Loup City Northwestern
J. W. BURLEIGH, Publisher.
r
LOUP CITY, . • - NEBRASKA.
The Fascination of the Harvest.
"Thrust in thy sickle and reap; for
\he time is come for thee to reap;
for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”
There Is a fascination in the harvest
that weaves a wisp of romance into
the sheaves that are bound up these
long, sun-flooded days, where the
harvest of the earth is ripe. It is not
alone a selfish rejoicing in the knowl
edge that a generous yield means an
absence of want that awakens the uni
versal interest in the sturdy army now
marching against the battalions of
bearded grain and will move north
ward gradually as the harvest of the
earth ripens in regions where the sun
shines less ardently. There is some
thing Inborn in even the most urban
of men that causes him to feel a thrill
of joy at the sight of a great wheat
field waiting for the sickle. It is not
alone the hope of profit that causes
the student to hasten from his books
and the man to drop his accustomed
vocation to join the busy toilers in
the fields. Many of those who arise
with the earliest lark and labor until
the long shadows are lost in the dusk
are not In pressing need of the wages
they receive. They could find more
profitable employment in less arduous
work. There is some other cause that
sends them among strangers for a sea
son. There is a call of the harvest,
says the Kansas City Star, as there
is a call of the wild. The call of
the harvest was learned in the days
when Ruth, the Moabitess. bound up
the heart of Boaz in the sheaves she
gleaned in the fields of the mighty
man of the family of Elimelech. The
vivid imaginations of those early
gleamers saw cause for wonder and
speculation in the annually recurring
miracle of the harvest. It is this lin
gering fascination that draws men to
the wheat fields even in this utili
tarian age.
Exit the Khaki.
If Gen. Humphrey’s recommenda
tions are adopted the khaki uniform
will soon disappear. The American
soldiery will not return to the dark
blue of civil war times, but will take
up the olive-drab service uniform,
lined for winter and unlined for sum
mer. The khaki will be retained only
for troops serving at oversea stations.
The trouble, says the Des Moines Reg
ister, is not so much in the color of
.the cloth as in the apparent inability
of the manufacturers supplying the
government to keep up with the de
mand. Gen. Humphrey claims that
the supply of gray cotton goods in
this country is now practically the
monopoly of one corporation located
In Baltimore, where selling agents
hold and control the secret of khaki
dyeing. Neither of these concerns,
according to statements made in the
quartermaster’s department of the war
department, has materially advanced
the price of khaki cloth or duck over
that of former years, but for some
reasons, which are not known at the
war department, the contractors are
so far behind in two of their con
tracts for khaki cloth that the gov->
eminent contractors for the manufac
ture of khaki coats and trousers, Gen.
Humphrey says, cannot obtain the ma
terial called for by contracts. This
has entailed much inconvenience to
the army and organized militia. Gen.
Humphrey says that any first-class
cloth mill can produce olive, drab,
which is entirely the result of blend
ing colors, while the khaki dye is
piece dyeing and a secret process, so
l'ar as obtaining a fast color.
The international woman's congress,
sitting in Paris, recently witnessed a
ludicrous scene. The ladies were in
solemn conclave when suddenly there
appeared a pair of trousers on the
scene. For a moment the ladies were
too perturbed to identify the spectre,
but after a moment of benumbing si
lence, the president rallied, and in an
icy tone identified it is “a man.”
Then the apparition relieved the ten
sion by explaining that it was the
mortal presence of M. Legendre, of
Sens, an ardent femininist. “I stood.”
he said, “as femininist candidate at
the last elections, and I have to-day
taken 11 trains to appear among you.
1 am happy to enjoy this opportunity
of supporting your cause.” Alas for
enthusiasm when it is of the male per
suasion and relates to matters femi
nine! The president rose, and, accord
ing to the London Globe, after ex
plaining to M. Legendre, in tones of
eMS, calm severity, that the taking of
Z' .11 trains at a stretch did not confer
the right of entry to that assemblage,
had him expelled.
The unsecured paper money of the
South American republics amounts to
a face value of $1,700,000. Nearly
everybody who touches on the subject
is particular to mention that this is
the face value.
if they will put sawdust in the
breakfast food, let the consumer in
sist that it be clean sawdust.
