*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67145 ***

OLD NINETY-NINE’S CAVE




CONTENTS

                        Page

  Illustrations          vii
  Introduction            ix
  Chapter         I        1
  Chapter        II       11
  Chapter       III       26
  Chapter        IV       49
  Chapter         V       97
  Chapter        VI      107
  Chapter       VII      116
  Chapter      VIII      124
  Chapter        IX      157
  Chapter         X      164
  Chapter        XI      193
  Chapter       XII      212
  Chapter      XIII      246
  Chapter       XIV      270




[Illustration: Reuben]




OLD NINETY-NINE’S CAVE

  BY
  ELIZABETH H. GRAY

  [Illustration: Le Succès est un Devoir
                 CMC Pub. Co.
                 MCM]

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




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

  All Rights Reserved

  PRESS OF MURRAY AND EMERY COMPANY
  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS




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




ILLUSTRATIONS

  Reuben                                  _Frontispiece_

                                                  _Page_

  Margaret                                           61

  Into this den of venomous serpents, only the
    hardy dared penetrate                           149

  Tim Watson                                        170

  Jack De Vere                                      194

  Beyond the hills melting into a pinkish haze      206

  Canal boats still crept sleepily on               248

  Sam’s Point                                       255

  The Rondout Creek tumbled musically over
    the rocks below forming many beautiful
    cascades                                        292

  The laurels take on a rosier hue in the warm
    afterglow                                       308




INTRODUCTION


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

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

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

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

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




Old Ninety-Nine’s Cave

CHAPTER I


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nevertheless, I mistrust him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did he get his education?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is just what she proposes doing.”

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“New Orleans, Massa.”

“Ever worked in the charity hospital there?”

“Law me, Massa, I has so!”

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

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

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

  “On Christ, the solid rock, I stand,
   All other ground is sinking sand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“January first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you always lived in Nevada?”

“Nevada and California.”

“That includes San Francisco and Chinatown of course?”

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

“True, but Chinatown must be very interesting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eletheer is our psychological problem.”

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

“Marriage, for instance?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What became of the Indian?” Hernando inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Put in a blast,” replied Hernando.

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

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

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

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

“None; but who is the discoverer?”

[Illustration: Margaret]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Granny.”

“Did you put a hot brick in the bed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have had a bad dream, Reuben.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Reuben!”

“Yes, Massa.”

“A drink, please.”

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

“Yes, Massa.”

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

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

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

“Is yoah throat soah?” Reuben inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

It was brought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But the whole family would be infected.”

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

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

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

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

Mr. De Vere’s eyes grew dim.

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

  “There is a happy land--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Little shoes are sold at the gateway of Heaven
   And to all the tattered little angels are given.
   Slumber, my darling, slumber, my darling,
   Slumber, my darling do-do,
   Dodo--Dodo--
   Ave Maria--Dodo.”

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

  “Little shoes are sold at the gateway of Heaven
   And to all the tattered little angels are given,”

sang Celeste.

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

  “Slumber, my darling Dodo,
   Dodo--dodo--”

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

  “Dodo, dodo
   Ave Maria--Dodo,”

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

  “Slumber, my darling dodo,
   Dodo--Dodo
   Ave Maria--Dodo.”

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

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

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

“Let me see the right hand.”

He did so. Another long scrutiny.

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

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

“Please tell that to Granny.”

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

“Still she believes in dreams?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that indicates?”

“Some obstacle in the way.”

“My broken life line again, Miss Celeste!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dere aint nuthin’ to say, Massa.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nuthin’! Massa.”

“Then I will!”

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

“He does, does He?” Hernando sneered.

  “O Thou, who man of baser earth did’st make,
  “And ev’n with Paradise devise the snake,
  “For all the sins with which the face of man is black’ned
  “Man’s forgiveness give--and take.”

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

  ‘’Tis education moulds the common mind,
   Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.’”

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

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

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

“John!”

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

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

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

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

“You may choose to-night, my boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then prove it by believing me loyal.”

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

“I would try to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen my devotion to Celeste?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only jes’ tolabl’, Massa John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wonder if he will ever marry.”

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

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

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

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

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

Celeste counted on her fingers but came to no conclusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “‘Yet God be praised,’ the Pilgrim said,
    Who saw the blossoms peer
    Above the brown leaves, dry and dead,
   ‘Behold our Mayflower here.’

   “O sacred flowers of faith and hope,
    As sweetly now as then,
    Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,
    In many a pine-dark glen.”

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

“How is Mary getting on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And those whom she dislikes know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I fear you are ill, Hernando.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think is the matter?”

“I jes’ dun know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sah.”

“Why?”

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

“Kase, Massa, it mout be ketchin’.”

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

“Not exac’ly, sah.”

“How long has he slept like this?”

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

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

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

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

“Well?” the latter questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has he ever married?”

“No.”

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

“San Francisco.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God be merciful!” Mr. Genung moaned.

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

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

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

“Not even communication by telephone?”

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

“Oh, yes,” came the answer in unison.

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

A heavy sigh from Mr. Genung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: Into this den of venomous serpents only the hardy dared
penetrate]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX


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

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

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

“Will you put yourself in my hands?”

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

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

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

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

“There is but one other alternative.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An’ what am ’ligion, Massa?”

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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




CHAPTER X


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

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

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

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

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

“A cowboy, I presume,” said Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I believe it,” Jack answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you know his brother?”

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: Tim Watson]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Kurtz brought it and he drank greedily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: Jack De Vere]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you ever North, Mr. Watson?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Long afore daylight.”

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

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

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

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

  [F] “Chaps”: leather leggings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack was about to explain when again that awful screech.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: Beyond the hills melting into a pinkish haze]

“Yes.”

“Are your nerves steady?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked hotly.

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

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

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

“Is Sheriff Smith at Mt. Fisher now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Halt!” called the sheriff.

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




CHAPTER XII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Dat awful Day, dat drefful Day,
     When hebben an’ earth shall pass away.
   De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul,
     De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul.

  “Fo’ gates on de no’f, fo’ gates on de souf,
     An’ yo’ ken enter in at enny gate.
   I-n-n-e-r my s-o-u-l, i-n-n-e-r my s-o-u-l,
     De’s a l’il’ wheel er-turnin’ in my soul.

  “In er my s--o--u--l----!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are the trains running?”

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

“Doctor!” called Mr. De Vere, “do as you suggest by all means!”

Reuben, too, had heard the whistle and off he started at the doctor’s
heels. Nothing but paths were as yet broken but his strong arms could
carry two of “dem bressed chillen” who he knew were in that train.

Just as the train was about to stop, Reuben rushed breathlessly up the
station steps. “Suah ’nough, deah young Massa Jack had come, but oh,
how changed!” Rugged as a bear, brown and muscular, but the same “Massa
Jack” as of old.

“Dora,” said Jack, “this is Reuben, the guardian angel of our family!”

Dora’s eyes told Reuben that she had heard of him before and, greatly
embarrassed, he took young Elisha and Celeste--one on each arm--and led
the way to The Laurels followed by the others.

Half way down the yard they were met by Celeste and Cornelia, and Dora
concluded that the De Veres must all be very much alike.

“So this is Dora of whom I am inclined to be jealous,” said Mrs. De
Vere, giving her a real motherly kiss.

Dora was dragged into the sitting-room and as she drank the fragrant
hot coffee, which Margaret said was good for frost bites, she felt
that Jack had not over-rated the virtues of his family. She had rather
dreaded meeting them and it had taxed her courage greatly when she
thought of the dignified mother-in-law who must have strong ideas as to
the fitness of any woman to be the wife of her darling boy. But it was
a clear case of mutual respect and before Dora had spent an hour with
her mother-in-law, she was ready to swear to all that Jack had said.

Celeste and Elisha were now marshalled into the bathroom by “Aunt
Celeste,” while Dora took Jack-the-third under her protection.

Every nook in the dear old place was revisited by Jack. Lost in
admiration, he was gazing from the windows on the city below when he
was interrupted by his father who, in the excitement of their arrival,
had for the time being neglected to mention Hernando’s restoration.
Mr. De Vere had just told his wife of Dr. Herschel’s verdict and
was now in search of Jack on the same mission. Jack’s experience in
Texas, the land of surprises, had prepared him in a measure for this
overwhelming one. He was speechless for a few moments and then said
quietly, “Dr. Herschel’s reputation is such that he would not make the
statement without proof to substantiate it. I am ready to believe it.”

“His home-coming must be as happy as lies in our power,” said Mr. De
Vere fervently. “I have telegraphed Eletheer and undoubtedly she will
be home this coming week.”

“And I will help Margaret in getting his room ready,” said Jack.

Mrs. De Vere and Margaret were already busy there. The room was open,
the windows flung wide to let in the sunlight and fresh air. Jack
kindled a fire of fragrant birchwood. An odor of sweet clover from
clean linen scented the room. All hands joined in converting the room
into a bower of loveliness. Elisha appeared with an immense bouquet of
roses. These Celeste arranged on the table beside the latest magazine
which Jack had brought from New York. Nothing was left undone and
everything bespoke loving thoughtfulness.

In the kitchen Margaret was outdoing herself. Only too well did she
remember Hernando’s partiality for certain dishes and Reuben haunted
the city markets.

It was now five o’clock and the first down train was due at six. All
day long forces of men had been busy clearing the streets so that the
main ones were passable, and promptly at six Reuben reined up at the
station. Mr. De Vere sprang out of the sleigh, tramping impatiently
back and forth. Six-twenty and still no train. What could be the
matter? Mr. De Vere’s nervous strain was beginning to tell, and
although accosted by several of his acquaintances, he did not heed; his
mind was intent on one thing. The perspiration stood in drops on his
forehead and every few seconds he took off his hat to wipe a bald spot
on the top of his head. Suddenly stopping, he called:

“Reuben, have you seen Mr. Genung to-day?”

“Yes, Massa, hyah he comes now,” pointing up the street.

De Vere rushed madly down the steps to meet Genung and grasping the
latter’s hand, whispered:

“I’m expecting Hernando on the six o’clock train; and cured! Now, for
God’s sake don’t make a fool of yourself!”

“And I’m here for the same thing you are; but one fool is enough to
amuse this gaping crowd!” Genung gasped with staring eyes.

At last the welcome whistle sounded and before the train came to a
standstill these two dignified men scrambled up the steps, heedless of
the brakeman’s warning “Wait till the train stops.”

