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Title: The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 2, November 1895)

Author: Various

Release date: April 26, 2022 [eBook #67934]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Shortstory Publishing Co, 1895

Credits: hekula03, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK CAT (VOL. I, NO. 2, NOVEMBER 1895) ***

Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold
text by =equal signs=.




[Illustration]

  The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 2)

  5
  CENTS

  November
  1895




  Contents

  =A Calaveras Hold-Up.=
  Roberta Littlehale.

  =From a Trolley Post.=
  Margaret Dodge.

  =An Andenken.=
  Julia Magruder.

  =The Man from Maine.=
  J. D. Ellsworth.

  =A Wedding Tombstone.=
  Clarice Irene Clinghan.

  =The Other One.=
  A. H. Gibson.

  =Stateroom Six.=
  William Albert Lewis.

  =Her Eyes, Your Honor!=
  H. D. Umbstaetter.

  THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.
  Copyright 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.




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  The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 2)

  A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

  No. 2. NOVEMBER, 1895. 5 cents a copy. 50 cents a year.

  Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.




                         CONTENTS

    Title                     Author                  Page

    A Calaveras Hold-Up.      Roberta Littlehale.        1
    From a Trolley Post.      Margaret Dodge.            9
    An Andenken.              Julia Magruder.           13
    The Man from Maine.       J. D. Ellsworth.          25
    A Wedding Tombstone.      Clarice Irene Clinghan.   29
    The Other One.            A. H. Gibson.             34
    Stateroom Six.            William Albert Lewis.     40
    Her Eyes, Your Honor!     H. D. Umbstaetter.        43
    Advertisements.                                     50




  A Calaveras Hold-Up.
  BY ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.


ONE sunny summer noon of the year 1880, a man lay under a clump of
chaparral at the base of a scrub-oak, near a roadside in the Calaveras
foothills. He lay on his stomach, with his head on his arms; and the
flies crawled over the dirt on his clothes and the pistol at his belt,
only suffering disturbance because of the industry of the black ant
colony which had discovered meat among the bread crumbs that had fallen
from his pocket. He looked asleep, but, to one who might have seen,
there were slits in the sombrero that covered his head, and the eyes
behind them were not closed. Rather, they scarcely winked in the sober
scrutiny of their purpose.

The road here near the crest of the hill took a sharp right angle to
the north, and picked its way brokenly to the summit over rocks and
through stumps and standing trees. To the southwest below, it could
be seen for miles on its upward course, appearing and disappearing
among the open stretches and the woodland. The scrub-oak would have to
lengthen its fat shadow very perceptibly before the man would find it
necessary to get on his feet; so he allowed a portion of his attention
to revert to the cause of his being here.

Billy Owen was not analytical. He did not go back any farther than his
love for a woman as the representative cause of the present effect.
The spirit of his ancestors, trained to conquest and struggle, had
suffered a taint in the far gone years, and he had become the son of
an uncertain race. There were men of them rude in virtue as well as
strength, and men of them branded with a shifting eye and hunted step.
Billy had always had his pleasure with a gun in his hand until these
wondrous twelve months of his knowledge of Rudy. That that slight
person had no acquaintance with the manner of his former life was due
to the respect in which Billy held her. For himself, he couldn't get
rid of a troublesome pride when he called up the men—the brakemen,
and engineers, and inflated conductors—who had backed away from the
steel-ringed mouth of his Colt, his Betty. And the brakemen, and
engineers, and inflated conductors who hadn't backed away, and whom
Betty had spat at, gave him almost more pride than the treasures he had
borne off from under their bodies. But a man must be capering to more
than one tune if he's to dance in the open all of his life, so Billy
had been giving his later days to the panning for gold in secluded
spots of the California Sierras; and the first Sunday that he had lent
to the village and set apart for the play had been taken by Rudy! He
remembered it all very clearly. He had been so careful to shave. Men
must remember a moustache of straw color that brought out the steel
in his small gray eyes. He had not changed his working dress, for a
knife slips down a yawning boot-leg, and a flannel shirt yields best
to one's muscles in motion. A hat with a brim was given of the gods,
and Billy had drunk of the air and the anticipation, and sauntered with
carelessness into the street. Painted beer by the geyserful spouted
from pictured mugs at his every footfall, but he delayed that detail of
his social duty until he should have been invited, and continued his
march. It had seemed to him queer that the street was so empty. Only
occasional men swung in and out of saloon doors, and the rival hotel
chairs rested wholly idle. But it was not long before he found the
cause. A little paint-blistered church sat around the corner, and its
open doors had swallowed almost the entire populace. It seemed waiting
for more while the thin notes of its rejoicing bell chased each other
out on the air. Service must have been about to begin, for there was
only a girl standing out on the steps, and the horses in ranks along
the fences, who slept, or brushed flies, or hated their neighbors,
as their natures gave impulse. Billy sent the place over to a hotter
climate, and turned on his heel to shake off its dust just as the
restless eyes of a high-headed roan brought him to a halt.

It was then that he had heard a voice he felt he would never forget.

"There is room," it called.

Billy Owen had gone on looking over the roan. He was not the man to
waste Sunday in church.

"Father's to preach on fighting," he heard it again. "There are fights
that he stands by."

It was a voice, Billy thought, the bees would look for. He threw
her a glance that shouldn't reveal any weakness for the sort of
blood-spilling that the parson approved of, and straightway forgot to
look off again. Rudy Field was smiling at him, and Rudy was radiant
with the spirit of well-doing. The bell's noisy excitement had given
way to the voices of the people in an opening hymn of thanksgiving, and
the girl hurried off the steps, passed the horses, and laid her hand on
his arm.

"He says men ought to break each other's noses if there's cause; but
it's the cause," she added pregnantly, turning her eyes away towards
the church.

"If two men want to get up and fight just for the pleasure of
fightin'," said Billy, "and are glad to shake hands when one of 'em is
hollerin'?"

Rudy's gentle eyes gave out their inspiration.

"Come and see if he'll say," she said. And Billy went to his undoing.
It was never clear to him what the parson's fighting views really
were. There must have gone through them fiber of good sort, because
he remembered the noisy approval of his fellowmen. As for himself, a
straight little form and a thin little face, with a voice singing up to
the angels, left no consciousness of a judicial sort. After the last
rousing hymn and the dignity of the benediction, he had sat so still
that the church was emptying and the parson was up to him. If Billy had
wanted to, there would have been no escaping the zealous warmth of
purpose which drew him into the family life and the church life of this
country minister. The man had only Rudy and a rough little house, but
the restlessness of his energy used them both for his ends.

And the days had taken wings. Billy found through the hours of his
lonely working that there was something in his mind supplanting Betty
and the bodies which were testimony of his prowess and his power,—a
something which could not have borne the revelation of Betty and the
corpses. But the very instinct that had brought pride and lust of them
to Billy was not alive to a shame that threw them over altogether. In
the subtleness of conquest they were not the useful weapons.

Rudy's father had been Rudy's life, and she lay awake in the night now,
because a man strong in his youth and the power of his love was coming
between them. The atmosphere of her training had left her without the
protection of suspicion, and Rudy had only the education that her
frailness, their poverty, and shifting life could yield. Her femininity
showed her Billy Owen's masterful physique, his superior strength, and
tonic vitality. She had begun to have insight into Billy's will power.
But, of all men, he gave to her deference, and gentleness, and the
alertness of his interests.

And what she was conscious must come, came.

Two miners were hurt in an accident by fire, and the minister was
called for in the absence of the doctor. He had arranged to hold
services in a village three miles north, and Rudy was left to carry to
it the news of the church's closing. She put on a sun-bonnet and went
out to the barn. The old mare stepped listlessly into the shafts, when
a shadow fell over the floor, and Billy filled up the doorway.

"Your father said I was to look out that you got there." He laughed,
uncertain still of his welcome.

Rudy had dreaded the lonely twilight drive, and her face must have
spoken for her tongue had not; but Billy took up the harnessing with a
light on his own face that sent Rudy into the depths of her bonnet. She
kept on her side of the fat mare, and buckled and strapped in a tangle
of leather, with an indiscretion that sent her hands to the check at
Jane's head just at the moment when Billy's must meet them.

And Billy held them close, while Jane dropped her nose and sniffed
at some barley grains, indifferent to the fact that her toilet was
forgotten.

"Your father'd give me the word to fight the man that could take ye
from me now," Billy said.

And Rudy was whiter than the hair on Jane where it happened to be
clean.

"It's my father I shall never leave," she answered him.

"It's the father, His book tells ye, shall be left for the husband."

Billy dropped her hands to come around and take her in his arms.

"Say no more, girl, but the word you love me."

And Rudy had said it. And Rudy had sobbed over it, and laughed over it,
and sung over it before the message was delivered and Jane in her stall
again.

This was a perplexity Rudy's father laid in heaven's care. "There must
be something to live on," he had used as a protest. And what had always
made Billy's living but his revolver,—his Betty? The mining was snail's
pace at best, and with Rudy on his heart there was mad need of haste.
With everything at his hand and his Colt ready, there were only the
plans, which he straightway laid. Money for the northern mines passed
under his nose once every month. Mounted messengers were the things he
and Betty were used to, and the advantage of his isolated claim gave
him the chance for the doing in the hours of an unoccupied afternoon.

The flies lifted off on lazy wings as the figure under the chaparral at
the base of the scrub-oak heaved onto an elbow and measured the shadow.
With the sharp focus of quick sight, he turned to the road again. Down
in the far distance a cloud of dust hung in the air. The man went onto
his stomach again. The flies settled, the ants took up their burden,
and the summer sun burned over all.

On came the rolling dust, the four horses, the driver, the messenger,
and the passengers. They must have passed by Rudy's little house;
perhaps Rudy had been looking out at them. Well, the fools need not be
hurt—it is only to march to the music. The man bent one leg and rested
upon his knee to readjust the hot, black mask that covered his face. He
peered down the road again. The stage must be half up the last slope.
It was out of sight, but the snap of the whip came to his ears as a
signal.

"Betty," he whispered close to the barrel, and got on his feet. Against
the trunk of the dusty oak a man crouched, with his finger on the
trigger of a gun. A stage rocked into view with two betting men, a pale
little woman, and a Wells Fargo messenger, who sat on the box.

"Halt."

The horses came back on their haunches, the leaders in air.

Betty's steel-rimmed mouth had covered the crowd.

"Throw out your express box and unload your passengers."

Three men and a woman lined along the roadside with their hands to the
sky, and a green, brass-handled box lay in the dust.

"Out with your horses, my hearty, and line up."

The nerve of one man can undo the natural and customary methods of four
of his fellows. The driver took his team to the rear of his passengers,
and Billy stepped to the front with Betty as steady as became a
woman-of-war.

He ran his eye over the men. It would be time to release the woman when
danger was past.

"Fall to on that box," Billy directed. He signaled a man of generous
mold and ample manner, and the gentleman stood in his tracks.

"Two," said Billy. "One—"

But the man was in the middle of the road, willing and toolless. An axe
was dragged from the stage, and he sent the hot fury of his anger into
the strokes of the steel.

"Cut the mail pouches," came the next order, and the messenger writhed
under cover as he ripped with his knife.

