BY JOHN BEECKENI8DGE ELLIS ILLUSTRATIONS BY' , O • IESWIN • ITffiRS CHAPTER I. A Knock at the Door. Fran knocked at the front door. It was too dark for her to find the bell: however, had she found it, she would have knocked just the same. At first, no one answered. That was not surprising, since everybody was supposed to be at the Union Camp meeting that had been advertised for the last two months, and that any one in Littleburg should go visiting at half-past eight, and especially that any one should come knocking at the door of this particular house, was almost incredible. No doubt that is why the young woman who finally opened the door— after Fran had subjected it to a sec ond and more prolonged visitation of her small fist—looked at the stranger with surprise which was, in itself, re proof. The lady in the doorway be lieved herself confronted by a "carap *r”-—one of those fitting birds of outer darkness who have no religion of their own, but who are always putting that of others to the proof. The voice from the doorway was cool, impersonal, as if, by its very aloofnesB. it would push the wanderer away: “Wliat do you want?” . “I want Hamilton Gregory," Fran answered promptly, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “I'm told he lives here.” "Mr. Gregory"—offering the name with its title as a palpable rebuke— "lives here, but is not at home. What do you want, little girl?” “Where is he?" Fran asked, un daunted. He is at the camp-meeting, tne young woman answered reluctantly, irritated at opposition, and displeased ■with herself for being irritated. “What do you want with him? 1 will attend to whatever It is. I am acquainted ■with all of his affairs—l am his secre tary." “Where's that camp-meeting? How can I find the place?” was Fran's quick rejoinder. She could not ex plain the dislike rising within her. She was too young, herself. v> con sider the other's youth an advantage, but the beauty of the imperious wom an in the doorway—why did it not stir her imagination? Mr. Gregory's secretary, reflected that, despite its seeming improbabil ity, it might be important for him to see this queer creature who came to strange doors at night-time. “If you will go straight down that road"—she pointed—“and keep on for about a mile and a half, you will come to the big tent. Mr. Gregory will be in the tent, leading the choir.” “All right.” And turning her back on the door. Fran swiftly gained the front steps. Half-way down, she paused, and glanced over her thin shoulder. Standing thus, nothing was to be seen of her but a blurred out line, and the shining of her eyes. "I Guess,” Said Fran Inscrutably, “You’re Not Mrs. Gregory.” "I guess,” said Fran inscrutably, “you're not Mrs. Gregory.” “No,” came the answer, with an al most imperceptible cbange of manner —a change as of gradual petrifaction. “I am not Mrs. Gregory.” And with that the lady, who was not Mrs. Greg ory. quietly but forcibly closed the door. It was as if, with the closing of that d«)or, she would have shut Fran out her CHAPTER II. A Disturbing Laugh. The sermon was ended, the exhor tation was at the point of loudest voice and most impassioned earnest ness. A number of men, most of them young, thronged the footpath leading from the stiles to the tent. A few were smoking; all were waiting for the pretty girls to come forth from the Christian camp. Fran pushed her way among the idlers with admirable nonchalance, her sharp elbow ready for the first resistive pair of ribs. The crowd outside did not argue a scarcity of seats under the canvas. Fran found a plank without a back, loosely disposed, and entirely unoc cupied. She seated herself, straight as an Indian, and with the air of be ing very much at ease. The scene was new to her. More than a thousand villagers, ranged along a natural declivity, looked down ' upon the platform of undressed nine. In front of the platform men and women were kneeling on the ground. Some were bathed in tears; some were praying aloud; some were talk ing to those who stood,' or knelt be side them; some were clasping con vulsive hands; all were oblivions of surroundings. From the hundred members of the choir, Fran singled out the man she had been seeking for so many years. It was easy enough to distinguish him from the singers who crowded the platform, not only by his baton which proclaimed the choir-leader, but by his resemblance to the picture she had discovered in a New York Sunday Supplement. Hamilton Gregory was clean-shaved except for a silken reddish mustache; his complexion was fair, his hair a shade between red and brown, his eyes blue. His finely marked face and striking bearing were