McCarter Margaret Hill - The Reclaimers

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Reclaimers, by Margaret Hill McCarter

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Title: The Reclaimers

Author: Margaret Hill McCarter

Release Date: September 30, 2010 [EBook

#33959]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK

THE RECLAIMERS ***



Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank,

Mary Meehan and the

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THE

RECLAIMERS



BY MARGARET

HILL McCARTER

Author of "VANGUARDS OF

THE PLAINS"

HARPER & BROTHERS

PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

The Reclaimers

Copyright, 1918, by Harper



& Brothers

Printed in the United Statesof America

Published October, 1918

TO

MAY BELLEVILLE

BROWNCRITIC, COUNSELLOR,

COMFORTER



CONTENTS

PART I. JERRY

. The Heir Apparent

I. Uncle Cornie's Throw

II. Hitching the Wagon to a Star

V. Between Edens

V. New Eden's ProblemVI. Paradise Lost

PART II. JERRY AND JOE

VII. Unhitching the Wagon from a Star

VIII. If a Man Went Right with Himself

X. If a Woman Went Right with Herself

X. The Snare of the Fowler



XI. An Interlude in "Eden"

XII. This Side of the Rubicon

PART III. JERRY AND EUGENE—ANDJOE

XIII. How a Good Mother Lives On

XIV. Jim Swaim's WishXV. Drawing Out Leviathan with a Hook

XVI. A Postlude in "Eden"

XVII. The Flesh-pots of the Winnwoc

XVIII. The Lord Hath His Way in th

Storm

XIX. Reclaimed



THE RECLAIMERS



I

JERRY



ndeed, the place was, as Aunt Jerr

Darby declared, "summer and winter, al

shot up by camera-toters and dabbed ove

with canvas-stretchers' paints," much the owner's disgust, to whom all camera

oters and artists, except Cousin Eugen

Wellington, were useless idlers. The

rustic little railway station, hidden bmaple-trees, was only three or four goo

discus-throws from the house. But th

railroad itself very properly dropped fro

view into a wooded valley on either sid

of the station. There was nothing o

cindery ugliness to mar the spot where th

dwellers in "Eden" could take the earlmorning train for the city, or drop off in

he cool of the afternoon into a delightfu

pastoral retreat. Beyond the lawns an

buildings, gardens and orchards, the lan



read in a thoughtful glance all there was t

know of Mrs. Darby. Her alert air and

busy hands bespoke the habit o

everlasting industry fastened down upoher, no doubt, in a far-off childhood. Sh

was luxurious in her tastes. The sati

gown, the diamond fastening the little cap

o her gray hair, the elegant lace at hehroat and wrists, the flashing jewels o

her thin fingers, all proclaimed a desir

for display and the means wherewith t

pamper it. The rest of her story wa

written on her wrinkled face, where th

strong traits of a self-willed youth wer

deeply graven. Something in the narrowrestless eyes suggested the discontente

over of wealth. The lines of the mout

hinted at selfishness and prejudice. Th

square chin told of a stubborn will, an



he stern cast of features indicated n

sense of humor whereby the hardest fac

s softened. That Jerusha Darby was rich

ntolerant, determined, unimaginativeself-centered, unforgiving, and unhapp

he student of character might gather at

glance. Where these traits abide a secon

glance is unnecessary.

Outside, the arbor was aglow with earl

June roses; within, the cushioned willow

seats invite to restful enjoyment. BuJerusha Darby was not there for pleasure

While her pearl shuttle darted in and ou

among her fingers like a tiny, iridescen

bird, her mind and tongue were busy witmportant matters.

Opposite to her was her husband

Cornelius. It was only important matter



hat called him away from his business i

he city at so early an hour in th

afternoon. And it was only on busines

matters that he and his wife ever reallconferred, either in the rose-arbor o

elsewhere. The appealing beauty of th

place indirectly meant nothing to thes

wo owners of all this beauty.

The most to be said of Cornelius Darb

was that he was born the son of a rich ma

and he died the husband of a rich womanHis life, like his face, was colorless. H

fitted into the landscape and his presenc

was never detected. He had no opinions o

his own. His father had given him all thahe needed to think about until he wa

married. "Was married" is well said. He

never courted nor married anybody. H



was never courted, but he was married b

Jerusha Swaim. But that is all dried stuf

now. Let it be said, however, that not al

he mummies are in Egyptian tombs anSmithsonian Institutions. Some of them si

n banking-houses all day long, and g

discus-throwing in lovely "Edens" on sof

June evenings. And one of them once, jusonce, broke the ancient linen wrapping

from his glazed jaws and spoke. For hal

an hour his voice was heard; and then th

bandages slipped back, and the mumm

was all mummy again. It was Jerry Swai

who wrought that miracle. But then ther

s little in the earth, or the waters undehe earth, that a pretty girl cannot wor

upon.

"You say you have the report on the



Swaim estate that the Macpherso

Mortgage Company of New Eden, Kansas

s taking care of for us?" Mrs. Darb

asked.

"The complete report. York Macpherson

hasn't left out a detail. Shall I read you hi

description?" her husband replied.

"No, no; don't tell me a thing about it, no

a thing. I don't want to know any mor

about Kansas than I know already. I hathe very name of Kansas. You can

understand why, when you remember m

brother. I've known York Macpherson al

his life, him and his sister Laura, too. Andnever could understand why he went s

far West, nor why he dragged that lame

sister of his out with him to that Sag

Brush country."



"That's because you won't let me tell yo

anything about the West. But as a matter o

business you ought to understand th

conditions connected with this estate."

"I tell you again I won't listen to it, not on

word. He is employed to look after th

property, not to write about it. None of mfamily ever expects to see it. When we ge

ready to study its value we will give du

notice. Now let the matter of description

ocation, big puffing up of its value—know all that Kansas talk—let all tha

drop here." Jerusha Darby unconsciousl

stamped her foot on the cement floor of th

arbor and struck her thin palm flat upohe broad arm of her chair.

"Very well, Jerusha. If Jerry ever wants to

know anything about its exten



agricultural value, water-supply, crop

returns, etc., she will find them on file i

my office. The document says that the lan

n the Sage Brush Valley in Kansas inow, with title clear, the property of the

estate of the late Jeremiah Swaim and hi

heirs and assigns forever; that York

Macpherson will, for a very smalconsideration, be the Kansa

representative of the Swaim heirs. That i

all I have to say about it."

"Then listen to me," Mrs. Darb

commanded. And her listener—listened

"Jerry Swaim is Brother Jim and Siste

Lesa's only child. She's been brought up iuxury; never wanted a thing she didn't get

and never earned a penny in her life. Sh

couldn't do it to save her life. If I outliv



you she will be my heir if I choose t

make my will in her favor. She can b

aken care of without that Kansas propert

of hers. That's enough about the matterWe will drop it right here for other things

There's your cousin Eugene Wellington

coming home again. He's a real artist an

hasn't any property at all."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Mr

Darby's blank face, but Mrs. Darby neve

saw ghosts.

"Of course Jerry and Gene, who hav

been playmates in the same game all thei

ives, will—will—" Mrs. Darbhesitated.

"Will keep on playing the same game,

Cornelius suggested. "If that's all abou



his business, I'll go and look after th

ily-ponds over yonder, and then take

ittle exercise before dinner. I'm sorry

missed Jerry in the city. She doesn't knowam out here."

"What difference if you did? She an

Eugene will be coming out on the traipretty soon," Mrs. Darby declared.

"She doesn't know he's there, maybe. The

may miss each other," her husbandreplied.

Then he left the arbor and effaced himself

as was his custom, from his wife'

presence, and busied himself with matter

concerning the lily-ponds on the far sid

of the grounds where pink lotuses wer

blooming.



Meantime Jerusha Darby's fingers fairl

writhed about her tatting-work, as sh

waited impatiently for the sound of th

afternoon train from the city.

"It's time the four-forty was whistlin

round the curve," she murmured. "My gir

will soon be here, unless the train idelayed by that bridge down yonder

Plague on these June rains!"

Mrs. Darby said "my girl" exactly as shwould have said "my bank stock," or "m

farm." Hers was the tone of complet

possession.

"She could have come out in the auto i

half the time, the four-forty creeps so, bu

he roads are dreadfully skiddy after thes

abominable rains," Mrs. Darby continued



The habit of speaking her thoughts alou

had grown on her, as it often does on thos

advanced in years who live much alone

The little vista of rain-washed meadowand growing grain that lay between tal

ilac-trees was lost to her eyes in th

mpatience of the moment's delay. Wha

Jerusha Darby wanted for Jerusha Darbwas vastly more important to her at an

moment than the abstract value of

general good or a common charm.

As she leaned forward, listening intentl

for the rumble of the train down in th

valley, a great automobile swung throug

he open gateway of "Eden" and roundehe curves of the maple-guarded avenue

bearing down with a birdlike sweep upo

he rose-arbor.



"Here I am, Aunt Jerry," the driver'

girlish voice called. "Uncle Cornie i

coming out on the train. I beat him to it.

saw the old engine huffing and puffing ahe hill beyond the third crossing of th

Winnowoc. It is bank-full now from th

rains. I stopped on that high fill an

watched the train down below mcreeping out on the trestle above th

creek. When it got across and wen

crawling into the cut on this side I cam

on, too. I had my hands full then makin

his big gun of a car climb that muddy

slippery hill that the railroad cuts through

But I'd rather climb than creep any olday."

"Jerry Swaim," Mrs. Darby cried, starin

up at her niece in amazement, "do yo



mean to say you drove out alone over tha

sideling, slippery bluff road? But yo

wouldn't be Lesa Swaim's daughter if yo

weren't taking chances. You are youmother's own child, if there ever wa

one."

"Well, I should hope I am, since I've got tbe classified somewhere. I came becaus

wanted to," Jerry declared, with th

finality of complete excuse in her tone. Al

her life what Jerry Swaim had wantewas abundant reason for her having. "I

was dreadfully hot and sticky in the city

and I knew it would be the bottom deep o

mugginess on that crowded Winnoworain. The last time I came out here on it

had to sit beside a dreadful big Dutchma

who had an old hen and chickens in



basket under his feet. He had ha

Limburger cheese for his dinner and ha

used his whiskers for a napkin to catch th

crumbs. Ugh!" Jerry gave a shiver odisgust at the recollection. "An old lad

behind us had ' sky-atick rheumatiz' an

wouldn't let the windows be opened. I'

rather have any kind of 'rheumatiz' thaLimburger for the same length of time. Th

Winnowoc special ought to carry a parlo

coach from the city and set it off at 'Eden

ike it used to do. The agent let me play i

t whenever I wanted to when I was

youngster. I'm never going to ride on an

rain again unless I go in a Pullman."The girl struck her small gloved fist, like

spoiled child, against the steering-whee

of her luxuriously appointed car, but he



holding the story of inherited ideas

imited and intensified, and the young fac

unmistakably perpetuated the famil

ikeness, yet Jerry Swaim was a type oher own, not easy to forejudge. In th

shadows of the rose-arbor her hair ripple

back from her forehead in dull-gol

waves. One could picture what thsunshine would do for it. Her big, dark

blue eyes were sometimes dreamy unde

heir long lashes, and sometimes full o

sparkling light. Her whole atmospher

was that of easeful, dependent, city life

yet there was something contrastingl

definite in her low voice, her firm moutand square-cut chin. And beyond

appearances and manner, there wa

something which nobody ever quit

defined, that made it her way to wal



straight into the hearts of those who knew

her.

"Where were you in the city to-day?" MrsDarby asked, abruptly, looking keenly a

he fair-faced girl much as she would hav

ooked at any other of her goodl

possessions.

"Let me see," Jerry Swaim began

meditatively. "I was shopping quite

while. The stores are gorgeous this June."

"Yes, and what else?" queried the olde

woman.

"Oh, some more shopping. Then I lunchea t La Señorita, that beautiful new tea

house. Every room represents som

nationality in its decoration. I was in th



"It was a desert-like scene; just yellow

gray plains, with no trees at all. And in th

farther distance the richest purples an

reds of a sunset sky into which the lansort of diffused. No landscape on thi

earth was ever so yellow-gray, or an

sunset ever so like the Book o

Revelation, nor any horizon-line so widand far away. It was the hyperbole of

freakish imagination. And yet, Aunt Jerry

here was a romantic lure in the thing

somehow."

Jerry Swaim's face was grave as sh

gazed with wide, unseeing eyes at th

vista of fresh June meadows from whiche odor of red clover, pulsing in on th

cool west breeze of the late afternoon

mingled with the odor of whit



honeysuckle that twined among th

climbing rose-vines above her.

"Humph! What else?" Aunt Jerry sniffed disapproval of unpleasant landscapes i

general and alluring romances i

particular. Love of romance was not in he

mental make-up, any more than love of art

"I went over to Uncle Cornie's bank to tel

him to take care of my shopping-bills. H

wasn't in just then and I didn't wait fohim. By the way"—Jerry Swaim was no

dreamy now—"since all the lega

itigations and things are over, oughtn't

begin to manage my own affairs and livon my own income?"

Sitting there in the shelter of blossomin

vines, the girl seemed far too dainty



creature, too lacking in experience

nitiative, or ability, to manage anythin

more trying than a big allowance of pin

money. And yet, something in her smallfirm hands, something in the lines of he

well-formed chin, put the doubt into an

forecast of what Geraldine Swaim migh

do when she chose to act.

Aunt Jerry wrapped the lacy tatting stuf

she had been making around the pear

shuttle and, putting both away in thJapanese work-basket, carefully snappe

down the lid.

"When Jerusha Darby quits work to talt's time for me to put on my skid-chains,

Jerry said to herself as she watched th

procedure.



"Jerry, do you know why I called you you

mother's own child just now?" Mrs. Darb

asked, gravely.

"From habit, maybe, you have said it s

often." Jerry's smile took away an

suggestion of pertness. "I know I am lik

her in some ways."

"Yes, but not altogether," the older woman

continued. "Lesa Swaim was a strang

combination. She was made to spenmoney, with no idea of how to get money

And she brought you up the same way

And now you are grown, boarding-schoo

finished, and of age, you can't alter youbringing up any more than you can chang

your big eyes that are just like Lesa's, no

your chin that you inherited from Brothe

Jim. I might as well try to give you littl



black eyes and a receding chin as to try t

reshape your ways now. You are as the

Lord made you, and Providence molde

you, and your mother spoiled you."

"Well, I don't want to be anything

different. I'm happy as I am."

"You won't need to be, unless you choose

But being twenty-one doesn't make you to

old to listen to me—and your uncl

Cornie."

n all her life Jerry had never before hear

her uncle's name brought in as co-partne

of Jerusha Darby's in any opinion

authority, or advice. It was an unfortunat

slip of the tongue for Uncle Cornie's wife

one of those simple phrases that, droppe

at the right spot, take root and grow an



bear big fruit, whether of sweet or bitte

aste.

"Your mother was a dreamer, a lover oromance, and all sorts of adventures

although she never had a chance to get int

any of them. That's why you went skiddin

on that sideling bluff road to-day; that anhe fact that she brought you up to hav

your own way about everything. But, as

say, we can't change that now, and there'

no need to if we could. Lesa was a prettwoman, but you look like the Swaims

except right across here."

Aunt Jerry drew her bony finger across thgirl's brows, unwilling to concede any o

he family likeness that could possibly b

retained. She could not see the gleam o

mischief lurking under the downcas



eyelashes of Lesa Swaim's own child.

"Your father was a good business man

evel-headed, shrewd, and honest"—MrsDarby spoke rapidly now—"but thing

happened in the last years of his life. You

mother took pneumonia and died, and yo

went away to boarding-school. Jim'business was considerably involved.

needn't bother to tell you about that. I

doesn't matter now, anyhow. And then one

night he didn't come home, and the nexmorning your uncle found him sitting in hi

office, just as he had left him the evenin

before. He had been dead several hours

Heart failure was what the doctor saidbut I reckon everybody goes of hear

failure sooner or later."

A bright, hard glow came into Jerr



Swaim's eyes and the red lips were griml

pressed together. In the two years sinc

he loss of her parents the girl had neve

ried to pray. As time went on the lighspirit of youth had come back, bu

something went out of her life on the da

of her father's death, leaving a loss agains

which she stubbornly rebelled.

"To be plain, Jerry," Mrs. Darby hurried

on, "you have your inheritance all cleare

up at last, after two whole years of legarouble."

"Oh, it hasn't really bothered me," Jerr

declared, with seeming flippancy. "Jussigning my name where somebody pointe

o a blank line, and holding up my righ

hand to be sworn—that's all. I've writte

my full name and promised that the writin



was mine, 's'welp me Gawd,' as the court

house man used to say, till I could do

either one under the influence of ether

othing really bothersome about it, but I'glad it's over. Business is so tiresome."

"It's not so large a fortune, by a good deal

as it would have been if your father haistened to me." Mrs. Darby spok

vaguely. "But you will be amply provided

for, anyhow, unless you yourself choose to

rifle with your best interest. You and I arhe only Swaims living now. Some day, i

choose, I can will all my property t

you."

The square-cut chin and the deep line

around the stern mouth told plainly tha

obedience to this woman's wishes alon

could make a beneficiary to that will.



"You may be a dreamer, and love to go

romancing around into new scrapes lik

your mother would have done if she could

But she was as soft-hearted as could bewith all that. That's why she never denie

you anything you wanted. She couldn't d

a thing with money, though, as I said

except spend it. You are a good deal likeyour father, too, Jerry, and you'll value

property some day as the only thing o

earth that can make life anything but a har

grind. If you don't want to be like tha

bunch of everlasting grubs that ride on th

Winnowoc train every afternoon, or th

poor country folks around here that neveride in anything but a rickety old farm

wagon, you'll appreciate what I—an

Uncle Cornie—can do for you."



Uncle Cornie again, and he never ha

shared in any equal consideration before

t was a mistake.

"There's the four-forty whistling for th

curve at last. It's time it was coming.

must go in and see that dinner is just righ

You run down and meet it. Cousin Eugenes coming out on it. Your uncle Cornie i

here on the place somewhere. He cam

out after lunch on some business we had t

fix up. No wonder you missed him. BuJerry"—the stern-faced woman put a han

on the girl's shoulder with more o

command than caress in the gestur

—"Eugene is a real artist with genius, yoknow."

"Yes, I know," Jerry replied, a sudden

change coming into her tone. "What o



hat?"

"You've always known him. You like him

very much?" Jerusha Darby was aawkward in sentiment as she was shrew

n a bargain.

The bloom on the girl's cheek deepened a

she looked away toward the brilliantl

green meadows across which the low su

was sending rays of golden light.

"Oh, I like him as much as he likes me, n

doubt. I'll go down to the station and loo

him over, if you say so."

Beneath the words lay something deepehan speech—something new even to th

girl herself.

As Jerry left the arbor Mrs. Darby said



with something half playful, half final, i

her tone: "You won't forget what I've said

about property, you little spendthrift. You

will be sensible, like my sensiblbrother's child, even if you are a

dealizing as your sentimental mother."

"I'll not forget. I couldn't and be JerrDarby's niece," the last added after th

girl was safely out of her aunt's hearing

"My father and mother both had lots o

good traits, it seems, and a few poor onesseem to be really heir to all the fault

bents of theirs, and to have lost out on al

he good ones. But I can't help that now

ot till after the train gets in, anyhow."

Her aunt watched her till the shrubber

hid her at a turn in the walk. Young, full o

ife, dainty as the June blossoms tha



showered her pathway with petals,

spoiled, luxury-loving child, with a

adventurous spirit and a blunted an

undeveloped notion of human service andivine heritage, but with a latent capacit

and an untrained power for doing things

hat was Jerry Swaim—whom the wind

of heaven must not visit too roughlwithout being accountable to Mrs. Jerush

Darby, owner and manager of the univers

for her niece.



II

UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW

Jerry was waiting at the cool end of thrustic station when the train came in. How

hot and stuffy it seemed to her as it puffe

out of the valley, and how tired and cros

all the bunch of grubs who stared out ohe window at her. It made them ten time

more tired and cross and hot to see tha

girl looking so cool and rested an

exquisitely gowned and crowned an

shod. The blue linen with whit

embroidered cuffs, the rippling, glintin

masses of hair, the small shoes



mmaculately white against the green so

—little wonder that, while the hei

apparent to the Darby wealth fel

comfortably indifferent toward thiuninteresting line of nobodies i

particular, the bunch of grubs should fee

only envy and resentment of their ow

sweaty, muscle-worn lot in life.

Jerry and Eugene Wellington were far up

he shrubbery walk by the time th

Winnowoc train was on its way againunconscious that the passengers wer

ooking after them, or that the talk, as th

rain slowly got under way, was all o

"that rich old codger of a Darby and hiselfish old wife"; of "that young dud

artist, old Wellington's kid, too lazy to

work"; of "that pretty, frivolous girl who



didn't know how to comb her own hair

Jim Swaim's girl—poor Jim!" "Old Cor

Darby was looking yellow and thin, too

He would dry up and blow away somday if his money wasn't weighting hi

down so he couldn't."

At the bend in the walk, the two younpeople saw Uncle Cornie crossing th

awn.

"Going to get his discus. He'll have nappetite for dinner unless he gets in a few

dozen slings," the young man declared

"Let's turn in here at the sign of the roses

Jerry. I'm too lazy to take another step."

"You should have come out with me in the

car," Jerry replied as they sat down in th

cool arbor made for youth and June-time



"I didn't know you were in the city."

"Well, little cousin girl, I'll confess

didn't dare," the young man declaredboldly. "I've been studying awfully hard

his year, and, now I'm needed to pain

The Great American Canvas, I can't end

my useful career under a big touring-car ahe bottom of an embankment out on th

Winnowoc bluff road. So when I saw yo

coming into Uncle Cornie's office in th

bank I slipped away."

"And as to my own risk?" Jerry asked.

"Oh, Jerry Swaim, you would never hav

an accident in a hundred years. There'

nobody like you, little cousin mine

nobody at all."



Eugene Wellington put one well-formed

hand lightly on the small white hand lyin

on the wicker chair-arm, and, leanin

forward, he looked down into the face ohe girl beside him. A handsome, well-se

up, artistic young fellow he was, fitted t

adorn life's ornamental places. And if

faint line of possible indecision ocharacter might have suggested itself t

he keen-eyed reader of faces, other trait

outweighed its possibility. For his was

fine face, with a sort of graciou

gentleness in it that grows with the artist'

growth. A hint of deeper spirituality, too

hat marks nobility of character, added toa winning personality, put Eugen

Wellington above the common class. He

fitted the rose-arbor, in "Eden" and th

comradeship of good breeding. When



"Heir to what?" the young artist inquired

a faint, shadowy something sweeping hi

countenance fleetly.

"To all the sphere,

To the seven stars and the

solar year;

also to my father's entire estate that's lef

after some two years of litigation. I hat

itigations."

"So do I, Jerry. Let's forget them. Isn

Eden' beautiful? I'm so glad to be bac

here again." Eugene Wellington looked ou

at the idyllic loveliness of the place whic

he rose-arbor was built especially t

command. "Nobody could sin here, fo

here are no serpents busy-bodying aroun

n such a dream of a landscape as this. I'



glad I'm an artist, if I never becom

famous. There's such a joy in being able t

see, even if your brush fails miserably i

rying to make others see."

Again the man's shapely hand fell gentl

on the girl's hand, and this time it staye

here.

"You love it all as much as I do, don't you

Jerry?" The voice was deep with emotion

"And you feel as I do, how this lifts onnearer to God. Or is it because you ar

here with me that 'Eden' is so fair to

night? May I tell you something, Jerry

Something I've waited for the summer anEden' to give me the hour and the place t

say? We've always known each other. We

hought we did before, but a new knowin

came to me the day your father left us



Look up, little cousin. I want to sa

something to you."

June-time, and youth, and roses, and sofsweet air, and nobody there but blossoms

and whispering breezes, and these two

And they had known each other always

Oh, always! But now—something wadifferent now, something that was grander

more beautiful in this place, in this day, i

each other, than had ever been before—

he old, old miracle of a man and a maid.

Suddenly something whizzed through th

air and a snakelike streak of shadow cu

he light of the doorway. Out in the openUncle Cornie came slowly stepping off th

space to where his discus lay beside th

rose-arbor—one of the good little snakes

Every Eden has them, and some are muc



better than others.

The discus-ground was out on a lovel

stretch of shorn clover sod. Why thdiscus should wander from the thrower'

hand through the air toward the rose-arbo

no wind of heaven could tell. Nor could i

ell why Uncle Cornie should choose tfollow it and stand in the doorway of th

arbor until the "Eden" dinner-hour calle

all three of the dwellers, Adam and Ev

and this good little snake, to the coodining-room and what goes with it.

Twilight and moonlight were melting into

one, and all the sweet odors of dewkissed blossoms, the good-night twitter o

homing birds, the mists rising above th

Winnowoc Valley, the shadows o

shrubbery on the lawn, and the darklin



outline of the tall maples made "Eden" a

beautiful now as in the full sunlight.

Jerry Swaim sat in the doorway of throse-arbor, watching Uncle Corni

hrowing his discus again along th

smooth white clover sod. Aunt Jerry had

railed off with Eugene to the far side ohe spacious grounds to see the lily-pond

where the pink lotuses were blooming.

"Young folks mustn't be together too muchThey'll get tired of each other too quickly

used to get bored to death havin

Cornelius forever around." Aunt Jerr

philosophized, considering herself awise in the affairs of the heart as she wa

shrewd in affairs of the pocketbook. Sh

would make Jerry and Gene want to b

ogether before they had the chance again.



So Jerry Swaim sat alone, watching th

ights and shadows on the lawn, only hal

conscious of Uncle Cornie's presence ou

here, until he suddenly followed hidiscus as it rolled toward the arbor an

ay flat at her feet. Instead of picking it up

he dropped down on the stone step besid

his niece and sat without speaking untiJerry forgot his presence entirely. It wa

his custom to sit without speaking, and t

be forgotten.

Jerry's mind was full of many things. Lif

had opened a new door to her tha

afternoon, and something strange an

sweet had suddenly come through it. Lifhad always opened pleasant doors to her

save that one through which her father an

mother had slipped away—a door tha



closed and shut her from them and God

whose Providence had robbed her s

cruelly of what was her own. But no doo

ever showed her as fair a vista as the onnow opening before her dreamy gaze.

She glanced unseeingly at the old ma

sitting beside her. Then across hememory Aunt Jerry's words came drifting

"Being twenty-one doesn't make you to

old to listen to me—and your uncl

Cornie," and, "You'll appreciate what I—and Uncle Cornie—can do for you."

Uncle Cornie was looking at her with

face as expressionless as if he were abouo say, "The bank doesn't make loans o

any such security," yet something in hi

eyes drew her comfortably to him and sh

mechanically put her shapely little hand o



his thin yellow one.

"I want to talk to you before anythin

happens, Jerry," he began, and thepaused, in a confused uncertainty tha

hreatened to end his wanting here.

And Jerry, being a woman, divined in an

nstant that it was to talk to her befor

anything happened that he had thrown tha

discus out of its way when she and Gen

had thought themselves alone in the arbobefore dinner. It was to talk to her that th

hing had been rolled purposely to her fee

now. Queer Uncle Cornie!

"I'm not too old to listen to you.

appreciate what you can do for me." Jerr

was quoting her aunt's admonition

exactly, which showed how deeply the



had unconsciously impressed themselve

on her mind. Her words broke the line

bands about Uncle Cornie's glazed jaws

and he spoke.

"Your estate is all settled now. What's lef

o you after that rascally John—I mea

after two years of pulling and haulinhrough the courts, is a 'claim,' as they cal

t, in the Sage Brush Valley in Kansas. I

has never been managed well, somehow

There's not been a cent of income from isince Jim Swaim got hold of it, but that'

no fault of the man who is looking after i

—a York Macpherson. He's a gentleman

you can trust anywhere. That's all there iof your own from your father's estate."

Jerry Swaim's dark-blue eyes opene

wide and her face was lily white under th



shadow of dull-gold hair above it.

"You are dependent on your aunt fo

everything. Well, she's glad of that. So am, in a way. Only, if you go against he

will you won't be her heir any more. You

mightn't be, anyhow, if she—went first

The Darby estate isn't really JerushSwaim's; it's mine. But she thinks it's her

and it's all right that way, because, in th

end, I do control it." Uncle Cornie paused

Jerry sat motionless, and, although it wa

June-time, the little white hand on th

speaker's thin yellow one was very cold.

"If you are satisfied, I'm glad, but I won

et Jim Swaim's child think she's got

fortune of her own when she hasn't got

cent and must depend on the good-will o



her relatives for everything she wants. Ji

would haunt me to my grave if I did."

Jerry stared at her uncle's face in thdarkening twilight. In all her life she ha

never known him to seem to have an

mind before except what grooved in wit

Aunt Jerry's commanding mind. Yetsurprised as she was, she involuntaril

drew nearer to him as to one whom sh

could trust.

"We agreed long ago, Jim and I did, when

Jim was a rich man, that some day yo

must be shown that you were his child a

well as Lesa's—I mean that you mustnalways be a dependent spender. You mus

get some Swaim notions of living, too

ot that either of us ever criticized you

mother's sweet spirit and her ideal



building and love of adventure. Romanc

belongs to some lives and keeps the

young and sweet if they live to be

million. I'm not down on it like your AunJerry is."

Romance had steered wide away fro

Cornelius Darby's colorless days. Andpossibly only this once in the swee

stillness of the June twilight at "Eden" di

hat hungering note ever sound in hi

voice, and then only for a brief space.

"Jim would have told you all this himsel

f he had got his affairs untangled in time

And he'd have done that, for he had a bibrain and a big heart, but God went an

ook him. He did. Don't rebel always

Jerry. God was good to him—you'll see i

some day and quit your ugly doubting."



Who ever called anything ugly about Jerr

Swaim before? That a creature lik

Cornelius Darby should do it now wa

one of the strange, unbelievable things ohis world.

"I just wanted to say again," Uncle Corni

continued, "if I go first you'd be Jerusha'heir. We agreed to that long ago. That is

f you don't cross her wishes and start he

o make a will against you, as she'd do i

you didn't obey her to the last letter in thalphabet. If I go after she does, th

property all goes by law to distan

relatives of mine. That was fixed before

ever got hold of it—heirs of somspendthrifts who would have wasted i

ong ago if they'd lived and had i

hemselves."



The sound of voices and Eugen

Wellington's light laughter came faintly

from the lily-pond.

"Eugene is a good fellow," Uncle Corni

said, meditatively. "He's got real talen

and he'll make a name for himself som

day that will be stronger, and do morgood, and last longer than the man's nam

hat's just rated gilt-edged security on

note, and nowhere else. Gene will make

decent living, too, independent of anaunts and uncles. But he's no stronger

willed, nor smarter, nor better than yo

are, Jerry, even if he is a bit mor

religious-minded, as you might say. Youry awfully hard to think you don't believ

n anything because just once in your lif

Providence didn't work your way. You



can't fool with your own opinions agains

God Almighty and not lose in the deal

You'll have to learn that some time. All o

us do, sooner or later."

"But to take my father—all I had—after

had given up mother, I can't see any justic

nor any mercy in it," Jerry broke out.

Uncle Cornie was no comforter wit

words. He had had no chance to practis

giving sympathy either before or aftemarriage. Mummies are limited, whethe

hey be in sealed sarcophagi or sit behin

roller-top desks and cut coupons

Something in his quiet presence, howeversoothed the girl's rebellious spirit mor

han words could have done. Corneliu

Darby did not know that he could com

nearer to the true measurement of Jerry'



mind than any one else had ever done

People had pitied her when her mothe

passed away and her father died

bankrupt—which last fact she must not bold—but nobody understood her excep

Uncle Cornie, and he had never said

word until now. He seemed to know now

ust how her mind was running. Thwisdom of the serpent—even the goo

ittle snakes, of this "Eden"—is not to b

misjudged.

"Jerry"—the old man's voice had a strang

gentleness in that hour, however flat and

dry it was before and afterward—"Jerry

you understand about things here."

He waved his hand as if to take in "Eden,

Aunt Jerry and Cousin Eugene strollin

eisurely away from the lily-pond



himself, the Darby heritage, and th

unprofitable Swaim estate in the Sag

Brush Valley in far-away Kansas.

"You've never been crossed in your life

except when death took Jim. You don'

know a thing about business, nor what i

means to earn the money you spend, and tfeel the independence that comes fro

being so strong in yourself you don't hav

o submit to anybody's will." Corneliu

Darby spoke as one who had dreamed ohese things, but had never known th

strength of their reality. "And last of all,

he concluded, "you think you are in lov

with Eugene Wellington."

Jerry gave a start. Uncle Cornie and love

Anybody and love! Only in her day

dreams, her wild flights of adventure, up



o castles builded high in air, had sh

really thought of love for herself—unti

o-day. And now—Aunt Jerry had hinted

awkwardly enough here in the latafternoon of what was on her mind

Cousin Gene had held her hand and said

"I want to say something to you." How ful

of light his eyes had been as he looked aher then! Jerry felt them on her still, and

ingle of joy went pulsing through he

whole being. Then the discus had hurtle

across the doorway and Uncle Cornie ha

come, not knowing that these two woul

rather be alone. At least he didn't look a

f he knew. And now it was Uncle Corniehimself who was talking of love.

"You think you are in love with Eugene

Wellington," Uncle Cornie repeated, "bu



you're not, Jerry. You're only in love with

Love. Some day it may be with Gene, bu

t's not now. He just comes nearer to wha

you've been dreaming about, and so yohink you are in love with him. Jerry,

don't want you to make any mistakes. I'v

ived a sort of colorless life"—the man'

face was ashy gray as he spoke—"buonce in a while I've thought of what migh

be in a man's days if things went right wit

him and if he went right with himself."

How often the last words came back t

Jerry Swaim when she recalled the event

of this evening—"if he went righ

himself."

"And I don't want any mistakes made that

can help."



Uncle Cornie's other hand closed gentl

about the little hand that lay on one of his

How firm and white and shapely it was

and how determined and fearless the gript could put on the steering-wheel whe

he big Darby car skidded dangerously

And how flat and flabby and yellow an

characterless was the hand that held iclose!

"Come on, folks, we are going to th

house to have some music," Aunt Jerrcalled, as she and Eugene Wellington

came across the lawn from the lily-pond.

Mrs. Darby, sure of the fruition of heplans now, was really becoming pettishl

ealous to-night. A little longer she wante

o hold these two young people under he

absolute dominion. Of course she woul



always control them, but when they wer

promised to each other there would aris

a kingdom within a kingdom which sh

could never enter. The angry voice of warped, misused, and withered youth wa

n her soul, and the jealousy of loveles

old age was no little fox among her vine

o-night. Let them wait on her a littlwhile. One evening more wouldn't matter

As the two approached the rose-arbo

Jerry's hand touched Uncle Cornie's cheen a loving caress—the first she had eve

given him.

"I won't forget what you have said, UnclCornie," she murmured, softly, as she ros

o join her aunt and Eugene.

The moonlight flooding the lawn touche



Jerry's golden hair, and the bloom of lov

and youth beautified her cheeks, as sh

walked away beside the handsome youn

artist into the beauty of the June night.

"Come on, Cornelius." Mrs. Darby's voic

put the one harsh note into the harmony o

he moment.

"As soon as I put away my discus. Tha

ast throw was an awkward one, and a lo

out of line for me," he answered, in hidry, flat voice, stooping to pick up th

mplement of his daily pastime.

Up in the big parlor, Eugene and Jerr

played the old duets they had learne

ogether in their childhood, and sang th

old songs that Jerusha Darby had hear

when she was a girl, before the lust fo



wealth had hardened her arteries an

dimmed her eyes to visions that come onl

o bless. But the two young people forgo

her presence and seemed to live the hourof the beautiful June night only for eac

other.

t was nearly midnight when a peal ohunder boomed up the Winnowoc Valley

and the end of a perfect day was brillian

n the grandeur of a June shower, wit

skies of midnight blackness clovehrough with long shafts of lightning o

swept across by billows of flame, whil

he storm wind's strong arms beat the eart

with flails of crystal rain.

"Where is Uncle Cornie? I hadn't misse

him before," Jerry asked as the three in th

parlor watched the storm pouring out al



ts wrath upon the Winnowoc Valley.

"Oh, he went to put up his old discus, an

hen he went off to bed I suppose," AunJerry replied, indifferently.

othing was ever farther from his wife'

hought than the presence of Corneliu

Darby. The two had never lived for eac

other; they had lived for the accumulatio

of property that together they might gathe

n.

t was long after midnight before th

family retired. The moon came out o

hiding as the storm-cloud swept eastward

The night breezes were cool and sweet

scattering the flower petals, that th

shower had beaten off, in little perfum

cloudlets about the rose-arbor and upo



ts stone door-step.

t was long after Jerry Swaim had gone t

her room before she slept. Over and ovehe events of the day passed in review

before her mind: the city shopping; th

dainty lunch in the Delft room at L

Señorita; the art exhibit and that one levegray landscape with the flaming, gorgeou

sunset so unlike the green-and-gold sunse

andscape of "Eden"; the homeward rid

with all its dangerous thrills; the talk witAunt Jerry; Eugene, Eugene, Eugene

Uncle Cornie with his discus, at the doo

of the rose-arbor, and all that he had said

o her; the old, old songs, and the thunderstorm's tremendous beauty, and Uncl

Cornie again—and dreams at last, and Ji

Swaim, big, strong, shrewd; and Lesa



sweet-faced, visionary; and then soun

slumber bringing complete oblivion.

Last to sleep and first to waken in thearly morning was Jerry. Happy Jerry

obody as happy as she was could slee

—and yet—Uncle Cornie's last discus

hrow had brought new thoughts thawould not slip away as the storm ha

slipped up the Winnowoc into nowhere. A

rift in the lute, a cloud speck in a blu

June sky, was the memory of what UnclCornie had told her when he let his discu

roll up to her very feet by the door of th

rose-arbor. Jerry Swaim must not b

roubled with lute rifts and cloud specksThe call of the early morning was in th

air, the dewy, misty, rose-hued dawning o

a beautiful day in a beautiful "Eden



where only beautiful things belong. And

oveliest among them all was Jerry Swai

n her pink morning dress, her gloriou

crown of hair agleam in the sun's earlrays, her blue eye full of light.

The sweetest spot to her in all "Eden" o

his morning was the rose-arbor. Ibelonged to her now by right of Eugen

and—Uncle Cornie. The snatches of a

old love-ballad, one of the songs she ha

sung with Eugene the night before, weron her lips as she left the veranda an

passed with light step down the lilac wal

oward the arbor. The very grass blade

seemed to sing with her, and all the rainwashed world glowed with green an

gold and creamy white, pink an

heliotrope and rose.



At the turn of the walk toward the arbo

Jerry paused to drink in the richness of al

his colorful scene. And then, for no

reason at all, she remembered what UnclCornie had said about his colorless life

Strange that she had never, in her ow

frivolous existence, thought of him in tha

way before. But with the alchemy of lovn her veins she began to see things in

new light. His had been a dull existence. I

Aunt Jerry ever really loved him she mus

have forgotten it long ago. And he made s

ittle noise in the world, anyhow, it wa

easy to forget that he was in it. She ha

forgotten him last night even after all thahe had said. He had had no part in thei

music, nor the beauty of the storm.

But here he was up early and sitting at th



doorway of the rose-arbor just as she ha

eft him last night. He was leaning back i

he angle of the slightly splintered trellis

his colorless face gray, save where a bluine ran down his cheek from a blue-blac

burn on his temple, his colorless eye

ooking straight before him; the discus h

had stooped to pick up in the twilight lasnight clasped in his colorless hands; hi

colorless life race run. His clothing

soaked by the midnight storm, clung we

and sagging about his shrunken form. Bu

he rain-beaten rose-vines had showere

his gray head with a halo of pink petals

and about his feet were drifts of falleblossoms flowing out upon the rich gree

sod. Nature in loving pity had gentl

decked him with her daintiest hues, as if

world of lavish color would wipe away i



a sweep of June-time beauty the memor

of the lost drab years.



III

HITCHING THE WAGON

TO A STAR

Behind the most expensive mourner'

crape to be had in Philadelphia Jerush

Darby hid the least mournful of faces. No

hat she had not been shocked that one bol

out of all that summer storm-cloud, barel

splintering the rose-arbor, should strik

he head leaning against it with a blow sfaint and yet so fatal; nor that she woul

not miss Cornelius and find it ver

nconvenient to fill his place in he

business management. Every busines



needs some one to fetch and carry an

play the watch-dog. And in these days o

expensive labor watch-dogs come hig

and are not always well trained. Bueverybody must go sometime. That is

everybody else. To Mrs. Darby's cast o

mind the scheme of death and fina

reckoning as belonging to a generaexperience was never intended for he

ndividually. After all, things work out al

right under Providential guidance. Eugen

Wellington was a fortunate provision o

an all-wise Providence. Eugene had som

of his late cousin's ability. He would

come in time to fill the vacant chair by throll-top desk in the city banking an

business house. Moreover, to the eyes o

age he was a thousandfold mor

nteresting and resourceful than th



colorless quiet one whose loss would b

felt of course, of course.

The reddest roses of "Eden" bloomed thnext June on Cornelius Darby's grave, th

brightest leaves of autumn covered hi

warmly from the winter's snows, and th

places that had never felt his livinpresence missed him no more forever.

There was a steady downpour of summe

rain on the day following the funeral a"Eden." Mrs. Darby was very busy wit

post-mortem details and Eugen

Wellington's services were in constan

demand by her, while Jerry Swaiwandered aimlessly about the house wit

a sense of the uselessness of her existenc

forcing itself upon her for the first time

Late in the afternoon, when the big room



under the seat and spread it out on th

broad arm of her chair. As she read it

contents her listlessness fell away, th

dreamy blue eyes glowed with a newight, the firm mouth took on a bit more o

firmness, and the strong little hand

holding the paper did not tremble.

"A claim in the Sage Brush Valley in

Kansas." Jerry spoke slowly. "It lies i

Range—Township—Oh, that's all Greek

o me! They must number land out therike lots in the potter's-field corner of th

cemetery that we drove by yesterday

Maybe they may all be dead ones, pauper

at that, in Kansas. It is controlled, osomething, by York Macpherson of the

Macpherson Mortgage Company of New

Eden— New Eden —Kansas. Uncle Corni



old me it hadn't brought any income, bu

hat wasn't York Macpherson's fault

Strange that I remember all that Uncl

Cornie said here the other night."

The girl read the document spread ou

before her a second time. When she lifte

her face again it was another Jerry Swaiwho looked out through the dark-blu

eyes. The rain had ceased falling. A coo

breeze was playing up the Winnowo

Valley, and low in the west shafts osunlight were piercing the thinning gra

clouds.

"Twelve hundred acres! A prince'sholdings! Why 'Eden' has only tw

hundred! And that is at New Eden. I

hasn't been well managed.' I know who'

going to manage it now. I'm the daughte



of Jim Swaim. He was a good busines

man. And Aunt Darby—" A smile broke

he set line about the red lips. "I'd neve

dare to say she didn't understand how tmanage things, Chief of Staff to th

General who runs the Universe, she is."

Then the serious mood came back as thgirl stared out at the meadows an

growing grain of the "Eden" farmland. A

sudden resolve had formed in her mind—

Jerry Swaim the type all her own, nopossible to forecast.

"Father wanted me to know what it mean

o be independent. I'll find out. If thiEden' can be so beautiful and profitable

what can I not make out of twelve hundre

acres, in a New Eden? And it will be suc

a splendid lark, just the kind of thing



have always dreamed of doing. Aunt Jerr

will say that I'm crazy, or that I'm Les

Swaim's own child. Well, I am, but there'

a big purpose back of it all, too, thpurpose my father would have approved

He was all business—all money-makin

—in his purposes, it seemed to som

folks, but I think mother knew how to keephim sweet. Maybe her adventurous spirit

and all that, kept her interesting to him

and her romancing kept him her lover

nstead of their growing to be like Uncl

Cornie and Aunt Jerry. There's something

else in the world besides just gettin

property—'if a man went right withimself,' Uncle Cornie said. There was

good sermon in those seven words. Uncl

Cornie preached more to me than the ma

who officiated at the funeral yesterda



could ever do. 'If a man went right wit

himself.' And Eugene." A quick change

swept Jerry Swaim's countenance. "H

said he wanted to say something to me. hink I know what he wanted to say

Maybe he will say it some day, but no

yet, not yet. Here he comes now."

There was a something new, unguessable

and very sweet in Jerry Swaim's face a

Eugene Wellington came striding down

he walk to the rose-arbor.

"I'm through at last, little cousin," h

declared, dropping into a seat beside her

"Really, Aunt Jerry is a wonderfuwoman. She seems to know most of th

details of Uncle Cornie's business sinc

he began in business. But now and the

she runs against something that takes he



breath away. Evidently Uncle Corni

knew a lot of things he didn't tell her o

anybody else. She doesn't like to mee

hese things. It makes her cross. She senme away just now in a huff because sh

was opening up a new line that I think sh

didn't want me to know anything about

Something that took her breath away afirst glance. But she didn't have to coa

me off the place. I ran out here when th

chance came."

How handsome and well-groomed he wa

sitting there in the easy willow seat! And

how good he had been to Mrs. Darby i

hese trying days! A dozen little servicehat her niece had overlooked had com

naturally to his hand and mind.

The words of Uncle Cornie came int



Jerry Swaim's mind as she looked at him

"He's a good fellow, with real talent, and

he'll make a name for himself some day

He'll make a decent living, toondependent of anybody's aunts an

uncles, but he's no stronger-willed no

smarter nor better than you are." A thril

of pleasure quickened her pulse at threcollection, making this new decision o

hers the more firm.

"It has seemed like a month since we sahere the evening before Uncle Corni

passed away," Eugene began. "He made

bad discus-throw and came over here jus

as I began to tell you something, Jerry. Doyou remember what we were saying whe

he appeared on the scene?"

"Yes, I remember." Jerry's voice was low



but there was no quaver in it.

Her face, as she lifted it, seemed to hi

eyes the one face he could never painFor him it was the fulfilment of a man'

best dream.

"There's only one grief in my heart at thi

minute—that I can never put your face a

t is now on any canvas. But let me tel

you some things that Aunt Jerry has been

elling me. She seems so fond of you, anshe says that after all the claims agains

your father's estate are settled there i

really no income left for you. But sh

assures me that it makes no differencebecause you can go on living with he

exactly as you have always done. She tol

me she had never failed in the fruition of

single plan of hers, and she is too old t



absolute submission. She couldn

conceive of me in the first plane, o

course, so I must be in the second."

"Why, Geraldine Swaim, I never heard

you speak so of your aunt before!" Eugen

Wellington exclaimed. He had caught a

new and very real line in the girl's face ashe spoke.

"Maybe not. But don't go Geraldine-in

me. It's too Aunt Jerry-ish. I'm coming tounderstand her better because I'm doin

my own thinking now," Jerry replied.

"As if you hadn't always done that, yo

ittle tyrant! I bear the scars of your teet

on my arms now—or I would bear them i

hadn't given up to you a thousand time

years ago," Eugene declared, laughingly.



Let me tell you something. The evenin

before Uncle Cornie died—" Jerry brok

off suddenly.

t seemed unfair to betray the one burst o

confidence that the colorless old man ha

given up to on the last evening of hi

earthly life. Jerry knew that it was to herand for her alone, that he had spoken.

