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by HELEN ELLSWORTH WRIGHT Illustrated by Stanley Clisby Arthur

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But She

The trip had been a delight to her, and their quaint little house of Nipa palm, with its attop thatch, its long verandas and many doors, had seemed a big plaything. to-night she was home-sick. rolled up the bamboo curtains, and the warm, damp breath of the tropics pressed in. The air hummed with the drowsy voice of insects. Picking up her violin, she drew the bow half unconsciously across it. A long, yearning note replied. It quivered, clung about her like a live thing, and dissolved reluctantly. With it there came a shivering in the thatch. She looked uneasily about; the wind was still, not even the tips of the palm trees quivered against the copper sky.

The sun hung lazily at the edge of the horizon-a burning, crimson ball. It kissed the mountains, and the river, and dropped suddenly into the sea. Then the swift, equatorial darkness was upon them. Torches of the natives began to glimmer from the hills, but still Warren did not come.

The music had drifted into a minor key, a little wailing melody

of home, and again there came the shivering in the thatch. A long, lithe body swung itself from the attops to the veranda. It glided into the bedroom and coiled and uncoiled in the shadow. The moon had risen above the black line of the jungle. Higher and higher she crept, till the lagoon lay a stream of molten silver.

Something was gliding across the floor. Slowly it advanced. Its flat head swayed rhythmically, its breast gleaming white as it reared itself. Florence felt a touch upon her hair; she turned, half-expecting to find her husband, and then. There was no outcry, but the violin slipped to the matting, and the player sank beside it.

When she opened her eyes, Warren was bending over her. The room was filled with lamp-light, and the curtains were drawn. She looked bewilderedly about; then, all at once, the horror of the last hour came upon her.

"Where is it?" she cried, clinging to him. "Oh, Warren, where is it?" Her husband held her close.

"Where is what, dear?" he asked. "Poor little girl," he went on, soothingly, "it's lonely for you here all day; no wonder you are nervous!"

That night, when the lights had been extinguished, Florence lay with her eyes open. In the darkness she seemed to feel again that

touch upon her hair. The rising wind whispered in the camphor trees and all the superstitions of the Dyaks came crowding fast upon her. "The cobra brought death to the head of the house where he was made unwelcome." The omens had all been bad. The night before a "deer had cried," and a vulture in the morning had "wheeled away to the left." The cobra must be propitiated. There was not a woman in the hill tribes who would not tell you so.

She seemed to see again the Dyak charmer squatting beside his hut of sticks and palms-to hear the shrill notes of the native flute. Before him coiled a big, brown snake, its head advancing, retreating.

"Why, Florence, in the dark again?" asked Warren, a week later. "You used to light the lamps before the sun went down."

He picked up the violin she had been playing, and ran the bow across the strings, then turned sharply and looked behind him. There was a sound of something being dragged wearily over the matting. He struck a match, but Florence caught his hand and drew him down to her.

"Put your arms about me-close," she whispered. "There!" She laid her head against him with a little sigh. "I'm so tired," she said.

That night Armstrong watched his wife furtively. She had changed in the last ten days, and there was a pathetic look in her eyes that haunted him. He drew her into the lamp-light, at last, and lifted her face to his.

"Flossie," he said, "there is something the matter! What is it?"

She longed to tell him-to beg him to take her away somewhereanywhere-away from the Dyaks and the omens-away from the lagoon and the coffee-colored river, and that writhing, torturing thing that came in the dark from the thatch. Yet the cobra was revengeful,—and it was for Warren's sake.

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The next night Armstrong came down the hill path with his torch unlighted. He cautiously picked his way among the ferns and rhododendrons to the front veranda. The curtains were rolled high, and the wail of the violin floated out' to him. The white-frocked figure of his wife was just visible in the moonlight. She was swaying as she played, and singing as the natives do. Now she bent over something on the mat, and Warren was sure that he heard her speak. A fierce jealousy seized him. This, then, was why she wished to be alone. But who could it be? He would wait there in the night and know.

The hours dragged by; he was drenched with the heavy dew, and still she played over and over the one melody. There was something infinitely weary in the tones. At last the music ended, and the watcher without crept near. There was no word of parting, but he could have sworn that a figure slunk away in the shadow.

When he came in a little later, Florence was half lying in a big cane chair, the violin in her lap. He lighted the lamps and drew the

shades without a word. She did not seem to notice him. The tea was still waiting on the little table, and there were no traces of a guest. He

"Put your arms about me," she whispered.

crossed over to his wife, and stood looking down at her.