stamped with distinction and grace. It was strange to Fran that he did not once glance in her direction. True, there was nothing in her ap pearance to excite especial attention, but she had looked forward to meet ing him ever since she could remem ber. Now that her eyes were fast ened on his face, now that they were so near, sheltered by a common roof, how could he help feeling her pres ence? The choir-leader rose and lifted his baton. At his back thq hundred men and women obeyed the signal, while hymn-books fluttered open throughout the congregation. Suddenly the leader of the choir started into galvanic life. He led the song with his sweet voice, his swaying body, his frantic baton, his wild arms, his imperious feet. With all that there was of him, he conducted the melodious charge upon the ramparts of sin and indifference. If in repose Fran had thought him singularly handsome and attractive, she now found him inspiring. His blue eyes burned with exaltation while his magic voice seemed to thrill with more than human ecstasy. On the left, the heavy bass was singing, “One thing: we know. Wherever we go— We reap what we sow. We reap what we sow.** While these words were being doled out at long and impressive intervals, like the tolling of a heavy bell, more than half a hundred soprano voices were hastily getting in their requisite number of half-notes, thus— "So scatter little, scatter little, scatter scatter little. Scatter little seed* of kindness." In spite of the vast volume of sound produced by these voices, as well as by the acotnpaniment of two pianos and a snar#drum, the voice of Hamilton Gregory, soaring flute-like toward heaven, seemed to dart through the interstices of “rests,” to thread its slender way along infinites imal curves of silence. As one list ened. it was the inspired truth as ut tered by Hamilton Gregory that brought the message home to con science. As if one had never before been told that one reaps what one sows, uneasy memory Btarted out of (.COPYRIGHT 1912 1 B0BB5-MEPPILLC0.) weather-stained canvas rolled th* warning, not unmusically: “We leap what we sow, We reap what we sow.” hidden places with its whisper or seed sown amiss. Tears rose to many eyes, and smothered sobs betrayed intense emotion. Of those who were not in the least affected, Fran was one. She saw and heard Hamilton Gregory's Impassioned earnestness, and divined his yearning to touch m-.ny hearts; nor did she doubt that he would then and there have given his life to press home upon the erring that they must ultimately reap what they were sowing. Never theless she was altogether unmoved. It would have been easier for her to laugh than to cry. Although the preacher had ceased his exhortations for the singing of the evangelistic hymn, he was by no means at the end of his resources. Standing at the margin of the plat form. looking out on the congregation, he slowly moved hack and forth his magnetic arms in parallel lines. Not one word did he s; eak. Even between the verses, when he might have striv en against the pi inos and the snare "Won’t You Go With Me, Littie Girl?*’ drum, h*s maintained his terrible si lence. f;ut as he fixed his ardent eyes upon space, as he moved those impel ling arms, a man wo^ld rise here, a \v«ma j start up there—reluctantly, or eager??, the unsaved would press their way to the group kneeling at the rront. Prayers and groans rose louder. Jubilant shouts of religious victo'-y were more frequent. One could now hardly hear the choir as it in sisted— “XVe reap what we sow. We reap what we sow.” Suddenly the evangelist smote his hands together, a signal for song and prayer to cease. Having obtained a silence that was breathless he leaned over the edge of the platform, and addressed a man who knelt upon the ground: “Brother Clinton, can’t you get it?” The man shook his head. "You’ve been kneeling there n'ght after night,” tho evangelist continued; “don’t you feel that the Lord loves you? Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel it now? Can’t you get it? Can’t you get it now? Brother Clinton, I want you to get through before these revival services close. They close this night, i go away tomorrow. This may be your last opportunity. I want you to g*t It now. All these waiting friends want you to get it now. All these praying neighbors want to see you get It. Can’t you get tLrough to night? Just quietly here, without any excitement, without any noise or tu mult, just you and your soul alone to gether—Brother Clinton, can’t you get through tonight?” Brother Clinton shook his head. Fran laaghed aloud. The evangelist had already turned to Hamilton Gregory as a signal for the hymn to be resumed, for some times singing helped them "through,” but the sound of irreverent laughter chilled his blood. To his highly wrought emotional nature, that sound of mirth came as the laughter of fiends over the tragedy of an immortal soul. “Seveial times,” he cried, with whit ened face, "these services have beqn disturbed by the ungodly.” He point ed an inflexible Auger at Fran: "Yon der sits a little girl who should not have been allowed In thm tent unac companied by her parents. Brethren! Too much is at stake, at moments like these, to . jhrink from heroic measures. Souls are here, waiting to be saved. Let the, little girl be re moved. Where are the ushers? 