The English railroad wreck imita
tion is the sincerest flattery to Amer
icans. .
The South Dakota man who blew
himself up by using 25 sticks of dyna
mite when one would have done must
have had as exaggerated an idea of
himself as is possessed by the young
man who, having won $200 in the
stock market, thinks he has discovered
a system through which he can beat
the combination.
A Michigan capitalist who died re
cently left 27 wills. He must have
been determined that his heirs should
5 not live in idleness. V -
CHAPTER L
It was a December morning—the
Missouri December of mild tempera
tures and saturated Bkies—and the
Chicago & Alton’s fast train, dripping
from the rush through the wet night,
had steamed briskly to its terminal in
the Union station at Kansas City.
Two men, one smoking a short pipe
and the other snapping the ash from a
scented cigarette, stood aloof from the
hurrying throngs on the platorm
looking on with the measured interest
of those who are in a melee but not
of it.
“More delay,” said the cigarettist,
glancing at his watch. “We are over
an hour late now. Do we get any of
it back on the run to Denver?”
The pipe smoker shook his head.
“Hardly, I should say. The 'Limited’
is a pretty heavy train to pick up lost
time. But it won’t make any particu
lar difference. The western connec
tions all wait for the 'Limited,' and
we shall reach the seat of war to
morrow night, according to the Boston
itinerary."
Mr. Morton P. Adams flung away the
unburned half of his cigarette and
masked a yawn behind his hand.
“It’s no end of a bore, Winton, and
that is the plain, unlacquered fact,' he
protested. “I think the governor owes
me something. I worried through the
Tech because he insisted that I should
have a profession; and now I am go
ing in for field work with you in a
howling winter wilderness becanse he
insists on a practical demonstration.
I shall ossify out there in those moun
tains. It’s written in the book.”
~ "Humph! it’s too bad about you,”
said the other, ironically. He was a
fit figure of a man, clean-cut and vig
orous, from the steadfast outlook of
the gray eyes and the close clip of the
Van Dyck beard to the square finger
tips of the strong hands, and his smile
was of good-natured contempt. “As
you say, it is an o trage on filial com
plaisance. All the same, with the right
of-way fight in prospect, Quartz Creek
canyon may not prove to be such a
valley of dry bones as— Look out,
there!”
The shifting engine had cut a car
from the rear of the lately arrived Al
ton, and was sending it down the out
bound track to a coupling with the
Transcontinental “Limited.” Adams
stepped back and let it miss him by
i hand’s-breadth, and as the car was
passing Winton read the name on the
panelling.
“The •Rosemary;’ somebody’s 20
lon private outfit. That cooks our last
chance of making up any lost time be
tween this and to-morrow—”
He broke off abruptly. On the square
rear observation platform of the pri
vate car were three ladies. One of
them was small and blue-eyed, with
wavy little puffs of snowy hair peep
ing out under her dainty widow’s cap.
Another was small and blue-eyed, with
wavy masses of flaxen hair caught up
from a face which might have served
as a model for the most exquisite
bisque figure that ever came out of
France. But Winton saw only the
third.
She was taller than either of her
companions—tall and straight and
lithe; a charming embodiment of
health and strength and beauty; clear
skinned, brown-eyed—a very goddess
fresh from the bath, in Winton’s in
stant summing-up of her, and her
crown of red-gold hair helped out the
simile.
Now thus far in his thirty-year pil
grimages John Winton, man and boy,
had lived the intense life of a work
ing hermit so far as the social gods
and goddesses were concerned. Yet
he had a pang—of disappointment or
pointed jealousy, or something akin to
both—when Adams lifted his hat to
this particular goddess, and was re
warded by a little cry of recognition,
and stepped up to the platform to be
presented to the elder and younger
bisques.
So, as we say, Winton turned and
walked away as one left out, feeling
one moment as though he had been
defrauded of a natural right, and de
riding himself the next, as a sensible
man should. After a bit he was able
to laugh at the "sudden attack,” as he
phrased it, but later, when he ana
Adams were settled for the day-long
run in the Denver sleeper, and the
"Limited” was clanking out over the
switches, he brought the talk around
with a carefully assumed air of lack
interest to the party in the private
car.
