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 Arthur looked at him as though he did not understand, but when
the question was repeated, he replied absently:
“No; no; I must have been mistaken!”
Gus of course thought that he was telling an untruth; he judged
her some disreputable woman of Arthur’s acquaintance. “Oh, it is all
right, I do not blame you for being ashamed of it!” he answered
sarcastically.
Arthur shot him a look of hatred from under moody brows, but
made no reply. Wilbur seemed feverishly eager to reach their
destination, and in preoccupied thought had hurried forward until he
was considerably in advance of the others, consequently observed
nothing.
When Gus introduced Wilbur to Edith, he blushed and stammered
awkwardly; she was no less embarrassed. Throughout the whole
evening Wilbur scarcely took his eyes from her face; once,
inadvertently, he called her Edith; she blushed furiously, and Gus
gave him a look of displeasure, which he did not observe.
Later in the evening Gus said to her: “I do not like Wilbur’s
familiarity on so short an acquaintance.”
Edith hesitated a moment before answering: “I do not think it was
intentional, Gus, doesn’t he remind you of some other person?”
“Yes; but I can never say who it is.”
They turned to look at him, as he sat talking to Arthur; the contrast
between the two was very marked. Arthur was slouchingly leaning
over the table; his carelessness of attire, an indefinable coarseness of
look and action, contrasted most unfavorably with Wilbur’s refined
manner, the neatness of his person, and the high thought written in
characters unmistakable upon his countenance; yet the features of
Arthur were far more regular, his physique finer.
Edith sighed. Gus answered her thought.
“Yes; he has changed awfully; I doubt his ever being quite himself
again.”
“He seems an entirely different person; Mr. Wilbur is much more
as Arthur used to be than Arthur himself.”
Gus started in amazement: “By Jove! That is so! Ever since he
came it has puzzled me to know who he was like.”
 They had been busying themselves over the tea things as they
talked, and now brought them forward. As they sipped their tea Gus
endeavored to lead the conversation toward Wilbur’s former life, but
he plainly evaded the subject. Arthur the whole evening sat moodily
gnawing his mustache, or paced the floor restlessly. It was late when
Wilbur took his departure.
For a long time Gus could hear Arthur moving about his room, but
at last he sank into dreamy slumber, in which Arthur and Wilbur
were strangely intermingled, once starting up wide awake as he
fancied he heard the hall door close. He lay a few minutes with every
nerve quivering, afraid of—he knew not what; then took himself to
task for being so foolish, and again dropped off to sleep.
Arthur did not appear in the morning; but his course was so erratic
that this occasioned no surprise; but when a week, two weeks went
by without his return, Gus began to be seriously alarmed.
Wilbur proved a treasure; everything went on in the most
methodical manner; he seemed to understand every detail of the
business; to know where papers and records were kept, of which
others had no knowledge; moreover he seemed to enjoy his work.
The residence also, seemed strangely familiar to him; on more
than one occasion he surprised them by mentioning articles placed in
rooms of which he was supposed to know nothing.
One evening Gus asked him: “Were you ever in that room?”
Wilbur looked bewildered: “I think not—I do not know,” he said
slowly.
“If not, how do you know where that picture is placed, and the
subject of the painting?”
They had been talking of the works of a certain master, and Wilbur
mentioned a painting which hung in Arthur’s room.
He rested his head upon his hand in an attitude familiar to both; “I
do not know; I seem to see it, that is all that I can tell you,” he
answered in a sad tone.
Gus looked at Edith questioningly; she did not notice him, her eyes
were fixed upon Wilbur.
The next morning as they were sitting down to breakfast, Arthur
returned. Edith and Gus rose to their feet, simultaneously; he was
dirty, and disheveled, his clothing tattered and soiled; he had the
look of a tramp. “Well! You are a sight, and no mistake! Where have
you been?” said Gus laughingly.
His appearance was really ludicrous; he tried to pass it off lightly,
but a heavy frown belied his flippant manner.
“Who made you your brother’s keeper?”
“Really, I do not know who appointed me, but you look as though
you were in need of some person to fill that position,” retorted Gus.
Half defiantly he replied: “With your kind permission, I’ll take
some breakfast,” tossing his hat on the floor, as he seated himself at
the table.
Edith had not spoken, but looked at him in amazement and
aversion. Gus laughed derisively: “I say, aren’t you forgetting
something, old fellow?” laying his hand affectionately on his
shoulder.
“What’s wrong, now?” looking scowlingly at him.
Gus made no reply in words, but looked significantly at his grimy
hands; he frowned still more angrily; jerked himself out of his chair,
and went to his room muttering: “Confounded bore! Mind his own
business!” like an untrained, overgrown boy.
Edith could scarcely restrain her tears. “Is it not horrible?” she said
with quivering lips.
“Yes it is, but we must overlook it as much as possible; he is to be
pitied; he has never been quite right since—” he paused significantly.
“I know! But Gus, it makes me shudder to think of fulfilling my
engagement to him; I just cannot—” she paused, a burning blush
spreading over her face; she had never before spoken of it to Gus.
He sat thoughtfully toying with his fork for a few minutes:
“Do you think that he wishes it?”
“No, I do not; he never offers me the slightest token of affection,
for which I am indeed grateful; truly, I do not believe that he ever
thinks of it.” She laughed in an embarrassed manner.
“Taking it altogether, Wilbur, Arthur, and—ourselves, it’s a queer
business.”
 Edith flushed a fiery red; but if she intended an answer, which is
doubtful, Arthur’s returning step put an end to the conversation. He
at once seated himself at the table, and ate like one famished. A few
evenings later Wilbur again came to dinner with Arthur and Gus. The
air was very warm and pleasant, and after dinner they all went into
the sitting room; the windows opened down to the floor, and were
flung wide to admit the sweet, fresh evening air; a long vine-draped
porch ran along the whole front of the house.
“Do not have lights, they call the insects, and it is much pleasanter
to sit on the porch,” said Edith.
Seated there, a strange silence fell over them; the full moon rode
through the sky like a stately silver ship; a faint breeze stirred the
leaves on the vines, and cast fitful arabesques on the floor; a cricket
chirped lonesomely in the grass; dark shadows lay weirdly across the
winding walks. Wilbur sat close to Edith, the shadows half
enveloping them; in their concealment his hand had sought hers, and
clasped it fondly. Arthur sat at the far end of the porch, in the
densest gloom; only the fiery tip of his cigar betraying his presence.
