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Show jaasyspxrrs em itt m -- - i m hum raw -naw antrr- n vr a -an c.-.iyTi a. w tt , By Hapsburg Liebe j Copyright by DoableA&y, Pe ;encle, tender aDd reiiut-ii, naL itance, Patricia McLaurln. Soon the ay of hope died within her, and she tent her head and sobbed again. One of her bare hands began to ;rope idly In the snow at her side, and ;he did not feel the cold. Suddenly die realized that her hand was full ; f shavings, whlttiings. Some man md been sitting there whittling with i pocket knife it must have been a nan, for who ever heard of a woman vhittllng? She felt In the snow with xth hands, and found more whlttllnga there were bushels of whlttiings, it seemed to her, lying there under the snow. Then she wondered wondered who t could have been. It was quite dark now, but the moon tvas not yet up. A great, bright star jlazed above David Moreland's tomb Ike a beacon fire. She heard the unified unif-ied sounds of slow masculine footsteps foot-steps In the snow behind her. Shs 3Id not turn her head. In her soul she knew It could be but one man. Bill Dale's head was down, and ha moved as though he neither knew nor cared whither he went. Then he saw the dark heap on the river's bank before be-fore him, and he halted. He knew In his soul that It could be but one woman. wom-an. Dale went on and sat down on a stone the size of a small barrel that lay at the river's rim. "Babe?" he said. It was the mating call of his heart In the springtime of his life. "Who d-done all o' this whlttlln'. Bill?" asked Elizabeth. "I did," softly. "But I thought you were so busy here I It's nobody but Idlers, of course, that whittles that Is, most o' the time It's nobody but Idlers that whittles." "But I'm not busy on Sundays, y know," replied Dale. "Tell me this," Elizabeth asked pointedly: "What made you come to this one spot to do your whlttlln'? Couldn't you whittle up there in my daddy's cabin yard?" He answered her unhesitatingly: "Because I like to be here. This place is a shrine to me. It was here that I first loved you. Babe. Now you tell me this: Why did you coine to this particular spot to sit down in the snow? There's snow In your daddy's dad-dy's cabin yardl" Said Elizabeth, in a voice that sounded sound-ed smothered: "Because I like to be here this place Is a shrine to me, too It was here that I first loved you, Bill Dale!" "Then why," he demanded, "won't you marry me?" "Because It was me that shot Adam Ad-am Ball." She went on, and though emotion had set every fibre of her to quivering, she did not fall into the old hill talk, which was proof of the magnificence of her : "I thought you wouldn't want me tf you knew that I did that, and I couldn't marry you without telling you. But you know now I And do whatever what-ever you feel like doing or saying, you can't hurt me; I can never be hurt any any m-m-m-more " Bill Dale shot erect Truly, this was a day of surprises for him. He stooped and caught her up. "A real woman!" he said happily, straightening with her In his arms. "A real, all gold, pure gold woman I You loved me well enough to kill a man to save me, and wouldn't let me know It I Woman Is a mystery, sure enough. But perhaps It's because women are so fine and so far above menfolk that menfolk cannot understand them. Well, Babe, kitten, must I drag you to the altar, or will you go with me of - your own accord ?" She put her arms around his neck and drew them tight. "I'd go with you, Bill Dale or David Moreland, whichever It Is to the very last Inch of the end of the world," she said. Early the next morning, there came strolling lazily up the river's bank a tall and lanky mountaineer who wore, among other things, a Niagara Falls mustache and cowhide boots that seemed ridiculously short because of the great length of his slender legs. He carried a rifle in the hollow of one arm ; he was looking for rabbit-tracks in the snow. Near the pool above the blown-down sycamore, he came tipon tracks' that had not been made by any four-footed animals. There were the footprints of a man coming from one direction, and the footprints of a woman wom-an coming from another direction ; only the footprints of the man went away toward lien Llttleford's cabin. By Heck was