battles, and, moreover, 
 Mrs. Pomroy had known him in New York before the 
 war, and he had been the last one to minister to her dear 
 brother Hal, who died on the battle-field. All these 
 reasons prompted her to feel great interest in him, although 
 she would not have neglected any other patient for him 
 who needed her. 
 
 ' ' When do you suppose I can sit up, Mrs. Pomroy ?' ' 
 asked the colonel one day ; "it seems as if I had been 
 lying here forever." 
 
 ' ' Very likely you can to-morrow, colonel ; and a box of 
 goods was sent us from Washington to-day, and I have 
 selected a love of a dressing-gown from it for you. Would 
 you not like to see it ?' ' she asked, hoping it would rouse 
 his interest. 
 
 "Yes, I believe I would," he said, slowly. "I did not 
 suppose you would let me sit up this week." 
 
 Mrs. Pomroy went to the store-room, and returned with 
 a package done up in soft tissue-paper and laid it upon the 
 bed. 
 
 "Now I must leave you," she said, pleasantly, "and 
 you can admire it until you fall asleep." 
 
 As Colonel Carleton feebly unwrapped the tissue-paper 
 a delicate perfume was perceptible, and a strange thrill 
 seemed to run through his heart. ' ' She always used such 
 faint, dainty perfumes," he thought. As he removed the 
 last wrapping he exclaimed, "It is just like the one she saw 
 
THE soldier's AID SOCIETY. 213 
 
 me have on that morning when her father was so ill and 
 she was so worried. ' ' 
 
 Involuntarily he slipped his hand into the inner breast- 
 pocket and drew out an envelope, directed in the hand- 
 writing he used to know so well, — "For a wounded 
 soldier." Trembling, he broke the seal, and taking out 
 the letter unfolded it ; as he did so there dropped out three 
 purple pansies ; on the violet ribbon with which they were 
 tied was inscribed with gold letters the meaning of the 
 word pansy, — " Pensez a mot.'" 
 
 The tears sprung to his eyes, for he was weak and ill, 
 and the emotions are not under control at such times. He 
 pressed the pansies to his lips, and then smoothing out the 
 sheet of paper, read the following lines : 
 
 "FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT OF FAITH." 
 
 The world may well be called a battle-field, 
 And life is one great strife to win a crown ; 
 But not the hope of fickle earth's renown 
 
 Inspires true heroes not to faint nor yield 
 
 E'en if the foe a mighty weapon wield ; 
 
 For heavenly music can earth's war-cries drown, 
 Or change to smiles the tyrant's cruel frown. 
 
 And he, who at the Throne of Grace hath kneeled 
 
 To learn the secrets of Eternal Love, 
 Cares not to win a diadem of gold. 
 
 But like a loyal soldier, brave and true, 
 
 Obeys the Captain's orders from above, 
 And armed with Faith and Truth may well be bold, 
 For when the campaign's o'er the Crown is sure. 
 Deering, September 13. 
 
 " Why, colonel, what makes your pulse so rapid to- 
 night? and what's the meaning of all this fever? Indeed I 
 cannot let you sit up to-morrow," said the surgeon as he 
 stopped on his evening rounds, 
 
 "Oh, but I really feel better, doctor," said the colonel, 
 "and I am very anxious to begin to sit up." 
 
 "Well, well, we'll see," said the surgeon. 
 
 * ' I want to send a despatch to-night, doctor ; if I write it 
 now will you take it ?' ' asked the patient. 
 
 ' ' Certainly ; but you had better let me write it for you, 
 colonel." 
 
214 THE soldier's AID SOCIETY. 
 
 " Oh, no ; let me try." 
 
 "Well, here is paper and pencil; but I think that arm 
 is too weak ; if you can't do it, I will." 
 
 The physician thought to himself that there certainly was 
 a lady in the case, and if so, that would account for the ex- 
 cited condition of his patient. 
 
 The next morning when Mr. Brayton and his daughter 
 were sitting at the breakfast-table, a servant brought in a 
 telegram directed to "Miss Helena Brayton." It ran 
 thus : 
 
 "Union Hotel Hospital, Georgetown, D. C, 
 " November lo, 1862. 
 
 " The dressing-gown has come. I shall enlist under the banner of 
 your Captain. Will you come and help me? 
 
 "Ferdinand Carleton." 
 
 This accounts for the fact that the wedding of the sedate 
 Helena Brayton took place in the dreary hospital at 
 Georgetown. 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 One warm November day, some five-and-twenty years 
 ago, I was sitting in an easy-chair smoking my cigar late at 
 night in one of the cottages at Key West Barracks. Our 
 little command had just returned from our summer camp 
 on Indian Key, an island of the Florida reef not over half a 
 mile in circumference, where we spent seven long months 
 to avoid the yellow fever, which was raging at Key West 
 all summer. How weary we grew of our narrow confines, 
 and how beautiful and wide the world seemed to me that day ! 
 But the excitement of landing and seeing the men safely 
 housed in their barracks was over now, and I sat alone with 
 my thoughts ; the other officers and the ladies of the garri- 
 son had gone to an entertainment given at the hotel in the 
 city by the naval officers of the ships that had just been re- 
 leased from their summer quarantine at Sand Key light. 
 
 It was the anniversary of my birthday, and I was turn- 
 ing over in my hands, thoughtfully and sadly, a letter 
 which I had just received, then tossed it on the table with a 
 sigh. In the succession of hard puffs at my cigar that fol- 
 lowed, the words of the old song in the opera " Der 
 Trompeter von Sakkingen' ' came to me : 
 
 " Das ist das End vom Lied. 
 Das end vom alten Liede, 
 Mir fallt kein neues ein, 
 Als schweigen und vergessen, 
 Und wann vergass ich dein?" 
 
 The house I was in was at the time the quarters of my 
 friend Lieutenant Jack Villiers, who had asked me to share 
 it with him till I had quarters assigned me. The cottages 
 of the garrison are five in number, three on one side of the 
 parade, two on the other, and those on the same side are 
 separated by considerable distances, with large grounds 
 about them, so that they stand quite alone. Each cottage 
 
 215 
 
2l6 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 is entirely surrounded by a wide piazza, and the stairs to 
 the bedrooms run up from the piazza, outside the rooms on 
 the first floor, to a little landing which opens into a narrow 
 hall, on either side of which the bedrooms are situated. 
 The drawing-room has several sliding doors with glass 
 windows (windows and doors are one on the lower floor), 
 and as I took the last pufl" at my cigar I could hear the 
 " Norther" that was coming up shake the doors and make 
 them rattle as if to try them, and I could see the moonlight 
 straying through and playing fitfully on the floor ; the 
 banyan-tree without, as it nestled close up to the eaves to 
 get out of the cold, was sighing deeply, too. 
 
 Suddenly my eyes were held by a large photograph 
 hanging before me on the wall, only dimly visible in the 
 pale lamplight. It was one of those faces that fix the 
 attention at once and are never forgotten, — a dark com- 
 plexion, nearly black hair, large, poetic eyes, with a soft 
 look that is enhanced in effect by long lashes, a delicately 
 chiselled outline, and a straight nose, but a mouth wherein 
 the lines are weak and wavering. The eyes are the fasci- 
 nating element, yet even in them there lurks an effect not 
 quite agreeable, a something that attracts and yet repels, — 
 one cannot help looking, and yet one longs for the freer 
 air, — like the poor bird under the gaze of the serpent. 
 
 A gust of wind outside disturbed my thoughts, and I 
 rose and tried to shake off" a feeling of gloom and sad- 
 ness, but the dark eyes followed me about the room. I 
 felt uncomfortable and touched the bell. Gus, our mulatto 
 boy from the Bahamas, answered, and I asked him various 
 questions about the pictures in the room, but avoided the 
 photograph, hoping he would speak of that of his own accord, 
 but his eyes never rested on it. Once, when I questioned him 
 about a Venetian water-color hanging next to it, I thought 
 I detected a little tremor in his voice and a frightened look 
 on his face, but only for an instant. He talked freely about 
 the other pictures, little incidents connected with them, 
 some of his own experience (for he had been with ViUiers 
 a long time), some that Villiers himself had related, but he 
 passed over the photograph as if it were not hanging there 
 at all. I dismissed him to his home, a little shanty outside 
 the reservation, where he lived with his aged mother, and 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 217 
 
 I was once more alone with the weird eyes of the photo- 
 graph. 
 
 I felt more and more uncomfortable, and, as it was grow- 
 ing late, I started for my bedroom, the dark eyes following 
 my every movement as I went out through the door, cold 
 shivers running through me as I mounted the stairs leading 
 up from the piazza, startled occasionally by a moan and a 
 sigh from the banyan-tree. I lay awake for some time, that 
 face visible wherever the shadows fell, but, finally worn out, 
 I was about to sink into sleep when a clock began to strike 
 the midnight hour. 
 
 Hark ! what is that ? At the last stroke of the clock I 
 heard something like footsteps on the piazza, then shoes 
 creaking as if about to mount the stairs. I counted the 
 steps ; slowly and deliberately some one was coming np, 
 pit, pat, pit, pat, — thirteen ! The shoes creaked on the 
 landing, and I half rose in bed and peered into the moon- 
 light to see who had come at that late hour (for Villiers 
 said he was going to stay all night with one of the naval 
 officers, so it could not be he). Nobody appeared. 
 
 I rose, slipped on a loose robe and a pair of slippers, and 
 went out on the landing ; the banyan-tree was still sighing 
 and moaning, the moon yet bathed the landscape in a flood 
 of pale, yellow light, the wind was trying the glass doors 
 more and more impatiently, and the air had grown very 
 chill. I crept down and walked round the entire piazza, 
 but there was nothing living visible. I entered the dining- 
 room, and there in the moonlight, that touched them with 
 an unearthly light, there, gazing at me still, were the 
 strange eyes as I had left them, but the lips seemed to 
 smile, grim and ghastly. I touched the gilt frame that 
 surrounded it, to make sure it was all a reality ; then trem- 
 blingly sought my couch once more (counting the steps as 
 I mounted them, hoping there were more or less, yet know- 
 ing in my inmost soul that there were just thirteen, though 
 I had never counted them before) to sleep a broken sleep. 
 
 The wind was blowing hard when I rose, and felt very 
 cold to one accustomed for some time to continual Indian- 
 summer weather ; but in the sun, or in a place protected 
 from the wind, it was still warm, so I dressed as usual in 
 white summer clothing and a straw hat, but put on my 
 K 19 
 
2l8 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 overcoat as a protection against the cold north wind, and 
 then walked down the road to the little cottage where Mrs. 
 Mitchell, the wife of a sergeant who had died of yellow 
 fever a few years previous, kept our small mess of three. 
 There I found the doctor and Villiers already at breakfast, 
 and the former, after greeting me, remarked that I looked 
 pale. I merely smiled, but Villiers, taking a better look 
 at me, cried out, — 
 
 ' ' By Jove, old fellow, you must have been celebrating 
 all by yourself last night ; did you have a birthday, or" 
 (more gently and in a low tone) ' ' did she fall to lead the 
 card you wanted, merely making what Mac used to call, 
 when he led the lowest card of his weakest suit, a tentative 
 playf 
 
 "Both, Jack, both ; but my paleness is not due to either 
 of these causes," I replied, laughing, and perhaps blushing a 
 little, too, for Jack knew all my secrets. " I had a strange 
 experience last night," I added, more seriously, for the 
 feeling which the face in the photograph and the footsteps 
 on the stairs had inspired was not yet quite gone. 
 
