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Show THE GV ' i i 1 1 ' N y ' 1 x -x.Jr ' I ( 1 , ':- . .- a' ri 3"X'-V "r -1-"' f A ' .. Di... njvm"f hi . .-mtnfv,t!r.fr. - mf.fjnt.l rrr.fA t fJ.-.l!flU?".m ; : ' j v J i III'1 jW'JTi ryVcA' ! 1 ters. Who was he? Was he yet d alive? Had he any part to play in - this strange tragedy aside from that 3 he had already assayed? Sometimes an answer to a secret i query is made openly. At this juuc- i ture Newhold came back. He , stopped before her unsteadily, his face 1 now marked not only by the fierce-. i i ness of the storm outside, but by , the fiercer grapple of the storm in his heart. f "You have a right," he began, "to know everything now. I can with-! with-! hold nothing from you." ' He had in his hand a picture and something yellow that gleamed in . the light. "There," he continued ex-. ex-. tending them toward her, "is the pic- ture of the poor woman who loved ghost of suspicion to enter my mind It may have been a brother, or hel father iu his youth." "And why did you wear it?" "Because I took it from her deaf. heart. Some day I shall find out whs the man is and when I shall I know there will be uolhing to her discredit in the knc-'.vl.ve." Enid Maitland nodded her head. She closed the locket, laid it on the; table and pushed it away from her. So this tvrs the man the woman had' loved, who had begged her to ga away with him, Ihis handsome, Armstrong Arm-strong who had come within an aca of winning her own affection, to whom she was in some measure pledged! How strangely does fate work out Xewboid .had been compelled to kil his wife, of whom he was beginning ti grow a little weary under such circum stances, had added immensely to hii remorse and quickened his determin ation to expiate his guilt and cheris! her memory. She could understan; why he would do just as he bad done go into 'the wilderness to be alone ir horror of himself and in horror of his fellow men to think only, mistakenly of her. Now he was paying the penalty o that isolation, iien were made tc live with one another, and no on could violate the law natural, or bj so long an inheritance as to have sc become, without paying that penalty His ideas of loyalty and fidelity were warped, his conceptions of his dutj were narrow. There was something noble in his determination, it it true, but there was something alsq very foolish. The dividing line be tween wisdom and folly is some times as indefinite as that between comedy and tragedy, between laughter and tears. If the woman he had married and killed had only hated him and he had known it would have been different, but since he believed so in her love he could do nothing else. At that period in her reflections Enid Maitland saw a great light. The woman had not loved her husband hus-band after all, she had loved another. anoth-er. That passion of which he had dreamed had not been for him. By a strange chain ofi circumstances Enid Maitland held in her hand the solution solu-tion of the problem. She had' hut to give him these letters to show him that his golden image had stood upon feet of clay, that the love upon up-on w;hich he had dwelt was not his. Once convinced of that-'' be would come quick to her arms. She cried a prayer of blessing on old Kirkby and started to her feet, the letters in hand, to call Newbold back to her and tell him, and then she stopped. Woman as she was she had respect re-spect for the binding conditions and laws of honor as well as he. Chance, nay Provideuce, had put the honor of this woman, her rival, in her hands. The world had long since forgotten this poor unfortunate; in no heart was her memory cherished knew them by heart, she had read and reread them often when she had been alone. They had fascinated her. They were letters from some other man to Ihis man's wife. They were signed by an initial only and the identity iden-tity of the writer was quite unknown to her. The woman's replies were not with the others, but it was easy enough to see what those replies had been. All the passion of which the woman had been capable had evidently evi-dently teen bestowed upon the writer of the letters she had treasured. Her story was quite plain. She had married Newbold in a fit of pique. Ke was an eastern man, the best educated, the raost fascinating and interesting of the men who frequented fre-quented the camp. There had been a quarrel between the letter writer and the woman; there were always quarrels, quar-rels, apparently, but this had been a serious one and the man had savagely flung away and loft her. He had not come back as he usually did. She had waited for him and then he had come back too late! He had wanted to kill the other, but she had prevented, and while Newbold was away he had made desperate love to her. He had besought her to leave her husband to go away with him. He had used every argument that he could to that end and the woman wo-man had hesitated and wavered, but she had not consented; she had not denied her love for him any nfore than she had denied her respect and a certain admiration .for her gallant, trusting husband. She had refused again and again the requests of her love She could not control her heart, nevertheless she had kept to her marriage