OCR Interpretation


Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, November 28, 1911, Image 1

Image and text provided by University of South Carolina; Columbia, SC

Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn84026925/1911-11-28/ed-1/seq-1/

What is OCR?


Thumbnail for

{r^i l?l issuED SEMI-WEEKL^
l. m. grists sons, Pnbu.her.. j % #milS Jlctcspaper,: Jor the promotion of the political, Social, $grieultural and ffommerciat Interests of the geopte. ) TE*"*'N^0?,.*/^J"CK*?1^"ce
/ established 1855. yohkville^s^c^tu^esd-a-y^^^ov^mb^er^g^^flj^
^ Tehe
PRODIGAL Jl
The Famous Novel
VAUGHAN KES
Copyright. 1911, The Bobbe-Merril
CHAPTER V.
The Encounter.
Betty Malroy had ridden into the i
squire's yard during: the progress of ]
the trial and when Yancy and Hanni
bal came rrom me nouse sne oecKoned
the Scratch Hiller to her. She
waa aware that Mr. Yancy, moving
along the line of leaat industrial resistance,
might be counted of little
worth in any broad scheme of life.
Nat Ferris had strongly insisted on
this point, as had Judith, who shared
her husband's convictions; consequently
the rumdrs of his present
.difficulty had merely excited them to
adverse criticism. They had been sure
the best thing that could happen to the
boy would be his removal from Taney's
guardianship, but this was not
at all her conclusion. She considered
Mr. Bladen heartless' and his
course without justification, and she
regarded Yancy's afTection for the
boy as in itself constituting a benefit
that quite outweighed his unprogresaive
example.
"You are not going to lose your
nephew, are you, Mr. Yancy?" she
asked eagerly, when Yancy stood at
her side.
"No, ma'am." But his sense of elation
was plainly tempered by the
knowledge that for him the future
held more than one knotty problem.
"I am very glad. I know Hannibal
will be much happier with you than
with anyone else," and she smiled
brightly at the boy, whose small sunburned
face was upturned to hers.
"I think that-a-ways myself, Miss
Betty, but this trial was only for my
smacking Dave Blount, who was trying
to steal my nevvy," explained
Yancy.
"I hope, you smacked him well and
hard!" said the girl, whose mood was
waruice.
"I ain't got no cause to complain, '
thank you," returned Mr. Yancy
pleasantly.
"I rode out to the Hill to say goodby
to Hannibal and to you, but they
said you were here and that the trial
was today."
Captain Murrell, with Crenshaw
and the squire, came from the house,
and Murrell's swarthy face lit up at
sight of the girl. Yancy, sensible of
the gulf that yawned between himself
and what was known as "the quality,"
would have yielded his place, but
Betty detained him.
"Are you going away, ma'am?" he
asked with concern.
"Yes?to my home in west Tennessee,"
and a cloud crossed her smooth
brow.
"That surely is a right big distance
for you to travel, ma'am," said Yancy
his mind opening to this fresh impression.
"I reckon it's rising a hundred
miles or mo'," he concluded, at a venture.
"It's almost a thousand."
"Think of that! And you are that
oa'm!" cried Yancy admiringly, as a
picture of simply stupendous effort
ofTered itself to his mind's eye. He
added: "I am mighty sorry you are
going. We-all here shall miss you?
specially Hannibal. He just regularly
pines for Sunday as it is."
"I hope he will miss me a little?
I'm afraid I want him to!" She
glanced down at the boy as she spoke,
and into her eyes, very clear and very
blue and shaded by long dark lashes,
stole a look of wistful tenderness. She
noted how his little hand was clasped
In Yancy's, she realized the perfect
trust of his whole attitude toward
this big bearded man, and she was
conscious of a sudden feeling of profound
respect for the Scratch Hiller.
"But ain't you ever coming back.
Miss Betty?" asked Hannibal rather
omltian n?itVl thft QUfful
of impermanenee which dogs our
footsteps.
"Oh, I hope so, dear?I wish to
think so. But you see my home is
not here." She turned to Yancy. "So
it is settled that he is to remain with
you ?"
"Not exactly, Miss Betty. You see,
there's an order from the Fayetteville
co't fo' me to give him up to this
man Bladen."
"But Uncle Bob says?" began Hannibal,
who considered his Uncle Bob's
remarks on this point worth quoting.
"Never mind what yo' Uncle Bob
said," interrupted Yancy hastily.
"Oh, Mr. Yancy, you are not going
to surrender him?no matter what the
court says!" cried Betty. The expression
on Yancy's face was so grim
and determined on the instant with
latent fire that was in him hashing
from his eyes that she added quickly,
"You know the law is for you as well
as for Mr. Bladen."
"I reckon I won't bother the law
none," responded Yancy briefly. "Me
and my nevvy will go back to Scratch
Hill and there won't be no trouble so
long as they leave us be. But them
Fayetteville folks want to keep away
?" the fierce light slowly died out of
his eyes. "It'll be all right, ma'am,
and it's mighty good and kind of you
fo' to feel the way you do. I'm obliged
to you."
But Betty was by no means sure of
the outcome Yancy seemed to pre- 1
diet with such confidence. Unless
Bladen abandoned his purpose, which
h<> was not likely to do, a tragedy was
clearly pending fo^ Scratch Hill. She
saw the boy left friendless, she saw
Yancy the victim of his own primitive
conception of Justice. Therefore
she said:
"I wonder you don't leave the Hill,
Mr. Yanc.v. You could so easily go
where Mr. Bladen would never find
you. Haven't you thought of this?"
"That are a p'int," agreed Yancy
slowly. "Might I ask what parts
you'd especially recommend?" lifting
his grave eyes to hers.
