beyond the trampled space surrounding the
clumsy cart, and bent his eyes to the ground.
Don Raymon hastened after him, leavmg his
now swooning wife to the care of the women.

A low cry broke from the father’s lips as
the chief pointed out several tracks. ‘ Among
them he recognized those of the horses ridden
by his two children. But the others?

“ Comanche dogs—they ran away from
men, and stole my brother’s children. See—-
it is written here,” the chief quietly ex-
plained.

The buffalo—hunter stared at the deeply-
imprinted tracks with dimmed eyes and swun-
ming brain. He could not understand how it
had all occurred, how the brother and 51ster—
Pablo, such a brave, stout lad—could have
been captured and carried oif without any one
of (the party hearing an alarm. Yet he could
not dispute the evidence. _

“ My brother is sick, now,” said the Mad
Chief, in a strangely gentle voice. “ Let him
go back to his people and get well. My braves
are keen and bold. They will take the trail of
these cowardly snakes and follow it to the end.
They will not return without as many scalps,
and will bring back the children of my broth-
er. See—I swear it, by the Great Spirit of
the Wolf-children.”

Something told the buffalo-hunter that he
could trust him.

The chief did not suffer grass to grow under
his feet. He selected a dozen of his best war-

- riors and gave them their instructions within

hearing of the bereaved father. and mother.
They were to rescue the young couple at any
and all hazards. Without a word they took
up the trail at a gallop.

It had already been agreed that the train
should keep on around the rock point to the
Pawnee camp, where they could trade or hunt
at their case. And though the red sun was
setting, they took up their slow march, leav-
ing the scene of bloodshed and death to the
gathering vultures and coyotes.

The twilight deepened into night as the
cavalcade rounded the spur; and then a simul-
taneous cry of wonder broke from the lips of
both red and white. ‘

A broad, spreading glow fell upon the sandy
waste, and lighted up the many—shaped crags.
High up the range blazed and crackled a huge
bonfire, streaming up around a tall rock.
Then came a shrill, piercing scream, followed
by another and another. And as the awe—
stricken spectators moved on, they could dis-
tinguish a dark form—a human figure writh-
ing in horrible agony upon the rock, striving
to burst the bonds that held it to the torture.
This, and a tall, white-haired man eagerly
feeding the flames, dancing around the funer—
al—pyre in fiendish glee.

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE KING OF THE DESERT.

Rosrua RAYMON listened with intense in-
terest to the sharp interchange of words be-
tween her father and the renegade. There
was something in the evil gaze of the white
Indian that almost fascinated her—only, with
a feeling of utter abhorrenée, rather than fear.
She wondered that this man dare address such
words to her father, who was proud and state-
ly, far beyond his humble profession. And,
too, her cheek flushed brightly as she thought
of another—were his ears open to the brutal
words?

Then came the wild yell of the renegade, the
charging cry of his braves, the defiant shouts
of the buffalo-hunters, the cracking of fire-
arms and sharp twanging of bow-strings.

Of the next few moments, Rosina had but a
faint, confused remembrance. She knew that
her horse, ever fiery and strong-willed, sud-
denly became unmanageable, and with a pow-
erful jerk that snapped the bridle—reins, he
darted away over the desert with the speed of
the wind, utterly beyond its rider’s control.

Two of the Comanche braves immediately
parted from their comrades and urged their
ponies after the flying mustang. If they heard
the warning cry that greeted the abrupt ap—
pearance of the Mad Chief and his band of
Pawnees, it was unheeded. Possibly they pre-
ferred less desperate game.

Yet it would have been quite as well had
they returned to share the fate of their breth-
ren.

Only one eye among all the train observed
the sudden bolting of Rosina’s horse. The tu-
mult and excitement of the Comanches’ charge
deadened her little cry, and the thud of her
mustang’s hoofs was lost amid the rest.

That eye belonged—not to a lover; but to
Pablo Raymon. With warning shout, he
spurred after the trio—his idolized sister and
the two Comanches, loading his rifle as he
rode. Only a boy in years—scarce seventeen,
two years younger than Rosina——Pablo had
been trained in a hardy school. He had first
drawn the breath of life near the center of a
vast plain, surrounded by the carcasses of
slaughtered buffalo. His cradle had been the
rough-jolting carreta, his lullaby the cracking
of rifles, the twanging of bowstrings. If ever
there was one, he was a. born cibolero.