"This is what I want to tell you. I have n

ncome now. Aunt Jerry is right, althoughshe never told me that herself. But I have

plan to make a living for myself."

Eugene Wellington leaned back and

aughed aloud. "You, Miss Geraldine

Swaim, who never earned a dollar in you

precious life! I always knew you were

dreamer, but you are going wrong now



Jerry. You must look out for belfry bats

under that golden thatch of yours. Onl

artists dare those wild flights so far—an

hey do it only on canvas and then gerejected by the hanging committee."

Jerry paid no heed to his bantering word

as she went on with serious earnestness"My estate—from my father—is a clai

out at New Eden, Kansas. Twelve

hundred acres. It has never been manage

well, consequently it has never paid wellLook at 'Eden' here"—Jerry lifted a han

for silence as Eugene was about to spea

—"it has only two hundred acres. Now

multiply it by six and you'll have NewEden out in Kansas. And I own it. And

am going to manage it. And I am not goin

o be dependent on anybody. Won't it be



one big lark for me to go clear to the Sag

Brush Valley? If it is as beautiful as the

Winnowoc, just think of its possibilities. I

will be perfectly grand to feel oneself sfree and self-reliant. And when we hav

won out, you by your brush and I by m

Kansas farm, then, oh, Gene, how

splendid life will be!"

The big, dreamy eyes were full of light

The level beams of the sun stretched fa

across green meadows and shaven lawnsbetween tall lilac-trees, to the rose-arbor

ust to glorify that rippling mass of brown

shadowed golden hair.

"Jerry"—Eugene Wellington's voice

rembled—"you are the most wonderfu

girl in the world. I am so proud of you

But, dear girl, it is an old, threadbar



fancy, this going to Kansas to get rich. M

father tried it years ago. He had a visio

of great things, too. He failed. Not onl

hat, he ruined everybody connected withim. That's why I'm poor to-day. Truly

ittle cousin mine, I don't believe the goo

Lord, who makes Edens like this in th

Winnowoc Valley, ever intended for wellbred people to leave them and go New

Eden-hunting in the Sage Brush Valley

We belong here where all the beauty o

nature is about us and the care of a lovin

God is over us. Why do you want to go t

Kansas? I wouldn't know how to pray ou

here where my father made such a botcof living. I really wouldn't."

"I don't know how to pray here, Gene,

Jerry said, softly, with no trace of flippan



rreverence in her tone. "I forgot how t

do that when God took my father away

But listen to me." The imperious power o

he uncontrolled will was Jerry's always"You don't live here; you stay here. And

you take a piece of canvas and go to th

ends of the earth on it, or down to th

deeps, or into the heavens. You make whanever did and never will be, with you

free brush. And folks call it good and yo

earn a living by it. You are an artist. I am

a foolish dreamer, but I am going out to

Kansas and work my dreams into realit

and beauty—and money—in a New Eden

f the Lord isn't there, I shall not mind anmore than I do here. I am going to Kansas

hough, because I want to."

"Look, Jerry, at the sunset yonder,



Eugene said, gently, knowing of old wha

"I want" meant. "They couldn't have suc

pictures of green and gold out West as we

see framed in here by the lilacs. Youalways have been a determined little gir

so you will have your own way now,

suppose. We can try it, anyhow, for a

while. And if you find your way a rockroad you must come back to 'Eden.' Whe

your new playthings fail, you can pla

with the old ones. But I really love you

spirit of self-reliance. I don't want yo

ever to be dependent. I don't want an

other Jerry than I have always known. An

want to work hard and make my littlalent pay me big, and make you proud o

me."

"We are living a real romance, Gene. And



we'll be true to our word to make the bes

of ourselves and not let Aunt Jerry frighte

us into changing our plans, will we, Gene

My father's wish for me was that I shoulnot always be a spender of other folks'

ncomes, but that I would find out what i

means to live my own life. I never knew

hat until last week. Everything seemchanged for me since Uncle Cornie died

sn't it strange how suddenly we drop of

one life and take up another?" Jerry's eye

were on the deepening gold of the sunse

sky.

"Yes, we have been two idlers. I'm glad t

quit the job. But, somehow, for you could wish that you would stay here, i

you were only satisfied to do it," Eugen

replied.



here."

Again Jerry looked at him withou

speaking, and that faint line of indecisiohat scarcely hinted at its own existenc

fixed itself in the substratum of he

memory.

Mrs. Darby met the young people in th

parlor, where only a few nights ago th

hree had watched the summer storm, no

knowing that it was beating down on thunconscious form of Cornelius Darby

Mrs. Darby felt sure that the young peopl

would be coming to her to-night. Well—

he end of her plan was in sight nowReally, it may have been better fo

Cornelius to have gone when he did, sinc

we must all go sometime. Indeed, it woul

have been better—only Jerusha Darb



never knew that—if Cornelius had gon

before that discus-throw. Everything migh

have been different if he had gone earlier

But he lost the opportunity of his life tserve his wife by staying over and makin

one awkward fling too many.

The June evening was cool after the lonrains. Aunt Jerry had a tiny wood fir

burning in the parlor grate, and the tal

amps with the rose-colored shade

ighted to add a touch of twilight charm the place, when the young lovers came in.

"Aunt Jerry, we want to tell you what w

have been talking about," Eugene beganwhen the three were seated together

"Jerry and I have decided that we mus

ook on life differently now since—

Eugene hesitated.



"Yes, I know." Mrs. Darby spoke briskly

"We must face the truth now and speak o

Cornelius freely. He was fond of both o

you. Poor Cornelius!"

"Poor Cornelius," Jerry Swaim repeated

under her breath.

"Of course I know it is difficult for a gir

reared as Jerry has been—" Eugene bega

again.

"She can go on living just as she has been

This will be her home always," Mrs

Darby broke in, abruptly.

"And I know that I have nothing but thprospect of earning a living and winnin

o a successful career in my line—" th

young man went on.



"Hasn't Jerry the prospect of enough fo

herself? I'll need you to help me fo

several months. You know, Eugene, that

must have some one who understandCornelius's way of doing things." Ther

was more of command than request in th

older woman's voice.



"I'll be glad to help you as long as I a

needed, but I am speaking now of my life

work. When I cannot serve you any longe

must begin on my own career. I havsome hopes and plans for the future."

"Humph! What's the use of talking abou

t? I tell you Jerry will have enough for alher needs, and I want you here. I shall no

consider any more such notions, Eugene

You are both going to stay right here a

you have done. Let's talk of somethinelse."

"We can't yet, Aunt Jerry, because I have

not enough for myself, even if Gene woulaccept a living from you," Jerry Swai

declared.

Jerusha Darby opened her narrow eye



and stared at her niece. If the older woma

had made one plea of loneliness, if sh

had even hinted at sorrow for the loss o

he companion of her businesransactions, Jerry Swaim would have fel

uncomfortable, even though she knew he

aunt too well to be deceived by any suc

demonstration.

"Geraldine Swaim, what are you saying?

Mrs. Darby demanded, in a hard, eve

voice. Something in her manner and faccould always hold even the brave-spirite

n frightened awe of her.

Eugene Wellington lost courage to go onand the same thing came again that Jerr

Swaim had twice seen on his face in th

rose-arbor this evening. The two wer

ooking straight at the girl now. Th



firelight played with the golden glory o

her hair and deepened the rose hue of he

round cheeks. The dark-blue eyes seeme

almost black, with a gleam in their depthhat meant trouble, and there was

strength in the low voice as Jerry went on

"I'm talking about what I know, AunJerry. All there is of my heritage from my

father is a 'claim,' they call it, at New

Eden, in the Sage Brush Valley in Kansas

welve hundred acres. I'm going out thero manage it myself and support myself o

an income of my own."

For a long minute Jerusha Darby lookesteadily at her niece, her own face as har

and impenetrable as if it were carven ou

of flint. Then she said, sharply:



"Where did you find out all this?"

"It is all in a document here that I found i

he rose-arbor this afternoon," the girreplied. "Aunt Jerry, I must use what i

mine. I wouldn't be a Swaim if I didn't."

"You won't stay there two weeks." Mrs

Darby fairly clicked out the words. He

face was very pale and something lik

real fright looked through her eyes as sh

ook the paper from her niece's hand.

"And then?" Jerry inquired, demurely.

"And then you will come back here wher

you belong and live as you always havived, in comfort."

"And if I do not come?"



han I do. I'll let you find it out to the las

imit. But when you come back you mus

promise me never to take another suc

notion. I won't stand this foolishnesforever. I'll give you plenty of money to

get there. You can write me when you

need funds to come back. It won't tak

ong to get that letter here."

"And if I shouldn't come?" Jerry asked

calmly.

"Look what you are giving up. All thi

beautiful home, to say nothing of the tow

house—and Eugene—and other property.

"No, no; you don't count him as you

property, do you?" Jerry cried, turning to

he young artist, whose face was ver

pale.



"Jerry, must you make this sacrifice?" h

asked, in a voice of tenderness.

"It isn't a sacrifice; it's just what I want tdo," Jerry declared, lightly.

Jerusha Darby's face darkened. The effec

of a long and absolute exercise of wil

coupled with ample means, can make th

same kind of a tyrant out of a Kaiser and

rich aunt. The determination to have he

own way in this matter, as she had had iall other matters, became at once a

unbreakable purpose in her. She wanted to

keep fast hold of these young people fo

her own sake, not for theirs. For a littlwhile she sat measuring the two with he

narrow, searching eyes.

"I can manage him best," she concluded t



herself. At last she asked, plaintively

"With all you have here, Jerry, why do

you go hunting opportunities in Kansas?"

"Because I want to," Jerry replied, and he

aunt knew that, so far as Jerry wa

concerned, everything was settled.

"Then we'll drop the matter here. I ca

wait for you to come to your senses

Eugene, if you can give her up, whe

you've always been chums, I certainlcan."

With these words Mrs. Darby rose and

passed out, leaving the two alone unde

he rose-colored lights of the richl

furnished parlor.

t was not like Jerusha Darby to make suc



maidens have always guessed since lov

began. And on this night there were no

serpents at all in their Eden.



IV

BETWEEN EDENS

The sun of a mid-June day glared dowpitilessly on the little station at th

unction of the Sage Brush branch with th

main line. There was not a tree in sight

The south wind was raving across thprairie, swirling showers of fine san

before it. Its breath came hot against Jerr

Swaim's cheek as she stood in th

doorway of the station or wandere

grimly down between the shining rails tha

stretched toward a boundless nowher

whither the "through" train had vanishe



nearly two hours ago. As Jerry watched i

eaving, a sudden heaviness weighe

down upon her. And when the Pullman

porter's white coat on the rear platform ohe last coach melted into the dul

diminishing splotch on the wester

distance, she felt as if she wer

shipwrecked in a pathless land, with thittle red station house, reefed about b

cinders, as the only resting-place for th

soles of her feet. When her eyes grew

weary of the monotonous landscape, Jerr

rested them with what she called "A

Kansas Interior." The rustic station unde

he maples at "Eden" was always cleaand comfortably appointed. Big flower

beds outside, Uncle Cornie's gif

belonged to the station and its guests, wit

he spacious grounds of "Eden," at whic



he travelers might gaze without cost, lyin

ust beyond it.

This "Kansas Interior" seemed only degree less inviting than the whol

monotonous universe outside. The dust o

ages dimmed the windows that wer

propped and nailed and otherwise secureagainst the entrance of cool summe

breezes, or the outlet of bad, overheate

air in winter. Iron-partitioned seats

nvention of the Evil One himself, stalleoff three sides of the room, intending t

prove the principle that no one body ca

occupy two spaces at the same time. In th

center of the room a "plain, unvarnishedstove, bare and bald, stood on a low

pedestal yellowed with time and tobacc

uice. A dingy, fly-specked map of the



she wasn't going to die of th

iggermaroos in the empty nothingnes

here. It would be very different at New

Eden, she was sure of that. And this YorkMacpherson must be a nice old man

honest and easy-going, because he ha

never realized any income from her bi

Kansas estate. She pictured York easily—a short, bald-headed old gentleman wit

gray burnsides and benevolent pale-blu

eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, drivin

a fat sorrel nag to an easy-going ol

Rockaway buggy, carrying a gold-headed

cane given him by the Sunday-schoo

Jerry had seen his type all her life in thbusiness circles of Philadelphia an

among the better-to-do country-dweller

around "Eden."



At last it was only fifteen minutes till th

Sage Brush train would be due; then sh

could find comfort in her Pullman berth

She wondered what Aunt Jerry andEugene were doing now. She had slipped

away from "Eden" on her wild adventur

n the early dawn. She had taken leave o

Aunt Jerry the night before. Old womeneed their beauty sleep in the morning

even if foolish young things are breakin

all the laws by launching out to hunt thei

fortunes. Eugene had been hurriedly sen

away on Darby estate matters without th

opportunity of a leave-taking, two day

before Jerry was ready to start for KansasEverything was prearranged, evidently, to

make this going a difficult one. So

without a single good-by to speed her o

her quest, the young girl had gone out fro



really lived."

Jerry stretched out her hands to the on

good-by in "Eden" coming to her frohese silent ripples of dewy green sod

Then youth and the June morning and th

ure of adventure into new lands cam

with their triple strength to buoy her up tdo and dare. Behind her were her lover t

be—for Eugene must love her—her hom

ies, luxury, dependent inactivity. Before

her lay the very ends of the earth, thKansas end especially. The spirit of Si

Galahad, of Robinson Crusoe, of Do

Quixote, combined with the spirit of

self-willed, inexperienced girl, but dimlconscious yet of what lay back of he

determination to go forth— because sh

wanted to go.



Chicago and Kansas City offered eas

ports for clearing. And the Kaw Valley

unrolling its broad acres along the way

gave larger promise than Jerry had yedared to dream of for the New Ede

farther west. The train service, after th

manner of a Pacific Coast limited, ha

been perfect in every appointment. Andhen—this junction episode.

Two eternity-long hours before the Sage

Brush branch could take her to New Edewere almost ended.

"It's not so terrifying, after all." Jerry wa

beginning to "see things again." "It's all ihe game—and I am going to be as 'game

as the thing I am playing. Things alway

come round all right for me. They must."



The square white chin was very much

family feature just now. And the shapely

hands had no hint of weakness in their grip

on the iron arms of the station seat.

The door which the wind had slamme

shut was slammed open again as thre

prospective passengers for the Sage Brusrain slammed through it laden wit

uggage. At the same time the sealed-up

icket-window flew open, showing th

red, grinning face of the tick-tick mabehind its iron bars. If Jerry had neve

paid the slightest heed to the bunch o

grubs on the Winnowoc branch, except a

hey kept down the ventilation, ocrowded their odors of Limburger on he

offended senses, the Sage Brush grub

were a thousandfold less worthy of he



consideration. As the three crowded to th

icket-window, laughing amon

hemselves, she stared through th

doorway, unconsciously reading thnames on the cars of a freight-train slowl

heaving down alongside the station. Wh

nvented freight-cars, anyhow? The mos

uninteresting and inartistic thing ever puon wheels by the master mechanic of th

unbeautiful, created mainly to shut off th

view of mankind from what is reall

worth looking at. Jerry read the dulle

ettering mechanically: "Santa Fé" with it

symbol of a fat cross in a circle, "Iro

Mountain," "Great Northern," "Rocsland," "Frisco," "Union Pacific," "Gran

Trunk," came creeping by. "New York

Central," "Lehigh Valley," "Pennsylvania

Line." These took her back to "Eden" an



he Winnowoc country. The station

building shook; the ugly old cars slam

banged a bit faster back and forth; th

engine, with the breath almost knocked ouof it, was puffing down by the switch, an

he whole body behind it quivered to

standstill. But Jerry Swaim's tear-blurre

eyes were seeing only the green fields ohe Darby country-place and the rose

arbor and Eugene Wellington. A voice

oud, but not unpleasant, and a laugh,

merry, catching, giggling guffaw, drove

he picture of "Eden" and all that belonge

o it into "viewless air" that went flappin

and flaring across the Kansas landscape."You don't mean it! He, he! Haw!

Everybody must smile now. "The old Sag

Brush local is locoed 'way up towar



S'liny. Engine shortage, car shortage

common sense shortage. He, he! And w

must ride in that sunflower de luxe limite

standing out there. Come on, Thelmy. Youcan take lower nothin', car one-half. We'l

soar in now while the soarin's good."

Jerry looked at the bunch of grubs for thfirst time. One had to see where that bi

gloom-chasing giggle came from. Thelm

was a spotlessly clean, well-made countr

product, wherein the girl had easily giveplace to the woman, erect, full-bosomed

strong of frame. The hazel eyes wer

arched over by heavy brown brows. Ther

was no rosebud curve to the rather widmouth that showed a set of magnificen

white teeth. The brown hair wound brai

on braid about the head was proof of th



glory of Saint Paul's scriptural decree

ot that Jerry Swaim really noted any o

hese features. She merely saw a countr

girl—a not offensive native. The native'comrade, he with the big-laugh fixtures

was short and stout, with a round face o

he front side of a round head, set on to

of a tight-built body. Grub though he wasJerry involuntarily smiled with him. Tha

far the fat little man controlled everybody

But the funny little strut in his gait as h

walked was irresistible. The thir

passenger, the grubbiest of the three grubs

was a nondescript of whose presenc

Jerry was not even aware until she hearhis voice. It was a thin, high, unuse

voice, and its pitch wabbled up and down

"Be you goin' on the Sage Bresh train



ady?"

The questioner had turned back after th

country girl and the fat man had passeout.

Jerry looked at him without taking hi

question to herself. His shoes, drape

with wrinkled-down hose, were ver

much worn. His overalls flapping aroun

his legs, his shirt and neck and face an

hair and hat, were all of one complexiona fuzzy, yellow brown.

"Be you goin' on this train, too?"

t was a humble, kindly voice, and thscaly old hand holding the door ope

against the high prairie wind was only

fisherman's hand. The deep-set eyes in th



yellow-brown old face were trained t

read the river; the patient mouth set t

wait for the catch of lines and nets.

Jerry had never in her life spoken to suc

a creature. So far as she was concerned

he did not exist.

"This is the only train on the Sage Bres

o-day, lady. The reg'lar train's busted

hrough a culbert out yander," the high

quavering voice persisted.

A sharp tooting from the engine down th

ine emphasized the statement, and Jerr

saw the grinning red-faced tick-tick ma

hastily wheeling mail-sacks and sundr

other parcels by the door. In a bewildered

way she rose and passed out, giving n

recognition to the shabby old man wh



had been thoughtful of her ignorance.

"We gotta go to the last car down yander

ady," the old man squeaked out, as hstarted down the cinder-paved way with

bearlike, shuffling, sidewise sort of gait.

Jerry followed him slowly to "the last ca

down yander."

A plain day coach, the sixtieth and las

vertebra in this long mechanical spine

was already crowded with a bunch o

grubs, none of whom could belong to Jerr

Swaim's sphere. Moreover, they were al

ightly packed in and wedged down so tha

t was impossible to detect the leaving of

of the full-fare passenger and th

beginning of suit-cases, old-styl

elescopes, baskets, bundles, boxes, half



fare children, bags of fruit, lunch-crates

pieces of farming tools, babes in arms

groceries—everything to cabbages an

kings. Jerry wondered where all theshings came from. Every object in tha

car, human being or salt pork, crying bab

or kingbolt, was a thing to Jerry Swaim

And all of them were very warm annervously tense, as if the hot June win

had blown them all inside, that the ho

June sun, through the closed windows

might stew them stinkily; or, through th

open windows, grime their sweaty face

with hot dust off the hot prairie. Ther

was only one vacant seat left. It was ohe shady side, facing the rear of the car

and was half occupied already by th

humble grub of the squeaky voice. Th

girl, Thelma, and the fat little man ha



aken the seat opposite him. As Jerr

entered the car the little man was on hi

feet, bowing and strutting and insisting tha

a woman with a babe in arms shoulexchange seats with him, putting her on th

cool side, while he took her place in th

sun across the aisle from Thelma. In th

ransfer he did not see Jerry, who waooking in vain for an opening in that mas

of "human various." It was the humbl

grub who saw her standing there

Evidently his little yellow-green eyes too

her measure at a glance, but he did no

spread out his effects and stare out of th

window as some other men were doingnor gather himself and his into his ow

half of the seat to make room for he

beside him. He rose, and in a shrill littl

quaver he bade her take his place. It di



not occur to Jerry to tell him that ther

was room for two, as she saw him shuffl

down the aisle with a queer, limping hitch

n the same impersonal way she watchehim through the open door, sitting on th

rear platform during the long afternoon

humpbacked against the cinders and dus

hat beat upon him, swaying with throcking car, jerked along over a sun

baked, treeless prairie at the tail of a lon

erky freight-train. He meant nothing t

his dainty city product; his kind had neve

entered her world; no more had the red

faced, tow-headed young mother, wit

white eyebrows and hat knocked rakishlaslant, with her big, restless, bald-heade

baby rolling over her in waves, sprawlin

about Thelma, and threatening to bump it

head off as it overflowed all the narrow



space, aimlessly and persistently.

But if Jerry Swaim felt out of her elemen

n this company, her fellow-passengerfelt much more embarrassed by he

presence. Thelma's neat gingham dres

became limp and mussy and common. Th

ired mother's yellow lawn was rumplento a dish-rag. And with every jerk of th

rain she lost a hair-pin from her tow hai

hat was already stringing down in lon

wisps on her neck. The baby, really happy, white, blue-veined infant, becam

a fussy flushed impossibility.

All this, it seemed, just because of thpresence of a faultlessly dressed, fair

faced stranger who awed everybody b

not seeing them, but whose very daintines

and beauty drew them hungrily to her



obody could be in Jerry Swaim'

presence and not feel the spell of he

nherent magnetism.

The laughter and complaints of th

passengers dulled down to endurance

Only the face of the short man wore

smile. But his mouth was made with thakind of a curve, and he couldn't help i

Breathing deeply and perspirin

healthfully, he sat against the hea

streaming into his side of the car, andforgot his troubles in his unbreakabl

good nature. For a long time he an

Thelma had talked across the aisle abov

and through the train's noises. Their talwas all of Paul and Joe's place, and th

crops; of how glad Thelma was to be a

home again on Paul's account; and how



ong it would take her yet if the alfalfa an

wheat turned out well.

Jerry heard it all without knowing it, ashe looked at the monotonous landscap

without knowing it. And then the dr

prairies began to deepen to a richer hue

Yellow wheat-fields and low-growingcorn and stretches of alfalfa broke into th

high plains where cattle grazed. And the

came the gleam of a river, sometime

shallow along sandy levels, sometimedeep, with low overhanging brush o

either side. And there were cottonwood

rees and low twisted elms and scrubb

ocust and oak saplings, and the faintfresh scent of moisture livening the air.

The train jerked itself to a standstil

hought better of it, and hunched alon



again for a rod or two, then jostled itsel

quiet again.

Jerry was very drowsy now, but she waconscious of hearing the fat man callin

out, cheerfully:

"Home at last, Thelmy. There's Pau

waiting for you. Well, good-by."

And of Thelma's "Good-by" in a loude

one than was necessary. Of more struttin

and bowing and no end of luggag

clearing itself away.

Through the window Jerry caught sight o

a tall, fair-haired boy, who looked likThelma, except that in his white face wa

he pathos of the life-cripple. She saw

Thelma kiss him, and then the two starte



down the sunny, cindery side-trac

ogether. In the distance, close to the river

here was a small plain house under a bi

cottonwood-tree. The glimpse of reabout a little porch meant that the crimso

ramblers were in bloom there. Oh, th

roses of "Eden," and the cool rose-arbor

Jerry must have dreamed then, for "Edenwas about her again. Through it th

imping grub came humbly to claim hi

sundry own from behind and under th

seat. Even in "Eden" she thought how

much like a clumsy bear his gait was. And

when the little man called him "Teddy

she knew he was not a fisherman sort ocreature, but a real bear in yellow-brow

overalls, and that the general fuzziness o

his make-up was fur, and that his stubby

scaly hands were claws. He dropped of



somewhere when the freight took a sidin

very near the river. It was the Sage Brush

but it ran through the "Eden" grounds an

Uncle Cornie was throwing his discubeside it. The rose-arbor was just acros

he aisle. The little fat man was sitting i

ts doorway, with a new moon of a smil

on the smooth side of his round heawhere his face was, a half-quizzical, half

sympathetic smile with no guile in it. Jerr

really liked him for that kind of a smile. I

belonged to him. The rose-arbor was ver

warm, for the man was sweating mor

copiously than ever.... Uncle Cornie wa

gone. The limping Teddy Bear wagone.... It was very, very hot and sunny in

"Eden." The big maples and cool lilac

were gone.... "Eden" was gone. In it

stead came the art exhibit in the coo



gallery in the city. And that yellow-gray

desert landscape with the flamin

afterglow and purple mists. The flame

seemed almost real, and the yellow graalmost real, and the art-gallery was gettin

warmer as "Eden" had done. It wa

positively hot.... And then the Sage Brus

freight was laboring slowly and painfullhrough a desert with clack and roar an

cloud of cindery dust.... Jerry sat up, wid

awake, and looked up at the fat strange

who was looking at her, the smile on th

nside of his face, as it were, showin

only in the eyes.

Outside, the river was gone, taking with iall the cool-breathing alfalfa, and elm an

cottonwood shade, and leaving in thei

stead only bare earth-ridges and low



dunes. As far as Jerry could see, ther

was nothing but a hot yellow plain

wrinkled here and there in great barre

folds, with wave and crest and hollow owind-shifted sand crawling endlessl

back and forth along the face of th

andscape. A few spiny green shrub

struggled through at intervals, but theipresence only intensified the barrennes

about them.

The train was entering a deep wrinkle nounlike that cut beyond the third crossing o

he Winnowoc. Jerry remembered the da

she had watched that other train from th

bluff road, and her exultation in poundinher big car up the steep way instead o

crawling through, as Eugene was doing

Later she had found out that Eugene reall



preferred that to the more daring climb

Jerry involuntarily gripped the car sea

with a subconscious longing to get out an

drive over the whole thing. Across thaisle, the smile on the fat man's face wa

coming outside as he watched the strange

passenger.

They were deep in now—a valley-lik

hing that was hotter than any other inch o

he whole way they had come. On eithe

side tall slabs of timber, planted uprightclosed in the right of way. They wer

barely moving through this narrow lane

The engine was gasping for breath, and th

cars dragged themselves after it by inchesThen all came to a dead stop.

"Everybody turn out and help," somebod

n uniformed authority called through th



car door, and all the men passenger

stirred to action.

"The dickens!" the short fat maexclaimed to everybody. "Stuck in a sand

drift in that danged blowout. That's wha

comes of letting this wind go all day.

old 'em up at the junction to stop it, buhey wouldn't listen to me. Now we've go

o soar out of here and shovel for ou

ives."

When he laughed everybody else had t

augh, too, and it was a really good

natured company of men that piled dow

from the train to help the cause of railwaransportation.

The fat man had been last to leave the car



"Let me close all these windows," h

urged, strutting from seat to seat. "It'll b

hot with 'em shut, but you'll be buried i

sand in here if we leave 'em open, and wmen don't want to dig you and the engin

all out in one day. We mightn't find all the

children, you know, and leave some of 'e

n here covered up. He, he! Haw!" Hstruggled with the last windows until the

were sealed down, then turned away t

end his aid in a good cause.

The tow-headed woman and her littl

perpetual-motion baby, who had bee

sleeping wearily for a few miles, rouse

at the jolly man's loud laugh.

"It's the blowout," the mother said, a

Jerry looked at her for the first time

"Them timbers is driv in to keep out al



hat sand. See how it's heaped up ag'in

em on the outside. On awfully windy day

t blows over and fills the tracks and stop

he train, and then the men all get out anhelp to shovel it off. Gee whiz! but it's ho

n here! We'd be just smothered in sand i

we left the windows open, though. There

There!"

The last to the big baby, stirring uneasily

whom the mother patted off to slumbe

again.

Jerry walked to the rear door and looke

out at the narrow space walled in b

palisades, and at glimpses of sand waveon either side of the road beyond them; a

he little hot-looking green shrubs clingin

for life to their shifting depths, and th

heat-quivering air visible above them. I



all her life she had never felt s

uncomfortable as now; never realize

what it means to endure physical misery

She had seen the habitable globe feature—lake-shore, and seaside, and mountai

resorts; big navigable rivers; big forests

narrow little valleys; sheer cliffs an

wonderful waterfalls. She didn't know thahe world held such a place as this tha

anybody but a Hottentot was supposed t

nhabit. Through a long hour and a half th

rain was held back by the sand of wha

Jerry heard was a "blowout." She did no

know nor care what the term meant. Sh

wanted to get out of it and go on, anwhat Jerry Swaim wanted she had alway

had the right to have.

The sun was getting low in the west whe



he local freight labored up the Sage Brus

Valley to its terminal in the yards at New

Eden. All of the passengers except Jerr

umbled out, much as tired boys rush frohe church door after a long doctrina

sermon. The car was stopped at th

freight-station, some distance down th

ine from the passenger-station, whicwas itself a long way out from New Eden

after the manner of Western small towns

The middle '80's, when railroad branc

ines were building, found road director

and town councils falling out ove

echnicalities, with the result that th

railroad seldom secured the ground iwanted and the town was seldom given

convenient station site.

The buses filled rapidly, and the mail and



express wagons were rattling off ahead o

buses and foot passengers, and still th

young stranger sat in the car. A sudden

sense of loneliness had enveloped her lika cloud. She was not a novice abroad. Sh

had gone to strange towns alone before

She knew all the regulations of hote

service. She knew why she had come herand what she had to do, and she ha

abundant means for all her needs. But wit

all these points in her favor a helplessnes

swept over her, and the "what next" for th

moment perplexed her. The engine wa

getting restless again. However long i

may require a local freight to get from ongiven point to another, the engine, like an

ll-broken colt, will keep stepping up o

pulling back through every halt of th

rain. Jerry sat inside, watching the las



bus, loaded and hung-on-to, swinging of

down the dusty road toward the town,

full half-mile across the prairie from th

station. Life was getting a trifle tonteresting in this foreign clime, and whe

he short man appeared in the doorway

even the full-moon face and half-moo

smile, the profound bow and comicastrut, could not out-weigh the genuin

comfort his presence seemed to bring.

"Pardon me, Miss—Miss—"

"Miss Swaim," Jerry informed him, sur

of herself and unafraid again.

"Oh, Miss Swaim! My name is Ponk—

Junius Brutus Ponk. Pardon again if I see

o intrude. This is the Sage Brush termina

Excuse me if I say thank the Lord for th



end of this day's journey! The buses ar

all gone. May I take you to you

destination here in my little gadabout

You want to stop somewhere in NewEden overnight, anyhow."

"Thank you very much."

Jerry looked at him gratefully, even if h

was only one of the bunch of grubs sh

had been forced to ride with all this lon

afternoon, she who had once repudiatehe Winnowoc train and all trains withou

Pullman accommodations. "The smile o

her face was mightily winsome," Pon

declared afterward, "and just took all mramparts and citadels and moats an

drawbridges at one fell swoop."

He gathered up her bags and helped he



off the car pompously, saying:

"Here she is, Miss Swaim. Step right in.

And then with a flourish of arms he haJerry and her belongings stored inside

shiny gray runabout and was off down th

grassy road with a dash.

"Where shall I take you to, Miss Swaim?

he inquired, when the little car had glide

gracefully around the lumbering buses an

rattling wagons.

"To the best hotel, please," Jerry replied

"Do you know which one that is?"

"Yes'm. There isn't but one. TheCommercial Hotel and Gurrage. I'm th

proprietor, so I know." The smile tha

broke around the face of the speaker wa



oo good-natured to make his words see

presumptuous.

Jerry smiled, too, finding herself in thgrasp of a strange and complet

confidence in the pompous little unknow

chauffeur.

"Do you know an old gentleman her

named York Macpherson, a Mortgage

Company man?" she asked, looking at hi

directly for the first time.

Ponk seemed to gulp down a smile befor

he replied: "Ye-es, I do know York very

well. He's prob'bly older than he looks

His office is right across the street fro

he Commercial Hotel and Gurrage."

Afterward he declared: "From the minut



hat girl turned her eyes full on me and

saw how blue them orbs were, I begun t

wish I had a gold button instead of a bon

one in the back of my collar. I knew shcould see that cheap bone thing righ

hrough my neck and I was willing righ

hen to lay down and play dead if sh

wanted me to, and I'm never going trecover, never."

"Would you do—me a favor?" Jerry

asked, hesitatingly.

Asking favors was a new line for her an

she followed it prettily.

"Wouldn't I!" Mr. Ponk exclaimed. "Try

me."

"Even his voice has a strut in it," Jerr



hought. Aloud she said: "I have busines

with this old gentleman and I would b

much obliged if you would tell him tha

Miss Geraldine Swaim is in the city anwould like to meet him."

"Why, I'll soar right over there as soon a

we get to the hotel and gurrage."

Junius Brutus Ponk looked slyly at the fac

of his companion as he spoke. What h

was thinking just then it would have beehard to guess. With a flourish and curv

hat were wholly Ponkish the fat little ma

swung the gray car up to the brick-pave

porch of the "Commercial Hotel anGurrage."

"Why, there's York now, reading his mail

'll go right over and tell him," Mr. Pon



declared. "Here, George, tell Georgette t

give Miss Swaim number seven."

George assisted Miss Swaim to the hoteregister and Georgette led her to room No

7. Georgette wanted to linger a minute, fo

his guest was so unlike the usua

commercial-traveler kind of ladies whsold books, or canvassed for extracts, o

ook orders for crayon portraits enlarge

from little photographs; but Miss Swaim'

manner gave no excuse for lingeringAlone, Jerry closed her door and turned

with a smile on her lips, to face he

surroundings. The room was clean an

cool, with a big window overhanging thstreet. Jerry sat down before it, realizin

how weary the long journey had made her

Across the street, the sign of th



Macpherson Mortgage Company in bi

gold letters hung above a plate-glas

window. Mr.

Ponk, who had just "soared" across, wa

sitting in his car before it. Jerry saw a ma

nside at a desk very much like Uncl

Cornie's in the Philadelphia bankinghouse where Eugene Wellington was busy

now helping Aunt Jerry to settle things

This man was reading letters when th

Ponk car tooted before the big windowHe waved a hand to the tooter, then put hi

etters away and came leisurely outside

Jerry saw a tall, finely proportioned man

he set of whose clothes had a city air, andhere was something in his whole manne

hat would have distinguished him fro

every other man in New Eden.



The fat little man talked earnestly, with

flourish of the hand now and then towar

he room where Jerry sat watching th

wo. York Macpherson rested one foot onhe running-board, and leaned his arms o

he side of the car, listening intently to

what Mr. Ponk was saying.

"So that is this York Macpherson who

was never responsible for my estate no

making any returns. And I called him an

old man. The hotel proprietor must belling him that now." Jerry laughed as sh

saw the two men chuckling together

"Well, I hope the pompous little fellow

ells him I'm an old woman. It would evehings up wonderfully."

Ten minutes later Jerry was shaking hand

with York Macpherson and promising him



o go to his home and meet his sister a

soon as she had cleared her eyes of dus

sufficiently to see anybody.

t must have been the dust in her eyes

Jerry thought, that made York Macpherson

appear so unlike the benevolen

nefficient old gentleman she had pictureo herself. The hotel parlor was in twiligh

shadows, which helped a little to concea

he surprise of these two when they me

here. Jerry knew what she had beeanticipating. Whether York Macpherson

knew or not, he was clearly not expectin

what he found in the hotel parlor.

"I'll soar down to your shack with the lad

as soon as she has had her supper and go

herself rightly in hand," Ponk declared t

York when he came into the hotel office



"You see, we got stuck in that danged

nfernal blowout, and it was as hard on th

womenkind who had to sit inside an

swelter as on us men who nobly dugSpecially this Miss Swaim. She mus

have 'wept to see such quantities of sand

same as them oysters and walruses an

carpenters. We'll be along by and byhough. Have a cigar. What do you mak

of her, anyhow, York?"

"I don't make anything. I leave that job tyou," York replied, with a smile, as he

urned abruptly and left the hotel.

"Unless you see eight per cent. interescoming your way, I see. There might be

bigger interest in this investment than an

you ever made in your life," Ponk calle

after him.



But York only waved off the words

without looking back. Outside, the sunset'

splendor was filling the western sky—th

same old prairie sunset that he had seemany a time in his years in Kansas. And

yet, on this evening it did not seem quit

he same; nor were the sunsets, New Eden

and the Sage Brush Valley from thievening ever quite as they had bee

before, to York Macpherson.



V

NEW EDEN'S PROBLEM

Because of a broken "culbert" out towar"S'liny" the afternoon train on the Sag

Brush branch was annulled for the day

Because of this annulment the mail for th

Sage Brush Valley was brought up on theocal freight, which is always behind tim

when it reaches its terminal, whic

accounted for the late delivery of the mai

at the New Eden post-office, which mad

York Macpherson's dinner late because o

a big batch of letters to be read, and a

mportant business call at the Commercia



Hotel following the reading and th

delivery of Mr. Ponk's message.

Purple shadows were beginning to foldown upon the landscape, while overhea

he sky was still heliotrope and gold, bu

York Macpherson, walking slowly

homeward, saw neither the shadows nohe glory that overhung them. It wa

evident to his sister Laura, who wa

waiting for him in the honeysuckle corne

of the big front porch, that his mind waburdened with something unusual to-night

York Macpherson was a "leading citizen

ype of the Middle West. Wholesomeruggedly handsome, prosperous, shrew

o read men's minds, quick to meet thei

needs, full of faith in the promise of th

Western prairies, with the sort of culture



no hardship of the plains could eve

overcome—that was York. Although he

was on the front edge of middle life i

years, with a few gray streaks in his wavbrown hair, he had the young-looking face

he alert action, and vigorous atmospher

of a young-hearted man just entered int

his full heritage of manhood.

"The train was delayed down the river o

account of sand drifted over the track b

he south wind, and that made the maiate," York explained, when he reached

he porch. "I'll bet you have had the hous

shut up tight as wax and have gone abou

all day with a dust-cloth in your handGiven a south wind and Laur

Macpherson, and you have a hom

ndustry in no time. Let's hurry up th



dinner" (it was always dinner to th

Macphersons and supper to the remainde

of New Eden) "and get outside again a

soon as possible. I can't think in shut-urooms."

"When there is a south wind it makes littl

difference whether or not one does anhinking. I postpone that job to the cool o

he evening," Laura Macpherson declared

as she led the way to the dining-room.

When the two came outside again the ai

off the prairie was delicious, and ther

was promise of restfulness later in th

black silence of the June night that madhem forget the nervous strain of the wind

day. The Macphersons had no problem

hat they could not talk over in th

shadowy stillness of that roomy porch o



summer evenings.

York had been a bachelor boarder at the

"Commercial Hotel and Garage" for somyears before the coming of his siste

Laura, who was at once his housekeeper

companion, and counselor. When he firs

went to the hotel New Eden was in itnfancy, and the raw beginnings of thing

were especially underdone in this two

dollars-a-day, one-towel-a-wee

establishment. It was through York thaJunius Brutus Ponk had given up a

unprofitable real-estate business t

become proprietor of the Commercia

Hotel—"and Gurrage" was added latewith the advent of automobiles, th

"Gurrage" part being a really creditabl

equipped livery for public service. By thi



change of occupation for Ponk, th

Macpherson Mortgage Compan

accomplished several things. It got rid o

an inefficient competitor whose vernefficiency would have made him a mor

disagreeable enemy than a successful ma

would have been. Further, it placed th

ambitious little man where his talentcould flourish (flourish is the right wor

for J. B. Ponk), and it put into the growin

ittle town of New Eden a hotel with cit

comforts that brought business to the tow

and added mightily to its reputation an

respectability.

York Macpherson's business had grownwith the town he had helped to build. Lon

before other towns in this part of Kansa

had dreamed it possible for them, New



Eden was lighted with electricity. Water

works and a sewer system fore-ran cemen

sidewalks and a mile of paving, no

ncluding the square around the courthouse. And before any of these had com

he big stone school-house on the hig

ridge overlooking the Sage Brush Valley

for miles. That also was YorkMacpherson's task, which he had carrie

out almost single-handed, and had th

satisfaction of bringing desirabl

axpaying residents to live in New Ede

who would never have come but for th

school advantages. Then Junius Brutu

Ponk, who had learned to couple witYork, got himself elected to the board o

education and began to pay higher salarie

o teachers than was paid by any othe

own in the whole Sage Brush Valley; to



he end that better schools were housed i

hat fine school-building, and a finer clas

of young citizens began to put the goo

name of New Eden above everything elseThe hoodlum element was there, o

course, but it was not the leading element

Boys stuck to the high-school faithfull

and followed it up with a college courseeven though a large per cent. of the

worked for every dollar that the cours

cost them. Girls went to college, too, unti

t became a rare thing to find a teacher i

he whole valley who had not a diplom

from some institution of higher learning.

t was only recently that LaurMacpherson had come to New Eden t

make her home with her brother. An

accident a few years before had shortene



one limb, making her limp as she walked

She was some years older than York, with

a face as young and very much like he

brother's; a comely, companionable sort owoman, popular alike with men an

women, young folks and children.

Some time before her coming York hadbought the best building-site in New Eden

a wooded knoll inside the corporatio

imits, the only natural woodland in th

vicinity, that stood directly across the faend of Broad Avenue, the main business

street, whose mile of paving ended i

York's driveway. In one direction, thi

site commanded a view far down SagBrush Valley; in the other, it overlooked

he best residence and business portion o

ew Eden. Here York had, as he put it



"built a porch, at the rear of which a few

rooms were attached." The main glory o

he place, however, was the big porch.

York had named their home "Castle

Cluny," and his big farm joining it jus

outside the town limits "Kingussie," afte

some old Macpherson-clan memoriesThere were no millionaires in the Sag

Brush Valley, and this home was far and

away the finest, as well as the mos

popular, home in a community where thrifand neatness abounded in the homes, an

elegance was very much lacking, as wa

o be expected in a young town on the fa

edge of the Middle West.

"Joe Thomson came in to-day to see m

about putting a mortgage on his claim thi

side of the big blowout. Looks like



osing game for Joe. His land is abou

one-third sand now," York commented

houghtfully, as he settled himsel

comfortably in his big porch chair.

"Well, why not let the sand have its own

hird, while he uses the other two-third

himself? They ought to keep him busy,Laura suggested.

The country around New Eden was stil

new to her. Although she overflowed theown with her sunny presence, he

ameness had kept her nearer to "Castl

Cluny" than her brother ha

comprehended. She did not understand thaws, nor lawlessness, of what her brothe

called the "blowout," nor had she eve

seen the desolation that marked it

broadening path.



"A blowout is never satisfied until it ha

swallowed all the land in the landscape,

York explained. "I remember a few year

ago there was just a sandy outcrop along ittle draw below Joe's claim, the line o

some prehistoric river-bed, I suppose

That was the beginning of the thing Joe i

fighting to-day. Something started the sando drifting. It increased as the wind blew

away the soil; the more wind, the mor

sand; the more sand, the more wind. The

worked together until what had been

narrow belt spread enormously, graduall

overlapping Joe's claim, making acres o

waste ground. I hate to see Joe shoulder mortgage to try to drive back tha

monstrous thing. But Joe is one of thos

big, self-contained fellows who takes th

bit in his teeth and goes his own gait i



But York was serious himself in the nex

minute.

"Our company doesn't want the prairie; iwants prosperity. A foreclosed mortgage

s bad business. It brings us responsibilit

and ill-will. What we want is good-wil

and interest money. I have put the thing upo Joe just as it is. Man is a free agent t

choose or let alone. I have a bigge

problem than Joe to handle now. I had

etter this evening from Miss GeraldinSwaim, of Philadelphia. Do yo

remember her, Laura? She used to com

up to Winnowoc when she was a littl

girl."

"I remember little Jerry Swaim, Jim an

Lesa's only child," York's sister declared

"She was considerably younger than I.



pushed her in her baby-cab when I wasn

very big myself. When I went away t

college she was a little roly-poly beaut

of ten or eleven, maybe. Wasn't she namedfor her father's rich sister, Mrs. Darby?

never knew that Mrs. Darby's name wa

Geraldine."

"It wasn't; it was Jerusha; and Jim's nam

was Jeremiah; and Lesa's was plai

Melissa," York explained. "But Lesa

changed all of their names to make thesound more romantic. Romance wa

Lesa's strong suit. She called her daughte

Jerry,' to please Mrs. Darby, but the child

was christened Geraldine—never JerushaLesa wouldn't stand for that."

"And now what does this Geraldine wan

from my respected brother?" Laur



nquired, leaning back on the cushions o

her chair to listen.

York's face was hidden by the darkeshadows of the porch, but his sister knew

by his grave tone, when he spoke again

hat something deeper than a busines

ransaction lay back of this message froPhiladelphia.

"It's an old story, Laura. The story o

parents rearing a child in luxury and thedying poor and leaving this chil

unprovided for and unfitted to provide fo

herself. Jim Swaim was as clear-heade

as his wife was soft-hearted andealizing. Every angle of his was a righ

angle, even if he did grow a bit tight-fiste

sometimes for his family's sake. But

eech of a fellow, a sort of relative by



marriage, got his claws into Jim som

way, and in the end got him, root and

branch. Then Lesa contracted pneumoni

and died after a short illness. And juswhen Jim was most needed to hold up hi

business interests and tide things over, a

well as look after his daughter, they found

him dead in his office one morning. Hearfailure, the doctors said, the kind that get

a brain-fagged business man. The estat

has been in litigation for two years. Now

t is settled, and all that is left fo

Geraldine is a claim her father held ou

here in the Sage Brush Valley. She think

she is going to live on that. She came in ohe afternoon train and is stopping at th

Commercial Hotel. I called to see her

minute on my way home. That was why

ate a cold dinner this evening. I asked he



o come here at once, but she refused

Some one from the hotel will bring he

over later. That means Ponk, of course

He's the whole Commercial Hotel 'anGurrage.' We must have her here to stay

with us awhile, of course."

"York Macpherson!" his sister fairlygasped. "Coming to call this evening! Wil

stay with us awhile, of course. All right

'm willing she should stay with us awhile

but how can she live on a Sage Brusclaim? Why doesn't her rich aunt Darb

provide for her? What does she loo

ike?"

"I don't know," York drawled

provokingly. Then he added: "Mrs. Darb

also writes, saying that she hopes we wil

ook after Jerry while she is here, but tha



o the Sage Brush herself; that would b

ike Jim Swaim. Or she may be making

ark of the trip; that's her mother's child

And, anyhow, she has property in her owname, you see."

"Property, bosh! Where is this preciou

claim that is to sustain this luxuriouslreared child?" Laura Macpherson insisted

"It is an undeveloped claim down the Sag

Brush, in a part of the country you havenseen yet. That is what this child of luxur

has come out for to live upon," York said

with a minor chord of anxiety in his voice

Then a silence fell, for Laura Macpherso

felt that something tragical must be boun

up in the course of coming events.



t was the poet's hour of "nearly dark.