1 hope she will go without disturbance, but go she shall! Now, Brother Greg ory, sing.” As the song swept over the wor shipers in a wave of pleading, such ushers as still remained held a brief consultation. The task assigned them did not geem included in their proper functions. Only one could be found to volunteer as policeman, and he only because the evangelist’s determined eye and rigid arm had never ceased to indicate the disturber of the peace. Fran was furious; her small white face seemed cut in stor.e as she stared at the evangelist. How could she have known she was going to laugh? Her tumultuous emotions, inspired by the sight of Hamilton Gregory, might well have found expression in some other way. That laugh had been as a darting of tongue-flame directed against the armored Christian soldier whose face was so spiritually beauti ful, whose voice was so eloquent. Fran was suddenly aware of a man pausing irresolutely at the end of the plank that held her erect. Without turning her head, she asked in a rather spiteful voice, "Are you the sheriff?” He spoke with conciliatory persua siveness: "Won't you go with me, little girl?” Fran turned impatiently to glare at the usher. He was a fine young fellow of per haps twenty-four, tall and straight, clear, and wholesome. His eyes were sincere and earnest yet they promised much in the way of sunny smiles—at the proper time and place. His mouth was frank, his forehead open, his shoulders broad. Fran rose as swiftly as if a giant had lifted her to her feet. "Come on. then,” she said in a tone somewhat smothered. She climbed over the i “stringer” at the -end of her plank, and marched behind the young man as if oblivious of devouring eyes. As they passed the last pole that supported a gasolene-burner, Fran glanced up shyly from under her broad hat. The light burned red upon the young usher’s face, and there was something in the crimson glow, or in the face, that made her feel like cry ing. just because—or so she fancied— it revived the recollection of lone liness. And as she usually did what she felt like doing, she cried, silently, as she followed the young man out be neath the stars. CHAPTER III. On the Foet-Bridge. To the young usher, the change of scene was rather bewildering. His eyes were still full of the light from gasolene-burners, his ears still rang with the confusion of tent-noise into which entered the prolonged mono tones of inarticulate groanings, and the explosive suddenness of seemingly irreverent Amens. Nothing just then mattered except the saving cf souls. Having faithfully attended the camp-meeting for three weeks he found.other interests blot ted out. The village as a whole had given itself over to religious ecstasy 1 Those who had professed their faith left no stone unturned in leading oth ers to the altar, as if life could not re sume its routine until the unconverted were brought to kneel at the evang elist’s feet. ' As Abbott Ashton reflected that, be cause of this young girl with the mocking laugh, he was losing the cli macteric expression of the three weeks’ campaign. his displeasure grew. Within him was an undefined thought vibration akin to surprise, caused by the serenity of the hushed sky. Was it not incongruous that the heavens should be so peaceful with their quiet star-beacons, while man was exerting himself to the utmost of gesture and noise to glorify the Maker of that calm canopy? From the Above the tide of melody, the voice of the evangelist rose iu a scream, ap palling in its agony—"Oh. men and women, why will you die, why will you die?” But the stars, looking down at the silent earth, spoke not of death, spoke only as stars, seeming .to say. “Here are April days, dear old earth, balmy springtime and summer harvest be fore us!