vows. But the force of her resistance had grown weaker and she had realized that alone she would perhaps inevitably succumb. Her lover had been away when her husband returned prior to the last fateful journey. Enid Maitland saw now why she had besought him to take her with him, she was afraid to be left alone! She did not dare depend de-pend upon her own powers any more; her only salvation was to go with this man whom she did not love, whom at times she almost hated, to keep from falling into the arms of the man she did 'love. She had beenmore or less 14 SYNOPSIS. Er.ld MaitlaniJ. a frank, tree and unspoiled un-spoiled youni; Phallad. l)hla girl, Is taken to the Colorado mountains uy her um le. .Robert. Maitland. James Armstrong, Malllar.o'H protefe'e, falls in love with her. His j.tr.slstnrit woolritf thrills Hie K'll. but tthe hesftutea, and Armstrong goes east on business without a definite answer. Knld hears the story of a mining engineer, engi-neer, N'svt'bold, v.iioso wife fell oft a elilf and was so seriously hurt that be was compelled to shoot her to prevent her being be-ing eaten by wolves while be went for help. K:rkby, the old guide who tells the story, gives Enid a paekaije of letters which he says were lound on the dead woman's body. She reads the letters and at Klrkby's request keeps them. U liile bathing In mountain stream Knid is attacked at-tacked by a bear, which is mysteriously shot. A storm adds to the girl's terror. A sudden deluge transforms brook into raging torrent, which sweeps Enid Into Korge, where she Is rescued by a mountain moun-tain hermit after a thrilling experience. Campers in great confusion upon discov-Ing discov-Ing Enid's absence when the storm breaks. Maitland and (Jld Kirkby go in search of the girl. Enid discovers that her ankle Is sprained anil that she is unable un-able to walk Her mysterious rescuer carries her to his camp. Enid goes to sleep In the strange man's bunk. Miner cooks breakfast for Knld, after whieli they go on tour of inspection. The hermit her-mit tells Enid of his unsuccessful attempt to find the Maitland campers. He admits that he is also from 1'hiladolphla. The hermit falls in love with Knld. The man comes to a realization of his love for her, but naturally In that strange solitude the relations of the girl and her rescuer become be-come unnatural and strained. The stranger strang-er tells of a wife he had who is dead, and says he has sworn to ever cherish her memory by living in solitude. He and Enid, however, confess their love for each other. She learns that he Is the man who killed his wife In the mountain. CHAPTER XVI (Continued). ' "Oh, God! Oh, God!" he cried in his humiliation and shame, "if I had ' - only met you first, or if my wife had i died as others die, and not by my ; hand in that awful hour. I can see i her now, broken, bruised, bleeding, ; torn. I can hear the report of that I weapon; her last glance at me In the ' midst of her indescribable agony Was j one of thankfulness and gratitude. 1 can't stand it, I am unworthy even of her." , - , "But you could not help it, it was ! not your fault. And you can't help '; caring for me " "I ought to help it, I ought not love you, I ought to have known that I i was not fit to love any woman, that I had no right, that I was pledged like a monk to the past. I have been i weak, a fool. I love you and my hon- j or goes, I love you and my self-respect Y goes, I love you and my pride goes. Would to God I could say I love you and my life goes and end it all." He Such fierce surges of joy throbbed j through him as he had not thought the human frame could sustain. This woman loved him, in some strange way he had gained her affection. It was impossible, yet she had said so! He had been a blind fool. He could see that now. Site stood before him and smiled up at him, looking at him through eyes misted with tears, with lips parted, with color coming and going go-ing in her cheek and with her bosom rising and falling. She loved him, he had but to step nearer to her to take her in his arms. There was a trust, devotion, surrender, everything, in her attitude, and between them like that great gulf which lay between the rich man and the beggar, that separated heaven and hell, was that he could not cross. "I never dreamed, I never hoped oh," he exclaimed as if he got his death wound, "this cannot be borne." He turned away but in two swift steps she caught him. "Where do you go?" "Out, out into the night." "You cannot go now, it is ' dark; hark to the storm, you would miss your footing you would fall, you would freeze, you would die." "What matters that?" "I cannot have it." "It would be better so." He strove again to- wrench himself away, but she would not be denied. She clung to him tenaciously. "I will not let you go unless you ' give me your word of honor that you will not leave the plateau, aud that you will come back to me." "I tell you that the quicker and more surely I go -out of life, the happier hap-pier and better it will be for you." "And I tell you," said the woman resolutely, "that you can never go out of my life agaiil, living or dead." She released him with one hand and laid it upon her heart. "You are here." "Enid," cried the man. "No," she