At the Time Appointed (1903)
A. Maynard Barbour



  "Yes, greater they who on life's battle-field,
    With unseen foes and fierce temptations fight"
                         JOHN D. HIGINBOTHAM




TO JOHN D. HIGINBOTHAM

"AS UNKNOWN, AND YET WELL KNOWN"




CONTENTS


      I--John Darrell
     II--A Night's Work
    III--"The Pines"
     IV--Life? or Death?
      V--John Britton
     VI--Echoes from the Past
    VII--At the Mines
   VIII--"Until the Day Break"
     IX--Two Portraits
      X--The Communion of Two Souls
     XI--Impending Trouble
    XII--New Life in the Old Home
   XIII--Mr. Underwood "Strikes" First
    XIV--Drifting
     XV--The Awakening
    XVI--The Aftermath
   XVII--"She knows her Father's Will is Law"
  XVIII--On the "Divide"
    XIX--The Return to Camp Bird
     XX--Forging the Fetters
    XXI--Two Crimes by the Same Hand
   XXII--The Fetters Broken
  XXIII--The Mask Lifted
   XXIV--Foreshadowings
    XXV--The "Hermitage"
   XXVI--John Britton's Story
  XXVII--The Rending of the Veil
 XXVIII--"As a Dream when One Awaketh"
   XXIX--John Darrell's Story
   XXX--After Many Years
   XXXI--An Eastern Home
  XXXII--Marion Holmes
 XXXIII--Into the Fulness of Life
  XXXIV--A Warning
   XXXV--A Fiend at Bay
  XXXVI--Señora Martinez
 XXXVII--The Identification
XXXVIII--Within the "Pocket"
  XXXIV--At the Time Appointed



_Chapter I_

JOHN DARRELL


Upon a small station on one of the transcontinental lines winding among
the mountains far above the level of the sea, the burning rays of the
noonday sun fell so fiercely that the few buildings seemed ready to
ignite from the intense heat. A season of unusual drought had added to
the natural desolation of the scene. Mountains and foot-hills were
blackened by smouldering fires among the timber, while a dense pall of
smoke entirely hid the distant ranges from view. Patches of sage-brush
and bunch grass, burned sere and brown, alternated with barren stretches
of sand from which piles of rubble rose here and there, telling of
worked-out and abandoned mines. Occasionally a current of air stole
noiselessly down from the canyon above, but its breath scorched the
withered vegetation like the blast from a furnace. Not a sound broke the
stillness; life itself seemed temporarily suspended, while the very air
pulsated and vibrated with the heat, rising in thin, quivering columns.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the rapid approach of the stage from
a distant mining camp, rattling noisily down the street, followed by a
slight stir within the apparently deserted station. Whirling at
breakneck pace around a sharp turn, it stopped precipitately, amid a
blinding cloud of dust, to deposit its passengers at the depot.

One of these, a young man of about five-and-twenty, arose with some
difficulty from the cramped position which for seven weary hours he had
been forced to maintain, and, with sundry stretchings and shakings of
his superb form, seemed at last to pull himself together. Having secured
his belongings from out the pile of miscellaneous luggage thrown from
the stage upon the platform, he advanced towards the slouching figure of
a man just emerging from the baggage-room, his hands thrust deep in his
trousers pockets, his mouth stretched in a prodigious yawn, the arrival
of the stage having evidently awakened him from his siesta.

"How's the west-bound--on time?" queried the young man rather shortly,
but despite the curtness of his accents there was a musical quality in
the ringing tones.

Before the cavernous jaws could close sufficiently for reply, two
distant whistles sounded almost simultaneously.

"That's her," drawled the man, with a backward jerk of his thumb over
his shoulder in the direction of the sound; "she's at Blind Man's Pass;
be here in about fifteen minutes."

The young man turned and sauntered to the rear end of the platform,
where he paused for a few moments; then, unconscious of the scrutiny of
his fellow-passengers, he began silently pacing up and down, being in no
mood for conversation with any one. Every bone in his body ached and his
head throbbed with a dull pain, but these physical discomforts, which he
attributed to his long and wearisome stage ride, caused him less
annoyance than did the fact that he had lost several days' time, besides
subjecting himself to numerous inconveniences and hardships, on what he
now denominated a "fool's errand."

An expert mineralogist and metallurgist, he had been commissioned by a
large syndicate of eastern capitalists to come west, primarily to
examine a certain mine recently offered for sale, and secondarily to
secure any other valuable mining properties which might happen to be on
the market. A promoter, whose acquaintance he had formed soon after
leaving St. Paul, had poured into his ear such fabulous tales of a mine
of untold wealth which needed but the expenditure of a few thousands to
place it upon a dividend-paying basis, that, after making due allowance
for optimism and exaggeration, he had thought it might be worth his
while to stop off and investigate. The result of the investigation had
been anything but satisfactory for either the promoter or the expert.

He was the more annoyed at the loss of time because of a telegram handed
him just before his departure from St. Paul, which he now drew forth,
and which read as follows:

     "Parkinson, expert for M. and M. on trail. Knows you as our
     representative, but only by name. Lie low and block him if
     possible.
                                             "BARNARD."

He well understood the import of the message. The "M. and M." stood for
a rival syndicate of enormous wealth, and the fact that its expert was
also on his way west promised lively competition in the purchase of the
famous Ajax mine.

"Five days," he soliloquized, glancing at the date of the message,
which he now tore into bits, together with two or three letters of
little importance. "I have lost my start and am now likely to meet this
Parkinson at any stage of the game. However, he has never heard of John
Darrell, and that name will answer my purpose as well as any among
strangers. I'll notify Barnard when I reach Ophir."

His plans for the circumvention of Parkinson were now temporarily cut
short by the appearance of the "double-header" rounding a curve and
rapidly approaching--a welcome sight, for the heat and blinding glare of
light were becoming intolerable.

Only for a moment the ponderous engines paused, panting and quivering
like two living, sentient monsters; the next, with heavy, labored
breath, as though summoning all their energies for the task before them,
they were slowly ascending the steadily increasing grade, moment by
moment with accelerated speed plunging into the very heart of the
mountains, bearing John Darrell, as he was to be henceforth known, to a
destiny of which he had little thought, but which he himself had,
unconsciously, helped to weave.

An hour later, on returning to the sleeper after an unsuccessful attempt
at dining, Darrell sank into his seat, and, leaning wearily back,
watched with half-closed eyes the rapidly changing scenes through which
he was passing, for the time utterly oblivious to his surroundings.
Gigantic rocks, grotesque in form and color, flashed past; towering
peaks loomed suddenly before him, advancing, receding, disappearing, and
reappearing with the swift windings and doublings of the train; massive
walls of granite pressed close and closer, seeming for one instant a
threatening, impenetrable barrier, the next, opening to reveal glimpses
of distant billowy ranges, their summits white with perpetual snow. The
train had now reached a higher altitude, and breezes redolent of pine
and fir fanned his throbbing brow, their fragrance thronging his mind
with memories of other and far-distant scenes, until gradually the bold
outlines of cliff and crag grew dim, and in their place appeared a cool,
dark forest through which flecks of golden sunlight sifted down upon the
moss-grown, flower-strewn earth; a stream singing beneath the pines,
then rippling onward through meadows of waving green; a wide-spreading
house of colonial build half hidden by giant trees and clinging
rose-vines, and, framed among the roses, a face, strong, tender, sweet,
crowned with silvered hair--one of the few which sorrow makes
beautiful--which came nearer and nearer, bending over him with a
mother's blessing; and then he slept.

The face of the sleeper, with its clear-cut, well-moulded features,
formed a pleasing study, reminding one of a bit of unfinished carving,
the strong, bold lines of which reveal the noble design of the
sculptor--the thing of wondrous beauty yet to be--but which still lacks
the finer strokes, the final touch requisite to bring it to perfection.
Strength of character was indicated there; an indomitable will that
would bend the most adverse conditions to serve its own masterful
purpose and make of obstacles the paving-stones to success; a mind
gifted with keen perceptive faculties, but which hitherto had dealt
mostly with externals and knew little of itself or of its own powers.
Young, with splendid health and superabundant vitality, there had been
little opportunity for introspection or for the play of the finer,
subtler faculties; and of the whole gamut of susceptibilities, ranging
from exquisite suffering to ecstatic joy, few had been even awakened.
His was a nature capable of producing the divinest harmonies or the
wildest discords, according to the hand that swept the strings as yet
untouched.

For more than an hour Darrell slept. He was awakened by the murmur of
voices near him, confused at first, but growing more distinct as he
gradually recalled his surroundings, until, catching the name of
"Parkinson," he was instantly on the alert.

"Yes," a pleasant voice was saying, "I understand the Ajax is for sale
if the owners can get their price, but they don't want less than a cold
million for it, and it's my opinion they'll find buyers rather scarce at
that figure when it comes to a show down."

"Well, I don't know; that depends," was the reply. "The price won't
stand in the way with my people, if the mine is all right. They can hand
over a million--or two, for that matter--as easily as a thousand, if the
property is what they want, but they've got to know what they're buying.
That's what I'm out here for."

Taking a quiet survey of the situation, Darrell found that the section
opposite his own--which, upon his return from the dining-car, had
contained only a motley collection of coats and grips--was now occupied
by a party of three, two of whom were engaged in animated conversation.
One of the speakers, who sat facing Darrell, was a young man of about
two-and-twenty, whose self-assurance and assumption of worldly wisdom,
combined with a boyish impetuosity, he found vastly amusing, while at
the same time his frank, ingenuous eyes and winning smile of genuine
friendliness, revealing a nature as unsuspecting and confiding as a
child's, appealed to him strangely and drew him irresistibly towards the
young stranger. The other speaker, whom Darrell surmised to be
Parkinson, was considerably older and was seated facing the younger
man, hence his back was towards Darrell; while the third member of the
party, and by far the eldest, of whose face Darrell had a perfect
profile view, although saying little, seemed an interested listener.

The man whom Darrell supposed to be Parkinson inquired the quickest way
of reaching the Ajax mine.

"Well, you see it's this way," replied the young fellow. "The Ajax is on
a spur that runs out from the main line at Ophir, and the train only
runs between there and Ophir twice a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays.
Let's see, this is Wednesday; we'll get into Ophir to-morrow, and you'll
have to wait over until Saturday, unless you hire a rig to take you out
there, and that's pretty expensive and an awfully rough jaunt besides."

"I don't mind the expense," retorted the other, "but I don't know as I
care to go on any jaunts over your mountain roads when there's no
special necessity for it; I can get exercise enough without that."

"I tell you what, Mr. Parkinson," said the young fellow, cordially, "you
and your friend here, Mr. Hunter,"--Darrell started at the mention of
the latter name,--"had better wait over till Saturday, and in the mean
time I'll take you people out to Camp Bird, as we call it, and show you
the Bird Mine; that's our mine, you know, and I tell you she is a
'bird,' and no mistake. You'll be interested in looking her over, though
I'll tell you beforehand she's not for sale."

"Do I understand that you have an interest in this remarkable mine, Mr.
Whitcomb?" Parkinson inquired, a tinge of amusement in his tone.

"Not in the way you mean; that is, not yet, though there's no telling
how soon I may have if things turn out as I hope," and the boyish cheek
flushed slightly. "But I know what I'm talking about all the same.
My uncle, D. K. Underwood, is a practical mining man of nearly thirty
years' experience, and what he doesn't know about mines and mining isn't
worth knowing. He's interested in a dozen or so of the best mines in the
State, but I don't think he would exchange his half-interest in the Bird
Mine for all his other holdings put together. She's a comparatively new
mine yet, but taking into consideration her depth and the amount of
development, she's the best-paying mine in the State. Here, let me show
you something." And hastily pulling a note-book from his pocket, he took
therefrom a narrow slip of paper which he handed to the expert.

"There's a statement," he continued, "made out by the United States
Assay Office, back here at Galena, that will show you the returns from a
sixty days' run at the Bird mill; what do you think of that?"

Parkinson's face was still invisible to Darrell, but the latter heard a
long, low whistle of surprise. Young Whitcomb looked jubilant.

"They say figures won't lie," he added, in tones of boyish enthusiasm,
"but if you don't believe those figures, I've got the cash right here to
show for it," accompanying the words with a significant gesture.

Parkinson handed the slip to Hunter, then leaned back in his seat,
giving Darrell a view of his profile.

"Sixty days!" he said, musingly. "Seventy-five thousand dollars! I think
I would like to take a look at the Bird Mine! I think I would like to
make Mr. Underwood's acquaintance!"

Whitcomb laughed exultingly. "I'll give you an opportunity to do both if
you'll stop over," he said; "and don't you forget that my uncle can give
you some pointers on the Ajax, for he knows every mine in the State."

Mr. Hunter here handed the slip of paper to Whitcomb. "Young man," he
said, with some severity, gazing fixedly at Whitcomb through his
eye-glasses, "do you mean to say that you are travelling with
seventy-five thousand dollars on your person?"

"Certainly, sir," Whitcomb replied, evidently enjoying the situation.

Mr. Hunter shook his head. "Very imprudent!" he commented. "You are
running a tremendous risk. I wonder that your uncle would permit it!"

