OLD NINETY-NINE’S CAVE

CONTENTS

Reuben

OLD NINETY-NINE’S CAVE

BY
ELIZABETH H. GRAY

Le Succès est un Devoir
CMC Pub. Co.
MCM

THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
1909

Copyright, 1909
by
The C. M. Clark Publishing Co.
Boston, Massachusetts
U. S. A.

All Rights Reserved

PRESS OF MURRAY AND EMERY COMPANY
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

DEDICATED
To the loving memory of my Father and in grateful
recognition to my friend J. F. C., whose
encouragement made this book possible.

ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

Tourists in the Shawangunk region are unanimous in pronouncing it one of the most beautiful spots east of the Mississippi, and in some respects unique on this continent. Mokonk and Minnewaska need no eulogy from any pen, Sam’s Point tells its own story, while the entire Rondout Valley has a charm of its own.

It has been the author’s good fortune to have access to old books and papers relating to the local tradition of “Old Ninety-Nine.” He is said to have been the last of the Delawares in the Rondout Valley, and, excepting his death, on which tradition is silent, the account given is the one generally told.

The house of Benny De Puy is still standing and the “very spring from which old Ninety-Nine drank on his way to and from his cave” yet gushes out not far from the door.

The photographs of Sam’s Point and Margaret are by V. T. Wright. That of Reuben and others used are by A. V. Turner.

The author feels indebted to “The Four Track News and Travel Magazine” for courteous permission to reprint parts of two articles by herself that were published by them.

Old Ninety-Nine’s Cave

CHAPTER I

THE Shawangunk Mountains extend from near the center of Ulster County to the southwestern corner in an almost unbroken chain. The Catskills are in the northeastern part and between these two ranges is the Rondout Valley, which extends from the Delaware to the Hudson River, averaging in width about three miles.

Shawangunk is an Indian word meaning “Great Wall,” and the range separates the Wallkill from this beautiful valley. Here flourish the trailing arbutus, azalea and laurel, and in July that glory of our continent—the American rhododendron—is found in perfection.

History and tradition have added charm to the natural beauty of this region, and every lake and mountain-pass has its legends.

Early settlers were Dutch, and French Huguenots who found the country disputed by different tribes of the Delawares. Those living in Ulster County were called the Esopus Indians, and their hunting-grounds embraced the territory between the Highlands on the south, Tendeyackemick on the north, the Hudson on the east, and the head waters of the Delaware on the west. They were, however, divided into clans which generally took the name of the place where they lived: thus those on the east side of the Shawangunk Mountains were called “Waconawankongs” and those on the west were called “Wawarsings,” “Minisinks” and “Mamakatings.” Originally they were a portion of the Minqua or Delawares, who always claimed a protectorate over them and with whom they merged when driven westward by the settlements of the whites.

In the heart of this valley and nestling close to the base of Point Wawanda lay Nootwyck, a quaint little village and seemingly part of its surroundings. Huguenot Street intersected the village, running from east to west towards the mountain, and extended part way up its side.

It was in December, 1878, that John De Vere hurried up this street towards the home whose welcome lights glimmered through the falling snow; even the gaunt Lombardy poplars which lined the street were attractive in their soft mantle of white. At the extreme end of the street he turned into his grounds and ascended to the house by the winding road which led up to it. Being a scholarly man and an admirer of the Greek style of architecture, his house had been made to conform as nearly as possible to it. The broad piazza which extended around three sides commanded a fine view of the valley.

Springing up the broad steps, Mr. De Vere was soon in the midst of his family, who were seated at the supper-table. The family consisted of his mother, wife, and four children: Jack, a handsome young fellow of twenty-two; Celeste, a girl of twenty; Eletheer, sixteen; and Cornelia, six. Reuben and Margaret, the two blacks who served them, were husband and wife.

“Ugh!” said Mr. De Vere, “a bitter night and this snow added to what is already on the ground will make a heavy body of it.”

“I think the temperature is moderating,” said his mother, “and the snow will probably turn to rain.”

“Father,” said Jack, “Mr. Valentine Mills called at the office to-day. He seemed anxious to see you.”

“What can he want in the country at this season of the year?” returned his father.

“He said something about wishing to purchase your mining claim and erecting a sanitarium on Point Wawanda; he showed me his plans and I tell you the structure would be an ornament.”

“O, don’t sell it!” protested Eletheer, “you know that is to be the site of my hospital.”

“John, I don’t like that man’s looks and would have as little dealing as possible with him.”

“Why, mother, he seems very much of a gentleman.”

“Nevertheless, I mistrust him.”

Mrs. De Vere, or “Granny,” was a woman of positive ideas and, in her younger days, of great executive ability. A strict Calvinist, she had accepted the doctrines of her church as ultimate truth beyond which there was no cause for investigation; these questions had been settled for all time and those who differed from her were either deluded or wilfully in error. She never obtruded her religious beliefs on others, but, when asked, always gave them in a remarkably direct manner, which precluded all argument.

After supper she retired early, accompanied by Eletheer whose self-imposed duty it was to see her comfortably tucked in bed and then read her to sleep from her beloved Bible. Mr. and Mrs. De Vere went to the library where a bright fire crackled on the hearth, scenting the room with birch. Throwing himself on a couch, Mr. De Vere with a deep sigh said: “You know the mortgage on this place comes due January first, and probably Mills wants his money. I can’t blame him either for Nootwyck is dead. One enterprise after another falls through for want of railway communication. Look at the iron mine, the blast-furnace and the rolling-mill. They cannot compete with like industries elsewhere and consequently fail.”

“This town is bonded for the railroad and we are entitled to have it extended through to Kingston,” his wife said.

“The business men of Elmdale do not want this extension, and I fear they have played a winning game.”

A loud ring at the door announced the arrival of some one, and who should Reuben usher in but Mr. Mills himself.

“Good evening, Mr. Mills,” said Mr. De Vere cordially. “Stormy night.”

Divesting himself of overcoat and rubbers, Mr. Mills entered the library and shook hands graciously with both.

He was tall and spare, of about fifty-five, and his manner was that of a man of the world; but his unsteady glance never met one’s frankly and his movements were restless.

Reuben brought in a tray on which were a plate of crullers and some cider and while they were sipping it, he replenished the fire.

“Where did you get that treasure?” inquired Mills after Reuben left the room.

“He was a porter in the college at Vicksburg, Mississippi, when I occupied the Chair of Ancient Languages there. He became enamored of Mrs. De Vere’s maid, Margaret, and begged me to buy him, which I did.”

“If not an impertinent question, may I ask what you paid for him?”

“Certainly. I gave one thousand dollars for him. He is not an ignorant man, as you can see.”

“How did he get his education?”

“I taught him and he still studies every spare moment of his time.”

“Your life has been an eventful one,” said Mills interestedly.

“Mrs. De Vere’s has,” her husband returned soberly. “Jack told me that you were at the office to-day.”

“Yes, I wanted to see you on some business connected with your mountain preserve.”

For some inexplicable reason, Granny at this juncture entered the room, leaning on Eletheer. Mills sprang to offer her a chair, and as soon as she was seated Eletheer left the room.

“A charming family, De Vere,” said Mills.

“A God-fearing one,” returned Granny, “all except Eletheer have accepted the Word of God, which is cause for great thankfulness.”

“God is good. His ways are inscrutable. Let us trust that the remaining lamb may be received into the fold,” said Mills reverently.

“She is a good child, but wilfully in error, I fear,” replied the old lady wiping her glasses. “Cornelia is a true De Vere and even at her age the family traits are pronounced in her.” Mills moved uneasily.

“We were discussing Mr. De Vere’s preserve on the mountain back of this house,” he remarked. “I should like to erect a sanitarium on it.”

“Eletheer has set her heart on that mining claim, and I think she ought to have it,” said her grandmother.

“As a mining claim, it is worthless. Experts say that gold is there but not in sufficient quantities to pay for mining. Instead of chasing a phantom, would it not be better to erect an institution where the sick and suffering may be benefited by the medicinal springs and balsamic air of these mountains?” Mills replied.

“That is just what she proposes doing.”

“But it takes money,” he answered with a sinister smile which no one saw. “Several charitable New York men are interested in the scheme and wish to negotiate through me for the purchase.”

The old lady was momentarily won and Mills, seeing his advantage, continued: “The company wish to begin operations as soon as possible. That is what brings me into the country at this season of the year.”

“Well,” said Mr. De Vere, “there are reasons which must be carefully weighed before deciding, and I will let you know my decision within a week.”

Seeing that Mr. De Vere was determined and that nothing would be gained by prolonging the interview, Mills was obliged to be content and soon after left, fully convinced that his mission was accomplished.

CHAPTER II

JOHN DE VERE was born on a farm at Greenmeadow, New York. His grandfather, Benoni De Vere, came from Tarrytown to Greenmeadow in 1796 and was the first settler there.

John’s father was a representative of the sturdy men of those stirring times and his mother was a woman of great strength of character. Nine children were reared in a veritable wilderness and their destinies were governed by the restrictions of the times. Six days of the week were spent in hard labor on the farm and the seventh lived in John’s memory as a horrible dream. On this day, winter and summer, instead of five they arose at six o’clock. Milking and breakfast over, the whole family repaired to the parlor for family prayers, which ceremony lasted an hour. They then hurried off to church where for two mortal hours the good dominie preached Calvinism unabridged. Woe to the culprit who fidgeted or betrayed any lack of interest, and John sat on those hard seats without moving a muscle until his bones ached.

Relatives and friends usually dined with them on Sunday and the children “waited.” After the sermon in all its bearings had been discussed, the sweetmeats and tea—which appeared on company days—were sparingly dealt out to the children and they took what else remained on the table, John inwardly vowing that when he grew up, he would have all the sweetmeats and tea he wanted.

Pilgrim’s Progress, Baxter’s Saints Everlasting Rest, Fox’s Book of Martyrs and the Bible were the only books allowed, and a funereal atmosphere pervaded everything. When the guests left and the chores were done, the children went to bed thankful for the Sunday less.

Naturally a student, John worked hard, saved his money, studied every spare moment of his time and eventually was graduated with honors from Union College; then, broken in health, he went South to accept the Chair of Ancient Languages at Vicksburg College, Vicksburg, Mississippi, where he met and married Miss Bessie Ragsdale, a beautiful southern girl and an heiress; meantime pursuing the study of law and was admitted to the bar of that State two years after his arrival there.

In the sunny South on the bank of “The Father of Waters,” their life was a poet’s dream, “Where the sweet magnolia blossoms grew as white as snow, and they never thought that sorrow, grief nor pain would come.” True, there were mutterings of war, but none believed they would amount to anything, and when the firing on Fort Sumpter was heralded abroad people said it would be a short war. After the secession of Mississippi and the formal election of Jefferson Davis as President of the Southern Confederacy, the defeat of Commodore Montgomery at Memphis, its occupation by the Union forces, and the concentration of forces upon Vicksburg, they knew then that war in all its horrors was upon them. This last Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi which had refused to surrender to Farragut’s fleet was strongly fortified. General Grant’s attempt to change the channel of the river, leaving Vicksburg some distance back, had failed, and the people were still confident until he attacked them from the rear. The railroads were destroyed and for six weeks the city was cannonaded unceasingly night and day. The siege of Vicksburg was John De Vere’s last picture of Mississippi; the city battered to pieces, the streets red with blood, two gallant young Confederate officers shot dead at his door, his home in ruins.

Hearing that he was about to be pressed into the Southern Army, he managed, through the influence of his wife’s family, to get on board a boat bound for St. Louis, taking what little money he could scrape together. His wife and children with the faithful Reuben and Margaret joined him the next morning and they started for the last-named city where he hoped to earn enough to take him North.

Will he ever forget that sail up the mighty stream so full of snags and timber from the far North? That river which has played so important a part in the destiny of our nation? In 1542, its muddy waters received the fever-racked body of its discoverer. Down this stream came Marquette with his devoted Canadian followers in their birch-bark canoes, “ready to seek new nations towards the South Sea who are still unknown to us, and to teach them of our God.” LaSalle, Iberville, Bienville and many others floated before his mental vision. The levees, which were built before each river plantation by the owners’ slaves, were simply artificial mud-banks sometimes strengthened by ribs of timber and sometimes not. These answered very well so long as kept in repair. An unusual flood, of course, was apt to destroy them, but slave labor was cheap. Mr. De Vere noted with dismay their present neglected condition. The largest and most substantial was the one over Yazoo Pass twelve miles above Vicksburg; but this was in bad shape, and he pictured the wholesale destruction which would follow the inevitable spring flood, and the dank pools left by the receding waters, filling the air with deadly miasma.

On the fourth day of their journey they reached St. Louis. Mr. McElwee, a member of the “Christian Commission,” which did such noble work in the armies, offered them the shelter of his home until work could be found and they gratefully accepted his offer. He used his influence and one day Thomas Murphy from a settlement near Lake Crevecœur, about thirteen miles west of St. Louis, offered Mr. De Vere the position of teacher in their school at a salary of fifty dollars per month and the use of a log house belonging to him. Autumn found them installed in their new quarters. Mrs. De Vere, accustomed to every luxury, yet accepted her lot uncomplainingly; and with the assistance of Reuben and Margaret the rude house was made to appear quite home-like. It consisted of two rooms, a living-room and a sleeping-room. Mr. and Mrs. De Vere and the children occupied the latter, and all that the bed would not hold were stored away on the floor. Reuben and Margaret slept on the floor of the living-room.

Time passed more quickly than they feared it would. Christmas came and went, but Mr. De Vere’s step was not so springy as formerly. His head ached continually and memory failed. All night long he tossed and moaned but stern duty demanded his services and when morning came he sought the school-house tired in mind and body. No butter nor milk; coarse corn bread, sweet potatoes and pork constituted their daily fare, but no one complained. Coffee at twenty dollars a pound was not to be thought of and they all declared corn coffee delicious.

One morning immediately after school was called and the arithmetic class was on the floor, for no apparent reason, Mr. De Vere dismissed them. This he did three times in succession, and each time a general titter went round. Suddenly Elisha Vedder, a great lubberly fellow, rose to his feet and in a ringing voice said, “Shame, you cowards! Don’t you see that our teacher is a sick man?” Then going up to Mr. De Vere, he said: “Mr. De Vere, your wife is not very well and wants you to come home with me, and George Murphy will bring the doctor”; at the same time putting on his own and his teacher’s hat. Mr. De Vere leaned heavily upon him, and when they reached the house he fell on the bed, too sick to undress. No doctor lived nearer than St. Louis, but George Murphy on Elisha’s mare was flying like the wind after one, and by evening, when the doctor arrived, Mr. De Vere was raving in delirium. After a short examination and a few intelligent questions, Dr. Hoff, the physician summoned, took Mrs. De Vere aside and said, “I need not question further, the diagnosis is clear. It is typhoid and about the end of the second week. An ordinary man would have added to his chances for recovery by having spent the time in bed. Though a very sick man, I trust that we may be able to pull him through. Who is to help you?”

Reuben, who had been stationed near his master’s bed, caught the last words and exclaimed, “Who but me, Massa?”

Eyeing him critically, the doctor said: “Ever had any experience in fevers?”

“Yes, Massa. Yaller Jack, break bone, intermittent, remittent, congestive, typhoid, small pox—”

“I reckon you have then,” returned the doctor. “Where were you raised?”

“New Orleans, Massa.”

“Ever worked in the charity hospital there?”

“Law me, Massa, I has so!”

Doctor Hoff looked satisfied, and after giving careful directions left, promising to come the next day.

Needless to dwell on the anxious weeks to follow. Reuben never left his post, faithfully recording every symptom even when others would gladly have relieved him. His black lips were almost constantly moving in prayer and who shall say that they did not penetrate to the “Throne of Grace.” At last the change came and when Doctor Hoff paid his next visit, he grasped those black hands and in a tone of profound respect said: “Reuben, your master will live and you, not I, have saved his life.”

Falling on his knees, Reuben poured forth his soul in an earnest prayer. Unconsciously, the doctor knelt beside him, bowing his head on those faithful black shoulders, and the man of science and the descendant of Ham were one in the presence of their Maker. A silence as of death followed and then a voice low and sweet, but trembling with emotion, came from the doorway:

“On Christ, the solid rock, I stand,

All other ground is sinking sand.”

The dim morning light, with the stars still twinkling in the heavens, the rude log house in a strange country,—the picture is not soon forgotten.

How the tedious weeks of convalescence were brightened by those honest people. They could not do enough and blamed themselves for former neglect. Delicacies from down the river came by the basketful; fruits from New Orleans, fresh vegetables, tender chickens and everything which kind hearts could suggest and ingenuity procure. Elisha Vedder was untiring and his horse always at their disposal.

Letters from Greenmeadow contained sad news. Mr. De Vere’s brother had been severely wounded in the battle of Gettysburg and many dear to him were fighting for their country. His mother could not become reconciled to the fact that her son had married what she termed a “Creole.”

It was April now and although Mr. De Vere had not taught school since February, the kind people of Crevecœur insisted on paying his salary, and the family were preparing to leave for the North. At Nootwyck, New York, was a good opening for a lawyer, and Andrew Genung, president of the savings bank there, had written him urging him to come; and only too glad to do so, Mr. De Vere answered saying that he would start in April. Now that the time had come to say good-bye to these more than friends, his heart failed him. Doctor Hoff and Elisha Vedder had particularly endeared themselves to him and though neither of them would accept a cent of remuneration, he exacted a promise that if he could ever serve them in any way, they would let him know.

The morning they left, the whole neighborhood assembled to see them off. Mrs. Murphy had provided a generous lunch-basket and her eyes were red with weeping. Mr. Murphy clumsily concealed his sorrow and Elisha Vedder was nowhere to be seen, but Reuben’s diligent search disclosed him behind the house, shaking with ill-suppressed emotion.

“Now, Massa ’Lish, don’t give way to idle grief. Jes’ run along and saddle Jinnie. Massa Murphy wants you to lead the way.”

Elisha obeyed willingly, and after a tearful parting and promises to write often, they were off. No one seemed inclined to talk. Nothing but the rolling Missouri broke the stillness. Their way led along its banks and in sight of Lake Crevecœur, and the mocking-bird’s voice was heard imitating first one bird and then another. Just as they were leaving the lake behind them, Mr. De Vere turned for a last look and said, “Farewell to Crevecœur! No more does that word to me mean ‘broken heart,’ but ‘grateful heart.’”

A little after noon they reached St. Louis where they were met by Doctor Hoff, and after again and again thanking him for all his kindness, the De Veres said good-bye to Missouri and soon were speeding northward.

Mr. De Vere’s brother-in-law, Peter Brown, met them at a hamlet west of the Shawangunks which they had crossed by stage from Middleburgh, bundled them into his great wagon, cracked his whip over his horses’ heads and in a little over an hour set them down at his home in Greenmeadow. Oh, that welcome home! Can words describe it? Dear old mother, with her silver hair, forgot all differences and the welcome accorded her ‘baby’s’ wife made Bessie feel that she was one of them in very truth.

Peter Brown was a generous provider, but to-day his table groaned under its weight of good things. Such deliciously sweet white bread and butter, steaming roast chickens, cranberries; and with appetites whetted by their ride over the hills, the hungry wayfarers did ample justice to everything.

Bessie’s sweet ways won the love of all, and when John told that, but for her, his heart many times would have failed, how she had lost everything and used all her influence to prevent his being forced into the Confederate service, their glowing eyes expressed the welcome addition she was.

The children were duly admired and all points of resemblance settled. John De Vere’s mother positively detested negroes, regarding them as all alike, and as a race of filthy, lying, lazy thieves. This condition, of course, was due to the system of slavery, but Reuben and Margaret’s devotion was regarded by her as a special dispensation of Providence and her heart went out to them.

Anxious to be up and doing, John De Vere made arrangements to begin at once in his new field of labor, and another month found them comfortably settled at Nootwyck. It was a fortunate time. The village was being boomed by “The Consolidated Iron-Mining Company” which employed several hundred men. The town had been bonded for the Valley Railroad and the route surveyed. Prospects were good, for with this valley opened up to the outside world, its wonderful resources would be developed.

But oh, the uncertainty of human plans! Fifteen years had passed; the iron mine had long since shut down; the coal mine was unsteady and the Valley Railroad, after tunneling the mountain, penetrated to Elmdale—a short distance south of Nootwyck—and stopped. People along the promised line were powerless, and with the apathy born of repeated disappointments, they submitted to the inevitable.

CHAPTER III

DURING the night our story opens, the snow turned to rain; a warm, steady downpour, which continued for three days in a manner unparalleled in the annals of the town. On the third day, the scene from the “Laurels,” as the De Vere place had been named, was one of wholesale destruction. The heavy body of snow which had lain on the ground had melted and added its water to help swell the streams. The Rondout Creek was a raging torrent, filled with logs, trees, cakes of ice and portions of houses. The Delaware and Hudson Canal, from which the water had been drawn at the close of the previous boating season, was full of water and now formed part of the creek. In places the tow-path was completely covered and canal boats, loosened from their fastenings, drifted over the valley. The flats were one vast expanse of water, and lock-keepers had fled from their homes along the canal, thankful to escape with their lives. The roar was tremendous! Gurgling mountain brooks had been converted into rivers which rushed madly down to mingle their waters with the seething flood below.

The De Veres stood on a point of rock which projected out from their grounds. It was still raining, but from under their umbrellas they looked sadly on the work of destruction yet in progress. So absorbed were they that the approach of two gentlemen on horseback was unheeded until the elder of the two shouted, “Hello, there!”

They all turned quickly and at Mr. De Vere’s invitation Mr. Andrew Genung, followed by a young man, dismounted at the gate and joined them.

Andrew Genung was not generally liked. By many he was considered an aristocratic bigot. He never forgave an injury, nor forgot a kindness. A stern, uncompromising man, his life was governed by certain fixed rules of conduct which, in his estimation, were the only ones. But his word was as good as his bond, and the friendship which existed between him and De Vere stood the test of years.

The young man was presented as his nephew, Hernando Genung, from Nevada.

Celeste’s brown eyes met his blue ones frankly, but the pink flush of her cheeks deepened to brilliant red under the unconscious admiration in his face. Eletheer noted this and the sly wink she gave her sister made the latter’s face flame.

Mr. Genung was discussing the freshet: “Only four bridges left between here and Kingston.”