"Three hours late," he said ironically. "How worried you must have been!"

She gave a startled look

stretched one hand half way towards him-let it languidly drop again, and closed her eyes. She had grown very white of late, and Armstrong observed with alarm the violet shadows on her face. He quenched a momentary impulse to put his arms about her. But this sudden drowsiness was feigned; he had heard her play and speak, not ten minutes before, so he argued with himself, and sat down to a solitáry tea.

Florence rose just as he had finished, and he watched her covertly. There was a look in her face that puzzled him. She took her place at the table and helped herself abundantly, but seemingly forgot to eat; her tea remained untasted in the cup. Her husband did not speak, and soon she went into her own room, and he heard her fastening the curtains.

Armstrong lighted his pipe, but it failed to solace him. The air was murky and oppressive; he impatiently threw down his book and strode out to the veranda. The sky had become suddenly overcast; large drops of rain were already pattering about him; a damp sickly smell came up from the lagoon, and somewhere, in the distance, he heard the peculiar cry of a wahwah. The jungle stood, a dense, impenetrable fortress, teeming with death and disease. Turning from it with a shudder, he re-entered the house, and threw himself, fully clothed, across the bed.

The rain was increasing; it spurted in little jets from the attops, and was caught in splashing pools below the thatch. All at once, Armstrong sat erect and listened. Then he rose and tip-toed to the door of his wife's room. For a moment he stood irresolute, then quietly turned the

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knob. He could see distinctly by the light upon his own dresser. Florence, seated in the middle of the bed, was swaying from side to side, and singing in a low, droning monotone. Warren's brows contracted. It reminded him of old Nimuck writhing over his snakes.

"Flossie!" he called. She raised her eyes unseeingly, to his. "Flossie!" he called again, starting towards her. The old tenderness was in his voice.

An expression of fear crept over her; she began talking hurriedly.

"You must go away," she said, bending over an imaginary object. "You must go away, for he'll be coming soon.' She extended both her slender hands, as if pushing something.

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Warren grasped her by the shoulder and shook her roughly.

"Florence," he said, as consciousness flooded her eyes, "you have been dreaming." His voice was

harsh, unnatural. "And by the way," ," he added indifferently, "I shall be off early to-morrow; you will breakfast alone."

In his own room, Armstrong sat looking blankly ahead of him. "She is like all other women," he said, with a shrug, as he began divesting himself, "and I've been the regulation fool; but I'll find who he is, and then". His eyes narrowed themselves into unpleasant little slits and he blew out the light.

The next day was the semi-weekly cleansing of the water jars. If Mrs. Armstrong had looked into her husband's jar late that afternoon, she would have been surprised at its contents. The native servant had trundled the huge thing up from the river with unusual care, had shoved it into place in his master's bathroom, and sunk down beside it, perspiring, exhausted. Warren found his position somewhat cramped, but the cool dampness was grateful to him, and it afforded. excellent opportunities for observation.

He had not long to wait. As the sun pressed his last scorching caress upon the palm trees, Florence came from her room. She walked to the veranda, and stood leaning against the supports. The light tangled itself in her hair; she looked half a child in her white frock. But the sun was going down. Gray shadows crept among the ferns; they touched the woman's face, and chased the brightness from her hair. Then all at once the burning sphere dropped out of sight; a chorus of frog voices rose in shrill treble from the lagoon, and twilight had come. Florence, as she stood there, seemed to have suddenly grown old; her step became listless, heavy. She turned automatically and re-entered the house, took the violin out of its case, and drew a long, sobbing note from its heart.

There was a sound like the rubbing together of dried cornstalks; it came from the attop overhead. The violin wailed out the melody of night before; Armstrong knew its every cadence. He heard a whispering, like the wind of October in the leaves at home, and then a dull, continuous pressure of the mat.

He raised his eyes to the rim of the water-jar. The waking moon had sent a silver herald through the bamboo curtains; it fell half way across the floor. His wife was standing in the shadow just beyond. Warren had a vague consciousness of a presence near him. Mechanically his hand slipped to his belt. It was there, the little "Smith and Wesson"; he felt of its cold throat, and grimly smiled. "The price of the game is death," he told himself, "no matter who the man!"

Something was pushing past his hiding place. Armstrong, quivering with rage, stood half upright in the jar, but all he saw was the figure of his wife. The creeping

moonbeam had reached her now. She stood for a moment in its light, and then a flying cloud shut her

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