Page images
PDF
EPUB

wonderful Alpen-glow flushing

Mount Tallac's snows with a radiance almost unearthly, while Orion's brilliant stars glittered in the East, already dark with night's shadows.

"And who cares if we are poor?" she continued, stepping back into the great living-room where Emily sat showering pine cones on a glorious blaze in the quaint fire place built up ceiling high with stones rounded by mountain torrents.

"Well, all I want is here," Meredith vowed diplomatically, drawing his wife and daughter together into a rustic seat, gay with pillows, and Indian blankets, "and here we'll endure our poverty with light hearts till old Tallac pelts us with snowballs. Meanwhile, may I remind you that Dr. Barker's golden rule for the three of us is to do as he would like to do himself-sleep from nine o'clock till seven?" "And I'll remind you that I need no sleeping powders after that twenty-mile trip on Lake Tahoe to-day," laughed Margaret, "and five miles' jolting over these rough roads too." "Pretty good," commented John, "for a lady who a week ago did not get up every morning."

The days that followed, however, brought the real tug of war between the invalid and her family. Dr. Barker's elaborate course of treatment (type-written and leatherbound) included such items. as "bath and breakfast by seventhirty. Walk five times round verandas. Half-hour reclining on pine-needles in full sunshine, no rug, no hat. Hour in porch-chair and full sunshine at four. Bed at nine. No late suppers or sweets." These rules amended to cover more exercise as time went on, together with some important-looking but perfectly harmless tablets of sugar of milk constituted the "cure," but my lady would occasionally disregard them with perfect indifference. Over tired, perhaps, some morning she would calmly announce that she did

not feel equal to rising, and what she called "a bad day" followed for all concerned.

Finally Meredith had an inspiration, and recurring attacks of some mysterious ailment-mal de conspiracy he dubbed it to Emily-whereby he was unable to leave his room. These happened, strange to say, only when his daughter announced to him that "Mamma felt too ill to get up this morning,' or as the invalid plaintively put it: "Always on my bad days, too." To have John incapacitated and oblivious of her sufferings seemed intolerable to Margaret, and to imagine him in distress was worse yet. She anxiously questioned Emily (who flew from room to room in her dual capacity nurse) as to her papa's condition. Then Mrs. Meredith invariably ended by rousing herself, with much self-commiseration, and going to inquire concerning her lord's symptoms. Her very presence seemed to mitigate John's affliction, and the homely remedies he unblushingly demanded of hot teas, poultices and the like she found it absolutely necessary to supervise, at the least.

So it gradually came about that her first and last waking thought was for her husband's welfare, to the exclusion of morbid fancies, selfpity and engrossment. In the daily bulletins Dr. Barker had insisted upon having sent him, Mrs. Meredith chronicled John's attacks with minute particulars, and briefly stated of herself: "I am better, and only anxious lest a cancer or some dreadful internal disorder should be preying upon poor John."

"Who could have imagined 'poor John' such an actor?" was the physician's comment as he read these accounts of his friend's malady and its treatment. "Well, the poultices won't hurt Meredith, though they must be mighty uncomfortable on a July day. Ah, Margaret, if you but knew it, you should be glad

record to send one's medical adviser ?"

and proud to nurse such a devoted all the time. Isn't that an absurd husband!" His replies counseled great care of the sufferer; prescribed a diet-list-"good for both invalids," chuckled the physician as he wrote it out and above all, he ordered sunshine and early morning walks.

"For only nature, the 'Great First Mother,' can complete the cure we are striving for," mused Dr. Barker, as he finished the communication, his mind busy with the possible success of the plan he had set in action. "And if we are deceiving Margaret, the conflict is merely between good and evil influences, and the prize fought for is a life, a life necessary to two other beings' happiness."

Meanwhile up in the high Sierras the golden days sped by, each one finding Mrs. Meredith stronger of body and mind. Every throb of her neart was given to her dear ones, I and in that sweet sacrifice her own selfish fantasies vanished in the joy of living for others. No longer the nervous hypochrondiac was annoyed by a crumpled rose leaf. In assuming her share of life's responsibilities, of the interests and occupations of the common, universal lot, a quiet happiness came to her.