"Oh, that's all right," said Whitcomb, confidently. "Uncle usually comes
down himself with the shipments of bullion, and he generally banks the
most of his money there at Galena, but he couldn't very well leave this
time, so he sent me, and as he was going to use considerable money
paying for a lot of improvements we've put in and paying off the men, he
told me to bring back the cash. There's not much danger anyway; the West
isn't as wild nowadays as it used to be."

Handing a second bit of paper to Parkinson, he added: "There's something
else that will interest you; the results of some assays made by the
United States Assay Office on some samples taken at random from a new
strike we made last week. I'll show you some of the samples, too."

"Great Scott!" ejaculated Parkinson, running his eye over the returns.
"You seem to have a mine there, all right!"

"Sure thing! You'll think so when you see it," Whitcomb answered,
fumbling in a grip at his feet.

At sight of the specimens of ore which he produced a moment later, his
two companions became nearly as enthusiastic as himself. Leaning eagerly
forward, they began an inspection of the samples, commenting on their
respective values, while Whitcomb, unfolding a tracing of the workings
of the mine, explained the locality from which each piece was taken, its
depth from the surface, the width and dip of the vein, and other items
of interest.

Darrell, who was carefully refraining from betraying any special
interest in the party across the aisle, soon became aware that he was
not the only interested listener to the conversation. In the section
directly in front of the one occupied by Whitcomb and his companions a
man was seated, apparently engrossed in a newspaper, but Darrell, who
had a three-quarter view of his face, soon observed that he was not
reading, but listening intently to the conversation of the men seated
behind him, and particularly to young Whitcomb's share in it. Upon
hearing the latter's statement that he had with him the cash returns for
the shipment of bullion, Darrell saw the muscles of his face suddenly
grow tense and rigid, while his hands involuntarily tightened their hold
upon the paper. He grew uncomfortable under Darrell's scrutiny, moved
restlessly once or twice, then turning, looked directly into the
piercing dark eyes fixed upon him. His own eyes, which were small and
shifting, instantly dropped, while the dark blood mounted angrily to his
forehead. A few moments later, he changed his position so that Darrell
could not see his face, but the latter determined to watch him and to
give Whitcomb a word of warning at the earliest opportunity.

"Well," said Parkinson, leaning back in his seat after examining the
ores and listening to Whitcomb's outline of their plans for the future
development of the mine, "it seems to me, young man, you have quite a
knowledge of mines and mining yourself."

Whitcomb flushed with pleasure. "I ought to," he said; "there isn't a
man in this western country that understands the business better or has
got it down any finer than my uncle. He may not be able to talk so
glibly or use such high-sounding names for things as you fellows, but he
can come pretty near telling whether a mine will pay for the handling,
and if it has any value he generally knows how to go to work to find
it."

"Well, that's about the 'gist' of the whole business," said Parkinson;
he added: "You say he can give me some 'tips' on the Ajax?"

"He can if he chooses to," laughed Whitcomb, "but you'd better not let
him know that I said so. He'll be more likely to give you information if
you ask him offhand."

"Well," continued Parkinson, "when we get to Ophir, I'll know whether or
not I can stop over. I've heard there's another fellow out here on this
Ajax business; whether he's ahead of me I don't know. I'll make
inquiries when we reach Ophir, and if he hasn't come on the scene yet I
can afford to lay off; if he has, I must lose no time in getting out to
the mine." Parkinson glanced at Hunter, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I guess that's the best arrangement we can make at present," said
Parkinson, rising from his seat. "Come and have a smoke with us, Mr.
Whitcomb?"

Whitcomb declined the invitation, and, after Hunter and Parkinson had
left, sat idly turning over the specimens of ore, until, happening to
catch Darrell's eye, he inquired, pleasantly,--

"Are you interested in this sort of thing?"

"In a way, yes," said Darrell, crossing over and taking the seat vacated
by Parkinson. "I'm not what you call a mining man; that is, I've never
owned or operated a mine, but I take a great interest in examining the
different ores and always try to get as much information regarding them
as possible."

Whitcomb at once launched forth enthusiastically upon a description of
the various samples. Darrell, while careful not to show too great
familiarity with the subject, or too thorough a knowledge of ores in
general, yet was so keenly appreciative of their remarkable richness and
beauty that he soon won the boy's heart.

"Say!" he exclaimed, "you had better stop off at Ophir with us; we would
make a mining man of you in less than no time! By the way, how far west
are you travelling?"

"Ophir is my destination at present, though it is uncertain how long I
remain there."

"Long enough, that we'll get well acquainted, I hope. Going into any
particular line of business?"

"No, only looking the country over, for the present."

To divert the conversation from himself, Darrell, by a judicious
question or two, led Whitcomb to speak of the expert.

"Parkinson?" he said with a merry laugh. "Oh, yes, he's one of those
eastern know-it-alls who come out here occasionally to give us fellows a
few points on mines. They're all right, of course, for the men who
employ them, who want to invest their money and wouldn't know a mine if
they saw one; but when they undertake to air their knowledge among these
old fellows who have spent a lifetime in the business, why, they're
likely to get left, that's all. Now, this Parkinson seems to be a pretty
fair sort of man compared with some of them, but between you and me, I'd
wager my last dollar that they'll lose him on that Ajax mine!"

"Why, what's the matter with the Ajax?" Darrell inquired, indifferently.

"Well, as you're not interested in any way, I'm not telling tales out of
school. The Ajax has been a bonanza in its day, but within the last year
or so the bottom has dropped out of the whole thing, and that's the
reason the owners are anxious to sell."

"I hear they ask a pretty good price for the mine."

"Yes, they're trading on her reputation, but that's all past. The mine
is practically worked out. They've made a few good strikes lately, so
that there is some good ore in sight, and this is their chance to sell,
but there are no indications of any permanence. One of our own men was
over there a while ago, and he said there wasn't enough ore in the mine
to keep their mill running full force for more than six months."

"Is this Hunter an expert also?"

"Oh, no; Parkinson said he was a friend of his, just taking the trip for
his health."

Darrell smiled quietly, knowing Hunter to be a member of the syndicate
employing Parkinson, but kept his knowledge to himself.

A little later, when Darrell and Whitcomb left together for the
dining-car, quite a friendship had sprung up between them. There was
that mutual attraction often observed between two natures utterly
diverse. Whitcomb was unaccountably drawn towards the dark-eyed,
courteous, but rather reticent stranger, while his own frank
friendliness and childlike confidence awoke in Darrell's nature a
correlative tenderness and affection which he never would have believed
himself capable of feeling towards one of his own sex.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," said Darrell, as he seated
himself at a table, facing Whitcomb. "My head seems to have a
small-sized stamp-mill inside of it; every bone in my body aches, and my
joints feel as though they were being pulled apart."

Whitcomb looked up quickly. "Are you just from the East, or have you
been out here any time?"

"I stopped for a few days, back here a ways."

"In the mountain country?"

"Yes."

"By George! I believe you've got the mountain fever; there's an awful
lot of it round here this season, and this is just the worst time of
year for an easterner to come out here. But we'll look after you when we
get to Ophir, and bring you round all right."

"Much obliged, but I think I'll be all right after a night's rest,"
Darrell replied, inwardly resolved, upon reaching Ophir, to push on to
the Ajax as quickly as possible, though his ardor was considerably
cooled by Whitcomb's report.

When they left the dining-car the train was stopping at a small station,
and for a few moments the young men strolled up and down the platform. A
dense, bluish-gray haze hung low over the country, rendering the
outlines of even the nearest objects obscure and dim; the western sky
was like burnished copper, and the sun, poised a little above the
horizon, looked like a ball of glowing fire.

Just as the train was about to start Darrell saw the man whose peculiar
actions he had noticed earlier, leave the telegraph office and jump
hastily aboard. Calling Whitcomb's attention as he passed them, he
related his observations of the afternoon and cautioned him against the
man. For an instant Whitcomb looked serious.

"I suppose it was rather indiscreet in me to talk as I did," he said,
"but it can't be helped now. However, I guess it's all right, but I'm
obliged to you all the same."

They passed into the smoker, where Darrell was introduced to Hunter and
Parkinson. In a short time, however, he found himself suffering from
nausea and growing faint and dizzy.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you will have to excuse me. I'm rather off my
base this evening, and I find that smoking isn't doing me any good."

As he rose young Whitcomb sprang instantly to his feet; throwing away
his cigar and linking his arm within Darrell's, he insisted upon
accompanying him to the sleeper, notwithstanding his protests.

"Good-night, Parkinson," he called, cheerily; "see you in the morning!"

He accompanied Darrell to his section; then dropped familiarly into the
seat beside him, throwing one arm affectionately over Darrell's
shoulder, and during the next hour, while the sunset glow faded and the
evening shadows deepened, he confided to this acquaintance of only a few
hours the outlines of his past life and much regarding his hopes and
plans for the future. He spoke of his orphaned boyhood; of the uncle who
had given him a home in his family and initiated him into his own
business methods; of his hope of being admitted at no distant day into
partnership with his uncle and becoming a shareholder in the wonderful
Bird Mine.

"But that isn't all I am looking forward to," he said, in conclusion,
his boyish tones growing strangely deep and tender. "My fondest hope of
all I hardly dare admit even to myself, and I don't know why I am
speaking of it to you, except that I already like you and trust you as I
never did any other man; but you will understand what I mean when you
see my cousin, Kate Underwood."

He paused, but his silence was more eloquent to Darrell than words; the
latter grasped his hand warmly in token that he understood.

"I wish you all that you hope for," he said.

A few moments later Whitcomb spoke with his usual impetuosity. "What am
I thinking of, keeping you up in this way when you are sick and dead
tired! You had better turn in and get all the rest you can, and when we
reach Ophir to-morrow, just remember, my dear fellow, that no hotels
'go.' You'll go directly home with me, where you'll find yourself in
such good hands you'll think sure you're in your own home, and we'll
soon have you all right."

For hours Darrell tossed wearily, unable to sleep. His head throbbed
wildly, the racking pain throughout his frame increased, while a raging
fire seemed creeping through his veins. Not until long past midnight did
he fall into a fitful sleep. Strange fancies surged through his fevered
brain, torturing him with their endless repetition, their seeming
reality. Suddenly he awoke, bewildered, exhausted, oppressed by a vague
sense of impending evil.




_Chapter II_

A NIGHT'S WORK


For a few seconds Darrell tried vainly to recall what had awakened him.
Low, confused sounds occasionally reached his ears, but they seemed part
of his own troubled dreams. The heat was intolerable; he raised himself
to the open window that he might get a breath of cooler air; his head
whirled, but the half-sitting posture seemed to clear his brain, and he
recalled his surroundings. At once he became conscious that the train
was not in motion, yet no sound of trainmen's voices came through the
open window; all was dead silence, and the vague, haunting sense of
impending danger quickened.

Suddenly he heard a muttered oath in one of the sections, followed by an
order, low, but peremptory,--

"No noise! Hand over, and be quick about it!"

Instantly Darrell comprehended the situation. Peering cautiously between
the curtains, he saw, at the forward end of the sleeper, a masked man
with a revolver in each hand, while the mirror behind him revealed
another figure at the rear, masked and armed in like manner. He heard
another order; the man was doing his work swiftly. He thought at once of
young Whitcomb, but no sound came from the opposite section, and he sank
quietly back upon his pillow.

A moment later the curtains were quickly thrust aside, the muzzle of a
revolver confronted Darrell, and the same low voice demanded,--

"Hand out your valuables!"

A man of medium height, wearing a mask and full beard, stood over him.
Darrell quietly handed over his watch and purse, noting as he did so the
man's hands, white, well formed, well kept. He half expected a further
demand, as the purse contained only a few small bills and some change,
the bulk of his money being secreted about the mattress, as was his
habit; but the man turned with peculiar abruptness to the opposite
section, as one who had a definite object in view and was in haste to
accomplish it. Darrell, his faculties alert, observed that the section
in front of Whitcomb's was empty; he recalled the actions of its
occupant on the preceding afternoon, his business later at the telegraph
office, and the whole scheme flashed vividly before his mind. The man
had been a spy sent out by the band now holding the train, and
Whitcomb's money was without doubt the particular object of the hold-up.

Whitcomb was asleep at the farther side of his berth. Leaning slightly
towards him, the man shook him, and his first words confirmed Darrell's
intuitions,--

"Hand over that money, young man, and no fuss about it, either!"

Whitcomb, instantly awake, gazed at the masked face without a word or
movement. Darrell, powerless to aid his friend, watched intently,
dreading some rash act on his part to which his impetuous nature might
prompt him.

Again he heard the low tones, this time a note of danger in them,--

"No fooling! Hand that money over, lively!"

With a spring, as sudden and noiseless as a panther's, Whitcomb grappled
with the man, knocking the revolver from his hand upon the bed. A
quick, desperate, silent struggle followed. Whitcomb suddenly reached
for the revolver; as he did so Darrell saw a flash of steel in the dim
light, and the next instant his friend sank, limp and motionless, upon
the bed.

"Fool!" he heard the man mutter, with an oath.