“Which ones are they?” Mr. De Vere inquired.

“The Port Ben bridge, the old covered bridge at Accord, the covered bridge at High Falls, and the Auchmmody bridge at Rosendale; down at the coal docks everything is swept away, one iron bridge is intact but the abutments are injured and a wide channel is dug around one end of the bridge; one pier has been destroyed at the Honk Falls bridge, but nothing short of deluge can reach the bridge.”

“Have you any news from Rosendale?” they asked.

“There is about a thousand feet of tow-path gone on the feeder level. The canal bridge and creek bridge with abutments are on the flats. The water is too high to tell how much damage is done. There are slides and other damages too numerous to mention. The canal is a total wreck.”

“Then the Berm[A] is the only road passable to Kingston,” said Mr. De Vere. “How did you manage to get here?”

[A] Berm. “The bank of a canal opposite the tow-path.”

“The road to Wawarsing is in bad condition but we managed to reach there by going across lots and so on to Port Ben, and from there we followed the Berm.”

It was late in the day, and as there was nothing they could do to help, the party went indoors. Mr. Genung and Hernando were wet to the skin, and Mrs. De Vere insisted on their clothes being changed; so they appeared arrayed in suits of Mr. De Vere’s and Jack’s while Reuben dried and pressed theirs. Genung and De Vere wandered into the library and seated themselves before the fire where they were soon in earnest conversation. The latter had mentioned Mills’ offer and his promise to consider it.

“I should not sell,” said Mr. Genung with decision. “He will put up a sanitarium for consumptives, induce others to erect summer boarding-houses and turn this valley into a summer resort; in the end, killing all manufactories and leaving our vast mineral resources undeveloped. Hernando, who has spent nearly all his life among mines, says the precious metals are here. He found some specimens this morning which he says contain gold.”

“But I am afraid not in sufficient quantities for mining,” said Mr. De Vere resignedly.

“Those words are Mills’s,” answered Genung hotly. “I believe that man is a rascal.”

John De Vere judged others from his own standpoint. Absolutely incorruptible himself, he would not see wrong in another until compelled to do so, and Genung’s flat denunciation of Mills annoyed him, but restraining his annoyance, he said: “I fear Mills is in need of money.”

“Let me see, when does your mortgage come due?” said Genung, who always discussed business matters frankly with De Vere.

“January first.”

“I have five thousand dollars which I am anxious to invest, and unless you are in a position to pay your mortgage, I should like to take it.”

Although De Vere believed Mills’s intentions honest, he unconsciously felt a great sense of relief, and thankfully agreed to the transfer.

“One thing more,” said Genung, “Do not sell your mining claim until Hernando has prospected on it. He is a mining expert, and if he says gold is not there in sufficient quantities to pay for mining, I’ll not object if Mills puts up a pest-house on it.”

De Vere laughed as he said, “Genung, I value your friendship more than that of any man living; but I really think you misjudge Mills.”

Hernando was in the sitting-room with Celeste. She played the guitar charmingly and her voice was a clear, sweet soprano. One song followed another and Hernando felt as if vouchsafed a glimpse of Eden. Suddenly recalling himself, he said: “Pardon my selfishness, you must be tired.”

“Not a bit,” she replied gaily. “Are you fond of the guitar?”

“Very, and your singing is a rare treat,” he replied sincerely. “My life has been spent largely in mining camps, and the music in such places is not, to say the least, classical.”

“Have you always lived in Nevada?”

“Nevada and California.”

“That includes San Francisco and Chinatown of course?”

“Of course, but usually ‘California’ means Southern California; the land of flowers, fruits and perpetual sunshine.”

“True, but Chinatown must be very interesting.”

“Five minutes in a Chinese theater would effectively disillusion you, Miss De Vere. The orchestra is a thing of terror, although I am told that Chinese music has a scientific theory and recognized scale, but to the Caucasian ear it is simply beyond belief.”

“I trust you will appreciate our mountains in summer, though you probably consider these hills,” laughed Celeste.

But Hernando was thinking of neither Nevada nor hills. That sweet face, those great brown eyes were raised to his trustfully, and he forgot his own name, while a thrill went through him.

“One always associates Nevada with snowy mountains and balsamy air,” Celeste continued.

Glancing out of the window she saw Eletheer in rubber boots and short skirts with Cornelia on her back, wading through the slush toward the barn. Celeste looked shocked, but attracted Hernando’s attention indoors. She was a little late, however, for seeing her expression, he glanced out just in time to hear Eletheer say, “Hold on tight,” and off they sped.

“I trust she will not fall down with the little one,” said Hernando.

“Eletheer fall!” and Celeste laughed a soft ripple. “She never does that, and it is impossible to lose her in these mountains. When Cornelia was not a year old, mother spied her in the very top of an apple tree sitting in Eletheer’s lap.”

“Mary Genung told me of their experiences after milkweed greens and wild flowers. She says your sister is absolutely fearless.”

“Eletheer is our psychological problem.”

Hernando looked amused and she added, “To her mind time-honored institutions are generally wrong.”

“Marriage, for instance?”

“Yes. That should be a profession with preliminary examinations as to fitness.”

Hernando’s face became a trifle paler as he replied, “They say at birth nine-tenths of man’s evolution is completed. Your sister has encountered a weighty problem, and a melancholy one.”

“Weighty problems require too much effort,” laughed Celeste, “and my contribution to society must be on purely feminine lines.”

In the evening, the younger members of the family gathered in the dining-room. Jack and Hernando cracked walnuts and Celeste read aloud from a newspaper which had just arrived by stage on the Berm. The paper contained a vivid account of the flood, and it was listened to with much interest.

“Who knows but this freshet may reveal ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s Cave’?” said Jack with a light laugh.

“Who is ‘Old Ninety-Nine’?” Hernando asked.

“Have you not heard the story?” asked Jack in some surprise.

“No, but I should like to,” replied Hernando.

“Eletheer remembers, and is full of these old legends; when she returns from putting Granny to bed, I’ll get her to tell this one.”

They heard her presently going into the kitchen and as she did not return, Celeste went into the hall and called her, saying Mr. Hernando Genung wished her to tell the story of “Old Ninety-Nine.”

Eletheer came in, having forgotten to remove her gingham apron, and seemed pleased to repeat the story.

“Old Ninety-Nine,” Neopakiutic, was a Wawarsing chief and supposed to have been the sole remnant of the Ninety-ninth Tribe. He was a great hunter and after the Revolution lived for some years among the settlers, doing nothing in summer, but hunting and trapping in the winter. Benny Depuy was a well-known resident of Wawarsing and as he was a lazy, good soul who loved to fish and hunt and tell stories, he became a great favorite of “Ninety-Nine,” and one day the Indian told him that he would show him a sight he would never forget, and one that he would not show his own brother; that in Benny he had much confidence and was willing to take him along on his next trip up the mountain. The two started up the mountain above Port Ben and after travelling several miles, often over fallen rocks and decayed trees, they came to the dry channel of a mountain creek. Here Benny was blindfolded and after going up the bed of the creek for about an hour, as nearly as he could estimate, the bandage was taken from his eyes and he found himself at the foot of a high ledge of rocks. The old Indian, who was a muscular giant, rolled aside a boulder and a passage-way was disclosed that seemed to run directly under the cliff. The old Indian told Benny to follow and he went into the passage for a short distance, Benny holding him by his shirt-sleeves so as not to lose him, for he thought there was nothing to come of this adventure, but expected to be carried away by goblins. A short piece of candle was lighted and they found themselves in a large, vaulted room that seemed cut out from the solid rock. It looked like the abode of fairies. On the floor were rich and costly carpets so thickly spread that the heavy boots of the hunters gave no sound. The sides of the cavern were hung with tapestry. The cave was lined with beautiful vases and rare things of many kinds. In one corner of the cave was a large chest which “Ninety-Nine” opened and told Benny to look in, holding over it the lighted candle. Benny looked and beheld “heaps upon heaps of gold, silver and precious stones.” “Ninety-Nine” raked his fingers back and forth through the shining treasures and finally, after bandaging Benny’s eyes, they started down the mountain.

“What became of the Indian?” Hernando inquired.

“No one knows. He was very old and the people lost sight of him. This valley is full of Indian legends, and some of them are beautiful,” said Eletheer.

“Now, Eletheer,” said Jack, “you recited that so well, let us hear how well you remember your catechism.”

Hernando smiled, and said, “The settlers of this valley seem to have been engaged in constant warfare with the Indians.”

“Well,” said Eletheer, “in the first place the whites seized their hunting-grounds and corn-patches. They never purchased the land as the settlers on the other side of the mountain did. The Indians were peaceable until the French war, during which one family was massacred. After that they were still on good terms, but during the Revolution, the British were at the bottom of all their depredations, telling them that the settlers had stolen their lands and that they were cowards not to be avenged. The British offered them a guinea for every white scalp they obtained and gave them every assistance. If the Indians had been let alone, they would never have committed the fearful outrages which they are now charged with. As it was, the Indian hesitated where the Tories did not; the latter would sneak into the home when the men were laboring in the fields and plunge his knife into the bosom of a sleeping infant or a defenseless woman. Can you wonder that the word Tory is hated by every descendant of the early settlers of this town?”

“I should think they could have been convicted of Toryism,” Hernando continued.

“It was a hard thing to do. They lived out in the woods disguised as Indians, whom they kept posted in regard to the doings in the settlements, but pretended to be friends of the whites. Talk of the treachery of an Indian! He can’t begin where a Tory left off,” said Eletheer warmly.

Just then the clock struck eleven, and soon after Mr. De Vere and Mr. Genung entered the dining-room.

“Time all honest folks were in bed,” said Mr. De Vere. “What have you young people been doing all the evening?”

“I have been listening to some very interesting events in the history of this town,” Hernando replied.

“Our ancestors were firm believers in special dispensations of Providence,” said Mr. De Vere.

“And their intercession met with favor,” replied Mr. Genung.

“Strange!” said Hernando musingly, “that no trace of ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ cave has ever been discovered. His history sounds like a fairy tale.”

“Which I verily believe it is,” laughed Mr. De Vere. “Aside from those in the limestone district, there are no true caves in the Shawangunk Mountains intersected as they are with metalliferous veins.”

“Do you consider the story of the mine apocryphal?”

“I regard it as simply a local tradition. Instead of a Captain Kidd or some other pirate, we, on this side of the mountains, have an equally romantic hero in ‘Old Ninety-Nine.’ Benny Depuy, however, is well remembered by some of the old residents of this town, was a weaver by trade, and had an imagination as vivid as the colors he wove. His house, a quaint specimen of the architecture of pioneer days when each home was a veritable fort for protection against Indian outbreak, is still in a good state of preservation. Benny claims that ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ frequently stopped there. According to tradition, the Indian was a “Medicine man”; knew the properties of every medicinal root and herb and effected some wonderful cures. He is said to have spoken Spanish, coined Spanish money in his cave, and gone to the West Indies to dispose of it, where it was believed he had a white wife. But an Indian, were he ever so friendly to the whites, never divulged the location of mines. Thirst for revenge is the most deeply seated trait in the savage breast, and for this reason Benny kept his adventure a secret for many years. He never visited the cave but that once, and not long afterward ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ disappeared. Some supposed that he died of old age, others that in clambering over the dangerous crevices he had fallen into one of them and been killed. When Benny felt that all danger from Indian vengeance was passed, he searched repeatedly and in every direction for the cave but never succeeded in finding it, so concluded that a fallen rock must have closed its entrance.” And with a shrug Mr. De Vere turned to reply to a question of Mr. Genung’s.

Hernando strolled to the window; the night was one of Egyptian darkness but eastward, up the mountain side and nearly to the summit, a bright light, like the flame of a candle, burned steadily. To assure himself that it was no illusion or trick of the imagination, he watched it carefully for several minutes. “What can it be?” he thought. There was no possibility of reflection and no smoke. “Perhaps a belated prospecting party or a signal of distress,” he reasoned, at the same time opening the window.

“What now!” called Mr. Genung, stepping beside his nephew.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, with a hasty glance at his watch. “The ‘light’ and ‘twelve o’clock!’ Is it seven years?”

Simultaneously all rushed forward. Steadily burned the flame while its observers remained mute.

“Well, what is it?” Hernando asked with impatience.

“The ‘light,’” his uncle replied excitedly.

“Great Heavens! what light? Are you mad?”

“To be sure, I beg your pardon, Hernando,” Mr. Genung replied. “There is a saying in this valley that ‘every seven years, a bright light, like a candle, rises at twelve o’clock at night over the mine, and disappears in the clouds; but no one that has ever seen it has been able in daylight to find from where it arose.’ Come to think of it, it is exactly seven years since we closed out that Shushan deal. It was a dark night and on my way home I saw the light.”

“But is it visible every seven years and at twelve o’clock?” Hernando asked.

“That is what they all say. I pledge my word on having seen it twice at that time,” replied his uncle.

During this dialogue Hernando had not once removed his glance from the flame which rose clear and steady, from out its ebon surroundings. No sound but the distant roar from turbulent streams, and a soft tick! tick! of the great hall clock, broke the stillness. For a full half hour the watchers waited, and then, as suddenly as it came, the mysterious light disappeared.

“There!” said Mr. Genung, slapping his nephew on the shoulder; “can you beat this out West?”

The young man’s face wore an amused smile as he replied: “It is, indeed, singular and, except possibly the elimination of gases, I can think of no logical explanation. But its having any connection whatever with ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ strikes me as absurd. What say you, Miss De Vere?”

“Well,” she replied, with a tip of her head that reminded one of a pet canary, and which caused Hernando’s heart to beat unmercifully, “mystery has no charm for me, and I have never been able to enthuse over ‘Old Ninety-Nine,’ much to the disgust of your cousin Mary Genung and Eletheer. He belongs to a half mythical past and what more natural than that the ‘light,’ occurring as it does with such singular regularity, should be connected with the old chief? They are equally elusive.”

“I supposed love of the mysterious to be a strongly feminine attribute.”

“But there are mysteries and mysteries. Have you any sisters, Mr. Hernando?”

“No.”

“No sisters!” she repeated, with mock severity. “Then I fear that your education has been sadly neglected. Ask Jack what he thinks on the subject.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Jack joined them and a lively debate followed, so that it was after one o’clock before they went to bed, and two of them, at least, sought their pillows strangely disturbed in spirit. Hernando tossed restlessly on his soft bed. Try as he would to banish the vision, Celeste’s sweet face always appeared before him and, like some half-forgotten emotion revived, his heart beat tumultuously. A less discerning eye than his could easily see that Celeste was interested; but why did he find it so difficult to meet those eyes? A sense of uncongeniality with the atmosphere of this woman, the antitype of any he had ever known, disturbed. Chinatown interesting! For the first time in years a red flush of shame surged to his very temples, and he dimly comprehended that “We are begirt with laws which execute themselves.”

Celeste undressed, humming softly to herself. Her bright eyes were unusually brilliant and the color in her cheeks rivalled the roses in June. She flitted about the room, carefully folding each garment as it was removed.

Presently Eletheer, who was nearly asleep, said impatiently: “Celeste De Vere, for goodness’ sake put out that light and come to bed. Don’t you hear the roosters crowing?”

“In just one minute,” Celeste answered, brushing out her curls.

Eletheer turned her face towards the wall and soon slept soundly.

A young girl’s first love is like the bursting of a blossom after a thunderstorm. It is not yet ready to expand and though for a time the fragrance may be overpowering, it is soon lost. Celeste never sang in a minor. Sensitive, intense to a degree, a delicate child, she had always been tenderly watched over and shielded from every care. She had grown into a wonderfully beautiful woman who viewed life from its sunny side. Cultivated in all her tastes, generous to a fault, her purse was always ready to assist in charitable schemes, but the thought that she had an active part to play in the great drama of life never occurred to her. Accustomed all her life to admiration, she accepted it as her simple due.

Of course she would marry, all normal girls do, the expected man always comes, and is intensely interesting.

“Let me see,” she said with another glance in the mirror. “One should marry one’s opposite. His eyes are blue, hair golden. Yes, he is a blond, muscular, rather than massive, and”—putting out the light—“with nothing mysterious about him.”

CHAPTER IV

THE work of repairing the damage caused by the freshet was pushed and by the end of the week a temporary bridge had been constructed over the creek and the canal below the house, enabling foot-passengers from the mountain to cross over to the village.

Mr. De Vere’s letter declining to sell was forwarded to Mills and the mortgage transferred to Mr. Genung. The latter was very anxious that Hernando should prospect on Mr. De Vere’s mining claim so, to satisfy him, Mr. De Vere agreed to accompany them on an expedition to it as soon as the weather would permit. Accordingly they started up the mountain back of the house one morning in the following week. They followed the path to the maple bush for some distance, then, turning to the east, climbed over rocks and broken trees to Point Wawanda and then struck into a gully just behind it. Many rivulets flowed down the mountain above, but one in particular, after a swift rush from the very summit, dropped down into the earth under Point Wawanda. Placing his ear to the earth Hernando could hear a roar as of underground waters and knew that they must have passed through some cavern or cleft far down in the mountain. Carefully taking his bearings, they were found to accord exactly with the description of the marks and locations described by Benny. Hernando felt assured that somewhere near was the cave and one of considerable extent. Directly in front of him rose a cliff over one hundred feet in height. Scaling this, the young man looked westward towards the Laurels. “Ah,” he said, aloud, holding his nose at a crevice in the rocks, “one mystery is explained to my satisfaction: gas. So, ‘no one that has ever seen it has been able in daylight to find whence it arose,’” he laughed. “If all instances were as harmless as this one what a delightful place to live in this dreary old world would be.” He descended to his former position for a closer inspection of the cliff.

Suddenly his experienced eye was attracted by a fissure in the rocks composing the entire eastern side of Wawanda and which ran almost to the top. Hernando approached it and brushing aside the snow he forced his body through an opening just large enough to admit it. The crevice was full of snow but, with much labor, he dug his way along and found this was the entrance to a second passage-way, which he also entered. Further progress was barred by a heap of rocks, but these were loose and, removing them, an almost circular opening was disclosed. He lighted a candle and crawling on hands and knees finally emerged into a sort of cave. Long and loud he shouted to the waiting men outside and at last a faint “Hello” proclaimed that these portly gentlemen were squeezing their way through, and after a long time they stood beside Hernando, panting and perspiring. As soon as they recovered their breath, they proceeded to explore this mysterious cavern.

“Look here!” said Hernando, who, with a deft stroke of his hammer, had shivered the rock, disclosing a dull yellow surface. “Gold!” they exclaimed, looking excitedly into each other’s faces.

“Yes,” Hernando continued calmly. “The whole inner surface of these rocks is full of gold. Others have been here before us too. Some one has struck a pocket, and recently. Look, here is a cavity which seems to have been dug out.”

Mills’s offer flashed through De Vere’s mind, but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and turned to listen to a sound of rumbling which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. Hernando heard it too, and removing a heap of rubbish from one corner made his way through a hole, but quickly reappeared saying he had better be secured by a rope as these underground passages were treacherous. Mr. De Vere threw a loop about his waist, securely fastened the other end, and held back the slack in his hand ready to be guided by signals, and Hernando again disappeared from view down a slanting rock worn smooth by the action of water that at one time must have flowed over it, but which now issued from under a slimy boulder some feet lower down at the opposite side. Sliding and falling alternately he at last landed on a sort of platform about ten feet wide and running along the brink of a pit which seemed bottomless. The dim light from his miner’s candle cast weird shadows on the black rocks over whose sides snake-like streams crept stealthily down. Hernando shivered and turned to leave the spot, when his attention was attracted by an object at the further end of the platform. There lay what appeared to be an image of stone. He drew nearer, and kneeling down looked long and carefully down at it. Unmistakably it was the petrified body of an Indian. Those features could belong to no other race. The eyes and hair, one foot and three fingers were gone; but otherwise, the body seemed to be in a state of perfect preservation,—to have been literally turned into stone. Of course all remnants of clothing had disappeared, though even the remaining toe and finger-nails were perfect. But the ears! did human beings ever possess such appendages? The lobes were so elongated as to nearly rest on the shoulders.

This man must have been a giant, for the body measured nearly seven feet. Hernando attempted to roll it over but found this impossible, for besides its great weight, the image was covered with slime, and during his efforts one ear was broken off. This Hernando put into his pocket.

The heavy air oppressed him, and so absorbed had he been in his examination that he had not noticed how near the edge of the platform he was, until on attempting to rise his feet slipped from under him. His cap with the candle rolled down into the pit, and in total darkness he hung suspended over that yawning abyss.

Almost overpowered by the heavy air, he had barely strength enough left to guide the rope which, from the violent jerk it gave, warned those above of danger.

Gasping for breath, he was pulled up to where the fresher air soon revived him and he was then enabled to relate his discovery.

The enormous petrified ear must undoubtedly have belonged to “Old Ninety-Nine.”

Palæontologists assert and prove the petrifying properties of these mountain streams. Undoubtedly the lower cave had once been the channel of the stream which now rumbled far below, and nature in the throes of growing-pains had opened a new channel.

How “Old Ninety-Nine” came to be there, or met his death, must remain a mystery, but his cave was at last discovered.

Completely restored, Hernando hastened to procure assistance in bringing the body out, and after travelling down the mountain toward the house for a short distance he met Reuben and a sturdy wood-chopper by the name of Mike McGavitt, on their way to the woods. To them he unfolded his plans and they readily consented to assist him. Reuben volunteered to bring whatever articles were needed. These were rubbers for all the party, plenty of stout rope and a plank. Reuben comprehended fully what they were needed for, and in little less than half an hour returned with the things, and they all hastened back to the cave, where De Vere and Genung were strolling about the entrance. Hernando led into the cave followed by the others. Inside, Hernando, Reuben and Mike divested themselves of their boots and securely strapping on their feet a pair of rubbers to prevent slipping, were successfully lowered to the platform on which lay all that was left of “Old Ninety-Nine.” Mike came last, and as he slid down the incline, clutching the rope, he called, “Schteady, me byes, schteady!” He crept along the shelf, averting his eyes from the pit. Next the plank was lowered, and it required the united efforts of all three to roll the body upon it. At last it was securely fastened, and Reuben was pulled up to assist the other two in hauling the body to the surface. “Kape aninst the wall, mind your noose!” Mike shouted, and though his teeth chattered with terror, he winked at Hernando and said, “Phat’s the program, me bye? I’m wid ye phatever it do be, but it’s a howlin’ boost!”