 The doctor whistled and said, "Go on," as if he half 
 knew what was coming. So I related my experiences in 
 full. Jack became pale and thoughtful as I proceeded, with 
 a pained expression on his face, which was occasionally re- 
 lieved by a bright and happy smile playing at the corners 
 of his mouth, followed always by a deep-drawn sigh, while 
 the doctor gravely observed me as if he were studying a 
 patient. 
 
 When I concluded, the doctor began, banteringly, — 
 
 "How many of Jack's so-called Havanas did you 
 smoke ?' ' 
 
 But Jack interrupted him : ' ' Doctor, I am afraid this is 
 a little beyond the realm of medicine ; the photograph has 
 its history, and, as to the strange sounds, they are sup- 
 posed to be the ghost of dear old Floyd, whom Mrs. 
 Mitchell, by her excellent nursing, pulled through the 
 yellow fever one summer. Ah, Mrs. Mitchell, perhaps it 
 had been better had you been a poorer nurse !" To which 
 she nodded assent and turned away with tears in her eyes. 
 ' ' But now, let Will go up to the post, doctor, in your am- 
 bulance, which is standing at the door, and mount his 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 219 
 
 guard (if it is not too late already), and after office-hours 
 meet us at my quarters and I will tell you the story of the 
 photograph." 
 
 I hurried off, but found the guard already mounted when 
 I arrived ; and so, chagrined and angry with myself, I re- 
 ported to the commanding officer that I had missed my 
 duty, but he assumed that there was some special reason 
 for my neglect and smiled away my own displeasure. 
 When I reached the house, after the morning's work was 
 over, Villiers and the doctor were already comfortably set- 
 tled in their chairs in the library, before the photograph. 
 I glanced at it with an uncomfortable feeling of dread, and 
 sat down with them. Villiers then proceeded with his tale : 
 
 " Before I went to the Point I attended the High School 
 in Saint Louis, and among my companions was a young 
 man, named Pierre Rossignol, a very pleasant playmate, 
 always ready for any amusement, generous in a way, free 
 with his money when he had any, and altogether a good 
 fellow and a favorite with all. He was extremely hand- 
 some, dark, straight as an arrow, tall and well-propor- 
 tioned, with fine-cut features and soft eyes with long eye- 
 lashes (giving him a gentle and sympathetic expression), 
 and a great beau among the fair sex. Some days he would 
 have his pockets full of small change, at other times he 
 seemed really hungry as he munched the buns given him 
 at luncheon : I remember it struck me as strange at the 
 time. 
 
 ' ' But, for all his good qualities and his popularity, it was 
 evident to the most casual observer that he usually had 
 what he wanted, that some one was continually doing some- 
 thing or other for him, and that he was petted and spoiled ; 
 he received these attentions as if they were his due ; in- 
 deed, there was always, about everything he did, an element 
 of selfishness. But, as he was good-natured and apparently 
 anxious to please, most of the boys in their generosity for- 
 gave him, if, indeed, they ever observed this characteristic 
 of his at all. 
 
 "He was very visionary in his ideas about his future, 
 and spoke as if he expected some day to have a great for- 
 tune ; and this impression among us, regarding his pros- 
 pects, was strengthened by the fact that in speaking one 
 
220 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 day about the dancing-school he attended, he let fall some 
 remarks which indicated that he was already quite familiar 
 with the gaming-table (he evidently spent his evenings 
 after dancing-school there), which to us seemed a great 
 thing at that time and only possible for very rich people. 
 
 ' ' Altogether he was an interesting character. The first 
 impression he produced was always good, yet he never 
 seemed to care to take advantage of his powers of fascina- 
 tion, but rather gave an impression of indifference. After 
 I left home I often wondered how the world would go with 
 him, until one day, about two years ago, what was my 
 astonishment, when, while I was sitting here in my chair 
 thinking about him, he suddenly appeared in the door- way 
 there ! 
 
 ' ' We greeted each other cordially, and then I noticed a 
 female figure behind him, and he turned and introduced his 
 wife ; he added that he was on his wedding-tour, and was 
 going over to Havana, and then to New York. The 
 steamer, he said, would lie at the wharf in Key West till 
 early in the morning. 
 
 ' ' Floyd was here with me and took the greatest fancy to 
 my former school-mate and at once engaged him in con- 
 versation, while I chatted with Mrs. Rossignol. She was 
 a charming character, very young, almost a child, with 
 light golden hair and clear blue eyes, — so clear that it was 
 a pleasure to look into them, — with a frank and confiding 
 way about her that won my poor heart at once." 
 
 " 'Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, 
 Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song. 
 Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, 
 
 Mute little words of misery and wrong ; 
 Only a child of Nature's rarest making, 
 Wistful and sweet, — and with a heart for breaking !' " 
 
 quoted the doctor. " Does that paint the picture ?" 
 
 " Yes, that applies very well," continued ViUiers ; " but 
 she seemed to have withal a sort of dread of her husband 
 that was noticeable whenever he addressed her, or when- 
 ever I asked any questions relating to him, which naturally 
 roused my sympathy. However, she seemed to be fond of 
 him too, and he was very kind to her. 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 221 
 
 "Towards evening we sauntered down the beach, Floyd 
 and Rossignol going on ahead, Floyd telling me in a low 
 tone as he passed that I would find them at Captain Jack's ; 
 I walked with Mrs. Rossignol, and I shall never forget that 
 walk. It was a beautiful day, and the pure white coral 
 sand was packed hard and firm where the tide had gone 
 out, the setting sun throwing a rosy veil over sky and 
 water and beach. We sauntered along slowly, picking up 
 a bright-colored shell now and then, or watching a hermit 
 crab secrete himself in his stolen home, or a fiddler crab 
 dancing his sidewise jig. I took her to the edge of the 
 water and showed her, just covered by the water at low 
 tide, a sea anemone clinging to the rock, with all its beauti- 
 ful, delicately-colored tendrils displayed. She took the 
 greatest delight in all these little things, and to me they 
 acquired an interest such as they had never possessed be- 
 fore, and which they have preserved ever since. 
 
 " Finally, we stood on the wharf at the steamer-landing, 
 and she looked up with a start. Then she held out her 
 hand very simply and naturally. 'Thank you,' she said; 
 ' it seems hard to believe that you are all real here, and 
 that this is not a fairy island in this beautiful pale-green sea. 
 I have been so happy !' Doctor, you may smile, but I 
 confess, when the coldness, the selfishness, the uncharitable 
 spirit of this world has at times embittered my heart, I 
 have remembered her and felt that it is still beautiful and 
 good. 
 
 " I did not go to Captain Jack's : I was not in the mood. 
 I went slowly back as we had come. When I retired for 
 the night, Floyd had not yet come home. I lay awake 
 thinking over the strange events of the day, and did not 
 fall asleep till towards morning. I was awakened by a 
 sharp report near by, and jumped up and hurried across to 
 Floyd's room (the one overhead, where you slept last 
 night. Will), and found Floyd on the floor in the corner, a 
 smoking revolver in his hand. He did not speak again. 
 Next day I learned that he had lost heavily to Rossignol ; 
 and In the evening came this photograph of my former 
 school-mate. The tale is told. 
 
 ' ' Yesterday was the anniversary of that eventful day, 
 and a year ago I experienced just such a night as you did 
 
 19* 
 
222 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 last night ; that is the reason I remained down-town yester. 
 day. I did not suppose that it would affect you. ' ' 
 
 Nearly two years had passed since those November days 
 at Key West, and I was enjoying a tramp in the Black 
 Forest during my summer leave of absence. I had left 
 Villiers at Baden-Baden because he preferred to be in the 
 crowd at the Conversations Haus. One day, as I returned, 
 tired and dusty, from a two-days' walk over the Kniebis, 
 the Triberg, and the Kandel, to Freiberg, which I used as 
 a centre from which to radiate on my various excursions, I 
 concluded, instead of going to my rooms, to get a mug of 
 beer and some supper in the little garden of the Alte 
 Burse, a restaurant much frequented by the German offi- 
 cers, partly because the beer was good, and partly because 
 it was served by a very pretty bar-maid, — die Hebe Marie, 
 as we called her when she was good enough to come to 
 our table and chat with us a while. 
 
 I sat down at a table in the far corner of the garden with 
 a young artillery officer and a student of the university, 
 both of whom I had known for some time. We talked 
 gayly for a while, but when my supper came the others 
 bade me good-night. The garden had filled up gradually 
 since my arrival, and almost every seat was taken except 
 those at my table. I had just finished eating, when a man 
 dressed in rather a shabby suit of clothes sat down at my 
 table and called for a glass of beer in German that had a 
 decided English accent. I did not notice him much at 
 first, but after a time it struck me that there was something 
 familiar about his face, and I could not help glancing at him 
 occasionally. What was it that made me feel so uncom- 
 fortable as I looked at him ? My interest grew deeper, 
 and finally, as his eyes met mine, I could scarcely suppress 
 an exclamation, for surely I had seen those eyes before, 
 and under circumstances not altogether pleasant, — soft, 
 dark eyes they were, and I became nervous under their 
 gaze. But I could not recall the man. 
 
 Marie came up and asked me how I enjoyed my supper, 
 and after a few pleasant words and a " dynamic glance" or 
 two, such as only a bar-maid who has been to Kissengen 
 and Carlsbad can give, and which is even then vouchsafed 
 only to those who give Trink-geld in American fashion, 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 223 
 
 she started away to refill my beer-mug. It may have 
 been my imperfect German, or my English clothes, or my 
 apparent good nature, or perhaps the combination of all 
 these, that induced my neighbor to open the conversation ; 
 at any rate, he did so, remarking in English : 
 
 " This out-door life of the Germans and the simplicity of 
 their enjoyments have a great attraction for me. Do you 
 not find it an agreeable change from our hurried existence 
 at home ?' ' 
 
 " Yes," I replied ; "it must be particularly so to a busi- 
 ness man, or any one confined all day to his office. I met 
 such a one the other day who was so delighted to be over 
 here out of the reach of telegrams !" 
 
 "I find it so," he said; "my brewery keeps me very 
 much occupied, because it has grown enormously of 
 late. ' ' 
 
 Under the long, dark lashes I could see that his eyes 
 wandered a little as he made this remark, and did not look 
 at me. We conversed for some time, and he grew more 
 and more enthusiastic about the brewery. Suddenly he 
 asked me : 
 
 " What is your business? Or are you merely travelling 
 for pleasure ?' ' 
 
 " I am in the army, and am taking a little vacation." 
 
 " Ah ! Have you ever met my friend, — my school-mate, 
 — Lieutenant Villiers?" 
 
 My heart stopped beating for a moment. I could hear 
 the banyan-tree moaning and the north wind shaking the 
 glass doors. It was he of the photograph, and its strange, 
 fascinating eyes were gazing into mine in real life ! 
 
 It was soms time before I could collect my thoughts. 
 My neighbor grew more confidential when I told him that 
 Villiers was an intimate friend of mine, and finally confided 
 to me that he was there to purchase the secret for making the 
 very beer we were drinking. The arrangements, he told 
 me, were almost completed, but he found himself short of 
 money, and could not at once pay certain little fees and 
 incidental expenses connected therewith, and yet he did not 
 like to leave without completing the purchase. He added 
 that if I could let him have fifty marks temporarily he would 
 settle the matter that evening. I gave him the money, and 
 
224 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 he took down my address. After a little general conversa- 
 tion he departed. 
 
