IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND

O'Rourke's was full: its long bar, shaped something like the letter J, supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices. In one corner, a remote corner where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his woes.

"She drove me out, Soapy! She drove me away from her!" he repeated for the hundredth time. The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye, and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with every sip.

"She told me t' leave her! She drove me away from her—"

"So you come here, eh, Kid?" drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering. "You skinned over here t' Bud f' comfort, an' you'll sure get it, Kid—in a glass!"

"Bud's always good t' me—"

"'S right, Kid, 's right, Bud's an angel sure, though he ain't got no wings yet. Oh, Bud'll comfort ye—frequent, an' by an' by he'll take ye back t' Hermy good an' soused; you can get your own back that ways—eh, Kid? It'll sure make her sit up an' take notice when she sees ye come in reelin' an' staggerin'—eh, Kid? An' to-morrow you'll be sick mebbe, an' she'll have ter nurse ye—oh, Bud'll fix things fer ye, I guess." Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

"I ain't goin' home soused!" he muttered.

"No?" said Soapy, faintly surprised. "Bud'll feel kind o' hurt, won't he?"

"I ain't goin' home soused—not for Bud nor nobody else!"

"Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in."

"I guess I will," said Spike, rising.

But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M'Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.

"Why, it's—it's—Bud!" stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, "my God! It's—Bud!"

"'S right, Kid!" nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and, though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly, and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.

"Ain't—dead, is he?" some one questioned.

"Dead—not much!" answered Soapy, "guess it's goin' to take more 'n that t' make Bud a stiff 'un. Besides, Bud ain't goin' t' die that way, no, not—that way, I reckon. Dead? Watch this!" So saying, he reached Spike's half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop, poured the raw spirit down upon M'Ginnis's pale, blood-smirched face.

"Dead?" said Soapy. "Well, I guess not—look at him!"

And, sure enough, M'Ginnis stirred, groaned, opened swollen eyelids and, aided by some ready arm, sat up feebly. Then he glanced up at the ring of peering faces and down upon his rent and dusty person, and fell to a sudden, fierce torrent of curses; cursing thus, his strength seemed to return all at once, for he sprang to his feet and with clenched fists drove through the crowd, and lifting a flap in the bar, opened a door beyond and was gone.

"No," said Soapy, shaking his head, "I guess Bud ain't dead—yet, fellers. I wonder who gave him that eye, Kid? An' his mouth too! Did ye pipe them split lips! Kind o' painful, I guess. An' a couple o' teeth knocked out too! Some punchin', Kid! An' Bud kind o' fancied them nice, white teeth of his a whole heap!"

Here the bartender glanced toward the corner where they stood, and, lifting an eyebrow, jerked his thumb at the door behind him with the words: "Kid, I reckon Bud wants ye."

For a moment Spike hesitated then, lifting the mahogany flap, crossed the bar, and opened the door.

"Guess I'll come along, Kid," and, hands in pockets, Soapy followed.

They found M'Ginnis sprawling at a table and scowling at the knuckles of his bruised right hand while at his elbow were a bottle and two glasses. He had washed the blood and dirt from him, had brushed and straightened his dusty garments, but he couldn't hide the cuts and bruises that disfigured his face, nor his scratched and swollen throat.

"What you here for?" he demanded, as Soapy closed the door, "didn't send for you, did I?"

"No, that's why I come, Bud."

"But, say, Bud, what—what's been th' matter?" stammered Spike, his gaze upon M'Ginnis's battered face, "who's been—"

"Matter? Nothin'! I had a bit of a rough-house as I come along—"

"'S right," nodded Soapy, "you sure look it! Never seen a fatter eye—"

"Well, what you got t' beef about?"

"Nothin', Bud, only—"

"Only what?"

"It's kind o' tough you losin' them couple o' teeth—or is it three?"

M'Ginnis turned on him with a snarl. "A-r-r-, you—! Some day I'm goin' t' kick the insides out o' ye!"

"Some day, Bud, sure. I'll be waitin'! Meantime why not get some doctor-guy t' put ye face back in shape—gee, I hate t' see ye—you look like a butcher's shop! An' them split lips pains some, I guess!"

Here, while M'Ginnis choked in impotent rage, Soapy lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and held out the packet.

"Try a coffin-nail, Bud? No? Well, I guess y' couldn't smoke good with a mouth on ye like that."

"Who did it, Bud?" questioned Spike eagerly. "Who was it?"

"Hush up, Kid, hush up!" said Soapy, viewing M'Ginnis's cuts and bruises with glistening eyes. "I guess that guy's layin' around somewheres waitin' f'r th' coroner—Bud wouldn't let him make such a holy mess of his face an' get away with it—not much! Bud's a killer, I know that—don't I, Bud?"

"You close up that dog's head o' yours, Soapy, or by—"

"'S all right, Bud, 's all right. Don't get peeved; I'll close up tighter 'n a clam, only—it's kinder tough about them teeth—"

"Are ye goin' t' cut it out or shall—"

"Aw, calm down, Bud, calm down! Take a drink; it'll do ye good." And filling a glass with rye whisky, Soapy set it before M'Ginnis, who cursed him, took it up, and turned to Spike.

"Fill it up, Kid," he commanded.

"Not me, Bud, I—I ain't here for that," said Spike. "I come t' tell ye as some dirty guy's been an' blown th' game on me t' Hermy; she—she knows everything, an' to-night she—drove me away from her—"

"Did she, Kid, oh, did she?" said M'Ginnis, a new note of eagerness in his voice. "Drove ye out onto th' streets, Kid? That's dam' hard on you!"

"Yes, Bud, I—guess she—don't want me around—"

"Kind o' looks that way!" nodded M'Ginnis, and filling Spike's glass, he put it into the boy's unwilling fingers. "Take a drink, Kid; ye sure need it!" said he.

"'S right," murmured Soapy, "told ye Bud 'ud comfort ye, didn't I, Kid?"

"So Hermy's drove ye away?" said M'Ginnis, "throwed ye out—eh?"

"She sure has, Bud, an' I—Oh, I'm miserable as hell!"

"Why, then, get some o' Bud's comfort into ye, Kid," murmured Soapy. "Lap it up good, Kid; there's plenty more—in th' bottle!"

"Let him alone," growled M'Ginnis, "he don't want you buttin' in!"

"'S right, too, Bud!" nodded Soapy, "he's got you, ain't he? An' you—got him, ain't you?"

"I didn't think Hermy 'ud ever treat me—like this!" said Spike tearfully.

"You mean—throwin' ye out into th' streets, Kid? Why, I been expectin' it!"

"Expectin' it?" repeated Spike, setting down his glass and staring, "why?"

"Well, she's a girl, ain't she, an' they're all th' same, I reckon—"

"An' Bud knows all about girls, Kid!" murmured Soapy. "Bud's wise t' all their tricks—ain't you, Bud?"