The "high lights" were beginning to glea

from the cupola of the court-house an

high-school, and station tower out acroshe open stretch that lay between it and th

own. New Eden was unusually wel

ighted for its size. York Macpherson had

forced that provision into the electricompany's franchise. But New-Edenite

were still rural in their ways, and neve

burned up the long summer twilight wit

bug-alluring street lights. Homes, too

were mostly shadowy places, with th

dwellers resting in porch swings or law

chairs. Moreover, although there was ittle leakage somewhere through whic

hings disappeared occasionally, nobod

n town except bankers, postmasters, an

mortgage companies locked their doors



"Humans," Laura replied, composedly.

"Not the Big Dipper, I hope. Isn't the town

big enough without her ranging all oveKingussie'?"

"Oh, York, you will call Mrs. Bahrr 'the

Big Dipper' to her face some day, if yo

don't quit your private practice," Laur

declared.

"Well, her name is Stella Bahrr. 'Stellar,

she calls it, and she pronounces he

surname just plain 'Bear.' If that isn't starr

enough I don't know my astronomy. And

she is always dipping into other folks'

business and stirring up trouble with

high hand. Laura, once and for all, neve

ie up with that little old hat-trimmer

She'll trim you if you do."



"Don't be uneasy about our gettin

chummy. I'm positively rude to her most o

he time. She isn't coming here. She ha

veered off toward the Lenwells'. But loowho is coming, York."

York shifted his chair into line with the

street.

"It's the fair Philadelphian and he

pompous gentleman in waiting," York

declared.

"Look at little Brother Ponk strut, woul

you? 'A charge to keep I have.' But, York

Miss Swaim appears a bit to

Philadelphian for our New Eden scenery!

Laura exclaimed.

"She is a type all her own, I would say



Jim Swaim's determined chin and Lesa'

dreamy eyes. She will be an interestin

study, at least. I wonder which parent wil

win in her final development," Yorkreplied, as the two approached the house.

"I have brought the young lady to call o

you," Mr. Ponk said, presenting hicompanion with a flourish, as if she wer

a trophy cup or a statue just unveiled

"Sorry I can't stay to visit with you, but m

clerk is out to-night. They'll take care oyou beautiful, Miss Swaim. No, thank you

no. I'll just soar back to the hotel."

He waved off the seat York had profferedhim, and bowed himself away a

gracefully as a short, round man can bow.

Laura Macpherson had an inborn gift o



hospitality, but she realized at once tha

his guest brought an unusual an

compelling interest. She was conscious

oo, in a vague way, of the portent of sompermanent change pending. What she saw

clearly was a very pretty girl with a sof

voice and a definite, forceful personality.

"Miss Swaim, you must be tired after you

ong journey," Laura began, courteously.

"Please don't call me that. I am so far frohome I'll be 'Miss Swaimed' enough

anyhow."

The appeal in the blue eyes broke dow

all reserve.

"Then I'll call you 'Jerry,' as I did when

you were a little girl and I was beginnin



o think about getting grown up," Laur

exclaimed.

"And since you are far from home, whope you may find a home welcome in ou

house, and that you will come at once an

be our guest indefinitely," York added

with his winning smile that ought to havsent him to Congress years ago.

Something about Jerry Swaim had caugh

Laura Macpherson in a moment. Shhoped that York had the same feeling. Bu

York was one of the impenetrable kind

when he chose. And he certainly chos

hat evening to prove his impenetrability.

"You are very kind," Jerry said, looking a

York with earnest eyes, void of al

coquettishness. Then, turning to York'



sister, she went on:

"I am not tired now. But the last part of my

ourney was frightful. The afternoon wahot, and the wind blew terrifically. The

had to close the windows to keep out th

dust. Then we were delayed in what the

old me was called a 'blowout.'" Her eyewere sparkling now, but her emphasis o

he term seemed to cut against York

Macpherson's senses like burning sand

filled wind as he sat studying her face.

"All the 'blowouts' I ever heard of were i

he tires of our limousine car," sh

continued, musingly. "And my cousinGene Wellington, of Philadelphia, didn

know what to do about them at all. He i

an artist, and artists never do take t

practical things. Gene was more helples



when anything went wrong with the ca

han ever I was, and awfully afraid o

aking a risk or anything."

And that, it seemed to the Macphersons

must have been helpless indeed. For a

she sat there at ease in the shadow

dimness of the summer evening, YorkMacpherson thought of Carlyle's phrasing

"Her feet to fall on softness; her eyes t

ight on splendor," a creature fitted only to

adorn the upholstered places of life.

"Did you ever see that dreadful 'blowou

hing?" Jerry asked, coming back from th

recollection of limousine cars and CousiGene of Philadelphia.

"No, I have only been here a short tim

myself, and the country is almost as new



o me as it is to you," Laura Macpherso

replied.

"Oh, it is such an awful place!" Jerrcontinued. "Everywhere and everywher

one can see nothing but great sand-wave

all over the land. They have almost burie

he palisades that protect the railroad. Iust seemed like the Red Sea dividing t

et the Israelites go through, only this wa

red-hot sand held back to let the train pas

hrough a deep rift. And to-day the windhad filled up the tracks so it couldn't g

hrough until the sand was cleaned ou

There is only one kind of shrub, a spin

ooking thing, growing anywhere on alhose useless acres. It is a perfectly horri

country! Why was such land ever made?

Jerry turned to York with the question.



"I can't tell you," York said, "but there are

some good things here."

"Yes, there is my claim," Jerry broke in"It's all I have left, you know. Cousi

Gene tried to persuade me it would b

better off without me, but I'm sure it mus

need the owner's oversight to make ireally profitable. There was no record, i

settling up the estate, of its havin

produced any income at all. I certainl

need the income now. Taking care omyself is a new experience for me."

All the vivacity and hopefulness of yout

was in her words. But the dreamexpression on her face that came and wen

with her moods soon returned.

"Cousin Gene Wellington is not my rea



cousin, you know. He is Uncle Darby'

relative, not Aunt Jerry's. He is an artist

but without any income right now, lik

myself. Both of us have to learn how to galone, you see, but I'm not going back t

Philadelphia now, no matter what Aun

Jerry Darby may say."

This was no appeal for sympathy. Taking

care of oneself seemed easy enough t

Lesa Swaim's child, to whom the Wes

promised only one grand romantiadventure. There was something, too, i

he tone in which she pronounced the nam

of Gene Wellington that seemed to set i

off from every other name. And shpronounced it often enough to troubl

York Macpherson. No other name came s

easily and so frequently and frankly to he



ips.

"We hope you will like the West. The

Sage Brush isn't so bad when you geacclimated to its moods," York assured

her. "But don't expect too much at first

nor too definite a way of securing a

ncome."

Only Laura Macpherson caught the sam

minor chord of anxiety in her brother'

voice that she recalled had been in it whehe told her of Jerry's claim. It seeme

mpossible, however, that anything could

refuse to be profitable for this charming

blossomy kind of a girl who must thrivon easy success or perish, like a flower.

"Oh, land always means an income, m

father used to say. Aunt Jerry has only two



hundred acres, but it is a fortune to her,

he girl declared. "I'm not uneasy. As soon

as I get a real hold on my property here I'l

be all right. It is getting late. I must gnow. No, I am going by myself," sh

declared, prettily, as York prepared to

accompany her back to the hotel. "It i

straight up this light street and I am goino try it alone from the very beginning

That's why I didn't go to your office a

soon as I got here to-day. I told Cousi

Gene I could take care of myself and mak

my own way out here, just as he is makin

his own way in the East, working in hi

studio. No, you shall not go with meThank you so much. No. Good-by." Thi

o York Macpherson, who was wise

enough to catch the finality of her words.



The twilight was almost gone, but a youn

moon in the west made the street still ligh

as the two on the porch watched the gir

going firm-footed and unafraidunconscious of their anxiety for what la

n the days before her.

"Is it courage, or contempt for the Westhat makes her fearless where one woul

expect her to be timid? She seems

combination of ignorance an

assertiveness and a plea for sympathy aln one," Laura Macpherson declared.

"She is the child of two differen

emperaments—Jim one, and Lesanother; a type all her own, but taking o

something of each parent," York asserted

as he watched until the girl ha

disappeared at the door of th



Commercial Hotel, far up the street.

The next day was an unusual one for fou

people in New Eden. The wind came frohe east, driving an all-day rain before it

and York Macpherson did not go to the

upper Sage Brush country. Instead, h

worked steadily in his office all daySome files he had not opened for month

were carefully gone over, and township

maps were much in evidence. Every now

and then he glanced toward the uppewindows of the Commercial Hotel. Mr

Ponk had said that Jerry had No. 7, th

room he had occupied for several years

He wondered if this rain was making hehomesick for the Winnowoc Valley and

"Eden" and that wonderful Cousin Gene

blast him! There was a smile in York's



eyes whenever he looked across the street

When he turned to his work again his fac

was stern. What he thought was

determination not to be bothered by rainyday loafers coming into his office, wha

made him set his teeth and grip to hi

work, was really the fight with

emptation to go over to the hotel and looafter a homesick girl.

Meantime Jerry Swaim, snug in a film

gray kimona with pink facings and sofgray slippers, was enjoying the day to th

full limit. Secure from strangers, relaxe

from the weariness of travel, she slep

dreamlessly, and wakened, pink andrested, to watch the cool, life-giving rain

and dream her wonderful day-dream

wherein new adventure, victory ove



obstacles, and Eugene each played a par

Jerry was in love with life. Sunshine an

rain, wind and calm, every season, wer

made to serve her, all things in nature tobring her interest and pleasure—all excep

sand . That hot hour and a half betwee

sand-leaguered palisades seared he

memory. But that was all down-streanow, with the junction station, and th

country Thelma, and the tow-heade

woman and flabby flopping baby, and th

ittle old Teddy Bear humping his yellow

brown fuzziness against the swirl o

cinders and prairie dust. The recollectio

of it all was like the touch of a live coaon the cool surface of her tranquil soul,

hing abhorred that yet would not b

uncreated nor forgotten.



"To-morrow will be Sunday." The little

pagan would have one more idle day. "I'l

get a letter from Eugene on Monday. O

Monday," dreamily, "I'll beg into livehere, not stay here. What charming folk

he Macphersons are! and—so different."

There was a difference. Jerry did noknow, nor care to analyze it, nor explai

o herself, why these two people had i

hemselves alone begun to make New

Eden worth while for her. She for whohings, human and otherwise, ha

heretofore been created—all except sand

The third New-Edenite who had somspecial interests on this rainy day wa

Junius Brutus Ponk. Often an idler in th

Macpherson Company's office, he wa

always interesting to York. There were



one caller whom "chilling winds no

poisonous breath" could never halt—Mrs

Stellar Bahrr, otherwise—"the Bi

Dipper"—the town gossip.

Mrs. Stellar Bahrr was a married

widowed-by-divorce, old-maid type, buil

ike a sky-scraper, of the lean, uncertaiage just around sixty, with the roundnes

of youth all gone, and the plump beauty o

matronliness all lacking, wrinkled wit

envy and small malice, living on repeatinwhat New Eden wanted kept untold

Hiding what New Eden should hav

known of her, she maintained herself on

pension from some one, known only tYork Macpherson, and the small income

derived just now from trimming over las

year's hats "to make them look like four



year-olds," York declared.

The real milliner of the town was a brisk

bright business woman who had StellaBahrr on her trail in season and out o

season. Mrs. Bahrr herself could not hav

kept up a business of any kind for a week

for she changed callings almost with thmoon's phases.

o more unwelcome caller could hav

ntruded on the homey, delicious, rainyday seclusion of "Castle Cluny."

"I jis' run in to see the hat again you'r

goin' to wear to-morrow, Miss Laury.

ain't got more 'n a minute. Ye ain't alone

his dreary day, are ye? The Lenwells wa

sayin' last night your brother was goin' t

he upper Sage Brush on some busines



with the Posers. But they're in town, rain

as it is, an' all. Did he go?"

"No, he put it off till Monday," Laurreplied, wondering what interest York's

going or coming could be to Stellar Bahrr

"As I was sayin', the Posers is in town

Come to meet Nell and her baby. The

come in on the freight yesterday. Th

biggest, bald-headest young un you eve

see. Nell wants her hat fixed over, andnothin' on the livin' earth to fix it with, ne

money to pay for it. I'll make ol' Poser d

hat, though. Lemme see your hat, so's

can get an idy or two. You've got somecommodation, if that blamed millinery

store hain't. Thank ye for the favor."

Stellar had a way of pinning her eye



hrough one until her victim could no

squirm. She also had a way of talking s

much she gave the impression of runnin

down and the promise of a speedy leaveaking, which she never took until she ha

gained all the information she wanted. He

alent in a good cause would have bee

nvaluable, for she was shrewd, patientand everlastingly persistent.

Laura Macpherson reluctantly left th

room to get her hat, wondering, since ihad not been out of the box before, how i

he world Stellar Bahrr knew anythin

about it. Mrs. Bahrr was standing by th

dining-room window when she returned.

"I jis' come out here to see if the Sag

Brush is raisin' down yonder. Who is tha

strange girl Ponk's running around wit



ast night?" The gossip turned the questio

suddenly. "I seen 'em comin' up her

myself. Folks down-town don't know yet.

The sharp, steel-pointed eyes caught intLaura like hooks.

"I don't—believe you'll like this hat.

Laura had meant to say, "I don't intend toell you," but she was hooked too quickly.

"Who'd you say she is?"

There was no courteous way out now.

"She is a Miss Swaim."

"Say, this hat's a jew'l. Looks younger 'he girls' hats does on 'em. Where's sh

from?"

"East. This color is a bit trying for me,



hink."

"Oh, no 'tain't! What's she here for?"

"I—You'll have to ask York." Laurarolled her burdens on her brother'

shoulders, as did likewise the remainde

of New Eden, when crowded to the wall.

"York! She ain't after him, I hope. Don

blush so. That's a good one on York. An

he never met her at the station, even. Pon

—little fiend" (Ponk always turned game

cock when Stellar approached him), "littl

devil he is—he telephoned in from dow

at the sidin', by the deep fishin'-hole."

Mrs. Bahrr caught her breath and bit he

ips as she eyed her hostess slyly. Laur

Macpherson was white with disgust an



anger. Of all the long-tongues, here wa

he queen.

"Where's the deep fishing-hole?" shasked, innocently, to get her unpleasan

caller on another tack.

For a moment Mrs. Bahrr did not reply

busying herself with examining the new

hat's lining and brim-curves. If Laura ha

known what York Macpherson knew she

would have realized that here was thplace to score by dwelling on the deep

fishing-hole. But Laura was new to Sag

Brush traditions.

"Ponk calls in to have his spanky new

runabout all ready at the station. Georg

nearly busted hisself gettin' there. The

Ponk, the miserable brute, he hangs aroun



and keeps Miss Swine—"

"Swaim, Geraldine Swaim," Laura cried

n disgust."Yes, Geraldine Swim—keeps her inside

so's nobody gets a good look at her. I wa

here myself, a-watchin' him. I'd gone t

see if my fish 'd been sent up, an' whe

hey'd all cleared out he trots her out, bi

as Cuffey, and races to the hotel with her

Maybe, though, York didn't know she wacomin', or had Ponk put up to lookin' afte

her for him. You never can tell about these

men. I noticed York never walked home

with her last night, neither. 'Course it waight as day. Well, well, it's interestin' as

can be. An' she come here purpose to se

your brother, too."



"If you are through with my hat"—Laur

was fairly gray with anger and her eye

flashed as she tried to control herself.

obody was wiser than Stellar Bahrr i

situations like this.

"In jest a minute. Them's the dainties

roses yet. Thank you, Miss Laury. You

ain't above helping a person like me

There's them that is here in New Eden. Bu

know 'em—I know 'em. They talk to youback and never say a word to your face

not a blamed word. But you're not lik

em. Everybody says you're just like you

brother, an' that's enough for anybody toknow in the Sage Brush country. He's been

he best friend I ever had, I know that.

hope that pink-'n'-white city girl 'll fin

out that much pretty quick. Somebod



That rainy day ended with a problem i

he minds of at least three New Ede

dwellers: York Macpherson, who carried

a bigger load now than Joe Thomson'unwise but determined mortgage matter

Junius Brutus Ponk, who was sharin

York's problem to a degree, and Laura

Macpherson, who realized that malicious under-current was alread

started whose undermining influence migh

sooner or later grow into a menacin

power.

And Jerry Swaim, unconscious cause o

all this problem element, ate and slept an

aughed and dreamed her pretty daydreams in utter content. It was well tha

he next day was Sunday. The rain-washed

prairie and the June sunshine did so muc



o lift the tension in this New Eden wher

even the good little snakes are not alway

so very good.



VI

PARADISE LOST

Laura Macpherson came through thdining-room on Monday morning with he

hands full of wild flowers.

"Wherefore?" York asked, seeing thebreakfast-table already decorated with

vase of sweet-peas.

"Just a minute, York. I got these with thedew on them—all prairie flowers.

hought Jerry might be up to see me to-day

went out after them for her," Laur

explained, as she arranged the show



blossoms in vases about the rooms.

York dropped behind his day-old paper

calling after her, indifferently: "I doubt ihey are worth it. You must have gone to

he far side of 'Kingussie' for them.

doubt, too, if she comes here to-day, but

haven't any doubt that I am hungry anikely to get hungrier before you get read

for breakfast."

"Coming, coming." Laura came hastily the table. "I forgot you in my interest i

Jerry."

"A prevalent disease in New Eden righ

now," York said, behind his paper. "Ponk

nearly fell down on getting me a chauffeu

for to-day; the superintendent didn't get th

quarterlies to our Sunday-school class o



ime yesterday morning; the Big Dippe

ook the wrong pew and kept it, and now

my breakfast must wait—all on account o

his Jerry girl."

"Mournful, mournful!" Laura declared

"Such a little girl, too! I'd like to tell yo

what your Big Dipper said about JerrSaturday, but I mustn't."

"Saturday was a rainy day," York

commented, knowing Laura would answeno questions if he should ask them now.

"All the more reason why the Big Dippe

should come over to copy my new hat fo

one of the Poser girls up the Sage Brush

and then fall to questions an

conclusions," Laura insisted.



"I thought yesterday was the grand openin

for that lid of yours. Where did the B. D

see it?" York would not ask for what he

wanted most to know.

"It had positively never been out of th

box since it came here," Laura declared

"But pshaw, York, it is the gossip youwant to know, and I'm really concerned

about that."

"I'm not. I am really concerned abouwhere Stellar Bahrr saw your hat." York

was very serious and his sister wa

puzzled for the minute. He never looke

hat way when he joked—never.

"I don't know anything about Mrs. Bahrr'

gift of second sight, York; I'm simply

elling what I do know. That hat-box wa



not opened. Let's talk of better things. Mr

Ponk told me at church yesterday tha

when Jerry first came she asked for 'a

old gentleman named York Macpherson.'Laura's eyes were twinkling wit

mischief. "From what she said to m

yesterday she is going to depend on yo

for direction, just like everybody else whcomes to New Eden. I'm dead in love wit

her already. Aren't you?"

"Desperately," York returned. "Buseriously, Laura, she is 'most too big

responsibility to joke about. There are

ot of things tied up for her in this comin

West. I have to go to the upper Sage Brushhis morning to be gone for a couple o

days. I wish she would come here and sta

with you, so that she might be with th



best woman in the world." York beamed

affectionately upon the sweet-face

woman opposite him. "I wish I didn't hav

o leave this morning, but I'll be back bo-morrow night or early Wednesday

morning. It is going to be our job to map

out her immediate future. After that, thing

will take their course without us, and NewEden, I imagine, will have to get alon

without her. When I get back I'll take he

down to see her claim. Ponk is the onl

man besides myself who knows where i

s, and I've fixed him. He can't run a hote

and garage and play escort all at once.

want to prepare her in a way, anyhow, foshe won't find exactly what she i

expecting—another 'Eden' six time

enlarged. Meantime turn her gently, if yo

can, toward our woolly Western life.



won't say lead. Geraldine Swaim, late o

Philadelphia, will never be led."

"York she's a lamb. Look at her bigpleading eyes," his sister insisted.

"Laura, she's a rock. Look at her squar

chin. I'm going now, and I will and

bequeath her to your care. Good-by."

As he left the house his sister heard hi

whistling the air to the old song, "I'l

paddle my own canoe."

Evidently the fair Philadelphian was stil

on his mind.

"I wish," he said to himself, as he cleare

he north limits of the New Ede

settlement and struck out toward the uppe

Sage Brush country—"I wish to goodnes



had pressed Laura to tell me more abou

what that infernal Big Dipper said to he

Saturday. I'll get that creature yet.

believe she knows that as well as I do. wish, too, I was sure things would jus

stay put until I get back."

Half an hour after York had left townJerry Swaim, dressed for a drive

appeared at the door of Ponk's garage.

"Have you a good little runabout that could hire this morning? I want to go ou

nto the country," she said to th

proprietor.

"Why, yes, Miss Swaim, but I 'ain't got no

shofer this morning. York Macpherson, he

ook my last man and soared up th

country, and they won't be back for



couple of days. I'm sorry, but could you

wait till, say, about a-Thursday, or mebby

a-Friday?"

Ponk's cheerful grin always threatened t

eclipse his eyes, but this morning ther

was something anxious back of hi

cheerfulness. Nature had made him in oking mood, round eyed, round headed

round bodied, talkative, and pompous i

an inverse ratio to his size. But there wa

something always good and reliable abouPonk, and with all his superficiality, too

here was a real depth to the man, and

keener insight than anybody in New Eden

except York Macpherson, ever gave himcredit for having.

"I'm sorry I've got no shofer. There was

run on the livery business this morning fo



some reason. That's why I'm office-bo

here now, 'stead of runnin' the office nex

door," Ponk explained, as blandly and

conclusively as possible.

"I don't want a chauffeur at all. I driv

myself," Jerry declared.

"You say you do?" Ponk stared at her little

hands in their close-fitting white gauntlets

"Now I'd never thought that. Yes," weakly

"I've got a dandy car for them that can us

t, which is mostly me. It's the little gra

gadabout we come up from the station i

he other evening. There ain't another on

ike it this side of the Mississippi River—

S'liny, Kansas, anyhow. You see, I have to

be awful particular. I don't want i

smashed against a stone wall or run off o



some bridge."

"I've never done that with a car yet. And

used to drive our big eight-cylindemachine over all kinds of Pennsylvani

roads."

The blue eyes were full of pathos as th

memory of her home and all its luxurie

swept over Jerry. And Ponk understood.

"We don't have no stone walls out here

and there ain't no bridges, either, excep

across the Sage Brush in a few places

because there ain't never water enough ou

here to bridge over. Yes, you may take the

gadabout. I just know you'll be carefu

That little car's just like a colt, an

noways bridle-wise under a woman'

hand."



"Thank you. I'll take no risks."

When Jerry was seated in the shining gra

car, with her hand on the wheel, shurned to Mr. Ponk.

"By the way, do you know who owns an

of the claims, as you call them, in thi

valley?" she asked. "I was going to spea

o Mr. Macpherson, but you say he ha

gone out of town."

"Yes'm." Ponk fairly swelled with

mportance. "I know every claim, and wh

owns it, from the hills up yonder clear t

he mouth of that stream. My hotel an

ivery business together keeps me as wel

posted as the Macpherson Mortgag

Company that holds a mortgage on most o

hem."



"Can you tell me where to find the on

belonging to the estate of the late Jeremia

Swaim, of Philadelphia?" Jerry asked, i

a low voice.

The short little man beside the car looke

away in pity and surprise as he said:

"Yes'm, I can. You follow this street south

and keep on till you come to where th

Sage Brush makes a sharp bend to th

east, right at a ranch-house. From theryou leave the trail (we still call tha

down-stream road 'the trail') and strik

across to three big cottonwood-trees on

kind of a knoll, considerable distancaway. You can't miss 'em, for you can see

em for miles. And then"—Ponk hesitated

as if trying to remember—"seems to m

you turn, bias'n' like, southeast a bit, an



head for a little bunch of low oaks. Fro

here you run your eye around and figge

how many acres you can see. An', it's al

Jeremiah Swaim's, or his heirs anassignees. But, say, you ain't any kin to th

ate Mr. Swaim, who never seen that land

of hisn, I reckon? I hadn't thought abou

your names being the same. Odd I didn't."

There was something wistful in the quer

which Jerry set down merely as plebeia

curiosity, but she answered, courteously:

"Yes, he was my father. The land belong

o me."

"Say, hadn't you better wait and let York

Macpherson soar down with you?" Pon

suggested. "It might be better, after all

mebby, not to go alone to spy out the land



even if you can drive yourself. Seems t

me York said he'd be goin' down that way

he last of the week. I do wish you'd wai

for York to go with you first."

"I want to go alone," Jerry replied, an

with a deft hand she made the difficul

curve to the street, leaving the proprietoof the garage staring after her.

"Well, by heck! she can run a ca

anyhow!" he exclaimed, as he watched hespeeding away. "Smart as her dad,

reckon. Mebby a little smarter."

All of Lesa Swaim's love of romanti

adventure was shining on Jerry Swaim'

bright face as she came upon Laur

Macpherson on the cool side porch a few

minutes later.



gave me directions so I can't miss the way

Good-by."

The trail down the Sage Brush was full odelight this morning for the young Easter

girl who sent her car swiftly along th

evel road, almost forgetting th

andmarks of the way in the exhilaration oyouth and June-time. And, however out o

place she might seem on the Western

prairie, no one could doubt her ability t

handle a car.

"'Where the stream bends sharp to the eas

away from a ranch-house,'" Jerry wa

quoting Ponk. "I'm sure I can't miss it if follow his directions and the stream an

bend and house and cottonwood-trees an

oak-grove are really there. I love oaks an

hope my woodland is full of them. Ther



must be a woodland on my farm, even i

he trees are few and small and scattere

here, so far as I have seen. But there wa

really something pitiful in the little man'eyes when he was talking to me. Maybe h

s a wee bit envious of my possessions

Some men are jealous of women wh

have property. No doubt my workmen wilneed managing, and some adjusting to

new head of affairs. I'll be ver

considerate with them, but they mus

respect my authority. I wish Gene wa

with me this morning."

Then she fell to musing.

"I wonder what message Gene will sen

me, and whether he will write it himself

or, as he suggested, will send it throug

Aunt Jerry's letters to York. It was hi



original way of doing to say I'd find thing

out through Aunt Jerry, when she probably

won't write me a line for a long time.

know Gene will choose nobly, and I knoweverything will turn out all right at last....

wonder if my place is as beautiful as this

How I wish Gene could see it with hi

artist eyes."

Jerry brought her engine down to slow

speed as she passed a thrifty ranch-hous

where barns and clustering silos, anfields of grain and cattle-dotted prairie

outlying all, betokened the possibilities o

he Sage Brush Valley. The blue eyes o

Lesa Swaim's daughter were full odreamy light as she paused to picture her

he possibilities of her own possessions.

At the crest of a low ridge the roa



forked, one branch wandering in and ou

among the small willow-trees along th

river, and the other cutting clean and

broad across the rougher open lanswelling away from the narrowed valley.

"Here's something Mr. Junius Brutus Pon

eft out of his map. I'll take the rim road; iooks the more inviting," Jerry decided

because the way of least resistance ha

been her life-road always.

This one grew narrow and clung close t

he water's side. Its sandy bed was dam

and firm, and the slender trees on eithe

side here and there almost touchebranches overhead. Mile after mile i

seemed to stretch without another give

andmark to show Jerry her destination

Beyond where the road curved sharpl



around a thicket of small trees an

underbrush Jerry halted her car. Befor

her the waters of the river rippled int

foam against a rocky ledge that helped tform a deep hole above it. Below, th

stream was shallow, and in dr

midsummer here offered rough stepping

stones across it. It was a lonely spot, withe river on one side and a tangle o

bushes and tall weeds on the other, and th

curves along the roadway, filled wit

underbrush and low timber shutting off th

view up-stream and down-stream.

At the coming of Jerry's car a man wh

had been kneeling over some fishing-lineat the river's edge rose up beside the road

brushing the wet sand from his clothes

and staring at her. He was small and old



and stooped and fuzzy, and thoroughl

unpretty to see.

"It's the Teddy Bear who 'sat in the sandand the sun' coming up from that horri

railroad junction. Who's afraid of bears

'll ask him how to find my lost empire."

Jerry did not reflect that it was th

unconscious effect of this humbl

creature's thoughtfulness for her that mad

her unafraid of him in this lonely spotReflection was not yet one of her activ

psychological processes.

"I want to find a ranch-house by a bi

bend in the river where it turns east,

Jerry said, looking at the man much as sh

would look at the bend in the river—

merely for the information to be furnished



He pushed his brown cap back from hi

forehead and rubbed his finger

houghtfully through his thin sunburnt hair.

"It's Joe's place, eh?" the high, quaverin

voice squeaking like an unused machin

afraid of itself. "You'd ought to took the

'other fork of the road back yander. It's goodish mile on down this way now t

where you das to turn your cyar round

When you get where you kin turn, then g

back and take the t'other fork. It'll take yoright to Joe's door about."

The words came hesitatingly, as if th

speaker had little use for sounding them ihis solitary, silent life. Fishermen don

catch fish by talking to them.

"A mile! I think I'll turn right here," Jerr



declared.

Then, as the meek unknown watched her i

open-mouthed wonder, she swung her cadeftly about, the outer wheels barel

keeping a toe-hold on the edge of th

river-bank, with hardly more than an inc

of space between them and the crumblinsand above the water. As she faced the

way over which she had come she reache

out to drop a piece of silver into the man'

hand. He let it fall to the ground, thepicked it up and laid it on the top of th

car door.

"I ain't workin' for the gov'mint," hquavered. "I thankee, but I don't have n

knowin's to sell. Ye're welcome to my

ketch of information any day ye're on th

river."



He made an odd half-military salut

oward his old yellow-brown cap an

shuffled across the road toward a narrow

path running back through the bushes.

At the bend in the river Jerry foun

herself.

"That must be the ranch-house that Mr

Ponk gave me for a landmark, for ther

goes the river bending east, all right. Wha

a quaint, picturesque thing that is, anbuilt of stone, too, with ivy all over it! I

must have been here a long time. And how

well kept everything is! The old Teddy

Bear said it was 'Joe's place.' Well, Joekeeps it looking as different from some o

he places I've passed as 'Eden' differ

from other country-places back i

Pennsylvania."



The long, low, stone ranch-house, nestlin

under its sheltering vines, had an old an

familiarly homey look to Jerry.

"That wide porch is a dream. I'll have on

ust like it on my place. I wonder if thi

farm has any name. I suppose not. Wha

shall I call mine? 'New Eden' wouldn't doof course. I might call it 'Paradise Prairie

That's pretty and smooth. Gene would lik

hat, and talk a lot about going 'fro

ature up to Nature's God.' I don't care whiff about all his religious talk

somehow. That's just one thing wherei

we will never agree. If I can go fro

nature to the finished produce I'll bsatisfied. Oh, yonder are my three trees."

At the bend of the Sage Brush Jerry lef

he stream road and sped across a lon



evel swell toward three cottonwood

rees standing sentinel on a small rise o

he prairie. From there she was to see th

oak-grove, the center of her own richoldings. Oh, Jerry!

Down under the spreading oaks a youn

man in rough ranchman's dress stoo

eaning against a low bough, absorbed ihought. He was tall, symmetrically built

and strong of muscle, without a pound o

superfluous fat to suggest anything of eas

and idleness in his day's run. Some of thines that mark the stubborn will wer

graven in his brown face, but the eye

were all-redeeming. Even as he stared ou



with unseeing gaze, lost in his ow

houghts, the smile that lighted the

hovered ready to illuminate what migh

otherwise have been a severcountenance.

n all the wide reach of level land ther

was no other living creature in sight. Thbreeze pulsing gently through the oa

boughs poured the sunlight noiselessl

down on the shadow-cooled grass abou

he tree-trunks. The freshness of thmorning lingered in the air of the grove.

Suddenly the young man caught the soun

of an automobile coasting down the lonslide from the three cottonwoods, an

urned to see a young girl in a shining gra

car gliding down into the edge of th

shade. A soft hat of Delft-blue



ornamented, valkyrie-wise, with tw

white wings; golden-gleaming hai

overshadowing a face full of charm; blu

eyes; cheeks of peach-blossom pink; firmred lips; a well-defined chin and whit

hroat; a soft gown, Delft-blue in color

and white gauntlet gloves—all these wer

n the blurred picture of that confusemoment.

As for Jerry Swaim, all farmer fol

ooked alike to her. It was not the suddeappearance of a stranger, but th

andscape beyond him, that held he

speechless, until the shrill whistle of

rain broke the silence.

"Is that the Sage Brush Railroad so near?

she asked, at last, with no effort at forma

greeting.



"Yes, ma'am. It is just behind the

palisades over there. You can't see it from

here because the sand-drifts are so high

That's the morning freight now."

The light died out of Jerry Swaim's eyes

he pink bloom faded to ivory in he

cheeks, even the red lips grew pale, as shstared at the scene before her. For the oak

grove stood a lone outpost of greennes

defending a more or less fertil

countryside from a formless, senselesmonster beyond it. Jerry had picture

herself standing in the very center of he

heritage, where she might "run her eye

around," as Ponk had said, "and figurhow many acres she could see, and the

were all hers." And now she was here.

Wide away before her eyes rippled acr



on acre, all hers, and all of billowin

sand, pointed only by a few stragglin

green shrubs. The glare of the sunlight o

t was intolerable, and the north windsweeping cool and sweet under the oak

rees, brought no comfort to this glarin

desert.

Suddenly she recalled the pitying look i

Ponk's eyes when he had begged her t

wait for York Macpherson to come with

her to this place, and she had thought hmight be envious of her good fortune. And

hen she remembered that Laur

Macpherson had put up the same plea fo

York. He was the shield and buckler foall New Eden, it would seem. And th

hree, Laura and York and Ponk, all knew

and were pitying her, Jerry Swaim, who



had been envied many a time, but never

never pitied. Even in the loss of th

Swaim estate in Philadelphia, Mrs

Jerusha Darby had made it clear to everone that her pretty niece was still to b

envied as a child of good fortune.

Flinging aside her hat and glovesunconscious of the stray sunbeams siftin

down through the oak boughs on he

golden hair, Jerry Swaim gazed toward

he railroad with wide-open, burning eyesand her white face was pitiful to see. A

ength she turned to the young man wh

still stood leaning against the oak boug

beyond her car, waiting for her to speak.

"Can I be of any service to you?" h

asked, courteously.



"Who are you?" Jerry questioned, wit

unconscious bluntness.

"My name is Joe Thomson." The smile ihis eyes lighted his face as he spoke.

"Tell me all about this place, won't you?

Jerry demanded, pointing toward th

gleaming sands. "Was it always like this

here? I thought when the Lord finished th

earth He looked on His work and found i

good. Did He overlook this spot?"

Surprise and sarcasm and bitte

disappointment were all in her tone as sh

asked these questions.

Joe Thomson frowned as he replied:

"It wasn't an oversight at all. There was

fine piece of prairie here until a few year



ago, with only one little sandy stri

zigzagging across it. Ages back, there ma

have been a stream along that low plac

yonder that dried up and blew away somime, when the forest fires changed th

prehistoric woodlands into prairies.

can't be accurate about geology and suc

hings if history and the Scriptures arsilent on these fine points."

Joe Thomson still stood leaning agains

he oak limb. The confusion of meetinhis handsome stranger had passed. H

was in his own territory now, talking o

hings of which he knew. He knew, too

how to put his thoughts into goodexpressive English.

"There are beautiful farms up the river—

ranches, I mean. What has changed thi



prairie to such an awful place?" Jerr

questioned, eagerly.

"Eastern capital and lack of brains anenergy," Joe answered her. "It is just a

blowout, that's all. It began in that sand

strip in that low place along over there b

he railroad, where, as I say, some oldriver-bed, maybe the Sage Brush, migh

have been long ago before it made that bi

bend in its course up by my buildings. A

crazy, money-mad fool from back Eascame out here and plowed up all thi

ground one dry season, a visionary fellow

who dreamed of getting a fortune from th

and without any labor. And when thehing began to look like real work he cu

he whole game, just like a lot of othe

fools have done, and went back East



eaving all these torn, unsodded acres

plaything for the winds. There were thre

or four dry seasons right after that, and th

soil all went to dust and blew away. Buhe sand grew, and multiplied, and surged

over the face of this particular spot of th

Lord's earth until it has come to be a tyran

of power, covering all this space andspreading slowly northward up over th

next claim. That's mine."

"What is it doing to your land?" Jerrasked.

"Ruining it," Joe replied, calmly.

"And you don't go mad?" the girl cried

mpulsively.

"We don't go mad on the Sage Brush til



he last resort, and we don't often come t

hat. When we can't do one thing, ou

West, we do another. That's all there is to

t." The smile was in his eyes again as Josaid this.

"Do you know who owns this groun

now?" Jerry tried to ask as carelessly apossible.

"An estate back in Pennsylvania,

believe," Joe replied.

"What is it worth?" Jerry's voice wa

hardly audible.

"Look at it. What do you think it is worthas a whole, or cut up into town lots for

summer resort?" Joe demanded.

n spite of his calmness there was



harshness in his voice, and his eyes wer

stern.

Jerry twisted her white hands helplessly"I don't know—anything worth knowing,

she said, faintly, looking full into th

young man's face for the first time.

Afterward she remembered that he wa

powerfully built, that his eyes were dark

and that his teeth showed white and even

as he repeated, with a smile:

"You don't know anything worth knowing

You don't quite look the part."

"Why don't you answer my question?"

Back of the light in Jerry's eyes Joe saw

hat the tears were waiting, and somethin

n her face hurt him strangely.



"I think this claim is not worth—a

effort," he declared, frankly, looking out a

he wind-heaved ridges of sand.

"What brought you here to look at i

hen?" Jerry demanded.

"Partly to despise the fool who owned i

and let it become a curse."

"Do you know him?" the girl inquired.

"No. But if I did I should despise him jushe same," Joe Thomson declared.

"What if he were dead?" Jerry asked.

"Pardon me, but may I ask what brough

you down here to look at such a place?

Joe interrupted her.



"I came down here to find out its value. I

belongs to me. My only inheritance. I hav

always lived in a big city until now, and

know little of country life except itbeauty and comfort, and nothing at all o

he West. But I can understand you when

you say that this claim is not worth a

effort. I hope I shall never, never see iagain. Good-by."

The firm, red lips quivered and the blu

eyes looked up through real tears as JerrSwaim drew on her gloves and fitted th

soft blue hat down on the golden glory o

her hair. Then without another word sh

urned her car about and sped away.



II

JERRY AND JOE



VII

UNHITCHING THE

WAGON FROM A STAR

How long is a mid-June day? Ticked of

by the almanac, it is so much time as lie

between the day-dawn and the dark o

evening. But Jerry Swaim lived a lifetim

n that June day in which she went out t

enter upon her heritage. From the momen

she had turned away from the younfarmer under the oak-trees until sh

reached the forks of the road again she di

not take cognizance of a single object. Th

hree big cottonwood sentinels, the vine



covered ranch-home, the deep bend of th

Sage Brush to the eastward, were passe

unnoted. Ponk's gray gadabout seemed t

know the way home like a faithful horse.

There was no apparent reason why th

unction of the two highways should hav

momentarily called the bewilderedisappointed girl to her calmer self. N

more was there anything logical in he

choosing to turn again down the narrow

river road. The lone old fisherman wahe farthest down in the scale fro

Geraldine Swaim of any human being wh

had ever shown her a favor. He could no

have had any interest for her.... But YorkMacpherson was correct in his estimate o

Jerry. She was a type in herself alone. Sh

drove far beyond the narrow place by th



deep hole where, with accurate eye an

clear skill, she had played a game o

chance with the river and fate an

guardian angels. Her tires had cut a widecurving gash across the sand of the road.

"My gracious alive! that was a clos

urn!" she exclaimed, as she caught sighof her wheel-marks. "No wonder the ol

Teddy Bear looked scared. One inch o

ess! Well, there was that inch. But wha

for? To enter on my vast landed—vassanded—estate in the kingdom o

Kansas!"

Jerry smiled grimly in ridicule of hefoolish, defrauded self. Then in

desperate effort to blot out of mind wha

she had seen she hurled the gray car madl

forward. With the bewildered gropings o



a shipwrecked landsman she wa

struggling to get her bearings, she fo

whom the earth had been especiall

designed. As the hours passed the roadbecame dry and sunny, with the nort

breeze tempering the air to the coolness o

a rare Kansas June day, entirely unlike th

hot and windy one on which Jerry had firscome up this valley. She did not, i

reality, cover many miles now, because

she made long stops in sheltered place

and at times let the gray machine merel

creep on the sunny stretches, but in he

mind she had girdled the universe.

n the late afternoon she turned abouwearily, as one who has yet many league

of ground to cover before nightfall. Th

sunlight glistened along the surface of th



river and a richer green gleamed in wha

had been the shadowy places earlier in th

day; but the driver in the car paid littl

heed to the lights and shadows of the way

"If a man went right with himself.

Cornelius Darby's words came driftin

across the girl's mind. "Poor UnclCornie! He didn't begin to live, to me

until he was gone. Maybe he knew what i

meant for a man not to go right wit

himself. And if a woman went right withherself!"

Jerry halted her car again by the deep hol

and looked at nothing where the SagBrush waters were rippling over the roug

edge in its bed. For the first time sinc

she had sat under the oak-trees and looke

at the acres that were hers, Jerry Swai



really found herself on solid ground again

The bloom came slowly back to the ash

cheeks, and the light into the dark-blu

eyes.

"If I can only go right with myself, I shal

not fail. I need time, that's all. There wil

be a letter from Eugene waiting when I geback to town, and that will make up for

ot. There must be some way out of all th

mistakes, too. It wasn't my land that I saw

Mr. Ponk must have directed me wronglyThat country fellow may not know th

facts. I'll go back and ask York

Macpherson right away. Only, he's gone

out of town for two days. Oh dear!"

She wrung her hands as the picture of tha

oak-grove and all that lay beyond it cam

vividly before her. She tried to forget i



and for a moment she smiled to hersel

deceivingly, and then—the smile wa

gone and by the determined set of her lip

Jerry was her father's own resolute chilagain.

"I don't exactly know what next, excep

hat I'm hungry. Why, it is five o'clockWhere has this day gone, and where am I

anyhow?"

Her eyes fell on the broad ruts across throad. Then back in the bushes she caught

glimpse of a low roof.

"I smell fish frying. I'll starve to death if

wait to get back to the Commercia

Hotel!" Jerry exclaimed. "Here's th

wayside inn where I find comfort for ma

and beast."



She called sharply with her horn. In

minute the fuzzy brown fisherman cam

shuffling along the narrow path through th

bushes.

"I'm dreadfully hungry," Jerry said

bluntly.

t did not occur to her to explain to thi

creature why she happened to be here an

hungry at this time. She wanted something

hat was sufficient.

"Can't you let me have some of your fish

am desperate," she went on, smiling a

he surprised face of the man who stare

up at her in silence.

"Yes'm, I can give you what I eat. Just a

minute," he squeaked out, at last. Then h



shuffled back to where the bit of roo

showed through the leaves.

While the girl waited a tall, slendewoman came around the brushy ben

ahead. She halted in the middle of the roa

and stared a moment at Jerry; then sh

came forward rapidly and passed the cawithout looking up. She wore a plain

grayish-green dress, with a sunbonnet o

he same hue covering her face—all ver

much like the bushes out of which shseemed to have come and into which sh

seemed to melt again. In her hand sh

carried a big parcel lightly, as if it

weight was slight. As Jerry turned andooked after her with a passing curiosity

she saw that the woman was looking bac

also. The young city-bred girl had felt n



fear of the strange country fellow in th

far-away oak-grove; she had no fear o

his uncouth fisherman in this lonel

hidden place; but when she caught a merglimpse of this woman's eyes staring a

her from under the shadows of the deep

sunbonnet a tremor of real fright shook he

hands grasping the steering-wheel. Ipassed quickly, however, with the

reappearance of the host of the waysid

nn.

"This is delicious," Jerry exclaimed, a

he hard scaly hands lifted a smooth boar

bearing her meal up to her.

Fried fish, hot corn-bread, baked in husk

n the ashes, wild strawberries wit

coarse brown sugar sprinkled on them

and a cup of fresh buttermilk.



The girl ate with the healthy appetite tha

youth, a long fast, a day in the open, and

well-cooked meal can create. When sh

had finished she laid a silver half-dollaon the board beside the cracked plate.

"'Tain't nuthin'; no, 'tain't nuthin'. I jis

divided with ye," the fisherman insistedshrilly.

"Oh, it is worth a dollar to drink this goo

buttermilk!"

Jerry lifted the cup, a shining silver mug

and turned it in the light. It was of an ol

pattern, with a quaint monogram on on

side.

"This looks like an heirloom," she thought

"Why should a bear with cracked plate



and iron knives and forks offer me a drin

n a silver cup? There must be a stor

back of it. Maybe he's a nobleman i

disguise. Well, the disguise is perfectAfter all, it's as good as a novel to live i

Kansas."

Jerry slowly sipped the drink as theshoughts ran through her mind. The mea

was helping wonderfully to take the edg

off of the tragedy of the morning. It woul

overwhelm her again later, but in thishady, restful solitude it slipped away.

She smiled down at the old man at th

hought of him in a story. Him! But thsmile went straight to his heart; that wa

Jerry's gift, making him drop his boar

ray and break the cracked plate in hi

confusion.



"Here's another quarter. That was m

fault," Jerry insisted.

"Oh no'm, no'm! 'Tain't nobody's fault.The voice quavered as the scaly brow

hand thrust back the proffered coin.

Jerry could not understand why thi

creature should refuse her money

Tipping, to her mind, covered all th

obligations her class owed to the lowe

strata of the earth's formation.

At sunset York Macpherson drove into

Ponk's garage.

"Hello, fellow-townsman! You look like a



sick man!" he exclaimed, as the owner me

him in the doorway.

"I'd 'a' been a dead man if you hadn't comhis minute," Ponk growled back.

"Congratulations! The good die young,

York returned. "I failed to get through to

he place I wanted to see. That Saturda

rain filled the dry upper channels where

bridge would rot in the tall weeds, but a

all-day rain puts a dangerous flood ievery ford, so I came back in time to sav

your life. What's your grievance?"

Ponk's face was agonizing between smile

and tears. "Well, spite of all I, or anybody

could do, Miss Swaim takes my littl

gadabout this morning and makes off wit

t."



"And broke the wind-shield? I told you t

keep her at home."

York still refused to be serious."I don't know what's broke, except m

feelin's. You tried yet to keep he

anywhere? She would go off to tha

danged infernal blowout section of th

country, and she ain't back yet ."

York Macpherson grasped the little man

by the arm. "Not back yet! Where is she

hen?"

"She ain't; that's all I know," Pon

responded, flatly. "Yes, yes, yonder she isust soarin' into the avenue up by 'Castl

Cluny' this minute. Thank the Lord an' tha

Quaker-colored gadabout!"



"Tell her I'll see her at the hotel as soon a

get my mail," York said, and he hurried

o his office.

A few minutes later Jerry Swaim brough

he gray runabout up to the doorway of th

garage.

Ponk assisted her from it and took th

ivery hire mechanically.

"Thank you, Miss Swaim. Hope you had

safe day. No'm, that's too much," handin

back a coin of the change. "That's regular

Yes'm." Then, as an afterthought, he

added, with a bow, "York Macpherson

he's in town again, an' he's waitin' to se

you in the hotel 'parlor.'"