 Next day I went back to Baden-Baden and found Villiers 
 at the Victoria. I did not tell him of the meeting at Frei- 
 burg. In the afternoon we took a stroll out through the 
 Lichtenthaler Alice, and returned past the Conversations 
 Haus on our way towards the Promenaden Platz, when, as 
 we passed theTrink Halle, opposite the Hotel de 1* Europe, 
 I saw on the corner balcony of the first etage of the hotel 
 what looked like the figure of Rossignol, dressed just as 
 he was when I met him. Villiers was in a brown study, 
 staring straight ahead, so he observed nothing ; and as I 
 had thrown aside my tramping-costume and had donned 
 my morning suit, there was no danger of my being recog- 
 nized, so I looked hard at the balcony and the figure there. 
 Yes, it was certainly he. While I was wondering if he 
 could be there all alone, a female figure appeared behind 
 him, a baby in her arms, and my question was answered. 
 We walked on, Villiers and I, and I could not help think- 
 ing how strange it was that she, whom Villiers was proba- 
 bly at that moment thinking of, but supposed far away over 
 the sea, whom he had known but a short afternoon on a 
 certain coral-beach in a far-off land, she of the light golden 
 hair and deep blue eyes, — 
 
 "Whose voice, attuned above 
 All modulation of the deep-bowered dove, 
 Is like a hand laid softly on the soul," 
 
 should stand there on the balcony, with her one-year-old 
 baby, thinking, perhaps, of that same coral-beach ! 
 
 We walked home almost in silence. In the evening I 
 called on Mrs. Rossignol, sending word with my card that 
 I was a friend of Lieutenant Villiers. She received me at 
 once, and, after informing me that her husband had gone 
 out for the evening, inquired how my friend was, and what 
 was he doing, and was he happy ? She spoke of her visit 
 to Key West with girlish glee ; it was evidently a pleasant 
 memory, that was all. But was it all? Why, then, that 
 Httle sigh, and why are the beautiful blue eyes dim for a 
 moment ; but, above all, why that sad look in the eyes of 
 one so young ? I learned (what I particularly wanted to 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 225 
 
 know) that they had only recently come (from Homburg 
 von der Hohe, I think it was), and were going to remain 
 for some time. I determined to take Villiers to Paris in 
 the morning, and, after a brief stay there, to start with him 
 for home. 
 
 On my way to my rooms I concluded that I would first 
 look into the gaming-rooms, and so turned my steps in 
 that direction. As I sauntered through the long rooms, 
 glancing along the line of faces intent upon the turn of a 
 card, or the whirl of a wheel, I recognized, at one of the 
 tables, a dark face, watching eagerly the little pile of gold 
 pieces in front of him, and, as he raked in his winnings 
 with his thin fingers convulsively, I saw him pass half of 
 them to his neighbor, a lady, deeply veiled. 
 
 I passed out into the street again. A light was still 
 burning in the corner room of the Hotel de 1' Europe, and 
 my heart went out to her who sat there waiting, to her 
 whose thoughts are centred in the little cradle there in the 
 corner, — 
 
 "Whose endless hopes revolve about 
 A planet, cztat one." 
 
 On a cold and rainy day I arrived from Lucerne over the 
 Briinig at Interlaken ; my heaviest overcoat could not keep 
 me warm ; I walked restlessly up and down the Hoehen- 
 weg in front of the hotel ; my own rooms were cold, the 
 smoking-room was cold, the reading-room was dreary, 
 everybody looked depressed. I paid my bill, intending 
 to go to Berne on the evening train, — anywhere where it 
 was warmer, — when the clerk said, — 
 
 * ' Stay another day ; there was a fresh fall of snow on the 
 mountains to-day, and it will be clear to-morrow," 
 
 "Very well," I said ; "I'll keep my rooms." 
 
 Next morning when I awoke the sunlight was streaming 
 through the window ; I dressed hurriedly and walked out 
 on the piazza. There, between two dark precipices of the 
 nearer mountains, stood the Jungfrau, a pure mass of 
 the purest, whitest snow, glistening in the sun. Can 
 anything be more lovely and beautiful ! 
 
 I heard an exclamation of glad surprise behind me, and, 
 turning, found myself face to face with Mrs. Rossignol, 
 / 
 
226 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 She was evidently pleased to see me, and I confess it was 
 a great pleasure to me to look into her serene blue eyes 
 again, to see that gentle face so bright in its loveliness, to 
 hear her low sweet voice as she inquired about my own 
 doings first, and then about Villiers. They had never met 
 since that November afternoon on the beach at Key West, 
 yet she seemed to remember him as if it had been but 
 yesterday. I was very glad he had decided to remain in 
 Baden-Baden. 
 
 We had a long talk, we two, in the sunlight, there before 
 Nature's great masterpiece of scenery, and she talked 
 freely about herself and her boy, but she did not once men- 
 tion her husband's name. Finally, I asked her how long 
 she was going to stay in Switzerland. 
 
 "Oh, why, I am going to Paris to-morrow, and then to 
 Havre," and a little shadow passed over her face, " to meet 
 my husband, who is coming back on the French steamer 
 with my little boy, ' ' and then the shadow passed away ; 
 "he has been on a short visit to his grandmother." 
 
 Pretty and young as she was, there was a something in 
 the expression of her face that spoke of deep, deep 
 thoughts ; ah, yes, life was not all she had pictured it in 
 her girlhood days. But how brave she was ! Not one 
 word of complaint or regret ; always bright and cheerful. 
 Even as I stood there, thinking of all this, she turned with 
 a cry of delight, caught up a rosy-cheeked boy and tossed 
 him up and caught him again, then ran away for him to 
 catch her : 
 
 " I know the children run, 
 Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, 
 Save that she brings the summer and the sun." 
 
 That night, as I lay in bed thinking of Rossignol, it 
 suddenly occurred to me that I could not let Mrs. Ros- 
 signol travel alone with her maid all the way to Havre, and 
 that I might as well go on the same train and look after her 
 welfare a little without appearing to do so, especially as I 
 knew full well that this trifling act of kindness would greatly 
 please Villiers if he ever heard of it. 
 
 She did not seem surprised to find me on the boat, and 
 we had a charming morning for our journey over the lake 
 of Thun, and then the train hurried us along on our way to 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 227 
 
 Paris. There I learned that the French steamer was not 
 due for another day, so I persuaded Mrs. Rossignol to stop 
 over for a few hours at Rouen, where I could show her all 
 the places of interest, as I had once spent three weeks 
 there, in my rambles, with a young architect from Phila- 
 delphia ; and then she could go on with her maid, while I 
 would look up my old friends and make my way leisurely 
 to Baden-Baden. 
 
 On our arrival at Rouen we started at once for St. Ouen, 
 but in the square around the cathedral we came upon a 
 crowd of people, through which it was difficult to find our 
 way. Our main object at first was to get by as soon as 
 possible, but presently we heard some one near by whisper 
 breathlessly to his neighbor something about a wreck. We 
 both looked up, and just before us was a sailor telling a 
 thrilling tale to an excited little group of listeners about 
 him. We instinctively stopped to listen. 
 
 "There had been a dense fog for twenty-four hours," he 
 continued, ' ' and we knew we were near the entrance to the 
 channel, somewhere in the vicinity of the Scilly Islands, 
 when suddenly, just about daybreak, there was a terrific 
 crash, and a rumbling like that of thunder, and we sailors 
 knew that she was on the rocks. The life-boats were manned 
 at once, but the passengers were wild with excitement, and 
 men and women jumped into the water, or rushed wailing 
 and crying up and down the decks, or crowded into the 
 boats, all in the greatest confusion. Soon the sea was alive 
 with human beings struggling to keep afloat by swimming 
 or by clinging to pieces of timber floating about." 
 
 ' ' What became of Pourquie, ' ' some one asked ; " is he 
 saved ?' ' 
 
 "Ah, poor Pourquie," said the sailor, "we have made 
 many voyages together, but that was the last ; yet Rouen 
 should be proud of her townsman Pourquie, for he was a 
 noble fellow. There was among the passengers a little boy 
 with blue eyes and dark hair ; his father spent much of his 
 time in the smoking-room, so the little fellow was always on 
 deck, and he was such a beautiful child, so frank and 
 manly, with such winning ways and entirely without fear, 
 that the sailors all loved him, and on fair days, when the 
 captain would let them, they would carry him up into the 
 
228 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 rigging, and we all became deeply attached to the little 
 fellow. When the ship went down and our little boat had 
 all it could hold, and we were about to make for the land, 
 we saw Pourquie in the water, clinging to a spar with one 
 arm and holding up the little boy with the other, and I 
 heard him call to me to take him, but he sank before we 
 could reach him, and little Pierre with him !" 
 
 "Pierre!" I hear a wild cry at my side, and Mrs. 
 Rossignol lay in a swoon. 
 
 We are again at Baden-Baden, Villiers and I, enjoying 
 the beautiful days and the crowds of people and the music. 
 I told him the story of the wreck, and how we had heard 
 it ; but I did not tell him that I had brought Mrs. Ros- 
 signol to Baden-Baden, and installed her in her old rooms 
 in the Hotel de 1' Europe, opposite the Trink Halle. Only 
 a few passengers on the French steamer had been saved 
 out of the wreck, and they had disappeared to their several 
 homes ; and although Rossignol and little Pierre were 
 reported among the lost, Mrs. Rossignol believed her 
 husband still alive. 
 
 It was a long time before she recovered from the shock 
 of that day in Rouen, and during that long period I was 
 almost her only visitor. She kept her rooms, and lived 
 very quietly, but after a time she began to long for the free 
 air again, and then we used to walk up to the old castle of 
 an afternoon, at first only occasionally, but soon quite regu- 
 larly, almost daily, until Villiers (who preferred walking on 
 a level to any climbing) began to wonder how any one 
 could become so fond of that old castle. 
 
 ' ' Why do you climb that hill almost every afternoon, 
 Will ? Ah, I see ! there is some Lorelei on the rocks up 
 there." 
 
 "Come up and see her. Jack, for she is very beautiful. 
 You drive up to the castle to-morrow, about three, and 
 wait for me there, and if your little boat isn't a wreck on 
 the rocks before the day is over, while you are absorbed in 
 watching the Lorelei 'combing her golden hair,' why, I'll 
 give you a dinner at the Cafe Madrid, out in the Bois, 
 when we go to Paris." 
 
 So it was arranged, and so they met. Villiers did not 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 229 
 
 know that he really loved this little woman with the light- 
 golden hair until they met again : it seemed before as if he 
 might have loved her had he met her long before that walk 
 on the beach, so that her memory was only a tender regret, 
 but when he saw her face to face he knew. And she? Ah, 
 well ! she was still waiting for Rossignol to come back. 
 But the days passed by, and no news of Rossignol came. 
 Villiers was very gentle and delicate in his quiet devotion. 
 At first he met us just a little way below the castle and 
 walked up with us ; then he would meet us half-way up ; 
 and finally, just outside the hotel (he would never go alone 
 to take her for a walk). Both believed for a time that their 
 interest in one another was the purest friendship, — nothing 
 more. But Villiers was the first to be undeceived (by my 
 assistance, of course). How fond he had suddenly grown 
 of climbing hills ! So the days, and weeks, and months 
 passed by. 
 
 But now I could see that Mrs. Rossignol was making 
 herself very unhappy, and then I had a long talk with Jack 
 one day, and convinced him that he had to go away, for 
 the simple reason that, as Mrs. Rossignol believed her hus- 
 band to be still alive, there was nothing else for him to do ; 
 and so I brought him home. It was very hard, after all 
 the bold strategy with which I had opened the campaign, 
 and the fine tactics which Villiers had displayed on the field 
 of battle, to be thus forced to beat a hasty and ignominious 
 retreat. 
 