An involuntary groan escaped from Darrell's lips. Slight as was the
sound, the man heard it and turned, facing him; the latter was screened
by the curtains, and the man, seeing no one, returned to his work, but
that brief glance had revealed enough to Darrell that he knew he could
henceforth identify the murderer among a thousand. In the struggle the
mask had been partially pushed aside, exposing a portion of the man's
face. A scar of peculiar shape showed white against the olive skin,
close to the curling black hair. But to Darrell the pre-eminently
distinguishing characteristic of that face was the eyes. Of the most
perfect steel blue he had ever seen, they seemed, as they turned upon
him in that intense glance, to glint and scintillate like the points of
two rapiers in a brilliant sword play, while their look of concentrated
fury and malignity, more demon-like than human, was stamped ineffaceably
upon his brain.

Having secured as much as he could find of the money, the murderer left
hastily and silently, and a few moments later the guards, after a
warning to the passengers not to leave their berths, took their
departure.

Having partially dressed, Darrell at once sprang across the aisle and
took Whitcomb's limp form in his arms. His heart still beat faintly, but
he was unconscious and bleeding profusely. All had been done so silently
and swiftly that no one outside of Darrell dreamed of murder, and soon
the enforced silence began to be broken by hurried questions and angry
exclamations. A man cursed over the loss of his money and a woman sobbed
hysterically. Suddenly, Darrell's incisive tones rang through the
sleeper.

"For God's sake, see if there is a surgeon aboard! Here is a man
stabbed, dying; don't stop to talk of money when a life is at stake!"

Instantly all thought of personal loss was for the time forgotten, and
half a dozen men responded to Darrell's appeal. When it became known
throughout the train what had occurred, the greatest excitement
followed. Train officials, hurrying back and forth, stopped, hushed and
horror-stricken, beside the section where Darrell sat holding Whitcomb
in his arms. Passengers from the other coaches crowded in, eager to
offer assistance that was of no avail. A physician was found and came
quickly to the scene, who, after a brief examination, silently shook his
head, and Darrell, watching the weakening pulse and shortening gasps,
needed no words to tell him that the young life was ebbing fast.

Just as the faint respirations had become almost imperceptible, Whitcomb
opened his eyes, looking straight into Darrell's eyes with eager
intensity, his face lighted with the winning smile which Darrell had
already learned to love. His lips moved; Darrell bent his head still
lower to listen.

"Kate,--you will see her," he whispered. "Tell her----" but the sentence
was never finished.

Deftly and gently as a woman Darrell did the little which remained to be
done for his young friend, closing the eyes in which the love-light
kindled by his dying words still lingered, smoothing the dishevelled
golden hair, wondering within himself at his own unwonted tenderness.

"An awful pity for a bright young life to go out like that!" said a
voice at his side, and, turning, he saw Parkinson.

"How did it happen?" the latter inquired, recognizing Darrell for the
first time in the dim light.

Briefly Darrell gave the main facts as he had witnessed them, saying
nothing, however, of his having seen the face of the murderer.

"Too bad!" said Parkinson. "He ought never to have made a bluff of that
sort; there were too many odds against him."

"He was impulsive and acted on the spur of the moment," Darrell replied;
adding, in lower tones, "the mistake was in giving one so young and
inexperienced a commission involving so much responsibility and danger."

"You knew of the money, then? Yes, that was bad business for him, poor
fellow! I wonder, by the way, if it was all taken."

At Darrell's suggestion a thorough search was made, which resulted in
the finding of a package containing fifteen thousand dollars which the
thief in his haste had evidently overlooked. This, it was agreed, should
be placed in Darrell's keeping until the arrival of the train at Ophir.

Gradually the crowd dispersed, most of the passengers returning to their
berths. Darrell, knowing that sleep for himself was out of the question,
sought an empty section in another part of the car, and, seating
himself, bowed his head upon his hands. The veins in his temples seemed
near bursting and his usually strong nerves quivered from the shock he
had undergone, but of this he was scarcely conscious. His mind,
abnormally active, for the time held his physical sufferings in
abeyance. He was living over again the events of the past few
hours--events which had awakened within him susceptibilities he had not
known he possessed, which had struck a new chord in his being whose
vibrations thrilled him with strange, undefinable pain. As he recalled
Whitcomb's affectionate familiarity, he seemed to hear again the low,
musical cadences of the boyish tones, to see the sunny radiance of his
smile, to feel the irresistible magnetism of his presence, and it seemed
as though something inexpressibly sweet, of whose sweetness he had
barely tasted, had suddenly dropped out of his life.

His heart grew sick with bitter sorrow as he recalled the look of
mingled appeal and trust which shot from Whitcomb's eyes into his own as
his young life, so full of hope, of ambition, of love, was passing
through the dim portals of an unknown world. Oh, the pity of it! that
he, an acquaintance of but a few hours, should have been the only one to
whom those eyes could turn for their last message of earthly love and
sympathy; and oh, the impotency of any and all human love then!

Never before had Darrell been brought so near the unseen, the
unknown,--always surrounding us, but of which few of us are
conscious,--and for hours he sat motionless, lost in thought, grappling
with problems hitherto unthought of, but which now perplexed and baffled
him at every turn.

At last, with a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes. The gray twilight of
dawn was slowly creeping down from the mountain-tops, dispelling the
shadows; and the light of a new faith, streaming downward

     "From the beautiful, eternal hills
         Of God's unbeginning past,"

was banishing the doubts which had assailed him.

That night had brought to him a revelation of the awful solitude of a
human soul, standing alone on the threshold of two worlds; but it had
also revealed to him the Love--Infinite, Divine--that meets the soul
when human love and sympathy are no longer of avail.




_Chapter III_

"THE PINES"


As the day advanced Darrell grew gradually but steadily worse. After the
excitement of the night had passed a reaction set in; he felt utterly
exhausted and miserable, the pain returned with redoubled violence, and
the fever increased perceptibly from hour to hour.

He was keenly observant of those about him, and he could not but note
how soon the tragedy of the preceding night seemed forgotten. Some
bemoaned the loss of money or valuables; a few, more fortunate, related
how they had outwitted the robbers and escaped with trivial loss, but
only an occasional careless word of pity was heard for the young
stranger who had met so sad a fate. So quickly and completely does one
human atom sink out of sight! It is like the dropping of a pebble in the
sea: a momentary ripple, that is all!

About noon Parkinson, who had sought to while away the tedium of the
journey by an interview with Darrell, became somewhat alarmed at the
latter's condition and went in search of a physician. He returned with
the one who had been summoned to Whitcomb's aid. He was an eastern
practitioner, and, unfortunately for Darrell, was not so familiar with
the peculiar symptoms in his case as a western physician would have
been.

"He has a high fever," he remarked to Parkinson a little later, as he
seated himself beside Darrell to watch the effect of the remedies
administered, "but I do not apprehend any danger. I have given him
something to abate the fever and induce sleep. If necessary, I will
write out a prescription which he can have filled on his arrival at
Ophir, but I think in a few days he will be all right."

They were now approaching the continental divide, the scenery moment by
moment growing in sublimity and grandeur. Darrell soon sank into a
sleep, light and broken at first, but which grew deeper and heavier. For
more than an hour he slept, unconscious that the rugged scenes through
which he was then passing were to become part of his future life; that
each cliff and crag and mountain-peak was to be to him an open book,
whose secrets would leave their indelible impress upon his heart and
brain, revealing to him the breadth and length, the depth and height of
life, moulding his soul anew into nobler, more symmetrical proportions.

At last the rocks suddenly parted, like sentinels making way for the
approaching train, disclosing a broad, sunlit plateau, from which rose,
in gracefully rounded contours, a pine-covered mountain, about whose
base nestled the little city of Ophir, while in the background stretched
the majestic range of the great divide.

A crowd could be seen congregated about the depot, for tidings of the
night's tragedy had preceded the train by several hours, and Whitcomb
from his early boyhood had been a universal favorite in Ophir, while his
uncle was one of its wealthiest, most influential citizens.

As the train slackened speed Parkinson, with a few words to the
physician, hastily left to make arrangements for transportation for
himself, Hunter, and Darrell to a hotel. Amid the noise and confusion
which ensued for the next ten minutes Darrell slept heavily, till,
roused by a gentle shake, he awoke to find the physician bending over
him and heard voices approaching down the now nearly deserted
sleeping-car.

"Yes," said a heavy voice, speaking rapidly, "the conductor wired
details; he said this young man did everything for the boy that could be
done, and stayed by him to the end."

"He did; he stood by him like a brother," Parkinson's voice replied.

"And he is sick, you say? Well, he won't want for anything within my
power to do for him, that's all!"

Parkinson stopped at Darrell's side. "Mr. Darrell," he said, "this is
Mr. Underwood, Whitcomb's uncle, you know; Mr. Underwood, Mr. Darrell."

Darrell rose a little unsteadily; the two men grasped hands and for an
instant neither spoke. Darrell saw before him a tall, powerfully built
man, approaching fifty, whose somewhat bronzed face, shrewd, stern, and
unreadable, was lighted by a pair of blue eyes which once had resembled
Whitcomb's. With a swift, penetrating glance the elder man looked
searchingly into the face of the younger.

"True as steel, with a heart of gold!" was his mental comment; then he
spoke abruptly, and his voice sounded brusque though his face was
working with emotion.

"Mr. Darrell, my carriage is waiting for you outside. You will go home
with me, unless," he added, inquiringly, "you are expecting to meet
friends or acquaintances?"

"No, Mr. Underwood," Darrell replied, "I am a stranger here, but, much
as I appreciate your kindness, I could not think of intruding upon your
home at such a time as this."

"Porter," said Mr. Underwood, with the air of one accustomed to command,
"take this gentleman's luggage outside, and tell them out there that it
is to go to 'The Pines'; my men are there and they will look after it;"
then, turning to Darrell, he continued, still more brusquely:

"This train pulls out in three minutes, so you had better prepare to
follow your luggage. You don't stop in Ophir outside of my house, and I
don't think you'll travel much farther for a while. You look as though
you needed a bed and good nursing more than anything else just now."

"I have given him a prescription, sir," said the physician, "that I
think will set him right if he gets needed rest and sleep."

"Humph!" responded Mr. Underwood, gruffly; "he'll get whatever he needs,
you can depend on that. You gentlemen assist him out of the car; I'll go
and despatch a messenger to the house to have everything in readiness
for him there."

At the foot of the car steps Darrell parted from the physician and,
leaning on Parkinson's arm, slowly made his way through the crowd to the
carriage, where Mr. Underwood awaited him. Parkinson having taken leave,
Mr. Underwood assisted the young man into the carriage. A spasm of pain
crossed Darrell's face as he saw, just ahead of them, waiting to precede
them on the homeward journey, a light wagon containing a stretcher
covered with a heavy black cloth, a line of stalwart young fellows drawn
up on either side, and he recalled Whitcomb's parting words on the
previous night,--"When we reach Ophir to-morrow, you'll go directly home
with me."

This was observed by Mr. Underwood, who remarked a moment later as he
seated himself beside Darrell and they started homeward,--

"This is a sad time to introduce you to our home and household, Mr.
Darrell, but you will find your welcome none the less genuine on that
account."

"Mr. Underwood," said the young man, in a troubled voice, "this seems to
me the most unwarrantable intrusion on my part to accept your
hospitality at such a time--"

Before he could say more, Mr. Underwood placed a firm, heavy hand on his
knee.

"You stood by my poor boy, Harry, to the last, and that is enough to
insure you a welcome from me and mine. I'm only doing what Harry himself
would do if he were here."

"As to what I did for your nephew, God knows it was little enough I
could do," Darrell answered, bitterly. "I was powerless to defend him
against the fatal blow, and after that there was no help for him."

"Did you see him killed?"

"Yes."

"Tell me all, everything, just as it occurred."

Mr. Underwood little knew the effort it cost Darrell in his condition to
go over the details of the terrible scene, but he forced himself to give
a clear, succinct, calm statement of all that took place. The elder man
sat looking straight before him, immovable, impassive, like one who
heard not, yet in reality missing nothing that was said. Not until
Darrell repeated Whitcomb's dying words was there any movement on his
part; then he turned his head so that his face was hidden and remained
motionless and silent as before. At last he inquired,--

"Did he leave no message for me?"

"He mentioned only your daughter, Mr. Underwood; he evidently had some
message for her which he was unable to give."

A long silence followed. Darrell, utterly exhausted, sank back into a
corner of the carriage. The slight movement roused Mr. Underwood; he
looked towards Darrell, whose eyes were closed, and was shocked at his
deathly pallor. He said nothing, however, for Darrell was again sinking
into a heavy stupor, but watched him with growing concern, making no
attempt to rouse him until the carriage left the street and began
ascending a long gravelled driveway; then putting his hand on Darrell's
shoulder, he said, quite loudly,--

"Wake up, my boy! We're getting home now."

To Darrell his voice sounded faint and far away, like an echo out of a
vast distance, and it was some seconds before he could realize where he
was or form any definite idea of his surroundings. Gradually he became
conscious that the air was no longer hot and stifling, but cool and
fragrant with the sweet, resinous breath of pines. Looking about him, he
saw they were winding upward along an avenue cut through a forest of
small, slender pines, which extended below them on one side and far
above them on the other.