They pushed the plank along carefully and were about to signal for a hoist line when Mike lunged backward and would have fallen over the precipice but for Hernando’s timely assistance. The plank was not yet attached to any thing but the rope by which it had been lowered and Mike’s frantic clutchings sent it over the brink. Down, down, down it went, crashing against first one side and then another. At last a faint splash proclaimed that the terrific leap was over and once more “Old Ninety-Nine’s” body had eluded human gaze. The next discoverer will find it minus one ear. Learned men will account for this on scientific principles; they will analyze petrifying fluids and tell us why some portions of the body are affected and others not; but the fascination which clings so tenaciously to the memory of “Old Ninety-Nine” will endure as long as the Shawangunks, and each succeeding generation will continue to be told that “Every seven years a bright light like a candle rises at twelve o’clock over the mine and disappears in the clouds; but no one who has ever seen it has been able by daylight to find from whence it came.”

The belief of the Indians that after they had endured their punishment for sins committed, the Great Spirit would restore to them their hunting-grounds caused them to keep their mines a secret. “Old Ninety-Nine” is one no longer, and let us hope that in richer mines and fairer hunting-grounds than he dreamed of, he is beyond the treachery of his white brother—beyond injustice and unfair dealing, where his great Manitou does not offer him the cup of good-will in the form of an unknown intoxicant as did Henry Hudson when planning the seizure of the land of his forefathers.

Hernando signalled for them to be drawn up and the news of the accident was duly reported.

“After all,” said Mr. De Vere, “it is better so. His body would simply have been an object of curiosity. Let the waters which transformed his flesh into stone receive it again.”

Mike looked relieved. “Shure, Schquire is after schpakin’ the truth. So help me, God, niver agin will I schpile the works of God Almighty!” he said.

Mr. Genung was inclined to be provoked, but Hernando explained the exceedingly dangerous position and how fortunate Mike had been to escape with his life, and somewhat ashamed, he asked what was to be done next.

“Put in a blast,” replied Hernando.

Silently they emerged from the cave and followed Hernando around the eastern side of Wawanda where the fissure was through which they had entered. Excavations were begun in earnest and a heavy charge put in. The report which followed must have startled the good people of Nootwyck. It tore a great piece out of the eastern side of Wawanda and when the smoke cleared Hernando was almost beside himself with joy at the result of the explosion. Like the cave, the whole inner surface was full of bits of gold and some spongy masses intermixed with leaves of yellow metal. Hernando picked some of the latter off with the point of his jack-knife and placing it in Mr. De Vere’s hand, said, in the tone of a seasoned miner, “You have struck it rich, Mr. De Vere, and I congratulate you. It may not run far like that, but the chances are that it will. I never saw anything equal to it. Point Wawanda is literally filled with gold veins. That is the lode cropping out nearly to the top.”

Stepping up to the young man whose eyes beamed with such unselfish pleasure, Mr. De Vere placed his hands on his shoulders and said: “Will you accept the position of superintendent of the Hernando Mine?”

“I will gladly accept the position, but would prefer another name.”

“What name is more appropriate than the name of its discoverer?” replied Mr. De Vere warmly.

“None; but who is the discoverer?”

Margaret

Mr. De Vere was silent for a moment and Hernando continued, “Pardon me for suggesting, but much as I appreciate your wish to perpetuate my name, it would give me far more pleasure were it named after ‘Old Ninety-Nine.’”

“Old Ninety-Nine it is then!” they all responded with a shout.

“Ah! Hernando,” said his uncle, “you know paying dirt when you see it. It is born in you.”

His disinterested efforts were appreciated. It meant untold wealth to the owner—wealth expended in helping his fellow-beings—work for hundreds and hundreds of idle miners, comfort for their families, and the transformation of the slumbering village below into a great city.

It was nearly night and the three had eaten nothing since breakfast, so Mr. De Vere’s invitation to supper was readily accepted.

The family had grown anxious at their long absence and the tired prospectors were warmly received. A good bath refreshed them greatly, and they were ready to do justice to Margaret’s fried chicken and puffy hot biscuits.

Mr. Genung was apparently intent on dissecting a chicken leg, but his mind was thousands of miles away. In far-off Nevada another scene had been enacted which this one brought anew to his memory. His younger brother, so like Hernando, had also opened up a mine of untold richness. He also dreamed of founding a mighty city and leaving behind him a name which would go down in history. Did his dreams materialize? How would his name appear on the pages of history, and would the volume be savory reading? Glancing across the table his eyes met Hernando’s, full of bitterness. The absolute misery he saw pictured there softened even the stern features of Andrew Genung.

Eletheer, who had been a silent witness of this thought transference, saw the far-away look in Mr. Genung’s eyes and her heart ached with pity for Hernando. Some great sorrow must be buried in his past, for nothing less could cause those blue eyes to become suddenly black and bring that look of mute suffering into them. From that moment, Eletheer was his sworn friend, and this conclusion once reached was final. She said nothing, however, but talked gaily of their prospects and laughingly asked Mr. Genung what he would do for milkweed greens when the “Island” was all settled.

“You and Mary must turn your attention to agriculture and cultivate them,” he replied.

“Our old camping-grounds will all be spoiled,” she said with mock gravity. “Hunting arbutus, gathering bittersweet berries and picking huckleberries will be but a memory.”

“And you will be a great lady with suitors by the score,” laughed Celeste.

“My suitor has long been accepted,” Eletheer returned gravely.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Genung in some surprise, “if his name is not a secret I should like to know it.”

“Mary is in my confidence,” she answered, “and, like me, has chosen her life-work.”

Mr. Genung eyed her curiously. His own daughter, just about Eletheer’s age, was not a girl to have secrets from her parents.

“This is all nonsense,” Eletheer said hotly. “Mary is fitting herself for a professorship and I intend to become a trained nurse. Granny and Reuben are teaching me now.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Genung, “I trust you both may find a suitable field for your talents in our own beautiful valley.”

Hernando’s cheeks were unusually pale, and after supper as they all followed Mr. De Vere into the library, Granny saw this and remarked on it, but he only laughed and said he felt perfectly well but a little tired.

The mine was discussed in all its bearings, and they decided that Hernando had better spend the night at Mr. De Vere’s so as to be near the field of operations in the morning.

“You look exhausted anyway,” said Mr. De Vere. “Think of the time you spent in that damp, foul hole after all your exertions in gaining access to it.”

Mr. Genung left after making an appointment at Mr. De Vere’s office the next morning to complete arrangements for working the mine, and soon after the family retired, but before Granny sought her bed, she instructed Eletheer in the art of preparing a bowl of boneset tea, and Hernando obediently promised to swallow it.

Boneset tea was the old lady’s panacea for all ills; a sneeze, cough, or wet feet when noticed by her caused the good woman to instantly brew and force down the throat of the victim a bowl full of this nauseous draught, and Eletheer, who was her special charge, declared that she was forming the “boneset habit.” She could not help smiling as she handed the steaming bowl to Hernando saying, “Prepared strictly according to directions; one scant handful of the dried herb, being careful to omit blossoms (which nauseate), one-half pint of water and two tablespoons of molasses. Steep gradually one hour.” Hernando received it with a quiet “Thank you,” and swallowed it with seeming relish; then saying “Good-night,” entered his room and closed the door behind him.

Granny, whose room joined Eletheer’s, was awake when the latter tiptoed in, and the lamp was still burning. Hearing the door pushed softly to, she called, “Eletheer!”

“Yes, Granny, I’m coming,” she answered.

“Did you give Mr. Hernando the boneset tea piping hot?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Did you put a hot brick in the bed?”

“No Ma’am, you didn’t tell me to, did you?”

The old lady looked severely at her and then said: “Go straight to the kitchen this minute and bring the one I told Margaret to put in the oven. If you intend to be a trained nurse, you must learn to think for yourself. That poor, motherless boy has taken cold. I wanted to soak his feet but he wouldn’t let me, and there is nothing like a good sweat to break up a cold. Tell him to be sure and tuck the covers in.”

“I will see that he has the brick and attend to him, Granny. You won’t remain awake any longer, will you?” she said, tucking the covers around the old lady, after which she started for the kitchen, putting out the light on her way.

The kitchen was vacant, but she found the brick and wrapping it in a little old shawl of Margaret’s hurried up to Hernando’s room. Her light tap received no response.

“I’m afraid he is asleep and hate to wake him,” she thought. “What makes Granny so set anyway! I’ve got to do it or displease her, so here goes,” and she gave a sounding knock.

“Come in,” said a faint voice and she opened the door.

“Who is it?” Hernando called, his teeth chattering.

“I. Granny told me to bring you this hot brick,” said Eletheer advancing.

“She is very kind. Thank you so much,” he managed to say.

Eletheer handed him the brick, and as he reached for it his hand came in contact with hers. It was like ice.

She glanced helplessly around. “If you are to be a trained nurse you must think for yourself,” rang in her ears.

“You are shivering with cold,” she said. “Didn’t the boneset tea do you any good?”

“I think it will.”

“Granny will feel dreadfully if I don’t do something,” she thought. “There, I have it, I’ll go for Reuben!”

“Reuben!” she whispered at his door, which was always ajar, “I think Mr. Hernando is sick. The boneset tea didn’t do him any good.”

“Very well, honey, jes’ yo’ go to bed, I’se comin’,” he answered cheerily.

In a few seconds he was beside Hernando, bringing as he invariably did, relief. Gradually Hernando’s shivering grew less, then finally ceased altogether and at last he fell asleep only to mutter in delirium which grew wild and wilder. Hour after hour passed yet that faithful black figure met every emergency as it came. Again and again were the heated pillows turned, was the wild call for “water! water!” answered, his every need anticipated, and time sped for both patient and nurse.

“Five o’clock,” thought Reuben, as he returned from replenishing the fire. His charge was asleep; so drawing an easy-chair beside the bed he settled himself for a nap. One by one each familiar object in the room fades from sight and he is in a foreign-looking city of narrow streets, dimly lighted by the soft glow of Chinese lanterns. The streets are thronged with Celestials weaving back and forth. Even Reuben is fascinated by the substratum of actual sin around him. It is a panopticon of strange sights; little rooms in which are huddled together groups of odd-looking women making shoes; eye and ear doctors busily operating on meek-faced patrons; unknown fruits and vegetables, costly wares and curious trinkets; omnipresent female chattels and moral and physical lepers jostle one another. One peep into an inner chamber, and with the sickening fumes of opium in his nostrils Reuben seeks the outer air. But hark! in this fantastic jumble surely he hears familiar voices. Following the sound through a seemingly endless maze of dark alleys, he suddenly stops in a small room gaudy with Oriental hangings. Even in the semi-darkness Reuben sees that there are three figures; one, that of a young woman, an Oriental, in an attitude of perfect abandon. She utters no word, but the smile from her eyes causes Reuben’s to fall in horror. The air clears a little and the two other figures are visible—Granny and Hernando! The latter’s head is bowed in shame. Reuben is shocked at the lines of dissipation in his face and to see how thickly sprinkled with gray is his hair—“Strange!” he thought, that he had not before noticed it.

Granny is pleading with him to forsake this den of depravity. Her hand is clasping his and those old, stern lines have melted into a smile of ineffable sweetness. The air is heavy and her voice not always audible, but Reuben hears:

“Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life which the Lord hath promised to them that love him....

“But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.

“Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”

“You have had a bad dream, Reuben.”

The gray light of early morning peeped into the room, filling every nook and corner with the weirdness of unreality. Reuben looked vaguely at Hernando, lying quietly with an inscrutable smile on his face. He raised himself in his chair. Sure enough, there were the lines of dissipation and gray hairs! “’Deed, Massa, I has so!” he replied, as he went to replenish the fire.

“Surely, Reuben, you don’t believe in dreams!”

“I’se boun’ ter, Massa; didn’t Joseph’s and Pharaoh’s come true?”

“That is a disputed question. I don’t believe that people now-a-days dream dreams that have no connection with, or some proportion to their waking knowledge.”

“Mebbe so, Massa, but when Massa John was so dreffel sick down in Missouri, Massa Murphy’s dog howled t’ree times befo’ de do’. I sho’ly did b’lieve de Good Laud wanted Massa John Lauzee, how I did go trompin’ troo de grass aftah dat dog! Listen, Massa, aftah a-chasin’ dat dog laster time, I sat down by Massa John’s bed feelin’ po’ful sad, an’ I dreampt he was dead an’ I watchin’ in great tribilation of spirit. I done t’ink de Good Laud didn’t hearken to de moans an’ groans ob dis po’ niggah. Seemed like I’d go plum ’stracted. My ’tention was ’tracted by a bright an’ shinin’ light an’ outen it came a still, small voice: ‘Reuben, yo’ Massa will live, an’ yo’, not I, have saved his life.’ Massa Hernando, dem’s de berry words ob Doctor Hoff when de fever turned. Yes, Massa, I’se boun’ ter b’leeve dat when de Good Laud has a message fo’ us, He’ll mebbe give it in a dream.”

“Reuben!”

“Yes, Massa.”

“A drink, please.”

“Reuben!” there was a quaver in his voice now.

“Yes, Massa.”

“Reuben, my friend!” and—Hernando did not ask Reuben his dream. Hernando stirred uneasily, and presently raised himself on his elbow only to fall back with a groan. Instantly Reuben was beside him asking how he felt.

“First rate when I lie still, but the instant I attempt to get up my back seems broken.”

His face indicated that he was anything but well, and his voice sounded thick.

“Is yoah throat soah?” Reuben inquired.

“Not exactly sore. It feels as if it were not a part of my own anatomy.”

Reuben asked Hernando a few questions, examined his throat and quietly said he’d better go for a doctor. “But first let me bring yo’ a cup of coffee,” he added.

Margaret was in the kitchen, and with her assistance the coffee was soon ready and, after first making sure that everything was all right, Reuben closed and locked the door behind him and went to summon the doctor.

Before long the doctor came; good, genial Doctor Brinton whom every one loved.

“Hello, Young Nevada!” was his breezy greeting. “What new disease have you introduced into our valley? Reuben, my good fellow, hand me my bag.”

It was brought.

“You feel as if you’d been licked, my boy,” he said gaily as he felt the swollen glands in Hernando’s throat. “Been among the miners lately?”

“No. Uncle warned me that many were sick with diphtheria.”

“All the same, you have a suspicious-looking throat, my boy,” replied the doctor gravely.

“Do you think it diphtheria?” Hernando inquired anxiously.

Dr. Brinton looked puzzled. Plainly this was not diphtheria, as during the night his temperature must undoubtedly have been high.

“A nasty throat, but what the deuce is the matter with the boy anyway!” he inwardly commented, then turning to Hernando said, “Your throat looks uncommonly like it, but your symptoms are not all such. Never mind though, Reuben here is worth ten doctors, so you are all right.”

“But the whole family would be infected.”

“Not by a jug-full! A germ cannot live long under Reuben’s ruthless destruction.”

Bidding the latter follow him to the sleigh for some disinfectants, Dr. Brinton went out, and when beyond hearing, said: “Reuben, my man, all your skill will be needed if we pull that fellow through. The action of his heart is decidedly bad. Stimulants, nutritious food and good nursing will do more than I can. Frankly, I never before saw a case exactly like this and am not at all sure it is diphtheria.” He then went in search of Mr. De Vere.

The latter was shocked, and of course everything in the house was placed at Dr. Brinton’s disposal.

“Well,” said the doctor, “an ounce of prevention—you know. This may be diphtheria, and it may not. In any case it’s best to be on the safe side. I don’t go much on religion, as you know, so am frank to say that I think the Lord made a mistake when he put a black body on that white soul. When ‘Gabriel sounds his trump’ for me I should feel safe with Reuben to pilot the way.”

Mr. De Vere’s eyes grew dim.

“And,” the doctor added, “his word is law in this case. No one but he goes into that room; nothing comes out but through him.” And Doctor Brinton drove off singing

“There is a happy land—”

It proved indeed a serious case. Hernando’s heart, never very strong, under the action of this insidious poison and a restless spirit came very near failing altogether. But once more the eternal vigilance and conscientious care of Reuben assisted Nature and she conquered, and the work of repair progressed steadily. Dainty trays tempted the feeble appetite. Reuben prepared them himself and each one was a surprise. Somehow he knew just what he liked, to Hernando’s surprise.

All the family vied with one another in making him comfortable. Mr. De Vere kept him posted in regard to the mine, the articles of incorporation, and said that operations were to begin in March. He did not tell him that they were waiting for him to be ready, but Hernando guessed it and exerted himself to regain strength as much as he was allowed.

One day Mr. De Vere announced that the mythical Valley Railroad was to materialize. The company had been chartered the week previous in New York City with Mr. Valentine Mills as treasurer. A contract had been made with the banking house of Cobb, Hoover and Company of the last-named city to sell the railroad stock, and the bonds were going like hot cakes, so the company felt itself warranted in beginning work at once.

Mr. De Vere also told him that Elisha Vedder, a young civil engineer of St. Louis, through his recommendation, was to arrive the following week and survey the route, which seemed a feasible one, and better in respect to grades than the company anticipated. The need of the gold mine had been heralded abroad, and outsiders also were clamoring for railway facilities.

Genung was jubilant, and his daily visits to Hernando, now out of quarantine, only increased that young man’s impatience to be actively engaged with the others in this great enterprise.

Granny had long since taken him under her wing. His deference to her opinions, and old-fashioned chivalry to all women, completely won her. There existed a strong attachment between them. She would sit by the hour in his room recounting adventures of pioneer days and her vivid pictures interested him intensely. She possessed an inexhaustible fund of them; her memory never deceived, and she regarded the slightest deviation from the exact truth as criminal.

“Where is Miss Eletheer?” Hernando inquired of her after she had just finished a most interesting story. “I have not seen her since dinner.”

“Call the child by her plain name. She has gone daft over that mine and very likely is there. Celeste!” she called, “come and sing for Hernando. He is lonesome.”

Hernando protested, but the sight of Celeste’s sweet face quieted all remonstrance. She flitted in gaily with her guitar, and Hernando would have been an exception to most of his sex had he not bowed in adoration before this beautiful creature.

Music had no charm for Granny so she left them to enjoy it by themselves.

One tiny slippered foot peeped from under Celeste’s skirts and rested upon the guitar case, while her slender white fingers wandered dreamily over the strings.

“What shall I sing for you,” she asked, “something gay or something sad?”

“Anything will please me, only stop before you are tired.”

“Let me see,” she said with one of her rare smiles. “Hernando is a Spanish name. Now close your eyes and imagine yourself a wee boy, while I sing you to sleep.”

Touching the strings gently, they responded with a rocking motion and her voice rose and fell in the words of an old Spanish Folk Song:

“Little shoes are sold at the gateway of Heaven

And to all the tattered little angels are given.

Slumber, my darling, slumber, my darling,

Slumber, my darling do-do,

Dodo—Dodo—

Ave Maria—Dodo.”

Many, many times before had Hernando heard it; but now, to the instinct of motherhood in the breast of all true women were added the exact intonation and subtle potential moods of the artiste. Hernando’s keen musical feelings revelled in the liquid notes of the singer’s voice so perfectly attuned to the throbbing strings.

“Little shoes are sold at the gateway of Heaven

And to all the tattered little angels are given,”

sang Celeste.

Her listener turned and looked at her with her figure silhouetted against the glowing western sky, not a line of her exquisitely moulded proportions escaping him.

“Slumber, my darling Dodo,

Dodo—dodo—”

From what chamber in his memory does that echo come? What is this indescribable something that courses like fire through his veins? With that curious double consciousness which sometimes comes to us in tense moments, Hernando’s mind is thousands of miles away. From the tumultuous life of mining camps, he is travelling down, down to the very seething cauldron of nether life; that pest-house of thought filled with the “moanings of spirit.”

“Dodo, dodo

Ave Maria—Dodo,”

echoed the sweet voice. That awful picture fades away and Hernando sees a golden-haired child in a snowy crib. Can that cherub be the prophecy of what has just vanished? No! No! a thousand times no! There sits the child’s mother beside him. Yes, distinctly the baby voice says: “Sing me to sleep, mother.” Her great brown eyes soften as only a mother’s can. She, too, holds a guitar. She, too, is singing:

“Slumber, my darling dodo,

Dodo—Dodo

Ave Maria—Dodo.”

“My singing evidently has not what Doctor Brinton would call a ‘soothing effect’ upon you,” Celeste laughed, putting aside her guitar. “I must devise other means for entertainment. I have it; let me read your palm.”

Hernando hesitated but resistance was futile and he held toward her a shapely white hand.

She looked at it fixedly for a few seconds while the color came and went in her perfect face. Twice she essayed to speak, but as quickly the coral lips closed without a sound.

“Let me see the right hand.”

He did so. Another long scrutiny.

“Well!” he said, “I’ve dabbled a little in palmistry, myself. Let me help you. Life line broken in both hands at about the age of thirty. Death by accident. Don’t hesitate. What is my calling?”

“Of course we don’t believe it,” she said, reassured by his laugh, “but truly, yours is the hand of an evangelist!”

“Please tell that to Granny.”

“Indeed, no! Granny thinks fortune-telling dreadfully wicked.”

“Still she believes in dreams?”

“There is something strange about Granny. She really has premonitions. Much as father taboos everything bordering on the supernatural he always is guided by her advice on every new undertaking.”

“Very natural as she is his mother and also a level-headed woman; a really remarkable one. But please go on. An evangelist—?”

“Should be,” she corrected; “but something interferes.”

“Death, probably, as my life line is broken in both hands; then, too, the ‘good die young.’”

“It is a curious hand,” she stammered. “I don’t know much about palmistry anyway.”

“Shall I ever marry?” the tone was one of genuine interest now.

“There is a line of marriage but it is slightly curved upward.”

“And that indicates?”

“Some obstacle in the way.”

“My broken life line again, Miss Celeste!”

“No,” she said. “There is some other reason.”

“An all-round disappointing hand, I infer,” he laughed. “But come. I’ll read your hand.”

He took the frail little member in his own and with difficulty resisted the impulse to raise it to his lips.