puzzled. "Here comes Bill," he frowned, "and over hero comes Babe. And thar, as plain as day. goes Bill ; but what become o' Babe? Whar In the narce o' the devil's pet rldin'-hoss did she go to? Not straight Hp, shorelyl" He scrutinized the signs 'with Use understanding eye of the bom woodsman. woods-man. Then he grinned broadly and said o himself: "Well, dang my forrnrd and blast my eyes! The danged old Injun, he Jest picked her up bod'ly and carried her off home, and I know what that means, thank God. I calu't pray, but I shore can sing "Oh, when I die. don't bury me deep; Put a lomhplnne at my bead and feet; Put a bear's Jawbone In my rlKht hand. On my way to the Prom ined La-a-and-Oh! On my way to the Promised Land!' (THE END.) wished that 1, too, were dead. ... ( That great arid silent wilderness s smothered me. I Imagined that I could r hear voices culling to me, saying t "'Cain! Cain!' "They came from the laurel thickets, j from the trees overhead, from the s ground, from everywhere. You see, I s wasn't all bad, even in my wlld-oats c days. Then I thought of the law, and I I ran. ... "But the cry of a child from the i cabin I was leaving halted me before I had gone thirty yards. David More- I band's wife had left him with a baby - only a few weeks old, which I didn't i pay any particular attention to until f that morning, that black morning. At that time there was no other house I for miles around. I couldn't leave the child there to die of starvation, after killing its father. So I went back and I got the baby, and all Its clothing, and 1 took It away with me. I left It at a I farmhouse down In the lowland, and ! went to another city, and started Ufe ( afresh. ... "But later I married, and shortly after that I went to the farmer and persuaded him to let me adopt the child. I brought it up as my own, and ' educated it, as a sort of compensation. And I came to love it. But it was years before my wife loved It. She didn't like children then. But she does "Well, Babe, Kitten, Must I Drag You to the Altar, or Will You Go With Me of Your Own Free Will?" now. She is paying now, and I am paying. Don't you understand. Bill don't you understand?" There was a choke in his voice toward to-ward the last Bill Dale went to his feet His eyes were wide, but be did not seem unhappy ; and for that Elizabeth Eliza-beth was grateful. John Moreland sat as still, with his bearded, viking face as expressionless as though he had known It all along. i "And so I really am In my own : country!" cried Bill Dale. "I am a Moreland, and the Morelands really i are my own people 1" ' "Yes, you are In your own country, and you are a Moreland and your baby name was David," said John K. . Dale. 1 It was then that John Moreland 1 spoke. "BUI, when I fust seed you, you made me think o' my brother the day he was married. I ain't never fo'got that I sartalnly ain't su'prlsed none ' at all. We didn't know about the baby. Cherokee Joe told me the baby had died." "jfod now, son," pleaded old Dale, his voice breaking, "say that you forgive for-give me." ' Bill Dale, David Moreland's boy, knelt beside the old sheepskln-llned rocker, took the old coal king's hand in both his own and bent his head " over It "It's all right," he said thickly. "It's 1 all right" ' Elizabeth Littlefocd arose and stole " blindly out of the house. Her footsteps foot-steps led her, quite without her real-, real-, lzlng where she was going, across the - meadow and to the river above the i blown-down sycamore. And there on that sacred spot, where she had first - felt her heart leap at the sound of t Bill Dale's voice, she sank down in 5 a heap in the snow and cried, and - cried. Twilight was gathering rapidly, but ; she did not notice It She did not - notice, either, that the air was growing grow-ing steadily colder with the approach t of the mountain night To her a warm sun was shining above In a 3 bright blue vault; to her the spirit of s summer was everywhere ; in her ears e there was the liquid song of a meadow !. lark, the sweet twittering of wood-i, wood-i, thrushes, the low humming of wild ;. bees. The pouring of the crystal wa-. wa-. ters between the two boulders above 0 the pool made music to her, a:id blend- 1 ed with It she seemed to hear the voice 1 of a big, clean, strong man - "I was thinking of the difference be-s be-s tween you find some other women I 1 know I- Tiien a ray of hope shone Into her ncart. Bill Dale was really a More-I, More-I, land and, therefore, of the hill blood 0 even as she was of the hill blood, and d that should make them more nearly equal. She told herself that he wouldn't s be so apt to condemn her for being t able to take a human life easily as e one of another blood would be; h"e g would be more apt to understand. And 1 yet the women he had known vere CHAPTER XIX Continued. 