"But whatcher mean?" cried Spike. "What ye mean about expectin' it?"

"Well, she don't want ye no more, does she?" answered M'Ginnis, his bruised hands fierce clenched, his voice hoarse and thick with passion. "She's got some one else now—ain't she? She's—in love—ain't she? She's all waked up an' palpitatin' for—for that dam'—" he choked, and set one hand to his scratched throat.

"What d'ye mean, Bud?"

"Ah!" said Soapy, softer than before, "I'm on, Bud; you put me wise! He means, Kid, as Hermy's in love with th' guy as has just been punchin' hell out of him—he means your pal Geoff." With a hoarse, strangling cry, M'Ginnis leapt up, his hand flashed behind him, and—he stood suddenly very still, staring into the muzzle of the weapon Soapy had levelled from his hip.

"Aw, quit it, Bud, quit it," he sighed, "it ain't come t' that—yet. Besides, the Kid's here, so loose ye gun, Bud. No, give it t'me; you're a bit on edge t'night, I guess, an' it might go off an' break a glass or somethin'. So gimme ye gun, Bud. That's it! Now we can sit an' talk real sociable, can't we? Now listen, Bud—what you want is t' get your own back on this guy Geoff, an' what th' Kid wants is t' show his sister as he ain't a kid, an' what I want is t' give ye both a helpin' hand—"

But while M'Ginnis stood scowling at the imperturbable speaker, Spike rose, a little unsteadily, and turned to the door.

"I'll be gettin' on me way, Bud," said he.

"Where to?"

"Home."

"What! Back t' Hermy? After she turned ye out?"

"But I—I got t' go somewheres—"

"Well, you stay right here with me, Kid; I'll fix ye up all right—"

"'S right, Kid!" nodded Soapy. "Bud'll fix ye all right, same as I said; we'll have in another bottle when that's empty!"

"What about your sister, Kid?" demanded M'Ginnis fiercely. "What about Hermy an' this swell guy? Are y' goin' t' sit around an' do nothin'?"

"But Geoff's goin' t' marry her."

"Marry her! What, him? A millionaire marry your sister? You think so, an' she thinks so, but I know different!"

"But Hermy ain't that sort. Hermy's—good—"

"Sure, but this guy's got her fazed—she thinks he's square all right—she'll trust him an' then—s'posin' he ain't?"

"I—I ain't s'posin' nothin' like that!" said Spike, gulping his whisky.

"Well, s'posin' he's been meetin' her—in a wood—on the sly—eh? S'posin' they been huggin' an' kissin'—"

"Say now—you cut that out—" stammered Spike, his voice thick. "I tell ye—she ain't—that kind."

"S'posin'," continued Bud, refilling the lad's glass, "s'posin' I could show 'em to ye in a wood—eh? Ah! What she want t' meet him in a wood for, anyway—nice an' quiet, eh?"

"Say now, Bud, I—I ain't goin' t' listen t' no more!" said Spike, rising and clutching at the table, "I—I'm goin' home!" And swaying on unsteady feet, he turned to the door, but M'Ginnis gripped his shoulder.

"Wait a bit, Kid."

"N-no, I'm—goin' home—see!" said Spike, setting his jaw obstinately, "I'm goin'—r-right now!"

"That's just what you ain't!" snarled M'Ginnis. "Sit down! Hermy's only a work-girl—don't forget that, Kid—an' this guy's a millionaire. I guess he thinks Hermy'll do—till he gets tired of her an'—then what?"

"He—told me he's goin' t' marry her!" said Spike slowly, speaking with an effort, "an' I guess Geoff ain't a liar. An' I wanter—go home."

"Home—after she throwed ye out? Ain't ye got no pride?"

"Aw, say, Bud," sighed Soapy, "I guess d' Kid ain't soused enough for pride yet; sling another glass int' him—that'll fix him good, I reckon."

"I ain't g-goin' t' drink no more," said Spike, resting heavy head between his hands, "I guess I'll b-beat it home, f'lers."

"Bud," suggested Soapy, "ain't it about time you rang in little Maggie on him?"

M'Ginnis whirled upon the speaker, snarling, but Soapy, having lighted another cigarette, nudged Spike with a sharp elbow.

"Kid," said he, "Bud's goin' t' remind ye of little Maggie Finlay—you remember little Maggie as drowned herself." Spike lifted a pale face and stared from the placid Soapy to scowling Bud and shrank away.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely, "yes—I'll never forget how she looked—pale, so pale an' still, an' th' water—runnin' out of her brown curls—I—I'll never forget—"

"Well," growled M'Ginnis, "watch out Hermy don't end th' same way."

"No!" cried Spike. "Oh, my God—no!"

"What's she meetin' this millionaire in a wood for—on the sly?"

"She don't! Hermy ain't like that."

"I tell ye she does!" cried M'Ginnis, "an' him kissin' an' squeezin' her an'—nobody by—"

"It's a lie, Bud—she—she wouldn't!"

"S'posin' I could show ye? S'pose you see him there—waitin' for her—"

"If—if he means any harm t' Hermy, I—I'll kill him!"

"Aw—you wouldn't have the nerve, Kid!"

"I'd shoot him dead—by God, I would!"

"You ain't man enough, Kid."

"You g-give me a gun an' see. I'd shoot any one t' save my sister from—th' river. Oh, my God—I—I'd die for her, an' she don't love me no more!" And leaning his head upon his arms, Spike burst into a passion of tears. M'Ginnis watched him awhile, then, filling the boy's glass, clapped him on the shoulder and held it to his lips.

"Neck this, Kid," said he, "neck it all—so, that's good, ain't it? To-morrow evenin' I'll take ye where they meet; maybe you'll ketch him waitin' for her—but instead of Hermy an' kisses there'll be you an' me, hey? Will ye come?"

"S-sure I will if—you'll gimme—your gun."

"Pshaw, Kid—what's a kid like you want with a gun?"

"T'shoot him—"

"Eh? What? D'ye mean—?"

"If he's after my sister, I'll—kill him! I will, by God, I will!"

"'S right," nodded Soapy, staring into the boy's drawn face, "'s right, Bud; if ever I see a killer—th' Kid's sure it!"

Slowly the glare died out of Spike's eyes, his body drooped, and sighing, he pillowed his heavy head upon the table and fell into a drunken slumber. For a while the two men sat there hearkening to his stertorous breathing, then Soapy laughed soft and mirthlessly. "You sure got th' Kid all worked up an' mad enough t'—kill, eh, Bud? If he does get up against this guy Geoff—this guy Geoff's sure goin' t' cash in—sudden. Consequently, I guess you'll be wantin' paper an' pencil—both here!"

"What th' hell—" began M'Ginnis.