"She is a friend of yours, then?” he
said, when Adams had taken the bait
ed hook open-eyed.
The technologian modified the as
sumption.
“Not quite in your sense of the word,
[ fancy. I met her a number of times
at the houses of mutual friends in
Boston. She was studying at the con
servatory.”
"But she isn’t a Bostonian," said
Winton, confidently.
“Miss Virginia?—hardly. She is a
Carteret of the Carterets; Virginia
born, bred, and named. Stunning girl,
isn't she?”
“No,” said Winton, shortly, resent
ing the slang for no reason that he
could have set forth in words.
Adams lighted another of the
scented villainies, and his clean-shaven
face wrinkled itself into a slow smile.
"Which means that she has winged
you at sight, I suppose, as she does
most men.” Then he added, calmly:
"It's no go.”
“What’s ‘no go’?"
Adams laughed unfeelingly.
You remind me of the fable about
the head-hiding ostrich. Didn’t I see
you staring at her as If you were
about to have a fit? But It Is just
as I tel\ you; it’s no go. She'Isn’t
the marrying kind. If you knew her,
she’d be nice to you till she got a
good chance to fla
"Break it off!”
"Presently. As I was saying, she
would miss the chance of marrying the
best man in the world for the sake
of taking a rise out of him. More
over, she comes of old cavalier stock
with an English earldom at the back
of it, and she is inordinately proud of
the fact; while you—er—you’ve given
me to understand that you are a man
of the people, haven’t you?”
Winton nodded absently. It was one
of his minor fads to ignore his lineage,
which ran decently back to a colonial
governor on his father’s side, and to
assert that he did not know his grand
father’s middle name—which was ac
counted for by the very simple fact
that the elder Winton had no middle
name.
“Well, that settles it definitely,” was
the Bostonian’s comment. “Miss Car
teret is of the sang azure. The man who
marries her will have to know his
grandfather’s middle name—and a
good bit more besides.”
Winton’B laugh was mockingly good
natured.
“You have missed your calling by
something more than a hand’s-breadth.
Morty. You should have been a novel
ist. Give you a spike and a cross-tie
and you’d infer a whole railroad. But
you pique my curiosity. Where are
these American royalties of yours go
ing in the Rosemary.?”
“To California. The car belongs to
Mr. Somerville Darrah, who is vice
president and manager in fact of the
Colorado & Grand River road; the
‘Rajah,’ they call him. He1 is a rela
tive of the Carterets, and the party is
on its way to spend the winter on the
Pacific coast.”
“And the little lady in the widow's
cap; is she Miss Carteret's mother?”
“Miss Bessie Carteret’s mother and
Miss Virginia's aunt. She is the chap
eron.”
Winton was silent while the "Lim
ited” was roaring through a village on
the Kansas side of the river. When
he spoke again it was not of the Car
I i
1,4 WINTON TURNED AND WALKED AWAY.
terets; it was of the Carterets’ kins
man and host.
“I have heard somewhat of the Ra
jah,” he said, half musingly. "In fact,
I know him, by sight. He is what the
magazinists are fond of calling an
‘industry colonel,’ a born leader who
has fought his way to the front. If
the Quartz Creek row Is anything
more than a stiff bluff on the part of
the C. & G. R. it will be quite as well
for us if Mr. Somerville Darrah is
safely at the other side of the conti
nent—and well out of reach of the
wires.”
Adams came to attention with a
half-hearted attempt to galvanize an
interest in the business affair.
“Tell me more about this mysterious
jangle we are heading for,” he re
joined. “Have I enlisted for a soldier
when I thought I was only going into
peaceful exile as an assistant engineer
of construction on the Utah Short
Line?”
"That remains to be seen." Win
ton took a leaf from his pocket mem
orandum and drew a rough outline
map. "Here is Denver, and here Is
Carbonate,” he explained. "At present
the Utah is running into Carbonate
this way over the rails of the C. &
G. R. on a joint track agreement which
either line may terminate by giving
six months’ notice of its intention to
the other. Got that?”
“To have and to hold,” said Adams.
“Go on."
