when ye run away. We've forgiven ye long



ago. We love ye, Billy and we want ye
to stay with us fur allus !"

A light of sudden understanding came
over Billy's face, and he looked almost
happy. He placed a hand gently on his
mother's frail shoulder. "Not this time,"
he said, softly. "I can't. Ye see, I I
got to go." His voice was perilously near
to breaking. "But I'll be back afore long
an' then I'll stay with ye a long time."

The mother began to cry softly. "Why,
ye're just as thin as a shadder, Billy!
Don't leave yer ol' mother thet loves ye!
An' all them cookies jest wasted! They's
a whole jar of 'em waitin' fer ye, Billy!
Ye allus was a turrible hand to take quince
an' apple to 'em " Here her incoher-
ent rambling was swept away in one great
sob.

The short man who had followed Billy
from the train shifted his muffler, and I
had a good look at his face. I started. It
was Tom Patton, an old schoolmate of
mine, and sheriff of Douglas County. I
slipped quietly over to him.

"What's the trouble with the boy?" I
asked.

"Train robbery," the sheriff replied
gravely. "It's a pity, too. Decent young
chap. I've known Stephens, hi? uncle, for
years. Bad company, I guess. But it's
his first and he only gets two years, with
a good chance of pardon. It's a heavy
blow to the old folks. I was afraid they'd
take on badly about it but they don't



seem

"They don't know," I interrupted, al-
most indignantly.

Patton looked puzzled. "Why, Stephens
told me he wrote to them."

"The letter never reached them."

The sheriff stared hard at the station
lamp until he had to rub his eyes. He
was a man of understanding.

He looked up just as Billy was bidding
the old folks good-bye. Then, catching the
prisoner's eye, he motioned to him covert-
ly. In a moment the prisoner was beside
us. Now the old couple were slowly leav-
ing the station. The mother was trying
bravely to keep back the rebellious sobs.
The old man, with his plaintive, quavering
voice, was trying to comfort her. For a
moment the prisoner gazed after them with
drawn face and trembling lips. Then he
broke down and cried like a child.



WHAT A WOMAN NEVER FORGETS



BY ERNEST RUSSELL,



JUNE STEVENS stood in the door-
way of the old house abstractedly
gazing down into the valley, where
a November wind was driving the
gray mists upon the huddled dwellings of
the hamlet at the bend.

She could hear the gruff bellow of the
river as it tore through the gorge beyond,
while frequent gusts of wind dashed in
her face the cold and wet defiance of the
storm.

If in her thought there was aught of
antagonism to this tumult of nature, June
Stevens' face did not show it; rather did
she appear to welcome it as though con-
sonant with the mood which stirred her.

Finally, however, she roused herself
from her revery and slowly made her way
to the shed beyond. Mechanically plac-
ing a stick of wood upon the rickety old
saw-horse she took down the saw from its
peg, and set herself to her task. Ah ! how
she hated it, this man's work, put upon
her day after day and year after year by
a shiftless ne'er-do-well of a husband. The
saw viciously bit its way into the wood un-
der the stimulus of her anger.

At length the last obdurate stick lay
upon the floor, and she was kneeling to
gather the result of her labors when an
inadvertent and stifled cough sounded
from the doorway.

June started to her feet, a heavy stick
in her hand, and turned toward the figure
which confronted her a quick, penetrating
glance of inquiry. The hard lines of reso-
lution in her face, the menace of her atti-
tude, faded before he had spoken faded
in the very instant that revealed to her
the pallid face and appealing weakness of
the intruder and she knelt again to fill
her hollowed arms.

"I'd give you a hand with that wood
if I could trust my legs," he volunteered
apologetically. "Fact is, though, I haven't
much strength guess I've lost what I had



in those hills back yonder."

"Oh, I guess I'm equal to it," she an-
swered as she rose to her feet, and, with
the wood piled even with her blue eyes,
looked steadily, searchingly over the top
of it into the man's face.

"So you've been trampin' it over these
mountains, have you?" she said abruptly.
"Well, you certainly don't look fit for it
takes a ruggeder man than you look to be
to get 'round in this country, and you
picked a mighty poor season to do it in,
too. Must have been sleepin' out, I
reckon."