"Telegram, Bud. You're goin' t' frame up a nice little telegram t' this guy Geoff—oh, you sure are th' fly gazebo! A nice little message—'meet me t'morrow in the wood at sunset—Hermy?' Somethin' nice 'n' romantic like that'll bring him on th' run—eh, Bud? Then, 'stead of Hermy, comes you an' th' Kid, eh, Bud? An' 'stead of kisses, this guy Geoff gets a lead pill—eh, Bud? Th' Kid can't miss if you get him close enough. It sure is some scheme, Bud; I couldn't have thought it out better myself. Paper 'n' pencil, Bud—get busy an' I'll sashay over an' send it off for ye—t'night."

During Soapy's unusually long speech, M'Ginnis sat staring at him under frowning brows, but now he turned and scowled down at the sheet of paper, picked up the pencil, laid it by again and sat opening and shutting his big hands, while Soapy, lighting another cigarette, watched him furtively. When at last he spoke, his voice was thick, and he didn't lift his scowling gaze.

"Send that kid Larry t' me, an' say—you don't have t' come back."

"All right, Bud, all right—only you'd best send two telegrams t' make sure—one t' Fift' Av, an' one t' his place up th' river. S' long, Buddy!"

Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O'Rourke's, was swung to the wall in Soapy's grip.

"Aw—say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?"

"'S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram—quick!"

"Aw, say, what yer mean—'n' say, Bud told me to hustle, 'n' say—"

"Dig it out—quick!" said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing fiercely. "I want it—see?"

"But say—" whimpered Larry, "what'll Bud say—"

"Nothin'! Bud ain't goin' t' know. You take this instead—take it!" And Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy's limp hand, who took it whimpering.

"Bud tol' me t' bring it back."

"Well, you tell him you lost it."

"Not much—I'll skin right back an' tell him you pinched it."

"You won't, my sport, you won't!" said Soapy, and speaking, moved suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with the muzzle of Soapy's deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. "You ain't goin' t' say a word t' Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are ye?"

"No—no—"

"Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there—right there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an' see ye get them addresses right. S'long, Larry boy, be good now!" When the boy had scudded away, Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M'Ginnis's telegram and, being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.

"You got th' Kid, Bud," he murmured, "you got th' Kid—but if th' Kid gets the guy Geoff, why—I've sure got you, Bud—got ye sure as hell, Bud!"

OF HARMONY AND DISCORD

Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.'s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins's banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept "Sammy." Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master's champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:

"All dead men, Brim! Six of 'em between us—not bad going, what?"

"And very good fizz too, on the whole!" added Mr. Stevens. "I always sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I've obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, 'e 's played everything 'e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an' feelin'—now it's your turn—somethin'."

"Well," answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, "I used to know a very good song once, called 'Let's drownd all our sorrers and cares.' But good 'eavens! we can't drownd 'em in empty bottles, can we?"

"Oh, very good!" chuckled Mr. Jenkins, "oh, very prime! If I might suggest, there's nothin' like port—port's excellent tipple for drowndin' sorrer and downing care—what?"

"Port, sir?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, "we 'ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an' care in Noo York City. I'm proud of our port, sir, and I'm reckoned a bit of a connysoor—"

"Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!" nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, "a eddicated palate—what?"

"Cert'nly!" added Mr. Stevens, "an' here's two palates waitin', waitin' an' ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear."

"There's nothin' like port!" sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the empty champagne bottle, "nothin' like port, and there's Young Har 'ardly can tell it from sherry—oh, the Goth! the Vandyle! All this good stuff would be layin' idle if it wasn't for me! Young Har ain't got no right to be a millionaire; 'is money's wasted on 'im—he neglects 'is opportoonities shameful—eh, shameful! What I say is—what's the use of bein' a millionaire if you don't air your millions?"

Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a polite ecstasy of mirth.

"Oh, by Jove!" he gasped, "if that ain't infernal clever, I'll be shot! Oh, doocid clever I call it—what!"

"Er—by the way, Brim," said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the open window, "where does he happen to be to-night?"

"Where?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker, "where is Young Har, sir? Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I throws up my 'ands, and I answers you—'eavens knows! Young Har is a unknown quantity, sir—a will o' the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus fattus. At this pre-cise moment 'e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho or—a-sittin' outside on the lawn—which Gawd forbid! But there, don't let's talk of it. Come on down into the cellars, and we'll bring up enough port to drownd sorrer an' care all night."

"With all my heart!" said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.

"Ditto, indeed!" nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host's arm, and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.

Scarcely had their hilarious voices died away when a muscular brown hand parted the hangings of an open window, and Geoffrey Ravenslee climbed into the room. His rough clothes and shabby hat were powdered with dust, and he looked very much out of place amid his luxurious surroundings as he paused to glance swiftly from the bottles that decorated the carved mantel to those on table and piano. Then, light-treading, he crossed the room, and as the hilarious three were heard approaching, vanished in his turn.

"'Ere we are, Jubilee Port!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, setting down two cobwebbed bottles with elaborate care, "obleege me with the corkscrew, somebody."

"Won't forget as you promised us a song, Brim!" said Mr. Jenkins, passing the necessary implement.

"Oh, I won't disappoint ye," answered Mr. Brimberly, drawing the cork with a practised hand; "my father were a regular songster, a fair carollin' bird 'e were, sir."

"'Ow about 'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road'?" Mr. Stevens suggested.

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, pausing in the act of filling the glasses, "that's rather a—a low song, ain't it? What do you think, Mr. Jenkins?"

"Low?" answered Mr. Jenkins, "it's as low as—as mud, sir. I might say it's infernal vulgar—what?"

"Why, I don't care for it myself," Mr. Stevens admitted rather humbly, "it was merely a suggestion."

"With your good favour," said Mr. Brimberly, after a tentative sip at his glass, "I'll sing you a old song as was a rare favourite of my father's."

"Why, then," said Mr. Jenkins, taking up his banjo, "oblige us with the key."

"The key, sir?" answered Mr. Brimberly, pulling down his waistcoat, "what key might you mean?"

"The key of the note dominant, Brim."

Mr. Brimberly stared and felt for his whisker.

"Note dominant," he murmured; "I don't think my song has anything of that sort—"

"Oh, well, just whistle a couple o' bars."

"Bars," said Mr. Brimberly, shaking his head, "bars, sir, is things wherewith I do not 'old; bars are the 'aunt of the 'umble 'erd, sir—"

"No, no, Brim," explained Mr. Stevens, "Jenk merely means you to 'um the air."

"Ah, to be sure, now I appre'end! I'll 'um you the hair with pleasure."

Mr. Brimberly cleared his throat vigorously and thereafter emitted certain rumbling noises, whereat Mr. Jenkins cocked a knowing head.

"C sharp, I think?" he announced.

"Not much, Jenk!" said Mr. Stevens decidedly, "it was D flat—as flat a D as ever I heard!"

"It was C!" Mr. Jenkins said, "I appeal to Brim."

"Well," said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, "I'm reether inclined to think I made it a D—if it wasn't D it was F nat'ral. But if it's all the same to you, I'll accompany myself at the piano-forty."