—What merry nights we shall pass together!” The earth answered with a sudden white smile, for the moon had just risen above the distant woods. At the stile where the footpath from the tent ended, Abbott paused. Why should he go further? This scof fer, the one false cote in the meet ings harmony, had been silenced "There,” he said, showing the road. His tone was final. It meant. "De part.” Fran spoke in a choking voice, “I'm afraid.' It was, not until then, that he knew she had been crying, for not once had he looked back. That she should cry, changed everything. "I am so little,” Fran said plain tively. "and the world is so large.” Abbott stood irresolute. To take Fran back to the tent would destroy the Influence, but it seemed inhuman to send her away. He temporized rather weakly, "But you came here alone.” "But I’m not going away alone,’ said Fran. Her voice was still damp, but she had kept her resolution dry. In the gioom, he vainly sought to discern her features. "Whose little girl are you?” he asked, not without an accent of gentle commiseration. Fran, one foot on the first step of the stile, looked up at him: the sud den flare of a torch revealed the sor row' in her eyes. “I am nobody's little girl,” she answered plaintively. Her eyes were so large, and so soft and dark, that Abbott was glad she was only a child of fourteen—or fif teen, perhaps. Her face was so strangely eloquent In its yearning foi something quite beyond his compre hension, that he decided^ then and there, to be her frie'nd. The unsteady ! light prevented definite perception of her face. There was. in truth, an ele ment of charm in all he could discern of the girl. Possibly the big hat helped to conceal or accentuate—at any rate, the effect was somewhat elfish. As for those great and lumi nously black eyes, he could not for the life of him have said what he saw in • "S' “Who’s Little Girl Are You?’* them to set his blood tingling with a feeling of protecting tenderness. Pos sibly it was her trust in him, for aE he gazed into the earnest eyes oi Fran, it was like looking into a clear pool to see oneself. "Nobody's little girl?” he repeated, inexpressibly touched that it should be so. What a treasure somebody w»as denied! "Are you a stranger in the town?” "Never been here before,” Fran an swered mournfully. “But why did you come?" “I came to find Hamilton Gregory.’ himself, but of bis value to the community. The figures in in i'i vidua! cases would vary greatly with reference to the fact whether or not *the person's death caused hard ship to others who were dependent up on him. The value of a man to himself is. it is further pointed out, unimportant after he is dead—from a legal point of view. His value to society at large cannot be considered in a cash esti mate. since that kind of value de pends upon other than physical re sources. His value to those who look to him for support can alone be esti mated on the material side. Gallo-Roman Villa Unearthed. A Gallo-Roman villa haB been un earthed in Paris in connection with the works for the underground rail way near the Luxembourg. Traces of Roman remains are being discov ered in Paris more numerously every year, and the remains of the villa just discovered might, we are told, rival those of some of the finest brought to light in Pompeii. It is not the first time that this villa Is spoken of. as parts of the walls and atrium were uncovered years ago, when the works were in nrogress for the Luxembourg station, hut now the entire villa has been laid bare, and it is found to have consisted of twenty rooms, with a large atrium and a piscina. It faced in the direction of the Rue Gay Lus sac and the boulevard Saint Michel, and according all appearances it was the most sumptuous private resi dence built in Paris during the Gallo Roman period—Paris correspondence London Telegraph. Anti-Swear Gong. "Please do not swear when the bell rings. That is the signal a lady is buying something out front.” This is the sign that is stuck up In the big poolroom of a Virginia town, where the young men are inclined to cuss when they miss an easy side-pocket; shot or "scratch” on an easy play. In front of the poolroom is a magazine and stationery stand, and the owner found the only way to keep both hia poof trade and magazine customers was to stop the boys from swearing when women were. near. The gong does it PLACE FOR DANGEROUS DRUGS Household Should Have Some Kind of Cupboard Where They May Be Kept in Safety. Almost every medical man has ex perience of some lotion intended for outward application being taken by mistake, and such accidents will go on happening until the general pub lic does something for its own pro tection. The druggist may label his bottles ever so carefuly. but to a child the label conveys no meaning, and if the bottle be left within his reach no one can be