“A lucky hand,” he begins, “broad and plump at the base as every woman’s should be; thumb not too large, which also is eminently correct. Life line long, clear and unbroken; head line indicates that your life will be guided by good judgment. Heart line”—here Reuben’s step was heard ascending the stairs and shortly he appeared in the doorway with Hernando’s supper.

Celeste had quickly withdrawn her hand and Hernando was a trifle paler. “Supper!” Celeste exclaimed, as she fluttered out, “is supper ready?”

“Yes, Honey!” And Celeste wondered why Reuben’s tone was so tender.

Seating himself before the window, Reuben unfolded the evening paper to the locals and was about to begin reading aloud when Hernando seized the paper and flung it from him. But this mood did not last long and then a demon took possession of him. What right had that black man to dictate terms to him, what was the awful occult power which enabled him to read the very thought of one’s inmost soul and wield that power with such unerring certainty! He clenched his fists until the nails cut into the flesh but words refused to come. His good angel seemed to desert him. Striding across the room, he stood before Reuben, twitching with passion. “Speak! say something, anything or I’ll go mad!” he said hoarsely.

“Dere aint nuthin’ to say, Massa.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nuthin’! Massa.”

“Then I will!”

“De good Lawd won’t let yo’, Massa. He allers take ca’e o’ His chillen.”

“He does, does He?” Hernando sneered.

“O Thou, who man of baser earth did’st make,

“And ev’n with Paradise devise the snake,

“For all the sins with which the face of man is black’ned

“Man’s forgiveness give—and take.”

“Can’t say ’bout dat, Massa; but when de good Lawd sends me a message I’s boun’ ter do His bidden.” And as he arose and faced his questioner like a great watch-dog at bay, Hernando did not doubt his ability to do so. He made no reply to Reuben’s last remark; had unconsciously quailed before such bull-dog ferocity in “gentle, patient Reuben.” He looked up the mountain side until his gaze rested on the rocks about “Old Ninety-Nine.” It was one of those magical nights in late winter when grim Time seems making a final effort to rejuvenate, each rock and frost-bound tree glittering with gems, while over his hoary head is flung the soft veil of moonlight. “Nature, they tell us,” he mused, “is a harmonious expression of divine will, and human nature is the crowning masterpiece; that her laws are just, and she does not discriminate between transgressing a physical and a moral one; that justice is ultimately done; but

‘’Tis education moulds the common mind,

Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.’”

Not yet had he mastered the teaching lately given by an eminent professor in one of our eastern universities: “While science has in past years been disclosing to us the evolution of worlds, while it has been explaining the evolution of life, it is now beginning to tell us of the evolution of mind. While it has found a sufficient cause for the evolution of worlds in the physical laws of nature, while it has found the efficient cause of the evolution of life in the laws of strife and struggle for existence, it is beginning to recognize to-day that the only law under which is possible the evolution of mind and soul is the law which was disclosed two thousand years ago by the lowly Nazarene—faith, hope and love, and greatest of these is love.” Had he rightly interpreted the message of this “lowly Nazarene,” this misdirected creature of circumstances would have seen that God’s laws are Nature’s laws. As a man sows, so he reaps, not “figs from thistles,” nor harmony from discord. As Hernando stood here in the window, a strange peace came over him. Did he suspect that this renunciation was a pivotal point in his life? Did he faintly discern that nothing else than law, love was the command, “Work out your own salvation in fear and trembling,” assured that, as Emerson so truly said: “There is a guidance for each of us and by lowly listening we shall hear the right word.”

Hernando turned to speak to Reuben but he was alone. Sounds from below indicated that Granny was coming to bed, and soon her feeble footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. She leaned heavily on her son’s arm and, on reaching her room, seemed completely exhausted. No stimulant had ever passed her lips, and now she sternly declined the glass of wine proffered by Mr. De Vere, saying she had not arrived at the age of eighty-seven to first taste the cup of poison.

“But, mother,” her son protested, “you are breathless. Stimulants are all right in their place. I insist on your taking this.”

“John!”

Mr. De Vere beat a hasty retreat and called Eletheer.

Of late Granny had been steadily but surely failing, her usually severe manner replaced by one peculiarly gentle, and Eletheer noticed with delight how softened in Granny’s eyes had become her own many faults. To-night she looked seriously ill, and after the exertion of disrobing and preparing for the night was over, she fell back panting on her pillow.

Eletheer, really frightened, wanted to send for the doctor, but her grandmother strenuously objected and requested that some boneset tea be warmed over. She sipped it in silence and handing Eletheer the emptied cup said: “Never neglect gathering your yearly supply of boneset. It is a wonderful bracer. Now see if Hernando would like to join us during our reading of the portion of the Scripture. They have company downstairs and the poor boy is all alone.”

Eletheer obeyed, but her hands shook as she adjusted the easy-chair for him and he adroitly reached for the well-worn Bible with “What shall we read, Granny?”

“You may choose to-night, my boy.”

He drew a little nearer the bed and opening the book at random began: “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations.”

Eletheer started. That chapter, as familiar as the multiplication table, somehow sounded different.

“If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.

“But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering; for he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.”

Hernando read on to the last verse and then Granny’s feeble voice joined his: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”

He closed and replaced the Bible on the table and rose to say good-night, when the old lady expressed a wish to speak with him alone and Eletheer vanished into the hall. “Hernando,” said Granny, when he had closed the door and was again seated by the bed, “my days are numbered. Nearly a score more than man’s allotted time has been granted me and now I am ready to go. I have never discussed doctrinal questions with you, but blood tells and any one in whose veins flows the good old blood of the Genungs cannot be without the fold. My boy, I am an old woman, let me assure you that God is an ever present friend in time of need, He will never leave nor forsake you.” She waited an instant, evidently expecting him to speak, but as he did not do so, went on. “I have noticed Eletheer’s affection for you, have encouraged her to go to you for instructions on the different questions which I have been unable to make clear. It has been my aim to thoroughly ground her in the tenets of the church in which I was reared, and while I cannot believe the child wilfully in error, she must be deluded. The Bible from which you read to-night is hers when I need it no longer. Help her to find the ‘straight and narrow way.’” Her voice sank with weariness as she ceased speaking and Hernando hastily held a glass of water to her lips with shaking hand. She drank a few swallows and then asked for the boneset tea. It was already prepared as the bowl from which Eletheer had taken some still remained in the hot ashes, and Granny soon said she felt stronger.

Hernando knelt beside her. He was breathing heavily and a trembling old hand felt for his own. How long he knelt there was never quite clear—it might have been five minutes or it might have been hours. The beating of his heart was almost choking him. He felt her fingers tighten their hold. “Granny,” he began huskily, “you are the only grandmother I have ever known.”

“Then prove it by believing me loyal.”

“I do believe it but you would not understand were I to tell you what is on my heart.”

“I would try to.”

“Let us suppose a case, a man whose environment and heredity—on one side at any rate—are morally debilitating. Alas! He knows the seamy side of life, has drunk to the full the cup of pleasure and found dregs at the bottom. Yet he does not realize the depths of degradation into which he has fallen, is simply doing as others before him have done and are still doing. Circumstances place him amid totally different surroundings. He is an honored member of a Christian household, a household where naught but good abides. One among them is a woman, such a one as he never believed lived outside of dreams and that man loves her. Yes, that’s it, loves her! At last he has found what his hungry heart craves. He forgets the past—God knows he prayed to do so—and lives only in the present with its promises, playing with temptation. And, Granny, that woman is your granddaughter, Celeste.”

An inaudible sob escaped him as he caught for breath. Granny turned and looked at him, but felt her tongue arrested.

Poor Granny, she to whom weakness was sin, who, by thought, word or act had never been known to show the slightest mercy toward a transgressor of this unwritten moral law! A clock somewhere in the house struck two, “that magic hour when all time seems to stand still.” The lamp burned low, flickered and went out. From the deep bed of coals on the hearth, a spark would now and then flash forth filling the room with shadows. There were these two souls, one, a weary pilgrim whose struggles with this world were almost ended and ready to attest, “I have lived, seen God’s hand through a lifetime, and all was for the best”; the other a man, a misguided human being brought face to face with himself. Once again was the “veil of the temple rent” and in the Holy of Holies these two made sacrifice each for himself.

Morning found Granny no better, too weak to rise and she tried in vain to eat her dainty breakfast. Each effort left her exhausted, and almost discouraged. Eletheer had to be content with seeing her take a few swallows of coffee.

Doctor Brinton, who had been summoned early, looked grave but could only economize the forces of nature and wait.

Stimulants were flatly refused by the old lady. Pleadings availed nothing. Deception was impossible and she gradually became weaker and weaker until at last, with mental faculties clear, her earthly lamp went out.

Those who have known the influence for good in a household of a grandmother like this one will understand how deserted the house seemed. Religious bigot she may have been, yet she was an honest one and her example of earnestness of purpose, strict integrity and staunch friendship may well be emulated. She had tried to do as she wished to be done by, died as she had lived—an example of the faith she professed.

In real life, one’s environment is practical and when what one most loves is snatched from one, he must still carry on his part in the round of life. One precious belonging after another of Granny’s was tenderly put away and though no more would her feeble footstep be heard about the house, the good seed sown by her had not fallen on barren soil.

CHAPTER V

BY March, all at the mine was in readiness, every vacant house in Nootwyck rented and many rough ones were in course of construction on the mountain side. Mills was one of the first to visit the works and offer congratulations. “Your mine is apparently inexhaustible,” he said to Mr. De Vere, “and Nootwyck bids fair to fulfill your hopes. Every foot of ground within ten miles of the mine is staked out in claims and there is not an idle man in the town. I rejoice with you. God has answered our prayers, may He indeed grant that this valley shall blossom as the rose,” and he stroked his beard reverently.

Mr. De Vere could not conceal a smile as he replied, “Undoubtedly, God is good, but Hernando Genung has a hand in this job.”

“His ways are inscrutable, and unworthy means are sometimes used to accomplish a blessing,” said Mills softly, and De Vere who was looking toward the village, did not see his look of hatred and revenge. “I fail to see that application here,” said Mr. De Vere.

“It is not necessary that you do. Pardon me for even hinting at the past of one who is deemed worthy to be an instrument for good in the hands of our Heavenly Father.”

We always judge others by our own standard. Incapable of baseness himself, Mr. De Vere never suspected it in others. He was greatly attached to Hernando, and this imputation on his character nettled him, but he soon forgot it.

A large force of men was busy at the smelting and reduction works which were to be located at the foot of the mountains. Ore could be brought down in chutes. Work at the coal mines had been resumed, a track to them was nearly completed and fuel from there could be sent down to the works at slight expense.

Hernando’s training and experience among mines pre-eminently fitted him for the position he now occupied, and work under his intelligent supervision progressed rapidly, and soon the crushers indicated that the mills were in operation.

At last the rails were laid to Nootwyck, and the village was in the buzz of excitement. From all along the route people assembled to celebrate the arrival of the incoming train, which was loaded with prospectors and new inhabitants. Mills was on the train and his uniformly gracious manner won him the good-will of these honest people.

The depot, which was to be a handsome structure, was under way, but a rude shanty answered the purpose now.

As the train swerved around a curve a shout went up, such as had not resounded in this peaceful valley since the days when they cheered, “Taxation of America.”

Mills sprang to the platform, shaking hands right and left and dilating upon the future of the valley. He took a carriage for Wawarsing, where the next section of men was ballasting, and further still, Elisha Vedder with his skilled assistants was pushing on.

Elisha Vedder was now a member of the De Vere household, and in the great handsome fellow, with his hearty manner and big heart, Mr. De Vere saw simply the development of noble traits shown years ago in Missouri. Under his skillful management, the road promised to be completed by fall. Mills’s manner towards him was straight-forward. He was keen enough to perceive that this great-hearted, honest engineer would tolerate nothing but the best methods in making the road a success, and any economical schemes he might propose must be supported by proof as to their sufficiency. Elisha knew exactly what the cost of putting this road through would be, and intended that every dollar of the company’s funds should be honestly expended. Toward Mills his manner was respectful, but the latter realized that, as one of the directors, no manipulation of books nor watering of stock would be tolerated. Then too, he was backed by one of the richest mine owners in the State, who considered his honor much more precious than all the treasures of earth combined.

“Ah!” thought Mills, with a look of malicious triumph, “you discovered the mine, but those precious jewels are simply the product of Benny Depuy’s distorted imagination, are they? Hernando Genung, have a care, that old score is still unsettled. Would you adorn the fair Celeste with those sparkling gems? She would grace them, but there is a sequel to this matter.”

His inspection over, he was about to re-enter his carriage when Vedder inquired the prospects for running a branch through to connect with the Ulster and Delaware.

“Rather dubious,” Mills replied. “All the way up hill, and what is the country to be opened up worth?”

“The cost, in my estimation, need not be so great. The route beyond Honk Falls is a natural grade and one of the most beautiful in the United States. Its historical interests would attract thousands,” Vedder replied earnestly.

“True, Shandaken claims the honor of owning the highest peak of the Catskills. Slide Mountain has, I believe, an altitude of four thousand feet. I understand that the view from it is marvelous; that the trees are so stunted by heavy snows that their flattened branches appear like a table from which one can look down and off on a vast amphitheater of rocks, trout streams and picturesque hamlets. But scenery is not a tangible commodity, and the people regard the project as a wild-cat scheme.”

“That section of the country is one of the driest atmospheric belts in the State and its healthfulness is an accepted fact. This with its magnificent forests and undoubted mineral deposits would, in my estimation, warrant running a branch through.”

“Oh! well, let us complete this one before we agitate that.” And with a gay laugh he sprang into his carriage and was off for Kingston.

Hernando and Elisha were mutually attracted toward each other from the first. One true nature instinctively understands another, and the two young men were naturally thrown together a great deal.

At Mrs. De Vere’s earnest solicitation, Hernando shared Elisha’s room—the one which had been Granny’s. One year of unparalleled prosperity in this locality had rolled by. The output from the mine had been such as to stir the hearts of all true miners. Nootwyck would soon be incorporated as a city, and Mills’s doubts in regard to the wisdom of a branch to meet the Ulster and Delaware at Big Indian were unheeded. In fact the road was already under way and the stock sold. People went wild with excitement. Mills smiled urbanely but said nothing. Elisha, as chief engineer, was in his element and his work bespoke intimate acquaintance with and mastery of the intricacies of railway engineering.

It was Saturday night in the last of March. The air was full of snow; that kind which falls in such minute flakes that one is sure of plenty more in reserve. Elisha and Hernando were squaring the week’s accounts in their room before going to bed, and they represented two distinct types. Elisha was strangely nervous. Again and again was the same column of figures added, but no result followed. Hernando laughed aloud and said: “Vedder, old man, your method of addition seems to give unsatisfactory results and your wits are apparently wool-gathering.”

Elisha threw himself helplessly into a chair but made no reply.

“Come, out with it, make me your father confessor,” said Hernando with a look of such genuine interest that Elisha replied: “I meant to have taken you into my confidence before, but there are some events in one’s life too sacred to mention.”

Hernando was looking intently into the fire. “I am grateful for all confidences,” he answered, “and especially those of a friend.”

“Have you seen my devotion to Celeste?”

“I’d be blind if I hadn’t,” returned Hernando quietly.

“Honestly, Hernando, do you think I am worthy to become the husband of that angel?”

“Yes.”

“Can you wonder that her promise, given to-night, to accept me as such sends my wits ‘wool-gathering’?”

Hernando grasped his friend’s hand and wrung it warmly, but in silence.

“Do you know,” Elisha went on with his eyes on the floor, “I have sometimes thought that you cared for her and I did not wish to cast a straw in your way, so waited this long to speak for that reason.”

“I should never have asked her to be my wife,” said Hernando, in a voice so unlike his own that Elisha looked quickly into his face, “and the fact of her having accepted you proves her heart is yours. No, Vedder, I congratulate you and from the bottom of my heart wish you the happiness so richly deserved.”

The ice once broken, Elisha unfolded plan after plan for their future, little dreaming of the misery thereby inflicted on one who would have exchanged worlds for the obliteration of one year of his life.

“I reckon you’ll be taking me into your confidence on a like matter, some day, eh, Hernando?” Elisha concluded.

“Never, my friend, there are different roads to happiness.”

“But you will admit that man alone is but half of himself?”

“Individually, yes; but collectively man is two-thirds,” he replied with a laugh.

“I’ll forgive you, old man, but let me tell you that you will get bravely over all preconceived opinions on love. It is like faith; must be experienced to be understood. So good-night and happy dreams.”

CHAPTER VI

IN the morning the panorama presented was one of unusual beauty. All nature was enveloped in snow of the purest white. The flats below were a dazzling sea in the bright sunlight. The two gaunt pines, through which the wind had sighed so dismally the night before, now appeared like white-robed sentinels on guard at the gate. The air was balmy and the drip, drip, drip of water from the eaves and window-ledges proclaimed that this vision of fairyland would be a transient one.

A happy group gathered around the breakfast table. Granny had instructed Margaret in the art of preparing buckwheat cakes and a smoking pile of them soon appeared. Her skill in the culinary art was proverbial. No one could make anything taste quite as Margaret could, and she was duly proud of her proficiency in this accomplishment.

“Well,” said Mr. De Vere, “how many of us are going to church to-day?”

“From the looks of things outside, I infer the congregation will be a slim one,” said Jack, helping himself to another pancake.

Just then the soft, sweet warble of a bluebird was heard through the open window, and looking out, they saw on the limb of an apple tree this welcome harbinger of spring, singing his plaintively sweet song. While they listened, his mate flew over his head and alighted near on a twig with an audacious flirt, but he kept on singing for fully three minutes, then with a dash of snow they flew away.

“Truly spring is not far off,” observed Mr. De Vere, “but appearances indicate that Reuben will need help in shovelling paths.”

Many hands make light work, and Jack, Hernando and Elisha, armed with shovels, soon cleared walks to the street, and then turned toward the barn. Suddenly Jack called out, “Father, there is a flock of your old friends.” Twenty or thirty little black-capped birds were fluttering near the back door, calling “chick-a-dee-dee.” Mr. De Vere laughed heartily, for they brought to mind a picture of his boyhood days; the old school-house in the woods where every known mode of punishment, from “toeing the crack” to flogging, was resorted to, making the woods resound with yells. Then on a Friday afternoon after “spelling down,” the grim old schoolmaster produced a well-preserved accordion, tilted his chair against the wall and held his unwilling audience by “chick-a-dee-dee,” his only tune.

Reaching the barn, they found Reuben busily engaged skinning a half-dozen rabbits which had been caught in his traps the night before, and his mouth watered as he thought of rabbit pot-pie with the white puffy balls “all afloat in brown gravy.” The rabbits had barked several young fruit trees and committed depredations which made Reuben vow he would exterminate the vandals. As the others came up, he exhibited his trophies and exultantly exclaimed, “Dar now, I reckon I’ve settled dem tieves.”

“Are they fat?” inquired Mr. De Vere admiringly.

“Only jes’ tolabl’, Massa John.”

In the village, the male element of the population seemed intent on the one occupation of shovelling his own individual sidewalk. By noon, a heavy body of snow had sunk under the warm rays of the sun and the street was running with slush. Nature was preparing to cast off her winter garments, but in this rugged climate she does so reluctantly. A raw wind still blew from the snowy north, but the sun was too high to expect much more cold weather.

“By the way, Reuben,” called Mr. De Vere, “when have you been at the maple bush?”

“Early dis mawnin’, Massa, an’ de sap buckets was jes’ runnin’ plumb full.”

Mr. De Vere owned an orchard of about one hundred acres on the side of the mountain. His mother had bought the land for a mere song after the timber had all been burned off by forest fires, and had set it out in sugar maples. This was about twenty-five years ago. They had been nourished and protected until now they were an object of much admiration. Mr. De Vere insisted that there was something human in maples, and it was his rule never to bore them until the proper season and then in only one place at a time. The good old days of “sugaring off” were past and his sugar-house was furnished with the most modern appliances.

Sunday passed off very quietly. In the evening, Celeste sang and played for them, and as if by common consent, she and Elisha were left in undisputed possession of the parlor but not, however, until Jack had given his sister a knowing look which sent the blood bounding to her very temples, and she was preparing to follow him when Elisha advanced quickly to her side, encircling her waist with his great strong arm as he drew her down beside him on the settee.

Celeste felt a trifle awed by this great big fellow who idolized the very ground she trod. Other men had confessed their love for her but this one was different, and when he said, “Celeste, I love you. Will you be my wife?” she knew that in that simple declaration was the fidelity of a lifetime.

“Celeste,” said Elisha, “I told Hernando of our engagement, and he wishes us every happiness.”

“I wonder if he will ever marry.”

“Probably not,” returned Elisha, “he is one of the few men capable of purely platonic affection. In his eyes all women are little lower than angels,” and Elisha smiled.

“If he ever does marry, his wife will be very happy,” she said, with a coquettish toss of her head.

“And will mine be unhappy?” he asked, pressing his lips to the curly head on his shoulder.

“That depends,” she said saucily, “entirely on your dutifulness.”

“Oh, Celeste, I have loved you ever since you were a little miss down in Missouri,” he said earnestly. “My prospects are good and I see no reason for deferring our marriage until some remote day in the future. I feel all the time as if something would snatch you from me. Let our wedding day be fixed and at an early date.”

Celeste counted on her fingers but came to no conclusion.

“Jack goes to Texas in April, why not let part of our wedding journey be spent in company with him?” said Elisha.

Jack’s health had failed during the past year. An annoying cough had caused Doctor Brinton to suggest a trip to the plains of Texas, and he intended to start during the last week in April.

Celeste hesitated. To visit Vicksburg and the land of her birth was one of the dreams of her life, and now to go with dear brother Jack! Her eyes sparkled, the sweet lips parted and Elisha had won.

Taking the curly brown head in both his great brown hands, Elisha looked earnestly into her eyes. His heart was too full for words; and with a sigh of perfect content she threw her arms around his neck feeling that under the protection of such love, her way through life would be guarded from every care. Her own unworthiness, her distorted views of the real duties of life, overwhelmed her, and her tone was almost pathetic as she said:

“Elisha, you have chosen a helpless partner. I see it all now, my blind selfishness and aimless existence. The grand possibilities of life have heretofore applied to others, but with your help, I intend to take my place in the arena and together we will fight our battles.”