"It would really be the sensible
thing to do," said Betty. "I am sure
you would like west Tennessee?they (
say you are a great hunter." Yancy
smiled almost guiltily.
"I like a little spo't now and then?
yes, ma'am, I do hunt some," he ad
mitted.
"Miss Betty, Uncle Bob's the best
shot we got! You had ought tq see
him shoot!" said Hannibal.
"Mr. Yancy, If you should cross the
mountains, remember I live near
Memphis. Bell Plain is the name of
:he plantation?it's not hard to find;
lust don't forget?Belle Plain."
"I won't forget, and rpebby you will
lee us there one of these days. Sho',
I've seen mighty little of the world?
ibout as far as a dog can trot In a
;ouple of hours!"
"Just think what it will mean to
Hiannibal if you become involved fur:her
with Mr. Bladen." Betty spoke
earnestly, bending toward him, and
Taney understood the meaning that
ay back of her words.
"I've thought of that, too, the
Scratch Hlller answered seriously.
3etty glanced toward the squire and
VIr. Crenshaw. They were standing
>ear the bars that gave entrance to
he lane. Murrell had left them and
vas walking briskly down the road
oward Crenshaw's store where his
jorse was tied. She bent down and
rave Yancy her slim white hand.
"Good-Dy, Mr. Yancy?1111 nanmuai
10 that I can kiss him!" Yancy swung
he child aloft. "I think you are such
i nice little boy, Hannibal?you
mustn't forget me!" Ahd touching
ler horse lightly. with the whip she
ode away at a gallop.
"She sho'ly is a lady!" said Yancy.
itaring after her. "And we mustn't
'orget Memphis or Belle Plain, Nevry."
Crenshaw and the squire approached.
"Bob," said the merchant. "Bladen's
toing to have the boy?but he made a
nlstake In putting this business in the
lands of a fool like Dave Blount. I
eckon he knows that now."
"I reckon his next move will be to
tend a posse of gun-toters up from
7>ayetteville," said the squire.
"That's just what he'll do," agreed
>enshaw, and looked disturbed.
"They certainly air an unpeaceable
ot?them Fayettevllle folks! It's alvays
seemed to me they had a posiive
spite agin this end of the county."
taid the squire," and he pocketed his
ipectacles and refreshed himself with
i chew of tobacco. "Bladen ain't
ictin' right. Bob. It's a year and upvards
since the old general died. He
et you go on thinking the boy was to
itay with you, and now he takes a
lotion to have him."
"No, sir, it ain't right nor reasonaile.
And what's more, he shan't have
lim!" said Yancy, and his tone was
Inal.
"I don't know what kind of a mess
rou're getting yourself Into, Bob, I
leelare I don't!" cried Crenshaw, who
'eJt that he was largely responsible
or the whole situation.
"Looks like your neighbors would
itand by you," suggested the squire.
"I don't want them to stand by me.
:t'll only get them Into trouble, and
[ ain't going to do that," rejoined
fancy, and lapsed Into momentary
dlence. Then he resumed medltativey,
"There was old Baldy Ebersole
who shot the sheriff when they tried
:o arrest him for getting drunk down
n Payettevllle and licking the tavernceeper?"
"Sho", there wa'n't no harm in
Baldy!" said the squire, with heat.
'When that sheriff come along here
looking for him, I told him p'inted
:hat Baldy said he wouldn't be arrested.
A more truthful man I never
knowed, and if the damn fool had
taken my word he'd been living yet!"
"But you-all know what trouble
klTling that sheriff made for Baldy?"
taid Yancy. "He told me often he
regretted it mo' than anything he'd
?ver done. He said it was most agsravatin'
having to always lug a gun
wherever he went. And what with
being suspicious of strangers when
he wa'n't suspicious by nature, he
reckoned in time it would just naturilly
wear him out."
"He stood it until he was risin'
?ighty," said Crenshaw.
"His father lived to be ninety, John,
ind as spry an old gentleman as a
body'd wish to see. I don't uphold
no man for committing murder, but
t do consider the sheriff should have
waited on Baldy to get mo' reasona
ale, like he'd done in time if they'd
lust let him alone?but no, sir, he
eckoned the law wa'n't no respecter
af persons. He was a flne-appearin'
nan, that sheriff, and just elected to
>fflce. I remember we had to leave
>ff the tail-gate to my cart to accomnodate
him. Yes, sir, they pretty near
pestered Baldy into his grave?and
teein' that pore old fellow pottering
iround year after year always toting
i gun was the patheticest sight I most
?ver seen, and I made up my mind
then if it ever seemed necessary for
tip to kill a man, I'd leave the county
)r maybe the state," concluded the
squire.
"Don't you reckon it would be some
better to leave the state afo' you
done the killing?" suggested Yancy.
"Well, a man might. 1 don't know
but what he'd be justified in getting
shut of his troubles like that."
When Betty Malroy rode away from
Squire Balaam's Murrell galloped after
her. Presently she heard the heat
of his horse's hoofs as he came pounding
along the sandy road, and glanced
back over her shoulder. With an exclamation
of displeasure she reined
in her horse. She had not wished to
ride to the Barony with him, yet she
had 110 desire to treat him with discourtesy,
especially as the Ferrises
were disposed to like him. Murrell
fiiiioklv earned a nlace at her side.
"I suppose Ferris is at the Barony?"
he said, drawing his horse down to a
walk.
"I believe he is." said Betty with a
curt little air.
"May I ride with you?" he gave her
a swift glance. She nodded indifferently.
and would have urged her horse
into a gallop again, but he made a
gesture of protest. "Don't?or I shall
think you are still running away from
me," he said with a short laugh.
"Were you at the trial?" she asked.