The man, steadying himself with one
hand against the door casing, listened to
her rapid sentences and looked into the
eyes which were bent upon him from be-
hind the barrier of the wood. Something
in them of compassion, as well as an ac-
curate analysis of his plight, must have
passed to his understanding, for he an-
swered quickly, "I guess there ain't much
use lyin' about it to you, and I don't need
no lookin' glass to tell me I'm advertisin'
the fact myself, but I escaped from Hal-
letburg jail a few days back, and I've got
just about as far as my strength'll let me."
He paused for a moment as if halted by
a gust of stern memories, and then went
on hurriedly : "I don't s'pose you'll believe
me, any more'ni the jury that tried me or
the judge that sentenced me 'n I don't
much care either but I never done the
thing I've been all these years in prison
for. I know one thing, though: I've got
to quit this trampin.' on an empty stomach
an' sleepin' on cold ground in wet duds.
Twelve years inside of stone walls don't fit
a man to stan' it. I've got to hole up
somewhere 'n rest. I saw your husband,
or leastways I s'pose 'twas him, go off up
the road a while ago. I don't know
whether he'd give me up or whether you
would, but I've told you the whole story,
'n I'll leave it to you that's all."



WHAT A WOMAN NEVER FORGETS.



His voice broke in an intonation of sur-
render; his lips quivered, and he looked
away over the dismantled garden and its
bare, crazily-tilted bean-poles toward the
sentinel spruces upon the ridge beyond.

The rumble of a wagon across a bridge
in the valley was borne to their ears with
startling clearness, and his eyes sought
hers again. June took a few quick steps
past him and, turning in; the path, said:
" 1 :'uess we better go into the house. There
ain't much passin' on this road, but I
reckon you'd feel easier where there's no-
body spvin' on you ? n a good fire to cosey
up to.""

H.e followed her in silence into the sink-
room of the old house, and June closed
the door behind him and locked it. In
the room beyond, a clock ticked loudly,
and the faint musical trickle of spring
water in a tub broke the quiet.

She led the way into the kitchen, and
dropping the wood with noisy clatter into
the wood-box, brought a chair before the
stove. The man slipped silently into his
seat and watched her furtively as she
brought frying-pan and coffee-pot from
the cupboard at hand and busied herself
about the table.

"I ain't, goin' to try to fill you up on
vittles," she said, without looking at him"
"These eggs "11 stay your stomach some,
and a cup of hot coffee '11 warm you up a
bit, but what you want most is to get out
of them clothes and into a bed. It's
pretty risky business, aidin' escaped pris-
oners, but I ain't goin' to turn a sick
man out into them hills in no such
weather's this, law or no law. Now, you
set up to the table and eat."

He drew his chair to the table and sat
down heavily, resting his head upon, a
whitened hand while he stirred the steam-
ing coffee. Plainly he was too ill, too far
drained of all physical and mental energy
to respond with any enthusiasm to the
food which lay before him. His eyes
drooped feebly, and he shivered frequently
though the fire crackled merrily behind
him and coals glowed bright red at the
open hearth.

"Strange, ain't it? I ain't seen any
home food like this in years," he said, half
to himself and half to his benefactress,
who was at work over her dishes in the ad-
joining room, "but every day for years



I've been imaginin' how it'd taste when I
did get to it, 'n now I can't eat it when
I've got it." As he sat dejectedly looking
through the raindrop studded window up-
on the gray boards of the barn and the
lifeless stubble of the slope beyond, the
eyes of June Stevens were fixed upon him
with an intentness that overlooked no
slightest feature of his face, no expression
that dwelt there even for a moment. In-
deed, had he been less tightly in the grasp
of his misfortune, less conscious of his
feeble tenure of health and freedom, he
must have felt before this the steady re-
currence of that hungry glance which,
creeping downward from the close-cropped
gray hair, recast to the familiar mould of
earlier days the deep-set weary eyes, the
whitened cheeks, and the chin whose
pointed line showed through the stubble
of recent growth.

At last, as though she had just remarked
the untouched food, June stood in the
doorway and said: "You're just too tired
to eat, ain't you? Well, you come along
upstairs with me, 'n. I'll show you where
you can sleep. You needn't be feared of
anybody's interruptin' you he's gone
coonin' over to Curtises, 'n like's not won't
be home for two or three days that's his
way. anyhow."

They mounted the steep attic stairs, and
passing through the open chamber came
to a little unplastered room whose two
small windows looked out upon a sandy
road and autumn-tinted woods beyond.
The four posts of an old bedstead jutted
toward the brown rafters above a portly
feather bed, and the place was clean, and
spicy sweet with the odor of drying
herbs.