“Well, on the first day of September
the C. & G. R. people gave the Utah
management notice to quit”
“They are bloated monopolists,” said
Adams, sententiously. “Still, I don’t
see why there should be any scrap
ping over the line in Quartz Creek
canyon.”
“No? You an not up in monopo
listic methods. In six months from
September let*the Utah peoi^wm
ILtWH
their line alive, it they want a share
of that traffic after March 1st, they
will have to havn a road of their own
to carry H over."
"Precisely,” said Adams, stifling a
yawn. "They are building one, aren’t
they?”
“Trying to,” Winton amended. “But;
unfortunately, the only practical route
through the mountains is up Quart*
Creek canyon, and the canyon is al
ready occupied by a branch of the Col
orado & Grand River.”
“Still, I don’t see why the^e should
be any scrap.”
"Don’t you? If the Rajah’s road can
keep the new line out of Carbonate
till the six months have expired, i!
will have a monopoly of all the carry
ing trade of the camp. By consequence,
it can force every shipper in the dis
trict to make iron-clad contracts, so
that when the Utah line is finally com
pleted it won’t be able to secure any
freight for a year at least.”
"Oho! that’s the game, is it? I be
gin to savvy the burro; that’s the prop
er phrase, isn’t it? And what are ou*
chances?”
“We have about one in a hundred,
as near as I could make out from Mr.
Callowell’s statement of the case. The
C. & G. R. people are moving heaven
and earth to obstruct us in the can
yon. If they can delay the work a lit
tle longer, the weather will do the
rest. With the first heavy snow in
the mountains, which usually comes
long before this, the Utah will have to
put up its tools and wait till next
summer.”
Adams lighted another cigarette.
"Pardon me if I am inquisitive,” he
said, “but for the life of me I can’t
understand what these obstructionists
can do. Of course, they can’t use
force.”
Winton's smile was grim. "Can’t
they? Wait till you get on the ground.
But the first move was peaceable
enough. They got an injunction from
the courts restraining the new line
from encroaching on their right of
way.”
“Which was a thing that nobody
wanted to do,” said Adams, between
inhalations.
"Which was a thing the Utah had to
do,” corrected Winton. “The canyon
is a narrow gorge—a mere slit in parts
of it. This is where they have ue."
“Oh, well; I suppos? we took an
appeal and asked to have the in
junction set aside?”
"We did, promptly; and that is the
present status of the fight. The appeal
decision has not yet been handed
down; and in the meantime we go on
building railroad, incurring all the pen
alties for contempt of court with
every shovelful of earth moved. Do
you still think you will be in danger
of ossifying?”
Adams let the question rest while he
asked one of his own.
“How do you come to be mixed up
in it, Jack? A week ago some one
told me you were going to South
America to build a railroad in the
Andes. What switched you?’
Winton shook his head. “Fate, I
guess; that and a wire from Presi
dent Callowell, of the Utah, offering
me this. Chief of Construction Evarts
in charge of the work in Quartz Creek
canyon, said what you said a few
minutes ago—that he had not hiret
out for a soldier. He resigned, and
I’m taking his berth.”
Adams rose and buttoned his coat;
"By all of which it seems that w«
two are in for a good bit more that
the ossifying exile,” he remarked. Anc
then: "1 am going back into the Rose
mary to pay my respects to Miss Vir
giniaCartaret. Won’t you come along?’
“No,” said Winton, more shortly than
the invitation warranted; and the tech
nologian went his way alone.
CHAPTER XL
‘‘Scuse me, sah; private cab, Bah.”
It was the porter’s challenge in th»
vestibule of the Rosemary. Adam:
found a card.
“Take that to Miss Carteret— Misi
Virginia Carteret,” he directed, ant
waited till the man came back wit!
his welcome.
The extension table in the open reai
third of the private car was closet
to its smallest dimensions, and th«
movable furnishings were disposet
about .the compartment to make it t
comfortable lounging room.
CTO BE CONTINUED.)
Xoney> with Immigrants.
[ a
}iocottCo.)
CHAPTER II.—Continued.
Mrs. Carteret was propped among
the cushions of a divan with a book.