"What," exclaimed Mr. Stevens, emptying and refilling his glass, seeing which Mr. Jenkins did the same, "what—do you play, Brim?"

"By hear, sir—only by hear," said Mr. Brimberly modestly, as, having placed bottle and glass upon the piano within convenient reach, he seated himself upon the stool, struck three or four stumbling chords and then, vamping an accompaniment a trifle monotonous as to bass, burst forth into song:

Chorus:

It was now that Mr. Ravenslee, his rough clothes replaced by immaculate attire, entered unostentatiously, and, wholly unobserved by the company, seated himself and lounged there while Mr. Brimberly sang blithely on:

Here Mr. Jenkins, chancing to catch sight of that unobtrusive figure, let fall his banjo with a clatter, whereupon Mr. Brimberly glancing around, stopped short in the middle of a note, and sat open-mouthed, staring at his master.

"Enjoying a musical evening, Brimberly?"

Mr. Brimberly blundered to his feet, choked, gasped, groped for his whiskers, and finally spoke:

"Why, sir, I—I'm afraid I—we are—"

"I didn't know you were such an accomplished musician, Brimberly."

"Mu-musician, sir?" Brimberly stammered, his eyes goggling; "'ardly that, sir, oh, 'ardly that, I—I venture to—to tinkle a bit now an' then, sir—no offence I 'ope, sir?"

"Friends musical too, it seems."

"Y-yes, sir, music do affect 'em, sir—uncommonly, sir."

"Yes, makes them thirsty, doesn't it?"

"Why, Mr. Ravenslee, sir, I—that is, we did so far venture to—er—I mean—oh, Lord!" and mopping perspiring brow, Mr. Brimberly groaned and goggled helplessly from Mr. Jenkins who stood fumbling with his banjo to Mr. Stevens who gaped fishlike.

"And now," said Young R., having viewed them each in turn, "if these—er—very thirsty musicians have had enough of—er—my wine to—er—drink, perhaps you'll be so obliging as to see them—off the premises?"

"I—I beg parding, sir?"

"Please escort your friends off the premises."

"Certingly, sir—at once, sir—"

"Unless you think you ought to give them each a handful of my cigars—"

But Mr. Brimberly had already bundled his dazed guests to the door, out of the door, and out of the house, with very little ceremony.

It was a very deferential and officiously eager Brimberly who presently knocked and, bowing very frequently, begged to know how he might be of further service.

"Might I get you a little supper, sir? We 'ave 'am, sir, we 'ave beef, cold, salmon and cucumber likewise cold, a ditto chicken—"

"That sounds rather a quaint bird," said Ravenslee.

"Yes, sir, very good, sir, chicken an' a nice slice of 'am, sir, say, and—"

"Thank you, Brimberly, I dined late."

"Why then, sir, a sandwich or so, pray permit me, sir, cut nice an' thin, sir—"

"Thank you—no."

"Dear, dear! Why then, sir, whisky? Brandy? A lick-your?"

"Nothing."

"A cigar, sir?"

"Hum! Have we any of the Garcias left?"

"Y-yes, sir. Ho, certingly, sir. Shall I—"

"Don't bother, I prefer my pipe; only let me know when we get short, Brimberly, and we'll order more—or perhaps you have a favourite brand?"

"Brand, sir," murmured Brimberly, "a—er—certingly, sir."

"Good night, Brimberly."

"Good night, sir, but first can't I do—hanything?"

"Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that I really ought to raise your wages. I'll think about it."

Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.

"I—I bid you good night, sir!"

"Oh, by the way, bring me the letters."

"Certingly, sir!" and crossing the room, Mr. Brimberly returned, bearing a salver piled high with letters, which he set at his master's elbow; this done, he bowed and went from the room, one hand still at his dazed brow.

Left alone, Ravenslee took up the letters one by one. Some he threw aside, some few he opened and glanced at carelessly; among these last was a telegram, and the words he saw were these:

"Meet me to-morrow sunset in the wood all shall be explained Hermy."

For a while he sat staring at this, then, laying it by, drew out a letter case from which he took another telegram bearing precisely the same message. Having compared them, he thrust them into his pocket, and filling his pipe, sat awhile smoking and lost in thought. At last, his pipe being out, he rose, stretched, and turned toward the door, but in the act of leaving the room, paused to take out and compare the telegrams again and so stood with puckered brow.

"'Hermy!'" he said softly. "'Hermione' is so much prettier. 'All shall be explained.' A little trite, perhaps! Oh, well—" So saying, he folded up the telegrams, switched off the lights and went to bed.

OF TRAGEDY

It was close on the hour of sunset when Ravenslee stopped his car before a quiet hotel in Englewood and sprang out.

"Will you be long, sir?" enquired Joe, seating himself at the wheel and preparing to turn into the garage.

"Probably an hour, Joe."

"Very good, sir."

But as the big car turned, Ravenslee spoke over his shoulder.

"By the way, if I shouldn't be back in an hour, come and meet me." Then, having given Joe full and particular directions as to the little wood, he turned and went upon his way.

It had been a stifling day, and even now, though a soft air was abroad tempering the humid heat, when this light wind languished there was over all things a brooding stillness, foreboding storm. But Ravenslee strode on, unheeding dust and heat, hastening on to that which awaited him, full of strength and life and the zest of life, glad-hearted, and with pulses that throbbed in expectation. Thus, as the sun sank in fiery splendour, he reached the little wood. Evening was falling, and already, among the trees, shadows were deepening to twilight, but in the west was a flaming glory; and, upon the edge of the wood he turned to glance back at this radiance, splashes of gold and pink flushing to an ominous red. For a long moment he stood to stare around about the solitary countryside, joying in life and the glory of it. Then he turned, with a smile on his lips, and stepped into the gloom of the wood. On he went, forcing his way through the under-brush until, reaching the clearing, he halted suddenly and faced about, fancying he had heard a rustle in the leaves hard by. Spike, cowering behind a bush with M'Ginnis's fingers gripping his arm, shivered and sweated and held his breath until Ravenslee moved on again, and, coming to a fallen tree, seated himself there and sat chin on fist, expectation in every tense line of him.

"Now!" whispered M'Ginnis hoarsely, "get him now—before Hermy comes t' him!" Shuddering, Spike levelled the weapon he held, but at that moment Ravenslee was filling his pipe, and something in this homely action checked the lad, paralysed finger on trigger, and shrinking, he cowered down upon the grass despite the fierce hand that gripped him. "Get him now, Kid—get him now! Aim f'r his chest—y' can't miss at this distance—"

"I—I can't, Bud!" gasped the boy, writhing, "I can't do it—I can't!" Dropping the revolver, he hid his face in sweating hands and shivered.