"I might almost think I was to home
in Careyville," he said with pathetic sim-
plicity as he looked about him. "Guess
I'll quit shivering once I crawl into that
bed; they's nothin' like feathers to rest a
body, my mother used to say."

"It's better'n you've been havin' lately,
I guess, '*t any rate," she replied with
a grim smile. "There's one of his night-
shirts you're welcome to," and she placed
the garment on the bed. As she started to
leave the room, she hesitated a moment,
and then, without looking back, said:
"There's one thing I haven't asked you
yet, but seein' as you've told me con-



OVERLAND MONTHLY.



siderable about yourself would you mind
givin' me your name?"

She was slowly closing the door behind
her as the answer came from within : "My
name's Stone, Gilbert Stone; 'n what's
yours, please?" There was a certain shock
in the actual pronouncement of this name
that had been repeating itself over and
over in her mind since he had come, yet
she did not start.

Her breath came quickly and her mouth
grew suddenly hot and dry, and when she
answered, it was after a first attempt 'had
but framed itself in inaudible whispers.
"I'm Mrs. Stevens," she said at length, and
as she moved away added: "If you need
anythin', you can knock on the wall; I'll
be in the room below to hear you."

She passed through the open chamber
and down the stairs, stepping as lightly as
if her charge already slept, and entered
her room. Crossing the floor to where a
mirror hung between two windows, she
paused to gaze at the face which looked
out questioningly into her own,.

Why had he failed to know her? Was
she indeed so changed, then? Had the
miseries and the disillusionments of her
life so written themselves upon her face
as to alter it even as her life had altered?

She turned from the mirror and seated
herself by the window. Ah! how long it
seemed since they had parted; how much
had happened; a prisoner's existence his,
a prisoner's existence hers, and behind the
misery of it all, the memory of such hap-
piness !

She rose with sudden impulse, and go-
ing to the closet in the corner, returned
with a box, and for some moments sat
with it unopened in her lap, looking out
upon the slowly falling leaves and the
gray clouds above. At length she raised
the cover and took out several faded pho-
tographs, and a thin little packet of let-
ters.

The memory of his desertion, was an
anguish that time and hardship and an
unfortunate marriage had only intensi-
fied. With her remained always the mer-
ciless finality of the words he had written
from a distant town, to sear with bitterness
a nature which had given all its sweetness
into his keeping. She took the letter
from its envelope and looked with steady
eyes at the faded handwriting below a



date of fifteen years before. "I have made
up my mind," it began, "to break up our
little affair before it gets too serious, so
I have left Strowbridge for keeps. I have
been thinking for some time it was a little
too one-sided to be interesting, and so I
have come here to start over again with-
out being bothered by the fools who are
always willing to take a hand in other
folks' business. You can fix up any story
you like to explain matters, and I'll agree
on my part to make no remarks on the
subject."

This was the legacy with which she had
been left to meet the gossip of the village,
this the burden which her heart and hers
alone must bear through all the coming
years. What bitterness it had brought her
through what weary days and sleepless
nights of strife against grief and shame
she had labored, only her bruised heart
knew. And now, beneath her roof, in the
room above her head, lay the author of all
this woe of hers ill and ha If -starved,
hunted like some wild creature of the
woods where he had slept, ignorant of her
identity, yet supplicant of her .mercy.

June placed the letter back in its en-
velope and again stood looking out upon
the slope. The wind had suddenly shifted,
fhe rain had ceased. Beyond and through
a little grove of half-denuded maples a
rift in the clouds disclosed a timid streak
of blue. Leaves were being blown far
afield in the rising wind; somewhere a
door creaked complainingly and a loosened
blind rattled and slammed at intervals.

All at once the noise of carriage wheels
and the click of a horse's hoofs upon the
road startled her into the consciousness of
his peril. Around the bend in the road
cantered briskly a clean-limbed bay, and
in the open buggy behind sat two men. A
glance at the ruddy face, the blue suit and
brass buttons of the driver was enough.
She stood a single instant in paralysis of
mind and muscle, and then, with a sudden
indrawing of her breath hurried to inter-
cept their coming. In the sink room she
paused to grasp a pail and hang it upon
her arm. As her hand rested on, the door
knob she heard, with the exaggerated sense
of one in fear, the cough of him who lay
alone in the room above. An instant later
she stood upon the step outside, looking
upward in feigned surprise at the two men



WHAT A WOMAN NEVEB FORGETS.