Her daughter occupied the undivided
half of a tete-a-tete chair with a blonde
athlete in a clerical coat and a re
versed collar. Miss Virginia was sit
ting alone at a window, but she rose
and came to greet the visitor.
“How good of you to take pity on
us,” she said, giving him her band.
Then she put him at one with the
others: “Aunt Martha you have met;
also Cousin Bessie. Let me present
you to Mr. Calvert, Cousin Billy, this
is Mr. Adams, who is responsible in
a way for many of my Boston-learned
gaucheries.”
Aunt Martha closed the book on her
finger. "My dear Virginia!” she pro
tested in mild deprecation; and Adams
laughed and shook hands with Rev.
William Calvert and made Virginia’s
peace all in the same breath.
"Don’t apologize for Miss Virginia,
Mrs. Carteret. We were very good
friends in Boston, chiefly, I think, be
cause I never objected when she want
ed to—er—to take a rise out of me.”
Then to Virginia: "I hope I don't in
trude?”
“Not in the least. Didn’t I just say
you were good to come? Uncle Somer
ville tells us we are passing through
the famous Golden Belt, whatever that
may be—and recommends an easy
chalr and a window. But I haven’t
seen anything but stubble-fields—dis
mally wet stubble-fields at that. Won’t
you sit down and help me watch them
go by?”
Adams placed a chair for her, and
found one for himself.
“ ‘Uncle Somerville’—am I to have
the pleasure of meeting Mr. Somer
ville Darrah?”
Miss Virginia’s look was non-com
mittal.
Quien sabe? she queried, airing her
one Westernism before she was fair
ly in the longitude of it. "Uncle Som
erville is a law unto himself. He had
a lot of telegrams and things at Kan
sas City, and he is locked in his den
with Mr. Jastrow, dictating answers by
the dozen, 1 suppose.”
"Oh, these industry .colonels!” said
Adams. "Don’t their toilings make
you ache in sheer sympathy some
times?”
"No, indeed,” was the prompt re
joinder; ”1 envy them, it must be
fine to have large things to do, and
to be able to do them.”
"Degenerate scion of a noble race!”
jested Adams. “What ancient Carteret
of them all would have compromised
with the necessities by becoming a
captain of industry?”
“It w-asn’t their metier or the metier
of their times,” said Miss Virginia
with conviction. “They were sword
soldiers merely because that was the
only way a strong man could conquer
in those days. Now it is different, and
a strong man fights quite as nobly in
another field—and deserves quite as
much honor.”
"Think so? I don’t agree with you
—as to the fighting, I mean. I like
to take things easy. A good club, a
choice of decent theaters, the society
of a few charming women like—”
She broke him with a mocking laugh.
“You were born a good many cen
turies too late, Mr. Adams; you would
have fitted so beautifully into de
cadent Rome.”
"No — thanks. Twentieth-century ,
America, with the commercial frenzy
taken out of it, is good enough i
for me. I was telling Winton a little
while ago—”
“Your friend of the Kansas City sta
tion platform?” she interrupted.
“Mightn’t you introduce us a little less
informally?”
"Beg pardon. I’m sure—yours and
Jack’s: Mr. John Winton, of New
York and the world at large, familiarly
known to his intimates—and they
are precious few—as ‘Jack W.’ As I
was about to say—”
But she seemed to find a malicious
satisfaction in breaking in upon him.
“ ’Mr. John Winton;’ it’s a pretty
name, as names go, but it isn’t as
strong as he is. He is an 'industry
colonel,’ isn’t he? He looks it.”
The Bostonian avenged himself for
the interruption at Winton’s expense.
"So much for your woman’s intui
tion,” he laughed. “Speaking oi idlers,
there is your man to the dotting of the
‘i;’ a dilettante raised to the nth
power.”
Miss Carteret's short upper lip
curled in undisguised scorn.
“I like men who do things,” she as
serted, with pointed emphasis; where
upon the talk drifted eastward to Bos
ton, and Winton was ignored, until
Virginia, having exhausted the rem
iniscent vein, said: “You are going on
through to Denver?”
“To Denver and beyond,” was the
reply. “Winton has a notion of hi
- bernating in the mountains—fancy it;
in the dead of winter!—and he has
persuaded me to go along. He sketches
a little, you know.”