Gus lay stretched on a wooden settee, his eyes fixed dreamily on a
few light, fleecy clouds showing through a break in the vines.
There was a faint rustling sound just where the foliage grew the
most dense; the leaves were cautiously parted, and a pallid, vengeful
face looked through. The intruder seemed as much surprised as were
the group seated there; she had evidently expected to find the porch
untenanted, and the sight revealed seemed to drive her to a frenzy of
madness; a ray of moonlight fell upon the clasped hands of Edith and
Wilbur, also showing the look of devotion upon Wilbur’s face, as he
was bending toward her in the act of speaking.
There was a flash, the report of a pistol, intermingled with wild
screams, and a hoarse, strange cry from Arthur:
“Andalusia! Andalusia!” Then, something wildly, rapidly spoken in
a strange language; the vengeful, defiant air speedily changing to
wonder and amazement; tones of fierce remonstrance from him, and
scornful disbelief from her; then a word or two of pleading; a light in
her eyes like blazing stars, and obeying his fierce gestures she slipped
away among the winding walks, shadowy trees and shrubbery.
 It has taken some time to tell all this, but the happening was so
rapid that none save Gus saw or heard aught that passed between
Arthur and the strange woman.
Wilbur was bending over the half-fainting Edith, whispering
impassioned words in her ear, caution thrown to the winds on the
near approach of danger.
Gus for a moment gazed speechless and motionless, amazed at the
fierce gestures, and the strange language; and when he would have
detained the woman, Arthur angrily threw him backward, saying:
“Let her alone! She made a mistake!”
“A strange mistake, I take it!” hotly replied Gus.
“What is the use of raising more disturbance? No one is hurt! She
thought that I was sitting there beside Edith.”
“Suppose you were? Why should she shoot you? It looks very
peculiar!” said Gus angrily.
Arthur made no reply, but strode away into the darkness of the
shrubbery.
Edith and Wilbur had entered the house, and their low tones,
agitated conversation, reached Gus indistinctly as he stood
irresolute; he had sent the servants back to their places, and their
frightened tones reached him faintly; after some seconds’ indecision
he plunged off down the path which Arthur had taken, but no trace
of him or the woman could he find.
It was fully an hour before he returned to the house, feeling angry
that he was no wiser than when he started; he was the more angry
that he did not know what he expected to find. His astonishment was
great to find Arthur seated in the self same place smoking as though
nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Well, I declare! I have been looking everywhere for you;” he said.
“Yes! You have found me, now what will you have?”
It had seemed during the surprise and heat of anger easy enough
to ask him what all this mystery meant; but looking Arthur in the
face; listening to his cool, sneering tones, it was far from easy; so he
hesitated and stammered out: “I don’t understand this business at
all.”
Arthur broke in: “My dear Gus, neither do I.”
 His tone implied so much more than the words that Gus was
effectually silenced.
They soon separated for the night; Wilbur had gone home half an
hour before, and Edith had retired to her room, her nerves in a
tumult over the occurrences of the evening; but through all the fright
and horror ran a thrill of sweetness.
Wilbur had whispered in her ear, as she lay half fainting: “My love!
Do not be frightened; I will protect you!”
“Who could it be? I am so frightened!” clinging to his hand.
“It is all past now, dear; I think it must have been some crazy
person.”
For another week things went on much as usual, except that Gus
was now positive that Arthur went out each night at about half-past
twelve; not returning until morning, always haggard and worn, and
often in the most furious mood. Frequently he glared at Wilbur as
though he would like to murder him; but if Wilbur turned, or he
knew himself to be observed, his manner changed completely. He
seemed anxious to throw Edith and Wilbur together; and yet, as they
conversed or sat in silent contentment he would restlessly pace the
floor, and finally fling himself out of the room angrily.
Of a sudden he changed entirely; he remained at home of nights,
went to the bank early in the morning, and remained until the hour
of closing, seemingly intent upon a thorough understanding of every
phase of the business, but at times showing such a strange
forgetfulness—or ignorance—that Wilbur would pause, and look at
him in astonishment.
It was on Wednesday, there were papers missing, relating to some
securities; Gus and Arthur had been vainly seeking them all the
morning; finally Gus went over to Wilbur’s desk and asked, more
because he was vexed and at a loss as to what to do, than for any
other reason:
“Wilbur, do you know anything about those securities?”
mentioning the particular ones he wished.
Without even pausing in his work Wilbur replied, naming the
number of the drawer in the security vault where he would find
them.
 Gus made him no reply, but sought the drawer described, and
returned with the papers.
He walked up to Wilbur, followed by Arthur:
“Will you explain to me how you knew where those securities
were? After you told where they were, I remember placing them
there; and I know that they have not been removed for over a year,
long before you came here—” he paused significantly.
Wilbur looked up from his work in complete bewilderment:
“I do not know how I know it, but it is all clear to me; the moment
you mention a thing I seem to see it, and a long-stored knowledge
seems instantly to step forth. I seem to know every crevice in these
stones; every bolt, bar and drawer; but how I gained that knowledge
I can not tell, because—I do not know.”
As he talked he was gazing straight before him, with a strange,
unseeing look.
“It is not so strange that you have the knowledge—it is easy to get,
if one pokes his nose into everything; but it is hard to understand
why I cannot remember anything concerning the business,” said
Arthur disagreeably.
“It is no use quarreling!” said Gus, but it was evident that he was
both puzzled and annoyed.
That night Gus again heard Arthur stealthily leaving the house,
and he did not return until noon of the next day. He remained at the
bank from that time until after the hour for closing, remarking that
he had correspondence which he wished to finish; having completed
it, he called the watchman and sent him to post the letters, saying
that he would remain on watch until his return; as soon as he came
back, Arthur went home.
He seemed moody and distrait all the evening, and several times
Gus caught him glaring at Wilbur with the unmistakable light of
hatred in his eyes. Wilbur spent nearly all of his evenings with Edith,
and made no secret of his devotion to her. Gus was puzzled to
account for Arthur’s manner toward Wilbur; that he hated him was
very evident, but it certainly was not from jealousy, as he showed not
the slightest love for Edith; on the contrary, he appeared actually to
dislike and avoid her. Several times during the evening he sank into
such gloomy abstraction as not to notice when he was addressed; at
an early hour he left the parlor and went to his room, with not even
an excuse or a good-night.