At that moment fell the certain distant sound of approaching horses.
Heaven knows there was need of haste, and Billy stood over with curses
to emphasize the vigor of his threats.

Sweat fell from the men as he turned to the woman.

"Into the――" Billy began,—and Rudy was looking up at him! Rudy with
face like chalk, and the soul of her broken and bleeding.

God! but there is one thing no man can face—the faith of a woman struck
back into her heart!

Billy and the revolver wavered in one blindness, and the messenger
sprang to his feet.

"Get him," he cried, and his bullet went wide of the mark. Confusion
came with the moment. Men leaped to their pockets for weapons and
signaled the team coming up.

Billy wasted nothing of the aid Betty held for him. He plunged into the
brush at the east with his brain and his heart in the thrall of his
shock. About him spit, and crashed, and split a rain of bullets, and he
knew there were men of them ready to follow him on the spot.

He swore himself into energy, and beat on through the thick, thorny
underbrush with the hope of their disorder sustaining him. There was a
small stone corral some one had told him of—Rudy had told him of! It
was hemmed in with rocks, and buckeye, and chaparral. For a theater of
war it was safest for a man inside it, and there was only one approach!
Rudy had once found herb roots there.

He turned sharp to the south and trailed back again, conscious that his
scent was strong and his arm was true,—and to the devil with men who
had lived peaceful lives in the fields of their country!

Wet drops of something warm trickled down his back. There must be a
wound there. Billy forced his way along, cutting through tangles,
leaping the rocks, and scaling the boulders, only halting for seconds
to separate insect noises from that of the hunt of men. If he might
reach his corral there would be at least breathing space for further
campaigning. They were after him, hot on his trail, he knew, but the
resources of his race-people gave snap to his blood.

The long, slim shadows of the late afternoon had been swallowed in
the monotone of twilight when Billy Owen sat on his heels behind the
walls of a stone corral on the sheer slope of a Sierra hill. The
fever from his wound was racking his head, but the keenest pain that
he suffered was not from that. And there could be no moment of time
given over to the undisturbed thought of it. It was only the ever
present consciousness through the intensity of attention he imposed on
himself. His senses were preternaturally alert; they made record of the
night-millers' winging and the life of the lizards in the wall at his
face. The red leaves of a poison-oak vine served as his shelter, and
above this, and about it, and beyond it the chaparral, and the pines,
and the buckeyes watched. From behind the mass of summer foliage the
eyes of a man and the mouth of a gun were at aim and waiting.

But it was Rudy's face that was searing with fire the brain of the
man,—Rudy's face, which had known only love for him, and trust in him,
and pride of him. It went over him cold that her scorn of him might
set them on his track. She might guess what he would make for. They
had laughed at it as a robber resort. But the thought could not live.
Rudy's womanliness—

Hark! there could be no mistake—a step. He had been waiting hours for
it. It could come. He needed no change of movement to send it into
silence. There would be more of them behind. There must be no delay in
wiping them out.

There it comes again, on and up. The fool! Does he think his life is
worth juggling for? An unlodged stone trips jerkily down the hillside,
and some bats blacken the air over his head. Betty is so safe, and so
sure, and so ready that he will let the idiot come into her face.

A hand shows through the bushes at the gate of the corral. Billy is
forced to turn; it is some one who knows the run of the land. A black
figure thrusts through the branches and Betty throws out her ball of
death.

"Billy," he heard in its last terrible note of misunderstanding.

He sits in the open and holds her in his arms. Her black hair hangs
over her face, and he thrusts it back to clasp her against his breast,
against his lips.

At midnight they find Billy Owen, the bandit. There is a woman in his
arms, and their lives have gone out on a common search.

[Illustration]




  From a Trolley Post.
  BY MARGARET DODGE.


THE man looked discouraged. As he stood on the corner of the avenue,
his hands thrust into his overcoat pockets, his slouch hat pulled
down over his eyes, he seemed to be posing for an end of the century
statue of Resignation. For fifteen minutes he had been facing a purely
Bostonese combination of east wind and drizzling rain, while he waited
for one of the electric cars billed to pass that corner every five
minutes. There was no cab station within a mile, and his train left at
the other end of the town in half an hour. Besides, he lived in a city
where east winds never blew, and where L trains and cable cars whizzed
by with clockwork regularity. Consequently, he possessed few resources
for killing time on street corners. After he had read his paper, looked
over his memorandum book, and worn a path into the middle of the street
by continued expeditions undertaken in hope of sighting the delayed
car, he had backed up against the white trolley post, and fixed his
lusterless eyes upon the row of brownstone apartment houses that lined
the opposite side of the street.

Suddenly a gleam of hope lighted the gloomy eyes of the man at the
trolley post. Had the car, after all, taken a "spurt"? Had the wind
changed? No; the track was still clear as far as the eye could see; the
vane on the nearest church pointed unwaveringly to the east; but the
resigned man had made a pleasing discovery,—he had found a companion in
misery.

In the third-story side window of an apartment house diagonally
opposite, a picturesque, black-eyed youngster stood drumming on the
window-pane and scowling out into the brick-paved area on which the
window opened, with a disapproval that matched that of the man at the
trolley post.

Bud, too, was a stranger within the city's gates, and he, too, was
tired waiting for luck to take a turn. He had grown up in Texas, where
the sun shines for three hundred and fifty days in the year, and where
every day he could wander out upon the plains and kill something. And
now he had come to this cold, dismal city where he had to wear shoes
and a Fauntleroy suit, and stay in when the east wind blew. For two
hours he had been waiting for the sun to come out, and he had almost
reached the end of his resources.

Almost, but not quite. A moment later, as the resigned man watched the
little Texan standing with his nose flattened against the pane, his
round, bright eyes peering down into the mist, he saw him open the
window and, through the iron grating of the balcony, survey the scene
below. Then, with a coltish leap, Bud disappeared into the room.

A moment later his agile little body again wriggled out onto the
balcony. It was a small, rounded affair, filled with potted plants, and
situated on a perpendicular line with similar balconies which belonged
to the suites above and below. In the one immediately under that on
which the small boy stood was placed among the geranium plants and
India-rubber trees a glass globe containing several large goldfish.

Hanging out over the railing, Bud fixed his round eyes on the glass
globe and chuckled. Then he looked cautiously into the room behind
him. Apparently no one was in sight. Producing from the pocket of his
small trousers a fish-line and hook, he proceeded to lower it until the
duly baited hook landed among the goldfish. There was a deft twist of
the line, a splash, and a flop; something yellow and wiggling flashed
through the air, and a moment later a large goldfish lay breathing its
last in a big flower-pot, at the roots of an India-rubber tree.

Once more Bud chuckled. So did the man at the trolley post. He had now
waited half an hour, but for the moment he had forgotten the east wind,
the delayed car, and the train he wanted to catch.

Without loss of time, the boy again lowered his hook. Once, twice,
three times the operation was repeated, and then the boy unlooped
himself from the balcony and scraped one foot meditatively upon the
other. Four quarter-pound goldfish were now in the way of enriching
the soil at the base of the India-rubber tree—and the stream was fished
dry.

Did the balcony offer other worlds for this youthful Alexander?
Apparently not, for after chewing up several choice geranium blossoms
and practising with his bean-shooter upon a draggled sparrow he turned
to go.

The man at the trolley post frowned. Having seen two acts of a play, he
objected to being cheated out of the third.

Just then, however, the little comedy was continued by two new actors.
Around the corner appeared an Italian hand-organist leading by a
string a minute monkey gorgeously costumed in a green skirt, scarlet
jacket, and green and gold cap. As the melancholy Italian put down his
instrument and began grinding out "Daisy Bell," his hairy attendant
scampered across the pavement and began scrambling up the iron
balconies of the tall apartment house in quest of pennies.

A yawning grin convulsed Bud's small features. Flinging his fish-line
into a flower-pot, he climbed through the window and disappeared. He
was gone only a few moments, but when he returned he bore himself with
a new air. A large sombrero sat jauntily upon his black curls; from his
left arm hung a coil of rope, while his brown right hand brandished
above his head the loop of a lasso. As he stood there motionless, the
hand holding the lasso poised in the air, he looked a perfect pocket
edition of a Texas cowboy. The man at the trolley post would have
wagered a large sum that among the thirty-five thousand small boys
reported by the last census as living in Boston there wasn't another
boy like Bud.

Meantime the organist had changed his tune from "Daisy Bell" to "Hold
Your Head Up, Hogan," while the monkey had been making a triumphal
progress up the iron balconies. His gorgeous uniform, acrobatic leaps,
and hand-over-hand performances, together with his shrewd chatter and
the graceful twirl with which he pocketed coppers, had attracted every
child within a radius of four blocks. Pennies rained upon him like
roses on a favorite prima donna, and the little fellow was put to sore
straits to collect the rich shower. In Bud's absence he had traveled to
the topmost balcony of the seven-story apartment house, and was now
resting on the fourth on his downward progress, when his bright eyes
caught sight of another offering that was being thrust through the
window upon the second-story balcony of the next house by a child more
retiring than his neighbors. This house stood on the other side of a
common area, barely fifteen feet wide, and the railing upon which the
offering lay was directly opposite the one where the little beastie
crouched, but some ten feet below.

The monkey took in the situation with twinkling eyes. Then, after a
brief chattered soliloquy, he humped up his back and drew himself
together ready for a spring.

By this time the man at the trolley post was breathless with
excitement. To attempt to keep track of the boy and the monkey at the
same time was like watching a circus with two rings. By a quick glance,
however, he noted that while the monkey was gathering itself for the
leap the boy was standing erect, his eyes fastened on the monkey, his
fingers whirling the loop of the lasso above his head with the apparent
ease that means a deadly aim. Once, twice, the noose circled in the
air; the monkey quivered with the impulse to spring; but just then the
accident happened. The car arrived and the man from New York missed the
end of the play.

[Illustration]




  An Andenken.
  BY JULIA MAGRUDER.


ONE summer a party of American tourists was established at a small inn
in the little village of Oetz situated in the beautiful Oetzthal, one
of the upper valleys of the Tyrolean Alps. The Oetzthal is the deepest
valley of the Inn, and the most notable for its wild scenery, its
picturesque impressiveness, and its dangerous glaciers and falls.

Most of the party came for recreation, and the novel scenes and people
were a sufficient supply for that demand—as was the glorious fresh air
of the mountains for those who sought health.

The one member of the party who was a worker was, strange to say, the
youngest of them all,—an American girl who had been studying art in
Paris with great earnestness, and whose absorbing motive in coming
here was to paint. She had dozens of schemes in her head,—landscapes,
peasants, interiors, etc.,—and so eager was she to begin that when she
arrived at the little station after dark she felt herself consciously
impatient of the beautiful moonlight through which her drive to Oetz
was taken, and eager for morning to come.

She was very tired, however, and slept long, and when at last awakened
by her cousin, who was up and dressed before her, her first impulse was
to run to the window and look out.

"Stop, Ethel, you shall do nothing of the kind!" exclaimed her cousin
Florence. "That is just what I have come to prevent. I am going to
stand guard over you while you take your roll and coffee, and then drop
the curtains and make you promise not to lift them when I leave you to
dress."