From somewhere near by a woodpecker was tapping busily, but save for this no sound broke the pervading stillness, for the gentle wind had died away. But suddenly the quiet was rent and shivered, and Spike, deafened by the report, glanced up to see Ravenslee rise to his feet, stagger forward blindly, then, with arms outflung, pitch forward upon his face and lie there.

"By God, you—you've shot him, Bud!" he whimpered, "you—you've killed dear old Geoff—oh, my God!"

"Aw, quit—quit all that!" whispered M'Ginnis breathlessly, "that's what we came for, ain't it? What you lookin' at?"

"It lays so—still! so awful still!" Spike gasped.

"Well, what ye got t' go starin' at it that ways for? Come on—let's beat it; it's us for th' quick get-away in case any one heard. Come on, Kid!"

"But you've—killed Geoff!"

"I guess he don't need no more—'n' say, Kid, you're in on this job too, don't forget! Come on, it's little old N' York for ours!"

Though M'Ginnis dragged at him, Spike huddled limply on his knees, his glaring eyes always staring in the one direction; whereupon M'Ginnis cursed and left him.

But all at once, finding himself alone, to horror came fear, and stumbling to his feet Spike began to draw away from that awful thing that held his gaze; slowly he retreated, always going backwards, and though he stumbled often against tree and sapling, yet so long as it was in sight needs must he walk backwards. When at last a kindly bush hid it from his sight, he turned and ran—ran until, panting and wild-eyed, he burst from the wood and was out upon the open road. Even then he paused to stare back into that leafy gloom but saw and heard nothing. Then, uttering a moan, he turned and ran sobbing along the darkening road.

But, within that place of shadows, from amid the leaves of a certain great tree, dropped one who came beside that motionless form, and knelt there awhile. When at last he rose, a ring lay upon his open palm—a ring in the shape of two hands clasping each other; then, with this clenched in a pallid fist, he also turned and left that still and awful thing with its face hidden in last year's dead and rotting leaves.

OF REMORSE

For three miserable days Spike had remained indoors, eating little, sleeping less, venturing abroad only at dusk to hurry back with the latest paper and, locked within his bedroom, to scan every scare head and column with eyes dilating in dreadful expectation of beholding the awful word—MURDER.

For three interminable days Hermione, going about her many duties slow of foot and listless, had scarcely heeded him, conscious only of her own pain, the agony of longing, the yearning ache that filled her, throbbing in every heart-beat—an ache that would not be satisfied. Thus, lost in her own new sorrow, she spoke seldom, sighed often, and sang not at all; often sitting at her sewing machine with hands strangely idle and gaze abstracted. Spike, watching furtively, had seen her eyes brim over with great, slow-falling tears; more than once he had heard her bitter weeping in the dawn. At such times he had yearned to comfort her, but between them was memory, dividing them like a wall—the memory of a still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves. And at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, passionate prayers, and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated over and over again, was the dread word MURDER. By day it haunted him also; it stared up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in bloody characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his haggard gaze there he needs must read it.

And then—there were the footsteps. All day long they tramped up and down the stairs outside—everyday sounds that he had never heeded before, but now they were warnings to hearken to and shudder at, and he would sit pretending to read but with ears straining for the sound of feet upon the landing or on the stair. Now they were feet that crept—the stealthy steps of one that lurked to catch him unaware; or again, they were the loud tramp of those who came with authority to drag him to doom, and he would watch the door, staring wide-eyed, waiting for the thundering knock he expected yet which never came. All day long they haunted him, and at night, locked within his bedroom, he must needs lift heavy head from the pillow to hearken with ears straining even yet, until, haggard and worn, he had shivered and groaned and wept himself to sleep, only to awake and start up in sweating terror, thinking he heard a fierce hand knocking, knocking upon the outer door.

Thus, for three long days Spike had lived in torment, and to-night, as he leaned throbbing head between clutching hands, his haggard eyes sought vainly for that fell word which he could read everywhere except in the newspaper before him; his sufferings had grown almost beyond his strength, for to his old torments was added harrowing suspense.

"Why?" "Why?" "Why" was the word that stared at him from ceiling and walls and blue expanse of heaven; why was it there and not in the papers? Could it be that it was lying there yet, that awful, still thing, lying as he remembered it, as he could see it now, its ghastly features hidden among the leaves that rotted, its long arms outflung and strong hands griped among the grass with clutching fingers—could it be?—

"Arthur—boy—what's the matter?"

Spike started and looked up to find Hermione beside him, and instinctively he shrank away.

"Arthur—oh, what is it? Are you sick?"

"N-no, why?"

"You were moaning."

"Oh, well, I—I'm all right, I guess. Got a headache, that's all."

"Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur? I'm not angry any more, I'm only—disappointed."

"Y' mean because I lost me job? They don't want my kind; I—oh, I'm too mean—too rotten, I guess."

"I heard you cry out in the night, Arthur. What was it?"

"Nothin'—I didn't cry out las' night, I tell ye."

"I heard you!"

"Oh, well, I—I was only dreamin', I guess."

"Why have you acted so strangely lately? You don't eat, you don't go out; you sit around staring and seem to be listening—almost as if you were afraid—"

"I ain't—I ain't afraid. Who says I'm afraid? An' I don't want you to go worryin' y'self sick over me—I ain't a kid no more."

"No, I'm afraid you're not." And sighing, she turned away. But as she crossed the room, her step slow and listless, he spoke, his head down-bent and face hidden between clenched hands, voicing, almost despite himself, the questions that had tortured him so long.

"Say, Hermy, where's—Geoff? How is he—I mean you—you ain't—heard anything—have you?"

"No," she answered softly, without turning, "what should I hear? I only know he's—gone. How should I hope to hear anything any more?"

"I—I thought he was—goin' t' marry you."

"So he was, but I—couldn't let him—marry—a thief's sister," she said in the same low, even voice.

"Ah!" cried Spike, writhing, "why did he go an' tell ye about me after he told me he never would—why did he tell ye?"

"He didn't tell me!" cried Hermione, with curling lip.

"Didn't he—oh—didn't he?" said Spike, his voice high and quivering, "didn't Geoff tell ye? Then—say, Hermy, who—who did?"

"It was Bud M'Ginnis, and for once it seems he told the truth!"

"Bud!" cried Spike, stumbling to his feet. "Oh, my God!" At sound of his voice she turned, and seeing his face, cried out in sudden fear: "Arthur—oh, Arthur, what is it?"

"Bud told ye?" he gasped. "Wasn't it Geoff—oh, wasn't it Geoff?"

"No!"

Spike was down on his knees. "Oh, God! Oh, Geoff—dear old Geoff, forgive me!" He was huddled upon the floor, his face pressed to the worn rug, his clenched fingers buried in his curls, while from his lips issued gasping sobs harshly dry and awful to hear.

"Forgive me, Geoff, forgive me! I thought you told her! I thought you meant t' steal her from me! Oh, forgive me, Geoff—I wish I was dead like you."