But a pair of intensely blue eyes had seen it all from the platform and
their owner gave a joyful exclamation as he sprang down to meet them,
shouting,--“Uncle! Mr. De Vere!” and his arms were around both their
necks.

Dr. Herschel, fearing a scene, hastily introduced Drs. Hinckle and Le
Corr and hustled the three into a sleigh. He then signalled a cab and
motioned Reuben to proceed. “Dear me, these emotional Americans!” he
said, seating himself with the other physicians in the cab.

“A noble fellow,” remarked Dr. Hinckle.

“Interesting psychologically,” observed Dr. Le Corr.

“And personally,” Dr. Herschel continued, who regarded Hernando as his
own handiwork.

Further conversation was cut short by their arrival at the house.
Surely, if appreciation of honest effort is gratitude, Dr. Herschel
must have been a happy man. The entire family from Mr. De Vere to
Margaret burst into tears of joy.

Dr. Herschel blew his nose vigorously and, as every one else seemed
to have lost his head, he took the part of host upon himself and
ushered them into the library. Mr. Genung was the first to collect
his scattered senses and, beckoning to Reuben, he said: “My good man,
lead us in prayer.” Reuben obeyed instantly, and every one knelt. For
a few seconds there was profound silence and then Reuben repeated word
for word the ninety-first Psalm. Though each may have interpreted it
differently, every soul in that group _realized_ that God is “friendly.”

Hernando’s eyes looked bluer than ever under the snow-white curls. The
old hurt look was gone and in its place was one pure and full of loving
compassion for the sufferings of others. The glow of perfect health was
in his cheeks and his frame was vigorous. Mr. Genung hung about him as
one raised from the dead and, as Hernando lovingly stroked those locks,
silvered through sorrow for him, he again and again thanked them all
for their loyal friendship.

“My life has been spared for some definite purpose and it shall be my
duty to find out what that is,” he concluded.

Dinner was announced--such a dinner! Here also, Hernando saw evidenced
the same kindly thought, the same endeavor to make him forget that he
had ever been away from them. It was a Thanksgiving dinner in very
truth, and in each one’s heart was a prayer of gratitude.

The doctors wished to take the ten o’clock train for New York City,
so, after dinner, they, with Mr. De Vere and Mr. Genung, withdrew to
the library and as soon as they were seated, Mr. De Vere said, “Dr.
Herschel, money cannot pay our debt of gratitude. It seems an insult
to mention it in connection with such miraculous skill; but this is a
practical world, and if you will allow us to place at your disposal a
certain sum, it could be used in any way you thought best.”

“To ‘Old Ninety-Nine,’ not me, is your gratitude due,” Dr. Herschel
replied.

“And but for you his cure would without doubt be still unknown,” broke
in Mr. Genung. “No, modesty is an estimable trait but, giving ‘Old
Ninety-Nine’ due credit, our indebtness is to you.”

“‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ will more than pays me,” returned the doctor in a
tone so decided as to preclude further discussion. “And,” the doctor
continued, “as an ‘immune,’ Hernando’s assistance will be invaluable to
me, should he decide to give it.”

At this both De Vere and Genung started. “Surely, Doctor, you will not
again part us!” they exclaimed.

“Not soon at any rate--perhaps never.”

It was nearly train time and the doctors arose to leave with,--“Just
let us slip off quietly. There has been quite enough excitement in the
family for one day.”

“But you will not desert us, Doctor?” De Vere protested.

“No indeed. In the fall I propose going abroad for six months, but my
earnest desire is that our friendly relations continue.” And with a
parting hand-shake they were gone.

Who can describe Hernando’s feelings as in his own room, so dainty
and wholesome, he sat before the fire on this chill March night? We
are told that in this life perfect happiness is never attained; some
obstacle, some blot interposes just short of realization. But is this
not materialistic philosophy? Some one has said that,--“It is possible
for a man to so conquer the subjective world within himself that he may
rule over the objective, thus bringing himself _en rapport_ with the
harmonious vibrations of nature in a happiness vouchsafed only to those
who understand and obey her laws.” Sweet was his sleep as he lay on the
soft bed that had once been Granny’s, and who can say that she was not
drawn thither by the law of spiritual attraction?

Saturday was a busy day in town. Reports of the blizzard’s havoc were
harrowing in the extreme. Relief expeditions were sent out to aid the
suffering mountaineers, still imprisoned in the mountains, some in a
starving condition. Several had lost their way in endeavoring to reach
town and had perished.

All hands joined in the good work and by night the greater part of the
sufferers had been attended to.

“Anyway,” said Mr. De Vere, “terrible as was this storm, it does not
equal the one they had out West in January. Two hundred and thirty
lives were lost and the drop in the thermometer was one hundred
degrees.”

“But this one has extended over several States and we do not yet know
how many lives have been lost,” his wife replied.

It was almost bedtime, the last north-bound train had arrived and no
Eletheer yet; so the family decided that she would not be home before
Monday. Hernando and Jack recalled her old habit of surprising people
and proposed going to meet the train anyway, but had abandoned the idea
and were busy with Reuben at the barn.

However, on receiving the telegram announcing Jack’s arrival and the
restoration of Hernando, she as quickly as possible obtained permission
to drop out until fall, and both she and Mary Genung--who was taking
a post-graduate course in a New England college--were aboard the
nine-thirty express. Mr. Genung met the train and a long conversation
followed, which accounted for Eletheer’s late arrival home. She had
developed into an independent woman, giving promise of mental breadth,
though inclined to be opinionated; had entered the training school with
rosy-hued visions of reforming the world through kindly ministrations
and well-timed advice; but the probationary month quickly disillusioned
her. The first principle to learn was absolute, unquestioned obedience
to superior officers. Many were the bitter tears shed in secret, but
pride sustained her and she struggled on through hard facts, winning
the respect of all.

Mr. Genung left her at the gateway and, crunching the snow under her
stout boots, she soon sprang up the steps and into the house. Her
manner was breezy and her greetings were characteristic. She regarded
all demonstration of affection as nonsense, and this was generally
understood. After shaking hands, she looked around inquiringly for Jack
and Hernando.

“Eat your supper and by the time you have finished, they will be in
from the barn,” said her mother, leading the way into the dining-room.

“I ate supper at Middleburg but will ask Margaret to get me some
crullers,” and she darted past Mrs. De Vere into the kitchen, shouting,
“Hello, Margaret!”

“Law me, Honey, how you do skeer a body!” exclaimed the latter. “I
sholy is glad to see yo’,” and she produced the crullers with the
ever-ready coffeepot.

“How do you like Dora, Margaret?”

“She’s just lubly. No po’ w’ite trash.”

“And the children? I’m aunty, you know,” with pride.

“De bressed angels!”

“And Jack looks like a cowboy, I fancy.”

“Law me, Honey--he’s bigger’n yo’ pa”--here her voice became full of
awe--“Massa Hernando, he do look jes’ like St. John.”

Eletheer finished her lunch in silence and then, throwing a shawl over
her head, started for the barn, where she found them mending a harness.

So intent were they on their task that her appearance was unnoticed
until she gave Jack a sound slap on the back, at the same time
shouting,--“Hello, everybody!”

“Good heavens! Eletheer. At your old tricks,” Jack answered, whirling
her around in a jig.

Hernando burst out laughing but managed to grasp her outstretched hand
as they brushed past him.

Reuben’s heart was full to overflowing. Once more to see his dear
children gathered together in this world of meetings and partings! But
his feelings always under control, few guessed their depth.

“Dear old Reuben,” said Eletheer, impulsively flinging her arms around
his neck, “always the same! I have you to thank for many valuable
points. In my daily rounds at the hospital your example is always
before me.”

“Pshaw, Honey, yo’se gwine to be a scientific nurse,” he replied
overwhelmed with confusion.

Just here the clock struck eleven and they hurried into the house. Mr.
and Mrs. De Vere had gone to bed but the others still sat before the
library fire.

“Celeste, sing for us,” said Jack, bringing her guitar.

She hesitated.

“Please do. I have heard no music since you sang for me,” Hernando
urged.

Instantly she took up her guitar though it was some minutes before
she could control her voice, and then, her tones were pathetic; but
gradually the musician conquered and she poured forth her soul in
strains divinely sweet and melting.

“You have a rare gift in your voice, Celeste,” said Hernando, when she
had put aside her guitar.

“I believe we all possess some talent,” she returned.

“So do I,” he answered, “and we will be held responsible for the use we
make of it. I am wondering for what purpose my life has been spared.”

“An earnest one, I am sure you will make it,” said Eletheer. “Tell us
about your life at Shushan.”

All but Hernando started at this allusion to that hateful place for,
by common consent, they had avoided mentioning it. He, however, seemed
pleased as he said--

“Dr. Herschel’s Chinaman, Wing--my companion at Shushan--is a very
intelligent man. He speaks several languages fluently and his own
perfectly. I studied Chinese under him, also botany and astronomy. Like
myself, he was a leper. Our treatment, of course, consumed some time
and aside from that we made astronomical observations, botanized and
studied. I must show you some rare specimens found among those rocks.”

“Of what beside baths and hygiene did your treatment consist?” Eletheer
asked.

“Prepared snake venom, given hypodermically.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Celeste, whom the very sight of a snake sent
into hysterics. “Were you ever bitten by any of the snakes?”

“No, immediately after arriving there, I received my first
injection--an infinitesimal amount, of course, and one which produced
no toxic symptoms; but, strange as it may seem to you, none of the
snakes came near our cottage, and though frequently encountered and
provoked in our rambles, they did not retaliate. Wing, my companion,
did not arrive until some days after I did so I was in a measure
prepared for the horrible sight he presented. His rigid forehead,
entirely bare of eyebrows; the knotty, flattened nose; face and hands
completely covered with leprous tubercles; immense ears and peculiar
leper tones--but let us not dwell on this.

“Dr. Herschel began treating him at once, and after a few days, during
which he taught us his methods, we were left on honor to carry out
orders implicitly, with a promise that he would return in about six
weeks.

“Neither Wing nor I had one grain of confidence, in fact, we regarded
the whole thing as a _fetish_ which, believed in, would undoubtedly
assist the forces of nature in prolonging our miserable existence;
but the pathology of leprosy shows that to cure, something besides
faith is needed, and that something had never been discovered. But we
persevered conscientiously, and instead of abandoning ourselves to
despair lived mechanically day by day. My rheumatic pains were greatly
benefited by the baths, and Wing’s appetite surely spoke well for the
bracing climate; but otherwise there was no perceptible change on Dr.
Herschel’s first visit to us.