It was without a single thought of personal
peril then that he pursued the Comanches, nor
did he even cast back a. single glance to see
whether his warning cry had been heeded,
whether any of his friends were following his
lead. Anagthen, when the company of buffa-
lo—hunters were eagerly watching the move-
ments of the rival bands, the four figures dis-
appeared behind a long sand-hill.

Rosina vainly sought to check the mad flight
of her horse, but the fragments of the defect-
ive reins were dangling beyond her reach, the
mustang’s neck was stretched out like that of
a racehorse. In vain did she speak to him.
Usually so obedient, so prompt to answer her
slightest word or gesture, the creature seemed
suddenly to have gone mad. ,

She glanced back over her shoulder. A lit-
tle cry broke from her lips. Upon the crest
of the sand-hill the southern slope she was just
descending, two savage figures were just com-
ing into view. The floating hair, the long
lances with their scalp-decorated shafts, the
nearly nude forms; all these spoke but too
plainly. Realizing to the full the peril that
threatened her, Rosina no longer sought to
check her horse, but patted his steaming neck
and urged him on. Better be lost in the des-
ert, better death by starvation and thirst than
to fall alive into these hands. .

She knew now the cause of her mustang’s
strange actions. Rankling deep in his hip
quivered a feathered shaft, spurring him on,
driving him mad with pain. With a strange
sinking at her heart she watched the dark
blood trickling down the well-shaped leg, leav-
ing a red trail behind them. It was more
than should have come from such a wound,
unless an important artery had been divided
by the cruel barb. If such had been the case,
how was it all to end? She shuddered at the
thought.

Glancing back she saw that the two savages
were further away than at first. Dimly,
through the veil of dust, she made out a third
horseman, and a wild leaping of her heart told

 

the thought that found birth there. But how
often does romance have to hide its diminished
head before sober prose!

“He may come up in time to rescue me,”
she murmured, half~unconsciously. “Or they
may give over the chase as hopeless, unless—”
and she shuddered again as she glanced back
at the rankling arrow and the red stain.

How long would the mustang’s strength last
under that deadly drain? Already she began
to feel—or was it fancy?—that his stride was
growing less strong and powerful. Even his
stout spirit must give way seme time. But
would it endure long enough to save its mis-
tress’ life? -

The sun was sinking in the west, red and
glowing. A low bank of clouds was rising in
the south. She knew that the night would be
dark and starless. If only the mustang could
hold out until then—fer one short hour more!

An hour———a lifetime! .

Slowly but surely the Comanches are gain-
ing upon the fugitive. Jaded though their
ponies are, they are able to keep pace with the
enfeebled steed. Only for the telltale trail
of blood, the savages would have abandoned
the pursuit before now. But their wild train-
ing teaches them that no horse can live long
under such a telling strain. They know that
the rare prize must drop into their hands, ere
long.

Strange as it may appear, the Comanches
were unaware of the fact that a pursuer was
at their heels. Upon the soft sand the fall of
hoofs were deadened, and only the sound of
their own progress was audible. And so eager
were they for the rare morsel before them,
that not a single backward glance had been
thought of. But the time was at hand when
their eyes should be opened. ~

Pablo Raymon pressed the pursuit with all
the ardor of youth, but unfortunately for him
he was mounted upon a mustang formed more
for its endurance and its thorough training for
buffalo-running than for speed. For a time
he barely held his own with the Comanches,
but then, as mile after mile was traversed in
that triple race, the steel muscles of his “ buf-
falo pongo” began to tell, and inch by inch,
foot by foot, he gained upon the enemy, until,
in the darkening twilight, he could almost
count the gaudy feathers in the Comanches’
hair. His trusty rifle was lying across his
thighs, ready for use. His bow was ready
strung; a couple of arrows were lying along
the saddle, beneath his thigh, the notched ends
convenient to his hand.

The long chase had given his young blood
time to cool, while it rendered his determina-
tion even more fixed. The odds were long
ones for a mere boy to encounter, yet he felt
no fear as to the result; he would not have
been Felipe Raymon’s son else.