“And win them, my darling,” he said, kissing again and again the warm red lips so temptingly near his own.

The thoughtless, pleasure-seeking girl now stood before Elisha transformed into a glorious woman with an earnest purpose. The scales had fallen from her eyes now flashing with new brilliancy. Granny’s words, “No De Vere is a coward,” proved her not an exception.

If a tiny cloud crossed their horizon just then, it passed unobserved. In their own radiant happiness, they forgot that there might be misery for others.

Infinite Wisdom has so formed man that through the rift in to-morrow’s cloud, he may catch the brightness of to-day, that strength may be given him to guide his frail bark along the ever-changing current of life’s river. He may know that trials come to him with beneficent purpose, and that no one is given more than he can bear.

On the grave of perverted aims and impulsive desires, Celeste’s “barren fig tree is given another season.”

CHAPTER VII

IT must be apparent to all that some time previous to the discovery of “Old Ninety-Nine’s” cave and Mills’s desire to purchase Point Wawanda, ostensibly for the purpose of erecting on it a sanitarium, the latter had, with a notorious mining expert, secretly prospected on the mining claim and also discovered the cave. His was the knife that had dug free gold from the pocket commented on by Hernando and theirs the hands which had chipped the rocks disclosing the untold richness of the mine. The veritable chest described by Benny Depuy was found under a heap of rocks which appeared to have been washed over it. It, too, seemed to have petrified. The hinges and bindings had been eaten away by rust and the lid simply slid off disclosing, as Benny had said, “Heaps upon heaps of gold, silver and precious stones.”

Like vultures, the two gloated over their discovery and the spoils were equally divided between them. Mills’s eyes gleamed and after the chest had been emptied, he hit it a sounding rap with his hammer which shattered it into fragments, revealing the secret bottom which contained a parchment yellow with age. He sprang upon it like a cat and unfolding the document with shaking hands endeavored to read it.

It was closely written, apparently in Spanish, and so blurred as to be utterly illegible, but at the bottom was one of those symbolical pictures which were used as maps by the Esopus Indians. This represented a bird before a fissure in a mountain. In her beak was a lump of metal, apparently, and she was looking down into the crevice from which evidently had come her treasure. About fifty feet below and six hundred feet distant, according to their measurements, wound a small stream, and from a mountain peak to the south issued what appeared to be smoke. Without doubt this was the “Old Ulster Mine.”

“See,” said Mills, “a bird is the omen of good luck. This crevice is very, very deep and evidently the metal has come from the bottom. Look, here is the head of an Indian. Who knows but that this is the famous mine of Unapois? It certainly is not this one, for it is much lower down the mountain side and to the south.”

“Surely this is the Old Ulster,” replied his companion. “You see, the location is distinctly that; and true to their racial instincts, the Indians are guarding their secret against the restoration to them of the lands of their forefathers.”

“What a disappointing history that mine has had,” said Mills.

“I confess my complete ignorance as to that. I simply know the mine when I see it,” returned the miner.

“About fifty years ago,” said Mills, “two residents were tramping along the base of the mountain when they saw a small piece of sulphurate of lead lodged in a rift near a spot where the old drift is located, but nothing serious was thought of the matter. Shortly afterward, the owner conceived the idea of leading the water from the spring, located at the spot where the old workings were afterwards commenced, to his house by means of a drain-pipe, and while so engaged discovered further indications. During the progress of the work, a village lad discovered a large piece of the ore and took it to the owner who felt so elated over it that he presented the boy with a cow. The discovery was soon noised abroad, and coming to the ears of certain New York parties, a stock company was formed under the title of the Ulster Lead Mining Company which purchased the land of the owner, and in the following spring put up machinery and buildings and commenced drifting. They continued boring with varying success for something over two years when they suspended for lack of funds.

“Five years later the company recommenced operations and continued the work for a period of three years when it was reorganized under the title of the Union Lead Mining Company, and five thousand dollars were to liquidate all former claims and further the work.

“Information in regard to their operations is meager as their president and superintendent were not from these parts and those living here at that time have forgotten the particulars. It is known, however, that during the latter part of the workings attention was wholly directed to extracting sulphate of copper from its bed of clay and that large quantities of the material were shipped off for smelting, suitable works for the operation not having been erected here. The company ceased operations two years afterward and the works have gradually decayed, leaving nothing but the little building once used for an office.”

“They do not seem to have given a thought to silver,” replied Mills’s companion.

“You must remember that the Dutch element prevails in this valley, and if a Dutchman started in for extracting lead, he would consider all else in his mine ‘gangue.’ Intentness of purpose is their national characteristic.”

But they must be off before daylight. The fragments of the broken chest were gathered together and the marauders crept stealthily out of the cave, dropping the broken chest into a deep hole.

Their horses were impatiently gnawing the saplings to which they had been tied near the base of the mountain, and mounting, they rode towards Kerhonkson and thence to Kingston.

What to do with the jewels, now that they had them, was a question. Mills was known to be a man in moderate circumstances, and these jewels were priceless diamonds, rubies and many semi-precious stones, fit ransom for an emperor. They dare not exhibit them nor dispose of them, so they must be placed in some safe deposit and that at once.

Arriving at Kingston, they were shown into a room in a hotel in which the attentive servant kindled a fire in the wood stove as the air was chilly. After dinner they sat hugging the stove and talking in low tones. The mine must be secured, and that as soon as possible, and it was decided that Mills should begin negotiations with Mr. De Vere at once and secure a clear title for the mine on his place, and Mills’s partner should bend his energies toward obtaining Old Ulster.

“What shall we do with this old document?” Mills inquired, producing the one found in the cave.

“Destroy it,” said the other. “No one can read it, and anyway, all we want to know is clear.”

Mills reflected, but ended in agreeing that it would only be a source of anxiety if preserved and, opening the stove door, it, with some old letters, was consigned to the flames and the blaze which followed assured them that at least one witness against them had been disposed of.

Nothing now remained for them to do but to go on to New York City, complete arrangements and deposit the gold and jewels in a place of safety.

How Mills succeeded with Mr. De Vere is known and when the former’s accomplice endeavored to secure the title to “Old Ulster,” he learned that the mine was already in the hands of a new company.

Mills secretly regretted having consigned the document so hastily to the flames; and could he have seen it, as Dr. Herschel, the next occupant of that room in the hotel at Kingston, drew it from the stove, every letter distinct, he would have known that in that asbestos-like sheet was a rarer treasure than money or jewels.

CHAPTER VIII

THE last week in April had arrived and in a few days came Celeste’s wedding. Hernando was returning from town after a call at his uncle’s where his cousin Mary Genung was convalescing from typhoid fever. Eletheer De Vere had been with her and bravely nursed her through. Everything seemed strangely quiet, only the sound of the crushers breaking the stillness, and he strolled along so deeply absorbed in thought that he did not hear a light footstep behind him, and almost started when his arm was clasped by slim white fingers and a merry voice said playfully: “There, you naughty boy, I’m completely out of breath trying to catch up with you.”

It was Celeste, and she raised her glowing face to his with an expression of mock severity.

“I certainly did not hear you, Celeste,” he replied honestly.

Her hands were full of trailing arbutus which filled the air with its delicious fragrance.

“Then I will forgive you,” she said, pinning a cluster of deep pink blossoms on his coat.

“What are these beautiful flowers?” he said, smelling of them.

“For shame!” she exclaimed, “not to be acquainted with trailing arbutus. The woods are full of it. Whittier calls it the Mayflower, and says, ‘It was the first flower to greet the Pilgrims after their fearful winter,’” and with a happy smile she repeated:

“‘Yet God be praised,’ the Pilgrim said,

Who saw the blossoms peer

Above the brown leaves, dry and dead,

‘Behold our Mayflower here.’

“O sacred flowers of faith and hope,

As sweetly now as then,

Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,

In many a pine-dark glen.”

“I think I have heard Mary speak of them,” said Hernando, “but I never saw them before.”

“How is Mary getting on?”

“She was down stairs to-day for the first time.”

“Eletheer really intends to be a nurse,” Celeste said, “but it must make one become morbid to see so much suffering.”

“It will never have that effect upon Eletheer,” Hernando said gravely.

“Eletheer is eccentric. She always selected her associates from among such queer people. Mary Genung is the only nice girl she cares anything about.” Here Celeste laughed and continued calmly, “Let me name a few of her friends: Father Perry, Uncle Mike, the Dugans, every one of the miners, Pat McGinn, Doctor Brinton and Mary Genung.”

Hernando could not resist laughing. “Am I not among them?” he said, sobering instantly.

“You,” and her laugh was infectious. “She seems to have adopted you. Some one made a remark about you which she interpreted as disparaging, and he must have felt uneasy under her sarcasm.”

“She is very loyal to those she cares for.”

“And those whom she dislikes know it.”

Elisha had seen them coming from the piazza and met them at the gate. How tenderly he drew Celeste’s arm within his own and what a world of devotion was pictured in his honest face. Hernando watched them go. Once Celeste looked back. He was smelling the arbutus she had given him.

Supper had been cleared when they arrived, but Margaret never forgot the “chillen” and Celeste, followed by Elisha and Hernando, went immediately to the kitchen.

Jack’s health was really in such a condition as to excite apprehension, and an inherited weakness of the lungs predisposed him to pulmonary troubles. He had been preparing to enter college, but close application to study had completely broken him down, and he was obliged to give up the aim of his life, but took the disappointment philosophically and when the doctor suggested roughing it on the plains of Texas, arrangements were immediately made to follow his advice. It was now Tuesday, and Thursday was the day appointed for Celeste’s marriage. Jack intended going with them on their wedding journey as far as Vicksburg, then continuing on alone to Texas. All his preparations were completed and he anticipated the trip with much pleasure. Elisha seemed like a brother already—indeed all the family received the announcement of his wish to make Celeste his wife as a foregone conclusion. The wedding was to be a simple one, no one outside of the family being invited, and immediately afterward they were to leave for the South.

Jack’s nature was buoyant. Like Celeste, he viewed life from its sunny side. Admired, sought after, it is not to be wondered at that his nobler traits lay dormant. Mrs. De Vere idolized her only boy and in her estimation he possessed not one fault. Hers were the eyes that detected the change in Jack, and in his capacious trunk was packed every comfort for her boy. No one knew of the tears she shed in secret and Jack only suspected it. He found Eletheer folding heaps of fleecy garments designed for Celeste’s adornment. They were mysteries to him and seeing she was in a hurry, he put on his hat and went out.

The last article stowed away, Eletheer closed the trunk and went down into the dining-room, and being tired and wishing to be alone, she closed the door and threw herself into a large easy-chair before the fire. The night air was chill yet and the fire shed a grateful warmth. She had been seated some minutes before she became aware that she was not the only occupant in the room, and turning her eyes toward the deep eastern window, she saw Hernando seated among the cushions.

“Pardon me,” she exclaimed with a start, “perhaps I intrude.”

“From the manner in which the door closed, you will be the one intruded upon if I remain.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Hernando. Your presence is never unwelcome. I am actually blue and do not wish to infect others.”

“You would tell me that my stomach is out of order.”

“Which is undoubtedly true of mine. But in all seriousness, Hernando, that attack of diphtheria you had last winter has left bad effects. Your entire countenance is somehow changed and your voice has never been the same since. For the last three days you have seemed half asleep. Reuben is really becoming concerned about your condition.”

“Reuben is a noble fellow but somewhat of an alarmist, I fear,” replied Hernando.

“I understand the meaning of the word ‘alarmist’ to be ‘one who needlessly excites alarm’, which certainly does not apply to Reuben, and when he says ‘somethin’ is goin’ to happen,’ it invariably does happen.”

“What is his latest prediction?” Hernando asked with a light laugh.

Eletheer could not help smiling in return as she replied: “Nothing in words, but his actions indicate that some calamity is impending over this family.”

“What was it you quoted to me the other day, ‘Nothing can happen to any man that is not a human accident, nor to an ox which is not according to the nature of an ox, nor to a vine which is not according to the nature of a vine, nor to a stone which is not proper to a stone.’ If then, there happen to each thing both what is usual and natural, why shouldst thou complain, for the common nature brings nothing which may not be borne by thee.”

Eletheer looked very sober and he continued, “Far be it from me to disparage Reuben, but like all of the colored race he is superstitious. You must not remain so much indoors. Mary’s illness and the preparation for this wedding have made you morbid,” he said, shivering slightly.

“Are you cold?” she asked in some surprise, at the same time poking the fire vigorously. The blaze which followed illuminated the room, revealing Hernando in a vain effort to repress a chill.

“I fear you are ill, Hernando.”

Reuben here entered with an armful of wood. His observing eye recognized at a glance the indications of suffering which Hernando could not conceal, and hastily depositing his burden, he returned in a few minutes with a glass which he handed to Hernando saying, “Heah, my boy, drink dis hot toddy. Yo’ bettah keep out of dat mine. Dampness haint good fo’ rheumatism.”

Hernando drank the mixture and with Reuben’s assistance went up to his room. Striking a light, the faithful negro opened the bed and turned to aid his charge in disrobing. The latter’s face was positively livid.

“I reckon I gave yo’ a po’ful dose, Massa. Yo’ head is ready to pop,” said Reuben apologetically.

“I do not understand it, Reuben. Of late, stimulants, even in infinitesimal doses, always affect me in this way.”

“I’d bettah put yo’ feet in good hot watah, it will draw de blood from yo’ head.”

Hernando barely retained an upright position during this operation. He felt literally “dead for sleep.” Reuben kept his own opinion to himself, mentally determining that the next hot toddy should be less hastily measured, and he hurried his patient into bed. In less than five minutes Hernando snored loudly, and Reuben thought best to leave him alone; so, after tidying the room, he softly closed the door, chiding himself severely for his supposed carelessness, and returned to finish the chores.

Eletheer still waited in the dining-room and after being told that Hernando would probably be all right in the morning, she retired. Not so with the faithful Reuben. After attending to the thousand and one little tasks which he conscientiously and systematically performed, his pallet was spread by Hernando’s door that he might be ready in case of need. Several times during the night he stealthily crept to Hernando’s bedside only to find him in that same heavy sleep.

“Dat sleep means somefin,” he soliloquized uneasily; and earlier than usual the kitchen fire was kindled and his part of the daily routine begun.

Hernando had not stirred, but he breathed more easily and was bathed in perspiration. His left arm hung over the edge of the bed and as Reuben with tender solicitude raised it and was about to replace it under the cover, the sleeve fell back revealing several small, dry, red spots which, unlike the adjacent skin, were perfectly dry. Reuben stared. This struck him as unusual. Here the sleeper moved his head slightly to the left and just below the right ear were some more of these spots. These also were perfectly dry. He recollected having heard Hernando mention being troubled with “blood-boils.”

“I reckon de hot toddy stirred his blood up, po’ boy. He needs a good clarin’ out,” Reuben mentally said, but he felt uneasy and as soon as Mr. De Vere was heard stirring, the former knocked at his door expressing a wish that Dr. Brinton be summoned.

“By all means,” Mr. De Vere said. “Do you think his case serious? What kind of a night did your charge pass?”

“He done slep’ all night, Massa John, and is sleepin’ hard now. The po’ful strong toddy might do that, but I ’clare, Massa, I jes’ feel he’s dreffel sick.”

“What do you think is the matter?”

“I jes’ dun know.”

“Then we will have a physician settle the question,” replied Mr. De Vere, stepping to the telephone.

“Dr. Brinton is not well,” the answer came. “Is the call imperative?”

One glance at Reuben’s face and Mr. De Vere answered, “I am sorry to learn that the doctor is sick, but fear we must have medical advice at once. Will he kindly send some one?”

After a long pause, Dr. Brinton himself answered. Hernando’s symptoms under Reuben’s dictation were given, and through the ’phone, Dr. Brinton’s laugh followed by a fit of coughing could be distinctly heard. Then he said his assistant would be up immediately after breakfast.

“Now Reuben, my good man, don’t worry any more about it. You know he has malaria—at least he occasionally suffers from febrile attacks—and now undoubtedly has taken cold. Your hot toddy will fix him, and if it does not, the doctor will do all necessary,” and he dismissed the subject.

Massa John’s will was law for Reuben, and though he could not rid his mind of a feeling of indefinable dread, after another peep into Hernando’s room he went to assist Margaret in the kitchen.

Nine o’clock brought, not Dr. Brinton’s assistant, but Dr. Herschel, a celebrated dermatologist who was stopping in town for the purpose of investigating the climatic conditions at Shushan and the medicinal properties of mineral springs there. He alighted deliberately and turned to survey the prospect. Little rivulets of melting snow danced musically down the mountain side, the fresh woody smell from dried leaves was wafted to his nostrils, unconsciously his head was thrown back to better fill the lungs with this exhilarating air, and he bared his head as if in deference to the Giver of such blessings.

Eletheer was watching from an upper window and her heart fluttered as she thought of meeting this great man face to face. “Just like good Dr. Brinton,” she said to herself. “None but the best for our family—but Hernando is worthy of it. I do wonder what is the matter with him anyway. Reuben seems so worried. Dr. Herschel takes his time. Probably as his name is made, he does not need to inconvenience himself for the sake of others.”

He raised his eyes to the window before which she sat and seeing her, bowed slightly and advanced slowly toward the house.

“So this is the great scientist,” she said aloud, disappointment pictured in every lineament of her face—and indeed any casual observer would never give him a second thought. Reuben, always a well-bred servant, could barely restrain his impatience, and without waiting for the doctor to ring, he opened the door and unceremoniously ushered him into the library where Mr. De Vere was absorbed in the morning papers.

“De doctah, Massa,” Reuben announced, immediately ascending to Hernando’s room.

“Ah, good morning, Doctor,” said Mr. De Vere extending his hand. “Glorious weather this. Pray be seated.” He drew a great easy-chair before the western window which overlooked the city and pointing to the blue hills among which lay Shushan, remarked: “Like Hernando, you too are striving for the betterment of suffering humanity, only on different lines.”

Dr. Herschel’s glance followed his. His eyes were deep set, but their color was lost in the brilliancy of the mind which saw through them more than this world of material facts and threw the light of its genius into unexplored regions. Without removing his glance, he said in a low, even-toned voice, “I believe you surveyed out that tract of land.”

“Yes, and found it an unsavory job,” Mr. De Vere laughed.

Dr. Herschel’s countenance wore no answering smile as he replied: “True, the stench is almost overpowering, but the waters from ‘Stinking Spring,’ particularly, I believe to possess undoubted curative properties.”

“I sincerely trust they may, but to me that spot is the most obnoxious on the globe and the poor unfortunate who laved in that water would be a martyr indeed.”

“All of us are more or less,” replied the doctor abruptly, “but time is passing, shall I see the patient now?”

Reuben’s quick ear caught the question and almost instantly his black form appeared in the doorway, and without more ceremony Dr. Herschel was escorted to Hernando’s room. On the way upstairs he touched Reuben on the shoulder with, “Have you excluded all but yourself?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Why?”

By this time, they had entered the room and closed the door.

“Kase, Massa, it mout be ketchin’.”

“Have you ever before seen a case like this?”

“Not exac’ly, sah.”

“How long has he slept like this?”

Reuben gave a very correct account of Hernando’s condition since the evening previous—not even omitting the toddy, nor to deplore his own supposed carelessness. Not a single symptom was forgotten.

The physical examination over, during which Hernando remained limp, the doctor again turned to Reuben, “Has he ever spent any time out of the United States?”

Reuben did not know, but felt sure that Mr. De Vere would.

“That is all then, my good fellow. Let your patient sleep. This is an infectious disease, so be very careful to cleanse your hands with this”—handing him a prescription. “Use every precaution which an intelligent nurse should.” He then sought Mr. De Vere who anxiously awaited his verdict.

“Well?” the latter questioned.

Following him into the library, Dr. Herschel expressed a wish that Mr. Andrew Genung be sent for.

“We telephoned him early this morning and I am surprised that he is not here now,” said Mr. De Vere.

Even as he spoke, that gentleman’s portly figure appeared at the door and after a short greeting, he dropped into a chair, panting for breath, but managed to gasp, “Well, Doctor, we are fortunate in obtaining your service. Is our boy’s condition precarious?”

“First get your breath,” replied the doctor, “and then my diagnosis will be materially strengthened if you are able to correctly answer a few questions.”

Like all who came within this magnetic man’s influence, the two men before him, in dread expectancy, instinctively felt themselves in the presence of one who has conquered his most dangerous enemy, himself, and as a logical sequence, his trained intelligence would be rightly directed. Neither of them, though, appreciated the gentle tact by which their minds were being prepared for the shock awaiting them. After a short pause, Dr. Herschel asked—“Has your nephew ever passed any time out of the United States?”

“No,” replied Mr. Genung in some surprise.

“Has he ever married?”

“No.”

“He was born and reared in Nevada, I believe. Where educated?”

“San Francisco.”

“And probably, like too many young men of that age, Chinatown had its attractions.”

Mr. Genung’s face became purple with indignation, but his questioner did not flinch, only a look of divine pity came into his face as the question was repeated.

“Pardon me, Dr. Herschel,” Mr. Genung replied, rising and preparing to leave, “I fail to see the application of that question to my dear nephew’s present condition.”

“Very well,” came the deliberate reply, “you are not legally obliged to answer, neither is your nephew; but as the latter’s medical adviser and would-be friend, I have a moral right to be enlightened on everything pertaining to his good. True, the question asked, though a leading one, is not necessary, for his symptoms are sufficient to expel all doubt; but when a physician diagnoses a case as one heretofore unknown in these parts, he naturally likes to substantiate his opinion by all available evidence.”

With Mr. Genung, family matters were as strictly kept as the Ten Commandments, but the doctor’s last remark disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Twirling his hat nervously, he said—“Supposing it had. What if, for one brief year, his habits had not been such as a parent commends—a young man must ‘sow his wild oats’—how could the knowledge of that fact affect your diagnosis?”

“Make it absolutely certain. I have traced similar cases to Chinatown. It is a far too productive soil for the sowing of wild oats. One sometimes reaps where he has not sown. The disease is leprosy; but, contrary to the universally accepted belief, a cure has been found.”

Dead silence, broken only by a sound of labored breathing, followed this announcement.

“Yes,” he continued, “‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ cave contained a rarer treasure than money and jewels in the form of a proven cure for this justly dreaded malady.”