It was a joyful day for them all when she announced suddenly while. returning from a glorious tramp: “I shall send no more bulletins to Dr. Barker. Why not? Well, fancy a physician's astonishment at such items as these: Yesterday both patients walked five miles; to-day, ditto; to-morrow, expect to row round the lake and spend the day fishing. No symptoms; no temperatures to chronicle; patients hungry

"On the contrary," declared John, "that bulletin would please Barker mightily. He deserves a medal for making such records possible. Keep them up, my dear girl," and he smiled quietly, while Emily, wise beyond her years, giggled outright at the humor of the situation from her point of view.

A situation practically unchanged when late October rimmed the lake with needles of ice, and mid Mount Tallac with low-piled snow-clouds, for the Merediths lingered, loth to leave this fairy land gay with the scarlet of the mountain-ash and suInevitable, though, was their departure, and the hour when Dr. Barker, looking approvingly at Margaret's radiant face began to plume himself upon the visible success of his stratagem.

Yet with all the inborn caution of a man whose mother was a MacGregor, the doctor drew John aside presently, and whispered: "Never dare to tell her, my boy, and-go slow on expenses for a while, even if I have nursed that other patient of mine, Con. Copper, up to 60 for you to-day."

So "the woman made whole" has yet to guess the real secret of her marvelous recovery, attributed by her, with much complacency, to her old family physician, 'just returned from abroad.' Whether she ever could understand is problematical, for, between us, she is one of the foolish, pretty women whom good and clever men consequently bow down to worship.

ΑΝ INDIAN GIRL'S REVENGE

H

BY ADDIE FARRAR

to

AROLD SEMPLE was one of those good-humored, goodprincipled young fellows who are always general favorites; moreover, he was an extremely handsome man, possessed of that daring, dashing manner so attractive womankind. His one fault, and that, too, in spite of the fact that he was engaged to one of the sweetest of girls, was a propensity for mild flirtation. To his credit let it be said that in his heart he was true to his betrothed, and loved her very dearly; but admiration, however, was natural to him.

A young Easterner he had come to the West for his health having devolved a slight lung affection. Through the love of adventure he had taken up the life of a cowboy, and as he was amply supplied with money, he soon became a great avorite with his cowboy associates and the Indian belles of the neigh boring village, where he and his friends often rode of an evening. and spent their time in laughing and chatting with these dusky maidens of the plains.

Among these Indian girls was one who had been much among the whites, and had taken much to their ways. She was handsome, well educated, very clever and interesting. For her, Harold had conceived quite a fancy, and was often in her company, feeling for her nothing but a passing admiration, yet it might be that under the influence of the silver moon he said many things that caused her maidenly heart to flutter. The old settler whose hut Harold shared, objected to the visits and took occasion to warn him.

"Lad," he said, "you will git inter

[merged small][ocr errors]

Harold, however, only laughed, and answered: "Oh, pshaw, Jake, old man, you're worrying over nothing. She is an educated woman and knows that I am only friendly. Great heavens, man, I don't want a squaw; besides, there is Alice, you know."

"I know, lad, I know. I've lived among Injuns a long time, and eddication or no eddication they're Injuns first, last and always. Don't go there any more, boy. Take an old man's advice."

But Harold, who was now well and had decided to return to the East in a few days, made light of the old man's warning and resolved to pay a farewell visit to the Indian village, and Mary in particular. Accordingly, an evening or so before his proposed return home he rode over to the village and took Mary for a midnight ride.

"Mary," he said, suddenly, as they spun along the moonlit road, "I am going home this week."

Slowly the girl turned her big black eyes on him. "Going home,' she repeated. "Why?"

"Well," he replied, "I am going home to settle down into business again and am going to be married in a short time to a dear little girl there."

Mary stared at him solemnly. "But you love me-you are going to marry me," she said slowly.

"Well, I can't hardly do that," replied Semple, his face flushing in his embarrassment; "I like you very much, Mary: you are a nice little

girl and I wish you a good husband and happiness, and all that, but I must go back to the girl who is waiting for me at home."

"Then you did not mean all you have said to me?"

"Oh, hang it, no," replied the man in some irritation. "Men have to be amused, and I may have said some silly things, but I never had any intention of marrying anybody but Alice."