"I am glad they didn't get Hannibal
away from Yancy."
"Oh, Yancy will have his hands
full with that later?so will Bladen,"
he added significantly. He studied
her out of those deeply sunken eyes
of his in which no shadow of youth
lingered, for men such as he reached
their prime early, and it was a swiftly
passing splendor. "Ferris tells me
you are going to West Tennessee?"
I he said at length.
I e?.
"I know your half-brother, Tom
Ware?I know him very well." There
was another brief silence.
"So you know Tom?" she presently
observed, and frowned slightly. Torn
was her guardian, and her memories
of him were not satisfactory. A burly,
unshaven man with a queer streak of
meanness through his character. She
had not seen him since she had been
sent nqrth to Philadelphia, and their
Intercourse had been limited to Infrequent
letters. His always snielled
of strong, stale tobacco, and the wellremembered
whine In the man's voice
ran through his written sentences.
"You've spent much of your time
up North?" suggested Murrell.
"Four years. I've been.at school,
you know. That's where I met Judith."
"I hope you'll like West Tennessee.
It's still a bit raw compared to what
you've been accustomed to in the
North. You haven't been back In all
those four years?" Betty shook her
head. "Nor seen Tom?nor any one
from out yonder?," For some reason
a little tinge of color had crept Into
Betty's cheeks. "Will you let me renew
our acquaintance at Belle Plain?
I shall be in West Tennessee before
the summer is over; probably I shall
leave here within a week." he said,
bending toward her. His glance dwelt
'on her face and the pliant lines of her
figure, and his senses swam. Since
their first meeting the girl's beauty
had haunted and allured him; with
his passionate sense of life he was
disposed to these violent fancies, and
he had a masterful way with women
Just as he had a masterful way with
men. Now, however, he was aware
that he was viewed with entire indifference.
His vanity, which was his
whole inner self, was hurt, and from
the black depths of his nature his
towering egotism flashed out lawless
and perverted impulses. "I must tell
you that I am not of your sort, Miss
Malroy?" he continued hurriedly.
"My people were plain folk out of the
mountains. For what I am I have no
one to thank but myself. You must
be aware of the prejudices of the
planter class, for it is your class.
Perhaps I haven't been quite frank
at the Barony?I felt It was asking
too much when you were there. That
was a door I didn't want closed to'
me!"
"I imagine you will be welcome at
Belle Plain. You are Tom's friend."
Murrell bit his lip, and then laughed
as his mind conjured up a picture of
the cherished Tom. Suddenly he
reached out and rested his hand on
hers. He lived in the shadow of
chance not always kind, his pleasures
were intoxicating drafts snatched in
the midst of dangers, and here was
youth, sweet and perfect, that only
needed awakening.
"Betty?if I might think?" he began,
but his tongue stumbled. His
love-making was usually of a savage
sort, but some quality in the girl held
him in check. The words he had
spoken many times before forsook
him. Betty drew away from him, an
angry color on her cheeks and an angry
light in her eyes. "Forgive me,
Betty!" muttered Murrell, but his
heart beat against his ribs, and passion
sent its surges through him.
"Don't you know what I'm trying to
tell you?" he whispered. Betty gathered
up her reins. "Not yet?" he
cried, and again he rested a heavy
hand on hers. "Don't you know what's
kept me here? It was to bq near you
?only that?I've been waiting for this
chance to speak. It was long in coming.
but It's here now?and it's mine!"
he exulted. His eyes burned with a
luminous fire, he urged his horse
I nearer and they came to a halt. "Look
here?I'll follow you north?I swear
I love you?say I may!"
"Let me go?let me go!" cried Betty
indignantly.
"No?not yet!" he urged his horse
still nearer and gathered her close.
"You've got to hear me. "I've loved
you since the first moment I rested
my eyes on you?and, by Ood, you
shall love me in return!" He felt
her struggle to free herself from his
grasp with a sense of savage triumph.
It was the brute force within him that
I conquered with women just as it con
quered with men.
Bruce Carrlngton, on his way back
to Fayettevllle from the Forks, camo
about a turn in the road. Betty saw a
tall, handsome fellow, in the first Hush
of manhood; Carrlngton an angry
girl, very beautiful and verp indignant,
struggling In a man's grasp.
At sight of the new-comer, Murrell,
with an oath, released Betty, who,
striking her horse with the whip galloped
down the road toward the Barony.
As she fled past Carrington she
bent low in her saddle.
"Don't let him follow me!" she
gasped, and Carrlngton. striding forward.
caught Murrell's horse by the
bit.
"Not so fast, you!" he said coolly.
The two men glared at each othe'r for
a brief instant.
"Take your hand off mv horse!" exclaimed
Murrell hoarsely, his mouth
hot and dry with a sense of defeat.
"Can't you see she'd rather be
alone?" said Carrington.
"I^et go!" roared Murrell, and a
murderous light shot from his eyes.
"I don't know hut I should pull you
out of that saddle and twist your
neck!" said Carrington hotly. Murrell's
face underwent a swift change.
"You're a bold fellow to force your
way into a lover's quarrel." he said
quietly. Carrington's arm dropped at
his side. Perhaps, after all, it was
that. Murrell thrust his hand into
his pocket. "I always give something
to the hoy who holds my horse," he
said, and tossed a coin in Carrington's
direction. "There?take that for your
pains!" he added. He pulled his horse
about and rode hack toward the
cross-roads at an easy canter.
Carrington, with an angry Hush on
his sunburnt cheeks, stood 'Staring
down at the coin that glinted* In the
dusty road, but he was seeing the face
of the girl, indignant, beautiful?then
he glanced after Murrell.
"I reckon I ought to have twisted
his neck," he said with a deep breath.