"Oh, so*he is an artist?” said Vir
ginia, with interest newly aroused.
“No,” said Adams, gloomily, "he
isn’t an artist—isn’t much of anything,
I’m sorry to say. Worse than all, he
doesn’t know his grandfather’s middle
name. Told me so himself.”
• That is inexcusaDie—m a dilet
tante,” said Miss Virginia, mockingly.
“Don’t you think so?”
, “it is inexcusable in anyone,” said
the technologian, rising to take his
.leave. Then, as a parting word: “Does
the Rosemary set its own table? or do
.you dine in the dining car?”
“In the dining car, if we have one.
Uncle Somerville lets us dodge the
Rosemary’s cook whenever we can,”
‘was the answer; and with this bit of
information Adams wentUtfs way to
i the Denver sleeper.
•f, FiMingWtnton in his section, por
Afaig over a blue-print map and mak
jta^notes thereon after the manner of
a man hard at work, Adams turned
back to the smoking compartment.
Now for Mr. Morton P. Adams the
salt of life was a joke, harmless or
otherwise, as the tree might fall. So,
during the long afternoon which he
wore out in solitude there grew up in
him a keen desire to see what would
befall if these two whom he had so
protesquely misrepresented each to the
other should come together in the
pathway of acquaintanceship.
But how to bring them together was
a problem which refused to be solved
until chance pointed the way. Since
the “Limited” had lost another hour
during the day, there was a rush for '
the dining car as soon as the announce
ment of its taking on had gone through
the train. Adams and Winton were
of this rush, and so were the mem
bers of Mr. Somerville Darrah’s party.
In the seating the party was sepa
rated, as room at the crowded tables
could be found; and Miss Virginia’s
fate gave her the unoccupied seat at
one of the duet tables, opposite a
young man with steadfast gray eyes
and a Van Dyck beard.
Winton was equal to the emergency, j
or thought he was. Adams was1
still within call, and he beckoned him, j
meaning to propose an exchange of
seats. But the Bostonian misunder
stood willfully.
“Most happy. I’m sure,” he said, .
coming instantly to the rescue. “Miss >
Carteret, my friend signals his di
lemma. May I present him?”
Virginia smiled and gave the re
quired permission in a word. But for
Winton self-possession flew shrieking.
“Ah—er—I hope you know Mr.
Adams well enough to make allow
ances for his—for his—” He broke
down piteously and she had to come to
his assistance.
"For his imagination?” she suggest
ed. “I do, indeed; we are quite old
friends.”
Here was “well enough,” but Wil
ton was a man and could not let it
alone.
"I should be very sorry to have you
think for a moment that I would—er
W INTON FOUND MISS CARTERET HOLDING HIS OVERCOAT.
—so far forget myself,” he went on,
fatuously. “What I had In mind was
an exchange of seats with him. 1
thought it would be pleasanter for
you; that is, I mean, pleasanter for—”
He stopped short, seeing nothing but
a more hopeless involvement ahead;
also because he saw signs of distress
or of mirth flying in the brown eyes.
“Oh, please!” she protested, in mock
humility. “Do leave my vanity just
the tiniest little cranny to creep out
of, Mr. Winton. I’ll promise to be
good and not bore you too desperately.”
At this, as you would imagine, the
pit of utter self-abasement yawned for
Winton, and he plunged headlong,
holding the bill-of-fare wrong side up
when the waiter asked for his dinner
order, and otherwise demeaning him
self like a man taken at a hopeless dis
advantage. But she had pity on him.
“But let’s ignore Mr. Adams,” she
went on, sweetly. “I am much more
interested in this,” touching the bill
of-fare. "Will you order for me, please?
I like—”
When she had finished the list or
her likings, Winton was able to smile
at his lapse into the primitive, and
gave the dinner order for two with a
fair degree of coherence. After that
they got on better. Winton knew
Boston, and next to the weather Bos
ton was the safest and most fruitful
of the commonplaces. Nevertheless,
it was not Immortal; and Winton was
just beginning to cast about for some
other safe riding road for the shallop
of small talk when Miss Carteret sent
it adrift with malice aforethought
It was somewhere between the en
trees and the fruit, and the point of
departure was Boston art.