Ethel, keen for anything that would enhance the flavor of the delicious
treat in prospect, gave the promise, and had kept it faithfully when
Florence returned, later, to take her out on a tour of inspection.
The young girl had equipped herself in her walking costume,—corduroy
skirt, flannel blouse, scarlet _beret_, and stout boots,—and was
ready for anything when her cousin led her from the room. So eager was
her own search for the picturesque that she ignored the fact that the
one or two people she encountered in going through the house might have
a similar interest, which must have been abundantly gratified at the
lovely vision which she made, with her golden hair twisted under the
red _beret_ and her lovely face aglow with expectation.

Before the front door was opened Florence produced a silk handkerchief,
which she tied firmly over her companion's eyes, making her promise
not to make any effort to remove it until she should be given leave.
Laughing delightedly and showing brilliant teeth between a pair of
fresh young lips, Ethel obediently consented to be led by the hand, up
a steep hill, to be faced round in a certain position, and then to have
the handkerchief whisked off, with a cry from Florence of:

"_There_, now!"

For some seconds the girl did not speak as she gazed about her.
She was standing in the center of a sort of court, which formed a
plateau on the crest of the hill. All around this court were low and
rudely constructed houses, whose front surfaces presented a mass of
decorations, indescribably brilliant. The plaster, which seemed very
smoothly and firmly made, was painted or stained in various colors
as a background; and upon these surfaces were painted pictures of
sacred subjects, the drawing and coloring of which were crude and
fantastic beyond description, though the decorative impression was most
picturesque and effective, especially with the added embellishment of
the brilliant blooming plants which overflowed the boxes placed across
every window. Petunias, pinks, sweet peas, poppies, geraniums, and many
other plants were here massed in a riot of colors, and long sprays of
vine fell down and fringed the borders of the pictures below. Every
available wall space was covered by one of these pictures—the favorite
subjects being the "Annunciation," the "Adoration of the Magi," the
"Birth of Christ," and constantly repeated representations of the "Holy
Family."

Most of the houses had two stories, and there was also a box containing
the blooming plants and vines fastened over every door; and as every
plant seemed at the very height of its bloom and perfection, and
every picture seemed as clean and free from weather stains as if just
painted, it is no wonder that Ethel received the impression so common
with those who first see this brilliant spectacle.

"What is it for?" she said. "I never saw anything so decorative and
brilliant, but I did not know it was any great gala day. Why didn't you
tell me? And what day is it?"

"No day at all; or, rather, no gala day," said Florence.

"Then what have they done this for?"

"For religion's sake, or beauty's sake, or a mixture of the two, I
suppose."

"You don't mean to say that they keep it like this all the time?"

"Yes, I do; until the frost kills the flowers, at least, and even then
the pictures remain."

"And is all this done by these ignorant peasants?" asked Ethel, flushed
with the delight of this new and strange impression.

"Of course. I should think you could see that the painting and drawing,
at least, were of peasant origin."

"It _is_ terrific in a way," said Ethel, scrutinizing with a
professional squint, which sat very prettily on her charming face, a
picture of the Holy Family which happened to be nearest to her; "and
yet," she went on, "there's feeling in that—quite wonderful feeling!
If that Virgin were not such a fright, she would really be quite
beautiful. Do you see what I mean?"

"Well, hardly," said Florence, with a smile.

"Of course not! but I do mean what I say. The tender feeling of that
face and figure are now completely subject to the grotesque form and
crude color which the poor ignorant painter must have suffered from
acutely—for he had a beautiful ideal in his mind when he did that."

"Well, you are even more knowing in art than I gave you credit for,"
said Florence, "if you can make that out. It seems to me to resemble
nothing so much as one of the jointed dolls, made of wood, and painted
with three colors,—white, black, and red,—which used to be the delight
of my infancy."

"I see that resemblance," said Ethel seriously; "but I also see
something else—very different. I wonder who does these things."

"I have inquired," Florence answered, "and I find that every generation
has its own local artist, who makes it a profession to do these
decorations, to paint the little wooden head-boards which serve as
tombstones here, and also to paint the _andenken_ which decorate
the surrounding country. You will see them by the dozen."

"_Andenken!_ What is that?"

"It is a little picture-sign, which is set up by the family or friends
of a person who is killed by any of the casualties which are so common
here, from avalanches or from falling rocks, which, once misplaced and
started, tumble down the mountain sides with increasing velocity, and
kill anything in their way. The shepherds here, who so often spend the
nights with their flocks on the mountain sides, are frequently killed
by them, and then, too, the inhabitants of this region are sometimes
overwhelmed with torrents of mud, ejected by the mountains—not a
very pretty thing to paint! But you will see dozens of these little
_andenken_ all about here, as they are always erected on the spot
of the disaster, and always consist of a pictorial representation of
it, and the passers-by are supposed to say a prayer for the repose of
the victim's soul."

"How strange! I think it seems rather sweet," said Ethel dreamily.

"The custom may be; the pictures are anything else, as you will soon
discover; although, since you admire this Virgin, there's no telling
what you will think."

"I do admire it!" said Ethel, looking toward it again, "I should like
to know something about the man who did it. Oh, to think what it would
be to him, to teach him to use his fingers and realize his ideals—for
that he has ideals I am certain. But where are all the people who
belong to these enchanted houses? And why is it that we see nobody
about?"

"They are all at work in the fields at this time of the day."

"But their houses are open!"

"Of course! They are never closed, except when the weather makes it
necessary."

"But people could go in and steal!"

"Yes, they could, but it seems they don't! One reason for such
uprightness may be that there is so very little to steal. Come and look
into this one!"

They advanced to the door, which stood wide open, mounted the low
steps, and looked in.

"How charming! How delicious!" exclaimed Ethel enthusiastically.

Florence answered with a laugh of amiable derision.

"Where the charm and delightsomeness come in, I must say I do not
pretend to see! An old room, with its low rafters stained black
with smoke, and a long earthenware stovepipe running through it
and threatening the life of those who pass under it!—an old stove
surrounded by—I will admit—the brightest bits of copper, and brass, and
tin that any housewife could boast—and a squatty little table piled up
with carrots, and onions, and cabbages! You, I suppose, will be wanting
to paint it next!"

"I want to paint it now, at once, this minute!" cried Ethel. "My
fingers fairly itch. I want to paint those copper cans, and brass
kettles, and iron pots with exactly this light upon them—and those
vegetables, too! Oh, if I only could, while the impression is so fresh
and strong upon me!"

"Well, so you can! you have only to fetch your easel and box and begin
at once."

"But I have not got permission, and there is no one here to ask!"

"No matter at all about that! These peasants are the most amiable
beings on earth. I have come to understand them very well. Go to work
and do your picture, and I promise to make everything right when the
family returns."

Urged by Florence, Ethel, who was really longing to make this picture,
ran back to the little inn for her box and easel, and was soon at work,
sketching in her picture rapidly, with an absorbed face, while Florence
sat by her and watched its progress and prepared herself to explain
things on the return of the family.

Ethel sat at her easel in the center of the old, low-roofed room,
her scarlet cap flung on the floor beside her and her golden head
shining tenderly under the smoky rafters. Her picture seemed to grow
by magic, and as she brought out the brilliant polish of metal on the
old vessels, and the soft bloom of vegetation upon the cabbages and
carrots, etc., on the table beneath, she was feeling that triumph of
achievement which sometimes comes to reward a painstaking artist for
much discouragement.

So absorbed was she that she did not notice Florence when she rose,
at the end of about two hours, and slipped quietly out of the house.
She had seen the family returning, and she went to meet them. Her
explanation, graciously and smilingly given, was received in the
same spirit, and the two women and several children had soon filed
noiselessly into the rear of the room and stood there, silent and
delighted, watching the progress of the young artist's work. Florence
had given them some coins, which to their frugal minds seemed an
inordinate price to pay for the privilege accorded, and they were
evidently in high good humor.

Presently Ethel, in a pause of her breathless interest, happened to
turn her head and catch sight of them. She had a brush between her
white teeth, but she smiled radiantly, and, taking it out, came forward
to greet them. She felt, however, a certain hesitation as to how to
deal with this strange people, and was glad to accept the word of
Florence that she had made everything right, and to express her thanks,
merely. At the same time she offered to stop work, in order that the
details of her study might be put into more active use. But the women
protested, declaring that dinner could wait until the picture was done,
and showing such evident desire that she should not interrupt her work,
that she consented to go on a little longer.

"But why does she not paint the Holy Mother and the Blessed Child, if
she can paint like that?" said one of the women aside to Florence.
"My nephew, Anton Wald, is a painter. He made the picture of the Holy
Family on the outside of our house, but he would not paint such things
as kettles and cabbages! He is the finest painter in the whole valley,
though he is angry if I say so, and sometimes he throws down his brush
and will not paint again for months, because he says the pictures in
his mind are beautiful, but that they are hideous when he puts them
down. That is only his strange way, though, for his pictures are most
beautiful, as you can see from the one on my house, and all the new
head-marks in the church-yard are done by him, and some most beautiful
_andenken_. The picture of Frau Muhlau's son, who was mashed
under a great rock, is a lovely thing; the saints have mercy on his
soul!" she added, reverently crossing herself.

"Where does this Anton live?" said Florence; "he would perhaps
like to see the Fraulein paint. She has learned in the greatest
painting-schools in the world, and has had the makers of the most
beautiful pictures to show her how they did it."

"He will be here to get his dinner by and by. He has no parents or
home, poor boy! he is a good lad, though queer at times, and I am glad
to have him to live with me. Ah, here he comes now!" she exclaimed.
"Hans ran to fetch him, I see, and has told him about the beautiful
lady and the picture."

At the same moment there appeared, through the back doorway of the
house, the figure of a tall young peasant, not dressed in rough farming
clothes, but in a nearer approach to the holiday attire of the Tyrolean
of that vicinity. He wore corduroy knee breeches, gray stockings, and
a brown coat which flared over a red waistcoat and broad striped belt.
The facings of his coat were also striped with red, as were his sleeves
about the hands. On his head was the wide Tyrolean hat of tan-colored
felt, faced with bright green, and trimmed with a bright green ribbon,
with streamers falling behind.

As he noiselessly entered the room and stood gazing at the beautiful
figure whose back was turned to him, he seemed not to see it, or be
conscious of the others who were present, for his eyes fixed themselves
eagerly on the canvas, and, as he looked, the eagerness deepened and
strengthened, until it changed into a radiance of delight that seemed
scarcely unmixed with awe.

As if unconscious of himself and his own act, he slowly removed his hat
and stood bareheaded and as if spellbound in his place, his gaze fairly
devouring the picture.

"The saints preserve us!" whispered the woman. "What a strange lad
this Anton is! one would think it was the Holy Virgin herself, in the
picture, instead of those old pans!"

"I don't think it is the subject that interests him so," said Florence,
"I think it is because he has never seen painting like that done
before. The Fraulein is a beautiful painter, and he—being a painter
himself—would be quick to see that."