(To Be Continued.)
THE DYING PINE
And What the Farmers May Do
About It.
Since the location of forest insect
field station 7 at Spartanburg on July
5, the agents of the bureau of entomology,
United States department of
agriculture, detailed there for duty
have been very active in the study
of the character and extent of the
depredations by the southern pine
beetle In South Carolina,, Georgia
Alabama, North Carolina, Mississippi,
Texas. Florida, Virginia, Louisiana,
Maryland, Arkansas, Missouri and
Tennessee.
Observations by the agents and information
conveyed by correspondents
from all sections of the south show
that In the aggregate a vast amount
of timber has been killed by the
southern pine beetle during the past
two years. The dying and dead trees
occur as scattering individuals or in
clumps, large patches, and in some
places whole forests. All are more
or less conspicuous by their fading,
red, black or denuded tops, plainly
indicating the presence of the beetle
or the progress of its work.
It has been found that each patch
of dying trees, with their fading and
greenish brown tops, located anywhere
in the southern states is a
menace to the living pine within a
radius of three or four miles. The
broods of the southern pine beetle
developing in the bark of the trees
of one such center of infestation may
swarm in any direction and settle in
the healthy timber. Thus one or more
additional patches is killed, until
nearly all of the large as well as the
small pine over extensive areas is
dead.
When these centers of Infestation
are numerous within the area of a
county, or even a larger section of
territory, they can only be compared
with the starting of so many forest
fires, and, as has been demonstrated,
they may lead to far greater destruction
of merchantable pine than has
ever been recorded as resulting from
fire in the southern states. Therefore,
they demand similar prompt and
radical action on the part of the owners
in order to protect their living
pine,
1. If in clumps or patches of pine,
where there is no plain evidence of
aerlmia intnrv hv Are the fnllnee
fades to plain green and changes to
yellowish and plain brown, it Indicates
that the trees are dying from
the attack of the southern pine
beetle, and that the bark on such
trees Is Infested with the developing
broods of minute white grubs and
transforming beetles. Therefore such
trees are a menace to the living trees.
2. If the trees have reddish brown
a*id -partially fallen foliage, or If all
of the foliage has fallen, it indicates
that the broods of beetles have
emerged and that such trees are no
longer a menace to the living ones.
3. If the trees die during the period
between the first of March and
the first of October, they will be
abandoned by the broods of beetles
within a few weeks after the foliage
begins to fade.
4. If the trees begin to die during
the period between the first of October
and the first of December the
broods of beetles will remain in the
bark until March or April.
SAWDUST CONCRETE.
Said to Be Especially Adapted for the
Floors of Markets and Saloons.
When sawdust or wood pulp is used
as part of the aggregate in mixing
the resulting concrete is of light
weight and low tensile strength, but
has some special properties that commend
it for certain indoor uses. On
account of its elasticity, combined
with its practically, non-absorbent
character, it is said to be especially
adapted as a floor veneering for markets.
butcher shops, saloons, etc.
It may be laid without Joints, says
Cement World, in a continuous layer
one and- a half inches deep, upon pav\n?>
nnwnn/1 t V?o R aak V\ n ! Koin OT
H^"i cau uvci me uuui mat 10 uciua
treated. In these eases the customary
proportions for mixing are one part
cement, two sand and two and a half
sawdust. A greater proportion of
sawdust would make it too absorbent.
A novel application of sawdust
concrete has recently been made In the
hew public library building in Springfield,
Mass. It was employed there
as a base on which to lay the cork
carpet covering the floors. The object
was to obtain a layer into which
nails could he driven and which at
the same time would hold the nails.
The company that laid it states that
It accomplished both purposes. After
several experiments with different
mixtures, it was found that a 1:23
mix?three-fourths of a part of sawdust?gave
the desired result; and
6,000 square feet of this mixture was
laid. The thickness of the layer was
one inch, and after four months of
service indications are that the material
is a success.
The Change in the Races.?A bulletin
issued by the census bureau on
white and negro population in the
United States says, in reference to the
condition in the southern states, that
the statistics of the white and negro
population of the south, based upon
the returns of the censuses of 1910
and 1900, show first, that in South
Carolina and Mississippi the negroes
exceeded the whites at both censuses,
although the proportion in 1910 is
somewhat smaller than in 1900; and
second, that in West Virginia, Arkansas
and Oklahoma the negroes constitute
a slightly larger proportion of
me loiai population in i?iu wiun u?
1900. principally as the result of the
migration of the negroes from other
states. It is further shown that In
every southern state, with the exception
"of West Virginia, Arkansas and
Oklahoma, the whites had a higher
rate of Increase than the negroes. In
Maryland, Kentucky and Tennessee
there has bpen since 1900 an actual
decrease in the number of negroes,
and in Delaware and Virginia there
has been only a slight increase in negroes,
namely 1.6 per cent in each
case. These are all border states, and
the facts stated are doubtless due
largely to the migration of negroes
from those states, partly, perhaps, to
the more southerly states, but more
particularly to the states outside of
the south. The full significance of the
changes in the relative number of the
two races in the south cannot be definitely
stated until more complete statistics
are available, particularly those
showing the inter-state migration of
the native born population.?Charlotte
Chronicle.