Edith looked pained, but Gus was too outspoken to keep silence:
“I do believe that Arthur is going insane; I never saw such a change
in any one!”
He was again absent the next morning; but he was away so
frequently that no one even spoke of it; but when a week passed
without his return Gus began to be vaguely alarmed and suspicious;
the reason for the latter feeling being that Arthur had drawn large
sums of money on his personal check within the previous week. Only
the day before this last departure he had taken out several thousand
dollars.
On his way to his sleeping room that night, Gus, from some
impulse unexplainable, tried the door of Arthur’s room. He did not
know what he expected to discover, he was simply uneasy.
To his surprise he found the door unlocked; heretofore Arthur had
been more than careful to keep his privacy secure. Gus entered and
turned on the light, everything seemed as usual; he opened the door
of the wardrobe, and looked within, it gave him a start to find it
empty. Gus turned giddy; had his prediction come true? A prophecy
which was born of vexation, instead of insight. Arthur had taken
away all of his clothing; no interpretation could be put upon that
action, but that he intended to abandon his home; but why should he
do so, unless mentally unbalanced?
As he turned to extinguish the light he saw, placed conspicuously
on the dresser, a letter; trembling with undefinable fear he caught it
up; without address it abruptly commenced:

“When you find this I shall be far away. I have taken five thousand
dollars in cash and the diamonds which were in my safe-deposit
drawer, which amount to twenty thousand more. The balance of the
money and the real estate I have turned over to Wilbur; I hate him,
but he has a right to the property.
“You do not understand, and will wonder; I will explain.
“You remember the time when, to all appearances, Arthur
Lombard dropped dead; amid great, apparent grief, and much
excitement he was carried to this house where he lay silent and
motionless for three days.
“At the same instant in which he fell in his elegantly appointed
office, almost in the same manner, fell Antoni Petronelli, one of a
band of roving gypsies, who dwelt in a fair southern country, with no
covering save the waving arms of the forest trees, or at most a house
of boughs for shelter at night or in storm. As Edith and Gus mourned
over Arthur Lombard, so Andalusia Varana mourned over Antoni—
yet not the same—the cool blood of your race cannot realize the fierce
love and desperate grief of the untrammeled children of the South.
“At the very instant that Arthur Lombard awoke to life again, that
same instant arose as one from the dead, Antoni Petronelli.
“Now comes the really strange, and tragic part of the story. When
these two souls were loosed from the body and entered space, they
drifted without knowledge of their destination; but that an intelligent
power directed them is proved by this; although so far apart, the soul
of Arthur Lombard sought the body of the gypsy Petronelli; and the
spirit of Petronelli was forced to enter the effeminate body of Arthur
Lombard.
“I can speak only of my own impression; I, the soul of the gypsy,
Petronelli, and the body of the aesthetic banker, Arthur Lombard.
When I regained consciousness I had but a confused mingling of
ideas; some things—impressions, knowledge, thoughts—which had
been the property of Lombard, haunted me; it was as though these
things had been photographed on the brain, to be brought forth and
used by the occupant of the body as occasion required. I did not
understand the use of this knowledge; I detested the fair-skinned
body; I hated the limitations of his life—which you call refinements;
the greatest trial of all was that for a long time I did not know what I
was fighting against. I knew only that I was miserably unhappy.
“I hated the soft, cool caresses of Edith; I was tormented with a
misty memory—which I could not drive from my mind—of arms
which had encircled my neck, and had set my being on fire. I hated
the reproof in Edith’s calm eyes, and the low voice which grew so
cool as I pushed away her hands, or answered her roughly; she was
offended in such a grand, cold way. My Andalusia would have
upbraided me with hot words, uttered in her shrill, sweet voice; she
would have given me blow for blow, then we should have kissed with
fond words, and loved better than ever. I hated the house with its
elegant furnishings, its heavy, hot carpets, and close, stifling
atmosphere.
“I longed for the cool, leafy woods; for the carpet of green grass. I
felt an insane desire to crush the globes on the incandescent lights,
which parodied the light of the moon; that soft southern moon,
which, with its coterie of stars, looked down upon my bed of boughs
while I slept in that happy time before disaster came.
“For a long time I could not put these feelings into words, or even
into thoughts; I knew only that these things I hated, and I madly
desired to get away; it was like the restlessness of some caged animal.
During all of this time those teachings which had left their
impression upon the brain matter tortured me, suggesting and
urging other thoughts so at variance with those rebellious feelings
that it almost drove me mad.
“Then when Wilbur came it seemed as though my soul must leap
out of the hateful body which held it in limitation. Instantly I
recognized my own, my hands have many times itched to throttle the
usurper of my person, so that I might seize that which belonged by
right to me. Oh, how I hate this milk-and-water flesh! These soft
muscles, and dainty palms!
“With his coming—Wilbur, by the way, is but an assumed name—it
seemed to give that hazy sense of something gone before, something
half remembered, like a dream of the night—a shock. I concentrated
every effort of my being until scenes from my former life began to
float before my mental vision; dense woods, with leaves of a glossy,
dark green; lilies standing tall and white; a great bay of water
reflecting the blue of a cloudless sky and the green of the trees on its
placid bosom. There was ever the vague shadow of a form which
filled my veins with fire, and my whole soul with longing, but it
floated just beyond my mental grasp. Many a time as I walked under
the stars I could have cried aloud, it seemed so near, and yet—eluded
me I could not remain within the walls of that elegantly furnished
room which was called mine; so at night I wandered far, and lay on
the cool, dew wet grass, and strove to solve the tormenting problems.
“That evening when Andalusia followed us, I had been more than
usually unsettled and troubled; there was a softness in the
atmosphere; a mellow light shed by the descending sun; a faint,
odorous stirring of the warm wind, which made my brain throb as
though it would burst, so suggestive were all things of that half
remembered southern land. When Andalusia brushed past us, and
the light of her eyes entered my soul, the final knowledge came to
me, as had that other; I remembered all, and in a transport of joy I
called out her name. It was well for him that I cried out—my body
would have been a vacant tenement otherwise; but unless I also was
released from this hateful bondage it would have been useless, as I
could not, unless through the same condition which at first existed,
have reclaimed my own.
“Andalusia sought Wilbur, thinking herself deserted by me; she
was mad with jealousy long before he fled; she frightened him with
her ardent love, and I suppose when angered repelled him by her
wild bursts of passion; his cold nature could not appreciate the
tropical love of my Andalusia.