A moment later they came out into a clearing, whence he could see,
rising directly before him, in a series of natural terraces, the slopes
of the sombre-hued, pine-clad mountain which overlooked the little city.
Upon one of the terraces of the mountain stood a massive house of unhewn
granite, a house representing no particular style of architecture, but
whose deep bay-windows, broad, winding verandas, and shadowy, secluded
balconies all combined to present an aspect most inviting. To Darrell
the place had an irresistible charm; he gazed at it as though
fascinated, unable to take his eyes from the scene.

"You certainly have a beautiful home, Mr. Underwood," he said, "and a
most unique location. I never saw anything quite like it."

"It will do," said the elder man, quietly, gratified by what he saw in
his companion's face. "I built it for my little girl. It was her own
idea to have it that way, and she has named it 'The Pines.' Thank God,
I've got her left yet, but she is about all."

Something in his tone caused Darrell to glance quickly towards him with
a look of sympathetic inquiry. They were now approaching the house, and
Mr. Underwood turned, facing him, a smile for the first time lighting up
his stern, rugged features, as he said,--

"You will find us what my little girl calls a 'patched-up' family. I am
a widower; my widowed sister keeps house for me, and Harry, whom I had
grown to consider almost a son, was an orphan. But the family, such as
it is, will make you welcome; I can speak for that. Here we are!"

With a supreme effort Darrell summoned all his energies as Mr. Underwood
assisted him from the carriage and into the house. But the ringing and
pounding in his head increased, his brain seemed reeling, and he was so
nearly blinded by pain that, notwithstanding his efforts, he was forced
to admit to himself, as a little later he sank upon a couch in the room
assigned to him, that his impressions of the ladies to whom he had just
been presented were exceedingly vague.

Mr. Underwood's sister, Mrs. Dean, he remembered as a large woman,
low-voiced, somewhat resembling her brother in manner, and like him, of
few words, yet something in her greeting had assured him of a welcome
as deep as it was undemonstrative. Of Kate Underwood, in whom he had
felt more than a passing interest, remembering Whitcomb's love for his
cousin, he recalled a tall, slender, girlish form; a wealth of
golden-brown hair, and a pair of large, luminous brown eyes, whose
wistful, almost appealing look haunted him strangely, though he was
unable to recall another feature of her face.

Mr. Underwood, who had left the room to telephone for a physician,
returned with a faithful servant, and insisted upon Darrell's retiring
to bed without delay, a proposition which the latter was only too glad
to follow. Darrell had already given Mr. Underwood the package of
fifteen thousand dollars found on the train, and now, while disrobing,
handed him the belt in which he carried his own money, saying,--

"I'll put this in your keeping for a few days, till I feel more like
myself. I lost my watch and some change, but I took the precaution to
have this hidden."

He stopped abruptly and seemed to be trying to recall something, then
continued, slowly,--

"There was something else in connection with that affair which I wished
to say to you, but my head is so confused I cannot think what it was."

"Don't try to think now; it will come to you by and by," Mr. Underwood
replied. "You're in good hands, so don't worry yourself about anything,
but get all the rest you can."

With a deep sigh of relief Darrell sank on the pillows, and was soon
sleeping heavily.

A few moments later Mr. Underwood, coming from Darrell's room, having
left the servant in charge, met his sister coming down the long hall.
She beckoned, and, turning, slowly retraced her steps, her brother
following, to another part of the house, where they entered a darkened
chamber and together stood beside a low, narrow couch strewn with
fragrant flowers. Together, without a word or a tear, they gazed on the
peaceful face of this sleeper, wrapped in the breathless, dreamless
slumber we call death. They recalled the years since he had come to
them, the dying bequest of their youngest sister, a little,
golden-haired prattler, to fill their home with the music of his
childish voice and the sunshine of his smile. Already the great house
seemed strangely silent without his ringing laughter, his bursts of
merry song.

But of whatever bitter grief stirred their hearts, this silent brother
and sister, so long accustomed to self-restraint and self-repression,
gave no sign. Gently she replaced the covering over the face of the
sleeper, and silently they left the room. Not until they again reached
the door of Darrell's room was the silence broken; then the brother
said, in low tones,--

"Marcia, we've done all for the dead that can be done; it's the living
who needs our care now."

"Yes," she replied, quietly, "I was going to see what I could do for him
when you had put him to bed."

"Bennett is in there now, and I'm going downstairs to wait for Dr.
Bradley; he telephoned that he'd be up in twenty minutes."

"Very well; I'll sit by him till the doctor comes."

When Dr. Bradley arrived he found Darrell in a state of coma from which
it was almost impossible to arouse him. From Mr. Underwood and his
sister he learned whatever details they could furnish, but from the
patient himself very little information could be obtained.

"He has this fever that is prevailing in the mountainous districts, and
has it in its worst form," he said, when about to take leave. "Of
course, having just come from the East, it would be worse for him in any
event than if he were acclimated; but aside from that, the cerebral
symptoms are greatly aggravated owing to the nervous shock which he
received last night. To witness an occurrence of that sort would be more
or less of a shock to nerves in a normal state, but in the condition in
which he was at the time, it is likely to produce some rather serious
complications. Follow these directions which I have written out, and
I'll be in again in a couple of hours."

But in two hours Darrell was delirious.

"Has he recognized any one since I was here?" Dr. Bradley inquired, as
he again stood beside the patient.

"I don't think so," Mrs. Dean replied. "I could hardly rouse him enough
to give him the medicine, and even then he didn't seem to know me."

"I'll be in about midnight," said the physician, as he again took leave,
"and I'll send a professional nurse, a man; this is likely to be a long
siege."

"Send whatever is needed," said Mr. Underwood, brusquely, "the same as
if 'twere for the boy himself!"

"And, Mrs. Dean," the physician continued, "if he should have a lucid
interval, you had better ascertain the address of his friends."

It was nearly midnight. For hours Darrell had battled against the
darkening shadows fast settling down upon him, enveloping him with a
horror worse than death itself. Suddenly there was a rift in the clouds,
and the calm, sweet light of reason stole softly through. He felt a cool
hand on his forehead, and, opening his eyes, looked with a smile into
the face of Mrs. Dean as she bent over him. Bending still lower, she
said, in low, distinct tones:

"Can you tell me the name of your people, and where they live?"

In an instant he comprehended all that her question implied; he must
give his own name and the address of the far-away eastern home. He
strove to recall it, but the effort was too great; before he could
speak, the clouds surged together and all was blotted out in darkness.




_Chapter IV_

LIFE? OR DEATH?


Hour by hour the clouds thickened, obscuring every ray of light, closing
the avenues of sight and sound, until, isolated from the outer world by
this intangible yet impenetrable barrier, Darrell was alone in a world
peopled only with the phantoms of his imagination. Of the lapse of time,
of the weary procession of days and nights which followed, he knew
nothing. Day and night were to him only an endless repetition of the
horrors which thronged his fevered brain.

Again and again he lived over the tragic scene in the sleeping-car, each
iteration and reiteration growing in dreadful realism, until it was he
himself who grappled in deadly contest with the murderer, and the latter
in turn became a monster whose hot breath stifled him, whose malign,
demoniacal glance seemed to sear his eyeballs like living fire. Over and
over, with failing strength, he waged the unequal contest, striving at
last with a legion of hideous forms. Then, as the clouds grew still more
dense about him, these shapes grew dim and he found himself, weak and
trembling, adrift upon a sea of darkness whose black waves tossed him
angrily, with each breath threatening to engulf him in their gloomy
depths. Desperately he battled with them, each struggle leaving him
weaker than the last, until at length, scarcely breathing, his strength
utterly exhausted, he lay watching the towering forms as they swept
relentlessly towards him, gathering strength and fury as they came. He
saw the yawning abysses on each side, he heard the roar of the
on-coming waves, but was powerless to move hand or foot.

But while he waited in helpless terror the waves on which he tossed to
and fro grew calm; then they seemed to divide, and he felt himself going
down, down into infinite depths. The sullen roar died away; the darkness
was flooded with golden light, and through its ethereal waves he was
still floating downward more gently than ever a roseleaf floated to
earth on the evening's breath. Through the waves of golden light there
came to him a faint, distant murmur of voices, and the words,--

"He is sinking fast!"

He smiled with perfect content, wondering dreamily if it would never
end; then consciousness was lost in utter oblivion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three weeks had elapsed since Darrell came to The Pines. August had
given place to September, but the languorous days brought no cessation
of the fearful heat, no cooling rain to the panting earth, no promise of
renewed life to the drought-smitten vegetation. The timber on the ranges
had been reduced to masses of charred and smouldering embers, among
which the low flames still crept and crawled, winding their way up and
down the mountains. The pall of smoke overhanging the city grew more and
more dense, until there came a morning when, as the sun looked over the
distant ranges, the landscape was suffused with a dull red glare which
steadily deepened until all objects assumed a blood-red hue. Two or
three hours passed, and then a lurid light illumined the strange scene,
brightening moment by moment, till earth and sky glowed like a mass of
molten copper. The heat seemed to concentrate upon that part of the
earth's surface, the air grew oppressive, and an ominous silence
reigned, in which even the birds were hushed and the dumb brutes cowered
beside their masters.

As the brazen glow was fading to a weird, yellow light, an anxious group
was gathered about Darrell's bedside. He still tossed and moaned in
delirium, but his movements had grown pathetically feeble and the moans
were those of a tired child sobbing himself to sleep.

"He cannot hold out much longer," said Dr. Bradley, his fingers on the
weakening pulse, "his strength is failing rapidly."

"There will be a change soon, one way or the other," said the nurse,
"and there's not much of a chance left him now."

"One chance in a hundred," said Dr. Bradley, slowly; "and that is his
wonderful constitution; he may pull through where ninety-nine others
would die."

Dr. Bradley watched the sick man in silence, then noting that the room
was darkening, he stepped to an open window and cast a look of anxious
inquiry at the murky sky. As if in answer to his thought, there came the
low rumble of distant thunder, bringing a look of relief and hopefulness
to the face of the physician. Returning to the bedside, he gave a few
directions, then, as he was leaving, remarked,--

"There will be a change in the weather soon, a change that may help to
turn the tide in his favor, provided it does not come too late!"

Hours passed; the distant mutterings grew louder, while the darkness and
gloom increased, and the sense of oppression became almost intolerable.
Suddenly the leaden mass which had overspread the sky appeared to drop
to earth, and in the dead silence which followed could be heard the roar
of the wind through the gorges and down the canyons. A moment more, and
clouds of dust and débris, the outriders of the coming tempest, rushed
madly through the streets in whirling columns towering far above the
city. From their vantage ground the dwellers at The Pines watched the
course of the storm, but only for a moment; then blinding sheets of
water hid even the nearest objects from view, while lightnings flashed
incessantly and the thunder crashed and rolled in one ceaseless,
deafening roar. The trees waved their arms in wild, helpless terror as
one and another of their number were prostrated by the storm, while the
dry channels on the mountain-side became raging, foaming torrents.
Suddenly the winds changed, a chilling blast swept across the plateau,
and to the rush of the wind, the roar of the thunder, and the crash of
falling timber was added the sharp staccato of swiftly descending hail.

For nearly an hour the storm raged in its fury, then departed as
suddenly as it came; but it left behind a clear atmosphere, crisp as an
October morning.

As the storm clouds, touched with beauty by the rays of the setting sun,
were settling below the eastern ranges, Dr. Bradley again entered the
sick-room. The room was flooded with golden light, and the physician was
quick to note the changes which the few hours had wrought in the sick
man. The fever had gone and, his strength spent, his splendid energies
exhausted, life's forces were ebbing moment by moment.

"He is sinking fast," said Mrs. Dean.

Even as she spoke a smile stole over the pallid features; then, as they
watched eagerly for some token of returning consciousness, the nervous
system, so long strained to its utmost tension, suddenly relaxed and
utter collapse followed.

For hours Darrell lay as one dead, an occasional fluttering about the
heart being the only sign of life. But late in the forenoon of the
following day the watchers by the bedside, noting each feeble pulsation,
thinking it might be the last, felt an almost imperceptible quickening
of the life current. Gradually the fluttering pulse grew calm and
steady, the faint respirations grew deeper and more regular, until at
length, with a long, tremulous sigh, Darrell sank into slumber sweet and
restful as a child's, and the watchers knew that the crisis had passed.




_Chapter V_

JOHN BRITTON


It was on one of those glorious October days, when every breath quickens
the blood and when simply to live is a joy unspeakable, that Darrell
first walked abroad into the outdoor world. Several times during his
convalescence he had sunned himself on the balcony opening from his
room, or when able to go downstairs had paced feebly up and down the
verandas, but of late his strength had returned rapidly, so that now,
accompanied by his physician, he was walking back and forth over the
gravelled driveway under the pine-trees, his step gaining firmness with
every turn.

Seated on the veranda were Mr. Underwood and his sister, the one with
his pipe and newspaper, the other with her knitting; but the newspaper
had slipped unheeded to the floor, and though Mrs. Dean's skilful
fingers did not slacken their work for an instant, yet her eyes, like
her brother's, were fastened upon Darrell, and a shade of pity might
have been detected in the look of each, which the occasion at first
sight hardly seemed to warrant.

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Underwood, at length; "it's hard for a young man
to be handicapped like that!"