A DARK DEED ;
'
By ETTA W. PIERCE. i
'
CHAPTER XXXI. ' J
At Millbridge. <
i
j Season after season came and went. ]
A dreary autumn twilight was falling
over the busy town of Millbridge. 1
work-hours were over in the great t
woolen factories. A bell sounded and t
the operatives came pouring into the 1
treet, like a flock of sheep?men and \
yomen?with specks of wool clinging t
o their coarse garments, and on their
ljaces the pallor and weariness bom
aji a long day In the stifling mills. r
; Some of the girls laughed and talk- t
^d among themselves, flung light s
ohafT at the men, and gave rough joke r
for rough joke; but there was one, f
Who, as she hurried forth with the I
others, looked neither to the right f
i or left?laughed not, spoke not. She t
^ ras among her fellow-workers, but 1
r ot of them. The very shabbiness of i
1] er cotton gown, her old gray shawl, 1
1 er straw hat half covered with a t
dheap veil, served to emphasize the r
itiarvelous beauty of her face and fig- n
u??. Under the coarse straw shone a y
coll of hair golden as the silk of ripe n
corn. Through the faded veil gleamed
a skin like alabaster, and a pair I;
of great pansy dark eyes full of some- t
tiling 9trange; unutterable?sad as k
d#ath. Few persons in Millbrldge
eyer passed this girl without turning h
t(j look after her.
["You're tired tonight, Miss Smith,"
sighed an emaciated, hollow-eyed operative,
as she hurried along at the v
hfeels of the person In the gray shawl, c
"Yes?a little, Lizzie," answered the v
letter.
"God knows It's a hard life!" said a
Lizzie, with a cough that seemed to a
r?id her thin lungs. "I've been spit- a
ting blood all day. I sha'n't last much s
Iqhger here. Oh," with sudden child- s
Ish eagerness, "do you know, Miss
Smith, that there's a new musicteacher
come to Mlllbridge, and some n
o^ the girls have been saving their v
money and they are going to club to- t
gather, and hire a piano, and take
letosons. Isn't that heavenly? How I r
wjlsh I was one of 'em: but you see, F
what with losing days and days with e
sickness, and buying medicine contln- p
ual, I never have- a cent to spare." 1<
"Poor Lizzie!" sighed Miss Smith b
gently.
The girl went on. No other person tl
spoke to Miss Smith. She was no fi
favorite with the operatives. For two n
years she had worked In the mills, tl
and lodged with the herd of common Ii
men and women at the great board- s
lng-house by the river, yet she was \
still a stranger in Mlllbridge. Nobody
knew anything of her past lift w
?nobody could boast of the smallest w
degree of intimacy with her. She did n
not lack civility, yet she hnd a way--g
or Keeping ner ienow-iannrers at a i;
frigid distance. tl
Miss Smith did not hasten, as us- a
ual, to her boarding-house tonight, tl
but turned mechanically from the tl
open street into a secluded footpath
that stretched along the river-side. a
As soon as she had passed beyond
the reach of curious eyes, she sank h
suddenly down in the faded fern of
the bank,. tore off her hat and veil, r
and threw back her old shawl, like tl
a person suffocating. p
"'Oh, ye gods!
Why do you make us love your good- c
ly gifts, h
And snatch them straight away?'" r
She murmured the lines under her g
breath. The sunset died in the west, g
the river grew gray with twilight. A
boat passed along its current, the oars h
splashing softly in the water. Miss a
Smith did not see it. She was sit- r
ting very still among the faded ferns, n
plucking alisently at their brittle, r
frost-bitten blades. v
What was ifr that aroused her at f(
last? The boat was coming back, go- tl
ing down stream toward the mills. ||
Through the dusky silence the echo n
of a voice was wafted to her ears: "I u
must go* tomorrow, Denham." e
Only those commonplace words? a
part of a sentence, evidently. Den- fl
ham was one of the mill-owners, a
hospitable millionaire. His pleasure- g
boats were often on the river, and d
usually filled with guests. It
Miss Smith leaped to her feet. The h
hue of ashes fell upon her face, a c
choking sensation filled her throat, g
On went the boat into the shelter of r
a clump of willows?she could hare- tl
ly distinguish its receding outline. n
What strange trick had her imagi- li
nation played upon her??what mor- v
bid fancy had got possession of her h
senses? Was the buzz and whirr of o
the mills affecting her head? As she f<
stood motionless, breathless, waiting d
for she knew not what, a man with a d
roll of music under his arm appeared
suddenly in the footpath, passed Miss tl
Smith, glanced backward at her c
statue-like figure and uncovered head; r
stopped as if thunderstruck, then ut- p
tered a sharp exclamation, and the j<
next instant stood, panting at her r<
side. o
"My Ood! Ethel Qreylock!" tl
She had not heard that name for a
many a day. She turned quickly and w
looked at the speaker. h
"Don't be afraid of me!" stammer- tl
ed the new music-teacher of Mill- i
bridge, as he fell bark from her a g
step. e
"I am not afraid!" she said, coldly, q
"Thank Ood!" he cried. "I was mad f
at our last meeting, dui i tun sane a
enough now. How came you In this tl
place, and this disguise?" pointing in g
an agitated way to her cotton dress. e
She tied on her hat hurriedly and a
drew the shawl about her shoulders g
again. d
"It is no disguise," she replied; "I s
am an operative in the mills here, p
earning my living by hard work, and
my name is not Ethel Oreylock. hut r
plain Miss Smith." v
They stood face to face once more? p
Arthur Kenyon and the girl whose w
life he had once attempted. The man p
looked old and haggard and shabby. d
Time was now taking vengeance on j,
him for the success with v. hlch he v
had so long withstood its ravages. n
There were crow's-feet under his a
languishing eyes, and streaks of gray d
in his abundant curls. a
"I heard of your change of fortune," p
he said, with something like a shud- e
der. "The affair got into the newspa- Ci
pers?they arc always picking up
such things. I was not particularly ?
surprised, for I had always known e;
you could not be Iris Greylock's 1
laughter. I was once that woman's f
husband, you see, and 1f she had been c
your mother, he&ven knows, I should a
lever have approached you as a lov?r!