“Three months passed by, six; surely I felt better than in years; but
poor Wing! even in six months, I could see progress in the ravages of
the disease, but he made no complaint.

“October, and another visit from Dr. Herschel. He pronounced me better
and my companion worse. Unpacking his bag, the doctor carefully took
out two syringes and, filling both, emptied the contents of one into
Wing’s cheek; then, baring one foot, the contents of the other
instrument were injected into it and Dr. Herschel told him to lie down,
which he did.

“Really interested, I, too, watched results.

“‘Eureka!’ Dr. Herschel shouted, springing to the side of Wing who lay
gasping for breath, with every symptom of snake-bite poisoning.

“‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I said, ‘justice will neither call you a murderer
nor that poor, accursed piece of flesh a felon.’

“He made no reply, only with finger on pulse remained immovable. An
hour passed and still Dr. Herschel made no sign. Unable longer to
endure the strain, I said, ‘Is he conscious?’

“‘No. Prepare me a hypodermic of strychnine sulphate gr. one-fortieth,’
handing me the instrument and bottle of tablets. This given, he again
placed his fingers over Wing’s pulse. Wing was fast sinking into a
state of coma and every breath drawn seemed shorter.

“‘Nitro-glycerine, quick!’ called the doctor.

“Again the syringe was filled and emptied. All night long we
watched, and morning found poor Wing still alive. For a week he lay
in a comatose condition, cruelly, to my way of thinking, kept alive
by stimulants, and then delirium set in; mild at first, but growing
wilder and wilder. Had I not known his abstemious habits, I should have
pronounced his case delirium tremens. All the terrifying illusions,
delusions and hallucinations were present, snakes, devils, enemies
were after him. Shouts for help brought no assistance and at last,
completely exhausted, he would crouch on the floor, a picture of
abject terror. With the greatest difficulty we managed to force down
sufficient food to keep him alive, each paroxysm leaving him weaker
until finally he lapsed into a low fever that lasted for weeks. Dr.
Herschel never left us.

“‘Doctor,’ I said to him one day as we stood together by our patient’s
bedside, ‘those tubercles certainly look smaller!’

“‘And will look still smaller,’ was his calm reply.

“I started and took a close look; the feet were without one! My heart
gave a great bound and then seemed to stop.

“‘There, my boy,’ said Dr. Herschel, ‘calm yourself! ‘Old
Ninety-Nine’s’ cave contained a rarer treasure than money and jewels.’

“A tedious convalescence and Wing rose from his bed clean, not a mark
left to indicate that he had ever been a leper. His gratitude knew no
bounds, and with the dawning of the new year, Dr. Herschel pronounced
us both cured. However, for surety, we were to remain indefinitely
at Shushan, now no hardship surely. How different life looked with
an incentive to live; but, knowing the nature of the disease, we
gratefully accepted this respite, and I can truthfully say that the
remaining years there were the happiest of my life.”

“And in six years you have learned the secret of happiness,” said
Eletheer meditatively.

“Which is found through obedience to nature’s laws,” Hernando replied.
Then, turning to Jack, he made minute inquiries regarding his mother’s
last illness and death, again and again thanking him for his kindness,
expressing a desire to show some means of appreciation of the part Miss
Kurtz had taken in the vindication of his mother’s character.

“I reckon you don’t remember Tim Watson, Hernando,” Jack asked.
Hernando replied in the negative, but his manner showed that they would
not long be strangers.

“Why can’t you go back with us when we return?”

“I see no reason at present. It would give me great pleasure to do so.”

“Oh, don’t any one talk of going!” cried Celeste.

“Except to bed,” Eletheer laughed.




CHAPTER XIII


Every day brought to light some new trait in Hernando’s character. He
seemed absolutely unselfish and always called up the noblest qualities
in others. His interest in the mine was unabated and although Elisha
insisted upon relinquishing the position of superintendent, claiming he
held it only by proxy, Hernando refused so decidedly to accept that he
was obliged to desist. He consented, however, to become his assistant.

Among Cornelia’s friends was a young Mr. Van Tine. He was a frequent
visitor at the house, nearly always forming one of their excursion
parties; but Cornelia was looked upon by the family as simply a child,
and Mr. Van Tine, whose father was one of the oldest settlers, had been
Cornelia’s school-fellow so he was “George” Van Tine to them all.

Mr. and Mrs. Van Tine lived on a farm in the outskirts of Nootwyck.
They were devout Methodists and intended that George, their only child,
should be a minister of that denomination. His education was shaped
accordingly till the age of eighteen, when he flatly refused to follow
the ministry as a profession. Prayers that he might be brought to see
the error of his way followed, but he persisted. Next he was taken
from school and set at learning a trade, that of ornamental painting.
This was something tangible and, having artistic taste, he excelled in
it, and his parents became in a manner reconciled. They considered an
education as wholly unnecessary to a business life, as a sinful waste
of time. George was a natural mechanic; as a child his tastes ran in
that direction. When he grew older he expressed a wish to become an
architect but this was tabooed. He, however, submitted a design and,
crude as it was, it showed genuine skill and received considerable
praise. He simply waited his opportunity to perfect his talent.

Elisha and he were the best of friends. Cornelia had told the former
of George’s disappointment in not being able to receive a thorough
business education and, with characteristic readiness to aid others in
any worthy object, Elisha took him under his own supervision with most
gratifying results. Now, at twenty, George had obtained his parents’
consent to enter the Institute of Mechanical Arts at Nootwyck, and in
two years he looked forward to the attainment of his long-cherished
ambition.

June arrived with its sunshine and roses and one ideal morning before
the sun peeped over the mountain, the entire household at The Laurels,
including George Van Tine, started by wagon for Sam’s Point. The dewy
air was fragrant with flowers and birds twittered joyously among the
trees. Deliciously fresh and cool seemed the old Berm which they were
following. Canal boats still crept sleepily on between Honesdale and
Rondout, but the old boating days were almost over and would soon
exist only as a memory of something that had served a good purpose.
Past the path to the ice caves where, in caverns hundreds of feet
deep, nature provides an abundant store of ice at all seasons of the
year. In their vicinity, the mountains seemed to have been rent by some
convulsion of nature that split the solid rocks into chasms from two
to twelve feet wide, about one-half a mile in extent, and perhaps two
hundred feet deep. Geologists say that they are not of volcanic action
but caused by the gradual cooling off of the earth’s surface.

[Illustration: Canal boats still crept sleepily on]

Soon the road was steadily up and they halted frequently to rest the
horses and enjoy the view below. Dora had never seen the mountain
laurel, and the mountain sides were literally pink with blossoms.

“Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed, examining a superb bunch that
Hernando had picked for her. “The symbol of victory.”

“I regret that this is not the ‘Laurus Nobilis,’” Mr. De Vere replied.
“That could not stand our climate. The Indians called this ‘Spoonwood,’
and utilized the fine-grained knots for making spoons.”

“Some of the old settlers about here call it ‘Calico Bush,’” Eletheer
laughed. “Is not the name appropriate?”

“Eletheer knocks the sentiment out of everything,” Jack retorted. “She
will probably tell you, Dora, that the leaves are poisonous, so don’t
eat them.”

“I’m hungry enough to eat anything,” Dora replied.

“Score one for Dora,” joined in Cornelia. “I’m thankful that we’re
almost there.”

Those who have never visited Sam’s Point can have no conception of the
grandeur of these rocks there piled in fantastic shapes. It needs but a
little stretch of the imagination to believe one’s self among mediæval
castles. One almost expects to see some plumed knight appear on the
turret-like walls.

The trees are scattered, but a balsamy odor fills the air and the
blending of colors makes the scene one of rare beauty.

They put out their horses and took dinner at an inn near the Point,
and afterward ascended to the airy summit, where, lying down on the
smooth floor of rock which appears like a plaza, they looked out on a
view sublimely beautiful, aptly described by a familiar writer: “On the
south the view is bounded by the mountains of New Jersey; the Highlands
of the Hudson lie to the southeast; with the white sails of sloops and
the smoke of steamers in Newburgh Bay, plainly visible to the naked
eye; the Housatonic Mountains of Connecticut bound the horizon on the
east; the whole line of the Berkshires of Massachusetts and portions
of the Green Mountains of Vermont may be seen to the northeast; while
the Heldebergs on the north, the Catskills and Shandaken Mountains on
the northwest, the Neversink on the west complete a panorama in some
respects unrivalled in America.” Down at their feet lay the historic
valleys of Rondout and Wallkill.

“How did this bold promontory get its name?” inquired Dora.

“From an early settler by the name of Samuel Gonsalus,” replied Mr. De
Vere. “The legend runs thus:

“He was born in the present town of Mamakating, was reared in the midst
of stirring scenes of frontier life and border warfare in which he
afterward took a conspicuous part and was at last laid to rest in an
unassuming grave in the vicinity where occurred the events which have
caused his name to be handed down with some luster in the local annals.
He lived on the west side of the mountain, a locality greatly exposed
to Indian outrage, and his whole life was spent in constant danger. His
knowledge of the woods and his intimate acquaintance with the haunts
and habits of his savage neighbors rendered his service during the
French and Indian War of inestimable value. He possessed many sterling
qualities, not the least among which was an abiding devotion to the
cause of his country. No risk of life was too imminent, no sacrifice of
his personal safety too great to deter him from the discharge of his
duty.

“When the treacherous Indian neighbor planned a sudden descent on
an unsuspecting settlement, Sam Consawley, as he was called, would
hear rumors of the intended massacre in the air by means known only
to himself, and his first act would be to carry the people warning of
their danger. At other times he would join expeditions against bands
of hostiles. It was on such occasions that he rendered such signal
service. Though not retaining any official recognition, it was known
that his voice and counsel largely controlled in the movements of the
armed bodies with which he was associated, those in command yielding to
his known skill and sagacity.

“His fame as a hunter and Indian fighter was not confined to the circle
of his friends and associates. The savages both feared and hated him.
Many a painted warrior had he sent to the Happy Hunting-grounds. Many a
time had they lain in wait for him, stimulated both by revenge and by
the proffer of a handsome bounty on his scalp, but he was always too
wary for even the wily Indian.

“In September, 1753, a scalping party of Indians made a descent into
the country east of the Shawangunks. The warriors were from the
Delaware and had crossed by the old Indian trail leading through the
mountain paths known as ‘The Traps.’ Their depredations in the valley
having alarmed the people, they were returning by this trail, closely
pursued by a large body from the settlements. At the summit of the
mountain, the party surprised Sam who was hunting by himself.

