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Show llT Fcingl&c Story eFvCoTtalJVrsCTS kPm N5A,Tfiftlsr J of T?6nrOTV ihe jr,-! As Spar K-ivi!f &l&S$Sfc it In obedience to some higher law, is perhaps to pay oneself the most flattering flat-tering of compliments. There was a satisfaction to her soul in this which was yet denied him. Her action was quite different from his. She was putting away happiness which she might have had in compliance compli-ance with a higher law than that which bids humanity enjoy. It was nattering to her mind. In his case, it was otherwise; he had no consciousness con-sciousness that he was a victim of misplaced trust, of misinterpreted action. ac-tion. He thought the woman for whom he was putting away happiness was almost as worthy, if infinitely less desirable, as the woman whom he now loved. ' Every sting of outrage, every feeling feel-ing of shame, every fear of disloyalty, scourged him. She could glory in it; he was ashamed, humiliated, broken. She heard him savagely walking up and down the other room, restlessly impelled by the same Erinyes which of old scourged Orestes; the violator of the laws of moral being drove him on. These malign Eumenides held him in their hands. He was bound and helpless, rage as he might in one moment, pray as he did in another, no light came into the whirling darkness of his torn, tempest tossed, driven soul. The irresistible impulse and the Immovable body the philosophers puzzled puz-zled over were exemplified in him. Whilst he almost hated the new worn- ideas and his Ideals, or he must inevitably inev-itably take the woman. How frightful was the battle that raged within his bosom! Sometimes in his despair he thought that he would have been glad if he and she had gone down together in the dark waters before all this came upon him. The floods of which the heavens had emptied themselves had borne her to him. Oh 'if they had only swept him out of life with its trouble, its trials, its anxieties, its obligations, its impossibilities. impos-sibilities. If they had gone together! And then he knew that he was glad even for the torture, because he had seen her, because he had loved her, and because she had loved him. He marveled at himself curiously, and in a detached way. There was a woman who loved him, who had confessed con-fessed it boldly and innocently, there was none to say him nay. The woman who stood between had been dead five years. The world knew nothing, cared nothing; they could go out together; he could take her; she would come. On the impulse he turned and ran to the door and beat upon it. Her voice bade him enter, and he came in. Her heart yearned to him. She was shocked, appalled at the torture she saw upon his face. Had he been laid upon the rack, and every joint pulled from its sockets, he could not have been more white and agonized. "I give up," he cried. "What are honor and self respect to me? I want the range, a prey to most despondent reflections, heavy hearted and disconsolate discon-solate indeed. ( After that memorable interview with Mr. Stephen Maltland in Philadelphia Phila-delphia he had deemed it proper td await there the arrival of Mr. Robert Rob-ert Maltland. A brief interview withl that distracted gentleman had put him in possession of all the facts in the case. As Robert Maitland had; said, after presentation of the tragiq story, the situation was quite hope-J less. Even Armstrong reluctantly ad-l mitted that her uncle and old KIrkbyj had done everything that was posslJ ble for the rescue or discovery of; the girl. Therefore the two despondent gen-j tlemen had shortly after returned to) their western homes, Robert Maitland) in this instance being accompanied by his brother Stephen. The latter never knew how much his daughterj had been to him until this evil fatei had befallen her. Robert Maitland! had promised to Inaugurate a thor-j ough and extensive search to solve th mystery of her death, which he felt) was certain, in the spring, when the weather permitted humanity to have free course through the mountains. Mr. Stephen Maitland found a cer) tain melancholy satisfaction in belngj at least near the place where neither he nor any one had any doubt hlsi daughter's remains lay yd beneath the snow or ice Oh the mountains tif' the freezing cold. Robert Maitland;1 had no other idea than that Enid's body was in the lake. He intended to drain it an engineering task of no great difficulty and yet he lntendedj also, to search the hills for- miles onj either side of the main stream down which she had gone, for she mighfl possibly have strayed away and died of starvation and exposure, rather) than drowning. At any rate, he; would