"Oh!" a gasp of surprise and relief



"Thank you, Mr. Ponk. Yes, I have had a

safe day." And Jerry was gone.

The little man stared after her for a fulminute. Then he gave a long whistle.

"She's a Spartan, an' she's goin' to di

game. I'll gamble on that with Rockefeller

This is the rummiest, bummiest world

ever lived in," he declared to himself

"Why the dickens does the blowouts hav

o fall on the just as well as the unjust 'what I respectfully rise to ask of th

Speaker of all good an' perfect gifts. An

'm goin' to keep the floor till I get th

recognition of Chair."

York Macpherson was standing with hi

back to the window, so that his face wa

n the shadow, when Jerry Swaim cam



nto the little parlor. Her eyes wer

shining, and the pink bloom on her chee

betokened the tenseness of feeling held i

check under a calm demeanor.

"Pardon me for keeping you waiting, Mr

Macpherson. I've been away from tow

all day and I wanted to get my mail beforcame in. I'm a long way from everybody

you know."

There may have been a hint of tears in thvoice, but the blue eyes were very brave.

"And you got it?"

That was not what York meant to say. Iwas well that his face was in the shadow

while Jerry's was in the light. There ar

imes when a man's heart may be cut to th



quick, and because he is a man he must no

cry out.

"No, not to-day. I don't know why," Jerryreplied, slowly, with a determined set o

her red lips, while the fire in her blue

black eyes burned steadily and the smal

hands gripped themselves together.

"I haven't had a word since I left home

and I had hoped that I might find a lette

waiting for me here."

"Letters are delayed, and letter-writers

oo, sometimes. Maybe they are all bus

with Mrs. Darby's affairs. I remembe

when I was a boy up on the Winnowoc sh

could keep me busier than anybody els

ever did," York offered.



"It must be that. Of course it must. Aun

Jerry is as industrious as I am idle." Jerr

gave a sigh of relief.

After the strain of this day, it was vastl

comforting to her to stop thinking forward

and just remember how beautiful it mus

be at "Eden" now; and Eugene was thereand it was twilight. But like a hot blast th

memory of the hot sand-heaps of he

anded estate came back.

"Did you want to see me abou

something?" she asked, suddenly. "Mr

Ponk said you did."

"Yes, Jerry. I came here to see you

because my sister and I want you to com

out to our house at once, and I have order

from Laura not to come home withou



you."

"You are very kind. You know where I

have been to-day?"York smiled. Even in her abstraction Jerry

felt the genial force of that smile. How bi

and strong he was, and there was such

sense of protection in his presence.

"Yes. You denied me the privilege of

escorting you on this journey. I had writte

a full description of your property t

Cornelius Darby, in reply to som

questions of his, but his death must hav

come before the letter reache

Philadelphia. In the mass of busines

matters Mrs. Darby may have missed m

report."



"She may have," Jerry echoed, faintly. "

cannot say. Then it is my estate that is al

covered with sand, barren and worthles

as a desert? I thought I might have beemistaken."

The hope died out of Jerry's face with th

query.

"I wish I could have saved you thi

surprise," York said, earnestly. "Come

home with me now. 'Castle Cluny' must byour castle, too, as long as you can put up

with us. And you can take plenty of time to

catch your breath. The earth is a big place

and, while most of it is covered witwater, very little of it is covered entirel

with sand."

How kind his tones were! Jerr



remembered again that both his sister an

Mr. Ponk had urged her to wait for hi

coming. But she was not accustomed t

waiting for anybody. A faint but persistenself-blame gripped her.

"May I stay with you until I find where

really am? Just now I'm all smothered ibewildering sand-dunes." She smiled u

at the tall man before her with a confiding

appealing earnestness.

Many women smiled upon York

Macpherson. Many women confided i

him. He was accustomed to it.

"Laura will consider it a boon, for yo

must know that she sometimes gets a trifl

onely in New Eden. We'll call the

compact finished." Only a graciou



ntuition could have turned the favor s

graciously back to the recipient. But tha

was York's gift.

n the dining-room at "Castle Cluny" tha

evening Jerry noticed a silver cup with

quaintly designed monogram on one side.

"That's an old heirloom," Laura said, a

she saw her guest's eyes fixed on it. "Lik

everything else in this house, it is couple

up with some old Macpherson claradition, as befitting an old bachelor an

old maid of that ilk."

"We used to have two of them," York

said.

"We have yet somewhere," Laura replied

"I hadn't missed one from the sideboar



before. It must be back in the silver

closet, with other old silver and ol

memories."

Jerry's day had been full of changes, up

and down, from hope to bitte

disappointment, from reality t

forgetfulness, from clear conception tbewildered confusion, her mind had ru

since she had left the oak-grove in th

forenoon. When she had occasion t

remember that silver cup again, shwondered how she could have passed i

over so lightly at this time.

Although Jerry's problem was very reaand she brought to its solution neithe

experience nor discipline, unselfis

breadth nor spiritual trust, there wa

something in the homey atmosphere o



"Castle Cluny" that seemed to smoot

away the long day's wrinkles for her. Ou

n the broad porch in the twilight sh

nestled down like a tired child among thcushions, and gazed dreamily out at th

evening landscape. York had been called

away by a neighbor and Laura and he

guest were alone.

"How beautiful it is here!" Jerr

murmured, as the afterglow of a prairi

sunset flooded the sky with a splendor orose and opal and amethyst. "I saw

sunset like that not long ago in an ar

exhibit in Philadelphia. I thought the

here couldn't be such a real sunset. It wan a landscape all yellow-gray and desert

ike. I thought that was impossible, too

've seen both—land and sky—to-day, and



both are greater than the artist painte

hem."

"The artist never equals the thing he irying to copy, neither can he creat

anything utterly unreal. I missed th

exhibits very much when I first cam

West, but this is some compensation,Laura said, meditatively.

"Do you ever get lonely here? I suppos

not, for you didn't come to find a greadisappointment when you came to New

Eden," Jerry declared, watching th

ranquil face of her hostess.

"No, Jerry, I brought my disappointmen

with me," Laura said, with a smile tha

made her look very much like her brother

And Jerry realized that Laur



Macpherson's maimed limb had no

broken her heart. Laura was a very new

ype to her guest.

"Oh, I get lonely sometimes and resentfu

sometimes," Laura went on, "but we ge

over a good many little things in the day'

run. And then I have York, you know, andnow and then a guest who means a grea

deal to me. I have so many interests here

oo. You'll like New Eden when you

really know us. And up here this porch habecome my holy of holies. There i

something soothing and healing in th

breezes that sweep up the Sage Brush o

summer evenings. There is somethinrestful in the stretch of silent prairie ou

here, and the wide starlit sky above it

Kansas sooner or later always has



"Mrs. Bahrr will want a full report o

Jerry, with the blank spaces for remark

filled out," Laura went on. "Why, she ha

changed her course and is tacking awawith the wind."

"Going over to the Lenwells', I suppose

They are in some way sort of distantlrelated to her. Just near enough, anyhow

o listen to all her stories, and then say

For goodness sake don't say I told it; I go

t from Stellar, you know.' She will punto any port right now. I'm her lighthous

warning," York declared. "She neve

approaches when I'm present."

York had risen and was standing in the

doorway, where the growing moo

revealed him clearly. Mrs. Bahrr, coming

up the walk toward the Macpherson drive



suddenly turned about and hurried away

her tall, angular form in relief against th

sky-line in the open space that la

between the Macpherson home and thnearest buildings down the slope towar

he heart of the town.

"Coming back to common things," Yorkcontinued, dropping into his favorit

chair. "My sister scandalizes me on every

occasion. Whether or not you hitch you

wagon to a star, Jerry, is not so importantafter all. The real test is in just what kin

of a star you hitch to. That will tel

whether you are going to ride to glory o

cut such a figure as the cow did thaumped over the moon."

"It is not always that lawyers give counse

for nothing, Jerry," Laura began, but th



ine of talk was again interrupted.

The coming of callers led to many lines o

discussion during the long summeevening, in which Jerry took little part. I

his new hemisphere in which she wa

rying to find herself, where east seeme

south and her right hand her left, there waso much of the old hemisphere agains

which she had partly burnt her bridges

The friendly familiarity of New Ede

neighbors was very different from thcaste exclusiveness of the Darby-Swai

set in Philadelphia. With the Winnowoc

Valley people the rich landholders had no

social traffic. But the broad range oconversation to-night, token of genera

nformation, called up home memories i

Jerry's mind and the long evenings whe



Jim Swaim's friends gathered there t

discuss world topics with her father

while she listened with delight to all tha

was said. Her mother didn't care for theshings and wondered why her artisti

daughter could be so interested in them

But when the Macphersons and thei

guests spoke of the latest magazines anhe popular fiction and the recent drama i

brought up Lesa Swaim in her element t

he listening young stranger. It seemed so

easy for the Macphersons to entertai

gracefully, to make everybody at home i

he shadowy comfort of that big porch, t

bring in limeade and nut-cakes in cut-glasand fine china service, to forget none o

he things due to real courtesy, and yet to

envelop all in the genuine, open-hearte

nformality of the genial, open-hearte



West.

Long after the remainder of th

Macpherson household was asleep JerrSwaim lay wide awake, her mind threshe

upon with the situation in which she ha

suddenly found herself. And over and ove

n the aisles of her thoughts what YorkMacpherson had said about unhitchin

from a star ran side by side with Uncl

Cornie's words, "If a man went right wit

himself."



"Eden" Mrs. Darby had gone into the cit

for a conference with her late husband'

business associates. Sloth in action neve

deprived her of any opportunities; anquick action now meant everything in th

accomplishment of the purpose she ha

before her.

"Cornelius was such a quiet man, he wa

never very much company. He really did

not care for people, like most men," Mrs

Darby said to her business partners, whhad known her husband intimately

"Eugene Wellington has already surpassed

him in getting hold of some things he neve

quite reached to, being an older man. Andnow that Eugene is proving such splendi

help in taking up the less important detail

n my affairs he ought to do fine clerica



work in the House here. There is n

elling how much ability he may have fo

being useful to all of us along the lines tha

Cornelius has developed. He has provehat he is equal to a lot of things beside

painting. People of little brain power an

financial skill ought to paint the picture

and not rob our big affairs of businesability."

Mrs. Darby held a controlling interest i

he House, so the outcome of thconference was that an easy berth on mor

han moderate pay, with possibl

prospects—just possible, of course—wa

what Mrs. Darby had to take back t"Eden" to serve up to Eugene Wellington

when he should return from his brie

errand up in the Winnowoc country. And



as that was what Mrs. Darby wished t

accomplish, her day's journey to the cit

was a success.

Only, that Winnowoc local wa

uncomfortably hot and crowded. He

rusty chauffeur had resigned his positio

on the day after Cornelius was buried, anMrs. Darby was timid about the bluf

road, anyhow. If only Jerry had been her

o drive for her! With all Jerry's dash and

slash, she was a fearless driver analways put the car exactly where sh

wanted it to be. There was som

satisfaction in having a hand like Jerry'

on the steering-wheel. So, pleased as tone horn of her dilemma, but tired an

perspiring, Mrs. Darby came hom

determined more than ever to bring abou



her other purpose—to have Jerry Swai

n her home, because she, Jerusha Darby

wanted her there.

Jerry always filled the place with interest

And Jerry was gone, actually gone, ba

and baggage. She had cleared out tha

morning early on a fool's errand tKansas. What right had Jerry to go off t

earn a living when a living was her

ready-made merely for her subjection to

selfish old woman's wishes? Mrs. Darbdid not think it in such words, because sh

no more understood her own mind tha

hat pretty girl with her dark-blue eyes an

wavy, gold-tinged hair understood heown mind. One thing she did understand—

Jerry must come back.

A week later Eugene Wellington dropped



off the morning train running down fro

Winnowoc. It was too early for th

household to be astir, save the earl

feeder of stock and milker of kine, thearly man-of-all-odd-jobs who looke

after the fowls, and the early maid-of-all

good-things-to-eat who would have bi

puffy biscuit for breakfast, with tendefried chicken and gravy that would stan

alone. All the homey sounds of the earl

summer morning flitted out from th

"Eden" kitchen and barn-yard. But th

misty stillness of dawn rested on th

"Eden" lawns, whose owner, with th

others of the household, was not yeawake.

At the rose-arbor the young artist pause

o let the refreshing morning zephyr



sweep across his face. He wondered i

Jerry was awake yet. Ever since he ha

eft "Eden" the hope had been growing i

him that she would change her mind. Afteall, Aunt Jerry might be right about it. Thi

was too beautiful a house to throw asid

for a whim—an ideal, however fine, o

self-support and all that. Women weremade to be cared for, not to suppor

hemselves—least of all a pretty, wilful

but winsomely magnetic creature lik

Jerry Swaim, with her appealing, beautifu

eyes, her brown hair all glinted with gold

her strong little white hands, and he

daring spirit, exhilarating as wine in itexuberant influence. No, Jerry mustn't go

She belonged to the soft and lovel

settings of life.



Eugene leaned against the door of th

rose-arbor as these things filled his mind

and a love of the luxuries that surrounde

him here drove back for the moment thhigh purpose of his own life.

n the woodwork of the arbor, where th

ightning had left its imprint, he saw ittle white envelop wedged in

splintered rift. The rose-vine had hid i

from every angle except the one he ha

chanced to take. He slipped it out and reahis inscription:

"To Mr. Eugene Wellington, Artist."

nside, on Jerry's visiting-card, in her ow

hand-writing, was the message: "Write m

at New Eden, Kansas, Care of Mr. York

Macpherson. Don't forget what we ar



going to do, and when we have done, an

won, we'll meet again. Good-by. Jerry."

The young artist dropped the card anstared down the lilac-bordered avenu

oward the shadowy gray-blue wes

whither Jerry Swaim was gone. And al

he world seemed gray-blue, a great voidwhere there was neither top nor bottom

Then he picked up the card again and pu

t into his pocket, and went into the hous

o get ready for breakfast.

Mrs. Darby greeted his return as warml

as it was in her repressed nature to do

conveying to him, not by any word, thfeeling that he meant more to her now tha

he had ever meant before.

"Didn't Jerry leave suddenly? I didn



know she was going so soon. I—I wa

hoping—to find her here," was what h

was going on to say.

"That she would be willing to stay here; t

give up this scheme of hers." Mrs. Darb

finished the sentence for him. "Yes,

hoped so, too. That was the only righhing to do. She chose her own time fo

eaving, but she will be back soon if w

manage right. Don't be a bit discouraged

Eugene, and don't give up to her too muchShe loves a resisting force. She alway

did."

Eugene looked anything but encourageust then. All "Eden" was but an echo o

Jerry Swaim, and the droop of his well

formed lips suggested only a feebl

resisting force against her smallest wish.



"She is my own flesh and blood. I know

her best, of course," Mrs. Darby went on

"The only way to meet her is to let he

meet you. But we will drop that nowAfter breakfast I want you to look up th

men. I have told them to report to you o

he crop values, and harvest plans, an

fall seeding later. Look over the placwell, won't you? Then meet me in th

rose-arbor at ten o'clock for a cup of te

and we will counsel together."

Mrs. Darby would have told the lat

Cornelius to "come in for instruction

ater." But Eugene Wellington wasn't a

sure result. He was only in the process osolution. And Eugene, being very human

was unconsciously flattered by thi

deference to a penniless young man. I



made him pleased with himself and gav

him a vague sense of proprietorship whic

Cornelius Darby, the real-in-law owner o

his fine country estate, never dreamed oenjoying.

"I wonder what Jerry is doing thi

morning," he thought as he rode CorneliuDarby's high-school-gaited horse to the fa

side of the place.

"The more I see of this farm the finer iooks to me. Not a foot of waste ground

not a nesting-place for weeds, not

broken fence; grove and stream, and tille

fields, and gardens, and lawns, and wellkept buildings. Not an unpainted board no

broken hinge—everything in perfect repai

except that splintered framework at th

rose-arbor." He paused on a little ridg



above the Winnowoc from which th

whole farm lay in full view. His artisti

eye noted the peaceful beauty of the scene

he growing crops, the yellowing wheathe black-green corn, the fertile meadow

swathed in June sunshine, the gracefu

shrubbery and big forest trees throug

which the red-tiled roofs of the buildingglowed, the pigeons circling about th

cupolas of the barn. And not the leas

attractive feature of the picture, althoug

he was unconscious of it, was the youn

artist himself, astride a graceful blac

horse, in relief against a background o

wooded border of the bluff above thclear gurgling Winnowoc. Eugene looked

well on horseback, although he was n

over of horses, and preferred the steady

sure mounts to the spirited ones.



"I wonder if Jerry's big estate can be a

well appointed as this. I wish she wer

here with me now." The rider fell to

dreaming of Jerry, trying to put her in picture of this "Eden" six times enlarged.

At this same hour Jerry Swaim was sittin

n Junius Brutus Ponk's gray runabou

under the shade of the low oak-grovegazing with burning eyes at her ow

kingdom built out of Kansas sand.

Mrs. Darby had hot coffee and col

chicken and cherry preserves and cak



with blackberry wine all daintily serve

for a hungry man to enjoy after a lon

hree hours on horseback in the sunshine

The rose-arbor was odorous with perfumfrom the sweet-peas, clinging to the trelli

hat ran between the side lawn and th

grape-arbor.

What took place in that council had it

results in the letter that Eugene Wellington

wrote that night to Jerry Swaim. He di

not mail it for several days, and when hwent to his tasks on the morning after hi

fingers had let go of it at the lip of the iro

mail-box, the artist in him said things t

him that to the day of his death he woulnever quite forget.



Late one afternoon, a fortnight after th

day of Jerry's visit to her claim, Ponk, o

he Commercial Hotel and Garage

slipped into the office of the MacphersoMortgage Company.

"York, what happens to folks that tends to

other folks's affairs?" he asked, as hspread his short proportions over a chai

beside York's desk.

"Sometimes they get the gratitude oposterity. More generally their portion i

present contempt and future obscurity. Are

you in line for promotion on that, Ponk?

York replied.

"I'm 'bout ready to take chances," Pon

said, with a good-natured grin.



"All right. Am I involved in your schem

of things?" York inquired.

"You bet you are," Ponk assured him"And, to be brief, knowin' how valuabl

your time is for gougin' mortgages out o

unsuspectin' victims—"

"Well, we haven't foreclosed on the

Commercial Hotel and Garage yet," York

nterrupted.

"No, but you're likely to the minute m

back's turned. That's why I have to g

facin' south all the time. But to get to rea

business now, York—"

"I wish you would," York declared.

His caller paid no heed to the thrust, an

continued, seriously, "I can't get som



hings off my mind, and I've got to unload

hat's all."

"Go ahead. I'm your dumping-ground,York said, with a smile.

"That's what you are, you son of a horse

hief. I mean the tool of a grasping bunc

of loan sharks known as the Macpherso

Mortgage Company. Well, it's that young

ady at your house."

"I see. We robbed you of a boarder," Yor

suggested.

"Aw, shut up an' listen, now, will you?

You know I'm a man of affairs hereOwner and proprietor and man-of-all

work at the Commercial Hotel an

Gurrage, bass soloist in the Baptist choir



and—by the removal of the late decease

ncumbent—also treasurer of the board o

education of the New Eden schools—"

"All of which has what to do with th

young lady from Philadelphia?" York

nquired, blandly.

"Well, listen. Here's where tendin' to

other folks's business comes in. A good

ookin' but inexperienced young lad

comes out here from Philadelphia to find claim left her by her deceased father. Ou

she goes to see said claim, payin' me goo

money for my best car—to ride in stat

over her grand province—of sand. Andhere wasn't much change but a pearl

handle knife an' a button-hook in her purs

when she pays for the use of the car, eve

when I cut down half a buck on the regula



hire. Her kind don't know rightly how t

save money till they 'ain't none to save

But the look in her eyes when she com

steamin' in from that jaunt was more 'n could stand. York, she ain't the firs

Easterner to be fooled by the promise o

he West. Not the real West, you

understand, but the sham face o' things puup back East. An' here she be in our midst

Every day she goes by after the mail get

n, looking like one of them blue pigeon

with all the colors of a opal on thei

necks, and every day she goes back wit

her face white around the mouth. She'

walkin' on red-hot plowshares and nevesquealin'." Ponk paused, while York sa

combing his fingers through his hair i

silence.



"You know I'm some force on the schoo

board, if I don't know much. I ain't there t

each anybody anything, but to see tha

such ignoramuses as me ain't put up teach children. Now we are shy on

eacher in the high-school by the sudde

resignation of the mathematics professo

o take on underwritin' of life insurance ihe city. Do you suppose she'd do it

Would it help any if we offered the place

o Miss Swaim? It might help to keep he

n this town."

"Ponk, your heart's all right," York said

warmly. "It would help, I'm sure, if th

ady is to stay here, for she is withoumeans. She might or might not be willin

o consider this opening. I can't forecas

women. But, Ponk, could she teac



mathematics? You know she was probabl

fashionably finished—never educated—i

some higher school. If it were embroidery

or something like that, it might be alright."

"Oh, you trust me to judge a few things

even if I'm not up on the gentle art oforeclosin' mortgages and such. I know

hat girl could teach mathematics

Anybody who can run a car like she ca

with as true a eye for curves an' distancesand a head for bossin' a machine that run

by engine power, couldn't help but teac

algebry and geometry just true as a righ

angle. But mebby," and Ponk'countenance fell—"mebby she'd not wan

o, nor thank me noways, nor you, neither

for interfering in the matter. But I jus



hought I'd offer you the chance to mebb

help her get on her feet. I don't know

hough. I'd hate to lose her good-will.

ust couldn't stand it."

"Ponk, I appreciate your motive," York

said, feelingly. "I will take this up as soon

as I can with Miss Swaim. You see, she'sour guest and I can't very gracefull

suggest that she seek employment. And, to

be frank with you, my sister has becom

very fond of her—Laura misses a goomany good things on account of he

ameness—and we would like to keep he

our guest indefinitely; but we can't do tha

of course."

"I don't wonder your sister wants her. O

course, you don't care nothin' about i

yourself. An' I'll have the board hold th



place awhile to see what 'll happen. I mus

soar back home now." And the little man

eft the office.

"Sound to the core, if he does strut whe

strangers come to town. Especially ladies

That's the only way some little men hav

of attracting attention to themselves. Akind-hearted man as ever came up th

Sage Brush," York commented, as he

watched his caller crossing the street t

he hotel.

That evening Jerry Swaim sat alone on th

porch of the Macpherson home, wher

shafts of silvery moonlight fell through thhoneysuckle vines. What York

Macpherson would have called a figh

between Jim Swaim's chin and Lesa's eye

was going on in Jerry's soul this evening



Since her visit to her claim life ha

suddenly become a maze of perplexities

She had never before known a care tha

could not have been lifted from her bothers, except the one problem of leavin

Philadelphia, and the solution of that migh

have been the prank of a headstrong child

prompted by self-will and love oadventure, rather than by the grav

decision of well-poised judgment

Heretofore in all her ventures a saf

harbor had been near to shelter her. Now

she was among the breakers and the stor

was on.

For the first time in her memory her purswas light and there was no visible sourc

from which to refill it. She was too well

bred to tax the hospitality of th



Macpherson home, where she was mad

o feel herself so welcome. To return to

Philadelphia meant to write and ask fo

he expenses of transportation. She haburned too many bridges behind her t

meet the humility of such a request jus

yet; for that meant the subjection of he

whole future to Jerusha Darby's will, anagainst such subjection Jerry's spiri

rebelled mightily.

Every day for two weeks the girl had gono the post-office with an eager, expectan

face. Every evening she had asked York

Macpherson if he had heard anything fro

Philadelphia since her coming, thpretended indifference in her tone hardl

concealing the longing behind the query

But not a line from the East had come t



ew Eden for her.

On the afternoon of this day the postmaste

had hurried through the letters because heoo, had caught the meaning of the hunge

n the earnest eyes watching him throug

he little window among the letter-boxes

The mail was heavy to-day, but thdistributer paused with one letter, lon

enough to look at it carefully, and then

eaving his work half finished, he hurrie

o the window.

"Here's something for you. Aren't yo

Miss Swaim?" he inquired, courteously

as he pushed the letter toward Jerry'waiting hand.

He had lived in Kansas since the passag

of the homestead law. He knew the mar



of homesickness on the face of a lat

arrival. Something in the cultivation of

new land puts a gentler culture into th

soul. Out of the common heartache, thcommon sacrifice, the common need, hav

grown the open-hearted, keen-sighted

fine-fibered folk of the big and generou

Middle West, the very heart of which, tohe Kansan, is Kansas.

The postmaster turned quickly back to hi

ask. He did not see the girl's face; he onlfelt that she walked away on air.

At York Macpherson's office she hesitated

a moment, then hurried inside. York wasn his private room, but the door to i

stood open, and Jerry caught sight of

woman within.



"I beg your pardon." She blushe

confusedly. "I don't want to intrude; I onl

wanted to stop long enough to read a lette

from home."

Jerry's genuine embarrassment was ver

pretty and appealing, but York wa

shrewd enough to know that it came frohe letter in her hand, not from an

connection with his office or it

occupants. Mrs. Stellar Bahrr, however

who happened to be the woman in thnner room, did not see the incident wit

York's eyes.

"Just come in here, Miss Swaim, anmake yourself at home," York insisted

"Come, Mrs. Bahrr, we can finish our tal

for to-day in one place as well as another

My sister and I are going across the rive



o spend the evening, so it will be late to

morrow before I can get those paper

ready for you."

Mrs. Bahrr rose reluctantly, hooking he

sharp eyes into the girl as she passed out

What she noted was a very white fac

where the color of the cheeks seemeburned in, and big, shining eyes. Of cours

he broad-brimmed chiffon hat wit

beaded medallions, the beaded parasol t

match, and the beaded hand-bag of thsame hues did not escape her eyes

especially the pretty hand-bag.

York closed the door behind the twoeaving Jerry in quiet possession of th

nner room, while he seated Mrs. Bahrr i

he outer office and engaged in th

business that had brought her to him. H



knew that she would be torn between tw

desires: one to hurry through and leave th

office, and so be able to start a story o

eaving Jerry and himself in questionable situation; the other to sta

and see the fair caller as she came out

and to learn, if possible, why she ha

come, and to enjoy her confusion ifinding a woman still engaging York's

ime. Either thing would be worth while t

Mrs. Bahrr, and while she hesitated York

decided for her.

"I'll keep her with me, the old Lon

Tongue. Yea, she shall roost here in my

coop till the little girl gets clear to 'CastlCluny.' She sha'n't run off and overtake he

prey and then cackle over it later. Jerry

has committed the unpardonable sin o



being young and pretty and good; the Bi

Dipper will make her pay for the persona

nsult."

n the midst of their business conversatio

Jerry Swaim came from the inner room

and with a half-audible word of thanks lef

he office. Mrs. Bahrr's back was towarhe door, and, although she turned with

catlike quickness, she failed to se

anything worth while except to get anothe

good look at the hand-bag. Something tolYork Macpherson that the message in he

etter held a tragical meaning for the fair

faced girl who had waited so eagerly fo

ts coming.



At dinner that evening York was at hi

best.

"I must make our girl keep an appetite," hargued. "Nothing matters if a dinner stil

carries an appeal. By George! I've got t

do my best, or I'll lose my own taste fo

what Laura can set up if I don't look outWe are all getting thin except Laura. Even

Ponk is losing his strut a bit. And why

Oh, confound it! there is plenty of time t

ask questions in July and August when thown has its dull season."

So York came to dinner in one of hi

rarest moods, a host to make one's worrieflee away.

Jerry had reread her letter in the seclusio

of her room at "Castle Cluny." It did no



need a third reading, for every wor

seemed graven on the reader's brain. I

carefully typewritten form, with only th

signature in the writer's own hand, it ran:

My always dear Jerry,—I should

have written you days ago, but I did

not get back to "Eden" until you had been gone a week. We are all so

eager to hear how you are, and to

know about the Swaim estate which

you went to find. But we are ahundred times more eager to see your

face here again. I wish you were here

to-night, for I have been in the depths

of doubt and indecision, from which

your presence would have lifted me.

I hope I have done the right thing,

now it is done, and I'll wait to hear



clerkship in the bank with Uncle

Cornie's partners. I can see your eyes

open wide with surprise and

disappointment when I tell you thatAunt Jerry has really converted me to

her way of thinking. My hours are

easy and the pay is good. Not so

much as I had hoped to have someday from my brush and may have yet,

if this work doesn't make me fat and

lazy, for there is really very little

responsibility about it, just a decent

accuracy. This makes so many things

possible, you see, and then I have the

satisfaction of knowing I am doing aservice for Aunt Jerry—and, to be

explicit—to put myself where I shall

not have to worry over things when

you come home. So I'm happy now.



And when you get here I shall begin

to live again. I seem to be staying

here now. Staying and waiting for

something. Nobody really lives at"Eden" without little Jerry to keep us

all alive and keyed up. Nobody to

take the big car over the bluff road,

beautiful as it is—for you know I'mtoo big a coward to drive it and to do

a hundred things I'd do if you were

here to brace me up.

Write me at once, little cousin, and

say you will come home just as soon

as you have seen all of that God-

forsaken country you care to look at.And meantime I'll write as often as

you want me to. I think of you every

day and remember you in my prayers



every night. You remember I told you

I couldn't pray out in Kansas. May

the Lord be good to you and make

you love Him more than you think you do now, and bring you safe and

soon to our beautiful "Eden."

Yours,

Eugene.

The sands of the blowout on Jerry's clai

seared not more hotly her fresh youn

hopes of prosperity, through her ow

effort and control, than this sudden chang

from the artist, with his dreams of beautand power, to the man of easy clerica

duty with a good salary and smal

responsibility. Of course Aunt Jerry had

been back of it all, but so would Aun



Jerry have been back of her—if she ha

given up.

Jerry sat for a long time staring at thmissive where it had fallen on the floor

he typewritten neatness of the blu

ettering only a blur to her eyes. For sh

was back at "Eden," on the steep bubeautiful bluff road, with Eugene afraid t

drive the big Darby car. She was in th

rose-arbor looking up to see that faint lin

of indecision in the dear, handsome faceShe was in the "Eden" parlor under th

soft light of rose-tinted lamps, facing Aun

Jerry and sure of herself, but catchin

again that wavering line of uncertainty oEugene Wellington's countenance, and he

own vague fear—unguessed then—that h

might not resist in the supreme test.



But idols die hard. Eugene was her ido

He couldn't die at once. He was s

handsome, so true, so gracious, so fille

with a love of beautiful things. How coulshe understand the temptation to the sou

of an artist in such lovely settings a

"Eden" offered? It was all Aunt Jerry'

fault, and he would overcome it. He must.

t was so easy to blame Aunt Jerry. I

made everything clear. He had yielded to

her cleverness and never known he wabeing ruled. With all her flippant, careles

youth, inexperience, and selfishness, Jerr

was a keener reader of human nature tha

her lack of training could account for. Shknew just the lines Aunt Jerry had laid, th

net spread for Eugene's feet. But—Oh

hings must come out all right. He woul



change.

This one thought rang up and down he

scale of thinking, as if repeating woulmake true what Jerry knew was false.

"'If a man went right with himself.' Oh

Eugene, Eugene!" she murmured, hal

aloud. "You hitched your wagon to a star

but to what kind of a star—to what kind o

a star?"

Then came a greater query: "Shall I g

back to 'Eden,' to Aunt Jerry's rule, to

Eugene, to love, to easy, dependent

purposeless living? Shall I?"

A blank wall seemed suddenly to be flun

across her way. Should she climb over it

hammer an opening through it, or turn bac



and run from it?

With these questions stalking before he

she had come out to dinner and YorkMacpherson's genial, entertainin

conversation, and to Laura Macpherson'

gracious intuition and soothing sympathy.

Early in the evening, as the Macpherson

with their guest sat watching the splendo

of the sunset sky, Jerry said, suddenly:

"It has been two weeks to-day since

came here. Quite long enough for

stranger's first visit."

"A 'stranger,'" Laura Macphersonrepeated. "A 'stranger' who asked to b

called 'Jerry' the first thing. We are all so

well acquainted with this 'stranger' tha



we wouldn't want to give her up now."

"But I must give you up pretty soon." Jerr

spoke earnestly."Why 'must'? Has the East too strong

hold for the West to break?" York asked.

"I came out here because I believed mand would support me, and I had all sort

of foolish dreams of what I might find her

hat would be new and romantic." Jerry'

eyes had a far-away look in them as sh

recalled the unrealized picture of he

prairie domain.

"You haven't answered my question yet,York reminded her.

Jerry dropped her eyes, the bloo

deepened on her fair cheek, and sh



clasped her small hands together. For

ong time no word was spoken.

"I didn't answer your question. I am nogoing back to Philadelphia. There must b

something else besides land in the West,

Jerry said, at last.

"Yes, we are here. Do stay right here wit

us," Laura Macpherson urged, warmly.

Every day the companionship of this gir

had grown upon her, for that was Jerry'

gift. But to the eager invitation of he

hostess the girl only shook her head.

York Macpherson sat combing his fingerhrough the heavy brown waves of hi

hair, a habit of his when he was thinkin

deeply. But if a vision of what might b



came to him unbidden now, a vision tha

had come unbidden many times in the las

wo weeks, making sweeter the smile tha

won men to him, he put it resolutely awafrom him for the time. He must help thi

girl to help herself. Romance belonged t

other men. He was not of the right mol

for that—not now, at least.

"I heard to-day that there is need of

mathematics teacher in our high-school fo

next year. It pays eighty dollars a month,he said.

"Oh, York," Laura protested, earnestly

"You know Jerry never thought of such ahing as teaching. And I really must hav

her here. You are away so much, you

know you are."



But her brother only smiled. When York

Macpherson frowned he might be givin

n, but his sister knew that his smile mean

absolute resistance.

"Ponk was talking to me to-day. He is th

reasurer of the school board now, and h

mentioned the vacancy. He was castinabout for some one fitted to teac

mathematics. Even though his mind run

more on his garage than on education, h

has a deep interest in the schools. Hadmires your ability to manage a car s

much it occurred to him that you migh

consider this position. Fine course o

reasoning, but he is sure of his ground."

"Let me think it over," Jerry said, slowly.

"And then forget it," Laura suggested



"York and I are invited out this evening

Won't you come with us? It is just a little

nformal doings across the river."

"I would rather be alone to-night," he

guest replied.

So the Macphersons let her have her way.



IX

IF A WOMAN WENT

RIGHT WITH HERSELF

And thus it happened that Jerry Swai

was alone this evening behind th

honeysuckle-vines, with leaf shadow an

moonbeams falling caressingly on he

filmy white gown and golden hair. For

ong time she sat still. Once she said, hal

aloud, unconscious that she was speakinat all:

"So Eugene Wellington has given up hi

art for an easy berth in the Darby bank. H



hadn't the courage to resist the temptation

hough it made him a tool instead of

master of tools. And we promised each

other we would each make our own wayndependent of Aunt Jerry's money. Maybe

f I had been there things would have bee

different."

She gripped her hands in her quick

nervous way, as a homesick longing swep

her soul. She was searching a way out fo

Eugene, a cause for putting all the blamon Aunt Jerry.

"I wish I had gone with the Macphersons

could have forgotten, for a while aeast."

A light step inside the house caught he

ear.



"Maybe Laura has come home," sh

hought, too absorbed in herself to as

why Laura should have chosen the sid

door when she knew that Jerry was alonon the front porch.

Again she heard a movement just insid

he open door; then a step on the thresholdand then a tall, thin woman walked out o

he house and half-way across the wid

porch before she caught sight of Jerry i

an easy-chair behind the honeysucklevines. The intruder paused a second

staring at the corner where the girl sa

motionless. From her childhood Jerry ha

possessed unusual physical courage. Tonight it was curiosity, rather than fright

hat prompted her to keep still while th

strange woman's eyes were upon her



Evidently the intruder was more surprise

han herself, and Jerry let her make th

first move in the game. The woman wa

angular, with swift but ungraceful motionFor a long time, as such seconds go, sh

stared at the white figure hidden by th

shadows of the vines. Then with a quic

stride she thrust herself before the girl andropped into a chair.

"Well, well! This is Miss Swim, ain't it?"

"As well that as anything. I can't lan

anywhere," Jerry thought.

"I'm Mrs. Stellar Bahrr, a good friend o

Laury Macpherson as she's got in thi

own, unless it's you. I seen you in York'

office this afternoon. I was sorry

ntruded on you two when you com



purpose to see him in his private office

When girls wants to see him that way the

don't want nobody, 'specially women

around."

Mrs. Bahrr paused to giggle and to giv

Jerry time to parry her thrust, meanwhil

pinning her through with the sharp pointof her eyes that fairly gleamed in th

shadow-checkered moonlight of the porch

Jerry was not accustomed to bein

accountable to anybody for what shchose to do, nor did she know that ever

man in New Eden, except York

Macpherson and Junius Brutus Ponk—an

every woman, without exception—reallfeared Stella Bahrr, knowing that sh

would hesitate at no kind of warfare t

accomplish her purpose. It is generall



easier to be decent than to be courageous

and peace at any price may be mor

desired than nasty word battles. No

knowing Stella for the woman she wasJerry had no mind to consider her at all

so she waited for her caller to proceed o

o leave her.

"You must excuse me if I seem to be

nterfering in your affairs. You are a

stranger here except to York and that man

Ponk—" Stella began, thrusting her hookmore viciously into her catch.

"Oh, you didn't interfere," Jerr

nterrupted her indifferently, and thepaused.

Mrs. Bahrr caught her breath. The girl wa

sinfully pretty and attractive, her beaut



and grace in themselves alone railing ou

at the older woman's ugly spirit of envy

And she should be tender, with feeling to

be lacerated for these gifts of naturenstead, she was firm and hard, with n

vulnerable spot for a poisoned shaft.

"I'm sure you had a right to go into a man'private office. It's everybody's right, o

course," she began, with that faint sneerin

one of hers that carried a threat of wha

might follow.

"Yes, but a little discourteous in me to

drive you out. That was Mr. Macpherson'

fault, not mine," Jerry broke in, easily.

"Maybe that's her grievance. I'll be decen

about it," the girl was thinking.



"I'm awfully bored right now." The wind

shifted quickly. "I run up to see Laury

minute. Just slipped in the side-stoop wa

o save troublin' you an' York out here. knowed Laury wouldn't be here, an

would you believe it? I clar forgot the

was gone out, an' I seen you all leavin

oo—I mean them, of course."

The threatening tone could not b

reproduced. It carried, however, a mos

uncomfortable force like a cruel undertowbeneath the seemingly safe crest of

wave.

"It's a joke on me bein' so stupid, but yowon't give me away to 'em, will you?"

"I'm awfully bored, too," Jerry thought.



"You say you won't tell 'em at all that

come?" Mrs. Bahrr insisted.

"Not if you say so," Jerry replied, with smile.

"I'm an awfully good friend of Laury's

She's a poor cripple, dependent on he

brother for everything, an' if he marries, a

he's bound to do, I'd hate to see her turne

out of here. This house is just Laur

hrough and through. Don't you think soCourse, though, if York marries again—

Stellar Bahrr stopped meditatively. "Al

he women in the Sage Brush Valley's jus

crazy about York. He's some flirt, bueverybody thought he'd settled his min

once sure. But I guess he flared up again

from what they say. She's too fur away

from town a'most. Them that's furtheres



away don't have a chance like them that'

nearest him. But it may be all just gossip

There was a lot of talk about him an' a gir

down the river that's got a cripplebrother—Paul Ekblad's his name; hers i

Thelmy—an' some considerable about on

of the Poser girls where he was up th

Sage Brush to this week. The married onnow, I think, an' a bouncin' big baby, bu

what do you care for all that?"

"Nothing," Jerry replied, innocently.

The steel hooks turned slowly to lacerat

deeper.

"Well, I must be goin'. You give me your

word you wouldn't cheep about m

forgettin' an' runnin' in here. York's such a

orment, I'd never hear the last of it.



know you are a honorable one with you

promises, an' I like that kind. I'm glad

met you. An' I'll not say a word, neither

bout your goin' to see York in his privateoffice. It's a bargain 'tween us two

Laury's an awfully good friend of your

an' she'll keep you here a good long while

she's that hos pit able."

The steel hooks tore their way out, and th

woman rose and strode quickly away. In

minute she had literally dropped froview in the shaded slope beyond th

driveway.

"I might as well punch a stick in water ostick a pin in old Granddad Poser'

ombstone out in the cimetery, an' expec

o find a hole left, as to do anything wit

hat pink-an'-white-an'-gold critter!" sh



exclaimed, viciously, as she disappeared

n the shadows. "I'm afraider of her than

would be of a real mad-cat, but she can

scare me!"

Out on the lawn the moon just then seeme

o cast a weird gleam of light, and to vei

rather than reveal the long street beyond iFor a minute after the passing of he

uninvited caller Jerry Swaim was fille

with an unaccountable fright. Then he

pulse beat calmly again and she smiled aherself.

"I don't seem to fear these Kansas men—

Mr. Ponk, for example, nor that Teddybear creature down by the deep hole in th

Sage Brush. But these Kansas women

except Laura—anybody would excep

Laura—are so impossible. That dairy



The poison was working, after all, an

Stellar Bahrr's sting had not been agains

marble, nor into water. With the memory

of Jerusha Darby, too, the burden camagain to her niece's mind, only to be lifte

again, however, in a few minutes. He

memory had run back to her day down th

river and the oak-grove and the sand, anhe young man whose name was Jo

Thomson—Jerry did not remember th

name—and the crushing weight of surpris

and disappointment. The struggle t

decide on a course for hersel

mmediately was rising again within her

when she saw a young man turn from thstreet and come up the walk toward th

porch.

"I can't have leisure to settle anything b



myself, it seems, even with the lord an

ady of the castle leaving me in ful

seclusion here. One caller goes an

another comes. I wonder what excuse thione has for intruding. He is another type—

one I haven't met before."

n the time required for this caller to reache porch there flashed through Jerry'

mind all the types she had seen in th

West. Ponk and Thelma and fuzzy Teddy

he woman-and-baby, Laura and York, anhat pin-eyed gossip—and the youn

country fellow whose land lay next t

hers. None of them concerned her, really

except these hospitable friends who wersheltering her, and, in a way, in an upright

egal, Jim Swaim kind of way, the youn

man down the Sage Brush, losing in th



game like herself and helpless lik

herself.

t was no wonder that Jerry did norecognize in this caller the ranchman o

he blowout. There was nothing of th

clodhopper in this well-dressed youn

fellow, although he was not exactly model for advertising high-grade tailoring

"Is this Miss Swaim?" he asked, lifting hi

hat. "I am Joe Thomson. You mayremember that we met down in th

blowout two weeks ago."

"I could hardly forget meeting you. Wil

you sit down?" Jerry offered Joe a chai

with a courtesy very unlike the blun

manner of her first words to him

fortnight before.



But in the far recesses of he

consciousness all the while the haunting

ever-recurring picture of a handsome fac

and a faultlessly clad form, even the facand form of a Philadelphia bank clerk, n

artist, made the reality of Joe Thomson'

presence very commonplace an

uninteresting at that moment, and hecourtesy was of a perfunctory sort.

"I hope I don't intrude. Were you busy?

Joe asked, something of thembarrassment of the first meeting comin

back with the question.

"Yes, I was very busy," Jerry repliedwith a smile. "Pick-up work, though. I wa

ust thinking. Lost in thought, maybe."

The moonlight can do so much for a prett



woman, but with Jerry Swaim one coul

not say whether sunlight, moonligh

starlight, or dull gray clouds did the mos

For two weeks the memory of her faiface, as he recalled it in the oak shad

down beside the blowout, had not bee

absent from the young ranchman's mind

And to-night this dainty girl out of the Easseemed entrancing.

"You were lost in thought when I saw you

before. I had an idea that city girls didndo much thinking. Is it your settle

occupation?" Joe inquired, with a smile i

his eyes.

"It is my only visible means of suppor

right now; about as profitable, too, a

farming a blowout," Jerry returned.



"Which reminds me of my purpose i

hrusting this call upon you," Joe declared

"I didn't realize the situation the other da

—and—well, to be plain, I came to beyour pardon for my rudeness in what

said about your claim. I had no idea wh

you were, you know, but that hardl

excuses me for what I said."

"It is very rude to speak so slightingly o

and that behaves as beautifully as min

does," Jerry said, with a smile that atonefor the trace of sarcasm in her voice.

"It is very rude to speak as slightingly as

did of the former owner. But you see have watched that brainless blowout thin

creep along, season after season, eating up

my acres—my sole inheritance, too."



"And you said you didn't go mad," Jerr

nterposed.

"Yes, but I didn't say I didn't get mad. have worn out enough profanity on tha

blowout to stock the whole Sage Brus

Valley."

"But you aren't to the last resort, for yo

do go mad here then, you told me.

wonder you aren't all madmen and wome

when I think of this country and remembehow different I had imagined it would be.

"When we come to the very last ditch, w

really have two alternatives—to go ma

and to go back East. Most folks prefer th

former. But I say again, it's always a lon

way to the last ditch out on the Sag

Brush, so we seldom do either."



"What should I do now? Won't you tel

me? I'm really near my last ditch."

Jerry sat with clasped hands, lookinearnestly into Joe's face, as she said this

Oh, fair was she, this exquisite white

blossom style of girl, facing her first life

problem, the big problem of living. JoThomson made no reply to her question

What could this dainty, untrained creatur

do with the best of claims? The fran

sincerity of his silence made an appeal ther that the wisest advice could not hav

made just then.

York Macpherson was right when he saidhat Jim Swaim's child was a type of he

own. If Jerry, through her mother's nature

was impulsive and imaginative, from he

father she had inherited balance and clea



vision. Her young years had heretofor

made no call upon her to exercise thes

qualities. What might have been turned t

he frivolous and romantic in one parenand the hard-headed and grasping in th

other, now became saving qualities for th

child of these two. In an instant Jerry rea

he young ranchman's character clearland foresaw in him a friend and helper

But there was neither romance no

selfishness in that vision.

"Mr. Thomson," the girl began, seriously

"you need not apologize for what yo

could not help feeling about the conditio

of my estate and the wrong that has beedone to you. I know you do not hold m

responsible for it. Let's forget that yo

hought you had said anything unpleasan



o me, for I want to ask your advice."

"Mine!" Joe Thomson exclaimed.

This sweet-faced, soft-voiced girl wawalking straight into another heart in th

Sage Brush Valley. Nature had given her

hat heritage, wherever she might go.

"Yes, your advice, please." Jerry went on

"You have watched that sand spreading

northward over your claim. You have had

days, months, years, maybe, to see th

blowout doing its work. I awakene

suddenly one morning from a beautifu

day-dream. My only heritage left of all th

fortune I had been brought to expect to b

mine, the inheritance I had idealized wit

all the romantic beauty and prosperit

possible to rural life, in a minute all thi



urned to a desert before my eyes. You

belong to the West. Tell me, won't you

what is next for me?"

"What could I tell you, Miss Swaim?" Jo

asked.

"Tell me what to do, I mean," Jerry

exclaimed. "Tell me quickly, for I am righ

against the bread-line now."

For a moment Joe stared at the girl i

amazement. Her earnestness left no roo

o misunderstand her. But his senses cam

back quickly, as one whose life habit i

had been to meet and answer har

questions suddenly.

"Why not go back East?" he asked.