“Speaking of art, Mr. Winton, will
you tell me how you came to think of
sketching in the mountains of Colo
rado at this time of year? I shoulid
think the cold would be positively pro
hibitive of anything like that.”
Winton stared—open mouthed, it is
to be feared.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he stain
mered, with the inflection which takes
its pitch from blank bewilderment.
Miss Virginia was happy. Dilettante
he might be, and an unhumbled man
of the world as well; but, to use Rev
erend Billy’s phrase, she could make
him “sit up.”
"I beg yours, I’m sure,” she said, de
murely, “I didn’t know it was a craft
secert.”
Winton looked across the aisle to
the table where the technologian was
sitting opposite a square-shouldered,
ruddy-faced gentleman with fiery eyes
and fierce white mustache, and shook
a figurative fist.
‘T’d like to know what Adams has
been telling you,” he said. “Sketch
ing in the mountains in midwinter:
that would be decidedly original, to
say the least of it. And I think I
have never done an original thing in
all my life.”
For a single instant the brown eyes
looked their pity for hint; generic pity
it was, of the kind that mounting
souls bestow upon the stagnant. But
the subconscious lover in Winton made
it personal to him. and it was the
lover who spoke when he went on.
“That is a damaging admission, is
it not? I am s«rry to have to make it
—to have to confirm your poor opinion
of me.”
“Did I say anything like that?" she
protested.
"Not in words; but your eyes said
it, and I know you have been think
ing it all along. Don't ask me how I
know it; I couldn't explain it if I
should try. But you have been pity
ing me, in a way—you know you
bave.”
The brown eyes were down ear .
Frank and free-hearted alter her kin 1
as she was, Virginia Carteret w -s
finding it a new and singular experi
ence to have a man tell her baldly at
their first meeting that he had read her
inmost thought of him. Yet she would
not flinch or go back.
“There is so much to be done in the
world, and so few to do the work,”
she pleaded in extenuation.
“And Adams has told you that t am
not one of the few? It is true enough
to hurt.”
She looked him fairly in the eyes.
“What is lacking, Mr. Winton—the
spi»r?”
“Possibly,” he rejoined. "There is no
one near enough to care, or to say:
‘Well done!’”
“How can you tell?" she questioned,
musingly. “It is not always permitted
to us to hear the plaudits or tha
hisses—happily, 1 think. Yet there ara
always those standing by who ara
ready to cry ‘Io triumpbe!’ and mean,
it, when one approves himself a good
soldier.”
l ne conee had been served, ar.d
Winton sat thoughtfully stirring the
lump of sugar in his cup. Miss Car
teret was not having a monopoly of
the new experiences. For instance,
it had never before happened to John
Winton to have a woman, young,
charming, and altogether lovable, read
him a lesson out of the book of the
overcomers.
He smiled inwardly and wondered
what she would say if she could know
to what battle-field the drumming
wheels of the "Limited” were speeding
him. Would she be loyal to her men
torship and tell him he must win, at.
whatever the cost to Mr. Somerville
an.
Darrah and his business associates'*
Or would she, woman-like, be her
uncle's partisan and write one John
Winton down in her blackest book for
daring to oppose the Rajah?
He assured himself if would make
no jot of difference if he knew. Hu
had a thing to do, and he was pur
posed to do it strenuously, inflexibly.
Yet in the inmost chamber of his
heart, where the barbarous ego stands
unabashed and isolate and recklessly
contemptuous of the moralities mino *
and major he saw the birth of an in
fluence which must henceforth be des
perately reckoned with.
Given a name, this new-born factor
was love; love barely awakened, anl
yet no more than a masterful desirj
to stand well in the eye of one wom
an. None the less, he saw the possi
bilities; that a time might come wbe'jj
this woman would have the power t>
intervene; would make him hold aiv
hand in the business alfair at the
very moment, mayhap, when he shnui J.
strike the hardest
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Deaf Mute Nun.
The first deaf mute in this country
to become a nun is Mi$5 Etta Wait
Holman, who was recently receive t
into t he Dominican order at Hu at 1
Point,' N. Y.