leave nothing undone to discov er her. He had strenuously opposed Arm strong's recklessly expressed Inten- tion of going into the mountains im-i mediately to search for her. Arm-i strong was not easily moved from anyj purpose he entertained, or lightly tot be hindered from attempting any en. terprise that he projected, but by tha: time the party .reached Denver tt winter had set in, and even he realized real-ized the futility of any immediate search for a dead body lost In the mountains. Admitting that Enid waa dead, the conclusions were sound, ot course. J The others pointed out to Armstrong that if the woman they all loved had by any fortunate chance escaped the cloudburst, she must inevitably have perished from cold, starvation and ex-t pbsure in the mountain long slncej There was scarcely a possibility that she could have escaped the flood, but if she had, it would only to be de-i voted to death a lit,tle later. If she1 was not In the lake, what remained of her would be in some lateral canon.' It would be Impossible to discover her body In the deep snows until the spring and the warm weather came. When the snows melted what was conJ cealed would be revealed. Alone, she could do nothing. And admitting again, that Enid was alone, this conclusion was as sound as the other. Now no one had the faintest hope that Enid Maitland was yet alive, except, ex-cept, perhaps, her father, Mr. Stephen Maltland. They could not convince him, he was so old and set in his opinions opin-ions and so utterly unfamiliar with the conditions that they tried to describe to him, that he clung to his belief in spite of all, and finally they let him take such comfort as he could from his vain hope without any further attempt at-tempt at contradiction. In spite of all the arguments, however, how-ever, Mr. James Armstrong was not satisfied. He was as hopeless aa the i rest, but his temperament would not ' permit him to accept the Inevitable ' calmly. It was barely possible that ' she might not be dead, and that she might not be alone. There was scarce-up scarce-up enough possibility of this to justify a suspicion, but that is not snyiag there was non at all. Day after day he had sat in his office of-fice denying himself to everyone and, refusing to consider anything, hooding hood-ing over the situation. He lovetf Enid Maitland, he loved her before, and now that he had lost her, he loved her still more. (TO BE CONTINUED.) She Stood With Her Hand Still on His Breast- IB SYNOPSIS. Enid Maitland, a frank, free and un- - spoiled young Phailadeluhia girl. Is taken - to the Colorado mountains by her uncle, Robert Maitland. James Armstrong, Maltland's protege, falls in love with her. His persistent wooing thrills the girl, but she hesitates, and Armstrong goes east on business without a deiinite answer. Enid hears the story of a mining engineer. engi-neer. New bold,, whose wife fell off a cliff and was so seriously hurt that he was compelled to shoot her to prevent her being be-ing ealen bv wolves while he went for help. Kirkby, the old guide who tells the storv. gives Enid a package of letters which he savs were found on the dead woman's bodv. She reads the letters and at Kirkbv's request keeps them. While bathing In mountain stream Enid 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 gorge, where she is rescued by a mountain moun-tain hermit after a thrilling experience. Campers in great confusion upon discov-lng discov-lng Enid's absence when the storm breaks. Maitland and Old Kirkby go In search of the girl. Enid discovers that her ankle is sprained and 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 Enid, after which 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 Philadelphia. The hermit falls in love with Enid. 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 deaM, 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. Enid discovers the writer of the letters to Newbold's wife to have been James Armstrong. Newbold decides to start to the settlement for help. CHAPTER XVII (Continued). "Nothing," said the woman, never shrinking back an inch, facing him withill the courage and daring with which a Goddess might look upon a man. "Nothing but my weakness and your strength." "Yes, that's it, but do not count too much upon the one or the other. Great God, how can I keep away from you; life on the old terms is insupportable. insup-portable. I must go." "And where?" "Anywhere, so it be away." "And when?" "Now." ... "It would be death in the snow and In the mountains tonight. No, no, you cannot go." "Well, tomorrow then. It will be fair, I can't take you with me, but I must go alone to the settlements, I , must tell