573



in the buggy. . "Good mornin', or after-
noon, ruther. Mis' Stevens," said the man
she had recognized, leaning forward to
regain the reins he had thrown, over the
dashboard, "just in time to find ye to
home, I take it. Well, we won't keep ye
long."

The constable leisurely threw one leg
over the other and clasped his hands over
his knees, smiling down at her. "Dan
round the place?" he questioned.

"No," she answered pleasantly, "he went
away this mornin'. You can find him,
though, I guess, over to Curtises, or you
might serve your papers on me, if I'll do."
She was composed enough now, and ad-
vanced her little sally of wit with a quiet
smile, as she* stepped down to brush the
horse's dirt-spotted flank.

"Well," responded the constable, "you
an' Dan can rest easy, I guess. We're out
on a little hunt, the sheriff an' me, but
our game's such a sly, bashful crittur we
thought we'd drop round here sorter post-
ing people to help us ketch him. Lemme
make ye 'quainted with Sheriff Bradley of
Cameron County, Mis' Stevens ; he's more
interested in this hunt 'n any man I know
of, 'thout it's the man we're after ain't
ye, Brad?" and the fat-faced constable
n.udged his companion good-naturedly.

Sheriff Bradley was evidently of a dif-
ferent type from his talkative companion.
He had not smiled at the other's pleasan-
tries, and when appealed to, simply nodded
his head gravely, holding the woman be-
fore him under a calm and steady scru-
tiny.

"We're looking for an escaped prisoner,
*. Stevens," he began in a quiet voice,
"and I want to tell you, and I want you
to remember, what he looks like. He's
about the height and about the age of
our friend Sanders here, but he's a lot
thinner and he looks ten years older. He'll
be pale, very pale, with short gray hair
and dark eyes. What he's wearing for
clothes I can't rightly say, but likely some-
thing pretty rough, borrowed from a scare-
crow or picked up in some sugaring camp.
He ain't visiting houses much, I reckon,
but he's bound to, sooner or later, for food
and then we'll have him. I want to ask
vou now, Mrs. Stevens, if you've seen- or
heard of any man who'd answer this de-
scription ?"



June had felt this inquiry coming
had vaguely framed its possible form
yet in its directness, with that image at
the shed door filling her vision, it fell up-
on her tense spirit like a blow. Her knees
shook beneath her, and her hand tight-
ened about the carriage shaft, but there
was no hint of faltering, no tremor in her
voice, as she calmly looked into the gray
eyes beneath the slouch hat and answered :
"No, Mr. Bradley, I haven't and I hope
I shan't. We're off the main-traveled road,
you see, and even the neighbors don't get
to us any too often, let alone strangers."

"Well/ Saunders," said the sheriff, "he
hasn't come out this way, then. He'd pick
this place in a min.ute if he had. We
might as well be moving," and then, as
the other took up the reins, turned again
to the woman and added : "One thing you
can bear in mind he ain't a man to be
feared. He's a well-meaning fellow, if he
is a jail-bird, and he won't be in no condi-
tion to make resistance, even to a woman.
If he comes this way, get a message to
Saun,ders as quick as you can. I forgot
to tell you there's two hundred and fifty
dollars reward out for him." Saunders,
turning the horse in the spacious yard,
waved his hand toward the waiting wo-
man: "My regards to Dan," he called
back. The wagon whirled around the cor-
ner of the barn an.d they were gone.

June waited until she heard from the
valley the rumble of their carriage across
the bridge, and re-entered the house. A
glance at the clock showed her that it
lacked but little of three. With the
woman's spirit in her rising in resentment
at the enforced neglect of her charge, she
hurriedly made ready porridge and toast,
an.d with these mounted again the attic
stairs.

Pushing the door inward, she entered
the room. The blinds were closed, and in
the semi-darkness at first she saw only the
outline of the huddled form upon the bed,
and heard the hurried breathing of the
invalid. Placing the food upon, the table,
June swung a single blind ajar, and in
the admitted light was conscious that the
eyes of Gilbert Stone were following her.
His face was flushed and wore the anxious
look of one in pain, and as he began to
speak, she shook her head in mild reproof.
"Didn't I hear you talkin' to somebody?"



574



OVERLAND MONTHLY.



He formed the words with effort, but after
a pause went on: "Officers, weren't they?
After me?" She nodded. "Did you send
? em away, or are they waitin'?"

He was looking at her keenly now,, and
she smiled down, at him as she answered,
"Don't you worry they're gone. You're
goin' to stay here till you're well, and
nobody's going to bother you."