"Yes," assented his sister, "and he takes it hard, too, though he
doesn't say much. I can't bear to look in his eyes sometimes, they look
so sort of pleading and helpless."

"Takes it hard!" reiterated Mr. Underwood; "why shouldn't he. I'm
satisfied that he is a young man of unusual ability, who had a bright
future before him, and I tell you, Marcia, it's pretty hard for him to
wake up and find it all rubbed off the slate!"

"Well," said Mrs. Dean, with a sigh, "everybody has to carry their own
burdens, but there's a look on his face when he thinks nobody sees him
that makes me wish I could help him carry his, though I don't suppose
anybody can, for that matter; it isn't anything that anybody feels like
saying much about."

"I'm glad Jack is coming," said Mr. Underwood, after a pause; "he may do
him some good. He has a way of getting at those things that you and I
haven't, Marcia."

"Yes, he's seen trouble himself, though nobody knows what it was."

Notwithstanding the tide of returning vitality was fast restoring tissue
and muscle to Darrell's wasted limbs and firmness and elasticity to his
step, it was yet evident to a close observer that some undercurrent of
suffering was doing its work day by day; sprinkling the dark hair with
gleams of silver, tracing faint lines in the face hitherto untouched by
care, working its subtle, mysterious changes.

When a new lease of life was granted to John Darrell and he awoke to
consciousness, it was to find that every detail of his past life had
been blotted out, leaving only a blank. Of his home, his friends, of his
own name even, not a vestige of memory was left. It was as though he had
entered upon a new existence.

By degrees, as he was able to hear them, he was given the details of his
arrival at Ophir, of his coming to The Pines, of the tragedy which he
had witnessed in the sleeping-car, but they awoke no memories in his
mind. For him there was no past. As a realization of his condition
dawned upon him his mental distress was pitiable. Despite the efforts of
physician and nurse to divert his mind, he would lie for hours trying to
recall some fragment from the veiled and shrouded past, but all in vain.
Yet, with returning physical strength, many of his former attainments
seemed to return to him, naturally and without effort. Dr. Bradley one
day used a Latin phrase in his hearing; he at once repeated it and,
without a moment's hesitation, gave the correct rendering, but was
unable to tell how he did it.

"It simply came to me," was all the explanation he could give.

From this the physician argued that the memory of his past life would
sooner or later return, and it was this hope alone which at that time
saved Darrell from total despair.

Aside from his professional interest in so peculiar a case, Dr. Bradley
had become interested in Darrell himself; many of his leisure hours were
spent at The Pines, and quite a friendship existed between the two.

In Mr. Underwood and his sister, Darrell had found two steadfast friends,
each seeming to vie with the other in thoughtful, unobtrusive kindness.
His strange misfortune had only deepened and intensified the sympathy
which had been first aroused by the peculiar circumstances under which
he had come to them. But now, as then, they said little, and for this
Darrell was grateful. Even the silent pity which he read in their eyes
hurt him,--why, he could scarcely explain to himself; expressed in
words, it would have been intolerable. Early in his convalescence
Darrell had expressed an unwillingness to trespass upon their kindness
by remaining after he could with safety be moved, but the few words they
had spoken on that occasion had effectually silenced any further
suggestion of the kind on his part. He understood that to leave them
would be to forfeit their friendship, which he well knew was of a sort
too rare to be slighted or thrown aside.

Of Kate Underwood Darrell knew nothing, except as her father or aunt
spoke of her, for he had no recollection of her and she had left home
early in his illness to return to an eastern college, from which she
would graduate the following year.

With more animation than he had yet shown since his illness, Darrell
returned to the veranda. He was flushed and trembling slightly from the
unusual exertion, and Dr. Bradley, dropping down beside him, from force
of habit laid his fingers on Darrell's wrist, but the latter shook them
off playfully.

"No more of that!" he exclaimed, adding, "Doctor, I challenge you for a
race two weeks from to-day. What do you say, do you take me up?"

"Two weeks from to-day!" repeated the doctor, with an incredulous smile,
at the same time scrutinizing Darrell's form. "Well, yes. When you are
in ordinary health I don't think I would care to do much business with
you along that line, but two weeks from to-day is a safe proposition, I
guess. What do you want to make it, a hundred yards?" he inquired, with
a laughing glance at Mr. Underwood.

"One hundred yards," replied Darrell, following the direction of the
doctor's glance. "Do you want to name the winner, Mr. Underwood?"

"I'll back you, my boy," said the elder man, quietly, his shrewd face
growing a trifle shrewder.

"What!" exclaimed Dr. Bradley, rising hastily;

"I guess it's about time I was going, if that's your estimate of my
athletic prowess," and, shaking hands with Darrell, he started down the
driveway.

"I'll put you up at about ten to one," Mr. Underwood called after the
retreating figure, but a deprecatory wave of his hand over his shoulder
was the doctor's only reply.

"Oh," exclaimed Darrell, looking about him, "this is glorious! This is
one of the days that make a fellow feel that life is worth living!"

Even as he spoke there came to his mind the thought of what life meant
to him, and the smile died from his lips and the light from his eyes.

For a moment nothing was said, then, with the approaching sound of
rhythmic hoof-beats, Mr. Underwood rose, deliberately emptying the ashes
from his pipe as a fine pair of black horses attached to a light
carriage appeared around the house from the direction of the stables.

"You will be back for lunch, David?" Mrs. Dean inquired.

"Yes, and I'll bring Jack with me," was his reply, as he seated himself
beside the driver, and the horses started at a brisk trot down the
driveway.

With a smile Mrs. Dean addressed Darrell, who was watching the horses
with a keen appreciation of their good points.

"This 'Jack' that you've heard my brother speak of is his partner."

"Yes?" said Darrell, courteously, feeling slight interest in the
expected guest, but glad of anything to divert his thoughts.

"Yes," Mrs. Dean continued; "they've been partners and friends for more
than ten years. His name is John Britton, but it's never anything but
'Dave' and 'Jack' between the two; they're almost like two boys
together."

Darrell wondered what manner of man this might be who could transform
his silent, stern-faced host into anything boy-like, but he said
nothing.

"To see them together you'd wonder at their friendship, too," continued
Mrs. Dean, "for they're noways alike. My brother is all business, and
Mr. Britton is not what you'd really call a practical business man. He
is very rich, for he is one of those men that everything they touch
seems to turn to gold, but he doesn't seem to care much about money. He
spends a great deal of his time in reading and studying, and though he
makes very few friends, he could have any number of them if he wanted,
for he's one of those people that you always feel drawn to without
knowing why."

Mrs. Dean paused to count the stitches in her work, and Darrell, whose
thoughts were of the speaker more than of the subject of conversation,
watching her placid face, wondered whether it were possible for any
emotion ever to disturb that calm exterior. Presently she resumed her
subject, speaking in low, even tones, which a slight, gentle inflection
now and then just saved from monotony.

"He's always a friend to anybody in distress, and I guess there isn't a
poor person or a friendless person in Ophir that doesn't know him and
love him. He has had some great trouble; nobody knows what it is, but he
told David once that it had changed his whole life."

Darrell now became interested, and the dark eyes fixed on Mrs. Dean's
face grew suddenly luminous with the quick sympathy her words had
aroused.

"He always seems to be on the lookout for anybody that has trouble, to
help them; that's how he got to know my brother."

Mrs. Dean hesitated a moment. "I never spoke of this to any one before,
but I thought maybe you'd be interested to know about it," she said,
looking at Darrell with a slightly apologetic air.

"I am, and I think I understand and appreciate your motive," was his
quiet reply.

She dropped her work, folding her hands above it, and her face wore a
reminiscent look as she continued:

"When David's wife died, twelve years ago, it was an awful blow to him.
He didn't say much,--that isn't our way,--but we were afraid he would
never be the same again. His brother was out here at that time, but none
of us could do anything for him. He kept on trying to attend to business
just as usual, but he seemed, as you might say, to have lost his grip on
things. It went on that way for nearly two years; his business got
behind and everything seemed to be slipping through his fingers, when he
happened to get acquainted with Mr. Britton, and he seemed to know just
what to say and do. He got David interested in business again. He loaned
him money to start with, and they went into business together and have
been together ever since. They have both been successful, but David has
worked and planned for what he has, while Mr. Britton's money seems to
come to him. He owns property all over the State, and all through the
West for that matter, and sometimes he's in one place and sometimes in
another, but he never stays very long anywhere. David would like to have
him make his home with us, but he told him once that he couldn't think
of it; that he only stayed in a place till the pain got to be more than
he could bear, and then he went somewhere else."

A long silence followed; then, as Mrs. Dean folded her work, she said,
softly,--

"It's no wonder he knows just how to help folks who are in trouble, for
I guess he has suffered himself more than anybody knows."

A little later she had gone indoors to superintend the preparations for
lunch, but Darrell still sat in the mellow, autumn sunlight, his eyes
closed, picturing to himself this stranger silently bearing his hidden
burden, changing from place to place, but always keeping the pain.

It still lacked two hours of sunset when John Darrell, leaning on the
arm of John Britton, walked slowly up the mountain-path to a rustic seat
under the pines. They had met at lunch. Mr. Britton had already heard
the strange story of Darrell's illness, and, looking into his eyes with
their troubled questioning, their piteous appeal, knew at once by swift
intuition how hopelessly bewildering and dark life must look to the
young man before him just at the age when it usually is brightest and
most alluring; and Darrell, meeting the steadfast gaze of the clear,
gray eyes, saw there no pity, but something infinitely broader, deeper,
and sweeter, and knew intuitively that they were united by the
fellowship of suffering, that mysterious tie which has not only bound
human hearts together in all ages, but has linked suffering humanity
with suffering Divinity.

For more than two hours Darrell, taking little part himself in the
general conversation, had watched, as one entranced, the play of the
fine features and listened to the deep, musical voice of this stranger
who was a stranger no longer.

He was an excellent conversationalist; humorous without being cynical,
scholarly without being pedantic, and showing especial familiarity with
history and the natural sciences.

At last, while walking up and down the broad veranda, Mr. Britton had
paused beside Darrell, and throwing an arm over his shoulder had said,--

"Come, my son, let us have a little stroll."

Darrell's heart had leaped strangely at the words, he knew not why, and
in a silence pregnant with deep emotion on both sides, they had climbed
to the rustic bench. Here they sat down. The ground at their feet was
carpeted with pine-needles; the air was sweet with the fragrance of the
pines and of the warm earth; no sound reached their ears aside from the
chirping of the crickets, the occasional dropping of a pine-cone, or the
gentle sighing of the light breeze through the branches above their
heads.

A glorious scene lay outspread before them; the distant ranges half
veiled in purple haze, the valleys flooded with golden light, brightened
by the autumnal tints of the deciduous timber which marked the courses
of numerous small streams, and over the whole a restful silence, as
though, the year's work ended, earth was keeping some grand, solemn
holiday.

Mr. Britton first broke the silence, as in low tones he murmured,
reverently,--

"'Thou crownest the year with Thy goodness!'"

Then turning to Darrell with a smile of peculiar sweetness, he said,
"This is one of what I call the year's 'coronation days,' when even
Nature herself rests from her labors and dons her royal robes in honor
of the occasion."

Then, as an answering light dawned in Darrell's eyes and the tense lines
in his face began to relax, Mr. Britton continued, musingly:

"I have often wondered why we do not imitate Nature in her great annual
holiday, and why we, a nation who garners one of the richest harvests of
the world, do not have a national harvest festival. How effectively and
fittingly, for instance, something similar to the old Jewish feast of
tabernacles might be celebrated in this part of the country! In the
earliest days of their history the Jews were commanded, when the year's
harvest had been gathered, to take the boughs of goodly trees, of
palm-trees and willows, and to construct booths in which they were to
dwell, feasting and rejoicing, for seven days. In the only account given
of one of these feasts, we read that the people brought olive-branches
and pine-branches, myrtle-branches and palm-branches, and made
themselves booths upon the roofs of their houses, in their courts, and
in their streets, and dwelt in them, 'and there was very great
gladness.' Imagine such a scene on these mountain-slopes and foot-hills,
under these cloudless skies; the sombre, evergreen boughs interwoven
with the brightly colored foliage from the lowlands; this mellow, golden
sunlight by day alternating with the white, mystical radiance of the
harvest moon by night."

Mr. Britton's words had, as he intended they should, drawn Darrell's
thoughts from himself. Under his graphic description, accompanied by the
powerful magnetism of his voice and presence, Darrell seemed to see the
Oriental festival which he had depicted and to feel a soothing influence
from the very simplicity and beauty of the imaginary scene.

"Think of the rest, the relaxation, in a week of such a life!" continued
Mr. Britton. "Re-creation, in the true sense of the word. The simplest
joys are the sweetest, but our lives have grown too complex for us to
appreciate them. Our amusements and recreations, as we call them, are
often more wearing and exhausting than our labors."

For nearly an hour Mr. Britton led the conversation on general subjects,
carefully avoiding every personal allusion; Darrell following,
interested, animated, wondering more and more at the man beside him,
until the latter tactfully led him to speak--calmly and dispassionately,
as he could not have spoken an hour before--of himself. Almost before he
was aware, Darrell had told all: of his vain gropings in the darkness
for some clue to the past; of the helpless feeling akin to despair which
sometimes took possession of him when he attempted to face the situation
continuously confronting him.

