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dear Mr. Lester."

Lester looked imploringly upward. " Miss Pey-
ton, O, I say, repeat that ! " With scrupulous
care, inch by inch, he edged painfully nearer
the top. He was within a few feet of Miss
Peyton's extended hand when, firmly gritting his
boot in a tiny cleft, and grasping in his fingers,
claw-like, two projecting knobs, he paused. The
sweat rolled in beads down his temples.



** In the old days," he said, smiling grimly up
at the face bent toward him, ** in the old days,
the girl threw her glove down among the lions,
and told the man to get it. And the man who
loved her, — who thought he did, you know —
went down and brought back the glove and —
and threw it in her face. It sounds well in the
book, and I always fancied, you know, that he —
that he did the right thing, but I don't believe it
now, I don't, because — " as he spoke he again
started upward.

*' Come ! " said Miss Peyton, stretching her
hands as far as she could reach. **Come,
you 're all right I come. O, if ever you get up
here safe — dear Mr. Lester, O, O."

She saw the bush by which he was pulling
himself up, suddenly come out by the roots.
She caught the glimpse of his upturned face and
the snort of surprise as he fell back and out.
She saw his body fall like a stone past the ledge
and disappear with a crash of broken branches
in the pines below. Then Miss Peyton screamed,
and quite forgetting her character, fainted dead
away.

The sun glared for some moments on the
tumbled folds of white duck and the silent white
face, before, with a weak gasp, she raised her
head and strained her eyes over the edge. The
white, splintered wood of a broken branch
showed out of the dark green. At the sight of
it she gave a sick little groan and hid her face
in her hands.

Miss Peyton had never lived in a lumber
camp, and she had no suspicion of the singular
life-saving properties possessed by the thick,
flexible network of a great pine-tree's branches.
If a voice had come up from below she would
not have known she heard it. With face buried
in her arms, she lay, moaning. When, at last,
she gathered courage to venture another fearful
look, the sound of footsteps brought her head
round with a start. Limping down to the ledge
from the path behind, his lips pressed into an
odd smile, and in his hand a tattered scarlet
parasol, was the Somnambulist.

Miss Peyton rose on her arm and caught her
breath. "I was trying to tell you, you know,
that the fellow was wrong," began Lester, as



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holding the parasol by the tip he extended the
handle toward Miss Peyton, — **he didn't give
the girl a fair chance, because "

But Miss Peyton had risen to her knees, and
mechanically taken hold of the parasol handle,
when, all at once, her voice came to her, and
laughing and crying hysterically, she fell forward
and seized Lester's other arm. He winced,
though he stood still, and apologetically drew it
away.

" I don't believe you *d better," he said, sor-
rowfully, "I'm afraid it's broken; "but the



fell ow, that is the girl might not have though
much about it — and maybe she didn't know
just how he "

" She was wrong and she did n't know, and he
was a hero, a hero all the time, and she knew
it — only she didn't quite — but she does now,
and she — she "

" Do you mean it I " cried Lester. But there
were no more words, and in what then ensued
the tattered scarlet parasol dropped from the
hands of each and fell forgotten to the ground.

A. B. Ruhl



TWO SIDES OF THE FENCE.



^^ WOU have not been here for a long time,"
* she remarked contentedly, sitting down
on the piano stool, while he leaned back on the
sofa.

"Cheerful thought! Seems to please you.
The fact is I have been "

'* Don't you say busy — college men have no
right to the word."

" Don't be alarmed, I was going to say, sick."

" Not really ! " she looked very sympathetic,
and, being a man, he liked it, but pretended
not to.

" Real or imaginary, it was somewhat painful."

" You don't look thin."

"No, I waited till I got fat again. I knew
you did n't like scrawny men." He smiled as he
poked his finger tentatively into his firm leg.

" But I don't like plump, lazy people, either.
The two go together."

"According to your idea, colleges must be
asylums for the obese."

" What do you mean, silly ? "

" You said we are all lazy, that is, you said
not busy, which is the same thing."

" It is painful the way you remember things I
say, and repeat them hours later."

" Hardly ten minutes," he objected.

" Why do you store them up so ? "

" Because you say them, I suppose."



She tried to look unconcerned and of course
made a failure of it. She had turned so that
he looked at her profile, and was running her
hand softly up and down the piano.

" You 've said one foolish thing," she ventured
finally. "Now it's my turn."

"Shall I keep score?" he asked, pulling a
note book from his pocket.