16 Morelflnd winced perceptibly. The big, crooked finger came way from the lialr-fine trigger. He had never expected expect-ed to hear the man whom he knew as John K. Carlyle say that which he had Just said. It had never entered his mind that John K. Carlyle could be sorry. Then the great and bitter desire for revenge rushed Into his brain again, and his head went down, and his keen right eye looked along the sights and to the kneeling man's breast His trigger trig-ger finger began slowly to crook Until this Instant Elizabeth Little-ford Little-ford had been as one frozen, had been as a figure carved In stone. Now she sprang to her feet and went between Moreland and his ancient enemy. "Put 'at gun down wait ontel I tell ye, John Moreland, what I've got to tell ye 1" she cried tensely, lapsing Into the old dialect In her excitement. While Moreland stared, she went on: "It wasn't Newton Wheatley 'at put np the money to start yore coal mine a-goln' ; It was this man here ! And the Alexander Crayfleld Coal corp'ratlon which has been a-payln' you two prices to, yore coal that was this man here! Mr. Hayes was his his ally through It all. And ttera sorry, John Moreland, this man Is so sorry that he wants to die; and caln't ye see it, John More-land?" More-land?" She caught her breath again and continued tearfully: "Oh, he don't desarve to be killed, and ef he did you're too good a man to kill him. He's done paid you don't know, like I do, how he's paid. You mustn't fo'get that And you mustn't fo'get Bill Dale, his son. Put down that gun, 'John Moreland I Tore people is saved, as David wanted 'em saved. Now d-d-don't go and s-s-spoil It all, fo' God's sake!" I The big mountaineer's eyes were wide with amazement, for Elizabeth ILittleford's every word had borne the ring of truth. He was too dazed to nnderstand her allusion to Bill Dale jas his old enemy's son. The rifle come jback from across the palings, and its (steel-shod butt found a place in the 'enow beside John Moreland's foot. Slowly John K. Dale arose and 'drew close to him, and then from I John K. Dale's soul came pouring the pent-up anguish of remorse that had I seared it through the years. The tor-rent tor-rent of words flowed on, while the mountaineer stood rigidly regarding I him with a strange light In his pierc-jlng pierc-jlng eyes. "I can't ask you to forgive me," iDale finished brokenly. "I don't ex-ipeet ex-ipeet foigiveness; my crime was too great But can't you, for the sake of the Doy, let me keep on trying tc atona for my sin?" John Moreland looked long and eearchlngly into the face of the pleading plead-ing man before him. The bitter struggle that was going on within him (was mirrored on his rugged countenance. coun-tenance. But gradually the bitterness faded; his huge frame trembled; he put a hand slowly down on the other's shoulder. I "The boy," he muttered "Bill Dale : Is he yore boy? Yore name was Car lyle then " "My boy, yes my boy, Bill Dale Cnrlyle is an old family name. Mj fathtr was at the head of a big coa' concern; he sent me down here in cognlto to get a line on the Morelanc ein. Maybe he thought the prlc( would be high if it were known tha' he wanted it ; I don't know. I I can'' remember." Ben Llttleford's daughter wa: watching closely, hoping against hope praying to heaven with all her heart ; and then she saw John K. Dale pu his right hand up to John Moreland'i hand, take It and press It and shi saw John Moreland, his bearile mouth Jerking, give the answerlni squeeze that meant something ver; akin to forgiveness. She ran out at the gate, ran up ti the giant hillmnn and put her arm; around his neck; she drew his gren hrown head down and kissed him 01 the cheek. And John Moreland le