Ethel, meanwhile, painted on unconscious. She was always wholly
absorbed in her work when it was "going," and Florence knew that she
had been as oblivious as sleep could have made her of all that had
happened around her.

But now, becoming conscious of her cramped position, and also of the
fact that she had successfully secured her impression, which was all
that she had aimed at, she laid her palette down, and, rising, turned
and looked about her. Satisfaction in her work had made her feel very
content, and she remembered also her obligation to these good people,
and the two things made her always beautiful smile now seem unusually
winning, as it rested upon Anton, who had advanced nearer to her than
had the others, and who now turned his worshiping gaze from the picture
to the painter's lovely face.

So ardent, concentrated, eager was that gaze that Ethel flushed under
it, looking lovelier than ever. Turning to the group who stood near
Florence across the room, she seemed, by a look, to ask an explanation.

"It is the young painter who did the Virgin that you admired," said
Florence in English.

Ethel's face lighted up with pleasure and recognition, and making
a step toward him, she held out her hand, and said in her pretty,
half-timid German:

"As we are both painters, we must shake hands."

But the young peasant, very white and startled looking, stepped back.

"It is not true," he cried. "Who has told you that I am a painter? I
am only a wretched dauber and cheat. I will never touch color or brush
again."

Ethel looked at him with a fervent gentleness.

"You are wrong," she said. "You will go to your work again, with a
love and earnestness such as you have never known. You think my little
picture here is good, and so it is, because I have been taught the way
to do a thing; but I, with all my study, have never done and can never
do such a picture as the one you have made on this house. The spirit
and soul of creation has been born in you, and not in me. You have only
to learn how and you will be an artist. I have already learned how, and
I am only a workman. Listen," she went on eagerly, "I am going to stay
here all the summer, and I am going to give you a lesson every day. I
can teach you all I know, and if you do as well as I expect, you will,
after that, go to Munich and study, or to Paris. The time will come
when you will offer me your hand, and I shall not dare to take it, as
you have not dared now."

The group of peasants, now augmented by the arrival of two men, looked
on in astonishment. Florence, comprehending both their wonder and the
cause which had produced it, made a hasty explanation, and hurried
Ethel away, helping her to gather up her belongings and to express her
thanks.

Just as they were ready to go, the young girl, with a quick impulse,
held out her little canvas to Anton, saying impulsively:

"I will give it to you. You can take it and study it carefully. It
may teach you something. When you are a great painter you shall give
me a picture of yours. And, remember, I shall expect you at the hotel
to-morrow, to arrange for your first lesson."

That was the way it began,—this intercourse between the two young
artists.

That evening, Ethel, looking more lovely than ever in a soft blue gown,
with her hair loose about her shoulders, sat alone in her room writing,
with a look of joy on her face. She wrote some of these sheets every
evening, and sent them off by post, twice a week. She had written
several pages with rapidity, and now paused and read them over with a
look on her face which showed how much her own subject interested her.
She took up her pen and went on:

"Now that I have described to you my wonderful young painter and his
really remarkable mural work, I must tell you about his painting on
the little wooden head-boards in the church-yard. Such a picturesque
little church it is, perched on a steep cliff, overlooking the lovely
valley through which the river winds, and beyond which the great
mountains rise immeasurably high! There is a cunning priest's house
near the church, with a fascinating old sun-dial on its walls (one
never sees a clock here). This little house is also founded upon a
rock—but, oh, how barren and empty it looks! and how lonely! You would
be filled with pity to see it! The church-yard is the tawdriest thing
you can imagine, with the graves hung about with bead flowers, faded
immortelles, and as many little images, and medals, and crosses as can
be got together; but the awful thing is the head-boards! These are made
of wood and every one is decorated with a picture of the departed and
his family, the living members of which are kneeling around his dying
bed, while the dead ones appear in a bank of clouds above. The horrible
distortion of these figures, and the grotesqueness of both the earthly
and heavenly garments, is something ghastly—and yet I could single out,
every time, those painted by my young Anton, by that truly wonderful
feeling and aspiration. Oh, I shall be proud of my pupil yet—and
already his feeling for his teacher amounts to veneration. (You, sir,
have never looked at me with such worshipful eyes, in your life!) I
gave him his first lesson to-day, and it was a thrilling experience! He
is going to take to it like a duck to water, and his love for beauty is
absolutely touching. I saw him looking, with a sort of hungry delight,
at the opal in my ring (my _dear_ ring!) Its marvellous color
changes were an evident feast to him. Oh, I am so glad Providence
guided me to this place. My Anton is such an interest and impulse
onward to me, and will help to beguile the long, weary, desolate, empty
days—until you come!"

In due time there came an answer to this letter, and, in turn, an
answer to that. And meanwhile every day Anton received a painting
lesson, and advanced by strides. It was a deliriously happy life into
which he had entered, and he seemed to others, and still more to
himself, to be new made. The glow of health which came into his cheeks,
and of fire into his eyes, made the strong young peasant suddenly
develop a radiant beauty, which was so striking and extraordinary that
Ethel could not resist such a model, and set to work to paint him.

She made a spirited and beautiful study of him on a small canvas,
painting him full length, in his Tyrolean costume, with the black
pointed hat, ornamented with its proud group of rare and perilously
purchased little feathers, for Anton was a sportsman as well as an
artist, and had won these trophies by his own skill and daring, and
many was the votive offering, so procured, which he laid at his young
teacher's feet. It was but natural that he should wish to make some
return for the hours of patient instruction which she daily bestowed
upon him.

So thought Ethel, but did her correspondent, perhaps, have, some other
idea?

One day she got a letter from him which contained this paragraph:

"You want me to explain why it is that I always refer to your pupil
as 'poor Anton!' It is truly because I pity him,—you most bewitching
of women! My own blessed ownership of you makes my heart gentle to
the rest of men—even including lowly Tyrolean peasants, who are, by
circumstances, quite removed from you. And I wondered if it were only
the dear opal ring which he looked at so hungrily that day. Do not
forget that it is far less beautiful than the hand which wears it. In
short, my own child, I would wish to put you a little on your guard—for
this poor Anton's sake!"

After this letter it seemed as if the serpent had entered into Eden,
for a fear was in Ethel's heart which she had never known before. Anton
had lately been engaged in doing a portrait of her, and while she posed
for him she gave him lessons. The ardor which she had thrown into this
piece of work and the extraordinary success he was having with it came
to Ethel's mind now with a new and disturbing significance.

Next morning she got Florence to go to Anton with a message to say
that she was not well and could not pose for him, so that he would
have to work without her that day, in the little studio which they had
improvised.

"But how can he work without his model?" asked Florence.

"Oh, he can go on with the hair to-day. I gave him a great lock of mine
yesterday to paint from, when I had to leave. I wish I hadn't!" she
added, with a tone of sudden compunction.

Florence returned from her mission to say that Anton had decided not
to paint at all that day, and was full of concern for his teacher's
illness. But again the next day Ethel did not go, but remained in her
room writing page after page of one of those long letters. Anton passed
her window and looked up at her. His face was flushed and eager, and
very beautiful. In spite of all this, however, Ethel gave him a more
formal bow than he had ever received from her before. He had become
"poor Anton" to her also, now, and she was doing her best to manifest
her true sympathy for him.

The next morning when Ethel failed to come again, Anton went hunting.
Florence, who saw him just as he was setting out, learned that he was
going in search of a certain bird, whose wings Ethel had once expressed
a wish to have for a hat. The capture of these birds was a somewhat
dangerous enterprise, and when Ethel heard where he had gone she felt a
vague alarm.

       *       *       *       *       *

All this was long ago.

Now, when tourists go to the Oetzthal, as they do in far greater
numbers than they did then, one of the sights pointed out is a certain
_andenken_, high up the mountain side, done with an exquisite art,
which separates it conspicuously from the rest of its class.

It has two sides. One is a fine portrait of a young Tyrolean peasant—a
model of fresh and vigorous beauty,—and the other is a representation
of the very spot on which it stands—not covered with verdure and
flowers, however, but with a great mass of sliding snow, whose terrific
rush downward is depicted with the power of a master hand.

Underneath there are a few words in German and in English, asking the
passer-by to pray for the repose of the soul of Anton Wald.

It was painted, the tourist is told, by a young American lady, who
spent a summer at Oetz, and was married immediately afterward. She
had given painting lessons to the young peasant, and had left this
_andenken_ of him.

No record exists of the additional facts that when Anton's body was
found the coveted bird was in his hand, and that in a little silk bag
around his neck was a fair tress of shining hair.

This _andenken_ Ethel carries in her heart.




  The Man from Maine.
  BY J. D. ELLSWORTH.


AS a Westerner, I was amused by the discreet sinfulness of Boston; but
when business called me to Maine, our down-east sister, whose temperate
example is always held before our eyes, I felt that I was about to set
foot on the stepping-stone of heaven. To provide against the serpent
that must inevitably haunt such an Eden, I filled my pocket flask with
the standard Western remedy for snake bites.

The train left the Union Station at nine in the morning, and
anticipating a stupid ride I went into the smoking-car to enjoy a cigar
and read my newspaper. The car was fitted up with mahogany card tables
and stationary cribbage boards. In the seats in front of me were three
traveling men.

"Play euchre?" said one of them, looking toward a lean, lanky stranger.

"Does it cost anything?"

"Not a cent."

"Well, then, I guess I'll come in," and he opened himself like a
jack-knife and strolled to his place. His thin, freckled face looked as
if it had been carved with a chisel, and his clothes were economically
cut to save cloth. Altogether, he had an air of Yankee thrift that
might suggest to a cynical observer that he had taken the rear seat to
save the interest on his fare while the conductor was making his way
through the car. There was a chill about him that suggested a diet of
ice-water, and when he cut the cards I half expected that they would be
frost-bitten by his touch.

As the train rushed over bridges and through suburban cities the
novelty of my surroundings so engrossed my attention that I did not
notice the card-players again until I heard the lean stranger say:

"I guess I'm going to be real sick. I never had such a fearful pain
before in all my life."

He put his hand on the pit of his stomach, and there were sharp
lines in his face that indicated intense agony. The dealer looked up
sympathetically, and his partner said:

"I've got a little something with me from Kentucky. Perhaps it might do
you good."

"I come from Maine," said the stranger, "and we don't drink rum down
there. But, as a medicine, I might take a few drops, if you don't think
it would go to my head."

The drummers assured him that something warming was just what he
needed, and a bottle was brought forth. The man from Maine took a
drink, cleared his throat, and seemed better at once. Then the game
went on.

Lounging back in my seat and watching the dissolving panorama of
snow-bound villages, I ruminated on the incident. It was impossible
not to pity the people of Maine, whose strict prohibition principles
deprived them of the gracious influence of a little stimulant in cases
of sudden illness.

At Lynn I was reminded of the euchre players as one of the drummers got
out and another passenger took his place. The last comer carried a gun
case and was dressed for a hunting trip. When we reached Salem at 9.35
the two remaining drummers left. The lean stranger and the sportsman
found two new partners and continued playing.

As I had finished my cigar and exhausted my newspaper, I tried to amuse
myself by watching the game. When the cards were passed to the lean
stranger he shook his head and pushed them over to his partner.