They cast you out, of course?the 1
whole precious lot of them, with the t
baronet at their head? Faugh! Such a
ove was not worth the having, r
Ethel!" v
"I decline to talk with you about
nyself or my former friends," an- a
iwered Miss Smith, with the haughty 1
Ur that reminded him of the days of c
ler power and splendor. "You must a
inderstand, without being told, that.v
he sight of you Is abhorrent to me!"|fc
He winced.
"You are very hard! I am earning o
ny living as a music-teacher?I came b
o Millbridge a few days ago to pur- a
lue that calling, never dreaming of t
neetlng you here. Ah, you have not *
orgotten the cowardly assault which
made upon you two years ago!" He t>
lung up his right hand wildly. "This a
s the hand I raised against your
Ife; the deed ought to have withered tl
t forever. But remembef, I had
ost you?a misfortune great enough a
o turn any man's mind. I loved you P
nore than my own soul, but I was 8
nad?this Is my sole excuse. Surely a
ou ought to pardon though the rest <1
if the world condemn me, EJhel!" ?
"I beg pardon." she answered, stern- h
y. "But Ethel Oreylock has ceased a
o exist, and Miss Smith does not
;now you?can never know you!" d
"That's a poor sort of forgiveness," tl
le complained, weakly. h
"It is all I can give you."
He cowered away from her a step, ti
"You have me at a great dlsad- <
antage, Ethel. What shall I?what '
an I do, to prove my repentance, and t<
/in your full pardon?"
"Leave me," she answered, pitiless a
a VomAflla "on/1 nat'As of rf
ny time, nor In any place, dare to H
pproach me agajn! There is no per- o
on living whom I would not meet tl
ooner than you!" nr
He hung his head. I
"It Is for you to command and for d
ie to obey," he said, In a stifled I
olce, and he turned and went away award
the town, never looking back, w
Miss Smith lingered awhile by the
iver, afraid to follow Immediately In tl
[enyon's footsteps, lest she should ?
ncounter again this dark ghost of her
ast. When the danger seemed no a
mger Imminent she started for her
oardlng-house.
The moon had not yet risen, and 1?
he stars shone faint and small In the ir
ar purple. The little footpath was S
ow very dark and very lonely. Only It
he sad crickets chirped In Its border- S
ig grasses, and the river rippled di
oftly on the bank. Involuntarily bi
fiss Smith aulckened her steDS. t<
She had almost reached the street tl
rhen two figures came sauntering to- ai
/ard her from the direction of the h
litis. It was Impossible to distin- fe
wtah their faces- in the darkness, but
he red spark of a cigar, the odor of If
he lighted weed, betrayed their sex. si
lS the pair brushed by Miss Smith in w
he narrow path one chanced to Jos- si
le her. m
"Pardon!" he said, politely, and dlsppeared
in the night beyond. s<
It was the same voice which she had bi
eard by the river gi
Overcome with a sudden great ter- ri
or, Miss Smith started and ran all
he way to her boarding-house. Sup- w
er was over there, the other opera- S
Ives had left the table. She drank a la
up of cold tea, ate a few morsels of ci
eavy biscuit, and flew to her own e<
oom at the top of the house?a closet c<
o small that, luckily, it could not he
hared with any other boarder. S
She was shaking in every limb, and rr
er eyes had the look of some hunted a:
nlmal's. She locked the door hur- t(
iedly behind her. She must go, she p
oust leave Millbridge by the first h;
nornlng's train!?leave the place tl
/here she had found work and shelter fi
or two years, and fly forth again into P
he wide world. She opened a drawer n
o her toilet-table. There lay the
ooney which she had saved from her w
ihor in the mills?not much, but p
nough to take her to another home, tl
nd supply her needs till she could p
nd new employment. g;
Mechanically she began to pack to- e<
ether her small belongings. While
oing this she heard loud peals of w
lughter, mingled sometimes with a Ic
ollow, tearing cough, rising from the T
hamher below her own. The mill O
Iris had gathered for a frolic in the ai
oom of Lizzie, the consumptive?
hey often did so, but never had their ir
lirth jarred on Miss Smith's ears as ?
: did tonight. When her preparations m
/ere complete she extinguished her
imp, threw herserf on her bed with- S
ut removing any of her garments, ri
or she meant to be up and away by p<
awn, and fell straightway Into a in
eep sleep. w
Cruel dreams beset her. She heard p]
he voice of Sir Gervase Greylock A
ailing to her across a wide, black ai
iver, whose current she could not ct
ass. She was back again at Grey>ck
Woods, moving down the great fa
ooms in bridal white, with hands full
f orange-flowers, and Strauss' waltzes ai
hrobblng upon the perfumed air fs
round her. Then she hent over the tf
hlte face of Godfrey Greylock, as he |r
ly dead before the chancel-rail, In
he light of the stained-glass window, m
'hen she was flying for her life, over
ray, lonesome tracks of salt-marshs.
to the low-celled keeping-room of ui
'ats* Tavern, where Mercy Poole's pi
urry family rushed upon her, spitting
nd mewing. Presently the snarls of y
he felines became a dull roar in Miss h
imlth's ears. This note was succeed- m
d by a loud crash. The sleeper
woke, with her heart in her throat, ol
Ihe sprang to her feet, In that small, tl
ark attic, witn a contused sense m ni
omething awful pressing down upon a
er. ci
Ah, the room -was not dark, for a t
ed, infernal glare wrapped its one b<
indow, and played over the four hi
are, whitewashed walls. The noise ei
. hich had aroused Miss Smith was a B
low, dealt h.v some hand, upon the m
oor. Even as she stood clutching her hi
icdpost helplessly, scarcely knowing a<
whether she was still dreaming or T
ot, the assault was repeated; hinges si
nd locks gave way, the door crashed w
own into the room and over it leaped ej
man, scorched, blackened, breath- w
>ss. A terrific volume of smoke rushd
into the chamber with him. He
aught' Miss Smith in his arms. hi
"The house Is in flames!" he said. b<
They told me you were up here. Ev- w
rybody else has escaped. Some girls
n a room below upset a lamp in a
rollc. Ah, God help me!" with aery
>f despair which she remembered long
ifter; "how am I to save you, Ethel?"