"Arthur!"

She was down beside him on her knees, shaking him with desperate hands.

"Arthur! Arthur! What—are you saying?"

"Nothin'—nothin'!" he stammered, staring up into her face, suddenly afraid of her. "Nothin', I—I was only—thinkin'—I—"

"What did you mean?" she cried, her grasp tightening. "Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!"

"Nothin'," he mumbled, trying to break her hold. "Lemme go, I—I didn't mean anything—"

"Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!"

"No—I can't—I—"

His voice failed suddenly, his whole frame grew tense and rigid, and lifting a stiff arm he pointed a trembling finger toward the open doorway.

"Hush—hush!" he panted, "oh, for God's sake, hush! There—don't you hear—there's some one outside on th' landing—footsteps—hark! They're coming to our door! They're stoppin' outside—oh, my God, it's come at—"

The word ended in a scream, drowned all at once in a thunderous knocking on the outer door, and Spike, crouching upon his knees, clutched at her as she rose.

"Don't,—don't open—the door!" he gasped, while Hermione gazed at him, terrified by his terror, as again the thunderous summons was heard. Then, despite the boy's passionate prayers and desperate, clutching hands, she broke from him, and hastening into the little passage, opened the door.

Upon the threshold stood a little old man, very smartly dressed, who saluted her with a gallant flourish of his dapper straw hat and bowed with his two small and glittering patent leather shoes posed at position number one in waltzing.

"Ma'am," said he, "miss, respectful greetin's. Your name's Hermione, ain't it?"

"Yes," she answered, wondering.

"Knowed it was. And a partic'ler fine gal too! Though not 'oldin' wi' marridge, I don't blame the Guv—'e always 'ad a quick eye for beauty—like me."

"But who are you? What do you want—"

"Miss, I want you—leastways—'e does. Been callin' for you the last three days 'e has, ever since 'e ketched one as fair doubled 'im up—"

"I—I don't understand. Who are you?"

"A admirer of the Guv, ma'am. A trusted friend of 'is, miss—come t' take ye to 'is poor, yearnin' arms, lady—"

"But who—oh, what do you mean?"

"Mr. Ravenslee, ma'am."

"Mr. Ravenslee!" she echoed, her colour changing.

"Yes. Y' see—he's dyin', miss!"

Hermione gasped and leaned against the wall as if suddenly faint and sick, perceiving which, the Old Un promptly set his arm about her waist and led her unresisting into the parlour. There, having aided her tenderly into a chair and nodded to pale-faced Spike, he sighed, shook his ancient head, and continued:

"Ho, Lor lumme, lady, it fair wrung my old 'eart to 'ave to tell ye, but, 'aving to tell ye (Joe couldn't) I told ye almighty quick to get it over—sharp an' quick's my motter. Fate's crool 'ard when Fate takes the gloves off, miss, an' I know as Fate's been an' took ye one in the wind wot's fair doubled you up—but take time, miss, take time—throw back your pretty 'ead, breathe deep an' reg'lar, an' you'll soon be strong enough to go another round. If I'd got a towel handy I'd fan ye a bit—not 'avin' none, no matter. Fate's 'ard on you, so fair an' young, miss, but Fate's been 'arder on the Guv—ketched the pore young Guv a fair spiflicator—"

"Oh, please—please," cried Hermione, reaching out appealing hands, "oh, tell me, is he hurt—sick—dying? Oh, quick, quick—tell me!"

"Lady, ma'am—my pretty dear," said the Old Un, taking those pleading hands to pat them tenderly, "that's what I'm tryin' to do. The Guv ain't dead yet—no, not—yet—"

"You mean he's dying?"

"My dear," said the old man, blinking at her through sudden tears, "that's what the doctors say." Here he loosed one hand to rub at each bright eye with a bony knuckle. "An' 'im so young—so game an' strong—three days ago."

"How—did it—happen?" she questioned, her voice low and steady.

"It was Fate!" said the old man, taking her hand again. "Three days ago Fate (the perisher) sends him a telegram—two on 'em—tellin' 'im to meet you in a wood an' signed with—with your name, both on 'em—"

At this she cried out and would have risen, but his kindly clasp checked her.

"I—sent no telegram!" she whispered.

"Me an' Joe an' the Spider know that now, miss. But anyway, to this 'ere wood the Guv do 'aste away, an' in this wood Fate's a-layin' for 'im wir a gun, an' down goes the pore Guv wi' a perishin' bullet in 'is gizzard. An' there Joe finds 'im, an' 'ome Joe brings 'im in the car, an' Joe an' me an' the Spider 'ushes things up. An' now in bed lays the Guv with nurses an' doctors 'anging over 'im—a-callin' for you—I mean the Guv, d' ye see? So now for you I've come. I've brought Joe an' the car for you—Joe's across wi' Mrs. Trapes, an' the car's below—both waitin'. So you'll come t' th' pore young Guv, miss, won't ye, lady?"

"Have you—any idea—who—did it?" she questioned, speaking as with an effort.

"We got our suspicions, ho, yus!" the Old Un nodded. "Joe's got a wonnerful gift o' suspicion—oh, a rare 'ead 'as my lad Joe. Joe an' the Spider's on the track, an' they're goin' to track Fate to doom, ma'am—to perishin' doom! Y' see," here the old man leaned suddenly nearer, "y' see, Joe's found a cloo!"

"A clew! Yes—yes!" she whispered breathlessly, moistening lips suddenly dry, and conscious that Spike's lax form had stiffened to painful alertness.

"Well, ma'am, Joe an' the Spider's been a-seekin' an' a-searchin' of that there wood, an' they found," here the Old Un leaned nearer yet and whispered harshly, "they found—a coat button! Lorgorramighty!" he exclaimed suddenly, pointing a trembling bony finger, "what's took th' lad—look!"

Spike had risen and now stood, breathing loudly, one hand clenched upon his breast, and turning swiftly, took a stumbling pace toward the open window, tripped, and fell prone upon his face.

"Oh, poor lad, poor lad!" cried the Old Un, rising hastily. "Fate's been an' ketched him one too—a fair knock-out! Leave him to me, miss, I'll bring 'im round—bitin' 'is years is good, or vinegar on a sponge—leave 'im to a old fightin' man—"

"No!" cried Hermione passionately, "no, I say. Leave him to me!" Quelled by something in her tone and manner, the old man sank back in his chair, while she, kneeling beside Spike, lifted him in her strong young arms so that he was hidden from the Old Un's bright, piercing eyes. Holding him thus, she loosed Spike's rigid fingers and drew away that clutching hand; then, seeing what that hand had striven to hide, she shrank suddenly away, letting the boy's inanimate form slip from her clasp; and, as she knelt there above him, her shapely body was seized with fierce tremors.

So she knelt for a long moment until Spike sighed, shivered, and sat up, but beholding the look in her wide eyes, uttered a hoarse sound that was like a cry of fear and, starting from her nearness, crouched down, huddled upon his knees.