"Deal for me," he groaned; "I've got an awful pain in my side. It seems
like pneumonia, but it may pass in a minute."

The group looked solicitous, and the sportsman, taking a black bottle
from the pocket of his hunting-bag, said:

"Take some of this, man; you musn't fool with a pain like that."

"I come from the State of Maine," said the sufferer, "and I'm opposed
to strong drink. But, rather than delay the game, gentlemen, I'll take
a little as medicine."

"Of course; it's the only thing to do," interrupted the other players.

The man from Maine put the bottle to his lips, and then coughed and
said that he didn't know whether the liquor did it, but that he
certainly felt better.

At the town of Newburyport the lanky representative of the Pine Tree
State was left alone at the card table. I was becoming interested in
him. As we crossed the bridge over the Merrimac I lost sight of him for
a moment, but when the train had passed the State line I walked forward
in the car. My invalid friend was playing seven-up with a swarthy
stranger.

Dropping into a seat, I patiently waited for developments. We were due
to reach Portsmouth at 10.40. I looked at my watch from time to time
and then at the man from Maine. I saw that he began to get uneasy. His
face showed signs of suffering and he coughed violently. He went from
one spasm into another until it seemed that he could not recover his
breath.

The brakeman brought some water in a tin cup. The suffering man
motioned him away, gasping, "I wouldn't dare (cough) to take water
(cough); it makes it worse."

The swarthy stranger drew from his grip a pocket flask and handed it to
the sufferer. The spasmodic cough ceased for a moment, and a familiar
voice said:

"My friend, I hail from the State of Maine and believe in total
abstinence. I can't take a drink, but I'll just swallow a few drops as
medicine."

We rolled into Portsmouth as he handed back the half-emptied bottle.
There were tears in his eyes, but his cough was stopped.

When we reached North Berwick it seemed as if the very air was
different. It was Maine air and evidently agreed with the man who
claimed that State as his home. He settled himself in the corner of a
lonely seat and figured industriously on both sides of an envelope.

The car was almost deserted after we left Biddeford, and another change
came over the unfortunate representative of prohibition. In a very
low tone he asked a question of the conductor, who replied by shaking
his head decidedly. Then the man from Maine went forward into the
baggage car and returned with a pale, haggard face. I wondered how his
complaint would develop. Perhaps it was smallpox or measles by this
time.

A glance at my watch assured me that the sun had passed the meridian.
Bringing out the flask I had filled at Boston, and unscrewing the top,
I said, "Stranger, will you join me?"

"Thanks, very much," he replied; "I am a Maine man—"

As the train slowed up at Portland, the remainder of his sentence was
drowned in the gurgling sound of liquor that flowed gently and smoothly
as in a familiar channel.

[Illustration]




  A Wedding Tombstone.
  BY CLARICE IRENE CLINGHAN.


SO you never heard tell of Melindy Barbour's weddin' tombstone?"
said grandma in a tone of surprise. "For the land's sake, I thought
everybody knew about that."

I confessed the most abject ignorance and immediately drew up to the
fire. This was partly to gain information and partly because, although
the fireplace was wide and deep throated and big logs were blazing in
it, there were biting draughts of stinging November air coming in at
the loosely fitting door. For grandmother would not be persuaded to
leave the home that had been hers for fifty years, and which now showed
some signs of decay. She sat knitting vigorously by the firelight, for,
although she had all the modern conveniences of heating and lighting,
her big fireplace cast its ruddy glow out into the room through all the
long winter evenings. I was an angular schoolgirl of fifteen then, with
a great love of the romantic, and was on a four weeks' visit at the
old homestead. It seemed never to occur to grandma that, having been
raised in a different part of the country, the happenings at Ragged
Corner (where she lived) would naturally be unknown to me. She always
expressed fresh surprise at my ignorance on these subjects. After
knitting a few minutes in silence, she began:

"You've seen the old stone house down on the bank of the river, all
shut in with pines and evergreens? It's nigh a hundred years old. When
I was born it had been built ten years. When I was a young married
woman the Barbours came to live there, and they was proud, high-feelin'
people that nobody could get acquainted with. That's what made 'em
take it so dretful hard when—but here I am, way ahead of my story. You
see, Mr. Barbour embezzled or did something of that kind, and went to
prison. After he had been there a year he up and hung himself, and that
is the last of him so far as my story goes.

"Then his wife and little boy shut themselves up in the stone house and
never went outside the gate hardly. She'd had a good deal of schooling,
his mother had, and she taught him herself as long as she could, and
then he bought books and studied by himself. He tried going to school
when he was a small boy, but one of the scholars threw it at him about
his father, and Mortimer nearly killed him, and after that his mother
kep' him home. And she was such a proud woman, was Mis' Barbour, and
lofty and severe in her ways. She wouldn't let nobody sympathize with
her, which everybody wanted to, as there's so little going on in a
place like Ragged Corner. Mis' Barbour was real selfish with her grief,
so she got herself disliked, besides folks bein' suspicious after the
way her husband turned out. What did they live on? Oh, the boy farmed
it, and later they do say he wrote books on what they call natural
history, though to my mind it was the most unnatural stuff I ever heard
tell of,—all about beetles and bugs with three hundred muscles in their
heads, and as could carry twelve hundred times their own weight on
their own backs, which everybody knows he must have got up as he went
along. They were dretfully taken up with each other, he and his mother,
and she believed everything he said was so, even about the bugs and
beetles. But she was his own born mother, and that explains it.

"When she died, Mortimer liked to went crazy. He planted her grave with
vi'lets and pansies, and at the head was a white marble monument he
had gone to the city for—nothing nearer would suit him. But he didn't
display no taste. Nothing on it, my dear, but the old lady's name and
the date she died—not an angel, nor a cherub, or a lamb, or a broken
rosebud, nor a bit of verse. And yet he always seemed to set store by
her.

"Then Mortimer, he just stuck to the old house, same as ever, though
now he was alone. I used to wonder how it seemed to him late at night
hearin' the swash of the river and the sighin' of them pine trees. He
wore his hair long, as was the custom in them days, and it was curly up
at the ends, like the picture of John Wesley. But he had eyes that went
right through you and came out the back of your head. And he never set
foot into the meeting-house, nohow.

"Now, he was the last man in the village I'd ever said would got
married. But as sure as you set there, when the little milliner,
Melinda McAllister, came into the place, he was struck. That wasn't
nothing strange—all the young fellows was—but, mind you, _she was
struck, too_. No, you wouldn't 'a' thought it. Everybody warned her,
and told her about his father's hangin' himself in prison, and how
queer his mother was, and that Mortimer was as odd as Dick's hatband
and wouldn't come to no good. She listened, with her eyes big and cool
and a little hot patch of red on her cheeks like a daub of paint, but
she never said a word. That was Melindy McAllister all over, never to
say a blessed word, but go and do just as she saw fit. First we knew
they was engaged, and it was given out in meeting. Next day her aunt
she lived with came in to see me, and wrung her hands, sayin' she
wouldn't be surprised if Melindy was murdered before the year was out.
What can you think of a man who lives like a hermit, and had a crooked
father and a peculiar mother?

"But we wasn't prepared for the worst. A day or two before the wedding,
in comes old Mis' Johnson, and says, 'Shut up the doors tight,' says
she, 'and the winders. I've got something to tell you that'll make
your hair rise up,' she says, whisperin'-like. So I shut the door, she
a-workin' her hands together like one possessed. 'It's about Melindy,'
she went on. 'He's been and got a tombstone for her.' 'Who?' asked I,
as if I didn't know, but my knees knocked together and I felt a bit
sick. 'Mortimer Barbour,' says she. 'My grandson, Johnnie, was after
a bird's nest in a tree over in his yard. The limb broke, and down he
went right onto the roof of the old cornhouse, that hasn't been used
for years. It went in under him like tinder, and as soon as he could
pick himself up and found no bones broke, what should he see but a new
white gravestone, a-settin' up quite pert in a corner against some
rubbish. He went up to it, and he says as true as the Bible he saw
'Melinda Barbour' cut on it, and the date she is a-goin' to die.' 'I
don't believe it,' says I, but I was all a-faint, and had to go and
make us each a cup of tea, so we could bear up under it.

"As soon as I said I didn't believe it Mis' Johnson said we'd go
ourselves and _see_. And we did go, Mortimer bein' away in the
fields, and got into the cornhouse. It was towards dark, and we shook
with the cold, though it was a warm day in June. We'd brought a bit of
candle with us, and Mis' Johnson lit it, and then we saw—land sakes,
child, how scairt you look; don't get so near the fire, honey, you'll
be all ablaze. Where was I? Oh, we saw the stone, just as Johnnie
said, a real gravestone of white marble, and on it the name 'Melindy
Barbour,' with the date 'Sept. 5, 18—,' below it. But the rest we
couldn't make out. 'He's going to let her live three months, may heaven
forgive him,' says old Mis' Johnson, meanin' different from what she
said.

"The next day I went to Melindy, and told her the whole truth. And
would you believe it, she said she thought Mis' Johnson and I had no
business prying about other people's affairs? 'If he had bought me a
thousand gravestones I'd have him just the same,' says she. So they was
married the next day in the meeting-house, but Melindy was white as a
ghost, and she trembled so she could hardly walk. They went right away
on the cars, and we threw some old shoes after 'em, but all the wishin'
of joy was make believe, and I never saw a bride with such a white, set
face, never looking at her husband nor yet at us.

"They was away nearly three months; then they came back to the old
house. But folks said they wasn't happy, that she was as cold as a
stone, and he was always at his books and old insects. One day I got a
letter askin' me to come and see her. She was lyin' down on a lounge
when I got there, white and so thin, with big eyes with a sorry, hungry
look in 'em. But she had on a smart gown, and was as pretty as a
picture. As soon as we'd shaken hands and I'd taken off my bonnet and
mantilla, she says, 'Do you know what day to-morrow is?' Then I thought
it up, and said it was the 5th of September. 'The day I am to die,' she
says in a soft, quiet way. Then I up and asked her if Mortimer had been
ill-treatin' her, but she put up her finger, and said, 'Not a word to
my husband; he doesn't know I know it.' Then she said he was awful good
to her, but she couldn't get that gravestone out of her head day or
night. All at once it came to me how matters was; she'd been too proud
to give him up, besides her likin' him, too; and she'd been too proud
to tell him about it; and so betwixt the two the poor child was almost
beat out. She asked if I would go out to the cornhouse with her to see
the stone. She wanted to see it and was afraid to go alone.

"Then a queer thing happened. Mortimer had come into the next room
while she'd been talkin', and heard every word. I never saw anybody so
stirred up as he was when he came in. 'Is that tombstone what has stood
between us?' he said, and went on to explain that it had been ordered
for his mother. He was such a bad writer that the stone cutter mistook
the name Malviny for Melindy, and after the stone was half done it
was found out, and they made him pay for it. So, as it was his, they
brought it to him, and, not knowin' what to do with it, he'd just set
it up in the cornhouse and forgot all about it. Melindy, she began to
cry, and then they fell to huggin' and kissin' each other, as if they
hadn't met for years. I tried to put in a word to ca'm 'em, but they
saw me without seeing me, and heard me without hearing me, so I put on
my bonnet and mantilla and came away and left 'em.