" Perhaps it is n't necessary. I shall soon be
ahead."

" Let us have number one, now," he said
quietly.

" I was wondering if you did not stay away
on purpose all this time."

'* On purpose to get well, yes, and on purpose
not to pain you by throwing my emaciated form
at your feet."

" Well I 'm sorry I said it now." She ran
several chromatic scales on the piano.

" Will you please play something ? " he asked
soberly.

" Why did n't you say ' bang the box ' ? You
usually do."

" Because I did n't mean that. There is a dif-
ference. You do both."

She played a piece from memory.

" That was good. I like your playing," he
said honestly. " What is it ? "

" Some unpronounceable thing by Rubenstein.



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I can't even spell it without looking at the copy.
I can't find it now."

She rummaged among the piles of music and
made an odd attempt to put some impossible
syllables together. They both laughed.

" Rubenstein went to a watering place and
this piece is supposed to describe the people he
met there. You noticed how the movement
changed ? "

'* Seems to me that erratic little part that
shifts from one end of the piano to the other
might apply to you."

"Why?"

"Who but a girl would ask a point blank
* why ' ? You might at least say something
uncomplimentary about yourself and that would
leave me a chance to give the right answer —
because it 's a trifle erratic and very sweet."

"This jiggelty place in the bass is like you,"
she retorted quickly.

" Because it *s hard to play ? " He looked
squarely at her when he said this, and laughed
when she put on a reproachful expression.

" I was n't going to give you a chance to ask
why. I mean because it seems very compli-
cated when it isn't. It doesn't develop the
theme very far."

'* Now you Ve getting too technical for me.
This character analysis in terms of music is too
much like shooting round a corner. You mean,
of course that I don't pursue a subject very far.
A kind of a simple soul not fond of straying far
from home or threading labyrinths. That *s very
obvious. There was something more subtle
about my comparison of you to that quick
variation."

" Do I change much ? "

"You shift your position often and rapidly.
You don't change permanently. That 's just the
point. You fly back and forth like a tennis-
ball. You are first on one side of the fence and
then on the other. You jump it gracefully when
my back is turned."

" I don't understand you."

" Of course you don't. I '11 help you. A year
ago you were sitting on that piano stool, and I
came over and kissed you. You had always
objected before ; this time you did n't. A month



after you held me at arm's length. I stayed
away and you wrote me to come. Soon after
we came home from some place in a carriage.
You were not icy. Last June you took formal
leave of me when you went abroad. In the fall
you kissed me when you came back. Since
then I 've been sick. I have n't been able to
watch you. I do not know which side of the
fence you are on."

" Why did n't I hear that you were sick } "

" I don't know ; because I did n't write home."

" Mamma had a letter from your mother
wondering why you did not write. Of course
you never write to me."

"I didn't suppose you cared to correspond
much, when you are only four miles from col-
lege. I come often enough myself — when I
am well."

She was silent for several moments.

" I am glad," she began at last, " that it was
sickness that kept you — don't misunderstand
me.

But there was no need of the injunction, for,
although ordinarily he would have laughed a
sarcastic " Thank you I How sympathetic I "
he was quite still and waited.

" Because," she continued, " I was afraid some-
thing, my changeableness or something else, had
offended you."

" No indeed, Ella ; a man expects a woman to
be variable. They all are."

"I wish you wouldn't fall into those stupid
generalizations. All women are n't anything,
and all men aren't anything."

" It 's lucky I know what you mean."
. **I am changeable, but that's no sign the
whole sex is. I 'm not going to be so any
more."

"You are going to stay, you mean, on the
same side of the fence ? "

"Yes I am."

She brought her foot down emphatically.

" And do you mind telling me which side
of the fence you happen to be on when the
resolution takes effect .? "

" On the side — on the side you'd rather have
me on, even — if I have to change 1 "

M. A, y.



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THE PASSING OF THE STORM.



IT WAS a lazy afternoon in mid September.
I had had vague thoughts of golfing or
riding bicycle, but they had failed to materialize.
For such an afternoon I felt that I could manage
only the " lightest " literature. I had, therefore,
taken *« Don Belasco of Key West" and had
come down to the little red shop, where Seth
Coffin did all sorts of odd jobs, making every-
thing from baskets to thole pins. The shop was
a haven for all the captains in town, both for
those who had " circumnavigated the globe "
nine times, more or less, and for those whose
experience was limited to the Sound. Another
attraction was that the shop still possessed some
of that much sought for quality called quaint-
ness. Outside the door, mouldering in the grass
and burdocks, lay the huge head of a right
whale which had so long been exposed to the
weather that it looked like a large block of
pumice stone. Through the diamond panes of
the window I caught a glimpse of hopeless
confusion. The figure heads of vessels, old
spars, masts, oars, anchors and fishing tackle
crowded each other for room.