Then Hermione rose and, turning to the old man, smiled with pallid lips.

"You see—he's all right—now!" she said. "If you'll please go and tell Mrs. Trapes I'm leaving, I'll get ready." Obediently the Old Un rose.

"Mrs. Trapes is a-gettin' into her bonnet to come along wi' us!" said he, and putting on his hat with a flourish, took his departure. When he was gone, Hermione turned and looked down at Spike, who, meeting her eyes, flinched as from a blow and made no effort to rise from his knees. So she packed her grip and dressed for the journey, while he watched her with eyes of mute appeal. Twice he would have spoken, but her look smote him to silence. At last, as she took up her suit case and turned to go, he implored her in a hoarse whisper, reaching out his arms to her: "Hermy!"

But she shrank from his contact and, hastening from the room and along the little passage, closed the door and left him to his hopeless misery. As one in a dream she followed the old man down the stairs, was aware of his ushering her through the crowd of women and children who thronged about the big car. As one in a dream she found herself seated beside Mrs. Trapes, whose motherly solicitude she heeded no more than the bustle and traffic of the streets through which the swift car whirled her on and on until, turning, it swung in between massive gates and pulled up before a great, gloomy house.

As one in a dream she ascended the broad steps, crossed a stately hall, was ushered up a noble stairway and along thick-carpeted corridors until at last she found herself in a darkened chamber where, his dark head conspicuous upon the white pillow, he lay. A nurse rose from beside the bed as Hermione entered and softly withdrew. Left alone, she stood for a long moment utterly still, her hands tightly clasped, her breath in check, gazing at that dark head upon the pillow, at that outstretched form lying so silent and so very still.

"Hermione!"

A feeble whisper, a sigh faintly breathed, but at the sound she had crossed the wide chamber on feet swift and noiseless, had sunk upon her knees beside the low bed to lean above him all murmurous love and sighing tenderness, while she stole a timid hand to touch the hair that curled upon his pallid brow; then, for all his helplessness, she flushed beneath his look.

"How beautiful—you are!" he said faintly, "and I—weak as—confounded rat! Hermione—love, they tell me I—must die. But first I want you for—my very own if only for—a little while!"

"Oh, my dear," she whispered, soft mouth against his pale cheek, "I always was yours—yours from the very first; I always shall be."

"Then you'll—marry me?"

"Yes, dear."

"Now?"

"Yes, dear."

"I—hoped you would, so—I arranged—minister's waiting now. Will you—ring?" And he motioned feebly toward an electric bell-push that stood upon a small table beside the bed.

And now once again as one in a dream she obeyed, and was presently aware of soft-treading figures about her in the dim chamber—among them the Old Un whose shoes for once creaked not at all. As one in a dream she made the responses, felt the feeble clasp of that hand whose strength and masterful power had thrilled her, heard the faint echo of that loved voice that had wooed her so passionately once, yet wooed in vain, while now—

She was alone again, alone with him who lay so very still and pale with eyes closed wearily; from him she glanced to that which gleamed so bright and new upon her finger and bending her head she pressed the wedding ring to her lips.

"Wife!" he whispered; the weary eyes were open, and his look drew her. So she knelt beside the bed again, stooping above him low and lower until her head lay beside his upon the pillow. Slowly, slowly his feeble hand crept up to her glowing cheek, to the soft waves of her hair, and to the little curl that wantoned above her eyebrow.

"Hermione—wife—kiss me!"

Tenderly her arms enfolded him, and with a soft little cry that was half a sob she kissed him, his brow, his hair, his lips, kissed him even while she wetted him with her falling tears.

"Beloved," he murmured, "my glorious—scrubwoman—if I must—leave you—these dear hands need never—never slave again. Never—any—more, my Hermione."

Long after he had fallen to sleep she knelt there, cradling his weakness in her arms, looking down on him with eyes bright with love.

After this were days and nights when the soul of him wandered in dark places filled with chaotic dreams and wild fancies; but there was ever one beside him whose gentle voice reached him in the darkness, and whose tender hand hushed his delirium and soothed his woes and troubles.

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE CAME OUT OF THE DARK

She was knitting; and opening sleepy eyes he watched drowsily and wondered what it might be and was minded to enquire, but sighed instead and fell asleep again.

She was knitting; knitting something in red wool, and opening his eyes again, he lay watching awhile and pondered dreamily as to what it could be she wrought at so busily, for the wool was so very red and so extremely woolly.

Her chin was set at an angle somewhat grim, she was sitting very upright in her chair and, though scrupulously hidden from sight, her elbows—truly how portentous were the undisguisable points of those elbows! And she was knitting fiercely in wool that was remarkably red and woolly.

"Pray what is it, Mrs. Trapes?" A feeble whisper, but, at the sound, faint though it was, Mrs. Trapes started, half rose from her chair, sank down again heavily and letting fall her knitting, stared at the invalid.

"Land sakes, alive!" she gasped.

"Now you've dropped it!" said Ravenslee, his voice a little stronger.

"Oh, dear beloved land o' my fathers—it's come!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "the Lord be praised for evermore, it's come!"

"What has?"

"The turn! And you've took it! Doctor Dennison says last night as you'd take it soon one way or t' other. But all night long while they waited and watched here, you've laid so pale an' still as a corp'. An' now, while I'm a-settin' here, you go an' take th' turn so sudden as fair takes my breath away, Lord be praised! I mean—I mean—oh, I guess I'll go wake the doctor."

"But you haven't told me what it is," said Ravenslee drowsily.

"What what is?"

"That very peculiar—woolly thing."

"This?" said Mrs. Trapes, picking up the object in question, "this is my knittin'. Doctor said t' call him th' moment th' turn came—" Her voice seemed to sink to a slumberous murmur as, having smoothed his pillow, she crossed the room and very softly closed the door behind her; wherefore Ravenslee blinked sleepily at the door until its panels seemed slowly to become confused and merge one into another, changing gradually to a cloud, soft, billowy, and ever growing until it had engulfed him altogether, and he sank down and down into unknown deeps of forgetfulness and blessed quietude.

She was knitting; knitting a shapeless something in red wool, and Ravenslee thought he had never known her elbows more threatening of aspect nor seen wool quite so red and woolly; wherefore he presently spoke, and his voice was no longer a feeble croak.

"Pray what is it, Mrs. Trapes?"

Mrs. Trapes jumped.

"Well, for th' love o' heaven!" she exclaimed, and down fell her knitting.

"Now you've dropped it!" said Ravenslee a little petulantly.

"Your very—identical—words!" said Mrs. Trapes in awed tones. "Nacher sure 'moves in a mysterious way her wonders to perform'!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean as them was the identical words as you addressed to me when you took th' turn two days ago!"

"Two days!" exclaimed Ravenslee, staring.