“That evening on the street, when I cried out ‘Andalusia,’ she
recognized my voice, but thought it some trick to deceive her; you
know that in our land, and especially among our people, there are
many incredible and wonderful things done to cheat the imagination;
but when I said in Romany, which seemed to drop from my tongue
without my will: “Be at the entrance of the park to-night at twelve; I,
your Antoni, will meet you;” she swept me a burning gaze of
wondering doubt, and disappeared. I met her as I promised, but
could not convince her that I spoke the truth; she scornfully taunted
me with the eyes, which she declared that I had stolen from the
summer sky, an open page whereon to print all my baby passions;
she lifted herself to look over my head, and mock me with her shrill
laughter; one thing only consoled me; I knew when she promised
again to meet me, that though she derided, she was not quite sure. It
seemed that Wilbur—Ugh! I cannot call him Petronelli—he has no
right to the name, he stole my body, but—I am I, in spite of it! Well,
he utterly refused her love; he resisted her caresses, and showed such
unmistakable aversion that he drove her wild; she upbraided him
fiercely, and—like a coward—he fled from her.
“What led him here? Was it the hand of the All Wise, or the
homing instinct implanted in man? He came, and you know how he
filled the place, and how perfectly the place fitted him.
 “For long weeks I failed to convince Andalusia; weeks that were
filled with the madness of despair, with the agony of vain pleading, of
being scorned and taunted with my baby skin, until every time that I
looked at Wilbur, I could scarcely restrain my hands.
“Andalusia watched his every movement; that night when she fired
the pistol she thought that she had found her rival, and had she been
less angry would have killed her; her emotion, only, rendering her
hand unsteady.
“I followed her and appointed a place of meeting; at first she would
not listen, but finally consented; saying that old Martini Sistine was
with her, hidden in the shrubbery. I was rejoiced, for old Martini
knows much that is hidden from all the rest of the world; she can talk
familiarly with those who have departed this life; and to her the stars
are as an open book. Martini knew that I spoke the truth, and in
trying to convince Andalusia she also explained much which I had
been unable to grasp. Andalusia at first would hear nothing of it, but
cried scornfully, touching the fair hair as though it were some vile
thing, and prodding my flushed cheek viciously:
“‘This is not my Antoni!’ Then said Martini severely:
“Daughter of the South, born in the wild wood among nature’s
sweetest mysteries, do you doubt the first one which touches you?
For shame! If you saw a branch lopped off the tree under which you
sat, would you cry out that this was no longer the same tree? If you
should lose your fair right arm, are you not still Andalusia? If you
were bereft of both limbs and arms, and nothing but the disfigured
trunk remained, you would still be Andalusia. It is the within, which
is in reality the personality. Your Antoni is the same, but he is
unfortunate in having to bear this effeminate body; have you no pity
for his misfortune?”
“Then my Andalusia wept on my neck, and begged forgiveness for
all her unkind words; and though she cried continually: ‘Poor
Antoni!’ I was so happy that for a time I forgot all about my hateful
body.
“We are going to our own land; Martini, my Andalusia and I.
Wilbur can take the cool-blooded Edith and welcome; their placid
imitation of love is like ice to fire as compared to the glorious tumult
of passion which swells in the hearts of the unfettered children of the
free wild wood.
“I have taken this money and the diamonds, yet—I am no thief!
That portion of myself, known to the sight as Arthur Lombard—the
hateful body, thrust upon me without my consent—I am compelled
to retain against my will; that body has a right to maintenance, and I
have taken of Arthur Lombard’s money to care for it. I have left the
balance to the soul of Arthur Lombard; and as a last request, I ask
him to be kind to the body of poor, cheated Antoni Petronelli.”
 LIMITATIONS.

A brown faced, tangle-haired, barefooted little girl; a long country

road, its yellow clay beaten into powder, which rose with every gust
of wind into whirling eddies, and spitefully enveloped each passer-by
in a grimy cloak, and followed after each vehicle like an abhorrent
specter. Long rows of maple cast their cool shadows from either side;
raspberries and blackberries grew in the corners of the old rail fence;
a narrow footpath cut like a yellow thread into the thick green sod;
here and there a sweet-william held up its fragrant head; and in the
field beyond the long rows of corn rustled their broad leaves, and
murmured together.
Thella swung her sunbonnet by the strings, and gave a little hop-
skip-and-jump for very joy of living. She stopped instantly, as she
heard, “Thella! Thella!” called in a fretful, rasping tone.
“Yes’m,” answered she, at the top of a high-pitched, young voice,
as she ran rapidly toward a stout, red-faced woman, who stood
leaning over the top of the gate.
“I declare to goodness, you make me think of a turkey! It’s no
wonder that you are the ugliest young one living! Look at that mop of
hair, and that slit in your dress!” said she, her voice raised to a shrill
scream.
Thella dropped her head, and drew her black brows together
sullenly. “Why don’t you put that sunbonnet on your head? Oh, drat
you, get out of my sight, you little imp!”
Thella had been digging one brown toe in the dust, but at the
conclusion of the tirade she darted past the woman, dextrously
dodged a blow and ran into the house. She flew upstairs into the
attic; there was a little square window, draped over with cobwebs;
Thella had rubbed the grime off the lower panes, but she left the
cobwebs—she called them her curtains, and the spiders her little lace
makers. From out the rubbish she had long ago hunted a mirror,
with a very wavy surface. She crouched on the floor with her head
bowed upon the window-sill, sobbing bitterly; the most forlorn little
thing imaginable.
Her stepmother’s voice faintly reached her:
“Thella! Thella! Drat the child! she’d wear the patience out of a
saint!” whether she intended to imply that she was a saint or not, I
do not know.
Thella only gave a little flout: “You can split your old throat for all
that I care.”
Anger dried her tears; she softly crept across the loose boards of
the floor, and brought her looking-glass to the window. She sat
looking at herself mournfully; it was not a pretty picture upon which
she gazed; a grimy, tear-stained face, as brown as a coffee-berry,
heavy black eyebrows, arched over a pair of intense gray eyes; the
wavy glass had a trick of elongating the visage which made it very
comical; added to this, her hair hung like a black cloud all about her
face. She threw down the glass in disgust:
“Thella Armitage, you do look like a little Indian! Oh, what shall I
do?” her chin beginning to quiver again; but presently she rested her
face on her hand, and sat gazing at the fleecy clouds chasing each
other across the sky, and wandered off into dreamland; these were
her soldiers, and the great white cloud with a rose-colored border
was her chariot, and she was going:
“Thella! Thella Armitage! If you don’t come down here and wash
these dishes I’ll skin you,” called her stepmother, up the stairs.