“As soon as the savages saw him, they gave a warwhoop and started in
pursuit. Now was an opportunity, thought they, to satisfy their thirst
for revenge. Sam was a man of great physical strength and a fleet
runner. Very few of the savages could outstrip him in an even race, but
the Indians were between him and the open country and the only way left
was toward the precipice. He knew all the paths better than did his
pursuers and he had already devised a plan of escape while his enemies
were calculating on effecting his capture, or his throwing himself from
the precipice to avoid a more horrible death at their hands. He ran
directly to the Point and pausing shouted defiance at his pursuers,
and leaped from a cliff over forty feet in height. As he expected, his
fall was broken by a clump of hemlocks into the thick foliage of which
he had directed his jump. He escaped with only a few slight bruises.
The Indians came to the cliff but could see nothing of their enemy, and
supposing him to have been mutilated and killed among the rocks and
being themselves too closely pursued to admit of delay in searching
for a way down to the foot of the ledge, they resumed their flight,
satisfied that they were rid of him. But Sam was not dead as some of
them afterwards found to their sorrow. To commemorate this exploit and
also to bestow some form of recognition of his numerous services, this
precipice was named ‘Sam’s Point.’”

[Illustration: Sam’s Point]

Dora shivered as she looked down into the abyss below, into the
veritable clump of hemlocks where Sam landed; but Jack recalled her to
herself: “If we are to take in Lake Maratanza we’d better get a start
on.”

“Lake Maratanza!” she exclaimed. “Up here among the clouds?”

“Yes,” he returned, “and it is the least beautiful of four lakes
running along the summit of the mountain,--Maratanza, Awosting,
Minnewaska and Mohonk.”

A brisk half-mile walk over the pavement-like rocks bordered with
huckleberry bushes and stunted pines brought them to the lake, a
beautiful sheet of pure, soft water whose surface was rippling in the
slight breeze and sparkling with innumerable gems in the brilliant
sunlight.

Dora was lost in wonder--“Where does the water come from?”

“Some time ago at a meeting of scientists that very question came up
for discussion but no definite conclusion was arrived at,” said Mr.
De Vere. “In my opinion it comes from drainage. The lake lies in a
depression and on three sides the shores are composed of shelving rock
which slopes toward the lake. These rocks are thickly covered with
moss and bushes and the moss absorbs all moisture falling on it, and,
as the evaporation is slight, it gradually drains into the lake. To
substantiate this, the one shore which is more depressed forms an
outlet for the water after it has risen to a certain height and from
which issues a gurgling brook. In times of drought the water recedes
and the brook ceases to flow.”

“Maratanza” she mused, “another of your beautiful Indian names.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. De Vere, “Lake Maratanza was recorded as such in
the old capital of Ulster County over one hundred years ago, and
derived its name from a Delaware squaw who, with her little papoose,
was drifting idly over the surface of the lake in a birch-bark canoe
when the first white man came to its shores. Suddenly her dark-eyed
mate concealed among the bushes near cried out: ‘Maratanza, white man’s
come!’

  “‘Indian ghosts are all about us,
      And ’tis whispered ’mong the pines:
    Maratanza’s shade still wanders
      O’er the lake in cloudy lines.’”

“Allow me to present you with the first huckleberries of the season,
Dora,” said Hernando, handing her a sprig of fully ripened berries.
“Shawangunk berries are famous.”

“Huckleberries? I have never tasted one. They are delicious,” Dora
replied.

“Just wait till you taste Margaret’s huckleberry cobblers!” said Jack;
“m, m----it makes my mouth water to think of it!”

But the sun was getting low and even now the shadows were beginning to
creep up the mountains so they reluctantly turned away from the lake.

Before they arrived at the inn where their conveyances were, the sun
had gone down behind old Neversink, leaving one of those gorgeous June
plays of color seen only in mountainous regions. Slowly the mountains
became purple, then gray in the soft twilight, and gradually faded from
view altogether. Soon the din of active life reached the ear and they
emerged onto the Berm.

All were greatly affected by the events of the day and each communed
with himself. To Dora, it was the event of her life. She felt lifted
out of the prosaic ruts onto a more exalted plane.

Margaret had supper waiting for them when they reached home and it was
duly disposed of by the hungry party. Mr. and Mrs. De Vere retired soon
after and thinking her absence would be unnoticed, Eletheer stole away
to her private study and was so deeply absorbed in her work that she
did not hear a light tap on her door.

“May I come in?” said Hernando.

“Certainly,” she replied, opening wide the door.

They sat before the open window and she laid aside her book, turning
cheerily toward him.

“Eletheer,” he said, “I believe you graduate next year. Does that mean
that your future work is mapped out?”

“I think so,” she replied earnestly. “The ambition of my life has been
and is to become a trained nurse.”

“Following one’s vocation should, and does, bring success. Dr. Herschel
feels confident that you are on the right trail and that training will
develop an inherited talent for nursing.”

“A high compliment truly, and one that I appreciate. Nursing is,
indeed, a sacred calling, a calling that requires rare gifts; but I
sometimes wonder if all nurses fully appreciate its true significance.
It surely does not mean that we have forsaken the world and all its
pleasures for the sweet joy of ministering to the afflicted, in other
words, that the woman is wholly absorbed in the nurse. I see the force
of Dr. Herschel’s argument which is, that nursing is neither an order,
a trade, nor a means of earning a livelihood; but that it must ultimate
in a profession filled almost exclusively by women. Our American
hospitals, though second only to those of England in point of equipment
for the training of nurses, are still imperfect. From a small beginning
actuated by humane motives, of necessity, nursing has assumed vast
proportions. Like all other avenues of human activity, the bad crops
out with the good and many a conscientious nurse suffers for the sins
of one who has crept in. Then, too, expert training is a necessity.
Now a good registration law would materially lessen many existing
evils. Any nurse who has earned the right to affix ‘R. N.’ to her name
would be known as one who had met the requirements of such law and was
legally responsible thereto.

  “‘New occasions teach new duties,
      Time makes ancient good uncouth;
    We must upward still and onward,
      Who would keep abreast of truth.’”

“True,” replied Hernando, “these are the days of expert training. The
doctor’s assistant must keep his pace but I am sure you will agree
with me that while nineteenth century conditions may teach nurses
‘new duties,’ it behooves them all to remember that their distinctly
feminine attributes, gentleness, tenderness, sympathy, may still be
retained and yet keep ‘abreast of truth.’”

“Yes, indeed; we might learn a lesson from Reuben. He and his race are
the ‘natural nurses.’”

“And through the sympathy which nurses only can give, they touch the
chord which even a mother cannot reach. Dr. Herschel’s discovery is the
marvel of the age; but I know that without Reuben’s help, my case would
have been a failure.”

“Sometimes,” said Eletheer hesitatingly, “I think that Reuben possesses
the ‘sixth sense.’”

“Reuben is one of those rare characters ‘we read of,’” replied Hernando.

They heard the back stairway door open, close, and then Reuben’s
measured tread up the back stairs. As he was passing Eletheer’s door on
his evening rounds both she and Hernando called to him to join them.

“Law me, chillen,” he said with beaming eyes, “I’se po’ful glad to see
you togetha once mo’.”

“And,” said Eletheer with her old impetuosity, “Hernando feels that but
for you, one of our number would be missing.”

Reuben looked reprovingly at her, and Hernando added:

“I do in very truth, my friend. I know that your prayers in my behalf
are answered.”

“Yes, Massa, an’ I know it too. De good Lord allus ansus ’em. Yo’ know
what de Good Book says,--‘Ask an’ yo’ shall receive.’”

“I know that,” said Eletheer, “but on one condition only are our
prayers to be answered, and that is an unreasonable one: ‘Believe that
you have received it.’”

“Ob co’se, Honey; but to my way ob t’inkin’ dat am a bery reasonable
condishun, we hab ‘received it.’ De good Lawd done finished His work.
Yo’ see, Honey, de p’int am jes’ hyah,--we’se sunk in trespass an’ sin,
got blin’ eyes an’ deaf ea’s. What’s de sense in pleadin’ an’ coaxin’
de good Lawd to give us a lot ob t’ings when we aint usin’ what we’s
got?”

“Then,” said Eletheer, “when you asked God to cure Hernando, you
honestly and truly believed that He would do it?”

“Sho’s yo’ bo’n I did, Honey.”

“I know you did, Reuben, and ‘without a doubt in your heart,’” said
Hernando.

“Ob co’se; an’ along comes Doctah Herschel!”

“You blessed old Reuben!” said Eletheer, giving his arm a squeeze.
“I believe you can do anything; but wouldn’t Dr. Herschel have come
anyway?”

“Dat am ezackly de p’int, Honey. De good Lawd already done His part.
He done gib Doctah Herschel de talent an’ de wisdom to go sperimentin’
an’ projeckin’ wif dat bery ge’m till he found a cuah in ‘Old
Ninety-Nine’s’ will. Yes, Honey, he was bo’n fo’ dis bery place and de
good Lawd sent him.”

“You mean, Reuben,” said Hernando, “that our every need is met.”

“Yes, Massa, when we’se _willin’_!”

“I agree with you,” Hernando added, “and it is becoming more and
more clear what I have been in training for: Dr. Herschel proposes
founding a hospital for lepers at Hong Kong. It will need intelligent
supervision and my own case, together with a knowledge of Chinese
acquired at Shushan, seems to have fitted me for just that work.”

“It do look as if yo’d been specially ’lected to dat mission. De
flesh-pots ob Egypt don’t tempt yo’ no mo’; de Red Sea am behin’ yo’
an’ yo’ ken show dem po’ heathens by pussunel ’sperience dat de desert
an’ mountains am jes’ dis side ob de Promised Lan’; but, Massa,”
here Reuben’s voice vibrated like a deep-toned bell, “de good Lawd
wants His chillen to be happy, to be de’ bery bestest selbes. He done
made ebery_t’ing_ good jes’ a pu’pose fo’ dem to use. De Good Book
says,--‘Happy am de man dat findeth wisdom, an’ de man dat getteth
undastandin’’--‘All huh ways am ways ob pleasantness, an’ all huh paths
am peace.’ Yo’se plumb kuahed now, got back to de fo’cks ob de road
an’ de’s on’y two, de right one an’ de wrong one; an’ onless de one
p’intin’ to Hong Kong ansahs de call f’um de bery bottom ob yo’ hea’t,
onless dat ansah comes so natrel-like dat it don’t take no strainin’
to go, yo’ won’t fin’ wisdom dat-away an’ it aint de path ob peace.”
After a pause he resumed: “I reckon dat strainin’ am f’um de Debbil.
Hit makes sich a roarin’ in de ea’s dat we can’t heah de ‘still small
voice’ allus a-tellin’ de truf. Yes,” he concluded, “dat’s _strainin’_
an’ de p’int.”