She felt one awful thrill of fear,
ike the thrust of a sword; then, with
he blind Instinct of self preservation,
ihe broke from Arthur Kenyon and
an toward the smoke-shrouded doorvay.
He drew her back.
"The staircase fell behind me," he
aid. "You cannot escape that way.
rhe old house is like tinder?Its walls
an stand but a minute more. Outide,
the street is full of people, but
vhether they can help us remains to
ie seen."
She began to comprehend something
f his heroism. The boarding-house
iy the riverside was sheeted In smoke
nd "flame without and within, and In
his little room, at its very top, alone
rlth midnight and death, she looked
o Arthur Kenyon's begrimed but
earless face, in something like
mazement.
"Why did you risk your life like 1
his?" she said. "I might have perilled
in my sleep if you had not
roused me?that would have been a I
ainless, merciful end. Save yourself
nmehow. As for me," the terror had
11 gone from her now, and she spoke 1
uletly, almost cheerfully, "ah, life Is (
ver for me! I may as well close It
ere and now, as in any place or at (
ny time."
The fire was curling around the
oorway and thrusting red hands into '
[II* MHJIII. AIICI J I I'AIIIV lilt: OIUOKC7
i a black, strangling storm. The 1
houts and cries of firemen and specitors,
assembled In the street far be- 1
>w, mingled with the din of the roar- 1
ig flames. Kenyon drew Miss Smith
) the one window of the garret.
"There's but an Instant between us '
nd death," he said, quickly. "Why 1
Id I risk my life to find you, Ethel? '
:ecause I owed you this much by way !
f atonement. None dared to enter
le house to search for you?none but
le!" exultantly. "I was glad of that,
said to myself, 'I will save her or 1
le with her! She shall see now that '
loved her better than my own self I
-she Bhall give me the full pardon I
hlch she refused a few hours ago!"' '
He seized a chair, and dashed out <
ie small, narrow window. At the I
une moment a ladder was planted '
gainst the wall outside?the cap of
fireman appeared at the top. 1
"Be guick!" he urged. >
Kenyon lifted Miss Smith to the i
ve| of. the casement, and forced her <
ito the outstretched arms of the man. I
omething Impelled her to look back. '
was all the work of an instant,
he saw Kenyon framed in the windw,
with the flames making a red
&ckground behind him. His hand
>uched the eill, and Jfeen?then?as !
?e floor under his feet ^fcoke up like I
0 eggshell, and went down beneath
Im, he clutched only at empty air,
>11 back and vanished.
A-great eea of -flaines-aurg*^ resistssly
over the spot where he had
:ood, licked up the broken window
1th a hundred forked tongues?a
:orm of sparks soared up to the
ildnlght sky and all was over.
He was gone and nothing more was
?en of Iris Oreylock's divorced huaand,
save a handful of charred bones,
athered by stranger hands from the
alns of the house by Mlllbrldge river.
Down fell the wall, and the ladder
ith it, hurling the flreman and Miss
mlth to the ground together. The
itter was lifted up Insensible and
arrled to a neighboring refuge, open1
by some kind Samaritans to re*
ilve the homeless operatives.
When consciousness returned Miss
mlth found herself confronted by the
lemory of Ktnyon's tragic sacrifice,
nd certain grim facta that welNnlgh
>ok her breath. She was absolutely
ennllees. Her earthly possessions
ad perished with the house. Bven
le clothing had been nearly burned
'om her body In her perilous escape,
[ow were her immediate and pressing
eeds to be supplied?
All the ensuing day the Injuries
'hlch she had received kept her a
risoner indoors, but as night fell, and
ie necessities of another day aproached,
she arose, borrowed such
arments as she needed, and preparJ
to go out.
Attached to a chain about her neck
ere two valuable rings, the last rels
that she possessed of her past,
hey had been the gift of Godfrey
reylock. Money she must have, and
1 nn/>A
She took the Jewels and went out
ito the streets of Millbrldge, to
sarch for some place where she
light dispose of them.
Through a sombre twilight Miss
mith hurried by the blackened
lins of the house where Kenyon had
?rished. turned a corner and plunged
ito a small, dark shop, in the one
indow of which watches were dislayed,
and various kinds of Jewelry.
clerk was Just lighting the lamps
i Miss Smith walked up to the show*
ise and laid upon it her two rings.
"I wish to dispose of these,"* she
iltered.
The clerk threw down his luclfer
id stared at the girl's pale, flawless
ice, and great ropes of yellow hair;
len he examined the rings In a husless-like
way.
"What value do you set upon them,
liss?" he asked.
She shuddered.
"I know very little about their actal
value. Give me whatever you
lease."
"The proprietor has gone to supper,
ou'd better come again when he is
ere, miss?I'm not authorized to
lake such purchases." f
Th? Hisonnnintment brousrht a rush
r tears to her eyes. She picked up
te rings to go?one slipped from her
and and rolled away over the floor,
s she turned to recover It she beime
a\yare that somebody had en red
the shop, and was standing close
?hlnd her?the man whose voice she
ad heard in the darkness by the rlv:,
the man who had once gone to
lackport church with her, to utter
arriage vows?the man whom she
ad thought to be thousands of miles
'ross the sea?Sir Gervase Greylock!
here he stood in the little Mfllbridge
top. looking straight into her face,
ith the grave, gray, overmastering
es that she remembered only too
elir
"Have I found you at last?at last?"