thrust him gently away with one hand yet detained him with tire other that was emblematic of the situation between them. "Not now, not yet, let me think, but promise prom-ise me you will do yourself no harm, you will let nothing imperil your life." "As you will," said the man regretfully. regret-fully. "I had purposed to end it now and forever, but' I promise." "Y'our word of honor?" "My word of honor." -. " mm Will 1 Mb mv&m iSP tern $ She Was Utterly Unable to Suppress an Exclamation. iff ,mL feAj&Sfc pi nai lilKs lilt ' She Had but to Show Kim Those Letters. save in that of her husband. His idea of her .was a false one to be sure, but not even to procure her own ( happiness could Enid Maitland overthrow that ideal, shatter that memory. She sat down again with the letters let-ters in her hand. It had been very simple a moment since, but it was not so now. She had but to show him those letters to remove the great barrier between them. She could not do it. It was clearly impossible. The reputation ' of her dead sister who had struggled so bravely to the end was in her hands, she cou'd tiQt sacrifice sac-rifice her even for her own happiness. happi-ness. "Quixotic," you say? I don'ot think so. She had blundered unwittingly, unwillingly, upon the heart secret of the other woman; she could not be-, tray it. Even if the other woman had been really unfaithful in deed as well as in thought to her husband Enid could hardly have destroyed his recollection of her. How much more impossible it was since the other woman wo-man had fought sl heroically and so successfully for her honor. Womanhood Woman-hood demanded her silence. Loyalty, Loyal-ty, honor, compelled her silence. A dead hand grasped his heart and the same dead hand grasped hers. She could see no way out of the difficulty. dif-ficulty. So far as she knew no human hu-man soul except old Kirkby and herself her-self knew this woman's story. She could not tell Newbold and she would have to impose upon Kirkby the same silence as she herself exercised. There was absolutely no way in which the man could find out. He must cherish Ins dream as 1; a would. She would not enlighten- him, she would not disabuse his mind, she could not shatter his ideal, she could not betray his wife. They might love as the angels of heaven and yet be kept forever apart by a scruple, an idea, a principle, an abstraction, ab-straction, honor, a name. Her mind told her thpse things were idle and foolish, but her soul would not hear of it. And in spite of Iter resolutions sh? felt that eventually even-tually there would- he some way. She would not have been a human woman wo-man if she had not hoped and prayed that, f-he believed that Cod had created cre-ated them for each other, that he had thrown them together. Site was enough of a fatalist In this Instance at least to accept their intimacy as the result of His ordination. There must bo some way out of the dilemma. dilem-ma. Yet Bhe knew that he would be true to his belief and she felt that she would not bo false to her obligation. obli-gation. What of that? There would be some way. Perhaps somebody else knew, and then there (lashed into her mind the writer of the let- afraid of Newbold. She had soon realized, because she was not blinded by any passion as he, that they had been utterly mismated. She had come to understand that when the same knowledge of the truth came to him, as it inevitably must some day, nothing noth-ing but unhappiness would be their portion. Every kind of an argument in addition ad-dition to those so passionately adduced ad-duced in these letters urging her to break away from her husband and to seek happiness for herself while yet there was time, besieged her heart, seconded her lover's plea and assailed Jier will, and yet she had not given way. Now Enid Maitland hated the woman wo-man who had enjoyed the first young love of the man she herself loved. She haled1 her because of her priority of possession, because her memory yet came between her and that man. She hated her because Newbold was still true to her memory, because Newbold, believing-'in the greatness of her passion for him, thought it shame and dishonor to his manhood to be false to her, no matter what love and longing drew him oil. Y'et there was a stern sense of justice jus-tice in the bosom ' of this young w oman. o-man. She ex.ulted in the successful battle the poor woman had made for the preservalion of her honor and her good name, against such pdds. It was a sex triumph, for which she was glad. She "was proud of her for the stern rigor with which she had refused to take the easiest way and the desperation desper-ation with which she had clung to him she did not love, but to whom she was bound by the laws of God and man, in order that she might not fall into the arms oh the man she did love, in defiance of right. Enid Maitland and this woman were as far renuved from each other as the opposite poles of e earth, hut there was yet a common quality in each one of virtuous womanhood, of lofty morality. Natural, perhaps in the one and to be be expected; mi- natural, perhaps, and to be unexpec;- td in t'.ic other, but there! Now thai ,:. he knew what love was and what its power and what its force for all that she