The red globe of fire sunk beneath the hori-
zon. Clearly outlined against the crimson sky,
the Comanches presented a perfect target, and
feeling within distance, no longer dreading
that the brightness of the sunset would render
his aim uncertain, Pablo dropped the bridle-
reins and raised his short, heavy rifle.

His well—trained mustang perfectly under-
stood the movement, and instantly slackening
its pace, dropped into a low, peculiar run, al-
most brushing the deep sand with its shaggy
belly. From its back, just then, an aim could
be secured almost as certainly as from a gent—
ly-sailing balloon.

Sharp and clear rung out the rifle-shot, and
bursting through the flame-tinged smoke, Pab-
lo saw that his aim had not been err-ing. With
the shrill, unearthly death—shriek of his race,
the rearmost Comanche flung aloft his arms
and fell headlong from his mustang’s back,
tearing and biting the hot sand in his last
agonized throes.

' A cry of wondering alarm broke from the
survivor’s lips. The awakening had been so
sudden and unexpected. It seemed as though
the armed horseman had sprung up from the
very earth. And a superstitious terror for
the moment totally unnerved him.

But then, as Pablo, with a clear, ringing
shout, urged his pony forward, fitting an ar—
row to the taut sinews, self~preservation con-
quered superstition, and the Comanche hastily
prepared his bow.

But the momentary delay had been fatal.
With a prolonged echo, the cibolero’s bow-
striug twanged twice in rapid succession, and,
literally spitted upon the feathered shafts, the
Comanche sunk upon his pony’s neck, thunder—
ing away over the desert, a dead man, fol—
lowed by the other mustang, snorting and
whickering with alarm.

Pablo had no further thought of them. ‘ He
only saw his sister, only a few hundred yards
beyond. Even in the delirious excitement of
his victory, the youth could but wonder at the
strangely unsteady movements of the once
matchless mustang. The race had been a
long and hard one, yet surely it could not have
so completely exhausted—ha!

With one last struggle, the noble creature
darted forward for an hundred yards or more,
then fell in a heap, dead. The blood burst
from its mouth and nostrils. Its race was run.

Anticipating the end of this spasmodic
burst, Rosina freed her feet from the stirrups
and alighted clear of the dying animal. Just
then an encouraging shout came to her ears,
and with a yearning cry, she turned, with
outstretched arms. The next moment Pablo
clasped her to his breast, covering her flushed
cheeks with tender kisses, little dreaming what
caused that burning blush.

Pablo was very dear to his sister’s heart;
but his was not the face she expected, and for
a moment her heart grew sick within her as
she asked what of their friends.

“ You know as much as I, little one,” laugh-
ed Pablo, with youth’s lightheartedness. “ I
thought only of my runaway sister, and did
not stop to say good-by to the rest. But be at
ease. Our father is there, and he has twenty
men, who are equal to twice their number of
these naked heathen, not to speak of the
slaves, who will fight well, under his eye.”

“ But he—he may have got hurt,” faltered
Rosina.

“Holy Mother, deny it!” said Pablo, fer-
vently. “ Come, sister, don’t borrow trouble;
we have our hands full, as it is.”

In good truth, their situation was anything
but comfortable or pleasant. Far from
friends, upon the desert, many miles from any
recognized trail, one of them dismounted, the
night upon them, and a. wind storm com-
ing on.

Only for this last, the enigma would be eas
ily solved. A slightly uncomfortable night
would be all. Then, when the light of day
once more spread over the desert, a far less
experienced eye than that of the young cibo-
lero would find no difficulty in following back
the deeply imprinted spoor of the triple race.
But the black, rapidly spreading cloud-bank
in the south spoke of such a storm—a furious
burst of wind such as changes the entire topog-
raphy of the desert over which it sweeps, lev-
eling sand hills only to raise another where,
but an hour before, lay long, deep hollows.
Slight traces of a trail would be left when
that storm subsided.

 

“You think there is danger, then?” asked
Rosina, quick to notice the change in her
brother’s tones. x

“Nothing very serious, I dare say. As you
see, a storm is coming up, the stars will be
hidden, so that we will have to use our judg-
ment in laying our course. But come; they
will be anxious about us, if we are much long-
er away.” ,

Rosina, after a sorrowful word and parting
caress for the dead mustang who had given
its life to preserve . hers, lightly mounted Pa-
blo’s pongo, and they took up! their weary
march over the rapidly ecoling sands, the
young buffalo-hunter walking‘beside Rosina’s
bridle-rein. He had carefully laid their course,
by the last gleam of day, and sought to keep
from straying by stooping and feeling for
the deeply imprinted trail at every few rods.