"One of your two last resorts; the othe



one is madness. I won't do it," Jerry said

stubbornly. "Shall I tell you why?"

t was a delicious surprise to the younranchman to be taken into the confidenc

of this charming, gracious girl. Th

honeysuckle leaves, stirred by the sof

night breeze that came purring across thopen plain, gave the moonbeams leave t

play with the rippling gold of her hair, and

o flutter ever so faintly the soft whit

draperies of her gown. Her big dark eyesher fair white throat and shoulders, th

faint pink hue of her cheeks, the shapel

white arms below the elbow-frille

sleeves, her soft voice, her frank trust ihis judgment and integrity, made tha

appeal that rarely comes to a young man'

heart oftener than once in a lifetime.



"My father lived a rich man and died

poor man, leaving me—for mother wen

first—to the care of his wealthy sister. A

half-forgotten claim on the Sage Brush imy only possession after two years o

itigation and all that sort of thing." Jerr

paused.

"Well?" Joe queried.

"I was offered one of two alternatives:

might be dependent on my aunt's bounty ocould come out West and live on my

claim. I chose the West. Now what can

do?"

The pathos of the young face wa

ouching. The question of maintenance i

hard enough for the resourceful an

experienced to meet; how doubly hard i



must be to the young, untried, an

untrained!

Joe Thomson looked out to where thopen prairie, swathed in silvery mist

seemed to flow up to the indefinite bound

of the town. All the earth was beautiful i

he stillness of the June night.

"I don't know how to advise you," he said

at length. "If you were one of us—a rea

Western girl—it would be different."

To Jerry this sincerity outweighed any

suggestion he could have offered. Fro

he point of romance this young man wa

mpossible to Lesa Swaim's child. Ye

ruly nobody before, not even York

Macpherson, had ever seemed like such

real friend to her, and the chanc



acquaintance was reaching by leaps an

bounds toward a genuine comradeship.

"Why do you stay here? You weren't bornhere, were you? Tell me about yourself,

Jerry demanded.

"There's a big difference between ou

cases," Joe replied, wondering how thi

girl could care anything for his life-story

"I was the oldest child of our family. My

father came out here on account of hihealth, but he came too late, and died

eaving me the claim on the Sage Brus

and my pledge on his death-bed never t

eave the West, for fear I, too, wouldbecome an invalid as he had been. Ther

seems to be little danger of that, and I lik

he West too well to leave it now. And

hen, besides, I'm like a lot of othe



own, and I can begin to live my own life

ittle, comes my enemy, the blowout—"

"Oh, I never want to think of that awfuhing!" Jerry cried. "I shall give th

Macpherson Mortgage Company contro

of the entire sand-pile. I'll never pla

here again, never!"

n the silence that followed something i

he beauty of the midsummer night seeme

o fall like a benediction on this man anhis woman, each facing big realities

And, however different their equipmen

for their struggles had been in previou

years, they were not so far apart now aheir differing circumstances of life woul

ndicate.

"I must be going now. I did not mean to



ake so much of your time. I came only t

assure you that I am not always so rude a

he mood you found me in the other da

would indicate." Joe rose to go with thwords.

Jerry's mind had run back again, dreamily

o Gene Wellington, of Philadelphia, theGene as she knew and remembered him. I

was not until afterward that she recalle

her surprise that this ranchman of th

Western prairies should have such asimple and easy manner whose home lif

had evidently been so unlike her own.

"You haven't stayed too long," she saidfrankly. "And you haven't yet suggested

what an undertrained Philadelphia girl ca

do to keep the coyote from her dugou

portal."



f only she had been a little les

bewitchingly pretty, a little less sure tha

he distance of planet from planet la

between them, a strange sense of sorrowand a strange new purpose would not hav

found a place in Joe Thomson's heart then

With a perception much keener than he

own, he read Jerry's mind that night as shhad never tried to read it herself.

"I'm better up on soils and farm product

han on civic problems and sociaeconomy and such. Dry farming, clerking

sewing, household economics i

somebody's cook-shack, teaching schoo

giving music lessons, canvassing fomagazines—the Sage Brush girls do thing

ike these. I wish I could name a callin

more suitable for you, but this is the onl



ine I can offer," Joe said, thinking how

mpossible it would be for the girl besid

him to fit into the workaday world of th

Sage Brush Valley. On the next ranch tohis own up the river a fair-haired, sun

browned girl was working in the harvest

field this season to save the price of

hired hand, toward going to college thafall. Jolly, strong-handed, strong-hearted

Thelma Ekblad, whose name was yet t

adorn an alumni record of the bi

university proud to call her its product

Jerry Swaim would never thrive in th

same soil with this stout Norwegian.

They were standing on the porch stepnow, and the white moonbeams glorified

Jerry's beauty, for the young ranchman, a

she looked up at him with a smile on he



ips and eyes full of light, a sudde

decision giving new character to he

countenance. The suddenness of it, tha

was her mother's child. The purpose, thawas the reflection of Jim Swaim's mind.

"I'm on the other side of my Rubicon. I'

going to teach mathematics in the NewEden high-school. Will you help me to

keep across the river? There's a

nspiration for me in the things that yo

can do?"

"You! Teach mathematics! They always

have a man to teach that!" Joe exclaimed

wondering behind his words if he onldreamed that she had asked him to help t

keep her across her Rubicon, or if she ha

really said such a beautiful thing to him

Joe Thomson, sand-fighter and genera



oser, who wouldn't be downed.

"Oh, I don't wonder you are surprised!

always jump quickly when I do moveYou think I couldn't teach A, B, C, the

known quantities, let alone x, y, z, th

unknown quantities, don't you?" Jerr

said, gaily. "When I went to school I waa flunker in languages and sciences. I wa

weak in boarding-school embroidery, too

because I never cared for those things, no

was I ever made to study anything unless chose to do it. But I was sure i

rigonometry and calculus, which I migh

have dodged and didn't. I reveled in them

My mother was scandalized, and GenWellington, an artist, who, by the way, has

ust given up his career for a good ban

clerkship in Philadelphia, a sort of cousi



of mine, was positively shocked. I

seemed so unrefined and strong-minded

But my father said I was just his own fles

and blood in that line. Yes, I'll teachschool. Mr. Ponk is going to offer me th

position, and it's a whole lot better tha

he poor-house, or madness, or the Eas

maybe," she added, softly, with uminous glow in her beautiful eyes.

The old Sage Brush world seemed to slip

out from under Joe Thomson's feet jushen.

"Is your friend related to John Wellington

who once lived in Philadelphia?" hasked, after a pause, his mind far awa

from his query.

"Why, he's John Wellington's son! John



Wellington was a sort of partner of my

father's once," Jerry said. Even in the sof

ight Joe saw the pink flush deepen on th

girl's cheek. "Good night." She offerehim her hand. "I hope I may see you often

Oh, I hate that blowout, and you ought t

hate me on account of it."

"It is a brainless, hateful thing," Jo

Thomson declared, as he took he

proffered hand. "All my streams seem t

be Rubicons, even to the crooked old SagBrush. I can't be an inspiration to anybody

t is you who can give me courage. If yo

can teach mathematics in New Eden,

believe I can kill that blowout ."

The strength of a new-born purpose wa

n the man's voice.



"Oh, no, you can't, for it's mostly on m

and yet!" Jerry replied.

"Well, what of it? You say you won't playn that old sand-pile any more. What d

you care who else plays there? Goo

night."

"Good night, Mr. Thomson. Why, what i

hat?" Jerry's eyes were on a short, squa

figure standing in the middle of th

gateway to the Macpherson grounds.

"That's 'Fishing Teddy,' an old characte

who lives a hermit kind of life down th

Sage Brush. He comes to town about fou

imes a year; usually walks both ways; bu

promised to take him out with me to

night. He's harmless and gentle

Everybody likes him—I mean of our sort



You wouldn't be interested in him. Hi

real name is Hans Theodore, but, o

course, nobody calls him Mr. Theodore

Everybody calls him 'Fishing Teddy.Good night, Miss Swaim."

Joe Thomson lifted his hat and walke

away.

Jerry saw the old man shuffle out and joi

him, and the two went down the stree

ogether, one, big and muscular, with headerect and an easy, fearless stride; th

other, humped down, frowsy, shambling, a

sort of half-product of humanity, whos

companion was the river, whose daywere solitary, who had no part in th

moonlight, the perfume of honeysuckl

blossoms, the pleasure of companionship

he easy comfort that wealth can bring. Hi



o bear the heat and the cinders on the rea

platforms of jerky freight-trains, his t

serve his best food to imperious youn

city girls lost in an impetuous passion odisappointment in a new and bewilderin

and. And yet his mind was serene

Knowing the river would bring him hi

food in the morning and his commodity ocommerce for his needs, he was vastl

more contented with his lot to-night tha

was the stalwart young man who stalke

beside him, grimly resolving to go out an

do things.

Jerry watched the two until they turne

nto a side-street and disappeared. Thmoonlight was wondrously bright and th

air was like crystal. A faint, sweet odo

from hay-fields came up the valley now



and then, and all the world was serenel

silent under the spell of night. The ne

seemed torn away from about the girl'

feet, the cloud lifted from her brain, thblinding, blurring mists from before he

eyes.

"I have crossed my Rubicon," shmurmured, standing still in the doorway o

he porch trellis, breathing deeply of th

pure evening air. "I'm glad he came. I a

free again, and I'm really happy. I supposam queer. If anybody should put me in

novel, the critics would say 'such a gir

never came to Kansas.' But then if Gen

should paint that blowout, the criticwould say 'there never was such

andscape in Kansas.' These critics know

so much. Only Gene will never paint an



more pictures—not masterpieces, anyhow

But I'm going to live my life my own way

won't go back to idleness and a life o

sand at 'Eden.' I'll win out here—I will, will! 'If a woman goes right with herself

Oh, Uncle Cornie, I am starting. Whether

hold out depends on the way—an

myself."

When Laura Macpherson peeped int

Jerry's room late that night she saw he

guest sleeping as serenely as if her minhad never a puzzling question, her sunn

day never a storm-cloud. So far Jerry ha

gone right with herself.



X

THE SNARE OF THE

FOWLER

The big dramas of life are enacted in th

big centers of human population. Grea

cities foster great commercial institutions

hey father great constructive enterprises

hey endow great educational systems

hey build up great welfare centers; an

hey reach out and touch and shape greanational and international conditions. I

hem the big tragedies and comedies o

ife—political, religious, social, domesti

—have their settings. And under th



power of their combined units empire

appear and disappear. But, set in smalle

font, all the great dramas of life ar

printed, without a missing part, in thhumbler communities of th

commonwealth. All the types appear; al

conditions, aspirations, cunning seditions

and crowning successes have theiscenery and persona so true to form tha

sometimes the act itself takes on th

dignity of the big world drama. And th

actor who produces it becomes a star, fo

villainy or virtue, as powerful in hi

sphere as the great star-courted suns o

arger systems. Booth Tarkington makeone of his fiction characters say, "Ther

are as many different kinds of folks i

Kokomo as there are in Pekin."



ew Eden in the Sage Brush Valley, on

he far side of Kansas, might never inspir

he pen of a world genius, and yet in th

small-town chronicle runs the same dramof life that is enacted on the great stag

with all its brilliant settings. Only thes

smaller actors play with the simplicity o

nnocence, never dreaming that what theplay so well are really world-sized part

fitted down to the compass of thei

settings.

Something like this philosophy was i

York Macpherson's mind the next morning

as he listened to his sister and her gues

oitering comfortably over their breakfastA cool wind was playing through the sout

windows that might mean hot, sand-fille

air later on. Just now life was worth al



he cost to York, who was enjoying it to

he limit as he sat studying the two wome

before him.

"For a frivolous, spoiled girl, Jerry ca

surely be companionable," he thought, a

he noted how congenial the two wome

were and how easily at home Jerry waeven on matters of national interest. "

never saw a type of mind like hers befor

—such a potentiality for doing thing

coupled with such dwarfed results."

York's mind was so absorbed, as he sa

unconsciously staring at the fair-faced gir

opposite him, that he did not heed hisister's voice until she had spoken

second time.

"York, oh York! wake up. It's daylight!"



York gave a start and he felt his face flush

with embarrassment.

"As I was saying half an hour ago, brotherhave you seen my little silk purs

anywhere? There was too much of m

scant income in it to have it disappea

entirely."

"Yes, I took it. I 'specially needed the

money for a purpose of my own. I meant t

ell you, but I forgot it. I'll bring back thpurse later," York replied.

Of course Laura understood that this wa

York's return for catching him at a

disadvantage, but she meant to pursue th

quest in spite of her brother's teasing, fo

she was really concerned.



Only a few days before, the New Ede

eak had opened again and some reall

valuable things, far scattered and hardl

enough to be considered separately, haddisappeared. Laura by chance had hear

hat week of two instances on the tow

side of the river, and on the evenin

previous of one across the river.

Before she spoke again she saw tha

Jerry's eyes were fixed on the buffe

where two silver cups, exactly alike, saside by side. There was a quee

expression about the girl's mouth as sh

caught her hostess's eye.

"Is there any more silver of that pattern i

his part of the country?" she asked, wit

seeming carelessness, wrestling the whil

with a little problem of her own.



"Not a pennyweight this side of ol

Castle Cluny' in Scotland, so far as

know," York replied. "There's your other

cup, after all, Laura. By the way, MisJerry, how would you like to take

horseback ride over 'Kingussie'? I must g

o the far side of the ranch this morning

and I would like a companion—eveyourself."

"Do go, Jerry. I don't ride any more,

Laura urged, with that cheerful smile thaold how heroically she bore he

affliction. "I used to ride miles with York

back in the Winnowoc country."

"And York always misses you wheneve

he rides," her brother replied, beamin

affectionately upon his brave, swee

sister. "Maybe, though, Jerry doesn't rid



on horseback," he added.

At Laura's words Jerry's mind wa

flooded with memories of the Winnowocountry where from childhood she ha

aken long, exhilarating rides with he

father and her cousin Gene Wellington.

"I've always ridden on horseback," sh

said, dreamily, without looking up.

"She's going to ride with me, not wit

ghosts of Eastern lovers, if she rides to

day," York resolved, a sudden tenseness

catching at his throat.

"What kind of mounts are you afraid of? can have Ponk send up something easy,

he said, in a quiet, fatherly way.

Jerry's eyes darkened. "I can ride anythin



your Sage Brush grows that you call

saddle-horse," she declared, with prett

daring. "Why, 'I was the pride of th

countryside' back in a country where finhorses grew. Really and seriously, it wa

Cousin Gene who was afraid of spirite

horses, and he looked so splendid o

hem, too. But he couldn't manage theany more than he could run an automobil

over the bluff road above the big cut thi

side of the third crossing of th

Winnowoc. He preferred to crawl throug

hat cut in the slow old local train while

climbed over the bluffs in our big car

You hadn't figured on my boastingqualities, had you?" she added, with

smile at her own vaunting words.

"Oh, go on," Laura urged. "I heard you



father telling us once that your cousin, o

he Darby side, would ride out with yo

bravely enough, but that you traded horse

when you got off the place and you alwaycame back home on the one they wer

afraid for you to take out and your cousi

was afraid to ride back."

" S h e climbed while Cousin Gen

crawled . I believe she said somethin

here, but she doesn't know it yet; and it'

not my business to tell her till she askme." York shut his lips grimly at the

unspoken words. "We'll be back, appetite

and sundries, for the best meal th

scullery-maid can loot from the village,he said, as they rose from the table.

When Jerry came out of the side door

where York was waiting for her, she



suggested at once a model for a cove

llustration of an outing magazine, a

artistic advertisement for well-tailore

results, and a type of young Americabeauty. As they rode back toward the

barns and cattle-sheds that belonged to th

ranch edging the corporation limits o

ew Eden, neither one noticed the talangular form of Mrs. Stellar Bahrr as sh

came striding across lots toward th

driveway.

Stellar lived in a side street. Her bac

yard bordered a vacant lot on the next sid

street above her. Crossing this, she could

slip over the lawn of a vacant house andown the alley half a block, and on by th

United Brethren minister's parsonage. Tha

et her sidle between a little carpenter



shop and a shoe-shop to the rear gatewa

nto an alley that led out to the ope

ground at the foot of the Macpherso

knoll. Stellar preferred this corkscrewroute to the "Castle." It gave her severa

back and side views, with "listening

posts" at certain points.

"Oh, good morning, Laury! I'm so glad t

find you alone. I'm in a little trouble, an

mebby you can help me out. You are

everybody's friend, just like your brotherexactly. Only his bein' that way's bound to

get him into trouble sooner or before tha

Eh! What's that you're lookin' at?"

Laura had gone to the buffet after th

riders had started away. She had

singular feeling about that cup appearin

so suddenly. She remembered now tha



Jerry had asked twice about those cups

and had looked at them with such

peculiar expression on each occasion

Laura had not remarked upon it to herselhe first time, but the trifling incident at th

able just now stayed in her mind. Ye

why? The housekeeper often rearrange

he dining-room features in her endeavoo keep things free from dust. That woul

not satisfy the query. That cup and Jerr

Swaim were dodging about mos

singularly in Laura's consciousness, an

she could not know that the reason for i

ay in the projecting power of the mind o

he woman coming across lots at thamoment to call on her.

Yet when Mrs. Bahrr thrust herself into

he dining-room unannounced, as was he



habit, with her insistent greeting, and he

query, "What's that you're lookin' at?" th

mistress of "Castle Cluny" had a feeling o

having been caught holding a guiltsuspicion; and when Stellar Bahrr ran he

hrough with steely eyes she felt hersel

blushing with surprise and chagrin.

"How can I help you, Mrs. Bahrr?" sh

asked, recovering herself in a moment.

t was, however, the loss of the momenhat always gave the woman before her th

clue she wanted.

"I'm needin' just a little money—only

few dollars. I'm quittin' hat-trimmin' sinc

hem smarties down-town got so bus

makin' over, an' trimmin' over, an

everything. I'm goin' to makin' bread. I'v



get the money right away."

She rose to leave the room, then sat dow

again hastily."I'm afraid I can't help you right now

either. I have mislaid my purse. But whe

find it I'll let you have the money. Whe

York comes back maybe I can get it o

him. Could you come over thi

afternoon?"

"Mebby York won't let you have it to loan

where there ain't no big interest comin'. I'

ruther he didn't know it if you wasn

sure."

Laura recalled what her brother had sai

about not becoming entangled with Stella

Bahrr, and she knew he would oppose th



oan. She knew, too, that in the end h

would consent to it, because he himsel

was continually befriending the poor, no

matter how shiftless they might be.

"I think I can bring York round, all right,

Laura assured her caller. "He's no

unreasonable."

"I'd ruther he didn't know. Men are so

different from women, you know. You say

you lost your purse. Ain't that funnyWhere?"

"The funny thing is I don't know where,

Laura replied.

Mrs. Bahrr had settled down, and, havin

accomplished her open purpose, began t

rain her batteries for her hidden motive.



"Things gits lost funny ways, queer ways

and sometimes ornery ways. Ever' now an

hen things is simply missin' here in thi

burg—just missin'. But again there's sucqueer folks even in what you call the bes

s'ciety. Now ain't that so?"

Laura agreed amiably. In truth, she wantedo get her mind away from its substratu

of unpleasant and unusual thought fo

which she could not account. Nothin

could take her farther from it than MrsBahrr's small talk about people and things

She knew better than to accept the gossi

for facts, but there was no courteous wa

of stopping Stellar now, anyhow. One hado meet her on the threshold for that.

"'Tain't always the little, petty thievin

sneak gits the things, even if they do git th



blame of it. No, 'tain't." Mrs. Bahr

rambled on, fixing her hook eyes squar

nto her hostess at just the right momen

for emphasis. "I knowed the same thinhappen twice. Once back in Indiany

where I come from—jist a little town o

White River. There was a girl come to

hat town from"—hesitatingly—"froCaliforny; said to be rich, an' dressed i

all right; had every man there crazy abou

her, an' her spendin' money like wate

pours over a mill-wheel in March. Tel

you who she looked like—jist a mite lik

his Miss Swim stayin' at your house now

—big eyes an' innocent-lookin' like herbut this Californy girl was a lot the best

ookin' of the two—a lot. An' she was ric

—or so everybody thought. This un ain't.

got that out of Ponk 'fore he knowed i



An'—well, to make a story en

somewhere this side of eternity, I neve

could bear them ramblin' kind of folks—

first thing folks knowed a rich olbachelor got animated with her, just clea

animated , an' literally swore by her

An'—well, things got to missin' a little an

a little more, an', sir—well"—slowly anmpressively—"it turned out at last tha

his girl who they said was so rich was

hief , takin' whatever she could get, 'caus

she was hard up an' too proud to go bac

o Oregon to tell her folks. An' that ric

bachelor jist defended her ever' way—'

say he took things accidental, an' then helher to git 'em back, or git away with the

—it was like a real drammy jist like the

acted out in the picture show t'other nigh

down-town. There was lots of talk, an' i



nearly broke his sister's—I mean hi

mother's—heart. But, pshaw! that al

happened years ago down in Indiany o

he White River. It's all forgot long 'goGuess I'd never thought of it again if thi

Swim girl hadn't come here with her bi

eyes, remindin' me of that old forgo

eppisode, an' your losin' your pursmysterious. How things happen, year i

an' year out, place after place, the sam

kind of things; good folks everywhere

hough—everywhere. I was in York'

office late yistyday afternoon, an' this gir

comes in. Too bad she's so poor an' so

pretty."There was a venomous twist of the hook

at that word "pretty."

"But she's in trouble some way, all right,



know, an' York 'll help her out. I wouldn

ask him. Men take more int'rist naturally i

young an' pretty women. But it's differen

with older women. I hope York never gitcaught sometime like that man I knowe

back in Indiany. He's too smart for that

Miss Swim must have told York about he

money shortage yistyday. The postmastesaid she'd been waitin' for a chec

considerable. I couldn't get nothin' out o

him, whether it had come yet or not. But

guess not. But la! la! she's your guest; yo

wouldn't let her suffer; an' I ain't tellin'

soul what I know about things. I do know

what they say, of course. York won't leher suffer. But I'm so much obliged to you

Four dollars will be all I need, an' I'll pa

you with the first bakin's. I guess I'll se

some folks thinkin' when they see I ca



make my own way—"

Laura Macpherson was on her feet and i

was her eyes now that were holding thwoman of the steel hooks.

"Miss Swaim is our guest, the daughter o

an old friend of the Macphersons. O

course we—"

Oh what was the use? Laura's anger fel

away. It was too ridiculous to engage in

quarrel with the town long-tongue. York

was right. The only way to get along wit

Stellar Bahrr was not to traffic with her

Mrs. Bahrr rose also, gripping at th

chance for escape uninjured.

"I'll see you this afternoon if you still fee

ike helpin' me, an' York is willin'. I clea



forgot to put out my ice-card. Good day

Good day."

The woman shuffled away, leaving thmistress of "Cluny Castle" in the grip o

many evil spirits. The demon of anger, o

doubt, of contempt, of incipient distrust, o

self-accusation for even listening—thesand others contended with the angel of th

sense of humor and the natural courtesy o

a well-bred woman.

And then the lost purse came up again.

"I may have left it in Jerry's room when

went to that closet after my wrap las

evening. I'll never learn to keep m

clothes out of our guest-room, I suppose,

Laura said to herself, going at once t

Jerry's room.



As she pushed aside some dresse

suspended by hoops to a pole in th

closet, Jerry's beaded hand-bag fell from

shelf above the hangings, and thfastening, loosened by the fall, let th

contents roll out and lay exposed on th

floor.

As Laura began to gather them up and pu

hem back in their place, she saw her ow

silk purse stuffed tightly into the bottom o

her guest's hand-bag. And then and therhe poison tips of Stellar Bahrr's shaft

began a festering sore deep and difficult t

reach.

t was high noon when York Macpherson



and his fair companion returned from th

far side of the big Macpherson ranch

Jerry's hair was blown in ringlets abou

her forehead and neck. Her cheeks werblooming and her eyes were like stars

With the fresh morning breeze across th

prairie, the exhilarating ride on horseback

and the novel interest in a ranch whosappointments were so unlike "Eden" an

he other Winnowoc Valley farms, Jerry

had the ecstasy of a new freedom t

quicken her pulse-beat. She had solve

her problem; now she was free for he

romantic nature to expand. It was such

freedom as she had never in her wilful lifknown before, because it had a purpose i

t such as she had never known before,

purpose in which the subconsciou

knowledge of dependence on somebod



else, the subjection to somebody else'

ultimate control, played no part.

To Laura Macpherson she seemed to haveburst from the bud to the full-blow

flower in one short forenoon.

York's face, however, was wearing tha

mpenetrable mask that even his sister'

keen and loving eyes could never pierce

He had been impenetrable often in the las

few weeks. But of the York back of thaunreadable face Laura was sure. Even i

heir mutual teasings the deep, brotherl

affection was unwavering. As far as it la

n York's power he would never fail tomake up to his companionable sister fo

what circumstances had taken from her

And yet—the substratum of her disturbe

consciousness would send an upheaval t



he surface now and then. All norma

minds are made alike and played upon b

he same influences. The difference lies i

he intensity of control to subdue or yielo the force of these influences. Things ha

happened in that morning ride that York

had planned merely for the beneficence o

he prairie breezes upon the bewilderepurposes of the guest of the house.

On the far side of the "Kingussie" ranc

he two riders had halted in the shade of clump of wild plum-trees beside the trai

hat follows the course of the Sage Brush

Below them a little creek wound through

shelving outcrop of shale, bordered bsoft, steep earth banks wherever the shal

disappeared. This Kingussie Creek wa

sometimes a swift, dangerous stream, bu



oftener it was a mere runlet with deep

water-holes carved here and there in th

yielding shale. Just now, at the approac

of July heat, there was only a tiny threaof water trickling clear over yellow rock

or deep pools lying in muddy thickness i

he stagnant places.

"Not much like the Winnowoc," York

suggested, as his companion sat starin

down at the stream-bed below.

"Everything is different here," Jerry said

meditatively. "I've traveled quite a littl

before; been as far as the White Mountain

and the beautiful woodsy country up iYork State. There's a lot of upness and

downness to the scenery, but the people—

except, of course—" Jerry smile

bewitchingly.



"Except Ponk, of course," York supplied

with a twinkle in his eyes.

"How well you comprehend!" Jerrassured him. "But, seriously, the world i

so different out here—the—the people an

heir ways and all."

"No, Jerry, it isn't that. The climate i

different. The shapes of things differ

nstead of the churned-up ridged an

rugged timber-decked lands oPennsylvania and York State, the Creato

of scenery chose to pour out this lan

mainly a smooth and level and treeles

prairie—like chocolate on the top of ayer cake."

"Chocolate is good, with sand instead o

sugar," Jerry interrupted.



"But as to the people—the real heart of th

real folks of the Sage Brush—there's n

difference. They all have 'eyes, hands

organs, senses, affections, passions.' Theare all 'fed with the same food, hurt wit

he same weapons, subject to the sam

diseases, healed with the same means

warmed and cooled with the same summeand winter' as the cultured and unculture

folk of the Winnowoc Valley and the city

of Philadelphia. The trouble with us is w

don't take time to read them—nor eve

first of all to read ourselves. Of course

might except old Fishing Teddy, tha

fellow you see away down there wherhe shade is deepest," York added, to

relieve the preachment he didn't want t

seem to be giving, yet really wanted thi

girl to understand. "He's a hermit-crab an



seldom comes among us. Ever

community has its characters, you know."

"He was among us last night, and wenhome with Joe Thomson," Jerry replied

ooking with curious interest at th

motionless brown figure up-stream in th

shadow of a tall earth bank.

York gave a start and stared at the girl in

surprise. "How do you know? Did the Bi

Dipper come calling on you? That sort onformation is in the Great Bear's line."

Jerry flushed hotly as she remembered he

promise not to tell of Mrs. Bahrr's call. I

a dim sort of way she felt hersel

entangled for the moment. Then she looke

full at York, with deep, honest eyes

saying, simply:



"Joe Thomson was calling on me las

night, and I saw this old fellow, Han

Theodore, Joe named him, waiting on th

driveway, and the two went awaogether, a pair of aces."

"How do you know, fair lady, that this i

he same creature? And how do youhappen to know Joe Thomson?" York

nquired, blandly, veiling his curiou

nterest with indifference.

"I happened to meet both of these countr

gentlemen on a certain day. In fact, I dined

al fresco with one when I was riding i

my chariot, incognito, alone, unattendeby gallant outriders, about my blank blan

rural estate in the heart of the Sage Brus

country of Kansas. The 'blank blank

stands for a term not profane at all, bu



one I never want to hear again—that awfu

word 'blowout .'"

Jerry's humor was mixed with sarcasand confusion, both of which troubled th

mind of her companion. This girl had s

many sides. She was so unused to th

Western ways and he was trying to teachher a deeper understanding of huma

needs, and the human values regardless o

geography, when she suddenly revealed

self-possession telling of scraps of heexperience in a matter-of-fact way; an

yet a confusion for some deeper reaso

possessed her at certain angles. Why

That mention of Joe Thomson waannoying to York. Why? Jerry's assumed

familiarity with such a hermit outcast a

he old fisherman was puzzling. Why



York must get back to solid ground a

once. This girl was throwing him off hi

feet. Clearly she was not going to chatte

dly of all her experiences. She coulknow things and not tell them.

"Seriously, Jerry, there are no

geographical limits for culture anstrength of character. If you stay here lon

enough you will appreciate that," he bega

again where he had thrown himself off th

rail to avoid a preachment.

"Yes," Jerry agreed, with the same degree

of seriousness.

"See, coming yonder." York pointed up

he trail to where a much-worn automobil

came chuffing down the shaly road towar

he ford of Kingussie Creek. "That i



Thelma Ekblad and her crippled brothe

Paul. If you look right you will see th

same lines of courage and sweetness i

his face that are in my sister's. And yetalthough their lives have been cast i

widely different planes, their crosses ar

he same and they have lifted them in th

same way."

Jerry hadn't really seen the lines in Laur

Macpherson's face, because she had bee

oo full of her own troubles. With York'swords she felt a sense of remorse. Findin

fault with herself was new to her and i

made her very uncomfortable. Also thi

girl coming, this Thelma Ekblad, was thone whom Mrs. Bahrr had said York had

pretended to be interested in once. Jerr

had remembered every word of Stella



Bahrr's gossipy tongue, because her min

had been in that high-strung, tens

condition last night to receive and hol

mpressions unconsciously, like sensitized plate. The thought now mad

her peculiarly unhappy.

"Joe Thomson's farm is next to hers. Somday I'll tell you her story. It is a story—

real-life drama—and his."

York's words added another degree toJerry's disturbed mental frame.

"How do you do, Thelma? Hello, Paul

Fine weather for cutting alfalfa. M

machines are at it this morning." York

greeted the occupants of the car cordially

"Good morning, York. We are rushing a



piece of the mower up to the shop. Had

breakdown an hour ago."

Thelma was tanned brown, but her faibraids gleamed about her uncovered head

and when she smiled a greeting her fin

white teeth were worth seeing. Pau

Ekblad waved a thin white hand as the capassed the two on horseback, and th

delicate lines of his pale, studious fac

ustified York's comparison of it with

Laura Macpherson's. Jerry saw hehostess at that moment in a new light

Burdened for the moment as she wa

under the discomfort of what seemed half

consciously to rebuke the frivolous girhat she dimly knew herself to be, th

sudden memory of her resolve declared t

Joe Thomson in the shadow-flecked porc



he night before came as a balm and

stimulant in one, to give her purpose, self

respect, and peace.

Thus it was that Jerry came in to "Castl

Cluny" at high noon the picture of healt

and high spirits, shaming Laur

Macpherson's doubt and sorrow which hemorning had brought her. Laura wa

horoughly well-bred, and she had, beyon

hat, a strong and virtuous heritage o

Scotch blood that made for uprightnesand sincerity. With one effort she swep

out of her mind all that had harassed i

since the cup episode at the breakfast

able, establishing anew within heunderstanding the force of her brother'

admonition concerning any affiliation wit

he Big Dipper, the town meddler and



rouble-maker.

Late that afternoon, as Laura sat sewing i

he shade of the honeysuckle-vines, StellaBahrr hurried across lots again an

hitched cautiously up to the side door

Listening a moment, she heard the soun

of Laura's scissors falling on the cemenfloor of the porch, and Laura's impatien

exclamation, "There you go again!" as sh

reached to pick them up and examine th

points of their blades.

Stellar hitched cautiously a little furthe

along the wall, and stood in the shade o

he house, outside the porch vines.

"Laury," she called, in a sibilant voice, "

is' run in to say I won't need that money a

all. I'm goin' to go out sewin', an' I can gi



all I can do, now the wheat harves

promises so well. Ever'body's spendin

money on clo'es an' a lot of summer an

fall sewin' goin' to rot, you might say. I'lbe jis' blind busy, an' I can sew better tha

can bake or trim. But I'm same obliged."

"Won't you come in?" Laura must not berude, at any cost.

"No, I can't. I must run back. My ligh

bread's raisin' and it'll raise the ruff if don't work the meanness out of it."

Just then Jerry Swaim came boundin

hrough the hall doorway. "Look here

Laura! See what I have found." She hel

up her beaded hand-bag and pulled th

stuffed silken purse out of it. "Now how

did it ever get in there? I'm a good man



hings, but I never knew I was

shoplifter," Jerry declared, laughingly, a

bit of confused blush making her prettie

han usual.

"Why—why—" Laura was embarrassed

not for Jerry's sake, but on account o

hose steel hooks thrusting themselves inther back through the honeysuckle-vines.

"Say, Laury, I jis' wanted to say I'm goin

o Mis' Lenwell's first. Good-by." StellaBahrr's voice, sharp and thin, cut throug

he vines.

As Laura turned to reply Jerry saw he

fair face redden, and her voice was almos

harsh as she spoke clearly, to be wel

heard.



"I remember now. I must have put it i

here by mistake when you were down

own yesterday afternoon. I guess I though

t was my bag."

Mrs. Bahrr, turning to go, had caught sigh

of Jerry's hand-bag through the leaves, an

remembered perfectly that Jerry hacarried it with her down-town the da

before, and how well it matched th

beaded trimming of her parasol, her wide

brimmed chiffon hat, and the sequins oher sash trimmings against her sil

walking-skirt.

Jerry recalled taking the bag with her, tooand she recalled just then what Mrs

Stellar Bahrr had hinted about Laura no

wanting York to admire other women

Why did that thought come to the girl'



mind just now? Was the wish of the evi

mind of the woman hitching away acros

ots and corkscrewing down alleyway

projecting itself so far as this?



XI

AN INTERLUDE IN

"EDEN"

An interlude should be brief. This one ra

hrough a few midsummer days wit

amazing rapidity, considering that in it

duration the current of a life was change

from one channel, whither it had bee

ending for almost a quarter of a century

o another and widely different course tharan away from the very goal-mark of al

ts years of inspiring ambition.

t was late afternoon of a July day. Jerush



Darby sat in the rose-arbor, fanning and

rocking in rhythmic motion. The rose

vines had ceased to bloom. Their thinnin

foliage was augmented now by the heavieshade of thrifty moon-vines.

Midsummer found "Eden" no less restfu

and luxuriant in its July setting than it wan the freshness of June.

The afternoon train had crawled lazily up

he Winnowoc Valley on schedule timepermitting Eugene Wellington, in white

flannels, white oxfords, and pink-pin

striped white silk shirt, fresh from shav

and shower-bath, to come on schedulime to the rose-arbor for a conferenc

with Mrs. Darby.

The swift flow of events had no



outwardly affected the handsome youn

man. The time of the early June roses ha

found him poor in worldly goods, but ric

n a trained mind, a developed genius, yearning after all things beautiful, a fait

n divine Providence, aboundin

confidence in his own power to win to th

mastery in his beloved art, and glorying ihis freedom to do the thing he chose to do

t found him in love, and the almos

accepted lover of a beautiful, wilfu

magnetic girl—a girl with a sturd

courage in things wherein he was lacking

a frivolous, untrained girl, yet wit

surprising dependableness in any crisis. Ifound him the favorite nephew of a quie

uninteresting, rich old money-grubbin

uncle and his dominant, but highl

approving wife, whose elegant home wa



always open to him the while he fel

himself a pensioner on its hospitality.

Mid-July found him, in effect, the mastewhere he had been the poor relation; th

rich uncle gone forever from earthl

affairs; a dominant aunt still ruling—s

she fancied—as she had always ruled, buwith the consciousness of her firs

defeated purpose rankling bitterly withi

her. It found Eugene still in love with th

same beautiful, wilful girl, but far froany assurance of being a really accepte

over. It found him insensibly forgettin

he aspirations of a lifetime and beginning

ittle by little, to grasp after the Egyptiaflesh-pots. Life was fast becoming a roun

of easy days, whose routine duties wer

more than compensated by its charmin



domestic settings. The one unsatisfie

desire was for the presence of the bright

nspiring girl who had left a void whe

she went away, for whose return al"Eden" was waiting.

The swift course of events had create

other changes. Some growths are slowand some amazingly swift, dependin

upon the nature of the life-germ in the see

and the soil of the planting. In Eugen

Wellington the love of beauty found itcomfort in his present planting. It wa

easier to stay where beauty was ready

made than to go out and create it in som

ess lovely surroundings. Combine withis artistic temperament an inherent lac

of initiative and courage, a less resistan

force, and the product is sure. Moreover



his very falling away from the incentiv

o artistic endeavor exacted its penalty i

a dulled spirituality. Whoever denies th

allegiance due, in however small measure, to the call of art within him pay

always the same price—a pound of tende

bleeding flesh nearest his heart. Fo

Eugene Wellington the Shylock knife washarpening itself.

This July afternoon there were n

misgivings in his soul, however—nblack shadows of failure ahead. All th

serpents of "Eden" were very good littl

snakes indeed. After a while he would

paint again, leisurely, exquisitelyespecially would he paint when Jerr

came home.

As he lighted a cigarette, a recent custo



of his, and strolled down the shady way t

he rose-arbor to meet Mrs. Darby, h

drew deep draughts of satisfaction. It ha

been an unusually good day for himUnusually good. Business had made i

necessary to open some closed records i

he late Cornelius Darby's affairs, record

hat Mrs. Jerusha Darby herself had noyet examined. They put a new light on th

whole Darby situation. They went furthe

and threw some side-lights on the late Ji

Swaim's transactions. Altogether the

were worth knowing. And Eugene

wielding a high hand with himself, had

once for all, stilled his finer sense ofitness in his right to know these things

He had also made rapid strides in thi

brief time toward comprehending busines

ethics as differing from church ethics an



artistic ethics. Face to face in a conflic

with Jerry Swaim, with Aunt Jerry Darby

with his conscience, his God, he wa

never sure of himself. But as to managinhings, once he had shut his doors an

barred them, he was confident. It was

ruly confident Gene who steppe

promptly into the rose-arbor on thmoment expected. To the old woman

waiting for him there he was good to loo

upon.

"I'm glad you are on time, Gene," Mrs

Darby began, rocking and fanning mor

deliberately. "I'm ready now to settl

matters once for all."

"Yes, Aunt Jerry," Eugene responded

fitting himself gracefully into the setting

of this summer retreat, with a look o



steady penetration coming into his eyes a

he took in the face before him.

"Any news from the Argonaut to-day?" hasked, at length, as Mrs. Darby sat silentl

rocking.

"Not a line. I guess Jerry is waiting for m

o ask her to come back. She must b

hrough with her romantic fling by thi

ime, and about out of money, too. So

now's the time to act and settle matters, asay, once for all. Jerry must com

home."

"Amen, and amen," Eugene agreed

fervently.

"And if she won't come home herself, sh

must be brought—to see things as we do



Must , I say, Eugene."

"I'm glad she didn't say 'brought home' i

she's going to send me after her," thyoung man thought. The memory of havin

been sent after Jerry in years gone by, and

of coming back empty-handed, but full

hearted and sore-headed, were still stronwithin him. "How shall we make he

see?" he inquired.

Mrs. Darby rocked vigorously for a fewminutes. Then she brought her chair to

dead stop and laid down the law withou

further shifting of anchors.

"All my property, my real estate, countr

and city, my bank stocks, my governmen

bonds, my business investments—

everything—is mine to keep for m



ifetime, and to pass by will t

whomsoever I choose. Of course it's onl

natural I should choose the only membe

of my family now living to succeed to mpossessions."

How the "my" sounded out as the woma

alked of her god, to whose service shwas bound, but of whose blessings sh

understood so little!

Eugene sat waiting and thinking.

"Of course, whoever marries Jerry wit

my approval will come into a fortun

worth having."

"He certainly will," Eugene declared

fervently.

A clear vision of Jerry and June rose



swept his soul with refreshing sweetness

followed by the no less clear imagery o

Uncle Cornie stepping slowly bu

persistently at the wrong moment after hiwabbling discus. He looked away dow

he lilac-walk, unconsciously expectin

he familiar, silent, uninteresting face and

figure to come again to view. To the artisspirit in him the old man was there as rea

o vision as he had been on that last—los

—June day.

"You are thinking of Jerry herself. I am

hinking of her inheritance, which is a dea

more sensible, although Jerry is a

unusually interesting and surprising girl,he old woman was saying.

"Unusually," Eugene echoed. "And in cas

you do not make a will?"



The young man was still looking down th

ilac-walk as he asked the question

seemingly oblivious to the narrow eyes o

Mrs. Darby scrutinizing his face.

"I have already made it. If things do no

please me I shall change it. I may do tha

half a dozen times if I choose before I'hrough with it. Now listen to me." Th

woman spoke sharply.

Eugene listened, wondering the whilwhat sort of lightning-rod she carried, t

speak with such assurance of all she mean

o do before she was through with th

ransactions of this life. Uncle Cornie hanot been so well defended.

"I want you to write to Jerry to com

home. You can pay her expenses. She wil



ake the money quicker from you than fro

me. She's as proud as Lucifer in som

hings, once she's set. But she's in lov

with you, and where a girl's in love shistens."

Eugene looked up quickly. "Are yo

sure?" he asked, eagerly.

"Of course I am! Why shouldn't I know

ove when I see it?" Mrs. Darby inquired.

Yes, why?

"But you mustn't give in, nor plead wit

her. Just tell her how well fixed you are

and how much she is missing here, anhat you will wait her time, only she mus

come back, and promise to stay here, o

'll cut my will to bits, I certainly shall. I'l



write myself to York Macpherson. He'

evel-headed and honorable as truth. If h

was dead in love with Jerry himself—a

he no doubt is by this time—he'd just put iall away if he found out he was denyin

me my rights. I'll put it up to his honor

And so with him at that end of the line

and you here, and me really moving thchessmen, it can't be a losing game

Eugene. It simply can't. Jerry may not ge

ired of her new playthings right away, bu

she will after a while. It isn't natural fo

her to take to a life so awfully differen

from her bringing up. When the new wear

off she'll come home, even if necessitdidn't drive her, as it's bound to sooner o

ater. She's nearly out of money right now

and she can't sponge off the Macpherson

forever and be Jim Swaim's child. I



everything clear to you now?"

Eugene threw away his cigarette an

ighted a fresh one, his face the while aexpressionless as ever the dry, dull fac

of Cornelius Darby had been. At last h

answered:

"Mrs. Darby has made a will, presumabl

n favor of her niece, Geraldine Swaim—

a will subject to replacement by an

number of wills creating othebeneficiaries. In any event, Mrs. Darb

proposes to have a voice in the fina

disposition of her property."

Mrs. Darby nodded emphatically. "

certainly do."

Eugene smiled approval of such goo



udgment. "You are right, Mrs. Darby

What is your own you should contro

always. But, frankly, Aunt Jerry, it is

Geraldine Swaim herself who is mfortune—if I can ever acquire it."

"You don't object to her prospects,

hope," Mrs. Darby interrupted, with winkle in her eye.

"I couldn't, for her sake. And I am artisti

enough to love the charm of an estate likhis; and sensible enough, maybe, t

appreciate the influence and opportunit

hat are afforded by the other financia

assets of the Darby possessions. I'll do aln my power to bring Jerry back to a lif

of ease and absence of all anxiety an

responsibility. Shall I go out to Kansa

after her?"



An uncomfortable feeling about that York

Macpherson had begun now to pull har

upon Eugene's complacent assurance

although he had rebelled a few minuteago at the thought of going anywhere afte

Jerry.

"Never," Mrs. Darby responded. "Iwould just give her another chance fo

adventure and seem to acknowledge tha

we couldn't do without her."

n truth, Mrs. Darby was shrewd enough t

know that with Eugene on the ground sh

could not count on York Macpherson a

her ally. York would naturally championJerry's cause, and she knew that Eugen

Wellington would be no match for the

diplomatic man of affairs whom she ha

known intimately from his childhood.



"Aunt Jerry, how much do you know of th

value of this Swaim estate?" Eugen

asked, suddenly.

"Very little. Cornelius told me that he had

a full account of it. That was on the ver

day he was—he passed away. The papers

except the one Jerry found here the daafter the funeral, have all been mislaid."

"Then I'd advise you to write to thi

Macpherson person and find out exactlwhat we have to fight against," the youn

man suggested. "Meantime I'll write t

Jerry. I'm sure she should be ready to

isten now. All I claim to know of thabeastly region out West I learned from my

father, but that is enough for me. If ther

were really a bit of landscape worth th

cost of the canvas I might go out there an



paint it. But who cares to paint in only tw

colors, blue one half—that's sky

unclouded, monotonous; and chrom

yellow, the other half—that's land. I couldpaint the side of the cattle-barn ove

yonder half yellow, half blue, and put a

much expression into it."

Mrs. Darby listened approvingly. "I'

very thankful that you see things s

sensibly. The sooner you replace wha

sn't worth while with what is the sooneyou will know you are a success in you

business. We will write those letters to

night. I'm having your favorite dishes fo

dinner now, and we'll be served here. It iso pleasant here at this time of day. I'll go

and see to things right away, and we'l

have everything brought out pretty soon."



The owner of all this dainty comfort an

restfulness and beauty hurried away

eaving Eugene Wellington alone in the

rose-arbor—alone with memories of JerrSwaim, and Uncle Cornie, and life, an

ove, and hope and high ambition, an

himself—the self that a man must go righ

with, if he goes with him at all.

For a long half-hour he sat there in th

rose-arbor, the appealing call of hi

divine gift filling his artist soul. Then hiudgment prevailed. What he most wante

o have was here, ready to have now—an

o hold later with only a little patien

waiting. A few weeks, or months, omaybe even a year, a run of four swif

seasons, and the girl of his heart's hear

would come back into her own, and fin



him ready for her coming. That impossibl

York was not to be considered. Jerry wa

no fool, if she was sometimes a bit foolis

n her pranks. And he, Eugene Wellingtonhad only this day learned of the whol

Swaim situation, what was vastl

valuable to know. Meantime, his the tas

o keep that precious Jerusha Darby wilntact; or, failing in that, came the mor

difficult and delicate task of controlling o

holding back the pen that would writ

another will. And in the end Jerry would

ove him forever for what he would sav

for her—for her—

The memory of what he had learned thaday in the business house in the city cam

with its testimony that he was shaping hi

ife course well. Only one little foxy fea



dodged about in his mind—the fear tha

Jerry—the Jerry he knew, lovable in spit

of all her little failings, beautifu

picturesque, and surprising—that thiJerry, whom he thought he knew so well

might prove to be an unknowable

unguessable Jerry whose course woul

baffle all his plans, his efforts, his hearongings. It must not be. He would preven

hat. But could he?