"After that? Dear me, they was the happiest couple you ever saw. They
used the gravestone for a front doorstep, wrong side up, and it was
real pretty. Melindy was dretful proud of him, and believed every word
he wrote about them bugs and beetles, just as his mother did, which
only goes to show that the old sayin' is true, that love is blind."

[Illustration]




  The Other One.
  BY A. H. GIBSON.


I NEVER recall it without shuddering, though it happened over thirty
years ago.

I was then a young man, occupying a position of trust in the banking
firm of Dillard & Hatch. One day I was sent to carry five thousand
dollars in gold to Caleb Parton, a very eccentric man living in an
isolated house in a wild, hilly part of West Virginia.

Parton was the bank's heaviest depositor, and his wealth was said to
aggregate a half million. The day before, his servant, a large negro,
had appeared at the bank with a message requesting Dillard to send him
eight thousand dollars in gold. He arranged that I was to be the one
to carry the amount to him, and further suggested that I should make
the trip in a wagon, so that I could take back a cask of rare old wine,
which he begged to be permitted to present to the firm.

It was a hard journey over rough, stony roads, which were seldom
traveled, except by the plodding mountain folk of that region; and
not until two hours after sunset did I reach the queer stone dwelling
where Caleb Parton lived a hermit-like existence, shut away from all
the world. The place was a lonely one, in the heart of an uninhabited,
hilly tract of country covered with extensive forests.

I was impressed with the deepest sense of this loneliness, as I drew
rein before the solitary stone house. Hitching the horse to a tree, I
was guided up the indistinct path by a meager, yellowish light that
struggled through the panes of an upstairs window.

Although I knocked loudly at the door, it was fully ten minutes before
I heard any sound within. Then, half cautiously, the thick oaken door
opened, and a dark-faced, wiry man, somewhere between fifty and sixty,
looked out at me.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Hope, of the firm of Dillard & Hatch," I returned.

"Ah! It's you, come at last, is it?" he said, holding the lighted
candle so as to get a better view of my face. "Well, come in, Mr. Hope."

He led the way up a flight of stairs and through a hall into a wide
room, lighted by a brass lamp. The furniture was scant, but of a heavy,
antique pattern. A faded Brussels carpet covered the floor, and in one
corner stood a desk with a small iron safe near by. A narrow table in
the center of the room held a decanter and glasses with the remnants of
a lunch.

Motioning me to a chair, my strange host took the sacks of gold, which
I carried in a stout bag, and threw them against the safe. The clang of
the falling coins sounded dismally through the silent apartment.

"What a curse love and gold can be to a man!"

He spoke bitterly. I had never met Caleb Parton before, and as he
uttered these words I looked at him carefully. His face was of a dark
olive tint, while his deep-set eyes were small and intensely black.
They were full of magnetism and subtle cunning.

He became conscious of my scrutiny, frowned a little, then turned
toward the door.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Hope," he said, "I'll bring you up some
refreshments. You must be tired and hungry after your long ride."

In a short time he returned, bringing a tray on which was a choice
repast, with a bowl of strong coffee.

"You see I'm my own servant, Mr. Hope," he said, putting the tray on
the table. "My man, Joe, is off to a camp-meeting and won't be back
before daylight."

As I ate the lunch which Caleb Parton had brought me, he emptied the
gold from the sacks upon the floor and counted it over carefully.

"Correct!" I heard him chuckle to himself, as he flung the refilled
sacks into the safe.

After I had finished my lunch, Parton exhibited two fine pipes and
invited me to join him in a smoke.

"Excuse my oversight. There's not a drop of wine left in this
decanter," he said, after examining it.

"No matter," I returned. "I never drink wine."

"Tut, tut, man! you miss half your life. Now, I have a very choice
collection of wines. Come, I'll give you a peep at my vaults."

He arose as he spoke and took up a candle. I had no interest whatever
in wines, but I accompanied him.

Descending to the lower hallway, we passed through a long, dreary room,
then down narrow stone steps into a capacious cellar, walled on every
side with heavy masonry.

The place was damp and musty. Dust and cobwebs covered the casks and
bottles that littered the whole end of the cellar. My host did not halt
till we reached a heavy iron door fastened with a large, rusty padlock.
I noticed a demoniacal expression on Parton's face, as he held the
light close enough to the lock to examine it.

"No, it's never been meddled with," he remarked with a chuckle. "Ten
years is a very long time for a man to live on wine—but he was very
fond of wine—very—ha, ha!"

I looked at Parton in amazement, much puzzled as to the import of his
strange words and manner.

He turned to me with a quick gesture.

"A thousand pardons!" he said. "You think my actions strange. But—shall
I?—" a wild flash in his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Hope, you shall have the
story. I must tell it to some one. It's too good to keep. Ha, ha!"

"Take a seat," he continued, pushing a cask towards me, upon which I
dropped, not certain that I was not in the presence of a madman.

Taking up a bottle, he brushed the cobwebs from it, then, breaking off
the neck, passed it to me, saying:

"Take a pull. It's damp in this cellar, and this will take the chill
out of your blood. This is an excellent wine—it was a favorite brand
with Judson Pickford. Yes, sir; and Judson was a competent judge. Ha,
ha!"

His laugh made me shiver. It sounded like the exultation of a fiend.
But I declined the wine, and Parton himself drained the bottle.

"You've never heard of Judson Pickford?" he asked.

"No."

"Of course not. That was before you came, and it isn't likely that
excellent Messrs. Dillard & Hatch would mention him to you. But they
could tell you a great deal about Judson if they were so disposed."

"Judson Pickford was a strange, dark man. I met him first in society
in Baltimore. And, strange to say, many declared that there was a
strong resemblance between Pickford and Parton. Be that as it may, fate
decreed that we should both love the same girl,—beautiful, winsome
Mabel Raymond. I loved her from the hour we first met, and I've no
doubt my rival's passion was as intense as my own. I was a rich wine
merchant, and Pickford a wealthy, brilliant stock-broker. Both of us
vowed to win Miss Raymond, but from the first I saw that she favored
Pickford's suit. This made me hate my rival with deepest hatred. After
they were married I went about for months like one stupefied. In losing
the only woman I loved I lost all interest in life. I drank heavily,
but the more I drank the more I felt myself urged on to revenge. Then I
began to lay plans for Pickford's ruin.

"When he and his wife were in Europe I saw an excellent chance to
mature my scheme for his destruction. I first converted all my property
into cash. Then I came to this secluded place and had this house built,
where I might live apart from the world I hated. Afterward I went to
Dillard & Hatch, and placed five hundred thousand dollars in their
bank. I knew Dillard to be a noted schemer, so I took him into my
confidence, and got his promise to help me. Hatch, being a weak man,
was not hard to rope into the plot. No need for me to go into details
of the steps by which Dillard and I artfully spread a net for our
unsuspecting victim. It is enough to say that soon after Pickford's
return from abroad he was a ruined man. Penniless though he was, he
didn't lose heart. He moved into plainer quarters and took up the
practise of law, a profession which he had followed before he became
a stock-broker. But my vengeance was not yet satisfied. Mind you,
though, I took pains never to let him suspect I was even most remotely
connected with the cause of his ruin.

"Just when Pickford was having his hardest struggle I went to him with
an offer to start him in business. He gratefully accepted my offer. I
sent him alone to New York with a large sum of money. Then, disguising
myself, I followed him. In the city I removed my disguise and sought
out Pickford, telling him I had changed my plans for him. I directed
him to come here the next night, but to tell no one of our business.
He kept the appointment. We met at the station, six miles below the
hills, and walked here to this house. It was a dark night. No one saw
us. He was fond of wine, so after I had urged many a glass upon him I
conducted him to this vault. In his drunken condition I had no trouble
to get him to enter it. Then I shut and locked that iron door upon him.
He had only a cask of wine to keep him company. That was ten years ago,
and that door has never been opened since."

A low laugh from the narrator ended his grewsome tale, while a gleam of
fiendish triumph flitted across his swarthy face.

A cold chill crept up my spine, and I arose involuntarily.

Was there truth in his awful narration, or was it merely the ravings of
a maniac?

"A wholesome tale to go to bed on, eh, Mr. Hope? Ha, ha!" he laughed,
as he arose and led the way upstairs.

When I was alone in the room where I was to spend the night, I decided
that the wine which Parton had drunk was responsible for the horrible
story to which I had listened.

Next morning, while I was despatching an early breakfast, Negro Joe and
Parton carried out a cask of wine, which they placed in my wagon.

Just before starting, my strange host handed me a sealed letter, saying:

"Give this to Dillard, and tell him I hope he'll find the wine superb.
Good-by, Mr. Hope," and he waved me off.

When I reached the bank I gave the letter to Mr. Dillard. As he read
it his face turned a sickly hue and his mouth twitched nervously.
Recovering himself, however, he ordered Hatch and me to open the cask
which Parton had sent him.

We obeyed at once. As the top of the cask was broken open, we started
back in horror.

There, preserved in wine, was a _human head_,—the head and face of
Caleb Parton, the recluse millionaire!

Then Dillard explained that his letter was from Judson Pickford, who,
with the help of Negro Joe, who hated his harsh master, Caleb Parton,
had effected his escape from the vault. But a month later, his wife
having died, Pickford had returned one dark night and killed the man
who had so cruelly ruined him. The head of his enemy had been put in a
cask of wine to send to the banker, who had aided in accomplishing his
financial ruin. With peculiar cunning, he had appropriated not only the
name and looks of Parton, but his property and bank account as well. In
carrying out this deception, he had a faithful ally in Negro Joe.

It was Pickford himself who had related the dark story to me. It seemed
almost incredible. A visit to the lonely stone house with two officers
discovered a headless body in the vault. But Pickford and his ally had
disappeared.

[Illustration]




  Stateroom Six.
  BY WILLIAM ALBERT LEWIS.


THINGS have changed greatly on the river. There are no open bars, no
card playing, no shooting; much less travel, for that matter.

We were a half dozen at supper. I sat opposite a gray-bearded man, who,
when he had completed his meal, closely scrutinized a modest-appearing
young woman quietly supping at another table. She finished and
departed. When she was gone my neighbor leaned across and said:

"Perhaps you thought it funny I watched that lady so closely? But
that's 'Sis.' I remember her twenty years back, on this very boat. My!
but what a look at her brings to my mind!"

He leaned back, his eyes on the table, a grim smile broadening a kindly
countenance, and pushed both hands deeply into his pockets.

The man had something he wanted to tell.

"A romance, I suppose? I'd like to hear it."