surprised if an accident happens. Every house should contain a small, safe ccboard out of reach of chil dren where bottleB may be kept, for many medicines which are perfectly harmless if taken as prescribed by the person for whom they are In tended would bring abont serious re sults If the bottle were emptied at one draught People do not realize what great precautions are taken by dispensers at large hospitals who have the re sponsibility of dealing continually with many powerful drugs. In most cases all poisons are kept In a special 1 cuboard, so arranged that an electric bell rings loudly as soon as the door is opened, summoning immediately a 'checker," without whose presence no dangerous drug can be taken out. These precautions, valuable as they undoubtedly are, must be supplement ed in the patient's home: it is there for the mqst part that the accident, take place. He Meant a Wee Nap, Not a Wee Nip. After Charles Myers, a Mason (Mo.) barber, had finished up the stranger he raised the chair, and his customers head fell over lo rme side. The barber straightened him up and shook him a little. ••You were asleep,” said Charley. "So I was—so I was,” agreed the gentleman In the chair. "Well, you’ll have to come ’round to my place and take one on me.” "I don’t drink,” returned Charley.* “Neither do?I. I’m the new preach er at the First Street church.”—New York World. TENDERFEET WIN ! WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP HILL AND SONS, THp OAT CHAM PIONS, ARE COCKNEYS BORN AND BRED. City-bred in the world’s greatest metropolis and untrained as to things agricultural, were J. C. Hill and his three boys when they settled on home steads at Lloydminster, in the Prov ince of Saskatchewan (western Can ada), eight years ago. Today they are the recognized champion oat grow ers ol the North American continent, having won twice in succession the silver challenge cup. valued at $1,500 at the Fifth National Corn exposition, Columbia, S. C. The Plate, officially known as the Colorado Oat trophy, is emblematic of the grand champion ship prize for the best bushel of oats exhibited by individual farmers or ex periment farms at these expositions. The Hill entry won this year in the face of the keenest competition, hun dreds of exhibits being sent by expe rienced farmers from all parts of the United States and Canada. The oats were grown on land which was wild prairie less than four years ago. When Mr. Hill and his three son*, who probably never saw a wider acre age than the hills of Hampstead Heath, or the parks of London, came to Saskatchewan eight years ago, they had little more capital than was re quired for homestead entry fees. They filed on four homesteads, in the Lloyd minster district, which straddles the boundary of Alberta and Saskatche wan. They went to work with a will, ripping the rich brown sod with break ing plows and put in a crop, which yielded fair returns. They labored early and late and de nied themselves paltry pleasures, glad to stand the gaff for a while in rising to their possibilities. They talked with successful farmers and studied crops and conditions and profited by both. The new life on the farm was strange but they never lost heart, handicapped as they were by lack of experience and capital. The farm house, modern in every respect, compares favorably with any residence in the city. The Hills have substantial bank accounts and- their credit is gilt-edge from Edmonton to Winnipeg and beyond. "There is nothing secret about our methods nor is our plan copyrighted. We first made a thorough study of climatic conditions, soil and seed," said Mr. Hill. "We tended our crops carefully and gradually added live stock, realizing from the beginning that mixed farming would pay larger and more certain returns than straight grain growing. We have demonstrated that fact to our satisfaction and the result is that many of the farmers in the district are following our exam ple.’’ The land that the Hills work is of the same class as may be found any where in Manitoba, Saskatchewan or Alberta.—Advertisement. Hope for Us All, Then. "Even Dobblitz has his good points." ‘‘A remark that is enough to make the average man an optimist.” Exceptions. "Never put your foot in it when acknowledging a birthday present.’ "Not even if it is a pair of slip pers?” , Liquid blue is a weak solution. Avoid it. Buy Ked Cross Ball Blue, tbe blue ih&i's alf blue. Ask your grocer. Adv. A hen sitting on a porcelain egg is a pathetic example of misapplied eon ♦fidence. WOMAN COULD NOT WALK 1,1 1 ■■ ■■ • She Was So Bl—Restored to Health by Lydia E. 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