The coming of dainty viands witexquisite appointments gave nourishmen

o his ready appetite, and dulled for a tim

he thing within him that sometime mus

cry out to power or be sleeked down intfat and unfeeling subjection.

That night two letters were written to New

Eden, Kansas, but neither writer reall



knew the reader to whom the letter wa

written, nor measured life purposes by th

same gauge, so setting anew the world-ol

stage for a drama in human affairs whoscrowning act shapes human destinies.



XII

THIS SIDE OF THE

RUBICON

n the late afternoon of a July Sabbat

Jerry Swaim had gone for a stroll alon

he quiet outskirts of New Eden. Laur

was napping in the porch swing, and York

had gone to his office in answer to

elephone call. Jerry was rarely lonel

with herself and she was a good walkerShe was learning, too, the need for bein

alone with herself, for there were man

hings crowding into her mind tha

demanded recognition.



Jerry attended church with th

Macphersons every Sunday, but it was

mere perfunctory act on her part. To-day

he minister was away. He had gone to thupper Sage Brush to officiate at th

funeral of Mrs. Nell Belkap that had bee

ell Poser, she of the tow hair and big

unging baby. She had died of congestionfollowing over-heating in cooking fo

hreshing-hands for her mother, her fathe

being the kind of man that objected t

hired help for "wimmin folks." All tha

was nothing to Jerry, who found hersel

wondering, in a vague sort of way, jus

where that baby would sprawl itselfunattached to its mother's anchorage

Babies were not in Jerry's scheme o

hings at all.



on their way to that up-country Pose

funeral. Why should Paul Ekblad go so fa

o a funeral?

Jerry strolled aimlessly along the smoot

road leading out to the New Ede

cemetery, her bead-trimmed paraso

shading her bare head, and her pale-greeorgandie gown making her appear ver

summery. Jerry had the trick of fitting al

weather except the heated, sand-fille

days of mid-June on a freight-train, whiccondition Junius Brutus Ponk declare

"was enough to muss a angel's wings an

make them divine partial-eclipse ange

draperies look dingier than dish-rags."

There were half a dozen well-grow

cottonwood-trees in the cemetery, wit

rows of promising little elms, catalpas



and box-elders all symmetrically set. Th

grass was brown, but free from weeds; th

walks were only smooth paths. But th

shade of the cottonwood group, and thquiet of the place, seemed inviting. Ever

foot of the wind-swept elevation wa

visible to the whole town, but the distanc

was guarantee for undisturbed meditationJerry had no interest in cemeteries. Sh

had rarely visited the corner of "Eden

where the few elect by family ties ha

heir last resting-place. She walked dow

he grassy paths toward the larges

cottonwoods, now, indifferent alike to th

humble headstone and the expensive ansometimes grotesque granite memorial. B

he tallest shaft in the place, designated b

Stellar Bahrr as "Granddad Poser'

monniment," she sat down in the shade o



good-natured. He was so grotesquel

mpossible to her—a caricature cut fro

some comic magazine, rounded out an

animated.

"Say you wouldn't? Now that's rea

queer." The short man opened his littl

eyes wide with surprise. "Now I soadown here regular every Sunday evenin

of the world, summer and winter."

"What for?" Jerry asked, looking up at thspeaker with curiosity.

ew Eden was still in that stage when

funeral was a public event. And the belie

was still maintained that the dead out i

he cemetery must be conscious of ever

attention or lack of it shown to thei

memory by visits and flowers, and th



price of tombstones. In a word, to th

ew Eden living, the New Eden dea

were not really in the Great Hereafter, bu

here, demanding consideration in thsocial economy of the community.

Ponk was more shocked at Jerry's quer

han she could begin to comprehend, anhis interest in her and pity for her took

still stronger grip on life.

"Why, Miss Swaim, I come out here to semy mother. I 'ain't never failed to bring he

a flower in summer, or a green leaf i

winter, one single Sunday since she wa

aid out there on the south slope onEaster day eight Aprils ago."

"But she isn't there." Jerry spoke gentl

now, realizing that she had hurt hi



unintentionally.

"She is to me, an' I'd ruther think i

hataway an' feel like I was callin' everSunday, never forgettin'," Ponk said

sadly.

"Where's your dead to you, Miss Swaim?

he asked, after a pause.

Jerry, who was gazing down the Sag

Brush Valley, turned slowly at his words

her big eyes luminous with tears.

"They are not." She waved a hand agains

viewless air.

"Oh yes, they are, walkin' beside yo

every day, lovin' you and proud of you! A

good mother just lives on an' keeps doin

good, and so does a father, if you let 'em.



Ponk hesitated, and his moon-round fac

was flushed. "I ain't tryin' to preach," h

added, hastily. "They's some things

hough, we all got to cling to or else gehustled off our feet into a big black voi

where we just sink and die. It ain't jus

Sage-Brushers, but it's all Christians—

Baptists and Cammylites and High Churcand everybody. It's safer to stand in th

ight than sink in the bottomless night. But

say, look who's comin' an' see what'

railin' him. I guess I'll be soarin' back t

he hotel now. Pleased to meet you—

always am pleased." Ponk lifted his ha

and bowed uncovered, and uncoverewalked away.

What he had said in the sincerity of hi

spiritual belief fell on fertile soil in th



mind of his listener. He had preached

sermon to her that was good for her t

hear.

Jerry looked out in the direction he ha

ndicated and saw York Macpherson

walking a bit briskly for him and the plac

and the afternoon.

t was no wonder that Jerusha Darb

should expect York to be caught by the

charms of his guest. As she sat there in thshade of the cottonwoods, where, in al

he cemetery, the blue grass grew rankest

with her pale-green gown, her smoot

pink cheeks, and the wavy masses ogolden-brown hair coiled low at the bac

of her head, York wondered if the spirit o

he wild rose in bloom and the spirit o

some Greek nymph had not combined i



he personification before him.

At the gateway he met Ponk.

"Why do you run away? I have a specialdelivery letter for Miss Swaim. I though

'd better come and find her, but tha

needn't interfere with you."

"Oh, you smooth-bore! But I have to go

anyhow. I'm headin' off what's trailin' you

Don't look back. It's Stellar Bahrr, comin

out to see who's been to see their folks to

day and who's neglectin' 'em, 'speciall

ate arrivals. She's seen my game, though

now, an' she's shabbin' off to the side gate

knowin' I'd head her back to town. Say

York, she's after Miss Swaim now. You

watch out. Them that's the worthlesses

and has the least influence in a communit



can start the biggest fires burnin

Everybody in New Eden's been buffaloe

by her—just scared blue—except mayb

us two. You ain't, I know, and I'm righsure I ain't."

"Ponk, you are as good as you are good

ooking," York said, heartily. "The BigDipper could start a tale of our gues

meeting gentlemen friends in the cemetery

And yet for privacy it's about like meetin

hem on the sidewalk before thCommercial Hotel. However, she's starte

scandal with less material. I have busines

with Miss Swaim, so I'll walk home wit

her."

Jerry waited for her host under th

flickering, murmuring leaves of th

cottonwood. She had seen some woma



wandering diagonally from the cemeter

road toward the corner of the inclosure

but she had no interest in strangers an

might never have thought of her again bufor a word of York's that day.

He had seen the girl looking after Stella

as she made a wide flank movement. Asense of duty coupled with a strang

nterest in Jerry, for which he had as ye

given no account to himself, was urgin

him to tell her, as he had told his sister, tohave no traffic with the town's greates

iability, but with all of Ponk's warning h

could not bring himself to speak now.

"May I sit here with you awhile?" h

asked, lifting his hat as he spoke.

"Certainly. It is so quiet and peaceful ou



here, and, as I have no associations wit

his place, I can sit here without bein

unhappy or irreverent," Jerry replied.

"I came out to find you. There are caller

at home now, so I'll give you my messag

here, unless you want to follow Mr

Ponk's example and 'soar' off home."

"That man interests me," Jerry declared

"He said some good things about hi

mother just now. And yet he's so—sofunny."

"Oh, Ponk's outside is against him. If h

could be husked out of himself and let th

community get down to the kernel of hi

he is really fine wheat," York said

conscious the while that he had not mean

for some reason, to praise the struttin



midst of the reading, and the wind-swep

cemetery and all the summer-seare

valley of the Sage Brush vanished. Th

Macphersons; Ponk; Thelma Ekblad in thautomobile by the cemetery gate, holdin

something in her arms, and her fair-haire

brother, Paul; Joe Thomson (why Joe?)—

all were nothing. Before her eyes all waEugene—Eugene and "Eden." Then sh

read on to the end. One reading wa

enough. When York came back she was

sitting with the letter neatly folded into it

envelope again, lying in her lap.

York had a shrewd notion of what tha

etter contained, but there was nothing iJerry's face by which to judge of its effec

on her. Two things he was learning abou

her—one, that she didn't tell all she knew



after the manner of most frivolous-minde

girls; the other, that she didn't tell anythin

until she was fully ready to do so. H

admired both traits, even though thebaffled him. In his own pocket wa

Jerusha Darby's letter, also speciall

delivered. He sat down by Jerry an

waited for her to speak.

"Were those the people we saw on the

south border of 'Kingussie'?" she asked.

"Yes," York replied.

"Do they interest you?" she questioned.

"Very much."

"Why?" Jerry was killing something—

ime, or thought.



"Because, as I told you the other day, th

same life problems come to all grades

And life problems are always interesting,

York declared.

"Has Thelma Ekblad a blowout farm

oo?" Jerry's face was serious, but he

eyes betrayed her mood.

"Better a blowout farm than a blowou

soul," York thought. "No. I wonder wha

she would do with it if she had," he saidaloud.

"Just what I am doing, no doubt, since al

of us, 'Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady

are alike. Tell me more about her," Jerry

demanded.

"She's talking against time now, I know



but I'll tell her a few things," York

concluded.

"Jerry, there are not many women like thiorwegian farmer girl who is working he

way through the State University down a

Lawrence. A few years ago her brothe

Paul was in love with a girl up the SagBrush, the daughter of a prosperous

stupid, stingy old ranchman. Paul wa

chewed up in a mowing-machine one da

when the horses got scared and ran awaybut his girl was true to him in spite of he

father's objections to him. Then came

woman—a sharp-tongued gossip (she'

over yonder now by the side gate)—whmanaged to stir up trouble purely for th

nfernal joy of gossip, I suppose, betwee

his girl and Thelma. I needn't go int



detail; you probably do not care much fo

he general outline."

"Go on," Jerry commanded."Well, it was the rough course of true love

over again. Between the father and th

sister the match was broken off, an

before things could be reconciled th

girl's father forced the marriage of hi

daughter to a worthless scamp who pose

as a rich man, or an heir expectant triches. The Ekblads are hard-workin

farmer folk. When it was too late th

misunderstanding was cleared up. Th

rich fellow soon proved a fraud and rascal and a wife-deserter. And the gir

came home with her baby. Her father, as

said, was too stingy to hire help. So thi

girl-mother overworked in threshing-time



and—was buried this afternoon up th

Sage Brush—old man Poser's daughter

ell Belkap. The Ekblads have just com

from the funeral. Old Poser has refused tcare for Nell's baby and intended to put i

n an orphan asylum. Thelma Ekbla

brought it home with her. It was in he

arms just now, and she's going to keep iand adopt it. When she's away at school—

she has a year yet before she graduates—

hat crippled brother, Paul, will take car

of it. All of which is out of your line

Jerry, but interesting to us in the valle

here."

As York paused and looked at Jerry, alhat Stellar Bahrr had said of him and th

Poser girl swept through her mind. Not th

east meanness of a lie is in its infectiou



Ekblad will find his solace in caring fo

ell Poser's child and in knowing it wa

her wish that he is fulfilling. That is th

real solace for the loss of loved ones."

Jerry remembered Uncle Cornie and hi

withered yellow hand under her plump

white one as he told her of Jim Swaim'wish for his child.

"If I carry out that wish I will be true t

my father—and—he will be happier," shhought, and a great load seemed liftin

tself from her soul.

"Oh, father, father! You are not in the

Eden' burial-plot. You are here with me.

shall never lose you." The girl's face wa

enderly sweet with silent emotion as sh

urned to the man beside her.



"I'm glad you told me that story. May

come down to your office in the mornin

for a little conference? I can come at ten."

"Certainly. Come any time," York assured

her, wishing the while that the plea o

Jerusha Darby's that lay in his pocket wa

n the bottom of Fishing Teddy's deep holedown the Sage Brush.

The next morning Jerry Swaim came int

he office of the Macpherson MortgagCompany promptly at the stroke of ten b

he town clock.

"If I were only a younger man," York

Macpherson thought, feeling how th

presence of this girl transformed the roo

she entered—"if I were only younger

would fall at her shrine, without



question. Now I keep asking myself how

woman can be so charming, on the on

hand, and so characterless maybe, shallow

anyhow, on the other. But the test is on fosure now."

o hint of this thought, however, was i

his face as he laid aside his pen anasked, in his kindly, stereotyped way:

"What can I do for you?"

"You can be my father-confessor for a

minute or two, and then make out my las

will and testament for me," Jerry replied

with a demure smile.

"So serious as all that?" York inquired

gravely, picking up a blank lease form a

f to write.



"So, and worse," Jerry assured him. But i

an instant her face was grave. "You know

my present situation," she began, "and tha

must decide at once what to do, and thedo it. I'm so grateful that you understan

and do not try to offer me friendship fo

service."

York looked at her earnest face and

glowing dark-blue eyes wonderingly. Thi

girl was forever surprising him, either b

flippant indifference or by unexpectensight.

"You know a lot about my affairs, o

course," Jerry went on, hurriedly. "AunDarby offered both of us—me, I mean,

home with her, a life of independen

dependence on her—charity—for that, a

bottom, was all that it was. And when



"She is not going to be led , whicheve

way she goes. I told Laura so," wa

York's mental comment.

"Does this finish your 'confession'?" h

asked.

"I may as well tell you the other side o

he story." Jerry's voice trembled a little

"Cousin Gene Wellington was in the same

boat with me, a dependent like myself. Bu

now that he has given up to Aunt Jerry'wishes, I suppose he will be her hei

some day, unless I go back and ge

forgiven."

"This artist's father was in business wit

your father once, wasn't he?" York asked.

"Yes, and there was something I neve



could understand, and Aunt Jerry neve

mentioned, about that; but she did sa

often that Cousin Gene would make up fo

what John Wellington lacked, if thingwent her way. They haven't all gone he

way—only half of them, so far."

"Do you fully understand what you argiving up, Jerry?" York asked, earnestly

"That life might be a much pleasante

story back East, even if it were a bit les

romantic than the story on the Sage BrushMight not your good judgment take yo

back, in spite of a little pride and th

newness of a different life here?"

As York spoke, Jerry Swaim sat looking

earnestly into his face, but when he ha

finished she said, lightly:



"I thought before I saw you that you wer

an old man. You seem more like a brother

now. I never had a brother, nor a sister—

nothing but myself, which makes too big houseful anywhere." She grew seriou

again as she continued: "I do understan

what I'm giving up. It was tabulated in

etter to me yesterday, and I do not give upightly nor for a girl's whim now. I hav

my time extended. There seems to b

ndefinite patience at the other end of th

ine, if I'll only be sure to agree at last."

"Pardon me, Jerry, if I ask you if it is

question of mere funds." York spoke

carefully. "I know that Mrs. Darby may bdrawn on at any time for that purpose."

"Did she tell you so?" Jerry asked

bluntly.



"She did—when you first came here,

York replied, as bluntly.

Jerry did not dream of the struggle thawas on in the mind of the man before her

but her own strife had made her mor

houghtful.

For a little while neither spoke. The

York Macpherson's face cleared, as one

who has reached the top of a difficul

height and sees all the open country on thother side. Jerusha Darby's plea had won.

"Jerry, you do not understand what i

before you. Whoever takes up the busines

of self-support, depending solely on th

earnings that must be won, has a sur

battle with uncertainty, failure, sacrifice

and slow-wearing labor. Of course it is



glorious old warfare—but it has that othe

side. In the face of the fact that I am you

fortunate host, and that my sister i

happier now than she has ever been beforn New Eden, and hopes to keep you here

urge you, Jerry, to consider well befor

you refuse to go back to your father'

sister and your artist cousin."

The "father's sister" was a master-stroke

t caught Jerry at an angle she had no

expected. But that "artist cousin"! If Genhad been truly the artist, Jerry Swaim ha

yielded then. The failure to be true t

oneself has long tentacles that reach fa

and grip back many things that else hacome in blessing to him who lies to hi

own soul.

"I won't go back. That is settled. Now a



o my last will and testament, please,

Jerry said, prettily.

"Imprimis," York began, with his pen onhe lease form before him.

"Oh, drop the Latin," Jerry urged. "Say, 'I

Geraldine Darby Swaim, being of soun

mind and in full possession of all m

faculties, and of nothing else wort

mentioning, being about to pass into th

final estate and existence of an old-maischool-teacher, a high-school teacher o

mathematics'—Please set that down."

"So you are going to teach. I congratulat

you." York rose and took the girl's hand.

"Thank you. Yes, I just 'soared' over to the

hotel and signed my contract with Mr



Ponk and the other two members in goo

standing, or whatever they are." Jerr

would not be serious now. "And th

remainder of my will: 'I hereby give anbequeath all my worldly goods, exceptin

my gear, to wit: one claim of twelv

hundred acres, containing thre

cottonwood-trees, three times three acreof oak timber, and three times three time

hree million billion grains of golde

sand, to the Macpherson Mortgag

Company to have and to hold, free of al

expense to me, and to lease or give awa

o any lunatic, or lunatics, at th

company's good-will and pleasure, for erm not to exceed three million years. Al

of which duly signed and sworn to.'"

As Jerry ran on, York wrote busily on the



ease form before him.

"Please sign here," he said, gravel

pointing to a blank space when he hafinished. "It is a three years' lease to you

property herein legally described. Th

Macpherson Mortgage Company will pa

you twenty-five cents per acre, per yearwith the exclusive right to all the profit

accruing on the land, and to sublease th

same at will."

"That is about half of what Aunt Jerr

spent on my wardrobe just before I cam

West," Jerry exclaimed. "But I couldn

ake twenty-five cents a year. I've seen thproperty, you know, and I don't wan

charity here any more than I did i

Philadelphia."



"Then sign up the lease. This is business

Our company is organized on a strictl

financial basis for strictly financia

ransactions. It is a matter of 'valureceived' both ways with us."

York Macpherson never trifled in

business matters, even in the smallesdetails, and there was always somethin

commanding about him. It pleased hi

now to note that Jerry read every word o

he document before accepting it, and hwondered how much a girl of suc

nherent business qualities in the smal

details of affairs would waver i

steadfastness of purpose in the largenterests of life.

"Will you let me give a receipt for th

cash instead of taking a check?" Jerr



"If I give my word to exclude every on

else from knowing of this transaction i

means every one—even my sister Laura.

York looked at Jerry questioningly.

"Even your sister Laura," Jerry repeated

conclusively.

York was too well-bred to ask her why

and, while he voluntarily refrained fro

elling his sister many things, she was hi

counselor in so many affairs that hwondered not a little at Jerry's request

while he chafed a little under his promise

He was so accustomed to being master o

himself in all affairs that it surprised hio find how easily he had put himsel

where he would rather not have bee

placed.



Half an hour later Joe Thomson came int

he office.

"What can I do for you to-day, Joe?" Yorknquired.

"Do you control the sections south o

mine?" Joe asked. "I want to lease them

but I shouldn't care to have the owne

know anything about it."

"That old blowout! What's your idea

Joe?"

"I want to try an experiment," Joe replied

York Macpherson had the faculty oreading some men like open books.

"You must have been hanging around

eavesdropping this morning. I just got



hree years' lease on Miss Swaim's land a

wenty-five cents an acre, and here yo

come for it. I took it on a venture, o

course, hoping to sell sand to the newcement-works up the river, sand bein

scarce in these parts." There was

winkle in York's eyes as he said this. "

can sublease it, of course, and at the samprice, but you know, Joe, that the land i

worthless."

"I don't know it," Joe said, stubbornly"You seem to have been willing enough to

get the lease secured this morning."

York ignored the thrust. "You know eased that land merely to help Mis

Swaim, but you don't know yet whether o

not you can tame your own share of tha

nfernal old sand-pile that you want to pu



a mortgage on your claim to fight," York

reminded him.

"I'll take a part of that loan to pay for thease, and the rest I'll use on the Swai

and, not on mine. I'm going to go beyon

he blowout to begin, and work north th

same way it goes," Joe explained.

"All of which sounds pretty crazy to me

You are shouldering a big load, young

man—a regular wildcat venture. There'one of you to myriads of sand-heaps

You'll have to take the Lord Almighty into

partnership to work a miracle before yo

win out. I've known the Sage Brush sinche first settler stuck in a plow, and I'v

never known one single miracle yet,

York admonished him.



"As to miracles," Joe replied, "they are a

every-day occurrence on the Sage Brush

f you can only look far enough abov

money-loaning to see them, you Shylock."

Calling York Macpherson a Shylock wa

standard humor on the Sage Brush, he wa

so notoriously everybody's friend anhelper.

"And I've had to take the Lord in for

partner all my life," Joe added, seriously.

York looked at the stern face and stalwar

form of the big, sturdy fellow before him

recalling, as he did so, the youn

ranchman's years of struggle through hi

boyhood and young manhood.

"Of course you can win," he assured Joe



"Your kind doesn't know what failure

means. It isn't the work , it is the stake tha

makes me uneasy."

Joe looked up quickly and York knew tha

he understood.

"I read your page clearly enough, my boy,

he said, earnestly. "You are taking a hand

n a big game, and the other fellow keep

his cards under the table. Blowouts ar

not as uncertain as women, Joe. Let mell you something. You will find it out

anyhow. I can ease the thing up now. Back

n Philadelphia a rich old widow ha

given two young lovers the opportunity tearn their living or depend on her bount

—a generous one, too. Being childles

and selfish, she secretly wanted to hol

hem dependent on her, that she ma



demand their love and esteem. It is an ol

mistake that childless wealth an

selfishness often make. The girl, bein

emperamentally romantic and inherentlstubborn, voted to go alone. These things

rather than any particularly noble motiv

—I hate to disillusion you, Joe, but I mus

hold to facts—have landed her practicallpenniless in our midst; and she is no

acquainted yet with either lack of mean

or the labor of earning. The young man

gifted in himself, which his sweet-heart i

not, son of a visionary spendthrift, ha

chosen the easier way, a small clerkship

and a luxurious home seeming softer to hiartistic nature than the struggling up-climb

with his real gift. This old lady won't las

forever. Her disinherited niece won't wan

o work at teaching forever. The waitin



clerk will come after the heir apparent jus

when she is most tired of the Sage Brus

and the things thereof, and—they will liv

amely ever after on the aunt's money. Doyou see what you are up against, Joe

Don't waste energy on a dream—wit

nothing to show for your labor at last bu

debt and possible failure, and the beautifuSage Brush Valley turned to a Sodom

before your eyes."

"Whenever you are ready I'll sign up thease," was Joe's only reply.

So the transaction was completed i

silence.



III

JERRY AND EUGENE—

AND JOE



XIII

HOW A GOOD MOTHER

LIVES ON

ew Eden never saw a more beautifu

autumn, even in this land of exquisit

autumn days, than the first one that Jerr

Swaim passed in the Middle West. And

Jerry reveled in it. For, while she missed

he splendid colorings of the Easter

woodlands, she never ceased to marvel ahe clear, bright days, the sweet, bracin

air, the wondrous sweeps of landscape

overhung by crystal skies, the mist

wreathed horizons holding all the softe



hues, from jasper red to purest amethys

hat range the foundation stones o

heaven's walls as Saint John saw them i

his dream exquisite.

t had never occurred to Jerry that a beaut

mpossible to a wooded broken countr

might be found on the October prairiesHer dream of a Kansas "Eden" exactl

ike the Pennsylvania "Eden," six time

enlarged, had been shattered with on

glimpse of her possession—a possessiohenceforth to be a thing forgotten. But lif

had opened new pages for her and sh

was learning to read them rapidly an

well.

One thought of the past remained

however. The memory of a romance begun

n her Eastern home would not die wit



he telling. And while Jerry Swai

persuaded herself that what Eugen

Wellington called success to her wa

failure, and while every day widened thbreach between the two, time and distanc

softened her harsher judgment, and sh

remembered her would-be lover with

ender sadness that made her heart cold the thought of any other love.

This did not make her the less charming

however—this pretty girl without anrace of coquetry, who knew how to wi

hearts to her. Sure of the wideness tha

separated her life from the life of the Sag

Brush Valley, she took full measure onterest in living, unconsciousl

postponing for herself the future's need fo

he solace of love. The small income fro



determination to win—to prove to Aun

Jerry Darby and Eugene Wellington tha

she had made no mistake; and until victor

was hers she would be silent about heendeavors.

The Macphersons had insisted that Jerr

should remain their guest at least until thopening of the school in September. And

f the girl imagined that she found a fain

hint of fervor gone from Laur

Macpherson's urging, her hostess made ufor it in the abundant kindness of little act

of hospitality. Jerry was frankly troubled

and yet she could not say why, for it wa

all the impressions of a mind sensitized tcomprehend unspoken things. Jerry'

memory would call up that incident of th

ost purse found in her hand-bag, and o



Laura's excuse for it, which she, Jerry

knew was impossible. And yet the girl fel

hat it was a contemptible thing to imput

a distrust to Laura that, placed in the samposition, she herself would scorn t

harbor.

"I see no way but the everlasting run oevents. I wish they would run fast an

clear it up," Jerry said to herself

dismissing the matter entirely, only to

have it bobbing up for consideration agaion the first occasion.

At the close of a hot summer day Jerr

was in her room, finishing a letter tJerusha Darby, to whom she wrot

faithfully, but from whom she had rarel

received a line. York and Laura were on

he porch, as usual. The hammock that da



had been swung to a shadier position, o

account of the slipping southward of th

ate summer sun; and Laura forgot tha

Jerry's window opened almost against inow, so that she could hear all that wa

said at that corner of the porch. As Jerr

finished her letter she caught a sentenc

outside that interested her. She wannocent of any intention of eavesdroppin

afterward, but what she heard held he

motionless.

"The leak has opened again, York," Laura

was saying. "Things are beginning t

disappear, especially money."

York's face took on a sort of bulldog

grimness, but he made no reply.

nside, Jerry glanced at her beaded hand



bag lying on the top of the little desk

saying to herself:

"I'll open a bank-account to-morrow. I'vbeen foolish to leave that roll of bill

ying around; all I have, too, between m

and the last resort in Kansas—'to go ma

or go back East.' I'm certainly a brillianbusiness woman—I am."

And then, unconscious at first that she wa

istening, her ear caught what followeoutside:

"York, the queer thing is that it's just a

Castle Cluny' that things are disappearin

right now. Mrs. Bahrr was over to-da

and told me the Lenwells had even gone t

Kansas City and forgot to lock their bac

door, and not a thing was missing



although Clare Lenwell left five silve

dollars stacked up on the dresser in plai

view."

"If anybody would know the particulars i

would be the Big Dipper," York declared

"Oh, now don't begin on that tune, York

for I'm really uneasy," Laura began.

"For why?" York inquired.

And then Laura told him the story of heost purse, omitting Stellar Bahrr's part i

he day's events, and adding:

"Of course, I hate myself for even darino carry a hint of suspicion for a minute

but Jerry knew as well as I did that

hadn't put my purse in her hand-bag b

mistake, for she carried it with her up



own that day. But I could forget the whol

hing if it had ended there. I know that th

dear girl was dreadfully short of mone

until just recently. Now her purse is full obills. I couldn't help seeing that when sh

displays it so indifferently. She says sh

will have no funds from Philadelphia

Where does she get money when I cankeep a bill around the house?"

"Then I would quit the stocking-to

banking system that mother and all thother women and most of the men back i

Winnowoc used to employ. You might try

he First National Bank of New Eden. I'

one of the directors, and a comparativelsafe man for all that," York advised

gravely.

"The loss of the money is nothing to th



possible loss of confidence," Laura wen

on, ignoring her brother's thrust. "Coul

such a thing be possible that this dear gir

s discouraged and tempted to hide henecessities?" The woman's voice was ful

of kindly sorrow. "York, couldn't you tel

her?"

"I see myself doing that," York fairly

exploded. "Laura, there may be a big lea

n this house where valuables see

hrough. I'm not saying otherwise. But afor Jerry Swaim, it's simply preposterou

—impossible. Never let such a thing cros

your mind, let alone your lips again, yo

dear best of sisters. You know you don'believe a word of it."

"I know I don't, too, York; of course

don't; but I must have needed you to assur



me of it. It all began in circumstance an

an ugly suspicion that a story of Stella

Bahrr's suggested. And when I missed m

own money and saw that great roll of bill—Oh, I must be crazy or just a plai

human creature full of evil—"

"Or both," York added. "We are all moreor less human and more than less crazy

especially if we will listen to old wives

ales against the expressed command o

our wise brothers. As for Jerry havinmoney"—York suddenly recalled hi

promise to Jerry not to discuss her affair

—"it's hardly likely she would displa

carelessly what was acquired by extremcare. Let's call her out here and think o

better things."

As Laura looked up she realized for th



first time the nearness of the hammock t

Jerry's open window. The grief of bein

overheard by one whom she would no

wound for worlds, with the self-rebukfor giving ear to Stellar Bahrr's gossip

almost overcame her.

"You go after Jerry, please," she saidfaintly.

York went into the hall, calling at Jerry'

open door, but she was not there. Hooked in the living-room, but it wa

empty. Through the dining-room he passed

o the side porch, where a dejected, lonel

ittle figure was half hidden by the vinehat covered it. At sight of her York

stopped to get a grip on himself.

At her host's explosive declaration, "I se



myself doing it," Jerry had come t

herself. Surprised and wounded, bu

realizing the justice of the ground fo

suspicion against her—her—Jerry Swaimwho had always had first concern in thos

about her—she left her room hastily an

passed out of the house by the side door

n the little vine-covered entry she sadown and stared out at the lawn, wher

he fireflies were beginning to twinkl

against the shrubbery bordering th

driveway. She had thought the dispositio

of her estate, and the choice of occupation

and the putting away of Eugen

Wellington, had settled things for hefuture. Here was the fulfilling of a sens

of something wrong that had recentl

possessed her, hardly letting itself b

more than a sense till now. What did lif



mean, anyhow? "To go mad or go back

East?" Why should she do either one, wh

had not offended anybody?

As Jerry gazed out at the shadowy sid

awn the sound of a step caught her ear—

shuffling of feet across the grass, and th

noise of a hard sole on the cemendriveway. Jerry's eyes mechanicall

followed a short, shambling figure

suggesting a bear almost as much as

human being, as it passed forward a steor two; then, dividing the spirea-bushes o

he farther edge, it disappeared into th

deeper shadow of the slope toward th

own below "Kingussie."

t was Fishing Teddy—old Han

Theodore; Jerry recognized him at

glance, and in the midst of her confuse



struggle to find herself she paused t

wonder about him. Intense mental state

often experience such pauses, when th

mind grappling in an internal combat restfor a moment on an impression comin

hrough the senses.

"What's the old Teddy Bear doing here?Jerry asked herself, and then sh

remembered his coming once befor

almost to this very spot. That was the nigh

Joe Thomson had called—the big farmewhose property her own was helping t

destroy. There was something strong and

unbreakable about this Joe. A million

eagues from her his lot was cast, ocourse, and yet she hoped somehow tha

Joe might be near and that the Teddy Bea

was waiting for him.



"Jerry! Jerry!" York called through the

hall, and then he came out to where she sa

on the side porch.

"I was hunting for you. You have a caller

my lady, a gentleman who wants to tak

you for a ride up the river. It will b

gloriously cool on the ridges up-streamHe will give you a splendid hour befor

he curfew rings—the lucky dog!"

Jerry looked up expectantly. "It must bJoe Thomson," she thought, and she wa

glad to have him come again.

On the front porch little Junius Brutu

Ponk was strutting back and forth, chattin

with Laura.

"Good evening, Miss Swaim. I just soare



down to invite you to take a little drive i

my gadabout. I hope it will suit you to go.

"Nothing would please me more," Jerrsaid, lightly. "Let me get my wrap." A

she returned to her room her eye fell o

her hand-bag, lying on her desk. A sense

of grief swept over her, for one momentfollowed by a strange lightness of heart a

f her latest problem had solved itsel

suddenly.

As they passed down the walk to the littl

gray car York Macpherson looked afte

hem, conscious of the impossible thing i

Ponk's mind, and wondering wherein lahe charm of this pink-and-whit

nefficient girl to grip with so strong

hold on the heart of a sensible man lik

Ponk.



"It is her power to be what she has neve

been, but what she will become," he sai

o himself. "She's the biggest contradictio

o all rules that I ever knew, but she's dead-sure proposition."

The coming of callers found York in his

best mood, and when his sister bade higood night he put his arms around her

saying, gently:

"You are the best woman in the worldLaura, and you mustn't carry a singl

hidden worry."

"Neither must you, York," Laura replied

and each knew that the other understood.

Meantime, out on the upper Sage Brus

road Jerry was letting the beauty of th



evening lift the weight from her mind. Sh

was just beginning to understand tha

while she had imagined herself to b

doing her own thinking heretofore, she habeen merely willing that her thinkin

should be done for her. She was now a

he place where her will meant little an

her judgment everything in shaping heacts. The recognition brought a sense o

freedom she had never known before

What she had overheard from the porc

seemed far away, and her wounded spiri

grew whole again as she began to fin

herself standing on her own feet, no

commanding that somebody else shoulhold her up. Jerry's mind worked rapidly

and before the gray car had been turned a

he northern end of the evening's ride i

was not the Jerry Swaim of an hour ago



but a young warrior, clad in armor, with

shining weapons in her hand, who sa

beside the adoring little hotel-keeper o

he faulty grammar and the kindly heart.

Ponk halted the car at the far end of th

drive up-stream, to take in a moonligh

view of the Sage Brush Valley.

"Them three lights down yonder's th

court-house an' the school-house an' th

station. The other town glims are all hiby trees an' bushes and sundry in th

wrinkles of the praira." Ponk always sai

"praira." "But it's a beautiful country whe

you douse the sunshine and turn on thstarlight, or a half-size moon like tha

young pullet in the west sky yonder. Eve

see the blowout by moonlight? Sort

reclaims its cussed ugliness, you migh



say, an' the dimmer glow softens down an

subdues the infernal old beas

considerable."

Jerry turned quickly toward he

companion. "Blowout is a word taboo i

my presence," she said, gravely

"Anybody who wants to be listed as friend of mine will never mention it to me

for to me there is no such thing. I have n

real estate in Kansas, nor anywhere else

for that matter. I'm just a poor orphanchild." The girl smiled brightly. "All th

world is mine, even though none of i

really belongs to me. If you want m

good-will, even my speakinacquaintance, you'll remember the road t

t is never to mention that horrid thing t

me again."



"I never won't," Ponk declared, seriously

"If that's the only restriction, I'm in th

middle of your good-will so far I'll neve

find the outside gate again."

"I hope you won't," Jerry said, lightly.

"I'm seriouser than you are, Miss Swaim

and I asked you to take this ride for thre

reasons," Ponk returned.

"Name them," Jerry demanded, in the di

ight noting the flush on his round cheeks.

"Firstly, and mainly, just selfish pleasure

Secondly, because I wanted to do you

favor if I might presume, and thirdly, toell you why I wanted to do it."

"You are very kind," Jerry said, sincerely



"What I want to say in that favor busines

s the same I told York to say that Sunday

we met you in the cemetery, where I'd

been callin' on mother, and you come toget away from New Eden and all that in i

s, for a little while. You remember York

came trailing after you with some excus

or other, an' right behind him comeanother trailer, a womankind?"

"I remember York, that's all," Jerry

replied, trying to recall the woman, whoshe had forgotten.

"Well, she didn't forget you. It's tha

Stellar Bahrr, and she made capitalprincipal, and compound interest out o

he innocent event, as she does out o

every move everybody in that burg makes

But don't let it disturb you a mite."



"I won't," Jerry replied, indifferently. "Bu

ell me why she should make capital out o

me?"

"'Cause she hates you," Ponk said, calmly

"Me? Why?" Jerry's eyes were black now

and the faintly gleaming ripples above he

white forehead and her faintly pink cheek

n the light of the moon made a deliciou

picture.

"Just because you are you, young

admired. I don't dare to say no more, n

matter what I feel. It's a snaky jealousy

and she'll trail you constant. It's got to b

he habit of her life, and it's ruined her a

t will any person."

"Well, let her trail." Jerry's voice had a



clear defiance now. "I'm here to earn a

honest living by my own efforts. I shal

pay my bills and take care of my ow

business. I have not intentionally injureanybody."

She paused and remembered Laur

Macpherson, her shapely hands grippeogether, emphasizing her unbreakabl

determination.

"And you are goin' to win. Don't never bafraid of the end and finis. But, knowin

Sage Brush, an' how scared it is of Mrs

Bahrr, yet listenin' constant to every word

she says, I felt it my duty to warn you obreakers ahead. I've known more 'n one

bein' innocent, to fall for her tricks. And

'm telling you out of pure kindness

There's only two ways to handle her—



keep still and try to live above her, o

stand straight up an' tell her to go to th

devil. Excuse me, Miss Swaim, I'm no

really a profane man, but I mean well byou, and I'm not just settin' here to gossip

about a fellow-citizenness."

"I know you mean well, Mr. Ponk. Youhave been more than kind to me ever sinc

he night I reached New Eden, and I d

appreciate your friendship and good

will," Jerry said, earnestly. "Now as toMrs. Bahrr, which course do you advis

me to follow?"

Junius Brutus Ponk was hanging on everword of Jerry's, and his face was a ful

moon of pleasure, for he was frankly an

madly in love with her, and he knew it.



"I can't advise at all; it just ain't for me t

do that. You are honorin' us by stoppin' in

our midst. What I want you to do is to b

on the lookout, an' if things start wronganywhere—school or church or with you

friends, the Macphersons, for instance, a

hey might—just run down old Stella

before you go to guessin', omisunderstandin', and if you can't do i

alone"—Ponk smote his broad boso

dramatically—"I'm here to help. Tha

eads me to the thirdly of my triple

purpose in askin' the pleasure of you

company."

Jerry looked up with a smile. The littlman was so thoroughly good, and yet s

mpossible. York Macpherson seemed

head and shoulders above any other ma



she had ever known in her life—excep

her father. In fact, he seemed like a sort o

father to her—and Joe Thomson. That wa

ust a shadow across her consciousnessfor all these men belonged here and a

heart were not of her world.

"Miss Swaim, will you let me, without nrecompense, be a friend at court wheneve

you need my help? You seem to me like a

sort of female Robinson Crusoe cast awa

on the desert island of the Sage Bruscountry in Kansas. Let me be your Ma

Friday. I'd like to be your Saturday and

Sunday and Monday and Tuesday and

Wednesday. York Macpherson wouldcome lopin' in to claim Thursday,

reckon."

The sincerity of the fat little man offset th



pompous ridiculousness of his speech.

"If I seem cuttin' into the Macpherso

melon-patch it's because I got on to somof Stellar Bahrr's gossip that set m

hinkin'. She's up to turnin' Miss Laur

against you because of York's admiring

you so much."

Jerry grasped the situation now. Th

hotel-keeper was not only wishing t

befriend and shield her—he thought hwas in love with her. And he thought tha

York Macpherson was also in love. Was

he? The girl's mind worked rapidly. Littl

as she cared for the opinion of NewEdenites, outside of these three goo

friends, she realized that these same New

Edenites were interested in her and dare

o discuss her affairs; and that if sh



stayed here, as she meant to do, she mus

meet them and be, in a way, of them. How

much of this newly discovered admiratio

which her companion evidently felt, anwhich he felt sure York Macpherson

possessed, might be really the outgrowt

of pity for her in the new position i

which she found herself? And there waLaura. Stellar Bahrr had hinted about he

being neglected by her brother for othe

women. Whatever might be the rea

motive, Jerry and love had parte

company on the day that Eugen

Wellington's letter had come telling of hi

renunciation of his art for an easclerkship. But Laura didn't know that, an

she might have heard the town-meddler—

Oh, bother Stellar and all her works! Jerr

Swaim would have none of them. And



Laura was such a sweet, companionable

refined friend. This thing must b

overcome in some way.

"Tell me, Mr. Ponk, why do the New Ede

people listen to a sharp-tongued trouble

maker, since they know her power?" Jerr

asked, after a pause.

"Why? 'Cause they enjoy it when 'tain

about them—all of us do that, bein' human

Are you right sure you wouldn't believher yourself, much as you despised an

story of hers you'd be forced to listen to

Well as I know her, I have to keep

pinchin' my right arm to see if it's gonerve enough to strike back if I'm hit, yo

might say."

On Jerry's cheeks the bloom deepened



She had let a word of Mrs. Bahrr's set he

o wondering about both her host an

hostess.

"They's one more thing I want to say, th

hird reason for askin' you out thi

evenin'," Ponk went on, and the pompou

manner fell from him somewhat in hiearnestness. "I don't want you to leav

Macpherson's home for anything, righ

now. They want you and—well, I hop

you won't. Even at the loss of a boardefor myself at the hotel and gurrage I hop

you won't. But if some time—if it wa

ever possible you'd find a need for m

more 'n what we spoke of—I ain't nshow. I'm clear below your society bac

East, but, if you ever needed a rea

devoted, honest man who tried to be



Christian—"

Jerry caught his full meaning now. "You

are a Christian, Mr. Ponk. I'm not. You arekind to me in my need, and I shall rely o

your sincerity and your friendship, and i

here is any way in which I could return i

even in a small measure, I would be shappy. We will be the best of friends."

Jerry's smile was winsome as she frankl

put out her hand to seal the bond in a claspof good-fellowship. And Junius Brutu

Ponk understood.

"It's no use," he said to himself, sadly. "

wish it might have been, but it ain't. I ain

such a fool I can't see a door when it's shu

right before me. I'm blessed to be he

friend, and I'll be it if the heavens drop



'm in my Waterloo an' must just wade

across an' shake myself. That's all."

His sunny nature always overcame hidisappointments, but from that hour in a

upper niche of his heart's shrine he place

Jerry's image, one of the beautiful thing

of life he might do homage to but coulnever possess.

"They's just one favor I want to ask o

you," he said, aloud, "an' that is that you'lgo with me to call on mother out to th

cemetery sometimes. I'd like her to know

you, too. She was good, and a goo

mother just lives on."

Jerry's cheek paled a shade, but she said

graciously: "I'll be glad to do that, Mr

Ponk. Maybe it will make me a little les



rebellious, and you will be doing me th

favor."

Ponk's face beamed with pleasure at hewords the while a real tear rolle

unnoticed down his cheek. That nigh

marked the beginning of a new spiritua

ife for Jerry Swaim.



XIV

JIM SWAIM'S WISH

The next morning, when Jerry Swaim waready to go to the bank, her pretty beade

bag seemed light as she lifted it, and whe

she opened her purse she found it empty

Then she sat down and stared at herself ihe mirror opposite her.

"Well, what next? Go mad or go back

East? This must be the last ditch," shmurmured. "Joe Thomson said he didn't g

mad, but he did get mad. I'm mad clear t

my Swaim toes, and I'm not going to tak

another bump. It's been nothing but bump



ever since I reached the junction of th

main line with the Sage Brush branch bac

n June, and I'm tired of it. Gen

Wellington said the West got the better ohis father. The East seems to have gotten

he best of his father's son."

Across her mind swept the thought of howeasy Gene's way was being made for hi

n the East, and how the way of the Wes

for her had to be fought over inch by inch.

"Neither East nor West shall get me." She

ossed her head imperiously, for Ji

Swaim's chin, York Macpherson would

have said, was in command, and thdreamy eyes were flashing fire.

An hour later Ponk's gray runabout wa

spinning off the miles of the trail down th



Sage Brush, with Jerry Swaim's hand

gripping the wheel firmly, though he

cheeks were pink with excitement. Wher

a road from the west crossed the trail, thstream cut through a ledge of shale

eaving a little bluffy bank on either side

with a bridge standing high above th

water.

Joe Thomson, in a big farm wagon, ha

ust met his neighbor, Thelma Ekblad, i

her plain car, at the end of the bridgewhen Jerry's horn called her approach

Before they had time to shift aside the gra

car swept by with graceful curve, missin

he edge of the bridge abutment by aeyelash.

"Great Scott! Thelma, I didn't notice tha

his big gun of mine was filling up all th



road," Joe exclaimed. "That was th

neatest curve I ever saw. That's Ponk's ca

from New Eden, but only a civi

engineer's eye could have kept out of thriver right there."

"The pretty girl who is visiting th

Macphersons was the driver," Thelmsaid.

"No! Was it, sure?" Joe queried, looking

with keen eyes down the trail, whither thgray runabout was gliding like a bird o

he wing.

"Why, of course it was!" Thelma assured

him, feeling suddenly how shabby her ow

machine became in comparison. "I must g

now. Come over and see Paul when you

can."



"I will. How is the baby?" Joe asked.

"Oh, splendid, and so much company fo

Paul!" Thelma declared."Yes, a baby is the preacher and the

whole congregation sometimes. Let m

know if you need any help. Good-by."

So in neighborly good-will the

separated, Joe to follow the gray ca

down the trail, and Thelma to wonde

briefly at the easy life of the beautifu

Eastern girl whose lot was so unlike he

own. Only briefly, however, for Thelma

was of too happy a temperament, of to

calm and philosophical a mentality, to

grieve vainly. It always put a song in he

day, too, to meet Joe upon the way. No

only on common farm topics were she an



Joe congenial companions, but in politics

he latest books, the issues of foreig

affairs, the new in science, they found

common ground.

Joe's thoughts were of the Eastern gir

oo, as he thundered down the trail in hi

noisy wagon.

"I wish I could overtake her before sh

gets to the forks of the road," he said t

himself. "I know she's not going to go mway farther than that. But why is she her

at all? There's nobody living down th

river road for miles, except old Fishin

Teddy. She did dine at his expense the dayshe came out to her sand-pile. He told m

all about it the night when we rode dow

from town together. Funny old squeak h

s. But he can't interest her. Hello! Yonder



we are."

n three minutes he was beside the gra

car, that was standing at the point wherhe river road branched from the mai

rail.

"Good morning, Mr. Thomson. I knew yo

were coming this way, so I waited for yo

here. I don't go down that road. You know

why."

Jerry pointed toward the way down whic

her own land lay.

Joe lifted his hat in greeting, his cheek

flushing through the tan, for his hearwould jump furiously whenever he cam

nto this girl's presence.

"Good morning, Miss Swaim. I am gla



you waited," he managed to say. "You

certainly know how to guide a car. I didn

know I was filling the whole highway up

at the bridge."

"Oh, there was plenty of room," Jerr

said, indifferently.

"Yes, plenty if you know how to stick to

t. That's the secret of a lot of things,

guess—not finding a wider trail, bu

knowing how to drive straight through ohe one you have found."

Joe was talking to gain time with himself

for he was inwardly angry at being upse

every time he met this pretty girl.