 The following year, one quiet, peaceful, sunshiny Octo- 
 ber day. Jack and I were sitting in front of our quarters at 
 Fort Point (near San Francisco), the little house down by 
 the water's edge, there where the waves, turned obliquely 
 by the wall of the fort as the tide rolls in through the 
 Golden Gate, curl high into the air. 
 
 " You say she is visiting at the general's in the Presidio ?" 
 
 "Yes; the general's wife used to know her at home 
 before she was married. ' ' 
 
 "Jack, do me a favor and call there this afternoon at 
 three o'clock. I will drop in later and walk home with you. 
 I want you to do this for a particular reason." 
 
 ' ' What is the use. Will ?' ' said Jack, wearily ; * ' but all 
 right, I'll go." 
 
 20 
 
230 A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 
 
 At about a quarter after three I was ushered into the 
 general's drawing-room, and found Mrs. Rossignol and 
 Jack talking in a painfully formal way. They were quite 
 alone in the room. After a few general remarks I drew my 
 chair between them and said, — 
 
 " I have had a strange experience." 
 
 "What was it, a ghost?" said she. 
 
 " No, but something more wonderful. You know when 
 I came to join the regiment out here I had authority to 
 come by way of the isthmus. Well, one day when the sea 
 was rather rough, the captain of the ship and I began talk- 
 ing about experiences in storms and shipwrecks, and he 
 presently remarked, ' I had one once that I never want re- 
 peated ! It was on the Scilly Islands, when I was second 
 officer on one of the French steamers : you may remember 
 reading about it.' He gave a vivid description of it all, 
 and then I asked him if he remembered a man named 
 Rossignol among the passengers. 
 
 "'Yes, very well,' he said; 'he was in the card-room 
 all day long and most of the night, and the betting, as you 
 know, often runs very high, but he was very bold at any 
 game and seemed to care for nothing else ; but when the 
 crash came he was one of the first to rush for the boats. 
 The boat he was in was crushed in the excitement, and as 
 my boat was passing along, picking up the men and women 
 in the water as fast as we could, I saw him ahead, clinging 
 to a spar, a sailor at the other end of it. Near by another 
 sailor was holding up his little boy, Pierre, and crying for 
 help. Rossignol did not stir, but the sailor at the other 
 end of the spar jumped and caught the boy as he sank, 
 then swam for the spar again, but Rossignol was no longer 
 on it ; his hold had slipped and he went down, and did not 
 rise again. Before we could reach the boy, his brave pro- 
 tector sank away exhausted, caUing to one of the men in 
 my boat with his latest breath not to mind him but to take 
 the boy, but we were too late.' " 
 
 There were some moments of silence, and then the 
 widow rose and gave both her hands to Jack without a 
 word, tears filling her eyes, and — I retired. The campaign 
 was ended, the enemy had run up the white flag, but was 
 it not a pitiful S7irrender ? 
 
A PITIFUL SURRENDER. 23I 
 
 Years have flown by since then, and even as I sit here, 
 in my old bachelor rooms, Jack and his wife go by the 
 window smiling into each other's faces ; and there she turns 
 to send a little smile in my direction, for she knows I am 
 sitting here, and I inwardly bless the sunny hair and the 
 beautiful blue eyes. 
 
 "Oh, what tears have they shed, gentle eyes ! Oh, what faith has it 
 kept, tender heart ! If love lives through life, and survives through 
 all sorrow, and remains steadfast with us through all changes, and in 
 all darkness of spirit burns brightly, and exists with the very last gasp 
 and throb of the faithful bosom, whence it passes with the pure soul, 
 beyond death, surely it shall be immortal !" 
 
THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 
 
 The Seminole Indians in the southern part of Florida 
 were on the war-path. Troops were ordered to concentrate 
 at Tampa, where an expedition was being organized to take 
 the field against them. Recruits were wanted to fill up 
 Uncle Sam's depleted ranks. Here was an opportunity to 
 win rank, honor, and fame. I went to a recruiting-officer 
 and offered myself as a candidate for admission into Uncle 
 Sam's service. Although a minor, I managed to overcome 
 the scruples of the officer through the assistance of his 
 sergeant, who had previously posted me in regard to age. 
 I was then sent to Governor's Island, and donned the 
 "army blue." After a short course of squad drill I joined 
 a detachment of recruits under orders for Florida. We 
 embarked on a sailing-vessel for Tampa, and after encoun- 
 tering heavy storms off Cape Hatteras and in the Gulf of 
 Mexico, we arrived at Tampa. A day's rest was given us, 
 then the march was taken up for the interior, to the camp 
 of the company we had been assigned to, and arrived on 
 New- Year's day, 1850, I feeling tired, weary, and foot-sore. 
 
 The next morning we were marched to the tent of the 
 captain, who was pacing back and forth in front of it with 
 one hand behind his back, holding a descriptive list. He 
 was waiting to have a look at his new recruits. 
 
 The calling of the names and inspection over, he made a 
 few brief remarks, to the following effect : ' ' Those who 
 merit good treatment shall have it ; and those that do not 
 merit it will surely catch the devil," and with this gentle 
 reminder we were dismissed. 
 
 Although a recruit, I was naturally curious about the 
 officer to whose fostering care Uncle Sam had transferred 
 me. During the inspection he impressed me as being 
 somewhat of a martinet. 
 
 He was about fifty years of age and over six feet high. 
 His face was covered with a stubby beard and moustache, — 
 not much of the face to be seen except the nose and sharp 
 232 
 
THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 233 
 
 blue eyes looking sternly from under heavy eyebrows. He 
 wore a faded and well-worn uniform, coat buttoned up to 
 the chin, and underneath a high stock. The shoulder- 
 straps were in keeping with the coat, on which were faded 
 gold leaves (brevet major) that he had won in Mexico. His 
 long legs were encased in tight-fitting, coarse, blue pants, 
 that were so short as to expose the gray stockings under a 
 pair of number twelve army shoes the color of the sandy 
 soil he stood on. 
 
 The * ' devil' ' was the most emphatic word I had ever 
 heard him utter, and with all his apparent sternness, I found 
 him to be a kind, just officer. 
 
 He was a Georgian by birth, a graduate at West Point, 
 and in after-years held high rank in the Confederate army. 
 And, in after-years, one of those recruits became captain of 
 the same company (C, Seventh Infantry). Yes, rank, and 
 the honor it carries with it, was won. 
 
 The first lieutenant of the company was on special duty 
 as regimental adjutant. Staff duties of regiments were 
 then performed by lieutenants detailed from companies, 
 and with this exception and that of recruiting service, all 
 officers were with their companies. The last-named duty 
 was reserved for first lieutenants only. 
 
 The second lieutenant (Henry) was an old-time discipli- 
 narian. I often thought the captain had him on his mind 
 when he was cautioning some delinquent to "beware or 
 he would surely catch the devil." Lieutenant Henry was 
 once a recruit, having been promoted from the ranks for 
 conspicuous bravery in the Mexican War. The regiment 
 was at Point Isabel (now Fort Brown) when it was bombarded 
 by Mexican troops. The stars and stripes were flying de- 
 fiantly on the flag-staffi A shot from the guns of the enemy 
 cut the halyards, and the flag fell to the ground, — an ill 
 omen for the brave commander. Major Brown, who fell 
 soon after mortally wounded. Henry, who was then a ser- 
 geant, sprang forward and picked up one end of the hal- 
 yards, climbed the staff" in the midst of a storm of shot and 
 shell, rove them, and hoisted the flag after descending. 
 
 Four or five years after, Henry got into some trouble 
 and resigned, went to Nicaragua with Walker, the filibuster, 
 and returned to New Orleans with a wooden leg. 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 
 
 The camp was situated on an elevated pinery on the bank 
 of a creek. The command consisted of a battalion of two 
 companies under the senior officer, — the captain of my com- 
 pany. The officers' tents were wall, of the same pattern as 
 are now in use, and the company tents common A, pitched 
 or raised on log frames about three feet high, with plenty 
 of space between them for ventilation. 
 
 A smooth-bore musket with twenty rounds of buck and 
 ball cartridges and equipments was issued to each of us. 
 We were then turned over to the tender mercies of Sergeant 
 Maloney, who put us through a course of drill in accordance 
 with the prescribed tactics of " Scott." The sergeant was 
 a stern old veteran, tall, gaunt, and as straight as a ramrod. 
 He had a peculiar way of fixing the attention of the squad 
 by giving a wrong or catching command occasionally ; 
 whether intentionally or not, it was all the same to us, caus- 
 ing a slight misunderstanding that brought forth from the 
 sergeant a few forcible remarks not in the "manual of arms," 
 and a warning " never to obey a wrong command." With 
 all of his peculiarities he was a brave soldier and a model of 
 
 Crecision. He had been awarded a medal of honor for 
 ravery in the Mexican War, and was as proud of the medal 
 as if it had been the star of a brigadier-general. 
 
 Having become proficient in the " manual of arms," and 
 mastering the complicated motions of ' ' loading in nine 
 times," I was assigned to a place in the rear rank of the 
 company, and told to ' ' keep it until the next batch of re- 
 cruits joined, or otherwise ordered." I did not grumble, — 
 to grumble would be infringing on the rights of veterans. 
 I was soon made to understand that recruits were only to 
 be seen, to obey, and but seldom heard, and, if I mistake 
 not, a little of the same feeling existed among officers, all 
 in the interest of discipline. 
 
 Although it was mid-winter, the days were pleasantly 
 warm, but after sunset it became quite chilly. When re- 
 treat was over we congregated in groups around camp-fires 
 in rear of the tents. Quite a number of the older soldiers 
 had served in former campaigns against the Seminoles, and 
 I believe nearly all had served in the Mexican war. One 
 evening I went from group to group to hear and see what 
 was going on, and finally came to one sitting around a 
 
THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 235 
 
 bright pine-knot fire smoking their pipes and fighting their 
 battles over again ; fi-om the battle of Palo Alto, under 
 General Taylor, and from Vera Cruz, under General Scott, 
 to the capitulation of the City of Mexico. One veteran 
 told of the capture of the wife of an army officer by the 
 Seminoles. As told : ' ' She had been visiting her husband, 
 and was returning to Tampa under the protection of a small 
 military escort. The Seminoles fired on the escort from 
 an ambush, kiUing all of the soldiers but one, who had been 
 wounded and allowed to live to tell the tale of woe." 
 Montgomery, I think, was the name of the lady men- 
 tioned. 
 
 Stories were also told of sentinels having been found 
 dead on their posts at night, their bodies covered with 
 arrows of the stealthy savages. They were skilled in the 
 art of imitating the hooting of owls and the cat-like cry of 
 panthers. While one or more were imitating the birds or 
 animals, so as to attract the attention of a sentinel, others 
 would be crawling as noiselessly as snakes to their unsus- 
 pecting victim to strike him to the earth with tomahawks, 
 and complete the act silently with arrows. By this time 
 the pine-knots began to flicker and smoulder. The call 
 for tattoo sounded, which ended the stories for that night. 
 I had been an eager and attentive listener, and felt that 
 some of the stories were not of a very encouraging nature 
 to a young and inexperienced recruit. Nevertheless, I 
 learned something of the life and duties of a soldier not 
 found in army regulations nor in tactics. After roll-call I 
 went to my tent and couch, the latter not very inviting, — a 
 soft place in the sandy soil, made softer by adding an arm- 
 ful of palmetto leaves ; a blanket folded in two, one-half 
 under, the other over, with my knapsack for a pillow, on 
 which I slept the sleep of the just, if not contented. 
 