“All right, maybe a decent skin would grow on then,” muttered
Thella. She went down into the hot kitchen and washed the dishes;
but every minute she stole a glance at her pretty clouds through the
open window. “What are you gawping at? ’tend to your work,” said
Mrs. Armitage crossly. She did not mean to be actually unkind, but
she had no appreciation of another’s feelings, much less of Thella’s
dreamy, poetic temperament. Thella shot her an angry look, and
sullenly went on with her work, the beauty all taken out of the
clouds, her fairylike day dreams buried in gloom.
No sooner were the dishes washed than Thella was set to knit her
stint; oh, how she hated that interminable stocking! The rounds
seemed endless; and if she thought about something nice for just one
little minute the stitches would drop and run away down; then Mrs.
Armitage would angrily yank the stocking out of her hand, pull the
needles out, and ravel out all her evening’s work. When at last the
hateful task was accomplished, and the old clock sitting in its little
niche in the wall—like a miniature shrine for the Virgin Mary—rang
out its nine slow strokes, she would run up to the old east chamber
where she slept, in an agony of stifled rage.
Mrs. Armitage would allow her only a small bit of candle: “You’re
not going to read those good-for-nothing books; you jest go to bed
and go to sleep; I want you to be fit for something in the morning.”
So she was forced to hurry in between the sheets, after blowing out
the light, often to lie there wakeful; dreaming such lovely, impossible
dreams by the hour. On moonless nights the skurry of a rat, or the
cracking of the old timbers in cold weather, would send little shivers
creeping up and down her back; but when the silvery moon shone in
at the curtainless window she would lie wide-eyed, riding to strange,
unheard of countries on its silver bars.
One happy day a neighbor loaned her the “Arabian Knights;” she
hurried through her tasks, which were neither short nor easy, and
ran joyously up to the garret; a pane of glass had been broken, and a
pewee had flown in and built her nest in an old basket suspended
from the rafters. So careful was Thella not to frighten the mother
bird, that she fearlessly sat on the window-sill and called to her four
little children: “Phebe! Phebe!”
Thella rested her chin on her hand thoughtfully:
“I don’t see how you know them apart if they are all named Phebe,”
said she.
She was far away in an enchanted land with Alladin, and did not
hear Mrs. Armitage creep up to her; the first intimation she had of
her presence was an awful blow on the ear which made her see stars,
and knocked the book half across the room.
“You lazy, trifling trollope! I’ll learn you to spend your time
reading such trash. Now you march downstairs, and if you can’t find
anything else to do go out in the garden and weed them onion beds,”
saying which she pounced viciously upon the book.
 “Pa said I need not weed them until the sun went down, and it got
cooler,” faltered Thella.
“Your father is learnin’ you to be as lazy as he is himself,” snapped
Mrs. Armitage; “you march, now, and no more of your sass.”
Thella rose and pushed back her heavy hair, preparatory to
following her.
“Will you please let me put away the book?” she said.
“I’ll please put it in the fire,” she replied viciously.
“Oh, no, no! Don’t, it isn’t mine!” she cried frantically as she made
a vain endeavor to reach it.
Mrs. Armitage gave her another resounding slap: “There, take that,
you little cat!”
As she commenced descending the stairs Thella darted before her,
and hurriedly ran to the field to her father; she caught hold of his
hands and pulled the hoe away from him.
“Don’t daughter, ma will be mad if I don’t keep to work,” he said
pathetically.
“Oh, pa, I’ll hoe in your place; do go and take my book away from
her, she’s going to burn it, and it isn’t mine at all; it’s Willie Burt’s!”
she cried in agitated incoherence. “Oh, hurry, pa! Don’t let her burn
it,” her voice full of tears. He stooped for one instant and laid his
hand caressingly upon her head.
“Poor little Thella,” he murmured, then walked hurriedly up to the
house. Thella looked after him sorrowfully:
“Poor pa!” she said, with a quiver in her voice.
Presently he came slowly back through the broiling sunshine and
took the hoe from her hand.
“Well?” said Thella interrogatively.
He shook his head: “’Twasn’t no use, she had it in the stove.”
“The mean, old thing—” began Thella.
“Tut-tut; she’s your mother,” said pa gently.
“She isn’t my mother; my little mother is dead!” She began very
hotly, but ended with choking sobs.
“I wouldn’t cry, little daughter; we must make the very best of
things when we can’t change them,” he said with a sad resignation
more pathetic by far than tears. He took his old red bandana from his
pocket and wiped the drops from her flushed cheeks,
compassionately.
“Well! You are the shif’lesses pair I ever did see,” said Mrs.
Armitage shrilly. “Thella, if you don’t go at that onion bed I’ll take a
strap to you.”
Thella gave her a look of bitter hatred, and walked sullenly to her
work. The sun beat down with terrible force; Thella knelt
unprotected on the edge of the bed, and pulled the offending weeds;
her father hoed the long rows of corn steadily, only pausing to wipe
away the perspiration as it trickled down his face. Mrs. Armitage,
under the shade of an apple tree whose boughs bent low with yellow
fruit, gossiped with a neighbor.
“Pa! pa!” called Thella softly, he paused and looked at her. “Can’t I
have an apple? I’m so warm and thirsty.”
Low as was the call, Mrs. Armitage heard it; “’Tend to your work;
you always want to be chankin’ something. Warm! it’s just nice and
pleasant.”
Pa dropped his hoe between the long rows, and gathering half a
dozen apples off the tree, called Thella to him: “It is nice and cool
here, under the shade of the tree.”
He sat on the green bank, and took his little daughter on his knee;
he pushed the thick hair from her warm face; she ate her apple, her
head lying contentedly on her father’s shoulder. Mrs. Armitage went
on gossiping with the neighbor, interspersing her remarks with flings
about “People too lazy to breathe—humoring that good-for-nothing,”
etc. If Pa Armitage heard, he made no sign, beyond pressing his arm
a little closer about Thella’s waist.