He seemed reassured at this, and his
eyes closed weakly, only to open again and
rest in vague perplexity upon her face.
As she listened to the short, frequent
cough, and touched lightly with her hand
the hot forehead of the sufferer, her mind
flashed back to her girlhood, to the bed-
side of a brother she had nursed through
the crisis of an illness such as this, and
she recognized every familiar symptom of
the disease that gripped the man before
her. There was not much to be done. She
remembered the observation gravely put
by the good old doctor in the stillness and
suspense of that scene of long ago. "Pneu-
mony's bigger 'n any doctor's power, my
good child, 'n about all you can do is to
watch 'n wait 'n hope." And so she set
herself to her task.

The slow evolution of the hours brought
morning and noon and night again. She
knew the progress of the disease was ter-
ribly rapid, for his skin was assuming a
more dusky hue, his breathing had become
shallower and with abrupt inspirations.
His pulse grew feebler as the heart action
weakened, and the cough became more and
more ineffectual. With the arrival of night
the fever increased, and her cha,rge mur-
mured incoherently in a mild delirium.
The crisis of the disease was approaching.

Still the woman sat far into the night,
wide-eyed and alert, her mind dwelling
upon the myriad potentialities of her
.strange situation,. What course could she
follow if the officers returned, or if neigh-
bors visited her and discovered the pres-
ence of this unknown invalid in her house,
and what would be the outcome of it all
when Dan himself returned? When. Gil-
bert recovered if he recovered, she found
herself thinking what of his escape and
her agency in that perilous undertaking?
Yet her brain rendered no decisions,
shaped no course of action. The one im-
movable tenant of her mind was her love
for the man "before her. Her whole nature



responded to the re-endowment of this
affection,, gradually opening to a repose
in its pathos and its tenderness in the
measure it had been denied her.

Sometime toward morning she dozed.
Awakened by a squirrel scratching his way
in nervous haste across the shingles over-
head, June was surprised to find the eyes
of the invalid again fixed upon her, yet
she was not sure he saw her. His face had
grown darker and his breath came in
quicker, shorter gasps than before, but he
seemed more tranquil.

She slipped a hand beneath the bed-
clothes and touched his limbs. They were
cold. Could it be that, as she slept, Death
had crept into the little room to claim
the life that she was guarding, to take
from her, without a word of reconciliation
or recognition, all that linked her even to
this temporary happiness? She stroked
the man's forehead softly, looking down
into the great, dark eyes as if to seek an
answer to her thought. As though to bring
her comfort, a pathetic softness hovered
about them for a moment, banishing the
perpetual question of his stare, and faded
again.

Suddenly a key grated in the lock of the
door below and she heard the whine of the
dog. The eyes of the sick man had closed
again, and he gave no sign of conscious-
ness.

She heard the door close and followed
the sound of the heavy footsteps as the
man beneath made his way to the front
room. The steps ceased, and she heard
his muttered exclamation at the sight of
the unused bed and the tread of his re-
treating feet as he returned to the sink
room.

The door of the stairway creaked as it
was opened wide, and a heavy boot banged
upon the little landing at the bottom. To-
ward the chamber above was shouted in
harsh impatient tones that made her shud-
der : "June ! You up there ?" She did
not move, but sat gazing upon the man be-
fore her. At the sudden projection of
that name upon his fading consciousness,
the sick man suddenly became transfig-
ured. Kaising himself to a sitting posture
he looked into her eyes with one searching
glance, murmured faintly "June June
Carter! Ah, it is you!" and in the effort
fell back upon the pillows. He lay upon



THE WEST WIND.



575



his side with one whitened . hand out-
stretched on the coverlid, his face toward
the woman in the chair, his eyes closed.
The thin lips were parted in a gentle smile
and the expression of despair and suffer-
ing which had dominated his features
had vanished.

June's head bent forward and rested in
her hands upon the bed. She did not hear
the steps which sounded heavily upon the
stairs, and along the creaking boards of
the open chamber, to cease suddenly as
her husband stood upon the threshold of
the room. The gaze of his bleared eyes
roved from the bent figure in the chair
to the limp form of the dead man and
back again. The tufted eyebrows knitted



themselves closer together into an
expression of angry bewild-erment, and
his first words broke with appalling force
upon the stillness of the room. "Well,

what in Hell " He stopped abruptly

as his wife's hand rose in a deprecating