This morning she seemed prettier tha

ever to his eyes. She was wearing a coo



gray-green hat above her golden-gleamin

hair, and her sheer gingham gown wa

stylishly summery. Exquisite taste i

dress, as well as love of romance, was heritage from Lesa Swaim.

"You are a real philosopher and a poet,

Jerry exclaimed, looking up with wideopen eyes.

"A sort of Homer in homespun," Jo

suggested.

"Probably; but I have a prose purpose i

detaining you and I am in great luck t

have found you," Jerry replied.

"Thank you. The luck will be mine if I ca

serve you."

The bronze young farmer's gallantry wa



as gracious as ever the well-groome

Philadelphia artist's had been.

"Kansas seems determined to get rid ome, if hard knocks mean anything. I've ha

nothing but bumps and knotty problem

since I landed on these sand-shiftin

prairies. It makes me mad and I'm nogoing to be run off by it." Jerry's eye

were darkly defiant and her lifted han

seemed strong to strike for herself.

"You have the real pioneer spirit," Joe

declared. "It was that very determinatio

not to be gotten rid of by a sturdy bunch o

forefathers and mothers that has subdued state, sometimes boisterous an

belligerent, and sometimes snarling an

catty, and made it willing to eat out o

heir hands."



"Oh, it's not all subdued yet. It never wil

be." Jerry pointed down the trail towar

he far distance where her twelve hundre

blowout-cursed acres lay.

Joe Thomson's mouth was set with

bulldog squareness. "Are we less abl

han our forefathers?" he asked.

"As to sand—yes," Jerry replied, "but t

myself, as a first consideration, I'

dreadfully in trouble."

"Again?"

"Oh, always—in Kansas," Jerry declared

"First my whole inheritance is smotheren plain sand—and dies—hard bu

quickly. Then I fight out a battle fo

existence and win a schoolmarm's crow



of—"

"Of service," Joe suggested, seriously.

"I hope so. I really do," Jerry assured him"Next I lease my—dukedom for a smal

but vital sum of money on which to exis

ill—till—"

"Yes, till wheat harvest, figuratively

speaking," Joe declared.

"And this morning my purse is emptyrobbed of every cent, and my pearl

handled knife and a button-hook."

Joe had left his wagon and was standinbeside Jerry's car, with one foot on th

running-board.

"Stolen! Why, why, where's York?" he



asked, in amazement.

"I don't know. I don't think he took it,

Jerry replied."Oh, but I mean what's he doing about it?

Joe questioned, anxiously.

"Nothing. He doesn't know it. I came tfind you first, to get you to help me."

"Me!" Joe could think of nothing more t

say.

"You won't scold, and I'm afraid York

would. I don't want to be scolded," Jerr

declared. "He would wonder why I hadnput it in the bank. And, besides, there hav

some queer things been happening in New

Eden—I can't explain them, for you migh

not understand, but I do really need



friend right now. Did you ever need one?"

To the girl alone and under suspicion

however kind the friends who werpuzzled over her situation, conscious tha

oo many favors were not to be asked o

he good-souled Junius Brutus Ponk, th

young farmer seemed the only one twhom she could turn. And she had th

more readily halted her car to wait for hi

because she had already begun to weave

romance in homespun about this splendiyoung agriculturist and the good-hearte

country girl, Thelma Ekblad. He, himself

was impersonal to her.

"I'm always needing friends—and I'

more glad than you could know to hav

you even think of me in your needs. Bu

everybody turns to York Macpherson



He's the lodestar for every Sage Brus

compass," Joe said, looking earnestly a

Jerry.

"I'm on my way to the old Teddy Bear'

house, your Fishing Teddy," Jerry

declared, "and I thought you would g

with me. I don't want to go alone."

"Let me take this machinery to the men—

hey are waiting for it to start to work—

and I'll be glad to go," Joe answered her.

The gray car followed the big wago

down the trail to the deep bend of the Sag

Brush in the angle of which Joe's ranch

house stood; and the load of machiner

was quickly given over to the workmen

As Joe seated himself in the little gray ca

Jerry said:



"You are wondering why, and too polite

o ask why, I go to Hans Theodore's. Le

me tell you." Then she told him of he

dazed wanderings down the river roawo months before, and of her meal nea

old Teddy's shack.

"He brought me fried fish on a crackeplate, and buttermilk in a silver drinking

cup—a queer pattern with a monogram o

he side. The next morning I saw anothe

cup exactly like that on the buffet in thMacpherson dining-room. They told m

here should be two of them. One the

found was suddenly missing. Later i

suddenly was not missing. York said theirike was not to be had this side of ol

Castle Cluny' on the ancient Kingussi

holding of the invincible Cla



Macpherson's forebears. So this must hav

been the same cup. It was on the mornin

after you called and took the old Teddy

Bear home with you that the missing cupreappeared. You remember he wa

shambling around the grounds the nigh

before, waiting for you?"

"Yes, I remember," Joe responded

gravely.

"Meantime Laura Macpherson lost hepurse. It was found in my hand-bag.

believe now that the one that took i

became frightened or something, and trie

o put it on me. Maybe somebody knewhow dreadfully near the wall I was. The

York paid me lease money, as I told you

—three hundred dollars. It was in m

purse last evening when I went out for



ride. As I sat in the side porch alone

earlier in the evening, I saw the old Teddy

Bear shamble and shuffle about th

shrubbery and disappear down the slopn the shadows on the town side of th

place. This morning my money is all gone

am going down here after it."

"And you didn't ask York to help you?

Joe queried, anxiously.

"Why, no. I wanted you to help me. Wilyou do it?" Jerry asked, looking up int

he earnest face of the big farmer besid

her.

Was it selfishness, or thoughtlessness, o

ove of startling adventure, or insight, o

fate bringing her this way? Joe Thomso

asked himself the question in vain.



"I'll do whatever I can do. This is such

strange thing. I knew things were missin

by spells up in town, but we never los

anything down our way, and you'd thinkwe would come nearer having what ol

Fishing Teddy would want if he is really a

hief," Joe declared.

"I am going down to old Teddy's shack

and ask him to give me my money

anyhow," Jerry repeated.

"And if he has it and refuses, I'll pitch hi

nto the river and hold him under till h

comes across. But if he really hasn't it?

Joe asked.

"Then he can't give it, that's all," Jerr

replied.



"But how will you know?" Joe insisted.

"I don't know how I'll know, but when th

ime comes I'll probably find a way to finout," Jerry declared. "Anyhow, I must do

something, for I'm clear penniless and it'

his or go mad or go back East. I'm no

going to do either. I'm just going to gemad and stay mad till I get what's mine."

"I'll be your faithful sleuth, but I can

believe you'll find your bag of gold at thend of this rainbow. The old man i

gentle, though, and you couldn't have an

fear, I suppose," Joe suggested.

"Not with you along I couldn't," Jerr

replied.

She was watching the road, and did no



see how his eyes filled with a wonderfu

ight at her words. She was not thinking o

Joe Thomson, nor of York Macpherson

nor yet of Junius Brutus Ponk. She wahinking far back in her mind of how

Eugene Wellington would admire he

some day for really not giving in. Tha

faint line of indecision in his face as shrecalled it in the rose-arbor—oh, so lon

ago—that was only emphasized by hi

real admiration for those who could stan

fast by a determination. She had alway

dared. He had always adored, but neve

risked a danger.

Down by the deep fishing-hole thwillows were beginning to droop thei

ong yellow leaves on the diminishin

stream, and the stepping-stones stood ou



bare and bleaching above the thin curren

hat slipped away between them. A little

blue smoke was filtering out from th

stove-pipe behind the shack hidden amonhe bushes. Everything lay still under th

sunshine of late summer.

"You keep the car. I'm going in," Jerrydeclared, halting in the thin shade by th

deep hole.

"I think I'd better go, too," Joe insisted.

"I think not," Jerry said, with a finality i

her tone there was no refuting.

York Macpherson had well said that therewas no duplicate for Jerry, no forecastin

ust what she would do next.

As Jerry's form cast a shadow across hi



aid it in Jerry's hands.

The girl looked at him curiously. It was a

f he were handing her a handkerchief shhad dropped, and she caught hersel

saying:

"Thank you. But what made you take it

Don't you know it is all I have, and I mus

earn my living, too, just like anybod

else?"

Old Fishing Teddy opened his mouth

wice before his voice would act. "I didn

ake it. I was goin' to fetch it up to yo

soon as I could git up there again," h

squeaked out at last.

Jerry sat down on a broken chair an

stared at him, as he seated himself on th



able, gripping the edge on either sid

with his scaly brown hands, and gaze

down at the floor of the cabin.

"If you didn't take it, why did you have i

here? I saw you last night o

Macpherson's driveway," Jerry said

wondering, meanwhile, why she shoulargue with an old thieving fellow lik

Fishing Teddy—Jerusha Darby's niece

and heir some fine day, if she only chose

o all of the Darby dollars.

"I can't never explain to you, lady. They'

roubles in everybody's lots, I reckon

Mine ain't nothin' but a humble one, but iain't so much different from big folks's i

rouble ways. An' we all have to do th

best we can with what comes to us to pu

up with. I 'ain't never harmed nobody, no



kep' a thing 'at wa'n't mine longer 'n

could git it back. You ask York

Macpherson, an' he'll tell ye the truth. H

never sent ye down here, York didn't."

The old man ceased squeaking and looke

down at his stubby legs and old shoes

Was he lying and whining for mercybeing caught with the spoils of hi

hieving?

Jerry's big eyes were fixed on him as shried to fathom the real situation. Th

bunch of grubs on the Winnowoc local—

common country and village folk—ha

been far below her range of interest, tsay nothing of sympathy. Yet here she sa

n the miserable shack of a hermi

fisherman, an all-but-acknowledged thief

with his loot discovered, studying hi



with a mind where pity and credulity wer

playing havoc with her better judgmen

and her aristocratic breeding. Had sh

fallen so low as this, or had she risen to newer height of character than she ha

ever known before?

Suddenly the old grub hunched down ohe table before her looked up. Jerr

remembered afterward how clear an

honest the gaze of those faded yellow eye

set in a multitude of yellow wrinkles. Hihands let go of the table's edge and fitte

knuckle into palm as he asked, in

quavering voice:

"Be you really Jim Swaim's girl who use

o live up in that there Winnowoc countr

back yander in Pennsylvany?"



Jerry's heart thumped violently. It was th

ast word she had expected from thi

creature. "Yes, I'm Jim's only child." The

same winsome smile that made the artistiEugene Wellington of Philadelphia adore

her beamed now on this poor old outcas

down by the deep hole of the Sage Brush.

"An' be you hard up, an' earnin' your ow

ivin' by yourself, did ye say? 'Ain't ye go

a rich kin back East to help ye none?" Th

voice quavered up and down unsteadily.

"Yes, I have a rich aunt, but I'm taking

care of myself. It makes me freer, but

have to be particular not to—to—lose anmoney right now," Jerry said, frankly.

"Then ye air doin' mighty well, an' it's th

hing that 'u'd make your daddy awful gla



ef he only could know. It 'u'd be fulfillin

his own wish. I know it would. I heere

him say so onct."

Jerry Swaim's eyes were full of unshe

ears. Keenly she remembered when Uncl

Cornie had told her the same thing at th

doorway of the rose-arbor in beautifu"Eden" in the beautiful June-time. How

strange that the same message shoul

come to her again here in the shadow o

ew Eden inside the doorway of fisherman's hut. And how strange a thing i

ife at any time!

"Please don't be unhappy about this." Jerrifted the money which lay in her lap. "I

shall never trouble you."

And then for a brief ten minutes the tw



alked together, Geraldine Swaim o

Philadelphia, and old Fishing Teddy, the

Sage Brush hermit.

Joe Thomson, sitting in the gray car, saw

Jerry coming through the bushes, her hat i

her hand, the summer sunshine on he

glorious crown of hair, her face wearing strange new expression, as if in Fishin

Teddy's old shack a revelation of life'

realities had come to her and she ha

found them worthy and beautiful.

Little was said between the two youn

people until they reached the Thomso

ranch-house again and Jerry had halted hecar under the shade of an elm growin

before the door. Then, turning to Joe, sh

said:



"You are right about the old Teddy Bear

He isn't a thief. I don't know what he is

but I do know what he isn't. Since yo

know so much about my coming heralready, may I tell you a few more things

want to talk to somebody who wil

understand me."

Jerry did not ask herself why she shoul

choose Joe Thomson for such

confidence. She went no deeper than t

feel that something about Joe wasatisfying, and that was sufficient

Henceforth with York and the hotel

keeper she must be on her guard. Joe wa

different.

n the half-hour that followed the tw

became fast friends. And when the littl

gray runabout sped up the long trai



oward New Eden Joe Thomson watche

t until it was only a dust-spot on th

divide that tops the slopes down t

Kingussie Creek. He knew now the wholstory of Laura's purse and her suspicions

of Ponk's offer of help, and he shrewdl

guessed that the pompous little man ha

met a firm check to anything more thamere friendship. For Jerry's comfort, h

refuted the possibility of the Macphersons

harboring a doubt regarding her honesty.

"A mere remark of the moment. We al

make them," he assured her.

Lastly, he was made acquainted with thevents inside of Hans Theodore's shack.

"Something is wrong there, but it is deepe

han we can reach now," Jerry said



"Maybe we can help the old fellow if h

s tempted, and shield him if he i

wronged."

How fair the face, and soft and clear th

voice! It made Joe Thomson's own fac

harden to hide a feeling he would not le

reveal itself.

As he watched the girl's receding car h

resolved anew to conquer that formles

enemy of sand and to reclaim for her heost kingdom in Kansas. His reward? Tha

must come in its own time. Ponk was ou

of the running. York was still a

proposition. As for all that stuff of York'sabout some Eastern fellow, Joe would no

believe it.

And the girl driving swiftly homewar



XV

DRAWING OUT

LEVIATHAN WITH A

HOOK

For three years the seasons sped by, soft

footed and swift, and the third June-timcame smiling up the Sage Brush Valley

Many changes had marked the passing o

hese seasons. Ranches had extended thei

cultivated acres; trees spread a wideshade; a newly settled addition ha

extended the boundaries of New Eden

and a new factory and a high-schoo



building for vocational training marke

he progress of the town. Budding yout

had blossomed into manhood an

womanhood and the cemetery hagathered in its toll. Three years, however

had marked little outward change in th

young Eastern girl who stayed by he

choice of the Sage Brush country fobetter, for worse, for richer, for poorer

She had flung all of her young energy int

he dull routine of teaching mathematics

romance had given place to reality

dleness and careless dependence t

regulated effort and carefully compute

expenditures; gay social interests to thcompanionship of lesser opportunities, bu

broader vision. However, these thing

came at a sacrifice. When the newnes

wore away from her work, Jerry's hour



were not all easeful, happy ones. Slowly

with the passing of the days, she began t

earn the hard lesson of overcoming,

esson doubly hard for one whose lifhitherto had been given no preparation fo

duty. Yet, as her days gathered surer

purpose her dark-blue eyes were les

often dreamy, her fair cheeks took on richer bloom, while her crown of gloriou

hair lost no glint of its gold.

Her gift of winning friends, the olmperious power to make herself th

center of the universe, was in no wis

disturbed by being a citizen and a school

eacher instead of an Eastern lady oeisure sojourning temporarily in the Sag

Brush country. The young men of th

valley tried eagerly to win a greater plac



staying on the Ekblad farm, now that sh

had her university degree, because sh

could make a career for herself as

botany specialist in any college in thWest. Jerry knew that love for a crippled

brother and the care of a worse tha

orphaned child of the woman that brothe

had loved were real factors in the life ohis country girl, but her air castles mus

be built for somebody, and they seemed to

cluster around the young Norwegian an

he ranchman. Of course, then, th

ranchman, Joe Thomson, could interes

Jerry only in a general genial comradeship

kind of way. Beginning in a common bondhe presence of a common enemy—th

blowout—chance meetings grew int

regular and helpful association. That wa

all that it meant to Jerry Swaim.



Three stanch friends watched her closely

Ponk, of the Commercial Hotel an

Garage, believed blindly and wholly i

her ability, laying all blame for hedefective work in the school upon othe

shoulders, standing manfully by her i

every crisis. Laura Macpherson, althoug

never blinded to the truth about Jerry iher impetuous, self-willed, unsympathetic

undeveloped nature, loved her too well t

doubt her ultimate triumph over al

fortune. Only York, who studied he

closest of all three, because he was th

keenest reader of human nature, still hel

hat the final outcome for Jerry Swaiwas a matter of uncertainty.

"I tell you, Laura," York said, one evening

n the early spring of the third year, when



Jerry had gone with Joe Thomson for

ong horseback ride up the Sage Brush—"

ell you that girl is still a type of her own

which means that sometimes she is softhearted, and romantic, and frivolous, an

mpulsive, and affectionate, like Les

Swaim, and sometimes clear-eyed, hard

headed, close-fisted, with a keen judgmenfor values, practical, and clever, like old

Jim."

"And which parent, Sir Oracle, would yohave her be most like?" Laura inquired.

"Lord knows," York replied. "As He

alone knows how much of the good oeach she may reject and how much of th

weak and objectionable she ma

appropriate."



"Being a free moral agent to just dissec

her fond parents and choose and refuse a

will when she makes up her life and bein

for herself! It's a way we all have odoing, you know," Laura said

sarcastically. "Remember, York, when

you elected to look like papa, only yo

chose mother's wavy brown hair insteaof her husband's straight black locks; an

you voted you'd have her clear judgmen

n business matters, which our fathe

never had."

"And gave to you the same which he neve

possessed. Yes, I remember," York

retorted. "But how is all thipsychological analysis going to hel

matters here?"

"How's it going to help Joe Thomson, o



keep him from being helped, you mean?

Laura suggested.

A faint flush crept into York Macpherson'brown cheek.

"It's dead sure Jerry has little enoug

hought of Joe now," York said, gravely

"She's living a day at a time, an

underneath the three years' veneer o

genuine service the real Philadelphi

Geraldine Swaim is still a sojourner in thSage Brush Valley, not a fixture here."

And York was right so far as Jerry

Swaim's thought of Joe Thomson wa

concerned.

After signing the lease with York

Macpherson she rarely spoke of he



property to any one until it came to b

forgotten to the few who knew of it at all.

Once she had said to Joe:"That heritage of mine is like the grave o

an enemy. I couldn't look at it forgivingly

so I would never, never want to see i

again, and I never want to hear the awfu

word 'blowout' spoken."

"Then forget it," Joe advised.

And Jerry forgot it.

But for Joe Thomson the seasons hel

another story. Down the Sage Brush, faland spring, great steam tractors furrowe

he shifting sands of the blowout, unti

slowly broom-corn and other coars

plants were coaxing a thin soil deposi



hat spread northward from the south edg

of the sand-line. Little attention was pai

o these efforts by the few farmer folk wh

supposed that Joe was backing it, for thewere all a busy people, and the movemen

was too futile to be considered, anyhow.

Late in the summer of her first season iew Eden, affairs came to a hea

suddenly. Three years before, Juniu

Brutus Ponk's well-meant warning to Jerr

o be on her guard against Stellar Bahrr'mischief-making had not been withou

cause or results. Before the opening of th

school year, beginning with the Lenwell

as a go-between, percolating up througfamilies where fall sewing was i

progress, on to the Macphersons and thei

closest friends, the impression grew



oward fact that Jerry was a sort o

adventuress who had foisted herself upo

he Macphersons and had befuddled th

brain of the vain little hotel-keeper, whohad overruled the other members of th

school board and forced her into a goo

place in the high school, although she wa

without experience or knowledge of thbranch to which she was elected. And the

she met young men in the cemetery an

rode in Ponk's car over the country alone.

One of the easy acts of the average, an

super-average, mortal is to respect

criticism made upon a fellow-mortal—

doing it most generally with no conscioumalevolence, prompted largely by th

common human desire to be the bearer o

new discoveries.



ew Eden was no worse than the averag

ittle town at any point of the compass. I

ook Stellar Bahrr at her par value

istened, laughed, and declared idisbelieved her stories—and mainly i

hat spirit repeated them, but in any spiri

always repeated them. When the reports o

Jerry had gone to the farthest corners oown they came at last to the office o

York Macpherson. And it was Ponk

himself who brought them, with som

unprintable language and violen

denunciations of certain females wh

were deadlier, he declared, than an

males, even blackmails. York forgave theatrocious pun because of the righteou

wrath back of it. He knew that Ponk's sui

with Jerry failed temporarily, and h

admired the little man for his loya



devotion in spite of it.

The Macphersons had completel

convinced Jerry of their faith in her, and ihat congenial association she had almos

forgotten the incident of the porc

conversation about her. To Ponk's anxiou

query, "What will you do?" (nobody evesaid "can" to York Macpherson; he

always could), York had replied:

"I shall go straight to Jerry. She will heat, anyhow, and she has displayed such

deal of courage so far she'll not withe

under this."

"You bet she won't, York, but what will

stop it? I mean Stellar Bahrr's mischief

makin'. She's subtler than the devi

himself."



"We'll leave that to Jerry. She may have a

way of her own. You never can tell abou

Jerry." As he spoke York was turning his

papers over in search of something whiche did not find, and he did not look up fo

a minute.

"I'll leave the matter to you now," Ponksaid. "I have other affairs of state t

engross my attention," and he left th

office, muttering as he strutted across t

he garage door.

"Thinks he can pull the wool over my eye

by not lookin' at me. Well, York wouldn'

be the best man on the Sage Brush if hdidn't fall in love with Miss Jerry. She'

not only the queen of hearts; she's got th

whole deck, includin' the joker, clea

buffaloed."



York was true to his word as to telling

Jerry, when the three were on the porc

hat evening, what was in the air and o

he lips of the "town tattlers," as he callehem. Jerry listened gravely. She wa

getting used to things, now, that thre

months ago would have overwhelmed he

—if she hadn't been Jim Swaim's childWhen he had finished and Laura wa

about to pour out vials of indignation

Jerry looked up without a line on he

smooth brow, saying:

"Will you go over to Mrs. Bahrr's with m

now, York?"

York rose promptly, questioning

nevertheless, the outcome of such a

nterview.



Mrs. Bahrr had just followed he

corkscrew way up to the side gate of th

Macpherson home as the two left th

porch, when she heard Jerry call back tLaura:

"If we find Mrs. Bahrr at home we won

be gone long."

"And if you don't?" Laura asked.

The answer was lost, for Mrs. Bahr

urned and fled across lots, by alley gat

and side walk-way and vacant yard, to he

own rear door. One of Mrs. Bahrr's stron

points was that of being more ready tha

her antagonist and her habit of thought ha

made her world an antagonistic one.

York was curious to see how Jerry would



meet her Waterloo, for that was what thi

encounter would become, and he was gla

hat she had asked him to go with he

nstead of running off alone, as she hadone when she wanted to see her estate.

Seated in the little front parlor, Jerry too

her time to survey the place before shcame to her errand. It was a very humbl

home, with a rag carpet, windows withou

draperies, but with heavy blinds; chair

hat became unsettled if one rocked ihem; cheap, unframed chromos tacked u

on the walls; an old parlor organ; and

stand with a crazy-quilt style of cover o

which rested a dusty Bible. York saw aook of pity in Jerry's eyes where thre

months before he felt sure there woul

have been only disdain.



Very simply and frankly the girl told the

purpose of her call, ending with wha

might have been a command, but it wa

spoken in the clear, soft voice that hadalways won her point in any argument.

"Whether these stories came from you o

not you will be sure not to repeat them."

Stella Bahrr bristled with anger. Whateve

might have been said behind her back

nobody except York Macpherson andJunius Brutus Ponk had ever spoken s

plainly to her face before. And they had

never spoken in the presence of a thir

party. And here comes a pretty, sillyyoung thing with a child's Sunday-schoo

alk to her, right in York's presence, in her

own house. Jerry Swaim would pay wel

for her rudeness.



"I don't know as it's up to me to keep stil

when everybody's talkin'. I won't promis

nothin'. An' I 'ain't got nothin' to be afraid

of." Mrs. Bahrr hooked her eyes viciouslnto her caller.

"I'm afraid of a good many things, but I'

not so very much afraid of people. I was ittle afraid of you the first time I saw you

You remember where that was, o

course."

Jerry looked straight at Mrs. Bahrr wit

wide-open eyes. Something in her fac

recalled Jim Swaim's face to York

Macpherson, and he forgot the girl'words as he stared at her.

"When I was a child," Jerry continued

"they used to say to me, 'The goblins 'll gi



you ef you don't watch out.' Now I know i

s the Teddy Bear that gits you ef you don

watch out."

Mrs. Bahrr's lips seemed to snap togethe

and her eyes tore their way out of Jerr

and turned to the window. Jerry stepped

softly across to her chair and, laying hand on her shoulder, said, with a smile:

"Hereafter it will be all right between us.

And it was—apparently.

As they walked slowly homeward York

and Jerry said little. The girl's mind wa

busy with thoughts of her new work—thonly work she had ever attempted in he

ife; and York's thoughts were busy with

—Jerry.



That night York sat alone on the porch o

"Castle Cluny" until far toward morning

beginning at last to fight out with himsel

he great battle of his life. The big, kindlypractical man of affairs, arrow-proof

bullet-proof, bomb-proof to all th

munitions of Cupid, courted and flattere

and admired and looked up to by a wholcommunity, seemed hopelessly enmeshed

now in the ripples of golden-brown hair

held fast by the beautiful dark-blue eyes o

a young lady whose strength to withstan

what lay before her he very much doubted

"If I speak to her now, she'll run awa

from us and leave Laura lonely. She cango to the hotel, because I know Ponk ha

ried and failed. I'm one degree behin

him in that. Where would she go? And



how would the Big Dipper act? I've n

faith in her keeping still if Jerry did us

some magic on her to-night. Nobody wil

ever Rumpelstilskin her out of herself. I'lbe a man, and wait and befriend my littl

girl whenever I can, although I'm force

every day to see how she is growing t

ake care of herself. When nothing elscan decide events, time is sure to settl

hem."

All this happened at the beginning of thhree years whose ending came in a June

ime on the Kansas plains. Summer an

winter, many a Sabbath afternoon saw th

hotel-keeper and the pretty mathematicseacher strolling out to the cemetery "t

call on mother." The quaint, firm faith o

he pompous little man that "mother knew



had no place in Jerry Swaim's code an

creed. But she never treated his belie

ightly, and its homely sincerity at length

began to bear fruit.

ot without its lasting effect, too, was th

silent influence of Laura Macpherson upo

her guest. The bright, happy life in spite oa hopeless lameness, the cheerful givin

up of what that lameness denied th

having, all unconsciously wrought it

beauty into the new Jerry whom th"Eden" of an earlier day had never known

obody remembered when the guest an

friend of the Macphersons began to be

factor in the New Eden church life, bueverybody knew at the close of the thir

year that the churches couldn't do withou

her. And neither the Baptist minister



holding tenaciously to salvation b

mmersion, nor the Presbyterian, clingin

o the doctrine of infant damnation, nor th

Methodist, demanding instantaneourevival-meeting conversion from sin

asked once that the fair Philadelphia

should "become united with the church.

That would necessitate the query, "Whicchurch?" And that would mean a loss to

wo and a gain to only one. As far as th

blowout sand differed from "Eden" on th

Winnowoc, so far Jerry's religious fait

now differed from the disbelief tha

followed the death of her father. In Kansa

where the artistic Eugene Wellington haddeclared his own faith would perish, sh

had learned for the first time how to pray.

Letters had long since ceased to com



from Aunt Jerry Darby to her niece

although in a friendly and patientl

expectant form Eugene Wellington wrote

beautiful missives breathing more anmore of commercialized ideals and les

and less of esthetic dreams, and not at al

of the faith that had marked the spiritua

refinement of his young manhood.

The third spring brought busy, trying days

A sick teacher made it necessary for th

well ones to do double work. Thyoungest Lenwell boy, leader of th

Senior class, started the annual an

eternally trivial and annoying Senior-clas

fuss that seems fated to precede most highschool commencements. For two years i

had been Jerry Swaim, whos

mathematical mind seemed gifted with



wonderful generalship, who had manage

o bring the class to harmony with an eas

never known in the New Eden Hig

School before. This year Clare Lenwelwas perfectly irreconcilable, and Jerry

overworked, as willing teachers alway

are, was too busy to bring the belligerent

o time before the bitterness of a townsplit was upon the community. When sh

did come to the rescue of th

superintendent, his own inefficiency t

cope with the case became so evident tha

he at once turned against the young woma

who "tried to run things," as h

characterized her to the school board.That caused an explosion of heav

artillery from the "Commercial Hotel an

Garage," which made one member of th



board, an uncle of young Lenwell, to ris

n arms, and thus and so the fires o

dissension crisscrossed the town

hreatening to fulmine over the whole SagBrush Valley. To make the matter more

difficult, the town trouble-maker, Stella

Bahrr, for once seemed to have bee

nnocently drawn into the thing, aneverybody knew it was better to hav

Stellar Bahrr's good-will than to start he

ongue.

York Macpherson and Junius Brutus Ponk

both felt sure that Stellar had really stirre

up the Lenwells, for whom she wa

constantly sewing; and, besides, a distanrelative of theirs had married into th

Bahrr family back where Stellar cam

from, "which must have been the Ark,



Ponk declared, "and the other one of th

pair died of seasickness." Anyhow, the

ocal school row became the local tow

row, and it was a very real and bitter row

n these days of little foxes that wer

hreatening the whole vineyard, Jerr

urned more and more to Joe ThomsonAll of New Eden was tied up in the fuss

ook sides, and talked it, except th

Macphersons and a few of their friends

and they talked it without taking sidebecause the thing was in the air constantly

Jerry could not find even in "Castl

Cluny" a refuge from what wa

uninteresting to her and thoroughldistasteful in itself. Ponk, being by natur

a rabid little game-cock, was full of th

hing, and was no more companionabl



han the Macphersons. But when the quie

ranchman came up from the lower Sag

Brush country, his dark eyes glowing wit

pleasure and his poised mind unbiased bneighborhood failings, he brought th

breath of sweet clover with his coming

When Jerry came home from their lon

rides up-stream—they never rode towarhe blowout region—she felt as if she ha

a new grip on life and energy an

ambition for her work. Joe was becoming

moreover, the best of entertainers, and th

comradeship was the one thing Jerry ha

earned to prize most in her new life in th

Middle West.When the spring had slipped into earl

May Joe's visits grew less frequent, o

account of his spring work. And once o



wice he came to town and hurried awa

without even seeing Jerry. It comforted

her greatly—she did not ask herself wh

—that he did drop a note into the postoffice for her, telling her he was in town

and regretting that he must hurry ou

without calling.

t was during this time that Thelma Ekbla

came up to New Eden to do som

extensive shopping and spend a week wit

he Macphersons. There were other guestat "Castle Cluny," and Thelma and Jerr

shared the same room.

Back in "Eden" the heir apparent woulnever have dreamed of sharing anythin

with a Winnowoc grub. How times chang

us! Or do we change them?



whole Sage Brush Valley, she turned

away that neither Laura nor Stellar migh

see how much she wanted to cry.

But turning was futile. Mrs. Bahrr's eye

went right through the girl and she knew

her shaft had hit home.

Joe had not been to town for weeks. I

didn't matter to Jerry. Yet the next day

after Stellar's call lacked something—an

he next and the next. Not a definite lackfor Jerry's future was settled forever.

Down on the Sage Brush ranches Jo

Thomson was trying to believe that thing

wouldn't matter, too, if they failed to go

his way. These were lonely days for th

young ranchman, who saw little of Jerr

Swaim because every possible minute o



his time was given to wrestling with th

blowout.

There were many more lonely days, alsofor Jerry, who now began to miss Jo

more than she thought it could be possibl

o miss anybody except Gene Wellington

dealized into a sad and beautiful memorhat kept alive an unconscious hope. And

with all her energy and her determination

many things combined to make her school

room duty a hard task to one whosraining had been so unfitting for seriou

abor. The flesh-pots of the Winnowoc

came temptingly to her memory, and ther

were weary hours when the struggle to bsure and satisfied was greater than he

friends could have dreamed.

The third winter of her stay had seen a



unusual snowfall for the Sage Brush, an

his spring following was an unusuall

rainy one. Everywhere rank vegetatio

flourished, prairies reveled in luxuriougrowths, and cultivated fields wer

burdened with the promise of record

breaking harvests.

York Macpherson's business had begun to

call him to the East for prolonged trips

and he had less knowledge than formerl

of the details of the affairs of New Edeand its community.

One day not long after Thelma's shoppin

rip Joe Thomson dropped into the officof the Macpherson Mortgage Company.

"How's the blowout?" This had becom

York's customary greeting.



York meditated awhile, combing hi

heavy hair with his fingers. "The rive

runs by your place?" he asked, at length.

"Yes, my house is right at the bend, and

here is no sand across the Sage Brush,

Joe replied.

"Well, the blowout will never stop till i

gets up to the south bank of the bend. A

've told you already, you'll have to tak

he Lord Almighty into partnership towork a miracle. Otherwise this creepin

up from behind and beyond the thing wil

be a never-ending job of time and mone

and labor. You'll never catch up with itt's just too everlastingly big, that's al

You'll be gray-bearded, and bald-headed

and deaf, and dim-sighted before you ar

hrough."



"I will not," Joe declared, doggedly. "And

've already told you that I've always take

he Lord Almighty into partnership, or I'd

have been a derelict on a sea of sand lansyne."

"Joe, your faith in the Lord and faith in th

prairies might move mountains, but thehaven't yet moved the desert."

"Not entirely," Joe replied, "but if I do m

part, who knows what Providence mado?"

As he sat there in the hope and strength o

his youth, something in Joe Thomson'

expectant face brought a pang to the ma

beside him.

"Joe, your lease will soon expire. I said t



you three years ago that women ar

shiftier than blowouts. You didn't believe

me, but it's the truth."

"Naturally the Macpherson Mortgag

Company must acquire much knowledg

of such things in the development of thei

business," Joe responded, jokingly. "LittlThelma Ekblad on the claim above min

has helped to pay off the mortgage you

company held, and sent herself to th

university, working in the harvest-fieldand at the hay-baler to do it. Thelma neve

seemed shifty to me. She's a solid littl

rock of a woman who never flinches."

"I'll except Thelma. You ought—" Bu

York went no further, for he knew Joe's

spirit would not respond to his thought

and he had no business to be thinking



anyhow. He had known Joe Thomson fro

childhood. He admired Jerry Swai

greatly for what she had been doing, bu

he knew much of the Philadelphia end ohe game, and his heart ached for th

young Westerner, who, he believed, had

shouldered a stupendous, tragical burde

for the sake of a heart-longing only strong nature like Joe's could know.

"By the way, Jerry Swaim's aunt, bac

East, is in a bad way and may die at anime, but she will never forgive Jerry t

he point of inheritance. I happen to be i

he old lady's confidence that far."

"You are a social Atlas, York," Joe

declared. "You hold the world on you

shoulders. But what you say doesn

nterest me at all. So don't prejudge any o



us, maid or man."

"And don't you let your bloomin' self

confidence and ability to work halfmiracles be your undoing. A house

builded on the sand may fall, where on

built on gold dust may stand firm," York

retorted.

"Do you believe your own words?" Jo

asked, rising to his feet.

"The point is for you to believe them

whether I do or not," York answered, as

Joe disappeared through the doorway.

"Why, in the name of fitness, can't thafellow fall in love with that little Thelm

Ekblad, a girl who knows what sacrific

on the Sage Brush means and who has



grip on the real values of life? Oh, well

ust to watch the crowd run awry ought t

be entertainment enough for a bachelo

ike myself," York thought, as he sastaring after Joe. "I've lived to see a few

half-miracles myself in the last decade

Anybody whose lot is cast in wester

Kansas can see as many of them as the olSanta Fé Trail bull-whackers saw o

mirages in the awful 'fifties. There's a lo

of reclaiming being done on the Sag

Brush, even if that struggle of Joe's wit

he blowout is a failure. Thelma Ekblad i

her splendid victory over ignorance

carrying a university degree; StellaBahrr"—York smiled, "Ponk, who would

put a flourish after his name if he wer

signing his own death-warrant, the littl

hero of a hundred knocks, living abov



everything but his funny little strut, an

he's getting over that a bit; old Fishin

Teddy, brave old soul, down in his old

shack alone; Jerry, with her luxuriouaziness and doubt in God and a hereafte

—all winning slowly to better things

maybe; but as to sand and Joe—

"'Canst thou draw out leviathan with

hook?' You'll never do it, Joe, never, and

you'll never win the goal you've set you

heart on. Poor fellow!"

That night, on the silent porch alone, York

finished the battle he had begun on th

evening after he and Jerry had called oStella Bahrr.

"It's the artist bank clerk against the field

and we'll none of us bat above hi



average. Good night, old moon, and goo

night, York, to what can't be."

He waved a hand at the dying light in thwest, and a dying hope, and went inside.



XVI

A POSTLUDE IN "EDEN"

Cornelius Darby had lain in his beautifulldecorated grave for three years, and

graceful white shaft pointing heavenwar

amid the shrubbery had become

andmark for the bunch of grubs who rodhe Winnowoc local.

"Must be getting close to the deppo

Yonder is old Corn Darby's gravestoneover on the bluff," they would say, as th

rain chuffed up out of the valley on eithe

side of the station. That was all th

memory of him that remained, save as now



appreciation, and idleness for happines

—had ceased to be will and become

mania, the ruling passion of her years o

old age. She never dreamed that she wabeing adroitly managed by her husband'

relative, Eugene Wellington, but she did

recognize, and, strangely enough, resen

he fact that the Darby strain in his bloowas proving itself in his ability, not to

earn dollars, but to make dollars ear

dollars once they were put plentifully int

his hands.

Since Mrs. Darby had only one life

purpose—to leave her property to Jerr

Swaim under her own terms—it galled heo think of it passing to the hands of th

relatives of the late Cornelius. Sh

believed that love of Eugene would brin



Jerry back, for she was Lesa's ow

romance-loving child—even if th

uxuries that wealth can offer should fai

and she had coddled Eugene Wellingtonfor this very purpose. But after three year

he had failed to satisfy her. She wa

becoming slowly but everlastingly set o

one thing. She would put her propertelsewhere by will—when she was throug

with it. She could not do without Eugen

as long as she lived—which would b

ndefinitely, of course. But she would

have her say—and (in a whisper) it woul

not be a Darby nor kin of a Darby wh

might be sitting around now, waiting foher to pass to her fathers, who woul

possess it.

n this intense state of mind she calle



Eugene out to "Eden" in the late May o

he third year of Jerry Swaim's stay i

Kansas. The rose-arbor was aglow wit

he same blossoming beauty as of old, anall the grounds were a dream of May-tim

verdure.

Eugene Wellington, driving out from thecity in a big limousine car, found the

more to his taste than ever before, and h

ook in the premises leisurely before goin

o the arbor to meet Mrs. Darby.

"If I could only persuade Jerry to com

now, all would be well," he meditated

"And I have hopes. The last news of heells me a few things. She hasn't fallen i

ove with York Macpherson. He'd hate me

ess if she had, and he detests me. I saw

hat, all right, when he was here las



month. And she's pretty tired of the life o

he wilderness. I know that. If she woul

come right now it would settle thing

forever. I'd go after her if the old ladwould permit it. I'd go, anyhow, if I dared

But I must keep an eye on Uncle Cornie'

widow day and night, and, hungry as I a

for one glimpse of Jerry's sweet face, couldn't meet Jerusha D. in her wrath if

disobeyed her."

Eugene had the chauffeur pause while hsurveyed the lilac-walk and the bi

maples and the lotus-pond.

"If Jerry would come now," he begaagain, with himself, "she would be heir t

all this. If she doesn't come soon, there'

rouble ahead for Eugene of the soft snaps

To the rose-arbor, Henderson."



So Henderson whirled the splendid youn

product to the doorway of the prett

retreat.

Mrs. Darby met her nephew with a sterne

face even than she was accustomed t

wear.

"I want to see you at once," she said, a

he young man loitered a moment outside.

"Yes, Aunt Jerry," he responded, dutifully

enough—as to form.

"What have you heard from Jerr

recently?" she demanded.

"What York Macpherson told us—that she

has had a hard year's work in a school

room," Eugene replied.



"Humph! I knew that. What are you doin

o bring her back to me?" Mrs. Darb

snapped off the words.

"Nothing now!" the young man answere

her.

"'Nothing now!' Why not?" Mrs. Darb

was in her worst of humors.

"Because there is positively nothing to d

but to wait," Eugene said, calmly. "She i

not in love anywhere else. She is gettin

ired and disgusted with her plebeia

surroundings, and as to her estate—"

"What of her estate? I refused to let YorkMacpherson say a word, although he trie

o over-rule me. I told him two things: I'

never forgive Jerry if she didn't com



back uninvited by me; and I'd never liste

o him blow a big Kansas story of he

wonderful possessions. What do yo

know? You'd be unprejudiced." The oldwoman had never seemed quite s

mperious before.

"I have here a paper describing it. YorkMacpherson sent it to Uncle Cornelius th

very week he died. I found it among som

other papers shortly after his death an

after Jerry left. When York was here heconfirmed the report at my insisten

request. Read it."

Jerusha Darby read, realizing, as she diso, that neither her husband nor York

Macpherson had succeeded in doing wha

Eugene Wellington had done easily. Each

had tried in vain to have her read tha



paper.

"You knew the condition of this estate fo

hree years, and never told me. Why?" Thold woman's face was very pale.

"I did not dare to do so," Eugene replied

hat line of weakness in his face whic

Jerry had noted three years befor

revealing itself for the first time to he

aunt.

"This is sufficient," she said, in a quie

sort of way. "To-morrow I make my wil

—just to be sure. I shall probably outliv

many younger people than myself. Writ

and tell Jerry I have done it. This time to

morrow night will see my estate settled s

far as the next generation is concerned. If

do not do it, Eugene, some distant an



mprovident relatives of Cornelius wil

claim it. Send the lawyer out in th

morning."

"All right, Aunt Jerry. I must go now.

have a club meeting in the city and I ca

make it easily. The car runs like the wind

with Henderson at the wheel. Good-by."

And Eugene Wellington was gone.

"Three years ago I'd have left everythin

o him if I had been ready to make a wil

hen. I'm ready now, and any time in th

next ten years I can change it if I want to

But this will bring things my way, afte

all. I told York I'd never forgive Jerry!"

Mrs. Darby paused, and a smile lighte

her wrinkled face.



"To think of that girl just shouldering he

burden and walking off with it. If she isn

Brother Jim over again! Never writing

word of complaint. Oh, Jerry! Jerry! I'lmake it up to you to-morrow."

To Jerusha Darby money made up fo

everything. She sat long in the rose-arborhinking, maybe, of the years when Jerry'

children and her children's children woul

dominate the Winnowoc countryside a

hey of the Swaim blood had always doneAnd then, because she was tired, and th

afternoon sunshine was warm, and he

willow rocking-chair was ver

comfortable—she fell asleep.



"Went just like her brother, the late

Jeremiah Swaim," the papers said, th

next evening.

nstead of the lawyer, it was th

undertaker who came to officiate. And th

ast will and testament, and the too-lat

evidence of a forgiving good-will, alwere impossible henceforth and forever.

The estate of the late Jerusha Darby, relic

of the late Cornelius Darby, no will ohers having been found, passed, b

agreement under law, to a distant relativ

of the late Cornelius, which relative bein

Eugene Wellington, whose knowledge ohe said possible conditions of inheritanc

he had held in his possession for thre

years, since the day he accidentally foun

hem among the private papers of his lat



uncle, knowing the while that any sudde

notion of the late Jerusha might result i

putting her possessions, by her ow

signature, where neither Jerry, as hefavorite and heir apparent, nor himself, a

heir-in-law without a will, could inheri

anything. Truly Gene had had

bothersome time of it for three years, anhe congratulated himself on having don

well—excellently well, indeed. Trul

only the good little snakes ever entere

hat "Eden" in the Winnowoc Valley in

Pennsylvania.



XVII

THE FLESH-POTS OF THE

WINNOWOC

The glory of that third springtime was o

he Kansas prairies and in the heart of

man and a maid, the best of good fellow

each to the other, who rode together fa

along their blossomy trails. The eyes o

he man were on the future and in his hear

here was only one wish—that the goodfellowship would soon end in th

realization of his heart's desire. The eye

of the maid were closed to the future. Fo

her, too, there was only one wish—tha



his kind of comradeship might go o

unchanged indefinitely. To Jerry no

rouble seemed quite so big when Joe wa

with her, and little foxes sought their holewhen he came near. If the spring work had

not grown so heavy late in May, and Jo

could have come to town oftener, and on

eacher had not fallen sick, and ClarLenwell hadn't been so stubborn, and i

Stellar Bahrr had held her tongue—Bu

why go on with ifs? All these condition

did exist. What might have been withou

hem no man knoweth.

One of the humanest traits of human being

s to believe what is pleasant to believeand to doubt and question what would b

an undesirable fact. Jerry Swaim, clingin

ever to a memory of what might hav



been, building a pretty love dream, it i

rue, to be acted out some far-away tim

by a young farmer and his neighbor in th

Sage Brush Valley, listened to StellaBahrr's version of Thelma Ekblad'

shopping mission, held back the tears tha

burned her eyeballs for a moment, an

hen, being human, voted the whole thinas impossible, if not as malicious as an

of Stellar Bahrr's stories. Indeed, Thelm

Ekblad was now, as she had always been

he very least of Jerry's troubles.

The school row, that had become th

community fuss, culminated in th

superintendent putting upon his teacherhe responsibility of settlement.

f they were willing to concede to th

foolish demands of the class, led by Clar



Lenwell, and grant full credits in thei

branches of study, he would abide by thei

decision. The easiest way, after all, to

quiet the thing, he said, might be to let thyoung folks have their way this time, an

do better with the class next year. The

could begin in time with them. As i

Solomon himself could ever foresee wharivial demand and stubborn claim will b

he author and finisher of the disturbanc

from year to year in the town's pride an

glory—the high-school Senior class, an

ts Commencement affairs. The final vot

o break the tie and make the verdict wa

purposely put on Jerry Swaim, who hamore influence in the high school than th

superintendent himself. Jerry protested

and asked for a more just agreement

finally spending a whole afternoon wit



Clare Lenwell in an effort to induce him t

be a gentleman, offering, in return, al

fairness and courtesy.

Young Lenwell's head was now too large

for his body. He was the hero of the hour

Rule or ruin rested on this youn

apoleon of the Sage Brush, divinelordained to free the downtrodden youth

of America from the iron heel and gallin

chains with which the faculty of th

average American high school enthralland degrades—and so forth, worl

without end.

This at least was Clare Lenwell's attitudfrom one o'clock P.M. to five o'clock P.M

of an unusually hot June day. At the stroke

of five Jerry rose, with calm face, but

dangerously square chin, saying, in a



untroubled tone:

"You may as well go. Good afternoon."

Young Lenwell walked out, the cock ohe hour—until the next morning. Then al

of the Seniors were recorded as havin

received full credits for graduation fro

all of the faculty—except one pupil, wh

acked one teacher's signature. Clar

Lenwell was held back by Miss Swaim

eacher of the mathematics department.