Time went on. Thella was fourteen; her life was a horrible routine
—up before dawn in the winter, and before the sun in summer, to
milk and churn, cook and scrub; no thoughts expressed in her
hearing except those relating to eating, working, and the continuous
bad conduct of the neighbors—this last always sufficient for a whole
day’s tirade. In summer it was not so bad; there were always the
whispering trees, and the fragrant flowers; the green grass, and the
busy booming of the bumble bees; the lowing of the solemn-eyed
cows, that came at her call. Best of all was the walk down the long,
shady lane, through the grassy dell, where, in the limpid brook, the
funny crabs crawled backward; and the saucy, gray squirrel chattered
at her from the beech and chestnut trees on the hillside; still an
added joy when “pa” followed his little girl, telling her of his coming
by putting his crooked little finger in his mouth, and thus whistling
shrilly. Fast as her nimble feet could carry her she ran to him, and
nestling her hand in his begged him to tell her of her very own
mamma. Oh, the delightful walks and talks; the sun hanging low in
the west and the soft wind just stirring the leaves; a little later the
softly falling dew, the gathering shadows, a belated bird hopping
from branch to branch with drowsy chirp; a rabbit darting across the
path, causing Thella to glance over her shoulder in quick affright and
cling a little closer to “pa’s” hand at sight of the dark shadows all
around her; then the great red moon lifting his round face above the
treetops, lighting up the openings, and leaving the shadows darker
by contrast. The sweet silence seemed deepened by the shrill cry of
the cicada, and the plaintive call of the whip-poor-will; at last pa
would say, “We must hurry home, we shall get a scolding.”
Thella would sigh and answer: “Yes, pa, but this is so nice,” with a
loving cuddle closer to his side.
Well they knew the remark Mrs. Armitage was sure to make about
their “trapezing” all over the fields.
Not long after this, all through the day Thella had been working
very hard, and in the edge of the evening sat down on the porch to
rest. Pa had just come in from the field looking worn out; Thella’s
heart ached as she looked at him: “Poor pa, you are tired out,” she
said.
“Yes, pretty tired, daughter!” he answered; hearing Mrs. Armitage
coming they said no more.
She was in a fearful humor; she had quarreled with one of the
neighbors, and seemed to think that the fight extended to her own
family. It was quite dark on the porch, and Thella sat in the shadow
so that she did not observe her.
“Where is Thella?” she angrily asked of pa, as she came in.
“Not very far away, I guess,” he answered mildly.
“Out trapezing somewhere, I suppose! I seen her whispering to
that Judd Tompkins, more’n once; she’ll come to no good, I’ll tell
you!”
“Sho! Sho! What’s the use of bein’ so hard, ma? Didn’t you never
talk to the boys when you was young?” asked pa very mildly.
“I wish to goodness I’d never seen a pesky man; of all the shif’less,
onery things a man’s the wust; and you’re about the laziest of the
whole bilin’.”
Pa made no reply, but Thella rose up, white and wrathful; it is not
the great things which rouse us to the depth of feeling, but the
continued pin-pricking; the nag-nagging which drives us to
desperation. Thella could take anything directed against herself; she
thought many times that she had grown so used to it that it did not
hurt much, but pa, poor pa, she could not hear the good patient soul
nagged so, without a word of protest.
“You just let pa alone! You can abuse me all you like, but you
needn’t misuse him on my account, he is not to blame for my
shortcomings;” she sidled up to him, and clasped his arm with her
two hands.
“Hoity-toity! I’m glad I have your permission to express my
feelings to you, my high-flown miss; and with or without your
consent, I’ll say what I please to your pa—you little trollope, you!”
She made an angry dive at Thella, who only threw up her arm and
warded off the blow: “You had best not strike me,” she said in a
peculiarly quiet tone.
“Come away, come away, daughter; don’t quarrel with her. Make
the best of it! We can’t seem to alter things, so let’s make the best of
it,” said the old man tremulously.
Thella was trembling with anger; she realized that she had made it
worse for pa instead of helping him, and her heart was filled with
regret and bitterness.
“Pa, you don’t have to endure such abuse; set your foot down and
make her behave herself.”
“Oh, Thella, I couldn’t! Don’t you see, daughter, that I can’t quarrel
with a woman? Let us take a walk down the lane,” and hand in hand
they went. Nothing further was said on the subject until they turned
to go in; pa drew a long sigh: “I wish your ma had a lived, but I made
my bed—” he broke off abruptly, then continued in a trembling tone,
“I thought I was doing the best for my little girl to give her a new ma
—you see, a man that’s had a good wife is lonely, and beside, he don’t
know just what to do for a little girl—and I thought—I thought—” the
old voice quavered into silence piteously.
Thella stopped short and laid her hands upon his shoulders
affectionately: “Yes, I know—dear pa, you are so kind; but pa—you
are mistaken—you are not making the best of it; there is no good at
all in this way of living; it’s just slavery for the bite you eat, and a bed
to sleep in—that’s full of thorns; even your food is thrown at you as
though you were a dog, and where are all the books we used to have?
One might as well be a fool, if they can have no use for their brains,”
she ended bitterly.
“Yes; she’s put all the books away; I’m afraid she’s burned them.
Your ma liked books, Thella; we used to take such comfort reading
together, but Mandy says it makes me lazy—p’raps it does. Mandy is
a wonderful manager, Thella.”
“Very wonderful! She can make everybody else work while she
gossips with the neighbors,” answered Thella indignantly.
“Sho, sho! Daughter you mustn’t talk that way! She’s your ma—no,
she’s your stepma, you know. We must make the best of it,” he
iterated weakly. Thella made no reply, though her heart burned
hotly; what could she say to this crushed spirit that would not add to
his trouble?
Before she let him go in she said hesitatingly; “Pa, I am going
away; she is cross to you on my account, and—and—oh, pa, I do want
to go to school; there’s so much that I want to know!” she said
breathlessly.
He stood as though stunned: “What shall I do without you?” he
cried despairingly.
Thella trembled with excitement; her heart was torn between the
desire to go and the longing to remain; how could she leave her poor,
heartbroken old father? but—she honestly believed that she—Thella
never called her anything else if she could avoid it—would be less
unkind to pa, if she were gone. Thella knew very well that a
rancorous jealousy added force to her misuse of him; and—oh, she
could not go on in this way; empty day dreams no longer sufficed her
bright intelligence; she hungered and thirsted for knowledge; he had
a vague understanding of higher and better things than met her
everyday sight. She could no longer keep her eyes earthward; even
when she cast them down for one instant, all things spoke to her of
that higher life, and filled her with unutterable longing. Something of
this she tried to tell pa between her sobs.