For a. time this answered. Then the wind
began to blow strongly from the south. Pa-
blo laughed shortly as the keen blast struck
them. The dreaded enemy might be made a
servant, a guide.

“ See! what we feared may be a blessing, in
disguise,” he cried, exultantly. “The wind
comes from the south; good! Then we have
only to keep it on our right shoulder. We
will be with our friends before day dawn, after
all, little one.”

The words cheered Rosina, and though the
high wind, roaring over that vast, treeless
waste, bore upon its wings clouds of sharp,
stinging particles of sand, the journey was
resumed with far more cheerfulness than be—
fore.

Their progress was slow and toilsome. The
darkness was intense. Though so close to—
gether, neither of the young people could
distinguish the other form. The wind was
fierce and hard to bear up against, growing
cold and colder every moment, until the
lightly clad Rosina shivered and trembled in
the saddle, fearing to speak lest Pablo should
discover what she was suffering. The exer-
tion of walking kept him from feeling the
cold. Besides, he was partially protected by
the mustang’s body.

Hour after hour they plodded on. A cruel,
choking thirst now assailed them, covered by
the sand—burdened air. Their threats were
parched, their lips cracked and bleeding.
Each minute their torture increased. Yet not
a murmur parted their lips. Trained in a
stern school, they were seldom guilty of idle
complaining.

Hour after hour of that weary, exhausting
toil, only endurable because they anticipated
soon discovering the camp-fires of the buffalo«
hunters. Ah! had they only known. Had
those black clouds only parted enough to give
a glimpse of the bright stars—one gleam
would have sufficed for the young desert—
born. '

He would have realized then, how treacher-
ous and fickle was their guide, how uncertain
their dependence in the wind. Gradually, im-
perceptibly the wind had veered around until
now it blew almost directly from the east.
And so, still keeping the storm bearing upon
their right shoulders, the wanderers were now
heading nearly due north, straying further
and further from the right track. Well
enough that they did not realize this, else,
despite their stout’,hearts, they might well
have given way—and lain down in the desert,
to die. '

Still on they plodded through the black
night, Rosina almost senseless from cold.
For hours neither had spoken. The storm
still raged with unabating force. All at once
the mustang grew uneasy and restless. In
vain Pablo sought to quiet him. Then, with
one wild snort, the animal jerked its head
loose, and whickering shrilly, was swallowed
up in the intense darkness.

For a moment Pablo stood as though petri-
fied; then, with aloud cry of terror, he sprung
forward, running swiftly for a few moments.
Then he stopped, bewildered, confused. He
bent his ear; all was still, save the dull roar—
ing of the tempest. Whither had his horse
fled? Not a sound came to guide him. And
the cold, sickening terror pressed down upon
his heart.

It seemed the work of some evil spirit, this
sudden disappearance. Where should he look,
which way turn? He felt so helpless in that
black night. The intense darkness, this gloom
that could almost be felt, weighed him d0wn.
And thus, helpless he stood for several min-
utes.

Hal that sound! Was it a cry? Fully
aroused, Pablo raised his voice and shouted
aloud. Faint and feeble the words came. It
was the voice of Rosina. Leaping forward
he clasped her to his breast, as she fully arose
from the sand. Half—frozen, she had fallen
from the saddle.

A moment later there came a shrill, joyous
neigh, followed by the rapid beat of a horse’s
hoofs, then the whimpering mustang thrust its
cold, dripping muzzle against Pablo’s cheek.

A cry of joy broke from the young man’s
lips as he realized the truth. The sagacious
brute had scented the presence of water; even
while they were unconsciously skirting a des-
ert island, and when the keen blast bore the
delicious scent fairly to his nostrils, mad thirst
conquered all discipline. But now, its thirst
appeased, the faithful creature returned to its
allegiance.

Five minutes later brother and sister were
riding in the grateful shelter of the wooded
island, their thirst appeased, a delicious lan-
guor stealing over them.

They started to their feet in terror. The
mustang snorted loudly, then crouched down,
quivering in every limb.