The earthquake followed.

n the session of the school board on th

afternoon of Commencement Day JuniuBrutus Ponk, who presided over th

meeting, sat "as firm as Mount Olympus

or Montpelier, Vermont," he said



afterward; "the uncle Lenwell suffere

eruption, Vesuviously; and the third man

of us just cowed down, and shriveled up

and tried to slip out in the hole where thelectric-light wire comes through the wal

But I fetched him back with a button-hook

knowin' he'd get lost in that wid

passageway and his remains never brecovered to his family."

t was not, however, just a family matte

now among the Lenwells. In the presencof the superintendent and Mrs. Bahrr

Miss Swaim was called to trial by he

peers—the board of education. In thi

executive session, whose proceedingwere not ever to be breathed—for York

Macpherson would have the last man o

hem put in jail, he was that influentia



— Other Things Were Made Known —

Things that, after the final settlement

became in time common property, and so

forgotten.

Herein Stellar Bahrr's three years of pent

up anger at last found vent. She had bee

preparing for this event. She had adroitlset the trap for the first difficulty, that had

ts start in the Lenwell family, while sh

was doing their spring sewing. Incessantl

and insidiously she laid her mines anstrung her wires and stored her munitions

determined to settle once for all with th

pretty, stuck-up girl who had held a whip

over her for three whole years.

Charges were to be brought against Mis

Swaim of a serious character, and sh

was to be tried and condemned in secre



session and allowed to leave the tow

quietly. Nothing would be said alou

until she was gone.

n despair, Ponk sought York Macpherson

wo hours before the trial began.

"There's two against me. And no matte

what I say, they'll outvote me. It's th

durned infernal ballot-box that's a curse t

a free government. If it wasn't for that

republics would flourish. Bein' auncrowned king don't keep a man fro

bein' a plain short-eared jackass—an

hey's three of us of the same breed—tw

against one."

York's face was gray with anger, and he

clutched his fingers in his wavy hair as i

o get back the hold on himself.



"You will have your trial, of course

Demand two things—that the accused an

he accusers meet face to face. It will b

hard on Jerry."

"Has she flinched or fell down once i

hree years, York Macpherson? Ain't she

stronger and handsomer to-day than shwas the day I had the honor to bring her up

from the depot in that new gadabout o

mine? If I could I'd have had it framed an

hung on the wall and kept, for what it donfor her."

The two men looked into each other'

eyes, and what each read there made sacred, unbreakable bond between the

for all the years to come.

The trial was held in the hotel parlor



behind closed doors. The charges wer

vague and poorly supported by evidence

but the venom back of them was definite

Plainly stated, a pretty, incompetent girhad come West for some reason neve

made clear to New Eden. Come as a

heiress in "style and stuckuppitude o

manner" (that was Stellar Bahrr'phrasing); had suddenly become poor an

dependent on the good-will of J. B. Ponk

who had fought to the bitter end to giv

her "a place on the town pay-roll and kee

her there" (that was the jealou

superintendent's phrasing); and on th

patronage of York Macpherson, who hadreally took her in, he and his honorabl

sister, even if they really were the wors

"took in" of the two. At this point Pon

rapped for a better expression of terms



The young person had tried to "run things

n the church and schools and society

Even the superintendent himself had to b

sure of her approval before he dared tstart any movement in the high schoo

And no one of the preachers would invit

her to unite with his church.

But to the charges now:

First: She had refused to let Clar

Lenwell graduate who wasn't any worshan the rest of the class.

Secondly: She had a way of riding aroun

over the country with young men o

moonlight nights on horseback. Of going

he Lord knows where, with young men

oy-riding in cars, or of going alon

wherever she pleased in hired livery cars



And some thought she met strange men an

was acquainted with rough characters, an

he moral influence of that was awfull

bad; and there was something even worsef that were possible, WORSE!

Things had disappeared around tow

often, but in the last three yearespecially. If folks were poor, they

needed money.

Then Stellar Bahrr came into the ring.

Jerry had sat and listened to th

proceedings as an indifferent spectator t

what could in no wise concern her. With

he entrance of Mrs. Bahrr to the witness

stand, the girl's big, dreamy eyes grew

brighter and her firm mouth was set, bu

no mark of anxiety showed itself in he



face or manner.

Mrs. Bahrr whined a bit as to wishin

only to do the right thing, but her steelpointed eyes, as she fixed them in Jerry

wrote as with a stylus across the girl'

understanding:

"You are hopelessly in the minority. Now

can say what I please."

What Mrs. Bahrr really knew, of course

she couldn't swear to in any court, becaus

of Laura and York Macpherson. She

wouldn't shame them, because they ha

befriended a fraud, all with goo

ntentions. She only came now becaus

she'd been promised protection by th

board from what folks would say, and sh

was speaking what must never b



repeated.

"Most of us need that kind of protectio

when you are around," Ponk declaredvehemently, knowing that, while th

school board would keep her word

sacred, nothing said or done in that tria

would be held sacred by her as soon ahe decision she wished for was reached.

Stellar, feeling herself safe, paid no heed

o Ponk. What she really knew was that certain young lady had been known to tak

money from her hostess and, being caugh

had been forced to give it up. Stella

herself saw and heard the whole thinwhen it happened. Laura had told he

about the matter, and then, when she wa

ust leaving, Jerry had returned the money

She was right outside of the vines on th



porch, and she knew. Stellar knew tha

dollars and dollars, jewelry, silverware

and other valuables had been taken, an

some of them never restored; but somwas sneaked back when the pressure go

oo strong. In a word, through much tal

and little sense, Miss Geraldine Swai

was branded a high-toned thief. Andworse than that. For three years strang

men had slipped to the Macpherson hom

when the folks were away, and been le

out by the side door. Real low-down

ooking fellows. Stellar had seen the

herself. She had a way of running 'cros

ots up to Laury's evenings, and she knewwhat she was talking about. Stella

dropped her eyes now, not caring to loo

at Jerry. Her blow had hit home and sh

was exultant.



"Has the young lady anything to say?

Lenwell of the school board asked, feelin

a twinge of pity, after all, because the cas

was even stronger than he had hoped icould be made.

Jerry looked over at Stellar Bahrr unti

she was forced to lift her eyes to the girl'face.

"I cannot understand the degree of hat

hat can be developed in a human mind,she said, calmly. "That is all I have to

say."

Junius Brutus Ponk's round face seemed t

blacken like a Kansas sky before th

coming of a hail-storm. Lenwell gave

snort of triumph, and the third member o

he board grinned.



At that moment the door of the hotel parlo

opened. Jerry, who sat opposite to it

caught sight of York Macpherson in the

hall. And York saw her, calm and braven what he read, in the instant, was defea

for her. Before her were dismissal

failure, and homelessness. But neither h

nor any one else dreamed how far thnfluence of those Sunday afternoons o

"calling on mother," with the fat littl

hotel-keeper, had led this girl into a "trus

n every time of trouble," and she face

her future bravely.

t was not York Macpherson, but the little

fuzzy, shabby figure of old Fishin' Teddywho shuffled inside and closed the door

demanding in a quavering squeak to b

heard.



Ponk gave a start of surprise; Lenwell wa

annoyed; the third man was indifferen

now, being safe, anyhow. Stellar Bahr

and the superintendent stared iamazement, but Jerry's face wa

wonderful to see.

"'Ain't I got a right to say a word heregentlemen?" old Teddy asked, looking a

Ponk.

"If it's on the subject of this meeting, yesf it's anything about fish, either in th

Sage Brush or in Kingussie Creek, no

This really ain't no place for fish stories

We're overstocked with 'em right now, tilhis hotel and gurrage will have a 'ancien

and a fishlike smell' as the Good Boo

says, for a generation."



"I just got wind of what was on up here. A

man from your town come down to see m

on business, an' he bringed me up."

"York Macpherson's the only man I eve

knew had business with old Teddy. Lord

be praised!" Ponk thought.

"I got a little testimony myself to offe

here, for the one that's bein' blackmailed

'll tell it fast as I can," Teddy declared.

"Take your time an' get it straight. None o

us is in a hurry now," Ponk assured him.

Then the Teddy Bear, without looking a

Jerry, gave testimony:

"Back in Pennsylvany, where I come from

n the Winnowoc country, I knowed Jim

Swaim, this young lady's father. I wasn



no fisherman then. I was a hard-workin

well-meanin', honest man. My name wa

Hans Theodore—and somethin' else

have no use for since I come to the SagBrush in Kansas."

He hesitated and looked down at his scal

brown paws and shabby clothes.

"I ain't telling this 'cause I want to, bu

cause I want to do justice to Jim Swaim'

girl. Jim was my friend an' helped me a loof ways. He was a hard-fisted busines

man, but awfully human with huma

bein's; an' his daughter's jes' like him

seems to me."

Jerry's cheeks were swept with the bloo

of "Eden" roses as she sat with her eye

fixed on the old man. To her in tha



moment came a vision of Uncle Cornie i

he rose-arbor when the colorless old ma

had pleaded with her to become as he

father had been.

"I got into trouble back there. This is

secret session, hain't it?" The old ma

hesitated again.

"Yes, dead secret," Ponk assured him

"Nothin' told outside of here before it'

first told inside, which is unusual in sucsecret proceedings, so you are amon

friends. Go on."

Stellar Bahrr sat with her eyes piercin

he old man like daggers, while his ow

faded yellow-brown eyes drooped with

sorrowful expression.



ketch sight of strange men at side doors

Mrs. Bahrr, it's me. An' when this Jerry

Swaim (I knowed her when she was

baby; I carried her in my arms 'cross thWinnowoc once, time of a big flood up in

Pennsylvany)—when her purseful o

money was stole, three years ago, an' sh

comes down to my shack and finds it alhere, why, she done by me then jus' lik

her own daddy 'd 'a' done, she never tol

on me at all. An' she hain't told all thes

years, and wa'n't goin' to tell on me now.

don't know what you mean 'bout thes

stories on her. She never done nothin' to

be ashamed of in her life. 'Tain't in hefamily to be ashamed. They dunno how. I

hey's blame for stealin' in New Eden

hough, jus' lay it on old Fishin' Teddy

You 'quit her now."



The old man's voice quavered as h

squeaked out his words, and he shuffle

aside, to be less in evidence in the parlor

where he had for the one time in his lifbeen briefly the central figure.

The silence that followed his words wa

broken by Jerry's clear, low voice. Heface was beautiful in the soft light there

To Ponk she had never seemed so

adorable before, not even on still Sabbat

afternoons in the quiet corner of thcemetery where they talked as friends o

mother-love and God, and Life after life.

"Friends, this old hermit fisherman ielling you a falsehood to try to shield m

because of some favor my father showe

him in the years gone by. If he is no

willing to say more, to tell you the rea



ruth, he will force me to say to you that

am the guilty one after all. I cannot let hi

make such a sacrifice for me."

She spoke as though she were explainin

he necessity for changing cars in Chicag

n order to reach Montreal. Old Fishin

Teddy lifted his clubby brown hands inprotest.

"'Tain't so, an' 'tain't right," he managed to

make the words come out—thin anrembling words, shaking like palsie

hings.

"No, it isn't so, and it isn't right, and h

must not bear a disgrace he doesn

deserve. I'll do it for him," Jerry said

smiling upon the shabby old man—

common grub of the Sage Brush Valley.



There is nothing grander in human history

nothing which can more deeply touch th

common human heart of us all, than th

esson of self-sacrifice taught on MounCalvary. From the thief on the cross, dow

hrough all the centuries, has the blesse

power of that Spirit softened the hearts o

evil-doers, great or small. Jerry had noonce turned toward Stellar Bahrr since th

entrance of Fishin' Teddy. When she had

ceased speaking, the silence of the roo

was broken by the town busybody'

whining tone:

"They ain't neither one of 'em a thief, Mr

Ponk. It's me. They sha'n't do no sucsacrificing thing."

The silence of the moment before was

shout compared to the dead silence now.



"Yes, it's me. I was born that way, an' i

ust seems I can't help it. I've done all th

iftin', I guess, that's been done in thi

own a'most—'tain't so much, of coursebut I ain't mean clear through, an' I jus

wouldn't ever rest in my grave if I don

speak now. I thought I'd always hide it, bu

know I never will."

Old Teddy shrank back in a heap on hi

chair, while all of the rest except Jerr

Swaim sat as if thunderstruck.

"I'm goin' clear through with it, now I'v

begun. Maybe I'll be a better woman if

am disgraced forever by it." Mrs. Bahrr'voice grew steadier and her eyes wer

fixed on the ground.

"Hans Theodore—the last part of his nam



s Bahrr—he's my husband. It was for m

sins that he left Pennsylvany. Jim Swai

saved us from a lot of disgrace, an

persuaded us to come West an' start overan' helped us a lot. I couldn't break mysel

of wrong-doing just by changing climate

hough. We tried Indiany first an' failed

hen we come to S'liny, Kansas, next anhen we come on here. An' at las

Theodore give me up an' went off alon

an' changed his name. Mr. Lenwell's folk

here is distant relatives, but they neve

would 'a' knowed Theodore. Didn't know

he'd never got a divorce, and never sto

supportin' me; like he'd said when we wamarried, he'd 'keep me unto death,' yo

know; and he'd come to see me once in

while, to be sure I wasn't needin' nothin'.

us' worked along at one thing or another



an' Teddy earnt money an' paid it in to

York Macpherson, like a pension, an' he

paid me, York did. But Teddy wouldn'

never live with me, though he never tolYork why. An' when I took things—"

Mrs. Bahrr paused and looked at Jerr

deprecatingly.

"Like that silver cup I saw down at th

deep hole?" Jerry asked, encouragingly.

"Yes, like that. I seen you down there tha

day. I was the woman that passed your ca

—"

"I know it," Jerry said, "I remember yousunbonnet and gray-green dress. I've ofte

seen both since."

"Yes, an' you remember, too, the time



come out on the porch sudden when yo

first come here, an' made you promise no

o tell." Mrs. Bahrr's voice quavered now

"An' 'cause I knowed Teddy'd bring tha

right back to Macpherson's and you'

remember it, an' 'cause you were Ji

Swaim's child that knowed my fault anmade me do what I didn't want to do, eve

f I was in the wrong, I hated you an

vowed to myself I'd fix you. It was m

slipped into your room an' stuck Laury'purse into your beaded hand-bag, an' i

was me took your roll of money from you

own purse. Teddy took it away, though

hat very night. Teddy he'd take whatever picked up an' pretend he'd sell it, but he'

git it back to 'em some way if he could; an

he's saved an' sold fish an' lived a hermi



ife an' never told on me. He's slipped u

o town to git me to put back or let him pu

back what I was tempted to pilfer, 'caus

t seemed I just couldn't help it. York'been awful patient with me, too. But

can't set here an' be a woman and se

Teddy shieldin' me, a hypocrite, an' he

shieldin' him, an' not tellin' on me, likwimmen does on wimmen generally, an

not make a clean breast of it. An' if you'l

not tell on me, an' all help me, I'll jus' tr

once more—"

"Won't anything go out of this room excep

what you tell yourself, Stellar Bahrr,

Ponk said, gravely. "Now you go home anbegin to act better and think better, an

his'll be a heap cleaner town foreve

after. An' if you live right the rest of you



days you 'll keep on livin' after you'r

dead, like mother does. The charges o

his case is all settled. I congratulate you

Miss Fair Defendant. You are a Joan oArc, an' a Hannah Dustin, an Boaz's Ruth

an' Barbara Fritchie, all in one."

While the other two members of the boarwere shamefacedly shaking hands an

offering Jerry half of New Eden as

recompense, old Fishin' Teddy slipped ou

of the side door through the dining-rooand on to where Ponk's best livery ca

waited to take him to his rude shac

beside the deep hole in the Sage Brush.

As Jerry passed into the hall she found

crowd waiting for her—the thre

ministers from the churches, the mayor o

ew Eden, the friends of th



Macphersons, York himself, and many

more of the town's best, who had gathere

o congratulate Jerry and to assure her o

heir pride in her ability and appreciatioof her as a citizen of New Eden.

With the Commencement that night th

school fuss and town split disappeared aone breath and passed into history.

When they reached the doorway of "Castl

Cluny," after the Commencemenexercises, York handed Jerry a letter. I

was a long and affectionately worde

message from Eugene Wellington, telling

of the passing of Jerusha Darby, of hinheritance, and of his intention to come a

once to Kansas and take her back to th

"Eden" she had neglected so long.



And Jerry, worn with the events of the las

few weeks, feeling the strain suddenl

ifted, welcomed the letter and shed a tea

upon it, saying, softly:

"Oh, I'm so tired of everything now! If h

comes for me, he'll find me ready to mee

him. The flesh-pots of the Winnowoc arbetter to me than this weary desert."

Came an evening three days before th

date for the lease on the Swaim land t

expire. Jerry sat alone on the Macphersoporch. It had been an extremely hot day fo

June, with the dead, tasteless air tha

presages the coming of a storm, and to

night the moon seemed to struggle u



oward the zenith against choking gra

clouds that threatened to smother out it

ight.

Jerry was not happy to-night. She wante

Joe Thomson to come this evening. It ha

been such a long while since he had ha

ime to leave the ranch for an evening wither.

And with the wishing Joe came. With fir

step and the face of a victor he cameFrom his dark eyes hope and tendernes

were looking out.

"I haven't seen you for ages, and ages ar

awfully long, you know," Jerry declared.

"I've been very busy," Joe replied. "You

know you can't break the laws of the ranc



and expect a harvest, any more than yo

can break the laws of geometry an

depend on results. I would have been u

sooner, though, but for one thing: a fellowon the ranch above mine who got hurt onc

with a mowing-machine had anothe

accident and I've been helping the owner

hat stout-hearted little Norwegian girThelma Ekblad, to take care of thei

crops, too. Thelma is a courageous sou

who has worked her way through th

university, and she is a mighty capabl

girl, too. She would be a splendid succes

as a teacher, she is so well trained, but he

family need her, and all of us down therneed her."

Jerry caught her breath. It was the firs

ime in three years that Joe had eve



mentioned any girl with interest. But now

his was all right and just as things shoul

be. A neighbor, a capable Western girl—

women see far, after all, and Jerry'romance had not been a foolish one.

"That's all right, Joe, but I have bee

wanting to see you"—the old "I want" amperative again to-night as in the day

when all of this girl's wants had been me

by the mere expression of them.

"And I'm always wanting to see you, an

never so much as to-night," Joe began

earnestly.

"Let me tell you first why I have wanted t

see you once more," Jerry broke in

hastily.



n the dull light her dreamy dark-blue eye

and her golden hair falling away from he

white brow left an imprint that Jo

Thomson's mind kept henceforth; at thsame time that "once more" cut a deepe

wound than Jerry could know.

"My aunt Jerry Darby is dead." The girl'voice was very low. "I can't grieve fo

her, for she was old and tired of life and

unhappy. You remember I told you abou

her one night here three years ago."

Joe did remember.

"She left all her fortune to Cousin Gen

Wellington."

"The artist who turned out to be a ban

clerk?" Joe asked. "I really alway



doubted that story."

"Yes, but, you know, he did it to please

Aunt Jerry. Think of a sacrifice like thatGiving up one's dearest life-work!"

"I'm thinking of it. Excuse me. Go on," Jo

said.

Jerry lifted her big dreamy eyes. Th

sparkle was gone and only the soft light o

romance illumined them now.

"Gene is coming out to see me soon. I loo

for him any day. Everything is all settled

about the property, and everything is goin

o be all right, after all, I am sure. And I'so tired of teaching." Jerry broke of

suddenly.

"But, oh, Joe," she began presently, "you



will never, never know how much you

comradeship has helped me through thes

hree trying years of hard work an

hopelessness. We have been only friendsof course, and you are such a good

helpful kind of a friend. I never coul

have gotten through without you."

"Thank you, the pleasure is mine. I—

hink I must go now."

Joe rose suddenly and started to leave thporch. In an instant the very earth ha

slidden out from under his feet. Th

memory of York Macpherson's warning

swept across his mind as the blowousands sweep over the green prairie. And

he had come to say such different word

o-night. He had reached the end of a long

heart-breaking warfare with nature and h



had won. And now a new warfare brok

forth in his soul.

At that moment a sudden boom of thundecrashed out of the horizon and all th

ightnings of the heavens were unleashed

while a swirling dust-deluge filled th

darkening air. Jerry sprang forwardclutching Joe's arm with her slende

fingers.

"The storm will be here in a minute," shcried, "You must not leave now. You

mustn't face this wind. Look at that awfu

black cloud and see how fast it is comin

on. I don't want you to go away. Whercan you go?"

But Joe only shook off her grip, saying

hoarsely:



"I'm going down the Sage Brush. If yo

ever want me again, you'll find me beyon

he blowout."

The word struck like a blow. For thre

years Jerry had not heard it spoken. It wa

he one term forever dropped from he

vocabulary. All who loved her must forgets very existence.

There was a sudden dead calm in the ho

yellow air; a moment of gathering forcebefore the storm would burst upon th

own.

"If you ever see me beyond that blowou

you'll know that I do want you," Jerr

said, slowly.

n the blue lightning glare that followed



her white face and big dark eyes recalle

o Joe Thomson's mind the moment, s

ong ago now, it seemed, when Jerry had

first looked out at the desert from undehe bough of the oak-grove.

During the prolonged, terrific burst o

hunder that followed, the young ranchmastrode away and the darkness swallowe

his stalwart form as the worst storm th

Sage Brush country had ever known brok

furiously upon the whole valley.

And out on the porch steps stood a gir

conscious, not of the storm-wind, nor th

beating rain, nor cleaving lightningconscious only that something ha

suddenly gone out of her life into th

blackness whither Joe Thomson had gone

and with the heartache of the loss of th



moment was a strange resentment towar

a brave-hearted little Norwegian girl—

harvest-hand with a crippled brother, a

adopted baby, and a university education.



XVIII

THE LORD HATH HIS WAY

IN THE STORM

Laura Macpherson sat on the porch

watching her brother coming slowly up th

street, seemingly as oblivious to th

splendor of the sunset to-night as he ha

been on a June evening three summer

ago.

"That was the worst cloudburst I eve

heard of out here," he declared, when h

reached the porch. "Every man in tow

who could carry a shovel has been out al



day, up-stream or down-stream, helping to

dig out the bottomland farms. I've bee

clear to the upper Sage Brush, doing

stunt or two myself. I left my muddy bootand overalls at the office so that I wouldn

be smearing up your old Castle here."

Even in the smallest things York's thoughtwere for his crippled sister.

"There's a lot of wild stories out abou

buildings being swept away and livebeing lost, here and there in the valley

You needn't believe all of them until you

rustworthy brother confirms them for you

ittle sister. Such events have theiragedies, but the first estimate is alway

oversize."

"Even if your Big Dipper tells me, shall



wait for your confirmation?" Laur

nquired, blandly.

"Oh, Laura, I'm going to cut out all thaastronomical business now, even if

always did know that the right way t

pronounce the name Bahrr is plain Bear

however much you have to stutter to spelt. Stellar has been, as the Methodists say

redeemed and washed in the blood of th

Lamb.' I'm taking her in on probation

myself, and if she sticks it out for simonths I'll take her into full membership."

"What do you mean, York?" Laura

nquired.

"I mean that since they settled the schoo

row in secret session, Mrs. Bahrr ha

been as different a woman as one can b



who has let the habit of evil thinkin

become a taskmaster. I've never told yo

hat her husband is still living, a shabb

old fellow who gives me money for hesupport as fast as he can earn it, but h

won't live with her. She flies from hat

rimming to sewing and baking and nursin

and back to sewing, and she never earnmuch anywhere, and works up trouble jus

for pure cussedness. But to-day she wen

o the upper Sage Brush to help old Mrs

Poser. The Posers were nearly washed

away, and the old lady is sick and lonely

and almost helpless. She needs somebod

o stay with her. Yes, Stellar is reallybecoming a star—a plain, homely plane

doing a good-angel line where she's mos

useful. We'll let the past stay where i

belongs, and count her reclaimed to bette



hings now."

"Amen! And what about the valley down

stream? It must be worse, because thstorm came up from that way," Laur

declared.

"There are plenty of rumors, but I haven

heard anything definite yet, for I just go

here, you know, and, as I telephoned you

found Mr. Wellington had registered a

Ponk's inn. The traveling-men who weron the branch line have brought the firs

word to town to-day. The train is stuck

somewhere down the valley, and th

racks, for the most part, are at the bottoof the Sage Brush. There are washouts al

along the road-bed, and the passenger

have been hauled up the stream, acros

fields, and every other way, except by th



regular route. No automobile can trave

he trail now, so our Philadelphi

gentleman arrives a good bit disguste

with this bloomin' Western country, don'you know; and sore from miles of jolting

and hungry; and sort of mussy-looking fo

a banker; but cocksure of a welcome an

of the power to bring salvation to one ous at least."

York dropped down on the porch step

with a frown, flinging aside his hat anhrusting his fingers savagely into hi

heavy hair.

"Oh, well!" he exclaimed, dejectedly"There's been a three years' running figh

between Jim Swaim's determined chin an

Lesa's tender eyes. I had hoped to the Lor

hat Jim would win the day, but tha



whirlwind campaign of pleading an

uxury-tempting letters came just at the en

of a hard year's work in the high schoo

with all that infernal fuss in the Senioclass, splitting the town open for a mont

and being forgotten in an hour, and th

ealousy toward the best teacher we'v

ever had here, etcetera. So the 'eyes' seeo have it. If there were no ladies present,

York added, with a half-smile, "I'd fee

free to express my lordly judgment of th

whole damned sex."

"Don't hesitate, Yorick; a little cussing

might ease your liver," Laura declared

surprised and amused at her brother'unexpected vehemence of feeling.

"There's nothing in the English language

as she is cussed, to do the subject justice



but I might practise a few minutes a

east," York began.

"Hush, York! That is Mr. EugeneWellington coming yonder. I'll call Jerry

Poor Joe!" Laura added, pityingly. "I hav

a feeling he is the real sufferer here."

"Yes, poor Joe!" York echoed, sadly

"Ponk will just soar above his hurt, bu

men of Joe's dogged make-up die

housand deaths when they do die."

Lesa Swaim's daughter was gloriousl

beautiful to Eugene Wellington's artistic

eyes as he sat beside her on the porch o

his beautiful evening. And Eugene himsel

held a charm in his very presence. All th

memories of the young years of cultur

and ease; all the daintiness of perfec



dress and perfect manners; all th

assurance that a vague, sweet dream wa

becoming real; all the sense of a struggl

for a livelihood now ended; all thbreaking of the grip of stern duty, and a

unbending pride in a clear conscience

although their rewards had bee

nspiringly sweet—all these seemed tJerry Swaim to lift her suddenly an

completely into the real life from whic

hese three busy, strange years had take

her. Oh, she had been only waiting, afte

all. Nothing mattered any more. Eugen

and she had looked at duty differently

That was all. He was here now, here foher sake. Henceforth his people were t

be her people—his God her God. Uncl

Cornie was wise when he said of Eugene

"He comes nearer to what you've bee



dreaming about." He seemed not so muc

a lover as a fulfilment of a craving fo

ove.

The first sweet moment of meeting wa

over. Her future, their future, shrouded

only by a rose-hued mist, beyond whic

ay light and ease, was waiting now fohem to enter upon. In this idyllic hou

Geraldine, daughter of Lesa Swaim, ha

come to the very zenith of life's romance.

"It has been a cruel three years, Jerry,

Eugene was saying, as, their first greeting

over, he lighted a cigarette and adjusted

himself picturesquely and easefully iYork Macpherson's big porch chair—a

handsome, perfectly groomed, artisti

fellow, he appeared fitted as never befor

o adorn life's ornamental places.



"But they are past now. You won't have to

each any more, little cousin o' mine. York

Macpherson says your land lease expire

o-day. So your business transactions herare over, and we'll just throw that ground

n the river and forget it."

He might have taken the girl's hand in hias they sat together, but instead he clasped

his own hands gracefully and studied thei

fine outlines.

"I have all the Darby estate in my ow

name now, you know, and I didn't have to

work a stroke at earning it. God! I wonde

how a fellow can stand it to work foevery dollar he gets until he i

comfortably fixed. I simply filled in m

banking-hours in a perfunctory way, and

didn't kill myself at it, either. See what



have saved by it for myself and you, an

how much better my course was tha

yours, after all. Just three years of waiting

and dodging all the drudgery I possiblcould. And you can just bet I'm a good

dodger, Jerry."

Something like a chill went quiverinhrough Jerry Swaim's whole being, bu

he smile in her eyes seemed fixed there

as Eugene went on:

"Now if I had stuck to art, where would

have been and where would you be righ

now? I've always wanted to paint th

prairies. If I can stand this blasted, crudcountry long enough, and if I'm not to

azy, we'll play around here a little while

ill I have smeared up a few canvases, an

hen we'll go home, never to return, dear



Art is going to be my pastime hereafter

you know, as it was once my—my—"

"Oh, never mind what it once was." Jerrhelped to end the sentence.

The sunset on the Sage Brush was neve

more radiantly beautiful than it was on thi

evening, and the long midsummer twiligh

gave promise of its rarest grandeur o

coloring. But a dull veil seemed to b

slowly dropping down upon Jerry'world.

Eugene Wellington looked at her keenly.

"Why, Jerry, aren't you happy to see me—glad for us to be together again?" h

asked, with just a tinge of sharpnes

edging his tones.



"I have looked forward to this meeting a

a dream, an impossible joy. I hardl

realize yet that it isn't a dream any more,

Jerry answered him.

"Say, cousin girl," Eugene Wellington

exclaimed, suddenly, "I have been tryin

all this time to find out what it is that ichanged in your face. Now I know. You

have grown to look so much more lik

your father than you did three years ago

Better looking, of course, but his face, annever noticed it before. Only you wil

always have your mother's beautiful eyes.

"Thank you, Gene. They were, each in hiand her way, good to me. I hope I shal

never put a stain upon their good names,

Jerry murmured, wondering strangel

whether the feeling that gripped her at th



moment could be joy or sorrow.

"They didn't leave you much of a

nheritance. That's the only thing that coulbe said against them. My father was partl

o blame for that, I guess, but I never ha

he courage to tell you so till now. You

know courage and Eugene Wellingtonnever got on well together." Somehow hi

words seemed to rattle harshly agains

Jerry's ears. "You know, my dad, John

Wellington, came out here to this veryforsaken Sage Brush Valley somewhere

and started in to be a millionaire himsel

on short notice, by the short-cut plan o

finance. When the thing began to look likwork he threw up the whole blame

concern, just as I would have done. Work

never was a strong element in th



Wellington blood, any more than courage

you know." Gene stopped to light anothe

cigarette. Then he went on: "Well, afte

hat, dad clung close to Jim Swaim anUncle Darby till he died. I guess, if th

ruth were told, he helped most to tea

your father down financially. He could do

hat kind of thing, I know. Jim Swaispent thousands stopping the cracks afte

dad, to save the good name of Wellington

for his daughter to wear—as your mothe

always hoped you would, because I wa

an artist then. You see, Mrs. Swaim loved

art—and, as Aunt Darby always insisted

that was before you ran away from her)because it would keep her money an

Uncle Darby's all in the family. That's wh

'm so glad to bring all this fortune that

do to you now. I'm just making up to you



what your father lost through mine, yo

see, and it came to me so easily, withou

my having to grub for it. Just pleasin

Aunt Darby and taking a soft snap oclerical work, with short hours and goo

pay, instead of toiling at painting, even if

do love the old palette and brush. And

used to think I'd rather do that sort of thinhan anything else in the world."

Jerry's eyes were fixed on the youn

artist's face with a gaze that troubled him.

"Don't stare at me that way, Jerry. Tha

sn't the picture I want you to pose fo

when I paint your portrait, SainGeraldine. Now listen," Eugen

continued. "Your York Macpherson was

East this spring, and he told me that tha

wild-goose chase of dad's out here ha



Jerry's face was white and her eye

burned blue-black now with a stead

glow. "Never, till to-night," she said

slowly. "I never dreamed till now howbarren a thing a lust for property ca

create."

Gene Wellington dropped his cigarettestub and stared a moment. He did no

grasp her meaning at all, but her voic

was not so pleasant, now, as her merr

augh and soft words had been three yearago.

"By the way, coming up to-day, I heard o

a dramatic situation. I think I'll hunt up thocal color for a canvas for it," Eugen

began, by way of changing the theme

"You know you had a horribly rotten

storm of thunder and lightning and wind



and a cloudburst down the river valle

where our train was stuck in the mud, an

he tracks were all lost in the sand-drif

and other vile debris. Well, coming uphere from the derailed train, some on

said that the young fellow who had lease

hat land, or owned the land, that is jus

above the sand-line, the poor devil whhad such a struggle, you know—well, h

was lost when the river overflowed it

banks. But somebody else said he migh

be marooned, half starved, on an island o

sand out in the river, waiting for the flood

o go down. The roads are just impassabl

around there, so they can't get in to sewhat has become of him. His house wa

washed away, it seems—I saw a part of i

n the river—but nobody knows where h

s. Hard luck, wasn't it? I know you'll b



glad to leave this God-forsaken country

won't you, dearie? How you ever stood i

for three whole years I can't comprehend

Only you always were the bravest girl ever knew. Just as soon as I paint a few o

ts drearinesses we'll be leaving i

forever. What's the matter?"

Jerry Swaim had sprung to her feet an

was standing, white and silent, staring a

her companion with wide-open, burnin

eyes. Against all the culture and idle easof her trivial, purposeless years wer

matched these three times twelve month

of industry and purpose that came at

price, with the comradeship of one whhad met life's foes and vanquished them

who earned his increase, and served an

sacrificed.



"What's the matter, Jerry?" Gene repeated

"Did I shock you? It is a tragical sort o

story, I know, but you used to love the

romantic and adventurous. Every bistorm, and every flood, has such incidents

never remember them a minute, excep

he storm that took Uncle Cornie and lef

me a fortune. They are so unpleasant. Buhere is a touch of romance in this for you

They told me that a young Norwegian gir

down there was moving heaven and eart

o find this poor lost devil, because he ha

been so good to her always and ha

helped her when her brother was badl

hurt. I guess her brother went downstream, bottom side up, too. See the drif

of it all? The time, the place, and the gir

—there's your romance, Cousin Jerry

only the actors are terribly common, yo



know."

Who can forecast the trend of the huma

heart? Three days ago Jerry had thoughcomplacently of the convenience of thi

stout little Thelma for Joe's future comfor

ow the thought that Thelma had seen hi

ast, had caught the last word, the lasbrave look, smote her heart with anguish.

"Doesn't anybody know where Joe is?

she cried, wringing her hands.

"I don't know if his name is Joe. I don

know if anybody knows where he is.

really don't care a sou about it all, Jerry.

Gene drawled his words intentionally

"The roads are awful down that way. The

nearly bumped me to pieces coming up

hours and hours, it seemed, in a wagon



where a decent highway and a

automobile would have brought me i

such a short time. It would be hard to fin

his Joe creature, dead or alive. Let's talabout something more artistic."

"Gene, I can't talk now. I can't stay here

minute longer. I must go and find this manmust! I must!"

n the frenzy of that moment, the strength o

character in Jerry's face made iwonderful to see.

"Jerry!" Eugene Wellington exclaimed

emphatically. "You perfectly shock me

This horrid country has almost destroye

your culture. Go and find this man—"

But Jerry was already hurrying up th



street toward Ponk's Commercial Hote

and Garage.

"Miss Swaim, you can't never get by in

car down there," Ponk was urging, fivminutes later. "I know you can drive lik

—like you can work algebra, logyruthms

and never slip a cog. But you'll never ge

down the Sage Brush that far to-night. Ihem Norwegians on beyond the ranch yo

side of the big bend 'ain't done nothing

you just can't. The Ekblads and the othe

neighbors will do all a body canespecially Thelmy. The river's clea

changed its channel an' you could run a ca

up to the top of Bunker Hill Monumen



back in New Hampshire, easier than yo

could cut the gullies an' hit the levels o

he lower Sage Brush trail after thi

flood."

"Get the car ready quick. I want to go,

Jerry commanded, and Ponk obeyed. A

minute later a gray streak whizzed by thMacpherson home, where Eugen

Wellington stood on the porch staring in

speechless amazement.

"Bless her heart!" he ejaculated, at length

"She is self-willed like her dad. Aun

Darby always told me I'd have to manag

her with gloves on, but not to forget tmanage her, anyhow."

He strolled back to the Commercial Hote

where the best-natured man in Kansas la



n wait for him.

"You're in early. Have a real cigar—a

regular Havany-de-Cuby—off of me. Anake a smoke out here where it's cool."

Eugene took the proffered cigar and th

seat on the side porch of the hotel tha

commanded a view of the street clear t

"Castle Cluny."

"Town's pretty quiet this evenin'. All the

men are gone up-stream or down, to see i

hey can help in the storm region. Ever

store shut up tight as wax. Thre

preachers, station-agent, the three movi

men—gone with the rest. We are a

sympathetic bunch out here, an' rathe

quick to get the S O S signal and respon

noble."



"So it seems," Eugene replied, wonderin

he while how he should be able to kill th

ime till Jerry's return, resolving not t

arry here to paint a single canvas. Thsooner Geraldine Swaim was out o

Kansas the better for her perverted sens

of the esthetic, and the safer for he

happiness—and his own.

"Yes," Ponk was going on to say

"everybody helps. Why, I just now let ou

he pride of the gurrage to a young ladyShe's just heard that a man she knows wel

s lost or marooned on a island in th

floods of the Sage Brush. And i

anybody'll ever save him, she will. She'been doin' impossible things here for thre

years, and the town just worships her."

"I should think it would," Eugen



broke in, curtly.

"Yes, Georgette, call George to take the

gentleman to number seven, an' put him tbed."

Then the little keeper of the Commercia

Hotel and Garage turned toward the stree

again, and his full-moon face went into

otal eclipse. But what lay back of tha

shadow of the earth upon it no man bu

Junius Brutus Ponk could know.



XIX

RECLAIMED

Down the Sage Brush trail Jerry Swaim'car swept on in spite of ruts and gullie

and narrow roadways and obstructin

debris, flood-washed across the land. Bu

hough the machine leaped and climbeand skidded most perilously, nothin

daunted the girl with a grip on th

steering-wheel. The storm-center o

destruction had been at the big bend of th

river, and no hand less skilful, nor wil

ess determined, would have dared t

drive a car as Jerry Swaim drove her



nto the heart of the Sage Brush flood

ands in the twilight of this June evening.

Where the forks of the trail should havbeen the girl paused and looked down th

road she had followed three years before

once when she had lost her way in he

drive toward the Swaim estate; againwhen she herself was lost in th

overwhelming surprise an

disappointment of her ruined acres; an

astly when she had come with JoThomson to recover her stolen mone

from the old grub whose shack was clos

beside the deep fishing-hole. The roa

now was all a part of the madoverwhelming Sage Brush hurrying it

flood waters to the southeast with all it

might. Where was the flimsy little shac



now, and where was the old Teddy Bea

himself? Did his shabby form lie under th

swirling current of that angry river, hi

heroic old heart stilled forever?

A group of rescuers, muddy and tired

came around a growth of low bushes o

he higher ground toward her. All day theyhad been locating homeless flood victims

rescuing stock, and dragging far

mplements above the water-line. Th

sight of Ponk's best car, mud-smeared andpanting, amazed them. This wasn't a plac

for cars. But the face of the driver amaze

hem more.

"Why, it's Miss Swaim, that teacher up a

ew Eden!" one man exclaimed.

At the word, a boy, unrecognizable for th



mud caking him over, leaped forward

oward Jerry's car.

"What are you doing, Miss Swaim?" hcried. "You mustn't go any farther! The

river's undermined everything! Pleas

don't go! Please don't!" he pleaded.

"Why, Clare Lenwell!" Jerry exclaimed

n surprise.

"Yes. This isn't my full-dress I wore a

Commencement the other night, but I'v

been saving lives to-day, and feeding th

hungry, too," the boy declared, forgettin

his besmeared clothing in the thought o

his service.

"Tell me, Clare, where is Joe Thomson—

mean the young man whose ranch is jus



below here."

Clare's face couldn't go white under tha

mud, but Jerry saw his hand tremble as icaught the edge of her wind-shield.

"He's gone down-stream, I'm afraid. The

say his home is clean gone. We have been

across the river and came over on tha

high bridge. I don't know much about thi

side. They said Thelma Ekblad tried t

save him and nearly got lost herself. Hebrother, the cripple, you know, couldn'

get away. Their house is gone now. He

and the Belkap baby were given up fo

ost when old Fishin' Teddy got to themsome way. He knew the high stepping

stones below the deep hole and hit the

rue every step. They said he went nearl

neck deep holding Paul and striking soli



rock every time. He'd lived by the river s

ong he knew the crossing, deep as th

flood was over it. Paul made him take th

baby first, and he got out with it, all righand would have been safe, but he wa

bound to go back for Paul, too; and he go

him safe to land, where the baby was; bu

guess the effort was too much for the olfellow, and he loosed his hold and fel

back into the river before they could catc

him. He saved two lives, though, and h

wasn't any use to the community, anyhow

A man that lives alone like that never is

so it isn't much loss, after all. But that bi

Joe Thomson's another matter. And he waso strong, he could swim like a whale; bu

he Sage Brush got him—I'm afraid."

Jerry's engine gave a great thump as sh



flung on all the power and dashed awa

on the upper road toward Joe Thomson'

ranch.

"At the bend of the river you turn towar

he three cottonwoods." Jerry recalled th

directions given her on her first and onl

ourney down this valley three yearbefore.

"Why, why, there is no bend any more!

she cried as she halted her car and gazen amazement and horror at the rive

valley where a broad, full stream poure

down a new-cut channel straight to th

south.

"Joe's home isn't gone at all! Yonder i

stands, safe and high above the flood-line

Oh, where did the river take Joe?" Sh



wisted her hands in her old quick

nervous way, and stiffened every muscl

as if to keep off a dead weight that wa

crushing down upon her.

"He said if I wanted him he would b

down beyond the blowout. I'm going t

ook for him there. I don't know wherelse to go, and I want him."

The white, determined face and firm lip

bespoke Jim Swaim's own child now. Anf the speed of her car was increased, n

one would ever know that the thought o

reaching her goal ahead of any possibl

Thelma might be the impetus that gave thncrease.

"Yonder are the three cotton woods. From

here I can see the oak-grove and all of m



"Jerry!" The glad cry broke from his lip

nvoluntarily.

Jerry did not speak. After the first instanof assurance that Joe was alive, her eye

were not on the young ranchman, but o

he landscape beyond him. There, billow

on billow of waving young wheabreaking against the oak-wood outpos

swept in from far away, where once sh

had looked out on nothing but burning

restless sand, spiked here and there by struggling green shrub.

"What has done all this?" she cried, a

ast.

"I'm partly 'what,'" Joe Thomson replied

The shadows were on his face again, an

his loss, after that moment of gla



surprise, seemed to be doubly heavy.

"But how? I don't understand. I'

dreaming. You really are here, and nodead, are you?"

"No, you are not dreaming. I only wis

you were," Joe responded, gloomily. "Bu

no matter. Yes, I'm here. 'Part of me lived

but most of me died,'" he muttere

Kipling's line half audibly. "I subleased

your land from the Macpherson MortgagCompany three years ago. The leas

expires to-day. You remember what it wa

worth when you saw it before. I shall han

t over to you now, worth thirty dollars aacre. Thirty thousand dollars, at the ver

east, besides the value of the crop. I go

beyond the blowout and followed it up.

plowed and planted. Lord! how I plowe



and planted! And as with old Paul and

Apollos, it was God who gave th

ncrease."

"Joe! Oh, Joe! You are a miracle

worker!" Jerry cried.

"A worker, all right, maybe. And all life

s a miracle," Joe declared, gravely.

"But your own land, Joe. They told me tha

your house was gone and that maybe yo

had gone with it, and that these road

down here were impassable and nobod

could find you."

Joe came to the side of the little gray cawhere Jerry sat with her white hand

crossed on the steering-wheel. Her sof

white gown, fitted for a summer afternoo



on the Macpherson porch, seemed fa

more lovely in the evening light down b

he oak-trees. Her golden hair was blow

n little ringlets about her forehead, anher dark-blue eyes—Joe wondered i

ature ever gave such eyes to anothe

human being!

"No, Jerry, my house isn't gone. My fathe

built it up pretty high above the river, and

saved almost everything loose before th

flood reached my place. It was the Ekblahouse that went down the river. I wen

over there to help Thelma get her brothe

and the baby to safety on the high ground

She had started out to warn old FishinTeddy, thinking her own family was

secure, and afraid he would get caught

She could not get back to them, no



anywhere else. I saved her, all right, bu

when I went back after Paul and the baby

he home and those in it were gone down

stream. Thelma thought we were all lostThat's how the story got started. Ol

Teddy is gone, but I heard later that the

others are saved. Their home wasn't wort

so very much. They got most of the reavaluable things—photographs of thei

dead father and mother, and the famil

Bible, and deeds, and a few trinkets

Other things don't count. Money wil

replace them. Anyhow, York Macpherson

s buying their land at a good figure. I

will give Thelma the chance she's wante—to go to a college town and teac

botany. She will make her way and carry

name among educators yet, and suppor

Paul and the baby, all right, too. Did th



folks miss me and say I had gone down th

river? Well, I didn't. I'm here. And as to

all this"—he waved his hand toward th

wheat—"I can net a right good bankaccount for myself and I can pay off th

mortgage I put on my claim to pay th

ease on yours, and for steam-plows an

such things. It has been a bumper year fowheat down here. I have reclaimed th

and from the desert. It will revert to yo

now—you and your artist cousin jointly,

suppose. The river helped to finish th

work for me—found its old bed in tha

ow sandy streak where years ago th

blowout began. It has straightened its benfor itself and got away from that ledg

below the deep hole, and left the rest o

he ground, all the upper portion of th

blowout, yours and mine, covered with



fine silt, splendid for cultivation. Th

blowout is dead. It took hard work an

patience and a big risk, of course, and th

Lord Almighty at last for a partner in thfirm to kill it off. Your own comes back to

you now. Can I be of any further service t

you?"

As he stood there with folded arms besid

he car, tall and rugged, with the triump

of overcoming deep written on his sa

face, the width of the earth seemesuddenly to yawn between him and th

ucky artist who had inherited a fortun

without labor.

"You have done more than to reclaim thi

ground, Joe," Jerry exclaimed

"Miraculous as it all is, there is a bigge

desert than this, the waste and useles



desert in the human heart. You have

helped to reclaim to a better life a foolish

romancing, daring girl, with no tru

conception of what makes life wortwhile. All the Sage Brush Valley has been

good to me. York and Laura Macpherson

n their well-bred, wholesome friendship

ittle Mr. Ponk in his deep love for himother and faith in God; even old Teddy

Bear, poor lost creature, in his sublim

devotion to duty, protecting the woman h

had vowed once at the marriage altar tha

he would protect; and, most of all"—

Jerry's voice was soft and low—"a sturdy

brave young farmer has helped me by hirespect for honest labor and hi

willingness to sacrifice for others.

"Joe"—Jerry spoke more softly stil



—"when you said good-by the other nigh

n the storm, you told me that if I eve

wanted you I'd find you down beyond th

blowout. The word was like a blow in thface then. But to-night I left Cousin Gen

up at New Eden and came here to fin

you, because I want you."

With all of Jim Swaim's power to estimat

values written in her firm mouth and chin

but with Lesa Swaim's love of romanc

shining in her dark eyes, Jerry looked ushyly at Joe. And Joe understood.

THE END



End of Project Gutenberg's The Reclaimers

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McCarter Margaret Hill - The Reclaimers

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