his riae fall unnoticed to the snow . tnt his arms around her shoulders a though she were hjs own dnughtei bowed his head and sobbed out I few werds slie did not understand. Night hud fallen when they reachci Ben Llttleford's cabin home. The glr was welcomed with much Joy; ol D'e was received with almost affix ' Uonate cordiality. A roaring lire wn j eon going In the beet room, and ol : Dale was given the cosiest of th slieepskln-lined rockers. Ben Little 'ord, washed scrupulously clean o ; al smut, sat near the guest of honoi 'vl"T Moreland, who was so thoughl ! thnt fea seemed to hear and se j "KMlng, Shi close to Ben Llttleford. I Suddenly Dale looked toward hi host and asked: "Where Is my son? At that motnent Dale the youngei boots and corduroys, appeared I outer doorway and answered fo ', nltowlf; ; "Mere he Is, falter. Are you well? We the elder arose, and thel Bands claspeo warmly. Young Dal I shook haurts with Elizabeth, wh blushed In spite of herself as she faced him. To hide her confusion, Elizabeth turned to the tall and lanky By Heck, who had come in behind Bill Dale. "How are you, By?" she greeted him. "Hongry," grinned By Heck, taking her hand awkwardly. "I never e'tl nothln' but a couple & baked 'possums and a peck or two o' sweet 'taters fo' dinner, and I've been as busy as the dev as thunder -a'doln' nothln' ever sence. Dotn' nothing shore does make me hongry, M-M-M-Mlss Babe." Supper was announced, and they went Into a long, log-walled room that served as both kitchen and dining room. BUI Dale sat beside his father and talked of nothing but coal vetns big and little coal veins, long and short, broad and narrow, deep and shallow, blue and black coal veins. Babe Llttleford, Llt-tleford, who wouldn't marry him, who had come back to the hills to torture him with a beauty that he had never believed possible In any woman, shouldn't know that he was even thinking of her I He talked coal with his father until bedtime, and he was wiser In the ways of the black diamond when nine o'clock came. After Ben Llttleford had haltingly conducted family prayers pray-ers and In this he mentioned even the Balls, Turners and Torreys Bill Dale bade them all good night and started for his office to sleep, rolled In a blanket on the floor. There was a lack of beds at Ben Llttleford's that night A little later, John Moreland drew old Ben out to the cabin yard. The skies were clear, and the moon was shining brightly; everywhere there was beauty and peacefulness. "Ben," softly, 'Tve got to bother ye a minute, as late as It Is. I wanted ye to find me a hammer and a chisel and a lantern." 'Tve got 'em all three right thar in the house," replied Llttleford. "But what'n the name o' Torment and thunderation do ye want with a hammer ham-mer and a chisel and a lantern, John, old friend?" The answer came straightforwardly. It was the Moreland way. 'Tm a-goln' up thar to whar pore David he's burled at, and cut off some them letters offen the stone, Ben. I caln't sleep ontel It's done. You can guess what part Pm a-goln' to cut off, caln't ye?" ''Yes," said Llttleford. "Babe told i me about what happened up thar : ' "The Boy," He Muttered "BUI Dale; t Is He Yore Boy? Yore Name Wai 3 Carlyle Then" ' afore dark. And I'm pow'ful glnc ' ye're a-goin' to do it, John, oh s friend." , He went with Moreland to the litth 1 enclosure on the highest point o David Moreland's mountain. He hex , the lighted lantern while Mercian, ? worked. They were there for hours ' When the work was finished Day . d Moreland's brother ' arose from hi knees in the snow, put the bamme and the chisel Into his pocket, am d spread open his cold, cramped fingers 6 "Ef David could know," he sal. wearily, "I believe he'd be glad a I I done it. Anyway, It makes me fee e bCBen Llttleford put a big ha.d o, John Moreland's shoulder . "Yes" he agreed, "ef Da rid coul " know about It, he'd be glad 'at :yc don r J It John. The' hain't no doubt o thai n And who can say be fion't know ahou "Eli-aheth learned of it early on tb - foxing morning. When . breakfa, r was over, she whispered to John o Da e thai there was something sh 0,,n(j t0 ,hou' him. She would t " him anything in advance. So he went with her to see for himself. When at last they stood Inside the weatherbeaten