Through the night, echoing even above the
wild howling of the tempest, came a terrible
yet strangely musical note—the cry of the
jaguar—that dread king of the desert!

Then, with an energy born of their peril,
Pablo gathered a. handful of leaves and used
his flint and steel. The tinder caught; the
leaves were ignited and carefully fed until the
larger twigs blazed brightly, slowly but sure-
ly igniting the heavy sticks of wood.

Chrefully looking to his rifle, Pablo crouched

down before Rosina, the mustang cowering

close beside them. The roar was no longer
heard. Instead, came a deep, not unmusical
moaning or purring sound. Slowly their eyes
move round in a circle. Their strained hear-
ing can just distingiish the velvet tread of
the tiger as he circles around the prey he has
scented.

Then even this sound ceases. From beyond
the circle of light, beneath a scrubby bush,

gleam two phosphorescent globes of fire. The
tiger is glaring out upon its victims.
Pablo slowly levels his rifle. Yet he hesi-

tates to fire.
and terrible.
(To be continued—commenced in No. 306.)

===!:

A wife will hardly ever notice whether her
husband has had his hair cut or not, but let him
go home with a strange hairpin sticking in his
overcoat and she’ll see it before he reaches the
gate.

To miss means death, sudden

 

 

 

THY VOICE.

._..——.-—

BY L. C. GREENWOOD.

 

Tia voice is likes. silver lute

hose strings are stirred with song,

But often it would fain be mute
When I for music long.

Oh, like alute its notes can trill
A song of merry tune, l

A wish alone it doth fulfill, ' ,
It is thine only boon.

And oft it sings a plaintive air,
Each cadence seems to fall,

Like adoleful wail of care,
Touching the hearts of all.

Thv voice is like a silver lute
Which a power awakes,

If ’tis not asked, remain ’twill mute,
From it no murmur breaks.

The lute will breathe whatever strains
The fingers lightly touch;

The music in each string remains
Though it is silent much.

Thy voice is like a tuneful string
By heart emotions thrilled,

A sad or merry song ‘twill sing,
A heart’s desire fulfilled.

Vials of Wrath:

THE GRAVE BETWEEN THEM.

BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL,
AUTHOR OF “TWO GIRLs’ LIVES,” “LOVE-
BLIND,” “ OATH-BOUND,” “ BARBABA’S
FATE,” arc, nrc.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
A HUSBAND’S ANGER.

GEORGIA had not been in her room more
than fifteen minutes when the bell rung for
dinner, breaking in upon the deathly silence
that was unbroken even by a sob or moan, so
terribly intense ’was the spasm of agony that
held her in a grasp of iron.

She had not locked her door after her, but
had walked over the threshold to her dressing
bureau, and leaned her elbows on its cool mar-
ble surface, with her face buried in her hands,
her figure as motionless as if she were a statue.

She felt so strangely—as she never had felt
before in all her singularly eventful heart—life.
She was conscious of a dull, lethargic sensa-
tion that had struck her numbineg the mo-
ment her husband had hurled his awful accu-
sation at her; she wondered, as she stood there,
just where she had stood a few weeks since,
when his letter had come to her, breaking the
silence of years, if her heart was not dead
within her, if her capabilities for suffering and
enjoying were forever blunted?

But, by the same old ache that hurt her
when she recalled, regretfully, her reception
of her husbandfby the thrill of bitter pain
that she certainly experienced as she remem-
bered, what she had momentarily forgotten in
the great grief of her wronged innocence—
the life and near proximity of the man who
could, if he chose, work her such havoc by
these signs, Georgia knew she had yet to suf-
fer and endure.

But how long—oh! how much
'ever?

It seemed ages since Lexington had come
home to Tanglewood, so many things had hap-

longer? for-

her beautiful head bent slightly forward in a
tired, deprecating droop.

“Understand at once I did not come to re—
peat .or renew the subject we discussed in my
rooms. I have not come either to retract any

‘ thing I said, .or to offer any addition to my

Words. I was on my way to the dining-room
when a messenger rung the hall-bell, with a
sealed letter for Mrs. Lexington, in a hand-
writing I have learned to recognize. I volun-
teered to turn page to my lady for the nonce,
and gave orders to the butler that dinner be
delayed a half-hour in order that you might be
afforded ample time to read it.”