 In the regular army a company of soldiers was generally 
 composed of all classes of men, some well educated and 
 others not so well. Men of many nations, trades, and 
 vocations. It is curious to observe how these elements or 
 different natures harmonize. Discipline is alike for all, but 
 felt more keenly by the vicious and dissipated. Water 
 seeks its level, and in time finds it. The same may be said 
 of men in all stations in life. In the army the congenial 
 
236 THE STORY OF A RECRUIT, 
 
 become comrades and friends through thick and thin, and 
 often during Hfe. 
 
 In the hour of peril many of the ante-war soldiers were 
 qualified to command companies, regiments, and brigades. 
 The close of the war found those who survived it holding 
 rank and commissions in the regular and volunteer service. 
 A glance at any of the old army registers shows it. Although 
 many of them have passed away, we still find quite a num- 
 ber on the retired list, and a few remain in active service, — 
 some of them field-officers, and others stand close to that 
 rank. Not only in the line, but in some of the staff corps 
 we also find officers who were in the ranks previous to the 
 war. Their experience in Indian warfare and strict school 
 of discipline prepared them for any position in the line of 
 the army. This was the only school at that time, except 
 tactical. It was presumed men over twent3'^-one years of 
 age had finished their education before coming into the 
 army in any capacity. 
 
 Meantime, we were ordered to break camp and march 
 to Fort Meade ; and from there to continue the march in 
 a southern direction, following the course of Pease Creek 
 (now Peace River), which empties into Charlotte Harbor. 
 The march from Fort Meade was necessarily slow, having 
 to cut a wagon-road through cypress swamps and ever- 
 changing forests of pine, large water-oaks, palmettos, and 
 magnolia-trees, — all shrouded in masses of drooping Span- 
 ish moss, so dense in places as to obscure the light of the 
 sun. We found limes, and groves of wild orange-trees 
 bearing fruit and blossom ; very tempting to look at, but 
 to the taste no better than an unripe persimmon. A kind 
 called " bitter sweet" was palatable, but hard to distinguish 
 from the sours until tasted. Fragrant jasmines, crepe myr- 
 tles, and many other sweet-smelling plants and flowers were 
 in profusion. 
 
 The songsters of the woods were there in numbers and 
 varieties, the mocking-birds leading in a medley of song, 
 their trilling notes ringing higher and higher in mockery 
 of less-favored singing-birds. 
 
 Deer, turkey, and smaller game were plentiful. So were 
 alligators, panthers, snakes, and scorpions. 
 
 Florida was surely the Seminole's paradise, — their "happy 
 
THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 237 
 
 hunting-ground. ' ' Game in the woods and fish in the lakes, 
 creeks, and bays, — nature providing all necessaries of life 
 without labor. No wonder it cost thousands of lives and 
 millions of dollars before they were obliged to leave and go 
 West to the Indian Territory. 
 
 How well I remember my first tour of guard-duty, and 
 how I felt after being posted as a sentinel at midnight ! It 
 happened to be a post most distant from the guard, cover- 
 ing a flank of the camp. The night was dark and made 
 still darker by the dense foliage of the trees. I was pacing 
 my beat, keeping my eyes and ears open, and at the same 
 time memorizing my orders. Owls commenced hooting 
 near by, and at a distance I heard the cat-like cry of a 
 panther, which was repeated nearer and nearer. I also 
 heard the rustle of leaves on the trees, then on the ground. 
 I stood as motionless as a statue, — my hair stood on end. 
 The old soldier's story crossed my mind. I held my 
 musket tighter and tighter ready to fire. In every flash of 
 the fireflies I imagined that I saw eyes glare and glitter in 
 the dark thicket beyond. I dare not fire ; if it proved to 
 be a false alarm I would surely be court-martialled. While 
 undergoing these trying emotions I heard a sentinel call 
 out the hour, and repeated by others in succession. This 
 brought me to a sense of duty, and I called out, ' ' Number 
 4, one o'clock, and all's well." Thus the voice of man 
 silenced the owls and the panther. 
 
 I had fallen a few degrees in my own estimation, and 
 mentally resolved never to get rattled again under such 
 circumstances. 
 
 Well, it sometimes happens that the best resolutions of 
 men fail, particularly soldiers. Mine did, and I may as 
 well tell it now. About a year after the incident just re- 
 lated I was out on the Western plains. The command 
 that I belonged to had been ordered to settle some trouble 
 with the Arapahoe Indians. I was on a detached guard 
 and a sentinel on post guarding a beef-herd. The night 
 was calm and starry. The herd was resting and " chewing 
 the cud of contentment" after feeding on sweet prairie 
 grass. Everything around me was so still and quiet that I 
 dropped into a musing mood. Suddenly my musings were 
 brought to an abrupt and startling end by a thrilling and 
 
238 THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 
 
 prolonged howl, that was taken up by hundreds of others, 
 such as I had never heard before. I thought, "It must 
 be Indians trying to stampede the herd," as quite a num- 
 ber had been at our camp that afternoon. I was carrying 
 a sabre with which I made a few cuts (not in tactics), and 
 quickly returned it to the scabbard as a useless weapon, 
 and as quickly raised a short musket that had been hang- 
 ing at my right side by a belt over the left shoulder ; with 
 a finger on the trigger I stood in defiant expectation of 
 being stricken down in the dark, or trodden down by the 
 stampeding herd. Minutes passed, and yet there was no 
 commotion in the herd, only a few of the cattle moved 
 from their resting position. The howling died away into 
 short, snappish yelps, similar to dogs in a fight. Finally, 
 it dawned over my bewildered mind that a steer had been 
 killed that evening for issue to the troops. A pack of 
 coyotes had got on the scent of it and were devouring the 
 refuse regardless of my presence ; they fought over it as 
 only hungry coyotes can fight ; they not only devoured the 
 refuse, but they devoured each other. In the fight, the 
 weak and mangled succumbed to the strong and powerful. 
 The next morning I found remnants of their skin and 
 bushy tails on the ground. 
 
 I said that I had a sabre and a short musket. At that 
 time I was a "galvanized dragoon," or, in other words, an 
 infantry soldier mounted on a horse, and armed with a 
 heavy sabre and a short muzzle-loading piece called a ' ' mus- 
 ketoon." In cases of emergency, when dragoons were not 
 convenient, infantry were on special occasions mounted and 
 equipped, as stated, and sent out to do a little dragooning 
 after Indians. I would say more about my experience as a 
 dragoon in the West, but it should be remembered that I 
 have not been relieved off" post yet, and will go back to the 
 " land of flowers." 
 
 Soon after the "owl and panther" incident, I heard 
 steps approaching from the interior of the camp. In re- 
 sponse to my challenge it turned out to be the "relief," — 
 a great relief, too, not only in person, but to my mind after 
 the ordeal I had passed through. 
 
 Many things happen in the life of a soldier to keep him 
 on the alert besides Indians and the bullets of an enemy. 
 
THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 239 
 
 The custom of calling the hours in the field at night has 
 virtually ceased. Of course there are times and places 
 when it would be a military crime to make any noise in a 
 camp, or on the march, even to make a fire or light a 
 match. At some of our Western forts we still hear the 
 cheery calls of sentinels singing out the hour in the cold, 
 clear, midnight air. The " All's well all round" of number 
 one keeps them on the alert ; and in memory carries me 
 back to by-gone days. 
 
 The march, although slow (for reasons given), was main- 
 tained and conducted on the same military principles as 
 exist at the present time for a small column of infantry. It 
 was pretty well known that the Seminoles were in the 
 Everglades, although, Indian-like, they were liable to strike 
 when least expected. Old signs of their trail were found, 
 but no sooner found than lost in the swamps ; all leading in 
 the direction named. Thus the march was continued until 
 we arrived at Charlotte Harbor, where we rested a few days 
 awaiting a steamer from Tampa. During the march there 
 was a good deal of sickness, principally ague. Quinine 
 mixed with whiskey was the usual prescription, which 
 proved to be very effective. Of course, those that did not 
 like the whiskey part could have water instead, but I 
 believe all took their medicine as prescribed. 
 
 Meantime, the steamboat arrived with a detachment of 
 troops on board ; after we embarked, it proceeded down 
 the harbor to St. Joseph's Island (now Pine Island), and 
 increased our forces by taking aboard a portion of the 
 troops that had been stationed there, and then steamed 
 across the harbor and on up the Caloosahatchee River to a 
 designated point, where we anchored in the channel for the 
 night. 
 
 At early dawn the next morning row-boats were manned 
 with detachments and started in line for the left bank of 
 the river. As the boats touched ground we were ordered 
 to jump out and form line ; then deployed as skirmishers, 
 advancing cautiously through a dense thicket of brush and 
 palmettos, expecting at each step to be fired on. After ad- 
 vancing some distance we were halted and reinforced by a 
 second line ; the boats by this time having landed all of 
 the troops. The soldiers not on the picket-line were pre 
 
240 THE STORY OF A RECRUIT. 
 
 vided with axes and such other tools as were necessary to 
 clear oft" ground for a camp and hewing trees for a stockade. 
 At that time it was considered very essential that a soldier 
 should be as expert with an ax as with his musket, and many 
 of them were, but I must confess that I was not of that num- 
 ber. I never could get the hang of an ax, — that is, to strike 
 twice in the same place. Nevertheless, I was made useful 
 in other ways. The life of a soldier was far from being an 
 idle one. He was generally on the move, and lived most 
 of the time under a canvas roof; when not in the field he 
 was building huts or temporary winter-quarters. The 
 army, or a large portion of it, was stationed so far beyond 
 civilization that it became a military necessity that soldiers 
 should do the work referred to. 
 
 The stockade was finished, provisions landed and stored 
 therein, and preparations made for an advance into the 
 Everglades. More troops were on the way, and while 
 awaiting their arrival a Seminole Indian approached the 
 picket-line carrying a pole with a white piece of cloth 
 tied to it. The officer in charge took him to the command- 
 ing officer, and through an interpreter it was ascertained 
 that the Indian had been sent by his chief, Billy Bowlegs, 
 with a message to the eftect that he and his tribe desired 
 peace. 
 
 This was communicated to the general in command 
 (Twiggs) at Tampa, who sent word that he would meet 
 the chief at our camp on a certain day. The general in 
 due time arrived on the steamboat, and about the same 
 time Billy Bowlegs came with a number of sub-chiefs and 
 their squaws. The general invited them to a feast on the 
 boat, where a powwow was held and a treaty agreed to ; 
 wherein the chief promised that the Seminoles would be 
 good Indians for all time to come, and would go to the 
 Western Territory at the stipulated time. 
 
 Uncle Sam then withdrew his warriors, leaving a small 
 force to build what was afterwards known as Fort Myers. 
 
 Thus ended a bloodless campaign that restored peace to 
 the settlers of Southern Florida for a few years longer. 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 Colonel Peppercorn was as ready to talk about his 
 library as a housekeeper about her cooks, but he had 
 learned that most men are oftener indifferent or jealous 
 than sympathetic in the matter of other people's hobbies. 
 
 In fact, the bore has elsewhere been explained to be a 
 man who persists in describing his headache when you want 
 to describe yours. 
 
 The visit of Colonel Longbow, therefore, was rather a 
 pleasant incident, as that of a gentleman far enough ad- 
 vanced in bibliomania to be appreciative, but not so far as 
 to be dangerous. 
 