had felt and experienced and dreamed about before were as nothing to what it was since he had spoken she cou!d understand what the struggle strug-gle must have been in that woman's heart. She could honor her, reverence rever-ence her, pity her. Sne could understand the feeling of the man too; she could think much more clearly than he. He was distracted dis-tracted by two passions, for his pride aud his honor and for her; she had as yet but one, for him. She could understand how in the first frightful rush of his grief and re-mor-a and love the very fact that me and whom I killed, you saw it once before." "Yes," she nodded, taking it from him carefully and looking again in a strange, commixture of pride, jre-sentment jre-sentment and pity at the bold, somewhat some-what coarse, entirely uncultured, yet handsome face which gav-e no evidence evi-dence of the moral purpose which she had displayed. "And here," said the man offering the other article, "is something that no human eye but mine has ever seen since that day. It is a locket I took from her neck. , Until you came I wore it next to my heart." "And since then?" "Since then I have been unworthy her as I am unworthy you, and I have put it aside." "Does it contain another picture?" "Yes." "Of her?" "A man's face." "Yours?" He shook his head. "Look and see," he answered. "Press the spring." , Suiting action to word, the next second Enid Maitland found herself gazing upon the pictured semblance of Mr. .lames Armstrong! She was utterly unable to suppress an exclamation excla-mation and a start of surprise at the astonishing revelation. The man looked at her curiously; he opened his mouth to question her but she recovered herself in part at least and swiftly interrupted him in a panic f terror lest she should betray her V. nowledge. "And what is the picture of another anoth-er man doing in your wife's locket?" she asked to gain time, for she very well knew the reply; knew It, indeed, in-deed, better than Newbold himself! Who as It happened, was equally In the dark both as to the man and the reason. "1 don't know," answered the other. oth-er. "Do you know this man?" "I never saw him in my life that I can recall." "Ami have you did you " "Did I suspect my wife?" he asked. "Never. I had too many evidences that she loved me and me alone for a its purposes. ' Enid had come from the Atlantic seaboard to be the second sec-ond woman that both these two men , loved! If she ever saw Mr. James Armstrong Arm-strong again, and she had no doubt that she would, she would have some strange things to say to him. Shfc - held in her hands now all the threads -of the mystery, she was master of ' all the solutions, and each thread-was thread-was a chain that bound her. '' "My friend," she said at last with' a deep sigh, "you must forget this night and go ori as before., You love hie, thank God for that, but honor and respect interpose between us.-And us.-And I love you. and I thank God for that, too, but for me as well the. same barrier rises. Whether we-shall we-shall ever surmount these barriers- ' God alone knows. He brought -js together, he put that love in our hearts, we will have to leave it to ' him to do as will with us both. Meanwhile we must go on. as before." be-fore." "No," cried the man, "you impose upon me tasks beyond my strength; you don't know what love is, you ' don't know the heart hunger, the awful aw-ful madness I feel. Think, I have beet,, alone with a recollection for all these 1 years, a man in the dark, in the night;, and the light comes, you are here The first night I brought you here I walked that room on the other side of ' that narrow door like a lion pent u---In' bars of steel. I had only my osr,-love, osr,-love, my own passionate adoration to-move to-move me then, but now that I know you love me, that I see it in your eyes,, that I hear it from your lips, thnt 1 mark it In the beat of your heart, can-I can-I keep silent? Can I live on and on? Can I see you, touch you, breathe th same air with you, be pent up in the same room with you hour after hour, day after day, and go on as before? t can't do it, it is an Impossibility. What keeps me now from taking you in my arms and from kissing the color Into your cheeks, from making yoii lips my own, from dr.inking the light from your eyes?" He swayed near t.v her, h) voice roso. "What restrains-mo?" restrains-mo?" ho demanded. (TC Blfl CONTINUED. Btared at her a little space. "There la only one way of satisfaction in it all, one gleam of comfort." be added. ' "And what is that?" "You don't, know what the suffering Is, you don't understand, you don't comprehend." , "And why not?" "Because you do not love me. "Put I do" said the woman quite Imply as if It were a matter of course not only that she should love him, but that she should also tell him 8The man stared at her amazed. 1 And you won t break it. "I never broke it to a human being, much less will I do so to you!" She released him, he went into the other room and she heard him cross the floor and open the door and go out into the night, into the slorm again. CHAPTER XVII. The Face In the Locket. Left alone in the room she sat down again before the fire and drew from her pocket the packet of k tteru She |