His voice was stern, and his eyes glowed
darkly, and Georgia felt her heart sink like
lead, as she realized how she was in the toils.

She reached forth her trembling fingers for
the letter, never once raising her eyes; then,
when Carleton Vincy’s handwriting met her
gaze, started in a tremor of agitation.

Lexington surveyed her coolly, his face
growing darker and more ominous.

“ You are surprised? I am not.
and read it. ”

She looked up in piteous imploration at his
stern, forbidding face.

“ Oh, not now, not now!
do?” ‘ .

She crushed the letter in her hand, fearful
of reading it, lest by some unlucky chance,
Lexington should learn Who was its author.

“ Open it, I command. Your refusal does
not affect me as you hope it will. Read it, I
say, and let us see what my wife’s lover has to
say for himself upon learning from his messen~
ger that his former note fall so unluckily in my
awkward possession.” ~

Georgia sat, still trembling like a leaf, while
Lexington waited with horrid patience that
he broke at last, in a tone so quiet, so low,
that it struck new terror to her overburdened
heart.

“ I will read it. Give it to me.”

His hand touched hers as he reached for the
letter. The contact thrilled her to a sense of
her most suitable course if any course could
rightly be called suitable that could only bring
misery to her, whichever way it was con-
strued. l

“No—no,” she whispered, huskily; “I will
read it myself.”

Lexington retreated again while he watch-
ed her tear open the envelope, and read the
few lines it contained; while every word
fairly scorched itself into Georgia’s brain.

“Georgia,” it said, “I just learn the nude-
sirable fate of a note sent you an hour ago, re-
questing an interview at the same hour and
place as our last. As I have no intention of
being refused by you, I send this, openly and
above-board, demanding to see you—you know
when and where—tonight. If you refuse, for
any reason, I shall call on the gentleman to-
morrow, with whom you live, and who shares
with me the delightful privilege of the right
to subscribe himself Your husband.”

A little gasping sigh told the horror Georv
gia experienced at the diabolical threats Car-
leton Vincy had dared write her—threats that
she would have died, rather than have had
Lexington know.

A feeling of righteous anger at the dastard-
ly villain who dared do this; a feeling of just
indignation at his vile boldness; a sensation of
utter powerlessness at his hands—all tended
to lend an expression to her pallid face that

Be quick

Oh, what shall I

 

pened to mark the days since the one she had
received his note, and, in one of her strange,
strong impulses read over his early letters,
and feasted her eyes on the picture of his face
—-his handsome, godlike face, that smiled at
her from its ivory bed—the same face that
not a half-hour ago had been malignant with
wrath and anger.

She gave a little sob as she came fully back
to suffering and endurance again, as she took
her arms off the bureau, and in a yearning
impulse of inestimable tenderness, unclasped
the drawer that held her treasure, and took
therefrom his picture—the same ineffably
sweet face, with the frank, loving eyes, the~
firmly—closed, proudly—curved month. And
those eyes had burned with rage, and that
splendid mouth had uttered such words—such
words that she shivered even now to recall.

But, despite it all, she loved him so! She
had forgiven him the one injury of early
years, one she thought was perfectly unpar—
donable in the hight and depth of its cruelty.
She had forgiven him the death of her one
darling, her little flossy—haired baby; and, in
the magnitude of her love for him, even had
come to think it was best that there was no
one, not even her child, to come between them
if ever a reconciliation took place.

Now, she was doubly thankful that her
baby was dead; now, that its father was alive
she was almost grateful that there was no child
to unite them, in the least degree.

But, looking down in her husband’s face,
meeting his eyes that pierced to her very soul,
Georgia had no thought for anything, save
that she loved him—~loved him over and above
all things, even his harsh unjustness.

She pressed it to her lips in passionate ea—
gerness, low, murmuring caresses in her voice;
she heard the second summons to dinner, but
heard as in a dream; she knew some one had
rung at the entrance of the house, but whether
a guest were for her or no, she gave no thought.
Then, several minutes later, she heard foot-
steps, and had only time to thrust her picture
inside the drawer, when she saw Lexington
standing in her room, cool, scornful, smiling
with a contempt that was the very essence of
sneering sarcasm.

“ What—why—is it possible you are here?”

She felt a hot flush on her cheeks as she
turned toward him, almost speechless from the
unprecedented presence.