During his recital Mr. Britton had thrown his arm about Darrell's
shoulder, and when he paused quite a silence followed.

"Did it ever occur to you," Mr. Britton said at length, speaking very
slowly, "that there are hundreds--yes, thousands--who would be only too
glad to exchange places with you to-day?"

"No," Darrell replied, too greatly astonished to say more.

"But there are legions of poor souls, haunted by crime, or crushed
beneath the weight of sorrow, whose one prayer would be, if such a thing
were possible, that their past might be blotted out; that they might be
free to begin life anew, with no memories dogging their steps like
spectres, threatening at every turn to work their undoing."

For a moment Darrell regarded his friend with a fixed, inquiring gaze,
which gradually changed to a look of comprehension.

"I see," he said at length, "I have got to begin life anew; but you
consider that there are others who have to make the start under
conditions worse than mine."

"Far worse," said Mr. Britton. "Don't think for a moment that I fail to
realize in how many ways you are handicapped or to appreciate the
obstacles against which you will have to contend, but this I do say: the
future is in your own hands--as much as it is in the hands of any
mortal--to make the most of and the best of that you can, and with the
negative advantage, at least, that you are untrammelled by a past that
can hold you back or drag you down."

The younger man laid his hand on the knee of the elder with a gesture
almost appealing. "The future, until now, has looked very dark to me; it
begins to look brighter. Advise me; tell me how best to begin!"

"In one word," said Mr. Britton, with a smile. "Work! Just as soon as
you are able, find some work to do. Did we but know it, work is the
surest antidote for the poisonous discontent and ennui of this world,
the swiftest panacea for its pains and miseries; different forms to suit
different cases, but every form brings healing and blessing, even down
to the humblest manual labor."

"That is just what I have wanted," said Darrell, eagerly; "to go to work
as soon as possible; but what can I do? What am I fitted for? I have not
the slightest idea. I don't care to work at breaking stone, though I
suppose that would be better than nothing."

"That would be better than nothing," said Mr. Britton, smiling again,
"but that would not be suited to your case. What you need is mental
work, something to keep your mind constantly occupied, and rest assured
you will find it when you are ready for it. Our Father provides what we
need just when we need it. 'Day by day' we have the 'daily bread' for
mental and spiritual life, as for temporal. But what you most want to do
is to keep your mind pleasantly occupied, and above all things don't
try to recall the past. In God's own good time it will return of
itself."

"And when it does, what revelations will it bring?" Darrell queried
musingly.

"Nothing that you will be afraid or ashamed to meet; of that I am sure,"
said Mr. Britton, confidently, adding a moment later, in a lighter tone,
"It is nearing sunset, my boy, and time that I was taking you back to
the house."

"You have given me new courage, new hope," said Darrell, rising. "I feel
now as though there were something to live for--as though I might make
something out of life, after all."

"I realize," said Mr. Britton, tenderly, as together they began the
descent of the mountain path, "as deeply as you do that your life is
sadly disjointed; but strive so to live that when the broken fragments
are at last united they will form one harmonious and symmetrical whole.
It is a difficult task, I know, but the result will be well worth the
effort. In your case, my son, even more than in ordinary lives, the
words of the poet are peculiarly applicable:

  "'A sacred burden is this life ye bear:
  Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;
  Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;
  Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
  But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.'"

An hour later John Britton stood alone on one of the mountain terraces,
his tall, lithe form silhouetted against the evening sky, his arms
folded, his face lifted upward. It was a face of marvellous strength and
sweetness combined. Sorrow had set its unmistakable seal upon his
features; here and there pain had traced its ineffaceable lines; but
the firmly set mouth was yet inexpressibly tender, the calm brow was
unfurrowed, and the clear eyes had the far-seeing look of one who, like
the Alpine traveller, had reached the heights above the clouds, to whose
vision were revealed glories undreamed of by the dwellers in the vales
below.

And to Darrell, watching from his room the distant figure outlined
against the sky, the simple grandeur, the calm triumph of its pose must
have brought some revelation concerning this man of whom he knew so
little, yet whose personality even more than his words had taken so firm
a hold upon himself, for, as the light faded and deepening twilight hid
the solitary figure from view, he turned from the window, and, pacing
slowly up and down the room, soliloquized:

"With him for a friend, I can meet the future with courage and await
with patience the resurrection of the buried past. As he has conquered,
so will I conquer; I will scale the heights after him, until I stand
where he stands to-night!"




_Chapter VI_

ECHOES FROM THE PAST


During his stay at The Pines, Mr. Britton spent the greater portion of
his time with Mr. Underwood, either at their offices or at the mines.
Darrell, therefore, saw little of his new-found friend except as they
all gathered in the evening around the glowing fire in the large family
sitting-room, for, notwithstanding the lingering warmth and sunshine of
the days, the nights were becoming sharp and frosty, so that an open
fire added much to the evening's enjoyment. Each morning, however,
before his departure, Mr. Britton stopped for a few words with Darrell;
some quaint, kindly bit of humor, the pleasant flavor of which would
enliven the entire day; some unhackneyed expression of sympathy whose
very genuineness and sincerity made Darrell's position seem to him less
isolated and solitary than before; or some suggestion which, acted upon,
relieved the monotony of the tedious hours of convalescence.

At his suggestion Darrell took vigorous exercise each day in the morning
air and sunshine, devoting his afternoons to a course of light, pleasant
reading.

"If you are going to work," said Mr. Britton, "the first requisite is to
have your body and mind in just as healthful and normal a condition as
possible, in order that you may be able to give an equivalent for what
you receive. In these days of trouble between employer and employed, we
hear a great deal about the laborer demanding an honest equivalent for
his toil, but it does not occur to him to inquire whether he is giving
his employer an honest equivalent for his money. The fact is, a large
percentage of working-men and working-women, in all departments of
labor, are squandering their energies night after night in various forms
and degrees of dissipation until they are utterly incapacitated for one
honest day's work; yet they do not hesitate to take a full day's wages,
and would consider themselves wronged were the smallest fraction
withheld."

Darrell found himself rather restricted in his reading for the first few
days, as he found but a limited number of books at The Pines, until Mrs.
Dean, who had received a hint from Mr. Britton, meeting him one day in
the upper hall, led him into two darkened rooms, saying, as she hastened
to open the blinds,--

"These are what the children always called their 'dens.' All their books
are here, and I thought maybe you'd like to look them over. If you see
anything you like, just help yourself, and use the rooms for reading or
writing whenever you want to."

Darrell, left to himself, looked about him with much interest. The two
rooms were similar in style and design, but otherwise were as diverse as
possible. The room in which he was standing was furnished in embossed
leather. A leather couch stood near one of the windows, and a large
reclining-chair of the same material was drawn up before the fireplace.
Near the mantel was a pipe-rack filled with fine specimens of briar-wood
and meerschaum pipes. Signs of tennis, golf, and various athletic sports
were visible on all sides; in the centre of the room stood a large
roll-top desk, open, and on it lay a briar pipe, filled with ashes, just
where the owner's hand had laid it. But what most interested Darrell was
a large portrait over the fireplace, which he knew must be that of
Harry Whitcomb. The face was neither especially fine nor strong, but the
winsome smile lurking about the curves of the sensitive mouth and in the
depths of the frank blue eyes rendered it attractive, and it was with a
sigh for the young life so suddenly blotted out that Darrell turned to
enter the second room.

He paused at the doorway, feeling decidedly out of place, and glanced
about him with a serio-comic smile. The furnishings were as unique as
possible, no one piece in the room bearing any relation or similarity to
any other piece. There were chairs and tables of wicker-work, twisted
into the most ornate designs, interspersed among heavy, antique pieces
of carving and slender specimens of colonial simplicity; divans covered
with pillows of every delicate shade imaginable; exquisite etchings and
dainty bric-à-brac. In an alcove formed by a large bay-window stood a
writing-desk of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and on an easel in a
secluded corner, partially concealed by silken draperies, was the
portrait of Kate Underwood,--a childish, rather immature face, but with
a mouth indicating both sweetness and strength of character, and with
dark, strangely appealing eyes.

The walls of both rooms were lined with bookcases, but their contents
were widely diverse, and, to Darrell's surprise, he found the young
girl's library contained far the better class of books. But even in
their selection he observed the same peculiarity that he had noted in
the furnishing of the room; there were few complete sets of books;
instead, there were one, two, or three volumes of each author, as the
case might be, evidently her especial favorites.

But Darrell returned to the other room, which interested him far more,
each article in it bearing eloquent testimony to the happy young life
of whose tragic end he had now often heard, but of which he was unable
to recall the faintest memory. Passing slowly through the room, his
attention was caught by a violin case standing in an out-of-the-way
corner. With a cry of joy he drew it forth, his fingers trembling with
eagerness as he opened it and took therefrom a genuine Stradivarius. At
that moment his happiness knew no bounds. Seating himself and bending
his head over the instrument after the manner of a true violin lover, he
drew the bow gently across the strings, producing a chord of such
triumphant sweetness that the air seemed vibrating with the joy which at
that instant thrilled his own soul.

Immediately all thought of himself or of his surroundings was lost. With
eyes half closed and dreamy he began to play, without effort, almost
mechanically, but with the deft touch of a master hand, while liquid
harmonies filled the room, quivering, rising, falling; at times low,
plaintive, despairing; then swelling exultantly, only to die away in
tremulous, minor undertones. The man's pent-up feelings had at last
found expression,--his alternate hope and despair, his unutterable
loneliness and longing,--all voiced by the violin.

Of the lapse of time Darrell had neither thought nor consciousness until
the door opened and Mrs. Dean's calm smile and matter-of-fact voice
recalled him to a material world.

"I see that you have found Harry's violin," she said.

"I beg your pardon," Darrell stammered, somewhat dazed by his sudden
descent to the commonplace, "I ought not to have taken it; I never
thought,--I was so delighted to find the instrument and so carried away
with its tones,--it never occurred to me how it might seem to you!"

"Oh, that is all right," she interposed, quietly; "use it whenever you
like. Harry bought it two years ago, but he never had the patience to
learn it, so it has been used very little. I never heard such playing as
yours, and I stepped in to ask you to bring it downstairs and play for
us to-night. Mr. Britton will be delighted; he enjoys everything of that
sort."

Around the fireside that evening Darrell had an attentive audience,
though the appreciation of his auditors was manifested in a manner
characteristic of each. Mr. Underwood, after two or three futile
attempts to talk business with his partner, finding him very
uncommunicative, gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe and the
music in about equal proportions, indulging surreptitiously in
occasional brief naps, though always wide awake at the end of each
number and joining heartily in the applause.

Mrs. Dean sat gazing into the glowing embers, her face lighted with
quiet pleasure, but her knitting-needles twinkled and flashed in the
firelight with the same unceasing regularity, and she doubled and seamed
and "slipped and bound" her stitches with the same monotonous precision
as on other evenings.

Mr. Britton, in a comfortable reclining-chair, sat silent, motionless,
his head thrown back, his eyes nearly closed, but in the varying
expression of his mobile face Darrell found both inspiration and
compensation.

For more than three hours Darrell entertained his friends; quaint
medleys, dreamy waltzes, and bits of classical music following one after
another, with no effort, no hesitancy, on the part of the player. To
their eager inquiries, he could only answer,--

"I don't know how I do it. They seem to come to me with the sweep of
the bow across the strings. I have no recollection of anything that I am
playing; it seems as though the instrument and I were simply drifting."

Late in the evening, when they were nearly ready to separate for the
night, Darrell sat idly strumming the violin, when an old familiar
strain floated sweetly forth, and his astonished listeners suddenly
heard him singing in a rich baritone an old love-song, forgotten until
then by every one present.

Mrs. Dean had already laid aside her work and sat with hands folded, a
smile of unusual tenderness hovering about her lips, while Mr. Britton's
face was quivering with emotion. At its conclusion he grasped Darrell's
hand silently.

"That is a very old song," said Mrs. Dean. "It seems queer to hear you
sing it. I used to hear it sung when I was a young girl, and that," she
added smiling, "was a great many years ago."

"And I have sung it many a time a great many years ago," said Mr.
Britton. And he hastily left the room.




_Chapter VII_

AT THE MINES


Once fairly started on the road to health, Darrell gained marvellously.
Each day marked some new acquisition in physical health and muscular
vigor, while his systematic reading, the soothing influence of the music
to which he devoted a considerable time each day, and, more than all,
his growing intimacy with Mr. Britton, were doing much towards restoring
a better mental equipoise.

The race to which he had challenged Dr. Bradley took place on a frosty
morning early in November, Mr. Underwood himself measuring and marking
the course for the runners and Mr. Britton acting as starter. The result
was a victory for Darrell, who came out more than a yard ahead of his
opponent, somewhat to the chagrin of the latter, who had won quite a
local reputation as an athlete.

"You'll do," he said to Darrell, as he took leave a few moments later,
"but don't pose here as an invalid any longer, or I'll expose you as a
fraud. Understand, I cross your name off my list of patients to-day."

"But not off your list of friends, I hope," Darrell rejoined, as they
shook hands.