When Seth was not in the shop he was gen-
erally on the "Julia." The «* Julia" was a
small cat boat provided by the Government, in
which he sailed out to the jetty lights. Seth
had had this place for three years, starting when
he was only twenty. If you wanted to get on
his right side you had merely to sympathize
with him on the amount of " red-tape " involved
in a Government position. When he talked
about his work his eyes flashed. His eyes
always looked as if he were trying to peer
beyond the horizon — a look which only sea
life gives.

Vainly I shook the latch of the shop door.
Seth was not there. So I walked slowly along
toward the wharf, my feet leaving on the tar
sidewalk impressions which gradually faded
away, as if I had been treading on sponge cake.
At the end of the steamboat wharf, in the
shadow of the freight house, I found a fairly
cool spot. Lighting a cigarette, I began to read.
Before long I heard voices and from curiosity



craned my head around the corner of the freight
house. I saw a girl in a pink shirtwaist stand-
ing with one foot on the float, the other on the
gunwales of a rowboat. She wore white shoes
and her sleeves were rolled high above her
elbows. Beside her with his hat and coat off
was Seth. He seemed to be remonstrating with
her. Surely one of the hotel girls could n't be
going for a row on such a sultry day. But so it
seemed, for with a laugh she got into the boat
and pushed off. With a steady click, click of
the rowlocks and a pleasant gurgle of the water,
she started out toward the Point. I felt some
surprise at this remonstrance of Seth*s, for gen-
erally when a pretty girl said to him come, he
came, and when she said go, he went. The
problem, however, was too much for me and I
began to read again.

As the pink waist rowed over the sizzling
water, it gave a pleasing touch of fresh color to
the glowing landscape. The boat, carried by
the tide, glided past the squat white lighthouse
on the jutting end of Brant Point, and headed
for the bell buoy. I wondered if the girl could
row against that swirling tide, for I had tried it.
Then came a squeaking and a rattling of a hoist-
ing sail, and the " Julia " went slowly by. Seth
stood at the tiller, his eyes seaward, and he did
not notice me. The sun dazzled on the white
sail, which now and then flapped lazily in the
uncertain breath of air. Seth's course seemed
to be the same as that of the pink waist and
with a smile I thought, " Can she be still
another ? "

Soon the pink waist had passed out beyond
the two jetties and drew near the bell buoy, from
which an occasional mournful note rang faintly
across the water. The heat had now grown so
intense that I decided to go home. Just as I
was getting up I glanced at the West. There,
rapidly growing up out of the horizon was a cloud,
one glance at which was enough. It glowed
dully as if a fire were burning behind it. It
grew hurriedly and ate up the blue sky. The
girl so far had had her back to the West. Soon
she circled around the bell buoy. Instantly she



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began to tug at the oars, as her boat headed
shoreward. But she did not seem to be gaining
on that resistless tide.

The air had now become heavy and parched,
and there was a stillness as of preparation for
disaster. A few large drops of rain splashed
hissing on the oily water and thumped on the
dry boards of the wharf. A gust of cold, moist
wind swirled past, whirling some bits of news-
paper far out from the wharf.

The girl seemed to be loosing ground. Sud-
denly she grasped the bell-buoy and fastened her
painter to it. By this time all the sky was
purple black, save in the West where jagged
brazen streaks glowed and in the East where was
still a thread of blue. Out of the West I saw a
line of foam fleeing across the water toward the
buoy. Then the squall burst from the angry
clouds. The wind tore at my clothes and the
whirling clouds of dust nearly blinded me. I
strained my eyes and at last I saw the " Julia,"
heeled away over, hovering near the buoy. Then
the misty darkness swallowed up the buoy and
the two boats.

Before long the clouds lifted a little. There,



just inside the foaming white caps of the bar,
was the " Julia,'' driven on by the gale. Seth,
at least, was safe. But the rowboat had van-
ished. Soon the " Julia " rounded Brant Point
and swept up toward the wharf. Already the
darkness was hustling eastward and streaks of
dusty sunlight gleamed in the West.