There is no sight more pathetic than a proud man humbled. Mr. Genung, with all his boastful pride of race and family, told that one in whose veins his own blood flowed was an outcast, unclean from this loathsome disease, a leper, while close upon this, conscience whispered, “What of the poor victim?” felt a compassion for his wayward brother’s only child suffuse his whole being. Tears coursed down his rugged cheeks and utterly broken in spirit, he looked appealingly at Dr. Herschel while his whole frame shook as with ague.

Mr. De Vere sprang to his assistance and Dr. Herschel administered a restorative, bidding him lie down for a few minutes, and his order was obeyed with child-like confidence.

“Now,” resumed the doctor, when the excitement had somewhat subsided, “my plan is this: to at once remove our young friend to Shushan—accommodations there are meager, but this is easily and quickly remedied, and I, myself, will remain with him until he is fully under the application of my treatment.”

“All alone in that detestable wilderness!” Mr. De Vere exclaimed.

“No, my dear sir, very soon he will be joined by another man (also a patient), and they can mutually assist each other.”

“God be merciful!” Mr. Genung moaned.

“Their home,” the doctor continued, “shall be light, airy and attractive, the library complete. I assure you that nothing necessary for their comfort will be omitted. Barren and forbidding as that spot seems, it contains much that is interesting, and best of all, that for which the brightest minds of all ages have sought—A CURE FOR LEPROSY!”

“How long do you think this stupor will last, Doctor?” asked Mr. De Vere.

“I cannot say, but asleep or awake, we must make arrangements for his removal this night. You understand that his isolation is to be complete?”

“Not even communication by telephone?”

“Even that. Were it known that Hernando has leprosy, complications might arise. Fearful as the disease is, it is not contagious, but it would be a difficult matter to convince the laity that contagion and infection are not synonymous. Am I to depend on your co-operation?”

“Oh, yes,” came the answer in unison.

“Reuben will collect together his effects”—with an accent on the name, which both understood—“and prepare him for the trip at about ten o’clock to-night; I, with a trusty man, will be here with a conveyance for Shushan.”

A heavy sigh from Mr. Genung.

“And now,” said the doctor cheerfully, “devotion is commendable only when rightly demonstrated. Let me know if he awakes. Good-morning,” and he was off.

Even his enemies would have pitied Andrew Genung as he sat there staring vacantly at first one and then another. Hernando’s coming and subsequent aid in discovering “Old Ninety-Nine’s” mine he had viewed in the light of a manifestation of God’s pleasure to smile on this valley, and that He had chosen one of the good old name “Genung” to be the means, had made his heart swell with pious pride. Now he could only pray; “Heavenly Father, have mercy on my poor boy. Forgive him, for he knew not what he did!”

Mr. De Vere went upstairs to deliver Dr. Herschel’s verdict to Reuben. His hand was on the knob of Hernando’s door; but, like a spirit, Reuben appeared on the threshold and gently but firmly motioned him back with,—“Yo’ can’t come in hyah, Massa, Massa John!”

“Reuben!” Mr. De Vere’s tone was one of dignity.

“Dr. Herschel assures us that this disease is not contagious, nor as broadly infectious as has been believed.”

“Drefful sorry to displease yo’, Massa; but odahs am odahs.”

Mr. De Vere stepped back abashed, not at the gentle rebuke implied in those words, but before this perfect example of the dignity of service, unswerving fidelity to conviction, unselfish devotion to those held dear.

“Far be it from me to tempt you, Reuben,” Mr. De Vere said humbly. “You understand that Hernando has leprosy, and that, awake or asleep, you are to have him ready to be moved to Shushan by ten o’clock to-night.”

Not a muscle in that black face moved; and fearing he had not understood, Mr. De Vere repeated—“Leprosy.”

“Yes, Massa, I s’pected it when the doctah was hyah.”

A slight noise in Hernando’s room attracted Reuben’s attention and he quickly entered it, locking the door behind him.

Eletheer came out of the library where Mr. De Vere had been closeted with his family for nearly an hour. No outsider will ever know how the awful truth was told there, but the girl Eletheer came out of that room a woman. She wandered aimlessly downstairs. Not a cloud dimmed the intense blue of the heavens, and all nature seemed quivering with new life. The sunny valley lifted a smiling face but Eletheer saw only—Shushan.

Into this den of venomous serpents only the hardy dared penetrate

This extensive tract of land extended from the Rochester line to the “Low Right.” Portions of it were capable of being converted into average, tillable land but the greater part was rough, hilly and barren. This latter condition especially applied to the eastern portion, which opposed the Shawangunk Mountains: bare, rocky walls rising in successive steps, brokenly dizzy cliffs over which the northeasters swept unobstructed, fit abode for the shades of departed warriors as they had been the scene of many an Indian ambush. True, there were some shady haunts of gigantic pine, hemlock and chestnut, but into this den of venomous serpents only the hardy dared penetrate, and these never more than once.

In the heart of this amphitheater boiled a spring so offensive as to have earned the name “Stinking Spring.” The rocks from which it issued were blackened, denuded of all vegetation, and every living plant within reach of the fumes withered and died, but here was a paradise for reptiles which attained prodigious size and thronged in numbers incredible.

Old settlers claimed that some sort of connection existed between Shushan and “Old Ninety-Nine’s” cave, as, when the mysterious “light” appeared on the mountains, an answering flash rose above Shushan, but no one attempted an explanation.

Locally, this spot was regarded with dread, wiseacres declaring it haunted, and Dr. Herschel’s purchase of the same excited much adverse criticism, but he was left in undisputed possession.

Here, for years to come, was Hernando to dwell; and, disfigured beyond recognition by the “Curse of a God of purity,” he would find his “Waterloo.” The utter futility of human resistance to natural laws had received another scientific verification; but oh, how disproportioned was the punishment to the offense!

Completely wrapped in thought, Eletheer did not see Dr. Herschel who just then appeared around a bend in the path, and she started hysterically at his greeting.

He had been up at the mine and was making a short cut through the barnyard to the road where, unnoticed by Eletheer, his horse was still tied. His practiced eye detected at a glance the traces of tears which she defiantly repressed and, pointing to a rustic bench, he said,—“Come, let us sit in the sunlight and see if you are in earnest about becoming a trained nurse, which Dr. Brinton tells me you have decided to do.”

“Yes,” she replied simply, “my grandmother thought I had a real talent for nursing.”

Dr. Herschel looked at her fixedly. This was not the first girl whom he had seen possessed of a “real talent” for nursing, whose heart “yearned for the sweet joys of ministering to the afflicted”; but in his experience the majority of these ardent maidens had been quickly disillusioned. Possibly the girl beside him was different. True, she knew nothing of the world and all its distractions, but she did not seem sentimentally inclined. Her behavior during the recent unhappy occasion was eminently praiseworthy in one of her temperament and years.

“Then too,” she added, “Reuben says I’ll make a good nurse and he is a natural nurse.”

“H’m!” Dr. Herschel had seen “natural nurses” before; but at the mention of that black man’s name his expression visibly softened; no fair-minded critic could question his ability.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen.”

“Plenty of time in which to consider so serious a question. First get a good education, and then if you still wish to enter upon that life I will assist you in doing so. From time immemorial nursing has been the field of usefulness peculiarly adapted to women. History’s pages are dotted with the names of heroines in camp, field and plague-stricken districts, in short, wherever the sick and wounded have needed care nurses have lived a life of such unselfish devotion as to have earned the gratitude of millions. We bow our head in reverence to their memory; but we are approaching a practical age in which science and mechanics will be the ruling forces. The time is not far distant when nursing will be a recognized profession, in line with the other educational branches, and expert training an unquestioned necessity. The trained nurse of the future must be an open-eyed, earnest woman with a working hypothesis of a life. She will be keenly alive to the fact that people of culture and refinement into whose homes she may be sent, require an approach, at least, to the same qualities in the one who ministers to their needs. Relations between nurse and patient are peculiarly close and sacred”;—involuntarily Dr. Herschel looked upward toward Hernando’s window—“she will be the recipient of confidences, often enforced, which no true nurse can violate. In short, her influence in any household is almost unlimited for good—or bad. Any nurse who chooses this life with either no conception of the magnitude of the work or from some ulterior motive, must ultimately suffer defeat. You see, Miss Eletheer,” he continued, “that is largely a question of business, with a business woman’s responsibilities. A nurse must be just, loyal and self-sacrificing from an impersonal standpoint, believe in herself, and have perfect control over her emotions. She must ‘take things as they are.’”

Dr. Herschel was a peculiarly gifted man aside from his professional attainments. A natural critic of human nature, wide experience had developed this trait into a seemingly occult power. He had also that tenderness, that charity of the strong for the weak, which constitutes the true man.

“Now here is our young friend’s case. Very likely, to you his punishment seems disproportionate to the offense, and your doubt is a natural one; but finite minds cannot comprehend the Infinite, nor in instances like the present one, see justice. Nature does not specialize,—sin is sin. Sin and punishment spring from the same root. This is true of all the minor events of life; worrying over irremediable ills drains one’s nerve force, and seriously impairs one’s ability for effective work. Up there,” pointing toward Hernando’s room, “is a pattern well worth the consideration of thinking minds. Are Reuben’s energies wasted in bewailing the disaster that has overtaken his charge? No, he is a good business man, using what materials he has to the best advantage.”

“What a cold, hard view of so sacred a calling, and one which takes hold on the basic principles of society,” Eletheer said warmly.

“Nevertheless a correct one. Relative conditions are necessarily complex and, to do good work, the woman must be absorbed in the nurse, and dignify her patient into a case. This means work, hard work, many times drudgery in a trade—I might say, profession—in a world of increasing tendency towards scientific skill, a practical age where all genuine ability will be compensated by an equivalent in dollars and cents.”

Eletheer had opened her lips to speak; but at that instant a black hand raised Hernando’s window, and when it again closed a white flag fluttered there.

Without a change of expression Dr. Herschel arose. He held out his hand to the shrinking girl before him, and in his firm grasp Eletheer gained her first insight into the philosophy of necessity.

CHAPTER IX

IF Dr. Herschel’s courage weakened as he looked into Hernando’s face his expression did not show it. Duty, once plain, had but one road for him, and he had the happy faculty of doing a disagreeable one gracefully. Hernando’s case was simply and truthfully stated to him. He then related his discovery of “Old Ninety-Nine’s” will in the stove at Kingston. In the will, no mention was made of gold, money or jewels, but he bequeathed to his brothers a proven cure for leprosy; as, in his younger days, he had contracted the disease in the West Indies. “Extremely chronic as it is,” said the doctor, “he was not aware of its true nature until in an advanced stage. He speaks of his body as contorted by dry rot, but painless. This is why he kept hidden from sight, believing the Great Spirit angry with him. In a dream his guardian spirit guided him to Shushan to be bitten by a poisonous snake whose venom was an antidote; but, to perfect a cure, he must take vapor baths from the boiling waters of ‘Stinking Spring.’[B] He went to Shushan, allowed himself to be bitten repeatedly by the venomous serpents there, carried out the directions of his guardian spirit, and in less than a year, his body became strong. One foot and three fingers had dropped off.”

[B] Local tradition accredits the Delawares with some remarkable cures of skin diseases through such means. Probably this spring was sulphur.

For the first time Hernando became interested, but only for an instant. “What does it matter now?” he said with dull apathy. “I have ruined this entire family and God knows how many others! all because I was a blind fool. Venomous snakes and ‘stinking springs’ cure a disease that has baffled science since creation? A bullet through the heart is the best antidote for me!”

“Will you put yourself in my hands?”

“Would a post mortem on my carcass further the cause of science?” said Hernando bitterly.

“Tell me one thing,” Dr. Herschel asked, “have you ever suspected this?”

“Great God, no! Not this. Don’t think me worse than I am. Had I, my body would have followed ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ rather than bring destruction on these dear friends.”

“Listen, young man; on my professional word you have infected no one. Faith on your part is unnecessary; all I ask of you is to go to Shushan, take vapor baths, and allow me to inject the prepared venom until you understand doing these things yourself according to my directions. Do you consent?”

“There is but one other alternative.”

“And that would make you a murderer and me a felon. Do you hope to pervert Justice or trick her of her dues! Is not one lesson sufficient?”

Hernando’s brain reeled. His agonized soul cried out in anguish against the stern Power demanding years of torment in payment for one mistake. His nervous tension was tremendous, and the swaying power almost beyond control.

The doctor left him undisturbed to think it over for a few seconds and then said kindly:

“It is quite impossible for our finite minds to comprehend a plan of which we form an infinitely small part; but the slight glimpse we can get of the universe, wonderful beyond comprehension, ought to make us accept our fate gladly—as we must, blindly.”

After the doctor left, Hernando remained standing, the picture of abject misery. Leaning his head against the window he said bitterly,—“And for this I have striven! I, a leper, condemned to cry ‘Unclean, unclean!’”

A black hand fell lightly on Hernando’s arm and Reuben’s low voice said: “God am a bery present frien’ in time ob need.”

“Oh, for your faith!” Hernando moaned. “Religion is a cold word and means nothing to me.”

“An’ what am ’ligion, Massa?”

“I don’t know.”

“Den let me tell yo’, Massa: ‘Puah ’ligion an’ undefiled befo’ God an’ de fatha am dis,—to visit de fathaless an’ wida’s in de—in de’s ’fliction an’ to keep hisse’f unspotted f’um de wo’l.’”

Tears, welcome tears, at last. “Oh, Granny, Granny!” Hernando sobbed. “Was that night prophetic? Did you foresee this, and can you help me now as you did then? Intercede with your God for me, for my punishment is greater than I can bear!” He threw himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillows.

Reuben waited until the force of his emotion had spent itself, and then, taking one of Hernando’s hands in both his own, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer.

It may have been the effect of warm human sympathy, or the rich, sweet cadences of Reuben’s voice that soothed and quieted Hernando; but is it not reasonable to believe that Reuben, in his absolute self-abnegation, at-one-ment with his Maker, “transmitted a wireless message” direct to the Source of all being, and became a perfect “receiver” for the “wireless current of God’s dynamics,”—received a direct answer to that prayer? He arose from his knees and returned to complete the preparations for Hernando’s departure.

How the weary hours dragged on no one could tell. Sounds of merriment about the house were hushed and a blight seemed to have fallen on everything; but like everything else, the day had an end,—sunset, twilight, darkness; ten o’clock and Dr. Herschel; and the door closed on Hernando, as all but Dr. Herschel and Reuben believed—forever.

All thought of the wedding had been abandoned by Elisha and Celeste; but, on the morning after Hernando’s departure, Mr. De Vere received a note from Dr. Herschel telling that Hernando hoped his absence would make no difference in their arrangements for the wedding, and that they would accept his congratulations. So the simple ceremony that made Elisha Vedder and Celeste De Vere husband and wife was performed at the appointed time and Celeste did not feel disappointed in deferring her trip to Vicksburg, as Elisha filled the vacancy left by Hernando.

Though the miners marvelled, not one dared question the grave new superintendent. It was generally supposed that Hernando and Mr. De Vere had had some difference which resulted in the former’s dismissal and the fact of his having gone to live at Shushan made the odds against him. As he was no more seen, gradually he became in a measure forgotten, and work at the mine went as usual.

CHAPTER X

JACK started for Texas as planned. He proposed going first to Fredericksburgh and thence to Squaw Creek where resided George Nelson, a Texas cattle king, to whom Jack carried a letter of introduction from Andrew Genung.

Nothing of special interest occurred to break the monotony of his journey until reaching Austin, where he intended to remain and rest a few days before continuing on by stage for Fredericksburgh.

Mentally and physically tired, he sought his hotel. What was life worth? Only too well did he know the meaning of this hectic flush. The events that had happened at his home had fallen like a pall over his hopeful nature, and though convinced that this change could do no more than prolong his life, he had undertaken it to please his mother.

At the hotel where he stopped was a young fellow by the name of Sevier, from Louisiana. He was having his eyes treated by Dr. Saugree, the most eminent oculist in Texas, and a bond of common sympathy drew the young men together. Mutual introductions followed and they became friends.

The second day after his arrival Jack felt much better and Sevier proposed that they visit the Capitol. Jack readily agreed and they were strolling leisurely in that direction when Sevier called his attention to a man on the other side of the street. He was clad in a hickory shirt, coarse baggy trousers, a broad-brimmed felt hat and brogans.

“A cowboy, I presume,” said Jack.

“What I first thought,” Sevier answered dryly. “He is president of the most solid bank in this city. Let me introduce you,” crossing over and bidding Jack follow.

“What are you giving me!” said Jack, thinking it a practical joke.

His new acquaintance was Timothy or “Tim” Watson, who shook hands warmly with Jack and when he heard the name De Vere, he said: “I must introduce you to one of your kin; am on my way to the bank now, but if you’ll go along I’ll attend to some necessary matters there and then take you to her house which is on the same street. From New York, are you? I reckon you don’t know a man there by the name of Andrew Genung?”

Jack’s face beamed with pleasure as he explained how very well indeed he knew him.

“Where did you meet him?” he asked Watson in some surprise.

“In Nevada and Californy, and many’s the jolly good ride we had together behind Hank Monk in the good old staging days,” replied Watson, his face aglow at the pleasure of the memory. But they were now at the bank, and bidding them be seated, he disappeared into an inner office.

Jack mentally contrasted him with the other bank presidents of his acquaintance and unconsciously laughed aloud.

Sevier, as if divining the cause, said—“There is not in the State of Texas a man possessed of more good, sound horse-sense than Tim Watson, nor a more honest financier.”

“I believe it,” Jack answered.

The subject of their discussion then appeared with the announcement that he was ready, and they soon arrived at the home of Miss De Vere, the aforementioned kinswoman of Jack.

Like most of the residences of the better class, it was built of native stone with a broad piazza, or “gallery,” extending around three sides of the house. Miss De Vere was busily engaged in her flower garden when Watson espied her, and in a stentorian voice called out,—“Howdy, Miss De Vere!”

Miss De Vere was apparently about sixty years of age, and as she graciously welcomed them, Jack was struck with the resemblance to his father’s family. Evidently she, too, saw the De Vere characteristics in Jack, for laying her hands on his shoulders she said meditatively,—“Strange the tenacity of race. Our type is a particularly strong one and distinctly perpetuated. John, too, is a name we cling to. All the De Veres in this country came from one common stock, and we need not be ashamed of one of our kin.”

“How about the one up last month for horse-stealing!” said Watson with a sly wink at Jack. But apparently his question was unheard and she ushered them into a wide hall extending entirely through the house.

She noticed sadly another trait in Jack, the tendency to pulmonary trouble, and her heart warmed toward this newly found kinsman.

Jack, too, felt greatly drawn towards her and was unconsciously led to talk about himself, his object in leaving home and his family. She earnestly pressed him to make his home with her during his stay in Austin, but as it would now be short and his belongings were at the hotel, he gratefully declined, promising to do so on his way home. His intentions were to take the next day’s stage for Fredericksburgh, so, after a most enjoyable time with Miss De Vere, they left. Jack’s heart was very tender as he received her good wishes and good-bye. “Truly,” he thought, “this world is very small,” and, turning, caught Watson eyeing him keenly.

“So you knew Andrew Genung?” he said, divining the latter’s glance of sympathy.

“You bet I did, and I’ll be doggoned if it don’t make me homesick to think of them good old days in the Rockies!”

“Did you know his brother?”

“Right well. What a good-for-nothing, unlucky devil he was. It aint good policy to marry among them Greasers. I’ve clean lost sight o’ their boy. Reckon he’s dead. I’m looking for a man by the name of ‘Bruce,’ in Virginia City, though God Almighty knows if he had a right to the title. He was a slicker, and buncoed Fred Genung along with myself. I’m ’biding my time, and if ever again I set eyes on him, one of us is goin’ to glory ’cross-lots!”

“But that is a long time ago, and he may either be dead or greatly changed,” returned Jack.

“Well,” replied Watson, “it is a good many years ago since he run that Faro Bank in Virginia City, and I reckon he is changed; but unless he’s got a bran-new face, I’d know him in Africa. Look-a-here, young man, no one can ever say that Tim Watson cheated him out of one cent, and this miserable hound is the only critter that ever got the best of Tim Watson. I’ll give him a chance to settle and if he don’t—” Here Watson’s face became purple and Jack hastily changed the subject.

Tim Watson was a character. His rules of business were inflexible in their honesty and his character bore the closest scrutiny. Men, women and children carried their troubles to him and his sympathies were always with the weaker side. His observant eye discovered something besides broken health in Jack’s face and he determined to keep an eye on the young fellow with the sad eyes.

Arriving at the bank, the young men left Watson there after obtaining a promise from him that he would spend the evening with them at the hotel, which they reached just in time for dinner.

Tim Watson

The next morning Watson and Sevier saw Jack depart by the daily stage for Fredericksburgh, the latter having promised to write immediately on his arrival there, and climbing into the stage, he waved good-bye, carrying with him the picture of whole-souled honesty clad in a hickory shirt.

The great boot was strapped over the baggage behind, everything stowed away, and the driver cracked his whip over the horses’ heads as off they went. The Colorado River was not then bridged and must be forded. The horses were accustomed to it though, and even when the water reached their bellies, they still plunged on. Over the old stage road to Yuma, Arizona, they were going, and were soon climbing the bluffs west of the Colorado. From Austin, the road is one continuous rise, and by nightfall they were travelling over a rolling prairie. Jack’s only companion was a German who neither spoke nor understood one word of English, but was well armed. His own six-shooter, presented to him by Watson, was handy and he had been duly warned as to the character of the country through which they were passing.

These stages travelled very fast, stopping only at lonely stations for meals and change of horses.

It was a little past midnight; the moon had gone down, and the only sounds audible were the rumble of the coach and the distant howling of wolves. “Thirteen miles from a human habitation!” thought Jack, and a feeling akin to fear crept over him. He could not close his eyes although his companion snored loudly.

[C]Suddenly the stage came to a dead stop and crack! crack! went one shot after another. In the darkness and mélee that followed, Jack crawled out unperceived into a mesquit[D] tangle a few yards distant. The driver and his fellow passenger were summarily dispatched, their bodies and the stage plundered, and, undoing the fastenings, the desperadoes rode off with the horses. All this occurred in less time than is taken in recounting the awful deed.