He let his hand wander gently over her crown of hair, as he said,
“Yes—yes, daughter; I know how you feel. I used to have just such
thoughts, and ma—your ma—used to make me feel as though I could
see right up into God’s heart, and I knew—I knew—that I could live
well enough to reach Him, sometime, I should if ma hadn’t have
died; but now—I just have to make the best of it,” he finished
despondently.
“But pa, hadn’t you ought to try now—for ma’s sake?”
“How can I? I never have time even to think. No, no, daughter, I
must just make the best of it,” he reiterated wearily.
She had no words of comfort that had not in them a sound of
mockery, so she said nothing beyond thanking him for his consent,
and as she kissed him lovingly, she patted his withered cheek with
her toil-roughened palms: “Poor pa! Poor pa! I love you dearly,” she
said.
A tear stole down his furrowed face and wet her hands; he
tremblingly murmured, “God bless my daughter!”
The next morning Mrs. Armitage screamed in vain to Thella:
“Drat her, I’ll take a strap to her, if she’s bigger’n the side of a
house.”
When at last she threw open the door of the poor, bare little
chamber, she found it empty. For once words failed her—she sat
down on the stairs gasping.
Pa wisely kept out of her way. She missed her servant, but poor pa
went about more silent than ever; it seemed that in one short month
he grew visibly gray and bent; he worked on hopelessly through heat
and cold. The only smile that ever crossed his face was when he
received a thick letter from the village postmaster; he would hide it
away in his inside pocket with trembling hands for fear Mandy would
see it; a little spot of color coming into his thin old cheeks at the
thought; at nightfall he would wander down the lane where he used
to walk with Thella, and just to make believe that she would come to
meet him, he would crook his little finger and whistle shrilly. Oh, the
comfort those letters were to him; after reading them over and over
again, he would hide them away in a hollow log.
Thella always wrote to him that she was well and happy; she told
him nothing of the hard labor and bitter disappointments she met;
her situation had been assured to her before she left home, but there
were many things that were hard to bear; not the least of which was a
terrible homesickness. Then, too, when she came to go to school, she
found that others of the same age were far in advance of her in their
studies, and consequently looked down upon her. Patient effort at
last brought success; by this time her homesick feeling had worn
away; she still longed to see her father, but had ever the hope before
her of a home in which “pa” should have the warmest corner in
winter and the brightest window when he wished it.
Later on she wrote that she was teaching; pa whispered it softly to
himself: “My Thella is a schoolmam!” Such innocent pride as pa took
in the fact.
After four years she wrote to him that she was married.
“Married! My little girl, married!” His old face puckered up
queerly; he did not know whether to laugh or cry. She wrote that she
was very happy. After that the burden of every letter was, “Pa, do
come and see me.”
Sitting by the fire one evening, late in the fall, pa said, “Mandy, I
am going to Adairville to-morrow.”
“I should like to know if you are possessed, you’ll do no such thing!
What do you want to go there for?”
“I want to see Thella; it’s a long time since I seen her!”
deprecatingly.
“Well, you won’t go trapezing after her; she run away, and you’ll
not follow her.”
“She’s my child, you hadn’t ought to be so hard, Mandy,” quavered
the old man.
“Well, you’ll not go, I tell you! you ain’t goin’ to spend no money
running after that trollope!” answered she.
Pa sighed, but said no more; he had submitted to her rule so long
that the thought of opposition did not occur to him; his shoulder
seemed to bend as if beneath a heavy load; his gray head drooped
lower and lower; a heavy tear or two followed the deep furrows down
his cheek.
The next morning he seemed scarcely able to stir, and though her
wrath enveloped him all day he seemed not to mind; he appeared
like one in a dream.
When chore-time came again, she said sharply, “Ain’t you goin’ to
get them cows to-night? you act as though your wits was wool-
gatherin’—or like a tarnal fool!”
“Mandy, I’ve always did the best I could!” he said quaveringly, as
he turned away.
“It’s poor enough, the Lord knows,” snapped she.
When pa reached the entrance to the lane he stood lost in thought
for several minutes—he had forgotten all about the cows—suddenly
he straightened up: “I’ve a good mind to do it! I vum, I will!” he
laughed outright—a cracked, cackling laugh, that had a pitiful sound;
his weak, watery eyes began to glisten; this time instead of whistling
once, he whistled twice shrilly.
“Daughter, I’m coming; your old pa’s coming!” he cried gleefully.
He sat down on the hollow log where he kept his letters; he took
them out, handling them over fondly; from the last one received he
drew out a bill; he spelled the letter out laboriously:

“Dear Pa: Here is a little money to get you a suit of new clothes;
and in my next letter I will send you enough for your fare, for, dear
pa, I must see you.”

He laid the letter on his knee, smoothing it caressingly.

“Yes, daughter, so you shall; I couldn’t never wait ’till I got another
letter; so I will go just as far as this money’ll carry me and I’ll walk
the rest of the way. Lord! What’ll Mandy say?”
Poor pa did not know as much about traveling as do some
children, so he had very little idea of his undertaking.
Two weeks later Thella was one afternoon sitting in her pleasant
room. The postman had just passed, which set her to wondering why
she did not hear from pa; she ever had the dread before her that his
burden would become greater than he could bear, and that she would
see him no more. A servant came hurriedly into the room:
“Mrs. Webster, there is an old man at the door who insists upon
seeing you; I think he is crazy, he acts so queer.”
“Where is he?” asked Thella, rising.
“At the front door, where he has no business to be, of course! Oh,
he said tell you that his name is Armitage——”
“Oh, it is pa—it’s pa!” cried Thella, wildly oblivious that she had
nearly thrown the astonished girl over.
She seized the toilworn hands of the forlorn-looking old man; she
threw her arms around his sunburned neck, and hugged him
ecstatically; she fairly dragged him into the room, so great was her
excited joy; she pulled forward the easiest chair, and playfully
pushed him into it; she patted his hands, and kissed his snowy,
straggling hair; she had no words to express her joy, grief, and
surprise, except to say over and over again, “Poor pa! Poor pa! Oh, I
am so glad to see you!”
He looked at her with dim old eyes, his shaking hand held in hers;
“Is this pretty lady my little daughter?” he asked with a happy laugh.
“Oh, you awful flatterer,” cried Thella gayly.
Pa leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction: “This chair is
awful comfortable,” he closed his eyes wearily.
“You are tired, pa, and I do not let you rest!” she said with quick
compunction.