“Possible; shall I beg pardon for forcing
myself into such a delightfully dramatic
scene?”

“ Better beg pardon for intruding into my
apartments. May I beg to know what right
you have to disturb my privacy?”

She had frozen to ice again, this woman of
fire, under the withering scornin her husband’s
face.

He smiled, and bowed profoundly.

“I am most happy to answer that I came
into my wife’s apartments by virtue of my au-
thority as a husband. Do you dispute the
right?”

She made no answer; her only wish was to
get away from him, so shamed and fearful lest
her full heart should betray itself again, only
to be insulted and wounded. She started for

 

the door, but he courteously motioned her
back.

“ If you intend a return of the rather doubt—
ful compliment I paid you when I looked my
dressing-room door upon you, a half—hour ago,
spare yourself the unnecessary trouble. ”

She paused just where she was, and sat
down in her large lounging-chair; her face
white enough now at the sound of his cool, sar-
castic tones, her heart throbbing in vague fear
of the mission that had brought him.

She looked so fair sitting there, with her
long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a dark
shadow; her hands lying wearily in her lap,

\

Lexington instantly set down to far different
causes; while, over and above all these emo—
tions, was the one fear, great and agonizing,
lest, Lexington should learn of Vincy’s pre-
sence, knowing as she did of her husband’s
mad jealousy and peculiar tenderness on the
subject—and the one hope that she might pos-
sibly succeed in buying Vincy off, and thus se—
cure peace again.

What should she do, under the circumstan-
ces

She stole one glance at Lexington’s dark,
unforgiving, contemptuous face, that smiled
luridly as it caught her timid gaze; and she
saw there was no mercy there, then;

She dared not show him the letter; she
dared not brave more of his anger, when so
much of it as he had already wreaked upon
her had nearly killed her.

She twisted the paper around her fingers
with the decision that he should not know, yet,
God t never.

But—what would her refusal to show it in—
dicate? That she was everything her husband
accused her of. Could she bear the burden
imposed on her a little longer, in the one
hope of relief from Carleton Vincy’s ab—
sence?

How could she know his devilish pertinac—
ity, his deep~laid plans to harden her very soul,
hissworn oaths to avenge himself on his suc-
cessor, or the unlawful admiration and love
her own beauty had inflamed in his breast?

So—clinging to the one straw she thought
possibly might hear her up, Georgia made the
final choice, her heart pulsing fast.

She lifted her face bravely to his, in all the
glorious beauty suffering lent to it—and her
sweet eyes sent a thrill to his very heart.

“ I have read it, Theodore.”

She merely announced the fact, in quiet,
tranquil tones, that surprised herself.

j" Yes—I see you have. Now, I will read
it.

Her eyes flashed affrightedly as she clutch-
ed the letter more tightly in her grasp.

She made no immediate response, but her
eyes thrilled Lexington to his very soul’s core:
and in a sudden pain of tenderness, he yearn-
ed over her—~this fair woman, whom he loved
despite even this letter she pressed to her
heaving breast.

“It is our last chance, Georgia, and I, I, in
all my justly outraged pride, stoop to beg you
to establish your innocence. Show me the
letter, Georgia; show me that this man has
insulted you, presumed upon you—and—and—
I will forgive you—everything!”

His voice sunk to an exquisite tenderness
that brought tears to Georgia’s eyes, that
made her heart sicken with regretful anguish.

“ Theo—I can not—I can not i”

Something like a sob of pain burst from
Lexington’s lips; then he laughed a low,
harsh laugh, little dreaming of the despair in
Georgia’s heart as she realized the position in-
to which she was driven.

“I’m a double—distilled fool to think my
overtures would be accepted from the woman
whom I found kissing her paramour’s picture
as I brought her a letter from him. I was a
greater fool to respect the seal I ought to have
broken and learned without your permission
the contents of the love-letters some man
writes to my Wife without my permission.”

Georgia cowered a moment under his
strangely-altered manner; then, seeing the
blaze of determination on every feature of his
face, suddenly confronted him, tearing Car~
leton Vincy’s letter to fragments as she
did so.

“I decline to continue this interview. You
have said the most to me you can say; you
have wounded me to the quick; you are pow-
erless to hurt me more. Only, I shall keep my

 

own counsel in the future, and rest assured