your friends you are here, alive, well. I shall find men to come hack and get you. What I cannot do alone numbers together may effect. They can carry you over the worst of the trails, you shall be restored to your people, to your world again, you -can forget me." "And do you think," asked the woman, wo-man, "that I could ever toget you?" "I don't know." "And will you forget me?" "Not so long as life throbs in my veins, and beyond." v' "And I too," was the return. "So be it. You won't be afraid to stay here alone, now." "No, not since you love me," was the noble answer. "I suppose I must; there ii. no other way, we could not go on as before. And you will come back to me as quickly as you can with the others?" "I shall not come back; I will give them the direction, they can find you without me. When I say goodbye to you tomorrow it shall be forever." "And I swear to you," asserted the woman in quick desperation, "If you do not come back they shall have nothing to carry from here but my clead body." "And how will you prevent my going?" go-ing?" "1 can't. But I will follow you on my hands and knees in the snow until I freeze and die unless I have your promise." "You have beaten me," said the man hopelessly. "You always do. Honor, what is it? Pride, what is it? Self-respect, Self-respect, what is it? Say the word and I am at your feet, 1 put the past be- i hind me." "I don't say the word," answered the woman bravely, white faced, pale lipped, but resolute. "To be yours, to have you mine, is the greatest desire of my heart, but not in the coward's way, not at the expense of honor, of self-respect no not that way. Cour-. Cour-. age, my friend, God will show us the way, and meantime good night." I "I shall start in the morning." "Yes," she nodded rel-ictantly but knowing it had to be, "out you won't go without bidding me tfood bve." "No." "Good night then," she said extending extend-ing her hand." "Good night," he whispered hoars-ley hoars-ley aud refused it, backing away. "I don't dare to take it. I don't dare to touch you again. I love you so, my only salvation is to keep away." CHAPTER XVIII. The Strength of the Weak. Although Enid Maitland had spoken bravely enough while he was there, when she was alone her heart sank into the depths as she contemplated the dreadful and unsolvable dilemma in which these two lovers found themselves them-selves so unwittingly and inextricably involved. It was indeed a curious and bewildering situation. Passionate adoration for the other rose in each breast like the surging tide of a mighty sea, and like that tide upon the shore it broke upon conventions, ideas, ideals and obligations intangible intangi-ble to the naked eye, but as real as those iron coasts that have withstood the waves' assaults since the world's morning. The man had shaped his life upon a mistake. He believed absolutely in the unquestioned devotion of a woman wom-an to whom he had been forced to mete out death in an unprecedented and terrible manner. His unwillingness unwilling-ness to derogate by bis own conduct from the standard of devotion which he believed had Inhabited his wife's bosom, made it impossible for him to allow the real love that had come into his heart for this new woman to have free course; honor, pride and self-respect scourged him just in proportion to his passion for Enid Maitland. The more he loved her, the more ashamed he was. By a curious combination com-bination of circumstances, Enid Maitland Mait-land knew the truth; she knew that from one point of view the woman had been entirely unworthy the reverence in which her husband held her memory. mem-ory. She knew that his wife had not loved him at all, that her whole heart had been given to another man, that what Newbold had mistaken for a passionate pas-sionate desire for his society because there was no satisfaction in life for the wife away from him, was due to a fear lest without his protection she should be unable to resist the appeal, of the other man which her ' heart seconded so powerfully. If it were only that Newbold would not be false to the obligation of the other woman's devotion, Enid might have solved the problem in a moment. It was not so simple, however. The fact that Newbold cherished this memory, mem-ory, the fact that this other woman had fought so desperately, had tried so hard not to give way, entitled her to Enid Maitland's admiration and demanded de-manded her highest consideration as well. Chance, or Providence, had put her in possession of this woman's secret. se-cret. It was as if she had been caught inadvertently eavesdropping. She could not in honor make use of what she had overheard, as it were; she could not