Hernando gave an imperceptible start. “Cured.” Yes, he was cured, had
the right to a place beside other men in this world of affairs. A
right good old world it was, too, with its triumphs and defeats, its
joys and its sorrows, its “marryings and giving in marriage!” “Cured!”
What hopes that word awoke in him, thrilling him with a sweetness that
defied analysis. Had the wise man really found wisdom, and were _all_
her ways “ways of pleasantness and all her paths peace”? Why, oh, why
did this old world of unrest, of human desires still call to him! Had
he not renounced it that he might win a better? Surely it could have no
claims on him now. Yet a wave almost of resentment surged over him at
the thought.

“Massa!”

Hernando turned absently toward his questioner and did not notice that
Eletheer’s chair was empty.

Reuben waited a few seconds and then said softly,--“Massa, we can’t
take de Kingdom of Hebben by sto’m.”

“You’re right, of course, Reuben,” Hernando answered, giving himself a
mental shake. “I’m afraid I’m a poor soldier anyway.”

“’Scuse me, Massa, mebbe yo’se done been fightin’ undah de wrong Cap’n;
an’ mebbe agin taint no use fightin’ nohow; jes’ let de Kingdom ob
Hebben take yo’.”

Hernando leaned slightly nearer, and Reuben went on,--“Now taint no
makin’ b’lieve ’bout dis gibin’ up, like dem po’ sinnahs what hollahs
amen, ’thout takin’ de mo’nah’s bench. Hit’s got ’o be a _willin’_
sacrifice. We mus’ git right down on our knees an’ hollah f’um de bery
bottom ob de hea’t,--‘Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy, hyah am ebery_t’ing_ I got in
dis wo’l ’thout no stipylations!’ Den we mus’ trus’ de good Lawd an’ be
_glad_ to trabel back to de fo’cks of de road; an’ w’en dis trablin’
do seem like hit aint neber goin’ to en’, we must ’member de promise:
‘God am a bery present frien’ in time ob need.’”

Hernando’s face twitched as he looked at Reuben. What did he see? An
old black man? The vision belonged to Hernando alone; he seemed to hear
a clock strike “I! II!” Hear the soft crackle of dying embers on the
hearth in a room filled with shadows, feel a trembling old hand press
his own in sympathy while they two “made sacrifice.” Was his sacrifice
“willing,” was he glad to go to Shushan and _had_ he remembered the
“promise”? And yet in those six years he thought he had “worked out”
his “own salvation,” found the secret of happiness, sounded the
doctrine of trust, drawn the specifications for a useful life in which
the old world had no part. Yes, only _thought_; for that old world kept
calling, calling--and oh it was like sweet music in his ears!

“Just let the Kingdom of Heaven take you.”

What else had he been doing for years, Hernando thought.

“Have you _submitted_ those specifications?”

The voice sounded so near that Hernando looked quickly at Reuben; but
apparently he had not moved a muscle since his last remark. Whence
came that voice? All else was still; even the rustling leaves outside
seemed to wait like the enchanted fairies, for his answer, while that
relentless question dinned in his ears.

“Have you _submitted_ those specifications?”

Yes, had he? Hernando’s tension relaxed somewhat at the admission of
an honest doubt, and the dinning in his ears grew fainter before the
incoming light. Alas! no, the Bar of Justice before whom all plans
must go had not passed on his. The dinning in his ears ceased; and
then something, that Something which comes to each of us when self is
melted into the sincere desire for truth for truth’s sake, flashed upon
him. Only a flash, a glimpse of the real; but Hernando caught it, saw
that _his message had been received_, knew that at the right time, and
in the best way, the call from the very bottom of his heart would be
_answered_.




CHAPTER XIV


If one cloud dimmed the happiness of the De Vere household on the
following morning, it was too small to be seen. Reuben awoke with
the birds and from the chicken yard ominous squawks foretold what
would constitute one item in the bill-of-fare for breakfast. “Molly,”
Cornelia’s Jersey cow, was poking her nose through the bars ready
to contribute a generous supply of rich milk, and soon afterward
Margaret’s “Co, boss!” made her step lightly aside while with shining
pail that worthy woman lowered the bars and entered the barnyard.

“Oh, Reuben!” she shouted, “what yo’ doin’ to dem chickens? I ’clare to
goodness, yo’ll drive me plumb crazy.”

“Nebba yo’ min’ dem chickens! Yo’ jes’ pay ’tention to Molly.”

He appeared just then around the corner of the barn with three headless
chickens, and as his wife’s glance fell on them, she exclaimed, with
uplifted hands,--“Fo’ de lan’ sake, ef yo’ aint done gone an’ killt de
baby’s dominick pullet!”

Reuben’s crest-fallen countenance softened her heart, however, and she
said no more and was soon on a stool beside Molly. Did she miss old
associates in the sunny South? If so, no one knew it; as with Reuben,
Massa John and Miss Bessie’s world was hers, and had they gone to the
wilds of Siberia, these two faithful servants would have followed and
been content.

Cornelia’s face sparkling with perfect health just then peeped out of
the kitchen door. She was going “after an appetite,” she declared, and
skipping past Margaret was soon climbing to a point beyond and above
the barn. Reuben’s heart smote him as he thought of the “dominick
pullet,” and he called out to the fast vanishing figure,--“Oh, Miss
Cornelia, don’t yo’ forget Molly’s salt!”

She threw back a laughing glance and ran her hand into her pocket, a
motion he understood, and disappeared from view. She was passionately
fond of animals and particularly of horses. Reuben often declared, “Dat
chile aint afraid of nuffin on fo’ legs.” She certainly understood
and loved them and was an accomplished horsewoman; but this morning
her visit to the barn was a short one and, turning a sharp angle in
the path, her blue dress fluttered in and out among the bushes as she
wandered away upward.

Unseen by her, from a projecting rock above, a pair of eyes as blue
as her dress was watching her, as she sprang from rock to rock, every
motion perfect grace. Pausing, she glanced upward and saw Hernando.

“Well,” she laughed, “what brings you out so early?”

“‘Great minds run in the same channel,’ doubtless I am hunting for the
same thing you are.”

“A bath in the morning dew?”

“You certainly do not need one, and I am looking for a very prosaic
article, known as an ‘appetite.’”

“I’m pretty well drabbled,” she said demurely, not noticing his look of
admiration. “But come, I’m not like Eletheer, Mr. Gallant, help me to a
seat up there beside you.”

He was already preparing to do so and, taking off his coat, he spread
it on the rock, which was still damp with dew, and they sat down
together.

It was not yet seven, the busy city below them had not yet fully
wakened and the air was fresh and sweet. To Hernando, the girl beside
him had always been simply “Cornelia, the baby.” Like Eletheer, he
too had noticed George Van Tine’s marked attentions to her but he had
also noticed that they were not objectionable, and he wondered if she
fully understood the seriousness of marriage. Just now she was looking
intently down among the rocks and bushes and he said gently,--“‘A penny
for your thoughts.’”

“I’m just wondering if my guineas could have stolen their nest in that
thicket,” she answered, pointing to where her glance had been directed.

Restraining a laugh, he asked,--“Are they up to that sort of thing?”

“Up to it? Well I should say so. They deliberately hide them, and are
noted for their bad behavior in that line. Mine have completely eluded
discovery. But I love them, though Eletheer says their cry reminds her
of a rusty pump.”

What could he say to this child, and how assist Eletheer in her
sisterly efforts in what she believed her duty? As Eletheer said,
Cornelia was indeed gifted with an unusual voice which might bring
fame. She also was “young to make a choice which might be regretted
later.” “But after all,” he thought, “these matters are better let
alone when there is nothing radically wrong, and I see nothing in this
case.” Why break the spell which held her a willing captive? To what
nobler use could her voice be put than bringing sweet sounds into a
good man’s home where, surrounded by husband and children, she would
be shielded from temptation? Surely in that, she could find nothing to
regret.

He glanced toward the hills among which lay Shushan, where the last
six years of his own life had been spent, and his mind reverted back
to that awful night of his banishment when life seemed a mockery and
annihilation a bliss. Further back still, he sees a kind old face
crowned with silvery hair and tears of pity filling her eyes. “Dear old
granny,” he thought, “your prayer for mercy is answered; and though we
may view things differently, we look in the same direction.”

The city was stirring now and the busy hum of life had begun. Whistles
from the factories and mills were calling to work. Seven o’clock, and
the distant screech of a locomotive told of the nearing of Ulster
Express.

“I feel it in my bones that we’ll have company for breakfast,” said
Cornelia, rising and standing on tip-toe to see how many passengers got
off. Cornelia’s “feelings” were a family joke, but Hernando also arose
and looked down the road, more to keep his companion from falling than
from any expectancy of “company for breakfast.”

The station was in plain sight and as they turned their heads in
that direction, a very singular-looking passenger jumped from the
train, satchel in hand, clearing the steps at a bound. He was clad in
a hickory shirt, blue jean trousers and brogans. On his head was a
broad-brimmed, soft felt hat. Apparently he stopped to question one
of the station men for the latter pointed toward the mountain and he
started up that way.

“Who on earth can he be!” said Cornelia, clapping her hands in
excitement.

“He looks and walks like a cowboy,” replied Hernando. “Come, let’s go
down. This time, at least, your presentiment seems a true one.”

But for Hernando’s restraining hand, she would have jumped from the
rock on which they were sitting; by dint of engineering, however, he
kept her within bounds until they reached the back yard, when she
started for the house on a keen run. Rushing past Margaret, whose hands
were uplifted in disgust, she burst into the dining-room with cheeks
that vied with the roses on the breakfast table.

----“And this, Mr. Watson, is our daughter Cornelia,” said Mr. De Vere,
laying his hand on her shoulder.

Like Jack, Cornelia was instantly won. All she saw was those same
honest blue eyes and though his grip made her knuckle-bones ache, she
bore it without flinching. His admiring glance made her cheeks rosier
than ever.

“Now that you have seen us all, I am aware of an uneasy sensation in
that region of my anatomy known as the stomach, and Margaret’s coffee
smells mighty good. Shall we sample it?” said Jack, and without more
ceremony they sat down to breakfast.