When Dr. Bradley had gone, Darrell turned to Mr. Britton, who was
standing near, saying, as his face grew serious,--

"Dr. Bradley is right; I'm no invalid now, and I must quit this idling.
I must find what I can do and go to work."

"All in good time," said Mr. Britton, pleasantly. "We'll find something
for you before I go from here. Meanwhile, I want to give you a little
pleasure-trip if you are able to take it. How would you like to go out
to the mines to-morrow with Mr. Underwood and myself? Do you think you
could 'rough it' with us old fellows for a couple of days?"

"You couldn't have suggested anything that would please me better,"
Darrell answered. "I would like the change, and it's time I was roughing
it. Perhaps when I get out there I'll decide to take a pick and shovel
and start in at the bottom of the ladder and work my way up."

"Is that necessary?" queried Mr. Britton, regarding the younger man with
close but kindly scrutiny. "Mr. Underwood tells me that you brought a
considerable amount of money with you when you came here, which he has
deposited to your credit."

Darrell met the penetrating gaze unwaveringly, as he replied, with quiet
decision, "That money may be mine, or it may not; it may have been given
me to hold in trust. In any event, it belongs to the past, and it will
remain where it is, intact, until the past is unveiled."

Mr. Britton looked gratified, as he remarked, in a low tone, "I don't
think you need any assurance, my boy, that I will back you with all the
capital you need, if you would like to start in business."

"No, Mr. Britton," said Darrell, deeply touched by the elder man's
kindness; "I know, without words, that I could have from you whatever I
needed, but it is useless for me to think of going into business with as
little knowledge of myself as I have at present. The best thing for me
is to take whatever work offers itself, until I find what I am fitted
for or to what I can best adapt myself."

The next morning found Darrell at an early hour on his way to the mining
camp with Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton. The ground was white and
glistening with frost, and the sun, not yet far above the horizon, shone
with a pale, cold light, but Darrell, wrapped in a fur coat of Mr.
Underwood's, felt only the exhilarating effect of the thin, keen air,
and as the large, double-seated carriage, drawn by two powerful horses,
descended the pine-clad mountain and passed down one of the principal
streets of the little city, he looked about him with lively interest.

Leaving the town behind them, they soon began the ascent of a winding
canyon. After two or three turns, to Darrell's surprise, every sign of
human habitation vanished and only the rocky walls were visible, at
first low and receding, but gradually growing higher and steeper. On
they went, steadily ascending, till a turn suddenly brought the distant
mountains into closer proximity, and Mr. Britton, pointing to a lofty,
rugged range on Darrell's right, said,--

"There lies the Great Divide."

For two hours they wound steadily upward, the massive rocks towering on
all sides, barren, grotesque in form, but beautiful in coloring,--dull
reds, pale greens, and lovely blues and purples staining the sombre
grays and browns.

Darrell had grown silent, and his companions, supposing him absorbed in
the grandeur and beauty of the scenery, left him to his own reflections
while they talked on matters of interest to themselves.

But to Darrell the surrounding rocks were full of a strange, deep
significance. The colorings and markings in the gray granite were to him
what the insignia of the secret orders are to the initiated, replete
with mystical meaning. To him had come the sudden realization that he
was in Nature's laboratory, and in the hieroglyphics traced on the
granite walls he read the symbols of the mysterious alchemy silently and
secretly wrought beneath their surface. The vastness of the scale of
Nature's work, the multiplicity of her symbols, bewildered him, but in
his own mind he knew that he still held the key to this mysterious code,
and the knowledge thrilled him with delight. He gazed about him,
fascinated, saying nothing, but trembling with joy and with eagerness to
put himself to the test, and it was with difficulty that he controlled
his impatience till the long ride should come to an end.

At last they left the canyon and followed a steep road winding up the
side of a mountain, which, after an hour's hard climbing, brought them
to the mining camp. As the carriage stopped Darrell was the first to
alight, springing quickly to the ground and looking eagerly about him.

At a short distance beyond them the road was terminated by the large
milling plant, above which the mountain rose abruptly, its sides dotted
with shaft-houses and crossed and recrossed with trestle-work almost to
the summit. A wooden flume clung like a huge serpent to the steep
slopes, and a tramway descended from near the summit to the mill below.
At a little distance from the mill were the boarding-house and
bunk-houses, while in the foreground, near the road was the office
building, to which the party adjourned after exchanging greetings with
Mr. Hathaway, the superintendent, who had come out to meet them and to
whom Darrell was duly introduced. The room they first entered was the
superintendent's office. Beyond that was a pleasant reception-room,
while in the rear were the private rooms of the superintendent and the
assayer, who were not expected to share the bunk-houses with the miners.

Mr. Underwood and the superintendent at once proceeded to business, but
Mr. Britton, mindful of Darrell's comfort, ushered him into the
reception-room. A coal-fire was glowing in a small grate; a couch, three
or four comfortable chairs, and a few books and magazines contributed to
give the room a cosey appearance, but the object which instantly riveted
Darrell's attention was a large case, extending nearly across one side
of the room, filled with rare mineralogical and geological specimens.
There were quartz crystals gleaming with lumps of free-milling gold,
curling masses of silver and copper wire direct from the mines, gold
nuggets of unusual size and brilliancy, and specimens of ores from the
principal mines not only of that vicinity, but of the West.

Observing Darrell's interest in the contents of the case, Mr. Britton
threw open the doors for a closer inspection, and began calling his
attention to some of the finest specimens, but at Darrell's first
remarks he paused, astonished, listened a few moments, then stepping to
the next room, called Mr. Underwood. That gentleman looked somewhat
perturbed at the interruption, but at a signal from Mr. Britton,
followed the latter quietly across the room to where Darrell was
standing. Here they stood, silently listening, while Darrell,
unconscious of their presence, went rapidly through the specimens,
classifying the different ores, stating the conditions which had
contributed to their individual characteristics, giving the approximate
value of each and the mode of treatment required for its reduction; all
after the manner of a student rehearsing to himself a well-conned
lesson.

At last, catching sight of the astonished faces of his listeners, his
own lighted with pleasure, as he exclaimed, joyously,--

"I wanted to test myself and see if it would come back to me, and it
has! I believed it would, and it has!"

"What has come back to you?" queried Mr. Underwood, too bewildered
himself to catch the drift of Darrell's meaning.

"The knowledge of all this," Darrell answered, indicating the collection
with a swift gesture; "it began to come to me as soon as I saw the rocks
on our way up; it confused me at first, but it is all clear now. Take me
to your mill, Mr. Underwood; I want to see what I can do with the ores
there."

At that moment Mr. Hathaway entered to summon the party to dinner, and
seeing Darrell standing by the case, his hands filled with specimens, he
said, addressing Mr. Underwood with a pleasant tone of inquiry,--

"Mr. Darrell is a mining man?"

But Mr. Underwood was still too confused to answer intelligibly, and it
was Mr. Britton who replied, as he linked his arm within Darrell's on
turning to leave the room,--

"Mr. Darrell is a mineralogist."

At dinner Darrell found himself too excited to eat, so overjoyed was he
at the discovery of attainments he had not dreamed he possessed, and so
eager to put them to every test possible.

It had been Mr. Underwood's intention to visit the mines that afternoon,
but at Darrell's urgent request, they went first to the mill. Here he
found ample scope for his abilities. He fairly revelled in the various
ores, separating, assorting, and classifying them with the rapidity and
accuracy of an expert, and at once proceeded to assay some samples
taken from a new lead recently struck, the report of which had
occasioned this particular trip to the camp. He worked with a dexterity
and skill surprising in one of his years, producing the most accurate
results, to the astonishment and delight of both Mr. Underwood and Mr.
Britton.

After an extended inspection of the different departments of the large
milling plant, he was taken into a small laboratory, where the assayer
in charge was testing some of the recently discovered ore for the
presence of certain metals. After watching for a while in silence
Darrell said, turning to Mr. Underwood,--

"I can give you a quicker and a surer test than that!"

The assayer and himself at once exchanged places, and, unheeding the
many eyes fixed upon him, Darrell seated himself before the long table
and deftly began operations. Not a word broke the silence as by methods
wholly new to his spectators he subjected the ore to successive chemical
changes, until, within an incredibly short time, the presence of the
suspected metals was demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt.

"Mineralogist and metallurgist!" exclaimed Mr. Britton delightedly, as
he congratulated Darrell upon his success.

The short November day had now nearly drawn to a close, and after supper
the gentlemen adjourned to the office building, where they spent an hour
or more around the open fire. Darrell, who was quite wearied with the
unusual exertion and excitement of the day, retired early, the
superintendent and assayer had gone out on some business at the mill,
and Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton were left together. No sooner were
they by themselves than Mr. Britton, who was walking up and down the
room, stopped beside his partner as he sat smoking and gazing
abstractedly into the fire, and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said,--

"Well, Dave, what do you think? After what we've seen to-day, can't you
make a place over there at the mill for the boy?"

"Hang it all!" answered the other, somewhat testily, secretly a little
jealous of the growing intimacy between his partner and Darrell;
"supposing I can, is there any need of your dipping in your oar about
it? Do you think I need any suggestion from you in the way of
befriending him or standing by him?"

"No, Dave," said Mr. Britton, pleasantly, dropping into a chair by Mr.
Underwood's side, "I did not put my question with a view of making any
suggestions. I know, and Darrell knows, that he hasn't a better friend
than you, and because I know this, and also because I am a friend to you
both, I was interested to ask you what you intended doing for him."

"What I intended doing for him and what I probably will actually do for
him are two altogether different propositions--all on account of his own
pig-headedness," was the rather surly response.

"How's that?" Mr. Britton inquired.

"Why, confound the fellow! I took a liking to him from the first, coming
here the way he did, and after what he did for Harry there was nothing I
wouldn't have done for him. Then, after his sickness, when we found his
memory had gone back on him and left him helpless as a child in some
ways, I knew he'd stand no show among strangers, and my idea was to take
him in, in Harry's place, give him a small interest in the business
until he got accustomed to it, and then after a while let him in as
partner. But when I broached the subject to him, a week ago or so, he
wouldn't hear to it; said he'd rather find some work for which he was
adapted and stick to that, at a regular salary. I told him he was
missing a good thing, but nothing that I could say would make any
difference."

"Well," said Mr. Britton, slowly, "I'm not sure but his is the wiser
plan. You must remember, Dave, that his stay with us will probably be
but temporary. Whenever that portion of his brain which is now dormant
does awaken, you can rest assured he will not remain here long. He no
doubt realizes this and wishes to be absolutely foot-loose, ready to
leave at short notice. And as to the financial side of the question, if
you give him the place in your mill for which he is eminently fitted, it
will be fully as remunerative in the long run as the interest in the
business which you intended giving him."

"What place in the mill do you refer to?" Mr. Underwood asked, quickly.

"Oh, I'm not making any 'suggestions,' Dave; you don't need them." And
Mr. Britton smiled quietly into the fire.

"Go ahead and say your say, Jack," said the other, his own face relaxing
into a grim smile; "that was only a bit of my crankiness, and you know
me well enough to know it."

"Give him the position of assayer in charge."

"Great Scott! and fire Benson, who's been there for five years?"

"It makes no difference how long he's been there. Darrell is a better
man every way,--quicker, more accurate, more scientific. You can put
Benson to sorting and weighing ores down at the ore-bins."

After a brief silence Mr. Britton continued, "You couldn't find a better
man for the place or a better position for the man. The work is
evidently right in the line of his profession, and therefore congenial;
and even though you should pay him no more salary than Benson, that,
with outside work in the way of assays for neighboring camps, will be
better than any business interest you would give him short of twelve or
eighteen months at least."

"I guess you're right, and I'll give him the place; but hang it all! I
did want to put him in Harry's place. You and I are getting along in
years, Jack, and it's time we had some young man getting broke to the
harness, so that after a while he could take the brunt of things and let
us old fellows slack up a bit."

"We could not expect that of Darrell," said Mr. Britton. "He is neither
kith nor kin of ours, and when once Nature's ties begin to assert
themselves in his mind, we may find our hold upon him very slight."

Both men sighed deeply, as though the thought had in some way touched an
unpleasant chord. After a pause, Mr. Britton inquired,--

"You have no clue whatever as to Darrell's identity, have you?"

Mr. Underwood shook his head. "Queerest case I ever saw! There wasn't a
scrap of paper nor a pen-mark to show who he was. Parkinson, the mine
expert who was on the same train, said he didn't remember seeing him
until Harry introduced him; he said he supposed he was some friend of
Harry's. Since his sickness I've looked up the conductor on that train
and questioned him, but all he could remember was that he boarded the
train a little this side of Galena and that he had a ticket through from
St. Paul."

"You say this Parkinson was a mine expert; what was he doing out here?"

"He was one of three or four that were here at that time, looking up the
Ajax for eastern parties."

"In all probability," said Mr. Britton, musingly, "Darrell was here on
the same business."

"If that was his business, he said nothing about it to me, and I would
have thought he would, under the circumstances."

"I wonder whether we could ascertain from the owners of the Ajax what
experts were out here or expected out here at that time?"

Mr. Underwood smiled grimly. "Not from the former owners, for nobody
knows where they are, though there are some people quite anxious to
know; and not from the present owners, for they are too busy looking for
their predecessors in interest to think of anything else."