 This point is reached when the patient falls back upon 
 the crude morality of the Old Testament, which in truth 
 is responsible for more rascality than could be found in a 
 week's walk through Water Street. If a prosperous col- 
 lector has anticipated me in the acquirement of an original 
 copy of Mather's " Magnalia" or Walton's "Lives," I 
 simply deploy against my conscience the Israelites who 
 spoiled the Egyptians, and straightway abstract these rare 
 editions for the use of my own poor shelves, to which they 
 ought to belong in any fair average of distribution. 
 
 The experiments already made to test the value of books 
 was so successful that both officers agreed to try once more, 
 but this time Longbow was to be blindfolded and to lose 
 even appearance as a guide to selection. 
 
 Thus rendered impartial, he found himself in possession 
 of a volume, the middle of the left-hand page of which, 
 when opened, was to determine whether it was worth six 
 cents a pound in cost of transportation or no. 
 
 The search resulted in "Let them marry, in God's name, 
 and Heaven bless them and give them joy." 
 
 "Sound advice still," cried the colonel, and Longbow 
 
 admitted to himself that it was a curious echo to certain 
 
 voices of the night that had of late disturbed his slumbers. 
 
 But then he had managed to light upon "Don Quixote," 
 
 L f 21 241 
 
242 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 and perhaps there are more fertile suggestions to the square 
 inch in that piece of literature than any other covered by 
 the dome of the Bodleian, even after it shall have secured 
 all of Lord Wolseley's war criticism. 
 
 And once again the two colonels tried by lottery the 
 worth of printers' ink, and when Peppercorn saw Longbow 
 finally hold up a small Latin lexicon his heart failed him, 
 and when he read from under Longbow's forefinger nothing 
 but — '' Rhodope, es, f, probably the Rose-faced thing, a 
 viountain range in Thrace,^'' he felt that this bit of 
 information was hardly worth six cents to the average 
 mind. 
 
 But Colonel Longbow, — still blindfolded and silent, he 
 stood there with more commotion in his head than Pepper- 
 corn dreamed of, as little as the lounger at the riverside 
 knows of the disturbance away down yonder, where trout 
 and minnows are flying before the pike. Coincidences, in- 
 deed, — it seemed almost blasphemy to apply so common a 
 term to portents such as these. 
 
 "Well," remarked Colonel Peppercorn, "a pretty bad 
 failure that, — but a dictionary tells more about words than 
 fortunes, and has no special biographic value, like a 
 monkey-wrench that fits almost any kind of a nut, but 
 makes a mighty poor paint-brush." 
 
 Longbow attempted no reply. He felt that it would be 
 a financial success to carry along even a lexicon at any 
 expense, hereafter, if it could be counted upon for such 
 seasonable aid in all emergencies. 
 
 He bid the colonel "good-night" and went up to his 
 rooms, trying to think where he had read of ' ' tongues in 
 trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and 
 good in everything." Rhodope, a mountain in Thrace, 
 indeed, — no need to go so far for rosy-faced things. 
 
 But Longbow shook his head and next day resumed his 
 journey, having provided himself with an odd volume of 
 " Ccelebs in search of a Wife," which he picked up in the 
 post library, and took along to consult in the manner of the 
 "Sortes Virgilianae," where we leave him, hoping he will 
 be as fortunate as the Oxonian who is said to have sought an 
 answer to the question whether the Prince of Wales would 
 be regent, and to have opened his ^neid at 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 243 
 
 "Sic regia tecta subibat 
 Horridas." 
 
 It was about this time that the adjutant, Mr. Penwiper, 
 received a very affectionate letter from Larriker. " If, " 
 wrote the captain among other things, " if I can find a 
 moment's release from the deviltry going on here, I will 
 use it in begging you to sound Plussmore on the subject of 
 a transfer. Some time ago I understood he wanted a 
 change of air, and this is the place to get it. I have suc- 
 ceeded in ridding myself of thirty pounds of flesh in the 
 last three weeks, and, should this kind of thing keep up, 
 my boy will soon become an orphan. I have no leisure for 
 a smoke until Basbridge goes to bed, and between check 
 roll-calls and guard-duty every other day, I might as well 
 be a night-blooming cereus, which I wish I was. Really, 
 Plussmore would be happy here. Basbridge and he could 
 make points on one another until life would grow as ex- 
 citing as a chapter in Cooper. I would be glad if you 
 would lay the attractions of this locality before him in your 
 usual limpid manner, and oblige yours, truly, 
 
 "Larriker." 
 
 To all of which the shrewd adjutant promptly responded, 
 "Do it yourself. Plussmore would resent anything like 
 management. Tell him what you want and give no 
 reasons." 
 
 Larriker followed this wise counsel, and then Penwiper 
 assisted by setting forth to Plussmore in full detail the ob- 
 jections to his going, encouraged by which the captain 
 seriously took the matter into consideration. He had dis- 
 covered there were certain drawbacks to service at regi- 
 mental head-quarters. The puddle was too big, and there 
 were too many ducks in it. He was tired of the people 
 and of the landscape, and of the monotonous tooting of 
 the band. It would be refreshing to find himself in the 
 midst of new patterns of scenery and society. 
 
 And doubtless Plussmore' s experience with what he con- 
 sidered Miss Ethel's vagaries was kept unpleasantly alive 
 by so much of what had been common ground to both. 
 Here they had walked together, and there he had twined 
 
244 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 round her hat a spray of jasmine stolen through the 
 colonel's garden fence. Down yonder was the porch 
 where they met for the first time, and close by was a gate 
 where he had last seen her. 
 
 Nearly every day he had to pass the spot on which, at 
 her request, he picked up a ribbon lost by some damsel on 
 a holiday of flirtation and sight-seeing. This had Miss 
 Ethel tied on the button of his coat, proclaiming him there- 
 with to be a knight of the order of the lotus, on account, 
 as she said, of the vivacity of his disposition, which Pluss- 
 more understood as a refined acknowledgment of his ha- 
 bitual suppression of himself in her society lest his ardor 
 might give offence. 
 
 But there came a time when his eyes were opened, and 
 he in turn tied the ribbon round a broken decanter over the 
 empty fireplace, and was as near quoting Horace as com- 
 munity of sentiment and ignorance of language permitted — 
 
 " me tabula sacer 
 
 Votiva paries indicat uvida 
 Suspendisse potenti 
 
 Vestimenta maris deo," 
 
 which is rendered by the college valedictorian into — 
 
 " I saved one note, 
 The last you wrote. 
 
 It lies upon my shelf; 
 And there, half dry, 
 It shows that I 
 
 Know how it is myself" 
 
 Not unreasonably, then, was the captain prone to detect 
 an echo of pity in Mrs. Peppercorn's greeting, or of malign 
 interest in the bow of Mrs. Featherfoot, or even in the 
 polite conventionalities of Madame Truffles. 
 
 Yes, it would be pleasant to put all this behind him, and, 
 moreover, the captain rather liked Colonel Longbow, who 
 for his own amusement occasionally fell into Plussmore's 
 ways, and allowed an apparent interest to tempt the cap- 
 tain into a full ventilation of the grievances a complete 
 stock of which Plussmore generally kept on hand. There 
 was always something wrong with the post adjutant, or the 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 245 
 
 post commissary, or the post surgeon, or the post treasurer, 
 or the post commander, or at all events with the post itself, 
 if, indeed, they were not all in a conspiracy against Pluss- 
 more's peace of mind when he had been following too 
 constant a diet of strong coffee and lobster salad. 
 
 Mere drill had no terrors for Plussmore, as we have al- 
 ready mentioned. One trouble with Carter Barracks was 
 the restriction of this amusement to three-quarters of an 
 hour, the colonel remarking that what an officer could not 
 teach in that interval was not worth knowing. But Pluss- 
 more liked to take plenty of time and go over the company 
 man by man, rectifying every detail of position and move- 
 ment with the patient gravity that such important matters 
 demanded. 
 
 It took one of Plussmore' s recruits nearly a year to get 
 into the ranks, and even then he was set back into squad- 
 drill instanter, if the captain's eagle-eye ever caught his 
 profile a button's breadth beyond the alignment. 
 
 And Plussmore' s Sunday morning inspection was a thing 
 to behold. It was slower than the building of the Missis- 
 sippi delta. In comparison, verily do the mills of the 
 gods grind with lightning-like velocity. At last the colo- 
 nel established a "recall," after which, as he expressed it, 
 Plussmore must pocket his microscope. 
 
 Neither could check roll-calls fail to furnish to Plussmore 
 a sort of subtile satisfaction enjoyed by lazier men than he, 
 — that of making everybody else uncomfortable, which is 
 the last relish abandoned by the sinner in the process of 
 regeneration, and, worse than that, enters largely into the 
 value of those seats in the celestial dress-circle which 
 command a view of the pit. 
 
 Basbridge might abound in such ways and means, — if not 
 mean ways, — which characterize ordinary specimens of "a 
 thorough soldier," but Plussmore rather welcomed the 
 prospect of encountering him on his native heath. It 
 would make life exciting, and was infinitely better than the 
 lonesome business of trying to educate regimental head- 
 quarters up to their responsibilities. There is nothing men 
 know so much ot as every duty except the one waiting at 
 their own door. 
 
 Moreover, to the captain's apprehension there was actual 
 
 21* 
 
246 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 hostility in the air of Carter Barracks. Neither in love nor 
 tactics had he been duly appreciated, and the relations 
 between him and Captains Boomer and Trufifles were 
 getting somewhat strained. 
 
 A lot of recruits recently received at the post were to be 
 divided up by the former and Plussmore, who was not a 
 man of expedients, but had the utmost confidence in his 
 own judgment. 
 
 He would walk round a horse with great deliberation, 
 investigate each extremity with concentrated care, study 
 the animal fore and aft and amidships with judicial severity, 
 and then announce his character, point by point, with all 
 the preciseness of a criminal indictment. 
 
 As for a recruit, one look at face and figure was enough 
 to satisfy Plussmore whether the man had in him the stuff 
 for a corporal or a snowbird. 
 
 Boomer, however, with his usual modesty, made no claim 
 to inspiration either as a jockey or judge of men. He 
 preferred a week in the stable or a day's fatigue duty. And 
 in the matter of these recruits he had fortified himself by a 
 close inspection of the muster-roll, and could have given 
 the history of every name on it with greater accuracy than 
 the clerk who made it out. 
 
 Each captain had alternate choice, and Plussmore' s first 
 selection was a very tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with 
 mutton-chop whiskers and florid complexion, of whom here- 
 after. When the ceremony was finished. Boomer by a 
 strange coincidence was found in the possession of the only 
 clerk, carpenter, and tailor on the list, while his other men 
 were reported as, by occupation, student, apothecary, mu- 
 sician, and engineer. 
 
 Of Plussmore' s selections two were in the guard-house 
 before night, two deserted the next day, one soon afterwards 
 went into the hospital, and one immediately began to de- 
 velop a capacity for rations and repose that convinced the 
 sergeant, who was addicted to Dickens, that he had to do 
 with the Fat Boy done over and enlarged. 
 
 But "mutton-chops" remained, a thing of beauty and 
 of joy forever. Plussmore particularly recommended him 
 to the sergeant as a most promising subject, but that veteran 
 preserved a grim silence. 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 247 
 
 In the course of the week the captain noticed with pain- 
 ful astonishment on the morning report, ' ' recruit Chfford 
 to confinement " 
 
 ' * What' s this, sergeant ? what' s the matter with Clifford ?' ' 
 
 " Drunk, sir." 
 