Contrary to her usual custom, Cornelia remained silent. She glanced
uneasily towards the door and finally, unable longer to keep quiet,
said, “I wonder what keeps Hernando?”

“Sure enough where is he? How thoughtless we are!” Mrs. De Vere
answered, rising and starting towards the hall. “Ah, here you are, Mr.
Truant,” she laughed, as the door at that moment opened. “Come and meet
an old friend!”

“An ever friend,” he corrected, advancing toward Watson with extended
hand.

The latter grasped it with a true Texan grip but his expression of
sympathy gave place to one of amazement as he looked into that pure
face. No marks of resentment or disease there, only an expression of
absolute self-forgetfulness and charity for the weaknesses of others.

Watson’s vindictive feelings toward Mills faded away. Such were out of
place here and his customary “doggone it” escaped without his knowing
exactly why.

The bright morning sunlight streamed into the room as if to accentuate
the happy faces around the breakfast-table. Watson, to all but
Margaret, seemed to have simply dropped into his place. Her feelings
were beyond analysis but she confidentially whispered to Reuben as she
returned to the kitchen to get more hot muffins, “He aint no kwolty.”

Many were the questions to be asked and answered and in consequence,
it was nearly nine o’clock before breakfast was over; then Watson
found himself the center of an admiring group. First of all, he was
buttonholed by Jack and his laugh, hearty as the winds of his own
State, made the walls ring, and all involuntarily joined.

“You ought to be a very happy man, Mr. De Vere,” he said, addressing
the latter.

“I am,” Mr. De Vere replied. “Only a few years ago this beautiful
city was a mere hamlet. The wonderful resources of this valley were
undeveloped and no prospect of better conditions.”

He looked musingly in the direction of the mine. “Hernando came to us
and proved ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ no myth--of course you know the history?”
Mr. De Vere interjected.

“Yes, and Jack tells me you have in your possession one of his ears,
petrified.”

“Had,” corrected Mr. De Vere, “but no curious eyes shall scrutinize
what should not be an object of curiosity. Dr. Herschel pronounced it
the ear of a leper, so I destroyed the poor deformed member, and the
statue of ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ soon to be unveiled in Delaware Park, is
such as he must have been in his prime. You must get Hernando to tell
you of his life at Shushan.”

“Does he speak of it?” Watson inquired aghast. “I’ve been afraid I’d
let something slip. Poor boy, poor boy!”

“Poor boy, indeed!” Jack retorted. “Why, Watson, he loves to, and the
rugged hills of Shushan are to him the most beautiful spot on earth.”

“His face haunts me,” said Watson. “Does he ever say anything about
Mills?”

“Often, and always with compassion.”

Watson was silent, and just then Cornelia came into the room and
dragged him off to inspect her horse, as Jack had told her of his
reputation as a judge of horseflesh. He went willingly enough, for
his ideas on the subject under discussion were not quite clear, and
he also felt a trifle elated at the prospects of showing off the good
points of a horse to such an attractive listener. They could not have
more than reached the barn, when Mr. Genung was announced.

Evidently he was in ignorance of Watson’s arrival; had simply “dropped
in” on his way to the mine where, as one of the largest stock-holders,
his influence was felt. Although unpopular with the miners, all
admitted him to be just according to his convictions and his advice
sound. Hernando’s trouble had aged him greatly. His once black hair was
thickly strewn with grey and after the greetings were over, he sank
into a chair quite exhausted. Eletheer slipped unobserved from the room
and shortly returned with a cup of coffee, well knowing Mr. Genung’s
weakness. He accepted it gratefully, saying, “Ah, my dear, you have
chosen the right profession!”

“If all my duties were to be as pleasant as this, I have certainly
selected an easy one,” she laughed.

“By the way,” he said, “I am the bearer of a message from Dr. Brinton
to you. He was driving like mad up Lombardy Street, but seeing my
direction, I presume, halted long enough to say that he would like to
have you call at his office this afternoon. Dr. Herschel was with him.
Now,” handing her the empty cup, “I have delivered the message, and you
may refer him to me for recommendation.”

Conversation drifted into generalities and Eletheer went to help her
mother in household duties.

Eletheer was not given to presentiments, but the mention of Dr.
Herschel’s name made her shiver. She always thought of him in
connection with that awful night of Hernando’s departure for Shushan
and could barely restrain her excitement at the thought of meeting
him for, in her eyes, he was all-powerful. “Ridiculous,” she thought,
giving herself a mental shake. “I’m a goose to be nervous, and very
likely he is not in any way concerned with Dr. Brinton’s message to me.”

Her hands and feet kept time with her busy brain and long before noon
no trace of disorder was to be seen. As Mrs. De Vere often lamented,
she was not “like other girls.” Generous to a fault and charitable
toward her friends, yet, like Granny, she would not tolerate weakness
nor a deviation from her standard of right.

During her grandmother’s lifetime, her religious training was strictly
in accordance with the teachings of the Reformed Dutch Church. The
Bible, including punctuation marks, she had been taught to regard as
a direct revelation from God and her childish doubts were sternly
rebuked. After the old lady’s death, other influences crept in and
association with people of expanded minds created a tumult in her
naturally analytical brain. But the first impression was too deep to be
completely obliterated, and though she could not conscientiously become
a member of the church in whose doctrine she had been so thoroughly
grounded, any imputation that her belief in it was weak was resented
until obliged to admit that it was true, and even then she recoiled
from the thought. Hernando’s troubles stirred the smouldering fires
anew, and later from her experience among suffering humanity at the
training school, where the physicians and surgeons, and in fact the
entire hospital staff, were decidedly unorthodox, she was obliged to
say when asked her belief, “I don’t know.” To try to do right and let
the future take care of itself became her creed and she accepted it,
knowing no better.

Two o’clock, Dr. Brinton’s office hour, came at last and, in a flutter
of excitement, Eletheer hurried through the busy streets toward his
office. She had not long to wait, for, though the reception-room was
full, on receiving her card Dr. Brinton ushered her into his private
office where who should advance to meet her but Dr. Herschel. Evidently
the appointment was with him for Dr. Brinton had disappeared.

“What can Dr. Herschel want of me!” Eletheer thought, nervously taking
the nearest seat. Her doubts, however, were soon dispelled; as,
drawing from his pocket a formidable-looking document, Dr. Herschel
said,--“This is ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ will--for such it is to all intents
and purposes--written in Spanish as you see. You know its history
but not its entire contents; however, as you are practically in the
profession, a full understanding of the will may have an added interest
as it shows what advances have been made along bacteriological lines
and, I might add, clearly illustrates the influence of mind over matter.

“After ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ cure, he continued to live at Shushan,
making occasional trips to his cave, the whereabouts of which were
sacredly guarded from discovery--indeed this document is so carefully
worded as to give not a hint of its locality. While at Shushan, many
years after having been cured, he had another revelation in the form
of a dream. He must fly to his cave or evil spirits would _obsess_ him
for they were powerful, and after this sickness he might not be able to
resist them.”

Here the doctor paused and looked searchingly at his listener but,
seeing only an expression of interest on her face, went on,--“The old
chief hastened to his cave, though not with the vigor of youth, only
to find evil spirits in possession. Putting this document--which in
reality is not a will--no Indian ever makes a will--with his other
treasures into the chest he securely locked it and implored the Great
Spirit to lead him to the Happy Hunting-ground. We can trace him no
further, even the events last narrated are merely inferences from
circumstances. We know that he went to the West Indies and I infer
from collateral facts that he had a Spanish wife who suggested and
formulated this document. His sudden and obscure death deprived her of
any knowledge of the fact.” Dr. Herschel carefully folded the document
and, leaning back in his chair, lit a cigar.

“Was he insane?” Eletheer asked.

“Insanity is a nice word to define. ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ was not insane,
but died in an hysterical seizure. This would explain finding his body
in that dangerous place.”

“Then he did not believe himself cured?” Eletheer said.

“Have you yet taken up the study of the nervous system?” Dr. Herschel
asked, as though what had happened were an every-day occurrence.

“No, that comes in our second year.”

“One year on the nervous system! Ten years, a lifetime; and we are
still in an unexplored realm.

“I wish particularly to point a moral in ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ case,
as the symptoms there manifested will be among the most difficult
to treat, particularly in the uneducated. First, because the word
leprosy is crystalized in the human mind into an incurable disease and
having once had it, a patient, unless of unusual intellect, lives in
constant dread of its return--our hospitals for the insane would grow
beautifully less by the elimination of that one element _fear_. Leprosy
is a germ disease; the leper bacillus was discovered in 1874. Thus
heredity is disproven. We know it to be a parasitic disease.”

“Then children of leprous parents cannot inherit the disease?”

“No, except a possible predisposition. This does not mean, however,
that I advocate marriage between lepers. If children are born of such
parentage, they ordinarily die young or are a prey to every disease.
The point I wish to illustrate is that nervousness is the worst tyrant
of the day. True, ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ was already an old man; but he
might have lived many years longer only for fear, which, combined with
his racial traits, made a formidable enemy indeed.

“This is a question of great importance to nurses, one with which
they, more than the physician, will have to contend. A nurse is sent
on a case, possibly diphtheria, one of the most fatal diseases known.
When we discover the germ a cure must follow and, as in any germ
disease, corresponding nervous symptoms follow from destruction of
tissue. Strange!” Dr. Herschel said, looking towards Shushan, “the many
discoveries now being made on the physical plane, yet they do not
unlock the doors to the spiritual realm.”

“Hernando claims that they do,” said Eletheer.

This happened to be one of the rare occasions on which Dr. Herschel
laughed; and he did laugh with a right good will. “Yes,” he said with a
twinkle in his eyes, “Hernando explained his philosophy to me at some
length during the last year of his stay at Shushan. As I understand him
he believes that thought, like electricity and magnetism, is a force,
and that it may be intelligently applied in the treatment of disease.
Of course he refers to diseases of nervous origin, such as hysteria and
some allied functional disorders, and in this he is quite right; but,
Miss De Vere, my experience has been on other than metaphysical lines.
As a nurse, yours will be also. This physical body and the material
world it inhabits are our materials to work with and, at this stage of
evolution at least, fate must be reckoned with. Don’t muddle your brain
with these new sciences and cures. Keep on solid ground.

“Now Hernando is a splendid fellow, an ideal patient, and while
I agree with him that the greater part of human ills are largely
imaginary, and that it is natural for vegetable and animal life to
grow from darkness to light, I am also grateful for the knowledge--and
its results--revealed to us by microscopic vision into the world of
micro-organisms. This is something tangible.” And rising, Dr. Herschel
indicated that the interview was over.