"It was twenty years ago, and on this boat, the Hester Hale.
Professional gamblers were always aboard, looking for victims. None
were more daring nor more lucky than 'Ready' Rankin. A handsome fellow,
of good family, with a heart big and manly, if he was a cut-throat
gambler and a bad man all around. Down at that landing we left before
sundown,—Kellyville,—an old man was waiting, one night, with a wee
tot of a girl. He brought her aboard. You know how natural it is to
consign children to the care of some person? The child was the old
man's granddaughter. She was to get off at Low Water Landing, which is
the next stop we'll make, a few minutes from now. He happened to put
the child in 'Ready' Rankin's care. He agreed to see her safely ashore
and to deliver her to her ma. 'Ready' got a stateroom, put the child
in one of the berths, and gave her a bag of candy to keep her from
crying. Then he went below for a game. The play chanced to be tolerable
heavy that night, with Rankin an eight-thousand-dollar winner. But it
ended in a row; and Rankin, seeing trouble ahead, rolled his pile in a
newspaper and laid it beside the sleeping child in the stateroom. The
boat was then a half hour from the landing. 'Ready' got into a fight
with the man he beat at the table, and was badly shot. His last words
were confused. He said something about:

"'Stateroom six—little one—Low Water Landing—money.'

"The boat made the landing. They woke the child up, put all the bundles
into her arms, and turned her over to her ma.

"Sis's mother soon discovered the package of money, and met the boat
at the landing on her down trip next night, to make inquiries of the
captain. But he knew nothing. Rankin had been buried that day up river.
Nobody knew anything about any money. So Sis's mother kept it, trying
all the time to get some knowledge of Rankin's family. That she could
not do. They had disowned him.

"About three years ago a party of young men came up the river hunting.
They stopped off at Low Water Landing and boarded with Sis's ma. One of
the young fellows was teller in a bank down in Natchez. He fell head
over ears in love with Sis. You can't much blame him, can you? She's
awfully handsome. Naturally enough, they got to comparing notes; and
the story of the money came out. Do you know, sir, it turned out that
the young bank teller was Rankin's son? Fact! He and his mother and
step-father lived together, and all they'd ever heard was that 'Ready'
had been killed in a fight on the river. They didn't mourn overmuch,
although 'Ready' wasn't the worst chap that ever lived.

"There! We're just blowing for Low Water now. Let's go on deck and see
Sis land. Up to visit her ma, I reckon."

"Rankin's son is going to marry her, I suppose?"

"Married, man! Year ago, last Christmas. They live as cozy as you
please down in Natchez. He's cashier of that bank now."

We stood by the rail as the boat made fast. The young lady tripped
lightly ashore and greeted a white-haired old lady.

The Hester Hale resumed her way.

"Step this way. I'll show you where 'Ready' was killed."

We strolled to the gangway. He pointed to a little bullet hole in the
casement.

"There were three shots fired. 'Ready' fired one and I—"

I looked up quickly into his patriarchal face. He paled, and fixed his
eyes on me.

"I didn't mean to say so much, friend; but I believe you are a square
man. This spot has a fascination for me. And it is twenty years ago,
twenty—years—ago."

His head drooped. He seemed to be thinking of something beside what he
uttered.

"I understand you," I said.

I pressed his hand, and went to bed.

[Illustration]




  Her Eyes, Your Honor.
  BY H. D. UMBSTAETTER.


THE witness is yours."

As the prosecuting attorney sat down, the spectators craned their
necks and eagerly leaned forward. Every one expected a merciless
cross-examination, as the reputation of the young lawyer, who had been
brought two hundred miles to defend the prisoner, had preceded him. And
though Delos McWhorter had thus far taken no part in the proceedings,
he was the most conspicuous figure in the great trial. One person alone
rivaled him,—the mysterious woman who stood at the bar, charged with
murder. The hush that fell upon the packed courtroom as the man slowly
rose to his feet resembled the awful silence with which the death
sentence is awaited. As he stood silent and irresolute for a moment,
the color rising to his plain, youthful face, his fingers nervously
fumbling with a pencil, the spectators were conscious of a feeling of
disappointment.

With almost boyish embarrassment, his eye sought that of the presiding
judge; next he scanned the faces of the jury, and then, turning to the
witness, in a voice at once gentle, sarcastic, and magnetic, he began:

"Mr. Slade, I will trouble you to look once more very carefully at the
prisoner. Perhaps she will rise that you may see her better. You have
testified that shortly before eight on the night of the murder you saw
this woman enter the apartment house of which you are the janitor, and
in which the body of Charlotte Ames was found. Now, I would like to
have you tell the jury just what it was in the appearance of the woman
you say you then saw that enables you to swear to-day that she and the
prisoner are one and the same person."

The witness, fearing a trap, hesitated, and nervously eyed the lawyer.

"I would like you to tell us," calmly continued the questioner,
"whether you took such particular notice of her height, her face, her
complexion, her hair, her nose, and her teeth during the few moments
that you say you saw her in the dimly lighted hallway, four months ago,
as to enable you to swear to-day that you cannot be mistaken. Was it
her size, her apparent age, perhaps, or the color of her hair, or what?"

"It was her looks," answered the witness, squirming in his seat. "It's
the same woman."

"Yes, her looks; but I must trouble you to answer my question so that
the jury may have the whole truth before they are asked to send any one
to the gallows. Remember, Mr. Slade, you are under oath. Now tell us,
what was it?"

"We object," came from the prosecuting attorney as he sprang to his
feet. "We object, your honor, to this attempt to intimidate the
witness."

Before the court could pass upon the objection, the witness, turning
from his questioner to the court, exclaimed half defiantly:

"It was her eyes, your honor!"

"That is all," came from the lawyer for the defense, as he resumed his
seat; and the spectators relaxed into a condition of restlessness that
clearly showed their further disappointment.

Each of the succeeding witnesses declared without hesitation that the
prisoner was the woman they had seen near the scene of the murder,
either just before or shortly after the deed was discovered. As one
after the other was dismissed by the defense, upon insisting under
cross-examination that he could not possibly be mistaken, the faces
of the government counsel beamed with satisfaction, while those of
the spectators assumed the blankness of mystification. What was the
strange lawyer there for? they whispered among themselves, and many
turned toward the prisoner as though to ascertain whether she realized
how surely her life was being sworn away. In his opening address the
prosecuting attorney had said:

"On the second day of last November, a woman residing in this town,
young, rich, and notorious for her gay and reckless career, was found
murdered in her bed at half past eight at night. Everything about
the room was in perfect order. There had been no robbery, and the
instrument used was found in her breast, where it had been driven to
the heart. It was a gold ornament, such as a woman wears in her hair.

"We shall not attempt to defend the character of the dead woman, but we
shall ask that justice be done.

"It is true that many a woman in this town had good reason to wish the
murdered woman ill. It is true that there are men in the community who
might have been driven by desperate hate, desperate love, or desperate
jealousy, to do the deed, but, fortunately, before cruel suspicion
made any blunder of that sort the police discovered the criminal.
Almost simultaneously with the rumors of the murder came the reports
of a mysterious woman found leaving the city. Within twelve hours this
woman, who now stands at the bar, had been identified by no less than
four people, who saw her in the vicinity of the scene of the crime
either before or after it was committed.

"No one knew her. She refused to give any account of herself. She
appeared to be in a state of great nervous excitement. The government
will show that she entered the house shortly before the murder was
committed; that she left it a few minutes after the deed was done; that
on the very day of the murder she had high words with the dead woman,
and that the instrument with which the deed was done was such an one as
the prisoner was known to possess. Gentlemen of the jury," he concluded
dramatically, "Fate plays no tricks of that sort. Fate fashions no such
chain of circumstantial evidence as that which establishes the guilt of
this woman and upon which we ask her conviction."

These were his words, and now that the janitor had testified that he
saw the prisoner enter the building, a patrolman had declared that
he saw her leaving it within fifteen minutes before the crime was
discovered, and the dead woman's coachman had sworn to having overheard
the prisoner using threatening language to his mistress,—after this and
other circumstantial evidence had gone before the jury and remained
unshaken by cross-examination, the prosecution announced that the case
for the government was in.

In spite of the disappointment with which the spectators regarded
Lawyer McWhorter, a nervous dread of the man possessed the minds of
the opposing counsel, as he rose slowly and deliberately clasped his
hands behind him. He was so calm. His methods were so unfathomable that
they began to feel a vague conviction that he mastered them and their
methods, while to them he was a closed book.

A moment he stood silent, and when he spoke, utter consternation fell
upon the court. The words were the last they had expected.

"Your honor, the defense has no evidence to offer."

Even the court could scarce control its amazement. Inch by inch the
ground upon which the prisoner stood had been carried away, until now
nothing but the personal appeal of her counsel could save her life.
Was this possible? Did this young stranger really possess that rare
eloquence, that fatal magnetism, that sometimes blind strong men to
all sense of reason and right? Did even he hope to save his client?
His looks betrayed nothing. As he took his seat his face was that of a
sphinx.

The attorney for the government lost no time in beginning his closing
speech. "We commend the judgment of the distinguished counsel for the
defense," he began, "which deterred him from attacking the overwhelming
proofs we have submitted of the prisoner's guilt. We commend the keen
judgment which prompts him to rely upon the famed magic of his own
voice rather than to seek hope for his client in the uncertain words
of unreliable witnesses. The defense, too clever to attack such proof
as we have presented, will now rely upon silvery tongued oratory and
superb rhetorical appeals to secure from these twelve men a verdict of
acquittal. But, may it please the court," he concluded, "our learned
brother mistakes the intelligence of these gentlemen of the jury, if he
supposes, for one moment, that fervent appeals to their sympathies can
make them forget their duty to themselves, to civilized society, and
to womankind." So well satisfied, however, had the spectators become
of the prisoner's guilt, and so completely did all interest now center
in McWhorter's anticipated speech, that the remarks of the prosecuting
attorney were listened to with indifferent attention.

Now, surely, the brilliant advocate would demonstrate his ability, even
though he could not save his client.

"The woman," he began, amid oppressive silence, "who was arrested
on the second day of November last, stands charged with murder. As
no testimony has been offered to show that she committed murder,
the defense will not waste your time or insult your common sense by
unnecessary argument. You have been told with great clearness by the
witnesses for the prosecution that the prisoner was seen to enter and
leave a certain house at certain hours; also that on a certain day she
had high words with a certain woman. But, gentlemen of the jury, under
the laws of your State that doesn't constitute murder. A woman may
pay a visit to an apartment house at eight o'clock at night, she may
have high words with another woman in the public highway, she may even
wear a gold ornament in her hair,—she may do all this without becoming
a murderess. The evidence adduced is purely circumstantial. No proof
whatever has been offered that the accused woman killed Charlotte Ames.
In the absence of such testimony, it is your duty to yourselves, to
civilized society, and to womankind, to acquit the prisoner." Before
the last word was spoken he sat down.

The entire courtroom was again taken by surprise. While the brief
speech had the ring of cleverness, it fell far short of the general
expectations.

After hearing the judge's charge to the jury not one person in that
vast assembly doubted the result. Few felt any sympathy for the woman,
and those few were men. The members of her own sex were as a unit
arrayed against her. The pride of her pale beauty antagonized them. The
very women who in their hearts had wished the dead girl ill and who
would have committed the crime themselves, except that they lacked the
courage, had no pity for the accused. There was something in her beauty
above and beyond them, and, womanlike, they hated her for it.

Not a soul left the courtroom as the jury filed out, for all expected a
prompt verdict. In this they were not disappointed. Ten minutes later
the twelve men filed solemnly back. Not an eye sought the face of the
prisoner, who, like her counsel, sat entirely unmoved.