"Ever since you did take the turn two days ago, you've laid there so quiet an' peaceful—no more dreams an' ravin'—you've jest laid there 'wrapped in infant slumbers pure an' light', Mr. Geoffrey—Ravenslee, I mean."

"Why then, it's about time I got up. If you'll kindly—er—retire and send Patterson, I'll get dressed."

"Dressed?" echoed Mrs. Trapes, hollow-voiced and grim. "Get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey!"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"What, you—you as is only jest out o' the valley o' th' shadder! You as we've all give up for dead over an' over! You get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee!"

"Oh," said Ravenslee, knitting his dark brows thoughtfully, "have I been sick long?"

"Four weeks."

"Weeks!" he exclaimed, staring incredulously.

"Four weeks an' a bit! For four weary, woeful weeks you've been layin' here with death hoverin' over you, Mr. Geoffrey. For four long weeks we've been waitin' for ye t' draw your las' breath, Mr. Ravenslee. For four 'eart-rendin' weeks your servants has been carryin' on below stairs an' robbin' you somethin' shameful."

"My servants? Oh, yes, they generally do. But tell me—"

"The amount o' food as they consoom constant! The waste! The extravagance! Th' beer an' wine an' sperrits they swaller! Them is sure the thirstiest menials ever I heard tell of! An' the butler—such airs, such a appetite! An' sherry an' bitters t' make it worse! Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, your servants sure is a ravenin' horde!"

"Don't be too hard on 'em, Mrs. Trapes," he answered gravely, "I'm afraid I've neglected them quite a good deal. But it's a woman's hand they need over them."

"It's a pleeceman's club they need on 'em—frequent! I'd learn 'em different, I guess—"

"So you shall, Mrs. Trapes, if you will. You are precisely the kind of housekeeper I need."

"What—me?"

"You, Mrs. Trapes. A lonely bachelor needs some one to—er take care of his servants for him, to see they don't overeat themselves too often; or—er—strain themselves spring-cleaning out of season—or—"

"But you got a wife t' do all that for you. I guess Hermy'll know how to manage."

"Hermione!" said Ravenslee, starting, "wife? Am I really—married?"

"Sure! Didn't she go an' let you wed her when we all thought you was dyin'?"

"Oh, did she?" said he very gently. "Why then, it—it wasn't all a dream?"

"Mr. Geoffrey, Hermy's been Mrs. Ravenslee, your lawful wedded wife, just exactly four weeks."

Ravenslee stared up at the ceiling, dreamy-eyed.

"Good heavens!" he murmured. "I thought I'd only dreamed it."

"Hermy's watched over you night an' day a'most—like th' guardian angel she is—prayin' f' you, workin' f' you, fightin' death away from you. Oh, I guess it's her fault as you're alive this day! Anyway, her an' you's man an' wife till death do you part."

"But death—hasn't, you see."

"An' death sure ain't goin' to—yet."

"No, I'm—I'm very much alive still, it seems."

"You sure are, glory be t' th' Lord of Hosts to who I have also petitioned frequent on your behoof. An' now I'll call th' doctor."

"No, no—not Dennison; let me see her first. Can't I speak to Hermione first, Mrs. Trapes?"

"She was up with you all las' night, sweet lamb! It'd be a shame to wake her—"

"So it would—don't disturb her."

"But I guess she'd never forgive me if I didn't wake her. So if you'll promise t' be good—"

"I will!"

"An' not go gettin' all worked up an' excited?"

"I will not!"

"Why then, perhaps ten minutes wouldn't hurt."

"God bless you, Mrs. Trapes!"

Left alone, he tried to sit up, and finding this strangely difficult, examined his hands and arms, scowling to find himself so weak. Then he clapped hand to bony jaw and was shocked to feel thereon a growth of ragged beard, and then—she was before him. Fresh from her slumbers she came, wrapped in a scanty kimono whose thin, clinging folds revealed more of her shapely beauty than he had ever seen as she hurried across the wide chamber.

"Hermione," he said, and reached out his hands to her. And his voice was no longer the feeble echo it had been; the hand that clasped hers, though still thin and weak, thrilled her anew with its masterful touch. Because of all this, her words of tender greeting remained unspoken, the arms which had been eager to cradle his helplessness crossed themselves on her bosom; she became aware of naked ankles and of bare feet thrust into bedroom slippers and needs must hide them, and the better to do so, sank upon the bed, her feet tucked under her. So she sat, just beyond his reach, and, conscious of scanty draperies, shook her shining hair about her, veiling herself in its glory.

"Hermione," he said unsteadily, "I—I never knew quite how beautiful you were—and we—we are married, it seems!"

"Yes," she said softly.

"And now I'm—I'm afraid I'm going to—live!"

"Afraid?"

"It—it almost seems as though I had married you under false pretences, doesn't it? But the doctors and everybody were so certain I was to die that I thought so too. And now—I'm going to live, it seems."

She was silent, and slowly his hand went out to her again, and slowly hers went to meet it, but though her fingers clasped and twined, thrilling in mute passion to his touch, she came no nearer, but watched him from the shadow of her hair with great troubled eyes.

"Dear," he said, very humbly, "you do—love me still, don't you?"

"More than ever."

"Then you're not—sorry to be my wife?"

"No—ah, no, no!" she whispered, "never that!"

"Then, dear, won't you—will you kiss me?" Seeing she hesitated, he sank back on his pillow and laughed a little ruefully. "I forgot these confounded whiskers—I must look an unholy object. Patterson shall shave me, and then perhaps—"

But sudden and warm and soft her arms were about him, and her eyes, troubled no longer, gazed into his, brimful of yearning tenderness.

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she murmured, quick and passionate, "as if I should ever care how you looked as long as you were—just you. My dear, my dear, you have come back to me from the very gates of death because I—I—"

"Because you nursed me so tenderly!"

"Ah, no, there were others to do that—no, God gave you back to me because He is merciful, and because I love you—want you—need you so much!"

"Oh, my Hermione—Kiss me!"

A knock at the door, and, quick-breathing, she drew from him as the voice of Mrs. Trapes reached them.

"Ten minutes is up!" she announced as she entered, "and Hermy, if you don't want th' doctor t' see you in your nightdress an' that—"

"Ann!" gasped Hermione, drawing the folds of her kimono about her.

"Anyway, he's coming."

Up sprang Hermione, in doing which she lost a slipper.

"Give it me!" she pleaded, for Ravenslee had caught it up.

"Dear, you have one—be content," he answered. "And surely I may kiss my wife's slipper without you having to blush so—so deliciously, Hermione?"

"It's so—old and shabby!" said she faintly.

"That's why I kiss it."

"An' here comes th' doctor!" said Mrs. Trapes. Whereat Hermione incontinent fled away, white foot agleam. Then Ravenslee, having kissed the little slipper quite brazenly under Mrs. Trapes's staring eyes, tucked it beneath his pillow.