 " Release him." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Purely a military dialogue, but the sergeant's face, which 
 Plussmore declined to look at, was as voluminous as the 
 pages of Gibbon. 
 
 A few more days passed, and the sergeant one afternoon 
 came over to the captain, and with a particularly formal 
 salute reported recruit Clifford as too drunk for drill, and 
 requested further instructions. 
 
 " Have you seen him yourself, sergeant?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "There is no doubt as to his condition?" 
 
 " Dead drunk, sir." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " Had him put in bed, sir." 
 
 " Let him sleep it off, and then bring him to me." 
 
 ' ' Yes, sir. ' ' . 
 
 By this time Plussmore was angry, and the longer he 
 waited the madder he grew. In the course of the evening 
 there was a knock at his door, and the sergeant announced 
 that he had Clifford outside. 
 
 " Send him in." 
 
 Plussmore rose up from his chair, and waited with a 
 volley of reprimands fairly aching to get beyond his teeth. 
 He failed to notice that the sergeant, after a moment's 
 pause in the hall, had gone outside. It was quite a while 
 before he returned, and the captain spent the interval in 
 endeavoring to eliminate a crowd of swear-words from the 
 terse remarks in which he proposed to set forth the enormity 
 of Mr. Clifford's conduct. He intended to be peremptory, 
 but not profane, — if he could help it. 
 
 Finally the sergeant appeared. "Can't find him, sir; 
 left him in the hall ; must have gone as soon as my back 
 was turned." 
 
 "Very well, sergeant ; hunt him up and confine him." 
 
 Plussmore, finding his room intolerably hot and close, 
 
248 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 which would never have been detected by the thermometer, 
 went out for a walk, and did not pull up until he had reached 
 the cove, fully three miles from the post. 
 
 In the morning the sergeant reported that Clifford had 
 put in an appearance at tattoo roll-call, and stated that his 
 flight was rendered necessary by mutinous conduct in the 
 department of the interior, which left him no time for cere- 
 mony. The sergeant, rather disposed to credit the state- 
 ment, had endeavored to find the captain, and failing in 
 that, had allowed Clifford to remain in quarters. "What 
 were the captain's orders?" 
 
 "Well, sergeant, let him go. I have been disposed to 
 give him every chance. What kind of a man is he?" 
 
 "Bad lot, sir." 
 
 "Why, sergeant, he don't look like it." 
 
 "Them's the worst sort, sir." 
 
 The sergeant had no theories on the subject, but was in 
 his third enlistment, and meantime had handled a good 
 many men. He knew that a nickel-plated trunk is not 
 necessarily a cash-box, or, as he was not much given to 
 beard, he had saved his pride and generalized his observa- 
 tions into the opinion that it takes something more than a 
 moustache to make a soldier. 
 
 It was hard to part Plussmore and his ideals. For several 
 days he had been almost afraid to look over the morning 
 report, lest he should encounter Clifford's name, and he 
 really began to hope that the trouble was the result only 
 of recent change and new surroundings. 
 
 Growing familiar with his duties and encouraged by 
 judicious management, this recruit would be sure to fulfil 
 the rare promise of his exterior, and in the course of events 
 would surely justify Plussmore' s foresight and patience by 
 ultimately becoming "a good first sergeant," and the cap- 
 tain would then be enabled to point to him with pride and 
 say, "You see that man? Well, I picked him out and 
 brought him up, and there he is, the best non-commissioned 
 officer in the regiment." 
 
 The very next Sunday afternoon Plussmore came face to 
 face with his gay recruit, making the best of his way home 
 and occupying the lion's share of the road in doing so. 
 
 The fellow braced up and endeavored to compass a salute, 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 249 
 
 but only succeeded in knocking off his cap. He made no 
 effort just then to pick it up, recognizing with a politic (al) 
 general's wisdom that he must reorganize and resupply. 
 Finding the Chickahominy untenable, he changed base to 
 the James River, or actually fell back against the fence, by 
 the kind support of which he was enabled to straighten 
 himself out, and began gazing at his cap with an air of pro- 
 found calculation. At last he slowly stretched out his hand 
 in its direction, and was very much surprised apparently to 
 find it still so far away. He tried to investigate the ends 
 of his fingers, as though they wore to blame, and the situa- 
 tion having now become too complicated for further effort, 
 he sank gradually to the ground and went to sleep. 
 
 Plussmore left him there. His disgust was so intense 
 that he almost hoped the man, if let alone, would die and 
 be done with it. The next day, passing down the walk, 
 he saw Clifford on the other side, looking as straight and 
 trim as a larch and as virtuous as the ten commandments. 
 "Come here, sir, come here," shouted Plussmore, actually 
 crossing half the street in his passion ; " come here imme- 
 diately. ' ' 
 
 There was no need of so much insistence, for Clifford 
 stopped at once, came over, and, halting in front of Pluss- 
 more, gracefully saluted him. The captain took no notice 
 of it, but shaking his finger at the impassive soldier, went on, 
 ** You know what you are, sir ; you know what you are?" 
 
 As there was no reply, Plussmore continued, — " I'll tell 
 you what you are, — a dead beat, sir, a dead beat, A dead 
 BEAT. Now, do you know what that means?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied the man, with a deferential shake of 
 the head, — "no, sir, I do not, er — er — I have never been 
 in the habit of associating with people who used such lan- 
 guage." 
 
 After all, Plussmore was a pretty square kind of a man, 
 for it must be confessed that recruit Clifford, at this stage 
 of the proceedings, like Stonewall Jackson at Port Repub- 
 lic, stood triumphant, with the enemy flung off from all 
 sides of him. 
 
 But the counterstroke of the ordinary officer would have 
 been the guard-house. Plussmore rose superior to the 
 temptation, keeping in mind that the man had done nothing 
 
/50 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 but answer a question, and was hardly amenable to the 
 articles of war for that, even though his reply was more 
 conclusive than had been expected. 
 
 *' Go to your quarters," said the captain, and with another 
 esthetic salute Clifford departed. 
 
 Of course, Plussmore could not get this performance out 
 of his mind, and the more he reflected upon it the less com- 
 fortable he felt. The crushing reproof that he intended to 
 administer had come back like a boomerang, and it did 
 seem as though an old company commander ought to have 
 left the field in a little better order, with colors ragged, per- 
 haps, but yet full high advanced. While the captain was 
 thus perplexing himself with the many possibilities of apt 
 rejoinder that in these cases never get to the front until 
 the battle is over, Mrs. Truffles passed by and bestowed 
 her usual pleasant bow and smile upon the preoccupied 
 Plussmore. 
 
 He neither heard nor saw her, as little conscious of her 
 gracious greeting as Bonaparte of 
 
 "The cannon's loud roar and the musketry's rattle," 
 
 when the jailer of St. Helena had finished the delegated 
 job of the frightened European cabinets. 
 
 "Well, I like that," was the comment of the madame, 
 when she found that her neighbor absolutely ignored her 
 presence. "What's the matter with the man ?" 
 
 Naturally she went and told her husband, who started 
 after the offender with the biggest stick in his collection. 
 
 Not by any manner of means. Mrs. Truffles was not 
 constructed on that type. In the large majority of cases 
 she was confident she could hoe her own row, and in this 
 particular instance never once thought of invoking the aid 
 of Captain Truffles, who was a little hasty and quite able 
 to mix things, if rashly started to work. 
 
 She continued on her way to call upon Mrs. Traum, whose 
 sister had just arrived, and when the three ladies fore- 
 gathered they were all as sweet as bees on a clover-blossom, 
 and nobody would have dreamed that so near the surface 
 of these sparkling amenities lay the dark resolve of Madame 
 Truffles to discipline the surly Plussmore. 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 25I 
 
 And she did not have long to wait. The captain was 
 too restless to be content with the seclusion of his quarters. 
 He acknowledged that his recent failure bordered on the 
 ignominious, in view of the things that he might have said, 
 and had already composed a scathing allusion to Clifford's 
 performance in the fence-corner, where he had abandoned 
 the hunt for his cap and slept off his liquor. 
 
 The captain was fairly in hopes he might run across the 
 fellow again, and began to pace back and forth in front of 
 his quarters. Suddenly Mrs. Boomer appeared, and hailed 
 him in such cheery fashion that the world grew brighter, a 
 good deal brighter, and Plussmore doffed his cap with 
 more than usual elegance and felt proud of his success, and 
 finally determined to go a-fishing. 
 
 He changed his clothes and passed down the yard. 
 There, just turning the corner, was Mrs. Truffles. Again 
 the captain pulled himself together for a bow and accom- 
 paniments that he proposed should be as perfect as any 
 ever executed by the first gentleman in England or the 
 greatest orator in America. 
 
 These things always turn out best when least studied. 
 
 To begin with, Plussmore forgot he had exchanged his 
 forage-cap for a slouch-hat, and became demoralized with 
 the flexible brim, at which he pulled like a dentist, but it 
 was of no use. Madame Truffles sailed along, not precisely 
 in maiden meditation fancy free, but with an Arctic stare 
 that would have made an ice-pick shiver. 
 
 "Aha," muttered the lady; "my debts are paid and 
 there is a balance in the bank." 
 
 It was Plussmore' s nature to finish every job he under- 
 took, and he was still tugging at his hat, when the madame 
 disappeared behind the rose-bushes of his neighbor. A 
 big cloud seemed to have come over the sun, and cold 
 winds blew out of the east. The captain concluded to 
 stay in-doors, and, feeling in need of a tonic, took — a cou- 
 ple of quinine pills. Here was more material for thought, 
 and the captain decided that the madame had become 
 prejudiced by some misrepresentations of old Truffles, who, 
 it just now occurred to Plussmore, had been noticeably 
 formal for a fortnight. 
 
 Therefore, the next time they met Plussmore reduced his 
 
252 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 recognition to so nearly a negative quantity that Captain 
 Truffles, always dignified and often rheumatic, thought 
 himself warranted in finding occupation for his eyes in the 
 opposite direction, so far as the cervical muscles permitted, 
 whenever Plussmore obstructed the view. In time, by suc- 
 cessive increments on each side, it would have developed 
 into a very pretty quarrel ; but from a remark or two of 
 the captain's, Mrs. Truffles' s attention was called to this 
 probability, and, being a very sensible woman, as ready to 
 take the initiative in conciliation as in hostilities, she deter- 
 mined to prevent the growth of this hatchet into an axe. 
 Anger is lazy, and not much harm is done when it comes 
 and goes like a mushroom. It is in cases of slow combus- 
 tion only, where the flame smoulders like a coal-pit, that 
 the devil gets time to join the mess. 
 
 Meanwhile, Plussmore had received a note from Larriker, 
 in which that gentleman set forth in glowing terms the 
 attractions of Fort Saco for a man who was fond of sport. 
 If Larriker correctly reported, the brooks and woods were 
 in their primeval condition so far as fish, fur, and feathers 
 were concerned. 
 
 "To him who in love of nature holds communion with 
 her visible forms, she speaks a various language," and 
 according to Larriker all the dialects, moods, and tenses 
 existed at Fort Saco to an extent unknown even to Lindley 
 Murray. 
 
 This was skilfully managed and touched Plussmore on a 
 tender point, for he was wont of a Sunday afternoon to 
 stand bareheaded under the pines and say, "The groves 
 were God's first temples," by way of excuse for not going 
 to church. 
 
 And then Plussmore had little occasion at Carter Bar- 
 racks for perhaps the most perfect sporting equipment that 
 ever was known, that of Roanoke Brierwood not ex- 
 cepted, whose pipes, poles, and guns were the envy of the 
 regiment. 
 