As the clerk rose the silence became deathlike. "Prisoner, look upon
the jury. Jury, look upon the prisoner. Have you agreed upon a verdict?"

"We have."

"Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the crime charged
against her?"

"Guilty."

With difficulty the demonstrations of approval that broke out in every
part of the room were checked by the court officers.

Moved by that inevitable heart-stopping vision of "hanged by the neck,"
every spectator turned to the handsome woman in the dock.

The calmness with which she received the stares of a thousand eyes was
marvelous. No one expected that she would now break her mysterious
silence. When, therefore, she rose and turned her eyes towards the
court the spectators sat fairly spellbound with surprise.

"May it please your honor," she began in a firm, clear voice; then,
lifting one slender white hand, she pointed to the door at the back of
the witness stand.

Every eye followed her gesture. A tall female figure, heavily veiled,
accompanied by one of the associate counsel of the defense, stood in
the doorway. The next moment she raised her veil, advanced rapidly, and
took her place beside the prisoner.

The scene that followed resembled a street riot, rather than the solemn
proceedings of a courtroom. Men, wild with excitement, mounted their
chairs, women rose in their seats, pushing, jostling, and crowding
each other in their frantic efforts to get a better view of the highly
sensational proceedings. The confusion was indescribable, the noise
deafening. Not until McWhorter was seen to spring to his feet did the
court officers' vigorous rapping and loud cries for order produce any
effect. Instantly all was silence. Rigid suspense held the spectators
breathless. With the light they had missed in his eye and the fire they
had longed for in his voice the young lawyer spoke, addressing the
judge:

"May it please the court,—nice customs must bow to desperate needs.
When a man is called upon to face in defense of a woman's life such
odds as I found in this case, when he sees justice outwitted by the
devil's trick,—circumstantial evidence,—he must resort to the devil's
weapon,—cunning. Such evidence as has been here given has hanged many
a man, and I believe that when a man of any heart, any soul, any
chivalry, sees that it is likely to hang a woman it becomes his duty to
combat fate as the defense has done in this case.

"I ask your honor, I ask the jury, I ask the witnesses, to look upon
these two women. As they stand there side by side, there is a marked
difference in their heights, a decided difference in the color of
their hair, a striking difference in the color of their eyes, a very
perceptible difference, even at this distance, in the tone of their
skin; and, I may add, a difference of eight years in their ages. The
woman who has just been pronounced guilty of murder is the wife of a
gentleman who throughout this trial has sat within the shadow of the
jury. She is innocent, as God is my judge. Every moment of her life
up to this very instant can be accounted for. In substituting her
to-day for the real prisoner, the defense had no desire to circumvent
justice. We merely wished to save this court, this community, from the
everlasting shame of hanging a woman whose guilt has not been proved.
We wished to show to your honor and to these gentlemen of the jury that
it is monstrous to accept as conclusive such evidence as has been given
in this case. May it please your honor, this jury has just pronounced a
verdict of 'guilty' against my own wife. I move that here and now this
verdict be set aside."

The request was granted, and, although McWhorter was charged with
unprofessional conduct and threatened with disbarment, his client was
promptly acquitted on the new trial which the court ordered.

[Illustration]




  ADVERTISEMENTS.

[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

    Joy, wealth, and health, and hope long fled
      We drink, and sorrow bury,
    In draughts from Nature's fountain-head,
      Of SPARKLING LONDONDERRY.


  Copyright, 1895, by Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Co., Nashua, N.H.




[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

_It cures from head to foot._

  Puritana

Trade Mark Registered.

  Nature's Cure

For diseases of the
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And for
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_It cures from head to foot._

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  The Story of Puritana.

Prof. Dixi Crosby, M. D., LL. D., who for thirty-two years was at
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compounded in the laboratory of Common Sense.




[Illustration]

_It cures from head to foot._

  Puritana
  Nature's Cure

_OFFICIAL._

Seal of New Hampshire.

The cures effected in this State by Dr. Dixi Crosby's prize formula
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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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 [Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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 [Illustration]

 "My Boy—
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 Copyright, 1895, by Russia Cement Co., Gloucester, Mass.




 Copyright, 1895, by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

[Illustration]

 5 CENTS

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  many times over.

_=Lynn, Mass., Daily Item=_:—The Black Cat is the most
  original and captivating story teller ever published. It lives up to
  its watchwords—fascinating tales, cleverly told.

_=Baltimore, Md., American=_:—The literary contents of the
  unique new Boston magazine, The Black Cat, are quite as fascinating as
  its exquisite covers.

_=Evansville, Ind., Daily Courier=_:—With its beautiful
  appearance and excellent short stories—all for five cents—The Black
  Cat is bound to become a general favorite and popular success.

_=New York Mail and Express=_:—The Black Cat will prove
  a literary pet. It publishes good, strong short stories,—the most
  difficult literary product to obtain. It is clean, stirring,
  enterprising.




[Illustration]

 _Story Tellers_

Will simply waste time and postage in sending us manuscripts which do
not in every particular meet the following requirements:—

We can use only such stories as, both in plot and handling, are of
striking originality and universal interest, stories which never,
either in whole or part, have appeared in print before, and which are
free from padding, commonplace and attempted fine writing. No dialect
stories, poetry, or translations will be considered. The Black Cat will
give space only to


  Fascinating Tales, Cleverly Told.

To receive attention, all manuscripts must bear the writer's full
name and address, together with the number of words, which may range
from fifteen hundred to five thousand, but must in no case exceed the
latter number; they must be very legibly written, sent unfolded, and
accompanied by sufficient stamps for their return. Manuscripts will
be received and returned only at the contributor's risk. All stories
will be judged purely on their own merits, and the writer's name
or reputation will carry no weight whatever. Payment for accepted
manuscripts will be made not according to length, but according to the
editor's opinion of their worth. Manuscripts will be paid for on the
day of acceptance.

  THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO., 144 High St., Boston, Mass.




[Illustration]

  Some New Fiction.


=Jude, the Obscure= (Hearts Insurgent). By THOMAS HARDY.
  Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_About Ready._)

=The Red Cockade.= By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. Illustrated.
  Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.50.

=Against Human Nature.= By MARIA LOUISE POOL. Post 8vo,
  Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=Sunshine and Haar.= By GABRIEL SETOUN. Post 8vo, Cloth,
  Ornamental. (_Ready._)

=A Cumberland Vendetta=, and Other Stories. By JOHN FOX,
  Jr. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=The Veiled Doctor.= By VARINA ANNE JEFFERSON DAVIS.
  Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=My Lady Nobody.= A Novel. By MAARTEN MAARTENS.
  Author of "An Old Maid's Love," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,
  Ornamental. $1.75.

=His Father's Son.= A Novel of New York. By BRANDER
  MATTHEWS. Illustrated by T. DE THULSTRUP. Post 8vo,
  Cloth, Ornamental. $1.50.

=People We Pass.= By JULIAN RALPH. Illustrated. Post
  8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_Just Ready._)

=Red Men and White.= Stories. By OWEN WISTER.
  Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_About Ready._)

=The Day of Their Wedding.= By W. D. HOWELLS.
  Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth. (_Just Ready._)

=The Sowers.= By HENRY SETON MERRIMAN. Post 8vo, Cloth,
  Ornamental. $1.25.

=With the Procession.= By HENRY B. FULLER. Post 8vo,
  cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=The Front Yard=, and Other Italian Stories. By CONSTANCE
  FENIMORE WOODSON. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth. $1.25.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.


 _Every Description of Printing Plates made by us, by every
 process._


 C. J. PETERS & SON,...

 Finest Half-Tones a Specialty.

  Photo Engravers
  Electrotypers
  Wax Engravers
  Typographers

 BOSTON, MASS.

  _Special Designs and Drawings made to order.
  References in all parts of the United States._




[Illustration]

 PACKER'S TAR SOAP

 EXQUISITE CLEANSER. SOOTHING. ANTISEPTIC.
 FOR THE
 HAIR AND SKIN

The antiseptic quality of Packer's Tar Soap is a protection against
contagion. Its balsamic properties make it useful in irritated
conditions of the skin. For washing the Hair and Scalp it is without a
rival; it removes dandruff, allays itching, does not dry the hair, but
leaves it soft and lustrous. 25 cents. All Druggists. The Packer Mfg.
Co., New York.


 Honesty
 _IN_
 BRAID.

 GOFF'S BRAID
 IS THE
 BEST MADE.

Why Is GOFF'S BRAID preferable to anything else for binding skirts and
dresses?

   I.—Does not hold the dirt like Velveteen.
  II.—Will not chafe the shoes like Mohair.
 III.—Easily and quickly replaced when soiled.

 A Pure Worsted Braid
 (Like Goff's)
 is superior to anything
 else.

  5  yds., any color matched, for 8c.
  3¾  "        "        "      "  6c.

 If you cannot obtain it of your dealer.

 D. Goff & Sons, Pawtucket, R. I.




[Illustration]

"The most fascinating five cents' worth on earth."—_Boston Post._

 The Black Cat
 FOR DECEMBER, 1895,
Will contain the following Original and Complete Stories.

No magazine ever issued at any price has presented in one number a
collection of stories marked by such originality and fascinating force
as those contained in this issue of THE BLACK CAT. As the
edition is limited, those desiring copies should not fail to place
orders with their newsdealers in advance of publication.


 The Great Star Ruby. By Barnes MacGreggor.
  In this highly dramatic story the action, which centers around a
  fifty-thousand-pound ruby, moves swiftly and stirringly from Australia
  to India, thence to the Continent, and then back to Australia.


 The Interrupted Banquet. By René Bache.
  The startling experience of a man who, without warning, found himself
  and sweetheart the guests at a phantom dinner party.


 The Archangel. By James Q. Hyatt.
  A clever account of the strange incidents resulting from the
  introduction of a matrimonial journal into a bachelor mining camp,
  during Gold Time.


 Asleep at Lone Mountain. By M. D. Umbetsetter.
  A graphic tale of overland travel, abounding in pathetic and absorbing
  incident.


 Kootchie. By Harold Kinsabby.
  A Boston butler, an aristocratic pug known as Buttons, and a
  missionary cat, are the chief characters in this brief comedy of real
  life.


 Frazer's Find. By Roberta Littlehale.
  No more powerful and humanly interesting story of the California
  pioneer days has appeared than this tale of one man's struggles for
  the gold and the love that came too late. The story gains rather than
  loses by the womanly delicacy of touch that is united to the vigor of
  its theme.

THE BLACK CAT is issued monthly at five cents a copy. It is
sold only by newsdealers. If yours hasn't it, and won't get it for you,
get another newsdealer.

 The Shortstory Publishing Company,
 144 High Street, Boston, Mass.




[Illustration]

  USE IT
  EVERY
  DAY
  IN THE
  WEEK
  &
  THEN
  REST
  ON
  SUNDAY.

  S MONDAY

  A  TUESDAY

  P   WEDNESDAY

  O    THURSDAY

  L     FRIDAY

  I      SATURDAY

  O       SUNDAY


  Armstrong & Co. Boston, Mass.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.

1. Table of Contents created by the transcriber.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.



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