"Then," said the Indian girl, "I wish you joy when you marry the girl who waits for you," and the expression of her face disconcerted even Semple.

He rode back to the ranch that night feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He had never meant to win the girl's love, and he had no wish. to bring misery to the heart of even an Indian girl. At first he resolved not to say anything about it, but Jake, noticing the perturbed expression of his face, questioned him, and he told the whole story.

"Humph," said the old man, "better not go far from the camp alone."

In spite of the warning Jake had given him, Harold the next day volunteered to go for the weekly mail -a two-days' ride over a lonely trail. He made the trip in safety, and was on his way home with his pouch full of mail, when, on one of the loneliest parts of the road, he noticed a woman walking slowly, as if weary. As he drew nearer he saw to his surprise Mary, who said in explanation that her horse had polted and she was forced to walk home.

Semple gallantly lifted her up on his horse, who went slowly on with his double burden. They had not gone far when he felt a noose falling over his shoulders and down his arms. It was jerked tight, and he was securely pinioned. The girl then reached over and pulled the bridle rein and stopped the horse. Alighting, she jerked Semple to the ground, and in spite of his struggles and swearing hauled him a

ways back from the road and tied him to a tree. The man laughed at the girl at first, and told her that his friends would follow and rescue him, but she calmly reminded him that they had all gone on a big drive and that in all probability he would be dead of thirst and starvation before they returned. Then he pleaded with his tormentor, but with a last taunt about the "girl who was waiting for him at home," she took his horse and rode off.

It was in vain that he tugged at his cords; he could not release himself. The long night passed, and the day came, and the sun shone pitilessly down and the night came on again and still he was held.

A brook flowed near, and the sound of its murmuring waters fell on his ears, but no drop touched his burning lips.

"Oh, for a single drop, just one drop of water to ease this fiery torture," he cried aloud in his misery.

The sun of another morning beat down as if the Heavens were a vault of fire. The awful heat was fast driving the man mad.

"Merciful God!" he cried, "to die a raving maniac all alone in the burning desert."

The third day came, and still the man lived on, crying aloud in his torture, his strength far gone.

Suddenly there came a change. The flaming sky was overcast and dark clouds began to gather in the south, bringing a sultriness in place of the white heat. The sky became blacker, and a little blast of wind fanned the cheek of the dying man. Soon all was inky blackness, the long roll of incipient thunder was heard, and the flash of lightning was seen. Big drops of rain began to splash on the hot earth, and the man ran out his swollen tongue to catch them. The storm did not move him, so great was his despair, but as the rain came thicker and faster and the drops cooled his parched tongue, hope revived. The storm grew terri

fic, the thunder rolled in great, sullen waves, and the lightning flashed continually in livid, zigzag marks across the inky sky.

In spite of himself, Harold shuddered, and vaguely wondered how much longer he would live. Even as he thought, a sudden flash of lightning blinded him; he felt a sensation as of falling, and then knew no more. When he came to himself the storm had ceased and he was lying on the ground unbound. Weakly and wonderingly he raised himself on his arm and glanced toward the tree. It was all blackened and splintered, and in an instant he comprehended. The lightning had freed him.

On his hands and knees, for he

was too weak to walk, he crawled to the main road, a distance of a mile. He had not been there long before a horse and rider came up the road. It was old Jake, who, fearing trou ble, was searching for him. Feebly he tried to call and fainted in the effort. When he next came to himself he was in the cabin, with Jake attending him.

His strong vitality soon asserted itself, and he left the West for his Eastern home entirely cured of any propensity for flirting, and also an inordinate love for thunder storms, for, as he often remarks to Alice, his wife:

"If it had not been for that storm that Indian girl would have been revenged."

ONE SUMMER DAY

BY AGNES LOCKHART HUGHES

A butterfly the wild rose wooed,
And love's sweet story told.

He drank the perfume of her lips
And kissed her heart of gold.

The crimson blushes dyed her face-
She loved the butterfly.

But, ah! he stole her kisses,

Then he passed the rose-bud by.

He stole her kisses, then, alas!
He bade the rose good-bye.

« PreviousContinue »