“Yes, I am tired; it was a long walk. Mandy wouldn’t let me come,
so I ran away; I wouldn’t quarrel with her, so I had to make the best
of it.”
“Walk! Did you walk?”
“’Most a hundred miles; it took me a long spell, but I’m glad I
come. When I shut my eyes it seems as though I’m talking to your
ma; your voice sounds just as hers did.”
The next morning when Thella went to call him to breakfast, he lay
babbling of the green lane and Thella, his little girl; occasionally
crying out piteously, “Don’t be so hard, Mandy; she’s only a little
girl!” Then again, tears would course down his worn cheeks: “Oh, if
ma had only lived!” Another time: “Yes, daughter; it is hard to bear,
but we must make the best of it.”
It was a whole month later, and pa was lying back in an invalid
chair, his head propped with soft cushions, his old face looking very
placid. “What a sight of nice books you have, daughter; it would be a
pleasure to stay here all my life!”
“That’s just what you are going to do, pa.” “Oh, I can’t! You know
how Mandy will scold, but I’m goin’ to take all the comfort I can,
while I do stay.”
Thella leaned over him, smoothing his thin, gray hair as though he
were a child, a wistful tenderness in her tone:
“Mandy’ll never scold you again, pa.”
Pa sat upright, a fitful color coming into his thin cheeks: “What do
you mean? Has—something—” stammered he, nervously.
“There, pa, don’t fret; yes, Mandy is—dead;” caressing the hand
she held tenderly. “She took a severe cold, and was sick only three or
four days.” A tear coursed down his cheek:
“Poor Mandy! Perhaps she didn’t mean to be so hard; we mustn’t
judge for others, must we, now?” he questioned tremulously.
He sat silent for a long time, at last he said, “You’ve everything nice
here, and the best man that ever lived; you’ve learned so many things
—I don’t ’spose you would care to walk in the old lane where my little
girl and I used to walk; but I should like to see it once more, and then
I’d be content to stay with you the rest of my days.”
Thella gave his hand a loving little pat: “Just hurry up and get well,
and we will go and make believe that it is old times once more.”
It was months before pa was able to go, but at last they walked
down the lane in the sweet June twilight; as of old, “bob-white”
whistled to his shy brown mate; and the gray rabbit lifted his long
ears inquiringly, exactly as in the past; the yellow buttercups laughed
up amid the short, sweet grass just the same, and yet Thella felt a
depressing sadness, and pa sighed sorrowfully: “One kind of gets
used to things, Thella—no need to hurry home now, is there? It
makes me sorry and lonesome.” Thella pressed his arm
sympathetically, and they silently walked up the lane, past the cows,
ruminatively chewing their cud; past the flock of chickens, with their
many bickerings, as they sought their roost; past the silent house and
into the street, closing the gate softly and reverently behind them,
even as they closed the door of the past life.
 A TALE OF TWO PICTURES.

It is a question open to discussion whether it is a blessing to be

born with a highly sensitive organization, an artistic taste—and
poverty.
The reverse was the opinion of Philip Aultman. Life seemed a
failure, every venture foredoomed; and this sunny June morning,
when all nature seemed to give the lie to evil prognostications, he sat
in his room with the curtains of his soul pulled down, brooding over
his misfortunes, not once considering that he was in fault. A maple
grew just outside the window, and a little branch tapped on the
uplifted sash coaxingly; the soft wind whispered through its
branches, and entering lifted his curly brown locks shyly; a bluebird
tilted its bright head, and swelled its throat in song of enticement; he
lifted his face from the melancholy arch of his arms, and said as if in
answer to the appeal: “I will go out, this is of no use! Anything is
better than staying within brooding over my trouble!”
As he wandered about the sweet wind seemed to blow away much
of his despondency, although he still smarted with indignation
against fate. Yet—what is fate? The evil we bring upon ourselves. We
clasp our hands above our heads, prostrate ourselves with our
foreheads in the dust, and say with the devout Oriental: “Kismet!”
Thus we are absolved from all blame.
Philip had been poor all his life; not miserably indigent, though
many things which go to make life comfortable were lacking. He had
inherited a taste for art from his father; hard work had been the rule
of his life, and as a result he was a very creditable artist, though not
by any means entering into the soul of the work. It is one thing to
paint a fair picture, to write an acceptable story; it is quite another
thing to put your very self into your work, and endow it with a subtle
life which is past all explaining.
 When he was twenty-five he inherited money—worse for him; he
thought that henceforward life held no need for exertion; as though
food and raiment constitute all for which we should exert ourselves.
He fancied that happiness lay in two things; going to sleep, and
letting the enervating wind of pleasure drift him whithersoever it
would; or getting astride of the billow of self-will, to ride over
everything. He did not find his mistake until slice by slice his
inheritance had been cut away from him, and he looked with
astonished gaze upon those who, under the guise of friendship, had
fastened themselves upon him in his prosperity, and now stared at
him with unseeing eyes. He looked upon it as the worst misfortune
which could have befallen him. He was no more shortsighted than
the majority of persons; because a certain condition brings present
discomfort, we rebel against it as being to our great detriment; most
frequently we rebel without reason. The loss was a blessing to him,
against which he railed, beat, and bruised himself.
Just at this point I take up his history.
He wandered about the woods all day, sometimes throwing
himself on the grass to look up into the immeasurable depths of the
ether; again, idly throwing pebbles into the flashing water; but
during all that sweet, restful afternoon his soul was awakening from
its lethargy; thoughts which seemed to him a glimpse of the divine,
surprised his hitherto dormant intellectuality; he began to realize
that life held possibilities of which he had never caught a glimpse.
Evil is but good gone astray; it is the oscillation of the pendulum;
Philip had reached the adverse limit, and the pendulum of its own
momentum was returning to the center of gravity. As deadly nausea
is the precursor of a cleansed stomach, so he felt a thorough disgust
with all the world, which meant to him—as it does to every one of us
—the people with whom he was in daily association; he indignantly
compared them to a flock of geese—all gabble and greed. It is a hard
truth, that if we will submit to be plucked we can soon find all the
worst characteristics of the worst people. He thought savagely that
he desired never to see one of them again.
He took a small memorandum book from his pocket, and setting
down a few figures ran them over rapidly; he laughed harshly, a
sound that held the threat of a sob: “Six hundred dollars! Well, that
is a great showing from fifty thousand! No wonder the elegant Mabel
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