Those were his first words. Then
i took her hands quickly in his own,
snt down, and kissed her on her
hite, trembling lips.
"My betrothed wife!" he said,
gravely and firmly, "you have neve.*
ceased to be that, you know!"
"Oh!" she gasped, striving' to draw
back from him, "do not mock me! Remember
Hannah Johnson's story?remember
all that stands between us
now!"
He smiled grandly. His hold upon
her tightened.
"Nothing stands between us. For
two years I have been seeking the
world over. You escaped me on our
luckless marriage day, but you will
never do it again. Nan! I have you
now, to hold and to keep forever! The
Greylock pride Is not so strong as the
Greylock love. I care not whether you
sprang from a gutter or a palace?
enough for me to know that you are,
and will always be, the beat, the loveliest,
the sweetest of women! Under
any circumstances, It's not possible
for you to be less than this, and more
you could not be, If you were born a
princess. Oh, my darling, my darling!
I ask but this?do you love me
still r
"I love you still!" sobbed Nan, with
the light of heaven shining In her
great, glad eyes.
"What brought you to Mlllbridge?"
she said to him, after they had talked
of many, many things.
"A mere chance," he answered. "Colonel
Denham, whose acquaintance I
made at a club in town, Invited me
here to visit his mills. I have been
his guest for three days, and was on
my way to the station to take the
train back to Boston, when I saw and
recognized you as you entered the
shop. Now, let me ask you how you
came to choose an insignificant village,
loss than a hundred miles from
Blackport, to be your hiding-place,
and how could you realat the counties*
advertisements, in which Polly
and I entreated you to come back to
/our home and friends?"
"I never saw them," she sighed,
"newspapers were scarce at the
boarding house. I never dreamed
chat anybody at Oreylock Woods could
be wishing for my return. As I was
flying from the villa, I chanced to
hear two working-women, passengers
upon the same train with me, talking
af a lack of operatives in the factories
of MiUbridge. That conversation
led me to the mills."
"And all the while," he said, "I was
looking for you In every theatre, near
and far. My poor child, as it la now
more than certain that you are for
jver done with MiUbridge and everything
in it, let us start Immediately
for Blackport and Polly."
(To Be Continued.) ^
EXECUTION OF.BEATTIE,
Wife Murderer Confessed His Horrible
Deed.
Richmond. November 24.?Henry
Ulay Beattie, Jr., was electrocuted in
:he state prison this morning at 7:23
riiuclL ' One minute eftee-the els?te m
ie was pronounced dead. He went to
;ho chair unshaken.
In a torrential downpour of rain,
he twelve witnesses to the execution
:ouea inrougn me murtjr u>nu u|>
:he hill to the penitentiary. They
vere quickly marshaled and conducted
single flla, through the gates of
iteel bars to the chamber where
Seattle was to uTer his atonement.
There was no conversation.
The witnesses were seated aix abreast
jefore the chair. They shuffled their
.'eet uneasily, and when one leaned
'orward to speak to another, his action
was received with frowns.
Major Woods, with two deputy warlens,
addressed the witnesses, going
through the formalities demanded by
aw. Then, with the aid of two men
trooping behind, he passed, into the
suilding where Beattle awaited the
lummons. The warden's voice could
plainly be heard reading to the doomid
man the final summons, which
teemed to the witnesses interminable,
[n reality, the compliance with the
aw occupied only a brief moment.
Then, with Beattie between them,
:he deputy wardens began their progress
toward the chair, only a few feet
iway. Then the procession, followed
>y Superintendent Woods, started. A
tignal was given which plunged the
ieath chamber Into darkness, save
'or a single light immediately over
he chair. This was so hooded that
t outlined the chair.
Encircling, blazing radiance was so
ntense that the remainder of the room
teemed in utter darkness. The witnesses
scarce could see each other.
There was no delay in preparing for
he end.
Beattle took his place and the prls>n
surgeon and electricians adjusted
he straps. A half dozen clamps were
lulckly thrown into place and snap>ed.
The cap was adjusted and the
nen stepped back. Raising his hand,
he warden gave the signal.for the
dectrlc current to be turned on.
Instantly Eeattie's body stiffened
vlth such violence that the straps
reaked with a strain, and the clamps
attled as though they were castanets
n the hands of death, and then that
vhlch had once been Henry Clay
ieattie, Jr., relaxed. It was Just 7.23
Tclock when the shock was applied.
)ne minute later Beattle was dead.
The surgeon went forward and with
i siethescope listened for another
alnt beating of tne neart mat less
han sixty seconds before had lived.
stepped back and pronounced:
He is dead."
The witnesses solemnly filed out of
he death chamber. One or two were
rhastly pale as they stepped Into the
arly morning light.
Several hours after the execution,
wo ministers who attended Beattle
n prison, gave out the following conesslon
that had been signed by the
loomed man shortly before ho went
o tho electric chair:
"I. Henry Clay Peattle. Jr., desirous
>f standing right before Ood and
nan, do, on this 23rd day of Novemer,
1911, confess my guilt of the
rime charged against me.
"Much that was published concernfrl"?
/Into lit. ttraa ixun K?S# * V* AX
iwful fact, without the harrowing clrumstances.
remains. For this action
am truly sorry and, believing that I
tm at peace with God and am soon to
>ass Into His presence, this statement
ti made."
iCT- Be sure you are a good loser be'ore
participating in a game of love.
Give any man half a chance and
ie'11 say something he will regret laer.

xml | txt