A bareheaded figure stood at the "Julia's''
tiller. Down in the cockpit was a blotch of
pink. As the boat came up to the wharf, the
sun burst forth again and the wind began to
flatten. Save for the foam on the bar and the
streak of blackness in the East, the storm had
left no traces. The ** Julia " rounded up to the
float and Seth jumped ashore, holding out his
hand to the girl. Then he signalled for a car-
riage. The girl stood still, as if dazed. Seth
bent down to tie the painter. The girl fumbled
in her pocket and brought out her purse. She
started to open it. Suddenly she closed it and
hastily put it away. She shook hands warmly
with Seth. Then the carriage door opened and
slammed to and the carriage rattled away over
the cobblestones.

John Higginson Cabot^ 2na,



BARLOW'S SAL.



/^^ ARROL was alone with Barlow ; and Barlow
^^ was dying.

The quiet close of a well-rounded life Carrol
had seen more than once : his relatives seemed
always to be dying — there were so many in the
family, and the old blood was so thin. But
never before had he seen the snuffing-out of a
young life. Looking at the fading light in the
face of his friend, he fell to musing over their
strange comradeship.

Carrol had first seen Barlow lounging across
from Stoughton to Thayer; and no man of
Carrol's breeding ever noticed Barlow's swagger
without disliking him. Later, he had stumbled
into an introduction, and had felt a bit nervous as
he realized that his aversion had gradually yielded
to Barlow's magnetism. For an hour he lis-



tened to well-told tales which showed him that
Barlow, in his twenty years, had seen and felt
and done more of good and evil than Carrol had
ever read of. The chance meeting of this pair,
apparently so ill-assorted, grew into a firm friend-
ship. Carrol's old friends laughed at the strange
intimacy; but his mother grieved over it. He
himself gloried in it, and it had remained
unbroken throughout their years at Harvard and
had lasted on into life. Barlow was the one
medium through which Carrol had been brought
into touch with the living, breathing world from
which family tradition, wealth, and environment
had cut him off. No matter how cramped his
father's ofiice, or how prison-like the long lines
of dusty law-books might seem, a glance at one
of Barlow's letters would never fail to transform



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it all into jungle, or prairie, or the long, oily
heave of the Pacific.

Barlow had once, — half jokingly — promised
Carrol that sometime he would drop his roving,
come back to New York and settle down in
quiet bachelorhood with him. Carrol cherished
this hope and believed in it firmly enough to
hire rooms for the two. Each year he added
some picture, or rug or bit of old furniture;
occasionally he went there, sat by the cheerless
grate, looked at the two pewter mugs on the
mantel, and longed for the night when grate
would glow and mugs be filled.

At last they were in the rooms; but from
what the Doctor had just told him, Carrol
knew that the comradeship of his fancy would
never be realized. Barlow had come back to
him, his life burning out with a fever. Day by
day Carrol had sat by the bed-side, waiting for
a break in the fevered flow of words. Only
once was there anything coherent in the mutter-
ings: Barlow had been moaning, tossing, and
mumbling; suddenly he cried, "I have it! I
knew I could n't forget that, ' The sickness gets
in as the liquor dies out! That's it That's
just it. I wonder how he knows so much. * As

— the — liquor — dies — out' "

There was a brief silence ; then the muttering
went on until the sleep, in which he now lay,
gently came upon him. The Doctor told him
that Barlow would be sane when he woke ;
Carrol was watching him intently. At last the
eyes opened and the gaunt hand closed on his,
not fitfully, as in the fever, but with feeble
firmness. Barlow looked up at him, smiled and
said faintly, —

*'Why it AfCal, isn't it?"

'* Yes, Jack. It 's Cal."

" Something has been telling me all the time
that it was you. When my luck left, they all —
all but Sal — turned on me ; but I kept up until
they told her that lie, then she went, too. After
that I let everything slide till, when it was too
l^e, and the fever had hold of me, I braced
up just enough to get from New Orleans to you

— I had the address, you know. I came yester-
day, did n't I, Cal.?"

" No, Jack," said Cal, « you 've been here a



bit longer than that. But," he added cheerfully,
" not half so long as you and I are going to stay
here, now that you are getting better."

"Getting better .J* Who says so? Don't
believe 'em, Cal. I *ve used up what you 'd
have to fall back on and I 'm done for."

" Oh no you 're not, old man. But we won't
talk about that now ; you *re too weak. Take a
little nap."