"Why, has the Ajax really changed owners? Did they find any one to buy
it?"

"Yes, a Scotch syndicate bought it. They sent over a man--one of their
own number, I believe, and authorized to act for them--that I guess knew
more about sampling liquors than ores. The Ajax people worked him
accordingly, with the result that the mine was sold at the figure
named,--one million, half down, you know. The man rushed back to New
York, to meet a partner whom he had cabled to come over. About ten days
later they arrived on the ground and began operations at the Ajax. The
mill ran for just ten days when they discovered the condition of affairs
and shut down, and they have been looking for the former owners ever
since."

Both men laughed, then relapsed into silence. A little later, as Mr.
Britton stirred the fire to a brighter glow, he said, while the tender
curves about his mouth deepened,--

"I cannot help feeling that the coming to us of this young man, whose
identity is wrapped in so much mystery, has some peculiar significance
to each of us. I believe that in some way, whether for good or ill I
cannot tell, his life is to be henceforth inseparably linked with our
own lives. He already holds, as you know, a place in each of our hearts
which no stranger has held before, and I have only this to say, David,
old friend, that our mutual regard for him, our mutual efforts for his
well-being, must never lead to any estrangement between ourselves. We
have been stanch friends for too many years for any one at this late
date to come between us; and you must never envy me my little share in
the boy's friendship."

The two men had risen and now stood before the fire with clasped hands.

"I was an old fool to-night, Jack; that was all," said Mr. Underwood,
rather gruffly. "I haven't the knack of saying things that you
have,--never had,--but I'm with you all the time."

On the forenoon of the following day Darrell was shown the underground
workings of the various mines, not excepting the Bird Mine, located
almost at the summit of the mountain. This was the newest mine in camp,
but, in proportion to its development, the best producer of all.

After an early dinner there was a private meeting in the reception-room
beyond the office, at which were present only Mr. Underwood, Mr.
Britton, and Darrell, and at which Mr. Underwood duly tendered to
Darrell the position of assayer in charge at the Camp Bird mill, which
the latter accepted with a frank and manly gratitude which more than
ever endeared him to the hearts of his two friends. In this little
proceeding Mr. Britton purposely took no part, standing before the
grate, his back towards the others, gazing into the fire as though
absorbed in his own thoughts. When all was over, however, he
congratulated Darrell with a warmth and tenderness which filled both the
heart and the eyes of the latter to overflowing. That night, after their
arrival at The Pines, as Mr. Britton and Darrell took their accustomed
stroll, the latter said,--

"Mr. Britton, I feel that I have you to thank for my good fortune of
to-day. You had nothing to say when Mr. Underwood offered me that
position, but, nevertheless, I believe the offer was made at your
suggestion. It was, in reality, your kindness, not his."

"You are partly right and partly wrong," replied Mr. Britton, smiling.
"Never doubt Mr. Underwood's kindness of heart towards yourself. If I
had any part in that affair, it was only to indicate the channel in
which that kindness should flow."

Together they talked of the strange course of events which had finally
brought him and the work for which he was especially adapted together.

"Do you know," said Mr. Britton, as they paused on the veranda before
entering the house, "I am no believer in accident. I believe that of the
so-called 'happenings' in our lives, each has its appointed time and
mission; and it is not for us to say which is trivial or which is
important, until, knowing as we are known, we look back upon life as God
sees it."




_Chapter VIII_

"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK"


A week later Darrell was duly installed at the mining camp. Mr. Britton
had already left, called on private business to another part of the
State. After his departure, life at The Pines did not seem the same to
Darrell. He sorely missed the companionship--amounting almost to
comradeship, notwithstanding the disparity of their years--which had
existed between them from their first meeting, and he was not sorry when
the day came for him to exchange the comfort and luxury with which the
kindness of Mr. Underwood and his sister had surrounded him for the
rough fare and plain quarters of the mining camp.

Mrs. Dean, when informed of Darrell's position at the camp, had most
strenuously objected to his going, and had immediately stipulated that
he was to return to The Pines every Saturday and remain until Monday.

"Of course he's coming home every Saturday, and as much oftener as he
likes," her brother had interposed. "This is his home, and he
understands it without any words from us."

On the morning of his departure he realized as never before the depth of
the affection of his host and hostess for himself, manifesting itself as
it did in silent, unobtrusive acts of homely but heartfelt kindness. As
the storing of Darrell's belongings in the wagon which was to convey him
to the camp was about completed, Mrs. Dean appeared, carrying a large,
covered basket, with snow-white linen visible between the gaping edges
of the lids. This she deposited within the wagon, saying, as she turned
to Darrell,--

"There's a few things to last you through the week, just so you don't
forget how home cooking tastes."

And at the last moment there was brought from the stables at Mr.
Underwood's orders, for Darrell's use in going back and forth between
The Pines and the camp, a beautiful bay mare which had belonged to Harry
Whitcomb, and which, having sadly missed her young master, greeted
Darrell with a low whinny, muzzling his cheek and nosing his pockets for
sugar with the most affectionate familiarity.

It was a cold, bleak morning. The ground had frozen after a heavy rain,
and the wagon jolted roughly over the ruts in the canyon road, making
slow progress. The sky was overcast and straggling snowflakes wandered
aimlessly up and down in the still air.

Darrell, from his seat beside the driver, turned occasionally to speak
to Trix, the mare, fastened to the rear end of the wagon and daintily
picking her way along the rough road. Sometimes he hummed a bit of
half-remembered song, but for the most part he was silent. While not
attempting any definite analysis of his feelings, he was distinctly
conscious of conflicting emotions. He was deeply touched by the kindness
of Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean, and felt a sort of self-condemnation
that he was not more responsive to their affection. He knew that their
home and hearts were alike open to him; that he was as welcome as one of
their own flesh and blood; yet he experienced a sense of relief at
having escaped from the unvarying kindliness for which, at heart, he was
profoundly grateful. Even late that night, in the solitude of his
plainly furnished room, with the wind moaning outside and the snow
tapping with muffled fingers against the window pane, he yet exulted in
a sense of freedom and happiness hitherto unknown in the brief period
which held all he recalled of life.

The ensuing days and weeks passed pleasantly and swiftly for Darrell. He
quickly familiarized himself with the work which he had in charge, and
frequently found leisure, when his routine work was done, for
experiments and tests of his own, as well as for outside work which came
to him as his skill became known in neighboring camps. His evenings were
well filled, as he had taken up his old studies along the lines of
mineralogy and metallurgy, pushing ahead into new fields of research and
discovery, studying by night and experimenting by day. Meanwhile, the
rocky peaks around him seemed beckoning him with their talismanic signs,
as though silently challenging him to learn the mighty secrets for ages
hidden within their breasts, and he promised himself that with the
return of lengthening days, he would start forth, a humble learner, to
sit at the feet of those great teachers of the centuries. He had
occasional letters from Mr. Britton, cheering, inspiring, helpful, much
as his presence had been, and in return he wrote freely of his present
work and his plans for future work.

Sometimes, when books were closed or the plaintive tones of the violin
had died away in silence, he would sit for hours pondering the strange
problem of his own life; watching, listening for some sign from out the
past; but neither ray of light nor wave of sound came to him. His
physician had told him that some day the past would return, and that the
intervening months or years as the case might be, would then doubtless
be in turn forgotten, and as he revolved this in his mind he formed a
plan which he at once proceeded to put into execution.

On his return one night from a special trip to Ophir he went to his room
with more than usual haste, and opening a package in which he seemed
greatly interested, drew forth what appeared to be a book, about eleven
by fifteen inches in size, bound in flexible morocco and containing some
five or six hundred pages. The pages were blank, however, and bound
according to an ingenious device which he had planned and given the
binder, by which they could be removed and replaced at will, and, if
necessary, extra pages could be added.

For some time he stood by the light, turning the volume over and over
with an expression of mingled pleasure and sadness; then removing some
of the pages, he sat down and prepared to write. The new task to which
he had set himself was the writing of a complete record, day by day, of
this present life of his, beginning with the first glimmerings of
memory, faint and confused, in the earliest days of his convalescence at
The Pines. He dipped his pen, then hesitated; how should this strange
volume be inscribed?

Only for a moment; then his pen was gliding rapidly over the spotless
surface, and the first page, when laid aside, bore the following
inscription:

     "To one from the outer world, whose identity is hidden among the
     secrets of the past:

     "With the hope that when the veil is lifted these pages may assist
     him in uniting into one perfect whole the strangely disjointed
     portions of his life, they are inscribed by

                                            "JOHN DARRELL."

Below was the date, and then followed the words,--

     "Until the day break, and the shadows flee away."

After penning the last words he paused, repeating them, vainly trying to
recall when or where he had heard them. They seemed to ring in his ears
like a strain of melody wafted from some invisible shore, and blending
with the minor undertone he caught a note of triumph. They had come to
him like a voice from out the past, but ringing with joyful assurance
for the future; the assurance that the night, however dark, must end in
a glorious dawning, in which no haunting shadow would have an
abiding-place.




_Chapter IX_

TWO PORTRAITS


The winter proved to be mild and open, so that Darrell's weekly visits
to The Pines were made with almost unbroken regularity, and to his
surprise he discovered as the months slipped away that, instead of a
mere obligation which he felt bound to perform, they were becoming a
source of pleasure. After a week of unremitting toil and study and
contact with the rough edges of human nature, there was something
unspeakably restful in the atmosphere of that quiet home; something
soothing in the silent, steadfast affection, the depth of which he was
only beginning to fathom.

One Saturday evening in the latter part of April Darrell was, as usual,
descending the canyon road on his way to The Pines. For weeks the winter
had lingered as though loath to leave, and Darrell, absorbed in work and
study, had gone his way, hiding his loneliness and suffering so deeply
as to be ofttimes forgotten even by himself, and at all times
unsuspected by those about him. Then, in one night had come the warm
breath of the west winds, and within a few hours the earth was
transformed as though by magic, and the restless longing within his
breast awoke with tenfold intensity.

As he rode along he was astounded at the changes wrought in one week.
From the southern slopes of the mountains the snow had almost
disappeared and the sunny exposures of the ranges were fast brightening
into vivid green. The mountain streams had burst their icy fetters and,
augmented by the melting snows, were roaring tumultuously down their
channels, tumbling and plunging over rocky ledges in sheets of
shimmering silver or foaming cascades; then, their mad frolic ended,
flowing peacefully through distant valleys onward to the rivers, ever
chanting the song which would one day blend in the great ocean
harmonies.

The frail flowers, clinging to the rocks and smiling fearlessly up into
the face of the sun, the silvery sheen of the willows along the distant
water-courses, the softened outlines and pale green of budding
cottonwoods in the valleys far below, all told of the newly released
life currents bounding through the veins of every living thing. From the
lower part of the canyon, the wild, ecstatic song of a robin came to him
on the evening breeze, and in the slanting sunbeams myriads of tiny
midges held high carnival. The whole earth seemed pulsating with new
life, and tree and flower, bird and insect were filled anew with the
unspeakable joy of living.

Amid this universal baptism of life, what wonder that he felt his own
pulse quicken and the warm life-blood leaping swiftly within his veins!
His heart but throbbed in unison with the great heart of Nature, but its
very beating stifled him as the sense of his own restrictions came back
upon him with crushing weight. For one moment he paused, his spirit
struggling wildly against the bars imprisoning it; then, with a look
towards the skies of dumb, appealing anguish, he rode onward, his head
bowed, his heart sick with unutterable longing.

Arriving at The Pines, he received the usual welcome, but neither its
undemonstrative affection nor the restful quiet of the old home could
soothe or satisfy him that night. But if his host and hostess noted the
gloom on his face or his restless manner they made no comments and asked
no questions.

On going upstairs at a late hour he went across the hall to the
libraries in search of a book with which to pass away the time, as he
was unable to sleep. He had no definite book in mind and wandered
aimlessly through both rooms, reading titles in an abstracted manner,
until he came at last face to face with the picture of Kate Underwood.

He had seen it many times without especially observing it, but in his
present mood it appealed to him as never before. The dark eyes seemed
fixed upon his face with a look of entreaty from which he could not
escape, and, drawing a chair in front of the easel, he sat down and
became absorbed in a study of the picture. Heretofore he had considered
it merely the portrait of a very young and somewhat plain girl. Now he
was surprised to find that the more it was studied in detail, the more
favorable was the impression produced. Though childish and immature,
there was not a weak line in the face. The nose and mouth were
especially fine, the former denoting distinct individuality, the latter
marked strength and sweetness of character; and while the upper part of
the face indicated keen perceptions and quick sympathies, the general
contour showed a nature strong either to do or to endure. The eyes were
large and beautiful, but it was not their beauty which riveted Darrell's
attention; it was their look of wistful appeal, of unsatisfied longing,
which led him at last to murmur, while his eyes moistened,--

"You dear child! How is it that in your short life, surrounded by all
that love can provide, you have come to know such heart hunger as that?"

Long after he had returned to his room those eyes still haunted him,
nor could he banish the conviction that some time, somewhere, in that
young life there had been an unfilled void which in some degree, however
slight, corresponded to the blank emptiness of his own.

The next morning Darrell attended church with Mrs. Dean. The