[C] Improbable as this incident seems, there are authentic accounts of similar occurrences that took place in this region at about the time of this story.

[D] Mesquit: “Either of two thorny shrubs or small trees of the bean family found in Texas or California—the larger and better known is the honey-mesquit, yielding the sweetish algarroba—pods much used for cattle-fodder.”

Jack waited for a full quarter of an hour before he dared approach the stage. Only too well had the desperadoes done their work even in the darkness. An overpowering sense of dread came over him as he realized that he was the only remaining passenger and on a lonely plain, infested with wolves. Even now they were scenting blood, and their howls were growing nearer. One thing was certain, he must get away from this spot immediately, but where to? The darkness was so intense that he could not see two feet before him. But oh, kind Providence! in wandering about he stumbled against a tree and none too soon for as a long-drawn howl announced their approach, and the wolves pounced upon the bodies of his companions, snarling viciously as they tore them limb from limb, Jack could only be thankful for his own miraculous escape.

The wolf is a cowardly animal and never attacks a human being by daylight, nor unless goaded by hunger and sure of his position. They continued snapping and snarling for a long time. Jack was perched upon a limb out of all danger, and gradually a certain sense of humor stole over him. He was a fine whistler and often at home receptions had entertained guests with selections accompanied by the guitar. Placing two fingers in his mouth, he emitted a long-drawn whistle and as if by magic all sounds from below ceased. The experiment having gratified him beyond all expectation, Jack persevered. One selection followed another until finally the pack of probably ten wolves could be heard slinking off through the mesquit bushes.

Jack laughed softly as he said aloud,—“What would Celeste think of that for an audience?”

It was now growing perceptibly lighter. The blossom pole of the yuccas appeared like an array of bayonets and the heavy odor of the night-blooming cereus was wafted to him on the cool breezes. Soon the sun showed its yellow face on the distant horizon, shedding a warm glow over the prairie already brilliant with flowers whose names he knew not. The stage road wound like a ribbon over the plain which rose and fell “like billows on a pulseless ocean.”

Climbing down, Jack returned to the road and tramped on westward. Oh, for a drink of water; but nowhere was any to be found! One sink-hole after another was explored, only to find baked clay instead of the precious fluid. His throat grew parched as he tramped along under the burning sun, and each hour seemingly left him no farther on. All day long he plodded with no water and nothing but berries to eat.

By nightfall, away to the right and off the road, he espied a column of smoke rising. “A human habitation of some sort,” he thought, and with added courage pushed on.

Distances are very deceptive in this dry, thin air and it was almost dark when he reached the high pole fence surrounding an inclosure in which was a log house. He was about to vault the fence when a confusion of yelps told him that a half-dozen wolfish dogs regarded him as an intruder. Jack realized that these assailants were really in earnest, and hastily climbing one of the uprights, he shouted for help.

A stout German woman appeared in the doorway and, seeing Jack’s position, she shouted,—“Gerunter, Franz!” “Franz” was evidently the leader for as he drew back the others followed, and in answer to her invitation Jack approached the house which was occupied by a German family named Kurtz.

“Please give me a drink of water!” Jack said, sinking into a chair almost exhausted.

Mrs. Kurtz brought it and he drank greedily.

“Vat ist name und vo kom’st du?” she inquired in broken English.

Jack related his encounter with the desperadoes and subsequent experiences, to which she listened with an indifference incomprehensible to him.

“Ya, like Comanche,” she said, busying herself with preparations for his supper.

Oh, how good the coffee and fried chicken smelled! Jack could hardly wait for it to be ready, and when at last Mrs. Kurtz drew a rush-bottomed chair before the table as a signal that supper was ready, he went at the food in a manner which brought an expression of tenderness into even the stolid face of Mrs. Kurtz. Never in his life had he so enjoyed a meal, and his look of satisfaction attested the gratitude he felt.

This family, father, mother and daughter, were ranchers and descendants of the colony of Germans sent over by Bismarck to found Fredericksburgh. Mr. Kurtz now counted his sleek cattle by the thousand.

Jack mentioned his letter to Mr. Nelson of Squaw Creek, and his wish to go there on the morrow.

“George Nelson is a friend of mine. His youngest gal and my Elsie is real thick. Better hold on till Saturday and my gal’ll ride along with you. She wants to spend Sunday there. My da’ter is doin’ some tradin’ in town, but she’ll be home to-morrow.”

It was now Thursday so Jack signified his willingness to do so, incidentally adding that he would like to buy a horse.

“Reckon I can suit you,” returned Mr. Kurtz with pardonable pride.

But Jack was nodding, and he threw himself on a husk bed, oblivious of everything till noon the next day.

At dinner, he saw Miss Kurtz, who had ridden in from Fredericksburgh on her spirited little mustang. Her dancing eyes and brown, healthy complexion gave evidence of the invigorating atmosphere of the plains and, though somewhat shy, she was a really attractive girl of about eighteen years. Her admiration for Jack was poorly concealed and, as most young men would have done under the circumstances he set about to make himself agreeable. He described Nootwyck, his family, and gave a brief sketch of “Old Ninety-Nine’s” cave and the mine.

“Strange that they found nothing besides the mine!” Miss Kurtz mused. “Do you think that the old man taken there exaggerated?”

“No,” replied Jack, “some one had undoubtedly been in the cave recently, my father thinks, and that the money and jewels were probably carried off by the finder. All the other rare things seen by Benny must have long ago disappeared.”

“It sounds like one of Aladdin’s tales,” she said, deeply interested.

“We thought it such until the discovery,” Jack replied, “but since then I am inclined to think that many of the legends of which that valley is so full may deserve investigation. The Delawares were a noble tribe, unjustly treated, and degraded by the whites who had only themselves to blame for the atrocities that occurred in the early history of the Rondout Valley. The Delaware tongue is the most beautiful of any in the Indian language as the names in our county testify.”

Seeing a piano, Jack asked Miss Kurtz to play. She complied, but the piano was wofully out of tune, and she expressed great regret at her inability to get a tuner, saying her uncle usually attended to it, but he had recently been shot.

“If I had the implements, I could do it for you,” he replied. With a grateful look, she ran out of the room, returning almost immediately with a pair of saddle-bags in which was a complete tuner’s outfit.

“There,” he said, “I’ll soon have your piano in shape.”

“And while you are about it, I’ll help mother with the work,” she smiled, leaving the room.

He had almost finished his task when Mr. Kurtz came in to ask if he wished to see the horses and, as Jack was still busy, he sat down in the doorway to wait.

Jack seated himself before the instrument to try it, running his fingers lightly up and down the keys. A correct ear told him that the work was well done and, rising, he followed Mr. Kurtz into an inclosure where were several horses.

“There,” said Mr. Kurtz, “I have several as fine specimens of horseflesh as you ever saw.”

They were indeed fine animals, but one in particular attracted Jack’s attention. He pointed out the horse and Mr. Kurtz said, “That’s Clicker, my woman’s saddle horse.”

At the sound of his name, Clicker pricked up his ears and whinnied.

“Your wife’s saddle horse!” Jack repeated in astonishment.

“Sartin,” returned Mr. Kurtz, and chirruped softly to the animal which trotted gracefully up to him, rubbing his velvety nose on the old man’s arm.

The horse was a light bay, fully sixteen hands high, magnificently muscled, broad forehead, intelligent eye, gracefully arched neck and luxuriant mane and tail.

Jack, a real lover of horses, took in all these good points at a glance and determined to own him if money could buy.

They were here joined by Elsie, who threw her arms around Clicker’s neck, kissing and petting him; then, turning to Jack, she said,—“Is he not superb?”

“The most magnificent horse I ever saw, but I should never take him for a lady’s horse.”

Elsie laughed as she said,—“Clicker is a gallant. Why, children climb up his legs while he looks approvingly on, and with a woman on his back he is simply a lamb. Just mount him if you are a fearless rider and he’ll behave accordingly.”

At first, they flatly refused all offers; but Jack’s offer of seventy-five dollars proved too tempting and the bargain was closed, Mrs. Kurtz adding the saddle that had belonged to Elsie’s uncle.

They would receive no pay for Jack’s accommodation, evidently considering the obligation on their side. Western hospitality is noted for its breadth, but never before had Jack appreciated the full meaning of the word and he was greatly affected by the honest simplicity of these Germans.

Early Saturday morning Jack and Elsie started for Squaw Creek Valley, ten miles distant. It received its name from the fact that when the Comanche warriors went out on their raids, the squaws were left in this valley on the banks of the stream.

Clicker’s step was light and springy as a panther’s and his motion so easy that Jack felt as if in a rocking-chair. Elsie sat on her pony like the practised horsewoman she was. They were galloping over the cattle trail which at times was invisible, and they then gave their horses rein as every foot of the ground was familiar to them. Jack noticed with admiration how deftly the animals avoided the thorny mesquit and cacti.

Herds of sleek cattle grazed on the prairie covered with mesquit and buffalo grass. The former is the best in the world. It grows luxuriantly upon the plains of Texas, renews itself early in the spring, matures early, and throughout the year remains nutritious as naturally cured hay. Innumerable varieties of cacti blazed their gorgeous blossoms of yellow, red, pink and white over the expanse, but no trace of water; for it had now been six months since they had had any rain, and Jack marvelled at the healthy look of vegetation. “How is it,” he asked, “that the trees attain such size and look so thrifty?”

“It is a common saying in these parts that their roots are attached to the bottom of a subterranean lake which is supposed to underlie this county,” laughed Miss Kurtz.

Jack also laughed as he answered, “Then why is not someone enterprising enough to utilize these everlasting winds in bringing some of the water to the surface? Honestly, I wonder that you do not irrigate.”

“One or two have tried it, but the water is very, very deep, and the scheme is an expensive one.”

“This soil is a rich, dark alluvium, very productive without rain. What would it produce with it?” he continued.

“Prickly pears and all the other varieties of cacti,” Elsie replied demurely.

They were now nearing a series of bluffs which gradually arose to an elevation of about one thousand feet forming a wall, or chain of hills, which hemmed in Squaw Creek Valley on the east for its entire length of seventeen miles. Their ascent was gradual, trees grew smaller with elevation and soon they were picking their way through a tangle of shin oak, cacti and mesquit bushes. Exhilarated by the pure air, they halted on the summit and looked down into Squaw Creek Valley. Jack started at its resemblance to his own dear valley in the North, only the walls which hemmed in this one would be called hills there.

At the head, or rather three heads, of the valley, Squaw Creek has its source in a chain of small lakes of pure spring water; thence it winds its way through the entire valley and at the extreme northern end unites its waters with the Onion to form Beaver Creek which empties into Llano River. The valley itself appears perfectly level and its walls have a perpendicular height of nearly five hundred feet. The road into it was at the northern end.

For several miles they travelled along its summit, then, descending abruptly into a pass, struck the stage-road for Fredericksburgh and dismounted to water the horses. As Jack was assisting Elsie to alight, her watch slipped from her belt and fell to the ground. In stooping to pick it up, he was struck with its unique workmanship. “May I examine it?” he asked. “I never saw one like it.”

“Certainly,” she answered, handing it to him. “It belonged to a Spanish woman who died at our house. I nursed her and just before her death she gave me this, saying it was all she had; and this,” opening the back of the watch, “is a miniature of her only child. She called him Hernando.”

“My God!” exclaimed Jack, greatly agitated. “Tell me all she said.”

“She left a package of letters for her boy should his whereabouts ever be discovered, and I have kept them securely locked. Mother said it was useless to try to find him.”

Jack’s eyes were blurred with tears as he looked at the picture; the same wonderfully blue eyes and golden hair. Even as a boy, the sensitive mouth showed a downward curve. Jack leaned his head wearily against Clicker’s neck, as he said: “Miss Kurtz, in befriending this Spanish woman, you have placed the discoverer of ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ under a debt of deep gratitude.”

She looked puzzled and he continued, “This is a picture of Hernando Genung who located my father’s mine and developed it too. He is a hero and a martyr and you may well prize his picture.”

“But I shall send it to him along with the letters,” said Elsie.

“No,” Jack protested firmly, “wear it always, but give me in writing a full account of his mother’s time with you and I will forward that and the letters to my father.”

Jack’s cheeks were colorless and his wan look made Elsie’s heart ache. Something more than ordinary grief was back of this, but she dared not speak and felt greatly relieved when they drew up before Mr. Nelson’s house.

It was a one-story adobe building built around a courtyard and around this ran a piazza onto which a door from each room opened. In front was a large central door, and opposite this was another leading to a corral in the rear. The windows were small and placed high.

They saw Mr. Nelson himself coming by a well-beaten path from the creek. He had evidently not heard their approach for his glance was fixed on some object up the stream but on turning an angle he saw them and a hearty “Howdy!” indicated that Elsie was no stranger. He shook hands warmly, scanning Jack’s letter as a matter of secondary consideration.

Nine of Mr. Nelson’s children were married and settled in homes of their own and Dora, his remaining one, now approached with her mother.

Texas hospitality again. The best they had was literally his while under the protection of their roof and Jack was made to feel that he conferred a favor in accepting it.

Dinner was soon ready and seated at that hospitable board, Jack first tasted the succulent steaks which had heretofore existed only in his imagination.

“I reckon that this is your first meal in a ’dobe house,” remarked Dora.

“The first one I ever entered,” Jack returned, “and it has a distinctly foreign air.”

“Well,” said Mr. Nelson, “I spent some time in Mexico and their manner of building struck me as suitable to this climate. ’Dobe is cheap and durable.”

Jack’s head throbbed painfully and he could not conceal his suffering. The strain he had been under for the past week, with the shock received that morning, had completely prostrated him, and he was only too glad to follow Mrs. Nelson’s advice and go to bed. His room was sweet and inviting, but he sank into bed too ill to appreciate it.

For two weeks he was confined to his bed and when able to sit up his eyes fell on a small box, on a stand beside the bed, which Dora said had been brought by Elsie.

“Will you kindly hand it to me?” Jack requested. Dora complied and she was about to leave the room when he protested and she resumed her seat.

Jack’s hand trembled as he took the box and Dora’s eyes were moist when he looked in her direction. Was it the attraction of her womanliness which made him lay before her the awful fate of the one to whom these letters belonged? Gradually he spoke of himself, his aspirations, his plans for the future with its seemingly infinite possibilities all gone now. “There is no use in longer deceiving myself. My future in this world lies in the past.” His tone was bitter and though evidently relieved by unburdening his mind, he seemed utterly crushed.

“Mr. De Vere,” said Dora resolutely, “what you tell me is indeed terrible. I do not pretend to understand why one endowed with so many noble qualities should be thus stricken. An orthodox Christian would tell you that it is the will of God that it should be so and you must pray for strength to bear it. Never mind that, you have something more tangible to deal with and that is your own physical condition. ‘Self-preservation is nature’s first law,’ and it is your duty to obey. Are you doing it? You are utterly cast down, oblivious of the many blessings around you. The doctor says if your nervous system would react—which lies in your own power—in this dry, thin air, your lungs would undoubtedly become restored to a healthy condition. Brooding over misfortune is sinful. Forgive me if I wound you, but no one excepting true friends point out our shortcomings.”

Jack seemed in a quandary as he replied quietly, “Leaving out all superfluous words, you mean that I am a coward.”

“Not exactly coward, but you are shirking a grave responsibility.”

“A shirk, then,” he corrected. “You are very frank, Miss Nelson.”

But Dora was out of the room by this time, leaving him wholesome food for reflection. More than anything else, Jack detested a “coward” or “shirk,” and the thought of his appearing in the guise of one was not pleasant. It nettled him, but his judgment told him that Dora’s philosophy was sound, and when the doctor next came, he saw a decided change for the better in his patient. Soon he was able to go for a short ride on Clicker, and the doctor exchanged knowing looks with Mrs. Nelson.

CHAPTER XI

AUGUST came and for nine months not a drop of rain had fallen. The earth looked burned up, and the grass was so dry that in travelling through it it flew into dust which the wind sent whirling over the plain. No crop promised to be a good one. The sun beat pitilessly down on the brown fields and cattle subsisted mainly on mesquit beans that dangled their long pods in the never-ceasing wind.

“All in the world this country needs is water,” thought Jack who was studying irrigation schemes. Water from the streams was impracticable and he now decided to bore on his tract of one hundred and sixty acres just northeast of Brockman’s Point, and have his irrigation plant ready and in operation by the middle of September, superintending the work himself. But it was well into December before the work was completed, and he was returning from a final inspection when whom should he meet but Tim Watson.

“Howdy there, young Yank!” the latter called out to Jack.

“Well I declare if it isn’t Mr. Watson!” Jack shouted, bounding forward.

Watson eyed the brown, healthy specimen of manhood before him admiringly and remarked on his improved looks. “Your cousin sends her regards and this,” said Watson, handing Jack a parcel which he opened immediately. It contained a pair of moccasins, embroidered by Miss De Vere herself, and an extremely kind letter.

Jack’s eyes filled with tears of pleasure at the acceptable present and the spirit that prompted her to make it.

“She is very kind to take such an interest in a comparative stranger,” he said with great feeling.

“She is a De Vere, you know,” Watson answered, slyly punching him. “Is Nelson about?” When answered affirmatively he continued, “Dora is a nice girl, now, aint she?”

Jack De Vere

“Certainly,” replied Jack quickly, “a fine character.”

Watson eyed him closely and then burst into a loud laugh which was so infectious that Jack joined in without knowing why. Suddenly checking himself, he said, “What are we laughing at anyway?”

“You sly dog,” said Watson, “I’ve been there myself, and you needn’t try to look innocent. She’s a jewel, my boy, and I reckon you’ve done the right thing.” Then changing his tone, he continued:

“After you left Austin, I wrote Andrew Genung stating that I had seen you, and made some inquiries about his brother and what had become of the boy Hernando. He answered at great length telling me that, as I knew, his brother Fred had died in a fight at Virginia City. The wife is probably—God knows where!” Here his voice sank to a whisper, “And their boy is a leper! Did you know this?”

“Yes,” replied Jack, “and I know that that poor Spanish woman died a victim of treachery.” And Jack gave an account of the letters left with Elsie Kurtz, also of what the Spanish woman told her of how a man by the name of Bruce poisoned her mind against her husband, and under the guise of a friend enticed her from home one night; that her husband overtook them, would not listen to her protestations of innocence, shot them both, as he supposed, mortally and left. When she came to herself she was alone and covered with blood. She dragged herself back to Virginia City feeling sure that her boy Hernando would believe in his mother’s innocence; but no trace of either him or his father could be found. Unable to bear the slights and jeers of former companions, she wandered about until she fell in with a family of Mexicans bound for southern Texas. They pitied and cared for her and she made her home with them until about three years ago when she drifted among the Greasers in this part of the country.

Watson’s expression during this recital was first one of surprise; this changed into astonishment, and then a look of such vindictive hatred that Jack proceeded with difficulty; but when he had concluded, his listener remarked coolly, “I’ll be doggoned if I aint hungry!”

“Were you ever North, Mr. Watson?”

“Never, but I reckon I’ll go some time, perhaps along o’ you when you take a turn home.”

“Oh, how delightful! I may go next year.”

For dinner, they were served with blue cat-fish of which Jack never seemed to tire, a long, slender fish averaging about one and a half pounds, and equalling in flavor the northern brook trout. It is very unlike the mud cat-fish which is coarser in grain and flavor and sometimes attains a tremendous size; but even from a fifty-pound fish, the steaks are very good.

“I do not believe there is a fish in the world equal to our blue cat-fish,” observed Watson, deftly removing the bones from his mouth.

“Unless it is our speckled trout,” Jack suggested.

“There is a peculiar spring on my ranch,” said Watson abruptly; “in dry weather it is full of water, but in time of rain there aint a drop in it.”

“I can beat that,” laughed Jack. “Just back of Sampsonville in the town of Olive, and nearly at the top of High Point, four thousand feet high, is a spring called the ‘Tidal Spring’ because, when the tide is in, the spring overflows, and when it ebbs the water lowers.”

Jack looked quickly in Watson’s direction. For an instant their eyes met and the answering glance told that in Ulster County was still another spring where, in durance vile, was being served what seemed an unjust term.

After a long silence, Watson shook himself like a great dog and turning to Jack said,—“Young man, I reckon you think I’ve come just in compliment to your irrigation plant, but you’re mighty mistaken if you do. They’ve made a big strike of gold down in the Llano District. I’ve always believed there was gold there, for the formation is similar to that of the well-known mining camps in Colorado. Some years ago in panning the gravel in the streams and gullies I found colors of gold. The granite in that section has been crumbling away for ages, the debris covering the formation. Report is, that in the side of the gully at the foot of Mt. Fisher, a narrow seam of quartz not more than an inch wide that shows gold and assays eighty dollars to the ton, has been discovered.”

“The very thought of exploiting another vein makes me sick,” said Jack.

“But,” replied Watson, “already a number of loads of high-grade selected ore have been taken from the surface trenches and sent on to the Colorado smelters. The mine is being rapidly developed, and assays are running up into the thousands. Are you going to let a chance like that go by?”

“I want nothing to do with it,” Jack insisted.

“Further report says,” continued Watson, “that the strike in the Mt. Fisher Mine is of such a remarkable character, both in richness and extent of the veins, as to prove beyond a doubt that this belt is as rich in ore as any in Colorado.”

Jack remained stolidly indifferent and, really annoyed, Watson said hotly,—“Reckon you can leave your damned irrigation plant long enough to ride over there along o’ me in the morning?”

“I’ll go with pleasure—would really enjoy the ride with you. When do you propose to start?”

“Long afore daylight.”

Nights are always cool enough to sleep under a cover in Texas and the morning that Watson and Jack started for the mining camp, they found it necessary to wrap themselves in their blankets.

During the winter season all ranchmen on starting out for a trip of any length go prepared to encounter one of those terrible “northers,”[E] and carry with them a twenty-five pound sack in which are bacon, biscuits, coffee, a coffeepot and tin cup, a lariat and hobbles attached to the saddle.

[E] Norther: “Specifically, a wind blowing over Texas to the Gulf, following the passage of a low area or cyclone. The contrast in temperature is generally very marked, as the preceding winds are warm, moist, southerly ones.”—Standard Dictionary.