After Eletheer left, Dr. Herschel walked rapidly back and forth,
stopping occasionally to look out of first one window and then another;
but the objects he saw were visible only to him. One thing he intended
to do and that was to keep this girl in sight. She was possessed of the
qualifications necessary for the making of an ideal nurse--a trifle
visionary, perhaps; but experience would cure that--and it should be
his duty to see that her aspirations in that line were realized as
nearly as lay in his power. Another year at the training school would
do much, and then he would do the rest.

All unconscious of these plans for her future, the object of them sped
homeward. Turning a corner sharply she almost ran into Mary Genung and
the latter laughingly called,--“Eletheer De Vere, do you mean that as a
cut direct?”

“Certainly not, Mary, I confess to absent-mindedness. Come along home
with me.”

“I’ve just been there. Your mother told me that you were at Dr.
Brinton’s and that I might meet you. Let’s go after rhododendrons in
the paper-mill woods. Please don’t refuse.”

“I’ve no such intention,” laughed Eletheer as she followed her
companion to where, as children, they had spent many, many happy hours
together. How long ago that seemed now--and she listened mechanically
while her friend pointed out critically the architectural beauty of
several newly erected buildings. They were passing the old Reformed
Dutch Church when Mary exclaimed,--“To my mind, no structure in the
city can approach this. In its chaste Corinthian lines, it is indeed a
fitting monument to the religious zeal of our ancestors.”

“Is it not Emerson who says that all men are at heart religious?”
Eletheer answered.

Mary made no reply, and they were soon climbing the steep, rocky
incline near the entrance to the woods. It was known as the “Old Honk
Falls’ path.” The day was excessively warm and strangely quiet. The
Rondout creek tumbled musically over the rocks below, forming many
beautiful cascades, and the girls stopped occasionally at some bend in
the stream to watch the myriads of brilliant-hued dragon-flies glinting
through the branches of some fallen tree; but in the oppressive
afternoon heat even the birds seemed seeking a covert. The girls
quickened their steps and soon disappeared into the woods beyond.

“Oh!” said Mary, as she sank on the carpet of fragrant pine-needles.
“Talk of the ‘murmuring pines and the hemlocks.’ I fail to detect the
slightest motion in these.”

[Illustration: The Rondout Creek tumbled musically over the rocks below
forming many beautiful cascades]

“It does seem unusually quiet, and that with the heat makes me
apprehensive. Reuben would say ‘it means sumfin’,’” Eletheer returned,
seating herself beside her companion.

“Well,” retorted Mary, “if you know a cooler spot, I’ll gladly follow
to it; but did God ever create a more beautiful one?”

It was, indeed, a spot of rare beauty; such as must have inspired the
cathedral-builders of old; great pines and hemlocks reared their lofty
columns upward to be there crowned with a covering so dense as to admit
scarcely a ray of sunshine. A solemn arcade indeed, whose cleft pillars
were bound with brown withes of wild grape-vine. A brown carpet covered
the floor and in this weird semi-twilight, one almost expected to hear
a solemn Te Deum echo from the crossing branches above. The day was one
of unearthly stillness and there was such a downpour of heat outside
that the very air seemed on fire. Even the scattered clumps of ferns
and jack-in-the-pulpits hung their heads as if in exhaustion.

“Are you feeling well to-day, Eletheer? You seem so preoccupied.”

“Physically, yes; but, Mary, I’m actually nervous. Everything looks so
uncanny.”

“You are accustomed to an out-of-door life and I trust have not made a
mistake in your choice of profession. Hark! Did you hear anything?”

“There, Mary, you too, are nervous,” said Eletheer, forcing a laugh.
“See!” pointing upward, “nothing but a pair of stray bats.”

“And a snake coiled among the bushes yonder! Come, Eletheer, let’s go
home. I’m getting the ‘creeps.’”

“Indeed, let’s do no such thing! It’s the heat combined with this utter
silence that affects us. There goes that snake now!”

As they looked, a dirty-green snake trailed his lazy length towards the
creek. At the same time, two bats fluttered over it like shadows, until
they, too, melted into the tremulous haze that overhung everything.

“I was about to add,” Eletheer resumed with a backward glance, “that
Dr. Herschel has been giving me some points on _nerves_. Now is a good
time to put them into practice.”

“Well,” returned her friend, “if you can stand it I can, and that
reminds me, father and I were talking of Hernando this morning. Now
that he is cured, we hope that he will marry and settle down in a home
of his own. As you know, he is the last male of our name and, unless he
does marry, the name dies with him,” and Miss Genung looked searchingly
at her friend.

Eletheer smiled as she replied,--“I can’t imagine a woman just like his
wife ought to be. Honestly, now, can you, Mary?”

“Oh, Eletheer, can’t you trust a life-long friend?” said Mary in a tone
of such genuine feeling that Eletheer was startled. Gradually, however,
the import of her friend’s words dawned upon her and with a troubled
expression she said gently:

“Mary, we are indeed life-long friends so don’t misunderstand me--you
will, however. Your accusation cannot be met with argument; but there
are men and women who mentally complement each other but to whom
marriage, with its obligations, does not appeal.”

“I have read of such attachments,” returned Mary dryly,--“but in
my limited experience they invariably end in something deeper than
friendship. No, Eletheer, you may deceive yourself but not others.”

What could Eletheer say? Experience had taught her the folly of
argument with this sweet little blue-eyed, Dutch-French friend, so she
said coaxingly,--“Never mind that now, dear. Tell me of your proposed
trip abroad next fall.”

“There is little to tell. I hope, of course, to visit France and
Holland as most of us in this valley are either French, Dutch, or a
mixture of both.”

“Strange! that two nations of such widely different characteristics
should have so assimilated.”

The vexed expression had disappeared from Mary’s countenance; she loved
to discuss the early history, and particularly religious, of this
valley, and Eletheer’s interest pleased her.

“Not necessarily so,” she returned. “They were thrown together by a
common persecution. The first settlements of the town of Wawarsing
were made by Huguenots and Hollanders at Nootwyck and ‘The Corners.’
The ancestors of the persons who made them had passed through fiery
persecutions for conscience’s sake and had the principles of the early
reformers thoroughly ingrained in their constitutions. In France,
these reformers were called Huguenots, but all the early Protestants
of France and Holland organized churches on similar principles, which
generally were called Reformed Churches. The French have always been
a people of ardent temperament and decided opinions, and religion
expresses the extreme characteristic of a people.

“Discouraged by fruitless efforts to obtain religious liberty at
home, the Huguenots fled from their native country in great numbers,
estimated at one million of the most industrious, the most intelligent
and the most moral of the French nation, who sought safety in England,
Holland, Prussia, Switzerland and America, taking with them their skill
in the arts and as much of their wealth as could be snatched from the
destroyer, thus impoverishing France and enriching the countries to
which they fled, where they found a most welcome reception.

“In Holland, the Protestants suffered a continued series of
persecutions under Charles V and Philip II of Spain, beginning in
1523 and lasting to the time when religious liberty was secured under
William of Orange, during which time thousands of the best citizens
of Holland were cruelly murdered and tormented for conscience’s sake.
The Huguenots and Hollanders, thus brought into intimate relationship
by common fate and a like persecution, maintained the closest and
most intimate friendship with one another, worshipping together and
intermarrying.”

So utterly absorbed were the girls, that neither of them was aware
of a pair of listeners, Tim Watson and Elisha, who were seated just
a few feet distant on a shelving rock that overhung the creek, and
they also had become oblivious of their surroundings. No one noticed
the increasing murkiness of the atmosphere, nor the baleful, ominous
stillness as though nature was in a vindictive mood and preparing to
spring upon her victim. The dull, yellow sun was fast becoming obscured
by a cloud of inky blackness and a gentle sough of the wind through the
tree-tops had increased to a threatening howl. But as Mary raised her
eyes and glanced toward the creek, a roar like the infernal regions
let loose, followed by a vivid flash of lightning, brought the four
into a realization of their danger. Like a deer, Elisha leaped toward
the girls and grasping an arm of each shouted,--“Out of the woods!”
Another terrific flash from the zenith to the horizon was followed by a
distinctly sulphurous glow. The bolt shivered the tree under which they
stood. A blazing ball plowed up the ground at their feet and all three
fell in an insensible heap.

Watson’s sinewy arms carried the girls tenderly to an adjoining field
and laid them on the soft grass. Returning quickly to Elisha’s
assistance,--“I’ll be doggoned, if they don’t have northers here,”
froze on his lips as he looked at the still form at his feet; for his
practiced eye told him that no human help could avail here. However,
this was no place for examination, so Elisha, too, was carried to a
place beside the girls.

To any one but this Texan, the scene would have been appalling. The
creek, which so short a time before had rolled peacefully on, now
dashed madly over the rocks, impelled onward by an irresistible
force. Giant trees bent almost double and the air was filled with
flying branches. The noise was frightful. All nature seemed bent on
destruction. Watson calmly applied restoratives and guarded his charges
from new danger. The girls, he knew, would recover as they now showed
signs of returning consciousness; and, though he could discover no
outward sign of injury on Elisha’s person, his heart had ceased to
beat. Stimulants, artificial respiration were employed, but all to no
purpose.

Eletheer was the first to recover consciousness. She opened her eyes,
looked around in a dazed manner, sat up and took hold of Watson’s arm.
He had interposed his brawny form so that her glance might not first
rest on the now stiffening body of Elisha.

“Hello, my girl! Just hold up a bit. Miss Genung is coming around all
right. See, she’s squirmin’ now.”

Eletheer looked. “Yes, Mary was not killed but where is Elisha?” she
asked, now fully herself.

“Well ye see, my girl, he--well I’ll be doggoned, I reckon God Almighty
knows best!”

“Is he dead?”

“Well ye see--”

“Yes, I see,” she said, pushing him aside and laying her hand over
Elisha’s heart. No pulsation there, and only too well did she recognize
the look that comes but once to the human countenance. She rebuttoned
the shirt, passed her hand over his face, and folded those hands which
had helped in so many ways.

Watson’s knowledge of the female sex was limited. He knew they were
liable to do various things under circumstances like the present,
and he tried to be prepared, but his voice was very unsteady as he
said,--“I reckon he went mighty quick!”

“Death must have been instantaneous,” Eletheer reasoned aloud, as she
pushed the damp hair from his temples.

“Now I do wonder how the other one will act when she comes ’round,”
thought Watson.