palings, Elizabeth pointed and said: "Look there, and thank God!" Dale looked and saw. The color left his face, then came back. He shut his eyes, swayed a little on his feet, opened op-ened his eyes, looked and saw again. He turned to the young woman with a great Joy shining on his face. "I haven't been so glad," he told her, "for twenty-five years." The chiseling away of the lower five lines had not only obliterated the curse: it had left an almost perfect cross. Then John Moreland's bare, cold and tireless hands had gone to work and made it, In every respect, a perfect cross. CHAPTER XX The End of It All. The sun shone very brightly that day, and the snow began to melt on the places that were not shaded. When he returned with Elizabeth from the crest of David Moreland's mountain, moun-tain, John K. Dale took a rocker before be-fore the fire and sat there thinking, thinking, until the midday meal was announced. When the midday meal was over, he resumed his chair and Fat there thinking, thinking, until the afternoon was half gone. Then he called Elizabeth to Mm. ; "Will you go to my son and tell him I wish to see him?" he said. And he added under his breath: "I think It is best that they should know." Elizabeth heard that which he had said to himself as well as she heard that which he had said to her. Should know! Know what? She had a sudden sud-den wild fear that Mrs. Dale had broken her promise never to breathe a word of the truth concerning the Adam Ball affair. Nevertheless, she put on ' her hat and her gloves and went to Bill Dale's office. Dale sat with his elbows on his desk and with his head In his hands. To all appearances, he was unaware of the presence of the girl In the doorway. door-way. She spoke. "Bill !" He sat up straight and faced her. He seemed surprised. "Well, Babe?" "Your father wants you," In a low voice. "He's got something to tell you that that will make you think almost nothing of me!" Young Dale frowned. "What Is It?" 'Td rather he'd tell you about It Bill Dale, I don't think I could bear to tell you myself " She turned and was about to hasten away, when he called to her: "Waitl" and she waited. "Has It," he asked, "anything to do with your marriage to Jimmy Fayne?" "No !" He arose and put on his broad-rimmed broad-rimmed hat 'TU admit," he smiled, 'that Tm worse than a granny woman for poking my nose Into other people's affairs whea are you going to marry Jimmy, Babe?" The answer came quickly: "Never." "Never I" "Never," repeated Elizabeth, verj quietly. "Never?" pursued Dale. "Never!" cried Elizabeth, exasper ated. "Goodness!" laughed Dale. "You're dramatic, or vehement, or both. Maj I walk home with you. Babe?" "Yes, Sir," promptly, "If you want to," They set out across the snow-cov ered meadows, and neither spoke an other word until they had reachec Ben Llttleford's log house. The gir looked at him queeriy as they en tered. After he knew Old Dale still sat before the fire and near him sat silent John More land. Old Dale motioned toward ar insido door. "Please close It, Elizabeth," he re ; quested, and she obeyed. "Now si: 3 down. I've got something to tell th three of you. And I fancy It will in terest all of you." ' The two who had Just come in tool chairs at the fireside. After a mo ment, John K. Dale began: e "You've often wondered, Bill, abou that savage streak as you choose t. call it that is in you. You Inherltei it Much of that which we are, it i: k claimed, is Inherited, and It must b correct; like begets like, of course s But there Is no savage streak in you r Bill. You are hot-headed, that's all Your virtues overbalance that by fai I have never seen another man wh. had a greater love for honesty an. ' fair play, or a greater hatred for al ' that is hollow and false, or more cour age to stick up for that which seem a to be right, than you. Now I'll tel you how you came by those fine qual d itles and the hot-headednesji " e EllzabdJi Llttleford sat wide-eyec t tense, half brenthless. If he meant t t tell it why didn't he tell It ! Why di he beat about the bush like that? e "Bill, this Is hard for me. It bring it back a terrible thing. You know abou :. David Moreland. . . . When I awok e that morning and found him lyln LI I dead at my c.-aj'.etl, drunken hands, |