Three miles out of the valley where the stage road forked with the one leading to Fort Minard, Watson and Jack took a north-easterly course for the Llano District, following an old cattle trail. Almost every bush and plant in Texas has a thorn and, as they threaded their way through clumps of parched buffalo grass and weird cactus plants, Jack appreciated the value of “chaps.”[F] The soil was very dry and every step of the horses sent clouds of dust whirling; but the air, stirred by the warm breeze, was delightful, and Jack felt his lungs expand with a vigor heretofore unknown. That annoying cough had quite disappeared, and no one would dream of accusing him of being a prey to ill health. Like a new being, his pulse bounding and mind alert, he galloped over the plain beside Watson with the keenest enjoyment.

[F] “Chaps”: leather leggings.

They were now sixteen miles from Squaw Creek settlement and following the creek washes of the Llano River. Clicker had shown signs of uneasiness and occasionally gave an ominous snort.

“What can be the matter with this horse?” said Jack. “He seems determined to make for that streak of woods yonder.”

“Matter enough! He knows a heap more than we do! To the bushes!” Watson shouted, whirling his horse about.

Clicker needed no urging. Jack felt those powerful muscles quiver under him and with one bound the animal cleared the ground ten feet. Like an arrow he flew and, bending low in the saddle, horse and rider appeared like a cloud of dust.

In an incredibly short space of time, the haze in the north had wholly obscured the heavens and a biting north wind accompanied by sleet pitilessly drove them back; but twenty minutes brought them to a position of comparative shelter. The horses discovered a rude shed into which they dashed and, jumping to the ground, Watson and Jack endeavored to make their shelter more complete. Evergreen boughs were piled up around the more exposed parts and as the roof seemed tight, they congratulated themselves on having found this haven. Next, they brought in wood and started a fire.

“We want a powerful sight, my boy. A ‘norther’ means business. When we do get things here we get ’em hard,” said Watson.

Nearly all the afternoon they worked with a will, bringing in fuel and whatever fodder for the horses they could find.

Fiercer and fiercer the wind blew and the sleet dashed against their shelter as if determined to gain access. Great trees were torn up by the roots and the crashing was fearful. Sounds of distress from herds of cattle huddled together in the woods came to their ears. Cattle seem to scent these storms, and try to reach a place of safety; but the weakly ones frequently perish on the plains.

Jack found an empty kettle, an immense black one, in one corner of the shed. It was cracked entirely around the bottom and a blow from a billet of wood knocked the bottom out. This he placed over the fire leaving a draught-hole in one side and thus the coals were prevented from being blown about, although their eyes suffered from the smoke.

Watson deftly sliced some bacon with his jack-knife, the coffee was soon boiling, and with a relish of a perfect appetite for sauce, they pronounced their supper “fit for a king.”

Their stove soon became red-hot and Jack said they roasted on one side while the other froze. How he pitied the poor animals outside, but it was better than the open country.

They decided to divide the night into watches, and as Watson was already nodding, he consented to turn in first and was soon snoring, lying with his back to the fire.

Jack was no coward, but the weirdness of the situation impressed him and with every sense on the alert, he prepared himself for any emergency. The fire was kept burning and his rifle ready.

One o’clock. Suddenly a screech as of some human being in distress sounded not twenty feet from their shelter.

Watson sprang up, pistol in hand, and seeing nothing, exclaimed impatiently, “I aint deaf, that you’ve got to yell like that to wake me.”

Jack was about to explain when again that awful screech.

“A painter, by gosh!” said Watson, himself laughing. “Have I been asleep?”

Jack restrained a smile as he answered in the affirmative and Watson said as he was now awake he’d better get up, so Jack warmed over the coffee.

“Jerusalem!” Watson exclaimed, looking at his watch. “One o’clock! Why, boy, why didn’t you call me before?”

Jack protested that he was not sleepy but Watson made him turn in. “Steady your nerves, they’ll get a shock when we reach the mining camp. Now don’t say I aint told you.”

Daylight showed nothing but sleet driven by an Arctic wind, and they had the dreary consolation of knowing that in all probability it would continue for three days; but Watson was an old frontiersman, full of stories.

On the third day the storm visibly lightened. The wind coming in fitful gusts indicated that its force had been spent, and it finally ceased altogether, so that on the next day, they resumed their journey. The trees were so weighted down with ice that many limbs had broken off, thus impeding progress, and to any but horses accustomed to this tangled undergrowth rendering it dangerous. Threading their way cautiously, the open country was finally reached and, after a short halt, they mounted and rode on to Mt. Fisher, turning a deaf ear to the moans of distress from injured cattle on their way. On they sped, Mt. Fisher seemingly not more than a mile distant, and beyond the hills melting into a pinkish haze. The whole scene was typical of absolute freedom and Jack was enjoying it to the fullest extent when Watson suddenly called a halt and, reining his horse beside Clicker, said earnestly,—“Do you recollect that I warned you of a surprise at the mining camp?”

Beyond the hills melting into a pinkish haze

“Yes.”

“Are your nerves steady?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked hotly.

“Just this. You are going to meet two old acquaintances, namely, Sheriff Smith of Nootwyck and a man you know as Valentine Mills; and my reason for not telling you before is I knowed you’d wear yourself out before we got here.”

“What the deuce is Mills doing here, and how long since you turned detective?”

“Well, I aint studied human natur’ all these years for nothing, and when you told me of Old Ninety-Nine’s mine, something you dropped carelessly about Valentine Mills set me to thinking, and this ended in acting, with the result that it is proved beyond a doubt that Valentine Mills and Robert Bruce are one. I aint particular sharp, just been doin’ a little missionary job. I haint no time for just ordinary sinners but when God Almighty blazes a trail straight to a stomped-down, pusley-mean, miserable coyote like Robert Bruce alias Valentine Mills and all his other aliases, it’s my bounden duty to convert him!”

“Is Sheriff Smith at Mt. Fisher now?”

“Yes, he is to meet us in that piece of woods yonder,” pointing to the left. “There he’ll wait. It’s only a few rods from the mine, and you’re to go on ahead to open the way.”

“I’ll do it with a right good will,” said Jack in a voice that boded Mills no good.

“We’ll be on the watch, and when your right hand goes up, Sheriff Smith’ll appear on the scene, and at his signal I’ll show up. I reckon he won’t be proper glad to see me!” Watson chuckled.

In another half-hour they reached the woods by a trail that concealed them from view and their low “Hello” was answered by Sheriff Smith, who anxiously awaited their coming. Like Jack, this was his first experience in a “norther,” but he had been more fortunate in not having left Fredericksburgh until that morning.

Sheriff Smith was a typical mountaineer, tall, muscular and without an ounce of flesh to spare. No one had ever been hung in Ulster County—his enemies hinted, much to his regret.

This morning he was positively affable and, after briefly delivering many messages to Jack, turned toward Watson inquiringly.

The latter’s plan seemed a good one, so, leaving his horse, Jack proceeded at once to the mine. Reaching the shaft, who should spring lightly from the bucket but Mills himself! Instantly his glance fell on Jack, he threw his arms around him in an ecstasy of delight, overwhelming him with solicitous questions. “Oh, my dear boy!” he said, wiping his eyes, “forgive this emotion. Such unexpected pleasure completely unnerves me!”

Jack shook him rudely off, throwing up his right hand as he did so; and while Mills was still wiping his eyes, Sheriff Smith’s hand was laid on his shoulder and the words, “You are my prisoner!” quickly dried his tears. Turning toward the miners who had collected near, he said in an abused tone,—“Friends, what is the meaning of this?”

“I’ll explain that,” Sheriff Smith interjected. “Three indictments are pending against you: abduction, theft and robbery; but at Nootwyck you’ll get a chance to clear yourself.”

“Who accuses me of abduction?” Mills asked defiantly.

“Andrew Genung of Nootwyck,” was the calm reply.

“Now look here, Smith,” said Mills. “This is a plot concocted in the brain of that rascally nephew of Andrew Genung. Genung is far too sensible a man to cause my arrest on some trumped-up charge with no proof that I committed the deed.”

“Aint there no proof, Robert Bruce?” and Tim Watson stepped before him.

Mills’s blood receded from the surface, leaving his countenance a ghastly green. Dumb with fear, balked at every turn, realizing that his last card in this desperate game had been played, he fell on his knees and begged for mercy.

Not a man present thought him worth a decent kick and all shrank away from him in abhorrence.

Quick to see his advantage, Mills sprang past them toward the woods, like a cat.

“Halt!” called the sheriff.

But Mills heeded not, and when the smoke which followed the bullet from Sheriff Smith’s revolver cleared, it was plain that Mills’s case would be tried in a higher court than Nootwyck.

CHAPTER XII

SIX years have passed by. It is March and we are here at The Laurels again.

Can this beautiful city with its population of ninety thousand be Nootwyck? Electric lights, street railways, stately residences, handsome public buildings and all modern conveniences. What magic wand wrought this change?

Foreign capital has flowed in, Old Ninety-Nine is still rich, and every Nootwyckian regards “Old Ninety-Nine” himself as the patron saint of the valley. The mine is worked on the co-operative plan and, thus far, results have justified the experiment.

Educational advantages are of the first order. Genung University, situated on the piece of land known as “The Pines,” is a model institution ranking with any in the State. The corps of instructors is composed of eminent men and women and every means is employed to keep the standing first class. Manufacturing is encouraged. Farmers find a ready market for produce, thus developing the magnificent agricultural interests; a railway center, Nootwyck’s prosperity is assured.

Mr. and Mrs. De Vere seem supremely happy. Jack, now the proud father of one little girl and three boys, is a prosperous ranchman, and his letters assure his mother that Dora is simply the best wife that ever a man had. And the children—!

Celeste and Elisha live down in the city. Eletheer expects to graduate from a training school for nurses in New England next year, and Cornelia has developed into the family beauty. In point of resemblance, she is all her grandmother could have wished, a De Vere, every inch. Reuben and Margaret are unchanged.

Point Wawanda is no more, and where it once towered the shaft-house now rears its unsightly walls. But what has been lost in the picturesque has been compensated by material benefit.

Deep down in the bowels of the earth is an underground city in whose streets the miners are delving and sending the precious metal to the surface.

Something unusual is in the wind at The Laurels. All is excitement and bustle of preparation for some great event. Again and again are the rooms inspected to see that everything is all right, the fires are kept burning that no one may take cold. Four o’clock brings Celeste who, with Elisha, will be among those to receive Jack and Dora with the niece and nephews, who are the only grandchildren.

Celeste is a trifle more matronly, which only enhances her beauty, and she follows Cornelia about the house, Cornelia feeling that if Celeste approves there is no cause for criticism.

Jack is coming home and the telegram said he would reach Nootwyck to-morrow morning.

The air had been spring-like all day with occasional flurries of snow, but by evening the ground was white. As night came on, the flakes fell faster and faster and by bedtime the storm had girded up its loins and turned into a raging one. It meant business, for there was no promise of a lull. A large body of old snow still lay on the ground and by morning over a foot had been added to it while it was still falling furiously. The air was filled with great feathery flakes and the way the snow piled up was amazing. The wind increased every hour and by ten o’clock great clouds of snow were sent whirling about and piling up so that it was impossible to see beyond a few feet.

The De Veres grew anxious. No sound of a locomotive’s whistle since seven o’clock and now it was noon.

“They are probably in New York City,” said Mr. De Vere.

“But the train leaves there at seven o’clock and at that time no one could have expected this Dakota blizzard,” Mrs. De Vere protested.

The house, substantial as it was, shook with the fury of the raging tempest. Long before night, the whole lower floor was in darkness and the storm unabated. The city below was invisible. All day and night the storm continued and Monday morning brought no change.

Reuben managed to keep the way to the woodhouse passable and the fires burning, although the barn was invisible from the house. His devoutly religious nature caused him to spend most of his leisure time in prayer and reading the Bible.

“Oh, well,” said Margaret, as she deftly fished out the nut-brown crullers from a skillet of hot fat, “life is a misery an’ I can’t nohow unde’stan’ it, but I sholy do mean to live as long as I ken. Po’ Massa Jack an’ dem sweet chillen all undah dis snow!” and her tears flowed afresh.

On Wednesday morning the air cleared and by noon the thermometer, which had registered zero, rose to twenty. The sun coming out melted the surface, that formed a crust which precluded further drifting.

Reuben and Mr. De Vere were working their way to the imprisoned animals in the barn, which seemed an endless task. It was quite dark when they accomplished it and sounds of distress greeted them when at last the door was forced open. None of the animals in the barn were seriously injured and they were quickly attended to; but in the chicken-house, which was built against the mountain side, every inmate was found frozen stiff—probably smothered—as the building was completely covered with snow.

Hungry as wolves, Mr. De Vere and Reuben returned to the house for supper, thankful that, excepting the chickens, none of the stock was injured. The path they had made resembled an alley with the snow piled up fully six feet at the sides.

As they neared the kitchen, Margaret’s melodious voice rang out:

“Dat awful Day, dat drefful Day,

When hebben an’ earth shall pass away.

De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul,

De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul.

“Fo’ gates on de no’f, fo’ gates on de souf,

An’ yo’ ken enter in at enny gate.

I-n-n-e-r my s-o-u-l, i-n-n-e-r my s-o-u-l,

De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul.

“In er my s—o—u—l——!”

“Margaret,” said Mr. De Vere, “is supper nearly ready? We are almost starved.”

“Law me, Massa John, been waiten’ dis bressed ouah,” she replied, bustling into the dining-room.

“What is your honest opinion of a blizzard, Margaret?” Mr. De Vere asked a few minutes later, as she appeared at the table with a platter of hash.

“De’ jes’ ain’ no sayin’ ’bout dat, Massa John,” she answered with a toss of her head. “I’se t’inkin’ ’bout dem po’ chillen.”

Margaret’s philosophy was decidedly original and a source of great amusement to the family.

Night came on calm and beautiful, innumerable stars twinkling in the heavens above. “The Laurels” stood calm and silent in the shadow of the mountain and from his chamber window Mr. De Vere looked out with feelings akin to awe. The world seemed dumb, frozen by the hands of grim winter; Nootwyck a city of giant snowdrifts. A few twinkling lights indicated that life was still there but the silence was of that muffled kind which makes one apprehensive.

“Oh, what untold sufferings this must have caused!” he reflected, tears starting to his eyes as he glanced in the direction where Shushan lay, and he thought of the young life among those snow-bound hills, there being devoured by a relentless foe. What a power for good he might have been! His very soul recoiled at the thought that one with Hernando’s fine feelings should be a victim to the most loathsome disease known and compelled to saturate his poor, disfigured body with the nauseating fumes of “Stinking Spring.” “Ah, well,” he thought bitterly, “this is one of the ‘mysteries.’”

Tired out, he retired early but tossed restlessly all night.

Thursday’s paper contained a pretty good description of the blizzard and at breakfast on Friday, Mr. De Vere read it aloud. It ran, “A genuine sample of the Dakota article, the severest storm ever known hereabouts. Nootwyck shut off from the outside world for nearly a week. Factories stopped, schools closed, and business at a standstill. All railways and highways blockaded. Snowbanks of dimensions heretofore existing only in the imagination.

“It won’t do any longer to talk of the snow-storms of ‘auld lang syne.’ The one of this week has eclipsed all previous records. Even those who, in the early part of the week, had ‘remembered’ greater storms are now fain to admit that they were mistaken, as inklings from the outside world begin to come in showing how complete has been the blockade over such a wide extent of country. No train since Saturday and here it is Thursday night, and there are good prospects that the embargo may last wholly or partially for several days longer. The limits of Nootwyck’s communication with the world about her up to Wednesday night were Wawarsing and Leurenkill. Nearly all the remainder of the highways are still completely blockaded, and it is doubtful if many roads will be opened up in a week yet. No mails have arrived since Saturday night. In fact, Nootwyck would be completely isolated from the rest of mankind were it not for the telegraph and telephone. So far as we can learn, the same condition of affairs exists generally over the State and New England. Fears are entertained that there may have been considerable loss of life attending the storm when the full particulars are made known.”

A loud ring at the door interrupted the reading and Reuben returned from answering the bell, with a telegram from Jack. It brought the welcome news that he and his family were safe in New York City and that they would leave for Nootwyck as soon as the tracks were cleared.

They had barely finished reading the message when another ring called Reuben to the door. It was none other than Dr. Herschel who wished to see Mr. De Vere on important business.

Mr. De Vere’s face blanched when told who the visitor was and he entered the library with an apprehensive face.

Dr. Herschel lost none of his dignity as he arose to meet Mr. De Vere with,—“I wonder if Mr. De Vere will believe in the efficacy of my treatment when I tell him that Hernando is cured!”

“Doctor,” said Mr. De Vere, “you are an eminent man, a profoundly scientific one, and in presuming to still doubt your ability I must appear pig-headed; but leprosy has been treated and investigated for ages. Every known drug in the pharmacopœia has been tried, but always the result has been disappointing. I appreciate your efforts but can only reiterate that I have no faith in your ability to effect a permanent cure.”

The doctor’s expression did not lose one iota of its earnestness as he replied in a tone so convincing that his listener unconsciously imbibed some hope. “Listen,” he said, “you are a just man and a good one. I will not bore you with technical names, nor narrate systems. On my honor as a gentleman, on my reputation as a physician, backed up by the proof of microscopical examinations and the expressed concurrence with me of two of the most eminent dermatologists in the world, I pronounce Hernando Genung cured.”

Mr. De Vere grew dizzy and the doctor drew his chair near to wait until he felt able to hear the rest. “Two of my friends—the gentlemen mentioned—are snow-bound at Shushan. The road from there to Lock Hill is broken by oxen and from there I came down on a hand-car. If you say so, I will return in the same manner and come down with Hernando and the two physicians, who wish to get back to the city as soon as possible.”

“Are the trains running?”

“Not yet, but they probably will be some time to-day.” At that moment, the warning whistle of a north-bound train sounded and Dr. Herschel rushed out of the house.

“Doctor!” called Mr. De Vere, “do as you suggest by all means!”

Reuben, too, had heard the whistle and off he started at the doctor’s heels. Nothing but paths were as yet broken but his strong arms could carry two of “dem bressed chillen” who he knew were in that train.

Just as the train was about to stop, Reuben rushed breathlessly up the station steps. “Suah ’nough, deah young Massa Jack had come, but oh, how changed!” Rugged as a bear, brown and muscular, but the same “Massa Jack” as of old.

“Dora,” said Jack, “this is Reuben, the guardian angel of our family!”

Dora’s eyes told Reuben that she had heard of him before and, greatly embarrassed, he took young Elisha and Celeste—one on each arm—and led the way to The Laurels followed by the others.

Half way down the yard they were met by Celeste and Cornelia, and Dora concluded that the De Veres must all be very much alike.

“So this is Dora of whom I am inclined to be jealous,” said Mrs. De Vere, giving her a real motherly kiss.

Dora was dragged into the sitting-room and as she drank the fragrant hot coffee, which Margaret said was good for frost bites, she felt that Jack had not over-rated the virtues of his family. She had rather dreaded meeting them and it had taxed her courage greatly when she thought of the dignified mother-in-law who must have strong ideas as to the fitness of any woman to be the wife of her darling boy. But it was a clear case of mutual respect and before Dora had spent an hour with her mother-in-law, she was ready to swear to all that Jack had said.

Celeste and Elisha were now marshalled into the bathroom by “Aunt Celeste,” while Dora took Jack-the-third under her protection.

Every nook in the dear old place was revisited by Jack. Lost in admiration, he was gazing from the windows on the city below when he was interrupted by his father who, in the excitement of their arrival, had for the time being neglected to mention Hernando’s restoration. Mr. De Vere had just told his wife of Dr. Herschel’s verdict and was now in search of Jack on the same mission. Jack’s experience in Texas, the land of surprises, had prepared him in a measure for this overwhelming one. He was speechless for a few moments and then said quietly, “Dr. Herschel’s reputation is such that he would not make the statement without proof to substantiate it. I am ready to believe it.”

“His home-coming must be as happy as lies in our power,” said Mr. De Vere fervently. “I have telegraphed Eletheer and undoubtedly she will be home this coming week.”

“And I will help Margaret in getting his room ready,” said Jack.

Mrs. De Vere and Margaret were already busy there. The room was open, the windows flung wide to let in the sunlight and fresh air. Jack kindled a fire of fragrant birchwood. An odor of sweet clover from clean linen scented the room. All hands joined in converting the room into a bower of loveliness. Elisha appeared with an immense bouquet of roses. These Celeste arranged on the table beside the latest magazine which Jack had brought from New York. Nothing was left undone and everything bespoke loving thoughtfulness.

In the kitchen Margaret was outdoing herself. Only too well did she remember Hernando’s partiality for certain dishes and Reuben haunted the city markets.

It was now five o’clock and the first down train was due at six. All day long forces of men had been busy clearing the streets so that the main ones were passable, and promptly at six Reuben reined up at the station. Mr. De Vere sprang out of the sleigh, tramping impatiently back and forth. Six-twenty and still no train. What could be the matter? Mr. De Vere’s nervous strain was beginning to tell, and although accosted by several of his acquaintances, he did not heed; his mind was intent on one thing. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead and every few seconds he took off his hat to wipe a bald spot on the top of his head. Suddenly stopping, he called:

“Reuben, have you seen Mr. Genung to-day?”

“Yes, Massa, hyah he comes now,” pointing up the street.

De Vere rushed madly down the steps to meet Genung and grasping the latter’s hand, whispered:

“I’m expecting Hernando on the six o’clock train; and cured! Now, for God’s sake don’t make a fool of yourself!”

“And I’m here for the same thing you are; but one fool is enough to amuse this gaping crowd!” Genung gasped with staring eyes.

At last the welcome whistle sounded and before the train came to a standstill these two dignified men scrambled up the steps, heedless of the brakeman’s warning “Wait till the train stops.”

But a pair of intensely blue eyes had seen it all from the platform and their owner gave a joyful exclamation as he sprang down to meet them, shouting,—“Uncle! Mr. De Vere!” and his arms were around both their necks.

Dr. Herschel, fearing a scene, hastily introduced Drs. Hinckle and Le Corr and hustled the three into a sleigh. He then signalled a cab and motioned Reuben to proceed. “Dear me, these emotional Americans!” he said, seating himself with the other physicians in the cab.

“A noble fellow,” remarked Dr. Hinckle.