 When Plussmore descended upon the scene in complete 
 panoply, corduroys and high boots, a coat studded with 
 pockets like the holes in a militia target, a hat encircled 
 with hair-lines and fish-hooks for anything from perch to 
 pickerel, belt and box for ammunition, pouch and bag for 
 
CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 253 
 
 game, a flask for — himself and another for snakes — well — 
 unfortunately the outfit and the income were inversely- 
 related, but everybody knows that in hunting, as in the 
 pursuit of truth generally, the pleasure is in the process 
 and not in the proceeds. 
 
 After one or two days' further consideration, Plussmore 
 sat down and wrote Larriker that he had no objections to 
 the transfer that oflicer desired. 
 
 For a move gave Plussmore no anxiety. Between a 
 bonfire and the auctioneer it enabled him to clear the decks 
 and get rid of a great deal of accumulated rubbish, and he 
 rather welcomed this obliteration of the past. So he began 
 to sort his luggage into minuend and remainder, the former 
 to be the nucleus of a fresh formation at Fort Saco, the 
 latter devoted to friends or the fireplace. 
 
 Probably it is the bump of acquisitiveness that attaches 
 people to whatever has been sanctified by their use, so that 
 to abandon a dress or destroy an old letter seems a crime. 
 In the case of Plussmore, so to speak, this bump was a 
 cavity. In proportion as he grew accustomed to things 
 they became disagreeable. His beard, for instance, under- 
 went all possible transformations, from fringes on the cheek- 
 bone to a solitary tuft under the chin. Sometimes it was 
 an imperial only and sometimes the demnition total, or in 
 Boomer's phrase it varied through 2l pousse-caf e to full bill 
 of fare. And from great emergencies his face shone out 
 smooth as an ^^^. In the midst of all this Plussmore was 
 one day returning from town, when he encountered Mrs. 
 Truffles just coming out of Deckerton's, a place that com- 
 bined the advantages of post-oflice, library, and dry-goods 
 on the village corner nearest the post. 
 
 He fell to freezing-point at once, but to his astonishment 
 that vivacious lady called out, "Oh, — Captain Plussmore, 
 I'm delighted to see you for two reasons ; this bundle is one 
 of them, and if you will be good enough to take it, I'll tell 
 you the other. ' ' 
 
 The onslaught was as decisive as Kellerman's charge 
 at Marengo, and Captain Plussmore promptly tucked the 
 bundle under his arm and began the composition of a 
 stately sentence, to the effect that he never considered 
 himself really happy, unless "he was — er — er " 
 
254 CHRONICLES OF CARTER BARRACKS. 
 
 "Carrying my bundles, of course. Well, Captain Pluss- 
 more, that is very nice of you. I expect a very charming 
 young lady next week — Monday, if nothing happens ; she 
 thinks of going from here to those people at Fort Charles, 
 and I wish her to fully realize the superior attractions of 
 Carter Barracks. Captain Truffles and myself would be 
 glad to have you lunch with us Wednesday. ' ' 
 
 THE END. 
 
(C^r5^ \mJ,^^ <ml^^ @t 
 
 A LIST OF BOOKS 
 
 SELBCTED FROM THE 
 
 Catalogue 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 Complete Catalogue Sent on Application. 
 
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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY'S FICTION. 
 TDK OKEN CHORDS. By Mrs. George McClel- 
 
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 " Cupid and the Sphinx." i2mo. Cloth. 373 pages. 
 
 ^1.25. Paper covers, 50 cents. 
 
 "When, in 1878, Mrs. George McClellan published her ' Cupid 
 
 and the Sphinx' under the pseudonyme of ' Harford Fleming,' there 
 
 was a general recognition of her marked literary ability. Her ' A 
 
 Carpet Knight,' published a few years later, showed an improvement 
 
 in the technique and skill in plot; and her latest volume is a still 
 
 more artistic work. It only misses being a great novel, and is certainly 
 
 one of the best of the year." — Boston Traveller. 
 
 /I LEAFLESS SPRING. By Ossip Schubin, 
 
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 Philadelphia: J. B, Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
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 'J^HE THOUSAND AND ONE DAYS. A 
 
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 Justin Huntley McCarthy, with Illustrations by Stan- 
 ley L. Wood. i2mo. $4.00. 
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 "T^IIE DRAGON OF WANTLEY. His Rise, 
 J- His Voracity, and His Downfall. A Romance. By 
 Owen Wistar. Illustrated by Mr. John Stewardson. 
 8vo. Cloth, gilt top. ^1.50. 
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 artistic collaborator born. The humorous pen-and-ink work which 
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 Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY'S FICTION. 
 
 O 
 
 N BOTH SIDES. By Frances Courtenay 
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 produced. It is written by an American woman who really knows 
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 B 
 
 EHIND THE BLUE RIDGE. By Frances 
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 A 
 
 SHOCKING EXAMPLE. By Frances 
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 " An entertaining collection of stories by a clever writer who does 
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 of our women writers have ventured upon so wide a range of character 
 or been more successful." — New York Herald. 
 
 " Miss Baylor is one of the best and brightest of American short 
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 P 
 
 ^AR IN THE FOREST. By S. Weir Mitchell, 
 author of " Hepzibah Guinness," etc. i2mo. Cloth, iSl.25. 
 
 " Dr. Mitchell shows in this, as in his other novels, a keen knowl- 
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 Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY'S FICTION. 
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 A Sister's Sin. A Daughter's Heart, 
 
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 marvellously well the daily social life of the English people."— 
 
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 Bound only in cloth, ^i.oo per volume. 
 A Lost Wife. The Cost of a Lie. 
 
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 ^AKEN BY SIEGE. 121110. Cloth, gi.25. 
 
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 " Hardly a single chapter can be read without a laugh, and yet 
 
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 Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
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 T 
 
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 as noble a specimen of young manhood as any idealist could create, 
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 Boston yournal. 
 
 'J^HE MAN OF FEELING. By Henry Mac- 
 
 ■*■ KENZiE. Illustrated by William CuBiTT Cooke. i6rao. 
 
 Cloth, uncut, ;SSl.oo; Large paper, buckram, $3.00. 
 
 " While other works are extolled, admired, and reviewed, those of 
 
 Mackenzie will be loved and wept over. They cannot be out of 
 
 date till the dreams of young imagination shall vanish and the deepest 
 
 sympathies of love and hope be stilled forever. The tender pleasure 
 
 which ' The Man of Feeling' excites is wholly without alloy. Its 
 
 hero is the most beautiful personification of gentleness, patience, and 
 
 meek sufferings which the heart can conceive." — London Saturday 
 
 Review. 
 
 Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY'S FICTION. 
 
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 RS. A. L. WISTER'S TRANSLATIONS 
 FROM THE German. ;gi.oo per volume. 
 
 Countess Erika's Apprenticeship. By Ossip Schubin 
 
 " O Thou, My Austria 1" By Ossip Schubin 
 
 Erlach Court. By Ossip Schubin 
 
 The Alpine Fay. By E. Werner 
 
 The Owl's Nest. By E. Marlitt 
 
 Picked Up in the Streets. By H. Schobert 
 
 Saint Michael. By E. Werner 
 
 Violetta. By Ursula Zoge von Manteufel 
 
 The Eichhoffs. By Moritz von Reichenbach 
 
 A New Race. By Gola Raimund 
 
 Castle Hohenwald. By Adolph Streckfuss 
 
 Margarkthb. By E. Juncker 
 
 Too Rich. By Adolph Streckfuss 
 
 A Family Feud. By Ludwig Harder 
 
 The Green Gate. By Ernst Wichert 
 
 Only a Girl. By Wiihelmine von Hillern 
 
 Why Did He Not Die? By Ad. von Volckhauser 
 
 The Lady with the Rubies. By E. Marlitt 
 
 Vain Forebodings. By E. Oswald 
 
 A Penniless Girl. By W. Heimburg 
 
 Quicksands. By Adolph Streckfuss 
 
 Banned and Blessed. By E. Werner 
 
 A Noble Name. By Clare von Gliimer 
 
 From Hand to Hand. By Golo Raimund 
 
 Severa. By E. Hartner 
 
 Hulda. By Fanny Lewald 
 
 The Bailiff's Maid. By E. Marlitt 
 
 In the Schillingscourt. By E. Marlitt 
 
 Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt 
 
 At the Councillor's. By E. Marlitt 
 
 The Second Wife. By E. Marlitt 
 
 The Old Mam'sblle's Secret. By E. Marlitt 
 
 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 
 
 The Little Moorland Princess. By E. Marlitt 
 
 I2mo. Attractively bound in cloth. Thirty-four volumes in 
 twenty-three. Sold only in sets. ;?30.oo per set. 
 
 " Mrs. A. L. Wister, through her many translations of novels from 
 the German, has established a reputation of the highest order for 
 hterary judgment, and for a long time her name upon the title-page 
 of such a translation has been a suflScient guarantee to the lovers of 
 fiction of a pure and elevating character, that the novel would be a 
 cherished home favorite. This faith in Mrs. Wister is fully justified 
 by the fact that among her more than thirty translations that have 
 been published by Lippincott's there has not been a single disappoint- 
 ment. And to the exquisite judgment of selection is to be added the 
 rare excellence of her translations, which has commanded the 
 admiration of literary and linguistic scholars." — Boston Homeyournal. 
 
 Philadelphia : J. B. LipPiNCOTT Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY'S FICTION. 
 
 J EAVES FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD- 
 
 J-—' FOR-NoTHiNG. Translated by Mrs. A. L. Wister. From 
 
 the German of Joseph F. von Eichendorff. Handsomely 
 
 illustrated by photogravures from designs by Johann and 
 
 Kanoldt. Printed on fine plate paper throughout. Small 
 
 4to. Bound in cloth, gilt top. New Edition, ^2.50. 
 
 " The autobiography of this young itinerant German philosopher 
 
 is delightful. It reads like a mixture of Goethe and Daudet. The 
 
 romance of it is warm and colorful ; the humor fine and delicate. 
 
 One's interest in the narrative is greatly enhanced by the plentiful and 
 
 beautiful process illustrations." 
 
 ATOVELS OF E. MARLITT. 
 
 •*■ ^ It is through the delightful translations of Mrs. A. L. Wister 
 that the novels of this celebrated German author have become so 
 popular in America. They have now been profusely illustrated with 
 characteristic full-page drawings from the original German editions, 
 and include the following volumes : 
 Old Mam'selle's Secret. Countess Gisela. 
 At the Councillor's. In the Schillingscourt. 
 
 The Second Wife. The Bailliff's Maid. 
 
 The Lady with the Rubies. Gold Elsie. 
 The Owl's Nest. The Little Moorland Prin- 
 
 cess. 
 Price in sets, 10 volumes, ;5Sio.oo. 
 "No one who has read 'The Old Mam'selle's Secret," with its 
 rapid story, its melting pathos, and its strong characterization, needs 
 to be told of the singular merits of the writer. That was universally 
 recognized as one of the most absorbing, powerful, and dramatic 
 stories which had come across the ocean in many a day. The sams 
 German original and the same English reproducer have given us the 
 other volumes." — Albany yournal. 
 
 "T^HE HOL COMBES. A Story of Virginia Home- 
 J- Life. By Mary Tucker Magill. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 " A picture of home-life in old Virginia before the war. Diaries, 
 letters, dialogues, conversation, and action make up the character of 
 the story. The stranger to the domestic life of the South can nowhere 
 find a more faithful picture of its former qualities and surroundings." 
 
 Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 
 
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