blacken the other woman's memory, she could not enlighten this man at the expense of his dead wife's reputation. Although she longed for him as much as he longed for her, although her love for him amazed her by its depth and intensity, even to bring her happiness, commensurate with her feeling, she could not betray her dead sister. The imposts of honor, how hard they are to sustain when they conflict with love and longing. Enid Maitland was naturally not a little thrown off her balance by the situation and the power that was hers. What she could not do herself she could not allow anyone else to do. The obligation upon her must be extended ex-tended to others. Old Kirkby had no right to the woman's secret any more than she; he must be silenced. Armstrong, Arm-strong, the only other being who was privy to the truth, must be silenced too. One thing at least arose out of the sea of trouble In a tangible way; she was done with Armstrong. Even if she had not so loved Newbold that she could scarcely give a thought to any other human being, she was done with Armstrong. A singular situation! Armstrong had loved another woman, so had New-bold; New-bold; and the latter had even married this other woman, yet she was quite willing to forgive Newbold, she made every excuse for him, she made none for Armstrong. She was an eminently sane, just person, yet as she thought of the situation her anger against Armstrong grew hotter and hotter. It was a safety valve to her feelings, although al-though she did not realize it. After all, Armstrong's actions rendered hsr a certain service; if she could get over the objection in her soul, if she could ever satisfy her sense of honor and duty and obligation, she could settle set-tle the question at once. She had only to show the letters to Newbold and to say: "These were written by the man of the picture; it was he, and not you, your wife loved." and New-bold New-bold would take her to his heart instantly. in-stantly. These thoughts were not without a certain comfort to her. All the compensation com-pensation of self sacrifice is in its realization. That she could and did not somehow ennobled her love for him. Even women are alloyed with base metal. In the powerful and universal appeal of this man to' her, she rejoiced at whatever was of the soul, rather than of the body. To lAifsess power, to refrain from using helpless, alone, but it must not be. I know you better than you know yourself. You will not take advantage of affection so unbounded, of weakness weak-ness so pitiable." Was it the wisdom of calculation, or was it the wisdom of instinct by which she chose her course? Resistance would have been unavailing, in weakness weak-ness was her strength. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth! Yes, that was true. She knew it now, if never before, and so did he. Slowly the man released her. She did not even then draw away from him. She stood with her hand still on his breast. She could feel the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. "I am right," she said softly. "It kills me to deny you anything. My hearts yearns toward you. Why should I deny It? It is my glory, not my shame." "There is nothing above love like ours," he pleaded, wondering what marvelous mastery she exercised that she stopped him by a hand's touch, a whispered word, a faith. "No; love is life, love is God, but even God himself is under obligations of righteousness. For me to come to you now, to marry you now, to be your wife, would be unholy. There would not be that perfect confidence between us that must endure in that revelation. Your honor and mine, your self respect and mine, would interpose. If I can't have you with a clear conscience, con-science, if you can't come to me in the same way, we are better apart. Although Al-though it kills me, although life without with-out you seems nothing, I would rather not live if, we are better apart. I can't be your wife until " "Until what and until when?" demanded de-manded Newbold. "I don't know," said the woman, "but I believe that somewhere, somehow, we shall find a way out of our difficulty. diffi-culty. There is a way," she said a little incautiously. "I know it." "Show it to me." "No, I cannot." "What prevents?" The same thing which prevents you: honor, loyalty." "To a man?" "To a woman." "I do not understand." "No, but you will some .day." She smiled at him. "See," she said, "through my tears I can smile at you, though my heart is breaking. I know that in God's good time this will work itself out." "I can't wait for God. I want you now," persisted the other. "Hush, don't say that," answered the woman, for a moment laying her hand on his lips. "But