Barlow quickly fell asleep again. When he
awoke, he called out in a stronger voice,

" Cal 1 "

" What is it. Jack ? "

" It 's about her — Sal. I never wrote to you
about her because, — well, she 's not quite your
kind ; and we were happy and careless and we
forgot, — well, we forgot the parson. Don't
look that way Cal ; it was all right, was n't it ;
if — if we loved each other ? "

"But Jack, did she love you? Where is
she now ? You 're sick."

" They lied to her, Cal ; and Sal — well, Sal 's
fiery, — that 's her spirit you know — and she
left me, and I was too sick to tell her the truth.
But — and this is what I 'm driving at — I think,
Cal, if you'd write what I tell you and say to
her, too, that I 'm all better, I think she'd come.
I know she would."

Carrol wrote as Barlow dictated. They waited
until Sal's illiterate answer came. Then Barlow
called back all his ebbing strength and seemed
to improve steadily until the day Sal was due in
New York. Carrol went to the station, feeling
a trifle nervous; he had never talked to a
woman like Sal; he feared lest he should say
the wrong thing and not appear cordial to Bar-
low's friend. The brakes ceased screeching;
the dusty, tired people filed out of the coaches.
Carrol had been doubtful about recognizing her ;
but there could be no mistaking Sal; gaudy
gown, fluffy, frizzled hair, rouged cheeks, — all
that he had expected and dreaded were there.
He went up to her, —

'* I beg pardon, but is this Miss Huckins? "

" Miss Huckins ! Huh ! No. I 'm Sal."

He told her his errand.

"Sick? Why didn't he say so? I ain't no
good when folks is sick."



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" He did n't wish to alarm you," said Carrol.

" Huh I I didn't come way up here to see a
sick man."

'* He is not only sick ; he is dying.*'

" Huh I I don't like to see things die."

" But," protested Carrol, " I thought you — I
thought you — loved him."

" Loved him ? Huh I "

" I think, then," said Carrol coldy, *' you had
better take the next train South. The porter
will tell you about it. Good morning."

Without lifting his hat, Carrol turned away,
and hurried back to the rooms. The face on
the pillow was fevered again, and the eyes had
a hectic eagerness.



" Hello, Cal 1 I 'm better. Where 's Sal ? "

'* She did n't come, Jack."

" Well, she '11 come on the next train, I know
she will. But I can't last till then, not even for
her. It took all I had to last till now. But
Cal } "

" Yes, Jack."

'* She tried to come ; did n't she ? "

'* I 'm sure she did. Jack."

" Well, that makes me feel better. When she
comes, Cal, try to like her. You loved me ; she
loved me. Like her for that. And don't let her
— take — it — too — hard, Cal."

The hand which Carrol held tightened on his.

M. Churchill



AN INTERNATIONAL COMPLICATION.



'T'HE quarrel was about Morgan, a Welshman,
^ whose half-brain was quite filled with hatred
of the tyrant Saxon. But it was a vague, harm-
less odium that vented itself in scurrilous epithets
against the conqueror and in hyperbolical lauda-
tion of the oppressed sons of Llewelyn. I fear
we made life gall for the lad. Fisher ** minor "
was regular in his spirited declamation of ** Taffy
was a Welshman " ; concomitant with diurnal tea
was Hallahan's innocent question if we had ever
heard of the Welshman. exhibiting his pedigree
with great pride and pointing half way up the list
to Adam ? In the study, after supper, I always
begged for "Men of Garlick-Harlech " — excus-
ing myself by the emblem of Wales — a leek.
On St. David's day French scented the patriot's
bed with one.

But with the advent of Fisher ** major" —
older and more sensible than the rest of us —
came to me conviction of the wrong of it all.
He and I became defenders of the dauntless
Morgan, placing ourselves as such squarely
against the pleasure of our comrades.

That I was a " Yankee " had before been par-
doned. Aside from a few impassioned arguments
on questions of athletic superiority and occa-
sional word skirmishes, we had dwelt in love



and unity. But with the severing quarrel came
discussions, personal, in argumentum ad hotninem
fashion.

Once I referred to all English girls as marble
Ionic columns — too long for their breadth —
with no perceptible entasis anywhere, and with
capitals unsymmetrical because of volutes of hair
in the back — all of which was of course untrue
and indelicate.

At dinner I was the more piqued at Dekker's
denunciation of all things American, owing to


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