Mary Genung was severely shocked and the united efforts of Watson and
Eletheer only succeeded in bringing a moan of pain from her lips as she
shivered and relapsed into unconsciousness.

The wind was abating now and Watson asked Eletheer if she would be
afraid to be left alone while he went for help.

“Of what!” she said. “Please go. You’ll find willing hands at the
paper-mill yonder.”

Before the sentence was finished he was off and as the distance was not
great, he soon returned with three strong men carrying an improvised
stretcher. Mary still remained unconscious; and tenderly lifting her
and placing her beside Elisha’s still form on the stretcher, the two
were carried to the paper-mill and from there a conveyance took them to
Mr. De Vere’s.

Dr. Brinton was there when they arrived. He and Reuben placed Elisha
on the bed in his old room. No need for a lengthy examination. A mark
over the heart about the size of a nickel showed where the current had
entered his body. His thread of continuity between now and hereafter
had served its purpose.

Leaving to Reuben the task of doing all for Elisha’s remains, Dr.
Brinton went below to the library where the family, with Mr. Genung,
had assembled.

Mary would probably be all right in a few days as consciousness had
already returned. Dr. Brinton said all she needed was good care.

No one dared ask after Elisha as Watson’s description left no chance
for hope, and Dr. Brinton’s manner confirmed this as he entered the
room. Once again had nature donned her brightest robes and from the
west came streaks of golden light. Mr. De Vere advanced to meet the
doctor and, laying a trembling hand on his arm, said,--“We know it,
Doctor, and we also know that God is good.”

“In mercy truly has this been done,” Dr. Brinton replied, “the
transition was painless--instantaneous!” But the man, not the
physician, was talking now. No professional sympathy in the tones of
one whose heart was bleeding. Elisha himself only guessed at the depth
of the love that this good man had for him. When he concluded, there
was not a dry eye in the room; even Watson sobbed audibly, and Margaret
stole quietly upstairs to Celeste, her “baby,” who lay as one dead.

Eletheer opened the door of Mary’s room just as Margaret passed. Her
patient was sleeping, and, throwing her arms around Margaret’s neck,
she whispered through tears which fell thick and fast,--“Oh, Margaret,
and his last act was saving our lives!” Margaret could not speak.
Unlike her husband, she did not accept afflictions meekly and her
heart was full of bitterness now as she thought of her poor stricken
“baby” who had first to hear the dreadful news. “Po’ baby to t’ink dat
dis awful t’ing mus’ happen to yo’ w’en yo’s jes’ stayin’ at de ole
home to be wif Massa Jack!” Margaret threw herself on the floor in an
excess of emotion and, fearing she would wake Mary, Eletheer tapped on
the door of Elisha’s room well knowing Reuben’s soothing influence. He
had finished his sad duties and, true to the time-honored custom, was
“watching.” One quick glance at the face with its look of peace, and,
bidding Reuben go to Margaret and Celeste, she flew back to her charge.

The news of Elisha’s death had spread like wildfire. Always courteous
and just, no one could criticise had he been so inclined, and his
uniformly gentle bearing, that was a part of himself, won for him a
reverential respect from all the miners.

The shock caused by Elisha’s death had stirred them deeply; and a
delegation to express sympathy and a desire that they might be of
service waited on the young wife now prostrated with grief, though
providentially under her father’s roof where she had come to stay at
the old home during her brother Jack’s visit North.

From all over the valley came words of condolence that showed how
deeply Elisha was identified with its material growth; resolutions
of respect from the different orders, and though Elisha’s religious
views were not generally known, regardless of denomination, the pastor
of every church in the city felt that its present sound financial
condition was largely through his instrumentality.

At the door Watson received all messages. “How different,” he thought,
“is the ending of this life from that of Mills!” He had come North with
bitterness in his heart, and the pity which he was prepared to bestow
on this villain’s victim had long been transferred to Mills himself.
Tim Watson would return to Texas with a broader view of justice.

Three days later, Elisha Vedder was buried from the Reformed Church.
This beautiful old building had been carefully preserved and the great
concourse of people there gathered to participate in the last sad
rights over Elisha Vedder’s remains saw the edifice still unchanged.
Every seat was taken, and the aisles, vestibule and even the churchyard
were crowded.

Floral offerings, on account of Elisha’s oft-expressed fondness for the
mountain laurel, were simply great mounds of the green leaves and waxy,
rose-colored blossoms.

A few friends accompanied Dominie Leyden, pastor of the church, to
The Laurels. There, after a short prayer, the remains, followed by
the miners in a body, were taken to the church where the active
pall-bearers were waiting at the entrance and through the cleared
passage-way, the plain oaken casket was carried up the steps, through
the right aisle into the chancel and laid down before a wall of laurel
blossoms.

The burial service was very simple. No eulogy--his acts were apparent.
“Nearer My God to Thee,” was sung by the choir. A few well-chosen
words by the officiating clergyman, and the casket was borne to the old
Dutch burying-ground.

       *       *       *       *       *

Again the sun is setting behind Old Neversink. The laurels take on
a rosier hue in the warm afterglow, and we recognize two figures,
Hernando and Celeste, wending their way along the Berm toward The
Laurels.

“It does seem,” Celeste was saying, “that some evil genius keeps our
family separated. It’s too bad. Just as Jack has decided to come
back to Nootwyck to live, Eletheer makes up her mind to locate in
California. If she shouldn’t like the West and should return home to
practice, Cornelia and George would most likely move off somewhere.”

“What a home in every sense of the word is George and Cornelia’s!”

“Yes,” Celeste laughed, “they are as happy as two kittens. The Van
Tines are a good old family and mother is satisfied with the match. By
the way, Cornelia tells me that Mr. Watson is seriously considering
your uncle’s proposal that he come North and be associated with him at
the bank.”

[Illustration: The laurels take on a rosier hue in the warm afterglow]

“Yes, and I sincerely trust that he will accept. Uncle’s business cares
are too heavy for him to bear alone; then, too, it would be a good
thing for Watson. A man needs a home. He has a warm welcome awaiting
him at uncle’s and Mary is sighing to be a daughter to him.”

“Mary is a lovely woman and an accomplished housekeeper; but she seems
to have never fully recovered from that shock.”

“Does it seem possible that nearly three years have passed
since--he--Watson--” Then with a gulp Hernando added,--“Mary is still
nervous but Watson’s very presence is an antidote for nerves.”

“He is so steady, so genuine. I can never forget his kindness. Oh, that
awful cloudburst!” Celeste shivered; then, half aloud to herself, she
added,--“Can it be three years since Elisha left us?”

Instinctively both looked backward toward the paper-mill woods and
there, smiling at them “over their right shoulders,” hung the new moon!

Now Hernando knew there was nothing “in” seeing the new moon over the
right shoulder. He did not believe that it has any influence whatever
on our lives; but as he looked at that silver crescent smiling on a
troubled world, a peace, such as he had never known, stole over his
senses, and with it came that clear vision which reveals truth, clears
up the mysterious connection between cause and effect, and the long
lines of our destiny. Forgotten was Hernando’s God of tradition and
dogma; the beautiful system of ethics formulated at Shushan was indeed
good--as far as it went; but that same beautiful system _with God in
it_ is religion, is wisdom, and at last Hernando had “found” it. Oh,
the blessed truth! Nothing in this wide universe but God, Good, whose
Being is manifested through us. One God, one “Great First Cause,” and
His effect, man and the universe the effect of God!

“Just let the Kingdom of Heaven take you”: why struggle for our own
when nothing, “_no thing_,” disputes our claim? All we need do to come
into our full inheritance is prove our identity _as_ legitimate heirs.
Here again, nothing denies the truth. Simple, when we _let_ God show us
how, “so divinely easy that the only wonder is that we have not done
it before!” Like the air and the sky, when we open our “upper eyes,”
Heaven simply _is_; and it is _all_ there is, for God is there.

Yes, this “straining” _is_ the “point”; always _sending_ messages,
unmindful of the fact that no answer _can_ be “received” by a
“transmitter.” How plain it all was now to Hernando. His prayers of
childhood, youth, manhood, when from the very bottom of his heart, had
all been “received” at the great central office, and here were the
answers “in heaps.”

Oh, how much easier his life might have been had he been “willing” to
“receive”; but he had kicked “against the goads” and so must learn
obedience through bitter experience. He _had_ worked back to the “forks
of the road” in “fear and trembling.” Unjust as it all had seemed at
the time, he now saw that in no other way could _his_ lesson have been
learned. The stony road of necessity on which no traveller escapes just
toll, was behind him. Before him once more, the road forked. One fork
led to Hong Kong, to mistaken duty with exactions--not obligations.

On the other fork was the woman he loved, the “helpmeet” he needed,
that other “half” of this man of flesh and blood. He thought over the
last three years; how he had been temporarily filling his friend’s
vacancy at the mine until the way to Hong Kong should open up, little
dreaming that Elisha had only temporarily filled _his_, Hernando’s,
vacancy in Celeste’s heart until he had “proved his claim.”

How sincerely he had tried to comfort her in her bereavement. What joy
it had given him to watch her dimples returning and hear her merry
laugh once more! He looked at her now, standing in the witching light
of the new moon with her sweet, chaste profile outlined against the
shadow, and then, because it was so “natural-like” and he knew it was
right, he held out his arms to Celeste. The call from the very bottom
of his heart was answered. The message read: “_Not Hong Kong!_”

By and by they looked toward The Laurels; the evening shadows had crept
up beyond the house, but father and mother, they knew, were sitting on
the piazza waiting for them. There was a light in Eletheer’s room and
anon they caught glimpses of her as she flitted to and fro packing for
her long journey. Margaret’s voice resounded in a familiar hymn from
the kitchen and there, with his lantern, came dear old Reuben from the
barn. How well they knew that no beast, bird nor living thing could
ever look reproachfully into that black face! They saw him stop, turn,
and with the deliberation that characterized everything he did, look at
the new moon over his right shoulder.

“What did you wish?” Celeste asked, and her voice was as sweet as the
robin’s good-night.

“I wish,” replied Hernando, “that we may live to be as old as ‘Old
Ninety-Nine,’ as loyal as Granny, as happy together as your father and
mother, and that we may ‘keep’ ourselves as ‘unspotted from the world’
as Reuben.”




Transcriber’s Note:

The Contents has been added by the transcriber.

Punctuation has been standardised. Spelling and hyphenation have been
retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows:

  Page 256
    of the mountain,--Maratanza, A wasting _changed to_
    of the mountain,--Maratanza, Awosting

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67145 ***