I forgive you. I know how you suffer." The man could say nothing, do nothing. noth-ing. He stared at her a moment and his hand went to his throat as if he were choking. "Unworthy," he said hoarsely, "unworthy "un-worthy of the past, unworthy of the present, unworthy of the future. May God forgive me, I never can." "He will forgive you, never fear," answered Enid gently. "And you?" asked her lover. "I have ruined your life." "No, you have ennobled it. Let nothing ever make you forget that. Wherever you are and whatever you do, and whatever you may have been, I love you, and I shall love you to the end. Now you must go, it is so late, I can't stand any more. I throw myself my-self on your mercy again, I grow weaker weak-er and weaker before you; as you are a man, as you are stronger, save me from myself. If you were to take me again in your arms," she went on steadily, "I know not how I could drive you back. For God's sake, if you love me " That was the hardest thing he had ever done, to turn and go out of the room, out of her sight, and leave her standing there with eyes shining, with pulses throbbing, with breath coming fast, with bosom panting. Once more, and at a touch she might have yielded! CHAPTER XIX. The Challenge of the Range. Mr. James Armstrong sat at his desk before the west window In his private room In one of the tallest buildings In Denver. His suite of offices of-fices was situated on c:.e of the top floors, and from it he luil a char and unobstructed view of the mighty range over the intervening house tops and other buildings. The earth was covered with snow. It had fallen steadily stead-ily through the night, but with the dawn the air had cleared and the sun had come out brightly, although it was very cold. Letters, papers, documents, the demands de-mands of a business extensive and varied, var-ied, were left unnoticed. He sat with his elbow on the desk, his head on his hand, looking moodily at the range. In the month that had elapsed since he had received news of Enid Maitland's Mait-land's disappearance he had sat often In that way, in that place, staring at an, whilst he almost loved the old, yet that he did, neither the one thing nor the other absolutely was significant. signifi-cant. Indeed he knew that he was glad Enid Maitland had come into his life. No life is complete until it is touched by that divine fire which for lack of another name we call love. Because we can experience that sensation we are said to be made in God's image. The image is blurred as the animal predominates, it is clearer as the spiritual spir-itual has the ascendency. The man raved in his mind. White faced, stern, he walked up and down he tossed his arms about him, he stopped, stop-ped, his eyes closed, he threw his hands up toward God, his heart cried out under the lacerations of the blows inflicted upon it. No flagellant of old ever trembled beneath the body lash as he under the spiritual punishment. He prayed that he might die at the same moment that he longed to live. He grappled blindly for solutions of the problem that would leave him with untarnished honor and undiminished self respect and fidelity, and yet give him this woman, and in vain. He strove to find a way to reconcile the past with the present, realizing as he did so the futility of such a proposition. proposi-tion. One or the other must be supreme, su-preme, he must inexorably hold to hie you. I have put the past behind. You love me, and I, I am yours with every fiber of my being. Great God! Let us cast aside these foolish quixotic scruples that have kept us apart If a man's thoughts declare his guilt, I am already disloyal to the other woman; wom-an; deeply, entirely so. I have betrayed be-trayed her, shamed her, abandoned her. Let me have some reward for what I have gone through. You love me; come to me." "No," answered the woman, and no task ever laid upon her had been harder hard-er than that "I do love you. I will not deny it. Every part of me re-siKmds re-siKmds to your appeal. I should be so happy that I cannot even think of it, if I could put my hand in your own, if I could lay my bead upon your shoulder, shoul-der, if I could feel your heart beat against mine, if I could give myself up to you, I would be so glad, so glad. But it cannot be, not now." "Why not?" pleaded the man. He was by her side, his arm went around her. She did not resist physically, phy-sically, it would have been useless. She only laid her slender hand upon his broad breast and threw her head back and looked at him. "See," she said, "how helpless I am, how weak in your hands. Every voice in my heart bids me give way. If you insist I can deny you nothing. I am |